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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: Now is there civil war within the soul: Resolve is thrust from off the sacred throne By clamorous Needs, and Pride the grand-vizier Makes humble compact, plays the supple part Of envoy and deft-tongued apologist For hungry rebels. Happily Lydgate had ended by losing in the billiard-room, and brought away no encouragement to make a raid on luck. On the contrary, he felt unmixed disgust with himself the next day when he had to pay four or five pounds over and above his gains, and he carried about with him a most unpleasant vision of the figure he had made, not only rubbing elbows with the men at the Green Dragon but behaving just as they did. A philosopher fallen to betting is hardly distinguishable from a Philistine under the same circumstances: the difference will chiefly be found in his subsequent reflections, and Lydgate chewed a very disagreeable cud in that way. His reason told him how the affair might have been magnified into ruin by a slight change of scenery--if it had been a gambling-house that he had turned into, where chance could be clutched with both hands instead of being picked up with thumb and fore-finger. Nevertheless, though reason strangled the desire to gamble, there remained the feeling that, with an assurance of luck to the needful amount, he would have liked to gamble, rather than take the alternative which was beginning to urge itself as inevitable. That alternative was to apply to Mr. Bulstrode. Lydgate had so many times boasted both to himself and others that he was totally independent of Bulstrode, to whose plans he had lent himself solely because they enabled him to carry out his own ideas of professional work and public benefit--he had so constantly in their personal intercourse had his pride sustained by the sense that he was making a good social use of this predominating banker, whose opinions he thought contemptible and whose motives often seemed to him an absurd mixture of contradictory impressions--that he had been creating for himself strong ideal obstacles to the proffering of any considerable request to him on his own account. Still, early in March his affairs were at that pass in which men begin to say that their oaths were delivered in ignorance, and to perceive that the act which they had called impossible to them is becoming manifestly possible. With Dover's ugly security soon to be put in force, with the proceeds of his practice immediately absorbed in paying back debts, and with the chance, if the worst were known, of daily supplies being refused on credit, above all with the vision of Rosamond's hopeless discontent continually haunting him, Lydgate had begun to see that he should inevitably bend himself to ask help from somebody or other. At first he had considered whether he should write to Mr. Vincy; but on questioning Rosamond he found that, as he had suspected, she had already applied twice to her father, the last time being since the disappointment from Sir Godwin; and papa had said that Lydgate must look out for himself. "Papa said he had come, with one bad year after another, to trade more and more on borrowed capital, and had had to give up many indulgences; he could not spare a single hundred from the charges of his family. He said, let Lydgate ask Bulstrode: they have always been hand and glove." Indeed, Lydgate himself had come to the conclusion that if he must end by asking for a free loan, his relations with Bulstrode, more at least than with any other man, might take the shape of a claim which was not purely personal. Bulstrode had indirectly helped to cause the failure of his practice, and had also been highly gratified by getting a medical partner in his plans:--but who among us ever reduced himself to the sort of dependence in which Lydgate now stood, without trying to believe that he had claims which diminished the humiliation of asking? It was true that of late there had seemed to be a new languor of interest in Bulstrode about the Hospital; but his health had got worse, and showed signs of a deep-seated nervous affection. In other respects he did not appear to be changed: he had always been highly polite, but Lydgate had observed in him from the first a marked coldness about his marriage and other private circumstances, a coldness which he had hitherto preferred to any warmth of familiarity between them. He deferred the intention from day to day, his habit of acting on his conclusions being made infirm by his repugnance to every possible conclusion and its consequent act. He saw Mr. Bulstrode often, but he did not try to use any occasion for his private purpose. At one moment he thought, "I will write a letter: I prefer that to any circuitous talk;" at another he thought, "No; if I were talking to him, I could make a retreat before any signs of disinclination." Still the days passed and no letter was written, no special interview sought. In his shrinking from the humiliation of a dependent attitude towards Bulstrode, he began to familiarize his imagination with another step even more unlike his remembered self. He began spontaneously to consider whether it would be possible to carry out that puerile notion of Rosamond's which had often made him angry, namely, that they should quit Middlemarch without seeing anything beyond that preface. The question came--"Would any man buy the practice of me even now, for as little as it is worth? Then the sale might happen as a necessary preparation for going away." But against his taking this step, which he still felt to be a contemptible relinquishment of present work, a guilty turning aside from what was a real and might be a widening channel for worthy activity, to start again without any justified destination, there was this obstacle, that the purchaser, if procurable at all, might not be quickly forthcoming. And afterwards? Rosamond in a poor lodging, though in the largest city or most distant town, would not find the life that could save her from gloom, and save him from the reproach of having plunged her into it. For when a man is at the foot of the hill in his fortunes, he may stay a long while there in spite of professional accomplishment. In the British climate there is no incompatibility between scientific insight and furnished lodgings: the incompatibility is chiefly between scientific ambition and a wife who objects to that kind of residence. But in the midst of his hesitation, opportunity came to decide him. A note from Mr. Bulstrode requested Lydgate to call on him at the Bank. A hypochondriacal tendency had shown itself in the banker's constitution of late; and a lack of sleep, which was really only a slight exaggeration of an habitual dyspeptic symptom, had been dwelt on by him as a sign of threatening insanity. He wanted to consult Lydgate without delay on that particular morning, although he had nothing to tell beyond what he had told before. He listened eagerly to what Lydgate had to say in dissipation of his fears, though this too was only repetition; and this moment in which Bulstrode was receiving a medical opinion with a sense of comfort, seemed to make the communication of a personal need to him easier than it had been in Lydgate's contemplation beforehand. He had been insisting that it would be well for Mr. Bulstrode to relax his attention to business. "One sees how any mental strain, however slight, may affect a delicate frame," said Lydgate at that stage of the consultation when the remarks tend to pass from the personal to the general, "by the deep stamp which anxiety will make for a time even on the young and vigorous. I am naturally very strong; yet I have been thoroughly shaken lately by an accumulation of trouble." "I presume that a constitution in the susceptible state in which mine at present is, would be especially liable to fall a victim to cholera, if it visited our district. And since its appearance near London, we may well besiege the Mercy-seat for our protection," said Mr. Bulstrode, not intending to evade Lydgate's allusion, but really preoccupied with alarms about himself. "You have at all events taken your share in using good practical precautions for the town, and that is the best mode of asking for protection," said Lydgate, with a strong distaste for the broken metaphor and bad logic of the banker's religion, somewhat increased by the apparent deafness of his sympathy. But his mind had taken up its long-prepared movement towards getting help, and was not yet arrested. He added, "The town has done well in the way of cleansing, and finding appliances; and I think that if the cholera should come, even our enemies will admit that the arrangements in the Hospital are a public good." "Truly," said Mr. Bulstrode, with some coldness. "With regard to what you say, Mr. Lydgate, about the relaxation of my mental labor, I have for some time been entertaining a purpose to that effect--a purpose of a very decided character. I contemplate at least a temporary withdrawal from the management of much business, whether benevolent or commercial. Also I think of changing my residence for a time: probably I shall close or let 'The Shrubs,' and take some place near the coast--under advice of course as to salubrity. That would be a measure which you would recommend?" "Oh yes," said Lydgate, falling backward in his chair, with ill-repressed impatience under the banker's pale earnest eyes and intense preoccupation with himself. "I have for some time felt that I should open this subject with you in relation to our Hospital," continued Bulstrode. "Under the circumstances I have indicated, of course I must cease to have any personal share in the management, and it is contrary to my views of responsibility to continue a large application of means to an institution which I cannot watch over and to some extent regulate. I shall therefore, in case of my ultimate decision to leave Middlemarch, consider that I withdraw other support to the New Hospital than that which will subsist in the fact that I chiefly supplied the expenses of building it, and have contributed further large sums to its successful working." Lydgate's thought, when Bulstrode paused according to his wont, was, "He has perhaps been losing a good deal of money." This was the most plausible explanation of a speech which had caused rather a startling change in his expectations. He said in reply-- "The loss to the Hospital can hardly be made up, I fear." "Hardly," returned Bulstrode, in the same deliberate, silvery tone; "except by some changes of plan. The only person who may be certainly counted on as willing to increase her contributions is Mrs. Casaubon. I have had an interview with her on the subject, and I have pointed out to her, as I am about to do to you, that it will be desirable to win a more general support to the New Hospital by a change of system." Another pause, but Lydgate did not speak. "The change I mean is an amalgamation with the Infirmary, so that the New Hospital shall be regarded as a special addition to the elder institution, having the same directing board. It will be necessary, also, that the medical management of the two shall be combined. In this way any difficulty as to the adequate maintenance of our new establishment will be removed; the benevolent interests of the town will cease to be divided." Mr. Bulstrode had lowered his eyes from Lydgate's face to the buttons of his coat as he again paused. "No doubt that is a good device as to ways and means," said Lydgate, with an edge of irony in his tone. "But I can't be expected to rejoice in it at once, since one of the first results will be that the other medical men will upset or interrupt my methods, if it were only because they are mine." "I myself, as you know, Mr. Lydgate, highly valued the opportunity of new and independent procedure which you have diligently employed: the original plan, I confess, was one which I had much at heart, under submission to the Divine Will. But since providential indications demand a renunciation from me, I renounce." Bulstrode showed a rather exasperating ability in this conversation. The broken metaphor and bad logic of motive which had stirred his hearer's contempt were quite consistent with a mode of putting the facts which made it difficult for Lydgate to vent his own indignation and disappointment. After some rapid reflection, he only asked-- "What did Mrs. Casaubon say?" "That was the further statement which I wished to make to you," said Bulstrode, who had thoroughly prepared his ministerial explanation. "She is, you are aware, a woman of most munificent disposition, and happily in possession--not I presume of great wealth, but of funds which she can well spare. She has informed me that though she has destined the chief part of those funds to another purpose, she is willing to consider whether she cannot fully take my place in relation to the Hospital. But she wishes for ample time to mature her thoughts on the subject, and I have told her that there is no need for haste--that, in fact, my own plans are not yet absolute." Lydgate was ready to say, "If Mrs. Casaubon would take your place, there would be gain, instead of loss." But there was still a weight on his mind which arrested this cheerful candor. He replied, "I suppose, then, that I may enter into the subject with Mrs. Casaubon." "Precisely; that is what she expressly desires. Her decision, she says, will much depend on what you can tell her. But not at present: she is, I believe, just setting out on a journey. I have her letter here," said Mr. Bulstrode, drawing it out, and reading from it. "'I am immediately otherwise engaged,' she says. 'I am going into Yorkshire with Sir James and Lady Chettam; and the conclusions I come to about some land which I am to see there may affect my power of contributing to the Hospital.' Thus, Mr. Lydgate, there is no haste necessary in this matter; but I wished to apprise you beforehand of what may possibly occur." Mr. Bulstrode returned the letter to his side-pocket, and changed his attitude as if his business were closed. Lydgate, whose renewed hope about the Hospital only made him more conscious of the facts which poisoned his hope, felt that his effort after help, if made at all, must be made now and vigorously. "I am much obliged to you for giving me full notice," he said, with a firm intention in his tone, yet with an interruptedness in his delivery which showed that he spoke unwillingly. "The highest object to me is my profession, and I had identified the Hospital with the best use I can at present make of my profession. But the best use is not always the same with monetary success. Everything which has made the Hospital unpopular has helped with other causes--I think they are all connected with my professional zeal--to make me unpopular as a practitioner. I get chiefly patients who can't pay me. I should like them best, if I had nobody to pay on my own side." Lydgate waited a little, but Bulstrode only bowed, looking at him fixedly, and he went on with the same interrupted enunciation--as if he were biting an objectional leek. "I have slipped into money difficulties which I can see no way out of, unless some one who trusts me and my future will advance me a sum without other security. I had very little fortune left when I came here. I have no prospects of money from my own family. My expenses, in consequence of my marriage, have been very much greater than I had expected. The result at this moment is that it would take a thousand pounds to clear me. I mean, to free me from the risk of having all my goods sold in security of my largest debt--as well as to pay my other debts--and leave anything to keep us a little beforehand with our small income. I find that it is out of the question that my wife's father should make such an advance. That is why I mention my position to--to the only other man who may be held to have some personal connection with my prosperity or ruin." Lydgate hated to hear himself. But he had spoken now, and had spoken with unmistakable directness. Mr. Bulstrode replied without haste, but also without hesitation. "I am grieved, though, I confess, not surprised by this information, Mr. Lydgate. For my own part, I regretted your alliance with my brother-in-law's family, which has always been of prodigal habits, and which has already been much indebted to me for sustainment in its present position. My advice to you, Mr. Lydgate, would be, that instead of involving yourself in further obligations, and continuing a doubtful struggle, you should simply become a bankrupt." "That would not improve my prospect," said Lydgate, rising and speaking bitterly, "even if it were a more agreeable thing in itself." "It is always a trial," said Mr. Bulstrode; "but trial, my dear sir, is our portion here, and is a needed corrective. I recommend you to weigh the advice I have given." "Thank you," said Lydgate, not quite knowing what he said. "I have occupied you too long. Good-day." 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.

Lydgate hat Glück, beim Billardspiel zu verlieren, denn das bringt ihn in Bezug auf Wetten zur Besinnung. Nun bleibt ihm kaum eine andere Möglichkeit, als einen persönlichen Kredit aufzunehmen. Rosamond erzählt ihm, dass ihr Vater bereits abgelehnt hat und Bulstrode als alternative Quelle vorgeschlagen hat. Lydgate zögert, sich mit dem frommen Bankier einzulassen, eine Verbindung, die ihm bereits Feindseligkeit eingebracht hat. Da seine Arbeit im neuen Krankenhaus unbezahlt ist und sehr viel Zeit in Anspruch nimmt, fühlt er sich berechtigt, Bulstrode um Hilfe zu bitten. Die Gelegenheit ergibt sich, als der Bankier eines Tages nach seinen medizinischen Diensten fragt. Lydgate findet nichts Ernsthaftes, außer Stress und Müdigkeit. Dann teilt Bulstrode ihm mit, dass er weitere Spenden für das neue Krankenhaus leisten möchte. Er schlägt eine Zusammenlegung der alten und neuen Krankenhäuser vor, damit die Spenden auf beide Einrichtungen verteilt werden können. Außerdem sagt er, dass Dorothea wahrscheinlich ein großer Spender für das Projekt an seiner Stelle sein wird. Nachdem sein einzig erfolgreiches Projekt gescheitert ist, fragt Lydgate schließlich nach einem Kredit in Höhe von tausend Pfund. Bulstrode weist ihn sofort ab und sagt, er habe dies vorausgesehen, als Lydgate eine der verschwenderischen Vincys geheiratet habe, und rät ihm, Insolvenzverfahren einzuleiten. Lydgate geht, aber sein Stolz ist tief verletzt.

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: Crawley von Queen's Crawley Unter den angesehensten Namen, die mit C beginnen und im Jahr 18-- im Court-Guide genannt wurden, befand sich auch der Name Crawley, Sir Pitt, Baronet, Great Gaunt Street, und Queen's Crawley, Hants. Dieser ehrenwerte Name war auch seit vielen Jahren ständig in der Parlamentsliste vertreten, zusammen mit dem Namen einer Reihe anderer ehrenwerter Herren, die abwechselnd für die Stadt im Parlament saßen. Es wird berichtet, dass Königin Elisabeth während einer ihrer Reisen in der Stadt Queen's Crawley angehalten hat, um dort zu frühstücken. Sie war von einem bemerkenswert exzellenten Hampshire-Bier, das ihr damals von Crawley überreicht wurde (ein gut aussehender Herr mit einem gepflegten Bart und einem guten Bein), so begeistert, dass sie Queen's Crawley sofort zu einer Stadt gemacht hat, die zwei Mitglieder ins Parlament schickt. Von diesem berühmten Besuch an trägt der Ort bis zum heutigen Zeitpunkt den Namen Queen's Crawley. Und obwohl Queen's Crawley aufgrund der Zeit und der Veränderungen, die das Alter in Reichen, Städten und Städten hervorbringt, nicht mehr so bevölkert war wie zur Zeit von Königin Bess, - ja, sogar auf den Zustand einer Stadt gekommen war, der als "morsch" bezeichnet wurde -, wie Sir Pitt Crawley mit vollkommener Gerechtigkeit auf eine elegante Art und Weise sagen würde: "Morsch! Was für ein Unsinn - es bringt mir jährlich satte 1500 Pfund." Sir Pitt Crawley (benannt nach dem großen Philosophen) war der Sohn von Walpole Crawley, dem ersten Baronet des Tape-and-Sealing-Wax-Offices in der Regentschaft von George II., als er wegen Veruntreuung angeklagt wurde, wie es auch vielen anderen ehrlichen Herren jener Zeit widerfuhr. Und Walpole Crawley war, wie kaum gesagt werden muss, der Sohn von John Churchill Crawley, benannt nach dem berühmten Militärkommandeur in der Regentschaft von Königin Anne. Der Stammbaum der Familie (der in Queen's Crawley aufgehängt ist) erwähnt außerdem Charles Stuart, der später als Nackte-Knochen Crawley bekannt war, ein Sohn von Crawley aus der Zeit von James I.; und schließlich Queen Elizabeths Crawley, der auf dem Vordergrund des Bildes mit seinem gespaltenen Bart und seiner Rüstung dargestellt wird. Aus seinem Leib wächst wie üblich ein Baum, auf dessen Hauptästen die oben genannten berühmten Namen eingraviert sind. Ganz in der Nähe des Namens von Sir Pitt Crawley, Baronet (dem Gegenstand dieses Memoirs), sind auch die Namen seines Bruders, dem Reverend Bute Crawley (der große Philosoph befand sich gerade in Ungnade, als der ehrwürdige Gentleman geboren wurde), Rektor von Crawley-cum-Snailby, sowie die Namen verschiedener anderer männlicher und weiblicher Mitglieder der Familie Crawley aufgeschrieben. Sir Pitt war zunächst mit Grizzel, der sechsten Tochter von Mungo Binkie, Lord Binkie, verheiratet und dadurch mit Mr. Dundas verwandt. Sie brachte ihm zwei Söhne: Pitt, benannt weniger nach seinem Vater als nach dem Minister, der vom Himmel geboren war, und Rawdon Crawley, nach einem Freund des Prince of Wales, den sein Majestät George IV völlig vergessen hatte. Viele Jahre nach dem Tod seiner Lady führte Sir Pitt Rosa, die Tochter von Mr. G. Dawson aus Mudbury, zum Altar. Mit ihr hatte er zwei Töchter, für deren Erziehung sich Miss Rebecca Sharp nun als Gouvernante engagiert hatte. Es wird deutlich, dass die junge Dame in eine Familie sehr vornehmer Verbindungen gekommen ist und sich in einem viel angeseheneren Kreis bewegen würde als dem bescheidenen, den sie gerade in der Russell Square verlassen hatte. Sie hatte ihren Auftrag, sich bei ihren Schülern zu melden, in einem Brief erhalten, der auf einem alten Umschlag geschrieben war und die folgenden Worte enthielt: Sir Pitt Crawley bittet, dass Miss Sharp und ihr Gepäck am Dienstag hier sein mögen, da ich morgen früh früh auf dem Weg nach Queen's Crawley bin. Great Gaunt Street. Rebecca hatte noch nie einen Baronet gesehen, soweit sie wusste, und sobald sie sich von Amelia verabschiedet und die Guineen gezählt hatte, die der gutmütige Mr. Sedley ihr in eine Geldbörse gelegt hatte, und sobald sie mit ihrem Taschentuch ihre Augen abgewischt hatte (was sie genau in dem Moment beendete, als das Kutsche in die Straße abbog), fing sie an, sich in ihrem Kopf auszumalen, wie ein Baronet sein muss. "Ich frage mich, trägt er einen Orden?", dachte sie, "oder tragen das nur Lords? Aber er wird sehr fein in einem Hofkleid gekleidet sein, mit Rüschen und einem leicht gepuderten Haar wie Mr. Wroughton am Covent Garden. Ich vermute, er wird furchtbar stolz sein, und ich werde höchst verächtlich behandelt werden. Dennoch muss ich mein hartes Los so gut wie möglich ertragen - zumindest werde ich unter Gutsherrn sein und nicht unter gewöhnlichen Städtern", und sie fing an, an ihre Freunde in der Russell Square mit genau derselben philosophischen Bitterkeit zu denken, wie in einer bestimmten Fabel der Fuchs von den Trauben spricht. Nachdem sie Gaunt Square in die Great Gaunt Street durchquert hatten, hielt die Kutsche schließlich vor einem hohen düsteren Haus zwischen zwei anderen hohen düsteren Häusern, von denen jedes ein Wappen über dem mittleren Fenster des Wohnzimmers hatte, wie es bei Häusern in der Great Gaunt Street üblich ist, in der der Tod scheinbar ewig herrscht. Die Fensterläden des Wohnzimmers im ersten Stock von Sir Pitts Besitz sind geschlossen - die des Esszimmers sind teilweise geöffnet und die Jalousien sind ordentlich in alte Zeitungen eingewickelt. Der Kutscher John, der allein die Kutsche gefahren hatte, wollte nicht hinabsteigen, um die Klingel zu läuten; daher bat er einen vorbeikommenden Milchjungen, diese Aufgabe für ihn zu übernehmen. Als die Klingel läutete, erschien ein Kopf zwischen den Zwischenräumen der Fensterläden des Esszimmers, und ein Mann in Schnallenstiefeln und Gamaschen, mit einem schmutzigen alten Mantel, einem schmierigen alten Halstuch um den borstigen Hals, einem glänzenden kahlen Kopf, einem schielenden, roten Gesicht, einem Paar funkelnder grauer Augen und einem perpetuell grinsenden Mund öffnete die Tür. "Ist dies Sir Pitt Crawleys?", fragt John vom Kutschbock aus. "Ja", antwortet der Mann an der Tür mit einem Nicken. "Hol diese Koffer da runter", sagte John. "Hol sie doch selbst runter", sagte der Portier. "Siehst du nicht, dass ich meine Pferde nicht verlassen kann? Komm schon, leg los, mein Freund, und Miss wird dir ein Bier geben", sagte John und lachte laut, denn er hatte keinen Respekt mehr vor Miss Sharp, da ihre Verbindung zur Familie aufgelöst war und sie den Bediensteten nichts gegeben hatte, als sie wegging. Der kahlglatzige Mann nahm seine Hände aus den Taschen seiner Schnallenstiefel, kam herbei und warf Miss Sharps Koffer über seine Schulter. Dann trug er ihn ins Haus. "Nimm diesen Korb und das Tuch, wenn es Ihnen recht ist, und öffnen Sie die Tür", sagte Miss Sharp und stieg sehr verärgert aus der Kutsche. "Ich werde Mr. Sedley schreiben und ihn über Ihr Verhalten informieren", sagte sie zu dem Kutscher. "Schon gut", antwortete dieser. "Ich hoffe, Sie haben nichts vergessen? Die Kleider von Miss Amelia - haben Sie sie, wie es der Kammerfrau versprochen war? Ich hoffe, dass sie Ihnen passen. Mach die Tür zu, Jim, du wirst mit 'ihr' Zwei Küchenstühle und ein runder Tisch sowie ein abgenutzter alter Poker und eine Zange lagen um den Kamin herum. Über dem schwachen, knisternden Feuer befand sich ein Topf. Auf dem Tisch befanden sich ein Stück Käse und Brot sowie ein Zinnkerzenständer und ein kleiner schwarzer Porter in einem Pint-Krug. "Ich nehme an, du hast zu Abend gegessen? Ist dir nicht zu warm? Wie wäre es mit einem Schluck Bier?" "Wo ist Sir Pitt Crawley?", sagte Miss Sharp majestätisch. "Er, er! Ich bin Sir Pitt Crawley. Du schuldest mir einen Pint für das Herunterbringen deines Gepäcks. Frag Tinker, ob ich es nicht bin. Mrs. Tinker, Miss Sharp; Miss Gouvernante, Mrs. Putzfrau. Ho, ho!" Die Frau namens Mrs. Tinker erschien in diesem Moment mit einer Pfeife und einer Tabakdose, für die sie eine Minute vor der Ankunft von Miss Sharp losgeschickt worden war. Sie übergab die Artikel an Sir Pitt, der sich neben dem Kamin niedergelassen hatte. "Was ist mit dem Farden?", sagte er. "Ich habe dir drei Halbpennies gegeben. Wo ist das Wechselgeld, alter Tinker?" "Da!", antwortete Mrs. Tinker und warf die Münze hin. "Nur Baronets interessieren sich für Farthings." "Einen Farthing pro Tag sind sieben Schillinge im Jahr", antwortete der Abgeordnete. "Sieben Schillinge im Jahr sind der Zins von sieben Guineas. Kümmere dich um deine Farthings, alter Tinker, und deine Guineas kommen ganz von selbst." "Du kannst sicher sein, dass es Sir Pitt Crawley ist, junge Frau", sagte Mrs. Tinker mürrisch. "Weil er sich um seine Farthings kümmert. Du wirst ihn bald besser kennenlernen." "Und mich deshalb nicht weniger mögen, Miss Sharp", sagte der alte Herr mit fast höflicher Miene. "Ich muss gerecht sein, bevor ich großzügig bin." "Er hat in seinem ganzen Leben nie einen Farthing hergegeben", knurrte Tinker. "Niemals, und niemals wird er es tun: Es ist gegen meine Prinzipien. Hol einen weiteren Stuhl aus der Küche, Tinker, wenn du dich setzen willst; dann werden wir etwas zu Abend essen." Kurz darauf stach der Baronet mit einer Gabel in den Topf auf dem Feuer und zog ein Stück Kutteln und eine Zwiebel heraus, die er in ziemlich gleiche Teile aufteilte und mit Mrs. Tinker genoss. "Du siehst, Miss Sharp, wenn ich nicht da bin, bekommt Tinker feste Taglöhne: Wenn ich in der Stadt bin, isst sie mit der Familie. Haw! Haw! Ich bin froh, dass Miss Sharp keinen Hunger hat, nicht wahr, Tink?" Und sie fielen über ihr bescheidenes Abendessen her. Nach dem Abendessen begann Sir Pitt Crawley seine Pfeife zu rauchen. Als es ganz dunkel wurde, zündete er die Rushlight-Kerze im Zinnkerzenständer an und zog aus einer unendlich erscheinenden Tasche eine riesige Menge von Papieren heraus, die er las und ordnete. "Ich bin aus geschäftlichen Gründen hier, mein Lieber, und deshalb werde ich morgen das Vergnügen haben, eine so hübsche Reisebegleitung zu haben." "Er ist immer mit geschäftlichen Angelegenheiten beschäftigt", sagte Mrs. Tinker, nahm den Krug mit Porter in die Hand. "Trink und trink aus", sagte der Baronet. "Ja, mein Lieber, Tinker hat recht: Ich habe mehr Klagen gewonnen und verloren als jeder andere Mann in England. Schaut hier, Crawley, Bart. gegen Snaffle. Ich werde ihn verstoßen, wenn ich nicht Pitt Crawley heiße. Podder und ein anderer gegen Crawley, Bart. Gemeindeverwalter von Snaily gegen Crawley, Bart. Sie können nicht beweisen, dass es allgemein ist: Ich trotze ihnen; das Land gehört mir. Es gehört genauso wenig zur Gemeinde wie zu dir oder Tinker hier. Ich werde sie schlagen, koste es mich tausend Guineen. Schau dir die Papiere an; wenn du möchtest, mein Lieber. Kannst du gut schreiben? Ich werde dich nützlich machen, wenn wir in Queen's Crawley sind, darauf kannst du dich verlassen, Miss Sharp. Jetzt, wo die Witwe tot ist, brauche ich jemanden." "Sie war genauso schlimm wie er", sagte Tinker. "Sie hat jeden ihrer Händler verklagt und vierundvierzig Diener in vier Jahren entlassen." "Sie war geizig - sehr geizig", sagte der Baronet einfach. "Aber sie war eine wertvolle Frau für mich und hat mir einen Verwalter erspart." Und in dieser vertraulichen Art führte sich das Gespräch fort und amüsierte die Neuankömmlinge eine beträchtliche Zeit lang. Gute oder schlechte Eigenschaften hin oder her, Sir Pitt Crawley machte keinen Hehl aus ihnen. Er sprach ununterbrochen von sich selbst, manchmal in einem groben und vulgären Hampshire-Akzent, manchmal im Ton eines Mannes von Welt. Und so verabschiedete er sich mit der Aufforderung an Miss Sharp, um fünf Uhr morgens bereit zu sein. "Du wirst heute Nacht mit Tinker schlafen", sagte er. "Es ist ein großes Bett, und es ist Platz für zwei Personen. Lady Crawley ist darin gestorben. Gute Nacht." Nach diesem Segen verließ Sir Pitt das Zimmer, und der feierliche Tinker, die Rushlight-Kerze in der Hand, führte den Weg hinauf in die großen kahlen Steintreppen, vorbei an den großen düsteren Türen des Salons, deren Griffe mit Papier umwickelt waren, in das große vordere Schlafzimmer, in dem Lady Crawley zuletzt geschlafen hatte. Das Bett und das Zimmer waren so feierlich und düster, dass man meinen könnte, nicht nur Lady Crawley sei in diesem Raum gestorben, sondern dass ihr Geist darin wohnte. Rebecca hüpfte jedoch mit größter Lebendigkeit durch das Zimmer und warf einen Blick in die riesigen Kleiderschränke, die Schränke und die Schubladen, die verschlossen waren, und betrachtete die düsteren Gemälde und Toiletteneinrichtungen, während die alte Putzfrau ihre Gebete sprach. "Ich würde nicht gerne in diesem Bett schlafen, ohne ein reines Gewissen zu haben, Fräulein", sagte die alte Frau. "Es ist Platz für uns und eine halbe Handvoll Geister darin", sagte Rebecca. "Erzähl mir alles über Lady Crawley und Sir Pitt Crawley und jeden, meine liebe Mrs. Tinker." Aber die alte Tinker ließ sich von diesem kleinen Frager nicht ausquetschen und bedeutete ihr, dass das Bett ein Ort zum Schlafen und nicht zum Reden sei, und schnarchte dann in ihrer Ecke des Bettes so laut, wie es nur die Nase der Unschuld hervorbringen kann. Rebecca blieb noch lange wach und dachte an den nächsten Tag und an die neue Welt, in die sie gehen würde, und an ihre Erfolgschancen dort. Das Rushlight flackerte in der Schale. Der Kaminsims warf einen großen schwarzen Schatten über etwa die Hälfte einer morschen alten Mustervorlage, die ihre verstorbene Ladyship zweifellos gearbeitet hatte, und über zwei kleine Familienportraits von jungen Männern, einer im studentischen Talar und der andere in einer roten Jacke wie ein Soldat. Als sie einschlief, wählte Rebecca genau dieses aus, um davon zu träumen. Um vier Uhr an einem rosigen Sommermorgen, der sogar die Große Gaunt Street fröhlich aussehen ließ, weckte der treue Tinker ihre Schlafgefährtin und bat sie, sich auf die Abreise vorzubereiten. Er entriegelte und öffnete die große Halle (deren Klirren und Klappern die schlafenden Echos auf der Straße aufschreckte) und ging dann die Oxford Street entlang, um einen Wagen von einem Stand zu rufen. Es ist unnötig, die Nummer des Fahrzeugs zu nennen oder zu erwähnen, dass der Fahrer früh in der Nähe der Swallow Street stationiert war, in der Hoffnung, dass ein betrunkener junger Geck auf dem Nachhauseweg vom Wirt "Behalten Sie die Kiste für mich, Leader", ruft das Mitglied des Parlaments dem Kutscher zu; dieser antwortet: "Ja, Sir Pitt", mit einer Berührung seines Hutes und Wut in seiner Seele (denn er hatte die Kiste einem jungen Mann aus Cambridge versprochen, der dafür sicherlich eine Krone gegeben hätte). Und Miss Sharp wurde mit einem hinteren Sitz im Wagen untergebracht, der sie in die weite Welt bringen sollte. Wie der junge Mann aus Cambridge mürrisch seine fünf Mäntel nach vorne legte, aber versöhnt war, als die kleine Miss Sharp den Wagen verlassen musste und neben ihm Platz nahm - wie er sie in einen seiner Mäntel einwickelte und vollkommen gut gelaunt wurde - wie der asthmakranke Herr, die vornehme Dame, die feierlich schwor, noch nie zuvor in einem öffentlichen Wagen gereist zu sein (es gibt immer eine solche Dame in einem Kutsche - Ach! Wo sind sie; die Kutschen, wo sind sie?), und die fette Witwe mit der Schnapsflasche in den Wagen stiegen - wie der Gepäckträger von allen Geld verlangte und vom Herrn sechs Pence und von der fettigen Witwe fünf dreckige Halbpence bekam - und wie der Wagen schließlich davonfuhr - nun durch die dunklen Gassen von Aldersgate thrahte, bald am blauen Kuppeldach von St. Paul's vorbeiratterte, schnell am Eingang für Fremde von Fleet-Market vorbeiklimperte, das zusammen mit Exeter 'Change nun in die Welt der Schatten entschwunden ist - wie sie am White Bear in Piccadilly vorbeifuhren und den Tau von den Marktgärten in Knightsbridge aufsteigen sahen - wie Turnhamgreen, Brentwood, Bagshot passiert wurden - das muss hier nicht erzählt werden. Aber der Verfasser dieser Seiten, der in vergangenen Tagen und bei gleichem strahlendem Wetter dieselbe bemerkenswerte Reise gemacht hat, kann nicht umhin, mit süßer und zärtlicher Reue daran zu denken. Wo ist die Straße jetzt und ihre fröhlichen Begebenheiten des Lebens? Gibt es kein Chelsea oder Greenwich mehr für die guten ehrlichen Rötelnasen-Kutschpferdekutscher? Ich frage mich, wo sie sind, diese guten Kerle? Lebt oder ist alt Weller tot? und die Kellner, ja, und die Gasthöfe, in denen sie warteten, und das kalte Rindersteak innen und der verwachsene Stallbursche mit der blauen Nase und dem klappernden Eimer, wo ist er und wo ist seine Generation? Für diese großartigen Genies, die jetzt Röcke tragen und Romane für die geliebten Kinder unserer Leser schreiben, werden diese Menschen und Dinge genauso Legende und Geschichte sein wie Ninive, Richard Löwenherz oder Jack Sheppard. Für sie werden Postkutschen zu Romanen geworden sein - ein Gespann aus vier Füchsen genauso sagenhaft wie Bukephalus oder Black Bess. Ach, wie glänzten ihre Mäntel, als die Stallmänner sie auszogen und davongschwanden - ach, wie zitterten ihre Schweife, als sie mit rauchenden Seiten am Ende des Abschnitts würdevoll in den Stallhof gingen. Ach! Wir werden nie wieder das Horn um Mitternacht ertönen hören oder die Schlagbäume aufspringen sehen. Wohin aber bringt uns der leichte Vier-Platz-Trafalgar-Kutsche? Lassen Sie uns in Queen's Crawley ohne weitere Abweichungen absetzen und sehen, wie es Miss Rebecca Sharp dort ergeht. Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze formulieren?

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

Der Erzähler erzählt uns ein wenig über Sir Pitt, woraus hervorgeht, dass er von einer sehr noblen Abstammungslinie stammt. Auf dem Weg zu einem schicken Londoner Haus, Sir Pitts Herrenhaus, fragt sich Becky, wie vornehm der Baronet wohl sein wird. An der Tür des Herrenhauses trifft ein alter, schmutziger Mann die Kutsche und hilft Becky widerwillig mit ihren Taschen. Sie nimmt an, dass dies irgendein widerlicher Diener ist, aber er stellt sich stattdessen als Sir Pitt selbst heraus! Sir Pitt spricht mit einem proletarischen Hampshire-Akzent. Zum Abendessen isst er Rinderpansen und Zwiebeln mit Mrs. Tinker, der Putzfrau. Was würden die Viktorianer denken? Rinderpansen und Zwiebeln? Ekelhaftes Essen für arme Leute. Mit den Bediensteten zu essen? Ein absolutes Aristokratie-Tabu. Sir Pitt ist nicht nur unhöflich, unangenehm und nicht besonders sauber, sondern er ist auch sehr geizig und rechtssüchtig. Alles, was er tut, ist Menschen zu verklagen und verklagt zu werden. Er fragt Becky, ob sie eine gute Handschrift hat, was darauf hindeutet, dass sie zusätzlich zu ihrer Tätigkeit als Gouvernante einige Sekretariatsarbeiten für ihn erledigen soll. Am nächsten Morgen fahren Sir Pitt und Becky mit einem Kutschen nach Queen's Crawley, dem Anwesen der Pitts auf dem Land. Dies ist ein weiteres Zeichen seiner Geizigkeit - ein Baronet hätte normalerweise eine eigene Kutsche und würde nicht mit öffentlichen Verkehrsmitteln fahren.

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 erinnerte sich am nächsten Morgen mit Freude an ihr Versprechen, zu Mrs. Smith zu gehen, wobei sie meinte, dass es sie von zu Hause wegziehen sollte, wenn Mr. Elliot höchstwahrscheinlich anrufen würde; denn Mr. Elliot zu vermeiden war fast oberste Priorität. Sie fühlte eine große Wertschätzung für ihn. Trotz der Unannehmlichkeiten seiner Aufmerksamkeit schuldete sie ihm Dankbarkeit und Zuneigung, vielleicht auch Mitleid. Sie konnte nicht umhin, viel über die außergewöhnlichen Umstände ihrer Bekanntschaft nachzudenken, über das Recht, das er schien, sie zu interessieren, durch alles, was in der Situation lag, durch seine eigenen Gefühle, durch seine frühe Vorliebe. Es war alles sehr außergewöhnlich; schmeichelhaft, aber schmerzhaft. Es gab viel zu bedauern. Wie sie sich gefühlt hätte, wenn Captain Wentworth nicht im Spiel gewesen wäre, war keine Untersuchung wert; denn es gab einen Captain Wentworth; und egal ob das Ende der aktuellen Spannung gut oder schlecht war, ihre Zuneigung würde für immer bei ihm sein. Ihre Vereinigung, glaubte sie, könnte sie nicht mehr von anderen Männern trennen als ihre endgültige Trennung. Schönere Gedanken hochdramatischer Liebe und ewiger Beständigkeit, als Anne sie von Camden Place zu Westgate Buildings begleitend hatte, waren noch nie durch die Straßen von Bath gewandert. Es war fast genug, um Reinheit und Duft überall zu verbreiten. Sie war sich sicher, eine angenehme Aufnahme zu bekommen; und ihre Freundin schien an diesem Morgen besonders dankbar für ihr Kommen zu sein, schien kaum mit ihr gerechnet zu haben, obwohl es verabredet war. Ein Bericht über das Konzert wurde sofort verlangt; und Annes Erinnerungen an das Konzert waren glücklich genug, um ihr Gesicht zu beleben und sie froh zu machen, darüber zu sprechen. Alles, was sie erzählen konnte, erzählte sie am liebsten, aber das alles war wenig für jemanden, der selbst dort gewesen war, und unzureichend für jemanden wie Mrs. Smith, der bereits durch den direkten Weg einer Wäscherin und eines Kellners mehr über den allgemeinen Erfolg und Ertrag des Abends erfahren hatte als Anne erzählen konnte, und die jetzt vergeblich nach verschiedenen Einzelheiten über die Gesellschaft fragte. Jeder von einiger Bedeutung oder Bekanntheit in Bath war Frau Smith namentlich bekannt. "Die kleinen Durands waren dabei, nehme ich an", sagte sie, "mit weit geöffnetem Mund, um die Musik wie frisch geschlüpfte Spatzen aufzunehmen, bereit, gefüttert zu werden. Sie verpassen nie ein Konzert." "Ja, ich habe sie selbst nicht gesehen, aber ich habe Mr. Elliot sagen hören, dass sie im Raum waren." "Die Ibbotsons, waren sie dort? Und die beiden neuen Schönheiten mit dem großen irischen Offizier, über den gesprochen wird?" "Ich weiß es nicht. Ich glaube nicht, dass sie da waren." "Die alte Lady Mary Maclean? Ich brauche nach ihr nicht zu fragen. Sie verpasst nie, das weiß ich; und du musst sie gesehen haben. Sie musste in deinem eigenen Kreis gewesen sein; denn du bist mit Lady Dalrymple gegangen, du warst natürlich in den Sitzen der Macht, rund um das Orchester." "Nein, das war es, was ich befürchtet habe. Es wäre mir in jeder Hinsicht sehr unangenehm gewesen. Aber glücklicherweise wählt Lady Dalrymple immer, weiter weg zu sein; und wir waren bestens platziert, das heißt, um zu hören; ich darf nicht sagen, um zu sehen, weil ich anscheinend sehr wenig gesehen habe." "Oh! Du hast genug für dein eigenes Vergnügen gesehen. Das kann ich verstehen. Es gibt eine Art häusliches Vergnügen, das selbst in einer Menschenmenge gekannt werden kann, und das hattest du. Ihr wart eine große Gruppe für euch und habt nichts weiter gebraucht." "Aber ich hätte mehr herumschauen sollen", sagte Anne und wurde sich dabei bewusst, dass es tatsächlich kein Mangel an Herumschauen gegeben hatte, dass nur das Ziel gefehlt hatte. "Nein, nein; du warst besser beschäftigt. Du musst mir nicht sagen, dass du einen angenehmen Abend hattest. Ich sehe es in deinen Augen. Ich sehe ganz deutlich, wie die Stunden vergingen: dass du immer etwas Angenehmes zu hören hattest. In den Pausen des Konzerts gab es Unterhaltung." Anne lächelte halb und sagte: "Siehst du das in meinen Augen?" "Ja, das tue ich. Deine Miene verrät mir vollkommen, dass du gestern Abend in Gesellschaft der Person warst, die du für die angenehmste in der Welt hältst, der Person, die dich gegenwärtig mehr interessiert als alle anderen Menschen zusammen." Eine Röte überzog Annes Wangen. Sie konnte nichts sagen. "Und da dies der Fall ist", fuhr Mrs. Smith nach einer kurzen Pause fort, "hoffe ich, dass du glaubst, dass ich weiß, wie ich deine Freundlichkeit schätzen soll, dass du heute Morgen zu mir kommst. Es ist wirklich sehr nett von dir, zu kommen und bei mir zu sitzen, wenn du so viele angenehmere Ansprüche auf deine Zeit haben musst." Anne hörte nichts davon. Sie war immer noch von der Verwunderung und Verwirrung über die Durchdringungsfähigkeit ihrer Freundin ergriffen und konnte sich nicht vorstellen, wie eine Bericht über Captain Wentworth Mrs. Smith erreicht haben könnte. Nach einer weiteren kurzen Pause- "Sagen Sie mal", sagte Mrs. Smith, "weiß Mr. Elliot von Ihrer Bekanntschaft mit mir? Weiß er, dass ich in Bath bin?" "Mr. Elliot!", wiederholte Anne und sah überrascht auf. Ein Moment des Nachdenkens zeigte ihr den Irrtum, unter dem sie gestanden hatte. Sie erkannte ihn sofort und gewann mit dem Gefühl der Sicherheit ihren Mut zurück und fügte bald ruhiger hinzu: "Sind Sie mit Mr. Elliot bekannt?" "Ich war ziemlich gut bekannt mit ihm", antwortete Mrs. Smith ernst, "aber es scheint jetzt vergangen zu sein. Wir haben uns schon lange nicht mehr getroffen." "Davon hatte ich überhaupt keine Ahnung. Sie haben es nie erwähnt. Wenn ich es gewusst hätte, hätte ich das Vergnügen gehabt, mit ihm über Sie zu sprechen." "Um die Wahrheit zu sagen", sagte Mrs. Smith und nahm wieder ihre gewohnte fröhliche Haltung ein, "das ist genau das Vergnügen, das ich möchte, dass Sie haben. Ich möchte, dass Sie mit Mr. Elliot über mich sprechen. Ich möchte Ihr Interesse bei ihm wecken. Er kann mir von wesentlicher Hilfe sein; und wenn Sie die Güte hätten, meine liebe Miss Elliot, daraus eine eigene Angelegenheit zu machen, ist es natürlich erledigt." "Ich wäre überaus glücklich; ich hoffe, Sie können nicht bezweifeln, dass ich bereit bin, Ihnen auch nur den geringsten Nutzen zu bringen", antwortete Anne, "aber ich vermute, dass Sie mich als einen Menschen betrachten, der einen größeren Anspruch auf Mr. Elliot hat und mehr Einfluss auf ihn haben darf, als es tatsächlich der Fall ist. Ich bin mir sicher, dass Sie irgendwie eine solche Vorstellung aufgeschnappt haben. Sie müssen mich nur als Mr. Elliots Verwandte betrachten. Wenn es in diesem Licht irgendetwas gibt, was Sie für angemessen halten, dass seine Cousine von ihm verlangen könnte, bitte zögern Sie nicht, mich zu bitten." Mrs. Smith musterte sie durchdringend und sagte dann lächelnd: "Ich war etwas voreilig, das sehe ich ein. Entschuldigen Sie bitte. Ich hätte auf offizielle Informationen warten sollen. Aber nun, meine liebe Miss Elliot, als alte Freundin, geben Sie mir einen Hinweis, wann ich sprechen darf. Nächste Woche? Sicher, nächste Woche darf ich davon ausgehen, dass alles geklärt ist und meine eigenen egoistischen Pläne auf Mr. Elliots Glück aufbauen kann." "Nein", antwortete Anne, "weder nächste Woche, noch nächste, noch übernächste. Ich versichere Ihnen, dass nichts von der Art, woran Sie denken, irgendwann geklärt wird. Ich werde nicht Mr. Elliot heiraten. Ich würde gerne wissen, warum Sie glauben, dass ich es tun würde?" Frau Smith schaute sie erneut an, schaute ernst "Oh! wenn das Ihre einzigen Einwände sind", rief Mrs Smith schelmisch, "dann ist Mr Elliot sicher, und ich werde mir nicht weiter Mühe mit ihm geben. Vergessen Sie mich nicht, wenn Sie verheiratet sind, das ist alles. Lassen Sie ihn wissen, dass ich eine Freundin von Ihnen bin, und dann wird er die erforderlichen Mühen, die es für ihn jetzt sehr natürlich ist, mit so vielen eigenen Angelegenheiten und Verpflichtungen zu vermeiden und loszuwerden, gering schätzen; sehr natürlich, vielleicht. Neunundneunzig von hundert würden dasselbe tun. Natürlich kann er nicht die Bedeutung für mich erkennen. Nun, meine liebe Miss Elliot, ich hoffe und vertraue, dass Sie sehr glücklich sein werden. Mr Elliot hat den Verstand zu verstehen, wie wertvoll eine solche Frau ist. Ihr Frieden wird nicht Schiffbruch erleiden wie meiner. Sie sind in allen weltlichen Angelegenheiten sicher und auch in seinem Charakter. Er wird nicht abtrünnig werden; er wird sich nicht von anderen in sein Verderben führen lassen." "Nein", sagte Anne, "ich kann alles, was Sie von meinem Cousin erzählt haben, leicht glauben. Er scheint einen ruhigen, entschiedenen Charakter zu haben, der überhaupt nicht anfällig für gefährliche Eindrücke ist. Ich betrachte ihn mit großem Respekt. Aus allem, was ich beobachtet habe, habe ich keinen Grund zu etwas anderem. Aber ich habe ihn nicht lange gekannt, und er ist nicht der Typ Mann, den man schnell intim kennenlernt. Wird Sie diese Art, über ihn zu sprechen, Mrs Smith, nicht überzeugen, dass er nichts für mich ist? Sicherlich muss das ruhig genug sein. Und, bei meinem Wort, er ist nichts für mich. Sollte er mir je einen Antrag machen (wovon ich sehr wenig Grund habe anzunehmen, dass er überhaupt daran denkt), werde ich ihn nicht annehmen. Ich versichere Ihnen, ich werde es nicht. Ich versichere Ihnen, Mr Elliot hatte nicht den Anteil, den Sie sich vorgestellt haben, an welchem Vergnügen auch immer das gestrige Konzert bieten mochte: nicht Mr Elliot; es ist nicht Mr Elliot, der--" Sie hielt inne und bedauerte mit einem tiefen Erröten, dass sie so viel angedeutet hatte; aber weniger hätte kaum ausgereicht. Mrs Smith würde kaum so schnell an Mr Elliots Scheitern geglaubt haben, wenn sie nicht das Gefühl gehabt hätte, dass es jemand anderen gab. So wie es war, gab sie sich sofort geschlagen und mit dem Anschein, nichts darüber hinaus zu sehen; und Anne, begierig, weiteres Aufsehen zu vermeiden, wollte ungeduldig wissen, warum Mrs Smith sich einbildete, sie würde Mr Elliot heiraten; woher sie die Idee bekommen hatte oder von wem sie sie gehört haben könnte. "Erzählen Sie mir doch, wie Sie überhaupt darauf gekommen sind." "Ich bin darauf gekommen", antwortete Mrs Smith, "als ich feststellte, wie viel Zeit Sie miteinander verbringen, und es für die wahrscheinlichste Sache der Welt hielt, von jedem, der mit Ihnen beiden zu tun hat, gewünscht zu werden; und Sie können darauf zählen, dass all Ihre Bekannten Sie genauso eingeordnet haben. Aber ich habe erst vor zwei Tagen davon gehört." "Und es ist wirklich davon gesprochen worden?" "Haben Sie die Frau bemerkt, die Ihnen gestern die Tür geöffnet hat?" "Nein. War es nicht wie üblich Mrs Speed oder das Dienstmädchen? Ich habe niemanden besonders beachtet." Es war meine Freundin Mrs Rooke; Krankenschwester Rooke war es; die übrigens sehr neugierig war, Sie zu sehen, und sich freute, dabei zu sein, um Sie hereinzulassen. Sie ist erst am Sonntag aus Marlborough Buildings weggezogen; und sie war es, die mir erzählt hat, dass Sie Mr Elliot heiraten würden. Sie hatte es von Mrs Wallis selbst, was keine schlechte Quelle zu sein schien. Sie hat am Montagabend eine Stunde mit mir verbracht und mir die ganze Geschichte erzählt." "Die ganze Geschichte", wiederholte Anne lachend. "Sie konnte von einer solchen kleinen unwahren Nachricht sicherlich keine sehr lange Geschichte machen." Mrs Smith sagte nichts. "Aber", fuhr Anne fort, "obwohl an meiner Behauptung, einen Anspruch auf Mr Elliot zu haben, nichts Wahres ist, wäre ich äußerst glücklich, Ihnen in irgendeiner Weise behilflich zu sein. Soll ich ihm von Ihrem Aufenthalt in Bath erzählen? Soll ich eine Nachricht überbringen?" "Nein, danke: nein, bestimmt nicht. Im Eifer des Augenblicks und unter einem falschen Eindruck hätte ich mich vielleicht bemüht, Sie für einige Umstände zu interessieren; aber jetzt nicht mehr. Nein, danke, ich habe nichts, womit ich Sie belästigen könnte." "Ich glaube, Sie haben erwähnt, dass Sie Mr Elliot viele Jahre gekannt haben?" "Habe ich." "Nicht bevor er verheiratet war, nehme ich an?" "Doch; als ich ihn zuerst kannte, war er nicht verheiratet." "Und... kannten Sie ihn gut?" "Intim." "Wirklich! Dann erzählen Sie mir doch, wie er zu der Zeit seines Lebens war. Ich bin sehr neugierig zu wissen, wie Mr Elliot als junger Mann war. War er damals ähnlich wie er jetzt erscheint?" "Ich habe Mr Elliot seit drei Jahren nicht mehr gesehen", war Mrs Smiths Antwort, die so ernsthaft gegeben wurde, dass es unmöglich war, das Thema weiter zu verfolgen; und Anne fühlte, dass sie nichts gewonnen hatte außer einer gesteigerten Neugier. Sie waren beide schweigsam: Mrs Smith sehr nachdenklich. Schließlich-- "Ich bitte um Verzeihung, meine liebe Miss Elliot", rief sie in ihrem natürlichen Ton der Herzlichkeit, "ich bitte um Verzeihung für die knappen Antworten, die ich Ihnen gegeben habe, aber ich war unsicher, was ich tun sollte. Ich habe gezweifelt und darüber nachgedacht, was ich Ihnen sagen sollte. Es gab viele Dinge zu berücksichtigen. Man hasst es, aufdringlich zu sein, schlechte Eindrücke zu erwecken, Unheil anzurichten. Selbst die glatte Oberfläche einer familiären Verbundenheit scheint es wert zu sein, bewahrt zu werden, auch wenn darunter nichts Bleibendes vorhanden ist. Wie auch immer, ich habe mich entschieden; ich glaube, ich habe recht; ich denke, Sie sollten mit Mr Elliots wahrem Charakter vertraut gemacht werden. Obwohl ich fest davon überzeugt bin, dass Sie derzeit nicht die geringste Absicht haben, ihn zu akzeptieren, kann man nie wissen, was passieren wird. Sie könnten irgendwann einmal anders auf ihn reagieren. Hören Sie also jetzt die Wahrheit, solange Sie unvoreingenommen sind. Mr Elliot ist ein Mann ohne Herz oder Gewissen; ein gestaltender, vorsichtiger, kaltblütiger Mensch, der nur an sich selbst denkt; der für seinen eigenen Vorteil er oder Leichtigkeit jeder Grausamkeit oder Verrat begehen würde, die ohne Gefahr für seinen allgemeinen Charakter begangen werden könnte. Er hat keine Gefühle für andere. Diejenigen, die er hauptsächlich ins Unglück geführt hat, kann er vernachlässigen und verlassen, ohne die geringste Reue. Er ist völlig unempfänglich für jegliches Gefühl von Gerechtigkeit oder Mitgefühl. Oh! Er ist schwarzen Herzens, hohl und schwarz!" Annes erstaunter Gesichtsausdruck und ihr Ausruf des Erstaunens ließen sie innehalten, und in ruhigerem Ton fügte sie hinzu: "Meine Ausdrücke erschrecken Sie. Sie müssen hier eine verletzte, verärgerte Frau berücksichtigen. Aber ich werde versuchen, mich zu beherrschen. Ich werde ihn nicht beschimpfen. Ich werde Ihnen nur erzählen, wie ich ihn kennengelernt habe. Die Fakten werden sprechen. Er war der enge Freund meines lieben Mannes, der ihm vertraute und ihn liebte und ihn für ebenso gut hielt wie sich selbst. Die Freundschaft war vor unserer Ehe entstanden. Ich fand sie in engster Freundschaft verbunden, und auch ich war sehr angetan von Mr Elliot und hatte eine hohe Meinung von ihm. Mit neunzehn "Ja, das kann ich wirklich", rief Frau Smith und lächelte. Ja. Ich habe Ihnen Mister Elliot gezeigt, wie er vor einem Dutzend Jahren war, und ich werde ihn Ihnen jetzt zeigen, wie er jetzt ist. Ich kann zwar keinen schriftlichen Beweis vorlegen, aber ich kann Ihnen genauso authentische mündliche Zeugenaussagen geben, wie Sie es wünschen, von dem, was er jetzt möchte und was er jetzt tut. Er ist jetzt kein Heuchler mehr. Er möchte wirklich Sie heiraten. Seine aktuellen Aufmerksamkeiten gegenüber Ihrer Familie sind sehr aufrichtig: wirklich von Herzen kommend. Ich werde Ihnen meine Bestätigung geben: sein Freund Colonel Wallis. "Colonel Wallis! Sie kennen ihn?" "Nein. Es kommt nicht so direkt zu mir, es nimmt ein paar Biegungen, aber nichts von Bedeutung. Der Fluss ist genauso gut wie zu Anfang; der kleine Müll, den er in den Kurven sammelt, lässt sich leicht entfernen. Mister Elliot spricht offen mit Colonel Wallis über seine Ansichten zu Ihnen, von dem ich denke, dass er, was ihn selbst betrifft, eine vernünftige, sorgfältige, einsichtige Art von Charakter ist; aber Colonel Wallis hat eine sehr hübsche alberne Frau, der er Dinge erzählt, die er besser nicht erzählt hätte, und er wiederholt alles für sie. Sie wiederholt in ihrem überschwänglichen Glück über ihre Genesung alles für ihre Krankenschwester; und die Krankenschwester, da sie meine Bekanntschaft mit Ihnen kennt, bringt alles ganz natürlich zu mir. Am Montagabend hat mir meine gute Freundin Mrs. Rooke so viel von den Geheimnissen von Marlborough Buildings erzählt. Wenn ich also von einer ganzen Geschichte gesprochen habe, sehen Sie, dass ich nicht so sehr übertreibe, wie Sie vermutet haben." "Meine liebe Mrs. Smith, Ihre Zuständigkeit ist unzureichend. Das wird nicht funktionieren. Mister Elliots Absichten mir gegenüber erklären nicht im Geringsten die Bemühungen, die er unternommen hat, um sich mit meinem Vater zu versöhnen. Das war alles vor meiner Ankunft in Bath. Als ich ankam, fand ich sie in allerbester Stimmung." "Ich weiß, das habe ich alles im Griff, aber -" "Tatsächlich, Mrs. Smith, dürfen wir in dieser Angelegenheit keine realen Informationen erwarten. Fakten oder Meinungen, die durch so viele Hände gehen und von Dummheit und Unwissenheit missverstanden werden können, können kaum noch viel Wahrheit enthalten." "Gib mir einfach eine Chance. Sie werden bald in der Lage sein, das allgemeine Maß an Glaubwürdigkeit zu beurteilen, indem Sie einigen Einzelheiten zuhören, die Sie selbst sofort widerlegen oder bestätigen können. Niemand nimmt an, dass Sie seine erste Motivation waren. Er hatte Sie in der Tat gesehen, bevor er nach Bath kam, und Sie bewundert, aber ohne zu wissen, dass Sie es waren. So sagt es zumindest meine Historikerin. Stimmt das? Hat er Sie letzten Sommer oder Herbst, 'irgendwo im Westen', um ihre eigenen Worte zu benutzen, gesehen, ohne zu wissen, dass Sie es waren?" "Ja, das hat er. Soweit ist es sehr wahr. In Lyme. Ich war zufällig in Lyme." "Gut", fuhr Mrs. Smith triumphierend fort, "gewähren Sie meinem Freund die Glaubwürdigkeit, die der Feststellung des ersten behaupteten Punktes zusteht. Er hat Sie also in Lyme gesehen und Sie so sehr gemocht, dass er äußerst erfreut war, Sie in Camden Place wiederzutreffen, als Miss Anne Elliot, und von dem Moment an, da habe ich keinen Zweifel, hatte er ein doppeltes Interesse an seinen Besuchen dort. Aber es gab noch eine andere, und eine frühere, die ich jetzt erklären werde. Wenn es etwas in meiner Geschichte gibt, das Sie wissen, dass es entweder falsch oder unwahrscheinlich ist, stoppen Sie mich. In meiner Erzählung wird behauptet, dass Ihre Schwester Freundin, die Dame, die jetzt bei Ihnen wohnt, von der ich gehört habe, dass Sie von ihr gesprochen haben, schon im vergangenen September nach Bath kam (kurz gesagt, als sie selbst zum ersten Mal kamen) und dort seitdem geblieben ist; dass sie eine kluge, einschmeichelnde, hübsche Frau ist, arm und plausibel, und insgesamt in Situation und Manieren so beschaffen ist, dass sie bei Sir Walter's Bekannten den allgemeinen Eindruck erweckt, beabsichtigt Lady Elliot zu werden, und dass Miss Elliot scheinbar blind für die Gefahr ist, erstaunt eigentlich alle." Hier hielt Mrs. Smith einen Moment inne, aber Anne hatte kein Wort zu sagen, und sie fuhr fort: So sah es aus, meinen diejenigen, die die Familie kennen, lange bevor Sie zurückkehrten; und Colonel Wallis hatte ein Auge auf Ihren Vater, genug, um es zu bemerken, obwohl er damals nicht in Camden Place verkehrte; aber seine Zuneigung zu Mister Elliot gab ihm ein Interesse daran, alles zu beobachten, was dort vor sich ging, und als Mister Elliot, wie er vor Weihnachten zufällig für ein oder zwei Tage nach Bath kam, machte Colonel Wallis ihn mit dem Erscheinungsbild der Dinge und den immer verbreiteteren Gerüchten bekannt. Jetzt müssen Sie verstehen, dass sich in Mister Elliots Meinung über den Wert eines Barontitels eine sehr wesentliche Veränderung ergeben hatte. In Bezug auf Abstammung und Verbindung ist er ein völlig anderer Mann geworden. Da er bereits genug Geld hatte, um es auszugeben, nichts auf der Seite von Gier oder Vergnügen zu wünschen hatte, hat er allmählich angefangen, sein Glück von der ihm zustehenden Bedeutung abhängig zu machen. Ich glaubte, dass es bereits begann, während unsere Bekanntschaft endete, aber jetzt ist es ein bestätigtes Gefühl. Er kann es nicht ertragen, nicht Sir William zu sein. Sie können sich also vorstellen, dass die Nachrichten, die er von seinem Freund gehört hat, nicht sehr erfreulich sein konnten, und Sie können sich vorstellen, welche Auswirkungen sie hatten; der Entschluss, so bald wie möglich nach Bath zurückzukehren und sich hier eine Zeitlang niederzulassen, um seine frühere Bekanntschaft zu erneuern und eine Stellung in der Familie zu erlangen, die ihm die Möglichkeit geben würde, das Ausmaß seiner Gefahr festzustellen und die Dame zu umgehen, falls er es für entscheidend hielt. Das wurde zwischen den beiden Freunden als einzig mögliche Vorgehensweise vereinbart, und Colonel Wallis sollte auf jede erdenkliche Weise behilflich sein. Er sollte vorgestellt werden und auch Mrs. Wallis sollte vorgestellt werden, und jeder sollte vorgestellt werden. Mister Elliot kam also zurück, und auf seine Bitte hin wurde er, wie Sie wissen, verziehen und in die Familie wieder aufgenommen; und dort war es sein ständiges Ziel und sein einziges Ziel (bis zu Ihrer Ankunft, die ein weiteres Motiv hinzufügte), Sir Walter und Mrs. Clay zu beobachten. Er ließ keine Gelegenheit aus, bei ihnen zu sein, warf sich ihnen in den Weg, kam zu allen möglichen Zeiten vorbei; aber ich muss auf dieses Thema nicht näher eingehen. Sie können sich vorstellen, was ein raffinierter Mann tun würde; und mit dieser Anleitung können Sie sich vielleicht daran erinnern, was Sie ihn haben tun sehen." "Ja", sagte Anne, "Sie erzählen mir nichts, was nicht mit dem übereinstimmt, was ich gewusst habe oder mir vorstellen konnte. In den Einzelheiten von List gibt es immer etwas Anstößiges. Die Manöver des Egoismus und der Heimtücke müssen immer abstößig sein, aber ich habe nichts gehört, was mich wirklich überrascht. Ich kenne solche, die von einer solchen Darstellung von Herrn Elliot schockiert wären, die Schwierigkeiten hätten, es zu glauben; aber ich war nie zufrieden. Ich habe immer ein anderes Motiv für sein Verhalten gewünscht als das, was ersichtlich war. Ich würde gerne seine gegenwärtige Meinung darüber kennen, wie wahrscheinlich das Ereignis ist, vor dem er Aber Herr Elliot war noch nicht fertig. Frau Smith war von ihrer ersten Absicht abgekommen, und Anne hatte in ihrem eigenen familiären Interesse vergessen, wie viel ursprünglich gegen ihn impliziert worden war. Doch nun wurde ihre Aufmerksamkeit auf die Erklärung dieser ersten Andeutungen gelenkt, und sie hörte einen Bericht, der, wenn er auch nicht völlig die unqualifizierte Bitterkeit von Frau Smith rechtfertigte, bewies, dass er in seinem Verhalten gegenüber ihr sehr gefühllos und sowohl in Gerechtigkeit als auch Mitgefühl sehr mangelhaft gewesen war. Sie erfuhr, dass (die Intimität zwischen ihnen blieb unvermindert trotz Herrn Elliots Heirat) sie wie zuvor immer zusammen waren und Herr Elliot seinen Freund zu Ausgaben veranlasst hatte, die weit über sein Vermögen hinausgingen. Frau Smith wollte sich selbst keine Schuld zuschreiben und war sehr bemüht, keine auf ihren Ehemann zu werfen; aber Anne konnte herausfinden, dass ihr Einkommen nie ihrem Lebensstil entsprochen hatte und dass von Anfang an eine Menge allgemeiner und gemeinsamer Verschwendung vorhanden gewesen war. Anhand der Schilderung seiner Frau konnte Anne erkennen, dass Herr Smith ein Mann von warmen Gefühlen, einem leichten Temperament, nachlässigen Gewohnheiten und schwachem Verstand war, viel liebenswürdiger als sein Freund und sehr unähnlich ihm, von ihm geführt und wahrscheinlich von ihm verachtet. Herr Elliot, durch seine Heirat zu großem Wohlstand erhoben und diszipliniert, was die Befriedigung von Vergnügen und Eitelkeit anging, die er sich selbst verschaffen konnte, (denn trotz all seiner Genusssucht war er ein vernünftiger Mann geworden), begann gerade reich zu werden, als sein Freund sich arm fühlen sollte. Es schien, dass er überhaupt kein Interesse an den wahrscheinlichen Finanzen seines Freundes hatte, sondern im Gegenteil Ausgaben gefördert und angetrieben hatte, die nur im Ruin enden konnten, und die Smiths wurden folglich ruiniert. Der Ehemann war gerade rechtzeitig gestorben, um von all dem nichts mitzubekommen. Sie hatten zuvor schon genug Belastungen erfahren, um die Freundschaft ihrer Freunde auf die Probe zu stellen und zu beweisen, dass man Herrn Elliots Freundschaft lieber nicht hätte auf die Probe stellen sollen; doch erst nach seinem Tod wurde der trostlose Zustand seiner Angelegenheiten vollständig bekannt. Mit einem Vertrauen in Herrn Elliots Wohlwollen, das seinen Gefühlen eher als seinem Urteilsvermögen Ehre machte, hatte Herr Smith ihn zum Testamentsvollstrecker seines Testaments ernannt. Doch Herr Elliot wollte nicht handeln, und die Schwierigkeiten und Belastungen, die diese Ablehnung ihr auferlegt hatte, zusätzlich zu den unvermeidlichen Leiden ihrer Situation, waren solche, die nicht ohne gequälten Geist erzählt oder ohne entsprechende Empörung angehört werden konnten. Anne bekam einige Briefe von ihm zu sehen, die Antworten auf dringende Anfragen von Frau Smith waren und alle dieselbe strenge Entschlossenheit zum Ausdruck brachten, sich nicht auf eine fruchtlose Mühe einzulassen, sowie unter einer kühlen Höflichkeit dieselbe herzlose Gleichgültigkeit gegenüber allen Übeln, die es mit sich bringen könnte. Es war ein schreckliches Bild von Undankbarkeit und Unmenschlichkeit, und Anne fühlte in manchen Momenten, dass kein offenes Verbrechen schlimmer hätte sein können. Sie hatte viel zuzuhören; alle Einzelheiten vergangener trauriger Szenen, alle Einzelheiten von Leid auf Leid, die in früheren Gesprächen nur angedeutet worden waren, wurden jetzt mit natürlicher Nachsicht erwähnt. Anne konnte das exquisite Erleichterung vollkommen nachvollziehen und wunderte sich nur noch mehr über die Gelassenheit des üblichen Geisteszustandes ihrer Freundin. Es gab einen Umstand in der Geschichte ihrer Beschwerden, der besondere Irritation verursachte. Sie hatte guten Grund zu der Annahme, dass ein gewisser Besitz ihres Ehemanns in den Westindischen Inseln, der seit vielen Jahren zur Begleichung seiner eigenen Belastungen gepfändet war, durch geeignete Maßnahmen wiedererlangt werden könnte; und dieser Besitz, obwohl nicht groß, würde ausreichen, um sie vergleichsweise reich zu machen. Doch niemand rührte sich deswegen. Herr Elliot würde nichts tun, und sie selbst konnte nichts tun, da sie sowohl durch ihren körperlichen Gesundheitszustand als auch durch ihren Geldmangel daran gehindert war, persönliche Anstrengungen zu unternehmen. Sie hatte keine natürlichen Verbindungen, die ihr selbst mit ihrem Rat helfen könnten, und sie konnte es sich nicht leisten, die Hilfe des Gesetzes zu erkaufen. Dies war eine grausame Verschlimmerung der ohnehin schon knappen Mittel. Zu spüren, dass sie in besseren Verhältnissen sein sollte, dass ein wenig Mühe am richtigen Ort es bewirken könnte, und zu fürchten, dass eine Verzögerung ihre Ansprüche sogar schwächen könnte, war schwer zu ertragen. Gerade in dieser Hinsicht hatte sie gehofft, von Anne Unterstützung zu erhalten, indem sie mit Herrn Elliot sprach. Zuvor hatte sie in Erwartung ihrer Hochzeit befürchtet, ihre Freundin dadurch zu verlieren; aber nachdem ihr versichert worden war, dass er keine derartigen Versuche unternommen hatte, da er nicht einmal wusste, dass sie in Bath war, kam ihr sofort der Gedanke, dass durch den Einfluss der Frau, die er liebte, etwas zu ihrem Vorteil getan werden könnte. Sie hatte sich hastig darauf vorbereitet, Annes Gefühle zu wecken, so weit es die gebotenen Formen erlaubten, als Annes Widerlegung der vermeintlichen Verlobung alles veränderte; und während sie ihr die neugebildete Hoffnung nahm, ihr Ziel bei ihrer ersten Besorgnis zu erreichen, blieb ihr zumindest der Trost, die ganze Geschichte nach ihren eigenen Vorstellungen erzählen zu können. Nachdem sie diese ausführliche Beschreibung von Herrn Elliot angehört hatte, konnte Anne nicht umhin, etwas überrascht zu sein, dass Frau Smith am Anfang ihres Gesprächs so wohlwollend von ihm gesprochen hatte. "Sie schien ihn zu empfehlen und zu loben!" "Meine Liebe", war die Antwort von Frau Smith, "es gab nichts anderes zu tun. Ich habe dich geheiratet, obwohl er das Angebot noch nicht gemacht hatte, und ich konnte die Wahrheit über ihn nicht sprechen, als ob er dein Ehemann gewesen wäre. Mein Herz blutete für dich, als ich von Glück sprach, und dennoch ist er vernünftig, er ist angenehm, und mit einer Frau wie dir war es nicht absolut hoffnungslos. Er war sehr unliebenswürdig zu seiner ersten Frau. Sie waren zusammen unglücklich. Aber sie war zu ungebildet und leichtsinnig für seinen Respekt, und er hatte sie nie geliebt. Ich wollte hoffen, dass es dir besser ergehen würde." Anne konnte in sich selbst gerade noch die Möglichkeit eingestehen, von Lady Russell dazu gebracht worden zu sein, ihn zu heiraten, was sie bei der Vorstellung des darauffolgenden Elends schaudern ließ. Es war gerade möglich, dass sie von Lady Russell überredet worden wäre! Und unter solch einer Annahme, die wäre am unglücklichsten gewesen, wenn die Zeit alles offenbart hätte, zu spät? Es war sehr wünschenswert, dass Lady Russell nicht länger getäuscht würde; und eine der abschließenden Vereinbarungen dieses wichtigen Gesprächs, das den größten Teil des Vormittags dauerte, war, dass Anne die volle Freiheit hatte, ihrer Freundin alles mitzuteilen, was Herr Elliot betraf. Können Sie 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.

Anne freut sich, dass sie Mrs. Smith sehen wird, da sie dann Mr. Elliot nicht sehen wird. Nicht dass sie ihn hasst - es ist nur so, dass sie erkannt hat, dass Captain Wentworth der Einzige für sie ist und Mr. Elliot daher eher Zeitverschwendung ist. Anne erzählt Mrs. Smith von dem Konzert, aber Mrs. Smith interessiert sich mehr für das Publikum als für die Musik, und Anne war so damit beschäftigt, nach Captain Wentworth Ausschau zu halten, dass sie nicht viel anderes gesehen hat. Mrs. Smith neckt Anne, weil sie nur Augen für eine Person hat, und Anne errötet, denkend an Captain Wentworth und fragt sich, wie ihre Freundin das so schnell bemerkt haben könnte. Anne ist überrascht zu entdecken, dass Mrs. Smith denkt, diese eine Person sei Mr. Elliot. Tatsächlich möchte Mrs. Smith, dass Anne ihren Einfluss bei Mr. Elliot geltend macht und ihr einen Gefallen tut. Anne erklärt, dass sie gerne hilft, aber dass sie und Mr. Elliot wirklich nur Freunde sind. Mrs. Smith glaubt ihr nicht und preist Mr. Elliot als "sicheren" Ehemannstypen, der nicht von anderen in den Ruin getrieben wird. Anne antwortet, dass Mr. Elliot nett genug scheint, aber es schwer ist, das Gefühl zu haben, ihn gut zu kennen, und protestiert, dass es NICHT Mr. Elliot war, der das Konzert so unterhaltsam gemacht hat - sie deutet ungewollt an, dass es jemand anderen gab, der für ihre Freude verantwortlich war. Anne bedauert, so viel verraten zu haben, erkennt aber, dass der einzige Weg, um Mrs. Smith davon zu überzeugen, dass sie nicht Mr. Elliot heiraten wird, ist, sie davon zu überzeugen, dass es einen anderen Mann gibt, den sie heiraten möchte. Anne fragt, warum Mrs. Smith denkt, dass sie und Mr. Elliot heiraten werden. Mrs. Smith sagt, dass es aufgrund der familiären Verbindung offensichtlich erscheint und dass die Klatschplattformen es schon als gegeben ansehen. Als Anne fragt, ob sie trotzdem noch einen Gefallen für Mrs. Smith in Bezug auf Mr. Elliot tun kann, wenn auch nur freundschaftlich, zieht sich Mrs. Smith zurück und sagt, dass das nichts sei. Neugierig drängt Anne Mrs. Smith nach mehr Informationen über Mr. Elliot, da sie ihn schon so lange kennt. Mrs. Smith weigert sich zunächst, entscheidet sich aber schließlich, alles preiszugeben, was sie über Mr. Elliot weiß, falls Anne sich doch noch entscheiden sollte, ihn zu heiraten. Es ist Geschichtenzeit! Setz dich auf einen Teppichplatz und mach es dir bequem, denn Mrs. Smith hat viel zu erzählen: Höre die Geschichte von Mr. Elliot, der "im Herzen schwarz, hohl und schwarz" ist. Mrs. Smiths Ehemann und Mr. Elliot waren enge Freunde. Zu dieser Zeit ging es den Smiths ziemlich gut, und sie halfen Mr. Elliot mit Geld aus, als er in der Klemme saß, was oft der Fall war. Zu dieser Zeit traf Mr. Elliot auch zum ersten Mal Sir Walter und Elizabeth und ließ sie links liegen, um seine erste, arme aber reiche Ehefrau zu heiraten. Mrs. Smith erklärt, warum er so unhöflich zu den Elliots war: In erster Linie wollte er jemanden heiraten, der Geld hatte, und Elizabeth war für ihn nicht reich genug. Anne erfährt, dass Mrs. Smith diejenige war, von der Mr. Elliot beim Konzert angedeutet hatte, dass sie ihm von ihr erzählt hatte, bevor sie sich trafen, da Mrs. Smith zu dieser Zeit viel über Anne gesprochen hatte, um Elizabeth herabzusetzen. Um ihre Geschichte zu belegen, bringt Mrs. Smith einen Brief heraus, den Mr. Elliot an ihren Ehemann geschrieben hat, in dem er über Sir Walter und Elizabeth lästert. Anne fragt sich, warum Mr. Elliot seine Meinung geändert hat und plötzlich nett zu den Elliots ist. Mrs. Smith sagt, dass Anne selbst ein Teil des Grundes ist - Mr. Elliot möchte sie wirklich heiraten. Anne stellt fest, dass Mr. Elliot schon in ihrem Familienkreis war, bevor sie nach Bath kam. Mrs. Smith nennt Grund Nr. 2, und ihr Name ist Mrs. Clay. Mr. Elliot versuchte nicht nur sich bei Anne anzubiedern, indem er ihre Verdächtigungen gegenüber Mrs. Clay teilte, er ist wirklich besorgt, dass sie Sir Walter heiraten und einen männlichen Elliot bekommen könnte, der ihn von der Erbschaft des Titels ausschließt. Jetzt, wo er im Geld schwimmt, hat er seine Strategie geändert und glaubt, dass es für ihn noch süßer wäre, Sir William zu sein. Anne ist froh, dass sie endlich weiß, wie Mr. Elliot wirklich ist, da sie schon immer vermutet hat, dass mehr in ihm steckt, als es den Anschein hat. All das war jedoch nur eine Ablenkung, und Mrs. Smith kommt zur eigentlichen Pointe ihrer Geschichte zurück, nämlich wie Mr. Elliot ihr Leben ruiniert hat. Also, nachdem Mr. Elliot seine reiche Frau bekommen hatte, lebte er den Lebensstil der Reichen und Berühmten und ermutigte Mr. Smith, dasselbe zu tun. Da Mr. Smith nicht über Mr. Elliots Bankkonto verfügte, lief das nicht so gut. Gerade als die Schulden der Smiths sie einholten, starb Mr. Smith und ließ Mrs. Smith mit dem Geldchaos allein. Mrs. Smith wandte sich an Mr. Elliot, der sich um die Angelegenheiten ihres Ehemannes kümmern sollte, aber er weigerte sich, etwas zu tun. Besonders ärgerlich für Mrs. Smith ist, dass der Reichtum in Reichweite ist, wenn sie nur etwas Hilfe hätte: Ihr Ehemann hatte einen Besitz in Westindien, der renoviert werden könnte, um ihr ein gutes Einkommen zu geben, aber ihre Krankheit, Armut und das Fehlen von einflussreichen Freunden verhindern, dass sie von seinem Reichtum profitiert. Nach all dem ist Anne, needless to say, erstaunt, dass ihre Freundin das Gespräch damit begonnen hat, die Ehemannsqualitäten von Mr. Elliot zu preisen. Mrs. Smith sagt, dass sie dachte, die Ehe sei in trockenen Tüchern und dass sie optimistisch gehofft hatte, dass Anne es besser machen würde als Ehefrau Nr. 1. Anne ist erleichtert, dass sie sich nicht von Lady Russell dazu hat überreden lassen, sich an Mr. Elliot zu binden, und bekommt von Mrs. Smith die Erlaubnis, Lady Russell über die Machenschaften von Mr. Elliot aufzuklären.

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: Es war vielleicht aufgrund von Mrs. Crupps Ratschlägen und vielleicht aus keinem besseren Grund als der Tatsache, dass die Wörter "Skittles" und "Traddles" gewisse Ähnlichkeiten im Klang hatten, dass es mir am nächsten Tag in den Sinn kam, nach Traddles zu suchen. Die von ihm genannte Zeit war schon lange vorbei und er lebte in einer kleinen Straße in der Nähe des veterinärmedizinischen Colleges in Camden Town, die hauptsächlich von Studenten bewohnt wurde, wie mir ein unserer Angestellten, der in diese Richtung lebte, mitteilte, die lebende Esel kauften und Experimente mit diesen Vierbeinern in ihren Privatwohnungen durchführten. Nachdem ich von diesem Angestellten die Adresse zu dem besagten akademischen Hain erhalten hatte, machte ich mich noch am selben Nachmittag auf den Weg, um meinen alten Schulfreund zu besuchen. Ich stellte fest, dass die Straße nicht so wünschenswert war, wie ich es mir für Traddles gewünscht hätte. Die Bewohner schienen die Neigung zu haben, alle kleinen Dinge, die sie nicht brauchten, auf die Straße zu werfen, was sie nicht nur unangenehm und schlampig machte, sondern auch aufgrund der Kohlblätter unordentlich war. Der Abfall bestand auch nicht nur aus Gemüse, denn ich sah selbst einen Schuh, einen zusammengeklappten Saucepan, eine schwarze Haube und einen Regenschirm in verschiedenen Stadien der Zersetzung, während ich nach der gesuchten Nummer Ausschau hielt. Die allgemeine Atmosphäre des Ortes erinnerte mich lebhaft an die Zeit, als ich bei Mr. und Mrs. Micawber lebte. Eine undefinierbare Aura von verblichener Würde, die mit dem gesuchten Haus verbunden war und es von allen anderen Häusern in der Straße unterscheidbar machte - obwohl sie alle nach dem gleichen eintönigen Muster gebaut waren und wie die frühen Kopien eines tollpatschigen Jungen aussahen, der gerade das Bauen von Häusern lernte und noch nicht aus seinen verkrampften Backstein- und Mörtelpatschern herausgekommen war - erinnerte mich noch mehr an Mr. und Mrs. Micawber. Als ich gerade an der Tür ankam, wurde sie gerade vom Milchmann am Nachmittag geöffnet, was mich noch stärker an Mr. und Mrs. Micawber erinnerte. "Nun", sagte der Milchmann zu einem sehr jungen Dienstmädchen. "Hat man von meiner kleinen Rechnung gehört?" "Oh, der Herr sagt, dass er sofort darauf achten wird", war die Antwort. "Weil", fuhr der Milchmann fort, so als habe er keine Antwort erhalten und spräche eher zur Erbauung von jemandem im Haus als von dem jungen Dienstmädchen - ein Eindruck, der durch seine Art, den Gang anzustarren, verstärkt wurde - "weil diese kleine Rechnung so lange läuft, dass ich langsam glaube, dass sie überhaupt fortgelaufen ist und nie wieder gehört wird. Nun, ich werde es mir nicht gefallen lassen, wissen Sie!" sagte der Milchmann immer noch, während er seine Stimme ins Haus warf und den Gang anstarrte. Was seine Handelsaktivitäten mit Milch anging, so gab es nie eine größere Anomalie. Sein Auftreten wäre für einen Metzger oder einen Schnapsladenbesitzer angemessen gewesen. Die Stimme des jungen Dienstmädchens wurde schwach, aber mir schien, vom Lippenbewegungen her, dass sie wieder murmelte, dass sie es sofort beachten würde. "Ich sage Ihnen mal etwas", sagte der Milchmann und starrte sie zum ersten Mal intensiv an, während er sie am Kinn packte. "Magst du Milch?" "Ja, ich mag sie", antwortete sie. "Gut", sagte der Milchmann. "Dann wirst du morgen keine bekommen. Hörst du? Du wirst morgen keinen Tropfen Milch bekommen." Ich dachte, sie schien insgesamt erleichtert über die Aussicht, heute überhaupt Milch zu bekommen. Der Milchmann ließ nachdem er ihr finster den Kopf geschüttelt hatte, ihr Kinn los und öffnete mit allem anderen als gutem Willen seine Büchse und setzte die übliche Menge in den Familientopf. Als dies erledigt war, ging er weg und murmelte vor sich hin, und tat den Schrei seines Handels nebenan mit einem rachsüchtigen Schrei. "Wohnt hier Mr. Traddles?" fragte ich dann. Eine geheimnisvolle Stimme vom Ende des Flurs antwortete: "Ja." Daraufhin wiederholte das junge Dienstmädchen "Ja". "Ist er zu Hause?" fragte ich. Wieder antwortete die geheimnisvolle Stimme bejahend, und das Dienstmädchen wiederholte es. Daraufhin trat ich ein und folgte den Anweisungen des Dienstmädchens nach oben, mit dem Bewusstsein, als ich an der Tür zum hinteren Salon vorbeiging, dass ich von einem geheimnisvollen Auge beobachtet wurde, das wahrscheinlich der geheimnisvollen Stimme gehörte. Als ich oben auf der Treppe ankam - das Haus hatte nur ein Stockwerk über dem Erdgeschoss - stand Traddles auf dem Treppenabsatz, um mich zu begrüßen. Er war hocherfreut, mich zu sehen, und hieß mich herzlich willkommen in seinem kleinen Zimmer. Es war an der Vorderseite des Hauses und äußerst ordentlich, wenn auch spärlich eingerichtet. Es war sein einziges Zimmer, wie ich sah; denn dort war ein Schlafsofa und seine Putzbürsten und Putzzeug befanden sich zusammen mit seinen Büchern auf dem obersten Regal hinter einem Wörterbuch. Sein Tisch war mit Papieren bedeckt, und er arbeitete hart in einem alten Mantel. Ich schaute mir nichts genauer an, soweit ich mich erinnere, aber ich sah alles, sogar die Aussicht auf eine Kirche auf seinem Tintenfass aus Porzellan, als ich mich hinsetzte - und auch das war eine Fähigkeit, die ich in den alten Micawber-Zeiten bestätigt fand. Verschiedene raffinierte Einrichtungen, die er getroffen hatte, um seine Kommode zu tarnen und Platz für seine Stiefel, seinen Rasierspiegel und so weiter zu schaffen, machten auf mich als Beweis für denselben Traddles Eindruck, der damals Modelle von Elefantenställen aus Schreibpapier basteln und sich mit den unvergesslichen Kunstwerken trösten würde, von denen ich so oft gesprochen habe. In einer Ecke des Raumes war etwas ordentlich mit einem großen weißen Tuch abgedeckt. Ich konnte nicht herausfinden, was das war. "Traddles", sagte ich und schüttelte ihm noch einmal die Hand, nachdem ich mich hingesetzt hatte, "ich freue mich, dich zu sehen." "Ich freue mich, DICH zu sehen, Copperfield", erwiderte er. "Ich freue mich wirklich sehr, dich zu sehen. Es war, weil ich mich so gefreut habe, dich zu sehen, als wir uns in der Ely Place getroffen haben und ich mir sicher war, dass du dich genauso gefreut hast, mich zu sehen, dass ich dir stattdessen diese Adresse als meine Adresse aus dem Chamber gegeben habe. 'Oh! Du hast eine Kanzlei?' sagte ich. "Ja, ich habe ein Viertelzimmer und einen Flur und das Viertel eines Klerks", antwortete Traddles. "Drei andere und ich haben uns zusammengeschlossen, um uns ein Satz von Kanzleien zuzulegen, um berufstätig auszusehen, und wir teilen uns auch den Klerk. Er kostet mich einen halben Schilling pro Woche." Sein alter einfacher Charakter und seine gute Laune und auch etwas von seinem alten Pech, wie ich dachte, lachten mich an in dem Lächeln, mit dem er diese Erklärung ab "Natürlich war ich das!" sagte Traddles. "Diejenige, an die ich immer schreiben wollte. Und immer noch nicht getan habe, nicht wahr! Ha, ha, ha! Ja, damals hatte ich einen Onkel. Er ist kurz nachdem ich die Schule verlassen habe gestorben." "Tatsächlich!" "Ja. Er war ein pensionierter - wie nennt man es - Drogenhändler - Tuchhändler - und hatte mich zu seinem Erben gemacht. Aber er mochte mich nicht, als ich groß wurde." "Meinst du das wirklich?" fragte ich. Er war so ruhig, dass ich dachte, er musste eine andere Bedeutung haben. "Oh mein Gott, ja, Copperfield! Ich meine es ernst", antwortete Traddles. "Es war eine unglückliche Sache, aber er mochte mich überhaupt nicht. Er sagte, ich sei überhaupt nicht das, was er erwartet hatte, und so hat er seine Haushälterin geheiratet." "Und was hast du gemacht?" fragte ich. "Ich habe nichts Besonderes gemacht", sagte Traddles. "Ich lebte bei ihnen und wartete darauf, in die Welt entlassen zu werden, bis sein Gicht leider auf seinen Magen überging - und so starb er, und so heiratete sie einen jungen Mann, und so wurde ich nicht versorgt." "Hast du am Ende gar nichts bekommen, Traddles?" "Oh mein Gott, ja!" sagte Traddles. "Ich habe fünfzig Pfund bekommen. Ich war nie für einen Beruf ausgebildet worden, und zunächst wusste ich nicht, was ich mit mir anfangen sollte. Aber dann habe ich angefangen, mit Hilfe des Sohnes eines Berufsmannes, der auf die Salem House gegangen war - Yawler, mit der schiefen Nase. Erinnerst du dich an ihn?" Nein. Er war nicht mit mir dort; alle Nasen waren in meiner Zeit gerade. "Das macht nichts", sagte Traddles. "Ich begann, mit seiner Hilfe, juristische Schriften abzuschreiben. Das funktionierte nicht sehr gut; und dann begann ich, Fälle für sie zu formulieren und Zusammenfassungen zu erstellen und solche Arbeiten. Denn ich bin ein fleißiger Kerl, Copperfield, und ich hatte gelernt, solche Dinge prägnant zu erledigen. Nun! Das brachte mich auf die Idee, mich als Jurastudent einzutragen; und das hat das restliche Geld von den fünfzig Pfund aufgebraucht. Yawler hat mich jedoch ein oder zwei anderen Büros empfohlen - Mr. Waterbrook zum Beispiel - und ich habe eine Menge Aufträge bekommen. Ich hatte auch das Glück, eine Person aus dem Verlagswesen kennenzulernen, die eine Enzyklopädie zusammenstellte, und er hat mich dafür angestellt; und, wie du sehen kannst" (er schaute auf seinen Tisch), "ich arbeite immer noch für ihn. Ich bin kein schlechter Zusammenfasser, Copperfield", sagte Traddles und bewahrte seine fröhliche Zuversicht bei allem, was er sagte, "aber ich habe keinerlei Erfindungsgabe, nicht den geringsten Funken. Ich glaube, es gab noch nie einen jungen Mann mit weniger Originalität als mir." Da Traddles anscheinend erwartete, dass ich dem als selbstverständlich zustimme, nickte ich; und er fuhr mit derselben munteren Geduld fort - ich finde keinen besseren Ausdruck - wie zuvor. "So habe ich nach und nach und ohne großen Luxus die hundert Pfund zusammengekratzt", sagte Traddles. "Und Gott sei Dank ist das bezahlt - obwohl es - obwohl es sicher war", sagte Traddles und verzog das Gesicht, als hätte er gerade einen Zahn verloren, "anstrengend. Ich lebe immer noch von der Arbeit, die ich erwähnt habe, und ich hoffe, eines Tages mit einer Zeitung verbunden zu werden - das würde fast mein Glück bedeuten. Nun, Copperfield, du bist so genau wie früher, mit diesem angenehmen Gesicht, und es ist so schön, dich zu sehen, dass ich nichts verberge. Du musst also wissen, dass ich verlobt bin." Verlobt! Oh, Dora! "Sie ist die Tochter eines Gemeindepfarrers", sagte Traddles. "Eine von zehn, in Devonshire. Ja!" Denn er sah, wie ich unauffällig auf die Aussicht auf dem Füller blickte. "Das ist die Kirche! Du gehst hier links herum, durch dieses Tor", er zeichnete mit dem Finger entlang des Füllers, "und genau da, wo ich diesen Stift halte, steht das Haus - gegenüber der Kirche." Die Freude, mit der er sich in diese Einzelheiten vertiefte, wurde mir erst später voll bewusst; denn meine eigennützigen Gedanken waren dabei, einen Grundriss von Mr. Spenlows Haus und Garten anzufertigen. "Sie ist so ein liebes Mädchen!" sagte Traddles. "Ein wenig älter als ich, aber das liebste Mädchen! Ich habe dir gesagt, dass ich außerhalb der Stadt war? Ich bin dort unten gewesen. Ich bin hingewandert und zurückspaziert, und ich hatte die schönste Zeit! Ich denke, unsere Verlobungszeit wird wahrscheinlich ziemlich lange sein, aber unser Motto lautet "Warten und hoffen!" Das sagen wir immer. "Warten und hoffen", sagen wir immer. Und sie würde warten, Copperfield, bis sie sechzig ist - jedes beliebige Alter, das du nennen kannst - für mich!" Traddles stand von seinem Stuhl auf und legte mit einem triumphierenden Lächeln seine Hand auf das weiße Tischtuch, das ich bemerkt hatte. "Wie dem auch sei", sagte er, "wir haben zumindest einen Anfang in Richtung Haushaltsführung gemacht. Nein, nein, wir haben angefangen. Wir müssen uns Schritt für Schritt weiterentwickeln, aber wir haben angefangen. Hier", er zog das Tuch mit großem Stolz und Sorgfalt weg, "sind zwei Möbelstücke als Start. Dieser Blumentopf und sein Ständer hat sie selbst gekauft. Das stellst du in ein Wohnzimmerfenster", sagte Traddles und trat etwas zurück, um es mit noch größerer Bewunderung zu betrachten, "mit einer Pflanze drin und - da hast du es! Dieser kleine runde Tisch mit der Marmorplatte (er ist zweieinhalb Fuß im Umfang), den habe ich gekauft. Man will ein Buch ablegen, weißt du, oder jemand kommt dich oder deine Frau besuchen und will eine Ablage für eine Tasse Tee haben und - da hast du es wieder!" sagte Traddles. "Es ist ein bewundernswertes Stück Arbeit - fest wie ein Felsen!" Ich lobte sie beide sehr und Traddles legte die Abdeckung genauso sorgfältig wieder auf wie er sie entfernt hatte. "Es ist nicht viel zur Einrichtung", sagte Traddles, "aber es ist etwas. Die Tischdecken, Kissenbezüge und solche Artikel entmutigen mich am meisten, Copperfield. Genauso wie das Eisenwarengeschäft - Kerzenschachteln und Grillroste und solche Dinge - denn die summieren sich. Aber "warten und hoffen!" Und ich versichere dir, sie ist das liebste Mädchen!" "Davon bin ich ganz sicher", sagte ich. "In der Zwischenzeit", sagte Traddles und setzte sich wieder auf seinen Stuhl, "und das ist das Ende meines Geplappers über mich selbst, komme ich so gut voran, wie ich kann. Ich verdiene nicht viel, aber ich gebe nicht viel aus. Im Allgemeinen wohne ich bei den Leuten unten, die sehr angenehme Leute sind. Sowohl Mr. als auch Mrs. Micawber haben viel erlebt und sind ausgezeichnete Gesellschaft." "Mein lieber Traddles!" rief ich schnell aus. "Wovon redest du?" Traddles schaute mich an, als ob er sich fragte, worüber ich rede. "Mr. und Mrs. Micawber!" wiederholte ich. "Ich kenne sie sehr gut!" Ein passender doppelter Klopf an der Tür, den ich gut kannte aus alter Erfahrung in Windsor Terrace, und den niemand au Die ganze Zeit über kannte Mr. Micawber mich überhaupt nicht, obwohl er mir gegenüber gestanden hatte. Aber als er mich jetzt lächeln sah, betrachtete er meine Gesichtszüge genauer, wich zurück, rief aus: "Ist es möglich! Habe ich das Vergnügen, Copperfield wiederzusehen!" und schüttelte mich mit größter Begeisterung an beiden Händen. "Guter Himmel, Mr. Traddles!" sagte Mr. Micawber, "zu denken, dass ich Sie mit dem Freund meiner Jugend, dem Begleiter früherer Tage, bekannt finde! Mein Lieber!" rief er über das Treppengeländer zu Mrs. Micawber hinunter, während Traddles (zurecht) ein wenig erstaunt über diese Beschreibung meiner Person aussah. "Hier ist ein Herr in Mr. Traddles' Wohnung, den er Ihnen gerne vorstellen möchte, meine Liebe!" Mr. Micawber tauchte sofort wieder auf und schüttelte mir erneut die Hand. "Und wie geht es unserem guten Freund, dem Doktor, Copperfield?" sagte Mr. Micawber, "und allen in Canterbury?" "Ich habe nur Gutes von ihnen gehört", sagte ich. "Ich freue mich sehr, das zu hören", sagte Mr. Micawber. "Es war in Canterbury, wo wir uns zuletzt getroffen haben. Im Schatten, könnte man metaphorisch sagen, dieser von Chaucer verewigten religiösen Stätte, die einst ein Treffpunkt für Pilger aus den entlegensten Ecken... kurz gesagt," sagte Mr. Micawber, "in unmittelbarer Nähe der Kathedrale." Ich antwortete, dass es so war. Mr. Micawber sprach weiter, so schnell wie er konnte; aber ich dachte mir, dass er durch einige besorgte Blicke in seinem Gesicht zeigen ließ, dass er Geräusche aus dem Nebenzimmer vernahm, so als würde Mrs. Micawber ihre Hände waschen und in hastiger Bewegung Schubladen öffnen und schließen, die nicht richtig funktionierten. "Sie finden uns, Copperfield", sagte Mr. Micawber und hatte dabei ein Auge auf Traddles gerichtet, "gegenwärtig auf einer kleinen und bescheidenen Ebene fest etabliert. Aber Sie wissen, dass ich im Laufe meiner Karriere Schwierigkeiten überwunden und Hindernisse besiegt habe. Sie sind mit der Tatsache nicht unbekannt, dass es Zeiten in meinem Leben gegeben hat, in denen es nötig war, dass ich innehielt, bis bestimmte erwartete Ereignisse eintrafen; Zeiten, in denen ich zurückfallen musste, bevor ich den- ich hoffe, ich werde nicht des Übermuts beschuldigt -, Sprung wagte. Die Gegenwart ist einer dieser bedeutsamen Abschnitte im Leben eines Menschen. Sie finden mich, zurückgefallen für einen Sprung, und ich habe allen Grund zu glauben, dass ein kräftiger Sprung bald die Folge sein wird." Ich drückte meine Zufriedenheit aus, als Mrs. Micawber herein kam; ein wenig ungepflegter als früher schien sie mir jetzt mit meinen ungewohnten Augen zu sein, aber immer noch etwas für gesellschaftliche Anlässe hergerichtet und mit braunen Handschuhen versehen. "Mein Lieber", sagte Mr. Micawber und führte sie auf mich zu, "hier ist ein Herr namens Copperfield, der seinen alten Freund wiedersehen möchte." Es wäre besser gewesen, wie sich herausstellte, behutsam auf diese Ankündigung hinzuarbeiten, denn Frau Micawber wurde aufgrund ihres empfindlichen Gesundheitszustands davon überwältigt und wurde so unwohl, dass Mr. Micawber in großer Aufregung hinunter zum Wasserhahn im Hinterhof rennen musste, um eine Schüssel Wasser zu holen und ihr die Stirn damit zu kühlen. Sie erholte sich jedoch bald und war wirklich erfreut, mich zu sehen. Wir unterhielten uns eine halbe Stunde lang zusammen; und ich fragte sie nach den Zwillingen, die sie als "große Geschöpfe" bezeichnete; und nach Master und Miss Micawber, die sie als "absolute Riesen" beschrieb, aber sie wurden bei diesem Anlass nicht präsentiert. Mr. Micawber war sehr darauf bedacht, dass ich zum Abendessen blieb. Ich hätte nichts dagegen gehabt, aber ich hatte den Eindruck, dass in den Augen von Frau Micawber eine gewisse Sorge und Kalkulation hinsichtlich des Umfangs des kalten Fleisches zu erkennen war. Ich entschuldigte mich daher mit einem anderen Termin; und als ich sah, wie sich die Stimmung von Frau Micawber sofort aufhellte, widerstand ich allen Überredungsversuchen, darauf zu verzichten. Aber ich sagte Traddles, Mr. und Mrs. Micawber, dass sie, bevor ich daran denken könnte zu gehen, einen Tag festlegen müssten, an dem sie zu mir zum Essen kommen würden. Die Verpflichtungen, denen Traddles zugestimmt hatte, machten es erforderlich, einen etwas entfernten Termin festzulegen; aber ein Termin wurde vereinbart, der uns allen passte, und dann nahm ich Abschied. Mr. Micawber begleitete mich unter dem Vorwand, mir einen kürzeren Weg zu zeigen als den, den ich gekommen war, bis zur Ecke der Straße. Dort erklärte er mir, dass er ein paar Worte mit einem alten Freund vertraulich wechseln wollte. "Mein lieber Copperfield", sagte Mr. Micawber, "ich muss Ihnen wohl kaum sagen, dass es in den bestehenden Umständen eine unsagbare Erleichterung für mich ist, einen Geist wie den von Ihrem Freund Traddles unter unserem Dach zu haben. Mit einer Wäscherin, die Hartkekse in ihrem Wohnzimmerfenster zum Verkauf ausstellt, nebenan wohnhaft, und einem Bow-Street-Beamten, der gegenüber wohnt, können Sie sich vorstellen, dass seine Gesellschaft für mich und für Mrs. Micawber eine Quelle des Trostes ist. Ich bin gegenwärtig, mein lieber Copperfield, damit beschäftigt, Getreide auf Provision zu verkaufen. Es ist keine einträgliche Beschäftigung - mit anderen Worten, sie zahlt sich nicht aus -, und einige vorübergehende finanzielle Schwierigkeiten waren die Folge. Ich freue mich jedoch, hinzufügen zu dürfen, dass ich nun einen unmittelbaren Aussicht auf etwas habe (ich bin nicht befugt zu sagen, in welche Richtung), von dem ich hoffe, dass es mir ermöglichen wird, sowohl für mich selbst als auch für Ihren Freund Traddles dauerhaft zu sorgen, dem ich aufrichtig verbunden bin. Sie sind vielleicht darauf vorbereitet zu hören, dass es Frau Micawber gesundheitlich nicht so gut geht, dass es nicht ganz unwahrscheinlich ist, dass ihren Liebesbeweisen letztendlich ein weiteres hinzugefügt wird, in Kurzform, zu der Gruppe der kleinen Kinder. Frau Micawbers Familie hat ihre Unzufriedenheit über diesen Zustand der Dinge zum Ausdruck gebracht. Ich muss nur anmerken, dass es mich nichts angeht und dass ich diese Gefühlsausschauung mit Verachtung und Trotz zurückweise!" Mr. Micawber schüttelte mir dann noch einmal die Hand und verließ mich. 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.

David beschließt, Tommy Traddles zu besuchen, der, wie er bei seiner Ankunft feststellt, im selben Gebäude wie die Micawbers lebt. Traddles studiert für die Anwaltsprüfung. Seine Wohnung und Möbel sind extrem abgenutzt, und er kämpft darum, genug Geld zu verdienen, um seine wahre Liebe zu heiraten, die sich geschworen hat, auf ihn zu warten, bis er das Geld gespart hat. In der Zwischenzeit hat Traddles zwei Möbelstücke, einen Blumentopf und einen kleinen Tisch gesammelt. Herr Micawber wiederum steckt erneut in finanziellen Schwierigkeiten, hofft aber immer noch, bald Arbeit zu finden. Frau Micawber ist erneut schwanger.

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 IX. The Roman camp Flourish. Alarum. A retreat is sounded. Enter, at one door, COMINIUS with the Romans; at another door, MARCIUS, with his arm in a scarf COMINIUS. If I should tell thee o'er this thy day's work, Thou't not believe thy deeds; but I'll report it Where senators shall mingle tears with smiles; Where great patricians shall attend, and shrug, I' th' end admire; where ladies shall be frighted And, gladly quak'd, hear more; where the dull tribunes, That with the fusty plebeians hate thine honours, Shall say against their hearts 'We thank the gods Our Rome hath such a soldier.' Yet cam'st thou to a morsel of this feast, Having fully din'd before. Enter TITUS LARTIUS, with his power, from the pursuit LARTIUS. O General, Here is the steed, we the caparison. Hadst thou beheld- MARCIUS. Pray now, no more; my mother, Who has a charter to extol her blood, When she does praise me grieves me. I have done As you have done- that's what I can; induc'd As you have been- that's for my country. He that has but effected his good will Hath overta'en mine act. COMINIUS. You shall not be The grave of your deserving; Rome must know The value of her own. 'Twere a concealment Worse than a theft, no less than a traducement, To hide your doings and to silence that Which, to the spire and top of praises vouch'd, Would seem but modest. Therefore, I beseech you, In sign of what you are, not to reward What you have done, before our army hear me. MARCIUS. I have some wounds upon me, and they smart To hear themselves rememb'red. COMINIUS. Should they not, Well might they fester 'gainst ingratitude And tent themselves with death. Of all the horses- Whereof we have ta'en good, and good store- of all The treasure in this field achiev'd and city, We render you the tenth; to be ta'en forth Before the common distribution at Your only choice. MARCIUS. I thank you, General, But cannot make my heart consent to take A bribe to pay my sword. I do refuse it, And stand upon my common part with those That have beheld the doing. A long flourish. They all cry 'Marcius, Marcius!' cast up their caps and lances. COMINIUS and LARTIUS stand bare May these same instruments which you profane Never sound more! When drums and trumpets shall I' th' field prove flatterers, let courts and cities be Made all of false-fac'd soothing. When steel grows Soft as the parasite's silk, let him be made An overture for th' wars. No more, I say. For that I have not wash'd my nose that bled, Or foil'd some debile wretch, which without note Here's many else have done, you shout me forth In acclamations hyperbolical, As if I lov'd my little should be dieted In praises sauc'd with lies. COMINIUS. Too modest are you; More cruel to your good report than grateful To us that give you truly. By your patience, If 'gainst yourself you be incens'd, we'll put you- Like one that means his proper harm- in manacles, Then reason safely with you. Therefore be it known, As to us, to all the world, that Caius Marcius Wears this war's garland; in token of the which, My noble steed, known to the camp, I give him, With all his trim belonging; and from this time, For what he did before Corioli, call him With all th' applause-and clamour of the host, Caius Marcius Coriolanus. Bear th' addition nobly ever! [Flourish. Trumpets sound, and drums] ALL. Caius Marcius Coriolanus! CORIOLANUS. I will go wash; And when my face is fair you shall perceive Whether I blush or no. Howbeit, I thank you; I mean to stride your steed, and at all times To undercrest your good addition To th' fairness of my power. COMINIUS. So, to our tent; Where, ere we do repose us, we will write To Rome of our success. You, Titus Lartius, Must to Corioli back. Send us to Rome The best, with whom we may articulate For their own good and ours. LARTIUS. I shall, my lord. CORIOLANUS. The gods begin to mock me. I, that now Refus'd most princely gifts, am bound to beg Of my Lord General. COMINIUS. Take't- 'tis yours; what is't? CORIOLANUS. I sometime lay here in Corioli At a poor man's house; he us'd me kindly. He cried to me; I saw him prisoner; But then Aufidius was within my view, And wrath o'erwhelm'd my pity. I request you To give my poor host freedom. COMINIUS. O, well begg'd! Were he the butcher of my son, he should Be free as is the wind. Deliver him, Titus. LARTIUS. Marcius, his name? CORIOLANUS. By Jupiter, forgot! I am weary; yea, my memory is tir'd. Have we no wine here? COMINIUS. Go we to our tent. The blood upon your visage dries; 'tis time It should be look'd to. Come. 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.

Als die Szene beginnt, feiern die Römer ihren Sieg mit fliegenden Bruststößen und so. Caius Martius ist über all die Aufmerksamkeit sehr peinlich berührt und weigert sich, seinen Anteil an der Kriegsbeute anzunehmen. Das macht ihn natürlich zu einem noch größeren Rockstar. Während die Menge der Soldaten ihn anfeuert, hält Martius eine bescheidene kleine Siegesrede über seine militärische Pflichterfüllung. Cominius verkündet, dass Caius Martius für seinen Dienst an Rom einen neuen Spitznamen bekommt. Von nun an wird er "Caius Martius Coriolanus" genannt. Du weißt schon, nach der Stadt, die er gerade zerstört hat. Als nächstes sagt Caius Martius Coriolanus, er möchte wirklich einem Volscianer helfen, der nett zu ihm während seines Aufenthalts in Corioles war. Das einzige Problem ist, er kann sich nicht an den Namen des Kerls erinnern. Dann sagt er so etwas wie "Ups! Na ja" und rennt davon, um das klebrige Blut von seinem Gesicht abzuwaschen.

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: Merry days were these at Thornfield Hall; and busy days too: how different from the first three months of stillness, monotony, and solitude I had passed beneath its roof! All sad feelings seemed now driven from the house, all gloomy associations forgotten: there was life everywhere, movement all day long. You could not now traverse the gallery, once so hushed, nor enter the front chambers, once so tenantless, without encountering a smart lady's-maid or a dandy valet. The kitchen, the butler's pantry, the servants' hall, the entrance hall, were equally alive; and the saloons were only left void and still when the blue sky and halcyon sunshine of the genial spring weather called their occupants out into the grounds. Even when that weather was broken, and continuous rain set in for some days, no damp seemed cast over enjoyment: indoor amusements only became more lively and varied, in consequence of the stop put to outdoor gaiety. I wondered what they were going to do the first evening a change of entertainment was proposed: they spoke of "playing charades," but in my ignorance I did not understand the term. The servants were called in, the dining-room tables wheeled away, the lights otherwise disposed, the chairs placed in a semicircle opposite the arch. While Mr. Rochester and the other gentlemen directed these alterations, the ladies were running up and down stairs ringing for their maids. Mrs. Fairfax was summoned to give information respecting the resources of the house in shawls, dresses, draperies of any kind; and certain wardrobes of the third storey were ransacked, and their contents, in the shape of brocaded and hooped petticoats, satin sacques, black modes, lace lappets, &c., were brought down in armfuls by the abigails; then a selection was made, and such things as were chosen were carried to the boudoir within the drawing-room. Meantime, Mr. Rochester had again summoned the ladies round him, and was selecting certain of their number to be of his party. "Miss Ingram is mine, of course," said he: afterwards he named the two Misses Eshton, and Mrs. Dent. He looked at me: I happened to be near him, as I had been fastening the clasp of Mrs. Dent's bracelet, which had got loose. "Will you play?" he asked. I shook my head. He did not insist, which I rather feared he would have done; he allowed me to return quietly to my usual seat. He and his aids now withdrew behind the curtain: the other party, which was headed by Colonel Dent, sat down on the crescent of chairs. One of the gentlemen, Mr. Eshton, observing me, seemed to propose that I should be asked to join them; but Lady Ingram instantly negatived the notion. "No," I heard her say: "she looks too stupid for any game of the sort." Ere long a bell tinkled, and the curtain drew up. Within the arch, the bulky figure of Sir George Lynn, whom Mr. Rochester had likewise chosen, was seen enveloped in a white sheet: before him, on a table, lay open a large book; and at his side stood Amy Eshton, draped in Mr. Rochester's cloak, and holding a book in her hand. Somebody, unseen, rang the bell merrily; then Adele (who had insisted on being one of her guardian's party), bounded forward, scattering round her the contents of a basket of flowers she carried on her arm. Then appeared the magnificent figure of Miss Ingram, clad in white, a long veil on her head, and a wreath of roses round her brow; by her side walked Mr. Rochester, and together they drew near the table. They knelt; while Mrs. Dent and Louisa Eshton, dressed also in white, took up their stations behind them. A ceremony followed, in dumb show, in which it was easy to recognise the pantomime of a marriage. At its termination, Colonel Dent and his party consulted in whispers for two minutes, then the Colonel called out-- "Bride!" Mr. Rochester bowed, and the curtain fell. A considerable interval elapsed before it again rose. Its second rising displayed a more elaborately prepared scene than the last. The drawing- room, as I have before observed, was raised two steps above the dining- room, and on the top of the upper step, placed a yard or two back within the room, appeared a large marble basin--which I recognised as an ornament of the conservatory--where it usually stood, surrounded by exotics, and tenanted by gold fish--and whence it must have been transported with some trouble, on account of its size and weight. Seated on the carpet, by the side of this basin, was seen Mr. Rochester, costumed in shawls, with a turban on his head. His dark eyes and swarthy skin and Paynim features suited the costume exactly: he looked the very model of an Eastern emir, an agent or a victim of the bowstring. Presently advanced into view Miss Ingram. She, too, was attired in oriental fashion: a crimson scarf tied sash-like round the waist: an embroidered handkerchief knotted about her temples; her beautifully-moulded arms bare, one of them upraised in the act of supporting a pitcher, poised gracefully on her head. Both her cast of form and feature, her complexion and her general air, suggested the idea of some Israelitish princess of the patriarchal days; and such was doubtless the character she intended to represent. She approached the basin, and bent over it as if to fill her pitcher; she again lifted it to her head. The personage on the well-brink now seemed to accost her; to make some request:--"She hasted, let down her pitcher on her hand, and gave him to drink." From the bosom of his robe he then produced a casket, opened it and showed magnificent bracelets and earrings; she acted astonishment and admiration; kneeling, he laid the treasure at her feet; incredulity and delight were expressed by her looks and gestures; the stranger fastened the bracelets on her arms and the rings in her ears. It was Eliezer and Rebecca: the camels only were wanting. The divining party again laid their heads together: apparently they could not agree about the word or syllable the scene illustrated. Colonel Dent, their spokesman, demanded "the tableau of the whole;" whereupon the curtain again descended. On its third rising only a portion of the drawing-room was disclosed; the rest being concealed by a screen, hung with some sort of dark and coarse drapery. The marble basin was removed; in its place, stood a deal table and a kitchen chair: these objects were visible by a very dim light proceeding from a horn lantern, the wax candles being all extinguished. Amidst this sordid scene, sat a man with his clenched hands resting on his knees, and his eyes bent on the ground. I knew Mr. Rochester; though the begrimed face, the disordered dress (his coat hanging loose from one arm, as if it had been almost torn from his back in a scuffle), the desperate and scowling countenance, the rough, bristling hair might well have disguised him. As he moved, a chain clanked; to his wrists were attached fetters. "Bridewell!" exclaimed Colonel Dent, and the charade was solved. A sufficient interval having elapsed for the performers to resume their ordinary costume, they re-entered the dining-room. Mr. Rochester led in Miss Ingram; she was complimenting him on his acting. "Do you know," said she, "that, of the three characters, I liked you in the last best? Oh, had you but lived a few years earlier, what a gallant gentleman-highwayman you would have made!" "Is all the soot washed from my face?" he asked, turning it towards her. "Alas! yes: the more's the pity! Nothing could be more becoming to your complexion than that ruffian's rouge." "You would like a hero of the road then?" "An English hero of the road would be the next best thing to an Italian bandit; and that could only be surpassed by a Levantine pirate." "Well, whatever I am, remember you are my wife; we were married an hour since, in the presence of all these witnesses." She giggled, and her colour rose. "Now, Dent," continued Mr. Rochester, "it is your turn." And as the other party withdrew, he and his band took the vacated seats. Miss Ingram placed herself at her leader's right hand; the other diviners filled the chairs on each side of him and her. I did not now watch the actors; I no longer waited with interest for the curtain to rise; my attention was absorbed by the spectators; my eyes, erewhile fixed on the arch, were now irresistibly attracted to the semicircle of chairs. What charade Colonel Dent and his party played, what word they chose, how they acquitted themselves, I no longer remember; but I still see the consultation which followed each scene: I see Mr. Rochester turn to Miss Ingram, and Miss Ingram to him; I see her incline her head towards him, till the jetty curls almost touch his shoulder and wave against his cheek; I hear their mutual whisperings; I recall their interchanged glances; and something even of the feeling roused by the spectacle returns in memory at this moment. I have told you, reader, that I had learnt to love Mr. Rochester: I could not unlove him now, merely because I found that he had ceased to notice me--because I might pass hours in his presence, and he would never once turn his eyes in my direction--because I saw all his attentions appropriated by a great lady, who scorned to touch me with the hem of her robes as she passed; who, if ever her dark and imperious eye fell on me by chance, would withdraw it instantly as from an object too mean to merit observation. I could not unlove him, because I felt sure he would soon marry this very lady--because I read daily in her a proud security in his intentions respecting her--because I witnessed hourly in him a style of courtship which, if careless and choosing rather to be sought than to seek, was yet, in its very carelessness, captivating, and in its very pride, irresistible. There was nothing to cool or banish love in these circumstances, though much to create despair. Much too, you will think, reader, to engender jealousy: if a woman, in my position, could presume to be jealous of a woman in Miss Ingram's. But I was not jealous: or very rarely;--the nature of the pain I suffered could not be explained by that word. Miss Ingram was a mark beneath jealousy: she was too inferior to excite the feeling. Pardon the seeming paradox; I mean what I say. She was very showy, but she was not genuine: she had a fine person, many brilliant attainments; but her mind was poor, her heart barren by nature: nothing bloomed spontaneously on that soil; no unforced natural fruit delighted by its freshness. She was not good; she was not original: she used to repeat sounding phrases from books: she never offered, nor had, an opinion of her own. She advocated a high tone of sentiment; but she did not know the sensations of sympathy and pity; tenderness and truth were not in her. Too often she betrayed this, by the undue vent she gave to a spiteful antipathy she had conceived against little Adele: pushing her away with some contumelious epithet if she happened to approach her; sometimes ordering her from the room, and always treating her with coldness and acrimony. Other eyes besides mine watched these manifestations of character--watched them closely, keenly, shrewdly. Yes; the future bridegroom, Mr. Rochester himself, exercised over his intended a ceaseless surveillance; and it was from this sagacity--this guardedness of his--this perfect, clear consciousness of his fair one's defects--this obvious absence of passion in his sentiments towards her, that my ever- torturing pain arose. I saw he was going to marry her, for family, perhaps political reasons, because her rank and connections suited him; I felt he had not given her his love, and that her qualifications were ill adapted to win from him that treasure. This was the point--this was where the nerve was touched and teased--this was where the fever was sustained and fed: _she could not charm him_. If she had managed the victory at once, and he had yielded and sincerely laid his heart at her feet, I should have covered my face, turned to the wall, and (figuratively) have died to them. If Miss Ingram had been a good and noble woman, endowed with force, fervour, kindness, sense, I should have had one vital struggle with two tigers--jealousy and despair: then, my heart torn out and devoured, I should have admired her--acknowledged her excellence, and been quiet for the rest of my days: and the more absolute her superiority, the deeper would have been my admiration--the more truly tranquil my quiescence. But as matters really stood, to watch Miss Ingram's efforts at fascinating Mr. Rochester, to witness their repeated failure--herself unconscious that they did fail; vainly fancying that each shaft launched hit the mark, and infatuatedly pluming herself on success, when her pride and self-complacency repelled further and further what she wished to allure--to witness _this_, was to be at once under ceaseless excitation and ruthless restraint. Because, when she failed, I saw how she might have succeeded. Arrows that continually glanced off from Mr. Rochester's breast and fell harmless at his feet, might, I knew, if shot by a surer hand, have quivered keen in his proud heart--have called love into his stern eye, and softness into his sardonic face; or, better still, without weapons a silent conquest might have been won. "Why can she not influence him more, when she is privileged to draw so near to him?" I asked myself. "Surely she cannot truly like him, or not like him with true affection! If she did, she need not coin her smiles so lavishly, flash her glances so unremittingly, manufacture airs so elaborate, graces so multitudinous. It seems to me that she might, by merely sitting quietly at his side, saying little and looking less, get nigher his heart. I have seen in his face a far different expression from that which hardens it now while she is so vivaciously accosting him; but then it came of itself: it was not elicited by meretricious arts and calculated manoeuvres; and one had but to accept it--to answer what he asked without pretension, to address him when needful without grimace--and it increased and grew kinder and more genial, and warmed one like a fostering sunbeam. How will she manage to please him when they are married? I do not think she will manage it; and yet it might be managed; and his wife might, I verily believe, be the very happiest woman the sun shines on." I have not yet said anything condemnatory of Mr. Rochester's project of marrying for interest and connections. It surprised me when I first discovered that such was his intention: I had thought him a man unlikely to be influenced by motives so commonplace in his choice of a wife; but the longer I considered the position, education, &c., of the parties, the less I felt justified in judging and blaming either him or Miss Ingram for acting in conformity to ideas and principles instilled into them, doubtless, from their childhood. All their class held these principles: I supposed, then, they had reasons for holding them such as I could not fathom. It seemed to me that, were I a gentleman like him, I would take to my bosom only such a wife as I could love; but the very obviousness of the advantages to the husband's own happiness offered by this plan convinced me that there must be arguments against its general adoption of which I was quite ignorant: otherwise I felt sure all the world would act as I wished to act. But in other points, as well as this, I was growing very lenient to my master: I was forgetting all his faults, for which I had once kept a sharp look-out. It had formerly been my endeavour to study all sides of his character: to take the bad with the good; and from the just weighing of both, to form an equitable judgment. Now I saw no bad. The sarcasm that had repelled, the harshness that had startled me once, were only like keen condiments in a choice dish: their presence was pungent, but their absence would be felt as comparatively insipid. And as for the vague something--was it a sinister or a sorrowful, a designing or a desponding expression?--that opened upon a careful observer, now and then, in his eye, and closed again before one could fathom the strange depth partially disclosed; that something which used to make me fear and shrink, as if I had been wandering amongst volcanic-looking hills, and had suddenly felt the ground quiver and seen it gape: that something, I, at intervals, beheld still; and with throbbing heart, but not with palsied nerves. Instead of wishing to shun, I longed only to dare--to divine it; and I thought Miss Ingram happy, because one day she might look into the abyss at her leisure, explore its secrets and analyse their nature. Meantime, while I thought only of my master and his future bride--saw only them, heard only their discourse, and considered only their movements of importance--the rest of the party were occupied with their own separate interests and pleasures. The Ladies Lynn and Ingram continued to consort in solemn conferences, where they nodded their two turbans at each other, and held up their four hands in confronting gestures of surprise, or mystery, or horror, according to the theme on which their gossip ran, like a pair of magnified puppets. Mild Mrs. Dent talked with good-natured Mrs. Eshton; and the two sometimes bestowed a courteous word or smile on me. Sir George Lynn, Colonel Dent, and Mr. Eshton discussed politics, or county affairs, or justice business. Lord Ingram flirted with Amy Eshton; Louisa played and sang to and with one of the Messrs. Lynn; and Mary Ingram listened languidly to the gallant speeches of the other. Sometimes all, as with one consent, suspended their by-play to observe and listen to the principal actors: for, after all, Mr. Rochester and--because closely connected with him--Miss Ingram were the life and soul of the party. If he was absent from the room an hour, a perceptible dulness seemed to steal over the spirits of his guests; and his re-entrance was sure to give a fresh impulse to the vivacity of conversation. The want of his animating influence appeared to be peculiarly felt one day that he had been summoned to Millcote on business, and was not likely to return till late. The afternoon was wet: a walk the party had proposed to take to see a gipsy camp, lately pitched on a common beyond Hay, was consequently deferred. Some of the gentlemen were gone to the stables: the younger ones, together with the younger ladies, were playing billiards in the billiard-room. The dowagers Ingram and Lynn sought solace in a quiet game at cards. Blanche Ingram, after having repelled, by supercilious taciturnity, some efforts of Mrs. Dent and Mrs. Eshton to draw her into conversation, had first murmured over some sentimental tunes and airs on the piano, and then, having fetched a novel from the library, had flung herself in haughty listlessness on a sofa, and prepared to beguile, by the spell of fiction, the tedious hours of absence. The room and the house were silent: only now and then the merriment of the billiard-players was heard from above. It was verging on dusk, and the clock had already given warning of the hour to dress for dinner, when little Adele, who knelt by me in the drawing-room window-seat, suddenly exclaimed-- "Voila, Monsieur Rochester, qui revient!" I turned, and Miss Ingram darted forwards from her sofa: the others, too, looked up from their several occupations; for at the same time a crunching of wheels and a splashing tramp of horse-hoofs became audible on the wet gravel. A post-chaise was approaching. "What can possess him to come home in that style?" said Miss Ingram. "He rode Mesrour (the black horse), did he not, when he went out? and Pilot was with him:--what has he done with the animals?" As she said this, she approached her tall person and ample garments so near the window, that I was obliged to bend back almost to the breaking of my spine: in her eagerness she did not observe me at first, but when she did, she curled her lip and moved to another casement. The post-chaise stopped; the driver rang the door-bell, and a gentleman alighted attired in travelling garb; but it was not Mr. Rochester; it was a tall, fashionable-looking man, a stranger. "How provoking!" exclaimed Miss Ingram: "you tiresome monkey!" (apostrophising Adele), "who perched you up in the window to give false intelligence?" and she cast on me an angry glance, as if I were in fault. Some parleying was audible in the hall, and soon the new-comer entered. He bowed to Lady Ingram, as deeming her the eldest lady present. "It appears I come at an inopportune time, madam," said he, "when my friend, Mr. Rochester, is from home; but I arrive from a very long journey, and I think I may presume so far on old and intimate acquaintance as to instal myself here till he returns." His manner was polite; his accent, in speaking, struck me as being somewhat unusual,--not precisely foreign, but still not altogether English: his age might be about Mr. Rochester's,--between thirty and forty; his complexion was singularly sallow: otherwise he was a fine-looking man, at first sight especially. On closer examination, you detected something in his face that displeased, or rather that failed to please. His features were regular, but too relaxed: his eye was large and well cut, but the life looking out of it was a tame, vacant life--at least so I thought. The sound of the dressing-bell dispersed the party. It was not till after dinner that I saw him again: he then seemed quite at his ease. But I liked his physiognomy even less than before: it struck me as being at the same time unsettled and inanimate. His eye wandered, and had no meaning in its wandering: this gave him an odd look, such as I never remembered to have seen. For a handsome and not an unamiable-looking man, he repelled me exceedingly: there was no power in that smooth-skinned face of a full oval shape: no firmness in that aquiline nose and small cherry mouth; there was no thought on the low, even forehead; no command in that blank, brown eye. As I sat in my usual nook, and looked at him with the light of the girandoles on the mantelpiece beaming full over him--for he occupied an arm-chair drawn close to the fire, and kept shrinking still nearer, as if he were cold, I compared him with Mr. Rochester. I think (with deference be it spoken) the contrast could not be much greater between a sleek gander and a fierce falcon: between a meek sheep and the rough-coated keen-eyed dog, its guardian. He had spoken of Mr. Rochester as an old friend. A curious friendship theirs must have been: a pointed illustration, indeed, of the old adage that "extremes meet." Two or three of the gentlemen sat near him, and I caught at times scraps of their conversation across the room. At first I could not make much sense of what I heard; for the discourse of Louisa Eshton and Mary Ingram, who sat nearer to me, confused the fragmentary sentences that reached me at intervals. These last were discussing the stranger; they both called him "a beautiful man." Louisa said he was "a love of a creature," and she "adored him;" and Mary instanced his "pretty little mouth, and nice nose," as her ideal of the charming. "And what a sweet-tempered forehead he has!" cried Louisa,--"so smooth--none of those frowning irregularities I dislike so much; and such a placid eye and smile!" And then, to my great relief, Mr. Henry Lynn summoned them to the other side of the room, to settle some point about the deferred excursion to Hay Common. Nun konnte ich meine Aufmerksamkeit auf die Gruppe am Feuer richten und erfuhr bald, dass der Neuankömmling Mr. Mason hieß. Dann erfuhr ich, dass er gerade erst in England angekommen war und aus einem heißen Land stammte. Das war wahrscheinlich der Grund, warum sein Gesicht so fahl war und er sich so nahe am Kamin aufhielt und einen Überrock im Haus trug. Bald wurden die Worte Jamaika, Kingston, Spanish Town genannt, die auf die Westindischen Inseln als seinen Wohnsitz hindeuteten, und zu meiner Überraschung erfuhr ich bald, dass er dort zum ersten Mal Mr. Rochester gesehen und kennengelernt hatte. Er sprach von der Abneigung seines Freundes gegen die brennende Hitze, die Hurrikane und die Regenzeiten in dieser Region. Ich wusste, dass Mr. Rochester ein Reisender gewesen war; das hatte Mrs. Fairfax gesagt; aber ich dachte, dass das europäische Festland seine wandernden Grenzen gewesen war, bis ich jetzt noch nie einen Hinweis auf Besuche in weiter entfernten Küsten gehört hatte. Ich dachte über diese Dinge nach, als ein Vorfall, und ein ziemlich unerwarteter brach den Faden meiner Gedanken. Mr. Mason, der zitterte, als jemand die Tür öffnete, bat darum, dass mehr Kohle ins Feuer gelegt wurde, das seine Flamme erloschen hatte, obwohl seine Masse aus Asche immer noch heiß und rot glühte. Der Diener, der die Kohle brachte, blieb beim Stuhl von Mr. Eshton stehen und sagte ihm etwas leise, von dem ich nur die Worte "alte Frau" hörte - "ziemlich lästig". "S Their visit was not so still as Miss Ingram's had been: we heard hysterical giggling and little shrieks proceeding from the library; and at the end of about twenty minutes they burst the door open, and came running across the hall, as if they were half-scared out of their wits. "I am sure she is something not right!" they cried, one and all. "She told us such things! She knows all about us!" and they sank breathless into the various seats the gentlemen hastened to bring them. Pressed for further explanation, they declared she had told them of things they had said and done when they were mere children; described books and ornaments they had in their boudoirs at home: keepsakes that different relations had presented to them. They affirmed that she had even divined their thoughts, and had whispered in the ear of each the name of the person she liked best in the world, and informed them of what they most wished for. Here the gentlemen interposed with earnest petitions to be further enlightened on these two last-named points; but they got only blushes, ejaculations, tremors, and titters, in return for their importunity. The matrons, meantime, offered vinaigrettes and wielded fans; and again and again reiterated the expression of their concern that their warning had not been taken in time; and the elder gentlemen laughed, and the younger urged their services on the agitated fair ones. In the midst of the tumult, and while my eyes and ears were fully engaged in the scene before me, I heard a hem close at my elbow: I turned, and saw Sam. "If you please, miss, the gipsy declares that there is another young single lady in the room who has not been to her yet, and she swears she will not go till she has seen all. I thought it must be you: there is no one else for it. What shall I tell her?" "Oh, I will go by all means," I answered: and I was glad of the unexpected opportunity to gratify my much-excited curiosity. I slipped out of the room, unobserved by any eye--for the company were gathered in one mass about the trembling trio just returned--and I closed the door quietly behind me. "If you like, miss," said Sam, "I'll wait in the hall for you; and if she frightens you, just call and I'll come in." "No, Sam, return to the kitchen: I am not in the least afraid." Nor was I; but I was a good deal interested and excited. 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.

An einem Abend im Salon beschließt die Gesellschaft, ein Ratespiel zu spielen. Rochester stellt sein Team zusammen, und natürlich ist Miss Ingram darauf. Ein Gast der Party fragt Miss Ingram, ob sie Jane zum Spielen einladen sollen, und sie erwidert, dass "sie zu dumm aussieht für ein solches Spiel". Rochesters Team spielt eine Stummfilm-Aufführung, in der er und Miss Ingram verheiratet sind, und das andere Team errät das Ratespiel als "Bridewell". Dann ist das andere Team an der Reihe, aber Jane kann nicht sagen, worum es bei ihrem Ratespiel ging, da sie die ganze Zeit Rochester und Miss Ingram angestarrt hat. Jane sagt, dass sie keine echte Eifersucht empfinden konnte, da Miss Ingram "zu minderwertig war, um dieses Gefühl hervorzurufen". Jane fährt fort zu sagen, dass "sie sehr prahlerisch war, aber nicht authentisch; sie hatte eine schöne Erscheinung, viele brillante Fähigkeiten, aber ihr Verstand war arm, ihr Herz von Natur aus leer. Jane berichtet auch, dass sie und die anderen Gäste eine boshaft feindliche Abneigung bemerkt hatten, die Miss Ingram gegenüber Adele empfand. Sie stieß sie weg und wies sie aus dem Raum. Jane sagt, dass sie Miss Ingram bewundert hätte, wenn sie eine noble Frau gewesen wäre und Rochesters Herz erobert hätte, aber sie sieht, dass Rochester nicht von ihr eingenommen ist. Jane ist überrascht, dass es anscheinend Rochesters Absicht ist, aus Interesse und Verbindungen zu heiraten, aber sie fühlt sich nicht gerechtfertigt, ihn oder Miss Ingram zu verurteilen, weil sie sich den Ideen ihrer Klasse anpassen. Eines Tages wird Rochester aus geschäftlichen Gründen nach Millcote gerufen, und die Gesellschaft spürt seine Abwesenheit und ist nicht mehr so lebhaft. Ein Fremder kommt und behauptet, ein alter Freund von Rochester zu sein und wird bleiben, bis er zurückkehrt. Jane hört mit, dass der Mann Mr. Mason heißt und Rochester von seinen Reisen in die Westindischen Inseln kennt. Jane ist überrascht, dass Rochesters Reisen ihn an solch entfernte Orte geführt haben. Der Diener betritt den Raum und sagt, dass eine Zigeunerin im Haus ist, die nicht gehen wird, bis sie den Gästen die Zukunft vorhersagt. Miss Ingram will sie hereinbringen lassen. Die Zigeunerin wird in die Bibliothek gebracht und erklärt, dass sie nur junge, unverheiratete Damen sehen möchte, keine Männer. Miss Ingram geht als erste hinein, aber als sie nach fünfzehn Minuten herauskommt, ist die Freude, mit der sie hineingegangen ist, verschwunden. Sie sitzt in einer Ecke und gibt vor zu lesen, aber Jane bemerkt, dass sie keine Seiten umblättert. Andere weibliche Gäste gehen dann gemeinsam hinein und kommen alle heraus und sagen, wie erstaunlich es war, dass die Zigeunerin sie und ihre Wünsche so gut kannte. Der Diener kommt dann zu Jane und sagt, dass die Zigeunerin weiß, dass es noch eine junge, unverheiratete Frau gibt, und Jane sagt, dass sie hingehen 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: Es war vereinbart worden, dass die beiden jungen Damen unter Ralphs Begleitung nach London gehen sollten, obwohl Frau Touchett wenig Gefallen an dem Plan fand. Es war genau die Art von Plan, sagte sie, die Miss Stackpole sicherlich vorgeschlagen hätte, und sie fragte, ob die Korrespondentin des Interviewer die Gruppe in ihrem Lieblingspensionat unterbringen würde. "Mir ist es egal, wo sie uns unterbringt, solange es lokale Farbe gibt", sagte Isabel. "Dafür gehen wir nach London." "Ich nehme an, nachdem ein Mädchen einen englischen Lord abgelehnt hat, kann sie alles tun", erwiderte ihre Tante. "Danach muss man sich nicht mehr um Kleinigkeiten kümmern." "Hättest du gewollt, dass ich Lord Warburton heirate?" erkundigte sich Isabel. "Natürlich hätte ich das." "Ich dachte, du magst die Engländer so wenig." "Tue ich auch, aber gerade deshalb ist es umso wichtiger, sie zu nutzen." "Ist das deine Vorstellung von Ehe?" Und Isabel wagte hinzuzufügen, dass ihre Tante ihr wenig von Mr. Touchett zu nutzen gemacht zu haben schien. "Dein Onkel ist kein englischer Adliger", sagte Frau Touchett, "obwohl selbst wenn er einer gewesen wäre, hätte ich wahrscheinlich trotzdem meinen Wohnsitz in Florenz genommen." "Denkst du, dass Lord Warburton mich zu einer besseren Person machen könnte?" fragte das Mädchen mit einiger Begeisterung. "Ich meine nicht, dass ich zu gut bin, um mich zu verbessern. Ich meine, dass ich Lord Warburton nicht genug liebe, um ihn zu heiraten." "Dann hast du richtig gehandelt, ihn abzulehnen", sagte Frau Touchett in ihrer kleinen, nüchternen Stimme. "Nur hoffe ich, dass du dich das nächste Mal an deinem eigenen Standard orientierst, wenn es ein großes Angebot gibt." "Wir sollten warten, bis das Angebot kommt, bevor wir darüber reden. Ich hoffe sehr, dass ich im Moment keine weiteren Angebote bekomme. Sie bringen mich völlig durcheinander." "Du wirst wahrscheinlich keine Probleme damit haben, wenn du dauerhaft den bohemischen Lebensstil annimmst. Aber ich habe Ralph versprochen, keine Kritik zu äußern." "Ich werde tun, was Ralph für richtig hält", antwortete Isabel. "Ich habe uneingeschränktes Vertrauen in Ralph." "Seine Mutter ist dir sehr dankbar!", lachte diese Dame ironisch. "Mir scheint tatsächlich, dass sie es sein sollte!", antwortete Isabel unbeherrscht. Ralph hatte ihr versichert, dass es keine Anstandsverletzung wäre, wenn sie zu dritt die Sehenswürdigkeiten der Hauptstadt besuchten; aber Frau Touchett hatte eine andere Meinung. Wie viele Damen ihres Landes, die lange Zeit in Europa gelebt hatten, hatte sie auf solchen Punkten ihr einheimisches Feingefühl vollständig verloren und war in ihrer Reaktion, die an sich nicht bedauernswert war, gegen die Freiheit, die jungen Menschen jenseits des Meeres gewährt wurde, in unnötige und übertriebene Bedenken verfallen. Ralph begleitete ihre Besucher in die Stadt und brachte sie in einer ruhigen Pension in einer Straße an, die im rechten Winkel zu Piccadilly verlief. Zuerst hatte er daran gedacht, sie in das Haus seines Vaters in der Winchester Square zu bringen, einem großen, langweiligen Herrenhaus, das zu dieser Jahreszeit in Schweigen und braunem Kattun gehüllt war; aber ihm fiel ein, dass es in Abwesenheit des Kochs aus Gardencourt niemanden im Haus gab, der ihnen Mahlzeiten besorgen konnte, und so wurde das Pratt's Hotel ihr Aufenthaltsort. Ralph hingegen fand Quartier in der Winchester Square, wo er ein "Kämmerchen" hatte, das er sehr mochte, und kannte tiefere Ängste als die vor einer kalten Küche. Er machte sich reichlich die Ressourcen des Pratt's Hotels zunutze und begann seinen Tag mit einem frühen Besuch bei seinen Mitreisenden, bei denen Mr. Pratt höchstpersönlich, in großer, gewölbter weißer Weste, die Deckel ihrer Speisen entfernte. Ralph kam, wie er sagte, nach dem Frühstück vorbei, und die kleine Gruppe plante das Tagesprogramm. Da London im September mit Ausnahme einzelner wenig beachteter Spuren vergangener Tage gesichtslos erschien, musste der junge Mann, der gelegentlich eine entschuldigende Haltung einnahm, seine Begleiterin daran erinnern, zum großen Hohn von Miss Stackpole, dass niemand in der Stadt ist. "Ich nehme an, du meinst, der Adel sei abwesend", antwortete Henrietta. "Aber ich glaube nicht, dass man einen besseren Beweis dafür haben könnte, dass sie, wenn sie völlig abwesend wären, niemandem fehlen würden. Mir scheint, der Ort ist so voll wie er sein kann. Es sind hier natürlich nur drei oder vier Millionen Menschen. Wie nennt man sie? Die untere Mittelschicht? Das ist nur die Bevölkerung von London, und das ist unwichtig." Ralph erklärte, dass ihm der Adel keinen Raum ließ, den Miss Stackpole selbst nicht ausfüllte, und dass kein zufriedenerer Mann zu diesem Zeitpunkt zu finden war. Damit sprach er die Wahrheit aus, denn die verregneten Septembertage in der riesigen, halbleeren Stadt hatten einen Reiz in sich, der in einem staubigen Tuch eingewickelt sein könnte wie ein farbiger Edelstein. Wenn er abends nach Hause in das leere Haus in der Winchester Square kam, nach Stunden mit seinen vergleichsweise leidenschaftlichen Freunden, ging er in das große, düstere Esszimmer, wo die Kerze, die er vom Konsolentisch nahm, nachdem er sich eingelassen hatte, die einzige Beleuchtung war. Der Platz war still, das Haus war still; als er ein Fenster des Speisezimmers öffnete, um Luft hereinzulassen, hörte er das langsame Knarren der Stiefel eines einsamen Polizisten. Sein eigener Schritt in dem leeren Raum schien laut und klangvoll; einige Teppiche waren hochgezogen, und wann immer er sich bewegte, erweckte er einen melancholischen Nachhall. Er setzte sich in einen der Sessel; der große, dunkle Esstisch funkelte hier und da im schwachen Kerzenlicht; die Bilder an der Wand, alle sehr braun, wirkten vage und zusammenhangslos. Es herrschte eine geisterhafte Gegenwart wie von längst verdauten Diners, von Tischgesprächen, die ihre Aktualität verloren hatten. Dieser Hauch des Übernatürlichen hatte vielleicht etwas damit zu tun, dass seine Vorstellungskraft einen Flug unternahm und er noch lange Zeit in seinem Stuhl blieb, über das erforderliche Schlafende hinaus; er tat nichts, nicht einmal die Abendzeitung lesen. Ich sage, er tat nichts, und ich bestehe auf dieser Formulierung trotz der Tatsache, dass er in diesen Momenten an Isabel dachte. An Isabel zu denken konnte für ihn nur eine nutzlose Beschäftigung sein, die zu nichts führte und wenig Nutzen für irgendjemanden hatte. Seine Cousine war ihm bisher noch nie so charmant erschienen wie während dieser Tage, die sie auf touristische Weise damit verbrachten, die Tiefen und Untiefen des Stadtlebens auszuloten. Isabel war voller Voraussetzungen, Schlussfolgerungen, Gefühle; wenn sie auf der Suche nach lokaler Farbe gekommen war, fand sie sie überall. Sie stellte mehr Fragen, als er beantworten konnte, und entwickelte mutige Theorien über historische Ursache und soziale Wirkung, die er weder annehmen noch widerlegen konnte. Die Gruppe besuchte mehrmals das British Museum und dieses heller erscheinende Kunstpalast, der einem eintönigen Vorort so viel Fläche des antiken Reichtums wieder abverlangt; sie verbrachten einen Vormittag in der Abtei und fuhren mit einem Ein-Pfennig-Dampfer zum Tower; sie sahen sich Bilder in öffentlichen und privaten Sammlungen an und saßen zu verschiedenen Anlässen unter den großen Bäumen in den Kensington Gardens. Henrietta erwies sich als unverwüstliche Besucherin von Sehenswürdigkeiten und als milde Richterin, von der Ralph nicht zu hoffen gewagt hatte. Sie hatte tatsächlich viele Enttäuschungen, und London im Allgemeinen litt unter ihrer lebhaften Erinnerung an die starken Seiten des amerikanischen Bürgerideals; aber sie machte das Beste aus den düsteren Würde und seufzte nur ab und zu und sagte ein unbestimmtes "Na ja!", das zu nichts führte und sich in Rückblicken verlor. Die Wahrheit war "Where sind eure öffentlichen Männer, wo sind eure Männer und Frauen von Intellekt?", fragte sie Ralph und stand mitten auf dem Trafalgar Square, als ob sie angenommen hätte, dass dies ein Ort sei, an dem sie natürlicherweise ein paar treffen würde. "Das ist einer von ihnen oben auf der Säule, sagst du - Lord Nelson. War er auch ein Lord? War er nicht schon hoch genug, dass man ihn hundert Fuß in der Luft anpinnen musste? Das ist Vergangenheit - ich kümmere mich nicht um die Vergangenheit; ich möchte einige der führenden Köpfe der Gegenwart sehen. Von der Zukunft will ich gar nicht reden, weil ich nicht viel an eure Zukunft glaube." Armer Ralph kannte nur wenige führende Köpfe in seinem Bekanntenkreis und hatte selten das Vergnügen, eine Berühmtheit anzusprechen; eine Situation, die für Miss Stackpole anscheinend auf einen bedauerlichen Mangel an Unternehmungslust hinwies. "Wenn ich auf der anderen Seite wäre, würde ich anrufen", sagte sie, "und dem Herrn, wer er auch immer sein mag, mitteilen, dass ich viel über ihn gehört habe und gekommen bin, um selbst zu sehen. Aber ich schließe aus dem, was du sagst, dass das hier nicht der Brauch ist. Ihr scheint jede Menge sinnloser Bräuche zu haben, aber nichts, was weiterhilft. Wir sind definitiv weiterentwickelt. Ich vermute, ich muss die soziale Seite ganz aufgeben;" und Henrietta, obwohl sie mit ihrem Reiseführer und Bleistift herumging und einen Brief an den Interviewer über den Turm schrieb (in dem sie die Hinrichtung von Lady Jane Grey beschrieb), hatte ein trauriges Gefühl, unter ihrer Mission zurückgeblieben zu sein. Das Ereignis, das Isabels Abreise aus Gardencourt vorausging, hinterließ eine schmerzhafte Spur in unserem jungen Frauengeist: Als sie wieder das kalte Hauchen der Überraschung ihres letzten Verehrers im Gesicht spürte, konnte sie ihren Kopf nur mummeln, bis die Luft sich klärte. Sie hätte nichts weniger tun können als das, was sie tat; das war sicherlich wahr. Aber ihre Notwendigkeit war dennoch so taktlos wie eine körperliche Handlung in einer verkrampften Haltung, und sie verspürte keinen Wunsch, sich für ihr Verhalten zu rühmen. Dennoch war mit diesem unvollkommenen Stolz ein Gefühl der Freiheit verbunden, das an sich süß war und das, während sie mit ihren ungleichartigen Begleitern durch die große Stadt wanderte, gelegentlich in merkwürdigen Demonstrationen pochte. Als sie in den Kensington Gardens spazierte, hielt sie die Kinder (hauptsächlich aus ärmeren Schichten) an, die sie auf dem Gras spielen sah; sie fragte sie nach ihren Namen, gab ihnen einen Groschen und küsste sie, wenn sie hübsch waren. Ralph bemerkte diese skurrilen Wohltätigkeiten; er bemerkte alles, was sie tat. An einem Nachmittag lud er seine Begleiterinnen zu Tee in der Winchester Square ein, damit sie die Zeit verbringen konnten, und er ließ das Haus so weit wie möglich für ihren Besuch vorbereiten. Es gab einen weiteren Gast, der sie treffen sollte, einen freundlichen Junggesellen, einen alten Freund von Ralphs, der zufällig in der Stadt war und für den die prompte Kommunikation mit Miss Stackpole weder Schwierigkeit noch Furcht zu haben schien. Mr. Bantling, ein stämmiger, glattgekämmter, lächelnder Mann von vierzig Jahren, wunderbar gekleidet, allgemein informiert und inkohärent amüsiert, lachte über alles, was Henrietta sagte, gab ihr mehrere Tassen Tee, inspizierte in ihrer Gesellschaft das Bric-a-Brac, von dem Ralph eine beträchtliche Sammlung hatte, und ging dann, als der Gastgeber vorschlug, dass sie in die Square gehen und so tun sollten, als sei es ein Freiluftfest, mehrere Male mit ihr um die begrenzte Anlage herum und reagierte bei Dutzenden von Wendungen in ihrem Gespräch begeistert - offenbar mit einer positiven Leidenschaft für Argumente - auf ihre Bemerkungen über das innere Leben. "Oh, ich verstehe; ich nehme an, du hast es bei Gardencourt sehr ruhig gefunden. Natürlich ist da nicht viel los, wenn so viel Krankheit herrscht. Touchett ist sehr krank, weißt du; die Ärzte haben ihm verboten, überhaupt in England zu sein, und er ist nur zurückgekommen, um sich um seinen Vater zu kümmern. Dem alten Mann geht's, glaube ich, in jeder Hinsicht schlecht. Sie nennen es Gicht, aber nach meiner Kenntnis hat er entwickelte Organerkrankungen, so dass du dir sicher sein kannst, dass er eines Tages bald recht schnell gehen wird. Natürlich macht so etwas ein schrecklich langweiliges Haus; ich frage mich, warum sie überhaupt Leute einladen, wenn sie so wenig für sie tun können. Dann glaube ich, dass Mr. Touchett immer mit seiner Frau streitet; sie lebt, wie du weißt, in dieser außergewöhnlich amerikanischen Weise von ihrem Mann getrennt. Wenn du ein Haus willst, in dem immer etwas los ist, empfehle ich dir, zu meiner Schwester Lady Pensil in Bedfordshire zu gehen. Ich werde ihr morgen schreiben und ich bin sicher, sie wird begeistert sein, dich einzuladen. Ich weiß genau, was du willst - du willst ein Haus, in dem man sich für Theatervorstellungen und Picknicks einsetzt und so etwas. Meine Schwester ist genau so eine Frau; sie plant immer irgendetwas und sie freut sich immer über Leute, die ihr dabei helfen. Ich bin sicher, sie wird dir umgehend antworten: sie ist wahnsinnig begeistert von herausragenden Persönlichkeiten und Schriftstellern. Sie schreibt selbst, weißt du; aber ich habe nicht alles gelesen, was sie geschrieben hat. Normalerweise ist es Lyrik, und ich stehe nicht so sehr auf Lyrik - außer Byron. Ich nehme an, dass du in Amerika viel von Byron hältst", fuhr Mr. Bantling fort und entfaltete sich in der anregenden Luft von Miss Stackpoles Aufmerksamkeit, brachte seine Argumentation prompt vor und wechselte sein Thema mit einer geschickten Handbewegung. Trotzdem blieb er jedoch geschickt in Sichtweite der Idee und blitzte Henrietta auf, dass sie bei Lady Pensil in Bedfordshire zu Gast sein könnte. "Ich verstehe, was du willst; du willst echten englischen Sport sehen. Die Touchetts sind überhaupt nicht englisch; sie haben ihre eigenen Gewohnheiten, ihre eigene Sprache, ihr eigenes Essen - sogar eine eigenartige Religion, glaube ich. Dem alten Mann gilt die Jagd als sündig, hörte ich. Du solltest rechtzeitig zu den Theatervorstellungen zu meiner Schwester gehen, und ich bin sicher, sie wird dir eine Rolle geben. Ich bin sicher, du spielst gut; ich weiß, du bist sehr clever. Meine Schwester ist vierzig Jahre alt und hat sieben Kinder, aber sie wird die Hauptrolle spielen. Obwohl sie nicht hübsch ist, macht sie sich furchtbar gut zurecht, das muss ich schon sagen. Natürlich musst du nicht spielen, wenn du nicht willst." Auf diese Weise gab sich Mr. Bantling hin, während sie über das Gras in der Winchester Square schlenderten, das, obwohl es von Londons Ruß gepfeffert worden war, den Tritt dazu einlud, zu verweilen. Henrietta fand ihren blühenden, leicht klingenden Junggesellen, der für weibliche Verdienste empfänglich war und eine großartige Bandbreite an Vorschlägen hatte, einen sehr angenehmen Mann und schätzte die Gelegenheit, die er ihr bot. "Ich weiß nicht, aber ich würde wahrscheinlich gehen, wenn Ihre Schwester mich fragen würde. Ich denke, "Es besteht überhaupt keine Notwendigkeit, dass du alleine gehst", warf Mr. Bantling fröhlich ein. "Es würde mich sehr freuen, mit dir zu gehen." "Ich meinte nur, dass du zu spät zum Abendessen kommen würdest", erwiderte Ralph. "Diese armen Damen könnten leicht glauben, dass wir dich am Ende nicht entbehren wollen." "Du solltest dir lieber einen Hansom nehmen, Henrietta", sagte Isabel. "Ich werde dir ein Hansom besorgen, wenn du mir vertraust", fuhr Mr. Bantling fort. "Wir könnten ein Stück gehen, bis wir eins finden." "Ich sehe nicht, warum ich ihm nicht vertrauen sollte, oder?" erkundigte sich Henrietta bei Isabel. "Ich sehe nicht, was Mr. Bantling dir antun könnte", antwortete Isabel gefällig. "Aber wenn du möchtest, werden wir mit dir gehen, bis du dein Taxi findest." "Macht nichts; wir gehen allein. Los, Mr. Bantling, und pass auf, dass du mir ein gutes bekommst." Mr. Bantling versprach, sein Bestes zu tun, und die beiden verließen den Platz und ließen das Mädchen und ihren Cousin allein zurück, über dem sich die klare Septembertwilight langsam zusammenzog. Es war völlig still; der weite Innenhof mit den dunklen Häusern zeigte keine Lichter in den Fenstern, wo die Fensterläden und Jalousien geschlossen waren; die Bürgersteige waren leer, abgesehen von zwei kleinen Kindern aus einer benachbarten Slum, die von den ungewöhnlichen Anzeichen von Aktivität im Inneren angelockt wurden und ihre Gesichter zwischen den rostigen Schienen des Geländes hervorstreckten. Das lebhafteste Objekt in Sichtweite war der große rote Pfosten an der Südost-Ecke. "Henrietta wird ihn bitten, in das Taxi zu steigen und mit ihr nach Jermyn Street zu fahren", bemerkte Ralph. Er sprach immer von Miss Stackpole als Henrietta. "Ganz möglich", sagte seine Begleiterin. "Oder eher nein, wird sie nicht", fuhr er fort. "Aber Bantling wird um Erlaubnis bitten, einzusteigen." "Sehr wahrscheinlich", antwortete Isabel. "Ich freue mich sehr, dass sie so gute Freunde sind." "Sie hat einen Eroberung gemacht. Er hält sie für eine brillante Frau. Es könnte weit gehen", sagte Ralph. Isabel schwieg kurz. "Ich nenne Henrietta eine sehr brillante Frau, aber ich glaube nicht, dass es weit gehen wird. Sie würden einander nie wirklich kennen lernen. Er hat nicht die geringste Ahnung, wer sie wirklich ist, und sie hat kein wirkliches Verständnis von Mr. Bantling." "Es gibt keine gebräuchlichere Grundlage für eine Vereinigung als ein gegenseitiges Missverständnis. Aber es sollte nicht so schwer sein, Bob Bantling zu verstehen", fügte Ralph hinzu. "Er ist ein sehr einfaches Wesen." "Ja, aber Henrietta ist noch einfacher. Und, bitte, was soll ich tun?" fragte Isabel und sah sich im verblassenden Licht um, in dem die begrenzte Landschaftsgestaltung des Platzes eine große und wirkungsvolle Erscheinung annahm. "Ich denke nicht, dass du vorschlagen wirst, dass du und ich uns zur Belustigung in einem Taxi durch London fahren lassen." "Es gibt keinen Grund, warum wir hier bleiben sollten, wenn es dir nichts ausmacht. Es ist sehr warm; es wird noch eine halbe Stunde dauern, bevor es dunkel wird; und wenn du es erlaubst, werde ich mir eine Zigarette anzünden." "Du kannst tun, was du willst", sagte Isabel, "wenn du mich bis sieben Uhr unterhältst. Ich schlage vor, um diese Zeit zurückzukehren und ein einfaches, einsames Mahl - zwei pochierte Eier und eine Muffin - im Pratt's Hotel einzunehmen." "Darf ich mit dir zu Abend essen?" fragte Ralph. "Nein, du wirst in deinem Club zu Abend essen." Sie waren wieder zu ihren Stühlen in der Mitte des Platzes zurückgekehrt, und Ralph hatte seine Zigarette angezündet. Es würde ihm äußerst viel Freude bereiten, persönlich bei dem bescheidenen kleinen Fest dabei zu sein, das sie skizziert hatte; aber in Ermangelung dessen gefiel es ihm sogar, verboten zu werden. Im Moment gefiel es ihm jedoch sehr, alleine mit ihr zu sein, in der dichter werdenden Dämmerung, inmitten der vielfältigen Stadt; es ließ sie von ihm abhängig erscheinen und in seiner Gewalt sein. Diese Gewalt konnte er jedoch nur vage ausüben; die beste Ausübung war, ihre Entscheidungen demütig zu akzeptieren, wofür es bereits einen Hauch von Emotion gab. "Warum erlaubst du mir nicht, mit dir zu Abend zu essen?", fragte er nach einer Pause. "Weil es mir nicht behagt." "Ich nehme an, du bist müde von mir." Eine Stunde später werde ich es sein. Du siehst also, ich habe die Gabe der Vorahnung." "Oh, ich werde bis dahin entzückend sein", sagte Ralph. Aber er sagte nichts weiter, und da sie nicht erwiderte, saßen sie einige Zeit in einer Stille, die seinem Versprechen der Unterhaltung zu widersprechen schien. Ihr schien es, dass sie nachdenklich war, und er fragte sich, worüber sie wohl nachdachte; es gab zwei oder drei sehr mögliche Themen. Schließlich sprach er wieder. "Wird dein Einwand gegen meine Gesellschaft heute Abend durch die Erwartung eines anderen Besuchers verursacht?" Sie drehte den Kopf und warf ihm einen Blick mit ihren klaren, hellen Augen zu. "Ein anderer Besucher? Welcher Besucher sollte das sein?" Er hatte keinen Vorschlag, was seine Frage ihm selber albern und brutal erscheinen ließ. "Du hast viele Freunde, die ich nicht kenne. Du hast eine ganze Vergangenheit, aus der ich wissentlich ausgeschlossen wurde." "Du warst mir für meine Zukunft vorbehalten. Du musst bedenken, dass meine Vergangenheit dort drüben über dem Wasser liegt. Hier in London gibt es keine davon." "Sehr gut, dann ist deine Zukunft sowieso direkt neben dir. Eine großartige Sache, seine Zukunft so griffbereit zu haben." Und Ralph zündete sich eine weitere Zigarette an und überlegte, dass Isabel wahrscheinlich meinte, sie habe erfahren, dass Mr. Caspar Goodwood nach Paris gereist sei. Nachdem er die Zigarette angezündet hatte, rauchte er eine Weile, und dann fuhr er fort. "Ich habe gerade versprochen, sehr unterhaltsam zu sein; aber siehst du, ich erfülle nicht die Erwartungen, und tatsächlich ist es schon gewagt, jemanden wie dich unterhalten zu wollen. Was kümmern dich meine schwachen Versuche? Du hast großartige Ideen - du hast hohe Maßstäbe in solchen Angelegenheiten. Ich sollte zumindest einen Musikverein oder eine Truppe von Gauklern herbeiholen." "Einen Gaukler reicht aus, und du machst es sehr gut. Bitte fahre fort, und in weiteren zehn Minuten werde ich anfangen zu lachen." "Ich versichere dir, ich meine es sehr ernst", sagte Ralph. "Du verlangst wirklich viel." "Ich weiß nicht, was du meinst. Ich verlange nichts." "Du nimmst nichts an", sagte Ralph. Sie wurde rot, und jetzt schien es ihr plötzlich, dass sie seine Bedeutung ahnte. Aber warum sollte er mit ihr über solche Dinge sprechen? Er zögerte ein wenig und fuhr dann fort: "Es gibt etwas, das ich dir sehr gerne sagen würde. Es ist eine Frage, die ich stellen möchte. Es scheint mir, als hätte ich das Recht, sie zu stellen, weil ich irgendwie an der Antwort interessiert bin." "Frage, was du willst", antwortete Isabel sanft, "und ich werde versuchen, dich zufriedenzustellen." "Nun gut, ich hoffe, es macht dir nichts aus, wenn ich dir sage, dass Warburton mir von etwas erzählt hat, das zwischen euch passiert ist." Isabel unterdrückte einen Schreck; sie saß da und betrachtete ihren aufgefächerten Fächer. " "Natürlich meinst du, dass ich mich in Dinge einmische, die mich nichts angehen. Aber warum sollte ich nicht mit dir über diese Angelegenheit sprechen, ohne dich zu belästigen oder mich selbst in Verlegenheit zu bringen? Was bringt es mir, dein Cousin zu sein, wenn ich nicht ein paar Privilegien haben kann? Was bringt es mir, dich anzubeten, ohne Hoffnung auf Belohnung, wenn ich nicht ein paar Ausgleichsleistungen haben kann? Was bringt es mir, krank und behindert zu sein und nur als Zuschauer am Spiel des Lebens teilzunehmen, wenn ich die Show wirklich nicht sehen kann, nachdem ich so viel für mein Ticket bezahlt habe? Sag mir das", fuhr Ralph fort, während sie ihm mit gesteigertem Interesse zuhörte. "Was hattest du im Sinn, als du Lord Warburton abgelehnt hast?" "Was hatte ich im Sinn?" "Was war die Logik - die Sicht auf deine Situation -, die eine so bemerkenswerte Tat diktierte?" "Ich wollte ihn nicht heiraten - wenn das Logik ist." "Nein, das ist keine Logik - das wusste ich schon vorher. Es ist wirklich nichts, weißt du. Was hast du zu dir selbst gesagt? Du hast sicherlich mehr gesagt als das." Isabel überlegte einen Moment und antwortete dann mit einer eigenen Frage. "Warum nennst du es eine bemerkenswerte Tat? Das ist auch die Meinung deiner Mutter." "Warburton ist so eine gründlich gute Sorte; als Mensch betrachte ich ihn als nahezu fehlerlos. Und dann ist er hier sehr angesehen. Er hat immense Besitztümer, und seine Frau würde als überlegenes Wesen gelten. Er vereint die intrinsischen und extrinsischen Vorteile." Isabel beobachtete ihren Cousin, um zu sehen, wie weit er gehen würde. "Ich habe ihn abgelehnt, weil er damals zu perfekt war. Ich bin selbst nicht perfekt, und er ist zu gut für mich. Außerdem würde seine Perfektion mich irritieren." "Das ist eher einfallsreich als ehrlich", sagte Ralph. "Tatsächlich denkst du, dass nichts auf der Welt zu perfekt für dich ist." "Glaubst du, ich bin so gut?" "Nein, aber du bist anspruchsvoll, trotz der Entschuldigung, dass du dich selbst nicht als gut betrachtest. Neunzehn von zwanzig Frauen, selbst von den anspruchsvollsten, wären mit Warburton zurechtgekommen. Vielleicht weißt du nicht, wie sehr er verfolgt wurde." "Ich möchte es nicht wissen. Aber es scheint mir", sagte Isabel, "dass du an einem Tag, als wir von ihm sprachen, seltsame Dinge über ihn erwähnt hast." Ralph überlegte rauchend. "Ich hoffe, dass das, was ich damals gesagt habe, kein Gewicht für dich hatte; denn es waren keine Fehler, über die ich sprach: es waren einfach Eigenheiten seiner Position. Wenn ich gewusst hätte, dass er dich heiraten wollte, hätte ich niemals darauf hingewiesen. Ich glaube, ich sagte, dass er in Bezug auf diese Position eher ein Skeptiker war. Es wäre in deiner Macht gewesen, ihn zu einem Gläubigen zu machen." "Ich denke nicht. Ich verstehe die Angelegenheit nicht, und ich habe kein Bewusstsein für eine solche Mission. Du bist offensichtlich enttäuscht", fügte Isabel hinzu und betrachtete ihren Cousin mit reumütiger Güte. "Du hättest es gemocht, wenn ich eine solche Ehe eingegangen wäre." "Keineswegs. Ich habe absolut keinen Wunsch in dieser Hinsicht. Ich gebe auch keinem Ratschläge und begnüge mich damit, dich mit größtem Interesse zu beobachten." Sie seufzte etwas bewusst. "Ich wünschte, ich wäre für mich selbst genauso interessant wie für dich!" "Dabei bist du wieder nicht ehrlich; du bist für dich selbst äußerst interessant. Weißt du jedoch", sagte Ralph, "dass ich, wenn du Warburton wirklich deine endgültige Antwort gegeben hast, ziemlich froh bin, dass es so war. Ich meine nicht, dass ich froh für dich bin und schon gar nicht natürlich für ihn. Ich bin froh für mich." "Denkst du daran, mir einen Antrag zu machen?" "Keineswegs. Aus der Perspektive, von der ich spreche, wäre das fatal; ich würde die Gans töten, die mir das Material für meine unnachahmlichen Omeletts liefert. Ich benutze dieses Tier als Symbol meiner wahnsinnigen Illusionen. Ich meine damit, dass ich das Vergnügen haben werde, zu sehen, was eine junge Dame tut, die Lord Warburton nicht heiraten will." Das erwartet deine Mutter auch", sagte Isabel. "Ah, es wird genügend Zuschauer geben! Wir werden deinen weiteren Weg verfolgen. Ich werde nicht alles sehen, aber wahrscheinlich die interessantesten Jahre. Natürlich würdest du auch mit unserem Freund eine Karriere haben - eine sehr anständige, in der Tat eine sehr brillante. Aber relativ gesehen wäre sie ein wenig prosaisch. Sie wäre im Voraus festgelegt; sie würde an Unerwartetem fehlen. Weißt du, ich liebe das Unerwartete sehr, und jetzt, wo du das Spiel in deinen Händen behalten hast, verlasse ich mich darauf, dass du uns ein großes Beispiel dafür gibst." "Ich verstehe dich nicht sehr gut", sagte Isabel, "aber ich verstehe dich gut genug, um sagen zu können, dass ich dich enttäuschen werde, wenn du große Beispiele von mir erwartest." "Du wirst das nur tun, wenn du dich selbst enttäuscht, und das wird dir schwerfallen!" Darauf antwortete sie nicht direkt; es lag eine Wahrheit darin, die es wert war, darüber nachzudenken. Schließlich sagte sie abrupt: "Ich sehe keinen Schaden darin zu wünschen, mich nicht festzulegen. Ich möchte mein Leben nicht mit einer Heirat beginnen. Es gibt andere Dinge, die eine Frau tun kann." "Es gibt nichts, was sie so gut kann. Aber du bist natürlich von vielen Seiten." "Wenn man zwei Seiten hat, reicht das", sagte Isabel. "Du bist der charmanteste der Vielgestaltigen!" rief ihr Begleiter aus. Bei einem Blick von seiner Begleiterin wurde er jedoch ernst und fuhr fort: "Du willst das Leben sehen - du wirst gehängt, wenn du es nicht tust, wie die jungen Männer sagen." "Ich glaube nicht, dass ich es so sehen will, wie die jungen Männer es wollen. Aber ich möchte mich umschauen." "Du willst den Kelch der Erfahrung leeren." "Nein, ich möchte den Kelch der Erfahrung nicht anrühren. Es ist ein vergiftetes Getränk! Ich möchte nur selbst sehen." "Du möchtest sehen, aber nicht fühlen", bemerkte Ralph. "Ich glaube nicht, dass man, wenn man ein empfindungsfähiges Wesen ist, diese Unterscheidung treffen kann. Ich bin ziemlich wie Henrietta. Letztens, als ich sie fragte, ob sie heiraten möchte, sagte sie: 'Erst wenn ich Europa gesehen habe!' Ich möchte auch nicht heiraten, bis ich Europa gesehen habe." "Du erwartest offensichtlich, dass ein gekrönter Kopf von dir beeindruckt wird." "Nein, das wäre schlimmer als Lord Warburton zu heiraten. Aber es wird sehr dunkel", fuhr Isabel fort, "und ich muss nach Hause gehen." Sie stand von ihrem Platz auf, aber Ralph blieb sitzen und sah sie an. Als er dort blieb, blieb sie stehen, und sie tauschten einen Blick aus, der auf beiden Seiten, aber besonders auf Ralphs Seite, unbeschreibliche Äußerungen enthielt, die zu vage für Worte waren. "Du hast meine Frage beantwortet", sagte er schließlich. "Du hast mir gesagt, was ich wissen wollte. Ich danke dir sehr." "Mir scheint, ich habe dir sehr wenig gesagt." "Du hast mir das Wichtigste gesagt: dass dich die Welt interessiert und dass du dich hineinstürzen willst." Ihre silbernen Augen leuchteten einen Moment in der Dämmerung. "Das habe ich nie gesagt." "Ich glaube, du hast es gemeint. Leugne es nicht. Es ist so wunderbar!" "Ich weiß nicht, worauf du hinauswillst, denn ich bin überhaupt kein abenteuerlicher Geist. Frauen sind nicht wie Männer." Ralph erhob sich langsam von seinem Platz, und sie gingen gemeinsam zum Tor des Platzes. "Nein", sagte er. "Frauen prahlen selten mit ihrem Mut. Männer tun es mit gewisser Häufigkeit." "Männer haben damit etwas vorzuweisen!" "Auch Frauen haben es. Du hast sehr viel davon." "Genug, um mit einem Taxi Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Mrs. Touchett hätte gerne gewollt, dass Isabel den Heiratsantrag von Lord Warburton annimmt. Sie denkt, dass Engländer ihre Nutzen haben. Ralph begleitet Isabel und Henrietta nach London. Die Damen bleiben im Pratt's Hotel, während Ralph in einem der anderen Häuser der Touchett Familie am Winchester Square bleibt. Henrietta ist enttäuscht über das Fehlen von reichen Leuten. Sie fragt sich, wo all die Mitglieder der Aristokratie sind. Ralph denkt viel über Isabel nach; sie ist immer noch ein faszinierendes Rätsel für ihn. Isabel erfreut sich an den Besuchen in Museen und Parks. Henrietta scheint weniger begeistert zu sein, ist aber nicht so zynisch, wie man erwarten könnte. Ralph stellt den Damen seinen Freund, Mr. Bantling, vor. Henrietta hat sofort Sympathie für Mr. Bantling und wird begeistert, als er eine Einladung zu dem Haus seiner Schwester Lady Pensil anbietet. Henrietta geht mit Mr. Bantling, um mit zwei weiblichen Freunden zu Abend zu essen. Isabel und Ralph bleiben allein am Winchester Square zurück. Isabel sagt, dass sie alleine zu Abend essen will und Ralph zurück in sein Zimmer gehen soll, um sich auszuruhen. Ralph ist verwirrt über ihren Wunsch, allein zu sein, und fragt, ob sie jemanden treffen will. Sie behauptet, dass sie niemanden kennt, mit dem sie sich treffen könnte. Ralph erzählt Isabel, dass Lord Warburton ihm von dem Heiratsantrag und ihrer Antwort erzählt hat. Er will nicht mit ihr streiten, sondern nur ihre Erklärung hören, als Cousin und Freund. Isabel, ein wenig verteidigend, sagt, dass sie nicht glaubt, dass das Leben einer Frau damit beginnen sollte, jemanden zu heiraten. Sie möchte zuerst Europa sehen, unter anderem. Ralph sagt, dass Isabel eine Menge Mut hat, obwohl Isabel solch einen Gedanken leugnet. Ralph hilft Isabel, ein Taxi zu finden, da sie darauf besteht, dass er zurückgeht und sich ausruht. Ralph bedauert seinen beeinträchtigten Zustand.

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: Educated in the enervating style recommended by the writers on whom I have been animadverting; and not having a chance, from their subordinate state in society, to recover their lost ground, is it surprising that women every where appear a defect in nature? Is it surprising, when we consider what a determinate effect an early association of ideas has on the character, that they neglect their understandings, and turn all their attention to their persons? The great advantages which naturally result from storing the mind with knowledge, are obvious from the following considerations. The association of our ideas is either habitual or instantaneous; and the latter mode seems rather to depend on the original temperature of the mind than on the will. When the ideas, and matters of fact, are once taken in, they lie by for use, till some fortuitous circumstance makes the information dart into the mind with illustrative force, that has been received at very different periods of our lives. Like the lightning's flash are many recollections; one idea assimilating and explaining another, with astonishing rapidity. I do not now allude to that quick perception of truth, which is so intuitive that it baffles research, and makes us at a loss to determine whether it is reminiscence or ratiocination, lost sight of in its celerity, that opens the dark cloud. Over those instantaneous associations we have little power; for when the mind is once enlarged by excursive flights, or profound reflection, the raw materials, will, in some degree, arrange themselves. The understanding, it is true, may keep us from going out of drawing when we group our thoughts, or transcribe from the imagination the warm sketches of fancy; but the animal spirits, the individual character give the colouring. Over this subtile electric fluid,* how little power do we possess, and over it how little power can reason obtain! These fine intractable spirits appear to be the essence of genius, and beaming in its eagle eye, produce in the most eminent degree the happy energy of associating thoughts that surprise, delight, and instruct. These are the glowing minds that concentrate pictures for their fellow-creatures; forcing them to view with interest the objects reflected from the impassioned imagination, which they passed over in nature. (*Footnote. I have sometimes, when inclined to laugh at materialists, asked whether, as the most powerful effects in nature are apparently produced by fluids, the magnetic, etc. the passions might not be fine volatile fluids that embraced humanity, keeping the more refractory elementary parts together--or whether they were simply a liquid fire that pervaded the more sluggish materials giving them life and heat?) I must be allowed to explain myself. The generality of people cannot see or feel poetically, they want fancy, and therefore fly from solitude in search of sensible objects; but when an author lends them his eyes, they can see as he saw, and be amused by images they could not select, though lying before them. Education thus only supplies the man of genius with knowledge to give variety and contrast to his associations; but there is an habitual association of ideas, that grows "with our growth," which has a great effect on the moral character of mankind; and by which a turn is given to the mind, that commonly remains throughout life. So ductile is the understanding, and yet so stubborn, that the associations which depend on adventitious circumstances, during the period that the body takes to arrive at maturity, can seldom be disentangled by reason. One idea calls up another, its old associate, and memory, faithful to the first impressions, particularly when the intellectual powers are not employed to cool our sensations, retraces them with mechanical exactness. This habitual slavery, to first impressions, has a more baneful effect on the female than the male character, because business and other dry employments of the understanding, tend to deaden the feelings and break associations that do violence to reason. But females, who are made women of when they are mere children, and brought back to childhood when they ought to leave the go-cart forever, have not sufficient strength of mind to efface the superinductions of art that have smothered nature. Every thing that they see or hear serves to fix impressions, call forth emotions, and associate ideas, that give a sexual character to the mind. False notions of beauty and delicacy stop the growth of their limbs and produce a sickly soreness, rather than delicacy of organs; and thus weakened by being employed in unfolding instead of examining the first associations, forced on them by every surrounding object, how can they attain the vigour necessary to enable them to throw off their factitious character?--where find strength to recur to reason and rise superior to a system of oppression, that blasts the fair promises of spring? This cruel association of ideas, which every thing conspires to twist into all their habits of thinking, or, to speak with more precision, of feeling, receives new force when they begin to act a little for themselves; for they then perceive, that it is only through their address to excite emotions in men, that pleasure and power are to be obtained. Besides, all the books professedly written for their instruction, which make the first impression on their minds, all inculcate the same opinions. Educated in worse than Egyptian bondage, it is unreasonable, as well as cruel, to upbraid them with faults that can scarcely be avoided, unless a degree of native vigour be supposed, that falls to the lot of very few amongst mankind. For instance, the severest sarcasms have been levelled against the sex, and they have been ridiculed for repeating "a set of phrases learnt by rote," when nothing could be more natural, considering the education they receive, and that their "highest praise is to obey, unargued"--the will of man. If they are not allowed to have reason sufficient to govern their own conduct--why, all they learn--must be learned by rote! And when all their ingenuity is called forth to adjust their dress, "a passion for a scarlet coat," is so natural, that it never surprised me; and, allowing Pope's summary of their character to be just, "that every woman is at heart a rake," why should they be bitterly censured for seeking a congenial mind, and preferring a rake to a man of sense? Rakes know how to work on their sensibility, whilst the modest merit of reasonable men has, of course, less effect on their feelings, and they cannot reach the heart by the way of the understanding, because they have few sentiments in common. It seems a little absurd to expect women to be more reasonable than men in their LIKINGS, and still to deny them the uncontroled use of reason. When do men FALL IN LOVE with sense? When do they, with their superior powers and advantages, turn from the person to the mind? And how can they then expect women, who are only taught to observe behaviour, and acquire manners rather than morals, to despise what they have been all their lives labouring to attain? Where are they suddenly to find judgment enough to weigh patiently the sense of an awkward virtuous man, when his manners, of which they are made critical judges, are rebuffing, and his conversation cold and dull, because it does not consist of pretty repartees, or well-turned compliments? In order to admire or esteem any thing for a continuance, we must, at least, have our curiosity excited by knowing, in some degree, what we admire; for we are unable to estimate the value of qualities and virtues above our comprehension. Such a respect, when it is felt, may be very sublime; and the confused consciousness of humility may render the dependent creature an interesting object, in some points of view; but human love must have grosser ingredients; and the person very naturally will come in for its share--and, an ample share it mostly has! Love is, in a great degree, an arbitrary passion, and will reign like some other stalking mischiefs, by its own authority, without deigning to reason; and it may also be easily distinguished from esteem, the foundation of friendship, because it is often excited by evanescent beauties and graces, though to give an energy to the sentiment something more solid must deepen their impression and set the imagination to work, to make the most fair-- the first good. Common passions are excited by common qualities. Men look for beauty and the simper of good humoured docility: women are captivated by easy manners: a gentleman-like man seldom fails to please them, and their thirsty ears eagerly drink the insinuating nothings of politeness, whilst they turn from the unintelligible sounds of the charmer--reason, charm he never so wisely. With respect to superficial accomplishments, the rake certainly has the advantage; and of these, females can form an opinion, for it is their own ground. Rendered gay and giddy by the whole tenor of their lives, the very aspect of wisdom, or the severe graces of virtue must have a lugubrious appearance to them; and produce a kind of restraint from which they and love, sportive child, naturally revolt. Without taste, excepting of the lighter kind, for taste is the offspring of judgment, how can they discover, that true beauty and grace must arise from the play of the mind? and how can they be expected to relish in a lover what they do not, or very imperfectly, possess themselves? The sympathy that unites hearts, and invites to confidence, in them is so very faint, that it cannot take fire, and thus mount to passion. No, I repeat it, the love cherished by such minds, must have grosser fuel! The inference is obvious; till women are led to exercise their understandings, they should not be satirized for their attachment to rakes; nor even for being rakes at heart, when it appears to be the inevitable consequence of their education. They who live to please must find their enjoyments, their happiness, in pleasure! It is a trite, yet true remark, that we never do any thing well, unless we love it for its own sake. Supposing, however, for a moment, that women were, in some future revolution of time, to become, what I sincerely wish them to be, even love would acquire more serious dignity, and be purified in its own fires; and virtue giving true delicacy to their affections, they would turn with disgust from a rake. Reasoning then, as well as feeling, the only province of woman, at present, they might easily guard against exterior graces, and quickly learn to despise the sensibility that had been excited and hackneyed in the ways of women, whose trade was vice; and allurement's wanton airs. They would recollect that the flame, (one must use appropriate expressions,) which they wished to light up, had been exhausted by lust, and that the sated appetite, losing all relish for pure and simple pleasures, could only be roused by licentious arts of variety. What satisfaction could a woman of delicacy promise herself in a union with such a man, when the very artlessness of her affection might appear insipid? Thus does Dryden describe the situation: "Where love is duty on the female side, On theirs mere sensual gust, and sought with surly pride." But one grand truth women have yet to learn, though much it imports them to act accordingly. In the choice of a husband they should not be led astray by the qualities of a lover--for a lover the husband, even supposing him to be wise and virtuous, cannot long remain. Were women more rationally educated, could they take a more comprehensive view of things, they would be contented to love but once in their lives; and after marriage calmly let passion subside into friendship--into that tender intimacy, which is the best refuge from care; yet is built on such pure, still affections, that idle jealousies would not be allowed to disturb the discharge of the sober duties of life, nor to engross the thoughts that ought to be otherwise employed. This is a state in which many men live; but few, very few women. And the difference may easily be accounted for, without recurring to a sexual character. Men, for whom we are told women are made, have too much occupied the thoughts of women; and this association has so entangled love, with all their motives of action; and, to harp a little on an old string, having been solely employed either to prepare themselves to excite love, or actually putting their lessons in practice, they cannot live without love. But, when a sense of duty, or fear of shame, obliges them to restrain this pampered desire of pleasing beyond certain lengths, too far for delicacy, it is true, though far from criminality, they obstinately determine to love, I speak of their passion, their husbands to the end of the chapter--and then acting the part which they foolishly exacted from their lovers, they become abject wooers, and fond slaves. Men of wit and fancy are often rakes; and fancy is the food of love. Such men will inspire passion. Half the sex, in its present infantine state, would pine for a Lovelace; a man so witty, so graceful, and so valiant; and can they DESERVE blame for acting according to principles so constantly inculcated? They want a lover and protector: and behold him kneeling before them--bravery prostrate to beauty! The virtues of a husband are thus thrown by love into the background, and gay hopes, or lively emotions, banish reflection till the day of reckoning comes; and come it surely will, to turn the sprightly lover into a surly suspicious tyrant, who contemptuously insults the very weakness he fostered. Or, supposing the rake reformed, he cannot quickly get rid of old habits. When a man of abilities is first carried away by his passions, it is necessary that sentiment and taste varnish the enormities of vice, and give a zest to brutal indulgences: but when the gloss of novelty is worn off, and pleasure palls upon the sense, lasciviousness becomes barefaced, and enjoyment only the desperate effort of weakness flying from reflection as from a legion of devils. Oh! virtue, thou art not an empty name! All that life can give-- thou givest! If much comfort cannot be expected from the friendship of a reformed rake of superior abilities, what is the consequence when he lacketh sense, as well as principles? Verily misery in its most hideous shape. When the habits of weak people are consolidated by time, a reformation is barely possible; and actually makes the beings miserable who have not sufficient mind to be amused by innocent pleasure; like the tradesman who retires from the hurry of business, nature presents to them only a universal blank; and the restless thoughts prey on the damped spirits. Their reformation as well as his retirement actually makes them wretched, because it deprives them of all employment, by quenching the hopes and fears that set in motion their sluggish minds. If such be the force of habit; if such be the bondage of folly, how carefully ought we to guard the mind from storing up vicious associations; and equally careful should we be to cultivate the understanding, to save the poor wight from the weak dependent state of even harmless ignorance. For it is the right use of reason alone which makes us independent of every thing--excepting the unclouded Reason--"Whose service is perfect freedom." Modesty! Sacred offspring of sensibility and reason! true delicacy of mind! may I unblamed presume to investigate thy nature, and trace to its covert the mild charm, that mellowing each harsh feature of a character, renders what would otherwise only inspire cold admiration--lovely! Thou that smoothest the wrinkles of wisdom, and softenest the tone of the more sublime virtues till they all melt into humanity! thou that spreadest the ethereal cloud that surrounding love heightens every beauty, it half shades, breathing those coy sweets that steal into the heart, and charm the senses--modulate for me the language of persuasive reason, till I rouse my sex from the flowery bed, on which they supinely sleep life away! In speaking of the association of our ideas, I have noticed two distinct modes; and in defining modesty, it appears to me equally proper to discriminate that purity of mind, which is the effect of chastity, from a simplicity of character that leads us to form a just opinion of ourselves, equally distant from vanity or presumption, though by no means incompatible with a lofty consciousness of our own dignity. Modesty in the latter signification of the term, is that soberness of mind which teaches a man not to think more highly of himself than he ought to think, and should be distinguished from humility, because humility is a kind of self-abasement. A modest man often conceives a great plan, and tenaciously adheres to it, conscious of his own strength, till success gives it a sanction that determines its character. Milton was not arrogant when he suffered a suggestion of judgment to escape him that proved a prophesy; nor was General Washington when he accepted of the command of the American forces. The latter has always been characterized as a modest man; but had he been merely humble, he would probably have shrunk back irresolute, afraid of trusting to himself the direction of an enterprise on which so much depended. A modest man is steady, an humble man timid, and a vain one presumptuous; this is the judgment, which the observation of many characters, has led me to form. Jesus Christ was modest, Moses was humble, and Peter vain. Thus discriminating modesty from humility in one case, I do not mean to confound it with bashfulness in the other. Bashfulness, in fact, is so distinct from modesty, that the most bashful lass, or raw country lout, often becomes the most impudent; for their bashfulness being merely the instinctive timidity of ignorance, custom soon changes it into assurance.* (*Footnote. "Such is the country-maiden's fright, When first a red-coat is in sight; Behind the door she hides her face, Next time at distance eyes the lace: She now can all his terrors stand, Nor from his squeeze withdraws her hand, She plays familiar in his arms, And every soldier hath his charms; >From tent to tent she spreads her flame; For custom conquers fear and shame.") The shameless behaviour of the prostitutes who infest the streets of London, raising alternate emotions of pity and disgust, may serve to illustrate this remark. They trample on virgin bashfulness with a sort of bravado, and glorying in their shame, become more audaciously lewd than men, however depraved, to whom the sexual quality has not been gratuitously granted, ever appear to be. But these poor ignorant wretches never had any modesty to lose, when they consigned themselves to infamy; for modesty is a virtue not a quality. No, they were only bashful, shame-faced innocents; and losing their innocence, their shame-facedness was rudely brushed off; a virtue would have left some vestiges in the mind, had it been sacrificed to passion, to make us respect the grand ruin. Purity of mind, or that genuine delicacy, which is the only virtuous support of chastity, is near a-kin to that refinement of humanity, which never resides in any but cultivated minds. It is something nobler than innocence; it is the delicacy of reflection, and not the coyness of ignorance. The reserve of reason, which like habitual cleanliness, is seldom seen in any great degree, unless the soul is active, may easily be distinguished from rustic shyness or wanton skittishness; and so far from being incompatible with knowledge, it is its fairest fruit. What a gross idea of modesty had the writer of the following remark! "The lady who asked the question whether women may be instructed in the modern system of botany, consistently with female delicacy?" was accused of ridiculous prudery: nevertheless, if she had proposed the question to me, I should certainly have answered--They cannot." Thus is the fair book of knowledge to be shut with an everlasting seal! On reading similar passages I have reverentially lifted up my eyes and heart to Him who liveth for ever and ever, and said, O my Father, hast Thou by the very constitution of her nature forbid Thy child to seek Thee in the fair forms of truth? And, can her soul be sullied by the knowledge that awfully calls her to Thee? I have then philosophically pursued these reflections till I inferred, that those women who have most improved their reason must have the most modesty --though a dignified sedateness of deportment may have succeeded the playful, bewitching bashfulness of youth.* (*Footnote. Modesty, is the graceful calm virtue of maturity; bashfulness, the charm of vivacious youth.) And thus have I argued. To render chastity the virtue from which unsophisticated modesty will naturally flow, the attention should be called away from employments, which only exercise the sensibility; and the heart made to beat time to humanity, rather than to throb with love. The woman who has dedicated a considerable portion of her time to pursuits purely intellectual, and whose affections have been exercised by humane plans of usefulness, must have more purity of mind, as a natural consequence, than the ignorant beings whose time and thoughts have been occupied by gay pleasures or schemes to conquer hearts. The regulation of the behaviour is not modesty, though those who study rules of decorum, are, in general termed modest women. Make the heart clean, let it expand and feel for all that is human, instead of being narrowed by selfish passions; and let the mind frequently contemplate subjects that exercise the understanding, without heating the imagination, and artless modesty will give the finishing touches to the picture. She who can discern the dawn of immortality, in the streaks that shoot athwart the misty night of ignorance, promising a clearer day, will respect, as a sacred temple, the body that enshrines such an improvable soul. True love, likewise, spreads this kind of mysterious sanctity round the beloved object, making the lover most modest when in her presence. So reserved is affection, that, receiving or returning personal endearments, it wishes, not only to shun the human eye, as a kind of profanation; but to diffuse an encircling cloudy obscurity to shut out even the saucy sparkling sunbeams. Yet, that affection does not deserve the epithet of chaste which does not receive a sublime gloom of tender melancholy, that allows the mind for a moment to stand still and enjoy the present satisfaction, when a consciousness of the Divine presence is felt--for this must ever be the food of joy! As I have always been fond of tracing to its source in nature any prevailing custom, I have frequently thought that it was a sentiment of affection for whatever had touched the person of an absent or lost friend, which gave birth to that respect for relics, so much abused by selfish priests. Devotion, or love, may be allowed to hallow the garments as well as the person; for the lover must want fancy, who has not a sort of sacred respect for the glove or slipper of his mistress. He could not confound them with vulgar things of the same kind. This fine sentiment, perhaps, would not bear to be analyzed by the experimental philosopher--but of such stuff is human rapture made up!-- A shadowy phantom glides before us, obscuring every other object; yet when the soft cloud is grasped, the form melts into common air, leaving a solitary void, or sweet perfume, stolen from the violet, that memory long holds dear. But, I have tripped unawares on fairy ground, feeling the balmy gale of spring stealing on me, though November frowns. As a sex, women are more chaste than men, and as modesty is the effect of chastity, they may deserve to have this virtue ascribed to them in rather an appropriated sense; yet, I must be allowed to add an hesitating if:-- for I doubt, whether chastity will produce modesty, though it may propriety of conduct, when it is merely a respect for the opinion of the world, and when coquetry and the lovelorn tales of novelists employ the thoughts. Nay, from experience, and reason, I should be lead to expect to meet with more modesty amongst men than women, simply because men exercise their understandings more than women. But, with respect to propriety of behaviour, excepting one class of females, women have evidently the advantage. What can be more disgusting than that impudent dross of gallantry, thought so manly, which makes many men stare insultingly at every female they meet? Is this respect for the sex? This loose behaviour shows such habitual depravity, such weakness of mind, that it is vain to expect much public or private virtue, till both men and women grow more modest--till men, curbing a sensual fondness for the sex, or an affectation of manly assurance, more properly speaking, impudence, treat each other with respect--unless appetite or passion gives the tone, peculiar to it, to their behaviour. I mean even personal respect--the modest respect of humanity, and fellow-feeling; not the libidinous mockery of gallantry, nor the insolent condescension of protectorship. To carry the observation still further, modesty must heartily disclaim, and refuse to dwell with that debauchery of mind, which leads a man coolly to bring forward, without a blush, indecent allusions, or obscene witticisms, in the presence of a fellow creature; women are now out of the question, for then it is brutality. Respect for man, as man is the foundation of every noble sentiment. How much more modest is the libertine who obeys the call of appetite or fancy, than the lewd joker who sets the table in a roar. This is one of the many instances in which the sexual distinction respecting modesty has proved fatal to virtue and happiness. It is, however, carried still further, and woman, weak woman! made by her education the slave of sensibility, is required, on the most trying occasions, to resist that sensibility. "Can any thing," says Knox, be more absurd than keeping women in a state of ignorance, and yet so vehemently to insist on their resisting temptation? Thus when virtue or honour make it proper to check a passion, the burden is thrown on the weaker shoulders, contrary to reason and true modesty, which, at least, should render the self-denial mutual, to say nothing of the generosity of bravery, supposed to be a manly virtue. In the same strain runs Rousseau's and Dr. Gregory's advice respecting modesty, strangely miscalled! for they both desire a wife to leave it in doubt, whether sensibility or weakness led her to her husband's arms. The woman is immodest who can let the shadow of such a doubt remain on her husband's mind a moment. But to state the subject in a different light. The want of modesty, which I principally deplore as subversive of morality, arises from the state of warfare so strenuously supported by voluptuous men as the very essence of modesty, though, in fact, its bane; because it is a refinement on sensual desire, that men fall into who have not sufficient virtue to relish the innocent pleasures of love. A man of delicacy carries his notions of modesty still further, for neither weakness nor sensibility will gratify him--he looks for affection. Again; men boast of their triumphs over women, what do they boast of? Truly the creature of sensibility was surprised by her sensibility into folly--into vice;* and the dreadful reckoning falls heavily on her own weak head, when reason wakes. For where art thou to find comfort, forlorn and disconsolate one? He who ought to have directed thy reason, and supported thy weakness, has betrayed thee! In a dream of passion thou consentedst to wander through flowery lawns, and heedlessly stepping over the precipice to which thy guide, instead of guarding, lured thee, thou startest from thy dream only to face a sneering, frowning world, and to find thyself alone in a waste, for he that triumphed in thy weakness is now pursuing new conquests; but for thee--there is no redemption on this side the grave! And what resource hast thou in an enervated mind to raise a sinking heart? (*Footnote. The poor moth fluttering round a candle, burns its wings.) But, if the sexes be really to live in a state of warfare, if nature has pointed it out, let men act nobly, or let pride whisper to them, that the victory is mean when they merely vanquish sensibility. The real conquest is that over affection not taken by surprise--when, like Heloisa, a woman gives up all the world, deliberately, for love. I do not now consider the wisdom or virtue of such a sacrifice, I only contend that it was a sacrifice to affection, and not merely to sensibility, though she had her share. And I must be allowed to call her a modest woman, before I dismiss this part of the subject, by saying, that till men are more chaste, women will be immodest. Where, indeed, could modest women find husbands from whom they would not continually turn with disgust? Modesty must be equally cultivated by both sexes, or it will ever remain a sickly hot-house plant, whilst the affectation of it, the fig leaf borrowed by wantonness, may give a zest to voluptuous enjoyments.) Men will probably still insist that woman ought to have more modesty than man; but it is not dispassionate reasoners who will most earnestly oppose my opinion. No, they are the men of fancy, the favourites of the sex, who outwardly respect, and inwardly despise the weak creatures whom they thus sport with. They cannot submit to resign the highest sensual gratification, nor even to relish the epicurism of virtue--self-denial. To take another view of the subject, confining my remarks to women. The ridiculous falsities which are told to children, from mistaken notions of modesty, tend very early to inflame their imaginations and set their little minds to work, respecting subjects, which nature never intended they should think of, till the body arrived at some degree of maturity; then the passions naturally begin to take place of the senses, as instruments to unfold the understanding, and form the moral character. In nurseries, and boarding schools, I fear, girls are first spoiled; particularly in the latter. A number of girls sleep in the same room, and wash together. And, though I should be sorry to contaminate an innocent creature's mind by instilling false delicacy, or those indecent prudish notions, which early cautions respecting the other sex naturally engender, I should be very anxious to prevent their acquiring indelicate, or immodest habits; and as many girls have learned very indelicate tricks, from ignorant servants, the mixing them thus indiscriminately together, is very improper. To say the truth, women are, in general, too familiar with each other, which leads to that gross degree of familiarity that so frequently renders the marriage state unhappy. Why in the name of decency are sisters, female intimates, or ladies and their waiting women, to be so grossly familiar as to forget the respect which one human creature owes to another? That squeamish delicacy which shrinks from the most disgusting offices when affection or humanity lead us to watch at a sick pillow, is despicable. But, why women in health should be more familiar with each other than men are, when they boast of their superiour delicacy, is a solecism in manners which I could never solve. In order to preserve health and beauty, I should earnestly recommend frequent ablutions, to dignify my advice that it may not offend the fastidious ear; and, by example, girls ought to be taught to wash and dress alone, without any distinction of rank; and if custom should make them require some little assistance, let them not require it till that part of the business is over which ought never to be done before a fellow-creature; because it is an insult to the majesty of human nature. Not on the score of modesty, but decency; for the care which some modest women take, making at the same time a display of that care, not to let their legs be seen, is as childish as immodest.* (*Footnote. I remember to have met with a sentence, in a book of education that made me smile. "It would be needless to caution you against putting your hand, by chance, under your neck-handkerchief; for a modest woman never did so!") I could proceed still further, till I animadverted on some still more indelicate customs, which men never fall into. Secrets are told--where silence ought to reign; and that regard to cleanliness, which some religious sects have, perhaps, carried too far, especially the Essenes, amongst the Jews, by making that an insult to God which is only an insult to humanity, is violated in a brutal manner. How can DELICATE women obtrude on notice that part of the animal economy, which is so very disgusting? And is it not very rational to conclude, that the women who have not been taught to respect the human nature of their own sex, in these particulars, will not long respect the mere difference of sex, in their husbands? After their maidenish bashfulness is once lost, I, in fact, have generally observed, that women fall into old habits; and treat their husbands as they did their sisters or female acquaintance. Besides, women from necessity, because their minds are not cultivated, have recourse very often, to what I familiarly term bodily wit; and their intimacies are of the same kind. In short, with respect to both mind and body, they are too intimate. That decent personal reserve, which is the foundation of dignity of character, must be kept up between women, or their minds will never gain strength or modesty. On this account also, I object to many females being shut up together in nurseries, schools, or convents. I cannot recollect without indignation, the jokes and hoiden tricks, which knots of young women indulged themselves in, when in my youth accident threw me, an awkward rustic, in their way. They were almost on a par with the double meanings, which shake the convivial table when the glass has circulated freely. But it is vain to attempt to keep the heart pure, unless the head is furnished with ideas, and set to work to compare them, in order, to acquire judgment, by generalizing simple ones; and modesty by making the understanding damp the sensibility. It may be thought that I lay too great a stress on personal reserve; but it is ever the hand-maid of modesty. So that were I to name the graces that ought to adorn beauty, I should instantly exclaim, cleanliness, neatness, and personal reserve. It is obvious, I suppose, that the reserve I mean, has nothing sexual in it, and that I think it EQUALLY necessary in both sexes. So necessary indeed, is that reserve and cleanliness which indolent women too often neglect, that I will venture to affirm, that when two or three women live in the same house, the one will be most respected by the male part of the family, who reside with them, leaving love entirely out of the question, who pays this kind of habitual respect to her person. When domestic friends meet in a morning, there will naturally prevail an affectionate seriousness, especially, if each look forward to the discharge of daily duties; and it may be reckoned fanciful, but this sentiment has frequently risen spontaneously in my mind. I have been pleased after breathing the sweet bracing morning air, to see the same kind of freshness in the countenances I particularly loved; I was glad to see them braced, as it were, for the day, and ready to run their course with the sun. The greetings of affection in the morning are by these means more respectful, than the familiar tenderness which frequently prolongs the evening talk. Nay, I have often felt hurt, not to say disgusted, when a friend has appeared, whom I parted with full dressed the evening before, with her clothes huddled on, because she chose to indulge herself in bed till the last moment. Domestic affection can only be kept alive by these neglected attentions; yet if men and women took half as much pains to dress habitually neat, as they do to ornament, or rather to disfigure their persons, much would be done towards the attainment of purity of mind. But women only dress to gratify men of gallantry; for the lover is always best pleased with the simple garb that sits close to the shape. There is an impertinence in ornaments that rebuffs affection; because love always clings round the idea of home. As a sex, women are habitually indolent; and every thing tends to make them so. I do not forget the starts of activity which sensibility produces; but as these flights of feeling only increase the evil, they are not to be confounded with the slow, orderly walk of reason. So great, in reality, is their mental and bodily indolence, that till their body be strengthened and their understanding enlarged by active exertions, there is little reason to expect that modesty will take place of bashfulness. They may find it prudent to assume its semblance; but the fair veil will only be worn on gala days. Perhaps there is not a virtue that mixes so kindly with every other as modesty. It is the pale moon-beam that renders more interesting every virtue it softens, giving mild grandeur to the contracted horizon. Nothing can be more beautiful than the poetical fiction, which makes Diana with her silver crescent, the goddess of chastity. I have sometimes thought, that wandering with sedate step in some lonely recess, a modest dame of antiquity must have felt a glow of conscious dignity, when, after contemplating the soft shadowy landscape, she has invited with placid fervour the mild reflection of her sister's beams to turn to her chaste bosom. A Christian has still nobler motives to incite her to preserve her chastity and acquire modesty, for her body has been called the Temple of the living God; of that God who requires more than modesty of mien. His eye searcheth the heart; and let her remember, that if she hopeth to find favour in the sight of purity itself, her chastity must be founded on modesty, and not on worldly prudence; or verily a good reputation will be her only reward; for that awful intercourse, that sacred communion, which virtue establishes between man and his Maker, must give rise to the wish of being pure as he is pure! After the foregoing remarks, it is almost superfluous to add, that I consider all those feminine airs of maturity, which succeed bashfulness, to which truth is sacrificed, to secure the heart of a husband, or rather to force him to be still a lover when nature would, had she not been interrupted in her operations, have made love give place to friendship, as immodest. The tenderness which a man will feel for the mother of his children is an excellent substitute for the ardour of unsatisfied passion; but to prolong that ardour it is indelicate, not to say immodest, for women to feign an unnatural coldness of constitution. Women as well as men ought to have the common appetites and passions of their nature, they are only brutal when unchecked by reason: but the obligation to check them is the duty of mankind, not a sexual duty. Nature, in these respects, may safely be left to herself; let women only acquire knowledge and humanity, and love will teach them modesty. There is no need of falsehoods, disgusting as futile, for studied rules of behaviour only impose on shallow observers; a man of sense soon sees through, and despises the affectation. The behaviour of young people, to each other, as men and women, is the last thing that should be thought of in education. In fact, behaviour in most circumstances is now so much thought of, that simplicity of character is rarely to be seen; yet, if men were only anxious to cultivate each virtue, and let it take root firmly in the mind, the grace resulting from it, its natural exteriour mark, would soon strip affectation of its flaunting plumes; because, fallacious as unstable, is the conduct that is not founded upon truth! (Footnote. The behaviour of many newly married women has often disgusted me. They seem anxious never to let their husbands forget the privilege of marriage, and to find no pleasure in his society unless he is acting the lover. Short, indeed, must be the reign of love, when the flame is thus constantly blown up, without its receiving any solid fuel.) Wollt ihr, o meine Schwestern, wirklich Bescheidenheit besitzen, müsst ihr bedenken, dass der Besitz von Tugend, jeglicher Art, unvereinbar ist mit Ignoranz und Eitelkeit! Ihr müsst jene Nüchternheit des Geistes erlangen, die allein durch die Ausübung von Pflichten und die Suche nach Wissen inspiriert wird, sonst werdet ihr weiterhin in einer unsicheren abhängigen Situation verbleiben und nur geliebt werden, solange ihr schön seid! Der gesenkte Blick, die rosige Röte, die zurückhaltende Anmut, all dies ist zur richtigen Zeit angemessen; doch Bescheidenheit, als Kind der Vernunft, kann nicht lange mit Empfindsamkeit existieren, die nicht durch Nachdenken gebändigt wird. Außerdem, wenn Liebe, selbst unschuldige Liebe, die einzige Beschäftigung eures Lebens ist, werden eure Herzen zu weich sein, um Bescheidenheit jenen ruhigen Rückzugsort zu bieten, wo sie gerne in enger Verbindung mit der Menschlichkeit verweilt. Können Sie eine geeignete Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Die unzureichende Bildung, die Frauen erhalten, verbunden mit ihrem untergeordneten Status in der Gesellschaft, macht sie mangelhaft. Frühe Assoziationen und Ideen haben tendenziell eine bestimmende Wirkung auf ihren Charakter. Das Erlangen von Wissen bietet auf der positiven Seite einen großen Vorteil. Die Verknüpfung von Ideen erfolgt entweder gewohnheitsmäßig oder augenblicklich, wobei die letztere Art "eher von der ursprünglichen Temperatur des Geistes abhängt als vom Willen". Ideen werden aufgenommen, bis eine Umstände sie mit Kraft in den Geist schießen lassen. Über diese schnellen Assoziationen haben wir wenig Macht und Vernunft kann wenig Einfluss auf sie nehmen. Menschen neigen dazu, diese poetischen Gefühle und Flüge der Fantasie zu bevorzugen, indem sie vor vernunftbegnügten Objekten fliehen, bis ein Autor ihnen die Wahrheit zeigt und sie von seinen Augen profitieren. Somit liefert Bildung "einem Mann des Genies nur Wissen, um seinen Assoziationen Vielfalt und Kontrast zu verleihen; aber es gibt eine gewohnheitsmäßige Verknüpfung von Ideen, die 'mit unserem Wachstum' wächst und einen großen Einfluss auf den moralischen Charakter der Menschheit hat; und durch die dem Geist eine Wende gegeben wird, die in der Regel ein Leben lang anhält." Weibliche Personen neigen eher dazu, gewohnheitsmäßig an erste Eindrücke gefesselt zu sein als männliche Personen, da sie sich nicht so sehr in größeren Kreisen bewegen und sich nicht mit bedeutenden Angelegenheiten beschäftigen wie männliche Personen. Alles, was sie sehen oder hören, prägt ihre Assoziationen und ruft Emotionen hervor, aber diese sind sexueller Natur und sie werden geschwächt und empfindlich. Frauen werden normalerweise wegen ihres Auswendiglernens verspottet, aber wie können sie dafür verantwortlich gemacht werden, fragt sie, wenn ihnen nicht erlaubt wird, ihr Handeln von der Vernunft bestimmen zu lassen und sie nur in auswendig gelernter Weise lernen können? Frauen finden es daher leicht, von Schürzenjägern angesprochen zu werden, die vernünftige und verständige Männer meiden, weil ihre Gefühle nicht so sehr angesprochen werden und sie "wenige gemeinsame Empfindungen" haben. Es ist ein wenig absurd zu erwarten, dass Frauen in Liebesangelegenheiten vernünftiger sind als Männer, wenn Männer selbst vom Verstand zur Schönheit übergehen, wenn sie nach einer Partnerin suchen. Liebe und willkürliche Leidenschaft herrschen mit eigener Autorität und sind nicht vernünftig; "gewöhnliche Leidenschaften werden von gewöhnlichen Eigenschaften entfacht." Diese oberflächlichen Fähigkeiten geben dem Schürzenjäger den Vorteil bei Frauen, denn sie werden "durch den gesamten Verlauf ihres Lebens fröhlich und albern gemacht" und meiden die Weisheit. Frauen verstehen nicht, dass wahre Schönheit aus dem Geist kommt, aber das liegt nicht nur an ihnen, da sie darauf konditioniert sind, so zu denken. Der Schürzenjäger wird immer einen Vorteil haben, solange sich die Umstände nicht ändern. Wenn die von Wollstonecraft gewünschte Revolution erfolgen würde, würde die Vernunft die Emotionen ersetzen und die Menschen würden "schnell lernen, die Sensibilität zu verachten, die bei Frauen geweckt und abgenutzt worden war, deren Handelsware die Laster und Verführungen waren." Bei der Wahl eines Ehemannes wären sie nicht von den Qualitäten eines Liebhabers fehlgeleitet. Leidenschaft könnte in Freundschaft übergehen, und sie würden glücklich sein. Insgesamt ist es unmöglich, einer Frau die Begierde nach einem Schürzenjäger vorzuwerfen, denn "können sie für ihr Handeln nach so konsequent inokulierten Prinzipien verurteilt werden? Sie wollen einen Liebhaber und Beschützer; und da ist er, kniend vor ihnen – Mut erliegend vor Schönheit!" Es kann nur Elend aus dieser Situation resultieren, und nur Vernunft kann Unabhängigkeit und Freiheit bringen. Im nächsten Kapitel wendet sich Wollstonecraft einer Diskussion über Bescheidenheit zu, die "das heilige Kind von Sensibilität und Vernunft" ist! Es ist notwendig, zwischen der Geistreinheit, die die Wirkung von Keuschheit ist, und der Einfachheit des Charakters zu unterscheiden, die eine Person dazu führt, sich eine gerechte Meinung von sich selbst zu bilden, die fern von Eitelkeit und Anmaßung ist. Bescheidenheit ist die Nüchternheit des Geistes, die einen Mann lehrt, nicht höher von sich selbst zu denken, als er sollte, und kann von Demut, die eine Art von Selbsterniedrigung ist, unterschieden werden. Bescheidene Männer sind beständig, wo demütige Männer ängstlich sind und eingebildete Männer anmaßend sind. Bescheidenheit ist eine Tugend und ein Mittel, keine Qualität. Die Geistreinheit, die Keuschheit unterstützt, ist dem Verfeinertsein des Menschseins am nächsten, was nur in den am meisten gebildeten Geistern geschehen kann. Durch ihre Überlegungen zu diesem Thema ist Wollstonecraft zu dem Schluss gekommen, dass Frauen, die ihren Geist am meisten verbessert haben, auch die bescheidensten sind. Um Bescheidenheit aus der Keuschheit hervorzubringen, ist es notwendig, dass Frauen Beschäftigungen vermeiden, die nur die Sensibilität trainieren. Frauen, die intellektuelle Aktivitäten verfolgen, haben eine größere Geistreinheit als diejenigen, die mit fröhlichem Vergnügen beschäftigt sind. Obwohl Frauen oft keusch sind, ist es fraglich, ob Keuschheit tatsächlich Bescheidenheit hervorbringt. Frauen haben den Vorteil, sich vernünftig zu verhalten, während Männer oft Unverschämtheit, plumpen Galanterismus und Aufdringlichkeit zeigen. Es ergibt keinen Sinn, dass Frauen tugendhafter werden können, wenn sowohl Männer als auch Frauen nicht danach streben, sich bescheidener zu verhalten. Es ist bedauerlich, dass die Bürde beim Unterdrücken einer Leidenschaft oder beim Verteidigen der Ehre immer auf den Schultern der Frau lastet; das steht im Widerspruch zur Vernunft und wahrer Bescheidenheit, denn Frauen sind schwächer und Tapferkeit sollte eine männliche Tugend sein. Männer prahlen mit ihren Siegen über Frauen, aber das ist unfair, denn Männer sollen die Lenker des Verstandes einer Frau und ihre Beschützer sein. Die Lieblingsmänner geben vor, Frauen zu respektieren, verachten sie aber innerlich als "die schwachen Wesen, mit denen sie verkehren". Wieder zurück zur Erziehung der Frauen, weist Wollstonecraft erneut auf die falschen Vorstellungen hin, die Frauen von ihrer Kindheit an eingeimpft werden. Ihre Leidenschaften nehmen den Platz der Sinne ein und fangen an, ihren Charakter zu formen. In Kinderstuben und Internaten sind Frauen eng miteinander verbunden; das ist schädlich, weil sie zu vertraut miteinander sind, was ihre späteren Ehezustände unglücklich machen kann. Mädchen sollten unabhängig von ihrem Rang alleine waschen und sich kleiden. Die ekligen Bräuche, an die sie gewöhnt sind, sollten umgestürzt werden, und "diese anständige persönliche Zurückhaltung, die die Grundlage der Würde des Charakters ist, muss zwischen Frau und Frau aufrechterhalten werden, damit ihre Geister Stärke oder Bescheidenheit gewinnen können." In Bezug auf das Ankleiden kleiden sich Frauen tendenziell nur für die Herren der Galanterie. Ähnlich wie Wollstonecraft die Abschottung von Frauen in Klöstern und Schulen ablehnt. Ihre dummen Tricks und Scherze sind unangemessen. Wenn sie die Grazien benennen würde, die die Schönheit schmücken, würde sie "Sauberkeit, Ordentlichkeit und persönliche Zurückhaltung" wählen. Frauen sind auch gewohnheitsmäßig träge. Solange sie ihren Körper und ihr Verständnis nicht durch aktive Anstrengungen stärken können, wird Bescheidenheit niemals die Schüchternheit ersetzen. Bescheidenheit verträgt sich gut mit allen anderen Tugenden und ist wünschenswert. In Bezug auf die Ehe ist es unangemessen, die Leidenschaften und Begeisterung des frühen Werbens zu verlängern; vielmehr sollten gemeinsame Bedürfnisse und Leidenschaft durch die Vernunft bei Männern und Frauen kontrolliert werden. Diese Verpflichtung zur Kontrolle liegt in der Verantwortung der Menschheit, nicht in einer sexuellen Verpflichtung. Insgesamt kann die Natur in diesen Dingen sich selbst überlassen werden; Frauen sollten nur Wissen und Menschlichkeit erwerben, und Liebe wird ihnen Bescheidenheit lehren.

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: SECOND PART Dedicated to Wilhelm Gundert, my cousin in Japan KAMALA Siddhartha learned something new on every step of his path, for the world was transformed, and his heart was enchanted. He saw the sun rising over the mountains with their forests and setting over the distant beach with its palm-trees. At night, he saw the stars in the sky in their fixed positions and the crescent of the moon floating like a boat in the blue. He saw trees, stars, animals, clouds, rainbows, rocks, herbs, flowers, stream and river, the glistening dew in the bushes in the morning, distant high mountains which were blue and pale, birds sang and bees, wind silverishly blew through the rice-field. All of this, a thousand-fold and colourful, had always been there, always the sun and the moon had shone, always rivers had roared and bees had buzzed, but in former times all of this had been nothing more to Siddhartha than a fleeting, deceptive veil before his eyes, looked upon in distrust, destined to be penetrated and destroyed by thought, since it was not the essential existence, since this essence lay beyond, on the other side of, the visible. But now, his liberated eyes stayed on this side, he saw and became aware of the visible, sought to be at home in this world, did not search for the true essence, did not aim at a world beyond. Beautiful was this world, looking at it thus, without searching, thus simply, thus childlike. Beautiful were the moon and the stars, beautiful was the stream and the banks, the forest and the rocks, the goat and the gold-beetle, the flower and the butterfly. Beautiful and lovely it was, thus to walk through the world, thus childlike, thus awoken, thus open to what is near, thus without distrust. Differently the sun burnt the head, differently the shade of the forest cooled him down, differently the stream and the cistern, the pumpkin and the banana tasted. Short were the days, short the nights, every hour sped swiftly away like a sail on the sea, and under the sail was a ship full of treasures, full of joy. Siddhartha saw a group of apes moving through the high canopy of the forest, high in the branches, and heard their savage, greedy song. Siddhartha saw a male sheep following a female one and mating with her. In a lake of reeds, he saw the pike hungrily hunting for its dinner; propelling themselves away from it, in fear, wiggling and sparkling, the young fish jumped in droves out of the water; the scent of strength and passion came forcefully out of the hasty eddies of the water, which the pike stirred up, impetuously hunting. All of this had always existed, and he had not seen it; he had not been with it. Now he was with it, he was part of it. Light and shadow ran through his eyes, stars and moon ran through his heart. On the way, Siddhartha also remembered everything he had experienced in the Garden Jetavana, the teaching he had heard there, the divine Buddha, the farewell from Govinda, the conversation with the exalted one. Again he remembered his own words, he had spoken to the exalted one, every word, and with astonishment he became aware of the fact that there he had said things which he had not really known yet at this time. What he had said to Gotama: his, the Buddha's, treasure and secret was not the teachings, but the unexpressable and not teachable, which he had experienced in the hour of his enlightenment--it was nothing but this very thing which he had now gone to experience, what he now began to experience. Now, he had to experience his self. It is true that he had already known for a long time that his self was Atman, in its essence bearing the same eternal characteristics as Brahman. But never, he had really found this self, because he had wanted to capture it in the net of thought. With the body definitely not being the self, and not the spectacle of the senses, so it also was not the thought, not the rational mind, not the learned wisdom, not the learned ability to draw conclusions and to develop previous thoughts in to new ones. No, this world of thought was also still on this side, and nothing could be achieved by killing the random self of the senses, if the random self of thoughts and learned knowledge was fattened on the other hand. Both, the thoughts as well as the senses, were pretty things, the ultimate meaning was hidden behind both of them, both had to be listened to, both had to be played with, both neither had to be scorned nor overestimated, from both the secret voices of the innermost truth had to be attentively perceived. He wanted to strive for nothing, except for what the voice commanded him to strive for, dwell on nothing, except where the voice would advise him to do so. Why had Gotama, at that time, in the hour of all hours, sat down under the bo-tree, where the enlightenment hit him? He had heard a voice, a voice in his own heart, which had commanded him to seek rest under this tree, and he had neither preferred self-castigation, offerings, ablutions, nor prayer, neither food nor drink, neither sleep nor dream, he had obeyed the voice. To obey like this, not to an external command, only to the voice, to be ready like this, this was good, this was necessary, nothing else was necessary. In the night when he slept in the straw hut of a ferryman by the river, Siddhartha had a dream: Govinda was standing in front of him, dressed in the yellow robe of an ascetic. Sad was how Govinda looked like, sadly he asked: Why have you forsaken me? At this, he embraced Govinda, wrapped his arms around him, and as he was pulling him close to his chest and kissed him, it was not Govinda any more, but a woman, and a full breast popped out of the woman's dress, at which Siddhartha lay and drank, sweetly and strongly tasted the milk from this breast. It tasted of woman and man, of sun and forest, of animal and flower, of every fruit, of every joyful desire. It intoxicated him and rendered him unconscious.--When Siddhartha woke up, the pale river shimmered through the door of the hut, and in the forest, a dark call of an owl resounded deeply and pleasantly. When the day began, Siddhartha asked his host, the ferryman, to get him across the river. The ferryman got him across the river on his bamboo-raft, the wide water shimmered reddishly in the light of the morning. "This is a beautiful river," he said to his companion. "Yes," said the ferryman, "a very beautiful river, I love it more than anything. Often I have listened to it, often I have looked into its eyes, and always I have learned from it. Much can be learned from a river." "I thank you, my benefactor," spoke Siddhartha, disembarking on the other side of the river. "I have no gift I could give you for your hospitality, my dear, and also no payment for your work. I am a man without a home, a son of a Brahman and a Samana." "I did see it," spoke the ferryman, "and I haven't expected any payment from you and no gift which would be the custom for guests to bear. You will give me the gift another time." "Do you think so?" asked Siddhartha amusedly. "Surely. This too, I have learned from the river: everything is coming back! You too, Samana, will come back. Now farewell! Let your friendship be my reward. Commemorate me, when you'll make offerings to the gods." Smiling, they parted. Smiling, Siddhartha was happy about the friendship and the kindness of the ferryman. "He is like Govinda," he thought with a smile, "all I meet on my path are like Govinda. All are thankful, though they are the ones who would have a right to receive thanks. All are submissive, all would like to be friends, like to obey, think little. Like children are all people." At about noon, he came through a village. In front of the mud cottages, children were rolling about in the street, were playing with pumpkin-seeds and sea-shells, screamed and wrestled, but they all timidly fled from the unknown Samana. In the end of the village, the path led through a stream, and by the side of the stream, a young woman was kneeling and washing clothes. When Siddhartha greeted her, she lifted her head and looked up to him with a smile, so that he saw the white in her eyes glistening. He called out a blessing to her, as it is the custom among travellers, and asked how far he still had to go to reach the large city. Then she got up and came to him, beautifully her wet mouth was shimmering in her young face. She exchanged humorous banter with him, asked whether he had eaten already, and whether it was true that the Samanas slept alone in the forest at night and were not allowed to have any women with them. While talking, she put her left foot on his right one and made a movement as a woman does who would want to initiate that kind of sexual pleasure with a man, which the textbooks call "climbing a tree". Siddhartha felt his blood heating up, and since in this moment he had to think of his dream again, he bend slightly down to the woman and kissed with his lips the brown nipple of her breast. Looking up, he saw her face smiling full of lust and her eyes, with contracted pupils, begging with desire. Siddhartha also felt desire and felt the source of his sexuality moving; but since he had never touched a woman before, he hesitated for a moment, while his hands were already prepared to reach out for her. And in this moment he heard, shuddering with awe, the voice if his innermost self, and this voice said No. Then, all charms disappeared from the young woman's smiling face, he no longer saw anything else but the damp glance of a female animal in heat. Politely, he petted her cheek, turned away from her and disappeared away from the disappointed woman with light steps into the bamboo-wood. On this day, he reached the large city before the evening, and was happy, for he felt the need to be among people. For a long time, he had lived in the forests, and the straw hut of the ferryman, in which he had slept that night, had been the first roof for a long time he has had over his head. Before the city, in a beautifully fenced grove, the traveller came across a small group of servants, both male and female, carrying baskets. In their midst, carried by four servants in an ornamental sedan-chair, sat a woman, the mistress, on red pillows under a colourful canopy. Siddhartha stopped at the entrance to the pleasure-garden and watched the parade, saw the servants, the maids, the baskets, saw the sedan-chair and saw the lady in it. Under black hair, which made to tower high on her head, he saw a very fair, very delicate, very smart face, a brightly red mouth, like a freshly cracked fig, eyebrows which were well tended and painted in a high arch, smart and watchful dark eyes, a clear, tall neck rising from a green and golden garment, resting fair hands, long and thin, with wide golden bracelets over the wrists. Siddhartha saw how beautiful she was, and his heart rejoiced. He bowed deeply, when the sedan-chair came closer, and straightening up again, he looked at the fair, charming face, read for a moment in the smart eyes with the high arcs above, breathed in a slight fragrant, he did not know. With a smile, the beautiful women nodded for a moment and disappeared into the grove, and then the servant as well. Thus I am entering this city, Siddhartha thought, with a charming omen. He instantly felt drawn into the grove, but he thought about it, and only now he became aware of how the servants and maids had looked at him at the entrance, how despicable, how distrustful, how rejecting. I am still a Samana, he thought, I am still an ascetic and beggar. I must not remain like this, I will not be able to enter the grove like this. And he laughed. The next person who came along this path he asked about the grove and for the name of the woman, and was told that this was the grove of Kamala, the famous courtesan, and that, aside from the grove, she owned a house in the city. Then, he entered the city. Now he had a goal. Pursuing his goal, he allowed the city to suck him in, drifted through the flow of the streets, stood still on the squares, rested on the stairs of stone by the river. When the evening came, he made friends with barber's assistant, whom he had seen working in the shade of an arch in a building, whom he found again praying in a temple of Vishnu, whom he told about stories of Vishnu and the Lakshmi. Among the boats by the river, he slept this night, and early in the morning, before the first customers came into his shop, he had the barber's assistant shave his beard and cut his hair, comb his hair and anoint it with fine oil. Then he went to take his bath in the river. When late in the afternoon, beautiful Kamala approached her grove in her sedan-chair, Siddhartha was standing at the entrance, made a bow and received the courtesan's greeting. But that servant who walked at the very end of her train he motioned to him and asked him to inform his mistress that a young Brahman would wish to talk to her. After a while, the servant returned, asked him, who had been waiting, to follow him conducted him, who was following him, without a word into a pavilion, where Kamala was lying on a couch, and left him alone with her. "Weren't you already standing out there yesterday, greeting me?" asked Kamala. "It's true that I've already seen and greeted you yesterday." "But didn't you yesterday wear a beard, and long hair, and dust in your hair?" "You have observed well, you have seen everything. You have seen Siddhartha, the son of a Brahman, who has left his home to become a Samana, and who has been a Samana for three years. But now, I have left that path and came into this city, and the first one I met, even before I had entered the city, was you. To say this, I have come to you, oh Kamala! You are the first woman whom Siddhartha is not addressing with his eyes turned to the ground. Never again I want to turn my eyes to the ground, when I'm coming across a beautiful woman." Kamala smiled and played with her fan of peacocks' feathers. And asked: "And only to tell me this, Siddhartha has come to me?" "To tell you this and to thank you for being so beautiful. And if it doesn't displease you, Kamala, I would like to ask you to be my friend and teacher, for I know nothing yet of that art which you have mastered in the highest degree." At this, Kamala laughed aloud. "Never before this has happened to me, my friend, that a Samana from the forest came to me and wanted to learn from me! Never before this has happened to me, that a Samana came to me with long hair and an old, torn loin-cloth! Many young men come to me, and there are also sons of Brahmans among them, but they come in beautiful clothes, they come in fine shoes, they have perfume in their hair and money in their pouches. This is, oh Samana, how the young men are like who come to me." Quoth Siddhartha: "Already I am starting to learn from you. Even yesterday, I was already learning. I have already taken off my beard, have combed the hair, have oil in my hair. There is little which is still missing in me, oh excellent one: fine clothes, fine shoes, money in my pouch. You shall know, Siddhartha has set harder goals for himself than such trifles, and he has reached them. How shouldn't I reach that goal, which I have set for myself yesterday: to be your friend and to learn the joys of love from you! You'll see that I'll learn quickly, Kamala, I have already learned harder things than what you're supposed to teach me. And now let's get to it: You aren't satisfied with Siddhartha as he is, with oil in his hair, but without clothes, without shoes, without money?" Laughing, Kamala exclaimed: "No, my dear, he doesn't satisfy me yet. Clothes are what he must have, pretty clothes, and shoes, pretty shoes, and lots of money in his pouch, and gifts for Kamala. Do you know it now, Samana from the forest? Did you mark my words?" "Yes, I have marked your words," Siddhartha exclaimed. "How should I not mark words which are coming from such a mouth! Your mouth is like a freshly cracked fig, Kamala. My mouth is red and fresh as well, it will be a suitable match for yours, you'll see.--But tell me, beautiful Kamala, aren't you at all afraid of the Samana from the forest, who has come to learn how to make love?" "Whatever for should I be afraid of a Samana, a stupid Samana from the forest, who is coming from the jackals and doesn't even know yet what women are?" "Oh, he's strong, the Samana, and he isn't afraid of anything. He could force you, beautiful girl. He could kidnap you. He could hurt you." "No, Samana, I am not afraid of this. Did any Samana or Brahman ever fear, someone might come and grab him and steal his learning, and his religious devotion, and his depth of thought? No, for they are his very own, and he would only give away from those whatever he is willing to give and to whomever he is willing to give. Like this it is, precisely like this it is also with Kamala and with the pleasures of love. Beautiful and red is Kamala's mouth, but just try to kiss it against Kamala's will, and you will not obtain a single drop of sweetness from it, which knows how to give so many sweet things! You are learning easily, Siddhartha, thus you should also learn this: love can be obtained by begging, buying, receiving it as a gift, finding it in the street, but it cannot be stolen. In this, you have come up with the wrong path. No, it would be a pity, if a pretty young man like you would want to tackle it in such a wrong manner." Siddhartha bowed with a smile. "It would be a pity, Kamala, you are so right! It would be such a great pity. No, I shall not lose a single drop of sweetness from your mouth, nor you from mine! So it is settled: Siddhartha will return, once he'll have what he still lacks: clothes, shoes, money. But speak, lovely Kamala, couldn't you still give me one small advice?" "An advice? Why not? Who wouldn't like to give an advice to a poor, ignorant Samana, who is coming from the jackals of the forest?" "Dear Kamala, thus advise me where I should go to, that I'll find these three things most quickly?" "Friend, many would like to know this. You must do what you've learned and ask for money, clothes, and shoes in return. There is no other way for a poor man to obtain money. What might you be able to do?" "I can think. I can wait. I can fast." "Nothing else?" "Nothing. But yes, I can also write poetry. Would you like to give me a kiss for a poem?" "I would like to, if I'll like your poem. What would be its title?" Siddhartha spoke, after he had thought about it for a moment, these verses: Into her shady grove stepped the pretty Kamala, At the grove's entrance stood the brown Samana. Deeply, seeing the lotus's blossom, Bowed that man, and smiling Kamala thanked. More lovely, thought the young man, than offerings for gods, More lovely is offering to pretty Kamala. Kamala loudly clapped her hands, so that the golden bracelets clanged. "Beautiful are your verses, oh brown Samana, and truly, I'm losing nothing when I'm giving you a kiss for them." She beckoned him with her eyes, he tilted his head so that his face touched hers and placed his mouth on that mouth which was like a freshly cracked fig. For a long time, Kamala kissed him, and with a deep astonishment Siddhartha felt how she taught him, how wise she was, how she controlled him, rejected him, lured him, and how after this first one there was to be a long, a well ordered, well tested sequence of kisses, everyone different from the others, he was still to receive. Breathing deeply, he remained standing where he was, and was in this moment astonished like a child about the cornucopia of knowledge and things worth learning, which revealed itself before his eyes. "Very beautiful are your verses," exclaimed Kamala, "if I was rich, I would give you pieces of gold for them. But it will be difficult for you to earn thus much money with verses as you need. For you need a lot of money, if you want to be Kamala's friend." "The way you're able to kiss, Kamala!" stammered Siddhartha. "Yes, this I am able to do, therefore I do not lack clothes, shoes, bracelets, and all beautiful things. But what will become of you? Aren't you able to do anything else but thinking, fasting, making poetry?" "I also know the sacrificial songs," said Siddhartha, "but I do not want to sing them any more. I also know magic spells, but I do not want to speak them any more. I have read the scriptures--" "Stop," Kamala interrupted him. "You're able to read? And write?" "Certainly, I can do this. Many people can do this." "Most people can't. I also can't do it. It is very good that you're able to read and write, very good. You will also still find use for the magic spells." In this moment, a maid came running in and whispered a message into her mistress's ear. "There's a visitor for me," exclaimed Kamala. "Hurry and get yourself away, Siddhartha, nobody may see you in here, remember this! Tomorrow, I'll see you again." But to the maid she gave the order to give the pious Brahman white upper garments. Without fully understanding what was happening to him, Siddhartha found himself being dragged away by the maid, brought into a garden-house avoiding the direct path, being given upper garments as a gift, led into the bushes, and urgently admonished to get himself out of the grove as soon as possible without being seen. Contently, he did as he had been told. Being accustomed to the forest, he managed to get out of the grove and over the hedge without making a sound. Contently, he returned to the city, carrying the rolled up garments under his arm. At the inn, where travellers stay, he positioned himself by the door, without words he asked for food, without a word he accepted a piece of rice-cake. Perhaps as soon as tomorrow, he thought, I will ask no one for food any more. Suddenly, pride flared up in him. He was no Samana any more, it was no longer becoming to him to beg. He gave the rice-cake to a dog and remained without food. "Simple is the life which people lead in this world here," thought Siddhartha. "It presents no difficulties. Everything was difficult, toilsome, and ultimately hopeless, when I was still a Samana. Now, everything is easy, easy like that lessons in kissing, which Kamala is giving me. I need clothes and money, nothing else; this a small, near goals, they won't make a person lose any sleep." He had already discovered Kamala's house in the city long before, there he turned up the following day. "Things are working out well," she called out to him. "They are expecting you at Kamaswami's, he is the richest merchant of the city. If he'll like you, he'll accept you into his service. Be smart, brown Samana. I had others tell him about you. Be polite towards him, he is very powerful. But don't be too modest! I do not want you to become his servant, you shall become his equal, or else I won't be satisfied with you. Kamaswami is starting to get old and lazy. If he'll like you, he'll entrust you with a lot." Siddhartha thanked her and laughed, and when she found out that he had not eaten anything yesterday and today, she sent for bread and fruits and treated him to it. "You've been lucky," she said when they parted, "I'm opening one door after another for you. How come? Do you have a spell?" Siddhartha said: "Yesterday, I told you I knew how to think, to wait, and to fast, but you thought this was of no use. But it is useful for many things, Kamala, you'll see. You'll see that the stupid Samanas are learning and able to do many pretty things in the forest, which the likes of you aren't capable of. The day before yesterday, I was still a shaggy beggar, as soon as yesterday I have kissed Kamala, and soon I'll be a merchant and have money and all those things you insist upon." "Well yes," she admitted. "But where would you be without me? What would you be, if Kamala wasn't helping you?" "Dear Kamala," said Siddhartha and straightened up to his full height, "when I came to you into your grove, I did the first step. It was my resolution to learn love from this most beautiful woman. From that moment on when I had made this resolution, I also knew that I would carry it out. I knew that you would help me, at your first glance at the entrance of the grove I already knew it." "But what if I hadn't been willing?" "You were willing. Look, Kamala: When you throw a rock into the water, it will speed on the fastest course to the bottom of the water. This is how it is when Siddhartha has a goal, a resolution. Siddhartha does nothing, he waits, he thinks, he fasts, but he passes through the things of the world like a rock through water, without doing anything, without stirring; he is drawn, he lets himself fall. His goal attracts him, because he doesn't let anything enter his soul which might oppose the goal. This is what Siddhartha has learned among the Samanas. This is what fools call magic and of which they think it would be effected by means of the daemons. Nothing is effected by daemons, there are no daemons. Everyone can perform magic, everyone can reach his goals, if he is able to think, if he is able to wait, if he is able to fast." Kamala listened to him. She loved his voice, she loved the look from his eyes. "Perhaps it is so," she said quietly, "as you say, friend. But perhaps it is also like this: that Siddhartha is a handsome man, that his glance pleases the women, that therefore good fortune is coming towards him." With one kiss, Siddhartha bid his farewell. "I wish that it should be this way, my teacher; that my glance shall please you, that always good fortune shall come to me out of your direction!" Kannst du eine geeignete Zusammenfassung der oben stehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Kamala Siddhartha lernt bei jedem Schritt etwas Neues, die Welt scheint für ihn verwandelt und er ist davon begeistert. Er sieht die Schönheit von Sonne, Mond und Sternen in der Natur. Die Tiere, Bienen, Wolken, Unkraut, Blumen und der Tau auf den Büschen haben alle eine bereichernde Wirkung auf ihn. Die Welt ist wundervoll, wenn er sie auf kindlich einfache Weise betrachtet, ohne etwas zu suchen. Siddhartha hat gelernt, alles in der Natur zu erleben und zu genießen. Siddhartha erinnert sich an alles, was er im Garten von Jetavana erlebt hat; er erinnert sich an die Lehren von Gotama, seine Trennung von seinem Freund Govinda und alles, was er dem Buddha gesagt hat. Er weiß, was die religiösen Texte lehren, aber er hat es nicht geschafft, das Selbst in sich zu finden, weil er es in den Gedanken festhalten möchte. In der Nacht schläft Siddhartha in einer Strohhütte eines Fährmanns. Er träumt von Govinda im gelben Gewand des Asketen. Sein Freund fragt ihn traurig, warum er ihn verlassen hat. Als Siddhartha seine Arme um Govinda legt, verwandelt er sich in eine Frau mit voller Brust. Siddhartha kostet ihre süße Milch und findet sie berauschend. Als Siddhartha aufwacht, schimmert der blasse Fluss vor der Tür der Hütte vorbei. Als der Tag beginnt, bittet er seinen Gastgeber, den Fährmann, ihn über den Fluss zu bringen. Als er auf der anderen Seite des Flusses ankommt, geht er durch ein Dorf, in dem Kinder vor Lehmhütten spielen, schreien und miteinander ringen. Dann sieht er eine Frau, die Wäsche wäscht. Siddhartha betrachtet ihr lächelndes Gesicht und verspürt Sehnsucht nach Sex, obwohl er noch nie zuvor eine Frau berührt hat. Er streichelt sanft ihre Wange und verschwindet. Vor Abend erreicht Siddhartha den Stadtrand einer Stadt, wo er emsige Diener und Dienstmädchen sieht. Dann entdeckt er eine Frau, die auf einem verzierten Stuhl getragen wird. Er steht am Eingang des Hains und beobachtet den Zug. Die Frau ist sehr schön. Sie wirkt clever und aufmerksam. Er blickt auf ihr strahlendes Gesicht und atmet den Duft ihres Parfums ein. Sie nickt ihm zu, lächelt und verschwindet in dem Hain, gefolgt von ihren Bediensteten. Siddhartha findet heraus, dass sie die bekannte Kurtisane Kamala ist. Siddhartha versucht, sich selbst hübsch zu machen, indem er sich rasiert, sein Haar ölt und im Fluss badet. Als er Kamala am nächsten Tag auf sie zukommen sieht, verbeugt er sich und nimmt ihre Begrüßung an. Dann schickt er über ihren Diener eine Nachricht, dass er mit ihr sprechen möchte. Er stellt sich als der Sohn eines Brahmanen vor, der sein Zuhause verlassen hat, um ein Samana zu werden. Er sagt ihr, dass er gerne ihr Schüler sein möchte, denn er weiß nichts über die Kunst, von der sie die Meisterin ist. Er sagt, dass er ein idealer Schüler wäre. Sie lacht und sagt ihm, dass Begeisterung nicht genug sei; er müsse genug Reichtum haben, um ihr Geschenke kaufen zu können. Kamala fragt Siddhartha, was er tun könne. Er sagt, dass er Opferlieder, Beschwörungen und die Schriften kenne. Sie ist nicht beeindruckt und sagt Siddhartha, er solle gehen, denn sie habe einen Besucher; aber sie verspricht, ihn wiederzusehen. Am nächsten Tag erzählt Kamala Siddhartha, dass Kamaswami, der reichste Händler in der Stadt, einen Besuch von ihm erwartet. Wenn Siddhartha ihm gefallen kann, wird er in seinen Dienst aufgenommen und wird Kleidung und Schuhe erhalten. Er kann auch Geld verdienen, um ihr die Dinge zu kaufen, die sie sich wünscht. Sie rät Siddhartha, freundlich zu ihm zu sein und nicht zu bescheiden. Kamala sagt ihm dann, dass er ein hübscher Mann sei, der angenehm anzusehen ist. Siddhartha küsst sie und verabschiedet sich.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: _Same day, 11 o'clock p. m._--Oh, but I am tired! If it were not that I had made my diary a duty I should not open it to-night. We had a lovely walk. Lucy, after a while, was in gay spirits, owing, I think, to some dear cows who came nosing towards us in a field close to the lighthouse, and frightened the wits out of us. I believe we forgot everything except, of course, personal fear, and it seemed to wipe the slate clean and give us a fresh start. We had a capital "severe tea" at Robin Hood's Bay in a sweet little old-fashioned inn, with a bow-window right over the seaweed-covered rocks of the strand. I believe we should have shocked the "New Woman" with our appetites. Men are more tolerant, bless them! Then we walked home with some, or rather many, stoppages to rest, and with our hearts full of a constant dread of wild bulls. Lucy was really tired, and we intended to creep off to bed as soon as we could. The young curate came in, however, and Mrs. Westenra asked him to stay for supper. Lucy and I had both a fight for it with the dusty miller; I know it was a hard fight on my part, and I am quite heroic. I think that some day the bishops must get together and see about breeding up a new class of curates, who don't take supper, no matter how they may be pressed to, and who will know when girls are tired. Lucy is asleep and breathing softly. She has more colour in her cheeks than usual, and looks, oh, so sweet. If Mr. Holmwood fell in love with her seeing her only in the drawing-room, I wonder what he would say if he saw her now. Some of the "New Women" writers will some day start an idea that men and women should be allowed to see each other asleep before proposing or accepting. But I suppose the New Woman won't condescend in future to accept; she will do the proposing herself. And a nice job she will make of it, too! There's some consolation in that. I am so happy to-night, because dear Lucy seems better. I really believe she has turned the corner, and that we are over her troubles with dreaming. I should be quite happy if I only knew if Jonathan.... God bless and keep him. _11 August, 3 a. m._--Diary again. No sleep now, so I may as well write. I am too agitated to sleep. We have had such an adventure, such an agonising experience. I fell asleep as soon as I had closed my diary.... Suddenly I became broad awake, and sat up, with a horrible sense of fear upon me, and of some feeling of emptiness around me. The room was dark, so I could not see Lucy's bed; I stole across and felt for her. The bed was empty. I lit a match and found that she was not in the room. The door was shut, but not locked, as I had left it. I feared to wake her mother, who has been more than usually ill lately, so threw on some clothes and got ready to look for her. As I was leaving the room it struck me that the clothes she wore might give me some clue to her dreaming intention. Dressing-gown would mean house; dress, outside. Dressing-gown and dress were both in their places. "Thank God," I said to myself, "she cannot be far, as she is only in her nightdress." I ran downstairs and looked in the sitting-room. Not there! Then I looked in all the other open rooms of the house, with an ever-growing fear chilling my heart. Finally I came to the hall door and found it open. It was not wide open, but the catch of the lock had not caught. The people of the house are careful to lock the door every night, so I feared that Lucy must have gone out as she was. There was no time to think of what might happen; a vague, overmastering fear obscured all details. I took a big, heavy shawl and ran out. The clock was striking one as I was in the Crescent, and there was not a soul in sight. I ran along the North Terrace, but could see no sign of the white figure which I expected. At the edge of the West Cliff above the pier I looked across the harbour to the East Cliff, in the hope or fear--I don't know which--of seeing Lucy in our favourite seat. There was a bright full moon, with heavy black, driving clouds, which threw the whole scene into a fleeting diorama of light and shade as they sailed across. For a moment or two I could see nothing, as the shadow of a cloud obscured St. Mary's Church and all around it. Then as the cloud passed I could see the ruins of the abbey coming into view; and as the edge of a narrow band of light as sharp as a sword-cut moved along, the church and the churchyard became gradually visible. Whatever my expectation was, it was not disappointed, for there, on our favourite seat, the silver light of the moon struck a half-reclining figure, snowy white. The coming of the cloud was too quick for me to see much, for shadow shut down on light almost immediately; but it seemed to me as though something dark stood behind the seat where the white figure shone, and bent over it. What it was, whether man or beast, I could not tell; I did not wait to catch another glance, but flew down the steep steps to the pier and along by the fish-market to the bridge, which was the only way to reach the East Cliff. The town seemed as dead, for not a soul did I see; I rejoiced that it was so, for I wanted no witness of poor Lucy's condition. The time and distance seemed endless, and my knees trembled and my breath came laboured as I toiled up the endless steps to the abbey. I must have gone fast, and yet it seemed to me as if my feet were weighted with lead, and as though every joint in my body were rusty. When I got almost to the top I could see the seat and the white figure, for I was now close enough to distinguish it even through the spells of shadow. There was undoubtedly something, long and black, bending over the half-reclining white figure. I called in fright, "Lucy! Lucy!" and something raised a head, and from where I was I could see a white face and red, gleaming eyes. Lucy did not answer, and I ran on to the entrance of the churchyard. As I entered, the church was between me and the seat, and for a minute or so I lost sight of her. When I came in view again the cloud had passed, and the moonlight struck so brilliantly that I could see Lucy half reclining with her head lying over the back of the seat. She was quite alone, and there was not a sign of any living thing about. When I bent over her I could see that she was still asleep. Her lips were parted, and she was breathing--not softly as usual with her, but in long, heavy gasps, as though striving to get her lungs full at every breath. As I came close, she put up her hand in her sleep and pulled the collar of her nightdress close around her throat. Whilst she did so there came a little shudder through her, as though she felt the cold. I flung the warm shawl over her, and drew the edges tight round her neck, for I dreaded lest she should get some deadly chill from the night air, unclad as she was. I feared to wake her all at once, so, in order to have my hands free that I might help her, I fastened the shawl at her throat with a big safety-pin; but I must have been clumsy in my anxiety and pinched or pricked her with it, for by-and-by, when her breathing became quieter, she put her hand to her throat again and moaned. When I had her carefully wrapped up I put my shoes on her feet and then began very gently to wake her. At first she did not respond; but gradually she became more and more uneasy in her sleep, moaning and sighing occasionally. At last, as time was passing fast, and, for many other reasons, I wished to get her home at once, I shook her more forcibly, till finally she opened her eyes and awoke. She did not seem surprised to see me, as, of course, she did not realise all at once where she was. Lucy always wakes prettily, and even at such a time, when her body must have been chilled with cold, and her mind somewhat appalled at waking unclad in a churchyard at night, she did not lose her grace. She trembled a little, and clung to me; when I told her to come at once with me home she rose without a word, with the obedience of a child. As we passed along, the gravel hurt my feet, and Lucy noticed me wince. She stopped and wanted to insist upon my taking my shoes; but I would not. However, when we got to the pathway outside the churchyard, where there was a puddle of water, remaining from the storm, I daubed my feet with mud, using each foot in turn on the other, so that as we went home, no one, in case we should meet any one, should notice my bare feet. Fortune favoured us, and we got home without meeting a soul. Once we saw a man, who seemed not quite sober, passing along a street in front of us; but we hid in a door till he had disappeared up an opening such as there are here, steep little closes, or "wynds," as they call them in Scotland. My heart beat so loud all the time that sometimes I thought I should faint. I was filled with anxiety about Lucy, not only for her health, lest she should suffer from the exposure, but for her reputation in case the story should get wind. When we got in, and had washed our feet, and had said a prayer of thankfulness together, I tucked her into bed. Before falling asleep she asked--even implored--me not to say a word to any one, even her mother, about her sleep-walking adventure. I hesitated at first to promise; but on thinking of the state of her mother's health, and how the knowledge of such a thing would fret her, and thinking, too, of how such a story might become distorted--nay, infallibly would--in case it should leak out, I thought it wiser to do so. I hope I did right. I have locked the door, and the key is tied to my wrist, so perhaps I shall not be again disturbed. Lucy is sleeping soundly; the reflex of the dawn is high and far over the sea.... * * * * * _Same day, noon._--All goes well. Lucy slept till I woke her and seemed not to have even changed her side. The adventure of the night does not seem to have harmed her; on the contrary, it has benefited her, for she looks better this morning than she has done for weeks. I was sorry to notice that my clumsiness with the safety-pin hurt her. Indeed, it might have been serious, for the skin of her throat was pierced. I must have pinched up a piece of loose skin and have transfixed it, for there are two little red points like pin-pricks, and on the band of her nightdress was a drop of blood. When I apologised and was concerned about it, she laughed and petted me, and said she did not even feel it. Fortunately it cannot leave a scar, as it is so tiny. * * * * * _Same day, night._--We passed a happy day. The air was clear, and the sun bright, and there was a cool breeze. We took our lunch to Mulgrave Woods, Mrs. Westenra driving by the road and Lucy and I walking by the cliff-path and joining her at the gate. I felt a little sad myself, for I could not but feel how _absolutely_ happy it would have been had Jonathan been with me. But there! I must only be patient. In the evening we strolled in the Casino Terrace, and heard some good music by Spohr and Mackenzie, and went to bed early. Lucy seems more restful than she has been for some time, and fell asleep at once. I shall lock the door and secure the key the same as before, though I do not expect any trouble to-night. * * * * * _12 August._--My expectations were wrong, for twice during the night I was wakened by Lucy trying to get out. She seemed, even in her sleep, to be a little impatient at finding the door shut, and went back to bed under a sort of protest. I woke with the dawn, and heard the birds chirping outside of the window. Lucy woke, too, and, I was glad to see, was even better than on the previous morning. All her old gaiety of manner seemed to have come back, and she came and snuggled in beside me and told me all about Arthur. I told her how anxious I was about Jonathan, and then she tried to comfort me. Well, she succeeded somewhat, for, though sympathy can't alter facts, it can help to make them more bearable. * * * * * _13 August._--Another quiet day, and to bed with the key on my wrist as before. Again I awoke in the night, and found Lucy sitting up in bed, still asleep, pointing to the window. I got up quietly, and pulling aside the blind, looked out. It was brilliant moonlight, and the soft effect of the light over the sea and sky--merged together in one great, silent mystery--was beautiful beyond words. Between me and the moonlight flitted a great bat, coming and going in great whirling circles. Once or twice it came quite close, but was, I suppose, frightened at seeing me, and flitted away across the harbour towards the abbey. When I came back from the window Lucy had lain down again, and was sleeping peacefully. She did not stir again all night. * * * * * _14 August._--On the East Cliff, reading and writing all day. Lucy seems to have become as much in love with the spot as I am, and it is hard to get her away from it when it is time to come home for lunch or tea or dinner. This afternoon she made a funny remark. We were coming home for dinner, and had come to the top of the steps up from the West Pier and stopped to look at the view, as we generally do. The setting sun, low down in the sky, was just dropping behind Kettleness; the red light was thrown over on the East Cliff and the old abbey, and seemed to bathe everything in a beautiful rosy glow. We were silent for a while, and suddenly Lucy murmured as if to herself:-- "His red eyes again! They are just the same." It was such an odd expression, coming _apropos_ of nothing, that it quite startled me. I slewed round a little, so as to see Lucy well without seeming to stare at her, and saw that she was in a half-dreamy state, with an odd look on her face that I could not quite make out; so I said nothing, but followed her eyes. She appeared to be looking over at our own seat, whereon was a dark figure seated alone. I was a little startled myself, for it seemed for an instant as if the stranger had great eyes like burning flames; but a second look dispelled the illusion. The red sunlight was shining on the windows of St. Mary's Church behind our seat, and as the sun dipped there was just sufficient change in the refraction and reflection to make it appear as if the light moved. I called Lucy's attention to the peculiar effect, and she became herself with a start, but she looked sad all the same; it may have been that she was thinking of that terrible night up there. We never refer to it; so I said nothing, and we went home to dinner. Lucy had a headache and went early to bed. I saw her asleep, and went out for a little stroll myself; I walked along the cliffs to the westward, and was full of sweet sadness, for I was thinking of Jonathan. When coming home--it was then bright moonlight, so bright that, though the front of our part of the Crescent was in shadow, everything could be well seen--I threw a glance up at our window, and saw Lucy's head leaning out. I thought that perhaps she was looking out for me, so I opened my handkerchief and waved it. She did not notice or make any movement whatever. Just then, the moonlight crept round an angle of the building, and the light fell on the window. There distinctly was Lucy with her head lying up against the side of the window-sill and her eyes shut. She was fast asleep, and by her, seated on the window-sill, was something that looked like a good-sized bird. I was afraid she might get a chill, so I ran upstairs, but as I came into the room she was moving back to her bed, fast asleep, and breathing heavily; she was holding her hand to her throat, as though to protect it from cold. I did not wake her, but tucked her up warmly; I have taken care that the door is locked and the window securely fastened. She looks so sweet as she sleeps; but she is paler than is her wont, and there is a drawn, haggard look under her eyes which I do not like. I fear she is fretting about something. I wish I could find out what it is. * * * * * _15 August._--Rose later than usual. Lucy was languid and tired, and slept on after we had been called. We had a happy surprise at breakfast. Arthur's father is better, and wants the marriage to come off soon. Lucy is full of quiet joy, and her mother is glad and sorry at once. Later on in the day she told me the cause. She is grieved to lose Lucy as her very own, but she is rejoiced that she is soon to have some one to protect her. Poor dear, sweet lady! She confided to me that she has got her death-warrant. She has not told Lucy, and made me promise secrecy; her doctor told her that within a few months, at most, she must die, for her heart is weakening. At any time, even now, a sudden shock would be almost sure to kill her. Ah, we were wise to keep from her the affair of the dreadful night of Lucy's sleep-walking. * * * * * _17 August._--No diary for two whole days. I have not had the heart to write. Some sort of shadowy pall seems to be coming over our happiness. No news from Jonathan, and Lucy seems to be growing weaker, whilst her mother's hours are numbering to a close. I do not understand Lucy's fading away as she is doing. She eats well and sleeps well, and enjoys the fresh air; but all the time the roses in her cheeks are fading, and she gets weaker and more languid day by day; at night I hear her gasping as if for air. I keep the key of our door always fastened to my wrist at night, but she gets up and walks about the room, and sits at the open window. Last night I found her leaning out when I woke up, and when I tried to wake her I could not; she was in a faint. When I managed to restore her she was as weak as water, and cried silently between long, painful struggles for breath. When I asked her how she came to be at the window she shook her head and turned away. I trust her feeling ill may not be from that unlucky prick of the safety-pin. I looked at her throat just now as she lay asleep, and the tiny wounds seem not to have healed. They are still open, and, if anything, larger than before, and the edges of them are faintly white. They are like little white dots with red centres. Unless they heal within a day or two, I shall insist on the doctor seeing about them. _Letter, Samuel F. Billington & Son, Solicitors, Whitby, to Messrs. Carter, Paterson & Co., London._ "_17 August._ "Dear Sirs,-- "Herewith please receive invoice of goods sent by Great Northern Railway. Same are to be delivered at Carfax, near Purfleet, immediately on receipt at goods station King's Cross. The house is at present empty, but enclosed please find keys, all of which are labelled. "You will please deposit the boxes, fifty in number, which form the consignment, in the partially ruined building forming part of the house and marked 'A' on rough diagram enclosed. Your agent will easily recognise the locality, as it is the ancient chapel of the mansion. The goods leave by the train at 9:30 to-night, and will be due at King's Cross at 4:30 to-morrow afternoon. As our client wishes the delivery made as soon as possible, we shall be obliged by your having teams ready at King's Cross at the time named and forthwith conveying the goods to destination. In order to obviate any delays possible through any routine requirements as to payment in your departments, we enclose cheque herewith for ten pounds (L10), receipt of which please acknowledge. Should the charge be less than this amount, you can return balance; if greater, we shall at once send cheque for difference on hearing from you. You are to leave the keys on coming away in the main hall of the house, where the proprietor may get them on his entering the house by means of his duplicate key. "Pray do not take us as exceeding the bounds of business courtesy in pressing you in all ways to use the utmost expedition. _"We are, dear Sirs, "Faithfully yours, "SAMUEL F. BILLINGTON & SON."_ _Letter, Messrs. Carter, Paterson & Co., London, to Messrs. Billington & Son, Whitby._ "_21 August._ "Dear Sirs,-- "We beg to acknowledge L10 received and to return cheque L1 17s. 9d, amount of overplus, as shown in receipted account herewith. Goods are delivered in exact accordance with instructions, and keys left in parcel in main hall, as directed. "We are, dear Sirs, "Yours respectfully. "_Pro_ CARTER, PATERSON & CO." _Mina Murray's Journal._ _18 August._--I am happy to-day, and write sitting on the seat in the churchyard. Lucy is ever so much better. Last night she slept well all night, and did not disturb me once. The roses seem coming back already to her cheeks, though she is still sadly pale and wan-looking. If she were in any way anaemic I could understand it, but she is not. She is in gay spirits and full of life and cheerfulness. All the morbid reticence seems to have passed from her, and she has just reminded me, as if I needed any reminding, of _that_ night, and that it was here, on this very seat, I found her asleep. As she told me she tapped playfully with the heel of her boot on the stone slab and said:-- "My poor little feet didn't make much noise then! I daresay poor old Mr. Swales would have told me that it was because I didn't want to wake up Geordie." As she was in such a communicative humour, I asked her if she had dreamed at all that night. Before she answered, that sweet, puckered look came into her forehead, which Arthur--I call him Arthur from her habit--says he loves; and, indeed, I don't wonder that he does. Then she went on in a half-dreaming kind of way, as if trying to recall it to herself:-- "I didn't quite dream; but it all seemed to be real. I only wanted to be here in this spot--I don't know why, for I was afraid of something--I don't know what. I remember, though I suppose I was asleep, passing through the streets and over the bridge. A fish leaped as I went by, and I leaned over to look at it, and I heard a lot of dogs howling--the whole town seemed as if it must be full of dogs all howling at once--as I went up the steps. Then I had a vague memory of something long and dark with red eyes, just as we saw in the sunset, and something very sweet and very bitter all around me at once; and then I seemed sinking into deep green water, and there was a singing in my ears, as I have heard there is to drowning men; and then everything seemed passing away from me; my soul seemed to go out from my body and float about the air. I seem to remember that once the West Lighthouse was right under me, and then there was a sort of agonising feeling, as if I were in an earthquake, and I came back and found you shaking my body. I saw you do it before I felt you." Then she began to laugh. It seemed a little uncanny to me, and I listened to her breathlessly. I did not quite like it, and thought it better not to keep her mind on the subject, so we drifted on to other subjects, and Lucy was like her old self again. When we got home the fresh breeze had braced her up, and her pale cheeks were really more rosy. Her mother rejoiced when she saw her, and we all spent a very happy evening together. * * * * * _19 August._--Joy, joy, joy! although not all joy. At last, news of Jonathan. The dear fellow has been ill; that is why he did not write. I am not afraid to think it or say it, now that I know. Mr. Hawkins sent me on the letter, and wrote himself, oh, so kindly. I am to leave in the morning and go over to Jonathan, and to help to nurse him if necessary, and to bring him home. Mr. Hawkins says it would not be a bad thing if we were to be married out there. I have cried over the good Sister's letter till I can feel it wet against my bosom, where it lies. It is of Jonathan, and must be next my heart, for he is _in_ my heart. My journey is all mapped out, and my luggage ready. I am only taking one change of dress; Lucy will bring my trunk to London and keep it till I send for it, for it may be that ... I must write no more; I must keep it to say to Jonathan, my husband. The letter that he has seen and touched must comfort me till we meet. _Letter, Sister Agatha, Hospital of St. Joseph and Ste. Mary, Buda-Pesth, to Miss Wilhelmina Murray._ "_12 August._ "Dear Madam,-- "I write by desire of Mr. Jonathan Harker, who is himself not strong enough to write, though progressing well, thanks to God and St. Joseph and Ste. Mary. He has been under our care for nearly six weeks, suffering from a violent brain fever. He wishes me to convey his love, and to say that by this post I write for him to Mr. Peter Hawkins, Exeter, to say, with his dutiful respects, that he is sorry for his delay, and that all of his work is completed. He will require some few weeks' rest in our sanatorium in the hills, but will then return. He wishes me to say that he has not sufficient money with him, and that he would like to pay for his staying here, so that others who need shall not be wanting for help. "Believe me, "Yours, with sympathy and all blessings, "SISTER AGATHA. "P. S.--My patient being asleep, I open this to let you know something more. He has told me all about you, and that you are shortly to be his wife. All blessings to you both! He has had some fearful shock--so says our doctor--and in his delirium his ravings have been dreadful; of wolves and poison and blood; of ghosts and demons; and I fear to say of what. Be careful with him always that there may be nothing to excite him of this kind for a long time to come; the traces of such an illness as his do not lightly die away. We should have written long ago, but we knew nothing of his friends, and there was on him nothing that any one could understand. He came in the train from Klausenburg, and the guard was told by the station-master there that he rushed into the station shouting for a ticket for home. Seeing from his violent demeanour that he was English, they gave him a ticket for the furthest station on the way thither that the train reached. "Be assured that he is well cared for. He has won all hearts by his sweetness and gentleness. He is truly getting on well, and I have no doubt will in a few weeks be all himself. But be careful of him for safety's sake. There are, I pray God and St. Joseph and Ste. Mary, many, many, happy years for you both." _Dr. Seward's Diary._ _19 August._--Strange and sudden change in Renfield last night. About eight o'clock he began to get excited and sniff about as a dog does when setting. The attendant was struck by his manner, and knowing my interest in him, encouraged him to talk. He is usually respectful to the attendant and at times servile; but to-night, the man tells me, he was quite haughty. Would not condescend to talk with him at all. All he would say was:-- "I don't want to talk to you: you don't count now; the Master is at hand." The attendant thinks it is some sudden form of religious mania which has seized him. If so, we must look out for squalls, for a strong man with homicidal and religious mania at once might be dangerous. The combination is a dreadful one. At nine o'clock I visited him myself. His attitude to me was the same as that to the attendant; in his sublime self-feeling the difference between myself and attendant seemed to him as nothing. It looks like religious mania, and he will soon think that he himself is God. These infinitesimal distinctions between man and man are too paltry for an Omnipotent Being. How these madmen give themselves away! The real God taketh heed lest a sparrow fall; but the God created from human vanity sees no difference between an eagle and a sparrow. Oh, if men only knew! For half an hour or more Renfield kept getting excited in greater and greater degree. I did not pretend to be watching him, but I kept strict observation all the same. All at once that shifty look came into his eyes which we always see when a madman has seized an idea, and with it the shifty movement of the head and back which asylum attendants come to know so well. He became quite quiet, and went and sat on the edge of his bed resignedly, and looked into space with lack-lustre eyes. I thought I would find out if his apathy were real or only assumed, and tried to lead him to talk of his pets, a theme which had never failed to excite his attention. At first he made no reply, but at length said testily:-- "Bother them all! I don't care a pin about them." "What?" I said. "You don't mean to tell me you don't care about spiders?" (Spiders at present are his hobby and the note-book is filling up with columns of small figures.) To this he answered enigmatically:-- "The bride-maidens rejoice the eyes that wait the coming of the bride; but when the bride draweth nigh, then the maidens shine not to the eyes that are filled." He would not explain himself, but remained obstinately seated on his bed all the time I remained with him. I am weary to-night and low in spirits. I cannot but think of Lucy, and how different things might have been. If I don't sleep at once, chloral, the modern Morpheus--C_{2}HCl_{3}O. H_{2}O! I must be careful not to let it grow into a habit. No, I shall take none to-night! I have thought of Lucy, and I shall not dishonour her by mixing the two. If need be, to-night shall be sleepless.... * * * * * _Later._--Glad I made the resolution; gladder that I kept to it. I had lain tossing about, and had heard the clock strike only twice, when the night-watchman came to me, sent up from the ward, to say that Renfield had escaped. I threw on my clothes and ran down at once; my patient is too dangerous a person to be roaming about. Those ideas of his might work out dangerously with strangers. The attendant was waiting for me. He said he had seen him not ten minutes before, seemingly asleep in his bed, when he had looked through the observation-trap in the door. His attention was called by the sound of the window being wrenched out. He ran back and saw his feet disappear through the window, and had at once sent up for me. He was only in his night-gear, and cannot be far off. The attendant thought it would be more useful to watch where he should go than to follow him, as he might lose sight of him whilst getting out of the building by the door. He is a bulky man, and couldn't get through the window. I am thin, so, with his aid, I got out, but feet foremost, and, as we were only a few feet above ground, landed unhurt. The attendant told me the patient had gone to the left, and had taken a straight line, so I ran as quickly as I could. As I got through the belt of trees I saw a white figure scale the high wall which separates our grounds from those of the deserted house. I ran back at once, told the watchman to get three or four men immediately and follow me into the grounds of Carfax, in case our friend might be dangerous. I got a ladder myself, and crossing the wall, dropped down on the other side. I could see Renfield's figure just disappearing behind the angle of the house, so I ran after him. On the far side of the house I found him pressed close against the old ironbound oak door of the chapel. He was talking, apparently to some one, but I was afraid to go near enough to hear what he was saying, lest I might frighten him, and he should run off. Chasing an errant swarm of bees is nothing to following a naked lunatic, when the fit of escaping is upon him! After a few minutes, however, I could see that he did not take note of anything around him, and so ventured to draw nearer to him--the more so as my men had now crossed the wall and were closing him in. I heard him say:-- "I am here to do Your bidding, Master. I am Your slave, and You will reward me, for I shall be faithful. I have worshipped You long and afar off. Now that You are near, I await Your commands, and You will not pass me by, will You, dear Master, in Your distribution of good things?" He _is_ a selfish old beggar anyhow. He thinks of the loaves and fishes even when he believes he is in a Real Presence. His manias make a startling combination. When we closed in on him he fought like a tiger. He is immensely strong, for he was more like a wild beast than a man. I never saw a lunatic in such a paroxysm of rage before; and I hope I shall not again. It is a mercy that we have found out his strength and his danger in good time. With strength and determination like his, he might have done wild work before he was caged. He is safe now at any rate. Jack Sheppard himself couldn't get free from the strait-waistcoat that keeps him restrained, and he's chained to the wall in the padded room. His cries are at times awful, but the silences that follow are more deadly still, for he means murder in every turn and movement. Just now he spoke coherent words for the first time:-- "I shall be patient, Master. It is coming--coming--coming!" So I took the hint, and came too. I was too excited to sleep, but this diary has quieted me, and I feel I shall get some sleep to-night. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Lucy leidet weiterhin unter Schlafwandelepisoden. In den frühen Morgenstunden des 11. August verlässt sie das Zimmer, nur in ihrem Unterkleid gekleidet, und geht zum "Selbstmordsitz". Mina erwacht und findet Lucy verschwunden und folgt ihr. Sie erhascht einen flüchtigen Blick auf eine dunkle Gestalt, "ob Mensch oder Tier konnte sie nicht sagen", die sich über Lucy beugt; als sie bei Lucy ankommt, ist die Gestalt verschwunden. Beim Zudecken von Lucy glaubt Mina, dass sie Lucy mit der Sicherheitsnadel ihres Schultertuchs in den Hals gestochen hat, denn Lucy greift sich schmerzhaft an den eigenen Hals. Mina schafft es, Lucy unbemerkt ins Bett zurückzubringen; entgegen Minas Erwartungen scheint das nächtliche Abenteuer Lucy eher gestärkt als geschwächt zu haben. In der darauffolgenden Nacht versucht Lucy zweimal erneut schlafend aufzustehen, aber Mina hat vorsorglich den Schlüssel an ihr Handgelenk gebunden. In der nächsten Nacht, unfähig zu gehen, sitzt Lucy im Schlaf im Bett und deutet auf das Fenster - draußen sieht Mina eine große Fledermaus. Am nächsten Tag in der Dämmerung, auf dem Rückweg vom "Selbstmordsitz", murmelt Lucy einen seltsamen Kommentar: "Seine roten Augen wieder!" Mina sieht, dass Lucy auf eine dunkle Gestalt am Sitz starrt; jedoch sieht Mina diese Gestalt nur für einen Moment. In dieser Nacht schläft Lucy mit dem Kopf am Fenster; auf der Fensterbank sieht Mina "etwas, das wie ein mittelgroßer Vogel aussieht". Mina überlegt, ihre Bedenken über Lucys Schlafwandeln mit Lucys Mutter zu teilen, entscheidet sich aber dagegen, da Lucys Mutter sich über die bevorstehende Hochzeit von Lucy freut - aber auch, weil der Arzt der Frau kürzlich mitgeteilt hat, dass sie nicht mehr lange zu leben hat. In der Zwischenzeit heilen die Wunden am Hals von Lucy nicht, sondern "sind immer noch offen und, wenn überhaupt, größer als zuvor". In der Nacht vom 17. bis 18. August schläft Lucy jedoch ruhig durch und scheint am nächsten Tag wieder gesund und guter Stimmung zu sein. Minas Freude steigt weiter an, als sie einen Brief von Schwester Agatha im Krankenhaus der Heiligen Josef und Maria in Budapest erhält, der ihr mitteilt, dass Jonathan endlich auf dem Weg nach England ist. Er hat sich sechs Wochen lang in dem Krankenhaus ausgeruht und litt an einem Delirium, in dem er "von Wölfen und Gift und Blut; von Geistern und Dämonen; und ich fürchte zu sagen, von was anderem" schwadronierte. Während Harker sich jedoch erholt, scheint Renfield laut Dr. Sewards Tagebuch immer schlimmer zu werden. Renfield entkommt in der Nacht vom 18. bis 19. August aus dem Irrenhaus und klettert über die Mauer, die das Irrenhaus vom verlassenen Haus Carfax trennt, indem er verkündet, dass "der Meister nahe ist". Seward gelingt es, Renfield wieder einzufangen und ihn in ein Zwangsjacke zu stecken, in dem Glauben, dass er Renfield daran gehindert hat, seine möglicherweise wilden mörderischen Pläne umzusetzen.

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 late, dull autumn night was closing in upon the river Saone. The stream, like a sullied looking-glass in a gloomy place, reflected the clouds heavily; and the low banks leaned over here and there, as if they were half curious, and half afraid, to see their darkening pictures in the water. The flat expanse of country about Chalons lay a long heavy streak, occasionally made a little ragged by a row of poplar trees against the wrathful sunset. On the banks of the river Saone it was wet, depressing, solitary; and the night deepened fast. One man slowly moving on towards Chalons was the only visible figure in the landscape. Cain might have looked as lonely and avoided. With an old sheepskin knapsack at his back, and a rough, unbarked stick cut out of some wood in his hand; miry, footsore, his shoes and gaiters trodden out, his hair and beard untrimmed; the cloak he carried over his shoulder, and the clothes he wore, sodden with wet; limping along in pain and difficulty; he looked as if the clouds were hurrying from him, as if the wail of the wind and the shuddering of the grass were directed against him, as if the low mysterious plashing of the water murmured at him, as if the fitful autumn night were disturbed by him. He glanced here, and he glanced there, sullenly but shrinkingly; and sometimes stopped and turned about, and looked all round him. Then he limped on again, toiling and muttering. 'To the devil with this plain that has no end! To the devil with these stones that cut like knives! To the devil with this dismal darkness, wrapping itself about one with a chill! I hate you!' And he would have visited his hatred upon it all with the scowl he threw about him, if he could. He trudged a little further; and looking into the distance before him, stopped again. 'I, hungry, thirsty, weary. You, imbeciles, where the lights are yonder, eating and drinking, and warming yourselves at fires! I wish I had the sacking of your town; I would repay you, my children!' But the teeth he set at the town, and the hand he shook at the town, brought the town no nearer; and the man was yet hungrier, and thirstier, and wearier, when his feet were on its jagged pavement, and he stood looking about him. There was the hotel with its gateway, and its savoury smell of cooking; there was the cafe with its bright windows, and its rattling of dominoes; there was the dyer's with its strips of red cloth on the doorposts; there was the silversmith's with its earrings, and its offerings for altars; there was the tobacco dealer's with its lively group of soldier customers coming out pipe in mouth; there were the bad odours of the town, and the rain and the refuse in the kennels, and the faint lamps slung across the road, and the huge Diligence, and its mountain of luggage, and its six grey horses with their tails tied up, getting under weigh at the coach office. But no small cabaret for a straitened traveller being within sight, he had to seek one round the dark corner, where the cabbage leaves lay thickest, trodden about the public cistern at which women had not yet left off drawing water. There, in the back street he found one, the Break of Day. The curtained windows clouded the Break of Day, but it seemed light and warm, and it announced in legible inscriptions with appropriate pictorial embellishment of billiard cue and ball, that at the Break of Day one could play billiards; that there one could find meat, drink, and lodgings, whether one came on horseback, or came on foot; and that it kept good wines, liqueurs, and brandy. The man turned the handle of the Break of Day door, and limped in. He touched his discoloured slouched hat, as he came in at the door, to a few men who occupied the room. Two were playing dominoes at one of the little tables; three or four were seated round the stove, conversing as they smoked; the billiard-table in the centre was left alone for the time; the landlady of the Daybreak sat behind her little counter among her cloudy bottles of syrups, baskets of cakes, and leaden drainage for glasses, working at her needle. Making his way to an empty little table in a corner of the room behind the stove, he put down his knapsack and his cloak upon the ground. As he raised his head from stooping to do so, he found the landlady beside him. 'One can lodge here to-night, madame?' 'Perfectly!' said the landlady in a high, sing-song, cheery voice. 'Good. One can dine--sup--what you please to call it?' 'Ah, perfectly!' cried the landlady as before. 'Dispatch then, madame, if you please. Something to eat, as quickly as you can; and some wine at once. I am exhausted.' 'It is very bad weather, monsieur,' said the landlady. 'Cursed weather.' 'And a very long road.' 'A cursed road.' His hoarse voice failed him, and he rested his head upon his hands until a bottle of wine was brought from the counter. Having filled and emptied his little tumbler twice, and having broken off an end from the great loaf that was set before him with his cloth and napkin, soup-plate, salt, pepper, and oil, he rested his back against the corner of the wall, made a couch of the bench on which he sat, and began to chew crust, until such time as his repast should be ready. There had been that momentary interruption of the talk about the stove, and that temporary inattention to and distraction from one another, which is usually inseparable in such a company from the arrival of a stranger. It had passed over by this time; and the men had done glancing at him, and were talking again. 'That's the true reason,' said one of them, bringing a story he had been telling, to a close, 'that's the true reason why they said that the devil was let loose.' The speaker was the tall Swiss belonging to the church, and he brought something of the authority of the church into the discussion--especially as the devil was in question. The landlady having given her directions for the new guest's entertainment to her husband, who acted as cook to the Break of Day, had resumed her needlework behind her counter. She was a smart, neat, bright little woman, with a good deal of cap and a good deal of stocking, and she struck into the conversation with several laughing nods of her head, but without looking up from her work. 'Ah Heaven, then,' said she. 'When the boat came up from Lyons, and brought the news that the devil was actually let loose at Marseilles, some fly-catchers swallowed it. But I? No, not I.' 'Madame, you are always right,' returned the tall Swiss. 'Doubtless you were enraged against that man, madame?' 'Ay, yes, then!' cried the landlady, raising her eyes from her work, opening them very wide, and tossing her head on one side. 'Naturally, yes.' 'He was a bad subject.' 'He was a wicked wretch,' said the landlady, 'and well merited what he had the good fortune to escape. So much the worse.' 'Stay, madame! Let us see,' returned the Swiss, argumentatively turning his cigar between his lips. 'It may have been his unfortunate destiny. He may have been the child of circumstances. It is always possible that he had, and has, good in him if one did but know how to find it out. Philosophical philanthropy teaches--' The rest of the little knot about the stove murmured an objection to the introduction of that threatening expression. Even the two players at dominoes glanced up from their game, as if to protest against philosophical philanthropy being brought by name into the Break of Day. 'Hold there, you and your philanthropy,' cried the smiling landlady, nodding her head more than ever. 'Listen then. I am a woman, I. I know nothing of philosophical philanthropy. But I know what I have seen, and what I have looked in the face in this world here, where I find myself. And I tell you this, my friend, that there are people (men and women both, unfortunately) who have no good in them--none. That there are people whom it is necessary to detest without compromise. That there are people who must be dealt with as enemies of the human race. That there are people who have no human heart, and who must be crushed like savage beasts and cleared out of the way. They are but few, I hope; but I have seen (in this world here where I find myself, and even at the little Break of Day) that there are such people. And I do not doubt that this man--whatever they call him, I forget his name--is one of them.' The landlady's lively speech was received with greater favour at the Break of Day, than it would have elicited from certain amiable whitewashers of the class she so unreasonably objected to, nearer Great Britain. 'My faith! If your philosophical philanthropy,' said the landlady, putting down her work, and rising to take the stranger's soup from her husband, who appeared with it at a side door, 'puts anybody at the mercy of such people by holding terms with them at all, in words or deeds, or both, take it away from the Break of Day, for it isn't worth a sou.' As she placed the soup before the guest, who changed his attitude to a sitting one, he looked her full in the face, and his moustache went up under his nose, and his nose came down over his moustache. 'Well!' said the previous speaker, 'let us come back to our subject. Leaving all that aside, gentlemen, it was because the man was acquitted on his trial that people said at Marseilles that the devil was let loose. That was how the phrase began to circulate, and what it meant; nothing more.' 'How do they call him?' said the landlady. 'Biraud, is it not?' 'Rigaud, madame,' returned the tall Swiss. 'Rigaud! To be sure.' The traveller's soup was succeeded by a dish of meat, and that by a dish of vegetables. He ate all that was placed before him, emptied his bottle of wine, called for a glass of rum, and smoked his cigarette with his cup of coffee. As he became refreshed, he became overbearing; and patronised the company at the Daybreak in certain small talk at which he assisted, as if his condition were far above his appearance. The company might have had other engagements, or they might have felt their inferiority, but in any case they dispersed by degrees, and not being replaced by other company, left their new patron in possession of the Break of Day. The landlord was clinking about in his kitchen; the landlady was quiet at her work; and the refreshed traveller sat smoking by the stove, warming his ragged feet. 'Pardon me, madame--that Biraud.' 'Rigaud, monsieur.' 'Rigaud. Pardon me again--has contracted your displeasure, how?' The landlady, who had been at one moment thinking within herself that this was a handsome man, at another moment that this was an ill-looking man, observed the nose coming down and the moustache going up, and strongly inclined to the latter decision. Rigaud was a criminal, she said, who had killed his wife. 'Ay, ay? Death of my life, that's a criminal indeed. But how do you know it?' 'All the world knows it.' 'Hah! And yet he escaped justice?' 'Monsieur, the law could not prove it against him to its satisfaction. So the law says. Nevertheless, all the world knows he did it. The people knew it so well, that they tried to tear him to pieces.' 'Being all in perfect accord with their own wives?' said the guest. 'Haha!' The landlady of the Break of Day looked at him again, and felt almost confirmed in her last decision. He had a fine hand, though, and he turned it with a great show. She began once more to think that he was not ill-looking after all. 'Did you mention, madame--or was it mentioned among the gentlemen--what became of him?' The landlady shook her head; it being the first conversational stage at which her vivacious earnestness had ceased to nod it, keeping time to what she said. It had been mentioned at the Daybreak, she remarked, on the authority of the journals, that he had been kept in prison for his own safety. However that might be, he had escaped his deserts; so much the worse. The guest sat looking at her as he smoked out his final cigarette, and as she sat with her head bent over her work, with an expression that might have resolved her doubts, and brought her to a lasting conclusion on the subject of his good or bad looks if she had seen it. When she did look up, the expression was not there. The hand was smoothing his shaggy moustache. 'May one ask to be shown to bed, madame?' Very willingly, monsieur. Hola, my husband! My husband would conduct him up-stairs. There was one traveller there, asleep, who had gone to bed very early indeed, being overpowered by fatigue; but it was a large chamber with two beds in it, and space enough for twenty. This the landlady of the Break of Day chirpingly explained, calling between whiles, 'Hola, my husband!' out at the side door. My husband answered at length, 'It is I, my wife!' and presenting himself in his cook's cap, lighted the traveller up a steep and narrow staircase; the traveller carrying his own cloak and knapsack, and bidding the landlady good night with a complimentary reference to the pleasure of seeing her again to-morrow. It was a large room, with a rough splintery floor, unplastered rafters overhead, and two bedsteads on opposite sides. Here 'my husband' put down the candle he carried, and with a sidelong look at his guest stooping over his knapsack, gruffly gave him the instruction, 'The bed to the right!' and left him to his repose. The landlord, whether he was a good or a bad physiognomist, had fully made up his mind that the guest was an ill-looking fellow. The guest looked contemptuously at the clean coarse bedding prepared for him, and, sitting down on the rush chair at the bedside, drew his money out of his pocket, and told it over in his hand. 'One must eat,' he muttered to himself, 'but by Heaven I must eat at the cost of some other man to-morrow!' As he sat pondering, and mechanically weighing his money in his palm, the deep breathing of the traveller in the other bed fell so regularly upon his hearing that it attracted his eyes in that direction. The man was covered up warm, and had drawn the white curtain at his head, so that he could be only heard, not seen. But the deep regular breathing, still going on while the other was taking off his worn shoes and gaiters, and still continuing when he had laid aside his coat and cravat, became at length a strong provocative to curiosity, and incentive to get a glimpse of the sleeper's face. The waking traveller, therefore, stole a little nearer, and yet a little nearer, and a little nearer to the sleeping traveller's bed, until he stood close beside it. Even then he could not see his face, for he had drawn the sheet over it. The regular breathing still continuing, he put his smooth white hand (such a treacherous hand it looked, as it went creeping from him!) to the sheet, and gently lifted it away. 'Death of my soul!' he whispered, falling back, 'here's Cavalletto!' The little Italian, previously influenced in his sleep, perhaps, by the stealthy presence at his bedside, stopped in his regular breathing, and with a long deep respiration opened his eyes. At first they were not awake, though open. He lay for some seconds looking placidly at his old prison companion, and then, all at once, with a cry of surprise and alarm, sprang out of bed. 'Hush! What's the matter? Keep quiet! It's I. You know me?' cried the other, in a suppressed voice. But John Baptist, widely staring, muttering a number of invocations and ejaculations, tremblingly backing into a corner, slipping on his trousers, and tying his coat by the two sleeves round his neck, manifested an unmistakable desire to escape by the door rather than renew the acquaintance. Seeing this, his old prison comrade fell back upon the door, and set his shoulders against it. 'Cavalletto! Wake, boy! Rub your eyes and look at me. Not the name you used to call me--don't use that--Lagnier, say Lagnier!' John Baptist, staring at him with eyes opened to their utmost width, made a number of those national, backhanded shakes of the right forefinger in the air, as if he were resolved on negativing beforehand everything that the other could possibly advance during the whole term of his life. 'Cavalletto! Give me your hand. You know Lagnier, the gentleman. Touch the hand of a gentleman!' Submitting himself to the old tone of condescending authority, John Baptist, not at all steady on his legs as yet, advanced and put his hand in his patron's. Monsieur Lagnier laughed; and having given it a squeeze, tossed it up and let it go. 'Then you were--' faltered John Baptist. 'Not shaved? No. See here!' cried Lagnier, giving his head a twirl; 'as tight on as your own.' John Baptist, with a slight shiver, looked all round the room as if to recall where he was. His patron took that opportunity of turning the key in the door, and then sat down upon his bed. 'Look!' he said, holding up his shoes and gaiters. 'That's a poor trim for a gentleman, you'll say. No matter, you shall see how soon I'll mend it. Come and sit down. Take your old place!' John Baptist, looking anything but reassured, sat down on the floor at the bedside, keeping his eyes upon his patron all the time. 'That's well!' cried Lagnier. 'Now we might be in the old infernal hole again, hey? How long have you been out?' 'Two days after you, my master.' 'How do you come here?' 'I was cautioned not to stay there, and so I left the town at once, and since then I have changed about. I have been doing odds and ends at Avignon, at Pont Esprit, at Lyons; upon the Rhone, upon the Saone.' As he spoke, he rapidly mapped the places out with his sunburnt hand upon the floor. 'And where are you going?' 'Going, my master?' 'Ay!' John Baptist seemed to desire to evade the question without knowing how. 'By Bacchus!' he said at last, as if he were forced to the admission, 'I have sometimes had a thought of going to Paris, and perhaps to England.' 'Cavalletto. This is in confidence. I also am going to Paris and perhaps to England. We'll go together.' The little man nodded his head, and showed his teeth; and yet seemed not quite convinced that it was a surpassingly desirable arrangement. 'We'll go together,' repeated Lagnier. 'You shall see how soon I will force myself to be recognised as a gentleman, and you shall profit by it. It is agreed? Are we one?' 'Oh, surely, surely!' said the little man. 'Then you shall hear before I sleep--and in six words, for I want sleep--how I appear before you, I, Lagnier. Remember that. Not the other.' 'Altro, altro! Not Ri----' Before John Baptist could finish the name, his comrade had got his hand under his chin and fiercely shut up his mouth. 'Death! what are you doing? Do you want me to be trampled upon and stoned? Do _you_ want to be trampled upon and stoned? You would be. You don't imagine that they would set upon me, and let my prison chum go? Don't think it!' There was an expression in his face as he released his grip of his friend's jaw, from which his friend inferred that if the course of events really came to any stoning and trampling, Monsieur Lagnier would so distinguish him with his notice as to ensure his having his full share of it. He remembered what a cosmopolitan gentleman Monsieur Lagnier was, and how few weak distinctions he made. 'I am a man,' said Monsieur Lagnier, 'whom society has deeply wronged since you last saw me. You know that I am sensitive and brave, and that it is my character to govern. How has society respected those qualities in me? I have been shrieked at through the streets. I have been guarded through the streets against men, and especially women, running at me armed with any weapons they could lay their hands on. I have lain in prison for security, with the place of my confinement kept a secret, lest I should be torn out of it and felled by a hundred blows. I have been carted out of Marseilles in the dead of night, and carried leagues away from it packed in straw. It has not been safe for me to go near my house; and, with a beggar's pittance in my pocket, I have walked through vile mud and weather ever since, until my feet are crippled--look at them! Such are the humiliations that society has inflicted upon me, possessing the qualities I have mentioned, and which you know me to possess. But society shall pay for it.' All this he said in his companion's ear, and with his hand before his lips. 'Even here,' he went on in the same way, 'even in this mean drinking-shop, society pursues me. Madame defames me, and her guests defame me. I, too, a gentleman with manners and accomplishments to strike them dead! But the wrongs society has heaped upon me are treasured in this breast.' To all of which John Baptist, listening attentively to the suppressed hoarse voice, said from time to time, 'Surely, surely!' tossing his head and shutting his eyes, as if there were the clearest case against society that perfect candour could make out. 'Put my shoes there,' continued Lagnier. 'Hang my cloak to dry there by the door. Take my hat.' He obeyed each instruction, as it was given. 'And this is the bed to which society consigns me, is it? Hah. _Very_ well!' As he stretched out his length upon it, with a ragged handkerchief bound round his wicked head, and only his wicked head showing above the bedclothes, John Baptist was rather strongly reminded of what had so very nearly happened to prevent the moustache from any more going up as it did, and the nose from any more coming down as it did. 'Shaken out of destiny's dice-box again into your company, eh? By Heaven! So much the better for you. You'll profit by it. I shall need a long rest. Let me sleep in the morning.' John Baptist replied that he should sleep as long as he would, and wishing him a happy night, put out the candle. One might have supposed that the next proceeding of the Italian would have been to undress; but he did exactly the reverse, and dressed himself from head to foot, saving his shoes. When he had so done, he lay down upon his bed with some of its coverings over him, and his coat still tied round his neck, to get through the night. Als er aufstand, lugte der Göttliche Morgentau gerade über den Horizont. Er erhob sich, nahm seine Schuhe in die Hand, drehte den Schlüssel vorsichtig im Schloss und schlich die Treppe hinunter. Dort regte sich nichts außer dem Geruch von Kaffee, Wein, Tabak und Sirup; und das kleine Ladentischchen der Dame sah schrecklich genug aus. Aber er hatte der Dame sein kleines Erfolgsversprechen schon gestern Abend bezahlt und wollte niemanden sehen - er wollte nichts weiter, als seine Schuhe und seinen Rucksack anzuziehen, die Tür zu öffnen und wegzulaufen. Er hatte Erfolg mit seinem Vorhaben. Keine Bewegung oder Stimme war zu hören, als er die Tür öffnete; kein böser Kopf, der in ein zerrissenes Taschentuch gewickelt aus dem oberen Fenster schaute. Als die Sonne ihre volle Scheibe über den flachen Horizont hob und Funken aus der langen matschigen Sicht auf die gepflasterte Straße mit ihrer müden Allee kleiner Bäume schlug, bewegte sich ein schwarzer Fleck entlang der Straße und spritzte in den brennenden Pfützen von Regenwasser, dieser schwarze Fleck war John Baptist Cavalletto, der von seinem Patron weglief. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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Ein Reisender betritt eine Landgaststätte in Frankreich. In der Gaststätte sprechen die Wirtin und einige Kunden über Rigauds Fall - den Zeitungen zufolge wurde er freigesprochen und entlassen. Jemand bringt die Idee der "philosophischen Philanthropie" zur Sprache - die Idee, dass es keinen Unterschied zwischen moralisch guten und schlechten Handlungen oder Menschen gibt, sondern dass Handlungen und Menschen danach beurteilt werden sollten, ob sie das allgemeine Wohl der Menschheit steigern. Das ist ein sehr einfacher Maßstab, wie du dir vorstellen kannst. Es gibt nichts Subjektives daran, herauszufinden, woraus das Wohl aller Menschen besteht. Die Wirtin ist anderer Meinung und meint, dass einige Menschen böse sind und beseitigt werden müssen. Jedenfalls ist klar, dass der Reisende Rigaud ist, aber er identifiziert sich nicht. Aus dem Gespräch ist offensichtlich, dass er gerade so gerade noch der Lynchjustiz in Marseille entkommen ist. Er bekommt ein Bett für die Nacht, muss sich aber das Zimmer teilen. Als er nach oben geht, stellt er fest, dass sein Mitbewohner niemand anders als... Cavalletto ist! Von allen […] dieses verrückte Zufälle! Rigaud weckt Cavalletto auf, sagt, dass sein Name jetzt Lagnier ist und versucht, Cavalletto wieder zu seinem Diener zu machen. Als Anreiz droht Lagnier, allen zu erzählen, dass Cavalletto sein Zellengenosse war und dass sie beide gelyncht werden würden. Aber nur mit Drohungen zu arbeiten und keine Belohnungen anzubieten, ist eine schlechte Führungsstrategie, wie jeder Chef dir sagen wird. Rigaud/Lagnier geht schlafen. Cavalletto zieht sich an, wartet bis Lagnier schläft, schleicht dann aus der Tür und rennt so schnell wie möglich von der Gaststätte weg.

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. KAPELL II. Land in der Nähe von Dunsinane. [Hinein treten, mit Trommel und Farben, von Menteith, Caithness, Angus, Lennox und Soldaten.] MENTEITH. Die englische Streitmacht ist nahe, geführt von Malcolm, seinem Onkel Siward und dem guten Macduff. Vergeltung brennt in ihnen; für ihre liebsten Gründe würden sie den verletzten Mann zur blutigen und grimmigen Alarmbereitschaft aufrufen. ANGUS. Nahe Birnam Wood werden wir ihnen gut begegnen; auf diesem Weg kommen sie. CAITHNESS. Wer weiß, ob Donalbain bei seinem Bruder ist? LENNOX. Ganz sicher nicht, Herr, habe ich eine Liste aller Edelleute: Dort ist Siwards Sohn und viele unerfahrene Jünglinge, die jetzt schon ihre Männlichkeit bekunden. MENTEITH. Was tut der Tyrann? CAITHNESS. Groß Dunsinane befestigt er stark: Einige sagen, er ist verrückt; andere, die ihn weniger hassen, nennen es tapfere Wut: aber sicher ist, er kann seine aufgewühlte Sache nicht im Gürtel der Ordnung festzurren. ANGUS. Jetzt spürt er seine geheimen Morde an seinen Händen kleben; Jetzt tadeln ihn sein treuwidriger Glaubensbruch und seine fein ausgeklügelten Aufstände; Die, die er befehligt, bewegen sich nur im Gehorsam, nicht aus Liebe: Jetzt spürt er, wie seine Stellung sich schlaff um ihn herum anfühlt, wie der Umhang eines Riesen auf einem zwergenhaften Dieb. MENTEITH. Wer, dann, soll ihm die Schuld geben, dass seine geplagten Sinne zurückweichen und aufspringen, wenn alles, was in ihm ist, sich selbst verurteilt, dafür dort zu sein? CAITHNESS. Gut, marschieren wir weiter, um Gehorsam dorthin zu leisten, wo er wirklich gebührt: Begegnen wir dem Heilmittel für das kranke Gemeinwohl; Und mit ihm gießen wir, in die Reinigung unseres Landes, jeden Tropfen von uns. LENNOX. Oder so viel wie nötig ist, um die königliche Blume zu benetzen und das Unkraut zu ertränken. Machen wir uns auf unseren Marsch nach Birnam. [Marschierend ab.] Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Diese kurze Szene findet in der offenen Landschaft nahe Dunsinane statt und zeigt ein Bild vom bevorstehenden Kampf. Trommeln schlagen, Flaggen wehen und die schottischen Soldaten haben sich versammelt, um sich auf ihren Angriff gegen Macbeth vorzubereiten. Die englische Armee, angeführt von Malcolm, Macduff und Siward, ist in der Nähe. Angus, einer der schottischen Lords, sagt: "In der Nähe des Birnham Waldes werden wir ihnen begegnen", und erinnert an die letzte Prophezeiung der drei Hexen. Aus dem Gespräch unter den Herren in dieser Szene erfährt das Publikum, dass Donalbain seinem Bruder Malcolm noch nicht beigetreten ist. Die Lords diskutieren auch Macbeth. Obwohl der König seine Burg befestigt hat, hat er keine echten Unterstützer. Jeder weiß, dass er die Selbstkontrolle verloren hat und die meisten denken, dass er wahnsinnig geworden ist. Das Gespräch dreht sich dann um den Kampf und die Säuberung Schottlands von seiner Krankheit. Sie sind alle begierig zu kämpfen, "um Gehorsam zu geben, wo er wirklich gebührt". Als die Szene endet, machen sie sich auf den Weg zum Birnham Wald, um die Prophezeiung zu erfüllen.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: The next thing I remember is, waking up with a feeling as if I had had a frightful nightmare, and seeing before me a terrible red glare, crossed with thick black bars. I heard voices, too, speaking with a hollow sound, and as if muffled by a rush of wind or water: agitation, uncertainty, and an all-predominating sense of terror confused my faculties. Ere long, I became aware that some one was handling me; lifting me up and supporting me in a sitting posture, and that more tenderly than I had ever been raised or upheld before. I rested my head against a pillow or an arm, and felt easy. In five minutes more the cloud of bewilderment dissolved: I knew quite well that I was in my own bed, and that the red glare was the nursery fire. It was night: a candle burnt on the table; Bessie stood at the bed- foot with a basin in her hand, and a gentleman sat in a chair near my pillow, leaning over me. I felt an inexpressible relief, a soothing conviction of protection and security, when I knew that there was a stranger in the room, an individual not belonging to Gateshead, and not related to Mrs. Reed. Turning from Bessie (though her presence was far less obnoxious to me than that of Abbot, for instance, would have been), I scrutinised the face of the gentleman: I knew him; it was Mr. Lloyd, an apothecary, sometimes called in by Mrs. Reed when the servants were ailing: for herself and the children she employed a physician. "Well, who am I?" he asked. I pronounced his name, offering him at the same time my hand: he took it, smiling and saying, "We shall do very well by-and-by." Then he laid me down, and addressing Bessie, charged her to be very careful that I was not disturbed during the night. Having given some further directions, and intimates that he should call again the next day, he departed; to my grief: I felt so sheltered and befriended while he sat in the chair near my pillow; and as he closed the door after him, all the room darkened and my heart again sank: inexpressible sadness weighed it down. "Do you feel as if you should sleep, Miss?" asked Bessie, rather softly. Scarcely dared I answer her; for I feared the next sentence might be rough. "I will try." "Would you like to drink, or could you eat anything?" "No, thank you, Bessie." "Then I think I shall go to bed, for it is past twelve o'clock; but you may call me if you want anything in the night." Wonderful civility this! It emboldened me to ask a question. "Bessie, what is the matter with me? Am I ill?" "You fell sick, I suppose, in the red-room with crying; you'll be better soon, no doubt." Bessie went into the housemaid's apartment, which was near. I heard her say-- "Sarah, come and sleep with me in the nursery; I daren't for my life be alone with that poor child to-night: she might die; it's such a strange thing she should have that fit: I wonder if she saw anything. Missis was rather too hard." Sarah came back with her; they both went to bed; they were whispering together for half-an-hour before they fell asleep. I caught scraps of their conversation, from which I was able only too distinctly to infer the main subject discussed. "Something passed her, all dressed in white, and vanished"--"A great black dog behind him"--"Three loud raps on the chamber door"--"A light in the churchyard just over his grave," etc., etc. At last both slept: the fire and the candle went out. For me, the watches of that long night passed in ghastly wakefulness; strained by dread: such dread as children only can feel. No severe or prolonged bodily illness followed this incident of the red- room; it only gave my nerves a shock of which I feel the reverberation to this day. Yes, Mrs. Reed, to you I owe some fearful pangs of mental suffering, but I ought to forgive you, for you knew not what you did: while rending my heart-strings, you thought you were only uprooting my bad propensities. Next day, by noon, I was up and dressed, and sat wrapped in a shawl by the nursery hearth. I felt physically weak and broken down: but my worse ailment was an unutterable wretchedness of mind: a wretchedness which kept drawing from me silent tears; no sooner had I wiped one salt drop from my cheek than another followed. Yet, I thought, I ought to have been happy, for none of the Reeds were there, they were all gone out in the carriage with their mama. Abbot, too, was sewing in another room, and Bessie, as she moved hither and thither, putting away toys and arranging drawers, addressed to me every now and then a word of unwonted kindness. This state of things should have been to me a paradise of peace, accustomed as I was to a life of ceaseless reprimand and thankless fagging; but, in fact, my racked nerves were now in such a state that no calm could soothe, and no pleasure excite them agreeably. Bessie had been down into the kitchen, and she brought up with her a tart on a certain brightly painted china plate, whose bird of paradise, nestling in a wreath of convolvuli and rosebuds, had been wont to stir in me a most enthusiastic sense of admiration; and which plate I had often petitioned to be allowed to take in my hand in order to examine it more closely, but had always hitherto been deemed unworthy of such a privilege. This precious vessel was now placed on my knee, and I was cordially invited to eat the circlet of delicate pastry upon it. Vain favour! coming, like most other favours long deferred and often wished for, too late! I could not eat the tart; and the plumage of the bird, the tints of the flowers, seemed strangely faded: I put both plate and tart away. Bessie asked if I would have a book: the word _book_ acted as a transient stimulus, and I begged her to fetch Gulliver's Travels from the library. This book I had again and again perused with delight. I considered it a narrative of facts, and discovered in it a vein of interest deeper than what I found in fairy tales: for as to the elves, having sought them in vain among foxglove leaves and bells, under mushrooms and beneath the ground-ivy mantling old wall-nooks, I had at length made up my mind to the sad truth, that they were all gone out of England to some savage country where the woods were wilder and thicker, and the population more scant; whereas, Lilliput and Brobdignag being, in my creed, solid parts of the earth's surface, I doubted not that I might one day, by taking a long voyage, see with my own eyes the little fields, houses, and trees, the diminutive people, the tiny cows, sheep, and birds of the one realm; and the corn-fields forest-high, the mighty mastiffs, the monster cats, the tower-like men and women, of the other. Yet, when this cherished volume was now placed in my hand--when I turned over its leaves, and sought in its marvellous pictures the charm I had, till now, never failed to find--all was eerie and dreary; the giants were gaunt goblins, the pigmies malevolent and fearful imps, Gulliver a most desolate wanderer in most dread and dangerous regions. I closed the book, which I dared no longer peruse, and put it on the table, beside the untasted tart. Bessie had now finished dusting and tidying the room, and having washed her hands, she opened a certain little drawer, full of splendid shreds of silk and satin, and began making a new bonnet for Georgiana's doll. Meantime she sang: her song was-- "In the days when we went gipsying, A long time ago." I had often heard the song before, and always with lively delight; for Bessie had a sweet voice,--at least, I thought so. But now, though her voice was still sweet, I found in its melody an indescribable sadness. Sometimes, preoccupied with her work, she sang the refrain very low, very lingeringly; "A long time ago" came out like the saddest cadence of a funeral hymn. She passed into another ballad, this time a really doleful one. "My feet they are sore, and my limbs they are weary; Long is the way, and the mountains are wild; Soon will the twilight close moonless and dreary Over the path of the poor orphan child. Why did they send me so far and so lonely, Up where the moors spread and grey rocks are piled? Men are hard-hearted, and kind angels only Watch o'er the steps of a poor orphan child. Yet distant and soft the night breeze is blowing, Clouds there are none, and clear stars beam mild, God, in His mercy, protection is showing, Comfort and hope to the poor orphan child. Ev'n should I fall o'er the broken bridge passing, Or stray in the marshes, by false lights beguiled, Still will my Father, with promise and blessing, Take to His bosom the poor orphan child. There is a thought that for strength should avail me, Though both of shelter and kindred despoiled; Heaven is a home, and a rest will not fail me; God is a friend to the poor orphan child." "Come, Miss Jane, don't cry," said Bessie as she finished. She might as well have said to the fire, "don't burn!" but how could she divine the morbid suffering to which I was a prey? In the course of the morning Mr. Lloyd came again. "What, already up!" said he, as he entered the nursery. "Well, nurse, how is she?" Bessie answered that I was doing very well. "Then she ought to look more cheerful. Come here, Miss Jane: your name is Jane, is it not?" "Yes, sir, Jane Eyre." "Well, you have been crying, Miss Jane Eyre; can you tell me what about? Have you any pain?" "No, sir." "Oh! I daresay she is crying because she could not go out with Missis in the carriage," interposed Bessie. "Surely not! why, she is too old for such pettishness." I thought so too; and my self-esteem being wounded by the false charge, I answered promptly, "I never cried for such a thing in my life: I hate going out in the carriage. I cry because I am miserable." "Oh fie, Miss!" said Bessie. The good apothecary appeared a little puzzled. I was standing before him; he fixed his eyes on me very steadily: his eyes were small and grey; not very bright, but I dare say I should think them shrewd now: he had a hard-featured yet good-natured looking face. Having considered me at leisure, he said-- "What made you ill yesterday?" "She had a fall," said Bessie, again putting in her word. "Fall! why, that is like a baby again! Can't she manage to walk at her age? She must be eight or nine years old." "I was knocked down," was the blunt explanation, jerked out of me by another pang of mortified pride; "but that did not make me ill," I added; while Mr. Lloyd helped himself to a pinch of snuff. As he was returning the box to his waistcoat pocket, a loud bell rang for the servants' dinner; he knew what it was. "That's for you, nurse," said he; "you can go down; I'll give Miss Jane a lecture till you come back." Bessie would rather have stayed, but she was obliged to go, because punctuality at meals was rigidly enforced at Gateshead Hall. "The fall did not make you ill; what did, then?" pursued Mr. Lloyd when Bessie was gone. "I was shut up in a room where there is a ghost till after dark." I saw Mr. Lloyd smile and frown at the same time. "Ghost! What, you are a baby after all! You are afraid of ghosts?" "Of Mr. Reed's ghost I am: he died in that room, and was laid out there. Neither Bessie nor any one else will go into it at night, if they can help it; and it was cruel to shut me up alone without a candle,--so cruel that I think I shall never forget it." "Nonsense! And is it that makes you so miserable? Are you afraid now in daylight?" "No: but night will come again before long: and besides,--I am unhappy,--very unhappy, for other things." "What other things? Can you tell me some of them?" How much I wished to reply fully to this question! How difficult it was to frame any answer! Children can feel, but they cannot analyse their feelings; and if the analysis is partially effected in thought, they know not how to express the result of the process in words. Fearful, however, of losing this first and only opportunity of relieving my grief by imparting it, I, after a disturbed pause, contrived to frame a meagre, though, as far as it went, true response. "For one thing, I have no father or mother, brothers or sisters." "You have a kind aunt and cousins." Again I paused; then bunglingly enounced-- "But John Reed knocked me down, and my aunt shut me up in the red-room." Mr. Lloyd a second time produced his snuff-box. "Don't you think Gateshead Hall a very beautiful house?" asked he. "Are you not very thankful to have such a fine place to live at?" "It is not my house, sir; and Abbot says I have less right to be here than a servant." "Pooh! you can't be silly enough to wish to leave such a splendid place?" "If I had anywhere else to go, I should be glad to leave it; but I can never get away from Gateshead till I am a woman." "Perhaps you may--who knows? Have you any relations besides Mrs. Reed?" "I think not, sir." "None belonging to your father?" "I don't know. I asked Aunt Reed once, and she said possibly I might have some poor, low relations called Eyre, but she knew nothing about them." "If you had such, would you like to go to them?" I reflected. Poverty looks grim to grown people; still more so to children: they have not much idea of industrious, working, respectable poverty; they think of the word only as connected with ragged clothes, scanty food, fireless grates, rude manners, and debasing vices: poverty for me was synonymous with degradation. "No; I should not like to belong to poor people," was my reply. "Not even if they were kind to you?" I shook my head: I could not see how poor people had the means of being kind; and then to learn to speak like them, to adopt their manners, to be uneducated, to grow up like one of the poor women I saw sometimes nursing their children or washing their clothes at the cottage doors of the village of Gateshead: no, I was not heroic enough to purchase liberty at the price of caste. "But are your relatives so very poor? Are they working people?" "I cannot tell; Aunt Reed says if I have any, they must be a beggarly set: I should not like to go a begging." "Would you like to go to school?" Again I reflected: I scarcely knew what school was: Bessie sometimes spoke of it as a place where young ladies sat in the stocks, wore backboards, and were expected to be exceedingly genteel and precise: John Reed hated his school, and abused his master; but John Reed's tastes were no rule for mine, and if Bessie's accounts of school-discipline (gathered from the young ladies of a family where she had lived before coming to Gateshead) were somewhat appalling, her details of certain accomplishments attained by these same young ladies were, I thought, equally attractive. She boasted of beautiful paintings of landscapes and flowers by them executed; of songs they could sing and pieces they could play, of purses they could net, of French books they could translate; till my spirit was moved to emulation as I listened. Besides, school would be a complete change: it implied a long journey, an entire separation from Gateshead, an entrance into a new life. "I should indeed like to go to school," was the audible conclusion of my musings. "Well, well! who knows what may happen?" said Mr. Lloyd, as he got up. "The child ought to have change of air and scene," he added, speaking to himself; "nerves not in a good state." Bessie now returned; at the same moment the carriage was heard rolling up the gravel-walk. "Is that your mistress, nurse?" asked Mr. Lloyd. "I should like to speak to her before I go." Bessie invited him to walk into the breakfast-room, and led the way out. In the interview which followed between him and Mrs. Reed, I presume, from after-occurrences, that the apothecary ventured to recommend my being sent to school; and the recommendation was no doubt readily enough adopted; for as Abbot said, in discussing the subject with Bessie when both sat sewing in the nursery one night, after I was in bed, and, as they thought, asleep, "Missis was, she dared say, glad enough to get rid of such a tiresome, ill-conditioned child, who always looked as if she were watching everybody, and scheming plots underhand." Abbot, I think, gave me credit for being a sort of infantine Guy Fawkes. On that same occasion I learned, for the first time, from Miss Abbot's communications to Bessie, that my father had been a poor clergyman; that my mother had married him against the wishes of her friends, who considered the match beneath her; that my grandfather Reed was so irritated at her disobedience, he cut her off without a shilling; that after my mother and father had been married a year, the latter caught the typhus fever while visiting among the poor of a large manufacturing town where his curacy was situated, and where that disease was then prevalent: that my mother took the infection from him, and both died within a month of each other. Bessie, when she heard this narrative, sighed and said, "Poor Miss Jane is to be pitied, too, Abbot." "Yes," responded Abbot; "if she were a nice, pretty child, one might compassionate her forlornness; but one really cannot care for such a little toad as that." "Not a great deal, to be sure," agreed Bessie: "at any rate, a beauty like Miss Georgiana would be more moving in the same condition." "Yes, I doat on Miss Georgiana!" cried the fervent Abbot. "Little darling!--with her long curls and her blue eyes, and such a sweet colour as she has; just as if she were painted!--Bessie, I could fancy a Welsh rabbit for supper." "So could I--with a roast onion. Come, we'll go down." They went. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben stehenden Absätze schreiben?

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

Beim Erwachen ist Jane erleichtert, Bessie und den Apotheker, Herrn Lloyd, bei sich zu haben. Allerdings verlässt Herr Lloyd bald das Zimmer und Bessie erzählt ihr, dass sie krank vor Weinen im roten Zimmer gewesen sei. In dieser Nacht bleibt Jane, während Bessie und Sarah schlafen, in schrecklichem Wachsein. Am nächsten Tag, obwohl es Jane besser geht, sind ihre Nerven in einem schrecklichen Zustand. Sie findet sich alleine mit Bessie wieder, nachdem die Reeds mit ihrer Kutsche weggefahren sind. Bessie bietet ihr einen Kuchen auf einem bunt bemalten Porzellanteller an, aber Jane kann nichts essen. Bessie fragt, ob sie ein Buch möchte und Jane wählt Gullivers Reisen, aber die Bilder, die sie einst bezaubert haben, erscheinen ihr jetzt beängstigend. Als Bessie singt, findet Jane in der Melodie eine unbeschreibliche Traurigkeit, vergleichbar mit dem Elend ihres eigenen Geistes. Als der Apotheker wieder kommt, will er den Grund für Janes niedergeschlagene Stimmung wissen und erfährt von ihr von den Ereignissen, die ihre Nerven belastet haben. Als Jane gesteht, dass sie niemanden hat, der sie in Gateshead liebt, fragt Herr Lloyd sie, ob sie lieber bei Verwandten ihres Vaters leben möchte. Jane lehnt das Angebot ab, weil sie arm sind und nicht sieht, wie arme Menschen noch mehr Abhängige unterstützen können. Herr Lloyd empfiehlt schließlich, sie in die Schule zu schicken. Das scheint für Frau Reed mehr als akzeptabel zu sein. Aus Gesprächen zwischen Miss Abbot und Bessie erfährt Jane einige Informationen über ihre Eltern. Ihre Mutter hat ihren Großvater Reed beleidigt, indem sie einen armen Geistlichen geheiratet hat, und als Folge wurde sie ohne Erbe gelassen. Sie erfährt auch, dass ihre Eltern, von ihrer Familie vernachlässigt, an Typhusfieber gestorben sind.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: <CHAPTER> BOOK THREE -- THE FASCINATION 1--"My Mind to Me a Kingdom Is" In Clym Yeobright's face could be dimly seen the typical countenance of the future. Should there be a classic period to art hereafter, its Pheidias may produce such faces. The view of life as a thing to be put up with, replacing that zest for existence which was so intense in early civilizations, must ultimately enter so thoroughly into the constitution of the advanced races that its facial expression will become accepted as a new artistic departure. People already feel that a man who lives without disturbing a curve of feature, or setting a mark of mental concern anywhere upon himself, is too far removed from modern perceptiveness to be a modern type. Physically beautiful men--the glory of the race when it was young--are almost an anachronism now; and we may wonder whether, at some time or other, physically beautiful women may not be an anachronism likewise. The truth seems to be that a long line of disillusive centuries has permanently displaced the Hellenic idea of life, or whatever it may be called. What the Greeks only suspected we know well; what their Aeschylus imagined our nursery children feel. That old-fashioned revelling in the general situation grows less and less possible as we uncover the defects of natural laws, and see the quandary that man is in by their operation. The lineaments which will get embodied in ideals based upon this new recognition will probably be akin to those of Yeobright. The observer's eye was arrested, not by his face as a picture, but by his face as a page; not by what it was, but by what it recorded. His features were attractive in the light of symbols, as sounds intrinsically common become attractive in language, and as shapes intrinsically simple become interesting in writing. He had been a lad of whom something was expected. Beyond this all had been chaos. That he would be successful in an original way, or that he would go to the dogs in an original way, seemed equally probable. The only absolute certainty about him was that he would not stand still in the circumstances amid which he was born. Hence, when his name was casually mentioned by neighbouring yeomen, the listener said, "Ah, Clym Yeobright--what is he doing now?" When the instinctive question about a person is, What is he doing? it is felt that he will be found to be, like most of us, doing nothing in particular. There is an indefinite sense that he must be invading some region of singularity, good or bad. The devout hope is that he is doing well. The secret faith is that he is making a mess of it. Half a dozen comfortable market-men, who were habitual callers at the Quiet Woman as they passed by in their carts, were partial to the topic. In fact, though they were not Egdon men, they could hardly avoid it while they sucked their long clay tubes and regarded the heath through the window. Clym had been so inwoven with the heath in his boyhood that hardly anybody could look upon it without thinking of him. So the subject recurred: if he were making a fortune and a name, so much the better for him; if he were making a tragical figure in the world, so much the better for a narrative. The fact was that Yeobright's fame had spread to an awkward extent before he left home. "It is bad when your fame outruns your means," said the Spanish Jesuit Gracian. At the age of six he had asked a Scripture riddle: "Who was the first man known to wear breeches?" and applause had resounded from the very verge of the heath. At seven he painted the Battle of Waterloo with tiger-lily pollen and black-currant juice, in the absence of water-colours. By the time he reached twelve he had in this manner been heard of as artist and scholar for at least two miles round. An individual whose fame spreads three or four thousand yards in the time taken by the fame of others similarly situated to travel six or eight hundred, must of necessity have something in him. Possibly Clym's fame, like Homer's, owed something to the accidents of his situation; nevertheless famous he was. He grew up and was helped out in life. That waggery of fate which started Clive as a writing clerk, Gay as a linen-draper, Keats as a surgeon, and a thousand others in a thousand other odd ways, banished the wild and ascetic heath lad to a trade whose sole concern was with the especial symbols of self-indulgence and vainglory. The details of this choice of a business for him it is not necessary to give. At the death of his father a neighbouring gentleman had kindly undertaken to give the boy a start, and this assumed the form of sending him to Budmouth. Yeobright did not wish to go there, but it was the only feasible opening. Thence he went to London; and thence, shortly after, to Paris, where he had remained till now. Something being expected of him, he had not been at home many days before a great curiosity as to why he stayed on so long began to arise in the heath. The natural term of a holiday had passed, yet he still remained. On the Sunday morning following the week of Thomasin's marriage a discussion on this subject was in progress at a hair-cutting before Fairway's house. Here the local barbering was always done at this hour on this day, to be followed by the great Sunday wash of the inhabitants at noon, which in its turn was followed by the great Sunday dressing an hour later. On Egdon Heath Sunday proper did not begin till dinner-time, and even then it was a somewhat battered specimen of the day. These Sunday-morning hair-cuttings were performed by Fairway; the victim sitting on a chopping-block in front of the house, without a coat, and the neighbours gossiping around, idly observing the locks of hair as they rose upon the wind after the snip, and flew away out of sight to the four quarters of the heavens. Summer and winter the scene was the same, unless the wind were more than usually blusterous, when the stool was shifted a few feet round the corner. To complain of cold in sitting out of doors, hatless and coatless, while Fairway told true stories between the cuts of the scissors, would have been to pronounce yourself no man at once. To flinch, exclaim, or move a muscle of the face at the small stabs under the ear received from those instruments, or at scarifications of the neck by the comb, would have been thought a gross breach of good manners, considering that Fairway did it all for nothing. A bleeding about the poll on Sunday afternoons was amply accounted for by the explanation. "I have had my hair cut, you know." The conversation on Yeobright had been started by a distant view of the young man rambling leisurely across the heath before them. "A man who is doing well elsewhere wouldn't bide here two or three weeks for nothing," said Fairway. "He's got some project in 's head--depend upon that." "Well, 'a can't keep a diment shop here," said Sam. "I don't see why he should have had them two heavy boxes home if he had not been going to bide; and what there is for him to do here the Lord in heaven knows." Before many more surmises could be indulged in Yeobright had come near; and seeing the hair-cutting group he turned aside to join them. Marching up, and looking critically at their faces for a moment, he said, without introduction, "Now, folks, let me guess what you have been talking about." "Ay, sure, if you will," said Sam. "About me." "Now, it is a thing I shouldn't have dreamed of doing, otherwise," said Fairway in a tone of integrity; "but since you have named it, Master Yeobright, I'll own that we was talking about 'ee. We were wondering what could keep you home here mollyhorning about when you have made such a world-wide name for yourself in the nick-nack trade--now, that's the truth o't." "I'll tell you," said Yeobright with unexpected earnestness. "I am not sorry to have the opportunity. I've come home because, all things considered, I can be a trifle less useless here than anywhere else. But I have only lately found this out. When I first got away from home I thought this place was not worth troubling about. I thought our life here was contemptible. To oil your boots instead of blacking them, to dust your coat with a switch instead of a brush--was there ever anything more ridiculous? I said." "So 'tis; so 'tis!" "No, no--you are wrong; it isn't." "Beg your pardon, we thought that was your meaning?" "Well, as my views changed my course became very depressing. I found that I was trying to be like people who had hardly anything in common with myself. I was endeavouring to put off one sort of life for another sort of life, which was not better than the life I had known before. It was simply different." "True; a sight different," said Fairway. "Yes, Paris must be a taking place," said Humphrey. "Grand shop-winders, trumpets, and drums; and here be we out of doors in all winds and weathers--" "But you mistake me," pleaded Clym. "All this was very depressing. But not so depressing as something I next perceived--that my business was the idlest, vainest, most effeminate business that ever a man could be put to. That decided me--I would give it up and try to follow some rational occupation among the people I knew best, and to whom I could be of most use. I have come home; and this is how I mean to carry out my plan. I shall keep a school as near to Egdon as possible, so as to be able to walk over here and have a night-school in my mother's house. But I must study a little at first, to get properly qualified. Now, neighbours, I must go." And Clym resumed his walk across the heath. "He'll never carry it out in the world," said Fairway. "In a few weeks he'll learn to see things otherwise." "'Tis good-hearted of the young man," said another. "But, for my part, I think he had better mind his business." </CHAPTER> <CHAPTER> 2--The New Course Causes Disappointment Yeobright loved his kind. He had a conviction that the want of most men was knowledge of a sort which brings wisdom rather than affluence. He wished to raise the class at the expense of individuals rather than individuals at the expense of the class. What was more, he was ready at once to be the first unit sacrificed. In passing from the bucolic to the intellectual life the intermediate stages are usually two at least, frequently many more; and one of those stages is almost sure to be worldly advanced. We can hardly imagine bucolic placidity quickening to intellectual aims without imagining social aims as the transitional phase. Yeobright's local peculiarity was that in striving at high thinking he still cleaved to plain living--nay, wild and meagre living in many respects, and brotherliness with clowns. He was a John the Baptist who took ennoblement rather than repentance for his text. Mentally he was in a provincial future, that is, he was in many points abreast with the central town thinkers of his date. Much of this development he may have owed to his studious life in Paris, where he had become acquainted with ethical systems popular at the time. In consequence of this relatively advanced position, Yeobright might have been called unfortunate. The rural world was not ripe for him. A man should be only partially before his time--to be completely to the vanward in aspirations is fatal to fame. Had Philip's warlike son been intellectually so far ahead as to have attempted civilization without bloodshed, he would have been twice the godlike hero that he seemed, but nobody would have heard of an Alexander. In the interests of renown the forwardness should lie chiefly in the capacity to handle things. Successful propagandists have succeeded because the doctrine they bring into form is that which their listeners have for some time felt without being able to shape. A man who advocates aesthetic effort and deprecates social effort is only likely to be understood by a class to which social effort has become a stale matter. To argue upon the possibility of culture before luxury to the bucolic world may be to argue truly, but it is an attempt to disturb a sequence to which humanity has been long accustomed. Yeobright preaching to the Egdon eremites that they might rise to a serene comprehensiveness without going through the process of enriching themselves was not unlike arguing to ancient Chaldeans that in ascending from earth to the pure empyrean it was not necessary to pass first into the intervening heaven of ether. Was Yeobright's mind well-proportioned? No. A well proportioned mind is one which shows no particular bias; one of which we may safely say that it will never cause its owner to be confined as a madman, tortured as a heretic, or crucified as a blasphemer. Also, on the other hand, that it will never cause him to be applauded as a prophet, revered as a priest, or exalted as a king. Its usual blessings are happiness and mediocrity. It produces the poetry of Rogers, the paintings of West, the statecraft of North, the spiritual guidance of Tomline; enabling its possessors to find their way to wealth, to wind up well, to step with dignity off the stage, to die comfortably in their beds, and to get the decent monument which, in many cases, they deserve. It never would have allowed Yeobright to do such a ridiculous thing as throw up his business to benefit his fellow-creatures. He walked along towards home without attending to paths. If anyone knew the heath well it was Clym. He was permeated with its scenes, with its substance, and with its odours. He might be said to be its product. His eyes had first opened thereon; with its appearance all the first images of his memory were mingled, his estimate of life had been coloured by it: his toys had been the flint knives and arrow-heads which he found there, wondering why stones should "grow" to such odd shapes; his flowers, the purple bells and yellow furze: his animal kingdom, the snakes and croppers; his society, its human haunters. Take all the varying hates felt by Eustacia Vye towards the heath, and translate them into loves, and you have the heart of Clym. He gazed upon the wide prospect as he walked, and was glad. To many persons this Egdon was a place which had slipped out of its century generations ago, to intrude as an uncouth object into this. It was an obsolete thing, and few cared to study it. How could this be otherwise in the days of square fields, plashed hedges, and meadows watered on a plan so rectangular that on a fine day they looked like silver gridirons? The farmer, in his ride, who could smile at artificial grasses, look with solicitude at the coming corn, and sigh with sadness at the fly-eaten turnips, bestowed upon the distant upland of heath nothing better than a frown. But as for Yeobright, when he looked from the heights on his way he could not help indulging in a barbarous satisfaction at observing that, in some of the attempts at reclamation from the waste, tillage, after holding on for a year or two, had receded again in despair, the ferns and furze-tufts stubbornly reasserting themselves. He descended into the valley, and soon reached his home at Blooms-End. His mother was snipping dead leaves from the window-plants. She looked up at him as if she did not understand the meaning of his long stay with her; her face had worn that look for several days. He could perceive that the curiosity which had been shown by the hair-cutting group amounted in his mother to concern. But she had asked no question with her lips, even when the arrival of his trunk suggested that he was not going to leave her soon. Her silence besought an explanation of him more loudly than words. "I am not going back to Paris again, Mother," he said. "At least, in my old capacity. I have given up the business." Mrs. Yeobright turned in pained surprise. "I thought something was amiss, because of the boxes. I wonder you did not tell me sooner." "I ought to have done it. But I have been in doubt whether you would be pleased with my plan. I was not quite clear on a few points myself. I am going to take an entirely new course." "I am astonished, Clym. How can you want to do better than you've been doing?" "Very easily. But I shall not do better in the way you mean; I suppose it will be called doing worse. But I hate that business of mine, and I want to do some worthy thing before I die. As a schoolmaster I think to do it--a school-master to the poor and ignorant, to teach them what nobody else will." "After all the trouble that has been taken to give you a start, and when there is nothing to do but to keep straight on towards affluence, you say you will be a poor man's schoolmaster. Your fancies will be your ruin, Clym." Mrs. Yeobright spoke calmly, but the force of feeling behind the words was but too apparent to one who knew her as well as her son did. He did not answer. There was in his face that hopelessness of being understood which comes when the objector is constitutionally beyond the reach of a logic that, even under favouring conditions, is almost too coarse a vehicle for the subtlety of the argument. No more was said on the subject till the end of dinner. His mother then began, as if there had been no interval since the morning. "It disturbs me, Clym, to find that you have come home with such thoughts as those. I hadn't the least idea that you meant to go backward in the world by your own free choice. Of course, I have always supposed you were going to push straight on, as other men do--all who deserve the name--when they have been put in a good way of doing well." "I cannot help it," said Clym, in a troubled tone. "Mother, I hate the flashy business. Talk about men who deserve the name, can any man deserving the name waste his time in that effeminate way, when he sees half the world going to ruin for want of somebody to buckle to and teach them how to breast the misery they are born to? I get up every morning and see the whole creation groaning and travailing in pain, as St. Paul says, and yet there am I, trafficking in glittering splendours with wealthy women and titled libertines, and pandering to the meanest vanities--I, who have health and strength enough for anything. I have been troubled in my mind about it all the year, and the end is that I cannot do it any more." "Why can't you do it as well as others?" "I don't know, except that there are many things other people care for which I don't; and that's partly why I think I ought to do this. For one thing, my body does not require much of me. I cannot enjoy delicacies; good things are wasted upon me. Well, I ought to turn that defect to advantage, and by being able to do without what other people require I can spend what such things cost upon anybody else." Now, Yeobright, having inherited some of these very instincts from the woman before him, could not fail to awaken a reciprocity in her through her feelings, if not by arguments, disguise it as she might for his good. She spoke with less assurance. "And yet you might have been a wealthy man if you had only persevered. Manager to that large diamond establishment--what better can a man wish for? What a post of trust and respect! I suppose you will be like your father; like him, you are getting weary of doing well." "No," said her son, "I am not weary of that, though I am weary of what you mean by it. Mother, what is doing well?" Mrs. Yeobright was far too thoughtful a woman to be content with ready definitions, and, like the "What is wisdom?" of Plato's Socrates, and the "What is truth?" of Pontius Pilate, Yeobright's burning question received no answer. The silence was broken by the clash of the garden gate, a tap at the door, and its opening. Christian Cantle appeared in the room in his Sunday clothes. It was the custom on Egdon to begin the preface to a story before absolutely entering the house, so as to be well in for the body of the narrative by the time visitor and visited stood face to face. Christian had been saying to them while the door was leaving its latch, "To think that I, who go from home but once in a while, and hardly then, should have been there this morning!" "'Tis news you have brought us, then, Christian?" said Mrs. Yeobright. "Ay, sure, about a witch, and ye must overlook my time o' day; for, says I, 'I must go and tell 'em, though they won't have half done dinner.' I assure ye it made me shake like a driven leaf. Do ye think any harm will come o't?" "Well--what?" "This morning at church we was all standing up, and the pa'son said, 'Let us pray.' 'Well,' thinks I, 'one may as well kneel as stand'; so down I went; and, more than that, all the rest were as willing to oblige the man as I. We hadn't been hard at it for more than a minute when a most terrible screech sounded through church, as if somebody had just gied up their heart's blood. All the folk jumped up and then we found that Susan Nunsuch had pricked Miss Vye with a long stocking-needle, as she had threatened to do as soon as ever she could get the young lady to church, where she don't come very often. She've waited for this chance for weeks, so as to draw her blood and put an end to the bewitching of Susan's children that has been carried on so long. Sue followed her into church, sat next to her, and as soon as she could find a chance in went the stocking-needle into my lady's arm." "Good heaven, how horrid!" said Mrs. Yeobright. "Sue pricked her that deep that the maid fainted away; and as I was afeard there might be some tumult among us, I got behind the bass viol and didn't see no more. But they carried her out into the air, 'tis said; but when they looked round for Sue she was gone. What a scream that girl gied, poor thing! There were the pa'son in his surplice holding up his hand and saying, 'Sit down, my good people, sit down!' But the deuce a bit would they sit down. O, and what d'ye think I found out, Mrs. Yeobright? The pa'son wears a suit of clothes under his surplice!--I could see his black sleeves when he held up his arm." "'Tis a cruel thing," said Yeobright. "Yes," said his mother. "The nation ought to look into it," said Christian. "Here's Humphrey coming, I think." In came Humphrey. "Well, have ye heard the news? But I see you have. 'Tis a very strange thing that whenever one of Egdon folk goes to church some rum job or other is sure to be doing. The last time one of us was there was when neighbour Fairway went in the fall; and that was the day you forbad the banns, Mrs. Yeobright." "Has this cruelly treated girl been able to walk home?" said Clym. "They say she got better, and went home very well. And now I've told it I must be moving homeward myself." "And I," said Humphrey. "Truly now we shall see if there's anything in what folks say about her." When they were gone into the heath again Yeobright said quietly to his mother, "Do you think I have turned teacher too soon?" "It is right that there should be schoolmasters, and missionaries, and all such men," she replied. "But it is right, too, that I should try to lift you out of this life into something richer, and that you should not come back again, and be as if I had not tried at all." Later in the day Sam, the turf-cutter, entered. "I've come a-borrowing, Mrs. Yeobright. I suppose you have heard what's been happening to the beauty on the hill?" "Yes, Sam: half a dozen have been telling us." "Beauty?" said Clym. "Yes, tolerably well-favoured," Sam replied. "Lord! all the country owns that 'tis one of the strangest things in the world that such a woman should have come to live up there." "Dark or fair?" "Now, though I've seen her twenty times, that's a thing I cannot call to mind." "Darker than Tamsin," murmured Mrs. Yeobright. "A woman who seems to care for nothing at all, as you may say." "She is melancholy, then?" inquired Clym. "She mopes about by herself, and don't mix in with the people." "Is she a young lady inclined for adventures?" "Not to my knowledge." "Doesn't join in with the lads in their games, to get some sort of excitement in this lonely place?" "No." "Mumming, for instance?" "No. Her notions be different. I should rather say her thoughts were far away from here, with lords and ladies she'll never know, and mansions she'll never see again." Observing that Clym appeared singularly interested Mrs. Yeobright said rather uneasily to Sam, "You see more in her than most of us do. Miss Vye is to my mind too idle to be charming. I have never heard that she is of any use to herself or to other people. Good girls don't get treated as witches even on Egdon." "Nonsense--that proves nothing either way," said Yeobright. "Well, of course I don't understand such niceties," said Sam, withdrawing from a possibly unpleasant argument; "and what she is we must wait for time to tell us. The business that I have really called about is this, to borrow the longest and strongest rope you have. The captain's bucket has dropped into the well, and they are in want of water; and as all the chaps are at home today we think we can get it out for him. We have three cart-ropes already, but they won't reach to the bottom." Mrs. Yeobright told him that he might have whatever ropes he could find in the outhouse, and Sam went out to search. When he passed by the door Clym joined him, and accompanied him to the gate. "Is this young witch-lady going to stay long at Mistover?" he asked. "I should say so." "What a cruel shame to ill-use her, She must have suffered greatly--more in mind than in body." "'Twas a graceless trick--such a handsome girl, too. You ought to see her, Mr. Yeobright, being a young man come from far, and with a little more to show for your years than most of us." "Do you think she would like to teach children?" said Clym. Sam shook his head. "Quite a different sort of body from that, I reckon." "O, it was merely something which occurred to me. It would of course be necessary to see her and talk it over--not an easy thing, by the way, for my family and hers are not very friendly." "I'll tell you how you mid see her, Mr. Yeobright," said Sam. "We are going to grapple for the bucket at six o'clock tonight at her house, and you could lend a hand. There's five or six coming, but the well is deep, and another might be useful, if you don't mind appearing in that shape. She's sure to be walking round." "I'll think of it," said Yeobright; and they parted. He thought of it a good deal; but nothing more was said about Eustacia inside the house at that time. Whether this romantic martyr to superstition and the melancholy mummer he had conversed with under the full moon were one and the same person remained as yet a problem. </CHAPTER> Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Die Bewohner der Heide sind stolz darauf, jemanden wie Clym Yeobright in ihrer Nachbarschaft zu haben. Er war ein begabter Junge mit beeindruckendem Talent, und seine Karriere als Manager eines Diamanthändlers in Paris beeindruckt sie. Als er beim Haare schneiden in Fairways vorbeikommt und verkündet, dass er gerne auf der Egdon Heath bleiben und Lehrer werden möchte, glaubt ihm niemand. Seine Mutter ist besonders schockiert von seiner Entscheidung und versucht, ihn davon zu überzeugen, dass es eine dumme Entscheidung ist. Als er versucht, seine Gründe zu erklären, wird er von einem hysterischen Christian Cantle unterbrochen, der berichtet, wie Eustacia Vye von Susan Nunsuch in den Arm gestochen wurde. Susan hat sie schon lange verdächtigt, eine Hexe zu sein und ihre Kinder zu verzaubern. Clyms Neugierde für Eustacia ist geweckt, und er fragt sich, ob sie die gleiche Frau ist, die sich als Türkischer Ritter verkleidet hatte an dem Tag, an dem die Party bei ihm zuhause stattfand. Sam, der ebenfalls anwesend ist, deutet hilfreich an, dass Clym Eustacia sehen könnte, wenn er mit ihnen zu Captain Vyes Haus kommt. Sam muss noch am selben Tag dorthin gehen, um zusammen mit einigen anderen Männern einen Eimer aus dem Brunnen zu holen, der hineingefallen 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: I TOLD Antonia I would come back, but life intervened, and it was twenty years before I kept my promise. I heard of her from time to time; that she married, very soon after I last saw her, a young Bohemian, a cousin of Anton Jelinek; that they were poor, and had a large family. Once when I was abroad I went into Bohemia, and from Prague I sent Antonia some photographs of her native village. Months afterward came a letter from her, telling me the names and ages of her many children, but little else; signed, "Your old friend, Antonia Cuzak." When I met Tiny Soderball in Salt Lake, she told me that Antonia had not "done very well"; that her husband was not a man of much force, and she had had a hard life. Perhaps it was cowardice that kept me away so long. My business took me West several times every year, and it was always in the back of my mind that I would stop in Nebraska some day and go to see Antonia. But I kept putting it off until the next trip. I did not want to find her aged and broken; I really dreaded it. In the course of twenty crowded years one parts with many illusions. I did not wish to lose the early ones. Some memories are realities, and are better than anything that can ever happen to one again. I owe it to Lena Lingard that I went to see Antonia at last. I was in San Francisco two summers ago when both Lena and Tiny Soderball were in town. Tiny lives in a house of her own, and Lena's shop is in an apartment house just around the corner. It interested me, after so many years, to see the two women together. Tiny audits Lena's accounts occasionally, and invests her money for her; and Lena, apparently, takes care that Tiny does n't grow too miserly. "If there's anything I can't stand," she said to me in Tiny's presence, "it's a shabby rich woman." Tiny smiled grimly and assured me that Lena would never be either shabby or rich. "And I don't want to be," the other agreed complacently. Lena gave me a cheerful account of Antonia and urged me to make her a visit. "You really ought to go, Jim. It would be such a satisfaction to her. Never mind what Tiny says. There's nothing the matter with Cuzak. You'd like him. He is n't a hustler, but a rough man would never have suited Tony. Tony has nice children--ten or eleven of them by this time, I guess. I should n't care for a family of that size myself, but somehow it's just right for Tony. She'd love to show them to you." On my way East I broke my journey at Hastings, in Nebraska, and set off with an open buggy and a fairly good livery team to find the Cuzak farm. At a little past midday, I knew I must be nearing my destination. Set back on a swell of land at my right, I saw a wide farmhouse, with a red barn and an ash grove, and cattle yards in front that sloped down to the high road. I drew up my horses and was wondering whether I should drive in here, when I heard low voices. Ahead of me, in a plum thicket beside the road, I saw two boys bending over a dead dog. The little one, not more than four or five, was on his knees, his hands folded, and his close-clipped, bare head drooping forward in deep dejection. The other stood beside him, a hand on his shoulder, and was comforting him in a language I had not heard for a long while. When I stopped my horses opposite them, the older boy took his brother by the hand and came toward me. He, too, looked grave. This was evidently a sad afternoon for them. "Are you Mrs. Cuzak's boys?" I asked. The younger one did not look up; he was submerged in his own feelings, but his brother met me with intelligent gray eyes. "Yes, sir." "Does she live up there on the hill? I am going to see her. Get in and ride up with me." He glanced at his reluctant little brother. "I guess we'd better walk. But we'll open the gate for you." I drove along the side-road and they followed slowly behind. When I pulled up at the windmill, another boy, barefooted and curly-headed, ran out of the barn to tie my team for me. He was a handsome one, this chap, fair-skinned and freckled, with red cheeks and a ruddy pelt as thick as a lamb's wool, growing down on his neck in little tufts. He tied my team with two flourishes of his hands, and nodded when I asked him if his mother was at home. As he glanced at me, his face dimpled with a seizure of irrelevant merriment, and he shot up the windmill tower with a lightness that struck me as disdainful. I knew he was peering down at me as I walked toward the house. Ducks and geese ran quacking across my path. White cats were sunning themselves among yellow pumpkins on the porch steps. I looked through the wire screen into a big, light kitchen with a white floor. I saw a long table, rows of wooden chairs against the wall, and a shining range in one corner. Two girls were washing dishes at the sink, laughing and chattering, and a little one, in a short pinafore, sat on a stool playing with a rag baby. When I asked for their mother, one of the girls dropped her towel, ran across the floor with noiseless bare feet, and disappeared. The older one, who wore shoes and stockings, came to the door to admit me. She was a buxom girl with dark hair and eyes, calm and self-possessed. "Won't you come in? Mother will be here in a minute." Before I could sit down in the chair she offered me, the miracle happened; one of those quiet moments that clutch the heart, and take more courage than the noisy, excited passages in life. Antonia came in and stood before me; a stalwart, brown woman, flat-chested, her curly brown hair a little grizzled. It was a shock, of course. It always is, to meet people after long years, especially if they have lived as much and as hard as this woman had. We stood looking at each other. The eyes that peered anxiously at me were--simply Antonia's eyes. I had seen no others like them since I looked into them last, though I had looked at so many thousands of human faces. As I confronted her, the changes grew less apparent to me, her identity stronger. She was there, in the full vigor of her personality, battered but not diminished, looking at me, speaking to me in the husky, breathy voice I remembered so well. "My husband's not at home, sir. Can I do anything?" "Don't you remember me, Antonia? Have I changed so much?" She frowned into the slanting sunlight that made her brown hair look redder than it was. Suddenly her eyes widened, her whole face seemed to grow broader. She caught her breath and put out two hard-worked hands. "Why, it's Jim! Anna, Yulka, it's Jim Burden!" She had no sooner caught my hands than she looked alarmed. "What's happened? Is anybody dead?" I patted her arm. "No. I did n't come to a funeral this time. I got off the train at Hastings and drove down to see you and your family." She dropped my hand and began rushing about. "Anton, Yulka, Nina, where are you all? Run, Anna, and hunt for the boys. They're off looking for that dog, somewhere. And call Leo. Where is that Leo!" She pulled them out of corners and came bringing them like a mother cat bringing in her kittens. "You don't have to go right off, Jim? My oldest boy's not here. He's gone with papa to the street fair at Wilber. I won't let you go! You've got to stay and see Rudolph and our papa." She looked at me imploringly, panting with excitement. While I reassured her and told her there would be plenty of time, the barefooted boys from outside were slipping into the kitchen and gathering about her. "Now, tell me their names, and how old they are." As she told them off in turn, she made several mistakes about ages, and they roared with laughter. When she came to my light-footed friend of the windmill, she said, "This is Leo, and he's old enough to be better than he is." He ran up to her and butted her playfully with his curly head, like a little ram, but his voice was quite desperate. "You've forgot! You always forget mine. It's mean! Please tell him, mother!" He clenched his fists in vexation and looked up at her impetuously. She wound her forefinger in his yellow fleece and pulled it, watching him. "Well, how old are you?" "I'm twelve," he panted, looking not at me but at her; "I'm twelve years old, and I was born on Easter day!" She nodded to me. "It's true. He was an Easter baby." The children all looked at me, as if they expected me to exhibit astonishment or delight at this information. Clearly, they were proud of each other, and of being so many. When they had all been introduced, Anna, the eldest daughter, who had met me at the door, scattered them gently, and came bringing a white apron which she tied round her mother's waist. "Now, mother, sit down and talk to Mr. Burden. We'll finish the dishes quietly and not disturb you." Antonia looked about, quite distracted. "Yes, child, but why don't we take him into the parlor, now that we've got a nice parlor for company?" The daughter laughed indulgently, and took my hat from me. "Well, you're here, now, mother, and if you talk here, Yulka and I can listen, too. You can show him the parlor after while." She smiled at me, and went back to the dishes, with her sister. The little girl with the rag doll found a place on the bottom step of an enclosed back stairway, and sat with her toes curled up, looking out at us expectantly. "She's Nina, after Nina Harling," Antonia explained. "Ain't her eyes like Nina's? I declare, Jim, I loved you children almost as much as I love my own. These children know all about you and Charley and Sally, like as if they'd grown up with you. I can't think of what I want to say, you've got me so stirred up. And then, I've forgot my English so. I don't often talk it any more. I tell the children I used to speak real well." She said they always spoke Bohemian at home. The little ones could not speak English at all--did n't learn it until they went to school. "I can't believe it's you, sitting here, in my own kitchen. You would n't have known me, would you, Jim? You've kept so young, yourself. But it's easier for a man. I can't see how my Anton looks any older than the day I married him. His teeth have kept so nice. I have n't got many left. But I feel just as young as I used to, and I can do as much work. Oh, we don't have to work so hard now! We've got plenty to help us, papa and me. And how many have you got, Jim?" When I told her I had no children she seemed embarrassed. "Oh, ain't that too bad! Maybe you could take one of my bad ones, now? That Leo; he's the worst of all." She leaned toward me with a smile. "And I love him the best," she whispered. "Mother!" the two girls murmured reproachfully from the dishes. Antonia threw up her head and laughed. "I can't help it. You know I do. Maybe it's because he came on Easter day, I don't know. And he's never out of mischief one minute!" I was thinking, as I watched her, how little it mattered--about her teeth, for instance. I know so many women who have kept all the things that she had lost, but whose inner glow has faded. Whatever else was gone, Antonia had not lost the fire of life. Her skin, so brown and hardened, had not that look of flabbiness, as if the sap beneath it had been secretly drawn away. While we were talking, the little boy whom they called Jan came in and sat down on the step beside Nina, under the hood of the stairway. He wore a funny long gingham apron, like a smock, over his trousers, and his hair was clipped so short that his head looked white and naked. He watched us out of his big, sorrowful gray eyes. "He wants to tell you about the dog, mother. They found it dead," Anna said, as she passed us on her way to the cupboard. Antonia beckoned the boy to her. He stood by her chair, leaning his elbows on her knees and twisting her apron strings in his slender fingers, while he told her his story softly in Bohemian, and the tears brimmed over and hung on his long lashes. His mother listened, spoke soothingly to him, and in a whisper promised him something that made him give her a quick, teary smile. He slipped away and whispered his secret to Nina, sitting close to her and talking behind his hand. When Anna finished her work and had washed her hands, she came and stood behind her mother's chair. "Why don't we show Mr. Burden our new fruit cave?" she asked. We started off across the yard with the children at our heels. The boys were standing by the windmill, talking about the dog; some of them ran ahead to open the cellar door. When we descended, they all came down after us, and seemed quite as proud of the cave as the girls were. Ambrosch, the thoughtful-looking one who had directed me down by the plum bushes, called my attention to the stout brick walls and the cement floor. "Yes, it is a good way from the house," he admitted. "But, you see, in winter there are nearly always some of us around to come out and get things." Anna and Yulka showed me three small barrels; one full of dill pickles, one full of chopped pickles, and one full of pickled watermelon rinds. "You would n't believe, Jim, what it takes to feed them all!" their mother exclaimed. "You ought to see the bread we bake on Wednesdays and Saturdays! It's no wonder their poor papa can't get rich, he has to buy so much sugar for us to preserve with. We have our own wheat ground for flour,--but then there's that much less to sell." Nina and Jan, and a little girl named Lucie, kept shyly pointing out to me the shelves of glass jars. They said nothing, but glancing at me, traced on the glass with their finger-tips the outline of the cherries and strawberries and crab-apples within, trying by a blissful expression of countenance to give me some idea of their deliciousness. "Show him the spiced plums, mother. Americans don't have those," said one of the older boys. "Mother uses them to make kolaches," he added. Leo, in a low voice, tossed off some scornful remark in Bohemian. I turned to him. "You think I don't know what kolaches are, eh? You're mistaken, young man. I've eaten your mother's kolaches long before that Easter day when you were born." "Always too fresh, Leo," Ambrosch remarked with a shrug. Leo dived behind his mother and grinned out at me. We turned to leave the cave; Antonia and I went up the stairs first, and the children waited. We were standing outside talking, when they all came running up the steps together, big and little, tow heads and gold heads and brown, and flashing little naked legs; a veritable explosion of life out of the dark cave into the sunlight. It made me dizzy for a moment. The boys escorted us to the front of the house, which I had n't yet seen; in farmhouses, somehow, life comes and goes by the back door. The roof was so steep that the eaves were not much above the forest of tall hollyhocks, now brown and in seed. Through July, Antonia said, the house was buried in them; the Bohemians, I remembered, always planted hollyhocks. The front yard was enclosed by a thorny locust hedge, and at the gate grew two silvery, moth-like trees of the mimosa family. From here one looked down over the cattle yards, with their two long ponds, and over a wide stretch of stubble which they told me was a rye-field in summer. At some distance behind the house were an ash grove and two orchards; a cherry orchard, with gooseberry and currant bushes between the rows, and an apple orchard, sheltered by a high hedge from the hot winds. The older children turned back when we reached the hedge, but Jan and Nina and Lucie crept through it by a hole known only to themselves and hid under the low-branching mulberry bushes. As we walked through the apple orchard, grown up in tall bluegrass, Antonia kept stopping to tell me about one tree and another. "I love them as if they were people," she said, rubbing her hand over the bark. "There was n't a tree here when we first came. We planted every one, and used to carry water for them, too--after we'd been working in the fields all day. Anton, he was a city man, and he used to get discouraged. But I could n't feel so tired that I would n't fret about these trees when there was a dry time. They were on my mind like children. Many a night after he was asleep I've got up and come out and carried water to the poor things. And now, you see, we have the good of them. My man worked in the orange groves in Florida, and he knows all about grafting. There ain't one of our neighbors has an orchard that bears like ours." In the middle of the orchard we came upon a grape-arbor, with seats built along the sides and a warped plank table. The three children were waiting for us there. They looked up at me bashfully and made some request of their mother. "They want me to tell you how the teacher has the school picnic here every year. These don't go to school yet, so they think it's all like the picnic." After I had admired the arbor sufficiently, the youngsters ran away to an open place where there was a rough jungle of French pinks, and squatted down among them, crawling about and measuring with a string. "Jan wants to bury his dog there," Antonia explained. "I had to tell him he could. He's kind of like Nina Harling; you remember how hard she used to take little things? He has funny notions, like her." We sat down and watched them. Antonia leaned her elbows on the table. There was the deepest peace in that orchard. It was surrounded by a triple enclosure; the wire fence, then the hedge of thorny locusts, then the mulberry hedge which kept out the hot winds of summer and held fast to the protecting snows of winter. The hedges were so tall that we could see nothing but the blue sky above them, neither the barn roof nor the windmill. The afternoon sun poured down on us through the drying grape leaves. The orchard seemed full of sun, like a cup, and we could smell the ripe apples on the trees. The crabs hung on the branches as thick as beads on a string, purple-red, with a thin silvery glaze over them. Some hens and ducks had crept through the hedge and were pecking at the fallen apples. The drakes were handsome fellows, with pinkish gray bodies, their heads and necks covered with iridescent green feathers which grew close and full, changing to blue like a peacock's neck. Antonia said they always reminded her of soldiers--some uniform she had seen in the old country, when she was a child. "Are there any quail left now?" I asked. I reminded her how she used to go hunting with me the last summer before we moved to town. "You were n't a bad shot, Tony. Do you remember how you used to want to run away and go for ducks with Charley Harling and me?" "I know, but I'm afraid to look at a gun now." She picked up one of the drakes and ruffled his green capote with her fingers. "Ever since I've had children, I don't like to kill anything. It makes me kind of faint to wring an old goose's neck. Ain't that strange, Jim?" "I don't know. The young Queen of Italy said the same thing once, to a friend of mine. She used to be a great huntswoman, but now she feels as you do, and only shoots clay pigeons." "Then I'm sure she's a good mother," Antonia said warmly. She told me how she and her husband had come out to this new country when the farm land was cheap and could be had on easy payments. The first ten years were a hard struggle. Her husband knew very little about farming and often grew discouraged. "We'd never have got through if I had n't been so strong. I've always had good health, thank God, and I was able to help him in the fields until right up to the time before my babies came. Our children were good about taking care of each other. Martha, the one you saw when she was a baby, was such a help to me, and she trained Anna to be just like her. My Martha's married now, and has a baby of her own. Think of that, Jim! "No, I never got down-hearted. Anton's a good man, and I loved my children and always believed they would turn out well. I belong on a farm. I'm never lonesome here like I used to be in town. You remember what sad spells I used to have, when I did n't know what was the matter with me? I've never had them out here. And I don't mind work a bit, if I don't have to put up with sadness." She leaned her chin on her hand and looked down through the orchard, where the sunlight was growing more and more golden. "You ought never to have gone to town, Tony," I said, wondering at her. She turned to me eagerly. "Oh, I'm glad I went! I'd never have known anything about cooking or housekeeping if I had n't. I learned nice ways at the Harlings', and I've been able to bring my children up so much better. Don't you think they are pretty well-behaved for country children? If it had n't been for what Mrs. Harling taught me, I expect I'd have brought them up like wild rabbits. No, I'm glad I had a chance to learn; but I'm thankful none of my daughters will ever have to work out. The trouble with me was, Jim, I never could believe harm of anybody I loved." While we were talking, Antonia assured me that she could keep me for the night. "We've plenty of room. Two of the boys sleep in the haymow till cold weather comes, but there's no need for it. Leo always begs to sleep there, and Ambrosch goes along to look after him." I told her I would like to sleep in the haymow, with the boys. "You can do just as you want to. The chest is full of clean blankets, put away for winter. Now I must go, or my girls will be doing all the work, and I want to cook your supper myself." As we went toward the house, we met Ambrosch and Anton, starting off with their milking-pails to hunt the cows. I joined them, and Leo accompanied us at some distance, running ahead and starting up at us out of clumps of ironweed, calling, "I'm a jack rabbit," or, "I'm a big bull-snake." I walked between the two older boys--straight, well-made fellows, with good heads and clear eyes. They talked about their school and the new teacher, told me about the crops and the harvest, and how many steers they would feed that winter. They were easy and confidential with me, as if I were an old friend of the family--and not too old. I felt like a boy in their company, and all manner of forgotten interests revived in me. It seemed, after all, so natural to be walking along a barbed-wire fence beside the sunset, toward a red pond, and to see my shadow moving along at my right, over the close-cropped grass. "Has mother shown you the pictures you sent her from the old country?" Ambrosch asked. "We've had them framed and they're hung up in the parlor. She was so glad to get them. I don't believe I ever saw her so pleased about anything." There was a note of simple gratitude in his voice that made me wish I had given more occasion for it. I put my hand on his shoulder. "Your mother, you know, was very much loved by all of us. She was a beautiful girl." "Oh, we know!" They both spoke together; seemed a little surprised that I should think it necessary to mention this. "Everybody liked her, did n't they? The Harlings and your grandmother, and all the town people." "Sometimes," I ventured, "it does n't occur to boys that their mother was ever young and pretty." "Oh, we know!" they said again, warmly. "She's not very old now," Ambrosch added. "Not much older than you." "Well," I said, "if you were n't nice to her, I think I'd take a club and go for the whole lot of you. I could n't stand it if you boys were inconsiderate, or thought of her as if she were just somebody who looked after you. You see I was very much in love with your mother once, and I know there's nobody like her." The boys laughed and seemed pleased and embarrassed. "She never told us that," said Anton. "But she's always talked lots about you, and about what good times you used to have. She has a picture of you that she cut out of the Chicago paper once, and Leo says he recognized you when you drove up to the windmill. You can't tell about Leo, though; sometimes he likes to be smart." We brought the cows home to the corner nearest the barn, and the boys milked them while night came on. Everything was as it should be: the strong smell of sunflowers and ironweed in the dew, the clear blue and gold of the sky, the evening star, the purr of the milk into the pails, the grunts and squeals of the pigs fighting over their supper. I began to feel the loneliness of the farm-boy at evening, when the chores seem everlastingly the same, and the world so far away. What a tableful we were at supper; two long rows of restless heads in the lamplight, and so many eyes fastened excitedly upon Antonia as she sat at the head of the table, filling the plates and starting the dishes on their way. The children were seated according to a system; a little one next an older one, who was to watch over his behavior and to see that he got his food. Anna and Yulka left their chairs from time to time to bring fresh plates of kolaches and pitchers of milk. After supper we went into the parlor, so that Yulka and Leo could play for me. Antonia went first, carrying the lamp. There were not nearly chairs enough to go round, so the younger children sat down on the bare floor. Little Lucie whispered to me that they were going to have a parlor carpet if they got ninety cents for their wheat. Leo, with a good deal of fussing, got out his violin. It was old Mr. Shimerda's instrument, which Antonia had always kept, and it was too big for him. But he played very well for a self-taught boy. Poor Yulka's efforts were not so successful. While they were playing, little Nina got up from her corner, came out into the middle of the floor, and began to do a pretty little dance on the boards with her bare feet. No one paid the least attention to her, and when she was through she stole back and sat down by her brother. Antonia spoke to Leo in Bohemian. He frowned and wrinkled up his face. He seemed to be trying to pout, but his attempt only brought out dimples in unusual places. After twisting and screwing the keys, he played some Bohemian airs, without the organ to hold him back, and that went better. The boy was so restless that I had not had a chance to look at his face before. My first impression was right; he really was faun-like. He had n't much head behind his ears, and his tawny fleece grew down thick to the back of his neck. His eyes were not frank and wide apart like those of the other boys, but were deep-set, gold-green in color, and seemed sensitive to the light. His mother said he got hurt oftener than all the others put together. He was always trying to ride the colts before they were broken, teasing the turkey gobbler, seeing just how much red the bull would stand for, or how sharp the new axe was. After the concert was over Antonia brought out a big boxful of photographs; she and Anton in their wedding clothes, holding hands; her brother Ambrosch and his very fat wife, who had a farm of her own, and who bossed her husband, I was delighted to hear; the three Bohemian Marys and their large families. "You would n't believe how steady those girls have turned out," Antonia remarked. "Mary Svoboda's the best butter-maker in all this country, and a fine manager. Her children will have a grand chance." As Antonia turned over the pictures the young Cuzaks stood behind her chair, looking over her shoulder with interested faces. Nina and Jan, after trying to see round the taller ones, quietly brought a chair, climbed up on it, and stood close together, looking. The little boy forgot his shyness and grinned delightedly when familiar faces came into view. In the group about Antonia I was conscious of a kind of physical harmony. They leaned this way and that, and were not afraid to touch each other. They contemplated the photographs with pleased recognition; looked at some admiringly, as if these characters in their mother's girlhood had been remarkable people. The little children, who could not speak English, murmured comments to each other in their rich old language. Antonia held out a photograph of Lena that had come from San Francisco last Christmas. "Does she still look like that? She has n't been home for six years now." Yes, it was exactly like Lena, I told her; a comely woman, a trifle too plump, in a hat a trifle too large, but with the old lazy eyes, and the old dimpled ingenuousness still lurking at the corners of her mouth. There was a picture of Frances Harling in a be-frogged riding costume that I remembered well. "Is n't she fine!" the girls murmured. They all assented. One could see that Frances had come down as a heroine in the family legend. Only Leo was unmoved. "And there's Mr. Harling, in his grand fur coat. He was awfully rich, was n't he, mother?" "He was n't any Rockefeller," put in Master Leo, in a very low tone, which reminded me of the way in which Mrs. Shimerda had once said that my grandfather "was n't Jesus." His habitual skepticism was like a direct inheritance from that old woman. "None of your smart speeches," said Ambrosch severely. Leo poked out a supple red tongue at him, but a moment later broke into a giggle at a tintype of two men, uncomfortably seated, with an awkward-looking boy in baggy clothes standing between them; Jake and Otto and I! We had it taken, I remembered, when we went to Black Hawk on the first Fourth of July I spent in Nebraska. I was glad to see Jake's grin again, and Otto's ferocious mustaches. The young Cuzaks knew all about them. "He made grandfather's coffin, did n't he?" Anton asked. "Was n't they good fellows, Jim?" Antonia's eyes filled. "To this day I'm ashamed because I quarreled with Jake that way. I was saucy and impertinent to him, Leo, like you are with people sometimes, and I wish somebody had made me behave." "We are n't through with you, yet," they warned me. They produced a photograph taken just before I went away to college; a tall youth in striped trousers and a straw hat, trying to look easy and jaunty. "Tell us, Mr. Burden," said Charley, "about the rattler you killed at the dog town. How long was he? Sometimes mother says six feet and sometimes she says five." These children seemed to be upon very much the same terms with Antonia as the Harling children had been so many years before. They seemed to feel the same pride in her, and to look to her for stories and entertainment as we used to do. It was eleven o'clock when I at last took my bag and some blankets and started for the barn with the boys. Their mother came to the door with us, and we tarried for a moment to look out at the white slope of the corral and the two ponds asleep in the moonlight, and the long sweep of the pasture under the star-sprinkled sky. The boys told me to choose my own place in the haymow, and I lay down before a big window, left open in warm weather, that looked out into the stars. Ambrosch and Leo cuddled up in a hay-cave, back under the eaves, and lay giggling and whispering. They tickled each other and tossed and tumbled in the hay; and then, all at once, as if they had been shot, they were still. There was hardly a minute between giggles and bland slumber. I lay awake for a long while, until the slow-moving moon passed my window on its way up the heavens. I was thinking about Antonia and her children; about Anna's solicitude for her, Ambrosch's grave affection, Leo's jealous, animal little love. That moment, when they all came tumbling out of the cave into the light, was a sight any man might have come far to see. Antonia had always been one to leave images in the mind that did not fade--that grew stronger with time. In my memory there was a succession of such pictures, fixed there like the old woodcuts of one's first primer: Antonia kicking her bare legs against the sides of my pony when we came home in triumph with our snake; Antonia in her black shawl and fur cap, as she stood by her father's grave in the snowstorm; Antonia coming in with her work-team along the evening sky-line. She lent herself to immemorial human attitudes which we recognize by instinct as universal and true. I had not been mistaken. She was a battered woman now, not a lovely girl; but she still had that something which fires the imagination, could still stop one's breath for a moment by a look or gesture that somehow revealed the meaning in common things. She had only to stand in the orchard, to put her hand on a little crab tree and look up at the apples, to make you feel the goodness of planting and tending and harvesting at last. All the strong things of her heart came out in her body, that had been so tireless in serving generous emotions. It was no wonder that her sons stood tall and straight. She was a rich mine of life, like the founders of early races. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Jim braucht zwanzig Jahre, um Antonia einen Besuch abzustatten. Über die Jahre hinweg hört er von ihr, dass sie einen böhmischen Einwanderer geheiratet hat und dass sie arm waren und eine große Familie hatten. Einmal, als er im Ausland war, besuchte er Böhmen und schickte Antonia Bilder ihres Heimatdorfes aus Prag. Später erhielt er einen Brief von ihr, in dem sie ihm von ihren Kindern, aber nicht viel mehr, erzählte. Tiny Soderball hatte eine sehr niedrige Meinung von Antonia. Jim gibt zu, dass es wahrscheinlich Feigheit war, die ihn all die Jahre davon abhielt, Antonia zu sehen. Er fürchtete, sie "gealtert und gebrochen" zu sehen. Lena Lingard überzeugt ihn schließlich, Antonia wieder zu besuchen. Tiny und Lena leben sehr nahe beieinander und haben sich in ihrem Leben zusammengefunden. Lena erzählt ihm, dass Cusak, Antonias Ehemann, ein guter Mann ist und dass Antonia gute Kinder hat und sie Jim gerne zeigen würde. Auf dem Weg zurück in den Osten macht er Halt in Nebraska, um Antonia zu besuchen. Er kommt bei ihr zu Hause an und findet zwei Jungen, die über einen toten Hund stehen. Sie sind sehr traurig, erklären ihm aber höflich, wie er zum Haus gelangt. Als er zum Haus kommt, begrüßt ihn ein älteres Mädchen und bittet ihn herein. Bevor er sich setzt, kommt Antonia herein. Für Jim ist es ein Wunder, "einer dieser ruhigen Momente, die das Herz packen und mehr Mut erfordern als die lauten, aufgeregten Abschnitte des Lebens." Antonia ist älter und erkennt ihn nicht. Als er sie ansieht, werden die Veränderungen in ihr weniger und er sieht das gleiche Licht in ihren Augen. Als sie herausfindet, wer er ist, strahlt sie ihn an und dann stürzt sie los, um ihm all ihre Kinder zu zeigen. Es sind elf. Sie setzen sich und reden und dann möchten die Kinder ihm ihren Keller zeigen. Er ist voll mit allen möglichen eingemachten Früchten und Gemüse. Es ist klar, dass die Familie sehr stolz darauf ist. Auf dem Weg zurück zum Haus machen sie Halt im Obstgarten. Antonia erzählt ihm, wie sie alle Bäume gepflanzt und sich um sie gekümmert hat, als wären es Kinder. Jim findet im Obstgarten "den tiefsten Frieden". Der Obstgarten und der Hof um das Haus herum sind voller Tiere und Bauernvögel. Antonia erzählt Jim, dass sie seitdem sie auf dem Land lebt, glücklich ist, aber sie ist froh, dass sie eine Zeit lang in der Stadt gelebt hat, weil es ihr gute Haushaltsführung und gute Manieren gelehrt hat, die sie an ihre Kinder weitergeben kann. Jim bemerkt, wie gut erzogen und gut aussehend Antonias Kinder sind und wie sehr sie sie lieben und bewundern. Er geht mit zwei ihrer Söhne Kühe melken. Er erzählt ihnen, wie sehr jeder ihre Mutter bewunderte und wie hübsch sie als Mädchen war. Sie sagen, dass sie dies bereits wissen. Beim Abendessen ist der Tisch bis zum Überlaufen voll. Das Essen verläuft in guter Ordnung, ältere Kinder achten auf die Manieren und Bedürfnisse jüngerer Kinder. Nach dem Essen stehen alle herum, während Antonia Jim ihre Fotoalben zeigt. Eines der Bilder zeigt ihn mit Jake und Otto. Jim fällt auf, dass die Gruppe, die um Antonia steht, eine "Art körperlicher Harmonie" teilt. Sie scheinen all die Geschichten von Antonias Kindheit und Mädchenzeit mit großer Vertrautheit zu kennen. In dieser Nacht schläft Jim im Stall mit zwei von Antonias Söhnen. Nachdem sie eingeschlafen sind, schaut er aus dem Fenster auf den Mond und denkt an Antonia. Er denkt daran, wie Antonia immer Bilder im Kopf hinterlässt, und dann geht er all seine lebhaften Bilder von ihr im Laufe des Lebens durch. "Sie lieh sich uralten menschlichen Haltungen aus, die wir instinktiv als universell und wahr erkennen." Trotz ihres gealterten Aussehens hat Antonia noch immer die Kraft des Lebens in sich. "Sie war ein reiches Lebenswerk, wie die Gründer früher Rassen."

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: After the earthquake had destroyed three-fourths of Lisbon, the sages of that country could think of no means more effectual to prevent utter ruin than to give the people a beautiful _auto-da-fe_[6]; for it had been decided by the University of Coimbra, that the burning of a few people alive by a slow fire, and with great ceremony, is an infallible secret to hinder the earth from quaking. In consequence hereof, they had seized on a Biscayner, convicted of having married his godmother, and on two Portuguese, for rejecting the bacon which larded a chicken they were eating[7]; after dinner, they came and secured Dr. Pangloss, and his disciple Candide, the one for speaking his mind, the other for having listened with an air of approbation. They were conducted to separate apartments, extremely cold, as they were never incommoded by the sun. Eight days after they were dressed in _san-benitos_[8] and their heads ornamented with paper mitres. The mitre and _san-benito_ belonging to Candide were painted with reversed flames and with devils that had neither tails nor claws; but Pangloss's devils had claws and tails and the flames were upright. They marched in procession thus habited and heard a very pathetic sermon, followed by fine church music. Candide was whipped in cadence while they were singing; the Biscayner, and the two men who had refused to eat bacon, were burnt; and Pangloss was hanged, though that was not the custom. The same day the earth sustained a most violent concussion. Candide, terrified, amazed, desperate, all bloody, all palpitating, said to himself: "If this is the best of possible worlds, what then are the others? Well, if I had been only whipped I could put up with it, for I experienced that among the Bulgarians; but oh, my dear Pangloss! thou greatest of philosophers, that I should have seen you hanged, without knowing for what! Oh, my dear Anabaptist, thou best of men, that thou should'st have been drowned in the very harbour! Oh, Miss Cunegonde, thou pearl of girls! that thou should'st have had thy belly ripped open!" Thus he was musing, scarce able to stand, preached at, whipped, absolved, and blessed, when an old woman accosted him saying: "My son, take courage and follow me." Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze verfassen?

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Die portugiesischen Behörden beschließen, einige Menschen lebendig zu verbrennen, um zukünftige Erdbeben zu verhindern. Sie wählen einen Mann aus, weil er seine Patin geheiratet hat, und zwei andere, weil sie sich geweigert haben, Speck zu essen. Die Behörden hängen Pangloss für seine Meinungen auf und peitschen öffentlich Candide aus, weil er "mit Zustimmung zugehört" hat. Als später am selben Tag ein weiteres Erdbeben auftritt, beginnt Candide zu zweifeln, ob dies die beste aller möglichen Welten 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: BOOK VI. All night the dreadless Angel unpursu'd Through Heav'ns wide Champain held his way, till Morn, Wak't by the circling Hours, with rosie hand Unbarr'd the gates of Light. There is a Cave Within the Mount of God, fast by his Throne, Where light and darkness in perpetual round Lodge and dislodge by turns, which makes through Heav'n Grateful vicissitude, like Day and Night; Light issues forth, and at the other dore Obsequious darkness enters, till her houre To veile the Heav'n, though darkness there might well Seem twilight here; and now went forth the Morn Such as in highest Heav'n, arrayd in Gold Empyreal, from before her vanisht Night, Shot through with orient Beams: when all the Plain Coverd with thick embatteld Squadrons bright, Chariots and flaming Armes, and fierie Steeds Reflecting blaze on blaze, first met his view: Warr he perceav'd, warr in procinct, and found Already known what he for news had thought To have reported: gladly then he mixt Among those friendly Powers who him receav'd With joy and acclamations loud, that one That of so many Myriads fall'n, yet one Returnd not lost: On to the sacred hill They led him high applauded, and present Before the seat supream; from whence a voice From midst a Golden Cloud thus milde was heard. Servant of God, well done, well hast thou fought The better fight, who single hast maintaind Against revolted multitudes the Cause Of Truth, in word mightier then they in Armes; And for the testimonie of Truth hast born Universal reproach, far worse to beare Then violence: for this was all thy care To stand approv'd in sight of God, though Worlds Judg'd thee perverse: the easier conquest now Remains thee, aided by this host of friends, Back on thy foes more glorious to return Then scornd thou didst depart, and to subdue By force, who reason for thir Law refuse, Right reason for thir Law, and for thir King MESSIAH, who by right of merit Reigns. Goe MICHAEL of Celestial Armies Prince, And thou in Military prowess next GABRIEL, lead forth to Battel these my Sons Invincible, lead forth my armed Saints By Thousands and by Millions rang'd for fight; Equal in number to that Godless crew Rebellious, them with Fire and hostile Arms Fearless assault, and to the brow of Heav'n Pursuing drive them out from God and bliss, Into thir place of punishment, the Gulf Of TARTARUS, which ready opens wide His fiery CHAOS to receave thir fall. So spake the Sovran voice, and Clouds began To darken all the Hill, and smoak to rowl In duskie wreathes, reluctant flames, the signe Of wrauth awak't: nor with less dread the loud Ethereal Trumpet from on high gan blow: At which command the Powers Militant, That stood for Heav'n, in mighty Quadrate joyn'd Of Union irresistible, mov'd on In silence thir bright Legions, to the sound Of instrumental Harmonie that breath'd Heroic Ardor to advent'rous deeds Under thir God-like Leaders, in the Cause Of God and his MESSIAH. On they move Indissolubly firm; nor obvious Hill, Nor streit'ning Vale, nor Wood, nor Stream divides Thir perfet ranks; for high above the ground Thir march was, and the passive Air upbore Thir nimble tread; as when the total kind Of Birds in orderly array on wing Came summond over EDEN to receive Thir names of thee; so over many a tract Of Heav'n they march'd, and many a Province wide Tenfold the length of this terrene: at last Farr in th' Horizon to the North appeer'd From skirt to skirt a fierie Region, stretcht In battailous aspect, and neerer view Bristl'd with upright beams innumerable Of rigid Spears, and Helmets throng'd, and Shields Various, with boastful Argument portraid, The banded Powers of SATAN hasting on With furious expedition; for they weend That self same day by fight, or by surprize To win the Mount of God, and on his Throne To set the envier of his State, the proud Aspirer, but thir thoughts prov'd fond and vain In the mid way: though strange to us it seemd At first, that Angel should with Angel warr, And in fierce hosting meet, who wont to meet So oft in Festivals of joy and love Unanimous, as sons of one great Sire Hymning th' Eternal Father: but the shout Of Battel now began, and rushing sound Of onset ended soon each milder thought. High in the midst exalted as a God Th' Apostat in his Sun-bright Chariot sate Idol of Majestie Divine, enclos'd With Flaming Cherubim, and golden Shields; Then lighted from his gorgeous Throne, for now 'Twixt Host and Host but narrow space was left, A dreadful interval, and Front to Front Presented stood in terrible array Of hideous length: before the cloudie Van, On the rough edge of battel ere it joyn'd, SATAN with vast and haughtie strides advanc't, Came towring, armd in Adamant and Gold; ABDIEL that sight endur'd not, where he stood Among the mightiest, bent on highest deeds, And thus his own undaunted heart explores. O Heav'n! that such resemblance of the Highest Should yet remain, where faith and realtie Remain not; wherfore should not strength & might There fail where Vertue fails, or weakest prove Where boldest; though to sight unconquerable? His puissance, trusting in th' Almightie's aide, I mean to try, whose Reason I have tri'd Unsound and false; nor is it aught but just, That he who in debate of Truth hath won, Should win in Arms, in both disputes alike Victor; though brutish that contest and foule, When Reason hath to deal with force, yet so Most reason is that Reason overcome. So pondering, and from his armed Peers Forth stepping opposite, half way he met His daring foe, at this prevention more Incens't, and thus securely him defi'd. Proud, art thou met? thy hope was to have reacht The highth of thy aspiring unoppos'd, The Throne of God unguarded, and his side Abandond at the terror of thy Power Or potent tongue; fool, not to think how vain Against th' Omnipotent to rise in Arms; Who out of smallest things could without end Have rais'd incessant Armies to defeat Thy folly; or with solitarie hand Reaching beyond all limit, at one blow Unaided could have finisht thee, and whelmd Thy Legions under darkness; but thou seest All are not of thy Train; there be who Faith Prefer, and Pietie to God, though then To thee not visible, when I alone Seemd in thy World erroneous to dissent From all: my Sect thou seest, now learn too late How few somtimes may know, when thousands err. Whom the grand foe with scornful eye askance Thus answerd. Ill for thee, but in wisht houre Of my revenge, first sought for thou returnst From flight, seditious Angel, to receave Thy merited reward, the first assay Of this right hand provok't, since first that tongue Inspir'd with contradiction durst oppose A third part of the Gods, in Synod met Thir Deities to assert, who while they feel Vigour Divine within them, can allow Omnipotence to none. But well thou comst Before thy fellows, ambitious to win From me som Plume, that thy success may show Destruction to the rest: this pause between (Unanswerd least thou boast) to let thee know; At first I thought that Libertie and Heav'n To heav'nly Soules had bin all one; but now I see that most through sloth had rather serve, Ministring Spirits, traind up in Feast and Song; Such hast thou arm'd, the Minstrelsie of Heav'n, Servilitie with freedom to contend, As both thir deeds compar'd this day shall prove. To whom in brief thus ABDIEL stern repli'd. Apostat, still thou errst, nor end wilt find Of erring, from the path of truth remote: Unjustly thou deprav'st it with the name Of SERVITUDE to serve whom God ordains, Or Nature; God and Nature bid the same, When he who rules is worthiest, and excells Them whom he governs. This is servitude, To serve th' unwise, or him who hath rebelld Against his worthier, as thine now serve thee, Thy self not free, but to thy self enthrall'd; Yet leudly dar'st our ministring upbraid. Reign thou in Hell thy Kingdom, let mee serve In Heav'n God ever blessed, and his Divine Behests obey, worthiest to be obey'd, Yet Chains in Hell, not Realms expect: mean while From mee returnd, as erst thou saidst, from flight, This greeting on thy impious Crest receive. So saying, a noble stroke he lifted high, Which hung not, but so swift with tempest fell On the proud Crest of SATAN, that no sight, Nor motion of swift thought, less could his Shield Such ruin intercept: ten paces huge He back recoild; the tenth on bended knee His massie Spear upstaid; as if on Earth Winds under ground or waters forcing way Sidelong, had push't a Mountain from his seat Half sunk with all his Pines. Amazement seis'd The Rebel Thrones, but greater rage to see Thus foil'd thir mightiest, ours joy filld, and shout, Presage of Victorie and fierce desire Of Battel: whereat MICHAEL bid sound Th' Arch-Angel trumpet; through the vast of Heav'n It sounded, and the faithful Armies rung HOSANNA to the Highest: nor stood at gaze The adverse Legions, nor less hideous joyn'd The horrid shock: now storming furie rose, And clamour such as heard in Heav'n till now Was never, Arms on Armour clashing bray'd Horrible discord, and the madding Wheeles Of brazen Chariots rag'd; dire was the noise Of conflict; over head the dismal hiss Of fiery Darts in flaming volies flew, And flying vaulted either Host with fire. Sounder fierie Cope together rush'd Both Battels maine, with ruinous assault And inextinguishable rage; all Heav'n Resounded, and had Earth bin then, all Earth Had to her Center shook. What wonder? when Millions of fierce encountring Angels fought On either side, the least of whom could weild These Elements, and arm him with the force Of all thir Regions: how much more of Power Armie against Armie numberless to raise Dreadful combustion warring, and disturb, Though not destroy, thir happie Native seat; Had not th' Eternal King Omnipotent From his strong hold of Heav'n high over-rul'd And limited thir might; though numberd such As each divided Legion might have seemd A numerous Host, in strength each armed hand A Legion; led in fight, yet Leader seemd Each Warriour single as in Chief, expert When to advance, or stand, or turn the sway Of Battel, open when, and when to close The ridges of grim Warr; no thought of flight, None of retreat, no unbecoming deed That argu'd fear; each on himself reli'd, As onely in his arm the moment lay Of victorie; deeds of eternal fame Were don, but infinite: for wide was spred That Warr and various; somtimes on firm ground A standing fight, then soaring on main wing Tormented all the Air; all Air seemd then Conflicting Fire: long time in eeven scale The Battel hung; till SATAN, who that day Prodigious power had shewn, and met in Armes No equal, raunging through the dire attack Of fighting Seraphim confus'd, at length Saw where the Sword of MICHAEL smote, and fell'd Squadrons at once, with huge two-handed sway Brandisht aloft the horrid edge came down Wide wasting; such destruction to withstand He hasted, and oppos'd the rockie Orb Of tenfold Adamant, his ample Shield A vast circumference: At his approach The great Arch-Angel from his warlike toile Surceas'd, and glad as hoping here to end Intestine War in Heav'n, the arch foe subdu'd Or Captive drag'd in Chains, with hostile frown And visage all enflam'd first thus began. Author of evil, unknown till thy revolt, Unnam'd in Heav'n, now plenteous, as thou seest These Acts of hateful strife, hateful to all, Though heaviest by just measure on thy self And thy adherents: how hast thou disturb'd Heav'ns blessed peace, and into Nature brought Miserie, uncreated till the crime Of thy Rebellion? how hast thou instill'd Thy malice into thousands, once upright And faithful, now prov'd false. But think not here To trouble Holy Rest; Heav'n casts thee out From all her Confines. Heav'n the seat of bliss Brooks not the works of violence and Warr. Hence then, and evil go with thee along Thy ofspring, to the place of evil, Hell, Thou and thy wicked crew; there mingle broiles, Ere this avenging Sword begin thy doome, Or som more sudden vengeance wing'd from God Precipitate thee with augmented paine. So spake the Prince of Angels; to whom thus The Adversarie. Nor think thou with wind Of airie threats to aw whom yet with deeds Thou canst not. Hast thou turnd the least of these To flight, or if to fall, but that they rise Unvanquisht, easier to transact with mee That thou shouldst hope, imperious, & with threats To chase me hence? erre not that so shall end The strife which thou call'st evil, but wee style The strife of Glorie: which we mean to win, Or turn this Heav'n it self into the Hell Thou fablest, here however to dwell free, If not to reign: mean while thy utmost force, And join him nam'd ALMIGHTIE to thy aid, I flie not, but have sought thee farr and nigh. They ended parle, and both addrest for fight Unspeakable; for who, though with the tongue Of Angels, can relate, or to what things Liken on Earth conspicuous, that may lift Human imagination to such highth Of Godlike Power: for likest Gods they seemd, Stood they or mov'd, in stature, motion, arms Fit to decide the Empire of great Heav'n. Now wav'd thir fierie Swords, and in the Aire Made horrid Circles; two broad Suns thir Shields Blaz'd opposite, while expectation stood In horror; from each hand with speed retir'd Where erst was thickest fight, th' Angelic throng, And left large field, unsafe within the wind Of such commotion, such as to set forth Great things by small, If Natures concord broke, Among the Constellations warr were sprung, Two Planets rushing from aspect maligne Of fiercest opposition in mid Skie, Should combat, and thir jarring Sphears confound. Together both with next to Almightie Arme, Uplifted imminent one stroke they aim'd That might determine, and not need repeate, As not of power, at once; nor odds appeerd In might or swift prevention; but the sword Of MICHAEL from the Armorie of God Was giv'n him temperd so, that neither keen Nor solid might resist that edge: it met The sword of SATAN with steep force to smite Descending, and in half cut sheere, nor staid, But with swift wheele reverse, deep entring shar'd All his right side; then SATAN first knew pain, And writh'd him to and fro convolv'd; so sore The griding sword with discontinuous wound Pass'd through him, but th' Ethereal substance clos'd Not long divisible, and from the gash A stream of Nectarous humor issuing flow'd Sanguin, such as Celestial Spirits may bleed, And all his Armour staind ere while so bright. Forthwith on all sides to his aide was run By Angels many and strong, who interpos'd Defence, while others bore him on thir Shields Back to his Chariot; where it stood retir'd From off the files of warr; there they him laid Gnashing for anguish and despite and shame To find himself not matchless, and his pride Humbl'd by such rebuke, so farr beneath His confidence to equal God in power. Yet soon he heal'd; for Spirits that live throughout Vital in every part, not as frail man In Entrailes, Heart or Head, Liver or Reines, Cannot but by annihilating die; Nor in thir liquid texture mortal wound Receive, no more then can the fluid Aire: All Heart they live, all Head, all Eye, all Eare, All Intellect, all Sense, and as they please, They Limb themselves, and colour, shape or size Assume, as likes them best, condense or rare. Mean while in other parts like deeds deservd Memorial, where the might of GABRIEL fought, And with fierce Ensignes pierc'd the deep array Of MOLOC furious King, who him defi'd, And at his Chariot wheeles to drag him bound Threatn'd, nor from the Holie One of Heav'n Refrein'd his tongue blasphemous; but anon Down clov'n to the waste, with shatterd Armes And uncouth paine fled bellowing. On each wing URIEL and RAPHAEL his vaunting foe, Though huge, and in a Rock of Diamond Armd, Vanquish'd ADRAMELEC, and ASMADAI, Two potent Thrones, that to be less then Gods Disdain'd, but meaner thoughts learnd in thir flight, Mangl'd with gastly wounds through Plate and Maile. Nor stood unmindful ABDIEL to annoy The Atheist crew, but with redoubl'd blow ARIEL and ARIOC, and the violence Of RAMIEL scorcht and blasted overthrew. I might relate of thousands, and thir names Eternize here on Earth; but those elect Angels contented with thir fame in Heav'n Seek not the praise of men: the other sort In might though wondrous and in Acts of Warr, Nor of Renown less eager, yet by doome Canceld from Heav'n and sacred memorie, Nameless in dark oblivion let them dwell. For strength from Truth divided and from Just, Illaudable, naught merits but dispraise And ignominie, yet to glorie aspires Vain glorious, and through infamie seeks fame: Therfore Eternal silence be thir doome. And now thir mightiest quelld, the battel swerv'd, With many an inrode gor'd; deformed rout Enter'd, and foul disorder; all the ground With shiverd armour strow'n, and on a heap Chariot and Charioter lay overturnd And fierie foaming Steeds; what stood, recoyld Orewearied, through the faint Satanic Host Defensive scarse, or with pale fear surpris'd, Then first with fear surpris'd and sense of paine Fled ignominious, to such evil brought By sinne of disobedience, till that hour Not liable to fear or flight or paine. Far otherwise th' inviolable Saints In Cubic Phalanx firm advanc't entire, Invulnerable, impenitrably arm'd: Such high advantages thir innocence Gave them above thir foes, not to have sinnd, Not to have disobei'd; in fight they stood Unwearied, unobnoxious to be pain'd By wound, though from thir place by violence mov'd. Now Night her course began, and over Heav'n Inducing darkness, grateful truce impos'd, And silence on the odious dinn of Warr: Under her Cloudie covert both retir'd, Victor and Vanquisht: on the foughten field MICHAEL and his Angels prevalent Encamping, plac'd in Guard thir Watches round, Cherubic waving fires: on th' other part SATAN with his rebellious disappeerd, Far in the dark dislodg'd, and void of rest, His Potentates to Councel call'd by night; And in the midst thus undismai'd began. O now in danger tri'd, now known in Armes Not to be overpowerd, Companions deare, Found worthy not of Libertie alone, Too mean pretense, but what we more affect, Honour, Dominion, Glorie, and renowne, Who have sustaind one day in doubtful fight, (And if one day, why not Eternal dayes?) What Heavens Lord had powerfullest to send Against us from about his Throne, and judg'd Sufficient to subdue us to his will, But proves not so: then fallible, it seems, Of future we may deem him, though till now Omniscient thought. True is, less firmly arm'd, Some disadvantage we endur'd and paine, Till now not known, but known as soon contemnd, Since now we find this our Empyreal forme Incapable of mortal injurie Imperishable, and though peirc'd with wound, Soon closing, and by native vigour heal'd. Of evil then so small as easie think The remedie; perhaps more valid Armes, Weapons more violent, when next we meet, May serve to better us, and worse our foes, Or equal what between us made the odds, In Nature none: if other hidden cause Left them Superiour, while we can preserve Unhurt our mindes, and understanding sound, Due search and consultation will disclose. He sat; and in th' assembly next upstood NISROC, of Principalities the prime; As one he stood escap't from cruel fight, Sore toild, his riv'n Armes to havoc hewn, And cloudie in aspect thus answering spake. Deliverer from new Lords, leader to free Enjoyment of our right as Gods; yet hard For Gods, and too unequal work we find Against unequal armes to fight in paine, Against unpaind, impassive; from which evil Ruin must needs ensue; for what availes Valour or strength, though matchless, quelld with pain Which all subdues, and makes remiss the hands Of Mightiest. Sense of pleasure we may well Spare out of life perhaps, and not repine, But live content, which is the calmest life: But pain is perfet miserie, the worst Of evils, and excessive, overturnes All patience. He who therefore can invent With what more forcible we may offend Our yet unwounded Enemies, or arme Our selves with like defence, to mee deserves No less then for deliverance what we owe. Whereto with look compos'd SATAN repli'd. Not uninvented that, which thou aright Beleivst so main to our success, I bring; Which of us who beholds the bright surface Of this Ethereous mould whereon we stand, This continent of spacious Heav'n, adornd With Plant, Fruit, Flour Ambrosial, Gemms & Gold, Whose Eye so superficially surveyes These things, as not to mind from whence they grow Deep under ground, materials dark and crude, Of spiritous and fierie spume, till toucht With Heav'ns ray, and temperd they shoot forth So beauteous, op'ning to the ambient light. These in thir dark Nativitie the Deep Shall yeild us, pregnant with infernal flame, Which into hallow Engins long and round Thick-rammd, at th' other bore with touch of fire Dilated and infuriate shall send forth From far with thundring noise among our foes Such implements of mischief as shall dash To pieces, and orewhelm whatever stands Adverse, that they shall fear we have disarmd The Thunderer of his only dreaded bolt. Nor long shall be our labour, yet ere dawne, Effect shall end our wish. Mean while revive; Abandon fear; to strength and counsel joind Think nothing hard, much less to be despaird. He ended, and his words thir drooping chere Enlightn'd, and thir languisht hope reviv'd. Th' invention all admir'd, and each, how hee To be th' inventer miss'd, so easie it seemd Once found, which yet unfound most would have thought Impossible: yet haply of thy Race In future dayes, if Malice should abound, Some one intent on mischief, or inspir'd With dev'lish machination might devise Like instrument to plague the Sons of men For sin, on warr and mutual slaughter bent. Forthwith from Councel to the work they flew, None arguing stood, innumerable hands Were ready, in a moment up they turnd Wide the Celestial soile, and saw beneath Th' originals of Nature in thir crude Conception; Sulphurous and Nitrous Foame They found, they mingl'd, and with suttle Art, Concocted and adusted they reduc'd To blackest grain, and into store conveyd: Part hidd'n veins diggd up (nor hath this Earth Entrails unlike) of Mineral and Stone, Whereof to found thir Engins and thir Balls Of missive ruin; part incentive reed Provide, pernicious with one touch to fire. So all ere day spring, under conscious Night Secret they finish'd, and in order set, With silent circumspection unespi'd. Now when fair Morn Orient in Heav'n appeerd Up rose the Victor Angels, and to Arms The matin Trumpet Sung: in Arms they stood Of Golden Panoplie, refulgent Host, Soon banded; others from the dawning Hills Lookd round, and Scouts each Coast light-armed scoure, Each quarter, to descrie the distant foe, Where lodg'd, or whither fled, or if for fight, In motion or in alt: him soon they met Under spred Ensignes moving nigh, in slow But firm Battalion; back with speediest Sail ZEPHIEL, of Cherubim the swiftest wing, Came flying, and in mid Aire aloud thus cri'd. Arme, Warriours, Arme for fight, the foe at hand, Whom fled we thought, will save us long pursuit This day, fear not his flight; so thick a Cloud He comes, and settl'd in his face I see Sad resolution and secure: let each His Adamantine coat gird well, and each Fit well his Helme, gripe fast his orbed Shield, Born eevn or high, for this day will pour down, If I conjecture aught, no drizling showr, But ratling storm of Arrows barbd with fire. So warnd he them aware themselves, and soon In order, quit of all impediment; Instant without disturb they took Allarm, And onward move Embattelld; when behold Not distant far with heavie pace the Foe Approaching gross and huge; in hollow Cube Training his devilish Enginrie, impal'd On every side with shaddowing Squadrons Deep, To hide the fraud. At interview both stood A while, but suddenly at head appeerd SATAN: And thus was heard Commanding loud. Vangard, to Right and Left the Front unfould; That all may see who hate us, how we seek Peace and composure, and with open brest Stand readie to receive them, if they like Our overture, and turn not back perverse; But that I doubt, however witness Heaven, Heav'n witness thou anon, while we discharge Freely our part: yee who appointed stand Do as you have in charge, and briefly touch What we propound, and loud that all may hear. So scoffing in ambiguous words, he scarce Had ended; when to Right and Left the Front Divided, and to either Flank retir'd. Which to our eyes discoverd new and strange, A triple-mounted row of Pillars laid On Wheels (for like to Pillars most they seem'd Or hollow'd bodies made of Oak or Firr With branches lopt, in Wood or Mountain fell'd) Brass, Iron, Stonie mould, had not thir mouthes With hideous orifice gap't on us wide, Portending hollow truce; at each behind A Seraph stood, and in his hand a Reed Stood waving tipt with fire; while we suspense, Collected stood within our thoughts amus'd, Not long, for sudden all at once thir Reeds Put forth, and to a narrow vent appli'd With nicest touch. Immediate in a flame, But soon obscur'd with smoak, all Heav'n appeerd, From those deep-throated Engins belcht, whose roar Emboweld with outragious noise the Air, And all her entrails tore, disgorging foule Thir devillish glut, chaind Thunderbolts and Hail Of Iron Globes, which on the Victor Host Level'd, with such impetuous furie smote, That whom they hit, none on thir feet might stand, Though standing else as Rocks, but down they fell By thousands, Angel on Arch-Angel rowl'd; The sooner for thir Arms, unarm'd they might Have easily as Spirits evaded swift By quick contraction or remove; but now Foule dissipation follow'd and forc't rout; Nor serv'd it to relax thir serried files. What should they do? if on they rusht, repulse Repeated, and indecent overthrow Doubl'd, would render them yet more despis'd, And to thir foes a laughter; for in view Stood rankt of Seraphim another row In posture to displode thir second tire Of Thunder: back defeated to return They worse abhorr'd. SATAN beheld thir plight, And to his Mates thus in derision call'd. O Friends, why come not on these Victors proud? Ere while they fierce were coming, and when wee, To entertain them fair with open Front And Brest, (what could we more?) propounded terms Of composition, strait they chang'd thir minds, Flew off, and into strange vagaries fell, As they would dance, yet for a dance they seemd Somwhat extravagant and wilde, perhaps For joy of offerd peace: but I suppose If our proposals once again were heard We should compel them to a quick result. To whom thus BELIAL in like gamesom mood. Leader, the terms we sent were terms of weight, Of hard contents, and full of force urg'd home, Such as we might perceive amus'd them all, And stumbl'd many, who receives them right, Had need from head to foot well understand; Not understood, this gift they have besides, They shew us when our foes walk not upright. So they among themselves in pleasant veine Stood scoffing, highthn'd in thir thoughts beyond All doubt of Victorie, eternal might To match with thir inventions they presum'd So easie, and of his Thunder made a scorn, And all his Host derided, while they stood A while in trouble; but they stood not long, Rage prompted them at length, & found them arms Against such hellish mischief fit to oppose. Forthwith (behold the excellence, the power Which God hath in his mighty Angels plac'd) Thir Arms away they threw, and to the Hills (For Earth hath this variety from Heav'n Of pleasure situate in Hill and Dale) Light as the Lightning glimps they ran, they flew, From thir foundations loosning to and fro They pluckt the seated Hills with all thir load, Rocks, Waters, Woods, and by the shaggie tops Up lifting bore them in thir hands: Amaze, Be sure, and terrour seis'd the rebel Host, When coming towards them so dread they saw The bottom of the Mountains upward turn'd, Till on those cursed Engins triple-row They saw them whelmd, and all thir confidence Under the weight of Mountains buried deep, Themselves invaded next, and on thir heads Main Promontories flung, which in the Air Came shadowing, and opprest whole Legions arm'd, Thir armor help'd thir harm, crush't in and brus'd Into thir substance pent, which wrought them pain Implacable, and many a dolorous groan, Long strugling underneath, ere they could wind Out of such prison, though Spirits of purest light, Purest at first, now gross by sinning grown. The rest in imitation to like Armes Betook them, and the neighbouring Hills uptore; So Hills amid the Air encounterd Hills Hurl'd to and fro with jaculation dire, That under ground they fought in dismal shade; Infernal noise; Warr seem'd a civil Game To this uproar; horrid confusion heapt Upon confusion rose: and now all Heav'n Had gone to wrack, with ruin overspred, Had not th' Almightie Father where he sits Shrin'd in his Sanctuarie of Heav'n secure, Consulting on the sum of things, foreseen This tumult, and permitted all, advis'd: That his great purpose he might so fulfill, To honour his Anointed Son aveng'd Upon his enemies, and to declare All power on him transferr'd: whence to his Son Th' Assessor of his Throne he thus began. Effulgence of my Glorie, Son belov'd, Son in whose face invisible is beheld Visibly, what by Deitie I am, And in whose hand what by Decree I doe, Second Omnipotence, two dayes are past, Two dayes, as we compute the dayes of Heav'n, Since MICHAEL and his Powers went forth to tame These disobedient; sore hath been thir fight, As likeliest was, when two such Foes met arm'd; For to themselves I left them, and thou knowst, Equal in their Creation they were form'd, Save what sin hath impaird, which yet hath wrought Insensibly, for I suspend thir doom; Whence in perpetual fight they needs must last Endless, and no solution will be found: Warr wearied hath perform'd what Warr can do, And to disorder'd rage let loose the reines, With Mountains as with Weapons arm'd, which makes Wild work in Heav'n, and dangerous to the maine. Two dayes are therefore past, the third is thine; For thee I have ordain'd it, and thus farr Have sufferd, that the Glorie may be thine Of ending this great Warr, since none but Thou Can end it. Into thee such Vertue and Grace Immense I have transfus'd, that all may know In Heav'n and Hell thy Power above compare, And this perverse Commotion governd thus, To manifest thee worthiest to be Heir Of all things, to be Heir and to be King By Sacred Unction, thy deserved right. Go then thou Mightiest in thy Fathers might, Ascend my Chariot, guide the rapid Wheeles That shake Heav'ns basis, bring forth all my Warr, My Bow and Thunder, my Almightie Arms Gird on, and Sword upon thy puissant Thigh; Pursue these sons of Darkness, drive them out From all Heav'ns bounds into the utter Deep: There let them learn, as likes them, to despise God and MESSIAH his anointed King. He said, and on his Son with Rayes direct Shon full, he all his Father full exprest Ineffably into his face receiv'd, And thus the filial Godhead answering spake. O Father, O Supream of heav'nly Thrones, First, Highest, Holiest, Best, thou alwayes seekst To glorifie thy Son, I alwayes thee, As is most just; this I my Glorie account, My exaltation, and my whole delight, That thou in me well pleas'd, declarst thy will Fulfill'd, which to fulfil is all my bliss. Scepter and Power, thy giving, I assume, And gladlier shall resign, when in the end Thou shalt be All in All, and I in thee For ever, and in mee all whom thou lov'st: But whom thou hat'st, I hate, and can put on Thy terrors, as I put thy mildness on, Image of thee in all things; and shall soon, Armd with thy might, rid heav'n of these rebell'd, To thir prepar'd ill Mansion driven down To chains of Darkness, and th' undying Worm, That from thy just obedience could revolt, Whom to obey is happiness entire. Then shall thy Saints unmixt, and from th' impure Farr separate, circling thy holy Mount Unfained HALLELUIAHS to thee sing, Hymns of high praise, and I among them chief. So said, he o're his Scepter bowing, rose From the right hand of Glorie where he sate, And the third sacred Morn began to shine Dawning through Heav'n: forth rush'd with whirlwind sound The Chariot of Paternal Deitie, Flashing thick flames, Wheele within Wheele undrawn, It self instinct with Spirit, but convoyd By four Cherubic shapes, four Faces each Had wondrous, as with Starrs thir bodies all And Wings were set with Eyes, with Eyes the Wheels Of Beril, and careering Fires between; Over thir heads a chrystal Firmament, Whereon a Saphir Throne, inlaid with pure Amber, and colours of the showrie Arch. Hee in Celestial Panoplie all armd Of radiant URIM, work divinely wrought, Ascended, at his right hand Victorie Sate Eagle-wing'd, beside him hung his Bow And Quiver with three-bolted Thunder stor'd, And from about him fierce Effusion rowld Of smoak and bickering flame, and sparkles dire; Attended with ten thousand thousand Saints, He onward came, farr off his coming shon, And twentie thousand (I thir number heard) Chariots of God, half on each hand were seen: Hee on the wings of Cherub rode sublime On the Crystallin Skie, in Saphir Thron'd. Illustrious farr and wide, but by his own First seen, them unexpected joy surpriz'd, When the great Ensign of MESSIAH blaz'd Aloft by Angels born, his Sign in Heav'n: Under whose Conduct MICHAEL soon reduc'd His Armie, circumfus'd on either Wing, Under thir Head imbodied all in one. Before him Power Divine his way prepar'd; At his command the uprooted Hills retir'd Each to his place, they heard his voice and went Obsequious, Heav'n his wonted face renewd, And with fresh Flourets Hill and Valley smil'd. This saw his hapless Foes, but stood obdur'd, And to rebellious fight rallied thir Powers Insensate, hope conceiving from despair. In heav'nly Spirits could such perverseness dwell? But to convince the proud what Signs availe, Or Wonders move th' obdurate to relent? They hard'nd more by what might most reclame, Grieving to see his Glorie, at the sight Took envie, and aspiring to his highth, Stood reimbattell'd fierce, by force or fraud Weening to prosper, and at length prevaile Against God and MESSIAH, or to fall In universal ruin last, and now To final Battel drew, disdaining flight, Or faint retreat; when the great Son of God To all his Host on either hand thus spake. Stand still in bright array ye Saints, here stand Ye Angels arm'd, this day from Battel rest; Faithful hath been your Warfare, and of God Accepted, fearless in his righteous Cause, And as ye have receivd, so have ye don Invincibly; but of this cursed crew The punishment to other hand belongs, Vengeance is his, or whose he sole appoints; Number to this dayes work is not ordain'd Nor multitude, stand onely and behold Gods indignation on these Godless pourd By mee; not you but mee they have despis'd, Yet envied; against mee is all thir rage, Because the Father, t' whom in Heav'n supream Kingdom and Power and Glorie appertains, Hath honourd me according to his will. Therefore to mee thir doom he hath assig'n'd; That they may have thir wish, to trie with mee In Battel which the stronger proves, they all, Or I alone against them, since by strength They measure all, of other excellence Not emulous, nor care who them excells; Nor other strife with them do I voutsafe. So spake the Son, and into terrour chang'd His count'nance too severe to be beheld And full of wrauth bent on his Enemies. At once the Four spred out thir Starrie wings With dreadful shade contiguous, and the Orbes Of his fierce Chariot rowld, as with the sound Of torrent Floods, or of a numerous Host. Hee on his impious Foes right onward drove, Gloomie as Night; under his burning Wheeles The stedfast Empyrean shook throughout, All but the Throne it self of God. Full soon Among them he arriv'd; in his right hand Grasping ten thousand Thunders, which he sent Before him, such as in thir Soules infix'd Plagues; they astonisht all resistance lost, All courage; down thir idle weapons drop'd; O're Shields and Helmes, and helmed heads he rode Of Thrones and mighty Seraphim prostrate, That wish'd the Mountains now might be again Thrown on them as a shelter from his ire. Nor less on either side tempestuous fell His arrows, from the fourfold-visag'd Foure, Distinct with eyes, and from the living Wheels, Distinct alike with multitude of eyes, One Spirit in them rul'd, and every eye Glar'd lightning, and shot forth pernicious fire Among th' accurst, that witherd all thir strength, And of thir wonted vigour left them draind, Exhausted, spiritless, afflicted, fall'n. Yet half his strength he put not forth, but check'd His Thunder in mid Volie, for he meant Not to destroy, but root them out of Heav'n: The overthrown he rais'd, and as a Heard Of Goats or timerous flock together throngd Drove them before him Thunder-struck, pursu'd With terrors and with furies to the bounds And Chrystall wall of Heav'n, which op'ning wide, Rowld inward, and a spacious Gap disclos'd Into the wastful Deep; the monstrous sight Strook them with horror backward, but far worse Urg'd them behind; headlong themselvs they threw Down from the verge of Heav'n, Eternal wrauth Burnt after them to the bottomless pit. Hell heard th' unsufferable noise, Hell saw Heav'n ruining from Heav'n and would have fled Affrighted; but strict Fate had cast too deep Her dark foundations, and too fast had bound. Nine dayes they fell; confounded CHAOS roard, And felt tenfold confusion in thir fall Through his wilde Anarchie, so huge a rout Incumberd him with ruin: Hell at last Yawning receavd them whole, and on them clos'd, Hell thir fit habitation fraught with fire Unquenchable, the house of woe and paine. Disburd'nd Heav'n rejoic'd, and soon repaird Her mural breach, returning whence it rowld. Sole Victor from th' expulsion of his Foes MESSIAH his triumphal Chariot turnd: To meet him all his Saints, who silent stood Eye witnesses of his Almightie Acts, With Jubilie advanc'd; and as they went, Shaded with branching Palme, each order bright, Sung Triumph, and him sung Victorious King, Son, Heire, and Lord, to him Dominion giv'n, Worthiest to Reign: he celebrated rode Triumphant through mid Heav'n, into the Courts And Temple of his mightie Father Thron'd On high; who into Glorie him receav'd, Where now he sits at the right hand of bliss. Thus measuring things in Heav'n by things on Earth At thy request, and that thou maist beware By what is past, to thee I have reveal'd What might have else to human Race bin hid; The discord which befel, and Warr in Heav'n Among th' Angelic Powers, and the deep fall Of those too high aspiring, who rebelld With SATAN, hee who envies now thy state, Who now is plotting how he may seduce Thee also from obedience, that with him Bereavd of happiness thou maist partake His punishment, Eternal miserie; Which would be all his solace and revenge, As a despite don against the most High, Thee once to gaine Companion of his woe. But list'n not to his Temptations, warne Thy weaker; let it profit thee to have heard By terrible Example the reward Of disobedience; firm they might have stood, Yet fell; remember, and fear to transgress. THE END OF THE SIXTH BOOK. PARADISE LOST. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze verfassen?

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Buch VI setzt Raphael's Bericht über den Krieg im Himmel fort und beginnt damit, wie Abdiel seinen Weg von Satans Heerscharen im Norden zurück zu Gott findet. Die anderen Engel begrüßen Abdiel herzlich und führen ihn zu Gott, der den loyalen Engel lobt, da er für die Wahrheit eingestanden ist, obwohl niemand mit ihm stand. Gott bestimmt daraufhin Michael und Gabriel, um die himmlischen Kräfte gegen Satans Armee anzuführen. Allerdings begrenzt Gott die Anzahl der himmlischen Streitmacht sowie ihre Macht auf das gleiche Maß wie die von Satans Heerscharen. Die Schlacht dauert zwei Tage. Am ersten Tag schlagen die Engel die rebellischen Engel problemlos zurück; am zweiten Tag ist der Sieg der Engel nicht mehr so einfach, da sie von einer Kanone, die die Dämonen gebaut haben, angegriffen werden. Als Antwort auf das Kanonenfeuer greifen die himmlischen Heerscharen Berge, Hügel und Felsen und bombardieren die Rebellen, wodurch sie buchstäblich begraben werden, zusammen mit ihrer Kanone. Die Rebellen graben sich heraus und beginnen, in gleicher Weise zurückzuschlagen, und die Luft ist bald mit dem Landschaftsbild gefüllt. An diesem Punkt ruft Gott, aus Furcht um die physische Sicherheit des Himmels, den Sohn herbei, der die Rebellen alleine in seinem Wagen angreift und sie leicht in eine Kluft treibt, die in die Hölle führt. Aus Angst vorwärts oder rückwärts zu gehen, werden die Rebellen schließlich durch die Kluft in die Hölle gezwungen. Raphael schließt seine Erzählung ab und erzählt Adam, dass Satan nun den Stand des Menschen beneidet und versuchen wird, die beiden Menschen zur Ungehorsamkeit zu verleiten. Raphael erinnert Adam an das Schicksal der rebellischen Engel und warnt ihn davor, der Versuchung nachzugeben.

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 XII When Turnus saw the Latins leave the field, Their armies broken, and their courage quell'd, Himself become the mark of public spite, His honor question'd for the promis'd fight; The more he was with vulgar hate oppress'd, The more his fury boil'd within his breast: He rous'd his vigor for the last debate, And rais'd his haughty soul to meet his fate. As, when the swains the Libyan lion chase, He makes a sour retreat, nor mends his pace; But, if the pointed jav'lin pierce his side, The lordly beast returns with double pride: He wrenches out the steel, he roars for pain; His sides he lashes, and erects his mane: So Turnus fares; his eyeballs flash with fire, Thro' his wide nostrils clouds of smoke expire. Trembling with rage, around the court he ran, At length approach'd the king, and thus began: "No more excuses or delays: I stand In arms prepar'd to combat, hand to hand, This base deserter of his native land. The Trojan, by his word, is bound to take The same conditions which himself did make. Renew the truce; the solemn rites prepare, And to my single virtue trust the war. The Latians unconcern'd shall see the fight; This arm unaided shall assert your right: Then, if my prostrate body press the plain, To him the crown and beauteous bride remain." To whom the king sedately thus replied: "Brave youth, the more your valor has been tried, The more becomes it us, with due respect, To weigh the chance of war, which you neglect. You want not wealth, or a successive throne, Or cities which your arms have made your own: My towns and treasures are at your command, And stor'd with blooming beauties is my land; Laurentum more than one Lavinia sees, Unmarried, fair, of noble families. Now let me speak, and you with patience hear, Things which perhaps may grate a lover's ear, But sound advice, proceeding from a heart Sincerely yours, and free from fraudful art. The gods, by signs, have manifestly shown, No prince Italian born should heir my throne: Oft have our augurs, in prediction skill'd, And oft our priests, foreign son reveal'd. Yet, won by worth that cannot be withstood, Brib'd by my kindness to my kindred blood, Urg'd by my wife, who would not be denied, I promis'd my Lavinia for your bride: Her from her plighted lord by force I took; All ties of treaties, and of honor, broke: On your account I wag'd an impious war- With what success, 't is needless to declare; I and my subjects feel, and you have had your share. Twice vanquish'd while in bloody fields we strive, Scarce in our walls we keep our hopes alive: The rolling flood runs warm with human gore; The bones of Latians blanch the neighb'ring shore. Why put I not an end to this debate, Still unresolv'd, and still a slave to fate? If Turnus' death a lasting peace can give, Why should I not procure it whilst you live? Should I to doubtful arms your youth betray, What would my kinsmen the Rutulians say? And, should you fall in fight, (which Heav'n defend!) How curse the cause which hasten'd to his end The daughter's lover and the father's friend? Weigh in your mind the various chance of war; Pity your parent's age, and ease his care." Such balmy words he pour'd, but all in vain: The proffer'd med'cine but provok'd the pain. The wrathful youth, disdaining the relief, With intermitting sobs thus vents his grief: "The care, O best of fathers, which you take For my concerns, at my desire forsake. Permit me not to languish out my days, But make the best exchange of life for praise. This arm, this lance, can well dispute the prize; And the blood follows, where the weapon flies. His goddess mother is not near, to shroud The flying coward with an empty cloud." But now the queen, who fear'd for Turnus' life, And loath'd the hard conditions of the strife, Held him by force; and, dying in his death, In these sad accents gave her sorrow breath: "O Turnus, I adjure thee by these tears, And whate'er price Amata's honor bears Within thy breast, since thou art all my hope, My sickly mind's repose, my sinking age's prop; Since on the safety of thy life alone Depends Latinus, and the Latian throne: Refuse me not this one, this only pray'r, To waive the combat, and pursue the war. Whatever chance attends this fatal strife, Think it includes, in thine, Amata's life. I cannot live a slave, or see my throne Usurp'd by strangers or a Trojan son." At this, a flood of tears Lavinia shed; A crimson blush her beauteous face o'erspread, Varying her cheeks by turns with white and red. The driving colors, never at a stay, Run here and there, and flush, and fade away. Delightful change! Thus Indian iv'ry shows, Which with the bord'ring paint of purple glows; Or lilies damask'd by the neighb'ring rose. The lover gaz'd, and, burning with desire, The more he look'd, the more he fed the fire: Revenge, and jealous rage, and secret spite, Roll in his breast, and rouse him to the fight. Then fixing on the queen his ardent eyes, Firm to his first intent, he thus replies: "O mother, do not by your tears prepare Such boding omens, and prejudge the war. Resolv'd on fight, I am no longer free To shun my death, if Heav'n my death decree." Then turning to the herald, thus pursues: "Go, greet the Trojan with ungrateful news; Denounce from me, that, when to-morrow's light Shall gild the heav'ns, he need not urge the fight; The Trojan and Rutulian troops no more Shall dye, with mutual blood, the Latian shore: Our single swords the quarrel shall decide, And to the victor be the beauteous bride." He said, and striding on, with speedy pace, He sought his coursers of the Thracian race. At his approach they toss their heads on high, And, proudly neighing, promise victory. The sires of these Orythia sent from far, To grace Pilumnus, when he went to war. The drifts of Thracian snows were scarce so white, Nor northern winds in fleetness match'd their flight. Officious grooms stand ready by his side; And some with combs their flowing manes divide, And others stroke their chests and gently soothe their pride. He sheath'd his limbs in arms; a temper'd mass Of golden metal those, and mountain brass. Then to his head his glitt'ring helm he tied, And girt his faithful fauchion to his side. In his Aetnaean forge, the God of Fire That fauchion labor'd for the hero's sire; Immortal keenness on the blade bestow'd, And plung'd it hissing in the Stygian flood. Propp'd on a pillar, which the ceiling bore, Was plac'd the lance Auruncan Actor wore; Which with such force he brandish'd in his hand, The tough ash trembled like an osier wand: Then cried: "O pond'rous spoil of Actor slain, And never yet by Turnus toss'd in vain, Fail not this day thy wonted force; but go, Sent by this hand, to pierce the Trojan foe! Give me to tear his corslet from his breast, And from that eunuch head to rend the crest; Dragg'd in the dust, his frizzled hair to soil, Hot from the vexing ir'n, and smear'd with fragrant oil!" Thus while he raves, from his wide nostrils flies A fiery steam, and sparkles from his eyes. So fares the bull in his lov'd female's sight: Proudly he bellows, and preludes the fight; He tries his goring horns against a tree, And meditates his absent enemy; He pushes at the winds; he digs the strand With his black hoofs, and spurns the yellow sand. Nor less the Trojan, in his Lemnian arms, To future fight his manly courage warms: He whets his fury, and with joy prepares To terminate at once the ling'ring wars; To cheer his chiefs and tender son, relates What Heav'n had promis'd, and expounds the fates. Then to the Latian king he sends, to cease The rage of arms, and ratify the peace. The morn ensuing, from the mountain's height, Had scarcely spread the skies with rosy light; Th' ethereal coursers, bounding from the sea, From out their flaming nostrils breath'd the day; When now the Trojan and Rutulian guard, In friendly labor join'd, the list prepar'd. Beneath the walls they measure out the space; Then sacred altars rear, on sods of grass, Where, with religious their common gods they place. In purest white the priests their heads attire; And living waters bear, and holy fire; And, o'er their linen hoods and shaded hair, Long twisted wreaths of sacred veryain wear. In order issuing from the town appears The Latin legion, arm'd with pointed spears; And from the fields, advancing on a line, The Trojan and the Tuscan forces join: Their various arms afford a pleasing sight; A peaceful train they seem, in peace prepar'd for fight. Betwixt the ranks the proud commanders ride, Glitt'ring with gold, and vests in purple dyed; Here Mnestheus, author of the Memmian line, And there Messapus, born of seed divine. The sign is giv'n; and, round the listed space, Each man in order fills his proper place. Reclining on their ample shields, they stand, And fix their pointed lances in the sand. Now, studious of the sight, a num'rous throng Of either sex promiscuous, old and young, Swarm the town: by those who rest behind, The gates and walls and houses' tops are lin'd. Meantime the Queen of Heav'n beheld the sight, With eyes unpleas'd, from Mount Albano's height (Since call'd Albano by succeeding fame, But then an empty hill, without a name). She thence survey'd the field, the Trojan pow'rs, The Latian squadrons, and Laurentine tow'rs. Then thus the goddess of the skies bespoke, With sighs and tears, the goddess of the lake, King Turnus' sister, once a lovely maid, Ere to the lust of lawless Jove betray'd: Compress'd by force, but, by the grateful god, Now made the Nais of the neighb'ring flood. "O nymph, the pride of living lakes," said she, "O most renown'd, and most belov'd by me, Long hast thou known, nor need I to record, The wanton sallies of my wand'ring lord. Of ev'ry Latian fair whom Jove misled To mount by stealth my violated bed, To thee alone I grudg'd not his embrace, But gave a part of heav'n, and an unenvied place. Now learn from me thy near approaching grief, Nor think my wishes want to thy relief. While fortune favor'd, nor Heav'n's King denied To lend my succor to the Latian side, I sav'd thy brother, and the sinking state: But now he struggles with unequal fate, And goes, with gods averse, o'ermatch'd in might, To meet inevitable death in fight; Nor must I break the truce, nor can sustain the sight. Thou, if thou dar'st thy present aid supply; It well becomes a sister's care to try." At this the lovely nymph, with grief oppress'd, Thrice tore her hair, and beat her comely breast. To whom Saturnia thus: "Thy tears are late: Haste, snatch him, if he can be snatch'd from fate: New tumults kindle; violate the truce: Who knows what changeful fortune may produce? 'T is not a crime t' attempt what I decree; Or, if it were, discharge the crime on me." She said, and, sailing on the winged wind, Left the sad nymph suspended in her mind. And now pomp the peaceful kings appear: Four steeds the chariot of Latinus bear; Twelve golden beams around his temples play, To mark his lineage from the God of Day. Two snowy coursers Turnus' chariot yoke, And in his hand two massy spears he shook: Then issued from the camp, in arms divine, Aeneas, author of the Roman line; And by his side Ascanius took his place, The second hope of Rome's immortal race. Adorn'd in white, a rev'rend priest appears, And off'rings to the flaming altars bears; A porket, and a lamb that never suffer'd shears. Then to the rising sun he turns his eyes, And strews the beasts, design'd for sacrifice, With salt and meal: with like officious care He marks their foreheads, and he clips their hair. Betwixt their horns the purple wine he sheds; With the same gen'rous juice the flame he feeds. Aeneas then unsheath'd his shining sword, And thus with pious pray'rs the gods ador'd: "All-seeing sun, and thou, Ausonian soil, For which I have sustain'd so long a toil, Thou, King of Heav'n, and thou, the Queen of Air, Propitious now, and reconcil'd by pray'r; Thou, God of War, whose unresisted sway The labors and events of arms obey; Ye living fountains, and ye running floods, All pow'rs of ocean, all ethereal gods, Hear, and bear record: if I fall in field, Or, recreant in the fight, to Turnus yield, My Trojans shall encrease Evander's town; Ascanius shall renounce th' Ausonian crown: All claims, all questions of debate, shall cease; Nor he, nor they, with force infringe the peace. But, if my juster arms prevail in fight, (As sure they shall, if I divine aright,) My Trojans shall not o'er th' Italians reign: Both equal, both unconquer'd shall remain, Join'd in their laws, their lands, and their abodes; I ask but altars for my weary gods. The care of those religious rites be mine; The crown to King Latinus I resign: His be the sov'reign sway. Nor will I share His pow'r in peace, or his command in war. For me, my friends another town shall frame, And bless the rising tow'rs with fair Lavinia's name." Thus he. Then, with erected eyes and hands, The Latian king before his altar stands. "By the same heav'n," said he, "and earth, and main, And all the pow'rs that all the three contain; By hell below, and by that upper god Whose thunder signs the peace, who seals it with his nod; So let Latona's double offspring hear, And double-fronted Janus, what I swear: I touch the sacred altars, touch the flames, And all those pow'rs attest, and all their names; Whatever chance befall on either side, No term of time this union shall divide: No force, no fortune, shall my vows unbind, Or shake the steadfast tenor of my mind; Not tho' the circling seas should break their bound, O'erflow the shores, or sap the solid ground; Not tho' the lamps of heav'n their spheres forsake, Hurl'd down, and hissing in the nether lake: Ev'n as this royal scepter" (for he bore A scepter in his hand) "shall never more Shoot out in branches, or renew the birth: An orphan now, cut from the mother earth By the keen ax, dishonor'd of its hair, And cas'd in brass, for Latian kings to bear." When thus in public view the peace was tied With solemn vows, and sworn on either side, All dues perform'd which holy rites require; The victim beasts are slain before the fire, The trembling entrails from their bodies torn, And to the fatten'd flames in chargers borne. Already the Rutulians deem their man O'ermatch'd in arms, before the fight began. First rising fears are whisper'd thro' the crowd; Then, gath'ring sound, they murmur more aloud. Now, side to side, they measure with their eyes The champions' bulk, their sinews, and their size: The nearer they approach, the more is known Th' apparent disadvantage of their own. Turnus himself appears in public sight Conscious of fate, desponding of the fight. Slowly he moves, and at his altar stands With eyes dejected, and with trembling hands; And, while he mutters undistinguish'd pray'rs, A livid deadness in his cheeks appears. With anxious pleasure when Juturna view'd Th' increasing fright of the mad multitude, When their short sighs and thick'ning sobs she heard, And found their ready minds for change prepar'd; Dissembling her immortal form, she took Camertus' mien, his habit, and his look; A chief of ancient blood; in arms well known Was his great sire, and he his greater son. His shape assum'd, amid the ranks she ran, And humoring their first motions, thus began: "For shame, Rutulians, can you bear the sight Of one expos'd for all, in single fight? Can we, before the face of heav'n, confess Our courage colder, or our numbers less? View all the Trojan host, th' Arcadian band, And Tuscan army; count 'em as they stand: Undaunted to the battle if we go, Scarce ev'ry second man will share a foe. Turnus, 't is true, in this unequal strife, Shall lose, with honor, his devoted life, Or change it rather for immortal fame, Succeeding to the gods, from whence he came: But you, a servile and inglorious band, For foreign lords shall sow your native land, Those fruitful fields your fighting fathers gain'd, Which have so long their lazy sons sustain'd." With words like these, she carried her design: A rising murmur runs along the line. Then ev'n the city troops, and Latians, tir'd With tedious war, seem with new souls inspir'd: Their champion's fate with pity they lament, And of the league, so lately sworn, repent. Nor fails the goddess to foment the rage With lying wonders, and a false presage; But adds a sign, which, present to their eyes, Inspires new courage, and a glad surprise. For, sudden, in the fiery tracts above, Appears in pomp th' imperial bird of Jove: A plump of fowl he spies, that swim the lakes, And o'er their heads his sounding pinions shakes; Then, stooping on the fairest of the train, In his strong talons truss'd a silver swan. Th' Italians wonder at th' unusual sight; But, while he lags, and labors in his flight, Behold, the dastard fowl return anew, And with united force the foe pursue: Clam'rous around the royal hawk they fly, And, thick'ning in a cloud, o'ershade the sky. They cuff, they scratch, they cross his airy course; Nor can th' incumber'd bird sustain their force; But vex'd, not vanquish'd, drops the pond'rous prey, And, lighten'd of his burthen, wings his way. Th' Ausonian bands with shouts salute the sight, Eager of action, and demand the fight. Then King Tolumnius, vers'd in augurs' arts, Cries out, and thus his boasted skill imparts: "At length 't is granted, what I long desir'd! This, this is what my frequent vows requir'd. Ye gods, I take your omen, and obey. Advance, my friends, and charge! I lead the way. These are the foreign foes, whose impious band, Like that rapacious bird, infest our land: But soon, like him, they shall be forc'd to sea By strength united, and forego the prey. Your timely succor to your country bring, Haste to the rescue, and redeem your king." He said; and, pressing onward thro' the crew, Pois'd in his lifted arm, his lance he threw. The winged weapon, whistling in the wind, Came driving on, nor miss'd the mark design'd. At once the cornel rattled in the skies; At once tumultuous shouts and clamors rise. Nine brothers in a goodly band there stood, Born of Arcadian mix'd with Tuscan blood, Gylippus' sons: the fatal jav'lin flew, Aim'd at the midmost of the friendly crew. A passage thro' the jointed arms it found, Just where the belt was to the body bound, And struck the gentle youth extended on the ground. Then, fir'd with pious rage, the gen'rous train Run madly forward to revenge the slain. And some with eager haste their jav'lins throw; And some with sword in hand assault the foe. The wish'd insult the Latine troops embrace, And meet their ardor in the middle space. The Trojans, Tuscans, and Arcadian line, With equal courage obviate their design. Peace leaves the violated fields, and hate Both armies urges to their mutual fate. With impious haste their altars are o'erturn'd, The sacrifice half-broil'd, and half-unburn'd. Thick storms of steel from either army fly, And clouds of clashing darts obscure the sky; Brands from the fire are missive weapons made, With chargers, bowls, and all the priestly trade. Latinus, frighted, hastens from the fray, And bears his unregarded gods away. These on their horses vault; those yoke the car; The rest, with swords on high, run headlong to the war. Messapus, eager to confound the peace, Spurr'd his hot courser thro' the fighting prease, At King Aulestes, by his purple known A Tuscan prince, and by his regal crown; And, with a shock encount'ring, bore him down. Backward he fell; and, as his fate design'd, The ruins of an altar were behind: There, pitching on his shoulders and his head, Amid the scatt'ring fires he lay supinely spread. The beamy spear, descending from above, His cuirass pierc'd, and thro' his body drove. Then, with a scornful smile, the victor cries: "The gods have found a fitter sacrifice." Greedy of spoils, th' Italians strip the dead Of his rich armor, and uncrown his head. Priest Corynaeus, arm'd his better hand, From his own altar, with a blazing brand; And, as Ebusus with a thund'ring pace Advanc'd to battle, dash'd it on his face: His bristly beard shines out with sudden fires; The crackling crop a noisome scent expires. Following the blow, he seiz'd his curling crown With his left hand; his other cast him down. The prostrate body with his knees he press'd, And plung'd his holy poniard in his breast. While Podalirius, with his sword, pursued The shepherd Alsus thro' the flying crowd, Swiftly he turns, and aims a deadly blow Full on the front of his unwary foe. The broad ax enters with a crashing sound, And cleaves the chin with one continued wound; Warm blood, and mingled brains, besmear his arms around An iron sleep his stupid eyes oppress'd, And seal'd their heavy lids in endless rest. But good Aeneas rush'd amid the bands; Bare was his head, and naked were his hands, In sign of truce: then thus he cries aloud: "What sudden rage, what new desire of blood, Inflames your alter'd minds? O Trojans, cease From impious arms, nor violate the peace! By human sanctions, and by laws divine, The terms are all agreed; the war is mine. Dismiss your fears, and let the fight ensue; This hand alone shall right the gods and you: Our injur'd altars, and their broken vow, To this avenging sword the faithless Turnus owe." Thus while he spoke, unmindful of defense, A winged arrow struck the pious prince. But, whether from some human hand it came, Or hostile god, is left unknown by fame: No human hand or hostile god was found, To boast the triumph of so base a wound. When Turnus saw the Trojan quit the plain, His chiefs dismay'd, his troops a fainting train, Th' unhop'd event his heighten'd soul inspires: At once his arms and coursers he requires; Then, with a leap, his lofty chariot gains, And with a ready hand assumes the reins. He drives impetuous, and, where'er he goes, He leaves behind a lane of slaughter'd foes. These his lance reaches; over those he rolls His rapid car, and crushes out their souls: In vain the vanquish'd fly; the victor sends The dead men's weapons at their living friends. Thus, on the banks of Hebrus' freezing flood, The God of Battles, in his angry mood, Clashing his sword against his brazen shield, Let loose the reins, and scours along the field: Before the wind his fiery coursers fly; Groans the sad earth, resounds the rattling sky. Wrath, Terror, Treason, Tumult, and Despair (Dire faces, and deform'd) surround the car; Friends of the god, and followers of the war. With fury not unlike, nor less disdain, Exulting Turnus flies along the plain: His smoking horses, at their utmost speed, He lashes on, and urges o'er the dead. Their fetlocks run with blood; and, when they bound, The gore and gath'ring dust are dash'd around. Thamyris and Pholus, masters of the war, He kill'd at hand, but Sthenelus afar: From far the sons of Imbracus he slew, Glaucus and Lades, of the Lycian crew; Both taught to fight on foot, in battle join'd, Or mount the courser that outstrips the wind. Meantime Eumedes, vaunting in the field, New fir'd the Trojans, and their foes repell'd. This son of Dolon bore his grandsire's name, But emulated more his father's fame; His guileful father, sent a nightly spy, The Grecian camp and order to descry: Hard enterprise! and well he might require Achilles' car and horses, for his hire: But, met upon the scout, th' Aetolian prince In death bestow'd a juster recompense. Fierce Turnus view'd the Trojan from afar, And launch'd his jav'lin from his lofty car; Then lightly leaping down, pursued the blow, And, pressing with his foot his prostrate foe, Wrench'd from his feeble hold the shining sword, And plung'd it in the bosom of its lord. "Possess," said he, "the fruit of all thy pains, And measure, at thy length, our Latian plains. Thus are my foes rewarded by my hand; Thus may they build their town, and thus enjoy the land!" Then Dares, Butes, Sybaris he slew, Whom o'er his neck his flound'ring courser threw. As when loud Boreas, with his blust'ring train, Stoops from above, incumbent on the main; Where'er he flies, he drives the rack before, And rolls the billows on th' Aegaean shore: So, where resistless Turnus takes his course, The scatter'd squadrons bend before his force; His crest of horses' hair is blown behind By adverse air, and rustles in the wind. This haughty Phegeus saw with high disdain, And, as the chariot roll'd along the plain, Light from the ground he leapt, and seiz'd the rein. Thus hung in air, he still retain'd his hold, The coursers frighted, and their course controll'd. The lance of Turnus reach'd him as he hung, And pierc'd his plated arms, but pass'd along, And only raz'd the skin. He turn'd, and held Against his threat'ning foe his ample shield; Then call'd for aid: but, while he cried in vain, The chariot bore him backward on the plain. He lies revers'd; the victor king descends, And strikes so justly where his helmet ends, He lops the head. The Latian fields are drunk With streams that issue from the bleeding trunk. While he triumphs, and while the Trojans yield, The wounded prince is forc'd to leave the field: Strong Mnestheus, and Achates often tried, And young Ascanius, weeping by his side, Conduct him to his tent. Scarce can he rear His limbs from earth, supported on his spear. Resolv'd in mind, regardless of the smart, He tugs with both his hands, and breaks the dart. The steel remains. No readier way he found To draw the weapon, than t' inlarge the wound. Eager of fight, impatient of delay, He begs; and his unwilling friends obey. Iapis was at hand to prove his art, Whose blooming youth so fir'd Apollo's heart, That, for his love, he proffer'd to bestow His tuneful harp and his unerring bow. The pious youth, more studious how to save His aged sire, now sinking to the grave, Preferr'd the pow'r of plants, and silent praise Of healing arts, before Phoebean bays. Propp'd on his lance the pensive hero stood, And heard and saw, unmov'd, the mourning crowd. The fam'd physician tucks his robes around With ready hands, and hastens to the wound. With gentle touches he performs his part, This way and that, soliciting the dart, And exercises all his heav'nly art. All soft'ning simples, known of sov'reign use, He presses out, and pours their noble juice. These first infus'd, to lenify the pain, He tugs with pincers, but he tugs in vain. Then to the patron of his art he pray'd: The patron of his art refus'd his aid. Meantime the war approaches to the tents; Th' alarm grows hotter, and the noise augments: The driving dust proclaims the danger near; And first their friends, and then their foes appear: Their friends retreat; their foes pursue the rear. The camp is fill'd with terror and affright: The hissing shafts within the trench alight; An undistinguish'd noise ascends the sky, The shouts of those who kill, and groans of those who die. But now the goddess mother, mov'd with grief, And pierc'd with pity, hastens her relief. A branch of healing dittany she brought, Which in the Cretan fields with care she sought: Rough is the stern, which woolly leafs surround; The leafs with flow'rs, the flow'rs with purple crown'd, Well known to wounded goats; a sure relief To draw the pointed steel, and ease the grief. This Venus brings, in clouds involv'd, and brews Th' extracted liquor with ambrosian dews, And odorous panacee. Unseen she stands, Temp'ring the mixture with her heav'nly hands, And pours it in a bowl, already crown'd With juice of med'c'nal herbs prepar'd to bathe the wound. The leech, unknowing of superior art Which aids the cure, with this foments the part; And in a moment ceas'd the raging smart. Stanch'd is the blood, and in the bottom stands: The steel, but scarcely touch'd with tender hands, Moves up, and follows of its own accord, And health and vigor are at once restor'd. Iapis first perceiv'd the closing wound, And first the footsteps of a god he found. "Arms! arms!" he cries; "the sword and shield prepare, And send the willing chief, renew'd, to war. This is no mortal work, no cure of mine, Nor art's effect, but done by hands divine. Some god our general to the battle sends; Some god preserves his life for greater ends." The hero arms in haste; his hands infold His thighs with cuishes of refulgent gold: Inflam'd to fight, and rushing to the field, That hand sustaining the celestial shield, This gripes the lance, and with such vigor shakes, That to the rest the beamy weapon quakes. Then with a close embrace he strain'd his son, And, kissing thro' his helmet, thus begun: "My son, from my example learn the war, In camps to suffer, and in fields to dare; But happier chance than mine attend thy care! This day my hand thy tender age shall shield, And crown with honors of the conquer'd field: Thou, when thy riper years shall send thee forth To toils of war, be mindful of my worth; Assert thy birthright, and in arms be known, For Hector's nephew, and Aeneas' son." He said; and, striding, issued on the plain. Anteus and Mnestheus, and a num'rous train, Attend his steps; the rest their weapons take, And, crowding to the field, the camp forsake. A cloud of blinding dust is rais'd around, Labors beneath their feet the trembling ground. Now Turnus, posted on a hill, from far Beheld the progress of the moving war: With him the Latins view'd the cover'd plains, And the chill blood ran backward in their veins. Juturna saw th' advancing troops appear, And heard the hostile sound, and fled for fear. Aeneas leads; and draws a sweeping train, Clos'd in their ranks, and pouring on the plain. As when a whirlwind, rushing to the shore From the mid ocean, drives the waves before; The painful hind with heavy heart foresees The flatted fields, and slaughter of the trees; With like impetuous rage the prince appears Before his doubled front, nor less destruction bears. And now both armies shock in open field; Osiris is by strong Thymbraeus kill'd. Archetius, Ufens, Epulon, are slain (All fam'd in arms, and of the Latian train) By Gyas', Mnestheus', and Achates' hand. The fatal augur falls, by whose command The truce was broken, and whose lance, embrued With Trojan blood, th' unhappy fight renew'd. Loud shouts and clamors rend the liquid sky, And o'er the field the frighted Latins fly. The prince disdains the dastards to pursue, Nor moves to meet in arms the fighting few; Turnus alone, amid the dusky plain, He seeks, and to the combat calls in vain. Juturna heard, and, seiz'd with mortal fear, Forc'd from the beam her brother's charioteer; Assumes his shape, his armor, and his mien, And, like Metiscus, in his seat is seen. As the black swallow near the palace plies; O'er empty courts, and under arches, flies; Now hawks aloft, now skims along the flood, To furnish her loquacious nest with food: So drives the rapid goddess o'er the plains; The smoking horses run with loosen'd reins. She steers a various course among the foes; Now here, now there, her conqu'ring brother shows; Now with a straight, now with a wheeling flight, She turns, and bends, but shuns the single fight. Aeneas, fir'd with fury, breaks the crowd, And seeks his foe, and calls by name aloud: He runs within a narrower ring, and tries To stop the chariot; but the chariot flies. If he but gain a glimpse, Juturna fears, And far away the Daunian hero bears. What should he do! Nor arts nor arms avail; And various cares in vain his mind assail. The great Messapus, thund'ring thro' the field, In his left hand two pointed jav'lins held: Encount'ring on the prince, one dart he drew, And with unerring aim and utmost vigor threw. Aeneas saw it come, and, stooping low Beneath his buckler, shunn'd the threat'ning blow. The weapon hiss'd above his head, and tore The waving plume which on his helm he wore. Forced by this hostile act, and fir'd with spite, That flying Turnus still declin'd the fight, The Prince, whose piety had long repell'd His inborn ardor, now invades the field; Invokes the pow'rs of violated peace, Their rites and injur'd altars to redress; Then, to his rage abandoning the rein, With blood and slaughter'd bodies fills the plain. What god can tell, what numbers can display, The various labors of that fatal day; What chiefs and champions fell on either side, In combat slain, or by what deaths they died; Whom Turnus, whom the Trojan hero kill'd; Who shar'd the fame and fortune of the field! Jove, could'st thou view, and not avert thy sight, Two jarring nations join'd in cruel fight, Whom leagues of lasting love so shortly shall unite! Aeneas first Rutulian Sucro found, Whose valor made the Trojans quit their ground; Betwixt his ribs the jav'lin drove so just, It reach'd his heart, nor needs a second thrust. Now Turnus, at two blows, two brethren slew; First from his horse fierce Amycus he threw: Then, leaping on the ground, on foot assail'd Diores, and in equal fight prevail'd. Their lifeless trunks he leaves upon the place; Their heads, distilling gore, his chariot grace. Three cold on earth the Trojan hero threw, Whom without respite at one charge he slew: Cethegus, Tanais, Tagus, fell oppress'd, And sad Onythes, added to the rest, Of Theban blood, whom Peridia bore. Turnus two brothers from the Lycian shore, And from Apollo's fane to battle sent, O'erthrew; nor Phoebus could their fate prevent. Peaceful Menoetes after these he kill'd, Who long had shunn'd the dangers of the field: On Lerna's lake a silent life he led, And with his nets and angle earn'd his bread; Nor pompous cares, nor palaces, he knew, But wisely from th' infectious world withdrew: Poor was his house; his father's painful hand Discharg'd his rent, and plow'd another's land. As flames among the lofty woods are thrown On diff'rent sides, and both by winds are blown; The laurels crackle in the sputt'ring fire; The frighted sylvans from their shades retire: Or as two neighb'ring torrents fall from high; Rapid they run; the foamy waters fry; They roll to sea with unresisted force, And down the rocks precipitate their course: Not with less rage the rival heroes take Their diff'rent ways, nor less destruction make. With spears afar, with swords at hand, they strike; And zeal of slaughter fires their souls alike. Like them, their dauntless men maintain the field; And hearts are pierc'd, unknowing how to yield: They blow for blow return, and wound for wound; And heaps of bodies raise the level ground. Murranus, boasting of his blood, that springs From a long royal race of Latian kings, Is by the Trojan from his chariot thrown, Crush'd with the weight of an unwieldy stone: Betwixt the wheels he fell; the wheels, that bore His living load, his dying body tore. His starting steeds, to shun the glitt'ring sword, Paw down his trampled limbs, forgetful of their lord. Fierce Hyllus threaten'd high, and, face to face, Affronted Turnus in the middle space: The prince encounter'd him in full career, And at his temples aim'd the deadly spear; So fatally the flying weapon sped, That thro' his helm it pierc'd his head. Nor, Cisseus, couldst thou scape from Turnus' hand, In vain the strongest of th' Arcadian band: Nor to Cupentus could his gods afford Availing aid against th' Aenean sword, Which to his naked heart pursued the course; Nor could his plated shield sustain the force. Iolas fell, whom not the Grecian pow'rs, Nor great subverter of the Trojan tow'rs, Were doom'd to kill, while Heav'n prolong'd his date; But who can pass the bounds, prefix'd by fate? In high Lyrnessus, and in Troy, he held Two palaces, and was from each expell'd: Of all the mighty man, the last remains A little spot of foreign earth contains. And now both hosts their broken troops unite In equal ranks, and mix in mortal fight. Seresthus and undaunted Mnestheus join The Trojan, Tuscan, and Arcadian line: Sea-born Messapus, with Atinas, heads The Latin squadrons, and to battle leads. They strike, they push, they throng the scanty space, Resolv'd on death, impatient of disgrace; And, where one falls, another fills his place. The Cyprian goddess now inspires her son To leave th' unfinish'd fight, and storm the town: For, while he rolls his eyes around the plain In quest of Turnus, whom he seeks in vain, He views th' unguarded city from afar, In careless quiet, and secure of war. Occasion offers, and excites his mind To dare beyond the task he first design'd. Resolv'd, he calls his chiefs; they leave the fight: Attended thus, he takes a neighb'ring height; The crowding troops about their gen'ral stand, All under arms, and wait his high command. Then thus the lofty prince: "Hear and obey, Ye Trojan bands, without the least delay Jove is with us; and what I have decreed Requires our utmost vigor, and our speed. Your instant arms against the town prepare, The source of mischief, and the seat of war. This day the Latian tow'rs, that mate the sky, Shall level with the plain in ashes lie: The people shall be slaves, unless in time They kneel for pardon, and repent their crime. Twice have our foes been vanquish'd on the plain: Then shall I wait till Turnus will be slain? Your force against the perjur'd city bend. There it began, and there the war shall end. The peace profan'd our rightful arms requires; Cleanse the polluted place with purging fires." He finish'd; and, one soul inspiring all, Form'd in a wedge, the foot approach the wall. Without the town, an unprovided train Of gaping, gazing citizens are slain. Some firebrands, others scaling ladders bear, And those they toss aloft, and these they rear: The flames now launch'd, the feather'd arrows fly, And clouds of missive arms obscure the sky. Advancing to the front, the hero stands, And, stretching out to heav'n his pious hands, Attests the gods, asserts his innocence, Upbraids with breach of faith th' Ausonian prince; Declares the royal honor doubly stain'd, And twice the rites of holy peace profan'd. Dissenting clamors in the town arise; Each will be heard, and all at once advise. One part for peace, and one for war contends; Some would exclude their foes, and some admit their friends. The helpless king is hurried in the throng, And, whate'er tide prevails, is borne along. Thus, when the swain, within a hollow rock, Invades the bees with suffocating smoke, They run around, or labor on their wings, Disus'd to flight, and shoot their sleepy stings; To shun the bitter fumes in vain they try; Black vapors, issuing from the vent, involve the sky. But fate and envious fortune now prepare To plunge the Latins in the last despair. The queen, who saw the foes invade the town, And brands on tops of burning houses thrown, Cast round her eyes, distracted with her fear- No troops of Turnus in the field appear. Once more she stares abroad, but still in vain, And then concludes the royal youth is slain. Mad with her anguish, impotent to bear The mighty grief, she loathes the vital air. She calls herself the cause of all this ill, And owns the dire effects of her ungovern'd will; She raves against the gods; she beats her breast; She tears with both her hands her purple vest: Then round a beam a running noose she tied, And, fasten'd by the neck, obscenely died. Soon as the fatal news by Fame was blown, And to her dames and to her daughter known, The sad Lavinia rends her yellow hair And rosy cheeks; the rest her sorrow share: With shrieks the palace rings, and madness of despair. The spreading rumor fills the public place: Confusion, fear, distraction, and disgrace, And silent shame, are seen in ev'ry face. Latinus tears his garments as he goes, Both for his public and his private woes; With filth his venerable beard besmears, And sordid dust deforms his silver hairs. And much he blames the softness of his mind, Obnoxious to the charms of womankind, And soon seduc'd to change what he so well design'd; To break the solemn league so long desir'd, Nor finish what his fates, and those of Troy, requir'd. Now Turnus rolls aloof o'er empty plains, And here and there some straggling foes he gleans. His flying coursers please him less and less, Asham'd of easy fight and cheap success. Thus half-contented, anxious in his mind, The distant cries come driving in the wind, Shouts from the walls, but shouts in murmurs drown'd; A jarring mixture, and a boding sound. "Alas!" said he, "what mean these dismal cries? What doleful clamors from the town arise?" Confus'd, he stops, and backward pulls the reins. She who the driver's office now sustains, Replies: "Neglect, my lord, these new alarms; Here fight, and urge the fortune of your arms: There want not others to defend the wall. If by your rival's hand th' Italians fall, So shall your fatal sword his friends oppress, In honor equal, equal in success." To this, the prince: "O sister- for I knew The peace infring'd proceeded first from you; I knew you, when you mingled first in fight; And now in vain you would deceive my sight- Why, goddess, this unprofitable care? Who sent you down from heav'n, involv'd in air, Your share of mortal sorrows to sustain, And see your brother bleeding on the plain? For to what pow'r can Turnus have recourse, Or how resist his fate's prevailing force? These eyes beheld Murranus bite the ground: Mighty the man, and mighty was the wound. I heard my dearest friend, with dying breath, My name invoking to revenge his death. Brave Ufens fell with honor on the place, To shun the shameful sight of my disgrace. On earth supine, a manly corpse he lies; His vest and armor are the victor's prize. Then, shall I see Laurentum in a flame, Which only wanted, to complete my shame? How will the Latins hoot their champion's flight! How Drances will insult and point them to the sight! Is death so hard to bear? Ye gods below, (Since those above so small compassion show,) Receive a soul unsullied yet with shame, Which not belies my great forefather's name!" He said; and while he spoke, with flying speed Came Sages urging on his foamy steed: Fix'd on his wounded face a shaft he bore, And, seeking Turnus, sent his voice before: "Turnus, on you, on you alone, depends Our last relief: compassionate your friends! Like lightning, fierce Aeneas, rolling on, With arms invests, with flames invades the town: The brands are toss'd on high; the winds conspire To drive along the deluge of the fire. All eyes are fix'd on you: your foes rejoice; Ev'n the king staggers, and suspends his choice; Doubts to deliver or defend the town, Whom to reject, or whom to call his son. The queen, on whom your utmost hopes were plac'd, Herself suborning death, has breath'd her last. 'T is true, Messapus, fearless of his fate, With fierce Atinas' aid, defends the gate: On ev'ry side surrounded by the foe, The more they kill, the greater numbers grow; An iron harvest mounts, and still remains to mow. You, far aloof from your forsaken bands, Your rolling chariot drive o'er empty sands. Stupid he sate, his eyes on earth declin'd, And various cares revolving in his mind: Rage, boiling from the bottom of his breast, And sorrow mix'd with shame, his soul oppress'd; And conscious worth lay lab'ring in his thought, And love by jealousy to madness wrought. By slow degrees his reason drove away The mists of passion, and resum'd her sway. Then, rising on his car, he turn'd his look, And saw the town involv'd in fire and smoke. A wooden tow'r with flames already blaz'd, Which his own hands on beams and rafters rais'd; And bridges laid above to join the space, And wheels below to roll from place to place. "Sister, the Fates have vanquish'd: let us go The way which Heav'n and my hard fortune show. The fight is fix'd; nor shall the branded name Of a base coward blot your brother's fame. Death is my choice; but suffer me to try My force, and vent my rage before I die." He said; and, leaping down without delay, Thro' crowds of scatter'd foes he freed his way. Striding he pass'd, impetuous as the wind, And left the grieving goddess far behind. As when a fragment, from a mountain torn By raging tempests, or by torrents borne, Or sapp'd by time, or loosen'd from the roots- Prone thro' the void the rocky ruin shoots, Rolling from crag to crag, from steep to steep; Down sink, at once, the shepherds and their sheep: Involv'd alike, they rush to nether ground; Stunn'd with the shock they fall, and stunn'd from earth rebound: So Turnus, hasting headlong to the town, Should'ring and shoving, bore the squadrons down. Still pressing onward, to the walls he drew, Where shafts, and spears, and darts promiscuous flew, And sanguine streams the slipp'ry ground embrue. First stretching out his arm, in sign of peace, He cries aloud, to make the combat cease: "Rutulians, hold; and Latin troops, retire! The fight is mine; and me the gods require. 'T is just that I should vindicate alone The broken truce, or for the breach atone. This day shall free from wars th' Ausonian state, Or finish my misfortunes in my fate." Both armies from their bloody work desist, And, bearing backward, form a spacious list. The Trojan hero, who receiv'd from fame The welcome sound, and heard the champion's name, Soon leaves the taken works and mounted walls, Greedy of war where greater glory calls. He springs to fight, exulting in his force His jointed armor rattles in the course. Like Eryx, or like Athos, great he shows, Or Father Apennine, when, white with snows, His head divine obscure in clouds he hides, And shakes the sounding forest on his sides. The nations, overaw'd, surcease the fight; Immovable their bodies, fix'd their sight. Ev'n death stands still; nor from above they throw Their darts, nor drive their batt'ring-rams below. In silent order either army stands, And drop their swords, unknowing, from their hands. Th' Ausonian king beholds, with wond'ring sight, Two mighty champions match'd in single fight, Born under climes remote, and brought by fate, With swords to try their titles to the state. Now, in clos'd field, each other from afar They view; and, rushing on, begin the war. They launch their spears; then hand to hand they meet; The trembling soil resounds beneath their feet: Their bucklers clash; thick blows descend from high, And flakes of fire from their hard helmets fly. Courage conspires with chance, and both ingage With equal fortune yet, and mutual rage. As when two bulls for their fair female fight In Sila's shades, or on Taburnus' height; With horns adverse they meet; the keeper flies; Mute stands the herd; the heifers roll their eyes, And wait th' event; which victor they shall bear, And who shall be the lord, to rule the lusty year: With rage of love the jealous rivals burn, And push for push, and wound for wound return; Their dewlaps gor'd, their sides are lav'd in blood; Loud cries and roaring sounds rebellow thro' the wood: Such was the combat in the listed ground; So clash their swords, and so their shields resound. Jove sets the beam; in either scale he lays The champions' fate, and each exactly weighs. On this side, life and lucky chance ascends; Loaded with death, that other scale descends. Rais'd on the stretch, young Turnus aims a blow Full on the helm of his unguarded foe: Shrill shouts and clamors ring on either side, As hopes and fears their panting hearts divide. But all in pieces flies the traitor sword, And, in the middle stroke, deserts his lord. Now is but death, or flight; disarm'd he flies, When in his hand an unknown hilt he spies. Fame says that Turnus, when his steeds he join'd, Hurrying to war, disorder'd in his mind, Snatch'd the first weapon which his haste could find. 'T was not the fated sword his father bore, But that his charioteer Metiscus wore. This, while the Trojans fled, the toughness held; But, vain against the great Vulcanian shield, The mortal-temper'd steel deceiv'd his hand: The shiver'd fragments shone amid the sand. Surpris'd with fear, he fled along the field, And now forthright, and now in orbits wheel'd; For here the Trojan troops the list surround, And there the pass is clos'd with pools and marshy ground. Aeneas hastens, tho' with heavier pace- His wound, so newly knit, retards the chase, And oft his trembling knees their aid refuse- Yet, pressing foot by foot, his foe pursues. So, wenn ein ängstlicher Hirsch von roten Schlingen umgeben ist oder in einem Fluss gefangen wurde, erscheint hoch am Ufer der tief The peace thus made, the Thund'rer next prepares To force the wat'ry goddess from the wars. Deep in the dismal regions void of light, Three daughters at a birth were born to Night: These their brown mother, brooding on her care, Indued with windy wings to flit in air, With serpents girt alike, and crown'd with hissing hair. In heav'n the Dirae call'd, and still at hand, Before the throne of angry Jove they stand, His ministers of wrath, and ready still The minds of mortal men with fears to fill, Whene'er the moody sire, to wreak his hate On realms or towns deserving of their fate, Hurls down diseases, death and deadly care, And terrifies the guilty world with war. One sister plague if these from heav'n he sent, To fright Juturna with a dire portent. The pest comes whirling down: by far more slow Springs the swift arrow from the Parthian bow, Or Cydon yew, when, traversing the skies, And drench'd in pois'nous juice, the sure destruction flies. With such a sudden and unseen a flight Shot thro' the clouds the daughter of the night. Soon as the field inclos'd she had in view, And from afar her destin'd quarry knew, Contracted, to the boding bird she turns, Which haunts the ruin'd piles and hallow'd urns, And beats about the tombs with nightly wings, Where songs obscene on sepulchers she sings. Thus lessen'd in her form, with frightful cries The Fury round unhappy Turnus flies, Flaps on his shield, and flutters o'er his eyes. A lazy chillness crept along his blood; Chok'd was his voice; his hair with horror stood. Juturna from afar beheld her fly, And knew th' ill omen, by her screaming cry And stridor of her wings. Amaz'd with fear, Her beauteous breast she beat, and rent her flowing hair. "Ah me!" she cries, "in this unequal strife What can thy sister more to save thy life? Weak as I am, can I, alas! contend In arms with that inexorable fiend? Now, now, I quit the field! forbear to fright My tender soul, ye baleful birds of night; The lashing of your wings I know too well, The sounding flight, and fun'ral screams of hell! These are the gifts you bring from haughty Jove, The worthy recompense of ravish'd love! Did he for this exempt my life from fate? O hard conditions of immortal state, Tho' born to death, not privileg'd to die, But forc'd to bear impos'd eternity! Take back your envious bribes, and let me go Companion to my brother's ghost below! The joys are vanish'd: nothing now remains, Of life immortal, but immortal pains. What earth will open her devouring womb, To rest a weary goddess in the tomb!" She drew a length of sighs; nor more she said, But in her azure mantle wrapp'd her head, Then plung'd into her stream, with deep despair, And her last sobs came bubbling up in air. Now stern Aeneas his weighty spear Against his foe, and thus upbraids his fear: "What farther subterfuge can Turnus find? What empty hopes are harbor'd in his mind? 'T is not thy swiftness can secure thy flight; Not with their feet, but hands, the valiant fight. Vary thy shape in thousand forms, and dare What skill and courage can attempt in war; Wish for the wings of winds, to mount the sky; Or hid, within the hollow earth to lie!" The champion shook his head, and made this short reply: "No threats of thine my manly mind can move; 'T is hostile heav'n I dread, and partial Jove." He said no more, but, with a sigh, repress'd The mighty sorrow in his swelling breast. Then, as he roll'd his troubled eyes around, An antique stone he saw, the common bound Of neighb'ring fields, and barrier of the ground; So vast, that twelve strong men of modern days Th' enormous weight from earth could hardly raise. He heav'd it at a lift, and, pois'd on high, Ran stagg'ring on against his enemy, But so disorder'd, that he scarcely knew His way, or what unwieldly weight he threw. His knocking knees are bent beneath the load, And shiv'ring cold congeals his vital blood. The stone drops from his arms, and, falling short For want of vigor, mocks his vain effort. And as, when heavy sleep has clos'd the sight, The sickly fancy labors in the night; We seem to run; and, destitute of force, Our sinking limbs forsake us in the course: In vain we heave for breath; in vain we cry; The nerves, unbrac'd, their usual strength deny; And on the tongue the falt'ring accents die: So Turnus far'd; whatever means he tried, All force of arms and points of art employ'd, The Fury flew athwart, and made th' endeavor void. A thousand various thoughts his soul confound; He star'd about, nor aid nor issue found; His own men stop the pass, and his own walls surround. Once more he pauses, and looks out again, And seeks the goddess charioteer in vain. Trembling he views the thund'ring chief advance, And brandishing aloft the deadly lance: Amaz'd he cow'rs beneath his conqu'ring foe, Forgets to ward, and waits the coming blow. Astonish'd while he stands, and fix'd with fear, Aim'd at his shield he sees th' impending spear. The hero measur'd first, with narrow view, The destin'd mark; and, rising as he threw, With its full swing the fatal weapon flew. Not with less rage the rattling thunder falls, Or stones from batt'ring-engines break the walls: Swift as a whirlwind, from an arm so strong, The lance drove on, and bore the death along. Naught could his sev'nfold shield the prince avail, Nor aught, beneath his arms, the coat of mail: It pierc'd thro' all, and with a grisly wound Transfix'd his thigh, and doubled him to ground. With groans the Latins rend the vaulted sky: Woods, hills, and valleys, to the voice reply. Now low on earth the lofty chief is laid, With eyes cast upward, and with arms display'd, And, recreant, thus to the proud victor pray'd: "I know my death deserv'd, nor hope to live: Use what the gods and thy good fortune give. Yet think, O think, if mercy may be shown- Thou hadst a father once, and hast a son- Pity my sire, now sinking to the grave; And for Anchises' sake old Daunus save! Or, if thy vow'd revenge pursue my death, Give to my friends my body void of breath! The Latian chiefs have seen me beg my life; Thine is the conquest, thine the royal wife: Against a yielded man, 't is mean ignoble strife." In deep suspense the Trojan seem'd to stand, And, just prepar'd to strike, repress'd his hand. He roll'd his eyes, and ev'ry moment felt His manly soul with more compassion melt; When, casting down a casual glance, he spied The golden belt that glitter'd on his side, The fatal spoils which haughty Turnus tore From dying Pallas, and in triumph wore. Then, rous'd anew to wrath, he loudly cries (Flames, while he spoke, came flashing from his eyes) "Traitor, dost thou, dost thou to grace pretend, Clad, as thou art, in trophies of my friend? To his sad soul a grateful off'ring go! 'T is Pallas, Pallas gives this deadly blow." He rais'd his arm aloft, and, at the word, Deep in his bosom drove the shining sword. The streaming blood distain'd his arms around, And the disdainful soul came rushing thro' the wound. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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Turnus erkennt, dass sich das Kriegsglück gegen die Lateiner gewendet hat, und begreift, dass er nun sein Versprechen halten und gegen Aeneas in einem Duell kämpfen muss. König Latinus fleht Turnus an, seine Entscheidung zu überdenken und Frieden mit den Trojanern zu suchen, und die weinende Königin Amata bittet ihn, zu desertieren. Aber Turnus kann nicht zurückweichen; er glaubt, dass sein Ansehen auf dem Spiel steht. "Der Krieg", sagt er, "wird durch unser Blut entschieden; die Braut Lavinia wird auf diesem Feld gewonnen". Aeneas lässt verkünden, dass er tatsächlich gegen Turnus antreten wird, um seine Gefährten und seinen Sohn zu trösten, indem er ihnen "die Wege des Schicksals" beibringt. Am nächsten Tag versammeln sich sowohl die Trojaner als auch die Lateiner auf einem Feld, um das Duell zu beobachten. Aeneas und Turnus stimmen den Bedingungen des Duells zu und opfern den Göttern. Juno, besorgt, dass Turnus getötet wird, ruft Juturna, Turnus' Schwester, herbei, um ihm zu helfen. Juturna verkleidet sich als Camers, ein lateinischer Krieger, und mischt sich unter die lateinischen Reihen, indem sie ihnen sagt, dass sie ihren Ehrenkodex nicht von einem einzigen Leben abhängig machen sollten. Sie kann sie zum Handeln anstacheln, und Tolumnius, der sich selbst als ihren neuen Anführer bezeichnet, schleudert seine Lanze auf die Trojaner. Sie tötet einen jungen Krieger, und das trojanische Heer stürmt auf die Lateiner zu. Der Kampf beginnt erneut ernsthaft, und König Latinus zieht sich in sein Schloss zurück, um über den gebrochenen Vertrag zu trauern. Aeneas fleht seine Männer an, sich zu beruhigen und ihn allein kämpfen zu lassen, wird aber am Bein von einem Pfeil getroffen und muss fliehen. Turnus ist ermutigt durch Aeneas' Abreise und beginnt viele Trojaner zu töten. Aeneas wünscht sich nur zurück in den Kampf zu gehen, aber der Arzt Iapyx kann den Pfeil nicht aus seinem Bein entfernen. Venus, aufgebracht über den Schmerz ihres Sohnes, schickt einen heilenden Balsam, um seine Wunde zu heilen. So wiederhergestellt, umarmt Aeneas Ascanius und kehrt in den Kampf zurück. Aeneas und Turnus töten viele Krieger, obwohl Juturna Aeneas vorübergehend ablenken kann, indem sie in Turnus' Streitwagen reitet, während Aeneas glaubt, dass sein Feind darin ist, und sie verfolgt. Schließlich drängt Venus Aeneas dazu, sich der ungeschützten lateinischen Stadt zuzuwenden. Er schwört, die Stadt zu vernichten, wenn der Kampf an diesem Tag nicht gelöst wird. Königin Amata, vom Anblick der näherkommenden Trojaner verängstigt und in dem Glauben, dass ihr geliebter Turnus getötet wurde, erhängt sich im Schloss. Schließlich erkennt Turnus die Tragödie, die er angerichtet hat, und er ruft nach Aeneas, um ihn noch einmal auf dem Schlachtfeld zu treffen und den Kampf endgültig zu entscheiden. Der Kampf beginnt damit, dass beide Männer ihre Speere werfen. Dann stürmen sie mit Schwertern aufeinander zu. Turnus' Schwert bricht ab, so dass er zurückweichen muss, und Aeneas verfolgt ihn trotz seines Schmerzes von der Pfeilwunde. Aeneas, der Turnus nicht fangen kann, bemerkt seinen im Olivenbaum steckenden Speer und kämpft darum, ihn zu befreien. Inzwischen nimmt Juturna die Gestalt von Turnus' Kutscher an und gibt ihrem Bruder sein Schwert zurück. Angesichts dieser Einmischung wird Venus Aeneas helfen, den Speer aus dem Baum zu entfernen. Jupiter, selbst verärgert über diese fortgesetzte Einmischung in menschliche Angelegenheiten, ruft seine Frau zu sich. Sie weiß, sagt er, dass Aeneas dazu bestimmt ist zu siegen, warum also sollte sie weiterhin das Unabwendbare aufhalten? Jupiter sagt ihr, dass das Ende gekommen ist. Im Gegenzug wünscht sich Juno, dass die Lateiner ihren Namen und ihre Bräuche behalten dürfen, und Jupiter lächelt und sagt, dass er die Bräuche vermischen und den Lateinern ihren Namen lassen wird: "Du wirst sehen, ein Geschlecht wird daraus entstehen, das sich mit dem Blut der Ausonier vermischt, das größer sein wird als Menschen, sogar größer als die Götter in Frömmigkeit; keine andere Nation wird dir solche Ehre erweisen". Jupiter schickt eine der Furien herab, um Turnus einzuschüchtern. Juturna erkennt, dass sie nichts mehr tun kann, um ihrem Bruder zu helfen, und flieht in die Tiefe des Flusses, klagend. Aeneas wirft seinen Speer auf den gefallenen Turnus, und er durchbohrt seinen Oberschenkel. Aeneas nähert sich Turnus, um sein Leben zu beenden, aber Turnus fleht um Gnade, um seines Vaters willen. Aeneas ist von Turnus' Worten bewegt und erwägt kurz, ihn zu verschonen, bemerkt dann aber den Gürtel von Pallas, der über Turnus' Schultern hängt, und sticht sein Schwert in die Brust seines Gegners.

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: Beth did have the fever, and was much sicker than anyone but Hannah and the doctor suspected. The girls knew nothing about illness, and Mr. Laurence was not allowed to see her, so Hannah had everything her own way, and busy Dr. Bangs did his best, but left a good deal to the excellent nurse. Meg stayed at home, lest she should infect the Kings, and kept house, feeling very anxious and a little guilty when she wrote letters in which no mention was made of Beth's illness. She could not think it right to deceive her mother, but she had been bidden to mind Hannah, and Hannah wouldn't hear of 'Mrs. March bein' told, and worried just for sech a trifle.' Jo devoted herself to Beth day and night, not a hard task, for Beth was very patient, and bore her pain uncomplainingly as long as she could control herself. But there came a time when during the fever fits she began to talk in a hoarse, broken voice, to play on the coverlet as if on her beloved little piano, and try to sing with a throat so swollen that there was no music left, a time when she did not know the familiar faces around her, but addressed them by wrong names, and called imploringly for her mother. Then Jo grew frightened, Meg begged to be allowed to write the truth, and even Hannah said she 'would think of it, though there was no danger yet'. A letter from Washington added to their trouble, for Mr. March had had a relapse, and could not think of coming home for a long while. How dark the days seemed now, how sad and lonely the house, and how heavy were the hearts of the sisters as they worked and waited, while the shadow of death hovered over the once happy home. Then it was that Margaret, sitting alone with tears dropping often on her work, felt how rich she had been in things more precious than any luxuries money could buy--in love, protection, peace, and health, the real blessings of life. Then it was that Jo, living in the darkened room, with that suffering little sister always before her eyes and that pathetic voice sounding in her ears, learned to see the beauty and the sweetness of Beth's nature, to feel how deep and tender a place she filled in all hearts, and to acknowledge the worth of Beth's unselfish ambition to live for others, and make home happy by that exercise of those simple virtues which all may possess, and which all should love and value more than talent, wealth, or beauty. And Amy, in her exile, longed eagerly to be at home, that she might work for Beth, feeling now that no service would be hard or irksome, and remembering, with regretful grief, how many neglected tasks those willing hands had done for her. Laurie haunted the house like a restless ghost, and Mr. Laurence locked the grand piano, because he could not bear to be reminded of the young neighbor who used to make the twilight pleasant for him. Everyone missed Beth. The milkman, baker, grocer, and butcher inquired how she did, poor Mrs. Hummel came to beg pardon for her thoughtlessness and to get a shroud for Minna, the neighbors sent all sorts of comforts and good wishes, and even those who knew her best were surprised to find how many friends shy little Beth had made. Meanwhile she lay on her bed with old Joanna at her side, for even in her wanderings she did not forget her forlorn protege. She longed for her cats, but would not have them brought, lest they should get sick, and in her quiet hours she was full of anxiety about Jo. She sent loving messages to Amy, bade them tell her mother that she would write soon, and often begged for pencil and paper to try to say a word, that Father might not think she had neglected him. But soon even these intervals of consciousness ended, and she lay hour after hour, tossing to and fro, with incoherent words on her lips, or sank into a heavy sleep which brought her no refreshment. Dr. Bangs came twice a day, Hannah sat up at night, Meg kept a telegram in her desk all ready to send off at any minute, and Jo never stirred from Beth's side. The first of December was a wintry day indeed to them, for a bitter wind blew, snow fell fast, and the year seemed getting ready for its death. When Dr. Bangs came that morning, he looked long at Beth, held the hot hand in both his own for a minute, and laid it gently down, saying, in a low voice to Hannah, "If Mrs. March can leave her husband she'd better be sent for." Hannah nodded without speaking, for her lips twitched nervously, Meg dropped down into a chair as the strength seemed to go out of her limbs at the sound of those words, and Jo, standing with a pale face for a minute, ran to the parlor, snatched up the telegram, and throwing on her things, rushed out into the storm. She was soon back, and while noiselessly taking off her cloak, Laurie came in with a letter, saying that Mr. March was mending again. Jo read it thankfully, but the heavy weight did not seem lifted off her heart, and her face was so full of misery that Laurie asked quickly, "What is it? Is Beth worse?" "I've sent for Mother," said Jo, tugging at her rubber boots with a tragic expression. "Good for you, Jo! Did you do it on your own responsibility?" asked Laurie, as he seated her in the hall chair and took off the rebellious boots, seeing how her hands shook. "No. The doctor told us to." "Oh, Jo, it's not so bad as that?" cried Laurie, with a startled face. "Yes, it is. She doesn't know us, she doesn't even talk about the flocks of green doves, as she calls the vine leaves on the wall. She doesn't look like my Beth, and there's nobody to help us bear it. Mother and father both gone, and God seems so far away I can't find Him." As the tears streamed fast down poor Jo's cheeks, she stretched out her hand in a helpless sort of way, as if groping in the dark, and Laurie took it in his, whispering as well as he could with a lump in his throat, "I'm here. Hold on to me, Jo, dear!" She could not speak, but she did 'hold on', and the warm grasp of the friendly human hand comforted her sore heart, and seemed to lead her nearer to the Divine arm which alone could uphold her in her trouble. Laurie longed to say something tender and comfortable, but no fitting words came to him, so he stood silent, gently stroking her bent head as her mother used to do. It was the best thing he could have done, far more soothing than the most eloquent words, for Jo felt the unspoken sympathy, and in the silence learned the sweet solace which affection administers to sorrow. Soon she dried the tears which had relieved her, and looked up with a grateful face. "Thank you, Teddy, I'm better now. I don't feel so forlorn, and will try to bear it if it comes." "Keep hoping for the best, that will help you, Jo. Soon your mother will be here, and then everything will be all right." "I'm so glad Father is better. Now she won't feel so bad about leaving him. Oh, me! It does seem as if all the troubles came in a heap, and I got the heaviest part on my shoulders," sighed Jo, spreading her wet handkerchief over her knees to dry. "Doesn't Meg pull fair?" asked Laurie, looking indignant. "Oh, yes, she tries to, but she can't love Bethy as I do, and she won't miss her as I shall. Beth is my conscience, and I can't give her up. I can't! I can't!" Down went Jo's face into the wet handkerchief, and she cried despairingly, for she had kept up bravely till now and never shed a tear. Laurie drew his hand across his eyes, but could not speak till he had subdued the choky feeling in his throat and steadied his lips. It might be unmanly, but he couldn't help it, and I am glad of it. Presently, as Jo's sobs quieted, he said hopefully, "I don't think she will die. She's so good, and we all love her so much, I don't believe God will take her away yet." "The good and dear people always do die," groaned Jo, but she stopped crying, for her friend's words cheered her up in spite of her own doubts and fears. "Poor girl, you're worn out. It isn't like you to be forlorn. Stop a bit. I'll hearten you up in a jiffy." Laurie went off two stairs at a time, and Jo laid her wearied head down on Beth's little brown hood, which no one had thought of moving from the table where she left it. It must have possessed some magic, for the submissive spirit of its gentle owner seemed to enter into Jo, and when Laurie came running down with a glass of wine, she took it with a smile, and said bravely, "I drink-- Health to my Beth! You are a good doctor, Teddy, and such a comfortable friend. How can I ever pay you?" she added, as the wine refreshed her body, as the kind words had done her troubled mind. "I'll send my bill, by-and-by, and tonight I'll give you something that will warm the cockles of your heart better than quarts of wine," said Laurie, beaming at her with a face of suppressed satisfaction at something. "What is it?" cried Jo, forgetting her woes for a minute in her wonder. "I telegraphed to your mother yesterday, and Brooke answered she'd come at once, and she'll be here tonight, and everything will be all right. Aren't you glad I did it?" Laurie spoke very fast, and turned red and excited all in a minute, for he had kept his plot a secret, for fear of disappointing the girls or harming Beth. Jo grew quite white, flew out of her chair, and the moment he stopped speaking she electrified him by throwing her arms round his neck, and crying out, with a joyful cry, "Oh, Laurie! Oh, Mother! I am so glad!" She did not weep again, but laughed hysterically, and trembled and clung to her friend as if she was a little bewildered by the sudden news. Laurie, though decidedly amazed, behaved with great presence of mind. He patted her back soothingly, and finding that she was recovering, followed it up by a bashful kiss or two, which brought Jo round at once. Holding on to the banisters, she put him gently away, saying breathlessly, "Oh, don't! I didn't mean to, it was dreadful of me, but you were such a dear to go and do it in spite of Hannah that I couldn't help flying at you. Tell me all about it, and don't give me wine again, it makes me act so." "I don't mind," laughed Laurie, as he settled his tie. "Why, you see I got fidgety, and so did Grandpa. We thought Hannah was overdoing the authority business, and your mother ought to know. She'd never forgive us if Beth... Well, if anything happened, you know. So I got grandpa to say it was high time we did something, and off I pelted to the office yesterday, for the doctor looked sober, and Hannah most took my head off when I proposed a telegram. I never can bear to be 'lorded over', so that settled my mind, and I did it. Your mother will come, I know, and the late train is in at two A.M. I shall go for her, and you've only got to bottle up your rapture, and keep Beth quiet till that blessed lady gets here." "Laurie, you're an angel! How shall I ever thank you?" "Fly at me again. I rather liked it," said Laurie, looking mischievous, a thing he had not done for a fortnight. "No, thank you. I'll do it by proxy, when your grandpa comes. Don't tease, but go home and rest, for you'll be up half the night. Bless you, Teddy, bless you!" Jo had backed into a corner, and as she finished her speech, she vanished precipitately into the kitchen, where she sat down upon a dresser and told the assembled cats that she was "happy, oh, so happy!" while Laurie departed, feeling that he had made a rather neat thing of it. "That's the interferingest chap I ever see, but I forgive him and do hope Mrs. March is coming right away," said Hannah, with an air of relief, when Jo told the good news. Meg had a quiet rapture, and then brooded over the letter, while Jo set the sickroom in order, and Hannah "knocked up a couple of pies in case of company unexpected". A breath of fresh air seemed to blow through the house, and something better than sunshine brightened the quiet rooms. Everything appeared to feel the hopeful change. Beth's bird began to chirp again, and a half-blown rose was discovered on Amy's bush in the window. The fires seemed to burn with unusual cheeriness, and every time the girls met, their pale faces broke into smiles as they hugged one another, whispering encouragingly, "Mother's coming, dear! Mother's coming!" Every one rejoiced but Beth. She lay in that heavy stupor, alike unconscious of hope and joy, doubt and danger. It was a piteous sight, the once rosy face so changed and vacant, the once busy hands so weak and wasted, the once smiling lips quite dumb, and the once pretty, well-kept hair scattered rough and tangled on the pillow. All day she lay so, only rousing now and then to mutter, "Water!" with lips so parched they could hardly shape the word. All day Jo and Meg hovered over her, watching, waiting, hoping, and trusting in God and Mother, and all day the snow fell, the bitter wind raged, and the hours dragged slowly by. But night came at last, and every time the clock struck, the sisters, still sitting on either side of the bed, looked at each other with brightening eyes, for each hour brought help nearer. The doctor had been in to say that some change, for better or worse, would probably take place about midnight, at which time he would return. Hannah, quite worn out, lay down on the sofa at the bed's foot and fell fast asleep, Mr. Laurence marched to and fro in the parlor, feeling that he would rather face a rebel battery than Mrs. March's countenance as she entered. Laurie lay on the rug, pretending to rest, but staring into the fire with the thoughtful look which made his black eyes beautifully soft and clear. The girls never forgot that night, for no sleep came to them as they kept their watch, with that dreadful sense of powerlessness which comes to us in hours like those. "If God spares Beth, I never will complain again," whispered Meg earnestly. "If god spares Beth, I'll try to love and serve Him all my life," answered Jo, with equal fervor. "I wish I had no heart, it aches so," sighed Meg, after a pause. "If life is often as hard as this, I don't see how we ever shall get through it," added her sister despondently. Here the clock struck twelve, and both forgot themselves in watching Beth, for they fancied a change passed over her wan face. The house was still as death, and nothing but the wailing of the wind broke the deep hush. Weary Hannah slept on, and no one but the sisters saw the pale shadow which seemed to fall upon the little bed. An hour went by, and nothing happened except Laurie's quiet departure for the station. Another hour, still no one came, and anxious fears of delay in the storm, or accidents by the way, or, worst of all, a great grief at Washington, haunted the girls. It was past two, when Jo, who stood at the window thinking how dreary the world looked in its winding sheet of snow, heard a movement by the bed, and turning quickly, saw Meg kneeling before their mother's easy chair with her face hidden. A dreadful fear passed coldly over Jo, as she thought, "Beth is dead, and Meg is afraid to tell me." She was back at her post in an instant, and to her excited eyes a great change seemed to have taken place. The fever flush and the look of pain were gone, and the beloved little face looked so pale and peaceful in its utter repose that Jo felt no desire to weep or to lament. Leaning low over this dearest of her sisters, she kissed the damp forehead with her heart on her lips, and softly whispered, "Good-by, my Beth. Good-by!" As if awaked by the stir, Hannah started out of her sleep, hurried to the bed, looked at Beth, felt her hands, listened at her lips, and then, throwing her apron over her head, sat down to rock to and fro, exclaiming, under her breath, "The fever's turned, she's sleepin' nat'ral, her skin's damp, and she breathes easy. Praise be given! Oh, my goodness me!" Before the girls could believe the happy truth, the doctor came to confirm it. He was a homely man, but they thought his face quite heavenly when he smiled and said, with a fatherly look at them, "Yes, my dears, I think the little girl will pull through this time. Keep the house quiet, let her sleep, and when she wakes, give her..." What they were to give, neither heard, for both crept into the dark hall, and, sitting on the stairs, held each other close, rejoicing with hearts too full for words. When they went back to be kissed and cuddled by faithful Hannah, they found Beth lying, as she used to do, with her cheek pillowed on her hand, the dreadful pallor gone, and breathing quietly, as if just fallen asleep. "If Mother would only come now!" said Jo, as the winter night began to wane. "See," said Meg, coming up with a white, half-opened rose, "I thought this would hardly be ready to lay in Beth's hand tomorrow if she--went away from us. But it has blossomed in the night, and now I mean to put it in my vase here, so that when the darling wakes, the first thing she sees will be the little rose, and Mother's face." Never had the sun risen so beautifully, and never had the world seemed so lovely as it did to the heavy eyes of Meg and Jo, as they looked out in the early morning, when their long, sad vigil was done. "It looks like a fairy world," said Meg, smiling to herself, as she stood behind the curtain, watching the dazzling sight. "Hark!" cried Jo, starting to her feet. Yes, there was a sound of bells at the door below, a cry from Hannah, and then Laurie's voice saying in a joyful whisper, "Girls, she's come! She's come!" 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.

Dunkle Tage Beth ist viel schwerer krank als alle angenommen hatten. Nach einer Weile entscheidet die Familie, dass Marmee geholt werden muss, nur für den Fall, dass etwas Schreckliches passiert. Jo bricht vor Laurie zusammen und sagt, dass sie nicht will, dass Beth stirbt. Laurie gibt zu, dass er am Vortag für Marmee telegrafiert hat und dass sie an diesem Abend ankommen wird. Gegen zwei Uhr morgens bemerken Jo und Meg eine Veränderung bei Beth: das Fieber und der schmerzerfüllte Blick sind verschwunden. Jo flüstert ihrer Schwester Lebewohl zu. Hannah verkündet jedoch, dass das Fieber gebrochen ist. Beth ist nicht am Sterben, sondern erholt sich wieder. Der Arzt bestätigt die gute Nachricht und Marmee kommt an.

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. Weihnachten fiel in diesem Jahr auf einen Donnerstag, daher sollte das Geschäft für vier Tage geschlossen bleiben: Philip schrieb seinem Onkel und fragte, ob es für ihn bequem wäre, die Feiertage im Pfarrhaus zu verbringen. Er erhielt eine Antwort von Mrs. Foster, in der stand, dass sich Herr Carey nicht gut genug fühlte, um selbst zu schreiben, aber seinen Neffen sehen wollte und froh wäre, wenn er herunterkommen würde. Sie begrüßte Philip an der Tür und sagte, als sie ihm die Hand schüttelte: "Sie werden ihn seit Ihrem letzten Besuch verändert finden, aber Sie werden so tun, als ob Sie nichts bemerken, oder?" Philip nickte und sie führte ihn ins Esszimmer. "Hier ist Herr Philip, Sir." Der Pfarrer von Blackstable war ein sterbender Mann. Das ließ sich nicht leugnen, wenn man auf die eingefallenen Wangen und den geschrumpften Körper sah. Er saß zusammengesunken in einem Sessel, mit dem Kopf seltsam nach hinten geworfen und einem Schal über den Schultern. Er konnte inzwischen nur noch mit Hilfe von Stöcken laufen und seine Hände zitterten so sehr, dass er sich nur schwer selbst füttern konnte. "Er wird jetzt nicht mehr lange durchhalten", dachte Philip, als er ihn anschaute. "Wie sehe ich aus, finden Sie nicht auch, dass ich mich seit Ihrem letzten Besuch verändert habe?", fragte der Pfarrer. "Ich denke, Sie wirken stärker als letzten Sommer." "Das kam wohl von der Hitze. Die bringt mich immer aus dem Gleichgewicht." Mr. Careys Geschichte der letzten Monate bestand in der Anzahl der Wochen, die er in seinem Schlafzimmer verbracht hatte, und der Anzahl der Wochen, die er im Erdgeschoss verbracht hatte. Er hatte eine Handglocke neben sich und während er sprach, läutete er nach Mrs. Foster, die im nächsten Raum bereit saß, um ihn zu bedienen, und fragte, an welchem Tag des Monats er das erste Mal sein Zimmer verlassen habe. "Am siebten November, Sir." Mr. Carey sah Philip an, um zu sehen, wie er diese Information aufnahm. "Aber ich esse immer noch gut, nicht wahr, Mrs. Foster?" "Ja, Sir, Sie haben einen wunderbaren Appetit." "Aber ich scheine nicht zuzunehmen." Jetzt interessierte ihn nichts mehr als seine Gesundheit. Er stand unbeirrbar auf dieser einen Sache, nur zu leben, trotz der Monotonie seines Lebens und der ständigen Schmerzen, die es ihm nur unter dem Einfluss von Morphin ermöglichten, zu schlafen. "Es ist schrecklich, wie viel Geld ich für Arztrechnungen ausgeben muss." Er läutete erneut seine Glocke. "Mrs. Foster, zeigen Sie Master Philip die Rechnung vom Apotheker." Geduldig nahm sie sie vom Kaminsims und übergab sie Philip. "Das ist nur ein Monat. Ich habe mich gefragt, ob Sie, da Sie sich selbst behandeln, mir die Medikamente nicht billiger besorgen könnten. Ich habe daran gedacht, sie aus den Geschäften zu holen, aber dann kämen noch die Portokosten dazu." Obwohl er anscheinend so wenig Interesse an ihm hatte, dass er sich nicht darum kümmerte, was Phil tat, schien er froh zu sein, ihn da zu haben. Er fragte, wie lange er bleiben könne, und als Philip ihm sagte, dass er am Dienstagmorgen abreisen müsse, äußerte er den Wunsch, dass der Besuch länger hätte sein können. Er erzählte ihm minutiös all seine Symptome und wiederholte das, was der Arzt über ihn gesagt hatte. Er unterbrach sich, um seine Glocke zu läuten, und als Mrs. Foster kam, sagte er: "Oh, ich wusste nicht, ob Sie da waren. Ich habe nur geläutet, um nachzusehen." Als sie gegangen war, erklärte er Philip, dass es ihn beunruhige, wenn er sich nicht sicher war, dass Mrs. Foster in Rufweite war, sie wüsste genau, was sie mit ihm machen solle, wenn etwas passierte. Philip bemerkte, dass sie müde war und dass ihre Augen schwer waren vor Müdigkeit, schlug er vor, dass er sie zu sehr beanspruche. "Ach, Unsinn", sagte der Pfarrer, "sie ist stark wie ein Pferd." Und als sie das nächste Mal hereinkam, um ihm seine Medizin zu geben, sagte er zu ihr: "Master Philip sagt, dass Sie zu viel zu tun haben, Mrs. Foster. Sie helfen gerne bei der Pflege von mir, nicht wahr?" "Oh, das macht mir nichts aus, Sir. Ich möchte alles tun, was ich kann." Bald griff die Medizin und Mr. Carey fiel in einen Schlaf. Philip ging in die Küche und fragte Mrs. Foster, ob sie die Arbeit aushalten könne. Er sah, dass sie seit einigen Monaten wenig Ruhe hatte. "Nun, Sir, was kann ich tun?", antwortete sie. "Der arme alte Herr ist so abhängig von mir, und obwohl er manchmal anstrengend ist, kann man ihn nicht anders als mögen, oder? Ich bin schon so viele Jahre hier, ich weiß nicht, was ich tun soll, wenn er geht." Philip sah, dass sie den alten Mann wirklich mochte. Sie wusch und zog ihn an, gab ihm sein Essen und stand ein halbes Dutzend Mal in der Nacht auf, denn sie schlief im Zimmer nebenan und wann immer er aufwachte, klingelte er mit seiner kleinen Glocke, bis sie hereinkam. Er konnte jeden Moment sterben, aber er konnte noch Monate leben. Es war wunderbar, dass sie sich so geduldig und liebevoll um einen Fremden kümmerte, und es war tragisch und erbärmlich, dass sie in der Welt allein war, um sich um ihn zu kümmern. Philip hatte den Eindruck, dass die Religion, die sein Onkel sein ganzes Leben lang gepredigt hatte, ihm nun nicht mehr als formale Bedeutung hatte: Jeden Sonntag kam der Vikar und spendete ihm das heilige Abendmahl, und er las oft in seiner Bibel; aber es war klar, dass er den Tod mit Schrecken betrachtete. Er glaubte, dass es der Eingang zum ewigen Leben war, aber er wollte dieses Leben nicht betreten. In ständigem Schmerz, an seinen Stuhl gefesselt und in der Hoffnung auf ein Leben im Freien aufgegeben wie ein Kind in den Händen einer Frau, der er Gehalt zahlt, hielt er an der Welt fest, die er kannte. In Philips Kopf war eine Frage, die er nicht stellen konnte, weil er sich bewusst war, dass sein Onkel niemals eine andere als eine konventionelle Antwort geben würde: er fragte sich, ob am Ende, jetzt wo die Maschine sich schmerzhaft verschlechtert, der Geistliche immer noch an die Unsterblichkeit glaubte; vielleicht am Grund seiner Seele, wo es nicht erlaubt war, sich in Worte zu fassen, falls es dringend wurde, lag die Überzeugung, dass es keinen Gott gibt und nach diesem Leben nichts ist. Am Abend des Boxing Day saß Philip mit seinem Onkel im Esszimmer. Am nächsten Morgen musste er früh aufstehen, um um neun Uhr im Laden zu sein, und dann sollte er sich von Mr. Carey verabschieden. Der Vikar von Blackstable döste vor sich hin und Philip, der sich auf dem Sofa am Fenster ausgestreckt hatte, ließ sein Buch auf seinem Knie fallen und schaute gedankenverloren im Zimmer umher. Er fragte sich, wie viel das Mobiliar einbringen würde. Er war um das Haus herumgegangen und hatte sich die Dinge angesehen, die er seit seiner Kindheit kannte. Es gab ein paar Stücke China, die einen ordentlichen Preis erzielen könnten, und Philip fragte sich, ob es sich lohnen würde, sie nach London mitzunehmen. Aber das Mobiliar war im viktorianischen Stil gehalten, aus massivem, hässlichem Mahagoni, und es würde bei einer Auktion nichts einbringen. Es gab drei- oder viertausend Bücher, aber jeder wusste, wie schlecht sie verkauften, und es war nicht wahrscheinlich, dass sie mehr als hundert Pfund einbringen würden. Philip wusste nicht, wie viel sein Onkel hinterlassen würde, und er rechnete zum hundertsten Mal aus, welche Summe das Minimum war, mit dem er das Studium am Krankenhaus abschließen, seinen Abschluss machen und während der Zeit, die er bei Krankenhausstellen verbringen wollte, leben könnte. Er betrachtete den alten Mann, der unruhig schlief: In diesem verschrumpelten Gesicht war keine Menschlichkeit mehr übrig; es war das Gesicht eines seltsamen Tieres. Philip dachte daran, wie einfach es wäre, dieses nutzlose Leben zu beenden. Er hatte es sich jeden Abend vorgestellt, wenn Mrs. Foster seinem Onkel das Medikament zubereitet hatte, das ihm eine ruhige Nacht bescheren sollte. Es gab zwei Flaschen: Eine enthielt ein Medikament, das er regelmäßig einnahm, und die andere ein Opium, falls die Schmerzen unerträglich wurden. Diese wurde für ihn abgemessen und neben sein Bett gestellt. Normalerweise nahm er es um drei oder vier Uhr morgens. Es wäre eine einfache Sache, die Dosis zu verdoppeln; er würde in der Nacht sterben, und niemand würde etwas vermuten; so erwartete Doktor Wigram, dass er sterben würde. Das Ende würde schmerzlos sein. Philip ballte die Fäuste, als er an das Geld dachte, das er so dringend brauchte. Ein paar weitere Monate dieses elenden Lebens würden nichts für den alten Mann bedeuten, aber die paar Monate bedeuteten alles für ihn: Er näherte sich dem Ende seiner Belastbarkeit, und wenn er daran dachte, am nächsten Morgen wieder zur Arbeit zu gehen, durchschüttelte ihn ein Entsetzen. Sein Herz schlug schnell bei dem Gedanken, der ihn besessen hielt, und obwohl er sich bemühte, ihn aus seinem Kopf zu bekommen, konnte er es nicht. Es wäre so einfach, so verzweifelt einfach. Er hatte kein Gefühl für den alten Mann, er mochte ihn noch nie; er war sein ganzes Leben lang egoistisch gewesen, egoistisch gegenüber seiner Frau, die ihn verehrte, gleichgültig gegenüber dem Jungen, der seiner Obhut anvertraut worden war; er war kein grausamer Mann, sondern ein dummer, harter Mann, der von einer kleinen Sinnlichkeit verzehrt war. Es wäre einfach, verzweifelt einfach. Doch Philip traute sich nicht. Er hatte Angst vor Reue; es würde ihm nichts nützen, das Geld zu haben, wenn er sein ganzes Leben lang bereute, was er getan hatte. Obwohl er sich so oft gesagt hatte, dass Reue sinnlos sei, gab es bestimmte Dinge, die gelegentlich zurückkehrten und ihn besorgten. Er wünschte, sie wären nicht auf seinem Gewissen. Sein Onkel öffnete die Augen; Philip war froh, denn er sah etwas menschlicher aus. Er war offen schockiert über die Idee, die ihm gekommen war, es war Mord, was er ins Auge gefasst hatte; und er fragte sich, ob andere Menschen solche Gedanken hatten oder ob er abweichend und verdorben war. Er vermutete, dass er es, wenn es darauf ankam, nicht hätte tun können, aber der Gedanke kehrte immer wieder zurück: Wenn er die Hand zurückhielt, dann aus Furcht. Sein Onkel sprach. "Du freust dich nicht auf meinen Tod, Philip?" Philip fühlte, wie sein Herz gegen seine Brust schlug. "Gott bewahre, nein." "Das ist ein braver Junge. Das möchte ich nicht, dass du das tust. Du wirst ein bisschen Geld bekommen, wenn ich mal nicht mehr da bin, aber du sollst dich nicht darauf freuen. Es würde dir nichts nützen, wenn du das tätest." Er sprach mit leiser Stimme und es lag eine seltsame Besorgnis in seinem Ton. Es durchzuckte Philip das Herz. Er fragte sich, welche merkwürdige Einsicht den alten Mann dazu gebracht haben könnte, zu ahnen, welche seltsamen Wünsche in Philips Kopf waren. "Ich hoffe, du wirst noch zwanzig Jahre leben", sagte er. "Ich kann das nicht erwarten, aber wenn ich auf mich aufpasse, sehe ich keinen Grund, warum ich nicht noch drei oder vier Jahre durchhalte." Er schwieg eine Weile und Philip fand nichts zu sagen. Dann sprach der alte Mann wieder, als hätte er alles noch einmal durchdacht. "Jeder hat das Recht zu leben, solange er kann." Philip wollte seine Gedanken ablenken. "Übrigens, ich nehme an, dass du von Miss Wilkinson nichts mehr hörst?" "Ja, ich habe dieses Jahr einmal einen Brief von ihr bekommen. Sie ist verheiratet, weißt du." "Wirklich?" "Ja, sie hat einen Witwer geheiratet. Ich glaube, sie haben es ganz gemütlich." </CHAPTER> <CHAPTER> CXI Am nächsten Tag fing Philip wieder mit der Arbeit an, aber das Ende, das er in ein paar Wochen erwartet hatte, kam nicht. Die Wochen vergingen und wurden zu Monaten. Der Winter verging und in den Parks begrünten sich die Bäume. Eine furchtbare Lethargie legte sich über Philip. Die Zeit verging, obwohl sie mit so schweren Füßen ging, und er dachte, dass seine Jugend verflog und er sie bald verloren haben würde und nichts erreicht hätte. Seine Arbeit schien sinnloser, jetzt wo er wusste, dass er sie hinter sich lassen würde. Er wurde geschickt im Entwurf von Kostümen und obwohl er keine kreative Begabung hatte, erlangte er Schnelligkeit in der Anpassung französischer Mode an den englischen Markt. Manchmal war er mit seinen Zeichnungen nicht unzufrieden, aber bei der Ausführung versagten sie immer. Amüsiert stellte er fest, dass er sich lebhaft ärgerte, wenn seine Ideen nicht angemessen umgesetzt wurden. Er musste vorsichtig sein. Immer wenn er etwas Originelles vorschlug, lehnte Mr. Sampson es ab: ihre Kunden wollten nichts Extravagantes, es war ein sehr respektables Geschäft und wenn man eine solche Verbindung hatte, lohnte es sich nicht, darauf zu verzichten. Ein- oder zweimal sprach er scharf mit Philip; er dachte, der junge Mann bilde sich etwas ein, weil Philips Ideen nicht immer mit seinen eigenen übereinstimmten. "Pass bloß auf, mein junger Freund, oder eines Tages stehst du auf der Straße." Philip hätte ihm am liebsten eine faustdicke Ohrfeige gegeben, aber er hielt sich zurück. Schließlich konnte es nicht mehr lange dauern, und dann hätte er für immer mit all diesen Leuten abgeschlossen. Manchmal rief er in komischer Verzweiflung aus, dass sein Onkel aus Eisen sein müsse. Was für eine Konstitution! Die Leiden, unter denen er litt, hätten jeden anständigen Menschen zwölf Monate zuvor getötet. Als schließlich die Nachricht kam, dass der Vikar im Sterben lag, wurde Philip, der an andere Dinge gedacht hatte, überras Mrs. Foster sagte, der Pfarrer dürfe nicht sprechen, es würde ihn ermüden; sie behandelte ihn wie ein Kind, mit freundlichem Despotismus; und etwas Kindisches lag in der Befriedigung des alten Mannes, alle ihre Erwartungen hintergangen zu haben. Ihm wurde sofort klar, dass Philip geholt worden war, und er fand es amüsant, dass er für eine belanglose Aufgabe herangezogen worden war. Wenn er nur einen weiteren Herzinfarkt vermeiden könnte, würde er sich in einer Woche oder zwei gut genug erholen; er hatte die Anfälle schon mehrmals gehabt; er fühlte sich immer, als würde er sterben, aber er tat es nie. Alle sprachen von seiner Konstitution, aber keiner von ihnen wusste, wie stark sie war. "Wirst du ein oder zwei Tage bleiben?" fragte er Philip und tat so, als glaube er, er sei für einen Urlaub hergekommen. "Das hatte ich vor", antwortete Philip fröhlich. "Ein Hauch von Seeluft wird dir guttun." Bald kam Dr. Wigram und sprach nachdem er den Pfarrer gesehen hatte mit Philip. Er nahm eine angemessene Haltung an. "Ich fürchte, diesmal ist es das Ende, Philip", sagte er. "Es wird ein großer Verlust für uns alle sein. Ich kenne ihn seit fünfunddreißig Jahren." "Im Moment scheint er doch recht gut", sagte Philip. "Ich halte ihn mit Medikamenten am Leben, aber es kann nicht ewig dauern. Die letzten beiden Tage waren schrecklich, ich dachte schon ein halbes Dutzend Mal, er sei tot." Der Doktor schwieg eine Minute oder zwei, aber am Tor sagte er plötzlich zu Philip: "Hat Mrs. Foster dir etwas gesagt?" "Was meinst du?" "Diese Leute sind sehr abergläubisch: Sie hat sich den Gedanken in den Kopf gesetzt, dass er etwas auf dem Herzen hat und nicht sterben kann, bis er es losgeworden ist; und er kann sich nicht dazu bringen, es zuzugeben." Philip antwortete nicht und der Doktor fuhr fort. "Natürlich ist das Unsinn. Er hat ein sehr gutes Leben geführt, er hat seine Pflicht getan, er war ein guter Pfarrer, und ich bin sicher, wir werden ihn alle sehr vermissen; er kann sich nichts vorzuwerfen haben. Ich bezweifle sehr, dass uns der nächste Pfarrer halb so gut gefallen wird." Mr. Carey blieb mehrere Tage lang unverändert. Sein Appetit, der ausgezeichnet gewesen war, ließ nach und er konnte kaum noch etwas essen. Dr. Wigram zögerte nun nicht mehr, die Schmerzen der Neuralgie, die ihn quälten, zu stillen; und das, zusammen mit dem ständigen Zittern seiner gelähmten Gliedmaßen, erschöpfte ihn allmählich. Sein Verstand blieb klar. Philip und Mrs. Foster pflegten ihn gemeinsam. Sie war so müde nach den vielen Monaten, in denen sie all seinen Bedürfnissen nachgekommen war, dass Philip darauf bestand, bei dem Patienten zu bleiben, damit sie ihre Nachtruhe haben konnte. Er verbrachte die langen Stunden in einem Sessel, damit er nicht zu fest schlief, und las bei gedämpftem Kerzenlicht die tausendundeine Nacht. Er hatte sie seit seiner Kindheit nicht mehr gelesen, und sie brachten ihm seine Kindheit zurück. Manchmal saß er einfach da und lauschte der Stille der Nacht. Als die Wirkung des Schlafmittels nachließ, wurde Mr. Carey unruhig und hielt ihn auf Trab. Schließlich, früh am Morgen, als die Vögel laut in den Bäumen zwitscherten, hörte er seinen Namen rufen. Er ging zum Bett. Mr. Carey lag auf dem Rücken, seine Augen starrten an die Decke; er wandte sie nicht Philip zu. Philip sah, dass Schweiß auf seiner Stirn lag, und wischte ihn mit einem Handtuch ab. "Bist du das, Philip?", fragte der alte Mann. Philip war erschrocken, denn die Stimme hatte sich plötzlich verändert. Sie war heiser und leise. So würde ein Mann sprechen, der vor Angst fror. "Ja, brauchst du etwas?" Es folgte eine Pause und immer noch starrten die blinden Augen an die Decke. Dann zuckte es im Gesicht. "Ich glaube, ich werde sterben", sagte er. "Oh, was für Unsinn!" rief Philip. "Du wirst erst in Jahren sterben." Zwei Tränen quollen dem alten Mann aus den Augen. Sie bewegten Philip furchtbar. Sein Onkel hatte in allen Angelegenheiten des Lebens nie besonders viel Emotion gezeigt; und es war schrecklich, sie jetzt zu sehen, denn sie bedeuteten eine unaussprechliche Angst. "Rufe Mr. Simmonds an", sagte er. "Ich möchte das Abendmahl empfangen." Mr. Simmonds war der Vikar. "Jetzt?", fragte Philip. "Bald, sonst ist es zu spät." Philip ging, um Mrs. Foster zu wecken, aber es war später als gedacht und sie war bereits wach. Er sagte ihr, sie solle den Gärtner mit einer Nachricht schicken, und ging zurück in das Zimmer seines Onkels. "Hast du Mr. Simmonds gerufen?" "Ja." Es herrschte Stille. Philip setzte sich an das Bett, und wischte von Zeit zu Zeit die verschwitzte Stirn ab. "Lass mich deine Hand halten, Philip", sagte der alte Mann schließlich. Philip reichte ihm seine Hand, und er hielt sie fest wie sein Leben, um Trost in seiner Not zu finden. Vielleicht hatte er noch nie jemanden wirklich geliebt in all seinen Tagen, aber jetzt wandte er sich instinktiv einem Menschen zu. Seine Hand war nass und kalt. Sie ergriff Philips Hand mit schwacher, verzweifelter Energie. Der alte Mann kämpfte gegen die Angst vor dem Tod. Und Philip dachte, dass jeder das durchmachen müsse. Oh, wie monströs war es doch, und sie konnten an einen Gott glauben, der seinen Geschöpfen erlaubte, eine solche grausame Folter zu erleiden! Er hatte sich nie für seinen Onkel interessiert, und zwei Jahre lang hatte er sich jeden Tag nach seinem Tod gesehnt; jetzt aber konnte er das Mitgefühl, das sein Herz erfüllte, nicht überwinden. Was für ein Preis war es, dafür zu zahlen, dass man anders war als die Tiere! Sie blieben in Stille zurück, die nur einmal durch eine Frage von Mr. Carey unterbrochen wurde. "Ist er noch nicht gekommen?" Schließlich trat die Haushälterin leise ein und sagte, dass Herr Simmonds da sei. Er hatte eine Tasche, in der sein Messgewand und die Stola waren. Mrs. Foster brachte die Abendmahlgeräte. Herr Simmonds schüttelte Philip schweigend die Hand und ging dann mit professioneller Ernsthaftigkeit zur Seite des Kranken. Philip und das Dienstmädchen gingen aus dem Zimmer. Philip ging durch den frischen, mit Morgentau bedeckten Garten. Die Vögel sangen fröhlich. Der Himmel war blau, aber die salzhaltige Luft war süß und kühl. Die Rosen blühten in voller Pracht. Das Grün der Bäume, das Grün der Rasenflächen war erwartungsvoll und strahlend. Philip ging und während er ging, dachte er an das Geheimnis, das sich in diesem Schlafzimmer abspielte. Es löste in ihm ein seltsames Gefühl aus. Schließlich kam Mrs. Foster zu ihm hinaus und sagte, dass sein Onkel ihn sehen wollte. Der Vikar packte seine Sachen wieder in die schwarze Tasche. Der kranke Mann drehte seinen Kopf ein wenig und begrüßte ihn mit einem Lächeln. Philip war erstaunt, denn es war eine Veränderung in ihm, eine außergewöhnliche Veränderung; seine Augen hatten nicht mehr den von Angst gezeichneten Blick und die Verkniffenheit seines Gesichts war verschwunden: er sah glücklich und gelassen aus. "Ich bin jetzt ganz bereit", sagte er, und seine Stimme hatte einen anderen Klang. "Wenn der Herr es für richtig hält, mich zu rufen, bin ich bereit, ihm meine Seele in die Hände zu legen." Philip sagte nichts. Er konnte sehen Philip zögerte. Ihm kam der Gedanke, dass es brutal wirken würde, eine Frau zu holen, um den Körper zu waschen, während sein Onkel noch lebte, und er fragte sich, warum Frau Foster ihn gebeten hatte zu kommen. Sie würden denken, er habe es eilig, den alten Mann loszuwerden. Der Bestatter schaute ihn merkwürdig an. Philip wiederholte die Frage. Es ärgerte Philip. Es ging ihn nichts an. "Wann ist der Pfarrer verstorben?" Philips erster Impuls war zu sagen, dass es gerade eben passiert war, aber dann würde es unerklärlich erscheinen, wenn der Kranke noch mehrere Stunden ausharren würde. Er errötete und antwortete ungeschickt. "Oh, er ist noch nicht genau tot." Der Bestatter schaute ihn verwirrt an, und Philip beeilte sich zu erklären. "Frau Foster ist ganz allein und sie möchte eine Frau dort haben. Du verstehst schon, oder? Er könnte mittlerweile tot sein." Der Bestatter nickte. "Oh ja, ich verstehe. Ich schicke sofort jemanden hoch." Als Philip zum Pfarrhaus zurückkehrte, ging er ins Schlafzimmer. Frau Foster erhob sich von ihrem Stuhl am Bett. "Er liegt genauso da wie bei deiner Abreise", sagte sie. Sie ging hinunter, um etwas zu essen, und Philip beobachtete neugierig den Sterbeprozess. Es war nichts Menschliches mehr in diesem schwachen unbewussten Wesen. Manchmal entkam dem schlaffen Mund ein gemurmelter Ausruf. Die Sonne brannte heiß von einem wolkenlosen Himmel herab, aber die Bäume im Garten waren angenehm und kühl. Es war ein herrlicher Tag. Eine Goldfliege summte gegen die Fensterscheibe. Plötzlich gab es ein lautes Rasseln, das Philip aufschrecken ließ, es war furchtbar erschreckend; eine Bewegung ging durch die Glieder und der alte Mann war tot. Die Maschine war abgelaufen. Die Goldfliege summte laut gegen die Fensterscheibe. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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In den Kapiteln CX und CXI verbringt Philip die Weihnachtsferien bei seinem sterbenden Onkel. Philip muss so tun, als sähe es seinem Onkel gut aus, aber Mr. Carey ist völlig hilflos und wird von seiner Haushälterin, Mrs. Foster, versorgt. Philip findet es seltsam, dass sein Onkel seit Jahrzehnten vom ewigen Leben predigt und dennoch Angst vor dem Tod hat. Er schaut sich im Haus um und schätzt den Wert jedes zum Verkauf stehenden Gegenstands ab. Er denkt darüber nach, wie einfach es wäre, den alten Mann mit einer Überdosis Medizin zu töten, und ist entsetzt über diesen Gedanken. Sein Onkel ahnt, was er denkt, und sagt ihm, dass er nicht auf seinen Tod hinfiebern darf, sonst wird es ihm nichts nützen. Philip erfährt, dass Miss Wilkinson geheiratet hat, und er fühlt den Verlust seiner eigenen Jugend, ohne die Erfolge erreicht zu haben, die er sich bis jetzt erhofft hatte. Im Sommer bekommt er einen Brief, dass sein Onkel tatsächlich im Sterben liegt, und er eilt nach Blackstable. Der Arzt sagt, er halte ihn mit Medikamenten am Leben, aber es kann nicht mehr lange dauern. Die Haushälterin denkt, dass etwas ihm auf dem Herzen liegt, und er gibt nicht auf, bis er seine Beichte ablegt. Schließlich bittet sein Onkel um die letzte Kommunion. Er hält Philip in Angst die Hand. Philip ist voller Mitgefühl. Der Pfarrer, Mr. Simmonds, kommt, um die Kommunion zu geben und eine letzte Beichte zu hören. Philip ist erstaunt, denn anschließend ist sein Onkel ruhig und glücklich. Es scheint für ihn ein Wunder zu sein. Sein Onkel stirbt in Frieden.

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 first act of business Miss Murdstone performed when the day of the solemnity was over, and light was freely admitted into the house, was to give Peggotty a month's warning. Much as Peggotty would have disliked such a service, I believe she would have retained it, for my sake, in preference to the best upon earth. She told me we must part, and told me why; and we condoled with one another, in all sincerity. As to me or my future, not a word was said, or a step taken. Happy they would have been, I dare say, if they could have dismissed me at a month's warning too. I mustered courage once, to ask Miss Murdstone when I was going back to school; and she answered dryly, she believed I was not going back at all. I was told nothing more. I was very anxious to know what was going to be done with me, and so was Peggotty; but neither she nor I could pick up any information on the subject. There was one change in my condition, which, while it relieved me of a great deal of present uneasiness, might have made me, if I had been capable of considering it closely, yet more uncomfortable about the future. It was this. The constraint that had been put upon me, was quite abandoned. I was so far from being required to keep my dull post in the parlour, that on several occasions, when I took my seat there, Miss Murdstone frowned to me to go away. I was so far from being warned off from Peggotty's society, that, provided I was not in Mr. Murdstone's, I was never sought out or inquired for. At first I was in daily dread of his taking my education in hand again, or of Miss Murdstone's devoting herself to it; but I soon began to think that such fears were groundless, and that all I had to anticipate was neglect. I do not conceive that this discovery gave me much pain then. I was still giddy with the shock of my mother's death, and in a kind of stunned state as to all tributary things. I can recollect, indeed, to have speculated, at odd times, on the possibility of my not being taught any more, or cared for any more; and growing up to be a shabby, moody man, lounging an idle life away, about the village; as well as on the feasibility of my getting rid of this picture by going away somewhere, like the hero in a story, to seek my fortune: but these were transient visions, daydreams I sat looking at sometimes, as if they were faintly painted or written on the wall of my room, and which, as they melted away, left the wall blank again. 'Peggotty,' I said in a thoughtful whisper, one evening, when I was warming my hands at the kitchen fire, 'Mr. Murdstone likes me less than he used to. He never liked me much, Peggotty; but he would rather not even see me now, if he can help it.' 'Perhaps it's his sorrow,' said Peggotty, stroking my hair. 'I am sure, Peggotty, I am sorry too. If I believed it was his sorrow, I should not think of it at all. But it's not that; oh, no, it's not that.' 'How do you know it's not that?' said Peggotty, after a silence. 'Oh, his sorrow is another and quite a different thing. He is sorry at this moment, sitting by the fireside with Miss Murdstone; but if I was to go in, Peggotty, he would be something besides.' 'What would he be?' said Peggotty. 'Angry,' I answered, with an involuntary imitation of his dark frown. 'If he was only sorry, he wouldn't look at me as he does. I am only sorry, and it makes me feel kinder.' Peggotty said nothing for a little while; and I warmed my hands, as silent as she. 'Davy,' she said at length. 'Yes, Peggotty?' 'I have tried, my dear, all ways I could think of--all the ways there are, and all the ways there ain't, in short--to get a suitable service here, in Blunderstone; but there's no such a thing, my love.' 'And what do you mean to do, Peggotty,' says I, wistfully. 'Do you mean to go and seek your fortune?' 'I expect I shall be forced to go to Yarmouth,' replied Peggotty, 'and live there.' 'You might have gone farther off,' I said, brightening a little, 'and been as bad as lost. I shall see you sometimes, my dear old Peggotty, there. You won't be quite at the other end of the world, will you?' 'Contrary ways, please God!' cried Peggotty, with great animation. 'As long as you are here, my pet, I shall come over every week of my life to see you. One day, every week of my life!' I felt a great weight taken off my mind by this promise: but even this was not all, for Peggotty went on to say: 'I'm a-going, Davy, you see, to my brother's, first, for another fortnight's visit--just till I have had time to look about me, and get to be something like myself again. Now, I have been thinking that perhaps, as they don't want you here at present, you might be let to go along with me.' If anything, short of being in a different relation to every one about me, Peggotty excepted, could have given me a sense of pleasure at that time, it would have been this project of all others. The idea of being again surrounded by those honest faces, shining welcome on me; of renewing the peacefulness of the sweet Sunday morning, when the bells were ringing, the stones dropping in the water, and the shadowy ships breaking through the mist; of roaming up and down with little Em'ly, telling her my troubles, and finding charms against them in the shells and pebbles on the beach; made a calm in my heart. It was ruffled next moment, to be sure, by a doubt of Miss Murdstone's giving her consent; but even that was set at rest soon, for she came out to take an evening grope in the store-closet while we were yet in conversation, and Peggotty, with a boldness that amazed me, broached the topic on the spot. 'The boy will be idle there,' said Miss Murdstone, looking into a pickle-jar, 'and idleness is the root of all evil. But, to be sure, he would be idle here--or anywhere, in my opinion.' Peggotty had an angry answer ready, I could see; but she swallowed it for my sake, and remained silent. 'Humph!' said Miss Murdstone, still keeping her eye on the pickles; 'it is of more importance than anything else--it is of paramount importance--that my brother should not be disturbed or made uncomfortable. I suppose I had better say yes.' I thanked her, without making any demonstration of joy, lest it should induce her to withdraw her assent. Nor could I help thinking this a prudent course, since she looked at me out of the pickle-jar, with as great an access of sourness as if her black eyes had absorbed its contents. However, the permission was given, and was never retracted; for when the month was out, Peggotty and I were ready to depart. Mr. Barkis came into the house for Peggotty's boxes. I had never known him to pass the garden-gate before, but on this occasion he came into the house. And he gave me a look as he shouldered the largest box and went out, which I thought had meaning in it, if meaning could ever be said to find its way into Mr. Barkis's visage. Peggotty was naturally in low spirits at leaving what had been her home so many years, and where the two strong attachments of her life--for my mother and myself--had been formed. She had been walking in the churchyard, too, very early; and she got into the cart, and sat in it with her handkerchief at her eyes. So long as she remained in this condition, Mr. Barkis gave no sign of life whatever. He sat in his usual place and attitude like a great stuffed figure. But when she began to look about her, and to speak to me, he nodded his head and grinned several times. I have not the least notion at whom, or what he meant by it. 'It's a beautiful day, Mr. Barkis!' I said, as an act of politeness. 'It ain't bad,' said Mr. Barkis, who generally qualified his speech, and rarely committed himself. 'Peggotty is quite comfortable now, Mr. Barkis,' I remarked, for his satisfaction. 'Is she, though?' said Mr. Barkis. After reflecting about it, with a sagacious air, Mr. Barkis eyed her, and said: 'ARE you pretty comfortable?' Peggotty laughed, and answered in the affirmative. 'But really and truly, you know. Are you?' growled Mr. Barkis, sliding nearer to her on the seat, and nudging her with his elbow. 'Are you? Really and truly pretty comfortable? Are you? Eh?' At each of these inquiries Mr. Barkis shuffled nearer to her, and gave her another nudge; so that at last we were all crowded together in the left-hand corner of the cart, and I was so squeezed that I could hardly bear it. Peggotty calling his attention to my sufferings, Mr. Barkis gave me a little more room at once, and got away by degrees. But I could not help observing that he seemed to think he had hit upon a wonderful expedient for expressing himself in a neat, agreeable, and pointed manner, without the inconvenience of inventing conversation. He manifestly chuckled over it for some time. By and by he turned to Peggotty again, and repeating, 'Are you pretty comfortable though?' bore down upon us as before, until the breath was nearly edged out of my body. By and by he made another descent upon us with the same inquiry, and the same result. At length, I got up whenever I saw him coming, and standing on the foot-board, pretended to look at the prospect; after which I did very well. He was so polite as to stop at a public-house, expressly on our account, and entertain us with broiled mutton and beer. Even when Peggotty was in the act of drinking, he was seized with one of those approaches, and almost choked her. But as we drew nearer to the end of our journey, he had more to do and less time for gallantry; and when we got on Yarmouth pavement, we were all too much shaken and jolted, I apprehend, to have any leisure for anything else. Mr. Peggotty and Ham waited for us at the old place. They received me and Peggotty in an affectionate manner, and shook hands with Mr. Barkis, who, with his hat on the very back of his head, and a shame-faced leer upon his countenance, and pervading his very legs, presented but a vacant appearance, I thought. They each took one of Peggotty's trunks, and we were going away, when Mr. Barkis solemnly made a sign to me with his forefinger to come under an archway. 'I say,' growled Mr. Barkis, 'it was all right.' I looked up into his face, and answered, with an attempt to be very profound: 'Oh!' 'It didn't come to a end there,' said Mr. Barkis, nodding confidentially. 'It was all right.' Again I answered, 'Oh!' 'You know who was willin',' said my friend. 'It was Barkis, and Barkis only.' I nodded assent. 'It's all right,' said Mr. Barkis, shaking hands; 'I'm a friend of your'n. You made it all right, first. It's all right.' In his attempts to be particularly lucid, Mr. Barkis was so extremely mysterious, that I might have stood looking in his face for an hour, and most assuredly should have got as much information out of it as out of the face of a clock that had stopped, but for Peggotty's calling me away. As we were going along, she asked me what he had said; and I told her he had said it was all right. 'Like his impudence,' said Peggotty, 'but I don't mind that! Davy dear, what should you think if I was to think of being married?' 'Why--I suppose you would like me as much then, Peggotty, as you do now?' I returned, after a little consideration. Greatly to the astonishment of the passengers in the street, as well as of her relations going on before, the good soul was obliged to stop and embrace me on the spot, with many protestations of her unalterable love. 'Tell me what should you say, darling?' she asked again, when this was over, and we were walking on. 'If you were thinking of being married--to Mr. Barkis, Peggotty?' 'Yes,' said Peggotty. 'I should think it would be a very good thing. For then you know, Peggotty, you would always have the horse and cart to bring you over to see me, and could come for nothing, and be sure of coming.' 'The sense of the dear!' cried Peggotty. 'What I have been thinking of, this month back! Yes, my precious; and I think I should be more independent altogether, you see; let alone my working with a better heart in my own house, than I could in anybody else's now. I don't know what I might be fit for, now, as a servant to a stranger. And I shall be always near my pretty's resting-place,' said Peggotty, musing, 'and be able to see it when I like; and when I lie down to rest, I may be laid not far off from my darling girl!' We neither of us said anything for a little while. 'But I wouldn't so much as give it another thought,' said Peggotty, cheerily 'if my Davy was anyways against it--not if I had been asked in church thirty times three times over, and was wearing out the ring in my pocket.' 'Look at me, Peggotty,' I replied; 'and see if I am not really glad, and don't truly wish it!' As indeed I did, with all my heart. 'Well, my life,' said Peggotty, giving me a squeeze, 'I have thought of it night and day, every way I can, and I hope the right way; but I'll think of it again, and speak to my brother about it, and in the meantime we'll keep it to ourselves, Davy, you and me. Barkis is a good plain creature,' said Peggotty, 'and if I tried to do my duty by him, I think it would be my fault if I wasn't--if I wasn't pretty comfortable,' said Peggotty, laughing heartily. This quotation from Mr. Barkis was so appropriate, and tickled us both so much, that we laughed again and again, and were quite in a pleasant humour when we came within view of Mr. Peggotty's cottage. It looked just the same, except that it may, perhaps, have shrunk a little in my eyes; and Mrs. Gummidge was waiting at the door as if she had stood there ever since. All within was the same, down to the seaweed in the blue mug in my bedroom. I went into the out-house to look about me; and the very same lobsters, crabs, and crawfish possessed by the same desire to pinch the world in general, appeared to be in the same state of conglomeration in the same old corner. But there was no little Em'ly to be seen, so I asked Mr. Peggotty where she was. 'She's at school, sir,' said Mr. Peggotty, wiping the heat consequent on the porterage of Peggotty's box from his forehead; 'she'll be home,' looking at the Dutch clock, 'in from twenty minutes to half-an-hour's time. We all on us feel the loss of her, bless ye!' Mrs. Gummidge moaned. 'Cheer up, Mawther!' cried Mr. Peggotty. 'I feel it more than anybody else,' said Mrs. Gummidge; 'I'm a lone lorn creetur', and she used to be a'most the only thing that didn't go contrary with me.' Mrs. Gummidge, whimpering and shaking her head, applied herself to blowing the fire. Mr. Peggotty, looking round upon us while she was so engaged, said in a low voice, which he shaded with his hand: 'The old 'un!' From this I rightly conjectured that no improvement had taken place since my last visit in the state of Mrs. Gummidge's spirits. Now, the whole place was, or it should have been, quite as delightful a place as ever; and yet it did not impress me in the same way. I felt rather disappointed with it. Perhaps it was because little Em'ly was not at home. I knew the way by which she would come, and presently found myself strolling along the path to meet her. A figure appeared in the distance before long, and I soon knew it to be Em'ly, who was a little creature still in stature, though she was grown. But when she drew nearer, and I saw her blue eyes looking bluer, and her dimpled face looking brighter, and her whole self prettier and gayer, a curious feeling came over me that made me pretend not to know her, and pass by as if I were looking at something a long way off. I have done such a thing since in later life, or I am mistaken. Little Em'ly didn't care a bit. She saw me well enough; but instead of turning round and calling after me, ran away laughing. This obliged me to run after her, and she ran so fast that we were very near the cottage before I caught her. 'Oh, it's you, is it?' said little Em'ly. 'Why, you knew who it was, Em'ly,' said I. 'And didn't YOU know who it was?' said Em'ly. I was going to kiss her, but she covered her cherry lips with her hands, and said she wasn't a baby now, and ran away, laughing more than ever, into the house. She seemed to delight in teasing me, which was a change in her I wondered at very much. The tea table was ready, and our little locker was put out in its old place, but instead of coming to sit by me, she went and bestowed her company upon that grumbling Mrs. Gummidge: and on Mr. Peggotty's inquiring why, rumpled her hair all over her face to hide it, and could do nothing but laugh. 'A little puss, it is!' said Mr. Peggotty, patting her with his great hand. 'So sh' is! so sh' is!' cried Ham. 'Mas'r Davy bor', so sh' is!' and he sat and chuckled at her for some time, in a state of mingled admiration and delight, that made his face a burning red. Little Em'ly was spoiled by them all, in fact; and by no one more than Mr. Peggotty himself, whom she could have coaxed into anything, by only going and laying her cheek against his rough whisker. That was my opinion, at least, when I saw her do it; and I held Mr. Peggotty to be thoroughly in the right. But she was so affectionate and sweet-natured, and had such a pleasant manner of being both sly and shy at once, that she captivated me more than ever. She was tender-hearted, too; for when, as we sat round the fire after tea, an allusion was made by Mr. Peggotty over his pipe to the loss I had sustained, the tears stood in her eyes, and she looked at me so kindly across the table, that I felt quite thankful to her. 'Ah!' said Mr. Peggotty, taking up her curls, and running them over his hand like water, 'here's another orphan, you see, sir. And here,' said Mr. Peggotty, giving Ham a backhanded knock in the chest, 'is another of 'em, though he don't look much like it.' 'If I had you for my guardian, Mr. Peggotty,' said I, shaking my head, 'I don't think I should FEEL much like it.' 'Well said, Mas'r Davy bor'!' cried Ham, in an ecstasy. 'Hoorah! Well said! Nor more you wouldn't! Hor! Hor!'--Here he returned Mr. Peggotty's back-hander, and little Em'ly got up and kissed Mr. Peggotty. 'And how's your friend, sir?' said Mr. Peggotty to me. 'Steerforth?' said I. 'That's the name!' cried Mr. Peggotty, turning to Ham. 'I knowed it was something in our way.' 'You said it was Rudderford,' observed Ham, laughing. 'Well!' retorted Mr. Peggotty. 'And ye steer with a rudder, don't ye? It ain't fur off. How is he, sir?' 'He was very well indeed when I came away, Mr. Peggotty.' 'There's a friend!' said Mr. Peggotty, stretching out his pipe. 'There's a friend, if you talk of friends! Why, Lord love my heart alive, if it ain't a treat to look at him!' 'He is very handsome, is he not?' said I, my heart warming with this praise. 'Handsome!' cried Mr. Peggotty. 'He stands up to you like--like a--why I don't know what he don't stand up to you like. He's so bold!' 'Yes! That's just his character,' said I. 'He's as brave as a lion, and you can't think how frank he is, Mr. Peggotty.' 'And I do suppose, now,' said Mr. Peggotty, looking at me through the smoke of his pipe, 'that in the way of book-larning he'd take the wind out of a'most anything.' 'Yes,' said I, delighted; 'he knows everything. He is astonishingly clever.' 'There's a friend!' murmured Mr. Peggotty, with a grave toss of his head. 'Nothing seems to cost him any trouble,' said I. 'He knows a task if he only looks at it. He is the best cricketer you ever saw. He will give you almost as many men as you like at draughts, and beat you easily.' Mr. Peggotty gave his head another toss, as much as to say: 'Of course he will.' 'He is such a speaker,' I pursued, 'that he can win anybody over; and I don't know what you'd say if you were to hear him sing, Mr. Peggotty.' Mr. Peggotty gave his head another toss, as much as to say: 'I have no doubt of it.' 'Then, he's such a generous, fine, noble fellow,' said I, quite carried away by my favourite theme, 'that it's hardly possible to give him as much praise as he deserves. I am sure I can never feel thankful enough for the generosity with which he has protected me, so much younger and lower in the school than himself.' I was running on, very fast indeed, when my eyes rested on little Em'ly's face, which was bent forward over the table, listening with the deepest attention, her breath held, her blue eyes sparkling like jewels, and the colour mantling in her cheeks. She looked so extraordinarily earnest and pretty, that I stopped in a sort of wonder; and they all observed her at the same time, for as I stopped, they laughed and looked at her. 'Em'ly is like me,' said Peggotty, 'and would like to see him.' Em'ly was confused by our all observing her, and hung down her head, and her face was covered with blushes. Glancing up presently through her stray curls, and seeing that we were all looking at her still (I am sure I, for one, could have looked at her for hours), she ran away, and kept away till it was nearly bedtime. I lay down in the old little bed in the stern of the boat, and the wind came moaning on across the flat as it had done before. But I could not help fancying, now, that it moaned of those who were gone; and instead of thinking that the sea might rise in the night and float the boat away, I thought of the sea that had risen, since I last heard those sounds, and drowned my happy home. I recollect, as the wind and water began to sound fainter in my ears, putting a short clause into my prayers, petitioning that I might grow up to marry little Em'ly, and so dropping lovingly asleep. The days passed pretty much as they had passed before, except--it was a great exception--that little Em'ly and I seldom wandered on the beach now. She had tasks to learn, and needle-work to do; and was absent during a great part of each day. But I felt that we should not have had those old wanderings, even if it had been otherwise. Wild and full of childish whims as Em'ly was, she was more of a little woman than I had supposed. She seemed to have got a great distance away from me, in little more than a year. She liked me, but she laughed at me, and tormented me; and when I went to meet her, stole home another way, and was laughing at the door when I came back, disappointed. The best times were when she sat quietly at work in the doorway, and I sat on the wooden step at her feet, reading to her. It seems to me, at this hour, that I have never seen such sunlight as on those bright April afternoons; that I have never seen such a sunny little figure as I used to see, sitting in the doorway of the old boat; that I have never beheld such sky, such water, such glorified ships sailing away into golden air. On the very first evening after our arrival, Mr. Barkis appeared in an exceedingly vacant and awkward condition, and with a bundle of oranges tied up in a handkerchief. As he made no allusion of any kind to this property, he was supposed to have left it behind him by accident when he went away; until Ham, running after him to restore it, came back with the information that it was intended for Peggotty. After that occasion he appeared every evening at exactly the same hour, and always with a little bundle, to which he never alluded, and which he regularly put behind the door and left there. These offerings of affection were of a most various and eccentric description. Among them I remember a double set of pigs' trotters, a huge pin-cushion, half a bushel or so of apples, a pair of jet earrings, some Spanish onions, a box of dominoes, a canary bird and cage, and a leg of pickled pork. Mr. Barkis's wooing, as I remember it, was altogether of a peculiar kind. He very seldom said anything; but would sit by the fire in much the same attitude as he sat in his cart, and stare heavily at Peggotty, who was opposite. One night, being, as I suppose, inspired by love, he made a dart at the bit of wax-candle she kept for her thread, and put it in his waistcoat-pocket and carried it off. After that, his great delight was to produce it when it was wanted, sticking to the lining of his pocket, in a partially melted state, and pocket it again when it was done with. He seemed to enjoy himself very much, and not to feel at all called upon to talk. Even when he took Peggotty out for a walk on the flats, he had no uneasiness on that head, I believe; contenting himself with now and then asking her if she was pretty comfortable; and I remember that sometimes, after he was gone, Peggotty would throw her apron over her face, and laugh for half-an-hour. Indeed, we were all more or less amused, except that miserable Mrs. Gummidge, whose courtship would appear to have been of an exactly parallel nature, she was so continually reminded by these transactions of the old one. At length, when the term of my visit was nearly expired, it was given out that Peggotty and Mr. Barkis were going to make a day's holiday together, and that little Em'ly and I were to accompany them. I had but a broken sleep the night before, in anticipation of the pleasure of a whole day with Em'ly. We were all astir betimes in the morning; and while we were yet at breakfast, Mr. Barkis appeared in the distance, driving a chaise-cart towards the object of his affections. Peggotty was dressed as usual, in her neat and quiet mourning; but Mr. Barkis bloomed in a new blue coat, of which the tailor had given him such good measure, that the cuffs would have rendered gloves unnecessary in the coldest weather, while the collar was so high that it pushed his hair up on end on the top of his head. His bright buttons, too, were of the largest size. Rendered complete by drab pantaloons and a buff waistcoat, I thought Mr. Barkis a phenomenon of respectability. When we were all in a bustle outside the door, I found that Mr. Peggotty was prepared with an old shoe, which was to be thrown after us for luck, and which he offered to Mrs. Gummidge for that purpose. 'No. It had better be done by somebody else, Dan'l,' said Mrs. Gummidge. 'I'm a lone lorn creetur' myself, and everythink that reminds me of creetur's that ain't lone and lorn, goes contrary with me.' 'Come, old gal!' cried Mr. Peggotty. 'Take and heave it.' 'No, Dan'l,' returned Mrs. Gummidge, whimpering and shaking her head. 'If I felt less, I could do more. You don't feel like me, Dan'l; thinks don't go contrary with you, nor you with them; you had better do it yourself.' But here Peggotty, who had been going about from one to another in a hurried way, kissing everybody, called out from the cart, in which we all were by this time (Em'ly and I on two little chairs, side by side), that Mrs. Gummidge must do it. So Mrs. Gummidge did it; and, I am sorry to relate, cast a damp upon the festive character of our departure, by immediately bursting into tears, and sinking subdued into the arms of Ham, with the declaration that she knowed she was a burden, and had better be carried to the House at once. Which I really thought was a sensible idea, that Ham might have acted on. Away we went, however, on our holiday excursion; and the first thing we did was to stop at a church, where Mr. Barkis tied the horse to some rails, and went in with Peggotty, leaving little Em'ly and me alone in the chaise. I took that occasion to put my arm round Em'ly's waist, and propose that as I was going away so very soon now, we should determine to be very affectionate to one another, and very happy, all day. Little Em'ly consenting, and allowing me to kiss her, I became desperate; informing her, I recollect, that I never could love another, and that I was prepared to shed the blood of anybody who should aspire to her affections. How merry little Em'ly made herself about it! With what a demure assumption of being immensely older and wiser than I, the fairy little woman said I was 'a silly boy'; and then laughed so charmingly that I forgot the pain of being called by that disparaging name, in the pleasure of looking at her. Mr. Barkis and Peggotty were a good while in the church, but came out at last, and then we drove away into the country. As we were going along, Mr. Barkis turned to me, and said, with a wink,--by the by, I should hardly have thought, before, that he could wink: 'What name was it as I wrote up in the cart?' 'Clara Peggotty,' I answered. 'What name would it be as I should write up now, if there was a tilt here?' 'Clara Peggotty, again?' I suggested. 'Clara Peggotty BARKIS!' he returned, and burst into a roar of laughter that shook the chaise. In a word, they were married, and had gone into the church for no other purpose. Peggotty was resolved that it should be quietly done; and the clerk had given her away, and there had been no witnesses of the ceremony. She was a little confused when Mr. Barkis made this abrupt announcement of their union, and could not hug me enough in token of her unimpaired affection; but she soon became herself again, and said she was very glad it was over. We drove to a little inn in a by-road, where we were expected, and where we had a very comfortable dinner, and passed the day with great satisfaction. If Peggotty had been married every day for the last ten years, she could hardly have been more at her ease about it; it made no sort of difference in her: she was just the same as ever, and went out for a stroll with little Em'ly and me before tea, while Mr. Barkis philosophically smoked his pipe, and enjoyed himself, I suppose, with the contemplation of his happiness. If so, it sharpened his appetite; for I distinctly call to mind that, although he had eaten a good deal of pork and greens at dinner, and had finished off with a fowl or two, he was obliged to have cold boiled bacon for tea, and disposed of a large quantity without any emotion. I have often thought, since, what an odd, innocent, out-of-the-way kind of wedding it must have been! We got into the chaise again soon after dark, and drove cosily back, looking up at the stars, and talking about them. I was their chief exponent, and opened Mr. Barkis's mind to an amazing extent. I told him all I knew, but he would have believed anything I might have taken it into my head to impart to him; for he had a profound veneration for my abilities, and informed his wife in my hearing, on that very occasion, that I was 'a young Roeshus'--by which I think he meant prodigy. When we had exhausted the subject of the stars, or rather when I had exhausted the mental faculties of Mr. Barkis, little Em'ly and I made a cloak of an old wrapper, and sat under it for the rest of the journey. Ah, how I loved her! What happiness (I thought) if we were married, and were going away anywhere to live among the trees and in the fields, never growing older, never growing wiser, children ever, rambling hand in hand through sunshine and among flowery meadows, laying down our heads on moss at night, in a sweet sleep of purity and peace, and buried by the birds when we were dead! Some such picture, with no real world in it, bright with the light of our innocence, and vague as the stars afar off, was in my mind all the way. I am glad to think there were two such guileless hearts at Peggotty's marriage as little Em'ly's and mine. I am glad to think the Loves and Graces took such airy forms in its homely procession. Well, we came to the old boat again in good time at night; and there Mr. and Mrs. Barkis bade us good-bye, and drove away snugly to their own home. I felt then, for the first time, that I had lost Peggotty. I should have gone to bed with a sore heart indeed under any other roof but that which sheltered little Em'ly's head. Mr. Peggotty and Ham knew what was in my thoughts as well as I did, and were ready with some supper and their hospitable faces to drive it away. Little Em'ly came and sat beside me on the locker for the only time in all that visit; and it was altogether a wonderful close to a wonderful day. It was a night tide; and soon after we went to bed, Mr. Peggotty and Ham went out to fish. I felt very brave at being left alone in the solitary house, the protector of Em'ly and Mrs. Gummidge, and only wished that a lion or a serpent, or any ill-disposed monster, would make an attack upon us, that I might destroy him, and cover myself with glory. But as nothing of the sort happened to be walking about on Yarmouth flats that night, I provided the best substitute I could by dreaming of dragons until morning. With morning came Peggotty; who called to me, as usual, under my window as if Mr. Barkis the carrier had been from first to last a dream too. After breakfast she took me to her own home, and a beautiful little home it was. Of all the moveables in it, I must have been impressed by a certain old bureau of some dark wood in the parlour (the tile-floored kitchen was the general sitting-room), with a retreating top which opened, let down, and became a desk, within which was a large quarto edition of Foxe's Book of Martyrs. This precious volume, of which I do not recollect one word, I immediately discovered and immediately applied myself to; and I never visited the house afterwards, but I kneeled on a chair, opened the casket where this gem was enshrined, spread my arms over the desk, and fell to devouring the book afresh. I was chiefly edified, I am afraid, by the pictures, which were numerous, and represented all kinds of dismal horrors; but the Martyrs and Peggotty's house have been inseparable in my mind ever since, and are now. I took leave of Mr. Peggotty, and Ham, and Mrs. Gummidge, and little Em'ly, that day; and passed the night at Peggotty's, in a little room in the roof (with the Crocodile Book on a shelf by the bed's head) which was to be always mine, Peggotty said, and should always be kept for me in exactly the same state. 'Young or old, Davy dear, as long as I am alive and have this house over my head,' said Peggotty, 'you shall find it as if I expected you here directly minute. I shall keep it every day, as I used to keep your old little room, my darling; and if you was to go to China, you might think of it as being kept just the same, all the time you were away.' I felt the truth and constancy of my dear old nurse, with all my heart, and thanked her as well as I could. That was not very well, for she spoke to me thus, with her arms round my neck, in the morning, and I was going home in the morning, and I went home in the morning, with herself and Mr. Barkis in the cart. They left me at the gate, not easily or lightly; and it was a strange sight to me to see the cart go on, taking Peggotty away, and leaving me under the old elm-trees looking at the house, in which there was no face to look on mine with love or liking any more. And now I fell into a state of neglect, which I cannot look back upon without compassion. I fell at once into a solitary condition,--apart from all friendly notice, apart from the society of all other boys of my own age, apart from all companionship but my own spiritless thoughts,--which seems to cast its gloom upon this paper as I write. What would I have given, to have been sent to the hardest school that ever was kept!--to have been taught something, anyhow, anywhere! No such hope dawned upon me. They disliked me; and they sullenly, sternly, steadily, overlooked me. I think Mr. Murdstone's means were straitened at about this time; but it is little to the purpose. He could not bear me; and in putting me from him he tried, as I believe, to put away the notion that I had any claim upon him--and succeeded. I was not actively ill-used. I was not beaten, or starved; but the wrong that was done to me had no intervals of relenting, and was done in a systematic, passionless manner. Day after day, week after week, month after month, I was coldly neglected. I wonder sometimes, when I think of it, what they would have done if I had been taken with an illness; whether I should have lain down in my lonely room, and languished through it in my usual solitary way, or whether anybody would have helped me out. When Mr. and Miss Murdstone were at home, I took my meals with them; in their absence, I ate and drank by myself. At all times I lounged about the house and neighbourhood quite disregarded, except that they were jealous of my making any friends: thinking, perhaps, that if I did, I might complain to someone. For this reason, though Mr. Chillip often asked me to go and see him (he was a widower, having, some years before that, lost a little small light-haired wife, whom I can just remember connecting in my own thoughts with a pale tortoise-shell cat), it was but seldom that I enjoyed the happiness of passing an afternoon in his closet of a surgery; reading some book that was new to me, with the smell of the whole Pharmacopoeia coming up my nose, or pounding something in a mortar under his mild directions. For the same reason, added no doubt to the old dislike of her, I was seldom allowed to visit Peggotty. Faithful to her promise, she either came to see me, or met me somewhere near, once every week, and never empty-handed; but many and bitter were the disappointments I had, in being refused permission to pay a visit to her at her house. Some few times, however, at long intervals, I was allowed to go there; and then I found out that Mr. Barkis was something of a miser, or as Peggotty dutifully expressed it, was 'a little near', and kept a heap of money in a box under his bed, which he pretended was only full of coats and trousers. In this coffer, his riches hid themselves with such a tenacious modesty, that the smallest instalments could only be tempted out by artifice; so that Peggotty had to prepare a long and elaborate scheme, a very Gunpowder Plot, for every Saturday's expenses. All this time I was so conscious of the waste of any promise I had given, and of my being utterly neglected, that I should have been perfectly miserable, I have no doubt, but for the old books. They were my only comfort; and I was as true to them as they were to me, and read them over and over I don't know how many times more. I now approach a period of my life, which I can never lose the remembrance of, while I remember anything: and the recollection of which has often, without my invocation, come before me like a ghost, and haunted happier times. I had been out, one day, loitering somewhere, in the listless, meditative manner that my way of life engendered, when, turning the corner of a lane near our house, I came upon Mr. Murdstone walking with a gentleman. I was confused, and was going by them, when the gentleman cried: 'What! Brooks!' 'No, sir, David Copperfield,' I said. 'Don't tell me. You are Brooks,' said the gentleman. 'You are Brooks of Sheffield. That's your name.' At these words, I observed the gentleman more attentively. His laugh coming to my remembrance too, I knew him to be Mr. Quinion, whom I had gone over to Lowestoft with Mr. Murdstone to see, before--it is no matter--I need not recall when. 'And how do you get on, and where are you being educated, Brooks?' said Mr. Quinion. He had put his hand upon my shoulder, and turned me about, to walk with them. I did not know what to reply, and glanced dubiously at Mr. Murdstone. 'He is at home at present,' said the latter. 'He is not being educated anywhere. I don't know what to do with him. He is a difficult subject.' That old, double look was on me for a moment; and then his eyes darkened with a frown, as it turned, in its aversion, elsewhere. 'Humph!' said Mr. Quinion, looking at us both, I thought. 'Fine weather!' Silence ensued, and I was considering how I could best disengage my shoulder from his hand, and go away, when he said: 'I suppose you are a pretty sharp fellow still? Eh, Brooks?' 'Aye! He is sharp enough,' said Mr. Murdstone, impatiently. 'You had better let him go. He will not thank you for troubling him.' On this hint, Mr. Quinion released me, and I made the best of my way home. Looking back as I turned into the front garden, I saw Mr. Murdstone leaning against the wicket of the churchyard, and Mr. Quinion talking to him. They were both looking after me, and I felt that they were speaking of me. Mr. Quinion lay at our house that night. After breakfast, the next morning, I had put my chair away, and was going out of the room, when Mr. Murdstone called me back. He then gravely repaired to another table, where his sister sat herself at her desk. Mr. Quinion, with his hands in his pockets, stood looking out of window; and I stood looking at them all. 'David,' said Mr. Murdstone, 'to the young this is a world for action; not for moping and droning in.' --'As you do,' added his sister. 'Jane Murdstone, leave it to me, if you please. I say, David, to the young this is a world for action, and not for moping and droning in. It is especially so for a young boy of your disposition, which requires a great deal of correcting; and to which no greater service can be done than to force it to conform to the ways of the working world, and to bend it and break it.' 'For stubbornness won't do here,' said his sister 'What it wants is, to be crushed. And crushed it must be. Shall be, too!' He gave her a look, half in remonstrance, half in approval, and went on: 'I suppose you know, David, that I am not rich. At any rate, you know it now. You have received some considerable education already. Education is costly; and even if it were not, and I could afford it, I am of opinion that it would not be at all advantageous to you to be kept at school. What is before you, is a fight with the world; and the sooner you begin it, the better.' I think it occurred to me that I had already begun it, in my poor way: but it occurs to me now, whether or no. 'You have heard the "counting-house" mentioned sometimes,' said Mr. Murdstone. 'The counting-house, sir?' I repeated. 'Of Murdstone and Grinby, in the wine trade,' he replied. I suppose I looked uncertain, for he went on hastily: 'You have heard the "counting-house" mentioned, or the business, or the cellars, or the wharf, or something about it.' 'I think I have heard the business mentioned, sir,' I said, remembering what I vaguely knew of his and his sister's resources. 'But I don't know when.' 'It does not matter when,' he returned. 'Mr. Quinion manages that business.' I glanced at the latter deferentially as he stood looking out of window. 'Mr. Quinion suggests that it gives employment to some other boys, and that he sees no reason why it shouldn't, on the same terms, give employment to you.' 'He having,' Mr. Quinion observed in a low voice, and half turning round, 'no other prospect, Murdstone.' Mr. Murdstone, with an impatient, even an angry gesture, resumed, without noticing what he had said: 'Those terms are, that you will earn enough for yourself to provide for your eating and drinking, and pocket-money. Your lodging (which I have arranged for) will be paid by me. So will your washing--' '--Which will be kept down to my estimate,' said his sister. 'Your clothes will be looked after for you, too,' said Mr. Murdstone; 'as you will not be able, yet awhile, to get them for yourself. So you are now going to London, David, with Mr. Quinion, to begin the world on your own account.' 'In short, you are provided for,' observed his sister; 'and will please to do your duty.' Though I quite understood that the purpose of this announcement was to get rid of me, I have no distinct remembrance whether it pleased or frightened me. My impression is, that I was in a state of confusion about it, and, oscillating between the two points, touched neither. Nor had I much time for the clearing of my thoughts, as Mr. Quinion was to go upon the morrow. Behold me, on the morrow, in a much-worn little white hat, with a black crape round it for my mother, a black jacket, and a pair of hard, stiff corduroy trousers--which Miss Murdstone considered the best armour for the legs in that fight with the world which was now to come off. Behold me so attired, and with my little worldly all before me in a small trunk, sitting, a lone lorn child (as Mrs. Gummidge might have said), in the post-chaise that was carrying Mr. Quinion to the London coach at Yarmouth! See, how our house and church are lessening in the distance; how the grave beneath the tree is blotted out by intervening objects; how the spire points upwards from my old playground no more, and the sky is empty! Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Das Erste, was Miss Murdstone nach der Beerdigung tut, ist Peggotty zu entlassen. Peggotty hat einen Monat Zeit, eine andere Unterkunft zu finden. Peggotty erklärt David, warum sie geht. Miss Murdstone sagt David, dass er nicht zurück ins Internat kommt. Aber David ist sich nicht sicher, was er tun soll: Meistens ignorieren ihn die Murdstones und er hält sich von ihnen fern. David erzählt Peggotty, dass er besorgt darüber ist, was mit ihm passieren wird: Jedes Mal, wenn Mr. Murdstone David sieht, wirkt er so wütend. Peggotty erzählt David traurig, dass sie keinen Job in der Nähe findet, also kann sie nicht bei David bleiben, obwohl sie es gerne würde. Peggotty plant, nach Yarmouth zu ziehen und bei ihrem Bruder zu leben. Sie schlägt vor, dass David Yarmouth für zwei Wochen besucht, da ihn niemand in der Rookery haben will. Miss Murdstone stimmt zu, dass David gehen darf, und David muss verbergen, wie glücklich er darüber ist, nur für den Fall, dass sie es ihm wieder wegnimmt, um ihn zu ärgern. David und Peggotty fahren mit dem Wagen von Mr. Barkis nach Yarmouth. David bemerkt gegenüber Mr. Barkis, dass Peggotty ziemlich bequem scheint. Mr. Barkis stößt Peggotty mit dem Ellbogen an und fragt: "Fühlst du dich ziemlich bequem?" . Peggotty lacht und antwortet ja. Sie machen während der Fahrt weiter Witze miteinander. Schließlich kommen sie in Yarmouth an. Mr. Barkis macht einen extrem merkwürdigen Kommentar: Er sagt, dass er ein Freund von David sein wird, weil David "alles richtig gemacht hat" . David hat keine Ahnung, wovon Mr. Barkis spricht. Ein bisschen später fragt Peggotty David, wie er sich fühlen würde, wenn sie heiraten würde. David fragt, ob Peggotty vorhat, Mr. Barkis zu heiraten. Peggotty sagt ja. David ist einverstanden, dass das in Ordnung wäre, weil sie dann immer Zugang zu dem Pferd und dem Wagen hätte und oft zu Besuch kommen könnte. Peggotty ist begeistert, dass David mit ihrem Plan einverstanden ist, weil sie Mr. Barkis nie heiraten würde, wenn es David verletzen würde. David freut sich aufrichtig für sie. Sie kommen alle im Bootshaus in Yarmouth an. Alles sieht genauso aus wie zuvor. Mrs. Gummidge wartet an der Tür, das Haus ist voller Geruch von Schalentieren. Little Emily kommt bald von der Schule nach Hause. David fühlt sich seltsamerweise enttäuscht von dem alten Haus, vielleicht weil Little Emily nicht auf ihn wartet. Er versucht, sie zu küssen, als sie nach Hause kommt, aber sie lacht, dreht sich weg und sagt, dass sie kein Baby mehr ist. Little Emily wird von allen Peggottys total verwöhnt, aber sie ist immer noch liebenswürdig und nett. Davids Schwärmerei für sie ist noch stärker als zuvor. Little Emily ist so traurig zu hören, dass David elternlos geworden ist, dass sie weinen muss. Mr. Peggotty weist darauf hin, dass Little Emily und Ham Peggotty beide Waisen sind. Mr. Peggotty erkundigt sich nach Davids Freund, Steerforth. Die beiden männlichen Peggottys und David geraten in eine ausführliche Diskussion darüber, wie großartig, schlau und gutaussehend Steerforth ist. An diesem Punkt erhascht David einen Blick auf Little Emilys Gesicht. Mitten im Gespräch über Steerforths Großartigkeit strahlt ihr Gesicht. Obwohl das Haus genauso ist wie immer, gibt es jetzt eine neue Distanz zwischen David und Emily. In dem Jahr, in dem sie sich nicht gesehen haben, ist sie wirklich erwachsen geworden. Obwohl sie David mag, neckt sie ihn auch gerne. Während seines Besuchs kann David beobachten, wie Mr. Barkis Peggotty umwirbt. Mr. Barkis tut dies, indem er jeden Tag merkwürdige kleine Geschenke vor die Tür legt und abends am Feuer sitzt und sie anstarrt. Er spricht fast nie. Sein Werben ist Anlass für viel Gelächter bei den Peggottys. Kurz bevor David nach Hause gehen soll, erfährt er, dass er mit Little Emily, Mr. Barkis und Peggotty einen Ausflug macht. Peggotty sieht wie immer aus, aber Mr. Barkis ist ganz schick angezogen. Mrs. Gummidge vermiest allen die Stimmung, indem sie sich beschwert, dass sie unglücklich ist und vor den Kindern, Mr. Barkis und Peggotty in Tränen ausbricht, bevor sie in den Kutschwagen steigen und losfahren. Sie halten an einer Kirche an und lassen David und Emily im Wagen, während Mr. Barkis und Peggotty hineingehen. Im Wagen lässt sich David von Emily versprechen, nett zu ihm zu sein, küsst sie und gesteht ihr seine unsterbliche Liebe. Emily bricht in Lachen aus: Sie sieht sich selbst als viel älter als David und nennt ihn einen "verrückten Jungen" . Mr. Barkis und Peggotty kommen nach langer Zeit aus der Kirche. Der Kutscher zwinkert David zu und sagt ihm, dass Peggottys neuer Name - Clara Peggotty Barkis - ist. Ja, diese beiden Verrückten sind endlich verheiratet. Peggotty scheint völlig unverändert durch die Ehe: Sie ist genauso wie immer. Mr. Barkis fährt Peggotty, David und Little Emily nach Hause. Auf dem Rückweg zum Haus der Peggottys in Yarmouth denkt David, wie glücklich er wäre, wenn er und Emily verheiratet wären. Sie könnten im Wald leben und nie alt werden. Sie kommen zurück zum Bootshaus. Peggotty verabschiedet sich und geht zurück zu Mr. Barkis nach Hause. David hat das Gefühl, Peggotty verloren zu haben - aber immerhin hat er Little Emily. Weil ihre Familie vermutet, dass David ein wenig von Peggotty im Stich gelassen fühlt, füttern ihn Ham und Mr. Peggotty zu Abend, und Emily sitzt bei ihm. Dennoch kommt Peggotty am nächsten Morgen wie gewohnt am Bootshaus vorbei. David sagt Mr. Peggotty, Ham Peggotty und Emily Lebewohl und geht, um seine letzte Nacht in Yarmouth bei Peggotty zu verbringen. Peggotty verspricht, dass David, egal was passiert, solange sie lebt, einen Platz in ihrem Haus haben wird. David bedankt sich bei Peggotty und steigt in den Wagen, der ihn zurück zu den Murdstones bringen wird. Als David im Rookery ankommt, findet er sich völlig allein: Die Murdstones tun so, als ob er nicht da wäre, und er wird völlig vernachlässigt. Die einzige Zeit, zu der sie David beachten, ist, um ihn daran zu hindern, Freunde zu finden. Der alte Arzt, Mr. Chillip, lädt David ein zu einem Besuch, aber David darf selten gehen. Die Murdstones lassen David auch nicht oft Peggotty besuchen, weil sie Angst haben, dass er sich bei ihr beschwert. Das Einzige, was David während dieser schrecklichen Zeit der Einsamkeit glücklich macht, sind die alten Bücher seines Vaters. Und dann wird es schlimmer. David läuft Mr. Murdstone und einem anderen Herrn in der Nähe des Rookery über den Weg. Der Mann neben Mr. Murdstone ist Quinion, einer von den beiden Männern, die David früher geärgert haben, bevor Mr. Murdstone seine Mutter in Kapitel zwei geheiratet hat. Quinion fragt David, in welche Schule er geht. Mr. Murdstone antwortet für David: er geht derzeit nicht zur Schule. Quinion fragt, ob David ein kluges Kind ist. Mr. Murdstone sagt Quinion, dass er sich nicht mit David abgeben soll, und die beiden Männer lassen ihn weitergehen. Quinion verbringt die Nacht im Rookery. An diesem Abend stellen die Murdstones und Quinion David zur Rede. Mr. Murdstone sagt David, dass junge Leute nicht nur herumhängen sollten, besonders schlechte junge Leute wie David. David muss in die Arbeitswelt eintauchen. Miss Murdstone fügt hinzu, dass Davids Sturheit gebrochen werden muss. Mr. Murdstone fügt hinzu, dass er sich David nicht länger leisten kann, also ist es am besten, wenn David so schnell wie möglich in die Welt hinausgeht. Mr. Murdstone informiert David, dass Quinion der Manager des "Zählhauses" seiner Londoner Weinfirma, Murdstone und Grinby, ist. David wird für Quinion arbeiten gehen. Mr. Murdstone fährt fort: Im Gegenzug für seine Arbeit wird David genug Geld verdienen, um Essen und Trinken sowie ein kleines Taschengeld zu bezahlen. Herr Murd

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 cold passed reluctantly from the earth, and the retiring fogs revealed an army stretched out on the hills, resting. As the landscape changed from brown to green, the army awakened, and began to tremble with eagerness at the noise of rumors. It cast its eyes upon the roads, which were growing from long troughs of liquid mud to proper thoroughfares. A river, amber-tinted in the shadow of its banks, purled at the army's feet; and at night, when the stream had become of a sorrowful blackness, one could see across it the red, eyelike gleam of hostile camp-fires set in the low brows of distant hills. Once a certain tall soldier developed virtues and went resolutely to wash a shirt. He came flying back from a brook waving his garment bannerlike. He was swelled with a tale he had heard from a reliable friend, who had heard it from a truthful cavalryman, who had heard it from his trustworthy brother, one of the orderlies at division headquarters. He adopted the important air of a herald in red and gold. "We're goin' t' move t'morrah--sure," he said pompously to a group in the company street. "We're goin' 'way up the river, cut across, an' come around in behint 'em." To his attentive audience he drew a loud and elaborate plan of a very brilliant campaign. When he had finished, the blue-clothed men scattered into small arguing groups between the rows of squat brown huts. A negro teamster who had been dancing upon a cracker box with the hilarious encouragement of twoscore soldiers was deserted. He sat mournfully down. Smoke drifted lazily from a multitude of quaint chimneys. "It's a lie! that's all it is--a thunderin' lie!" said another private loudly. His smooth face was flushed, and his hands were thrust sulkily into his trousers' pockets. He took the matter as an affront to him. "I don't believe the derned old army's ever going to move. We're set. I've got ready to move eight times in the last two weeks, and we ain't moved yet." The tall soldier felt called upon to defend the truth of a rumor he himself had introduced. He and the loud one came near to fighting over it. A corporal began to swear before the assemblage. He had just put a costly board floor in his house, he said. During the early spring he had refrained from adding extensively to the comfort of his environment because he had felt that the army might start on the march at any moment. Of late, however, he had been impressed that they were in a sort of eternal camp. Many of the men engaged in a spirited debate. One outlined in a peculiarly lucid manner all the plans of the commanding general. He was opposed by men who advocated that there were other plans of campaign. They clamored at each other, numbers making futile bids for the popular attention. Meanwhile, the soldier who had fetched the rumor bustled about with much importance. He was continually assailed by questions. "What's up, Jim?" "Th' army's goin' t' move." "Ah, what yeh talkin' about? How yeh know it is?" "Well, yeh kin b'lieve me er not, jest as yeh like. I don't care a hang." There was much food for thought in the manner in which he replied. He came near to convincing them by disdaining to produce proofs. They grew excited over it. There was a youthful private who listened with eager ears to the words of the tall soldier and to the varied comments of his comrades. After receiving a fill of discussions concerning marches and attacks, he went to his hut and crawled through an intricate hole that served it as a door. He wished to be alone with some new thoughts that had lately come to him. He lay down on a wide bank that stretched across the end of the room. In the other end, cracker boxes were made to serve as furniture. They were grouped about the fireplace. A picture from an illustrated weekly was upon the log walls, and three rifles were paralleled on pegs. Equipments hung on handy projections, and some tin dishes lay upon a small pile of firewood. A folded tent was serving as a roof. The sunlight, without, beating upon it, made it glow a light yellow shade. A small window shot an oblique square of whiter light upon the cluttered floor. The smoke from the fire at times neglected the clay chimney and wreathed into the room, and this flimsy chimney of clay and sticks made endless threats to set ablaze the whole establishment. The youth was in a little trance of astonishment. So they were at last going to fight. On the morrow, perhaps, there would be a battle, and he would be in it. For a time he was obliged to labor to make himself believe. He could not accept with assurance an omen that he was about to mingle in one of those great affairs of the earth. He had, of course, dreamed of battles all his life--of vague and bloody conflicts that had thrilled him with their sweep and fire. In visions he had seen himself in many struggles. He had imagined peoples secure in the shadow of his eagle-eyed prowess. But awake he had regarded battles as crimson blotches on the pages of the past. He had put them as things of the bygone with his thought-images of heavy crowns and high castles. There was a portion of the world's history which he had regarded as the time of wars, but it, he thought, had been long gone over the horizon and had disappeared forever. From his home his youthful eyes had looked upon the war in his own country with distrust. It must be some sort of a play affair. He had long despaired of witnessing a Greeklike struggle. Such would be no more, he had said. Men were better, or more timid. Secular and religious education had effaced the throat-grappling instinct, or else firm finance held in check the passions. He had burned several times to enlist. Tales of great movements shook the land. They might not be distinctly Homeric, but there seemed to be much glory in them. He had read of marches, sieges, conflicts, and he had longed to see it all. His busy mind had drawn for him large pictures extravagant in color, lurid with breathless deeds. But his mother had discouraged him. She had affected to look with some contempt upon the quality of his war ardor and patriotism. She could calmly seat herself and with no apparent difficulty give him many hundreds of reasons why he was of vastly more importance on the farm than on the field of battle. She had had certain ways of expression that told him that her statements on the subject came from a deep conviction. Moreover, on her side, was his belief that her ethical motive in the argument was impregnable. At last, however, he had made firm rebellion against this yellow light thrown upon the color of his ambitions. The newspapers, the gossip of the village, his own picturings had aroused him to an uncheckable degree. They were in truth fighting finely down there. Almost every day the newspapers printed accounts of a decisive victory. One night, as he lay in bed, the winds had carried to him the clangoring of the church bell as some enthusiast jerked the rope frantically to tell the twisted news of a great battle. This voice of the people rejoicing in the night had made him shiver in a prolonged ecstasy of excitement. Later, he had gone down to his mother's room and had spoken thus: "Ma, I'm going to enlist." "Henry, don't you be a fool," his mother had replied. She had then covered her face with the quilt. There was an end to the matter for that night. Nevertheless, the next morning he had gone to a town that was near his mother's farm and had enlisted in a company that was forming there. When he had returned home his mother was milking the brindle cow. Four others stood waiting. "Ma, I've enlisted," he had said to her diffidently. There was a short silence. "The Lord's will be done, Henry," she had finally replied, and had then continued to milk the brindle cow. When he had stood in the doorway with his soldier's clothes on his back, and with the light of excitement and expectancy in his eyes almost defeating the glow of regret for the home bonds, he had seen two tears leaving their trails on his mother's scarred cheeks. Still, she had disappointed him by saying nothing whatever about returning with his shield or on it. He had privately primed himself for a beautiful scene. He had prepared certain sentences which he thought could be used with touching effect. But her words destroyed his plans. She had doggedly peeled potatoes and addressed him as follows: "You watch out, Henry, an' take good care of yerself in this here fighting business--you watch out, an' take good care of yerself. Don't go a-thinkin' you can lick the hull rebel army at the start, because yeh can't. Yer jest one little feller amongst a hull lot of others, and yeh've got to keep quiet an' do what they tell yeh. I know how you are, Henry. "I've knet yeh eight pair of socks, Henry, and I've put in all yer best shirts, because I want my boy to be jest as warm and comf'able as anybody in the army. Whenever they get holes in 'em, I want yeh to send 'em right-away back to me, so's I kin dern 'em. "An' allus be careful an' choose yer comp'ny. There's lots of bad men in the army, Henry. The army makes 'em wild, and they like nothing better than the job of leading off a young feller like you, as ain't never been away from home much and has allus had a mother, an' a-learning 'em to drink and swear. Keep clear of them folks, Henry. I don't want yeh to ever do anything, Henry, that yeh would be 'shamed to let me know about. Jest think as if I was a-watchin' yeh. If yeh keep that in yer mind allus, I guess yeh'll come out about right. "Yeh must allus remember yer father, too, child, an' remember he never drunk a drop of licker in his life, and seldom swore a cross oath. "I don't know what else to tell yeh, Henry, excepting that yeh must never do no shirking, child, on my account. If so be a time comes when yeh have to be kilt or do a mean thing, why, Henry, don't think of anything 'cept what's right, because there's many a woman has to bear up 'ginst sech things these times, and the Lord 'll take keer of us all. "Don't forgit about the socks and the shirts, child; and I've put a cup of blackberry jam with yer bundle, because I know yeh like it above all things. Good-by, Henry. Watch out, and be a good boy." He had, of course, been impatient under the ordeal of this speech. It had not been quite what he expected, and he had borne it with an air of irritation. He departed feeling vague relief. Still, when he had looked back from the gate, he had seen his mother kneeling among the potato parings. Her brown face, upraised, was stained with tears, and her spare form was quivering. He bowed his head and went on, feeling suddenly ashamed of his purposes. From his home he had gone to the seminary to bid adieu to many schoolmates. They had thronged about him with wonder and admiration. He had felt the gulf now between them and had swelled with calm pride. He and some of his fellows who had donned blue were quite overwhelmed with privileges for all of one afternoon, and it had been a very delicious thing. They had strutted. A certain light-haired girl had made vivacious fun at his martial spirit, but there was another and darker girl whom he had gazed at steadfastly, and he thought she grew demure and sad at sight of his blue and brass. As he had walked down the path between the rows of oaks, he had turned his head and detected her at a window watching his departure. As he perceived her, she had immediately begun to stare up through the high tree branches at the sky. He had seen a good deal of flurry and haste in her movement as she changed her attitude. He often thought of it. On the way to Washington his spirit had soared. The regiment was fed and caressed at station after station until the youth had believed that he must be a hero. There was a lavish expenditure of bread and cold meats, coffee, and pickles and cheese. As he basked in the smiles of the girls and was patted and complimented by the old men, he had felt growing within him the strength to do mighty deeds of arms. After complicated journeyings with many pauses, there had come months of monotonous life in a camp. He had had the belief that real war was a series of death struggles with small time in between for sleep and meals; but since his regiment had come to the field the army had done little but sit still and try to keep warm. He was brought then gradually back to his old ideas. Greeklike struggles would be no more. Men were better, or more timid. Secular and religious education had effaced the throat-grappling instinct, or else firm finance held in check the passions. He had grown to regard himself merely as a part of a vast blue demonstration. His province was to look out, as far as he could, for his personal comfort. For recreation he could twiddle his thumbs and speculate on the thoughts which must agitate the minds of the generals. Also, he was drilled and drilled and reviewed, and drilled and drilled and reviewed. The only foes he had seen were some pickets along the river bank. They were a sun-tanned, philosophical lot, who sometimes shot reflectively at the blue pickets. When reproached for this afterward, they usually expressed sorrow, and swore by their gods that the guns had exploded without their permission. The youth, on guard duty one night, conversed across the stream with one of them. He was a slightly ragged man, who spat skillfully between his shoes and possessed a great fund of bland and infantile assurance. The youth liked him personally. "Yank," the other had informed him, "yer a right dum good feller." This sentiment, floating to him upon the still air, had made him temporarily regret war. Various veterans had told him tales. Some talked of gray, bewhiskered hordes who were advancing with relentless curses and chewing tobacco with unspeakable valor; tremendous bodies of fierce soldiery who were sweeping along like the Huns. Others spoke of tattered and eternally hungry men who fired despondent powders. "They'll charge through hell's fire an' brimstone t' git a holt on a haversack, an' sech stomachs ain't a-lastin' long," he was told. From the stories, the youth imagined the red, live bones sticking out through slits in the faded uniforms. Still, he could not put a whole faith in veterans' tales, for recruits were their prey. They talked much of smoke, fire, and blood, but he could not tell how much might be lies. They persistently yelled "Fresh fish!" at him, and were in no wise to be trusted. However, he perceived now that it did not greatly matter what kind of soldiers he was going to fight, so long as they fought, which fact no one disputed. There was a more serious problem. He lay in his bunk pondering upon it. He tried to mathematically prove to himself that he would not run from a battle. Previously he had never felt obliged to wrestle too seriously with this question. In his life he had taken certain things for granted, never challenging his belief in ultimate success, and bothering little about means and roads. But here he was confronted with a thing of moment. It had suddenly appeared to him that perhaps in a battle he might run. He was forced to admit that as far as war was concerned he knew nothing of himself. A sufficient time before he would have allowed the problem to kick its heels at the outer portals of his mind, but now he felt compelled to give serious attention to it. A little panic-fear grew in his mind. As his imagination went forward to a fight, he saw hideous possibilities. He contemplated the lurking menaces of the future, and failed in an effort to see himself standing stoutly in the midst of them. He recalled his visions of broken-bladed glory, but in the shadow of the impending tumult he suspected them to be impossible pictures. He sprang from the bunk and began to pace nervously to and fro. "Good Lord, what's th' matter with me?" he said aloud. He felt that in this crisis his laws of life were useless. Whatever he had learned of himself was here of no avail. He was an unknown quantity. He saw that he would again be obliged to experiment as he had in early youth. He must accumulate information of himself, and meanwhile he resolved to remain close upon his guard lest those qualities of which he knew nothing should everlastingly disgrace him. "Good Lord!" he repeated in dismay. After a time the tall soldier slid dexterously through the hole. The loud private followed. They were wrangling. "That's all right," said the tall soldier as he entered. He waved his hand expressively. "You can believe me or not, jest as you like. All you got to do is to sit down and wait as quiet as you can. Then pretty soon you'll find out I was right." His comrade grunted stubbornly. For a moment he seemed to be searching for a formidable reply. Finally he said: "Well, you don't know everything in the world, do you?" "Didn't say I knew everything in the world," retorted the other sharply. He began to stow various articles snugly into his knapsack. The youth, pausing in his nervous walk, looked down at the busy figure. "Going to be a battle, sure, is there, Jim?" he asked. "Of course there is," replied the tall soldier. "Of course there is. You jest wait 'til to-morrow, and you'll see one of the biggest battles ever was. You jest wait." "Thunder!" said the youth. "Oh, you'll see fighting this time, my boy, what'll be regular out-and-out fighting," added the tall soldier, with the air of a man who is about to exhibit a battle for the benefit of his friends. "Huh!" said the loud one from a corner. "Well," remarked the youth, "like as not this story'll turn out jest like them others did." "Not much it won't," replied the tall soldier, exasperated. "Not much it won't. Didn't the cavalry all start this morning?" He glared about him. No one denied his statement. "The cavalry started this morning," he continued. "They say there ain't hardly any cavalry left in camp. They're going to Richmond, or some place, while we fight all the Johnnies. It's some dodge like that. The regiment's got orders, too. A feller what seen 'em go to headquarters told me a little while ago. And they're raising blazes all over camp--anybody can see that." "Shucks!" said the loud one. The youth remained silent for a time. At last he spoke to the tall soldier. "Jim!" "What?" "How do you think the reg'ment 'll do?" "Oh, they'll fight all right, I guess, after they once get into it," said the other with cold judgment. He made a fine use of the third person. "There's been heaps of fun poked at 'em because they're new, of course, and all that; but they'll fight all right, I guess." "Think any of the boys 'll run?" persisted the youth. "Oh, there may be a few of 'em run, but there's them kind in every regiment, 'specially when they first goes under fire," said the other in a tolerant way. "Of course it might happen that the hull kit-and-boodle might start and run, if some big fighting came first-off, and then again they might stay and fight like fun. But you can't bet on nothing. Of course they ain't never been under fire yet, and it ain't likely they'll lick the hull rebel army all-to-oncet the first time; but I think they'll fight better than some, if worse than others. That's the way I figger. They call the reg'ment 'Fresh fish' and everything; but the boys come of good stock, and most of 'em 'll fight like sin after they oncet git shootin'," he added, with a mighty emphasis on the last four words. "Oh, you think you know--" began the loud soldier with scorn. The other turned savagely upon him. They had a rapid altercation, in which they fastened upon each other various strange epithets. The youth at last interrupted them. "Did you ever think you might run yourself, Jim?" he asked. On concluding the sentence he laughed as if he had meant to aim a joke. The loud soldier also giggled. The tall private waved his hand. "Well," said he profoundly, "I've thought it might get too hot for Jim Conklin in some of them scrimmages, and if a whole lot of boys started and run, why, I s'pose I'd start and run. And if I once started to run, I'd run like the devil, and no mistake. But if everybody was a-standing and a-fighting, why, I'd stand and fight. Be jiminey, I would. I'll bet on it." "Huh!" said the loud one. The youth of this tale felt gratitude for these words of his comrade. He had feared that all of the untried men possessed a great and correct confidence. He now was in a measure reassured. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Was er über sich selbst gelernt hatte, war hier nutzlos. Er war eine unbekannte Variable. An einem kalten, nebligen Morgen wacht eine Armee am Ufer eines Flusses auf. Ein großer Soldat namens Jim Conklin beginnt seinen Tag damit, sein Hemd zu waschen, und eilt zurück zum Lager, um ein Gerücht zu melden, das er belauscht hat: Das Regiment soll am nächsten Tag in die Schlacht ziehen. Da die Männer in diesem bestimmten Trupp bisher keinerlei militärische Aktionen gegenüberstanden, lösen Jims Worte viel Aufregung und Diskussionen aus. Ein Privatmann erklärt lautstark, dass Conklin ein Lügner sei, und ein Korporal beschwert sich, dass er kostspielige Renovierungen an seinem Haus vorgenommen hätte, wenn er gewusst hätte, dass er es verlassen müsste. Henry Fleming, ein junger Soldat, hört aufmerksam den Argumenten zu und zieht sich dann auf sein Bett zurück, um seine Gedanken zu sammeln. Da er seit seiner Kindheit von Ruhm und Tapferkeit im Kampf geträumt hat, kann Henry nicht glauben, dass er sich schon am nächsten Tag in der Hitze des Gefechts wiederfindet. Er fragt sich, ob die Soldaten in seinem Regiment überhaupt dieselbe Ehre erreichen können wie die antiken griechischen Kriegshelden. Er glaubt, dass Religion, Bildung und alltägliche Sorgen die Menschen gezähmt haben, sie beraubt haben von "dem Instinkt des Kehlenzuschnürens", aber dass sie sich im Kampf immer noch beweisen können. Tatsächlich war es die Überzeugung, dass der Kampf die einzige Möglichkeit für einen Mann sei, sich auszuzeichnen, die Henry dazu veranlasste, sich überhaupt zu verpflichten. Er erinnert sich daran, wie seine Mutter diesen Schritt abgeraten hat, wie sie sich weigerte, seine romantischen Vorstellungen vom Tod als gefeierter Kriegsheld zu teilen. Er denkt an ihren Abschiedsrat an ihn: niemals etwas zu tun, wofür er sich schämen würde, ihr zu erzählen. Sie ermutigt ihn, das Richtige zu tun und seine Pflichten nicht zu meiden, um zu ihr zurückzukehren und sich um sie zu kümmern; sie versichert ihm, dass sie sie weiterführen wird, egal ob er zurückkehrt oder nicht. Henry erinnert sich an seine Reise nach Washington, wo das Regiment versammelt war und eine Fülle von Lebensmitteln genoss, die freundlichen Lächeln der Mädchen und die Zusicherungen der Männer. Dort fühlte sich Henry wie ein Held geworden zu sein. Die Monate, die auf seine Verpflichtung folgten, waren jedoch monoton und statisch. Die tägliche Arbeit des Lagerlebens hat Henry gezwungen, Gedanken an Ruhm aufzugeben. Stattdessen kämpft er, um sein eigenes Wohlergehen zu bewahren. Angesichts seines Unbehagens fragt sich Henry, ob er in der Lage sein wird, im Kampf zu gedeihen. Mit Gerüchten über einen Marsch in ein heftiges Gefecht am nächsten Tag erkennt Henry, dass sein Charakter bis zu diesem Zeitpunkt in seinem Leben ungetestet geblieben ist. Er fragt sich, ob er die Standhaftigkeit habe, den Kampf zu überstehen, oder ob Feigheit ihn zur Flucht treiben werde. Als Jim ins Zelt zurückkehrt, fragt Henry ihn, ob er jemals in Erwägung ziehen würde, vor der Schlacht wegzulaufen. Jim antwortet, dass er wahrscheinlich den Anweisungen der Männer um ihn herum folgen würde, kämpfen, wenn sie kämpfen, weglaufen, wenn sie weglaufen. Henry fühlt sich erleichtert, dass er nicht allein ist in seiner Frage nach dem eigenen Mut.

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: II. THE MARKET-PLACE. The grass-plot before the jail, in Prison Lane, on a certain summer morning, not less than two centuries ago, was occupied by a pretty large number of the inhabitants of Boston; all with their eyes intently fastened on the iron-clamped oaken door. Amongst any other population, or at a later period in the history of New England, the grim rigidity that petrified the bearded physiognomies of these good people would have augured some awful business in hand. It could have betokened nothing short of the anticipated execution of some noted culprit, on whom the sentence of a legal tribunal had but confirmed the verdict of public sentiment. But, in that early severity of the Puritan character, an inference of this kind could not so indubitably be drawn. It might be that a sluggish bond-servant, or an undutiful child, whom his parents had given over to the civil authority, was to be corrected at the whipping-post. It might be, that an Antinomian, a Quaker, or other heterodox religionist was to be scourged out of the town, or an idle and vagrant Indian, whom the white man's fire-water had made riotous about the streets, was to be driven with stripes into the shadow of the forest. It might be, too, that a witch, like old Mistress Hibbins, the bitter-tempered widow of the magistrate, was to die upon the gallows. In either case, there was very much the same solemnity of demeanor on the part of the spectators; as befitted a people amongst whom religion and law were almost identical, and in whose character both were so thoroughly interfused, that the mildest and the severest acts of public discipline were alike made venerable and awful. Meagre, indeed, and cold was the sympathy that a transgressor might look for, from such bystanders, at the scaffold. On the other hand, a penalty, which, in our days, would infer a degree of mocking infamy and ridicule, might then be invested with almost as stern a dignity as the punishment of death itself. It was a circumstance to be noted, on the summer morning when our story begins its course, that the women, of whom there were several in the crowd, appeared to take a peculiar interest in whatever penal infliction might be expected to ensue. The age had not so much refinement, that any sense of impropriety restrained the wearers of petticoat and farthingale from stepping forth into the public ways, and wedging their not unsubstantial persons, if occasion were, into the throng nearest to the scaffold at an execution. Morally, as well as materially, there was a coarser fibre in those wives and maidens of old English birth and breeding, than in their fair descendants, separated from them by a series of six or seven generations; for, throughout that chain of ancestry, every successive mother has transmitted to her child a fainter bloom, a more delicate and briefer beauty, and a slighter physical frame, if not a character of less force and solidity, than her own. The women who were now standing about the prison-door stood within less than half a century of the period when the man-like Elizabeth had been the not altogether unsuitable representative of the sex. They were her countrywomen; and the beef and ale of their native land, with a moral diet not a whit more refined, entered largely into their composition. The bright morning sun, therefore, shone on broad shoulders and well-developed busts, and on round and ruddy cheeks, that had ripened in the far-off island, and had hardly yet grown paler or thinner in the atmosphere of New England. There was, moreover, a boldness and rotundity of speech among these matrons, as most of them seemed to be, that would startle us at the present day, whether in respect to its purport or its volume of tone. "Goodwives," said a hard-featured dame of fifty, "I'll tell ye a piece of my mind. It would be greatly for the public behoof, if we women, being of mature age and church-members in good repute, should have the handling of such malefactresses as this Hester Prynne. What think ye, gossips? If the hussy stood up for judgment before us five, that are now here in a knot together, would she come off with such a sentence as the worshipful magistrates have awarded? Marry, I trow not!" "People say," said another, "that the Reverend Master Dimmesdale, her godly pastor, takes it very grievously to heart that such a scandal should have come upon his congregation." "The magistrates are God-fearing gentlemen, but merciful overmuch,--that is a truth," added a third autumnal matron. "At the very least, they should have put the brand of a hot iron on Hester Prynne's forehead. Madam Hester would have winced at that, I warrant me. But she,--the naughty baggage,--little will she care what they put upon the bodice of her gown! Why, look you, she may cover it with a brooch, or such like heathenish adornment, and so walk the streets as brave as ever!" "Ah, but," interposed, more softly, a young wife, holding a child by the hand, "let her cover the mark as she will, the pang of it will be always in her heart." [Illustration: The Gossips] "What do we talk of marks and brands, whether on the bodice of her gown, or the flesh of her forehead?" cried another female, the ugliest as well as the most pitiless of these self-constituted judges. "This woman has brought shame upon us all, and ought to die. Is there not law for it? Truly, there is, both in the Scripture and the statute-book. Then let the magistrates, who have made it of no effect, thank themselves if their own wives and daughters go astray!" "Mercy on us, goodwife," exclaimed a man in the crowd, "is there no virtue in woman, save what springs from a wholesome fear of the gallows? That is the hardest word yet! Hush, now, gossips! for the lock is turning in the prison-door, and here comes Mistress Prynne herself." The door of the jail being flung open from within, there appeared, in the first place, like a black shadow emerging into sunshine, the grim and grisly presence of the town-beadle, with a sword by his side, and his staff of office in his hand. This personage prefigured and represented in his aspect the whole dismal severity of the Puritanic code of law, which it was his business to administer in its final and closest application to the offender. Stretching forth the official staff in his left hand, he laid his right upon the shoulder of a young woman, whom he thus drew forward; until, on the threshold of the prison-door, she repelled him, by an action marked with natural dignity and force of character, and stepped into the open air, as if by her own free will. She bore in her arms a child, a baby of some three months old, who winked and turned aside its little face from the too vivid light of day; because its existence, heretofore, had brought it acquainted only with the gray twilight of a dungeon, or other darksome apartment of the prison. When the young woman--the mother of this child--stood fully revealed before the crowd, it seemed to be her first impulse to clasp the infant closely to her bosom; not so much by an impulse of motherly affection, as that she might thereby conceal a certain token, which was wrought or fastened into her dress. In a moment, however, wisely judging that one token of her shame would but poorly serve to hide another, she took the baby on her arm, and, with a burning blush, and yet a haughty smile, and a glance that would not be abashed, looked around at her towns-people and neighbors. On the breast of her gown, in fine red cloth, surrounded with an elaborate embroidery and fantastic flourishes of gold-thread, appeared the letter A. It was so artistically done, and with so much fertility and gorgeous luxuriance of fancy, that it had all the effect of a last and fitting decoration to the apparel which she wore; and which was of a splendor in accordance with the taste of the age, but greatly beyond what was allowed by the sumptuary regulations of the colony. The young woman was tall, with a figure of perfect elegance on a large scale. She had dark and abundant hair, so glossy that it threw off the sunshine with a gleam, and a face which, besides being beautiful from regularity of feature and richness of complexion, had the impressiveness belonging to a marked brow and deep black eyes. She was lady-like, too, after the manner of the feminine gentility of those days; characterized by a certain state and dignity, rather than by the delicate, evanescent, and indescribable grace, which is now recognized as its indication. And never had Hester Prynne appeared more lady-like, in the antique interpretation of the term, than as she issued from the prison. Those who had before known her, and had expected to behold her dimmed and obscured by a disastrous cloud, were astonished, and even startled, to perceive how her beauty shone out, and made a halo of the misfortune and ignominy in which she was enveloped. It may be true, that, to a sensitive observer, there was something exquisitely painful in it. Her attire, which, indeed, she had wrought for the occasion, in prison, and had modelled much after her own fancy, seemed to express the attitude of her spirit, the desperate recklessness of her mood, by its wild and picturesque peculiarity. But the point which drew all eyes, and, as it were, transfigured the wearer,--so that both men and women, who had been familiarly acquainted with Hester Prynne, were now impressed as if they beheld her for the first time,--was that SCARLET LETTER, so fantastically embroidered and illuminated upon her bosom. It had the effect of a spell, taking her out of the ordinary relations with humanity, and enclosing her in a sphere by herself. "She hath good skill at her needle, that's certain," remarked one of her female spectators; "but did ever a woman, before this brazen hussy, contrive such a way of showing it! Why, gossips, what is it but to laugh in the faces of our godly magistrates, and make a pride out of what they, worthy gentlemen, meant for a punishment?" "It were well," muttered the most iron-visaged of the old dames, "if we stripped Madam Hester's rich gown off her dainty shoulders; and as for the red letter, which she hath stitched so curiously, I'll bestow a rag of mine own rheumatic flannel, to make a fitter one!" "O, peace, neighbors, peace!" whispered their youngest companion; "do not let her hear you! Not a stitch in that embroidered letter but she has felt it in her heart." The grim beadle now made a gesture with his staff. "Make way, good people, make way, in the King's name!" cried he. "Open a passage; and, I promise ye, Mistress Prynne shall be set where man, woman, and child may have a fair sight of her brave apparel, from this time till an hour past meridian. A blessing on the righteous Colony of the Massachusetts, where iniquity is dragged out into the sunshine! Come along, Madam Hester, and show your scarlet letter in the market-place!" A lane was forthwith opened through the crowd of spectators. Preceded by the beadle, and attended by an irregular procession of stern-browed men and unkindly visaged women, Hester Prynne set forth towards the place appointed for her punishment. A crowd of eager and curious school-boys, understanding little of the matter in hand, except that it gave them a half-holiday, ran before her progress, turning their heads continually to stare into her face, and at the winking baby in her arms, and at the ignominious letter on her breast. It was no great distance, in those days, from the prison-door to the market-place. Measured by the prisoner's experience, however, it might be reckoned a journey of some length; for, haughty as her demeanor was, she perchance underwent an agony from every footstep of those that thronged to see her, as if her heart had been flung into the street for them all to spurn and trample upon. In our nature, however, there is a provision, alike marvellous and merciful, that the sufferer should never know the intensity of what he endures by its present torture, but chiefly by the pang that rankles after it. With almost a serene deportment, therefore, Hester Prynne passed through this portion of her ordeal, and came to a sort of scaffold, at the western extremity of the market-place. It stood nearly beneath the eaves of Boston's earliest church, and appeared to be a fixture there. In fact, this scaffold constituted a portion of a penal machine, which now, for two or three generations past, has been merely historical and traditionary among us, but was held, in the old time, to be as effectual an agent, in the promotion of good citizenship, as ever was the guillotine among the terrorists of France. It was, in short, the platform of the pillory; and above it rose the framework of that instrument of discipline, so fashioned as to confine the human head in its tight grasp, and thus hold it up to the public gaze. The very ideal of ignominy was embodied and made manifest in this contrivance of wood and iron. There can be no outrage, methinks, against our common nature,--whatever be the delinquencies of the individual,--no outrage more flagrant than to forbid the culprit to hide his face for shame; as it was the essence of this punishment to do. In Hester Prynne's instance, however, as not unfrequently in other cases, her sentence bore, that she should stand a certain time upon the platform, but without undergoing that gripe about the neck and confinement of the head, the proneness to which was the most devilish characteristic of this ugly engine. Knowing well her part, she ascended a flight of wooden steps, and was thus displayed to the surrounding multitude, at about the height of a man's shoulders above the street. Had there been a Papist among the crowd of Puritans, he might have seen in this beautiful woman, so picturesque in her attire and mien, and with the infant at her bosom, an object to remind him of the image of Divine Maternity, which so many illustrious painters have vied with one another to represent; something which should remind him, indeed, but only by contrast, of that sacred image of sinless motherhood, whose infant was to redeem the world. Here, there was the taint of deepest sin in the most sacred quality of human life, working such effect, that the world was only the darker for this woman's beauty, and the more lost for the infant that she had borne. The scene was not without a mixture of awe, such as must always invest the spectacle of guilt and shame in a fellow-creature, before society shall have grown corrupt enough to smile, instead of shuddering, at it. The witnesses of Hester Prynne's disgrace had not yet passed beyond their simplicity. They were stern enough to look upon her death, had that been the sentence, without a murmur at its severity, but had none of the heartlessness of another social state, which would find only a theme for jest in an exhibition like the present. Even had there been a disposition to turn the matter into ridicule, it must have been repressed and overpowered by the solemn presence of men no less dignified than the Governor, and several of his counsellors, a judge, a general, and the ministers of the town; all of whom sat or stood in a balcony of the meeting-house, looking down upon the platform. When such personages could constitute a part of the spectacle, without risking the majesty or reverence of rank and office, it was safely to be inferred that the infliction of a legal sentence would have an earnest and effectual meaning. Accordingly, the crowd was sombre and grave. The unhappy culprit sustained herself as best a woman might, under the heavy weight of a thousand unrelenting eyes, all fastened upon her, and concentrated at her bosom. It was almost intolerable to be borne. Of an impulsive and passionate nature, she had fortified herself to encounter the stings and venomous stabs of public contumely, wreaking itself in every variety of insult; but there was a quality so much more terrible in the solemn mood of the popular mind, that she longed rather to behold all those rigid countenances contorted with scornful merriment, and herself the object. Had a roar of laughter burst from the multitude,--each man, each woman, each little shrill-voiced child, contributing their individual parts,--Hester Prynne might have repaid them all with a bitter and disdainful smile. But, under the leaden infliction which it was her doom to endure, she felt, at moments, as if she must needs shriek out with the full power of her lungs, and cast herself from the scaffold down upon the ground, or else go mad at once. Yet there were intervals when the whole scene, in which she was the most conspicuous object, seemed to vanish from her eyes, or, at least, glimmered indistinctly before them, like a mass of imperfectly shaped and spectral images. Her mind, and especially her memory, was preternaturally active, and kept bringing up other scenes than this roughly hewn street of a little town, on the edge of the Western wilderness; other faces than were lowering upon her from beneath the brims of those steeple-crowned hats. Reminiscences the most trifling and immaterial, passages of infancy and school-days, sports, childish quarrels, and the little domestic traits of her maiden years, came swarming back upon her, intermingled with recollections of whatever was gravest in her subsequent life; one picture precisely as vivid as another; as if all were of similar importance, or all alike a play. Possibly, it was an instinctive device of her spirit, to relieve itself, by the exhibition of these phantasmagoric forms, from the cruel weight and hardness of the reality. Be that as it might, the scaffold of the pillory was a point of view that revealed to Hester Prynne the entire track along which she had been treading, since her happy infancy. Standing on that miserable eminence, she saw again her native village, in Old England, and her paternal home; a decayed house of gray stone, with a poverty-stricken aspect, but retaining a half-obliterated shield of arms over the portal, in token of antique gentility. She saw her father's face, with its bald brow, and reverend white beard, that flowed over the old-fashioned Elizabethan ruff; her mother's, too, with the look of heedful and anxious love which it always wore in her remembrance, and which, even since her death, had so often laid the impediment of a gentle remonstrance in her daughter's pathway. She saw her own face, glowing with girlish beauty, and illuminating all the interior of the dusky mirror in which she had been wont to gaze at it. There she beheld another countenance, of a man well stricken in years, a pale, thin, scholar-like visage, with eyes dim and bleared by the lamplight that had served them to pore over many ponderous books. Yet those same bleared optics had a strange, penetrating power, when it was their owner's purpose to read the human soul. This figure of the study and the cloister, as Hester Prynne's womanly fancy failed not to recall, was slightly deformed, with the left shoulder a trifle higher than the right. Next rose before her, in memory's picture-gallery, the intricate and narrow thoroughfares, the tall, gray houses, the huge cathedrals, and the public edifices, ancient in date and quaint in architecture, of a Continental city; where a new life had awaited her, still in connection with the misshapen scholar; a new life, but feeding itself on time-worn materials, like a tuft of green moss on a crumbling wall. Lastly, in lieu of these shifting scenes, came back the rude market-place of the Puritan settlement, with all the towns-people assembled and levelling their stern regards at Hester Prynne,--yes, at herself,--who stood on the scaffold of the pillory, an infant on her arm, and the letter A, in scarlet, fantastically embroidered with gold-thread, upon her bosom! [Illustration: "Standing on the Miserable Eminence"] Could it be true? She clutched the child so fiercely to her breast, that it sent forth a cry; she turned her eyes downward at the scarlet letter, and even touched it with her finger, to assure herself that the infant and the shame were real. Yes!--these were her realities,--all else had vanished! [Illustration] Können Sie eine geeignete Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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Der Marktplatz Als die Menge zuschaut, tritt Hester Prynne, eine junge Frau, die ein Kind im Arm hält, aus der Gefängnistür und macht sich auf den Weg zu einem Schafott, wo sie öffentlich verurteilt werden soll. Die Frauen in der Menge machen abfällige Bemerkungen über Hester; sie kritisieren insbesondere die Verzierungen auf ihrem Gewand - ein mit Gold und Scharlach bestickter Buchstabe "A". Aus den Gesprächen der Frauen und den Erinnerungen Hesters, während sie durch die Menschenmenge geht, können wir ableiten, dass sie Ehebruch begangen und ein uneheliches Kind geboren hat und dass das "A" auf ihrem Kleid für "Ehebrecherin" steht. Der Gemeindediener ruft Hester vor. Kinder verspotten sie und Erwachsene starren sie an. Bilder aus Hesters früherem Leben fliegen ihr durch den Kopf: Sie sieht ihre Eltern vor ihrem Haus auf dem Land in England stehen, dann sieht sie einen "missgestalteten" Gelehrten, der viel älter ist als sie, den sie heiratet und dem sie auf das europäische Festland folgt. Aber nun bricht die Gegenwart über sie herein, und sie drückt unabsichtlich das Kind in ihren Armen, das daraufhin laut aufschreit. Sie betrachtet ihr jetziges Schicksal fassungslos.

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 is the consternation of the party to be described? To the greater number it was a moment of absolute horror. Sir Thomas in the house! All felt the instantaneous conviction. Not a hope of imposition or mistake was harboured anywhere. Julia's looks were an evidence of the fact that made it indisputable; and after the first starts and exclamations, not a word was spoken for half a minute: each with an altered countenance was looking at some other, and almost each was feeling it a stroke the most unwelcome, most ill-timed, most appalling! Mr. Yates might consider it only as a vexatious interruption for the evening, and Mr. Rushworth might imagine it a blessing; but every other heart was sinking under some degree of self-condemnation or undefined alarm, every other heart was suggesting, "What will become of us? what is to be done now?" It was a terrible pause; and terrible to every ear were the corroborating sounds of opening doors and passing footsteps. Julia was the first to move and speak again. Jealousy and bitterness had been suspended: selfishness was lost in the common cause; but at the moment of her appearance, Frederick was listening with looks of devotion to Agatha's narrative, and pressing her hand to his heart; and as soon as she could notice this, and see that, in spite of the shock of her words, he still kept his station and retained her sister's hand, her wounded heart swelled again with injury, and looking as red as she had been white before, she turned out of the room, saying, "_I_ need not be afraid of appearing before him." Her going roused the rest; and at the same moment the two brothers stepped forward, feeling the necessity of doing something. A very few words between them were sufficient. The case admitted no difference of opinion: they must go to the drawing-room directly. Maria joined them with the same intent, just then the stoutest of the three; for the very circumstance which had driven Julia away was to her the sweetest support. Henry Crawford's retaining her hand at such a moment, a moment of such peculiar proof and importance, was worth ages of doubt and anxiety. She hailed it as an earnest of the most serious determination, and was equal even to encounter her father. They walked off, utterly heedless of Mr. Rushworth's repeated question of, "Shall I go too? Had not I better go too? Will not it be right for me to go too?" but they were no sooner through the door than Henry Crawford undertook to answer the anxious inquiry, and, encouraging him by all means to pay his respects to Sir Thomas without delay, sent him after the others with delighted haste. Fanny was left with only the Crawfords and Mr. Yates. She had been quite overlooked by her cousins; and as her own opinion of her claims on Sir Thomas's affection was much too humble to give her any idea of classing herself with his children, she was glad to remain behind and gain a little breathing-time. Her agitation and alarm exceeded all that was endured by the rest, by the right of a disposition which not even innocence could keep from suffering. She was nearly fainting: all her former habitual dread of her uncle was returning, and with it compassion for him and for almost every one of the party on the development before him, with solicitude on Edmund's account indescribable. She had found a seat, where in excessive trembling she was enduring all these fearful thoughts, while the other three, no longer under any restraint, were giving vent to their feelings of vexation, lamenting over such an unlooked-for premature arrival as a most untoward event, and without mercy wishing poor Sir Thomas had been twice as long on his passage, or were still in Antigua. The Crawfords were more warm on the subject than Mr. Yates, from better understanding the family, and judging more clearly of the mischief that must ensue. The ruin of the play was to them a certainty: they felt the total destruction of the scheme to be inevitably at hand; while Mr. Yates considered it only as a temporary interruption, a disaster for the evening, and could even suggest the possibility of the rehearsal being renewed after tea, when the bustle of receiving Sir Thomas were over, and he might be at leisure to be amused by it. The Crawfords laughed at the idea; and having soon agreed on the propriety of their walking quietly home and leaving the family to themselves, proposed Mr. Yates's accompanying them and spending the evening at the Parsonage. But Mr. Yates, having never been with those who thought much of parental claims, or family confidence, could not perceive that anything of the kind was necessary; and therefore, thanking them, said, "he preferred remaining where he was, that he might pay his respects to the old gentleman handsomely since he _was_ come; and besides, he did not think it would be fair by the others to have everybody run away." Fanny was just beginning to collect herself, and to feel that if she staid longer behind it might seem disrespectful, when this point was settled, and being commissioned with the brother and sister's apology, saw them preparing to go as she quitted the room herself to perform the dreadful duty of appearing before her uncle. Too soon did she find herself at the drawing-room door; and after pausing a moment for what she knew would not come, for a courage which the outside of no door had ever supplied to her, she turned the lock in desperation, and the lights of the drawing-room, and all the collected family, were before her. As she entered, her own name caught her ear. Sir Thomas was at that moment looking round him, and saying, "But where is Fanny? Why do not I see my little Fanny?"--and on perceiving her, came forward with a kindness which astonished and penetrated her, calling her his dear Fanny, kissing her affectionately, and observing with decided pleasure how much she was grown! Fanny knew not how to feel, nor where to look. She was quite oppressed. He had never been so kind, so _very_ kind to her in his life. His manner seemed changed, his voice was quick from the agitation of joy; and all that had been awful in his dignity seemed lost in tenderness. He led her nearer the light and looked at her again--inquired particularly after her health, and then, correcting himself, observed that he need not inquire, for her appearance spoke sufficiently on that point. A fine blush having succeeded the previous paleness of her face, he was justified in his belief of her equal improvement in health and beauty. He inquired next after her family, especially William: and his kindness altogether was such as made her reproach herself for loving him so little, and thinking his return a misfortune; and when, on having courage to lift her eyes to his face, she saw that he was grown thinner, and had the burnt, fagged, worn look of fatigue and a hot climate, every tender feeling was increased, and she was miserable in considering how much unsuspected vexation was probably ready to burst on him. Sir Thomas was indeed the life of the party, who at his suggestion now seated themselves round the fire. He had the best right to be the talker; and the delight of his sensations in being again in his own house, in the centre of his family, after such a separation, made him communicative and chatty in a very unusual degree; and he was ready to give every information as to his voyage, and answer every question of his two sons almost before it was put. His business in Antigua had latterly been prosperously rapid, and he came directly from Liverpool, having had an opportunity of making his passage thither in a private vessel, instead of waiting for the packet; and all the little particulars of his proceedings and events, his arrivals and departures, were most promptly delivered, as he sat by Lady Bertram and looked with heartfelt satisfaction on the faces around him--interrupting himself more than once, however, to remark on his good fortune in finding them all at home--coming unexpectedly as he did--all collected together exactly as he could have wished, but dared not depend on. Mr. Rushworth was not forgotten: a most friendly reception and warmth of hand-shaking had already met him, and with pointed attention he was now included in the objects most intimately connected with Mansfield. There was nothing disagreeable in Mr. Rushworth's appearance, and Sir Thomas was liking him already. By not one of the circle was he listened to with such unbroken, unalloyed enjoyment as by his wife, who was really extremely happy to see him, and whose feelings were so warmed by his sudden arrival as to place her nearer agitation than she had been for the last twenty years. She had been _almost_ fluttered for a few minutes, and still remained so sensibly animated as to put away her work, move Pug from her side, and give all her attention and all the rest of her sofa to her husband. She had no anxieties for anybody to cloud _her_ pleasure: her own time had been irreproachably spent during his absence: she had done a great deal of carpet-work, and made many yards of fringe; and she would have answered as freely for the good conduct and useful pursuits of all the young people as for her own. It was so agreeable to her to see him again, and hear him talk, to have her ear amused and her whole comprehension filled by his narratives, that she began particularly to feel how dreadfully she must have missed him, and how impossible it would have been for her to bear a lengthened absence. Mrs. Norris was by no means to be compared in happiness to her sister. Not that _she_ was incommoded by many fears of Sir Thomas's disapprobation when the present state of his house should be known, for her judgment had been so blinded that, except by the instinctive caution with which she had whisked away Mr. Rushworth's pink satin cloak as her brother-in-law entered, she could hardly be said to shew any sign of alarm; but she was vexed by the _manner_ of his return. It had left her nothing to do. Instead of being sent for out of the room, and seeing him first, and having to spread the happy news through the house, Sir Thomas, with a very reasonable dependence, perhaps, on the nerves of his wife and children, had sought no confidant but the butler, and had been following him almost instantaneously into the drawing-room. Mrs. Norris felt herself defrauded of an office on which she had always depended, whether his arrival or his death were to be the thing unfolded; and was now trying to be in a bustle without having anything to bustle about, and labouring to be important where nothing was wanted but tranquillity and silence. Would Sir Thomas have consented to eat, she might have gone to the housekeeper with troublesome directions, and insulted the footmen with injunctions of despatch; but Sir Thomas resolutely declined all dinner: he would take nothing, nothing till tea came--he would rather wait for tea. Still Mrs. Norris was at intervals urging something different; and in the most interesting moment of his passage to England, when the alarm of a French privateer was at the height, she burst through his recital with the proposal of soup. "Sure, my dear Sir Thomas, a basin of soup would be a much better thing for you than tea. Do have a basin of soup." Sir Thomas could not be provoked. "Still the same anxiety for everybody's comfort, my dear Mrs. Norris," was his answer. "But indeed I would rather have nothing but tea." "Well, then, Lady Bertram, suppose you speak for tea directly; suppose you hurry Baddeley a little; he seems behindhand to-night." She carried this point, and Sir Thomas's narrative proceeded. At length there was a pause. His immediate communications were exhausted, and it seemed enough to be looking joyfully around him, now at one, now at another of the beloved circle; but the pause was not long: in the elation of her spirits Lady Bertram became talkative, and what were the sensations of her children upon hearing her say, "How do you think the young people have been amusing themselves lately, Sir Thomas? They have been acting. We have been all alive with acting." "Indeed! and what have you been acting?" "Oh! they'll tell you all about it." "The _all_ will soon be told," cried Tom hastily, and with affected unconcern; "but it is not worth while to bore my father with it now. You will hear enough of it to-morrow, sir. We have just been trying, by way of doing something, and amusing my mother, just within the last week, to get up a few scenes, a mere trifle. We have had such incessant rains almost since October began, that we have been nearly confined to the house for days together. I have hardly taken out a gun since the 3rd. Tolerable sport the first three days, but there has been no attempting anything since. The first day I went over Mansfield Wood, and Edmund took the copses beyond Easton, and we brought home six brace between us, and might each have killed six times as many, but we respect your pheasants, sir, I assure you, as much as you could desire. I do not think you will find your woods by any means worse stocked than they were. _I_ never saw Mansfield Wood so full of pheasants in my life as this year. I hope you will take a day's sport there yourself, sir, soon." For the present the danger was over, and Fanny's sick feelings subsided; but when tea was soon afterwards brought in, and Sir Thomas, getting up, said that he found that he could not be any longer in the house without just looking into his own dear room, every agitation was returning. He was gone before anything had been said to prepare him for the change he must find there; and a pause of alarm followed his disappearance. Edmund was the first to speak-- "Something must be done," said he. "It is time to think of our visitors," said Maria, still feeling her hand pressed to Henry Crawford's heart, and caring little for anything else. "Where did you leave Miss Crawford, Fanny?" Fanny told of their departure, and delivered their message. "Then poor Yates is all alone," cried Tom. "I will go and fetch him. He will be no bad assistant when it all comes out." To the theatre he went, and reached it just in time to witness the first meeting of his father and his friend. Sir Thomas had been a good deal surprised to find candles burning in his room; and on casting his eye round it, to see other symptoms of recent habitation and a general air of confusion in the furniture. The removal of the bookcase from before the billiard-room door struck him especially, but he had scarcely more than time to feel astonished at all this, before there were sounds from the billiard-room to astonish him still farther. Some one was talking there in a very loud accent; he did not know the voice--more than talking--almost hallooing. He stepped to the door, rejoicing at that moment in having the means of immediate communication, and, opening it, found himself on the stage of a theatre, and opposed to a ranting young man, who appeared likely to knock him down backwards. At the very moment of Yates perceiving Sir Thomas, and giving perhaps the very best start he had ever given in the whole course of his rehearsals, Tom Bertram entered at the other end of the room; and never had he found greater difficulty in keeping his countenance. His father's looks of solemnity and amazement on this his first appearance on any stage, and the gradual metamorphosis of the impassioned Baron Wildenheim into the well-bred and easy Mr. Yates, making his bow and apology to Sir Thomas Bertram, was such an exhibition, such a piece of true acting, as he would not have lost upon any account. It would be the last--in all probability--the last scene on that stage; but he was sure there could not be a finer. The house would close with the greatest eclat. There was little time, however, for the indulgence of any images of merriment. It was necessary for him to step forward, too, and assist the introduction, and with many awkward sensations he did his best. Sir Thomas received Mr. Yates with all the appearance of cordiality which was due to his own character, but was really as far from pleased with the necessity of the acquaintance as with the manner of its commencement. Mr. Yates's family and connexions were sufficiently known to him to render his introduction as the "particular friend," another of the hundred particular friends of his son, exceedingly unwelcome; and it needed all the felicity of being again at home, and all the forbearance it could supply, to save Sir Thomas from anger on finding himself thus bewildered in his own house, making part of a ridiculous exhibition in the midst of theatrical nonsense, and forced in so untoward a moment to admit the acquaintance of a young man whom he felt sure of disapproving, and whose easy indifference and volubility in the course of the first five minutes seemed to mark him the most at home of the two. Tom understood his father's thoughts, and heartily wishing he might be always as well disposed to give them but partial expression, began to see, more clearly than he had ever done before, that there might be some ground of offence, that there might be some reason for the glance his father gave towards the ceiling and stucco of the room; and that when he inquired with mild gravity after the fate of the billiard-table, he was not proceeding beyond a very allowable curiosity. A few minutes were enough for such unsatisfactory sensations on each side; and Sir Thomas having exerted himself so far as to speak a few words of calm approbation in reply to an eager appeal of Mr. Yates, as to the happiness of the arrangement, the three gentlemen returned to the drawing-room together, Sir Thomas with an increase of gravity which was not lost on all. "I come from your theatre," said he composedly, as he sat down; "I found myself in it rather unexpectedly. Its vicinity to my own room--but in every respect, indeed, it took me by surprise, as I had not the smallest suspicion of your acting having assumed so serious a character. It appears a neat job, however, as far as I could judge by candlelight, and does my friend Christopher Jackson credit." And then he would have changed the subject, and sipped his coffee in peace over domestic matters of a calmer hue; but Mr. Yates, without discernment to catch Sir Thomas's meaning, or diffidence, or delicacy, or discretion enough to allow him to lead the discourse while he mingled among the others with the least obtrusiveness himself, would keep him on the topic of the theatre, would torment him with questions and remarks relative to it, and finally would make him hear the whole history of his disappointment at Ecclesford. Sir Thomas listened most politely, but found much to offend his ideas of decorum, and confirm his ill-opinion of Mr. Yates's habits of thinking, from the beginning to the end of the story; and when it was over, could give him no other assurance of sympathy than what a slight bow conveyed. "This was, in fact, the origin of _our_ acting," said Tom, after a moment's thought. "My friend Yates brought the infection from Ecclesford, and it spread--as those things always spread, you know, sir--the faster, probably, from _your_ having so often encouraged the sort of thing in us formerly. It was like treading old ground again." Mr. Yates took the subject from his friend as soon as possible, and immediately gave Sir Thomas an account of what they had done and were doing: told him of the gradual increase of their views, the happy conclusion of their first difficulties, and present promising state of affairs; relating everything with so blind an interest as made him not only totally unconscious of the uneasy movements of many of his friends as they sat, the change of countenance, the fidget, the hem! of unquietness, but prevented him even from seeing the expression of the face on which his own eyes were fixed--from seeing Sir Thomas's dark brow contract as he looked with inquiring earnestness at his daughters and Edmund, dwelling particularly on the latter, and speaking a language, a remonstrance, a reproof, which _he_ felt at his heart. Not less acutely was it felt by Fanny, who had edged back her chair behind her aunt's end of the sofa, and, screened from notice herself, saw all that was passing before her. Such a look of reproach at Edmund from his father she could never have expected to witness; and to feel that it was in any degree deserved was an aggravation indeed. Sir Thomas's look implied, "On your judgment, Edmund, I depended; what have you been about?" She knelt in spirit to her uncle, and her bosom swelled to utter, "Oh, not to _him_! Look so to all the others, but not to _him_!" Mr. Yates was still talking. "To own the truth, Sir Thomas, we were in the middle of a rehearsal when you arrived this evening. We were going through the three first acts, and not unsuccessfully upon the whole. Our company is now so dispersed, from the Crawfords being gone home, that nothing more can be done to-night; but if you will give us the honour of your company to-morrow evening, I should not be afraid of the result. We bespeak your indulgence, you understand, as young performers; we bespeak your indulgence." "My indulgence shall be given, sir," replied Sir Thomas gravely, "but without any other rehearsal." And with a relenting smile, he added, "I come home to be happy and indulgent." Then turning away towards any or all of the rest, he tranquilly said, "Mr. and Miss Crawford were mentioned in my last letters from Mansfield. Do you find them agreeable acquaintance?" Tom was the only one at all ready with an answer, but he being entirely without particular regard for either, without jealousy either in love or acting, could speak very handsomely of both. "Mr. Crawford was a most pleasant, gentleman-like man; his sister a sweet, pretty, elegant, lively girl." Mr. Rushworth could be silent no longer. "I do not say he is not gentleman-like, considering; but you should tell your father he is not above five feet eight, or he will be expecting a well-looking man." Sir Thomas did not quite understand this, and looked with some surprise at the speaker. "If I must say what I think," continued Mr. Rushworth, "in my opinion it is very disagreeable to be always rehearsing. It is having too much of a good thing. I am not so fond of acting as I was at first. I think we are a great deal better employed, sitting comfortably here among ourselves, and doing nothing." Sir Thomas looked again, and then replied with an approving smile, "I am happy to find our sentiments on this subject so much the same. It gives me sincere satisfaction. That I should be cautious and quick-sighted, and feel many scruples which my children do _not_ feel, is perfectly natural; and equally so that my value for domestic tranquillity, for a home which shuts out noisy pleasures, should much exceed theirs. But at your time of life to feel all this, is a most favourable circumstance for yourself, and for everybody connected with you; and I am sensible of the importance of having an ally of such weight." Sir Thomas meant to be giving Mr. Rushworth's opinion in better words than he could find himself. He was aware that he must not expect a genius in Mr. Rushworth; but as a well-judging, steady young man, with better notions than his elocution would do justice to, he intended to value him very highly. It was impossible for many of the others not to smile. Mr. Rushworth hardly knew what to do with so much meaning; but by looking, as he really felt, most exceedingly pleased with Sir Thomas's good opinion, and saying scarcely anything, he did his best towards preserving that good opinion a little longer. Edmund's first object the next morning was to see his father alone, and give him a fair statement of the whole acting scheme, defending his own share in it as far only as he could then, in a soberer moment, feel his motives to deserve, and acknowledging, with perfect ingenuousness, that his concession had been attended with such partial good as to make his judgment in it very doubtful. He was anxious, while vindicating himself, to say nothing unkind of the others: but there was only one amongst them whose conduct he could mention without some necessity of defence or palliation. "We have all been more or less to blame," said he, "every one of us, excepting Fanny. Fanny is the only one who has judged rightly throughout; who has been consistent. _Her_ feelings have been steadily against it from first to last. She never ceased to think of what was due to you. You will find Fanny everything you could wish." Sir Thomas saw all the impropriety of such a scheme among such a party, and at such a time, as strongly as his son had ever supposed he must; he felt it too much, indeed, for many words; and having shaken hands with Edmund, meant to try to lose the disagreeable impression, and forget how much he had been forgotten himself as soon as he could, after the house had been cleared of every object enforcing the remembrance, and restored to its proper state. He did not enter into any remonstrance with his other children: he was more willing to believe they felt their error than to run the risk of investigation. The reproof of an immediate conclusion of everything, the sweep of every preparation, would be sufficient. There was one person, however, in the house, whom he could not leave to learn his sentiments merely through his conduct. He could not help giving Mrs. Norris a hint of his having hoped that her advice might have been interposed to prevent what her judgment must certainly have disapproved. The young people had been very inconsiderate in forming the plan; they ought to have been capable of a better decision themselves; but they were young; and, excepting Edmund, he believed, of unsteady characters; and with greater surprise, therefore, he must regard her acquiescence in their wrong measures, her countenance of their unsafe amusements, than that such measures and such amusements should have been suggested. Mrs. Norris was a little confounded and as nearly being silenced as ever she had been in her life; for she was ashamed to confess having never seen any of the impropriety which was so glaring to Sir Thomas, and would not have admitted that her influence was insufficient--that she might have talked in vain. Her only resource was to get out of the subject as fast as possible, and turn the current of Sir Thomas's ideas into a happier channel. She had a great deal to insinuate in her own praise as to _general_ attention to the interest and comfort of his family, much exertion and many sacrifices to glance at in the form of hurried walks and sudden removals from her own fireside, and many excellent hints of distrust and economy to Lady Bertram and Edmund to detail, whereby a most considerable saving had always arisen, and more than one bad servant been detected. But her chief strength lay in Sotherton. Her greatest support and glory was in having formed the connexion with the Rushworths. _There_ she was impregnable. She took to herself all the credit of bringing Mr. Rushworth's admiration of Maria to any effect. "If I had not been active," said she, "and made a point of being introduced to his mother, and then prevailed on my sister to pay the first visit, I am as certain as I sit here that nothing would have come of it; for Mr. Rushworth is the sort of amiable modest young man who wants a great deal of encouragement, and there were girls enough on the catch for him if we had been idle. But I left no stone unturned. I was ready to move heaven and earth to persuade my sister, and at last I did persuade her. You know the distance to Sotherton; it was in the middle of winter, and the roads almost impassable, but I did persuade her." "I know how great, how justly great, your influence is with Lady Bertram and her children, and am the more concerned that it should not have been." "My dear Sir Thomas, if you had seen the state of the roads _that_ day! I thought we should never have got through them, though we had the four horses of course; and poor old coachman would attend us, out of his great love and kindness, though he was hardly able to sit the box on account of the rheumatism which I had been doctoring him for ever since Michaelmas. I cured him at last; but he was very bad all the winter--and this was such a day, I could not help going to him up in his room before we set off to advise him not to venture: he was putting on his wig; so I said, 'Coachman, you had much better not go; your Lady and I shall be very safe; you know how steady Stephen is, and Charles has been upon the leaders so often now, that I am sure there is no fear.' But, however, I soon found it would not do; he was bent upon going, and as I hate to be worrying and officious, I said no more; but my heart quite ached for him at every jolt, and when we got into the rough lanes about Stoke, where, what with frost and snow upon beds of stones, it was worse than anything you can imagine, I was quite in an agony about him. And then the poor horses too! To see them straining away! You know how I always feel for the horses. And when we got to the bottom of Sandcroft Hill, what do you think I did? You will laugh at me; but I got out and walked up. I did indeed. It might not be saving them much, but it was something, and I could not bear to sit at my ease and be dragged up at the expense of those noble animals. I caught a dreadful cold, but _that_ I did not regard. My object was accomplished in the visit." "I hope we shall always think the acquaintance worth any trouble that might be taken to establish it. There is nothing very striking in Mr. Rushworth's manners, but I was pleased last night with what appeared to be his opinion on one subject: his decided preference of a quiet family party to the bustle and confusion of acting. He seemed to feel exactly as one could wish." "Yes, indeed, and the more you know of him the better you will like him. He is not a shining character, but he has a thousand good qualities; and is so disposed to look up to you, that I am quite laughed at about it, for everybody considers it as my doing. 'Upon my word, Mrs. Norris,' said Mrs. Grant the other day, 'if Mr. Rushworth were a son of your own, he could not hold Sir Thomas in greater respect.'" Sir Thomas gave up the point, foiled by her evasions, disarmed by her flattery; and was obliged to rest satisfied with the conviction that where the present pleasure of those she loved was at stake, her kindness did sometimes overpower her judgment. It was a busy morning with him. Conversation with any of them occupied but a small part of it. He had to reinstate himself in all the wonted concerns of his Mansfield life: to see his steward and his bailiff; to examine and compute, and, in the intervals of business, to walk into his stables and his gardens, and nearest plantations; but active and methodical, he had not only done all this before he resumed his seat as master of the house at dinner, he had also set the carpenter to work in pulling down what had been so lately put up in the billiard-room, and given the scene-painter his dismissal long enough to justify the pleasing belief of his being then at least as far off as Northampton. The scene-painter was gone, having spoilt only the floor of one room, ruined all the coachman's sponges, and made five of the under-servants idle and dissatisfied; and Sir Thomas was in hopes that another day or two would suffice to wipe away every outward memento of what had been, even to the destruction of every unbound copy of Lovers' Vows in the house, for he was burning all that met his eye. Mr. Yates was beginning now to understand Sir Thomas's intentions, though as far as ever from understanding their source. He and his friend had been out with their guns the chief of the morning, and Tom had taken the opportunity of explaining, with proper apologies for his father's particularity, what was to be expected. Mr. Yates felt it as acutely as might be supposed. To be a second time disappointed in the same way was an instance of very severe ill-luck; and his indignation was such, that had it not been for delicacy towards his friend, and his friend's youngest sister, he believed he should certainly attack the baronet on the absurdity of his proceedings, and argue him into a little more rationality. He believed this very stoutly while he was in Mansfield Wood, and all the way home; but there was a something in Sir Thomas, when they sat round the same table, which made Mr. Yates think it wiser to let him pursue his own way, and feel the folly of it without opposition. He had known many disagreeable fathers before, and often been struck with the inconveniences they occasioned, but never, in the whole course of his life, had he seen one of that class so unintelligibly moral, so infamously tyrannical as Sir Thomas. He was not a man to be endured but for his children's sake, and he might be thankful to his fair daughter Julia that Mr. Yates did yet mean to stay a few days longer under his roof. The evening passed with external smoothness, though almost every mind was ruffled; and the music which Sir Thomas called for from his daughters helped to conceal the want of real harmony. Maria was in a good deal of agitation. It was of the utmost consequence to her that Crawford should now lose no time in declaring himself, and she was disturbed that even a day should be gone by without seeming to advance that point. She had been expecting to see him the whole morning, and all the evening, too, was still expecting him. Mr. Rushworth had set off early with the great news for Sotherton; and she had fondly hoped for such an immediate _eclaircissement_ as might save him the trouble of ever coming back again. But they had seen no one from the Parsonage, not a creature, and had heard no tidings beyond a friendly note of congratulation and inquiry from Mrs. Grant to Lady Bertram. It was the first day for many, many weeks, in which the families had been wholly divided. Four-and-twenty hours had never passed before, since August began, without bringing them together in some way or other. It was a sad, anxious day; and the morrow, though differing in the sort of evil, did by no means bring less. A few moments of feverish enjoyment were followed by hours of acute suffering. Henry Crawford was again in the house: he walked up with Dr. Grant, who was anxious to pay his respects to Sir Thomas, and at rather an early hour they were ushered into the breakfast-room, where were most of the family. Sir Thomas soon appeared, and Maria saw with delight and agitation the introduction of the man she loved to her father. Her sensations were indefinable, and so were they a few minutes afterwards upon hearing Henry Crawford, who had a chair between herself and Tom, ask the latter in an undervoice whether there were any plans for resuming the play after the present happy interruption (with a courteous glance at Sir Thomas), because, in that case, he should make a point of returning to Mansfield at any time required by the party: he was going away immediately, being to meet his uncle at Bath without delay; but if there were any prospect of a renewal of Lovers' Vows, he should hold himself positively engaged, he should break through every other claim, he should absolutely condition with his uncle for attending them whenever he might be wanted. The play should not be lost by _his_ absence. "From Bath, Norfolk, London, York, wherever I may be," said he; "I will attend you from any place in England, at an hour's notice." It was well at that moment that Tom had to speak, and not his sister. He could immediately say with easy fluency, "I am sorry you are going; but as to our play, _that_ is all over--entirely at an end" (looking significantly at his father). "The painter was sent off yesterday, and very little will remain of the theatre to-morrow. I knew how _that_ would be from the first. It is early for Bath. You will find nobody there." "It is about my uncle's usual time." "When do you think of going?" "I may, perhaps, get as far as Banbury to-day." "Whose stables do you use at Bath?" was the next question; and while this branch of the subject was under discussion, Maria, who wanted neither pride nor resolution, was preparing to encounter her share of it with tolerable calmness. To her he soon turned, repeating much of what he had already said, with only a softened air and stronger expressions of regret. But what availed his expressions or his air? He was going, and, if not voluntarily going, voluntarily intending to stay away; for, excepting what might be due to his uncle, his engagements were all self-imposed. He might talk of necessity, but she knew his independence. The hand which had so pressed hers to his heart! the hand and the heart were alike motionless and passive now! Her spirit supported her, but the agony of her mind was severe. She had not long to endure what arose from listening to language which his actions contradicted, or to bury the tumult of her feelings under the restraint of society; for general civilities soon called his notice from her, and the farewell visit, as it then became openly acknowledged, was a very short one. He was gone--he had touched her hand for the last time, he had made his parting bow, and she might seek directly all that solitude could do for her. Henry Crawford was gone, gone from the house, and within two hours afterwards from the parish; and so ended all the hopes his selfish vanity had raised in Maria and Julia Bertram. Julia could rejoice that he was gone. His presence was beginning to be odious to her; and if Maria gained him not, she was now cool enough to dispense with any other revenge. She did not want exposure to be added to desertion. Henry Crawford gone, she could even pity her sister. With a purer spirit did Fanny rejoice in the intelligence. She heard it at dinner, and felt it a blessing. By all the others it was mentioned with regret; and his merits honoured with due gradation of feeling--from the sincerity of Edmund's too partial regard, to the unconcern of his mother speaking entirely by rote. Mrs. Norris began to look about her, and wonder that his falling in love with Julia had come to nothing; and could almost fear that she had been remiss herself in forwarding it; but with so many to care for, how was it possible for even _her_ activity to keep pace with her wishes? Another day or two, and Mr. Yates was gone likewise. In _his_ departure Sir Thomas felt the chief interest: wanting to be alone with his family, the presence of a stranger superior to Mr. Yates must have been irksome; but of him, trifling and confident, idle and expensive, it was every way vexatious. In himself he was wearisome, but as the friend of Tom and the admirer of Julia he became offensive. Sir Thomas had been quite indifferent to Mr. Crawford's going or staying: but his good wishes for Mr. Yates's having a pleasant journey, as he walked with him to the hall-door, were given with genuine satisfaction. Mr. Yates had staid to see the destruction of every theatrical preparation at Mansfield, the removal of everything appertaining to the play: he left the house in all the soberness of its general character; and Sir Thomas hoped, in seeing him out of it, to be rid of the worst object connected with the scheme, and the last that must be inevitably reminding him of its existence. Mrs. Norris contrived to remove one article from his sight that might have distressed him. The curtain, over which she had presided with such talent and such success, went off with her to her cottage, where she happened to be particularly in want of green baize. Sir Thomas's return made a striking change in the ways of the family, independent of Lovers' Vows. Under his government, Mansfield was an altered place. Some members of their society sent away, and the spirits of many others saddened--it was all sameness and gloom compared with the past--a sombre family party rarely enlivened. There was little intercourse with the Parsonage. Sir Thomas, drawing back from intimacies in general, was particularly disinclined, at this time, for any engagements but in one quarter. The Rushworths were the only addition to his own domestic circle which he could solicit. Edmund did not wonder that such should be his father's feelings, nor could he regret anything but the exclusion of the Grants. "But they," he observed to Fanny, "have a claim. They seem to belong to us; they seem to be part of ourselves. I could wish my father were more sensible of their very great attention to my mother and sisters while he was away. I am afraid they may feel themselves neglected. But the truth is, that my father hardly knows them. They had not been here a twelvemonth when he left England. If he knew them better, he would value their society as it deserves; for they are in fact exactly the sort of people he would like. We are sometimes a little in want of animation among ourselves: my sisters seem out of spirits, and Tom is certainly not at his ease. Dr. and Mrs. Grant would enliven us, and make our evenings pass away with more enjoyment even to my father." "Do you think so?" said Fanny: "in my opinion, my uncle would not like _any_ addition. I think he values the very quietness you speak of, and that the repose of his own family circle is all he wants. And it does not appear to me that we are more serious than we used to be--I mean before my uncle went abroad. As well as I can recollect, it was always much the same. There was never much laughing in his presence; or, if there is any difference, it is not more, I think, than such an absence has a tendency to produce at first. There must be a sort of shyness; but I cannot recollect that our evenings formerly were ever merry, except when my uncle was in town. No young people's are, I suppose, when those they look up to are at home". "I believe you are right, Fanny," was his reply, after a short consideration. "I believe our evenings are rather returned to what they were, than assuming a new character. The novelty was in their being lively. Yet, how strong the impression that only a few weeks will give! I have been feeling as if we had never lived so before." "I suppose I am graver than other people," said Fanny. "The evenings do not appear long to me. I love to hear my uncle talk of the West Indies. I could listen to him for an hour together. It entertains _me_ more than many other things have done; but then I am unlike other people, I dare say." "Why should you dare say _that_?" (smiling). "Do you want to be told that you are only unlike other people in being more wise and discreet? But when did you, or anybody, ever get a compliment from me, Fanny? Go to my father if you want to be complimented. He will satisfy you. Ask your uncle what he thinks, and you will hear compliments enough: and though they may be chiefly on your person, you must put up with it, and trust to his seeing as much beauty of mind in time." Such language was so new to Fanny that it quite embarrassed her. "Your uncle thinks you very pretty, dear Fanny--and that is the long and the short of the matter. Anybody but myself would have made something more of it, and anybody but you would resent that you had not been thought very pretty before; but the truth is, that your uncle never did admire you till now--and now he does. Your complexion is so improved!--and you have gained so much countenance!--and your figure--nay, Fanny, do not turn away about it--it is but an uncle. If you cannot bear an uncle's admiration, what is to become of you? You must really begin to harden yourself to the idea of being worth looking at. You must try not to mind growing up into a pretty woman." "Oh! don't talk so, don't talk so," cried Fanny, distressed by more feelings than he was aware of; but seeing that she was distressed, he had done with the subject, and only added more seriously-- "Your uncle is disposed to be pleased with you in every respect; and I only wish you would talk to him more. You are one of those who are too silent in the evening circle." "But I do talk to him more than I used. I am sure I do. Did not you hear me ask him about the slave-trade last night?" "I did--and was in hopes the question would be followed up by others. It would have pleased your uncle to be inquired of farther." "And I longed to do it--but there was such a dead silence! And while my cousins were sitting by without speaking a word, or seeming at all interested in the subject, I did not like--I thought it would appear as if I wanted to set myself off at their expense, by shewing a curiosity and pleasure in his information which he must wish his own daughters to feel." "Miss Crawford was very right in what she said of you the other day: that you seemed almost as fearful of notice and praise as other women were of neglect. We were talking of you at the Parsonage, and those were her words. She has great discernment. I know nobody who distinguishes characters better. For so young a woman it is remarkable! She certainly understands _you_ better than you are understood by the greater part of those who have known you so long; and with regard to some others, I can perceive, from occasional lively hints, the unguarded expressions of the moment, that she could define _many_ as accurately, did not delicacy forbid it. I wonder what she thinks of my father! She must admire him as a fine-looking man, with most gentlemanlike, dignified, consistent manners; but perhaps, having seen him so seldom, his reserve may be a little repulsive. Could they be much together, I feel sure of their liking each other. He would enjoy her liveliness and she has talents to value his powers. I wish they met more frequently! I hope she does not suppose there is any dislike on his side." "She must know herself too secure of the regard of all the rest of you," said Fanny, with half a sigh, "to have any such apprehension. And Sir Thomas's wishing just at first to be only with his family, is so very natural, that she can argue nothing from that. After a little while, I dare say, we shall be meeting again in the same sort of way, allowing for the difference of the time of year." "This is the first October that she has passed in the country since her infancy. I do not call Tunbridge or Cheltenham the country; and November is a still more serious month, and I can see that Mrs. Grant is very anxious for her not finding Mansfield dull as winter comes on." Fanny could have said a great deal, but it was safer to say nothing, and leave untouched all Miss Crawford's resources--her accomplishments, her spirits, her importance, her friends, lest it should betray her into any observations seemingly unhandsome. Miss Crawford's kind opinion of herself deserved at least a grateful forbearance, and she began to talk of something else. "To-morrow, I think, my uncle dines at Sotherton, and you and Mr. Bertram too. We shall be quite a small party at home. I hope my uncle may continue to like Mr. Rushworth." "That is impossible, Fanny. He must like him less after to-morrow's visit, for we shall be five hours in his company. I should dread the stupidity of the day, if there were not a much greater evil to follow--the impression it must leave on Sir Thomas. He cannot much longer deceive himself. I am sorry for them all, and would give something that Rushworth and Maria had never met." In this quarter, indeed, disappointment was impending over Sir Thomas. Not all his good-will for Mr. Rushworth, not all Mr. Rushworth's deference for him, could prevent him from soon discerning some part of the truth--that Mr. Rushworth was an inferior young man, as ignorant in business as in books, with opinions in general unfixed, and without seeming much aware of it himself. He had expected a very different son-in-law; and beginning to feel grave on Maria's account, tried to understand _her_ feelings. Little observation there was necessary to tell him that indifference was the most favourable state they could be in. Her behaviour to Mr. Rushworth was careless and cold. She could not, did not like him. Sir Thomas resolved to speak seriously to her. Advantageous as would be the alliance, and long standing and public as was the engagement, her happiness must not be sacrificed to it. Mr. Rushworth had, perhaps, been accepted on too short an acquaintance, and, on knowing him better, she was repenting. With solemn kindness Sir Thomas addressed her: told her his fears, inquired into her wishes, entreated her to be open and sincere, and assured her that every inconvenience should be braved, and the connexion entirely given up, if she felt herself unhappy in the prospect of it. He would act for her and release her. Maria had a moment's struggle as she listened, and only a moment's: when her father ceased, she was able to give her answer immediately, decidedly, and with no apparent agitation. She thanked him for his great attention, his paternal kindness, but he was quite mistaken in supposing she had the smallest desire of breaking through her engagement, or was sensible of any change of opinion or inclination since her forming it. She had the highest esteem for Mr. Rushworth's character and disposition, and could not have a doubt of her happiness with him. Sir Thomas was satisfied; too glad to be satisfied, perhaps, to urge the matter quite so far as his judgment might have dictated to others. It was an alliance which he could not have relinquished without pain; and thus he reasoned. Mr. Rushworth was young enough to improve. Mr. Rushworth must and would improve in good society; and if Maria could now speak so securely of her happiness with him, speaking certainly without the prejudice, the blindness of love, she ought to be believed. Her feelings, probably, were not acute; he had never supposed them to be so; but her comforts might not be less on that account; and if she could dispense with seeing her husband a leading, shining character, there would certainly be everything else in her favour. A well-disposed young woman, who did not marry for love, was in general but the more attached to her own family; and the nearness of Sotherton to Mansfield must naturally hold out the greatest temptation, and would, in all probability, be a continual supply of the most amiable and innocent enjoyments. Such and such-like were the reasonings of Sir Thomas, happy to escape the embarrassing evils of a rupture, the wonder, the reflections, the reproach that must attend it; happy to secure a marriage which would bring him such an addition of respectability and influence, and very happy to think anything of his daughter's disposition that was most favourable for the purpose. To her the conference closed as satisfactorily as to him. She was in a state of mind to be glad that she had secured her fate beyond recall: that she had pledged herself anew to Sotherton; that she was safe from the possibility of giving Crawford the triumph of governing her actions, and destroying her prospects; and retired in proud resolve, determined only to behave more cautiously to Mr. Rushworth in future, that her father might not be again suspecting her. Had Sir Thomas applied to his daughter within the first three or four days after Henry Crawford's leaving Mansfield, before her feelings were at all tranquillised, before she had given up every hope of him, or absolutely resolved on enduring his rival, her answer might have been different; but after another three or four days, when there was no return, no letter, no message, no symptom of a softened heart, no hope of advantage from separation, her mind became cool enough to seek all the comfort that pride and self revenge could give. Henry Crawford had destroyed her happiness, but he should not know that he had done it; he should not destroy her credit, her appearance, her prosperity, too. He should not have to think of her as pining in the retirement of Mansfield for _him_, rejecting Sotherton and London, independence and splendour, for _his_ sake. Independence was more needful than ever; the want of it at Mansfield more sensibly felt. She was less and less able to endure the restraint which her father imposed. The liberty which his absence had given was now become absolutely necessary. She must escape from him and Mansfield as soon as possible, and find consolation in fortune and consequence, bustle and the world, for a wounded spirit. Her mind was quite determined, and varied not. To such feelings delay, even the delay of much preparation, would have been an evil, and Mr. Rushworth could hardly be more impatient for the marriage than herself. In all the important preparations of the mind she was complete: being prepared for matrimony by an hatred of home, restraint, and tranquillity; by the misery of disappointed affection, and contempt of the man she was to marry. The rest might wait. The preparations of new carriages and furniture might wait for London and spring, when her own taste could have fairer play. The principals being all agreed in this respect, it soon appeared that a very few weeks would be sufficient for such arrangements as must precede the wedding. Mrs. Rushworth was quite ready to retire, and make way for the fortunate young woman whom her dear son had selected; and very early in November removed herself, her maid, her footman, and her chariot, with true dowager propriety, to Bath, there to parade over the wonders of Sotherton in her evening parties; enjoying them as thoroughly, perhaps, in the animation of a card-table, as she had ever done on the spot; and before the middle of the same month the ceremony had taken place which gave Sotherton another mistress. It was a very proper wedding. The bride was elegantly dressed; the two bridesmaids were duly inferior; her father gave her away; her mother stood with salts in her hand, expecting to be agitated; her aunt tried to cry; and the service was impressively read by Dr. Grant. Nothing could be objected to when it came under the discussion of the neighbourhood, except that the carriage which conveyed the bride and bridegroom and Julia from the church-door to Sotherton was the same chaise which Mr. Rushworth had used for a twelvemonth before. In everything else the etiquette of the day might stand the strictest investigation. It was done, and they were gone. Sir Thomas felt as an anxious father must feel, and was indeed experiencing much of the agitation which his wife had been apprehensive of for herself, but had fortunately escaped. Mrs. Norris, most happy to assist in the duties of the day, by spending it at the Park to support her sister's spirits, and drinking the health of Mr. and Mrs. Rushworth in a supernumerary glass or two, was all joyous delight; for she had made the match; she had done everything; and no one would have supposed, from her confident triumph, that she had ever heard of conjugal infelicity in her life, or could have the smallest insight into the disposition of the niece who had been brought up under her eye. The plan of the young couple was to proceed, after a few days, to Brighton, and take a house there for some weeks. Every public place was new to Maria, and Brighton is almost as gay in winter as in summer. When the novelty of amusement there was over, it would be time for the wider range of London. Julia was to go with them to Brighton. Since rivalry between the sisters had ceased, they had been gradually recovering much of their former good understanding; and were at least sufficiently friends to make each of them exceedingly glad to be with the other at such a time. Some other companion than Mr. Rushworth was of the first consequence to his lady; and Julia was quite as eager for novelty and pleasure as Maria, though she might not have struggled through so much to obtain them, and could better bear a subordinate situation. Their departure made another material change at Mansfield, a chasm which required some time to fill up. The family circle became greatly contracted; and though the Miss Bertrams had latterly added little to its gaiety, they could not but be missed. Even their mother missed them; and how much more their tenderhearted cousin, who wandered about the house, and thought of them, and felt for them, with a degree of affectionate regret which they had never done much to deserve! Fanny's consequence increased on the departure of her cousins. Becoming, as she then did, the only young woman in the drawing-room, the only occupier of that interesting division of a family in which she had hitherto held so humble a third, it was impossible for her not to be more looked at, more thought of and attended to, than she had ever been before; and "Where is Fanny?" became no uncommon question, even without her being wanted for any one's convenience. Not only at home did her value increase, but at the Parsonage too. In that house, which she had hardly entered twice a year since Mr. Norris's death, she became a welcome, an invited guest, and in the gloom and dirt of a November day, most acceptable to Mary Crawford. Her visits there, beginning by chance, were continued by solicitation. Mrs. Grant, really eager to get any change for her sister, could, by the easiest self-deceit, persuade herself that she was doing the kindest thing by Fanny, and giving her the most important opportunities of improvement in pressing her frequent calls. Fanny, having been sent into the village on some errand by her aunt Norris, was overtaken by a heavy shower close to the Parsonage; and being descried from one of the windows endeavouring to find shelter under the branches and lingering leaves of an oak just beyond their premises, was forced, though not without some modest reluctance on her part, to come in. A civil servant she had withstood; but when Dr. Grant himself went out with an umbrella, there was nothing to be done but to be very much ashamed, and to get into the house as fast as possible; and to poor Miss Crawford, who had just been contemplating the dismal rain in a very desponding state of mind, sighing over the ruin of all her plan of exercise for that morning, and of every chance of seeing a single creature beyond themselves for the next twenty-four hours, the sound of a little bustle at the front door, and the sight of Miss Price dripping with wet in the vestibule, was delightful. The value of an event on a wet day in the country was most forcibly brought before her. She was all alive again directly, and among the most active in being useful to Fanny, in detecting her to be wetter than she would at first allow, and providing her with dry clothes; and Fanny, after being obliged to submit to all this attention, and to being assisted and waited on by mistresses and maids, being also obliged, on returning downstairs, to be fixed in their drawing-room for an hour while the rain continued, the blessing of something fresh to see and think of was thus extended to Miss Crawford, and might carry on her spirits to the period of dressing and dinner. The two sisters were so kind to her, and so pleasant, that Fanny might have enjoyed her visit could she have believed herself not in the way, and could she have foreseen that the weather would certainly clear at the end of the hour, and save her from the shame of having Dr. Grant's carriage and horses out to take her home, with which she was threatened. As to anxiety for any alarm that her absence in such weather might occasion at home, she had nothing to suffer on that score; for as her being out was known only to her two aunts, she was perfectly aware that none would be felt, and that in whatever cottage aunt Norris might chuse to establish her during the rain, her being in such cottage would be indubitable to aunt Bertram. It was beginning to look brighter, when Fanny, observing a harp in the room, asked some questions about it, which soon led to an acknowledgment of her wishing very much to hear it, and a confession, which could hardly be believed, of her having never yet heard it since its being in Mansfield. To Fanny herself it appeared a very simple and natural circumstance. She had scarcely ever been at the Parsonage since the instrument's arrival, there had been no reason that she should; but Miss Crawford, calling to mind an early expressed wish on the subject, was concerned at her own neglect; and "Shall I play to you now?" and "What will you have?" were questions immediately following with the readiest good-humour. She played accordingly; happy to have a new listener, and a listener who seemed so much obliged, so full of wonder at the performance, and who shewed herself not wanting in taste. She played till Fanny's eyes, straying to the window on the weather's being evidently fair, spoke what she felt must be done. "Another quarter of an hour," said Miss Crawford, "and we shall see how it will be. Do not run away the first moment of its holding up. Those clouds look alarming." "But they are passed over," said Fanny. "I have been watching them. This weather is all from the south." "South or north, I know a black cloud when I see it; and you must not set forward while it is so threatening. And besides, I want to play something more to you--a very pretty piece--and your cousin Edmund's prime favourite. You must stay and hear your cousin's favourite." Fanny felt that she must; and though she had not waited for that sentence to be thinking of Edmund, such a memento made her particularly awake to his idea, and she fancied him sitting in that room again and again, perhaps in the very spot where she sat now, listening with constant delight to the favourite air, played, as it appeared to her, with superior tone and expression; and though pleased with it herself, and glad to like whatever was liked by him, she was more sincerely impatient to go away at the conclusion of it than she had been before; and on this being evident, she was so kindly asked to call again, to take them in her walk whenever she could, to come and hear more of the harp, that she felt it necessary to be done, if no objection arose at home. Such was the origin of the sort of intimacy which took place between them within the first fortnight after the Miss Bertrams' going away--an intimacy resulting principally from Miss Crawford's desire of something new, and which had little reality in Fanny's feelings. Fanny went to her every two or three days: it seemed a kind of fascination: she could not be easy without going, and yet it was without loving her, without ever thinking like her, without any sense of obligation for being sought after now when nobody else was to be had; and deriving no higher pleasure from her conversation than occasional amusement, and _that_ often at the expense of her judgment, when it was raised by pleasantry on people or subjects which she wished to be respected. She went, however, and they sauntered about together many an half-hour in Mrs. Grant's shrubbery, the weather being unusually mild for the time of year, and venturing sometimes even to sit down on one of the benches now comparatively unsheltered, remaining there perhaps till, in the midst of some tender ejaculation of Fanny's on the sweets of so protracted an autumn, they were forced, by the sudden swell of a cold gust shaking down the last few yellow leaves about them, to jump up and walk for warmth. "This is pretty, very pretty," said Fanny, looking around her as they were thus sitting together one day; "every time I come into this shrubbery I am more struck with its growth and beauty. Three years ago, this was nothing but a rough hedgerow along the upper side of the field, never thought of as anything, or capable of becoming anything; and now it is converted into a walk, and it would be difficult to say whether most valuable as a convenience or an ornament; and perhaps, in another three years, we may be forgetting--almost forgetting what it was before. How wonderful, how very wonderful the operations of time, and the changes of the human mind!" And following the latter train of thought, she soon afterwards added: "If any one faculty of our nature may be called _more_ wonderful than the rest, I do think it is memory. There seems something more speakingly incomprehensible in the powers, the failures, the inequalities of memory, than in any other of our intelligences. The memory is sometimes so retentive, so serviceable, so obedient; at others, so bewildered and so weak; and at others again, so tyrannic, so beyond control! We are, to be sure, a miracle every way; but our powers of recollecting and of forgetting do seem peculiarly past finding out." Miss Crawford, untouched and inattentive, had nothing to say; and Fanny, perceiving it, brought back her own mind to what she thought must interest. "It may seem impertinent in _me_ to praise, but I must admire the taste Mrs. Grant has shewn in all this. There is such a quiet simplicity in the plan of the walk! Not too much attempted!" "Yes," replied Miss Crawford carelessly, "it does very well for a place of this sort. One does not think of extent _here_; and between ourselves, till I came to Mansfield, I had not imagined a country parson ever aspired to a shrubbery, or anything of the kind." "I am so glad to see the evergreens thrive!" said Fanny, in reply. "My uncle's gardener always says the soil here is better than his own, and so it appears from the growth of the laurels and evergreens in general. The evergreen! How beautiful, how welcome, how wonderful the evergreen! When one thinks of it, how astonishing a variety of nature! In some countries we know the tree that sheds its leaf is the variety, but that does not make it less amazing that the same soil and the same sun should nurture plants differing in the first rule and law of their existence. You will think me rhapsodising; but when I am out of doors, especially when I am sitting out of doors, I am very apt to get into this sort of wondering strain. One cannot fix one's eyes on the commonest natural production without finding food for a rambling fancy." "To say the truth," replied Miss Crawford, "I am something like the famous Doge at the court of Lewis XIV.; and may declare that I see no wonder in this shrubbery equal to seeing myself in it. If anybody had told me a year ago that this place would be my home, that I should be spending month after month here, as I have done, I certainly should not have believed them. I have now been here nearly five months; and, moreover, the quietest five months I ever passed." "_Too_ quiet for you, I believe." "I should have thought so _theoretically_ myself, but," and her eyes brightened as she spoke, "take it all and all, I never spent so happy a summer. But then," with a more thoughtful air and lowered voice, "there is no saying what it may lead to." Fanny's heart beat quick, and she felt quite unequal to surmising or soliciting anything more. Miss Crawford, however, with renewed animation, soon went on-- "I am conscious of being far better reconciled to a country residence than I had ever expected to be. I can even suppose it pleasant to spend _half_ the year in the country, under certain circumstances, very pleasant. An elegant, moderate-sized house in the centre of family connexions; continual engagements among them; commanding the first society in the neighbourhood; looked up to, perhaps, as leading it even more than those of larger fortune, and turning from the cheerful round of such amusements to nothing worse than a _tete-a-tete_ with the person one feels most agreeable in the world. There is nothing frightful in such a picture, is there, Miss Price? One need not envy the new Mrs. Rushworth with such a home as _that_." "Envy Mrs. Rushworth!" was all that Fanny attempted to say. "Come, come, it would be very un-handsome in us to be severe on Mrs. Rushworth, for I look forward to our owing her a great many gay, brilliant, happy hours. I expect we shall be all very much at Sotherton another year. Such a match as Miss Bertram has made is a public blessing; for the first pleasures of Mr. Rushworth's wife must be to fill her house, and give the best balls in the country." Fanny was silent, and Miss Crawford relapsed into thoughtfulness, till suddenly looking up at the end of a few minutes, she exclaimed, "Ah! here he is." It was not Mr. Rushworth, however, but Edmund, who then appeared walking towards them with Mrs. Grant. "My sister and Mr. Bertram. I am so glad your eldest cousin is gone, that he may be Mr. Bertram again. There is something in the sound of Mr. _Edmund_ Bertram so formal, so pitiful, so younger-brother-like, that I detest it." "How differently we feel!" cried Fanny. "To me, the sound of _Mr._ Bertram is so cold and nothing-meaning, so entirely without warmth or character! It just stands for a gentleman, and that's all. But there is nobleness in the name of Edmund. It is a name of heroism and renown; of kings, princes, and knights; and seems to breathe the spirit of chivalry and warm affections." "I grant you the name is good in itself, and _Lord_ Edmund or _Sir_ Edmund sound delightfully; but sink it under the chill, the annihilation of a Mr., and Mr. Edmund is no more than Mr. John or Mr. Thomas. Well, shall we join and disappoint them of half their lecture upon sitting down out of doors at this time of year, by being up before they can begin?" Edmund met them with particular pleasure. It was the first time of his seeing them together since the beginning of that better acquaintance which he had been hearing of with great satisfaction. A friendship between two so very dear to him was exactly what he could have wished: and to the credit of the lover's understanding, be it stated, that he did not by any means consider Fanny as the only, or even as the greater gainer by such a friendship. "Well," said Miss Crawford, "and do you not scold us for our imprudence? What do you think we have been sitting down for but to be talked to about it, and entreated and supplicated never to do so again?" "Perhaps I might have scolded," said Edmund, "if either of you had been sitting down alone; but while you do wrong together, I can overlook a great deal." "They cannot have been sitting long," cried Mrs. Grant, "for when I went up for my shawl I saw them from the staircase window, and then they were walking." "And really," added Edmund, "the day is so mild, that your sitting down for a few minutes can be hardly thought imprudent. Our weather must not always be judged by the calendar. We may sometimes take greater liberties in November than in May." "Upon my word," cried Miss Crawford, "you are two of the most disappointing and unfeeling kind friends I ever met with! There is no giving you a moment's uneasiness. You do not know how much we have been suffering, nor what chills we have felt! But I have long thought Mr. Bertram one of the worst subjects to work on, in any little manoeuvre against common sense, that a woman could be plagued with. I had very little hope of _him_ from the first; but you, Mrs. Grant, my sister, my own sister, I think I had a right to alarm you a little." "Do not flatter yourself, my dearest Mary. You have not the smallest chance of moving me. I have my alarms, but they are quite in a different quarter; and if I could have altered the weather, you would have had a good sharp east wind blowing on you the whole time--for here are some of my plants which Robert _will_ leave out because the nights are so mild, and I know the end of it will be, that we shall have a sudden change of weather, a hard frost setting in all at once, taking everybody (at least Robert) by surprise, and I shall lose every one; and what is worse, cook has just been telling me that the turkey, which I particularly wished not to be dressed till Sunday, because I know how much more Dr. Grant would enjoy it on Sunday after the fatigues of the day, will not keep beyond to-morrow. These are something like grievances, and make me think the weather most unseasonably close." "The sweets of housekeeping in a country village!" said Miss Crawford archly. "Commend me to the nurseryman and the poulterer." "My dear child, commend Dr. Grant to the deanery of Westminster or St. Paul's, and I should be as glad of your nurseryman and poulterer as you could be. But we have no such people in Mansfield. What would you have me do?" "Oh! you can do nothing but what you do already: be plagued very often, and never lose your temper." "Thank you; but there is no escaping these little vexations, Mary, live where we may; and when you are settled in town and I come to see you, I dare say I shall find you with yours, in spite of the nurseryman and the poulterer, perhaps on their very account. Their remoteness and unpunctuality, or their exorbitant charges and frauds, will be drawing forth bitter lamentations." "I mean to be too rich to lament or to feel anything of the sort. A large income is the best recipe for happiness I ever heard of. It certainly may secure all the myrtle and turkey part of it." "You intend to be very rich?" said Edmund, with a look which, to Fanny's eye, had a great deal of serious meaning. "To be sure. Do not you? Do not we all?" "I cannot intend anything which it must be so completely beyond my power to command. Miss Crawford may chuse her degree of wealth. She has only to fix on her number of thousands a year, and there can be no doubt of their coming. My intentions are only not to be poor." "By moderation and economy, and bringing down your wants to your income, and all that. I understand you--and a very proper plan it is for a person at your time of life, with such limited means and indifferent connexions. What can _you_ want but a decent maintenance? You have not much time before you; and your relations are in no situation to do anything for you, or to mortify you by the contrast of their own wealth and consequence. Be honest and poor, by all means--but I shall not envy you; I do not much think I shall even respect you. I have a much greater respect for those that are honest and rich." "Your degree of respect for honesty, rich or poor, is precisely what I have no manner of concern with. I do not mean to be poor. Poverty is exactly what I have determined against. Honesty, in the something between, in the middle state of worldly circumstances, is all that I am anxious for your not looking down on." "But I do look down upon it, if it might have been higher. I must look down upon anything contented with obscurity when it might rise to distinction." "But how may it rise? How may my honesty at least rise to any distinction?" This was not so very easy a question to answer, and occasioned an "Oh!" of some length from the fair lady before she could add, "You ought to be in parliament, or you should have gone into the army ten years ago." "_That_ is not much to the purpose now; and as to my being in parliament, I believe I must wait till there is an especial assembly for the representation of younger sons who have little to live on. No, Miss Crawford," he added, in a more serious tone, "there _are_ distinctions which I should be miserable if I thought myself without any chance--absolutely without chance or possibility of obtaining--but they are of a different character." A look of consciousness as he spoke, and what seemed a consciousness of manner on Miss Crawford's side as she made some laughing answer, was sorrowfull food for Fanny's observation; and finding herself quite unable to attend as she ought to Mrs. Grant, by whose side she was now following the others, she had nearly resolved on going home immediately, and only waited for courage to say so, when the sound of the great clock at Mansfield Park, striking three, made her feel that she had really been much longer absent than usual, and brought the previous self-inquiry of whether she should take leave or not just then, and how, to a very speedy issue. With undoubting decision she directly began her adieus; and Edmund began at the same time to recollect that his mother had been inquiring for her, and that he had walked down to the Parsonage on purpose to bring her back. Fanny's hurry increased; and without in the least expecting Edmund's attendance, she would have hastened away alone; but the general pace was quickened, and they all accompanied her into the house, through which it was necessary to pass. Dr. Grant was in the vestibule, and as they stopt to speak to him she found, from Edmund's manner, that he _did_ mean to go with her. He too was taking leave. She could not but be thankful. In the moment of parting, Edmund was invited by Dr. Grant to eat his mutton with him the next day; and Fanny had barely time for an unpleasant feeling on the occasion, when Mrs. Grant, with sudden recollection, turned to her and asked for the pleasure of her company too. This was so new an attention, so perfectly new a circumstance in the events of Fanny's life, that she was all surprise and embarrassment; and while stammering out her great obligation, and her "but she did not suppose it would be in her power," was looking at Edmund for his opinion and help. But Edmund, delighted with her having such an happiness offered, and ascertaining with half a look, and half a sentence, that she had no objection but on her aunt's account, could not imagine that his mother would make any difficulty of sparing her, and therefore gave his decided open advice that the invitation should be accepted; and though Fanny would not venture, even on his encouragement, to such a flight of audacious independence, it was soon settled, that if nothing were heard to the contrary, Mrs. Grant might expect her. "And you know what your dinner will be," said Mrs. Grant, smiling--"the turkey, and I assure you a very fine one; for, my dear," turning to her husband, "cook insists upon the turkey's being dressed to-morrow." "Very well, very well," cried Dr. Grant, "all the better; I am glad to hear you have anything so good in the house. But Miss Price and Mr. Edmund Bertram, I dare say, would take their chance. We none of us want to hear the bill of fare. A friendly meeting, and not a fine dinner, is all we have in view. A turkey, or a goose, or a leg of mutton, or whatever you and your cook chuse to give us." The two cousins walked home together; and, except in the immediate discussion of this engagement, which Edmund spoke of with the warmest satisfaction, as so particularly desirable for her in the intimacy which he saw with so much pleasure established, it was a silent walk; for having finished that subject, he grew thoughtful and indisposed for any other. "But why should Mrs. Grant ask Fanny?" said Lady Bertram. "How came she to think of asking Fanny? Fanny never dines there, you know, in this sort of way. I cannot spare her, and I am sure she does not want to go. Fanny, you do not want to go, do you?" "If you put such a question to her," cried Edmund, preventing his cousin's speaking, "Fanny will immediately say No; but I am sure, my dear mother, she would like to go; and I can see no reason why she should not." "I cannot imagine why Mrs. Grant should think of asking her? She never did before. She used to ask your sisters now and then, but she never asked Fanny." "If you cannot do without me, ma'am--" said Fanny, in a self-denying tone. "But my mother will have my father with her all the evening." "To be sure, so I shall." "Suppose you take my father's opinion, ma'am." "That's well thought of. So I will, Edmund. I will ask Sir Thomas, as soon as he comes in, whether I can do without her." "As you please, ma'am, on that head; but I meant my father's opinion as to the _propriety_ of the invitation's being accepted or not; and I think he will consider it a right thing by Mrs. Grant, as well as by Fanny, that being the _first_ invitation it should be accepted." "I do not know. We will ask him. But he will be very much surprised that Mrs. Grant should ask Fanny at all." There was nothing more to be said, or that could be said to any purpose, till Sir Thomas were present; but the subject involving, as it did, her own evening's comfort for the morrow, was so much uppermost in Lady Bertram's mind, that half an hour afterwards, on his looking in for a minute in his way from his plantation to his dressing-room, she called him back again, when he had almost closed the door, with "Sir Thomas, stop a moment--I have something to say to you." Her tone of calm languor, for she never took the trouble of raising her voice, was always heard and attended to; and Sir Thomas came back. Her story began; and Fanny immediately slipped out of the room; for to hear herself the subject of any discussion with her uncle was more than her nerves could bear. She was anxious, she knew--more anxious perhaps than she ought to be--for what was it after all whether she went or staid? but if her uncle were to be a great while considering and deciding, and with very grave looks, and those grave looks directed to her, and at last decide against her, she might not be able to appear properly submissive and indifferent. Her cause, meanwhile, went on well. It began, on Lady Bertram's part, with--"I have something to tell you that will surprise you. Mrs. Grant has asked Fanny to dinner." "Well," said Sir Thomas, as if waiting more to accomplish the surprise. "Edmund wants her to go. But how can I spare her?" "She will be late," said Sir Thomas, taking out his watch; "but what is your difficulty?" Edmund found himself obliged to speak and fill up the blanks in his mother's story. He told the whole; and she had only to add, "So strange! for Mrs. Grant never used to ask her." "But is it not very natural," observed Edmund, "that Mrs. Grant should wish to procure so agreeable a visitor for her sister?" "Nothing can be more natural," said Sir Thomas, after a short deliberation; "nor, were there no sister in the case, could anything, in my opinion, be more natural. Mrs. Grant's shewing civility to Miss Price, to Lady Bertram's niece, could never want explanation. The only surprise I can feel is, that this should be the _first_ time of its being paid. Fanny was perfectly right in giving only a conditional answer. She appears to feel as she ought. But as I conclude that she must wish to go, since all young people like to be together, I can see no reason why she should be denied the indulgence." "But can I do without her, Sir Thomas?" "Indeed I think you may." "She always makes tea, you know, when my sister is not here." "Your sister, perhaps, may be prevailed on to spend the day with us, and I shall certainly be at home." "Very well, then, Fanny may go, Edmund." The good news soon followed her. Edmund knocked at her door in his way to his own. "Well, Fanny, it is all happily settled, and without the smallest hesitation on your uncle's side. He had but one opinion. You are to go." "Thank you, I am _so_ glad," was Fanny's instinctive reply; though when she had turned from him and shut the door, she could not help feeling, "And yet why should I be glad? for am I not certain of seeing or hearing something there to pain me?" In spite of this conviction, however, she was glad. Simple as such an engagement might appear in other eyes, it had novelty and importance in hers, for excepting the day at Sotherton, she had scarcely ever dined out before; and though now going only half a mile, and only to three people, still it was dining out, and all the little interests of preparation were enjoyments in themselves. She had neither sympathy nor assistance from those who ought to have entered into her feelings and directed her taste; for Lady Bertram never thought of being useful to anybody, and Mrs. Norris, when she came on the morrow, in consequence of an early call and invitation from Sir Thomas, was in a very ill humour, and seemed intent only on lessening her niece's pleasure, both present and future, as much as possible. "Upon my word, Fanny, you are in high luck to meet with such attention and indulgence! You ought to be very much obliged to Mrs. Grant for thinking of you, and to your aunt for letting you go, and you ought to look upon it as something extraordinary; for I hope you are aware that there is no real occasion for your going into company in this sort of way, or ever dining out at all; and it is what you must not depend upon ever being repeated. Nor must you be fancying that the invitation is meant as any particular compliment to _you_; the compliment is intended to your uncle and aunt and me. Mrs. Grant thinks it a civility due to _us_ to take a little notice of you, or else it would never have come into her head, and you may be very certain that, if your cousin Julia had been at home, you would not have been asked at all." Mrs. Norris had now so ingeniously done away all Mrs. Grant's part of the favour, that Fanny, who found herself expected to speak, could only say that she was very much obliged to her aunt Bertram for sparing her, and that she was endeavouring to put her aunt's evening work in such a state as to prevent her being missed. "Oh! depend upon it, your aunt can do very well without you, or you would not be allowed to go. _I_ shall be here, so you may be quite easy about your aunt. And I hope you will have a very _agreeable_ day, and find it all mighty _delightful_. But I must observe that five is the very awkwardest of all possible numbers to sit down to table; and I cannot but be surprised that such an _elegant_ lady as Mrs. Grant should not contrive better! And round their enormous great wide table, too, which fills up the room so dreadfully! Had the doctor been contented to take my dining-table when I came away, as anybody in their senses would have done, instead of having that absurd new one of his own, which is wider, literally wider than the dinner-table here, how infinitely better it would have been! and how much more he would have been respected! for people are never respected when they step out of their proper sphere. Remember that, Fanny. Five--only five to be sitting round that table. However, you will have dinner enough on it for ten, I dare say." Mrs. Norris fetched breath, and went on again. "The nonsense and folly of people's stepping out of their rank and trying to appear above themselves, makes me think it right to give _you_ a hint, Fanny, now that you are going into company without any of us; and I do beseech and entreat you not to be putting yourself forward, and talking and giving your opinion as if you were one of your cousins--as if you were dear Mrs. Rushworth or Julia. _That_ will never do, believe me. Remember, wherever you are, you must be the lowest and last; and though Miss Crawford is in a manner at home at the Parsonage, you are not to be taking place of her. And as to coming away at night, you are to stay just as long as Edmund chuses. Leave him to settle _that_." "Yes, ma'am, I should not think of anything else." "And if it should rain, which I think exceedingly likely, for I never saw it more threatening for a wet evening in my life, you must manage as well as you can, and not be expecting the carriage to be sent for you. I certainly do not go home to-night, and, therefore, the carriage will not be out on my account; so you must make up your mind to what may happen, and take your things accordingly." Her niece thought it perfectly reasonable. She rated her own claims to comfort as low even as Mrs. Norris could; and when Sir Thomas soon afterwards, just opening the door, said, "Fanny, at what time would you have the carriage come round?" she felt a degree of astonishment which made it impossible for her to speak. "My dear Sir Thomas!" cried Mrs. Norris, red with anger, "Fanny can walk." "Walk!" repeated Sir Thomas, in a tone of most unanswerable dignity, and coming farther into the room. "My niece walk to a dinner engagement at this time of the year! Will twenty minutes after four suit you?" "Yes, sir," was Fanny's humble answer, given with the feelings almost of a criminal towards Mrs. Norris; and not bearing to remain with her in what might seem a state of triumph, she followed her uncle out of the room, having staid behind him only long enough to hear these words spoken in angry agitation-- "Quite unnecessary! a great deal too kind! But Edmund goes; true, it is upon Edmund's account. I observed he was hoarse on Thursday night." But this could not impose on Fanny. She felt that the carriage was for herself, and herself alone: and her uncle's consideration of her, coming immediately after such representations from her aunt, cost her some tears of gratitude when she was alone. The coachman drove round to a minute; another minute brought down the gentleman; and as the lady had, with a most scrupulous fear of being late, been many minutes seated in the drawing-room, Sir Thomas saw them off in as good time as his own correctly punctual habits required. "Now I must look at you, Fanny," said Edmund, with the kind smile of an affectionate brother, "and tell you how I like you; and as well as I can judge by this light, you look very nicely indeed. What have you got on?" "The new dress that my uncle was so good as to give me on my cousin's marriage. I hope it is not too fine; but I thought I ought to wear it as soon as I could, and that I might not have such another opportunity all the winter. I hope you do not think me too fine." "A woman can never be too fine while she is all in white. No, I see no finery about you; nothing but what is perfectly proper. Your gown seems very pretty. I like these glossy spots. Has not Miss Crawford a gown something the same?" In approaching the Parsonage they passed close by the stable-yard and coach-house. "Heyday!" said Edmund, "here's company, here's a carriage! who have they got to meet us?" And letting down the side-glass to distinguish, "'Tis Crawford's, Crawford's barouche, I protest! There are his own two men pushing it back into its old quarters. He is here, of course. This is quite a surprise, Fanny. I shall be very glad to see him." There was no occasion, there was no time for Fanny to say how very differently she felt; but the idea of having such another to observe her was a great increase of the trepidation with which she performed the very awful ceremony of walking into the drawing-room. In the drawing-room Mr. Crawford certainly was, having been just long enough arrived to be ready for dinner; and the smiles and pleased looks of the three others standing round him, shewed how welcome was his sudden resolution of coming to them for a few days on leaving Bath. A very cordial meeting passed between him and Edmund; and with the exception of Fanny, the pleasure was general; and even to _her_ there might be some advantage in his presence, since every addition to the party must rather forward her favourite indulgence of being suffered to sit silent and unattended to. She was soon aware of this herself; for though she must submit, as her own propriety of mind directed, in spite of her aunt Norris's opinion, to being the principal lady in company, and to all the little distinctions consequent thereon, she found, while they were at table, such a happy flow of conversation prevailing, in which she was not required to take any part--there was so much to be said between the brother and sister about Bath, so much between the two young men about hunting, so much of politics between Mr. Crawford and Dr. Grant, and of everything and all together between Mr. Crawford and Mrs. Grant, as to leave her the fairest prospect of having only to listen in quiet, and of passing a very agreeable day. She could not compliment the newly arrived gentleman, however, with any appearance of interest, in a scheme for extending his stay at Mansfield, and sending for his hunters from Norfolk, which, suggested by Dr. Grant, advised by Edmund, and warmly urged by the two sisters, was soon in possession of his mind, and which he seemed to want to be encouraged even by her to resolve on. Her opinion was sought as to the probable continuance of the open weather, but her answers were as short and indifferent as civility allowed. She could not wish him to stay, and would much rather not have him speak to her. Her two absent cousins, especially Maria, were much in her thoughts on seeing him; but no embarrassing remembrance affected _his_ spirits. Here he was again on the same ground where all had passed before, and apparently as willing to stay and be happy without the Miss Bertrams, as if he had never known Mansfield in any other state. She heard them spoken of by him only in a general way, till they were all re-assembled in the drawing-room, when Edmund, being engaged apart in some matter of business with Dr. Grant, which seemed entirely to engross them, and Mrs. Grant occupied at the tea-table, he began talking of them with more particularity to his other sister. With a significant smile, which made Fanny quite hate him, he said, "So! Rushworth and his fair bride are at Brighton, I understand; happy man!" "Yes, they have been there about a fortnight, Miss Price, have they not? And Julia is with them." "And Mr. Yates, I presume, is not far off." "Mr. Yates! Oh! we hear nothing of Mr. Yates. I do not imagine he figures much in the letters to Mansfield Park; do you, Miss Price? I think my friend Julia knows better than to entertain her father with Mr. Yates." "Poor Rushworth and his two-and-forty speeches!" continued Crawford. "Nobody can ever forget them. Poor fellow! I see him now--his toil and his despair. Well, I am much mistaken if his lovely Maria will ever want him to make two-and-forty speeches to her"; adding, with a momentary seriousness, "She is too good for him--much too good." And then changing his tone again to one of gentle gallantry, and addressing Fanny, he said, "You were Mr. Rushworth's best friend. Your kindness and patience can never be forgotten, your indefatigable patience in trying to make it possible for him to learn his part--in trying to give him a brain which nature had denied--to mix up an understanding for him out of the superfluity of your own! _He_ might not have sense enough himself to estimate your kindness, but I may venture to say that it had honour from all the rest of the party." Fanny coloured, and said nothing. "It is as a dream, a pleasant dream!" he exclaimed, breaking forth again, after a few minutes' musing. "I shall always look back on our theatricals with exquisite pleasure. There was such an interest, such an animation, such a spirit diffused. Everybody felt it. We were all alive. There was employment, hope, solicitude, bustle, for every hour of the day. Always some little objection, some little doubt, some little anxiety to be got over. I never was happier." With silent indignation Fanny repeated to herself, "Never happier!--never happier than when doing what you must know was not justifiable!--never happier than when behaving so dishonourably and unfeelingly! Oh! what a corrupted mind!" "We were unlucky, Miss Price," he continued, in a lower tone, to avoid the possibility of being heard by Edmund, and not at all aware of her feelings, "we certainly were very unlucky. Another week, only one other week, would have been enough for us. I think if we had had the disposal of events--if Mansfield Park had had the government of the winds just for a week or two, about the equinox, there would have been a difference. Not that we would have endangered his safety by any tremendous weather--but only by a steady contrary wind, or a calm. I think, Miss Price, we would have indulged ourselves with a week's calm in the Atlantic at that season." He seemed determined to be answered; and Fanny, averting her face, said, with a firmer tone than usual, "As far as _I_ am concerned, sir, I would not have delayed his return for a day. My uncle disapproved it all so entirely when he did arrive, that in my opinion everything had gone quite far enough." She had never spoken so much at once to him in her life before, and never so angrily to any one; and when her speech was over, she trembled and blushed at her own daring. He was surprised; but after a few moments' silent consideration of her, replied in a calmer, graver tone, and as if the candid result of conviction, "I believe you are right. It was more pleasant than prudent. We were getting too noisy." And then turning the conversation, he would have engaged her on some other subject, but her answers were so shy and reluctant that he could not advance in any. Miss Crawford, who had been repeatedly eyeing Dr. Grant and Edmund, now observed, "Those gentlemen must have some very interesting point to discuss." "The most interesting in the world," replied her brother--"how to make money; how to turn a good income into a better. Dr. Grant is giving Bertram instructions about the living he is to step into so soon. I find he takes orders in a few weeks. They were at it in the dining-parlour. I am glad to hear Bertram will be so well off. He will have a very pretty income to make ducks and drakes with, and earned without much trouble. I apprehend he will not have less than seven hundred a year. Seven hundred a year is a fine thing for a younger brother; and as of course he will still live at home, it will be all for his _menus_ _plaisirs_; and a sermon at Christmas and Easter, I suppose, will be the sum total of sacrifice." His sister tried to laugh off her feelings by saying, "Nothing amuses me more than the easy manner with which everybody settles the abundance of those who have a great deal less than themselves. You would look rather blank, Henry, if your _menus_ _plaisirs_ were to be limited to seven hundred a year." "Perhaps I might; but all _that_ you know is entirely comparative. Birthright and habit must settle the business. Bertram is certainly well off for a cadet of even a baronet's family. By the time he is four or five and twenty he will have seven hundred a year, and nothing to do for it." Miss Crawford _could_ have said that there would be a something to do and to suffer for it, which she could not think lightly of; but she checked herself and let it pass; and tried to look calm and unconcerned when the two gentlemen shortly afterwards joined them. "Bertram," said Henry Crawford, "I shall make a point of coming to Mansfield to hear you preach your first sermon. I shall come on purpose to encourage a young beginner. When is it to be? Miss Price, will not you join me in encouraging your cousin? Will not you engage to attend with your eyes steadily fixed on him the whole time--as I shall do--not to lose a word; or only looking off just to note down any sentence preeminently beautiful? We will provide ourselves with tablets and a pencil. When will it be? You must preach at Mansfield, you know, that Sir Thomas and Lady Bertram may hear you." "I shall keep clear of you, Crawford, as long as I can," said Edmund; "for you would be more likely to disconcert me, and I should be more sorry to see you trying at it than almost any other man." "Will he not feel this?" thought Fanny. "No, he can feel nothing as he ought." The party being now all united, and the chief talkers attracting each other, she remained in tranquillity; and as a whist-table was formed after tea--formed really for the amusement of Dr. Grant, by his attentive wife, though it was not to be supposed so--and Miss Crawford took her harp, she had nothing to do but to listen; and her tranquillity remained undisturbed the rest of the evening, except when Mr. Crawford now and then addressed to her a question or observation, which she could not avoid answering. Miss Crawford was too much vexed by what had passed to be in a humour for anything but music. With that she soothed herself and amused her friend. The assurance of Edmund's being so soon to take orders, coming upon her like a blow that had been suspended, and still hoped uncertain and at a distance, was felt with resentment and mortification. She was very angry with him. She had thought her influence more. She _had_ begun to think of him; she felt that she had, with great regard, with almost decided intentions; but she would now meet him with his own cool feelings. It was plain that he could have no serious views, no true attachment, by fixing himself in a situation which he must know she would never stoop to. She would learn to match him in his indifference. She would henceforth admit his attentions without any idea beyond immediate amusement. If _he_ could so command his affections, _hers_ should do her no harm. Henry Crawford had quite made up his mind by the next morning to give another fortnight to Mansfield, and having sent for his hunters, and written a few lines of explanation to the Admiral, he looked round at his sister as he sealed and threw the letter from him, and seeing the coast clear of the rest of the family, said, with a smile, "And how do you think I mean to amuse myself, Mary, on the days that I do not hunt? I am grown too old to go out more than three times a week; but I have a plan for the intermediate days, and what do you think it is?" "To walk and ride with me, to be sure." "Not exactly, though I shall be happy to do both, but _that_ would be exercise only to my body, and I must take care of my mind. Besides, _that_ would be all recreation and indulgence, without the wholesome alloy of labour, and I do not like to eat the bread of idleness. No, my plan is to make Fanny Price in love with me." "Fanny Price! Nonsense! No, no. You ought to be satisfied with her two cousins." "But I cannot be satisfied without Fanny Price, without making a small hole in Fanny Price's heart. You do not seem properly aware of her claims to notice. When we talked of her last night, you none of you seemed sensible of the wonderful improvement that has taken place in her looks within the last six weeks. You see her every day, and therefore do not notice it; but I assure you she is quite a different creature from what she was in the autumn. She was then merely a quiet, modest, not plain-looking girl, but she is now absolutely pretty. I used to think she had neither complexion nor countenance; but in that soft skin of hers, so frequently tinged with a blush as it was yesterday, there is decided beauty; and from what I observed of her eyes and mouth, I do not despair of their being capable of expression enough when she has anything to express. And then, her air, her manner, her _tout_ _ensemble_, is so indescribably improved! She must be grown two inches, at least, since October." "Phoo! phoo! This is only because there were no tall women to compare her with, and because she has got a new gown, and you never saw her so well dressed before. She is just what she was in October, believe me. The truth is, that she was the only girl in company for you to notice, and you must have a somebody. I have always thought her pretty--not strikingly pretty--but 'pretty enough,' as people say; a sort of beauty that grows on one. Her eyes should be darker, but she has a sweet smile; but as for this wonderful degree of improvement, I am sure it may all be resolved into a better style of dress, and your having nobody else to look at; and therefore, if you do set about a flirtation with her, you never will persuade me that it is in compliment to her beauty, or that it proceeds from anything but your own idleness and folly." Her brother gave only a smile to this accusation, and soon afterwards said, "I do not quite know what to make of Miss Fanny. I do not understand her. I could not tell what she would be at yesterday. What is her character? Is she solemn? Is she queer? Is she prudish? Why did she draw back and look so grave at me? I could hardly get her to speak. I never was so long in company with a girl in my life, trying to entertain her, and succeed so ill! Never met with a girl who looked so grave on me! I must try to get the better of this. Her looks say, 'I will not like you, I am determined not to like you'; and I say she shall." "Foolish fellow! And so this is her attraction after all! This it is, her not caring about you, which gives her such a soft skin, and makes her so much taller, and produces all these charms and graces! I do desire that you will not be making her really unhappy; a _little_ love, perhaps, may animate and do her good, but I will not have you plunge her deep, for she is as good a little creature as ever lived, and has a great deal of feeling." "It can be but for a fortnight," said Henry; "and if a fortnight can kill her, she must have a constitution which nothing could save. No, I will not do her any harm, dear little soul! only want her to look kindly on me, to give me smiles as well as blushes, to keep a chair for me by herself wherever we are, and be all animation when I take it and talk to her; to think as I think, be interested in all my possessions and pleasures, try to keep me longer at Mansfield, and feel when I go away that she shall be never happy again. I want nothing more." "Moderation itself!" said Mary. "I can have no scruples now. Well, you will have opportunities enough of endeavouring to recommend yourself, for we are a great deal together." And without attempting any farther remonstrance, she left Fanny to her fate, a fate which, had not Fanny's heart been guarded in a way unsuspected by Miss Crawford, might have been a little harder than she deserved; for although there doubtless are such unconquerable young ladies of eighteen (or one should not read about them) as are never to be persuaded into love against their judgment by all that talent, manner, attention, and flattery can do, I have no inclination to believe Fanny one of them, or to think that with so much tenderness of disposition, and so much taste as belonged to her, she could have escaped heart-whole from the courtship (though the courtship only of a fortnight) of such a man as Crawford, in spite of there being some previous ill opinion of him to be overcome, had not her affection been engaged elsewhere. With all the security which love of another and disesteem of him could give to the peace of mind he was attacking, his continued attentions--continued, but not obtrusive, and adapting themselves more and more to the gentleness and delicacy of her character--obliged her very soon to dislike him less than formerly. She had by no means forgotten the past, and she thought as ill of him as ever; but she felt his powers: he was entertaining; and his manners were so improved, so polite, so seriously and blamelessly polite, that it was impossible not to be civil to him in return. A very few days were enough to effect this; and at the end of those few days, circumstances arose which had a tendency rather to forward his views of pleasing her, inasmuch as they gave her a degree of happiness which must dispose her to be pleased with everybody. William, her brother, the so long absent and dearly loved brother, was in England again. She had a letter from him herself, a few hurried happy lines, written as the ship came up Channel, and sent into Portsmouth with the first boat that left the Antwerp at anchor in Spithead; and when Crawford walked up with the newspaper in his hand, which he had hoped would bring the first tidings, he found her trembling with joy over this letter, and listening with a glowing, grateful countenance to the kind invitation which her uncle was most collectedly dictating in reply. It was but the day before that Crawford had made himself thoroughly master of the subject, or had in fact become at all aware of her having such a brother, or his being in such a ship, but the interest then excited had been very properly lively, determining him on his return to town to apply for information as to the probable period of the Antwerp's return from the Mediterranean, etc.; and the good luck which attended his early examination of ship news the next morning seemed the reward of his ingenuity in finding out such a method of pleasing her, as well as of his dutiful attention to the Admiral, in having for many years taken in the paper esteemed to have the earliest naval intelligence. He proved, however, to be too late. All those fine first feelings, of which he had hoped to be the exciter, were already given. But his intention, the kindness of his intention, was thankfully acknowledged: quite thankfully and warmly, for she was elevated beyond the common timidity of her mind by the flow of her love for William. This dear William would soon be amongst them. There could be no doubt of his obtaining leave of absence immediately, for he was still only a midshipman; and as his parents, from living on the spot, must already have seen him, and be seeing him perhaps daily, his direct holidays might with justice be instantly given to the sister, who had been his best correspondent through a period of seven years, and the uncle who had done most for his support and advancement; and accordingly the reply to her reply, fixing a very early day for his arrival, came as soon as possible; and scarcely ten days had passed since Fanny had been in the agitation of her first dinner-visit, when she found herself in an agitation of a higher nature, watching in the hall, in the lobby, on the stairs, for the first sound of the carriage which was to bring her a brother. It came happily while she was thus waiting; and there being neither ceremony nor fearfulness to delay the moment of meeting, she was with him as he entered the house, and the first minutes of exquisite feeling had no interruption and no witnesses, unless the servants chiefly intent upon opening the proper doors could be called such. This was exactly what Sir Thomas and Edmund had been separately conniving at, as each proved to the other by the sympathetic alacrity with which they both advised Mrs. Norris's continuing where she was, instead of rushing out into the hall as soon as the noises of the arrival reached them. William and Fanny soon shewed themselves; and Sir Thomas had the pleasure of receiving, in his protege, certainly a very different person from the one he had equipped seven years ago, but a young man of an open, pleasant countenance, and frank, unstudied, but feeling and respectful manners, and such as confirmed him his friend. It was long before Fanny could recover from the agitating happiness of such an hour as was formed by the last thirty minutes of expectation, and the first of fruition; it was some time even before her happiness could be said to make her happy, before the disappointment inseparable from the alteration of person had vanished, and she could see in him the same William as before, and talk to him, as her heart had been yearning to do through many a past year. That time, however, did gradually come, forwarded by an affection on his side as warm as her own, and much less encumbered by refinement or self-distrust. She was the first object of his love, but it was a love which his stronger spirits, and bolder temper, made it as natural for him to express as to feel. On the morrow they were walking about together with true enjoyment, and every succeeding morrow renewed a _tete-a-tete_ which Sir Thomas could not but observe with complacency, even before Edmund had pointed it out to him. Excepting the moments of peculiar delight, which any marked or unlooked-for instance of Edmund's consideration of her in the last few months had excited, Fanny had never known so much felicity in her life, as in this unchecked, equal, fearless intercourse with the brother and friend who was opening all his heart to her, telling her all his hopes and fears, plans, and solicitudes respecting that long thought of, dearly earned, and justly valued blessing of promotion; who could give her direct and minute information of the father and mother, brothers and sisters, of whom she very seldom heard; who was interested in all the comforts and all the little hardships of her home at Mansfield; ready to think of every member of that home as she directed, or differing only by a less scrupulous opinion, and more noisy abuse of their aunt Norris, and with whom (perhaps the dearest indulgence of the whole) all the evil and good of their earliest years could be gone over again, and every former united pain and pleasure retraced with the fondest recollection. An advantage this, a strengthener of love, in which even the conjugal tie is beneath the fraternal. Children of the same family, the same blood, with the same first associations and habits, have some means of enjoyment in their power, which no subsequent connexions can supply; and it must be by a long and unnatural estrangement, by a divorce which no subsequent connexion can justify, if such precious remains of the earliest attachments are ever entirely outlived. Too often, alas! it is so. Fraternal love, sometimes almost everything, is at others worse than nothing. But with William and Fanny Price it was still a sentiment in all its prime and freshness, wounded by no opposition of interest, cooled by no separate attachment, and feeling the influence of time and absence only in its increase. An affection so amiable was advancing each in the opinion of all who had hearts to value anything good. Henry Crawford was as much struck with it as any. He honoured the warm-hearted, blunt fondness of the young sailor, which led him to say, with his hands stretched towards Fanny's head, "Do you know, I begin to like that queer fashion already, though when I first heard of such things being done in England, I could not believe it; and when Mrs. Brown, and the other women at the Commissioner's at Gibraltar, appeared in the same trim, I thought they were mad; but Fanny can reconcile me to anything"; and saw, with lively admiration, the glow of Fanny's cheek, the brightness of her eye, the deep interest, the absorbed attention, while her brother was describing any of the imminent hazards, or terrific scenes, which such a period at sea must supply. It was a picture which Henry Crawford had moral taste enough to value. Fanny's attractions increased--increased twofold; for the sensibility which beautified her complexion and illumined her countenance was an attraction in itself. He was no longer in doubt of the capabilities of her heart. She had feeling, genuine feeling. It would be something to be loved by such a girl, to excite the first ardours of her young unsophisticated mind! She interested him more than he had foreseen. A fortnight was not enough. His stay became indefinite. William was often called on by his uncle to be the talker. His recitals were amusing in themselves to Sir Thomas, but the chief object in seeking them was to understand the reciter, to know the young man by his histories; and he listened to his clear, simple, spirited details with full satisfaction, seeing in them the proof of good principles, professional knowledge, energy, courage, and cheerfulness, everything that could deserve or promise well. Young as he was, William had already seen a great deal. He had been in the Mediterranean; in the West Indies; in the Mediterranean again; had been often taken on shore by the favour of his captain, and in the course of seven years had known every variety of danger which sea and war together could offer. With such means in his power he had a right to be listened to; and though Mrs. Norris could fidget about the room, and disturb everybody in quest of two needlefuls of thread or a second-hand shirt button, in the midst of her nephew's account of a shipwreck or an engagement, everybody else was attentive; and even Lady Bertram could not hear of such horrors unmoved, or without sometimes lifting her eyes from her work to say, "Dear me! how disagreeable! I wonder anybody can ever go to sea." To Henry Crawford they gave a different feeling. He longed to have been at sea, and seen and done and suffered as much. His heart was warmed, his fancy fired, and he felt the highest respect for a lad who, before he was twenty, had gone through such bodily hardships and given such proofs of mind. The glory of heroism, of usefulness, of exertion, of endurance, made his own habits of selfish indulgence appear in shameful contrast; and he wished he had been a William Price, distinguishing himself and working his way to fortune and consequence with so much self-respect and happy ardour, instead of what he was! The wish was rather eager than lasting. He was roused from the reverie of retrospection and regret produced by it, by some inquiry from Edmund as to his plans for the next day's hunting; and he found it was as well to be a man of fortune at once with horses and grooms at his command. In one respect it was better, as it gave him the means of conferring a kindness where he wished to oblige. With spirits, courage, and curiosity up to anything, William expressed an inclination to hunt; and Crawford could mount him without the slightest inconvenience to himself, and with only some scruples to obviate in Sir Thomas, who knew better than his nephew the value of such a loan, and some alarms to reason away in Fanny. She feared for William; by no means convinced by all that he could relate of his own horsemanship in various countries, of the scrambling parties in which he had been engaged, the rough horses and mules he had ridden, or his many narrow escapes from dreadful falls, that he was at all equal to the management of a high-fed hunter in an English fox-chase; nor till he returned safe and well, without accident or discredit, could she be reconciled to the risk, or feel any of that obligation to Mr. Crawford for lending the horse which he had fully intended it should produce. When it was proved, however, to have done William no harm, she could allow it to be a kindness, and even reward the owner with a smile when the animal was one minute tendered to his use again; and the next, with the greatest cordiality, and in a manner not to be resisted, made over to his use entirely so long as he remained in Northamptonshire. [End volume one of this edition. Printed by T. and A. Constable, Printers to Her Majesty at the Edinburgh University Press] Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Fanny wartet im Salon mit den Crawfords und Herrn Yates, während Sir Thomas wieder mit seiner direkten Familie vereint ist. Die Crawfords kehren leise zur Pfarrkirche zurück, aber Herr Yates bleibt zurück. Mit großer Beunruhigung geht Fanny zu ihrem Onkel und ist von seiner freundlichen Art gegenüber ihr überwältigt: "Seine Freundlichkeit war so groß, dass sie sich selbst dafür beschuldigte, ihn so wenig zu lieben." Sir Thomas trifft zum ersten Mal auf Mr. Rushmore, und alles scheint bequem zu sein. Tom geht über das gesamte Schauspielgeschäft hinweg, bis Sir Thomas sein Zimmer besichtigt und feststellt, dass sowohl das Zimmer als auch der Billardraum in eine Bühne umgebaut wurden. Hier macht er die Bekanntschaft von Herrn Yates. Er beherrscht sich, als er von ihm die ganze Geschichte des Unternehmens hört, und schaut misstrauisch zu Edmund: "Auf dein Urteil, Edmund, verließ ich mich." Edmund erklärt seinem Vater, dass außer Fanny alle für das Theaterdesaster verantwortlich waren, da sie sich konsequent gegen das Stück für ihres Onkels Wohl ausgesprochen hatte. Mrs. Norris versucht, jede Schuld von sich zu nehmen, indem sie Sir Thomas auf ihre Rolle bei der Vermittlung der Ehe zwischen Maria und Rushmore hinweist, was Sir Thomas langsam ein Anliegen ist. Er ordnet die Entfernung aller Dinge an, die mit dem Stück zu tun haben, und Herr Yates verlässt kurz darauf das Anwesen. Maria wünscht sich mehr als alles andere, dass Henry Crawford seine Liebe zu ihr erklärt, aber er verlässt Mansfield und fährt nach Bath, woraufhin Maria beschließt, ihre Entscheidung, Rushworth zu heiraten, durchzuziehen. Mansfield erscheint ohne die Crawfords "ein veränderter Ort". Sir Thomas macht klar, dass er vorerst nur die Gesellschaft seiner direkten Familie möchte. Er schließt jedoch Rushworth in diesen Kreis ein. Maria und Rushworth heiraten schnell und verbringen ihre Hochzeitsreise in Brighton: Keine Konkurrentin mehr begleitet Julia ihre Schwester. Fanny, die jetzt die einzige junge Frau in Mansfield ist, rückt in den Mittelpunkt. Sir Thomas schenkt ihr besondere Aufmerksamkeit und bemerkt ihr verbessertes Aussehen. Edmund bemüht sich sehr, Fanny zu loben - sie ist zu einer hübschen jungen Frau herangewachsen - und ihr die Tiefe der Zustimmung seines Vaters zu erklären. Fanny wird für Lady Bertram unverzichtbar, und ohne andere Ablenkungen sucht Mary Crawford ihre Gesellschaft. An einem Regentag rettet Dr. Grant sie mit einem Regenschirm, und die jungen Frauen verbringen Zeit miteinander. Während dieses Gesprächs spricht Mary über ihre Gefühle für Edmund, kritisiert aber seine soziale Stellung, und Fanny bleibt ruhig. Kurz darauf erhält Fanny zur großen Freude eine Einladung zum Abendessen in der Pfarrkirche. Es ist ihre erste soziale Einladung überhaupt. Tatsächlich hat Fanny mit Ausnahme von Sotherton nur in Mansfield zu Abend gegessen. Nach viel Aufhebens zwischen Lady Bertram und Mrs. Norris darüber, ob Fanny die Einladung annehmen sollte, wird schließlich vereinbart, dass sie es tun sollte. Sie trägt das Kleid, das sie auf der Hochzeit trug, und fühlt sich äußerst nervös. Mrs. Norris versucht, Fanny an ihren Platz zu verweisen, indem sie erklärt, dass sie gehen sollte, aber Sir Thomas ordnet an, dass sie mit dem Wagen zur Pfarrkirche gebracht wird. Edmund begleitet sie, und als sie ankommen, sind sie überrascht, dass Henry Crawford aus Bath zurückgekehrt ist, einem beliebten Erholungsort. Fanny ist froh, dass Henry zurückgekehrt ist, denn seine Anwesenheit macht es unwahrscheinlicher, dass sie am Esstisch zum Reden gezwungen wird. Sie ärgert sich über seine Kommentare über Maria und Julia, bleibt aber ruhig. Sie kann jedoch nicht schweigen, als Henry Sir Thomas dafür kritisiert, das Stück beendet zu haben: Fanny weist ihn zurecht und sagt, dass es gut war, dass Sir Thomas zurückgekehrt ist und dass die Dinge weit genug gegangen sind. Henry interessiert sich von diesem Punkt an viel mehr für Fanny Price. In der Zwischenzeit erfährt Mary, dass Edmund immer noch plant, Ordinationen anzunehmen, und ist sehr verärgert, dass er nicht mehr Interesse daran hat, sich gesellschaftlich und finanziell zu verbessern. Am nächsten Tag erzählt Henry Mary, dass er in Mansfield bleiben will, weil er Fanny Price dazu bringen will, sich in ihn zu verlieben. Mary sagt ihm, dass er sie nur attraktiv findet, weil er sie nicht mit den beiden Bertram-Mädchen vergleichen kann, die fehlen. Henry, der es gewohnt ist, dass Frauen ihm große Aufmerksamkeit schenken, sagt Mary, dass Fanny eine Herausforderung für ihn darstellt. In der Zwischenzeit erhält Fanny einen Brief von ihrem Bruder William, einem Retourschiffskapitän, der ihr mitteilt, dass er auf Einladung von Sir Thomas einen Besuch in Mansfield machen wird. Die Geschwister haben sich seit sieben Jahren nicht gesehen und freuen sich über die Aussicht auf ihr bevorstehendes Wiedersehen. Henry erkennt, dass er Fannys Herz gewinnen kann, indem er sich um ihren Bruder kümmert, den er in hohem Maße bewundert und William das Angebot macht, während seines Besuchs ein Pferd zu benutzen.

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: Small heart had Harriet for visiting. Only half an hour before her friend called for her at Mrs. Goddard's, her evil stars had led her to the very spot where, at that moment, a trunk, directed to _The Rev. Philip Elton, White-Hart, Bath_, was to be seen under the operation of being lifted into the butcher's cart, which was to convey it to where the coaches past; and every thing in this world, excepting that trunk and the direction, was consequently a blank. She went, however; and when they reached the farm, and she was to be put down, at the end of the broad, neat gravel walk, which led between espalier apple-trees to the front door, the sight of every thing which had given her so much pleasure the autumn before, was beginning to revive a little local agitation; and when they parted, Emma observed her to be looking around with a sort of fearful curiosity, which determined her not to allow the visit to exceed the proposed quarter of an hour. She went on herself, to give that portion of time to an old servant who was married, and settled in Donwell. The quarter of an hour brought her punctually to the white gate again; and Miss Smith receiving her summons, was with her without delay, and unattended by any alarming young man. She came solitarily down the gravel walk--a Miss Martin just appearing at the door, and parting with her seemingly with ceremonious civility. Harriet could not very soon give an intelligible account. She was feeling too much; but at last Emma collected from her enough to understand the sort of meeting, and the sort of pain it was creating. She had seen only Mrs. Martin and the two girls. They had received her doubtingly, if not coolly; and nothing beyond the merest commonplace had been talked almost all the time--till just at last, when Mrs. Martin's saying, all of a sudden, that she thought Miss Smith was grown, had brought on a more interesting subject, and a warmer manner. In that very room she had been measured last September, with her two friends. There were the pencilled marks and memorandums on the wainscot by the window. _He_ had done it. They all seemed to remember the day, the hour, the party, the occasion--to feel the same consciousness, the same regrets--to be ready to return to the same good understanding; and they were just growing again like themselves, (Harriet, as Emma must suspect, as ready as the best of them to be cordial and happy,) when the carriage reappeared, and all was over. The style of the visit, and the shortness of it, were then felt to be decisive. Fourteen minutes to be given to those with whom she had thankfully passed six weeks not six months ago!--Emma could not but picture it all, and feel how justly they might resent, how naturally Harriet must suffer. It was a bad business. She would have given a great deal, or endured a great deal, to have had the Martins in a higher rank of life. They were so deserving, that a _little_ higher should have been enough: but as it was, how could she have done otherwise?--Impossible!--She could not repent. They must be separated; but there was a great deal of pain in the process--so much to herself at this time, that she soon felt the necessity of a little consolation, and resolved on going home by way of Randalls to procure it. Her mind was quite sick of Mr. Elton and the Martins. The refreshment of Randalls was absolutely necessary. It was a good scheme; but on driving to the door they heard that neither "master nor mistress was at home;" they had both been out some time; the man believed they were gone to Hartfield. "This is too bad," cried Emma, as they turned away. "And now we shall just miss them; too provoking!--I do not know when I have been so disappointed." And she leaned back in the corner, to indulge her murmurs, or to reason them away; probably a little of both--such being the commonest process of a not ill-disposed mind. Presently the carriage stopt; she looked up; it was stopt by Mr. and Mrs. Weston, who were standing to speak to her. There was instant pleasure in the sight of them, and still greater pleasure was conveyed in sound--for Mr. Weston immediately accosted her with, "How d'ye do?--how d'ye do?--We have been sitting with your father--glad to see him so well. Frank comes to-morrow--I had a letter this morning--we see him to-morrow by dinner-time to a certainty--he is at Oxford to-day, and he comes for a whole fortnight; I knew it would be so. If he had come at Christmas he could not have staid three days; I was always glad he did not come at Christmas; now we are going to have just the right weather for him, fine, dry, settled weather. We shall enjoy him completely; every thing has turned out exactly as we could wish." There was no resisting such news, no possibility of avoiding the influence of such a happy face as Mr. Weston's, confirmed as it all was by the words and the countenance of his wife, fewer and quieter, but not less to the purpose. To know that _she_ thought his coming certain was enough to make Emma consider it so, and sincerely did she rejoice in their joy. It was a most delightful reanimation of exhausted spirits. The worn-out past was sunk in the freshness of what was coming; and in the rapidity of half a moment's thought, she hoped Mr. Elton would now be talked of no more. Mr. Weston gave her the history of the engagements at Enscombe, which allowed his son to answer for having an entire fortnight at his command, as well as the route and the method of his journey; and she listened, and smiled, and congratulated. "I shall soon bring him over to Hartfield," said he, at the conclusion. Emma could imagine she saw a touch of the arm at this speech, from his wife. "We had better move on, Mr. Weston," said she, "we are detaining the girls." "Well, well, I am ready;"--and turning again to Emma, "but you must not be expecting such a _very_ fine young man; you have only had _my_ account you know; I dare say he is really nothing extraordinary:"--though his own sparkling eyes at the moment were speaking a very different conviction. Emma could look perfectly unconscious and innocent, and answer in a manner that appropriated nothing. "Think of me to-morrow, my dear Emma, about four o'clock," was Mrs. Weston's parting injunction; spoken with some anxiety, and meant only for her. "Four o'clock!--depend upon it he will be here by three," was Mr. Weston's quick amendment; and so ended a most satisfactory meeting. Emma's spirits were mounted quite up to happiness; every thing wore a different air; James and his horses seemed not half so sluggish as before. When she looked at the hedges, she thought the elder at least must soon be coming out; and when she turned round to Harriet, she saw something like a look of spring, a tender smile even there. "Will Mr. Frank Churchill pass through Bath as well as Oxford?"--was a question, however, which did not augur much. But neither geography nor tranquillity could come all at once, and Emma was now in a humour to resolve that they should both come in time. The morning of the interesting day arrived, and Mrs. Weston's faithful pupil did not forget either at ten, or eleven, or twelve o'clock, that she was to think of her at four. "My dear, dear anxious friend,"--said she, in mental soliloquy, while walking downstairs from her own room, "always overcareful for every body's comfort but your own; I see you now in all your little fidgets, going again and again into his room, to be sure that all is right." The clock struck twelve as she passed through the hall. "'Tis twelve; I shall not forget to think of you four hours hence; and by this time to-morrow, perhaps, or a little later, I may be thinking of the possibility of their all calling here. I am sure they will bring him soon." She opened the parlour door, and saw two gentlemen sitting with her father--Mr. Weston and his son. They had been arrived only a few minutes, and Mr. Weston had scarcely finished his explanation of Frank's being a day before his time, and her father was yet in the midst of his very civil welcome and congratulations, when she appeared, to have her share of surprize, introduction, and pleasure. The Frank Churchill so long talked of, so high in interest, was actually before her--he was presented to her, and she did not think too much had been said in his praise; he was a _very_ good looking young man; height, air, address, all were unexceptionable, and his countenance had a great deal of the spirit and liveliness of his father's; he looked quick and sensible. She felt immediately that she should like him; and there was a well-bred ease of manner, and a readiness to talk, which convinced her that he came intending to be acquainted with her, and that acquainted they soon must be. He had reached Randalls the evening before. She was pleased with the eagerness to arrive which had made him alter his plan, and travel earlier, later, and quicker, that he might gain half a day. "I told you yesterday," cried Mr. Weston with exultation, "I told you all that he would be here before the time named. I remembered what I used to do myself. One cannot creep upon a journey; one cannot help getting on faster than one has planned; and the pleasure of coming in upon one's friends before the look-out begins, is worth a great deal more than any little exertion it needs." "It is a great pleasure where one can indulge in it," said the young man, "though there are not many houses that I should presume on so far; but in coming _home_ I felt I might do any thing." The word _home_ made his father look on him with fresh complacency. Emma was directly sure that he knew how to make himself agreeable; the conviction was strengthened by what followed. He was very much pleased with Randalls, thought it a most admirably arranged house, would hardly allow it even to be very small, admired the situation, the walk to Highbury, Highbury itself, Hartfield still more, and professed himself to have always felt the sort of interest in the country which none but one's _own_ country gives, and the greatest curiosity to visit it. That he should never have been able to indulge so amiable a feeling before, passed suspiciously through Emma's brain; but still, if it were a falsehood, it was a pleasant one, and pleasantly handled. His manner had no air of study or exaggeration. He did really look and speak as if in a state of no common enjoyment. Their subjects in general were such as belong to an opening acquaintance. On his side were the inquiries,--"Was she a horsewoman?--Pleasant rides?--Pleasant walks?--Had they a large neighbourhood?--Highbury, perhaps, afforded society enough?--There were several very pretty houses in and about it.--Balls--had they balls?--Was it a musical society?" But when satisfied on all these points, and their acquaintance proportionably advanced, he contrived to find an opportunity, while their two fathers were engaged with each other, of introducing his mother-in-law, and speaking of her with so much handsome praise, so much warm admiration, so much gratitude for the happiness she secured to his father, and her very kind reception of himself, as was an additional proof of his knowing how to please--and of his certainly thinking it worth while to try to please her. He did not advance a word of praise beyond what she knew to be thoroughly deserved by Mrs. Weston; but, undoubtedly he could know very little of the matter. He understood what would be welcome; he could be sure of little else. "His father's marriage," he said, "had been the wisest measure, every friend must rejoice in it; and the family from whom he had received such a blessing must be ever considered as having conferred the highest obligation on him." He got as near as he could to thanking her for Miss Taylor's merits, without seeming quite to forget that in the common course of things it was to be rather supposed that Miss Taylor had formed Miss Woodhouse's character, than Miss Woodhouse Miss Taylor's. And at last, as if resolved to qualify his opinion completely for travelling round to its object, he wound it all up with astonishment at the youth and beauty of her person. "Elegant, agreeable manners, I was prepared for," said he; "but I confess that, considering every thing, I had not expected more than a very tolerably well-looking woman of a certain age; I did not know that I was to find a pretty young woman in Mrs. Weston." "You cannot see too much perfection in Mrs. Weston for my feelings," said Emma; "were you to guess her to be _eighteen_, I should listen with pleasure; but _she_ would be ready to quarrel with you for using such words. Don't let her imagine that you have spoken of her as a pretty young woman." "I hope I should know better," he replied; "no, depend upon it, (with a gallant bow,) that in addressing Mrs. Weston I should understand whom I might praise without any danger of being thought extravagant in my terms." Emma wondered whether the same suspicion of what might be expected from their knowing each other, which had taken strong possession of her mind, had ever crossed his; and whether his compliments were to be considered as marks of acquiescence, or proofs of defiance. She must see more of him to understand his ways; at present she only felt they were agreeable. She had no doubt of what Mr. Weston was often thinking about. His quick eye she detected again and again glancing towards them with a happy expression; and even, when he might have determined not to look, she was confident that he was often listening. Her own father's perfect exemption from any thought of the kind, the entire deficiency in him of all such sort of penetration or suspicion, was a most comfortable circumstance. Happily he was not farther from approving matrimony than from foreseeing it.--Though always objecting to every marriage that was arranged, he never suffered beforehand from the apprehension of any; it seemed as if he could not think so ill of any two persons' understanding as to suppose they meant to marry till it were proved against them. She blessed the favouring blindness. He could now, without the drawback of a single unpleasant surmise, without a glance forward at any possible treachery in his guest, give way to all his natural kind-hearted civility in solicitous inquiries after Mr. Frank Churchill's accommodation on his journey, through the sad evils of sleeping two nights on the road, and express very genuine unmixed anxiety to know that he had certainly escaped catching cold--which, however, he could not allow him to feel quite assured of himself till after another night. A reasonable visit paid, Mr. Weston began to move.--"He must be going. He had business at the Crown about his hay, and a great many errands for Mrs. Weston at Ford's, but he need not hurry any body else." His son, too well bred to hear the hint, rose immediately also, saying, "As you are going farther on business, sir, I will take the opportunity of paying a visit, which must be paid some day or other, and therefore may as well be paid now. I have the honour of being acquainted with a neighbour of yours, (turning to Emma,) a lady residing in or near Highbury; a family of the name of Fairfax. I shall have no difficulty, I suppose, in finding the house; though Fairfax, I believe, is not the proper name--I should rather say Barnes, or Bates. Do you know any family of that name?" "To be sure we do," cried his father; "Mrs. Bates--we passed her house--I saw Miss Bates at the window. True, true, you are acquainted with Miss Fairfax; I remember you knew her at Weymouth, and a fine girl she is. Call upon her, by all means." "There is no necessity for my calling this morning," said the young man; "another day would do as well; but there was that degree of acquaintance at Weymouth which--" "Oh! go to-day, go to-day. Do not defer it. What is right to be done cannot be done too soon. And, besides, I must give you a hint, Frank; any want of attention to her _here_ should be carefully avoided. You saw her with the Campbells, when she was the equal of every body she mixed with, but here she is with a poor old grandmother, who has barely enough to live on. If you do not call early it will be a slight." The son looked convinced. "I have heard her speak of the acquaintance," said Emma; "she is a very elegant young woman." He agreed to it, but with so quiet a "Yes," as inclined her almost to doubt his real concurrence; and yet there must be a very distinct sort of elegance for the fashionable world, if Jane Fairfax could be thought only ordinarily gifted with it. "If you were never particularly struck by her manners before," said she, "I think you will to-day. You will see her to advantage; see her and hear her--no, I am afraid you will not hear her at all, for she has an aunt who never holds her tongue." "You are acquainted with Miss Jane Fairfax, sir, are you?" said Mr. Woodhouse, always the last to make his way in conversation; "then give me leave to assure you that you will find her a very agreeable young lady. She is staying here on a visit to her grandmama and aunt, very worthy people; I have known them all my life. They will be extremely glad to see you, I am sure; and one of my servants shall go with you to shew you the way." "My dear sir, upon no account in the world; my father can direct me." "But your father is not going so far; he is only going to the Crown, quite on the other side of the street, and there are a great many houses; you might be very much at a loss, and it is a very dirty walk, unless you keep on the footpath; but my coachman can tell you where you had best cross the street." Mr. Frank Churchill still declined it, looking as serious as he could, and his father gave his hearty support by calling out, "My good friend, this is quite unnecessary; Frank knows a puddle of water when he sees it, and as to Mrs. Bates's, he may get there from the Crown in a hop, step, and jump." They were permitted to go alone; and with a cordial nod from one, and a graceful bow from the other, the two gentlemen took leave. Emma remained very well pleased with this beginning of the acquaintance, and could now engage to think of them all at Randalls any hour of the day, with full confidence in their comfort. Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Als Emma bei der Abbey Farm nach Harriet ruft, erzählt das aufgeregte Mädchen Emma, dass sie bei Martins Mutter und seinen zwei Schwestern zu Besuch war. Auf dem Heimweg beschließt Emma, bei den Westons anzuhalten und ist enttäuscht, dass sie nicht zu Hause sind. Als sie sich gerade umdrehen will, kommen die Westons mit ihrem Wagen an. Sie informieren Emma, dass Frank Churchill am nächsten Tag ankommt und für zwei Wochen bleiben wird. Sie versichern Emma, dass sie Frank mit nach Hartfield bringen werden. Am nächsten Tag besuchen Herr Weston und Frank Woodhouse. Emma findet Frank als einen sehr gut aussehenden Gentleman mit gut erzogenen Manieren. Sie ist auch beeindruckt von seinem lebhaften Geist. Er lobt Mrs. Weston für ihr hübsches Aussehen und ihre eleganten Manieren. Emma mag Frank sofort und schließt in ihrer Vorstellung, dass Frank auch Interesse an ihr hat. Sie bemerkt kaum, dass er als nächstes bei Jane Fairfax vorbeischauen möchte, da er sie bereits kennt.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: SCENE III. The same. A street. [Thunder and lightning. Enter, from opposite sides, CASCA, with his sword drawn, and CICERO.] CICERO. Good even, Casca: brought you Caesar home? Why are you breathless, and why stare you so? CASCA. Are not you moved, when all the sway of earth Shakes like a thing unfirm? O Cicero, I have seen tempests, when the scolding winds Have rived the knotty oaks; and I have seen Th' ambitious ocean swell and rage and foam, To be exalted with the threatening clouds: But never till tonight, never till now, Did I go through a tempest dropping fire. Either there is a civil strife in heaven, Or else the world too saucy with the gods, Incenses them to send destruction. CICERO. Why, saw you anything more wonderful? CASCA. A common slave--you'd know him well by sight-- Held up his left hand, which did flame and burn Like twenty torches join'd, and yet his hand Not sensible of fire remain'd unscorch'd. Besides,--I ha' not since put up my sword,-- Against the Capitol I met a lion, Who glared upon me, and went surly by, Without annoying me: and there were drawn Upon a heap a hundred ghastly women, Transformed with their fear; who swore they saw Men, all in fire, walk up and down the streets. And yesterday the bird of night did sit Even at noonday upon the marketplace, Howling and shrieking. When these prodigies Do so conjointly meet, let not men say "These are their reasons; they are natural"; For I believe they are portentous things Unto the climate that they point upon. CICERO. Indeed, it is a strange-disposed time. But men may construe things after their fashion, Clean from the purpose of the things themselves. Comes Caesar to the Capitol tomorrow? CASCA. He doth, for he did bid Antonius Send word to you he would be there to-morrow. CICERO. Good then, Casca: this disturbed sky Is not to walk in. CASCA. Farewell, Cicero. [Exit Cicero.] [Enter Cassius.] CASSIUS. Who's there? CASCA. A Roman. CASSIUS. Casca, by your voice. CASCA. Your ear is good. Cassius, what night is this! CASSIUS. A very pleasing night to honest men. CASCA. Who ever knew the heavens menace so? CASSIUS. Those that have known the earth so full of faults. For my part, I have walk'd about the streets, Submitting me unto the perilous night; And, thus unbraced, Casca, as you see, Have bared my bosom to the thunder-stone; And when the cross blue lightning seem'd to open The breast of heaven, I did present myself Even in the aim and very flash of it. CASCA. But wherefore did you so much tempt the Heavens? It is the part of men to fear and tremble, When the most mighty gods by tokens send Such dreadful heralds to astonish us. CASSIUS. You are dull, Casca;and those sparks of life That should be in a Roman you do want, Or else you use not. You look pale and gaze, And put on fear and cast yourself in wonder, To see the strange impatience of the Heavens: But if you would consider the true cause Why all these fires, why all these gliding ghosts, Why birds and beasts,from quality and kind; Why old men, fools, and children calculate;-- Why all these things change from their ordinance, Their natures, and preformed faculties To monstrous quality;--why, you shall find That Heaven hath infused them with these spirits, To make them instruments of fear and warning Unto some monstrous state. Now could I, Casca, Name to thee a man most like this dreadful night; That thunders, lightens, opens graves, and roars, As doth the lion in the Capitol; A man no mightier than thyself or me In personal action; yet prodigious grown, And fearful, as these strange eruptions are. CASCA. 'Tis Caesar that you mean; is it not, Cassius? CASSIUS. Let it be who it is: for Romans now Have thews and limbs like to their ancestors; But, woe the while! our fathers' minds are dead, And we are govern'd with our mothers' spirits; Our yoke and sufferance show us womanish. CASCA. Indeed they say the senators to-morrow Mean to establish Caesar as a king; And he shall wear his crown by sea and land, In every place save here in Italy. CASSIUS. I know where I will wear this dagger then; Cassius from bondage will deliver Cassius: Therein, ye gods, you make the weak most strong; Therein, ye gods, you tyrants do defeat: Nor stony tower, nor walls of beaten brass, Nor airless dungeon, nor strong links of iron Can be retentive to the strength of spirit; But life, being weary of these worldly bars, Never lacks power to dismiss itself. If I know this, know all the world besides, That part of tyranny that I do bear I can shake off at pleasure. [Thunders still.] CASCA. So can I: So every bondman in his own hand bears The power to cancel his captivity. CASSIUS. And why should Caesar be a tyrant then? Poor man! I know he would not be a wolf, But that he sees the Romans are but sheep: He were no lion, were not Romans hinds. Those that with haste will make a mighty fire Begin it with weak straws: what trash is Rome, What rubbish, and what offal, when it serves For the base matter to illuminate So vile a thing as Caesar! But, O grief, Where hast thou led me? I perhaps speak this Before a willing bondman: then I know My answer must be made; but I am arm'd, And dangers are to me indifferent. CASCA. You speak to Casca; and to such a man That is no fleering tell-tale. Hold, my hand: Be factious for redress of all these griefs; And I will set this foot of mine as far As who goes farthest. CASSIUS. There's a bargain made. Now know you, Casca, I have moved already Some certain of the noblest-minded Romans To undergo with me an enterprise Of honorable-dangerous consequence; And I do know by this, they stay for me In Pompey's Porch: for now, this fearful night, There is no stir or walking in the streets; And the complexion of the element Is favor'd like the work we have in hand, Most bloody, fiery, and most terrible. CASCA. Stand close awhile, for here comes one in haste. CASSIUS. 'Tis Cinna; I do know him by his gait; He is a friend.-- [Enter Cinna.] Cinna, where haste you so? CINNA. To find out you. Who's that? Metellus Cimber? CASSIUS. No, it is Casca, one incorporate To our attempts. Am I not stay'd for, Cinna? CINNA. I am glad on't. What a fearful night is this! There's two or three of us have seen strange sights. CASSIUS. Am I not stay'd for? tell me. CINNA. Yes, You are. O Cassius, if you could but win The noble Brutus to our party,-- CASSIUS. Be you content. Good Cinna, take this paper, And look you lay it in the praetor's chair, Where Brutus may but find it; and throw this In at his window; set this up with wax Upon old Brutus' statue: all this done, Repair to Pompey's Porch, where you shall find us. Is Decius Brutus and Trebonius there? CINNA. All but Metellus Cimber, and he's gone To seek you at your house. Well, I will hie And so bestow these papers as you bade me. CASSIUS. That done, repair to Pompey's theatre.-- [Exit Cinna.] Come, Casca, you and I will yet, ere day, See Brutus at his house: three parts of him Is ours already; and the man entire, Upon the next encounter, yields him ours. CASCA. O, he sits high in all the people's hearts! And that which would appear offense in us, His countenance, like richest alchemy, Will change to virtue and to worthiness. CASSIUS. Him, and his worth, and our great need of him, You have right well conceited. Let us go, For it is after midnight; and, ere day, We will awake him, and be sure of him. [Exeunt.] Kannst du eine geeignete Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Casca trifft sich mit Cicero, einem der großen römischen Redner, und erzählt ihm, dass er in dieser Nacht viele merkwürdige Dinge auf den Straßen Roms gesehen hat, darunter einen Sklaven mit einer brennenden, aber unverletzten linken Hand, einen freilaufenden Löwen auf den Straßen und eine Eule, die am Tag hootet. Cicero sagt ihm, dass die Menschen Dinge auf ihre eigene Weise interpretieren, und verabschiedet sich. Dann kommt Cassius und erzählt Casca, dass es einen Grund für all die merkwürdigen Ereignisse in Rom gibt. Casca fragt ihn: "'Tis Caesar, den du meinst, nicht wahr, Cassius?" Casca erzählt ihm, dass die Senatoren planen, Caesar am nächsten Morgen zum König zu machen. Bei dieser Nachricht zieht Cassius sein Messer und droht, lieber zu sterben, als Caesar so viel Macht erlangen zu lassen. Casca schüttelt Cassius die Hand und sie vereinbaren, zusammenzuarbeiten, um zu verhindern, dass Caesar die Macht ergreift. Cinna, ein Mitverschwörer, kommt und nimmt ein Stück Papier von Cassius. Gemeinsam gehen sie dann, um Cassius' handschriftliche Notizen durch Brutus' Fenster zu werfen. Cassius deutet an, dass er ziemlich sicher ist, dass Brutus sich ihnen am nächsten Tag anschließen 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: "But deeds and language such as men do use, And persons such as comedy would choose, When she would show an image of the times, And sport with human follies, not with crimes." --BEN JONSON. Lydgate, in fact, was already conscious of being fascinated by a woman strikingly different from Miss Brooke: he did not in the least suppose that he had lost his balance and fallen in love, but he had said of that particular woman, "She is grace itself; she is perfectly lovely and accomplished. That is what a woman ought to be: she ought to produce the effect of exquisite music." Plain women he regarded as he did the other severe facts of life, to be faced with philosophy and investigated by science. But Rosamond Vincy seemed to have the true melodic charm; and when a man has seen the woman whom he would have chosen if he had intended to marry speedily, his remaining a bachelor will usually depend on her resolution rather than on his. Lydgate believed that he should not marry for several years: not marry until he had trodden out a good clear path for himself away from the broad road which was quite ready made. He had seen Miss Vincy above his horizon almost as long as it had taken Mr. Casaubon to become engaged and married: but this learned gentleman was possessed of a fortune; he had assembled his voluminous notes, and had made that sort of reputation which precedes performance,--often the larger part of a man's fame. He took a wife, as we have seen, to adorn the remaining quadrant of his course, and be a little moon that would cause hardly a calculable perturbation. But Lydgate was young, poor, ambitious. He had his half-century before him instead of behind him, and he had come to Middlemarch bent on doing many things that were not directly fitted to make his fortune or even secure him a good income. To a man under such circumstances, taking a wife is something more than a question of adornment, however highly he may rate this; and Lydgate was disposed to give it the first place among wifely functions. To his taste, guided by a single conversation, here was the point on which Miss Brooke would be found wanting, notwithstanding her undeniable beauty. She did not look at things from the proper feminine angle. The society of such women was about as relaxing as going from your work to teach the second form, instead of reclining in a paradise with sweet laughs for bird-notes, and blue eyes for a heaven. Certainly nothing at present could seem much less important to Lydgate than the turn of Miss Brooke's mind, or to Miss Brooke than the qualities of the woman who had attracted this young surgeon. But any one watching keenly the stealthy convergence of human lots, sees a slow preparation of effects from one life on another, which tells like a calculated irony on the indifference or the frozen stare with which we look at our unintroduced neighbor. Destiny stands by sarcastic with our dramatis personae folded in her hand. Old provincial society had its share of this subtle movement: had not only its striking downfalls, its brilliant young professional dandies who ended by living up an entry with a drab and six children for their establishment, but also those less marked vicissitudes which are constantly shifting the boundaries of social intercourse, and begetting new consciousness of interdependence. Some slipped a little downward, some got higher footing: people denied aspirates, gained wealth, and fastidious gentlemen stood for boroughs; some were caught in political currents, some in ecclesiastical, and perhaps found themselves surprisingly grouped in consequence; while a few personages or families that stood with rocky firmness amid all this fluctuation, were slowly presenting new aspects in spite of solidity, and altering with the double change of self and beholder. Municipal town and rural parish gradually made fresh threads of connection--gradually, as the old stocking gave way to the savings-bank, and the worship of the solar guinea became extinct; while squires and baronets, and even lords who had once lived blamelessly afar from the civic mind, gathered the faultiness of closer acquaintanceship. Settlers, too, came from distant counties, some with an alarming novelty of skill, others with an offensive advantage in cunning. In fact, much the same sort of movement and mixture went on in old England as we find in older Herodotus, who also, in telling what had been, thought it well to take a woman's lot for his starting-point; though Io, as a maiden apparently beguiled by attractive merchandise, was the reverse of Miss Brooke, and in this respect perhaps bore more resemblance to Rosamond Vincy, who had excellent taste in costume, with that nymph-like figure and pure blindness which give the largest range to choice in the flow and color of drapery. But these things made only part of her charm. She was admitted to be the flower of Mrs. Lemon's school, the chief school in the county, where the teaching included all that was demanded in the accomplished female--even to extras, such as the getting in and out of a carriage. Mrs. Lemon herself had always held up Miss Vincy as an example: no pupil, she said, exceeded that young lady for mental acquisition and propriety of speech, while her musical execution was quite exceptional. We cannot help the way in which people speak of us, and probably if Mrs. Lemon had undertaken to describe Juliet or Imogen, these heroines would not have seemed poetical. The first vision of Rosamond would have been enough with most judges to dispel any prejudice excited by Mrs. Lemon's praise. Lydgate could not be long in Middlemarch without having that agreeable vision, or even without making the acquaintance of the Vincy family; for though Mr. Peacock, whose practice he had paid something to enter on, had not been their doctor (Mrs. Vincy not liking the lowering system adopted by him), he had many patients among their connections and acquaintances. For who of any consequence in Middlemarch was not connected or at least acquainted with the Vincys? They were old manufacturers, and had kept a good house for three generations, in which there had naturally been much intermarrying with neighbors more or less decidedly genteel. Mr. Vincy's sister had made a wealthy match in accepting Mr. Bulstrode, who, however, as a man not born in the town, and altogether of dimly known origin, was considered to have done well in uniting himself with a real Middlemarch family; on the other hand, Mr. Vincy had descended a little, having taken an innkeeper's daughter. But on this side too there was a cheering sense of money; for Mrs. Vincy's sister had been second wife to rich old Mr. Featherstone, and had died childless years ago, so that her nephews and nieces might be supposed to touch the affections of the widower. And it happened that Mr. Bulstrode and Mr. Featherstone, two of Peacock's most important patients, had, from different causes, given an especially good reception to his successor, who had raised some partisanship as well as discussion. Mr. Wrench, medical attendant to the Vincy family, very early had grounds for thinking lightly of Lydgate's professional discretion, and there was no report about him which was not retailed at the Vincys', where visitors were frequent. Mr. Vincy was more inclined to general good-fellowship than to taking sides, but there was no need for him to be hasty in making any new man acquaintance. Rosamond silently wished that her father would invite Mr. Lydgate. She was tired of the faces and figures she had always been used to--the various irregular profiles and gaits and turns of phrase distinguishing those Middlemarch young men whom she had known as boys. She had been at school with girls of higher position, whose brothers, she felt sure, it would have been possible for her to be more interested in, than in these inevitable Middlemarch companions. But she would not have chosen to mention her wish to her father; and he, for his part, was in no hurry on the subject. An alderman about to be mayor must by-and-by enlarge his dinner-parties, but at present there were plenty of guests at his well-spread table. That table often remained covered with the relics of the family breakfast long after Mr. Vincy had gone with his second son to the warehouse, and when Miss Morgan was already far on in morning lessons with the younger girls in the schoolroom. It awaited the family laggard, who found any sort of inconvenience (to others) less disagreeable than getting up when he was called. This was the case one morning of the October in which we have lately seen Mr. Casaubon visiting the Grange; and though the room was a little overheated with the fire, which had sent the spaniel panting to a remote corner, Rosamond, for some reason, continued to sit at her embroidery longer than usual, now and then giving herself a little shake, and laying her work on her knee to contemplate it with an air of hesitating weariness. Her mamma, who had returned from an excursion to the kitchen, sat on the other side of the small work-table with an air of more entire placidity, until, the clock again giving notice that it was going to strike, she looked up from the lace-mending which was occupying her plump fingers and rang the bell. "Knock at Mr. Fred's door again, Pritchard, and tell him it has struck half-past ten." This was said without any change in the radiant good-humor of Mrs. Vincy's face, in which forty-five years had delved neither angles nor parallels; and pushing back her pink capstrings, she let her work rest on her lap, while she looked admiringly at her daughter. "Mamma," said Rosamond, "when Fred comes down I wish you would not let him have red herrings. I cannot bear the smell of them all over the house at this hour of the morning." "Oh, my dear, you are so hard on your brothers! It is the only fault I have to find with you. You are the sweetest temper in the world, but you are so tetchy with your brothers." "Not tetchy, mamma: you never hear me speak in an unladylike way." "Well, but you want to deny them things." "Brothers are so unpleasant." "Oh, my dear, you must allow for young men. Be thankful if they have good hearts. A woman must learn to put up with little things. You will be married some day." "Not to any one who is like Fred." "Don't decry your own brother, my dear. Few young men have less against them, although he couldn't take his degree--I'm sure I can't understand why, for he seems to me most clever. And you know yourself he was thought equal to the best society at college. So particular as you are, my dear, I wonder you are not glad to have such a gentlemanly young man for a brother. You are always finding fault with Bob because he is not Fred." "Oh no, mamma, only because he is Bob." "Well, my dear, you will not find any Middlemarch young man who has not something against him." "But"--here Rosamond's face broke into a smile which suddenly revealed two dimples. She herself thought unfavorably of these dimples and smiled little in general society. "But I shall not marry any Middlemarch young man." "So it seems, my love, for you have as good as refused the pick of them; and if there's better to be had, I'm sure there's no girl better deserves it." "Excuse me, mamma--I wish you would not say, 'the pick of them.'" "Why, what else are they?" "I mean, mamma, it is rather a vulgar expression." "Very likely, my dear; I never was a good speaker. What should I say?" "The best of them." "Why, that seems just as plain and common. If I had had time to think, I should have said, 'the most superior young men.' But with your education you must know." "What must Rosy know, mother?" said Mr. Fred, who had slid in unobserved through the half-open door while the ladies were bending over their work, and now going up to the fire stood with his back towards it, warming the soles of his slippers. "Whether it's right to say 'superior young men,'" said Mrs. Vincy, ringing the bell. "Oh, there are so many superior teas and sugars now. Superior is getting to be shopkeepers' slang." "Are you beginning to dislike slang, then?" said Rosamond, with mild gravity. "Only the wrong sort. All choice of words is slang. It marks a class." "There is correct English: that is not slang." "I beg your pardon: correct English is the slang of prigs who write history and essays. And the strongest slang of all is the slang of poets." "You will say anything, Fred, to gain your point." "Well, tell me whether it is slang or poetry to call an ox a leg-plaiter." "Of course you can call it poetry if you like." "Aha, Miss Rosy, you don't know Homer from slang. I shall invent a new game; I shall write bits of slang and poetry on slips, and give them to you to separate." "Dear me, how amusing it is to hear young people talk!" said Mrs. Vincy, with cheerful admiration. "Have you got nothing else for my breakfast, Pritchard?" said Fred, to the servant who brought in coffee and buttered toast; while he walked round the table surveying the ham, potted beef, and other cold remnants, with an air of silent rejection, and polite forbearance from signs of disgust. "Should you like eggs, sir?" "Eggs, no! Bring me a grilled bone." "Really, Fred," said Rosamond, when the servant had left the room, "if you must have hot things for breakfast, I wish you would come down earlier. You can get up at six o'clock to go out hunting; I cannot understand why you find it so difficult to get up on other mornings." "That is your want of understanding, Rosy. I can get up to go hunting because I like it." "What would you think of me if I came down two hours after every one else and ordered grilled bone?" "I should think you were an uncommonly fast young lady," said Fred, eating his toast with the utmost composure. "I cannot see why brothers are to make themselves disagreeable, any more than sisters." "I don't make myself disagreeable; it is you who find me so. Disagreeable is a word that describes your feelings and not my actions." "I think it describes the smell of grilled bone." "Not at all. It describes a sensation in your little nose associated with certain finicking notions which are the classics of Mrs. Lemon's school. Look at my mother; you don't see her objecting to everything except what she does herself. She is my notion of a pleasant woman." "Bless you both, my dears, and don't quarrel," said Mrs. Vincy, with motherly cordiality. "Come, Fred, tell us all about the new doctor. How is your uncle pleased with him?" "Pretty well, I think. He asks Lydgate all sorts of questions and then screws up his face while he hears the answers, as if they were pinching his toes. That's his way. Ah, here comes my grilled bone." "But how came you to stay out so late, my dear? You only said you were going to your uncle's." "Oh, I dined at Plymdale's. We had whist. Lydgate was there too." "And what do you think of him? He is very gentlemanly, I suppose. They say he is of excellent family--his relations quite county people." "Yes," said Fred. "There was a Lydgate at John's who spent no end of money. I find this man is a second cousin of his. But rich men may have very poor devils for second cousins." "It always makes a difference, though, to be of good family," said Rosamond, with a tone of decision which showed that she had thought on this subject. Rosamond felt that she might have been happier if she had not been the daughter of a Middlemarch manufacturer. She disliked anything which reminded her that her mother's father had been an innkeeper. Certainly any one remembering the fact might think that Mrs. Vincy had the air of a very handsome good-humored landlady, accustomed to the most capricious orders of gentlemen. "I thought it was odd his name was Tertius," said the bright-faced matron, "but of course it's a name in the family. But now, tell us exactly what sort of man he is." "Oh, tallish, dark, clever--talks well--rather a prig, I think." "I never can make out what you mean by a prig," said Rosamond. "A fellow who wants to show that he has opinions." "Why, my dear, doctors must have opinions," said Mrs. Vincy. "What are they there for else?" "Yes, mother, the opinions they are paid for. But a prig is a fellow who is always making you a present of his opinions." "I suppose Mary Garth admires Mr. Lydgate," said Rosamond, not without a touch of innuendo. "Really, I can't say." said Fred, rather glumly, as he left the table, and taking up a novel which he had brought down with him, threw himself into an arm-chair. "If you are jealous of her, go oftener to Stone Court yourself and eclipse her." "I wish you would not be so vulgar, Fred. If you have finished, pray ring the bell." "It is true, though--what your brother says, Rosamond," Mrs. Vincy began, when the servant had cleared the table. "It is a thousand pities you haven't patience to go and see your uncle more, so proud of you as he is, and wanted you to live with him. There's no knowing what he might have done for you as well as for Fred. God knows, I'm fond of having you at home with me, but I can part with my children for their good. And now it stands to reason that your uncle Featherstone will do something for Mary Garth." "Mary Garth can bear being at Stone Court, because she likes that better than being a governess," said Rosamond, folding up her work. "I would rather not have anything left to me if I must earn it by enduring much of my uncle's cough and his ugly relations." "He can't be long for this world, my dear; I wouldn't hasten his end, but what with asthma and that inward complaint, let us hope there is something better for him in another. And I have no ill-will toward's Mary Garth, but there's justice to be thought of. And Mr. Featherstone's first wife brought him no money, as my sister did. Her nieces and nephews can't have so much claim as my sister's. And I must say I think Mary Garth a dreadful plain girl--more fit for a governess." "Every one would not agree with you there, mother," said Fred, who seemed to be able to read and listen too. "Well, my dear," said Mrs. Vincy, wheeling skilfully, "if she _had_ some fortune left her,--a man marries his wife's relations, and the Garths are so poor, and live in such a small way. But I shall leave you to your studies, my dear; for I must go and do some shopping." "Fred's studies are not very deep," said Rosamond, rising with her mamma, "he is only reading a novel." "Well, well, by-and-by he'll go to his Latin and things," said Mrs. Vincy, soothingly, stroking her son's head. "There's a fire in the smoking-room on purpose. It's your father's wish, you know--Fred, my dear--and I always tell him you will be good, and go to college again to take your degree." Fred drew his mother's hand down to his lips, but said nothing. "I suppose you are not going out riding to-day?" said Rosamond, lingering a little after her mamma was gone. "No; why?" "Papa says I may have the chestnut to ride now." "You can go with me to-morrow, if you like. Only I am going to Stone Court, remember." "I want to ride so much, it is indifferent to me where we go." Rosamond really wished to go to Stone Court, of all other places. "Oh, I say, Rosy," said Fred, as she was passing out of the room, "if you are going to the piano, let me come and play some airs with you." "Pray do not ask me this morning." "Why not this morning?" "Really, Fred, I wish you would leave off playing the flute. A man looks very silly playing the flute. And you play so out of tune." "When next any one makes love to you, Miss Rosamond, I will tell him how obliging you are." "Why should you expect me to oblige you by hearing you play the flute, any more than I should expect you to oblige me by not playing it?" "And why should you expect me to take you out riding?" This question led to an adjustment, for Rosamond had set her mind on that particular ride. So Fred was gratified with nearly an hour's practice of "Ar hyd y nos," "Ye banks and braes," and other favorite airs from his "Instructor on the Flute;" a wheezy performance, into which he threw much ambition and an irrepressible hopefulness. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Das Kapitel beginnt mit einigen Hintergrundinformationen über Mr. Lydgate. Er ist bereits halb verliebt in Miss Vincy, aber er ist zu jung, arm und ehrgeizig, um sofort zu heiraten. Der Erzähler deutet an, dass Mr. Lydgates Schicksal irgendwann mit dem von Dorothea verbunden sein wird, aber sie sagt nicht wie. Der Erzähler gibt weitere Hintergrundinformationen über die Vincys - sie sind eine alte, solide Familie aus Middlemarch, aber selbst alte Familien, erfahren wir, ändern sich gelegentlich. Miss Rosamond Vincy, die Tochter der Familie, über die sich alle alten Männer auf der Party lustig gemacht haben, war die beste Schülerin an einer feinen Privatschule in der Grafschaft und ist gerade erst nach Hause zu ihrer Familie zurückgekehrt, nachdem sie ihren Abschluss gemacht hat. Sie ist stolz auf sich selbst und ihre Ausbildung und fühlt sich über allen jungen Männern in der Stadt stehend. Sie wünscht sich, dass ihr Vater den neuen jungen Arzt, Mr. Lydgate, zum Abendessen einlädt. Mr. Vincy war der Bürgermeister und seine Schwester hatte einen relativ neuen Einwohner von Middlemarch namens Mr. Bulstrode geheiratet. Mr. Bulstrode ist ein reicher Bankier, aber niemand weiß viel über seine Vergangenheit, bevor er nach Middlemarch kam und geheiratet hat. Mrs. Vincy ist eine rundliche und glückliche Frau. Ihre Schwester war die zweite Frau eines reichen und exzentrischen alten Mannes namens Mr. Featherstone. Featherstone hat keine eigenen Kinder, weder aus erster noch aus zweiter Ehe, aber viele Nichten und Neffen aus den Familien beider Ehefrauen und einige Geschwister, die alle einen Teil seines Erbes wollen, wenn er stirbt. Das ist der Hintergrund zu den Vincys: Jetzt erzählt uns der Erzähler, dass es ein Morgen im Oktober ist, kurz bevor Mr. Casaubon sich mit Dorothea verlobt, und es ist bereits Zeit für das Frühstück im Haus der Vincys. Mr. Vincy ist bereits mit seinem jüngeren Sohn Bob zur Arbeit gegangen und Mrs. Vincy sitzt mit Rosamond und wartet darauf, dass Fred zum Frühstück kommt. Fred ist der faule Sohn, der gerne ausschläft. Mrs. Vincy erwähnt, dass er sein Studium an der Universität nie abgeschlossen hat, und so erfahren wir, dass er auf unbestimmte Zeit bei seinen Eltern zu Hause ist. Schließlich kommt er herunter und Rosamond beschwert sich bei ihm, dass er zum Frühstück ein heißes Steak bestellt hat. Sie mag den Geruch von gegrilltem Steak am späten Vormittag nicht. Sie fragt, wo er gestern Abend gewesen sei, und wird hellhörig, als sie hört, dass Lydgate auf derselben Dinnerparty war. Fred erzählt ihr nicht viel: hauptsächlich, dass Lydgate groß und dunkel ist und wahrscheinlich ein "Snob". Fred und Rosamond machen Pläne, am nächsten Tag nach Stone Court zu fahren, um ihren Onkel Featherstone zu besuchen. Mrs. Vincy freut sich darüber - eine Nichte von Mr. Featherstone aus erster Ehe lebt bei ihm, um sich um ihn zu kümmern, und sie befürchtet, dass dieses Mädchen, Mary Garth, einen größeren Teil des Vermögens des alten Mannes bekommen wird als ihre eigenen Kinder. Mrs. Vincy äußert sich abfällig über das kleine und heruntergekommene Haus von Mary Garths Eltern und über das Aussehen von Mary Garth, und Fred springt in ihre Verteidigung.

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: Sophie came at seven to dress me: she was very long indeed in accomplishing her task; so long that Mr. Rochester, grown, I suppose, impatient of my delay, sent up to ask why I did not come. She was just fastening my veil (the plain square of blond after all) to my hair with a brooch; I hurried from under her hands as soon as I could. "Stop!" she cried in French. "Look at yourself in the mirror: you have not taken one peep." So I turned at the door: I saw a robed and veiled figure, so unlike my usual self that it seemed almost the image of a stranger. "Jane!" called a voice, and I hastened down. I was received at the foot of the stairs by Mr. Rochester. "Lingerer!" he said, "my brain is on fire with impatience, and you tarry so long!" He took me into the dining-room, surveyed me keenly all over, pronounced me "fair as a lily, and not only the pride of his life, but the desire of his eyes," and then telling me he would give me but ten minutes to eat some breakfast, he rang the bell. One of his lately hired servants, a footman, answered it. "Is John getting the carriage ready?" "Yes, sir." "Is the luggage brought down?" "They are bringing it down, sir." "Go you to the church: see if Mr. Wood (the clergyman) and the clerk are there: return and tell me." The church, as the reader knows, was but just beyond the gates; the footman soon returned. "Mr. Wood is in the vestry, sir, putting on his surplice." "And the carriage?" "The horses are harnessing." "We shall not want it to go to church; but it must be ready the moment we return: all the boxes and luggage arranged and strapped on, and the coachman in his seat." "Yes, sir." "Jane, are you ready?" I rose. There were no groomsmen, no bridesmaids, no relatives to wait for or marshal: none but Mr. Rochester and I. Mrs. Fairfax stood in the hall as we passed. I would fain have spoken to her, but my hand was held by a grasp of iron: I was hurried along by a stride I could hardly follow; and to look at Mr. Rochester's face was to feel that not a second of delay would be tolerated for any purpose. I wonder what other bridegroom ever looked as he did--so bent up to a purpose, so grimly resolute: or who, under such steadfast brows, ever revealed such flaming and flashing eyes. I know not whether the day was fair or foul; in descending the drive, I gazed neither on sky nor earth: my heart was with my eyes; and both seemed migrated into Mr. Rochester's frame. I wanted to see the invisible thing on which, as we went along, he appeared to fasten a glance fierce and fell. I wanted to feel the thoughts whose force he seemed breasting and resisting. At the churchyard wicket he stopped: he discovered I was quite out of breath. "Am I cruel in my love?" he said. "Delay an instant: lean on me, Jane." And now I can recall the picture of the grey old house of God rising calm before me, of a rook wheeling round the steeple, of a ruddy morning sky beyond. I remember something, too, of the green grave-mounds; and I have not forgotten, either, two figures of strangers straying amongst the low hillocks and reading the mementoes graven on the few mossy head-stones. I noticed them, because, as they saw us, they passed round to the back of the church; and I doubted not they were going to enter by the side-aisle door and witness the ceremony. By Mr. Rochester they were not observed; he was earnestly looking at my face from which the blood had, I daresay, momentarily fled: for I felt my forehead dewy, and my cheeks and lips cold. When I rallied, which I soon did, he walked gently with me up the path to the porch. We entered the quiet and humble temple; the priest waited in his white surplice at the lowly altar, the clerk beside him. All was still: two shadows only moved in a remote corner. My conjecture had been correct: the strangers had slipped in before us, and they now stood by the vault of the Rochesters, their backs towards us, viewing through the rails the old time-stained marble tomb, where a kneeling angel guarded the remains of Damer de Rochester, slain at Marston Moor in the time of the civil wars, and of Elizabeth, his wife. Our place was taken at the communion rails. Hearing a cautious step behind me, I glanced over my shoulder: one of the strangers--a gentleman, evidently--was advancing up the chancel. The service began. The explanation of the intent of matrimony was gone through; and then the clergyman came a step further forward, and, bending slightly towards Mr. Rochester, went on. "I require and charge you both (as ye will answer at the dreadful day of judgment, when the secrets of all hearts shall be disclosed), that if either of you know any impediment why ye may not lawfully be joined together in matrimony, ye do now confess it; for be ye well assured that so many as are coupled together otherwise than God's Word doth allow, are not joined together by God, neither is their matrimony lawful." He paused, as the custom is. When is the pause after that sentence ever broken by reply? Not, perhaps, once in a hundred years. And the clergyman, who had not lifted his eyes from his book, and had held his breath but for a moment, was proceeding: his hand was already stretched towards Mr. Rochester, as his lips unclosed to ask, "Wilt thou have this woman for thy wedded wife?"--when a distinct and near voice said-- "The marriage cannot go on: I declare the existence of an impediment." The clergyman looked up at the speaker and stood mute; the clerk did the same; Mr. Rochester moved slightly, as if an earthquake had rolled under his feet: taking a firmer footing, and not turning his head or eyes, he said, "Proceed." Profound silence fell when he had uttered that word, with deep but low intonation. Presently Mr. Wood said-- "I cannot proceed without some investigation into what has been asserted, and evidence of its truth or falsehood." "The ceremony is quite broken off," subjoined the voice behind us. "I am in a condition to prove my allegation: an insuperable impediment to this marriage exists." Mr. Rochester heard, but heeded not: he stood stubborn and rigid, making no movement but to possess himself of my hand. What a hot and strong grasp he had! and how like quarried marble was his pale, firm, massive front at this moment! How his eye shone, still watchful, and yet wild beneath! Mr. Wood seemed at a loss. "What is the nature of the impediment?" he asked. "Perhaps it may be got over--explained away?" "Hardly," was the answer. "I have called it insuperable, and I speak advisedly." The speaker came forward and leaned on the rails. He continued, uttering each word distinctly, calmly, steadily, but not loudly-- "It simply consists in the existence of a previous marriage. Mr. Rochester has a wife now living." My nerves vibrated to those low-spoken words as they had never vibrated to thunder--my blood felt their subtle violence as it had never felt frost or fire; but I was collected, and in no danger of swooning. I looked at Mr. Rochester: I made him look at me. His whole face was colourless rock: his eye was both spark and flint. He disavowed nothing: he seemed as if he would defy all things. Without speaking, without smiling, without seeming to recognise in me a human being, he only twined my waist with his arm and riveted me to his side. "Who are you?" he asked of the intruder. "My name is Briggs, a solicitor of --- Street, London." "And you would thrust on me a wife?" "I would remind you of your lady's existence, sir, which the law recognises, if you do not." "Favour me with an account of her--with her name, her parentage, her place of abode." "Certainly." Mr. Briggs calmly took a paper from his pocket, and read out in a sort of official, nasal voice:-- "'I affirm and can prove that on the 20th of October A.D. --- (a date of fifteen years back), Edward Fairfax Rochester, of Thornfield Hall, in the county of ---, and of Ferndean Manor, in ---shire, England, was married to my sister, Bertha Antoinetta Mason, daughter of Jonas Mason, merchant, and of Antoinetta his wife, a Creole, at --- church, Spanish Town, Jamaica. The record of the marriage will be found in the register of that church--a copy of it is now in my possession. Signed, Richard Mason.'" "That--if a genuine document--may prove I have been married, but it does not prove that the woman mentioned therein as my wife is still living." "She was living three months ago," returned the lawyer. "How do you know?" "I have a witness to the fact, whose testimony even you, sir, will scarcely controvert." "Produce him--or go to hell." "I will produce him first--he is on the spot. Mr. Mason, have the goodness to step forward." Mr. Rochester, on hearing the name, set his teeth; he experienced, too, a sort of strong convulsive quiver; near to him as I was, I felt the spasmodic movement of fury or despair run through his frame. The second stranger, who had hitherto lingered in the background, now drew near; a pale face looked over the solicitor's shoulder--yes, it was Mason himself. Mr. Rochester turned and glared at him. His eye, as I have often said, was a black eye: it had now a tawny, nay, a bloody light in its gloom; and his face flushed--olive cheek and hueless forehead received a glow as from spreading, ascending heart-fire: and he stirred, lifted his strong arm--he could have struck Mason, dashed him on the church-floor, shocked by ruthless blow the breath from his body--but Mason shrank away, and cried faintly, "Good God!" Contempt fell cool on Mr. Rochester--his passion died as if a blight had shrivelled it up: he only asked--"What have _you_ to say?" An inaudible reply escaped Mason's white lips. "The devil is in it if you cannot answer distinctly. I again demand, what have you to say?" "Sir--sir," interrupted the clergyman, "do not forget you are in a sacred place." Then addressing Mason, he inquired gently, "Are you aware, sir, whether or not this gentleman's wife is still living?" "Courage," urged the lawyer,--"speak out." "She is now living at Thornfield Hall," said Mason, in more articulate tones: "I saw her there last April. I am her brother." "At Thornfield Hall!" ejaculated the clergyman. "Impossible! I am an old resident in this neighbourhood, sir, and I never heard of a Mrs. Rochester at Thornfield Hall." I saw a grim smile contort Mr. Rochester's lips, and he muttered-- "No, by God! I took care that none should hear of it--or of her under that name." He mused--for ten minutes he held counsel with himself: he formed his resolve, and announced it-- "Enough! all shall bolt out at once, like the bullet from the barrel. Wood, close your book and take off your surplice; John Green (to the clerk), leave the church: there will be no wedding to-day." The man obeyed. Mr. Rochester continued, hardily and recklessly: "Bigamy is an ugly word!--I meant, however, to be a bigamist; but fate has out-manoeuvred me, or Providence has checked me,--perhaps the last. I am little better than a devil at this moment; and, as my pastor there would tell me, deserve no doubt the sternest judgments of God, even to the quenchless fire and deathless worm. Gentlemen, my plan is broken up:--what this lawyer and his client say is true: I have been married, and the woman to whom I was married lives! You say you never heard of a Mrs. Rochester at the house up yonder, Wood; but I daresay you have many a time inclined your ear to gossip about the mysterious lunatic kept there under watch and ward. Some have whispered to you that she is my bastard half-sister: some, my cast-off mistress. I now inform you that she is my wife, whom I married fifteen years ago,--Bertha Mason by name; sister of this resolute personage, who is now, with his quivering limbs and white cheeks, showing you what a stout heart men may bear. Cheer up, Dick!--never fear me!--I'd almost as soon strike a woman as you. Bertha Mason is mad; and she came of a mad family; idiots and maniacs through three generations! Her mother, the Creole, was both a madwoman and a drunkard!--as I found out after I had wed the daughter: for they were silent on family secrets before. Bertha, like a dutiful child, copied her parent in both points. I had a charming partner--pure, wise, modest: you can fancy I was a happy man. I went through rich scenes! Oh! my experience has been heavenly, if you only knew it! But I owe you no further explanation. Briggs, Wood, Mason, I invite you all to come up to the house and visit Mrs. Poole's patient, and _my wife_! You shall see what sort of a being I was cheated into espousing, and judge whether or not I had a right to break the compact, and seek sympathy with something at least human. This girl," he continued, looking at me, "knew no more than you, Wood, of the disgusting secret: she thought all was fair and legal and never dreamt she was going to be entrapped into a feigned union with a defrauded wretch, already bound to a bad, mad, and embruted partner! Come all of you--follow!" Still holding me fast, he left the church: the three gentlemen came after. At the front door of the hall we found the carriage. "Take it back to the coach-house, John," said Mr. Rochester coolly; "it will not be wanted to-day." At our entrance, Mrs. Fairfax, Adele, Sophie, Leah, advanced to meet and greet us. "To the right-about--every soul!" cried the master; "away with your congratulations! Who wants them? Not I!--they are fifteen years too late!" He passed on and ascended the stairs, still holding my hand, and still beckoning the gentlemen to follow him, which they did. We mounted the first staircase, passed up the gallery, proceeded to the third storey: the low, black door, opened by Mr. Rochester's master-key, admitted us to the tapestried room, with its great bed and its pictorial cabinet. "You know this place, Mason," said our guide; "she bit and stabbed you here." He lifted the hangings from the wall, uncovering the second door: this, too, he opened. In a room without a window, there burnt a fire guarded by a high and strong fender, and a lamp suspended from the ceiling by a chain. Grace Poole bent over the fire, apparently cooking something in a saucepan. In the deep shade, at the farther end of the room, a figure ran backwards and forwards. What it was, whether beast or human being, one could not, at first sight, tell: it grovelled, seemingly, on all fours; it snatched and growled like some strange wild animal: but it was covered with clothing, and a quantity of dark, grizzled hair, wild as a mane, hid its head and face. "Good-morrow, Mrs. Poole!" said Mr. Rochester. "How are you? and how is your charge to-day?" "We're tolerable, sir, I thank you," replied Grace, lifting the boiling mess carefully on to the hob: "rather snappish, but not 'rageous." A fierce cry seemed to give the lie to her favourable report: the clothed hyena rose up, and stood tall on its hind-feet. "Ah! sir, she sees you!" exclaimed Grace: "you'd better not stay." "Only a few moments, Grace: you must allow me a few moments." "Take care then, sir!--for God's sake, take care!" The maniac bellowed: she parted her shaggy locks from her visage, and gazed wildly at her visitors. I recognised well that purple face,--those bloated features. Mrs. Poole advanced. "Keep out of the way," said Mr. Rochester, thrusting her aside: "she has no knife now, I suppose, and I'm on my guard." "One never knows what she has, sir: she is so cunning: it is not in mortal discretion to fathom her craft." "We had better leave her," whispered Mason. "Go to the devil!" was his brother-in-law's recommendation. "'Ware!" cried Grace. The three gentlemen retreated simultaneously. Mr. Rochester flung me behind him: the lunatic sprang and grappled his throat viciously, and laid her teeth to his cheek: they struggled. She was a big woman, in stature almost equalling her husband, and corpulent besides: she showed virile force in the contest--more than once she almost throttled him, athletic as he was. He could have settled her with a well-planted blow; but he would not strike: he would only wrestle. At last he mastered her arms; Grace Poole gave him a cord, and he pinioned them behind her: with more rope, which was at hand, he bound her to a chair. The operation was performed amidst the fiercest yells and the most convulsive plunges. Mr. Rochester then turned to the spectators: he looked at them with a smile both acrid and desolate. "That is _my wife_," said he. "Such is the sole conjugal embrace I am ever to know--such are the endearments which are to solace my leisure hours! And _this_ is what I wished to have" (laying his hand on my shoulder): "this young girl, who stands so grave and quiet at the mouth of hell, looking collectedly at the gambols of a demon, I wanted her just as a change after that fierce ragout. Wood and Briggs, look at the difference! Compare these clear eyes with the red balls yonder--this face with that mask--this form with that bulk; then judge me, priest of the gospel and man of the law, and remember with what judgment ye judge ye shall be judged! Off with you now. I must shut up my prize." We all withdrew. Mr. Rochester stayed a moment behind us, to give some further order to Grace Poole. The solicitor addressed me as he descended the stair. "You, madam," said he, "are cleared from all blame: your uncle will be glad to hear it--if, indeed, he should be still living--when Mr. Mason returns to Madeira." "My uncle! What of him? Do you know him?" "Mr. Mason does. Mr. Eyre has been the Funchal correspondent of his house for some years. When your uncle received your letter intimating the contemplated union between yourself and Mr. Rochester, Mr. Mason, who was staying at Madeira to recruit his health, on his way back to Jamaica, happened to be with him. Mr. Eyre mentioned the intelligence; for he knew that my client here was acquainted with a gentleman of the name of Rochester. Mr. Mason, astonished and distressed as you may suppose, revealed the real state of matters. Your uncle, I am sorry to say, is now on a sick bed; from which, considering the nature of his disease--decline--and the stage it has reached, it is unlikely he will ever rise. He could not then hasten to England himself, to extricate you from the snare into which you had fallen, but he implored Mr. Mason to lose no time in taking steps to prevent the false marriage. He referred him to me for assistance. I used all despatch, and am thankful I was not too late: as you, doubtless, must be also. Were I not morally certain that your uncle will be dead ere you reach Madeira, I would advise you to accompany Mr. Mason back; but as it is, I think you had better remain in England till you can hear further, either from or of Mr. Eyre. Have we anything else to stay for?" he inquired of Mr. Mason. "No, no--let us be gone," was the anxious reply; and without waiting to take leave of Mr. Rochester, they made their exit at the hall door. The clergyman stayed to exchange a few sentences, either of admonition or reproof, with his haughty parishioner; this duty done, he too departed. I heard him go as I stood at the half-open door of my own room, to which I had now withdrawn. The house cleared, I shut myself in, fastened the bolt that none might intrude, and proceeded--not to weep, not to mourn, I was yet too calm for that, but--mechanically to take off the wedding dress, and replace it by the stuff gown I had worn yesterday, as I thought, for the last time. I then sat down: I felt weak and tired. I leaned my arms on a table, and my head dropped on them. And now I thought: till now I had only heard, seen, moved--followed up and down where I was led or dragged--watched event rush on event, disclosure open beyond disclosure: but _now_, _I thought_. The morning had been a quiet morning enough--all except the brief scene with the lunatic: the transaction in the church had not been noisy; there was no explosion of passion, no loud altercation, no dispute, no defiance or challenge, no tears, no sobs: a few words had been spoken, a calmly pronounced objection to the marriage made; some stern, short questions put by Mr. Rochester; answers, explanations given, evidence adduced; an open admission of the truth had been uttered by my master; then the living proof had been seen; the intruders were gone, and all was over. I was in my own room as usual--just myself, without obvious change: nothing had smitten me, or scathed me, or maimed me. And yet where was the Jane Eyre of yesterday?--where was her life?--where were her prospects? Jane Eyre, who had been an ardent, expectant woman--almost a bride, was a cold, solitary girl again: her life was pale; her prospects were desolate. A Christmas frost had come at midsummer; a white December storm had whirled over June; ice glazed the ripe apples, drifts crushed the blowing roses; on hayfield and cornfield lay a frozen shroud: lanes which last night blushed full of flowers, to-day were pathless with untrodden snow; and the woods, which twelve hours since waved leafy and flagrant as groves between the tropics, now spread, waste, wild, and white as pine-forests in wintry Norway. My hopes were all dead--struck with a subtle doom, such as, in one night, fell on all the first-born in the land of Egypt. I looked on my cherished wishes, yesterday so blooming and glowing; they lay stark, chill, livid corpses that could never revive. I looked at my love: that feeling which was my master's--which he had created; it shivered in my heart, like a suffering child in a cold cradle; sickness and anguish had seized it; it could not seek Mr. Rochester's arms--it could not derive warmth from his breast. Oh, never more could it turn to him; for faith was blighted--confidence destroyed! Mr. Rochester was not to me what he had been; for he was not what I had thought him. I would not ascribe vice to him; I would not say he had betrayed me; but the attribute of stainless truth was gone from his idea, and from his presence I must go: _that_ I perceived well. When--how--whither, I could not yet discern; but he himself, I doubted not, would hurry me from Thornfield. Real affection, it seemed, he could not have for me; it had been only fitful passion: that was balked; he would want me no more. I should fear even to cross his path now: my view must be hateful to him. Oh, how blind had been my eyes! How weak my conduct! My eyes were covered and closed: eddying darkness seemed to swim round me, and reflection came in as black and confused a flow. Self-abandoned, relaxed, and effortless, I seemed to have laid me down in the dried-up bed of a great river; I heard a flood loosened in remote mountains, and felt the torrent come: to rise I had no will, to flee I had no strength. I lay faint, longing to be dead. One idea only still throbbed life-like within me--a remembrance of God: it begot an unuttered prayer: these words went wandering up and down in my rayless mind, as something that should be whispered, but no energy was found to express them-- Sei mir nicht fern, denn das Unglück ist nah: Es gibt niemanden, der hilft. Es war nahe: und da ich keine Bitte an den Himmel gerichtet hatte, es abzuwenden - da ich weder meine Hände gefaltet, noch meine Knie gebeugt, noch meine Lippen bewegt hatte - kam es: mit voller Kraft ergoss sich der Strom über mich. Das ganze Bewusstsein meines verlorenen Lebens, meiner verlorenen Liebe, meiner erloschenen Hoffnung, meines vom Tod getroffenen Glaubens schwankte gewaltig über mir in einer grimmigen Masse. Diese bittere Stunde kann nicht beschrieben werden: in Wahrheit "kamen die Wassermassen in meine Seele; ich versank in tiefem Schlamm, ich spürte keinen Boden mehr unter meinen Füßen; ich geriet in tiefe Wasser; die Fluten überströmten mich." Kannst du eine geeignete Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze verfassen?

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Sophie hilft Jane, sich für die Hochzeit anzuziehen, und Rochester und Jane gehen zur Kirche. Jane bemerkt ein Paar Fremde, die die Grabsteine im Kirchhoffriedhof lesen. Als Jane und Rochester die Kirche betreten, sind die beiden Fremden ebenfalls anwesend. Als der Priester fragt, ob jemand Einwände gegen die Zeremonie hat, antwortet einer der Fremden: "Die Ehe kann nicht fortgesetzt werden: Ich erkläre das Vorliegen eines Hindernisses." Rochester versucht, mit der Zeremonie fortzufahren, aber der Fremde erklärt, dass Rochester bereits verheiratet ist - seine Frau ist eine Creole-Frau, mit der Rochester vor fünfzehn Jahren in Jamaika geheiratet hat. Der Sprecher erklärt, dass er ein Anwalt aus London ist und stellt sich als Mr. Briggs vor. Er legt einen unterzeichneten Brief von Richard Mason vor, der bestätigt, dass Rochester mit Bertha, Masons Schwester, verheiratet ist. Mr. Mason selbst tritt dann vor, um die Geschichte zu bestätigen. Nach einem Moment stummer Wut gibt Rochester zu, dass seine Frau lebt und dass er, indem er Jane heiratet, wissentlich einen zweiten Ehepartner genommen hätte. Niemand in der Gemeinde kennt seine Frau, weil sie verrückt ist, und Rochester hält sie unter der Obhut von Grace Poole gefangen. Aber er verspricht ihnen allen, dass Jane völlig unwissend von Berthas Existenz ist. Er fordert die Menge auf, nach Thornfield zu kommen, um sie zu sehen, damit sie verstehen können, was ihn zu seinem jetzigen Handeln veranlasst hat. In Thornfield steigt die Gruppe in den dritten Stock. Rochester zeigt den Raum, in dem Bertha ihren Bruder gebissen und erstochen hat, und dann hebt er eine Tapisserie hoch, um eine zweite Tür freizulegen. Im Inneren des versteckten Raumes befindet sich Bertha Mason, in der Obhut von Grace Poole. Jane schreibt: Im tiefen Schatten, am anderen Ende des Raumes, lief eine Gestalt hin und her. Beim ersten Blick konnte man nicht sagen, ob es ein Tier oder ein Mensch war: Es kroch, schien sich auf allen Vieren zu bewegen; es schnappte und knurrte wie ein seltsames wildes Tier: aber es war mit Kleidung bedeckt, und eine Menge dunkles, grizzeltes Haar, wild wie eine Mähne, verbarg seinen Kopf und sein Gesicht. Bertha versucht, Rochester zu erwürgen, der sein Publikum daran erinnert, dass "dies der einzige eheliche Umarmung ist, die ich jemals kennen werde." Jane verlässt den Raum mit Mason und Briggs, der ihr erzählt, dass er von Janes Absicht zu heiraten durch einen Brief von Janes Onkel, John Eyre, an Mason erfahren hat. Es stellt sich heraus, dass die beiden Männer Bekannte sind, und Mason war auf dem Rückweg nach Jamaika in Madeira stehen geblieben, als John Janes Brief erhielt. Im Sterben liegend bat John Mason, nach England zu eilen, um seine Nichte zu retten. Nachdem das Hochzeitspublikum sich zerstreut hat, schließt Jane sich in ihrem Zimmer ein und versinkt in unaussprechlicher Trauer. Sie denkt darüber nach, wie ruhig die Ereignisse des Morgens verlaufen sind und wie unverhältnismäßig groß die Auswirkungen dieser Ereignisse auf ihr Leben sind. Sie betet zu Gott, dass er bei ihr sein möge.

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 confess at these words a shudder passed through me. There was a thrill in the doctor's voice which showed that he was himself deeply moved by that which he told us. Holmes leaned forward in his excitement and his eyes had the hard, dry glitter which shot from them when he was keenly interested. "You saw this?" "As clearly as I see you." "And you said nothing?" "What was the use?" "How was it that no one else saw it?" "The marks were some twenty yards from the body and no one gave them a thought. I don't suppose I should have done so had I not known this legend." "There are many sheep-dogs on the moor?" "No doubt, but this was no sheep-dog." "You say it was large?" "Enormous." "But it had not approached the body?" "No." "What sort of night was it?' "Damp and raw." "But not actually raining?" "No." "What is the alley like?" "There are two lines of old yew hedge, twelve feet high and impenetrable. The walk in the centre is about eight feet across." "Is there anything between the hedges and the walk?" "Yes, there is a strip of grass about six feet broad on either side." "I understand that the yew hedge is penetrated at one point by a gate?" "Yes, the wicket-gate which leads on to the moor." "Is there any other opening?" "None." "So that to reach the yew alley one either has to come down it from the house or else to enter it by the moor-gate?" "There is an exit through a summer-house at the far end." "Had Sir Charles reached this?" "No; he lay about fifty yards from it." "Now, tell me, Dr. Mortimer--and this is important--the marks which you saw were on the path and not on the grass?" "No marks could show on the grass." "Were they on the same side of the path as the moor-gate?" "Yes; they were on the edge of the path on the same side as the moor-gate." "You interest me exceedingly. Another point. Was the wicket-gate closed?" "Closed and padlocked." "How high was it?" "About four feet high." "Then anyone could have got over it?" "Yes." "And what marks did you see by the wicket-gate?" "None in particular." "Good heaven! Did no one examine?" "Yes, I examined, myself." "And found nothing?" "It was all very confused. Sir Charles had evidently stood there for five or ten minutes." "How do you know that?" "Because the ash had twice dropped from his cigar." "Excellent! This is a colleague, Watson, after our own heart. But the marks?" "He had left his own marks all over that small patch of gravel. I could discern no others." Sherlock Holmes struck his hand against his knee with an impatient gesture. "If I had only been there!" he cried. "It is evidently a case of extraordinary interest, and one which presented immense opportunities to the scientific expert. That gravel page upon which I might have read so much has been long ere this smudged by the rain and defaced by the clogs of curious peasants. Oh, Dr. Mortimer, Dr. Mortimer, to think that you should not have called me in! You have indeed much to answer for." "I could not call you in, Mr. Holmes, without disclosing these facts to the world, and I have already given my reasons for not wishing to do so. Besides, besides--" "Why do you hesitate?" "There is a realm in which the most acute and most experienced of detectives is helpless." "You mean that the thing is supernatural?" "I did not positively say so." "No, but you evidently think it." "Since the tragedy, Mr. Holmes, there have come to my ears several incidents which are hard to reconcile with the settled order of Nature." "For example?" "I find that before the terrible event occurred several people had seen a creature upon the moor which corresponds with this Baskerville demon, and which could not possibly be any animal known to science. They all agreed that it was a huge creature, luminous, ghastly, and spectral. I have cross-examined these men, one of them a hard-headed countryman, one a farrier, and one a moorland farmer, who all tell the same story of this dreadful apparition, exactly corresponding to the hell-hound of the legend. I assure you that there is a reign of terror in the district, and that it is a hardy man who will cross the moor at night." "And you, a trained man of science, believe it to be supernatural?" "I do not know what to believe." Holmes shrugged his shoulders. "I have hitherto confined my investigations to this world," said he. "In a modest way I have combated evil, but to take on the Father of Evil himself would, perhaps, be too ambitious a task. Yet you must admit that the footmark is material." "The original hound was material enough to tug a man's throat out, and yet he was diabolical as well." "I see that you have quite gone over to the supernaturalists. But now, Dr. Mortimer, tell me this. If you hold these views, why have you come to consult me at all? You tell me in the same breath that it is useless to investigate Sir Charles's death, and that you desire me to do it." "I did not say that I desired you to do it." "Then, how can I assist you?" "By advising me as to what I should do with Sir Henry Baskerville, who arrives at Waterloo Station"--Dr. Mortimer looked at his watch--"in exactly one hour and a quarter." "He being the heir?" "Yes. On the death of Sir Charles we inquired for this young gentleman and found that he had been farming in Canada. From the accounts which have reached us he is an excellent fellow in every way. I speak now not as a medical man but as a trustee and executor of Sir Charles's will." "There is no other claimant, I presume?" "None. The only other kinsman whom we have been able to trace was Rodger Baskerville, the youngest of three brothers of whom poor Sir Charles was the elder. The second brother, who died young, is the father of this lad Henry. The third, Rodger, was the black sheep of the family. He came of the old masterful Baskerville strain and was the very image, they tell me, of the family picture of old Hugo. He made England too hot to hold him, fled to Central America, and died there in 1876 of yellow fever. Henry is the last of the Baskervilles. In one hour and five minutes I meet him at Waterloo Station. I have had a wire that he arrived at Southampton this morning. Now, Mr. Holmes, what would you advise me to do with him?" "Why should he not go to the home of his fathers?" "It seems natural, does it not? And yet, consider that every Baskerville who goes there meets with an evil fate. I feel sure that if Sir Charles could have spoken with me before his death he would have warned me against bringing this, the last of the old race, and the heir to great wealth, to that deadly place. And yet it cannot be denied that the prosperity of the whole poor, bleak countryside depends upon his presence. All the good work which has been done by Sir Charles will crash to the ground if there is no tenant of the Hall. I fear lest I should be swayed too much by my own obvious interest in the matter, and that is why I bring the case before you and ask for your advice." Holmes considered for a little time. "Put into plain words, the matter is this," said he. "In your opinion there is a diabolical agency which makes Dartmoor an unsafe abode for a Baskerville--that is your opinion?" "At least I might go the length of saying that there is some evidence that this may be so." "Exactly. But surely, if your supernatural theory be correct, it could work the young man evil in London as easily as in Devonshire. A devil with merely local powers like a parish vestry would be too inconceivable a thing." "You put the matter more flippantly, Mr. Holmes, than you would probably do if you were brought into personal contact with these things. Your advice, then, as I understand it, is that the young man will be as safe in Devonshire as in London. He comes in fifty minutes. What would you recommend?" "I recommend, sir, that you take a cab, call off your spaniel who is scratching at my front door, and proceed to Waterloo to meet Sir Henry Baskerville." "And then?" "And then you will say nothing to him at all until I have made up my mind about the matter." "How long will it take you to make up your mind?" "Twenty-four hours. At ten o'clock tomorrow, Dr. Mortimer, I will be much obliged to you if you will call upon me here, and it will be of help to me in my plans for the future if you will bring Sir Henry Baskerville with you." "I will do so, Mr. Holmes." He scribbled the appointment on his shirt-cuff and hurried off in his strange, peering, absent-minded fashion. Holmes stopped him at the head of the stair. "Only one more question, Dr. Mortimer. You say that before Sir Charles Baskerville's death several people saw this apparition upon the moor?" "Three people did." "Did any see it after?" "I have not heard of any." "Thank you. Good-morning." Holmes returned to his seat with that quiet look of inward satisfaction which meant that he had a congenial task before him. "Going out, Watson?" "Unless I can help you." "No, my dear fellow, it is at the hour of action that I turn to you for aid. But this is splendid, really unique from some points of view. When you pass Bradley's, would you ask him to send up a pound of the strongest shag tobacco? Thank you. It would be as well if you could make it convenient not to return before evening. Then I should be very glad to compare impressions as to this most interesting problem which has been submitted to us this morning." I knew that seclusion and solitude were very necessary for my friend in those hours of intense mental concentration during which he weighed every particle of evidence, constructed alternative theories, balanced one against the other, and made up his mind as to which points were essential and which immaterial. I therefore spent the day at my club and did not return to Baker Street until evening. It was nearly nine o'clock when I found myself in the sitting-room once more. My first impression as I opened the door was that a fire had broken out, for the room was so filled with smoke that the light of the lamp upon the table was blurred by it. As I entered, however, my fears were set at rest, for it was the acrid fumes of strong coarse tobacco which took me by the throat and set me coughing. Through the haze I had a vague vision of Holmes in his dressing-gown coiled up in an armchair with his black clay pipe between his lips. Several rolls of paper lay around him. "Caught cold, Watson?" said he. "No, it's this poisonous atmosphere." "I suppose it is pretty thick, now that you mention it." "Thick! It is intolerable." "Open the window, then! You have been at your club all day, I perceive." "My dear Holmes!" "Am I right?" "Certainly, but how?" He laughed at my bewildered expression. "There is a delightful freshness about you, Watson, which makes it a pleasure to exercise any small powers which I possess at your expense. A gentleman goes forth on a showery and miry day. He returns immaculate in the evening with the gloss still on his hat and his boots. He has been a fixture therefore all day. He is not a man with intimate friends. Where, then, could he have been? Is it not obvious?" "Well, it is rather obvious." "The world is full of obvious things which nobody by any chance ever observes. Where do you think that I have been?" "A fixture also." "On the contrary, I have been to Devonshire." "In spirit?" "Exactly. My body has remained in this armchair and has, I regret to observe, consumed in my absence two large pots of coffee and an incredible amount of tobacco. After you left I sent down to Stamford's for the Ordnance map of this portion of the moor, and my spirit has hovered over it all day. I flatter myself that I could find my way about." "A large-scale map, I presume?" "Very large." He unrolled one section and held it over his knee. "Here you have the particular district which concerns us. That is Baskerville Hall in the middle." "With a wood round it?" "Exactly. I fancy the yew alley, though not marked under that name, must stretch along this line, with the moor, as you perceive, upon the right of it. This small clump of buildings here is the hamlet of Grimpen, where our friend Dr. Mortimer has his headquarters. Within a radius of five miles there are, as you see, only a very few scattered dwellings. Here is Lafter Hall, which was mentioned in the narrative. There is a house indicated here which may be the residence of the naturalist--Stapleton, if I remember right, was his name. Here are two moorland farmhouses, High Tor and Foulmire. Then fourteen miles away the great convict prison of Princetown. Between and around these scattered points extends the desolate, lifeless moor. This, then, is the stage upon which tragedy has been played, and upon which we may help to play it again." "It must be a wild place." "Yes, the setting is a worthy one. If the devil did desire to have a hand in the affairs of men--" "Then you are yourself inclining to the supernatural explanation." "The devil's agents may be of flesh and blood, may they not? There are two questions waiting for us at the outset. The one is whether any crime has been committed at all; the second is, what is the crime and how was it committed? Of course, if Dr. Mortimer's surmise should be correct, and we are dealing with forces outside the ordinary laws of Nature, there is an end of our investigation. But we are bound to exhaust all other hypotheses before falling back upon this one. I think we'll shut that window again, if you don't mind. It is a singular thing, but I find that a concentrated atmosphere helps a concentration of thought. I have not pushed it to the length of getting into a box to think, but that is the logical outcome of my convictions. Have you turned the case over in your mind?" "Yes, I have thought a good deal of it in the course of the day." "What do you make of it?" "It is very bewildering." "It has certainly a character of its own. There are points of distinction about it. That change in the footprints, for example. What do you make of that?" "Mortimer said that the man had walked on tiptoe down that portion of the alley." "He only repeated what some fool had said at the inquest. Why should a man walk on tiptoe down the alley?" "What then?" "He was running, Watson--running desperately, running for his life, running until he burst his heart--and fell dead upon his face." "Running from what?" "There lies our problem. There are indications that the man was crazed with fear before ever he began to run." "How can you say that?" "I am presuming that the cause of his fears came to him across the moor. If that were so, and it seems most probable, only a man who had lost his wits would have run from the house instead of towards it. If the gipsy's evidence may be taken as true, he ran with cries for help in the direction where help was least likely to be. Then, again, whom was he waiting for that night, and why was he waiting for him in the yew alley rather than in his own house?" "You think that he was waiting for someone?" "The man was elderly and infirm. We can understand his taking an evening stroll, but the ground was damp and the night inclement. Is it natural that he should stand for five or ten minutes, as Dr. Mortimer, with more practical sense than I should have given him credit for, deduced from the cigar ash?" "But he went out every evening." "I think it unlikely that he waited at the moor-gate every evening. On the contrary, the evidence is that he avoided the moor. That night he waited there. It was the night before he made his departure for London. The thing takes shape, Watson. It becomes coherent. Might I ask you to hand me my violin, and we will postpone all further thought upon this business until we have had the advantage of meeting Dr. Mortimer and Sir Henry Baskerville in the morning." Our breakfast table was cleared early, and Holmes waited in his dressing-gown for the promised interview. Our clients were punctual to their appointment, for the clock had just struck ten when Dr. Mortimer was shown up, followed by the young baronet. The latter was a small, alert, dark-eyed man about thirty years of age, very sturdily built, with thick black eyebrows and a strong, pugnacious face. He wore a ruddy-tinted tweed suit and had the weather-beaten appearance of one who has spent most of his time in the open air, and yet there was something in his steady eye and the quiet assurance of his bearing which indicated the gentleman. "This is Sir Henry Baskerville," said Dr. Mortimer. "Why, yes," said he, "and the strange thing is, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, that if my friend here had not proposed coming round to you this morning I should have come on my own account. I understand that you think out little puzzles, and I've had one this morning which wants more thinking out than I am able to give it." "Pray take a seat, Sir Henry. Do I understand you to say that you have yourself had some remarkable experience since you arrived in London?" "Nothing of much importance, Mr. Holmes. Only a joke, as like as not. It was this letter, if you can call it a letter, which reached me this morning." He laid an envelope upon the table, and we all bent over it. It was of common quality, grayish in colour. The address, "Sir Henry Baskerville, Northumberland Hotel," was printed in rough characters; the post-mark "Charing Cross," and the date of posting the preceding evening. "Who knew that you were going to the Northumberland Hotel?" asked Holmes, glancing keenly across at our visitor. "No one could have known. We only decided after I met Dr. Mortimer." "But Dr. Mortimer was no doubt already stopping there?" "No, I had been staying with a friend," said the doctor. "There was no possible indication that we intended to go to this hotel." "Hum! Someone seems to be very deeply interested in your movements." Out of the envelope he took a half-sheet of foolscap paper folded into four. This he opened and spread flat upon the table. Across the middle of it a single sentence had been formed by the expedient of pasting printed words upon it. It ran: As you value your life or your reason keep away from the moor. The word "moor" only was printed in ink. "Now," said Sir Henry Baskerville, "perhaps you will tell me, Mr. Holmes, what in thunder is the meaning of that, and who it is that takes so much interest in my affairs?" "What do you make of it, Dr. Mortimer? You must allow that there is nothing supernatural about this, at any rate?" "No, sir, but it might very well come from someone who was convinced that the business is supernatural." "What business?" asked Sir Henry sharply. "It seems to me that all you gentlemen know a great deal more than I do about my own affairs." "You shall share our knowledge before you leave this room, Sir Henry. I promise you that," said Sherlock Holmes. "We will confine ourselves for the present with your permission to this very interesting document, which must have been put together and posted yesterday evening. Have you yesterday's Times, Watson?" "It is here in the corner." "Might I trouble you for it--the inside page, please, with the leading articles?" He glanced swiftly over it, running his eyes up and down the columns. "Capital article this on free trade. Permit me to give you an extract from it. 'You may be cajoled into imagining that your own special trade or your own industry will be encouraged by a protective tariff, but it stands to reason that such legislation must in the long run keep away wealth from the country, diminish the value of our imports, and lower the general conditions of life in this island.' "What do you think of that, Watson?" cried Holmes in high glee, rubbing his hands together with satisfaction. "Don't you think that is an admirable sentiment?" Dr. Mortimer looked at Holmes with an air of professional interest, and Sir Henry Baskerville turned a pair of puzzled dark eyes upon me. "I don't know much about the tariff and things of that kind," said he, "but it seems to me we've got a bit off the trail so far as that note is concerned." "On the contrary, I think we are particularly hot upon the trail, Sir Henry. Watson here knows more about my methods than you do, but I fear that even he has not quite grasped the significance of this sentence." "No, I confess that I see no connection." "And yet, my dear Watson, there is so very close a connection that the one is extracted out of the other. 'You,' 'your,' 'your,' 'life,' 'reason,' 'value,' 'keep away,' 'from the.' Don't you see now whence these words have been taken?" "By thunder, you're right! Well, if that isn't smart!" cried Sir Henry. "If any possible doubt remained it is settled by the fact that 'keep away' and 'from the' are cut out in one piece." "Well, now--so it is!" "Really, Mr. Holmes, this exceeds anything which I could have imagined," said Dr. Mortimer, gazing at my friend in amazement. "I could understand anyone saying that the words were from a newspaper; but that you should name which, and add that it came from the leading article, is really one of the most remarkable things which I have ever known. How did you do it?" "I presume, Doctor, that you could tell the skull of a negro from that of an Esquimau?" "Most certainly." "But how?" "Because that is my special hobby. The differences are obvious. The supra-orbital crest, the facial angle, the maxillary curve, the--" "But this is my special hobby, and the differences are equally obvious. There is as much difference to my eyes between the leaded bourgeois type of a Times article and the slovenly print of an evening half-penny paper as there could be between your negro and your Esquimau. The detection of types is one of the most elementary branches of knowledge to the special expert in crime, though I confess that once when I was very young I confused the Leeds Mercury with the Western Morning News. But a Times leader is entirely distinctive, and these words could have been taken from nothing else. As it was done yesterday the strong probability was that we should find the words in yesterday's issue." "So far as I can follow you, then, Mr. Holmes," said Sir Henry Baskerville, "someone cut out this message with a scissors--" "Nail-scissors," said Holmes. "You can see that it was a very short-bladed scissors, since the cutter had to take two snips over 'keep away.'" "That is so. Someone, then, cut out the message with a pair of short-bladed scissors, pasted it with paste--" "Gum," said Holmes. "With gum on to the paper. But I want to know why the word 'moor' should have been written?" "Because he could not find it in print. The other words were all simple and might be found in any issue, but 'moor' would be less common." "Why, of course, that would explain it. Have you read anything else in this message, Mr. Holmes?" "There are one or two indications, and yet the utmost pains have been taken to remove all clues. The address, you observe is printed in rough characters. But the Times is a paper which is seldom found in any hands but those of the highly educated. We may take it, therefore, that the letter was composed by an educated man who wished to pose as an uneducated one, and his effort to conceal his own writing suggests that that writing might be known, or come to be known, by you. Again, you will observe that the words are not gummed on in an accurate line, but that some are much higher than others. 'Life,' for example is quite out of its proper place. That may point to carelessness or it may point to agitation and hurry upon the part of the cutter. On the whole I incline to the latter view, since the matter was evidently important, and it is unlikely that the composer of such a letter would be careless. If he were in a hurry it opens up the interesting question why he should be in a hurry, since any letter posted up to early morning would reach Sir Henry before he would leave his hotel. Did the composer fear an interruption--and from whom?" "We are coming now rather into the region of guesswork," said Dr. Mortimer. "Say, rather, into the region where we balance probabilities and choose the most likely. It is the scientific use of the imagination, but we have always some material basis on which to start our speculation. Now, you would call it a guess, no doubt, but I am almost certain that this address has been written in a hotel." "How in the world can you say that?" "If you examine it carefully you will see that both the pen and the ink have given the writer trouble. The pen has spluttered twice in a single word and has run dry three times in a short address, showing that there was very little ink in the bottle. Now, a private pen or ink-bottle is seldom allowed to be in such a state, and the combination of the two must be quite rare. But you know the hotel ink and the hotel pen, where it is rare to get anything else. Yes, I have very little hesitation in saying that could we examine the waste-paper baskets of the hotels around Charing Cross until we found the remains of the mutilated Times leader we could lay our hands straight upon the person who sent this singular message. Halloa! Halloa! What's this?" He was carefully examining the foolscap, upon which the words were pasted, holding it only an inch or two from his eyes. "Well?" "Nothing," said he, throwing it down. "It is a blank half-sheet of paper, without even a water-mark upon it. I think we have drawn as much as we can from this curious letter; and now, Sir Henry, has anything else of interest happened to you since you have been in London?" "Why, no, Mr. Holmes. I think not." "You have not observed anyone follow or watch you?" "I seem to have walked right into the thick of a dime novel," said our visitor. "Why in thunder should anyone follow or watch me?" "We are coming to that. You have nothing else to report to us before we go into this matter?" "Well, it depends upon what you think worth reporting." "I think anything out of the ordinary routine of life well worth reporting." Sir Henry smiled. "I don't know much of British life yet, for I have spent nearly all my time in the States and in Canada. But I hope that to lose one of your boots is not part of the ordinary routine of life over here." "You have lost one of your boots?" "My dear sir," cried Dr. Mortimer, "it is only mislaid. You will find it when you return to the hotel. What is the use of troubling Mr. Holmes with trifles of this kind?" "Well, he asked me for anything outside the ordinary routine." "Exactly," said Holmes, "however foolish the incident may seem. You have lost one of your boots, you say?" "Well, mislaid it, anyhow. I put them both outside my door last night, and there was only one in the morning. I could get no sense out of the chap who cleans them. The worst of it is that I only bought the pair last night in the Strand, and I have never had them on." "If you have never worn them, why did you put them out to be cleaned?" "They were tan boots and had never been varnished. That was why I put them out." "Then I understand that on your arrival in London yesterday you went out at once and bought a pair of boots?" "I did a good deal of shopping. Dr. Mortimer here went round with me. You see, if I am to be squire down there I must dress the part, and it may be that I have got a little careless in my ways out West. Among other things I bought these brown boots--gave six dollars for them--and had one stolen before ever I had them on my feet." "It seems a singularly useless thing to steal," said Sherlock Holmes. "I confess that I share Dr. Mortimer's belief that it will not be long before the missing boot is found." "And, now, gentlemen," said the baronet with decision, "it seems to me that I have spoken quite enough about the little that I know. It is time that you kept your promise and gave me a full account of what we are all driving at." "Your request is a very reasonable one," Holmes answered. "Dr. Mortimer, I think you could not do better than to tell your story as you told it to us." Thus encouraged, our scientific friend drew his papers from his pocket and presented the whole case as he had done upon the morning before. Sir Henry Baskerville listened with the deepest attention and with an occasional exclamation of surprise. "Well, I seem to have come into an inheritance with a vengeance," said he when the long narrative was finished. "Of course, I've heard of the hound ever since I was in the nursery. It's the pet story of the family, though I never thought of taking it seriously before. But as to my uncle's death--well, it all seems boiling up in my head, and I can't get it clear yet. You don't seem quite to have made up your mind whether it's a case for a policeman or a clergyman." "Precisely." "And now there's this affair of the letter to me at the hotel. I suppose that fits into its place." "It seems to show that someone knows more than we do about what goes on upon the moor," said Dr. Mortimer. "And also," said Holmes, "that someone is not ill-disposed towards you, since they warn you of danger." "Or it may be that they wish, for their own purposes, to scare me away." "Well, of course, that is possible also. I am very much indebted to you, Dr. Mortimer, for introducing me to a problem which presents several interesting alternatives. But the practical point which we now have to decide, Sir Henry, is whether it is or is not advisable for you to go to Baskerville Hall." "Why should I not go?" "There seems to be danger." "Do you mean danger from this family fiend or do you mean danger from human beings?" "Well, that is what we have to find out." "Whichever it is, my answer is fixed. There is no devil in hell, Mr. Holmes, and there is no man upon earth who can prevent me from going to the home of my own people, and you may take that to be my final answer." His dark brows knitted and his face flushed to a dusky red as he spoke. It was evident that the fiery temper of the Baskervilles was not extinct in this their last representative. "Meanwhile," said he, "I have hardly had time to think over all that you have told me. It's a big thing for a man to have to understand and to decide at one sitting. I should like to have a quiet hour by myself to make up my mind. Now, look here, Mr. Holmes, it's half-past eleven now and I am going back right away to my hotel. Suppose you and your friend, Dr. Watson, come round and lunch with us at two. I'll be able to tell you more clearly then how this thing strikes me." "Is that convenient to you, Watson?" "Perfectly." "Then you may expect us. Shall I have a cab called?" "I'd prefer to walk, for this affair has flurried me rather." "I'll join you in a walk, with pleasure," said his companion. "Then we meet again at two o'clock. Au revoir, and good-morning!" We heard the steps of our visitors descend the stair and the bang of the front door. In an instant Holmes had changed from the languid dreamer to the man of action. "Your hat and boots, Watson, quick! Not a moment to lose!" He rushed into his room in his dressing-gown and was back again in a few seconds in a frock-coat. We hurried together down the stairs and into the street. Dr. Mortimer and Baskerville were still visible about two hundred yards ahead of us in the direction of Oxford Street. "Shall I run on and stop them?" "Not for the world, my dear Watson. I am perfectly satisfied with your company if you will tolerate mine. Our friends are wise, for it is certainly a very fine morning for a walk." He quickened his pace until we had decreased the distance which divided us by about half. Then, still keeping a hundred yards behind, we followed into Oxford Street and so down Regent Street. Once our friends stopped and stared into a shop window, upon which Holmes did the same. An instant afterwards he gave a little cry of satisfaction, and, following the direction of his eager eyes, I saw that a hansom cab with a man inside which had halted on the other side of the street was now proceeding slowly onward again. "There's our man, Watson! Come along! We'll have a good look at him, if we can do no more." At that instant I was aware of a bushy black beard and a pair of piercing eyes turned upon us through the side window of the cab. Instantly the trapdoor at the top flew up, something was screamed to the driver, and the cab flew madly off down Regent Street. Holmes looked eagerly round for another, but no empty one was in sight. Then he dashed in wild pursuit amid the stream of the traffic, but the start was too great, and already the cab was out of sight. "There now!" said Holmes bitterly as he emerged panting and white with vexation from the tide of vehicles. "Was ever such bad luck and such bad management, too? Watson, Watson, if you are an honest man you will record this also and set it against my successes!" "Who was the man?" "I have not an idea." "A spy?" "Well, it was evident from what we have heard that Baskerville has been very closely shadowed by someone since he has been in town. How else could it be known so quickly that it was the Northumberland Hotel which he had chosen? If they had followed him the first day I argued that they would follow him also the second. You may have observed that I twice strolled over to the window while Dr. Mortimer was reading his legend." "Yes, I remember." "I was looking out for loiterers in the street, but I saw none. We are dealing with a clever man, Watson. This matter cuts very deep, and though I have not finally made up my mind whether it is a benevolent or a malevolent agency which is in touch with us, I am conscious always of power and design. When our friends left I at once followed them in the hopes of marking down their invisible attendant. So wily was he that he had not trusted himself upon foot, but he had availed himself of a cab so that he could loiter behind or dash past them and so escape their notice. His method had the additional advantage that if they were to take a cab he was all ready to follow them. It has, however, one obvious disadvantage." "It puts him in the power of the cabman." "Exactly." "What a pity we did not get the number!" "My dear Watson, clumsy as I have been, you surely do not seriously imagine that I neglected to get the number? No. 2704 is our man. But that is no use to us for the moment." "I fail to see how you could have done more." "On observing the cab I should have instantly turned and walked in the other direction. I should then at my leisure have hired a second cab and followed the first at a respectful distance, or, better still, have driven to the Northumberland Hotel and waited there. When our unknown had followed Baskerville home we should have had the opportunity of playing his own game upon himself and seeing where he made for. As it is, by an indiscreet eagerness, which was taken advantage of with extraordinary quickness and energy by our opponent, we have betrayed ourselves and lost our man." We had been sauntering slowly down Regent Street during this conversation, and Dr. Mortimer, with his companion, had long vanished in front of us. "There is no object in our following them," said Holmes. "The shadow has departed and will not return. We must see what further cards we have in our hands and play them with decision. Could you swear to that man's face within the cab?" "I could swear only to the beard." "And so could I--from which I gather that in all probability it was a false one. A clever man upon so delicate an errand has no use for a beard save to conceal his features. Come in here, Watson!" He turned into one of the district messenger offices, where he was warmly greeted by the manager. "Ah, Wilson, I see you have not forgotten the little case in which I had the good fortune to help you?" "No, sir, indeed I have not. You saved my good name, and perhaps my life." "My dear fellow, you exaggerate. I have some recollection, Wilson, that you had among your boys a lad named Cartwright, who showed some ability during the investigation." "Yes, sir, he is still with us." "Could you ring him up?--thank you! And I should be glad to have change of this five-pound note." A lad of fourteen, with a bright, keen face, had obeyed the summons of the manager. He stood now gazing with great reverence at the famous detective. "Let me have the Hotel Directory," said Holmes. "Thank you! Now, Cartwright, there are the names of twenty-three hotels here, all in the immediate neighbourhood of Charing Cross. Do you see?" "Yes, sir." "You will visit each of these in turn." "Yes, sir." "You will begin in each case by giving the outside porter one shilling. Here are twenty-three shillings." "Yes, sir." "You will tell him that you want to see the waste-paper of yesterday. You will say that an important telegram has miscarried and that you are looking for it. You understand?" "Yes, sir." "But what you are really looking for is the centre page of the Times with some holes cut in it with scissors. Here is a copy of the Times. It is this page. You could easily recognize it, could you not?" "Yes, sir." "In each case the outside porter will send for the hall porter, to whom also you will give a shilling. Here are twenty-three shillings. You will then learn in possibly twenty cases out of the twenty-three that the waste of the day before has been burned or removed. In the three other cases you will be shown a heap of paper and you will look for this page of the Times among it. The odds are enormously against your finding it. There are ten shillings over in case of emergencies. Let me have a report by wire at Baker Street before evening. And now, Watson, it only remains for us to find out by wire the identity of the cabman, No. 2704, and then we will drop into one of the Bond Street picture galleries and fill in the time until we are due at the hotel." Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Das Problem Kapitel III: Das Problem Dr. Mortimer erklärt, dass die Fußabdrücke 20 Meter vom Körper entfernt gefunden wurden und dass er sie wahrscheinlich übersehen hätte, wenn es nicht die Legende gegeben hätte. Holmes befragt ihn dann und fragt nach Einzelheiten über die Gasse, in der Sir Charles gestorben ist. Wie Dr. Mortimer erklärt, besteht sie aus einem Kiesweg, der von hohen Hecken auf zwei Seiten umgeben ist. Ein Teil der Gasse führt zu einem Sommerhaus, das andere Ende führt zum Hauptgebäude. Eine Hecke wird durch ein Wicket-Gate unterbrochen, das zum Moor hinausführt. Daher gibt es insgesamt drei Eingänge zur Gasse. Schließlich bemerkt er, dass der Hauptweg der Gasse durch Grasstreifen von den Hecken getrennt ist. Holmes ist verärgert, dass Mortimer ihn nicht sofort angerufen hat, da offensichtlich Spuren währenddessen verwischt wurden. Mortimer entgegnet, dass der Fall möglicherweise über Holmes' Fähigkeiten hinausgeht, da übernatürliche Elemente darin vorkommen. Berichten zufolge haben mehrere Leute bereits vor Sir Charles' Tod ein unnatürliches Wesen auf dem Moor gesehen. Seit dem Tod wurden jedoch keine Berichte mehr eingereicht. Holmes fragt dann, warum Mortimer ihn überhaupt einschließen würde, und Mortimer erklärt, dass Sir Charles' Neffe und der nächste Erbe, Sir Henry Baskerville, in London eintreffen wird und dass Dr. Mortimer um seine Sicherheit besorgt sei. Er glaubt, dass es wichtig ist, eine Person aus der Gemeinschaft des Moores in Baskerville Hall zu haben, die Sir Charles' Philanthropie fortsetzen kann, oder er würde Sir Henry einfach warnen. Holmes rät Dr. Mortimer, Sir Henry wie geplant am Waterloo zu treffen und nichts über den Hund zu erwähnen. Er weist Mortimer auch an, Sir Henry am nächsten Morgen zu ihm zu bringen, zu dem Zeitpunkt wird Holmes den richtigen Handlungsablauf bestimmt haben. Nachdem Dr. Mortimer gegangen ist, lässt Watson Holmes allein zum Nachdenken. Als Watson später zurückkehrt, findet er das Zimmer voller Tabakrauch. Mit wenig Aufwand erkennt Holmes, dass Watson den ganzen Tag im Club verbracht hat. Er zeigt Watson eine Karte vom Moor, die er besorgt hat, und markiert die verschiedenen Orte, von denen sowohl Dr. Mortimer als auch der Autor des Manuskripts sprechen. Holmes schlägt vor, dass ihnen zwei Fragen gegenüberstehen: Erstens, wurde überhaupt ein Verbrechen begangen? Und zweitens, welches Verbrechen wurde begangen und wie? Watson findet den Fall verwirrend; Holmes stimmt zu, dass er einen "Charakter für sich selbst" hat. Er glaubt, dass die fußballenförmigen Fußabdrücke darauf hinweisen, dass Sir Charles gerannt ist, obwohl er nicht weiß, wovor der Mann geflohen ist. Die Tatsache, dass er vom Haus weggerannt ist anstatt darauf zu, lässt vermuten, dass er vor Angst außer sich war. Holmes glaubt auch, dass Sir Charles draußen auf jemanden gewartet haben muss, was die von Dr. Mortimer beschriebene Zigarrenasche erklären würde. Kapitel IV: Sir Henry Baskerville Am nächsten Morgen kommen Dr. Mortimer und Sir Henry an und bringen ein brandneues Rätsel mit. Jemand hat einen Brief an sein Hotel geschickt, der aus ausgeschnittenen Wörtern besteht, die irgendwo gedruckt waren und zusammengeklebt wurden. Es lautet: "Halten Sie sich vom Moor fern, wenn Sie Ihr Leben oder Ihren Verstand schätzen". Nur das Wort "Moor" wurde handschriftlich hinzugefügt. Das Rätsel ist umso beunruhigender, da niemand wusste, in welchem Hotel Sir Henry bleiben wollte. Anhand des Schriftbildes erkennt Holmes schnell nicht nur aus welcher Zeitung die Worte stammen, sondern auch aus welchem Artikel, und stellt fest, dass die Worte mit Nagelscheren ausgeschnitten wurden. Er schließt daraus, dass die Person, die diesen Brief verfasst hat, gebildet war, aber sich als ungebildete Person ausgeben wollte. Er vermutet, dass der Täter befürchtete, dass Sir Henry entweder seine Handschrift erkennen oder ihm bald genug begegnen würde. Schließlich bemerkt er, dass der Verfasser des Briefes in Eile war, wahrscheinlich weil er befürchtete, unterbrochen zu werden. Holmes fragt Sir Henry, ob ihm sonst noch etwas Interessantes passiert ist. Obwohl der Mann schockiert über diese Ereignisse ist, erklärt er, dass eines seiner brandneuen Stiefel fehlt, nachdem er sie im Hotelflur zum Putzen abgestellt hatte. Sir Henry verlangt zu wissen, was vor sich geht, also erzählt Dr. Mortimer seine Geschichte. Intrigiert gibt Sir Henry zu, dass er die Legende gehört habe, sie jedoch nie ernst genommen habe. Als Holmes daraufhin erklärt, dass es irgendeine Gefahr in Baskerville Hall gibt, erklärt Sir Henry wütend, dass es "keinen Mann auf Erden gibt, der mich davon abhalten kann, zum Zuhause meiner eigenen Leute zu gehen". Er lädt Holmes jedoch ein, am selben Tag später zum Mittagessen zu kommen, zu diesem Zeitpunkt wird er die Sache durchdacht haben. Sobald Sir Henry und Dr. Mortimer weg sind, springt Holmes in Aktion. Er und Watson folgen den Männern und bemerken einen Mann, der sie aus einem Taxi heraus verfolgt. Watson bemerkt, dass dieser Mann einen buschigen schwarzen Bart und ein paar durchdringende Augen hat. Als das Taxi plötzlich wegfährt, versucht Holmes, ein eigenes Taxi herbeizuwinken, aber scheitert. Verfluchend sein Unglück, bewundert Holmes die Cleverness des Schuldigen, ist aber froh, dass er die Nummer des Taxis notieren konnte, bevor es verschwand. Holmes bittet Watson, einen Jungen namens Cartwright zu rufen, den Holmes dann auffordert, die Papierkörbe aller nahegelegenen Hotels zu überprüfen, um die Zeitung zu finden, die für den Brief verwendet wurde. Sobald Cartwright weg ist, plant Holmes, eine Anfrage nach dem Taxifahrer zu schicken. Kapitel IV ist auch bemerkenswert, weil es zeigt, wie Holmes sich vom Denker zum Handelnden entwickelt. Während er viel aus der Vergangenheit ableiten kann, weiß er nicht, wohin seine zukünftige Handlung führen wird. Und doch ist er genauso aufgeregt, der Spur zu folgen. Dies offenbart eine weitere seiner Methoden: Er muss die Schaffung von Hinweisen erleichtern und nicht einfach nur darauf warten, dass sie zu ihm kommen. Das Rätsel ist sehr lebendig, und er möchte als Katalysator für seine Enthüllung wirken.

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: DR. LANYON'S NARRATIVE ON the ninth of January, now four days ago, I received by the evening delivery a registered envelope, addressed in the hand of my colleague and old school-companion, Henry Jekyll. I was a good deal surprised by this; for we were by no means in the habit of correspondence; I had seen the man, dined with him, indeed, the night before; and I could imagine nothing in our intercourse that should justify formality of registration. The contents increased my wonder; for this is how the letter ran: "10th December, 18--- "DEAR LANYON, You are one of my oldest friends; and although we may have differed at times on scientific questions, I cannot remember, at least on my side, any break in our affection. There was never a day when, if you had said to me, 'Jekyll, my life, my honour, my reason, depend upon you,' I would not have sacrificed my left hand to help you. Lanyon, my life, my honour my reason, are all at your mercy; 71) if you fail me to-night I am lost. You might suppose, after this preface, that I am going to ask you for something dishonourable to grant. Judge for yourself. "I want you to postpone all other engagements for to-night--ay, even if you were summoned to the bedside of an emperor; to take a cab, unless your carriage should be actually at the door; and with this letter in your hand for consultation, to drive straight to my house. Poole, my butler, has his orders; you will find, him waiting your arrival with a locksmith. The door of my cabinet is then to be forced: and you are to go in alone; to open the glazed press (letter E) on the left hand, breaking the lock if it be shut; and to draw out, with all its contents as they stand, the fourth drawer from the top or (which is the same thing) the third from the bottom. In my extreme distress of wind, I have a morbid fear of misdirecting you; but even if I am in error, you may know the right drawer by its contents: some powders, a phial and a paper book. This drawer I beg of you to carry back with you to Cavendish Square exactly as it stands. "That is the first part of the service: now for the second. You should be back, if you set out at once on the receipt of this, long before midnight; but I will leave you that amount of margin, not only in the fear of one of those obstacles that can neither be prevented nor fore- 72) seen, but because an hour when your servants are in bed is to be preferred for what will then remain to do. At midnight, then, I have to ask you to be alone in your consulting-room, to admit with your own hand into the house a man who will present himself in my name, and to place in his hands the drawer that you will have brought with you from my cabinet. Then you will have played your part and earned my gratitude completely. Five minutes afterwards, if you insist upon an explanation, you will have understood that these arrangements are of capital importance; and that by the neglect of one of them, fantastic as they must appear, you might have charged your conscience with my death or the shipwreck of my reason. "Confident as I am that you will not trifle with this appeal, my heart sinks and my hand trembles at the bare thought of such a possibility. Think of me at this hour, in a strange place, labouring under a blackness of distress that no fancy can exaggerate, and yet well aware that, if you will but punctually serve me, my troubles will roll away like a story that is told. Serve me, my dear Lanyon, and save "Your friend, "H. J. "P. S. I had already sealed this up when a fresh terror struck upon my soul. It is possible that the postoffice may fail me, and this letter 73) not come into your hands until to-morrow morning. In that case, dear Lanyon, do my errand when it shall be most convenient for you in the course of the day; and once more expect my messenger at midnight. It may then already be too late; and if that night passes without event, you will know that you have seen the last of Henry Jekyll." Upon the reading of this letter, I made sure my colleague was insane; but till that was proved beyond the possibility of doubt, I felt bound to do as he requested. The less I understood of this farrago, the less I was in a position to judge of its importance; and an appeal so worded could not be set aside without a grave responsibility. I rose accordingly from table, got into a hansom, and drove straight to Jekyll's house. The butler was awaiting my arrival; he had received by the same post as mine a registered letter of instruction, and had sent at once for a locksmith and a carpenter. The tradesmen came while we were yet speaking; and we moved in a body to old Dr. Denman's surgical theatre, from which (as you are doubtless aware) Jekyll's private cabinet is most conveniently entered. The door was very strong, the lock excellent; the carpenter avowed he would have great trouble and have to do much damage, if force were to be used; and the locksmith was near despair. But this last was a handy fellow, 74) and after two hours' work, the door stood open. The press marked E was unlocked; and I took out the drawer, had it filled up with straw and tied in a sheet, and returned with it to Cavendish Square. Here I proceeded to examine its contents. The powders were neatly enough made up, but not with the nicety of the dispensing chemist; so that it was plain they were of Jekyll's private manufacture; and when I opened one of the wrappers I found what seemed to me a simple crystalline salt of a white colour. The phial, to which I next turned my attention, might have been about half-full of a blood-red liquor, which was highly pungent to the sense of smell and seemed to me to contain phosphorus and some volatile ether. At the other ingredients I could make no guess. The book was an ordinary version-book and contained little but a series of dates. These covered a period of many years, but I observed that the entries ceased nearly a year ago and quite abruptly. Here and there a brief remark was appended to a date, usually no more than a single word: "double" occurring perhaps six times in a total of several hundred entries; and once very early in the list and followed by several marks of exclamation, "total failure!!!" All this, though it whetted my curiosity, told me little that was definite. Here were a phial of some tincture, a paper of some salt, and the record of a series of experi- 75) ments that had led (like too many of Jekyll's investigations) to no end of practical usefulness. How could the presence of these articles in my house affect either the honour, the sanity, or the life of my flighty colleague? If his messenger could go to one place, why could he not go to another? And even granting some impediment, why was this gentleman to be received by me in secret? The more I reflected the more convinced I grew that I was dealing with a case of cerebral disease: and though I dismissed my servants to bed, I loaded an old revolver, that I might be found in some posture of self-defence. Twelve o'clock had scarce rung out over London, ere the knocker sounded very gently on the door. I went myself at the summons, and found a small man crouching against the pillars of the portico. "Are you come from Dr. Jekyll?" I asked. He told me "yes" by a constrained gesture; and when I had bidden him enter, he did not obey me without a searching backward glance into the darkness of the square. There was a policeman not far off, advancing with his bull's eye open; and at the sight, I thought my visitor started and made greater haste. These particulars struck me, I confess, disagreeably; and as I followed him into the bright light of the consulting-room, I kept my hand ready on my weapon. Here, at last, I had a 76) chance of clearly seeing him. I had never set eyes on him before, so much was certain. He was small, as I have said; I was struck besides with the shocking expression of his face, with his remarkable combination of great muscular activity and great apparent debility of constitution, and--last but not least-- with the odd, subjective disturbance caused by his neighbourhood. This bore some resemblance to incipient rigour, and was accompanied by a marked sinking of the pulse. At the time, I set it down to some idiosyncratic, personal distaste, and merely wondered at the acuteness of the symptoms; but I have since had reason to believe the cause to lie much deeper in the nature of man, and to turn on some nobler hinge than the principle of hatred. This person (who had thus, from the first moment of his entrance, struck in me what I can only describe as a disgustful curiosity) was dressed in a fashion that would have made an ordinary person laughable; his clothes, that is to say, although they were of rich and sober fabric, were enormously too large for him in every measurement--the trousers hanging on his legs and rolled up to keep them from the ground, the waist of the coat below his haunches, and the collar sprawling wide upon his shoulders. Strange to relate, this ludicrous accoutrement was far from moving me to laughter. Rather, as there was something abnormal and misbe- 77) gotten in the very essence of the creature that now faced me-- something seizing, surprising, and revolting--this fresh disparity seemed but to fit in with and to reinforce it; so that to my interest in the man's nature and character, there was added a curiosity as to his origin, his life, his fortune and status in the world. These observations, though they have taken so great a space to be set down in, were yet the work of a few seconds. My visitor was, indeed, on fire with sombre excitement. "Have you got it?" he cried. "Have you got it?" And so lively was his impatience that he even laid his hand upon my arm and sought to shake me. I put him back, conscious at his touch of a certain icy pang along my blood. "Come, sir," said I. "You forget that I have not yet the pleasure of your acquaintance. Be seated, if you please." And I showed him an example, and sat down myself in my customary seat and with as fair an imitation of my ordinary manner to a patient, as the lateness of the hour, the nature of my pre-occupations, and the horror I had of my visitor, would suffer me to muster. "I beg your pardon, Dr. Lanyon," he replied civilly enough. "What you say is very well founded; and my impatience has shown its heels to my politeness. I come here at the instance of your colleague, Dr. Henry Jekyll, on a piece of business of some moment; and I under- 78) stood..." He paused and put his hand to his throat, and I could see, in spite of his collected manner, that he was wrestling against the approaches of the hysteria--"I understood, a drawer..." But here I took pity on my visitor's suspense, and some perhaps on my own growing curiosity. "There it is, sir," said I, pointing to the drawer, where it lay on the floor behind a table and still covered with the sheet. He sprang to it, and then paused, and laid his hand upon his heart: I could hear his teeth grate with the convulsive action of his jaws; and his face was so ghastly to see that I grew alarmed both for his life and reason. "Compose yourself," said I. He turned a dreadful smile to me, and as if with the decision of despair, plucked away the sheet. At sight of the contents, he uttered one loud sob of such immense relief that I sat petrified. And the next moment, in a voice that was already fairly well under control, "Have you a graduated glass?" he asked. I rose from my place with something of an effort and gave him what he asked. He thanked me with a smiling nod, measured out a few minims of the red tincture and added one of the powders. The mixture, which was at first of a reddish hue, began, in proportion as the crystals melted, to brighten in colour, to effervesce audibly, and to throw off small 79) fumes of vapour. Suddenly and at the same moment, the ebullition ceased and the compound changed to a dark purple, which faded again more slowly to a watery green. My visitor, who had watched these metamorphoses with a keen eye, smiled, set down the glass upon the table, and then turned and looked upon me with an air of scrutiny. "And now," said he, "to settle what remains. Will you be wise? will you be guided? will you suffer me to take this glass in my hand and to go forth from your house without further parley? or has the greed of curiosity too much command of you? Think before you answer, for it shall be done as you decide. As you decide, you shall be left as you were before, and neither richer nor wiser, unless the sense of service rendered to a man in mortal distress may be counted as a kind of riches of the soul. Or, if you shall so prefer to choose, a new province of knowledge and new avenues to fame and power shall be laid open to you, here, in this room, upon the instant; and your sight shall be blasted by a prodigy to stagger the unbelief of Satan." "Sir," said I, affecting a coolness that I was far from truly possessing, "you speak enigmas, and you will perhaps not wonder that I hear you with no very strong impression of belief. But I have gone too far in the way of inexplicable services to pause before I see the end." "It is well," replied my visitor. "Lanyon, 80) you remember your vows: what follows is under the seal of our profession. And now, you who have so long been bound to the most narrow and material views, you who have denied the virtue of transcendental medicine, you who have derided your superiors-- behold!" He put the glass to his lips and drank at one gulp. A cry followed; he reeled, staggered, clutched at the table and held on, staring with injected eyes, gasping with open mouth; and as I looked there came, I thought, a change--he seemed to swell-- his face became suddenly black and the features seemed to melt and alter--and the next moment, I had sprung to my feet and leaped back against the wall, my arm raised to shield me from that prodigy, my mind submerged in terror. "O God!" I screamed, and "O God!" again and again; for there before my eyes--pale and shaken, and half-fainting, and groping before him with his hands, like a man restored from death-- there stood Henry Jekyll! What he told me in the next hour, I cannot bring my mind to set on paper. I saw what I saw, I heard what I heard, and my soul sickened at it; and yet now when that sight has faded from my eyes, I ask myself if I believe it, and I cannot answer. My life is shaken to its roots; sleep has left me; the deadliest terror sits by me at all hours of the day and night; I feel that my days are numbered, and that I 81) must die; and yet I shall die incredulous. As for the moral turpitude that man unveiled to me, even with tears of penitence, I cannot, even in memory, dwell on it without a start of horror. I will say but one thing, Utterson, and that (if you can bring your mind to credit it) will be more than enough. The creature who crept into my house that night was, on Jekyll's own confession, known by the name of Hyde and hunted for in every corner of the land as the murderer of Carew. HASTIE LANYON 82) Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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In der Nacht des 9. Januars bekam ich, schreibt Lanyon, einen Einschreibebrief. Sofort erkannte ich die Handschrift meines alten Schulkameraden Henry Jekyll auf dem Umschlag. Das überraschte mich. Henry und ich pflegten keine Korrespondenz; schließlich leben wir beide in London und ich hatte ihn erst letzte Nacht auf einer seiner Dinnerpartys gesehen. Was könnte der Grund für eine solche Formalität wie das Verschicken eines Einschreibebriefes sein? Meine Neugier war groß. Lieber Lanyon, obwohl wir uns in der Vergangenheit in wissenschaftlichen Angelegenheiten unterschieden haben, bist du einer meiner ältesten Freunde, und deshalb bitte ich dich um einen Gefallen. Es handelt sich um einen Gefallen, von dem mein Ansehen abhängt. Wenn du mich im Stich lässt, bin ich verloren. Bitte hilf mir. Nimm ein Taxi zu meinem Haus, Poole wird dich hineinlassen, und dann gehe zu meinem Zimmer. Wenn die Tür verschlossen ist, öffne sie mit Gewalt. Öffne die Schublade mit der Aufschrift "E" und nimm all ihren Inhalt heraus - ein paar Pulver, ein Fläschchen und ein Notizbuch. Nimm alles mit nach Hause. Dann wird um Mitternacht ein Mann bei dir zu Hause eintreffen, auf meinen Befehl hin. Gib ihm die Schublade, die du aus meinem Zimmer genommen hast. Das ist alles. Wenn du das tust, hast du meine vollständige Dankbarkeit verdient. Ich weiß, dass das, was ich von dir verlange, an das Fantastische grenzt, aber wenn du es nicht ausführst, wird mein Tod oder mein Wahnsinn auf deinem Gewissen lasten. Bei dem Gedanken, dass du mich im Stich lassen könntest, erbebe ich. Wenn du das jedoch tust, werden meine Probleme vorbei sein. Dein Freund, H.J. P.S. Wenn die Post es nicht schafft, dieses Schreiben pünktlich zuzustellen, tue trotzdem, was ich bitte. Erwarte meinen Boten um Mitternacht. Es könnte zu spät sein; ich kann es nicht sagen. Wenn es so ist, hast du das letzte von Henry Jekyll gesehen. Nachdem ich Jekylls Brief zu Ende gelesen hatte, überlegte ich, ob Dr. Jekyll vielleicht verrückt geworden war. Doch solange das nicht bewiesen war, fühlte ich mich verpflichtet, zu tun, was mein alter Freund mich gebeten hatte. So ging ich sofort zu Jekylls Haus; ein Schlosser wurde gerufen und nach zwei Stunden wurde die Tür zu Jekylls Privatstudie geöffnet. Ich nahm die in Jekylls Brief beschriebene Schublade heraus, wickelte sie vorsichtig in ein Tuch und kehrte damit nach Hause zurück. Dort untersuchte ich sie sorgfältig. Was ich fand, schürte meine Neugier, sagte mir aber wenig Konkretes. Es gab eine einfache Art von Salz, ein halbvolles Fläschchen mit blutrotem, stark stinkendem Likör und das Notizbuch enthielt wenig - eine Reihe von Daten, die einen Zeitraum vieler Jahre abdeckten und fast vor einem Jahr abrupt endeten. Neben den Daten standen ein paar kurze Bemerkungen; das Wort "doppelte" kam vielleicht sechs Mal in insgesamt mehreren hundert Einträgen vor und einmal, ganz am Anfang der Liste, standen die Worte "völliges Scheitern", gefolgt von mehreren Ausrufezeichen. Um alles in der Welt konnte ich mir nicht vorstellen, wie irgendetwas davon die Ehre, den Verstand oder das Leben meines alten Freundes Dr. Jekyll beeinflussen könnte. Und warum all die Geheimhaltung? Je mehr ich darüber nachdachte, desto mehr fragte ich mich, ob Jekyll nicht vielleicht an irgendeiner Form von Hirnerkrankung litt. Trotzdem war ich entschlossen, zu tun, was er verlangte - aber nicht, bevor ich meine alte Pistole lud. Um Mitternacht klopfte es sehr sanft an meiner Tür. Draußen war ein kleiner Mann, der sich gegen eine der Säulen des Vorbaus duckte. Ich fragte ihn, ob er Jekylls Bote sei. Er machte eine gequälte Geste und schlüpfte, verstohlen hinter sich blickend, herein. Mit einer Hand am Revolver sah ich mir den kleinen Mann genauer an. Ich hatte ihn noch nie zuvor gesehen. Er war sicherlich eine widerliche Gestalt; sein Gesicht zuckte in Krämpfen, er schien körperlich krank zu sein und als Arzt fragte ich mich über diese Symptome. Seine Kleidung, die offensichtlich teuer war, war viel zu groß für ihn. Seine Hose war lächerlich hochgekrempelt und der Bund seines Mantels reichte über seine Hüften. Unter anderen Umständen hätte ich über sein clownhaftes Erscheinungsbild gelacht, aber dieser Mann war offensichtlich abnormal, ekelhaft abnormal. Wieder einmal, als Mediziner, konnte ich nicht umhin, neugierig zu sein, über seine Herkunft, sein Leben und seine Existenzgrundlage. Der seltsame kleine Mann war ungewöhnlich aufgeregt und fragte immer wieder, ob ich es hätte. Ich versuchte, ihn zu beruhigen, aber er schien kurz vor einer Hysterie zu stehen, also zeigte ich auf den Ort, wo es lag, auf dem Boden hinter einem Tisch. Sofort sprang er darauf, legte dann seine Hand auf sein Herz und ich hörte, wie seine Zähne knirschten und sein Kiefer sich verkrampfte. Dann begann er, die Pulver mit der Flüssigkeit zu vermischen, die vor meinen Augen die Farbe änderte. Ich war fasziniert, und er bemerkte das und fragte: "Wirst du weise sein? Wirst du dich leiten lassen? Ich kann dieses Glas nehmen und gehen. Oder ich kann es vor dir hinunterschlucken und dir ein neues Land des Wissens zeigen, neue Wege zu Ruhm. Was du sehen wirst, wird selbst den Teufel erschüttern." Ich gestehe, dass meine Neugier wieder die Oberhand gewann. Ich bat ihn, fortzufahren. Er stimmte zu, erinnerte mich jedoch an meine beruflichen Gelübde und an meinen tief verwurzelten Glauben an die traditionelle Medizin, denn das, was ich gleich sehen würde, wäre ein Wunder aus dem Bereich der transzendentalen Medizin. Dann trank er den Trank in einem langen Zug und schrie auf, taumelte, schwankte, griff nach dem Tisch und plötzlich stand Henry Jekyll vor mir. Was er mir in der nächsten Stunde erzählte, kann ich mir nicht dazu überwinden, es aufzuschreiben. Ich kann nur das berichten, was ich gesehen habe und wie meine Seele davon angeekelt war. Ich frage mich, ob ich daran glaube, und ich kann keine Antwort geben. Der Schrecken verfolgt mich ständig. Mein Glaube an die Medizin und die Menschheit ist zerbrochen. Ich habe das Gefühl, dass meine Tage gezählt sind. Nur eines bleibt noch zu sagen. Dieses "Geschöpf", das im Auftrag von Jekyll gekommen ist, war laut Jekylls eigener Aussage niemand anderes als Edward Hyde, der Mörder von Sir Danvers Carew!

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: XVIII. DARK DAYS [Illustration: Beth did have the fever] Beth did have the fever, and was much sicker than any one but Hannah and the doctor suspected. The girls knew nothing about illness, and Mr. Laurence was not allowed to see her, so Hannah had everything all her own way, and busy Dr. Bangs did his best, but left a good deal to the excellent nurse. Meg stayed at home, lest she should infect the Kings, and kept house, feeling very anxious and a little guilty when she wrote letters in which no mention was made of Beth's illness. She could not think it right to deceive her mother, but she had been bidden to mind Hannah, and Hannah wouldn't hear of "Mrs. March bein' told, and worried just for sech a trifle." Jo devoted herself to Beth day and night; not a hard task, for Beth was very patient, and bore her pain uncomplainingly as long as she could control herself. But there came a time when during the fever fits she began to talk in a hoarse, broken voice, to play on the coverlet, as if on her beloved little piano, and try to sing with a throat so swollen that there was no music left; a time when she did not know the familiar faces round her, but addressed them by wrong names, and called imploringly for her mother. Then Jo grew frightened, Meg begged to be allowed to write the truth, and even Hannah said she "would think of it, though there was no danger _yet_." A letter from Washington added to their trouble, for Mr. March had had a relapse, and could not think of coming home for a long while. How dark the days seemed now, how sad and lonely the house, and how heavy were the hearts of the sisters as they worked and waited, while the shadow of death hovered over the once happy home! Then it was that Margaret, sitting alone with tears dropping often on her work, felt how rich she had been in things more precious than any luxuries money could buy,--in love, protection, peace, and health, the real blessings of life. Then it was that Jo, living in the darkened room, with that suffering little sister always before her eyes, and that pathetic voice sounding in her ears, learned to see the beauty and the sweetness of Beth's nature, to feel how deep and tender a place she filled in all hearts, and to acknowledge the worth of Beth's unselfish ambition, to live for others, and make home happy by the exercise of those simple virtues which all may possess, and which all should love and value more than talent, wealth, or beauty. And Amy, in her exile, longed eagerly to be at home, that she might work for Beth, feeling now that no service would be hard or irksome, and remembering, with regretful grief, how many neglected tasks those willing hands had done for her. Laurie haunted the house like a restless ghost, and Mr. Laurence locked the grand piano, because he could not bear to be reminded of the young neighbor who used to make the twilight pleasant for him. Every one missed Beth. The milkman, baker, grocer, and butcher inquired how she did; poor Mrs. Hummel came to beg pardon for her thoughtlessness, and to get a shroud for Minna; the neighbors sent all sorts of comforts and good wishes, and even those who knew her best were surprised to find how many friends shy little Beth had made. Meanwhile she lay on her bed with old Joanna at her side, for even in her wanderings she did not forget her forlorn _protégé_. She longed for her cats, but would not have them brought, lest they should get sick; and, in her quiet hours, she was full of anxiety about Jo. She sent loving messages to Amy, bade them tell her mother that she would write soon; and often begged for pencil and paper to try to say a word, that father might not think she had neglected him. But soon even these intervals of consciousness ended, and she lay hour after hour, tossing to and fro, with incoherent words on her lips, or sank into a heavy sleep which brought her no refreshment. Dr. Bangs came twice a day, Hannah sat up at night, Meg kept a telegram in her desk all ready to send off at any minute, and Jo never stirred from Beth's side. The first of December was a wintry day indeed to them, for a bitter wind blew, snow fell fast, and the year seemed getting ready for its death. When Dr. Bangs came that morning, he looked long at Beth, held the hot hand in both his own a minute, and laid it gently down, saying, in a low tone, to Hannah,-- "If Mrs. March _can_ leave her husband, she'd better be sent for." Hannah nodded without speaking, for her lips twitched nervously; Meg dropped down into a chair as the strength seemed to go out of her limbs at the sound of those words; and Jo, after standing with a pale face for a minute, ran to the parlor, snatched up the telegram, and, throwing on her things, rushed out into the storm. She was soon back, and, while noiselessly taking off her cloak, Laurie came in with a letter, saying that Mr. March was mending again. Jo read it thankfully, but the heavy weight did not seem lifted off her heart, and her face was so full of misery that Laurie asked quickly,-- "What is it? is Beth worse?" "I've sent for mother," said Jo, tugging at her rubber boots with a tragical expression. "Good for you, Jo! Did you do it on your own responsibility?" asked Laurie, as he seated her in the hall chair, and took off the rebellious boots, seeing how her hands shook. "No, the doctor told us to." "O Jo, it's not so bad as that?" cried Laurie, with a startled face. "Yes, it is; she doesn't know us, she doesn't even talk about the flocks of green doves, as she calls the vine-leaves on the wall; she doesn't look like my Beth, and there's nobody to help us bear it; mother and father both gone, and God seems so far away I can't find Him." As the tears streamed fast down poor Jo's cheeks, she stretched out her hand in a helpless sort of way, as if groping in the dark, and Laurie took it in his, whispering, as well as he could, with a lump in his throat,-- "I'm here. Hold on to me, Jo, dear!" She could not speak, but she did "hold on," and the warm grasp of the friendly human hand comforted her sore heart, and seemed to lead her nearer to the Divine arm which alone could uphold her in her trouble. Laurie longed to say something tender and comfortable, but no fitting words came to him, so he stood silent, gently stroking her bent head as her mother used to do. It was the best thing he could have done; far more soothing than the most eloquent words, for Jo felt the unspoken sympathy, and, in the silence, learned the sweet solace which affection administers to sorrow. Soon she dried the tears which had relieved her, and looked up with a grateful face. [Illustration: Gently stroking her head as her mother used to do] "Thank you, Teddy, I'm better now; I don't feel so forlorn, and will try to bear it if it comes." "Keep hoping for the best; that will help you, Jo. Soon your mother will be here, and then everything will be right." "I'm so glad father is better; now she won't feel so bad about leaving him. Oh, me! it does seem as if all the troubles came in a heap, and I got the heaviest part on my shoulders," sighed Jo, spreading her wet handkerchief over her knees to dry. "Doesn't Meg pull fair?" asked Laurie, looking indignant. "Oh, yes; she tries to, but she can't love Bethy as I do; and she won't miss her as I shall. Beth is my conscience, and I _can't_ give her up. I can't! I can't!" Down went Jo's face into the wet handkerchief, and she cried despairingly; for she had kept up bravely till now, and never shed a tear. Laurie drew his hand across his eyes, but could not speak till he had subdued the choky feeling in his throat and steadied his lips. It might be unmanly, but he couldn't help it, and I am glad of it. Presently, as Jo's sobs quieted, he said hopefully, "I don't think she will die; she's so good, and we all love her so much, I don't believe God will take her away yet." "The good and dear people always do die," groaned Jo, but she stopped crying, for her friend's words cheered her up, in spite of her own doubts and fears. "Poor girl, you're worn out. It isn't like you to be forlorn. Stop a bit; I'll hearten you up in a jiffy." Laurie went off two stairs at a time, and Jo laid her wearied head down on Beth's little brown hood, which no one had thought of moving from the table where she left it. It must have possessed some magic, for the submissive spirit of its gentle owner seemed to enter into Jo; and, when Laurie came running down with a glass of wine, she took it with a smile, and said bravely, "I drink--Health to my Beth! You are a good doctor, Teddy, and _such_ a comfortable friend; how can I ever pay you?" she added, as the wine refreshed her body, as the kind words had done her troubled mind. "I'll send in my bill, by and by; and to-night I'll give you something that will warm the cockles of your heart better than quarts of wine," said Laurie, beaming at her with a face of suppressed satisfaction at something. "What is it?" cried Jo, forgetting her woes for a minute, in her wonder. "I telegraphed to your mother yesterday, and Brooke answered she'd come at once, and she'll be here to-night, and everything will be all right. Aren't you glad I did it?" Laurie spoke very fast, and turned red and excited all in a minute, for he had kept his plot a secret, for fear of disappointing the girls or harming Beth. Jo grew quite white, flew out of her chair, and the moment he stopped speaking she electrified him by throwing her arms round his neck, and crying out, with a joyful cry, "O Laurie! O mother! I _am_ so glad!" She did not weep again, but laughed hysterically, and trembled and clung to her friend as if she was a little bewildered by the sudden news. Laurie, though decidedly amazed, behaved with great presence of mind; he patted her back soothingly, and, finding that she was recovering, followed it up by a bashful kiss or two, which brought Jo round at once. Holding on to the banisters, she put him gently away, saying breathlessly, "Oh, don't! I didn't mean to; it was dreadful of me; but you were such a dear to go and do it in spite of Hannah that I couldn't help flying at you. Tell me all about it, and don't give me wine again; it makes me act so." "I don't mind," laughed Laurie, as he settled his tie. "Why, you see I got fidgety, and so did grandpa. We thought Hannah was overdoing the authority business, and your mother ought to know. She'd never forgive us if Beth--well, if anything happened, you know. So I got grandpa to say it was high time we did something, and off I pelted to the office yesterday, for the doctor looked sober, and Hannah most took my head off when I proposed a telegram. I never _can_ bear to be 'lorded over;' so that settled my mind, and I did it. Your mother will come, I know, and the late train is in at two, A.M. I shall go for her; and you've only got to bottle up your rapture, and keep Beth quiet, till that blessed lady gets here." "Laurie, you're an angel! How shall I ever thank you?" "Fly at me again; I rather like it," said Laurie, looking mischievous,--a thing he had not done for a fortnight. "No, thank you. I'll do it by proxy, when your grandpa comes. Don't tease, but go home and rest, for you'll be up half the night. Bless you, Teddy, bless you!" Jo had backed into a corner; and, as she finished her speech, she vanished precipitately into the kitchen, where she sat down upon a dresser, and told the assembled cats that she was "happy, oh, _so_ happy!" while Laurie departed, feeling that he had made rather a neat thing of it. "That's the interferingest chap I ever see; but I forgive him, and do hope Mrs. March is coming on right away," said Hannah, with an air of relief, when Jo told the good news. Meg had a quiet rapture, and then brooded over the letter, while Jo set the sick-room in order, and Hannah "knocked up a couple of pies in case of company unexpected." A breath of fresh air seemed to blow through the house, and something better than sunshine brightened the quiet rooms. Everything appeared to feel the hopeful change; Beth's bird began to chirp again, and a half-blown rose was discovered on Amy's bush in the window; the fires seemed to burn with unusual cheeriness; and every time the girls met, their pale faces broke into smiles as they hugged one another, whispering encouragingly, "Mother's coming, dear! mother's coming!" Every one rejoiced but Beth; she lay in that heavy stupor, alike unconscious of hope and joy, doubt and danger. It was a piteous sight,--the once rosy face so changed and vacant, the once busy hands so weak and wasted, the once smiling lips quite dumb, and the once pretty, well-kept hair scattered rough and tangled on the pillow. All day she lay so, only rousing now and then to mutter, "Water!" with lips so parched they could hardly shape the word; all day Jo and Meg hovered over her, watching, waiting, hoping, and trusting in God and mother; and all day the snow fell, the bitter wind raged, and the hours dragged slowly by. But night came at last; and every time the clock struck, the sisters, still sitting on either side the bed, looked at each other with brightening eyes, for each hour brought help nearer. The doctor had been in to say that some change, for better or worse, would probably take place about midnight, at which time he would return. Hannah, quite worn out, lay down on the sofa at the bed's foot, and fell fast asleep; Mr. Laurence marched to and fro in the parlor, feeling that he would rather face a rebel battery than Mrs. March's anxious countenance as she entered; Laurie lay on the rug, pretending to rest, but staring into the fire with the thoughtful look which made his black eyes beautifully soft and clear. The girls never forgot that night, for no sleep came to them as they kept their watch, with that dreadful sense of powerlessness which comes to us in hours like those. "If God spares Beth I never will complain again," whispered Meg earnestly. "If God spares Beth I'll try to love and serve Him all my life," answered Jo, with equal fervor. "I wish I had no heart, it aches so," sighed Meg, after a pause. "If life is often as hard as this, I don't see how we ever shall get through it," added her sister despondently. Here the clock struck twelve, and both forgot themselves in watching Beth, for they fancied a change passed over her wan face. The house was still as death, and nothing but the wailing of the wind broke the deep hush. Weary Hannah slept on, and no one but the sisters saw the pale shadow which seemed to fall upon the little bed. An hour went by, and nothing happened except Laurie's quiet departure for the station. Another hour,--still no one came; and anxious fears of delay in the storm, or accidents by the way, or, worst of all, a great grief at Washington, haunted the poor girls. It was past two, when Jo, who stood at the window thinking how dreary the world looked in its winding-sheet of snow, heard a movement by the bed, and, turning quickly, saw Meg kneeling before their mother's easy-chair, with her face hidden. A dreadful fear passed coldly over Jo, as she thought, "Beth is dead, and Meg is afraid to tell me." She was back at her post in an instant, and to her excited eyes a great change seemed to have taken place. The fever flush and the look of pain were gone, and the beloved little face looked so pale and peaceful in its utter repose, that Jo felt no desire to weep or to lament. Leaning low over this dearest of her sisters, she kissed the damp forehead with her heart on her lips, and softly whispered, "Good-by, my Beth; good-by!" As if waked by the stir, Hannah started out of her sleep, hurried to the bed, looked at Beth, felt her hands, listened at her lips, and then, throwing her apron over her head, sat down to rock to and fro, exclaiming, under her breath, "The fever's turned; she's sleepin' nat'ral; her skin's damp, and she breathes easy. Praise be given! Oh, my goodness me!" Before the girls could believe the happy truth, the doctor came to confirm it. He was a homely man, but they thought his face quite heavenly when he smiled, and said, with a fatherly look at them, "Yes, my dears, I think the little girl will pull through this time. Keep the house quiet; let her sleep, and when she wakes, give her--" What they were to give, neither heard; for both crept into the dark hall, and, sitting on the stairs, held each other close, rejoicing with hearts too full for words. When they went back to be kissed and cuddled by faithful Hannah, they found Beth lying, as she used to do, with her cheek pillowed on her hand, the dreadful pallor gone, and breathing quietly, as if just fallen asleep. "If mother would only come now!" said Jo, as the winter night began to wane. "See," said Meg, coming up with a white, half-opened rose, "I thought this would hardly be ready to lay in Beth's hand to-morrow if she--went away from us. But it has blossomed in the night, and now I mean to put it in my vase here, so that when the darling wakes, the first thing she sees will be the little rose, and mother's face." Never had the sun risen so beautifully, and never had the world seemed so lovely, as it did to the heavy eyes of Meg and Jo, as they looked out in the early morning, when their long, sad vigil was done. "It looks like a fairy world," said Meg, smiling to herself, as she stood behind the curtain, watching the dazzling sight. "Hark!" cried Jo, starting to her feet. Yes, there was a sound of bells at the door below, a cry from Hannah, and then Laurie's voice saying, in a joyful whisper, "Girls, she's come! she's come!" [Illustration: Amy's Will] Können Sie eine geeignete Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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

Beth erkrankt an Scharlachfieber und ist extrem krank, aber zunächst bemerken nur Hannah und Dr. Bangs, dass die Krankheit lebensbedrohlich sein könnte. Meg schreibt Briefe an ihre Mutter, die immer noch in Washington ist und sich um Mr. March kümmert. Meg erzählt ihrer Mutter nicht, dass Beth krank ist. Jo pflegt Beth Tag und Nacht. Beth wird immer kränker und erkennt sie schließlich nicht mehr und versucht delirierend, Klavier im Bett zu spielen. Jetzt, da Beth krank ist und möglicherweise stirbt, schätzen ihre Schwestern alles, was sie getan hat, um ihr Zuhause angenehm und komfortabel zu machen. Amy möchte nach Hause gehen und Meg und Jo realisieren, wie glücklich sie wirklich waren, bevor Beth krank wurde. Während Beth noch bei Bewusstsein ist und weiß, was vor sich geht, versucht sie alle um sich herum zu trösten. Dann verfällt sie in einen fieberhaften, delirierenden Zustand. Am 1. Dezember sagt Dr. Bangs nach der Untersuchung von Beth, dass Frau March gerufen werden sollte. Jo schickt ein Telegramm an ihre Mutter. Auf dem Heimweg trifft Jo auf Laurie, der einen Brief von Frau March hat, in dem steht, dass Mr. March gesund wird. Jo erzählt Laurie, wie krank Beth ist, und Laurie hält sie fest und tröstet sie, während sie weint. Jo fasst sich ein wenig. Sie erzählt Laurie, dass sie Beth am meisten vermissen wird, denn Beth ist ihr Gewissen. Laurie sagt, dass Gott Beth noch nicht nehmen wird. Jo ist sich da nicht so sicher. Laurie bringt Jo ein Glas Wein. Laurie erzählt Jo, dass er gestern heimlich ein Telegramm an Frau March geschickt hat, um sie nach Hause zu bitten, weil er sich um Beth sorgt. Frau March wird heute Abend ankommen! Jo ist sehr dankbar und umarmt Laurie, lacht hysterisch. Laurie erklärt, dass er und sein Großvater beschlossen haben, dass Frau March über Beths Krankheit informiert werden sollte, aber sie wollten niemanden beunruhigen, also hat Laurie die Nachricht auf eigene Faust verschickt. Jo fragt, wie sie Laurie danken kann. Laurie sagt, sie solle ihn noch einmal umarmen. Jo lehnt ab und geht nach unten. Jo erzählt Hannah und Meg, dass Marmee am Abend kommen wird. Sie sind aufgeregt und erleichtert und machen Vorbereitungen für ihre Ankunft. Der Arzt kommt, um sich Beth noch einmal anzusehen, und sagt, dass sich ihr Zustand bis Mitternacht ändern wird, ob zum Guten oder zum Schlechten. Meg, Jo, Hannah, Mr. Laurence und Laurie warten am Bett von Beth und beobachten und warten. Hannah schläft ein. Die Mädchen beten zu Gott, Beths Leben zu retten. Während Meg und Jo zuschauen, scheint sich Beths Gesicht um Mitternacht tatsächlich zu verändern. Sie denken, sie stirbt. Um zwei Uhr morgens glaubt Jo, dass Beth tatsächlich tot sein könnte, und beugt sich näher, um sich von ihr zu verabschieden. Sie sieht, dass Beth eine bessere Farbe hat und normal atmet! Hannah wacht auf und sagt, dass Beths Fieber gebrochen ist und dass sie sich erholen wird. Der Arzt kommt und bestätigt, was Hannah gesagt hat. Meg stellt eine neu erblühte weiße Rose in eine Vase neben Beths Bett. Während die Mädchen warten, hören sie die Glocken einer Kutsche von unten und erkennen, dass Frau March nach Hause gekommen 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: "You see," said Cacambo to Candide, as soon as they had reached the frontiers of the Oreillons, "that this hemisphere is not better than the others, take my word for it; let us go back to Europe by the shortest way." "How go back?" said Candide, "and where shall we go? to my own country? The Bulgarians and the Abares are slaying all; to Portugal? there I shall be burnt; and if we abide here we are every moment in danger of being spitted. But how can I resolve to quit a part of the world where my dear Cunegonde resides?" "Let us turn towards Cayenne," said Cacambo, "there we shall find Frenchmen, who wander all over the world; they may assist us; God will perhaps have pity on us." It was not easy to get to Cayenne; they knew vaguely in which direction to go, but rivers, precipices, robbers, savages, obstructed them all the way. Their horses died of fatigue. Their provisions were consumed; they fed a whole month upon wild fruits, and found themselves at last near a little river bordered with cocoa trees, which sustained their lives and their hopes. Cacambo, who was as good a counsellor as the old woman, said to Candide: "We are able to hold out no longer; we have walked enough. I see an empty canoe near the river-side; let us fill it with cocoanuts, throw ourselves into it, and go with the current; a river always leads to some inhabited spot. If we do not find pleasant things we shall at least find new things." "With all my heart," said Candide, "let us recommend ourselves to Providence." They rowed a few leagues, between banks, in some places flowery, in others barren; in some parts smooth, in others rugged. The stream ever widened, and at length lost itself under an arch of frightful rocks which reached to the sky. The two travellers had the courage to commit themselves to the current. The river, suddenly contracting at this place, whirled them along with a dreadful noise and rapidity. At the end of four-and-twenty hours they saw daylight again, but their canoe was dashed to pieces against the rocks. For a league they had to creep from rock to rock, until at length they discovered an extensive plain, bounded by inaccessible mountains. The country was cultivated as much for pleasure as for necessity. On all sides the useful was also the beautiful. The roads were covered, or rather adorned, with carriages of a glittering form and substance, in which were men and women of surprising beauty, drawn by large red sheep which surpassed in fleetness the finest coursers of Andalusia, Tetuan, and Mequinez.[18] "Here, however, is a country," said Candide, "which is better than Westphalia." He stepped out with Cacambo towards the first village which he saw. Some children dressed in tattered brocades played at quoits on the outskirts. Our travellers from the other world amused themselves by looking on. The quoits were large round pieces, yellow, red, and green, which cast a singular lustre! The travellers picked a few of them off the ground; this was of gold, that of emeralds, the other of rubies--the least of them would have been the greatest ornament on the Mogul's throne. "Without doubt," said Cacambo, "these children must be the king's sons that are playing at quoits!" The village schoolmaster appeared at this moment and called them to school. "There," said Candide, "is the preceptor of the royal family." The little truants immediately quitted their game, leaving the quoits on the ground with all their other playthings. Candide gathered them up, ran to the master, and presented them to him in a most humble manner, giving him to understand by signs that their royal highnesses had forgotten their gold and jewels. The schoolmaster, smiling, flung them upon the ground; then, looking at Candide with a good deal of surprise, went about his business. The travellers, however, took care to gather up the gold, the rubies, and the emeralds. "Where are we?" cried Candide. "The king's children in this country must be well brought up, since they are taught to despise gold and precious stones." Cacambo was as much surprised as Candide. At length they drew near the first house in the village. It was built like an European palace. A crowd of people pressed about the door, and there were still more in the house. They heard most agreeable music, and were aware of a delicious odour of cooking. Cacambo went up to the door and heard they were talking Peruvian; it was his mother tongue, for it is well known that Cacambo was born in Tucuman, in a village where no other language was spoken. "I will be your interpreter here," said he to Candide; "let us go in, it is a public-house." Immediately two waiters and two girls, dressed in cloth of gold, and their hair tied up with ribbons, invited them to sit down to table with the landlord. They served four dishes of soup, each garnished with two young parrots; a boiled condor[19] which weighed two hundred pounds; two roasted monkeys, of excellent flavour; three hundred humming-birds in one dish, and six hundred fly-birds in another; exquisite ragouts; delicious pastries; the whole served up in dishes of a kind of rock-crystal. The waiters and girls poured out several liqueurs drawn from the sugar-cane. Most of the company were chapmen and waggoners, all extremely polite; they asked Cacambo a few questions with the greatest circumspection, and answered his in the most obliging manner. As soon as dinner was over, Cacambo believed as well as Candide that they might well pay their reckoning by laying down two of those large gold pieces which they had picked up. The landlord and landlady shouted with laughter and held their sides. When the fit was over: "Gentlemen," said the landlord, "it is plain you are strangers, and such guests we are not accustomed to see; pardon us therefore for laughing when you offered us the pebbles from our highroads in payment of your reckoning. You doubtless have not the money of the country; but it is not necessary to have any money at all to dine in this house. All hostelries established for the convenience of commerce are paid by the government. You have fared but very indifferently because this is a poor village; but everywhere else, you will be received as you deserve." Cacambo explained this whole discourse with great astonishment to Candide, who was as greatly astonished to hear it. "What sort of a country then is this," said they to one another; "a country unknown to all the rest of the world, and where nature is of a kind so different from ours? It is probably the country where all is well; for there absolutely must be one such place. And, whatever Master Pangloss might say, I often found that things went very ill in Westphalia." Cacambo expressed his curiosity to the landlord, who made answer: "I am very ignorant, but not the worse on that account. However, we have in this neighbourhood an old man retired from Court who is the most learned and most communicative person in the kingdom." At once he took Cacambo to the old man. Candide acted now only a second character, and accompanied his valet. They entered a very plain house, for the door was only of silver, and the ceilings were only of gold, but wrought in so elegant a taste as to vie with the richest. The antechamber, indeed, was only encrusted with rubies and emeralds, but the order in which everything was arranged made amends for this great simplicity. The old man received the strangers on his sofa, which was stuffed with humming-birds' feathers, and ordered his servants to present them with liqueurs in diamond goblets; after which he satisfied their curiosity in the following terms: "I am now one hundred and seventy-two years old, and I learnt of my late father, Master of the Horse to the King, the amazing revolutions of Peru, of which he had been an eyewitness. The kingdom we now inhabit is the ancient country of the Incas, who quitted it very imprudently to conquer another part of the world, and were at length destroyed by the Spaniards. "More wise by far were the princes of their family, who remained in their native country; and they ordained, with the consent of the whole nation, that none of the inhabitants should ever be permitted to quit this little kingdom; and this has preserved our innocence and happiness. The Spaniards have had a confused notion of this country, and have called it _El Dorado_; and an Englishman, whose name was Sir Walter Raleigh, came very near it about a hundred years ago; but being surrounded by inaccessible rocks and precipices, we have hitherto been sheltered from the rapaciousness of European nations, who have an inconceivable passion for the pebbles and dirt of our land, for the sake of which they would murder us to the last man." The conversation was long: it turned chiefly on their form of government, their manners, their women, their public entertainments, and the arts. At length Candide, having always had a taste for metaphysics, made Cacambo ask whether there was any religion in that country. The old man reddened a little. "How then," said he, "can you doubt it? Do you take us for ungrateful wretches?" Cacambo humbly asked, "What was the religion in El Dorado?" The old man reddened again. "Can there be two religions?" said he. "We have, I believe, the religion of all the world: we worship God night and morning." "Do you worship but one God?" said Cacambo, who still acted as interpreter in representing Candide's doubts. "Surely," said the old man, "there are not two, nor three, nor four. I must confess the people from your side of the world ask very extraordinary questions." Candide was not yet tired of interrogating the good old man; he wanted to know in what manner they prayed to God in El Dorado. "We do not pray to Him," said the worthy sage; "we have nothing to ask of Him; He has given us all we need, and we return Him thanks without ceasing." Candide having a curiosity to see the priests asked where they were. The good old man smiled. "My friend," said he, "we are all priests. The King and all the heads of families sing solemn canticles of thanksgiving every morning, accompanied by five or six thousand musicians." "What! have you no monks who teach, who dispute, who govern, who cabal, and who burn people that are not of their opinion?" "We must be mad, indeed, if that were the case," said the old man; "here we are all of one opinion, and we know not what you mean by monks." During this whole discourse Candide was in raptures, and he said to himself: "This is vastly different from Westphalia and the Baron's castle. Had our friend Pangloss seen El Dorado he would no longer have said that the castle of Thunder-ten-Tronckh was the finest upon earth. It is evident that one must travel." After this long conversation the old man ordered a coach and six sheep to be got ready, and twelve of his domestics to conduct the travellers to Court. "Excuse me," said he, "if my age deprives me of the honour of accompanying you. The King will receive you in a manner that cannot displease you; and no doubt you will make an allowance for the customs of the country, if some things should not be to your liking." Candide and Cacambo got into the coach, the six sheep flew, and in less than four hours they reached the King's palace situated at the extremity of the capital. The portal was two hundred and twenty feet high, and one hundred wide; but words are wanting to express the materials of which it was built. It is plain such materials must have prodigious superiority over those pebbles and sand which we call gold and precious stones. Twenty beautiful damsels of the King's guard received Candide and Cacambo as they alighted from the coach, conducted them to the bath, and dressed them in robes woven of the down of humming-birds; after which the great crown officers, of both sexes, led them to the King's apartment, between two files of musicians, a thousand on each side. When they drew near to the audience chamber Cacambo asked one of the great officers in what way he should pay his obeisance to his Majesty; whether they should throw themselves upon their knees or on their stomachs; whether they should put their hands upon their heads or behind their backs; whether they should lick the dust off the floor; in a word, what was the ceremony? "The custom," said the great officer, "is to embrace the King, and to kiss him on each cheek." Candide and Cacambo threw themselves round his Majesty's neck. He received them with all the goodness imaginable, and politely invited them to supper. While waiting they were shown the city, and saw the public edifices raised as high as the clouds, the market places ornamented with a thousand columns, the fountains of spring water, those of rose water, those of liqueurs drawn from sugar-cane, incessantly flowing into the great squares, which were paved with a kind of precious stone, which gave off a delicious fragrancy like that of cloves and cinnamon. Candide asked to see the court of justice, the parliament. They told him they had none, and that they were strangers to lawsuits. He asked if they had any prisons, and they answered no. But what surprised him most and gave him the greatest pleasure was the palace of sciences, where he saw a gallery two thousand feet long, and filled with instruments employed in mathematics and physics. After rambling about the city the whole afternoon, and seeing but a thousandth part of it, they were reconducted to the royal palace, where Candide sat down to table with his Majesty, his valet Cacambo, and several ladies. Never was there a better entertainment, and never was more wit shown at a table than that which fell from his Majesty. Cacambo explained the King's _bon-mots_ to Candide, and notwithstanding they were translated they still appeared to be _bon-mots_. Of all the things that surprised Candide this was not the least. They spent a month in this hospitable place. Candide frequently said to Cacambo: "I own, my friend, once more that the castle where I was born is nothing in comparison with this; but, after all, Miss Cunegonde is not here, and you have, without doubt, some mistress in Europe. If we abide here we shall only be upon a footing with the rest, whereas, if we return to our old world, only with twelve sheep laden with the pebbles of El Dorado, we shall be richer than all the kings in Europe. We shall have no more Inquisitors to fear, and we may easily recover Miss Cunegonde." This speech was agreeable to Cacambo; mankind are so fond of roving, of making a figure in their own country, and of boasting of what they have seen in their travels, that the two happy ones resolved to be no longer so, but to ask his Majesty's leave to quit the country. "You are foolish," said the King. "I am sensible that my kingdom is but a small place, but when a person is comfortably settled in any part he should abide there. I have not the right to detain strangers. It is a tyranny which neither our manners nor our laws permit. All men are free. Go when you wish, but the going will be very difficult. It is impossible to ascend that rapid river on which you came as by a miracle, and which runs under vaulted rocks. The mountains which surround my kingdom are ten thousand feet high, and as steep as walls; they are each over ten leagues in breadth, and there is no other way to descend them than by precipices. However, since you absolutely wish to depart, I shall give orders to my engineers to construct a machine that will convey you very safely. When we have conducted you over the mountains no one can accompany you further, for my subjects have made a vow never to quit the kingdom, and they are too wise to break it. Ask me besides anything that you please." "We desire nothing of your Majesty," says Candide, "but a few sheep laden with provisions, pebbles, and the earth of this country." The King laughed. "I cannot conceive," said he, "what pleasure you Europeans find in our yellow clay, but take as much as you like, and great good may it do you." At once he gave directions that his engineers should construct a machine to hoist up these two extraordinary men out of the kingdom. Three thousand good mathematicians went to work; it was ready in fifteen days, and did not cost more than twenty million sterling in the specie of that country. They placed Candide and Cacambo on the machine. There were two great red sheep saddled and bridled to ride upon as soon as they were beyond the mountains, twenty pack-sheep laden with provisions, thirty with presents of the curiosities of the country, and fifty with gold, diamonds, and precious stones. The King embraced the two wanderers very tenderly. Their departure, with the ingenious manner in which they and their sheep were hoisted over the mountains, was a splendid spectacle. The mathematicians took their leave after conveying them to a place of safety, and Candide had no other desire, no other aim, than to present his sheep to Miss Cunegonde. "Now," said he, "we are able to pay the Governor of Buenos Ayres if Miss Cunegonde can be ransomed. Let us journey towards Cayenne. Let us embark, and we will afterwards see what kingdom we shall be able to purchase." Kannst du eine geeignete Zusammenfassung der oben stehenden Absätze verfassen?

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An den Grenzen des Oreillon-Landes sagte Cacambo zu Candide, dass diese Hemisphäre nicht besser sei als die andere und dass sie nach Europa zurückkehren sollten. Candide, abrupt aufgewacht bezüglich der Welt, die er in Westeuropa kannte, war sich sicher gewesen, dass die Neue Welt die beste aller möglichen Welten sein würde. Aber er antwortete, dass eine Rückkehr unmöglich sei: In Westfalen dauerte der Krieg an; in Portugal würde er auf dem Scheiterhaufen verbrannt werden. Doch wenn sie in Südamerika bleiben würden, fuhr er fort, würden sie Gefahr laufen, auf den Rost gesteckt und geröstet zu werden. Das einzige Unvorhersehbare war, dass er diesen Teil der Welt, in dem Cunegonde lebte, nicht verlassen konnte. An den Grenzen des Oreillon-Landes sagte Cacambo zu Candide, dass diese Hemisphäre nicht besser sei als die andere und dass sie nach Europa zurückkehren sollten. Candide, abrupt aufgewacht bezüglich der Welt, die er in Westeuropa kannte, war sich sicher gewesen, dass die Neue Welt die beste aller möglichen Welten sein würde. Aber er antwortete, dass eine Rückkehr unmöglich sei: In Westfalen dauerte der Krieg an; in Portugal würde er auf dem Scheiterhaufen verbrannt werden. Doch wenn sie in Südamerika bleiben würden, fuhr er fort, würden sie Gefahr laufen, auf den Rost gesteckt und geröstet zu werden. Das einzige Unvorhersehbare war, dass er diesen Teil der Welt, in dem Cunegonde lebte, nicht verlassen konnte. Cacambo schlug vor, dass sie nach Cayenne gehen, wo sie Franzosen finden würden, die ihnen helfen und Mitleid mit ihnen haben könnten. Sie machten sich auf den beschwerlichen Weg, überquerten Berge und Flüsse und trafen auf Räuber und Wilde. Ihre Pferde starben vor Erschöpfung, und einen Monat lang ernährten sie sich von wilden Früchten. Schließlich kamen sie zu einem kleinen Fluss, der von Kokosnussbäumen gesäumt war und ihnen Nahrung bot. Cacambo entdeckte ein leeres Kanu am Strand und schlug vor, dass sie es mit Kokosnüssen füllen und mit der Strömung treiben sollten. Ein Fluss, erklärte er, führe immer zu einem bewohnten Ort. Candide stimmte diesem Plan zu. Die Reise war nicht ohne Gefahren, und schließlich wurde ihr Kanu an den Riffen zerschellt. Mit Mühe setzten sie ihre Reise zu Fuß fort und kamen schließlich in ein weites offenes Land, das von unzugänglichen Bergen begrenzt war. Auf den Straßen fuhren prächtig verzierte Kutschen, in denen Männer und Frauen von außergewöhnlicher Attraktivität saßen und die schnell von großen roten Schafen gezogen wurden. Als er die Szene betrachtete, kam Candide zu dem Schluss, dass dieses seltsame Land sogar noch besser war als Westfalen. Kinder, die mit Goldbrokat bekleidet waren, spielten Ringwurf. Und die Ringe waren aus Gold, Smaragden und Rubinen, die einem thronenden Mogul als Schmuck gedient hätten. Cacambo war sicher, dass die Kinder Söhne des Königs waren. Als der Dorfschullehrer die Kinder rief, war Candide nicht weniger sicher, dass er der Erzieher der königlichen Familie war. Die Kinder gingen von ihrem Spiel in die Schule und ließen die wertvollen Ringe auf dem Boden liegen, woraufhin Candide sie aufhob und damit zum Lehrer lief. Er machte dem Lehrer durch Zeichen verständlich, dass die Ringe vergessen worden waren. Aber der Lehrer warf sie nur lächelnd auf den Boden und ging weg. Candide und Cacambo ließen sich das nicht entgehen und hoben sie auf. Beide waren überrascht, dass diese "Königskinder" darauf dressiert worden waren, Gold und Juwelen zu verachten. Als nächstes näherten sie sich dem ersten Haus im Dorf und fanden eine Menschenmenge an der Tür, hörten angenehme Musik und genossen den Duft von gekochtem Essen. Cacambo stellte fest, dass die Menschen seine Muttersprache, das Peruanische, sprachen. Als die beiden das, was sie nun für eine Gaststätte hielten, betraten, fungierte er als Übersetzer. Zwei Jungen und vier Mädchen, gekleidet in Goldstoff, luden sie ein, an den Tisch des Wirtes zu sitzen, und sie wurden mit einem üppigen Essen vieler seltsamer und seltener Gerichte verwöhnt. Die meisten Gäste waren Händler und Kutscher. Alle waren außerordentlich höflich und stellten taktvoll viele Fragen. Als das Abendessen vorüber war, dachten Cacambo und Candide, dass sie für das Essen bezahlen sollten, also warf Cacambo auf den Tisch des Wirtes zwei der goldenen Ringe, woraufhin der Wirt und seine Frau herzlich lachten. "Wir können leicht sehen, dass ihr Ausländer seid", sagte der Wirt und bat um Entschuldigung für sein Gelächter. Er bezeichnete die goldenen Ringe als "Kieselsteine unserer Straßen" und erklärte, dass in diesem Land keine Bezahlung erforderlich sei, da die Regierung für den Unterhalt aller Gasthäuser aufkomme. Er schloss mit einer Entschuldigung für das, was er eine schlechte Mahlzeit nannte, und versicherte den beiden, dass sie anderswo besser essen würden. Candide hörte erstaunt Cacambo's Übersetzung der Bemerkungen des Wirtes zu. Sowohl er als auch sein Begleiter waren sich sicher, dass sie endlich das eine Land gefunden hatten, wo wirklich alles am besten war. Candide gab nun zu, dass egal, was Doktor Pangloss auch gesagt hatte, die Dinge in Westfalen wirklich ziemlich schlecht waren. Damit Cacambo seinen Wissensdurst bezüglich des Landes stillen konnte, brachte ihn der freundliche Wirt zu einem älteren pensionierten Hofmann. Dieser Mann lebte in einem bescheidenen Haus, das nur eine silberne Tür und goldene Panele in den Zimmern hatte, die nur mit Rubinen und Smaragden verziert waren. Er empfing die beiden Besucher auf einem Sofa, das mit Kolibri-Federn gefüllt war, servierte ihnen Getränke in Diamantvasen und erzählte ihnen von sich selbst und dem Königreich. Sie erfuhren, dass ihr Gastgeber 172 Jahre alt war und dass sein Vater ihm die Geschichte des Landes beigebracht hatte. Dieses Land war das alte Königreich der Inka, die unklugerweise gegangen waren, um einen Teil der Welt zu erobern und schließlich von den Spaniern zerstört worden waren. Aber der weisere Inka-Prinz blieb in diesem Land und herrschte mit Zustimmung des Volkes, dass niemand es verlassen sollte, so wurden Unschuld und Glück bewahrt. Die Spanier hatten etwas über das Land gelernt, das sie Eldorado nennen. Und ein Engländer namens Walter Raleigh hatte vor hundert Jahren beinahe sein Ziel erreicht, aber die unzugänglichen Felsen und Abgründe schützten das Land, so dass die Bewohner vor der Habgier der Europäer geschützt waren. Candide und Cacambo erfuhren viel über die Regierungsform, Frauen, öffentliche Spektakel und Kunst. Dann fragte der Jüngling, ob die El Doradoaner eine Religion hätten. Natürlich hatten sie eine, und sie beteten den einen Gott an, nicht zwei oder drei. Nein, sie beteten ihn nicht an, weil sie es nicht mussten; sie hatten alles, was sie wollten, aber sie sangen Loblieder. Es gab auch keinen separaten Priesterstand; alle waren Priester. Sie wären verrückt gewesen, Mönche zu haben, "um zu lehren, zu diskutieren, zu regieren, zu intrigieren und Menschen anzuzünden, weil sie nicht ihrer Meinung waren." Candide war entzückt, denn er hatte nichts Vergleichbares in Westfalen oder sonstwo in Europa gehört. Das Reisen war wirklich aufschlussreich. Schließlich bestellte der gute alte Mann eine Kutsche, die von sechs Schafen gezogen wurde, schickte ihnen zwölf Diener und wies sie an, den Kön

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 was a squyer of lowe degre, That loved the king's daughter of Hungrie. --Old Romance. Will Ladislaw's mind was now wholly bent on seeing Dorothea again, and forthwith quitting Middlemarch. The morning after his agitating scene with Bulstrode he wrote a brief letter to her, saying that various causes had detained him in the neighborhood longer than he had expected, and asking her permission to call again at Lowick at some hour which she would mention on the earliest possible day, he being anxious to depart, but unwilling to do so until she had granted him an interview. He left the letter at the office, ordering the messenger to carry it to Lowick Manor, and wait for an answer. Ladislaw felt the awkwardness of asking for more last words. His former farewell had been made in the hearing of Sir James Chettam, and had been announced as final even to the butler. It is certainly trying to a man's dignity to reappear when he is not expected to do so: a first farewell has pathos in it, but to come back for a second lends an opening to comedy, and it was possible even that there might be bitter sneers afloat about Will's motives for lingering. Still it was on the whole more satisfactory to his feeling to take the directest means of seeing Dorothea, than to use any device which might give an air of chance to a meeting of which he wished her to understand that it was what he earnestly sought. When he had parted from her before, he had been in ignorance of facts which gave a new aspect to the relation between them, and made a more absolute severance than he had then believed in. He knew nothing of Dorothea's private fortune, and being little used to reflect on such matters, took it for granted that according to Mr. Casaubon's arrangement marriage to him, Will Ladislaw, would mean that she consented to be penniless. That was not what he could wish for even in his secret heart, or even if she had been ready to meet such hard contrast for his sake. And then, too, there was the fresh smart of that disclosure about his mother's family, which if known would be an added reason why Dorothea's friends should look down upon him as utterly below her. The secret hope that after some years he might come back with the sense that he had at least a personal value equal to her wealth, seemed now the dreamy continuation of a dream. This change would surely justify him in asking Dorothea to receive him once more. But Dorothea on that morning was not at home to receive Will's note. In consequence of a letter from her uncle announcing his intention to be at home in a week, she had driven first to Freshitt to carry the news, meaning to go on to the Grange to deliver some orders with which her uncle had intrusted her--thinking, as he said, "a little mental occupation of this sort good for a widow." If Will Ladislaw could have overheard some of the talk at Freshitt that morning, he would have felt all his suppositions confirmed as to the readiness of certain people to sneer at his lingering in the neighborhood. Sir James, indeed, though much relieved concerning Dorothea, had been on the watch to learn Ladislaw's movements, and had an instructed informant in Mr. Standish, who was necessarily in his confidence on this matter. That Ladislaw had stayed in Middlemarch nearly two months after he had declared that he was going immediately, was a fact to embitter Sir James's suspicions, or at least to justify his aversion to a "young fellow" whom he represented to himself as slight, volatile, and likely enough to show such recklessness as naturally went along with a position unriveted by family ties or a strict profession. But he had just heard something from Standish which, while it justified these surmises about Will, offered a means of nullifying all danger with regard to Dorothea. Unwonted circumstances may make us all rather unlike ourselves: there are conditions under which the most majestic person is obliged to sneeze, and our emotions are liable to be acted on in the same incongruous manner. Good Sir James was this morning so far unlike himself that he was irritably anxious to say something to Dorothea on a subject which he usually avoided as if it had been a matter of shame to them both. He could not use Celia as a medium, because he did not choose that she should know the kind of gossip he had in his mind; and before Dorothea happened to arrive he had been trying to imagine how, with his shyness and unready tongue, he could ever manage to introduce his communication. Her unexpected presence brought him to utter hopelessness in his own power of saying anything unpleasant; but desperation suggested a resource; he sent the groom on an unsaddled horse across the park with a pencilled note to Mrs. Cadwallader, who already knew the gossip, and would think it no compromise of herself to repeat it as often as required. Dorothea was detained on the good pretext that Mr. Garth, whom she wanted to see, was expected at the hall within the hour, and she was still talking to Caleb on the gravel when Sir James, on the watch for the rector's wife, saw her coming and met her with the needful hints. "Enough! I understand,"--said Mrs. Cadwallader. "You shall be innocent. I am such a blackamoor that I cannot smirch myself." "I don't mean that it's of any consequence," said Sir James, disliking that Mrs. Cadwallader should understand too much. "Only it is desirable that Dorothea should know there are reasons why she should not receive him again; and I really can't say so to her. It will come lightly from you." It came very lightly indeed. When Dorothea quitted Caleb and turned to meet them, it appeared that Mrs. Cadwallader had stepped across the park by the merest chance in the world, just to chat with Celia in a matronly way about the baby. And so Mr. Brooke was coming back? Delightful!--coming back, it was to be hoped, quite cured of Parliamentary fever and pioneering. Apropos of the "Pioneer"--somebody had prophesied that it would soon be like a dying dolphin, and turn all colors for want of knowing how to help itself, because Mr. Brooke's protege, the brilliant young Ladislaw, was gone or going. Had Sir James heard that? The three were walking along the gravel slowly, and Sir James, turning aside to whip a shrub, said he had heard something of that sort. "All false!" said Mrs. Cadwallader. "He is not gone, or going, apparently; the 'Pioneer' keeps its color, and Mr. Orlando Ladislaw is making a sad dark-blue scandal by warbling continually with your Mr. Lydgate's wife, who they tell me is as pretty as pretty can be. It seems nobody ever goes into the house without finding this young gentleman lying on the rug or warbling at the piano. But the people in manufacturing towns are always disreputable." "You began by saying that one report was false, Mrs. Cadwallader, and I believe this is false too," said Dorothea, with indignant energy; "at least, I feel sure it is a misrepresentation. I will not hear any evil spoken of Mr. Ladislaw; he has already suffered too much injustice." Dorothea when thoroughly moved cared little what any one thought of her feelings; and even if she had been able to reflect, she would have held it petty to keep silence at injurious words about Will from fear of being herself misunderstood. Her face was flushed and her lip trembled. Sir James, glancing at her, repented of his stratagem; but Mrs. Cadwallader, equal to all occasions, spread the palms of her hands outward and said--"Heaven grant it, my dear!--I mean that all bad tales about anybody may be false. But it is a pity that young Lydgate should have married one of these Middlemarch girls. Considering he's a son of somebody, he might have got a woman with good blood in her veins, and not too young, who would have put up with his profession. There's Clara Harfager, for instance, whose friends don't know what to do with her; and she has a portion. Then we might have had her among us. However!--it's no use being wise for other people. Where is Celia? Pray let us go in." "I am going on immediately to Tipton," said Dorothea, rather haughtily. "Good-by." Sir James could say nothing as he accompanied her to the carriage. He was altogether discontented with the result of a contrivance which had cost him some secret humiliation beforehand. Dorothea drove along between the berried hedgerows and the shorn corn-fields, not seeing or hearing anything around. The tears came and rolled down her cheeks, but she did not know it. The world, it seemed, was turning ugly and hateful, and there was no place for her trustfulness. "It is not true--it is not true!" was the voice within her that she listened to; but all the while a remembrance to which there had always clung a vague uneasiness would thrust itself on her attention--the remembrance of that day when she had found Will Ladislaw with Mrs. Lydgate, and had heard his voice accompanied by the piano. "He said he would never do anything that I disapproved--I wish I could have told him that I disapproved of that," said poor Dorothea, inwardly, feeling a strange alternation between anger with Will and the passionate defence of him. "They all try to blacken him before me; but I will care for no pain, if he is not to blame. I always believed he was good."--These were her last thoughts before she felt that the carriage was passing under the archway of the lodge-gate at the Grange, when she hurriedly pressed her handkerchief to her face and began to think of her errands. The coachman begged leave to take out the horses for half an hour as there was something wrong with a shoe; and Dorothea, having the sense that she was going to rest, took off her gloves and bonnet, while she was leaning against a statue in the entrance-hall, and talking to the housekeeper. At last she said-- "I must stay here a little, Mrs. Kell. I will go into the library and write you some memoranda from my uncle's letter, if you will open the shutters for me." "The shutters are open, madam," said Mrs. Kell, following Dorothea, who had walked along as she spoke. "Mr. Ladislaw is there, looking for something." (Will had come to fetch a portfolio of his own sketches which he had missed in the act of packing his movables, and did not choose to leave behind.) Dorothea's heart seemed to turn over as if it had had a blow, but she was not perceptibly checked: in truth, the sense that Will was there was for the moment all-satisfying to her, like the sight of something precious that one has lost. When she reached the door she said to Mrs. Kell-- "Go in first, and tell him that I am here." Will had found his portfolio, and had laid it on the table at the far end of the room, to turn over the sketches and please himself by looking at the memorable piece of art which had a relation to nature too mysterious for Dorothea. He was smiling at it still, and shaking the sketches into order with the thought that he might find a letter from her awaiting him at Middlemarch, when Mrs. Kell close to his elbow said-- "Mrs. Casaubon is coming in, sir." Will turned round quickly, and the next moment Dorothea was entering. As Mrs. Kell closed the door behind her they met: each was looking at the other, and consciousness was overflowed by something that suppressed utterance. It was not confusion that kept them silent, for they both felt that parting was near, and there is no shamefacedness in a sad parting. She moved automatically towards her uncle's chair against the writing-table, and Will, after drawing it out a little for her, went a few paces off and stood opposite to her. "Pray sit down," said Dorothea, crossing her hands on her lap; "I am very glad you were here." Will thought that her face looked just as it did when she first shook hands with him in Rome; for her widow's cap, fixed in her bonnet, had gone off with it, and he could see that she had lately been shedding tears. But the mixture of anger in her agitation had vanished at the sight of him; she had been used, when they were face to face, always to feel confidence and the happy freedom which comes with mutual understanding, and how could other people's words hinder that effect on a sudden? Let the music which can take possession of our frame and fill the air with joy for us, sound once more--what does it signify that we heard it found fault with in its absence? "I have sent a letter to Lowick Manor to-day, asking leave to see you," said Will, seating himself opposite to her. "I am going away immediately, and I could not go without speaking to you again." "I thought we had parted when you came to Lowick many weeks ago--you thought you were going then," said Dorothea, her voice trembling a little. "Yes; but I was in ignorance then of things which I know now--things which have altered my feelings about the future. When I saw you before, I was dreaming that I might come back some day. I don't think I ever shall--now." Will paused here. "You wished me to know the reasons?" said Dorothea, timidly. "Yes," said Will, impetuously, shaking his head backward, and looking away from her with irritation in his face. "Of course I must wish it. I have been grossly insulted in your eyes and in the eyes of others. There has been a mean implication against my character. I wish you to know that under no circumstances would I have lowered myself by--under no circumstances would I have given men the chance of saying that I sought money under the pretext of seeking--something else. There was no need of other safeguard against me--the safeguard of wealth was enough." Will rose from his chair with the last word and went--he hardly knew where; but it was to the projecting window nearest him, which had been open as now about the same season a year ago, when he and Dorothea had stood within it and talked together. Her whole heart was going out at this moment in sympathy with Will's indignation: she only wanted to convince him that she had never done him injustice, and he seemed to have turned away from her as if she too had been part of the unfriendly world. "It would be very unkind of you to suppose that I ever attributed any meanness to you," she began. Then in her ardent way, wanting to plead with him, she moved from her chair and went in front of him to her old place in the window, saying, "Do you suppose that I ever disbelieved in you?" When Will saw her there, he gave a start and moved backward out of the window, without meeting her glance. Dorothea was hurt by this movement following up the previous anger of his tone. She was ready to say that it was as hard on her as on him, and that she was helpless; but those strange particulars of their relation which neither of them could explicitly mention kept her always in dread of saying too much. At this moment she had no belief that Will would in any case have wanted to marry her, and she feared using words which might imply such a belief. She only said earnestly, recurring to his last word-- "I am sure no safeguard was ever needed against you." Will did not answer. In the stormy fluctuation of his feelings these words of hers seemed to him cruelly neutral, and he looked pale and miserable after his angry outburst. He went to the table and fastened up his portfolio, while Dorothea looked at him from the distance. They were wasting these last moments together in wretched silence. What could he say, since what had got obstinately uppermost in his mind was the passionate love for her which he forbade himself to utter? What could she say, since she might offer him no help--since she was forced to keep the money that ought to have been his?--since to-day he seemed not to respond as he used to do to her thorough trust and liking? But Will at last turned away from his portfolio and approached the window again. "I must go," he said, with that peculiar look of the eyes which sometimes accompanies bitter feeling, as if they had been tired and burned with gazing too close at a light. "What shall you do in life?" said Dorothea, timidly. "Have your intentions remained just the same as when we said good-by before?" "Yes," said Will, in a tone that seemed to waive the subject as uninteresting. "I shall work away at the first thing that offers. I suppose one gets a habit of doing without happiness or hope." "Oh, what sad words!" said Dorothea, with a dangerous tendency to sob. Then trying to smile, she added, "We used to agree that we were alike in speaking too strongly." "I have not spoken too strongly now," said Will, leaning back against the angle of the wall. "There are certain things which a man can only go through once in his life; and he must know some time or other that the best is over with him. This experience has happened to me while I am very young--that is all. What I care more for than I can ever care for anything else is absolutely forbidden to me--I don't mean merely by being out of my reach, but forbidden me, even if it were within my reach, by my own pride and honor--by everything I respect myself for. Of course I shall go on living as a man might do who had seen heaven in a trance." Will paused, imagining that it would be impossible for Dorothea to misunderstand this; indeed he felt that he was contradicting himself and offending against his self-approval in speaking to her so plainly; but still--it could not be fairly called wooing a woman to tell her that he would never woo her. It must be admitted to be a ghostly kind of wooing. But Dorothea's mind was rapidly going over the past with quite another vision than his. The thought that she herself might be what Will most cared for did throb through her an instant, but then came doubt: the memory of the little they had lived through together turned pale and shrank before the memory which suggested how much fuller might have been the intercourse between Will and some one else with whom he had had constant companionship. Everything he had said might refer to that other relation, and whatever had passed between him and herself was thoroughly explained by what she had always regarded as their simple friendship and the cruel obstruction thrust upon it by her husband's injurious act. Dorothea stood silent, with her eyes cast down dreamily, while images crowded upon her which left the sickening certainty that Will was referring to Mrs. Lydgate. But why sickening? He wanted her to know that here too his conduct should be above suspicion. Will was not surprised at her silence. His mind also was tumultuously busy while he watched her, and he was feeling rather wildly that something must happen to hinder their parting--some miracle, clearly nothing in their own deliberate speech. Yet, after all, had she any love for him?--he could not pretend to himself that he would rather believe her to be without that pain. He could not deny that a secret longing for the assurance that she loved him was at the root of all his words. Neither of them knew how long they stood in that way. Dorothea was raising her eyes, and was about to speak, when the door opened and her footman came to say-- "The horses are ready, madam, whenever you like to start." "Presently," said Dorothea. Then turning to Will, she said, "I have some memoranda to write for the housekeeper." "I must go," said Will, when the door had closed again--advancing towards her. "The day after to-morrow I shall leave Middlemarch." "You have acted in every way rightly," said Dorothea, in a low tone, feeling a pressure at her heart which made it difficult to speak. She put out her hand, and Will took it for an instant without speaking, for her words had seemed to him cruelly cold and unlike herself. Their eyes met, but there was discontent in his, and in hers there was only sadness. He turned away and took his portfolio under his arm. "I have never done you injustice. Please remember me," said Dorothea, repressing a rising sob. "Why should you say that?" said Will, with irritation. "As if I were not in danger of forgetting everything else." He had really a movement of anger against her at that moment, and it impelled him to go away without pause. It was all one flash to Dorothea--his last words--his distant bow to her as he reached the door--the sense that he was no longer there. She sank into the chair, and for a few moments sat like a statue, while images and emotions were hurrying upon her. Joy came first, in spite of the threatening train behind it--joy in the impression that it was really herself whom Will loved and was renouncing, that there was really no other love less permissible, more blameworthy, which honor was hurrying him away from. They were parted all the same, but--Dorothea drew a deep breath and felt her strength return--she could think of him unrestrainedly. At that moment the parting was easy to bear: the first sense of loving and being loved excluded sorrow. It was as if some hard icy pressure had melted, and her consciousness had room to expand: her past was come back to her with larger interpretation. The joy was not the less--perhaps it was the more complete just then--because of the irrevocable parting; for there was no reproach, no contemptuous wonder to imagine in any eye or from any lips. He had acted so as to defy reproach, and make wonder respectful. Any one watching her might have seen that there was a fortifying thought within her. Just as when inventive power is working with glad ease some small claim on the attention is fully met as if it were only a cranny opened to the sunlight, it was easy now for Dorothea to write her memoranda. She spoke her last words to the housekeeper in cheerful tones, and when she seated herself in the carriage her eyes were bright and her cheeks blooming under the dismal bonnet. She threw back the heavy "weepers," and looked before her, wondering which road Will had taken. It was in her nature to be proud that he was blameless, and through all her feelings there ran this vein--"I was right to defend him." The coachman was used to drive his grays at a good pace, Mr. Casaubon being unenjoying and impatient in everything away from his desk, and wanting to get to the end of all journeys; and Dorothea was now bowled along quickly. Driving was pleasant, for rain in the night had laid the dust, and the blue sky looked far off, away from the region of the great clouds that sailed in masses. The earth looked like a happy place under the vast heavens, and Dorothea was wishing that she might overtake Will and see him once more. After a turn of the road, there he was with the portfolio under his arm; but the next moment she was passing him while he raised his hat, and she felt a pang at being seated there in a sort of exaltation, leaving him behind. She could not look back at him. It was as if a crowd of indifferent objects had thrust them asunder, and forced them along different paths, taking them farther and farther away from each other, and making it useless to look back. She could no more make any sign that would seem to say, "Need we part?" than she could stop the carriage to wait for him. Nay, what a world of reasons crowded upon her against any movement of her thought towards a future that might reverse the decision of this day! "I only wish I had known before--I wish he knew--then we could be quite happy in thinking of each other, though we are forever parted. And if I could but have given him the money, and made things easier for him!"--were the longings that came back the most persistently. And yet, so heavily did the world weigh on her in spite of her independent energy, that with this idea of Will as in need of such help and at a disadvantage with the world, there came always the vision of that unfittingness of any closer relation between them which lay in the opinion of every one connected with her. She felt to the full all the imperativeness of the motives which urged Will's conduct. How could he dream of her defying the barrier that her husband had placed between them?--how could she ever say to herself that she would defy it? Will's certainty as the carriage grew smaller in the distance, had much more bitterness in it. Very slight matters were enough to gall him in his sensitive mood, and the sight of Dorothea driving past him while he felt himself plodding along as a poor devil seeking a position in a world which in his present temper offered him little that he coveted, made his conduct seem a mere matter of necessity, and took away the sustainment of resolve. After all, he had no assurance that she loved him: could any man pretend that he was simply glad in such a case to have the suffering all on his own side? An diesem Abend verbrachte Will bei den Lydgates; am nächsten Abend war er weg. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Nachdem er von dem Testament erfahren hat, beschließt Ladislaw, dass er Dorothea noch einmal treffen und sich verabschieden muss. Zuvor hatte er gehofft, dass er zurückkehren und sie für sich gewinnen könnte, nachdem er sich etabliert hat. Jetzt fühlt er, dass dies unmöglich ist und er sich endgültig verabschieden muss. Er geht zu ihrem Haus, um festzustellen, dass sie nicht da ist, dann geht er nach Tipton, um einige Skizzen abzuholen. Dorothea ist in Freshitt, wo Sir James Mrs. Cadwallader darum gebeten hat, Dorothea das Getratsche weiterzugeben, das Will mit Rosamond Lydgate in Verbindung bringt. Dorothea lehnt die Nachricht jedoch wütend als Verleumdung ab und fährt wegen eines Auftrags ihres Onkels nach Tipton. Sie treffen sich in der Bibliothek. Will weist jegliche Andeutung zurück, dass er sie wegen des Geldes heiraten würde. Dorothea ist unklar, ob sich dies nur auf das Geld oder auch auf die hypothetische Ehe bezieht. Sie beteuert, dass sie ihn und seine Beweggründe immer richtig verstanden hat. Er hält dies für eine kalte Antwort, ohne einen Hinweis auf ihre Gefühle. Aber er sagt, dass er die Hoffnung auf das, was er sich am meisten gewünscht hat, aufgegeben hat und geht weg. Erneut befürchtet sie, dass er seine "Beziehung" mit Rosamond schlechtreden könnte. Sie bittet ihn, sich an sie zu erinnern, worauf er antwortet, dass er Gefahr läuft, alles andere zu vergessen! Er geht, aber sein letzter Ausbruch gibt Dorothea großen Trost und beseitigt ihre früheren Zweifel.

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 soon as we came to the inn, Ransome led us up the stair to a small room, with a bed in it, and heated like an oven by a great fire of coal. At a table hard by the chimney, a tall, dark, sober-looking man sat writing. In spite of the heat of the room, he wore a thick sea-jacket, buttoned to the neck, and a tall hairy cap drawn down over his ears; yet I never saw any man, not even a judge upon the bench, look cooler, or more studious and self-possessed, than this ship-captain. He got to his feet at once, and coming forward, offered his large hand to Ebenezer. "I am proud to see you, Mr. Balfour," said he, in a fine deep voice, "and glad that ye are here in time. The wind's fair, and the tide upon the turn; we'll see the old coal-bucket burning on the Isle of May before to-night." "Captain Hoseason," returned my uncle, "you keep your room unco hot." "It's a habit I have, Mr. Balfour," said the skipper. "I'm a cold-rife man by my nature; I have a cold blood, sir. There's neither fur, nor flannel--no, sir, nor hot rum, will warm up what they call the temperature. Sir, it's the same with most men that have been carbonadoed, as they call it, in the tropic seas." "Well, well, captain," replied my uncle, "we must all be the way we're made." But it chanced that this fancy of the captain's had a great share in my misfortunes. For though I had promised myself not to let my kinsman out of sight, I was both so impatient for a nearer look of the sea, and so sickened by the closeness of the room, that when he told me to "run down-stairs and play myself awhile," I was fool enough to take him at his word. Away I went, therefore, leaving the two men sitting down to a bottle and a great mass of papers; and crossing the road in front of the inn, walked down upon the beach. With the wind in that quarter, only little wavelets, not much bigger than I had seen upon a lake, beat upon the shore. But the weeds were new to me--some green, some brown and long, and some with little bladders that crackled between my fingers. Even so far up the firth, the smell of the sea-water was exceedingly salt and stirring; the Covenant, besides, was beginning to shake out her sails, which hung upon the yards in clusters; and the spirit of all that I beheld put me in thoughts of far voyages and foreign places. I looked, too, at the seamen with the skiff--big brown fellows, some in shirts, some with jackets, some with coloured handkerchiefs about their throats, one with a brace of pistols stuck into his pockets, two or three with knotty bludgeons, and all with their case-knives. I passed the time of day with one that looked less desperate than his fellows, and asked him of the sailing of the brig. He said they would get under way as soon as the ebb set, and expressed his gladness to be out of a port where there were no taverns and fiddlers; but all with such horrifying oaths, that I made haste to get away from him. This threw me back on Ransome, who seemed the least wicked of that gang, and who soon came out of the inn and ran to me, crying for a bowl of punch. I told him I would give him no such thing, for neither he nor I was of an age for such indulgences. "But a glass of ale you may have, and welcome," said I. He mopped and mowed at me, and called me names; but he was glad to get the ale, for all that; and presently we were set down at a table in the front room of the inn, and both eating and drinking with a good appetite. Here it occurred to me that, as the landlord was a man of that county, I might do well to make a friend of him. I offered him a share, as was much the custom in those days; but he was far too great a man to sit with such poor customers as Ransome and myself, and he was leaving the room, when I called him back to ask if he knew Mr. Rankeillor. "Hoot, ay," says he, "and a very honest man. And, O, by-the-by," says he, "was it you that came in with Ebenezer?" And when I had told him yes, "Ye'll be no friend of his?" he asked, meaning, in the Scottish way, that I would be no relative. I told him no, none. "I thought not," said he, "and yet ye have a kind of gliff* of Mr. Alexander." * Look. I said it seemed that Ebenezer was ill-seen in the country. "Nae doubt," said the landlord. "He's a wicked auld man, and there's many would like to see him girning in the tow*. Jennet Clouston and mony mair that he has harried out of house and hame. And yet he was ance a fine young fellow, too. But that was before the sough** gaed abroad about Mr. Alexander, that was like the death of him." * Rope. ** Report. "And what was it?" I asked. "Ou, just that he had killed him," said the landlord. "Did ye never hear that?" "And what would he kill him for?" said I. "And what for, but just to get the place," said he. "The place?" said I. "The Shaws?" "Nae other place that I ken," said he. "Ay, man?" said I. "Is that so? Was my--was Alexander the eldest son?" "'Deed was he," said the landlord. "What else would he have killed him for?" And with that he went away, as he had been impatient to do from the beginning. Of course, I had guessed it a long while ago; but it is one thing to guess, another to know; and I sat stunned with my good fortune, and could scarce grow to believe that the same poor lad who had trudged in the dust from Ettrick Forest not two days ago, was now one of the rich of the earth, and had a house and broad lands, and might mount his horse tomorrow. All these pleasant things, and a thousand others, crowded into my mind, as I sat staring before me out of the inn window, and paying no heed to what I saw; only I remember that my eye lighted on Captain Hoseason down on the pier among his seamen, and speaking with some authority. And presently he came marching back towards the house, with no mark of a sailor's clumsiness, but carrying his fine, tall figure with a manly bearing, and still with the same sober, grave expression on his face. I wondered if it was possible that Ransome's stories could be true, and half disbelieved them; they fitted so ill with the man's looks. But indeed, he was neither so good as I supposed him, nor quite so bad as Ransome did; for, in fact, he was two men, and left the better one behind as soon as he set foot on board his vessel. The next thing, I heard my uncle calling me, and found the pair in the road together. It was the captain who addressed me, and that with an air (very flattering to a young lad) of grave equality. "Sir," said he, "Mr. Balfour tells me great things of you; and for my own part, I like your looks. I wish I was for longer here, that we might make the better friends; but we'll make the most of what we have. Ye shall come on board my brig for half an hour, till the ebb sets, and drink a bowl with me." Now, I longed to see the inside of a ship more than words can tell; but I was not going to put myself in jeopardy, and I told him my uncle and I had an appointment with a lawyer. "Ay, ay," said he, "he passed me word of that. But, ye see, the boat'll set ye ashore at the town pier, and that's but a penny stonecast from Rankeillor's house." And here he suddenly leaned down and whispered in my ear: "Take care of the old tod;* he means mischief. Come aboard till I can get a word with ye." And then, passing his arm through mine, he continued aloud, as he set off towards his boat: "But, come, what can I bring ye from the Carolinas? Any friend of Mr. Balfour's can command. A roll of tobacco? Indian feather-work? a skin of a wild beast? a stone pipe? the mocking-bird that mews for all the world like a cat? the cardinal bird that is as red as blood?--take your pick and say your pleasure." * Fox. By this time we were at the boat-side, and he was handing me in. I did not dream of hanging back; I thought (the poor fool!) that I had found a good friend and helper, and I was rejoiced to see the ship. As soon as we were all set in our places, the boat was thrust off from the pier and began to move over the waters: and what with my pleasure in this new movement and my surprise at our low position, and the appearance of the shores, and the growing bigness of the brig as we drew near to it, I could hardly understand what the captain said, and must have answered him at random. As soon as we were alongside (where I sat fairly gaping at the ship's height, the strong humming of the tide against its sides, and the pleasant cries of the seamen at their work) Hoseason, declaring that he and I must be the first aboard, ordered a tackle to be sent down from the main-yard. In this I was whipped into the air and set down again on the deck, where the captain stood ready waiting for me, and instantly slipped back his arm under mine. There I stood some while, a little dizzy with the unsteadiness of all around me, perhaps a little afraid, and yet vastly pleased with these strange sights; the captain meanwhile pointing out the strangest, and telling me their names and uses. "But where is my uncle?" said I suddenly. "Ay," said Hoseason, with a sudden grimness, "that's the point." I felt I was lost. With all my strength, I plucked myself clear of him and ran to the bulwarks. Sure enough, there was the boat pulling for the town, with my uncle sitting in the stern. I gave a piercing cry--"Help, help! Murder!"--so that both sides of the anchorage rang with it, and my uncle turned round where he was sitting, and showed me a face full of cruelty and terror. It was the last I saw. Already strong hands had been plucking me back from the ship's side; and now a thunderbolt seemed to strike me; I saw a great flash of fire, and fell senseless. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Ransome, Davie und Ebenezer kommen am Hawes Inn an und treffen dort auf einen coolen, selbstbewusst aussehenden Kerl: Elias Hoseason, den Kapitän der Covenant. Ebenezer bemerkt, dass Hoseason sein Zimmer wirklich heiß hält. Hoseason antwortet, dass er immer friert - er hat kaltes Blut. Ebenezer sagt in Ordnung, wir können nichts dafür, wie wir gemacht sind. Davie hat beschlossen, dass er sich an Ebenezer halten wird. Aber der Raum ist wirklich stickig. Also, als Ebenezer vorschlägt, dass Davie sich für eine Weile amüsiert, tut Davie das. Davie schaut hinaus auf die Bucht und fühlt sich ziemlich aufgeregt: Der Geruch des Meeres und der Anblick des Schiffes lassen ihn an Reisen in ferne Länder denken. Aber der Anblick der Mannschaft schreckt Davie ein wenig ab: Sie alle scheinen wie Verbrecher, mit ihrem Fluchen und verzweifelten Aussehen. Ransome kommt aus der Pension und schließt sich Davie an, und sie gehen in die Pension, um etwas zu trinken. Davie fragt den Wirt, ob er einen Mr. Rankeillor kennt. Der Wirt fragt, ob Davie mit Ebenezer gekommen ist, und Davie antwortet mit Ja. Der Wirt fragt, ob Davie ein Verwandter von Ebenezer ist. Davie lügt und sagt nein. Der Wirt sagt - und hier wird die Handlung dicker - dass Davie ein bisschen wie Alexander aussieht. Der Wirt bestätigt, dass Ebenezer im ganzen Gebiet sehr gehasst wird, weil er viele lokale Mieter aus ihren Häusern vertrieben hat. Trotzdem ist es traurig, fährt der Wirt fort: Ebenezer war ein gutaussehender junger Kerl, aber das änderte sich alles, als das Gerücht aufkam, dass er seinen älteren Bruder Alexander getötet hat. Davie freut sich, dass es genau so ist, wie er vermutet hat: Alexander war Ebenezers älterer Bruder, was Davie zum Erben des Hauses Shaws macht. Sein Glück ist gemacht! Gerade als Davie das denkt, sieht er Hoseason durch das Fenster der Pension und erzählt uns, den Lesern, dass Hoseason weder so gut ist, wie er aussieht, noch so schlecht, wie Ransome sagt. Aber Hoseason ist auf seinem Schiff am schlimmsten. Als nächstes hört Davie, wie Ebenezer ihn von draußen ruft, und er geht zu Hoseason und Ebenezer. Hoseason lädt Davie ein, für eine halbe Stunde an Bord der Covenant zu kommen und mit ihm zu trinken. Davie möchte Ja sagen, weil er wirklich neugierig auf das Innere eines Schiffes ist, aber er ist misstrauisch, also sagt er Hoseason, dass er und sein Onkel einen Termin mit einem Anwalt haben. Hoseason versichert Davie, dass die Covenant direkt neben dem Haus des Anwalts Rankeillor verankert ist. Hoseason lehnt sich auch vor und warnt Davie, auf Ebenezer aufzupassen; wenn Davie an Bord geht, kann er ihm einige Dinge erzählen. Davie ist total von Hoseasons freundlicher Art eingenommen und steigt mit ihm in ein Ruderboot, um zum Ankerplatz der Covenant zu fahren. Davie wird die Seite des Schiffs hinaufgetragen und Hoseason beginnt ihm das Schiff zu zeigen. Davie interessiert sich für all das, aber plötzlich fragt er sich, wo Ebenezer ist. Hoseason antwortet: "Das ist der Punkt". Nach dieser seltsamen Antwort befreit sich Davie von Hoseasons Arm und rennt zur Seite des Schiffs. Er schaut hinunter und sieht das Ruderboot zurückkehren, mit seinem Onkel an der Spitze. Davie ruft um Hilfe, und Ebenezer dreht sich um, um ihn anzusehen "mit einem Gesicht voller Grausamkeit und Terror". Als er zusieht, wie sein Onkel davonrudert, wird Davie plötzlich von hinten bewusstlos geschlagen.

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: XVI. Still Knitting Madame Defarge and monsieur her husband returned amicably to the bosom of Saint Antoine, while a speck in a blue cap toiled through the darkness, and through the dust, and down the weary miles of avenue by the wayside, slowly tending towards that point of the compass where the chateau of Monsieur the Marquis, now in his grave, listened to the whispering trees. Such ample leisure had the stone faces, now, for listening to the trees and to the fountain, that the few village scarecrows who, in their quest for herbs to eat and fragments of dead stick to burn, strayed within sight of the great stone courtyard and terrace staircase, had it borne in upon their starved fancy that the expression of the faces was altered. A rumour just lived in the village--had a faint and bare existence there, as its people had--that when the knife struck home, the faces changed, from faces of pride to faces of anger and pain; also, that when that dangling figure was hauled up forty feet above the fountain, they changed again, and bore a cruel look of being avenged, which they would henceforth bear for ever. In the stone face over the great window of the bed-chamber where the murder was done, two fine dints were pointed out in the sculptured nose, which everybody recognised, and which nobody had seen of old; and on the scarce occasions when two or three ragged peasants emerged from the crowd to take a hurried peep at Monsieur the Marquis petrified, a skinny finger would not have pointed to it for a minute, before they all started away among the moss and leaves, like the more fortunate hares who could find a living there. Chateau and hut, stone face and dangling figure, the red stain on the stone floor, and the pure water in the village well--thousands of acres of land--a whole province of France--all France itself--lay under the night sky, concentrated into a faint hair-breadth line. So does a whole world, with all its greatnesses and littlenesses, lie in a twinkling star. And as mere human knowledge can split a ray of light and analyse the manner of its composition, so, sublimer intelligences may read in the feeble shining of this earth of ours, every thought and act, every vice and virtue, of every responsible creature on it. The Defarges, husband and wife, came lumbering under the starlight, in their public vehicle, to that gate of Paris whereunto their journey naturally tended. There was the usual stoppage at the barrier guardhouse, and the usual lanterns came glancing forth for the usual examination and inquiry. Monsieur Defarge alighted; knowing one or two of the soldiery there, and one of the police. The latter he was intimate with, and affectionately embraced. When Saint Antoine had again enfolded the Defarges in his dusky wings, and they, having finally alighted near the Saint's boundaries, were picking their way on foot through the black mud and offal of his streets, Madame Defarge spoke to her husband: "Say then, my friend; what did Jacques of the police tell thee?" "Very little to-night, but all he knows. There is another spy commissioned for our quarter. There may be many more, for all that he can say, but he knows of one." "Eh well!" said Madame Defarge, raising her eyebrows with a cool business air. "It is necessary to register him. How do they call that man?" "He is English." "So much the better. His name?" "Barsad," said Defarge, making it French by pronunciation. But, he had been so careful to get it accurately, that he then spelt it with perfect correctness. "Barsad," repeated madame. "Good. Christian name?" "John." "John Barsad," repeated madame, after murmuring it once to herself. "Good. His appearance; is it known?" "Age, about forty years; height, about five feet nine; black hair; complexion dark; generally, rather handsome visage; eyes dark, face thin, long, and sallow; nose aquiline, but not straight, having a peculiar inclination towards the left cheek; expression, therefore, sinister." "Eh my faith. It is a portrait!" said madame, laughing. "He shall be registered to-morrow." They turned into the wine-shop, which was closed (for it was midnight), and where Madame Defarge immediately took her post at her desk, counted the small moneys that had been taken during her absence, examined the stock, went through the entries in the book, made other entries of her own, checked the serving man in every possible way, and finally dismissed him to bed. Then she turned out the contents of the bowl of money for the second time, and began knotting them up in her handkerchief, in a chain of separate knots, for safe keeping through the night. All this while, Defarge, with his pipe in his mouth, walked up and down, complacently admiring, but never interfering; in which condition, indeed, as to the business and his domestic affairs, he walked up and down through life. The night was hot, and the shop, close shut and surrounded by so foul a neighbourhood, was ill-smelling. Monsieur Defarge's olfactory sense was by no means delicate, but the stock of wine smelt much stronger than it ever tasted, and so did the stock of rum and brandy and aniseed. He whiffed the compound of scents away, as he put down his smoked-out pipe. "You are fatigued," said madame, raising her glance as she knotted the money. "There are only the usual odours." "I am a little tired," her husband acknowledged. "You are a little depressed, too," said madame, whose quick eyes had never been so intent on the accounts, but they had had a ray or two for him. "Oh, the men, the men!" "But my dear!" began Defarge. "But my dear!" repeated madame, nodding firmly; "but my dear! You are faint of heart to-night, my dear!" "Well, then," said Defarge, as if a thought were wrung out of his breast, "it _is_ a long time." "It is a long time," repeated his wife; "and when is it not a long time? Vengeance and retribution require a long time; it is the rule." "It does not take a long time to strike a man with Lightning," said Defarge. "How long," demanded madame, composedly, "does it take to make and store the lightning? Tell me." Defarge raised his head thoughtfully, as if there were something in that too. "It does not take a long time," said madame, "for an earthquake to swallow a town. Eh well! Tell me how long it takes to prepare the earthquake?" "A long time, I suppose," said Defarge. "But when it is ready, it takes place, and grinds to pieces everything before it. In the meantime, it is always preparing, though it is not seen or heard. That is your consolation. Keep it." She tied a knot with flashing eyes, as if it throttled a foe. "I tell thee," said madame, extending her right hand, for emphasis, "that although it is a long time on the road, it is on the road and coming. I tell thee it never retreats, and never stops. I tell thee it is always advancing. Look around and consider the lives of all the world that we know, consider the faces of all the world that we know, consider the rage and discontent to which the Jacquerie addresses itself with more and more of certainty every hour. Can such things last? Bah! I mock you." "My brave wife," returned Defarge, standing before her with his head a little bent, and his hands clasped at his back, like a docile and attentive pupil before his catechist, "I do not question all this. But it has lasted a long time, and it is possible--you know well, my wife, it is possible--that it may not come, during our lives." "Eh well! How then?" demanded madame, tying another knot, as if there were another enemy strangled. "Well!" said Defarge, with a half complaining and half apologetic shrug. "We shall not see the triumph." "We shall have helped it," returned madame, with her extended hand in strong action. "Nothing that we do, is done in vain. I believe, with all my soul, that we shall see the triumph. But even if not, even if I knew certainly not, show me the neck of an aristocrat and tyrant, and still I would--" Then madame, with her teeth set, tied a very terrible knot indeed. "Hold!" cried Defarge, reddening a little as if he felt charged with cowardice; "I too, my dear, will stop at nothing." "Yes! But it is your weakness that you sometimes need to see your victim and your opportunity, to sustain you. Sustain yourself without that. When the time comes, let loose a tiger and a devil; but wait for the time with the tiger and the devil chained--not shown--yet always ready." Madame enforced the conclusion of this piece of advice by striking her little counter with her chain of money as if she knocked its brains out, and then gathering the heavy handkerchief under her arm in a serene manner, and observing that it was time to go to bed. Next noontide saw the admirable woman in her usual place in the wine-shop, knitting away assiduously. A rose lay beside her, and if she now and then glanced at the flower, it was with no infraction of her usual preoccupied air. There were a few customers, drinking or not drinking, standing or seated, sprinkled about. The day was very hot, and heaps of flies, who were extending their inquisitive and adventurous perquisitions into all the glutinous little glasses near madame, fell dead at the bottom. Their decease made no impression on the other flies out promenading, who looked at them in the coolest manner (as if they themselves were elephants, or something as far removed), until they met the same fate. Curious to consider how heedless flies are!--perhaps they thought as much at Court that sunny summer day. A figure entering at the door threw a shadow on Madame Defarge which she felt to be a new one. She laid down her knitting, and began to pin her rose in her head-dress, before she looked at the figure. It was curious. The moment Madame Defarge took up the rose, the customers ceased talking, and began gradually to drop out of the wine-shop. "Good day, madame," said the new-comer. "Good day, monsieur." She said it aloud, but added to herself, as she resumed her knitting: "Hah! Good day, age about forty, height about five feet nine, black hair, generally rather handsome visage, complexion dark, eyes dark, thin, long and sallow face, aquiline nose but not straight, having a peculiar inclination towards the left cheek which imparts a sinister expression! Good day, one and all!" "Have the goodness to give me a little glass of old cognac, and a mouthful of cool fresh water, madame." Madame complied with a polite air. "Marvellous cognac this, madame!" It was the first time it had ever been so complimented, and Madame Defarge knew enough of its antecedents to know better. She said, however, that the cognac was flattered, and took up her knitting. The visitor watched her fingers for a few moments, and took the opportunity of observing the place in general. "You knit with great skill, madame." "I am accustomed to it." "A pretty pattern too!" "_You_ think so?" said madame, looking at him with a smile. "Decidedly. May one ask what it is for?" "Pastime," said madame, still looking at him with a smile while her fingers moved nimbly. "Not for use?" "That depends. I may find a use for it one day. If I do--Well," said madame, drawing a breath and nodding her head with a stern kind of coquetry, "I'll use it!" It was remarkable; but, the taste of Saint Antoine seemed to be decidedly opposed to a rose on the head-dress of Madame Defarge. Two men had entered separately, and had been about to order drink, when, catching sight of that novelty, they faltered, made a pretence of looking about as if for some friend who was not there, and went away. Nor, of those who had been there when this visitor entered, was there one left. They had all dropped off. The spy had kept his eyes open, but had been able to detect no sign. They had lounged away in a poverty-stricken, purposeless, accidental manner, quite natural and unimpeachable. "_John_," thought madame, checking off her work as her fingers knitted, and her eyes looked at the stranger. "Stay long enough, and I shall knit 'BARSAD' before you go." "You have a husband, madame?" "I have." "Children?" "No children." "Business seems bad?" "Business is very bad; the people are so poor." "Ah, the unfortunate, miserable people! So oppressed, too--as you say." "As _you_ say," madame retorted, correcting him, and deftly knitting an extra something into his name that boded him no good. "Pardon me; certainly it was I who said so, but you naturally think so. Of course." "_I_ think?" returned madame, in a high voice. "I and my husband have enough to do to keep this wine-shop open, without thinking. All we think, here, is how to live. That is the subject _we_ think of, and it gives us, from morning to night, enough to think about, without embarrassing our heads concerning others. _I_ think for others? No, no." The spy, who was there to pick up any crumbs he could find or make, did not allow his baffled state to express itself in his sinister face; but, stood with an air of gossiping gallantry, leaning his elbow on Madame Defarge's little counter, and occasionally sipping his cognac. "A bad business this, madame, of Gaspard's execution. Ah! the poor Gaspard!" With a sigh of great compassion. "My faith!" returned madame, coolly and lightly, "if people use knives for such purposes, they have to pay for it. He knew beforehand what the price of his luxury was; he has paid the price." "I believe," said the spy, dropping his soft voice to a tone that invited confidence, and expressing an injured revolutionary susceptibility in every muscle of his wicked face: "I believe there is much compassion and anger in this neighbourhood, touching the poor fellow? Between ourselves." "Is there?" asked madame, vacantly. "Is there not?" "--Here is my husband!" said Madame Defarge. As the keeper of the wine-shop entered at the door, the spy saluted him by touching his hat, and saying, with an engaging smile, "Good day, Jacques!" Defarge stopped short, and stared at him. "Good day, Jacques!" the spy repeated; with not quite so much confidence, or quite so easy a smile under the stare. "You deceive yourself, monsieur," returned the keeper of the wine-shop. "You mistake me for another. That is not my name. I am Ernest Defarge." "It is all the same," said the spy, airily, but discomfited too: "good day!" "Good day!" answered Defarge, drily. "I was saying to madame, with whom I had the pleasure of chatting when you entered, that they tell me there is--and no wonder!--much sympathy and anger in Saint Antoine, touching the unhappy fate of poor Gaspard." "No one has told me so," said Defarge, shaking his head. "I know nothing of it." Having said it, he passed behind the little counter, and stood with his hand on the back of his wife's chair, looking over that barrier at the person to whom they were both opposed, and whom either of them would have shot with the greatest satisfaction. The spy, well used to his business, did not change his unconscious attitude, but drained his little glass of cognac, took a sip of fresh water, and asked for another glass of cognac. Madame Defarge poured it out for him, took to her knitting again, and hummed a little song over it. "You seem to know this quarter well; that is to say, better than I do?" observed Defarge. "Not at all, but I hope to know it better. I am so profoundly interested in its miserable inhabitants." "Hah!" muttered Defarge. "The pleasure of conversing with you, Monsieur Defarge, recalls to me," pursued the spy, "that I have the honour of cherishing some interesting associations with your name." "Indeed!" said Defarge, with much indifference. "Yes, indeed. When Doctor Manette was released, you, his old domestic, had the charge of him, I know. He was delivered to you. You see I am informed of the circumstances?" "Such is the fact, certainly," said Defarge. He had had it conveyed to him, in an accidental touch of his wife's elbow as she knitted and warbled, that he would do best to answer, but always with brevity. "It was to you," said the spy, "that his daughter came; and it was from your care that his daughter took him, accompanied by a neat brown monsieur; how is he called?--in a little wig--Lorry--of the bank of Tellson and Company--over to England." "Such is the fact," repeated Defarge. "Very interesting remembrances!" said the spy. "I have known Doctor Manette and his daughter, in England." "Yes?" said Defarge. "You don't hear much about them now?" said the spy. "No," said Defarge. "In effect," madame struck in, looking up from her work and her little song, "we never hear about them. We received the news of their safe arrival, and perhaps another letter, or perhaps two; but, since then, they have gradually taken their road in life--we, ours--and we have held no correspondence." "Perfectly so, madame," replied the spy. "She is going to be married." "Going?" echoed madame. "She was pretty enough to have been married long ago. You English are cold, it seems to me." "Oh! You know I am English." "I perceive your tongue is," returned madame; "and what the tongue is, I suppose the man is." He did not take the identification as a compliment; but he made the best of it, and turned it off with a laugh. After sipping his cognac to the end, he added: "Yes, Miss Manette is going to be married. But not to an Englishman; to one who, like herself, is French by birth. And speaking of Gaspard (ah, poor Gaspard! It was cruel, cruel!), it is a curious thing that she is going to marry the nephew of Monsieur the Marquis, for whom Gaspard was exalted to that height of so many feet; in other words, the present Marquis. But he lives unknown in England, he is no Marquis there; he is Mr. Charles Darnay. D'Aulnais is the name of his mother's family." Madame Defarge knitted steadily, but the intelligence had a palpable effect upon her husband. Do what he would, behind the little counter, as to the striking of a light and the lighting of his pipe, he was troubled, and his hand was not trustworthy. The spy would have been no spy if he had failed to see it, or to record it in his mind. Having made, at least, this one hit, whatever it might prove to be worth, and no customers coming in to help him to any other, Mr. Barsad paid for what he had drunk, and took his leave: taking occasion to say, in a genteel manner, before he departed, that he looked forward to the pleasure of seeing Monsieur and Madame Defarge again. For some minutes after he had emerged into the outer presence of Saint Antoine, the husband and wife remained exactly as he had left them, lest he should come back. "Can it be true," said Defarge, in a low voice, looking down at his wife as he stood smoking with his hand on the back of her chair: "what he has said of Ma'amselle Manette?" "As he has said it," returned madame, lifting her eyebrows a little, "it is probably false. But it may be true." "If it is--" Defarge began, and stopped. "If it is?" repeated his wife. "--And if it does come, while we live to see it triumph--I hope, for her sake, Destiny will keep her husband out of France." "Her husband's destiny," said Madame Defarge, with her usual composure, "will take him where he is to go, and will lead him to the end that is to end him. That is all I know." "But it is very strange--now, at least, is it not very strange"--said Defarge, rather pleading with his wife to induce her to admit it, "that, after all our sympathy for Monsieur her father, and herself, her husband's name should be proscribed under your hand at this moment, by the side of that infernal dog's who has just left us?" "Stranger things than that will happen when it does come," answered madame. "I have them both here, of a certainty; and they are both here for their merits; that is enough." She rolled up her knitting when she had said those words, and presently took the rose out of the handkerchief that was wound about her head. Either Saint Antoine had an instinctive sense that the objectionable decoration was gone, or Saint Antoine was on the watch for its disappearance; howbeit, the Saint took courage to lounge in, very shortly afterwards, and the wine-shop recovered its habitual aspect. In the evening, at which season of all others Saint Antoine turned himself inside out, and sat on door-steps and window-ledges, and came to the corners of vile streets and courts, for a breath of air, Madame Defarge with her work in her hand was accustomed to pass from place to place and from group to group: a Missionary--there were many like her--such as the world will do well never to breed again. All the women knitted. They knitted worthless things; but, the mechanical work was a mechanical substitute for eating and drinking; the hands moved for the jaws and the digestive apparatus: if the bony fingers had been still, the stomachs would have been more famine-pinched. But, as the fingers went, the eyes went, and the thoughts. And as Madame Defarge moved on from group to group, all three went quicker and fiercer among every little knot of women that she had spoken with, and left behind. Her husband smoked at his door, looking after her with admiration. "A great woman," said he, "a strong woman, a grand woman, a frightfully grand woman!" Darkness closed around, and then came the ringing of church bells and the distant beating of the military drums in the Palace Courtyard, as the women sat knitting, knitting. Darkness encompassed them. Another darkness was closing in as surely, when the church bells, then ringing pleasantly in many an airy steeple over France, should be melted into thundering cannon; when the military drums should be beating to drown a wretched voice, that night all potent as the voice of Power and Plenty, Freedom and Life. So much was closing in about the women who sat knitting, knitting, that they their very selves were closing in around a structure yet unbuilt, where they were to sit knitting, knitting, counting dropping heads. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Die Defarges kehren am späten Abend nach Saint Antoine zurück. Ein befreundeter Polizist warnt Defarge davor, dass ein Spion namens John Barsad in ihre Nachbarschaft geschickt wurde. Madame Defarge beschließt, seinen Namen in das Register zu stricken. In dieser Nacht gesteht Defarge seine Angst, dass die Revolution nicht in seinem Leben eintreten wird. Madame Defarge weist seine Ungeduld zurück und vergleicht die Revolution mit Blitz und Erdbeben: Sie trifft schnell und mit großer Kraft, aber niemand weiß, wie lange es dauern wird, sich zu formen. Am nächsten Tag besucht Barsad die Weinstube. Er tarnt sich als Sympathisant der Revolutionäre und kommentiert die schreckliche Behandlung der Bauern. In dem Wissen, dass Defarge einmal als Diener von Doktor Manette gearbeitet hat, berichtet er, dass Lucie Manette plant zu heiraten und dass ihr Ehemann der Neffe des Marquis, Darnay, sein wird. Nachdem Barsad gegangen ist, trägt Madame Defarge Darnays Namen in ihr Register ein, was Defarge, den einst treuen Diener Manettes, verunsichert.

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 Laurie and Amy were taking conjugal strolls over velvet carpets, as they set their house in order, and planned a blissful future, Mr. Bhaer and Jo were enjoying promenades of a different sort, along muddy roads and sodden fields. "I always do take a walk toward evening, and I don't know why I should give it up, just because I happen to meet the Professor on his way out," said Jo to herself, after two or three encounters, for though there were two paths to Meg's whichever one she took she was sure to meet him, either going or returning. He was always walking rapidly, and never seemed to see her until quite close, when he would look as if his short-sighted eyes had failed to recognize the approaching lady till that moment. Then, if she was going to Meg's he always had something for the babies. If her face was turned homeward, he had merely strolled down to see the river, and was just returning, unless they were tired of his frequent calls. Under the circumstances, what could Jo do but greet him civilly, and invite him in? If she was tired of his visits, she concealed her weariness with perfect skill, and took care that there should be coffee for supper, "as Friedrich--I mean Mr. Bhaer--doesn't like tea." By the second week, everyone knew perfectly well what was going on, yet everyone tried to look as if they were stone-blind to the changes in Jo's face. They never asked why she sang about her work, did up her hair three times a day, and got so blooming with her evening exercise. And no one seemed to have the slightest suspicion that Professor Bhaer, while talking philosophy with the father, was giving the daughter lessons in love. Jo couldn't even lose her heart in a decorous manner, but sternly tried to quench her feelings, and failing to do so, led a somewhat agitated life. She was mortally afraid of being laughed at for surrendering, after her many and vehement declarations of independence. Laurie was her especial dread, but thanks to the new manager, he behaved with praiseworthy propriety, never called Mr. Bhaer 'a capital old fellow' in public, never alluded, in the remotest manner, to Jo's improved appearance, or expressed the least surprise at seeing the Professor's hat on the Marches' table nearly every evening. But he exulted in private and longed for the time to come when he could give Jo a piece of plate, with a bear and a ragged staff on it as an appropriate coat of arms. For a fortnight, the Professor came and went with lover-like regularity. Then he stayed away for three whole days, and made no sign, a proceeding which caused everybody to look sober, and Jo to become pensive, at first, and then--alas for romance--very cross. "Disgusted, I dare say, and gone home as suddenly as he came. It's nothing to me, of course, but I should think he would have come and bid us goodbye like a gentleman," she said to herself, with a despairing look at the gate, as she put on her things for the customary walk one dull afternoon. "You'd better take the little umbrella, dear. It looks like rain," said her mother, observing that she had on her new bonnet, but not alluding to the fact. "Yes, Marmee, do you want anything in town? I've got to run in and get some paper," returned Jo, pulling out the bow under her chin before the glass as an excuse for not looking at her mother. "Yes, I want some twilled silesia, a paper of number nine needles, and two yards of narrow lavender ribbon. Have you got your thick boots on, and something warm under your cloak?" "I believe so," answered Jo absently. "If you happen to meet Mr. Bhaer, bring him home to tea. I quite long to see the dear man," added Mrs. March. Jo heard that, but made no answer, except to kiss her mother, and walk rapidly away, thinking with a glow of gratitude, in spite of her heartache, "How good she is to me! What do girls do who haven't any mothers to help them through their troubles?" The dry-goods stores were not down among the counting-houses, banks, and wholesale warerooms, where gentlemen most do congregate, but Jo found herself in that part of the city before she did a single errand, loitering along as if waiting for someone, examining engineering instruments in one window and samples of wool in another, with most unfeminine interest, tumbling over barrels, being half-smothered by descending bales, and hustled unceremoniously by busy men who looked as if they wondered 'how the deuce she got there'. A drop of rain on her cheek recalled her thoughts from baffled hopes to ruined ribbons. For the drops continued to fall, and being a woman as well as a lover, she felt that, though it was too late to save her heart, she might her bonnet. Now she remembered the little umbrella, which she had forgotten to take in her hurry to be off, but regret was unavailing, and nothing could be done but borrow one or submit to a drenching. She looked up at the lowering sky, down at the crimson bow already flecked with black, forward along the muddy street, then one long, lingering look behind, at a certain grimy warehouse, with 'Hoffmann, Swartz, & Co.' over the door, and said to herself, with a sternly reproachful air... "It serves me right! what business had I to put on all my best things and come philandering down here, hoping to see the Professor? Jo, I'm ashamed of you! No, you shall not go there to borrow an umbrella, or find out where he is, from his friends. You shall trudge away, and do your errands in the rain, and if you catch your death and ruin your bonnet, it's no more than you deserve. Now then!" With that she rushed across the street so impetuously that she narrowly escaped annihilation from a passing truck, and precipitated herself into the arms of a stately old gentleman, who said, "I beg pardon, ma'am," and looked mortally offended. Somewhat daunted, Jo righted herself, spread her handkerchief over the devoted ribbons, and putting temptation behind her, hurried on, with increasing dampness about the ankles, and much clashing of umbrellas overhead. The fact that a somewhat dilapidated blue one remained stationary above the unprotected bonnet attracted her attention, and looking up, she saw Mr. Bhaer looking down. "I feel to know the strong-minded lady who goes so bravely under many horse noses, and so fast through much mud. What do you down here, my friend?" "I'm shopping." Mr. Bhaer smiled, as he glanced from the pickle factory on one side to the wholesale hide and leather concern on the other, but he only said politely, "You haf no umbrella. May I go also, and take for you the bundles?" "Yes, thank you." Jo's cheeks were as red as her ribbon, and she wondered what he thought of her, but she didn't care, for in a minute she found herself walking away arm in arm with her Professor, feeling as if the sun had suddenly burst out with uncommon brilliancy, that the world was all right again, and that one thoroughly happy woman was paddling through the wet that day. "We thought you had gone," said Jo hastily, for she knew he was looking at her. Her bonnet wasn't big enough to hide her face, and she feared he might think the joy it betrayed unmaidenly. "Did you believe that I should go with no farewell to those who haf been so heavenly kind to me?" he asked so reproachfully that she felt as if she had insulted him by the suggestion, and answered heartily... "No, I didn't. I knew you were busy about your own affairs, but we rather missed you, Father and Mother especially." "And you?" "I'm always glad to see you, sir." In her anxiety to keep her voice quite calm, Jo made it rather cool, and the frosty little monosyllable at the end seemed to chill the Professor, for his smile vanished, as he said gravely... "I thank you, and come one more time before I go." "You are going, then?" "I haf no longer any business here, it is done." "Successfully, I hope?" said Jo, for the bitterness of disappointment was in that short reply of his. "I ought to think so, for I haf a way opened to me by which I can make my bread and gif my Junglings much help." "Tell me, please! I like to know all about the--the boys," said Jo eagerly. "That is so kind, I gladly tell you. My friends find for me a place in a college, where I teach as at home, and earn enough to make the way smooth for Franz and Emil. For this I should be grateful, should I not?" "Indeed you should. How splendid it will be to have you doing what you like, and be able to see you often, and the boys!" cried Jo, clinging to the lads as an excuse for the satisfaction she could not help betraying. "Ah! But we shall not meet often, I fear, this place is at the West." "So far away!" and Jo left her skirts to their fate, as if it didn't matter now what became of her clothes or herself. Mr. Bhaer could read several languages, but he had not learned to read women yet. He flattered himself that he knew Jo pretty well, and was, therefore, much amazed by the contradictions of voice, face, and manner, which she showed him in rapid succession that day, for she was in half a dozen different moods in the course of half an hour. When she met him she looked surprised, though it was impossible to help suspecting that she had come for that express purpose. When he offered her his arm, she took it with a look that filled him with delight, but when he asked if she missed him, she gave such a chilly, formal reply that despair fell upon him. On learning his good fortune she almost clapped her hands. Was the joy all for the boys? Then on hearing his destination, she said, "So far away!" in a tone of despair that lifted him on to a pinnacle of hope, but the next minute she tumbled him down again by observing, like one entirely absorbed in the matter... "Here's the place for my errands. Will you come in? It won't take long." Jo rather prided herself upon her shopping capabilities, and particularly wished to impress her escort with the neatness and dispatch with which she would accomplish the business. But owing to the flutter she was in, everything went amiss. She upset the tray of needles, forgot the silesia was to be 'twilled' till it was cut off, gave the wrong change, and covered herself with confusion by asking for lavender ribbon at the calico counter. Mr. Bhaer stood by, watching her blush and blunder, and as he watched, his own bewilderment seemed to subside, for he was beginning to see that on some occasions, women, like dreams, go by contraries. When they came out, he put the parcel under his arm with a more cheerful aspect, and splashed through the puddles as if he rather enjoyed it on the whole. "Should we no do a little what you call shopping for the babies, and haf a farewell feast tonight if I go for my last call at your so pleasant home?" he asked, stopping before a window full of fruit and flowers. "What will we buy?" asked Jo, ignoring the latter part of his speech, and sniffing the mingled odors with an affectation of delight as they went in. "May they haf oranges and figs?" asked Mr. Bhaer, with a paternal air. "They eat them when they can get them." "Do you care for nuts?" "Like a squirrel." "Hamburg grapes. Yes, we shall drink to the Fatherland in those?" Jo frowned upon that piece of extravagance, and asked why he didn't buy a frail of dates, a cask of raisins, and a bag of almonds, and be done with it? Whereat Mr. Bhaer confiscated her purse, produced his own, and finished the marketing by buying several pounds of grapes, a pot of rosy daisies, and a pretty jar of honey, to be regarded in the light of a demijohn. Then distorting his pockets with knobby bundles, and giving her the flowers to hold, he put up the old umbrella, and they traveled on again. "Miss Marsch, I haf a great favor to ask of you," began the Professor, after a moist promenade of half a block. "Yes, sir?" and Jo's heart began to beat so hard she was afraid he would hear it. "I am bold to say it in spite of the rain, because so short a time remains to me." "Yes, sir," and Jo nearly crushed the small flowerpot with the sudden squeeze she gave it. "I wish to get a little dress for my Tina, and I am too stupid to go alone. Will you kindly gif me a word of taste and help?" "Yes, sir," and Jo felt as calm and cool all of a sudden as if she had stepped into a refrigerator. "Perhaps also a shawl for Tina's mother, she is so poor and sick, and the husband is such a care. Yes, yes, a thick, warm shawl would be a friendly thing to take the little mother." "I'll do it with pleasure, Mr. Bhaer." "I'm going very fast, and he's getting dearer every minute," added Jo to herself, then with a mental shake she entered into the business with an energy that was pleasant to behold. Mr. Bhaer left it all to her, so she chose a pretty gown for Tina, and then ordered out the shawls. The clerk, being a married man, condescended to take an interest in the couple, who appeared to be shopping for their family. "Your lady may prefer this. It's a superior article, a most desirable color, quite chaste and genteel," he said, shaking out a comfortable gray shawl, and throwing it over Jo's shoulders. "Does this suit you, Mr. Bhaer?" she asked, turning her back to him, and feeling deeply grateful for the chance of hiding her face. "Excellently well, we will haf it," answered the Professor, smiling to himself as he paid for it, while Jo continued to rummage the counters like a confirmed bargain-hunter. "Now shall we go home?" he asked, as if the words were very pleasant to him. "Yes, it's late, and I'm _so_ tired." Jo's voice was more pathetic than she knew. For now the sun seemed to have gone in as suddenly as it came out, and the world grew muddy and miserable again, and for the first time she discovered that her feet were cold, her head ached, and that her heart was colder than the former, fuller of pain than the latter. Mr. Bhaer was going away, he only cared for her as a friend, it was all a mistake, and the sooner it was over the better. With this idea in her head, she hailed an approaching omnibus with such a hasty gesture that the daisies flew out of the pot and were badly damaged. "This is not our omniboos," said the Professor, waving the loaded vehicle away, and stopping to pick up the poor little flowers. "I beg your pardon. I didn't see the name distinctly. Never mind, I can walk. I'm used to plodding in the mud," returned Jo, winking hard, because she would have died rather than openly wipe her eyes. Mr. Bhaer saw the drops on her cheeks, though she turned her head away. The sight seemed to touch him very much, for suddenly stooping down, he asked in a tone that meant a great deal, "Heart's dearest, why do you cry?" Now, if Jo had not been new to this sort of thing she would have said she wasn't crying, had a cold in her head, or told any other feminine fib proper to the occasion. Instead of which, that undignified creature answered, with an irrepressible sob, "Because you are going away." "Ach, mein Gott, that is so good!" cried Mr. Bhaer, managing to clasp his hands in spite of the umbrella and the bundles, "Jo, I haf nothing but much love to gif you. I came to see if you could care for it, and I waited to be sure that I was something more than a friend. Am I? Can you make a little place in your heart for old Fritz?" he added, all in one breath. "Oh, yes!" said Jo, and he was quite satisfied, for she folded both hands over his arm, and looked up at him with an expression that plainly showed how happy she would be to walk through life beside him, even though she had no better shelter than the old umbrella, if he carried it. It was certainly proposing under difficulties, for even if he had desired to do so, Mr. Bhaer could not go down upon his knees, on account of the mud. Neither could he offer Jo his hand, except figuratively, for both were full. Much less could he indulge in tender remonstrations in the open street, though he was near it. So the only way in which he could express his rapture was to look at her, with an expression which glorified his face to such a degree that there actually seemed to be little rainbows in the drops that sparkled on his beard. If he had not loved Jo very much, I don't think he could have done it then, for she looked far from lovely, with her skirts in a deplorable state, her rubber boots splashed to the ankle, and her bonnet a ruin. Fortunately, Mr. Bhaer considered her the most beautiful woman living, and she found him more "Jove-like" than ever, though his hatbrim was quite limp with the little rills trickling thence upon his shoulders (for he held the umbrella all over Jo), and every finger of his gloves needed mending. Passers-by probably thought them a pair of harmless lunatics, for they entirely forgot to hail a bus, and strolled leisurely along, oblivious of deepening dusk and fog. Little they cared what anybody thought, for they were enjoying the happy hour that seldom comes but once in any life, the magical moment which bestows youth on the old, beauty on the plain, wealth on the poor, and gives human hearts a foretaste of heaven. The Professor looked as if he had conquered a kingdom, and the world had nothing more to offer him in the way of bliss. While Jo trudged beside him, feeling as if her place had always been there, and wondering how she ever could have chosen any other lot. Of course, she was the first to speak--intelligibly, I mean, for the emotional remarks which followed her impetuous "Oh, yes!" were not of a coherent or reportable character. "Friedrich, why didn't you..." "Ah, heaven, she gifs me the name that no one speaks since Minna died!" cried the Professor, pausing in a puddle to regard her with grateful delight. "I always call you so to myself--I forgot, but I won't unless you like it." "Like it? It is more sweet to me than I can tell. Say 'thou', also, and I shall say your language is almost as beautiful as mine." "Isn't 'thou' a little sentimental?" asked Jo, privately thinking it a lovely monosyllable. "Sentimental? Yes. Thank Gott, we Germans believe in sentiment, and keep ourselves young mit it. Your English 'you' is so cold, say 'thou', heart's dearest, it means so much to me," pleaded Mr. Bhaer, more like a romantic student than a grave professor. "Well, then, why didn't thou tell me all this sooner?" asked Jo bashfully. "Now I shall haf to show thee all my heart, and I so gladly will, because thou must take care of it hereafter. See, then, my Jo--ah, the dear, funny little name--I had a wish to tell something the day I said goodbye in New York, but I thought the handsome friend was betrothed to thee, and so I spoke not. Wouldst thou have said 'Yes', then, if I had spoken?" "I don't know. I'm afraid not, for I didn't have any heart just then." "Prut! That I do not believe. It was asleep till the fairy prince came through the wood, and waked it up. Ah, well, 'Die erste Liebe ist die beste', but that I should not expect." "Yes, the first love is the best, but be so contented, for I never had another. Teddy was only a boy, and soon got over his little fancy," said Jo, anxious to correct the Professor's mistake. "Good! Then I shall rest happy, and be sure that thou givest me all. I haf waited so long, I am grown selfish, as thou wilt find, Professorin." "I like that," cried Jo, delighted with her new name. "Now tell me what brought you, at last, just when I wanted you?" "This," and Mr. Bhaer took a little worn paper out of his waistcoat pocket. Jo unfolded it, and looked much abashed, for it was one of her own contributions to a paper that paid for poetry, which accounted for her sending it an occasional attempt. "How could that bring you?" she asked, wondering what he meant. "I found it by chance. I knew it by the names and the initials, and in it there was one little verse that seemed to call me. Read and find him. I will see that you go not in the wet." IN THE GARRET Four little chests all in a row, Dim with dust, and worn by time, All fashioned and filled, long ago, By children now in their prime. Four little keys hung side by side, With faded ribbons, brave and gay When fastened there, with childish pride, Long ago, on a rainy day. Four little names, one on each lid, Carved out by a boyish hand, And underneath there lieth hid Histories of the happy band Once playing here, and pausing oft To hear the sweet refrain, That came and went on the roof aloft, In the falling summer rain. "Meg" on the first lid, smooth and fair. I look in with loving eyes, For folded here, with well-known care, A goodly gathering lies, The record of a peaceful life-- Gifts to gentle child and girl, A bridal gown, lines to a wife, A tiny shoe, a baby curl. No toys in this first chest remain, For all are carried away, In their old age, to join again In another small Meg's play. Ah, happy mother! Well I know You hear, like a sweet refrain, Lullabies ever soft and low In the falling summer rain. "Jo" on the next lid, scratched and worn, And within a motley store Of headless dolls, of schoolbooks torn, Birds and beasts that speak no more, Spoils brought home from the fairy ground Only trod by youthful feet, Dreams of a future never found, Memories of a past still sweet, Half-writ poems, stories wild, April letters, warm and cold, Diaries of a wilful child, Hints of a woman early old, A woman in a lonely home, Hearing, like a sad refrain-- "Be worthy, love, and love will come," In the falling summer rain. My Beth! the dust is always swept From the lid that bears your name, As if by loving eyes that wept, By careful hands that often came. Death canonized for us one saint, Ever less human than divine, And still we lay, with tender plaint, Relics in this household shrine-- The silver bell, so seldom rung, The little cap which last she wore, The fair, dead Catherine that hung By angels borne above her door. The songs she sang, without lament, In her prison-house of pain, Forever are they sweetly blent With the falling summer rain. Upon the last lid's polished field-- Legend now both fair and true A gallant knight bears on his shield, "Amy" in letters gold and blue. Within lie snoods that bound her hair, Slippers that have danced their last, Faded flowers laid by with care, Fans whose airy toils are past, Gay valentines, all ardent flames, Trifles that have borne their part In girlish hopes and fears and shames, The record of a maiden heart Now learning fairer, truer spells, Hearing, like a blithe refrain, The silver sound of bridal bells In the falling summer rain. Four little chests all in a row, Dim with dust, and worn by time, Four women, taught by weal and woe To love and labor in their prime. Four sisters, parted for an hour, None lost, one only gone before, Made by love's immortal power, Nearest and dearest evermore. Oh, when these hidden stores of ours Lie open to the Father's sight, May they be rich in golden hours, Deeds that show fairer for the light, Lives whose brave music long shall ring, Like a spirit-stirring strain, Souls that shall gladly soar and sing In the long sunshine after rain. "It's very bad poetry, but I felt it when I wrote it, one day when I was very lonely, and had a good cry on a rag bag. I never thought it would go where it could tell tales," said Jo, tearing up the verses the Professor had treasured so long. "Let it go, it has done its duty, and I will haf a fresh one when I read all the brown book in which she keeps her little secrets," said Mr. Bhaer with a smile as he watched the fragments fly away on the wind. "Yes," he added earnestly, "I read that, and I think to myself, She has a sorrow, she is lonely, she would find comfort in true love. I haf a heart full, full for her. Shall I not go and say, 'If this is not too poor a thing to gif for what I shall hope to receive, take it in Gott's name?'" "And so you came to find that it was not too poor, but the one precious thing I needed," whispered Jo. "I had no courage to think that at first, heavenly kind as was your welcome to me. But soon I began to hope, and then I said, 'I will haf her if I die for it,' and so I will!" cried Mr. Bhaer, with a defiant nod, as if the walls of mist closing round them were barriers which he was to surmount or valiantly knock down. Jo thought that was splendid, and resolved to be worthy of her knight, though he did not come prancing on a charger in gorgeous array. "What made you stay away so long?" she asked presently, finding it so pleasant to ask confidential questions and get delightful answers that she could not keep silent. "It was not easy, but I could not find the heart to take you from that so happy home until I could haf a prospect of one to gif you, after much time, perhaps, and hard work. How could I ask you to gif up so much for a poor old fellow, who has no fortune but a little learning?" "I'm glad you are poor. I couldn't bear a rich husband," said Jo decidedly, adding in a softer tone, "Don't fear poverty. I've known it long enough to lose my dread and be happy working for those I love, and don't call yourself old--forty is the prime of life. I couldn't help loving you if you were seventy!" The Professor found that so touching that he would have been glad of his handkerchief, if he could have got at it. As he couldn't, Jo wiped his eyes for him, and said, laughing, as she took away a bundle or two... "I may be strong-minded, but no one can say I'm out of my sphere now, for woman's special mission is supposed to be drying tears and bearing burdens. I'm to carry my share, Friedrich, and help to earn the home. Make up your mind to that, or I'll never go," she added resolutely, as he tried to reclaim his load. "We shall see. Haf you patience to wait a long time, Jo? I must go away and do my work alone. I must help my boys first, because, even for you, I may not break my word to Minna. Can you forgif that, and be happy while we hope and wait?" "Yes, I know I can, for we love one another, and that makes all the rest easy to bear. I have my duty, also, and my work. I couldn't enjoy myself if I neglected them even for you, so there's no need of hurry or impatience. You can do your part out West, I can do mine here, and both be happy hoping for the best, and leaving the future to be as God wills." "Ah! Thou gifest me such hope and courage, and I haf nothing to gif back but a full heart and these empty hands," cried the Professor, quite overcome. Jo never, never would learn to be proper, for when he said that as they stood upon the steps, she just put both hands into his, whispering tenderly, "Not empty now," and stooping down, kissed her Friedrich under the umbrella. It was dreadful, but she would have done it if the flock of draggle-tailed sparrows on the hedge had been human beings, for she was very far gone indeed, and quite regardless of everything but her own happiness. Though it came in such a very simple guise, that was the crowning moment of both their lives, when, turning from the night and storm and loneliness to the household light and warmth and peace waiting to receive them, with a glad "Welcome home!" Jo led her lover in, and shut the door. 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.

Unter dem Regenschirm Nach zahlreichen Besuchen bleibt Bhaer drei Tage lang weg. Eines Tages geht Jo hinaus, um einige Besorgungen zu machen, in der Hoffnung, ihm zu begegnen. Gerade als der Regen zu fallen beginnt, stößt sie mit ihm zusammen und er bedeckt sie dann mit seinem Regenschirm, während sie gemeinsam einkaufen gehen. Er erzählt ihr, dass er seine Geschäfte in der Stadt erledigt hat. Er fügt hinzu, dass er einen Job als Lehrer im Westen bekommen hat, wo er etwas Geld verdienen kann. Sie ist bestürzt, dass er so weit weggehen wird und fängt an zu weinen. Weil sie ihre Gefühle für ihn gezeigt hat, fühlt sich Bhaer wohl dabei, ihr zu sagen, dass er sie liebt. Sie antwortet, dass sie ihn auch liebt, und sie beschließen zu heiraten.

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. Das Winter war schrecklich. An manchen Tagen stapfte Sara durch den Schnee, wenn sie ihre Erledigungen machte. An schlimmeren Tagen schmolz der Schnee und wurde mit dem Schlamm zu einer schmutzigen Masse. An anderen Tagen war der Nebel so dicht, dass die Straßenlaternen den ganzen Tag über brannten und London genauso aussah wie an dem Nachmittag, mehrere Jahre zuvor, als der Wagen mit Sara durch die Straßen fuhr und sie sich an die Schulter ihres Vaters lehnte. An solchen Tagen sahen die Fenster des Hauses der Großfamilie immer gemütlich und verlockend aus und das Büro, in dem der indische Gentleman saß, strahlte Wärme und satte Farben aus. Aber der Dachboden war jenseits aller Beschreibungen trostlos. Es gab keine Sonnenuntergänge oder Sonnenaufgänge mehr zu betrachten und kaum noch Sterne, schien es Sara. Die Wolken hingen tief über der Dachluke und waren entweder grau oder schlammfarben oder ließen schwere Regentropfen fallen. Bereits um vier Uhr nachmittags, selbst wenn kein besonderer Nebel herrschte, war das Tageslicht zu Ende. Wenn es notwendig war, etwas auf ihrem Dachboden zu erledigen, musste Sara eine Kerze anzünden. Die Frauen in der Küche waren niedergeschlagen und das machte sie noch übellauniger als sonst. Becky wurde wie eine kleine Sklavin behandelt. "Wenn es dich nicht gäbe, Fräulein", sagte sie heiser eines Nachts, als sie auf den Dachboden geschlichen war, "wenn es dich nicht und die Bastille und dass ich die Gefangene in der nächsten Zelle bin, dann würde ich sterben. Das scheint jetzt alles echt, oder? Die dame ist jeden Tag mehr wie die Gefängniswärterin. Ich kann geradezu die großen Schlüssel sehen, von denen du sprichst. Die Köchin ist wie eine der Unterwärterinnen. Erzähl mir noch mehr, bitte, Fräulein - erzähl mir von dem unterirdischen Gang, den wir unter den Mauern gegraben haben." "Ich erzähle dir etwas Wärmeres", bibberte Sara. "Hole deine Decke und schlag sie um dich und ich hole meine und wir kuscheln uns eng aneinander auf das Bett und ich erzähle dir von dem tropischen Dschungel, in dem der indische Gentleman seine Affe früher leben ließ. Wenn ich ihn auf dem Tisch in der Nähe des Fensters sitzen sehe und mit dem traurigen Gesicht auf die Straße blicken sehe, bin ich mir immer sicher, dass er über den tropischen Dschungel nachdenkt, in dem er früher an Kokospalmen hing. Ich frage mich, wer ihn gefangen hat und ob er eine Familie hinterlassen hat, die von ihm abhängig war, um Kokosnüsse zu bekommen." "Das ist wärmer, Fräulein", sagte Becky dankbar, "aber auf gewisse Weise ist sogar die Bastille eine Art Wärmeproduzent, wenn man davon erzählt." "Das liegt daran, dass dich das an etwas anderes denken lässt", sagte Sara und wickelte sich in ihre Decke, sodass nur ihr kleines dunkles Gesicht zu sehen war. "Ich habe das bemerkt. Was du tun musst, wenn dein Körper elend ist, ist, deinen Geist dazu zu bringen, an etwas anderes zu denken." "Kannst du das, Fräulein?", fragte Becky und betrachtete sie bewundernd. Sara runzelte die Stirn einen Moment lang. "Manchmal kann ich es und manchmal kann ich es nicht", sagte sie energisch. "Aber wenn ich es kann, dann geht es mir gut. Und ich glaube, dass wir das immer könnten - wenn wir genug üben würden. In letzter Zeit habe ich viel geübt und es wird langsam einfacher als früher. Wenn die Dinge schrecklich sind - einfach schrecklich -, denke ich so intensiv wie möglich daran, eine Prinzessin zu sein. Ich sage mir selbst: 'Ich bin eine Prinzessin und ich bin eine Fee und weil ich eine Fee bin, kann mir nichts wehtun oder mich unwohl fühlen lassen.' Du ahnst nicht, wie sehr man dadurch vergisst." mit einem Lachen. Sie hatte viele Gelegenheiten, ihren Geist an etwas anderes denken zu lassen, und viele Gelegenheiten, sich selbst zu beweisen, ob sie wirklich eine Prinzessin war oder nicht. Aber eine der größten Bewährungsproben kam an einem schlimmen Tag, den sie sich oft danach kaum mehr aus dem Gedächtnis verblassen sah. Es hatte mehrere Tage ununterbrochen geregnet. Die Straßen waren kalt und schlammig und voll nebligen, kalten Dunsts. Überall gab es Schlamm - klebrigen Londoner Schlamm - und über allem lag der Schleier aus Nieselregen und Nebel. Natürlich gab es mehrere lange und lästige Besorgungen, die erledigt werden mussten - an Tagen wie diesem gab es immer welche - und Sara wurde immer wieder hinausgeschickt, bis ihre abgetragene Kleidung durchnässt war. Die albernen, abgenutzten Federn auf ihrem traurigen Hut hingen noch alberner und abgenutzter herunter und ihre zertretenen Schuhe waren so nass, dass sie kein Wasser mehr halten konnten. Zusätzlich dazu war sie von ihrem Abendessen ausgeschlossen worden, weil Miss Minchin beschlossen hatte, sie zu bestrafen. Sie war so kalt und hungrig und müde, dass ihr Gesicht einen eingefallenen Ausdruck bekam und ab und zu warf ihr ein mitfühlender Mensch auf der Straße plötzlich einen mitleidigen Blick zu. Aber das entging ihr. Sie eilte weiter, und versuchte ihre Gedanken auf etwas anderes zu konzentrieren, es war wirklich sehr notwendig. Ihre Methode war es, mit aller Kraft zu "tun als ob" und "anzunehmen". Aber diesmal war es wirklich schwieriger als je zuvor und ein oder zweimal hatte sie den Eindruck, dass es sie eher mehr fröstelte und hungrige machte, anstatt weniger. Aber sie beharrte hartnäckig und sprach dabei mit sich selbst, ohne laut zu sprechen oder ihre Lippen zu bewegen, während das schlammige Wasser durch ihre kaputten Schuhe sickerte und der Wind schien versuchen zu wollen, ihre dünne Jacke von ihr zu reißen. "Angenommen, ich hätte trockene Kleidung an", dachte sie. "Angenommen, ich hätte gute Schuhe und einen langen, dicken Mantel und Merinowollstrümpfe und einen ganzen Regenschirm. Und was ist, wenn - ausgerechnet, als ich in der Nähe eines Bäckers war, wo es heiße Brötchen gibt - ich einen Sechspenning - der niemandem gehört - finden würde. Angenommen, wenn das der Fall wäre, würde ich in den Laden gehen und sechs der heißesten Brötchen kaufen und sie alle ohne Pause verzehren." Manchmal passieren in dieser Welt wirklich seltsame Dinge. Es war tatsächlich eine seltsame Sache, die Sara passierte. Gerade als sie das zu sich selbst sagte, musste sie die Straße überqueren. Der Schlamm war schrecklich, sie musste fast waten. Sie suchte sich so sorgfältig wie möglich ihren Weg, konnte sich aber nicht viel retten. Nur während sie sich ihren Weg suchte musste sie auf ihre Füße und den Matsch schauen und dabei sah sie - genau als sie den Gehsteig erreichte - etwas im Gully glitzern. Es war tatsächlich ein Stück Silber - ein winziges Stück von vielen Füßen zertreten, aber immer noch mit ausreichend Energie, dass es ein wenig glänzte. Kein Sechspenning, aber das nächste, was man dazu haben konnte - ein Vierpence. In einer Sekunde hatte sie es in ihrer kalten kleinen, rot-blauen Hand. "Oh", keuchte sie, "es ist wahr! Es ist wahr!" Und dann, wenn man mir glauben möchte, schaute sie geradewegs auf den Laden, direkt vor ihr. Und das war eine Bäckerei, und eine fröhlich-dicke, mütterliche Frau mit rosigen Das Kind - dieses "einer der Menge" - starrte Sara an und schob sich ein wenig beiseite, um ihr Platz zum Durchgehen zu geben. Sie war daran gewöhnt, Platz für jeden zu machen. Sie wusste, dass wenn ein Polizist sie sehen würde, er ihr sagen würde, dass sie weitergehen solle. Sara umklammerte ihr kleines Vierpfennigstück und zögerte für ein paar Sekunden. Dann sprach sie zu ihr. "Bist du hungrig?" fragte sie. Das Kind schob sich und seine Lumpen noch ein wenig mehr hin und her. "Bin ich etwa nicht?" sagte es mit heiserer Stimme. "Ja, das bin ich." "Hast du kein Mittagessen gehabt?" fragte Sara. "Kein Mittagessen", noch heiser und mit noch mehr Schieben. "Auch kein Frühstück - auch kein Abendessen. Nichts. "Seit wann?" fragte Sara. "Woher soll ich das wissen. Ich habe heute nichts bekommen - von niemandem. Ich habe gefragt und gefragt." Schon der Anblick machte Sara hungriger und schwächer. Aber diese seltsamen kleinen Gedanken arbeiteten in ihrem Gehirn und sie sprach mit sich selbst, obwohl ihr das Herz schwer war. "Wenn ich eine Prinzessin bin", sagte sie, "wenn ich eine Prinzessin bin - als sie arm waren und von ihren Thronen vertrieben wurden - haben sie immer - mit dem Volk geteilt - wenn sie jemanden trafen, der ärmer und hungriger war als sie selbst. Sie haben immer geteilt. Hefebrötchen kosten je einen Penny. Wenn es ein Sechser wäre, könnte ich sechs essen. Es wird für uns beide nicht genug sein. Aber es ist besser als nichts." "Warte einen Moment", sagte sie zu dem bettelnden Kind. Sie ging in den Laden. Es war warm und roch köstlich. Die Frau war gerade dabei, ein paar heiße Brötchen ins Fenster zu legen. "Bitte", sagte Sara, "haben Sie vier Pence verloren - einen silbernen Vierpence?" Und sie hielt das verlassene kleine Geldstück hin. Die Frau sah es an und dann sie an - an ihr intensives kleines Gesicht und ihre zerzausten, einst feinen Kleider. "Mein Gott, nein", antwortete sie. "Hast du es gefunden?" "Ja", sagte Sara. "Im Rinnstein." "Behalte es dann", sagte die Frau. "Es könnte schon eine Woche dort gewesen sein und Gott weiß, wer es verloren hat. DU könntest es nie herausfinden." "Das weiß ich", sagte Sara, "aber ich dachte, ich würde Sie fragen." "Nicht viele würden das tun", sagte die Frau, die verwirrt, interessiert und gutmütig zugleich aussah. "Möchtest du etwas kaufen?", fügte sie hinzu, als sie sah, wie Sara die Brötchen ansah. "Vier Brötchen, bitte", sagte Sara. "Die, die je einen Penny kosten." Die Frau ging zum Fenster und legte einige in einen Papiertüte. Sara bemerkte, dass sie sechs hineinlegte. "Ich sagte vier, bitte", erklärte sie. "Ich habe nur vier Pence." "Ich lege noch zwei dazu", sagte die Frau mit ihrem gutmütigen Blick. "Ich denke, du kannst sie irgendwann essen. Hast du nicht Hunger?" Ein Schleier stieg vor Saras Augen. "Ja", antwortete sie. "Ich habe sehr Hunger und ich danke Ihnen vielmals für Ihre Freundlichkeit; und" - sie wollte hinzufügen - "da draußen ist ein Kind, das hungriger ist als ich." Aber genau in diesem Moment kamen zwei oder drei Kunden gleichzeitig herein und jeder schien es eilig zu haben, also konnte sie nur der Frau wieder danken und gehen. Das bettelnde Mädchen saß immer noch zusammengedrückt in der Ecke der Stufe. Sie sah furchtbar aus in ihren nassen und schmutzigen Lumpen. Sie starrte geradeaus mit einem dummen leidenden Blick und Sara sah, wie sie plötzlich den Rücken ihrer rauchgeschwärzten Hand über die Augen rieb, um die Tränen wegzureiben, die sie scheinbar überrascht hatten, indem sie sich unter ihren Lidern ihren Weg gebahnt hatten. Sie murmelte vor sich hin. Sara öffnete die Papiertüte und nahm eines der heißen Brötchen heraus, das bereits ihre kalten Hände ein wenig wärmte. "Sieh mal", sagte sie und legte das Brötchen auf den zerlumpten Schoß, "das hier ist schön warm. Iss es und du wirst dich nicht mehr so hungrig fühlen." Das Kind fuhr hoch und starrte sie an, als würde solch ein plötzlicher, erstaunlicher Glücksfall sie fast erschrecken; dann riss sie das Brötchen an sich und begann es in großen gierigen Bissen in ihren Mund zu stopfen. "Oh, mein! Oh, mein!" hörte Sara sie heiser vor wilder Freude sagen. "OH mein!" Sara nahm noch drei weitere Brötchen heraus und legte sie hin. Der Klang in dieser heiseren, gefräßigen Stimme war furchtbar. "Sie ist hungriger als ich", sagte sie zu sich selbst. "Sie verhungert." Aber ihre Hand zitterte, als sie das vierte Brötchen hinlegte. "Ich verhungere nicht", sagte sie - und sie legte das fünfte hin. Das kleine gierige Londoner Wildtier riss immer noch und verschlingt sie, als sie sich abwandte. Sie war zu hungrig, um sich zu bedanken, selbst wenn sie je Höflichkeit gelernt hätte - was sie nicht hatte. Sie war nur ein armes kleines wildes Tier. "Tschüss", sagte Sara. Als sie auf die andere Seite der Straße kam, sah sie sich um. Das Kind hatte ein Brötchen in jeder Hand und hatte in der Mitte eines Bisses innegehalten, um ihr zuzusehen. Sara nickte ihr zu und das Kind, nach einem weiteren Blick - ein merkwürdiges verweilendes Starrren - zuckte mit dem zotteligen Kopf und aß nicht weiter oder beendete sogar den angefangenen Biss, bis Sara außer Sicht war. In dem Moment schaute die Bäckerin aus dem Schaufenster ihres Ladens. "Also, das gibt's doch nicht!" rief sie aus. "Wenn das kleine Ding den Bettlerkindern ihre Brötchen gegeben hat! Es war auch nicht so, als ob sie sie nicht gewollt hätte. Nun ja, sie sah hungrig genug aus. Ich würde einiges dafür geben, um zu wissen, warum sie das getan hat." Sie stand für einige Augenblicke hinter ihrem Fenster und sann nach. Dann überwog ihre Neugierde. Sie ging zur Tür und sprach das bettelnde Kind an. "Wer hat dir die Brötchen gegeben?" fragte sie. Das Kind nickte mit dem Kopf in Richtung Saras, die gerade verschwand. "Was hat sie gesagt?" erkundigte sich die Frau. "Sie hat mich gefragt, ob ich 'hungry' (hungrig) bin", antwortete die heisere Stimme. "Was hast du gesagt?" "Ich hab "jist" (genau) gesagt." "Und dann ist sie reingegangen und hat die Brötchen geholt und sie dir gegeben, oder?" Das Kind nickte. "Wie viele?" "Fünf." Die Frau überlegte. "Sie hat sich nur eins für sich selbst übrig gelassen", sagte sie leise. "Und sie hätte alle sechs essen können - ich sah es in ihren Augen." Sie schaute der kleinen zerlumpten Figur nach und fühlte sich in ihrem normalerweise behaglichen Geist mehr beunruhigt als sie es seit vielen Tagen war. "Ich wünschte, sie wäre nicht so schnell gegangen", sagte sie. "Verdammt, wenn sie nicht ein Dutzend haben sollte." Dann wandte sie sich an das Kind. "Hast du noch Hunger?" sagte sie. "Ich hab immer Hunger", war die Antwort, "aber es ist nicht mehr so schlimm wie vorher." "Komm rein", sagte die Frau und sie hielt die Ladentür auf. Das Kind stand auf und schlich hinein. In einen warmen Ort voller Brot eingeladen zu werden, schien eine unglaubliche Sache zu sein. Sie wusste nicht, was passieren würde. Sie kümmerte sich auch nicht. "Wärm dich auf", sagte die Frau und zeigte auf ein Feuer im winzigen Hinterzimmer. "Und schau mal; wenn du mal etwas Brot brauchst, komm her und frag danach. Verdammt, wenn ich es dir nicht für dieses kleine Ding geben würde." Sara fand etwas Trost in ihrem verbleibenden Brötchen. Auf alle Fälle war es sehr heiß und es war besser als nichts. Während sie weiterging, brach sie kleine Stücke ab und aß sie langsam, um sie länger dauern zu lassen Es war dunkel, als sie den Platz erreichte, an dem das ausgewählte Internat lag. Die Lichter in den Häusern waren alle angezündet. Die Jalousien waren noch nicht in den Fenstern des Raumes geschlossen, wo sie fast immer Mitglieder der Großen Familie erhaschen konnte. Oft konnte sie zu dieser Stunde den Herrn namens Mr. Montmorency sehen, wie er in einem großen Stuhl saß, von einer kleinen Schar umgeben, die sich auf den Armlehnen, auf seinen Knien oder dagegen lehnte. An diesem Abend war die Schar um ihn herum, aber er saß nicht. Im Gegenteil, es herrschte große Aufregung. Es war offensichtlich, dass eine Reise anstand und Mr. Montmorency sie unternehmen würde. Ein Brougham stand vor der Tür und eine große Reisetasche war darauf geschnallt. Die Kinder tanzten herum, plauderten und hingen an ihrem Vater. Die hübsche, rosige Mutter stand neben ihm und sprach, als würde sie abschließende Fragen stellen. Sara hielt einen Moment inne, um zu sehen, wie die Kleinen hochgehoben und geküsst wurden und die Größeren sich über sie beugten und sie ebenfalls küssten. "Ich frage mich, ob er lange wegbleiben wird", dachte sie. "Die Reisetasche ist ziemlich groß. Oh, wie sie ihn vermissen werden! Ich werde ihn selbst vermissen - auch wenn er nicht weiß, dass ich existiere." Als die Tür geöffnet wurde, bewegte sie sich weg - in Erinnerung an den Sechser. Aber sie sah den Reisenden herauskommen und sich vor dem Hintergrund des warm beleuchteten Flurs stellen, während die älteren Kinder immer noch um ihn herumschwirrten. "Wird Moskau mit Schnee bedeckt sein?", sagte das kleine Mädchen Janet. "Wird überall Eis sein?" "Wirst du mit einer Droschke fahren?", rief ein anderer. "Wirst du den Zaren sehen?" "Ich werde schreiben und euch alles darüber berichten", antwortete er lachend. "Und ich werde euch Bilder von Muzhiks und so schicken. Geht ins Haus. Es ist eine widerlich feuchte Nacht. Ich würde lieber bei euch bleiben, als nach Moskau zu gehen. Gute Nacht! Gute Nacht, Entchen! Gott segne euch!" Und er rannte die Stufen hinunter und sprang in den Brougham. "Wenn du das kleine Mädchen findest, grüße sie von uns", schrie Guy Clarence und sprang auf und ab auf der Türmatte. Dann gingen sie hinein und schlossen die Tür. "Hast du es gesehen?", sagte Janet zu Nora, als sie zurück ins Zimmer gingen. "Die Kleine, die keine Bettlerin ist, ging vorbei. Sie sah ganz kalt und nass aus, und ich sah, wie sie ihren Kopf über die Schulter drehte und uns ansah. Mama sagt, ihre Kleidung sieht immer so aus, als hätte sie jemandem gehört, der ziemlich reich ist - jemand, der sie nur bekommt, weil sie zu abgetragen sind, um sie selbst zu tragen. Die Leute in der Schule schicken sie immer an den schlimmsten Tagen und Nächten auf Besorgungen." Sara überquerte den Platz zu Miss Minchins Eingangsstufen und fühlte sich schwach und zittrig. "Ich frage mich, wer das kleine Mädchen ist", dachte sie, "das kleine Mädchen, nach dem er sucht." Und sie ging die Stufen hinunter zur Kellerwohnung und fand ihren Korb sehr schwer, als der Vater der Großen Familie schnell auf dem Weg zum Bahnhof fuhr, um den Zug zu nehmen, der ihn nach Moskau bringen sollte, wo er sein Bestes tun würde, um nach dem verlorenen Töchterchen Captain Crewes zu suchen. Was Melchisedek hörte und sah An diesem Nachmittag geschah im Dachboden etwas Seltsames, während Sara unterwegs war. Nur Melchisedek sah und hörte es; und er war so erschrocken und verwirrt, dass er zurück in sein Versteck flitzte, sich dort versteckte und wirklich zitterte und bebte, als er verstohlen und mit großer Vorsicht hervorlugte, um zu beobachten, was vor sich ging. Der Dachboden war den ganzen Tag über sehr still gewesen, nachdem Sara ihn am frühen Morgen verlassen hatte. Die Stille war nur vom Prasseln des Regens auf den Schieferplatten und dem Dachfenster unterbrochen worden. Melchisedek fand es eigentlich ziemlich langweilig; und als der Regen aufhörte zu prasseln und vollkommene Stille herrschte, beschloss er herauszukommen und zu erkunden, obwohl ihm die Erfahrung zeigte, dass Sara erst in einiger Zeit zurückkehren würde. Er hatte herumgestreift und geschnüffelt und gerade ein völlig unerwartetes und unerklärtes Krümelchen von seiner letzten Mahlzeit gefunden, als seine Aufmerksamkeit durch ein Geräusch auf dem Dach geweckt wurde. Er blieb stehen und lauschte mit einem pochenden Herzen. Das Geräusch ließ vermuten, dass sich etwas auf dem Dach bewegte. Es kam dem Dachfenster näher; es erreichte das Dachfenster. Das Dachfenster wurde auf mysteriöse Weise geöffnet. Ein dunkles Gesicht spähte in den Dachboden; dann erschien ein weiteres Gesicht dahinter und beide schauten mit Zeichen der Vorsicht und des Interesses hinein. Zwei Männer waren draußen auf dem Dach und bereiteten sich schweigend darauf vor, durch das Dachfenster selbst einzutreten. Einer war Ram Dass und der andere war ein junger Mann, der der indische Herrschaftssekretär war; aber natürlich wusste Melchisedek das nicht. Er wusste nur, dass die Männer die Stille und Privatsphäre des Dachbodens eindringen; und als der Mann mit dem dunklen Gesicht sich mit solcher Leichtigkeit und Geschicklichkeit durch die Öffnung hinunterließ, dass er nicht den geringsten Laut von sich gab, drehte Melchisedek um und floh überstürzt zurück in sein Versteck. Er hatte Todesangst. Bei Sara war er nicht mehr ängstlich und wusste, dass sie ihm niemals etwas anderes als Krümel geben oder irgendein Geräusch machen würde, außer dem sanften, leisen, lockenden Pfeifen; aber fremde Männer waren gefährliche Dinge, in der Nähe zu bleiben. Er legte sich nahe am Eingang seines Zuhauses flach hin und schaffte es gerade noch, durch den Spalt mit einem hellen, alarmierten Auge zu spähen. Wie viel er von dem Gespräch verstand, das er hörte, kann ich überhaupt nicht sagen; aber selbst wenn er alles verstanden hätte, hätte er wahrscheinlich immer noch große Verwirrung empfunden. Der Sekretär, der leicht und jung war, schlüpfte genauso geräuschlos durch das Dachfenster wie Ram Dass es getan hatte; und er erhaschte einen letzten Blick auf Melchisedeks verschwindenden Schwanz. "War das eine Ratte?", fragte er Ram Dass flüsternd. "Ja, eine Ratte, Sahib", antwortete Ram Dass ebenfalls flüsternd. "Es gibt viele in den Wänden." "Ugh!", rief der junge Mann aus. "Es ist ein Wunder, dass das Kind keine Angst vor ihnen hat." Ram Dass machte eine Geste mit den Händen. Er lächelte auch respektvoll. Er war hier als intimer Anhänger von Sara, obwohl sie erst einmal mit ihm gesprochen hatte. "Das Kind ist die kleine Freundin aller Dinge, Sahib", antwortete er. "Sie ist nicht wie andere Kinder. Ich sehe sie, wenn sie mich nicht sieht. Ich husche über die Schieferplatten und schaue viele Nächte nach ihr, um sicherzugehen, dass es ihr gut geht. Ich beobachte sie von meinem Fenster aus, wenn sie nicht weiß, Als erstes ging er zum schmalen Bett. Er legte seine Hand auf die Matratze und stieß einen Ausruf aus. "So hart wie ein Stein", sagte er. "Das muss irgendwann geändert werden, wenn sie draußen ist. Es kann eine besondere Reise gemacht werden, um es herüberzubringen. Es kann nicht heute Nacht erledigt werden." Er hob die Decke hoch und untersuchte das dünne Kissen. "Decke schmuddelig und abgenutzt, Decke dünn, Laken geflickt und zerrissen," sagte er. "Was für ein Bett für ein Kind, darin zu schlafen - und in einem Haus, das sich anständig nennt! Im Kamin wurde seit vielen Tagen kein Feuer gemacht", sagte er und sah den rostigen Kamin an. "Nie, seitdem ich es gesehen habe", sagte Ram Dass. "Die Hausherrin ist nicht jemand, der daran denkt, dass jemand anderes als sie selbst frieren könnte." Der Sekretär schrieb schnell auf seinem Notizblock. Er sah auf, als er ein Blatt abriss und es in die Brusttasche steckte. "Das ist eine seltsame Art, die Sache zu erledigen", sagte er. "Wer hat es geplant?" Ram Dass verbeugte sich bescheiden entschuldigend. "Es ist wahr, dass der erste Gedanke von mir kam, Sahib", sagte er; "aber es war nichts als eine Fantasie. Ich mag dieses Kind; wir sind beide einsam. Es ist ihre Art, ihre Visionen mit ihren geheimen Freunden zu teilen. Als ich eines Nachts traurig war, legte ich mich dicht an das offene Oberlicht und hörte zu. Die Vision, die sie erzählte, erzählte, wie dieses elende Zimmer sein könnte, wenn es darin Annehmlichkeiten gäbe. Sie schien es zu sehen, während sie sprach, und sie wurde fröhlicher und wärmer, als sie sprach. Dann kam sie auf diese Fantasie; und am nächsten Tag, als der Sahib krank und elend war, erzählte ich ihm von der Sache, um ihn zu amüsieren. Es schien damals nur ein Traum zu sein, aber es gefiel dem Sahib. Von den Taten des Kindes zu hören, belustigte ihn. Er begann sich für sie zu interessieren und stellte Fragen. Schließlich fing er an, sich mit dem Gedanken zu freuen, ihre Visionen in reale Dinge zu verwandeln." "Du denkst, dass es getan werden kann, während sie schläft? Was ist, wenn sie aufwacht?", schlug der Sekretär vor; und es war offensichtlich, dass was immer der Plan beinhaltete, er sowohl den Geschmack des Sekretärs als auch den des Sahib Carrisford getroffen und gefallen hatte. "Ich kann mich bewegen, als wären meine Füße aus Samt", antwortete Ram Dass; "und Kinder schlafen fest, selbst die unglücklichen. Ich könnte viele Male in dieser Nacht in dieses Zimmer gehen, ohne sie dazu zu bringen, sich auf dem Kissen umzudrehen. Wenn der andere Träger mir die Dinge durch das Fenster reicht, kann ich alles tun und sie wird sich nicht regen. Wenn sie aufwacht, wird sie denken, ein Magier war hier gewesen." Er lächelte, als ob sein Herz sich unter seinem weißen Gewand erwärmte, und der Sekretär lächelte ihm zurück. "Es wird wie eine Geschichte aus den Tausendundeine Nacht sein", sagte er. "Nur ein Orientaler hätte es planen können. Es gehört nicht nach London hinein." Sie blieben nicht sehr lange dort, zur großen Erleichterung von Melchisedec, der, da er wahrscheinlich ihr Gespräch nicht verstand, ihre Bewegungen und Flüstern als verdächtig empfand. Der junge Sekretär schien an allem interessiert zu sein. Er schrieb Dinge über den Boden, den Kamin, den zerbrochenen Hocker, den alten Tisch, die Wände auf - letztere berührte er immer wieder mit seiner Hand und schien sehr erfreut zu sein, als er feststellte, dass in verschiedenen Stellen eine Reihe alter Nägel eingeschlagen waren. "Man kann Dinge daran aufhängen", sagte er. Ram Dass lächelte geheimnisvoll. "Gestern, als sie draußen war", sagte er, "ging ich hinein und brachte kleine, scharfe Nägel mit, die in die Wand gedrückt werden können, ohne dass ein Hammer benötigt wird. Ich habe viele an den Putz gelegt, wo ich sie brauchen könnte. Sie sind bereit." Der Sekretär des indischen Herren blieb stehen und sah sich um, als er seine Notizblöcke wieder in seine Tasche steckte. "Ich glaube, ich habe genug Notizen gemacht; wir können jetzt gehen", sagte er. "Der Sahib Carrisford hat ein warmes Herz. Es ist tausend Mal bedauerlich, dass er das vermisste Kind nicht gefunden hat." "Wenn er sie finden sollte, würde seine Kraft ihm wiedergegeben werden", sagte Ram Dass. "Sein Gott kann sie ihm noch zuführen." Dann schlüpften sie so geräuschlos, wie sie hineingekommen waren, durch das Oberlicht. Und nachdem er sich ganz sicher war, dass sie gegangen waren, war Melchisedec sehr erleichtert und fühlte sich nach ein paar Minuten sicher genug, um wieder aus seinem Versteck herauszukommen und herumzuschnüffeln, in der Hoffnung, dass auch solch alarmierende Menschen wie diese vielleicht ein paar Krümel in ihren Taschen haben und ein oder zwei davon fallen lassen würden. Der Zauber Als Sara an dem Nachbarhaus vorbeiging, sah sie Ram Dass, wie er gerade die Fensterläden schloss, und warf einen Blick auf dieses Zimmer. "Es ist eine lange Zeit her, seit ich einen schönen Ort von innen gesehen habe", dachte sie. Da war das übliche helle Feuer, das im Kamin glühte, und der indische Herr saß davor. Er hielt seinen Kopf in der Hand und sah genauso einsam und unglücklich aus wie immer. "Armer Kerl!", sagte Sara. "Ich frage mich, was du vermutest." Und das war es, was er gerade "vermutete". "Stellen wir uns mal vor", dachte er, "stellen wir uns vor - selbst wenn Carmichael die Leute bis nach Moskau verfolgt - das kleine Mädchen, das sie aus Madame Pascals Schule in Paris geholt haben, ist NICHT das Mädchen, das wir suchen. Stellen wir uns vor, sie ist ein ganz anders Kind. Welche Schritte werde ich als Nächstes unternehmen?" Als Sara ins Haus ging, traf sie Miss Minchin, die die Treppe hinuntergekommen war, um die Köchin anzuschreien. "Wo hast du deine Zeit verschwendet?", forderte sie sie auf. "Du warst stundenlang draußen." "Es war so nass und schlammig", antwortete Sara, "es war schwer zu gehen, weil meine Schuhe so schlecht waren und rutschten." "Mach keine Ausreden", sagte Miss Minchin, "und erzähl keine Lügen." Sara ging zur Köchin. Die Köchin hatte eine strenge Standpauke erhalten und war entsprechend schlechter Laune. Sie war nur zu erfreut, jemanden zu haben, auf den sie ihre Wut entladen konnte, und Sara war wie gewöhnlich eine passende Gelegenheit. "Warum bist du nicht die ganze Nacht geblieben?", fuhr sie sie an. Sara legte ihre Einkäufe auf den Tisch. "Hier sind die Sachen", sagte sie. Die Köchin sah sie grummelnd an. Sie war wirklich in sehr boshafter Stimmung. "Kann ich etwas zu essen haben?", fragte Sara recht leise. "Der Tee ist vorbei", war die Antwort. "Hast du erwartet, dass ich ihn für dich warm halte?" Sara stand für einen Moment schweigend da. "Ich habe nichts zu Abend gegessen", sagte sie dann, und ihre Stimme war ziemlich leise. Sie sprach leise, weil sie Angst hatte, dass sie zittern könnte. "Da ist etwas Brot in der "Ich bin müde", sagte Sara und ließ sich auf den schiefen Hocker fallen. "Oh, da ist Melchisedek, der arme Kerl. Er ist gekommen, um nach seinem Abendessen zu fragen." Melchisedek war aus seinem Loch gekommen, als hätte er auf ihren Schritt gelauscht. Sara war sich ziemlich sicher, dass er es wusste. Er kam mit einem liebevollen, erwartungsvollen Ausdruck auf sie zu, als Sara ihre Hand in die Tasche steckte und sie auf links drehte, mit dem Kopf schüttelnd. "Es tut mir sehr leid", sagte sie. "Ich habe keine einzige Krümel übrig. Geh nach Hause, Melchisedek, und sag deiner Frau, dass nichts in meiner Tasche war. Ich fürchte, ich habe es vergessen, weil die Köchin und Miss Minchin so böse waren." Melchisedek schien es zu verstehen. Er schlurfte widerwillig, wenn auch nicht zufrieden, zurück in sein Zuhause. "Ich habe dich heute Abend nicht erwartet, Ermie", sagte Sara. Ermengarde umarmte sich in ihrem roten Schal. "Miss Amelia ist zu ihrer alten Tante gegangen, um die Nacht dort zu verbringen", erklärte sie. "Niemand sonst kommt und schaut in die Schlafzimmer, nachdem wir im Bett sind. Ich könnte hier bleiben, bis zum Morgen, wenn ich wollte." Sie deutete auf den Tisch unter dem Dachfenster. Sara hatte nicht darauf geschaut, als sie hereinkam. Eine Reihe von Büchern stapelte sich darauf. Ermengardes Geste war niedergeschlagen. "Papa hat mir wieder einige Bücher geschickt, Sara", sagte sie. "Da sind sie." Sara sah sich um und stand sofort auf. Sie lief zum Tisch und hob das oberste Buch auf, blätterte schnell darin um. Für einen Moment vergaß sie ihre Unannehmlichkeiten. "Ah", rief sie aus, "wie wunderschön! Carlyles Französische Revolution. Ich wollte das schon SO lange lesen!" "Ich nicht", sagte Ermengarde. "Und Papa wird so böse sein, wenn ich es nicht tue. Er wird erwarten, dass ich alles darüber weiß, wenn ich nach Hause komme für die Ferien. Was soll ich tun?" Sara hörte auf, die Seiten umzublättern, und schaute sie mit aufgeregtem Erröten an. "Hör mal", rief sie, "wenn du mir diese Bücher leihst, _werde ich_ sie lesen - und dir danach alles erzählen, was darin steht - und ich werde es dir so erzählen, dass du es auch behältst." "Oh, Gott!" rief Ermengarde aus. "Glaubst du, du kannst das?" "Ich weiß, dass ich es kann", antwortete Sara. "Die Kleinen erinnern sich immer daran, was ich ihnen erzähle." "Sara", sagte Ermengarde, während sich Hoffnung auf ihrem runden Gesicht abzeichnete, "wenn du das tust und mich erinnern lässt, dann gebe ich dir - ich gebe dir alles." "Ich möchte nicht, dass du mir etwas gibst", sagte Sara. "Ich möchte deine Bücher - ich will sie!" Ihre Augen wurden groß, und ihre Brust hob sich. "Dann nimm sie", sagte Ermengarde. "Ich wünschte, ich wollte sie - aber das will ich nicht. Ich bin nicht klug, und mein Vater ist es, und er denkt, ich sollte es sein." Sara öffnete ein Buch nach dem anderen. "Was wirst du deinem Vater sagen?", fragte sie, während leichte Zweifel in ihrem Kopf aufkamen. "Oh, er muss es nicht wissen", antwortete Ermengarde. "Er wird denken, dass ich sie gelesen habe." Sara legte ihr Buch ab und schüttelte langsam den Kopf. "Das ist fast wie Lügen", sagte sie. "Und Lügen - nun siehst du, sie sind nicht nur böse - sie sind VULGÄR. Manchmal" - nachdenklich - "habe ich gedacht, dass ich etwas Böses tun könnte - ich könnte plötzlich in Zorn geraten und Miss Minchin umbringen, weißt du, wenn sie mich schlecht behandelt - aber ich könnte nicht vulgär sein. Warum kannst du deinem Vater nicht sagen, dass _ich_ sie gelesen habe?" "Er möchte, dass ich sie lese", sagte Ermengarde, ein wenig entmutigt von dieser unerwarteten Wendung der Dinge. "Er möchte, dass du weißt, was darin steht", sagte Sara. "Und wenn ich es dir auf einfache Weise erzählen und du es behalten kannst, würde ich denken, dass er das auch mögen würde." "Er würde es mögen, wenn ich irgendetwas auf irgendeine Weise lerne", sagte die betrübte Ermengarde. "Du auch, wenn du mein Vater wärst." "Es ist nicht deine Schuld, dass -" begann Sara. Sie hielt inne und stoppte ziemlich plötzlich. Sie hatte sagen wollen: "Es ist nicht deine Schuld, dass du dumm bist." "Dass was?" fragte Ermengarde. "Dass du nicht schnell lernen kannst", verbesserte Sara. "Wenn du es nicht kannst, dann kannst du es nicht. Wenn ich es kann - nun, dann kann ich; das ist alles." Sie fühlte sich immer sehr zärtlich in Bezug auf Ermengarde und versuchte, sie nicht zu sehr den Unterschied spüren zu lassen, zwischen jemandem, der alles sofort lernen kann, und jemandem, der überhaupt nichts lernen kann. Als sie ihr pummeliges Gesicht ansah, kam ihr ein kluger, altmodischer Gedanke. "Vielleicht", sagte sie, "ist es nicht alles, schnell lernen zu können. Für andere Menschen freundlich zu sein, ist viel wert. Wenn Miss Minchin alles auf der Welt wüsste und so wäre, wie sie jetzt ist, wäre sie immer noch eine verabscheuungswürdige Person, und jeder würde sie hassen. Viele kluge Menschen haben Schaden angerichtet und waren böse. Schau dir Robespierre an -" Sie hielt inne und betrachtete Ermengardes Gesicht, das langsam verwirrt aussah. "Erinnerst du dich nicht?", verlangte sie. "Ich habe dir neulich davon erzählt. Ich glaube, du hattest es vergessen." "Nun, ich erinnere mich nicht an ALLES", gestand Ermengarde. "Nun, warte mal einen Moment", sagte Sara, "und ich werde meine nassen Kleider ausziehen und mich in die Decke wickeln und es dir noch einmal erzählen." Sie zog Hut und Mantel aus und hängte sie an einen Nagel an der Wand, und sie wechselte ihre nassen Schuhe gegen ein altes Paar Hausschuhe. Dann sprang sie auf das Bett und zog die Decke um ihre Schultern, während sie mit ihren Armen um ihre Knie saß. "Jetzt, hör zu", sagte sie. Sie tauchte in die blutrünstigen Geschichten der Französischen Revolution ein und erzählte derartige Geschichten, dass Ermengardes Augen sich vor Schreck weiteten und sie den Atem anhielt. Aber obwohl sie ein wenig verängstigt war, gab es einen herrlichen Nervenkitzel beim Zuhören, und sie würde Robespierre sicherlich nicht mehr vergessen oder Zweifel an der Princesse de Lamballe haben. "Weißt du, sie haben ihren Kopf auf eine Pike gesteckt und darum herum getanzt", erklärte Sara. "Und sie hatte schönes blondes Haar, das wogend herabfiel. Und wenn ich an sie denke, sehe ich nie ihren Kopf auf ihrem Körper, sondern immer auf einer Pike, mit diesen wütenden Menschen, die tanzen und brüllen." Es wurde vereinbart, St. John von dem Plan zu erzählen, den sie gemacht hatten, und vorerst sollten die Bücher auf dem Dachboden bleiben. "Jetzt erzählen wir uns gegenseitig etwas", sagte Sara. "Wie läuft es mit deinem Französischunterricht?" "Viel besser, seit ich das letzte Mal hier oben war und du mir die Konjugationen erklärt hast. Miss Minchin konnte nicht verstehen, warum ich meine Ü "Wenn ich in einem Schloss leben würde", argumentierte sie, "und Ermengarde die Dame von einem anderen Schloss wäre und mit Rittern und Knappen und Vasallen zu mir käme, und Wimpel flattern würden, dann würde ich hinuntergehen, um sie zu empfangen, und ich würde Feste im Bankettsaal ausrichten und Spielleute holen, um zu singen und zu spielen und Romanzen vorzutragen. Wenn sie auf den Dachboden kommt, kann ich keine Feste ausrichten, aber ich kann Geschichten erzählen und ihr keine unangenehmen Dinge verraten. Ich denke, arme Burgherren mussten das zu Zeiten der Hungersnot machen, wenn ihre Ländereien geplündert worden waren." Sie war eine stolze, tapfere kleine Burgherrin und teilte großzügig die einzige Gastfreundschaft, die sie bieten konnte - die Träume, die sie träumte - die Visionen, die sie sah - die Vorstellungen, die ihre Freude und ihr Trost waren. So, während sie zusammen saßen, wusste Ermengarde nicht, dass sie nicht nur hungrig, sondern auch schwach war und sich fragte, ob ihr Hunger sie schlafen lassen würde, wenn sie alleine gelassen würde. Sie fühlte sich, als ob sie noch nie zuvor so hungrig gewesen wäre. "Ich wünschte, ich wäre so dünn wie du, Sara", sagte Ermengarde plötzlich. "Ich glaube, du bist dünner geworden. Deine Augen sehen so groß aus und schau mal, wie die spitzen kleinen Knochen an deinem Ellbogen herausstehen!" Sara zog ihren Ärmel herunter, der hochgerutscht war. "Ich war schon immer ein schlankes Kind", sagte sie tapfer, "und ich hatte schon immer große grüne Augen." "Ich liebe deine seltsamen Augen", sagte Ermengarde, als sie mit liebevoller Bewunderung hineinschaute. "Sie sehen immer aus, als würden sie sehr weit sehen. Ich liebe sie - und ich liebe es, wenn sie grün sind - obwohl sie meistens schwarz aussehen." "Es sind Katzenaugen", lachte Sara. "Aber ich kann nicht im Dunkeln mit ihnen sehen - denn ich habe es versucht und konnte es nicht - ich wünschte, ich könnte es." Es war genau in diesem Moment, dass etwas am Dachfenster geschah, das keine von beiden sah. Wenn eine von ihnen sich zufällig umgedreht und hingeschaut hätte, wäre sie von dem Anblick eines dunklen Gesichts erschrocken gewesen, das vorsichtig in das Zimmer spähte und genauso schnell und fast genauso geräuschlos verschwand, wie es aufgetaucht war. Nicht genau so geräuschlos jedoch. Sara, die gute Ohren hatte, drehte sich plötzlich ein wenig um und sah nach oben auf das Dach. "Das klang nicht wie Melchisedec", sagte sie. "Es war nicht kratzig genug." "Was?" sagte Ermengarde, ein wenig erschrocken. "Hast du etwas gehört?" fragte Sara. "N-nein", stammelte Ermengarde. "Hast du?" {eine andere Ausgabe hat "N-n-nein"} "Vielleicht habe ich es auch nicht gehört", sagte Sara, "aber ich dachte, ich habe es. Es klang, als ob etwas auf den Schieferplatten wäre - etwas, das leise geschleppt wurde." "Was könnte es sein?" sagte Ermengarde. "Könnten es... Räuber sein?" "Nein", begann Sara fröhlich. "Hier gibt es nichts zu stehlen -" Sie brach mitten im Satz ab. Beide hörten das Geräusch, das sie innehalten ließ. Es war nicht auf den Schieferplatten, sondern auf den Treppen darunter, und es war die wütende Stimme von Miss Minchin. Sara sprang vom Bett auf und löschte die Kerze. "Sie schimpft mit Becky", flüsterte sie, als sie im Dunkeln stand. "Sie bringt sie zum Weinen." "Wird sie hierherkommen?" flüsterte Ermengarde panisch. "Nein. Sie wird denken, ich bin im Bett. Rühr dich nicht." Es war sehr selten, dass Miss Minchin die letzten Treppen hinaufging. Sara konnte sich nur einmal daran erinnern, dass sie es zuvor getan hatte. Aber jetzt war sie wütend genug, um zumindest einen Teil des Weges hinaufzugehen, und es hörte sich an, als ob sie Becky vor sich her trieb. "Du impertinentes, unehrliches Kind!", hörten sie sie sagen. "Die Köchin sagt mir, dass sie immer wieder Sachen vermisst hat." "Ich war h-hungrig genug, aber ich hab's n-nicht getan", schluchzte Becky. "Ich schwör's!" "Du verdienst es, ins Gefängnis geschickt zu werden", sagte Miss Minchin's Stimme. "Nehmen und stehlen! Ein halbes Fleischpastetchen!" "Ich hab's nicht gemacht", weinte Becky. "Ich hätt'auch ein ganzes essen können - aber ich hab keine Finger dran gehabt." Miss Minchin war außer Atem vor Wut und vom Treppensteigen. Die Fleischpastete war eigentlich für ihr besonderes spätes Abendessen bestimmt gewesen. Es wurde offensichtlich, dass sie Becky eine Ohrfeige gegeben hatte. "Erzähl keine Lügen", sagte sie. "Geh sofort auf dein Zimmer." Sowohl Sara als auch Ermengarde hörten die Ohrfeige und hörten dann, wie Becky in ihren Pantoffeln die Treppe hinauf und in ihren Dachboden rannte. Sie hörten ihre Tür zuschlagen und wussten, dass sie sich auf ihr Bett geworfen hatte. "Ich hätt'auch zwei davon essen können", hörten sie sie in ihr Kissen weinen. "A-aber ich hab keinen Bissen genommen. Die Köchin hat es dem Polizisten gegeben." Sara stand mitten im Raum im Dunkeln. Sie biss ihre kleinen Zähne zusammen und öffnete und schloss ihre ausgestreckten Hände energisch. Sie konnte kaum still stehen, wagte es aber nicht, sich zu bewegen, bis Miss Minchin die Treppe hinuntergegangen war und alles ruhig war. "Die böse, grausame Person!", brach sie los. "Die Köchin nimmt selbst die Sachen und sagt dann, Becky hat sie gestohlen. Das tut sie NICHT! Das tut sie NICHT! Sie ist manchmal so hungrig, dass sie Krusten aus dem Ascheeimer isst!" Sie presste ihre Hände fest gegen ihr Gesicht und brach in leidenschaftliche Schluchzer aus, und Ermengarde war von dieser ungewöhnlichen Sache überwältigt. Sara weinte! Die unbesiegbare Sara! Es schien etwas Neues zu bedeuten - eine Stimmung, die sie nie gekannt hatte. Stellen Sie sich vor - Stellen Sie sich vor - auf einmal präsentierte sich ihr freundlicher, langsamer kleiner Verstand eine neue, furchterregende Möglichkeit. Sie kroch im Dunkeln vom Bett und fand den Tisch, auf dem die Kerze stand. Sie zündete ein Streichholz an und entzündete die Kerze. Als sie sie angezündet hatte, beugte sie sich vor und betrachtete Sara, während sich ihr neuer Gedanke in ihren Augen zu konkreter Angst formte. "Sara", sagte sie in einer schüchternen, fast ehrfürchtigen Stimme, "bist - bist - bist du jemals hungrig? Du hast es mir nie erzählt - ich will nicht unhöflich sein, aber - bist DU jemals hungrig?" Es war zu viel in diesem Moment. Die Barriere brach zusammen. Sara hob ihr Gesicht aus den Händen. "Ja", sagte sie auf eine neue leidenschaftliche Weise. "Ja, das bin ich. Ich bin so hungrig, dass ich dich fast auffressen könnte. Und es ist schlimmer, Becky zu hören. Sie ist hungriger als ich." Ermengarde schnappte nach Luft. "Oh, oh!", rief sie jämmerlich. "Und ich habe es nie gewusst!" "Ich wollte nicht, dass du es weißt", sagte Sara. "Es hätte mich wie eine Straßenbettlerin fühlen lassen. Ich weiß, dass ich wie eine Straßenbettlerin aussehe." "Nein, das tust du nicht - das tust du nicht!" unterbrach Ermengarde. "Deine Kleidung ist ein wenig merkwürdig - aber du könntest nicht wie eine Straßenbettlerin aussehen. Du hast kein Ges "Etwas Prächtiges!", sagte Ermengarde aufgeregt. "Heute Nachmittag hat meine netteste Tante mir eine Schachtel geschickt. Sie ist voller Leckereien. Ich habe sie noch nicht angerührt, ich hatte so viel Pudding zum Mittagessen und war so besorgt wegen Papas Büchern." Ihre Worte stolperten ineinander. "Es ist Kuchen drin, und kleine Fleischpasteten, und Marmeladenpasteten und Brötchen, und Orangen und Johannisbeerwein, und Feigen und Schokolade. Ich werde zurück in mein Zimmer schleichen und es jetzt holen, und wir werden es jetzt essen." Sara schwankte fast. Wenn man vor Hunger schwindelig ist, hat die Erwähnung von Essen manchmal eine seltsame Wirkung. Sie packte Ermengardes Arm. "Glaubst du - könntest du?", rief sie aus. "Ich weiß, dass ich könnte", antwortete Ermengarde, und sie lief zur Tür, öffnete sie vorsichtig und steckte den Kopf hinaus in die Dunkelheit und lauschte. Dann ging sie zu Sara zurück. "Die Lichter sind aus. Jeder ist im Bett. Ich kann schleichen - und schleichen - und niemand wird etwas hören." Es war so herrlich, dass sie sich gegenseitig an den Händen festhielten und ein plötzliches Licht in Saras Augen aufleuchtete. "Ermie!", sagte sie. "Lassen Sie uns so tun! Lassen Sie uns so tun, als wäre es eine Party! Und oh, werden Sie den Gefangenen in der nächsten Zelle einladen?" "Ja! Ja! Lassen Sie uns jetzt an die Wand klopfen. Der Kerkermeister wird nichts hören." Sara ging zur Wand. Hinter ihr konnte sie Becky leise weinen hören. Sie klopfte viermal. "Das bedeutet 'Komm zu mir durch den geheimen Gang unter der Wand'", erklärte sie. "Ich habe etwas mitzuteilen." Fünf schnelle Klopfzeichen antworteten ihr. "Sie kommt", sagte sie. Fast sofort öffnete sich die Tür des Dachbodens und Becky erschien. Ihre Augen waren rot und ihre Mütze rutschte von ihrem Kopf, und als sie Ermengarde entdeckte, begann sie nervös mit ihrer Schürze ihr Gesicht zu reiben. "Beachten Sie mich überhaupt nicht, Becky!", rief Ermengarde. "Miss Ermengarde hat dich gebeten hereinzukommen", sagte Sara, "weil sie eine Schachtel mit leckeren Sachen mitbringt." Beckys Mütze fiel fast ganz herunter, so aufgeregt war sie. "Zum Essen, Fräulein?", fragte sie. "Sachen, die gut zum Essen sind?" "Ja", antwortete Sara, "und wir werden so tun, als wären wir auf einer Party." "Und Sie können so viel essen, wie Sie wollen", fügte Ermengarde hinzu. "Ich gehe sofort!" Sie hatte es so eilig, dass sie, als sie auf Zehenspitzen aus dem Dachboden ging, ihren roten Schal fallen ließ und nicht bemerkte, dass er heruntergefallen war. Niemand sah es für eine Minute oder so. Becky war zu sehr von dem Glück überwältigt, das ihr widerfahren war. "Oh, Fräulein! Oh, Fräulein!", keuchte sie. "Ich weiß, dass Sie sie gebeten haben, mich kommen zu lassen. Es - es bringt mich zum Weinen, wenn ich daran denke." Und sie ging zu Saras Seite und stand da und betrachtete sie andächtig. Aber in Saras hungrigen Augen begann das alte Licht zu glühen und ihre Welt zu verwandeln. Hier auf dem Dachboden - bei kalter Nacht draußen - nachdem der Nachmittag in den schlammigen Straßen gerade vorbei war - mit der Erinnerung an den schrecklichen, nicht satten Blick in den Augen des bettelnden Kindes, der noch nicht verblichen war - war etwas Einfaches, Fröhliches wie von Zauberhand geschehen. Sie hielt den Atem an. "Irgendwie passiert immer etwas", rief sie, "kurz bevor es am schlimmsten wird. Es ist, als ob die Magie es tut. Wenn ich nur immer daran denken könnte. Das Schlimmste kommt nie GANZ." Sie schüttelte Becky fröhlich. "Nein, nein! Du darfst nicht weinen!", sagte sie. "Wir müssen uns beeilen und den Tisch decken." "Den Tisch decken, Fräulein?", sagte Becky und schaute sich im Raum um. "Womit sollen wir ihn decken?" Auch Sara schaute sich im Dachboden um. "Es scheint nicht viel da zu sein", antwortete sie halb lachend. In diesem Moment sah sie etwas und stürzte darauf zu. Es war Ermengardes roter Schal, der auf dem Boden lag. "Hier ist der Schal", rief sie. "Ich weiß, sie wird es nicht schlimm finden. Er wird ein so schönes rotes Tischtuch abgeben." Sie zogen den alten Tisch nach vorne und warfen den Schal darüber. Rot ist eine wunderbar warme und gemütliche Farbe. Es ließ den Raum sofort eingerichtet aussehen. "Ein roter Teppich würde auf dem Boden toll aussehen!", rief Sara. "Wir müssen so tun, als hätten wir einen!" Ihr Blick schweifte rasch über das nackte Holz und bewunderte es. Der Teppich lag schon ausgebreitet da. "Wie weich und dick er ist!", sagte sie mit dem kleinen Lachen, das Becky kannte und dessen Bedeutung sie verstand. Sie hob ihren Fuß an und setzte ihn wieder ganz zart hin, als ob sie etwas darunter spüren würde. "Ja, Fräulein", antwortete Becky und beobachtete sie mit ernster Begeisterung. Sie war immer sehr ernst. "Was kommt jetzt?", sagte Sara und blieb stehen und legte die Hände über die Augen. "Etwas wird kommen, wenn ich ein wenig nachdenke und warte", sagte sie in sanfter, erwartungsvoller Stimme. "Die Magie wird es mir sagen." Eine ihrer Lieblingsfantasien war, dass auf "der anderen Seite", wie sie es nannte, Gedanken darauf warteten, dass die Menschen sie rufen. Becky hatte sie oft genug dastehen und warten sehen und wusste, dass sie sich in wenigen Sekunden mit einem erleuchteten, lachenden Gesicht enthüllen würde. In einem Moment tat sie es. "Da!", rief sie. "Es ist gekommen! Jetzt weiß ich es! Ich muss unter den Dingen in dem alten Koffer suchen, den ich hatte, als ich eine Prinzessin war." Sie flog in die Ecke des Raumes und kniete nieder. Er war nicht zum Nutzen für sie auf den Dachboden gestellt worden, sondern weil woanders kein Platz dafür war. Es war nur Unrat darin übrig geblieben. Aber sie wusste, sie würde etwas finden. Die Magie arrangierte das immer, irgendwie. In einer Ecke lag ein Paket, das so unbedeutend aussah, dass es übersehen worden war, und als sie es selbst gefunden hatte, hatte sie es als Andenken behalten. Es enthielt ein Dutzend kleiner weißer Taschentücher. Sie griff sie freudig und lief zum Tisch. Sie begann, sie auf dem roten Tischtuch zu arrangieren, indem sie sie mit der schmalen Spitzenkante nach außen formte und ihnen schmeichelte, während ihre Magie ihre Zauber wirkte. "Das sind die Teller", sagte sie. "Es sind goldene Teller. Das sind die reich verzierten Servietten. Nonnen haben sie in Klöstern in Spanien gearbeitet." "Haben sie das, Fräulein?", flüsterte Becky, ihre Seele von der Information erfüllt. "Du musst so tun, als wären sie es", sagte Sara. "Wenn du genug so tust, wirst du sie sehen." "Ja, Fräulein", sagte Becky, und als Sara zum Koffer zurückkehrte, widmete sie sich mit Ernst dem Bemühen, ein so erstrebenswertes Ziel zu erreichen. Sara drehte sich plötzlich um und fand sie am Tisch steh Sie berührte die Dinge sanft, ein glückliches Lächeln schwebte um ihre Lippen, was sie wie eine Kreatur in einem Traum aussehen ließ. "Mein, ist das nicht schön!" flüsterte Becky. "Wenn wir nur etwas für Bonbondosen hätten", murmelte Sara. "Dort!" - sie huschte zurück zum Koffer. "Ich erinnere mich, dass ich gerade eben etwas gesehen habe." Es war nur ein Bündel Wolle, das in rotes und weißes Seidenpapier gewickelt war, aber das Seidenpapier wurde bald zu kleinen Schälchen geformt und mit den verbliebenen Blumen kombiniert, um den Kerzenständer zu schmücken, der das Fest beleuchten sollte. Nur die Magie hätte es mehr als einen alten Tisch bedeckt mit einem roten Tuch und geschmückt mit Kram aus einem lange nicht geöffneten Koffer machen können. Aber Sara trat zurück und betrachtete es, sah Wunder; und Becky sprach mit angehaltenem Atem, nachdem sie staunend geschaut hatte. "Das hier", schlug sie vor und warf einen Blick in den Dachboden, "ist das jetzt die Bastille oder hat es sich in etwas anderes verwandelt?" "Oh ja, ja!" sagte Sara. "Ganz anders. Es ist ein Bankettsaal!" "Meine Güte, Miss!" rief Becky aus. "Ein Bankettsaal!" Und sie wandte sich mit ehrfürchtiger Verwirrung um, um die Pracht um sich herum zu betrachten. "Ein Bankettsaal", sagte Sara. "Eine weitläufige Kammer, in der Feste gegeben werden. Sie hat ein gewölbtes Dach, eine Sängerempore und einen riesigen Kamin, gefüllt mit brennenden Eichenholzscheiten, und ist mit flackernden Wachskerzen auf allen Seiten erhellt." "Meine Güte, Miss Sara!" keuchte Becky erneut. Dann öffnete sich die Tür und Ermengarde kam herein, unter der Last ihres Korbes leicht schwankend. Sie stockte einen Moment vor Freude. "Oh, Sara!" rief sie aus. "Du bist das klügste Mädchen, das ich je gesehen habe!" "Ist es nicht schön?", sagte Sara. "Das sind Dinge aus meinem alten Koffer. Ich habe meine Magie gefragt und sie hat mir gesagt, ich soll nachsehen gehen." "Aber oh, Miss", rief Becky aus, "warte, bis sie dir erzählt, was es ist! Es sind nicht einfach nur - oh, bitte sag es ihr", flehte sie Sara an. Also erzählte Sara ihr und dank ihrer Magie konnte sie ihr schon fast alles sehen lassen: die goldenen Platten, die gewölbten Räume, die brennenden Scheite, die flackernden Wachskerzen. Als die Dinge aus dem Korb genommen wurden - die verzierten Kuchen, das Obst, die Bonbons und der Wein - wurde das Fest zu etwas Prächtigem. "Es ist wie eine richtige Party!" rief Ermengarde aus. "Es ist wie ein Tisch einer Königin", seufzte Becky. Da hatte Ermengarde plötzlich einen brillanten Einfall. "Ich sag dir was, Sara", sagte sie. "Tu so, als wärst du jetzt eine Prinzessin und das hier ist ein königliches Fest." "Aber es ist dein Fest", sagte Sara. "Du musst die Prinzessin sein und wir sind deine Ehrendamen." "Oh, das kann ich nicht", sagte Ermengarde. "Ich bin zu dick und ich weiß nicht, wie es geht. DU sei sie." "Nun, wenn du willst", sagte Sara. Aber plötzlich fiel ihr etwas anderes ein und sie rannte zum verrosteten Kamin. "Hier ist viel Papier und Abfall drin gestopft!", rief sie aus. "Wenn wir es anzünden, wird es für ein paar Minuten hell lodern und wir werden uns fühlen, als ob es ein echtes Feuer wäre." Sie zündete ein Streichholz an und entfachte damit einen großen, blendenden Glanz, der den Raum erleuchtete. "Wenn es aufhört zu flammen", sagte Sara, "werden wir vergessen, dass es nicht echt ist." Sie stand im glühenden Licht und lächelte. "Sieht es nicht echt aus?", sagte sie. "Jetzt werden wir mit der Party beginnen." Sie führte den Weg zum Tisch. Sie winkte Ermengarde und Becky gnädig zu. Sie war mitten in ihrem Traum. "Vorwärts, schöne Damen", sagte sie in ihrer glücklichen Traumstimme, "und nehmt auf dem Bankett-Tisch Platz. Mein edler Vater, der König, der auf einer langen Reise ist, hat mich angewiesen, euch zu bewirten." Sie drehte leicht den Kopf zur Ecke des Raumes. "Was gibt's da, Minnesänger! Spielt eure Geigen und Fagotte. Prinzessinnen", erklärte sie Ermengarde und Becky schnell, "hatten immer Minnesänger, die auf ihren Festen spielten. Stellt euch vor, da oben in der Ecke ist eine Minnesänger-Galerie. Jetzt können wir anfangen." Sie hatten kaum Zeit, ihre Stücke Kuchen in die Hand zu nehmen - keiner von ihnen hatte Zeit für mehr -, als alle drei plötzlich aufsprangen und bleiche Gesichter zur Tür drehten - lauschend - lauschend. Jemand kam die Treppen hoch. Da gab es keinen Zweifel. Jede von ihnen erkannte den wütenden, sich steigernden Tritt und wusste, dass das Ende aller Dinge gekommen war. "Das ist - die Frau!", schnappte Becky und ließ ihr Stück Kuchen auf den Boden fallen. "Ja", sagte Sara, ihre Augen wurden schockiert und groß in ihrem kleinen weißen Gesicht. "Miss Minchin hat uns entdeckt." Miss Minchin schlug die Tür mit einem Hieb ihrer Hand auf. Sie war selbst bleich, aber vor Wut. Sie sah von den verängstigten Gesichtern zum Bankett-Tisch und vom Bankett-Tisch zum letzten Zucken des verbrannten Papiers im Kamin. "Ich habe schon etwas in der Art vermutet", rief sie aus, "aber ich hätte nicht von einer so dreisten Kühnheit zu träumen gewagt. Lavinia hat die Wahrheit gesagt." Also wussten sie nun, dass es Lavinia war, die ihr Geheimnis irgendwie erraten und sie verraten hatte. Miss Minchin stürzte sich auf Becky und ohrfeigte sie zum zweiten Mal. "Dreistes Mädchen!" sagte sie. "Du verlässt das Haus morgen!" Sara stand ganz still da, ihre Augen wurden größer, ihr Gesicht blasser. Ermengarde brach in Tränen aus. "Oh, schickt sie nicht weg", schluchzte sie. "Meine Tante hat mir den Korb geschickt. Wir veranstalten nur eine Party." "So sehe ich", sagte Miss Minchin verachtend. "Mit Prinzessin Sara an der Spitze des Tisches." Sie wandte sich Sara zornig zu. "Du bist schuld, ich weiß es", rief sie. "Ermengarde wäre niemals auf so eine Idee gekommen. Du hast den Tisch geschmückt, vermute ich, mit diesem Abfall." Sie fuhr Becky an. "Geh in den Dachboden!", befahl sie und Becky entfernte sich, das Gesicht in ihrer Schürze versteckt, ihre Schultern zitternd. Dann war wieder Sara an der Reihe. "Ich kümmere mich morgen um dich. Du wirst weder Frühstück, Mittag- noch Abendessen bekommen!" "Ich habe heute weder Mittag- noch Abendessen gehabt, Miss Minchin", sagte Sara eher schwach. "Dann umso besser. Du wirst etwas zu erinnern haben. Steh nicht so da. Pack diese Dinge wieder in den Korb." Sie begann, die Sachen vom Tisch in den Korb zu kehren, und entdeckte Ermengardes neue Bücher. "Und du" - zu Ermengarde - "hast deine schönen neuen Bücher mit in diesen schmutzigen Dachboden gebracht. Nimm sie mit nach oben und geh ins Bett. Du wirst den ganzen Tag dort bleiben und ich werde deinem Papa schreiben. Was würde ER sagen, wenn er wüsste, wo du heute Nacht bist?" Etwas, das Der Traum war zu Ende. Der letzte Funke war aus dem Papier im Kamin erloschen und hinterließ nur schwarzen Zunder; der Tisch war leer, die goldenen Teller und reich bestickten Servietten, sowie die Girlanden, waren wieder zu alten Taschentüchern, Stücken rotem und weißem Papier und weggeworfenen Kunstblumen geworden, alle auf dem Boden verstreut; die Spielleute auf der Empore waren verschwunden und die Violen und Fagotte verstummten. Emily saß mit dem Rücken an der Wand und starrte angestrengt. Sara sah sie und hob sie mit zitternden Händen auf. "Es gibt kein Bankett mehr, Emily", sagte sie. "Und es gibt keine Prinzessin mehr. Es gibt nur noch die Gefangenen in der Bastille." Und sie setzte sich hin und versteckte ihr Gesicht. Was wäre passiert, wenn sie es nicht gerade dann versteckt hätte und wenn sie zufällig zum Dachfenster hochgesehen hätte, weiß ich nicht - vielleicht wäre das Ende dieses Kapitels ganz anders geworden - denn wenn sie zum Dachfenster geschaut hätte, hätte sie sicherlich von dem Gesicht überrascht sein können, das sich gegen das Glas gedrückt und hereingeschaut hätte, genauso wie es das zuvor am Abend getan hatte, als sie mit Ermengarde gesprochen hatte. Aber sie sah nicht hoch. Sie saß mit ihrem kleinen schwarzen Kopf in den Armen für einige Zeit da. Sie saß immer so da, wenn sie versuchte, etwas in Stille zu ertragen. Dann stand sie auf und ging langsam zum Bett. "Ich kann nichts anderes vorgeben - solange ich wach bin", sagte sie. "Es hätte keinen Sinn, es zu versuchen. Wenn ich einschlafe, kommt vielleicht ein Traum und gibt vor, für mich zu sein." Plötzlich fühlte sie sich so müde - vielleicht wegen des Mangels an Essen -, dass sie sich schwach auf den Bettrand setzte. "Angenommen, da ist ein helles Feuer im Kamin, mit vielen kleinen tanzenden Flammen", murmelte sie. "Angenommen, da ist ein bequemer Stuhl davor - und angenommen, da ist ein kleiner Tisch in der Nähe, mit einem kleinen, heißen - heißen Abendessen darauf. Und angenommen" - als sie die dünnen Decken über sich zog - "angenommen das ist ein wunderschönes weiches Bett, mit flauschigen Decken und großen Daunenkissen. Angenommen - angenommen -" Und ihre Müdigkeit tat ihr gut, denn ihre Augen schlossen sich und sie schlief fest ein. Sie wusste nicht, wie lange sie geschlafen hatte. Aber sie war müde genug, um tief und ausgiebig zu schlafen - zu tief und ausgiebig, um von irgendetwas gestört zu werden, selbst nicht von den Quietschen und Hasten der gesamten Familie von Melchisedek, wenn alle seine Söhne und Töchter aus ihrem Loch gekommen wären, um zu kämpfen, herumzutollen und zu spielen. Als sie aufwachte, geschah es ziemlich plötzlich und sie wusste nicht, dass irgendetwas Bestimmtes sie aus ihrem Schlaf gerufen hatte. Die Wahrheit war jedoch, dass es ein Geräusch war, dass sie zurückgerufen hatte - ein echtes Geräusch - das Klicken des Dachfensters, als es sich schloss, nachdem eine schlanke weiße Gestalt hindurchgeschlüpft war und sich dicht neben den Dachziegeln verkrochen hatte - gerade nah genug, um beobachten zu können, was auf dem Dachboden geschah, aber nicht nah genug, um gesehen zu werden. Zuerst öffnete sie ihre Augen nicht. Sie fühlte sich zu schläfrig und - seltsamerweise - zu warm und gemütlich. Tatsächlich war sie so warm und gemütlich, dass sie nicht glaubte, sie sei wirklich wach. So warm und kuschelig war sie nie, außer in einer schönen Vision. "Was für ein schöner Traum!" murmelte sie. "Ich fühle mich ganz warm. Ich - will - nicht - aufwachen." Natürlich war es ein Traum. Sie fühlte, als wären warme, herrliche Decken auf sie gehäuft. Sie konnte tatsächlich DECKEN spüren, und als sie ihre Hand ausstreckte, berührte sie etwas, das sich genau wie eine satinbezogene Federdecke anfühlte. Sie durfte nicht aus diesem Genuss aufwachen - sie musste ganz still sein und es dauern lassen. Aber sie konnte nicht - auch wenn sie ihre Augen fest geschlossen hielt, konnte sie nicht. Etwas zwang sie dazu aufzuwachen - etwas im Raum. Es war ein Gefühl von Licht und ein Geräusch - das Geräusch eines knisternden, prasselnden Feuers. "Oh, ich wache auf", sagte sie traurig. "Ich kann es nicht verhindern - ich kann es nicht." Ihre Augen öffneten sich trotzdem. Und dann lächelte sie tatsächlich - denn das, was sie sah, hatte sie noch nie auf dem Dachboden gesehen und wusste, dass sie es nie sehen würde. "Oh, ich bin nicht aufgewacht", flüsterte sie und wagte es, sich aufzurichten und sich umzusehen. "Ich träume immer noch." Sie wusste, dass es ein Traum sein MUSS, denn wenn sie wach wäre, könnten solche Dinge nicht möglich sein. Wundern Sie sich, dass sie sicher war, dass sie nicht zur Erde zurückgekehrt war? Das ist es, was sie sah. Im Kamin brannte ein glühendes, prasselndes Feuer; auf dem Herd stand ein kleiner Messingkessel, der zischte und kochte; auf dem Boden lag ein dickes, warmes karmesinrotes Teppich; vor dem Feuer ein Klappstuhl, aufgeklappt und mit Kissen darauf; neben dem Stuhl ein kleiner, aufgeklappter Klapptisch, bedeckt mit einer weißen Tischdecke und darauf kleine abgedeckte Gerichte, eine Tasse, eine Untertasse, eine Teekanne; auf dem Bett lagen neue warme Decken und eine satinbezogene Federdecke; am Fußende ein kurioser wattierter Seidenmantel, ein Paar gesteppte Hausschuhe und ein paar Bücher. Der Raum ihres Traums schien sich in ein Märchenland verwandelt zu haben - und er war mit warmem Licht geflutet, denn auf dem Tisch stand eine helle Lampe, bedeckt mit einem rosenfarbenen Schirm. Sie setzte sich auf und stützte sich auf ihren Ellenbogen, und ihr Atem ging kurz und schnell. "Es verschwindet nicht", keuchte sie. "Oh, ich hatte noch nie so einen Traum." Sie wagte es kaum, sich zu regen, aber schließlich schob sie die Bettdecken beiseite und stellte ihre Füße mit einem verzückten Lächeln auf den Boden. "Ich träume - ich stehe auf", hörte sie ihre eigene Stimme sagen; und dann, als sie mitten in dem Ganzen stand und sich langsam von einer Seite zur anderen drehte - "Ich träume, es bleibt - echt! Ich träume, es FÜHLT sich echt an. Es ist verhext - oder ich bin verhext. Ich denke nur, ich sehe das alles." Ihre Worte fingen an, sich zu überschlagen. "Wenn ich nur weiter daran denken kann", rief sie, "ist mir alles egal! Egal!" Sie stand noch einen Moment keuchend dort und rief dann erneut aus. "Oh, es ist nicht wahr!" sagte sie. "Es KANN nicht wahr sein! Aber oh, wie wahr es scheint!" Das lodernde Feuer zog sie magisch an, und sie kniete nieder und hielt ihre Hände ganz nah daran - so nah, dass die Hitze sie zurückschrecken ließ. "Ein Feuer, von dem ich nur geträumt hätte, wäre nicht HEIß", rief sie aus. Sie sprang auf, berührte den Tisch, die Teller, den Teppich; sie ging zum Bett und berührte die Decken. Sie nahm den weichen wattierten Morgenmantel auf und umarmte ihn plötzlich und hielt ihn an ihre Wange. "Er ist warm. Er Und als sie die Schwelle überschritten, schloss Sara die Tür sanft und zog sie inmitten warmer, glühender Dinge, die ihr Gehirn verwirrten und ihre hungrigen Sinne erlöschen ließen. "Es ist wahr! Es ist wahr!", rief sie aus. "Ich habe sie alle berührt. Sie sind genauso real wie wir. Die Magie ist gekommen und hat es getan, Becky, während wir schliefen - die Magie, die verhindert, dass diese schlimmsten Dinge jemals passieren." Der Besucher Stellt euch, wenn ihr könnt, vor, wie der Rest des Abends war. Wie sie sich vor dem Feuer hockten, das im kleinen Kamin flackerte und loderte und sich so sehr selbst feierte. Wie sie die Deckel der Gerichte abnahmen und reichhaltige, heiße, würzige Suppe fanden, die für sich allein schon eine Mahlzeit war, und Sandwiches und Toast und Muffins genug für beide. Der Krug vom Waschtisch wurde als Beckys Teetasse benutzt und der Tee war so köstlich, dass es nicht notwendig war, so zu tun, als wäre es etwas anderes als Tee. Sie waren warm und satt und glücklich und es war typisch für Sara, dass sie, nachdem sie ihr seltsames Glück realisiert hatte, sich voll und ganz dem Genuss hingab. Sie hatte solch ein Leben der Vorstellungen geführt, dass sie vollkommen in der Lage war, alles Wunderbare anzunehmen, das geschah, und es nach kurzer Zeit nicht mehr verwirrend zu finden. "Ich kenne niemanden auf der ganzen Welt, der das hätte tun können", sagte sie. "Aber da war jemand. Und hier sitzen wir vor ihrem Feuer - und - und - es ist wahr! Und wer es auch immer ist - wo immer sie ist - ich habe eine Freundin, Becky - jemand ist mein Freund." Es kann nicht verleugnet werden, dass sie, während sie vor dem prasselnden Feuer saßen und das nahrhafte, gemütliche Essen aßen, eine Art verzückte Ehrfurcht empfanden und sich mit einer Art Zweifel in die Augen schauten. "Glaubst du", flüsterte Becky einmal zögernd, "glaubst du, es könnte das alles verschwinden lassen, Fräulein? Sollten wir nicht schnell sein?" Und sie stopfte hastig ihr Sandwich in den Mund. Wenn es nur ein Traum war, waren gute Manieren in der Küche zweitrangig. "Nein, es wird nicht verschwinden", sagte Sara. "Ich ESSE diesen Muffin und ich kann ihn schmecken. In Träumen isst man Dinge nie wirklich. Man denkt nur, dass man sie essen wird. Außerdem kneife ich mich immer wieder selbst und habe gerade absichtlich ein heißes Stück Kohle berührt." Der schlaftrunkene Komfort, der sie schließlich fast überwältigte, war etwas Himmlisches. Es war die Müdigkeit eines glücklichen, satt gefütterten Kindes und sie saßen im Feuerschein und genossen es, bis Sara sich dabei erwischte, ihr verwandeltes Bett anzusehen. Es gab sogar genug Decken zum Teilen mit Becky. Das schmale Sofa im nächsten Dachzimmer war in dieser Nacht bequemer als seine Bewohnerin es jemals gedacht hätte. Als sie den Raum verließ, blieb Becky an der Schwelle stehen und sah sich mit gierigen Augen um. "Wenn es morgen nicht da ist, Fräulein", sagte sie, "dann war es heute Nacht hier und ich werde es niemals vergessen." Sie betrachtete jedes einzelne Detail, als wolle sie es ins Gedächtnis einprägen. "Das Feuer war DORT", sagte sie und zeigte mit dem Finger. "Und der Tisch stand davor; und die Lampe war dort und das Licht schien rosigrot; und auf deinem Bett lag eine Satindecke und auf dem Boden lag ein warmer Teppich und alles sah wunderschön aus; und..." - sie unterbrach sich einen Moment und legte zärtlich ihre Hand auf ihren Bauch - "da WAR Suppe und Sandwiches und Muffins - da WAR es." Und mit dieser Überzeugung, die zumindest eine Realität darstellte, ging sie davon. Durch die mysteriöse Agentur, die in Schulen und unter Dienstmädchen wirkt, war es am nächsten Morgen allgemein bekannt, dass Sara Crewe in schrecklichem Ungnade stand, dass Ermengarde bestraft wurde und dass Becky vor dem Frühstück aus dem Haus geworfen worden wäre, wenn man nicht sofort auf eine Küchenhilfe verzichten könnte. Die Dienstboten wussten, dass sie bleiben durfte, weil Miss Minchin nicht so leicht eine andere so hilflose und demütige Kreatur finden konnte, die für so wenige Schillinge pro Woche wie ein gefügiger Sklave arbeitete. Die älteren Mädchen im Schulzimmer wussten, dass wenn Miss Minchin Sara nicht fortschickte, es aus praktischen Gründen geschah. "Sie wächst so schnell und lernt so viel, irgendwie", sagte Jessie zu Lavinia, "dass man ihr bald Klassen geben wird und Miss Minchin weiß, dass sie umsonst arbeiten muss. Es war ziemlich fies von dir, Lavvy, davon zu erzählen, dass sie Spaß auf dem Dachboden hatte. Woher wusstest du das?" "Ich habe es von Lottie erfahren. Sie ist so ein Baby, sie wusste nicht, dass sie es mir erzählt hat. Da war überhaupt nichts Schlimmes daran, mit Miss Minchin zu sprechen. Ich fühlte es als meine Pflicht" - mit prahlerischem Gehabe. "Sie hat sich getäuscht. Und es ist lächerlich, dass sie so großartig aussieht und in ihren Lumpen und Fetzen so viel Aufmerksamkeit bekommt!" "Was haben sie getan, als Miss Minchin sie erwischt hat?" "Irgend etwas Dummes vorgespielt. Ermengarde hatte ihren Korb mitgenommen, um mit Sara und Becky zu teilen. Sie lädt uns nie ein, Dinge zu teilen. Nicht dass es mich interessieren würde, aber es ist ziemlich vulgär von ihr, mit Dienstmädchen auf dem Dachboden zu teilen. Ich wundere mich, dass Miss Minchin Sara nicht rausgeworfen hat - selbst wenn sie sie als Lehrerin haben will." "Wohin würde sie gehen, wenn sie rausgeworfen würde?", fragte Jessie etwas besorgt. "Wie soll ich das wissen?", fauchte Lavinia. "Sie wird ziemlich seltsam aussehen, wenn sie heute Morgen ins Schulzimmer kommt, denke ich - nach dem, was passiert ist. Sie hatte gestern kein Abendessen und heute wird sie keines haben." Jessie war nicht so bösartig wie dumm. Sie nahm ihr Buch mit einem kleinen Ruck auf. "Nun, ich finde es entsetzlich", sagte sie. "Sie haben kein Recht, sie zu Tode zu hungern." Als Sara an diesem Morgen in die Küche ging, warf ihr die Köchin und auch die Hausmädchen misstrauische Blicke zu, aber sie ging eilig an ihnen vorbei. Tatsächlich hatte sie sich etwas verschlafen und da auch Becky dasselbe getan hatte, hatte keine von beiden Zeit gehabt, die andere zu sehen, und beide waren in Eile nach unten gekommen. Sara ging in die Spülküche. Becky schrubbte ein Kesselgewaltig und sang dabei sogar ein kleines Lied in ihrem Hals. Mit wild verzücktem Gesicht sah sie auf. "Es war da, als ich aufgewacht bin, Fräulein - die Decke", flüsterte sie aufgeregt. "Es war genauso real wie gestern Abend." "Meine war auch da", sagte Sara. "Jetzt ist alles da - alles. Als ich mich anzog, habe ich etwas von dem kalten Essen gegessen, das wir übrig gelassen haben." "Oh, Herrschaften! Oh, Herrschaften!" Becky stieß den Ausruf in einer Art verzücktem Stöhnen aus und tauchte gerade noch rechtzeitig mit dem Kopf über ihren Kessel, als die Köchin aus der Küche kam. Miss Minchin hatte erwartet, dass Sara, als sie im Schulzimmer erschien, so gut wie das sehen würde, was Lavinia erwartet hatte. Sara war ihr immer ein ärgerliches Rätsel gewesen, denn Bestrafungen machten sie nie zum Weinen oder verängstigten sie. Wenn sie gescholten wurde, stand sie Die Wahrheit ist, dass man als Kind - oder auch als Erwachsener - wenn man gut genährt ist, lange und weich geschlafen hat und warm ist; wenn man mitten in einer Märchengeschichte eingeschlafen ist und aufwacht und feststellt, dass sie real ist, man nicht unglücklich sein kann oder sogar so aussieht, als wäre man es; und man könnte, selbst wenn man es versuchte, kein Strahlen der Freude aus den Augen halten. Miss Minchin war fast sprachlos über den Blick in Saras Augen, als sie ihre ganz respektvolle Antwort gab. "Bitte verzeihen Sie, Miss Minchin", sagte sie. "Ich weiß, dass ich in Ungnade gefallen bin." "Seien Sie so nett, es nicht zu vergessen und nicht auszusehen, als ob Sie in einen Schatz gekommen wären. Das ist eine Frechheit. Und denken Sie daran, dass Sie heute nichts zu essen bekommen." "Ja, Miss Minchin", antwortete Sara, aber als sie sich abwandte, sprang ihr Herz vor Freude über die Erinnerung daran, was gestern gewesen war. "Wenn die Magie mich nicht gerade noch rechtzeitig gerettet hätte", dachte sie, "wie schrecklich wäre es gewesen!" "Sie kann nicht sehr hungrig sein", flüsterte Lavinia. "Schau sie dir nur an. Vielleicht tut sie so, als hätte sie ein gutes Frühstück gehabt" - mit einem gehässigen Lachen. "Sie ist anders als andere Leute", sagte Jessie und beobachtete Sara zusammen mit ihrer Klasse. "Manchmal habe ich ein bisschen Angst vor ihr." "Lächerliche Sache!", rief Lavinia aus. Den ganzen Tag über war das Leuchten in Saras Gesicht und die Farbe in ihrer Wange. Die Dienstboten warfen ihr verwirrte Blicke zu, flüsterten miteinander und Miss Amelias kleine blaue Augen trugen einen Ausdruck des Erstaunens. Was dieses kecke Wohlbefinden unter königlichem Missfallen bedeuten konnte, konnte sie nicht verstehen. Es war jedoch genau Saras eigener eigensinniger Weg. Sie war wahrscheinlich entschlossen, die Sache durchzustehen. Eines hatte Sara aufgrund ihrer Überlegungen beschlossen. Die Wunder, die geschehen waren, mussten geheim gehalten werden, wenn das überhaupt möglich war. Wenn Miss Minchin sich dazu entschieden hätte, wieder auf den Dachboden zu gehen, würde natürlich alles entdeckt werden. Aber es schien unwahrscheinlich, dass sie es zumindest für einige Zeit tun würde, es sei denn, sie würde von Verdacht geleitet. Ermengarde und Lottie würden so sorgfältig überwacht werden, dass sie es nicht wagen würden, wieder aus ihren Betten zu schlüpfen. Ermengarde könnte die Geschichte erzählt werden und man könnte ihr vertrauen, sie geheim zu halten. Wenn Lottie irgendwelche Entdeckungen machte, könnte man sie ebenfalls zur Verschwiegenheit verpflichten. Vielleicht würde die Magie selbst helfen, ihre eigenen Wunder zu verbergen. "Aber was auch immer passiert", sagte Sara den ganzen Tag über zu sich selbst - "egal was passiert, irgendwo auf der Welt gibt es eine himmlisch freundliche Person, die mein Freund ist - mein Freund. Wenn ich nie erfahren werde, wer es ist - wenn ich ihm nie einmal danken kann - werde ich mich nie ganz so einsam fühlen. Oh, die Magie war GUT zu mir!" Wenn es möglich war, dass das Wetter schlimmer war als am Tag zuvor, dann war es an diesem Tag schlimmer - nasser, schmutziger, kälter. Es gab noch mehr Erledigungen, die Köchin war noch gereizter, und da sie wusste, dass Sara in Ungnade gefallen war, war sie noch gemeiner. Aber was machte das schon, wenn die Magie sich gerade als Freund erwiesen hatte. Saras Abendessen vom Vortag hatte ihr Kraft gegeben, sie wusste, dass sie gut und warm schlafen würde, und obwohl sie natürlich vor dem Abend wieder hungrig geworden war, fühlte sie, dass sie es bis zum Frühstück am nächsten Tag aushalten könnte, wenn ihr sicherlich wieder Mahlzeiten gegeben würden. Es war schon spät, als sie endlich nach oben gehen durfte. Ihr war gesagt worden, dass sie bis zehn Uhr in das Klassenzimmer gehen und lernen sollte, und sie hatte sich in ihre Arbeit vertieft und länger über ihren Büchern gesessen. Als sie die oberste Treppe erreichte und vor der Dachbodentür stand, muss man zugeben, dass ihr Herz etwas schneller schlug. "Natürlich könnte alles weggenommen worden sein", flüsterte sie und versuchte tapfer zu sein. "Es könnte mir nur für diese eine schreckliche Nacht geliehen worden sein. Aber es wurde mir geliehen. Es war wirklich." Sie öffnete die Tür und trat ein. Als sie drinnen war, keuchte sie leicht, schloss die Tür und stand mit dem Rücken dagegen und schaute von einer Seite zur anderen. Die Magie war wieder da gewesen. Sie war tatsächlich da gewesen und hatte sogar noch mehr getan als zuvor. Das Feuer brannte, in wunderbar tanzenden Flammen, fröhlicher als je zuvor. Eine Reihe neuer Dinge war auf den Dachboden gebracht worden, die das Aussehen so sehr veränderten, dass sie, wenn sie nicht über jeden Zweifel erhaben gewesen wäre, sich die Augen gerieben hätte. Auf dem niedrigen Tisch stand noch ein Abendessen - dieses Mal mit Tassen und Tellern für Becky und sie selbst. Über den zerbeulten Kaminsims war eine auffällige, schwere, seltsame Stickerei gelegt worden, und darauf waren einige Ornamente platziert worden. Alle nackten, hässlichen Dinge, die mit Vorhängen bedeckt werden konnten, waren verborgen und sahen ganz hübsch aus. Einige ungewöhnliche Materialien in leuchtenden Farben wurden mit feinen, scharfen Reißzwecken an der Wand befestigt - so scharf, dass sie in das Holz und den Putz gedrückt werden konnten, ohne zu hämmern. Einige brillante Fächer waren aufgesteckt, und es gab mehrere große Kissen, groß und stabil genug, um als Sitzgelegenheit zu dienen. Eine hölzerne Kiste war mit einem Teppich bedeckt und einige Kissen lagen darauf, sodass sie ganz den Anschein einer Couch erweckte. Sara entfernte sich langsam von der Tür und setzte sich einfach hin und schaute und schaute immer wieder. "Es ist genau wie ein wahr gewordenes Märchen", sagte sie. "Es gibt keinen Unterschied. Ich habe das Gefühl, als könnte ich mir alles wünschen - Diamanten oder Goldsäcke - und sie würden erscheinen! Das wäre nicht seltsamer als das hier. Ist das mein Dachboden? Bin ich die gleiche kalte, zerlumpte, feuchte Sara? Und zu denken, ich habe immer so getan und so getan und gewünscht, es gäbe Feen! Das einzige, was ich mir immer gewünscht habe, war, dass sich eine Märchengeschichte wahr erweist. Ich lebe in einer Märchengeschichte. Ich fühle mich, als könnte ich selbst eine Fee sein und Dinge in etwas anderes verwandeln." Sie stand auf und klopfte an die Wand zur angrenzenden Zelle, und die Gefangene kam. Als sie eintrat, ließ sie sich fast auf einen Haufen auf den Boden fallen. Für ein paar Sekunden hielt sie den Atem an. "Oh, Gesetz!" keuchte sie. "Oh, Gesetz, Fräulein!" "Du siehst", sagte Sara. An diesem Abend saß Becky auf einem Kissen auf dem Kaminvorleger und hatte eine eigene Tasse und Untertasse. Als Sara ins Bett ging, stellte sie fest, dass sie eine neue dicke Matratze und große Daunenkissen hatte. Ihre alte Matratze und ihr Kissen waren auf Beckys Bettgestell gelegt worden, und daher war Becky mit diesen Zugaben mit unerhörtem Komfort versorgt worden. "Woher kommt das alles?" platzte Becky einmal heraus. "Laws, wer tut das, Fräulein?" "Lassen Der Komfort und das Glück, die sie genoss, machten sie stärker und sie hatte immer etwas, auf das sie sich freuen konnte. Wenn sie von ihren Erledigungen nach Hause kam, nass, müde und hungrig, wusste sie, dass sie bald warm und gut versorgt sein würde, nachdem sie die Treppen hochgestiegen war. Selbst an den schwersten Tagen konnte sie sich glücklich damit beschäftigen, darüber nachzudenken, was sie sehen würde, wenn sie die Dachbodentür öffnete, und sich zu fragen, welch neue Freude für sie bereitet worden war. Innerhalb kürzester Zeit begann sie weniger dünn auszusehen. Farbe kam in ihre Wangen und ihre Augen schienen nicht mehr so groß für ihr Gesicht zu sein. "Sara Crewe sieht wunderbar aus", bemerkte Miss Minchin missbilligend zu ihrer Schwester. "Ja", antwortete die arme, dumme Miss Amelia. "Sie wird wirklich dicker. Sie fing an, wie eine kleine ausgehungerte Krähe auszusehen." "Ausgehungert!", rief Miss Minchin wütend. "Es gab keinen Grund für sie, ausgehungert auszusehen. Sie hatte immer genug zu essen!" "Na natürlich", stimmte Miss Amelia demütig zu und erschrak, als sie merkte, dass sie wie immer das Falsche gesagt hatte. "Es ist sehr unangenehm, so etwas bei einem Kind ihres Alters zu sehen", sagte Miss Minchin mit stolzer Unbestimmtheit. "Welches - welche Art von Sache?", wagte Miss Amelia zu fragen. Man könnte es fast Trotz nennen", antwortete Miss Minchin und ärgerte sich, weil sie wusste, dass das, was sie anprangerte, nichts mit Trotz zu tun hatte, und sie nicht wusste, welchen anderen unangenehmen Ausdruck sie verwenden sollte. "Der Geist und der Wille jedes anderen Kindes wären durch die Veränderungen, denen sie sich unterwerfen musste, vollständig demütig und gebrochen worden. Aber, ich schwöre, sie scheint so wenig unterworfen zu sein, als ob ... als ob sie eine Prinzessin wäre." "Erinnerst du dich", mischte sich die unweise Miss Amelia ein, "an das, was sie an jenem Tag im Klassenzimmer zu dir gesagt hat, über das, was du tun würdest, wenn du herausfinden würdest, dass sie-" "Nein, tue ich nicht", sagte Miss Minchin. "Rede keinen Unsinn." Aber sie erinnerte sich sehr genau. Ganz natürlich begann auch Becky dicker und weniger erschrocken auszusehen. Sie konnte nichts dafür. Auch sie hatte einen Anteil an der geheimen Märchengeschichte. Sie hatte zwei Matratzen, zwei Kissen, reichlich Bettdecken und jeden Abend ein warmes Abendessen und einen Platz auf den Kissen am Feuer. Die Bastille war verschwunden, die Gefangenen existierten nicht mehr. Zwei getröstete Kinder saßen inmitten von Freuden. Manchmal las Sara laut aus ihren Büchern vor, manchmal lernte sie ihre eigenen Lektionen, manchmal saß sie da und starrte ins Feuer und versuchte sich vorzustellen, wer ihr Freund sein könnte, und wünschte, sie könnte ihm einige der Dinge im Herzen sagen. Dann geschah etwas Wunderbares. Ein Mann kam zur Tür und hinterließ mehrere Pakete. Alle waren mit großen Buchstaben adressiert: "An das kleine Mädchen im Dachgeschoss rechts". Sara selbst wurde geschickt, um die Tür zu öffnen und sie entgegenzunehmen. Sie legte die beiden größten Pakete auf den Flurtisch und betrachtete die Adresse, als Miss Minchin die Treppe hinunterkam und sie sah. "Bring die Sachen zu dem jungen Mädchen, denen sie gehören", sagte sie streng. "Stehe nicht einfach da und starr sie an." "Ihnen gehören sie", antwortete Sara ruhig. "Ihnen?!" rief Miss Minchin aus. "Was meinst du damit?" "Ich weiß nicht, woher sie stammen", sagte Sara, "aber sie sind an mich adressiert. Ich schlafe im rechten Dachgeschoss. Becky hat das andere Zimmer." Miss Minchin kam an ihre Seite und betrachtete die Pakete mit aufgeregtem Gesichtsausdruck. "Was ist darin?", verlangte sie zu wissen. "Ich weiß es nicht", antwortete Sara. "Mach sie auf", befahl sie. Sara tat, was man ihr sagte. Als die Pakete ausgepackt waren, zeigte sich plötzlich ein seltsamer Ausdruck auf Miss Minchins Gesicht. Sie sah darin hübsche und bequeme Kleidung - Kleidung verschiedener Arten: Schuhe, Strümpfe und Handschuhe und einen warmen und schönen Mantel. Es gab sogar einen hübschen Hut und einen Regenschirm. Alles waren gute und teure Dinge und auf der Tasche des Mantels hing ein Zettel, auf dem stand: "Täglich zu tragen. Werden bei Bedarf ersetzt." Miss Minchin war ziemlich aufgeregt. Dieses Ereignis ließ merkwürdige Dinge in ihrem rostigen Verstand aufkommen. Könnte es sein, dass sie doch einen Fehler gemacht hatte und dass das vernachlässigte Kind einen einflussreichen, wenn auch exzentrischen Freund im Hintergrund hatte - vielleicht eine bisher unbekannte Verwandte, die ihre Aufenthaltsorte plötzlich aufgespürt hatte und beschlossen hatte, auf diese mysteriöse und fantastische Weise für sie zu sorgen? Verwandte waren manchmal sehr seltsam, besonders reiche alte Junggesellen-Onkel, die nichts dagegen hatten, Kinder in ihrer Nähe zu haben. Ein Mann dieser Art würde es vielleicht vorziehen, aus der Ferne über das Wohl seines jungen Verwandten hinwegzusehen. Ein solcher Mensch wäre jedoch sicher eigenwillig und hitzköpfig genug sein, um leicht beleidigt zu sein. Es wäre nicht sehr angenehm, wenn es so jemanden gäbe und er die ganze Wahrheit über die dünnen, abgetragenen Kleider, das dürftige Essen und die harte Arbeit erfahren würde. Sie fühlte sich sehr merkwürdig und unsicher und warf einen seitlichen Blick auf Sara. "Nun", sagte sie mit einer Stimme, wie sie sie seit dem Tod des Vaters des kleinen Mädchens nie mehr benutzt hatte, "jemand ist sehr freundlich zu dir. Da die Sachen geschickt wurden und du neue bekommst, wenn sie abgetragen sind, kannst du genauso gut hingehen und dich anziehen und respektabel aussehen. Nachdem du dich angezogen hast, kannst du zum Unterricht ins Klassenzimmer kommen. Heute brauchst du keine weiteren Erledigungen mehr zu machen." Ungefähr eine halbe Stunde später, als sich die Klassenzimmertür öffnete und Sara hereintrat, war das ganze Internat sprachlos. "Mein Gott!" rief Jessie aus und stieß Lavinia mit dem Ellenbogen an. "Schaut euch die Prinzessin Sara an!" Jeder starrte, und als Lavinia hinschaute, wurde sie ganz rot. Es war tatsächlich Prinzessin Sara. Zumindest seit den Tagen, als sie eine Prinzessin gewesen war, hatte Sara nie so ausgesehen wie jetzt. Sie schien nicht die Sara zu sein, die sie nur wenige Stunden zuvor die Hintertreppe hinunterkommen gesehen hatten. Sie trug die Art von Kleid, um das Lavinia sie immer beneidet hatte. Es war tief und warm in der Farbe und wunderschön gemacht. Ihre schlanken Füße sahen genauso aus wie sie, als Jessie sie bewundert hatte, und das Haar, dessen schwere Strähnen sie mit ihrem kleinen, eigentümlichen Gesicht etwas wie ein Shetlandpony hatte aussehen lassen, war mit einem Band zurückgebunden. "Vielleicht hat ihr jemand ein Vermögen hinterlassen", flüsterte Jessie. "Ich habe immer gedacht, dass ihr etwas passieren würde. Sie ist so seltsam." "Vielleicht sind die Diamantenminen plötzlich wieder aufgetaucht", sagte Lavinia höhnisch. Ich hoffe, du wirst es nicht unhöflich finden, dass ich dir diesen Brief schreibe, wo du doch geheim bleiben möchtest. Bitte glaube mir, ich meine es nicht unhöflich oder versuche irgendetwas herauszufinden; ich möchte nur danke sagen, dass du so nett zu mir warst - so himmlisch nett - und alles wie ein Märchen gemacht hast. Ich bin dir so dankbar, und ich bin so glücklich - und das ist auch Becky. Becky ist genauso dankbar wie ich - es ist für sie genauso schön und wunderbar wie für mich. Wir waren früher so einsam und kalt und hungrig, und jetzt - oh, denk nur, was du für uns getan hast! Bitte lass mich diese Worte nur sagen. Es scheint, als ob ich sie sagen SOLLTE. DANKE - DANKE - DANKE! DAS KLEINE MÄDCHEN AUF DEM DACHBODEN. Am nächsten Morgen hinterließ sie das auf dem kleinen Tisch, und am Abend war es mit den anderen Sachen weggenommen worden. Also wusste sie, dass der Magier es bekommen hatte, und der Gedanke machte sie glücklicher. Sie las Becky gerade eines ihrer neuen Bücher vor, bevor sie jeweils ins Bett gingen, als ihre Aufmerksamkeit durch ein Geräusch am Dachfenster darauf gelenkt wurde. Als sie von ihrer Seite aufsah, sah sie, dass auch Becky das Geräusch gehört hatte, denn sie hatte den Kopf gedreht, um zu schauen, und lauschte eher nervös. "Da ist etwas, Fräulein", flüsterte sie. "Ja", sagte Sara langsam. "Es hört sich eher an wie eine Katze, die versucht hereinzukommen." Sie stand auf und ging zum Dachfenster. Es war ein eigenartiges kleines Geräusch, das sie hörte - wie ein sanftes Kratzen. Plötzlich erinnerte sie sich an etwas und lachte. Sie erinnerte sich an einen kleinen, eigentümlichen Eindringling, der bereits einmal in den Dachboden gelangt war. Sie hatte ihn an diesem Nachmittag gesehen, wie er betrübt auf einem Tisch vor einem Fenster im Haus des indischen Herrn saß. "Stell dir vor", flüsterte sie erfreut. "Stell dir vor, es war der Affe, der wieder entkommen ist. Oh, ich wünschte, das wäre so!" Vorsichtig stieg sie auf einen Stuhl, öffnete das Dachfenster und schaute hinaus. Es hatte den ganzen Tag geschneit und auf dem Schnee, ganz in ihrer Nähe, hockte eine winzige, zitternde Gestalt, deren kleines schwarzes Gesicht sich jämmerlich runzelte, als es sie entdeckte. "Es ist der Affe", rief sie aus. "Er ist aus dem Dachboden des Lascars gekrochen und hat das Licht gesehen." Becky lief zu ihrer Seite. "Lassen Sie ihn herein, Fräulein?" sagte sie. "Ja", antwortete Sara freudig. "Für Affen ist es zu kalt, um draußen zu sein. Sie sind empfindlich. Ich werde ihn hereinlocken." Sie streckte vorsichtig eine Hand aus und sprach mit sanfter Stimme - so wie sie mit den Spatzen und Melchisedec sprach - als ob sie selbst ein freundliches kleines Tier wäre. "Komm schon, Affenliebling", sagte sie. "Ich tu dir nichts." Er wusste, dass sie ihm nichts antun würde. Das wusste er schon, bevor sie ihre weiche, streichelnde kleine Pfote auf ihn legte und ihn zu sich heranzog. Er hatte menschliche Liebe in den schlanken braunen Händen von Ram Dass gespürt, und er spürte sie auch in ihren. Er ließ sich durch das Dachfenster heben, und als er sich in ihren Armen wiederfand, kuschelte er sich an ihre Brust und schaute zu ihr hoch. "Braver Affe! Braver Affe!", säuselte sie und küsste seinen lustigen Kopf. "Oh, ich liebe kleine Tierdinge." Offensichtlich war er froh, zum Feuer zu kommen, und als sie sich setzte und ihn auf ihrem Knie hielt, sah er abwechselnd sie und Becky mit Interesse und Wertschätzung an. "Er ist nicht attraktiv, Fräulein, oder?", sagte Becky. "Er sieht aus wie ein sehr hässliches Baby", lachte Sara. "Entschuldige, Affe; aber ich bin froh, dass du kein Baby bist. Deine Mutter könnte nicht stolz auf dich sein, und niemand würde wagen zu sagen, dass du wie einer deiner Verwandten aussiehst. Oh, ich mag dich!" Sie lehnte sich in ihrem Stuhl zurück und dachte nach. "Vielleicht tut es ihm leid, dass er so hässlich ist", sagte sie, "und das beschäftigt ihn immer. Ich frage mich, ob er einen Verstand hat. Affe, mein Liebling, hast du einen Verstand?" Aber der Affe hob nur eine winzige Pfote und kratzte sich am Kopf. "Was wirst du mit ihm machen?" fragte Becky. "Ich lasse ihn heute Nacht bei mir schlafen und bringe ihn morgen zum indischen Herrn zurück. Es tut mir leid, dich zurückzubringen, Affe; aber du musst gehen. Du solltest deine eigene Familie am meisten mögen, und ich bin keine WIRKLICHE Verwandte." Und als sie zu Bett ging, machte sie ihm ein Nest zu ihren Füßen, und er kuschelte sich dort zusammen und schlief, als wäre er ein Baby und mit seiner Unterkunft sehr zufrieden. 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.

Der Winter nach Saras Niedergang ist ein trüber Winter und sie und Becky überstehen ihn, indem sie sich gegenseitig Geschichten erzählen und sich vorstellen, dass sie Prinzessinnen oder Gefangene in der Bastille sind. An einem besonders kalten Tag, als sie Besorgungen macht, fantasiert Sara davon, einen Groschen zu finden und ihn in einer Bäckerei auszugeben. Und siehe da, sie findet einen Vierpenny in Schlamm vergraben und realisiert, dass sie direkt vor einer Bäckerei ist, die köstliche Brötchen verkauft. Doch bevor sie hineingehen kann, sieht sie ein Kind, das in noch schlechterem Zustand ist als sie selbst – eines, das offensichtlich auf der Straße geschlafen hat anstatt auf einem Dachboden. Sara fragt die Frau in der Bäckerei, ob sie den Vierpenny verloren hat, und die Frau, die erkennt, dass Sara Hunger hat, gibt ihr sechs Brötchen anstatt der vier, die sie theoretisch mit ihrem Geld kaufen könnte. Sara gibt dem hungrigen Kind fünf Brötchen und behält nur eins für sich, und die Frau in der Bäckerei ist so erstaunt über das, was sie gesehen hat, dass sie das obdachlose Kind hereinbittet, um sich aufzuwärmen, zu Ehren von Saras offensichtlicher Opferbereitschaft. Als sie sich dem Internat nähert, sieht Sara, wie die Kinder der großen Familie ihrem Vater, Mr. Carmichael, Lebewohl sagen: er geht nach Moskau, um ein bestimmtes "kleines Mädchen" zu finden. Sara fragt sich, wer das kleine Mädchen ist und ist sich nicht bewusst, dass sie das gesuchte Kind ist. In der Zwischenzeit beobachten die Carmichael-Kinder, wie sie vorbeigeht, und fragen sich, was ihre Geschichte ist und warum sie immer auf so scheinbar unangenehme Besorgungen geschickt wird. Das nächste Kapitel wechselt verspielt zur Perspektive von Melchisedek, dem einzigen Zeugen für einen interessanten Vorfall auf dem Dachboden, als Sara nicht da ist. Er sieht zwei Männer dabei, wie sie durch das Oberlicht in den Raum eindringen – Ram Dass und der Sekretär von Mr. Carrisford, obwohl Melchisedek dies nicht weiß. Ram Dass enthüllt, dass er Sara durch ihre Fenster beobachtet und dass sie eine Freundin für alle, selbst für Ratten, ist. Er erwähnt auch einen Plan, der von Mr. Carrisford gemacht wird, offensichtlich um Sara zu überraschen, daher die Entscheidung der beiden Männer, das Zimmer in ihrer Abwesenheit zu betreten. Sie inspizieren das heruntergekommene Zimmer und überlegen, wie sie es verbessern könnten, und besprechen, wie aufgeregt Sara sein wird, wenn sie ihr Zimmer umgestaltet sieht. Ram Dass gibt zu, dass dieser Plan zuerst seine Idee war, aber dann von Carrisford selbst angenommen wurde. Carrisford, der krank ist, erfreut sich an Geschichten über Saras Freundlichkeit, auch wenn er darüber verärgert ist, dass er Captain Crewes Tochter nicht finden kann. Der Sekretär lobt die Heimlichkeit und Klugheit von Ram Dass' Idee und sagt ihm, dass "nur ein Orientale es geplant haben könnte". Sara hat keine Ahnung, dass jemand plant, sie zu überraschen. Sie kommt müde und hungrig nach Hause, und die schlechtgelaunte Köchin gibt ihr nur altes Brot zum Abendessen. Glücklicherweise ist Ermengarde zu Besuch gekommen und hat einige Bücher mitgebracht, die ihr Vater ihr zum Lesen geschickt hat. Sara, die Bücher liebt, bietet an, sie zu lesen und Ermengarde zu erklären. Ermengarde plant, ihrem Vater gegenüber zu lügen und vorzugeben, die Bücher gelesen zu haben, aber Sara ermutigt sie, ehrlich zu sein und sagt, dass Lügen "vulgär" ist. Schließlich sagt Sara, dass es viel wichtiger ist, nett zu anderen zu sein, als schnell neue Dinge zu lernen, also wird Ermengardes Vater es nicht ausmachen. Dann erzählt Sara Ermengarde so lebhaft von der Französischen Revolution, dass Ermengarde weiß, dass sie es nie vergessen wird. Ermengarde ist nicht sehr aufmerksam, aber sie merkt, wie dünn Sara aussieht, obwohl Sara, nie einer, der sich über Hunger beklagt, versucht, das Thema zu wechseln. Dann hören die Mädchen eine Serie von Störungen. Ram Dass lugt durch das Oberlicht herein, und obwohl sie ihn nicht sehen, hört Sara ihn auf dem Dach. Dann hören sie, wie Miss Minchin Becky in ihrem eigenen Dachzimmer anschreit und sie beschuldigt, eine Torte gestohlen zu haben. Offensichtlich hat die Köchin die Torte gestohlen, aber sie hat Becky beschuldigt. Sara fängt an zu weinen, und Ermengarde merkt, dass ihre Freundin am Verhungern ist. Ermengarde bemerkt, dass ihre Tante ihr gerade eine Box mit köstlichem Essen geschickt hat, und sie bietet an, die Box zu holen und sie heimlich in Saras Zimmer zu schmuggeln. Die Mädchen laden Becky zu ihrem Fest ein. Während Ermengarde die Box holt, decken Sara und Becky einen Tisch mit einigen zufälligen Gegenständen aus dem Zimmer ab, als ob es wunderschöne Geschirr und Tischdekorationen wären und als ob sie ein königliches Fest veranstalten würden. Ermengarde ist gerade erst mit ihrer Box Essen zurückgekehrt, als Miss Minchin die Mädchen entdeckt. Sie ist durch Lavinia auf ihr geheimes Treffen aufmerksam geworden. Sie verspricht, alle drei Mädchen zu bestrafen, was in Saras Fall mehr oder weniger bedeutet, dass sie verhungert. Sara, traurig und allein gelassen, weiß nicht, dass Ram Dass sie beobachtet hat. Sara geht ins Bett und als sie mitten in der Nacht aufwacht, ist sie von einer warmen Decke bedeckt. Ihr Zimmer hat neue Möbel und ein prasselndes Feuer im Kamin, sowie einen Tisch mit Essen gedeckt. Zuerst ist sie überzeugt, dass die Verwandlung ein Traum ist, aber schließlich erkennt sie, dass das Zimmer wirklich verwandelt ist und findet einen Zettel, auf dem steht: "Für das Mädchen auf dem Dachboden. Von einem Freund." Sie weckt Becky und die Mädchen starren ungläubig auf die scheinbare magische Veränderung, die stattgefunden hat. Die Mädchen bleiben wach, genießen das Feuer und das Essen. Sara ist jedoch am aufgeregtesten darüber, dass anscheinend jemand auf sie aufpasst. Bevor die Mädchen schlafen gehen, verkündet Becky, dass sie die Veränderung schätzt, auch wenn sie nur vorübergehend ist, und verankert das schöne Zimmer in ihrem Gedächtnis. Am Morgen weiß die ganze Schule, dass Sara, Becky und Ermengarde in Schwierigkeiten stecken. Becky wäre fast rausgeworfen worden, aber niemand sonst ist bereit, ihre schwierige Arbeit zu übernehmen, und Sara wäre es auch, aber Miss Minchin will ihre Klugheit nutzen, indem sie sie unterrichten lässt. In der Zwischenzeit streiten sich Jessie und Lavinia über Lavinias Entscheidung, auf Sara zu verpetzen: Lavinia verteidigt sich, während Jessie entsetzt über Saras Arbeitsbedingungen ist. Sara sieht jedoch gesund und glücklich aus nach ihrer Überraschung, was Miss Minchin ärgert. Sara wird noch grausamer behandelt als sonst, aber als sie in ihr Zimmer zurückkehrt, ist es wieder völlig verwandelt, noch extravaganter. Jeden Abend, wenn Sara in ihr Zimmer zurückkehrt, findet sie neue Ergänzungen. Eines Tages findet sie ein Paket, das an "das Mädchen im rechten Dachboden" adressiert ist, und öffnet es vor Miss Minchin. Es enthält praktische, teuer hergestellte Kleidung und einen Zettel, der verspricht, dass weitere geliefert werden, wenn sie gebraucht werden. Sara ist glücklich, außer dass sie ihren geheimen Beschützer danken möchte, aber seine Identität noch nicht kennt. Sie schreibt einen Brief, in dem sie ihrem Betreuer ausgiebig dankt, und lässt ihn auf ihrem Tisch liegen, in der Hoffnung, dass die Person, die Geschenke in ihr Zimmer bringt, ihn finden und abholen wird. Eines Tages, als sie unterwegs ist, verschwindet der Brief und sie weiß, dass er angekommen ist. In ihrem Zimmer mit Becky hört sie abends ein Geräusch nahe ihrem Oberlicht und erkennt, dass der Affe von Ram Dass versucht einzutreten. Sie lässt den Affen herein und kuschelt sich an ihn, froh, einen neuen tierischen Freund zu haben. Sie erzählt Becky, dass der Affe in ihrem Zimmer schlafen wird und dass sie ihn am nächsten Morgen zurückbringen 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: That woman is naturally weak, or degraded by a concurrence of circumstances is, I think, clear. But this position I shall simply contrast with a conclusion, which I have frequently heard fall from sensible men in favour of an aristocracy: that the mass of mankind cannot be any thing, or the obsequious slaves, who patiently allow themselves to be penned up, would feel their own consequence, and spurn their chains. Men, they further observe, submit every where to oppression, when they have only to lift up their heads to throw off the yoke; yet, instead of asserting their birthright, they quietly lick the dust, and say, let us eat and drink, for to-morrow we die. Women, I argue from analogy, are degraded by the same propensity to enjoy the present moment; and, at last, despise the freedom which they have not sufficient virtue to struggle to attain. But I must be more explicit. With respect to the culture of the heart, it is unanimously allowed that sex is out of the question; but the line of subordination in the mental powers is never to be passed over. Only "absolute in loveliness," the portion of rationality granted to woman is, indeed, very scanty; for, denying her genius and judgment, it is scarcely possible to divine what remains to characterize intellect. The stamina of immortality, if I may be allowed the phrase, is the perfectibility of human reason; for, was man created perfect, or did a flood of knowledge break in upon him, when he arrived at maturity, that precluded error, I should doubt whether his existence would be continued after the dissolution of the body. But in the present state of things, every difficulty in morals, that escapes from human discussion, and equally baffles the investigation of profound thinking, and the lightning glance of genius, is an argument on which I build my belief of the immortality of the soul. Reason is, consequentially, the simple power of improvement; or, more properly speaking, of discerning truth. Every individual is in this respect a world in itself. More or less may be conspicuous in one being than other; but the nature of reason must be the same in all, if it be an emanation of divinity, the tie that connects the creature with the Creator; for, can that soul be stamped with the heavenly image, that is not perfected by the exercise of its own reason? Yet outwardly ornamented with elaborate care, and so adorned to delight man, "that with honour he may love," (Vide Milton) the soul of woman is not allowed to have this distinction, and man, ever placed between her and reason, she is always represented as only created to see through a gross medium, and to take things on trust. But, dismissing these fanciful theories, and considering woman as a whole, let it be what it will, instead of a part of man, the inquiry is, whether she has reason or not. If she has, which, for a moment, I will take for granted, she was not created merely to be the solace of man, and the sexual should not destroy the human character. Into this error men have, probably, been led by viewing education in a false light; not considering it as the first step to form a being advancing gradually toward perfection; (This word is not strictly just, but I cannot find a better.) but only as a preparation for life. On this sensual error, for I must call it so, has the false system of female manners been reared, which robs the whole sex of its dignity, and classes the brown and fair with the smiling flowers that only adorn the land. This has ever been the language of men, and the fear of departing from a supposed sexual character, has made even women of superior sense adopt the same sentiments. Thus understanding, strictly speaking, has been denied to woman; and instinct, sublimated into wit and cunning, for the purposes of life, has been substituted in its stead. The power of generalizing ideas, of drawing comprehensive conclusions from individual observations, is the only acquirement for an immortal being, that really deserves the name of knowledge. Merely to observe, without endeavouring to account for any thing, may, (in a very incomplete manner) serve as the common sense of life; but where is the store laid up that is to clothe the soul when it leaves the body? This power has not only been denied to women; but writers have insisted that it is inconsistent, with a few exceptions, with their sexual character. Let men prove this, and I shall grant that woman only exists for man. I must, however, previously remark, that the power of generalizing ideas, to any great extent, is not very common amongst men or women. But this exercise is the true cultivation of the understanding; and every thing conspires to render the cultivation of the understanding more difficult in the female than the male world. I am naturally led by this assertion to the main subject of the present chapter, and shall now attempt to point out some of the causes that degrade the sex, and prevent women from generalizing their observations. I shall not go back to the remote annals of antiquity to trace the history of woman; it is sufficient to allow, that she has always been either a slave or a despot, and to remark, that each of these situations equally retards the progress of reason. The grand source of female folly and vice has ever appeared to me to arise from narrowness of mind; and the very constitution of civil governments has put almost insuperable obstacles in the way to prevent the cultivation of the female understanding: yet virtue can be built on no other foundation! The same obstacles are thrown in the way of the rich, and the same consequences ensue. Necessity has been proverbially termed the mother of invention; the aphorism may be extended to virtue. It is an acquirement, and an acquirement to which pleasure must be sacrificed, and who sacrifices pleasure when it is within the grasp, whose mind has not been opened and strengthened by adversity, or the pursuit of knowledge goaded on by necessity? Happy is it when people have the cares of life to struggle with; for these struggles prevent their becoming a prey to enervating vices, merely from idleness! But, if from their birth men and women are placed in a torrid zone, with the meridian sun of pleasure darting directly upon them, how can they sufficiently brace their minds to discharge the duties of life, or even to relish the affections that carry them out of themselves? Pleasure is the business of a woman's life, according to the present modification of society, and while it continues to be so, little can be expected from such weak beings. Inheriting, in a lineal descent from the first fair defect in nature, the sovereignty of beauty, they have, to maintain their power, resigned their natural rights, which the exercise of reason, might have procured them, and chosen rather to be short-lived queens than labour to attain the sober pleasures that arise from equality. Exalted by their inferiority (this sounds like a contradiction) they constantly demand homage as women, though experience should teach them that the men who pride themselves upon paying this arbitrary insolent respect to the sex, with the most scrupulous exactness, are most inclined to tyrannize over, and despise the very weakness they cherish. Often do they repeat Mr. Hume's sentiments; when comparing the French and Athenian character, he alludes to women. "But what is more singular in this whimsical nation, say I to the Athenians, is, that a frolic of yours during the Saturnalia, when the slaves are served by their masters, is seriously continued by them through the whole year, and through the whole course of their lives; accompanied too with some circumstances, which still further augment the absurdity and ridicule. Your sport only elevates for a few days, those whom fortune has thrown down, and whom she too, in sport, may really elevate forever above you. But this nation gravely exalts those, whom nature has subjected to them, and whose inferiority and infirmities are absolutely incurable. The women, though without virtue, are their masters and sovereigns." Ah! why do women, I write with affectionate solicitude, condescend to receive a degree of attention and respect from strangers, different from that reciprocation of civility which the dictates of humanity, and the politeness of civilization authorise between man and man? And why do they not discover, when "in the noon of beauty's power," that they are treated like queens only to be deluded by hollow respect, till they are led to resign, or not assume, their natural prerogatives? Confined then in cages, like the feathered race, they have nothing to do but to plume themselves, and stalk with mock-majesty from perch to perch. It is true, they are provided with food and raiment, for which they neither toil nor spin; but health, liberty, and virtue are given in exchange. But, where, amongst mankind has been found sufficient strength of mind to enable a being to resign these adventitious prerogatives; one who rising with the calm dignity of reason above opinion, dared to be proud of the privileges inherent in man? and it is vain to expect it whilst hereditary power chokes the affections, and nips reason in the bud. The passions of men have thus placed women on thrones; and, till mankind become more reasonable, it is to be feared that women will avail themselves of the power which they attain with the least exertion, and which is the most indisputable. They will smile, yes, they will smile, though told that-- "In beauty's empire is no mean, And woman either slave or queen, Is quickly scorn'd when not ador'd." But the adoration comes first, and the scorn is not anticipated. Lewis the XIVth, in particular, spread factitious manners, and caught in a specious way, the whole nation in his toils; for establishing an artful chain of despotism, he made it the interest of the people at large, individually to respect his station, and support his power. And women, whom he flattered by a puerile attention to the whole sex, obtained in his reign that prince-like distinction so fatal to reason and virtue. A king is always a king, and a woman always a woman: (And a wit, always a wit, might be added; for the vain fooleries of wits and beauties to obtain attention, and make conquests, are much upon a par.) his authority and her sex, ever stand between them and rational converse. With a lover, I grant she should be so, and her sensibility will naturally lead her to endeavour to excite emotion, not to gratify her vanity but her heart. This I do not allow to be coquetry, it is the artless impulse of nature, I only exclaim against the sexual desire of conquest, when the heart is out of the question. This desire is not confined to women; "I have endeavoured," says Lord Chesterfield, "to gain the hearts of twenty women, whose persons I would not have given a fig for." The libertine who in a gust of passion, takes advantage of unsuspecting tenderness, is a saint when compared with this cold-hearted rascal; for I like to use significant words. Yet only taught to please, women are always on the watch to please, and with true heroic ardour endeavour to gain hearts merely to resign, or spurn them, when the victory is decided, and conspicuous. I must descend to the minutiae of the subject. I lament that women are systematically degraded by receiving the trivial attentions, which men think it manly to pay to the sex, when, in fact, they are insultingly supporting their own superiority. It is not condescension to bow to an inferior. So ludicrous, in fact, do these ceremonies appear to me, that I scarcely am able to govern my muscles, when I see a man start with eager, and serious solicitude to lift a handkerchief, or shut a door, when the LADY could have done it herself, had she only moved a pace or two. A wild wish has just flown from my heart to my head, and I will not stifle it though it may excite a horse laugh. I do earnestly wish to see the distinction of sex confounded in society, unless where love animates the behaviour. For this distinction is, I am firmly persuaded, the foundation of the weakness of character ascribed to woman; is the cause why the understanding is neglected, whilst accomplishments are acquired with sedulous care: and the same cause accounts for their preferring the graceful before the heroic virtues. Mankind, including every description, wish to be loved and respected for SOMETHING; and the common herd will always take the nearest road to the completion of their wishes. The respect paid to wealth and beauty is the most certain and unequivocal; and of course, will always attract the vulgar eye of common minds. Abilities and virtues are absolutely necessary to raise men from the middle rank of life into notice; and the natural consequence is notorious, the middle rank contains most virtue and abilities. Men have thus, in one station, at least, an opportunity of exerting themselves with dignity, and of rising by the exertions which really improve a rational creature; but the whole female sex are, till their character is formed, in the same condition as the rich: for they are born, I now speak of a state of civilization, with certain sexual privileges, and whilst they are gratuitously granted them, few will ever think of works of supererogation, to obtain the esteem of a small number of superior people. When do we hear of women, who starting out of obscurity, boldly claim respect on account of their great abilities or daring virtues? Where are they to be found? "To be observed, to be attended to, to be taken notice of with sympathy, complacency, and approbation, are all the advantages which they seek." True! my male readers will probably exclaim; but let them, before they draw any conclusion, recollect, that this was not written originally as descriptive of women, but of the rich. In Dr. Smith's Theory of Moral Sentiments, I have found a general character of people of rank and fortune, that in my opinion, might with the greatest propriety be applied to the female sex. I refer the sagacious reader to the whole comparison; but must be allowed to quote a passage to enforce an argument that I mean to insist on, as the one most conclusive against a sexual character. For if, excepting warriors, no great men of any denomination, have ever appeared amongst the nobility, may it not be fairly inferred, that their local situation swallowed up the man, and produced a character similar to that of women, who are LOCALIZED, if I may be allowed the word, by the rank they are placed in, by COURTESY? Women, commonly called Ladies, are not to be contradicted in company, are not allowed to exert any manual strength; and from them the negative virtues only are expected, when any virtues are expected, patience, docility, good-humour, and flexibility; virtues incompatible with any vigorous exertion of intellect. Besides by living more with each other, and to being seldom absolutely alone, they are more under the influence of sentiments than passions. Solitude and reflection are necessary to give to wishes the force of passions, and enable the imagination to enlarge the object and make it the most desirable. The same may be said of the rich; they do not sufficiently deal in general ideas, collected by impassionate thinking, or calm investigation, to acquire that strength of character, on which great resolves are built. But hear what an acute observer says of the great. "Do the great seem insensible of the easy price at which they may acquire the public admiration? or do they seem to imagine, that to them, as to other men, it must be the purchase either of sweat or of blood? By what important accomplishments is the young nobleman instructed to support the dignity of his rank, and to render himself worthy of that superiority over his fellow citizens, to which the virtue of his ancestors had raised them? Is it by knowledge, by industry, by patience, by self-denial, or by virtue of any kind? As all his words, as all his motions are attended to, he learns an habitual regard for every circumstance of ordinary behaviour, and studies to perform all those small duties with the most exact propriety. As he is conscious how much he is observed, and how much mankind are disposed to favour all his inclinations, he acts, upon the most indifferent occasions, with that freedom and elevation which the thought of this naturally inspires. His air, his manner, his deportment all mark that elegant and graceful sense of his own superiority, which those who are born to an inferior station can hardly ever arrive at. These are the arts by which he proposes to make mankind more easily submit to his authority, and to govern their inclinations according to his own pleasure: and in this he is seldom disappointed. These arts, supported by rank and pre-eminence, are, upon ordinary occasions, sufficient to govern the world. Lewis XIV. during the greater part of his reign, was regarded, not only in France, but over all Europe, as the most perfect model of a great prince. But what were the talents and virtues, by which he acquired this great reputation? Was it by the scrupulous and inflexible justice of all his undertakings, by the immense dangers and difficulties with which they were attended, or by the unwearied and unrelenting application with which he pursued them? Was it by his extensive knowledge, by his exquisite judgment, or by his heroic valour? It was by none of these qualities. But he was, first of all, the most powerful prince in Europe, and consequently held the highest rank among kings; and then, says his historian, 'he surpassed all his courtiers in the gracefulness of his shape, and the majestic beauty of his features. The sound of his voice noble and affecting, gained those hearts which his presence intimidated. He had a step and a deportment, which could suit only him and his rank, and which would have been ridiculous in any other person. The embarrassment which he occasioned to those who spoke to him, flattered that secret satisfaction with which he felt his own superiority.' These frivolous accomplishments, supported by his rank, and, no doubt, too, by a degree of other talents and virtues, which seems, however, not to have been much above mediocrity, established this prince in the esteem of his own age, and have drawn even from posterity, a good deal of respect for his memory. Compared with these, in his own times, and in his own presence, no other virtue, it seems, appeared to have any merit. Knowledge, industry, valour, and beneficence, trembling, were abashed, and lost all dignity before them." Woman, also, thus "in herself complete," by possessing all these FRIVOLOUS accomplishments, so changes the nature of things, --"That what she wills to do or say Seems wisest, virtuousest, discreetest, best; All higher knowledge in HER PRESENCE falls Degraded. Wisdom in discourse with her Loses discountenanc'd, and like folly shows; Authority and reason on her wait."-- And all this is built on her loveliness! In the middle rank of life, to continue the comparison, men, in their youth, are prepared for professions, and marriage is not considered as the grand feature in their lives; whilst women, on the contrary, have no other scheme to sharpen their faculties. It is not business, extensive plans, or any of the excursive flights of ambition, that engross their attention; no, their thoughts are not employed in rearing such noble structures. To rise in the world, and have the liberty of running from pleasure to pleasure, they must marry advantageously, and to this object their time is sacrificed, and their persons often legally prostituted. A man, when he enters any profession, has his eye steadily fixed on some future advantage (and the mind gains great strength by having all its efforts directed to one point) and, full of his business, pleasure is considered as mere relaxation; whilst women seek for pleasure as the main purpose of existence. In fact, from the education which they receive from society, the love of pleasure may be said to govern them all; but does this prove that there is a sex in souls? It would be just as rational to declare, that the courtiers in France, when a destructive system of despotism had formed their character, were not men, because liberty, virtue, and humanity, were sacrificed to pleasure and vanity. Fatal passions, which have ever domineered over the WHOLE race! The same love of pleasure, fostered by the whole tendency of their education, gives a trifling turn to the conduct of women in most circumstances: for instance, they are ever anxious about secondary things; and on the watch for adventures, instead of being occupied by duties. A man, when he undertakes a journey, has, in general the end in view; a woman thinks more of the incidental occurrences, the strange things that may possibly occur on the road; the impression that she may make on her fellow travellers; and, above all, she is anxiously intent on the care of the finery that she carries with her, which is more than ever a part of herself, when going to figure on a new scene; when, to use an apt French turn of expression, she is going to produce a sensation. Can dignity of mind exist with such trivial cares? In short, women, in general, as well as the rich of both sexes, have acquired all the follies and vices of civilization, and missed the useful fruit. It is not necessary for me always to premise, that I speak of the condition of the whole sex, leaving exceptions out of the question. Their senses are inflamed, and their understandings neglected; consequently they become the prey of their senses, delicately termed sensibility, and are blown about by every momentary gust of feeling. They are, therefore, in a much worse condition than they would be in, were they in a state nearer to nature. Ever restless and anxious, their over exercised sensibility not only renders them uncomfortable themselves, but troublesome, to use a soft phrase, to others. All their thoughts turn on things calculated to excite emotion; and, feeling, when they should reason, their conduct is unstable, and their opinions are wavering, not the wavering produced by deliberation or progressive views, but by contradictory emotions. By fits and starts they are warm in many pursuits; yet this warmth, never concentrated into perseverance, soon exhausts itself; exhaled by its own heat, or meeting with some other fleeting passion, to which reason has never given any specific gravity, neutrality ensues. Miserable, indeed, must be that being whose cultivation of mind has only tended to inflame its passions! A distinction should be made between inflaming and strengthening them. The passions thus pampered, whilst the judgment is left unformed, what can be expected to ensue? Undoubtedly, a mixture of madness and folly! This observation should not be confined to the FAIR sex; however, at present, I only mean to apply it to them. Novels, music, poetry and gallantry, all tend to make women the creatures of sensation, and their character is thus formed during the time they are acquiring accomplishments, the only improvement they are excited, by their station in society, to acquire. This overstretched sensibility naturally relaxes the other powers of the mind, and prevents intellect from attaining that sovereignty which it ought to attain, to render a rational creature useful to others, and content with its own station; for the exercise of the understanding, as life advances, is the only method pointed out by nature to calm the passions. Satiety has a very different effect, and I have often been forcibly struck by an emphatical description of damnation, when the spirit is represented as continually hovering with abortive eagerness round the defiled body, unable to enjoy any thing without the organs of sense. Yet, to their senses, are women made slaves, because it is by their sensibility that they obtain present power. And will moralists pretend to assert, that this is the condition in which one half of the human race should be encouraged to remain with listless inactivity and stupid acquiescence? Kind instructors! what were we created for? To remain, it may be said, innocent; they mean in a state of childhood. We might as well never have been born, unless it were necessary that we should be created to enable man to acquire the noble privilege of reason, the power of discerning good from evil, whilst we lie down in the dust from whence we were taken, never to rise again. It would be an endless task to trace the variety of meannesses, cares, and sorrows, into which women are plunged by the prevailing opinion, that they were created rather to feel than reason, and that all the power they obtain, must be obtained by their charms and weakness; "Fine by defect, and amiably weak!" And, made by this amiable weakness entirely dependent, excepting what they gain by illicit sway, on man, not only for protection, but advice, is it surprising that, neglecting the duties that reason alone points out, and shrinking from trials calculated to strengthen their minds, they only exert themselves to give their defects a graceful covering, which may serve to heighten their charms in the eye of the voluptuary, though it sink them below the scale of moral excellence? Fragile in every sense of the word, they are obliged to look up to man for every comfort. In the most trifling dangers they cling to their support, with parasitical tenacity, piteously demanding succour; and their NATURAL protector extends his arm, or lifts up his voice, to guard the lovely trembler--from what? Perhaps the frown of an old cow, or the jump of a mouse; a rat, would be a serious danger. In the name of reason, and even common sense, what can save such beings from contempt; even though they be soft and fair? These fears, when not affected, may be very pretty; but they shew a degree of imbecility, that degrades a rational creature in a way women are not aware of--for love and esteem are very distinct things. I am fully persuaded, that we should hear of none of these infantine airs, if girls were allowed to take sufficient exercise and not confined in close rooms till their muscles are relaxed and their powers of digestion destroyed. To carry the remark still further, if fear in girls, instead of being cherished, perhaps, created, were treated in the same manner as cowardice in boys, we should quickly see women with more dignified aspects. It is true, they could not then with equal propriety be termed the sweet flowers that smile in the walk of man; but they would be more respectable members of society, and discharge the important duties of life by the light of their own reason. "Educate women like men," says Rousseau, "and the more they resemble our sex the less power will they have over us." This is the very point I aim at. I do not wish them to have power over men; but over themselves. In the same strain have I heard men argue against instructing the poor; for many are the forms that aristocracy assumes. "Teach them to read and write," say they, "and you take them out of the station assigned them by nature." An eloquent Frenchman, has answered them; I will borrow his sentiments. But they know not, when they make man a brute, that they may expect every instant to see him transformed into a ferocious beast. Without knowledge there can be no morality! Ignorance is a frail base for virtue! Yet, that it is the condition for which woman was organized, has been insisted upon by the writers who have most vehemently argued in favour of the superiority of man; a superiority not in degree, but essence; though, to soften the argument, they have laboured to prove, with chivalrous generosity, that the sexes ought not to be compared; man was made to reason, woman to feel: and that together, flesh and spirit, they make the most perfect whole, by blending happily reason and sensibility into one character. And what is sensibility? "Quickness of sensation; quickness of perception; delicacy." Thus is it defined by Dr. Johnson; and the definition gives me no other idea than of the most exquisitely polished instinct. I discern not a trace of the image of God in either sensation or matter. Refined seventy times seven, they are still material; intellect dwells not there; nor will fire ever make lead gold! I come round to my old argument; if woman be allowed to have an immortal soul, she must have as the employment of life, an understanding to improve. And when, to render the present state more complete, though every thing proves it to be but a fraction of a mighty sum, she is incited by present gratification to forget her grand destination. Nature is counteracted, or she was born only to procreate and rot. Or, granting brutes, of every description, a soul, though not a reasonable one, the exercise of instinct and sensibility may be the step, which they are to take, in this life, towards the attainment of reason in the next; so that through all eternity they will lag behind man, who, why we cannot tell, had the power given him of attaining reason in his first mode of existence. When I treat of the peculiar duties of women, as I should treat of the peculiar duties of a citizen or father, it will be found that I do not mean to insinuate, that they should be taken out of their families, speaking of the majority. "He that hath wife and children," says Lord Bacon, "hath given hostages to fortune; for they are impediments to great enterprises, either of virtue or mischief. Certainly the best works, and of greatest merit for the public, have proceeded from the unmarried or childless men." I say the same of women. But, the welfare of society is not built on extraordinary exertions; and were it more reasonably organized, there would be still less need of great abilities, or heroic virtues. In the regulation of a family, in the education of children, understanding, in an unsophisticated sense, is particularly required: strength both of body and mind; yet the men who, by their writings, have most earnestly laboured to domesticate women, have endeavoured by arguments dictated by a gross appetite, that satiety had rendered fastidious, to weaken their bodies and cramp their minds. But, if even by these sinister methods they really PERSUADED women, by working on their feelings, to stay at home, and fulfil the duties of a mother and mistress of a family, I should cautiously oppose opinions that led women to right conduct, by prevailing on them to make the discharge of a duty the business of life, though reason were insulted. Yet, and I appeal to experience, if by neglecting the understanding they are as much, nay, more attached from these domestic duties, than they could be by the most serious intellectual pursuit, though it may be observed, that the mass of mankind will never vigorously pursue an intellectual object, I may be allowed to infer, that reason is absolutely necessary to enable a woman to perform any duty properly, and I must again repeat, that sensibility is not reason. The comparison with the rich still occurs to me; for, when men neglect the duties of humanity, women will do the same; a common stream hurries them both along with thoughtless celerity. Riches and honours prevent a man from enlarging his understanding, and enervate all his powers, by reversing the order of nature, which has ever made true pleasure the reward of labour. Pleasure--enervating pleasure is, likewise, within woman's reach without earning it. But, till hereditary possessions are spread abroad, how can we expect men to be proud of virtue? And, till they are, women will govern them by the most direct means, neglecting their dull domestic duties, to catch the pleasure that is on the wing of time. "The power of women," says some author, "is her sensibility;" and men not aware of the consequence, do all they can to make this power swallow up every other. Those who constantly employ their sensibility will have most: for example; poets, painters, and composers. Yet, when the sensibility is thus increased at the expense of reason, and even the imagination, why do philosophical men complain of their fickleness? The sexual attention of man particularly acts on female sensibility, and this sympathy has been exercised from their youth up. A husband cannot long pay those attentions with the passion necessary to excite lively emotions, and the heart, accustomed to lively emotions, turns to a new lover, or pines in secret, the prey of virtue or prudence. I mean when the heart has really been rendered susceptible, and the taste formed; for I am apt to conclude, from what I have seen in fashionable life, that vanity is oftener fostered than sensibility by the mode of education, and the intercourse between the sexes, which I have reprobated; and that coquetry more frequently proceeds from vanity than from that inconstancy, which overstrained sensibility naturally produces. Another argument that has had a great weight with me, must, I think, have some force with every considerate benevolent heart. Girls, who have been thus weakly educated, are often cruelly left by their parents without any provision; and, of course, are dependent on, not only the reason, but the bounty of their brothers. These brothers are, to view the fairest side of the question, good sort of men, and give as a favour, what children of the same parents had an equal right to. In this equivocal humiliating situation, a docile female may remain some time, with a tolerable degree of comfort. But, when the brother marries, a probable circumstance, from being considered as the mistress of the family, she is viewed with averted looks as an intruder, an unnecessary burden on the benevolence of the master of the house, and his new partner. Who can recount the misery, which many unfortunate beings, whose minds and bodies are equally weak, suffer in such situations--unable to work and ashamed to beg? The wife, a cold-hearted, narrow-minded woman, and this is not an unfair supposition; for the present mode of education does not tend to enlarge the heart any more than the understanding, is jealous of the little kindness which her husband shows to his relations; and her sensibility not rising to humanity, she is displeased at seeing the property of HER children lavished on an helpless sister. These are matters of fact, which have come under my eye again and again. The consequence is obvious, the wife has recourse to cunning to undermine the habitual affection, which she is afraid openly to oppose; and neither tears nor caresses are spared till the spy is worked out of her home, and thrown on the world, unprepared for its difficulties; or sent, as a great effort of generosity, or from some regard to propriety, with a small stipend, and an uncultivated mind into joyless solitude. These two women may be much upon a par, with respect to reason and humanity; and changing situations, might have acted just the same selfish part; but had they been differently educated, the case would also have been very different. The wife would not have had that sensibility, of which self is the centre, and reason might have taught her not to expect, and not even to be flattered by the affection of her husband, if it led him to violate prior duties. She would wish not to love him, merely because he loved her, but on account of his virtues; and the sister might have been able to struggle for herself, instead of eating the bitter bread of dependence. I am, indeed, persuaded that the heart, as well as the understanding, is opened by cultivation; and by, which may not appear so clear, strengthening the organs; I am not now talking of momentary flashes of sensibility, but of affections. And, perhaps, in the education of both sexes, the most difficult task is so to adjust instruction as not to narrow the understanding, whilst the heart is warmed by the generous juices of spring, just raised by the electric fermentation of the season; nor to dry up the feelings by employing the mind in investigations remote from life. With respect to women, when they receive a careful education, they are either made fine ladies, brimful of sensibility, and teeming with capricious fancies; or mere notable women. The latter are often friendly, honest creatures, and have a shrewd kind of good sense joined with worldly prudence, that often render them more useful members of society than the fine sentimental lady, though they possess neither greatness of mind nor taste. The intellectual world is shut against them; take them out of their family or neighbourhood, and they stand still; the mind finding no employment, for literature affords a fund of amusement, which they have never sought to relish, but frequently to despise. The sentiments and taste of more cultivated minds appear ridiculous, even in those whom chance and family connexions have led them to love; but in mere acquaintance they think it all affectation. A man of sense can only love such a woman on account of her sex, and respect her, because she is a trusty servant. He lets her, to preserve his own peace, scold the servants, and go to church in clothes made of the very best materials. A man of her own size of understanding would, probably, not agree so well with her; for he might wish to encroach on her prerogative, and manage some domestic concerns himself. Yet women, whose minds are not enlarged by cultivation, or the natural selfishness of sensibility expanded by reflection, are very unfit to manage a family; for by an undue stretch of power, they are always tyrannizing to support a superiority that only rests on the arbitrary distinction of fortune. The evil is sometimes more serious, and domestics are deprived of innocent indulgences, and made to work beyond their strength, in order to enable the notable woman to keep a better table, and outshine her neighbours in finery and parade. If she attend to her children, it is, in general, to dress them in a costly manner--and, whether, this attention arises from vanity or fondness, it is equally pernicious. Besides, how many women of this description pass their days, or, at least their evenings, discontentedly. Their husbands acknowledge that they are good managers, and chaste wives; but leave home to seek for more agreeable, may I be allowed to use a significant French word, piquant society; and the patient drudge, who fulfils her task, like a blind horse in a mill, is defrauded of her just reward; for the wages due to her are the caresses of her husband; and women who have so few resources in themselves, do not very patiently bear this privation of a natural right. A fine lady, on the contrary, has been taught to look down with contempt on the vulgar employments of life; though she has only been incited to acquire accomplishments that rise a degree above sense; for even corporeal accomplishments cannot be acquired with any degree of precision, unless the understanding has been strengthened by exercise. Without a foundation of principles taste is superficial; and grace must arise from something deeper than imitation. The imagination, however, is heated, and the feelings rendered fastidious, if not sophisticated; or, a counterpoise of judgment is not acquired, when the heart still remains artless, though it becomes too tender. These women are often amiable; and their hearts are really more sensible to general benevolence, more alive to the sentiments that civilize life, than the square elbowed family drudge; but, wanting a due proportion of reflection and self-government, they only inspire love; and are the mistresses of their husbands, whilst they have any hold on their affections; and the platonic friends of his male acquaintance. These are the fair defects in nature; the women who appear to be created not to enjoy the fellowship of man, but to save him from sinking into absolute brutality, by rubbing off the rough angles of his character; and by playful dalliance to give some dignity to the appetite that draws him to them. Gracious Creator of the whole human race! hast thou created such a being as woman, who can trace thy wisdom in thy works, and feel that thou alone art by thy nature, exalted above her--for no better purpose? Can she believe that she was only made to submit to man her equal; a being, who, like her, was sent into the world to acquire virtue? Can she consent to be occupied merely to please him; merely to adorn the earth, when her soul is capable of rising to thee? And can she rest supinely dependent on man for reason, when she ought to mount with him the arduous steeps of knowledge? Yet, if love be the supreme good, let women be only educated to inspire it, and let every charm be polished to intoxicate the senses; but, if they are moral beings, let them have a chance to become intelligent; and let love to man be only a part of that glowing flame of universal love, which, after encircling humanity, mounts in grateful incense to God. To fulfil domestic duties much resolution is necessary, and a serious kind of perseverance that requires a more firm support than emotions, however lively and true to nature. To give an example of order, the soul of virtue, some austerity of behaviour must be adopted, scarcely to be expected from a being who, from its infancy, has been made the weathercock of its own sensations. Whoever rationally means to be useful, must have a plan of conduct; and, in the discharge of the simplest duty, we are often obliged to act contrary to the present impulse of tenderness or compassion. Severity is frequently the most certain, as well as the most sublime proof of affection; and the want of this power over the feelings, and of that lofty, dignified affection, which makes a person prefer the future good of the beloved object to a present gratification, is the reason why so many fond mothers spoil their children, and has made it questionable, whether negligence or indulgence is most hurtful: but I am inclined to think, that the latter has done most harm. Mankind seem to agree, that children should be left under the management of women during their childhood. Now, from all the observation that I have been able to make, women of sensibility are the most unfit for this task, because they will infallibly, carried away by their feelings, spoil a child's temper. The management of the temper, the first and most important branch of education, requires the sober steady eye of reason; a plan of conduct equally distant from tyranny and indulgence; yet these are the extremes that people of sensibility alternately fall into; always shooting beyond the mark. I have followed this train of reasoning much further, till I have concluded, that a person of genius is the most improper person to be employed in education, public or private. Minds of this rare species see things too much in masses, and seldom, if ever, have a good temper. That habitual cheerfulness, termed good humour, is, perhaps, as seldom united with great mental powers, as with strong feelings. And those people who follow, with interest and admiration, the flights of genius; or, with cooler approbation suck in the instruction, which has been elaborately prepared for them by the profound thinker, ought not to be disgusted, if they find the former choleric, and the latter morose; because liveliness of fancy, and a tenacious comprehension of mind, are scarcely compatible with that pliant urbanity which leads a man, at least to bend to the opinions and prejudices of others, instead of roughly confronting them. But, treating of education or manners, minds of a superior class are not to be considered, they may be left to chance; it is the multitude, with moderate abilities, who call for instruction, and catch the colour of the atmosphere they breathe. This respectable concourse, I contend, men and women, should not have their sensations heightened in the hot-bed of luxurious indolence, at the expence of their understanding; for, unless there be a ballast of understanding, they will never become either virtuous or free: an aristocracy, founded on property, or sterling talents, will ever sweep before it, the alternately timid and ferocious slaves of feeling. Numberless are the arguments, to take another view of the subject, brought forward with a show of reason; because supposed to be deduced from nature, that men have used morally and physically to degrade the sex. I must notice a few. The female understanding has often been spoken of with contempt, as arriving sooner at maturity than the male. I shall not answer this argument by alluding to the early proofs of reason, as well as genius, in Cowley, Milton, and Pope, (Many other names might be added.) but only appeal to experience to decide whether young men, who are early introduced into company (and examples now abound) do not acquire the same precocity. So notorious is this fact, that the bare mentioning of it must bring before people, who at all mix in the world, the idea of a number of swaggering apes of men whose understandings are narrowed by being brought into the society of men when they ought to have been spinning a top or twirling a hoop. It has also been asserted, by some naturalists, that men do not attain their full growth and strength till thirty; but that women arrive at maturity by twenty. I apprehend that they reason on false ground, led astray by the male prejudice, which deems beauty the perfection of woman--mere beauty of features and complexion, the vulgar acceptation of the world, whilst male beauty is allowed to have some connexion with the mind. Strength of body, and that character of countenance, which the French term a physionomie, women do not acquire before thirty, any more than men. The little artless tricks of children, it is true, are particularly pleasing and attractive; yet, when the pretty freshness of youth is worn off, these artless graces become studied airs, and disgust every person of taste. In the countenance of girls we only look for vivacity and bashful modesty; but, the springtide of life over, we look for soberer sense in the face, and for traces of passion, instead of the dimples of animal spirits; expecting to see individuality of character, the only fastener of the affections. We then wish to converse, not to fondle; to give scope to our imaginations, as well as to the sensations of our hearts. At twenty the beauty of both sexes is equal; but the libertinism of man leads him to make the distinction, and superannuated coquettes are commonly of the same opinion; for when they can no longer inspire love, they pay for the vigour and vivacity of youth. The French who admit more of mind into their notions of beauty, give the preference to women of thirty. I mean to say, that they allow women to be in their most perfect state, when vivacity gives place to reason, and to that majestic seriousness of character, which marks maturity; or, the resting point. In youth, till twenty the body shoots out; till thirty the solids are attaining a degree of density; and the flexible muscles, growing daily more rigid, give character to the countenance; that is, they trace the operations of the mind with the iron pen of fate, and tell us not only what powers are within, but how they have been employed. It is proper to observe, that animals who arrive slowly at maturity, are the longest lived, and of the noblest species. Men cannot, however, claim any natural superiority from the grandeur of longevity; for in this respect nature has not distinguished the male. Polygamy is another physical degradation; and a plausible argument for a custom, that blasts every domestic virtue, is drawn from the well-attested fact, that in the countries where it is established, more females are born than males. This appears to be an indication of nature, and to nature apparently reasonable speculations must yield. A further conclusion obviously presents itself; if polygamy be necessary, woman must be inferior to man, and made for him. With respect to the formation of the foetus in the womb, we are very ignorant; but it appears to me probable, that an accidental physical cause may account for this phenomenon, and prove it not to be a law of nature. I have met with some pertinent observations on the subject in Forster's Account of the Isles of the South Sea, that will explain my meaning. After observing that of the two sexes amongst animals, the most vigorous and hottest constitution always prevails, and produces its kind; he adds,--"If this be applied to the inhabitants of Africa, it is evident that the men there, accustomed to polygamy, are enervated by the use of so many women, and therefore less vigorous; the women on the contrary, are of a hotter constitution, not only on account of their more irritable nerves, more sensitive organization, and more lively fancy; but likewise because they are deprived in their matrimony of that share of physical love which in a monogamous condition, would all be theirs; and thus for the above reasons, the generality of children are born females." "In the greater part of Europe it has been proved by the most accurate lists of mortality, that the proportion of men to women is nearly equal, or, if any difference takes place, the males born are more numerous, in the proportion of 105 to 100." The necessity of polygamy, therefore, does not appear; yet when a man seduces a woman, it should I think, be termed a LEFT-HANDED marriage, and the man should be LEGALLY obliged to maintain the woman and her children, unless adultery, a natural divorcement, abrogated the law. And this law should remain in force as long as the weakness of women caused the word seduction to be used as an excuse for their frailty and want of principle; nay, while they depend on man for a subsistence, instead of earning it by the exercise of their own hands or heads. But these women should not in the full meaning of the relationship, be termed wives, or the very purpose of marriage would be subverted, and all those endearing charities that flow from personal fidelity, and give a sanctity to the tie, when neither love nor friendship unites the hearts, would melt into selfishness. The woman who is faithful to the father of her children demands respect, and should not be treated like a prostitute; though I readily grant, that if it be necessary for a man and woman to live together in order to bring up their offspring, nature never intended that a man should have more than one wife. Still, highly as I respect marriage, as the foundation of almost every social virtue, I cannot avoid feeling the most lively compassion for those unfortunate females who are broken off from society, and by one error torn from all those affections and relationships that improve the heart and mind. It does not frequently even deserve the name of error; for many innocent girls become the dupes of a sincere affectionate heart, and still more are, as it may emphatically be termed, RUINED before they know the difference between virtue and vice: and thus prepared by their education for infamy, they become infamous. Asylums and Magdalens are not the proper remedies for these abuses. It is justice, not charity, that is wanting in the world! A woman who has lost her honour, imagines that she cannot fall lower, and as for recovering her former station, it is impossible; no exertion can wash this stain away. Losing thus every spur, and having no other means of support, prostitution becomes her only refuge, and the character is quickly depraved by circumstances over which the poor wretch has little power, unless she possesses an uncommon portion of sense and loftiness of spirit. Necessity never makes prostitution the business of men's lives; though numberless are the women who are thus rendered systematically vicious. This, however, arises, in a great degree, from the state of idleness in which women are educated, who are always taught to look up to man for a maintenance, and to consider their persons as the proper return for his exertions to support them. Meretricious airs, and the whole science of wantonness, has then a more powerful stimulus than either appetite or vanity; and this remark gives force to the prevailing opinion, that with chastity all is lost that is respectable in woman. Her character depends on the observance of one virtue, though the only passion fostered in her heart--is love. Nay the honour of a woman is not made even to depend on her will. When Richardson makes Clarissa tell Lovelace that he had robbed her of her honour, he must have had strange notions of honour and virtue. For, miserable beyond all names of misery is the condition of a being, who could be degraded without its own consent! This excess of strictness I have heard vindicated as a salutary error. I shall answer in the words of Leibnitz--"Errors are often useful; but it is commonly to remedy other errors." Most of the evils of life arise from a desire of present enjoyment that outruns itself. The obedience required of women in the marriage state, comes under this description; the mind, naturally weakened by depending on authority, never exerts its own powers, and the obedient wife is thus rendered a weak indolent mother. Or, supposing that this is not always the consequence, a future state of existence is scarcely taken into the reckoning when only negative virtues are cultivated. For in treating of morals, particularly when women are alluded to, writers have too often considered virtue in a very limited sense, and made the foundation of it SOLELY worldly utility; nay, a still more fragile base has been given to this stupendous fabric, and the wayward fluctuating feelings of men have been made the standard of virtue. Yes, virtue as well as religion, has been subjected to the decisions of taste. It would almost provoke a smile of contempt, if the vain absurdities of man did not strike us on all sides, to observe, how eager men are to degrade the sex from whom they pretend to receive the chief pleasure of life; and I have frequently, with full conviction, retorted Pope's sarcasm on them; or, to speak explicitly, it has appeared to me applicable to the whole human race. A love of pleasure or sway seems to divide mankind, and the husband who lords it in his little harem, thinks only of his pleasure or his convenience. To such lengths, indeed, does an intemperate love of pleasure carry some prudent men, or worn out libertines, who marry to have a safe companion, that they seduce their own wives. Hymen banishes modesty, and chaste love takes its flight. Love, considered as an animal appetite, cannot long feed on itself without expiring. And this extinction, in its own flame, may be termed the violent death of love. But the wife who has thus been rendered licentious, will probably endeavour to fill the void left by the loss of her husband's attentions; for she cannot contentedly become merely an upper servant after having been treated like a goddess. She is still handsome, and, instead of transferring her fondness to her children, she only dreams of enjoying the sunshine of life. Besides, there are many husbands so devoid of sense and parental affection, that during the first effervescence of voluptuous fondness, they refuse to let their wives suckle their children. They are only to dress and live to please them: and love, even innocent love, soon sinks into lasciviousness when the exercise of a duty is sacrificed to its indulgence. Personal attachment is a very happy foundation for friendship; yet, when even two virtuous young people marry, it would, perhaps, be happy if some circumstance checked their passion; if the recollection of some prior attachment, or disappointed affection, made it on one side, at least, rather a match founded on esteem. In that case they would look beyond the present moment, and try to render the whole of life respectable, by forming a plan to regulate a friendship which only death ought to dissolve. Friendship is a serious affection; the most sublime of all affections, because it is founded on principle, and cemented by time. The very reverse may be said of love. In a great degree, love and friendship cannot subsist in the same bosom; even when inspired by different objects they weaken or destroy each other, and for the same object can only be felt in succession. The vain fears and fond jealousies, the winds which fan the flame of love, when judiciously or artfully tempered, are both incompatible with the tender confidence and sincere respect of friendship. Love, such as the glowing pen of genius has traced, exists not on earth, or only resides in those exalted, fervid imaginations that have sketched such dangerous pictures. Dangerous, because they not only afford a plausible excuse to the voluptuary, who disguises sheer sensuality under a sentimental veil; but as they spread affectation, and take from the dignity of virtue. Virtue, as the very word imports, should have an appearance of seriousness, if not austerity; and to endeavour to trick her out in the garb of pleasure, because the epithet has been used as another name for beauty, is to exalt her on a quicksand; a most insidious attempt to hasten her fall by apparent respect. Virtue, and pleasure are not, in fact, so nearly allied in this life as some eloquent writers have laboured to prove. Pleasure prepares the fading wreath, and mixes the intoxicating cup; but the fruit which virtue gives, is the recompence of toil: and, gradually seen as it ripens, only affords calm satisfaction; nay, appearing to be the result of the natural tendency of things, it is scarcely observed. Bread, the common food of life, seldom thought of as a blessing, supports the constitution, and preserves health; still feasts delight the heart of man, though disease and even death lurk in the cup or dainty that elevates the spirits or tickles the palate. The lively heated imagination in the same style, draws the picture of love, as it draws every other picture, with those glowing colours, which the daring hand will steal from the rainbow that is directed by a mind, condemned, in a world like this, to prove its noble origin, by panting after unattainable perfection; ever pursuing what it acknowledges to be a fleeting dream. An imagination of this vigorous cast can give existence to insubstantial forms, and stability to the shadowy reveries which the mind naturally falls into when realities are found vapid. It can then depict love with celestial charms, and dote on the grand ideal object; it can imagine a degree of mutual affection that shall refine the soul, and not expire when it has served as a "scale to heavenly;" and, like devotion, make it absorb every meaner affection and desire. In each other's arms, as in a temple, with its summit lost in the clouds, the world is to be shut out, and every thought and wish, that do not nurture pure affection and permanent virtue. Permanent virtue! alas! Rousseau, respectable visionary! thy paradise would soon be violated by the entrance of some unexpected guest. Like Milton's, it would only contain angels, or men sunk below the dignity of rational creatures. Happiness is not material, it cannot be seen or felt! Yet the eager pursuit of the good which every one shapes to his own fancy, proclaims man the lord of this lower world, and to be an intelligential creature, who is not to receive, but acquire happiness. They, therefore, who complain of the delusions of passion, do not recollect that they are exclaiming against a strong proof of the immortality of the soul. But, leaving superior minds to correct themselves, and pay dearly for their experience, it is necessary to observe, that it is not against strong, persevering passions; but romantic, wavering feelings, that I wish to guard the female heart by exercising the understanding; for these paradisiacal reveries are oftener the effect of idleness than of a lively fancy. Women have seldom sufficient serious employment to silence their feelings; a round of little cares, or vain pursuits, frittering away all strength of mind and organs, they become naturally only objects of sense. In short, the whole tenor of female education (the education of society) tends to render the best disposed, romantic and inconstant; and the remainder vain and mean. In the present state of society, this evil can scarcely be remedied, I am afraid, in the slightest degree; should a more laudable ambition ever gain ground, they may be brought nearer to nature and reason, and become more virtuous and useful as they grow more respectable. But I will venture to assert, that their reason will never acquire sufficient strength to enable it to regulate their conduct, whilst the making an appearance in the world is the first wish of the majority of mankind. To this weak wish the natural affections and the most useful virtues are sacrificed. Girls marry merely to BETTER THEMSELVES, to borrow a significant vulgar phrase, and have such perfect power over their hearts as not to permit themselves to FALL IN LOVE till a man with a superior fortune offers. On this subject I mean to enlarge in a future chapter; it is only necessary to drop a hint at present, because women are so often degraded by suffering the selfish prudence of age to chill the ardour of youth. >From the same source flows an opinion that young girls ought to dedicate great part of their time to needle work; yet, this employment contracts their faculties more than any other that could have been chosen for them, by confining their thoughts to their persons. Men order their clothes to be made, and have done with the subject; women make their own clothes, necessary or ornamental, and are continually talking about them; and their thoughts follow their hands. It is not indeed the making of necessaries that weakens the mind; but the frippery of dress. For when a woman in the lower rank of life makes her husband's and children's clothes, she does her duty, this is part of her business; but when women work only to dress better than they could otherwise afford, it is worse than sheer loss of time. To render the poor virtuous, they must be employed, and women in the middle rank of life did they not ape the fashions of the nobility, without catching their ease, might employ them, whilst they themselves managed their families, instructed their children, and exercised their own minds. Gardening, experimental philosophy, and literature, would afford them subjects to think of, and matter for conversation, that in some degree would exercise their understandings. The conversation of French women, who are not so rigidly nailed to their chairs, to twist lappets, and knot ribbands, is frequently superficial; but, I contend, that it is not half so insipid as that of those English women, whose time is spent in making caps, bonnets, and the whole mischief of trimmings, not to mention shopping, bargain-hunting, etc. etc.: and it is the decent, prudent women, who are most degraded by these practices; for their motive is simply vanity. The wanton, who exercises her taste to render her person alluring, has something more in view. These observations all branch out of a general one, which I have before made, and which cannot be too often insisted upon, for, speaking of men, women, or professions, it will be found, that the employment of the thoughts shapes the character both generally and individually. The thoughts of women ever hover around their persons, and is it surprising that their persons are reckoned most valuable? Yet some degree of liberty of mind is necessary even to form the person; and this may be one reason why some gentle wives have so few attractions beside that of sex. Add to this, sedentary employments render the majority of women sickly, and false notions of female excellence make them proud of this delicacy, though it be another fetter, that by calling the attention continually to the body, cramps the activity of the mind. Women of quality seldom do any of the manual part of their dress, consequently only their taste is exercised, and they acquire, by thinking less of the finery, when the business of their toilet is over, that ease, which seldom appears in the deportment of women, who dress merely for the sake of dressing. In fact, the observation with respect to the middle rank, the one in which talents thrive best, extends not to women; for those of the superior class, by catching, at least a smattering of literature, and conversing more with men, on general topics, acquire more knowledge than the women who ape their fashions and faults without sharing their advantages. With respect to virtue, to use the word in a comprehensive sense, I have seen most in low life. Many poor women maintain their children by the sweat of their brow, and keep together families that the vices of the fathers would have scattered abroad; but gentlewomen are too indolent to be actively virtuous, and are softened rather than refined by civilization. Indeed the good sense which I have met with among the poor women who have had few advantages of education, and yet have acted heroically, strongly confirmed me in the opinion, that trifling employments have rendered women a trifler. Men, taking her ('I take her body,' says Ranger.) body, the mind is left to rust; so that while physical love enervates man, as being his favourite recreation, he will endeavour to enslave woman: and who can tell how many generations may be necessary to give vigour to the virtue and talents of the freed posterity of abject slaves? ('Supposing that women are voluntary slaves--slavery of any kind is unfavourable to human happiness and improvement.'--'Knox's Essays'.) In tracing the causes that in my opinion, have degraded woman, I have confined my observations to such as universally act upon the morals and manners of the whole sex, and to me it appears clear, that they all spring from want of understanding. Whether this arises from a physical or accidental weakness of faculties, time alone can determine; for I shall not lay any great stress upon the example of a few women (Sappho, Eloisa, Mrs. Macaulay, the Empress of Russia, Madame d'Eon, etc. These, and many more, may be reckoned exceptions; and, are not all heroes, as well as heroines, exceptions to general rules? I wish to see women neither heroines nor brutes; but reasonable creatures.) who, from having received a masculine education, have acquired courage and resolution; I only contend that the men who have been placed in similar situations have acquired a similar character, I speak of bodies of men, and that men of genius and talents have started out of a class, in which women have never yet been placed. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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Manche Männer werden argumentieren, dass Frauen nicht gebildet sein sollten, weil sie danach streben werden, nach Dingen zu suchen, die die Gesellschaft ihnen nie geben wird. Aber das ist das gleiche Argument, das dafür gegeben wird, warum gewöhnlichen Menschen nicht erlaubt sein sollte, in einer Wahl zu stimmen - weil sie dadurch mehr Macht in der Gesellschaft wollen und sie sollten einfach den Mund halten und ihren Platz kennen. Was die Vernunft betrifft, ist jeder Mensch eine Welt für sich. Nur um es klarzustellen: Wenn Wollstonecraft von "Vernunft" spricht, meint sie speziell die Fähigkeit, aus einer Reihe von individuellen Beobachtungen allgemeine Regeln abzuleiten. Viele Frauen in Wollstonecrafts Welt wollen tatsächlich keine Gleichberechtigung, weil sie bereits viel Macht haben, einfach weil sie schön sind. Wenn von ihnen plötzlich erwartet wird, gebildet zu sein, werden sie ihre Macht verlieren. Manche Männer werden argumentieren, dass Männer Frauen tatsächlich auf ein Podest stellen und sie wie Göttinnen anbeten. In dieser Logik haben Frauen tatsächlich alle Macht. Aber auch wenn man bewundert wird, gibt es keine Macht darin, zu einem Schönheitsobjekt zu werden, das die Menschen anstarren. Manchmal gehen Männer tatsächlich zu leicht mit Frauen um, weil es unhöflich ist, einer Frau in der Öffentlichkeit zu widersprechen. Aber wie sollen Frauen sonst lernen, wie man vernünftig argumentiert? Wenn Männer jung sind, bereitet sie ihre Ausbildung auf ihren zukünftigen Beruf vor und die Ehe ist nur ein Nebenprodukt eines guten Jobs und einer guten Reputation. Für Frauen ist die Ehe jedoch alles im Leben. Viele Männer denken, dass Frauen irreführend und manipulativ sind. Aber Wollstonecraft fragt, wie es anders sein könnte, wenn Männer manipulieren die einzige Möglichkeit für Frauen ist, Macht in der Gesellschaft zu erlangen? Nehmen wir mal an, dass die meisten Frauen aufwachsen werden, um Ehefrauen und Mütter zu sein. Wollstonecraft möchte wissen, wie diese Frauen gute Mütter sein werden, wenn sie absolut keine Intelligenz oder Bildung haben? Einige Leute sagen, dass Frauen früher reifen als Männer, das ist der Grund, warum Männer sie später einholen und in späteren Jahren klüger werden. Wollstonecraft verwendet Beispiele, um diese Idee zu widerlegen und zu zeigen, dass es kaum einen Unterschied in der natürlichen Intelligenz oder Reife von Männern und Frauen gibt. Als Teil einer Nebenbemerkung argumentiert Wollstonecraft, dass Polygamie in Europa nicht notwendig ist, weil es genauso viele Männer wie Frauen gibt. In Kulturen, in denen Männer seltener sind, könnte Polygamie Sinn machen. Aber nicht in Europa. Na gut dann. Wollstonecraft empfindet viel Mitleid mit jungen Frauen, deren Ruf ruiniert wird, weil sie vor der Ehe Sex haben oder unehelich schwanger werden. Das war ein riesiges Tabu in Wollstonecrafts Zeit und etwas, das die betroffene junge Frau für den Rest ihres Lebens zum Außenseiter machen würde. Es gibt einige, die sagen würden, dass Sex und Leidenschaft die wichtigste Verbindung zwischen einem Mann und einer Frau ist, aber Wollstonecraft bezweifelt, wie lange zwei Menschen einander sexuell attraktiv bleiben können. Sie glaubt, dass eine gute Ehe eher wie Freundschaft als wie Romantik ist. Leider werden Frauen nie lernen, ihre Vernunft auszuüben, solange sie noch dazu ermutigt werden, sich um ihr soziales Erscheinungsbild zu sorgen. Männer sind nur allzu glücklich, dass dies die Art und Weise ist, da sie wollen, dass Frauen gut aussehen und nicht zu viel denken. Alles in allem stellt Wollstonecraft fest, dass das Hauptproblem, das Frauen betrifft, die Art und Weise ist, wie die Gesellschaft sie dazu ermutigt, nur über ihr Aussehen und ihr unmittelbares Vergnügen nachzudenken, anstatt sich auf moralische Güte und den Gebrauch der Vernunft zu konzentrieren. Männer haben natürlich zu diesem Problem beigetragen, indem sie Frauen für ihr Aussehen mehr als für ihre Vernunft loben, aber es ist Zeit für einen Wandel.

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THE ISLES AT LARGE. --"That may not be, said then the ferryman, Least we unweeting hap to be fordonne; For those same islands seeming now and than, Are not firme land, nor any certein wonne, But stragling plots which to and fro do ronne In the wide waters; therefore are they hight The Wandering Islands; therefore do them shonne; For they have oft drawne many a wandring wight Into most deadly daunger and distressed plight; For whosoever once hath fastened His foot thereon may never it secure But wandreth evermore uncertein and unsure." * * * * * "Darke, dolefull, dreary, like a greedy grave, That still for carrion carcasses doth crave; On top whereof ay dwelt the ghastly owl, Shrieking his balefull note, which ever drave Far from that haunt all other cheerful fowl, And all about it wandring ghosts did wayle and howl." Take five-and-twenty heaps of cinders dumped here and there in an outside city lot; imagine some of them magnified into mountains, and the vacant lot the sea; and you will have a fit idea of the general aspect of the Encantadas, or Enchanted Isles. A group rather of extinct volcanoes than of isles; looking much as the world at large might, after a penal conflagration. It is to be doubted whether any spot of earth can, in desolateness, furnish a parallel to this group. Abandoned cemeteries of long ago, old cities by piecemeal tumbling to their ruin, these are melancholy enough; but, like all else which has but once been associated with humanity, they still awaken in us some thoughts of sympathy, however sad. Hence, even the Dead Sea, along with whatever other emotions it may at times inspire, does not fail to touch in the pilgrim some of his less unpleasurable feelings. And as for solitariness; the great forests of the north, the expanses of unnavigated waters, the Greenland ice-fields, are the profoundest of solitudes to a human observer; still the magic of their changeable tides and seasons mitigates their terror; because, though unvisited by men, those forests are visited by the May; the remotest seas reflect familiar stars even as Lake Erie does; and in the clear air of a fine Polar day, the irradiated, azure ice shows beautifully as malachite. But the special curse, as one may call it, of the Encantadas, that which exalts them in desolation above Idumea and the Pole, is, that to them change never comes; neither the change of seasons nor of sorrows. Cut by the Equator, they know not autumn, and they know not spring; while already reduced to the lees of fire, ruin itself can work little more upon them. The showers refresh the deserts; but in these isles, rain never falls. Like split Syrian gourds left withering in the sun, they are cracked by an everlasting drought beneath a torrid sky. "Have mercy upon me," the wailing spirit of the Encantadas seems to cry, "and send Lazarus that he may dip the tip of his finger in water and cool my tongue, for I am tormented in this flame." Another feature in these isles is their emphatic uninhabitableness. It is deemed a fit type of all-forsaken overthrow, that the jackal should den in the wastes of weedy Babylon; but the Encantadas refuse to harbor even the outcasts of the beasts. Man and wolf alike disown them. Little but reptile life is here found: tortoises, lizards, immense spiders, snakes, and that strangest anomaly of outlandish nature, the _aguano_. No voice, no low, no howl is heard; the chief sound of life here is a hiss. On most of the isles where vegetation is found at all, it is more ungrateful than the blankness of Aracama. Tangled thickets of wiry bushes, without fruit and without a name, springing up among deep fissures of calcined rock, and treacherously masking them; or a parched growth of distorted cactus trees. In many places the coast is rock-bound, or, more properly, clinker-bound; tumbled masses of blackish or greenish stuff like the dross of an iron-furnace, forming dark clefts and caves here and there, into which a ceaseless sea pours a fury of foam; overhanging them with a swirl of gray, haggard mist, amidst which sail screaming flights of unearthly birds heightening the dismal din. However calm the sea without, there is no rest for these swells and those rocks; they lash and are lashed, even when the outer ocean is most at peace with, itself. On the oppressive, clouded days, such as are peculiar to this part of the watery Equator, the dark, vitrified masses, many of which raise themselves among white whirlpools and breakers in detached and perilous places off the shore, present a most Plutonian sight. In no world but a fallen one could such lands exist. Those parts of the strand free from the marks of fire, stretch away in wide level beaches of multitudinous dead shells, with here and there decayed bits of sugar-cane, bamboos, and cocoanuts, washed upon this other and darker world from the charming palm isles to the westward and southward; all the way from Paradise to Tartarus; while mixed with the relics of distant beauty you will sometimes see fragments of charred wood and mouldering ribs of wrecks. Neither will any one be surprised at meeting these last, after observing the conflicting currents which eddy throughout nearly all the wide channels of the entire group. The capriciousness of the tides of air sympathizes with those of the sea. Nowhere is the wind so light, baffling, and every way unreliable, and so given to perplexing calms, as at the Encantadas. Nigh a month has been spent by a ship going from one isle to another, though but ninety miles between; for owing to the force of the current, the boats employed to tow barely suffice to keep the craft from sweeping upon the cliffs, but do nothing towards accelerating her voyage. Sometimes it is impossible for a vessel from afar to fetch up with the group itself, unless large allowances for prospective lee-way have been made ere its coming in sight. And yet, at other times, there is a mysterious indraft, which irresistibly draws a passing vessel among the isles, though not bound to them. True, at one period, as to some extent at the present day, large fleets of whalemen cruised for spermaceti upon what some seamen call the Enchanted Ground. But this, as in due place will be described, was off the great outer isle of Albemarle, away from the intricacies of the smaller isles, where there is plenty of sea-room; and hence, to that vicinity, the above remarks do not altogether apply; though even there the current runs at times with singular force, shifting, too, with as singular a caprice. Indeed, there are seasons when currents quite unaccountable prevail for a great distance round about the total group, and are so strong and irregular as to change a vessel's course against the helm, though sailing at the rate of four or five miles the hour. The difference in the reckonings of navigators, produced by these causes, along with the light and variable winds, long nourished a persuasion, that there existed two distinct clusters of isles in the parallel of the Encantadas, about a hundred leagues apart. Such was the idea of their earlier visitors, the Buccaneers; and as late as 1750, the charts of that part of the Pacific accorded with the strange delusion. And this apparent fleetingness and unreality of the locality of the isles was most probably one reason for the Spaniards calling them the Encantada, or Enchanted Group. But not uninfluenced by their character, as they now confessedly exist, the modern voyager will be inclined to fancy that the bestowal of this name might have in part originated in that air of spell-bound desertness which so significantly invests the isles. Nothing can better suggest the aspect of once living things malignly crumbled from ruddiness into ashes. Apples of Sodom, after touching, seem these isles. However wavering their place may seem by reason of the currents, they themselves, at least to one upon the shore, appear invariably the same: fixed, cast, glued into the very body of cadaverous death. Nor would the appellation, enchanted, seem misapplied in still another sense. For concerning the peculiar reptile inhabitant of these wilds--whose presence gives the group its second Spanish name, Gallipagos--concerning the tortoises found here, most mariners have long cherished a superstition, not more frightful than grotesque. They earnestly believe that all wicked sea-officers, more especially commodores and captains, are at death (and, in some cases, before death) transformed into tortoises; thenceforth dwelling upon these hot aridities, sole solitary lords of Asphaltum. Doubtless, so quaintly dolorous a thought was originally inspired by the woe-begone landscape itself; but more particularly, perhaps, by the tortoises. For, apart from their strictly physical features, there is something strangely self-condemned in the appearance of these creatures. Lasting sorrow and penal hopelessness are in no animal form so suppliantly expressed as in theirs; while the thought of their wonderful longevity does not fail to enhance the impression. Nor even at the risk of meriting the charge of absurdly believing in enchantments, can I restrain the admission that sometimes, even now, when leaving the crowded city to wander out July and August among the Adirondack Mountains, far from the influences of towns and proportionally nigh to the mysterious ones of nature; when at such times I sit me down in the mossy head of some deep-wooded gorge, surrounded by prostrate trunks of blasted pines and recall, as in a dream, my other and far-distant rovings in the baked heart of the charmed isles; and remember the sudden glimpses of dusky shells, and long languid necks protruded from the leafless thickets; and again have beheld the vitreous inland rocks worn down and grooved into deep ruts by ages and ages of the slow draggings of tortoises in quest of pools of scanty water; I can hardly resist the feeling that in my time I have indeed slept upon evilly enchanted ground. Nay, such is the vividness of my memory, or the magic of my fancy, that I know not whether I am not the occasional victim of optical delusion concerning the Gallipagos. For, often in scenes of social merriment, and especially at revels held by candle-light in old-fashioned mansions, so that shadows are thrown into the further recesses of an angular and spacious room, making them put on a look of haunted undergrowth of lonely woods, I have drawn the attention of my comrades by my fixed gaze and sudden change of air, as I have seemed to see, slowly emerging from those imagined solitudes, and heavily crawling along the floor, the ghost of a gigantic tortoise, with "Memento * * * * *" burning in live letters upon his back. * * * * * Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Die Geschichte beginnt mit einem Zitat aus Edmund Spensers "The Faerie Queene" über gefährliche Inseln, die dunkel, traurig, düster und andere Dinge, die mit "d" beginnen, sind. Die eigentliche Geschichte beginnt mit einer Diskussion über die Verzauberten Inseln, oder Encantadas, wie sie auf Englisch genannt werden, bekannt als die Galapagos. Die Inseln wurden von Vulkanen gemacht, und sie sind... nun ja, dunkel, traurig und düster, vermutet Shmoop. Melville sagt, dass die Inseln sogar schrecklicher und öder als andere abgelegene Orte sind, weil sie sich am Äquator befinden, wo sich nichts verändert. Es gibt nicht einmal Schakale auf den Galapagos; so verlassen ist es dort. Es gibt nur Reptilien. Es ist alles vulkanischer Fels und Ödland. Kein Urlaubsort. Die Meeresströmungen sind auch übel, was es schwer macht, von Insel zu Insel zu gelangen. Es gibt den Aberglauben, dass Reptilien böse Seeoffiziere sind, die sich verwandelt haben. Wäre es wirklich so schlimm, eine Schildkröte zu sein? Schildkröten scheinen ziemlich zufrieden zu sein, wirklich.... Das ist Shmoops Meinung. Melville findet, dass Schildkröten traurig aussehen. Melville sagt, dass er manchmal zu Hause davon träumt, wieder auf diesen brutalen Inseln zu sein. Das ist so etwas wie "The Piazza", aber mit Schildkröten statt Marianna. Die Schildkröten passen besser.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. KAPITEL: Mit dem Ende des Monats Juni endete das Schuljahr und auch Miss Stacys Zeit an der Schule in Avonlea. Anne und Diana gingen an diesem Abend nach Hause und fühlten sich sehr ernst. Rote Augen und nasse Taschentücher zeugten davon, dass Miss Stacys Abschiedsworte genauso berührend gewesen sein mussten wie die von Herrn Phillips unter ähnlichen Umständen drei Jahre zuvor. Diana schaute vom Fuße des Wachshügels zurück zur Schule und seufzte tief. "Es scheint, als ob alles zu Ende wäre, oder?" sagte sie betrübt. "Du solltest nicht halb so traurig sein wie ich", sagte Anne und suchte vergeblich nach einer trockenen Stelle auf ihrem Taschentuch. "Du wirst nächsten Winter wieder da sein, aber ich glaube, ich habe für immer Abschied von der lieben alten Schule genommen - wenn ich Glück habe, natürlich." "Es wird überhaupt nicht dasselbe sein. Miss Stacy wird nicht da sein, und du, Jane und Ruby wahrscheinlich auch nicht. Ich werde ganz alleine sitzen müssen, denn ich könnte es nicht ertragen, nach dir einen anderen Tischpartner zu haben. Oh, wir hatten so eine tolle Zeit, nicht wahr, Anne? Es ist schrecklich zu denken, dass alles vorbei ist." Zwei große Tränen rollten an Dianas Nase herunter. "Wenn du aufhören würdest zu weinen, könnte ich es auch", flehte Anne. "Sobald ich mein Taschentuch weglege, sehe ich, dass du wieder anfängst zu weinen, und das bringt mich dann auch wieder zum Weinen. Wie Mrs. Lynde sagt, 'Wenn du nicht fröhlich sein kannst, sei so fröhlich wie du kannst.' Schließlich werde ich wahrscheinlich nächstes Jahr wiederkommen. Das ist einer dieser Momente, in denen ich _weiß_, dass ich durchfallen werde. Die werden erschreckend häufig." "Warum, du hast bei den Prüfungen, die Miss Stacy gegeben hat, großartig abgeschnitten." "Ja, aber diese Prüfungen haben mich nicht nervös gemacht. Wenn ich an das echte Ding denke, kannst du dir nicht vorstellen, was für ein schreckliches kaltes, flatterhaftes Gefühl mein Herz erfüllt. Und dann ist meine Nummer dreizehn, und Josie Pye sagt, dass das so unglücklich ist. Ich bin _nicht_ abergläubisch und ich weiß, dass es keinen Unterschied machen kann. Aber trotzdem wünschte ich, es wäre nicht dreizehn." "Ich wünschte, ich könnte mit dir zusammen gehen", sagte Diana. "Hätten wir nicht eine absolut großartige Zeit? Aber ich nehme an, du wirst dich abends hinsetzen müssen und lernen." "Nein, Miss Stacy hat uns versprochen, keinen einzigen Buch aufzuschlagen. Sie sagt, das würde uns nur müde und verwirrt machen, und wir sollen stattdessen spazieren gehen und nicht an die Prüfungen denken und früh schlafen gehen. Das ist guter Rat, aber ich denke, es wird schwer zu befolgen sein. Guter Rat hat die Tendenz dazu, denke ich. Prissy Andrews hat mir erzählt, dass sie die ganze Nacht in der Woche vor ihrem Eintrittsexamen wachgelegen und wie verrückt gepaukt hat; und ich hatte es mir vorgenommen, _mindestens_ so lange wachzubleiben wie sie. Es war so nett von deiner Tante Josephine, mich einzuladen, bei Beechwood zu bleiben, während ich in der Stadt bin." "Wirst du mir schreiben, solange du dort bist?" "Ich werde Dienstagabend schreiben und dir erzählen, wie der erste Tag war", versprach Anne. "Am Mittwoch werde ich die Post verfolgen", schwor Diana. Anne fuhr am folgenden Montag in die Stadt und am Mittwoch verfolgte Diana, wie besprochen, die Post und bekam ihren Brief. "Liebste Diana" [schrieb Anne], +hier ist es Dienstagabend, und ich schreibe dies in der Bibliothek von Beechwood. Letzte Nacht war ich furchtbar einsam, allein in meinem Zimmer, und ich wünschte so sehr, du wärst bei mir gewesen. Ich konnte nicht "pauken", denn ich hatte Miss Stacy versprochen, es nicht zu tun, aber es war genauso schwer, mein Geschichtsbuch nicht aufzuschlagen, wie es früher war, eine Geschichte zu lesen, bevor meine Lektionen gelernt waren. "Heute Morgen kam Miss Stacy mich abholen, und wir gingen zur Akademie, holten auf dem Weg Jane, Ruby und Josie ab. Ruby bat mich, ihre Hände zu fühlen, und sie waren eiskalt. Josie sagte, ich sähe aus, als hätte ich keinen Wimpernschlag geschlafen und sie glaube nicht, dass ich stark genug sei, um den Kurs der Lehrer durchzustehen, selbst wenn ich bestehen würde. Es gibt immer noch Momente und Zeiten, in denen ich nicht das Gefühl habe, dass ich große Fortschritte im Umgang mit Josie Pye gemacht habe! +Als wir in der Akademie ankamen, waren dort viele Schüler aus der ganzen Insel. Die erste Person, die wir sahen, war Moody Spurgeon, der auf den Stufen saß und vor sich hinmurmelte. Jane fragte ihn, was zum Teufel er da mache, und er sagte, er wiederhole unablässig das kleine Einmaleins, um seine Nerven zu beruhigen, und bitte sie, ihn nicht zu unterbrechen, denn wenn er auch nur einen Moment innehielt, bekam er Angst und vergaß alles, was er jemals wusste, aber das Einmaleins hielt all seine Fakten fest an ihrem Platz! +Als uns unsere Zimmer zugewiesen wurden, musste Miss Stacy uns verlassen. Jane und ich saßen zusammen, und Jane war so ruhig, dass ich sie beneidete. Keine Notwendigkeit für das kleine Einmaleins für die gute, solide, vernünftige Jane! Ich fragte mich, ob ich so aussah, wie ich mich fühlte, und ob sie mein Herz in meinem Kopf pudern konnten. Dann kam ein Mann herein und begann, die Englischprüfungen auszuteilen. Meine Hände wurden kalt und mein Kopf drehte sich, als ich meine Prüfung bekam. Nur ein schrecklicher Moment. Diana, ich fühlte mich genau wie vor vier Jahren, als ich Marilla fragte, ob ich bei Green Gables bleiben dürfte. Und dann klärte sich alles in meinem Kopf auf, und mein Herz begann wieder zu schlagen - ich vergaß zu sagen, dass es völlig aufgehört hatte! -, denn ich wusste, dass ich mit _diesem_ Papier etwas erreichen konnte. +Nach dem Mittagessen gingen wir zurück für Geschichte am Nachmittag. Die Geschichte war ein ziemlich schweres Blatt, und ich verwechselte die Daten schrecklich. Trotzdem denke ich, dass ich heute ziemlich gut abschnitt. Aber oh, Diana, morgen steht die Geometrieprüfung an, und wenn ich daran denke, kostet es meine ganze Entschlossenheit, mein Euklid nicht aufzuschlagen. Wenn ich denke, dass das kleine Einmaleins mir helfen würde, würde ich es jetzt bis morgen früh aufsagen. +Ich ging heute Abend zu den anderen Mädchen. Auf dem Weg traf ich Moody Spurgeon, der verwirrt herumirrte. Er sagte, er wisse, dass er in Geschich I'failed hatte und er dazu verurteilt sei, eine Enttäuschung für seine Eltern zu sein, und er werde am nächsten Morgen mit dem Zug nach Hause fahren, und es wäre sowieso einfacher, Zimmermann anstatt Pfarrer zu sein. Ich habe ihn aufgemuntert und ihn überredet, bis zum Ende dazubleiben, denn es wäre unfair gegenüber Miss Stacy, wenn er gehen würde. Manchmal habe ich gewünscht, ich wäre als Junge geboren, aber wenn ich Moody Spurgeon sehe, bin ich immer froh, dass ich ein Mädchen bin und nicht seine Schwester. +Ruby war in Hysterie, als ich in ihrem Internat ankam; sie hatte gerade einen schrecklichen Fehler in ihrer Englischprüfung entdeckt. Als sie sich erholt hatte, sind wir in die Stadt geg Mit diesem Ziel vor Augen hatte Anne während der Prüfungen alle Anstrengungen unternommen. Gilbert hatte das Gleiche getan. Sie hatten sich bereits Dutzende Male auf der Straße getroffen, ohne sich zu erkennen zu geben, und jedes Mal hatte Anne den Kopf ein wenig höher gehalten und sich noch ernsthafter gewünscht, dass sie mit Gilbert befreundet gewesen wäre, als er sie gefragt hatte. Jedes Mal schwor sie noch entschlossener, ihn in der Prüfung zu übertreffen. Sie wusste, dass die gesamte Junior-Klasse von Avonlea sich fragte, wer als Erster abschneiden würde; sie wusste sogar, dass Jimmy Glover und Ned Wright darauf gewettet hatten, und dass Josie Pye gesagt hatte, dass es keinen Zweifel geben würde, dass Gilbert als Erster abschneiden würde. Sie spürte, dass ihre Demütigung unerträglich wäre, wenn sie versagen würde. Aber sie hatte noch ein anderes und edleres Motiv, um gut abzuschneiden. Sie wollte "Auszeichnungen" erreichen, zum Wohle von Matthew und Marilla - besonders Matthew. Matthew hatte ihr erklärt, dass er überzeugt sei, dass sie "die gesamte Insel schlagen würde". Das, fand Anne, war etwas, worauf man nicht einmal in den wildesten Träumen hoffen sollte. Aber sie hoffte inniglich, zumindest unter den ersten zehn zu sein, damit sie Matthews freundlich braune Augen vor Stolz über ihre Leistung strahlen sehen konnte. Das, fand sie, wäre wirklich eine süße Belohnung für all ihre harte Arbeit und Geduld beim Pauken von einfallslosen Gleichungen und Konjugationen. Nach Ablauf der zwei Wochen begann Anne auch, das Postamt regelmäßig "zu belagert", in begleiteter Aufregung von Jane, Ruby und Josie, und öffnete die Tageszeitungen aus Charlottetown mit zitternden Händen und einem kalten, absinkenden Gefühl, schlimmer als alles, was sie während der Aufnahmeprüfungswoche erfahren hatte. Charlie und Gilbert besuchten auch das Postamt, aber Moody Spurgeon blieb standhaft fern. "Ich habe nicht genug Mut, dorthin zu gehen und mir sachlich eine Zeitung anzusehen", erklärte er Anne. "Ich warte einfach, bis jemand kommt und mir plötzlich sagt, ob ich bestanden habe oder nicht." Als drei Wochen vergangen waren, ohne dass die Bestehen-Liste erschien, begann Anne zu glauben, dass sie die Anspannung wirklich nicht mehr ertragen konnte. Ihr Appetit schwand und ihr Interesse an den Vorkommnissen in Avonlea flaute ab. Mrs. Lynde wollte wissen, was man auch anderes erwarten könne, wenn ein Tory-Schulinspektor an der Spitze der Dinge stand, und Matthew, der Annes Blässe und Gleichgültigkeit bemerkte sowie die zögernden Schritte, mit denen sie jeden Nachmittag vom Postamt nach Hause kam, begann ernsthaft zu überlegen, ob er bei der nächsten Wahl nicht besser "Grit" wählen sollte. Aber an einem Abend kam die Nachricht. Anne saß an ihrem offenen Fenster und hatte für einen Moment die Sorgen der Prüfungen und die Sorgen der Welt vergessen, während sie die Schönheit der Sommerdämmerung auf sich wirken ließ. Der Duft der Blumen aus dem Garten unten und das Rascheln der Pappeln erfüllten die Luft. Der östliche Himmel über den Tannen war schwach rosa vom Lichtschein des Westens, und Anne fragte sich traumhaft, ob der Geist der Farben so aussah. In diesem Moment sah sie Diana rasch durch die Tannen, über die Holzbrücke und den Hang herunterkommen, mit einer flatternden Zeitung in der Hand. Anne sprang auf, wissend, was diese Zeitung enthielt. Die Bestehen-Liste war da! Ihr Kopf wirbelte und ihr Herz schlug so stark, dass es weh tat. Sie konnte keinen Schritt tun. Es schien ihr wie eine Stunde, bis Diana die Halle entlangstürmte und ohne anzuklopfen ins Zimmer platzte, so aufgeregt war sie. "Anne, du hast bestanden", rief sie aus. "Als _allererste_ - du und Gilbert, ihr seid gleichauf - aber dein Name steht an erster Stelle. Oh, ich bin so stolz!" Diana warf die Zeitung auf den Tisch und sich selbst auf Annes Bett, völlig atemlos und unfähig, weiterzusprechen. Anne entzündete die Lampe, verschüttete das Streichholzdöschen und verbrauchte ein halbes Dutzend Streichhölzer, bevor ihre zitternden Hände die Aufgabe bewältigen konnten. Dann schnappte sie sich die Zeitung. Ja, sie hatte bestanden - ihr Name stand ganz oben auf einer Liste von zweihundert Namen! Dieser Moment war lebenswert. "Du hast großartig abgeschnitten, Anne", keuchte Diana, die sich genug erholt hatte, um sich aufzusetzen und zu sprechen. Anne, mit strahlenden Augen und ergriffen, hatte kein Wort gesagt. "Papa hat die Zeitung gerade vor vielleicht zehn Minuten mit nach Hause gebracht - sie kam mit dem Nachmittagszug, wie du weißt, und wird erst morgen mit der Post hier sein - und als ich die Bestehen-Liste sah, bin ich gerade losgerannt wie ein wildes Tier. Ihr habt alle bestanden, alle zusammen, Moody Spurgeon und alle, obwohl er in Geschichte eine Konditionierung hat. Jane und Ruby haben sich ziemlich gut geschlagen - sie sind auf der halben Skala - und Charlie auch. Josie hat sich gerade noch mit drei Noten Vorsprung durchgebracht, aber du wirst sehen, sie wird genauso viele Allüren haben, als ob sie geführt hätte. Wird Miss Stacy erfreut sein? Oh Anne, wie fühlt es sich an, deinen Namen an der Spitze einer Bestehen-Liste wie dieser zu sehen? Wenn es ich wäre, ich weiß, ich würde vor Freude durchdrehen. Bei mir ist es schon fast so, aber du bist ruhig und gelassen wie ein Frühlingsabend." "In mir drin wirbelt es gerade", sagte Anne. "Ich möchte hundert Dinge sagen, finde aber keine Worte dafür. Ich habe nie davon geträumt - ja, doch, einmal! Ich ließ es mich _einmal_ denken 'Was wäre, wenn ich als Erste abschneiden würde?' zitternd, weißt du, weil es so eingebildet und anmaßend schien, zu glauben, dass ich die Insel anführen könnte. Entschuldige mich bitte einen Moment, Diana. Ich muss gleich raus aufs Feld und es Matthew sagen. Dann gehen wir die Straße entlang und verkünden die guten Nachrichten den anderen." Sie eilten zum Heufeld unter der Scheune, wo Matthew gerade Heu zusammenrollte, und wie es das Schicksal so wollte, sprach Mrs. Lynde gerade mit Marilla am Zaun der Einfahrt. "Oh, Matthew", rief Anne, "ich habe bestanden und bin die Erste - oder eine der Ersten! Ich bin nicht eingebildet, aber ich bin dankbar." "Nun ja, ich habe es schon immer gesagt", sagte Matthew und betrachtete die Bestehen-Liste entzückt. "Ich wusste, dass du sie alle leicht schlagen könntest." "Du hast dich ziemlich gut geschlagen, muss ich sagen, Anne", sagte Marilla und versuchte, ihren äußersten Stolz auf Anne vor Mrs. Rachels kritischem Blick zu verbergen. Aber diese gute Seele sagte herzlich: "Ich glaube schon, dass sie gut abgeschnitten hat, und es liegt fern von mir, es nicht zu sagen. Du bist eine Ehre für deine Freunde, Anne, das bist du, und wir sind alle stolz auf dich." In dieser Nacht kniete Anne, die den wunderbaren Abend mit einem ernsten Gespräch mit Mrs. Allan am Pfarrhaus abgeschlossen hatte, voller Mondenschein süß an ihrem offenen Fenster nieder und murmelte ein Gebet voller Dankbarkeit und Hoffnung, das direkt aus ihrem Herzen kam. Es gab Dankbarkeit für die Vergangenheit und ehrfürchtige Bitten für die Zukunft. Und als sie auf ihrem weißen Kissen schlief, waren ihre Träume so schön und strahlend und wunderbar, wie es Jungfräulichkeit sich nur wünschen konnte. 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.

Die Bestehensliste ist öffentlich Das Ende Juni markiert das Ende von Miss Stacys Amtszeit und Annes Zeit an der Avonlea Schule. Anne und Diana gehen weinend nach Hause, weil ihre gemeinsame Zeit als Kinderschüler vorbei ist. Obwohl Anne vor Nervosität gelähmt ist wegen ihrer bevorstehenden Aufnahmeprüfung, folgt sie pflichtschuldig Miss Stacys Rat und vermeidet das Pauken in der Woche der Prüfung. Nach dem ersten Tag der Prüfung schreibt sie Diana einen Brief aus Charlottetown, in dem sie von der Nervosität der Schüler berichtet und ihr eigenes Unbehagen mit ihrer Angst vergleicht, als sie Marilla zum ersten Mal fragte, ob sie in Green Gables bleiben könnte. Anne kehrt nach Avonlea zurück und begrüßt Diana, als wären sie jahrelang getrennt gewesen. Sie verbringt quälende drei Wochen damit, auf die Ergebnisse der Prüfung zu warten. Obwohl Anne glaubt, dass sie bestanden hat, behauptet sie, sie würde lieber überhaupt nicht bestehen, als von ihrem Rivalen Gilbert geschlagen zu werden. Schließlich erscheint die Zeitung mit den Ergebnissen: Anne und Gilbert haben den ersten Platz auf der ganzen Insel belegt, und alle Avonlea-Schüler haben bestanden. Matthew, Marilla, Frau Rachel und Diana sind unglaublich stolz auf Annes Erfolg.

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. "I can understand why some people might think that," replied Captain, "especially those who have never experienced it themselves. There is a certain sense of pride and camaraderie that can be found in fighting alongside your comrades. But war is also a brutal and difficult experience, both for the soldiers and the horses. It is filled with danger, death, and suffering. The horrors of war should never be underestimated or romanticized." "Ah!", sagte er, "ich denke, sie haben es nie gesehen. Kein Zweifel, es ist sehr schön, wenn es keinen Feind gibt, wenn es nur Übung und Parade und Scheinkampf ist. Ja, dann ist es sehr schön; aber wenn Tausende von tapferen Männern und Pferden getötet oder fürs Leben verstümmelt werden, hat es einen sehr anderen Anblick." "Wissen Sie, worum sie gekämpft haben?", sagte ich. "Nein", sagte er, "das ist mehr, als ein Pferd verstehen kann, aber der Feind muss furchtbar böse Menschen gewesen sein, wenn es richtig war, so weit über das Meer zu gehen, um sie zu töten." 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.

Jetzt ist es Zeit für einen kleinen Abstecher, dieses Mal für Captain's Geschichte. Captain, der neue Kutschpferde-Begleiter von Beauty, wurde als Kriegspferd trainiert und sein erster Besitzer war ein Kavallerieoffizier im Krimkrieg. Captain mochte das Training und liebte seinen Meister, der ihn sehr gut behandelte. Captain " dachte, das Leben eines Armeepferdes sei sehr angenehm, aber als es darum ging, ins Ausland geschickt zu werden, über das Meer in einem großen Schiff, änderte er fast seine Meinung" . Captain fand die Reise im Schiff "schrecklich" und das Leben unterschiedlich und stressig, als sie ankamen, hat aber Gutes über die Art und Weise gesagt, wie die Kavalleristen ihre Pferde behandelt haben. Beauty fragt sich, ob das Kämpfen schrecklich war, und Captain erzählt ihm, dass sie gerne gerufen wurden und keine Angst hatten, solange ihre Reiter die Kontrolle hatten. Er sagt, obwohl er viele Pferde sterben sah, hatte er keine Angst um sich selbst: "Die fröhliche Stimme meines Meisters ließ mich fühlen, als ob er und ich nicht getötet werden könnten" . Auf geht's, Team. Eines Tages ändert sich jedoch alles. Captain und sein Offizier werden an die Front gerufen und Captain's Meister ist besonders liebevoll, bevor sie in die Schlacht stürmen. Nach einem tapferen Angriff wird Captain's Meister von einer Kanonenkugel getroffen und fällt. Captain will bei ihm bleiben und sagt: "Ich wollte meinen Platz an seiner Seite behalten und ihn nicht unter dem Ansturm der Pferdebeine lassen, aber es war vergeblich. Und jetzt war ich ohne einen Meister oder einen Freund allein auf diesem großen Schlachtfeld" . Ein anderer Soldat, dessen Pferd getötet wurde, besteigt Captain und reitet ihn zurück, aber sie haben eine Niederlage erlitten. Beauty fragt nach den verwundeten Pferden und Captain sagt, dass sie erschossen wurden, damit sie nicht leiden und an diesem Tag nur jedes vierte Pferd lebend zurückkehrte. Captain sieht seinen Meister nie wieder, zu seinem großen Kummer; er sagt: "Ich habe nie einen anderen Meister so gut geliebt" . Ach. Beauty fragt, ob Captain verstanden hat, worum es in dem Krieg ging, und Captain wusste es natürlich nie: "aber der Feind muss furchtbar böse gewesen sein, wenn es richtig war, all den Weg über das Meer zu ihnen zu gehen, um sie zu töten" .

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 einem Korrespondenten. _Whitby_. Eine der größten und plötzlichsten Stürme in der Geschichte hat sich hier gerade ereignet, mit sowohl seltsamen als auch einzigartigen Resultaten. Das Wetter war etwas schwül, aber nicht ungewöhnlich für den Monat August. Der Samstagabend war so schön wie noch nie erlebt und die meisten Urlauber machten sich gestern auf den Weg zu Ausflügen in die Mulgrave Woods, nach Robin Hood's Bay, Rig Mill, Runswick, Staithes und zu verschiedenen Zielen in der Nähe von Whitby. Die Dampfschiffe _Emma_ und _Scarborough_ fuhren entlang der Küste und es herrschte ein ungewöhnlich reger Ausflugsverkehr nach Whitby. Der Tag verlief ungewöhnlich schön bis zum Nachmittag, als einige der Klatschbasen, die häufig den Ostkliff-Friedhof besuchen und von dieser erhöhten Position aus den weiten Blick auf das Meer im Norden und Osten genießen, auf eine plötzliche Erscheinung von "Marenschwänzen" hoch am Himmel im Nordwesten aufmerksam wurden. Der Wind wehte zu der Zeit mild aus dem Südwesten, was laut barometrischer Sprache als "Nr. 2: Leichte Brise" eingestuft wird. Die Küstenwache gab sofort Meldung und ein alter Fischer, der seit mehr als einem halben Jahrhundert von Ostkliff aus das Wettergeschehen beobachtet, verkündete auf energische Weise das bevorstehende Unwetter. Die Annäherung des Sonnenuntergangs war so wunderschön, so grandios in seinen Massen von herrlich gefärbten Wolken, dass sich entlang des Kliffspaziergangs auf dem alten Friedhof eine ganze Menschenmenge versammelt hatte, um die Schönheit zu genießen. Bevor die Sonne hinter der schwarzen Masse von Kettleness verschwand, die sich kühn über den westlichen Himmel erstreckte, wurde ihr absteigender Weg von Myriaden von Wolken in allen Sonnenuntergangsfarben markiert - Flammenfarben, lila, pink, grün, violett und alle Goldtöne; hier und da gab es nicht große Massen, aber von scheinbar absoluter Dunkelheit, in allen möglichen Formen, so gut umrissen wie kolossale Scherenschnitte. Die Maler ließen sich von dieser Erfahrung nicht abhalten und zweifellos werden einige Skizzen des "Vorspiels zum großen Sturm" im nächsten Mai die Wände der Royal Academy und der Royal Institution schmücken. Mehr als ein Kapitän beschloss in diesem Moment, dass sein "Kahn" oder sein "Mäuler", wie sie die verschiedenen Bootsklassen nennen, im Hafen bleiben sollte, bis der Sturm vorüber war. Der Wind flaute im Laufe des Abends völlig ab und um Mitternacht herrschte eine windstille, schwüle Hitze und jene vorherrschende Intensität, die beim Herannahen von Gewitter Menschen mit empfindlicher Natur beeinflusst. Es waren nur wenige Lichter auf See zu sehen, denn selbst die Küsten-Dampfer, die normalerweise dicht am Ufer fahren, hielten sich weit draußen auf See auf und nur wenige Fischerboote waren zu sehen. Das einzige erkennbare Segel war eine ausländische Schoner mit allen Segeln gesetzt, die scheinbar gen Westen fuhr. Die Tollkühnheit oder Unwissenheit ihrer Offiziere war ein fruchtbares Thema für Kommentare, solange sie in Sichtweite war, und es wurden Versuche unternommen, ihr zu signalisieren, dass sie ihre Segel angesichts der Gefahr einholen sollte. Bevor es Nacht wurde, sah man sie mit träge flatternden Segeln, wie sie sich sanft auf den wellenumspielten Wellen des Meeres bewegte, "So untätig wie ein gemaltes Schiff auf einem gemalten Ozean." Kurz vor zehn Uhr wurde die Stille der Luft äußerst bedrückend und die Stille war so auffällig, dass das Blöken eines Schafs im Landesinneren oder das Bellen eines Hundes in der Stadt deutlich zu hören war und die Band auf dem Pier mit ihrer lebhaften französischen Weise wie eine Disharmonie in der großen Harmonie der Stille der Natur wirkte. Kurz nach Mitternacht erklang ein seltsames Geräusch aus der Richtung des Meeres und hoch oben begann die Luft ein seltsames, leises, hohles Dröhnen zu übertragen. Dann brach der Sturm ohne Warnung los. Mit einer Schnelligkeit, die damals unglaublich schien und auch danach unvorstellbar ist, geriet das gesamte Bild der Natur auf einmal in Aufruhr. Die Wellen stiegen in immer wütenderer Wut, jeder übertreffend den anderen, bis in nur wenigen Minuten das eben noch glatte Meer wie ein brüllendes und verschlingendes Ungeheuer war. Weiß gekrönte Wellen schlugen wild auf den flachen Sand auf und stürzten sich auf die steilen Klippen. Andere brachen über die Pfeiler und fegten mit ihrem Gischt über die Laternen der Leuchttürme hinweg, die sich am Ende jedes Piers des Whitby-Hafens erheben. Der Wind brüllte wie Donner und blies mit solcher Kraft, dass selbst starke Männer nur schwer auf den Beinen bleiben oder sich mit eiserner Klammer an den Eisenschienen festhalten konnten. Es wurde für notwendig erachtet, alle Schaulustigen von den Piers zu entfernen, sonst wären die Opfer dieser Nacht mannigfaltig. Um die Schwierigkeiten und Gefahren der Zeit zu erhöhen, trieben Massen von Seenebel landeinwärts - weiße, feuchte Wolken, die wie gespenstische Gestalten vorbeiwehten, so feucht und kalt, dass es nur wenig Vorstellungskraft erforderte, um zu glauben, dass die Geister der auf See Verlorenen ihre lebenden Brüder mit den kalten Händen des Todes berührten, und so mancher schauderte, als die Nebelschwaden vorbeizogen. Manchmal lichtete sich der Nebel und das Meer konnte in einiger Entfernung im Schein des Blitzes gesehen werden, der jetzt dick und schnell kam, gefolgt von solch plötzlichen Donnerschlägen, dass der ganze Himmel über ihnen unter dem Schock der Schritte des Sturms zu zittern schien. Einige der dabei enthüllten Szenen waren von unermesslicher Größe und von fesselndem Interesse - das Meer, das sich bergenhohe Berge auftürmte, warf mit jeder Welle gewaltige Massen von weißem Schaum in die Höhe, die der Sturm zu fangen und in den Raum zu wirbeln schien; hier und da ein Fischerboot, mit Fetzen eines Segels, das rasend schnell vor dem Sturm Schutz suchte; hin und wieder die weißen Flügel eines sturmgepeitschten Seevogels. Auf dem Gipfel des East Cliff stand der neue Suchscheinwerfer bereit für Experimente, war aber noch nicht ausprobiert worden. Die dafür verantwortlichen Offiziere brachten ihn in Betrieb und ließen den Schein über die Oberfläche des Meeres gleiten, als die Nebelwelle hereinbrach. Ein- oder zweimal war sein Einsatz äußerst effektiv, als ein Fischerboot, dessen Bordwand unter Wasser war, unter der Anleitung des schützenden Lichts den Hafen erreichte und die Gefahr vermied, gegen die Pfeiler zu krachen. Jedes Boot, das die Sicherheit des Hafens erreichte, löste einen Jubelschrei der Massen am Ufer aus, ein Schrei, der einen Moment lang schien, die Böe zu durchtrennen und dann in ihrem Sturmwind verweht wurde. Bald entdeckte der Suchscheinwerfer in ein Es gab natürlich eine beträchtliche Erschütterung, als das Schiff auf den Sandhaufen fuhr. Jede Saling, jedes Seil und jeder Stag war gespannt, und einige der "Oberhämmer" stürzten herunter. Aber das Seltsamste von allem war, dass genau in dem Moment, als das Ufer berührt wurde, ein riesiger Hund auf dem Deck auftauchte, als wäre er durch die Erschütterung hochgeschossen worden, und nach vorne lief und vom Bug auf den Sand sprang. Er lief direkt auf den steilen Felsen zu, wo der Friedhof über die Gasse zum Ostpier so steil hängt, dass einige der flachen Grabsteine – "thruff-steans" oder "durch-Steine", wie sie im Whitby-Dialekt genannt werden – tatsächlich darüber hinausragen, wo der stützende Felsen weggefallen ist. Er verschwand in der Dunkelheit, die sich jenseits des Fokus des Scheinwerfers zu verstärken schien. Es stellte sich heraus, dass zu diesem Zeitpunkt niemand auf dem Tate Hill Pier war, da alle Häuser in unmittelbarer Nähe entweder im Bett waren oder auf den Höhen darüber. So war der diensthabende Küstenwächter auf der östlichen Seite des Hafens, der sofort zum kleinen Pier hinunterlief, der erste, der an Bord kletterte. Die Männer, die den Scheinwerfer bedienten, drehten das Licht nach dem Durchsuchen des Hafeneingangs ohne etwas zu sehen auf das Schiffswrack und hielten es dort. Der Küstenwächter lief achtern und als er neben dem Steuer stand, beugte er sich hinüber, um es zu untersuchen, und wich sofort zurück, als wäre er plötzlich von einer heftigen Emotion überwältigt. Das schien die allgemeine Neugierde zu wecken, und eine ganze Anzahl von Menschen begann zu rennen. Der Weg vom Westkliff über die Zugbrücke zum Tate Hill Pier ist zwar weit, aber Ihr Korrespondent ist ein recht guter Läufer und war der Menge weit voraus. Als ich jedoch ankam, fand ich bereits eine Menschenmenge auf dem Pier versammelt, denen der Küstenwächter und die Polizei den Zutritt zum Schiff verweigerten. Durch die Freundlichkeit des Chefbootsmanns durfte ich als Ihr Korrespondent auf das Deck klettern und war einer kleinen Gruppe von Menschen dabei, die den toten Seemann sahen, während er tatsächlich ans Steuerrad gefesselt war. Es war kein Wunder, dass der Küstenwächter überrascht oder sogar eingeschüchtert war, denn solch ein Anblick konnte wohl nicht oft gesehen worden sein. Der Mann war einfach mit seinen Händen an eine Speiche des Steuerrads gebunden. Zwischen seiner inneren Hand und dem Holz befand sich ein Kruzifix, an dem die Perlenkette befestigt war, die sowohl um seine Handgelenke als auch um das Rad herum verlief und alles zusammen mit den Binderiemen festhielt. Der arme Kerl saß vielleicht einmal, aber das Schlagen und Peitschen der Segel hatte sich durch das Ruder des Steuerrads gearbeitet und ihn hin und her gezogen, so dass die Bänder, mit denen er gebunden war, das Fleisch bis auf die Knochen durchschnitten hatten. Es wurde genaue Notiz von dem Zustand der Dinge gemacht, und ein Arzt - Chirurg J. M. Caffyn, von 33, East Elliot Place - der kurz nach mir kam, erklärte nach der Untersuchung, dass der Mann schon seit gut zwei Tagen tot gewesen sein musste. In seiner Tasche befand sich eine sorgfältig verschlossene Flasche, leer bis auf einen kleinen Zettel, der sich als Anhang zum Logbuch herausstellte. Der Küstenwächter sagte, der Mann müsse sich selbst die Hände gebunden und die Knoten mit den Zähnen festgemacht haben. Die Tatsache, dass ein Küstenwächter als erster an Bord war, könnte späterhin im Admiralitätsgericht einige Komplikationen vermeiden, denn Küstenwächter können nicht den Bergungsanspruch geltend machen, der das Recht des ersten Zivilisten ist, der ein Wrack betritt. Bereits jetzt sind jedoch die rechtlichen Zungen in Bewegung gekommen, und ein junger Jurastudent behauptet lautstark, dass die Rechte des Eigentümers bereits vollständig geopfert sind, da sein Eigentum entgegen den Satzungen der Tote Hand gehalten wird, da das Steuerrad als Sinnbild für den delegierten Besitz in der Hand eines Toten gehalten wird. Es ist unnötig zu sagen, dass der tote Steuermann in Ehrfurcht an den Ort entfernt wurde, an dem er seine ehrenvolle Wache gehalten hatte, bis der Tod kam, eine Standhaftigkeit so edel wie die des jungen Casabianca, und in das Leichenschauhaus gebracht wurde, um auf eine Untersuchung zu warten. Die plötzliche Sturm zieht bereits vorbei und seine Wut lässt nach; Menschenmengen zerstreuen sich und der Himmel beginnt sich über den Yorkshire-Wolds zu röten. Ich werde rechtzeitig für Ihre nächste Ausgabe weitere Details des Wrackschiffs schicken, das sich so wundersam im Sturm in den Hafen geschleppt hat. Whitby _9. August._--Die Fortsetzung der seltsamen Ankunft des Wracks im Sturm gestern Abend ist fast noch schockierender als die Sache selbst. Es stellt sich heraus, dass die Schoner ein russisches Schiff aus Varna ist und _Demeter_ genannt wird. Sie ist fast ausschließlich mit Ballast aus Silbersand beladen, mit nur einer geringen Ladung - einer Anzahl großer Holzkisten gefüllt mit Erde. Diese Ladung war an einen Rechtsanwalt in Whitby, Herrn S. F. Billington, von 7, The Crescent, adressiert, der heute Morgen an Bord ging und offiziell den ihm anvertrauten Besitz in Besitz nahm. Der russische Konsul, der im Auftrag des Charter-Partners handelte, übernahm offiziell das Schiff und beglich alle Hafengebühren usw. Heute wird hier nichts anderes besprochen als diese seltsame Koinzidenz; die Beamten der Handelskammer waren äußerst penibel in der Einhaltung bestehender Vorschriften. Da die Angelegenheit "neun Tage lang für Aufsehen sorgen" wird, sind sie offenbar entschlossen, dass es keinen Grund für spätere Beschwerden geben wird. Es gab viel Interesse am Hund, der an Land ging, als das Schiff auf Grund lief, und mehr als ein Mitglied des Tierschutzvereins, der in Whitby sehr stark ist, hat versucht, dem Tier beizustehen. Zur allgemeinen Enttäuschung war es jedoch nicht zu finden; es scheint, dass es völlig aus der Stadt verschwunden ist. Möglicherweise hat es Angst bekommen und ist auf die Moore geflüchtet, wo es sich immer noch in Angst verbirgt. Es gibt einige, die diese Möglichkeit mit Schrecken betrachten, denn es scheint ein wildes Tier zu sein. Früh am Morgen wurde ein großer Hund, ein halber Mischlingsmastiff, der einem Kohlenhändler in der Nähe des Tate Hill Piers gehört, tot auf der Straße gegenüber dem Hof seines Besitzers gefunden. Er muss gekämpft haben und offensichtlich einen wilden Gegner gehabt haben, denn seine Kehle war abgerissen und sein Bauch war aufgeschlitzt, als wäre er von einer wilden Klaue aufgerissen worden. * * * * * _Später._--Aufgrund der Freundlichkeit des Inspektors der Handelskammer durfte ich das Logbuch der _Demeter_ einsehen, das bis vor drei Tagen in Ordnung war, aber nichts von besonderem Interesse enthielt, außer dass es Informationen über die vermissten Männer enthielt. Das größte Interesse gilt jedoch dem in der Flasche gefundenen Zettel, der heute auf der Ger Am 16. Juli meldete der Matrose am Morgen, dass einer der Besatzungsmitglieder, Petrofsky, verschwunden war. Konnte es nicht erklären. Ich habe gestern abend die larboard watch übernommen; wurde von Abramoff abgelöst, bin aber nicht in meine Koje gegangen. Die Männer sind noch niedergeschlagener als zuvor. Alle sagten, sie hätten so etwas erwartet, wollten aber nichts weiter sagen als dass _etwas_ an Bord war. Der Matrose wird sehr ungeduldig mit ihnen, befürchtet, dass Schwierigkeiten bevorstehen. * * * * * Am 17. Juli kam Olgaren, einer der Männer, zu meiner Kabine und gestand mir in ehrfürchtiger Weise, dass er glaubte, es sei ein fremder Mann an Bord des Schiffes. Er sagte, er habe sich in seiner Wache hinter dem Deckshaus geschützt, da es einen Regensturm gab, als er einen großen, dünnen Mann sah, der nicht wie einer der Besatzungsmitglieder aussah, die die Kommandotreppe hinaufkam, über das Deck nach vorne ging und verschwand. Er folgte vorsichtig, fand aber niemanden, als er an Bug ankam, und die Luken waren alle geschlossen. Er hatte panische Angst vor Aberglauben, und ich fürchte, dass sich die Panik ausbreiten könnte. Um sie zu besänftigen, werde ich heute das gesamte Schiff von Bug bis Heck sorgfältig durchsuchen. * * * * * Später am Tag habe ich die gesamte Mannschaft zusammengerufen und ihnen mitgeteilt, dass sie offensichtlich glaubten, es sei jemand an Bord, wir aber von Bug bis Heck suchen würden. Der erste Offizier war verärgert; sagte, es sei Unsinn, und nachzugeben würde die Männer demoralisieren; er erklärte, er würde es schaffen, sie mit einem Handsporn aus Schwierigkeiten herauszuhalten. Ich habe ihn das Steuer übernehmen lassen, während der Rest eine gründliche Suche begann, alle mit Laternen voran: Wir haben keine Ecke ungesucht gelassen. Da es nur die großen Holzkisten gab, gab es keine versteckten Ecken, in denen sich ein Mann verstecken konnte. Die Männer waren sehr erleichtert, als die Suche vorbei war, und gingen fröhlich zurück zur Arbeit. Der erste Offizier runzelte die Stirn, sagte aber nichts. * * * * * _22. Juli._ -- Raues Wetter in den letzten drei Tagen, alle Hände mit Segeln beschäftigt - keine Zeit, sich zu fürchten. Die Männer scheinen ihre Angst vergessen zu haben. Der erste Offizier ist wieder guter Laune und alle sind guter Dinge. Er lobte die Männer für die Arbeit bei schlechtem Wetter. Sind an Gibraltar vorbeigekommen und durch die Meerenge gefahren. Alle wohlauf. * * * * * _24. Juli._ -- Über dieses Schiff liegt ein düsterer Fluch. Schon ein Mann weniger und wir in der Biskaya mit wildem Wetter vor uns, und doch ist gestern Nacht wieder ein Mann verschwunden - spurlos. Wie zuvor verließ er seine Wache und wurde nicht mehr gesehen. Die Männer sind alle in panischer Angst; sie haben einen Rundbrief geschickt und darum gebeten, doppelt Wache zu halten, da sie Angst haben, allein zu sein. Der erste Offizier ist wütend. Ich fürchte, es wird Schwierigkeiten geben, entweder er oder die Männer werden Gewalt anwenden. * * * * * _28. Juli._ -- Vier Tage in der Hölle, von einem Wirbelsturm geschüttelt, und der Wind ist ein Sturm. Kein Schlaf für irgendwen. Die Männer sind alle erschöpft. Weiß kaum, wie man eine Wache aufstellen soll, da niemand dazu fähig ist. Der zweite Offizier hat sich freiwillig gemeldet, um zu steuern und Wache zu halten, und die Männer ein paar Stunden Schlaf zu gönnen. Der Wind lässt nach; die See ist immer noch schrecklich, aber ich fühle sie weniger, da das Schiff stabiler ist. * * * * * _29. Juli._ -- Eine weitere Tragödie. Hatten heute Nacht nur eine Wache, da die Mannschaft zu erschöpft war, um doppelt zu stehen. Als ich am Morgen aufs Deck kam, fand ich niemanden außer dem Steuermann. Es wurde lautstark Alarm geschlagen und alle kamen aufs Deck. Eine gründliche Suche wurde durchgeführt, aber niemand gefunden. Wir sind jetzt ohne zweiten Offizier, und die Mannschaft ist in Panik. Der erste Offizier und ich haben beschlossen, von nun an bewaffnet zu sein und auf ein Zeichen zu warten. * * * * * _30. Juli._ -- Letzte Nacht. Ich freute mich, dass wir England näher kamen. Das Wetter war schön, alle Segel waren gesetzt. Ich war erschöpft und schlief fest. Der erste Offizier weckte mich und erzählte mir, dass sowohl der Mann der Wache als auch der Steuermann verschwunden waren. Nur er und ich und zwei Matrosen blieben übrig, um das Schiff zu führen. * * * * * _1. August._ -- Zwei Tage Nebel, und kein Segel in Sicht. Hatte gehofft, als wir im Ärmelkanal waren, um Hilfe zu signalisieren oder irgendwo an Land zu gehen. Ohne die Kraft, die Segel zu setzen, müssen wir vor dem Wind laufen. Wir wagen es nicht, sie zu senken, weil wir sie nicht wieder hochziehen könnten. Es scheint, als würden wir einem schrecklichen Untergang entgegentreiben. Der erste Offizier ist jetzt demoralisierter als die Männer. Seine stärkere Natur scheint gegen ihn selbst zu wirken. Die Männer haben keine Angst mehr, sie arbeiten stoisch und geduldig und haben sich auf das Schlimmste eingestellt. Sie sind Russen, er ist Rumäne. * * * * * _2. August, Mitternacht._ -- Ich wurde aus wenigen Minuten Schlaf geweckt, als ich einen Schrei hörte, scheinbar draußen an meiner Kajütentür. Im Nebel konnte ich nichts sehen. Ich rannte an Deck und stieß auf den ersten Offizier. Er erzählte mir, er habe den Schrei gehört und sei gelaufen, aber keine Anzeichen eines Mannes in der Wache gefunden. Einer mehr ist verschwunden. Herr, hilf uns! Der erste Offizier sagte, wir müssen die Straße von Dover passiert haben, denn als sich der Nebel für einen Moment lichtete, sah er North Foreland, genau als er den Mann schreien hörte. Wenn das so ist, sind wir jetzt in der Nordsee und nur Gott kann uns im Nebel leiten, der anscheinend mit uns mitzieht; und Gott scheint uns verlassen zu haben. * * * * * _3. August._ -- Mitternacht. Ich ging zum Ruder, um den Mann abzulösen, und als ich dort ankam, war niemand da. Der Wind war konstant und da wir ihm vorauseilten, gab es kein Abdriften. Ich wagte es nicht, das Ruder zu verlassen, also rief ich nach dem ersten Offizier. Nach einigen Sekunden kam er in seinen Nachthemden auf das Deck gestürzt. Er sah wild aus und abgezehrt, und ich fürchte sehr, dass sein Verstand nachgegeben hat. Er kam mir nahe und flüsterte heiser, mit dem Mund an meinem Ohr, als fürchte er, dass die Luft es hören könnte: "_Er_ ist hier, ich weiß es jetzt. In der Wache letzte Nacht habe ich Ihn gesehen, wie einen Mann, groß und dünn und schrecklich bleich. Er war am Bug und schaute hinaus. Ich schlich mich hinter Ihn und gab Ihm mein Messer; aber das Messer ging durch Ihn hindurch, leer wie die Luft." Und während er sprach, nahm er sein Messer und stieß es wütend in den Raum. Dann fuhr er fort: "Aber Er ist hier, _4. August._--Immer noch Nebel, den der Sonnenaufgang nicht durchdringen kann. Ich weiß, dass es Sonnenaufgang ist, weil ich ein Seemann bin, warum sonst weiß ich nicht. Ich wagte es nicht, hinunterzugehen, ich wagte es nicht, das Steuer zu verlassen; also blieb ich hier die ganze Nacht und im Dunkeln der Nacht sah ich Es - Ihn! Gott vergib mir, aber der Maat hatte recht, über Bord zu springen. Es war besser, wie ein Mann zu sterben; wie ein Seemann in blauem Wasser zu sterben, dagegen kann niemand etwas haben. Aber ich bin der Kapitän und ich darf mein Schiff nicht verlassen. Aber ich werde dieses Ungeheuer oder Monster abwehren, denn wenn meine Kräfte beginnen zu schwinden, werde ich meine Hände ans Steuer binden und neben ihnen werde ich das binden, was Er - Es! - nicht anrühren darf; und dann, ob guter Wind oder schlechter, werde ich meine Seele und meine Ehre als Kapitän retten. Ich werde schwächer und die Nacht bricht herein. Wenn Er mir erneut ins Gesicht sehen kann, habe ich vielleicht keine Zeit zu handeln....Wenn wir Schiffbruch erleiden, findet diese Flasche vielleicht Beachtung und diejenigen, die sie finden, werden es vielleicht verstehen; wenn nicht, ... nun, dann werden alle Menschen wissen, dass ich meiner Aufgabe treu geblieben bin. Gott und die selige Jungfrau und die Heiligen mögen einer armen ungebildeten Seele helfen, die versucht, ihre Pflicht zu tun.... * * * * * Natürlich war das Urteil offen. Es gibt keine Beweise vorzulegen; und ob der Mann selbst die Morde begangen hat oder nicht, das kann jetzt niemand mehr sagen. Die Leute hier halten beinahe einstimmig den Kapitän für einen wahren Helden, und ihm soll ein öffentliches Begräbnis gegeben werden. Bereits ist es arrangiert, dass sein Leichnam mit einer Bootskolonne die Esk hinaufgebracht und dann zurück nach Tate Hill Pier und die Abteistufen hinaufgetragen wird; denn er soll auf dem Friedhof an der Klippe begraben werden. Die Besitzer von mehr als hundert Booten haben bereits ihre Namen eingetragen, da sie ihm zum Grab folgen möchten. Von dem großen Hund wurde nie eine Spur gefunden; über dessen Verlust wird viel getrauert, denn bei der gegenwärtigen öffentlichen Meinung würde er, so glaube ich, von der Stadt adoptiert werden. Morgen wird die Beerdigung stattfinden; und so endet sich ein weiteres "Meer-Geheimnis". _Mina Murrays Tagebuch._ _8. August._--Lucy war die ganze Nacht sehr unruhig und auch ich konnte nicht schlafen. Der Sturm war fürchterlich und als er laut unter den Schornsteinen tobte, erschauerte ich. Wenn eine scharfe Böe kam, schien es wie ein entferntes Gewehr. Seltsamerweise wachte Lucy nicht auf; aber sie stand zweimal auf und zog sich an. Glücklicherweise wachte ich jedes Mal rechtzeitig auf und schaffte es, sie auszuziehen, ohne sie aufzuwecken, und brachte sie zurück ins Bett. Schlafwandeln ist wirklich eine seltsame Sache, denn sobald ihr Wille auf irgend eine körperliche Weise vereitelt wird, verschwindet ihre Absicht, falls es eine gibt, und sie unterwirft sich fast genau der Routine ihres Lebens. Früh am Morgen sind wir beide aufgestanden und zum Hafen hinuntergegangen, um zu sehen, ob etwas in der Nacht passiert ist. Es waren sehr wenige Leute unterwegs, und obwohl die Sonne hell schien und die Luft klar und frisch war, zwängten sich die großen, düster aussehenden Wellen, die selbst dunkel zu sein schienen, weil der Schaum, der sie krönte, wie Schnee aussah, durch den engen Hafeneingang - wie ein pöbelnder Mann, der durch eine Menschenmenge geht. Irgendwie war ich froh, dass Jonathan letzte Nacht nicht auf See, sondern an Land war. Aber, oh, ist er an Land oder auf See? Wo ist er und wie? Ich mache mir furchtbar große Sorgen um ihn. Wenn ich nur wüsste, was ich tun soll und etwas tun könnte! * * * * * _10. August._--Die Beerdigung des armen Kapitäns heute war sehr rührend. Jedes Boot im Hafen schien dabei zu sein und der Sarg wurde von Kapitänen den ganzen Weg vom Tate Hill Pier bis zum Friedhof getragen. Lucy begleitete mich und wir kamen früh zu unserem alten Platz, während die Bootskolonne den Fluss hinauffuhr bis zur Eisenbahnbrücke und dann wieder hinunterkam. Wir hatten einen wunderschönen Blick und sahen die Prozession fast den ganzen Weg entlang. Der arme Mann wurde ganz in der Nähe unseres Platzes zur Ruhe gelegt, so dass wir darauf standen, als es soweit war, und alles sahen. Arme Lucy schien sehr aufgeregt zu sein. Sie war die ganze Zeit unruhig und beunruhigt und ich kann mir nur vorstellen, dass sich ihre nächtlichen Träume auf sie auswirken. In einer Sache ist sie ganz merkwürdig: Sie gibt nicht zu, dass es einen Grund zur Unruhe gibt, oder wenn es einen gibt, dann versteht sie ihn selber nicht. Es gibt einen zusätzlichen Grund, dass der arme alte Mr. Swales heute Morgen tot auf unserem Platz gefunden wurde, sein Hals war gebrochen. Offensichtlich war er, wie der Arzt sagte, in irgendeiner Art von Angst in dem Sitz zurückgefallen, denn die Männer sagten, dass ein Ausdruck von Furcht und Horror auf seinem Gesicht lag, der sie erschauern ließ. Armer alter Mann! Vielleicht hatte er den Tod mit seinen sterbenden Augen gesehen! Lucy ist so süß und empfindsam, dass sie Einflüsse viel schärfer spürt als andere Menschen. Gerade eben wurde sie von einer kleinen Sache, die mir nicht viel auffiel, aber ich selbst sehr tierlieb bin, sehr mitgenommen. Einer der Männer, der oft hierherkam, um nach den Booten zu schauen, wurde von seinem Hund verfolgt. Der Hund ist immer bei ihm. Beide sind ruhige Personen und ich habe den Mann noch nie wütend gesehen, und den Hund habe ich nie bellen gehört. Während des Gottesdienstes wollte der Hund nicht zu seinem Herrn kommen, der mit uns auf dem Sitz war, sondern blieb einige Meter entfernt, bellte und heulte. Sein Herr sprach sanft mit ihm und dann grob, und dann wütend; aber es wollte weder kommen noch aufhören, Lärm zu machen. Es war in einer Art Raserei, mit wilden Augen und all seinem Fell aufgestellt wie der Schwanz einer Katze, wenn sie auf den Kriegspfad geht. Schließlich wurde auch der Mann wütend, sprang hinunter und trat den Hund und nahm ihn dann am Nacken und schleuderte ihn halb auf das Grabmal, an dem der Sitz befestigt ist. In dem Moment, als er den Stein berührte, wurde das arme Tier ruhig und zitterte am ganzen Körper. Es versuchte nicht wegzulaufen, sondern kauerte sich zusammen, zitternd und zusammengekauert, und war in einem so erbärmlichen Zustand der Angst, dass ich versuchte, es zu trösten, wenn auch ohne Erfolg. Lucy hatte auch Mitleid, aber sie versuchte nicht den Hund anzufassen, sondern sah ihn auf eine gequälte Weise an. Ich fürchte sehr, dass sie zu überempfindlich ist, um ohne Probleme in der Welt voranzukommen. Heute Nacht wird sie davon träumen, da bin ich sicher. Die ganze Ansammlung von Dingen - das Schiff, das von einem toten Mann in den Hafen gesteuert wird; seine Haltung, ans Steuer gefesselt mit einem Kruzifix und Rosenkränzen; die ergreifende Beerdigung; der Hund, jetzt wütend und jetzt in Angst - all das wird Stoff für ihre Träume liefern. Ich denke, es wäre am besten, wenn sie körperlich erschöpft ins Bett geht, also werde ich mit ihr einen langen Spaziergang entlang der Klippen nach Robin Hood's Bay machen und zurück. Danach sollte sie nicht viel Neigung zum Schlafwandeln haben. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Zwei Zeitungsausschnitte zeigen, dass das Schiff Mina und Mr. Swales gesehen haben, ein Schiff namens Demeter, das später während eines furchtbaren Sturms an der Küste von Whitby angespült wird. Die Besatzung ist nirgendwo zu finden, während der Kapitän, tot und einen Kruzifix umklammernd, an das Steuerrad gebunden entdeckt wird. Als das Schiff strandet, springt ein riesiger Hund aus dem Laderaum und verschwindet in die Landschaft. Die einzige Fracht der Demeter sind mehrere große Holzkisten, die einem Anwalt in Whitby übergeben werden. Auszüge aus dem Logbuch des Kapitäns der Demeter folgen, in denen die Reise des Schiffes von Varna, einem russischen Hafen, nach England beschrieben wird. Die Reise beginnt gut, aber zehn Tage nach Beginn der Reise wird ein Besatzungsmitglied vermisst. Kurz darauf entdeckt ein anderer Seemann einen großen, dünnen Mann, der nicht wie einer der Seeleute aussieht. Eine Suche auf dem Schiff ergibt keine versteckten Passagiere, aber alle paar Tage verschwindet ein weiterer Seemann. Die Besatzung erstarren vor Angst und der erste Offizier beginnt verrückt zu werden. Als das Schiff die englische Küste erreicht, bleiben nur noch vier Männer übrig, um es zu segeln. Ein großer Nebel legt sich über sie und verhindert, dass sie den Hafen erreichen. Nachdem zwei weitere Seeleute verschwunden sind, geht der erste Offizier hinunter, um den Eindringling zu finden, nur um aus dem Laderaum zu rennen und sich ins Meer zu stürzen. In dieser Nacht beschließt der Kapitän, sich selbst und sein Kruzifix ans Steuerrad zu binden und bei seinem Schiff bis zum Ende zu bleiben, um dieses Ungeheuer oder Monster zu verwirren. Die Erzählung kehrt zu Minas Tagebuch zurück. Mina beschreibt die Nacht des gefürchteten Sturms, ihre Sorgen um Jonathan und ihre Besorgnis um Lucy, die weiterhin schlafwandelt. Am Tag der Seebestattung des Kapitäns berichtet Mina, dass Lucy zunehmend unruhig ist. Ein Grund für Lucys Aufregung, glaubt Mina, ist der kürzliche Tod von Mr. Swales, der mit einem gebrochenen Nacken und einem entsetzten Gesicht gefunden 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: Human nature is so well disposed towards those who are in interesting situations, that a young person, who either marries or dies, is sure of being kindly spoken of. A week had not passed since Miss Hawkins's name was first mentioned in Highbury, before she was, by some means or other, discovered to have every recommendation of person and mind; to be handsome, elegant, highly accomplished, and perfectly amiable: and when Mr. Elton himself arrived to triumph in his happy prospects, and circulate the fame of her merits, there was very little more for him to do, than to tell her Christian name, and say whose music she principally played. Mr. Elton returned, a very happy man. He had gone away rejected and mortified--disappointed in a very sanguine hope, after a series of what appeared to him strong encouragement; and not only losing the right lady, but finding himself debased to the level of a very wrong one. He had gone away deeply offended--he came back engaged to another--and to another as superior, of course, to the first, as under such circumstances what is gained always is to what is lost. He came back gay and self-satisfied, eager and busy, caring nothing for Miss Woodhouse, and defying Miss Smith. The charming Augusta Hawkins, in addition to all the usual advantages of perfect beauty and merit, was in possession of an independent fortune, of so many thousands as would always be called ten; a point of some dignity, as well as some convenience: the story told well; he had not thrown himself away--he had gained a woman of 10,000 l. or thereabouts; and he had gained her with such delightful rapidity--the first hour of introduction had been so very soon followed by distinguishing notice; the history which he had to give Mrs. Cole of the rise and progress of the affair was so glorious--the steps so quick, from the accidental rencontre, to the dinner at Mr. Green's, and the party at Mrs. Brown's--smiles and blushes rising in importance--with consciousness and agitation richly scattered--the lady had been so easily impressed--so sweetly disposed--had in short, to use a most intelligible phrase, been so very ready to have him, that vanity and prudence were equally contented. He had caught both substance and shadow--both fortune and affection, and was just the happy man he ought to be; talking only of himself and his own concerns--expecting to be congratulated--ready to be laughed at--and, with cordial, fearless smiles, now addressing all the young ladies of the place, to whom, a few weeks ago, he would have been more cautiously gallant. The wedding was no distant event, as the parties had only themselves to please, and nothing but the necessary preparations to wait for; and when he set out for Bath again, there was a general expectation, which a certain glance of Mrs. Cole's did not seem to contradict, that when he next entered Highbury he would bring his bride. During his present short stay, Emma had barely seen him; but just enough to feel that the first meeting was over, and to give her the impression of his not being improved by the mixture of pique and pretension, now spread over his air. She was, in fact, beginning very much to wonder that she had ever thought him pleasing at all; and his sight was so inseparably connected with some very disagreeable feelings, that, except in a moral light, as a penance, a lesson, a source of profitable humiliation to her own mind, she would have been thankful to be assured of never seeing him again. She wished him very well; but he gave her pain, and his welfare twenty miles off would administer most satisfaction. The pain of his continued residence in Highbury, however, must certainly be lessened by his marriage. Many vain solicitudes would be prevented--many awkwardnesses smoothed by it. A _Mrs._ _Elton_ would be an excuse for any change of intercourse; former intimacy might sink without remark. It would be almost beginning their life of civility again. Of the lady, individually, Emma thought very little. She was good enough for Mr. Elton, no doubt; accomplished enough for Highbury--handsome enough--to look plain, probably, by Harriet's side. As to connexion, there Emma was perfectly easy; persuaded, that after all his own vaunted claims and disdain of Harriet, he had done nothing. On that article, truth seemed attainable. _What_ she was, must be uncertain; but _who_ she was, might be found out; and setting aside the 10,000 l., it did not appear that she was at all Harriet's superior. She brought no name, no blood, no alliance. Miss Hawkins was the youngest of the two daughters of a Bristol--merchant, of course, he must be called; but, as the whole of the profits of his mercantile life appeared so very moderate, it was not unfair to guess the dignity of his line of trade had been very moderate also. Part of every winter she had been used to spend in Bath; but Bristol was her home, the very heart of Bristol; for though the father and mother had died some years ago, an uncle remained--in the law line--nothing more distinctly honourable was hazarded of him, than that he was in the law line; and with him the daughter had lived. Emma guessed him to be the drudge of some attorney, and too stupid to rise. And all the grandeur of the connexion seemed dependent on the elder sister, who was _very_ _well_ _married_, to a gentleman in a _great_ _way_, near Bristol, who kept two carriages! That was the wind-up of the history; that was the glory of Miss Hawkins. Could she but have given Harriet her feelings about it all! She had talked her into love; but, alas! she was not so easily to be talked out of it. The charm of an object to occupy the many vacancies of Harriet's mind was not to be talked away. He might be superseded by another; he certainly would indeed; nothing could be clearer; even a Robert Martin would have been sufficient; but nothing else, she feared, would cure her. Harriet was one of those, who, having once begun, would be always in love. And now, poor girl! she was considerably worse from this reappearance of Mr. Elton. She was always having a glimpse of him somewhere or other. Emma saw him only once; but two or three times every day Harriet was sure _just_ to meet with him, or _just_ to miss him, _just_ to hear his voice, or see his shoulder, _just_ to have something occur to preserve him in her fancy, in all the favouring warmth of surprize and conjecture. She was, moreover, perpetually hearing about him; for, excepting when at Hartfield, she was always among those who saw no fault in Mr. Elton, and found nothing so interesting as the discussion of his concerns; and every report, therefore, every guess--all that had already occurred, all that might occur in the arrangement of his affairs, comprehending income, servants, and furniture, was continually in agitation around her. Her regard was receiving strength by invariable praise of him, and her regrets kept alive, and feelings irritated by ceaseless repetitions of Miss Hawkins's happiness, and continual observation of, how much he seemed attached!--his air as he walked by the house--the very sitting of his hat, being all in proof of how much he was in love! Had it been allowable entertainment, had there been no pain to her friend, or reproach to herself, in the waverings of Harriet's mind, Emma would have been amused by its variations. Sometimes Mr. Elton predominated, sometimes the Martins; and each was occasionally useful as a check to the other. Mr. Elton's engagement had been the cure of the agitation of meeting Mr. Martin. The unhappiness produced by the knowledge of that engagement had been a little put aside by Elizabeth Martin's calling at Mrs. Goddard's a few days afterwards. Harriet had not been at home; but a note had been prepared and left for her, written in the very style to touch; a small mixture of reproach, with a great deal of kindness; and till Mr. Elton himself appeared, she had been much occupied by it, continually pondering over what could be done in return, and wishing to do more than she dared to confess. But Mr. Elton, in person, had driven away all such cares. While he staid, the Martins were forgotten; and on the very morning of his setting off for Bath again, Emma, to dissipate some of the distress it occasioned, judged it best for her to return Elizabeth Martin's visit. Wie dieser Besuch zu würdigen wäre - was notwendig wäre - und was am sichersten wäre, war zweifelhaft. Eine völlige Vernachlässigung der Mutter und Schwestern, wenn sie eingeladen werden, wäre Undankbarkeit. Es darf nicht so sein: Und doch die Gefahr einer Wiederbegegnung--! Nach langem Nachdenken konnte sie nichts Besseres beschließen, als dass Harriet den Besuch erwidern sollte; aber auf eine Weise, die, wenn sie es verstünden, ihnen zeigen würde, dass es nur eine formale Bekanntschaft sein sollte. Sie plante, sie im Kutschenwagen mitzunehmen, sie bei der Abbey Mill abzusetzen, während sie ein Stückchen weiterfährt und sie sofort wieder abholen würde, um keine Zeit für hinterhältige Annäherungsversuche oder gefährliche Wiederholungen der Vergangenheit zu lassen und den entschiedensten Beweis dafür zu liefern, welches Maß an Intimität für die Zukunft gewählt wurde. Sie konnte nichts Besseres denken: Und obwohl etwas daran war, was ihr eigenes Herz nicht befürworten konnte - etwas von Undankbarkeit, nur oberflächlich überdeckt - musste es getan werden, sonst, was würde aus Harriet werden? Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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

Mr. Elton kehrt als glücklicher Mann nach Highbury zurück und verbreitet die Nachricht, wie charmant und schön Augusta Hawkins ist. Die Hochzeit soll bald stattfinden und alle erwarten, dass Elton das nächste Mal, wenn er nach Highbury kommt, seine neue Frau mitbringt. Emma sieht ihn während seines Aufenthalts in Highbury kaum. Sie denkt wenig an die baldige Mrs. Elton, außer dass sie etwas Geld in die Ehe bringt, aber keinen Namen, kein Blut und keine Allianz. Die gesamte Pracht der Verbindung scheint darin zu liegen, dass Miss Hawkins' Schwester eine gute Partie mit einem Mann in der Nähe von Bristol gemacht hat. Wenn es Harriet keinen Schmerz bereiten würde, könnte Emma sich fast darüber amüsieren, wie leicht sie zwischen ihrer Qual über Mr. Martin und Mr. Elton hin- und hergerissen ist. Miss Martin besucht Harriet bei Mrs. Goddard und hinterlässt eine Notiz, als sie sie dort nicht findet. Harriet möchte den Besuch erwidern und Emma beschließt, dass sie mit der Kutsche fahren und Harriet für einen kurzen Besuch bei den Martins absetzen wird, bevor sie sie wieder abholt. Sie wird nur eine kurze Zeit dort erlauben, damit keine Gefahr besteht, dass die Freundschaft zwischen ihr und Mr. Martin wieder aufflammt.

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: _3 October._--As I must do something or go mad, I write this diary. It is now six o'clock, and we are to meet in the study in half an hour and take something to eat; for Dr. Van Helsing and Dr. Seward are agreed that if we do not eat we cannot work our best. Our best will be, God knows, required to-day. I must keep writing at every chance, for I dare not stop to think. All, big and little, must go down; perhaps at the end the little things may teach us most. The teaching, big or little, could not have landed Mina or me anywhere worse than we are to-day. However, we must trust and hope. Poor Mina told me just now, with the tears running down her dear cheeks, that it is in trouble and trial that our faith is tested--that we must keep on trusting; and that God will aid us up to the end. The end! oh my God! what end?... To work! To work! When Dr. Van Helsing and Dr. Seward had come back from seeing poor Renfield, we went gravely into what was to be done. First, Dr. Seward told us that when he and Dr. Van Helsing had gone down to the room below they had found Renfield lying on the floor, all in a heap. His face was all bruised and crushed in, and the bones of the neck were broken. Dr. Seward asked the attendant who was on duty in the passage if he had heard anything. He said that he had been sitting down--he confessed to half dozing--when he heard loud voices in the room, and then Renfield had called out loudly several times, "God! God! God!" after that there was a sound of falling, and when he entered the room he found him lying on the floor, face down, just as the doctors had seen him. Van Helsing asked if he had heard "voices" or "a voice," and he said he could not say; that at first it had seemed to him as if there were two, but as there was no one in the room it could have been only one. He could swear to it, if required, that the word "God" was spoken by the patient. Dr. Seward said to us, when we were alone, that he did not wish to go into the matter; the question of an inquest had to be considered, and it would never do to put forward the truth, as no one would believe it. As it was, he thought that on the attendant's evidence he could give a certificate of death by misadventure in falling from bed. In case the coroner should demand it, there would be a formal inquest, necessarily to the same result. When the question began to be discussed as to what should be our next step, the very first thing we decided was that Mina should be in full confidence; that nothing of any sort--no matter how painful--should be kept from her. She herself agreed as to its wisdom, and it was pitiful to see her so brave and yet so sorrowful, and in such a depth of despair. "There must be no concealment," she said, "Alas! we have had too much already. And besides there is nothing in all the world that can give me more pain than I have already endured--than I suffer now! Whatever may happen, it must be of new hope or of new courage to me!" Van Helsing was looking at her fixedly as she spoke, and said, suddenly but quietly:-- "But dear Madam Mina, are you not afraid; not for yourself, but for others from yourself, after what has happened?" Her face grew set in its lines, but her eyes shone with the devotion of a martyr as she answered:-- "Ah no! for my mind is made up!" "To what?" he asked gently, whilst we were all very still; for each in our own way we had a sort of vague idea of what she meant. Her answer came with direct simplicity, as though she were simply stating a fact:-- "Because if I find in myself--and I shall watch keenly for it--a sign of harm to any that I love, I shall die!" "You would not kill yourself?" he asked, hoarsely. "I would; if there were no friend who loved me, who would save me such a pain, and so desperate an effort!" She looked at him meaningly as she spoke. He was sitting down; but now he rose and came close to her and put his hand on her head as he said solemnly: "My child, there is such an one if it were for your good. For myself I could hold it in my account with God to find such an euthanasia for you, even at this moment if it were best. Nay, were it safe! But my child----" For a moment he seemed choked, and a great sob rose in his throat; he gulped it down and went on:-- "There are here some who would stand between you and death. You must not die. You must not die by any hand; but least of all by your own. Until the other, who has fouled your sweet life, is true dead you must not die; for if he is still with the quick Un-Dead, your death would make you even as he is. No, you must live! You must struggle and strive to live, though death would seem a boon unspeakable. You must fight Death himself, though he come to you in pain or in joy; by the day, or the night; in safety or in peril! On your living soul I charge you that you do not die--nay, nor think of death--till this great evil be past." The poor dear grew white as death, and shock and shivered, as I have seen a quicksand shake and shiver at the incoming of the tide. We were all silent; we could do nothing. At length she grew more calm and turning to him said, sweetly, but oh! so sorrowfully, as she held out her hand:-- "I promise you, my dear friend, that if God will let me live, I shall strive to do so; till, if it may be in His good time, this horror may have passed away from me." She was so good and brave that we all felt that our hearts were strengthened to work and endure for her, and we began to discuss what we were to do. I told her that she was to have all the papers in the safe, and all the papers or diaries and phonographs we might hereafter use; and was to keep the record as she had done before. She was pleased with the prospect of anything to do--if "pleased" could be used in connection with so grim an interest. As usual Van Helsing had thought ahead of everyone else, and was prepared with an exact ordering of our work. "It is perhaps well," he said, "that at our meeting after our visit to Carfax we decided not to do anything with the earth-boxes that lay there. Had we done so, the Count must have guessed our purpose, and would doubtless have taken measures in advance to frustrate such an effort with regard to the others; but now he does not know our intentions. Nay, more, in all probability, he does not know that such a power exists to us as can sterilise his lairs, so that he cannot use them as of old. We are now so much further advanced in our knowledge as to their disposition that, when we have examined the house in Piccadilly, we may track the very last of them. To-day, then, is ours; and in it rests our hope. The sun that rose on our sorrow this morning guards us in its course. Until it sets to-night, that monster must retain whatever form he now has. He is confined within the limitations of his earthly envelope. He cannot melt into thin air nor disappear through cracks or chinks or crannies. If he go through a doorway, he must open the door like a mortal. And so we have this day to hunt out all his lairs and sterilise them. So we shall, if we have not yet catch him and destroy him, drive him to bay in some place where the catching and the destroying shall be, in time, sure." Here I started up for I could not contain myself at the thought that the minutes and seconds so preciously laden with Mina's life and happiness were flying from us, since whilst we talked action was impossible. But Van Helsing held up his hand warningly. "Nay, friend Jonathan," he said, "in this, the quickest way home is the longest way, so your proverb say. We shall all act and act with desperate quick, when the time has come. But think, in all probable the key of the situation is in that house in Piccadilly. The Count may have many houses which he has bought. Of them he will have deeds of purchase, keys and other things. He will have paper that he write on; he will have his book of cheques. There are many belongings that he must have somewhere; why not in this place so central, so quiet, where he come and go by the front or the back at all hour, when in the very vast of the traffic there is none to notice. We shall go there and search that house; and when we learn what it holds, then we do what our friend Arthur call, in his phrases of hunt 'stop the earths' and so we run down our old fox--so? is it not?" "Then let us come at once," I cried, "we are wasting the precious, precious time!" The Professor did not move, but simply said:-- "And how are we to get into that house in Piccadilly?" "Any way!" I cried. "We shall break in if need be." "And your police; where will they be, and what will they say?" I was staggered; but I knew that if he wished to delay he had a good reason for it. So I said, as quietly as I could:-- "Don't wait more than need be; you know, I am sure, what torture I am in." "Ah, my child, that I do; and indeed there is no wish of me to add to your anguish. But just think, what can we do, until all the world be at movement. Then will come our time. I have thought and thought, and it seems to me that the simplest way is the best of all. Now we wish to get into the house, but we have no key; is it not so?" I nodded. "Now suppose that you were, in truth, the owner of that house, and could not still get it; and think there was to you no conscience of the housebreaker, what would you do?" "I should get a respectable locksmith, and set him to work to pick the lock for me." "And your police, they would interfere, would they not?" "Oh, no! not if they knew the man was properly employed." "Then," he looked at me as keenly as he spoke, "all that is in doubt is the conscience of the employer, and the belief of your policemen as to whether or no that employer has a good conscience or a bad one. Your police must indeed be zealous men and clever--oh, so clever!--in reading the heart, that they trouble themselves in such matter. No, no, my friend Jonathan, you go take the lock off a hundred empty house in this your London, or of any city in the world; and if you do it as such things are rightly done, and at the time such things are rightly done, no one will interfere. I have read of a gentleman who owned a so fine house in London, and when he went for months of summer to Switzerland and lock up his house, some burglar came and broke window at back and got in. Then he went and made open the shutters in front and walk out and in through the door, before the very eyes of the police. Then he have an auction in that house, and advertise it, and put up big notice; and when the day come he sell off by a great auctioneer all the goods of that other man who own them. Then he go to a builder, and he sell him that house, making an agreement that he pull it down and take all away within a certain time. And your police and other authority help him all they can. And when that owner come back from his holiday in Switzerland he find only an empty hole where his house had been. This was all done _en regle_; and in our work we shall be _en regle_ too. We shall not go so early that the policemen who have then little to think of, shall deem it strange; but we shall go after ten o'clock, when there are many about, and such things would be done were we indeed owners of the house." I could not but see how right he was and the terrible despair of Mina's face became relaxed a thought; there was hope in such good counsel. Van Helsing went on:-- "When once within that house we may find more clues; at any rate some of us can remain there whilst the rest find the other places where there be more earth-boxes--at Bermondsey and Mile End." Lord Godalming stood up. "I can be of some use here," he said. "I shall wire to my people to have horses and carriages where they will be most convenient." "Look here, old fellow," said Morris, "it is a capital idea to have all ready in case we want to go horsebacking; but don't you think that one of your snappy carriages with its heraldic adornments in a byway of Walworth or Mile End would attract too much attention for our purposes? It seems to me that we ought to take cabs when we go south or east; and even leave them somewhere near the neighbourhood we are going to." "Friend Quincey is right!" said the Professor. "His head is what you call in plane with the horizon. It is a difficult thing that we go to do, and we do not want no peoples to watch us if so it may." Mina took a growing interest in everything and I was rejoiced to see that the exigency of affairs was helping her to forget for a time the terrible experience of the night. She was very, very pale--almost ghastly, and so thin that her lips were drawn away, showing her teeth in somewhat of prominence. I did not mention this last, lest it should give her needless pain; but it made my blood run cold in my veins to think of what had occurred with poor Lucy when the Count had sucked her blood. As yet there was no sign of the teeth growing sharper; but the time as yet was short, and there was time for fear. When we came to the discussion of the sequence of our efforts and of the disposition of our forces, there were new sources of doubt. It was finally agreed that before starting for Piccadilly we should destroy the Count's lair close at hand. In case he should find it out too soon, we should thus be still ahead of him in our work of destruction; and his presence in his purely material shape, and at his weakest, might give us some new clue. As to the disposal of forces, it was suggested by the Professor that, after our visit to Carfax, we should all enter the house in Piccadilly; that the two doctors and I should remain there, whilst Lord Godalming and Quincey found the lairs at Walworth and Mile End and destroyed them. It was possible, if not likely, the Professor urged, that the Count might appear in Piccadilly during the day, and that if so we might be able to cope with him then and there. At any rate, we might be able to follow him in force. To this plan I strenuously objected, and so far as my going was concerned, for I said that I intended to stay and protect Mina, I thought that my mind was made up on the subject; but Mina would not listen to my objection. She said that there might be some law matter in which I could be useful; that amongst the Count's papers might be some clue which I could understand out of my experience in Transylvania; and that, as it was, all the strength we could muster was required to cope with the Count's extraordinary power. I had to give in, for Mina's resolution was fixed; she said that it was the last hope for _her_ that we should all work together. "As for me," she said, "I have no fear. Things have been as bad as they can be; and whatever may happen must have in it some element of hope or comfort. Go, my husband! God can, if He wishes it, guard me as well alone as with any one present." So I started up crying out: "Then in God's name let us come at once, for we are losing time. The Count may come to Piccadilly earlier than we think." "Not so!" said Van Helsing, holding up his hand. "But why?" I asked. "Do you forget," he said, with actually a smile, "that last night he banqueted heavily, and will sleep late?" Did I forget! shall I ever--can I ever! Can any of us ever forget that terrible scene! Mina struggled hard to keep her brave countenance; but the pain overmastered her and she put her hands before her face, and shuddered whilst she moaned. Van Helsing had not intended to recall her frightful experience. He had simply lost sight of her and her part in the affair in his intellectual effort. When it struck him what he said, he was horrified at his thoughtlessness and tried to comfort her. "Oh, Madam Mina," he said, "dear, dear Madam Mina, alas! that I of all who so reverence you should have said anything so forgetful. These stupid old lips of mine and this stupid old head do not deserve so; but you will forget it, will you not?" He bent low beside her as he spoke; she took his hand, and looking at him through her tears, said hoarsely:-- "No, I shall not forget, for it is well that I remember; and with it I have so much in memory of you that is sweet, that I take it all together. Now, you must all be going soon. Breakfast is ready, and we must all eat that we may be strong." Breakfast was a strange meal to us all. We tried to be cheerful and encourage each other, and Mina was the brightest and most cheerful of us. When it was over, Van Helsing stood up and said:-- "Now, my dear friends, we go forth to our terrible enterprise. Are we all armed, as we were on that night when first we visited our enemy's lair; armed against ghostly as well as carnal attack?" We all assured him. "Then it is well. Now, Madam Mina, you are in any case _quite_ safe here until the sunset; and before then we shall return--if---- We shall return! But before we go let me see you armed against personal attack. I have myself, since you came down, prepared your chamber by the placing of things of which we know, so that He may not enter. Now let me guard yourself. On your forehead I touch this piece of Sacred Wafer in the name of the Father, the Son, and----" There was a fearful scream which almost froze our hearts to hear. As he had placed the Wafer on Mina's forehead, it had seared it--had burned into the flesh as though it had been a piece of white-hot metal. My poor darling's brain had told her the significance of the fact as quickly as her nerves received the pain of it; and the two so overwhelmed her that her overwrought nature had its voice in that dreadful scream. But the words to her thought came quickly; the echo of the scream had not ceased to ring on the air when there came the reaction, and she sank on her knees on the floor in an agony of abasement. Pulling her beautiful hair over her face, as the leper of old his mantle, she wailed out:-- "Unclean! Unclean! Even the Almighty shuns my polluted flesh! I must bear this mark of shame upon my forehead until the Judgment Day." They all paused. I had thrown myself beside her in an agony of helpless grief, and putting my arms around held her tight. For a few minutes our sorrowful hearts beat together, whilst the friends around us turned away their eyes that ran tears silently. Then Van Helsing turned and said gravely; so gravely that I could not help feeling that he was in some way inspired, and was stating things outside himself:-- "It may be that you may have to bear that mark till God himself see fit, as He most surely shall, on the Judgment Day, to redress all wrongs of the earth and of His children that He has placed thereon. And oh, Madam Mina, my dear, my dear, may we who love you be there to see, when that red scar, the sign of God's knowledge of what has been, shall pass away, and leave your forehead as pure as the heart we know. For so surely as we live, that scar shall pass away when God sees right to lift the burden that is hard upon us. Till then we bear our Cross, as His Son did in obedience to His Will. It may be that we are chosen instruments of His good pleasure, and that we ascend to His bidding as that other through stripes and shame; through tears and blood; through doubts and fears, and all that makes the difference between God and man." There was hope in his words, and comfort; and they made for resignation. Mina and I both felt so, and simultaneously we each took one of the old man's hands and bent over and kissed it. Then without a word we all knelt down together, and, all holding hands, swore to be true to each other. We men pledged ourselves to raise the veil of sorrow from the head of her whom, each in his own way, we loved; and we prayed for help and guidance in the terrible task which lay before us. It was then time to start. So I said farewell to Mina, a parting which neither of us shall forget to our dying day; and we set out. To one thing I have made up my mind: if we find out that Mina must be a vampire in the end, then she shall not go into that unknown and terrible land alone. I suppose it is thus that in old times one vampire meant many; just as their hideous bodies could only rest in sacred earth, so the holiest love was the recruiting sergeant for their ghastly ranks. We entered Carfax without trouble and found all things the same as on the first occasion. It was hard to believe that amongst so prosaic surroundings of neglect and dust and decay there was any ground for such fear as already we knew. Had not our minds been made up, and had there not been terrible memories to spur us on, we could hardly have proceeded with our task. We found no papers, or any sign of use in the house; and in the old chapel the great boxes looked just as we had seen them last. Dr. Van Helsing said to us solemnly as we stood before them:-- "And now, my friends, we have a duty here to do. We must sterilise this earth, so sacred of holy memories, that he has brought from a far distant land for such fell use. He has chosen this earth because it has been holy. Thus we defeat him with his own weapon, for we make it more holy still. It was sanctified to such use of man, now we sanctify it to God." As he spoke he took from his bag a screwdriver and a wrench, and very soon the top of one of the cases was thrown open. The earth smelled musty and close; but we did not somehow seem to mind, for our attention was concentrated on the Professor. Taking from his box a piece of the Sacred Wafer he laid it reverently on the earth, and then shutting down the lid began to screw it home, we aiding him as he worked. One by one we treated in the same way each of the great boxes, and left them as we had found them to all appearance; but in each was a portion of the Host. When we closed the door behind us, the Professor said solemnly:-- "So much is already done. If it may be that with all the others we can be so successful, then the sunset of this evening may shine on Madam Mina's forehead all white as ivory and with no stain!" As we passed across the lawn on our way to the station to catch our train we could see the front of the asylum. I looked eagerly, and in the window of my own room saw Mina. I waved my hand to her, and nodded to tell that our work there was successfully accomplished. She nodded in reply to show that she understood. The last I saw, she was waving her hand in farewell. It was with a heavy heart that we sought the station and just caught the train, which was steaming in as we reached the platform. I have written this in the train. * * * * * _Piccadilly, 12:30 o'clock._--Just before we reached Fenchurch Street Lord Godalming said to me:-- "Quincey and I will find a locksmith. You had better not come with us in case there should be any difficulty; for under the circumstances it wouldn't seem so bad for us to break into an empty house. But you are a solicitor and the Incorporated Law Society might tell you that you should have known better." I demurred as to my not sharing any danger even of odium, but he went on: "Besides, it will attract less attention if there are not too many of us. My title will make it all right with the locksmith, and with any policeman that may come along. You had better go with Jack and the Professor and stay in the Green Park, somewhere in sight of the house; and when you see the door opened and the smith has gone away, do you all come across. We shall be on the lookout for you, and shall let you in." "The advice is good!" said Van Helsing, so we said no more. Godalming and Morris hurried off in a cab, we following in another. At the corner of Arlington Street our contingent got out and strolled into the Green Park. My heart beat as I saw the house on which so much of our hope was centred, looming up grim and silent in its deserted condition amongst its more lively and spruce-looking neighbours. We sat down on a bench within good view, and began to smoke cigars so as to attract as little attention as possible. The minutes seemed to pass with leaden feet as we waited for the coming of the others. At length we saw a four-wheeler drive up. Out of it, in leisurely fashion, got Lord Godalming and Morris; and down from the box descended a thick-set working man with his rush-woven basket of tools. Morris paid the cabman, who touched his hat and drove away. Together the two ascended the steps, and Lord Godalming pointed out what he wanted done. The workman took off his coat leisurely and hung it on one of the spikes of the rail, saying something to a policeman who just then sauntered along. The policeman nodded acquiescence, and the man kneeling down placed his bag beside him. After searching through it, he took out a selection of tools which he produced to lay beside him in orderly fashion. Then he stood up, looked into the keyhole, blew into it, and turning to his employers, made some remark. Lord Godalming smiled, and the man lifted a good-sized bunch of keys; selecting one of them, he began to probe the lock, as if feeling his way with it. After fumbling about for a bit he tried a second, and then a third. All at once the door opened under a slight push from him, and he and the two others entered the hall. We sat still; my own cigar burnt furiously, but Van Helsing's went cold altogether. We waited patiently as we saw the workman come out and bring in his bag. Then he held the door partly open, steadying it with his knees, whilst he fitted a key to the lock. This he finally handed to Lord Godalming, who took out his purse and gave him something. The man touched his hat, took his bag, put on his coat and departed; not a soul took the slightest notice of the whole transaction. When the man had fairly gone, we three crossed the street and knocked at the door. It was immediately opened by Quincey Morris, beside whom stood Lord Godalming lighting a cigar. "The place smells so vilely," said the latter as we came in. It did indeed smell vilely--like the old chapel at Carfax--and with our previous experience it was plain to us that the Count had been using the place pretty freely. We moved to explore the house, all keeping together in case of attack; for we knew we had a strong and wily enemy to deal with, and as yet we did not know whether the Count might not be in the house. In the dining-room, which lay at the back of the hall, we found eight boxes of earth. Eight boxes only out of the nine, which we sought! Our work was not over, and would never be until we should have found the missing box. First we opened the shutters of the window which looked out across a narrow stone-flagged yard at the blank face of a stable, pointed to look like the front of a miniature house. There were no windows in it, so we were not afraid of being over-looked. We did not lose any time in examining the chests. With the tools which we had brought with us we opened them, one by one, and treated them as we had treated those others in the old chapel. It was evident to us that the Count was not at present in the house, and we proceeded to search for any of his effects. After a cursory glance at the rest of the rooms, from basement to attic, we came to the conclusion that the dining-room contained any effects which might belong to the Count; and so we proceeded to minutely examine them. They lay in a sort of orderly disorder on the great dining-room table. There were title deeds of the Piccadilly house in a great bundle; deeds of the purchase of the houses at Mile End and Bermondsey; note-paper, envelopes, and pens and ink. All were covered up in thin wrapping paper to keep them from the dust. There were also a clothes brush, a brush and comb, and a jug and basin--the latter containing dirty water which was reddened as if with blood. Last of all was a little heap of keys of all sorts and sizes, probably those belonging to the other houses. When we had examined this last find, Lord Godalming and Quincey Morris taking accurate notes of the various addresses of the houses in the East and the South, took with them the keys in a great bunch, and set out to destroy the boxes in these places. The rest of us are, with what patience we can, waiting their return--or the coming of the Count. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben stehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Seward und Van Helsing berichten den anderen, dass sie Renfield tot gefunden haben, sein Körper war blau und sein Nacken gebrochen. Der Pfleger vor Renfields Zimmer hörte zumindest eine Stimme - er war sich unsicher, ob er zwei gehört hat - bevor Renfield mehrmals "Gott!" schrie. Bei der Planung ihrer nächsten Schritte stimmen die Männer zu, Mina vollständig in ihre Pläne und Geheimnisse einzubeziehen. Mina hat sich ihrerseits dazu entschlossen, sich umzubringen, falls sie feststellen sollte, dass sie zum Vampir geworden ist und eine Gefahr für andere Menschen darstellen würde. Van Helsing drängt sie stattdessen dazu, um ihr Leben zu kämpfen. Er versucht, Mina Schutz zu bieten, indem er sie mit einer geweihten Hostie segnet; bemerkenswerterweise verbrennt die Oblate Minas Haut. Ihre Begegnung mit Dracula hat sie kontaminiert - möglicherweise unwiderruflich, oder zumindest bis der Vampir vernichtet wurde. Van Helsing stellt fest, dass Graf Dracula aufgrund der bisherigen Unberührtheit der Erdboxen, die sie gefunden haben, nicht über ihre genauen Pläne gegen ihn informiert ist. Er behauptet, dass Dracula während des Tages in welcher Form auch immer er sich jetzt befindet, bleiben muss. Van Helsing schließt daraus, dass die Männer den Tag nutzen müssen, um die Erde zu sterilisieren, die der Vampir aus seiner Heimat mitgebracht hat. Die Männer engagieren einen Schlosser, um Zugang zum Haus von Dracula in der Piccadilly zu bekommen. Dort legt Van Helsing in jede der Erdboxen des Grafen ein Stück geweihte Hostie, um den Boden für ihn unerträglich zu machen und nicht länger eine Zuflucht: "Er hat diese Erde gewählt, weil sie heilig war. So besiegen wir ihn mit seiner eigenen Waffe, indem wir sie noch heiliger machen." Der Prozess wird an einem weiteren Versteck von Dracula wiederholt, wo die Männer noch acht der neun gesuchten Erdboxen finden. Sie finden jedoch auch Draculas Schlüssel zu seinen anderen Häusern, zusammen mit ihren Adressen. Arthur und Quincy machen sich auf den Weg, um die verbleibenden Erdboxen zu finden und zu sterilisieren; Seward, Harker und Van Helsing warten auf ihre Rückkehr - oder auf die Rückkehr von Dracula.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: <CHAPTER> 5--The Journey across the Heath Thursday, the thirty-first of August, was one of a series of days during which snug houses were stifling, and when cool draughts were treats; when cracks appeared in clayey gardens, and were called "earthquakes" by apprehensive children; when loose spokes were discovered in the wheels of carts and carriages; and when stinging insects haunted the air, the earth, and every drop of water that was to be found. In Mrs. Yeobright's garden large-leaved plants of a tender kind flagged by ten o'clock in the morning; rhubarb bent downward at eleven; and even stiff cabbages were limp by noon. It was about eleven o'clock on this day that Mrs. Yeobright started across the heath towards her son's house, to do her best in getting reconciled with him and Eustacia, in conformity with her words to the reddleman. She had hoped to be well advanced in her walk before the heat of the day was at its highest, but after setting out she found that this was not to be done. The sun had branded the whole heath with its mark, even the purple heath-flowers having put on a brownness under the dry blazes of the few preceding days. Every valley was filled with air like that of a kiln, and the clean quartz sand of the winter water-courses, which formed summer paths, had undergone a species of incineration since the drought had set in. In cool, fresh weather Mrs. Yeobright would have found no inconvenience in walking to Alderworth, but the present torrid attack made the journey a heavy undertaking for a woman past middle age; and at the end of the third mile she wished that she had hired Fairway to drive her a portion at least of the distance. But from the point at which she had arrived it was as easy to reach Clym's house as to get home again. So she went on, the air around her pulsating silently, and oppressing the earth with lassitude. She looked at the sky overhead, and saw that the sapphirine hue of the zenith in spring and early summer had been replaced by a metallic violet. Occasionally she came to a spot where independent worlds of ephemerons were passing their time in mad carousal, some in the air, some on the hot ground and vegetation, some in the tepid and stringy water of a nearly dried pool. All the shallower ponds had decreased to a vaporous mud amid which the maggoty shapes of innumerable obscure creatures could be indistinctly seen, heaving and wallowing with enjoyment. Being a woman not disinclined to philosophize she sometimes sat down under her umbrella to rest and to watch their happiness, for a certain hopefulness as to the result of her visit gave ease to her mind, and between important thoughts left it free to dwell on any infinitesimal matter which caught her eyes. Mrs. Yeobright had never before been to her son's house, and its exact position was unknown to her. She tried one ascending path and another, and found that they led her astray. Retracing her steps, she came again to an open level, where she perceived at a distance a man at work. She went towards him and inquired the way. The labourer pointed out the direction, and added, "Do you see that furze-cutter, ma'am, going up that footpath yond?" Mrs. Yeobright strained her eyes, and at last said that she did perceive him. "Well, if you follow him you can make no mistake. He's going to the same place, ma'am." She followed the figure indicated. He appeared of a russet hue, not more distinguishable from the scene around him than the green caterpillar from the leaf it feeds on. His progress when actually walking was more rapid than Mrs. Yeobright's; but she was enabled to keep at an equable distance from him by his habit of stopping whenever he came to a brake of brambles, where he paused awhile. On coming in her turn to each of these spots she found half a dozen long limp brambles which he had cut from the bush during his halt and laid out straight beside the path. They were evidently intended for furze-faggot bonds which he meant to collect on his return. The silent being who thus occupied himself seemed to be of no more account in life than an insect. He appeared as a mere parasite of the heath, fretting its surface in his daily labour as a moth frets a garment, entirely engrossed with its products, having no knowledge of anything in the world but fern, furze, heath, lichens, and moss. The furze-cutter was so absorbed in the business of his journey that he never turned his head; and his leather-legged and gauntleted form at length became to her as nothing more than a moving handpost to show her the way. Suddenly she was attracted to his individuality by observing peculiarities in his walk. It was a gait she had seen somewhere before; and the gait revealed the man to her, as the gait of Ahimaaz in the distant plain made him known to the watchman of the king. "His walk is exactly as my husband's used to be," she said; and then the thought burst upon her that the furze-cutter was her son. She was scarcely able to familiarize herself with this strange reality. She had been told that Clym was in the habit of cutting furze, but she had supposed that he occupied himself with the labour only at odd times, by way of useful pastime; yet she now beheld him as a furze-cutter and nothing more--wearing the regulation dress of the craft, and thinking the regulation thoughts, to judge by his motions. Planning a dozen hasty schemes for at once preserving him and Eustacia from this mode of life, she throbbingly followed the way, and saw him enter his own door. At one side of Clym's house was a knoll, and on the top of the knoll a clump of fir trees so highly thrust up into the sky that their foliage from a distance appeared as a black spot in the air above the crown of the hill. On reaching this place Mrs. Yeobright felt distressingly agitated, weary, and unwell. She ascended, and sat down under their shade to recover herself, and to consider how best to break the ground with Eustacia, so as not to irritate a woman underneath whose apparent indolence lurked passions even stronger and more active than her own. The trees beneath which she sat were singularly battered, rude, and wild, and for a few minutes Mrs. Yeobright dismissed thoughts of her own storm-broken and exhausted state to contemplate theirs. Not a bough in the nine trees which composed the group but was splintered, lopped, and distorted by the fierce weather that there held them at its mercy whenever it prevailed. Some were blasted and split as if by lightning, black stains as from fire marking their sides, while the ground at their feet was strewn with dead fir-needles and heaps of cones blown down in the gales of past years. The place was called the Devil's Bellows, and it was only necessary to come there on a March or November night to discover the forcible reasons for that name. On the present heated afternoon, when no perceptible wind was blowing, the trees kept up a perpetual moan which one could hardly believe to be caused by the air. Here she sat for twenty minutes or more ere she could summon resolution to go down to the door, her courage being lowered to zero by her physical lassitude. To any other person than a mother it might have seemed a little humiliating that she, the elder of the two women, should be the first to make advances. But Mrs. Yeobright had well considered all that, and she only thought how best to make her visit appear to Eustacia not abject but wise. From her elevated position the exhausted woman could perceive the roof of the house below, and the garden and the whole enclosure of the little domicile. And now, at the moment of rising, she saw a second man approaching the gate. His manner was peculiar, hesitating, and not that of a person come on business or by invitation. He surveyed the house with interest, and then walked round and scanned the outer boundary of the garden, as one might have done had it been the birthplace of Shakespeare, the prison of Mary Stuart, or the Chateau of Hougomont. After passing round and again reaching the gate he went in. Mrs. Yeobright was vexed at this, having reckoned on finding her son and his wife by themselves; but a moment's thought showed her that the presence of an acquaintance would take off the awkwardness of her first appearance in the house, by confining the talk to general matters until she had begun to feel comfortable with them. She came down the hill to the gate, and looked into the hot garden. There lay the cat asleep on the bare gravel of the path, as if beds, rugs, and carpets were unendurable. The leaves of the hollyhocks hung like half-closed umbrellas, the sap almost simmered in the stems, and foliage with a smooth surface glared like metallic mirrors. A small apple tree, of the sort called Ratheripe, grew just inside the gate, the only one which throve in the garden, by reason of the lightness of the soil; and among the fallen apples on the ground beneath were wasps rolling drunk with the juice, or creeping about the little caves in each fruit which they had eaten out before stupefied by its sweetness. By the door lay Clym's furze-hook and the last handful of faggot-bonds she had seen him gather; they had plainly been thrown down there as he entered the house. </CHAPTER> <CHAPTER> 6--A Conjuncture, and Its Result upon the Pedestrian Wildeve, as has been stated, was determined to visit Eustacia boldly, by day, and on the easy terms of a relation, since the reddleman had spied out and spoilt his walks to her by night. The spell that she had thrown over him in the moonlight dance made it impossible for a man having no strong puritanic force within him to keep away altogether. He merely calculated on meeting her and her husband in an ordinary manner, chatting a little while, and leaving again. Every outward sign was to be conventional; but the one great fact would be there to satisfy him--he would see her. He did not even desire Clym's absence, since it was just possible that Eustacia might resent any situation which could compromise her dignity as a wife, whatever the state of her heart towards him. Women were often so. He went accordingly; and it happened that the time of his arrival coincided with that of Mrs. Yeobright's pause on the hill near the house. When he had looked round the premises in the manner she had noticed he went and knocked at the door. There was a few minutes' interval, and then the key turned in the lock, the door opened, and Eustacia herself confronted him. Nobody could have imagined from her bearing now that here stood the woman who had joined with him in the impassioned dance of the week before, unless indeed he could have penetrated below the surface and gauged the real depth of that still stream. "I hope you reached home safely?" said Wildeve. "O yes," she carelessly returned. "And were you not tired the next day? I feared you might be." "I was rather. You need not speak low--nobody will over-hear us. My small servant is gone on an errand to the village." "Then Clym is not at home?" "Yes, he is." "O! I thought that perhaps you had locked the door because you were alone and were afraid of tramps." "No--here is my husband." They had been standing in the entry. Closing the front door and turning the key, as before, she threw open the door of the adjoining room and asked him to walk in. Wildeve entered, the room appearing to be empty; but as soon as he had advanced a few steps he started. On the hearthrug lay Clym asleep. Beside him were the leggings, thick boots, leather gloves, and sleeve-waistcoat in which he worked. "You may go in; you will not disturb him," she said, following behind. "My reason for fastening the door is that he may not be intruded upon by any chance comer while lying here, if I should be in the garden or upstairs." "Why is he sleeping there?" said Wildeve in low tones. "He is very weary. He went out at half-past four this morning, and has been working ever since. He cuts furze because it is the only thing he can do that does not put any strain upon his poor eyes." The contrast between the sleeper's appearance and Wildeve's at this moment was painfully apparent to Eustacia, Wildeve being elegantly dressed in a new summer suit and light hat; and she continued: "Ah! you don't know how differently he appeared when I first met him, though it is such a little while ago. His hands were as white and soft as mine; and look at them now, how rough and brown they are! His complexion is by nature fair, and that rusty look he has now, all of a colour with his leather clothes, is caused by the burning of the sun." "Why does he go out at all!" Wildeve whispered. "Because he hates to be idle; though what he earns doesn't add much to our exchequer. However, he says that when people are living upon their capital they must keep down current expenses by turning a penny where they can." "The fates have not been kind to you, Eustacia Yeobright." "I have nothing to thank them for." "Nor has he--except for their one great gift to him." "What's that?" Wildeve looked her in the eyes. Eustacia blushed for the first time that day. "Well, I am a questionable gift," she said quietly. "I thought you meant the gift of content--which he has, and I have not." "I can understand content in such a case--though how the outward situation can attract him puzzles me." "That's because you don't know him. He's an enthusiast about ideas, and careless about outward things. He often reminds me of the Apostle Paul." "I am glad to hear that he's so grand in character as that." "Yes; but the worst of it is that though Paul was excellent as a man in the Bible he would hardly have done in real life." Their voices had instinctively dropped lower, though at first they had taken no particular care to avoid awakening Clym. "Well, if that means that your marriage is a misfortune to you, you know who is to blame," said Wildeve. "The marriage is no misfortune in itself," she retorted with some little petulance. "It is simply the accident which has happened since that has been the cause of my ruin. I have certainly got thistles for figs in a worldly sense, but how could I tell what time would bring forth?" "Sometimes, Eustacia, I think it is a judgment upon you. You rightly belonged to me, you know; and I had no idea of losing you." "No, it was not my fault! Two could not belong to you; and remember that, before I was aware, you turned aside to another woman. It was cruel levity in you to do that. I never dreamt of playing such a game on my side till you began it on yours." "I meant nothing by it," replied Wildeve. "It was a mere interlude. Men are given to the trick of having a passing fancy for somebody else in the midst of a permanent love, which reasserts itself afterwards just as before. On account of your rebellious manner to me I was tempted to go further than I should have done; and when you still would keep playing the same tantalizing part I went further still, and married her." Turning and looking again at the unconscious form of Clym, he murmured, "I am afraid that you don't value your prize, Clym.... He ought to be happier than I in one thing at least. He may know what it is to come down in the world, and to be afflicted with a great personal calamity; but he probably doesn't know what it is to lose the woman he loved." "He is not ungrateful for winning her," whispered Eustacia, "and in that respect he is a good man. Many women would go far for such a husband. But do I desire unreasonably much in wanting what is called life--music, poetry, passion, war, and all the beating and pulsing that are going on in the great arteries of the world? That was the shape of my youthful dream; but I did not get it. Yet I thought I saw the way to it in my Clym." "And you only married him on that account?" "There you mistake me. I married him because I loved him, but I won't say that I didn't love him partly because I thought I saw a promise of that life in him." "You have dropped into your old mournful key." "But I am not going to be depressed," she cried perversely. "I began a new system by going to that dance, and I mean to stick to it. Clym can sing merrily; why should not I?" Wildeve looked thoughtfully at her. "It is easier to say you will sing than to do it; though if I could I would encourage you in your attempt. But as life means nothing to me, without one thing which is now impossible, you will forgive me for not being able to encourage you." "Damon, what is the matter with you, that you speak like that?" she asked, raising her deep shady eyes to his. "That's a thing I shall never tell plainly; and perhaps if I try to tell you in riddles you will not care to guess them." Eustacia remained silent for a minute, and she said, "We are in a strange relationship today. You mince matters to an uncommon nicety. You mean, Damon, that you still love me. Well, that gives me sorrow, for I am not made so entirely happy by my marriage that I am willing to spurn you for the information, as I ought to do. But we have said too much about this. Do you mean to wait until my husband is awake?" "I thought to speak to him; but it is unnecessary, Eustacia, if I offend you by not forgetting you, you are right to mention it; but do not talk of spurning." She did not reply, and they stood looking musingly at Clym as he slept on in that profound sleep which is the result of physical labour carried on in circumstances that wake no nervous fear. "God, how I envy him that sweet sleep!" said Wildeve. "I have not slept like that since I was a boy--years and years ago." While they thus watched him a click at the gate was audible, and a knock came to the door. Eustacia went to a window and looked out. Her countenance changed. First she became crimson, and then the red subsided till it even partially left her lips. "Shall I go away?" said Wildeve, standing up. "I hardly know." "Who is it?" "Mrs. Yeobright. O, what she said to me that day! I cannot understand this visit--what does she mean? And she suspects that past time of ours." "I am in your hands. If you think she had better not see me here I'll go into the next room." "Well, yes--go." Wildeve at once withdrew; but before he had been half a minute in the adjoining apartment Eustacia came after him. "No," she said, "we won't have any of this. If she comes in she must see you--and think if she likes there's something wrong! But how can I open the door to her, when she dislikes me--wishes to see not me, but her son? I won't open the door!" Mrs. Yeobright knocked again more loudly. "Her knocking will, in all likelihood, awaken him," continued Eustacia, "and then he will let her in himself. Ah--listen." They could hear Clym moving in the other room, as if disturbed by the knocking, and he uttered the word "Mother." "Yes--he is awake--he will go to the door," she said, with a breath of relief. "Come this way. I have a bad name with her, and you must not be seen. Thus I am obliged to act by stealth, not because I do ill, but because others are pleased to say so." By this time she had taken him to the back door, which was open, disclosing a path leading down the garden. "Now, one word, Damon," she remarked as he stepped forth. "This is your first visit here; let it be your last. We have been hot lovers in our time, but it won't do now. Good-bye." "Good-bye," said Wildeve. "I have had all I came for, and I am satisfied." "What was it?" "A sight of you. Upon my eternal honour I came for no more." Wildeve kissed his hand to the beautiful girl he addressed, and passed into the garden, where she watched him down the path, over the stile at the end, and into the ferns outside, which brushed his hips as he went along till he became lost in their thickets. When he had quite gone she slowly turned, and directed her attention to the interior of the house. But it was possible that her presence might not be desired by Clym and his mother at this moment of their first meeting, or that it would be superfluous. At all events, she was in no hurry to meet Mrs. Yeobright. She resolved to wait till Clym came to look for her, and glided back into the garden. Here she idly occupied herself for a few minutes, till finding no notice was taken of her she retraced her steps through the house to the front, where she listened for voices in the parlour. But hearing none she opened the door and went in. To her astonishment Clym lay precisely as Wildeve and herself had left him, his sleep apparently unbroken. He had been disturbed and made to dream and murmur by the knocking, but he had not awakened. Eustacia hastened to the door, and in spite of her reluctance to open it to a woman who had spoken of her so bitterly, she unfastened it and looked out. Nobody was to be seen. There, by the scraper, lay Clym's hook and the handful of faggot-bonds he had brought home; in front of her were the empty path, the garden gate standing slightly ajar; and, beyond, the great valley of purple heath thrilling silently in the sun. Mrs. Yeobright was gone. Clym's mother was at this time following a path which lay hidden from Eustacia by a shoulder of the hill. Her walk thither from the garden gate had been hasty and determined, as of a woman who was now no less anxious to escape from the scene than she had previously been to enter it. Her eyes were fixed on the ground; within her two sights were graven--that of Clym's hook and brambles at the door, and that of a woman's face at a window. Her lips trembled, becoming unnaturally thin as she murmured, "'Tis too much--Clym, how can he bear to do it! He is at home; and yet he lets her shut the door against me!" In her anxiety to get out of the direct view of the house she had diverged from the straightest path homeward, and while looking about to regain it she came upon a little boy gathering whortleberries in a hollow. The boy was Johnny Nunsuch, who had been Eustacia's stoker at the bonfire, and, with the tendency of a minute body to gravitate towards a greater, he began hovering round Mrs. Yeobright as soon as she appeared, and trotted on beside her without perceptible consciousness of his act. Mrs. Yeobright spoke to him as one in a mesmeric sleep. "'Tis a long way home, my child, and we shall not get there till evening." "I shall," said her small companion. "I am going to play marnels afore supper, and we go to supper at six o'clock, because Father comes home. Does your father come home at six too?" "No, he never comes; nor my son either, nor anybody." "What have made you so down? Have you seen a ooser?" "I have seen what's worse--a woman's face looking at me through a windowpane." "Is that a bad sight?" "Yes. It is always a bad sight to see a woman looking out at a weary wayfarer and not letting her in." "Once when I went to Throope Great Pond to catch effets I seed myself looking up at myself, and I was frightened and jumped back like anything." ..."If they had only shown signs of meeting my advances halfway how well it might have been done! But there is no chance. Shut out! She must have set him against me. Can there be beautiful bodies without hearts inside? I think so. I would not have done it against a neighbour's cat on such a fiery day as this!" "What is it you say?" "Never again--never! Not even if they send for me!" "You must be a very curious woman to talk like that." "O no, not at all," she said, returning to the boy's prattle. "Most people who grow up and have children talk as I do. When you grow up your mother will talk as I do too." "I hope she won't; because 'tis very bad to talk nonsense." "Yes, child; it is nonsense, I suppose. Are you not nearly spent with the heat?" "Yes. But not so much as you be." "How do you know?" "Your face is white and wet, and your head is hanging-down-like." "Ah, I am exhausted from inside." "Why do you, every time you take a step, go like this?" The child in speaking gave to his motion the jerk and limp of an invalid. "Because I have a burden which is more than I can bear." The little boy remained silently pondering, and they tottered on side by side until more than a quarter of an hour had elapsed, when Mrs. Yeobright, whose weakness plainly increased, said to him, "I must sit down here to rest." When she had seated herself he looked long in her face and said, "How funny you draw your breath--like a lamb when you drive him till he's nearly done for. Do you always draw your breath like that?" "Not always." Her voice was now so low as to be scarcely above a whisper. "You will go to sleep there, I suppose, won't you? You have shut your eyes already." "No. I shall not sleep much till--another day, and then I hope to have a long, long one--very long. Now can you tell me if Rimsmoor Pond is dry this summer?" "Rimsmoor Pond is, but Oker's Pool isn't, because he is deep, and is never dry--'tis just over there." "Is the water clear?" "Yes, middling--except where the heath-croppers walk into it." "Then, take this, and go as fast as you can, and dip me up the clearest you can find. I am very faint." She drew from the small willow reticule that she carried in her hand an old-fashioned china teacup without a handle; it was one of half a dozen of the same sort lying in the reticule, which she had preserved ever since her childhood, and had brought with her today as a small present for Clym and Eustacia. The boy started on his errand, and soon came back with the water, such as it was. Mrs. Yeobright attempted to drink, but it was so warm as to give her nausea, and she threw it away. Afterwards she still remained sitting, with her eyes closed. The boy waited, played near her, caught several of the little brown butterflies which abounded, and then said as he waited again, "I like going on better than biding still. Will you soon start again?" "I don't know." "I wish I might go on by myself," he resumed, fearing, apparently, that he was to be pressed into some unpleasant service. "Do you want me any more, please?" Mrs. Yeobright made no reply. "What shall I tell Mother?" the boy continued. "Tell her you have seen a broken-hearted woman cast off by her son." Before quite leaving her he threw upon her face a wistful glance, as if he had misgivings on the generosity of forsaking her thus. He gazed into her face in a vague, wondering manner, like that of one examining some strange old manuscript the key to whose characters is undiscoverable. He was not so young as to be absolutely without a sense that sympathy was demanded, he was not old enough to be free from the terror felt in childhood at beholding misery in adult quarters hither-to deemed impregnable; and whether she were in a position to cause trouble or to suffer from it, whether she and her affliction were something to pity or something to fear, it was beyond him to decide. He lowered his eyes and went on without another word. Before he had gone half a mile he had forgotten all about her, except that she was a woman who had sat down to rest. Mrs. Yeobright's exertions, physical and emotional, had well-nigh prostrated her; but she continued to creep along in short stages with long breaks between. The sun had now got far to the west of south and stood directly in her face, like some merciless incendiary, brand in hand, waiting to consume her. With the departure of the boy all visible animation disappeared from the landscape, though the intermittent husky notes of the male grasshoppers from every tuft of furze were enough to show that amid the prostration of the larger animal species an unseen insect world was busy in all the fullness of life. In two hours she reached a slope about three-fourths the whole distance from Alderworth to her own home, where a little patch of shepherd's-thyme intruded upon the path; and she sat down upon the perfumed mat it formed there. In front of her a colony of ants had established a thoroughfare across the way, where they toiled a never-ending and heavy-laden throng. To look down upon them was like observing a city street from the top of a tower. She remembered that this bustle of ants had been in progress for years at the same spot--doubtless those of the old times were the ancestors of these which walked there now. She leant back to obtain more thorough rest, and the soft eastern portion of the sky was as great a relief to her eyes as the thyme was to her head. While she looked a heron arose on that side of the sky and flew on with his face towards the sun. He had come dripping wet from some pool in the valleys, and as he flew the edges and lining of his wings, his thighs and his breast were so caught by the bright sunbeams that he appeared as if formed of burnished silver. Up in the zenith where he was seemed a free and happy place, away from all contact with the earthly ball to which she was pinioned; and she wished that she could arise uncrushed from its surface and fly as he flew then. But, being a mother, it was inevitable that she should soon cease to ruminate upon her own condition. Had the track of her next thought been marked by a streak in the air, like the path of a meteor, it would have shown a direction contrary to the heron's, and have descended to the eastward upon the roof of Clym's house. </CHAPTER> Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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An einem extrem heißen Tag Ende August macht sich Mrs. Yeobright auf den Weg über die Heide, um Clym und Eustacia zu besuchen, verirrt sich jedoch in dem unbekannten Dorf Alderworth, in dem sie leben. Auf der Suche nach Anweisungen wird ihr gesagt, dass sie einem Besenbinder folgen soll, der einen Pfad entlang geht. Sie tut dies, nur um schließlich zu erkennen, dass es ihr Sohn Clym ist. Sie ruht sich in einem kleinen Wäldchen in der Nähe von Clyms Haus aus und sieht einen Mann zum Haus kommen, bevor sie dort ankommt. Es ist Wildeve, der Eustacia am Tag aufsucht. Eustacia lässt ihn hinein und sie unterhalten sich in einem Raum, in dem Clym auf dem Kaminvorleger schläft. Sie diskutieren über ihre Ehe, wobei Wildeve andeutet, dass er noch immer in sie verliebt ist. Als Mrs. Yeobright an die Haustür klopft, weiß Eustacia nicht, was sie tun soll und entscheidet schließlich, dass Clym wahrscheinlich aufwachen und die Tür öffnen wird. Sie lässt Wildeve schnell hinten raus. Als sie zurückkehrt, findet sie Clym immer noch schlafend vor und Mrs. Yeobright nicht mehr an der Tür. Mrs. Yeobright hat sich bereits auf den Heimweg gemacht, zuvor überhitzt und erschöpft und nun schockiert, weil Clym Eustacia scheinbar erlaubt hat, ihr den Zutritt zu verweigern. Die ältere Frau trifft auf Johnny Nunsuch, der ein Stück mit ihr geht und von ihrem Aussehen schockiert ist. Als er sie verlässt, setzt sie sich endlich hin, um sich auszuruhen, und beobachtet einen elegant fliegenden Reiher am Himmel.

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: 17 BONACIEUX AT HOME It was the second time the cardinal had mentioned these diamond studs to the king. Louis XIII was struck with this insistence, and began to fancy that this recommendation concealed some mystery. More than once the king had been humiliated by the cardinal, whose police, without having yet attained the perfection of the modern police, were excellent, being better informed than himself, even upon what was going on in his own household. He hoped, then, in a conversation with Anne of Austria, to obtain some information from that conversation, and afterward to come upon his Eminence with some secret which the cardinal either knew or did not know, but which, in either case, would raise him infinitely in the eyes of his minister. He went then to the queen, and according to custom accosted her with fresh menaces against those who surrounded her. Anne of Austria lowered her head, allowed the torrent to flow on without replying, hoping that it would cease of itself; but this was not what Louis XIII meant. Louis XIII wanted a discussion from which some light or other might break, convinced as he was that the cardinal had some afterthought and was preparing for him one of those terrible surprises which his Eminence was so skillful in getting up. He arrived at this end by his persistence in accusation. "But," cried Anne of Austria, tired of these vague attacks, "but, sire, you do not tell me all that you have in your heart. What have I done, then? Let me know what crime I have committed. It is impossible that your Majesty can make all this ado about a letter written to my brother." The king, attacked in a manner so direct, did not know what to answer; and he thought that this was the moment for expressing the desire which he was not going to have made until the evening before the fete. "Madame," said he, with dignity, "there will shortly be a ball at the Hotel de Ville. I wish, in order to honor our worthy aldermen, you should appear in ceremonial costume, and above all, ornamented with the diamond studs which I gave you on your birthday. That is my answer." The answer was terrible. Anne of Austria believed that Louis XIII knew all, and that the cardinal had persuaded him to employ this long dissimulation of seven or eight days, which, likewise, was characteristic. She became excessively pale, leaned her beautiful hand upon a CONSOLE, which hand appeared then like one of wax, and looking at the king with terror in her eyes, she was unable to reply by a single syllable. "You hear, madame," said the king, who enjoyed the embarrassment to its full extent, but without guessing the cause. "You hear, madame?" "Yes, sire, I hear," stammered the queen. "You will appear at this ball?" "Yes." "With those studs?" "Yes." The queen's paleness, if possible, increased; the king perceived it, and enjoyed it with that cold cruelty which was one of the worst sides of his character. "Then that is agreed," said the king, "and that is all I had to say to you." "But on what day will this ball take place?" asked Anne of Austria. Louis XIII felt instinctively that he ought not to reply to this question, the queen having put it in an almost dying voice. "Oh, very shortly, madame," said he; "but I do not precisely recollect the date of the day. I will ask the cardinal." "It was the cardinal, then, who informed you of this fete?" "Yes, madame," replied the astonished king; "but why do you ask that?" "It was he who told you to invite me to appear with these studs?" "That is to say, madame--" "It was he, sire, it was he!" "Well, and what does it signify whether it was he or I? Is there any crime in this request?" "No, sire." "Then you will appear?" "Yes, sire." "That is well," said the king, retiring, "that is well; I count upon it." The queen made a curtsy, less from etiquette than because her knees were sinking under her. The king went away enchanted. "I am lost," murmured the queen, "lost!--for the cardinal knows all, and it is he who urges on the king, who as yet knows nothing but will soon know everything. I am lost! My God, my God, my God!" She knelt upon a cushion and prayed, with her head buried between her palpitating arms. In fact, her position was terrible. Buckingham had returned to London; Mme. de Chevreuse was at Tours. More closely watched than ever, the queen felt certain, without knowing how to tell which, that one of her women had betrayed her. Laporte could not leave the Louvre; she had not a soul in the world in whom she could confide. Thus, while contemplating the misfortune which threatened her and the abandonment in which she was left, she broke out into sobs and tears. "Can I be of service to your Majesty?" said all at once a voice full of sweetness and pity. The queen turned sharply round, for there could be no deception in the expression of that voice; it was a friend who spoke thus. In fact, at one of the doors which opened into the queen's apartment appeared the pretty Mme. Bonacieux. She had been engaged in arranging the dresses and linen in a closet when the king entered; she could not get out and had heard all. The queen uttered a piercing cry at finding herself surprised--for in her trouble she did not at first recognize the young woman who had been given to her by Laporte. "Oh, fear nothing, madame!" said the young woman, clasping her hands and weeping herself at the queen's sorrows; "I am your Majesty's, body and soul, and however far I may be from you, however inferior may be my position, I believe I have discovered a means of extricating your Majesty from your trouble." "You, oh, heaven, you!" cried the queen; "but look me in the face. I am betrayed on all sides. Can I trust in you?" "Oh, madame!" cried the young woman, falling on her knees; "upon my soul, I am ready to die for your Majesty!" This expression sprang from the very bottom of the heart, and, like the first, there was no mistaking it. "Yes," continued Mme. Bonacieux, "yes, there are traitors here; but by the holy name of the Virgin, I swear that no one is more devoted to your Majesty than I am. Those studs which the king speaks of, you gave them to the Duke of Buckingham, did you not? Those studs were enclosed in a little rosewood box which he held under his arm? Am I deceived? Is it not so, madame?" "Oh, my God, my God!" murmured the queen, whose teeth chattered with fright. "Well, those studs," continued Mme. Bonacieux, "we must have them back again." "Yes, without doubt, it is necessary," cried the queen; "but how am I to act? How can it be effected?" "Someone must be sent to the duke." "But who, who? In whom can I trust?" "Place confidence in me, madame; do me that honor, my queen, and I will find a messenger." "But I must write." "Oh, yes; that is indispensable. Two words from the hand of your Majesty and your private seal." "But these two words would bring about my condemnation, divorce, exile!" "Yes, if they fell into infamous hands. But I will answer for these two words being delivered to their address." "Oh, my God! I must then place my life, my honor, my reputation, in your hands?" "Yes, yes, madame, you must; and I will save them all." "But how? Tell me at least the means." "My husband had been at liberty these two or three days. I have not yet had time to see him again. He is a worthy, honest man who entertains neither love nor hatred for anybody. He will do anything I wish. He will set out upon receiving an order from me, without knowing what he carries, and he will carry your Majesty's letter, without even knowing it is from your Majesty, to the address which is on it." The queen took the two hands of the young woman with a burst of emotion, gazed at her as if to read her very heart, and, seeing nothing but sincerity in her beautiful eyes, embraced her tenderly. "Do that," cried she, "and you will have saved my life, you will have saved my honor!" "Do not exaggerate the service I have the happiness to render your Majesty. I have nothing to save for your Majesty; you are only the victim of perfidious plots." "That is true, that is true, my child," said the queen, "you are right." "Give me then, that letter, madame; time presses." The queen ran to a little table, on which were ink, paper, and pens. She wrote two lines, sealed the letter with her private seal, and gave it to Mme. Bonacieux. "And now," said the queen, "we are forgetting one very necessary thing." "What is that, madame?" "Money." Mme. Bonacieux blushed. "Yes, that is true," said she, "and I will confess to your Majesty that my husband--" "Your husband has none. Is that what you would say?" "He has some, but he is very avaricious; that is his fault. Nevertheless, let not your Majesty be uneasy, we will find means." "And I have none, either," said the queen. Those who have read the MEMOIRS of Mme. de Motteville will not be astonished at this reply. "But wait a minute." Anne of Austria ran to her jewel case. "Here," said she, "here is a ring of great value, as I have been assured. It came from my brother, the King of Spain. It is mine, and I am at liberty to dispose of it. Take this ring; raise money with it, and let your husband set out." "In an hour you shall be obeyed." "You see the address," said the queen, speaking so low that Mme. Bonacieux could hardly hear what she said, "To my Lord Duke of Buckingham, London." "The letter shall be given to himself." "Generous girl!" cried Anne of Austria. Mme. Bonacieux kissed the hands of the queen, concealed the paper in the bosom of her dress, and disappeared with the lightness of a bird. Ten minutes afterward she was at home. As she told the queen, she had not seen her husband since his liberation; she was ignorant of the change that had taken place in him with respect to the cardinal--a change which had since been strengthened by two or three visits from the Comte de Rochefort, who had become the best friend of Bonacieux, and had persuaded him, without much trouble, that no culpable sentiments had prompted the abduction of his wife, but that it was only a political precaution. She found M. Bonacieux alone; the poor man was recovering with difficulty the order in his house, in which he had found most of the furniture broken and the closets nearly emptied--justice not being one of the three things which King Solomon names as leaving no traces of their passage. As to the servant, she had run away at the moment of her master's arrest. Terror had had such an effect upon the poor girl that she had never ceased walking from Paris till she reached Burgundy, her native place. The worthy mercer had, immediately upon re-entering his house, informed his wife of his happy return, and his wife had replied by congratulating him, and telling him that the first moment she could steal from her duties should be devoted to paying him a visit. This first moment had been delayed five days, which, under any other circumstances, might have appeared rather long to M. Bonacieux; but he had, in the visit he had made to the cardinal and in the visits Rochefort had made him, ample subjects for reflection, and as everybody knows, nothing makes time pass more quickly than reflection. This was the more so because Bonacieux's reflections were all rose-colored. Rochefort called him his friend, his dear Bonacieux, and never ceased telling him that the cardinal had a great respect for him. The mercer fancied himself already on the high road to honors and fortune. On her side Mme. Bonacieux had also reflected; but, it must be admitted, upon something widely different from ambition. In spite of herself her thoughts constantly reverted to that handsome young man who was so brave and appeared to be so much in love. Married at eighteen to M. Bonacieux, having always lived among her husband's friends--people little capable of inspiring any sentiment whatever in a young woman whose heart was above her position--Mme. Bonacieux had remained insensible to vulgar seductions; but at this period the title of gentleman had great influence with the citizen class, and d'Artagnan was a gentleman. Besides, he wore the uniform of the Guards, which, next to that of the Musketeers, was most admired by the ladies. He was, we repeat, handsome, young, and bold; he spoke of love like a man who did love and was anxious to be loved in return. There was certainly enough in all this to turn a head only twenty-three years old, and Mme. Bonacieux had just attained that happy period of life. The couple, then, although they had not seen each other for eight days, and during that time serious events had taken place in which both were concerned, accosted each other with a degree of preoccupation. Nevertheless, Bonacieux manifested real joy, and advanced toward his wife with open arms. Madame Bonacieux presented her cheek to him. "Let us talk a little," said she. "How!" said Bonacieux, astonished. "Yes, I have something of the highest importance to tell you." "True," said he, "and I have some questions sufficiently serious to put to you. Describe to me your abduction, I pray you." "Oh, that's of no consequence just now," said Mme. Bonacieux. "And what does it concern, then--my captivity?" "I heard of it the day it happened; but as you were not guilty of any crime, as you were not guilty of any intrigue, as you, in short, knew nothing that could compromise yourself or anybody else, I attached no more importance to that event than it merited." "You speak very much at your ease, madame," said Bonacieux, hurt at the little interest his wife showed in him. "Do you know that I was plunged during a day and night in a dungeon of the Bastille?" "Oh, a day and night soon pass away. Let us return to the object that brings me here." "What, that which brings you home to me? Is it not the desire of seeing a husband again from whom you have been separated for a week?" asked the mercer, piqued to the quick. "Yes, that first, and other things afterward." "Speak." "It is a thing of the highest interest, and upon which our future fortune perhaps depends." "The complexion of our fortune has changed very much since I saw you, Madame Bonacieux, and I should not be astonished if in the course of a few months it were to excite the envy of many folks." "Yes, particularly if you follow the instructions I am about to give you." "Me?" "Yes, you. There is good and holy action to be performed, monsieur, and much money to be gained at the same time." Mme. Bonacieux knew that in talking of money to her husband, she took him on his weak side. But a man, were he even a mercer, when he had talked for ten minutes with Cardinal Richelieu, is no longer the same man. "Much money to be gained?" said Bonacieux, protruding his lip. "Yes, much." "About how much?" "A thousand pistoles, perhaps." "What you demand of me is serious, then?" "It is indeed." "What must be done?" "You must go away immediately. I will give you a paper which you must not part with on any account, and which you will deliver into the proper hands." "And whither am I to go?" "To London." "I go to London? Go to! You jest! I have no business in London." "But others wish that you should go there." "But who are those others? I warn you that I will never again work in the dark, and that I will know not only to what I expose myself, but for whom I expose myself." "An illustrious person sends you; an illustrious person awaits you. The recompense will exceed your expectations; that is all I promise you." "More intrigues! Nothing but intrigues! Thank you, madame, I am aware of them now; Monsieur Cardinal has enlightened me on that head." "The cardinal?" cried Mme. Bonacieux. "Have you seen the cardinal?" "He sent for me," answered the mercer, proudly. "And you responded to his bidding, you imprudent man?" "Well, I can't say I had much choice of going or not going, for I was taken to him between two guards. It is true also, that as I did not then know his Eminence, if I had been able to dispense with the visit, I should have been enchanted." "He ill-treated you, then; he threatened you?" "He gave me his hand, and called me his friend. His friend! Do you hear that, madame? I am the friend of the great cardinal!" "Of the great cardinal!" "Perhaps you would contest his right to that title, madame?" "I would contest nothing; but I tell you that the favor of a minister is ephemeral, and that a man must be mad to attach himself to a minister. There are powers above his which do not depend upon a man or the issue of an event; it is to these powers we should rally." "I am sorry for it, madame, but I acknowledge no other power but that of the great man whom I have the honor to serve." "You serve the cardinal?" "Yes, madame; and as his servant, I will not allow you to be concerned in plots against the safety of the state, or to serve the intrigues of a woman who is not French and who has a Spanish heart. Fortunately we have the great cardinal; his vigilant eye watches over and penetrates to the bottom of the heart." Bonacieux was repeating, word for word, a sentence which he had heard from the Comte de Rochefort; but the poor wife, who had reckoned on her husband, and who, in that hope, had answered for him to the queen, did not tremble the less, both at the danger into which she had nearly cast herself and at the helpless state to which she was reduced. Nevertheless, knowing the weakness of her husband, and more particularly his cupidity, she did not despair of bringing him round to her purpose. "Ah, you are a cardinalist, then, monsieur, are you?" cried she; "and you serve the party of those who maltreat your wife and insult your queen?" "Private interests are as nothing before the interests of all. I am for those who save the state," said Bonacieux, emphatically. "And what do you know about the state you talk of?" said Mme. Bonacieux, shrugging her shoulders. "Be satisfied with being a plain, straightforward citizen, and turn to that side which offers the most advantages." "Eh, eh!" said Bonacieux, slapping a plump, round bag, which returned a sound a money; "what do you think of this, Madame Preacher?" "Whence comes that money?" "You do not guess?" "From the cardinal?" "From him, and from my friend the Comte de Rochefort." "The Comte de Rochefort! Why, it was he who carried me off!" "That may be, madame!" "And you receive silver from that man?" "Have you not said that that abduction was entirely political?" "Yes; but that abduction had for its object the betrayal of my mistress, to draw from me by torture confessions that might compromise the honor, and perhaps the life, of my august mistress." "Madame," replied Bonacieux, "your august mistress is a perfidious Spaniard, and what the cardinal does is well done." "Monsieur," said the young woman, "I know you to be cowardly, avaricious, and foolish, but I never till now believed you infamous!" "Madame," said Bonacieux, who had never seen his wife in a passion, and who recoiled before this conjugal anger, "madame, what do you say?" "I say you are a miserable creature!" continued Mme. Bonacieux, who saw she was regaining some little influence over her husband. "You meddle with politics, do you--and still more, with cardinalist politics? Why, you sell yourself, body and soul, to the demon, the devil, for money!" "No, to the cardinal." "It's the same thing," cried the young woman. "Who calls Richelieu calls Satan." "Hold your tongue, hold your tongue, madame! You may be overheard." "Yes, you are right; I should be ashamed for anyone to know your baseness." "But what do you require of me, then? Let us see." "I have told you. You must depart instantly, monsieur. You must accomplish loyally the commission with which I deign to charge you, and on that condition I pardon everything, I forget everything; and what is more," and she held out her hand to him, "I restore my love." Bonacieux was cowardly and avaricious, but he loved his wife. He was softened. A man of fifty cannot long bear malice with a wife of twenty-three. Mme. Bonacieux saw that he hesitated. "Come! Have you decided?" said she. "But, my dear love, reflect a little upon what you require of me. London is far from Paris, very far, and perhaps the commission with which you charge me is not without dangers?" "What matters it, if you avoid them?" "Hold, Madame Bonacieux," said the mercer, "hold! I positively refuse; intrigues terrify me. I have seen the Bastille. My! Whew! That's a frightful place, that Bastille! Only to think of it makes my flesh crawl. They threatened me with torture. Do you know what torture is? Wooden points that they stick in between your legs till your bones stick out! No, positively I will not go. And, MORBLEU, why do you not go yourself? For in truth, I think I have hitherto been deceived in you. I really believe you are a man, and a violent one, too." "And you, you are a woman--a miserable woman, stupid and brutal. You are afraid, are you? Well, if you do not go this very instant, I will have you arrested by the queen's orders, and I will have you placed in the Bastille which you dread so much." Bonacieux fell into a profound reflection. He weighed the two angers in his brain--that of the cardinal and that of the queen; that of the cardinal predominated enormously. "Have me arrested on the part of the queen," said he, "and I--I will appeal to his Eminence." At once Mme. Bonacieux saw that she had gone too far, and she was terrified at having communicated so much. She for a moment contemplated with fright that stupid countenance, impressed with the invincible resolution of a fool that is overcome by fear. "Well, be it so!" said she. "Perhaps, when all is considered, you are right. In the long run, a man knows more about politics than a woman, particularly such as, like you, Monsieur Bonacieux, have conversed with the cardinal. And yet it is very hard," added she, "that a man upon whose affection I thought I might depend, treats me thus unkindly and will not comply with any of my fancies." "That is because your fancies go too far," replied the triumphant Bonacieux, "and I mistrust them." "Well, I will give it up, then," said the young woman, sighing. "It is well as it is; say no more about it." "At least you should tell me what I should have to do in London," replied Bonacieux, who remembered a little too late that Rochefort had desired him to endeavor to obtain his wife's secrets. "It is of no use for you to know anything about it," said the young woman, whom an instinctive mistrust now impelled to draw back. "It was about one of those purchases that interest women--a purchase by which much might have been gained." But the more the young woman excused herself, the more important Bonacieux thought the secret which she declined to confide to him. He resolved then to hasten immediately to the residence of the Comte de Rochefort, and tell him that the queen was seeking for a messenger to send to London. "Pardon me for quitting you, my dear Madame Bonacieux," said he; "but, not knowing you would come to see me, I had made an engagement with a friend. I shall soon return; and if you will wait only a few minutes for me, as soon as I have concluded my business with that friend, as it is growing late, I will come back and reconduct you to the Louvre." "Thank you, monsieur, you are not brave enough to be of any use to me whatever," replied Mme. Bonacieux. "I shall return very safely to the Louvre all alone." "As you please, Madame Bonacieux," said the ex-mercer. "Shall I see you again soon?" "Next week I hope my duties will afford me a little liberty, and I will take advantage of it to come and put things in order here, as they must necessarily be much deranged." "Very well; I shall expect you. You are not angry with me?" "Not the least in the world." "Till then, then?" "Till then." Bonacieux kissed his wife's hand, and set off at a quick pace. "Nun", sagte Mme. Bonacieux, als ihr Mann die Straßentür schloss und sie sich alleine fand; "Dieser Idiot fehlte nur noch eins: ein Kardinalist zu werden. Und ich, die ich für ihn bei der Königin eingesprungen bin - ich, die meiner armen Gebieterin versprochen habe - oh, mein Gott, mein Gott! Sie wird mich für einen dieser elenden Spione halten, mit denen der Palast wimmelt und die um sie herum platziert sind! Ah, Monsieur Bonacieux, ich habe dich nie besonders geliebt, aber jetzt ist es schlimmer als je zuvor. Ich hasse dich, und bei meiner Ehre wirst du dafür bezahlen!" Im Moment, als sie diese Worte aussprach, erklang ein Klopfen an der Decke und ließ sie den Kopf heben, und eine Stimme, die durch die Decke drang, rief: "Liebe Madame Bonacieux, öffnen Sie mir bitte die kleine Tür am Gang, und ich werde zu Ihnen hinunterkommen." Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Der König erkennt, dass dies das zweite Mal ist, dass der Kardinal die Diamanten erwähnt hat, und ist von dem Rätsel fasziniert. Egal wie sehr sie vorgeben, beste Freunde zu sein, der König und der Kardinal sind auch Rivalen. Der König wurde mehrmals gedemütigt, weil der Kardinal bessere Spione als der König hat. Er hofft, das "Geheimnis der Diamantohrringe" herauszufinden und den Kardinal zu beeindrucken. Dann geht er zu seiner Frau und bittet sie, die Diamanten zu tragen. Sie flippt aus. Der König bemerkt es und genießt ihre Reaktion. Anne erfährt, dass der Kardinal sowohl für das Datum des Balles als auch für die Bitte, die Diamanten zu tragen, verantwortlich ist. Die Königin fängt an zu beten und glaubt, dass ihr Ruf völlig ruiniert ist. Sie hat keine Freunde und keinen Ort, an den sie gehen kann. Falsch! Madame Bonacieux ist da und fragt, ob sie etwas tun kann. Madame Bonacieux schwört der Königin ewige Treue und schlägt dann vor, einen Boten an den Herzog zu schicken. Die Königin gibt ihr einen Brief und versiegelt ihn mit ihrem privaten Siegel. Sie weist dann darauf hin, dass Madame Bonacieux wahrscheinlich Geld brauchen wird. Sie gibt der Frau einen teuren Ring. Madame Bonacieux geht nach Hause, ohne zu wissen, dass ihr Ehemann nun dem Kardinal treu ergeben ist. Sie denkt auf dem Heimweg an D'Artagnan. Zu Hause ist ihr Mann damit beschäftigt, mit dem Kardinal anzufreunden. Sobald sie zu Hause ankommt, umarmt sie ihren Ehemann und sagt, dass sie eine wichtige Mission für ihn hat. Ihr Mann möchte über seinen Tag und seine Nacht in der Bastille sprechen. Schließlich wird Madame Bonacieux klar, dass ihr Ehemann ihr nicht helfen wird - er ist zu eng mit dem Kardinal verbunden. Monsieur Bonacieux zeigt seiner Frau all sein neues Geld vom Kardinal und Monsieur de Rochefort. Seine Frau weist darauf hin, dass Monsieur de Rochefort derjenige war, der sie entführt hat. Seine Frau verspricht ihm, dass sie ihm alles verzeihen und ihn wieder lieben wird, wenn er die Mission erfüllt. Ihr Ehemann ist hin- und hergerissen. Sie ist jung und hübsch. Er ist alt und nicht besonders attraktiv! Aber er lehnt ab. London ist zu weit weg und seine Erinnerungen an die Bastille sind immer noch zu frisch. Madame Bonacieux erkennt, dass sie bereits zu viel gesagt haben könnte, also gibt sie auf. Ihr Mann erinnert sich daran, dass er sie ausspionieren sollte, aber es ist bereits zu spät. Madame Bonacieux muss zurück in den Louvre, aber ihr Mann geht zuerst. Durch die Abreise ihres Mannes hat sie Zeit, ihre Situation zu beklagen, und D'Artagnan kommt an und bietet sich als Bote an.

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

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Neue Eindrücke Laurie trifft sich mit Amy in Nizza, im Süden Frankreichs, zu Weihnachten. Sie stellen fest, dass sich der andere ziemlich verändert hat. Laurie bemerkt, dass Amy zu einer anspruchsvollen und liebenswürdigen jungen Frau herangewachsen ist. Amy sieht, dass Laurie ernster geworden ist, aber sie beginnt auch, ihn als einen attraktiven Herrn anstatt als Kinderfreund zu sehen. Er begleitet sie an diesem Abend zu einem Ball in ihrem Hotel. Sie versucht bewusst, sich extrem hübsch für ihn zu machen. Anfangs ist er nicht so aufmerksam, wie sie es sich wünscht. Gegen Ende des Abends jedoch, als sie fröhlich und ehrlich gesteht, welche kleinen Tricks sie trotz ihrer Armut anwendet, um sich hübsch zu machen, ist er berührt und füllt ihre Tanzkarte mit seinem eigenen Namen.

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 IV. Land in der Nähe von Dunsinane: Ein Wald ist zu sehen. [Treten auf, mit Trommel und Fahnen, Malcolm, der alte Siward und sein Sohn, Macduff, Menteith, Caithness, Angus, Lennox, Ross und Soldaten, marschierend.] MALCOLM. Cousins, ich hoffe, die Tage sind nahe, dass die Kammern sicher sein werden. MENTEITH. Wir bezweifeln es nicht. SIWARD. Welcher Wald ist dieser vor uns? MENTEITH. Der Wald von Birnam. MALCOLM. Lasst jeden Soldaten einen Zweig abschneiden und vor sich tragen; dadurch werden wir die Anzahl unserer Truppen verdecken und die Berichte über uns falsch machen. SOLDATEN. Es wird getan. SIWARD. Wir wissen nichts anderes, als dass der selbstsichere Tyrann weiterhin in Dunsinane bleibt und ertragen wird, dass wir uns niederlassen. MALCOLM. Das ist seine Haupt-Hoffnung: Denn wo es Vorteile zu geben gibt, haben ihm sowohl Mehrere als auch Wenigere den Gehorsam verweigert; Und niemand dient ihm außer gezwungenen Wesen, deren Herzen auch abwesend sind. MACDUFF. Lasst unsere gerechten Urteile dem wahren Verlauf folgen, und lasst uns fleißige Kampfbereitschaft anlegen. SIWARD. Die Zeit naht heran, die uns mit angemessener Entscheidung wissen lässt, was wir haben und was wir schulden. Spekulative Gedanken beziehen sich auf unsichere Hoffnungen; Aber sichere Ergebnisse müssen entscheiden: Dahin voran zum Krieg. [Ausmarsch, marschierend.] Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Abschnitte 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 englische und die schottischen Rebellenarmeen treffen sich unter der Führung von Malcolm im Birnam-Wald. Mit militärischer Voraussicht befiehlt Malcolm jedem Soldaten, einen Ast abzuschneiden und vor sich herzutragen, um die "Anzahl unserer Streitmacht zu verschleiern" - das bedeutet, die tatsächliche Größe der vorrückenden Armee zu verbergen.

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. Athens. The palace of THESEUS Enter THESEUS, HIPPOLYTA, PHILOSTRATE, LORDS, and ATTENDANTS HIPPOLYTA. 'Tis strange, my Theseus, that these lovers speak of. THESEUS. More strange than true. I never may believe These antique fables, nor these fairy toys. Lovers and madmen have such seething brains, Such shaping fantasies, that apprehend More than cool reason ever comprehends. The lunatic, the lover, and the poet, Are of imagination all compact. One sees more devils than vast hell can hold; That is the madman. The lover, all as frantic, Sees Helen's beauty in a brow of Egypt. The poet's eye, in a fine frenzy rolling, Doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven; And as imagination bodies forth The forms of things unknown, the poet's pen Turns them to shapes, and gives to airy nothing A local habitation and a name. Such tricks hath strong imagination That, if it would but apprehend some joy, It comprehends some bringer of that joy; Or in the night, imagining some fear, How easy is a bush suppos'd a bear? HIPPOLYTA. But all the story of the night told over, And all their minds transfigur'd so together, More witnesseth than fancy's images, And grows to something of great constancy, But howsoever strange and admirable. Enter LYSANDER, DEMETRIUS, HERMIA, and HELENA THESEUS. Here come the lovers, full of joy and mirth. Joy, gentle friends, joy and fresh days of love Accompany your hearts! LYSANDER. More than to us Wait in your royal walks, your board, your bed! THESEUS. Come now; what masques, what dances shall we have, To wear away this long age of three hours Between our after-supper and bed-time? Where is our usual manager of mirth? What revels are in hand? Is there no play To ease the anguish of a torturing hour? Call Philostrate. PHILOSTRATE. Here, mighty Theseus. THESEUS. Say, what abridgment have you for this evening? What masque? what music? How shall we beguile The lazy time, if not with some delight? PHILOSTRATE. There is a brief how many sports are ripe; Make choice of which your Highness will see first. [Giving a paper] THESEUS. 'The battle with the Centaurs, to be sung By an Athenian eunuch to the harp.' We'll none of that: that have I told my love, In glory of my kinsman Hercules. 'The riot of the tipsy Bacchanals, Tearing the Thracian singer in their rage.' That is an old device, and it was play'd When I from Thebes came last a conqueror. 'The thrice three Muses mourning for the death Of Learning, late deceas'd in beggary.' That is some satire, keen and critical, Not sorting with a nuptial ceremony. 'A tedious brief scene of young Pyramus And his love Thisby; very tragical mirth.' Merry and tragical! tedious and brief! That is hot ice and wondrous strange snow. How shall we find the concord of this discord? PHILOSTRATE. A play there is, my lord, some ten words long, Which is as brief as I have known a play; But by ten words, my lord, it is too long, Which makes it tedious; for in all the play There is not one word apt, one player fitted. And tragical, my noble lord, it is; For Pyramus therein doth kill himself. Which when I saw rehears'd, I must confess, Made mine eyes water; but more merry tears The passion of loud laughter never shed. THESEUS. What are they that do play it? PHILOSTRATE. Hard-handed men that work in Athens here, Which never labour'd in their minds till now; And now have toil'd their unbreathed memories With this same play against your nuptial. THESEUS. And we will hear it. PHILOSTRATE. No, my noble lord, It is not for you. I have heard it over, And it is nothing, nothing in the world; Unless you can find sport in their intents, Extremely stretch'd and conn'd with cruel pain, To do you service. THESEUS. I will hear that play; For never anything can be amiss When simpleness and duty tender it. Go, bring them in; and take your places, ladies. Exit PHILOSTRATE HIPPOLYTA. I love not to see wretchedness o'er-charged, And duty in his service perishing. THESEUS. Why, gentle sweet, you shall see no such thing. HIPPOLYTA. He says they can do nothing in this kind. THESEUS. The kinder we, to give them thanks for nothing. Our sport shall be to take what they mistake; And what poor duty cannot do, noble respect Takes it in might, not merit. Where I have come, great clerks have purposed To greet me with premeditated welcomes; Where I have seen them shiver and look pale, Make periods in the midst of sentences, Throttle their practis'd accent in their fears, And, in conclusion, dumbly have broke off, Not paying me a welcome. Trust me, sweet, Out of this silence yet I pick'd a welcome; And in the modesty of fearful duty I read as much as from the rattling tongue Of saucy and audacious eloquence. Love, therefore, and tongue-tied simplicity In least speak most to my capacity. Re-enter PHILOSTRATE PHILOSTRATE. So please your Grace, the Prologue is address'd. THESEUS. Let him approach. [Flourish of trumpets] Enter QUINCE as the PROLOGUE PROLOGUE. If we offend, it is with our good will. That you should think, we come not to offend, But with good will. To show our simple skill, That is the true beginning of our end. Consider then, we come but in despite. We do not come, as minding to content you, Our true intent is. All for your delight We are not here. That you should here repent you, The actors are at hand; and, by their show, You shall know all, that you are like to know, THESEUS. This fellow doth not stand upon points. LYSANDER. He hath rid his prologue like a rough colt; he knows not the stop. A good moral, my lord: it is not enough to speak, but to speak true. HIPPOLYTA. Indeed he hath play'd on this prologue like a child on a recorder- a sound, but not in government. THESEUS. His speech was like a tangled chain; nothing im paired, but all disordered. Who is next? Enter, with a trumpet before them, as in dumb show, PYRAMUS and THISBY, WALL, MOONSHINE, and LION PROLOGUE. Gentles, perchance you wonder at this show; But wonder on, till truth make all things plain. This man is Pyramus, if you would know; This beauteous lady Thisby is certain. This man, with lime and rough-cast, doth present Wall, that vile Wall which did these lovers sunder; And through Wall's chink, poor souls, they are content To whisper. At the which let no man wonder. This man, with lanthorn, dog, and bush of thorn, Presenteth Moonshine; for, if you will know, By moonshine did these lovers think no scorn To meet at Ninus' tomb, there, there to woo. This grisly beast, which Lion hight by name, The trusty Thisby, coming first by night, Did scare away, or rather did affright; And as she fled, her mantle she did fall; Which Lion vile with bloody mouth did stain. Anon comes Pyramus, sweet youth and tall, And finds his trusty Thisby's mantle slain; Whereat with blade, with bloody blameful blade, He bravely broach'd his boiling bloody breast; And Thisby, tarrying in mulberry shade, His dagger drew, and died. For all the rest, Let Lion, Moonshine, Wall, and lovers twain, At large discourse while here they do remain. Exeunt PROLOGUE, PYRAMUS, THISBY, LION, and MOONSHINE THESEUS. I wonder if the lion be to speak. DEMETRIUS. No wonder, my lord: one lion may, when many asses do. WALL. In this same interlude it doth befall That I, one Snout by name, present a wall; And such a wall as I would have you think That had in it a crannied hole or chink, Through which the lovers, Pyramus and Thisby, Did whisper often very secretly. This loam, this rough-cast, and this stone, doth show That I am that same wall; the truth is so; And this the cranny is, right and sinister, Through which the fearful lovers are to whisper. THESEUS. Would you desire lime and hair to speak better? DEMETRIUS. It is the wittiest partition that ever I heard discourse, my lord. Enter PYRAMUS THESEUS. Pyramus draws near the wall; silence. PYRAMUS. O grim-look'd night! O night with hue so black! O night, which ever art when day is not! O night, O night, alack, alack, alack, I fear my Thisby's promise is forgot! And thou, O wall, O sweet, O lovely wall, That stand'st between her father's ground and mine; Thou wall, O wall, O sweet and lovely wall, Show me thy chink, to blink through with mine eyne. [WALL holds up his fingers] Thanks, courteous wall. Jove shield thee well for this! But what see what see I? No Thisby do I see. O wicked wall, through whom I see no bliss, Curs'd be thy stones for thus deceiving me! THESEUS. The wall, methinks, being sensible, should curse again. PYRAMUS. No, in truth, sir, he should not. Deceiving me is Thisby's cue. She is to enter now, and I am to spy her through the wall. You shall see it will fall pat as I told you; yonder she comes. Enter THISBY THISBY. O wall, full often hast thou heard my moans, For parting my fair Pyramus and me! My cherry lips have often kiss'd thy stones, Thy stones with lime and hair knit up in thee. PYRAMUS. I see a voice; now will I to the chink, To spy an I can hear my Thisby's face. Thisby! THISBY. My love! thou art my love, I think. PYRAMUS. Think what thou wilt, I am thy lover's grace; And like Limander am I trusty still. THISBY. And I like Helen, till the Fates me kill. PYRAMUS. Not Shafalus to Procrus was so true. THISBY. As Shafalus to Procrus, I to you. PYRAMUS. O, kiss me through the hole of this vile wall. THISBY. I kiss the wall's hole, not your lips at all. PYRAMUS. Wilt thou at Ninny's tomb meet me straightway? THISBY. Tide life, tide death, I come without delay. Exeunt PYRAMUS and THISBY WALL. Thus have I, Wall, my part discharged so; And, being done, thus Wall away doth go. Exit WALL THESEUS. Now is the moon used between the two neighbours. DEMETRIUS. No remedy, my lord, when walls are so wilful to hear without warning. HIPPOLYTA. This is the silliest stuff that ever I heard. THESEUS. The best in this kind are but shadows; and the worst are no worse, if imagination amend them. HIPPOLYTA. It must be your imagination then, and not theirs. THESEUS. If we imagine no worse of them than they of themselves, they may pass for excellent men. Here come two noble beasts in, a man and a lion. Enter LION and MOONSHINE LION. You, ladies, you, whose gentle hearts do fear The smallest monstrous mouse that creeps on floor, May now, perchance, both quake and tremble here, When lion rough in wildest rage doth roar. Then know that I as Snug the joiner am A lion fell, nor else no lion's dam; For, if I should as lion come in strife Into this place, 'twere pity on my life. THESEUS. A very gentle beast, and of a good conscience. DEMETRIUS. The very best at a beast, my lord, that e'er I saw. LYSANDER. This lion is a very fox for his valour. THESEUS. True; and a goose for his discretion. DEMETRIUS. Not so, my lord; for his valour cannot carry his discretion, and the fox carries the goose. THESEUS. His discretion, I am sure, cannot carry his valour; for the goose carries not the fox. It is well. Leave it to his discretion, and let us listen to the Moon. MOONSHINE. This lanthorn doth the horned moon present- DEMETRIUS. He should have worn the horns on his head. THESEUS. He is no crescent, and his horns are invisible within the circumference. MOONSHINE. This lanthorn doth the horned moon present; Myself the Man i' th' Moon do seem to be. THESEUS. This is the greatest error of all the rest; the man should be put into the lantern. How is it else the man i' th' moon? DEMETRIUS. He dares not come there for the candle; for, you see, it is already in snuff. HIPPOLYTA. I am aweary of this moon. Would he would change! THESEUS. It appears, by his small light of discretion, that he is in the wane; but yet, in courtesy, in all reason, we must stay the time. LYSANDER. Proceed, Moon. MOONSHINE. All that I have to say is to tell you that the lanthorn is the moon; I, the Man i' th' Moon; this thorn-bush, my thorn-bush; and this dog, my dog. DEMETRIUS. Why, all these should be in the lantern; for all these are in the moon. But silence; here comes Thisby. Re-enter THISBY THISBY. This is old Ninny's tomb. Where is my love? LION. [Roaring] O- [THISBY runs off] DEMETRIUS. Well roar'd, Lion. THESEUS. Well run, Thisby. HIPPOLYTA. Well shone, Moon. Truly, the moon shines with a good grace. [The LION tears THISBY'S Mantle, and exit] THESEUS. Well mous'd, Lion. Re-enter PYRAMUS DEMETRIUS. And then came Pyramus. LYSANDER. And so the lion vanish'd. PYRAMUS. Sweet Moon, I thank thee for thy sunny beams; I thank thee, Moon, for shining now so bright; For, by thy gracious golden, glittering gleams, I trust to take of truest Thisby sight. But stay, O spite! But mark, poor knight, What dreadful dole is here! Eyes, do you see? How can it be? O dainty duck! O dear! Thy mantle good, What! stain'd with blood? Approach, ye Furies fell. O Fates! come, come; Cut thread and thrum; Quail, crush, conclude, and quell. THESEUS. This passion, and the death of a dear friend, would go near to make a man look sad. HIPPOLYTA. Beshrew my heart, but I pity the man. PYRAMUS. O wherefore, Nature, didst thou lions frame? Since lion vile hath here deflower'd my dear; Which is- no, no- which was the fairest dame That liv'd, that lov'd, that lik'd, that look'd with cheer. Come, tears, confound; Out, sword, and wound The pap of Pyramus; Ay, that left pap, Where heart doth hop. [Stabs himself] Thus die I, thus, thus, thus. Now am I dead, Now am I fled; My soul is in the sky. Tongue, lose thy light; Moon, take thy flight. [Exit MOONSHINE] Now die, die, die, die, die. [Dies] DEMETRIUS. No die, but an ace, for him; for he is but one. LYSANDER. Less than an ace, man; for he is dead; he is nothing. THESEUS. With the help of a surgeon he might yet recover and yet prove an ass. HIPPOLYTA. How chance Moonshine is gone before Thisby comes back and finds her lover? Re-enter THISBY THESEUS. She will find him by starlight. Here she comes; and her passion ends the play. HIPPOLYTA. Methinks she should not use a long one for such a Pyramus; I hope she will be brief. DEMETRIUS. A mote will turn the balance, which Pyramus, which Thisby, is the better- he for a man, God warrant us: She for a woman, God bless us! LYSANDER. She hath spied him already with those sweet eyes. DEMETRIUS. And thus she moans, videlicet:- THISBY. Asleep, my love? What, dead, my dove? O Pyramus, arise, Speak, speak. Quite dumb? Dead, dead? A tomb Must cover thy sweet eyes. These lily lips, This cherry nose, These yellow cowslip cheeks, Are gone, are gone; Lovers, make moan; His eyes were green as leeks. O Sisters Three, Come, come to me, With hands as pale as milk; Lay them in gore, Since you have shore With shears his thread of silk. Tongue, not a word. Come, trusty sword; Come, blade, my breast imbrue. [Stabs herself] And farewell, friends; Thus Thisby ends; Adieu, adieu, adieu. [Dies] THESEUS. Moonshine and Lion are left to bury the dead. DEMETRIUS. Ay, and Wall too. BOTTOM. [Starting up] No, I assure you; the wall is down that parted their fathers. Will it please you to see the Epilogue, or to hear a Bergomask dance between two of our company? THESEUS. No epilogue, I pray you; for your play needs no excuse. Never excuse; for when the players are all dead there need none to be blamed. Marry, if he that writ it had played Pyramus, and hang'd himself in Thisby's garter, it would have been a fine tragedy. And so it is, truly; and very notably discharg'd. But come, your Bergomask; let your epilogue alone. [A dance] The iron tongue of midnight hath told twelve. Lovers, to bed; 'tis almost fairy time. I fear we shall out-sleep the coming morn, As much as we this night have overwatch'd. This palpable-gross play hath well beguil'd The heavy gait of night. Sweet friends, to bed. A fortnight hold we this solemnity, In nightly revels and new jollity. Exeunt Enter PUCK with a broom PUCK. Now the hungry lion roars, And the wolf behowls the moon; Whilst the heavy ploughman snores, All with weary task fordone. Now the wasted brands do glow, Whilst the screech-owl, screeching loud, Puts the wretch that lies in woe In remembrance of a shroud. Now it is the time of night That the graves, all gaping wide, Every one lets forth his sprite, In the church-way paths to glide. And we fairies, that do run By the triple Hecate's team From the presence of the sun, Following darkness like a dream, Now are frolic. Not a mouse Shall disturb this hallowed house. I am sent with broom before, To sweep the dust behind the door. Enter OBERON and TITANIA, with all their train OBERON. Through the house give glimmering light, By the dead and drowsy fire; Every elf and fairy sprite Hop as light as bird from brier; And this ditty, after me, Sing and dance it trippingly. TITANIA. First, rehearse your song by rote, To each word a warbling note; Hand in hand, with fairy grace, Will we sing, and bless this place. [OBERON leading, the FAIRIES sing and dance] OBERON. Now, until the break of day, Through this house each fairy stray. To the best bride-bed will we, Which by us shall blessed be; And the issue there create Ever shall be fortunate. So shall all the couples three Ever true in loving be; And the blots of Nature's hand Shall not in their issue stand; Never mole, hare-lip, nor scar, Nor mark prodigious, such as are Despised in nativity, Shall upon their children be. With this field-dew consecrate, Every fairy take his gait, And each several chamber bless, Through this palace, with sweet peace; And the owner of it blest Ever shall in safety rest. Trip away; make no stay; Meet me all by break of day. Exeunt all but PUCK PUCK. If we shadows have offended, Think but this, and all is mended, That you have but slumb'red here While these visions did appear. And this weak and idle theme, No more yielding but a dream, Gentles, do not reprehend. If you pardon, we will mend. And, as I am an honest Puck, If we have unearned luck Now to scape the serpent's tongue, We will make amends ere long; Else the Puck a liar call. So, good night unto you all. Give me your hands, if we be friends, And Robin shall restore amends. Exit THE END Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze verfassen?

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Am Abend im Palast des Theseus äußert Hippolyta ihre Verwunderung über die seltsame Geschichte, die die vier Liebenden erzählt haben. Theseus ist bereit, sie als eine fantasievolle Geschichte abzutun, nicht wahrer als etwas, das ein Verrückter oder ein Dichter herbeizaubern könnte. Hippolyta ist jedoch nicht überzeugt. Sie weist darauf hin, dass die Geschichten, die die jungen Leute erzählen, alle miteinander übereinstimmen, was sie denken lässt, dass sie zuverlässig sind. Lysander, Demetrius, Hermia und Helena betreten den Raum. Theseus fragt Philostrate, was das Entertainment für den Rest des Abends sein wird. Philostrate gibt ihm ein Blatt Papier mit einer Liste von Akten, aus denen er wählen kann. Das Stück der Handwerker, Pyramus und Thisbe, ist der vierte auf der Liste und es weckt Theseus' Aufmerksamkeit. Philostrate sagt ihm, dass es ein sehr schlechtes Stück sei und dass es ihn zum Lachen gebracht habe, obwohl es eine Tragödie sei, als er es bei der Probe gesehen habe. Theseus fragt, wer es aufführen wird, und nachdem Philostrate ihm gesagt hat, dass es von einigen Handwerkern aus Athen aufgeführt wird, die sich zuvor nie mit etwas beschäftigt haben, entscheidet Theseus sich, es trotz Philostrates Protesten anzuhören. Er sagt der zweifelnden Hippolyta, dass es nicht auf die Qualität des Produkts ankommt, sondern auf die Ehrlichkeit und Einfachheit, mit der es angeboten wird. Es erklingen Fanfaren. Peter Quince betritt den Raum und spricht das Prolog des Stücks. Nach Meinung der aristokratischen Zuschauer Theseus, Hippolyta und Lysander trägt er die Zeilen schlecht vor. Als der Rest der Schauspieler den Raum betritt, setzt Peter Quince seinen Prolog fort und erklärt, wer die Charaktere sind, darunter Wall, Moonshine und Lion. Er erklärt auch die Handlung des Stücks. Pyramus und Thisbe sollen sich an Ninus' Grab treffen und sich dort lieben. Aber Thisbe wird von einem Löwen verjagt, und als sie flieht, lässt sie ihren Mantel fallen. Der Löwe zerreißt ihn und lässt ihn blutverschmiert aussehen. Als Pyramus ankommt, ist er so bestürzt über den Anblick des scheinbar blutbeschmierten Mantels, dass er sich selbst tötet, weil er denkt, seine Geliebte sei tot. Die Schauspieler spielen ihre Rollen nach bestem Vermögen, trotz der groben Unterbrechungen durch die Aristokraten, die sich am farcicalen Auftritt ergötzen, indem sie ihn verspotten. Snout erklärt ausführlich, dass er eine Mauer spielt. Pyramus nähert sich der Mauer, auf der anderen Seite erscheint schließlich Thisbe. Die beiden Liebenden führen einen Liebesdialog, in dem sie beide die Namen der Figuren aus der klassischen Mythologie verhunzen. Dann trennen sie sich und vereinbaren ein Treffen am Grab von Ninus. Snug betritt die Bühne und erklärt, dass er der Löwe ist, ebenso wie Starveling der Moonshine. Sie bekommen ihre Zeilen hin, trotz der spöttischen Kommentare der Aristokraten. Der Löwe jagt Thisbe davon und dann betritt Pyramus die Bühne und beklagt leidenschaftlich den Tod von Thisbe. Er ersticht sich selbst und stirbt. Thisbe kehrt zurück und findet ihren toten Geliebten. Sie ersticht sich aus Kummer. Nach einigen großzügigen Lobesworten von Theseus für ihre Aufführung endet das Ganze mit einem ländlichen Tanz. Es ist Mitternacht und Theseus und die anderen gehen schlafen. Puck betritt die Bühne und verkündet, dass jetzt die Zeit ist, in der Feen umhertollen. Oberon und Titania und ihr Gefolge singen und tanzen einen Segen für das Haus. Das letzte Wort hat Puck, der direkt zum Publikum spricht. Er sagt, dass, wenn irgendetwas im Spiel sie beleidigt hat, sie sich vorstellen sollen, zu schlafen, und das Spiel als nichts mehr als einen Traum betrachten sollen.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: The next morning was fair, and Catherine almost expected another attack from the assembled party. With Mr. Allen to support her, she felt no dread of the event: but she would gladly be spared a contest, where victory itself was painful, and was heartily rejoiced therefore at neither seeing nor hearing anything of them. The Tilneys called for her at the appointed time; and no new difficulty arising, no sudden recollection, no unexpected summons, no impertinent intrusion to disconcert their measures, my heroine was most unnaturally able to fulfil her engagement, though it was made with the hero himself. They determined on walking round Beechen Cliff, that noble hill whose beautiful verdure and hanging coppice render it so striking an object from almost every opening in Bath. "I never look at it," said Catherine, as they walked along the side of the river, "without thinking of the south of France." "You have been abroad then?" said Henry, a little surprised. "Oh! No, I only mean what I have read about. It always puts me in mind of the country that Emily and her father travelled through, in The Mysteries of Udolpho. But you never read novels, I dare say?" "Why not?" "Because they are not clever enough for you--gentlemen read better books." "The person, be it gentleman or lady, who has not pleasure in a good novel, must be intolerably stupid. I have read all Mrs. Radcliffe's works, and most of them with great pleasure. The Mysteries of Udolpho, when I had once begun it, I could not lay down again; I remember finishing it in two days--my hair standing on end the whole time." "Yes," added Miss Tilney, "and I remember that you undertook to read it aloud to me, and that when I was called away for only five minutes to answer a note, instead of waiting for me, you took the volume into the Hermitage Walk, and I was obliged to stay till you had finished it." "Thank you, Eleanor--a most honourable testimony. You see, Miss Morland, the injustice of your suspicions. Here was I, in my eagerness to get on, refusing to wait only five minutes for my sister, breaking the promise I had made of reading it aloud, and keeping her in suspense at a most interesting part, by running away with the volume, which, you are to observe, was her own, particularly her own. I am proud when I reflect on it, and I think it must establish me in your good opinion." "I am very glad to hear it indeed, and now I shall never be ashamed of liking Udolpho myself. But I really thought before, young men despised novels amazingly." "It is amazingly; it may well suggest amazement if they do--for they read nearly as many as women. I myself have read hundreds and hundreds. Do not imagine that you can cope with me in a knowledge of Julias and Louisas. If we proceed to particulars, and engage in the never-ceasing inquiry of 'Have you read this?' and 'Have you read that?' I shall soon leave you as far behind me as--what shall I say?--I want an appropriate simile.--as far as your friend Emily herself left poor Valancourt when she went with her aunt into Italy. Consider how many years I have had the start of you. I had entered on my studies at Oxford, while you were a good little girl working your sampler at home!" "Not very good, I am afraid. But now really, do not you think Udolpho the nicest book in the world?" "The nicest--by which I suppose you mean the neatest. That must depend upon the binding." "Henry," said Miss Tilney, "you are very impertinent. Miss Morland, he is treating you exactly as he does his sister. He is forever finding fault with me, for some incorrectness of language, and now he is taking the same liberty with you. The word 'nicest,' as you used it, did not suit him; and you had better change it as soon as you can, or we shall be overpowered with Johnson and Blair all the rest of the way." "I am sure," cried Catherine, "I did not mean to say anything wrong; but it is a nice book, and why should not I call it so?" "Very true," said Henry, "and this is a very nice day, and we are taking a very nice walk, and you are two very nice young ladies. Oh! It is a very nice word indeed! It does for everything. Originally perhaps it was applied only to express neatness, propriety, delicacy, or refinement--people were nice in their dress, in their sentiments, or their choice. But now every commendation on every subject is comprised in that one word." "While, in fact," cried his sister, "it ought only to be applied to you, without any commendation at all. You are more nice than wise. Come, Miss Morland, let us leave him to meditate over our faults in the utmost propriety of diction, while we praise Udolpho in whatever terms we like best. It is a most interesting work. You are fond of that kind of reading?" "To say the truth, I do not much like any other." "Indeed!" "That is, I can read poetry and plays, and things of that sort, and do not dislike travels. But history, real solemn history, I cannot be interested in. Can you?" "Yes, I am fond of history." "I wish I were too. I read it a little as a duty, but it tells me nothing that does not either vex or weary me. The quarrels of popes and kings, with wars or pestilences, in every page; the men all so good for nothing, and hardly any women at all--it is very tiresome: and yet I often think it odd that it should be so dull, for a great deal of it must be invention. The speeches that are put into the heroes' mouths, their thoughts and designs--the chief of all this must be invention, and invention is what delights me in other books." "Historians, you think," said Miss Tilney, "are not happy in their flights of fancy. They display imagination without raising interest. I am fond of history--and am very well contented to take the false with the true. In the principal facts they have sources of intelligence in former histories and records, which may be as much depended on, I conclude, as anything that does not actually pass under one's own observation; and as for the little embellishments you speak of, they are embellishments, and I like them as such. If a speech be well drawn up, I read it with pleasure, by whomsoever it may be made--and probably with much greater, if the production of Mr. Hume or Mr. Robertson, than if the genuine words of Caractacus, Agricola, or Alfred the Great." "You are fond of history! And so are Mr. Allen and my father; and I have two brothers who do not dislike it. So many instances within my small circle of friends is remarkable! At this rate, I shall not pity the writers of history any longer. If people like to read their books, it is all very well, but to be at so much trouble in filling great volumes, which, as I used to think, nobody would willingly ever look into, to be labouring only for the torment of little boys and girls, always struck me as a hard fate; and though I know it is all very right and necessary, I have often wondered at the person's courage that could sit down on purpose to do it." "That little boys and girls should be tormented," said Henry, "is what no one at all acquainted with human nature in a civilized state can deny; but in behalf of our most distinguished historians, I must observe that they might well be offended at being supposed to have no higher aim, and that by their method and style, they are perfectly well qualified to torment readers of the most advanced reason and mature time of life. I use the verb 'to torment,' as I observed to be your own method, instead of 'to instruct,' supposing them to be now admitted as synonymous." "You think me foolish to call instruction a torment, but if you had been as much used as myself to hear poor little children first learning their letters and then learning to spell, if you had ever seen how stupid they can be for a whole morning together, and how tired my poor mother is at the end of it, as I am in the habit of seeing almost every day of my life at home, you would allow that 'to torment' and 'to instruct' might sometimes be used as synonymous words." "Very probably. But historians are not accountable for the difficulty of learning to read; and even you yourself, who do not altogether seem particularly friendly to very severe, very intense application, may perhaps be brought to acknowledge that it is very well worth-while to be tormented for two or three years of one's life, for the sake of being able to read all the rest of it. Consider--if reading had not been taught, Mrs. Radcliffe would have written in vain--or perhaps might not have written at all." Catherine assented--and a very warm panegyric from her on that lady's merits closed the subject. The Tilneys were soon engaged in another on which she had nothing to say. They were viewing the country with the eyes of persons accustomed to drawing, and decided on its capability of being formed into pictures, with all the eagerness of real taste. Here Catherine was quite lost. She knew nothing of drawing--nothing of taste: and she listened to them with an attention which brought her little profit, for they talked in phrases which conveyed scarcely any idea to her. The little which she could understand, however, appeared to contradict the very few notions she had entertained on the matter before. It seemed as if a good view were no longer to be taken from the top of an high hill, and that a clear blue sky was no longer a proof of a fine day. She was heartily ashamed of her ignorance. A misplaced shame. Where people wish to attach, they should always be ignorant. To come with a well-informed mind is to come with an inability of administering to the vanity of others, which a sensible person would always wish to avoid. A woman especially, if she have the misfortune of knowing anything, should conceal it as well as she can. The advantages of natural folly in a beautiful girl have been already set forth by the capital pen of a sister author; and to her treatment of the subject I will only add, in justice to men, that though to the larger and more trifling part of the sex, imbecility in females is a great enhancement of their personal charms, there is a portion of them too reasonable and too well informed themselves to desire anything more in woman than ignorance. But Catherine did not know her own advantages--did not know that a good-looking girl, with an affectionate heart and a very ignorant mind, cannot fail of attracting a clever young man, unless circumstances are particularly untoward. In the present instance, she confessed and lamented her want of knowledge, declared that she would give anything in the world to be able to draw; and a lecture on the picturesque immediately followed, in which his instructions were so clear that she soon began to see beauty in everything admired by him, and her attention was so earnest that he became perfectly satisfied of her having a great deal of natural taste. He talked of foregrounds, distances, and second distances--side-screens and perspectives--lights and shades; and Catherine was so hopeful a scholar that when they gained the top of Beechen Cliff, she voluntarily rejected the whole city of Bath as unworthy to make part of a landscape. Delighted with her progress, and fearful of wearying her with too much wisdom at once, Henry suffered the subject to decline, and by an easy transition from a piece of rocky fragment and the withered oak which he had placed near its summit, to oaks in general, to forests, the enclosure of them, waste lands, crown lands and government, he shortly found himself arrived at politics; and from politics, it was an easy step to silence. The general pause which succeeded his short disquisition on the state of the nation was put an end to by Catherine, who, in rather a solemn tone of voice, uttered these words, "I have heard that something very shocking indeed will soon come out in London." Miss Tilney, to whom this was chiefly addressed, was startled, and hastily replied, "Indeed! And of what nature?" "That I do not know, nor who is the author. I have only heard that it is to be more horrible than anything we have met with yet." "Good heaven! Where could you hear of such a thing?" "A particular friend of mine had an account of it in a letter from London yesterday. It is to be uncommonly dreadful. I shall expect murder and everything of the kind." "You speak with astonishing composure! But I hope your friend's accounts have been exaggerated; and if such a design is known beforehand, proper measures will undoubtedly be taken by government to prevent its coming to effect." "Government," said Henry, endeavouring not to smile, "neither desires nor dares to interfere in such matters. There must be murder; and government cares not how much." The ladies stared. He laughed, and added, "Come, shall I make you understand each other, or leave you to puzzle out an explanation as you can? No--I will be noble. I will prove myself a man, no less by the generosity of my soul than the clearness of my head. I have no patience with such of my sex as disdain to let themselves sometimes down to the comprehension of yours. Perhaps the abilities of women are neither sound nor acute--neither vigorous nor keen. Perhaps they may want observation, discernment, judgment, fire, genius, and wit." "Miss Morland, do not mind what he says; but have the goodness to satisfy me as to this dreadful riot." "Riot! What riot?" "My dear Eleanor, the riot is only in your own brain. The confusion there is scandalous. Miss Morland has been talking of nothing more dreadful than a new publication which is shortly to come out, in three duodecimo volumes, two hundred and seventy-six pages in each, with a frontispiece to the first, of two tombstones and a lantern--do you understand? And you, Miss Morland--my stupid sister has mistaken all your clearest expressions. You talked of expected horrors in London--and instead of instantly conceiving, as any rational creature would have done, that such words could relate only to a circulating library, she immediately pictured to herself a mob of three thousand men assembling in St. George's Fields, the Bank attacked, the Tower threatened, the streets of London flowing with blood, a detachment of the Twelfth Light Dragoons (the hopes of the nation) called up from Northampton to quell the insurgents, and the gallant Captain Frederick Tilney, in the moment of charging at the head of his troop, knocked off his horse by a brickbat from an upper window. Forgive her stupidity. The fears of the sister have added to the weakness of the woman; but she is by no means a simpleton in general." Catherine looked grave. "And now, Henry," said Miss Tilney, "that you have made us understand each other, you may as well make Miss Morland understand yourself--unless you mean to have her think you intolerably rude to your sister, and a great brute in your opinion of women in general. Miss Morland is not used to your odd ways." "I shall be most happy to make her better acquainted with them." "No doubt; but that is no explanation of the present." "What am I to do?" "You know what you ought to do. Clear your character handsomely before her. Tell her that you think very highly of the understanding of women." "Miss Morland, I think very highly of the understanding of all the women in the world--especially of those--whoever they may be--with whom I happen to be in company." "That is not enough. Be more serious." "Miss Morland, no one can think more highly of the understanding of women than I do. In my opinion, nature has given them so much that they never find it necessary to use more than half." "We shall get nothing more serious from him now, Miss Morland. He is not in a sober mood. But I do assure you that he must be entirely misunderstood, if he can ever appear to say an unjust thing of any woman at all, or an unkind one of me." It was no effort to Catherine to believe that Henry Tilney could never be wrong. His manner might sometimes surprise, but his meaning must always be just: and what she did not understand, she was almost as ready to admire, as what she did. The whole walk was delightful, and though it ended too soon, its conclusion was delightful too; her friends attended her into the house, and Miss Tilney, before they parted, addressing herself with respectful form, as much to Mrs. Allen as to Catherine, petitioned for the pleasure of her company to dinner on the day after the next. No difficulty was made on Mrs. Allen's side, and the only difficulty on Catherine's was in concealing the excess of her pleasure. The morning had passed away so charmingly as to banish all her friendship and natural affection, for no thought of Isabella or James had crossed her during their walk. When the Tilneys were gone, she became amiable again, but she was amiable for some time to little effect; Mrs. Allen had no intelligence to give that could relieve her anxiety; she had heard nothing of any of them. Towards the end of the morning, however, Catherine, having occasion for some indispensable yard of ribbon which must be bought without a moment's delay, walked out into the town, and in Bond Street overtook the second Miss Thorpe as she was loitering towards Edgar's Buildings between two of the sweetest girls in the world, who had been her dear friends all the morning. From her, she soon learned that the party to Clifton had taken place. "They set off at eight this morning," said Miss Anne, "and I am sure I do not envy them their drive. I think you and I are very well off to be out of the scrape. It must be the dullest thing in the world, for there is not a soul at Clifton at this time of year. Belle went with your brother, and John drove Maria." Catherine spoke the pleasure she really felt on hearing this part of the arrangement. "Oh! yes," rejoined the other, "Maria is gone. She was quite wild to go. She thought it would be something very fine. I cannot say I admire her taste; and for my part, I was determined from the first not to go, if they pressed me ever so much." Catherine, a little doubtful of this, could not help answering, "I wish you could have gone too. It is a pity you could not all go." "Thank you; but it is quite a matter of indifference to me. Indeed, I would not have gone on any account. I was saying so to Emily and Sophia when you overtook us." Catherine was still unconvinced; but glad that Anne should have the friendship of an Emily and a Sophia to console her, she bade her adieu without much uneasiness, and returned home, pleased that the party had not been prevented by her refusing to join it, and very heartily wishing that it might be too pleasant to allow either James or Isabella to resent her resistance any longer. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Die Tilneys rufen Catherine am nächsten Morgen ab und sie gehen zu Beechen Cliff, einem Hügel auf dem Land. Catherine fragt Henry, ob er jemals Romane liest, und er offenbart, dass er auch ein Fan von Anne Radcliffe ist. Catherine ist überrascht, dies zu hören, denn sie dachte, dass junge Männer "Romane verachten". Henry beteuert, dass dies nicht stimmt und er bereits "hunderte und hunderte" Romane gelesen hat. Catherine und die Tilneys kommen auf eine Diskussion über Geschichtsbücher. Während Catherine sie langweilig findet, liest Miss Tilney sie gerne. Während ihres Spaziergangs gibt Henry Catherine eine kurze Lektion über die Grundlagen der Landschaftsmalerei, bevor das Gespräch auf Politik kommt. Catherine hat dazu nichts zu sagen, also kehrt sie zur Literatur zurück und verkündet, dass "etwas sehr Schockierendes" - also ein neuer Roman - "bald in London erscheinen wird. Miss Tilney missversteht Catherines Aussage und glaubt, dass bald eine politische Unruhe bevorsteht. Henry macht sich scherzhaft über seine Schwester und ihr schlechtes Verständnis lustig. Miss Tilney versichert Catherine, dass ihr Bruder eine sehr hohe Meinung von Frauen hat, und Catherine ist fasziniert von der Komplexität von Henrys Charakter. Auf dem Rückweg zu den Allens trifft Catherine auf eine von Isabellas jüngeren Schwestern, Anne, die enthüllt, dass ihre anderen Geschwister zusammen mit James am Morgen nach Clifton gefahren sind. Catherine ist erfreut, dass die Gruppe den Ausflug ohne sie unternommen 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: Scene III. Friar Laurence's cell. Enter Friar [Laurence]. Friar. Romeo, come forth; come forth, thou fearful man. Affliction is enanmour'd of thy parts, And thou art wedded to calamity. Enter Romeo. Rom. Father, what news? What is the Prince's doom What sorrow craves acquaintance at my hand That I yet know not? Friar. Too familiar Is my dear son with such sour company. I bring thee tidings of the Prince's doom. Rom. What less than doomsday is the Prince's doom? Friar. A gentler judgment vanish'd from his lips- Not body's death, but body's banishment. Rom. Ha, banishment? Be merciful, say 'death'; For exile hath more terror in his look, Much more than death. Do not say 'banishment.' Friar. Hence from Verona art thou banished. Be patient, for the world is broad and wide. Rom. There is no world without Verona walls, But purgatory, torture, hell itself. Hence banished is banish'd from the world, And world's exile is death. Then 'banishment' Is death misterm'd. Calling death 'banishment,' Thou cut'st my head off with a golden axe And smilest upon the stroke that murders me. Friar. O deadly sin! O rude unthankfulness! Thy fault our law calls death; but the kind Prince, Taking thy part, hath rush'd aside the law, And turn'd that black word death to banishment. This is dear mercy, and thou seest it not. Rom. 'Tis torture, and not mercy. Heaven is here, Where Juliet lives; and every cat and dog And little mouse, every unworthy thing, Live here in heaven and may look on her; But Romeo may not. More validity, More honourable state, more courtship lives In carrion flies than Romeo. They may seize On the white wonder of dear Juliet's hand And steal immortal blessing from her lips, Who, even in pure and vestal modesty, Still blush, as thinking their own kisses sin; But Romeo may not- he is banished. This may flies do, when I from this must fly; They are free men, but I am banished. And sayest thou yet that exile is not death? Hadst thou no poison mix'd, no sharp-ground knife, No sudden mean of death, though ne'er so mean, But 'banished' to kill me- 'banished'? O friar, the damned use that word in hell; Howling attends it! How hast thou the heart, Being a divine, a ghostly confessor, A sin-absolver, and my friend profess'd, To mangle me with that word 'banished'? Friar. Thou fond mad man, hear me a little speak. Rom. O, thou wilt speak again of banishment. Friar. I'll give thee armour to keep off that word; Adversity's sweet milk, philosophy, To comfort thee, though thou art banished. Rom. Yet 'banished'? Hang up philosophy! Unless philosophy can make a Juliet, Displant a town, reverse a prince's doom, It helps not, it prevails not. Talk no more. Friar. O, then I see that madmen have no ears. Rom. How should they, when that wise men have no eyes? Friar. Let me dispute with thee of thy estate. Rom. Thou canst not speak of that thou dost not feel. Wert thou as young as I, Juliet thy love, An hour but married, Tybalt murdered, Doting like me, and like me banished, Then mightst thou speak, then mightst thou tear thy hair, And fall upon the ground, as I do now, Taking the measure of an unmade grave. Knock [within]. Friar. Arise; one knocks. Good Romeo, hide thyself. Rom. Not I; unless the breath of heartsick groans, Mist-like infold me from the search of eyes. Knock. Friar. Hark, how they knock! Who's there? Romeo, arise; Thou wilt be taken.- Stay awhile!- Stand up; Knock. Run to my study.- By-and-by!- God's will, What simpleness is this.- I come, I come! Knock. Who knocks so hard? Whence come you? What's your will Nurse. [within] Let me come in, and you shall know my errand. I come from Lady Juliet. Friar. Welcome then. Enter Nurse. Nurse. O holy friar, O, tell me, holy friar Where is my lady's lord, where's Romeo? Friar. There on the ground, with his own tears made drunk. Nurse. O, he is even in my mistress' case, Just in her case! Friar. O woeful sympathy! Piteous predicament! Nurse. Even so lies she, Blubb'ring and weeping, weeping and blubbering. Stand up, stand up! Stand, an you be a man. For Juliet's sake, for her sake, rise and stand! Why should you fall into so deep an O? Rom. (rises) Nurse- Nurse. Ah sir! ah sir! Well, death's the end of all. Rom. Spakest thou of Juliet? How is it with her? Doth not she think me an old murtherer, Now I have stain'd the childhood of our joy With blood remov'd but little from her own? Where is she? and how doth she! and what says My conceal'd lady to our cancell'd love? Nurse. O, she says nothing, sir, but weeps and weeps; And now falls on her bed, and then starts up, And Tybalt calls; and then on Romeo cries, And then down falls again. Rom. As if that name, Shot from the deadly level of a gun, Did murther her; as that name's cursed hand Murder'd her kinsman. O, tell me, friar, tell me, In what vile part of this anatomy Doth my name lodge? Tell me, that I may sack The hateful mansion. [Draws his dagger.] Friar. Hold thy desperate hand. Art thou a man? Thy form cries out thou art; Thy tears are womanish, thy wild acts denote The unreasonable fury of a beast. Unseemly woman in a seeming man! Or ill-beseeming beast in seeming both! Thou hast amaz'd me. By my holy order, I thought thy disposition better temper'd. Hast thou slain Tybalt? Wilt thou slay thyself? And slay thy lady that in thy life lives, By doing damned hate upon thyself? Why railest thou on thy birth, the heaven, and earth? Since birth and heaven and earth, all three do meet In thee at once; which thou at once wouldst lose. Fie, fie, thou shamest thy shape, thy love, thy wit, Which, like a usurer, abound'st in all, And usest none in that true use indeed Which should bedeck thy shape, thy love, thy wit. Thy noble shape is but a form of wax Digressing from the valour of a man; Thy dear love sworn but hollow perjury, Killing that love which thou hast vow'd to cherish; Thy wit, that ornament to shape and love, Misshapen in the conduct of them both, Like powder in a skilless soldier's flask, is get afire by thine own ignorance, And thou dismemb'red with thine own defence. What, rouse thee, man! Thy Juliet is alive, For whose dear sake thou wast but lately dead. There art thou happy. Tybalt would kill thee, But thou slewest Tybalt. There art thou happy too. The law, that threat'ned death, becomes thy friend And turns it to exile. There art thou happy. A pack of blessings light upon thy back; Happiness courts thee in her best array; But, like a misbhav'd and sullen wench, Thou pout'st upon thy fortune and thy love. Take heed, take heed, for such die miserable. Go get thee to thy love, as was decreed, Ascend her chamber, hence and comfort her. But look thou stay not till the watch be set, For then thou canst not pass to Mantua, Where thou shalt live till we can find a time To blaze your marriage, reconcile your friends, Beg pardon of the Prince, and call thee back With twenty hundred thousand times more joy Than thou went'st forth in lamentation. Go before, nurse. Commend me to thy lady, And bid her hasten all the house to bed, Which heavy sorrow makes them apt unto. Romeo is coming. Nurse. O Lord, I could have stay'd here all the night To hear good counsel. O, what learning is! My lord, I'll tell my lady you will come. Rom. Do so, and bid my sweet prepare to chide. Nurse. Here is a ring she bid me give you, sir. Hie you, make haste, for it grows very late. Exit. Rom. How well my comfort is reviv'd by this! Friar. Go hence; good night; and here stands all your state: Either be gone before the watch be set, Or by the break of day disguis'd from hence. Sojourn in Mantua. I'll find out your man, And he shall signify from time to time Every good hap to you that chances here. Give me thy hand. 'Tis late. Farewell; good night. Rom. But that a joy past joy calls out on me, It were a grief so brief to part with thee. Farewell. Exeunt. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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In der Zelle von Bruder Lorenz überwältigt Romeo der Kummer und er fragt sich, welches Urteil der Fürst gefällt hat. Bruder Lorenz sagt ihm, dass er Glück hat: Der Fürst hat ihn nur verbannt. Romeo behauptet, dass Verbannung eine Strafe ist, die schlimmer als der Tod ist, da er weiterleben muss, aber ohne Julia. Der Mönch versucht, Romeo zu beraten, aber der junge Mann ist so unglücklich, dass er nichts davon hören will. Romeo fällt auf den Boden. Die Amme kommt und Romeo bittet sie verzweifelt nach Nachrichten von Julia. Er nimmt an, dass Julia ihn jetzt für einen Mörder hält und droht, sich selbst zu erstechen. Bruder Lorenz hält ihn auf und schimpft ihn dafür aus, dass er unmannhaft ist. Er erklärt, dass Romeo viele Gründe hat, dankbar zu sein: Er und Julia sind beide am Leben, und nachdem sich die Dinge beruhigt haben, könnte Prinz Escalus seine Meinung ändern. Der Mönch stellt einen Plan auf: Romeo wird in dieser Nacht Juliet besuchen, aber sicherstellen, dass er noch vor dem Morgen ihre Kammer und Verona verlässt. Dann wird er in Mantua bleiben, bis die Nachricht von ihrer Hochzeit verbreitet werden kann. Die Amme gibt Romeo den Ring von Julia und dieses physische Symbol ihrer Liebe belebt seine Stimmung. Die Amme geht und Romeo verabschiedet sich von Bruder Lorenz. Er muss sich darauf vorbereiten, Juliet zu besuchen und dann nach Mantua zu fliehen.

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 got hold of Mrs. Grose as soon after this as I could; and I can give no intelligible account of how I fought out the interval. Yet I still hear myself cry as I fairly threw myself into her arms: "They KNOW--it's too monstrous: they know, they know!" "And what on earth--?" I felt her incredulity as she held me. "Why, all that WE know--and heaven knows what else besides!" Then, as she released me, I made it out to her, made it out perhaps only now with full coherency even to myself. "Two hours ago, in the garden"--I could scarce articulate--"Flora SAW!" Mrs. Grose took it as she might have taken a blow in the stomach. "She has told you?" she panted. "Not a word--that's the horror. She kept it to herself! The child of eight, THAT child!" Unutterable still, for me, was the stupefaction of it. Mrs. Grose, of course, could only gape the wider. "Then how do you know?" "I was there--I saw with my eyes: saw that she was perfectly aware." "Do you mean aware of HIM?" "No--of HER." I was conscious as I spoke that I looked prodigious things, for I got the slow reflection of them in my companion's face. "Another person--this time; but a figure of quite as unmistakable horror and evil: a woman in black, pale and dreadful--with such an air also, and such a face!--on the other side of the lake. I was there with the child--quiet for the hour; and in the midst of it she came." "Came how--from where?" "From where they come from! She just appeared and stood there--but not so near." "And without coming nearer?" "Oh, for the effect and the feeling, she might have been as close as you!" My friend, with an odd impulse, fell back a step. "Was she someone you've never seen?" "Yes. But someone the child has. Someone YOU have." Then, to show how I had thought it all out: "My predecessor--the one who died." "Miss Jessel?" "Miss Jessel. You don't believe me?" I pressed. She turned right and left in her distress. "How can you be sure?" This drew from me, in the state of my nerves, a flash of impatience. "Then ask Flora--SHE'S sure!" But I had no sooner spoken than I caught myself up. "No, for God's sake, DON'T! She'll say she isn't--she'll lie!" Mrs. Grose was not too bewildered instinctively to protest. "Ah, how CAN you?" "Because I'm clear. Flora doesn't want me to know." "It's only then to spare you." "No, no--there are depths, depths! The more I go over it, the more I see in it, and the more I see in it, the more I fear. I don't know what I DON'T see--what I DON'T fear!" Mrs. Grose tried to keep up with me. "You mean you're afraid of seeing her again?" "Oh, no; that's nothing--now!" Then I explained. "It's of NOT seeing her." But my companion only looked wan. "I don't understand you." "Why, it's that the child may keep it up--and that the child assuredly WILL--without my knowing it." At the image of this possibility Mrs. Grose for a moment collapsed, yet presently to pull herself together again, as if from the positive force of the sense of what, should we yield an inch, there would really be to give way to. "Dear, dear--we must keep our heads! And after all, if she doesn't mind it--!" She even tried a grim joke. "Perhaps she likes it!" "Likes SUCH things--a scrap of an infant!" "Isn't it just a proof of her blessed innocence?" my friend bravely inquired. She brought me, for the instant, almost round. "Oh, we must clutch at THAT--we must cling to it! If it isn't a proof of what you say, it's a proof of--God knows what! For the woman's a horror of horrors." Mrs. Grose, at this, fixed her eyes a minute on the ground; then at last raising them, "Tell me how you know," she said. "Then you admit it's what she was?" I cried. "Tell me how you know," my friend simply repeated. "Know? By seeing her! By the way she looked." "At you, do you mean--so wickedly?" "Dear me, no--I could have borne that. She gave me never a glance. She only fixed the child." Mrs. Grose tried to see it. "Fixed her?" "Ah, with such awful eyes!" She stared at mine as if they might really have resembled them. "Do you mean of dislike?" "God help us, no. Of something much worse." "Worse than dislike?--this left her indeed at a loss. "With a determination--indescribable. With a kind of fury of intention." I made her turn pale. "Intention?" "To get hold of her." Mrs. Grose--her eyes just lingering on mine--gave a shudder and walked to the window; and while she stood there looking out I completed my statement. "THAT'S what Flora knows." After a little she turned round. "The person was in black, you say?" "In mourning--rather poor, almost shabby. But--yes--with extraordinary beauty." I now recognized to what I had at last, stroke by stroke, brought the victim of my confidence, for she quite visibly weighed this. "Oh, handsome--very, very," I insisted; "wonderfully handsome. But infamous." She slowly came back to me. "Miss Jessel--WAS infamous." She once more took my hand in both her own, holding it as tight as if to fortify me against the increase of alarm I might draw from this disclosure. "They were both infamous," she finally said. So, for a little, we faced it once more together; and I found absolutely a degree of help in seeing it now so straight. "I appreciate," I said, "the great decency of your not having hitherto spoken; but the time has certainly come to give me the whole thing." She appeared to assent to this, but still only in silence; seeing which I went on: "I must have it now. Of what did she die? Come, there was something between them." "There was everything." "In spite of the difference--?" "Oh, of their rank, their condition"--she brought it woefully out. "SHE was a lady." I turned it over; I again saw. "Yes--she was a lady." "And he so dreadfully below," said Mrs. Grose. I felt that I doubtless needn't press too hard, in such company, on the place of a servant in the scale; but there was nothing to prevent an acceptance of my companion's own measure of my predecessor's abasement. There was a way to deal with that, and I dealt; the more readily for my full vision--on the evidence--of our employer's late clever, good-looking "own" man; impudent, assured, spoiled, depraved. "The fellow was a hound." Mrs. Grose considered as if it were perhaps a little a case for a sense of shades. "I've never seen one like him. He did what he wished." "With HER?" "With them all." It was as if now in my friend's own eyes Miss Jessel had again appeared. I seemed at any rate, for an instant, to see their evocation of her as distinctly as I had seen her by the pond; and I brought out with decision: "It must have been also what SHE wished!" Mrs. Grose's face signified that it had been indeed, but she said at the same time: "Poor woman--she paid for it!" "Then you do know what she died of?" I asked. "No--I know nothing. I wanted not to know; I was glad enough I didn't; and I thanked heaven she was well out of this!" "Yet you had, then, your idea--" "Of her real reason for leaving? Oh, yes--as to that. She couldn't have stayed. Fancy it here--for a governess! And afterward I imagined--and I still imagine. And what I imagine is dreadful." "Nicht so schrecklich wie das, was _ICH_ tue", antwortete ich, woraufhin ich ihr - wie ich es tatsächlich nur allzu gut wusste - ein Bild der elenden Niederlage präsentiert haben musste. Das weckte erneut all ihre Mitgefühl für mich, und bei der erneuten Berührung ihrer Freundlichkeit brach mein Widerstand zusammen. Ich brach in Tränen aus, wie ich es schon das andere Mal getan hatte, und sie nahm mich in ihren mütterlichen Schoß, und meine Klage überströmte mich. "Ich tue es nicht!" schluchzte ich verzweifelt; "Ich rette sie nicht und beschütze sie nicht! Es ist weitaus schlimmer, als ich befürchtet habe - sie sind verloren!" Können Sie eine passende Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Nach dieser gruseligen Szene eilt die Gouvernante zu Mrs. Grose. Sie ist sich sicher, dass die Kinder von den geisterhaften Besuchern wissen. Die Gouvernante ist überzeugt, dass Flora die seltsame Gestalt am Teich gesehen hat und - schrecklicher Gedanke - nichts dazu gesagt hat. Schließlich erhalten wir eine Beschreibung der Gestalt am Wasser - diesmal war es eine Frau, in Schwarz gekleidet, die anscheinend genauso böse und schrecklich ist wie Quint. Sie tauchte plötzlich aus dem Nichts über dem See auf, aber laut der Gouvernante hatte man das schreckliche Gefühl, dass sie tatsächlich ganz in der Nähe stand. Die Gouvernante ist auch sicher, dass sie weiß, wer diese geheimnisvolle Frau ist - sie behauptet, es sei die ehemalige Gouvernante, Miss Jessel. Mrs. Grose hinterfragt diesen letzten Punkt und möchte wissen, wie die Gouvernante sich so sicher sein kann; schließlich hatte sie ihre Vorgängerin nie kennengelernt. Die Gouvernante gerät jedoch in Panik darüber, wie Flora weiß, dass es sich um Miss Jessel handelt, und dass Flora lügen würde, wenn sie damit konfrontiert würde. Eine neue Angst erfasst die Gouvernante - was sieht sie nicht? Erscheinen die Geister den Kindern, wenn sie nicht da ist? Mrs. Grose, die immer optimistisch ist, versucht die Gouvernante von Floras Unschuld zu überzeugen und behauptet, dass sie vielleicht nicht weiß, dass die geisterhafte Miss Jessel böse ist. Mrs. Grose fragt, wie die Gouvernante wusste, dass die Frau, die sie sah, Miss Jessel war. Die Gouvernante gibt eine ziemlich vage Beschreibung, die in der Tat auf jede beliebige Frau zutreffen könnte: Sie trug ein ziemlich heruntergekommenes Trauerkleid, sie war äußerst schön, aber auch "berüchtigt". Auffällig war auch der durchdringende Blick, mit dem sie Flora ansah, als ob sie entschlossen war, etwas zu tun... sicherlich etwas Schlechtes. Diese Beschreibung reicht Mrs. Grose aus, die schließlich die ganze Geschichte von Peter Quint und Miss Jessel erzählt, die eine Art verbotene Beziehung hatten. Letztere war eine Dame, aber wie wir bereits wissen, war Quint kein Gentleman. Dieser Unterschied in ihren sozialen Klassen machte ihre Beziehung noch skandalöser. Nochmals betont Mrs. Grose die anmaßende Natur von Quint und sagt bedrohlich, dass er "mit allen machte, was er wollte". Die Gouvernante deutet an, dass die Beziehung nicht allein Quints Schuld war und dass auch Miss Jessel es gewollt haben muss. Mrs. Grose gibt zu, dass dies der Fall war, zeigt aber Sympathie - sie sagt sogar, dass es gut war, dass Miss Jessel aus Bly entkommen ist. Sie behauptet, dass die Beziehung zu Quint und ihre anschließenden Auswirkungen der Grund waren, warum Miss Jessel ging. Hier bricht die Gouvernante in Tränen aus; sie fürchtet, dass es zu spät ist, die Kinder zu retten, und dass sie bereits verloren 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: Nicht an ihn dachte sie, als sie am Fenster stand, in der Nähe, wo wir sie vorhin gefunden haben, und nicht an irgendeine der Angelegenheiten, die ich schnell skizziert habe. Sie wandte sich nicht der Vergangenheit zu, sondern der unmittelbar bevorstehenden Stunde. Sie hatte Grund, eine Szene zu erwarten, und sie mochte keine Szenen. Sie fragte sich nicht, was sie zu ihrem Besucher sagen sollte; diese Frage war bereits beantwortet worden. Was er zu ihr sagen würde - das war die interessante Frage. Es konnte nichts im Geringsten Beruhigendes sein - dafür hatte sie Gewissheit, und die Überzeugung zeigte sich zweifellos in der Wolke auf ihrer Stirn. Was den Rest betraf, so herrschte bei ihr jedoch Klarheit; sie hatte ihre Trauer abgelegt und ging in glänzendem Glanz umher. Sie fühlte sich nur älter - schon so viel älter, und als ob sie "mehr wert" wäre, wie ein seltsames Stück in einer Sammlung eines Antiquitätenhändlers. Sie wurde jedenfalls nicht endlos ihren Befürchtungen überlassen, denn ein Diener stand schließlich vor ihr mit einer Karte auf dem Tablett. "Lassen Sie den Herrn herein", sagte sie und starrte weiter aus dem Fenster, nachdem der Diener sich zurückgezogen hatte. Erst als sie die Tür hinter der Person gehört hatte, die gerade eingetreten war, sah sie sich um. Caspar Goodwood stand da - stand da und erhielt einen Moment lang von Kopf bis Fuß den hellen, trockenen Blick, mit dem sie eher eine Begrüßung zurückhielt als anbot. Ob sein Gefühl für Reife mit Isabels Schritt Schritt gehalten hatte, werden wir vielleicht bald feststellen; Lassen Sie mich in der Zwischenzeit sagen, dass er in ihrem kritischen Blick nichts von den Schäden der Zeit zeigte. Gerade, stark und hart gab es in seinem Erscheinungsbild nichts, das positiv von Jugend oder Alter sprach; wenn er weder Unschuld noch Schwäche hatte, so hatte er auch keine praktische Philosophie. Sein Kiefer zeigte den gleichen freiwilligen Wurf wie in früheren Tagen; aber eine Krise wie die vorliegende hatte natürlich etwas Unbarmherziges. Er hatte die Luft eines Mannes, der hart gereist war; Er sagte anfangs nichts, als ob er außer Atem gewesen wäre. Dies gab Isabel Zeit, eine Reflexion anzustellen: "Armer Kerl, wozu er fähig ist, und was für eine Schande, dass er seine großartige Kraft so furchtbar verschwenden sollte! Was auch immer er tun würde, um alle zu befriedigen!" Es gab ihr Zeit, mehr zu sagen, nachdem eine Minute vergangen war: "Ich kann Ihnen nicht sagen, wie sehr ich gehofft habe, dass Sie nicht kommen würden!" "Daran habe ich keinen Zweifel." Und er schaute sich um einen Platz um. Nicht nur, dass er gekommen war, sondern er beabsichtigte auch, sich niederzulassen. "Sie müssen sehr müde sein", sagte Isabel und setzte sich und großzügig, wie sie dachte, um ihm seine Gelegenheit zu geben. "Nein, ich bin überhaupt nicht müde. Hat man mich jemals müde gesehen?" "Nie; ich wünschte, ich wäre es! Wann sind Sie angekommen?" "Gestern Abend, sehr spät; in einer Art Schneckenzug, den sie Express nennen. Diese italienischen Züge fahren mit der Geschwindigkeit einer amerikanischen Beerdigung." "Das passt - Sie haben sich wohl gefühlt, als ob Sie zu meiner Beerdigung kommen würden!" Und sie zwang sich zu einem aufmunternden Lächeln über ihre Situation. Sie hatte die Angelegenheit gut durchdacht und es klar gemacht, dass sie keinen Glauben brach und keinen Vertrag fälschte; aber sie fürchtete sich vor ihrem Besucher. Sie schämte sich für ihre Angst; aber sie war inbrünstig dankbar, dass es nichts gab, worüber sie sich sonst schämen konnte. Er sah sie mit seiner steifen Beharrlichkeit an, einer Beharrlichkeit, die einen Mangel an Takt hatte; besonders wenn der düstere, dunkle Blick in seinem Auge auf ihr als eine körperliches Gewicht ruhte. "Nein, das habe ich nicht gefühlt; ich konnte nicht an dich als tot denken. Ich wünschte, ich könnte!", erklärte er offen. "Ich danke Ihnen sehr." "Ich würde lieber an dich als tot denken als dich mit einem anderen Mann verheiratet zu sehen." "Das ist sehr egoistisch von Ihnen!", antwortete sie mit der Leidenschaft einer echten Überzeugung. "Wenn Sie selbst nicht glücklich sind, haben andere trotzdem das Recht, es zu sein." "Sehr wahrscheinlich ist es egoistisch; aber es macht mir nichts aus, dass Sie das sagen. Es macht mir nichts aus, was Sie jetzt sagen können - ich fühle es nicht. Die grausamsten Dinge, die Sie sich ausdenken könnten, wären nur Nadelstiche. Nach dem, was Sie getan haben, werde ich nie etwas fühlen - ich meine außer das. Das werde ich mein ganzes Leben fühlen." Herr Goodwood stellte diese abgekoppelten Behauptungen mit trockener Bedächtigkeit in seinem harten, langsamen amerikanischen Ton auf ab, der keinen atmosphärischen Farbton über intrinsisch rohe Vorschläge legte. Der Ton machte Isabel eher wütend als berührt; aber ihr Ärger war vielleicht glücklich, da er ihr einen weiteren Grund gab, sich selbst zu kontrollieren. Es war unter dem Druck dieser Kontrolle, dass sie nach einer Weile irrelevante wurde. "Wann haben Sie New York verlassen?" Er warf den Kopf in die Höhe, als er berechnete. "Vor siebzehn Tagen." "Sie müssen trotz der langsamen Züge schnell gereist sein." "Ich kam so schnell wie ich konnte. Ich wäre vor fünf Tagen gekommen, wenn ich gekonnt hätte." "Es hätte keinen Unterschied gemacht, Mr. Goodwood", lächelte sie kalt. "Nicht für dich - nein. Aber für mich." "Ich sehe keinen Vorteil für Sie." "Das ist für mich zu beurteilen!" "Natürlich. Mir scheint, dass du dich nur quälst." Und dann fragte sie ihn, ob er Henrietta Stackpole gesehen habe. Es schien, als ob er nicht von Boston nach Florenz gekommen war, um über Henrietta Stackpole zu sprechen; aber er antwortete deutlich genug, dass diese junge Dame kurz bevor er Amerika verließ, bei ihm gewesen war. "Sie kam, um dich zu sehen?", verlangte Isabel dann. "Ja, sie war in Boston und hat in meinem Büro angerufen. Es war der Tag, an dem ich deinen Brief bekommen hatte." "Hast du es ihr gesagt?", fragte Isabel mit einer gewissen Ängstlichkeit. "Oh nein", sagte Caspar Goodwood einfach; "Ich wollte das nicht tun. Sie wird es schnell genug hören; sie hört alles." "Ich werde ihr schreiben und dann wird sie mir schreiben und mich schelten", erklärte Isabel und versuchte wieder zu lächeln. Caspar blieb jedoch streng ernst. "Ich denke, sie wird sofort herauskommen", sagte er. "Um mich zu schelten?" "Ich weiß es nicht. Sie schien zu denken, dass sie Europa nicht gründlich genug gesehen hat." "Es freut mich, dass du mir das sagst", sagte Isabel. "Ich muss mich auf sie vorbereiten." Herr Goodwood fixierte für einen Moment den Boden; dann, endlich die Augen erhebend, "Kennt sie Herrn Osmond?", fragte er. "Etwas. Und sie mag ihn nicht. Aber natürlich heirate ich nicht, um Henrietta zu gefallen", fügte sie hinzu. Es wäre für den armen Caspar besser gewesen, wenn sie versucht hätte, Miss Stackpole ein wenig mehr zu erfreuen; aber er sagte es nicht; er fragte nur, wann ihre Heirat stattfinden würde. Worauf sie antwortete, dass sie es noch nicht wisse. "Ich kann nur sagen, dass es bald sein wird. Ich habe es niemandem außer dir und einer anderen Person gesagt - einem alten Freund von Herrn Osmond." Ich kann ihn nicht schätzen; das meinst du. Und du meinst überhaupt nicht, dass er ein perfektes Nichts ist. Du findest, er ist großartig, du denkst, er ist großartig, obwohl niemand anders so denkt. Isabels Gesichtsfarbe vertiefte sich; sie fühlte dies wirklich von ihrem Begleiter und es war sicherlich ein Beweis für die Hilfe, die Leidenschaft Wahrnehmungen verleihen kann, die sie noch nie als fein empfunden hatte. "Warum kehrst du immer wieder zu dem zurück, was andere denken? Ich kann Mr. Osmond nicht mit dir besprechen." "Natürlich nicht", sagte Caspar vernünftig. Und er saß dort, mit seiner hilflosen Steifheit, als ob dies nicht nur wahr wäre, sondern nichts anderes gebe, über das sie sprechen könnten. "Siehst du, wie wenig du gewinnst", platzte sie dementsprechend heraus - "wie wenig Trost oder Zufriedenheit ich dir geben kann." "Ich hatte nicht erwartet, dass du mir viel gibst." "Das verstehe ich dann nicht, warum du gekommen bist." "Ich bin gekommen, weil ich dich noch einmal sehen wollte - auch nur so, wie du bist." "Das schätze ich, aber wenn du eine Weile gewartet hättest, wären wir früher oder später sicher aufeinander getroffen, und unser Treffen wäre für uns beide angenehmer gewesen als dies." "Bis nach deiner Hochzeit warten? Das ist genau das, was ich nicht tun wollte. Du wirst dann anders sein." "Nicht sehr. Ich werde immer noch eine große Freundin von dir sein. Du wirst sehen." "Das macht es nur noch schlimmer", sagte Mr. Goodwood grimmig. "Ach, du bist unbequem! Ich kann nicht versprechen, dich nicht zu mögen, um dir zu helfen, dich damit abzufinden." "Es wäre mir egal, wenn du das tun würdest!" Isabel stand auf, mit einer Bewegung unterdrückter Ungeduld und ging zum Fenster, wo sie einen Moment lang hinausblickte. Als sie sich umdrehte, war ihr Besucher immer noch bewegungslos an seinem Platz. Sie kam wieder auf ihn zu und blieb stehen, indem sie ihre Hand auf die Rückenlehne des gerade verlassenen Stuhls legte. "Meinst du, du bist einfach gekommen, um mich anzusehen? Das ist für dich vielleicht besser als für mich." "Ich wollte den Klang deiner Stimme hören", sagte er. "Du hast ihn gehört und du siehst, dass er nichts sehr Süßes sagt." "Er bereitet mir trotzdem Freude." Und damit stand er auf. Sie hatte Schmerz und Missfallen empfunden, als sie heute früh die Nachricht erhielt, dass er in Florenz sei und auf ihre Einladung hin innerhalb einer Stunde zu ihr kommen würde. Sie war verärgert und bekümmert gewesen, obwohl sie durch seinen Boten hatte ausrichten lassen, dass er kommen könne, wann er wollte. Sie war nicht besser gelaunt, als sie ihn sah; dass er überhaupt da war, hatte so schwere Implikationen. Es bedeutete Dinge, denen sie niemals zustimmen konnte - Rechte, Vorwürfe, Ermahnungen, Tadel, die Erwartung, ihren Vorsatz zu ändern. Diese Dinge hatten jedoch, wenn auch implizit, nicht ausgesprochen werden; und nun begann unsere junge Dame, seltsamerweise das bemerkenswerte Selbstbewusstsein ihres Besuchers zu missbilligen. Es lag ein sprachloses Elend an ihm, das sie irritierte; es lag ein männliches Zurückhalten seiner Hand vor, das ihr Herz schneller schlagen ließ. Sie spürte, wie ihre Erregung stieg, und sie sagte sich, dass sie in der Art wütend war, wie eine Frau wütend ist, wenn sie im Unrecht ist. Sie war nicht im Unrecht; sie hatte zum Glück nicht diese Bitterkeit zu schlucken; aber sie wünschte sich dennoch, dass er sie ein wenig kritisieren würde. Sie hatte gehofft, sein Besuch würde kurz sein; er hatte keinen Zweck, keine Angemessenheit; und doch, jetzt, da es schien, dass er sich abwenden wollte, empfand sie plötzlich eine Furcht, dass er sie ohne ein Wort, das ihr Gelegenheit geben würde, sich mehr zu verteidigen, als sie es in einem vor einem Monat sorgfältig gewählten Brief an ihn getan hatte, in dem sie ihre Verlobung ankündigte, verlassen würde. Wenn sie nicht im Unrecht war, warum sollte sie dann das Bedürfnis haben, sich zu verteidigen? Es war ein Übermaß an Großzügigkeit von Isabel, dass sie sich wünschte, dass Mr. Goodwood wütend wäre. Und wenn er sich inzwischen nicht stark gehalten hätte, hätte es ihn möglicherweise gemacht, den Ton zu hören, in dem sie plötzlich ausrufen würde, als ob sie ihn beschuldigen würde, sie beschuldigt zu haben: "Ich habe dich nicht getäuscht! Ich war vollkommen frei!" "Ja, das weiß ich", sagte Caspar. "Ich habe dir eine klare Warnung gegeben, dass ich tun werde, was ich will." "Du hast gesagt, dass du wahrscheinlich nie heiraten wirst, und du hast es in einer Art und Weise gesagt, dass ich es ziemlich geglaubt habe." Sie dachte einen Moment darüber nach. "Niemand kann mehr überrascht sein als ich selbst über meine gegenwärtige Absicht." "Du hast mir gesagt, dass ich es nicht glauben soll, wenn ich höre, dass du verlobt bist", fuhr Caspar fort. "Vor zwanzig Tagen habe ich es von dir selbst gehört, aber ich erinnerte mich an das, was du gesagt hattest. Ich dachte, es könnte ein Missverständnis geben, und das ist zum Teil der Grund, warum ich gekommen bin." "Wenn du möchtest, dass ich es mündlich wiederhole, dauert das nicht lange. Es gibt kein Missverständnis." "Das habe ich gesehen, sobald ich in den Raum gekommen bin." "Was bringt es dir, dass ich nicht heirate?", fragte sie mit einer gewissen Schärfe. "Es würde mir besser gefallen als dies." "Du bist sehr egoistisch, wie ich schon gesagt habe." "Das weiß ich. Ich bin so eifersüchtig wie Eisen." "Sogar Eisen schmilzt manchmal! Wenn du vernünftig bist, sehe ich dich wieder." "Nennst du mich jetzt nicht vernünftig?" "Ich weiß nicht, was ich dir sagen soll", antwortete sie plötzlich demütig. "Ich werde dich lange Zeit nicht belästigen", fuhr der junge Mann fort. Er machte einen Schritt zur Tür, blieb aber stehen. "Ein weiterer Grund, warum ich gekommen bin, war, dass ich hören wollte, was du zur Erklärung dafür sagen würdest, dass du deine Meinung geändert hast." Ihre Demut verließ sie plötzlich. "Zur Erklärung? Glaubst du, ich bin verpflichtet, mich zu erklären?" Er gab ihr einen seiner langen stummen Blicke. "Du warst sehr bestimmt. Das habe ich geglaubt." "Ich auch. Glaubst du, ich könnte mich erklären, wenn ich wollte?" "Nein, vermutlich nicht. Nun", fügte er hinzu, "ich habe getan, was ich wollte. Ich habe dich gesehen." "Wie wenig du von diesen furchtbaren Reisen hältst", fühlte Isabel die Armut ihrer Antwort. "Wenn du Angst hast, dass ich erschöpft bin - in irgendeiner solchen Art - dann kannst du beruhigt sein." Diesmal drehte er sich ernsthaft ab, und zwischen ihnen wurde kein Händedruck, kein Zeichen der Trennung ausgetauscht. An der Tür blieb er mit der Hand am Griff stehen. "Ich werde Florenz morgen verlassen", sagte er ohne zu zittern. "Ich bin begeistert, das zu hören!" antwortete sie leidenschaftlich. Fünf Minuten, nachdem er gegangen war, brach sie in Tränen aus. 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.

Der Erzähler kehrt zur Gegenwart zurück, wo Isabel auf einen Gast wartet. Sie freut sich nicht wirklich auf die Begegnung, obwohl wir noch nicht wissen, wen sie erwartet. Caspar Goodwood stürzt herein. Er möchte über ihre Verlobung Bescheid wissen - Moment, Moment, Moment! Er ist nicht der Einzige, der neugierig und bestürzt ist. Welche Verlobung? Caspar sagt, er würde es lieber sehen, dass Isabel für ihn tot ist, als zu wissen, dass sie einen anderen heiratet. Isabel nennt ihn egoistisch, aber das ist ihm egal. Offensichtlich ist Caspar von den Staaten nach Florenz gekommen, sobald er von ihrer Situation gehört hat. Er hat es in nur siebzehn Tagen dorthin geschafft, was ziemlich erstaunlich ist - wir reden hier von der Zeit vor dem Flugzeug. Isabel ist sich nicht sicher, was er sich von diesem Treffen erhofft. Isabel hat niemandem von ihrer Verlobung mit Gilbert Osmond erzählt, außer Caspar Goodwood und Madame Merle. Isabel sagt, dass sie nicht für ihre Freunde heiratet, also fühlte sie sich nicht verpflichtet, es allen zu sagen. Isabel sagt, dass Osmond kein Mann von Bedeutung ist, also würde Caspar nichts davon profitieren, mehr über ihn zu erfahren. Sie scheint sich darüber zu freuen. Isabel wünscht sich, dass Caspar nach ihrer Heirat gekommen wäre. Caspar sagt, dass er das natürlich nicht hätte tun können, da sie dann anders wäre. Caspar sagt, dass er nur den Klang ihrer Stimme hören wollte, selbst wenn sie keine guten Neuigkeiten verkündet. Isabel ist verärgert, dass Caspar nicht mehr mit ihr streitet. Sie möchte die Gelegenheit haben, ihre Entscheidung zu verteidigen. Caspar erinnert Isabel daran, was sie ihm vor Jahren gesagt hat: Wenn er von ihrer Verlobung hört, soll er es nicht glauben. Und doch, es stimmt - sie ist verlobt. Caspar geht wütend davon und verkündet seine Abreise aus Florenz am nächsten Tag. Isabel sagt, dass sie froh ist, dass er geht, und bricht fünf Minuten nach seiner Abreise in Tränen aus - dies scheint die übliche Wirkung zu sein, die er auf sie hat. Puh! Das war ein intensives Kapitel. Wir müssen erst einmal durchatmen - wir treffen uns in fünf Minuten wieder hier.

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: Für Unbereiste ist ein unbekanntes Gebiet neben ihrer vertrauten Heide immer faszinierend. Neben der Liebe ist es das Einzige, was Trost und Freude bringt. Neue Dinge sind zu wichtig, um vernachlässigt zu werden, und der Geist, der nur ein Abbild von Sinneseindrücken ist, erliegt der Flut von Objekten. So werden Liebende vergessen, Sorgen beiseite gelegt und der Tod aus dem Blickfeld verbannt. Hinter dem abgedroschenen dramatischen Ausdruck - "Ich gehe weg" - verbirgt sich eine Welt angesammelter Gefühle. Als Carrie auf die fliegende Landschaft hinausblickte, vergaß sie fast, dass sie gegen ihren Willen zu dieser langen Reise getäuscht worden war und dass sie keine geeignete Kleidung zum Reisen hatte. Sie vergaß Hurstwoods Anwesenheit manchmal vollständig und blickte mit verwunderten Augen auf bescheidene Bauernhäuser und gemütliche Häuschen in Dörfern. Es war eine interessante Welt für sie. Ihr Leben hatte gerade erst begonnen. Sie fühlte sich überhaupt nicht besiegt. Aber sie war auch nicht in ihrer Hoffnung vernichtet. Die große Stadt hatte viel zu bieten. Vielleicht würde sie aus der Knechtschaft in die Freiheit gelangen - wer weiß? Vielleicht würde sie glücklich sein. Diese Gedanken hoben sie über das Niveau des Irrtums. Sie war gerettet, denn sie war hoffnungsvoll. Am nächsten Morgen fuhr der Zug sicher in Montreal ein und sie stiegen aus, Hurstwood froh, der Gefahr entkommen zu sein, und Carrie staunte über die ungewohnte Atmosphäre der Nordstadt. Hurstwood war schon lange hier gewesen und erinnerte sich jetzt an den Namen des Hotels, in dem er damals gewohnt hatte. Als sie den Haupteingang des Bahnhofs verließen, hörte er einen Busfahrer den Namen erneut rufen. "Wir gehen gleich hoch und holen uns Zimmer", sagte er. Im Büro des Rezeptionisten drehte Hurstwood das Gästebuch herum und der Rezeptionist kam herein. Er überlegte, welchen Namen er eintragen sollte. Bei diesem Thema gab es keine Zeit für Zögern. Ein Name, den er aus dem Fenster des Zuges gesehen hatte, fiel ihm schnell ein. Er war angemessen genug. Mit ruhiger Hand schrieb er "G. W. Murdock und Ehefrau". Das war die größte Zugeständnis an die Notwendigkeit, das er machen konnte. Seine Initialen konnte er nicht opfern. Als man ihnen ihr Zimmer zeigte, sah Carrie sofort, dass er ihr ein schönes Zimmer besorgt hatte. "Dort hast du ein Bad", sagte er. "Jetzt kannst du dich frisch machen, wenn du bereit bist." Carrie ging zum Fenster und Hurstwood betrachtete sich im Spiegel. Er fühlte sich staubig und ungepflegt. Er hatte keinen Koffer, keine Wechselwäsche, nicht einmal eine Haarbürste. "Ich werde nach Seife, Handtüchern und einer Karaffe mit Eiswasser rufen", sagte er, "und dir eine Haarbürste schicken. Dann kannst du dich baden und für das Frühstück fertigmachen. Ich gehe mich rasieren und komme dann zurück, um dich abzuholen, und dann gehen wir los und suchen nach Kleidung für dich." Er lächelte gutmütig, als er das sagte. "Okay", sagte Carrie. Sie setzte sich in einen der Schaukelstühle, während Hurstwood auf den Jungen wartete, der bald anklopfte. "Seife, Handtücher und eine Karaffe mit Eiswasser." "Ja, Sir." "Ich gehe jetzt", sagte er zu Carrie, kam auf sie zu und hielt ihr die Hände entgegen, aber sie bewegte sich nicht, um sie zu nehmen. "Bist du nicht böse auf mich?" fragte er leise. "Oh nein!" antwortete sie recht teilnahmslos. "Magst du mich überhaupt nicht?" Sie antwortete nicht, sondern schaute unverwandt zum Fenster. "Denkst du nicht, dass du mich ein bisschen lieben könntest?" flehte er und griff nach einer ihrer Hände, die sie zu entziehen versuchte. "Du hast einmal gesagt, dass du es tust." "Was hat dich dazu gebracht, mich so zu täuschen?" fragte Carrie. "Ich konnte nichts dagegen tun", sagte er, "ich wollte dich zu sehr." "Du hattest kein Recht, mich zu wollen", antwortete sie treffend. "Nun gut, Carrie", antwortete er, "hier bin ich. Es ist jetzt zu spät. Wirst du versuchen, ein bisschen für mich zu empfinden?" Er wirkte etwas verwirrt in seinen Gedanken, als er vor ihr stand. Sie schüttelte den Kopf verneinend. "Lass mich noch einmal von vorne anfangen. Sei ab heute meine Frau." Carrie erhob sich, als wollte sie sich entfernen, und er hielt ihre Hand fest. Nun legte er seinen Arm um sie und sie kämpfte, aber vergeblich. Er hielt sie fest umschlossen. Augenblicklich flammte in ihm das alles überwältigende Verlangen auf. Seine Zuneigung nahm eine leidenschaftliche Form an. "Lass mich gehen", sagte Carrie, die eng an ihm geschmiegt war. "Wirst du mich nicht lieben?" fragte er. "Wirst du ab jetzt mein sein?" Carrie hatte nie etwas gegen ihn gehabt. Nur einen Moment zuvor hatte sie mit etwas Selbstgefälligkeit zugehört und sich an ihre alte Zuneigung zu ihm erinnert. Er war so attraktiv, so kühn! Jetzt jedoch hatte sich dieses Gefühl in Widerstand verwandelt, der schwach aufstieg. Er beherrschte sie einen Moment lang und begann dann, gehalten wie sie war, zu verblassen. Etwas Anderes in ihr sprach. Dieser Mann, in dessen Schoß sie gedrückt wurde, war stark; er war leidenschaftlich, er liebte sie und sie war allein. Wenn sie sich nicht ihm zuwenden würde - sein Angebot seiner Liebe annehmen würde - wo sonst würde sie hingehen? Ihr Widerstand löste sich teilweise in der Flut seiner starken Gefühle auf. Sie fand, wie er ihren Kopf hob und ihr in die Augen sah. Welche Anziehungskraft dort lag, würde sie niemals erfahren können. Seine vielen Sünden waren jedoch für diesen Moment alle vergessen. Er drückte sie fester an sich und küsste sie, und sie fühlte, dass weiterer Widerstand zwecklos war. "Wirst du mich heiraten?" fragte sie, vergessend, wie. "Noch heute", sagte er freudig. Jetzt klopfte der Hotelpage an die Tür und widerwillig ließ er sie los. "Ich mache mich jetzt fertig, okay?" sagte sie. "Ich bin in drei Viertelstunden zurück." Carrie, die gerötet und aufgeregt war, entfernte sich, während er den Jungen hereinließ. Drüben in der Lobby betrachtete ihn jedoch eine andere Person. Er war von gewöhnlicher irischer Herkunft, klein von Gestalt, billig gekleidet und mit einem Kopf, der wie eine kleinere Ausgabe irgendeines riesigen Bezirkspolitikers wirkte. Offensichtlich hatte dieser Mann gerade mit dem Rezeptionisten gesprochen, aber jetzt musterte er den ehemaligen Manager aufmerksam. Hurstwood spürte die langfristige Untersuchung und erkannte den Typen. Instinktiv spürte er, dass der Mann ein Detektiv war und dass er beobachtet wurde. Er überquerte hastig die Straße und tat so, als ob er es nicht bemerken würde, aber in seinem Kopf waren tausend Gedanken. Was würde jetzt passieren? Was könnten diese Leute tun? Er begann sich Sorgen um die Auslieferungsgesetze zu machen. Er verstand sie nicht absolut. Vielleicht könnte er verhaftet werden. Oh, wenn Carrie das herausfinden würde! Montreal war zu heiß für ihn. Er begann sich danach zu sehnen, fortzukommen. Carrie hatte gebadet und wartete, als er ankam. Sie sah erfrischt aus, noch entzückender als je zuvor, aber zurückhaltend. Seit er gegangen war, hatte sie wieder etwas von ihrer kalten Haltung ihm gegenüber eingenommen. Die Liebe brannte nicht in ihrem Herzen. Er fühlte es und seine Probleme schienen sich zu vermehren. Er konnte sie nicht in seine Arme nehmen; er versuchte es nicht einmal. Etwas an ihr verbot es. Teils war seine Meinung das Ergebnis seiner eigenen Erfahrungen und Überlegungen unterhalb der Treppe. "Bist du bereit?" sagte er freundlich. "Ja", antwortete sie. "Wir gehen zum Frühstück aus. Dieser Ort hier unten sagt mir nicht besonders zu." "In Ordnung", sagte Carrie. Sie gingen hinaus und an der Ecke stand der gewöhnliche irische Mensch und beobachtete ihn. Hurstwood konnte kaum davon absehen zu zeigen, dass er wusste, dass dieser Kerl da war. Die Unverschämtheit in dem Blick des Kerls war ärgerlich. Trotzdem gingen sie vorbei und er erklärte Carrie die Stadt. Ein weiteres Restaurant zeigte sich nicht lange danach und hier gingen sie hinein. "Was für eine seltsame Stadt das ist", sagte Carrie, die sich ausschließlich darüber wunderte, dass es anders war als Chicago. "Es ist nicht so lebhaft wie Chicago", sagte Hurstwood. "Gefällt es dir denn nicht?" "Nein", sagte Carrie, deren Gefühle bereits in der großen westlichen Stadt lokalisiert waren. "Nun, es ist nicht so interessant", sagte Hurstwood. "Was gibt es hier?" fragte Carrie und wunderte sich, warum er sich entschieden hatte, diese Stadt zu besuchen. "Nicht viel", antwortete Hurstwood. "Es ist ziemlich ein beliebter Ort. Hier gibt es einige schöne Landschaften." Carrie hörte zu, aber mit einem Gefühl der Unruhe. Es gab viel an ihrer Situation, das die Möglichkeit der Wertschätzung zerstörte. "Wir werden nicht lange hier bleiben", sagte Hurstwood, der jetzt wirklich froh war, ihre Unzufriedenheit festzustellen. "Such dir deine Kleider aus, sobald das Frühstück vorbei ist und dann fahren wir bald nach New York. Das wirst du mögen. Es ist viel mehr wie eine Stadt als jeder andere Ort außerhalb von Chicago." Er plante tatsächlich zu fliehen und abzuhauen. Er würde sehen, was diese Detektive tun würden, welche Schritte seine Arbeitgeber in Chicago machen würden, dann würde er abhauen - nach New York, wo es einfach war, sich zu verstecken. Er wusste genug über diese Stadt, um zu wissen, dass ihre Geheimnisse und Möglichkeiten der Verschleierung endlos waren. Je mehr er nachdachte, desto elender wurde seine Situation. Er erkannte, dass das Kommen hierher das Problem nicht genau gelöst hatte. Die Firma würde wahrscheinlich Detektive anstellen, um ihn zu beobachten - Pinkerton-Leute oder Agenten von Mooney und Boland. Sie könnten ihn verhaften, sobald er versuchte, Kanada zu verlassen. Also könnte er dazu gezwungen sein, hier Monate zu bleiben, und in welchem Zustand! Zurück im Hotel war Hurstwood besorgt und doch ängstlich, die Morgenzeitungen zu sehen. Er wollte wissen, wie weit sich die Nachricht von seiner kriminellen Tat verbreitet hatte. Also sagte er Carrie, dass er in ein paar Momenten oben sein würde und ging, um die Zeitungen zu holen und zu überfliegen. Keine vertrauten oder verdächtigen Gesichter waren da, und dennoch mochte er es nicht, in der Lobby zu lesen, also suchte er das Haupt-Wohnzimmer im Stockwerk darüber auf und setzte sich dort an ein Fenster und sah sie durch. Sehr wenig wurde über sein Verbrechen berichtet, aber es war da, mehrere "Stücke" insgesamt, unter all dem Gesindel von telegrafierten Morden, Unfällen, Hochzeiten und anderen Nachrichten. Er wünschte, halb traurig, er könnte alles ungeschehen machen. Jeder Moment seiner Zeit in diesem entlegenen sicheren Zufluchtsort verstärkte nur das Gefühl, dass er einen großen Fehler gemacht hatte. Es hätte einen einfacheren Ausweg geben können, wenn er nur gewusst hätte. Er ließ die Zeitungen vor dem Betreten des Zimmers liegen, in dem Glauben, sie so aus der Reichweite von Carrie zu halten. "Nun, wie fühlst du dich?" fragte er sie. Sie war damit beschäftigt, aus dem Fenster zu schauen. "Oh, mir geht's gut", antwortete sie. Er kam herüber und wollte ein Gespräch mit ihr beginnen, als es an ihrer Tür klopfte. "Vielleicht ist es einer meiner Pakete", sagte Carrie. Hurstwood öffnete die Tür, vor der derjenige stand, dem er so sehr misstraute. "Sie sind Herr Hurstwood, oder?" sagte letzterer mit viel vorgespieltem Scharfsinn und Zuversicht. "Ja", sagte Hurstwood ruhig. Er kannte diese Art von Mensch so gut, dass etwas von seiner alten Gleichgültigkeit zurückkehrte. Solche Männer wie diese gehörten zur niedrigsten Schicht und waren in dem Erholungsort willkommen. Er trat hinaus und schloss die Tür. "Nun, Sie wissen doch, wofür ich hier bin, oder?" sagte der Mann vertraulich. "Ich kann es erraten", sagte Hurstwood leise. "Nun, haben Sie vor, das Geld zu behalten?" "Das ist meine Angelegenheit", sagte Hurstwood grimmig. "Sie können es nicht tun, wissen Sie", sagte der Detektiv und betrachtete ihn gelassen. "Hören Sie mal, mein Mann", sagte Hurstwood autoritativ, "Sie verstehen überhaupt nichts von diesem Fall, und ich kann es Ihnen nicht erklären. Was ich auch immer vorhabe, werde ich ohne Ratschläge von außen tun. Entschuldigen Sie mich bitte." "Nun, da hat es keinen Zweck, dass Sie so sprechen", sagte der Mann, "wenn Sie in den Händen der Polizei sind. Wir können Ihnen viel Ärger bereiten, wenn wir wollen. Sie sind hier nicht korrekt registriert, Sie haben ihre Frau nicht bei sich und die Zeitungen wissen noch nicht, dass Sie hier sind. Sie könnten ebenso vernünftig sein." "Was möchten Sie wissen?" fragte Hurstwood. "Ob Sie vorhaben, das Geld zurückzuschicken oder nicht." Hurstwood hielt inne und starrte auf den Boden. "Es hat keinen Sinn, Ihnen das zu erklären", sagte er schließlich. "Es hat keinen Sinn, dass Sie mich fragen. Sie sind kein Narr, das wissen Sie. Ich weiß genau, was Sie tun und was nicht. Sie können eine Menge Ärger verursachen, wenn Sie wollen. Das weiß ich schon, aber es wird Ihnen nicht helfen, an das Geld zu kommen. Nun, ich habe mich entschieden, was zu tun ist. Ich habe bereits an Fitzgerald und Moy geschrieben, also kann ich nichts mehr sagen. Warten Sie, bis Sie mehr von ihnen hören." Die ganze Zeit, während er sprach, hatte er sich von der Tür entfernt, den Flur hinunter, außerhalb des Hörbereichs von Carrie. Sie waren jetzt in der Nähe des Endes, wo der Flur in den großen allgemeinen Salon mündete. "Sie geben es also nicht ab?" sagte der Mann. Die Worte ärgerten Hurstwood stark. Heißes Blut strömte in sein Gehirn. Viele Gedanken formulierten sich. Er war kein Dieb. Er wollte das Geld nicht haben. Wenn er es Fitzgerald und Moy nur erklären könnte, wäre vielleicht alles wieder in Ordnung. "Schau mal", sagte er, "es hat keinen Sinn, darüber zu sprechen. Ich respektiere deine Macht, das schon, aber ich werde mich mit den Leuten a Eine Stunde lang dachte er über diese schlüssige Erklärung des Dilemmas nach. Er wollte ihnen von seiner Frau erzählen, konnte es aber nicht. Schließlich zog er es in Betracht zu behaupten, dass er von der Unterhaltung seiner Freunde berauscht gewesen war, den Safe offen vorgefunden und aus Versehen geschlossen hatte, nachdem er bereits das Geld herausgenommen hatte. Diese Tat bereute er sehr. Es tat ihm leid, dass er ihnen so viel Ärger bereitet hatte. Er würde das Beste tun, um es wiedergutzumachen, indem er das Geld zurückschickte - den größten Teil davon zumindest. Den Rest würde er so bald wie möglich bezahlen. Besteht die Möglichkeit einer Wiedereinstellung? Darauf deutete er nur hin. Der beunruhigte Zustand des Mannes spiegelte sich in der Formulierung dieses Briefes wider. Für den Augenblick vergaß er, wie schmerzhaft es wäre, seine alte Position wieder einzunehmen, selbst wenn sie ihm angeboten würde. Er vergaß, dass er sich wie von einem Schwert von seiner Vergangenheit abgetrennt hatte und dass, wenn es ihm irgendwie gelänge, sich wieder mit ihr zu vereinen, die zerrissene Grenze zwischen Trennung und Wiedervereinigung immer sichtbar sein würde. Er vergaß immer etwas - seine Frau, Carrie, seinen Geldbedarf, seine aktuelle Lage oder irgendetwas - und konnte daher nicht klar denken. Trotzdem schickte er den Brief ab und wartete auf eine Antwort, bevor er das Geld schickte. In der Zwischenzeit akzeptierte er seine aktuelle Situation mit Carrie und holte aus ihr so viel Freude heraus, wie er konnte. Am Mittag kam die Sonne heraus und ließ goldenes Licht durch die offenen Fenster strömen. Spatzen zwitscherten. Gelächter und Gesang waren in der Luft. Hurstwood konnte seinen Blick nicht von Carrie abwenden. Sie schien der einzige Sonnenstrahl in all seinem Elend zu sein. Ach, wenn sie ihn nur vollständig lieben würde - wenn sie nur ihre Arme um ihn schlingen würde in dem glücklichen Geist, in dem er sie im kleinen Park in Chicago gesehen hatte - wie glücklich wäre er! Es würde sich für ihn auszahlen; es würde ihm zeigen, dass er nicht alles verloren hatte. Es wäre ihm egal. "Carrie", sagte er, stand auf und ging zu ihr hinüber, "wirst du von jetzt an bei mir bleiben?" Sie sah ihn belustigt an, aber schmolz mitfühlend dahin, als ihr der wahre Wert des Ausdrucks in seinem Gesicht bewusst wurde. Es war jetzt Liebe, stark und intensiv - Liebe, die durch Schwierigkeiten und Sorgen verstärkt wurde. Sie konnte nicht anders, als zu lächeln. "Lass mich ab jetzt alles für dich sein", sagte er. "Mach dir keine Sorgen mehr um mich. Ich werde dir treu sein. Wir werden nach New York ziehen und uns eine schöne Wohnung suchen. Ich werde wieder Geschäfte machen und wir werden glücklich sein. Willst du meine Frau sein?" Carrie hörte ganz ernst zu. Es gab keine große Leidenschaft in ihr, aber die Entwicklung der Dinge und die Nähe dieses Mannes erzeugten eine Art Zuneigung. Sie fühlte sich eher leid für ihn - ein Mitleid, das aus dem hervorging, was erst kürzlich noch große Bewunderung gewesen war. Wahre Liebe hatte sie nie für ihn empfunden. Sie hätte das selbst erkannt, wenn sie ihre Gefühle analysieren hätte können, aber diese Empfindung, die sie jetzt durch seine große Gefühlsregung in sich aufsteigen fühlte, brach die Barrieren zwischen ihnen nieder. "Du wirst bei mir bleiben, oder?" fragte er. "Ja", sagte sie und nickte mit dem Kopf. Er nahm sie in seine Arme und küsste ihre Lippen und Wangen. "Aber du musst mich heiraten", sagte sie. "Ich werde heute noch eine Heiratserlaubnis besorgen", antwortete er. "Wie?" fragte sie. "Unter einem neuen Namen", antwortete er. "Ich werde einen neuen Namen annehmen und ein neues Leben beginnen. Ab jetzt bin ich Murdock." "Oh, nimm nicht diesen Namen", sagte Carrie. "Warum nicht?", fragte er. "Ich mag ihn nicht." "Nun gut, was soll ich dann nehmen?", fragte er. "Oh, egal was, nimm nur nicht den." Er dachte eine Weile nach, hielt immer noch seine Arme um sie geschlungen und sagte dann: "Was hältst du von Wheeler?" "Das ist in Ordnung", sagte Carrie. "Gut, dann Wheeler", sagte er. "Ich hole heute Nachmittag die Heiratserlaubnis." Sie wurden von einem baptistischen Pfarrer getraut, dem ersten Geistlichen, den sie bequem erreichen konnten. Schließlich antwortete die Firma in Chicago. Der Brief wurde von Herrn Moys diktiert. Er war erstaunt, dass Hurstwood das getan hatte und sehr bedauerte, dass es so gekommen war. Wenn das Geld zurückgegeben würde, würden sie keine Schritte gegen ihn unternehmen, da sie ihm keinen Groll hegen. Was seine Rückkehr oder seine Wiedereinsetzung in seine frühere Position anging, hatten sie noch nicht ganz entschieden, was die Auswirkungen davon sein würden. Sie wollten darüber nachdenken und später möglicherweise mit ihm korrespondieren und so weiter. Das Wesentliche daran war, dass es keine Hoffnung gab und sie das Geld mit möglichst wenig Aufwand haben wollten. Hurstwood las sein Urteil. Er beschloss, $9.500 an den von ihnen angekündigten Vertreter zu zahlen und $1.300 für seinen eigenen Gebrauch zu behalten. Er telegrafierte seine Zustimmung, erklärte dem Vertreter, der noch am selben Tag im Hotel vorstellig wurde, zahlte ein, und sagte Carrie, sie solle ihren Koffer packen. Zu diesem Zeitpunkt war er etwas niedergeschlagen über diesen jüngsten Schritt, aber er erholte sich wieder. Er befürchtete, dass er immer noch ergriffen und zurückgebracht werden könnte, also versuchte er, seine Bewegungen zu verbergen, aber das war kaum möglich. Er ließ Carries Koffer zum Bahnhof schicken, von wo er ihn per Express nach New York schickte. Niemand schien ihn zu beobachten, aber er fuhr nachts ab. Er war sehr aufgeregt, dass ihm an der ersten Grenzstation oder am Bahnhof in New York ein Polizeibeamter erwartete. Carrie, ahnungslos von seinem Diebstahl und seinen Ängsten, genoss den Einzug in die letztere Stadt am Morgen. Die runden grünen Hügel, die den weiten, ausladenden Busen des Hudsons bewachten, fesselten ihre Aufmerksamkeit mit ihrer Schönheit, als der Zug dem Flusslauf folgte. Sie hatte vom Hudson River, der großen Stadt New York gehört und schaute nun hinaus, während ihr Geist von Staunen erfüllt wurde. Als der Zug in Spuyten Duyvil nach Osten abbog und dem östlichen Ufer des Harlem Rivers folgte, machte Hurstwood nervös auf die Tatsache aufmerksam, dass sie am Rande der Stadt waren. Nach ihren Erfahrungen mit Chicago erwartete sie lange Schlangen von Autos - eine große Autobahn mit Schienen - und bemerkte den Unterschied. Der Anblick einiger Boote im Harlem und noch mehr im East River erfreute ihr junges Herz. Es war das erste Zeichen des großen Meeres. Als nächstes kam eine einfache Straße mit fünfstöckigen Backsteinwohnungen und dann tauchte der Zug in den Tunnel. "Grand Central Station!" rief der Zugbegleiter, als nach einigen Minuten Dunkelheit und Rauch das Tageslicht wieder auftauchte. Hurstwood stand auf und nahm seine kleine Tasche. Er war äußerst angespannt. Mit Carrie wartete er an der Tür und stieg dann aus. Niemand kam auf ihn zu, aber er blickte heimlich hin und her, als er zum Straßeneingang ging. So aufgeregt war er, dass er Carrie völlig vergaß, die zurückblieb und sich über seine Selbstabsorption wunderte. Als er durch das Bahnhofsgebäude ging, erreichte die Anspannung ihren Höhepunkt und begann nachzulassen. Plötzlich war er auf dem Bürgersteig und nur Taxifahrer sprachen ihn an. Er atmete tief ein und drehte sich um, erinnerte sich dann an Carrie. "Ich dachte, du wolltest abhauen und mich zurücklassen", sagte sie. "Ich versuchte mich Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Noch immer im Zug sitzend, schaut Carrie aus dem Fenster. Dabei vergisst sie völlig, dass sie von Hurstwood praktisch entführt wurde und wird stattdessen aufgeregt wegen der Reise. Am nächsten Morgen kommen sie in Montreal an und gehen direkt in ein schickes Hotel. Hurstwood meldet sich mit einem erfundenen Nachnamen und seinen richtigen Initialen an. Kaum in ihrem Zimmer angekommen, bittet Hurstwood Carrie, ihn zu heiraten. Sie hat gemischte Gefühle - einerseits ist er immer noch eine widerliche Person, weil er sie getäuscht hat; aber andererseits hat sie so gut wie niemand anderen. Am Ende küssen sie sich und dann fragt sie ihn, ob er sie heiraten wird. Er antwortet, dass er es noch heute tun wird. Er sagt ihr, sich fertig zu machen - er wird in weniger als einer Stunde zurück sein. Hurstwood begibt sich zur Lobby, um einen Friseursalon zu suchen, und glaubt, dass nun alles in Ordnung ist. Bis er eine vertraute Stimme hört. Oh nein - es ist einer seiner Geschäftsfreunde, Kenny. Er ist überrascht, Hurstwood zu sehen, der erklärt, dass er "eine kleine private Angelegenheit" zu erledigen habe. Kenny lädt ihn später auf einen Drink ein und er sagt zu. Als Hurstwood Kenny sieht, erinnert er sich an sein Verbrechen und macht sich Sorgen, ob die Zeitungen die Geschichte bereits veröffentlicht haben. Hurstwood beschließt, zurückzugehen und Carrie zu holen, um mit ihr in einem anderen Hotel frühstücken zu gehen. Aber auf dem Weg bemerkt er einen Kerl, der ihn beobachtet. Er muss ein Detektiv sein, denkt er. Die Paranoia beginnt. Als Hurstwood wieder im Zimmer ankommt, sieht Carrie frisch aus und ist bereit zu gehen. Allerdings ist sie nicht gerade von Liebe erfüllt, was ihn noch schlechter fühlen lässt. Hurstwood und Carrie verlassen das Hotel und auf dem Weg zum Frühstück sieht Hurstwood diesen Kerl wieder, von dem er denkt, dass es sich um einen Detektiv handelt. Im Restaurant sagt Carrie Hurstwood, dass ihr Montreal nicht gefällt - der Ort scheint ziemlich öde zu sein. Er sagt ihr, dass sie nicht lange bleiben müssen, und versucht, sie mit dem Versprechen eines Einkaufsbummels am Nachmittag aufzuheitern. Er sagt ihr, dass sie bald nach New York fahren werden. Sie kehren ins Hotel zurück und Hurstwood denkt, er solle besser versuchen, eine Zeitung zu finden, um zu sehen, ob er noch auf der Titelseite ist. Er lässt Carrie im Zimmer und geht, um eine Zeitung zu besorgen. Die Geschichte ist da, aber sie wird nicht prominent behandelt. Er bereut sehr, was er getan hat. Er geht wieder nach oben, um Carrie zu holen, und will gerade mit ihr reden, als es an der Tür klopft. Es ist der Detektiv-Kerl. Uh-oh - Hurstwood geht in den Flur. Offenbar war Hurstwood nicht nur paranoid: Dieser Kerl ist wirklich ein Detektiv. Aber Hurstwood bleibt cool. Der Detektiv fragt ihn, ob er das gestohlene Geld behalten will, und Hurstwood sagt ihm, "Ich weiß genau, was du tun und was du nicht tun kannst", und sagt, dass er bereits an seine Vorgesetzten geschrieben hat, um die Situation zu klären. Hurstwood geht zurück ins Zimmer. Carrie fragt, wer der Typ war, und Hurstwood sagt ihr, dass er ein Kumpel von ihm aus Chicago war. Er denkt über seinen Plan nach, an seine Arbeitgeber zu schreiben, um zu erklären, was passiert ist, und dann das Geld zurückzuschicken. Keine schlechte Idee, schließt er. Er hofft, dass sie ihm vergeben und ihn wieder einstellen werden. Er schreibt den Brief und schickt ihn ab, wobei er davon ausgeht, dass er das Geld noch nicht zurückschickt, bis er von ihnen eine Antwort bekommt. Er fühlt sich unsicher und fragt Carrie, ob sie bei ihm bleiben wird. Carrie tut ihm jetzt leid und sagt ja, aber nur unter der Bedingung, dass sie heiraten. Er sagt, er wird eine Lizenz unter einem anderen Namen, Wheeler, bekommen. Die folgende Hochzeit klingt nicht gerade wie ein Traum: "Sie wurden von einem baptistischen Priester getraut, dem ersten Geistlichen, den sie bequem fanden". Hurstwood hört von seinen Arbeitgebern. Sie sind schockiert über das, was er getan hat, aber wenn er das Geld zurückgibt, werden sie ihn nicht strafrechtlich verfolgen. Puh - das ist eine Erleichterung. Aber seine Arbeitgeber sind sich nicht sicher, ob sie ihn wieder einstellen sollen. Sie werden sich dazu äußern. Das frustriert ihn. Er bezahlt fast alles zurück, was er schuldet, und behält ein wenig für sich. Er sagt Carrie, ihre Sachen zu packen und lässt ihren Koffer zum Bahnhof schicken, mit der Anweisung, ihn nach New York zu schaffen. Trotz der Kommunikation mit seinen Arbeitgebern hat er immer noch Angst, dass ihm als er aus Kanada nach New York reist, ein Polizist auf den Fersen sein könnte. Sie fahren nach New York und Carrie ist fasziniert von dem Ort. Als sie im Bahnhof Grand Central ankommen, lässt Hurstwood Carrie sozusagen im Staub stehen, während er schnurstracks auf die Straße zusteuert, immer noch in Sorge, dass er jederzeit verhaftet werden könnte. Carrie holt ihn ein und er ruft ihnen ein Taxi - zum ersten Mal sorgt er sich darüber, wie viel es ihn kosten wird. Hurstwood sagt Carrie, dass sie sofort mit der Wohnungssuche beginnen sollten, und er sagt dem Taxifahrer, dass er ihn zu einem Hotel bringen soll, in dem er weniger wahrscheinlich von jemandem erkannt wird, den er kennt. Carrie fragt Hurstwood, wo der "Wohnviertel"-Teil von New York ist, und er sagt ihr, dass es nicht der Typ Ort mit großen Häusern und Zäunen ist. Das gefällt ihr nicht.

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 society out of which Cecil proposed to rescue Lucy was perhaps no very splendid affair, yet it was more splendid than her antecedents entitled her to. Her father, a prosperous local solicitor, had built Windy Corner, as a speculation at the time the district was opening up, and, falling in love with his own creation, had ended by living there himself. Soon after his marriage the social atmosphere began to alter. Other houses were built on the brow of that steep southern slope and others, again, among the pine-trees behind, and northward on the chalk barrier of the downs. Most of these houses were larger than Windy Corner, and were filled by people who came, not from the district, but from London, and who mistook the Honeychurches for the remnants of an indigenous aristocracy. He was inclined to be frightened, but his wife accepted the situation without either pride or humility. "I cannot think what people are doing," she would say, "but it is extremely fortunate for the children." She called everywhere; her calls were returned with enthusiasm, and by the time people found out that she was not exactly of their milieu, they liked her, and it did not seem to matter. When Mr. Honeychurch died, he had the satisfaction--which few honest solicitors despise--of leaving his family rooted in the best society obtainable. The best obtainable. Certainly many of the immigrants were rather dull, and Lucy realized this more vividly since her return from Italy. Hitherto she had accepted their ideals without questioning--their kindly affluence, their inexplosive religion, their dislike of paper-bags, orange-peel, and broken bottles. A Radical out and out, she learnt to speak with horror of Suburbia. Life, so far as she troubled to conceive it, was a circle of rich, pleasant people, with identical interests and identical foes. In this circle, one thought, married, and died. Outside it were poverty and vulgarity for ever trying to enter, just as the London fog tries to enter the pine-woods pouring through the gaps in the northern hills. But, in Italy, where any one who chooses may warm himself in equality, as in the sun, this conception of life vanished. Her senses expanded; she felt that there was no one whom she might not get to like, that social barriers were irremovable, doubtless, but not particularly high. You jump over them just as you jump into a peasant's olive-yard in the Apennines, and he is glad to see you. She returned with new eyes. So did Cecil; but Italy had quickened Cecil, not to tolerance, but to irritation. He saw that the local society was narrow, but, instead of saying, "Does that very much matter?" he rebelled, and tried to substitute for it the society he called broad. He did not realize that Lucy had consecrated her environment by the thousand little civilities that create a tenderness in time, and that though her eyes saw its defects, her heart refused to despise it entirely. Nor did he realize a more important point--that if she was too great for this society, she was too great for all society, and had reached the stage where personal intercourse would alone satisfy her. A rebel she was, but not of the kind he understood--a rebel who desired, not a wider dwelling-room, but equality beside the man she loved. For Italy was offering her the most priceless of all possessions--her own soul. Playing bumble-puppy with Minnie Beebe, niece to the rector, and aged thirteen--an ancient and most honourable game, which consists in striking tennis-balls high into the air, so that they fall over the net and immoderately bounce; some hit Mrs. Honeychurch; others are lost. The sentence is confused, but the better illustrates Lucy's state of mind, for she was trying to talk to Mr. Beebe at the same time. "Oh, it has been such a nuisance--first he, then they--no one knowing what they wanted, and everyone so tiresome." "But they really are coming now," said Mr. Beebe. "I wrote to Miss Teresa a few days ago--she was wondering how often the butcher called, and my reply of once a month must have impressed her favourably. They are coming. I heard from them this morning. "I shall hate those Miss Alans!" Mrs. Honeychurch cried. "Just because they're old and silly one's expected to say 'How sweet!' I hate their 'if'-ing and 'but'-ing and 'and'-ing. And poor Lucy--serve her right--worn to a shadow." Mr. Beebe watched the shadow springing and shouting over the tennis-court. Cecil was absent--one did not play bumble-puppy when he was there. "Well, if they are coming--No, Minnie, not Saturn." Saturn was a tennis-ball whose skin was partially unsewn. When in motion his orb was encircled by a ring. "If they are coming, Sir Harry will let them move in before the twenty-ninth, and he will cross out the clause about whitewashing the ceilings, because it made them nervous, and put in the fair wear and tear one.--That doesn't count. I told you not Saturn." "Saturn's all right for bumble-puppy," cried Freddy, joining them. "Minnie, don't you listen to her." "Saturn doesn't bounce." "Saturn bounces enough." "No, he doesn't." "Well; he bounces better than the Beautiful White Devil." "Hush, dear," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "But look at Lucy--complaining of Saturn, and all the time's got the Beautiful White Devil in her hand, ready to plug it in. That's right, Minnie, go for her--get her over the shins with the racquet--get her over the shins!" Lucy fell, the Beautiful White Devil rolled from her hand. Mr. Beebe picked it up, and said: "The name of this ball is Vittoria Corombona, please." But his correction passed unheeded. Freddy possessed to a high degree the power of lashing little girls to fury, and in half a minute he had transformed Minnie from a well-mannered child into a howling wilderness. Up in the house Cecil heard them, and, though he was full of entertaining news, he did not come down to impart it, in case he got hurt. He was not a coward and bore necessary pain as well as any man. But he hated the physical violence of the young. How right it was! Sure enough it ended in a cry. "I wish the Miss Alans could see this," observed Mr. Beebe, just as Lucy, who was nursing the injured Minnie, was in turn lifted off her feet by her brother. "Who are the Miss Alans?" Freddy panted. "They have taken Cissie Villa." "That wasn't the name--" Here his foot slipped, and they all fell most agreeably on to the grass. An interval elapses. "Wasn't what name?" asked Lucy, with her brother's head in her lap. "Alan wasn't the name of the people Sir Harry's let to." "Nonsense, Freddy! You know nothing about it." "Nonsense yourself! I've this minute seen him. He said to me: 'Ahem! Honeychurch,'"--Freddy was an indifferent mimic--"'ahem! ahem! I have at last procured really dee-sire-rebel tenants.' I said, 'ooray, old boy!' and slapped him on the back." "Exactly. The Miss Alans?" "Rather not. More like Anderson." "Oh, good gracious, there isn't going to be another muddle!" Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed. "Do you notice, Lucy, I'm always right? I said don't interfere with Cissie Villa. I'm always right. I'm quite uneasy at being always right so often." "It's only another muddle of Freddy's. Freddy doesn't even know the name of the people he pretends have taken it instead." "Yes, I do. I've got it. Emerson." "What name?" "Emerson. I'll bet you anything you like." "What a weathercock Sir Harry is," said Lucy quietly. "I wish I had never bothered over it at all." Then she lay on her back and gazed at the cloudless sky. Mr. Beebe, whose opinion of her rose daily, whispered to his niece that THAT was the proper way to behave if any little thing went wrong. Meanwhile the name of the new tenants had diverted Mrs. Honeychurch from the contemplation of her own abilities. "Emerson, Freddy? Do you know what Emersons they are?" "I don't know whether they're any Emersons," retorted Freddy, who was democratic. Like his sister and like most young people, he was naturally attracted by the idea of equality, and the undeniable fact that there are different kinds of Emersons annoyed him beyond measure. "I trust they are the right sort of person. All right, Lucy"--she was sitting up again--"I see you looking down your nose and thinking your mother's a snob. But there is a right sort and a wrong sort, and it's affectation to pretend there isn't." "Emerson's a common enough name," Lucy remarked. She was gazing sideways. Seated on a promontory herself, she could see the pine-clad promontories descending one beyond another into the Weald. The further one descended the garden, the more glorious was this lateral view. "I was merely going to remark, Freddy, that I trusted they were no relations of Emerson the philosopher, a most trying man. Pray, does that satisfy you?" "Oh, yes," he grumbled. "And you will be satisfied, too, for they're friends of Cecil; so"--elaborate irony--"you and the other country families will be able to call in perfect safety." "CECIL?" exclaimed Lucy. "Don't be rude, dear," said his mother placidly. "Lucy, don't screech. It's a new bad habit you're getting into." "But has Cecil--" "Friends of Cecil's," he repeated, "'and so really dee-sire-rebel. Ahem! Honeychurch, I have just telegraphed to them.'" She got up from the grass. It was hard on Lucy. Mr. Beebe sympathized with her very much. While she believed that her snub about the Miss Alans came from Sir Harry Otway, she had borne it like a good girl. She might well "screech" when she heard that it came partly from her lover. Mr. Vyse was a tease--something worse than a tease: he took a malicious pleasure in thwarting people. The clergyman, knowing this, looked at Miss Honeychurch with more than his usual kindness. When she exclaimed, "But Cecil's Emersons--they can't possibly be the same ones--there is that--" he did not consider that the exclamation was strange, but saw in it an opportunity of diverting the conversation while she recovered her composure. He diverted it as follows: "The Emersons who were at Florence, do you mean? No, I don't suppose it will prove to be them. It is probably a long cry from them to friends of Mr. Vyse's. Oh, Mrs. Honeychurch, the oddest people! The queerest people! For our part we liked them, didn't we?" He appealed to Lucy. "There was a great scene over some violets. They picked violets and filled all the vases in the room of these very Miss Alans who have failed to come to Cissie Villa. Poor little ladies! So shocked and so pleased. It used to be one of Miss Catharine's great stories. 'My dear sister loves flowers,' it began. They found the whole room a mass of blue--vases and jugs--and the story ends with 'So ungentlemanly and yet so beautiful.' It is all very difficult. Yes, I always connect those Florentine Emersons with violets." "Fiasco's done you this time," remarked Freddy, not seeing that his sister's face was very red. She could not recover herself. Mr. Beebe saw it, and continued to divert the conversation. "These particular Emersons consisted of a father and a son--the son a goodly, if not a good young man; not a fool, I fancy, but very immature--pessimism, et cetera. Our special joy was the father--such a sentimental darling, and people declared he had murdered his wife." In his normal state Mr. Beebe would never have repeated such gossip, but he was trying to shelter Lucy in her little trouble. He repeated any rubbish that came into his head. "Murdered his wife?" said Mrs. Honeychurch. "Lucy, don't desert us--go on playing bumble-puppy. Really, the Pension Bertolini must have been the oddest place. That's the second murderer I've heard of as being there. Whatever was Charlotte doing to stop? By-the-by, we really must ask Charlotte here some time." Mr. Beebe could recall no second murderer. He suggested that his hostess was mistaken. At the hint of opposition she warmed. She was perfectly sure that there had been a second tourist of whom the same story had been told. The name escaped her. What was the name? Oh, what was the name? She clasped her knees for the name. Something in Thackeray. She struck her matronly forehead. Lucy asked her brother whether Cecil was in. "Oh, don't go!" he cried, and tried to catch her by the ankles. "I must go," she said gravely. "Don't be silly. You always overdo it when you play." As she left them her mother's shout of "Harris!" shivered the tranquil air, and reminded her that she had told a lie and had never put it right. Such a senseless lie, too, yet it shattered her nerves and made her connect these Emersons, friends of Cecil's, with a pair of nondescript tourists. Hitherto truth had come to her naturally. She saw that for the future she must be more vigilant, and be--absolutely truthful? Well, at all events, she must not tell lies. She hurried up the garden, still flushed with shame. A word from Cecil would soothe her, she was sure. "Cecil!" "Hullo!" he called, and leant out of the smoking-room window. He seemed in high spirits. "I was hoping you'd come. I heard you all bear-gardening, but there's better fun up here. I, even I, have won a great victory for the Comic Muse. George Meredith's right--the cause of Comedy and the cause of Truth are really the same; and I, even I, have found tenants for the distressful Cissie Villa. Don't be angry! Don't be angry! You'll forgive me when you hear it all." He looked very attractive when his face was bright, and he dispelled her ridiculous forebodings at once. "I have heard," she said. "Freddy has told us. Naughty Cecil! I suppose I must forgive you. Just think of all the trouble I took for nothing! Certainly the Miss Alans are a little tiresome, and I'd rather have nice friends of yours. But you oughtn't to tease one so." "Friends of mine?" he laughed. "But, Lucy, the whole joke is to come! Come here." But she remained standing where she was. "Do you know where I met these desirable tenants? In the National Gallery, when I was up to see my mother last week." "What an odd place to meet people!" she said nervously. "I don't quite understand." "In the Umbrian Room. Absolute strangers. They were admiring Luca Signorelli--of course, quite stupidly. However, we got talking, and they refreshed me not a little. They had been to Italy." "But, Cecil--" proceeded hilariously. "In the course of conversation they said that they wanted a country cottage--the father to live there, the son to run down for week-ends. I thought, 'What a chance of scoring off Sir Harry!' and I took their address and a London reference, found they weren't actual blackguards--it was great sport--and wrote to him, making out--" "Cecil! No, it's not fair. I've probably met them before--" He bore her down. "Perfectly fair. Anything is fair that punishes a snob. That old man will do the neighbourhood a world of good. Sir Harry is too disgusting with his 'decayed gentlewomen.' I meant to read him a lesson some time. No, Lucy, the classes ought to mix, and before long you'll agree with me. There ought to be intermarriage--all sorts of things. I believe in democracy--" "No, you don't," she snapped. "You don't know what the word means." He stared at her, and felt again that she had failed to be Leonardesque. "No, you don't!" Her face was inartistic--that of a peevish virago. "It isn't fair, Cecil. I blame you--I blame you very much indeed. You had no business to undo my work about the Miss Alans, and make me look ridiculous. You call it scoring off Sir Harry, but do you realize that it is all at my expense? I consider it most disloyal of you." She left him. "Temper!" he thought, raising his eyebrows. Nein, es war schlimmer als Laune - Snobismus. Solange Lucy dachte, dass seine schicken Freunde die Miss Alans ersetzen würden, hatte es ihm nichts ausgemacht. Er erkannte, dass diese neuen Mieter möglicherweise einen bildungstechnischen Wert hatten. Er würde den Vater dulden und den schweigsamen Sohn hervorlocken. Im Interesse der Komischen Muse und der Wahrheit würde er sie nach Windy Corner bringen. 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Ein wenig Hintergrundwissen über die Honeychurches: Der verstorbene Mr. Honeychurch zog in die Summer Street und baute sein Haus, bevor es modisch wurde. So wurden er und seine Familie von den wohlhabenden Neuzugängen akzeptiert, als diese ankamen. So wurde die Familie Honeychurch echte Mitglieder der etwas höheren sozialen Klasse, die begann, die Nachbarschaft zu bevölkern, die "die bestmögliche Gesellschaft" darstellt. Bis Italien passierte, hatte Lucy die Vorlieben und Abneigungen der Menschen akzeptiert, mit denen sie aufgewachsen ist, einschließlich ihrer restriktiven Ansichten über die Gesellschaft. Jetzt aber fühlt sie, dass sie jeden aus jeder sozialen Klasse mögen kann und dass soziale Beschränkungen keine dauerhaften Barrieren sind. Cecil hingegen wurde in Italien nur gereizter und weniger tolerant. Er ist entsetzt über die lokale Gesellschaft, in der sich die Honeychurches bewegen, und möchte Lucy daraus entfernen. Was er nicht - kann er unmöglich - an seiner Verlobten sieht, ist, dass sie einen neuen Stand im Verständnis der Gesellschaft erreicht hat, von dem er meilenweit entfernt ist. Was Lucy braucht, ist nicht ein neuer sozialer Kreis, sondern echte, persönliche Beziehungen, besonders zu dem Mann, den sie liebt. Wie Forster es etwas dramatisch ausdrückt, hat Lucy ihre Seele in Italien gefunden. Von dieser introspektiven Sicht aus wechseln wir sofort zu einem besonders unbedeutenden Zeitvertreib - dem Spiel Bumble-Puppy. Lucy und Minnie, die junge Nichte von Mr. Beebe, spielen Bumble-Puppy im Garten, während die Erwachsenen über das Kommen von Miss und Miss Alan sprechen. Freddy kommt an und es gibt eine kurze und lustige Diskussion über Tennisbälle, die für Bumble-Puppy geeignet sind. Die Honeychurches benennen, typisch für die Honeychurchs, alle ihre Tennisbälle. Diejenigen, mit denen sie gerade spielen, werden Saturn und der schöne weiße Teufel genannt. Die Kinder spielen alle angenehm unreguliert herum. Es ist großartig zu sehen, wie Lucy loslassen kann und sich endlich einmal keine Sorgen um die Gesellschaft machen muss. Freddy ist sich sicher, dass Cissies neue Mieter nicht die Miss Alans sind - er denkt, ihr Name ist Emerson. Oh nein! Lucy ist unangenehm geschockt und versucht, es nicht zu zeigen. Die Emersons aus Florenz kommen auf und Mr. Beebe beschreibt sie kurz. Freddy behauptet, dass diese Emersons von der Summer Street Freunde von Cecil sind, was Lucy, Mr. Beebe und uns alle besonders misstrauisch macht. Mr. Beebe versucht, Lucy vor Peinlichkeiten zu bewahren, und wiederholt die Geschichte von Mr. Emerson und seiner "ermordeten" Frau; Mrs. Honeychurch erwähnt, dass sie gerade die gleiche Geschichte über einen Touristen namens Harris gehört hat. Das ist zu viel für Lucy, und sie geht ins Haus, um mit Cecil zu sprechen. Ärgerlicherweise ist Cecil in bester Stimmung. Schnell stellen wir fest, warum: Diese Emersons sind sicherlich keine Freunde von ihm, sondern seltsame Leute, die er in einem Kunstmuseum kennengelernt hat. Er ist zufrieden mit sich selbst, weil er Sir Harry dazu gebracht hat, ihnen das Cottage zu vermieten, und weiß, dass Sir Harry, wenn er sie tatsächlich trifft, furchtbar unglücklich sein wird. Es wird immer deutlicher, dass dies genau die Emersons sind, die wir bereits kennen. Außerdem versucht er, diesen ganzen Vorfall moralisierend aufzubauschen und sagt, dass er meint, dass die Klassen sich vermischen sollten und dass er an Demokratie usw. glaubt. Das ist zu viel für Lucy, und sie hält Cecil wegen dieser lächerlichen Aussagen zur Rede. Sie ist auch zu Recht verärgert über ihren Verlobten, dass er die Arbeit zunichte gemacht hat, die sie geleistet hat, um die Miss Alans dazu zu bringen, das Landhaus zu nehmen. Cecil ist absolut nicht erfreut über Lucys Reaktion - das ist überhaupt nicht künstlerisch. Lucy, wegen so vieler Dinge verärgert über Cecil, geht. Cecil denkt darüber nach, was passiert ist, und wird immer wütender. Er redet sich selbst ein, dass er versucht hat, etwas Gutes zu tun, indem er die Emersons nach Summer Street bringt, sowohl für ihr eigenes Wohl als auch für sein eigenes.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Kapitel: SZENE III. England. Vor dem Palast des Königs. [Betreten Malcolm und Macduff.] MALCOLM. Lasst uns einen verlassenen Ort aufsuchen und dort Unsere traurigen Seelen leeren. MACDUFF. Lasst uns stattdessen Das sterbliche Schwert festhalten und wie gute Männer Unser gefallenes Geburtsland überschreiten. Jeder neue Morgen Neue Witwen heulen; neue Waisen weinen; neue Trauer Schlägt den Himmel ins Gesicht, dass es widerhallt Als würde es mit Schottland fühlen und schreien Wie Silben des Schmerzes. MALCOLM. Was ich glaube, werde ich beklagen; Was ich weiß, glauben; und was ich verbessern kann, Wenn ich die Zeit dazu finde, werde ich. Was du gesagt hast, könnte vielleicht sein. Dieser Tyrann, dessen alleiniger Name unsere Zungen versengt, Wurde einmal für ehrlich gehalten: Du hast ihn gut geliebt; Er hat dich noch nicht berührt. Ich bin jung, aber etwas Verdienst du vielleich durch mich bei ihm; und die Weisheit Einen schwachen, armen, unschuldigen Lamm zu opfern, Um einen zornigen Gott zu besänftigen. MACDUFF. Ich bin nicht hinterhältig. MALCOLM. Aber Macbeth schon. Eine gute und tugendhafte Natur kann sich zurückziehen Bei einem kaiserlichen Angriff. Aber ich bitte um Vergebung; Das, was du bist, kann meine Gedanken nicht umwandeln; Engel sind immer hell, auch wenn der hellste fiel: Auch wenn alles Hässliche die Züge der Gnade tragen würde, Die Gnade muss immer so aussehen. MACDUFF. Ich habe meine Hoffnungen verloren. MALCOLM. Vielleicht sogar dort, wo ich meine Zweifel hatte. Warum hast du deine Frau und dein Kind in dieser Rohheit gelassen, - Diese kostbaren Beweggründe, diese starken Bindungen der Liebe, - Ohne Abschied? - Ich bitte dich, Lass mich nicht an deiner Ehre zweifeln, Sondern an meiner eigenen Sicherheit: - Du kannst gerecht sein, Was immer ich auch denke. MACDUFF. Blute, blute, armes Land! Große Tyrannei, stelle sicher dein Fundament, Denn das Gute darf dich nicht bremsen! Trage deine Leiden, Der Titel ist bestimmt. - Leb wohl, Herr: Ich möchte nicht der Bösewicht sein, für den du mich hältst, Für den gesamten Raum, den der Tyrann innehat, Und den reichen Osten obendrein. MALCOLM. Sei nicht beleidigt: Ich spreche nicht aus absoluter Angst vor dir. Ich glaube, unser Land sinkt unter dem Joch; Es weint, es blutet; und jeden neuen Tag eine neue Wunde Wird hinzugefügt. Ich glaube, trotzdem, Es würden Hände erhoben werden für mein Recht; Und hier, aus gnädigem England, habe ich angeboten Tausende von Mannen: aber, trotz all dem, Wenn ich auf des Tyrannen Kopf trete, Oder ihn auf meinem Schwert trage, dann wird mein armes Land Noch mehr Fehler haben als zuvor; Mehr leiden und mehr verschiedene Wege als je zuvor, Durch denjenigen, der ihm folgen wird. MACDUFF. Wer sollte er sein? MALCOLM. Ich meine mich selbst: in dem ich weiß, Alle Einzelheiten der Sündenhaftigkeit sind so in mir verwurzelt, Dass, wenn sie aufgedeckt werden, der schwarze Macbeth So rein wie Schnee erscheinen wird; und der arme Staat Ihn als ein Lamm ansehen wird, verglichen Mit meinen grenzenlosen Schäden. MACDUFF. Nicht in den Legionen Der grässlichen Hölle kann ein noch verfluchterer Teufel kommen Um Macbeth zu übertreffen. MALCOLM. Ich gebe zu, dass er blutig ist, Verschwenderisch, habgierig, falsch, hinterlistig, Plötzlich, bösartig, nach jedem Namen stinkend Des Sinnes: Aber es gibt keinen Grund, keinen einzigen, In meiner Selbstgenügsamkeit: Eure Frauen, eure Töchter, Eure Ehefrauen und eure Mädchen konnten es nicht füllen Den Behälter meiner Lust; und mein Verlangen Würde alle Hindernisse überwinden, Die sich meinem Willen entgegenstellen: Lieber Macbeth Als ein solcher, um zu regieren. MACDUFF. Grenzenloser Maßlosigkeit In der Natur ist eine Tyrannei; sie war Die vorzeitige Entleerung des glücklichen Throns, Und der Sturz vieler Könige. Aber fürchte dich noch nicht Darauf zu nehmen, was dir zusteht: du kannst Deine Vergnügungen in großer Fülle genießen, Und doch kalt erscheinen, so kannst du die Zeit verblenden. Wir haben genug willige Damen; es kann nicht sein Dass der Geier in dir ist, um so viele zu verschlingen Die sich der Größe widmen, Wenn sie so geneigt sind. MALCOLM. Damit wächst In meiner am schlechtesten zusammengesetzten Zuneigung solch Ein unstillbarer Geiz, dass, wäre ich König, Ich die Adligen wegen ihres Landes vertreiben sollte; Seine Juwelen verlangen und das Haus dieses anderen: Und mein Mehr-Habendes würde wie eine Sauce sein, Um mich noch hungriger zu machen; dass ich Ungerechte Kämpfe gegen das Gute und Treue anführen würde, Indem ich sie für Reichtum zerstöre. MACDUFF. Dieser Geiz Ist tiefer verwurzelt; er wächst mit mehr schädlichen Wurzeln Als die Lust, die wie der Sommer scheint; und es war Das Schwert unserer ermordeten Könige: doch fürchte dich nicht; Schottland hat Vorräte, um deinem Willen zu genügen, Von dem, was dir allein gehört: all diese Dinge sind tragbar, Mit anderen Gnaden abgewogen. MALCOLM. Aber ich habe keine: die königlichen Tugenden, Wie Gerechtigkeit, Wahrheit, Mäßigung, Beständigkeit, Großzügigkeit, Beharrlichkeit, Barmherzigkeit, Demut, Innerlichkeit, Geduld, Mut, Tapferkeit, Ich habe keinen Geschmack daran; aber ich glänze In der Vielfalt jeder einzelnen Sünde, Sie auf viele verschiedene Weisen ausführend. Nein, hätte ich die Macht, würde ich Den süßen Milch der Eintracht in die Hölle gießen, Den universellen Frieden stören, alles Einheit in der Welt verwirren. MACDUFF. O Schottland, Schottland! MALCOLM. Wenn ein solcher Mensch geeignet ist, zu regieren, dann sprich: Ich bin so, wie ich gesprochen habe. MACDUFF. Geeignet zu regieren! Nein, nicht zu leben! - O elendes Volk, Mit einem unbetitelten, blutigen Szepter beherrscht, Wann wirst du deine heilsamen Tage wiedersehen, Da der wahrste Erbe deines Thrones Durch sein eigenes Verbot verflucht ist Und seinen Nachkommen lästert? - Dein königlicher Vater War ein sehr heiliger König; die Königin, die dich gebar, Opferte sich öfter auf ihren Knien als auf ihren Füßen, Starb jeden Tag, an dem sie lebte. Leb wohl! Diese Übel, die du auf dich selbst zurückwirfst, Haben mich aus Schottland verbannt. - O meine Brust, Hier endet deine Hoffnung! MALCOLM. Macduff, diese edle Leidenschaft, Kind der Aufrichtigkeit, hat von meiner Seele Die schwarzen Bedenken gemacht, meine Gedanken versöhnt Mit deiner guten Wahrheit und Ehre. Teuflischer Macbeth Hat mich mithilfe vieler solcher Ränke zu gewinnen vers ROSS. Ach, armes Land, - Fast zu ängstlich, um sich selbst zu erkennen! Es kann nicht Unsere Mutter genannt werden, sondern unser Grab: wo nichts, Außer dem, der nichts weiß, einmal lächeln gesehen wird; Wo Seufzer, und Stöhnen und Schreie, die die Luft zerreißen, Gemacht werden, aber nicht beachtet werden; wo gewaltsamer Kummer Eine moderne Ekstase zu sein scheint; das Totengeläut Kaum danach gefragt wird, für wen es ist; und das Leben guter Menschen Ablaufen, bevor die Blumen in ihren Hüten verwelken, Sterben oder ehe sie krank werden. MACDUFF. Oh, Verwandtschaft Zu schön, und doch zu wahr! MALCOLM. Was ist der neueste Kummer? ROSS. Der des letzten Stündchens verdammtes Missfallen; Jede Minute bringt einen neuen hervor. MACDUFF. Wie geht es meiner Frau? ROSS. Gut. MACDUFF. Und wie meinen Kindern? ROSS. Auch gut. MACDUFF. Der Tyrann hat ihren Frieden nicht zerstört? ROSS. Nein, sie waren in Frieden, als ich sie verlassen habe. MACDUFF. Sei nicht geizig mit deinem Wort: Wie geht es? ROSS. Als ich hierher kam, um die Kunde zu überbringen, Die ich schwer getragen habe, lief das Gerücht umher Über viele würdige Gefährten, die abgesetzt wurden; Was eher meine Überzeugung bestätigte, Denn ich sah die Macht des Tyrannen in Aktion: Jetzt ist die Zeit der Hilfe; dein Blick in Schottland Würde Soldaten erschaffen, unsere Frauen kämpfen lassen, Um ihre schrecklichen Nöte abzulegen. MALCOLM. Lasst das ihr Trost sein, Wir kommen dorthin: Das gnädige England hat Uns den guten Siward und zehntausend Männer geliehen; Einen älteren und besseren Soldaten gibt es in ganz Christentum nicht. ROSS. Würde ich dieses Trost mit dem Gleichen erwidern können! Aber ich habe Worte, Die in der Wüstenluft geschrien werden würden, Wo man sie nicht hören würde. MACDUFF. Was betrifft sie? Die allgemeine Ursache? Oder ist es ein Einzelkummer, Der einem bestimmten Herzen gehört? ROSS. Kein ehrlicher Verstand Entgeht ein wenig Kummer; obwohl der Hauptteil Allein für dich bestimmt ist. MACDUFF. Wenn er mir gehört, Halt ihn nicht von mir fern, gib ihn mir schnell. ROSS. Verachte meine Worte nicht für immer, Lass nicht deine Ohren meine Zunge verschmähen, Die sie mit dem schwersten Klang füllen wird, Den sie je gehört haben. MACDUFF. Hmm! Ich errate es. ROSS. Deine Burg ist überrannt; deine Frau und Kinder Grausam ermordet: die Art und Weise zu erzählen Wäre, auf dem Schlachtfeld dieser getöteten Tiere, Den Tod auch über dich zu bringen. MALCOLM. Barmherziger Himmel! - Mann, zieh nie deinen Hut über die Stirn; Gib dem Kummer Worte: Die Trauer, die nicht spricht, Flüstert dem überladenen Herzen zu und gebietet ihm zu brechen. MACDUFF. Auch meine Kinder? ROSS. Frau, Kinder, Diener, alle, Die man finden konnte. MACDUFF. Und ich soll von dort fortgehen! Meine Frau auch getötet? ROSS. Ja, das habe ich gesagt. MALCOLM. Lass dich trösten: Lasst uns unsere Rache in Medizin umwandeln, Um diesem tödlichen Kummer Heilung zu bringen. MACDUFF. Er hat keine Kinder - meine liebenswerten Kinder? Habt ihr sie alle gesagt? - O Höllenfalken! - Alle? Was, alle meine süßen Küken und ihre Mutter In einem einzigen vernichtenden Schlag? MALCOLM. Streite es wie ein Mann. MACDUFF. Das werde ich tun; Aber ich muss es auch als ein Mensch fühlen: Ich kann mich nicht erinnern, dass solche Dinge waren, Die mir so kostbar waren. Hat der Himmel zugesehen, Und ihre Partei nicht ergriffen? Sünder Macduff, Sie wurden alle für dich niedergemetzelt! Nicht wegen ihrer eigenen Schuld, sondern wegen meiner, fiel das Gemetzel über ihre Seelen: Der Himmel lasse sie jetzt ruhen! MALCOLM. Lass das der Wetzstein deines Schwerts sein. Lass den Kummer In Wut umwandeln; betäube nicht das Herz, erzürne es. MACDUFF. Oh, ich könnte die Frau spielen mit meinem Auge, Und prahlerisch mit meiner Zunge sein! - Aber, sanfter Himmel, Beende jede Unterbrechung; von Angesicht zu Angesicht Bring du diesen Satan von Schottland und mich zusammen; Stell ihn innerhalb der Länge meines Schwertes auf; wenn er entkommt, Vergebe ihm auch der Himmel! MALCOLM. Diese Melodie klingt männlich. Kommt, gehen wir zum König; unsere Macht ist bereit; Uns fehlt nichts außer unserer Erlaubnis: Macbeth Ist bereit zum Erschüttern, und die Kräfte darüber ziehen ihre Instrumente an. Nimm an, was immer für eine Freude dir zuteil wird; Die Nacht ist lang, die niemals den Tag findet. [Abgang.] Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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In England testet Malcolms Sohn Duncan die Loyalität seines neuesten Rekruten Macduff. Indem er seine eigene Adelsschaft herabsetzt und sich als größerer Tyrann als Macbeth ausgibt, hofft Malcolm, dass Macduff seine Loyalität offen zeigt. Dieser Versuch der Umkehrpsychologie hat die gewünschte Wirkung. Macduff gerät in Wut gegen den "namenlosen Tyrannen" Macbeth und Malcolm gewinnt seine Hilfe im Kampf. Als Ross mit der Nachricht von der Ermordung von Macduffs Familie erscheint, ist Macduff endlich überzeugt, nicht nur in der Rebellenarmee mitzukämpfen, sondern auch persönliche Rache an Macbeth zu nehmen. In dieser Szene wird außerdem berichtet, dass der König von England, Eduard der Bekennende, Malcolm nicht nur politische Hilfe, sondern auch übernatürliche Heilkräfte zur Verfügung gestellt hat.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: The ball was over, and the breakfast was soon over too; the last kiss was given, and William was gone. Mr. Crawford had, as he foretold, been very punctual, and short and pleasant had been the meal. After seeing William to the last moment, Fanny walked back to the breakfast-room with a very saddened heart to grieve over the melancholy change; and there her uncle kindly left her to cry in peace, conceiving, perhaps, that the deserted chair of each young man might exercise her tender enthusiasm, and that the remaining cold pork bones and mustard in William's plate might but divide her feelings with the broken egg-shells in Mr. Crawford's. She sat and cried _con_ _amore_ as her uncle intended, but it was _con_ _amore_ fraternal and no other. William was gone, and she now felt as if she had wasted half his visit in idle cares and selfish solicitudes unconnected with him. Fanny's disposition was such that she could never even think of her aunt Norris in the meagreness and cheerlessness of her own small house, without reproaching herself for some little want of attention to her when they had been last together; much less could her feelings acquit her of having done and said and thought everything by William that was due to him for a whole fortnight. It was a heavy, melancholy day. Soon after the second breakfast, Edmund bade them good-bye for a week, and mounted his horse for Peterborough, and then all were gone. Nothing remained of last night but remembrances, which she had nobody to share in. She talked to her aunt Bertram--she must talk to somebody of the ball; but her aunt had seen so little of what had passed, and had so little curiosity, that it was heavy work. Lady Bertram was not certain of anybody's dress or anybody's place at supper but her own. "She could not recollect what it was that she had heard about one of the Miss Maddoxes, or what it was that Lady Prescott had noticed in Fanny: she was not sure whether Colonel Harrison had been talking of Mr. Crawford or of William when he said he was the finest young man in the room--somebody had whispered something to her; she had forgot to ask Sir Thomas what it could be." And these were her longest speeches and clearest communications: the rest was only a languid "Yes, yes; very well; did you? did he? I did not see _that_; I should not know one from the other." This was very bad. It was only better than Mrs. Norris's sharp answers would have been; but she being gone home with all the supernumerary jellies to nurse a sick maid, there was peace and good-humour in their little party, though it could not boast much beside. The evening was heavy like the day. "I cannot think what is the matter with me," said Lady Bertram, when the tea-things were removed. "I feel quite stupid. It must be sitting up so late last night. Fanny, you must do something to keep me awake. I cannot work. Fetch the cards; I feel so very stupid." The cards were brought, and Fanny played at cribbage with her aunt till bedtime; and as Sir Thomas was reading to himself, no sounds were heard in the room for the next two hours beyond the reckonings of the game--"And _that_ makes thirty-one; four in hand and eight in crib. You are to deal, ma'am; shall I deal for you?" Fanny thought and thought again of the difference which twenty-four hours had made in that room, and all that part of the house. Last night it had been hope and smiles, bustle and motion, noise and brilliancy, in the drawing-room, and out of the drawing-room, and everywhere. Now it was languor, and all but solitude. A good night's rest improved her spirits. She could think of William the next day more cheerfully; and as the morning afforded her an opportunity of talking over Thursday night with Mrs. Grant and Miss Crawford, in a very handsome style, with all the heightenings of imagination, and all the laughs of playfulness which are so essential to the shade of a departed ball, she could afterwards bring her mind without much effort into its everyday state, and easily conform to the tranquillity of the present quiet week. They were indeed a smaller party than she had ever known there for a whole day together, and _he_ was gone on whom the comfort and cheerfulness of every family meeting and every meal chiefly depended. But this must be learned to be endured. He would soon be always gone; and she was thankful that she could now sit in the same room with her uncle, hear his voice, receive his questions, and even answer them, without such wretched feelings as she had formerly known. "We miss our two young men," was Sir Thomas's observation on both the first and second day, as they formed their very reduced circle after dinner; and in consideration of Fanny's swimming eyes, nothing more was said on the first day than to drink their good health; but on the second it led to something farther. William was kindly commended and his promotion hoped for. "And there is no reason to suppose," added Sir Thomas, "but that his visits to us may now be tolerably frequent. As to Edmund, we must learn to do without him. This will be the last winter of his belonging to us, as he has done." "Yes," said Lady Bertram, "but I wish he was not going away. They are all going away, I think. I wish they would stay at home." This wish was levelled principally at Julia, who had just applied for permission to go to town with Maria; and as Sir Thomas thought it best for each daughter that the permission should be granted, Lady Bertram, though in her own good-nature she would not have prevented it, was lamenting the change it made in the prospect of Julia's return, which would otherwise have taken place about this time. A great deal of good sense followed on Sir Thomas's side, tending to reconcile his wife to the arrangement. Everything that a considerate parent _ought_ to feel was advanced for her use; and everything that an affectionate mother _must_ feel in promoting her children's enjoyment was attributed to her nature. Lady Bertram agreed to it all with a calm "Yes"; and at the end of a quarter of an hour's silent consideration spontaneously observed, "Sir Thomas, I have been thinking--and I am very glad we took Fanny as we did, for now the others are away we feel the good of it." Sir Thomas immediately improved this compliment by adding, "Very true. We shew Fanny what a good girl we think her by praising her to her face, she is now a very valuable companion. If we have been kind to _her_, she is now quite as necessary to _us_." "Yes," said Lady Bertram presently; "and it is a comfort to think that we shall always have _her_." Sir Thomas paused, half smiled, glanced at his niece, and then gravely replied, "She will never leave us, I hope, till invited to some other home that may reasonably promise her greater happiness than she knows here." "And _that_ is not very likely to be, Sir Thomas. Who should invite her? Maria might be very glad to see her at Sotherton now and then, but she would not think of asking her to live there; and I am sure she is better off here; and besides, I cannot do without her." The week which passed so quietly and peaceably at the great house in Mansfield had a very different character at the Parsonage. To the young lady, at least, in each family, it brought very different feelings. What was tranquillity and comfort to Fanny was tediousness and vexation to Mary. Something arose from difference of disposition and habit: one so easily satisfied, the other so unused to endure; but still more might be imputed to difference of circumstances. In some points of interest they were exactly opposed to each other. To Fanny's mind, Edmund's absence was really, in its cause and its tendency, a relief. To Mary it was every way painful. She felt the want of his society every day, almost every hour, and was too much in want of it to derive anything but irritation from considering the object for which he went. He could not have devised anything more likely to raise his consequence than this week's absence, occurring as it did at the very time of her brother's going away, of William Price's going too, and completing the sort of general break-up of a party which had been so animated. She felt it keenly. They were now a miserable trio, confined within doors by a series of rain and snow, with nothing to do and no variety to hope for. Angry as she was with Edmund for adhering to his own notions, and acting on them in defiance of her (and she had been so angry that they had hardly parted friends at the ball), she could not help thinking of him continually when absent, dwelling on his merit and affection, and longing again for the almost daily meetings they lately had. His absence was unnecessarily long. He should not have planned such an absence--he should not have left home for a week, when her own departure from Mansfield was so near. Then she began to blame herself. She wished she had not spoken so warmly in their last conversation. She was afraid she had used some strong, some contemptuous expressions in speaking of the clergy, and that should not have been. It was ill-bred; it was wrong. She wished such words unsaid with all her heart. Her vexation did not end with the week. All this was bad, but she had still more to feel when Friday came round again and brought no Edmund; when Saturday came and still no Edmund; and when, through the slight communication with the other family which Sunday produced, she learned that he had actually written home to defer his return, having promised to remain some days longer with his friend. If she had felt impatience and regret before--if she had been sorry for what she said, and feared its too strong effect on him--she now felt and feared it all tenfold more. She had, moreover, to contend with one disagreeable emotion entirely new to her--jealousy. His friend Mr. Owen had sisters; he might find them attractive. But, at any rate, his staying away at a time when, according to all preceding plans, she was to remove to London, meant something that she could not bear. Had Henry returned, as he talked of doing, at the end of three or four days, she should now have been leaving Mansfield. It became absolutely necessary for her to get to Fanny and try to learn something more. She could not live any longer in such solitary wretchedness; and she made her way to the Park, through difficulties of walking which she had deemed unconquerable a week before, for the chance of hearing a little in addition, for the sake of at least hearing his name. The first half-hour was lost, for Fanny and Lady Bertram were together, and unless she had Fanny to herself she could hope for nothing. But at last Lady Bertram left the room, and then almost immediately Miss Crawford thus began, with a voice as well regulated as she could--"And how do _you_ like your cousin Edmund's staying away so long? Being the only young person at home, I consider _you_ as the greatest sufferer. You must miss him. Does his staying longer surprise you?" "I do not know," said Fanny hesitatingly. "Yes; I had not particularly expected it." "Perhaps he will always stay longer than he talks of. It is the general way all young men do." "He did not, the only time he went to see Mr. Owen before." "He finds the house more agreeable _now_. He is a very--a very pleasing young man himself, and I cannot help being rather concerned at not seeing him again before I go to London, as will now undoubtedly be the case. I am looking for Henry every day, and as soon as he comes there will be nothing to detain me at Mansfield. I should like to have seen him once more, I confess. But you must give my compliments to him. Yes; I think it must be compliments. Is not there a something wanted, Miss Price, in our language--a something between compliments and--and love--to suit the sort of friendly acquaintance we have had together? So many months' acquaintance! But compliments may be sufficient here. Was his letter a long one? Does he give you much account of what he is doing? Is it Christmas gaieties that he is staying for?" "I only heard a part of the letter; it was to my uncle; but I believe it was very short; indeed I am sure it was but a few lines. All that I heard was that his friend had pressed him to stay longer, and that he had agreed to do so. A _few_ days longer, or _some_ days longer; I am not quite sure which." "Oh! if he wrote to his father; but I thought it might have been to Lady Bertram or you. But if he wrote to his father, no wonder he was concise. Who could write chat to Sir Thomas? If he had written to you, there would have been more particulars. You would have heard of balls and parties. He would have sent you a description of everything and everybody. How many Miss Owens are there?" "Three grown up." "Are they musical?" "I do not at all know. I never heard." "That is the first question, you know," said Miss Crawford, trying to appear gay and unconcerned, "which every woman who plays herself is sure to ask about another. But it is very foolish to ask questions about any young ladies--about any three sisters just grown up; for one knows, without being told, exactly what they are: all very accomplished and pleasing, and one very pretty. There is a beauty in every family; it is a regular thing. Two play on the pianoforte, and one on the harp; and all sing, or would sing if they were taught, or sing all the better for not being taught; or something like it." "I know nothing of the Miss Owens," said Fanny calmly. "You know nothing and you care less, as people say. Never did tone express indifference plainer. Indeed, how can one care for those one has never seen? Well, when your cousin comes back, he will find Mansfield very quiet; all the noisy ones gone, your brother and mine and myself. I do not like the idea of leaving Mrs. Grant now the time draws near. She does not like my going." Fanny felt obliged to speak. "You cannot doubt your being missed by many," said she. "You will be very much missed." Miss Crawford turned her eye on her, as if wanting to hear or see more, and then laughingly said, "Oh yes! missed as every noisy evil is missed when it is taken away; that is, there is a great difference felt. But I am not fishing; don't compliment me. If I _am_ missed, it will appear. I may be discovered by those who want to see me. I shall not be in any doubtful, or distant, or unapproachable region." Now Fanny could not bring herself to speak, and Miss Crawford was disappointed; for she had hoped to hear some pleasant assurance of her power from one who she thought must know, and her spirits were clouded again. "The Miss Owens," said she, soon afterwards; "suppose you were to have one of the Miss Owens settled at Thornton Lacey; how should you like it? Stranger things have happened. I dare say they are trying for it. And they are quite in the right, for it would be a very pretty establishment for them. I do not at all wonder or blame them. It is everybody's duty to do as well for themselves as they can. Sir Thomas Bertram's son is somebody; and now he is in their own line. Their father is a clergyman, and their brother is a clergyman, and they are all clergymen together. He is their lawful property; he fairly belongs to them. You don't speak, Fanny; Miss Price, you don't speak. But honestly now, do not you rather expect it than otherwise?" "No," said Fanny stoutly, "I do not expect it at all." "Überhaupt nicht!" rief Miss Crawford mit Eifer. "Das wundert mich. Aber ich nehme an, du weißt genau Bescheid - ich stelle mir immer vor, dass du das tust - vielleicht glaubst du nicht, dass er überhaupt heiraten wird - oder zumindest nicht im Moment." "Nein, tue ich nicht", sagte Fanny leise und hoffte, dass sie weder in der Überzeugung noch in der Bestätigung davon einen Fehler machte. Ihre Begleiterin betrachtete sie scharf und gewann durch die Röte, die durch einen solchen Blick bald verursacht wurde, noch mehr Mut und sagte nur: "So wie er ist, hat er es am besten", und wechselte das Thema. Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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William und Henry gehen und Fanny weint. Sir Thomas denkt, sie weint für beide, aber es ist wirklich nur wegen William. Edmund verlässt auch bald, um sich weihen zu lassen. Mansfield ist plötzlich sehr ruhig. Der Tag nach dem Ball ist wirklich lang und wirklich langweilig. Fanny war noch nie alleine mit ihren Cousins in Mansfield. Lady Bertram hat das leere-Nest-Syndrom und vermisst all ihre Kinder. Lady Bertram und Sir Thomas sind froh, dass Fanny noch da ist. Fanny genießt die Ruhe und die Friedlichkeit, während Mary sich zu Tode langweilt. Mary ist unglücklich bei den Grants und ist wütend auf Edmund, dass er so lange weg ist. Dann ist sie auch wütend auf sich selbst, dass sie herumhängt und auf ihn wartet. Mary wird auch eifersüchtig, wenn sie hört, dass Edmund bei seinen Freunden, den Owens, bleibt, die unverheiratete Töchter haben. Schließlich hält es Mary nicht mehr aus und geht nach Mansfield, um etwas Klatsch zu bekommen. Fanny ist wenig hilfreich und gibt ihr keine guten Infos über die Owens. Mary bittet Fanny, Grüße an Edmund auszurichten. Mary verkündet, dass sie bald andere Freunde besuchen wird. Fanny sagt lahm, dass sie vermisst werden wird, versichert Mary aber nicht, dass Edmund sie vermissen wird, was Mary eigentlich hören 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: "Astonished and delighted to hear my native language, and no less surprised at what this man said, I made answer that there were much greater misfortunes than that of which he complained. I told him in a few words of the horrors which I had endured, and fainted a second time. He carried me to a neighbouring house, put me to bed, gave me food, waited upon me, consoled me, flattered me; he told me that he had never seen any one so beautiful as I, and that he never so much regretted the loss of what it was impossible to recover. "'I was born at Naples,' said he, 'there they geld two or three thousand children every year; some die of the operation, others acquire a voice more beautiful than that of women, and others are raised to offices of state.[13] This operation was performed on me with great success and I was chapel musician to madam, the Princess of Palestrina.' "'To my mother!' cried I. "'Your mother!' cried he, weeping. 'What! can you be that young princess whom I brought up until the age of six years, and who promised so early to be as beautiful as you?' "'It is I, indeed; but my mother lies four hundred yards hence, torn in quarters, under a heap of dead bodies.' "I told him all my adventures, and he made me acquainted with his; telling me that he had been sent to the Emperor of Morocco by a Christian power, to conclude a treaty with that prince, in consequence of which he was to be furnished with military stores and ships to help to demolish the commerce of other Christian Governments. "'My mission is done,' said this honest eunuch; 'I go to embark for Ceuta, and will take you to Italy. _Ma che sciagura d'essere senza coglioni!_' "I thanked him with tears of commiseration; and instead of taking me to Italy he conducted me to Algiers, where he sold me to the Dey. Scarcely was I sold, than the plague which had made the tour of Africa, Asia, and Europe, broke out with great malignancy in Algiers. You have seen earthquakes; but pray, miss, have you ever had the plague?" "Never," answered Cunegonde. "If you had," said the old woman, "you would acknowledge that it is far more terrible than an earthquake. It is common in Africa, and I caught it. Imagine to yourself the distressed situation of the daughter of a Pope, only fifteen years old, who, in less than three months, had felt the miseries of poverty and slavery, had been ravished almost every day, had beheld her mother drawn in quarters, had experienced famine and war, and was dying of the plague in Algiers. I did not die, however, but my eunuch, and the Dey, and almost the whole seraglio of Algiers perished. "As soon as the first fury of this terrible pestilence was over, a sale was made of the Dey's slaves; I was purchased by a merchant, and carried to Tunis; this man sold me to another merchant, who sold me again to another at Tripoli; from Tripoli I was sold to Alexandria, from Alexandria to Smyrna, and from Smyrna to Constantinople. At length I became the property of an Aga of the Janissaries, who was soon ordered away to the defence of Azof, then besieged by the Russians. "The Aga, who was a very gallant man, took his whole seraglio with him, and lodged us in a small fort on the Palus Meotides, guarded by two black eunuchs and twenty soldiers. The Turks killed prodigious numbers of the Russians, but the latter had their revenge. Azof was destroyed by fire, the inhabitants put to the sword, neither sex nor age was spared; until there remained only our little fort, and the enemy wanted to starve us out. The twenty Janissaries had sworn they would never surrender. The extremities of famine to which they were reduced, obliged them to eat our two eunuchs, for fear of violating their oath. And at the end of a few days they resolved also to devour the women. "We had a very pious and humane Iman, who preached an excellent sermon, exhorting them not to kill us all at once. "'Only cut off a buttock of each of those ladies,' said he, 'and you'll fare extremely well; if you must go to it again, there will be the same entertainment a few days hence; heaven will accept of so charitable an action, and send you relief.' "He had great eloquence; he persuaded them; we underwent this terrible operation. The Iman applied the same balsam to us, as he does to children after circumcision; and we all nearly died. "Scarcely had the Janissaries finished the repast with which we had furnished them, than the Russians came in flat-bottomed boats; not a Janissary escaped. The Russians paid no attention to the condition we were in. There are French surgeons in all parts of the world; one of them who was very clever took us under his care--he cured us; and as long as I live I shall remember that as soon as my wounds were healed he made proposals to me. He bid us all be of good cheer, telling us that the like had happened in many sieges, and that it was according to the laws of war. "As soon as my companions could walk, they were obliged to set out for Moscow. I fell to the share of a Boyard who made me his gardener, and gave me twenty lashes a day. But this nobleman having in two years' time been broke upon the wheel along with thirty more Boyards for some broils at court, I profited by that event; I fled. I traversed all Russia; I was a long time an inn-holder's servant at Riga, the same at Rostock, at Vismar, at Leipzig, at Cassel, at Utrecht, at Leyden, at the Hague, at Rotterdam. I waxed old in misery and disgrace, having only one-half of my posteriors, and always remembering I was a Pope's daughter. A hundred times I was upon the point of killing myself; but still I loved life. This ridiculous foible is perhaps one of our most fatal characteristics; for is there anything more absurd than to wish to carry continually a burden which one can always throw down? to detest existence and yet to cling to one's existence? in brief, to caress the serpent which devours us, till he has eaten our very heart? "In the different countries which it has been my lot to traverse, and the numerous inns where I have been servant, I have taken notice of a vast number of people who held their own existence in abhorrence, and yet I never knew of more than eight who voluntarily put an end to their misery; three negroes, four Englishmen, and a German professor named Robek.[14] I ended by being servant to the Jew, Don Issachar, who placed me near your presence, my fair lady. I am determined to share your fate, and have been much more affected with your misfortunes than with my own. I would never even have spoken to you of my misfortunes, had you not piqued me a little, and if it were not customary to tell stories on board a ship in order to pass away the time. In short, Miss Cunegonde, I have had experience, I know the world; therefore I advise you to divert yourself, and prevail upon each passenger to tell his story; and if there be one of them all, that has not cursed his life many a time, that has not frequently looked upon himself as the unhappiest of mortals, I give you leave to throw me headforemost into the sea." Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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Hundertmal wollte ich mich umbringen, aber immer habe ich das Leben mehr geliebt. Die alte Frau erzählt ihre Geschichte weiter. Trotz des Versuchs des Eunuchen, sie zu vergewaltigen, war sie erfreut, einen Landsmann zu treffen, und der Eunuch brachte sie in eine nahegelegene Hütte, um sich um sie zu kümmern. Sie entdeckten, dass er einst im Palast ihrer Mutter gedient hatte. Der Eunuch versprach, die alte Frau nach Italien zurückzubringen, brachte sie jedoch nach Algier und verkaufte sie als Konkubine an den Prinzen. Die Pest wütete in Algier und tötete den Prinzen und den Eunuchen. Die alte Frau wurde daraufhin mehrmals verkauft und landete schließlich in den Händen eines muslimischen Militärkommandanten. Er nahm sein Serail mit, als er beauftragt wurde, die Stadt Azov gegen die Russen zu verteidigen. Die Russen zerstörten die Stadt, und nur das Fort des Kommandanten blieb stehen. Verzweifelt nach Essen, töteten die Offiziere zwei Eunuchen und aßen sie. Sie planten dasselbe mit den Frauen zu tun, aber ein "frommer und mitfühlender" religiöser Führer überredete sie lediglich jedem der Frauen ein Gesäßstück abzuschneiden, um daraus Nahrung zu machen. Letztendlich töteten die Russen alle Offiziere. Die Frauen wurden nach Moskau gebracht. Ein Adliger nahm die alte Frau als Sklavin und schlug sie täglich für zwei Jahre. Er wurde wegen "hofinterner Intrigen" hingerichtet, und die alte Frau entkam. Sie arbeitete als Dienerin in Gasthäusern in ganz Russland. Sie kam in ihrem Leben oft dem Selbstmord nahe, führte ihn aber nie aus, weil sie das Leben zu sehr "liebte". Die alte Frau fragt sich, warum die menschliche Natur die Menschen dazu bringt, leben zu wollen, obwohl das Leben selbst oft ein Fluch ist. Sie fordert Candide und Cunegonde auf, jeden Passagier auf dem Schiff nach seiner Geschichte zu fragen. Sie wettet, dass jeder Einzelne aufgewühlt ist, am Leben zu sein.

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 II. SZENE I. Inverness. Gericht im Schloss. [Tritt Banquo auf, gefolgt von Fleance mit einer Fackel.] BANQUO. Wie geht die Nacht, Junge? FLEANCE. Der Mond ist untergegangen, ich habe die Uhr nicht gehört. BANQUO. Und sie geht um Mitternacht unter. FLEANCE. Ich schätze, es ist später, Sir. BANQUO. Warte, nimm mein Schwert. Der Himmel ist sparsam; Ihre Kerzen sind alle erloschen. Nimm auch das. Eine schwere Vorladung lastet wie Blei auf mir, Und dennoch möchte ich nicht schlafen. Gnädige Mächte, Hindert in mir die verfluchten Gedanken, die die Natur Im Schlaf freien Lauf haben lässt! Gib mir mein Schwert. Wer ist da? [Tritt Macbeth auf, gefolgt von einem Diener mit einer Fackel.] MACBETH. Ein Freund. BANQUO. Was, Sir, immer noch nicht zur Ruhe? Der König ist im Bett. Er hat sich außergewöhnlich amüsiert und Großzügige Geschenke an Ihre Offiziere verteilt. Diesen Diamanten grüßt er Ihre Frau, Im Namen der freundlichsten Gastgeberin, und schließt ein In maßlosem Wohlgefallen. MACBETH. Unvorbereitet, Wurde unser Wille zum Diener des Mangels; Der sonst frei gewesen wäre. BANQUO. Alles gut. Ich habe letzte Nacht von den drei seltsamen Schwestern geträumt: Bei Ihnen haben sie etwas Wahrheit offenbart. MACBETH. Ich denke nicht an sie. Aber wenn wir eine Stunde um Gunst bitten könnten, Wir würden sie mit einigen Worten auf dieses Geschäft verwenden, Wenn Sie die Zeit gewähren würden? BANQUO. Zu Ihrer besten Bequemlichkeit. MACBETH. Wenn Sie sich meinem Einverständnis anschließen - wenn es so weit ist, Wird es Ihnen Ehre verschaffen. BANQUO. So verliere ich nichts Indem ich danach strebe, es zu erhöhen, aber behalte trotzdem Meine Unabhängigkeit und Loyalität, So werde ich beraten sein. MACBETH. Gute Ruhe dabei! BANQUO. Danke, Sir, das Gleiche gilt für Sie! [Banquo und Fleance gehen ab.] MACBETH. Geh und sag deiner Gefährtin, dass mein Drink bereit ist, Sie soll auf die Glocke schlagen. Geh ins Bett. [Der Diener geht ab.] Ist das ein Dolch, den ich vor mir sehe? Der Griff zeigt auf meine Hand? Komm, lass mich dich ergreifen: Ich habe dich nicht, und doch sehe ich dich immer noch. Bist du nicht, Vision des Todes, fühlbar Für das Gefühl wie für das Auge? Oder bist du nur Ein Dolch des Geistes, eine falsche Kreation, Hervorgegangen aus dem von Hitze bedrückten Gehirn? Ich sehe dich noch, in einer Gestalt so deutlich Wie diese, die ich jetzt ziehe. Du bereitest mir den Weg, den ich gehen wollte; Und solch ein Instrument sollte ich benutzen. Meine Augen werden Narren der anderen Sinne gemacht, Oder sie sind die wertvollsten von allen: Ich sehe dich immer noch; Und auf deiner Klinge und dem Griff Blutergüsse, Die vorher nicht da waren. Es gibt so etwas nicht: Es ist das blutige Geschäft, das informiert So meine Augen. Nun scheint die Natur über die halbe Welt Tot zu sein, und böse Träume schaden Dem verschleierten Schlaf; nun zelebriert Hexerei Die Opfergabe der bleichen Hekate; und vertrockneter Mord, Alarmiert durch seinen Wächter, den Wolf, Dessen Heulen seine Wache ist, bewegt sich mit seinem heimlichen Schritt, Mit Tarquins raubenden Schritten, seinem Ziel entgegen, Wie ein Geist. Du, sichere und feste Erde, Höre nicht meine Schritte, wohin sie auch führen. Aus Angst, Dass deine Steine von meinem Aufenthaltsort erzählen, Und die gegenwärtige Entsetzlichkeit von der Zeit nehmen, Die jetzt damit übereinstimmt - während ich damit drohe, lebt er; Worte geben zu kalten Taten einen zu kalten Atem. [Eine Glocke läutet.] Ich gehe, und es ist geschehen; die Glocke lädt mich ein. Höre es nicht, Duncan, denn es ist eine Totenglocke, Die dich in den Himmel oder zur Hölle ruft. [Er geht ab.] [Lady Macbeth tritt auf.] LADY MACBETH. Was sie betrunken gemacht hat, hat mich mutig gemacht. Was sie gelöscht hat, hat mir Feuer gegeben. Hör! Frieden! Es war die Eule, die schrie, der tödliche Totengräber, Der das strengste Gute-Nacht-Lied singt. Er ist dabei: Die Türen sind offen; und die überfressenen Knechte Verspotten ihren Auftrag mit Schnarchen. Ich habe ihre Schlummertrunkes vergiftet, So dass Tod und Natur um sie kämpfen, Ob sie leben oder sterben. MACBETH. [Von innen.] Wer ist da? Wer, hallo! LADY MACBETH. Ich fürchte, sie sind aufgewacht, Und es ist nicht getan: Der Versuch, nicht die Tat, Verwirrt uns. Hör! Ich habe ihre Dolche bereitgelegt; Er konnte sie nicht verfehlen. Hätte er nicht Meinem Vater im Schlaf geähnelt, hätte ich es getan. Mein Mann! [Macbeth tritt wieder auf.] MACBETH. Ich habe es vollbracht. Hast du kein Geräusch gehört? LADY MACBETH. Ich habe die Eule schreien hören und die Grillen zirpen. Haben Sie nicht gesprochen? MACBETH. Wann? LADY MACBETH. Jetzt. MACBETH. Als ich hinabstieg? LADY MACBETH. Ja. MACBETH. Hör! Wer liegt im zweiten Zimmer? LADY MACBETH. Donalbain. MACBETH. Das ist ein trauriger Anblick. [Schaut auf seine Hände.] LADY MACBETH. Ein törichter Gedanke, einen traurigen Anblick zu nennen. MACBETH. Einer hat im Schlaf gelacht und einer hat "Mord!" geschrien. So haben sie einander geweckt: Ich stand da und hörte es. Aber sie haben gebetet und wandten sich Wieder dem Schlaf zu. LADY MACBETH. Es gibt zwei, die zusammen schlafen. MACBETH. Einer hat "Gott segne uns!" gerufen, und "Amen" der andere; Als hätten sie mich mit diesen Henkershänden gesehen. Als ich ihre Angst belauschte, konnte ich kein "Amen" sagen, Als sie sagten: "Gott segne uns." LADY MACBETH. Bedenke es nicht so tief. MACBETH. Aber warum konnte ich kein "Amen" aussprechen? Ich hatte den größten Bedarf an Segen, und "Amen" Blieb mir im Halse stecken. LADY MACBETH. Solche Taten dürfen nicht so betrachtet werden, Nach solchen Wegen. Es wird uns verrückt machen. MACBETH. Ich hörte eine Stimme schreien: "Schlaf nicht mehr! Macbeth schlachtet den Schlaf", der unbescholtene Schlaf; Der den zerrissenen Ärmel der Sorge zusammenfügt, Der Tod des täglichen Lebens, das schmerzende Bad der Arbeit, Balsam für verletzte Seelen, große zweite Stärkung der Natur, Hauptnahrung bei des Lebens Festmahl. LADY MACBETH. Was meinst du damit? MACBETH. Es rief immer noch "Schlaf nicht mehr!" ins ganze Haus hinein: "Glamis hat den Schlaf ermordet, und deshalb soll Cawdor Nicht mehr schlafen, Macbeth soll nicht mehr schlafen!" LADY MACBETH. Wer hat das so gerufen? Warum, würdiger Thane, Entspannst du deine edle Kraft, um so krankhaft Über Dinge nachzudenken? Hol Wasser, Und PORTIER. Da ist wirklich ein Klopfen! Wenn ein Mann Portier des Höllentors wäre, müsste er den Schlüssel oft umdrehen. [Klopfen.] Klopf, klopf, klopf. Wer ist da, im Namen des Belzebub? Hier ist ein Bauer, der sich wegen der Aussicht auf Reichtum erhängt hat: komm rechtzeitig; habe genug Servietten dabei; hier wirst du dafür schwitzen. - [Klopfen.] Klopf, klopf! Wer ist da, im Namen des anderen Teufels? Glaube mir, hier ist ein Begleiter, der auf beiden Seiten schwören konnte, wer genug Verrat um Gottes Willen begangen hat, aber nicht zum Himmel schwören konnte: O, komm rein, Begleiter. [Klopfen.] Klopf, klopf, klopf! Wer ist da? Glaube mir, hier ist ein englischer Schneider gekommen, um aus einer französischen Hose zu stehlen: komm rein, Schneider; hier kannst du deine Gans braten. - [Klopfen.] Klopf, klopf: niemals in Ruhe! Was bist du? - Aber dieser Ort ist zu kalt für die Hölle. Ich werde ihn nicht weiter zum Hölle-Portier machen: Ich dachte, ich würde Leute aller Berufe hereinkommen lassen, die den Primelweg zur ewigen Osterfeuerstelle gehen. [Klopfen.] Gleich, gleich! Ich bitte um Entschuldigung, den Portier zu bedenken. [Öffnet das Tor.] [Tritt Macduff und Lennox ein.] MACDUFF. War es so spät, mein Freund, bevor du zu Bett gegangen bist, dass du so lange liegst? PORTIER. Glaube mir, mein Herr, wir haben gefeiert bis der zweite Hahn gekräht hat; und Alkohol, mein Herr, bringt drei Dinge zum Vorschein. MACDUFF. Welche drei Dinge provoziert Alkohol besonders? PORTIER. Leibeigenschaft, Schlaf und Wasserlassen, mein Herr. Unzucht, mein Herr, provoziert und entzieht; sie provoziert das Verlangen, aber sie nimmt die Leistung weg: daher kann man sagen, dass Alkohol mit Unzucht ein Equivocator ist: Er macht ihn und er zerstört ihn; er stachelt ihn an und er nimmt ihn weg; er überredet ihn und entmutigt ihn; er ermutigt ihn und lässt ihn stehen: abschließend bringt er ihn dazu, in einem Schlaf zu schwanken und zuzugeben, und ihm zu widersprechen. MACDUFF. Ich glaube, Alkohol hat dir gestern Nacht widersprochen. PORTIER. Das hat er, mein Herr, direkt in die Kehle von mir aus; aber ich habe ihm seine Lüge heimgezahlt; und, ich denke, dass ich zu stark für ihn war, obwohl er meine Beine manchmal hochgehoben hat, war ich doch in der Lage, ihn abzuwerfen. MACDUFF. Ist dein Herr schon aufgestanden? - Unser Klopfen hat ihn aufgeweckt; hier kommt er. [Tritt Macbeth ein.] LENNOX. Guten Morgen, edler Herr! MACBETH. Guten Morgen, euch beiden! MACDUFF. Ist der König schon aufgewacht, würdiger Thane? MACBETH. Noch nicht. MACDUFF. Er hat mir befohlen, ihn frühzeitig zu rufen: Ich habe beinahe die Stunde verpasst. MACBETH. Ich werde euch zu ihm bringen. MACDUFF. Ich weiß, dass das eine freudige Mühe für euch ist; Aber dennoch ist es eine. MACBETH. Die Arbeit, die uns Freude bereitet, lindert den Schmerz. Hier ist die Tür. MACDUFF. Ich werde so dreist sein, zu rufen. Denn das ist mein begrenzter Dienst. [Abgang Macduff.] LENNOX. Geht der König heute fort? MACBETH. Ja, er hat es so angeordnet. LENNOX. Die Nacht war wild: Dort, wo wir lagen, Wurden unsere Kamine umgeworfen: und, wie sie sagen, Hörte man Klagen in der Luft, seltsame Schreie des Todes; Und prophezeiend mit schrecklichen Akzenten, Von schrecklicher Verwüstung und durcheinandergeratenen Ereignissen, Die erst kürzlich zur traurigen Zeit geschlüpft waren: der dunkle Vogel Krächzte die ganze Nacht hindurch; einige sagen, die Erde war fieberhaft und zitterte. MACBETH. Es war eine raue Nacht. LENNOX. Meine junge Erinnerung kann es nicht mit Etwas vergleichen. [Zurückkommen von Macduff.] MACDUFF. Oh, Entsetzen, Entsetzen, Entsetzen! Zunge noch Herz können dich nicht verstehen oder deinen Namen nennen! MACBETH, LENNOX. Was ist los? MACDUFF. Es herrscht jetzt Verwirrung! Meuchelmord, der frevelhafteste Mord, hat den gesalbten Tempel des Herrn aufgebrochen und hat von dort das Leben des Gebäudes gestohlen. MACBETH. Was sagst du? Das Leben? LENNOX. Meinst du Seine Majestät? MACDUFF. Nähert euch der Kammer und vernichtet euren Anblick mit einer neuen Gorgo: - lasst mich nicht sprechen; Schaut selbst und sprecht dann. [Abgang Macbeth und Lennox.] Wach auf, wach auf! - Läutet die Alarmglocke - Mord und Verrat! Banquo und Donalbain! Malcolm! Wach auf! Schüttelt diesen weichen Schlaf, diesen Tod auf Probe ab Und schau den Tod selbst an! auf, auf und sieh Das große Bild des Schicksals! Malcolm! Banquo! Erhebt euch aus euren Gräbern und geht wie Geister Um diesem Schrecken angemessenes Aussehen zu geben! [Die Alarmglocke läutet.] [Zurück kommt Lady Macbeth.] LADY MACBETH. Was geschieht, Dass diese grässliche Trompete die Schläfer Des Hauses herbeiruft? Redet, sprecht! MACDUFF. O sanfte Dame, Es ist nicht für euch, zu hören, was ich sagen kann: Die Wiederholung, in eines Weibes Ohr, Würde töten, wie es gesprochen wird. [Zurückkommt Banquo.] O Banquo, Banquo! Unser königlicher Herr ist ermordet! LADY MACBETH. Wehe, ach! Was, in unserem Haus? BANQUO. Zu grausam, wo auch immer.- Lieber Duff, ich bitte dich, widerlege dich selbst, Und sage, dass es nicht so ist. [Zurückkommt Macbeth mit Lennox und Ross.] MACBETH. Hätte ich nur eine Stunde vor diesem Schicksal gestorben, Hätte ich eine gesegnete Zeit gelebt; denn von diesem Moment an ist nichts Ernstes in der Sterblichkeit: Alles ist nur Spielzeug: Ruhm und Anmut sind tot; Der Lebenswein ist abgezapft und die bloßen Hefe Bleibt übrig, in diesem Gewölbe zu prahlen. [Zurück kommen Malcolm und Donalbain.] DONALBAIN. Was ist nicht in Ordnung? MACBETH. Ihr seid es und ihr wisst es nicht: Die Quelle, der Ursprung, die Quelle eures Blutes Ist versiegt; der eigentliche Ursprung ist versiegt. MACDUFF. Euer königlicher Vater wurde ermordet. MALCOLM. Oh, von wem? LENNOX. Diejenigen in seinem Gemach, wie es schien, hatten es getan: Ihre Hände und Gesichter waren ganz mit Blut beschmiert; So waren auch ihre Dolche, die nicht abgewischt waren, haben wir auf ihren Kissen gefunden: Sie starrten, waren verstört; man konnte ihr Leben nicht vertrauen. MACBETH. Oh, es tut mir leid für meinen Zorn, dass ich sie getötet habe. MACDUFF. Warum hast du das getan? MACBETH. Wer kann in einem Moment weise, erstaunt, beherrscht und wütend sein, loyal und neutral sein? Niemand: Die Hitzköpfig DONALBAIN. Nach Irland, ich; unser getrenntes Schicksal Wird uns beide sicherer halten: wo wir sind, sind Dolche in den Lächeln der Männer: je näher das Blut, desto näher das Blutige. MALCOLM. Dieser mörderische Pfeil, der abgeschossen wurde, ist noch nicht gelandet; und unser sicherster Weg ist, dem Ziel auszuweichen. Deshalb zu Pferd; Und wir sollten uns nicht scheu vom Abschiednehmen sein, sondern uns entfernen: darin liegt Gewähr, welche sich selbst stiehlt, wenn keine Gnade mehr übrig ist. [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.

Banquo und sein Sohn Fleance gehen nach dem ganzen Fest ins Zimmer. Banquo erzählt Fleance, dass er aufgrund seiner beunruhigenden Gedanken nicht schlafen kann. Er fragt sich, ob Macbeth das Schicksal in die eigene Hand nehmen wird, um die Prophezeiungen der Hexen zu erfüllen. Die beiden treffen auf Macbeth, der ebenfalls durch die Gänge streift. Banquo erzählt Macbeth von der Freude des Königs Duncan über die königliche Behandlung. Er fragt Macbeth, ob er an die seltsamen Schwestern gedacht hat; Macbeth antwortet falsch, dass er das nicht getan hat. Er bittet Banquo erneut, zu einem späteren Zeitpunkt über die seltsamen Ereignisse dieser Nacht zu sprechen. Es scheint, dass Macbeth einen intelligenten und mitfühlenden Freund wie Banquo sucht, dem er sein Verbrechen anvertrauen kann. Macbeth ruft seine Frau und findet plötzlich einen Dolch in seiner Hand, was ihn schockiert. Er sieht imaginäre Blutstropfen auf dem Dolch, den er benutzen wird, um Duncan zu töten. Lady Macbeth gibt ihm das Signal und er geht auf Duncans Zimmer zu, um ihn zu töten.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: <CHAPTER> 15. THE LADY'S MAID. Eleven o'clock. A knock at the door... I hope I haven't disturbed you, madam. You weren't asleep--were you? But I've just given my lady her tea, and there was such a nice cup over, I thought, perhaps... ... Not at all, madam. I always make a cup of tea last thing. She drinks it in bed after her prayers to warm her up. I put the kettle on when she kneels down and I say to it, "Now you needn't be in too much of a hurry to say your prayers." But it's always boiling before my lady is half through. You see, madam, we know such a lot of people, and they've all got to be prayed for--every one. My lady keeps a list of the names in a little red book. Oh dear! whenever some one new has been to see us and my lady says afterwards, "Ellen, give me my little red book," I feel quite wild, I do. "There's another," I think, "keeping her out of her bed in all weathers." And she won't have a cushion, you know, madam; she kneels on the hard carpet. It fidgets me something dreadful to see her, knowing her as I do. I've tried to cheat her; I've spread out the eiderdown. But the first time I did it--oh, she gave me such a look--holy it was, madam. "Did our Lord have an eiderdown, Ellen?" she said. But--I was younger at the time--I felt inclined to say, "No, but our Lord wasn't your age, and he didn't know what it was to have your lumbago." Wicked--wasn't it? But she's too good, you know, madam. When I tucked her up just now and seen--saw her lying back, her hands outside and her head on the pillow--so pretty--I couldn't help thinking, "Now you look just like your dear mother when I laid her out!" ... Yes, madam, it was all left to me. Oh, she did look sweet. I did her hair, soft-like, round her forehead, all in dainty curls, and just to one side of her neck I put a bunch of most beautiful purple pansies. Those pansies made a picture of her, madam! I shall never forget them. I thought to-night, when I looked at my lady, "Now, if only the pansies was there no one could tell the difference." ... Only the last year, madam. Only after she'd got a little--well--feeble as you might say. Of course, she was never dangerous; she was the sweetest old lady. But how it took her was--she thought she'd lost something. She couldn't keep still, she couldn't settle. All day long she'd be up and down, up and down; you'd meet her everywhere,--on the stairs, in the porch, making for the kitchen. And she'd look up at you, and she'd say--just like a child, "I've lost it, I've lost it." "Come along," I'd say, "come along, and I'll lay out your patience for you." But she'd catch me by the hand--I was a favourite of hers--and whisper, "Find it for me, Ellen. Find it for me." Sad, wasn't it? ... No, she never recovered, madam. She had a stroke at the end. Last words she ever said was--very slow, "Look in--the--Look--in--" And then she was gone. ... No, madam, I can't say I noticed it. Perhaps some girls. But you see, it's like this, I've got nobody but my lady. My mother died of consumption when I was four, and I lived with my grandfather, who kept a hair-dresser's shop. I used to spend all my time in the shop under a table dressing my doll's hair--copying the assistants, I suppose. They were ever so kind to me. Used to make me little wigs, all colours, the latest fashions and all. And there I'd sit all day, quiet as quiet--the customers never knew. Only now and again I'd take my peep from under the table-cloth. ... But one day I managed to get a pair of scissors and--would you believe it, madam? I cut off all my hair; snipped it off all in bits, like the little monkey I was. Grandfather was furious! He caught hold of the tongs--I shall never forget it--grabbed me by the hand and shut my fingers in them. "That'll teach you!" he said. It was a fearful burn. I've got the mark of it to-day. ... Well, you see, madam, he'd taken such pride in my hair. He used to sit me up on the counter, before the customers came, and do it something beautiful--big, soft curls and waved over the top. I remember the assistants standing round, and me ever so solemn with the penny grandfather gave me to hold while it was being done... But he always took the penny back afterwards. Poor grandfather! Wild, he was, at the fright I'd made of myself. But he frightened me that time. Do you know what I did, madam? I ran away. Yes, I did, round the corners, in and out, I don't know how far I didn't run. Oh, dear, I must have looked a sight, with my hand rolled up in my pinny and my hair sticking out. People must have laughed when they saw me... ... No, madam, grandfather never got over it. He couldn't bear the sight of me after. Couldn't eat his dinner, even, if I was there. So my aunt took me. She was a cripple, an upholstress. Tiny! She had to stand on the sofas when she wanted to cut out the backs. And it was helping her I met my lady... ... Not so very, madam. I was thirteen, turned. And I don't remember ever feeling--well--a child, as you might say. You see there was my uniform, and one thing and another. My lady put me into collars and cuffs from the first. Oh yes--once I did! That was--funny! It was like this. My lady had her two little nieces staying with her--we were at Sheldon at the time--and there was a fair on the common. "Now, Ellen," she said, "I want you to take the two young ladies for a ride on the donkeys." Off we went; solemn little loves they were; each had a hand. But when we came to the donkeys they were too shy to go on. So we stood and watched instead. Beautiful those donkeys were! They were the first I'd seen out of a cart--for pleasure as you might say. They were a lovely silver-grey, with little red saddles and blue bridles and bells jing-a-jingling on their ears. And quite big girls--older than me, even--were riding them, ever so gay. Not at all common, I don't mean, madam, just enjoying themselves. And I don't know what it was, but the way the little feet went, and the eyes--so gentle--and the soft ears--made me want to go on a donkey more than anything in the world! ... Of course, I couldn't. I had my young ladies. And what would I have looked like perched up there in my uniform? But all the rest of the day it was donkeys--donkeys on the brain with me. I felt I should have burst if I didn't tell some one; and who was there to tell? But when I went to bed--I was sleeping in Mrs. James's bedroom, our cook that was, at the time--as soon as the lights was out, there they were, my donkeys, jingling along, with their neat little feet and sad eyes... Well, madam, would you believe it, I waited for a long time and pretended to be asleep, and then suddenly I sat up and called out as loud as I could, "I do want to go on a donkey. I do want a donkey-ride!" You see, I had to say it, and I thought they wouldn't laugh at me if they knew I was only dreaming. Artful--wasn't it? Just what a silly child would think... ... No, madam, never now. Of course, I did think of it at one time. But it wasn't to be. He had a little flower-shop just down the road and across from where we was living. Funny--wasn't it? And me such a one for flowers. We were having a lot of company at the time, and I was in and out of the shop more often than not, as the saying is. And Harry and I (his name was Harry) got to quarrelling about how things ought to be arranged--and that began it. Flowers! you wouldn't believe it, madam, the flowers he used to bring me. He'd stop at nothing. It was lilies-of-the-valley more than once, and I'm not exaggerating! Well, of course, we were going to be married and live over the shop, and it was all going to be just so, and I was to have the window to arrange... Oh, how I've done that window of a Saturday! Not really, of course, madam, just dreaming, as you might say. I've done it for Christmas--motto in holly, and all--and I've had my Easter lilies with a gorgeous star all daffodils in the middle. I've hung--well, that's enough of that. The day came he was to call for me to choose the furniture. Shall I ever forget it? It was a Tuesday. My lady wasn't quite herself that afternoon. Not that she'd said anything, of course; she never does or will. But I knew by the way that she kept wrapping herself up and asking me if it was cold--and her little nose looked... pinched. I didn't like leaving her; I knew I'd be worrying all the time. At last I asked her if she'd rather I put it off. "Oh no, Ellen," she said, "you mustn't mind about me. You mustn't disappoint your young man." And so cheerful, you know, madam, never thinking about herself. It made me feel worse than ever. I began to wonder... then she dropped her handkerchief and began to stoop down to pick it up herself--a thing she never did. "Whatever are you doing!" I cried, running to stop her. "Well," she said, smiling, you know, madam, "I shall have to begin to practise." Oh, it was all I could do not to burst out crying. I went over to the dressing-table and made believe to rub up the silver, and I couldn't keep myself in, and I asked her if she'd rather I... didn't get married. "No, Ellen," she said--that was her voice, madam, like I'm giving you--"No, Ellen, not for the wide world!" But while she said it, madam--I was looking in her glass; of course, she didn't know I could see her--she put her little hand on her heart just like her dear mother used to, and lifted her eyes... Oh, madam! When Harry came I had his letters all ready, and the ring and a ducky little brooch he'd given me--a silver bird it was, with a chain in its beak, and on the end of the chain a heart with a dagger. Quite the thing! I opened the door to him. I never gave him time for a word. "There you are," I said. "Take them all back," I said, "it's all over. I'm not going to marry you," I said, "I can't leave my lady." White! he turned as white as a woman. I had to slam the door, and there I stood, all of a tremble, till I knew he had gone. When I opened the door--believe me or not, madam--that man was gone! I ran out into the road just as I was, in my apron and my house-shoes, and there I stayed in the middle of the road... staring. People must have laughed if they saw me... ... Goodness gracious!--What's that? It's the clock striking! And here I've been keeping you awake. Oh, madam, you ought to have stopped me... Can I tuck in your feet? I always tuck in my lady's feet, every night, just the same. And she says, "Good night, Ellen. Sleep sound and wake early!" I don't know what I should do if she didn't say that, now. ... Oh dear, I sometimes think... whatever should I do if anything were to... But, there, thinking's no good to any one--is it, madam? Thinking won't help. Not that I do it often. And if ever I do I pull myself up sharp, "Now, then, Ellen. At it again--you silly girl! If you can't find anything better to do than to start thinking!... " </CHAPTER> Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Elf Uhr abends. Ein Klopfen an der Tür. Ellen, die Hausmädchen, betritt das Zimmer der Gastgeberin, die sie "Madame" nennt. Ellen fragt, ob Madame eine Tasse Tee möchte und beginnt beiläufig das einseitige Gespräch, das die Geschichte von "The Lady's Maid" ausmacht. Ellen erzählt Madam unaufgefordert, dass sie jeden Abend vor dem Zubettgehen eine Tasse Tee für ihre Lady zubereitet. Ihre Lady ist eine gläubige Frau, die jede Nacht betend auf den Knien verbringt. Trotz ihrer Lendenbeschwerden weigert sie sich hartnäckig, ein Kissen zu benutzen, und ihr Tee wird normalerweise kalt serviert. Ellen war gerade dabei, ihre Lady ins Bett zu bringen, und erzählte Madam, dass als sie das friedliche Gesicht ihrer Lady betrachtete, sie sich daran erinnerte, wie ihre Lady's Mutter in ihrem Sarg aussah. Ellen hatte das Haar ihrer Lady's Mutter gemacht und violette Stiefmütterchen an ihren Hals gelegt und dachte, dass sie wie die süßeste aussehende Leiche aussah. "Wenn nur die Stiefmütterchen da wären, könnte niemand den Unterschied erkennen." Ihre Lady's Mutter war im letzten Jahr erkrankt. Sie war älter und hatte begonnen, ihr Gedächtnis zu verlieren. Ellen fand sie oft im Haus umherirrend, auf der Suche nach etwas, das sie nie finden konnte. Sie starb an einem Schlaganfall. Ellen unterbricht, um Madams Frage zu hören, und antwortet, dass sie keine Familie hat, ihre Mutter starb an Schwindsucht, als Ellen vier Jahre alt war. Ihr Großvater hatte sie zunächst aufgenommen. Er arbeitete in einem Friseursalon, und Ellen saß unter dem Tisch und frisierte ihre Puppen, während ihr Großvater arbeitete. Ihr Großvater war besonders stolz auf Ellens Haar und war am Boden zerstört, als die junge Ellen es sich komplett abschnitt. Er verbrannte ihre Finger mit glühenden Zangen aus dem Kamin als Strafe, und Ellen, die vor der wütenden Natur ihres Großvaters Angst hatte, lief weg. Sie lebte eine Weile bei ihrer behinderten Tante, der Polstererin, bevor ihre Lady sie fand und sie in den Dienst nahm. Ihre Lady kleidete Ellen in Kragen und Manschetten, um ihre Stellung als Dienstmädchen zu kennzeichnen. Eines Tages, als Ellen ungefähr dreizehn Jahre alt war, wurde sie gebeten, die Nichten ihrer Lady auf Eseln auf einem nahegelegenen Jahrmarkt reiten zu lassen. Ellen wollte unbedingt auch auf den Eseln reiten, wusste aber, dass es unangemessen wäre. Stattdessen beobachtete sie die Nichten ihrer Lady, wie sie die Esel ritten. Später in der Nacht, als der Rest des Hauses schlief, rief Ellen im Bett aus: "Ich möchte auch eine Esel-fahrt machen", während alle anderen schliefen. Auf eine Frage von Madam antwortet Ellen, dass sie früher einmal daran gedacht hatte zu heiraten. Sie hatte einen Verlobten namens Harry, der einen Blumenladen besaß. Ellen träumte davon, für sie beide in der kleinen Wohnung über dem Laden ein Zuhause zu schaffen, wo sie das Fenster dekorieren würde, das auf die Straße von ihrer Wohnung ausblickte. Sie hatte sich vorgestellt, dieses Fenster zu verschiedenen Anlässen mit saisonalen Blumenarrangements zu schmücken, hielt sich aber davon ab, zu viel zu sagen. Ellen hatte die Beziehung kurz vor der Hochzeit beendet. Sie fühlte sich schuldig, weil sie ihre Lady verlassen wollte, und dachte, niemand sonst könnte sich um sie richtig kümmern. Eines Tages bemerkte Ellen, dass ihre Lady nicht wie gewöhnlich war und eine verkniffene Miene um ihre Nase hatte. Als Ellen ihre Lady im Spiegel beobachtete, fragte sie mehrmals, ob ihre Lady wollte, dass Ellen die Hochzeit verschieben solle, die schnell näher rückte. Jedes Mal antwortete ihre Lady "Nein", aber Ellen beobachtete sie im Spiegel und als ihre Lady sich bückte, um ein heruntergefallenes Taschentuch aufzuheben, stürzte Ellen zu ihr und hob es auf. Ellen war sehr bestürzt, ihre Lady so bedrückt zu sehen, und ihr Herz brach, als ihre Lady sagte, sie müsse jetzt lernen, ihr eigenes Taschentuch aufzuheben, da Ellen gehen würde. Ellen beendete ihre Verlobung mit Harry später am selben Tag. Harry kam zur Tür, und sie gab ihm ihren Verlobungsring, die Briefe, die er ihr geschrieben hatte, und einen Anhänger, den sie verehrte. Ellen sagte ihm, dass sie ihre Lady nicht verlassen könne, und schloss die Tür vor seiner Nase. Als sie sie einige Augenblicke später öffnete, war Ellen überrascht zu sehen, dass Harry weg war. Sie lief die Straße hinunter und suchte nach ihm, blieb jedoch kurz stehen, stand da in ihrer Schürze und ihren Hausschuhen und sagte zu Madame: "Die Leute hätten gelacht, wenn sie mich gesehen hätten". Der Klang einer Uhr, die die neue Stunde schlug, ließ Ellen aufwachen. Sie brachte Madame ins Bett, genauso wie sie es mit ihrer Lady tun würde, und sagte, sie wisse nicht, was sie tun würde, wenn ihrer Lady etwas zustoßen würde. Sie tadelte sich für ihre Gedanken und sagte: "...-du dummes Mädchen! Wenn du nichts Besseres zu tun hast, als anzufangen zu denken!"

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: SCENE III. The tent of CORIOLANUS Enter CORIOLANUS, AUFIDIUS, and others CORIOLANUS. We will before the walls of Rome to-morrow Set down our host. My partner in this action, You must report to th' Volscian lords how plainly I have borne this business. AUFIDIUS. Only their ends You have respected; stopp'd your ears against The general suit of Rome; never admitted A private whisper- no, not with such friends That thought them sure of you. CORIOLANUS. This last old man, Whom with crack'd heart I have sent to Rome, Lov'd me above the measure of a father; Nay, godded me indeed. Their latest refuge Was to send him; for whose old love I have- Though I show'd sourly to him- once more offer'd The first conditions, which they did refuse And cannot now accept. To grace him only, That thought he could do more, a very little I have yielded to; fresh embassies and suits, Nor from the state nor private friends, hereafter Will I lend ear to. [Shout within] Ha! what shout is this? Shall I be tempted to infringe my vow In the same time 'tis made? I will not. Enter, in mourning habits, VIRGILIA, VOLUMNIA, VALERIA, YOUNG MARCIUS, with attendants My wife comes foremost, then the honour'd mould Wherein this trunk was fram'd, and in her hand The grandchild to her blood. But out, affection! All bond and privilege of nature, break! Let it be virtuous to be obstinate. What is that curtsy worth? or those doves' eyes, Which can make gods forsworn? I melt, and am not Of stronger earth than others. My mother bows, As if Olympus to a molehill should In supplication nod; and my young boy Hath an aspect of intercession which Great nature cries 'Deny not.' Let the Volsces Plough Rome and harrow Italy; I'll never Be such a gosling to obey instinct, but stand As if a man were author of himself And knew no other kin. VIRGILIA. My lord and husband! CORIOLANUS. These eyes are not the same I wore in Rome. VIRGILIA. The sorrow that delivers us thus chang'd Makes you think so. CORIOLANUS. Like a dull actor now I have forgot my part and I am out, Even to a full disgrace. Best of my flesh, Forgive my tyranny; but do not say, For that, 'Forgive our Romans.' O, a kiss Long as my exile, sweet as my revenge! Now, by the jealous queen of heaven, that kiss I carried from thee, dear, and my true lip Hath virgin'd it e'er since. You gods! I prate, And the most noble mother of the world Leave unsaluted. Sink, my knee, i' th' earth; [Kneels] Of thy deep duty more impression show Than that of common sons. VOLUMNIA. O, stand up blest! Whilst with no softer cushion than the flint I kneel before thee, and unproperly Show duty, as mistaken all this while Between the child and parent. [Kneels] CORIOLANUS. What's this? Your knees to me, to your corrected son? Then let the pebbles on the hungry beach Fillip the stars; then let the mutinous winds Strike the proud cedars 'gainst the fiery sun, Murd'ring impossibility, to make What cannot be slight work. VOLUMNIA. Thou art my warrior; I holp to frame thee. Do you know this lady? CORIOLANUS. The noble sister of Publicola, The moon of Rome, chaste as the icicle That's curdied by the frost from purest snow, And hangs on Dian's temple- dear Valeria! VOLUMNIA. This is a poor epitome of yours, Which by th' interpretation of full time May show like all yourself. CORIOLANUS. The god of soldiers, With the consent of supreme Jove, inform Thy thoughts with nobleness, that thou mayst prove To shame unvulnerable, and stick i' th' wars Like a great sea-mark, standing every flaw, And saving those that eye thee! VOLUMNIA. Your knee, sirrah. CORIOLANUS. That's my brave boy. VOLUMNIA. Even he, your wife, this lady, and myself, Are suitors to you. CORIOLANUS. I beseech you, peace! Or, if you'd ask, remember this before: The thing I have forsworn to grant may never Be held by you denials. Do not bid me Dismiss my soldiers, or capitulate Again with Rome's mechanics. Tell me not Wherein I seem unnatural; desire not T'allay my rages and revenges with Your colder reasons. VOLUMNIA. O, no more, no more! You have said you will not grant us any thing- For we have nothing else to ask but that Which you deny already; yet we will ask, That, if you fail in our request, the blame May hang upon your hardness; therefore hear us. CORIOLANUS. Aufidius, and you Volsces, mark; for we'll Hear nought from Rome in private. Your request? VOLUMNIA. Should we be silent and not speak, our raiment And state of bodies would bewray what life We have led since thy exile. Think with thyself How more unfortunate than all living women Are we come hither; since that thy sight, which should Make our eyes flow with joy, hearts dance with comforts, Constrains them weep and shake with fear and sorrow, Making the mother, wife, and child, to see The son, the husband, and the father, tearing His country's bowels out. And to poor we Thine enmity's most capital: thou bar'st us Our prayers to the gods, which is a comfort That all but we enjoy. For how can we, Alas, how can we for our country pray, Whereto we are bound, together with thy victory, Whereto we are bound? Alack, or we must lose The country, our dear nurse, or else thy person, Our comfort in the country. We must find An evident calamity, though we had Our wish, which side should win; for either thou Must as a foreign recreant be led With manacles through our streets, or else Triumphantly tread on thy country's ruin, And bear the palm for having bravely shed Thy wife and children's blood. For myself, son, I purpose not to wait on fortune till These wars determine; if I can not persuade thee Rather to show a noble grace to both parts Than seek the end of one, thou shalt no sooner March to assault thy country than to tread- Trust to't, thou shalt not- on thy mother's womb That brought thee to this world. VIRGILIA. Ay, and mine, That brought you forth this boy to keep your name Living to time. BOY. 'A shall not tread on me! I'll run away till I am bigger, but then I'll fight. CORIOLANUS. Not of a woman's tenderness to be Requires nor child nor woman's face to see. I have sat too long. [Rising] VOLUMNIA. Nay, go not from us thus. If it were so that our request did tend To save the Romans, thereby to destroy The Volsces whom you serve, you might condemn us As poisonous of your honour. No, our suit Is that you reconcile them: while the Volsces May say 'This mercy we have show'd,' the Romans 'This we receiv'd,' and each in either side Give the all-hail to thee, and cry 'Be blest For making up this peace!' Thou know'st, great son, The end of war's uncertain; but this certain, That, if thou conquer Rome, the benefit Which thou shalt thereby reap is such a name Whose repetition will be dogg'd with curses; Whose chronicle thus writ: 'The man was noble, But with his last attempt he wip'd it out, Destroy'd his country, and his name remains To th' ensuing age abhorr'd.' Speak to me, son. Thou hast affected the fine strains of honour, To imitate the graces of the gods, To tear with thunder the wide cheeks o' th' air, And yet to charge thy sulphur with a bolt That should but rive an oak. Why dost not speak? Think'st thou it honourable for a noble man Still to remember wrongs? Daughter, speak you: He cares not for your weeping. Speak thou, boy; Perhaps thy childishness will move him more Than can our reasons. There's no man in the world More bound to's mother, yet here he lets me prate Like one i' th' stocks. Thou hast never in thy life Show'd thy dear mother any courtesy, When she, poor hen, fond of no second brood, Has cluck'd thee to the wars, and safely home Loaden with honour. Say my request's unjust, And spurn me back; but if it be not so, Thou art not honest, and the gods will plague thee, That thou restrain'st from me the duty which To a mother's part belongs. He turns away. Down, ladies; let us shame him with our knees. To his surname Coriolanus 'longs more pride Than pity to our prayers. Down. An end; This is the last. So we will home to Rome, And die among our neighbours. Nay, behold's! This boy, that cannot tell what he would have But kneels and holds up hands for fellowship, Does reason our petition with more strength Than thou hast to deny't. Come, let us go. This fellow had a Volscian to his mother; His wife is in Corioli, and his child Like him by chance. Yet give us our dispatch. I am hush'd until our city be afire, And then I'll speak a little. [He holds her by the hand, silent] CORIOLANUS. O mother, mother! What have you done? Behold, the heavens do ope, The gods look down, and this unnatural scene They laugh at. O my mother, mother! O! You have won a happy victory to Rome; But for your son- believe it, O, believe it!- Most dangerously you have with him prevail'd, If not most mortal to him. But let it come. Aufidius, though I cannot make true wars, I'll frame convenient peace. Now, good Aufidius, Were you in my stead, would you have heard A mother less, or granted less, Aufidius? AUFIDIUS. I was mov'd withal. CORIOLANUS. I dare be sworn you were! And, sir, it is no little thing to make Mine eyes to sweat compassion. But, good sir, What peace you'll make, advise me. For my part, I'll not to Rome, I'll back with you; and pray you Stand to me in this cause. O mother! wife! AUFIDIUS. [Aside] I am glad thou hast set thy mercy and thy honour At difference in thee. Out of that I'll work Myself a former fortune. CORIOLANUS. [To the ladies] Ay, by and by; But we will drink together; and you shall bear A better witness back than words, which we, On like conditions, will have counter-seal'd. Come, enter with us. Ladies, you deserve To have a temple built you. All the swords In Italy, and her confederate arms, Could not have made this peace. Exeunt Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Die Szene öffnet sich im Zelt von Coriolanus vor Rom. Coriolanus, Aufidius und andere volskische Lords sind in dem, was wie ein Kriegsrat aussieht, engagiert. Coriolanus sagt, dass sie am nächsten Tag Rom angreifen werden und bittet Aufidius, den volskischen Lords zu berichten, wie er die Kriegsoperationen durchgeführt hat. Aufidius lobt ihn und beteuert seine Zufriedenheit mit Coriolanus' Umgang mit den Bitten seiner ehemaligen Freunde. Coriolanus gesteht dann, wie schwierig es für ihn gewesen war, den Bitten von Menenius zu widerstehen, der ihn wie einen Vater liebte. Coriolanus schwört, dass er von nun an keine anderen Gesandten mehr zulassen wird. Ein Ruf ist zu hören, und Coriolanus bekräftigt seinen Schwur. Virgilia, Volumnia, Young Marcius, Valeria und Begleiter betreten das Zelt in Trauerkleidung. Obwohl Coriolanus gerade einen Schwur zu Aufidius abgelegt hat, kann er seine eigene Familie nicht wegschicken. Als sie näher kommen, weigert sich Coriolanus zunächst, die Bande der Zuneigung anzuerkennen, die er zu ihnen hat. Er schwankt jedoch in seinem Entschluss, als seine Frau verneigt sich und ihn mit ihren sanften Augen ansieht und seine Mutter sich demütig verbeugt. Er fasst sich dann wieder und erklärt, dass er keine Verwandten hat, und verweigert erneut jegliche Liebe oder Zuneigung für seine Familie zu zeigen. Er hört zu, wie jeder von ihnen ihn bittet, den Angriff auf Rom abzubrechen. Ihren Bitten, obwohl sie für ihn emotional verheerend sind, keine Beachtung schenken. Er erklärt auch, dass er Rom nicht verzeihen kann. Volumnia fleht leidenschaftlich gegen seinen Angriff. Sie sagt ihm, dass nicht Rom oder die Plebejer die derzeitige Situation verursacht haben, sondern sein eigenes Herz. Sie bittet ihn dann, ihr zuzuhören. Coriolanus ruft Aufidius und die anderen Volsker auf, zuzuhören, damit er nicht durch das, was er hört, geschwächt wird. Sie beginnt damit, wie elend die ganze Familie seit seinem Exil gewesen ist. Dann weist sie darauf hin, dass die widersprüchlichen Ansprüche ihrer Hingabe für ihr Land und ihrer Liebe zu Coriolanus sie auseinanderreißen. Sie können nicht einmal zu den Göttern um Frieden beten, denn sie wissen nicht, ob sie für Rom oder für den Sieg von Coriolanus beten sollen. Sie werden in jedem Fall die Verlierer sein. Wenn Coriolanus verliert, wird er in Schande durch die Straßen Roms geführt, und wenn er gewinnt, wird er über den Ruinen seines eigenen Landes triumphieren. Volumnia schwört, dass wenn es ihr nicht gelingt, ihn vom Angriff auf Rom abzubringen, sie sich umbringen wird und er über ihren toten Körper treten muss, um in die Stadt zu gelangen. Virgilia erklärt, dass sie dasselbe tun wird. Young Marcius hingegen sagt, dass Coriolanus nicht über seinen Körper treten wird, weil er davonlaufen und gegen ihn kämpfen wird, wenn er groß genug ist, um es zu tun.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Am Abend des 16. war die subtile Hand von Hurstwood offensichtlich geworden. Er hatte das Wort unter seinen Freunden verbreitet - und das waren viele und einflussreiche -, dass hier etwas war, dem sie beiwohnen sollten. Als Folge davon war der Verkauf von Tickets durch Mr. Quincel, der im Auftrag der Loge handelte, groß gewesen. Kleine vierzeilige Anzeigen waren in allen Tageszeitungen erschienen. Diese hatte er mit Hilfe eines seiner Zeitungsfreunde beim "Times", Mr. Harry McGarren, dem Chefredakteur, organisiert. "Sag mal, Harry", sagte Hurstwood eines Abends zu ihm, als dieser an der Bar stand und vor seinem späten Rückweg nach Hause trank, "du kannst den Jungs helfen, denke ich." "Worum geht es?" sagte McGarren erfreut, von dem wohlhabenden Manager um Rat gefragt zu werden. "Die Custer Lodge veranstaltet eine kleine Unterhaltung für ihr eigenes Wohl, und sie hätten gerne eine kleine Zeitungsnotiz. Du weißt schon, was ich meine - ein paar kleine Artikel, in denen steht, dass es stattfinden wird." "Natürlich", sagte McGarren, "das kann ich für dich arrangieren, George." Gleichzeitig hielt sich Hurstwood komplett im Hintergrund. Die Mitglieder der Custer Lodge konnten kaum verstehen, warum ihre kleine Veranstaltung so erfolgreich war. Herr Harry Quincel galt als echter Star für diese Art von Arbeit. Als der 16. gekommen war, hatten sich Hurstwoods Freunde wie Römer zum Ruf eines Senators versammelt. Ein gut gekleidetes, gutgelauntes, schmeichelhaft gesinntes Publikum war von dem Moment an garantiert, als er daran dachte, Carrie zu unterstützen. Die kleine Studentin hatte ihren Part nach ihrer eigenen Zufriedenheit gemeistert, obwohl sie vor Angst um ihr Schicksal zitterte, wenn sie einmal der versammelten Menge gegenüberstehen würde, hinter dem Licht der Scheinwerfer. Sie versuchte sich damit zu trösten, dass noch zwanzig andere Personen, Männer und Frauen, genauso zitternd auf das Ergebnis ihrer Bemühungen warteten, aber sie konnte die allgemeine Gefahr nicht von ihrer eigenen Verantwortung trennen. Sie fürchtete, ihre Texte zu vergessen, dass es ihr nicht gelingen könnte, das Gefühl zu beherrschen, das sie jetzt in Bezug auf ihre eigenen Bewegungen in dem Stück empfand. Manchmal wünschte sie, sie hätte sich nie auf das Geschäft eingelassen; zu anderen Zeiten zitterte sie vor Angst, dass sie vor Furcht gelähmt sein könnte und bleich und keuchend dastehen würde, nicht wissend, was sie sagen soll und die gesamte Vorstellung verderben würde. In Bezug auf die Truppe war Herr Bamberger verschwunden. Dieses hoffnungslose Beispiel war der Kritik des Regisseurs zum Opfer gefallen. Frau Morgan war immer noch dabei, aber neidisch und entschlossen, wenn auch nur aus Spite, es mindestens genauso gut wie Carrie zu machen. Ein herumlungernder Profi war dazu geholt worden, die Rolle von Ray zu übernehmen, und obwohl er kein guter Darsteller war, wurde er von keiner dieser Sorgen geplagt, die den Geist von Menschen befallen, die noch nie vor einem Publikum gestanden haben. Er schwang sich herum (obwohl er gewarnt wurde, über seine vergangenen Theaterbeziehungen Stillschweigen zu bewahren) auf eine solch selbstsichere Art und Weise, dass er jedermann nur durch einfache Indizien von seiner Identität überzeugen konnte. "Es ist so einfach", sagte er zu Frau Morgan in der üblichen kunstwirkenden Bühnenstimme. "Ein Publikum wäre das Letzte, was mich stören würde. Es ist der Geist des Teils, wissen Sie, der schwierig ist." Carrie mochte sein Aussehen nicht, aber sie war eine zu sehr Schauspielerin, um seine Eigenschaften nicht mit Nachsicht zu nutzen, da sie sein fingiertes Interesse für den Abend ertragen musste. Um sechs Uhr war sie bereit zu gehen. Neben ihrer Sorgfalt wurden ihr noch zusätzliche Theaterutensilien zur Verfügung gestellt. Sie hatte sich am Morgen geschminkt, hatte bis ein Uhr ihren Auftritt geprobt und arrangiert und war nach Hause gegangen, um einen letzten Blick auf ihre Rolle zu werfen und auf den Abend zu warten. An diesem Abend schickte die Loge eine Kutsche. Drouet fuhr mit ihr bis zur Tür und ging dann in die umliegenden Geschäfte, um nach guten Zigarren zu suchen. Die kleine Schauspielerin marschierte nervös in ihre Garderobe und begann mit dieser schmerzlich erwarteten Make-up-Angelegenheit, die sie in eine einfache Jungfrau und Laura, die Schönheit der Gesellschaft, verwandeln sollte. Der Schein der Gaslampen, die offenen Koffer, die auf Reisen und Ausstellung hinwiesen, die verstreuten Inhalte der Schminke-Box - Rouge, Perlenpuder, Gips, verkohltes Holz, Tinte, Stifte für die Augenlider, Perücken, Scheren, Spiegel, Stoff - kurz, das namenlose Zubehör der Verkleidung hatte eine bemerkenswerte Atmosphäre für sich. Seit ihrer Ankunft in der Stadt hatten viele Dinge auf sie eingewirkt, aber immer in einer entfernten Art und Weise. Diese neue Atmosphäre war freundlicher. Sie war ganz anders als die großartigen, strahlenden Paläste, die sie kühl abwiesen und ihr nur Ehrfurcht und entfernten Staunen erlaubten. Diese nahm sie freundlich bei der Hand, wie jemand, der sagt: "Mein Liebes, komme herein." Sie öffnete sich für sie, als wäre es für sie gemacht. Sie hatte über die Größe der Namen auf den Plakatwänden gestaunt, die Länge der Anzeigen in den Zeitungen, die Schönheit der Kleider auf der Bühne, die Atmosphäre von Kutschen, Blumen, Feinheit. Hier gab es keine Illusion. Hier war eine offene Tür, um das alles zu sehen. Sie hatte es gefunden, wie jemand, der auf einen geheimen Durchgang stößt und siehe da, sie war im Saal der Diamanten und des Vergnügens! Während sie mit einem Flattern in ihrer kleinen Bühnenkabine angezogen wurde, die Stimmen draußen hörte, Herrn Quincel hierhin und dorthin eilen sah, Frau Morgan und Frau Hoagland bei ihrer nervösen Vorbereitungsarbeit beobachtete und alle zwanzig Mitglieder der Besetzung umhergehen und sich darüber Sorgen machen, wie das Ergebnis sein würde, konnte sie nicht anders, als zu denken, wie erfreulich dies wäre, wenn es anhalten würde; wie perfekt ein Zustand, wenn sie jetzt nur gut abschneiden könnte und dann irgendwann einen Platz als echte Schauspielerin bekommen könnte. Der Gedanke hat sie fest im Griff gehabt. Er summte in ihren Ohren wie die Melodie eines alten Liedes. Draußen spielte sich in der kleinen Lobby noch eine andere Szene ab. Ohne das Interesse von Hurstwood wäre der kleine Saal wahrscheinlich bequem gefüllt gewesen, denn die Mitglieder der Loge waren mäßig am Wohl der Loge interessiert. Hurstwoods Wort jedoch hatte die Runde gemacht. Es sollte eine Veranstaltung in großer Kleidung sein. Die vier Logenplätze waren besetzt worden. Dr. Norman McNeill Hale und seine Frau würden einen Platz einnehmen. Das war schon eine Karte. C. R. Walker, ein Kaufmann für Kurzwaren und Inhaber von mindestens zweihunderttausend Dollar, hatte einen anderen genommen; ein bekannter Kohlehändler war überredet worden, den dritten zu nehmen, und Hurstwood und seine Freunde den vierten. Unter den Letzteren war Drouet. Die Leute, die jetzt hierhin strömten, waren keine Berühmtheiten, noch nicht einmal örtliche Promin "Nein, nur ein bisschen krank fühlen." "Ich erinnere mich an Mrs. Hurstwood, als sie einmal mit Ihnen nach St. Joe gereist ist -" und hier begann der Neuankömmling mit einer trivialen Erinnerung, die durch die Ankunft weiterer Freunde unterbrochen wurde. "Na, George, wie geht es dir?" sagte ein anderer freundlicher Politiker aus dem Westen und Mitglied einer Loge. "Mensch, ich freue mich, dich wieder zu sehen. Wie läuft's so?" "Sehr gut; ich sehe, dass du die Nominierung zum Stadtrat bekommen hast." "Ja, wir haben sie dort ohne große Schwierigkeiten besiegt." "Was wirst du jetzt glauben, dass Hennessy tun wird?" "Oh, er wird zu seinem Ziegelgeschäft zurückkehren. Er hat eine Ziegelei, weißt du." "Das wusste ich nicht", sagte der Manager. "Er war bestimmt ziemlich geknickt über seine Niederlage." "Vielleicht", sagte der andere und zwinkerte schlau. Einige seiner bevorzugten Freunde, die er eingeladen hatte, begannen nun in Kutschen anzukommen. Sie kamen mit viel Aufwand an Pracht und offensichtlichem Gefühl der Zufriedenheit und Wichtigkeit herein. "Hier sind wir", sagte Hurstwood zu einem aus einer Gruppe, mit dem er sprach. "Stimmt", erwiderte der Neuankömmling, ein Herr von etwa fünfundvierzig Jahren. "Und sag mal", flüsterte er fröhlich und zog Hurstwood am Arm, damit er ihm ins Ohr flüstern konnte, "wenn das keine gute Show ist, boxe ich dir den Kopf ein." "Du solltest dafür bezahlen, deine alten Freunde wiederzusehen. Zum Teufel mit der Show!" Auf die Frage eines anderen, "Ist es etwas wirklich Gutes?", antwortete der Manager: "Ich weiß es nicht. Ich glaube nicht." Dann hob er seine Hand gnädig und sagte: "Für die Loge." "Viele Jungs draußen, oder?" "Ja, suche Shanahan. Er hat gerade vorhin nach dir gefragt." So dröhnte das kleine Theater von einer Fülle erfolgreicher Stimmen, dem Knarren feiner Kleider, der Alltäglichkeit der guten Natur und all dem hauptsächlich wegen dieser Mannes. Sehen Sie ihn jederzeit innerhalb der halben Stunde vor dem Vorhang an, und er war Mitglied einer angesehenen Gruppe - einer vielfältigen Gesellschaft von fünf oder mehr Personen, deren kräftige Figuren, große weiße Brüste und glänzende Anstecknadeln den Charakter ihres Erfolgs widerspiegelten. Die Herren, die ihre Frauen mitbrachten, holten ihn heraus, um Hände zu schütteln. Die Sitze klackten, Platzanweiser verbeugten sich, während er freundlich zusah. Er war offensichtlich ein Licht unter ihnen, und spiegelte in seiner Persönlichkeit die Ambitionen derer wider, die ihn begrüßten. Er wurde anerkannt, umschmeichelt, gewissermaßen gelionisiert. In all dem konnte man den Stand des Mannes sehen. Es war in gewisser Weise Größe, so klein sie auch war. 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.

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

Herr und Frau John Knightley kehren nach London zurück und Mr. Elton schreibt Mr. Woodhouse, um mitzuteilen, dass er die nächsten Wochen in der Stadt Bath verbringen wird. Erleichtert besucht Emma sofort Harriet, um ihr zu erklären, was passiert ist. Emmas Gefühl eigener Fehler und Harriets Bescheidenheit und Freundlichkeit beim Empfang der Nachricht geben Emma vorübergehend den Eindruck, dass Harriet, anstatt sie selbst, "das überlegenere Wesen" ist. Sie zieht Harriet nach Hartfield und versucht, sie zu trösten und Elton aus Harriets Gedanken zu vertreiben. Emma versucht, Harriet auf den unvermeidlichen Moment vorzubereiten, wenn sie Elton in ihrem sozialen Kreis sehen werden, nachdem er aus Bath zurückkehrt.

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: 1801.--I have just returned from a visit to my landlord--the solitary neighbour that I shall be troubled with. This is certainly a beautiful country! In all England, I do not believe that I could have fixed on a situation so completely removed from the stir of society. A perfect misanthropist's heaven: and Mr. Heathcliff and I are such a suitable pair to divide the desolation between us. A capital fellow! He little imagined how my heart warmed towards him when I beheld his black eyes withdraw so suspiciously under their brows, as I rode up, and when his fingers sheltered themselves, with a jealous resolution, still further in his waistcoat, as I announced my name. 'Mr. Heathcliff?' I said. A nod was the answer. 'Mr. Lockwood, your new tenant, sir. I do myself the honour of calling as soon as possible after my arrival, to express the hope that I have not inconvenienced you by my perseverance in soliciting the occupation of Thrushcross Grange: I heard yesterday you had had some thoughts--' 'Thrushcross Grange is my own, sir,' he interrupted, wincing. 'I should not allow any one to inconvenience me, if I could hinder it--walk in!' The 'walk in' was uttered with closed teeth, and expressed the sentiment, 'Go to the Deuce:' even the gate over which he leant manifested no sympathising movement to the words; and I think that circumstance determined me to accept the invitation: I felt interested in a man who seemed more exaggeratedly reserved than myself. When he saw my horse's breast fairly pushing the barrier, he did put out his hand to unchain it, and then sullenly preceded me up the causeway, calling, as we entered the court,--'Joseph, take Mr. Lockwood's horse; and bring up some wine.' 'Here we have the whole establishment of domestics, I suppose,' was the reflection suggested by this compound order. 'No wonder the grass grows up between the flags, and cattle are the only hedge-cutters.' Joseph was an elderly, nay, an old man: very old, perhaps, though hale and sinewy. 'The Lord help us!' he soliloquised in an undertone of peevish displeasure, while relieving me of my horse: looking, meantime, in my face so sourly that I charitably conjectured he must have need of divine aid to digest his dinner, and his pious ejaculation had no reference to my unexpected advent. Wuthering Heights is the name of Mr. Heathcliff's dwelling. 'Wuthering' being a significant provincial adjective, descriptive of the atmospheric tumult to which its station is exposed in stormy weather. Pure, bracing ventilation they must have up there at all times, indeed: one may guess the power of the north wind blowing over the edge, by the excessive slant of a few stunted firs at the end of the house; and by a range of gaunt thorns all stretching their limbs one way, as if craving alms of the sun. Happily, the architect had foresight to build it strong: the narrow windows are deeply set in the wall, and the corners defended with large jutting stones. Before passing the threshold, I paused to admire a quantity of grotesque carving lavished over the front, and especially about the principal door; above which, among a wilderness of crumbling griffins and shameless little boys, I detected the date '1500,' and the name 'Hareton Earnshaw.' I would have made a few comments, and requested a short history of the place from the surly owner; but his attitude at the door appeared to demand my speedy entrance, or complete departure, and I had no desire to aggravate his impatience previous to inspecting the penetralium. One stop brought us into the family sitting-room, without any introductory lobby or passage: they call it here 'the house' pre-eminently. It includes kitchen and parlour, generally; but I believe at Wuthering Heights the kitchen is forced to retreat altogether into another quarter: at least I distinguished a chatter of tongues, and a clatter of culinary utensils, deep within; and I observed no signs of roasting, boiling, or baking, about the huge fireplace; nor any glitter of copper saucepans and tin cullenders on the walls. One end, indeed, reflected splendidly both light and heat from ranks of immense pewter dishes, interspersed with silver jugs and tankards, towering row after row, on a vast oak dresser, to the very roof. The latter had never been under-drawn: its entire anatomy lay bare to an inquiring eye, except where a frame of wood laden with oatcakes and clusters of legs of beef, mutton, and ham, concealed it. Above the chimney were sundry villainous old guns, and a couple of horse-pistols: and, by way of ornament, three gaudily-painted canisters disposed along its ledge. The floor was of smooth, white stone; the chairs, high-backed, primitive structures, painted green: one or two heavy black ones lurking in the shade. In an arch under the dresser reposed a huge, liver-coloured bitch pointer, surrounded by a swarm of squealing puppies; and other dogs haunted other recesses. The apartment and furniture would have been nothing extraordinary as belonging to a homely, northern farmer, with a stubborn countenance, and stalwart limbs set out to advantage in knee-breeches and gaiters. Such an individual seated in his arm-chair, his mug of ale frothing on the round table before him, is to be seen in any circuit of five or six miles among these hills, if you go at the right time after dinner. But Mr. Heathcliff forms a singular contrast to his abode and style of living. He is a dark-skinned gipsy in aspect, in dress and manners a gentleman: that is, as much a gentleman as many a country squire: rather slovenly, perhaps, yet not looking amiss with his negligence, because he has an erect and handsome figure; and rather morose. Possibly, some people might suspect him of a degree of under-bred pride; I have a sympathetic chord within that tells me it is nothing of the sort: I know, by instinct, his reserve springs from an aversion to showy displays of feeling--to manifestations of mutual kindliness. He'll love and hate equally under cover, and esteem it a species of impertinence to be loved or hated again. No, I'm running on too fast: I bestow my own attributes over-liberally on him. Mr. Heathcliff may have entirely dissimilar reasons for keeping his hand out of the way when he meets a would-be acquaintance, to those which actuate me. Let me hope my constitution is almost peculiar: my dear mother used to say I should never have a comfortable home; and only last summer I proved myself perfectly unworthy of one. While enjoying a month of fine weather at the sea-coast, I was thrown into the company of a most fascinating creature: a real goddess in my eyes, as long as she took no notice of me. I 'never told my love' vocally; still, if looks have language, the merest idiot might have guessed I was over head and ears: she understood me at last, and looked a return--the sweetest of all imaginable looks. And what did I do? I confess it with shame--shrunk icily into myself, like a snail; at every glance retired colder and farther; till finally the poor innocent was led to doubt her own senses, and, overwhelmed with confusion at her supposed mistake, persuaded her mamma to decamp. By this curious turn of disposition I have gained the reputation of deliberate heartlessness; how undeserved, I alone can appreciate. I took a seat at the end of the hearthstone opposite that towards which my landlord advanced, and filled up an interval of silence by attempting to caress the canine mother, who had left her nursery, and was sneaking wolfishly to the back of my legs, her lip curled up, and her white teeth watering for a snatch. My caress provoked a long, guttural gnarl. 'You'd better let the dog alone,' growled Mr. Heathcliff in unison, checking fiercer demonstrations with a punch of his foot. 'She's not accustomed to be spoiled--not kept for a pet.' Then, striding to a side door, he shouted again, 'Joseph!' Joseph mumbled indistinctly in the depths of the cellar, but gave no intimation of ascending; so his master dived down to him, leaving me _vis-a-vis_ the ruffianly bitch and a pair of grim shaggy sheep-dogs, who shared with her a jealous guardianship over all my movements. Not anxious to come in contact with their fangs, I sat still; but, imagining they would scarcely understand tacit insults, I unfortunately indulged in winking and making faces at the trio, and some turn of my physiognomy so irritated madam, that she suddenly broke into a fury and leapt on my knees. I flung her back, and hastened to interpose the table between us. This proceeding aroused the whole hive: half-a-dozen four-footed fiends, of various sizes and ages, issued from hidden dens to the common centre. I felt my heels and coat-laps peculiar subjects of assault; and parrying off the larger combatants as effectually as I could with the poker, I was constrained to demand, aloud, assistance from some of the household in re-establishing peace. Mr. Heathcliff and his man climbed the cellar steps with vexatious phlegm: I don't think they moved one second faster than usual, though the hearth was an absolute tempest of worrying and yelping. Happily, an inhabitant of the kitchen made more despatch: a lusty dame, with tucked-up gown, bare arms, and fire-flushed cheeks, rushed into the midst of us flourishing a frying-pan: and used that weapon, and her tongue, to such purpose, that the storm subsided magically, and she only remained, heaving like a sea after a high wind, when her master entered on the scene. 'What the devil is the matter?' he asked, eyeing me in a manner that I could ill endure, after this inhospitable treatment. 'What the devil, indeed!' I muttered. 'The herd of possessed swine could have had no worse spirits in them than those animals of yours, sir. You might as well leave a stranger with a brood of tigers!' 'They won't meddle with persons who touch nothing,' he remarked, putting the bottle before me, and restoring the displaced table. 'The dogs do right to be vigilant. Take a glass of wine?' 'No, thank you.' 'Not bitten, are you?' 'If I had been, I would have set my signet on the biter.' Heathcliff's countenance relaxed into a grin. 'Come, come,' he said, 'you are flurried, Mr. Lockwood. Here, take a little wine. Guests are so exceedingly rare in this house that I and my dogs, I am willing to own, hardly know how to receive them. Your health, sir?' I bowed and returned the pledge; beginning to perceive that it would be foolish to sit sulking for the misbehaviour of a pack of curs; besides, I felt loth to yield the fellow further amusement at my expense; since his humour took that turn. He--probably swayed by prudential consideration of the folly of offending a good tenant--relaxed a little in the laconic style of chipping off his pronouns and auxiliary verbs, and introduced what he supposed would be a subject of interest to me,--a discourse on the advantages and disadvantages of my present place of retirement. I found him very intelligent on the topics we touched; and before I went home, I was encouraged so far as to volunteer another visit to-morrow. He evidently wished no repetition of my intrusion. I shall go, notwithstanding. It is astonishing how sociable I feel myself compared with him. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Aber Mr. Heathcliff bildet einen bemerkenswerten Kontrast zu seinem Wohnsitz und seinem Lebensstil. Er ist ein dunkelhäutiger Zigeuner vom Äußeren her, in Kleidung und Manieren aber ein Gentleman. In seinem Tagebuch beschreibt Lockwood im Jahr 1801 seine ersten Tage als Mieter im Thrushcross Grange, einem isolierten Herrenhaus in dem dünn besiedelten Yorkshire. Kurz nach seiner Ankunft im Grange stattet er seinem Vermieter, Mr. Heathcliff, einen Besuch ab, einem mürrischen, dunklen Mann, der in einem Herrenhaus namens Wuthering Heights lebt – "wuthering" ist ein lokales Adjektiv, das die starken und wilden Winde beschreibt, die während Stürmen auf den Mooren wehen. Während des Besuchs scheint Heathcliff Lockwood nicht zu vertrauen und lässt ihn alleine in einem Raum mit einer Gruppe knurrender Hunde. Lockwood wird von einer rötlichen Haushälterin vor den Hunden gerettet. Als Heathcliff zurückkehrt, ist Lockwood wütend, aber er erwärmt sich schließlich gegenüber seinem wortkargen Gastgeber und obwohl er kaum das Gefühl hat, in Wuthering Heights willkommen zu sein, bietet er an, am nächsten Tag erneut 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. Kapitel: SOMMER, wie es war, ließ der Ostwind Hepzibahs wenige verbliebene Zähne in ihrem Kopf klappern, als sie und Clifford ihm entgegen traten, auf dem Weg die Pyncheon Street hinauf und in Richtung Stadtzentrum. Es war nicht nur das Zittern, das dieser gnadenlose Wind in ihrem Körper verursachte (obwohl ihre Füße und Hände vor allem noch nie so kalt waren wie jetzt), sondern es gab auch eine moralische Empfindung, die sich mit der physischen Kälte vermischte und sie mehr im Geist als im Körper erzittern ließ. Die weite, trostlose Atmosphäre der Welt war so trist! Das ist tatsächlich der Eindruck, den es auf jeden neuen Abenteurer macht, selbst wenn er sich in sie stürzt, während die wärmste Lebenskraft durch seine Adern sprudelt. Wie muss es dann erst für Hepzibah und Clifford gewesen sein - so vom Leben gezeichnet, aber zugleich so unerfahren wie Kinder -, als sie die Schwelle verließen und unter dem breiten Schutz der Pyncheon Elm hindurchgingen! Sie streiften planlos umher, genau wie ein Kind oft davon träumt, bis ans Ende der Welt zu gehen, möglicherweise mit einem paar Pennys und einem Keks in der Tasche. In Hepzibahs Gedanken gab es das elende Bewusstsein, umherzutreiben. Sie hatte die Fähigkeit zur Selbstführung verloren, aber angesichts der Schwierigkeiten um sie herum hielt sie es kaum für eine Anstrengung wert, sie zurückzugewinnen, und war außerdem nicht in der Lage, eine solche Anstrengung zu unternehmen. Während sie ihre seltsame Expedition fortsetzten, warf Hepzibah ab und zu einen seitlichen Blick auf Clifford und konnte nicht anders, als festzustellen, dass er von einer starken Erregung ergriffen war, die ihn kontrollierte und beherrschte. Das war es auch, was ihm die Kontrolle über seine Bewegungen sofort und so überwältigend verlieh. Es ähnelte nicht wenig der Euphorie des Weines. Oder man könnte es auch als fröhliches Musikstück vergleichen, das wild und lebhaft gespielt wird, aber auf einem gestörten Instrument. Wie der gesprungene, quietschende Ton, der immer zu hören war und am lautesten erklang, wenn die Melodie am höchsten jubelte, zitterte auch Clifford fortwährend, so dass es ihn am meisten zum Vibrieren brachte, wenn er ein triumphierendes Lächeln trug und fast gezwungen schien, in seinem Gang zu springen. Sie trafen kaum Menschen an, auch als sie von der zurückgezogenen Nachbarschaft des Hauses der sieben Giebel in den normalerweise bevölkerten und geschäftigeren Teil der Stadt kamen. Glänzende Gehwege mit kleinen Regenpfützen hier und da auf ihrer unebenen Oberfläche; Regenschirme, die in den Schaufenstern prahlerisch ausgestellt waren, als ob das Leben des Handels sich in diesem einen Artikel konzentriert hätte; nasse Blätter der Rosskastanie oder Ulmen, vorzeitig vom Sturm abgerissen und entlang des öffentlichen Weges verstreut; eine unschöne Ansammlung von Schlamm in der Mitte der Straße, die sich trotz ihrer langen und mühsamen Reinigung hartnäckig immer wieder schmutziger machte - das waren die definierbareren Punkte eines sehr düsteren Bildes. In Bezug auf Bewegung und menschliches Leben gab es das hastige Rasseln einer Kutsche oder eines Wagens, dessen Fahrer durch eine wasserdichte Kappe über seinem Kopf und seinen Schultern geschützt war; die bedauernswerte Gestalt eines alten Mannes, der schien, als wäre er aus einem unterirdischen Abwasserkanal gekrochen und schlich entlang des Rinnsteins, um den nassen Müll mit einem Stock nach rostigen Nägeln abzusuchen; ein oder zwei Händler vor der Post, zusammen mit einem Herausgeber und einem beliebigen Politiker, die auf eine langsame Post warteten; einige Gesichter schlecht gelaunter Seeleute am Fenster eines Versicherungsbüros, die gleichgültig auf die leere Straße hinausstarrten, das Wetter fluchend und sowohl über den Mangel an Nachrichten als auch über das Fehlen lokaler Klatschanteile. Was für eine fantastische Entdeckung wäre das für diese ehrwürdigen Klatschenden gewesen, wenn sie das Geheimnis gekannt hätten, das Hepzibah und Clifford mit sich trugen! Doch ihre beiden Gestalten erregten kaum so viel Aufmerksamkeit wie die einer jungen Frau, die zur gleichen Zeit vorbeiging und ihren Rock ein wenig zu hoch über ihren Knöcheln hob. An einem sonnigen und fröhlichen Tag hätten sie sich kaum durch die Straßen bewegen können, ohne Aufsehen zu erregen. Nun wurden sie wahrscheinlich als passend zum düsteren und bitteren Wetter empfunden und fielen daher nicht so stark auf, als würde die Sonne auf sie scheinen, sondern sie lösten sich in grauer Düsternis auf und wurden sofort vergessen. Arme Hepzibah! Hätte sie diese Tatsache verstanden, hätte ihr das etwas Trost gebracht; denn zu all ihren anderen Problemen - merkwürdigerweise! - kam das weibliche und altjungfernhafte Elend hinzu, das aus einem Gefühl der Ungezügeltheit in ihrem Äußeren entstand. Somit musste sie sich gewissermaßen noch tiefer in sich selbst zurückziehen, als ob sie die Leute vermuten lassen wollte, hier sei nur ein Mantel und eine Kapuze, abgenutzt und erschreckend verblasst, die inmitten des Sturms ihre Runde drehen, ohne dass jemand sie trägt! Während sie weitergingen, schwebte das Gefühl der Unbestimmtheit und Irrealität weiter um sie herum und breitete sich so in ihrem System aus, dass ihre eine Hand kaum fühlbar für den Tastsinn der anderen war. Jede Gewissheit wäre hier vorgezogen worden. Sie flüsterte sich immer wieder zu: "Bin ich wach? Bin ich wach?" und manchmal hielt sie ihr Gesicht dem kalten Windregen ausgesetzt, um sich seiner rauen Bestätigung zu versichern, dass sie es war. Ob es Clifford's Absicht war oder nur Zufall, sie dorthin geführt hatte, sie fanden sich jetzt unter dem gewölbten Eingang einer großen steinernen Struktur wieder. Innen war es geräumig und hoch von Boden bis Dach und jetzt zum Teil mit Rauch und Dampf gefüllt, der in großen Schwaden nach oben wirbelte und eine Scheinwolkenregion über ihren Köpfen bildete. Ein Zug stand gerade bereit zur Abfahrt; die Lokomotive ärgerte und rauchte wie ein ungeduldiges Pferd, das nach einem kopflosen Galopp verlangte, und die Klingel läutete mit ihrer hastigen Melodie, die die kurze Aufforderung ausdrückte, die das Leben uns in seiner hastigen Karriere gewährt. Ohne Frage oder Verzögerung - mit der unwiderstehlichen Entschlossenheit, wenn nicht vielmehr Rücksichtslosigkeit, die so eigenartig von ihm Besitz ergriffen hatte und durch ihn auf Hepzibah überging - drängte Clifford sie in den Zug und half ihr einzusteigen. Das Signal wurde gegeben; die Lokomotive schnaufte kurz und schnell; der Zug begann sich zu bewegen; und zusammen mit hundert anderen Passagieren rasten diese beiden ungewöhnlichen Reisenden wie der Wind vorwärts. Schließlich und nach so langer Entfremdung von allem, was die Welt tat oder genoss, wurden sie in den großen Strom des menschlichen Lebens gezogen und vom Sog des Schicksals mitgerissen. Immer noch von der Idee verfolgt, dass keines der vergangenen Ereignisse, einschließlich des Besuchs von Richter Pyncheon, echt sein könnte, murmelte die Einsiedlerin der Seven Gables ihrem Bruder ins Ohr: "Clifford! Clifford! Ist das nicht ein Traum?" "Ein Traum, Hepzibah!" wiederholte er und lachte ihr fast ins Gesicht. "Im Gegenteil, ich war noch nie zuvor wach!" Währenddessen konnten sie aus dem Fenster sehen, wie die Welt an ihnen vorbeyraste. Einen Moment lang rasselten sie durch eine Einsamkeit; im nächsten Augenblick hatte sich ein Dorf um sie herum aufgetürmt; noch Im Auto herrschte das übliche Innenleben der Eisenbahn vor. Für andere Fahrgäste war wenig zu beobachten, aber für dieses eigenartige Paar von seltsam befreiten Gefangenen voller Neuheit. Es war schon genug Neuheit, dass dort fünfzig Menschen in enger Beziehung zu ihnen unter einem langen, schmalen Dach saßen und von derselben gewaltigen Kraft vorangetrieben wurden, die auch die beiden ergriffen hatte. Es schien erstaunlich, wie all diese Menschen so ruhig auf ihren Plätzen sitzen bleiben konnten, während so viel laute Kraft zu ihren Gunsten wirkte. Einige, mit Tickets in ihren Hüten (diese Langstreckenreisenden, für die noch hundert Meilen Eisenbahn vor ihnen lagen), hatten sich in die englische Landschaft und die Abenteuer von Romanheftchen gestürzt und hielten Gesellschaft mit Herzögen und Grafen. Andere, deren kürzere Strecke ihnen nicht erlaubte, sich solch abstrusen Studien hinzugeben, verkürzten die Langeweile des Weges mit Zeitungen für einen Penny. Eine Gruppe von Mädchen und ein junger Mann auf gegenüberliegenden Seiten des Wagens fanden große Unterhaltung in einem Ballspiel. Sie warfen ihn hin und her, begleitet von Lachsalven, die man in Meilen messen könnte; denn schneller als der flinke Ball flog, eilten die fröhlichen Spieler unbewusst dahin und ließen ihre Heiterkeit weit hinter sich zurück und beendeten ihr Spiel unter einem anderen Himmel als dem, der seinen Anfang genommen hatte. Jungen mit Äpfeln, Kuchen, Süßigkeiten und Rollen verschieden gefärbter Bonbons - Waren, die Hepzibah an ihren verlassenen Laden erinnerten - tauchten bei jeder kurzen Zwischenstation auf, erledigten ihr Geschäft in Eile oder brachen es ab, um sich nicht von dem Markt fortreißen zu lassen. Immer wieder kamen neue Leute herein. Alte Bekannte - denn das wurden sie bald in diesem raschen Strom der Ereignisse - gingen fort. Hier und da saß jemand schlafend inmitten des Lärms und Tumults. Schlaf, Spiel, Geschäft, ernsthaftes oder leichtes Studium, und die gemeinsame und unvermeidliche Bewegung nach vorne! Es war das Leben selbst! Für Clifford wurden alle seine natürlichen, tiefen Gefühle geweckt. Er nahm die Stimmung um sich herum auf und gab sie noch lebendiger zurück, als er sie empfing, allerdings gemischt mit einer düsteren und beängstigenden Note. Hepzibah hingegen fühlte sich noch mehr von der Menschheit abgeschieden als in der gerade verlassenen Zurückgezogenheit. "Du bist nicht glücklich, Hepzibah!" sagte Clifford leise und näherte sich ihr. "Du denkst an dieses düstere alte Haus und an Cousin Jaffrey" - hier zuckte er zusammen - "und daran, dass Cousin Jaffrey dort ganz allein sitzt! Folge meinem Rat, folge meinem Beispiel und lass solche Dinge beiseite. Hier sind wir, Hepzibah! In der Welt! Inmitten des Lebens! Unter unseren Mitmenschen! Lass uns glücklich sein! So glücklich wie dieser junge Mann und diese hübschen Mädchen bei ihrem Ballspiel!" "Das Wort 'glücklich'", dachte Hepzibah, bitter bewusst, wie schwer und träge ihr Herz war, wie eingefrorender Schmerz darin lag - "glücklich. Er ist schon verrückt. Und wenn ich mich nur einmal richtig wach fühlen könnte, würde ich auch verrückt werden!" Wenn eine fixe Idee Wahnsinn ist, war sie vielleicht nicht weit davon entfernt. So schnell und weit sie auch über die Eisenbahnschienen gerasselt und geklappert waren, diesmal hatten sie in Bezug auf Hepzibahs geistige Vorstellungen genauso gut auf und ab der Pyncheon Street sein können. Mit Meilen und Meilen abwechslungsreicher Landschaft dazwischen gab es für sie keine andere Szenerie als die sieben alten Giebelspitzen mit ihrem Moos und dem Unkrautbüschel in einem Winkel und dem Schaufenster und einem Kunden, der gegen die Tür klopfte und die kleine Glocke laut erklingen ließ, ohne Richter Pyncheon zu stören! Dies einzigartige alte Haus war überall! Es transportierte seinen großen, schwerfälligen Körper mit mehr als Zugsgeschwindigkeit und setzte sich phlegmatisch auf jeden Fleck, den sie anschaute. Die Qualität von Hepzibahs Verstand war zu unflexibel, um neue Eindrücke so leicht aufzunehmen wie Clifford. Er hatte eine flügelartige Natur; sie war eher pflanzenartig und konnte nicht lange am Leben erhalten werden, wenn man sie aus dem Boden zieht. So kam es, dass sich das bisherige Verhältnis zwischen ihrem Bruder und ihr veränderte. Zuhause war sie seine Beschützerin; hier war Clifford ihrer geworden und schien alles, was zu ihrer neuen Position gehörte, mit einer erstaunlichen Intelligenz schnell zu begreifen. Er war zu Mannesalter und intellektueller Kraft aufgeschreckt oder zumindest in einen Zustand versetzt worden, der ihnen ähnelte, wenn er auch sowohl krank als auch vorübergehend sein mochte. Der Schaffner forderte nun ihre Fahrkarten an, und Clifford, der sich zum Kassenwart gemacht hatte, legte ihm einen Geldschein in die Hand, wie er es bei anderen beobachtet hatte. "Für die Dame und Sie?" fragte der Schaffner. "Und wie weit?" "Soweit er uns trägt", sagte Clifford. "Es ist nicht so wichtig. Wir fahren nur zum Vergnügen." "Sie wählen einen seltsamen Tag dafür, Sir!" bemerkte ein scharfäugiger alter Herr auf der anderen Seite des Wagens, der Clifford und seine Begleitung neugierig beobachtete. "Die beste Chance auf Vergnügen an einem easterly Regentag, würde ich sagen, hat man in seinem eigenen Haus, mit einem schönen kleinen Feuer im Kamin." "Da kann ich Ihnen nicht ganz zustimmen", sagte Clifford höflich und verneigte sich vor dem alten Herrn, um sofort das Gespräch aufzugreifen, das dieser angeboten hatte. "Es kam mir im Gegenteil gerade in den Sinn, dass diese bewundernswerte Erfindung der Eisenbahn - mit den immensen, unvermeidlichen Verbesserungen, die man sowohl in Bezug auf Geschwindigkeit als auch Bequemlichkeit erwarten kann - dazu bestimmt ist, diese veralteten Vorstellungen von Zuhause und Kamin zu beseitigen und etwas Besseres einzuführen." "Im Namen des gesunden Menschenverstands", fragte der alte Herr etwas gereizt, "was kann für einen Mann besser sein als sein eigenes Wohnzimmer und sein eigener Kamin?" "Diese Dinge haben nicht die Verdienste, die viele gute Menschen ihnen zuschreiben", antwortete Clifford. "Man könnte sagen, dass sie einem armseligen Zweck schlecht gedient haben. Mein Eindruck ist, dass unsere wunderbar verbesserten und immer noch zunehmenden Fortbewegungsmöglichkeiten dazu bestimmt sind, uns wieder in den nomadischen Zustand zurückzuführen. Sie sind sich bewusst, mein lieber Herr - Sie müssen es in Ihrer eigenen Erfahrung bemerkt haben -, dass alle menschlichen Fortschritte in einem Kreis verlaufen oder um genau zu sein, in einer aufsteigenden Spiralkurve. Während wir uns vorstellen, dass wir geradewegs vorangehen und bei jedem Schritt eine völlig neue Situation erreichen, kehren wir tatsächlich zu etwas zurück, das vor langer Zeit ausprobiert und aufgegeben wurde, aber das wir jetzt vergöttlicht, verfeinert und seinem Ideal entsprechend perfektioniert vorfinden. Die Vergangenheit ist nur eine grobe und sinnliche Vorhersage der Gegenwart und der Zukunft. Um diese Wahrheit auf das Thema anzuwenden, das gerade diskutiert wird. In den frühen Epochen unserer Rasse bewohnten Männer vorübergehende Hütten, aus Zweiglauben, leichter errichtet als ein Vogelnest, von denen sie - wenn es als Bauen bezeichnet werden sollte, wenn solche süßen Sommersolstitium-Häuser eher wuchsen als mit Händen gemacht wurden - sagen wir, von der Natur unterstützt wurden, wo es Obst und Fisch und Wild gab, oder ganz besonders, wo der Sinn für Schönheit durch einen schöneren Schatten als anderswo und eine exquisitere Anordnung von See, Wald und Hügel befriedigt wurde. Dieses Leben hatte einen Charme, der seit dem Verlassen es vom Dasein verschwunden ist. Und es symbolisierte etwas Besseres als sich selbst. Es hatte seine Nachteile, wie Hunger und Durst, unwirtliches Wetter, heiße Sonne und mühsame und Fußblasen verursachende Märsche über karge und hässliche Gebiete, die zwischen den Standorten lagen, die wegen ihrer Fruchtbarkeit und Schönheit begehrenswert waren. Aber in unserer aufsteigenden Spirale entkommen wir dem allem. Diese Eisenbahnen - könnten nur das Pfeifen musikalisch sein und das Rumpeln und Quietschen beseitigt werden - sind zweifellos der größte Segen, den die Zeitalter für uns hervorgebracht haben. Sie geben uns Flügel; sie tilgen die Mühsal und den Staub der Pilgerfahrt; sie veredeln das Reisen! Da der Übergang so leicht ist, was kann ein Mann dazu bewegen, an einem Ort zu verweilen? Warum sollte er daher eine schwerfälligere Behausung bauen als die, die er leicht mit sich führen kann? Warum sollte er sich lebenslang in Ziegel, Stein und altem holzwurmgefressenem Holz einsperren, wenn er genauso leicht nirgendwo sein kann - im besseren Sinne, wo ihm das Passende und Schöne ein Zuhause bietet?" Cliffords Gesicht glühte, als er diese Theorie enthüllte; ein jugendlicher Charakter strahlte von innen heraus und verwandelte die Falten und die bleiche Dunkelheit des Alters in eine fast transparente Maske. Die fröhlichen Mädchen ließen ihren Ball auf den Boden fallen und starrten ihn an. Vielleicht dachten sie bei sich, dass dieser jetzt dahinsiechende Mann, bevor sein Haar grau wurde und die Krähenfüße seine Schläfen durchzogen, das Gesicht vieler Frauenherzen geprägt haben muss. Doch leider hatte kein weibliches Auge je sein schönes Gesicht gesehen. "Ich würde es kaum einen verbesserten Zustand der Dinge nennen", bemerkte Cliffords neuer Bekannter, "überall und nirgendwo zu leben!" "Wirklich nicht?", rief Clifford mit außergewöhnlicher Energie. "Für mich ist es so klar wie Sonnenschein - wenn es nur irgendwo am Himmel wäre -, dass die größten möglichen Hindernisse auf dem Weg zum menschlichen Glück und Fortschritt diese Haufen aus Ziegeln und Steinen sind, die mit Mörtel verbunden oder mit Nägeln zusammengehalten werden und die Männer schmerzhaft für ihre eigene Qual bauen und sie Haus und Heim nennen! Die Seele braucht Luft; einen weiten Raum und häufigen Wechsel davon. Krankhafte Einflüsse in tausendfacher Vielfalt sammeln sich um Herdfeuer und vergiften das Leben von Familien. Es gibt keine so ungesunde Atmosphäre wie die eines alten Hauses, vergiftet durch verstorbene Vorfahren und Verwandte. Ich spreche von dem, was ich kenne. Es gibt ein bestimmtes Haus in meiner Erinnerung - eines dieser Giebelhäuser (es gibt ihrer sieben), vorspringende, mehrstöckige Gebäude, wie man sie gelegentlich in unseren älteren Städten sieht - ein rostiger, verrückter, quietschender, trockenfauler, schmutziger, düsterer und elender alter Kerker mit einem Bogenfenster über dem Vordach, einer kleinen Ladentür an der Seite und einer großen, melancholischen Ulme vor dem Haus! Nun, immer wenn meine Gedanken auf dieses sieben-giebelige Haus zurückkommen (die Tatsache ist so seltsam, dass ich sie erwähnen muss), habe ich sofort eine Vision oder ein Bild von einem älteren Mann mit bemerkenswert strengem Gesicht vor Augen, der mit offenen Augen tot in einem Eichenholz-Sessel sitzt, mit einer hässlichen Blutspur auf seiner Hemdbrust! Tot, aber mit offenen Augen! Er verpestet das ganze Haus, so wie ich es in Erinnerung habe. Ich könnte dort niemals gedeihen, nicht glücklich sein, nicht tun oder genießen, was Gott mir zu tun und zu genießen bestimmt hat." Sein Gesicht verdunkelte sich, schien sich zusammenzuziehen und sich zu schrumpfen und in ein Alter zu verwelken. "Niemals, mein Herr!", wiederholte er. "Ich könnte dort niemals fröhlich atmen!" "Ich denke auch nicht", sagte der alte Herr und betrachtete Clifford aufmerksam und etwas besorgt. "Ich glaube nicht, mein Herr, dass dies Ihre Absicht ist!" "Gewiss nicht", fuhr Clifford fort, "und es wäre eine Erleichterung für mich, wenn dieses Haus abgerissen oder verbrannt würde und so die Erde davon befreit würde und Gras reichlich über seine Grundmauern gesät würde. Nicht, dass ich jemals wieder den Ort besuchen würde! Denn, mein Herr, je weiter ich mich davon entferne, desto mehr kehrt die Freude, die lebendige Frische, der Herzenssprung, der intellektuelle Tanz, die Jugend, kurz gesagt, - ja, meine Jugend, meine Jugend! - zu mir zurück. Nicht mehr als heute Morgen war ich alt. Ich erinnere mich, in den Spiegel geschaut und über meine eigenen grauen Haare und die vielen und tiefen Falten auf meiner Stirn, die Furchen auf meinen Wangen und das ungeheure Auftreten von Krähenfüßen um meine Schläfen gestaunt zu haben! Es war zu früh! Ich konnte es nicht ertragen! Das Alter hatte kein Recht zu kommen! Ich hatte noch nicht gelebt! Aber sehe ich alt aus? Wenn ja, dann lügt mein Aussehen mich seltsam an; denn - nachdem mir eine große Last von der Seele genommen wurde - fühle ich mich im besten aller Jugendtage, mit der Welt und meinen besten Tagen vor mir!" " Ich hoffe, dass Sie es so finden werden", sagte der alte Herr, der eher verlegen aussah und versuchte, der Aufmerksamkeit zu entgehen, die Clifford's wildes Gerede auf sie beide zog. "Sie haben meine besten Wünsche dafür." "Um Himmels willen, lieber Clifford, sei ruhig!", flüsterte seine Schwester. "Sie glauben, dass du verrückt bist "Dann, mein Herr", sagte der alte Herr, der langsam ungeduldig wurde, "es ist nicht Ihre Schuld, dass Sie es verlassen haben." "Während der Lebenszeit des bereits geborenen Kindes", fuhr Clifford fort, "wird das alles beseitigt sein. Die Welt wird zu ätherisch und geistig, um diese Abscheulichkeiten noch lange zu ertragen. Für mich, der ich eine beträchtliche Zeit hauptsächlich im Ruhestand gelebt habe und weniger über solche Dinge weiß als die meisten Männer, sind die Vorboten einer besseren Ära unverkennbar. Mesmerismus, zum Beispiel! Denken Sie, dass das nichts bewirken wird, um die Grobheit aus dem menschlichen Leben zu tilgen?" "Alles Schwindel!" knurrte der alte Herr. "Diese klopfenden Geister, von denen uns Phoebe letztens erzählt hat", sagte Clifford, "was sind sie anderes als die Boten der spirituellen Welt, die an die Tür der Substanz klopfen? Und sie wird weit aufgerissen werden!" "Wieder Schwindel!" rief der alte Herr und wurde immer mürrischer ob dieser Einblicke in Cliffords Metaphysik. "Ich würde gerne mit einem guten Stock auf die leeren Schädel der Deppen einschlagen, die solchen Unsinn verbreiten!" "Dann gibt es noch die Elektrizität - den Dämon, den Engel, die gewaltige physikalische Kraft, die allgegenwärtige Intelligenz!" rief Clifford aus. "Ist das auch Schwindel? Ist es eine Tatsache - oder habe ich es geträumt - dass durch Elektrizität die materielle Welt zu einem großen Nerv geworden ist, der sich in atemberaubender Geschwindigkeit tausende von Meilen ausbreitet? Vielmehr ist der runde Globus ein gewaltiger Kopf, ein Gehirn, das vor Intelligenz pulsiert! Oder sollen wir sagen, dass er nur ein Gedanke ist, nichts als ein Gedanke, und nicht mehr die Substanz, die wir ihm zuschreiben!" "Wenn Sie das Telegrafieren meinen", sagte der alte Herr und warf einen Blick auf das Kabel neben den Schienen, "ist das eine ausgezeichnete Sache - natürlich nur, wenn die Spekulanten in Baumwolle und Politik nicht Besitz davon ergreifen. Eine großartige Sache, in der Tat, besonders was die Entdeckung von Bankräubern und Mördern betrifft." "In dieser Hinsicht gefällt es mir nicht ganz", antwortete Clifford. "Ein Bankräuber und ein, wie Sie es nennen, Mörder haben ebenfalls ihre Rechte, die Menschen mit aufgeklärter Menschlichkeit und Gewissen in so viel liberalerer Weise betrachten sollten, gerade weil die Mehrheit der Gesellschaft ihre Existenz anzweifelt. Ein nahezu spirituelles Medium wie der elektrische Telegraf sollte hohen, tiefen, freudigen und heiligen Aufgaben geweiht sein. Verliebte könnten Tag für Tag, Stunde um Stunde, wenn sie dazu bewegt sind, ihre Herzensschläge von Maine bis Florida senden mit Worten wie diesen: 'Ich liebe dich für immer!' - 'Mein Herz quillt vor Liebe über!' - 'Ich liebe dich über alles!' und beim nächsten Mal 'Ich habe eine Stunde länger gelebt und liebe dich doppelt so sehr!' Oder wenn ein guter Mann diese Welt verlassen hat, sollte sein ferner Freund ein elektrisches Kribbeln spüren, als käme es von einer Welt glücklicher Geister und ihm sagen: 'Dein lieber Freund ist im Glück!' Oder einem abwesenden Ehemann könnten solche Nachrichten zukommen: 'Ein unsterbliches Wesen, von dem du der Vater bist, ist gerade von Gott gekommen!' und sogleich würde seine kleine Stimme scheinen, so weit gekommen zu sein und in seinem Herzen widerzuhallen. Aber für diese armen Schurken, die Bankräuber - die im Grunde genommen genauso ehrlich sind wie neun von zehn Menschen, außer dass sie gewisse Formalitäten missachten und es bevorzugen, Geschäfte um Mitternacht anstatt zur Handelszeit zu erledigen - und für diese Mörder, wie Sie es ausdrücken, die oft in den Motiven ihrer Tat zu entschuldigen sind und nur wegen des Ergebnisses zu den öffentlichen Wohltätern gezählt werden sollten - für bedauernswerte Personen wie diese kann ich wirklich nicht den Einsatz einer immateriellen und wundersamen Kraft bei der weltweiten Jagd gutheißen, die ihnen im Nacken sitzt!" "Das kannst du nicht, was?" rief der alte Herr mit einem harten Blick. "Positiv nein!" antwortete Clifford. "Es stellt sie viel zu elendig in einen Nachteil. Nehmen wir zum Beispiel einen dunklen, niedrigen, kreuzbalkigen, getäfelten Raum in einem alten Haus. Nehmen wir an, ein toter Mann sitzt in einem Sessel mit einem Blutfleck auf seinem Hemd - und nehmen wir als weiteres Element unserer Hypothese einen Mann, der aus dem Haus kommt, das er als überfüllt mit der Präsenz des toten Mannes empfindet - und nehmen wir schließlich an, dass er flieht, Gott weiß wohin, mit der Geschwindigkeit eines Hurrikans, mit dem Zug! Nun, wenn der Flüchtige in einer entfernten Stadt ankommt und alle Menschen sich über genau diesen toten Mann unterhalten, den er so weit geflohen ist, um ihn nicht sehen und daran denken zu müssen, würden Sie dann nicht zugeben, dass seine natürlichen Rechte verletzt wurden? Ihm wurde seine Zufluchtsstadt genommen, und meiner bescheidenen Meinung nach hat er unendliches Unrecht erlitten!" "Sie sind ein seltsamer Mann, Sir!" sagte der alte Herr und richtete seinen durchdringenden Blick auf Clifford, als ob er direkt in ihn hineinbohren wollte. "Ich kann nicht durch Sie hindurchsehen!" "Nein, das können Sie sich darauf verlassen, dass Sie es nicht können!" rief Clifford lachend. "Und dennoch, mein lieber Sir, bin ich so durchsichtig wie das Wasser vom Brunnen der Maules! Aber kommen Sie, Hepzibah! Wir sind weit genug geflogen fürs Erste. Lassen Sie uns landen, wie es die Vögel tun, und uns auf den nächsten Zweig setzen und darüber beraten, wohin wir als Nächstes fliegen sollen!" Gerade in diesem Moment erreichte der Zug eine einsame Zwischenstation. Clifford nutzte die kurze Pause und stieg aus dem Wagon und zog Hepzibah mit sich. Einen Moment später entfernte sich der Zug mit der ganzen Lebendigkeit seines Inneren, in dem Clifford so auffällig gewesen war, und entfernte sich schnell und wurde in einem Punkt, der in einem weiteren Moment verschwand. Die Welt war von diesen beiden Wanderern geflohen. Sie blickten traurig um sich. In einiger Entfernung stand eine verwitterte hölzerne Kirche, schwarz vor Alter, in einem traurigen Zustand von Verfall und Zerstörung, mit eingeschlagenen Fenstern, einem großen Spalt im Hauptteil des Gebäudes und einem Balken, der vom oberen Teil des quadratischen Turms herabhing. Weiter entfernt stand ein Bauernhaus im alten Stil, genauso ehrwürdig schwarz wie die Kirche, mit einem Dach, das sich von der dreistöckigen Spitze bis auf die Höhe eines Menschen zum Boden hin neigte. Es schien unbewohnt zu sein. Es gab tatsächlich Reste eines Holzstapels in der Nähe der Tür, aber Gras wuchs zwischen den Spänen und verstreuten Stämmen. Die kleinen Regentropfen fielen schräg. Der Wind war nicht stürmisch, sondern düster und voller feucht-kühler Luft. Clifford fror am ganzen Körper. Die wilde Aufregung seiner Stimmung - die so leicht Gedanken, Fantasien und eine seltsame Wortgewandtheit geliefert hatte und ihn dazu gebracht hatte, allein aus der Notwendigkeit heraus zu sprechen, diesen sprudelnden Gedanken freien Lauf zu lassen -, war vollständig abgeklungen. Eine starke Aufregung hatte ihm Energie und Lebendigkeit gegeben. Nach ihrem Ende begann er sofort zu erlahmen. "Du musst jetzt die Führung übernehmen, Hepzibah!" murmelte er mit einer trägen und widerwilligen Stimme. "Tu mit mir, was du willst!" Sie kniete auf dem Bahnsteig nieder und hob die gef Kannst du eine geeignete Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Der Flug der beiden Eulen Clifford und Hepzibah fliehen aus dem Haus der sieben Giebel, besorgt, dass sie in den Tod von Richter Pyncheon verwickelt werden könnten. Sie gehen durch die Dorfstraßen, verschwinden im düsteren Hintergrund des bewölkten Tages und werden von niemandem bemerkt. Hepzibah fühlt sich, als ob sie in einem Albtraum lebt, während Clifford noch nie jugendlicher oder lebendiger erschienen ist; der Tod des Richters hat ihn befreit und erfüllt ihn mit Freude. Sie steigen in einen Zug und ein alter Herr auf der anderen Seite ihres Abteils kommt mit Clifford ins Gespräch. Er bemerkt, dass es ein schlechter Tag zum Reisen ist und dass es besser wäre, im Inneren in der Nähe eines Kamins zu verbringen. Clifford jedoch widerspricht und argumentiert, dass die "bewundernswerte Erfindung der Eisenbahn" die "abgestandenen Vorstellungen von Heim und Kamin" abschaffen und durch etwas Besseres ersetzen wird. Der alte Mann widerspricht und Clifford beginnt ausführlich zu sprechen. Er umreißt seinen Glauben, dass die Menschheit in einer "aufsteigenden Spirale" voranschreitet, bei der alte Ideen wiederbelebt und reformiert werden. In diesem Fall wird die Eisenbahn es der Menschheit ermöglichen, zur nomadischen Kultur ihrer primitiven Ära zurückzukehren und verhindern, dass Menschen "lebenslänglich Gefangene in Backstein, Stein und altem, wurmstichigem Holz" werden. Clifford wird während dieses Vortrags sehr lebhaft und fast jugendlich. Er schlägt außerdem vor, dass Häuser, insbesondere die von schuldigen Menschen geschaffen wurden, alte Flüche auf zukünftige Generationen übertragen können. Clifford beschreibt ein "hypothetisches" Haus mit sieben Giebeln, in dem ein Toter im Salon sitzt. Er sagt: "Ich könnte dort nie aufblühen oder glücklich sein", und behauptet, es wäre eine Erleichterung, wenn dieses Haus abgerissen oder zerstört würde. Er hofft auf eine "nomadischere" Zukunft, in der Häuser nicht mehr täglich genutzt werden. Er glaubt auch, dass ein spirituelleres Zeitalter bevorsteht und spricht über die vereinende Natur des Telegraphen, von dem er glaubt, dass er die Welt kleiner machen wird, indem er Liebenden ermöglicht, über weite Entfernungen zu sprechen. Er bedauert jedoch, dass der Telegraph dazu beitragen kann, Verbrecher aufzuspüren, da er ihnen die Möglichkeit nimmt, ihrer Strafe zu entkommen und neu anzufangen, sie ihrer Rechte beraubt und ihnen eine "Stadt der Zuflucht" vorenthält. Der alte Mann wird während Cliffords Tirade sehr verlegen und misstrauisch. Clifford und Hepzibah steigen an einer einsamen Haltestelle aus, wo Clifford die Kraft verlässt. Erschöpft bittet Clifford Hepzibah, mit ihm zu tun, was sie will.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: Sophie came at seven to dress me: she was very long indeed in accomplishing her task; so long that Mr. Rochester, grown, I suppose, impatient of my delay, sent up to ask why I did not come. She was just fastening my veil (the plain square of blond after all) to my hair with a brooch; I hurried from under her hands as soon as I could. "Stop!" she cried in French. "Look at yourself in the mirror: you have not taken one peep." So I turned at the door: I saw a robed and veiled figure, so unlike my usual self that it seemed almost the image of a stranger. "Jane!" called a voice, and I hastened down. I was received at the foot of the stairs by Mr. Rochester. "Lingerer!" he said, "my brain is on fire with impatience, and you tarry so long!" He took me into the dining-room, surveyed me keenly all over, pronounced me "fair as a lily, and not only the pride of his life, but the desire of his eyes," and then telling me he would give me but ten minutes to eat some breakfast, he rang the bell. One of his lately hired servants, a footman, answered it. "Is John getting the carriage ready?" "Yes, sir." "Is the luggage brought down?" "They are bringing it down, sir." "Go you to the church: see if Mr. Wood (the clergyman) and the clerk are there: return and tell me." The church, as the reader knows, was but just beyond the gates; the footman soon returned. "Mr. Wood is in the vestry, sir, putting on his surplice." "And the carriage?" "The horses are harnessing." "We shall not want it to go to church; but it must be ready the moment we return: all the boxes and luggage arranged and strapped on, and the coachman in his seat." "Yes, sir." "Jane, are you ready?" I rose. There were no groomsmen, no bridesmaids, no relatives to wait for or marshal: none but Mr. Rochester and I. Mrs. Fairfax stood in the hall as we passed. I would fain have spoken to her, but my hand was held by a grasp of iron: I was hurried along by a stride I could hardly follow; and to look at Mr. Rochester's face was to feel that not a second of delay would be tolerated for any purpose. I wonder what other bridegroom ever looked as he did--so bent up to a purpose, so grimly resolute: or who, under such steadfast brows, ever revealed such flaming and flashing eyes. I know not whether the day was fair or foul; in descending the drive, I gazed neither on sky nor earth: my heart was with my eyes; and both seemed migrated into Mr. Rochester's frame. I wanted to see the invisible thing on which, as we went along, he appeared to fasten a glance fierce and fell. I wanted to feel the thoughts whose force he seemed breasting and resisting. At the churchyard wicket he stopped: he discovered I was quite out of breath. "Am I cruel in my love?" he said. "Delay an instant: lean on me, Jane." And now I can recall the picture of the grey old house of God rising calm before me, of a rook wheeling round the steeple, of a ruddy morning sky beyond. I remember something, too, of the green grave-mounds; and I have not forgotten, either, two figures of strangers straying amongst the low hillocks and reading the mementoes graven on the few mossy head-stones. I noticed them, because, as they saw us, they passed round to the back of the church; and I doubted not they were going to enter by the side-aisle door and witness the ceremony. By Mr. Rochester they were not observed; he was earnestly looking at my face from which the blood had, I daresay, momentarily fled: for I felt my forehead dewy, and my cheeks and lips cold. When I rallied, which I soon did, he walked gently with me up the path to the porch. We entered the quiet and humble temple; the priest waited in his white surplice at the lowly altar, the clerk beside him. All was still: two shadows only moved in a remote corner. My conjecture had been correct: the strangers had slipped in before us, and they now stood by the vault of the Rochesters, their backs towards us, viewing through the rails the old time-stained marble tomb, where a kneeling angel guarded the remains of Damer de Rochester, slain at Marston Moor in the time of the civil wars, and of Elizabeth, his wife. Our place was taken at the communion rails. Hearing a cautious step behind me, I glanced over my shoulder: one of the strangers--a gentleman, evidently--was advancing up the chancel. The service began. The explanation of the intent of matrimony was gone through; and then the clergyman came a step further forward, and, bending slightly towards Mr. Rochester, went on. "I require and charge you both (as ye will answer at the dreadful day of judgment, when the secrets of all hearts shall be disclosed), that if either of you know any impediment why ye may not lawfully be joined together in matrimony, ye do now confess it; for be ye well assured that so many as are coupled together otherwise than God's Word doth allow, are not joined together by God, neither is their matrimony lawful." He paused, as the custom is. When is the pause after that sentence ever broken by reply? Not, perhaps, once in a hundred years. And the clergyman, who had not lifted his eyes from his book, and had held his breath but for a moment, was proceeding: his hand was already stretched towards Mr. Rochester, as his lips unclosed to ask, "Wilt thou have this woman for thy wedded wife?"--when a distinct and near voice said-- "The marriage cannot go on: I declare the existence of an impediment." The clergyman looked up at the speaker and stood mute; the clerk did the same; Mr. Rochester moved slightly, as if an earthquake had rolled under his feet: taking a firmer footing, and not turning his head or eyes, he said, "Proceed." Profound silence fell when he had uttered that word, with deep but low intonation. Presently Mr. Wood said-- "I cannot proceed without some investigation into what has been asserted, and evidence of its truth or falsehood." "The ceremony is quite broken off," subjoined the voice behind us. "I am in a condition to prove my allegation: an insuperable impediment to this marriage exists." Mr. Rochester heard, but heeded not: he stood stubborn and rigid, making no movement but to possess himself of my hand. What a hot and strong grasp he had! and how like quarried marble was his pale, firm, massive front at this moment! How his eye shone, still watchful, and yet wild beneath! Mr. Wood seemed at a loss. "What is the nature of the impediment?" he asked. "Perhaps it may be got over--explained away?" "Hardly," was the answer. "I have called it insuperable, and I speak advisedly." The speaker came forward and leaned on the rails. He continued, uttering each word distinctly, calmly, steadily, but not loudly-- "It simply consists in the existence of a previous marriage. Mr. Rochester has a wife now living." My nerves vibrated to those low-spoken words as they had never vibrated to thunder--my blood felt their subtle violence as it had never felt frost or fire; but I was collected, and in no danger of swooning. I looked at Mr. Rochester: I made him look at me. His whole face was colourless rock: his eye was both spark and flint. He disavowed nothing: he seemed as if he would defy all things. Without speaking, without smiling, without seeming to recognise in me a human being, he only twined my waist with his arm and riveted me to his side. "Who are you?" he asked of the intruder. "My name is Briggs, a solicitor of --- Street, London." "And you would thrust on me a wife?" "I would remind you of your lady's existence, sir, which the law recognises, if you do not." "Favour me with an account of her--with her name, her parentage, her place of abode." "Certainly." Mr. Briggs calmly took a paper from his pocket, and read out in a sort of official, nasal voice:-- "'I affirm and can prove that on the 20th of October A.D. --- (a date of fifteen years back), Edward Fairfax Rochester, of Thornfield Hall, in the county of ---, and of Ferndean Manor, in ---shire, England, was married to my sister, Bertha Antoinetta Mason, daughter of Jonas Mason, merchant, and of Antoinetta his wife, a Creole, at --- church, Spanish Town, Jamaica. The record of the marriage will be found in the register of that church--a copy of it is now in my possession. Signed, Richard Mason.'" "That--if a genuine document--may prove I have been married, but it does not prove that the woman mentioned therein as my wife is still living." "She was living three months ago," returned the lawyer. "How do you know?" "I have a witness to the fact, whose testimony even you, sir, will scarcely controvert." "Produce him--or go to hell." "I will produce him first--he is on the spot. Mr. Mason, have the goodness to step forward." Mr. Rochester, on hearing the name, set his teeth; he experienced, too, a sort of strong convulsive quiver; near to him as I was, I felt the spasmodic movement of fury or despair run through his frame. The second stranger, who had hitherto lingered in the background, now drew near; a pale face looked over the solicitor's shoulder--yes, it was Mason himself. Mr. Rochester turned and glared at him. His eye, as I have often said, was a black eye: it had now a tawny, nay, a bloody light in its gloom; and his face flushed--olive cheek and hueless forehead received a glow as from spreading, ascending heart-fire: and he stirred, lifted his strong arm--he could have struck Mason, dashed him on the church-floor, shocked by ruthless blow the breath from his body--but Mason shrank away, and cried faintly, "Good God!" Contempt fell cool on Mr. Rochester--his passion died as if a blight had shrivelled it up: he only asked--"What have _you_ to say?" An inaudible reply escaped Mason's white lips. "The devil is in it if you cannot answer distinctly. I again demand, what have you to say?" "Sir--sir," interrupted the clergyman, "do not forget you are in a sacred place." Then addressing Mason, he inquired gently, "Are you aware, sir, whether or not this gentleman's wife is still living?" "Courage," urged the lawyer,--"speak out." "She is now living at Thornfield Hall," said Mason, in more articulate tones: "I saw her there last April. I am her brother." "At Thornfield Hall!" ejaculated the clergyman. "Impossible! I am an old resident in this neighbourhood, sir, and I never heard of a Mrs. Rochester at Thornfield Hall." I saw a grim smile contort Mr. Rochester's lips, and he muttered-- "No, by God! I took care that none should hear of it--or of her under that name." He mused--for ten minutes he held counsel with himself: he formed his resolve, and announced it-- "Enough! all shall bolt out at once, like the bullet from the barrel. Wood, close your book and take off your surplice; John Green (to the clerk), leave the church: there will be no wedding to-day." The man obeyed. Mr. Rochester continued, hardily and recklessly: "Bigamy is an ugly word!--I meant, however, to be a bigamist; but fate has out-manoeuvred me, or Providence has checked me,--perhaps the last. I am little better than a devil at this moment; and, as my pastor there would tell me, deserve no doubt the sternest judgments of God, even to the quenchless fire and deathless worm. Gentlemen, my plan is broken up:--what this lawyer and his client say is true: I have been married, and the woman to whom I was married lives! You say you never heard of a Mrs. Rochester at the house up yonder, Wood; but I daresay you have many a time inclined your ear to gossip about the mysterious lunatic kept there under watch and ward. Some have whispered to you that she is my bastard half-sister: some, my cast-off mistress. I now inform you that she is my wife, whom I married fifteen years ago,--Bertha Mason by name; sister of this resolute personage, who is now, with his quivering limbs and white cheeks, showing you what a stout heart men may bear. Cheer up, Dick!--never fear me!--I'd almost as soon strike a woman as you. Bertha Mason is mad; and she came of a mad family; idiots and maniacs through three generations! Her mother, the Creole, was both a madwoman and a drunkard!--as I found out after I had wed the daughter: for they were silent on family secrets before. Bertha, like a dutiful child, copied her parent in both points. I had a charming partner--pure, wise, modest: you can fancy I was a happy man. I went through rich scenes! Oh! my experience has been heavenly, if you only knew it! But I owe you no further explanation. Briggs, Wood, Mason, I invite you all to come up to the house and visit Mrs. Poole's patient, and _my wife_! You shall see what sort of a being I was cheated into espousing, and judge whether or not I had a right to break the compact, and seek sympathy with something at least human. This girl," he continued, looking at me, "knew no more than you, Wood, of the disgusting secret: she thought all was fair and legal and never dreamt she was going to be entrapped into a feigned union with a defrauded wretch, already bound to a bad, mad, and embruted partner! Come all of you--follow!" Still holding me fast, he left the church: the three gentlemen came after. At the front door of the hall we found the carriage. "Take it back to the coach-house, John," said Mr. Rochester coolly; "it will not be wanted to-day." At our entrance, Mrs. Fairfax, Adele, Sophie, Leah, advanced to meet and greet us. "To the right-about--every soul!" cried the master; "away with your congratulations! Who wants them? Not I!--they are fifteen years too late!" He passed on and ascended the stairs, still holding my hand, and still beckoning the gentlemen to follow him, which they did. We mounted the first staircase, passed up the gallery, proceeded to the third storey: the low, black door, opened by Mr. Rochester's master-key, admitted us to the tapestried room, with its great bed and its pictorial cabinet. "You know this place, Mason," said our guide; "she bit and stabbed you here." He lifted the hangings from the wall, uncovering the second door: this, too, he opened. In a room without a window, there burnt a fire guarded by a high and strong fender, and a lamp suspended from the ceiling by a chain. Grace Poole bent over the fire, apparently cooking something in a saucepan. In the deep shade, at the farther end of the room, a figure ran backwards and forwards. What it was, whether beast or human being, one could not, at first sight, tell: it grovelled, seemingly, on all fours; it snatched and growled like some strange wild animal: but it was covered with clothing, and a quantity of dark, grizzled hair, wild as a mane, hid its head and face. "Good-morrow, Mrs. Poole!" said Mr. Rochester. "How are you? and how is your charge to-day?" "We're tolerable, sir, I thank you," replied Grace, lifting the boiling mess carefully on to the hob: "rather snappish, but not 'rageous." A fierce cry seemed to give the lie to her favourable report: the clothed hyena rose up, and stood tall on its hind-feet. "Ah! sir, she sees you!" exclaimed Grace: "you'd better not stay." "Only a few moments, Grace: you must allow me a few moments." "Take care then, sir!--for God's sake, take care!" The maniac bellowed: she parted her shaggy locks from her visage, and gazed wildly at her visitors. I recognised well that purple face,--those bloated features. Mrs. Poole advanced. "Keep out of the way," said Mr. Rochester, thrusting her aside: "she has no knife now, I suppose, and I'm on my guard." "One never knows what she has, sir: she is so cunning: it is not in mortal discretion to fathom her craft." "We had better leave her," whispered Mason. "Go to the devil!" was his brother-in-law's recommendation. "'Ware!" cried Grace. The three gentlemen retreated simultaneously. Mr. Rochester flung me behind him: the lunatic sprang and grappled his throat viciously, and laid her teeth to his cheek: they struggled. She was a big woman, in stature almost equalling her husband, and corpulent besides: she showed virile force in the contest--more than once she almost throttled him, athletic as he was. He could have settled her with a well-planted blow; but he would not strike: he would only wrestle. At last he mastered her arms; Grace Poole gave him a cord, and he pinioned them behind her: with more rope, which was at hand, he bound her to a chair. The operation was performed amidst the fiercest yells and the most convulsive plunges. Mr. Rochester then turned to the spectators: he looked at them with a smile both acrid and desolate. "That is _my wife_," said he. "Such is the sole conjugal embrace I am ever to know--such are the endearments which are to solace my leisure hours! And _this_ is what I wished to have" (laying his hand on my shoulder): "this young girl, who stands so grave and quiet at the mouth of hell, looking collectedly at the gambols of a demon, I wanted her just as a change after that fierce ragout. Wood and Briggs, look at the difference! Compare these clear eyes with the red balls yonder--this face with that mask--this form with that bulk; then judge me, priest of the gospel and man of the law, and remember with what judgment ye judge ye shall be judged! Off with you now. I must shut up my prize." We all withdrew. Mr. Rochester stayed a moment behind us, to give some further order to Grace Poole. The solicitor addressed me as he descended the stair. "You, madam," said he, "are cleared from all blame: your uncle will be glad to hear it--if, indeed, he should be still living--when Mr. Mason returns to Madeira." "My uncle! What of him? Do you know him?" "Mr. Mason does. Mr. Eyre has been the Funchal correspondent of his house for some years. When your uncle received your letter intimating the contemplated union between yourself and Mr. Rochester, Mr. Mason, who was staying at Madeira to recruit his health, on his way back to Jamaica, happened to be with him. Mr. Eyre mentioned the intelligence; for he knew that my client here was acquainted with a gentleman of the name of Rochester. Mr. Mason, astonished and distressed as you may suppose, revealed the real state of matters. Your uncle, I am sorry to say, is now on a sick bed; from which, considering the nature of his disease--decline--and the stage it has reached, it is unlikely he will ever rise. He could not then hasten to England himself, to extricate you from the snare into which you had fallen, but he implored Mr. Mason to lose no time in taking steps to prevent the false marriage. He referred him to me for assistance. I used all despatch, and am thankful I was not too late: as you, doubtless, must be also. Were I not morally certain that your uncle will be dead ere you reach Madeira, I would advise you to accompany Mr. Mason back; but as it is, I think you had better remain in England till you can hear further, either from or of Mr. Eyre. Have we anything else to stay for?" he inquired of Mr. Mason. "No, no--let us be gone," was the anxious reply; and without waiting to take leave of Mr. Rochester, they made their exit at the hall door. The clergyman stayed to exchange a few sentences, either of admonition or reproof, with his haughty parishioner; this duty done, he too departed. I heard him go as I stood at the half-open door of my own room, to which I had now withdrawn. The house cleared, I shut myself in, fastened the bolt that none might intrude, and proceeded--not to weep, not to mourn, I was yet too calm for that, but--mechanically to take off the wedding dress, and replace it by the stuff gown I had worn yesterday, as I thought, for the last time. I then sat down: I felt weak and tired. I leaned my arms on a table, and my head dropped on them. And now I thought: till now I had only heard, seen, moved--followed up and down where I was led or dragged--watched event rush on event, disclosure open beyond disclosure: but _now_, _I thought_. The morning had been a quiet morning enough--all except the brief scene with the lunatic: the transaction in the church had not been noisy; there was no explosion of passion, no loud altercation, no dispute, no defiance or challenge, no tears, no sobs: a few words had been spoken, a calmly pronounced objection to the marriage made; some stern, short questions put by Mr. Rochester; answers, explanations given, evidence adduced; an open admission of the truth had been uttered by my master; then the living proof had been seen; the intruders were gone, and all was over. I was in my own room as usual--just myself, without obvious change: nothing had smitten me, or scathed me, or maimed me. And yet where was the Jane Eyre of yesterday?--where was her life?--where were her prospects? Jane Eyre, who had been an ardent, expectant woman--almost a bride, was a cold, solitary girl again: her life was pale; her prospects were desolate. A Christmas frost had come at midsummer; a white December storm had whirled over June; ice glazed the ripe apples, drifts crushed the blowing roses; on hayfield and cornfield lay a frozen shroud: lanes which last night blushed full of flowers, to-day were pathless with untrodden snow; and the woods, which twelve hours since waved leafy and flagrant as groves between the tropics, now spread, waste, wild, and white as pine-forests in wintry Norway. My hopes were all dead--struck with a subtle doom, such as, in one night, fell on all the first-born in the land of Egypt. I looked on my cherished wishes, yesterday so blooming and glowing; they lay stark, chill, livid corpses that could never revive. I looked at my love: that feeling which was my master's--which he had created; it shivered in my heart, like a suffering child in a cold cradle; sickness and anguish had seized it; it could not seek Mr. Rochester's arms--it could not derive warmth from his breast. Oh, never more could it turn to him; for faith was blighted--confidence destroyed! Mr. Rochester was not to me what he had been; for he was not what I had thought him. I would not ascribe vice to him; I would not say he had betrayed me; but the attribute of stainless truth was gone from his idea, and from his presence I must go: _that_ I perceived well. When--how--whither, I could not yet discern; but he himself, I doubted not, would hurry me from Thornfield. Real affection, it seemed, he could not have for me; it had been only fitful passion: that was balked; he would want me no more. I should fear even to cross his path now: my view must be hateful to him. Oh, how blind had been my eyes! How weak my conduct! My eyes were covered and closed: eddying darkness seemed to swim round me, and reflection came in as black and confused a flow. Self-abandoned, relaxed, and effortless, I seemed to have laid me down in the dried-up bed of a great river; I heard a flood loosened in remote mountains, and felt the torrent come: to rise I had no will, to flee I had no strength. I lay faint, longing to be dead. One idea only still throbbed life-like within me--a remembrance of God: it begot an unuttered prayer: these words went wandering up and down in my rayless mind, as something that should be whispered, but no energy was found to express them-- Sei mir nicht fern, denn das Unglück ist nah: Es gibt niemanden, der helfen kann. Es war nah, und da ich keine Bitte an den Himmel gerichtet hatte, es abzuwenden - da ich weder meine Hände gefaltet, meine Knie gebeugt noch meine Lippen bewegt hatte - kam es: mit voller Schwere ergoss sich der Strom über mich. Das ganze Bewusstsein meines verlassenen Lebens, meiner verlorenen Liebe, meiner erloschenen Hoffnung, meines vom Tod getroffenen Glaubens schwebte über mir als eine gewaltige, düstere Masse. Diese bittere Stunde kann nicht beschrieben werden: Wahrhaftig, "das Wasser drang in meine Seele ein; ich versank in tiefem Schlamm, ich hatte keinen Standpunkt; ich geriet in tiefe Wasser; die Fluten überfluteten mich." 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.

Jane sieht sich im Spiegel an, angezogen und bereit für ihre Hochzeit mit Rochester. Als Rochester sie sieht, sagt er: "Schön wie eine Lilie und nicht nur der Stolz seines Lebens, sondern die Sehnsucht seiner Augen." Sie gehen Hand in Hand zur Kirche, und der Minister fragt, ob jemand einen Grund kennt, warum sie nicht heiraten sollten. Mr. Briggs, ein Londoner Anwalt, besteht darauf, dass Rochester vor fünfzehn Jahren Bertha Antoinetta Mason in Jamaika geheiratet hat. Rochester sagt, dass es keinen Beweis gibt, dass seine Frau noch lebt, als Richard Mason hereinkommt und erklärt, dass er Bertha im April gesehen hat. Rochester befiehlt der Hochzeitsgesellschaft, ihm zu folgen. Er führt sie in den dritten Stock von Thornfield Hall, um Grace Pooles Patientin zu treffen. Die Versammelten sehen Bertha auf allen Vieren kriechend, versteckt unter einem Haarschopf aus dunkelgrauem Haar. Sie ist eine große Frau, fast so groß wie Rochester, der sie auf einen Stuhl ringt und mit einem Seil festbindet. Er sagt: "Das ist meine Frau, dies ist der einzige eheliche Liebesakt, den ich jemals kennen werde", und legt seine Hand auf Janes Schulter und fährt fort: "Und das ist es, was ich haben wollte. Dieses junge Mädchen, das so ernst und ruhig am Eingang zur Hölle steht und gelassen auf das Treiben eines Dämons blickt." Rochester bittet den Anwalt und den Minister, ihn nicht zu verurteilen. Es stellt sich heraus, dass Janes Brief an ihren Onkel John Eyre Mr. Mason alarmiert hat, der zufälligerweise ein Geschäftspartner von John Eyre ist. Er sagt auch, dass John Eyre schwer krank ist. Schockiert kehrt Jane in ihr Zimmer zurück. Jane bleibt dort eine Weile und denkt über das Geschehene nach. Sie sinniert: "Ich betrachtete meine Liebe: dieses Gefühl, das meines Herrn war - das er erschaffen hatte; es zitterte in meinem Herzen wie ein leidendes Kind in einer kalten Wiege: Krankheit und Angst hatten es ergriffen." Am Ende kann sie Rochester nicht vollständig für seinen Verrat an ihr verantwortlich machen. Sie gibt auch sich selbst die Schuld dafür, blind und schwach gewesen zu sein.

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 VI ORGON, ELMIRE ORGON (crawling out from under the table) That is, I own, a man ... abominable! I can't get over it; the whole thing floors me. ELMIRE What? You come out so soon? You cannot mean it! Get back under the table; 'tis not time yet; Wait till the end, to see, and make quite certain, And don't believe a thing on mere conjecture. ORGON Nothing more wicked e'er came out of Hell. ELMIRE Dear me! Don't go and credit things too lightly. No, let yourself be thoroughly convinced; Don't yield too soon, for fear you'll be mistaken. (As Tartuffe enters, she makes her husband stand behind her.) SCENE VII TARTUFFE, ELMIRE, ORGON TARTUFFE (not seeing Orgon) All things conspire toward my satisfaction, Madam, I've searched the whole apartment through. There's no one here; and now my ravished soul ... ORGON (stopping him) Softly! You are too eager in your amours; You needn't be so passionate. Ah ha! My holy man! You want to put it on me! How is your soul abandoned to temptation! Marry my daughter, eh?--and want my wife, too? I doubted long enough if this was earnest, Expecting all the time the tone would change; But now the proof's been carried far enough; I'm satisfied, and ask no more, for my part. ELMIRE (to Tartuffe) 'Twas quite against my character to play This part; but I was forced to treat you so. TARTUFFE What? You believe ... ? ORGON Come, now, no protestations. Get out from here, and make no fuss about it. TARTUFFE But my intent ... ORGON That talk is out of season. You leave my house this instant. TARTUFFE You're the one To leave it, you who play the master here! This house belongs to me, I'll have you know, And show you plainly it's no use to turn To these low tricks, to pick a quarrel with me, And that you can't insult me at your pleasure, For I have wherewith to confound your lies, Avenge offended Heaven, and compel Those to repent who talk to me of leaving. SCENE VIII ELMIRE, ORGON ELMIRE What sort of speech is this? What can it mean? ORGON My faith, I'm dazed. This is no laughing matter. ELMIRE What? ORGON From his words I see my great mistake; The deed of gift is one thing troubles me. ELMIRE The deed of gift ... ORGON Yes, that is past recall. But I've another thing to make me anxious. ELMIRE What's that? ORGON You shall know all. Let's see at once Whether a certain box is still upstairs. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Valere, der Verlobte von Mariane, kommt an und erklärt, dass er vertraulich erfahren hat, dass Orgon wegen einiger geheimer Dokumente, die Tartuffe dem König übergab, in großer Not ist. Tartuffe habe Orgon als Verräter des Königs denunziert und da ein Haftbefehl gegen Orgon vorliegt, bringt Valere Geld und einen Wagen mit und wird Orgon dabei helfen, Zuflucht auf dem Land zu suchen. Als sie gerade gehen wollen, kommen Offiziere, begleitet von Tartuffe. Tartuffe verkündet, dass Orgon nun verhaftet sei und die einzige Reise, die er antreten werde, die ins Gefängnis sei. Als Orgon Tartuffe an seine Verpflichtung erinnert, antwortet Tartuffe nur, dass seine erste Pflicht darin bestehe, dem König zu dienen, und dafür wäre er bereit, alles zu opfern. Cleante versucht, mit Logik gegen Tartuffe anzugehen, aber Tartuffe befiehlt den Offizieren lediglich, ihre Pflicht zu erfüllen. Die Offiziere erfüllen ihre Pflicht jedoch, indem sie Tartuffe verhaften, und erklären dann dem Rest der Gesellschaft, dass der König, der in die Herzen aller seiner Untertanen sieht, wusste, dass Tartuffe ein Heuchler und Lügner ist. Der weise und kluge König könnte niemals von einem solchen Betrüger getäuscht werden. Darüber hinaus hat der König die Urkunde ungültig gemacht und Orgon begnadigt, weil er die Dokumente eines Verbannten aufbewahrt hat. Der weise König schätzt die Tugenden eines Menschen viel mehr als seine Fehler; Orgons frühere Loyalität zum König wird belohnt, und seine Fehler werden nun verziehen. Als Orgon gerade etwas zu Tartuffe sagen will, rät ihm Cleante, den armen Wicht zu vergessen und seine Aufmerksamkeit auf bessere Dinge zu richten. Daraufhin gibt Orgon seine Tochter Mariane an Valere, damit sie seine Frau 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: IN less than an hour from that time, Seth Bede was walking by Dinah's side along the hedgerow-path that skirted the pastures and green corn-fields which lay between the village and the Hall Farm. Dinah had taken off her little Quaker bonnet again, and was holding it in her hands that she might have a freer enjoyment of the cool evening twilight, and Seth could see the expression of her face quite clearly as he walked by her side, timidly revolving something he wanted to say to her. It was an expression of unconscious placid gravity--of absorption in thoughts that had no connection with the present moment or with her own personality--an expression that is most of all discouraging to a lover. Her very walk was discouraging: it had that quiet elasticity that asks for no support. Seth felt this dimly; he said to himself, "She's too good and holy for any man, let alone me," and the words he had been summoning rushed back again before they had reached his lips. But another thought gave him courage: "There's no man could love her better and leave her freer to follow the Lord's work." They had been silent for many minutes now, since they had done talking about Bessy Cranage; Dinah seemed almost to have forgotten Seth's presence, and her pace was becoming so much quicker that the sense of their being only a few minutes' walk from the yard-gates of the Hall Farm at last gave Seth courage to speak. "You've quite made up your mind to go back to Snowfield o' Saturday, Dinah?" "Yes," said Dinah, quietly. "I'm called there. It was borne in upon my mind while I was meditating on Sunday night, as Sister Allen, who's in a decline, is in need of me. I saw her as plain as we see that bit of thin white cloud, lifting up her poor thin hand and beckoning to me. And this morning when I opened the Bible for direction, the first words my eyes fell on were, 'And after we had seen the vision, immediately we endeavoured to go into Macedonia.' If it wasn't for that clear showing of the Lord's will, I should be loath to go, for my heart yearns over my aunt and her little ones, and that poor wandering lamb Hetty Sorrel. I've been much drawn out in prayer for her of late, and I look on it as a token that there may be mercy in store for her." "God grant it," said Seth. "For I doubt Adam's heart is so set on her, he'll never turn to anybody else; and yet it 'ud go to my heart if he was to marry her, for I canna think as she'd make him happy. It's a deep mystery--the way the heart of man turns to one woman out of all the rest he's seen i' the world, and makes it easier for him to work seven year for HER, like Jacob did for Rachel, sooner than have any other woman for th' asking. I often think of them words, 'And Jacob served seven years for Rachel; and they seemed to him but a few days for the love he had to her.' I know those words 'ud come true with me, Dinah, if so be you'd give me hope as I might win you after seven years was over. I know you think a husband 'ud be taking up too much o' your thoughts, because St. Paul says, 'She that's married careth for the things of the world how she may please her husband'; and may happen you'll think me overbold to speak to you about it again, after what you told me o' your mind last Saturday. But I've been thinking it over again by night and by day, and I've prayed not to be blinded by my own desires, to think what's only good for me must be good for you too. And it seems to me there's more texts for your marrying than ever you can find against it. For St. Paul says as plain as can be in another place, 'I will that the younger women marry, bear children, guide the house, give none occasion to the adversary to speak reproachfully'; and then 'two are better than one'; and that holds good with marriage as well as with other things. For we should be o' one heart and o' one mind, Dinah. We both serve the same Master, and are striving after the same gifts; and I'd never be the husband to make a claim on you as could interfere with your doing the work God has fitted you for. I'd make a shift, and fend indoor and out, to give you more liberty--more than you can have now, for you've got to get your own living now, and I'm strong enough to work for us both." When Seth had once begun to urge his suit, he went on earnestly and almost hurriedly, lest Dinah should speak some decisive word before he had poured forth all the arguments he had prepared. His cheeks became flushed as he went on his mild grey eyes filled with tears, and his voice trembled as he spoke the last sentence. They had reached one of those very narrow passes between two tall stones, which performed the office of a stile in Loamshire, and Dinah paused as she turned towards Seth and said, in her tender but calm treble notes, "Seth Bede, I thank you for your love towards me, and if I could think of any man as more than a Christian brother, I think it would be you. But my heart is not free to marry. That is good for other women, and it is a great and a blessed thing to be a wife and mother; but 'as God has distributed to every man, as the Lord hath called every man, so let him walk.' God has called me to minister to others, not to have any joys or sorrows of my own, but to rejoice with them that do rejoice, and to weep with those that weep. He has called me to speak his word, and he has greatly owned my work. It could only be on a very clear showing that I could leave the brethren and sisters at Snowfield, who are favoured with very little of this world's good; where the trees are few, so that a child might count them, and there's very hard living for the poor in the winter. It has been given me to help, to comfort, and strengthen the little flock there and to call in many wanderers; and my soul is filled with these things from my rising up till my lying down. My life is too short, and God's work is too great for me to think of making a home for myself in this world. I've not turned a deaf ear to your words, Seth, for when I saw as your love was given to me, I thought it might be a leading of Providence for me to change my way of life, and that we should be fellow-helpers; and I spread the matter before the Lord. But whenever I tried to fix my mind on marriage, and our living together, other thoughts always came in--the times when I've prayed by the sick and dying, and the happy hours I've had preaching, when my heart was filled with love, and the Word was given to me abundantly. And when I've opened the Bible for direction, I've always lighted on some clear word to tell me where my work lay. I believe what you say, Seth, that you would try to be a help and not a hindrance to my work; but I see that our marriage is not God's will--He draws my heart another way. I desire to live and die without husband or children. I seem to have no room in my soul for wants and fears of my own, it has pleased God to fill my heart so full with the wants and sufferings of his poor people." Seth was unable to reply, and they walked on in silence. At last, as they were nearly at the yard-gate, he said, "Well, Dinah, I must seek for strength to bear it, and to endure as seeing Him who is invisible. But I feel now how weak my faith is. It seems as if, when you are gone, I could never joy in anything any more. I think it's something passing the love of women as I feel for you, for I could be content without your marrying me if I could go and live at Snowfield and be near you. I trusted as the strong love God has given me towards you was a leading for us both; but it seems it was only meant for my trial. Perhaps I feel more for you than I ought to feel for any creature, for I often can't help saying of you what the hymn says-- In darkest shades if she appear, My dawning is begun; She is my soul's bright morning-star, And she my rising sun. That may be wrong, and I am to be taught better. But you wouldn't be displeased with me if things turned out so as I could leave this country and go to live at Snowfield?" "No, Seth; but I counsel you to wait patiently, and not lightly to leave your own country and kindred. Do nothing without the Lord's clear bidding. It's a bleak and barren country there, not like this land of Goshen you've been used to. We mustn't be in a hurry to fix and choose our own lot; we must wait to be guided." "But you'd let me write you a letter, Dinah, if there was anything I wanted to tell you?" "Yes, sure; let me know if you're in any trouble. You'll be continually in my prayers." They had now reached the yard-gate, and Seth said, "I won't go in, Dinah, so farewell." He paused and hesitated after she had given him her hand, and then said, "There's no knowing but what you may see things different after a while. There may be a new leading." "Let us leave that, Seth. It's good to live only a moment at a time, as I've read in one of Mr. Wesley's books. It isn't for you and me to lay plans; we've nothing to do but to obey and to trust. Farewell." Dinah pressed his hand with rather a sad look in her loving eyes, and then passed through the gate, while Seth turned away to walk lingeringly home. But instead of taking the direct road, he chose to turn back along the fields through which he and Dinah had already passed; and I think his blue linen handkerchief was very wet with tears long before he had made up his mind that it was time for him to set his face steadily homewards. He was but three-and-twenty, and had only just learned what it is to love--to love with that adoration which a young man gives to a woman whom he feels to be greater and better than himself. Love of this sort is hardly distinguishable from religious feeling. What deep and worthy love is so, whether of woman or child, or art or music. Our caresses, our tender words, our still rapture under the influence of autumn sunsets, or pillared vistas, or calm majestic statues, or Beethoven symphonies all bring with them the consciousness that they are mere waves and ripples in an unfathomable ocean of love and beauty; our emotion in its keenest moment passes from expression into silence, our love at its highest flood rushes beyond its object and loses itself in the sense of divine mystery. And this blessed gift of venerating love has been given to too many humble craftsmen since the world began for us to feel any surprise that it should have existed in the soul of a Methodist carpenter half a century ago, while there was yet a lingering after-glow from the time when Wesley and his fellow-labourer fed on the hips and haws of the Cornwall hedges, after exhausting limbs and lungs in carrying a divine message to the poor. That afterglow has long faded away; and the picture we are apt to make of Methodism in our imagination is not an amphitheatre of green hills, or the deep shade of broad-leaved sycamores, where a crowd of rough men and weary-hearted women drank in a faith which was a rudimentary culture, which linked their thoughts with the past, lifted their imagination above the sordid details of their own narrow lives, and suffused their souls with the sense of a pitying, loving, infinite Presence, sweet as summer to the houseless needy. It is too possible that to some of my readers Methodism may mean nothing more than low-pitched gables up dingy streets, sleek grocers, sponging preachers, and hypocritical jargon--elements which are regarded as an exhaustive analysis of Methodism in many fashionable quarters. That would be a pity; for I cannot pretend that Seth and Dinah were anything else than Methodists--not indeed of that modern type which reads quarterly reviews and attends in chapels with pillared porticoes, but of a very old-fashioned kind. They believed in present miracles, in instantaneous conversions, in revelations by dreams and visions; they drew lots, and sought for Divine guidance by opening the Bible at hazard; having a literal way of interpreting the Scriptures, which is not at all sanctioned by approved commentators; and it is impossible for me to represent their diction as correct, or their instruction as liberal. Still--if I have read religious history aright--faith, hope, and charity have not always been found in a direct ratio with a sensibility to the three concords, and it is possible--thank Heaven!--to have very erroneous theories and very sublime feelings. The raw bacon which clumsy Molly spares from her own scanty store that she may carry it to her neighbour's child to "stop the fits," may be a piteously inefficacious remedy; but the generous stirring of neighbourly kindness that prompted the deed has a beneficent radiation that is not lost. Considering these things, we can hardly think Dinah and Seth beneath our sympathy, accustomed as we may be to weep over the loftier sorrows of heroines in satin boots and crinoline, and of heroes riding fiery horses, themselves ridden by still more fiery passions. Poor Seth! He was never on horseback in his life except once, when he was a little lad, and Mr. Jonathan Burge took him up behind, telling him to "hold on tight"; and instead of bursting out into wild accusing apostrophes to God and destiny, he is resolving, as he now walks homewards under the solemn starlight, to repress his sadness, to be less bent on having his own will, and to live more for others, as Dinah does. 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Seth begleitet Dinah nach ihrem Predigen nach Hause. Dinah plant, nach Snowfield zurückzukehren, um sich um eine kranke alte Frau zu kümmern, und bedauert, dass sie nicht in Hayslope bleiben und bei ihrer Tante sein und sich um Hetty Sorrel kümmern kann, für die sie betet. Seth bemerkt, dass es schade ist, dass Adam in Hetty verliebt ist. Dinah sagt, dass sie nicht in Hayslope bleiben kann, weil Gott ihr gesagt hat, dass ihr Platz in Snowfield ist. Seth schlägt vor, dass sie zusammen Gott besser dienen könnten und macht Dinah einen Heiratsantrag. Sie lehnt ab und sagt, dass Gott bestimmt hat, dass sie weder heiraten noch Kinder haben soll, obwohl sie beides gerne hätte. Dinah kennt Gottes Willen, weil sie um Führung gebetet hat und die erste Zeile, die sie sieht, ihre Überzeugung unterstützt, dass ihre Berufung darin besteht, anderen zu helfen. Obwohl Seth auf dem Heimweg weint, akzeptiert er Dinahs Ablehnung. Der Erzähler verteidigt Seths Liebe zu Dinah und sagt, dass obwohl sie arme, ungebildete Methodisten sind, Seth und Dinah wohl erhabene Gefühle haben und nicht außer Acht gelassen werden sollten.

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 ließ meinen Entschluss in Bezug auf die parlamentarischen Debatten nicht abkühlen. Es war eines der Eisen, die ich sofort zu erhitzen begann und eines der Eisen, die ich heiß hielt und mit Ausdauer, die ich ehrlich bewundere, bearbeitete. Ich kaufte ein bewährtes Schema der edlen Kunst und des Geheimnisses der Stenografie (die mir zehn Schilling kostete) und stieß in ein Meer der Verwirrung, das mich in wenigen Wochen an den Rand des Wahnsinns brachte. Die verschiedenen Variationen, die mit Punkten gespielt wurden und in einer bestimmten Position etwas bedeuteten, in einer anderen Position jedoch etwas völlig anderes, die wundersamen Vagheiten, die von Kreisen gespielt wurden, die unerklärlichen Konsequenzen, die aus Zeichen wie Fliegenbeinen resultierten, die gewaltigen Auswirkungen einer Kurve an der falschen Stelle, belasteten nicht nur meine wachen Stunden, sondern tauchten auch in meinen Träumen auf. Nachdem ich mich blind durch diese Schwierigkeiten gekämpft und das Alphabet, das ein ägyptischer Tempel für sich war, gemeistert hatte, erschien dann eine Parade neuer Schrecken namens willkürlicher Zeichen; die despotischsten Zeichen, die ich je kennengelernt habe; die beispielsweise darauf bestanden, dass etwas, das wie der Beginn eines Spinnennetzes aussah, Erwartungen bedeutete, und dass eine Tinte-und-Feder-Rakete für nachteilig stand. Als ich diese Schurken beschäftigt hatte, stellte ich fest, dass sie alles andere aus meinem Kopf vertrieben hatten; dann, als ich von vorne anfangen wollte, vergaß ich sie; während ich sie aufnahm, verlor ich die anderen Teile des Systems; kurz gesagt, es war fast herzzerreißend. Es hätte durchaus herzzerreißend sein können, aber Dora war der Halt und das Anker meiner stürmisch vorangetriebenen Barke. Jedes Problem im System war eine knorrige Eiche im Wald der Schwierigkeiten, und ich ging daran, sie nacheinander mit solcher Kraft abzuschneiden, dass ich nach drei oder vier Monaten in der Lage war, einen Versuch an einem unserer prominenten Redner im Parlament zu unternehmen. Werde ich jemals vergessen, wie der prominente Redner vor mir weglief, noch bevor ich begann, und meine unbeholfene Bleistift auf dem Papier umhertaumelte, als hätte er einen Krampfanfall! Das konnte so nicht weitergehen, das war ganz klar. Ich war zu hoch geflogen und würde nie vorankommen. Also suchte ich Traddles um Rat auf, der vorschlug, dass er mir Reden diktieren sollte, in einem Tempo und mit gelegentlichen Unterbrechungen, die meiner Schwäche angepasst waren. Sehr dankbar für diese freundliche Hilfe akzeptierte ich den Vorschlag; und Nacht für Nacht, fast jede Nacht, für eine lange Zeit hatten wir eine Art Privatparlament in der Buckingham Street, nachdem ich vom Doktor nach Hause gekommen war. Ich würde gerne ein solches Parlament an einem anderen Ort sehen! Meine Tante und Herr Dick repräsentierten die Regierung oder die Opposition (je nachdem), und Traddles, mit Hilfe von Enfields Rednern oder einem Band parlamentarischer Reden, donnerte erstaunliche Invectiven gegen sie. Traddles stellte sich an den Tisch und hielt seinen Finger auf der Seite, um die Stelle zu markieren, und schwenkte seinen rechten Arm über seinem Kopf, während er sich als Mr. Pitt, Mr. Fox, Mr. Sheridan, Mr. Burke, Lord Castlereagh, Viscount Sidmouth oder Mr. Canning in außerordentliche Wut versetzte und vernichtende Verurteilungen der Ausschweifung und Korruption meiner Tante und Herrn Dick aussprach; während ich etwas abseits saß, mit meinem Notizbuch auf dem Knie, und ihm mit aller Kraft und Anstrengung nachhängte. Die Widersprüchlichkeit und Rücksichtslosigkeit von Traddles waren von keinem echten Politiker zu übertreffen. Er war für jede Art von Politik in einer Woche und hisste jede Art von Flagge auf jedem Mast. Meine Tante, die aussah wie eine unerschütterliche Schatzkanzlerin, unterbrach gelegentlich oder rief "Hör mal!" oder "Nein!" oder "Oh!", wenn es der Text erforderte: was immer ein Signal für Herrn Dick (einen perfekten Gentleman vom Lande) war, lautstark das Gleiche zu rufen. Aber Herr Dick wurde während seiner Parlamentskarriere mit solchen Dingen bedacht und für solch schreckliche Konsequenzen verantwortlich gemacht, dass er manchmal unbehaglich wurde. Ich glaube, er fing tatsächlich an, Angst zu haben, dass er tatsächlich etwas getan hatte, was auf die Vernichtung der britischen Verfassung und den Ruin des Landes hinauslief. Oft und immer wieder führten wir diese Debatten fort, bis die Uhr Mitternacht schlug und die Kerzen herunterbrannten. Das Ergebnis dieser intensiven Übung war, dass ich mit der Zeit ziemlich gut mit Traddles mithalten konnte und ganz triumphal gewesen wäre, wenn ich auch nur die geringste Ahnung gehabt hätte, worauf sich meine Notizen bezogen. Aber was das Lesen betraf, nachdem ich sie einmal niedergeschrieben hatte, hätte ich genauso gut die chinesischen Inschriften einer riesigen Sammlung von Teekisten oder die goldenen Buchstaben auf all den großen roten und grünen Flaschen in den Apotheken geschrieben haben können! Es gab nichts anderes zu tun, als umzukehren und von vorne anzufangen. Es war sehr schwer, aber ich kehrte um, wenn auch mit schwerem Herzen, und begann gewissenhaft und methodisch, mich mit einer Schneckengeschwindigkeit über dasselbe langweilige Gelände zu quälen, an jeder Stelle anzuhalten und die winzigen Punkte genau zu untersuchen und die verzweifelten Anstrengungen zu unternehmen, diese flüchtigen Zeichen überall zu erkennen. Ich war immer pünktlich im Büro; beim Doktor auch: Und ich arbeitete wirklich, wie es so schön heißt, wie ein Zugpferd. Eines Tages, als ich wie üblich ins Parlament ging, fand ich Mr. Spenlow in der Tür, der äußerst ernst aussah und mit sich selbst sprach. Da er die Angewohnheit hatte, über Kopfschmerzen zu klagen - er hatte von Natur aus einen kurzen Hals, und ich glaube wirklich, dass er sich überanstrengte - war ich zunächst besorgt, dass etwas mit ihm in diese Richtung nicht stimmte, aber er beruhigte mich bald. Statt mein 'Guten Morgen' wie gewohnt freundlich zu erwidern, sah er mich distanziert und zeremoniell an und bat mich kühl, ihn in ein bestimmtes Café zu begleiten, das damals eine Tür hatte, die sich direkt ins Parlament öffnete, kurz nach dem kleinen Torbogen im St. Paul's Churchyard. In einem sehr unangenehmen Zustand stimmte ich zu und hatte ein warmes Gefühl über mich, als ob meine Befürchtungen zu sprießen begannen. Als ich ihn ein wenig vorausgehen ließ, wegen der Enge des Weges, bemerkte ich, dass er den Kopf mit einer hochmütigen Miene trug, die besonders wenigversprechend war, und mein Misstrauen wuchs, dass er von meiner geliebten Dora erfahren hatte. Wenn ich das auf dem Weg zum Café nicht geahnt hätte, hätte ich kaum nicht gewusst, was los war, als ich ihm in einen Raum im Obergeschoss folgte und Miss Murdstone dort vorfand, gestützt von einem Hintergrund aus Sideboard, auf dem mehrere umgedrehte Gläser Zitronen trugen und zwei dieser außergewöhnlichen Kisten mit allen möglichen Ecken und Rillen zum Hineinstecken von Messern und Gabeln standen Ich muss gestehen, dass ich seit einiger Zeit meine Verdächtigungen gegenüber Miss Spenlow in Bezug auf David Copperfield hatte. Als sich Miss Spenlow und David Copperfield zum ersten Mal trafen, beobachtete ich sie, und der Eindruck, den sie auf mich machten, war nicht angenehm. Die Verderbtheit des menschlichen Herzens ist solch... "Sie würden mir einen Gefallen tun, Ma'am", unterbrach Mr. Spenlow, "indem Sie sich auf Fakten beschränken." Miss Murdstone senkte den Blick, schüttelte den Kopf, als protestiere sie gegen diese ungebührliche Unterbrechung und fuhr mit grimmiger Würde fort: "Da ich mich auf Fakten beschränken soll, werde ich diese so trocken wie möglich darlegen. Möglicherweise wird dies als akzeptable Vorgehensweise angesehen. Ich habe bereits gesagt, dass ich meine Verdächtigungen gegenüber Miss Spenlow in Bezug auf David Copperfield schon seit einiger Zeit hatte. Ich habe oft versucht, entscheidende Bestätigung für diese Verdächtigungen zu finden, aber ohne Erfolg. Deshalb habe ich es unterlassen, sie Miss Spenlows Vater zu erwähnen", sie sah ihn streng an, "wissend, wie wenig Bereitschaft es normalerweise in solchen Fällen gibt, die pflichtbewusste Erfüllung der Aufgaben anzuerkennen." Mr. Spenlow schien ganz eingeschüchtert von der vornehmen Strenge von Miss Murdstones Auftreten und milderte ihre Strenge durch eine versöhnliche Handbewegung. "Nach meiner Rückkehr nach Norwood, nach der Zeit der Abwesenheit aufgrund der Hochzeit meines Bruders", fuhr Miss Murdstone mit verächtlicher Stimme fort, "und nach der Rückkehr von Miss Spenlow von ihrem Besuch bei ihrer Freundin Miss Mills, hatte ich den Eindruck, dass das Verhalten von Miss Spenlow mir mehr Anlass zur Verdachtsgewinnung gab als zuvor. Deshalb habe ich Miss Spenlow genau beobachtet." Meine liebe, zarte kleine Dora, so ahnungslos von diesem drachenhaften Auge! "Trotzdem", fuhr Miss Murdstone fort, "fand ich bis gestern Abend keinen Beweis. Es schien mir, dass Miss Spenlow zu viele Briefe von ihrer Freundin Miss Mills erhielt, aber da Miss Mills ihre Freundin mit der ausdrücklichen Zustimmung ihres Vaters war," ein weiterer verheerender Schlag gegen Mr. Spenlow, "habe ich mich nicht eingemischt. Wenn ich auch nicht auf die natürliche Verderbtheit des menschlichen Herzens hinweisen darf, so darf ich zumindest - muss ich zumindest - auf fehlgeleitetes Vertrauen hinweisen." Mr. Spenlow murmelte entschuldigend seine Zustimmung. "Gestern Abend nach dem Tee", fuhr Miss Murdstone fort, "beobachtete ich den kleinen Hund, wie er im Wohnzimmer hin und her rollte und knurrte, etwas quälte. Ich sagte zu Miss Spenlow: "Dora, was hat der Hund da im Maul? Es ist Papier." Miss Spenlow legte sofort die Hand an ihr Kleid, gab einen plötzlichen Schrei von sich und lief zum Hund. Ich griff ein und sagte: "Dora, meine Liebe, du musst es mir erlauben." Oh Jip, elender Spaniel, dieses Elend war also dein Werk! "Miss Spenlow versuchte", sagte Miss Murdstone, "mich mit Küssen, Nähkästchen und kleinen Schmuckstücken zu bestechen - das, selbstverständlich, übergehe ich. Der kleine Hund zog sich unter das Sofa zurück, als ich mich ihm näherte, und konnte nur mit großer Mühe mit dem Kamingeschirr vertrieben werden. Selbst als er vertrieben wurde, hielt er den Brief noch im Maul und ließ sich nicht davon abbringen, ihn zwischen den Zähnen so hartnäckig festzuhalten, dass er sich sogar festhalten ließ und in der Luft hing. Schließlich gelang es mir, ihn zu ergreifen. Nachdem ich ihn gelesen hatte, beschuldigte ich Miss Spenlow, viele solcher Briefe in ihrem Besitz zu haben, und erhielt schließlich von ihr das Paket, das sich jetzt in David Copperfields Hand befindet." Hier brach sie ab und schnappte ihre Tasche wieder zu und schloss den Mund, sah aus, als könne man sie brechen, aber niemals biegen. "Sie haben Miss Murdstone gehört", sagte Mr. Spenlow und wandte sich mir zu. "Ich frage Sie, Mr. Copperfield, ob Sie etwas dagegen vorzubringen haben." Das Bild, das ich vor mir hatte, von dem wunderschönen kleinen Schatz meines Herzens, der die ganze Nacht schluchzte und weinte - von ihr allein, ängstlich, verängstigt und elend - von ihr, die so bittend und flehend diese herzlose Frau bat, ihr zu vergeben - von ihr, die ihr vergebens diese Küsse, Nähkästchen und Schmuckstücke angeboten hatte - von ihr, die so sehr in Not war, und das alles wegen mir - beeinträchtigte sehr meine geringe Würde, die ich zusammenraffen konnte. Ich fürchte, ich war etwa eine Minute lang zittrig, obwohl ich mein Bestes versuchte, um es zu verbergen. "Es gibt nichts, was ich sagen kann, Sir", erwiderte ich, "außer dass alle Schuld bei mir liegt. Dora -" "Miss Spenlow, wenn es Ihnen recht ist", sagte ihr Vater majestätisch. "Wurde von mir verführt und überredet", fuhr ich fort und schluckte diese kältere Bezeichnung hinunter, "dieses Geheimnis zu wahren, und ich bereue es zutiefst." "Sie sind sehr zu tadeln, Sir", sagte Mr. Spenlow, der hin und her auf dem Kaminvorleger ging und das, was er sagte, mit seinem ganzen Körper betonte, anstatt mit dem Kopf, aufgrund der Steifheit seines Plastrons und seiner Wirbelsäule. "Sie haben eine heimliche und unangebrachte Handlung begangen, Herr Copperfield. Wenn ich einen Herren in mein Haus bringe, ganz gleich, ob er neunzehn, neunundzwanzig oder neunzig ist, tue ich dies in einer Atmosphäre des Vertrauens. Wenn er mein Vertrauen missbraucht, begeht er eine unehrenhafte Tat, Herr Copperfield." "Ich fühle es, Sir, versichere ich Ihnen", erwiderte ich. "Aber ich habe niemals so gedacht, zuvor. Aufrichtig, ehrlich, wirklich, Mr. Spenlow, habe ich niemals so gedacht, zuvor. Ich liebe Miss Spenlow in diesem Ausmaß -" "Pah! Unsinn!", sagte Mr. Spenlow, rot werdend. "Sagen Sie mir bitte nicht ins Gesicht, dass Sie meine Tochter lieben, Mr. Copperfield!" "Könnte ich mein Verhalten verteidigen, wenn dem nicht so wäre, Sir?", erwiderte ich mit aller Demut. "Können Sie Ihr Verhalten verteidigen, wenn dem so ist, Sir?", sagte Mr. Spenlow, blieb plötzlich auf dem Kaminvorleger stehen. "Haben Sie Ihr Alter und das Alter meiner Tochter in Betracht gezogen, Mr. Copperfield? Haben Sie darüber nachgedacht, was es bedeutet, das Vertrauen zu untergraben, das zwischen meiner Tochter und mir bestehen sollte? Haben Sie die gesellschaftliche Stellung meiner Tochter in Betracht gezogen, die Pläne, die ich möglicherweise für ihren Aufstieg habe, die testamentarischen Absichten, die ich in Bezug auf sie haben könnte? Haben Sie überhaupt etwas bedacht, Mr Copperfield?" "Sehr wenig, Sir, fürchte ich", antwortete ich und sprach zu ihm so respektvoll und betrübt, wie ich fühlte. "Aber glauben Sie mir bitte, dass ich meine eigene Miss Murdstone, durch einen ausdrucksstarken Klang, einer langen Atemzüge, der weder ein Seufzen noch ein Stöhnen war, sondern wie beides klang, äußerte ihre Meinung, dass er dies von Anfang an hätte tun sollen. "Ich muss es versuchen", sagte Mr. Spenlow, bestätigt durch diese Unterstützung, "meinen Einfluss bei meiner Tochter geltend zu machen. Lehnen Sie es ab, diese Briefe, Mr. Copperfield, anzunehmen?" Ich hatte sie auf den Tisch gelegt. Ja. Ich sagte ihm, ich hoffte, er würde es nicht falsch verstehen, aber ich könnte sie unmöglich von Miss Murdstone nehmen. "Auch nicht von mir?" sagte Mr. Spenlow. Nein, antwortete ich mit dem höchsten Respekt; auch nicht von ihm. "Sehr gut!" sagte Mr. Spenlow. Nach einer nachfolgenden Stille war ich unsicher, ob ich gehen oder bleiben sollte. Schließlich war ich dabei, mich leise zur Tür zu bewegen, mit der Absicht zu sagen, dass ich vielleicht am besten seine Gefühle berücksichtige, indem ich mich zurückziehe, als er mit den Händen in den Manteltaschen sprach, in die er mühsam hineinbekam; und mit dem, was ich im Allgemeinen als entschieden fromme Haltung bezeichnen würde: "Sie sind wahrscheinlich, Mr. Copperfield, darüber im Klaren, dass ich nicht völlig mittellos bin und dass meine Tochter meine nächste und liebste Verwandte ist?" Ich antwortete eilig, dass ich hoffe, der Fehler, in den ich durch die verzweifelte Natur meiner Liebe gefallen war, verleitet ihn auch dazu, mich für geldgierig zu halten? "Ich meine das nicht in diesem Licht" sagte Mr. Spenlow. "Es wäre besser für Sie und für uns alle, wenn Sie, Mr. Copperfield, geldgierig wären - ich meine vorsichtiger und weniger von diesem jugendlichen Unfug beeinflusst. Nein. Ich sage nur, mit einer ganz anderen Ansicht, Sie wissen wahrscheinlich, dass ich etwas Eigentum zu vererben habe?" Das dachte ich zumindest. "Und Sie können kaum denken", sagte Mr. Spenlow, "nachdem wir hier im Parlament, jeden Tag mit den verschiedenen unerklärlichen und fahrlässigen Handlungen der Männer in Bezug auf ihre letztwilligen Verfügungen konfrontiert werden - von allen Themen, bei denen vielleicht die seltsamsten Enthüllungen menschlicher Unbeständigkeit entdeckt werden -, dass meine gemacht sind?" Ich nickte zustimmend. "Ich würde nicht zulassen," sagte Mr. Spenlow, mit deutlich gesteigerter gottesfürchtiger Empfindung und schüttelte langsam den Kopf, während er sich abwechselnd auf die Zehen und Fersen stellte, "dass meine angemessene Versorgung für mein Kind von einer jugendlichen Dummheit wie der vorliegenden beeinflusst wird. Es ist reine Törichtkeit. Purer Unsinn. In kurzer Zeit wird es leichter wiegen als eine Feder. Aber ich könnte - ich könnte - wenn diese alberne Angelegenheit nicht vollständig aufgegeben würde, in einem Moment der Angst dazu gebracht werden, sie vor den Folgen eines törichten Schritts in der Ehe zu schützen und sie mit Schutzmaßnahmen zu umgeben. Nun, Mr. Copperfield, hoffe ich, dass Sie es nicht für notwendig machen werden, mir zu erzählen, auch nur eine Viertelstunde lang, jene geschlossene Seite im Buch des Lebens zu öffnen und ernste Angelegenheiten, die bereits längst beigelegt wurden, auch nur eine Viertelstunde lang zu stören." Er strahlte eine Ruhe, eine Gelassenheit, eine ruhige Abendstimmung aus, die mich sehr beeindruckte. Er war so friedlich und ergeben - hatte seine Angelegenheiten so perfekt im Griff und so systematisch in Ordnung gebracht -, dass er ein Mann war, bei dessen Anblick man berührt sein musste. Ich glaube wirklich, ich sah Tränen in seinen Augen aufsteigen, aus der Tiefe seines eigenen Gefühls für all das. Aber was konnte ich tun? Ich konnte Dora und mein eigenes Herz nicht verleugnen. Als er mir sagte, ich solle eine Woche darüber nachdenken, wie konnte ich sagen, dass ich keine Woche bräuchte? Doch konnte ich nicht wissen, dass keine Anzahl von Wochen eine solche Liebe beeinflussen könnte wie meine? "In der Zwischenzeit berate dich mit Miss Trotwood oder einer anderen Person, die Kenntnisse über das Leben hat", sagte Mr. Spenlow, während er seine Krawatte mit beiden Händen zurechtrückte. "Geben Sie sich eine Woche, Mr. Copperfield." Ich stimmte zu; und mit einem Ausdruck im Gesicht, der so viel wie möglich von betrüblicher und verzweifelter Beständigkeit zeigte, verließ ich das Zimmer. Miss Murdstones dicke Augenbrauen verfolgten mich bis zur Tür - ich sage ihre Augenbrauen statt ihrer Augen, weil sie in ihrem Gesicht viel wichtiger waren - und sie sah so genau aus wie damals am Morgen in unserem Wohnzimmer in Blunderstone, dass ich mir einbilden konnte, ich hätte wieder bei meinem Unterricht versagt und die schwere Last in meinem Geist war dieses schreckliche alte Rechtschreibbuch mit ovalen Holzschnitten, die meinen jugendlichen Fantasien nach, wie die Gläser aus einer Brille aussahen. Als ich im Büro ankam und mit meinen Händen alt Tiffey und den Rest von ihnen aussperrte, setzte ich mich an meinen Schreibtisch, in meine eigene spezielle Nische und dachte an dieses unerwartete Erdbeben, das stattgefunden hatte, und verfluchte in der Verbitterung meines Geistes Jip. Die Vorstellung, dass sie ihr Angst machen und zum Weinen bringen würden und dass ich nicht da wäre, um sie zu trösten, war so quälend, dass es mich veranlasste, einen wilden Brief an Mr. Spenlow zu schreiben und ihn zu bitten, ihr nicht die Konsequenzen meines furchtbaren Schicksals aufzuerlegen. Ich flehte ihn an, ihre sanfte Natur zu schonen, keine zerbrechliche Blume zu zerschmettern, und ich adressierte ihn allgemein, nach bestem Wissen, als ob er statt ihr Vater ein Oger oder der Drache von Wantley gewesen wäre. Diesen Brief versiegelte ich und legte ihn auf seinen Schreibtisch, bevor er zurückkam; und als er hereinkam, sah ich ihn durch die halboffene Tür seines Zimmers nehmen und lesen. Er sagte den ganzen Vormittag nichts darüber, aber bevor er am Nachmittag wegging, rief er mich herein und sagte mir, dass ich mir über das Glück seiner Tochter überhaupt keine Sorgen machen müsse. Er hatte ihr versichert, sagte er, dass das alles Unsinn sei und er nichts mehr mit ihr zu sagen habe. Er hielt sich für einen nachsichtigen Vater (was er in der Tat war) und ich könnte mir jede Sorge um sie ersparen. "Sie könnten es notwendig machen, wenn Sie töricht oder dickköpfig sind, Mr. Copperfield", bemerkte er, "dass ich meine Tochter wieder für eine Weile ins Ausland schicke; aber ich glaube, dass Sie klüger sein werden als das, in ein paar Tagen. Was Miss Murdstone betrifft", denn in dem Brief hatte ich sie erwähnt, "respektiere ich die Wachsamkeit dieser Dame und fühle mich ihr verpflichtet; aber sie hat strenge Anweisung, das Thema zu vermeiden. Alles, was ich möchte, Mr. Copperfield, ist, dass es vergessen wird. Alles, was Sie zu tun haben, Mr. Copperfield, ist, es zu vergessen." Alles! In dem Brief, den ich an Miss Mills geschrieben habe, habe ich dieses Gefühl bitter zitiert. Alles, was ich tun musste, sagte ich, mit düsterem Sarkasmus, war Dora zu vergessen. Das war alles, und was war das! Ich bat Miss Mills, mich an diesem Abend zu treffen. Wenn es nicht mit Mr. Mills' Zustimmung und Einverständnis gemacht werden könnte, bat ich um ein heimliches Treffen in der hinteren Küche, wo die Mangel stand. Miss Mills hatte eine wunderbare Wortflut und liebte es, sie auszuschütten. Obwohl sie ihre Tränen mit meinen mischte, konnte ich nicht umhin zu spüren, dass sie eine schreckliche Freude an unseren Leiden hatte. Sie betüdelte sie, sozusagen, und machte das Beste daraus. Wie sie bemerkte, hatte sich eine tiefe Kluft zwischen Dora und mir aufgetan, die nur die Liebe mit ihrem Regenbogen überbrücken konnte. Die Liebe müsse in dieser strengen Welt leiden; so war es immer gewesen und so würde es immer sein. Egal, bemerkte Miss Mills. Von Spinnweben eingeschränkte Herzen würden schließlich zerplatzen, und dann wäre die Liebe gerächt. Das war ein schwacher Trost, aber Miss Mills wollte keine trügerischen Hoffnungen schüren. Sie machte mich noch unglücklicher, als ich zuvor war, und ich fühlte (und sagte es ihr mit tiefster Dankbarkeit), dass sie wirklich eine Freundin war. Wir beschlossen, dass sie am nächsten Morgen als Erstes zu Dora gehen und irgendeine Möglichkeit finden sollte, sie entweder durch Blicke oder Worte von meiner Hingabe und meinem Elend zu überzeugen. Wir trennten uns, überwältigt von Trauer; und ich glaube, Miss Mills hat sich dabei bestens amüsiert. Als ich nach Hause kam, erzählte ich meiner Tante alles, und trotz allem, was sie mir sagen konnte, ging ich verzweifelt zu Bett. Ich stand verzweifelt auf und ging verzweifelt hinaus. Es war Samstagmorgen und ich ging direkt ins Büro. Ich war überrascht, als ich die Tür unseres Büros in Sichtweite bekam, die Kartenhändler draußen stehen zu sehen, die miteinander sprachen, und einige wenige Schaulustige, die auf die geschlossenen Fenster starrten. Ich beschleunigte mein Tempo und ging an ihnen vorbei, wunderte mich über ihre Blicke, und ging hastig hinein. Die Angestellten waren da, aber niemand tat etwas. Alter Tiffey saß, zum ersten Mal in seinem Leben, denke ich, auf dem Stuhl eines anderen und hatte seinen Hut nicht aufgehängt. "Das ist eine schreckliche Katastrophe, Mr. Copperfield", sagte er, als ich eintrat. "Was ist?" rief ich aus. "Was ist los?" "Weißt du es nicht?" rief Tiffey und alle anderen, die sich um mich versammelt hatten. "Nein!" sagte ich und sah von Gesicht zu Gesicht. "Mr. Spenlow", sagte Tiffey. "Was ist mit ihm?" "Tod!" Ich dachte, das Büro schwankte, nicht ich, als einer der Angestellten mich festhielt. Sie setzten mich auf einen Stuhl, lösten mein Halstuch und brachten mir etwas Wasser. Ich habe keine Ahnung, ob das einige Zeit dauerte. "Tod?", sagte ich. "Er hat gestern in der Stadt zu Abend gegessen und ist allein im Phaeton zurückgefahren", sagte Tiffey, "nachdem er seinen eigenen Kutscher mit dem Postkutschen nach Hause geschickt hatte, wie er es manchmal tat, weißt du..." "Nun?" "Das Gefährt kehrte ohne ihn zurück. Die Pferde hielten am Eingang des Stalles an. Der Mann ging mit einer Laterne hinaus. Niemand im Wagen." "Sind sie durchgegangen?" "Sie waren nicht erhitzt", sagte Tiffey, setzte seine Brille auf. "Nicht wärmer, so habe ich gehört, als sie bei normaler Geschwindigkeit gewesen wären. Die Zügel waren gerissen, aber sie hatten über den Boden geschleift. Das Haus wurde sofort geweckt und drei von ihnen gingen die Straße entlang. Sie fanden ihn eine Meile entfernt." "Mehr als eine Meile entfernt, Mr. Tiffey", warf ein Angestellter ein. "Stimmt das? Ich glaube du hast recht", sagte Tiffey, "mehr als eine Meile entfernt, aber nicht weit von der Kirche, lag er teilweise auf der Straße und teilweise auf dem Weg, mit dem Gesicht nach unten. Ob er während eines Anfalls herausgefallen ist oder ausgestiegen ist, weil er sich vor dem Anfall unwohl fühlte - oder sogar ob er zu diesem Zeitpunkt schon tot war, obwohl niemand bezweifelt, dass er völlig bewusstlos war - scheint niemand zu wissen. Falls er geatmet hat, hat er sicherlich nie gesprochen. Medizinische Hilfe wurde so schnell wie möglich geholt, aber es war völlig nutzlos." Ich kann den Gemütszustand, in den ich durch diese Nachricht versetzt wurde, nicht beschreiben. Der Schock eines solchen Ereignisses, das so plötzlich eintrat und das jemanden betraf, mit dem ich in gewisser Weise in Abneigung stand - die erschreckende Leere im Raum, den er vor Kurzem bewohnt hatte, wo sein Stuhl und Tisch auf ihn zu warten schienen und seine gestrige Handschrift wie ein Geist war - die undefinierbare Unmöglichkeit, ihn von diesem Ort zu trennen und das Gefühl zu haben, dass er hereinkommen könnte, wenn sich die Tür öffnet - die faule Ruhe und Stille im Büro und die unstillbare Freude, mit der unsere Leute darüber sprachen und andere Leute den ganzen Tag ein- und ausgingen und sich an dem Thema labten - das ist für jeden leicht verständlich. Was ich nicht beschreiben kann, ist, wie ich in den innersten Winkeln meines Herzens sogar eine heimliche Eifersucht gegenüber dem Tod hegte. Wie ich das Gefühl hatte, als ob seine Macht mich aus meinen Gedanken in Bezug auf Dora vertreiben würde. Wie ich auf eine neidische Art und Weise, für die ich keine Worte habe, um ihren Kummer beneidete. Wie es mich unruhig machte, daran zu denken, dass sie vor anderen weint oder von anderen getröstet wird. Wie ich einen ergreifenden, habgierigen Wunsch hatte, jeden außer mir selbst von ihr fernzuhalten und in dieser unangebrachten Zeit ganz für sie da zu sein. Inmitten dieses geistigen Zustandes der Unruhe - der hoffentlich nicht exklusiv meiner selbst war, aber auch anderen bekannt sein dürfte - ging ich an diesem Abend nach Norwood. Als ich von einem der Bediensteten an der Tür danach fragte, erfuhr ich, dass Miss Mills dort war, und bat meine Tante, ein Schreiben an sie zu richten, das ich verfasste. Ich betrauerte den tragischen Tod von Mr. Spenlow aufrichtig und vergoss dabei Tränen. Ich bat sie, Dora mitzuteilen, falls Dora in der Lage sei, es zu hören, dass er mir mit größter Freundlichkeit und Rücksichtnahme gesprochen habe und ihre Namen nur mit Zärtlichkeit, nicht mit einem einzigen Vorwurf, verbunden habe. Ich weiß, dass ich das aus egoistischen Gründen tat, um meinen Namen bei ihr ins Gedächtnis zu rufen, aber ich versuchte zu glauben, dass es ein Akt der Gerechtigkeit gegenüber seinem Andenken war. Vielleicht glaubte ich das auch wirklich. Meine Tante erhielt am nächsten Tag eine kurze Antwort, die außen an sie adressiert war und innen an mich. Dora war überwältigt vor Kummer, und als ihre Freundin sie fragte, ob sie ihre Liebe an mich weitergeben solle, hatte sie nur geweint, wie sie immer weinte: "Oh, lieber Papa! Oh, armer Papa!" Aber sie hatte nicht Nein gesagt, und das machte ich mir zunutze. Mr. Jorkins, der seit dem Vorfall in Norwood war, kam ein paar Tage später ins Büro. Er und Tiffey waren einige Zeit allein in einem Beratungszimmer, und dann schaute Tiffey an der Tür heraus und winkte mich herein. "Oh!", sagte Mr. Jorkins. "Mr. Tiffey und ich, Mr. Copperfield, werden die Schreibtische, die Schubladen und andere solche Aufbewahrungsorte 'Warum, segne meine Seele, er hat genau diesen Kommentar gemacht!' erwiderte ich hartnäckig. "Ich würde das als fast endgültig bezeichnen", bemerkte Tiffey. 'Meine Meinung ist - kein Testament.' Es schien mir wunderbar, stellte sich aber heraus, dass kein Testament existierte. Er hatte noch nicht einmal daran gedacht, eines zu machen, soweit seine Papiere irgendwelche Beweise lieferten. Denn es gab keinerlei Hinweis, Skizze oder Memorandum über irgendeine testamentarische Absicht. Was für mich kaum weniger erstaunlich war, war, dass seine Angelegenheiten in einem desolaten Zustand waren. Es war extrem schwierig, herauszufinden, was er schuldete, oder was er bezahlt hatte, oder was er besaß, als er starb. Es wurde angenommen, dass er jahrelang keine klare Meinung zu diesen Themen gehabt haben konnte. Nach und nach kam heraus, dass er im Wettbewerb um Erscheinung und Gentlemen-Tum, der in den Commons damals sehr hoch war, mehr als sein berufliches Einkommen ausgegeben hatte, das nicht sehr hoch war, und sein privates Vermögen, wenn es jemals groß gewesen war (was äußerst zweifelhaft war), auf einen sehr niedrigen Stand gebracht hatte. Es gab eine Versteigerung der Möbel und des Mietvertrages in Norwood; und Tiffey sagte mir, ohne zu ahnen, wie sehr mich die Geschichte interessierte, dass er bei Begleichung aller gerechten Schulden des Verstorbenen und Abzug seines Anteils an offenen schlechten und zweifelhaften Forderungen der Firma nicht tausend Pfund für die verbleibenden Vermögenswerte geben würde. Das war nach etwa sechs Wochen. Ich hatte die ganze Zeit über Qualen erlitten und dachte wirklich, ich müsste gewaltsam Hand an mich legen, als Miss Mills mir immer noch berichtete, dass meine gebrochene kleine Dora, wenn ich erwähnt wurde, nichts sagen würde, außer 'Oh, armer Papa! Oh, lieber Papa!' Auch dass sie keine anderen Verwandten als zwei Tanten hatte, ledige Schwestern von Mr. Spenlow, die in Putney lebten und seit vielen Jahren keiner anderen als zufälligen Kommunikation mit ihrem Bruder nachgegangen waren. Nicht, dass sie jemals zerstritten waren (informierte mich Miss Mills); sondern dass sie, als sie zur Taufe von Dora eingeladen waren, als sie sich eingeladen fühlten, zum Essen eingeladen zu werden, ihre Meinung schriftlich geäußert hatten, dass es 'besser für das Glück aller Parteien' sei, wenn sie fernblieben. Seitdem hatten sie ihren Weg eingeschlagen und ihr Bruder seinen. Diese beiden Damen traten nun aus ihrer Zurückgezogenheit und schlugen vor, dass Dora bei ihnen in Putney lebt. Dora, die sich an beide klammerte und weinte, rief aus: 'Oh ja, Tanten! Bringt bitte Julia Mills, mich und Jip nach Putney!' Also gingen sie sehr bald nach der Beerdigung. Wie ich Zeit fand, Putney heimzusuchen, weiß ich wirklich nicht; aber ich schaffte es auf irgendeine Weise, oft in der Nachbarschaft umherzustreifen. Miss Mills führte für die genaue Erfüllung der Aufgaben der Freundschaft ein Tagebuch; und manchmal traf sie mich auf dem Gemeinschaftsgrundstück, um es zu lesen oder (wenn sie keine Zeit dazu hatte) es mir auszuleihen. Wie sehr ich die Einträge schätzte, von denen ich eine Auswahl anfüge -! "Montag. Meine süße D. immer noch sehr niedergeschlagen. Kopfschmerzen. Auf J. aufmerksam gemacht, der äußerst glänzend ist. D. liebkoste J. Dadurch geweckte Assoziationen ließen Flutwellen des Kummers zu. (Sind Tränen der Tau des Herzens? J. M.) 'Dienstag. D. schwach und nervös. Wunderschön in Blässe. (Ist uns das nicht auch beim Mond aufgefallen? J. M.) D., J. M. und J. machten eine Fahrt mit der Kutsche. J. schaute aus dem Fenster und bellte heftig den Müllmann an, was ein Lächeln über D.s Gesicht zauberte. (Aus solchen kleinen Verbindungen besteht die Kette des Lebens! J. M.) 'Mittwoch. D. vergleichsweise fröhlich. Sang ihr als passende Melodie "Evening Bells" vor. Der Effekt war nicht beruhigend, sondern das Gegenteil. D. unbeschreiblich berührt. Fand sie später schluchzend in ihrem eigenen Zimmer. Zitierte Verse über sich selbst und das junge Gazellen. Erfolglos. Bezog sich auch auf Geduld am Monument. (Frage: Warum am Monument? J. M.) 'Donnerstag. D. hat sich definitiv gebessert. Bessere Nacht. Leichter Hauch von Röte kehrt auf Wangen zurück. Entschloss mich, den Namen D.C. vorsichtig während der Fahrt zu erwähnen. D. wird sofort überwältigt. "Oh, liebe Julia! Oh, ich war ein ungezogenes und undankbares Kind!" Getröstet und liebkost. Malte ein ideales Bild von D.C. am Rande des Grabes. D. wieder überwältigt. 'Oh, was soll ich tun, was soll ich tun? Oh, bring mich irgendwohin!" Sehr erschrocken. Ohnmacht von D. und ein Glas Wasser aus dem Wirtshaus. (Poetischer Zusammenhang. Kariertes Schild am Türpfosten, kariertes menschliches Leben. Ach! J. M.) 'Freitag. Tag des Vorfalls. Ein Mann erscheint in der Küche mit blauer Tasche "für die Damenschuhe, die zum Absatz stehen geblieben sind". Die Köchin antwortet: "Keine solchen Bestellungen." Der Mann argumentiert. Die Köchin zieht sich zurück, um nachzufragen und lässt den Mann allein bei J. Als die Köchin zurückkehrt, argumentiert der Mann immer noch, geht aber schließlich. J. fehlt. D. ist verzweifelt. Eine Mitteilung wird an die Polizei geschickt. Der Mann soll anhand einer breiten Nase und Beinen wie Geländern der Brücke identifiziert werden. Die Suche wird in alle Richtungen unternommen. Kein J. D. weint bitterlich und ist untröstlich. Erneute Bezugnahme auf das junge Gazellen. Passend, aber ergebnislos. Gegen Abend ruft ein merkwürdiger Junge an. Wird ins Wohnzimmer gebracht. Breite Nase, aber keine Geländer. Sagt, er will eine Pfundmünze und kennt einen Hund. Lehnt es ab, weitere Erklärungen abzugeben, obwohl er unter Druck gesetzt wird. Nachdem D. eine Pfundmünze produziert hat, nimmt sie die Köchin mit in das kleine Haus, wo J. allein an das Tischbein gebunden ist. Freude von D. Sie tanzt um J. herum, während er sein Abendessen isst. Infolge dieser glücklichen Veränderung ermutigt, erwähne ich D. C. oben. D. weint von neuem, schreit erbärmlich: "Oh, hör auf, hör auf, hör auf! Es ist so schlecht, an etwas anderes als an den armen Papa zu denken!" - umarmt J. und schluchzt sich in den Schlaf. (Darf sich D.C. nicht auf die breiten Schwingen der Zeit beschränken? J. M.) ' Miss Mills und ihr Tagebuch waren meine einzige Trostquelle in dieser Zeit. Sie zu sehen, die Dora erst vor Kurzem gesehen hatte - den Anfangsbuchstaben von Doras Namen in ihren einfühlsamen Seiten zu verfolgen - von ihr immer unglücklicher gemacht zu werden - das waren meine einzigen Tröstungen. Ich fühlte mich, als ob ich in einem Kartenpalast gelebt hätte, der zusammengefallen war und nur Miss Mills und mich unter den Trümmern zurückgelassen hatte; ich fühlte mich, als ob ein finsterer Zauberer einen magischen Kreis um die unschuldige Göttin meines Herzens gezogen hätte, den nichts als diese starken Schwingen, die so viele Menschen so weit tragen können, mich befähigen würden zu betreten! 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.

Eine Auflösung der Partnerschaft. Mit Traddles' Hilfe gelingt es David, Kurzschrift zu lernen. Eines Tages ruft Mr. Spenlow David kühl in ein Café in der Nähe der Wonderful Tax Court. Dort erwartet sie Miss Murdstone. Sie präsentiert eines von Davids Liebesbriefen, den sie Dora weggenommen hat. David gibt zu, dass er Dora gezwungen hat, ihre Affäre zu verheimlichen. Mr. Spenlow befiehlt David, Dora nicht mehr zu sehen, und droht damit, sie zu enterben und ins Ausland zu schicken, falls er nicht gehorcht. David sagt, dass er und Dora sich lieben und dass er sie nicht im Stich lassen kann. Am nächsten Tag kommt David am Wonderful Tax Court an und erfährt, dass Mr. Spenlow tot am Straßenrand aufgefunden wurde, nachdem er aus einem Wagen gestürzt war. David ist erstaunt festzustellen, dass Mr. Spenlow kein Testament hinterlassen hat, obwohl sein Beruf größtenteils darin bestand, die Testamente anderer Menschen zu regeln. Es stellt sich auch heraus, dass Mr. Spenlow seine Angelegenheiten in solch einer Unordnung hinterlassen hat, dass sein gesamter Nachlass nach Begleichung der Schulden weniger als tausend Pfund wert ist. Dora will David nicht sehen. Sie ist vor Trauer versunken und weint jedes Mal, wenn Julia David erwähnt, und sagt, es sei böse, an jemand anderen als an "den armen Papa" zu denken.

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: XXIII. Fire Rises There was a change on the village where the fountain fell, and where the mender of roads went forth daily to hammer out of the stones on the highway such morsels of bread as might serve for patches to hold his poor ignorant soul and his poor reduced body together. The prison on the crag was not so dominant as of yore; there were soldiers to guard it, but not many; there were officers to guard the soldiers, but not one of them knew what his men would do--beyond this: that it would probably not be what he was ordered. Far and wide lay a ruined country, yielding nothing but desolation. Every green leaf, every blade of grass and blade of grain, was as shrivelled and poor as the miserable people. Everything was bowed down, dejected, oppressed, and broken. Habitations, fences, domesticated animals, men, women, children, and the soil that bore them--all worn out. Monseigneur (often a most worthy individual gentleman) was a national blessing, gave a chivalrous tone to things, was a polite example of luxurious and shining life, and a great deal more to equal purpose; nevertheless, Monseigneur as a class had, somehow or other, brought things to this. Strange that Creation, designed expressly for Monseigneur, should be so soon wrung dry and squeezed out! There must be something short-sighted in the eternal arrangements, surely! Thus it was, however; and the last drop of blood having been extracted from the flints, and the last screw of the rack having been turned so often that its purchase crumbled, and it now turned and turned with nothing to bite, Monseigneur began to run away from a phenomenon so low and unaccountable. But, this was not the change on the village, and on many a village like it. For scores of years gone by, Monseigneur had squeezed it and wrung it, and had seldom graced it with his presence except for the pleasures of the chase--now, found in hunting the people; now, found in hunting the beasts, for whose preservation Monseigneur made edifying spaces of barbarous and barren wilderness. No. The change consisted in the appearance of strange faces of low caste, rather than in the disappearance of the high caste, chiselled, and otherwise beautified and beautifying features of Monseigneur. For, in these times, as the mender of roads worked, solitary, in the dust, not often troubling himself to reflect that dust he was and to dust he must return, being for the most part too much occupied in thinking how little he had for supper and how much more he would eat if he had it--in these times, as he raised his eyes from his lonely labour, and viewed the prospect, he would see some rough figure approaching on foot, the like of which was once a rarity in those parts, but was now a frequent presence. As it advanced, the mender of roads would discern without surprise, that it was a shaggy-haired man, of almost barbarian aspect, tall, in wooden shoes that were clumsy even to the eyes of a mender of roads, grim, rough, swart, steeped in the mud and dust of many highways, dank with the marshy moisture of many low grounds, sprinkled with the thorns and leaves and moss of many byways through woods. Such a man came upon him, like a ghost, at noon in the July weather, as he sat on his heap of stones under a bank, taking such shelter as he could get from a shower of hail. The man looked at him, looked at the village in the hollow, at the mill, and at the prison on the crag. When he had identified these objects in what benighted mind he had, he said, in a dialect that was just intelligible: "How goes it, Jacques?" "All well, Jacques." "Touch then!" They joined hands, and the man sat down on the heap of stones. "No dinner?" "Nothing but supper now," said the mender of roads, with a hungry face. "It is the fashion," growled the man. "I meet no dinner anywhere." He took out a blackened pipe, filled it, lighted it with flint and steel, pulled at it until it was in a bright glow: then, suddenly held it from him and dropped something into it from between his finger and thumb, that blazed and went out in a puff of smoke. "Touch then." It was the turn of the mender of roads to say it this time, after observing these operations. They again joined hands. "To-night?" said the mender of roads. "To-night," said the man, putting the pipe in his mouth. "Where?" "Here." He and the mender of roads sat on the heap of stones looking silently at one another, with the hail driving in between them like a pigmy charge of bayonets, until the sky began to clear over the village. "Show me!" said the traveller then, moving to the brow of the hill. "See!" returned the mender of roads, with extended finger. "You go down here, and straight through the street, and past the fountain--" "To the Devil with all that!" interrupted the other, rolling his eye over the landscape. "_I_ go through no streets and past no fountains. Well?" "Well! About two leagues beyond the summit of that hill above the village." "Good. When do you cease to work?" "At sunset." "Will you wake me, before departing? I have walked two nights without resting. Let me finish my pipe, and I shall sleep like a child. Will you wake me?" "Surely." The wayfarer smoked his pipe out, put it in his breast, slipped off his great wooden shoes, and lay down on his back on the heap of stones. He was fast asleep directly. As the road-mender plied his dusty labour, and the hail-clouds, rolling away, revealed bright bars and streaks of sky which were responded to by silver gleams upon the landscape, the little man (who wore a red cap now, in place of his blue one) seemed fascinated by the figure on the heap of stones. His eyes were so often turned towards it, that he used his tools mechanically, and, one would have said, to very poor account. The bronze face, the shaggy black hair and beard, the coarse woollen red cap, the rough medley dress of home-spun stuff and hairy skins of beasts, the powerful frame attenuated by spare living, and the sullen and desperate compression of the lips in sleep, inspired the mender of roads with awe. The traveller had travelled far, and his feet were footsore, and his ankles chafed and bleeding; his great shoes, stuffed with leaves and grass, had been heavy to drag over the many long leagues, and his clothes were chafed into holes, as he himself was into sores. Stooping down beside him, the road-mender tried to get a peep at secret weapons in his breast or where not; but, in vain, for he slept with his arms crossed upon him, and set as resolutely as his lips. Fortified towns with their stockades, guard-houses, gates, trenches, and drawbridges, seemed to the mender of roads, to be so much air as against this figure. And when he lifted his eyes from it to the horizon and looked around, he saw in his small fancy similar figures, stopped by no obstacle, tending to centres all over France. The man slept on, indifferent to showers of hail and intervals of brightness, to sunshine on his face and shadow, to the paltering lumps of dull ice on his body and the diamonds into which the sun changed them, until the sun was low in the west, and the sky was glowing. Then, the mender of roads having got his tools together and all things ready to go down into the village, roused him. "Good!" said the sleeper, rising on his elbow. "Two leagues beyond the summit of the hill?" "About." "About. Good!" The mender of roads went home, with the dust going on before him according to the set of the wind, and was soon at the fountain, squeezing himself in among the lean kine brought there to drink, and appearing even to whisper to them in his whispering to all the village. When the village had taken its poor supper, it did not creep to bed, as it usually did, but came out of doors again, and remained there. A curious contagion of whispering was upon it, and also, when it gathered together at the fountain in the dark, another curious contagion of looking expectantly at the sky in one direction only. Monsieur Gabelle, chief functionary of the place, became uneasy; went out on his house-top alone, and looked in that direction too; glanced down from behind his chimneys at the darkening faces by the fountain below, and sent word to the sacristan who kept the keys of the church, that there might be need to ring the tocsin by-and-bye. The night deepened. The trees environing the old chateau, keeping its solitary state apart, moved in a rising wind, as though they threatened the pile of building massive and dark in the gloom. Up the two terrace flights of steps the rain ran wildly, and beat at the great door, like a swift messenger rousing those within; uneasy rushes of wind went through the hall, among the old spears and knives, and passed lamenting up the stairs, and shook the curtains of the bed where the last Marquis had slept. East, West, North, and South, through the woods, four heavy-treading, unkempt figures crushed the high grass and cracked the branches, striding on cautiously to come together in the courtyard. Four lights broke out there, and moved away in different directions, and all was black again. But, not for long. Presently, the chateau began to make itself strangely visible by some light of its own, as though it were growing luminous. Then, a flickering streak played behind the architecture of the front, picking out transparent places, and showing where balustrades, arches, and windows were. Then it soared higher, and grew broader and brighter. Soon, from a score of the great windows, flames burst forth, and the stone faces awakened, stared out of fire. A faint murmur arose about the house from the few people who were left there, and there was a saddling of a horse and riding away. There was spurring and splashing through the darkness, and bridle was drawn in the space by the village fountain, and the horse in a foam stood at Monsieur Gabelle's door. "Help, Gabelle! Help, every one!" The tocsin rang impatiently, but other help (if that were any) there was none. The mender of roads, and two hundred and fifty particular friends, stood with folded arms at the fountain, looking at the pillar of fire in the sky. "It must be forty feet high," said they, grimly; and never moved. The rider from the chateau, and the horse in a foam, clattered away through the village, and galloped up the stony steep, to the prison on the crag. At the gate, a group of officers were looking at the fire; removed from them, a group of soldiers. "Help, gentlemen--officers! The chateau is on fire; valuable objects may be saved from the flames by timely aid! Help, help!" The officers looked towards the soldiers who looked at the fire; gave no orders; and answered, with shrugs and biting of lips, "It must burn." As the rider rattled down the hill again and through the street, the village was illuminating. The mender of roads, and the two hundred and fifty particular friends, inspired as one man and woman by the idea of lighting up, had darted into their houses, and were putting candles in every dull little pane of glass. The general scarcity of everything, occasioned candles to be borrowed in a rather peremptory manner of Monsieur Gabelle; and in a moment of reluctance and hesitation on that functionary's part, the mender of roads, once so submissive to authority, had remarked that carriages were good to make bonfires with, and that post-horses would roast. The chateau was left to itself to flame and burn. In the roaring and raging of the conflagration, a red-hot wind, driving straight from the infernal regions, seemed to be blowing the edifice away. With the rising and falling of the blaze, the stone faces showed as if they were in torment. When great masses of stone and timber fell, the face with the two dints in the nose became obscured: anon struggled out of the smoke again, as if it were the face of the cruel Marquis, burning at the stake and contending with the fire. The chateau burned; the nearest trees, laid hold of by the fire, scorched and shrivelled; trees at a distance, fired by the four fierce figures, begirt the blazing edifice with a new forest of smoke. Molten lead and iron boiled in the marble basin of the fountain; the water ran dry; the extinguisher tops of the towers vanished like ice before the heat, and trickled down into four rugged wells of flame. Great rents and splits branched out in the solid walls, like crystallisation; stupefied birds wheeled about and dropped into the furnace; four fierce figures trudged away, East, West, North, and South, along the night-enshrouded roads, guided by the beacon they had lighted, towards their next destination. The illuminated village had seized hold of the tocsin, and, abolishing the lawful ringer, rang for joy. Not only that; but the village, light-headed with famine, fire, and bell-ringing, and bethinking itself that Monsieur Gabelle had to do with the collection of rent and taxes--though it was but a small instalment of taxes, and no rent at all, that Gabelle had got in those latter days--became impatient for an interview with him, and, surrounding his house, summoned him to come forth for personal conference. Whereupon, Monsieur Gabelle did heavily bar his door, and retire to hold counsel with himself. The result of that conference was, that Gabelle again withdrew himself to his housetop behind his stack of chimneys; this time resolved, if his door were broken in (he was a small Southern man of retaliative temperament), to pitch himself head foremost over the parapet, and crush a man or two below. Probably, Monsieur Gabelle passed a long night up there, with the distant chateau for fire and candle, and the beating at his door, combined with the joy-ringing, for music; not to mention his having an ill-omened lamp slung across the road before his posting-house gate, which the village showed a lively inclination to displace in his favour. A trying suspense, to be passing a whole summer night on the brink of the black ocean, ready to take that plunge into it upon which Monsieur Gabelle had resolved! But, the friendly dawn appearing at last, and the rush-candles of the village guttering out, the people happily dispersed, and Monsieur Gabelle came down bringing his life with him for that while. Within a hundred miles, and in the light of other fires, there were other functionaries less fortunate, that night and other nights, whom the rising sun found hanging across once-peaceful streets, where they had been born and bred; also, there were other villagers and townspeople less fortunate than the mender of roads and his fellows, upon whom the functionaries and soldiery turned with success, and whom they strung up in their turn. But, the fierce figures were steadily wending East, West, North, and South, be that as it would; and whosoever hung, fire burned. The altitude of the gallows that would turn to water and quench it, no functionary, by any stretch of mathematics, was able to calculate successfully. Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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An einem Julitag nähert sich ein Fremder dem Straßenarbeiter und fragt nach dem Weg zum Schloss Evremonde. In dieser Nacht setzen vier Gestalten das Schloss in Brand und die Dorfbewohner sehen zu, wie es brennt, ohne auch nur den Versuch zu unternehmen, es zu löschen, trotz der Bitten der Bediensteten des Schlosses. Angespornt von der Zerstörung des Schlosses bedrohen die Dorfbewohner Gabelle, den örtlichen Steuereintreiber, der sich auf seinem Dach versteckt, während die Dorfbewohner an seine Tür klopfen.

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: Man sollte nicht annehmen, dass das Leben einer so aktiven Persönlichkeit wie Phoebe vollständig auf das alte Pyncheon-Haus beschränkt sein könnte. Cliffords Ansprüche an ihre Zeit wurden in diesen langen Tagen in der Regel deutlich früher als zum Sonnenuntergang erfüllt. So ruhig sein tägliches Dasein auch schien, es bedeutete dennoch einen großen Aufwand an Lebensenergie. Es war nicht physische Bewegung, die ihn überanstrengte - denn abgesehen davon, dass er manchmal ein wenig mit einer Hacke arbeitete, den Gartenweg entlangschritt oder bei Regenwetter ein großes ungenutztes Zimmer durchquerte - tendierte er dazu, zu passiv zu bleiben, was jede Anstrengung von Gliedmaßen und Muskeln betraf. Aber entweder gab es ein schwelendes Feuer in ihm, das seine vitale Energie verbrauchte, oder die Monotonie, die sich mit betäubender Wirkung über einen andersartig orientierten Geist gelegt hätte, war für Clifford keine Monotonie. Möglicherweise befand er sich in einem Zustand des Wachstums und der Genesung und assimilierte ständig Nahrung für Geist und Intellekt aus Dingen, Klängen und Ereignissen, die für Personen, die mit der Welt vertrauter sind, wie eine perfekte Leere vergehen. So wie für den kindlichen Geist alles Aktivität und Wechsel ist, so könnte es für einen Geist sein, der eine Art Neuschöpfung erlebt hat, nach seinem lang gehemmten Leben. Was auch immer der Grund dafür sein mochte, ging Clifford in der Regel zur Ruhe, völlig erschöpft, während die Sonnenstrahlen noch durch seine Vorhänge schmolzen oder spät auf die Zimmerwand fielen. Und während er so früh schlief, wie es andere Kinder tun, und von seiner Kindheit träumte, konnte Phoebe den Rest des Tages und des Abends nach ihren eigenen Vorlieben verbringen. Diese Freiheit war für die Gesundheit selbst eines Charakters, der so wenig anfällig für krankhafte Einflüsse war wie Phoebe, wesentlich. Das alte Haus, wie bereits erwähnt, hatte sowohl den Trocken- als auch den Feuchttod in seinen Mauern - es war nicht gut, keine andere Atmosphäre als diese einzuatmen. Hepzibah, obwohl sie wertvolle und löbliche Eigenschaften hatte, war durch ihre langjährige Gefangenschaft an diesem einen Ort, ohne andere Gesellschaft als eine einzige Abfolge von Gedanken und nur einer einzigen Zuneigung und einem einzigen bitteren Gefühl des Unrechts, eine Art Wahnsinnige geworden. Clifford, mag der Leser sich vorstellen, war zu träge, um moralisch auf seine Mitmenschen einzuwirken, egal wie vertraut und exklusiv ihre Beziehungen zu ihm waren. Aber die Sympathie oder Anziehungskraft unter Menschen ist subtiler und universeller, als wir denken; sie existiert tatsächlich zwischen verschiedenen Klassen von lebenden Organismen und schwingt von einem zum anderen. Eine Blume zum Beispiel, wie Phoebe selbst bemerkte, begann immer früher in Cliffords oder Hepzibahs Hand zu welken als in ihrer eigenen; und nach demselben Gesetz, indem sie ihr ganzes tägliches Leben in einen Duft für diese beiden kränklichen Seelen verwandelte, würde das blühende Mädchen zwangsläufig viel früher verkümmern und verblassen, als wenn es auf einer jüngeren und glücklicheren Brust getragen würde. Wenn sie nicht gelegentlich ihren lebhaften Impulsen nachgegeben und ländliche Luft bei einem Spaziergang in der Vorstadt oder Meeresbrisen am Strand eingeatmet hätte - ab und zu dem Impuls der Natur bei New England Mädchen nachgekommen wäre, in dem sie einen metaphysischen oder philosophischen Vortrag besucht oder eine sieben Meilen lange Panorama betrachtet oder ein Konzert gehört hätte - in der Stadt einkaufen gegangen wäre, ganze Depots prächtiger Waren durchstöbert hätte und ein Band mit nach Hause gebracht hätte - zusätzlich ein wenig Zeit im Schlafzimmer damit verbracht hätte die Bibel zu lesen und noch einen Moment mehr, um an ihre Mutter und ihren Heimatort zu denken - hätte Phoebe bald dünn werden und ein gebleichtes, ungesundes Aussehen annehmen und merkwürdige, scheue Verhaltensweisen annehmen müssen, die auf ein Leben als alte Jungfer und eine düstere Zukunft hindeuten. Auch so war eine Veränderung sichtbar geworden, eine Veränderung, die teilweise bedauert werden konnte, obwohl sie durch etwas anderes, vielleicht Wertvolleres, ausgeglichen wurde. Sie war nicht mehr ständig fröhlich, sondern hatte ihre nachdenklichen Phasen, die Clifford im Ganzen besser gefielen als ihre frühere Phase unvermischter Fröhlichkeit; denn jetzt verstand sie ihn besser und feinfühliger und interpretierte ihn manchmal sogar für sich selbst. Ihre Augen schienen größer, dunkler und tiefer zu sein; so tief, dass sie in manchen stillen Momenten wie artesische Brunnen erschienen, hinab, hinab in die Unendlichkeit. Sie war nicht mehr so mädchenhaft wie beim ersten Mal, als wir sie aus dem Omnibus steigen sahen, nicht mehr so mädchenhaft, sondern mehr eine Frau. Der einzige junge Geist, mit dem Phoebe die Gelegenheit hatte, häufigen Kontakt zu haben, war der des Daguerreotypisten. Aufgrund der Abgeschiedenheit, in der sie sich befanden, waren sie unvermeidlich in Gewohnheiten einer gewissen Vertrautheit miteinander geraten. Hätten sie sich unter anderen Umständen getroffen, hätten diese beiden jungen Menschen wahrscheinlich nicht viel über den anderen nachgedacht, es sei denn, ihre extreme Verschiedenheit hätte ein Prinzip gegenseitiger Anziehungskraft dargestellt. Beide waren zwar für das Leben in Neuengland geeignete Charaktere und besaßen daher eine gemeinsame Grundlage in ihren äußerlichen Erscheinungsformen, aber in ihren inneren Eigenschaften waren sie sich so unähnlich, als wären ihre Heimatländer weltweit voneinander entfernt gewesen. Während des frühen Teils ihrer Bekanntschaft hatte sich Phoebe etwas mehr zurückgehalten als mit ihren offenen und einfachen Manieren bei Holgraves nicht sehr offensichtlichen Annäherungsversuchen üblich wäre. Und sie war noch nicht zufrieden, dass sie ihn gut kannte, obwohl sie sich fast täglich begegneten und in einer freundlichen und familiären Weise miteinander sprachen. Der Künstler hatte Phoebe auf seine eigene Art und in lockerem Zusammenhang etwas von seiner Geschichte erzählt. Selbst in seinem jungen Alter und wenn seine Karriere bereits an dem Punkt geendet hätte, den er bereits erreicht hatte, hätte es genug Ereignisse gegeben, um sehr achtbar ein autobiografisches Buch zu füllen. Eine Romanze nach dem Vorbild von Gil Blas, angepasst an die amerikanische Gesellschaft und Sitten, wäre keine Romanze mehr. Die Erfahrungen vieler Einzelpersonen unter uns, die es kaum für erzählenswert halten würden, würden den Wechselfällen des früheren Lebens des Spaniers gleichkommen, während ihr letztendlicher Erfolg oder das Ziel, auf das sie hinarbeiten, möglicherweise unvergleichlich höher wäre als das, was ein Schriftsteller für seinen Helden vorstellen würde. Holgrave konnte, wie er Phoebe etwas stolz mitteilte, nicht mit seinem Ursprung prahlen, es sei denn, er wäre äußerst bescheiden, und auch nicht mit seiner Bildung, außer dass sie so karg wie möglich war und er nur einige Wintermonate lang eine Bezirksschule besucht hatte. Früh auf sich selbst gestellt, hatte er bereits als Junge angefangen, unabhängig zu sein; und es war eine Bedingung, die gut zu seiner natürlichen Willenskraft passte. Obwohl er erst zweiundzwanzig Jahre alt war (es fehlten einige Monate, die in diesem Leben Jahre sind), war er bereits, erstens, ein Landschullehrer, dann ein Verkäufer in einem Landladen und entweder zur gleichen Zeit oder danach der politische Redakteur einer Landzeitung gewesen. Anschließend hatte er New England und die Mittelstaaten als Hausierer im Dienste einer Kondenswasser- und anderer Essenzfabrik in Connecticut bereist. In episodischer Weise hatte er Zahntechnik studiert und praktiziert und dabei durchaus schmeichelhaften Erfolg gehabt, vor allem in vielen Fabrikstäd Seine aktuelle Phase als Daguerreotypist war in seinen eigenen Augen nicht wichtiger und wahrscheinlich nicht dauerhafter als die vorherigen. Er hatte sie mit der sorglosen Eile eines Abenteurers aufgenommen, der sein Brot verdienen musste. Sie würde genauso leichtfertig beiseite geworfen, sobald er sich entscheiden würde, sein Brot auf ebenso ablenkende Weise zu verdienen. Doch das bemerkenswerteste und vielleicht zeigenste Zeichen für die außergewöhnliche Ausgeglichenheit des jungen Mannes war die Tatsache, dass er trotz all dieser persönlichen Wandelungen seine Identität nie verloren hatte. Obwohl er obdachlos gewesen war, ständig seinen Aufenthaltsort wechselte und daher weder öffentlicher Meinung noch Einzelnen gegenüber verantwortlich war, indem er eine äußere Gestalt ablegte und eine andere annahm, um bald wieder eine dritte zu erhalten – er hatte nie seinen innersten Kern verletzt, sondern sein Gewissen immer mit sich geführt. Es war unmöglich, Holgrave zu kennen, ohne dies als Tatsache anzuerkennen. Hepzibah hatte es erkannt. Phoebe erkannte es bald ebenfalls und schenkte ihm das Vertrauen, das eine solche Gewissheit hervorruft. Sie war jedoch überrascht und manchmal abgestoßen – nicht wegen irgendeines Zweifels an seiner Integrität gegenüber welchen Regeln auch immer er folgte, sondern wegen dem Gefühl, dass seine Regeln von ihren eigenen abwichen. Er machte sie unruhig und schien alles um sie herum zu stören, durch seinen Mangel an Respekt für das Etablierte, es sei denn, es könne mit einer sofortigen Warnung begründen, sein Recht auf Bestand zu erhalten. Darüber hinaus schien er ihr nicht besonders liebevoll in seinem Wesen zu sein. Er war ein allzu ruhiger und cooler Beobachter. Phoebe spürte oft seinen Blick, sein Herz jedoch selten oder nie. Er interessierte sich auf eine bestimmte Art für Hepzibah und ihren Bruder und sogar für Phoebe selbst. Er studierte sie aufmerksam und ließ keinen noch so kleinen Aspekt ihrer Individualitäten an sich vorübergehen. Er war bereit, ihnen Gutes zu tun, aber letztendlich hatte er nie wirklich ihre Sache zu seiner gemacht oder zuverlässige Beweise geliefert, dass er sie umso mehr liebte, je besser er sie kennenlernte. In ihrer Beziehung zu ihnen schien er geistige Nahrung zu suchen, nicht Herz-Ernährung. Phoebe konnte sich nicht vorstellen, was ihn intellektuell so sehr an ihren Freunden und an sich selbst interessierte, da er nichts für sie oder relativ wenig als Objekte menschlicher Zuneigung tat. Bei seinen Treffen mit Phoebe erkundigte sich der Künstler stets besonders nach dem Wohlergehen von Clifford, den er außer beim sonntäglichen Fest selten zu Gesicht bekam. "Ist er immer noch glücklich?", fragte er einmal. "So glücklich wie ein Kind", antwortete Phoebe, "aber - wie ein Kind - sehr leicht gestört." "Wie gestört?", erkundigte sich Holgrave. "Durch äußere Dinge oder durch Gedanken?" "Ich kann seine Gedanken nicht sehen! Wie könnte ich?", antwortete Phoebe mit einfacher Pikanz. "Seine Stimmung ändert sich oft ohne irgendeinen nachvollziehbaren Grund, genauso wie eine Wolke die Sonne verdeckt. Seit ich ihn besser kenne, scheint es mir nicht ganz richtig, seine Stimmungen genau zu beobachten. Er hat so ein großes Leid erlebt, dass sein Herz davon ganz ernst und heilig geworden ist. Wenn er fröhlich ist - wenn die Sonne in seinem Geist scheint - dann wage ich es, einen Blick zu werfen, nur so weit wie das Licht reicht, aber nicht weiter. Es ist heiliger Boden, wo der Schatten fällt!" "Du drückst dieses Gefühl so schön aus!", sagte der Künstler. "Ich kann das Gefühl verstehen, ohne es zu besitzen. Hätte ich deine Möglichkeiten, keine Bedenken würden mich daran hindern, Clifford bis in die tiefste Tiefe zu ergründen!" "Wie seltsam, dass du das wünschst!" bemerkte Phoebe unwillkürlich. "Was ist Cousin Clifford für dich?" "Oh, nichts - natürlich, nichts!" antwortete Holgrave mit einem Lächeln. "Nur diese Welt ist so eine seltsame und unverständliche Welt! Je mehr ich sie betrachte, desto mehr verwirrt sie mich und ich beginne zu vermuten, dass die Verwirrung eines Menschen das Maß für seine Weisheit ist. Männer und Frauen und auch Kinder sind so merkwürdige Geschöpfe, dass man nie sicher sein kann, ob man sie wirklich kennt, und nie raten kann, was sie gewesen sind, basierend auf dem, was man sie jetzt sieht. Richter Pyncheon! Clifford! Welches komplizierte Rätsel - eine Vielzahl von Schwierigkeiten - stellen sie dar! Es erfordert eine intuitive Sympathie wie die eines jungen Mädchens, um es zu lösen. Ein bloßer Beobachter wie ich (der nie irgendwelche Intuitionen hat und bestenfalls nur aufmerksam und scharfsinnig ist), wird ziemlich sicher in die Irre gehen." Der Künstler lenkte das Gespräch nun auf Themen, die weniger düster waren als das, was sie zuvor berührt hatten. Phoebe und er waren zusammen aufgewachsen und Holgrave hatte in seiner vorzeitigen Lebenserfahrung nicht das schöne jugendliche Gemüt verschwendet, das aus einem kleinen Herzen und einer kleinen Fantasie hervorströmt und sich über das Universum ausbreiten kann, um alles so hell zu machen wie am ersten Tag der Schöpfung. Die eigene Jugend des Menschen ist die Jugend der Welt, zumindest fühlt er so und stellt sich vor, dass die granitene Substanz der Erde noch nicht gehärtet ist und er sie in jede gewünschte Form bringen kann. So war es auch bei Holgrave. Er konnte weise über das Altwerden der Welt sprechen, glaubte aber nie wirklich an das, was er sagte. Er war immer noch ein junger Mann und sah daher die Welt - dieses ergrauende und runzlige, liederliche, doch nicht ehrwürdige Wesen - als einen zarten Jüngling an, der verbessert werden kann, aber noch nicht die entfernteste Aussicht darauf gezeigt hat. Er hatte dieses Gefühl oder innere Vorahnung - was ein junger Mann besser nie gehabt hätte als sie nicht zu haben und was ein reifer Mann besser sofort sterben sollte als es völlig aufzugeben - dass wir dazu bestimmt sind, nicht ewig auf die alte schlechte Art weiterzumachen, sondern dass es in diesem Moment bereits die Vorboten eines goldenen Zeitalters gibt, das in seiner eigenen Lebenszeit erreicht werden soll. Es schien Holgrave - wie zweifellos auch allen Hoffnungsvollen jeder Epoche seit dem Zeitalter von Adams Enkeln - dass in diesem Zeitalter mehr als je zuvor das mit Moos bewachsene und verrottete Vergangene niedergerissen und leblose Institutionen aus dem Weg geräumt und ihre toten Leichen begraben werden müssten und alles von Neuem beginnen müsste. Was den Hauptpunkt betrifft - möge es uns nie in den Sinn kommen, daran zu zweifeln! -, hatte der Künstler sicherlich Recht. Sein Irrtum bestand darin anzunehmen, dass dieses Zeitalter mehr als jedes vergangene oder zukünftige dazu bestimmt ist, die zerschlissenen Kleider der Antike gegen einen neuen Anzug auszutauschen, anstatt sich allmählich durch Flicken zu erneuern; darin, sein eigenes kurzes Lebensalter als Maßstab für eine endlose Leistung anzusehen; und vor allem darin zu glauben, dass es für das große Ziel von Bedeutung sei, ob er selbst dafür oder dagegen kämpfen würde. Doch für ihn war es gut, so zu denken. Diese Begeisterung, die sich durch die Ruhe seines Charakters zieht und somit den Anschein von festem Denken und Weisheit annimmt, würde dazu dienen, seine Jugend rein zu halten und seine Aspirationen hoch zu halten. Und wenn sich im Laufe der Jahre die Last seines Alters schwerer auf ihn legen würde und sein früher Glaube durch unvermeidliche Erfahrungen modifiziert würde, dann geschähe dies ohne eine harte und plötzliche Revolution seiner Gefühle. Er würde immer noch an das aufhellende Schicksal Holgrave hatte sehr wenig gelesen und das Wenige nur oberflächlich im Laufe seines Lebens, wo die mystische Sprache seiner Bücher zwangsläufig mit dem Geschwätz der Menge vermischt wurde, so dass sowohl das eine als auch das andere jeglichen Sinn verlieren konnten, den sie eigentlich hätten haben können. Er betrachtete sich selbst als Denker und war sicherlich nachdenklich veranlagt, aber mit seinem eigenen Weg zu entdecken war er vielleicht noch nicht den Punkt erreicht, an dem ein gebildeter Mann anfängt, zu denken. Der eigentliche Wert seines Charakters lag in diesem tiefen Bewusstsein innerer Stärke, das alle seine vergangenen Schicksalsschläge wie ein einfacher Kleiderwechsel erscheinen ließ; in diesem Enthusiasmus, so leise, dass er kaum von seiner Existenz wusste, der aber allem eine Wärme verlieh, was er berührte; in dieser persönlichen Ambition, verborgen - vor seinen eigenen sowie vor anderen Augen - hinter seinen großherzigen Impulsen, aber in der eine gewisse Effektivität steckte, die ihn von einem Theoretiker zu einem Verfechter einer realisierbaren Sache machen könnte. Alles in allem könnte der Künstler in seiner Kultur und Unkultur - in seiner rohen, wilden und nebligen Philosophie sowie in der praktischen Erfahrung, die einigen ihrer Tendenzen entgegenwirkte -, in seinem großmütigen Eifer für das Wohl des Menschen und seinem Leichtsinn gegenüber allem, was die Zeitalter im Sinne des Menschen festgelegt hatten, in seinem Glauben und in seiner Untreue, in dem, was er hatte und in dem, was er vermisste - durchaus als Repräsentant vieler Gleichgesinnter in seinem Heimatland stehen. Es wäre schwierig, seine zukünftige Laufbahn vorauszusagen. Bei Holgrave schienen Qualitäten vorhanden zu sein, die in einem Land, in dem alles frei ist, für diejenigen, die danach greifen können, kaum versagen dürften, einige der Preise der Welt in Reichweite zu bringen. Aber diese Angelegenheiten sind herrlich ungewiss. Fast bei jedem Schritt im Leben begegnen wir jungen Männern in Holgraves Alter, bei denen wir wunderbare Dinge erwarten, aber von denen wir, selbst nach viel Untersuchung, nie wieder ein Wort hören. Das Aufwallen der Jugend und der Leidenschaft und der frische Glanz von Verstand und Vorstellungskraft verleihen ihnen eine falsche Brillanz, die sie selbst und andere zu Narren macht. Wie bestimmte Baumwollstoffe und Ginghams sehen sie in ihrer ersten Neuheit gut aus, aber sie können Sonne und Regen nicht standhalten und nehmen nach dem Waschtag ein sehr nüchternes Aussehen an. Aber unser Geschäft befasst sich mit Holgrave, wie wir ihn an diesem besonderen Nachmittag und im Pyncheon-Gartenpavillon antreffen. In dieser Hinsicht war es ein angenehmer Anblick, diesen jungen Mann mit so viel Glauben an sich selbst und einer so schönen Erscheinung bewundern zu können, der so wenig durch die vielen Prüfungen, die sein Metall geprüft hatten, geschädigt war - es war angenehm, ihn in seinem freundlichen Umgang mit Phoebe zu sehen. Ihre Gedanken hatten ihm kaum Recht getan, als sie ihn kalt nannte; oder wenn überhaupt, dann war er jetzt wärmer geworden. Ohne dass es ihre Absicht gewesen wäre und unbewusst von ihm, machte sie das Haus der sieben Giebel für ihn wie ein Zuhause und den Garten zu einem vertrauten Ort. Mit dem Einblick, auf den er stolz war, glaubte er, dass er Phoebe durchschauen und alles um sie herum lesen könne, wie auf einer Seite eines Kinderbuches. Aber diese durchsichtigen Naturen sind oft in ihrer Tiefe irreführend; diese Kieselsteine am Grund des Brunnens sind weiter von uns entfernt, als wir denken. So wurde der Künstler, wie auch immer er Phoebes Fähigkeiten einschätzen mochte, von einem stillen Charme von ihr dazu verführt, frei über das zu sprechen, was er sich in der Welt vorstellte. Er ließ sich wie zu einem anderen selbst aus. Sehr wahrscheinlich vergaß er Phoebe, während er mit ihr sprach, und war nur von der unvermeidlichen Tendenz des Denkens bewegt, wenn es durch Begeisterung und Emotion mitfühlend wird, in das erste sichere Reservoir zu fließen, das es findet. Aber wenn du durch die Lücken des Gartenzauns gelinst hättest, könnten dich die Ernsthaftigkeit und die erhöhte Farbe des jungen Mannes vermuten lassen, dass er sich in das junge Mädchen verliebte! Schließlich wurde etwas von Holgrave gesagt, das es Phoebe ermöglichte, zu fragen, wie er zum ersten Mal mit ihrer Cousine Hepzibah bekannt geworden war und warum er sich jetzt dazu entschieden hatte, im verlassenen alten Pyncheon-Haus zu wohnen. Ohne direkt auf sie zu antworten, wandte er sich von der Zukunft ab, die bisher das Thema seines Gesprächs gewesen war, und begann von den Einflüssen der Vergangenheit zu sprechen. Ein Thema ist tatsächlich nur die Echo des anderen. "Können wir uns niemals, niemals von dieser Vergangenheit befreien?", rief er, den ernsten Ton seines vorherigen Gesprächs beibehaltend. "Sie liegt so schwer auf der Gegenwart wie der Körper eines Riesen. In der Tat ist es genauso, als ob ein junger Riese gezwungen wäre, seine ganze Kraft darauf zu verschwenden, die Leiche des alten Riesen, seines Großvaters, der vor langer Zeit gestorben ist, herumzutragen und nur ordentlich begraben zu werden. Denk nur mal einen Moment nach, und es wird dich erschrecken, zu sehen, wie sehr wir Sklaven vergangener Zeiten sind, dem Tod, wenn wir der Sache das richtige Wort geben!" "Aber ich sehe es nicht", bemerkte Phoebe. "Zum Beispiel", fuhr Holgrave fort: "Ein Toter, wenn er zufällig ein Testament gemacht hat, verfügt über Reichtum, der nicht mehr ihm gehört; oder wenn er ohne Testament stirbt, wird er in Übereinstimmung mit den Vorstellungen von Männern verteilt, die viel länger tot sind als er selbst. Ein Toter sitzt auf allen unseren Richterstühlen, und lebende Richter suchen und wiederholen nur seine Entscheidungen. Wir lesen in den Büchern verstorbener Menschen! Wir lachen über die Witze verstorbener Menschen und weinen über das Pathos verstorbener Menschen! Wir leiden an den Krankheiten verstorbener Menschen, körperlich und moralisch, und sterben an den gleichen Mitteln, mit denen tote Ärzte ihre Patienten getötet haben! Wir verehren den lebenden Gott nach den Formen und Überzeugungen toter Menschen. Was immer wir aus eigenem Antrieb tun wollen, wird von der eisigen Hand eines Toten behindert! Wenden wir unsere Augen in welche Richtung wir auch immer wollen, eine totenbleiche, unerbittliche Gesicht eines Toten begegnet ihnen und erstarrt unser Herz! Und wir müssen selbst tot sein, bevor wir Einfluss auf unsere eigene Welt ausüben können, die dann nicht mehr unsere eigene Welt sein wird, sondern die Welt einer anderen Generation, in die wir kein Recht haben einzugreifen. Ich hätte auch sagen sollen, dass wir in den Häusern von Toten leben; zum Beispiel in diesem der Sieben Giebel!" "Und warum nicht", sagte Phoebe, "solange wir uns darin wohl fühlen können?" "Aber ich hoffe, wir werden den Tag erleben", fuhr der Künstler fort, "an dem kein Mensch mehr sein Haus für die Nachwelt bauen wird. Warum sollte er? Er könnte genauso gut einen dauerhaften Anzug bestellen - Leder oder Guttapercha oder was auch immer am längsten hält -, damit seine Urenkel davon profitieren und genau das gleiche Bild in der Welt abgeben wie er selbst "Oh, ich studiere hier; nicht in Büchern allerdings", antwortete Holgrave. "Das Haus, meiner Ansicht nach, drückt diese abscheuliche und verabscheuungswürdige Vergangenheit aus, mit all ihren schlechten Einflüssen, gegen die ich gerade protestiert habe. Ich wohne eine Weile darin, um es besser hassen zu können. Übrigens, hast du jemals von der Geschichte von Maule, dem Zauberer, und was zwischen ihm und deinem unermesslich entfernten Urgroßvater geschah, gehört?" "Ja, wirklich!" sagte Phoebe; "Ich habe es vor langer Zeit von meinem Vater gehört und zwei- oder dreimal von meiner Cousine Hepzibah, seitdem ich hier bin. Sie scheint zu denken, dass alle Katastrophen der Pyncheons mit diesem Streit mit dem Zauberer begannen, wie du ihn nennst. Und du, Mr. Holgrave, scheinst das auch zu denken! Wie merkwürdig, dass du etwas so Absurdes glaubst, wenn du viele Dinge, die viel glaubhafter sind, ablehnst!" "Ich glaube es", sagte der Künstler ernsthaft; "nicht als Aberglaube allerdings, sondern als bewiesen durch unbestreitbare Fakten und als Verkörperung einer Theorie. Jetzt sieh: unter diesen sieben Giebeln, zu denen wir jetzt aufblicken - und welche der alte Colonel Pyncheon als das Haus seiner Nachkommen in Wohlstand und Glück geplant hatte, bis weit über die Gegenwart hinaus - unter diesem Dach hat es über einen Zeitraum von drei Jahrhunderten hinweg eine andauernde Gewissensbisse, eine konstant gescheiterte Hoffnung, Streit unter Verwandten, verschiedenes Elend, eine seltsame Form des Todes, düsteren Verdacht, unsagbare Schande gegeben - die meisten dieser Katastrophen kann ich auf den übermäßigen Wunsch des alten Puritaners, eine Familie zu pflanzen und zu begünstigen, zurückverfolgen. Eine Familie zu pflanzen! Diese Idee steckt hinter den meisten Fehlern und Verwüstungen, die Menschen verursachen. Die Wahrheit ist, dass eine Familie, spätestens alle fünfzig Jahre, in der großen, unbekannten Masse der Menschheit aufgehen sollte und alles über ihre Vorfahren vergessen sollte. Menschliches Blut, um frisch zu bleiben, sollte in versteckten Strömen fließen, wie Wasser durch unterirdische Rohre in einem Aquädukt geleitet wird. In der Familie der Pyncheons zum Beispiel - verzeih mir, Phoebe, aber ich kann dich nicht als eine von ihnen betrachten - in ihrem kurzen Stammbaum aus Neuengland gab es genug Zeit, um sie alle mit einer Art Verrücktheit oder einer anderen anstecken zu lassen." "Du sprichst sehr unceremoniös über meine Verwandtschaft", sagte Phoebe und überlegte, ob sie beleidigt sein sollte oder nicht. "Ich spreche wahre Gedanken zu einem wahren Geist!" antwortete Holgrave, mit einer Leidenschaft, die Phoebe zuvor noch nicht bei ihm beobachtet hatte. "Die Wahrheit ist, wie ich sage! Außerdem scheint der ursprüngliche Täter und Vater dieses Unheils sich selbst fortzusetzen und läuft immer noch auf der Straße herum - jedenfalls sein Abbild, in Geist und Körper - mit der besten Aussicht, seinen Nachkommen ein ebenso reiches und elendes Erbe zu übertragen, wie er es erhalten hat! Erinnerst du dich an das Daguerreotyp und dessen Ähnlichkeit mit dem alten Porträt?" "Wie seltsam ernst du bist!" rief Phoebe aus, ihn mit Überraschung und Verwirrung betrachtend; halb beunruhigt und teilweise geneigt, zu lachen. "Du sprichst von der Verrücktheit der Pyncheons; ist sie ansteckend?" "Ich verstehe dich!" sagte der Künstler, errötend und lachend. "Ich glaube, ich bin ein wenig verrückt. Dieses Thema hat von meinem Geist mit einer seltsamen Beharrlichkeit Besitz ergriffen, seit ich in jenem alten Giebel wohne. Als eine Methode, mich davon zu befreien, habe ich ein Ereignis aus der Familiengeschichte der Pyncheons, von dem ich zufällig Kenntnis habe, in Form einer Legende niedergeschrieben und habe vor, sie in einer Zeitschrift zu veröffentlichen." "Schreibst du für Zeitschriften?" fragte Phoebe. "Ist es möglich, dass du es nicht weißt?" rief Holgrave aus. "So ist literarischer Ruhm! Ja. Miss Phoebe Pyncheon, unter der Vielzahl meiner wunderbaren Gaben habe ich die des Geschichtenschreibens; und mein Name hat, kann ich dir versichern, auf den Titelseiten von Graham und Godey gestanden und machte, soweit ich sehen konnte, einen genauso respektablen Eindruck wie all die kanonisierten Beamten, mit denen er verbunden war. In der humorvollen Richtung werde ich als sehr geschickt angesehen; und was das Pathos betrifft, so bin ich so tränenreich wie eine Zwiebel. Aber soll ich dir meine Geschichte vorlesen?" "Ja, wenn sie nicht sehr lang ist", sagte Phoebe und fügte lachend hinzu: "und nicht sehr langweilig." Da der Daguerreotypist diese letzte Frage nicht für sich selbst entscheiden konnte, holte er sofort seine Rollen mit dem Manuskript hervor und begann zu lesen, während die späten Sonnenstrahlen die sieben Giebel vergoldeten. Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Clifford wird normalerweise lange vor Sonnenuntergang müde, daher hat Phoebe abends Zeit, sich selbst zu unterhalten. Das ist Glück, denn das Haus der sieben Giebel ist kein fröhlicher Ort. Die einzige junge Person, die sie regelmäßig sieht, ist Mr. Holgrave. Obwohl sie nicht viel gemeinsam haben, werden sie trotzdem gemeinsam in die Gesellschaft geworfen, also müssen sie sich kennenlernen. Mr. Holgrave erzählt Phoebe etwas von seiner persönlichen Geschichte. Er hat sich seit seiner Kindheit selbst unterstützt. Obwohl Mr. Holgrave erst 22 Jahre alt ist, hat er doch Erfahrungen als Lehrer, Verkäufer und politischer Redakteur einer Zeitung gesammelt. Er ist als Händler und Zahnarzt durch ganz Neuengland und den Mittleren Westen gereist. Er hat auf einem Schiff gearbeitet, das nach Europa segelte und Frankreich, Italien und Deutschland besuchte. Er hat auch öffentliche Vorträge über Hypnotismus gehalten. Jetzt fotografiert er, aber das scheint auch keine dauerhafte Karriere für ihn zu sein. Phoebe findet Mr. Holgrave weiterhin beunruhigend. Sie versteht nicht, wie er so stabil sein kann, während er in seinen Gewohnheiten völlig instabil ist. Mr. Holgrave scheint kein warmer, freundlicher Mensch zu sein. Er verbringt seine Zeit damit, Menschen intellektuell anstatt mit Sympathie zu studieren. Eines Tages fragt er nach Clifford. Phoebe sagt, Clifford sei glücklich, aber leicht verärgert. Sie weiß jedoch nicht, was ihn verärgert: Sie findet, dass es Cliffords Privatsache ist. Mr. Holgrave verspricht, dass er keine Bedenken hätte, alles über Clifford herauszufinden, wenn er könnte. Mr. Holgrave versteht das Geheimnis zwischen Richter Pyncheon und Clifford nicht, aber er lässt das Thema vorerst fallen. Phoebe kann nicht verstehen, warum Mr. Holgrave so interessiert ist. Mr. Holgrave ist ein Idealist und er denkt, es sei an der Zeit, dass alle Monumente der Vergangenheit zugunsten neuer, moderner Lebensweisen abgerissen werden. Der Erzähler bemerkt, dass Mr. Holgraves Ideale gut sind. Sein einziger Fehler besteht darin zu glauben, dass dieses Zeitalter dasjenige sein wird, das die alten Wege beseitigt und von vorne anfängt. Es wird nicht passieren, aber Mr. Holgraves Ideale werden ihm helfen, jung zu bleiben. Es ist schwer zu sagen, welchen Beruf Mr. Holgrave letztendlich haben wird, aber im Moment ist er eine gute Gesellschaft für Phoebe. Obwohl Mr. Holgrave denkt, dass er Phoebe voll und ganz versteht, ist er immer noch fasziniert und verzaubert von ihr. Er findet, dass sie dem Haus der sieben Giebel ein Zuhause macht. Phoebe fragt, wie Mr. Holgrave bei Hepzibah untergekommen ist. Mr. Holgrave gerät in eine ganze Tirade darüber, wie wir uns von der Vergangenheit befreien müssen. Warum sollten wir Sklaven vergangener Zeiten sein? Mr. Holgrave möchte, dass die Menschen aufhören, diese düsteren, gewichtigen Häuser an ihre Kinder weiterzugeben. Es tut mehr Schaden als Gutes. Er glaubt, dass das Haus der sieben Giebel "mit Feuer gereinigt werden sollte, - gereinigt, bis nur noch seine Asche bleibt!" . Er behauptet, dass er in dem Haus lebt, um besser zu lernen, das zu hassen, was es symbolisiert, die tote Vergangenheit. Schließlich kam das ganze Verbrechen von Colonel Pyncheon gegenüber Matthew Maule aus seinem verrückten Wunsch, "eine Familie zu gründen und auszustatten" . Mr. Holgrave denkt, dass Familien mindestens alle 50 Jahre aufgelöst werden sollten. So hätte die Eitelkeit über ihre Familien keine Zeit, sich zu entwickeln. Mr. Holgrave verweist auf Phoebes eigene Familie als Beispiel. Er behauptet, dass der Urheber des ersten Pyncheon-Verbrechens sich offenbar reproduziert hat, so dass er nun wieder auf den Straßen wandelt, mit einer guten Chance, "ein ebenso reiches und elendes Erbe weiterzugeben wie er selbst empfangen hat" . Phoebe denkt, dass Mr. Holgrave ein bisschen verrückt wird. Mr. Holgrave wird rot. Er gibt zu, dass er dabei ist, die Geschichte der Pyncheon-Familie zu fiktionalisieren und in einer Zeitschrift zu veröffentlichen. Phoebe ist überrascht, dass Mr. Holgrave für Zeitschriften schreibt. Mr. Holgrave bietet an, Phoebe seine Geschichte vorzulesen. Sie stimmt zu, solange sie nicht zu langweilig 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: My present situation was one in which all voluntary thought was swallowed up and lost. I was hurried away by fury; revenge alone endowed me with strength and composure; it modelled my feelings, and allowed me to be calculating and calm, at periods when otherwise delirium or death would have been my portion. My first resolution was to quit Geneva for ever; my country, which, when I was happy and beloved, was dear to me, now, in my adversity, became hateful. I provided myself with a sum of money, together with a few jewels which had belonged to my mother, and departed. And now my wanderings began, which are to cease but with life. I have traversed a vast portion of the earth, and have endured all the hardships which travellers, in deserts and barbarous countries, are wont to meet. How I have lived I hardly know; many times have I stretched my failing limbs upon the sandy plain, and prayed for death. But revenge kept me alive; I dared not die, and leave my adversary in being. When I quitted Geneva, my first labour was to gain some clue by which I might trace the steps of my fiendish enemy. But my plan was unsettled; and I wandered many hours around the confines of the town, uncertain what path I should pursue. As night approached, I found myself at the entrance of the cemetery where William, Elizabeth, and my father, reposed. I entered it, and approached the tomb which marked their graves. Every thing was silent, except the leaves of the trees, which were gently agitated by the wind; the night was nearly dark; and the scene would have been solemn and affecting even to an uninterested observer. The spirits of the departed seemed to flit around, and to cast a shadow, which was felt but seen not, around the head of the mourner. The deep grief which this scene had at first excited quickly gave way to rage and despair. They were dead, and I lived; their murderer also lived, and to destroy him I must drag out my weary existence. I knelt on the grass, and kissed the earth, and with quivering lips exclaimed, "By the sacred earth on which I kneel, by the shades that wander near me, by the deep and eternal grief that I feel, I swear; and by thee, O Night, and by the spirits that preside over thee, I swear to pursue the daemon, who caused this misery, until he or I shall perish in mortal conflict. For this purpose I will preserve my life: to execute this dear revenge, will I again behold the sun, and tread the green herbage of earth, which otherwise should vanish from my eyes for ever. And I call on you, spirits of the dead; and on you, wandering ministers of vengeance, to aid and conduct me in my work. Let the cursed and hellish monster drink deep of agony; let him feel the despair that now torments me." I had begun my adjuration with solemnity, and an awe which almost assured me that the shades of my murdered friends heard and approved my devotion; but the furies possessed me as I concluded, and rage choaked my utterance. I was answered through the stillness of night by a loud and fiendish laugh. It rung on my ears long and heavily; the mountains re-echoed it, and I felt as if all hell surrounded me with mockery and laughter. Surely in that moment I should have been possessed by phrenzy, and have destroyed my miserable existence, but that my vow was heard, and that I was reserved for vengeance. The laughter died away: when a well-known and abhorred voice, apparently close to my ear, addressed me in an audible whisper--"I am satisfied: miserable wretch! you have determined to live, and I am satisfied." I darted towards the spot from which the sound proceeded; but the devil eluded my grasp. Suddenly the broad disk of the moon arose, and shone full upon his ghastly and distorted shape, as he fled with more than mortal speed. I pursued him; and for many months this has been my task. Guided by a slight clue, I followed the windings of the Rhone, but vainly. The blue Mediterranean appeared; and, by a strange chance, I saw the fiend enter by night, and hide himself in a vessel bound for the Black Sea. I took my passage in the same ship; but he escaped, I know not how. Amidst the wilds of Tartary and Russia, although he still evaded me, I have ever followed in his track. Sometimes the peasants, scared by this horrid apparition, informed me of his path; sometimes he himself, who feared that if I lost all trace I should despair and die, often left some mark to guide me. The snows descended on my head, and I saw the print of his huge step on the white plain. To you first entering on life, to whom care is new, and agony unknown, how can you understand what I have felt, and still feel? Cold, want, and fatigue, were the least pains which I was destined to endure; I was cursed by some devil, and carried about with me my eternal hell; yet still a spirit of good followed and directed my steps, and, when I most murmured, would suddenly extricate me from seemingly insurmountable difficulties. Sometimes, when nature, overcome by hunger, sunk under the exhaustion, a repast was prepared for me in the desert, that restored and inspirited me. The fare was indeed coarse, such as the peasants of the country ate; but I may not doubt that it was set there by the spirits that I had invoked to aid me. Often, when all was dry, the heavens cloudless, and I was parched by thirst, a slight cloud would bedim the sky, shed the few drops that revived me, and vanish. I followed, when I could, the courses of the rivers; but the daemon generally avoided these, as it was here that the population of the country chiefly collected. In other places human beings were seldom seen; and I generally subsisted on the wild animals that crossed my path. I had money with me, and gained the friendship of the villagers by distributing it, or bringing with me some food that I had killed, which, after taking a small part, I always presented to those who had provided me with fire and utensils for cooking. My life, as it passed thus, was indeed hateful to me, and it was during sleep alone that I could taste joy. O blessed sleep! often, when most miserable, I sank to repose, and my dreams lulled me even to rapture. The spirits that guarded me had provided these moments, or rather hours, of happiness, that I might retain strength to fulfil my pilgrimage. Deprived of this respite, I should have sunk under my hardships. During the day I was sustained and inspirited by the hope of night: for in sleep I saw my friends, my wife, and my beloved country; again I saw the benevolent countenance of my father, heard the silver tones of my Elizabeth's voice, and beheld Clerval enjoying health and youth. Often, when wearied by a toilsome march, I persuaded myself that I was dreaming until night should come, and that I should then enjoy reality in the arms of my dearest friends. What agonizing fondness did I feel for them! how did I cling to their dear forms, as sometimes they haunted even my waking hours, and persuade myself that they still lived! At such moments vengeance, that burned within me, died in my heart, and I pursued my path towards the destruction of the daemon, more as a task enjoined by heaven, as the mechanical impulse of some power of which I was unconscious, than as the ardent desire of my soul. What his feelings were whom I pursued, I cannot know. Sometimes, indeed, he left marks in writing on the barks of the trees, or cut in stone, that guided me, and instigated my fury. "My reign is not yet over," (these words were legible in one of these inscriptions); "you live, and my power is complete. Follow me; I seek the everlasting ices of the north, where you will feel the misery of cold and frost, to which I am impassive. You will find near this place, if you follow not too tardily, a dead hare; eat, and be refreshed. Come on, my enemy; we have yet to wrestle for our lives; but many hard and miserable hours must you endure, until that period shall arrive." Scoffing devil! Again do I vow vengeance; again do I devote thee, miserable fiend, to torture and death. Never will I omit my search, until he or I perish; and then with what ecstacy shall I join my Elizabeth, and those who even now prepare for me the reward of my tedious toil and horrible pilgrimage. As I still pursued my journey to the northward, the snows thickened, and the cold increased in a degree almost too severe to support. The peasants were shut up in their hovels, and only a few of the most hardy ventured forth to seize the animals whom starvation had forced from their hiding-places to seek for prey. The rivers were covered with ice, and no fish could be procured; and thus I was cut off from my chief article of maintenance. The triumph of my enemy increased with the difficulty of my labours. One inscription that he left was in these words: "Prepare! your toils only begin: wrap yourself in furs, and provide food, for we shall soon enter upon a journey where your sufferings will satisfy my everlasting hatred." My courage and perseverance were invigorated by these scoffing words; I resolved not to fail in my purpose; and, calling on heaven to support me, I continued with unabated fervour to traverse immense deserts, until the ocean appeared at a distance, and formed the utmost boundary of the horizon. Oh! how unlike it was to the blue seas of the south! Covered with ice, it was only to be distinguished from land by its superior wildness and ruggedness. The Greeks wept for joy when they beheld the Mediterranean from the hills of Asia, and hailed with rapture the boundary of their toils. I did not weep; but I knelt down, and, with a full heart, thanked my guiding spirit for conducting me in safety to the place where I hoped, notwithstanding my adversary's gibe, to meet and grapple with him. Some weeks before this period I had procured a sledge and dogs, and thus traversed the snows with inconceivable speed. I know not whether the fiend possessed the same advantages; but I found that, as before I had daily lost ground in the pursuit, I now gained on him; so much so, that when I first saw the ocean, he was but one day's journey in advance, and I hoped to intercept him before he should reach the beach. With new courage, therefore, I pressed on, and in two days arrived at a wretched hamlet on the seashore. I inquired of the inhabitants concerning the fiend, and gained accurate information. A gigantic monster, they said, had arrived the night before, armed with a gun and many pistols; putting to flight the inhabitants of a solitary cottage, through fear of his terrific appearance. He had carried off their store of winter food, and, placing it in a sledge, to draw which he had seized on a numerous drove of trained dogs, he had harnessed them, and the same night, to the joy of the horror-struck villagers, had pursued his journey across the sea in a direction that led to no land; and they conjectured that he must speedily be destroyed by the breaking of the ice, or frozen by the eternal frosts. On hearing this information, I suffered a temporary access of despair. He had escaped me; and I must commence a destructive and almost endless journey across the mountainous ices of the ocean,--amidst cold that few of the inhabitants could long endure, and which I, the native of a genial and sunny climate, could not hope to survive. Yet at the idea that the fiend should live and be triumphant, my rage and vengeance returned, and, like a mighty tide, overwhelmed every other feeling. After a slight repose, during which the spirits of the dead hovered round, and instigated me to toil and revenge, I prepared for my journey. I exchanged my land sledge for one fashioned for the inequalities of the frozen ocean; and, purchasing a plentiful stock of provisions, I departed from land. I cannot guess how many days have passed since then; but I have endured misery, which nothing but the eternal sentiment of a just retribution burning within my heart could have enabled me to support. Immense and rugged mountains of ice often barred up my passage, and I often heard the thunder of the ground sea, which threatened my destruction. But again the frost came, and made the paths of the sea secure. By the quantity of provision which I had consumed I should guess that I had passed three weeks in this journey; and the continual protraction of hope, returning back upon the heart, often wrung bitter drops of despondency and grief from my eyes. Despair had indeed almost secured her prey, and I should soon have sunk beneath this misery; when once, after the poor animals that carried me had with incredible toil gained the summit of a sloping ice mountain, and one sinking under his fatigue died, I viewed the expanse before me with anguish, when suddenly my eye caught a dark speck upon the dusky plain. I strained my sight to discover what it could be, and uttered a wild cry of ecstacy when I distinguished a sledge, and the distorted proportions of a well-known form within. Oh! with what a burning gush did hope revisit my heart! warm tears filled my eyes, which I hastily wiped away, that they might not intercept the view I had of the daemon; but still my sight was dimmed by the burning drops, until, giving way to the emotions that oppressed me, I wept aloud. But this was not the time for delay; I disencumbered the dogs of their dead companion, gave them a plentiful portion of food; and, after an hour's rest, which was absolutely necessary, and yet which was bitterly irksome to me, I continued my route. The sledge was still visible; nor did I again lose sight of it, except at the moments when for a short time some ice rock concealed it with its intervening crags. I indeed perceptibly gained on it; and when, after nearly two days' journey, I beheld my enemy at no more than a mile distant, my heart bounded within me. But now, when I appeared almost within grasp of my enemy, my hopes were suddenly extinguished, and I lost all trace of him more utterly than I had ever done before. A ground sea was heard; the thunder of its progress, as the waters rolled and swelled beneath me, became every moment more ominous and terrific. I pressed on, but in vain. The wind arose; the sea roared; and, as with the mighty shock of an earthquake, it split, and cracked with a tremendous and overwhelming sound. The work was soon finished: in a few minutes a tumultuous sea rolled between me and my enemy, and I was left drifting on a scattered piece of ice, that was continually lessening, and thus preparing for me a hideous death. In this manner many appalling hours passed; several of my dogs died; and I myself was about to sink under the accumulation of distress, when I saw your vessel riding at anchor, and holding forth to me hopes of succour and life. I had no conception that vessels ever came so far north, and was astounded at the sight. I quickly destroyed part of my sledge to construct oars; and by these means was enabled, with infinite fatigue, to move my ice-raft in the direction of your ship. I had determined, if you were going southward, still to trust myself to the mercy of the seas, rather than abandon my purpose. I hoped to induce you to grant me a boat with which I could still pursue my enemy. But your direction was northward. You took me on board when my vigour was exhausted, and I should soon have sunk under my multiplied hardships into a death, which I still dread,--for my task is unfulfilled. Oh! when will my guiding spirit, in conducting me to the daemon, allow me the rest I so much desire; or must I die, and he yet live? If I do, swear to me, Walton, that he shall not escape; that you will seek him, and satisfy my vengeance in his death. Yet, do I dare ask you to undertake my pilgrimage, to endure the hardships that I have undergone? No; I am not so selfish. Yet, when I am dead, if he should appear; if the ministers of vengeance should conduct him to you, swear that he shall not live--swear that he shall not triumph over my accumulated woes, and live to make another such a wretch as I am. He is eloquent and persuasive; and once his words had even power over my heart: but trust him not. His soul is as hellish as his form, full of treachery and fiend-like malice. Hear him not; call on the manes of William, Justine, Clerval, Elizabeth, my father, and of the wretched Victor, and thrust your sword into his heart. I will hover near, and direct the steel aright. Können Sie eine geeignete Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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Frankenstein hat die Möglichkeit des freien Denkens verloren; sein gesamtes Bewusstsein wird von Rachefantasien eingenommen. Er beschließt, Genf für immer zu verlassen, weil das Land in Abwesenheit seiner geliebten Menschen für ihn verhasst geworden ist. Er nimmt eine Geldsumme und den Schmuck seiner Mutter mit und macht sich auf die Suche nach dem Monster. Bevor er Genf verlässt, besucht er jedoch die Gräber seiner Familie. Er küsst die Erde und schwört Rache für ihren Tod; er ruft die "wandernden Rächer" und die Geister der Toten an, um ihm bei seiner Suche zu helfen. Plötzlich hört Victor ein "teuflisches Lachen", als würde die Hölle selbst ihn verspotten. Aus der Dunkelheit heraus flüstert ihm das Wesen zu, dass es "zufrieden" ist, dass Frankenstein beschlossen hat zu leben. Monatelang verfolgt er das Wesen über den größten Teil der Erde. Manchmal wird er bei seiner Suche von Bauern, die von der abscheulichen Erscheinung erschreckt wurden, geleitet; manchmal hinterlässt das Wesen selbst Frankenstein einen Hinweis auf seinen Aufenthaltsort, damit Victor nicht verzweifelt und seine Suche aufgibt. Victor spürt, dass ihn auf dieser Reise ein guter Geist beschützt; nur er rettet ihn vor dem Tod. Er hat sein Leben verachtet und findet nur Zuflucht im Schlaf; in Träumen ist er wieder bei seinen geliebten Toten. Das Wesen schneidet verhöhnende Nachrichten in Bäume und Steine, um seinen Schöpfer an die absolute Macht, die es über ihn hat, zu erinnern. Es versorgt Frankenstein mit Nahrung und rät ihm, sich auf die unerträgliche Kälte des Nordens vorzubereiten: In diese eisigen Wüsten will das Wesen ihn führen. Obwohl Frankenstein weiß, dass diese letzte Reise sicheren Tod bedeuten wird, verfolgt er das Monster ohne zu zögern. Als er das Wesen auf einem Hundeschlitten über das Eis gleiten sieht, weint Frankenstein Tränen der Hoffnung und Freude. Als er seinen Feind fast eingeholt hat, verliert er jedoch auf unerklärliche Weise jede Spur von ihm. Kurz darauf bricht das Eis auseinander und Victor treibt auf einer einzelnen zackigen Eisscholle. Er steht kurz vor dem Tod, als Waltons Schiff in der Ferne auftaucht. Obwohl Victor sich nach dem Frieden sehnt, den der Tod ihm bringen wird, verabscheut er die Idee, zu sterben, während seine Aufgabe unerfüllt ist. Er bittet Walton, das Wesen zu töten, wenn es sich ihm zeigt, egal wie eloquent und überzeugend es erscheinen mag.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: Chapter LX. The Last Canto of the Poem. On the morrow, all the _noblesse_ of the provinces, of the environs, and wherever messengers had carried the news, might have been seen arriving in detachments. D'Artagnan had shut himself up, without being willing to speak to anybody. Two such heavy deaths falling upon the captain, so closely after the death of Porthos, for a long time oppressed that spirit which had hitherto been so indefatigable and invulnerable. Except Grimaud, who entered his chamber once, the musketeer saw neither servants nor guests. He supposed, from the noises in the house, and the continual coming and going, that preparations were being made for the funeral of the comte. He wrote to the king to ask for an extension of his leave of absence. Grimaud, as we have said, had entered D'Artagnan's apartment, had seated himself upon a joint-stool near the door, like a man who meditates profoundly; then, rising, he made a sign to D'Artagnan to follow him. The latter obeyed in silence. Grimaud descended to the comte's bed-chamber, showed the captain with his finger the place of the empty bed, and raised his eyes eloquently towards Heaven. "Yes," replied D'Artagnan, "yes, good Grimaud--now with the son he loved so much!" Grimaud left the chamber, and led the way to the hall, where, according to the custom of the province, the body was laid out, previously to being put away forever. D'Artagnan was struck at seeing two open coffins in the hall. In reply to the mute invitation of Grimaud, he approached, and saw in one of them Athos, still handsome in death, and, in the other, Raoul with his eyes closed, his cheeks pearly as those of the Palls of Virgil, with a smile on his violet lips. He shuddered at seeing the father and son, those two departed souls, represented on earth by two silent, melancholy bodies, incapable of touching each other, however close they might be. "Raoul here!" murmured he. "Oh! Grimaud, why did you not tell me this?" Grimaud shook his head, and made no reply; but taking D'Artagnan by the hand, he led him to the coffin, and showed him, under the thin winding-sheet, the black wounds by which life had escaped. The captain turned away his eyes, and, judging it was useless to question Grimaud, who would not answer, he recollected that M. de Beaufort's secretary had written more than he, D'Artagnan, had had the courage to read. Taking up the recital of the affair which had cost Raoul his life, he found these words, which ended the concluding paragraph of the letter: "Monseigneur le duc has ordered that the body of monsieur le vicomte should be embalmed, after the manner practiced by the Arabs when they wish their dead to be carried to their native land; and monsieur le duc has appointed relays, so that the same confidential servant who brought up the young man might take back his remains to M. le Comte de la Fere." "And so," thought D'Artagnan, "I shall follow thy funeral, my dear boy--I, already old--I, who am of no value on earth--and I shall scatter dust upon that brow I kissed but two months since. God has willed it to be so. Thou hast willed it to be so, thyself. I have no longer the right even to weep. Thou hast chosen death; it seemed to thee a preferable gift to life." At length arrived the moment when the chill remains of these two gentlemen were to be given back to mother earth. There was such an affluence of military and other people that up to the place of the sepulture, which was a little chapel on the plain, the road from the city was filled with horsemen and pedestrians in mourning. Athos had chosen for his resting-place the little inclosure of a chapel erected by himself near the boundary of his estates. He had had the stones, cut in 1550, brought from an old Gothic manor-house in Berry, which had sheltered his early youth. The chapel, thus rebuilt, transported, was pleasing to the eye beneath its leafy curtains of poplars and sycamores. It was ministered in every Sunday, by the cure of the neighboring bourg, to whom Athos paid an allowance of two hundred francs for this service; and all the vassals of his domain, with their families, came thither to hear mass, without having any occasion to go to the city. Behind the chapel extended, surrounded by two high hedges of hazel, elder and white thorn, and a deep ditch, the little inclosure--uncultivated, though gay in its sterility; because the mosses there grew thick, wild heliotrope and ravenelles there mingled perfumes, while from beneath an ancient chestnut issued a crystal spring, a prisoner in its marble cistern, and on the thyme all around alighted thousands of bees from the neighboring plants, whilst chaffinches and redthroats sang cheerfully among the flower-spangled hedges. It was to this place the somber coffins were carried, attended by a silent and respectful crowd. The office of the dead being celebrated, the last adieux paid to the noble departed, the assembly dispersed, talking, along the roads, of the virtues and mild death of the father, of the hopes the son had given, and of his melancholy end upon the arid coast of Africa. Little by little, all noises were extinguished, like the lamps illuminating the humble nave. The minister bowed for the last time to the altar and the still fresh graves; then, followed by his assistant, he slowly took the road back to the presbytery. D'Artagnan, left alone, perceived that night was coming on. He had forgotten the hour, thinking only of the dead. He arose from the oaken bench on which he was seated in the chapel, and wished, as the priest had done, to go and bid a last adieu to the double grave which contained his two lost friends. A woman was praying, kneeling on the moist earth. D'Artagnan stopped at the door of the chapel, to avoid disturbing her, and also to endeavor to find out who was the pious friend who performed this sacred duty with so much zeal and perseverance. The unknown had hidden her face in her hands, which were white as alabaster. From the noble simplicity of her costume, she must be a woman of distinction. Outside the inclosure were several horses mounted by servants; a travelling carriage was in waiting for this lady. D'Artagnan in vain sought to make out what caused her delay. She continued praying, and frequently pressed her handkerchief to her face, by which D'Artagnan perceived she was weeping. He beheld her strike her breast with the compunction of a Christian woman. He heard her several times exclaim as from a wounded heart: "Pardon! pardon!" And as she appeared to abandon herself entirely to her grief, as she threw herself down, almost fainting, exhausted by complaints and prayers, D'Artagnan, touched by this love for his so much regretted friends, made a few steps towards the grave, in order to interrupt the melancholy colloquy of the penitent with the dead. But as soon as his step sounded on the gravel, the unknown raised her head, revealing to D'Artagnan a face aflood with tears, a well-known face. It was Mademoiselle de la Valliere! "Monsieur d'Artagnan!" murmured she. "You!" replied the captain, in a stern voice, "you here!--oh! madame, I should better have liked to see you decked with flowers in the mansion of the Comte de la Fere. You would have wept less--and they too--and I!" "Monsieur!" said she, sobbing. "For it was you," added this pitiless friend of the dead,--"it was you who sped these two men to the grave." "Oh! spare me!" "God forbid, madame, that I should offend a woman, or that I should make her weep in vain; but I must say that the place of the murderer is not upon the grave of her victims." She wished to reply. "What I now tell you," added he, coldly, "I have already told the king." She clasped her hands. "I know," said she, "I have caused the death of the Vicomte de Bragelonne." "Ah! you know it?" "The news arrived at court yesterday. I have traveled during the night forty leagues to come and ask pardon of the comte, whom I supposed to be still living, and to pray God, on the tomb of Raoul, that he would send me all the misfortunes I have merited, except a single one. Now, monsieur, I know that the death of the son has killed the father; I have two crimes to reproach myself with; I have two punishments to expect from Heaven." "I will repeat to you, mademoiselle," said D'Artagnan, "what M. de Bragelonne said of you, at Antibes, when he already meditated death: 'If pride and coquetry have misled her, I pardon her while despising her. If love has produced her error, I pardon her, but I swear that no one could have loved her as I have done.'" "You know," interrupted Louise, "that of my love I was about to sacrifice myself; you know whether I suffered when you met me lost, dying, abandoned. Well! never have I suffered so much as now; because then I hoped, desired,--now I have no longer anything to wish for; because this death drags all my joy into the tomb; because I can no longer dare to love without remorse, and I feel that he whom I love--oh! it is but just!--will repay me with the tortures I have made others undergo." D'Artagnan made no reply; he was too well convinced that she was not mistaken. "Well, then," added she, "dear Monsieur d'Artagnan, do not overwhelm me to-day, I again implore you! I am like the branch torn from the trunk, I no longer hold to anything in this world--a current drags me on, I know not whither. I love madly, even to the point of coming to tell it, wretch that I am, over the ashes of the dead, and I do not blush for it--I have no remorse on this account. Such love is a religion. Only, as hereafter you will see me alone, forgotten, disdained; as you will see me punished, as I am destined to be punished, spare me in my ephemeral happiness, leave it to me for a few days, for a few minutes. Now, even at the moment I am speaking to you, perhaps it no longer exists. My God! this double murder is perhaps already expiated!" While she was speaking thus, the sound of voices and of horses drew the attention of the captain. M. de Saint-Aignan came to seek La Valliere. "The king," he said, "is a prey to jealousy and uneasiness." Saint-Aignan did not perceive D'Artagnan, half concealed by the trunk of a chestnut-tree which shaded the double grave. Louise thanked Saint-Aignan, and dismissed him with a gesture. He rejoined the party outside the inclosure. "You see, madame," said the captain bitterly to the young woman,--"you see your happiness still lasts." The young woman raised her head with a solemn air. "A day will come," said she, "when you will repent of having so misjudged me. On that day, it is I who will pray God to forgive you for having been unjust towards me. Besides, I shall suffer so much that you yourself will be the first to pity my sufferings. Do not reproach me with my fleeting happiness, Monsieur d'Artagnan; it costs me dear, and I have not paid all my debt." Saying these words, she again knelt down, softly and affectionately. "Pardon me the last time, my affianced Raoul!" said she. "I have broken our chain; we are both destined to die of grief. It is thou who departest first; fear nothing, I shall follow thee. See, only, that I have not been base, and that I have come to bid thee this last adieu. The Lord is my witness, Raoul, that if with my life I could have redeemed thine, I would have given that life without hesitation. I could not give my love. Once more, forgive me, dearest, kindest friend." She strewed a few sweet flowers on the freshly sodded earth; then, wiping the tears from her eyes, the heavily stricken lady bowed to D'Artagnan, and disappeared. The captain watched the departure of the horses, horsemen, and carriage, then crossing his arms upon his swelling chest, "When will it be my turn to depart?" said he, in an agitated voice. "What is there left for man after youth, love, glory, friendship, strength, and wealth have disappeared? That rock, under which sleeps Porthos, who possessed all I have named; this moss, under which repose Athos and Raoul, who possessed much more!" He hesitated for a moment, with a dull eye; then, drawing himself up, "Forward! still forward!" said he. "When it is time, God will tell me, as he foretold the others." He touched the earth, moistened with the evening dew, with the ends of his fingers, signed himself as if he had been at the _benitier_ in church, and retook alone--ever alone--the road to Paris. Epilogue. Four years after the scene we have just described, two horsemen, well mounted, traversed Blois early in the morning, for the purpose of arranging a hawking party the king had arranged to make in that uneven plain the Loire divides in two, which borders on the one side Meung, on the other Amboise. These were the keeper of the king's harriers and the master of the falcons, personages greatly respected in the time of Louis XIII., but rather neglected by his successor. The horsemen, having reconnoitered the ground, were returning, their observations made, when they perceived certain little groups of soldiers, here and there, whom the sergeants were placing at distances at the openings of the inclosures. These were the king's musketeers. Behind them came, upon a splendid horse, the captain, known by his richly embroidered uniform. His hair was gray, his beard turning so. He seemed a little bent, although sitting and handling his horse gracefully. He was looking about him watchfully. "M. d'Artagnan does not get any older," said the keeper of the harriers to his colleague the falconer; "with ten years more to carry than either of us, he has the seat of a young man on horseback." "That is true," replied the falconer. "I don't see any change in him for the last twenty years." But this officer was mistaken; D'Artagnan in the last four years had lived a dozen. Age had printed its pitiless claws at each angle of his eyes; his brow was bald; his hands, formerly brown and nervous, were getting white, as if the blood had half forgotten them. D'Artagnan accosted the officers with the shade of affability which distinguishes superiors, and received in turn for his courtesy two most respectful bows. "Ah! what a lucky chance to see you here, Monsieur d'Artagnan!" cried the falconer. "It is rather I who should say that, messieurs," replied the captain, "for nowadays, the king makes more frequent use of his musketeers than of his falcons." "Ah! it is not as it was in the good old times," sighed the falconer. "Do you remember, Monsieur d'Artagnan, when the late king flew the pie in the vineyards beyond Beaugence? Ah! _dame!_ you were not the captain of the musketeers at that time, Monsieur d'Artagnan." [7] "And you were nothing but under-corporal of the tiercelets," replied D'Artagnan, laughing. "Never mind that, it was a good time, seeing that it is always a good time when we are young. Good day, monsieur the keeper of the harriers." "You do me honor, monsieur le comte," said the latter. D'Artagnan made no reply. The title of comte had hardly struck him; D'Artagnan had been a comte four years. "Are you not very much fatigued with the long journey you have taken, monsieur le capitaine?" continued the falconer. "It must be full two hundred leagues from hence to Pignerol." "Two hundred and sixty to go, and as many to return," said D'Artagnan, quietly. "And," said the falconer, "is _he_ well?" "Who?" asked D'Artagnan. "Why, poor M. Fouquet," continued the falconer, in a low voice. The keeper of the harriers had prudently withdrawn. "No," replied D'Artagnan, "the poor man frets terribly; he cannot comprehend how imprisonment can be a favor; he says that parliament absolved him by banishing him, and banishment is, or should be, liberty. He cannot imagine that they had sworn his death, and that to save his life from the claws of parliament was to be under too much obligation to Heaven." "Ah! yes; the poor man had a close chance of the scaffold," replied the falconer; "it is said that M. Colbert had given orders to the governor of the Bastile, and that the execution was ordered." "Enough!" said D'Artagnan, pensively, and with a view of cutting short the conversation. "Yes," said the keeper of the harriers, drawing towards them, "M. Fouquet is now at Pignerol; he has richly deserved it. He had the good fortune to be conducted there by you; he robbed the king sufficiently." D'Artagnan launched at the master of the dogs one of his crossest looks, and said to him, "Monsieur, if any one told me you had eaten your dogs' meat, not only would I refuse to believe it; but still more, if you were condemned to the lash or to jail for it, I should pity you and would not allow people to speak ill of you. And yet, monsieur, honest man as you may be, I assure you that you are not more so than poor M. Fouquet was." After having undergone this sharp rebuke, the keeper of the harriers hung his head, and allowed the falconer to get two steps in advance of him nearer to D'Artagnan. "He is content," said the falconer, in a low voice, to the musketeer; "we all know that harriers are in fashion nowadays; if he were a falconer he would not talk in that way." D'Artagnan smiled in a melancholy manner at seeing this great political question resolved by the discontent of such humble interest. He for a moment ran over in his mind the glorious existence of the surintendant, the crumbling of his fortunes, and the melancholy death that awaited him; and to conclude, "Did M. Fouquet love falconry?" said he. "Oh, passionately, monsieur!" repeated the falconer, with an accent of bitter regret and a sigh that was the funeral oration of Fouquet. D'Artagnan allowed the ill-humor of the one and the regret of the other to pass, and continued to advance. They could already catch glimpses of the huntsmen at the issue of the wood, the feathers of the outriders passing like shooting stars across the clearings, and the white horses skirting the bosky thickets looking like illuminated apparitions. "But," resumed D'Artagnan, "will the sport last long? Pray, give us a good swift bird, for I am very tired. Is it a heron or a swan?" "Both, Monsieur d'Artagnan," said the falconer; "but you need not be alarmed; the king is not much of a sportsman; he does not take the field on his own account, he only wishes to amuse the ladies." The words "to amuse the ladies" were so strongly accented they set D'Artagnan thinking. "Ah!" said he, looking keenly at the falconer. The keeper of the harriers smiled, no doubt with a view of making it up with the musketeer. "Oh! you may safely laugh," said D'Artagnan; "I know nothing of current news; I only arrived yesterday, after a month's absence. I left the court mourning the death of the queen-mother. The king was not willing to take any amusement after receiving the last sigh of Anne of Austria; but everything comes to an end in this world. Well! then he is no longer sad? So much the better." [8] "And everything begins as well as ends," said the keeper with a coarse laugh. "Ah!" said D'Artagnan, a second time,--he burned to know, but dignity would not allow him to interrogate people below him,--"there is something beginning, then, it seems?" The keeper gave him a significant wink; but D'Artagnan was unwilling to learn anything from this man. "Shall we see the king early?" asked he of the falconer. "At seven o'clock, monsieur, I shall fly the birds." "Who comes with the king? How is Madame? How is the queen?" "Better, monsieur." "Has she been ill, then?" "Monsieur, since the last chagrin she suffered, her majesty has been unwell." "What chagrin? You need not fancy your news is old. I have but just returned." "It appears that the queen, a little neglected since the death of her mother-in-law, complained to the king, who answered her,--'Do I not sleep at home every night, madame? What more do you expect?'" "Ah!" said D'Artagnan,--"poor woman! She must heartily hate Mademoiselle de la Valliere." "Oh, no! not Mademoiselle de la Valliere," replied the falconer. "Who then--" The blast of a hunting-horn interrupted this conversation. It summoned the dogs and the hawks. The falconer and his companions set off immediately, leaving D'Artagnan alone in the midst of the suspended sentence. The king appeared at a distance, surrounded by ladies and horsemen. All the troop advanced in beautiful order, at a foot's pace, the horns of various sorts animating the dogs and horses. There was an animation in the scene, a mirage of light, of which nothing now can give an idea, unless it be the fictitious splendor of a theatric spectacle. D'Artagnan, with an eye a little, just a little, dimmed by age, distinguished behind the group three carriages. The first was intended for the queen; it was empty. D'Artagnan, who did not see Mademoiselle de la Valliere by the king's side, on looking about for her, saw her in the second carriage. She was alone with two of her women, who seemed as dull as their mistress. On the left hand of the king, upon a high-spirited horse, restrained by a bold and skillful hand, shone a lady of most dazzling beauty. The king smiled upon her, and she smiled upon the king. Loud laughter followed every word she uttered. "I must know that woman," thought the musketeer; "who can she be?" And he stooped towards his friend, the falconer, to whom he addressed the question he had put to himself. The falconer was about to reply, when the king, perceiving D'Artagnan, "Ah, comte!" said he, "you are amongst us once more then! Why have I not seen you?" "Sire," replied the captain, "because your majesty was asleep when I arrived, and not awake when I resumed my duties this morning." "Still the same," said Louis, in a loud voice, denoting satisfaction. "Take some rest, comte; I command you to do so. You will dine with me to-day." A murmur of admiration surrounded D'Artagnan like a caress. Every one was eager to salute him. Dining with the king was an honor his majesty was not so prodigal of as Henry IV. had been. The king passed a few steps in advance, and D'Artagnan found himself in the midst of a fresh group, among whom shone Colbert. "Good-day, Monsieur d'Artagnan," said the minister, with marked affability, "have you had a pleasant journey?" "Yes, monsieur," said D'Artagnan, bowing to the neck of his horse. "I heard the king invite you to his table for this evening," continued the minister; "you will meet an old friend there." "An old friend of mine?" asked D'Artagnan, plunging painfully into the dark waves of the past, which had swallowed up for him so many friendships and so many hatreds. "M. le Duc d'Almeda, who is arrived this morning from Spain." "The Duc d'Almeda?" said D'Artagnan, reflecting in vain. "Here!" cried an old man, white as snow, sitting bent in his carriage, which he caused to be thrown open to make room for the musketeer. "_Aramis!_" cried D'Artagnan, struck with profound amazement. And he felt, inert as it was, the thin arm of the old nobleman hanging round his neck. Colbert, after having observed them in silence for a few moments, urged his horse forward, and left the two old friends together. "And so," said the musketeer, taking Aramis's arm, "you, the exile, the rebel, are again in France?" "Ah! and I shall dine with you at the king's table," said Aramis, smiling. "Yes, will you not ask yourself what is the use of fidelity in this world? Stop! let us allow poor La Valliere's carriage to pass. Look, how uneasy she is! How her eyes, dim with tears, follow the king, who is riding on horseback yonder!" "With whom?" "With Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente, now Madame de Montespan," replied Aramis. "She is jealous. Is she then deserted?" "Not quite yet, but it will not be long before she _is_." [9] They chatted together, while following the sport, and Aramis's coachman drove them so cleverly that they arrived at the instant when the falcon, attacking the bird, beat him down, and fell upon him. The king alighted; Madame de Montespan followed his example. They were in front of an isolated chapel, concealed by huge trees, already despoiled of their leaves by the first cutting winds of autumn. Behind this chapel was an inclosure, closed by a latticed gate. The falcon had beaten down his prey in the inclosure belonging to this little chapel, and the king was desirous of going in to take the first feather, according to custom. The _cortege_ formed a circle round the building and the hedges, too small to receive so many. D'Artagnan held back Aramis by the arm, as he was about, like the rest, to alight from his carriage, and in a hoarse, broken voice, "Do you know, Aramis," said he, "whither chance has conducted us?" "No," replied the duke. "Here repose men that we knew well," said D'Artagnan, greatly agitated. Aramis, without divining anything, and with a trembling step, penetrated into the chapel by a little door which D'Artagnan opened for him. "Where are they buried?" said he. "There, in the inclosure. There is a cross, you see, beneath yon little cypress. The tree of grief is planted over their tomb; don't go to it; the king is going that way; the heron has fallen just there." Aramis stopped, and concealed himself in the shade. They then saw, without being seen, the pale face of La Valliere, who, neglected in her carriage, at first looked on, with a melancholy heart, from the door, and then, carried away by jealousy, advanced into the chapel, whence, leaning against a pillar, she contemplated the king smiling and making signs to Madame de Montespan to approach, as there was nothing to be afraid of. Madame de Montespan complied; she took the hand the king held out to her, and he, plucking out the first feather from the heron, which the falconer had strangled, placed it in his beautiful companion's hat. She, smiling in her turn, kissed the hand tenderly which made her this present. The king grew scarlet with vanity and pleasure; he looked at Madame de Montespan with all the fire of new love. "What will you give me in exchange?" said he. She broke off a little branch of cypress and offered it to the king, who looked intoxicated with hope. "Humph!" said Aramis to D'Artagnan; "the present is but a sad one, for that cypress shades a tomb." "Yes, and the tomb is that of Raoul de Bragelonne," said D'Artagnan aloud; "of Raoul, who sleeps under that cross with his father." A groan resounded--they saw a woman fall fainting to the ground. Mademoiselle de la Valliere had seen all, heard all. "Poor woman!" muttered D'Artagnan, as he helped the attendants to carry back to her carriage the lonely lady whose lot henceforth in life was suffering. That evening D'Artagnan was seated at the king's table, near M. Colbert and M. le Duc d'Almeda. The king was very gay. He paid a thousand little attentions to the queen, a thousand kindnesses to Madame, seated at his left hand, and very sad. It might have been supposed that time of calm when the king was wont to watch his mother's eyes for the approval or disapproval of what he had just done. Of mistresses there was no question at this dinner. The king addressed Aramis two or three times, calling him M. l'ambassadeur, which increased the surprise already felt by D'Artagnan at seeing his friend the rebel so marvelously well received at court. The king, on rising from table, gave his hand to the queen, and made a sign to Colbert, whose eye was on his master's face. Colbert took D'Artagnan and Aramis on one side. The king began to chat with his sister, whilst Monsieur, very uneasy, entertained the queen with a preoccupied air, without ceasing to watch his wife and brother from the corner of his eye. The conversation between Aramis, D'Artagnan, and Colbert turned upon indifferent subjects. They spoke of preceding ministers; Colbert related the successful tricks of Mazarin, and desired those of Richelieu to be related to him. D'Artagnan could not overcome his surprise at finding this man, with his heavy eyebrows and low forehead, display so much sound knowledge and cheerful spirits. Aramis was astonished at that lightness of character which permitted this serious man to retard with advantage the moment for more important conversation, to which nobody made any allusion, although all three interlocutors felt its imminence. It was very plain, from the embarrassed appearance of Monsieur, how much the conversation of the king and Madame annoyed him. Madame's eyes were almost red: was she going to complain? Was she going to expose a little scandal in open court? The king took her on one side, and in a tone so tender that it must have reminded the princess of the time when she was loved for herself: "Sister," said he, "why do I see tears in those lovely eyes?" "Why--sire--" said she. "Monsieur is jealous, is he not, sister?" She looked towards Monsieur, an infallible sign that they were talking about him. "Yes," said she. "Listen to me," said the king; "if your friends compromise you, it is not Monsieur's fault." He spoke these words with so much kindness that Madame, encouraged, having borne so many solitary griefs so long, was nearly bursting into tears, so full was her heart. "Come, come, dear little sister," said the king, "tell me your griefs; on the word of a brother, I pity them; on the word of a king, I will put an end to them." She raised her glorious eyes and, in a melancholy tone: "It is not my friends who compromise me," said she; "they are either absent or concealed; they have been brought into disgrace with your majesty; they, so devoted, so good, so loyal!" "You say this on account of De Guiche, whom I have exiled, at Monsieur's desire?" "And who, since that unjust exile, has endeavored to get himself killed once every day." "Unjust, say you, sister?" "So unjust, that if I had not had the respect mixed with friendship that I have always entertained for your majesty--" "Well!" "Well! I would have asked my brother Charles, upon whom I can always--" The king started. "What, then?" "I would have asked him to have had it represented to you that Monsieur and his favorite M. le Chevalier de Lorraine ought not with impunity to constitute themselves the executioners of my honor and my happiness." "The Chevalier de Lorraine," said the king; "that dismal fellow?" "Is my mortal enemy. Whilst that man lives in my household, where Monsieur retains him and delegates his power to him, I shall be the most miserable woman in the kingdom." "So," said the king, slowly, "you call your brother of England a better friend than I am?" "Actions speak for themselves, sire." "And you would prefer going to ask assistance there--" "To my own country!" said she with pride; "yes, sire." "You are the grandchild of Henry IV. as well as myself, lady. Cousin and brother-in-law, does not that amount pretty well to the title of brother-germain?" "Then," said Henrietta, "act!" "Let us form an alliance." "Begin." "I have, you say, unjustly exiled De Guiche." "Oh! yes," said she, blushing. "De Guiche shall return." [10] "So far, well." "And now you say that I do wrong in having in your household the Chevalier de Lorraine, who gives Monsieur ill advice respecting you?" "Remember well what I tell you, sire; the Chevalier de Lorraine some day--Observe, if ever I come to a dreadful end, I beforehand accuse the Chevalier de Lorraine; he has a spirit that is capable of any crime!" "The Chevalier de Lorraine shall no longer annoy you--I promise you that." [11] "Then that will be a true preliminary of alliance, sire,--I sign; but since you have done your part, tell me what shall be mine." "Instead of embroiling me with your brother Charles, you must make him a more intimate friend than ever." "That is very easy." "Oh! not quite so easy as you may suppose, for in ordinary friendship people embrace or exercise hospitality, and that only costs a kiss or a return, profitable expenses; but in political friendship--" "Ah! it's a political friendship, is it?" "Yes, my sister; and then, instead of embraces and feasts, it is soldiers--it is soldiers all alive and well equipped--that we must serve up to our friends; vessels we must offer, all armed with cannons and stored with provisions. It hence results that we have not always coffers in a fit condition for such friendships." "Ah! you are quite right," said Madame; "the coffers of the king of England have been sonorous for some time." "But you, my sister, who have so much influence over your brother, you can secure more than an ambassador could ever get the promise of." "To effect that I must go to London, my dear brother." "I have thought so," replied the king, eagerly; "and I have said to myself that such a voyage would do your health and spirits good." "Only," interrupted Madame, "it is possible I should fail. The king of England has dangerous counselors." "Counselors, do you say?" "Precisely. If, by chance, your majesty had any intention--I am only supposing so--of asking Charles II. his alliance in a war--" "A war?" "Yes; well! then the king's counselors, who are in number seven--Mademoiselle Stewart, Mademoiselle Wells, Mademoiselle Gwyn, Miss Orchay, Mademoiselle Zunga, Miss Davies, and the proud Countess of Castlemaine--will represent to the king that war costs a great deal of money; that it is better to give balls and suppers at Hampton Court than to equip ships of the line at Portsmouth and Greenwich." "And then your negotiations will fail?" "Oh! those ladies cause all negotiations to fall through which they don't make themselves." "Do you know the idea that has struck me, sister?" "No; inform me what it is." "It is that, searching well around you, you might perhaps find a female counselor to take with you to your brother, whose eloquence might paralyze the ill-will of the seven others." "That is really an idea, sire, and I will search." "You will find what you want." "I hope so." "A pretty ambassadress is necessary; an agreeable face is better than an ugly one, is it not?" "Most assuredly." "An animated, lively, audacious character." "Certainly." "Nobility; that is, enough to enable her to approach the king without awkwardness--not too lofty, so as not to trouble herself about the dignity of her race." "Very true." "And who knows a little English." "_Mon Dieu!_ why, some one," cried Madame, "like Mademoiselle de Keroualle, for instance!" "Oh! why, yes!" said Louis XIV.; "you have hit the mark,--it is you who have found, my sister." "I will take her; she will have no cause to complain, I suppose." "Oh! no, I will name her _seductrice plenipotentiaire_ at once, and will add a dowry to the title." "That is well." "I fancy you already on your road, my dear little sister, consoled for all your griefs." "I will go, on two conditions. The first is, that I shall know what I am negotiating about." "That is it. The Dutch, you know, insult me daily in their gazettes, and by their republican attitude. I do not like republics." "That may easily be imagined, sire." "I see with pain that these kings of the sea--they call themselves so--keep trade from France in the Indies, and that their vessels will soon occupy all the ports of Europe. Such a power is too near me, sister." "They are your allies, nevertheless." "That is why they were wrong in having the medal you have heard of struck; a medal which represents Holland stopping the sun, as Joshua did, with this legend: _The sun had stopped before me_. There is not much fraternity in that, _is_ there?" "I thought you had forgotten that miserable episode?" "I never forget anything, sister. And if my true friends, such as your brother Charles, are willing to second me--" The princess remained pensively silent. "Listen to me; there is the empire of the seas to be shared," said Louis XIV. "For this partition, which England submits to, could I not represent the second party as well as the Dutch?" "We have Mademoiselle de Keroualle to treat that question," replied Madame. "Your second condition for going, if you please, sister?" "The consent of Monsieur, my husband." "You shall have it." "Then consider me already gone, brother." On hearing these words, Louis XIV. turned round towards the corner of the room in which D'Artagnan, Colbert, and Aramis stood, and made an affirmative sign to his minister. Colbert then broke in on the conversation suddenly, and said to Aramis: "Monsieur l'ambassadeur, shall we talk about business?" D'Artagnan immediately withdrew, from politeness. He directed his steps towards the fireplace, within hearing of what the king was about to say to Monsieur, who, evidently uneasy, had gone to him. The face of the king was animated. Upon his brow was stamped a strength of will, the expression of which already met no further contradiction in France, and was soon to meet no more in Europe. "Monsieur," said the king to his brother, "I am not pleased with M. le Chevalier de Lorraine. You, who do him the honor to protect him, must advise him to travel for a few months." These words fell with the crush of an avalanche upon Monsieur, who adored his favorite, and concentrated all his affections in him. "In what has the chevalier been inconsiderate enough to displease your majesty?" cried he, darting a furious look at Madame. "I will tell you that when he is gone," said the king, suavely. "And also when Madame, here, shall have crossed over into England." "Madame! in England!" murmured Monsieur, in amazement. "In a week, brother," continued the king, "whilst we will go whither I will shortly tell you." And the king turned on his heel, smiling in his brother's face, to sweeten, as it were, the bitter draught he had given him. During this time Colbert was talking with the Duc d'Almeda. "Monsieur," said Colbert to Aramis, "this is the moment for us to come to an understanding. I have made your peace with the king, and I owed that clearly to a man of so much merit; but as you have often expressed friendship for me, an opportunity presents itself for giving me a proof of it. You are, besides, more a Frenchman than a Spaniard. Shall we secure--answer me frankly--the neutrality of Spain, if we undertake anything against the United Provinces?" "Monsieur," replied Aramis, "the interest of Spain is clear. To embroil Europe with the Provinces would doubtless be our policy, but the king of France is an ally of the United Provinces. You are not ignorant, besides, that it would infer a maritime war, and that France is in no state to undertake this with advantage." Colbert, turning round at this moment, saw D'Artagnan who was seeking some interlocutor, during this "aside" of the king and Monsieur. He called him, at the same time saying in a low voice to Aramis, "We may talk openly with D'Artagnan, I suppose?" "Oh! certainly," replied the ambassador. "We were saying, M. d'Almeda and I," said Colbert, "that a conflict with the United Provinces would mean a maritime war." "About the question of interest and self-love," replied Colbert. "We were speaking of canals and marshes in which people are drowned." "Well!" "Well! if they are drowned, it is for want of a boat, a plank, or a stick." "Of a stick, however short it may be," said D'Artagnan. "Exactly," said Colbert. "And, therefore, I never heard of an instance of a _marechal_ of France being drowned." D'Artagnan became very pale with joy, and in a not very firm voice, "People would be very proud of me in my country," said he, "if I were a _marechal_ of France; but a man must have commanded an expedition in chief to obtain the _baton_." "Monsieur!" said Colbert, "here is in this pocket-book which you will study, a plan of campaign you will have to lead a body of troops to carry out in the next spring." [12] D'Artagnan took the book, tremblingly, and his fingers meeting those of Colbert, the minister pressed the hand of the musketeer loyally. "Monsieur," said he, "we had both a revenge to take, one over the other. I have begun; it is now your turn!" "I will do you justice, monsieur," replied D'Artagnan, "and implore you to tell the king that the first opportunity that shall offer, he may depend upon a victory, or to behold me dead--_or both_." "Then I will have the _fleurs-de-lis_ for your _marechal's baton_ prepared immediately," said Colbert. On the morrow, Aramis, who was setting out for Madrid, to negotiate the neutrality of Spain, came to embrace D'Artagnan at his hotel. "Let us love each other for four," said D'Artagnan. "We are now but two." "And you will, perhaps, never see me again, dear D'Artagnan," said Aramis; "if you knew how I have loved you! I am old, I am extinct--ah, I am almost dead." "My friend," said D'Artagnan, "you will live longer than I shall: diplomacy commands you to live; but, for my part, honor condemns me to die." "Bah! such men as we are, monsieur le marechal," said Aramis, "only die satisfied with joy in glory." "Ah!" replied D'Artagnan, with a melancholy smile, "I assure you, monsieur le duc, I feel very little appetite for either." They once more embraced, and, two hours after, separated--forever. The Death of D'Artagnan. Contrary to that which generally happens, whether in politics or morals, each kept his promises, and did honor to his engagements. The king recalled M. de Guiche, and banished M. le Chevalier de Lorraine; so that Monsieur became ill in consequence. Madame set out for London, where she applied herself so earnestly to make her brother, Charles II., acquire a taste for the political counsels of Mademoiselle de Keroualle, that the alliance between England and France was signed, and the English vessels, ballasted by a few millions of French gold, made a terrible campaign against the fleets of the United Provinces. Charles II. had promised Mademoiselle de Keroualle a little gratitude for her good counsels; he made her Duchess of Portsmouth. Colbert had promised the king vessels, munitions, victories. He kept his word, as is well known. At length Aramis, upon whose promises there was least dependence to be placed, wrote Colbert the following letter, on the subject of the negotiations which he had undertaken at Madrid: "MONSIEUR COLBERT,--I have the honor to expedite to you the R. P. Oliva, general _ad interim_ of the Society of Jesus, my provisional successor. The reverend father will explain to you, Monsieur Colbert, that I preserve to myself the direction of all the affairs of the order which concern France and Spain; but that I am not willing to retain the title of general, which would throw too high a side-light on the progress of the negotiations with which His Catholic Majesty wishes to intrust me. I shall resume that title by the command of his majesty, when the labors I have undertaken in concert with you, for the great glory of God and His Church, shall be brought to a good end. The R. P. Oliva will inform you likewise, monsieur, of the consent His Catholic Majesty gives to the signature of a treaty which assures the neutrality of Spain in the event of a war between France and the United Provinces. This consent will be valid even if England, instead of being active, should satisfy herself with remaining neutral. As for Portugal, of which you and I have spoken, monsieur, I can assure you it will contribute with all its resources to assist the Most Christian King in his war. I beg you, Monsieur Colbert, to preserve your friendship and also to believe in my profound attachment, and to lay my respect at the feet of His Most Christian Majesty. Signed, "LE DUC D'ALMEDA." [13] Aramis had performed more than he had promised; it remained to be seen how the king, M. Colbert, and D'Artagnan would be faithful to each other. In the spring, as Colbert had predicted, the land army entered on its campaign. It preceded, in magnificent order, the court of Louis XIV., who, setting out on horseback, surrounded by carriages filled with ladies and courtiers, conducted the _elite_ of his kingdom to this sanguinary _fete_. The officers of the army, it is true, had no other music save the artillery of the Dutch forts; but it was enough for a great number, who found in this war honor, advancement, fortune--or death. M. d'Artagnan set out commanding a body of twelve thousand men, cavalry, and infantry, with which he was ordered to take the different places which form knots of that strategic network called La Frise. Never was an army conducted more gallantly to an expedition. The officers knew that their leader, prudent and skillful as he was brave, would not sacrifice a single man, nor yield an inch of ground without necessity. He had the old habits of war, to live upon the country, keeping his soldiers singing and the enemy weeping. The captain of the king's musketeers well knew his business. Never were opportunities better chosen, _coups-de-main_ better supported, errors of the besieged more quickly taken advantage of. The army commanded by D'Artagnan took twelve small places within a month. He was engaged in besieging the thirteenth, which had held out five days. D'Artagnan caused the trenches to be opened without appearing to suppose that these people would ever allow themselves to be taken. The pioneers and laborers were, in the army of this man, a body full of ideas and zeal, because their commander treated them like soldiers, knew how to render their work glorious, and never allowed them to be killed if he could help it. It should have been seen with what eagerness the marshy glebes of Holland were turned over. Those turf-heaps, mounds of potter's clay, melted at the word of the soldiers like butter in the frying-pans of Friesland housewives. M. d'Artagnan dispatched a courier to the king to give him an account of the last success, which redoubled the good humor of his majesty and his inclination to amuse the ladies. These victories of M. d'Artagnan gave so much majesty to the prince, that Madame de Montespan no longer called him anything but Louis the Invincible. So that Mademoiselle de la Valliere, who only called the king Louis the Victorious, lost much of his majesty's favor. Besides, her eyes were frequently red, and to an Invincible nothing is more disagreeable than a mistress who weeps while everything is smiling round her. The star of Mademoiselle de la Valliere was being drowned in clouds and tears. But the gayety of Madame de Montespan redoubled with the successes of the king, and consoled him for every other unpleasant circumstance. It was to D'Artagnan the king owed this; and his majesty was anxious to acknowledge these services; he wrote to M. Colbert: "MONSIEUR COLBERT,--We have a promise to fulfil with M. d'Artagnan, who so well keeps his. This is to inform you that the time is come for performing it. All provisions for this purpose you shall be furnished with in due time. LOUIS." In consequence of this, Colbert, detaining D'Artagnan's envoy, placed in the hands of that messenger a letter from himself, and a small coffer of ebony inlaid with gold, not very important in appearance, but which, without doubt, was very heavy, as a guard of five men was given to the messenger, to assist him in carrying it. These people arrived before the place which D'Artagnan was besieging towards daybreak, and presented themselves at the lodgings of the general. They were told that M. d'Artagnan, annoyed by a sortie which the governor, an artful man, had made the evening before, and in which the works had been destroyed and seventy-seven men killed, and the reparation of the breaches commenced, had just gone with twenty companies of grenadiers to reconstruct the works. M. Colbert's envoy had orders to go and seek M. d'Artagnan, wherever he might be, or at whatever hour of the day or night. He directed his course, therefore, towards the trenches, followed by his escort, all on horseback. They perceived M. d'Artagnan in the open plain, with his gold-laced hat, his long cane, and gilt cuffs. He was biting his white mustache, and wiping off, with his left hand, the dust which the passing balls threw up from the ground they plowed so near him. They also saw, amidst this terrible fire, which filled the air with whistling hisses, officers handling the shovel, soldiers rolling barrows, and vast fascines, rising by being either carried or dragged by from ten to twenty men, cover the front of the trench reopened to the center by this extraordinary effort of the general. In three hours, all was reinstated. D'Artagnan began to speak more mildly; and he became quite calm when the captain of the pioneers approached him, hat in hand, to tell him that the trench was again in proper order. This man had scarcely finished speaking, when a ball took off one of his legs, and he fell into the arms of D'Artagnan. The latter lifted up his soldier, and quietly, with soothing words, carried him into the trench, amidst the enthusiastic applause of the regiments. From that time it was no longer a question of valor--the army was delirious; two companies stole away to the advanced posts, which they instantly destroyed. When their comrades, restrained with great difficulty by D'Artagnan, saw them lodged upon the bastions, they rushed forward likewise; and soon a furious assault was made upon the counterscarp, upon which depended the safety of the place. D'Artagnan perceived there was only one means left of checking his army--to take the place. He directed all his force to the two breaches, where the besieged were busy in repairing. The shock was terrible; eighteen companies took part in it, and D'Artagnan went with the rest, within half cannon-shot of the place, to support the attack by _echelons_. The cries of the Dutch, who were being poniarded upon their guns by D'Artagnan's grenadiers, were distinctly audible. The struggle grew fiercer with the despair of the governor, who disputed his position foot by foot. D'Artagnan, to put an end to the affair, and to silence the fire, which was unceasing, sent a fresh column, which penetrated like a very wedge; and he soon perceived upon the ramparts, through the fire, the terrified flight of the besieged, pursued by the besiegers. At this moment the general, breathing feely and full of joy, heard a voice behind him, saying, "Monsieur, if you please, from M. Colbert." He broke the seal of the letter, which contained these words: "MONSIEUR D'ARTAGNAN:--The king commands me to inform you that he has nominated you marechal of France, as a reward for your magnificent services, and the honor you do to his arms. The king is highly pleased, monsieur, with the captures you have made; he commands you, in particular, to finish the siege you have commenced, with good fortune to you, and success for him." D'Artagnan was standing with a radiant countenance and sparkling eye. He looked up to watch the progress of his troops upon the walls, still enveloped in red and black volumes of smoke. "I have finished," replied he to the messenger; "the city will have surrendered in a quarter of an hour." He then resumed his reading: "The _coffret_, Monsieur d'Artagnan, is my own present. You will not be sorry to see that, whilst you warriors are drawing the sword to defend the king, I am moving the pacific arts to ornament a present worthy of you. I commend myself to your friendship, monsieur le marechal, and beg you to believe in mine. COLBERT" D'Artagnan, intoxicated with joy, made a sign to the messenger, who approached, with his _coffret_ in his hands. But at the moment the _marechal_ was going to look at it, a loud explosion resounded from the ramparts, and called his attention towards the city. "It is strange," said D'Artagnan, "that I don't yet see the king's flag on the walls, or hear the drums beat the _chamade_." He launched three hundred fresh men, under a high-spirited officer, and ordered another breach to be made. Then, more tranquilly, he turned towards the _coffret_, which Colbert's envoy held out to him.--It was his treasure--he had won it. D'Artagnan was holding out his hand to open the _coffret_, when a ball from the city crushed the _coffret_ in the arms of the officer, struck D'Artagnan full in the chest, and knocked him down upon a sloping heap of earth, whilst the _fleur-de-lised baton_, escaping from the broken box, came rolling under the powerless hand of the _marechal_. D'Artagnan endeavored to raise himself. It was thought he had been knocked down without being wounded. A terrible cry broke from the group of terrified officers; the _marechal_ was covered with blood; the pallor of death ascended slowly to his noble countenance. Leaning upon the arms held out on all sides to receive him, he was able once more to turn his eyes towards the place, and to distinguish the white flag at the crest of the principal bastion; his ears, already deaf to the sounds of life, caught feebly the rolling of the drum which announced the victory. Then, clasping in his nerveless hand the _baton_, ornamented with its _fleurs-de-lis_, he cast on it his eyes, which had no longer the power of looking upwards towards Heaven, and fell back, murmuring strange words, which appeared to the soldiers cabalistic--words which had formerly represented so many things on earth, and which none but the dying man any longer comprehended: "Athos--Porthos, farewell till we meet again! Aramis, adieu forever!" Of the four valiant men whose history we have related, there now remained but one. Heaven had taken to itself three noble souls. [14] Footnotes [Footnote 1: "He is patient because he is eternal." is how the Latin translates. It is from St. Augustine. This motto was sometimes applied to the Papacy, but not to the Jesuits.] [Footnote 2: In the five-volume edition, Volume 4 ends here.] [Footnote 3: It is possible that the preceding conversation is an obscure allegorical allusion to the Fronde, or perhaps an intimation that the Duc was the father of Mordaunt, from Twenty Years After, but a definite interpretation still eludes modern scholars.] [Footnote 4: The dictates of such a service would require Raoul to spend the rest of his life outside of France, hence Athos's and Grimaud's extreme reactions.] [Footnote 5: Dumas here, and later in the chapter, uses the name Roncherat. Roncherolles is the actual name of the man.] [Footnote 6: In some editions, "in spite of Milady" reads "in spite of malady".] [Footnote 7: "Pie" in this case refers to magpies, the prey for the falcons.] [Footnote 8: Anne of Austria did not die until 1666, and Dumas sets the current year as 1665.] [Footnote 9: Madame de Montespan would oust Louise from the king's affections by 1667.] [Footnote 10: De Guiche would not return to court until 1671.] [Fußnote 11: Madame ist 1670 tatsächlich an Gift gestorben, kurz nach ihrer Rückkehr von der später beschriebenen Mission. Der Chevalier de Lorraine wurde tatsächlich im Jahr 1662 aus Frankreich ausgewiesen.] [Fußnote 12: Diese bestimmte Kampagne fand tatsächlich erst im Jahr 1673 statt.] [Fußnote 13: Jean-Paul Oliva war tatsächlich von 1664 bis 1681 der eigentliche General der Jesuiten.] [Fußnote 14: In früheren Ausgaben lautet die letzte Zeile: "Von den vier tapferen Männern, deren Geschichte wir erzählt haben, blieb jetzt nur noch einen einziger Körper übrig; Gott hatte die Seelen wieder zu sich genommen." Dumas hat die Überarbeitung in späteren Ausgaben vorgenommen.] Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Am nächsten Tag trifft die gesamte Adligen ein, um ihre letzten Respektbekundungen darzubringen. D'Artagnan hält sich für sich. Er hilft bei den Vorbereitungen für die Beerdigung und schreibt einen Brief an den König, um eine längere Auszeit zu bitten. Die Körper von Vater und Sohn werden im Eingangsbereich aufgebahrt. Grimuad hat Raouls Körper mitgebracht. Athos und Raoul werden in der Nähe einer Kapelle auf dem Anwesen von Athos begraben. Nach der Beerdigung zögert D'Artagnan, um seine letzten Respektbekundungen darzubringen. Er findet eine Frau, die über den Doppelgräbern trauert. Sie ist überwältigt und bittet um Vergebung. D'Artagnan entdeckt, dass es sich um La Valliere handelt. Er beschämt sie gnadenlos und sagt, dass sie es war, die beide Männer ins Grab brachte. Sie sagt, dass sie den Hof verließ, sobald sie von Raouls Tod erfuhr, in der Hoffnung, um Vergebung von dem Vater zu bitten, und gerade rechtzeitig zur Beerdigung ankam. D'Artagnan wiederholt La Vallieres Gefühle gegenüber Raoul: Niemand hätte sie so geliebt wie er. La Valliere ist voller Leid. Sie sagt D'Artagnan, dass sie niemals ohne Reue lieben kann. Sie erzählt ihm, dass sie nicht anders konnte, als Ludwig zu lieben, aber nun wird sie unter Raouls Liebe zu ihr leiden. La Valliere bittet erneut um Vergebung, bevor sie geht. D'Artagnan bleibt allein zurück und fragt sich, wann er begraben wird. Er verabschiedet sich von den Verstorbenen und reitet zurück nach Paris.

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 3. Troy. Vor dem Palast des Priamus Hektor und Andromache treten auf ANDROMACHE. Wann war mein Herr so ungehobelt, Seine Ohren gegen Ermahnung zu verschließen? Entwaffnet euch, entwaffnet euch, und kämpft heute nicht. HEKTOR. Du bringst mich dazu, dich zu beleidigen; geh hinein. Bei allen ewigen Göttern, ich werde gehen. ANDROMACHE. Meine Träume werden sicherlich ein schlechtes Omen für den Tag sein. HEKTOR. Nichts mehr, sage ich. Cassandra tritt ein CASSANDRA. Wo ist mein Bruder Hektor? ANDROMACHE. Hier, Schwester, bewaffnet und blutig in Absicht. Begleite mich in lauter und inniger Bitte, Verfolgen wir ihn auf Knien; denn ich habe geträumt Von blutiger Unruhe, und diese ganze Nacht Gab es nichts als Gestalten und Formen des Schlachtens. CASSANDRA. Oh, das ist wahr! HEKTOR. Ho! Lass meine Trompete ertönen. CASSANDRA. Keine Signale für den Angriff, um Himmels willen, lieber Bruder! HEKTOR. Geh weg, sage ich. Die Götter haben meinen Schwur gehört. CASSANDRA. Die Götter sind taub gegen heiße und verdrießliche Gelübde; Sie sind verunreinigte Opfer, mehr verabscheut Als befleckte Leber bei dem Opfer. ANDROMACHE. Oh, lass dich überreden! Nimm es nicht als heilig wahr, Zu verletzen durch gerecht zu sein. Es ist genauso rechtmäßig, Denn wir würden viel geben, um durch gewaltsame Diebstähle Und Raub im Namen der Wohltätigkeit zu handeln. CASSANDRA. Es ist der Zweck, der das Gelübde stark macht; Aber Gelübde sollten nicht für jeden Zweck gelten. Entwaffne dich, süßer Hektor. HEKTOR. Bleib ruhig, sage ich. Mein Ehre bestimmt über mein Schicksal. Das Leben ist jedem Mann teuer; aber der teure Mann Hält Ehre viel kostbarer als das Leben. Trokilus tritt auf Wie jetzt, junger Mann! Willst du heute kämpfen? ANDROMACHE. Cassandra, ruf meinen Vater, um zu überreden. CASSANDRA geht ab HEKTOR. Nein, mein lieber Troilus; leg deine Rüstung ab, junger Mann; Heute stehe ich im Geist der Ritterlichkeit. Lass deine Sehnen wachsen, bis ihre Knoten stark sind, Und trotze noch nicht den Gefahren des Krieges. Entwaffne dich, geh; und zweifle nicht, tapferer Junge, Ich werde heute für dich, für mich und für Troja kämpfen. TROILUS. Bruder, du hast eine Schwäche für Gnade in dir, Die besser zu einem Löwen als zu einem Mann passt. HEKTOR. Welche Schwäche ist das, guter Troilus? Tade mich dafür. TROILUS. Wenn der gefangene Grieche oft genug fällt, Sogar durch den Luftzug und den Wind deines schönen Schwertes, Bittest du sie aufzustehen und zu leben. HEKTOR. Oh, das ist fairer Kampf! TROILUS. Dummes Spiel, beim Himmel, Hektor. HEKTOR. Was jetzt! Was jetzt! TROILUS. Um alles in der Welt, Lass uns das Erbarmen mit unserer Mutter Pity zurücklassen; Und wenn wir unsere Rüstungen angelegt haben, Die vergiftete Rache soll auf unseren Schwertern reiten, Antreiben zur erbarmungslosen Arbeit, von Mitleid abhalten! HEKTOR. Pfui, Wilder, pfui! TROILUS. Hektor, dann ist es Krieg. HEKTOR. Troilus, ich möchte nicht, dass du heute kämpfst. TROILUS. Wer sollte mich daran hindern? Nicht das Schicksal, nicht die Gehorsamkeit, noch die Hand des Mars, Die mit feurigem Zepter meinen Rückzug deutet; Nicht Priamus und Hekuba auf Knien, Deren Augen von Tränen überströmt sind; Noch du, mein Bruder, mit dem gezogenen Schwert, Um mich zu hindern, solltest meinen Weg nicht stoppen, Außer durch meinen Untergang. Cassandra tritt erneut auf, mit Priamus CASSANDRA. Ergreift ihn, Priamus, halte ihn fest; Er ist deine Stütze; wenn du deinen Halt verlierst, Du dich auf ihn stützend und ganz Troja auf dich, Fallt alle zusammen. PRIAM. Komm, Hektor, komm, geh zurück. Deine Frau hat geträumt; deine Mutter hatte Visionen; Cassandra sieht voraus; und ich selbst Bin plötzlich wie ein Prophet entrückt, Um dir zu sagen, dass dieser Tag ominös ist. Komme daher zurück. HEKTOR. Aeneas ist im Feld; Und ich stehe in der Pflicht gegenüber vielen Griechen, Selbst im Glauben an Tapferkeit, ihnen heute Morgen zu erscheinen. PRIAM. Ja, aber du sollst nicht gehen. HEKTOR. Ich darf meinen Schwur nicht brechen. Ihr kennt mich pflichtbewusst; daher, verehrter Sir, Schmach mir nicht; sondern erlaube mir Den Weg zu gehen, den du hier verbietest, königlicher Priamus. CASSANDRA. Oh Priamus, gib nicht nach! ANDROMACHE. Tu es nicht, lieber Vater. HEKTOR. Andromache, ich bin verärgert über dich. Aufgrund der Liebe, die du mir entgegenbringst, geh hinein. Andromache geht ab TROILUS. Dieses dumme, träumende, abergläubische Mädchen Verursacht all diese Vorahnungen. CASSANDRA. Oh, Leb wohl, lieber Hektor! Schau, wie du stirbst. Schau, wie dein Auge bleich wird. Schau, wie deine Wunden an vielen Stellen bluten. Hör, wie Troja brüllt; wie Hekuba schreit; Wie die arme Andromache ihr Leid laut verkündet; Siehe Zerstreuung, Wahnsinn und Verwirrung, Wie verstandlose Künstler sich gegenseitig treffen, Und alle rufen: Hektor! Hektor ist tot! Oh Hektor! TROILUS. Weg, weg! CASSANDRA. Leb wohl! Aber halt! Hektor, ich nehme meinen Abschied. Du täuscht dich selbst und ganz Troja. Abgang HEKTOR. Du bist erstaunt, mein Herr, über ihren Ausruf. Gehe hinein und ermutige die Stadt; wir werden hinausgehen und kämpfen, Taten vollbringen, die Lob verdienen, und sie dir am Abend erzählen. PRIAM. Lebe wohl. Die Götter mögen dich schützen! Getrennter Abgang von PRIAM und HEKTOR. Alarm TROILUS. Sie sind dabei, hör zu! Stolzer Diomedes, glaube Ich komme, meinen Arm zu verlieren oder mein Ärmel zu gewinnen. Pandarus tritt auf PANDARUS. Hört Ihr, mein Herr? Hört Ihr? TROILUS. Was jetzt? PANDARUS. Hier ist ein Brief von dem Mädchen da drüben. TROILUS. Lass mich lesen. PANDARUS. Eine verfluchte Schwindsucht, eine verfluchte räudige Schwindsucht macht mir Probleme, und das dumme Schicksal dieses Mädchens, und das eine Ding, das andere, dass ich dich eines Tages verlassen werde; und auch meine Augen tränen, und ich habe solche Schmerzen in meinen Knochen, dass ich, es sei denn ein verfluchter Mann, nicht sagen kann, woran ich denken soll. Was steht darin? TROILUS. Worte, Worte, nur Worte, unwichtig vom Herzen; Die Wirkung wirkt sich anders aus. [Der Brief zerreißend] Geh, Wind, zum Wind, drehe dich und ändere dich gemeinsam. Sie füttert meine Liebe immer noch mit Worten und Fehlern, Aber sie erbaut einen anderen mit ihren Taten. Geh, jeder geht aus. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze verfassen?

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Hektor und Andromache treten auf. Andromache versucht, Hektor davon zu überzeugen, an diesem Tag nicht in die Schlacht zu ziehen. Hektor weigert sich, ihr zuzuhören. Andromache sagt, sie habe einen beunruhigenden Traum gehabt, von dem sie sicher ist, dass er sich an diesem Tag erfüllen werde. Dennoch weigert sich Hektor, auf seine Frau zu hören. Kassandra tritt auf. Andromache holt sich ihre Unterstützung, um Hektor davon zu überzeugen, nicht in die Schlacht zu ziehen. Sie erzählt von ihrem Traum: "Ich habe von blutiger Gewalt geträumt, und diese ganze Nacht war nichts als Gestalten und Formen des Gemetzels". Kassandra, die Prophetin, sagt, Andromache sagt die Wahrheit, und beide versuchen, Hektor davon zu überzeugen, sich zu entwaffnen und nicht in die Schlacht zu gehen. Hektor weigert sich, ihnen zuzuhören. "Meine Ehre gibt das Wetter meiner Bestimmung vor: Das Leben hält jeder Mann für wertvoll, aber der liebe Mann hält die Ehre für weit kostbarer und teurer als das Leben", sagt er. Er begrüßt Troilus, der gerade hereinkommt, und fragt ihn, ob er beabsichtige, in die Schlacht zu ziehen. Andromache schickt Kassandra, um Priam zu rufen, um Hektor zu überreden. Hektor sagt zu Troilus: "Leg deine Rüstung ab und lass deine Muskeln kräftiger werden, bevor du dich mit dem Krieg anlegst". Er sagt ihm, er solle sich entwaffnen und dass er selbst, Hektor, für sich selbst, Troilus und Troja stehen werde. Troilus antwortet, dass er, Bruder, eine Schwäche für Barmherzigkeit habe, / was besser zu einem Löwen passt als zu einem Menschen". Hektor fragt, welche Schwäche das sei, und bittet Troilus, ihn dafür zu kritisieren. Troilus sagt, dass Hektor ihnen oft erlaubt hat, zu leben, wenn die Griechen am Ende seines Schwertes stehen. Hektor sagt, dass er nur fairen Spielraum gewährt. Troilus antwortet, dass es Narrenspiel ist. Er betet, dass sie das erbärmliche Mitleid bei unserer Mutter lassen;/ Und wenn wir unsere Rüstungen ausrüsten,/Bezwingt die vergiftete Rache auf unseren Schwertern,/Sporn sie zu bedauerlicher Arbeit, halte sie vom Mitleid zurück! Er meint, dass sie im Krieg ihre Schwerter antreiben müssen, um erbärmliche und mitleidlose Arbeit zu verrichten und sie daran hindern müssen, Mitleid zu zeigen. Hektor hält Troilus' Idee für wild. Troilus sagt, dass dies der Weg des Krieges ist. Er möchte für sich selbst kämpfen, da er nach Rache sucht und nicht nach der Ausübung von Gnade. Hektor sagt, dass er ihn an diesem Tag nicht kämpfen lassen wird. Troilus sagt, dass niemand ihn aufhalten kann - nicht das Schicksal, der Gehorsam noch die Hand des Mars. Nicht einmal Priamus und Hekuba, selbst wenn ihre Augen vor Weinen jucken, können mich aufhalten, mein Bruder, wenn du dein wahres Schwert gezogen hast. Aber an meinem Ruin. Priamus und Kassandra treten auf. Kassandra sagt Priamus, er solle Hektor festhalten, denn er ist dein Gehstock. Wenn du ihn verlierst, fallen du auf ihn gestützt und ganz Troja mit dir zusammen. Wenn Hektor in die Schlacht ziehen darf, sagt Kassandra, wird der Untergang von Troja zwangsläufig folgen. Priamus versucht, Hektor abzubringen - er sagt ihm, dass Andromache geträumt hat, seine Mutter Visionen hatte, Kassandra vorausgesehen hat und er selbst wie ein Prophet den Tag für beunruhigend hielt. Er fleht ihn daher an, nicht in die Schlacht zu ziehen.

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: 1801.--Ich bin gerade von einem Besuch bei meinem Vermieter zurückgekehrt - dem einzigen Nachbarn, mit dem ich zu tun haben werde. Das ist wirklich ein wunderschönes Land! Ich glaube nicht, dass ich in ganz England einen so abgelegenen Ort hätte finden können, der so vollkommen fernab vom Trubel der Gesellschaft liegt. Ein Paradies für einen Misanthropen: Und Mr. Heathcliff und ich sind ein passendes Paar, um die Einsamkeit zwischen uns aufzuteilen. Ein toller Kerl! Er konnte sich nicht vorstellen, wie mein Herz sich erwärmt hat, als ich seine schwarzen Augen so misstrauisch unter den Brauen zurückziehen sah, als ich angekommen bin, und als er seine Finger mit eifersüchtiger Entschlossenheit noch weiter in seine Weste zurückzog, als ich meinen Namen bekannt gab. "Mr. Heathcliff?" sagte ich. Ein Nicken war die Antwort. "Mr. Lockwood, Ihr neuer Mieter, Sir. Ich komme, mich so bald wie möglich nach meiner Ankunft zu melden, um die Hoffnung auszudrücken, dass ich Ihnen durch mein beharrliches Bemühen, das Thrushcross Grange zu bewohnen, keine Unannehmlichkeiten bereitet habe: Ich habe gestern gehört, dass Sie darüber nachgedacht haben..." "Thrushcross Grange gehört mir, Sir", unterbrach er mich, zusammenzuckend. "Wenn ich es verhindern könnte, ließe ich niemanden mich in irgendeiner Weise belästigen - treten Sie ein!" Das "treten Sie ein" wurde mit geschlossenen Zähnen ausgesprochen und drückte das Gefühl aus: "Gehen Sie zum Teufel!" Sogar das Tor, über das er gelehnt war, zeigte keine mitfühlende Bewegung zu den Worten; und ich denke, dass mich diese Tatsache dazu bewogen hat, die Einladung anzunehmen: Ich fand Interesse an einem Mann, der noch zurückgezogener wirkte als ich selbst. Als er sah, wie die Brust meines Pferdes das Hindernis immer weiter wegschob, legte er seine Hand aus, um es loszuketten, und ging dann mürrisch vor mir den Weg entlang und rief, als wir den Hof betraten: "Joseph, nimm Herrn Lockwoods Pferd; und bring etwas Wein mit." "Hier haben wir wahrscheinlich die ganze Anzahl angestellter Hausangestellter", war der Gedanke, der sich aus diesem umfassenden Befehl ergab. "Kein Wunder, dass das Gras zwischen den Fugen wächst und Vieh die einzigen Heckenschneider sind." Joseph war ein alter Mann, ja, ein alter Mann: Sehr alt, vielleicht, aber noch kräftig und muskulös. "Der Herr helfe uns!"soliloquierte er mit einem Unterton mürrischen Ärgers, während er mein Pferd entlastete und mir dabei ins Gesicht sah, dass ich liebevoll vermutete, dass er göttliche Hilfe zum Verdauen seines Essens brauchte und seine fromme Ermahnung keine Bezugnahme auf meine unerwartete Ankunft hatte. Wuthering Heights ist der Name des Hauses von Mr. Heathcliff. "Wuthering" ist ein bedeutsames Provinzadjektiv, das das atmosphärische Getümmel beschreibt, dem seine Lage bei stürmischem Wetter ausgesetzt ist. Oben müssen sie dort oben immer eine reine, erfrischende Belüftung haben: Man kann die Kraft des Nordwinds, der über die Kante bläst, an der übermäßigen Neigung einiger verkümmerter Fichten am Ende des Hauses erraten und an einer Reihe von dürren Dornen, die alle in eine Richtung ihre Äste strecken, als würden sie der Sonne Almosen erbitten. Glücklicherweise hatte der Architekt vorausschauend daran gedacht, es stark zu bauen: Die schmalen Fenster sind tief in der Wand versenkt, und die Ecken sind mit großen, hervorstehenden Steinen geschützt. Bevor ich die Schwelle überschritt, blieb ich stehen und bewunderte eine Menge grotesker Schnitzereien, die über die Fassade und vor allem um die Haustür herum verschwendet wurden. Oben entdeckte ich unter einer Vielzahl bröckelnder Greifen und schamloser kleiner Jungen das Datum "1500" und den Namen "Hareton Earnshaw". Ich hätte ein paar Kommentare abgeben und den mürrischen Besitzer um eine kurze Geschichte des Ortes bitten können, aber seine Haltung an der Tür schien meine schnelle Eingabe oder vollständige Abreise zu verlangen, und ich hatte keine Lust, seine Ungeduld vor der Inspektion der Inneren Gemächer zu verschlimmern. Ein Halt brachte uns ohne jeglichen Vorraum oder Gang in das Familiensitzungszimmer: Hier wird es vorherrschend "das Haus" genannt. In der Regel umfasst es Küche und Salon, aber ich glaube, dass die Küche in Wuthering Heights ganz in einen anderen Teil zurückgezwungen wird: zumindest hörte ich ein Geschwätz von Zungen und ein Klappern von Küchenutensilien tief im Inneren; und um den großen Kamin herum konnte ich keinerlei Anzeichen von Braten, Kochen oder Backen erkennen; auch keine Glitzer von Kupferkesseln und Zinnsieben an den Wänden. Ein Ende spiegelte tatsächlich sowohl Licht als auch Wärme von Reihen riesiger Zinnteller wider, die mit silbernen Krügen und Kannen durchsetzt waren und sich schier endlos auf einem riesigen Eichenschrank bis zum Dach erhoben. Letzteres war noch nie zuvor vollständig heruntergezogen worden: seine gesamte Anatomie lag einem forschenden Auge offen, außer wo ein hölzerner Rahmen beladen mit Haferkuchen und Klumpen von Rind-, Schaf- und Schinkenbeinen es verdeckte. Über dem Kamin befanden sich einige böse alte Gewehre und ein paar Pferdepi- stolen; und zur Zierde standen entlang des Simses drei prächtig bemalte Büchsen. Der Boden war aus glattem, weißem Stein; die Stühle waren hohe, primitive Konstruktionen, grün gestrichen: ein oder zwei schwere schwarze saßen im Schatten. In einem Bogen unter dem Schrank lag eine riesige, leberfarbene Jagdhündin, umgeben von einem Schwarm quietschender Welpen; und andere Hunde hielten sich in anderen Verstecken auf. Die Wohnung und die Möbel wären nichts Außergewöhnliches für einen bäuerlichen Bauern im Norden gewesen, mit einem trotzigem Gesicht und stämmigen Gliedmaßen, die in Kniehosen und Gamaschen zur Geltung kamen. Solch eine Person saß in seinem Lehnstuhl, sein Humpen Bier schäumte auf dem runden Tisch vor ihm, und man konnte sie innerhalb von fünf oder sechs Meilen in diesen Hügeln sehen, wenn man zur richtigen Zeit nach dem Mittagessen geht. Aber Mr. Heathcliff bildet einen außergewöhnlichen Kontrast zu seinem Wohnsitz und Lebensstil. Er ist vom Aussehen her ein dunkelhäutiger Zigeuner, in Kleidung und Manieren ein Gentleman: das heißt, so sehr ein Gentleman wie mancher Landadlige: vielleicht etwas nachlässig, aber nicht unpassend aussehend in seiner Nachlässigkeit, weil er eine aufrechte und stattliche Figur hat; und er ist eher mürrisch. Möglicherweise könnten manche Leute ihn einer Art von nicht standesgemäßem Stolz verdächtigen; ich habe eine empfindsame Saite in mir, die mir sagt, dass es überhaupt nichts dergleichen ist: Ich weiß instinktiv, dass seine Zurückhaltung aus einer Abneigung gegen auffällige Gefühlsbekundungen - gegen Offenbarungen gegenseitiger Freundlichkeit - entspringt. Er wird lieben und hassen, beide gleich unter dem Deckmantel, und er wird es als eine Art Unverschämtheit ansehen, wieder geliebt oder gehasst zu werden. Nein, ich komme zu schnell voran: Ich verteile meine eigenen Eigenschaften zu großz Joseph murmelte undeutlich in den Tiefen des Kellers, gab aber keine Andeutung, dass er aufsteigen würde; also tauchte sein Meister hinab zu ihm und ließ mich allein mit der gewalttätigen Hündin und einem Paar grimmiger, zotteliger Schäferhunde, die mit ihr eifersüchtig über meine Bewegungen wachten. Da ich keine Lust hatte, mit ihren Fangzähnen in Kontakt zu kommen, blieb ich sitzen; aber ich dachte mir, dass sie wahrscheinlich keine stillen Beleidigungen verstehen würden, und leider zwinkerte ich und machte Grimassen zu dem Trio. Irgendwie erzürnte dies die Dame so sehr, dass sie plötzlich in einen Wutanfall geriet und auf meine Knie sprang. Ich warf sie zurück und beeilte mich, den Tisch zwischen uns zu stellen. Dieses Vorgehen weckte den ganzen Schwarm: eine halbe Dutzend vierbeinige Teufel unterschiedlicher Größe und Alter strömte aus verborgenen Höhlen zum gemeinsamen Treffpunkt. Ich fühlte, wie meine Fersen und der Saum meines Mantels besonderen Angriffen ausgesetzt waren, und während ich die größeren Kontrahenten so weit wie möglich mit dem Poker abwehrte, war ich gezwungen, lautstark Hilfe von jemandem im Haus zu fordern, um Frieden wiederherzustellen. Mr. Heathcliff und sein Bediensteter stiegen mit nervtötender Phlegmatik die Kellerstufen hinauf: Ich glaube nicht, dass sie auch nur eine Sekunde schneller gingen als sonst, obwohl der Feuerplatz ein absoluter Sturm aus Sorge und Gebell war. Glücklicherweise kam eine Bewohnerin der Küche schneller voran: Eine kräftige Dame, mit hochgeschürztem Kleid, nackten Armen und feuerroten Wangen, stürzte sich mitten unter uns schwenkend mit einer Bratpfanne: und benutzte diese Waffe und ihre Zunge so geschickt, dass der Sturm wie durch Magie abflaute und nur noch sie übrig blieb, die nach einem starken Wind wie das Meer auf und ab wogte, als ihr Meister die Szene betrat. "Was zur Hölle ist los?" fragte er und betrachtete mich auf eine Art und Weise, die ich nach dieser unhöflichen Behandlung kaum ertragen konnte. "Was zur Hölle, in der Tat!" murmelte ich. "Die Herde besessener Schweine hätte keine schlimmeren Geister in sich haben können als diese Tiere von Ihnen, Sir. Sie könnten genauso gut einen Fremden mit einer Horde von Tigern allein lassen!" "Sie kümmern sich nicht um Personen, die nichts berühren", bemerkte er und stellte die Flasche vor mich hin und rückte den verschobenen Tisch wieder zurecht. "Die Hunde haben Recht, wachsam zu sein. Möchten Sie ein Glas Wein?" "Nein, danke." "Kein Biss abbekommen, oder?" "Wenn ich einen bekommen hätte, hätte ich den Bissenden mit meinem Siegel versehen." Heathcliffs Gesicht entspannte sich zu einem Grinsen. "Komm, komm", sagte er, "Sie sind aufgeregt, Mr. Lockwood. Hier, nehmen Sie ein wenig Wein. Gäste sind in diesem Haus so außerordentlich selten, dass ich und meine Hunde, das muss ich gestehen, nicht recht wissen, wie wir sie empfangen sollen. Auf Ihr Wohl, Sir!" Ich verneigte mich und erwiderte den Toast, und begann zu begreifen, dass es töricht wäre, wegen des Fehlverhaltens eines Rudels Köter beleidigt zu sein; außerdem wollte ich dem Kerl ungern weitere Unterhaltung auf meine Kosten bieten, da seine Stimmung in diese Richtung ging. Er – wahrscheinlich von pragmatischen Überlegungen zur Torheit, einen guten Mieter zu verärgern, beeinflusst – lockerte seinen lakonischen Stil ein wenig, in dem er sich aufpronominale und modale Hilfsverben mühsam abspaltete und führte ein, was er für ein für mich interessantes Thema halten mochte – eine Diskussion über die Vor- und Nachteile meines derzeitigen Rückzugsortes. Ich fand ihn in den Themen, die wir berührten, sehr sachkundig; und bevor ich nach Hause ging, war ich so ermutigt, dass ich mich freiwillig zu einem weiteren Besuch am nächsten Tag bereit erklärte. Offensichtlich wünschte er keine Wiederholung meines Eindringens. Ich werde trotzdem gehen. Es ist erstaunlich, wie gesellig ich mich im Vergleich zu ihm fühle. Können Sie eine passende Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze verfassen?

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Es ist 1801, und der Erzähler, Herr Lockwood, berichtet, wie er gerade von einem Besuch bei seinem neuen Vermieter, Mr. Heathcliff, zurückgekehrt ist. Lockwood, ein selbstbezeichneter Misanthrop, mietet Thrushcross Grange, um sich nach einem Liebesversagen von der Gesellschaft fernzuhalten. Er hatte sich in eine "echte Göttin" verliebt, aber als sie seine Zuneigung erwiderte, reagierte er so kühl, dass sie ihre Mutter "überredete, wegzulaufen". Im Vergleich zu Heathcliff stellt er jedoch fest, dass er äußerst kontaktfreudig ist. Heathcliff, ein "dunkelhäutiger Zigeuner, im Aussehen, in der Kleidung und im Umgang ein Gentleman", behandelt seinen Besucher mit einem Minimum an Freundlichkeit, und Wuthering Heights, der Bauernhof, auf dem Heathcliff lebt, ist genauso fremd und unfreundlich. "Wuthering" bedeutet stürmisch und windig im lokalen Dialekt. Als Lockwood eintritt, sieht er einen Namen in der Nähe der Tür eingeschnitzt: Hareton Earnshaw. Gefährlich aussehende Hunde bewohnen die kargen und altmodischen Räume und drohen Lockwood anzugreifen: Als er um Hilfe ruft, lässt Heathcliff durchblicken, dass Lockwood etwas gestohlen habe. Die einzigen anderen Bewohner von Wuthering Heights sind ein alter Diener namens Joseph und ein Koch - beide sind nicht viel freundlicher als Heathcliff. Trotz seiner Grobheit fühlt sich Lockwood zu Heathcliff hingezogen: Er beschreibt ihn als intelligent, stolz und melancholisch - einen ungewöhnlichen Bauern. Heathcliff gibt Lockwood etwas Wein und lädt ihn ein, wiederzukommen. Obwohl Lockwood vermutet, dass diese Einladung nicht aufrichtig ist, beschließt er, zurückzukehren, weil er so fasziniert von dem Vermieter 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: ON the morning of the 22d I wakened with a start. Before I opened my eyes, I seemed to know that something had happened. I heard excited voices in the kitchen--grandmother's was so shrill that I knew she must be almost beside herself. I looked forward to any new crisis with delight. What could it be, I wondered, as I hurried into my clothes. Perhaps the barn had burned; perhaps the cattle had frozen to death; perhaps a neighbor was lost in the storm. Down in the kitchen grandfather was standing before the stove with his hands behind him. Jake and Otto had taken off their boots and were rubbing their woolen socks. Their clothes and boots were steaming, and they both looked exhausted. On the bench behind the stove lay a man, covered up with a blanket. Grandmother motioned me to the dining-room. I obeyed reluctantly. I watched her as she came and went, carrying dishes. Her lips were tightly compressed and she kept whispering to herself: "Oh, dear Saviour!" "Lord, Thou knowest!" Presently grandfather came in and spoke to me: "Jimmy, we will not have prayers this morning, because we have a great deal to do. Old Mr. Shimerda is dead, and his family are in great distress. Ambrosch came over here in the middle of the night, and Jake and Otto went back with him. The boys have had a hard night, and you must not bother them with questions. That is Ambrosch, asleep on the bench. Come in to breakfast, boys." After Jake and Otto had swallowed their first cup of coffee, they began to talk excitedly, disregarding grandmother's warning glances. I held my tongue, but I listened with all my ears. "No, sir," Fuchs said in answer to a question from grandfather, "nobody heard the gun go off. Ambrosch was out with the ox team, trying to break a road, and the women folks was shut up tight in their cave. When Ambrosch come in it was dark and he did n't see nothing, but the oxen acted kind of queer. One of 'em ripped around and got away from him--bolted clean out of the stable. His hands is blistered where the rope run through. He got a lantern and went back and found the old man, just as we seen him." "Poor soul, poor soul!" grandmother groaned. "I'd like to think he never done it. He was always considerate and un-wishful to give trouble. How could he forget himself and bring this on us!" "I don't think he was out of his head for a minute, Mrs. Burden," Fuchs declared. "He done everything natural. You know he was always sort of fixy, and fixy he was to the last. He shaved after dinner, and washed hisself all over after the girls was done the dishes. Antonia heated the water for him. Then he put on a clean shirt and clean socks, and after he was dressed he kissed her and the little one and took his gun and said he was going out to hunt rabbits. He must have gone right down to the barn and done it then. He layed down on that bunk-bed, close to the ox stalls, where he always slept. When we found him, everything was decent except,"--Fuchs wrinkled his brow and hesitated,--"except what he could n't nowise foresee. His coat was hung on a peg, and his boots was under the bed. He'd took off that silk neckcloth he always wore, and folded it smooth and stuck his pin through it. He turned back his shirt at the neck and rolled up his sleeves." "I don't see how he could do it!" grandmother kept saying. Otto misunderstood her. "Why, mam, it was simple enough; he pulled the trigger with his big toe. He layed over on his side and put the end of the barrel in his mouth, then he drew up one foot and felt for the trigger. He found it all right!" "Maybe he did," said Jake grimly. "There's something mighty queer about it." "Now what do you mean, Jake?" grandmother asked sharply. "Well, mam, I found Krajiek's axe under the manger, and I picks it up and carries it over to the corpse, and I take my oath it just fit the gash in the front of the old man's face. That there Krajiek had been sneakin' round, pale and quiet, and when he seen me examinin' the axe, he begun whimperin', 'My God, man, don't do that!' 'I reckon I'm a-goin' to look into this,' says I. Then he begun to squeal like a rat and run about wringin' his hands. 'They'll hang me!' says he. 'My God, they'll hang me sure!'" Fuchs spoke up impatiently. "Krajiek's gone silly, Jake, and so have you. The old man would n't have made all them preparations for Krajiek to murder him, would he? It don't hang together. The gun was right beside him when Ambrosch found him." "Krajiek could 'a' put it there, could n't he?" Jake demanded. Grandmother broke in excitedly: "See here, Jake Marpole, don't you go trying to add murder to suicide. We're deep enough in trouble. Otto reads you too many of them detective stories." "It will be easy to decide all that, Emmaline," said grandfather quietly. "If he shot himself in the way they think, the gash will be torn from the inside outward." "Just so it is, Mr. Burden," Otto affirmed. "I seen bunches of hair and stuff sticking to the poles and straw along the roof. They was blown up there by gunshot, no question." Grandmother told grandfather she meant to go over to the Shimerdas with him. "There is nothing you can do," he said doubtfully. "The body can't be touched until we get the coroner here from Black Hawk, and that will be a matter of several days, this weather." "Well, I can take them some victuals, anyway, and say a word of comfort to them poor little girls. The oldest one was his darling, and was like a right hand to him. He might have thought of her. He's left her alone in a hard world." She glanced distrustfully at Ambrosch, who was now eating his breakfast at the kitchen table. Fuchs, although he had been up in the cold nearly all night, was going to make the long ride to Black Hawk to fetch the priest and the coroner. On the gray gelding, our best horse, he would try to pick his way across the country with no roads to guide him. "Don't you worry about me, Mrs. Burden," he said cheerfully, as he put on a second pair of socks. "I've got a good nose for directions, and I never did need much sleep. It's the gray I'm worried about. I'll save him what I can, but it'll strain him, as sure as I'm telling you!" "This is no time to be over-considerate of animals, Otto; do the best you can for yourself. Stop at the Widow Steavens's for dinner. She's a good woman, and she'll do well by you." After Fuchs rode away, I was left with Ambrosch. I saw a side of him I had not seen before. He was deeply, even slavishly, devout. He did not say a word all morning, but sat with his rosary in his hands, praying, now silently, now aloud. He never looked away from his beads, nor lifted his hands except to cross himself. Several times the poor boy fell asleep where he sat, wakened with a start, and began to pray again. No wagon could be got to the Shimerdas' until a road was broken, and that would be a day's job. Grandfather came from the barn on one of our big black horses, and Jake lifted grandmother up behind him. She wore her black hood and was bundled up in shawls. Grandfather tucked his bushy white beard inside his overcoat. They looked very Biblical as they set off, I thought. Jake and Ambrosch followed them, riding the other black and my pony, carrying bundles of clothes that we had got together for Mrs. Shimerda. I watched them go past the pond and over the hill by the drifted cornfield. Then, for the first time, I realized that I was alone in the house. I felt a considerable extension of power and authority, and was anxious to acquit myself creditably. I carried in cobs and wood from the long cellar, and filled both the stoves. I remembered that in the hurry and excitement of the morning nobody had thought of the chickens, and the eggs had not been gathered. Going out through the tunnel, I gave the hens their corn, emptied the ice from their drinking-pan, and filled it with water. After the cat had had his milk, I could think of nothing else to do, and I sat down to get warm. The quiet was delightful, and the ticking clock was the most pleasant of companions. I got "Robinson Crusoe" and tried to read, but his life on the island seemed dull compared with ours. Presently, as I looked with satisfaction about our comfortable sitting-room, it flashed upon me that if Mr. Shimerda's soul were lingering about in this world at all, it would be here, in our house, which had been more to his liking than any other in the neighborhood. I remembered his contented face when he was with us on Christmas Day. If he could have lived with us, this terrible thing would never have happened. I knew it was homesickness that had killed Mr. Shimerda, and I wondered whether his released spirit would not eventually find its way back to his own country. I thought of how far it was to Chicago, and then to Virginia, to Baltimore,--and then the great wintry ocean. No, he would not at once set out upon that long journey. Surely, his exhausted spirit, so tired of cold and crowding and the struggle with the ever-falling snow, was resting now in this quiet house. I was not frightened, but I made no noise. I did not wish to disturb him. I went softly down to the kitchen which, tucked away so snugly underground, always seemed to me the heart and center of the house. There, on the bench behind the stove, I thought and thought about Mr. Shimerda. Outside I could hear the wind singing over hundreds of miles of snow. It was as if I had let the old man in out of the tormenting winter, and were sitting there with him. I went over all that Antonia had ever told me about his life before he came to this country; how he used to play the fiddle at weddings and dances. I thought about the friends he had mourned to leave, the trombone-player, the great forest full of game,--belonging, as Antonia said, to the "nobles,"--from which she and her mother used to steal wood on moonlight nights. There was a white hart that lived in that forest, and if any one killed it, he would be hanged, she said. Such vivid pictures came to me that they might have been Mr. Shimerda's memories, not yet faded out from the air in which they had haunted him. It had begun to grow dark when my household returned, and grandmother was so tired that she went at once to bed. Jake and I got supper, and while we were washing the dishes he told me in loud whispers about the state of things over at the Shimerdas'. Nobody could touch the body until the coroner came. If any one did, something terrible would happen, apparently. The dead man was frozen through, "just as stiff as a dressed turkey you hang out to freeze," Jake said. The horses and oxen would not go into the barn until he was frozen so hard that there was no longer any smell of blood. They were stabled there now, with the dead man, because there was no other place to keep them. A lighted lantern was kept hanging over Mr. Shimerda's head. Antonia and Ambrosch and the mother took turns going down to pray beside him. The crazy boy went with them, because he did not feel the cold. I believed he felt cold as much as any one else, but he liked to be thought insensible to it. He was always coveting distinction, poor Marek! Ambrosch, Jake said, showed more human feeling than he would have supposed him capable of; but he was chiefly concerned about getting a priest, and about his father's soul, which he believed was in a place of torment and would remain there until his family and the priest had prayed a great deal for him. "As I understand it," Jake concluded, "it will be a matter of years to pray his soul out of Purgatory, and right now he's in torment." "I don't believe it," I said stoutly. "I almost know it is n't true." I did not, of course, say that I believed he had been in that very kitchen all afternoon, on his way back to his own country. Nevertheless, after I went to bed, this idea of punishment and Purgatory came back on me crushingly. I remembered the account of Dives in torment, and shuddered. But Mr. Shimerda had not been rich and selfish; he had only been so unhappy that he could not live any longer. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Am 22. wacht Jim aufgeregt auf, weil es unten nach einer Krise klingt. Otto und Jake sehen erschöpft und kalt aus, während Ambrosch auf der Bank schläft. Großvater erzählt ihnen, dass Herr Shimerda tot ist und dass Otto und Jake mitten in der Nacht mit Ambrosch rübergegangen sind. Beim Frühstück sagt Otto, dass niemand einen Schuss gehört hat und dass Ambrosch seinen Vater entdeckt hat, weil die Ochsen sich merkwürdig verhalten haben. Herr Shimerda hatte sich zuvor gewaschen und rasiert, seine Kleidung ordentlich angeordnet und sich dann mit einem Gewehr, während er lag, in den Mund geschossen. Laut Jake passt jedoch Krajieks Axt genau in den Schnitt in Herrn Shimerdas Gesicht, und Krajiek schlich herum und benahm sich schuldig. Die Familie streitet ein wenig darüber, was passiert ist, aber sie können nichts tun, bis ein Gerichtsmediziner eintrifft. Otto geht nach Black Hawk, um den Gerichtsmediziner zu holen, und Ambrosch betet den ganzen Vormittag inbrünstig. Schließlich gehen Großvater, Großmutter, Jake und Ambrosch alle los, um die Kleidung der Shimerdas zu holen, während Jim allein zurückbleibt. Jim freut sich, für alle Aufgaben verantwortlich zu sein, und findet das Leben des Robinson Crusoe im Vergleich dazu langweilig. Er stellt sich vor, dass der Geist von Herrn Shimerda im Haus ruht, bevor er in seine Heimat geht. Er hat keine Angst und denkt nur sehr leise an ihn. Als die Familie zurückkehrt, erzählt Otto Jim, dass Herr Shimerda draußen in der Scheune steinhart gefroren ist und dass die Shimerdas abwechselnd über seinen Körper beten. Ambrosch will sofort einen Priester finden, damit die Seele seines Vaters aus dem Fegefeuer herauskommt. Jim weiß, dass Herr Shimerdas Seele nicht im Fegefeuer feststecken wird, und er realisiert, dass er im Leben einfach sehr unglücklich war.

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 day after Commencement I moved my books and desk upstairs, to an empty room where I should be undisturbed, and I fell to studying in earnest. I worked off a year's trigonometry that summer, and began Virgil alone. Morning after morning I used to pace up and down my sunny little room, looking off at the distant river bluffs and the roll of the blond pastures between, scanning the AEneid aloud and committing long passages to memory. Sometimes in the evening Mrs. Harling called to me as I passed her gate, and asked me to come in and let her play for me. She was lonely for Charley, she said, and liked to have a boy about. Whenever my grandparents had misgivings, and began to wonder whether I was not too young to go off to college alone, Mrs. Harling took up my cause vigorously. Grandfather had such respect for her judgment that I knew he would not go against her. I had only one holiday that summer. It was in July. I met Antonia downtown on Saturday afternoon, and learned that she and Tiny and Lena were going to the river next day with Anna Hansen--the elder was all in bloom now, and Anna wanted to make elder-blow wine. "Anna's to drive us down in the Marshalls' delivery wagon, and we'll take a nice lunch and have a picnic. Just us; nobody else. Could n't you happen along, Jim? It would be like old times." I considered a moment. "Maybe I can, if I won't be in the way." On Sunday morning I rose early and got out of Black Hawk while the dew was still heavy on the long meadow grasses. It was the high season for summer flowers. The pink bee-bush stood tall along the sandy roadsides, and the cone-flowers and rose mallow grew everywhere. Across the wire fence, in the long grass, I saw a clump of flaming orange-colored milkweed, rare in that part of the State. I left the road and went around through a stretch of pasture that was always cropped short in summer, where the gaillardia came up year after year and matted over the ground with the deep, velvety red that is in Bokhara carpets. The country was empty and solitary except for the larks that Sunday morning, and it seemed to lift itself up to me and to come very close. The river was running strong for midsummer; heavy rains to the west of us had kept it full. I crossed the bridge and went upstream along the wooded shore to a pleasant dressing-room I knew among the dogwood bushes, all overgrown with wild grapevines. I began to undress for a swim. The girls would not be along yet. For the first time it occurred to me that I would be homesick for that river after I left it. The sandbars, with their clean white beaches and their little groves of willows and cottonwood seedlings, were a sort of No Man's Land, little newly-created worlds that belonged to the Black Hawk boys. Charley Harling and I had hunted through these woods, fished from the fallen logs, until I knew every inch of the river shores and had a friendly feeling for every bar and shallow. After my swim, while I was playing about indolently in the water, I heard the sound of hoofs and wheels on the bridge. I struck downstream and shouted, as the open spring wagon came into view on the middle span. They stopped the horse, and the two girls in the bottom of the cart stood up, steadying themselves by the shoulders of the two in front, so that they could see me better. They were charming up there, huddled together in the cart and peering down at me like curious deer when they come out of the thicket to drink. I found bottom near the bridge and stood up, waving to them. "How pretty you look!" I called. "So do you!" they shouted altogether, and broke into peals of laughter. Anna Hansen shook the reins and they drove on, while I zigzagged back to my inlet and clambered up behind an overhanging elm. I dried myself in the sun, and dressed slowly, reluctant to leave that green enclosure where the sunlight flickered so bright through the grapevine leaves and the woodpecker hammered away in the crooked elm that trailed out over the water. As I went along the road back to the bridge I kept picking off little pieces of scaly chalk from the dried water gullies, and breaking them up in my hands. When I came upon the Marshalls' delivery horse, tied in the shade, the girls had already taken their baskets and gone down the east road which wound through the sand and scrub. I could hear them calling to each other. The elder bushes did not grow back in the shady ravines between the bluffs, but in the hot, sandy bottoms along the stream, where their roots were always in moisture and their tops in the sun. The blossoms were unusually luxuriant and beautiful that summer. I followed a cattle path through the thick underbrush until I came to a slope that fell away abruptly to the water's edge. A great chunk of the shore had been bitten out by some spring freshet, and the scar was masked by elder bushes, growing down to the water in flowery terraces. I did not touch them. I was overcome by content and drowsiness and by the warm silence about me. There was no sound but the high, sing-song buzz of wild bees and the sunny gurgle of the water underneath. I peeped over the edge of the bank to see the little stream that made the noise; it flowed along perfectly clear over the sand and gravel, cut off from the muddy main current by a long sandbar. Down there, on the lower shelf of the bank, I saw Antonia, seated alone under the pagoda-like elders. She looked up when she heard me, and smiled, but I saw that she had been crying. I slid down into the soft sand beside her and asked her what was the matter. "It makes me homesick, Jimmy, this flower, this smell," she said softly. "We have this flower very much at home, in the old country. It always grew in our yard and my papa had a green bench and a table under the bushes. In summer, when they were in bloom, he used to sit there with his friend that played the trombone. When I was little I used to go down there to hear them talk--beautiful talk, like what I never hear in this country." "What did they talk about?" I asked her. She sighed and shook her head. "Oh, I don't know! About music, and the woods, and about God, and when they were young." She turned to me suddenly and looked into my eyes. "You think, Jimmy, that maybe my father's spirit can go back to those old places?" I told her about the feeling of her father's presence I had on that winter day when my grandparents had gone over to see his dead body and I was left alone in the house. I said I felt sure then that he was on his way back to his own country, and that even now, when I passed his grave, I always thought of him as being among the woods and fields that were so dear to him. Antonia had the most trusting, responsive eyes in the world; love and credulousness seemed to look out of them with open faces. "Why did n't you ever tell me that before? It makes me feel more sure for him." After a while she said: "You know, Jim, my father was different from my mother. He did not have to marry my mother, and all his brothers quarreled with him because he did. I used to hear the old people at home whisper about it. They said he could have paid my mother money, and not married her. But he was older than she was, and he was too kind to treat her like that. He lived in his mother's house, and she was a poor girl come in to do the work. After my father married her, my grandmother never let my mother come into her house again. When I went to my grandmother's funeral was the only time I was ever in my grandmother's house. Don't that seem strange?" While she talked, I lay back in the hot sand and looked up at the blue sky between the flat bouquets of elder. I could hear the bees humming and singing, but they stayed up in the sun above the flowers and did not come down into the shadow of the leaves. Antonia seemed to me that day exactly like the little girl who used to come to our house with Mr. Shimerda. "Some day, Tony, I am going over to your country, and I am going to the little town where you lived. Do you remember all about it?" "Jim," she said earnestly, "if I was put down there in the middle of the night, I could find my way all over that little town; and along the river to the next town, where my grandmother lived. My feet remember all the little paths through the woods, and where the big roots stick out to trip you. I ain't never forgot my own country." There was a crackling in the branches above us, and Lena Lingard peered down over the edge of the bank. "You lazy things!" she cried. "All this elder, and you two lying there! Did n't you hear us calling you?" Almost as flushed as she had been in my dream, she leaned over the edge of the bank and began to demolish our flowery pagoda. I had never seen her so energetic; she was panting with zeal, and the perspiration stood in drops on her short, yielding upper lip. I sprang to my feet and ran up the bank. It was noon now, and so hot that the dogwoods and scrub-oaks began to turn up the silvery under-side of their leaves, and all the foliage looked soft and wilted. I carried the lunch-basket to the top of one of the chalk bluffs, where even on the calmest days there was always a breeze. The flat-topped, twisted little oaks threw light shadows on the grass. Below us we could see the windings of the river, and Black Hawk, grouped among its trees, and, beyond, the rolling country, swelling gently until it met the sky. We could recognize familiar farmhouses and windmills. Each of the girls pointed out to me the direction in which her father's farm lay, and told me how many acres were in wheat that year and how many in corn. "My old folks," said Tiny Soderball, "have put in twenty acres of rye. They get it ground at the mill, and it makes nice bread. It seems like my mother ain't been so homesick, ever since father's raised rye flour for her." "It must have been a trial for our mothers," said Lena, "coming out here and having to do everything different. My mother had always lived in town. She says she started behind in farm-work, and never has caught up." "Yes, a new country's hard on the old ones, sometimes," said Anna thoughtfully. "My grandmother's getting feeble now, and her mind wanders. She's forgot about this country, and thinks she's at home in Norway. She keeps asking mother to take her down to the waterside and the fish market. She craves fish all the time. Whenever I go home I take her canned salmon and mackerel." "Mercy, it's hot!" Lena yawned. She was supine under a little oak, resting after the fury of her elder-hunting, and had taken off the high-heeled slippers she had been silly enough to wear. "Come here, Jim. You never got the sand out of your hair." She began to draw her fingers slowly through my hair. Antonia pushed her away. "You'll never get it out like that," she said sharply. She gave my head a rough touzling and finished me off with something like a box on the ear. "Lena, you ought n't to try to wear those slippers any more. They're too small for your feet. You'd better give them to me for Yulka." "All right," said Lena good-naturedly, tucking her white stockings under her skirt. "You get all Yulka's things, don't you? I wish father did n't have such bad luck with his farm machinery; then I could buy more things for my sisters. I'm going to get Mary a new coat this fall, if the sulky plough's never paid for!" Tiny asked her why she did n't wait until after Christmas, when coats would be cheaper. "What do you think of poor me?" she added; "with six at home, younger than I am? And they all think I'm rich, because when I go back to the country I'm dressed so fine!" She shrugged her shoulders. "But, you know, my weakness is playthings. I like to buy them playthings better than what they need." "I know how that is," said Anna. "When we first came here, and I was little, we were too poor to buy toys. I never got over the loss of a doll somebody gave me before we left Norway. A boy on the boat broke her, and I still hate him for it." "I guess after you got here you had plenty of live dolls to nurse, like me!" Lena remarked cynically. "Yes, the babies came along pretty fast, to be sure. But I never minded. I was fond of them all. The youngest one, that we did n't any of us want, is the one we love best now." Lena sighed. "Oh, the babies are all right; if only they don't come in winter. Ours nearly always did. I don't see how mother stood it. I tell you what girls," she sat up with sudden energy; "I'm going to get my mother out of that old sod house where she's lived so many years. The men will never do it. Johnnie, that's my oldest brother, he's wanting to get married now, and build a house for his girl instead of his mother. Mrs. Thomas says she thinks I can move to some other town pretty soon, and go into business for myself. If I don't get into business, I'll maybe marry a rich gambler." "That would be a poor way to get on," said Anna sarcastically. "I wish I could teach school, like Selma Kronn. Just think! She'll be the first Scandinavian girl to get a position in the High School. We ought to be proud of her." Selma was a studious girl, who had not much tolerance for giddy things like Tiny and Lena; but they always spoke of her with admiration. Tiny moved about restlessly, fanning herself with her straw hat. "If I was smart like her, I'd be at my books day and night. But she was born smart--and look how her father's trained her! He was something high up in the old country." "So was my mother's father," murmured Lena, "but that's all the good it does us! My father's father was smart, too, but he was wild. He married a Lapp. I guess that's what's the matter with me; they say Lapp blood will out." "A real Lapp, Lena?" I exclaimed. "The kind that wear skins?" "I don't know if she wore skins, but she was a Lapp all right, and his folks felt dreadful about it. He was sent up north on some Government job he had, and fell in with her. He would marry her." "But I thought Lapland women were fat and ugly, and had squint eyes, like Chinese?" I objected. "I don't know, maybe. There must be something mighty taking about the Lapp girls, though; mother says the Norwegians up north are always afraid their boys will run after them." In the afternoon, when the heat was less oppressive, we had a lively game of "Pussy Wants a Corner," on the flat bluff-top, with the little trees for bases. Lena was Pussy so often that she finally said she would n't play any more. We threw ourselves down on the grass, out of breath. "Jim," Antonia said dreamily, "I want you to tell the girls about how the Spanish first came here, like you and Charley Harling used to talk about. I've tried to tell them, but I leave out so much." They sat under a little oak, Tony resting against the trunk and the other girls leaning against her and each other, and listened to the little I was able to tell them about Coronado and his search for the Seven Golden Cities. At school we were taught that he had not got so far north as Nebraska, but had given up his quest and turned back somewhere in Kansas. But Charley Harling and I had a strong belief that he had been along this very river. A farmer in the county north of ours, when he was breaking sod, had turned up a metal stirrup of fine workmanship, and a sword with a Spanish inscription on the blade. He lent these relics to Mr. Harling, who brought them home with him. Charley and I scoured them, and they were on exhibition in the Harling office all summer. Father Kelly, the priest, had found the name of the Spanish maker on the sword, and an abbreviation that stood for the city of Cordova. "And that I saw with my own eyes," Antonia put in triumphantly. "So Jim and Charley were right, and the teachers were wrong!" The girls began to wonder among themselves. Why had the Spaniards come so far? What must this country have been like, then? Why had Coronado never gone back to Spain, to his riches and his castles and his king? I could n't tell them. I only knew the school books said he "died in the wilderness, of a broken heart." "More than him has done that," said Antonia sadly, and the girls murmured assent. We sat looking off across the country, watching the sun go down. The curly grass about us was on fire now. The bark of the oaks turned red as copper. There was a shimmer of gold on the brown river. Out in the stream the sandbars glittered like glass, and the light trembled in the willow thickets as if little flames were leaping among them. The breeze sank to stillness. In the ravine a ringdove mourned plaintively, and somewhere off in the bushes an owl hooted. The girls sat listless, leaning against each other. The long fingers of the sun touched their foreheads. Presently we saw a curious thing: There were no clouds, the sun was going down in a limpid, gold-washed sky. Just as the lower edge of the red disc rested on the high fields against the horizon, a great black figure suddenly appeared on the face of the sun. We sprang to our feet, straining our eyes toward it. In a moment we realized what it was. On some upland farm, a plough had been left standing in the field. The sun was sinking just behind it. Magnified across the distance by the horizontal light, it stood out against the sun, was exactly contained within the circle of the disc; the handles, the tongue, the share--black against the molten red. There it was, heroic in size, a picture writing on the sun. Even while we whispered about it, our vision disappeared; the ball dropped and dropped until the red tip went beneath the earth. The fields below us were dark, the sky was growing pale, and that forgotten plough had sunk back to its own littleness somewhere on the prairie. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Am nächsten Tag beginnt Jim sofort mit dem Lernen für das College. In diesem Sommer lernt er Trigonometrie und Vergil. Er lernt lange Passagen aus der Aeneis auswendig. Manchmal geht er rüber, um Mrs. Harling Klavier spielen zu hören. Sie hat gerne einen Jungen um sich, da ihr Sohn Charley nicht mehr zu Hause ist. Eines Tages im Juli macht Jim eine Pause vom Lernen und geht mit Antonia, Tiny und Lena zum Fluss. Die Mädchen wollen Holunderbeeren pflücken, um Wein daraus zu machen. Jim betrachtet die Blumen, Bäume und Gras auf dem Weg zu ihnen. Er sieht einige seltene orangefarbene Seidenpflanzen. Das Land wirkt sehr leer auf ihn. Jim überquert die Brücke und geht flussaufwärts zu einer abgeschiedenen Stelle mit Hartriegelbäumen. Er zieht sich aus, um schwimmen zu gehen. Dabei wird ihm bewusst, wie sehr er sich nach dem Land sehnt. Er betrachtet die Sandbänke in der Mitte des Flusses. Er erinnert sich daran, wie er dort mit Charley gejagt hat, als sie jünger waren. Jim schwimmt und spielt im Wasser. Dann kommen die Mädchen mit einer von Pferden gezogenen Kutsche. Sie sehen sehr hübsch aus für Jim. Er sagt ihnen, dass sie hübsch aussehen, und sie antworten, dass er auch gut aussieht. Jim steigt aus dem Wasser und trocknet sich ab. Er zieht sich an und geht zur Brücke. Auf dem Weg muss er noch ein Stück Wassergraben von sich abziehen. Jim erklärt, dass die Hollersträucher am Wasser statt in den Schluchten sind. Die Blüten sind besonders schön in diesem Sommer. Er geht einen Viehweg hinunter, um an den Wasserrand zu gelangen. Er fühlt sich glücklich und schläfrig. Er schaut über eine Böschung und sieht Antonia alleine sitzen. Er kann sehen, dass sie geweint hat. Er geht zu ihr hinunter und fragt, was los ist. Antonia erklärt, dass der Geruch der Blumen sie sehnsüchtig nach Böhmen macht. Früher wuchsen sie in ihrem Garten, und ihr Vater pflegte bei ihnen zu sitzen und Posaune zu spielen. Sie ging immer gerne hin und hörte ihm draußen sitzend mit seinen Freunden zu, wie sie redeten. Jim fragt, worüber sie früher geredet haben. Sie sagt, dass sie über den Wald, Gott und das, was sie früher gemacht haben, gesprochen haben. Antonia fragt Jim, ob er denkt, dass der Geist ihres Vaters nach Hause gekommen ist. Er erzählt ihr von dem Gefühl, das er hatte, als ihr Vater gestorben ist. Antonia wünscht, dass Jim ihr das früher erzählt hätte. Sie erklärt, dass ihr Vater sehr unterschiedlich von ihrer Mutter war. Sie deutet an, dass ihr Vater ihre Mutter schwanger gemacht hat und deshalb sie heiraten musste. Antonias Mutter war ein armes Dienstmädchen, das früher für die Familie ihres Vaters gearbeitet hat. Seine Familie war wütend, dass er sie geheiratet hat, anstatt ihr einfach Geld zu geben. Ihre Großmutter ließ sie nach dem Vorfall nie wieder ins Haus. Jim liegt im Gras und schaut zum Himmel. Er hört den Bienen zu und betrachtet die Blumen. Er denkt, dass Antonia genauso ist wie damals, als sie ein kleines Mädchen war. Er sagt ihr, dass er eines Tages nach Böhmen gehen und die Stadt finden wird, in der sie gelebt hat. Antonia erklärt, dass sie sich immer noch in ihrer Heimatstadt auskennen würde. Sie hat es nie vergessen. Lena kommt dazu und schließt sich ihnen an. Sie sieht gerötet aus wie in Jims Träumen. Er findet, dass sie sehr energiegeladen ist. Sie essen alle zusammen auf einem Hügel zu Mittag. Sie schauen auf die Bäume, den Fluss und die Stadt in der Ferne. Jeder zeigt auf das eigene Familienfarm und sagt, wie groß sie ist. Tony sagt, dass ihre Familie zwanzig Morgen Roggen hat. Lena spricht darüber, wie schwierig es für ihre Mütter gewesen sein muss, in ein neues Land zu kommen. Anna spricht über ihre Großmutter, die senil ist und vergisst, in welchem Land sie sich befindet. Sie bringt ihrer Großmutter immer Fische mit, wenn sie sie besucht. Lena versucht, den Sand von Jim abzubekommen. Antonia mag ihr Flirten nicht, also stößt sie sie weg und versucht, den Sand selbst abzubekommen. Antonia sagt Lena, dass ihre Füße zu groß für ihre Schuhe sind, also bittet sie sie, sie ihrer Schwester Yulka zu geben. Lena kommt dieser Bitte nach. Lena bemerkt, wie Antonia Dinge für ihre kleine Schwester besorgt, und sagt, dass sie dasselbe für ihre Schwester Mary versuchen sollte. Tiny sagt, sie habe sechs jüngere Geschwister, kauft ihnen aber lieber Spielzeug als Notwendigkeiten. Anna denkt, dass sie als Kinder kein Spielzeug hatten. Lena schwört, ihre Mutter aus dem Bauernhaus rauszubekommen, da die Männer in ihrer Familie es wahrscheinlich nicht schaffen werden. Sie überlegt, in eine andere Stadt zu ziehen und bald ihr eigenes Geschäft zu eröffnen. Vielleicht wird sie einen reichen Spieler heiraten... Anna wünscht sich, Lehrerin werden zu können. Sie diskutieren alle über Selma Kronn, ein sehr fleißiges Mädchen, das die erste skandinavische Einwanderin sein wird, die eine Stelle an der Highschool bekommt. Tiny weist darauf hin, dass Selmas Vater dafür verantwortlich ist, dass sie so fleißig ist. Lena gibt zu, dass ihre Großmutter eine Lappin oder ein Ur-Einwohner(in) Nordskandinaviens war. An diesem Nachmittag spielen sie ein Spiel namens "Kätzchen will in die Ecke". Lena spielt meistens das Kätzchen. Sie legen sich alle ins Gras. Antonia sagt Jim, er solle den anderen von den ersten Spaniern, die nach Amerika kamen, erzählen. Die Mädchen lehnen sich an einen Baum, während Jim ihnen von Coronado erzählt, der als Entdecker nach Amerika kam. Wir erfahren, dass ein Bauer auf dem Land Schwerter an Mr. Harling gab, auf denen spanische Inschriften standen. Die Mädchen fragen sich, wie das Land damals wohl ausgesehen haben mag. Jim sagt, dass die Schulbücher sagen, dass Coronado in der Wildnis an einem gebrochenen Herzen gestorben ist. Sie schauen sich gemeinsam die Landschaft an. Das Gras und die Bäume sind rot gefärbt, weil die Sonne untergeht. Der Fluss sieht golden aus und der Wind legt sich. Sie hören den Vögeln zu und beobachten den Sonnenuntergang. Während sie die Sonne betrachten, sehen sie eine schwarze Gestalt davor sitzen. Sie springen auf, um zu sehen, was es ist. Es entpuppt sich als ein Riesiges Offensichtliches Symbol, ein Pflug, den ein Bauer auf dem Feld zurückgelassen hat. Er wirkt groß, heroisch und symbolisch. Als die Sonne untergeht, sieht der Pflug nicht mehr majestätisch aus. Er sieht einfach nur klein und symbolisch aus.

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 Comic Muse, though able to look after her own interests, did not disdain the assistance of Mr. Vyse. His idea of bringing the Emersons to Windy Corner struck her as decidedly good, and she carried through the negotiations without a hitch. Sir Harry Otway signed the agreement, met Mr. Emerson, who was duly disillusioned. The Miss Alans were duly offended, and wrote a dignified letter to Lucy, whom they held responsible for the failure. Mr. Beebe planned pleasant moments for the new-comers, and told Mrs. Honeychurch that Freddy must call on them as soon as they arrived. Indeed, so ample was the Muse's equipment that she permitted Mr. Harris, never a very robust criminal, to droop his head, to be forgotten, and to die. Lucy--to descend from bright heaven to earth, whereon there are shadows because there are hills--Lucy was at first plunged into despair, but settled after a little thought that it did not matter the very least. Now that she was engaged, the Emersons would scarcely insult her and were welcome into the neighbourhood. And Cecil was welcome to bring whom he would into the neighbourhood. Therefore Cecil was welcome to bring the Emersons into the neighbourhood. But, as I say, this took a little thinking, and--so illogical are girls--the event remained rather greater and rather more dreadful than it should have done. She was glad that a visit to Mrs. Vyse now fell due; the tenants moved into Cissie Villa while she was safe in the London flat. "Cecil--Cecil darling," she whispered the evening she arrived, and crept into his arms. Cecil, too, became demonstrative. He saw that the needful fire had been kindled in Lucy. At last she longed for attention, as a woman should, and looked up to him because he was a man. "So you do love me, little thing?" he murmured. "Oh, Cecil, I do, I do! I don't know what I should do without you." Several days passed. Then she had a letter from Miss Bartlett. A coolness had sprung up between the two cousins, and they had not corresponded since they parted in August. The coolness dated from what Charlotte would call "the flight to Rome," and in Rome it had increased amazingly. For the companion who is merely uncongenial in the mediaeval world becomes exasperating in the classical. Charlotte, unselfish in the Forum, would have tried a sweeter temper than Lucy's, and once, in the Baths of Caracalla, they had doubted whether they could continue their tour. Lucy had said she would join the Vyses--Mrs. Vyse was an acquaintance of her mother, so there was no impropriety in the plan and Miss Bartlett had replied that she was quite used to being abandoned suddenly. Finally nothing happened; but the coolness remained, and, for Lucy, was even increased when she opened the letter and read as follows. It had been forwarded from Windy Corner. "Tunbridge Wells, "September. "Dearest Lucia, "I have news of you at last! Miss Lavish has been bicycling in your parts, but was not sure whether a call would be welcome. Puncturing her tire near Summer Street, and it being mended while she sat very woebegone in that pretty churchyard, she saw to her astonishment, a door open opposite and the younger Emerson man come out. He said his father had just taken the house. He SAID he did not know that you lived in the neighbourhood (?). He never suggested giving Eleanor a cup of tea. Dear Lucy, I am much worried, and I advise you to make a clean breast of his past behaviour to your mother, Freddy, and Mr. Vyse, who will forbid him to enter the house, etc. That was a great misfortune, and I dare say you have told them already. Mr. Vyse is so sensitive. I remember how I used to get on his nerves at Rome. I am very sorry about it all, and should not feel easy unless I warned you. "Believe me, "Your anxious and loving cousin, "Charlotte." Lucy was much annoyed, and replied as follows: "Beauchamp Mansions, S.W. "Dear Charlotte, "Many thanks for your warning. When Mr. Emerson forgot himself on the mountain, you made me promise not to tell mother, because you said she would blame you for not being always with me. I have kept that promise, and cannot possibly tell her now. I have said both to her and Cecil that I met the Emersons at Florence, and that they are respectable people--which I do think--and the reason that he offered Miss Lavish no tea was probably that he had none himself. She should have tried at the Rectory. I cannot begin making a fuss at this stage. You must see that it would be too absurd. If the Emersons heard I had complained of them, they would think themselves of importance, which is exactly what they are not. I like the old father, and look forward to seeing him again. As for the son, I am sorry for him when we meet, rather than for myself. They are known to Cecil, who is very well and spoke of you the other day. We expect to be married in January. "Miss Lavish cannot have told you much about me, for I am not at Windy Corner at all, but here. Please do not put 'Private' outside your envelope again. No one opens my letters. "Yours affectionately, "L. M. Honeychurch." Secrecy has this disadvantage: we lose the sense of proportion; we cannot tell whether our secret is important or not. Were Lucy and her cousin closeted with a great thing which would destroy Cecil's life if he discovered it, or with a little thing which he would laugh at? Miss Bartlett suggested the former. Perhaps she was right. It had become a great thing now. Left to herself, Lucy would have told her mother and her lover ingenuously, and it would have remained a little thing. "Emerson, not Harris"; it was only that a few weeks ago. She tried to tell Cecil even now when they were laughing about some beautiful lady who had smitten his heart at school. But her body behaved so ridiculously that she stopped. She and her secret stayed ten days longer in the deserted Metropolis visiting the scenes they were to know so well later on. It did her no harm, Cecil thought, to learn the framework of society, while society itself was absent on the golf-links or the moors. The weather was cool, and it did her no harm. In spite of the season, Mrs. Vyse managed to scrape together a dinner-party consisting entirely of the grandchildren of famous people. The food was poor, but the talk had a witty weariness that impressed the girl. One was tired of everything, it seemed. One launched into enthusiasms only to collapse gracefully, and pick oneself up amid sympathetic laughter. In this atmosphere the Pension Bertolini and Windy Corner appeared equally crude, and Lucy saw that her London career would estrange her a little from all that she had loved in the past. The grandchildren asked her to play the piano. She played Schumann. "Now some Beethoven" called Cecil, when the querulous beauty of the music had died. She shook her head and played Schumann again. The melody rose, unprofitably magical. It broke; it was resumed broken, not marching once from the cradle to the grave. The sadness of the incomplete--the sadness that is often Life, but should never be Art--throbbed in its disjected phrases, and made the nerves of the audience throb. Not thus had she played on the little draped piano at the Bertolini, and "Too much Schumann" was not the remark that Mr. Beebe had passed to himself when she returned. When the guests were gone, and Lucy had gone to bed, Mrs. Vyse paced up and down the drawing-room, discussing her little party with her son. Mrs. Vyse was a nice woman, but her personality, like many another's, had been swamped by London, for it needs a strong head to live among many people. The too vast orb of her fate had crushed her; and she had seen too many seasons, too many cities, too many men, for her abilities, and even with Cecil she was mechanical, and behaved as if he was not one son, but, so to speak, a filial crowd. "Make Lucy one of us," she said, looking round intelligently at the end of each sentence, and straining her lips apart until she spoke again. "Lucy is becoming wonderful--wonderful." "Her music always was wonderful." "Yes, but she is purging off the Honeychurch taint, most excellent Honeychurches, but you know what I mean. She is not always quoting servants, or asking one how the pudding is made." "Italy has done it." "Perhaps," she murmured, thinking of the museum that represented Italy to her. "It is just possible. Cecil, mind you marry her next January. She is one of us already." "But her music!" he exclaimed. "The style of her! How she kept to Schumann when, like an idiot, I wanted Beethoven. Schumann was right for this evening. Schumann was the thing. Do you know, mother, I shall have our children educated just like Lucy. Bring them up among honest country folks for freshness, send them to Italy for subtlety, and then--not till then--let them come to London. I don't believe in these London educations--" He broke off, remembering that he had had one himself, and concluded, "At all events, not for women." "Make her one of us," repeated Mrs. Vyse, and processed to bed. As she was dozing off, a cry--the cry of nightmare--rang from Lucy's room. Lucy could ring for the maid if she liked but Mrs. Vyse thought it kind to go herself. She found the girl sitting upright with her hand on her cheek. "I am so sorry, Mrs. Vyse--it is these dreams." "Bad dreams?" "Just dreams." The elder lady smiled and kissed her, saying very distinctly: "You should have heard us talking about you, dear. He admires you more than ever. Dream of that." Lucy returned the kiss, still covering one cheek with her hand. Mrs. Vyse recessed to bed. Cecil, whom the cry had not awoke, snored. Darkness enveloped the flat. 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.

Kapitel 11 spielt in London in der Wohnung von Cecil's Mutter, Frau Vyse, wo Lucy und Cecil zu Besuch sind. Während ihres Aufenthalts erhält Lucy einen Brief von Charlotte, in dem sie ihre Beunruhigung über die Ankunft von George in Lucys Nachbarschaft zum Ausdruck bringt und ihr rät, ihrer Mutter und Cecil alles zu erzählen. Der Brief verärgert Lucy, die nicht vorhat, irgendetwas über den Vorfall in Italien zu sagen. Frau Vyse veranstaltet ein Abendessen und lädt alle Nachkommen berühmter Menschen ein. Lucy spielt Klavier und wählt eine traurige und zerbrochene Melodie von Schumann anstatt ihres triumphalen Beethovens. Cecil und seine Mutter diskutieren anschließend über Lucy, beide sind beeindruckt von ihrem Stil und ihrem Spiel. Cecil kommentiert, dass der Schumann perfekt für den Anlass gewesen sei. Frau Vyse wird als gute Person dargestellt, deren wahre Persönlichkeit von der Londoner Gesellschaft erstickt und gebrochen wurde, was sie snobistisch und müde gemacht hat. In dieser Nacht hat Lucy in Frau Vyse's Haus einen Albtraum und wird von Frau Vyse getröstet, die ihr versichert, dass Cecil sich um sie kümmert.

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: Gestern Nachmittag begann es neblig und kalt zu werden. Ich hatte halb Lust, es vor meinem behaglichen Kamin zu verbringen, anstatt mich durch Heide und Matsch zu Wuthering Heights zu kämpfen. Nach dem Mittagessen (Anmerkung: Ich esse zwischen zwölf und eins; die Haushälterin, eine matronenhafte Dame, die mit dem Haus fest verbunden war, konnte meine Bitte, um fünf Uhr serviert zu werden, nicht verstehen oder wollte es nicht) stieg ich jedoch die Treppe hoch mit der faulen Absicht und trat in das Zimmer ein. Dort sah ich ein Dienstmädchen auf den Knien, umgeben von Bürsten und Kohleneimern, und wie sie mit Haufen von Asche die Flammen löschte und dabei einen Höllenstaub aufwirbelte. Dieses Schauspiel trieb mich sofort zurück. Ich nahm meinen Hut und kam nach einem Spaziergang von vier Meilen gerade noch rechtzeitig an Heathcliffs Gartentor an, um den ersten federleichten Schneeschauer zu entkommen. Auf diesem kahlen Hügel war die Erde hart von einem schwarzen Frost und die Luft ließ mich durch jeden Knochen schaudern. Da ich das Schloss nicht entfernen konnte, sprang ich darüber und lief über den gepflasterten Weg, der von vereinzelten Stachelbeersträuchern gesäumt war, vergeblich um Einlass bittend, bis meine Knöchel kribbelten und die Hunde heulten. "Elendige Bewohner!" dachte ich bei mir, "ihr verdient aufgrund eurer schroffen Unhöflichkeit eine andauernde Isolation von eurer Art. Zumindest würde ich meine Türen tagsüber nicht verschlossen halten. Es ist mir egal - ich werde hineingehen!" Entschlossen ergriff ich den Griff und schüttelte ihn heftig. Joseph mit dem sauren Gesicht streckte den Kopf aus einem runden Fenster des Schuppens. "Wozu seid ihr hier?" rief er. "Der Herr ist unten im Stall. Geht hinten um die Scheune herum, wenn ihr mit ihm sprechen wollt." "Gibt es niemanden drinnen, der die Tür öffnen kann?" rief ich zurück. "Da ist nur die Herrin; und sie wird nicht öffnen, wenn ihr nicht aufhört, so viel Lärm zu machen, bis es dunkel ist." "Warum? Kannst du ihr nicht sagen, wer ich bin, eh, Joseph?" "Ich nicht, ich will nichts damit zu tun haben", murmelte er und verschwand. Der Schnee begann dichter zu fallen. Ich ergriff den Griff erneut, um einen weiteren Versuch zu starten, als ein junger Mann ohne Mantel, mit einer Heugabel über der Schulter, im Hof auftauchte. Er winkte mir zu, ihm zu folgen, und nachdem wir durch einen Waschraum und einen gepflasterten Bereich mit einem Kohleschuppen, einer Pumpe und einem Taubenschlag marschiert waren, kamen wir schließlich in den riesigen, warmen und fröhlichen Raum, in dem ich früher empfangen wurde. Er glühte herrlich im Schein eines riesigen Feuers, bestehend aus Kohle, Torf und Holz, und nahe dem Tisch, der für ein reichhaltiges Abendessen gedeckt war, freute ich mich darüber, die Hausherrin zu sehen, deren Existenz ich zuvor nie vermutet hatte. Ich verbeugte mich und wartete, in der Erwartung, dass sie mich bitten würde, Platz zu nehmen. Sie sah mich an, lehnte sich in ihrem Stuhl zurück und blieb regungslos und stumm. "Rauhes Wetter!" bemerkte ich. "Ich fürchte, Frau Heathcliff, die Tür wird die Konsequenzen von der lässigen Aufmerksamkeit Ihrer Bediensteten tragen müssen: Es war harte Arbeit, dass sie mich hören konnten." Sie öffnete nie ihren Mund. Ich starrte sie an - sie starrte auch: zumindest hielt sie in einer kühlen, unbeteiligten Art ihre Augen auf mich gerichtet, äußerst peinlich und unangenehm. "Nimm Platz", sagte der junge Mann ruppig. "Er wird gleich da sein." Ich gehorchte und räusperte mich und rief den Schurken Juno, der bei diesem zweiten Treffen den äußersten Teil seines Schwanzes bewegte, um meine Bekanntschaft anzuerkennen. "Ein wunderschönes Tier!" begann ich erneut. "Haben Sie vor, die Kleinen abzugeben, gnädige Frau?" "Sie gehören mir nicht", sagte die liebenswürdige Gastgeberin abweisender als Heathcliff selbst geantwortet hätte. "Ach, Ihre Favoriten sind unter diesen?", fuhr ich fort und drehte mich zu einem dunklen Kissen, das mit etwas ähnlichem wie Katzen gefüllt war. "Eine seltsame Wahl an Favoriten!", bemerkte sie geringschätzig. Unglücklicherweise war es ein Haufen toter Kaninchen. Ich schüttelte mich noch einmal und näherte mich dem Kamin, und wiederholte meinen Kommentar über die Wildheit des Abends. "Du solltest nicht rausgehen", sagte sie, stand auf und holte von der Kaminsims zwei bemalte Dosen. Ihre vorherige Position war vor dem Licht geschützt; jetzt hatte ich einen klaren Blick auf ihren ganzen Körper und ihr Gesicht. Sie war schlank und schien kaum das Mädchenalter überschritten zu haben: eine bewundernswerte Gestalt und das exquisiteste kleine Gesicht, das ich je gesehen habe; kleine Gesichtszüge, sehr hell; flachsblonde Locken, oder besser golden, die lose auf ihrem zarten Hals hingen; und Augen, die, wenn sie angenehm gewesen wären, unwiderstehlich gewesen wären: Glücklicherweise für mein empfängliches Herz drückten sie nur Verachtung und eine Art von Verzweiflung aus, die dort ungewöhnlich und seltsam war. Die Dosen waren für sie fast unerreichbar. Ich machte eine Bewegung, um ihr zu helfen; sie wandte sich mir zu, als würde ein Gieriger sich umdrehen, wenn jemand versuchte, ihm beim Zählen seines Geldes zu helfen. "Ich brauche deine Hilfe nicht", schnappte sie, "ich kann sie mir selbst holen." "Ich bitte um Entschuldigung!" beeilte ich mich zu antworten. "Wurdest du zum Tee eingeladen?" fragte sie und band sich eine Schürze über ihr ordentliches schwarzes Kleid und stand mit einem Löffel voller Teeblätter über der Kanne. "Ich würde mich freuen, eine Tasse zu bekommen", antwortete ich. Wurden Sie eingeladen?" wiederholte sie. "Nein", sagte ich halb lächelnd. "Sie sind die richtige Person, um mich einzuladen." Sie warf den Tee, den Löffel und alles zurück und nahm in einem Anflug von Ärger wieder Platz; ihre Stirn runzelte sich und ihre rote Unterlippe schob sich wie bei einem weinenden Kind nach vorne. In der Zwischenzeit hatte der junge Mann sich eine ziemlich heruntergekommene Oberbekleidung übergezogen und stellte sich vor dem Feuer auf und sah mich aus den Augenwinkeln heraus an, als ob zwischen uns eine unbestrafte Feindschaft bestünde. Ich fing an zu bezweifeln, ob er ein Diener war oder nicht: Seine Kleidung und sein Sprechen waren ebenso grob und ohne die Überlegenheit, die bei Mr. und Mrs. Heathcliff zu beobachten war; seine dunklen braunen Locken waren rau und ungepflegt, sein Schnurrbart war bärenhaft über seine Wangen gewachsen, und seine Hände waren so braun wie die eines gewöhnlichen Arbeiters: Dennoch war sein Auftreten frei, fast hochmütig, und er zeigte nichts von der Aufmerksamkeit eines Dieners gegenüber der Hausherrin. Da ich keine klaren Beweise für seinen Stand hatte, hielt ich es für das Beste, sein merkwürdiges Verhalten nicht zu beachten; und fünf Minuten später befreite mich das "Es ist seltsam", begann ich, nachdem ich eine Tasse Tee geschluckt und eine andere erhalten hatte, "es ist seltsam, wie Gewohnheit unsere Vorlieben und Ideen formen kann: Viele können sich die Existenz von Glück in einem Leben vollständiger Verbannung von der Welt, wie Sie es verbringen, Mr. Heathcliff, nicht vorstellen; dennoch möchte ich behaupten, dass Sie, umgeben von Ihrer Familie und mit Ihrer liebenswürdigen Dame als der lenkenden Geist über Ihrem Zuhause und Ihrem Herzen -" "Meine liebenswürdige Dame!" unterbrach er mich mit einem beinahe teuflischen Grinsen auf seinem Gesicht. "Wo ist sie - meine liebenswürdige Dame?" "Mrs. Heathcliff, Ihre Frau, meine ich." "Nun ja - oh, Sie wollen andeuten, dass ihr Geist die Position eines Schutzengels eingenommen hat und das Schicksal von Wuthering Heights bewacht, selbst wenn ihr Körper nicht mehr da ist. Ist das so?" Als ich bemerkte, dass ich einen Fehler gemacht hatte, versuchte ich ihn zu korrigieren. Ich hätte sehen müssen, dass es eine zu große Diskrepanz zwischen den Altersgruppen der beteiligten Parteien gab, um es wahrscheinlich zu machen, dass sie Mann und Frau waren. Einer war ungefähr vierzig Jahre alt: ein Zeitraum geistiger Stärke, in dem Männer selten die Täuschung hegen, von Mädchen aus Liebe geheiratet zu werden - dieser Traum ist dem Trost unserer späteren Jahre vorbehalten. Der andere sah nicht einmal siebzehn aus. Dann fiel es mir ein - "Der Clown an meiner Seite, der seinen Tee aus einer Schüssel trinkt und sein Brot mit ungewaschenen Händen isst, ist vielleicht ihr Ehemann: Heathcliff junior, natürlich. Das ist die Konsequenz davon, lebendig begraben zu sein: Sie hat sich aus purer Unwissenheit darüber, dass bessere Menschen existieren, auf diesen Bauern eingelassen! Sehr bedauerlich - ich muss aufpassen, dass ich sie nicht bereuen lasse, ihre Wahl getroffen zu haben." Der letzte Gedanke mag eingebildet erscheinen, aber das war er nicht. Mein Nachbar erschien mir fast abstoßend; ich wusste aus Erfahrung, dass ich ziemlich attraktiv war. "Mrs. Heathcliff ist meine Schwiegertochter", sagte Heathcliff und bestätigte meine Vermutung. Als er sprach, wandte er sich ihr mit einem seltsamen Blick zu, einem Blick des Hasses; es sei denn, er hatte ein äußerst perverses Set von Gesichtsmuskeln, die nicht wie bei anderen Menschen die Sprache seiner Seele interpretieren konnten. "Ah, natürlich - jetzt sehe ich es: Sie sind die bevorzugte Besitzerin der wohltätigen Fee", bemerkte ich und wandte mich meinem Nachbarn zu. Das war schlimmer als zuvor: Der junge Mann wurde kreidebleich und ballte die Faust, mit allen Anzeichen eines geplanten Angriffs. Aber er schien sich bald zu besinnen und erstickte den Sturm in einem brutalen Fluch, der in meinem Namen gemurmelt wurde, dem ich allerdings keine Beachtung schenkte. "Unglückliche Vermutungen, mein Herr", bemerkte mein Gastgeber. "Wir haben beide nicht das Privileg, Ihre gute Fee zu besitzen; ihr Partner ist tot. Ich habe gesagt, dass sie meine Schwiegertochter ist: Daher muss sie meinen Sohn geheiratet haben." "Und dieser junge Mann ist -" "Bestimmt nicht mein Sohn." Heathcliff lächelte wieder, als sei es ein zu gewagter Scherz, ihm die Vaterschaft von diesem Bären zuzuschreiben. "Mein Name ist Hareton Earnshaw", knurrte der andere, "und ich rate Ihnen, ihn zu respektieren!" "Ich habe keinen Respektlosigkeit gezeigt", war meine Antwort und innerlich lachte ich über die Würde, mit der er sich ankündigte. Er fixierte mich länger, als ich hätte ertragen mögen, aus Angst, entweder versucht zu sein, ihm eins auf die Ohren zu geben, oder meine Heiterkeit hörbar zu machen. Ich begann mich unverkennbar fehl am Platz in diesem angenehmen Kreis zu fühlen. Die düstere spirituelle Atmosphäre überwältigte und neutralisierte die leuchtenden körperlichen Annehmlichkeiten um mich herum, und ich beschloss, vorsichtig zu sein, wie ich ein drittes Mal unter diesem Dach vorgehe. Nachdem das Essen beendet war und niemand ein Wort geselliger Unterhaltung äußerte, trat ich an ein Fenster, um das Wetter zu betrachten. Ein trauriger Anblick bot sich mir: Die Dunkelheit brach vorzeitig herein, und Himmel und Hügel vermischten sich in einem bitteren Wirbel aus Wind und erstickendem Schnee. "Ich glaube nicht, dass ich jetzt ohne einen Führer nach Hause kommen kann", konnte ich nicht umhin auszurufen. "Die Straßen werden bereits verschüttet sein; und selbst wenn sie frei wären, könnte ich kaum einen Fuß im Voraus erkennen." "Hareton, treibe diese zwölf Schafe in den Scheuneneingang. Wenn sie die ganze Nacht im Gehege bleiben, werden sie abgedeckt sein. Aber lege eine Planke vor sie", sagte Heathcliff. "Wie soll ich das machen?" fuhr ich mit steigendem Ärger fort. Es gab keine Antwort auf meine Frage; und als ich mich umsah, sah ich nur Joseph, der eine Schüssel Haferbrei für die Hunde hereinbrachte, und Mrs. Heathcliff, die sich über dem Feuer beugte und sich beim Zurückstellen der Teedose an ihrem Platz mit dem Verbrennen eines Bündels Streichhölzer unterhielt. Der erstere nahm, nachdem er seine Last abgelegt hatte, eine kritische Betrachtung des Raumes vor und knarrend kam heraus: "Ich frage mich, wie du es dich erlauben kannst, dort untätig zu stehen, während alle anderen gegangen sind! Aber du bist nichts, und es hat keinen Sinn, darüber zu sprechen - du wirst niemals von deinen schlechten Wegen abkommen, sondern direkt in die Hölle gehen, wie schon deine Mutter zuvor!" Für einen Moment stellte ich mir vor, dass diese wortgewandte Eloquenz mir gegenüber gerichtet war und trat, ausreichend empört, auf den betagten Schurken zu, um ihn aus der Tür zu treten. Mrs. Heathcliff jedoch hielt mich mit ihrer Antwort zurück. "Du skandalöser alter Heuchler!", antwortete sie. "Hast du keine Angst davor, jedes Mal, wenn du den Namen des Teufels erwähnst, körperlich weggetragen zu werden? Ich warne dich davor, mich nicht zu provozieren, sonst werde ich deine Entführung als einen besonderen Gefallen erbitten! Halt! Sieh mal hier, Joseph", fuhr sie fort, nahm ein langes, dunkles Buch aus einem Regal, "ich zeige dir, wie weit ich in der Schwarzen Kunst fortgeschritten bin: Ich werde bald in der Lage sein, dieses Haus zu reinigen. Die rote Kuh ist nicht zufällig gestorben, und deine Rheumatismus kann kaum unter göttliche Heimsuchungen gezählt werden!" "Oh, böse, böse!" keuchte der Ältere. "Möge der Herr uns vor dem Bösen bewahren!" "Nein, Verworfener! Du bist ein Ausgestoßener - weg mit dir, oder ich werde dir ernsthaft schaden! Ich werde euch alle in Wachs und Ton modellieren! Und derjenige, der die von mir festgelegten Grenzen überschreitet - ich werde nicht sagen, was mit ihm geschehen wird - aber, ihr werdet sehen! Geh jetzt, ich behalte dich im Auge!" Die kleine Hexe legte eine boshaft scheinende Boshaftigkeit in ihre schönen Augen, und Joseph, vor echtem Entsetzen zitternd, eilte hinaus und betete und rief "böse", während er ging. Ich dachte Mit dieser Beleidigung war meine Geduld am Ende. Ich äußerte einen Ausdruck des Abscheus und schob mich an ihm vorbei in den Hof, wobei ich in meiner Eile gegen Earnshaw stieß. Es war so dunkel, dass ich den Ausgang nicht sehen konnte, und während ich mich herumtastete, hörte ich ein weiteres Beispiel für ihr zivilisiertes Verhalten untereinander. Zuerst schien der junge Mann mir gegenüber freundlich gesinnt zu sein. "Ich werde mit ihm bis zum Park gehen", sagte er. "Du wirst mit ihm zur Hölle gehen!" rief sein Herr oder welchen Verwandtschaftsgrad er auch immer hatte. "Und wer soll sich um die Pferde kümmern, hm?" "Das Leben eines Mannes ist wichtiger als eine vernachlässigte Pferdenacht: Jemand muss gehen", murmelte Mrs. Heathcliff, freundlicher als ich erwartet hatte. "Nicht auf deinen Befehl!" erwiderte Hareton. "Wenn du etwas auf ihn hältst, solltest du besser ruhig sein." "Dann hoffe ich, dass sein Geist dich heimsuchen wird, und ich hoffe, dass Mr. Heathcliff niemals einen anderen Mieter bekommt, bis das Grange eine Ruine ist", antwortete sie scharf. "Hört, hört, sie beschimpft sie!" murmelte Joseph, auf den ich zuhielt. Er saß in Hörweite und melkte die Kühe bei Licht einer Laterne, die ich mir ohne Zeremonie nahm und rief, dass ich sie am nächsten Tag zurücksenden würde und eilte zum nächsten Tor. "Meister, Meister, er stiehlt die Laterne!" schrie der Alte und verfolgte meinen Rückzug. "Hey, Gnasher! Hey, Hund! Hey Wolf, halt ihn, halt ihn!" Als ich die kleine Tür öffnete, flogen mir zwei haarige Monster an die Kehle, drückten mich nieder und löschten das Licht aus. Ein gemischtes Gelächter von Heathcliff und Hareton krönte meine Wut und Demütigung. Zum Glück schienen die Bestien mehr darauf aus zu sein, ihre Pfoten auszustrecken, zu gähnen und mit den Schwänzen zu wedeln, als mich lebend zu verschlingen, aber sie ließen keine Wiederbelebung zu, und ich musste liegenbleiben, bis ihre bösen Herren entschieden, mich zu befreien: dann, ohne Hut und vor Wut zitternd, befahl ich den Schurken, mich rauszulassen - auf ihre Gefahr, mich noch eine Minute länger festzuhalten - mit mehreren unzusammenhängenden Drohungen der Vergeltung, die in ihrer undefinierten Bösartigkeit an König Lear erinnerten. Die Heftigkeit meines Aufregung verursachte eine reichliche Nasenbluten, und noch immer lachte Heathcliff, und immer noch schimpfte ich. Ich weiß nicht, wie die Szene geendet hätte, wenn nicht jemand zur Hand gewesen wäre, der rationaler als ich selbst war und freundlicher als mein Gastgeber. Dies war Zillah, die stämmige Hausfrau, die schließlich herauskam, um sich nach der Natur des Tumults zu erkundigen. Sie dachte, dass einige von ihnen gewaltsam gegen mich vorgegangen waren und wagte es nicht, ihren Meister anzugreifen, also richtete sie ihre stimmliche Artillerie gegen den jüngeren Schurken. "Nun, Mr. Earnshaw", rief sie, "ich frage mich, was du dir als nächstes einfallen lassen wirst? Werden wir Menschen auf unseren eigenen Türschwellen ermorden? Ich sehe, dieses Haus wird nie etwas für mich sein - schau mal den armen Jungen an, er erstickt fast! Sei still, sei still, du darfst nicht so weitermachen. Komm rein, und ich werde das heilen: so, halt dich ruhig." Mit diesen Worten schüttete sie plötzlich einen halben Liter eiskaltes Wasser auf meinen Nacken und zog mich in die Küche. Mr. Heathcliff folgte ihr, sein zufälliges Vergnügen verblasste schnell in seiner gewohnten Miesepetrigkeit. Mir war überaus übel, schwindelig und schwach und wurde so gezwungen, widerwillig unter seinem Dach Quartier zu beziehen. Er befahl Zillah, mir ein Glas Brandy zu geben, und ging dann ins Innere; während sie mit mir über meine missliche Lage beklagte und seinen Anweisungen folgte, durch die ich etwas wiederbelebt wurde, führte sie mich ins Bett. 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.

Lockwood wagt sich erneut durch "Heide und Schlamm" für einen weiteren Besuch nach Wuthering Heights. Das Tor ist verschlossen, also springt er darüber, nur um festzustellen, dass die Vordertür ebenfalls verschlossen ist. Er ist offensichtlich nicht jemand, der ein Nein akzeptiert, also klopft er so lange, bis Joseph ihm durch die Tür entgegenschreit. Im Schnee stehend, erhält Lockwood schließlich die Aufmerksamkeit eines jungen Mannes, der ihn in die Küche lässt. Dort findet er eine Frau, die er mit "Mrs. Heathcliff" anspricht. Sie spricht nur, um ihm zu sagen, dass er das Haus nicht hätte verlassen sollen und dass die aggressive Hundefamilie nicht ihr gehört. Lockwood verbringt eine gute Zeit damit, die "missis" zu untersuchen. Sie ist blond, jung und dünn, hat aber einen abschätzigen Blick, den selbst Lockwood nicht übersehen kann. Ihnen in der Küche gesellt sich auch der junge Mann bei, der ihn ins Haus gelassen hat. Es ist nicht klar, wer er ist - er sieht aus wie ein "einfacher Arbeiter", behandelt die missis aber nicht mit viel Respekt, sodass Lockwood jetzt wirklich verwirrt ist. Betrete Heathcliff, nicht überraschend unglücklich darüber, Lockwood ein zweites Mal in seiner Küche zu sehen. Heathcliffs harsches Verhalten dem nicht identifizierbaren jungen Mann gegenüber lässt Lockwood schließlich erkennen, dass er möglicherweise doch kein netter Kerl ist. Nachdem er mehrmals ins Fettnäpfchen getreten ist, erkennt Lockwood, dass die missis tatsächlich Heathcliffs Schwiegertochter ist und der grantige junge Kerl Hareton Earnshaw ist. Erinnert ihr euch an den Namen über der Tür? Hmm. Während all das passiert, ist ein heftiger Schneesturm gekommen, der Lockwood daran hindert, zu gehen. Niemand ist interessiert daran, ihm zu helfen, nach Hause zu kommen, Heathcliff ist verärgert darüber, Gastfreundschaft zeigen zu müssen, und die Hunde - Gnasher und Wolf - werden so aufgeregt von der Szene, dass sie Lockwood zu Boden werfen und ihm die Nase blutig schlagen. Schließlich bringen die elende Gruppe Lockwood zurück und geben ihm etwas Brandy.

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: Dick, gekleidet in seinem 'zweitbesten' Anzug, platzte in Fancy's Wohnzimmer mit einem strahlenden Gesicht herein. Es war zwei Uhr am Freitag, am Tag vor ihrem geplanten Besuch bei ihrem Vater, und aus irgendeinem Grund im Zusammenhang mit der Reinigung der Schule hatten die Kinder diesen Nachmittag zusätzlich zu dem üblichen Samstag als Freizeit bekommen. "Fancy! Es passt gerade gut, dass du einen freien halben Tag hast. Smart hinkt auf dem vorderen Fuß, und da ich nichts tun kann, habe ich daraus einen freien Nachmittag gemacht und bin gekommen, um dich zum Nüsse sammeln mit mir mitzunehmen!" Sie saß am Fenster des Salons, mit einem blauen Kleid auf ihrem Schoß und einer Schere in der Hand. "Nüsse sammeln! Ja. Aber ich fürchte, ich kann erst in einer Stunde oder so mitkommen." "Warum nicht? Es ist der einzige freie Nachmittag, den wir für Wochen gemeinsam haben." "Dieses Kleid von mir, das ich am Sonntag in Yalbury tragen will - ich habe festgestellt, dass es so schlecht passt, dass ich es ein wenig ändern muss. Ich habe der Schneiderin gesagt, dass sie es nach einem Muster machen soll, das ich ihr damals gegeben habe; stattdessen hat sie es nach ihrer eigenen Art gemacht und mich wie eine verdammte Vogelscheuche aussehen lassen." "Wie lange wirst du brauchen?", fragte er und wirkte etwas enttäuscht. "Nicht lange. Warte und sprich mit mir; komm schon, Liebling." Dick setzte sich hin. Das Gespräch verlief sehr gut, während sie schnitt und nähte, bis ungefähr halb drei, zu dieser Zeit begann sein Gespräch durch leichtes Tippen auf seinen Fuß mit einem Gehstock, den er aus der Hecke geschnitten hatte, abwechslungsreicher zu werden. Fancy sprach und antwortete ihm, aber manchmal waren die Antworten so nachlässig, dass offensichtlich ihre Gedanken größtenteils in ihrem Schoß bei dem blauen Kleid lagen. Die Uhr schlug drei. Dick erhob sich von seinem Platz, ging im Raum herum, untersuchte alle Möbel, spielte ein paar Töne auf dem Harmonium, blätterte dann in allen Büchern, die er finden konnte, glättete schließlich Fancys Haar mit der Hand, während das Schneiden und Nähen weiterging. Die Uhr schlug vier. Dick wurde unruhig, gähnte heimlich; zählte die Knoten auf dem Tisch, gähnte öffentlich; zählte die Fliegen an der Decke, gähnte furchtbar; ging in die Küche und den Waschraum und studierte gründlich das Funktionsprinzip der Pumpe, sodass er einen Vortrag darüber hätte halten können. Er ging zurück zu Fancy, und als er feststellte, dass sie immer noch nicht fertig war, ging er in ihren Garten, betrachtete ihre Kohl- und Kartoffelpflanzen und erinnerte sich daran, dass sie einen ausgesprochen weiblichen Eindruck auf ihn machten. Dann rupfte er einige Unkräuter aus und kam wieder herein. Die Uhr schlug fünf, und das Schneiden und Nähen ging noch immer weiter. Dick versuchte eine Fliege zu töten, schälte die Rinde von seinem Gehstock, warf den Stock in den Waschraum, weil er verdorben war, erzeugte hässliche Dissonanzen auf dem Harmonium und stieß versehentlich eine Vase mit Blumen um, deren Wasser über den Tisch lief und auf den Boden tropfte, wo es sich zu einem See bildete, dessen Form er nach einigen Minuten beträchtlich mit seinem Fuß veränderte, bis er einer Landkarte von England und Wales ähnelte. "Nun, Dick, du hättest nicht so ein großes Durcheinander machen müssen." "Ja, ich hätte wohl nicht, nehme ich an." Er ging zum blauen Kleid hin und betrachtete es mit starrer Miene. Dann schien ihm eine Idee zu kommen. "Fancy." "Ja." Ich dachte, du hast gesagt, du wirst deinen grauen Kleid den ganzen Tag morgen auf deiner Reise nach Yalbury tragen und abends auch, wenn ich bei dir sein werde und deinen Vater um deine Hand bitte?" "Das werde ich." "Und das blaue nur am Sonntag?" "Und das blaue am Sonntag." "Nun, Liebling, ich werde Sonntag nicht in Yalbury sein, um es zu sehen." "Nein, aber ich werde am Nachmittag mit meinem Vater zur Kirche in Longpuddle gehen, und so viele Leute werden mich dort anschauen, weißt du; und es saß so schlecht um den Hals." "Ich habe es nie bemerkt, und niemand sonst würde es bemerken." "Das könnten sie." "Warum also nicht auch das graue am Sonntag tragen? Es ist genauso hübsch wie das blaue." "Ich könnte das graue machen, sicher. Aber es ist nicht so gut; es hat nicht halb so viel gekostet wie dieses hier, und außerdem wäre es dasselbe, das ich am Samstag getragen habe." "Dann trage das gestreifte, Liebling." "Das könnte ich." "Oder das dunkle." "Ja, das könnte ich; aber ich möchte ein frisches tragen, das sie noch nicht gesehen haben." "Ich verstehe, ich verstehe", sagte Dick mit einer Stimme, in der die Töne der Liebe deutlich durch eine beträchtliche Betonung beeinträchtigt waren, seine Gedanken liefen jedoch wie folgt: "Ich, der Mann, den sie am meisten auf der Welt liebt, wie sie sagt, soll verstehen, dass mein armer halber Feiertag verloren geht, weil sie am Sonntag ein Kleid tragen möchte, für das überhaupt keine Notwendigkeit besteht, einfach nur, um auffälliger als gewöhnlich in den Augen der jungen Männer in Longpuddle zu erscheinen; und ich bin auch nicht da." "Drei Kleider sind gut genug in meinen Augen, aber keines ist gut genug für die jungen Männer in Longpuddle", sagte er. "Nein, so genau ist es nicht, Dick. Dennoch, siehst du, will ich - gut aussehen für sie - da, das ist ehrlich! Aber es dauert nicht mehr lange." "Wie viel?" "Viertelstunde." "Gut; ich komme in einer Viertelstunde zurück." "Warum gehst du weg?" "Ich könnte auch gehen." Er ging hinaus, ging die Straße hinunter und setzte sich auf ein Tor. Hier meditierte er und meditierte, und je mehr er nachdachte, desto mehr begann er zu kochen, und desto mehr war er davon überzeugt, dass seine Zeit von Miss Fancy Day schändlich verschwendet worden war - dass sie, weit entfernt davon, das einfache Mädchen zu sein, das sie ihm feierlich versichert hatte, noch nie zuvor einen Verehrer gehabt hatte, wenn auch keine Flirtin, eine Frau war, die keine Ende von Bewunderern hatte; ein Mädchen, dessen Interesse zwar warm, aber nicht tief war; ein Mädchen, dem es sehr wichtig war, wie sie in den Augen anderer Männer aussah. "Was sie auf der Welt am meisten liebt", dachte er mit einem Hauch von Grimasse seines Vaters, "ist ihr Haar und ihr Teint. Was sie am zweitliebsten liebt, sind ihre Kleider und Hüte; was sie am drittliebsten liebt, vielleicht ich selbst!" Obwohl er unter großer Anguish über diese Illoyalität zu sich selbst und Grobheit gegenüber seinem Liebling litt, aber trotzdem entschlossen war, daran festzuhalten, kam ihm ein furchtbar grausamer Gedanke. Er würde nicht wie versprochen nach einer Viertelstunde nach ihr sehen! Ja, das wäre eine Strafe, die sie wohl verdient hatte. Obwohl der beste Teil des Nachmittags verschwendet wurde, würde er Nüsse sammeln gehen, wie er beabsichtigt hatte, und alleine gehen. Er sprang über das Tor und lief fast zwei Meilen den Weg hinauf, bis ein gewundener Pfad namens Snail-Creep einen Hügel hinauf führte und durch ein Loch wie ein Kaninchenbau in einen Haselhain führte. Hinein stürzte er, verschwand zwischen den Büschen, und nach kurzer Zeit gab es kein Zeichen von seiner Existenz auf Erden, außer geleg Aber Venus hatte andere Entwicklungen geplant, zumindest vorerst. Cuckoo-Lane, den er entlangging, führte über einen Grat, der etwa fünfzig Meter vor ihm scharf gegen den Himmel emporragte. Hier, in dem hellen Nachglühen am Horizont, war nun eine unregelmäßige Form zu erkennen, die er zunächst für einen Ast hielt, der ein wenig über die Linie seiner Nachbarn hinausragte. Dann schien es sich zu bewegen und als er weiter voranschritt, war kein Zweifel, dass es ein lebendes Wesen war, das auf der Bank saß, den Kopf auf die Hand gestützt. Der grasbewachsene Rand verhinderte, dass seine Schritte gehört wurden, und es war erst, als er nah genug war, dass die Gestalt ihn erkannte. Sie sprang auf und plötzlich stand er Angesicht zu Angesicht mit Fancy. "Dick, Dick! Ach, bist du es, Dick!" "Ja, Fancy", sagte Dick mit etwas reumütigem Tonfall und senkte seine Nüsse. Sie lief zu ihm, warf ihren Regenschirm ins Gras, legte ihr kleines Köpfchen an seine Brust und begann dann eine Erzählung, die von hysterischem Weinen unterbrochen war und an Intensität in der gesamten Geschichte der Liebe unübertroffen war. "Oh Dick," schluchzte sie, "wo warst du ohne mich? Oh, ich habe so gelitten und dachte, du würdest nie wiederkommen! Das ist grausam, Dick; nein, das ist es nicht, das ist gerecht! Ich bin meilenweit durch Grey's Wood gewandert und habe versucht, dich zu finden, bis ich erschöpft und erschöpft war und nicht mehr weitergehen konnte und bis hierher zurückgekommen bin! Oh Dick, als du weg warst, dachte ich, ich hätte dich beleidigt und legte das Kleid nieder; es ist nicht fertig, und ich werde es nie fertigstellen, und ich werde sonntags ein altes tragen! Ja, Dick, das werde ich, denn es ist mir egal, was ich trage, wenn du nicht an meiner Seite bist - ha, du denkst, dass ich das tue, aber das ist nicht so! - und ich lief dir nach, und ich sah, wie du Snail-Creep hinaufgingst und nicht einmal zurückgeschaut hast, und dann bist du hineingesprungen, und ich hinter dir her; aber ich war zu weit hinten. Oh, ich wünschte, die fiesen Büsche wären abgeschnitten worden, damit ich deine liebliche Gestalt wiedersehen könnte! Und dann rief ich dir zu, und niemand antwortete, und ich hatte Angst, sehr laut zu rufen, damit mich niemand anderes hören konnte. Dann irrte ich umher und umher, und es war furchtbares Elend, Dick. Und dann schloss ich meine Augen und stellte mir vor, wie du eine andere Frau anschaust, sehr hübsch und nett, aber ohne jegliche Zuneigung oder Wahrheit, und dann stellte ich mir vor, wie du zu dir selbst sagst: 'Ah, sie ist genauso gut wie Fancy, denn Fancy hat mir eine Geschichte erzählt und war eine Flirt, und sie kümmerte sich mehr um sich selbst als um mich, also nehme ich jetzt diese als meine Geliebte.' Oh, du wirst es nicht tun, oder, Dick, denn ich liebe dich so sehr!" Es ist kaum notwendig zu erwähnen, dass Dick dort und dann seine Freiheit aufgab, sie zehnmal küsste und versprach, dass keine hübsche Frau dieser Art jemals seine Gedanken einnehmen würde; kurz gesagt, dass, obwohl er verärgert über sie war, all dieses Ärgernis vorbei war und dass von nun an und für immer entweder Fancy oder der Tod für ihn war. Und dann machten sie sich auf den Heimweg, sehr langsam wegen Fancys Müdigkeit, sie lehnte sich an seine Schulter und er stützte sie um die Taille; obwohl sie sich von ihrem verzweifelten Zustand erholt hatte, sang sie ihm auf dem letzten Teil ihres Spaziergangs zu, "Warum irrst du hier umher, bitte?" Es ist auch nicht notwendig, im Detail zu beschreiben, wie der Nussbeutel erst drei Tage später vergessen wurde, als er unter den Brombeeren gefunden und leer an Frau Dewy zurückgegeben wurde, ihre Initialen waren mit rotem Garn markiert; und wie sie sich den Kopf darüber zerbrach, wie um aller Welt ihr Mahlbeutel in Cuckoo-Lane gelandet sein könnte. Am Samstagabend machte sich Dick Dewy zu Fuß auf den Weg nach Yalbury Wood, entsprechend der Vereinbarung mit Fancy. Da die Landschaft konkav war, nahm alles bei Sonnenuntergang plötzlich einen einheitlichen Schatten an. Der Abend näherte sich von Sonnenuntergang bis zur Dämmerung lange vor Dicks Ankunft, und sein Fortschritt während des letzten Teils seines Weges durch die Bäume wurde durch das Flattern verängstigter Vögel angezeigt, die über dem Weg gerostet hatten. Und beim Überqueren der Lichtungen wurden seine Wangen abwechselnd von Massen heißer, trockener Luft aus den Hügeln und von Wolken feuchter Nachtluft aus den Tälern begrüßt. Er erreichte das Haus des Verwalters, wo der Grasplatz und der Garten vor ihm im Licht der Laterne leicht und blass gegen die ununterbrochene Dunkelheit des Hains erschienen, und blieb am Gartentor stehen. Kaum war er eine Minute dort, als er eine Art Prozession sah, die sich von der Tür vor ihm bewegte. Sie bestand zunächst aus Enoch, dem Fallensteller, der eine Schaufel auf der Schulter trug und eine Laterne baumeln ließ; dann kam Mrs. Day, das Licht der Laterne zeigte, dass sie seltsame Gegenstände von etwa einem Fuß Länge in Form lateinischer Kreuze trug (aus Latte und braunem Papier, in Schwefel getaucht - von Bienenmeistern als Zündhölzer bezeichnet); dann kam Miss Day mit einem Tuch über dem Kopf; und hinter allen, im Dunkeln, Mr. Frederic Shiner. Dick, in seiner Bestürzung darüber, Shiner vorzufinden, wusste nicht, wie er vorgehen sollte, und zog sich unter einen Baum zurück, um seine Gedanken zu sammeln. "Hier bin ich, Enoch", sagte eine Stimme; und die Prozession schritt weiter voran, die Strahlen der Laterne beleuchteten die Gestalt von Geoffrey, der neben einer Reihe von Bienenstöcken auf die Ankunft an der Vorderseite des Weges wartete. Er nahm die Schaufel von Enoch entgegen und begann zwei Löcher neben den Bienenstöcken in die Erde zu graben, während die anderen im Kreis standen, außer Mrs. Day, die ihre Zündhölzer in die Gabel eines Apfelbaums legte und zurück zum Haus ging. Die Anwesenden wurden nun im Vordergrund von der Laterne in ihrer Mitte beleuchtet, ihre Schatten strahlten wie die Speichen eines Rades auf dem Gartenplatz in beide Richtungen. Ein offensichtliches Unbehagen von Fancy angesichts Shiner's Anwesenheit sorgte für Stille in der Versammlung, während die Vorbereitungen zur Ausführung getroffen wurden, die Zündhölzer befestigt, der Pfahl entzündet, die beiden Bienenstöcke über die beiden Löcher gestellt und die Erde an den Rändern gestopft wurde. Dann stand Geoffrey aufrecht da und beugte sich etwas vor, um seinen Rücken nach dem Graben zu strecken. "Das waren eine besondere Familie", sagte Mr. Shiner und betrachtete die Bienenstöcke nachdenklich. Geoffrey nickte. "Diese Löcher werden das Grab von Tausenden sein!" sagte Fancy. "Ich finde es ziemlich grausam." Ihr Vater schüttelte den Kopf. "Nein", Fast alle, 😅 obwohl ich das Gefühl habe, dass sich noch ein oder zwei in meine Schulter und Seite bohren. Ah! Da fängt gerade einer in meinem Rücken wieder an. Ihr lebhaften jungen Sterblichen, wie seid ihr da hineingekommen? Aber gut, sie können mich nicht mehr oft stechen, die armen Dinger, sie müssen schwach werden. Sie können genauso gut bis zum Schlafengehen in mir bleiben, nehme ich an." Da er selbst die einzige betroffene Person war, schien es ausreichend zufriedenstellend zu sein. Nachdem ein Geräusch von Füßen gehört wurde, die gegen Kohlköpfe traten und sich inmitten eines unbeholfenen Fortschritts durch sie hindurch kämpften, war die Stimme von Herrn Schimmer aus der Dunkelheit in diese Richtung zu hören. "Ist wieder alles sicher?" Auf diese Frage wurde keine Antwort gegeben, daher ging er offensichtlich davon aus, dass er hervortreten könnte und näherte sich allmählich wieder der Laterne an. Die Bienenstöcke wurden nun von ihrer Position über den Löchern entfernt, einer wurde Enoch übergeben, um ihn ins Haus zu tragen, und einer wurde von Geoffrey selbst genommen. "Bringt die Laterne her, Fancy: die Schaufel kann warten." Geoffrey und Enoch gingen dann in Richtung des Hauses und ließen Shiner und Fancy nebeneinander auf dem Gartenbeet stehen. "Erlauben Sie mir", sagte Shiner und bückte sich nach der Laterne und ergriff sie gleichzeitig mit Fancy. "Ich kann sie tragen", sagte Fancy und unterdrückte jegliche Neigung zum Scherzen. Sie hatte dieses Thema nach der tränenreichen Erklärung des Vogelfangabenteuers vor Dick gründlich durchdacht und entschieden, dass es unehrlich von ihr als verlobter junger Frau wäre, weiterhin mit den Augen und Händen der Männer zu spielen. Als sie feststellte, dass Shiner immer noch die Laterne behielt, gab sie sie auf und er ließ sie auch los. Die Laterne fiel und erlosch. Fancy ging weiter. "Wo ist der Weg?", sagte Herr Schimmer. "Hier", antwortete Fancy. "Deine Augen werden sich in einer oder zwei Minuten an die Dunkelheit gewöhnen." "Bis dahin leihst du mir deine Hand?", sagte Herr Schimmer. Fancy gab ihm die äußersten Spitzen ihrer Finger und sie traten von der Parzelle auf den Weg. "Du akzeptierst Aufmerksamkeit nicht gerne." "Es hängt davon ab, wer sie anbietet." "Ein Kerl wie ich zum Beispiel." Eine völlige Stille. "Nun, was sagst du, Missie?" "Dann hängt es davon ab, wie sie angeboten werden." "Nicht wild und doch nicht gleichgültig; nicht absichtlich und dennoch nicht zufällig; nicht zu schnell und doch nicht zu langsam." "Wie dann?" sagte Fancy. "Kühl und praktisch", sagte er. "Wie würde diese Art von Liebe aufgenommen werden?" "Nicht ängstlich und doch nicht gleichgültig; weder errötend noch blass; weder religiös noch ganz böse." "Nun, wie?" "Garnicht." * * * * * Geoffrey Days Vorratshaus hinter seinem Wohnhaus war mit Bündeln getrockneten Malvenkrauts, Minze und Salbei geschmückt; braune Papiertüten mit Thymian und Lavendel; und lange Reihen sauberer Zwiebeln. Auf den Regalen lagen große rote und gelbe Äpfel und ausgewählte frühe Kartoffelsorten für die nächste Saison. Eine Menge gewöhnlicherer Sorten lag darunter in Haufen. Ein paar leere Bienenstöcke waren um einen Nagel in einer Ecke gruppiert, unter dem zwei oder drei Fässer neuen Apfelweins aus der ersten Ernte standen, von denen jeder noch aus der offenen Spundöffnung sprudelte und spritzte. Fancy kniete nun neben den umgedrehten Bienenstöcken, von denen einer bequem auf ihrem Schoß ruhte, um an den Inhalten zu arbeiten. Sie hatte ihre Ärmel über die Ellbogen hochgekrempelt und schob ihre kleinen rosa Hände seitlich zwischen die weißen Waben und führte die Handlung so gekonnt und sanft durch, dass sie keine Zelle öffnete. Dann brach sie jedes Stück an der Oberseite des Bienenstocks durch eine leichte Vor- und Rückwärtsbewegung ab, hob jeden Teil, der gelöst war, auf einen großen blauen Teller, der neben ihr auf einer Bank stand. "Diese kleinen Sterblichen nerven!", sagte Geoffrey, der ihr das Licht hielt und sich dabei unruhig bewegte. "Ich denke, ich könnte genauso gut reingehen und sie rausholen, die armen Dinger! Denn sie lassen mich nicht in Ruhe. Zwei stachen gerade mit aller Kraft auf mich ein. Ich frage mich wirklich, wie lange ihre Kraft noch anhalten kann." "Kein Problem, Freund; Ich halte die Kerze, während du weg bist", sagte Mr. Shiner und nahm das Licht gemächlich an sich und ließ Geoffrey gehen, was er mit seinen gewohnt großen Schritten tat. Er konnte kaum um die Haustür herumgegangen sein, als andere Schritte zu hören waren, die sich dem Nebengebäude näherten; die Spitze eines Fingers erschien in dem Loch, durch das der Türriegel angehoben wurde, und Dick Dewy kam herein, nachdem er die ganze Zeit im Wald auf und ab gegangen war und vergeblich darauf gewartet hatte, dass Shiner ging. Fancy schaute auf und begrüßte ihn etwas verwirrt. Shiner drückte den Kerzenhalter fester und sang unaufhaltsam, um deutlich zu machen, dass er sich vollkommen zu Hause und cool fühlte: "King Arthur hatte drei Söhne." "Vater hier?", sagte Dick. "Ich glaube, drinnen", sagte Fancy und schaute ihm freundlich an. Dick betrachtete die Szene und schien nicht geneigt zu sein, sich gerade in diesem Moment zu beeilen. Shiner sang weiter: "Der Müller ertrank in seinem Teich, Der Weber wurde in seinem Garn gehängt, Und der Teufel verführte den kleinen Schneider, Mit dem Tuch unter dem Arm." "Wenn das dein Reim ist, dann ist das ein schrecklich lahmer Reim!", sagte Dick mit einem Hauch von Überheblichkeit in seiner Stimme. "Es hat keinen Zweck, dich bei mir über den Reim zu beschweren!", sagte Mr. Shiner. "Du musst zumjenigen gehen, der ihn gemacht hat." Fancy hatte inzwischen Vertrauen gewonnen. "Probier ein bisschen, Mr. Dewy", sagte sie und hielt ihm ein kleines rundes Stück Honigwabe entgegen, das das letzte der Schichten war, das noch auf ihren Knien lag. Dabei warf sie den Kopf zurück, um in sein Gesicht zu schauen; "und dann probiere ich ein bisschen." "Und ich auch, wenn es Ihnen recht ist", sagte Mr. Shiner. Trotzdem sah der Bauer überlegen aus und schien sich vorrangig zu fühlen, als ob er aus sehr wichtigen Gründen jetzt kaum Spaß machen könnte. Nachdem er die Honigwabe von Fancy erhalten hatte, drehte er sie in der Hand hin und her, bis die Zellen zerdrückt wurden und der flüssige Honig dünn von seinen Fingern tropfte. Plötzlich ließ ein schwacher Schrei von Fancy sie aufblicken. "Was ist los, Liebes?", sagte Dick. "Es ist nichts, aber Ah, eine Biene hat die Innenseite meiner Lippe gestochen! Sie war in einer der Zellen, die ich gegessen habe!" "Wir müssen die Schwellung unterdrücken, sonst könnte es ernst werden!", sagte Shiner, stand auf und kniete neben ihr nieder. "Lass mich es sehen." "Nein, nein!" "Lass mich es nur sehen", sagte Dick und kniete auf der anderen Seite nieder; Nach einigem Zögern drückte sie ihre Lippe mit einem Finger herunter, um die Stelle zu zeigen. "O, ich hoffe, es wird bald besser sein! Ich habe nichts dagegen, an normalen Stellen gestochen zu werden, aber es ist so schlimm auf der Lippe", fügte sie mit Trä "Frau Day, Fancy hat sich die Lippe gestochen und möchte, dass Sie mir das ätherische Öl geben, bitte", sagte Herr Shiner, sehr nah an Frau Day's Gesicht. "Oh, Frau Day, Fancy hat mich gebeten, das ätherische Öl rauszuholen, bitte, weil sie sich die Lippe gestochen hat!" sagte Dick, noch näher an Frau Day's Gesicht. "Nun, lebendige Männer! Das ist doch kein Grund, mich zu fressen, nehme ich an!", sagte Frau Day und trat einen Schritt zurück. Sie suchte in der Eckschrank nach der Flasche, holte sie heraus und begann den Korken, den Rand und jeden anderen Teil sehr sorgfältig abzustäuben, während Dicks und Shiner's Hände geduldig nebeneinander warteten. "Wer ist der Vorgesetzte?", fragte Frau Day. "Jetzt kommt mir nicht so nah heran. Wer ist der Vorgesetzte?" Keiner sprach und die Flasche wurde in Shiners Richtung geneigt. Shiner, als hochrangiger Mann, würde nicht im Geringsten triumphierend aussehen und ging mit der Flasche davon, als Geoffrey nach der Suche in seiner Wäsche nach versteckten Bienen die Treppe hinunterkam. "Oh, bist du es, Master Dewy?" Dick versicherte dem Jäger, dass es so sei, und der junge Mann beschloss dann, einen mutigen Schritt zur Erreichung seines Ziels zu unternehmen, wobei er vergaß, dass das Schlimmste an mutigen Schritten die katastrophalen Folgen sind, wenn sie scheitern. "Ich bin extra gekommen, um mit Ihnen sehr speziell zu sprechen, Herr Day", sagte er und betonte dies mit voller Absicht für die Ohren von Herrn Shiner, der gerade um die Ecke verschwand. "Nun, ich musste nach oben gehen und mich entkleiden und ein paar Bienen aus mir schütteln", sagte Geoffrey, langsam auf die offene Tür zu und blieb auf der Schwelle stehen. "Die jungen Schurken sind in mein Hemd gekommen und wollten einfach nicht ruhig sein." Dick folgte ihm zur Tür. "Ich möchte ein Wort mit Ihnen sprechen", wiederholte er und sah hinaus in den blassen Nebel, der sich aus dem Dunkel des Tals ausbreitete. "Sie können wahrscheinlich erraten, worum es geht." Der Jäger ließ seine Hände in den Tiefen seiner Taschen verschwinden, drehte seine Augen, balancierte auf seinen Zehen, schaute senkrecht nach unten, als ob sein Blick eine Lotlinie wäre, dann waagerecht und sammelte die Falten um sein Gesicht herum, bis sie alle in der Nähe seiner Augen waren. "Vielleicht weiß ich es nicht", antwortete er. Dick sagte nichts und die Stille wurde nur von einem kleinen Vogel gestört, der von einer Eule im angrenzenden Wald getötet wurde und dessen Ruf sich in die Stille mischte, ohne sich mit ihr zu vermischen. "Ich habe meinen Hut oben im Zimmer gelassen", sagte Geoffrey, "warten Sie, bis ich ihn hole." "Ich werde im Garten sein", sagte Dick. Er ging durch ein Seitentürchen in den Garten und Geoffrey ging nach oben. Es war Brauch in Mellstock und Umgebung, Dinge des Vergnügens und gewöhnliche Geschäfte im Haus zu besprechen und den Garten für sehr wichtige Angelegenheiten aufzubewahren: Ein Brauch, der vermutlich in der Wunsch entstand, zu solchen Zeiten aus dem Kreis der Familie herauszukommen, wenn es nur einen Raum zum Leben gab, obwohl er jetzt auch von denen angewendet wurde, die keine solche Begrenzung in der Größe ihrer Häuser hatten. Die Gestalt des Oberjägers erschien im dunklen Garten und Dick ging auf ihn zu. Der Ältere hielt inne und lehnte sich über das Geländer eines Schweinestalls, der auf der linken Seite des Weges stand, und Dick tat dasselbe; und beide betrachteten eine weißliche, schattenhafte Gestalt, die sich zwischen dem Stroh im Inneren bewegte und grunzte. "Ich bin gekommen, um nach Fancy zu fragen", sagte Dick. "Ich wünschte, du hättest es nicht." "Warum sollte das so sein, Herr Day?" "Weil ich dann sagen muss, dass du gekommen bist, um das zu fragen, was du nicht bekommen wirst. Bist du noch wegen etwas anderem gekommen?" "Nichts." "Dann werde ich dir nur sagen, dass du mit einem sehr törichten Anliegen gekommen bist. Weißt du, wer ihre Mutter war?" "Nein." "Eine Lehrerin in der Kinderstube einer wohlhabenden Familie, die dumm genug war, den gleichen Pfleger zu heiraten; denn damals war ich nur Pfleger, obwohl ich jetzt ein Dutzend andere Eisen im Feuer habe, als Verwalter hier für meinen Herrn, mit all den Holzverkäufen und den jährlichen Fällungen und den Kies- und Sandverkäufen und so weiter. Aber glaubst du, dass sich Fancy ihre guten Manieren, ihre geschmeidige Sprache, ihre musikalischen Töne und ihr Wissen über Bücher in einem einfachen Loch wie diesem angeeignet hat?" "Nein." "Weißt du woher?" "Nein." "Als ich nach dem Tod ihrer Mutter auf Wanderschaft ging, lebte sie bei ihrer Tante, die ein Internat führte, bis ihre Tante den Rechtsanwalt Green heiratete - einen Mann so scharf wie eine Nadel - und die Schule aufgelöst wurde. Wusstest du, dass sie dann zur Ausbildungsschule gegangen ist und dass ihr Name unter den Besten der Schülerinnen der Königin in ihrem Jahrgang stand?" "Das habe ich gehört." "Und dass sie bei ihrer Prüfung als Regierungslehrerin die Bestnote der ersten Klasse hatte?" "Ja." "Nun, und weißt du, warum ich so sparsam lebe, obwohl ich genug habe, und warum ich sie als Lehrerin arbeiten lasse, anstatt hier zu leben?" "Nein." "Weil wenn ein Mann, der sie als ebenbürtig betrachtet, sie heiraten möchte und sie ihn heiraten möchte, er ihr nicht finanziell überlegen sein soll. Glaubst du also, dass du gut genug für sie bist?" "Nein." "Dann gute Nacht, Master Dewy." "Gute Nacht, Herr Day." Die bescheidene Antwort von Dick stockte ihm auf der Zunge und er wandte sich ab, während er über seine Vermessenheit nachdachte, eine Frau zu verlangen, die er von Anfang an als so überlegen erkannt hatte. Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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'Going Nutting' und Kapitel Zwei 'Honig sammeln und danach' besucht Dick Fancy am Freitag vor ihrem vereinbarten Besuch bei ihrem Vater und da beide frei sind, schlägt er vor, Nüsse zu sammeln. Sie stimmt zu, bittet ihn jedoch darum, auf sie zu warten, während sie eines ihrer Kleider ändert. Er wartet stundenlang auf sie und erinnert sich daran, dass sie gesagt hatte, sie würde dieses blaue Kleid am Sonntag tragen und er würde nicht da sein, um es zu sehen. Sie sagt, dass viele andere Leute sie ansehen werden. Er geht nach draußen, um zu warten, da sie sagt, dass sie nur noch eine Viertelstunde braucht. Er ist verärgert, da er denkt, dass sie warme, aber nicht tiefe Gefühle hat und sich zu sehr darum kümmert, wie sie "in den Augen anderer Männer" erscheint. Er denkt auch, dass sie ihre Haare und ihren Teint am besten liebt, dann ihre Kleider und dann ihn, "vielleicht". Ein grausamer Gedanke kommt ihm in den Sinn, dass er sie bestrafen und nach einer Viertelstunde nicht anrufen wird. Er entscheidet sich stattdessen, Nüsse zu sammeln, was sein erster Plan war. Er geht 2 Meilen zum Haselgebüsch und sammelt Nüsse, bis die Sonne untergeht. Er nimmt seine 2 Schilfmaße auf, die für ihn genauso nützlich sind wie "Steine von der Straße", und pfeift, während er den Feldweg entlang geht. Auf dem Rückweg sieht er Fancy und sie rennt zu ihm und schluchzt, dass sie gelitten hat und dachte, er würde nie wieder zurückkommen. Sie ist viele Meilen gelaufen, um ihn zu finden. Sie sagt auch, dass sie ihr Kleid nicht fertiggestellt hat und es auch nie tun wird und am Sonntag ein altes tragen wird. Er verzichtet auf "seine Freiheit" und küsst sie zehnmal. In Kapitel Zwei besucht Dick das Zuhause von Fancys Vater, wie vereinbart, und unbemerkt bemerkt er eine kleine Prozession aus Miss und Mrs Day, Enoch und Shinar. Er sieht, wie sie sich zu Geoffrey begeben, der in der Nähe der Bienenstöcke steht. Holzpfähle werden in den Boden gerammt und entzündet und zwei Bienenstöcke werden über den Löchern platziert. Fancy sagt, wie die Löcher die Gräber von Tausenden sein werden und dass dies eine grausame Sache ist. Ihr Vater widerspricht und sagt, dass sie so nur einmal erstickt werden und wenn sie auf die "neue Art" begast werden, wieder zum Leben kommen und daher zweimal Todesqualen erleiden. Sie sagt, sie würde ihnen niemals den Honig wegnehmen wollen, und Enoch sagt, es geschieht um des Geldes willen, "'und ohne Geld ist der Mensch ein Schatten!'" Einige streunende Bienen fliegen herum und alle außer Geoffrey entfernen sich, und er bleibt standhaft, obwohl er gestochen wurde. Shinar ist der letzte, der zurückkehrt, und fragt, ob es sicher ist. Als sie ins Haus gehen, sind Shinar und Fancy die letzten, und sie achtet darauf, nicht mit ihm zu scherzen. Die Laterne fällt auf den Boden und sie machen sich in der Dunkelheit auf den Weg zum Haus. Shinar bittet sie um ihre Hand und sie gibt ihm nur die äußersten Fingerspitzen. Er spricht von seinen Aufmerksamkeiten und seiner Liebe für sie, und sie sagt, dass sie es nicht nehmen wird, "'überhaupt nicht'". Sie gehen in den Lagerraum, und während Fancy die Honigwaben aus den Bienenstöcken entfernt, geht ihr Vater ins Haus, um die Bienen von seinem Hemd zu entfernen. Fancy ist bei Shinar, als Dick auftaucht, und Shinar zeigt seine scheinbare Gelassenheit, indem er singt. Fancy bietet Dick etwas Honig an, und sie sagt, dass sie auch etwas probieren wird. Shinar bittet auch um etwas, und als er es in der Hand hält, zerquetscht sich die Wabe, und der Honig läuft ihm über die Finger. Fancy gibt einen leisen Schrei von sich und sagt, dass sie von der Innenseite ihrer Lippe von einer Biene gestochen wurde, da sie in einer der Zellen war, die sie gegessen hat. Shinar bittet darum, es zu sehen, und sie sagt nein. Dick fragt, und zögernd zeigt sie es ihm. Beide Männer gehen sofort, um Öl und Hirschhorn zu besorgen, und beide gehen zu Mrs Day, um danach zu fragen. Sie findet es und fragt, wer der "Chef" ist. Da beide nicht antworten, gibt sie es Shinar. Er geht zurück zu Fancy, als Geoffrey die Treppe hinunterkommt und Dick ihn bitten möchte. Geoffrey sucht seinen Hut, während Dick in den Garten geht, da es dort Sitte ist, "den Garten für sehr wichtige Angelegenheiten zu reservieren". Die beiden Männer sprechen miteinander, und Dick sagt, dass er um Fancys Hand anhält. Ihr Vater sagt, er sei auf eine "törichte Mission" gekommen, da ihre Mutter eine Gouvernante war und Fancy bei ihrer Tante lebte, als er nach dem Tod ihrer Mutter "umherstreifte". Ihre Tante hatte eine Mädchenschule und heiratete einen Anwalt. Fancy hat auch den "Höchsten der ersten Klasse" in ihrem Lehrzertifikat. Er fragt Dick, ob er sich gut genug hält, und Dick sagt nein. Sie verabschieden sich voneinander, und Dick wundert sich über seine "Anmaßung, um die Hand einer Frau zu bitten, die er von Anfang an als ihm so überlegen sah".

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. London. An apartment of the Prince's. Enter Prince of Wales and Sir John Falstaff. Fal. Now, Hal, what time of day is it, lad? Prince. Thou art so fat-witted with drinking of old sack, and unbuttoning thee after supper, and sleeping upon benches after noon, that thou hast forgotten to demand that truly which thou wouldest truly know. What a devil hast thou to do with the time of the day, Unless hours were cups of sack, and minutes capons, and clocks the tongues of bawds, and dials the signs of leaping houses, and the blessed sun himself a fair hot wench in flame-coloured taffeta, I see no reason why thou shouldst be so superfluous to demand the time of the day. Fal. Indeed you come near me now, Hal; for we that take purses go by the moon And the seven stars, and not by Phoebus, he, that wand'ring knight so fair. And I prithee, sweet wag, when thou art king, as, God save thy Grace-Majesty I should say, for grace thou wilt have none- Prince. What, none? Fal. No, by my troth; not so much as will serve to be prologue to an egg and butter. Prince. Well, how then? Come, roundly, roundly. Fal. Marry, then, sweet wag, when thou art king, let not us that are squires of the night's body be called thieves of the day's beauty. Let us be Diana's Foresters, Gentlemen of the Shade, Minions of the Moon; and let men say we be men of good government, being governed as the sea is, by our noble and chaste mistress the moon, under whose countenance we steal. Prince. Thou sayest well, and it holds well too; for the fortune of us that are the moon's men doth ebb and flow like the sea, being governed, as the sea is, by the moon. As, for proof now: a purse of gold most resolutely snatch'd on Monday night and most dissolutely spent on Tuesday morning; got with swearing 'Lay by,' and spent with crying 'Bring in'; now ill as low an ebb as the foot of the ladder, and by-and-by in as high a flow as the ridge of the gallows. Fal. By the Lord, thou say'st true, lad- and is not my hostess of the tavern a most sweet wench? Prince. As the honey of Hybla, my old lad of the castle- and is not a buff jerkin a most sweet robe of durance? Fal. How now, how now, mad wag? What, in thy quips and thy quiddities? What a plague have I to do with a buff jerkin? Prince. Why, what a pox have I to do with my hostess of the tavern? Fal. Well, thou hast call'd her to a reckoning many a time and oft. Prince. Did I ever call for thee to pay thy part? Fal. No; I'll give thee thy due, thou hast paid all there. Prince. Yea, and elsewhere, so far as my coin would stretch; and where it would not, I have used my credit. Fal. Yea, and so us'd it that, were it not here apparent that thou art heir apparent- But I prithee, sweet wag, shall there be gallows standing in England when thou art king? and resolution thus fubb'd as it is with the rusty curb of old father antic the law? Do not thou, when thou art king, hang a thief. Prince. No; thou shalt. Fal. Shall I? O rare! By the Lord, I'll be a brave judge. Prince. Thou judgest false already. I mean, thou shalt have the hanging of the thieves and so become a rare hangman. Fal. Well, Hal, well; and in some sort it jumps with my humour as well as waiting in the court, I can tell you. Prince. For obtaining of suits? Fal. Yea, for obtaining of suits, whereof the hangman hath no lean wardrobe. 'Sblood, I am as melancholy as a gib-cat or a lugg'd bear. Prince. Or an old lion, or a lover's lute. Fal. Yea, or the drone of a Lincolnshire bagpipe. Prince. What sayest thou to a hare, or the melancholy of Moor Ditch? Fal. Thou hast the most unsavoury similes, and art indeed the most comparative, rascalliest, sweet young prince. But, Hal, I prithee trouble me no more with vanity. I would to God thou and I knew where a commodity of good names were to be bought. An old lord of the Council rated me the other day in the street about you, sir, but I mark'd him not; and yet he talked very wisely, but I regarded him not; and yet he talk'd wisely, and in the street too. Prince. Thou didst well; for wisdom cries out in the streets, and no man regards it. Fal. O, thou hast damnable iteration, and art indeed able to corrupt a saint. Thou hast done much harm upon me, Hal- God forgive thee for it! Before I knew thee, Hal, I knew nothing; and now am I, if a man should speak truly, little better than one of the wicked. I must give over this life, and I will give it over! By the Lord, an I do not, I am a villain! I'll be damn'd for never a king's son in Christendom. Prince. Where shall we take a purse tomorrow, Jack? Fal. Zounds, where thou wilt, lad! I'll make one. An I do not, call me villain and baffle me. Prince. I see a good amendment of life in thee- from praying to purse-taking. Fal. Why, Hal, 'tis my vocation, Hal. 'Tis no sin for a man to labour in his vocation. Enter Poins. Poins! Now shall we know if Gadshill have set a match. O, if men were to be saved by merit, what hole in hell were hot enough for him? This is the most omnipotent villain that ever cried 'Stand!' to a true man. Prince. Good morrow, Ned. Poins. Good morrow, sweet Hal. What says Monsieur Remorse? What says Sir John Sack and Sugar? Jack, how agrees the devil and thee about thy soul, that thou soldest him on Good Friday last for a cup of Madeira and a cold capon's leg? Prince. Sir John stands to his word, the devil shall have his bargain; for he was never yet a breaker of proverbs. He will give the devil his due. Poins. Then art thou damn'd for keeping thy word with the devil. Prince. Else he had been damn'd for cozening the devil. Poins. But, my lads, my lads, to-morrow morning, by four o'clock early, at Gadshill! There are pilgrims gong to Canterbury with rich offerings, and traders riding to London with fat purses. I have vizards for you all; you have horses for yourselves. Gadshill lies to-night in Rochester. I have bespoke supper to-morrow night in Eastcheap. We may do it as secure as sleep. If you will go, I will stuff your purses full of crowns; if you will not, tarry at home and be hang'd! Fal. Hear ye, Yedward: if I tarry at home and go not, I'll hang you for going. Poins. You will, chops? Fal. Hal, wilt thou make one? Prince. Who, I rob? I a thief? Not I, by my faith. Fal. There's neither honesty, manhood, nor good fellowship in thee, nor thou cam'st not of the blood royal if thou darest not stand for ten shillings. Prince. Well then, once in my days I'll be a madcap. Fal. Why, that's well said. Prince. Well, come what will, I'll tarry at home. Fal. By the Lord, I'll be a traitor then, when thou art king. Prince. I care not. Poins. Sir John, I prithee, leave the Prince and me alone. I will lay him down such reasons for this adventure that he shall go. Fal. Well, God give thee the spirit of persuasion and him the ears of profiting, that what thou speakest may move and what he hears may be believed, that the true prince may (for recreation sake) prove a false thief; for the poor abuses of the time want countenance. Farewell; you shall find me in Eastcheap. Prince. Farewell, thou latter spring! farewell, All-hallown summer! Exit Falstaff. Poins. Now, my good sweet honey lord, ride with us to-morrow. I have a jest to execute that I cannot manage alone. Falstaff, Bardolph, Peto, and Gadshill shall rob those men that we have already waylaid; yourself and I will not be there; and when they have the booty, if you and I do not rob them, cut this head off from my shoulders. Prince. How shall we part with them in setting forth? Poins. Why, we will set forth before or after them and appoint them a place of meeting, wherein it is at our pleasure to fail; and then will they adventure upon the exploit themselves; which they shall have no sooner achieved, but we'll set upon them. Prince. Yea, but 'tis like that they will know us by our horses, by our habits, and by every other appointment, to be ourselves. Poins. Tut! our horses they shall not see- I'll tie them in the wood; our wizards we will change after we leave them; and, sirrah, I have cases of buckram for the nonce, to immask our noted outward garments. Prince. Yea, but I doubt they will be too hard for us. Poins. Well, for two of them, I know them to be as true-bred cowards as ever turn'd back; and for the third, if he fight longer than he sees reason, I'll forswear arms. The virtue of this jest will lie the incomprehensible lies that this same fat rogue will tell us when we meet at supper: how thirty, at least, he fought with; what wards, what blows, what extremities he endured; and in the reproof of this lies the jest. Prince. Well, I'll go with thee. Provide us all things necessary and meet me to-night in Eastcheap. There I'll sup. Farewell. Poins. Farewell, my lord. Exit. Prince. I know you all, and will awhile uphold The unyok'd humour of your idleness. Yet herein will I imitate the sun, Who doth permit the base contagious clouds To smother up his beauty from the world, That, when he please again to lie himself, Being wanted, he may be more wond'red at By breaking through the foul and ugly mists Of vapours that did seem to strangle him. If all the year were playing holidays, To sport would be as tedious as to work; But when they seldom come, they wish'd-for come, And nothing pleaseth but rare accidents. So, when this loose behaviour I throw off And pay the debt I never promised, By how much better than my word I am, By so much shall I falsify men's hopes; And, like bright metal on a sullen ground, My reformation, glitt'ring o'er my fault, Shall show more goodly and attract more eyes Than that which hath no foil to set it off. I'll so offend to make offence a skill, Redeeming time when men think least I will. Exit. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Die Handlung verlagert sich nun in die Wohnung des Prinzen in London. Die Beteiligten sind Prinz Hal selbst, Sir John Falstaff und Poins. Prinz Hal, fernab von bewaffneten Auseinandersetzungen mit Feinden der Krone, amüsiert sich mit Falstaff in einem geistreichen verbalen Austausch. Das Thema dieses Diskurses erstreckt sich vom Trinken bis zum Straßenraub. Die beiden liefern sich einen Wettstreit in amüsanten Beleidigungen. Falstaff zeigt wenig Achtung für den Prinzen und neckt ihn wegen seiner fehlenden Grazie und seiner sorglosen Einstellung und Verhaltensweise. Hal, dessen erste Rede ein umfassendes Porträt des Ritters als Vielfraß und Wüstling liefert, der zu "fettwitzig" ist, um sich über die Tageszeit Gedanken zu machen, erweist sich als würdiger Gegner in diesem Wettstreit der Geistesstärke. Aber Falstaff kontert ihm ebenbürtig; tatsächlich argumentieren einige Kritiker, dass der dickleibige Ritter ihm überlegen ist. Da das Thema des Raubes bereits vor der Ankunft von Poins aufgegriffen wurde, ist der Weg für Details über das Unternehmen in Gadshill bereitet, an dem Hal und Falstaff gebeten werden teilzunehmen. Hal belustigt sich auf Kosten Falstaffs. Zunächst weigert er sich, mit den anderen mitzugehen, sogar "nur zur Belustigung"; dann, nachdem er sich Falstaffs Tadel angehört hat, ändert er seine Meinung; und schließlich weigert er sich erneut, einer der Diebe in Gadshill zu sein. Nachdem Falstaff gegangen ist, erfährt der Prinz von Poins, dass der Raubzug eine wunderbare Gelegenheit bietet, Falstaff hereinzulegen. Sir John, Bardolph und Peto sollen die Reisenden berauben; dann werden Hal und Poins, verkleidet, die Räuber berauben. Der große Spaß wird sein, Falstaff als Feigling und Lügner zu entlarven. Prinz Hal kann derartiger Möglichkeit nicht widerstehen, seinen alten Gefährten zu täuschen; er wird am Raubzug in Gadshill teilnehmen. Der bisherige Dialog war ausschließlich prosaisch. Allein gelassen, hält der Prinz nun eine Stummrede in Blankvers. Er macht deutlich, dass er sich vollkommen über den Charakter seiner gewählten Begleiter im Klaren ist und vergleicht sie mit "ansteckenden Wolken". Er erklärt, dass er sich für eine Weile in ihrer ausschweifenden Gesellschaft zum Zeitvertreib aufhalten möchte, aber zur rechten Zeit die Welt überraschen und erfreuen werde, indem er in sein wahres Wesen tritt.

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. Phileas Fogg lived, in 1872, at No. 7, Saville Row, Burlington Gardens, the house in which Sheridan died in 1814. He was one of the most noticeable members of the Reform Club, though he seemed always to avoid attracting attention; an enigmatical personage, about whom little was known, except that he was a polished man of the world. People said that he resembled Byron--at least that his head was Byronic; but he was a bearded, tranquil Byron, who might live on a thousand years without growing old. Certainly an Englishman, it was more doubtful whether Phileas Fogg was a Londoner. He was never seen on 'Change, nor at the Bank, nor in the counting-rooms of the "City"; no ships ever came into London docks of which he was the owner; he had no public employment; he had never been entered at any of the Inns of Court, either at the Temple, or Lincoln's Inn, or Gray's Inn; nor had his voice ever resounded in the Court of Chancery, or in the Exchequer, or the Queen's Bench, or the Ecclesiastical Courts. He certainly was not a manufacturer; nor was he a merchant or a gentleman farmer. His name was strange to the scientific and learned societies, and he never was known to take part in the sage deliberations of the Royal Institution or the London Institution, the Artisan's Association, or the Institution of Arts and Sciences. He belonged, in fact, to none of the numerous societies which swarm in the English capital, from the Harmonic to that of the Entomologists, founded mainly for the purpose of abolishing pernicious insects. Phileas Fogg was a member of the Reform, and that was all. The way in which he got admission to this exclusive club was simple enough. He was recommended by the Barings, with whom he had an open credit. His cheques were regularly paid at sight from his account current, which was always flush. Was Phileas Fogg rich? Undoubtedly. But those who knew him best could not imagine how he had made his fortune, and Mr. Fogg was the last person to whom to apply for the information. He was not lavish, nor, on the contrary, avaricious; for, whenever he knew that money was needed for a noble, useful, or benevolent purpose, he supplied it quietly and sometimes anonymously. He was, in short, the least communicative of men. He talked very little, and seemed all the more mysterious for his taciturn manner. His daily habits were quite open to observation; but whatever he did was so exactly the same thing that he had always done before, that the wits of the curious were fairly puzzled. Had he travelled? It was likely, for no one seemed to know the world more familiarly; there was no spot so secluded that he did not appear to have an intimate acquaintance with it. He often corrected, with a few clear words, the thousand conjectures advanced by members of the club as to lost and unheard-of travellers, pointing out the true probabilities, and seeming as if gifted with a sort of second sight, so often did events justify his predictions. He must have travelled everywhere, at least in the spirit. It was at least certain that Phileas Fogg had not absented himself from London for many years. Those who were honoured by a better acquaintance with him than the rest, declared that nobody could pretend to have ever seen him anywhere else. His sole pastimes were reading the papers and playing whist. He often won at this game, which, as a silent one, harmonised with his nature; but his winnings never went into his purse, being reserved as a fund for his charities. Mr. Fogg played, not to win, but for the sake of playing. The game was in his eyes a contest, a struggle with a difficulty, yet a motionless, unwearying struggle, congenial to his tastes. Phileas Fogg was not known to have either wife or children, which may happen to the most honest people; either relatives or near friends, which is certainly more unusual. He lived alone in his house in Saville Row, whither none penetrated. A single domestic sufficed to serve him. He breakfasted and dined at the club, at hours mathematically fixed, in the same room, at the same table, never taking his meals with other members, much less bringing a guest with him; and went home at exactly midnight, only to retire at once to bed. He never used the cosy chambers which the Reform provides for its favoured members. He passed ten hours out of the twenty-four in Saville Row, either in sleeping or making his toilet. When he chose to take a walk it was with a regular step in the entrance hall with its mosaic flooring, or in the circular gallery with its dome supported by twenty red porphyry Ionic columns, and illumined by blue painted windows. When he breakfasted or dined all the resources of the club--its kitchens and pantries, its buttery and dairy--aided to crowd his table with their most succulent stores; he was served by the gravest waiters, in dress coats, and shoes with swan-skin soles, who proffered the viands in special porcelain, and on the finest linen; club decanters, of a lost mould, contained his sherry, his port, and his cinnamon-spiced claret; while his beverages were refreshingly cooled with ice, brought at great cost from the American lakes. If to live in this style is to be eccentric, it must be confessed that there is something good in eccentricity. The mansion in Saville Row, though not sumptuous, was exceedingly comfortable. The habits of its occupant were such as to demand but little from the sole domestic, but Phileas Fogg required him to be almost superhumanly prompt and regular. On this very 2nd of October he had dismissed James Forster, because that luckless youth had brought him shaving-water at eighty-four degrees Fahrenheit instead of eighty-six; and he was awaiting his successor, who was due at the house between eleven and half-past. Phileas Fogg was seated squarely in his armchair, his feet close together like those of a grenadier on parade, his hands resting on his knees, his body straight, his head erect; he was steadily watching a complicated clock which indicated the hours, the minutes, the seconds, the days, the months, and the years. At exactly half-past eleven Mr. Fogg would, according to his daily habit, quit Saville Row, and repair to the Reform. A rap at this moment sounded on the door of the cosy apartment where Phileas Fogg was seated, and James Forster, the dismissed servant, appeared. "The new servant," said he. A young man of thirty advanced and bowed. "You are a Frenchman, I believe," asked Phileas Fogg, "and your name is John?" "Jean, if monsieur pleases," replied the newcomer, "Jean Passepartout, a surname which has clung to me because I have a natural aptness for going out of one business into another. I believe I'm honest, monsieur, but, to be outspoken, I've had several trades. I've been an itinerant singer, a circus-rider, when I used to vault like Leotard, and dance on a rope like Blondin. Then I got to be a professor of gymnastics, so as to make better use of my talents; and then I was a sergeant fireman at Paris, and assisted at many a big fire. But I quitted France five years ago, and, wishing to taste the sweets of domestic life, took service as a valet here in England. Finding myself out of place, and hearing that Monsieur Phileas Fogg was the most exact and settled gentleman in the United Kingdom, I have come to monsieur in the hope of living with him a tranquil life, and forgetting even the name of Passepartout." "Passepartout suits me," responded Mr. Fogg. "You are well recommended to me; I hear a good report of you. You know my conditions?" "Yes, monsieur." "Good! What time is it?" "Twenty-two minutes after eleven," returned Passepartout, drawing an enormous silver watch from the depths of his pocket. "You are too slow," said Mr. Fogg. "Pardon me, monsieur, it is impossible--" "You are four minutes too slow. No matter; it's enough to mention the error. Now from this moment, twenty-nine minutes after eleven, a.m., this Wednesday, 2nd October, you are in my service." Phileas Fogg got up, took his hat in his left hand, put it on his head with an automatic motion, and went off without a word. Passepartout heard the street door shut once; it was his new master going out. He heard it shut again; it was his predecessor, James Forster, departing in his turn. Passepartout remained alone in the house in Saville Row. "Faith," muttered Passepartout, somewhat flurried, "I've seen people at Madame Tussaud's as lively as my new master!" Madame Tussaud's "people," let it be said, are of wax, and are much visited in London; speech is all that is wanting to make them human. During his brief interview with Mr. Fogg, Passepartout had been carefully observing him. He appeared to be a man about forty years of age, with fine, handsome features, and a tall, well-shaped figure; his hair and whiskers were light, his forehead compact and unwrinkled, his face rather pale, his teeth magnificent. His countenance possessed in the highest degree what physiognomists call "repose in action," a quality of those who act rather than talk. Calm and phlegmatic, with a clear eye, Mr. Fogg seemed a perfect type of that English composure which Angelica Kauffmann has so skilfully represented on canvas. Seen in the various phases of his daily life, he gave the idea of being perfectly well-balanced, as exactly regulated as a Leroy chronometer. Phileas Fogg was, indeed, exactitude personified, and this was betrayed even in the expression of his very hands and feet; for in men, as well as in animals, the limbs themselves are expressive of the passions. He was so exact that he was never in a hurry, was always ready, and was economical alike of his steps and his motions. He never took one step too many, and always went to his destination by the shortest cut; he made no superfluous gestures, and was never seen to be moved or agitated. He was the most deliberate person in the world, yet always reached his destination at the exact moment. He lived alone, and, so to speak, outside of every social relation; and as he knew that in this world account must be taken of friction, and that friction retards, he never rubbed against anybody. As for Passepartout, he was a true Parisian of Paris. Since he had abandoned his own country for England, taking service as a valet, he had in vain searched for a master after his own heart. Passepartout was by no means one of those pert dunces depicted by Moliere with a bold gaze and a nose held high in the air; he was an honest fellow, with a pleasant face, lips a trifle protruding, soft-mannered and serviceable, with a good round head, such as one likes to see on the shoulders of a friend. His eyes were blue, his complexion rubicund, his figure almost portly and well-built, his body muscular, and his physical powers fully developed by the exercises of his younger days. His brown hair was somewhat tumbled; for, while the ancient sculptors are said to have known eighteen methods of arranging Minerva's tresses, Passepartout was familiar with but one of dressing his own: three strokes of a large-tooth comb completed his toilet. It would be rash to predict how Passepartout's lively nature would agree with Mr. Fogg. It was impossible to tell whether the new servant would turn out as absolutely methodical as his master required; experience alone could solve the question. Passepartout had been a sort of vagrant in his early years, and now yearned for repose; but so far he had failed to find it, though he had already served in ten English houses. But he could not take root in any of these; with chagrin, he found his masters invariably whimsical and irregular, constantly running about the country, or on the look-out for adventure. His last master, young Lord Longferry, Member of Parliament, after passing his nights in the Haymarket taverns, was too often brought home in the morning on policemen's shoulders. Passepartout, desirous of respecting the gentleman whom he served, ventured a mild remonstrance on such conduct; which, being ill-received, he took his leave. Hearing that Mr. Phileas Fogg was looking for a servant, and that his life was one of unbroken regularity, that he neither travelled nor stayed from home overnight, he felt sure that this would be the place he was after. He presented himself, and was accepted, as has been seen. At half-past eleven, then, Passepartout found himself alone in the house in Saville Row. He began its inspection without delay, scouring it from cellar to garret. So clean, well-arranged, solemn a mansion pleased him; it seemed to him like a snail's shell, lighted and warmed by gas, which sufficed for both these purposes. When Passepartout reached the second story he recognised at once the room which he was to inhabit, and he was well satisfied with it. Electric bells and speaking-tubes afforded communication with the lower stories; while on the mantel stood an electric clock, precisely like that in Mr. Fogg's bedchamber, both beating the same second at the same instant. "That's good, that'll do," said Passepartout to himself. He suddenly observed, hung over the clock, a card which, upon inspection, proved to be a programme of the daily routine of the house. It comprised all that was required of the servant, from eight in the morning, exactly at which hour Phileas Fogg rose, till half-past eleven, when he left the house for the Reform Club--all the details of service, the tea and toast at twenty-three minutes past eight, the shaving-water at thirty-seven minutes past nine, and the toilet at twenty minutes before ten. Everything was regulated and foreseen that was to be done from half-past eleven a.m. till midnight, the hour at which the methodical gentleman retired. Mr. Fogg's wardrobe was amply supplied and in the best taste. Each pair of trousers, coat, and vest bore a number, indicating the time of year and season at which they were in turn to be laid out for wearing; and the same system was applied to the master's shoes. In short, the house in Saville Row, which must have been a very temple of disorder and unrest under the illustrious but dissipated Sheridan, was cosiness, comfort, and method idealised. There was no study, nor were there books, which would have been quite useless to Mr. Fogg; for at the Reform two libraries, one of general literature and the other of law and politics, were at his service. A moderate-sized safe stood in his bedroom, constructed so as to defy fire as well as burglars; but Passepartout found neither arms nor hunting weapons anywhere; everything betrayed the most tranquil and peaceable habits. Having scrutinised the house from top to bottom, he rubbed his hands, a broad smile overspread his features, and he said joyfully, "This is just what I wanted! Ah, we shall get on together, Mr. Fogg and I! What a domestic and regular gentleman! A real machine; well, I don't mind serving a machine." Phileas Fogg, having shut the door of his house at half-past eleven, and having put his right foot before his left five hundred and seventy-five times, and his left foot before his right five hundred and seventy-six times, reached the Reform Club, an imposing edifice in Pall Mall, which could not have cost less than three millions. He repaired at once to the dining-room, the nine windows of which open upon a tasteful garden, where the trees were already gilded with an autumn colouring; and took his place at the habitual table, the cover of which had already been laid for him. His breakfast consisted of a side-dish, a broiled fish with Reading sauce, a scarlet slice of roast beef garnished with mushrooms, a rhubarb and gooseberry tart, and a morsel of Cheshire cheese, the whole being washed down with several cups of tea, for which the Reform is famous. He rose at thirteen minutes to one, and directed his steps towards the large hall, a sumptuous apartment adorned with lavishly-framed paintings. A flunkey handed him an uncut Times, which he proceeded to cut with a skill which betrayed familiarity with this delicate operation. The perusal of this paper absorbed Phileas Fogg until a quarter before four, whilst the Standard, his next task, occupied him till the dinner hour. Dinner passed as breakfast had done, and Mr. Fogg re-appeared in the reading-room and sat down to the Pall Mall at twenty minutes before six. Half an hour later several members of the Reform came in and drew up to the fireplace, where a coal fire was steadily burning. They were Mr. Fogg's usual partners at whist: Andrew Stuart, an engineer; John Sullivan and Samuel Fallentin, bankers; Thomas Flanagan, a brewer; and Gauthier Ralph, one of the Directors of the Bank of England--all rich and highly respectable personages, even in a club which comprises the princes of English trade and finance. "Well, Ralph," said Thomas Flanagan, "what about that robbery?" "Oh," replied Stuart, "the Bank will lose the money." "On the contrary," broke in Ralph, "I hope we may put our hands on the robber. Skilful detectives have been sent to all the principal ports of America and the Continent, and he'll be a clever fellow if he slips through their fingers." "But have you got the robber's description?" asked Stuart. "In the first place, he is no robber at all," returned Ralph, positively. "What! a fellow who makes off with fifty-five thousand pounds, no robber?" "No." "Perhaps he's a manufacturer, then." "The Daily Telegraph says that he is a gentleman." It was Phileas Fogg, whose head now emerged from behind his newspapers, who made this remark. He bowed to his friends, and entered into the conversation. The affair which formed its subject, and which was town talk, had occurred three days before at the Bank of England. A package of banknotes, to the value of fifty-five thousand pounds, had been taken from the principal cashier's table, that functionary being at the moment engaged in registering the receipt of three shillings and sixpence. Of course, he could not have his eyes everywhere. Let it be observed that the Bank of England reposes a touching confidence in the honesty of the public. There are neither guards nor gratings to protect its treasures; gold, silver, banknotes are freely exposed, at the mercy of the first comer. A keen observer of English customs relates that, being in one of the rooms of the Bank one day, he had the curiosity to examine a gold ingot weighing some seven or eight pounds. He took it up, scrutinised it, passed it to his neighbour, he to the next man, and so on until the ingot, going from hand to hand, was transferred to the end of a dark entry; nor did it return to its place for half an hour. Meanwhile, the cashier had not so much as raised his head. But in the present instance things had not gone so smoothly. The package of notes not being found when five o'clock sounded from the ponderous clock in the "drawing office," the amount was passed to the account of profit and loss. As soon as the robbery was discovered, picked detectives hastened off to Liverpool, Glasgow, Havre, Suez, Brindisi, New York, and other ports, inspired by the proffered reward of two thousand pounds, and five per cent. on the sum that might be recovered. Detectives were also charged with narrowly watching those who arrived at or left London by rail, and a judicial examination was at once entered upon. There were real grounds for supposing, as the Daily Telegraph said, that the thief did not belong to a professional band. On the day of the robbery a well-dressed gentleman of polished manners, and with a well-to-do air, had been observed going to and fro in the paying room where the crime was committed. A description of him was easily procured and sent to the detectives; and some hopeful spirits, of whom Ralph was one, did not despair of his apprehension. The papers and clubs were full of the affair, and everywhere people were discussing the probabilities of a successful pursuit; and the Reform Club was especially agitated, several of its members being Bank officials. Ralph would not concede that the work of the detectives was likely to be in vain, for he thought that the prize offered would greatly stimulate their zeal and activity. But Stuart was far from sharing this confidence; and, as they placed themselves at the whist-table, they continued to argue the matter. Stuart and Flanagan played together, while Phileas Fogg had Fallentin for his partner. As the game proceeded the conversation ceased, excepting between the rubbers, when it revived again. "I maintain," said Stuart, "that the chances are in favour of the thief, who must be a shrewd fellow." "Well, but where can he fly to?" asked Ralph. "No country is safe for him." "Pshaw!" "Where could he go, then?" "Oh, I don't know that. The world is big enough." "It was once," said Phileas Fogg, in a low tone. "Cut, sir," he added, handing the cards to Thomas Flanagan. The discussion fell during the rubber, after which Stuart took up its thread. "What do you mean by `once'? Has the world grown smaller?" "Certainly," returned Ralph. "I agree with Mr. Fogg. The world has grown smaller, since a man can now go round it ten times more quickly than a hundred years ago. And that is why the search for this thief will be more likely to succeed." "And also why the thief can get away more easily." "Be so good as to play, Mr. Stuart," said Phileas Fogg. But the incredulous Stuart was not convinced, and when the hand was finished, said eagerly: "You have a strange way, Ralph, of proving that the world has grown smaller. So, because you can go round it in three months--" "In eighty days," interrupted Phileas Fogg. "That is true, gentlemen," added John Sullivan. "Only eighty days, now that the section between Rothal and Allahabad, on the Great Indian Peninsula Railway, has been opened. Here is the estimate made by the Daily Telegraph: From London to Suez via Mont Cenis and Brindisi, by rail and steamboats ................. 7 days From Suez to Bombay, by steamer .................... 13 " From Bombay to Calcutta, by rail ................... 3 " From Calcutta to Hong Kong, by steamer ............. 13 " From Hong Kong to Yokohama (Japan), by steamer ..... 6 " From Yokohama to San Francisco, by steamer ......... 22 " From San Francisco to New York, by rail ............. 7 " From New York to London, by steamer and rail ........ 9 " ------ Total ............................................ 80 days." "Yes, in eighty days!" exclaimed Stuart, who in his excitement made a false deal. "But that doesn't take into account bad weather, contrary winds, shipwrecks, railway accidents, and so on." "All included," returned Phileas Fogg, continuing to play despite the discussion. "But suppose the Hindoos or Indians pull up the rails," replied Stuart; "suppose they stop the trains, pillage the luggage-vans, and scalp the passengers!" "All included," calmly retorted Fogg; adding, as he threw down the cards, "Two trumps." Stuart, whose turn it was to deal, gathered them up, and went on: "You are right, theoretically, Mr. Fogg, but practically--" "Practically also, Mr. Stuart." "I'd like to see you do it in eighty days." "It depends on you. Shall we go?" "Heaven preserve me! But I would wager four thousand pounds that such a journey, made under these conditions, is impossible." "Quite possible, on the contrary," returned Mr. Fogg. "Well, make it, then!" "The journey round the world in eighty days?" "Yes." "I should like nothing better." "When?" "At once. Only I warn you that I shall do it at your expense." "It's absurd!" cried Stuart, who was beginning to be annoyed at the persistency of his friend. "Come, let's go on with the game." "Deal over again, then," said Phileas Fogg. "There's a false deal." Stuart took up the pack with a feverish hand; then suddenly put them down again. "Well, Mr. Fogg," said he, "it shall be so: I will wager the four thousand on it." "Calm yourself, my dear Stuart," said Fallentin. "It's only a joke." "When I say I'll wager," returned Stuart, "I mean it." "All right," said Mr. Fogg; and, turning to the others, he continued: "I have a deposit of twenty thousand at Baring's which I will willingly risk upon it." "Twenty thousand pounds!" cried Sullivan. "Twenty thousand pounds, which you would lose by a single accidental delay!" "The unforeseen does not exist," quietly replied Phileas Fogg. "But, Mr. Fogg, eighty days are only the estimate of the least possible time in which the journey can be made." "A well-used minimum suffices for everything." "But, in order not to exceed it, you must jump mathematically from the trains upon the steamers, and from the steamers upon the trains again." "I will jump--mathematically." "You are joking." "A true Englishman doesn't joke when he is talking about so serious a thing as a wager," replied Phileas Fogg, solemnly. "I will bet twenty thousand pounds against anyone who wishes that I will make the tour of the world in eighty days or less; in nineteen hundred and twenty hours, or a hundred and fifteen thousand two hundred minutes. Do you accept?" "We accept," replied Messrs. Stuart, Fallentin, Sullivan, Flanagan, and Ralph, after consulting each other. "Good," said Mr. Fogg. "The train leaves for Dover at a quarter before nine. I will take it." "This very evening?" asked Stuart. "This very evening," returned Phileas Fogg. He took out and consulted a pocket almanac, and added, "As today is Wednesday, the 2nd of October, I shall be due in London in this very room of the Reform Club, on Saturday, the 21st of December, at a quarter before nine p.m.; or else the twenty thousand pounds, now deposited in my name at Baring's, will belong to you, in fact and in right, gentlemen. Here is a cheque for the amount." A memorandum of the wager was at once drawn up and signed by the six parties, during which Phileas Fogg preserved a stoical composure. He certainly did not bet to win, and had only staked the twenty thousand pounds, half of his fortune, because he foresaw that he might have to expend the other half to carry out this difficult, not to say unattainable, project. As for his antagonists, they seemed much agitated; not so much by the value of their stake, as because they had some scruples about betting under conditions so difficult to their friend. The clock struck seven, and the party offered to suspend the game so that Mr. Fogg might make his preparations for departure. "I am quite ready now," was his tranquil response. "Diamonds are trumps: be so good as to play, gentlemen." Having won twenty guineas at whist, and taken leave of his friends, Phileas Fogg, at twenty-five minutes past seven, left the Reform Club. Passepartout, who had conscientiously studied the programme of his duties, was more than surprised to see his master guilty of the inexactness of appearing at this unaccustomed hour; for, according to rule, he was not due in Saville Row until precisely midnight. Mr. Fogg repaired to his bedroom, and called out, "Passepartout!" Passepartout did not reply. It could not be he who was called; it was not the right hour. "Passepartout!" repeated Mr. Fogg, without raising his voice. Passepartout made his appearance. "I've called you twice," observed his master. "But it is not midnight," responded the other, showing his watch. "I know it; I don't blame you. We start for Dover and Calais in ten minutes." A puzzled grin overspread Passepartout's round face; clearly he had not comprehended his master. "Monsieur is going to leave home?" "Yes," returned Phileas Fogg. "We are going round the world." Passepartout opened wide his eyes, raised his eyebrows, held up his hands, and seemed about to collapse, so overcome was he with stupefied astonishment. "Round the world!" he murmured. "In eighty days," responded Mr. Fogg. "So we haven't a moment to lose." "But the trunks?" gasped Passepartout, unconsciously swaying his head from right to left. "We'll have no trunks; only a carpet-bag, with two shirts and three pairs of stockings for me, and the same for you. We'll buy our clothes on the way. Bring down my mackintosh and traveling-cloak, and some stout shoes, though we shall do little walking. Make haste!" Passepartout tried to reply, but could not. He went out, mounted to his own room, fell into a chair, and muttered: "That's good, that is! And I, who wanted to remain quiet!" He mechanically set about making the preparations for departure. Around the world in eighty days! Was his master a fool? No. Was this a joke, then? They were going to Dover; good! To Calais; good again! After all, Passepartout, who had been away from France five years, would not be sorry to set foot on his native soil again. Perhaps they would go as far as Paris, and it would do his eyes good to see Paris once more. But surely a gentleman so chary of his steps would stop there; no doubt--but, then, it was none the less true that he was going away, this so domestic person hitherto! By eight o'clock Passepartout had packed the modest carpet-bag, containing the wardrobes of his master and himself; then, still troubled in mind, he carefully shut the door of his room, and descended to Mr. Fogg. Mr. Fogg was quite ready. Under his arm might have been observed a red-bound copy of Bradshaw's Continental Railway Steam Transit and General Guide, with its timetables showing the arrival and departure of steamers and railways. He took the carpet-bag, opened it, and slipped into it a goodly roll of Bank of England notes, which would pass wherever he might go. "You have forgotten nothing?" asked he. "Nothing, monsieur." "My mackintosh and cloak?" "Here they are." "Good! Take this carpet-bag," handing it to Passepartout. "Take good care of it, for there are twenty thousand pounds in it." Passepartout nearly dropped the bag, as if the twenty thousand pounds were in gold, and weighed him down. Master and man then descended, the street-door was double-locked, and at the end of Saville Row they took a cab and drove rapidly to Charing Cross. The cab stopped before the railway station at twenty minutes past eight. Passepartout jumped off the box and followed his master, who, after paying the cabman, was about to enter the station, when a poor beggar-woman, with a child in her arms, her naked feet smeared with mud, her head covered with a wretched bonnet, from which hung a tattered feather, and her shoulders shrouded in a ragged shawl, approached, and mournfully asked for alms. Mr. Fogg took out the twenty guineas he had just won at whist, and handed them to the beggar, saying, "Here, my good woman. I'm glad that I met you;" and passed on. Passepartout had a moist sensation about the eyes; his master's action touched his susceptible heart. Two first-class tickets for Paris having been speedily purchased, Mr. Fogg was crossing the station to the train, when he perceived his five friends of the Reform. "Well, gentlemen," said he, "I'm off, you see; and, if you will examine my passport when I get back, you will be able to judge whether I have accomplished the journey agreed upon." "Oh, that would be quite unnecessary, Mr. Fogg," said Ralph politely. "We will trust your word, as a gentleman of honour." "You do not forget when you are due in London again?" asked Stuart. "In eighty days; on Saturday, the 21st of December, 1872, at a quarter before nine p.m. Good-bye, gentlemen." Phileas Fogg and his servant seated themselves in a first-class carriage at twenty minutes before nine; five minutes later the whistle screamed, and the train slowly glided out of the station. The night was dark, and a fine, steady rain was falling. Phileas Fogg, snugly ensconced in his corner, did not open his lips. Passepartout, not yet recovered from his stupefaction, clung mechanically to the carpet-bag, with its enormous treasure. Just as the train was whirling through Sydenham, Passepartout suddenly uttered a cry of despair. "What's the matter?" asked Mr. Fogg. "Alas! In my hurry--I--I forgot--" "What?" "To turn off the gas in my room!" "Very well, young man," returned Mr. Fogg, coolly; "it will burn--at your expense." Phileas Fogg rightly suspected that his departure from London would create a lively sensation at the West End. The news of the bet spread through the Reform Club, and afforded an exciting topic of conversation to its members. From the club it soon got into the papers throughout England. The boasted "tour of the world" was talked about, disputed, argued with as much warmth as if the subject were another Alabama claim. Some took sides with Phileas Fogg, but the large majority shook their heads and declared against him; it was absurd, impossible, they declared, that the tour of the world could be made, except theoretically and on paper, in this minimum of time, and with the existing means of travelling. The Times, Standard, Morning Post, and Daily News, and twenty other highly respectable newspapers scouted Mr. Fogg's project as madness; the Daily Telegraph alone hesitatingly supported him. People in general thought him a lunatic, and blamed his Reform Club friends for having accepted a wager which betrayed the mental aberration of its proposer. Articles no less passionate than logical appeared on the question, for geography is one of the pet subjects of the English; and the columns devoted to Phileas Fogg's venture were eagerly devoured by all classes of readers. At first some rash individuals, principally of the gentler sex, espoused his cause, which became still more popular when the Illustrated London News came out with his portrait, copied from a photograph in the Reform Club. A few readers of the Daily Telegraph even dared to say, "Why not, after all? Stranger things have come to pass." At last a long article appeared, on the 7th of October, in the bulletin of the Royal Geographical Society, which treated the question from every point of view, and demonstrated the utter folly of the enterprise. Everything, it said, was against the travellers, every obstacle imposed alike by man and by nature. A miraculous agreement of the times of departure and arrival, which was impossible, was absolutely necessary to his success. He might, perhaps, reckon on the arrival of trains at the designated hours, in Europe, where the distances were relatively moderate; but when he calculated upon crossing India in three days, and the United States in seven, could he rely beyond misgiving upon accomplishing his task? There were accidents to machinery, the liability of trains to run off the line, collisions, bad weather, the blocking up by snow--were not all these against Phileas Fogg? Would he not find himself, when travelling by steamer in winter, at the mercy of the winds and fogs? Is it uncommon for the best ocean steamers to be two or three days behind time? But a single delay would suffice to fatally break the chain of communication; should Phileas Fogg once miss, even by an hour; a steamer, he would have to wait for the next, and that would irrevocably render his attempt vain. This article made a great deal of noise, and, being copied into all the papers, seriously depressed the advocates of the rash tourist. Everybody knows that England is the world of betting men, who are of a higher class than mere gamblers; to bet is in the English temperament. Not only the members of the Reform, but the general public, made heavy wagers for or against Phileas Fogg, who was set down in the betting books as if he were a race-horse. Bonds were issued, and made their appearance on 'Change; "Phileas Fogg bonds" were offered at par or at a premium, and a great business was done in them. But five days after the article in the bulletin of the Geographical Society appeared, the demand began to subside: "Phileas Fogg" declined. They were offered by packages, at first of five, then of ten, until at last nobody would take less than twenty, fifty, a hundred! Lord Albemarle, an elderly paralytic gentleman, was now the only advocate of Phileas Fogg left. This noble lord, who was fastened to his chair, would have given his fortune to be able to make the tour of the world, if it took ten years; and he bet five thousand pounds on Phileas Fogg. When the folly as well as the uselessness of the adventure was pointed out to him, he contented himself with replying, "If the thing is feasible, the first to do it ought to be an Englishman." The Fogg party dwindled more and more, everybody was going against him, and the bets stood a hundred and fifty and two hundred to one; and a week after his departure an incident occurred which deprived him of backers at any price. The commissioner of police was sitting in his office at nine o'clock one evening, when the following telegraphic dispatch was put into his hands: Suez to London. Rowan, Commissioner of Police, Scotland Yard: I've found the bank robber, Phileas Fogg. Send with out delay warrant of arrest to Bombay. Fix, Detective. The effect of this dispatch was instantaneous. The polished gentleman disappeared to give place to the bank robber. His photograph, which was hung with those of the rest of the members at the Reform Club, was minutely examined, and it betrayed, feature by feature, the description of the robber which had been provided to the police. The mysterious habits of Phileas Fogg were recalled; his solitary ways, his sudden departure; and it seemed clear that, in undertaking a tour round the world on the pretext of a wager, he had had no other end in view than to elude the detectives, and throw them off his track. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Herr Phileas Fogg ist ein wohlhabender Mann, der in London lebt. Sein soziales Leben ist sehr uninteressant, abgesehen davon, dass er Mitglied im Reform Club ist, einem privaten Londoner Club für Gentlemen. Er hat keine Frau oder Kinder. Er spricht oft über die Welt und scheint so viel darüber zu wissen, dass die Leute annehmen, er wäre gereist - allerdings sind sich die meisten ziemlich sicher, dass er London seit vielen Jahren nicht mehr verlassen hat. Herr Fogg verbringt fast den ganzen Tag, jeden Tag im Clubhaus des Reform Clubs und hat einen einzigen Diener, der sich um ihn zu Hause kümmert. Er hat kürzlich einen dieser Diener entlassen und wird nun von einem Franzosen namens Jean Passepartout aus Paris bedient. Passepartout freut sich auf seinen neuen Job, ist aber etwas besorgt über seinen Meister, überrascht von dessen Ernsthaftigkeit, Genauigkeit und Bedachtsamkeit in allen Lebensbereichen. Passepartout selbst ist lebhaft und stolz, daher wird es interessant sein zu sehen, wie seine Persönlichkeit mit der von Mr. Fogg harmoniert. Trotzdem denkt er, dass er und sein Meister sich verstehen werden und freut sich darauf, seine Arbeit zu beginnen. An Passepartouts erstem Arbeitstag geht Herr Fogg wie immer um halb zwölf Uhr vormittags zum Reform Club. Er frühstückt dort und fängt an, mit den anderen Clubmitgliedern zu reden, insbesondere mit einem Mann namens Ralph. Sie diskutieren einen Raubüberfall, der in der Bank von England stattgefunden hat, bei dem fünfundfünfzigtausend Pfund gestohlen wurden. Die Zeitung Daily Telegraph berichtet, dass der Dieb ein Gentleman war und wahrscheinlich nicht zu einer professionellen Bande von Räubern gehörte. Sie fragen sich, wie weit der Dieb gekommen sein könnte, und jemand bemerkt, dass die Welt so groß ist, dass er überall hinreisen könnte. Herr Fogg sagt, dass die Welt kleiner geworden ist, und Ralph stimmt zu und sagt, dass man nun viel schneller um die ganze Welt reisen kann als früher. Herr Fogg sagt, man könne es jetzt in achtzig Tagen schaffen, und eines der anderen Clubmitglieder bestätigt dies und verweist auf eine Schätzung des Daily Telegraph, nachdem der letzte Abschnitt der Eisenbahnstrecke über den indischen Kontinent fertiggestellt wurde. Die Männer bemerken, dass die Schätzung von achtzig Tagen nicht das Wetter, Schiffbrüche, Zugunglücke oder andere Zwischenfälle berücksichtigt, die eine Person aufhalten könnten. Herr Fogg widerspricht und sagt, dass all dies miteinbezogen ist. Stuart, eines der Clubmitglieder, sagt, er würde gerne sehen, wie Herr Fogg es in achtzig Tagen schafft. Es wird zu einer Wette; Herr Fogg wettet zwanzigtausend Pfund, dass er es schafft, in achtzig Tagen oder weniger um die Welt zu reisen. Die Clubmitglieder können nicht glauben, dass er eine so ernsthafte Wette abschließen würde, sind sich jedoch sicher, dass er scheitern wird und sie zwanzigtausend Pfund gewinnen werden, und stimmen zu. Herr Fogg plant, noch in derselben Nacht aufzubrechen. Herr Fogg kehrt nach Hause zurück, um Passepartout mitzuteilen, dass sie gemeinsam eine Reise um die Welt machen werden. Passepartout ist erstaunt und glaubt auch nicht, dass sie es in achtzig Tagen schaffen können, ist aber dennoch von dem Abenteuerreiz angezogen. Sie packen nur Reisetaschen und planen, Kleidung unterwegs zu kaufen. Als sie jedoch gehen, bemerkt Passepartout, dass er den Gasherd in seinem Zimmer brennen gelassen hat - er kann seinen Meister nicht aufhalten, indem er zurückgeht, um ihn auszumachen, also würde das Geld, das durch das langsame Abbrennen des Gasherds ausgegeben wird, von Passepartouts Gehalt abgezogen, wenn sie von ihrer Reise zurückkommen. Die Nachricht von Herrn Foggs Abreise verbreitet sich schnell in ganz London, und alle Zeitungen berichten darüber. Die Menschen schließen ihre eigenen Wetten ab, ob er erfolgreich sein wird oder nicht. Plötzlich erhält der Polizeikommissar in London ein Telegramm, das besagt, dass Phileas Fogg der Mann ist, der die Bank von England ausgeraubt hat. Es scheint Sinn zu machen, aufgrund von Phileas Foggs zurückgezogener Natur und seiner Eile, England zu verlassen und um die Welt zu reisen. Der Kommissar glaubt, dass dies geschehen sein muss, um Detektive abzuhängen. Kapitel V endet mit einem Cliffhanger und lässt auf große Schwierigkeiten für Mr. Fogg auf seiner Reise schließen. Es lässt die Leser darüber nachdenken, ob Phileas Fogg wirklich der Bankräuber ist, da die Analysen des Polizeikommissars so logisch erscheinen. Dies ist nur eine von vielen erschwerten Umständen, die eine achtzigtägige Reise noch schwieriger machen werden.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: For a minute or two she stood looking at the house, when suddenly a footman in livery came running out of the wood (judging by his face only, she would have called him a fish)--and rapped loudly at the door with his knuckles. It was opened by another footman in livery, with a round face and large eyes like a frog. The Fish-Footman began by producing from under his arm a great letter, and this he handed over to the other, saying, in a solemn tone, "For the Duchess. An invitation from the Queen to play croquet." The Frog-Footman repeated, in the same solemn tone, "From the Queen. An invitation for the Duchess to play croquet." Then they both bowed low and their curls got entangled together. When Alice next peeped out, the Fish-Footman was gone, and the other was sitting on the ground near the door, staring stupidly up into the sky. Alice went timidly up to the door and knocked. "There's no sort of use in knocking," said the Footman, "and that for two reasons. First, because I'm on the same side of the door as you are; secondly, because they're making such a noise inside, no one could possibly hear you." And certainly there _was_ a most extraordinary noise going on within--a constant howling and sneezing, and every now and then a great crash, as if a dish or kettle had been broken to pieces. "How am I to get in?" asked Alice. "_Are_ you to get in at all?" said the Footman. "That's the first question, you know." Alice opened the door and went in. The door led right into a large kitchen, which was full of smoke from one end to the other; the Duchess was sitting on a three-legged stool in the middle, nursing a baby; the cook was leaning over the fire, stirring a large caldron which seemed to be full of soup. "There's certainly too much pepper in that soup!" Alice said to herself, as well as she could for sneezing. Even the Duchess sneezed occasionally; and as for the baby, it was sneezing and howling alternately without a moment's pause. The only two creatures in the kitchen that did _not_ sneeze were the cook and a large cat, which was grinning from ear to ear. "Please would you tell me," said Alice, a little timidly, "why your cat grins like that?" "It's a Cheshire-Cat," said the Duchess, "and that's why." "I didn't know that Cheshire-Cats always grinned; in fact, I didn't know that cats _could_ grin," said Alice. "You don't know much," said the Duchess, "and that's a fact." Just then the cook took the caldron of soup off the fire, and at once set to work throwing everything within her reach at the Duchess and the baby--the fire-irons came first; then followed a shower of saucepans, plates and dishes. The Duchess took no notice of them, even when they hit her, and the baby was howling so much already that it was quite impossible to say whether the blows hurt it or not. "Oh, _please_ mind what you're doing!" cried Alice, jumping up and down in an agony of terror. "Here! You may nurse it a bit, if you like!" the Duchess said to Alice, flinging the baby at her as she spoke. "I must go and get ready to play croquet with the Queen," and she hurried out of the room. Alice caught the baby with some difficulty, as it was a queer-shaped little creature and held out its arms and legs in all directions. "If I don't take this child away with me," thought Alice, "they're sure to kill it in a day or two. Wouldn't it be murder to leave it behind?" She said the last words out loud and the little thing grunted in reply. "If you're going to turn into a pig, my dear," said Alice, "I'll have nothing more to do with you. Mind now!" Alice was just beginning to think to herself, "Now, what am I to do with this creature, when I get it home?" when it grunted again so violently that Alice looked down into its face in some alarm. This time there could be _no_ mistake about it--it was neither more nor less than a pig; so she set the little creature down and felt quite relieved to see it trot away quietly into the wood. Alice was a little startled by seeing the Cheshire-Cat sitting on a bough of a tree a few yards off. The Cat only grinned when it saw her. "Cheshire-Puss," began Alice, rather timidly, "would you please tell me which way I ought to go from here?" "In _that_ direction," the Cat said, waving the right paw 'round, "lives a Hatter; and in _that_ direction," waving the other paw, "lives a March Hare. Visit either you like; they're both mad." "But I don't want to go among mad people," Alice remarked. "Oh, you can't help that," said the Cat; "we're all mad here. Do you play croquet with the Queen to-day?" "I should like it very much," said Alice, "but I haven't been invited yet." "You'll see me there," said the Cat, and vanished. Alice had not gone much farther before she came in sight of the house of the March Hare; it was so large a house that she did not like to go near till she had nibbled some more of the left-hand bit of mushroom. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Eine Zeit lang stand Alice draußen vor dem Haus und überlegte, was sie als Nächstes tun sollte. In dieser Zeit sieht sie einen Lakaien aus dem Wald kommen und an die Tür klopfen. Die Tür wird von einem anderen Lakaien in Livree geöffnet. Der erste Lakai überreicht der Herzogin einen Einladungsbrief von der Königin, um Krocket zu spielen. Nachdem der erste Lakai gegangen ist, geht Alice zum Haus und klopft an die Tür. Nach einem kurzen Gespräch mit dem Lakaien an der Tür geht Alice durch die Tür und findet sich in einer großen Küche wieder, die von einem Ende zur anderen mit Rauch gefüllt ist. In der Küche saß die Herzogin auf einem dreibeinigen Hocker und der Koch kochte etwas in einem Kessel. Da Alice ihr Niesen nicht kontrollieren kann, sagt sie, dass zu viel Pfeffer in der Suppe ist. Es war offensichtlich, da die Herzogin niesen und das Baby abwechselnd niesen und heulen war. Ihrem Naturell entsprechend fängt Alice an, die Herzogin über die Katze zu befragen. Plötzlich fängt die Köchin an, alles, was sie erreichen kann, auf die Herzogin und das Baby zu werfen, und verteidigt ihre Handlungen inmitten dieses Lärms. Die Herzogin beginnt damit, das Baby zu stillen und singt ihm ein Schlaflied vor. Dabei wirft sie das Baby gewaltsam in die Höhe und wieder nach unten, was das Baby umso lauter weinen lässt. Plötzlich schleudert die Herzogin das Baby weg und geht davon, um Krocket mit der Königin zu spielen. Alice schafft es mit einiger Mühe, das Baby zu fangen und rennt damit weg. Sie macht sich Sorgen, dass das Baby sicher getötet würde, wenn es noch länger im Haus der Herzogin bleibt. Das Schluchzen des Babys verwandelt sich in kleine Grunzlaute und Alice ist alarmiert festzustellen, dass das Baby plötzlich zu einem Schwein geworden ist. Sie setzt das Geschöpf ab und ist erleichtert zu sehen, wie es in den Wald trotten. Kaum hat sie das mit dem Schwein-Baby abgehakt, bemerkt sie die Grinsekatze, die auf einem Ast eines Baumes ein paar Meter entfernt sitzt. Alice fragt die Grinsekatze nach Rat, welchen Weg sie nehmen soll. Sie behauptet, dass es keine Rolle spielt, welchen Weg sie nimmt, da sie keinen bestimmten Ort hat, zu dem sie gehen könnte. Sie informiert Alice jedoch, dass der Weg nach rechts zum Hutmacher führen würde, während der Weg nach links zum Märzhasen führen würde. Und damit verschwindet sie, verspricht Alice aber, sie an der Stelle der Königin zu treffen. Nach einer Minute oder zwei macht sich Alice in Richtung des Ortes auf, an dem der Märzhase angeblich lebt. Als sie dort ankommt, amüsiert es sie zu sehen, dass die Kamine wie Ohren geformt sind und das Dach mit Pelz gedeckt ist. Es war ein so großes Haus, dass sie an einigen Pilzen knabbern musste, um sich um weitere zwei Fuß zu erhöhen. Sie betritt das Haus mit einer sehr skeptischen Einstellung.

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 watch, slipping from the clock-mender's hand, spun like a coin on the counter, while the clock-mender himself, his eyes bulging, his jaw dangling, it might be said, staggered back upon his stool. "So this is the end?" he said in a kind of mutter. "The end of what?" demanded the owner of the watch. "Of all my labors, to me and to what little I have left!" "Fiddlesticks! I am here for no purpose regarding you, my comrade. So far as I am concerned, your secret is as dead as it ever was. I had a fancy that you were living in Paris." "Paris! _Gott!_ For seventeen, eighteen years I have traveled hither and thither, always on some false clue. Never a band of Gipsies I heard of that I did not seek them out. Nothing, nothing! You will never know what I have gone through, and uselessly, to prove my innocence. It always comes back in a circle; what benefit to me would have been a crime like that of which I was accused? Was I not high in honor? Was I not wealthy? Was not my home life a happy one? What benefit to me, I say?" a growing fierceness in his voice and gestures. "All my estates confiscated, my wife dead of shame, and I molding among these clocks!" "But why the clocks?" in wonder. "It was a pastime of mine when I was a boy. I used to be tinkering among all the clocks in the house. So I bought out this old shop. From time to time I have left it in the hands of an assistant. The grand duke has a wonderful Friesian clock. One day it fell out of order, and the court jeweler could do nothing with it. I was summoned, I! No one recognized me, I have changed so. I mended the clock and went away." "But what is the use of all this, now that her highness is found?" "My honor; to the duke it is black as ever." "Have you gone forward any?" "Like Sisyphus! I had begun to give up hope, when the Gipsy I was seeking was seen by one of my agents. He alone knows the secret. And I am waiting, waiting. But you believe, Ludwig?" "Carl, you are as innocent of it all as I am or as my brother was. Come with me to Jugendheit." "No, Ludwig, this is my country, however unjustly it has treated me." "Yes, yes. And to think that you and I and the grand duke were comrades at Heidelberg! But if your Gipsy fails you?" "Still I shall remain. This will be all I shall have, these clocks. I am only sixty-eight, yet no one would believe me under eighty. I no longer gaze into mirrors. I have forgotten how I look. There were letters found in my desk, all forgeries, I knew, but so cleverly done I could only deny. I saw that my case was hopeless, so I fled to Paris. I wrote Herbeck once while there. He believed that I was innocent. I have his letter yet. He has a great heart, Ludwig, and he has done splendid work for Ehrenstein." "He keeps a steady hand on the duke." "But you, what are you doing in Dreiberg, in this guise?" Herr Ludwig sat upon the counter and clasped a knee. "Do you care for fairy-stories?" "Sometimes." "Well, once upon a time there lived a king. He was young. He had an uncle who watched over him and his affairs. They call such uncles prince regents. This prince regent had an idea regarding the future welfare of this nephew. He would bring him up to be a man, well educated, broad-minded, and clean-lived. He should have a pilot to guide him past the traps and vices which befall the young. Time wore on. The lad grew up, clean in mind, strong in body, liberal; a fine prince. No scandalous entanglements; no gaming; no wine-bibbing beyond what any decent man may do. In his palace few saw anything of him after his fifteenth year. He went into the world under an assumed name. By and by he came home, quietly. His uncle was proud of him, for his eye was clear and his tongue was clean. In one month he was to be coronated. And now what do you think? He must have one more adventure, just one. Would his uncle go with him? Certainly not. Moreover, the time for adventure was over. He must no longer wander about; he was a king; he must put his hand to king-craft. And one morning his uncle found him gone, gone as completely as if he had never existed. What to do? Ah! The prince regent set it going that his majesty had gone a-hunting in Bavaria. Then the prince regent put on some old clothes and went a-venturing himself." "And the end?" "God knows!" said Ludwig, sliding off the counter. Nothing but the ticking of the clocks was heard. "And fatuous fool that this uncle was, he committed an almost irreparable blunder. He tried to marry his nephew." "I understand. But if you are discovered here?" "That is not likely." "Ah, Ludwig, it is not the expected that always happens. Be careful; you know the full wording of Herbeck's treaty." "Herbeck; there's a man," said Herr Ludwig admiringly. "To have found her highness as he did!" "He is lucky," but without resentment. The other picked up his watch. "Can I be of material assistance?" "I want nothing," haughtily. "Proud old imbecile!" replied the mountaineer kindly. "You have been deeply wronged, but some day you will pick up the thread in the labyrinth, and there will be light forward. I myself shall see what can be done with the duke." "He will never be brought to reason unless indubitable evidence of my innocence confronts him. With the restoration of the princess fifty political prisoners were given their liberty and restored to citizenship. The place once occupied by my name is still blank, obliterated. It is hard. I have given the best of my heart and of my brain to Ehrenstein--for this! I am innocent." "I believe you, Carl. Remember, Jugendheit will always welcome you. I must be going. I have much to do between now and midnight. The good God will unravel the snarl." "Or forget it," cynically. "Good-by, Ludwig." There was a hand-clasp, and the mountaineer took himself off. The clock-mender philosophically reached for his tools. He had wasted time enough over retrospection; he determined to occupy himself with the present only. Tick-tock! tick-tock! sang the clocks about him. All at once a volume of musical sounds broke forth; cuckoo-calls, chimes, tinkles light and thin, booms deep and vibrant. But the clock-mender bent over his work; all he was conscious of was the eternal tick-tock! tick-tock! on and on, without cessation. * * * * * Carmichael walked his horse. This morning he had ridden out almost to the frontier and was now on his return. As he passed through the last grove of pines and came into the clearing the picture was exquisite; the three majestic bergs of ice and snow above Dreiberg, the city shining white and fairylike in the mid-morning's sun, and the long, half-circling ribbon of a road. He sighed, and the horse cocked his ears at the sound. No longer did Carmichael take the south pass for his morning rides. That was the favored going of her highness, and he avoided her now. In truth, he dared not meet her now; it would have been out of wisdom. So long as she had been free his presence had caused no comment, only tolerant amusement among the nobles at court. It chafed him to be regarded as a harmless individual, for he knew that he was far from being in that class. There was a wild strain in him. Dreiberg might have waked up some fine morning to learn that for a second time her princess had been stolen, and that there was a vacancy in the American consulate. How many times had he been seized with the mad desire to snatch the bridle of her horse and ride away with her into a far country! How often had his arms started out toward her, only to drop stiffly to his sides! March hares! They were Solons as compared with his own futile madness. But it was different now. She was to marry the king of Jugendheit; it was in the order of things that he ride alone. He knew that court etiquette demanded the isolation of the Princess Hildegarde from male escort other than that formally provided. The two soldiers detailed to act as her grooms or bodyguards were not, of course, to be considered. So, of the morning, he went down to the military field to watch the maneuvers, which were drawing to a close; or rode out to the frontier, or took the side road to Eissen, where the summer palaces were. But it was all dreary; the zest of living had somehow dropped out of things. The road to Eissen began about six miles north of the base of the Dreiberg mountain. It swerved to the east. As Carmichael reached the fork his horse began to limp. He jumped down and removed the stone. It was then that he heard the far-off mutter of hoofs. Coming along the road from Eissen were a trio of riders. Carmichael laughed weakly. "I swear to Heaven that this is no fault of mine!" Should he mount and be off before she made the turn? Bah! It was an accident; he would make the most of it. The bodyguard could easily vindicate him, in any event. He remounted and waited. She came in full flight, rosy, radiant, as lovely as Diana. Carmichael swung his cap boyishly; and there was a swirl of dust as she drew up. "Good morning, Herr Carmichael!" "Good morning, your Highness!" "Which way have you been riding?" "Toward Jugendheit." "And you are returning?" With a short nod of her head she signaled for the two soldiers to fall back. The two looked at each other embarrassedly. "Pardon, Highness," said one of them, "but the orders of the duke will not permit us to leave you. There have been thieves along the road of late." Thieves? This was the first time Carmichael had heard of it. The real significance of the maneuver escaped him; but her highness was not fooled. "Very well," she replied. "One of you ride forward and one of you take the rear." Then she spoke to Carmichael in English. The soldiers shrugged. To them it did not matter what language her highness adopted so long as they obeyed the letter of the duke's instructions. The little cavalcade directed its course toward the city. "You have not been riding of late," she said. Then she had missed him. Carmichael's heart expanded. To be missed is to be regretted, and one regrets only those in whom one is interested. "I have ridden the same as usual, your Highness; only I have taken this road for a change." "Ah!" She patted the glistening neck of her mare. So he had purposely tried to avoid her? Why? She stole a sly glance at him. Why were not kings molded in this form? All the kings she had met had something the matter with them, crooked legs, weak eyes, bald, young, or old, and daft over gaming-tables and opera-dancers. And the one man among them all--at least she had been informed that the king of Jugendheit was all of a man--had politely declined. There was some chagrin in this for her, but no bitterness or rancor. In truth, she was more chagrined on her father's account than on her own. "You should have taken the south pass. It was lovely yesterday." "Perhaps this way has been wisest." "Are you become afraid of me?" archly. "Yes, your Highness." If he had looked at her instead of his horse's ears, and smiled, all would have been well. She instantly regretted the question. "I am sorry that I have become an ogress." "To me your highness is the most perfect of women. I am guilty of lese-majesty." "I shall not lock you up," she said, and added under her breath, "as my good father would like to! Besides," she continued aloud, "I rather like to set the court by the ears. Whoever heard of a serene highness doing the things I do? I suppose it is because I have known years of freedom, freedom of action, of thought, of speech. These habits can not change at once. In fact, I do not believe they ever will. But the duke, my father, is good; he understands and trusts me. Ah, but I shall lead some king a merry life!" with a wicked gleam in her eyes. "Frederick of Jugendheit?" "Is it true that you have not heard yet? I have declined the honor." "Your highness?" "My serene highness," with a smile. "This, of course, is as yet a state secret; and my reason for telling you is not a princess', but a woman's. Solve it if you can." Carmichael fumbled the reins blindly. "They say that he is a handsome young man." "What has that to do with it? The interest he takes in his kingdom is positively negative. I have learned that he has been to his capital but twice since he was fifteen. He is even now absent on a hunting trip in Bavaria, and his coronation but a few days off. There will be only one king in Jugendheit, and that will be the prince regent." "He has done tolerably well up to the present," observed Carmichael, welcoming this change. "Jugendheit is prosperous; it has a splendid army. The prince regent is a fine type of man, they say, rugged, patient, frugal and sensible." "There is an instance where he made a cruel blunder." "No man is infallible," said he, wondering what this blunder was. "I suppose not. Look! The artillery is firing." Boom-boom! They saw the smoke leap from the muzzles of the cannon, and it seemed minutes before the sound reached them. "I have a fine country, too," she said, with pride; "prosperous, and an army not inferior to that of Jugendheit." "I was not making comparisons, your Highness." "I know that, my friend. I was simply speaking from the heart. But I doubt if the prince regent is a better man than our Herbeck." "I prefer Herbeck, never having met the prince regent. But I have some news for your highness." "News for me?" "Yes. I am about to ask for my recall," he said, the idea having come into his mind at that precise moment. "Your recall?" Had he been looking at her he would have noticed that the color on her fair cheeks had gone a shade lighter. "Yes." "Is not this sudden? it is not very complimentary to Ehrenstein." "The happiest days in my life have been spent here." "Then why seek to be recalled?" "I am essentially a man of action, your Highness. I am growing dull and stupid amid these charming pleasures. Action; I have always been mixed up in some trouble or other. Here it is a round of pleasure from day to day. I long for buffets. I am wicked enough to wish for war." "_Cherchez la femme!_" she cried. "There is a woman?" "Oh, yes!" recklessly. "Then go to her, my friend, go to her." And she waved her crop over his head as in benediction. "Some day, before you go, I shall ask you all about her." Ah, as if she did not know! But half the charm in life is playing with hidden dangers. He did not speak, but caught up the reins firmly. She touched her mare on the flank, and the four began trotting, a pace which they maintained as far as the military field. Here they paused, for the scene was animated and full of color. Squadrons of cavalry raced across the field; infantry closed in or deployed; artillery rumbled, wheeled, stopped, unlimbered. Bang-bang! The earth shivered and rocked. Guerdons were flying, bugles were blowing, and sabers were flashing. "It is beautiful," she cried, "this mimic war." "May your highness never see aught else!" he replied fervently. "Yes, yes; you have seen it divested of all its pomp. You have seen it in all its cruelty and horror." "I have known even the terror of it." "You were afraid?" "Many times." She laughed. It is only the coward who denies fear. He would certainly ask for his recall or transfer. He was eating his heart out here in Dreiberg. They began the incline. She did most of the talking, brightly and gaily; but his ears were dull, for the undercurrent passed by him. He was, for the first time, impressed with the fact that the young ladies of the court never accompanied her on her morning rides. There were frequent afternoon excursions, when several ladies and gentlemen rode with her highness, but in the mornings, never. "Will you return to America?" she queried. "I shall idle in Paris for a while. I have an idea that there will be war one of these days." "And which side will you take?" "I should be a traitor if I fought for France; I should be an ingrate if I fought against her. I should be a spectator, a neutral." "That would expose you to danger without the right to strike a blow in defense." "If I were hurt it would be but an accident. War correspondents would run a hundred more risks than I. Oh, I should be careful; I know war too well not to be." "All this is strange talk for a man who is a confessed lover." "Pardon me!" his eyes rather empty. "Why, you tell me there is a woman; and all your talk is about war and danger. These are opposites; please explain." "There is a woman, but she will not hinder me in any way. She will, in fact, know nothing about it." "You are a strange lover. I never read anything like you in story-books. Forgive me! I am thoughtless. The subject may be painful to you." The horses began to pull. Under normal circumstances Carmichael would not have dismounted, but his horse had carried him many miles that morning, and he was a merciful rider. In the war days often had his life depended upon the care of his horse. "You have been riding hard?" "No, only far." "I do not believe that there is a finer horseman in all Ehrenstein than yourself." "Your highness is very good to say that." Why had he not gone on instead of waiting at the fork? Within a few hundred yards of the gates he mounted again. And then he saw a lonely figure sitting on the parapet. He would have recognized that square form anywhere. And he welcomed the sight of it. "Your Highness, do you see that man yonder, on the parapet? We fought in the same cavalry. He is covered with scars. Not one man in a thousand would have gone through what he did and lived." "Is he an American?" "By adoption. And may I ask a favor of your highness?" "Two!" merrily. "May I present him? It will be the joy of his life." "Certainly. All brave men interest me." Grumbach rose up, uncovered, thinking that the riders were going to pass him. But to his surprise his friend Carmichael stopped his horse and beckoned to him. "Herr Grumbach," said Carmichael, "her serene highness desires me to present you." Hans was stricken dumb. He knew of no greater honor. "Mr. Carmichael," she said in English, "tells me that you fought with him in the American war?" "Yes, Highness." She plied him with a number of questions; how many battles they had fought in, how many times they had been wounded, how they lived in camp, and so forth; and which was the more powerful engine of war, the infantry or the cavalry. "The cavalry, Highness," said Hans, without hesitation. She laughed. "If you had been a foot-soldier, you would have said the infantry; of the artillery, you would have sworn by the cannon." "That is true, Highness. The three arms are necessary, but there is ever the individual pride in the arm one serves in." "And that is right. You speak good English," she remarked. "I have lived more than sixteen years in America, Highness." "Do you like it there?" "It is a great country, full of great ideas and great men, Highness." "And you will go back?" "Soon, Highness." The mare, knowing that this was the way home, grew restive and began prancing and pawing the road. She reined in quickly. As she did so, something yellow flashed downward and tinkled as it struck the ground. Grumbach hastened forward. "My locket," said her highness anxiously. "It is not broken, Highness," said Grumbach; "only the chain has come apart." Then he handed it to her gravely. "Thank you!" Her highness put both chain and locket into a small purse which she carried in her belt, touched the mare, and sped up the road, Carmichael following. Grumbach returned to the parapet. He followed them till they passed out of sight beyond the gates. "_Gott!_" he murmured. His face was as livid as the scar on his head. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Schnee, lass es schneien, lass es schneien. Der Winter ist endlich da, und Ideca verkündet, dass die Wachen der Prinzessin nach einem zweiten blonden Mädchen suchen. Warte, was? Es stellt sich heraus, dass sie eine ihrer Begleiterinnen verloren haben, als sie nach Bayern gereist sind, und sie wollen sie sofort finden - jetzt, wo das Wort schon raus ist, wird jeder nach einem blonden Mädchen suchen... also sollte Ani besser dafür sorgen, dass sie ihren Hut festhält. Ani hat sowieso vor, sobald der Winter vorbei ist, nach Kildenree zurückzukehren, denn Falada ist tot, Geric ist weg, und hier erwartet sie nur Ärger. Sie ist sicher, dass ihre Mutter sie willkommen heißen wird, auch wenn sie sonst nichts hat, wofür sie zurückkehren kann. Im Moment genießt Ani einfach nur ihre Rolle als Gänsemagd. Es ist irgendwie entspannend. Wintermoon - ein großes Fest - steht bevor, und Ani geht mit ihren Arbeitsfreunden dorthin. Dort sieht sie Zukunftsdeuter, Tänzer und sogar die königliche Familie, alle versammelt in einem Abschnitt, der auf die Menschen herabblickt. Enna und Ani machen Witze über den dreizehnjährigen Prinzen, der immer noch seine Babyspeck hat - und plötzlich ist Ani froh, dass sie nicht den Prinzen heiraten soll. Razo findet Ani hübscher als die Prinzessin, was sie erröten lässt; Geric ist bei den Royals und sieht etwas verlegen aus, als er Ani sieht. Was hat das zu bedeuten? Alle haben eine gute Zeit, bis Yulan und Ishta Ani entdecken. Er ist nur allzu glücklich, sie zu sehen, damit er schon ihre Beerdigung arrangieren kann. Ani droht ihm und sagt, dass bald Besucher aus Kildenree kommen werden und wissen werden, dass Selia eine Betrügerin ist - dieser Schwindel kann nicht ewig so weitergehen. Trotzdem packen die Männer sie und ziehen sie weg von der Menge. Doch genau in diesem Moment tauchen die Friedenshüter auf und fragen die Männer, was sie tun; dann fordern die Friedenshüter die Männer auf, das Mädchen loszulassen, da sie das Fest stören. Enna muss sie geschickt haben, und Ani ist ihr sehr dankbar - sie hätten sie sonst bestimmt getötet.

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: Philip Re-enters The next morning was very wet,--the sort of morning on which male neighbors who have no imperative occupation at home are likely to pay their fair friends an illimitable visit. The rain, which has been endurable enough for the walk or ride one way, is sure to become so heavy, and at the same time so certain to clear up by and by, that nothing but an open quarrel can abbreviate the visit; latent detestation will not do at all. And if people happen to be lovers, what can be so delightful, in England, as a rainy morning? English sunshine is dubious; bonnets are never quite secure; and if you sit down on the grass, it may lead to catarrhs. But the rain is to be depended on. You gallop through it in a mackintosh, and presently find yourself in the seat you like best,--a little above or a little below the one on which your goddess sits (it is the same thing to the metaphysical mind, and that is the reason why women are at once worshipped and looked down upon), with a satisfactory confidence that there will be no lady-callers. "Stephen will come earlier this morning, I know," said Lucy; "he always does when it's rainy." Maggie made no answer. She was angry with Stephen; she began to think she should dislike him; and if it had not been for the rain, she would have gone to her aunt Glegg's this morning, and so have avoided him altogether. As it was, she must find some reason for remaining out of the room with her mother. But Stephen did not come earlier, and there was another visitor--a nearer neighbor--who preceded him. When Philip entered the room, he was going merely to bow to Maggie, feeling that their acquaintance was a secret which he was bound not to betray; but when she advanced toward him and put out her hand, he guessed at once that Lucy had been taken into her confidence. It was a moment of some agitation to both, though Philip had spent many hours in preparing for it; but like all persons who have passed through life with little expectation of sympathy, he seldom lost his self-control, and shrank with the most sensitive pride from any noticeable betrayal of emotion. A little extra paleness, a little tension of the nostril when he spoke, and the voice pitched in rather a higher key, that to strangers would seem expressive of cold indifference, were all the signs Philip usually gave of an inward drama that was not without its fierceness. But Maggie, who had little more power of concealing the impressions made upon her than if she had been constructed of musical strings, felt her eyes getting larger with tears as they took each other's hands in silence. They were not painful tears; they had rather something of the same origin as the tears women and children shed when they have found some protection to cling to and look back on the threatened danger. For Philip, who a little while ago was associated continually in Maggie's mind with the sense that Tom might reproach her with some justice, had now, in this short space, become a sort of outward conscience to her, that she might fly to for rescue and strength. Her tranquil, tender affection for Philip, with its root deep down in her childhood, and its memories of long quiet talk confirming by distinct successive impressions the first instinctive bias,--the fact that in him the appeal was more strongly to her pity and womanly devotedness than to her vanity or other egoistic excitability of her nature,--seemed now to make a sort of sacred place, a sanctuary where she could find refuge from an alluring influence which the best part of herself must resist; which must bring horrible tumult within, wretchedness without. This new sense of her relation to Philip nullified the anxious scruples she would otherwise have felt, lest she should overstep the limit of intercourse with him that Tom would sanction; and she put out her hand to him, and felt the tears in her eyes without any consciousness of an inward check. The scene was just what Lucy expected, and her kind heart delighted in bringing Philip and Maggie together again; though, even with all _her_ regard for Philip, she could not resist the impression that her cousin Tom had some excuse for feeling shocked at the physical incongruity between the two,--a prosaic person like cousin Tom, who didn't like poetry and fairy tales. But she began to speak as soon as possible, to set them at ease. "This was very good and virtuous of you," she said, in her pretty treble, like the low conversational notes of little birds, "to come so soon after your arrival. And as it is, I think I will pardon you for running away in an inopportune manner, and giving your friends no notice. Come and sit down here," she went on, placing the chair that would suit him best, "and you shall find yourself treated mercifully." "You will never govern well, Miss Deane," said Philip, as he seated himself, "because no one will ever believe in your severity. People will always encourage themselves in misdemeanors by the certainty that you will be indulgent." Lucy gave some playful contradiction, but Philip did not hear what it was, for he had naturally turned toward Maggie, and she was looking at him with that open, affectionate scrutiny which we give to a friend from whom we have been long separated. What a moment their parting had been! And Philip felt as if he were only in the morrow of it. He felt this so keenly,--with such intense, detailed remembrance, with such passionate revival of all that had been said and looked in their last conversation,--that with that jealousy and distrust which in diffident natures is almost inevitably linked with a strong feeling, he thought he read in Maggie's glance and manner the evidence of a change. The very fact that he feared and half expected it would be sure to make this thought rush in, in the absence of positive proof to the contrary. "I am having a great holiday, am I not?" said Maggie. "Lucy is like a fairy godmother; she has turned me from a drudge into a princess in no time. I do nothing but indulge myself all day long, and she always finds out what I want before I know it myself." "I am sure she is the happier for having you, then," said Philip. "You must be better than a whole menagerie of pets to her. And you look well. You are benefiting by the change." Artificial conversation of this sort went on a little while, till Lucy, determined to put an end to it, exclaimed, with a good imitation of annoyance, that she had forgotten something, and was quickly out of the room. In a moment Maggie and Philip leaned forward, and the hands were clasped again, with a look of sad contentment, like that of friends who meet in the memory of recent sorrow. "I told my brother I wished to see you, Philip; I asked him to release me from my promise, and he consented." Maggie, in her impulsiveness, wanted Philip to know at once the position they must hold toward each other; but she checked herself. The things that had happened since he had spoken of his love for her were so painful that she shrank from being the first to allude to them. It seemed almost like an injury toward Philip even to mention her brother,--her brother, who had insulted him. But he was thinking too entirely of her to be sensitive on any other point at that moment. "Then we can at least be friends, Maggie? There is nothing to hinder that now?" "Will not your father object?" said Maggie, withdrawing her hand. "I should not give you up on any ground but your own wish, Maggie," said Philip, coloring. "There are points on which I should always resist my father, as I used to tell you. _That_ is one." "Then there is nothing to hinder our being friends, Philip,--seeing each other and talking to each other while I am here; I shall soon go away again. I mean to go very soon, to a new situation." "Is that inevitable, Maggie?" "Yes; I must not stay here long. It would unfit me for the life I must begin again at last. I can't live in dependence,--I can't live with my brother, though he is very good to me. He would like to provide for me; but that would be intolerable to me." Philip was silent a few moments, and then said, in that high, feeble voice which with him indicated the resolute suppression of emotion,-- "Is there no other alternative, Maggie? Is that life, away from those who love you, the only one you will allow yourself to look forward to?" "Yes, Philip," she said, looking at him pleadingly, as if she entreated him to believe that she was compelled to this course. "At least, as things are; I don't know what may be in years to come. But I begin to think there can never come much happiness to me from loving; I have always had so much pain mingled with it. I wish I could make myself a world outside it, as men do." "Now you are returning to your old thought in a new form, Maggie,--the thought I used to combat," said Philip, with a slight tinge of bitterness. "You want to find out a mode of renunciation that will be an escape from pain. I tell you again, there is no such escape possible except by perverting or mutilating one's nature. What would become of me, if I tried to escape from pain? Scorn and cynicism would be my only opium; unless I could fall into some kind of conceited madness, and fancy myself a favorite of Heaven because I am not a favorite with men." The bitterness had taken on some impetuosity as Philip went on speaking; the words were evidently an outlet for some immediate feeling of his own, as well as an answer to Maggie. There was a pain pressing on him at that moment. He shrank with proud delicacy from the faintest allusion to the words of love, of plighted love that had passed between them. It would have seemed to him like reminding Maggie of a promise; it would have had for him something of the baseness of compulsion. He could not dwell on the fact that he himself had not changed; for that too would have had the air of an appeal. His love for Maggie was stamped, even more than the rest of his experience, with the exaggerated sense that he was an exception,--that she, that every one, saw him in the light of an exception. But Maggie was conscience-stricken. "Yes, Philip," she said, with her childish contrition when he used to chide her, "you are right, I know. I do always think too much of my own feelings, and not enough of others',--not enough of yours. I had need have you always to find fault with me and teach me; so many things have come true that you used to tell me." Maggie was resting her elbow on the table, leaning her head on her hand and looking at Philip with half-penitent dependent affection, as she said this; while he was returning her gaze with an expression that, to her consciousness, gradually became less vague,--became charged with a specific recollection. Had his mind flown back to something that _she_ now remembered,--something about a lover of Lucy's? It was a thought that made her shudder; it gave new definiteness to her present position, and to the tendency of what had happened the evening before. She moved her arm from the table, urged to change her position by that positive physical oppression at the heart that sometimes accompanies a sudden mental pang. "What is the matter, Maggie? Has something happened?" Philip said, in inexpressible anxiety, his imagination being only too ready to weave everything that was fatal to them both. "No, nothing," said Maggie, rousing her latent will. Philip must not have that odious thought in his mind; she would banish it from her own. "Nothing," she repeated, "except in my own mind. You used to say I should feel the effect of my starved life, as you called it; and I do. I am too eager in my enjoyment of music and all luxuries, now they are come to me." She took up her work and occupied herself resolutely, while Philip watched her, really in doubt whether she had anything more than this general allusion in her mind. It was quite in Maggie's character to be agitated by vague self-reproach. But soon there came a violent well-known ring at the door-bell resounding through the house. "Oh, what a startling announcement!" said Maggie, quite mistress of herself, though not without some inward flutter. "I wonder where Lucy is." Lucy had not been deaf to the signal, and after an interval long enough for a few solicitous but not hurried inquiries, she herself ushered Stephen in. "Well, old fellow," he said, going straight up to Philip and shaking him heartily by the hand, bowing to Maggie in passing, "it's glorious to have you back again; only I wish you'd conduct yourself a little less like a sparrow with a residence on the house-top, and not go in and out constantly without letting the servants know. This is about the twentieth time I've had to scamper up those countless stairs to that painting-room of yours, all to no purpose, because your people thought you were at home. Such incidents embitter friendship." "I've so few visitors, it seems hardly worth while to leave notice of my exit and entrances," said Philip, feeling rather oppressed just then by Stephen's bright strong presence and strong voice. "Are you quite well this morning, Miss Tulliver?" said Stephen, turning to Maggie with stiff politeness, and putting out his hand with the air of fulfilling a social duty. Maggie gave the tips of her fingers, and said, "Quite well, thank you," in a tone of proud indifference. Philip's eyes were watching them keenly; but Lucy was used to seeing variations in their manner to each other, and only thought with regret that there was some natural antipathy which every now and then surmounted their mutual good-will. "Maggie is not the sort of woman Stephen admires, and she is irritated by something in him which she interprets as conceit," was the silent observation that accounted for everything to guileless Lucy. Stephen and Maggie had no sooner completed this studied greeting than each felt hurt by the other's coldness. And Stephen, while rattling on in questions to Philip about his recent sketching expedition, was thinking all the more about Maggie because he was not drawing her into the conversation as he had invariably done before. "Maggie and Philip are not looking happy," thought Lucy; "this first interview has been saddening to them." "I think we people who have not been galloping," she said to Stephen, "are all a little damped by the rain. Let us have some music. We ought to take advantage of having Philip and you together. Give us the duet in 'Masaniello'; Maggie has not heard that, and I know it will suit her." "Come, then," said Stephen, going toward the piano, and giving a foretaste of the tune in his deep "brum-brum," very pleasant to hear. "You, please, Philip,--you play the accompaniment," said Lucy, "and then I can go on with my work. You _will_ like to play, sha'n't you?" she added, with a pretty, inquiring look, anxious, as usual, lest she should have proposed what was not pleasant to another; but with yearnings toward her unfinished embroidery. Philip had brightened at the proposition, for there is no feeling, perhaps, except the extremes of fear and grief, that does not find relief in music,--that does not make a man sing or play the better; and Philip had an abundance of pent-up feeling at this moment, as complex as any trio or quartet that was ever meant to express love and jealousy and resignation and fierce suspicion, all at the same time. "Oh, yes," he said, seating himself at the piano, "it is a way of eking out one's imperfect life and being three people at once,--to sing and make the piano sing, and hear them both all the while,--or else to sing and paint." "Ah, there you are an enviable fellow. I can do nothing with my hands," said Stephen. "That has generally been observed in men of great administrative capacity, I believe,--a tendency to predominance of the reflective powers in me! Haven't you observed that, Miss Tulliver?" Stephen had fallen by mistake into his habit of playful appeal to Maggie, and she could not repress the answering flush and epigram. "I _have_ observed a tendency to predominance," she said, smiling; and Philip at that moment devoutly hoped that she found the tendency disagreeable. "Come, come," said Lucy; "music, music! We will discuss each other's qualities another time." Maggie always tried in vain to go on with her work when music began. She tried harder than ever to-day; for the thought that Stephen knew how much she cared for his singing was one that no longer roused a merely playful resistance; and she knew, too, that it was his habit always to stand so that he could look at her. But it was of no use; she soon threw her work down, and all her intentions were lost in the vague state of emotion produced by the inspiring duet,--emotion that seemed to make her at once strong and weak; strong for all enjoyment, weak for all resistance. When the strain passed into the minor, she half started from her seat with the sudden thrill of that change. Poor Maggie! She looked very beautiful when her soul was being played on in this way by the inexorable power of sound. You might have seen the slightest perceptible quivering through her whole frame as she leaned a little forward, clasping her hands as if to steady herself; while her eyes dilated and brightened into that wide-open, childish expression of wondering delight which always came back in her happiest moments. Lucy, who at other times had always been at the piano when Maggie was looking in this way, could not resist the impulse to steal up to her and kiss her. Philip, too, caught a glimpse of her now and then round the open book on the desk, and felt that he had never before seen her under so strong an influence. "More, more!" said Lucy, when the duet had been encored. "Something spirited again. Maggie always says she likes a great rush of sound." "It must be 'Let us take the road,' then," said Stephen,--"so suitable for a wet morning. But are you prepared to abandon the most sacred duties of life, and come and sing with us?" "Oh, yes," said Lucy, laughing. "If you will look out the 'Beggar's Opera' from the large canterbury. It has a dingy cover." "That is a great clue, considering there are about a score covers here of rival dinginess," said Stephen, drawing out the canterbury. "Oh, play something the while, Philip," said Lucy, noticing that his fingers were wandering over the keys. "What is that you are falling into?--something delicious that I don't know." "Don't you know that?" said Philip, bringing out the tune more definitely. "It's from the 'Sonnambula'--'Ah! perche non posso odiarti.' I don't know the opera, but it appears the tenor is telling the heroine that he shall always love her though she may forsake him. You've heard me sing it to the English words, 'I love thee still.'" It was not quite unintentionally that Philip had wandered into this song, which might be an indirect expression to Maggie of what he could not prevail on himself to say to her directly. Her ears had been open to what he was saying, and when he began to sing, she understood the plaintive passion of the music. That pleading tenor had no very fine qualities as a voice, but it was not quite new to her; it had sung to her by snatches, in a subdued way, among the grassy walks and hollows, and underneath the leaning ash-tree in the Red Deeps. There seemed to be some reproach in the words; did Philip mean that? She wished she had assured him more distinctly in their conversation that she desired not to renew the hope of love between them, _only_ because it clashed with her inevitable circumstances. She was touched, not thrilled by the song; it suggested distinct memories and thoughts, and brought quiet regret in the place of excitement. "That's the way with you tenors," said Stephen, who was waiting with music in his hand while Philip finished the song. "You demoralize the fair sex by warbling your sentimental love and constancy under all sorts of vile treatment. Nothing short of having your heads served up in a dish like that mediaeval tenor or troubadour, would prevent you from expressing your entire resignation. I must administer an antidote, while Miss Deane prepares to tear herself away from her bobbins." Stephen rolled out, with saucy energy,-- "Shall I, wasting in despair, Die because a woman's fair?" and seemed to make all the air in the room alive with a new influence. Lucy, always proud of what Stephen did, went toward the piano with laughing, admiring looks at him; and Maggie, in spite of her resistance to the spirit of the song and to the singer, was taken hold of and shaken by the invisible influence,--was borne along by a wave too strong for her. But, angrily resolved not to betray herself, she seized her work, and went on making false stitches and pricking her fingers with much perseverance, not looking up or taking notice of what was going forward, until all the three voices united in "Let us take the road." I am afraid there would have been a subtle, stealing gratification in her mind if she had known how entirely this saucy, defiant Stephen was occupied with her; how he was passing rapidly from a determination to treat her with ostentatious indifference to an irritating desire for some sign of inclination from her,--some interchange of subdued word or look with her. It was not long before he found an opportunity, when they had passed to the music of "The Tempest." Maggie, feeling the need of a footstool, was walking across the room to get one, when Stephen, who was not singing just then, and was conscious of all her movements, guessed her want, and flew to anticipate her, lifting the footstool with an entreating look at her, which made it impossible not to return a glance of gratitude. And then, to have the footstool placed carefully by a too self-confident personage,--not _any_ self-confident personage, but one in particular, who suddenly looks humble and anxious, and lingers, bending still, to ask if there is not some draught in that position between the window and the fireplace, and if he may not be allowed to move the work-table for her,--these things will summon a little of the too ready, traitorous tenderness into a woman's eyes, compelled as she is in her girlish time to learn her life-lessons in very trivial language. And to Maggie such things had not been every-day incidents, but were a new element in her life, and found her keen appetite for homage quite fresh. That tone of gentle solicitude obliged her to look at the face that was bent toward her, and to say, "No, thank you"; and nothing could prevent that mutual glance from being delicious to both, as it had been the evening before. It was but an ordinary act of politeness in Stephen; it had hardly taken two minutes; and Lucy, who was singing, scarcely noticed it. But to Philip's mind, filled already with a vague anxiety that was likely to find a definite ground for itself in any trivial incident, this sudden eagerness in Stephen, and the change in Maggie's face, which was plainly reflecting a beam from his, seemed so strong a contrast with the previous overwrought signs of indifference, as to be charged with painful meaning. Stephen's voice, pouring in again, jarred upon his nervous susceptibility as if it had been the clang of sheet-iron, and he felt inclined to make the piano shriek in utter discord. He had really seen no communicable ground for suspecting any ususual feeling between Stephen and Maggie; his own reason told him so, and he wanted to go home at once that he might reflect coolly on these false images, till he had convinced himself of their nullity. But then, again, he wanted to stay as long as Stephen stayed,--always to be present when Stephen was present with Maggie. It seemed to poor Philip so natural, nay, inevitable, that any man who was near Maggie should fall in love with her! There was no promise of happiness for her if she were beguiled into loving Stephen Guest; and this thought emboldened Philip to view his own love for her in the light of a less unequal offering. He was beginning to play very falsely under this deafening inward tumult, and Lucy was looking at him in astonishment, when Mrs. Tulliver's entrance to summon them to lunch came as an excuse for abruptly breaking off the music. "Ah, Mr. Philip!" said Mr. Deane, when they entered the dining-room, "I've not seen you for a long while. Your father's not at home, I think, is he? I went after him to the office the other day, and they said he was out of town." "He's been to Mudport on business for several days," said Philip; "but he's come back now." "As fond of his farming hobby as ever, eh?" "I believe so," said Philip, rather wondering at this sudden interest in his father's pursuits. "Ah!" said Mr. Deane, "he's got some land in his own hands on this side the river as well as the other, I think?" "Yes, he has." "Ah!" continued Mr. Deane, as he dispensed the pigeonpie, "he must find farming a heavy item,--an expensive hobby. I never had a hobby myself, never would give in to that. And the worst of all hobbies are those that people think they can get money at. They shoot their money down like corn out of a sack then." Lucy felt a little nervous under her father's apparently gratuitous criticism of Mr. Wakem's expenditure. But it ceased there, and Mr. Deane became unusually silent and meditative during his luncheon. Lucy, accustomed to watch all indications in her father, and having reasons, which had recently become strong, for an extra interest in what referred to the Wakems, felt an unusual curiosity to know what had prompted her father's questions. His subsequent silence made her suspect there had been some special reason for them in his mind. With this idea in her head, she resorted to her usual plan when she wanted to tell or ask her father anything particular: she found a reason for her aunt Tulliver to leaving the dining-room after dinner, and seated herself on a small stool at her father's knee. Mr. Deane, under those circumstances, considered that he tasted some of the most agreeable moments his merits had purchased him in life, notwithstanding that Lucy, disliking to have her hair powdered with snuff, usually began by mastering his snuff-box on such occasions. "You don't want to go to sleep yet, papa, _do_ you?" she said, as she brought up her stool and opened the large fingers that clutched the snuff-box. "Not yet," said Mr. Deane, glancing at the reward of merit in the decanter. "But what do _you_ want?" he added, pinching the dimpled chin fondly,--"to coax some more sovereigns out of my pocket for your bazaar? Eh?" "No, I have no base motives at all to-day. I only want to talk, not to beg. I want to know what made you ask Philip Wakem about his father's farming to-day, papa? It seemed rather odd, because you never hardly say anything to him about his father; and why should you care about Mr. Wakem's losing money by his hobby?" "Something to do with business," said Mr. Deane, waving his hands, as if to repel intrusion into that mystery. "But, papa, you always say Mr. Wakem has brought Philip up like a girl; how came you to think you should get any business knowledge out of him? Those abrupt questions sounded rather oddly. Philip thought them queer." "Nonsense, child!" said Mr. Deane, willing to justify his social demeanor, with which he had taken some pains in his upward progress. "There's a report that Wakem's mill and farm on the other side of the river--Dorlcote Mill, your uncle Tulliver's, you know--isn't answering so well as it did. I wanted to see if your friend Philip would let anything out about his father's being tired of farming." "Why? Would you buy the mill, papa, if he would part with it?" said Lucy, eagerly. "Oh, tell me everything; here, you shall have your snuff-box if you'll tell me. Because Maggie says all their hearts are set on Tom's getting back the mill some time. It was one of the last things her father said to Tom, that he must get back the mill." "Hush, you little puss," said Mr. Deane, availing himself of the restored snuff-box. "You must not say a word about this thing; do you hear? There's very little chance of their getting the mill or of anybody's getting it out of Wakem's hands. And if he knew that we wanted it with a view to the Tulliver's getting it again, he'd be the less likely to part with it. It's natural, after what happened. He behaved well enough to Tulliver before; but a horsewhipping is not likely to be paid for with sugar-plums." "Now, papa," said Lucy, with a little air of solemnity, "will you trust me? You must not ask me all my reasons for what I'm going to say, but I have very strong reasons. And I'm very cautious; I am, indeed." "Well, let us hear." "Why, I believe, if you will let me take Philip Wakem into our confidence,--let me tell him all about your wish to buy, and what it's for; that my cousins wish to have it, and why they wish to have it,--I believe Philip would help to bring it about. I know he would desire to do it." "I don't see how that can be, child," said Mr. Deane, looking puzzled. "Why should _he_ care?"--then, with a sudden penetrating look at his daughter, "You don't think the poor lad's fond of you, and so you can make him do what you like?" (Mr. Deane felt quite safe about his daughter's affections.) "No, papa; he cares very little about me,--not so much as I care about him. But I have a reason for being quite sure of what I say. Don't you ask me. And if you ever guess, don't tell me. Only give me leave to do as I think fit about it." Lucy rose from her stool to seat herself on her father's knee, and kissed him with that last request. "Are you sure you won't do mischief, now?" he said, looking at her with delight. "Yes, papa, quite sure. I'm very wise; I've got all your business talents. Didn't you admire my accompt-book, now, when I showed it you?" "Well, well, if this youngster will keep his counsel, there won't be much harm done. And to tell the truth, I think there's not much chance for us any other way. Now, let me go off to sleep." 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.

Philip erscheint schließlich. Er und Maggie haben ein ziemlich unbeholfenes Wiedersehen. Maggie ist hin- und hergerissen zwischen ihren Gefühlen für Stephen und Philip. Lucy versucht den Kuppler zu spielen. Doch Philip bemerkt eine Veränderung bei Maggie und macht sich Sorgen, dass ihre Gefühle für ihn sich geändert haben. Lucy macht eine schlechte Ausrede und verlässt den Raum. Maggie und Philip fangen schnell an zu reden. Maggie erzählt Philip von ihrem Gespräch mit Tom und die beiden beschließen, wieder Freunde zu sein. Maggie fragt nach Philips Vater und Philip sagt, dass es ihm egal ist, was er denkt. Doch dann erzählt Maggie Philip, dass sie bald gehen wird, um wieder als Gouvernante zu arbeiten, da sie ihren eigenen Lebensunterhalt verdienen muss. Philip und Maggie setzen ihre alte Debatte über Maggies Neigung zur Selbstaufopferung fort. Philip ist ein wenig verbittert, da er Maggie seit Jahren liebt und sie sich immer noch nicht zu ihm zu bekennen scheint. Stephen kommt hinzu und Maggie ist verwirrt. Die beiden sind übertrieben höflich zueinander und sind heimlich verletzt von der kalten Haltung des anderen. Lucy bemerkt die Spannungen nicht, aber Philip wird misstrauisch. Die Gruppe beschließt, etwas Musik zu machen. Philip spielt zuerst ein Lied und ist übermäßig emotional. Er beschließt, sich durch die Kraft der Musik mit Maggie zu verständigen und denkt offenbar, dass er in einem Musical ist. Stephen und Philip führen ein Duett auf und Maggie wird von der Musik mitgerissen. Die beiden singen dann Solos, die sich an Maggie richten. Stephen verführt Maggie im Grunde genommen mit seinen großartigen Gesangsfähigkeiten. Philip ist besorgt über die beiden und vermutet, dass Stephen ihm seine irgendwie-aber-auch-nicht wirkliche Freundin wegschnappt. In seiner Verzweiflung beginnt Philip seine Klavierstücke zu verunstalten und Lucy ist schockiert. Die Gruppe geht dann zum Mittagessen. Herr Deane fängt wahllos an, Philip Fragen zu seinem Geschäft zu stellen. Später in der Nacht geht Lucy zu ihrem Vater, um mit ihm zu sprechen. Sie will wissen, was es mit seinem Verhör von Philip beim Mittagessen auf sich hatte. Es stellt sich heraus, dass Herr Deane schlau war - er versuchte Informationen über Herrn Wakem zu sammeln, um zu sehen, ob er bereit wäre, Dorlcote Mill zu verkaufen. Lucy hat jedoch Informationen für ihn: Sie erzählt ihm, dass sie Philips Hilfe haben wird, um die Mühle zurückzukaufen. Herr Deane ist skeptisch, aber Lucy versichert ihm, dass ihr großartiger Plan funktionieren 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: CHAPTER XXXI. A METAMORPHOSIS MORE SURPRISING THAN ANY IN OVID. "In want of money!" pushing back his chair as from a suddenly-disclosed man-trap or crater. "Yes," naively assented the cosmopolitan, "and you are going to loan me fifty dollars. I could almost wish I was in need of more, only for your sake. Yes, my dear Charlie, for your sake; that you might the better prove your noble, kindliness, my dear Charlie." "None of your dear Charlies," cried the other, springing to his feet, and buttoning up his coat, as if hastily to depart upon a long journey. "Why, why, why?" painfully looking up. "None of your why, why, whys!" tossing out a foot, "go to the devil, sir! Beggar, impostor!--never so deceived in a man in my life." 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.

Brauchst du Geld? Charlie schiebt seinen Stuhl von Frank weg, als ob er giftig wäre. Frank macht Charlie einen Hundeblick. Ja, ich brauche Geld, und du wirst mir $50 geben, weil wir Freunde sind und du mich liebst! Charlie dreht durch, springt auf und sagt Frank, er solle wissen, wohin er gehen kann. Auweh.

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 soon as I had perused this epistle I went to the master, and informed him that his sister had arrived at the Heights, and sent me a letter expressing her sorrow for Mrs. Linton's situation, and her ardent desire to see him; with a wish that he would transmit to her, as early as possible, some token of forgiveness by me. 'Forgiveness!' said Linton. 'I have nothing to forgive her, Ellen. You may call at Wuthering Heights this afternoon, if you like, and say that I am not angry, but I'm sorry to have lost her; especially as I can never think she'll be happy. It is out of the question my going to see her, however: we are eternally divided; and should she really wish to oblige me, let her persuade the villain she has married to leave the country.' 'And you won't write her a little note, sir?' I asked, imploringly. 'No,' he answered. 'It is needless. My communication with Heathcliff's family shall be as sparing as his with mine. It shall not exist!' Mr. Edgar's coldness depressed me exceedingly; and all the way from the Grange I puzzled my brains how to put more heart into what he said, when I repeated it; and how to soften his refusal of even a few lines to console Isabella. I daresay she had been on the watch for me since morning: I saw her looking through the lattice as I came up the garden causeway, and I nodded to her; but she drew back, as if afraid of being observed. I entered without knocking. There never was such a dreary, dismal scene as the formerly cheerful house presented! I must confess, that if I had been in the young lady's place, I would, at least, have swept the hearth, and wiped the tables with a duster. But she already partook of the pervading spirit of neglect which encompassed her. Her pretty face was wan and listless; her hair uncurled: some locks hanging lankly down, and some carelessly twisted round her head. Probably she had not touched her dress since yester evening. Hindley was not there. Mr. Heathcliff sat at a table, turning over some papers in his pocket-book; but he rose when I appeared, asked me how I did, quite friendly, and offered me a chair. He was the only thing there that seemed decent; and I thought he never looked better. So much had circumstances altered their positions, that he would certainly have struck a stranger as a born and bred gentleman; and his wife as a thorough little slattern! She came forward eagerly to greet me, and held out one hand to take the expected letter. I shook my head. She wouldn't understand the hint, but followed me to a sideboard, where I went to lay my bonnet, and importuned me in a whisper to give her directly what I had brought. Heathcliff guessed the meaning of her manoeuvres, and said--'If you have got anything for Isabella (as no doubt you have, Nelly), give it to her. You needn't make a secret of it: we have no secrets between us.' 'Oh, I have nothing,' I replied, thinking it best to speak the truth at once. 'My master bid me tell his sister that she must not expect either a letter or a visit from him at present. He sends his love, ma'am, and his wishes for your happiness, and his pardon for the grief you have occasioned; but he thinks that after this time his household and the household here should drop intercommunication, as nothing could come of keeping it up.' Mrs. Heathcliff's lip quivered slightly, and she returned to her seat in the window. Her husband took his stand on the hearthstone, near me, and began to put questions concerning Catherine. I told him as much as I thought proper of her illness, and he extorted from me, by cross-examination, most of the facts connected with its origin. I blamed her, as she deserved, for bringing it all on herself; and ended by hoping that he would follow Mr. Linton's example and avoid future interference with his family, for good or evil. 'Mrs. Linton is now just recovering,' I said; 'she'll never be like she was, but her life is spared; and if you really have a regard for her, you'll shun crossing her way again: nay, you'll move out of this country entirely; and that you may not regret it, I'll inform you Catherine Linton is as different now from your old friend Catherine Earnshaw, as that young lady is different from me. Her appearance is changed greatly, her character much more so; and the person who is compelled, of necessity, to be her companion, will only sustain his affection hereafter by the remembrance of what she once was, by common humanity, and a sense of duty!' 'That is quite possible,' remarked Heathcliff, forcing himself to seem calm: 'quite possible that your master should have nothing but common humanity and a sense of duty to fall back upon. But do you imagine that I shall leave Catherine to his _duty_ and _humanity_? and can you compare my feelings respecting Catherine to his? Before you leave this house, I must exact a promise from you that you'll get me an interview with her: consent, or refuse, I _will_ see her! What do you say?' 'I say, Mr. Heathcliff,' I replied, 'you must not: you never shall, through my means. Another encounter between you and the master would kill her altogether.' 'With your aid that may be avoided,' he continued; 'and should there be danger of such an event--should he be the cause of adding a single trouble more to her existence--why, I think I shall be justified in going to extremes! I wish you had sincerity enough to tell me whether Catherine would suffer greatly from his loss: the fear that she would restrains me. And there you see the distinction between our feelings: had he been in my place, and I in his, though I hated him with a hatred that turned my life to gall, I never would have raised a hand against him. You may look incredulous, if you please! I never would have banished him from her society as long as she desired his. The moment her regard ceased, I would have torn his heart out, and drunk his blood! But, till then--if you don't believe me, you don't know me--till then, I would have died by inches before I touched a single hair of his head!' 'And yet,' I interrupted, 'you have no scruples in completely ruining all hopes of her perfect restoration, by thrusting yourself into her remembrance now, when she has nearly forgotten you, and involving her in a new tumult of discord and distress.' 'You suppose she has nearly forgotten me?' he said. 'Oh, Nelly! you know she has not! You know as well as I do, that for every thought she spends on Linton she spends a thousand on me! At a most miserable period of my life, I had a notion of the kind: it haunted me on my return to the neighbourhood last summer; but only her own assurance could make me admit the horrible idea again. And then, Linton would be nothing, nor Hindley, nor all the dreams that ever I dreamt. Two words would comprehend my future--_death_ and _hell_: existence, after losing her, would be hell. Yet I was a fool to fancy for a moment that she valued Edgar Linton's attachment more than mine. If he loved with all the powers of his puny being, he couldn't love as much in eighty years as I could in a day. And Catherine has a heart as deep as I have: the sea could be as readily contained in that horse-trough as her whole affection be monopolised by him. Tush! He is scarcely a degree dearer to her than her dog, or her horse. It is not in him to be loved like me: how can she love in him what he has not?' 'Catherine and Edgar are as fond of each other as any two people can be,' cried Isabella, with sudden vivacity. 'No one has a right to talk in that manner, and I won't hear my brother depreciated in silence!' 'Your brother is wondrous fond of you too, isn't he?' observed Heathcliff, scornfully. 'He turns you adrift on the world with surprising alacrity.' 'He is not aware of what I suffer,' she replied. 'I didn't tell him that.' 'You have been telling him something, then: you have written, have you?' 'To say that I was married, I did write--you saw the note.' 'And nothing since?' 'No.' 'My young lady is looking sadly the worse for her change of condition,' I remarked. 'Somebody's love comes short in her case, obviously; whose, I may guess; but, perhaps, I shouldn't say.' 'I should guess it was her own,' said Heathcliff. 'She degenerates into a mere slut! She is tired of trying to please me uncommonly early. You'd hardly credit it, but the very morrow of our wedding she was weeping to go home. However, she'll suit this house so much the better for not being over nice, and I'll take care she does not disgrace me by rambling abroad.' 'Well, sir,' returned I, 'I hope you'll consider that Mrs. Heathcliff is accustomed to be looked after and waited on; and that she has been brought up like an only daughter, whom every one was ready to serve. You must let her have a maid to keep things tidy about her, and you must treat her kindly. Whatever be your notion of Mr. Edgar, you cannot doubt that she has a capacity for strong attachments, or she wouldn't have abandoned the elegancies, and comforts, and friends of her former home, to fix contentedly, in such a wilderness as this, with you.' 'She abandoned them under a delusion,' he answered; 'picturing in me a hero of romance, and expecting unlimited indulgences from my chivalrous devotion. I can hardly regard her in the light of a rational creature, so obstinately has she persisted in forming a fabulous notion of my character and acting on the false impressions she cherished. But, at last, I think she begins to know me: I don't perceive the silly smiles and grimaces that provoked me at first; and the senseless incapability of discerning that I was in earnest when I gave her my opinion of her infatuation and herself. It was a marvellous effort of perspicacity to discover that I did not love her. I believed, at one time, no lessons could teach her that! And yet it is poorly learnt; for this morning she announced, as a piece of appalling intelligence, that I had actually succeeded in making her hate me! A positive labour of Hercules, I assure you! If it be achieved, I have cause to return thanks. Can I trust your assertion, Isabella? Are you sure you hate me? If I let you alone for half a day, won't you come sighing and wheedling to me again? I daresay she would rather I had seemed all tenderness before you: it wounds her vanity to have the truth exposed. But I don't care who knows that the passion was wholly on one side: and I never told her a lie about it. She cannot accuse me of showing one bit of deceitful softness. The first thing she saw me do, on coming out of the Grange, was to hang up her little dog; and when she pleaded for it, the first words I uttered were a wish that I had the hanging of every being belonging to her, except one: possibly she took that exception for herself. But no brutality disgusted her: I suppose she has an innate admiration of it, if only her precious person were secure from injury! Now, was it not the depth of absurdity--of genuine idiotcy, for that pitiful, slavish, mean-minded brach to dream that I could love her? Tell your master, Nelly, that I never, in all my life, met with such an abject thing as she is. She even disgraces the name of Linton; and I've sometimes relented, from pure lack of invention, in my experiments on what she could endure, and still creep shamefully cringing back! But tell him, also, to set his fraternal and magisterial heart at ease: that I keep strictly within the limits of the law. I have avoided, up to this period, giving her the slightest right to claim a separation; and, what's more, she'd thank nobody for dividing us. If she desired to go, she might: the nuisance of her presence outweighs the gratification to be derived from tormenting her!' 'Mr. Heathcliff,' said I, 'this is the talk of a madman; your wife, most likely, is convinced you are mad; and, for that reason, she has borne with you hitherto: but now that you say she may go, she'll doubtless avail herself of the permission. You are not so bewitched, ma'am, are you, as to remain with him of your own accord?' 'Take care, Ellen!' answered Isabella, her eyes sparkling irefully; there was no misdoubting by their expression the full success of her partner's endeavours to make himself detested. 'Don't put faith in a single word he speaks. He's a lying fiend! a monster, and not a human being! I've been told I might leave him before; and I've made the attempt, but I dare not repeat it! Only, Ellen, promise you'll not mention a syllable of his infamous conversation to my brother or Catherine. Whatever he may pretend, he wishes to provoke Edgar to desperation: he says he has married me on purpose to obtain power over him; and he sha'n't obtain it--I'll die first! I just hope, I pray, that he may forget his diabolical prudence and kill me! The single pleasure I can imagine is to die, or to see him dead!' 'There--that will do for the present!' said Heathcliff. 'If you are called upon in a court of law, you'll remember her language, Nelly! And take a good look at that countenance: she's near the point which would suit me. No; you're not fit to be your own guardian, Isabella, now; and I, being your legal protector, must retain you in my custody, however distasteful the obligation may be. Go up-stairs; I have something to say to Ellen Dean in private. That's not the way: up-stairs, I tell you! Why, this is the road upstairs, child!' He seized, and thrust her from the room; and returned muttering--'I have no pity! I have no pity! The more the worms writhe, the more I yearn to crush out their entrails! It is a moral teething; and I grind with greater energy in proportion to the increase of pain.' 'Do you understand what the word pity means?' I said, hastening to resume my bonnet. 'Did you ever feel a touch of it in your life?' 'Put that down!' he interrupted, perceiving my intention to depart. 'You are not going yet. Come here now, Nelly: I must either persuade or compel you to aid me in fulfilling my determination to see Catherine, and that without delay. I swear that I meditate no harm: I don't desire to cause any disturbance, or to exasperate or insult Mr. Linton; I only wish to hear from herself how she is, and why she has been ill; and to ask if anything that I could do would be of use to her. Last night I was in the Grange garden six hours, and I'll return there to-night; and every night I'll haunt the place, and every day, till I find an opportunity of entering. If Edgar Linton meets me, I shall not hesitate to knock him down, and give him enough to insure his quiescence while I stay. If his servants oppose me, I shall threaten them off with these pistols. But wouldn't it be better to prevent my coming in contact with them, or their master? And you could do it so easily. I'd warn you when I came, and then you might let me in unobserved, as soon as she was alone, and watch till I departed, your conscience quite calm: you would be hindering mischief.' I protested against playing that treacherous part in my employer's house: and, besides, I urged the cruelty and selfishness of his destroying Mrs. Linton's tranquillity for his satisfaction. 'The commonest occurrence startles her painfully,' I said. 'She's all nerves, and she couldn't bear the surprise, I'm positive. Don't persist, sir! or else I shall be obliged to inform my master of your designs; and he'll take measures to secure his house and its inmates from any such unwarrantable intrusions!' 'In that case I'll take measures to secure you, woman!' exclaimed Heathcliff; 'you shall not leave Wuthering Heights till to-morrow morning. It is a foolish story to assert that Catherine could not bear to see me; and as to surprising her, I don't desire it: you must prepare her--ask her if I may come. You say she never mentions my name, and that I am never mentioned to her. To whom should she mention me if I am a forbidden topic in the house? She thinks you are all spies for her husband. Oh, I've no doubt she's in hell among you! I guess by her silence, as much as anything, what she feels. You say she is often restless, and anxious-looking: is that a proof of tranquillity? You talk of her mind being unsettled. How the devil could it be otherwise in her frightful isolation? And that insipid, paltry creature attending her from _duty_ and _humanity_! From _pity_ and _charity_! He might as well plant an oak in a flower-pot, and expect it to thrive, as imagine he can restore her to vigour in the soil of his shallow cares? Let us settle it at once: will you stay here, and am I to fight my way to Catherine over Linton and his footman? Or will you be my friend, as you have been hitherto, and do what I request? Decide! because there is no reason for my lingering another minute, if you persist in your stubborn ill-nature!' Well, Mr. Lockwood, I argued and complained, and flatly refused him fifty times; but in the long run he forced me to an agreement. I engaged to carry a letter from him to my mistress; and should she consent, I promised to let him have intelligence of Linton's next absence from home, when he might come, and get in as he was able: I wouldn't be there, and my fellow-servants should be equally out of the way. Was it right or wrong? I fear it was wrong, though expedient. I thought I prevented another explosion by my compliance; and I thought, too, it might create a favourable crisis in Catherine's mental illness: and then I remembered Mr. Edgar's stern rebuke of my carrying tales; and I tried to smooth away all disquietude on the subject, by affirming, with frequent iteration, that that betrayal of trust, if it merited so harsh an appellation, should be the last. Notwithstanding, my journey homeward was sadder than my journey thither; and many misgivings I had, ere I could prevail on myself to put the missive into Mrs. Linton's hand. But here is Kenneth; I'll go down, and tell him how much better you are. My history is _dree_, as we say, and will serve to while away another morning. Dree, and dreary! I reflected as the good woman descended to receive the doctor: and not exactly of the kind which I should have chosen to amuse me. But never mind! I'll extract wholesome medicines from Mrs. Dean's bitter herbs; and firstly, let me beware of the fascination that lurks in Catherine Heathcliff's brilliant eyes. I should be in a curious taking if I surrendered my heart to that young person, and the daughter turned out a second edition of the mother. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Ellen erzählt Edgar, dass sie einen Brief von Isabella erhalten hat, in dem sie um Vergebung bittet und ihn sehen möchte. Er wird sie weder sehen noch ihr schreiben, aber er sagt Ellen, dass sie Isabella ausrichten soll, dass er nicht wütend auf sie ist. Ellen geht zu Wuthering Heights. Hindley ist nicht da, aber Heathcliff ist dort und der Ort ist ziemlich vernachlässigt. Isabella erwartet einen Brief von ihrem Bruder und ist enttäuscht, als Ellen ihr sagt, dass sie nichts für sie hat. Heathcliff erkundigt sich nach Catherine und sagt Ellen, dass sie arrangieren muss, dass er sie sieht. Sie will das nicht, da der Kampf zwischen ihm und Edgar sie krank gemacht hat. Heathcliff erzählt Ellen, dass Isabella irrational ist und voller Wahnvorstellungen zu ihm gekommen ist. Er sagt ihr, dass er ihr nie gesagt hat, dass er sie liebt, und dass sie sogar mit ihm fortgegangen ist, als sie sah, wie er ihren kleinen Hund aufhängte. Er sagt Ellen, dass Isabella gehen kann, wenn sie will, und Isabella sagt Ellen, dass sie es nicht glauben soll, da sie schon einmal versucht hat zu gehen. Heathcliff stößt Isabella aus dem Zimmer und versucht, Ellen dazu zu bringen, ihm zu helfen, Catherine wiederzusehen. Er überzeugt sie davon, dass es besser für sie wäre zu helfen, damit er Linton nicht begegnet und Catherine nicht noch mehr beunruhigt. Er gibt ihr einen Brief mit, den sie Catherine geben 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: For a week after the commission of the impious and profane offence of asking for more, Oliver remained a close prisoner in the dark and solitary room to which he had been consigned by the wisdom and mercy of the board. It appears, at first sight not unreasonable to suppose, that, if he had entertained a becoming feeling of respect for the prediction of the gentleman in the white waistcoat, he would have established that sage individual's prophetic character, once and for ever, by tying one end of his pocket-handkerchief to a hook in the wall, and attaching himself to the other. To the performance of this feat, however, there was one obstacle: namely, that pocket-handkerchiefs being decided articles of luxury, had been, for all future times and ages, removed from the noses of paupers by the express order of the board, in council assembled: solemnly given and pronounced under their hands and seals. There was a still greater obstacle in Oliver's youth and childishness. He only cried bitterly all day; and, when the long, dismal night came on, spread his little hands before his eyes to shut out the darkness, and crouching in the corner, tried to sleep: ever and anon waking with a start and tremble, and drawing himself closer and closer to the wall, as if to feel even its cold hard surface were a protection in the gloom and loneliness which surrounded him. Let it not be supposed by the enemies of 'the system,' that, during the period of his solitary incarceration, Oliver was denied the benefit of exercise, the pleasure of society, or the advantages of religious consolation. As for exercise, it was nice cold weather, and he was allowed to perform his ablutions every morning under the pump, in a stone yard, in the presence of Mr. Bumble, who prevented his catching cold, and caused a tingling sensation to pervade his frame, by repeated applications of the cane. As for society, he was carried every other day into the hall where the boys dined, and there sociably flogged as a public warning and example. And so far from being denied the advantages of religious consolation, he was kicked into the same apartment every evening at prayer-time, and there permitted to listen to, and console his mind with, a general supplication of the boys, containing a special clause, therein inserted by authority of the board, in which they entreated to be made good, virtuous, contented, and obedient, and to be guarded from the sins and vices of Oliver Twist: whom the supplication distinctly set forth to be under the exclusive patronage and protection of the powers of wickedness, and an article direct from the manufactory of the very Devil himself. It chanced one morning, while Oliver's affairs were in this auspicious and comfortable state, that Mr. Gamfield, chimney-sweep, went his way down the High Street, deeply cogitating in his mind his ways and means of paying certain arrears of rent, for which his landlord had become rather pressing. Mr. Gamfield's most sanguine estimate of his finances could not raise them within full five pounds of the desired amount; and, in a species of arithmetical desperation, he was alternately cudgelling his brains and his donkey, when passing the workhouse, his eyes encountered the bill on the gate. 'Wo--o!' said Mr. Gamfield to the donkey. The donkey was in a state of profound abstraction: wondering, probably, whether he was destined to be regaled with a cabbage-stalk or two when he had disposed of the two sacks of soot with which the little cart was laden; so, without noticing the word of command, he jogged onward. Mr. Gamfield growled a fierce imprecation on the donkey generally, but more particularly on his eyes; and, running after him, bestowed a blow on his head, which would inevitably have beaten in any skull but a donkey's. Then, catching hold of the bridle, he gave his jaw a sharp wrench, by way of gentle reminder that he was not his own master; and by these means turned him round. He then gave him another blow on the head, just to stun him till he came back again. Having completed these arrangements, he walked up to the gate, to read the bill. The gentleman with the white waistcoat was standing at the gate with his hands behind him, after having delivered himself of some profound sentiments in the board-room. Having witnessed the little dispute between Mr. Gamfield and the donkey, he smiled joyously when that person came up to read the bill, for he saw at once that Mr. Gamfield was exactly the sort of master Oliver Twist wanted. Mr. Gamfield smiled, too, as he perused the document; for five pounds was just the sum he had been wishing for; and, as to the boy with which it was encumbered, Mr. Gamfield, knowing what the dietary of the workhouse was, well knew he would be a nice small pattern, just the very thing for register stoves. So, he spelt the bill through again, from beginning to end; and then, touching his fur cap in token of humility, accosted the gentleman in the white waistcoat. 'This here boy, sir, wot the parish wants to 'prentis,' said Mr. Gamfield. 'Ay, my man,' said the gentleman in the white waistcoat, with a condescending smile. 'What of him?' 'If the parish vould like him to learn a right pleasant trade, in a good 'spectable chimbley-sweepin' bisness,' said Mr. Gamfield, 'I wants a 'prentis, and I am ready to take him.' 'Walk in,' said the gentleman in the white waistcoat. Mr. Gamfield having lingered behind, to give the donkey another blow on the head, and another wrench of the jaw, as a caution not to run away in his absence, followed the gentleman with the white waistcoat into the room where Oliver had first seen him. 'It's a nasty trade,' said Mr. Limbkins, when Gamfield had again stated his wish. 'Young boys have been smothered in chimneys before now,' said another gentleman. 'That's acause they damped the straw afore they lit it in the chimbley to make 'em come down again,' said Gamfield; 'that's all smoke, and no blaze; vereas smoke ain't o' no use at all in making a boy come down, for it only sinds him to sleep, and that's wot he likes. Boys is wery obstinit, and wery lazy, Gen'l'men, and there's nothink like a good hot blaze to make 'em come down vith a run. It's humane too, gen'l'men, acause, even if they've stuck in the chimbley, roasting their feet makes 'em struggle to hextricate theirselves.' The gentleman in the white waistcoat appeared very much amused by this explanation; but his mirth was speedily checked by a look from Mr. Limbkins. The board then proceeded to converse among themselves for a few minutes, but in so low a tone, that the words 'saving of expenditure,' 'looked well in the accounts,' 'have a printed report published,' were alone audible. These only chanced to be heard, indeed, or account of their being very frequently repeated with great emphasis. At length the whispering ceased; and the members of the board, having resumed their seats and their solemnity, Mr. Limbkins said: 'We have considered your proposition, and we don't approve of it.' 'Not at all,' said the gentleman in the white waistcoat. 'Decidedly not,' added the other members. As Mr. Gamfield did happen to labour under the slight imputation of having bruised three or four boys to death already, it occurred to him that the board had, perhaps, in some unaccountable freak, taken it into their heads that this extraneous circumstance ought to influence their proceedings. It was very unlike their general mode of doing business, if they had; but still, as he had no particular wish to revive the rumour, he twisted his cap in his hands, and walked slowly from the table. 'So you won't let me have him, gen'l'men?' said Mr. Gamfield, pausing near the door. 'No,' replied Mr. Limbkins; 'at least, as it's a nasty business, we think you ought to take something less than the premium we offered.' Mr. Gamfield's countenance brightened, as, with a quick step, he returned to the table, and said, 'What'll you give, gen'l'men? Come! Don't be too hard on a poor man. What'll you give?' 'I should say, three pound ten was plenty,' said Mr. Limbkins. 'Ten shillings too much,' said the gentleman in the white waistcoat. 'Come!' said Gamfield; 'say four pound, gen'l'men. Say four pound, and you've got rid of him for good and all. There!' 'Three pound ten,' repeated Mr. Limbkins, firmly. 'Come! I'll split the diff'erence, gen'l'men,' urged Gamfield. 'Three pound fifteen.' 'Not a farthing more,' was the firm reply of Mr. Limbkins. 'You're desperate hard upon me, gen'l'men,' said Gamfield, wavering. 'Pooh! pooh! nonsense!' said the gentleman in the white waistcoat. 'He'd be cheap with nothing at all, as a premium. Take him, you silly fellow! He's just the boy for you. He wants the stick, now and then: it'll do him good; and his board needn't come very expensive, for he hasn't been overfed since he was born. Ha! ha! ha!' Mr. Gamfield gave an arch look at the faces round the table, and, observing a smile on all of them, gradually broke into a smile himself. The bargain was made. Mr. Bumble, was at once instructed that Oliver Twist and his indentures were to be conveyed before the magistrate, for signature and approval, that very afternoon. In pursuance of this determination, little Oliver, to his excessive astonishment, was released from bondage, and ordered to put himself into a clean shirt. He had hardly achieved this very unusual gymnastic performance, when Mr. Bumble brought him, with his own hands, a basin of gruel, and the holiday allowance of two ounces and a quarter of bread. At this tremendous sight, Oliver began to cry very piteously: thinking, not unnaturally, that the board must have determined to kill him for some useful purpose, or they never would have begun to fatten him up in that way. 'Don't make your eyes red, Oliver, but eat your food and be thankful,' said Mr. Bumble, in a tone of impressive pomposity. 'You're a going to be made a 'prentice of, Oliver.' 'A prentice, sir!' said the child, trembling. 'Yes, Oliver,' said Mr. Bumble. 'The kind and blessed gentleman which is so many parents to you, Oliver, when you have none of your own: are a going to 'prentice' you: and to set you up in life, and make a man of you: although the expense to the parish is three pound ten!--three pound ten, Oliver!--seventy shillins--one hundred and forty sixpences!--and all for a naughty orphan which nobody can't love.' As Mr. Bumble paused to take breath, after delivering this address in an awful voice, the tears rolled down the poor child's face, and he sobbed bitterly. 'Come,' said Mr. Bumble, somewhat less pompously, for it was gratifying to his feelings to observe the effect his eloquence had produced; 'Come, Oliver! Wipe your eyes with the cuffs of your jacket, and don't cry into your gruel; that's a very foolish action, Oliver.' It certainly was, for there was quite enough water in it already. On their way to the magistrate, Mr. Bumble instructed Oliver that all he would have to do, would be to look very happy, and say, when the gentleman asked him if he wanted to be apprenticed, that he should like it very much indeed; both of which injunctions Oliver promised to obey: the rather as Mr. Bumble threw in a gentle hint, that if he failed in either particular, there was no telling what would be done to him. When they arrived at the office, he was shut up in a little room by himself, and admonished by Mr. Bumble to stay there, until he came back to fetch him. There the boy remained, with a palpitating heart, for half an hour. At the expiration of which time Mr. Bumble thrust in his head, unadorned with the cocked hat, and said aloud: 'Now, Oliver, my dear, come to the gentleman.' As Mr. Bumble said this, he put on a grim and threatening look, and added, in a low voice, 'Mind what I told you, you young rascal!' Oliver stared innocently in Mr. Bumble's face at this somewhat contradictory style of address; but that gentleman prevented his offering any remark thereupon, by leading him at once into an adjoining room: the door of which was open. It was a large room, with a great window. Behind a desk, sat two old gentleman with powdered heads: one of whom was reading the newspaper; while the other was perusing, with the aid of a pair of tortoise-shell spectacles, a small piece of parchment which lay before him. Mr. Limbkins was standing in front of the desk on one side; and Mr. Gamfield, with a partially washed face, on the other; while two or three bluff-looking men, in top-boots, were lounging about. The old gentleman with the spectacles gradually dozed off, over the little bit of parchment; and there was a short pause, after Oliver had been stationed by Mr. Bumble in front of the desk. 'This is the boy, your worship,' said Mr. Bumble. The old gentleman who was reading the newspaper raised his head for a moment, and pulled the other old gentleman by the sleeve; whereupon, the last-mentioned old gentleman woke up. 'Oh, is this the boy?' said the old gentleman. 'This is him, sir,' replied Mr. Bumble. 'Bow to the magistrate, my dear.' Oliver roused himself, and made his best obeisance. He had been wondering, with his eyes fixed on the magistrates' powder, whether all boards were born with that white stuff on their heads, and were boards from thenceforth on that account. 'Well,' said the old gentleman, 'I suppose he's fond of chimney-sweeping?' 'He doats on it, your worship,' replied Bumble; giving Oliver a sly pinch, to intimate that he had better not say he didn't. 'And he _will_ be a sweep, will he?' inquired the old gentleman. 'If we was to bind him to any other trade to-morrow, he'd run away simultaneous, your worship,' replied Bumble. 'And this man that's to be his master--you, sir--you'll treat him well, and feed him, and do all that sort of thing, will you?' said the old gentleman. 'When I says I will, I means I will,' replied Mr. Gamfield doggedly. 'You're a rough speaker, my friend, but you look an honest, open-hearted man,' said the old gentleman: turning his spectacles in the direction of the candidate for Oliver's premium, whose villainous countenance was a regular stamped receipt for cruelty. But the magistrate was half blind and half childish, so he couldn't reasonably be expected to discern what other people did. 'I hope I am, sir,' said Mr. Gamfield, with an ugly leer. 'I have no doubt you are, my friend,' replied the old gentleman: fixing his spectacles more firmly on his nose, and looking about him for the inkstand. It was the critical moment of Oliver's fate. If the inkstand had been where the old gentleman thought it was, he would have dipped his pen into it, and signed the indentures, and Oliver would have been straightway hurried off. But, as it chanced to be immediately under his nose, it followed, as a matter of course, that he looked all over his desk for it, without finding it; and happening in the course of his search to look straight before him, his gaze encountered the pale and terrified face of Oliver Twist: who, despite all the admonitory looks and pinches of Bumble, was regarding the repulsive countenance of his future master, with a mingled expression of horror and fear, too palpable to be mistaken, even by a half-blind magistrate. The old gentleman stopped, laid down his pen, and looked from Oliver to Mr. Limbkins; who attempted to take snuff with a cheerful and unconcerned aspect. 'My boy!' said the old gentleman, 'you look pale and alarmed. What is the matter?' 'Stand a little away from him, Beadle,' said the other magistrate: laying aside the paper, and leaning forward with an expression of interest. 'Now, boy, tell us what's the matter: don't be afraid.' Oliver fell on his knees, and clasping his hands together, prayed that they would order him back to the dark room--that they would starve him--beat him--kill him if they pleased--rather than send him away with that dreadful man. 'Well!' said Mr. Bumble, raising his hands and eyes with most impressive solemnity. 'Well! of all the artful and designing orphans that ever I see, Oliver, you are one of the most bare-facedest.' 'Hold your tongue, Beadle,' said the second old gentleman, when Mr. Bumble had given vent to this compound adjective. 'I beg your worship's pardon,' said Mr. Bumble, incredulous of having heard aright. 'Did your worship speak to me?' 'Yes. Hold your tongue.' Mr. Bumble was stupefied with astonishment. A beadle ordered to hold his tongue! A moral revolution! The old gentleman in the tortoise-shell spectacles looked at his companion, he nodded significantly. 'We refuse to sanction these indentures,' said the old gentleman: tossing aside the piece of parchment as he spoke. 'I hope,' stammered Mr. Limbkins: 'I hope the magistrates will not form the opinion that the authorities have been guilty of any improper conduct, on the unsupported testimony of a child.' 'The magistrates are not called upon to pronounce any opinion on the matter,' said the second old gentleman sharply. 'Take the boy back to the workhouse, and treat him kindly. He seems to want it.' That same evening, the gentleman in the white waistcoat most positively and decidedly affirmed, not only that Oliver would be hung, but that he would be drawn and quartered into the bargain. Mr. Bumble shook his head with gloomy mystery, and said he wished he might come to good; whereunto Mr. Gamfield replied, that he wished he might come to him; which, although he agreed with the beadle in most matters, would seem to be a wish of a totally opposite description. The next morning, the public were once informed that Oliver Twist was again To Let, and that five pounds would be paid to anybody who would take possession of him. In great families, when an advantageous place cannot be obtained, either in possession, reversion, remainder, or expectancy, for the young man who is growing up, it is a very general custom to send him to sea. The board, in imitation of so wise and salutary an example, took counsel together on the expediency of shipping off Oliver Twist, in some small trading vessel bound to a good unhealthy port. This suggested itself as the very best thing that could possibly be done with him: the probability being, that the skipper would flog him to death, in a playful mood, some day after dinner, or would knock his brains out with an iron bar; both pastimes being, as is pretty generally known, very favourite and common recreations among gentleman of that class. The more the case presented itself to the board, in this point of view, the more manifold the advantages of the step appeared; so, they came to the conclusion that the only way of providing for Oliver effectually, was to send him to sea without delay. Mr. Bumble had been despatched to make various preliminary inquiries, with the view of finding out some captain or other who wanted a cabin-boy without any friends; and was returning to the workhouse to communicate the result of his mission; when he encountered at the gate, no less a person than Mr. Sowerberry, the parochial undertaker. Mr. Sowerberry was a tall gaunt, large-jointed man, attired in a suit of threadbare black, with darned cotton stockings of the same colour, and shoes to answer. His features were not naturally intended to wear a smiling aspect, but he was in general rather given to professional jocosity. His step was elastic, and his face betokened inward pleasantry, as he advanced to Mr. Bumble, and shook him cordially by the hand. 'I have taken the measure of the two women that died last night, Mr. Bumble,' said the undertaker. 'You'll make your fortune, Mr. Sowerberry,' said the beadle, as he thrust his thumb and forefinger into the proffered snuff-box of the undertaker: which was an ingenious little model of a patent coffin. 'I say you'll make your fortune, Mr. Sowerberry,' repeated Mr. Bumble, tapping the undertaker on the shoulder, in a friendly manner, with his cane. 'Think so?' said the undertaker in a tone which half admitted and half disputed the probability of the event. 'The prices allowed by the board are very small, Mr. Bumble.' 'So are the coffins,' replied the beadle: with precisely as near an approach to a laugh as a great official ought to indulge in. Mr. Sowerberry was much tickled at this: as of course he ought to be; and laughed a long time without cessation. 'Well, well, Mr. Bumble,' he said at length, 'there's no denying that, since the new system of feeding has come in, the coffins are something narrower and more shallow than they used to be; but we must have some profit, Mr. Bumble. Well-seasoned timber is an expensive article, sir; and all the iron handles come, by canal, from Birmingham.' 'Well, well,' said Mr. Bumble, 'every trade has its drawbacks. A fair profit is, of course, allowable.' 'Of course, of course,' replied the undertaker; 'and if I don't get a profit upon this or that particular article, why, I make it up in the long-run, you see--he! he! he!' 'Just so,' said Mr. Bumble. 'Though I must say,' continued the undertaker, resuming the current of observations which the beadle had interrupted: 'though I must say, Mr. Bumble, that I have to contend against one very great disadvantage: which is, that all the stout people go off the quickest. The people who have been better off, and have paid rates for many years, are the first to sink when they come into the house; and let me tell you, Mr. Bumble, that three or four inches over one's calculation makes a great hole in one's profits: especially when one has a family to provide for, sir.' As Mr. Sowerberry said this, with the becoming indignation of an ill-used man; and as Mr. Bumble felt that it rather tended to convey a reflection on the honour of the parish; the latter gentleman thought it advisable to change the subject. Oliver Twist being uppermost in his mind, he made him his theme. 'By the bye,' said Mr. Bumble, 'you don't know anybody who wants a boy, do you? A porochial 'prentis, who is at present a dead-weight; a millstone, as I may say, round the porochial throat? Liberal terms, Mr. Sowerberry, liberal terms?' As Mr. Bumble spoke, he raised his cane to the bill above him, and gave three distinct raps upon the words 'five pounds': which were printed thereon in Roman capitals of gigantic size. 'Gadso!' said the undertaker: taking Mr. Bumble by the gilt-edged lappel of his official coat; 'that's just the very thing I wanted to speak to you about. You know--dear me, what a very elegant button this is, Mr. Bumble! I never noticed it before.' 'Yes, I think it rather pretty,' said the beadle, glancing proudly downwards at the large brass buttons which embellished his coat. 'The die is the same as the porochial seal--the Good Samaritan healing the sick and bruised man. The board presented it to me on Newyear's morning, Mr. Sowerberry. I put it on, I remember, for the first time, to attend the inquest on that reduced tradesman, who died in a doorway at midnight.' 'I recollect,' said the undertaker. 'The jury brought it in, "Died from exposure to the cold, and want of the common necessaries of life," didn't they?' Mr. Bumble nodded. 'And they made it a special verdict, I think,' said the undertaker, 'by adding some words to the effect, that if the relieving officer had--' 'Tush! Foolery!' interposed the beadle. 'If the board attended to all the nonsense that ignorant jurymen talk, they'd have enough to do.' 'Very true,' said the undertaker; 'they would indeed.' 'Juries,' said Mr. Bumble, grasping his cane tightly, as was his wont when working into a passion: 'juries is ineddicated, vulgar, grovelling wretches.' 'So they are,' said the undertaker. 'They haven't no more philosophy nor political economy about 'em than that,' said the beadle, snapping his fingers contemptuously. 'No more they have,' acquiesced the undertaker. 'I despise 'em,' said the beadle, growing very red in the face. 'So do I,' rejoined the undertaker. 'And I only wish we'd a jury of the independent sort, in the house for a week or two,' said the beadle; 'the rules and regulations of the board would soon bring their spirit down for 'em.' 'Let 'em alone for that,' replied the undertaker. So saying, he smiled, approvingly: to calm the rising wrath of the indignant parish officer. Mr Bumble lifted off his cocked hat; took a handkerchief from the inside of the crown; wiped from his forehead the perspiration which his rage had engendered; fixed the cocked hat on again; and, turning to the undertaker, said in a calmer voice: 'Well; what about the boy?' 'Oh!' replied the undertaker; 'why, you know, Mr. Bumble, I pay a good deal towards the poor's rates.' 'Hem!' said Mr. Bumble. 'Well?' 'Well,' replied the undertaker, 'I was thinking that if I pay so much towards 'em, I've a right to get as much out of 'em as I can, Mr. Bumble; and so--I think I'll take the boy myself.' Mr. Bumble grasped the undertaker by the arm, and led him into the building. Mr. Sowerberry was closeted with the board for five minutes; and it was arranged that Oliver should go to him that evening 'upon liking'--a phrase which means, in the case of a parish apprentice, that if the master find, upon a short trial, that he can get enough work out of a boy without putting too much food into him, he shall have him for a term of years, to do what he likes with. When little Oliver was taken before 'the gentlemen' that evening; and informed that he was to go, that night, as general house-lad to a coffin-maker's; and that if he complained of his situation, or ever came back to the parish again, he would be sent to sea, there to be drowned, or knocked on the head, as the case might be, he evinced so little emotion, that they by common consent pronounced him a hardened young rascal, and ordered Mr. Bumble to remove him forthwith. Now, although it was very natural that the board, of all people in the world, should feel in a great state of virtuous astonishment and horror at the smallest tokens of want of feeling on the part of anybody, they were rather out, in this particular instance. The simple fact was, that Oliver, instead of possessing too little feeling, possessed rather too much; and was in a fair way of being reduced, for life, to a state of brutal stupidity and sullenness by the ill usage he had received. He heard the news of his destination, in perfect silence; and, having had his luggage put into his hand--which was not very difficult to carry, inasmuch as it was all comprised within the limits of a brown paper parcel, about half a foot square by three inches deep--he pulled his cap over his eyes; and once more attaching himself to Mr. Bumble's coat cuff, was led away by that dignitary to a new scene of suffering. For some time, Mr. Bumble drew Oliver along, without notice or remark; for the beadle carried his head very erect, as a beadle always should: and, it being a windy day, little Oliver was completely enshrouded by the skirts of Mr. Bumble's coat as they blew open, and disclosed to great advantage his flapped waistcoat and drab plush knee-breeches. As they drew near to their destination, however, Mr. Bumble thought it expedient to look down, and see that the boy was in good order for inspection by his new master: which he accordingly did, with a fit and becoming air of gracious patronage. 'Oliver!' said Mr. Bumble. 'Yes, sir,' replied Oliver, in a low, tremulous voice. 'Pull that cap off your eyes, and hold up your head, sir.' Although Oliver did as he was desired, at once; and passed the back of his unoccupied hand briskly across his eyes, he left a tear in them when he looked up at his conductor. As Mr. Bumble gazed sternly upon him, it rolled down his cheek. It was followed by another, and another. The child made a strong effort, but it was an unsuccessful one. Withdrawing his other hand from Mr. Bumble's he covered his face with both; and wept until the tears sprung out from between his chin and bony fingers. 'Well!' exclaimed Mr. Bumble, stopping short, and darting at his little charge a look of intense malignity. 'Well! Of _all_ the ungratefullest, and worst-disposed boys as ever I see, Oliver, you are the--' 'No, no, sir,' sobbed Oliver, clinging to the hand which held the well-known cane; 'no, no, sir; I will be good indeed; indeed, indeed I will, sir! I am a very little boy, sir; and it is so--so--' 'So what?' inquired Mr. Bumble in amazement. 'So lonely, sir! So very lonely!' cried the child. 'Everybody hates me. Oh! sir, don't, don't pray be cross to me!' The child beat his hand upon his heart; and looked in his companion's face, with tears of real agony. Mr. Bumble regarded Oliver's piteous and helpless look, with some astonishment, for a few seconds; hemmed three or four times in a husky manner; and after muttering something about 'that troublesome cough,' bade Oliver dry his eyes and be a good boy. Then once more taking his hand, he walked on with him in silence. The undertaker, who had just put up the shutters of his shop, was making some entries in his day-book by the light of a most appropriate dismal candle, when Mr. Bumble entered. 'Aha!' said the undertaker; looking up from the book, and pausing in the middle of a word; 'is that you, Bumble?' 'No one else, Mr. Sowerberry,' replied the beadle. 'Here! I've brought the boy.' Oliver made a bow. 'Oh! that's the boy, is it?' said the undertaker: raising the candle above his head, to get a better view of Oliver. 'Mrs. Sowerberry, will you have the goodness to come here a moment, my dear?' Mrs. Sowerberry emerged from a little room behind the shop, and presented the form of a short, then, squeezed-up woman, with a vixenish countenance. 'My dear,' said Mr. Sowerberry, deferentially, 'this is the boy from the workhouse that I told you of.' Oliver bowed again. 'Dear me!' said the undertaker's wife, 'he's very small.' 'Why, he _is_ rather small,' replied Mr. Bumble: looking at Oliver as if it were his fault that he was no bigger; 'he is small. There's no denying it. But he'll grow, Mrs. Sowerberry--he'll grow.' 'Ah! I dare say he will,' replied the lady pettishly, 'on our victuals and our drink. I see no saving in parish children, not I; for they always cost more to keep, than they're worth. However, men always think they know best. There! Get downstairs, little bag o' bones.' With this, the undertaker's wife opened a side door, and pushed Oliver down a steep flight of stairs into a stone cell, damp and dark: forming the ante-room to the coal-cellar, and denominated 'kitchen'; wherein sat a slatternly girl, in shoes down at heel, and blue worsted stockings very much out of repair. 'Here, Charlotte,' said Mr. Sowerberry, who had followed Oliver down, 'give this boy some of the cold bits that were put by for Trip. He hasn't come home since the morning, so he may go without 'em. I dare say the boy isn't too dainty to eat 'em--are you, boy?' Oliver, whose eyes had glistened at the mention of meat, and who was trembling with eagerness to devour it, replied in the negative; and a plateful of coarse broken victuals was set before him. Ich wünschte, ein satt gefütterter Philosoph, dessen Essen und Trinken ihn in Galle verwandeln; dessen Blut eisig ist, dessen Herz aus Eisen besteht; hätte gesehen, wie Oliver Twist die köstlichen Speisen ergreift, die der Hund vernachlässigt hatte. Ich wünschte, er hätte die schreckliche Gier miterleben können, mit der Oliver die Stücke mit der ganzen Wildheit des Hungers zerfetzt hat. Es gibt nur eine Sache, die mir noch besser gefallen würde; und das wäre, den Philosophen dieselbe Art von Mahlzeit mit demselben Genuss machen zu sehen. "Nun," sagte die Frau des Bestatters, als Oliver sein Abendessen beendet hatte: das sie mit stummer Entsetzung und bangen Vorahnungen seiner zukünftigen Appetit betrachtet hatte, "bist du fertig?" Da nichts Essbares in seiner Reichweite war, antwortete Oliver bejahend. "Dann komm mit mir," sagte Frau Sowerberry und nahm eine düstere und schmutzige Lampe auf und führte den Weg nach oben. "Dein Bett ist unter dem Ladentisch. Es macht dir wohl nichts aus, zwischen den Särgen zu schlafen, oder? Aber es spielt keine große Rolle, ob du es magst oder nicht, denn du kannst nirgendwo anders schlafen. Komm schon, lass mich hier nicht die ganze Nacht warten!" Oliver zögerte nicht länger, sondern folgte seiner neuen Herrin demütig. Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Eine Woche lang bleibt Oliver ein einsamer Gefangener, abgesehen von den Ritualen, jeden zweiten Tag vor den versammelten Jungen ausgepeitscht zu werden und zur Gebetszeit als Beispiel vollkommener Bosheit präsentiert zu werden. Eines Morgens bemerkt ein vorbeigehender Kaminschornsteinfeger namens Gamfield das Plakat, das verkündet, dass man das Arbeitshaus von Oliver befreien will. Da er dringend fünf Pfund braucht, tritt Gamfield ein und bietet an, Oliver für den ausgeschriebenen Betrag als Lehrjungen anzunehmen. Herr Limbkins vom Vorstand weist darauf hin, dass es sich um einen schmutzigen Handel handelt. Nach einer Beratung lehnt der Vorstand Gamfields Angebot ab. Aber nach etwas Verhandlung stimmen sie zu, Oliver für drei Pfund und zehn Schillinge abzugeben; rechtliche Unterlagen, die Oliver an eine Lehrzeit bei Gamfield binden, werden zur endgültigen Genehmigung erstellt. Als Oliver vor die Richter gebracht wird, ist er entsetzt beim Anblick von Gamfields grausamem Aussehen. Gerade als einer der alten Herren dabei ist, die Dokumente zu unterzeichnen, die Oliver Gamfield zuweisen, erhascht er einen Blick auf Olivers von Angst gezeichnetes Gesicht. Der Richter zögert und befragt Oliver, der verzweifelt fleht, dass er zu jeder Bestimmung verurteilt werde, anstatt in die Obhut des bösartig aussehenden Kaminschornsteinfegers gegeben zu werden. Der freundliche alte Mann ist gerührt und das Verfahren wird abgebrochen. Oliver kommt zurück ins Arbeitshaus; das Schild schmückt wieder das Tor. Untersuchungen werden angestellt, um festzustellen, ob Oliver als Schiffsjunge auf einem Schiff eingeschifft werden könnte, aber der Bestatter, Herr Sowerberry, erklärt sich bereit, den Jungen als universelles Dienstmädchen auf Probe zu nehmen. Die Vereinbarungen werden sofort getroffen. Als Oliver informiert wird, nimmt er die Nachricht ohne jeglichen Ausdruck auf, was zu dem Konsens führt, dass er "ein verhärteter junger Schurke" ist. Die Wahrheit ist, dass der Junge "auf dem besten Weg ist, durch das schlechte Verhalten, das er erfahren hat, für sein Leben lang in einen Zustand brutaler Dummheit und Verdrossenheit geraten zu sein." Bumble führt das abgemagerte Kind "in eine neue Szene des Leidens". Als sie beim Bestatter ankommen, erlaubt Mrs. Sowerberry Oliver, sich von den Hinterlassenschaften des vernachlässigten Hundes Trip zu ernähren. Oliver verschlingt begierig die Reste, was die reizbare Frau wegen der Aussicht, einem so abnormen Appetit gerecht werden zu müssen, beunruhigt. Die Herrin zeigt Oliver dann, wo er schlafen soll, unter dem Ladentisch, zwischen den Särgen.

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: Emma could not forgive her;--but as neither provocation nor resentment were discerned by Mr. Knightley, who had been of the party, and had seen only proper attention and pleasing behaviour on each side, he was expressing the next morning, being at Hartfield again on business with Mr. Woodhouse, his approbation of the whole; not so openly as he might have done had her father been out of the room, but speaking plain enough to be very intelligible to Emma. He had been used to think her unjust to Jane, and had now great pleasure in marking an improvement. "A very pleasant evening," he began, as soon as Mr. Woodhouse had been talked into what was necessary, told that he understood, and the papers swept away;--"particularly pleasant. You and Miss Fairfax gave us some very good music. I do not know a more luxurious state, sir, than sitting at one's ease to be entertained a whole evening by two such young women; sometimes with music and sometimes with conversation. I am sure Miss Fairfax must have found the evening pleasant, Emma. You left nothing undone. I was glad you made her play so much, for having no instrument at her grandmother's, it must have been a real indulgence." "I am happy you approved," said Emma, smiling; "but I hope I am not often deficient in what is due to guests at Hartfield." "No, my dear," said her father instantly; "_that_ I am sure you are not. There is nobody half so attentive and civil as you are. If any thing, you are too attentive. The muffin last night--if it had been handed round once, I think it would have been enough." "No," said Mr. Knightley, nearly at the same time; "you are not often deficient; not often deficient either in manner or comprehension. I think you understand me, therefore." An arch look expressed--"I understand you well enough;" but she said only, "Miss Fairfax is reserved." "I always told you she was--a little; but you will soon overcome all that part of her reserve which ought to be overcome, all that has its foundation in diffidence. What arises from discretion must be honoured." "You think her diffident. I do not see it." "My dear Emma," said he, moving from his chair into one close by her, "you are not going to tell me, I hope, that you had not a pleasant evening." "Oh! no; I was pleased with my own perseverance in asking questions; and amused to think how little information I obtained." "I am disappointed," was his only answer. "I hope every body had a pleasant evening," said Mr. Woodhouse, in his quiet way. "I had. Once, I felt the fire rather too much; but then I moved back my chair a little, a very little, and it did not disturb me. Miss Bates was very chatty and good-humoured, as she always is, though she speaks rather too quick. However, she is very agreeable, and Mrs. Bates too, in a different way. I like old friends; and Miss Jane Fairfax is a very pretty sort of young lady, a very pretty and a very well-behaved young lady indeed. She must have found the evening agreeable, Mr. Knightley, because she had Emma." "True, sir; and Emma, because she had Miss Fairfax." Emma saw his anxiety, and wishing to appease it, at least for the present, said, and with a sincerity which no one could question-- "She is a sort of elegant creature that one cannot keep one's eyes from. I am always watching her to admire; and I do pity her from my heart." Mr. Knightley looked as if he were more gratified than he cared to express; and before he could make any reply, Mr. Woodhouse, whose thoughts were on the Bates's, said-- "It is a great pity that their circumstances should be so confined! a great pity indeed! and I have often wished--but it is so little one can venture to do--small, trifling presents, of any thing uncommon--Now we have killed a porker, and Emma thinks of sending them a loin or a leg; it is very small and delicate--Hartfield pork is not like any other pork--but still it is pork--and, my dear Emma, unless one could be sure of their making it into steaks, nicely fried, as ours are fried, without the smallest grease, and not roast it, for no stomach can bear roast pork--I think we had better send the leg--do not you think so, my dear?" "My dear papa, I sent the whole hind-quarter. I knew you would wish it. There will be the leg to be salted, you know, which is so very nice, and the loin to be dressed directly in any manner they like." "That's right, my dear, very right. I had not thought of it before, but that is the best way. They must not over-salt the leg; and then, if it is not over-salted, and if it is very thoroughly boiled, just as Serle boils ours, and eaten very moderately of, with a boiled turnip, and a little carrot or parsnip, I do not consider it unwholesome." "Emma," said Mr. Knightley presently, "I have a piece of news for you. You like news--and I heard an article in my way hither that I think will interest you." "News! Oh! yes, I always like news. What is it?--why do you smile so?--where did you hear it?--at Randalls?" He had time only to say, "No, not at Randalls; I have not been near Randalls," when the door was thrown open, and Miss Bates and Miss Fairfax walked into the room. Full of thanks, and full of news, Miss Bates knew not which to give quickest. Mr. Knightley soon saw that he had lost his moment, and that not another syllable of communication could rest with him. "Oh! my dear sir, how are you this morning? My dear Miss Woodhouse--I come quite over-powered. Such a beautiful hind-quarter of pork! You are too bountiful! Have you heard the news? Mr. Elton is going to be married." Emma had not had time even to think of Mr. Elton, and she was so completely surprized that she could not avoid a little start, and a little blush, at the sound. "There is my news:--I thought it would interest you," said Mr. Knightley, with a smile which implied a conviction of some part of what had passed between them. "But where could _you_ hear it?" cried Miss Bates. "Where could you possibly hear it, Mr. Knightley? For it is not five minutes since I received Mrs. Cole's note--no, it cannot be more than five--or at least ten--for I had got my bonnet and spencer on, just ready to come out--I was only gone down to speak to Patty again about the pork--Jane was standing in the passage--were not you, Jane?--for my mother was so afraid that we had not any salting-pan large enough. So I said I would go down and see, and Jane said, 'Shall I go down instead? for I think you have a little cold, and Patty has been washing the kitchen.'--'Oh! my dear,' said I--well, and just then came the note. A Miss Hawkins--that's all I know. A Miss Hawkins of Bath. But, Mr. Knightley, how could you possibly have heard it? for the very moment Mr. Cole told Mrs. Cole of it, she sat down and wrote to me. A Miss Hawkins--" "I was with Mr. Cole on business an hour and a half ago. He had just read Elton's letter as I was shewn in, and handed it to me directly." "Well! that is quite--I suppose there never was a piece of news more generally interesting. My dear sir, you really are too bountiful. My mother desires her very best compliments and regards, and a thousand thanks, and says you really quite oppress her." "We consider our Hartfield pork," replied Mr. Woodhouse--"indeed it certainly is, so very superior to all other pork, that Emma and I cannot have a greater pleasure than--" "Oh! my dear sir, as my mother says, our friends are only too good to us. If ever there were people who, without having great wealth themselves, had every thing they could wish for, I am sure it is us. We may well say that 'our lot is cast in a goodly heritage.' Well, Mr. Knightley, and so you actually saw the letter; well--" "It was short--merely to announce--but cheerful, exulting, of course."-- Here was a sly glance at Emma. "He had been so fortunate as to--I forget the precise words--one has no business to remember them. The information was, as you state, that he was going to be married to a Miss Hawkins. By his style, I should imagine it just settled." "Mr. Elton going to be married!" said Emma, as soon as she could speak. "He will have every body's wishes for his happiness." "He is very young to settle," was Mr. Woodhouse's observation. "He had better not be in a hurry. He seemed to me very well off as he was. We were always glad to see him at Hartfield." "A new neighbour for us all, Miss Woodhouse!" said Miss Bates, joyfully; "my mother is so pleased!--she says she cannot bear to have the poor old Vicarage without a mistress. This is great news, indeed. Jane, you have never seen Mr. Elton!--no wonder that you have such a curiosity to see him." Jane's curiosity did not appear of that absorbing nature as wholly to occupy her. "No--I have never seen Mr. Elton," she replied, starting on this appeal; "is he--is he a tall man?" "Who shall answer that question?" cried Emma. "My father would say 'yes,' Mr. Knightley 'no;' and Miss Bates and I that he is just the happy medium. When you have been here a little longer, Miss Fairfax, you will understand that Mr. Elton is the standard of perfection in Highbury, both in person and mind." "Very true, Miss Woodhouse, so she will. He is the very best young man--But, my dear Jane, if you remember, I told you yesterday he was precisely the height of Mr. Perry. Miss Hawkins,--I dare say, an excellent young woman. His extreme attention to my mother--wanting her to sit in the vicarage pew, that she might hear the better, for my mother is a little deaf, you know--it is not much, but she does not hear quite quick. Jane says that Colonel Campbell is a little deaf. He fancied bathing might be good for it--the warm bath--but she says it did him no lasting benefit. Colonel Campbell, you know, is quite our angel. And Mr. Dixon seems a very charming young man, quite worthy of him. It is such a happiness when good people get together--and they always do. Now, here will be Mr. Elton and Miss Hawkins; and there are the Coles, such very good people; and the Perrys--I suppose there never was a happier or a better couple than Mr. and Mrs. Perry. I say, sir," turning to Mr. Woodhouse, "I think there are few places with such society as Highbury. I always say, we are quite blessed in our neighbours.--My dear sir, if there is one thing my mother loves better than another, it is pork--a roast loin of pork--" "As to who, or what Miss Hawkins is, or how long he has been acquainted with her," said Emma, "nothing I suppose can be known. One feels that it cannot be a very long acquaintance. He has been gone only four weeks." Nobody had any information to give; and, after a few more wonderings, Emma said, "You are silent, Miss Fairfax--but I hope you mean to take an interest in this news. You, who have been hearing and seeing so much of late on these subjects, who must have been so deep in the business on Miss Campbell's account--we shall not excuse your being indifferent about Mr. Elton and Miss Hawkins." "When I have seen Mr. Elton," replied Jane, "I dare say I shall be interested--but I believe it requires _that_ with me. And as it is some months since Miss Campbell married, the impression may be a little worn off." "Yes, he has been gone just four weeks, as you observe, Miss Woodhouse," said Miss Bates, "four weeks yesterday.--A Miss Hawkins!--Well, I had always rather fancied it would be some young lady hereabouts; not that I ever--Mrs. Cole once whispered to me--but I immediately said, 'No, Mr. Elton is a most worthy young man--but'--In short, I do not think I am particularly quick at those sort of discoveries. I do not pretend to it. What is before me, I see. At the same time, nobody could wonder if Mr. Elton should have aspired--Miss Woodhouse lets me chatter on, so good-humouredly. She knows I would not offend for the world. How does Miss Smith do? She seems quite recovered now. Have you heard from Mrs. John Knightley lately? Oh! those dear little children. Jane, do you know I always fancy Mr. Dixon like Mr. John Knightley. I mean in person--tall, and with that sort of look--and not very talkative." "Quite wrong, my dear aunt; there is no likeness at all." "Very odd! but one never does form a just idea of any body beforehand. One takes up a notion, and runs away with it. Mr. Dixon, you say, is not, strictly speaking, handsome?" "Handsome! Oh! no--far from it--certainly plain. I told you he was plain." "My dear, you said that Miss Campbell would not allow him to be plain, and that you yourself--" "Oh! as for me, my judgment is worth nothing. Where I have a regard, I always think a person well-looking. But I gave what I believed the general opinion, when I called him plain." "Well, my dear Jane, I believe we must be running away. The weather does not look well, and grandmama will be uneasy. You are too obliging, my dear Miss Woodhouse; but we really must take leave. This has been a most agreeable piece of news indeed. I shall just go round by Mrs. Cole's; but I shall not stop three minutes: and, Jane, you had better go home directly--I would not have you out in a shower!--We think she is the better for Highbury already. Thank you, we do indeed. I shall not attempt calling on Mrs. Goddard, for I really do not think she cares for any thing but _boiled_ pork: when we dress the leg it will be another thing. Good morning to you, my dear sir. Oh! Mr. Knightley is coming too. Well, that is so very!--I am sure if Jane is tired, you will be so kind as to give her your arm.--Mr. Elton, and Miss Hawkins!--Good morning to you." Emma, alone with her father, had half her attention wanted by him while he lamented that young people would be in such a hurry to marry--and to marry strangers too--and the other half she could give to her own view of the subject. It was to herself an amusing and a very welcome piece of news, as proving that Mr. Elton could not have suffered long; but she was sorry for Harriet: Harriet must feel it--and all that she could hope was, by giving the first information herself, to save her from hearing it abruptly from others. It was now about the time that she was likely to call. If she were to meet Miss Bates in her way!--and upon its beginning to rain, Emma was obliged to expect that the weather would be detaining her at Mrs. Goddard's, and that the intelligence would undoubtedly rush upon her without preparation. The shower was heavy, but short; and it had not been over five minutes, when in came Harriet, with just the heated, agitated look which hurrying thither with a full heart was likely to give; and the "Oh! Miss Woodhouse, what do you think has happened!" which instantly burst forth, had all the evidence of corresponding perturbation. As the blow was given, Emma felt that she could not now shew greater kindness than in listening; and Harriet, unchecked, ran eagerly through what she had to tell. "She had set out from Mrs. Goddard's half an hour ago--she had been afraid it would rain--she had been afraid it would pour down every moment--but she thought she might get to Hartfield first--she had hurried on as fast as possible; but then, as she was passing by the house where a young woman was making up a gown for her, she thought she would just step in and see how it went on; and though she did not seem to stay half a moment there, soon after she came out it began to rain, and she did not know what to do; so she ran on directly, as fast as she could, and took shelter at Ford's."--Ford's was the principal woollen-draper, linen-draper, and haberdasher's shop united; the shop first in size and fashion in the place.--"And so, there she had set, without an idea of any thing in the world, full ten minutes, perhaps--when, all of a sudden, who should come in--to be sure it was so very odd!--but they always dealt at Ford's--who should come in, but Elizabeth Martin and her brother!--Dear Miss Woodhouse! only think. I thought I should have fainted. I did not know what to do. I was sitting near the door--Elizabeth saw me directly; but he did not; he was busy with the umbrella. I am sure she saw me, but she looked away directly, and took no notice; and they both went to quite the farther end of the shop; and I kept sitting near the door!--Oh! dear; I was so miserable! I am sure I must have been as white as my gown. I could not go away you know, because of the rain; but I did so wish myself anywhere in the world but there.--Oh! dear, Miss Woodhouse--well, at last, I fancy, he looked round and saw me; for instead of going on with her buyings, they began whispering to one another. I am sure they were talking of me; and I could not help thinking that he was persuading her to speak to me--(do you think he was, Miss Woodhouse?)--for presently she came forward--came quite up to me, and asked me how I did, and seemed ready to shake hands, if I would. She did not do any of it in the same way that she used; I could see she was altered; but, however, she seemed to _try_ to be very friendly, and we shook hands, and stood talking some time; but I know no more what I said--I was in such a tremble!--I remember she said she was sorry we never met now; which I thought almost too kind! Dear, Miss Woodhouse, I was absolutely miserable! By that time, it was beginning to hold up, and I was determined that nothing should stop me from getting away--and then--only think!--I found he was coming up towards me too--slowly you know, and as if he did not quite know what to do; and so he came and spoke, and I answered--and I stood for a minute, feeling dreadfully, you know, one can't tell how; and then I took courage, and said it did not rain, and I must go; and so off I set; and I had not got three yards from the door, when he came after me, only to say, if I was going to Hartfield, he thought I had much better go round by Mr. Cole's stables, for I should find the near way quite floated by this rain. Oh! dear, I thought it would have been the death of me! So I said, I was very much obliged to him: you know I could not do less; and then he went back to Elizabeth, and I came round by the stables--I believe I did--but I hardly knew where I was, or any thing about it. Oh! Miss Woodhouse, I would rather done any thing than have it happen: and yet, you know, there was a sort of satisfaction in seeing him behave so pleasantly and so kindly. And Elizabeth, too. Oh! Miss Woodhouse, do talk to me and make me comfortable again." Very sincerely did Emma wish to do so; but it was not immediately in her power. She was obliged to stop and think. She was not thoroughly comfortable herself. The young man's conduct, and his sister's, seemed the result of real feeling, and she could not but pity them. As Harriet described it, there had been an interesting mixture of wounded affection and genuine delicacy in their behaviour. But she had believed them to be well-meaning, worthy people before; and what difference did this make in the evils of the connexion? It was folly to be disturbed by it. Of course, he must be sorry to lose her--they must be all sorry. Ambition, as well as love, had probably been mortified. They might all have hoped to rise by Harriet's acquaintance: and besides, what was the value of Harriet's description?--So easily pleased--so little discerning;--what signified her praise? She exerted herself, and did try to make her comfortable, by considering all that had passed as a mere trifle, and quite unworthy of being dwelt on, "It might be distressing, for the moment," said she; "but you seem to have behaved extremely well; and it is over--and may never--can never, as a first meeting, occur again, and therefore you need not think about it." Harriet said, "very true," and she "would not think about it;" but still she talked of it--still she could talk of nothing else; and Emma, at last, in order to put the Martins out of her head, was obliged to hurry on the news, which she had meant to give with so much tender caution; hardly knowing herself whether to rejoice or be angry, ashamed or only amused, at such a state of mind in poor Harriet--such a conclusion of Mr. Elton's importance with her! Mr. Elton's rights, however, gradually revived. Though she did not feel the first intelligence as she might have done the day before, or an hour before, its interest soon increased; and before their first conversation was over, she had talked herself into all the sensations of curiosity, wonder and regret, pain and pleasure, as to this fortunate Miss Hawkins, which could conduce to place the Martins under proper subordination in her fancy. Emma learned to be rather glad that there had been such a meeting. It had been serviceable in deadening the first shock, without retaining any influence to alarm. As Harriet now lived, the Martins could not get at her, without seeking her, where hitherto they had wanted either the courage or the condescension to seek her; for since her refusal of the brother, the sisters never had been at Mrs. Goddard's; and a twelvemonth might pass without their being thrown together again, with any necessity, or even any power of speech. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Mr. Knightley lobt Emma dafür, wie gut sie Jane Fairfax behandelt hat, als sie zusammen aßen. Als Mr. Knightley Emma erzählt, dass er Neuigkeiten für sie hat, unterbrechen sie Miss Bates und Jane Fairfax. Jane bedankt sich bei Emma für das Hinterbein vom Schwein, das sie ihr geschickt hatte, und erzählt Emma, dass Mr. Elton eine Miss Hawkins aus Bath heiraten wird. Emma geht davon aus, dass Mr. Eltons Bekanntschaft mit Miss Hawkins nicht sehr lange gewesen sein kann. Später kommt Harriet bei Regen nach Highbury und berichtet, dass sie Robert Martin und seine Schwester beim Einkaufen im Highbury Leinenladen gesehen hat. Sie waren höflich zueinander, aber Harriet war extrem peinlich berührt. Emma ist erleichtert, dass Harriet wenig Gelegenheit hat, Kontakt mit den Martins zu haben.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: The train, on leaving Great Salt Lake at Ogden, passed northward for an hour as far as Weber River, having completed nearly nine hundred miles from San Francisco. From this point it took an easterly direction towards the jagged Wahsatch Mountains. It was in the section included between this range and the Rocky Mountains that the American engineers found the most formidable difficulties in laying the road, and that the government granted a subsidy of forty-eight thousand dollars per mile, instead of sixteen thousand allowed for the work done on the plains. But the engineers, instead of violating nature, avoided its difficulties by winding around, instead of penetrating the rocks. One tunnel only, fourteen thousand feet in length, was pierced in order to arrive at the great basin. The track up to this time had reached its highest elevation at the Great Salt Lake. From this point it described a long curve, descending towards Bitter Creek Valley, to rise again to the dividing ridge of the waters between the Atlantic and the Pacific. There were many creeks in this mountainous region, and it was necessary to cross Muddy Creek, Green Creek, and others, upon culverts. Passepartout grew more and more impatient as they went on, while Fix longed to get out of this difficult region, and was more anxious than Phileas Fogg himself to be beyond the danger of delays and accidents, and set foot on English soil. At ten o'clock at night the train stopped at Fort Bridger station, and twenty minutes later entered Wyoming Territory, following the valley of Bitter Creek throughout. The next day, 7th December, they stopped for a quarter of an hour at Green River station. Snow had fallen abundantly during the night, but, being mixed with rain, it had half melted, and did not interrupt their progress. The bad weather, however, annoyed Passepartout; for the accumulation of snow, by blocking the wheels of the cars, would certainly have been fatal to Mr. Fogg's tour. "What an idea!" he said to himself. "Why did my master make this journey in winter? Couldn't he have waited for the good season to increase his chances?" While the worthy Frenchman was absorbed in the state of the sky and the depression of the temperature, Aouda was experiencing fears from a totally different cause. Several passengers had got off at Green River, and were walking up and down the platforms; and among these Aouda recognised Colonel Stamp Proctor, the same who had so grossly insulted Phileas Fogg at the San Francisco meeting. Not wishing to be recognised, the young woman drew back from the window, feeling much alarm at her discovery. She was attached to the man who, however coldly, gave her daily evidences of the most absolute devotion. She did not comprehend, perhaps, the depth of the sentiment with which her protector inspired her, which she called gratitude, but which, though she was unconscious of it, was really more than that. Her heart sank within her when she recognised the man whom Mr. Fogg desired, sooner or later, to call to account for his conduct. Chance alone, it was clear, had brought Colonel Proctor on this train; but there he was, and it was necessary, at all hazards, that Phileas Fogg should not perceive his adversary. Aouda seized a moment when Mr. Fogg was asleep to tell Fix and Passepartout whom she had seen. "That Proctor on this train!" cried Fix. "Well, reassure yourself, madam; before he settles with Mr. Fogg; he has got to deal with me! It seems to me that I was the more insulted of the two." "And, besides," added Passepartout, "I'll take charge of him, colonel as he is." "Mr. Fix," resumed Aouda, "Mr. Fogg will allow no one to avenge him. He said that he would come back to America to find this man. Should he perceive Colonel Proctor, we could not prevent a collision which might have terrible results. He must not see him." "You are right, madam," replied Fix; "a meeting between them might ruin all. Whether he were victorious or beaten, Mr. Fogg would be delayed, and--" "And," added Passepartout, "that would play the game of the gentlemen of the Reform Club. In four days we shall be in New York. Well, if my master does not leave this car during those four days, we may hope that chance will not bring him face to face with this confounded American. We must, if possible, prevent his stirring out of it." The conversation dropped. Mr. Fogg had just woke up, and was looking out of the window. Soon after Passepartout, without being heard by his master or Aouda, whispered to the detective, "Would you really fight for him?" "I would do anything," replied Fix, in a tone which betrayed determined will, "to get him back living to Europe!" Passepartout felt something like a shudder shoot through his frame, but his confidence in his master remained unbroken. Was there any means of detaining Mr. Fogg in the car, to avoid a meeting between him and the colonel? It ought not to be a difficult task, since that gentleman was naturally sedentary and little curious. The detective, at least, seemed to have found a way; for, after a few moments, he said to Mr. Fogg, "These are long and slow hours, sir, that we are passing on the railway." "Yes," replied Mr. Fogg; "but they pass." "You were in the habit of playing whist," resumed Fix, "on the steamers." "Yes; but it would be difficult to do so here. I have neither cards nor partners." "Oh, but we can easily buy some cards, for they are sold on all the American trains. And as for partners, if madam plays--" "Certainly, sir," Aouda quickly replied; "I understand whist. It is part of an English education." "I myself have some pretensions to playing a good game. Well, here are three of us, and a dummy--" "As you please, sir," replied Phileas Fogg, heartily glad to resume his favourite pastime even on the railway. Passepartout was dispatched in search of the steward, and soon returned with two packs of cards, some pins, counters, and a shelf covered with cloth. The game commenced. Aouda understood whist sufficiently well, and even received some compliments on her playing from Mr. Fogg. As for the detective, he was simply an adept, and worthy of being matched against his present opponent. "Now," thought Passepartout, "we've got him. He won't budge." At eleven in the morning the train had reached the dividing ridge of the waters at Bridger Pass, seven thousand five hundred and twenty-four feet above the level of the sea, one of the highest points attained by the track in crossing the Rocky Mountains. After going about two hundred miles, the travellers at last found themselves on one of those vast plains which extend to the Atlantic, and which nature has made so propitious for laying the iron road. On the declivity of the Atlantic basin the first streams, branches of the North Platte River, already appeared. The whole northern and eastern horizon was bounded by the immense semi-circular curtain which is formed by the southern portion of the Rocky Mountains, the highest being Laramie Peak. Between this and the railway extended vast plains, plentifully irrigated. On the right rose the lower spurs of the mountainous mass which extends southward to the sources of the Arkansas River, one of the great tributaries of the Missouri. At half-past twelve the travellers caught sight for an instant of Fort Halleck, which commands that section; and in a few more hours the Rocky Mountains were crossed. There was reason to hope, then, that no accident would mark the journey through this difficult country. The snow had ceased falling, and the air became crisp and cold. Large birds, frightened by the locomotive, rose and flew off in the distance. No wild beast appeared on the plain. It was a desert in its vast nakedness. After a comfortable breakfast, served in the car, Mr. Fogg and his partners had just resumed whist, when a violent whistling was heard, and the train stopped. Passepartout put his head out of the door, but saw nothing to cause the delay; no station was in view. Aouda and Fix feared that Mr. Fogg might take it into his head to get out; but that gentleman contented himself with saying to his servant, "See what is the matter." Passepartout rushed out of the car. Thirty or forty passengers had already descended, amongst them Colonel Stamp Proctor. The train had stopped before a red signal which blocked the way. The engineer and conductor were talking excitedly with a signal-man, whom the station-master at Medicine Bow, the next stopping place, had sent on before. The passengers drew around and took part in the discussion, in which Colonel Proctor, with his insolent manner, was conspicuous. Passepartout, joining the group, heard the signal-man say, "No! you can't pass. The bridge at Medicine Bow is shaky, and would not bear the weight of the train." This was a suspension-bridge thrown over some rapids, about a mile from the place where they now were. According to the signal-man, it was in a ruinous condition, several of the iron wires being broken; and it was impossible to risk the passage. He did not in any way exaggerate the condition of the bridge. It may be taken for granted that, rash as the Americans usually are, when they are prudent there is good reason for it. Passepartout, not daring to apprise his master of what he heard, listened with set teeth, immovable as a statue. "Hum!" cried Colonel Proctor; "but we are not going to stay here, I imagine, and take root in the snow?" "Colonel," replied the conductor, "we have telegraphed to Omaha for a train, but it is not likely that it will reach Medicine Bow in less than six hours." "Six hours!" cried Passepartout. "Certainly," returned the conductor, "besides, it will take us as long as that to reach Medicine Bow on foot." "But it is only a mile from here," said one of the passengers. "Yes, but it's on the other side of the river." "And can't we cross that in a boat?" asked the colonel. "That's impossible. The creek is swelled by the rains. It is a rapid, and we shall have to make a circuit of ten miles to the north to find a ford." The colonel launched a volley of oaths, denouncing the railway company and the conductor; and Passepartout, who was furious, was not disinclined to make common cause with him. Here was an obstacle, indeed, which all his master's banknotes could not remove. There was a general disappointment among the passengers, who, without reckoning the delay, saw themselves compelled to trudge fifteen miles over a plain covered with snow. They grumbled and protested, and would certainly have thus attracted Phileas Fogg's attention if he had not been completely absorbed in his game. Passepartout found that he could not avoid telling his master what had occurred, and, with hanging head, he was turning towards the car, when the engineer, a true Yankee, named Forster called out, "Gentlemen, perhaps there is a way, after all, to get over." "On the bridge?" asked a passenger. "On the bridge." "With our train?" "With our train." Passepartout stopped short, and eagerly listened to the engineer. "But the bridge is unsafe," urged the conductor. "No matter," replied Forster; "I think that by putting on the very highest speed we might have a chance of getting over." "The devil!" muttered Passepartout. But a number of the passengers were at once attracted by the engineer's proposal, and Colonel Proctor was especially delighted, and found the plan a very feasible one. He told stories about engineers leaping their trains over rivers without bridges, by putting on full steam; and many of those present avowed themselves of the engineer's mind. "We have fifty chances out of a hundred of getting over," said one. "Eighty! ninety!" Passepartout was astounded, and, though ready to attempt anything to get over Medicine Creek, thought the experiment proposed a little too American. "Besides," thought he, "there's a still more simple way, and it does not even occur to any of these people! Sir," said he aloud to one of the passengers, "the engineer's plan seems to me a little dangerous, but--" "Eighty chances!" replied the passenger, turning his back on him. "I know it," said Passepartout, turning to another passenger, "but a simple idea--" "Ideas are no use," returned the American, shrugging his shoulders, "as the engineer assures us that we can pass." "Doubtless," urged Passepartout, "we can pass, but perhaps it would be more prudent--" "What! Prudent!" cried Colonel Proctor, whom this word seemed to excite prodigiously. "At full speed, don't you see, at full speed!" "I know--I see," repeated Passepartout; "but it would be, if not more prudent, since that word displeases you, at least more natural--" "Who! What! What's the matter with this fellow?" cried several. The poor fellow did not know to whom to address himself. "Are you afraid?" asked Colonel Proctor. "I afraid? Very well; I will show these people that a Frenchman can be as American as they!" "All aboard!" cried the conductor. "Yes, all aboard!" repeated Passepartout, and immediately. "But they can't prevent me from thinking that it would be more natural for us to cross the bridge on foot, and let the train come after!" But no one heard this sage reflection, nor would anyone have acknowledged its justice. The passengers resumed their places in the cars. Passepartout took his seat without telling what had passed. The whist-players were quite absorbed in their game. The locomotive whistled vigorously; the engineer, reversing the steam, backed the train for nearly a mile--retiring, like a jumper, in order to take a longer leap. Then, with another whistle, he began to move forward; the train increased its speed, and soon its rapidity became frightful; a prolonged screech issued from the locomotive; the piston worked up and down twenty strokes to the second. They perceived that the whole train, rushing on at the rate of a hundred miles an hour, hardly bore upon the rails at all. And they passed over! It was like a flash. No one saw the bridge. The train leaped, so to speak, from one bank to the other, and the engineer could not stop it until it had gone five miles beyond the station. But scarcely had the train passed the river, when the bridge, completely ruined, fell with a crash into the rapids of Medicine Bow. Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze verfassen?

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Der Zug bewegt sich eine Stunde lang in nördlicher Richtung und genau in diesem Bereich treten die größten Schwierigkeiten für die Züge auf. Der Zug überquert viele Bäche, während Passepartouts Ungeduld wächst. In der Nacht fällt schwerer Schnee und Passepartout macht sich Sorgen. Inzwischen hat Aouda den Colonel Stamp Proctor auf einem Bahnhof entdeckt und befürchtet, dass Fogg ihn sehen und in einen Streit und Kampf geraten könnte. Aouda hatte nun begonnen, Fogg sehr lieb zu gewinnen und ihre Zuneigung wuchs. Aouda erzählt Fix und Passepartout von Colonel Proctors Anwesenheit im Zug und alle sind sich einig, dass es am besten wäre, wenn Fogg den Colonel nicht sehen würde. Passepartout ist überrascht, dass Fix anbietet, im Namen von Fogg mit dem Colonel zu kämpfen. Später, um Fogg in seinem Abteil zu halten, schlägt Fix vor, eine Partie Whist zu spielen. Fogg, Fix und Aouda beginnen zusammen zu spielen. Das Spiel dauert lange an, während der Zug sich durch neue Landschaften bewegt. Die Gruppe hat Mittagessen im Abteil. Plötzlich hält der Zug an und die anderen sind besorgt, dass Fogg aufstehen und nachsehen wird, was die Verzögerung verursacht. Aber er steht nicht auf und Passepartout geht, um das Problem zu sehen. Tatsächlich bekommt der Zugführer gesagt, dass er nicht weiterfahren darf, weil eine Hängebrücke, die über Stromschnellen führt, sich in einem desolaten Zustand befindet. Es gibt eine Debatte zwischen dem Zugpersonal und den Passagieren darüber, was getan werden soll. Schließlich sind alle einig, dass der Zug, wenn er mit voller Geschwindigkeit fährt, es schaffen wird, über die Brücke zu gelangen. Passepartout schlägt vor, dass die Passagiere aussteigen sollten, und dann sollte der Zug mit hoher Geschwindigkeit über die Brücke fahren. Niemand hört auf ihn und der Zug fährt weiter auf die Brücke zu. Glücklicherweise passiert dem Zug nichts und alle sind froh, sicher darüber hinweggekommen zu sein. Die Brücke stürzt natürlich ein und stürzt in die Stromschnellen von Medicine Bow.

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: All hail to the lordlings of high degree, Who live not more happy, though greater than we! Our pastimes to see, Under every green tree, In all the gay woodland, right welcome ye be. Macdonald The new comers were Wilfred of Ivanhoe, on the Prior of Botolph's palfrey, and Gurth, who attended him, on the Knight's own war-horse. The astonishment of Ivanhoe was beyond bounds, when he saw his master besprinkled with blood, and six or seven dead bodies lying around in the little glade in which the battle had taken place. Nor was he less surprised to see Richard surrounded by so many silvan attendants, the outlaws, as they seemed to be, of the forest, and a perilous retinue therefore for a prince. He hesitated whether to address the King as the Black Knight-errant, or in what other manner to demean himself towards him. Richard saw his embarrassment. "Fear not, Wilfred," he said, "to address Richard Plantagenet as himself, since thou seest him in the company of true English hearts, although it may be they have been urged a few steps aside by warm English blood." "Sir Wilfred of Ivanhoe," said the gallant Outlaw, stepping forward, "my assurances can add nothing to those of our sovereign; yet, let me say somewhat proudly, that of men who have suffered much, he hath not truer subjects than those who now stand around him." "I cannot doubt it, brave man," said Wilfred, "since thou art of the number--But what mean these marks of death and danger? these slain men, and the bloody armour of my Prince?" "Treason hath been with us, Ivanhoe," said the King; "but, thanks to these brave men, treason hath met its meed--But, now I bethink me, thou too art a traitor," said Richard, smiling; "a most disobedient traitor; for were not our orders positive, that thou shouldst repose thyself at Saint Botolph's until thy wound was healed?" "It is healed," said Ivanhoe; "it is not of more consequence than the scratch of a bodkin. But why, oh why, noble Prince, will you thus vex the hearts of your faithful servants, and expose your life by lonely journeys and rash adventures, as if it were of no more value than that of a mere knight-errant, who has no interest on earth but what lance and sword may procure him?" "And Richard Plantagenet," said the King, "desires no more fame than his good lance and sword may acquire him--and Richard Plantagenet is prouder of achieving an adventure, with only his good sword, and his good arm to speed, than if he led to battle a host of an hundred thousand armed men." "But your kingdom, my Liege," said Ivanhoe, "your kingdom is threatened with dissolution and civil war--your subjects menaced with every species of evil, if deprived of their sovereign in some of those dangers which it is your daily pleasure to incur, and from which you have but this moment narrowly escaped." "Ho! ho! my kingdom and my subjects?" answered Richard, impatiently; "I tell thee, Sir Wilfred, the best of them are most willing to repay my follies in kind--For example, my very faithful servant, Wilfred of Ivanhoe, will not obey my positive commands, and yet reads his king a homily, because he does not walk exactly by his advice. Which of us has most reason to upbraid the other?--Yet forgive me, my faithful Wilfred. The time I have spent, and am yet to spend in concealment, is, as I explained to thee at Saint Botolph's, necessary to give my friends and faithful nobles time to assemble their forces, that when Richard's return is announced, he should be at the head of such a force as enemies shall tremble to face, and thus subdue the meditated treason, without even unsheathing a sword. Estoteville and Bohun will not be strong enough to move forward to York for twenty-four hours. I must have news of Salisbury from the south; and of Beauchamp, in Warwickshire; and of Multon and Percy in the north. The Chancellor must make sure of London. Too sudden an appearance would subject me to dangers, other than my lance and sword, though backed by the bow of bold Robin, or the quarter-staff of Friar Tuck, and the horn of the sage Wamba, may be able to rescue me from." Wilfred bowed in submission, well knowing how vain it was to contend with the wild spirit of chivalry which so often impelled his master upon dangers which he might easily have avoided, or rather, which it was unpardonable in him to have sought out. The young knight sighed, therefore, and held his peace; while Richard, rejoiced at having silenced his counsellor, though his heart acknowledged the justice of the charge he had brought against him, went on in conversation with Robin Hood.--"King of Outlaws," he said, "have you no refreshment to offer to your brother sovereign? for these dead knaves have found me both in exercise and appetite." "In troth," replied the Outlaw, "for I scorn to lie to your Grace, our larder is chiefly supplied with--" He stopped, and was somewhat embarrassed. "With venison, I suppose?" said Richard, gaily; "better food at need there can be none--and truly, if a king will not remain at home and slay his own game, methinks he should not brawl too loud if he finds it killed to his hand." "If your Grace, then," said Robin, "will again honour with your presence one of Robin Hood's places of rendezvous, the venison shall not be lacking; and a stoup of ale, and it may be a cup of reasonably good wine, to relish it withal." The Outlaw accordingly led the way, followed by the buxom Monarch, more happy, probably, in this chance meeting with Robin Hood and his foresters, than he would have been in again assuming his royal state, and presiding over a splendid circle of peers and nobles. Novelty in society and adventure were the zest of life to Richard Coeur-de-Lion, and it had its highest relish when enhanced by dangers encountered and surmounted. In the lion-hearted King, the brilliant, but useless character, of a knight of romance, was in a great measure realized and revived; and the personal glory which he acquired by his own deeds of arms, was far more dear to his excited imagination, than that which a course of policy and wisdom would have spread around his government. Accordingly, his reign was like the course of a brilliant and rapid meteor, which shoots along the face of Heaven, shedding around an unnecessary and portentous light, which is instantly swallowed up by universal darkness; his feats of chivalry furnishing themes for bards and minstrels, but affording none of those solid benefits to his country on which history loves to pause, and hold up as an example to posterity. But in his present company Richard showed to the greatest imaginable advantage. He was gay, good-humoured, and fond of manhood in every rank of life. Beneath a huge oak-tree the silvan repast was hastily prepared for the King of England, surrounded by men outlaws to his government, but who now formed his court and his guard. As the flagon went round, the rough foresters soon lost their awe for the presence of Majesty. The song and the jest were exchanged--the stories of former deeds were told with advantage; and at length, and while boasting of their successful infraction of the laws, no one recollected they were speaking in presence of their natural guardian. The merry King, nothing heeding his dignity any more than his company, laughed, quaffed, and jested among the jolly band. The natural and rough sense of Robin Hood led him to be desirous that the scene should be closed ere any thing should occur to disturb its harmony, the more especially that he observed Ivanhoe's brow clouded with anxiety. "We are honoured," he said to Ivanhoe, apart, "by the presence of our gallant Sovereign; yet I would not that he dallied with time, which the circumstances of his kingdom may render precious." "It is well and wisely spoken, brave Robin Hood," said Wilfred, apart; "and know, moreover, that they who jest with Majesty even in its gayest mood are but toying with the lion's whelp, which, on slight provocation, uses both fangs and claws." "You have touched the very cause of my fear," said the Outlaw; "my men are rough by practice and nature, the King is hasty as well as good-humoured; nor know I how soon cause of offence may arise, or how warmly it may be received--it is time this revel were broken off." "It must be by your management then, gallant yeoman," said Ivanhoe; "for each hint I have essayed to give him serves only to induce him to prolong it." "Must I so soon risk the pardon and favour of my Sovereign?" said Robin Hood, pausing for all instant; "but by Saint Christopher, it shall be so. I were undeserving his grace did I not peril it for his good.--Here, Scathlock, get thee behind yonder thicket, and wind me a Norman blast on thy bugle, and without an instant's delay on peril of your life." Scathlock obeyed his captain, and in less than five minutes the revellers were startled by the sound of his horn. "It is the bugle of Malvoisin," said the Miller, starting to his feet, and seizing his bow. The Friar dropped the flagon, and grasped his quarter-staff. Wamba stopt short in the midst of a jest, and betook himself to sword and target. All the others stood to their weapons. Men of their precarious course of life change readily from the banquet to the battle; and, to Richard, the exchange seemed but a succession of pleasure. He called for his helmet and the most cumbrous parts of his armour, which he had laid aside; and while Gurth was putting them on, he laid his strict injunctions on Wilfred, under pain of his highest displeasure, not to engage in the skirmish which he supposed was approaching. "Thou hast fought for me an hundred times, Wilfred,--and I have seen it. Thou shalt this day look on, and see how Richard will fight for his friend and liegeman." In the meantime, Robin Hood had sent off several of his followers in different directions, as if to reconnoitre the enemy; and when he saw the company effectually broken up, he approached Richard, who was now completely armed, and, kneeling down on one knee, craved pardon of his Sovereign. "For what, good yeoman?" said Richard, somewhat impatiently. "Have we not already granted thee a full pardon for all transgressions? Thinkest thou our word is a feather, to be blown backward and forward between us? Thou canst not have had time to commit any new offence since that time?" "Ay, but I have though," answered the yeoman, "if it be an offence to deceive my prince for his own advantage. The bugle you have heard was none of Malvoisin's, but blown by my direction, to break off the banquet, lest it trenched upon hours of dearer import than to be thus dallied with." He then rose from his knee, folded his arm on his bosom, and in a manner rather respectful than submissive, awaited the answer of the King,--like one who is conscious he may have given offence, yet is confident in the rectitude of his motive. The blood rushed in anger to the countenance of Richard; but it was the first transient emotion, and his sense of justice instantly subdued it. "The King of Sherwood," he said, "grudges his venison and his wine-flask to the King of England? It is well, bold Robin!--but when you come to see me in merry London, I trust to be a less niggard host. Thou art right, however, good fellow. Let us therefore to horse and away--Wilfred has been impatient this hour. Tell me, bold Robin, hast thou never a friend in thy band, who, not content with advising, will needs direct thy motions, and look miserable when thou dost presume to act for thyself?" "Such a one," said Robin, "is my Lieutenant, Little John, who is even now absent on an expedition as far as the borders of Scotland; and I will own to your Majesty, that I am sometimes displeased by the freedom of his councils--but, when I think twice, I cannot be long angry with one who can have no motive for his anxiety save zeal for his master's service." "Thou art right, good yeoman," answered Richard; "and if I had Ivanhoe, on the one hand, to give grave advice, and recommend it by the sad gravity of his brow, and thee, on the other, to trick me into what thou thinkest my own good, I should have as little the freedom of mine own will as any king in Christendom or Heathenesse.--But come, sirs, let us merrily on to Coningsburgh, and think no more on't." Robin Hood assured them that he had detached a party in the direction of the road they were to pass, who would not fail to discover and apprize them of any secret ambuscade; and that he had little doubt they would find the ways secure, or, if otherwise, would receive such timely notice of the danger as would enable them to fall back on a strong troop of archers, with which he himself proposed to follow on the same route. The wise and attentive precautions adopted for his safety touched Richard's feelings, and removed any slight grudge which he might retain on account of the deception the Outlaw Captain had practised upon him. He once more extended his hand to Robin Hood, assured him of his full pardon and future favour, as well as his firm resolution to restrain the tyrannical exercise of the forest rights and other oppressive laws, by which so many English yeomen were driven into a state of rebellion. But Richard's good intentions towards the bold Outlaw were frustrated by the King's untimely death; and the Charter of the Forest was extorted from the unwilling hands of King John when he succeeded to his heroic brother. As for the rest of Robin Hood's career, as well as the tale of his treacherous death, they are to be found in those black-letter garlands, once sold at the low and easy rate of one halfpenny. "Now cheaply purchased at their weight in gold." The Outlaw's opinion proved true; and the King, attended by Ivanhoe, Gurth, and Wamba, arrived, without any interruption, within view of the Castle of Coningsburgh, while the sun was yet in the horizon. There are few more beautiful or striking scenes in England, than are presented by the vicinity of this ancient Saxon fortress. The soft and gentle river Don sweeps through an amphitheatre, in which cultivation is richly blended with woodland, and on a mount, ascending from the river, well defended by walls and ditches, rises this ancient edifice, which, as its Saxon name implies, was, previous to the Conquest, a royal residence of the kings of England. The outer walls have probably been added by the Normans, but the inner keep bears token of very great antiquity. It is situated on a mount at one angle of the inner court, and forms a complete circle of perhaps twenty-five feet in diameter. The wall is of immense thickness, and is propped or defended by six huge external buttresses which project from the circle, and rise up against the sides of the tower as if to strengthen or to support it. These massive buttresses are solid when they arise from the foundation, and a good way higher up; but are hollowed out towards the top, and terminate in a sort of turrets communicating with the interior of the keep itself. The distant appearance of this huge building, with these singular accompaniments, is as interesting to the lovers of the picturesque, as the interior of the castle is to the eager antiquary, whose imagination it carries back to the days of the Heptarchy. A barrow, in the vicinity of the castle, is pointed out as the tomb of the memorable Hengist; and various monuments, of great antiquity and curiosity, are shown in the neighbouring churchyard. [57] When Coeur-de-Lion and his retinue approached this rude yet stately building, it was not, as at present, surrounded by external fortifications. The Saxon architect had exhausted his art in rendering the main keep defensible, and there was no other circumvallation than a rude barrier of palisades. A huge black banner, which floated from the top of the tower, announced that the obsequies of the late owner were still in the act of being solemnized. It bore no emblem of the deceased's birth or quality, for armorial bearings were then a novelty among the Norman chivalry themselves and, were totally unknown to the Saxons. But above the gate was another banner, on which the figure of a white horse, rudely painted, indicated the nation and rank of the deceased, by the well-known symbol of Hengist and his Saxon warriors. All around the castle was a scene of busy commotion; for such funeral banquets were times of general and profuse hospitality, which not only every one who could claim the most distant connexion with the deceased, but all passengers whatsoever, were invited to partake. The wealth and consequence of the deceased Athelstane, occasioned this custom to be observed in the fullest extent. Numerous parties, therefore, were seen ascending and descending the hill on which the castle was situated; and when the King and his attendants entered the open and unguarded gates of the external barrier, the space within presented a scene not easily reconciled with the cause of the assemblage. In one place cooks were toiling to roast huge oxen, and fat sheep; in another, hogsheads of ale were set abroach, to be drained at the freedom of all comers. Groups of every description were to be seen devouring the food and swallowing the liquor thus abandoned to their discretion. The naked Saxon serf was drowning the sense of his half-year's hunger and thirst, in one day of gluttony and drunkenness--the more pampered burgess and guild-brother was eating his morsel with gust, or curiously criticising the quantity of the malt and the skill of the brewer. Some few of the poorer Norman gentry might also be seen, distinguished by their shaven chins and short cloaks, and not less so by their keeping together, and looking with great scorn on the whole solemnity, even while condescending to avail themselves of the good cheer which was so liberally supplied. Mendicants were of course assembled by the score, together with strolling soldiers returned from Palestine, (according to their own account at least,) pedlars were displaying their wares, travelling mechanics were enquiring after employment, and wandering palmers, hedge-priests, Saxon minstrels, and Welsh bards, were muttering prayers, and extracting mistuned dirges from their harps, crowds, and rotes. [58] One sent forth the praises of Athelstane in a doleful panegyric; another, in a Saxon genealogical poem, rehearsed the uncouth and harsh names of his noble ancestry. Jesters and jugglers were not awanting, nor was the occasion of the assembly supposed to render the exercise of their profession indecorous or improper. Indeed the ideas of the Saxons on these occasions were as natural as they were rude. If sorrow was thirsty, there was drink--if hungry, there was food--if it sunk down upon and saddened the heart, here were the means supplied of mirth, or at least of amusement. Nor did the assistants scorn to avail themselves of those means of consolation, although, every now and then, as if suddenly recollecting the cause which had brought them together, the men groaned in unison, while the females, of whom many were present, raised up their voices and shrieked for very woe. Such was the scene in the castle-yard at Coningsburgh when it was entered by Richard and his followers. The seneschal or steward deigned not to take notice of the groups of inferior guests who were perpetually entering and withdrawing, unless so far as was necessary to preserve order; nevertheless he was struck by the good mien of the Monarch and Ivanhoe, more especially as he imagined the features of the latter were familiar to him. Besides, the approach of two knights, for such their dress bespoke them, was a rare event at a Saxon solemnity, and could not but be regarded as a sort of honour to the deceased and his family. And in his sable dress, and holding in his hand his white wand of office, this important personage made way through the miscellaneous assemblage of guests, thus conducting Richard and Ivanhoe to the entrance of the tower. Gurth and Wamba speedily found acquaintances in the court-yard, nor presumed to intrude themselves any farther until their presence should be required. 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.

Die Versammlung im Wald wird von Ivanhoe und Gurth betreten und sie versammeln sich alle für ein Festessen. Ivanhoe erzählt Richard, dass sein Königreich in Unordnung ist und er schnell handeln sollte, um es zurückzufordern. Richard antwortet, dass er warten muss, bis er sicher ist, dass die verschiedenen Kräfte, auf die er angewiesen ist, gesammelt und bereit sind. Auch Robin Hood fürchtet, dass Richard nicht zu lange im Wald bleiben sollte. Er stellt einen Trick auf, bei dem es so aussieht, als ob sie von Normannen angegriffen werden. Das beendet das Bankett abrupt. Dann gesteht Robin den Trick Richard und Richard erkennt, dass es in der Tat an der Zeit für ihn ist weiterzugehen. Er macht sich mit Ivanhoe, Gurth und Wamba auf den Weg zur Burg von Athelstane, die um ihren verlorenen Anführer trauert.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Kapitel: Akt III. Szene 1. Betritt Hero und zwei Herren, Margaret und Ursula. Hero: Gut Margaret, lauf in das Wohnzimmer, Dort wirst du meine Cousine Beatrice finden, Die mit dem Prinzen und Claudio diskutiert. Flüstere ihr ins Ohr und sag ihr, dass Vrsula und ich im Garten spazieren gehen und unser ganzes Gespräch nur von ihr handelt. Sag ihr, dass du uns belauscht hast, und bitte sie, sich in den geschützten Laubengang zu schleichen, wo die Geißblattblüten, vom Sonnenlicht gereift, die Sonne aussperren. Wie Favoriten, stolz gemacht von Prinzen, die ihren Stolz steigern, gegen die Macht, die ihn gezeugt hat, wird sie sich dort verstecken, um unseren Absichten zu lauschen. Das ist deine Aufgabe, erfülle sie gut und lass uns alleine. Margaret: Ich mache, dass sie sofort kommt, das versichere ich dir. Hero: Nun, Ursula, wenn Beatrice kommt, während wir diesen Weg auf und ab gehen, muss unser Gespräch nur von Benedikt handeln. Wenn ich seinen Namen erwähne, soll das dein Part sein, ihn mehr zu loben, als jemals ein Mann es verdient hat. Mein Gespräch mit dir muss sich darum drehen, wie Benedikt kränkt vor Liebe zu Beatrice ist. Diese Angelegenheit wird nur durch kleine Cupidos listigen Pfeil gemacht, der nur durch Hörensagen verwundet. Beginne nun. Beatrice tritt auf. Sieh, wo Beatrice wie ein Kiebitz auftaucht, dicht über dem Boden, um unser Gespräch zu belauschen. Ursula: Am schönsten ist es beim Angeln, die Fische zu beobachten, wie sie mit ihren goldenen Rudern durch den silbernen Strom schneiden und gierig den betrügerischen Köder verschlingen. So fischen wir nach Beatrice, welche gerade im Geißblatt der Decke versteckt ist. Hab keine Angst, dass sie etwas verpasst, von dem falsch süßen Köder, den wir auslegen. Nein, Ursula, sie ist zu hochmütig, ich kenne ihren Stolz und ihre Wildheit, wie eine wilde Falkin vom Felsen. Ursula: Aber seid ihr sicher, dass Benedikt Beatrice so innig liebt? Hero: Das sagt der Prinz und mein neuer Verlobter. Ursula: Und haben sie dich gebeten, ihr davon zu erzählen, Madame? Hero: Sie haben mich gebeten, sie davon in Kenntnis zu setzen, aber ich habe sie überredet, wenn sie Benedikt lieben, ihm zu wünschen, dass er mit der Liebe kämpft, und Beatrice nie davon zu erzählen. Ursula: Warum hast du das gemacht? Verdient der Herr nicht ein genauso glückliches Los im Bett, wie Beatrice es finden wird? Hero: Oh Gott der Liebe! Ich weiß, er verdient es, so viel wie ein Mann bekommen kann. Aber die Natur hat niemals ein Frauenherz geschaffen, das stolzer ist als das von Beatrice. Verachtung und Spott funkeln in ihren Augen, sie schätzt das, was sie betrachtet, gering ein, und ihr Verstand hält sich so hoch, dass alles andere schwach erscheint. Sie kann nicht lieben, keine Form der Zuneigung annehmen, sie ist so sehr in sich selbst verliebt. Ursula: Da bin ich mir sicher, und deshalb ist es nicht gut, dass sie von seiner Liebe erfährt. Sonst würde sie sich lustig darüber machen. Hero: Du sprichst die Wahrheit, ich habe noch nie einen Mann gesehen, so weise, so edel, so jung, so gutaussehend, aber sie würde ihn verkehrt herum buchstabieren. Wenn er hübsch ist, würde sie schwören, dass er ihre Schwester sein soll. Wenn er schwarz ist, dann hat die Natur ein Unglück gezeichnet. Wenn er groß ist, ist er eine schlecht besetzte Lanze. Wenn er klein ist, ein sehr schlecht geschnittener Kleidersaum. Wenn er spricht, dann ist er ein Windhauch. Wenn er schweigt, ist er ein reglos vor sich hin stehender Holzblock. So dreht sie jeden Mann verkehrt herum, und sie gibt Wahrheit und Tugend niemals das, was Einfachheit und Verdienst erringen. Ursula: Sicher, sicher, solches Karfunkel ist nicht lobenswert. Hero: Nein, nicht so seltsam und abseits von allen Moden, wie Beatrice ist, kann nicht lobenswert sein. Aber wer traut es sich, ihr das zu sagen? Wenn ich sprechen würde, würde sie über mich lachen, mich in die Luft spotten, mich mit Witz erdrücken. Deshalb soll Benedikt, wie ein verborgenes Feuer, im Inneren vor Seufzern verzehren, still dahinwelken. Es wäre ein besserer Tod, mit Spott zu sterben, was so schlimm ist wie mit Kitzeln zu sterben. Ursula: Sag es ihr trotzdem, höre, was sie sagen wird. Hero: Nein, lieber gehe ich zu Benedikt und rate ihm, gegen seine Leidenschaft anzukämpfen und ehrlich gesagt werde ich einige ehrliche Verleumdungen erfinden, um meine Cousine in Verruf zu bringen. Man weiß nie, wie sehr ein schlechtes Wort die Zuneigung vergiften kann. Ursula: Oh, tu deiner Cousine nicht so unrecht, sie kann nicht ohne wahres Urteilsvermögen sein, mit so schneller und ausgezeichneter Intelligenz, wie man ihr nachsagt, um einen so seltenen Gentleman wie Signior Benedikt abzulehnen. Hero: Er ist der einzige Mann in Italien, immer ausgenommen, mein lieber Claudio. Ursula: Ich bitte dich, Madame, sei nicht böse auf mich, wenn ich meine Fantasie äußere. Signior Benedikt, was sein Aussehen, sein Benehmen, sein Verstand und sein Mut angeht, steht er an erster Stelle, so wird durch ganz Italien erzählt. Hero: In der Tat, er hat einen ausgezeichneten Ruf. Ursula: Seine Exzellenz hat ihn sich verdient, bevor er ihn hatte. Wann seid ihr verheiratet, Madame? Hero: Jeden Tag morgen. Komm, geh rein, ich zeige dir einige Kleidungsstücke und bitte um deinen Rat, welche sich am besten für morgen eignen. Ursula: Sie ist erledigt, ich versichere es dir, wir haben sie, Madame. Hero: Wenn es so ist, dann kommt Liebe durch Zufall, Cupid tötet manche mit Pfeilen, manche mit Fallen. Betreten. Kannst du eine geeignete Zusammenfassung der oben stehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Auf dem Palast in Westminster gibt König Heinrich IV einem Page einige Briefe, um sie dem Earl of Warwick und dem Earl of Surrey zu übergeben. Dann hält der König einen Monolog. Das gesamte Königreich schläft friedlich, aber leider kann Heinrich anscheinend nicht einschlafen. Es ist nicht fair, dass der Schlafgott den einfachen Leuten Ruhe schenkt, während er, ein König, des Schlafes beraubt ist. Selbst ein Matrose, der während eines schrecklichen Sturms auf einem Schiff ist, kann schlafen, also warum ist der König in einer so ruhigen Nacht noch wach? Heinrich kommt zu dem Schluss, dass Könige keinen Schlaf oder keine Ruhe bekommen, weil sie mit schwerwiegenden Angelegenheiten belastet sind. Warwick und Surrey kommen an und geben an, die Briefe des Königs gelesen zu haben. Heinrich sagt, der "Körper" des "Königreichs" sei voll von "Krankheit". PS: Hol deinen Textmarker raus, denn das ist wichtig. Warwick sagt ja, das Königreich ist definitiv krank und braucht ein wenig "Medizin", insbesondere den Rebellen Northumberland. Heinrich ist voller Verzweiflung und hält eine lange Rede voller Untergangsprophezeiungen über die Zukunft des Königreichs. Er erinnert sich an die Zeit, als alle Freunde waren. Das heißt, bis Northumberland ihm, Heinrich, half, König Richard II zu stürzen. Jetzt ist Richards Prophezeiung wahr geworden. Heinrich sorgt sich, dass er und das Königreich dem Untergang geweiht sind. Quatsch, sagt Warwick. Es gibt keine solche Sache wie prophetische Kraft. König Richard hat nur "einen perfekten Rat" gegeben, dass Northumberland Heinrich verraten würde, und das liegt daran, dass Northumberland bereits einen König verraten hatte. Heinrich sagt, er habe gehört, dass die Rebellen eine Armee von 50.000 Mann haben. Warwick besteht darauf, dass das unmöglich ist - es ist nur ein Gerücht. König Heinrich sollte schlafen gehen. Heinrich sagt gut, er wird schlafen gehen, aber er wünscht, dass dieser Bürgerkrieg vorbei sei. Dann könnte er einen Kreuzzug ins Heilige Land unternehmen.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: Enter Lord Chamberlaine, reading this Letter. My Lord, the Horses your Lordship sent for, with all the care I had, I saw well chosen, ridden, and furnish'd. They were young and handsome, and of the best breed in the North. When they were ready to set out for London, a man of my Lord Cardinalls, by Commission, and maine power tooke 'em from me, with this reason: his maister would bee seru'd before a Subiect, if not before the King, which stop'd our mouthes Sir. I feare he will indeede; well, let him haue them; hee will haue all I thinke. Enter to the Lord Chamberlaine, the Dukes of Norfolke and Suffolke. Norf. Well met my Lord Chamberlaine Cham. Good day to both your Graces Suff. How is the King imployd? Cham. I left him priuate, Full of sad thoughts and troubles Norf. What's the cause? Cham. It seemes the Marriage with his Brothers Wife Ha's crept too neere his Conscience Suff. No, his Conscience Ha's crept too neere another Ladie Norf. Tis so; This is the Cardinals doing: The King-Cardinall, That blinde Priest, like the eldest Sonne of Fortune, Turnes what he list. The King will know him one day Suff. Pray God he doe, Hee'l neuer know himselfe else Norf. How holily he workes in all his businesse, And with what zeale? For now he has crackt the League Between vs & the Emperor (the Queens great Nephew) He diues into the Kings Soule, and there scatters Dangers, doubts, wringing of the Conscience, Feares, and despaires, and all these for his Marriage. And out of all these, to restore the King, He counsels a Diuorce, a losse of her That like a Iewell, ha's hung twenty yeares About his necke, yet neuer lost her lustre; Of her that loues him with that excellence, That Angels loue good men with: Euen of her, That when the greatest stroake of Fortune falls Will blesse the King: and is not this course pious? Cham. Heauen keep me from such councel: tis most true These newes are euery where, euery tongue speaks 'em, And euery true heart weepes for't. All that dare Looke into these affaires, see this maine end, The French Kings Sister. Heauen will one day open The Kings eyes, that so long haue slept vpon This bold bad man Suff. And free vs from his slauery Norf. We had need pray, And heartily, for our deliuerance; Or this imperious man will worke vs all From Princes into Pages: all mens honours Lie like one lumpe before him, to be fashion'd Into what pitch he please Suff. For me, my Lords, I loue him not, nor feare him, there's my Creede: As I am made without him, so Ile stand, If the King please: his Curses and his blessings Touch me alike: th'are breath I not beleeue in. I knew him, and I know him: so I leaue him To him that made him proud; the Pope Norf. Let's in; And with some other busines, put the King From these sad thoughts, that work too much vpon him: My Lord, youle beare vs company? Cham. Excuse me, The King ha's sent me otherwhere: Besides You'l finde a most vnfit time to disturbe him: Health to your Lordships Norfolke. Thankes my good Lord Chamberlaine. Exit Lord Chamberlaine, and the King drawes the Curtaine and sits reading pensiuely. Suff. How sad he lookes; sure he is much afflicted Kin. Who's there? Ha? Norff. Pray God he be not angry Kin. Who's there I say? How dare you thrust your selues Into my priuate Meditations? Who am I? Ha? Norff. A gracious King, that pardons all offences Malice ne're meant: Our breach of Duty this way, Is businesse of Estate; in which, we come To know your Royall pleasure Kin. Ye are too bold: Go too; Ile make ye know your times of businesse: Is this an howre for temporall affaires? Ha? Enter Wolsey and Campeius with a Commission. Who's there? my good Lord Cardinall? O my Wolsey, The quiet of my wounded Conscience; Thou art a cure fit for a King; you'r welcome Most learned Reuerend Sir, into our Kingdome, Vse vs, and it: My good Lord, haue great care, I be not found a Talker Wol. Sir, you cannot; I would your Grace would giue vs but an houre Of priuate conference Kin. We are busie; goe Norff. This Priest ha's no pride in him? Suff. Not to speake of: I would not be so sicke though for his place: But this cannot continue Norff. If it doe, Ile venture one; haue at him Suff. I another. Exeunt. Norfolke and Suffolke. Wol. Your Grace ha's giuen a President of wisedome Aboue all Princes, in committing freely Your scruple to the voyce of Christendome: Who can be angry now? What Enuy reach you? The Spaniard tide by blood and fauour to her, Must now confesse, if they haue any goodnesse, The Tryall, iust and Noble. All the Clerkes, (I meane the learned ones in Christian Kingdomes) Haue their free voyces. Rome (the Nurse of Iudgement) Inuited by your Noble selfe, hath sent One generall Tongue vnto vs. This good man, This iust and learned Priest, Cardnall Campeius, Whom once more, I present vnto your Highnesse Kin. And once more in mine armes I bid him welcome, And thanke the holy Conclaue for their loues, They haue sent me such a Man, I would haue wish'd for Cam. Your Grace must needs deserue all strangers loues, You are so Noble: To your Highnesse hand I tender my Commission; by whose vertue, The Court of Rome commanding. You my Lord Cardinall of Yorke, are ioyn'd with me their Seruant, In the vnpartiall iudging of this Businesse Kin. Two equall men: The Queene shall be acquainted Forthwith for what you come. Where's Gardiner? Wol. I know your Maiesty, ha's alwayes lou'd her So deare in heart, not to deny her that A Woman of lesse Place might aske by Law; Schollers allow'd freely to argue for her Kin. I, and the best she shall haue; and my fauour To him that does best, God forbid els: Cardinall, Prethee call Gardiner to me, my new Secretary. I find him a fit fellow. Enter Gardiner. Wol. Giue me your hand: much ioy & fauour to you; You are the Kings now Gard. But to be commanded For euer by your Grace, whose hand ha's rais'd me Kin. Come hither Gardiner. Walkes and whispers. Camp. My Lord of Yorke, was not one Doctor Pace In this mans place before him? Wol. Yes, he was Camp. Was he not held a learned man? Wol. Yes surely Camp. Beleeue me, there's an ill opinion spread then, Euen of your selfe Lord Cardinall Wol. How? of me? Camp. They will not sticke to say, you enuide him; And fearing he would rise (he was so vertuous) Kept him a forraigne man still, which so greeu'd him, That he ran mad, and dide Wohlan. Der Himmel möge ihm seinen Frieden schenken. Das ist genug christliche Fürsorge: Für die lebenden Nörgler gibt es Orte der Zurechtweisung. Er war ein Narr, denn er wollte unbedingt tugendhaft sein. Dieser gute Gefährte, wenn ich ihm befehle, folgt er meinen Anweisungen. Ich möchte niemand anderen so nah an mir haben. Merke dir das, Bruder, wir leben nicht, um von geringeren Personen beherrscht zu werden. Geben Sie dies mit Bescheidenheit an die Königin weiter. Der Gartenbau wird verlassen. Der bequemste Ort, den ich mir für einen solchen Empfang von Wissen vorstellen kann, ist Black-Fryers. Dort werdet ihr über diese wichtigen Angelegenheiten diskutieren. Mein Wolsey, sorg dafür, o mein Herr, Würde es nicht einem fähigen Mann wehtun, Ein so liebenswerter Bettpartner zu verlassen? Aber das Gewissen, das Gewissen; o, es ist ein empfindlicher Ort, und ich muss sie verlassen. Sie gehen ab. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Anne Bullen und ihre Begleiterin, Alte Dame, diskutieren vor den Quartieren der Königin über den Untergang von Königin Katharine. Anne ist traurig darüber, dass Katharine so lange ohne Tadel gelebt hat und von keinen Verschwörungen gegen sie wusste, jedoch dennoch in Ungnade fallen wird. Anne denkt, dass Katharines Untergang umso bitterer sein wird, weil Katharine solche Höhen erlebt hat, und sie schlägt vor, dass es besser wäre, arm geboren zu sein und glücklich zu sein, als reich und unglücklich. Aus Mitleid mit Katharine erklärt Anne, dass sie selbst niemals Königin sein möchte. Die Alte Dame versichert ihr, dass sie es würde, da Anne ein Frauenherz hat und daher notwendigerweise Reichtum, Ansehen und Souveränität wünscht. Die Alte Dame sagt, dass sie für ein Taschengeld Königin wäre, während Anne behauptet, dass sie nichts überzeugen könnte. Der oberste Kammerherr tritt ein und überbringt eine Botschaft des Königs, der so eine hohe Meinung von Anne hat, dass er sie mit einem neuen Titel und einem erhöhten Jahresgehalt ehren will. Anne sagt, dass das Einzige, was sie im Gegenzug geben kann, Dank ist, und sie betet für das Wohl des Königs. Bei seinem hinausgehen bemerkt der oberste Kammerherr für sich selbst, dass Anne eine so wunderbare Mischung aus Schönheit und Ehre hat, dass sie zwangsläufig das Auge des Königs auf sich gezogen haben muss, und er vermutet, dass "von dieser Dame könnte ein Juwel hervorgehen/ Um diese Insel zu erhellen". Die Alte Dame ruft aus, dass sie seit 16 Jahren am Hof arbeitet und keine Verbesserung in ihrer Situation hatte, während Anne diese Segnungen fast ohne Anstrengung erhalten hat. Annes neuer Titel, der nur als Zeichen des Respekts gegeben wird und keine Verpflichtungen mit sich bringt, verspricht in der Meinung der Alten Dame weitere zukünftige Geschenke. Anne beruhigt die Alte Dame und sorgt sich, was als nächstes passieren wird. Aber sie bittet die Alte Dame, ihren neuen Titel nicht zu erwähnen, bevor sie zur Königin zurückkehrt, um sie zu trösten.

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 eröffnete sich eine neue Szene in Longbourn. Mr. Collins machte seine Erklärung in formaler Weise. Da er sich vorgenommen hatte, dies ohne Zeitverlust zu tun, da sein Urlaub nur bis zum folgenden Samstag verlängert wurde und er selbst in diesem Moment keine Bedenken hatte, begann er auf sehr ordentliche Weise damit, alle Bräuche einzuhalten, die er als Teil des Geschäfts angenommen hatte. Als er kurz nach dem Frühstück Mrs. Bennet, Elizabeth und eine der jüngeren Mädchen zusammenfand, sprach er die Mutter mit folgenden Worten an: "Darf ich hoffen, gnädige Frau, auf Ihr Interesse bei Ihrer reizenden Tochter Elizabeth, wenn ich um die Ehre einer privaten Unterredung mit ihr im Laufe des Vormittags bitte?" Bevor Elizabeth Zeit hatte, etwas anderes als eine Überraschungsröte zu zeigen, antwortete Mrs. Bennet sofort: "Oh je! Ja! Sicherlich! Ich bin sicher, Lizzy wird sehr glücklich sein. Ich bin sicher, sie wird keinen Einwand haben. Komm, Kitty, ich möchte, dass du nach oben gehst." Und sie sammelte ihre Arbeit zusammen und eilte davon, als Elizabeth rief: "Liebe Frau, gehen Sie bitte nicht. Ich bitte Sie, nicht zu gehen. Mr. Collins möge mir verzeihen. Er kann nichts zu sagen haben, das niemand hören muss. Ich gehe selbst weg." "Nein, nein, Unsinn, Lizzy. Ich bestehe darauf, dass du bleibst, wo du bist." Und als Elizabeth wirklich, mit verärgertem und verlegtem Blick, anscheinend flüchten wollte, fügte sie hinzu: "Lizzy, ich bestehe darauf, dass du bleibst und Mr. Collins zuhörst." Elizabeth würde einer solchen Anweisung nicht widersprechen - und nach einem Moment des Nachdenkens, bei dem sie einsah, dass es am klügsten wäre, es so schnell und so ruhig wie möglich hinter sich zu bringen, setzte sie sich wieder hin und versuchte, ihre zwischen Verzweiflung und Amüsement geteilten Gefühle durch ununterbrochene Beschäftigung zu verbergen. Mrs. Bennet und Kitty gingen weg, und sobald sie fort waren, begann Mr. Collins. "Glauben Sie mir, meine liebe Miss Elizabeth, dass Ihre Bescheidenheit, weit davon entfernt, Ihnen zu schaden, Ihren anderen Vorzügen nur noch hinzufügt. Sie wären in meinen Augen weniger liebenswert gewesen, wenn es nicht diese kleine Unwilligkeit gegeben hätte. Erlauben Sie mir jedoch, Ihnen zu versichern, dass ich die Erlaubnis Ihrer geehrten Mutter für diese Anrede habe. Sie können den Zweck meiner Rede kaum bezweifeln, auch wenn Ihre natürliche Zartheit Sie dazu verleiten mag, es zu verbergen. Meine Aufmerksamkeiten waren zu offensichtlich, um missverstanden zu werden. Kaum hatte ich das Haus betreten, als ich Sie als Begleiterin meines zukünftigen Lebens ausgewählt habe. Aber bevor ich von meinen Gefühlen zu diesem Thema mitgerissen werde, wird es vielleicht ratsam sein, meine Gründe für die Ehe und darüber hinaus für meine Reise nach Hertfordshire mit dem Ziel, eine Ehefrau auszuwählen, wie ich es definitiv getan habe, darzulegen." Die Vorstellung, dass Mr. Collins, trotz seiner feierlichen Ruhe, von seinen Gefühlen mitgerissen wird, brachte Elizabeth so zum Lachen, dass sie die kurze Pause, die er zuließ, nicht nutzen konnte, um ihn weiter zum Schweigen zu bringen, und er fuhr fort: "Meine Gründe für die Ehe sind erstens, dass ich es für richtig halte, dass jeder Geistliche in angenehmen Umständen (wie ich selbst) das Beispiel der Ehe in seiner Pfarrei geben sollte. Zweitens bin ich überzeugt, dass es zu meinem Glück sehr viel beitragen wird. Und drittens - was ich vielleicht früher hätte erwähnen sollen - ist es der besondere Rat und die Empfehlung der sehr edlen Dame, die ich als Gönnerin bezeichnen darf. Zweimal hat sie sich herabgelassen, mir ihre Meinung (ungefragt!) zu diesem Thema mitzuteilen. Und es war ausgerechnet am Samstagabend, bevor ich Hunsford verlassen habe - zwischen unseren Runden beim Quadrille, während Mrs. Jenkinson den Fußschemel von Miss de Bourgh arrangierte -, als sie sagte: "Mr. Collins, Sie müssen heiraten. Ein Geistlicher wie Sie muss heiraten. Wählen Sie richtig, wählen Sie eine Dame meinetwegen und für Ihr eigenes Wohl eine aktive, nützliche Person, nicht hochmütig erzogen, sondern in der Lage, mit einem kleinen Einkommen gut auszukommen. Dies ist mein Rat. Finden Sie eine solche Frau so bald wie möglich, bringen Sie sie nach Hunsford und ich werde sie besuchen." Erlauben Sie mir übrigens, meine liebe Cousine, anzumerken, dass ich die Aufmerksamkeit und Freundlichkeit von Lady Catherine de Bourgh nicht zu den geringsten Vorteilen zähle, die ich Ihnen bieten kann. Sie werden ihre Manieren jenseits dessen finden, was ich beschreiben kann, und Ihr Witz und Ihre Lebendigkeit werden ihr sicherlich gefallen, insbesondere wenn sie mit der Stille und dem Respekt, den ihr Rang zwangsläufig hervorruft, abgemildert werden. Das ist so viel zu meiner generellen Absicht, was die Ehe betrifft; jetzt muss ich Ihnen noch mitteilen, warum ich mich für Longbourn anstelle meiner eigenen Nachbarschaft entschieden habe, wo es viele liebenswerte junge Frauen gibt. Aber die Tatsache ist, dass ich, da ich dieses Anwesen nach dem Tod Ihres verehrten Vaters erben werde (der jedoch noch viele Jahre leben kann), mich nicht zufriedenstellen konnte, ohne mich zu dem Entschluss zu bekennen, eine Frau aus seinen Töchtern zu wählen, damit der Verlust für sie so gering wie möglich ist, wenn das traurige Ereignis eintritt - das jedoch, wie ich bereits gesagt habe, möglicherweise erst in mehreren Jahren geschehen wird. Das war mein Motiv, meine liebe Cousine, und ich hoffe, dass es mich nicht in Ihrer Achtung sinken lässt. Und jetzt bleibt mir nichts weiter übrig, als Ihnen in den lebhaftesten Worten von der Heftigkeit meiner Zuneigung zu versichern. Was das Vermögen betrifft, so bin ich völlig gleichgültig und werde von Ihrem Vater keine Forderung in dieser Hinsicht stellen, da ich sehr wohl weiß, dass sie nicht erfüllt werden könnte. Und dass Sie erst nach dem Tod Ihrer Mutter Anspruch auf tausend Pfund zu 4 Prozent haben werden, ist alles, worauf Sie jemals Anspruch haben können. In dieser Hinsicht werde ich also konsequent schweigen, und Sie können sich versichern, dass keine undankbare Vorwürfe über meine Lippen kommen werden, wenn wir verheiratet sind." Es war jetzt absolut notwendig, ihn zu unterbrechen. "Sie sind zu voreilig, Sir", rief sie. "Sie vergessen, dass ich noch keine Antwort gegeben habe. Lassen Sie mich ohne weitere Zeitverluste antworten. Nehmen Sie meinen Dank für das Kompliment an, das Sie mir machen. Ich bin mir der Ehre Ihrer Vorschläge sehr bewusst, aber es ist mir unmöglich, ihnen anders als abzulehnen." "Ich bin nun nicht derjenige, der lernen muss", antwortete Mr. Collins mit einer formellen Handbewegung, "dass es bei jungen Damen üblich ist, die Werbung des Mannes abzulehnen, den sie heimlich annehmen möchten, wenn er zum ersten Mal um ihre Gunst bittet; und dass die Ablehnung manchmal ein zweites oder sogar ein drittes Mal wiederholt wird. Ich lasse mich also keineswegs entmutigen von dem, was Sie gerade gesagt haben, und hoffe, Sie bald vor den Altar zu führen." "Wirklich, Sir", rief Elizabeth, "Ihre Hoffnung ist nach meiner Ablehnung ziemlich außergewöhnlich. Ich versichere Ihnen, dass ich nicht eine dieser jungen Damen bin (falls es solche jungen Damen gibt "Also, Mr. Collins," rief Elizabeth mit einiger Erregung, "verwirren Sie mich sehr. Wenn das, was ich bisher gesagt habe, für Sie wie Ermutigung erscheinen kann, weiß ich nicht, wie ich meine Ablehnung so ausdrücken soll, dass Sie verstehen, dass ich nicht interessiert bin." "Sie müssen mir gestatten, mich selbst zu täuschen, meine liebe Cousine, dass Ihre Ablehnung meiner Avancen nur Floskeln sind. Meine Gründe dafür sind kurz zusammengefasst: Es scheint mir nicht, dass meine Hand Ihrer Annahme unwürdig ist oder dass das Angebot, das ich machen kann, nicht äußerst wünschenswert wäre. Meine Lebenssituation, meine Verbindung mit der Familie De Bourgh und meine Beziehung zu Ihnen sind Umstände, die stark für mich sprechen, und Sie sollten weiterhin bedenken, dass selbst bei all Ihren Reizen keineswegs sicher ist, dass Ihnen jemals ein weiteres Heiratsangebot gemacht wird. Ihr Erbe ist bedauerlicherweise so klein, dass es höchstwahrscheinlich die Effekte Ihrer Schönheit und liebenswerten Eigenschaften zunichte machen wird. Da ich daher schlussfolgern muss, dass Sie meine Ablehnung nicht ernst meinen, werde ich davon ausgehen, dass Sie darauf abzielen, meine Liebe durch Ungewissheit zu steigern, wie es die übliche Praxis eleganter Frauen ist." "Ich versichere Ihnen, Sir, dass ich keinerlei Ansprüche auf die Art von Eleganz habe, die darin besteht, einen respektablen Mann zu quälen. Ich würde lieber das Kompliment erhalten, als aufrichtig angesehen zu werden. Ich danke Ihnen immer wieder für die Ehre, die Sie mir mit Ihren Vorschlägen erwiesen haben, aber sie anzunehmen ist absolut unmöglich. Meine Gefühle in jeder Hinsicht verbieten es. Kann ich deutlicher sprechen? Sehen Sie mich nicht länger als elegante Frau an, die Sie quälen will, sondern als vernünftiges Wesen, das aus ihrem Herzen spricht." "Sie sind durchweg bezaubernd!" rief er aus, mit einem Hauch unbeholfener Galanterie. "Und ich bin überzeugt, dass, wenn Ihre ausgezeichneten Eltern dem ausdrücklichen Befehl zustimmen, meine Anträge auf Akzeptanz stoßen werden." Auf eine solche Hartnäckigkeit in vorsätzlicher Selbsttäuschung würde Elizabeth nicht antworten, und sie zog sich sofort und schweigend zurück. Sie hatte sich entschieden, dass wenn er ihre wiederholten Ablehnungen weiterhin als schmeichelhafte Ermutigung betrachtete, sie sich an ihren Vater wenden würde. Seine Ablehnung könnte in einer Weise ausgesprochen werden, die absolut entscheidend sein musste, und sein Verhalten konnte nicht mit der Affektation und Koketterie einer eleganten Frau verwechselt werden. Herr Collins wurde nicht lange der stillen Betrachtung seiner erfolgreichen Liebe überlassen. Denn Mrs. Bennet, die im Vorraum getrödelt hatte, um das Ende der Besprechung abzuwarten, sah Elizabeth sofort die Tür öffnen und mit schnellen Schritten an ihr vorbei die Treppe hinaufgehen. Daraufhin betrat sie das Frühstückszimmer und beglückwünschte sowohl ihn als auch sich selbst in herzlichen Worten zu der glücklichen Aussicht auf ihre nähere Verbindung. Herr Collins nahm diese Glückwünsche mit gleichem Vergnügen entgegen und fuhr dann fort, Einzelheiten ihres Gesprächs zu erzählen, mit dem Ergebnis, von dem er annahm, dass er allen Grund hatte, zufrieden zu sein. Die Ablehnung, die seine Cousine ihm standhaft gegeben hatte, würde natürlicherweise aus ihrer schüchternen Bescheidenheit und der echten Feinfühligkeit ihres Charakters resultieren. Diese Informationen jedoch versetzten Mrs. Bennet in Aufregung; sie wäre gern genauso überzeugt gewesen, dass ihre Tochter beabsichtigt hatte, ihn zu ermutigen, indem sie seine Anträge ablehnte, aber sie wagte es nicht, daran zu glauben, und konnte nicht umhin, dies zu sagen. "Aber verlassen Sie sich darauf, Mr. Collins", fügte sie hinzu, "Lizzy wird zur Vernunft gebracht werden. Ich werde selbst mit ihr darüber sprechen. Sie ist ein sehr eigensinniges, törichtes Mädchen und kennt ihr eigenes Interesse nicht; aber ich werde dafür sorgen, dass sie es weiß." "Verzeihen Sie mir, dass ich Sie unterbreche, meine Dame", rief Mr. Collins. "Aber wenn sie wirklich eigensinnig und töricht ist, weiß ich nicht, ob sie für einen Mann in meiner Situation überhaupt eine wünschenswerte Frau wäre, der natürlicherweise sein Glück im Ehestand sucht. Wenn sie also tatsächlich darauf besteht, meine Verehrung abzulehnen, ist es vielleicht besser, sie nicht zu einer Annahme meiner Heiratsanträge zu zwingen, da sie bei solchen Temperamentsdefekten nicht viel zu meinem Glück beitragen könnte." "Herr, Sie verstehen mich völlig falsch", sagte Mrs. Bennet alarmiert. "Lizzy ist nur in solchen Angelegenheiten eigensinnig. In allem anderen ist sie so gutmütig wie ein Mädchen nur sein kann. Ich werde sofort zu Mr. Bennet gehen, und wir werden es mit ihr sehr bald klären, da bin ich sicher." Sie ließ ihm keine Zeit, zu antworten, sondern eilte sofort zu ihrem Ehemann und rief, als sie die Bibliothek betrat: "Oh! Mr. Bennet, Sie werden sofort gebraucht; wir sind alle außer uns. Kommen Sie und lassen Sie Lizzy Mr. Collins heiraten, denn sie schwört, sie wird ihn nicht haben, und wenn Sie sich nicht beeilen, wird er seine Meinung ändern und sie nicht haben." Als sie eintrat, hob Mr. Bennet die Augen von seinem Buch und fixierte ihr Gesicht mit einer ruhigen Unbekümmertheit, die sich durch ihre Mitteilung nicht im Geringsten veränderte. "Ich habe leider das Vergnügen, Sie nicht zu verstehen", sagte er, als sie ihre Rede beendet hatte. "Wovon sprechen Sie?" "Von Mr. Collins und Lizzy. Lizzy erklärt, sie wird Mr. Collins nicht haben, und Mr. Collins fängt an zu sagen, dass er Lizzy nicht haben wird." "Und was soll ich an dieser Situation tun? Es scheint aussichtslos zu sein." "Sprechen Sie selbst mit Lizzy darüber. Sag ihr, dass Sie darauf bestehen, dass sie ihn heiratet." "Lassen Sie sie herbeigerufen werden. Sie soll meine Meinung hören." Mrs. Bennet läutete und Miss Elizabeth wurde in die Bibliothek gerufen. "Komm her, mein Kind", rief ihr Vater, als sie erschien. "Ich habe dich wegen einer wichtigen Angelegenheit herbestellt. Ich habe gehört, dass Mr. Collins dir einen Heiratsantrag gemacht hat. Stimmt das?" Elizabeth antwortete, dass es so sei. "Sehr gut - und du hast diesen Heiratsantrag abgelehnt?" "Das habe ich, Sir." "Sehr gut. Jetzt kommen wir zum Punkt. Deine Mutter besteht darauf, dass du ihn annimmst. Ist es nicht so, Mrs. Bennet?" "Ja, oder ich werde sie nie wiedersehen." "Dir steht eine unglückliche Alternative bevor, Elizabeth. Ab heute musst du ein Fremder für einen deiner Eltern sein. Deine Mutter wird dich nie wiedersehen, wenn du Mr. Collins nicht heiratest, und ich werde dich nie wiedersehen, wenn du es tust." Elizabeth konnte sich nicht verkneifen, über ein solches Ende eines solchen Beginns zu lächeln; aber Mrs. Bennet, die sich überzeugt hatte, dass ihr Mann die Angelegenheit so betrachtete, wie sie es wünschte, war überaus enttäuscht. "Was meinen Sie, Mr. Bennet, dass Sie so reden? Sie haben mir versprochen, dass Sie darauf bestehen werden, dass sie ihn heiratet." "Meine Liebe", antwortete ihr Mann, "ich habe zwei kleine Gefälligkeiten zu bitten. Erstens, dass Sie mir gestatten, an diesem besonderen Anlass mein eigenes Verständnis zu benutzen, und zweitens, mein Zimmer. Ich würde mich freuen, so bald wie möglich die Bibliothek für mich zu haben." Trotz ihrer Enttäuschung über ihren Ehemann "Ja, da kommt sie," fuhr Mrs. Bennet fort, "sie sieht ganz unbekümmert aus und kümmert sich nicht mehr um uns als ob wir in York wären, solange sie ihren Willen bekommt. Aber ich sage dir, Miss Lizzy, wenn du es dir in den Kopf setzt, jeden Heiratsantrag auf diese Weise abzulehnen, wirst du überhaupt keinen Ehemann finden - und ich weiß wirklich nicht, wer dich versorgen soll, wenn dein Vater tot ist. Ich werde nicht in der Lage sein, dich zu unterstützen - und ich warne dich. Ich habe mit dir ab heute abgeschlossen. Ich habe dir schon in der Bibliothek gesagt, dass ich nie wieder mit dir sprechen werde, und du wirst sehen, dass ich mein Wort halte. Ich habe keine Freude daran, mit undankbaren Kindern zu sprechen. Nicht dass es mir überhaupt viel Freude macht, mit irgendjemandem zu sprechen. Menschen wie ich, die unter nervlichen Beschwerden leiden, haben sicher keine große Lust zum Reden. Niemand kann wissen, was ich erleide! Aber es ist immer so. Diejenigen, die nicht klagen, werden nie bedauert." Ihre Töchter hörten schweigend diesem Ausbruch zu und waren sich bewusst, dass jeder Versuch, mit ihr zu diskutieren oder sie zu beruhigen, nur zu einer Erhöhung der Reizbarkeit führen würde. Sie sprach also ohne Unterbrechung weiter, bis sie von Mr. Collins begleitet wurden, der mit weiß Gott welche wichtige Miene eintrat, und als sie ihn erblickte, sagte sie zu den Mädchen: "So, ich bestehe darauf, dass ihr alle den Mund haltet und Mr. Collins und ich ein kleines Gespräch unter vier Augen führen können." Elizabeth verließ ruhig den Raum, Jane und Kitty folgten ihr, aber Lydia blieb stehen und war entschlossen, alles zu hören, was sie konnte; und Charlotte wurde zunächst durch die Höflichkeit von Mr. Collins zurückgehalten, der sehr ausführlich nach ihrem Befinden und dem ihrer Familie fragte, und dann durch eine gewisse Neugier befriedigt, indem sie zum Fenster ging und so tat, als ob sie nichts hörte. Mit einer traurigen Stimme begann Mrs. Bennet also das geplante Gespräch. "Oh! Mr. Collins!"- "Oh mein liebes Fräulein," antwortete er, "lasst uns für immer über diesen Punkt schweigen. Weit entfernt von mir, das Verhalten eurer Tochter eifersüchtig zu sehen. Uns allen obliegt die Ergebung in unabwendbare Übel; insbesondere einem jungen Mann, der so glücklich wie ich frühzeitig gefördert wurde; und ich vertraue darauf, dass ich ergeben bin. Vielleicht umso mehr, als ich Zweifel an meinem absoluten Glück hege, wäre meine liebe Cousine mir die Ehre einer Ehe gewährt hätte; denn ich habe oft beobachtet, dass die Ergebung nie so vollkommen ist, wie wenn der versagte Segen in unserer Wertschätzung etwas an Wert verliert. Ihr sollt wohl nicht annehmen, dass ich damit irgendeine Missachtung eurer Familie zeige, meine liebe Frau, indem ich meine Vorliebe für eure Tochter zurückziehe, ohne euch und Mr. Bennet die Höflichkeit zu erweisen, eure Autorität in meinem Sinne zu benutzen. Mein Verhalten ist fragwürdig, denn ich habe meine Entlassung aus dem Mund eurer Tochter angenommen, anstatt von eurem eigenen. Aber wir alle sind fehlbar. Ich habe sicherlich das Wohlwollen während der gesamten Angelegenheit beabsichtigt. Mein Ziel war es, eine liebenswürdige Begleiterin für mich selbst zu sichern, unter Berücksichtigung des Vorteils für eure gesamte Familie, und wenn meine Methode kritisierbar gewesen sein sollte, so bitte ich hiermit um Entschuldigung." Als mein Bruder uns gestern verließ, stellte er sich vor, dass das Geschäft, das ihn nach London brachte, in drei oder vier Tagen abgeschlossen sein könnte. Da wir jedoch sicher sind, dass dies nicht möglich ist, und gleichzeitig davon überzeugt sind, dass Charles, sobald er in die Stadt kommt, keine Eile haben wird, sie wieder zu verlassen, haben wir beschlossen, ihm dorthin zu folgen, damit er seine freie Zeit nicht in einem trostlosen Hotel verbringen muss. Viele meiner Bekannten sind schon dort für den Winter; Ich wünschte, ich könnte hören, dass auch du, mein liebster Freund, die Absicht hast, sie zu begleiten, aber daran verzweifle ich. Ich hoffe aufrichtig, dass dein Weihnachten in Hertfordshire von den Freuden geprägt sein wird, die diese Jahreszeit normalerweise mit sich bringt, und dass deine Verehrer so zahlreich sein werden, dass du den Verlust der drei, von denen wir dich berauben werden, nicht spüren wirst. "Es ist offensichtlich", fügte Jane hinzu, "dass er in diesem Winter nicht zurückkommt." "Es ist nur offensichtlich, dass Miss Bingley nicht möchte, dass er zurückkommt." "Warum denkst du das? Es muss seine eigene Entscheidung sein. Er ist sein eigener Herr. Aber du kennst nicht alles. Ich werde dir den Abschnitt vorlesen, der mich besonders verletzt. Ich werde keine Geheimnisse vor dir haben." "Mr. Darcy kann es kaum erwarten, seine Schwester wiederzusehen, und um die Wahrheit zu sagen, sind _wir_ kaum weniger ungeduldig, sie wieder zu treffen. Ich denke wirklich nicht, dass Georgiana Darcy in Schönheit, Eleganz und Fähigkeiten ihresgleichen hat, und die Zuneigung, die sie in Louisa und mir hervorruft, wird durch die Hoffnung, die wir hegen, dass sie eines Tages unsere Schwester sein wird, noch interessanter. Ich weiß nicht, ob ich dir je zuvor von meinen Gefühlen zu diesem Thema erzählt habe, aber ich werde das Land nicht verlassen, ohne sie dir anzuvertrauen, und ich hoffe, du wirst sie nicht für unvernünftig halten. Mein Bruder bewundert sie bereits sehr, er wird jetzt häufig die Gelegenheit haben, sie im intimsten Verhältnis zu sehen, ihre Verwandten wünschen sich die Verbindung genauso sehr wie er selbst, und die Parteilichkeit einer Schwester täuscht mich wahrscheinlich nicht, wenn ich Charles für am besten geeignet halte, jedes Frauenherz zu erobern. Mit all diesen Umständen, die eine Bindung begünstigen und nichts verhindern, liege ich falsch, meine liebe Jane, wenn ich die Hoffnung auf ein Ereignis hege, das das Glück so vieler Menschen sichern wird?" "Was hältst du von _diesem_ Satz, meine liebe Lizzy?" sagte Jane, als sie ihn beendet hatte. "Ist er nicht deutlich genug? Erklärt er nicht ausdrücklich, dass Caroline weder erwartet noch wünscht, dass ich ihre Schwester werde? Dass sie von der Gleichgültigkeit ihres Bruders überzeugt ist und dass sie mich, wenn sie die Natur meiner Gefühle für ihn vermutet, (sehr freundlich!) warnen möchte? Kann es hierzu eine andere Meinung geben?" "Ja, das kann es; denn meine ist völlig anders. Willst du sie hören?" "Sehr gerne." "Ich werde es dir in wenigen Worten sagen. Miss Bingley sieht, dass ihr Bruder in dich verliebt ist und will, dass er Miss Darcy heiratet. Sie folgt ihm in die Stadt in der Hoffnung, ihn dort halten zu können, und versucht, dich davon zu überzeugen, dass er sich nicht für dich interessiert." Jane schüttelte den Kopf. "Wirklich, Jane, du solltest mir glauben. Niemand, der euch zusammen gesehen hat, kann seine Zuneigung bezweifeln. Miss Bingley kann es sicher nicht. Sie ist keine Dummkopf. Hätte sie nur halb so viel Liebe in Mr. Darcy für sich selbst gesehen, hätte sie bereits ihre Hochzeitskleider bestellt. Aber hier ist die Sache. Wir sind nicht reich genug oder groß genug für sie; und sie ist umso besorgter darum, Miss Darcy für ihren Bruder zu bekommen, weil sie glaubt, dass es nach einer Heirat schon einmal weniger Ärger geben wird, eine zweite zu erreichen; darin liegt sicherlich etwas Einfallsreichtum, und ich denke, es würde Erfolg haben, wenn Miss de Bourgh nicht im Weg wäre. Aber, meine liebe Jane, du kannst doch nicht ernsthaft glauben, dass, nur weil Miss Bingley dir sagt, ihr Bruder bewundert Miss Darcy sehr, er auch nur im geringsten weniger sensibel ist für _deine_ Vorzüge als am Dienstag, als er sich von dir verabschiedete, oder dass es ihr möglich sein wird, ihn davon zu überzeugen, dass er nicht in dich verliebt ist, sondern sehr in die Freundin." "Wenn wir so denken würden wie Miss Bingley", antwortete Jane, "könnte mich deine Darstellung dieser Tatsachen wirklich beruhigen. Aber ich weiß, dass die Grundlage ungerecht ist. Caroline ist unfähig, jemanden wissentlich zu täuschen; und alles, worauf ich in diesem Fall hoffen kann, ist, dass sie sich selbst täuscht." "Das ist gut. Du könntest dir keine bessere Idee einfallen lassen, da du dich nicht mit meiner Trost spendenden Idee zufrieden gibst. Glaube auf jeden Fall, dass sie getäuscht ist. Du hast jetzt deine Pflicht getan, und du darfst dich nicht länger beunruhigen." "Aber, meine liebe Schwester, kann ich glücklich sein, selbst wenn ich das Beste annehme, einen Mann zu akzeptieren, dessen Schwestern und Freunde alle wollen, dass er jemand anders heiratet?" "Du musst für dich selbst entscheiden", sagte Elizabeth, "und wenn du nach reiflicher Überlegung feststellst, dass das Unglück, seine beiden Schwestern zu missfallen, mehr ist als das Glück, seine Frau zu sein, rate ich dir auf jeden Fall, ihn abzulehnen." "Wie kannst du so reden?" sagte Jane schwach lächelnd, "du musst wissen, dass ich, auch wenn ich über ihre Missbilligung sehr betrübt wäre, nicht zögern würde." "Ich dachte nicht, dass du das tun würdest; und in diesem Fall kann ich deine Lage nicht sehr bemitleiden." "Aber wenn er diesen Winter nicht mehr zurückkehrt, wird meine Entscheidung nie gefordert werden. In sechs Monaten können tausend Dinge passieren!" Elizabeth verachtete die Idee, dass er nicht mehr zurückkehren würde. Für sie schien es nur der Vorschlag von Carolines eigenem Interesse zu sein, und sie konnte sich nicht einen Moment lang vorstellen, dass diese Wünsche, wie offen oder kunstvoll sie auch geäußert wurden, einen jungen Mann beeinflussen könnten, der so unabhängig von allen anderen war. Sie veranschaulichte ihrer Schwester so eindringlich wie möglich, was sie zu dem Thema empfand, und hatte bald das Vergnügen zu sehen, dass es eine glückliche Wirkung hatte. Janes Stimmung war nicht niedergeschlagen, und sie wurde allmählich dazu gebracht, zu hoffen, obwohl die Schüchternheit der Zuneigung manchmal die Hoffnung überwog, dass Bingley nach Netherfield zurückkehren und allen Wünschen ihres Herzens entsprechen würde. Sie waren sich einig, dass Mrs. Bennet nur von der Abreise der Familie erfahren sollte, ohne sich wegen des Verhaltens des Herrn zu beunruhigen; aber selbst diese teilweise Mitteilung bereitete ihr große Sorgen, und sie beklagte es als äußerst unglücklich, dass die Damen ausgerechnet dann weggehen mussten, als sie alle so eng miteinander befreundet wurden. Nachdem sie es jedoch ausführlich beklagt hatte, konnte sie sich damit trösten, dass Mr. Bingley bald wieder hier sein würde und bald in Longbourn zu Abend essen würde. Das Fazit war, dass obwohl er nur zu einem Familiendinner eingeladen war, sie darauf achten würde, dass es zwei volle Gänge geben würde. Die Bennets waren zum Abendessen bei den Luc In der kürzest möglichen Zeit, die Mr. Collins' langen Reden erlaubten, wurde alles zwischen ihnen zur Zufriedenheit beider geregelt. Als sie ins Haus gingen, bat er sie dringend, den Tag zu nennen, der ihn zum glücklichsten Mann machen sollte. Obwohl eine solche Bitte vorerst zurückgestellt werden musste, verspürte die Dame keinen Drang, mit seinem Glück zu spielen. Die Dummheit, mit der er von Natur aus begünstigt wurde, musste seine Werbung vor jeglichem Charme schützen, der eine Frau dazu bewegen könnte, eine Fortsetzung zu wünschen. Miss Lucas, die ihn aus reinem und uneigennützigem Wunsch nach einer eigenen Existenz akzeptierte, war es egal, wie schnell diese Existenz erreicht wurde. Sir William und Lady Lucas wurden umgehend um ihre Zustimmung gebeten, und sie wurde mit großer Freude gewährt. Mr. Collins' aktuelle Umstände machten dies zu einer äußerst geeigneten Partie für ihre Tochter, der sie kein großes Vermögen geben konnten, und seine Aussichten auf zukünftigen Reichtum waren äußerst vielversprechend. Lady Lucas begann sofort zu berechnen, mit größerem Interesse als je zuvor, wie viele Jahre Mr. Bennet wahrscheinlich noch leben würde, und Sir William äußerte seine klare Meinung, dass es äußerst angebracht wäre, dass sowohl Mr. Collins als auch seine Frau erschienen, sobald er Besitzer des Anwesens in Longbourn war. Die ganze Familie war kurz gesagt überglücklich über die Angelegenheit. Die jüngeren Mädchen hatten Hoffnung, ein oder zwei Jahre früher in die Gesellschaft einzutreten als sie es sonst hätten tun können, und die Jungen waren von ihrer Angst befreit, dass Charlotte als alte Jungfer sterben könnte. Charlotte selbst war ziemlich ruhig. Sie hatte ihr Ziel erreicht und Zeit, es zu bedenken. Ihre Gedanken waren im Allgemeinen zufriedenstellend. Mr. Collins war sicherlich weder vernünftig noch angenehm; seine Gesellschaft war lästig, und seine Zuneigung zu ihr musste imaginär sein. Aber dennoch würde er ihr Ehemann sein. Ohne besonders hohe Meinung von Männern oder der Ehe zu haben, war Heirat immer ihr Ziel gewesen. Es war die einzige ehrenvolle Versorgung für gut ausgebildete junge Frauen mit geringem Vermögen und obwohl es keine Garantie für Glück war, war es ihre angenehmste Absicherung gegen Armut. Diese Absicherung hatte sie nun erhalten und mit 27 Jahren, ohne je besonders hübsch gewesen zu sein, fühlte sie das ganze Glück davon. Die unangenehmste Tatsache in der Angelegenheit war die Überraschung, die es bei Elizabeth Bennet hervorrufen würde, deren Freundschaft sie mehr als die von irgendjemand anderem schätzte. Elizabeth würde sich wundern und wahrscheinlich sie tadeln, und obwohl sie sich entschlossen hatte, ihr die Informationen selbst zu geben, lud sie Mr. Collins, als er zum Abendessen nach Longbourn zurückkehrte, ein, keinen Hinweis auf das Geschehene gegenüber irgendjemand aus der Familie fallen zu lassen. Ein Versprechen der Verschwiegenheit wurde natürlich sehr gehorsam gegeben, aber es konnte nicht ohne Schwierigkeiten eingehalten werden; denn die Neugierde, die durch seine lange Abwesenheit geweckt wurde, brach in so direkten Fragen bei seiner Rückkehr aus, dass es einiges Geschick erforderte, ihnen auszuweichen, und er übte gleichzeitig große Selbstbeherrschung, denn er sehnte sich danach, seine erfolgreiche Liebe zu verkünden. Da er seine Reise am nächsten Tag zu früh begann, um irgendjemanden aus der Familie zu sehen, wurde die Abschiedszeremonie vollzogen, als die Damen sich für die Nacht zurückzogen; und Mrs. Bennet sagte mit großer Höflichkeit und Herzlichkeit, wie glücklich sie wären, ihn wieder in Longbourn zu sehen, wann immer es seine anderen Verpflichtungen zuließen. "Meine liebe Frau", erwiderte er, "diese Einladung ist besonders erfreulich, denn darauf habe ich gehofft; und Sie können sehr sicher sein, dass ich sie so bald wie möglich annehmen werde." Sie waren alle erstaunt, und Mr. Bennet, der keineswegs eine so schnelle Rückkehr wünschen konnte, sagte sofort: "Aber besteht nicht die Gefahr von Missbilligung durch Lady Catherine, mein lieber Herr? Sie sollten lieber Ihre Verwandten vernachlässigen, als das Risiko einer Beleidigung Ihrer Gönnerin eingehen." "Mein lieber Herr", erwiderte Mr. Collins, "ich bin Ihnen besonders dankbar für diese freundliche Warnung, und Sie können darauf zählen, dass ich einen so wesentlichen Schritt nicht ohne die Zustimmung Ihrer Ladyship unternehmen werde." "Sie können nicht vorsichtig genug sein. Geht mehr Risiko ein, als ihren Missfallen hervorzurufen; und wenn Sie feststellen, dass sie durch Ihre erneute Ankunft bei uns wahrscheinlich erregt wird, was ich für äußerst wahrscheinlich halte, bleiben Sie ruhig zu Hause und seien Sie versichert, dass wir keinen Anstoß nehmen werden." "Glauben Sie mir, mein lieber Herr, meine Dankbarkeit ist durch solch liebevolle Aufmerksamkeit herzlich geweckt und Sie werden bald von mir einen Dankesbrief für dies sowie für jede andere Zuwendung erhalten, die Sie mir während meines Aufenthalts in Hertfordshire erwiesen haben. Was meine hübschen Cousinen betrifft, obwohl meine Abwesenheit möglicherweise nicht lang genug ist, um dies notwendig zu machen, will ich mir jetzt die Freiheit nehmen, ihnen Gesundheit und Glück zu wünschen, einschließlich meiner Cousine Elizabeth." Mit angemessener Höflichkeit zogen sich die Damen dann zurück; alle waren gleichermaßen überrascht, dass er eine schnelle Rückkehr plante. Mrs. Bennet wollte daraus schließen, dass er beabsichtigte, um die Hand einer ihrer jüngeren Mädchen anzuhalten, und Mary hätte möglicherweise zugestimmt. Sie schätzte seine Fähigkeiten viel höher ein als die der anderen; seine Überlegungen hatten oft einen so soliden Charakter, der sie beeindruckte, und obwohl er bei weitem nicht so klug war wie sie selbst, dachte sie, dass er, wenn er durch ein solches Beispiel wie ihres ermutigt würde, lesen und sich weiterbilden könnte und ein sehr angenehmer Begleiter werden könnte. Aber am nächsten Morgen war jede Hoffnung dieser Art dahin. Miss Lucas rief kurz nach dem Frühstück an und berichtete Elizabeth in vertraulicher Runde von dem Ereignis des Vortages. Die Möglichkeit, dass sich Mr. Collins einbildete, in ihre Freundin verliebt zu sein, war Elizabeth in den letzten Tagen einmal in den Sinn gekommen. Aber dass Charlotte ihn ermutigen könnte, schien fast genauso unwahrscheinlich wie dass sie selbst ihn ermutigen könnte, und ihre Verwunderung war daher so groß, dass sie zuerst die Grenzen der Höflichkeit überschritt und nicht umhin konnte, auszurufen: "Mit Mr. Collins verlobt! Meine liebe Charlotte, unmöglich!" Die feste Miene, die Miss Lucas hatte, als sie ihr ihre Geschichte erzählte, wich hier einem momentanen Durcheinander, als sie eine so direkte Vorwürfe erhielt; obwohl es nicht mehr war, als sie erwartet hatte, gewann sie bald ihre Fassung wieder und antwortete ruhig: "Warum bist du überrascht, meine liebe Eliza? Glaubst du, es sei unglaublich, dass Mr. Collins in der Lage ist, die gute Meinung irgendeiner Frau zu erlangen, nur weil er bei dir nicht so glücklich war?" Aber Elizabeth hatte sich nun wieder besonnen und machte einen großen Anstrengung dafür und konnte ihr mit ziemlichem Nachdruck versichern, dass die Aussicht auf ihre Verwandts Nichts weniger als die Gefälligkeit eines Höflings hätte solche Behandlung ohne Zorn ertragen können; aber Sir Williams gute Erziehung half ihm, all das zu ertragen; und obwohl er um Erlaubnis bat, sich hinsichtlich der Wahrheit seiner Informationen sicher sein zu dürfen, hörte er mit größter nachsichtiger Höflichkeit all ihre Unverschämtheiten. Elizabeth, die es als ihre Pflicht ansah, ihn von einer so unangenehmen Situation zu befreien, trat nun vor, um seine Aussage zu bestätigen, indem sie ihre vorherige Kenntnis davon erwähnte, die sie von Charlotte selbst hatte; und sie bemühte sich, den Ausrufen ihrer Mutter und Schwestern Einhalt zu gebieten, indem sie Sir William herzlich beglückwünschte, worin sie von Jane bereitwillig unterstützt wurde, und indem sie eine Vielzahl von Bemerkungen über das Glück, das von der Heirat zu erwarten war, den ausgezeichneten Charakter von Mr. Collins und die günstige Entfernung von Hunsford nach London machte. Mrs. Bennet war tatsächlich zu überwältigt, um viel zu sagen, solange Sir William bei ihnen war; aber sobald er sie verlassen hatte, fand ihre Gefühlslage einen schnellen Ausdruck. Zum einen bestand sie darauf, die ganze Angelegenheit nicht zu glauben; zum anderen war sie sich sehr sicher, dass Mr. Collins hereingelegt worden war; drittens vertraute sie darauf, dass sie niemals zusammen glücklich sein würden; und viertens, dass die Heirat abgebrochen werden könnte. Zwei Schlussfolgerungen wurden jedoch klar aus dem Ganzen gezogen; die eine, dass Elizabeth die eigentliche Ursache des ganzen Übels war; und die andere, dass sie selbst von ihnen allen barbarisch behandelt worden war; und auf diese beiden Punkte konzentrierte sie sich im Wesentlichen den Rest des Tages über. Nichts konnte sie trösten und nichts konnte sie besänftigen. -- Auch verging dieser Tag ihre Wut nicht. Eine Woche verging, bevor sie Elizabeth ohne sie anzuschreien sehen konnte, einen Monat verging, bevor sie Sir William oder Lady Lucas ansprechen konnte, ohne unhöflich zu sein, und viele Monate vergingen, bevor sie ihrer Tochter überhaupt vergeben konnte. Die Emotionen von Mr. Bennet waren zu diesem Anlass viel ruhiger, und er erklärte die, die er empfand, als äußerst angenehm; denn es erfreute ihn, sagte er, zu entdecken, dass Charlotte Lucas, von der er gedacht hatte, sie sei halbwegs vernünftig, genauso dumm war wie seine Frau und dümmer als seine Tochter! Jane gestand, dass sie eine kleine Überraschung über die Heirat empfand; aber sie sprach weniger von ihrem Erstaunen als von ihrem ernsthaften Wunsch nach ihrem Glück; auch konnte Elizabeth sie nicht überzeugen, es als unwahrscheinlich anzusehen. Kitty und Lydia beneideten Miss Lucas bei weitem nicht, denn Mr. Collins war nur ein Geistlicher; und es beeinflusste sie in keiner anderen Weise, als dass es eine Neuigkeit war, die sie in Meryton verbreiten konnten. Lady Lucas konnte sich eines Triumphs nicht erwehren, als sie in der Lage war, Mrs. Bennet den Trost zu erwidern, eine gut verheiratete Tochter zu haben; und sie besuchte Longbourn öfter als gewöhnlich, um zu sagen, wie glücklich sie war, obwohl die sauren Blicke und bösartigen Bemerkungen von Mrs. Bennet glücklicherweise das Glück hätten vertreiben können. Zwischen Elizabeth und Charlotte gab es eine Zurückhaltung, die sie gegenseitig dazu brachte, das Thema zu meiden; und Elizabeth war davon überzeugt, dass nie wieder ein echtes Vertrauen zwischen ihnen bestehen könnte. Ihre Enttäuschung über Charlotte ließ sie sich liebevoller an ihre Schwester wenden, deren Aufrichtigkeit und Feinfühligkeit sie sich sicher war, dass ihre Meinung nicht erschüttert werden könnte, und deren Glück sie täglich mehr besorgt machte, da Bingley nun eine Woche weg gewesen war und nichts von seiner Rückkehr gehört wurde. Jane hatte Caroline frühzeitig auf ihren Brief geantwortet und zählte die Tage, bis sie wieder hoffen konnte, von ihr zu hören. Der versprochene Dankesbrief von Mr. Collins traf am Dienstag, an ihren Vater gerichtet, ein und wurde mit der ganzen Feierlichkeit der Dankbarkeit geschrieben, die ein Jahr des Zusammenlebens in der Familie hätte hervorrufen können. Nachdem er sein Gewissen in dieser Hinsicht entlastet hatte, fuhr er mit vielen rauschenden Ausdrücken davon fort, seine Freude darüber auszudrücken, dass er die Zuneigung ihrer liebenswerten Nachbarin, Miss Lucas, gewonnen hatte, und erklärte dann, dass es nur mit dem Ziel war, ihre Gesellschaft zu genießen, dass er so bereit war, ihrem Wunsch nach einem erneuten Treffen in Longbourn nachzukommen, worauf er hoffte, am Montag in vierzehn Tagen wieder zurückkehren zu können; denn Lady Catherine, fügte er hinzu, unterstützte seine Heirat so herzlich, dass sie wünschte, dass die Heirat so bald wie möglich stattfinden sollte, was er als unwiderlegbares Argument betrachtete, seine liebe Charlotte dazu zu bewegen, einen frühen Termin zu nennen, um ihn zum glücklichsten aller Männer zu machen. Mr. Collins' Rückkehr nach Hertfordshire war für Mrs. Bennet keine angenehme Angelegenheit mehr. Im Gegenteil, sie war genauso geneigt, sich darüber zu beschweren wie ihr Mann. Es war sehr seltsam, dass er nach Longbourn kam, anstatt nach Lucas Lodge zu kommen; es war auch sehr unpraktisch und äußerst ärgerlich. Sie hasste es, Besucher im Haus zu haben, während es ihr so schlecht ging, und Liebende waren die unangenehmsten Leute von allen. Das waren die sanften Beschwerden von Mrs. Bennet, und sie mussten nur der größeren Not ihres anhaltenden Fernbleibens von Mr. Bingley Platz machen. Weder Jane noch Elizabeth waren mit diesem Thema zufrieden. Tag für Tag verging, ohne dass irgendwelche anderen Neuigkeiten von ihm kamen als das Gerücht, das in Meryton bald verbreitet wurde, dass er den ganzen Winter nicht mehr nach Netherfield kommen würde; ein Gerücht, das Mrs. Bennet sehr verärgerte und das sie niemals versäumte, als eine sehr skandalöse Lüge zu widerlegen. Selbst Elizabeth fing an zu befürchten - nicht dass Bingley gleichgültig war - sondern dass seine Schwestern Erfolg dabei haben würden, ihn fernzuhalten. So ungern sie auch eine Idee zuließ, die so zerstörerisch für Janes Glück war und für die Zuverlässigkeit ihres Geliebten so schändlich, sie konnte nicht verhindern, dass sie immer wieder auftauchte. Die vereinten Anstrengungen seiner beiden gefühllosen Schwestern und seines überwältigenden Freundes, unterstützt von den Reizen von Miss Darcy und den Vergnügungen von London, könnten, fürchtete sie, zu viel sein für die Stärke seiner Zuneigung. Was Jane betraf, war ihre Angst unter dieser Ungewissheit natürlich schmerzhafter als Elizabeths; aber was auch immer sie fühlte, sie war darauf bedacht, es zu verbergen, und deshalb wurde das Thema zwischen ihr und Elizabeth nie angesprochen. Aber da solche Feinheiten ihre Mutter nicht zurückhielten, verging selten eine Stunde, in der sie nicht von Bingley sprach, ihre Ungeduld nach seiner Ankunft ausdrückte oder gar verlangte, dass Jane bekennen solle, dass sie sich sehr schlecht behandelt fühlen würde, wenn er nicht zurückkäme. Es brauchte all die ruhige Sanftmut von Jane, um diese Angriffe mit erträglicher Ruhe zu ertragen. Mr. Collins kehrte am Von der Autorin von "Verstand und Gefühl". Band II. London: Gedruckt für T. Egerton, Militärbibliothek, Whitehall. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Am Tag nach dem Netherfield Ball beschließt Mr. Collins, sein Glück bei Elizabeth zu versuchen. Er ist vollkommen zuversichtlich, dass er erfolgreich sein wird, denn wer könnte solch einem Bewerber widerstehen, der so viel zu bieten hat? Er bittet Mrs. Bennett um Erlaubnis, mit Elizabeth allein sprechen zu dürfen. Sie vermutet bereits, was geschehen wird. Das Gespräch zwischen den beiden enthält einige der humorvollsten Momente der Geschichte. Collins führt den Antrag wie eine Geschäftstransaktion durch. Er betont seine eigenen Tugenden, seine Verbindung zur Familie De Bourgh und Elizabeths eigene Unsicherheit. Er rät Elizabeth, dass er von seinem Patron angetrieben wurde, der ihm aufgetragen hat, eine Ehefrau zu finden, die aktiv, nützlich, nicht hoch erzogen, aber in der Lage ist, mit einem kleinen Einkommen zurechtzukommen." Elizabeth lehnt Collins' Antrag ab, aber er ist unbeirrt und denkt nur, dass sie schüchtern ist. Er sagt ihr, dass es undenkbar wäre, ihn abzulehnen, aber in klaren Worten sagt Elizabeth: "Du könntest mich nicht glücklich machen, und ich bin überzeugt, dass ich die letzte Frau auf der Welt bin, die dich glücklich machen würde. Nein, wenn deine Freundin Lady Catherine mich kennenlernen würde, bin ich überzeugt, dass sie mich in jeder Hinsicht für die Position als ungeeignet erachten würde." Schließlich erkennt Collins, dass sein Werben um Elizabeth vorbei ist. Mrs. Bennett ist entsetzt über diese Situation und sagt, dass sie sie nie wiedersehen wird. Elizabeth wird in das Rückzugszimmer ihres Vaters in der Bibliothek gerufen und er sagt: "Eine unglückliche Alternative liegt vor dir, Elizabeth. Ab diesem Tag musst du ein Fremder für eines deiner Elternteile sein. Deine Mutter wird dich nie wiedersehen, wenn du Mr. Collins nicht heiratest, und ich werde dich nie wiedersehen, wenn du es tust." Charlotte Lucas besucht das Anwesen der Bennetts und erfährt von dem Scheitern von Mr. Collins' Werben um Elizabeth. Sie verbringt mehr Zeit mit Collins und nach einigen Tagen sind sie verlobt. Elizabeth ist verärgert darüber, dass ihre Freundin eine Ehe mit jemandem eingeht, den sie nicht liebt, aber Charlotte hat Collins' Antrag angenommen, um Sicherheit zu erlangen. Jane erhält einen Brief von Caroline Bingley, in dem sie erfährt, dass das gesamte Netherfield-Haushalt für den Winter nach London gezogen ist. Jane ist sehr enttäuscht. Es ist offensichtlich, dass Miss Georgiana Darcy Zeit mit Bingley verbringt. Die Nachricht macht Jane mutlos, während Elizabeth wütend ist und vermutet, dass Darcy eine Rolle in dieser Entwicklung spielt.

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. Rome. Before a gate of the city Enter CORIOLANUS, VOLUMNIA, VIRGILIA, MENENIUS, COMINIUS, with the young NOBILITY of Rome CORIOLANUS. Come, leave your tears; a brief farewell. The beast With many heads butts me away. Nay, mother, Where is your ancient courage? You were us'd To say extremities was the trier of spirits; That common chances common men could bear; That when the sea was calm all boats alike Show'd mastership in floating; fortune's blows, When most struck home, being gentle wounded craves A noble cunning. You were us'd to load me With precepts that would make invincible The heart that conn'd them. VIRGILIA. O heavens! O heavens! CORIOLANUS. Nay, I prithee, woman- VOLUMNIA. Now the red pestilence strike all trades in Rome, And occupations perish! CORIOLANUS. What, what, what! I shall be lov'd when I am lack'd. Nay, mother, Resume that spirit when you were wont to say, If you had been the wife of Hercules, Six of his labours you'd have done, and sav'd Your husband so much sweat. Cominius, Droop not; adieu. Farewell, my wife, my mother. I'll do well yet. Thou old and true Menenius, Thy tears are salter than a younger man's And venomous to thine eyes. My sometime General, I have seen thee stern, and thou hast oft beheld Heart-hard'ning spectacles; tell these sad women 'Tis fond to wail inevitable strokes, As 'tis to laugh at 'em. My mother, you wot well My hazards still have been your solace; and Believe't not lightly- though I go alone, Like to a lonely dragon, that his fen Makes fear'd and talk'd of more than seen- your son Will or exceed the common or be caught With cautelous baits and practice. VOLUMNIA. My first son, Whither wilt thou go? Take good Cominius With thee awhile; determine on some course More than a wild exposture to each chance That starts i' th' way before thee. VIRGILIA. O the gods! COMINIUS. I'll follow thee a month, devise with thee Where thou shalt rest, that thou mayst hear of us, And we of thee; so, if the time thrust forth A cause for thy repeal, we shall not send O'er the vast world to seek a single man, And lose advantage, which doth ever cool I' th' absence of the needer. CORIOLANUS. Fare ye well; Thou hast years upon thee, and thou art too full Of the wars' surfeits to go rove with one That's yet unbruis'd; bring me but out at gate. Come, my sweet wife, my dearest mother, and My friends of noble touch; when I am forth, Bid me farewell, and smile. I pray you come. While I remain above the ground you shall Hear from me still, and never of me aught But what is like me formerly. MENENIUS. That's worthily As any ear can hear. Come, let's not weep. If I could shake off but one seven years From these old arms and legs, by the good gods, I'd with thee every foot. CORIOLANUS. Give me thy hand. Come. Exeunt SCENE II. Rome. A street near the gate Enter the two Tribunes, SICINIUS and BRUTUS with the AEDILE SICINIUS. Bid them all home; he's gone, and we'll no further. The nobility are vex'd, whom we see have sided In his behalf. BRUTUS. Now we have shown our power, Let us seem humbler after it is done Than when it was a-doing. SICINIUS. Bid them home. Say their great enemy is gone, and they Stand in their ancient strength. BRUTUS. Dismiss them home. Exit AEDILE Here comes his mother. Enter VOLUMNIA, VIRGILIA, and MENENIUS SICINIUS. Let's not meet her. BRUTUS. Why? SICINIUS. They say she's mad. BRUTUS. They have ta'en note of us; keep on your way. VOLUMNIA. O, y'are well met; th' hoarded plague o' th' gods Requite your love! MENENIUS. Peace, peace, be not so loud. VOLUMNIA. If that I could for weeping, you should hear- Nay, and you shall hear some. [To BRUTUS] Will you be gone? VIRGILIA. [To SICINIUS] You shall stay too. I would I had the power To say so to my husband. SICINIUS. Are you mankind? VOLUMNIA. Ay, fool; is that a shame? Note but this, fool: Was not a man my father? Hadst thou foxship To banish him that struck more blows for Rome Than thou hast spoken words? SICINIUS. O blessed heavens! VOLUMNIA. More noble blows than ever thou wise words; And for Rome's good. I'll tell thee what- yet go! Nay, but thou shalt stay too. I would my son Were in Arabia, and thy tribe before him, His good sword in his hand. SICINIUS. What then? VIRGILIA. What then! He'd make an end of thy posterity. VOLUMNIA. Bastards and all. Good man, the wounds that he does bear for Rome! MENENIUS. Come, come, peace. SICINIUS. I would he had continued to his country As he began, and not unknit himself The noble knot he made. BRUTUS. I would he had. VOLUMNIA. 'I would he had!' 'Twas you incens'd the rabble- Cats that can judge as fitly of his worth As I can of those mysteries which heaven Will not have earth to know. BRUTUS. Pray, let's go. VOLUMNIA. Now, pray, sir, get you gone; You have done a brave deed. Ere you go, hear this: As far as doth the Capitol exceed The meanest house in Rome, so far my son- This lady's husband here, this, do you see?- Whom you have banish'd does exceed you all. BRUTUS. Well, well, we'll leave you. SICINIUS. Why stay we to be baited With one that wants her wits? Exeunt TRIBUNES VOLUMNIA. Take my prayers with you. I would the gods had nothing else to do But to confirm my curses. Could I meet 'em But once a day, it would unclog my heart Of what lies heavy to't. MENENIUS. You have told them home, And, by my troth, you have cause. You'll sup with me? VOLUMNIA. Anger's my meat; I sup upon myself, And so shall starve with feeding. Come, let's go. Leave this faint puling and lament as I do, In anger, Juno-like. Come, come, come. Exeunt VOLUMNIA and VIRGILIA MENENIUS. Fie, fie, fie! Exit SCENE III. A highway between Rome and Antium Enter a ROMAN and a VOLSCE, meeting ROMAN. I know you well, sir, and you know me; your name, I think, is Adrian. VOLSCE. It is so, sir. Truly, I have forgot you. ROMAN. I am a Roman; and my services are, as you are, against 'em. Know you me yet? VOLSCE. Nicanor? No! ROMAN. The same, sir. VOLSCE. You had more beard when I last saw you, but your favour is well appear'd by your tongue. What's the news in Rome? I have a note from the Volscian state, to find you out there. You have well saved me a day's journey. ROMAN. There hath been in Rome strange insurrections: the people against the senators, patricians, and nobles. VOLSCE. Hath been! Is it ended, then? Our state thinks not so; they are in a most warlike preparation, and hope to come upon them in the heat of their division. ROMAN. The main blaze of it is past, but a small thing would make it flame again; for the nobles receive so to heart the banishment of that worthy Coriolanus that they are in a ripe aptness to take all power from the people, and to pluck from them their tribunes for ever. This lies glowing, I can tell you, and is almost mature for the violent breaking out. VOLSCE. Coriolanus banish'd! ROMAN. Banish'd, sir. VOLSCE. You will be welcome with this intelligence, Nicanor. ROMAN. The day serves well for them now. I have heard it said the fittest time to corrupt a man's wife is when she's fall'n out with her husband. Your noble Tullus Aufidius will appear well in these wars, his great opposer, Coriolanus, being now in no request of his country. VOLSCE. He cannot choose. I am most fortunate thus accidentally to encounter you; you have ended my business, and I will merrily accompany you home. ROMAN. I shall between this and supper tell you most strange things from Rome, all tending to the good of their adversaries. Have you an army ready, say you? VOLSCE. A most royal one: the centurions and their charges, distinctly billeted, already in th' entertainment, and to be on foot at an hour's warning. ROMAN. I am joyful to hear of their readiness, and am the man, I think, that shall set them in present action. So, sir, heartily well met, and most glad of your company. VOLSCE. You take my part from me, sir. I have the most cause to be glad of yours. ROMAN. Well, let us go together. SCENE IV. Antium. Before AUFIDIUS' house Enter CORIOLANUS, in mean apparel, disguis'd and muffled CORIOLANUS. A goodly city is this Antium. City, 'Tis I that made thy widows: many an heir Of these fair edifices fore my wars Have I heard groan and drop. Then know me not. Lest that thy wives with spits and boys with stones, In puny battle slay me. Enter A CITIZEN Save you, sir. CITIZEN. And you. CORIOLANUS. Direct me, if it be your will, Where great Aufidius lies. Is he in Antium? CITIZEN. He is, and feasts the nobles of the state At his house this night. CORIOLANUS. Which is his house, beseech you? CITIZEN. This here before you. CORIOLANUS. Thank you, sir; farewell. Exit CITIZEN O world, thy slippery turns! Friends now fast sworn, Whose double bosoms seems to wear one heart, Whose hours, whose bed, whose meal and exercise Are still together, who twin, as 'twere, in love, Unseparable, shall within this hour, On a dissension of a doit, break out To bitterest enmity; so fellest foes, Whose passions and whose plots have broke their sleep To take the one the other, by some chance, Some trick not worth an egg, shall grow dear friends And interjoin their issues. So with me: My birthplace hate I, and my love's upon This enemy town. I'll enter. If he slay me, He does fair justice: if he give me way, I'll do his country service. SCENE V. Antium. AUFIDIUS' house Music plays. Enter A SERVINGMAN FIRST SERVANT. Wine, wine, wine! What service is here! I think our fellows are asleep. Exit Enter another SERVINGMAN SECOND SERVANT.Where's Cotus? My master calls for him. Cotus! Exit Enter CORIOLANUS CORIOLANUS. A goodly house. The feast smells well, but I Appear not like a guest. Re-enter the first SERVINGMAN FIRST SERVANT. What would you have, friend? Whence are you? Here's no place for you: pray go to the door. Exit CORIOLANUS. I have deserv'd no better entertainment In being Coriolanus. Re-enter second SERVINGMAN SECOND SERVANT. Whence are you, sir? Has the porter his eyes in his head that he gives entrance to such companions? Pray get you out. CORIOLANUS. Away! SECOND SERVANT. Away? Get you away. CORIOLANUS. Now th' art troublesome. SECOND SERVANT. Are you so brave? I'll have you talk'd with anon. Enter a third SERVINGMAN. The first meets him THIRD SERVANT. What fellow's this? FIRST SERVANT. A strange one as ever I look'd on. I cannot get him out o' th' house. Prithee call my master to him. THIRD SERVANT. What have you to do here, fellow? Pray you avoid the house. CORIOLANUS. Let me but stand- I will not hurt your hearth. THIRD SERVANT. What are you? CORIOLANUS. A gentleman. THIRD SERVANT. A marv'llous poor one. CORIOLANUS. True, so I am. THIRD SERVANT. Pray you, poor gentleman, take up some other station; here's no place for you. Pray you avoid. Come. CORIOLANUS. Follow your function, go and batten on cold bits. [Pushes him away from him] THIRD SERVANT. What, you will not? Prithee tell my master what a strange guest he has here. SECOND SERVANT. And I shall. Exit THIRD SERVANT. Where dwell'st thou? CORIOLANUS. Under the canopy. THIRD SERVANT. Under the canopy? CORIOLANUS. Ay. THIRD SERVANT. Where's that? CORIOLANUS. I' th' city of kites and crows. THIRD SERVANT. I' th' city of kites and crows! What an ass it is! Then thou dwell'st with daws too? CORIOLANUS. No, I serve not thy master. THIRD SERVANT. How, sir! Do you meddle with my master? CORIOLANUS. Ay; 'tis an honester service than to meddle with thy mistress. Thou prat'st and prat'st; serve with thy trencher; hence! [Beats him away] Enter AUFIDIUS with the second SERVINGMAN AUFIDIUS. Where is this fellow? SECOND SERVANT. Here, sir; I'd have beaten him like a dog, but for disturbing the lords within. AUFIDIUS. Whence com'st thou? What wouldst thou? Thy name? Why speak'st not? Speak, man. What's thy name? CORIOLANUS. [Unmuffling] If, Tullus, Not yet thou know'st me, and, seeing me, dost not Think me for the man I am, necessity Commands me name myself. AUFIDIUS. What is thy name? CORIOLANUS. A name unmusical to the Volscians' ears, And harsh in sound to thine. AUFIDIUS. Say, what's thy name? Thou has a grim appearance, and thy face Bears a command in't; though thy tackle's torn, Thou show'st a noble vessel. What's thy name? CORIOLANUS. Prepare thy brow to frown- know'st thou me yet? AUFIDIUS. I know thee not. Thy name? CORIOLANUS. My name is Caius Marcius, who hath done To thee particularly, and to all the Volsces, Great hurt and mischief; thereto witness may My surname, Coriolanus. The painful service, The extreme dangers, and the drops of blood Shed for my thankless country, are requited But with that surname- a good memory And witness of the malice and displeasure Which thou shouldst bear me. Only that name remains; The cruelty and envy of the people, Permitted by our dastard nobles, who Have all forsook me, hath devour'd the rest, An suffer'd me by th' voice of slaves to be Whoop'd out of Rome. Now this extremity Hath brought me to thy hearth; not out of hope, Mistake me not, to save my life; for if I had fear'd death, of all the men i' th' world I would have 'voided thee; but in mere spite, To be full quit of those my banishers, Stand I before thee here. Then if thou hast A heart of wreak in thee, that wilt revenge Thine own particular wrongs and stop those maims Of shame seen through thy country, speed thee straight And make my misery serve thy turn. So use it That my revengeful services may prove As benefits to thee; for I will fight Against my cank'red country with the spleen Of all the under fiends. But if so be Thou dar'st not this, and that to prove more fortunes Th'art tir'd, then, in a word, I also am Longer to live most weary, and present My throat to thee and to thy ancient malice; Which not to cut would show thee but a fool, Since I have ever followed thee with hate, Drawn tuns of blood out of thy country's breast, And cannot live but to thy shame, unless It be to do thee service. AUFIDIUS. O Marcius, Marcius! Each word thou hast spoke hath weeded from my heart A root of ancient envy. If Jupiter Should from yond cloud speak divine things, And say ''Tis true,' I'd not believe them more Than thee, all noble Marcius. Let me twine Mine arms about that body, where against My grained ash an hundred times hath broke And scarr'd the moon with splinters; here I clip The anvil of my sword, and do contest As hotly and as nobly with thy love As ever in ambitious strength I did Contend against thy valour. Know thou first, I lov'd the maid I married; never man Sigh'd truer breath; but that I see thee here, Thou noble thing, more dances my rapt heart Than when I first my wedded mistress saw Bestride my threshold. Why, thou Mars, I tell thee We have a power on foot, and I had purpose Once more to hew thy target from thy brawn, Or lose mine arm for't. Thou hast beat me out Twelve several times, and I have nightly since Dreamt of encounters 'twixt thyself and me- We have been down together in my sleep, Unbuckling helms, fisting each other's throat- And wak'd half dead with nothing. Worthy Marcius, Had we no other quarrel else to Rome but that Thou art thence banish'd, we would muster all From twelve to seventy, and, pouring war Into the bowels of ungrateful Rome, Like a bold flood o'erbeat. O, come, go in, And take our friendly senators by th' hands, Who now are here, taking their leaves of me Who am prepar'd against your territories, Though not for Rome itself. CORIOLANUS. You bless me, gods! AUFIDIUS. Therefore, most absolute sir, if thou wilt have The leading of thine own revenges, take Th' one half of my commission, and set down- As best thou art experienc'd, since thou know'st Thy country's strength and weakness- thine own ways, Whether to knock against the gates of Rome, Or rudely visit them in parts remote To fright them ere destroy. But come in; Let me commend thee first to those that shall Say yea to thy desires. A thousand welcomes! And more a friend than e'er an enemy; Yet, Marcius, that was much. Your hand; most welcome! Exeunt CORIOLANUS and AUFIDIUS The two SERVINGMEN come forward FIRST SERVANT. Here's a strange alteration! SECOND SERVANT. By my hand, I had thought to have strucken him with a cudgel; and yet my mind gave me his clothes made a false report of him. FIRST SERVANT. What an arm he has! He turn'd me about with his finger and his thumb, as one would set up a top. SECOND SERVANT. Nay, I knew by his face that there was something in him; he had, sir, a kind of face, methought- I cannot tell how to term it. FIRST SERVANT. He had so, looking as it were- Would I were hang'd, but I thought there was more in him than I could think. SECOND SERVANT. So did I, I'll be sworn. He is simply the rarest man i' th' world. FIRST SERVANT. I think he is; but a greater soldier than he you wot on. SECOND SERVANT. Who, my master? FIRST SERVANT. Nay, it's no matter for that. SECOND SERVANT. Worth six on him. FIRST SERVANT. Nay, not so neither; but I take him to be the greater soldier. SECOND SERVANT. Faith, look you, one cannot tell how to say that; for the defence of a town our general is excellent. FIRST SERVANT. Ay, and for an assault too. Re-enter the third SERVINGMAN THIRD SERVANT. O slaves, I can tell you news- news, you rascals! BOTH. What, what, what? Let's partake. THIRD SERVANT. I would not be a Roman, of all nations; I had as lief be a condemn'd man. BOTH. Wherefore? wherefore? THIRD SERVANT. Why, here's he that was wont to thwack our general- Caius Marcius. FIRST SERVANT. Why do you say 'thwack our general'? THIRD SERVANT. I do not say 'thwack our general,' but he was always good enough for him. SECOND SERVANT. Come, we are fellows and friends. He was ever too hard for him, I have heard him say so himself. FIRST SERVANT. He was too hard for him directly, to say the troth on't; before Corioli he scotch'd him and notch'd him like a carbonado. SECOND SERVANT. An he had been cannibally given, he might have broil'd and eaten him too. FIRST SERVANT. But more of thy news! THIRD SERVANT. Why, he is so made on here within as if he were son and heir to Mars; set at upper end o' th' table; no question asked him by any of the senators but they stand bald before him. Our general himself makes a mistress of him, sanctifies himself with's hand, and turns up the white o' th' eye to his discourse. But the bottom of the news is, our general is cut i' th' middle and but one half of what he was yesterday, for the other has half by the entreaty and grant of the whole table. He'll go, he says, and sowl the porter of Rome gates by th' ears; he will mow all down before him, and leave his passage poll'd. SECOND SERVANT. And he's as like to do't as any man I can imagine. THIRD SERVANT. Do't! He will do't; for look you, sir, he has as many friends as enemies; which friends, sir, as it were, durst not- look you, sir- show themselves, as we term it, his friends, whilst he's in directitude. FIRST SERVANT. Directitude? What's that? THIRD SERVANT. But when they shall see, sir, his crest up again and the man in blood, they will out of their burrows, like conies after rain, and revel all with him. FIRST SERVANT. But when goes this forward? THIRD SERVANT. To-morrow, to-day, presently. You shall have the drum struck up this afternoon; 'tis as it were parcel of their feast, and to be executed ere they wipe their lips. SECOND SERVANT. Why, then we shall have a stirring world again. This peace is nothing but to rust iron, increase tailors, and breed ballad-makers. FIRST SERVANT. Let me have war, say I; it exceeds peace as far as day does night; it's spritely, waking, audible, and full of vent. Peace is a very apoplexy, lethargy; mull'd, deaf, sleepy, insensible; a getter of more bastard children than war's a destroyer of men. SECOND SERVANT. 'Tis so; and as war in some sort may be said to be a ravisher, so it cannot be denied but peace is a great maker of cuckolds. FIRST SERVANT. Ay, and it makes men hate one another. THIRD SERVANT. Reason: because they then less need one another. The wars for my money. I hope to see Romans as cheap as Volscians. They are rising, they are rising. BOTH. In, in, in, in! Exeunt SCENE VI. Rome. A public place Enter the two Tribunes, SICINIUS and BRUTUS SICINIUS. We hear not of him, neither need we fear him. His remedies are tame. The present peace And quietness of the people, which before Were in wild hurry, here do make his friends Blush that the world goes well; who rather had, Though they themselves did suffer by't, behold Dissentious numbers pest'ring streets than see Our tradesmen singing in their shops, and going About their functions friendly. Enter MENENIUS BRUTUS. We stood to't in good time. Is this Menenius? SICINIUS. 'Tis he, 'tis he. O, he is grown most kind Of late. Hail, sir! MENENIUS. Hail to you both! SICINIUS. Your Coriolanus is not much miss'd But with his friends. The commonwealth doth stand, And so would do, were he more angry at it. MENENIUS. All's well, and might have been much better He could have temporiz'd. SICINIUS. Where is he, hear you? MENENIUS. Nay, I hear nothing; his mother and his wife Hear nothing from him. Enter three or four citizens CITIZENS. The gods preserve you both! SICINIUS. God-den, our neighbours. BRUTUS. God-den to you all, god-den to you all. FIRST CITIZEN. Ourselves, our wives, and children, on our knees Are bound to pray for you both. SICINIUS. Live and thrive! BRUTUS. Farewell, kind neighbours; we wish'd Coriolanus Had lov'd you as we did. CITIZENS. Now the gods keep you! BOTH TRIBUNES. Farewell, farewell. Exeunt citizens SICINIUS. This is a happier and more comely time Than when these fellows ran about the streets Crying confusion. BRUTUS. Caius Marcius was A worthy officer i' the war, but insolent, O'ercome with pride, ambitious past all thinking, Self-loving- SICINIUS. And affecting one sole throne, Without assistance. MENENIUS. I think not so. SICINIUS. We should by this, to all our lamentation, If he had gone forth consul, found it so. BRUTUS. The gods have well prevented it, and Rome Sits safe and still without him. Enter an AEDILE AEDILE. Worthy tribunes, There is a slave, whom we have put in prison, Reports the Volsces with several powers Are ent'red in the Roman territories, And with the deepest malice of the war Destroy what lies before 'em. MENENIUS. 'Tis Aufidius, Who, hearing of our Marcius' banishment, Thrusts forth his horns again into the world, Which were inshell'd when Marcius stood for Rome, And durst not once peep out. SICINIUS. Come, what talk you of Marcius? BRUTUS. Go see this rumourer whipp'd. It cannot be The Volsces dare break with us. MENENIUS. Cannot be! We have record that very well it can; And three examples of the like hath been Within my age. But reason with the fellow Before you punish him, where he heard this, Lest you shall chance to whip your information And beat the messenger who bids beware Of what is to be dreaded. SICINIUS. Tell not me. I know this cannot be. BRUTUS. Not possible. Enter A MESSENGER MESSENGER. The nobles in great earnestness are going All to the Senate House; some news is come That turns their countenances. SICINIUS. 'Tis this slave- Go whip him fore the people's eyes- his raising, Nothing but his report. MESSENGER. Yes, worthy sir, The slave's report is seconded, and more, More fearful, is deliver'd. SICINIUS. What more fearful? MESSENGER. It is spoke freely out of many mouths- How probable I do not know- that Marcius, Join'd with Aufidius, leads a power 'gainst Rome, And vows revenge as spacious as between The young'st and oldest thing. SICINIUS. This is most likely! BRUTUS. Rais'd only that the weaker sort may wish Good Marcius home again. SICINIUS. The very trick on 't. MENENIUS. This is unlikely. He and Aufidius can no more atone Than violent'st contrariety. Enter a second MESSENGER SECOND MESSENGER. You are sent for to the Senate. A fearful army, led by Caius Marcius Associated with Aufidius, rages Upon our territories, and have already O'erborne their way, consum'd with fire and took What lay before them. Enter COMINIUS COMINIUS. O, you have made good work! MENENIUS. What news? what news? COMINIUS. You have holp to ravish your own daughters and To melt the city leads upon your pates, To see your wives dishonour'd to your noses- MENENIUS. What's the news? What's the news? COMINIUS. Your temples burned in their cement, and Your franchises, whereon you stood, confin'd Into an auger's bore. MENENIUS. Pray now, your news? You have made fair work, I fear me. Pray, your news. If Marcius should be join'd wi' th' Volscians- COMINIUS. If! He is their god; he leads them like a thing Made by some other deity than Nature, That shapes man better; and they follow him Against us brats with no less confidence Than boys pursuing summer butterflies, Or butchers killing flies. MENENIUS. You have made good work, You and your apron men; you that stood so much Upon the voice of occupation and The breath of garlic-eaters! COMINIUS. He'll shake Your Rome about your ears. MENENIUS. As Hercules Did shake down mellow fruit. You have made fair work! BRUTUS. But is this true, sir? COMINIUS. Ay; and you'll look pale Before you find it other. All the regions Do smilingly revolt, and who resists Are mock'd for valiant ignorance, And perish constant fools. Who is't can blame him? Your enemies and his find something in him. MENENIUS. We are all undone unless The noble man have mercy. COMINIUS. Who shall ask it? The tribunes cannot do't for shame; the people Deserve such pity of him as the wolf Does of the shepherds; for his best friends, if they Should say 'Be good to Rome'- they charg'd him even As those should do that had deserv'd his hate, And therein show'd like enemies. MENENIUS. 'Tis true; If he were putting to my house the brand That should consume it, I have not the face To say 'Beseech you, cease.' You have made fair hands, You and your crafts! You have crafted fair! COMINIUS. You have brought A trembling upon Rome, such as was never So incapable of help. BOTH TRIBUNES. Say not we brought it. MENENIUS. How! Was't we? We lov'd him, but, like beasts And cowardly nobles, gave way unto your clusters, Who did hoot him out o' th' city. COMINIUS. But I fear They'll roar him in again. Tullus Aufidius, The second name of men, obeys his points As if he were his officer. Desperation Is all the policy, strength, and defence, That Rome can make against them. Enter a troop of citizens MENENIUS. Here comes the clusters. And is Aufidius with him? You are they That made the air unwholesome when you cast Your stinking greasy caps in hooting at Coriolanus' exile. Now he's coming, And not a hair upon a soldier's head Which will not prove a whip; as many coxcombs As you threw caps up will he tumble down, And pay you for your voices. 'Tis no matter; If he could burn us all into one coal We have deserv'd it. PLEBEIANS. Faith, we hear fearful news. FIRST CITIZEN. For mine own part, When I said banish him, I said 'twas pity. SECOND CITIZEN. And so did I. THIRD CITIZEN. And so did I; and, to say the truth, so did very many of us. That we did, we did for the best; and though we willingly consented to his banishment, yet it was against our will. COMINIUS. Y'are goodly things, you voices! MENENIUS. You have made Good work, you and your cry! Shall's to the Capitol? COMINIUS. O, ay, what else? Exeunt COMINIUS and MENENIUS SICINIUS. Go, masters, get you home; be not dismay'd; These are a side that would be glad to have This true which they so seem to fear. Go home, And show no sign of fear. FIRST CITIZEN. The gods be good to us! Come, masters, let's home. I ever said we were i' th' wrong when we banish'd him. SECOND CITIZEN. So did we all. But come, let's home. Exeunt citizens BRUTUS. I do not like this news. SICINIUS. Nor I. BRUTUS. Let's to the Capitol. Would half my wealth Would buy this for a lie! SICINIUS. Pray let's go. Exeunt SCENE VII. A camp at a short distance from Rome Enter AUFIDIUS with his LIEUTENANT AUFIDIUS. Do they still fly to th' Roman? LIEUTENANT. I do not know what witchcraft's in him, but Your soldiers use him as the grace fore meat, Their talk at table, and their thanks at end; And you are dark'ned in this action, sir, Even by your own. AUFIDIUS. I cannot help it now, Unless by using means I lame the foot Of our design. He bears himself more proudlier, Even to my person, than I thought he would When first I did embrace him; yet his nature In that's no changeling, and I must excuse What cannot be amended. LIEUTENANT. Yet I wish, sir- I mean, for your particular- you had not Join'd in commission with him, but either Had borne the action of yourself, or else To him had left it solely. AUFIDIUS. I understand thee well; and be thou sure, When he shall come to his account, he knows not What I can urge against him. Although it seems, And so he thinks, and is no less apparent To th' vulgar eye, that he bears all things fairly And shows good husbandry for the Volscian state, Fights dragon-like, and does achieve as soon As draw his sword; yet he hath left undone That which shall break his neck or hazard mine Whene'er we come to our account. LIEUTENANT. Sir, I beseech you, think you he'll carry Rome? AUFIDIUS. All places yield to him ere he sits down, And the nobility of Rome are his; The senators and patricians love him too. The tribunes are no soldiers, and their people Will be as rash in the repeal as hasty To expel him thence. I think he'll be to Rome As is the osprey to the fish, who takes it By sovereignty of nature. First he was A noble servant to them, but he could not Carry his honours even. Whether 'twas pride, Which out of daily fortune ever taints The happy man; whether defect of judgment, To fail in the disposing of those chances Which he was lord of; or whether nature, Not to be other than one thing, not moving From th' casque to th' cushion, but commanding peace Even with the same austerity and garb As he controll'd the war; but one of these- As he hath spices of them all- not all, For I dare so far free him- made him fear'd, So hated, and so banish'd. But he has a merit To choke it in the utt'rance. So our virtues Lie in th' interpretation of the time; And power, unto itself most commendable, Hath not a tomb so evident as a cheer T' extol what it hath done. One fire drives out one fire; one nail, one nail; Rights by rights falter, strengths by strengths do fail. Come, let's away. When, Caius, Rome is thine, Thou art poor'st of all; then shortly art thou mine. Exeunt Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze verfassen?

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Coriolanus verabschiedet sich von Virgilia, Volumnia, Menenius, Cominius und anderen Mitgliedern des Adels. Er sagt ihnen, ihre Tränen aufzubewahren, und bittet seine Mutter, stark zu bleiben. Coriolanus glaubt, dass Rom lernen wird, ihn zu schätzen, wenn er fort ist, obwohl er anscheinend keine Pläne hat, bald zurückzukehren. Er versucht, seine Mutter aufzumuntern und versichert Menenius, dass es ihm gut gehen wird, solange er weg ist. Volumnia drängt ihn, Cominius eine Weile mitzunehmen, und Coriolanus stimmt dem zu. Dann verlässt Coriolanus gemeinsam mit Cominius die Stadt Rom.

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. Elsinore. A room in the Castle. Flourish. [Enter King and Queen, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, cum aliis. King. Welcome, dear Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. Moreover that we much did long to see you, The need we have to use you did provoke Our hasty sending. Something have you heard Of Hamlet's transformation. So I call it, Sith nor th' exterior nor the inward man Resembles that it was. What it should be, More than his father's death, that thus hath put him So much from th' understanding of himself, I cannot dream of. I entreat you both That, being of so young days brought up with him, And since so neighbour'd to his youth and haviour, That you vouchsafe your rest here in our court Some little time; so by your companies To draw him on to pleasures, and to gather So much as from occasion you may glean, Whether aught to us unknown afflicts him thus That, open'd, lies within our remedy. Queen. Good gentlemen, he hath much talk'd of you, And sure I am two men there are not living To whom he more adheres. If it will please you To show us so much gentry and good will As to expend your time with us awhile For the supply and profit of our hope, Your visitation shall receive such thanks As fits a king's remembrance. Ros. Both your Majesties Might, by the sovereign power you have of us, Put your dread pleasures more into command Than to entreaty. Guil. But we both obey, And here give up ourselves, in the full bent, To lay our service freely at your feet, To be commanded. King. Thanks, Rosencrantz and gentle Guildenstern. Queen. Thanks, Guildenstern and gentle Rosencrantz. And I beseech you instantly to visit My too much changed son.- Go, some of you, And bring these gentlemen where Hamlet is. Guil. Heavens make our presence and our practices Pleasant and helpful to him! Queen. Ay, amen! Exeunt Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, [with some Attendants]. Enter Polonius. Pol. Th' ambassadors from Norway, my good lord, Are joyfully return'd. King. Thou still hast been the father of good news. Pol. Have I, my lord? Assure you, my good liege, I hold my duty as I hold my soul, Both to my God and to my gracious king; And I do think- or else this brain of mine Hunts not the trail of policy so sure As it hath us'd to do- that I have found The very cause of Hamlet's lunacy. King. O, speak of that! That do I long to hear. Pol. Give first admittance to th' ambassadors. My news shall be the fruit to that great feast. King. Thyself do grace to them, and bring them in. [Exit Polonius.] He tells me, my dear Gertrude, he hath found The head and source of all your son's distemper. Queen. I doubt it is no other but the main, His father's death and our o'erhasty marriage. King. Well, we shall sift him. Enter Polonius, Voltemand, and Cornelius. Welcome, my good friends. Say, Voltemand, what from our brother Norway? Volt. Most fair return of greetings and desires. Upon our first, he sent out to suppress His nephew's levies; which to him appear'd To be a preparation 'gainst the Polack, But better look'd into, he truly found It was against your Highness; whereat griev'd, That so his sickness, age, and impotence Was falsely borne in hand, sends out arrests On Fortinbras; which he, in brief, obeys, Receives rebuke from Norway, and, in fine, Makes vow before his uncle never more To give th' assay of arms against your Majesty. Whereon old Norway, overcome with joy, Gives him three thousand crowns in annual fee And his commission to employ those soldiers, So levied as before, against the Polack; With an entreaty, herein further shown, [Gives a paper.] That it might please you to give quiet pass Through your dominions for this enterprise, On such regards of safety and allowance As therein are set down. King. It likes us well; And at our more consider'd time we'll read, Answer, and think upon this business. Meantime we thank you for your well-took labour. Go to your rest; at night we'll feast together. Most welcome home! Exeunt Ambassadors. Pol. This business is well ended. My liege, and madam, to expostulate What majesty should be, what duty is, Why day is day, night is night, and time is time. Were nothing but to waste night, day, and time. Therefore, since brevity is the soul of wit, And tediousness the limbs and outward flourishes, I will be brief. Your noble son is mad. Mad call I it; for, to define true madness, What is't but to be nothing else but mad? But let that go. Queen. More matter, with less art. Pol. Madam, I swear I use no art at all. That he is mad, 'tis true: 'tis true 'tis pity; And pity 'tis 'tis true. A foolish figure! But farewell it, for I will use no art. Mad let us grant him then. And now remains That we find out the cause of this effect- Or rather say, the cause of this defect, For this effect defective comes by cause. Thus it remains, and the remainder thus. Perpend. I have a daughter (have while she is mine), Who in her duty and obedience, mark, Hath given me this. Now gather, and surmise. [Reads] the letter. 'To the celestial, and my soul's idol, the most beautified Ophelia,'- That's an ill phrase, a vile phrase; 'beautified' is a vile phrase. But you shall hear. Thus: [Reads.] 'In her excellent white bosom, these, &c.' Queen. Came this from Hamlet to her? Pol. Good madam, stay awhile. I will be faithful. [Reads.] 'Doubt thou the stars are fire; Doubt that the sun doth move; Doubt truth to be a liar; But never doubt I love. 'O dear Ophelia, I am ill at these numbers; I have not art to reckon my groans; but that I love thee best, O most best, believe it. Adieu. 'Thine evermore, most dear lady, whilst this machine is to him, HAMLET.' This, in obedience, hath my daughter shown me; And more above, hath his solicitings, As they fell out by time, by means, and place, All given to mine ear. King. But how hath she Receiv'd his love? Pol. What do you think of me? King. As of a man faithful and honourable. Pol. I would fain prove so. But what might you think, When I had seen this hot love on the wing (As I perceiv'd it, I must tell you that, Before my daughter told me), what might you, Or my dear Majesty your queen here, think, If I had play'd the desk or table book, Or given my heart a winking, mute and dumb, Or look'd upon this love with idle sight? What might you think? No, I went round to work And my young mistress thus I did bespeak: 'Lord Hamlet is a prince, out of thy star. This must not be.' And then I prescripts gave her, That she should lock herself from his resort, Admit no messengers, receive no tokens. Which done, she took the fruits of my advice, And he, repulsed, a short tale to make, Fell into a sadness, then into a fast, Thence to a watch, thence into a weakness, Thence to a lightness, and, by this declension, Into the madness wherein now he raves, And all we mourn for. King. Do you think 'tis this? Queen. it may be, very like. Pol. Hath there been such a time- I would fain know that- That I have Positively said ''Tis so,' When it prov'd otherwise.? King. Not that I know. Pol. [points to his head and shoulder] Take this from this, if this be otherwise. If circumstances lead me, I will find Where truth is hid, though it were hid indeed Within the centre. King. How may we try it further? Pol. You know sometimes he walks for hours together Here in the lobby. Queen. So he does indeed. Pol. At such a time I'll loose my daughter to him. Be you and I behind an arras then. Mark the encounter. If he love her not, And he not from his reason fall'n thereon Let me be no assistant for a state, But keep a farm and carters. King. We will try it. Enter Hamlet, reading on a book. Queen. But look where sadly the poor wretch comes reading. Pol. Away, I do beseech you, both away I'll board him presently. O, give me leave. Exeunt King and Queen, [with Attendants]. How does my good Lord Hamlet? Ham. Well, God-a-mercy. Pol. Do you know me, my lord? Ham. Excellent well. You are a fishmonger. Pol. Not I, my lord. Ham. Then I would you were so honest a man. Pol. Honest, my lord? Ham. Ay, sir. To be honest, as this world goes, is to be one man pick'd out of ten thousand. Pol. That's very true, my lord. Ham. For if the sun breed maggots in a dead dog, being a god kissing carrion- Have you a daughter? Pol. I have, my lord. Ham. Let her not walk i' th' sun. Conception is a blessing, but not as your daughter may conceive. Friend, look to't. Pol. [aside] How say you by that? Still harping on my daughter. Yet he knew me not at first. He said I was a fishmonger. He is far gone, far gone! And truly in my youth I suff'red much extremity for love- very near this. I'll speak to him again.- What do you read, my lord? Ham. Words, words, words. Pol. What is the matter, my lord? Ham. Between who? Pol. I mean, the matter that you read, my lord. Ham. Slanders, sir; for the satirical rogue says here that old men have grey beards; that their faces are wrinkled; their eyes purging thick amber and plum-tree gum; and that they have a plentiful lack of wit, together with most weak hams. All which, sir, though I most powerfully and potently believe, yet I hold it not honesty to have it thus set down; for you yourself, sir, should be old as I am if, like a crab, you could go backward. Pol. [aside] Though this be madness, yet there is a method in't.- Will You walk out of the air, my lord? Ham. Into my grave? Pol. Indeed, that is out o' th' air. [Aside] How pregnant sometimes his replies are! a happiness that often madness hits on, which reason and sanity could not so prosperously be delivered of. I will leave him and suddenly contrive the means of meeting between him and my daughter.- My honourable lord, I will most humbly take my leave of you. Ham. You cannot, sir, take from me anything that I will more willingly part withal- except my life, except my life, except my life, Enter Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. Pol. Fare you well, my lord. Ham. These tedious old fools! Pol. You go to seek the Lord Hamlet. There he is. Ros. [to Polonius] God save you, sir! Exit [Polonius]. Guil. My honour'd lord! Ros. My most dear lord! Ham. My excellent good friends! How dost thou, Guildenstern? Ah, Rosencrantz! Good lads, how do ye both? Ros. As the indifferent children of the earth. Guil. Happy in that we are not over-happy. On Fortune's cap we are not the very button. Ham. Nor the soles of her shoe? Ros. Neither, my lord. Ham. Then you live about her waist, or in the middle of her favours? Guil. Faith, her privates we. Ham. In the secret parts of Fortune? O! most true! she is a strumpet. What news ? Ros. None, my lord, but that the world's grown honest. Ham. Then is doomsday near! But your news is not true. Let me question more in particular. What have you, my good friends, deserved at the hands of Fortune that she sends you to prison hither? Guil. Prison, my lord? Ham. Denmark's a prison. Ros. Then is the world one. Ham. A goodly one; in which there are many confines, wards, and dungeons, Denmark being one o' th' worst. Ros. We think not so, my lord. Ham. Why, then 'tis none to you; for there is nothing either good or bad but thinking makes it so. To me it is a prison. Ros. Why, then your ambition makes it one. 'Tis too narrow for your mind. Ham. O God, I could be bounded in a nutshell and count myself a king of infinite space, were it not that I have bad dreams. Guil. Which dreams indeed are ambition; for the very substance of the ambitious is merely the shadow of a dream. Ham. A dream itself is but a shadow. Ros. Truly, and I hold ambition of so airy and light a quality that it is but a shadow's shadow. Ham. Then are our beggars bodies, and our monarchs and outstretch'd heroes the beggars' shadows. Shall we to th' court? for, by my fay, I cannot reason. Both. We'll wait upon you. Ham. No such matter! I will not sort you with the rest of my servants; for, to speak to you like an honest man, I am most dreadfully attended. But in the beaten way of friendship, what make you at Elsinore? Ros. To visit you, my lord; no other occasion. Ham. Beggar that I am, I am even poor in thanks; but I thank you; and sure, dear friends, my thanks are too dear a halfpenny. Were you not sent for? Is it your own inclining? Is it a free visitation? Come, deal justly with me. Come, come! Nay, speak. Guil. What should we say, my lord? Ham. Why, anything- but to th' purpose. You were sent for; and there is a kind of confession in your looks, which your modesties have not craft enough to colour. I know the good King and Queen have sent for you. Ros. To what end, my lord? Ham. That you must teach me. But let me conjure you by the rights of our fellowship, by the consonancy of our youth, by the obligation of our ever-preserved love, and by what more dear a better proposer could charge you withal, be even and direct with me, whether you were sent for or no. Ros. [aside to Guildenstern] What say you? Ham. [aside] Nay then, I have an eye of you.- If you love me, hold not off. Guil. My lord, we were sent for. Ham. I will tell you why. So shall my anticipation prevent your discovery, and your secrecy to the King and Queen moult no feather. I have of late- but wherefore I know not- lost all my mirth, forgone all custom of exercises; and indeed, it goes so heavily with my disposition that this goodly frame, the earth, seems to me a sterile promontory; this most excellent canopy, the air, look you, this brave o'erhanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted with golden fire- why, it appeareth no other thing to me than a foul and pestilent congregation of vapours. What a piece of work is a man! how noble in reason! how infinite in faculties! in form and moving how express and admirable! in action how like an angel! in apprehension how like a god! the beauty of the world, the paragon of animals! And yet to me what is this quintessence of dust? Man delights not me- no, nor woman neither, though by your smiling you seem to say so. Ros. My lord, there was no such stuff in my thoughts. Ham. Why did you laugh then, when I said 'Man delights not me'? Ros. To think, my lord, if you delight not in man, what lenten entertainment the players shall receive from you. We coted them on the way, and hither are they coming to offer you service. Ham. He that plays the king shall be welcome- his Majesty shall have tribute of me; the adventurous knight shall use his foil and target; the lover shall not sigh gratis; the humorous man shall end his part in peace; the clown shall make those laugh whose lungs are tickle o' th' sere; and the lady shall say her mind freely, or the blank verse shall halt for't. What players are they? Ros. Even those you were wont to take such delight in, the tragedians of the city. Ham. How chances it they travel? Their residence, both in reputation and profit, was better both ways. Ros. I think their inhibition comes by the means of the late innovation. Ham. Do they hold the same estimation they did when I was in the city? Are they so follow'd? Ros. No indeed are they not. Ham. How comes it? Do they grow rusty? Ros. Nay, their endeavour keeps in the wonted pace; but there is, sir, an eyrie of children, little eyases, that cry out on the top of question and are most tyrannically clapp'd for't. These are now the fashion, and so berattle the common stages (so they call them) that many wearing rapiers are afraid of goosequills and dare scarce come thither. Ham. What, are they children? Who maintains 'em? How are they escoted? Will they pursue the quality no longer than they can sing? Will they not say afterwards, if they should grow themselves to common players (as it is most like, if their means are no better), their writers do them wrong to make them exclaim against their own succession. Ros. Faith, there has been much to do on both sides; and the nation holds it no sin to tarre them to controversy. There was, for a while, no money bid for argument unless the poet and the player went to cuffs in the question. Ham. Is't possible? Guil. O, there has been much throwing about of brains. Ham. Do the boys carry it away? Ros. Ay, that they do, my lord- Hercules and his load too. Ham. It is not very strange; for my uncle is King of Denmark, and those that would make mows at him while my father lived give twenty, forty, fifty, a hundred ducats apiece for his picture in little. 'Sblood, there is something in this more than natural, if philosophy could find it out. Flourish for the Players. Guil. There are the players. Ham. Gentlemen, you are welcome to Elsinore. Your hands, come! Th' appurtenance of welcome is fashion and ceremony. Let me comply with you in this garb, lest my extent to the players (which I tell you must show fairly outwards) should more appear like entertainment than yours. You are welcome. But my uncle-father and aunt-mother are deceiv'd. Guil. In what, my dear lord? Ham. I am but mad north-north-west. When the wind is southerly I know a hawk from a handsaw. Enter Polonius. Pol. Well be with you, gentlemen! Ham. Hark you, Guildenstern- and you too- at each ear a hearer! That great baby you see there is not yet out of his swaddling clouts. Ros. Happily he's the second time come to them; for they say an old man is twice a child. Ham. I will prophesy he comes to tell me of the players. Mark it.- You say right, sir; a Monday morning; twas so indeed. Pol. My lord, I have news to tell you. Ham. My lord, I have news to tell you. When Roscius was an actor in Rome- Pol. The actors are come hither, my lord. Ham. Buzz, buzz! Pol. Upon my honour- Ham. Then came each actor on his ass- Pol. The best actors in the world, either for tragedy, comedy, history, pastoral, pastoral-comical, historical-pastoral, tragical-historical, tragical-comical-historical-pastoral; scene individable, or poem unlimited. Seneca cannot be too heavy, nor Plautus too light. For the law of writ and the liberty, these are the only men. Ham. O Jephthah, judge of Israel, what a treasure hadst thou! Pol. What treasure had he, my lord? Ham. Why, 'One fair daughter, and no more, The which he loved passing well.' Pol. [aside] Still on my daughter. Ham. Am I not i' th' right, old Jephthah? Pol. If you call me Jephthah, my lord, I have a daughter that I love passing well. Ham. Nay, that follows not. Pol. What follows then, my lord? Ham. Why, 'As by lot, God wot,' and then, you know, 'It came to pass, as most like it was.' The first row of the pious chanson will show you more; for look where my abridgment comes. Enter four or five Players. You are welcome, masters; welcome, all.- I am glad to see thee well.- Welcome, good friends.- O, my old friend? Why, thy face is valanc'd since I saw thee last. Com'st' thou to' beard me in Denmark?- What, my young lady and mistress? By'r Lady, your ladyship is nearer to heaven than when I saw you last by the altitude of a chopine. Pray God your voice, like a piece of uncurrent gold, be not crack'd within the ring.- Masters, you are all welcome. We'll e'en to't like French falconers, fly at anything we see. We'll have a speech straight. Come, give us a taste of your quality. Come, a passionate speech. 1. Play. What speech, my good lord? Ham. I heard thee speak me a speech once, but it was never acted; or if it was, not above once; for the play, I remember, pleas'd not the million, 'twas caviary to the general; but it was (as I receiv'd it, and others, whose judgments in such matters cried in the top of mine) an excellent play, well digested in the scenes, set down with as much modesty as cunning. I remember one said there were no sallets in the lines to make the matter savoury, nor no matter in the phrase that might indict the author of affectation; but call'd it an honest method, as wholesome as sweet, and by very much more handsome than fine. One speech in't I chiefly lov'd. 'Twas AEneas' tale to Dido, and thereabout of it especially where he speaks of Priam's slaughter. If it live in your memory, begin at this line- let me see, let me see: 'The rugged Pyrrhus, like th' Hyrcanian beast-' 'Tis not so; it begins with Pyrrhus: 'The rugged Pyrrhus, he whose sable arms, Black as his purpose, did the night resemble When he lay couched in the ominous horse, Hath now this dread and black complexion smear'd With heraldry more dismal. Head to foot Now is be total gules, horridly trick'd With blood of fathers, mothers, daughters, sons, Bak'd and impasted with the parching streets, That lend a tyrannous and a damned light To their lord's murther. Roasted in wrath and fire, And thus o'ersized with coagulate gore, With eyes like carbuncles, the hellish Pyrrhus Old grandsire Priam seeks.' So, proceed you. Pol. Fore God, my lord, well spoken, with good accent and good discretion. 1. Play. 'Anon he finds him, Striking too short at Greeks. His antique sword, Rebellious to his arm, lies where it falls, Repugnant to command. Unequal match'd, Pyrrhus at Priam drives, in rage strikes wide; But with the whiff and wind of his fell sword Th' unnerved father falls. Then senseless Ilium, Seeming to feel this blow, with flaming top Stoops to his base, and with a hideous crash Takes prisoner Pyrrhus' ear. For lo! his sword, Which was declining on the milky head Of reverend Priam, seem'd i' th' air to stick. So, as a painted tyrant, Pyrrhus stood, And, like a neutral to his will and matter, Did nothing. But, as we often see, against some storm, A silence in the heavens, the rack stand still, The bold winds speechless, and the orb below As hush as death- anon the dreadful thunder Doth rend the region; so, after Pyrrhus' pause, Aroused vengeance sets him new awork; And never did the Cyclops' hammers fall On Mars's armour, forg'd for proof eterne, With less remorse than Pyrrhus' bleeding sword Now falls on Priam. Out, out, thou strumpet Fortune! All you gods, In general synod take away her power; Break all the spokes and fellies from her wheel, And bowl the round nave down the hill of heaven, As low as to the fiends! Pol. This is too long. Ham. It shall to the barber's, with your beard.- Prithee say on. He's for a jig or a tale of bawdry, or he sleeps. Say on; come to Hecuba. 1. Play. 'But who, O who, had seen the mobled queen-' Ham. 'The mobled queen'? Pol. That's good! 'Mobled queen' is good. 1. Play. 'Run barefoot up and down, threat'ning the flames With bisson rheum; a clout upon that head Where late the diadem stood, and for a robe, About her lank and all o'erteemed loins, A blanket, in the alarm of fear caught up- Who this had seen, with tongue in venom steep'd 'Gainst Fortune's state would treason have pronounc'd. But if the gods themselves did see her then, When she saw Pyrrhus make malicious sport In Mincing with his sword her husband's limbs, The instant burst of clamour that she made (Unless things mortal move them not at all) Would have made milch the burning eyes of heaven And passion in the gods.' Pol. Look, whe'r he has not turn'd his colour, and has tears in's eyes. Prithee no more! Ham. 'Tis well. I'll have thee speak out the rest of this soon.- Good my lord, will you see the players well bestow'd? Do you hear? Let them be well us'd; for they are the abstract and brief chronicles of the time. After your death you were better have a bad epitaph than their ill report while you live. Pol. My lord, I will use them according to their desert. Ham. God's bodykins, man, much better! Use every man after his desert, and who should scape whipping? Use them after your own honour and dignity. The less they deserve, the more merit is in your bounty. Take them in. Pol. Come, sirs. Ham. Follow him, friends. We'll hear a play to-morrow. Exeunt Polonius and Players [except the First]. Dost thou hear me, old friend? Can you play 'The Murther of Gonzago'? 1. Play. Ay, my lord. Ham. We'll ha't to-morrow night. You could, for a need, study a speech of some dozen or sixteen lines which I would set down and insert in't, could you not? 1. Play. Ay, my lord. Ham. Very well. Follow that lord- and look you mock him not. [Exit First Player.] My good friends, I'll leave you till night. You are welcome to Elsinore. Ros. Good my lord! Ham. Ay, so, God b' wi' ye! [Exeunt Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Now I am alone. O what a rogue and peasant slave am I! Is it not monstrous that this player here, But in a fiction, in a dream of passion, Could force his soul so to his own conceit That, from her working, all his visage wann'd, Tears in his eyes, distraction in's aspect, A broken voice, and his whole function suiting With forms to his conceit? And all for nothing! For Hecuba! What's Hecuba to him, or he to Hecuba, That he should weep for her? What would he do, Had he the motive and the cue for passion That I have? He would drown the stage with tears And cleave the general ear with horrid speech; Make mad the guilty and appal the free, Confound the ignorant, and amaze indeed The very faculties of eyes and ears. Yet I, A dull and muddy-mettled rascal, peak Like John-a-dreams, unpregnant of my cause, And can say nothing! No, not for a king, Upon whose property and most dear life A damn'd defeat was made. Am I a coward? Who calls me villain? breaks my pate across? Plucks off my beard and blows it in my face? Tweaks me by th' nose? gives me the lie i' th' throat As deep as to the lungs? Who does me this, ha? 'Swounds, I should take it! for it cannot be But I am pigeon-liver'd and lack gall To make oppression bitter, or ere this I should have fatted all the region kites With this slave's offal. Bloody bawdy villain! Remorseless, treacherous, lecherous, kindless villain! O, vengeance! Why, what an ass am I! This is most brave, That I, the son of a dear father murther'd, Prompted to my revenge by heaven and hell, Must (like a whore) unpack my heart with words And fall a-cursing like a very drab, A scullion! Fie upon't! foh! About, my brain! Hum, I have heard That guilty creatures, sitting at a play, Have by the very cunning of the scene Been struck so to the soul that presently They have proclaim'd their malefactions; For murther, though it have no tongue, will speak With most miraculous organ, I'll have these Players Play something like the murther of my father Before mine uncle. I'll observe his looks; I'll tent him to the quick. If he but blench, I know my course. The spirit that I have seen May be a devil; and the devil hath power T' assume a pleasing shape; yea, and perhaps Out of my weakness and my melancholy, As he is very potent with such spirits, Abuses me to damn me. I'll have grounds More relative than this. The play's the thing Wherein I'll catch the conscience of the King. Exit. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze verfassen?

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Der König und die Königin betreten zusammen mit Rosencrantz und Guildenstern und anderen den Raum. König Claudius hat Hamlets zwei Schulfreunde nach Elsinore gerufen, um sie den Prinzen ausspionieren und Claudius darüber berichten zu lassen, wobei sie jede einzelne Bewegung Hamlets wiedergeben sollen. Die Königin verspricht ihnen eine großzügige Entschädigung für ihre Spionage und versichert ihnen, dass Hamlets eigenes Wohl diesen Dienst erfordert. Rosencrantz und Guildenstern stimmen zu. Die beiden verlassen den Raum, um Prinz Hamlet zu suchen, und der König und die Königin richten ihre Aufmerksamkeit auf Polonius, der angibt, die Antwort auf Hamlets Leiden zu haben. Er verspricht, näher darauf einzugehen, nachdem Claudius seine soeben eingetroffenen Botschafter aus Norwegen empfangen hat. Als Polonius den Raum verlässt, macht Gertrude sich über die Andeutungen des alten Mannes lustig. Sie ist sich sicher, dass Hamlets Probleme durch den Tod des alten Königs und ihre hastige Wiederheirat verursacht wurden. Polonius kehrt mit den Botschaftern Voltemand und Cornelius zurück. Sie bringen Neuigkeiten aus Norwegen, dass der alte und kranke König, Bruder des getöteten Königs Fortinbras, seinen Neffen, den jungen Fortinbras, davon abgehalten hat, Dänemark zu überfallen. Im Gegenzug bittet der alte Mann jedoch darum, dass Dänemark einigen Beistand in Fortinbras' Feldzug gegen Polen leistet - dass Claudius Fortinbras erlaubt, auf dem Weg nach Polen durch Dänemark zu ziehen. Sobald die Botschafter den Raum verlassen, beginnt Polonius eine ausführliche Diskussion über die Bedeutung des Lebens und der Pflicht, verspricht sich kurz zu fassen und redet dann weiter. Schließlich behauptet Polonius, dass Hamlet verrückt ist. Gertrude schimpft auf den alten Mann, da sie keine Geduld für Polonius hat. Polonius verspricht erneut, weniger geschwätzig zu sein, macht demonstrative, wellenförmige Bewegungen mit seinen Armen und liest dann einen Brief vor, den er seiner Tochter abgenommen hat und der in Hamlets Handschrift geschrieben ist. Polonius kritisiert die hochdramatische, künstliche Prosa mit zufälligen Reimen, in der Hamlet den Brief geschrieben hat, und erzählt Claudius und Gertrude, dass er Ophelia verboten hat, irgendwelche Avancen des Prinzen anzunehmen. Diese Anweisung, behauptet Polonius, hat den armen Hamlet in den Wahnsinn getrieben. Polonius schlägt dann vor, dass er und Claudius sich hinter einem Wandbehang mit Stickereien verstecken, um das Paar belauschen zu können, wenn Ophelia sich mit Hamlet trifft, um ihm seine Liebesgaben zurückzugeben. Claudius stimmt zu, sobald Hamlet hereinkommt und liest. Polonius bittet den König und die Königin, sie allein zu lassen, damit er mit Hamlet selbst sprechen kann. Bei der folgenden Begegnung zwischen Hamlet und Polonius warnt Hamlet Polonius, seine Tochter sorgfältig im Auge zu behalten, und spielt dann mit Polonius' begrenztem Verstand. Der Austausch überzeugt Polonius, dass Hamlet liebeskrank ist, während Hamlets Antworten in Wirklichkeit nichts weiter tun als Polonius zu verspotten. Polonius geht und Rosencrantz und Guildenstern treten ein. Hamlet grüßt sie als seine "ausgezeichneten guten Freunde" und fragt, warum sie in seine "Gefängniszelle" gekommen sind. Sie beschweren sich über seine Wortwahl, aber er sagt ihnen, "Dänemark ist ein Gefängnis." Rosencrantz antwortet witzig: "Dann ist die Welt einer." Hamlet überwindet den Widerstand seiner Freunde und die beiden geben schließlich zu, dass der König und die Königin sie geschickt haben, um Hamlet zu beobachten und ihnen Details über sein Verhalten zu liefern. Hamlets Melancholie bricht dann in einer Beschwerde in Blankvers aus, dass er in letzter Zeit "all meine Fröhlichkeit verloren habe." Er beklagt sich darüber, dass ein ekelerregender Nebel nun den Himmel beschmutzt, den er einst als einen mit goldenem Feuer bestickten Baldachin sah. Hamlet verurteilt dann die menschliche Natur selbst. Rosencrantz nutzt die Gelegenheit, um die Ankunft der Schauspieler anzukündigen, und Hamlets Stimmung ändert sich erneut. Begeistert über die Gelegenheit zur Ablenkung fragt Hamlet, wer die Schauspieler sind und warum sie unterwegs sind. Rosencrantz antwortet, dass sie unterwegs sind, weil eine Gruppe von Kinderdarstellern die Londoner Bühne übernommen hat. Hamlet antwortet, dass er Rosencrantz und Guildenstern genauso willkommen heißt wie die Schauspieler und hofft, dass er ein würdiger Gastgeber sein kann. Polonius tritt ein, um die Ankunft der Schauspieler anzukündigen. Als die Schauspieler hereinkommen, bittet Hamlet den Hauptdarsteller, eine Rede aus der Aeneis des Vergil vorzutragen, in der Aeneas Königin Dido die Geschichte von Pyrrhus erzählt, dessen Vater Achill in Rom getötet wurde. Der Schauspieler vollführt die Rede und versetzt sich selbst in Tränen über Hekubas Entsetzen, als sie ihren zerteilten Ehemann sieht. Hamlet bittet Polonius, sich um die Unterkunft der Schauspieler zu kümmern, und sobald der Lordkämmerer den Raum verlassen hat, teilt er der kleinen verbleibenden Gruppe von Schauspielern seine Pläne für ihre Aufführung von "Der Mord an Gonzago" mit. Er sagt ihnen, dass er ihnen zwölf bis sechzehn originale Zeilen geben wird, die er der Aufführung hinzufügen möchte. Sie stimmen zu und verlassen den Raum. Hamlet enthüllt dann seine eigentlichen Absichten für "Der Mord an Gonzago". Die Schauspieler sollen das Stück mit einer erweiterten Szene aufführen, in der der Mord, den der Geist beschrieben hat, inszeniert wird. Hamlet hofft, dass der Anblick seines Verbrechens vor dem versammelten Publikum Claudius dazu bringt, sich schuldig zu fühlen und zu offenbaren, dass er den König Hamlet ermordet hat. Ein solches Geständnis würde Hamlet endgültig beweisen, dass der Geist real ist und nicht einfach ein Teufel oder Einbildung.

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 street-lamps were lit, but the rain had ceased, and there was a momentary revival of light in the upper sky. Lily walked on unconscious of her surroundings. She was still treading the buoyant ether which emanates from the high moments of life. But gradually it shrank away from her and she felt the dull pavement beneath her feet. The sense of weariness returned with accumulated force, and for a moment she felt that she could walk no farther. She had reached the corner of Forty-first Street and Fifth Avenue, and she remembered that in Bryant Park there were seats where she might rest. That melancholy pleasure-ground was almost deserted when she entered it, and she sank down on an empty bench in the glare of an electric street-lamp. The warmth of the fire had passed out of her veins, and she told herself that she must not sit long in the penetrating dampness which struck up from the wet asphalt. But her will-power seemed to have spent itself in a last great effort, and she was lost in the blank reaction which follows on an unwonted expenditure of energy. And besides, what was there to go home to? Nothing but the silence of her cheerless room--that silence of the night which may be more racking to tired nerves than the most discordant noises: that, and the bottle of chloral by her bed. The thought of the chloral was the only spot of light in the dark prospect: she could feel its lulling influence stealing over her already. But she was troubled by the thought that it was losing its power--she dared not go back to it too soon. Of late the sleep it had brought her had been more broken and less profound; there had been nights when she was perpetually floating up through it to consciousness. What if the effect of the drug should gradually fail, as all narcotics were said to fail? She remembered the chemist's warning against increasing the dose; and she had heard before of the capricious and incalculable action of the drug. Her dread of returning to a sleepless night was so great that she lingered on, hoping that excessive weariness would reinforce the waning power of the chloral. Night had now closed in, and the roar of traffic in Forty-second Street was dying out. As complete darkness fell on the square the lingering occupants of the benches rose and dispersed; but now and then a stray figure, hurrying homeward, struck across the path where Lily sat, looming black for a moment in the white circle of electric light. One or two of these passers-by slackened their pace to glance curiously at her lonely figure; but she was hardly conscious of their scrutiny. Suddenly, however, she became aware that one of the passing shadows remained stationary between her line of vision and the gleaming asphalt; and raising her eyes she saw a young woman bending over her. "Excuse me--are you sick?--Why, it's Miss Bart!" a half-familiar voice exclaimed. Lily looked up. The speaker was a poorly-dressed young woman with a bundle under her arm. Her face had the air of unwholesome refinement which ill-health and over-work may produce, but its common prettiness was redeemed by the strong and generous curve of the lips. "You don't remember me," she continued, brightening with the pleasure of recognition, "but I'd know you anywhere, I've thought of you such a lot. I guess my folks all know your name by heart. I was one of the girls at Miss Farish's club--you helped me to go to the country that time I had lung-trouble. My name's Nettie Struther. It was Nettie Crane then--but I daresay you don't remember that either." Yes: Lily was beginning to remember. The episode of Nettie Crane's timely rescue from disease had been one of the most satisfying incidents of her connection with Gerty's charitable work. She had furnished the girl with the means to go to a sanatorium in the mountains: it struck her now with a peculiar irony that the money she had used had been Gus Trenor's. She tried to reply, to assure the speaker that she had not forgotten; but her voice failed in the effort, and she felt herself sinking under a great wave of physical weakness. Nettie Struther, with a startled exclamation, sat down and slipped a shabbily-clad arm behind her back. "Why, Miss Bart, you ARE sick. Just lean on me a little till you feel better." A faint glow of returning strength seemed to pass into Lily from the pressure of the supporting arm. "I'm only tired--it is nothing," she found voice to say in a moment; and then, as she met the timid appeal of her companion's eyes, she added involuntarily: "I have been unhappy--in great trouble." "YOU in trouble? I've always thought of you as being so high up, where everything was just grand. Sometimes, when I felt real mean, and got to wondering why things were so queerly fixed in the world, I used to remember that you were having a lovely time, anyhow, and that seemed to show there was a kind of justice somewhere. But you mustn't sit here too long--it's fearfully damp. Don't you feel strong enough to walk on a little ways now?" she broke off. "Yes--yes; I must go home," Lily murmured, rising. Her eyes rested wonderingly on the thin shabby figure at her side. She had known Nettie Crane as one of the discouraged victims of over-work and anaemic parentage: one of the superfluous fragments of life destined to be swept prematurely into that social refuse-heap of which Lily had so lately expressed her dread. But Nettie Struther's frail envelope was now alive with hope and energy: whatever fate the future reserved for her, she would not be cast into the refuse-heap without a struggle. "I am very glad to have seen you," Lily continued, summoning a smile to her unsteady lips. "It'll be my turn to think of you as happy--and the world will seem a less unjust place to me too." "Oh, but I can't leave you like this--you're not fit to go home alone. And I can't go with you either!" Nettie Struther wailed with a start of recollection. "You see, it's my husband's night-shift--he's a motor-man--and the friend I leave the baby with has to step upstairs to get HER husband's supper at seven. I didn't tell you I had a baby, did I? She'll be four months old day after tomorrow, and to look at her you wouldn't think I'd ever had a sick day. I'd give anything to show you the baby, Miss Bart, and we live right down the street here--it's only three blocks off." She lifted her eyes tentatively to Lily's face, and then added with a burst of courage: "Why won't you get right into the cars and come home with me while I get baby's supper? It's real warm in our kitchen, and you can rest there, and I'll take YOU home as soon as ever she drops off to sleep." It WAS warm in the kitchen, which, when Nettie Struther's match had made a flame leap from the gas-jet above the table, revealed itself to Lily as extraordinarily small and almost miraculously clean. A fire shone through the polished flanks of the iron stove, and near it stood a crib in which a baby was sitting upright, with incipient anxiety struggling for expression on a countenance still placid with sleep. Having passionately celebrated her reunion with her offspring, and excused herself in cryptic language for the lateness of her return, Nettie restored the baby to the crib and shyly invited Miss Bart to the rocking-chair near the stove. "We've got a parlour too," she explained with pardonable pride; "but I guess it's warmer in here, and I don't want to leave you alone while I'm getting baby's supper." On receiving Lily's assurance that she much preferred the friendly proximity of the kitchen fire, Mrs. Struther proceeded to prepare a bottle of infantile food, which she tenderly applied to the baby's impatient lips; and while the ensuing degustation went on, she seated herself with a beaming countenance beside her visitor. "You're sure you won't let me warm up a drop of coffee for you, Miss Bart? There's some of baby's fresh milk left over--well, maybe you'd rather just sit quiet and rest a little while. It's too lovely having you here. I've thought of it so often that I can't believe it's really come true. I've said to George again and again: 'I just wish Miss Bart could see me NOW--' and I used to watch for your name in the papers, and we'd talk over what you were doing, and read the descriptions of the dresses you wore. I haven't seen your name for a long time, though, and I began to be afraid you were sick, and it worried me so that George said I'd get sick myself, fretting about it." Her lips broke into a reminiscent smile. "Well, I can't afford to be sick again, that's a fact: the last spell nearly finished me. When you sent me off that time I never thought I'd come back alive, and I didn't much care if I did. You see I didn't know about George and the baby then." She paused to readjust the bottle to the child's bubbling mouth. "You precious--don't you be in too much of a hurry! Was it mad with mommer for getting its supper so late? Marry Anto'nette--that's what we call her: after the French queen in that play at the Garden--I told George the actress reminded me of you, and that made me fancy the name . . . I never thought I'd get married, you know, and I'd never have had the heart to go on working just for myself." She broke off again, and meeting the encouragement in Lily's eyes, went on, with a flush rising under her anaemic skin: "You see I wasn't only just SICK that time you sent me off--I was dreadfully unhappy too. I'd known a gentleman where I was employed--I don't know as you remember I did type-writing in a big importing firm--and--well--I thought we were to be married: he'd gone steady with me six months and given me his mother's wedding ring. But I presume he was too stylish for me--he travelled for the firm, and had seen a great deal of society. Work girls aren't looked after the way you are, and they don't always know how to look after themselves. I didn't . . . and it pretty near killed me when he went away and left off writing . . . "It was then I came down sick--I thought it was the end of everything. I guess it would have been if you hadn't sent me off. But when I found I was getting well I began to take heart in spite of myself. And then, when I got back home, George came round and asked me to marry him. At first I thought I couldn't, because we'd been brought up together, and I knew he knew about me. But after a while I began to see that that made it easier. I never could have told another man, and I'd never have married without telling; but if George cared for me enough to have me as I was, I didn't see why I shouldn't begin over again--and I did." The strength of the victory shone forth from her as she lifted her irradiated face from the child on her knees. "But, mercy, I didn't mean to go on like this about myself, with you sitting there looking so fagged out. Only it's so lovely having you here, and letting you see just how you've helped me." The baby had sunk back blissfully replete, and Mrs. Struther softly rose to lay the bottle aside. Then she paused before Miss Bart. "I only wish I could help YOU--but I suppose there's nothing on earth I could do," she murmured wistfully. Lily, instead of answering, rose with a smile and held out her arms; and the mother, understanding the gesture, laid her child in them. The baby, feeling herself detached from her habitual anchorage, made an instinctive motion of resistance; but the soothing influences of digestion prevailed, and Lily felt the soft weight sink trustfully against her breast. The child's confidence in its safety thrilled her with a sense of warmth and returning life, and she bent over, wondering at the rosy blur of the little face, the empty clearness of the eyes, the vague tendrilly motions of the folding and unfolding fingers. At first the burden in her arms seemed as light as a pink cloud or a heap of down, but as she continued to hold it the weight increased, sinking deeper, and penetrating her with a strange sense of weakness, as though the child entered into her and became a part of herself. She looked up, and saw Nettie's eyes resting on her with tenderness and exultation. "Wouldn't it be too lovely for anything if she could grow up to be just like you? Of course I know she never COULD--but mothers are always dreaming the craziest things for their children." Lily clasped the child close for a moment and laid her back in her mother's arms. "Oh, she must not do that--I should be afraid to come and see her too often!" she said with a smile; and then, resisting Mrs. Struther's anxious offer of companionship, and reiterating the promise that of course she would come back soon, and make George's acquaintance, and see the baby in her bath, she passed out of the kitchen and went alone down the tenement stairs. As she reached the street she realized that she felt stronger and happier: the little episode had done her good. It was the first time she had ever come across the results of her spasmodic benevolence, and the surprised sense of human fellowship took the mortal chill from her heart. It was not till she entered her own door that she felt the reaction of a deeper loneliness. It was long after seven o'clock, and the light and odours proceeding from the basement made it manifest that the boarding-house dinner had begun. She hastened up to her room, lit the gas, and began to dress. She did not mean to pamper herself any longer, to go without food because her surroundings made it unpalatable. Since it was her fate to live in a boarding-house, she must learn to fall in with the conditions of the life. Nevertheless she was glad that, when she descended to the heat and glare of the dining-room, the repast was nearly over. In her own room again, she was seized with a sudden fever of activity. For weeks past she had been too listless and indifferent to set her possessions in order, but now she began to examine systematically the contents of her drawers and cupboard. She had a few handsome dresses left--survivals of her last phase of splendour, on the Sabrina and in London--but when she had been obliged to part with her maid she had given the woman a generous share of her cast-off apparel. The remaining dresses, though they had lost their freshness, still kept the long unerring lines, the sweep and amplitude of the great artist's stroke, and as she spread them out on the bed the scenes in which they had been worn rose vividly before her. An association lurked in every fold: each fall of lace and gleam of embroidery was like a letter in the record of her past. She was startled to find how the atmosphere of her old life enveloped her. But, after all, it was the life she had been made for: every dawning tendency in her had been carefully directed toward it, all her interests and activities had been taught to centre around it. She was like some rare flower grown for exhibition, a flower from which every bud had been nipped except the crowning blossom of her beauty. Last of all, she drew forth from the bottom of her trunk a heap of white drapery which fell shapelessly across her arm. It was the Reynolds dress she had worn in the Bry TABLEAUX. It had been impossible for her to give it away, but she had never seen it since that night, and the long flexible folds, as she shook them out, gave forth an odour of violets which came to her like a breath from the flower-edged fountain where she had stood with Lawrence Selden and disowned her fate. She put back the dresses one by one, laying away with each some gleam of light, some note of laughter, some stray waft from the rosy shores of pleasure. She was still in a state of highly-wrought impressionability, and every hint of the past sent a lingering tremor along her nerves. She had just closed her trunk on the white folds of the Reynolds dress when she heard a tap at her door, and the red fist of the Irish maid-servant thrust in a belated letter. Carrying it to the light, Lily read with surprise the address stamped on the upper corner of the envelope. It was a business communication from the office of her aunt's executors, and she wondered what unexpected development had caused them to break silence before the appointed time. She opened the envelope and a cheque fluttered to the floor. As she stooped to pick it up the blood rushed to her face. The cheque represented the full amount of Mrs. Peniston's legacy, and the letter accompanying it explained that the executors, having adjusted the business of the estate with less delay than they had expected, had decided to anticipate the date fixed for the payment of the bequests. Lily sat down beside the desk at the foot of her bed, and spreading out the cheque, read over and over the TEN THOUSAND DOLLARS written across it in a steely business hand. Ten months earlier the amount it stood for had represented the depths of penury; but her standard of values had changed in the interval, and now visions of wealth lurked in every flourish of the pen. As she continued to gaze at it, she felt the glitter of the visions mounting to her brain, and after a while she lifted the lid of the desk and slipped the magic formula out of sight. It was easier to think without those five figures dancing before her eyes; and she had a great deal of thinking to do before she slept. She opened her cheque-book, and plunged into such anxious calculations as had prolonged her vigil at Bellomont on the night when she had decided to marry Percy Gryce. Poverty simplifies book-keeping, and her financial situation was easier to ascertain than it had been then; but she had not yet learned the control of money, and during her transient phase of luxury at the Emporium she had slipped back into habits of extravagance which still impaired her slender balance. A careful examination of her cheque-book, and of the unpaid bills in her desk, showed that, when the latter had been settled, she would have barely enough to live on for the next three or four months; and even after that, if she were to continue her present way of living, without earning any additional money, all incidental expenses must be reduced to the vanishing point. She hid her eyes with a shudder, beholding herself at the entrance of that ever-narrowing perspective down which she had seen Miss Silverton's dowdy figure take its despondent way. It was no longer, however, from the vision of material poverty that she turned with the greatest shrinking. She had a sense of deeper empoverishment--of an inner destitution compared to which outward conditions dwindled into insignificance. It was indeed miserable to be poor--to look forward to a shabby, anxious middle-age, leading by dreary degrees of economy and self-denial to gradual absorption in the dingy communal existence of the boarding-house. But there was something more miserable still--it was the clutch of solitude at her heart, the sense of being swept like a stray uprooted growth down the heedless current of the years. That was the feeling which possessed her now--the feeling of being something rootless and ephemeral, mere spin-drift of the whirling surface of existence, without anything to which the poor little tentacles of self could cling before the awful flood submerged them. And as she looked back she saw that there had never been a time when she had had any real relation to life. Her parents too had been rootless, blown hither and thither on every wind of fashion, without any personal existence to shelter them from its shifting gusts. She herself had grown up without any one spot of earth being dearer to her than another: there was no centre of early pieties, of grave endearing traditions, to which her heart could revert and from which it could draw strength for itself and tenderness for others. In whatever form a slowly-accumulated past lives in the blood--whether in the concrete image of the old house stored with visual memories, or in the conception of the house not built with hands, but made up of inherited passions and loyalties--it has the same power of broadening and deepening the individual existence, of attaching it by mysterious links of kinship to all the mighty sum of human striving. Such a vision of the solidarity of life had never before come to Lily. She had had a premonition of it in the blind motions of her mating-instinct; but they had been checked by the disintegrating influences of the life about her. All the men and women she knew were like atoms whirling away from each other in some wild centrifugal dance: her first glimpse of the continuity of life had come to her that evening in Nettie Struther's kitchen. The poor little working-girl who had found strength to gather up the fragments of her life, and build herself a shelter with them, seemed to Lily to have reached the central truth of existence. It was a meagre enough life, on the grim edge of poverty, with scant margin for possibilities of sickness or mischance, but it had the frail audacious permanence of a bird's nest built on the edge of a cliff--a mere wisp of leaves and straw, yet so put together that the lives entrusted to it may hang safely over the abyss. Yes--but it had taken two to build the nest; the man's faith as well as the woman's courage. Lily remembered Nettie's words: I KNEW HE KNEW ABOUT ME. Her husband's faith in her had made her renewal possible--it is so easy for a woman to become what the man she loves believes her to be! Well--Selden had twice been ready to stake his faith on Lily Bart; but the third trial had been too severe for his endurance. The very quality of his love had made it the more impossible to recall to life. If it had been a simple instinct of the blood, the power of her beauty might have revived it. But the fact that it struck deeper, that it was inextricably wound up with inherited habits of thought and feeling, made it as impossible to restore to growth as a deep-rooted plant torn from its bed. Selden had given her of his best; but he was as incapable as herself of an uncritical return to former states of feeling. There remained to her, as she had told him, the uplifting memory of his faith in her; but she had not reached the age when a woman can live on her memories. As she held Nettie Struther's child in her arms the frozen currents of youth had loosed themselves and run warm in her veins: the old life-hunger possessed her, and all her being clamoured for its share of personal happiness. Yes--it was happiness she still wanted, and the glimpse she had caught of it made everything else of no account. One by one she had detached herself from the baser possibilities, and she saw that nothing now remained to her but the emptiness of renunciation. It was growing late, and an immense weariness once more possessed her. It was not the stealing sense of sleep, but a vivid wakeful fatigue, a wan lucidity of mind against which all the possibilities of the future were shadowed forth gigantically. She was appalled by the intense cleanness of the vision; she seemed to have broken through the merciful veil which intervenes between intention and action, and to see exactly what she would do in all the long days to come. There was the cheque in her desk, for instance--she meant to use it in paying her debt to Trenor; but she foresaw that when the morning came she would put off doing so, would slip into gradual tolerance of the debt. The thought terrified her--she dreaded to fall from the height of her last moment with Lawrence Selden. But how could she trust herself to keep her footing? She knew the strength of the opposing impulses-she could feel the countless hands of habit dragging her back into some fresh compromise with fate. She felt an intense longing to prolong, to perpetuate, the momentary exaltation of her spirit. If only life could end now--end on this tragic yet sweet vision of lost possibilities, which gave her a sense of kinship with all the loving and foregoing in the world! She reached out suddenly and, drawing the cheque from her writing-desk, enclosed it in an envelope which she addressed to her bank. She then wrote out a cheque for Trenor, and placing it, without an accompanying word, in an envelope inscribed with his name, laid the two letters side by side on her desk. After that she continued to sit at the table, sorting her papers and writing, till the intense silence of the house reminded her of the lateness of the hour. In the street the noise of wheels had ceased, and the rumble of the "elevated" came only at long intervals through the deep unnatural hush. In the mysterious nocturnal separation from all outward signs of life, she felt herself more strangely confronted with her fate. The sensation made her brain reel, and she tried to shut out consciousness by pressing her hands against her eyes. But the terrible silence and emptiness seemed to symbolize her future--she felt as though the house, the street, the world were all empty, and she alone left sentient in a lifeless universe. But this was the verge of delirium . . . she had never hung so near the dizzy brink of the unreal. Sleep was what she wanted--she remembered that she had not closed her eyes for two nights. The little bottle was at her bed-side, waiting to lay its spell upon her. She rose and undressed hastily, hungering now for the touch of her pillow. She felt so profoundly tired that she thought she must fall asleep at once; but as soon as she had lain down every nerve started once more into separate wakefulness. It was as though a great blaze of electric light had been turned on in her head, and her poor little anguished self shrank and cowered in it, without knowing where to take refuge. She had not imagined that such a multiplication of wakefulness was possible: her whole past was reenacting itself at a hundred different points of consciousness. Where was the drug that could still this legion of insurgent nerves? The sense of exhaustion would have been sweet compared to this shrill beat of activities; but weariness had dropped from her as though some cruel stimulant had been forced into her veins. She could bear it--yes, she could bear it; but what strength would be left her the next day? Perspective had disappeared--the next day pressed close upon her, and on its heels came the days that were to follow--they swarmed about her like a shrieking mob. She must shut them out for a few hours; she must take a brief bath of oblivion. She put out her hand, and measured the soothing drops into a glass; but as she did so, she knew they would be powerless against the supernatural lucidity of her brain. She had long since raised the dose to its highest limit, but tonight she felt she must increase it. She knew she took a slight risk in doing so--she remembered the chemist's warning. If sleep came at all, it might be a sleep without waking. But after all that was but one chance in a hundred: the action of the drug was incalculable, and the addition of a few drops to the regular dose would probably do no more than procure for her the rest she so desperately needed.... She did not, in truth, consider the question very closely--the physical craving for sleep was her only sustained sensation. Her mind shrank from the glare of thought as instinctively as eyes contract in a blaze of light--darkness, darkness was what she must have at any cost. She raised herself in bed and swallowed the contents of the glass; then she blew out her candle and lay down. She lay very still, waiting with a sensuous pleasure for the first effects of the soporific. She knew in advance what form they would take--the gradual cessation of the inner throb, the soft approach of passiveness, as though an invisible hand made magic passes over her in the darkness. The very slowness and hesitancy of the effect increased its fascination: it was delicious to lean over and look down into the dim abysses of unconsciousness. Tonight the drug seemed to work more slowly than usual: each passionate pulse had to be stilled in turn, and it was long before she felt them dropping into abeyance, like sentinels falling asleep at their posts. But gradually the sense of complete subjugation came over her, and she wondered languidly what had made her feel so uneasy and excited. She saw now that there was nothing to be excited about--she had returned to her normal view of life. Tomorrow would not be so difficult after all: she felt sure that she would have the strength to meet it. She did not quite remember what it was that she had been afraid to meet, but the uncertainty no longer troubled her. She had been unhappy, and now she was happy--she had felt herself alone, and now the sense of loneliness had vanished. She stirred once, and turned on her side, and as she did so, she suddenly understood why she did not feel herself alone. It was odd--but Nettie Struther's child was lying on her arm: she felt the pressure of its little head against her shoulder. She did not know how it had come there, but she felt no great surprise at the fact, only a gentle penetrating thrill of warmth and pleasure. She settled herself into an easier position, hollowing her arm to pillow the round downy head, and holding her breath lest a sound should disturb the sleeping child. As she lay there she said to herself that there was something she must tell Selden, some word she had found that should make life clear between them. She tried to repeat the word, which lingered vague and luminous on the far edge of thought--she was afraid of not remembering it when she woke; and if she could only remember it and say it to him, she felt that everything would be well. Slowly the thought of the word faded, and sleep began to enfold her. She struggled faintly against it, feeling that she ought to keep awake on account of the baby; but even this feeling was gradually lost in an indistinct sense of drowsy peace, through which, of a sudden, a dark flash of loneliness and terror tore its way. She started up again, cold and trembling with the shock: for a moment she seemed to have lost her hold of the child. But no--she was mistaken--the tender pressure of its body was still close to hers: the recovered warmth flowed through her once more, she yielded to it, sank into it, and slept. 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.

Auf dem Heimweg setzt sich Lily im Bryant Park hin. Dort trifft sie auf Nettie Crane Struther, die junge Frau aus dem Mädchenclub, die von Lilys Wohltätigkeit profitiert hatte. Nettie ist mit einem Straßenbahnfahrer verheiratet und Mutter einer Kleinkindtochter, die sie zu Ehren von Lily benannt hat. Lily zieht sich in ihr Pension zurück und geht den Rest ihres Besitzes durch. Eine Dienstmagd bringt ihr einen Brief, der den Scheck über das Erbe von 10.000 Dollar enthält. Sie überlegt, wie sie das Geld ausgeben kann, um ihre Rechnungen zu bezahlen, und erkennt die Einsamkeit ihrer Isolation. Sie schreibt einen Scheck für die vollständige Rückerstattung an Trenor sowie einen Einzahlungsschein für den Scheck. Sie erinnert sich an den Ratschlag des Apothekers, nicht zu viel des Chloralrezepts zu verwenden, aber sie beachtet ihn nicht. Sie nimmt nachlässig zu viel und gleitet in ihren endgültigen Schlaf hinüber.

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. Aber es war eine gefährliche Sache für Ermengarde und Lottie, Pilgerfahrten auf den Dachboden zu machen. Sie konnten nie ganz sicher sein, wann Sara dort sein würde, und sie konnten kaum sicher sein, dass Miss Amelia nicht nach dem Zubettgehen der Schülerinnen eine Inspektionsrunde durch die Schlafzimmer machen würde. Ihre Besuche waren also selten und Sara führte ein eigenartiges und einsames Leben. Es war ein einsameres Leben, wenn sie unten war als wenn sie auf ihrem Dachboden war. Sie hatte niemanden zum Reden; und wenn sie auf Erledigungen geschickt wurde und durch die Straßen lief, ein verlassenes kleines Mädchen, das einen Korb oder ein Paket trug, versuchte sie ihren Hut festzuhalten, wenn der Wind blies, und spürte, wie das Wasser durch ihre Schuhe sickerte, wenn es regnete, fühlte sie sich, als ob die Menschenmengen, die an ihr vorbeihasteten, ihre Einsamkeit verstärkten. Als sie noch die Prinzessin Sara gewesen war, die in ihrer Kutsche durch die Straßen fuhr oder von Mariette begleitet spazierte, hatten sich die Leute oft nach ihr umgedreht und ihr zugeblickt, wegen ihres strahlenden, begehrlichen kleinen Gesichts und ihrer malerischen Mäntel und Hüte. Ein glückliches, liebevoll betreutes kleines Mädchen zieht natürlich Aufmerksamkeit auf sich. Schäbige, schlecht gekleidete Kinder sind nicht selten genug und hübsch genug, damit die Menschen sich nach ihnen umdrehen und lächeln. Niemand sah Sara in diesen Tagen an, und niemand schien sie zu sehen, als sie eilig die überfüllten Gehwege entlangging. Sie war sehr schnell gewachsen und da sie nur in solchen Kleidern gekleidet war, wie der simpleren Reste ihrer Garderobe liefern würde, wusste sie, dass sie sehr merkwürdig aussah. Alle ihre wertvollen Kleidungsstücke waren verkauft worden, und die, die ihr zum Tragen übrig geblieben waren, sollte sie solange tragen, wie sie sie überhaupt anziehen konnte. Manchmal, wenn sie an einem Schaufenster mit einem Spiegel vorbeikam, musste sie fast laut lachen, wenn sie einen Blick auf sich selbst erhaschte, und manchmal wurde ihr Gesicht rot und sie biss sich auf die Lippe und wandte sich ab. Am Abend, wenn sie an Häusern vorbeikam, deren Fenster beleuchtet waren, schaute sie gerne in die warmen Stuben und amüsierte sich damit, sich Dinge über die Menschen vorzustellen, die sie an den Feuern oder an den Tischen sah. Es interessierte sie immer, einen Blick auf die Räume zu erhaschen, bevor die Fensterläden geschlossen wurden. Es gab mehrere Familien auf dem Platz, in dem Miss Minchin wohnte, mit denen sie auf ihre eigene Weise ziemlich vertraut geworden war. Die Familie, die sie am liebsten mochte, nannte sie die große Familie. Sie nannte sie die große Familie nicht, weil die Mitglieder groß waren - denn die meisten von ihnen waren klein -, sondern weil sie so viele waren. Es gab acht Kinder in der großen Familie, eine kräftige, rosige Mutter und einen kräftigen, rosigen Vater und eine kräftige, rosige Großmutter und so viele Bedienstete. Die acht Kinder wurden entweder von komfortablen Kindermädchen spazieren geführt oder in Kinderwagen gefahren, oder sie fuhren mit ihrer Mama spazieren, oder sie rannten abends zur Tür, um ihren Papa zu treffen, ihn zu küssen und um ihn herumzutanzen und ihm den Mantel abzunehmen und in den Taschen nach Päckchen zu suchen, oder sie drängten sich um die Fenster des Kinderzimmers und schauten heraus und schubsten sich gegenseitig und lachten - sie taten praktisch immer etwas, das einer großen Familie Spaß macht. Sara mochte sie ziemlich gerne und hatte ihnen Namen aus Büchern gegeben - ziemlich romantische Namen. Sie nannte sie Montmorency, wenn sie sie nicht große Familie nannte. Das fette, helle Baby mit der Spitzkehre war Ethelberta Beauchamp Montmorency, das nächste Baby war Violet Cholmondeley Montmorency, der kleine Junge, der gerade mal tappen konnte und so runde Beine hatte, war Sydney Cecil Vivian Montmorency, und dann kamen Lilian Evangeline Maud Marion, Rosalind Gladys, Guy Clarence, Veronica Eustacia und Claude Harold Hector. An einem Abend geschah etwas sehr Lustiges - obwohl es in einem gewissen Sinne überhaupt nicht lustig war. Einige der Montmorency-Kinder waren offensichtlich auf dem Weg zu einer Kinderparty, und gerade als Sara dabei war, an der Tür vorbeizugehen, überquerten sie den Gehweg, um in die Kutsche zu steigen, die auf sie wartete. Veronica Eustacia und Rosalind Gladys, in weißen Spitzenkleidern und hübschen Schärpen, waren gerade eingestiegen, und Guy Clarence, fünf Jahre alt, folgte ihnen. Er war so ein hübscher Junge und hatte so rosige Wangen und blaue Augen und einen so süßen kleinen runden Kopf voller Locken, dass Sara ihren Korb und ihren schäbigen Umhang ganz vergaß - tatsächlich vergaß sie alles, außer dass sie ihn für einen Moment ansehen wollte. Also hielt sie inne und schaute. Es war Weihnachtszeit, und die große Familie hatte viele Geschichten von Kindern gehört, die arm waren und keine Mama und keinen Papa hatten, die ihre Strümpfe füllten und sie in die Pantomime mitnahmen - Kinder, die nämlich kalt und dünn gekleidet und hungrig waren. In den Geschichten sahen liebe Menschen - manchmal kleine Jungen und Mädchen mit zärtlichen Herzen - immer die armen Kinder und gaben ihnen Geld oder reiche Geschenke oder nahmen sie mit nach Hause zu wunderschönen Abendessen. Guy Clarence war an diesem Nachmittag von der Lektüre einer solchen Geschichte zu Tränen gerührt worden und hatte den Wunsch, ein solches armes Kind zu finden und ihm einen bestimmten Sechs-Pence zu geben, den er besaß, und so für sein ganzes Leben zu sorgen. Ein ganzer Sechs-Pence würde für immer Reichtum bedeuten. Als er den roten Teppichstreifen auf dem Gehweg vom Auto zur Kutsche überquerte, hatte er genau diesen Sechs-Pence in der Tasche seiner sehr kurzen Matrosenhose; Und genau in dem Moment, als Rosalind Gladys in das Fahrzeug stieg und auf den Sitz sprang, um die Kissen unter ihr federn zu fühlen, sah er Sara auf dem nassen Gehweg in ihrem schäbigen Kleid und Hut, mit ihrem alten Korb auf dem Arm, hungrig zu ihm schauen. Er dachte, dass ihre Augen hungrig aussahen, weil sie vielleicht schon lange nichts mehr gegessen hatte. Er wusste nicht, dass sie so aussahen, weil sie sich nach dem warmen, fröhlichen Leben sehnte, das sein Zuhause bot, und sein rosarotes Gesicht davon sprach, und dass sie einen hungrigen Wunsch hatte, ihn in die Arme zu nehmen und ihn zu küssen. Er wusste nur, dass sie große Augen hatte und ein schmales Gesicht und dünne Beine und einen gewöhnlichen Korb und arme Kleider. Also steckte er seine Hand in seine Tasche und fand seinen Sechs-Pence und ging freundlich auf sie zu. "Hier, armes kleines Mädchen", sagte er. "Hier ist ein Sechs-Pence. Ich werde ihn dir geben." Sara erschrak und erkannte auf einmal, dass sie genauso aussah wie arme Kinder, die sie in ihren besseren Tagen gesehen hatte, die auf dem Gehweg warteten, um sie zu beobachten, wie sie aus ihrer Kutsche stieg. Und sie hatte ihnen oft Penny gegeben. Ihr Gesicht wurde rot und dann wurde es b "Sara war nicht wütend", sagte Donald, ein wenig verärgert, aber dennoch entschlossen. "Sie hat ein wenig gelacht und gesagt, dass ich ein nettes, kleines liebes Ding bin. Und das bin ich!" - entschieden. "Das ganze waren meine sechs Pence." Janet und Nora wechselten Blicke. "Ein Bettelmannmädchen hätte so etwas nie gesagt", entschied Janet. "Sie hätte gesagt: 'Vielen Dank, kleiner Gentleman, dankeschön, mein Herr.' Und vielleicht hätte sie sich verbeugt." Sara wusste nichts von der Tatsache, aber seitdem war die große Familie genauso interessiert an ihr, wie sie an ihnen. Gesichter erschienen an den Fenstern des Kindergartens, wenn sie vorbeiging und viele Diskussionen über sie wurden am Kamin geführt. "Sie ist eine Art Dienstmädchen im Internat", sagte Janet. "Ich glaube, sie gehört niemandem. Ich glaube, sie ist eine Waise. Aber sie ist kein Bettler, egal wie abgenutzt sie aussieht." Und danach nannten sie alle sie "Das-Mädchen-das-kein-Bettler-ist", was natürlich eher ein langer Name war und manchmal sehr komisch klang, wenn es die Jüngsten schnell sagten. Sara schaffte es, ein Loch in den sechs Pence zu bohren und hängte ihn an ein altes schmales Band um ihren Hals. Ihre Zuneigung zur großen Familie wuchs, so wie ihre Zuneigung zu allem, was sie lieben konnte, wuchs. Sie mochte Becky immer mehr und sie freute sich auf die beiden Vormittage in der Woche, an denen sie in das Klassenzimmer ging, um den Kleinen Französisch beizubringen. Ihre kleinen Schüler mochten sie und wetteiferten miteinander um das Privileg, nah bei ihr zu stehen und ihre kleinen Hände in ihre zu stecken. Es gab ihr hungrigem Herzen Nahrung, sie so an ihrer Seite zu spüren. Sie war mit den Spatzen so gut befreundet, dass, wenn sie auf den Tisch stieg, ihren Kopf und ihre Schultern aus dem Dachfenster steckte und zwitscherte, sie fast sofort ein Flattern von Flügeln und antwortende Zwitschern hörte und eine kleine Herde schmutziger Stadtvögel auftauchte und auf den Dachziegeln landete, um mit ihr zu sprechen und sich über die Krümel herzumachen, die sie verstreute. Mit Melchisedec war sie so vertraut geworden, dass er manchmal tatsächlich Frau Melchisedec mitbrachte und ab und zu auch ein oder zwei seiner Kinder. Sie plauderte mit ihm und irgendwie schien es, als verstehe er sie. In ihrem Kopf entwickelte sich ein seltsames Gefühl für Emily, die immer alles beobachtete. Es kam in einem ihrer Momente großer Verlassenheit auf. Sie hätte gerne geglaubt oder vorgegeben zu glauben, dass Emily sie verstand und mit ihr mitfühlte. Sie mochte es nicht, sich selbst einzugestehen, dass ihr einziger Begleiter nichts fühlen und hören konnte. Manchmal setzte sie sie in einen Stuhl und setzte sich ihr gegenüber auf den alten roten Schemel und starrte sie an und gab vor, sie zu befragen, bis ihre eigenen Augen von etwas durchdrungen waren, das fast wie Angst war - besonders nachts, wenn alles so still war, wenn das einzige Geräusch auf dem Dachboden das gelegentliche plötzliche Gerumpel und Quieken der Melchisedec-Familie war. Eines ihrer "Vorgeben" war, dass Emily eine Art gute Hexe war, die sie beschützen konnte. Manchmal, nachdem sie sie so lange angestarrt hatte, bis sie sich in ihrer Fantasie auf das Höchste gesteigert hatte, stellte sie ihr Fragen und fühlte fast, als ob sie gleich antworten würde. Aber sie tat es nie. "Aber was das Antworten betrifft", versuchte Sara sich zu trösten, "antworte ich nicht oft. Ich antworte nie, wenn ich es vermeiden kann. Wenn Leute dich beleidigen, gibt es nichts Besseres, als nichts zu sagen - sie nur anzusehen und zu DENKEN. Miss Minchin wird vor Wut blass, wenn ich es tue, Miss Amelia sieht ängstlich aus und die Mädchen auch. Wenn du nicht in Wut gerätst, wissen die Leute, dass du stärker bist als sie, weil du stark genug bist, um deine Wut zurückzuhalten, während sie es nicht sind, und sie sagen dumme Dinge, die sie anschließend lieber nicht gesagt hätten. Nichts ist so stark wie Wut, außer dem, was dich davon abhält - das ist stärker. Es ist gut, deine Feinde nicht zu beantworten. Das tue ich kaum. Vielleicht ist Emily mehr wie ich, als ich selbst bin. Vielleicht möchte sie ihre Freunde auch nicht beantworten. Sie behält alles in ihrem Herzen." Aber obwohl sie versuchte, sich mit diesen Argumenten zufriedenzustellen, fiel es ihr nicht leicht. Wenn sie nach einem langen, harten Tag, an dem sie hierhin und dorthin geschickt worden war, manchmal auf langen Botengängen bei Wind und Kälte und Regen, nass und hungrig in das Dachzimmer kam und wieder hinausgeschickt wurde, weil niemand sich daran erinnern wollte, dass sie nur ein Kind war und dass ihre schmalen Beine müde sein könnten und ihr kleiner Körper frieren könnte; wenn sie nur harte Worte und kalte, abschätzige Blicke als Dank bekam; wenn die Köchin vulgär und unverschämt gewesen war; wenn Miss Minchin in ihrer schlimmsten Laune gewesen war und wenn sie die Mädchen untereinander über ihre Schäbigkeit tuscheln gesehen hatte - dann konnte sie ihr schmerzendes, stolzes, verlassenes Herz nicht immer mit Fantasien trösten, wenn Emily einfach nur aufrecht in ihrem alten Stuhl saß und starrte. An einem solchen Abend, als sie durchnässt und hungrig auf dem Dachboden ankam, mit einem Sturm in ihrer jungen Brust, schien Emilys Blick so leer, ihre Strohbeine und Arme so emotionslos, dass Sara jegliche Kontrolle über sich verlor. Es gab nur Emily - niemand auf der Welt. Und dort saß sie. "Ich werde gleich sterben", sagte sie zuerst. Emily starrte einfach. "Ich kann das nicht ertragen", sagte das arme Kind zitternd. "Ich weiß, dass ich sterben werde. Mir ist kalt, ich bin nass, ich verhungere. Ich bin heute tausend Meilen gelaufen und sie haben mich vom Morgen bis zum Abend nur beschimpft. Und weil ich das letzte gesuchte Ding nicht finden konnte, wollten sie mir kein Abendessen geben. Einige Männer haben über mich gelacht, weil meine alten Schuhe mich im Schlamm ausrutschen ließen. Jetzt bin ich mit Schlamm bedeckt. Und sie haben gelacht. Hörst du?" Sie betrachtete die starrenden gläsernen Augen und das zufriedene Gesicht und plötzlich ergriff sie eine Art herzzerreißender Wut. Sie hob ihre kleine wilde Hand und schlug Emily vom Stuhl, brach in ein Schluchzen aus - Sara, die nie weinte. "Du bist nur eine PUPPE!" rief sie. "Nur eine Puppe - Puppe - Puppe! Du sorgst dich um nichts. Du bist mit Stroh gefüllt. Du hattest niemals ein Herz. Nichts könnte dich jemals fühlen lassen. Du bist eine PUPPE!" Emily lag auf dem Boden, mit ihren Beinen demütig über ihren Kopf eingeknickt und einer neuen flachen Stelle an der Spitze ihrer Nase; aber sie war ruhig, sogar würdevoll. Sara vergrub ihr Gesicht in den Armen. Die Ratten an der Wand begannen, miteinander zu kämpfen und sich zu beißen, zu quietschen und zu krabbeln. Melchisedec Sie hätte fast gerne die Gruppe der Herumtreiber auf dem Bürgersteig beigetreten, die stehen geblieben waren, um die Dinge anzuschauen, die hereingetragen wurden. Sie hatte die Idee, dass sie, wenn sie einige der Möbel sehen könnte, etwas über die Menschen erraten könnte, denen sie gehörten. "Die Tische und Stühle von Miss Minchin sind genauso wie sie", dachte sie; "ich erinnere mich, dass ich das schon gedacht habe, als ich sie das erste Mal gesehen habe, auch wenn ich damals noch so klein war. Ich habe es Papa später erzählt und er hat gelacht und gesagt, dass es stimmt. Ich bin mir sicher, die Großfamilie hat fette, bequeme Sessel und Sofas, und ich sehe, dass ihre tapeten mit roten Blumen genau so sind wie sie. Es ist warm und fröhlich und sieht nett und glücklich aus." Später am Tag wurde sie zum Gemüsehändler geschickt, um Petersilie zu holen, und als sie die Stufen zur Kellertür hinaufkam, schlug ihr Herz vor Wiedererkennen ein bisschen schneller. Mehrere Möbelstücke waren aus dem Lieferwagen auf den Bürgersteig gestellt worden. Es gab einen wunderschönen Tisch aus kunstvoll gearbeitetem Teakholz, einige Stühle und einen mit reicher orientalischer Stickerei bedeckten Paravent. Der Anblick löste ein seltsames, heimwehkrankes Gefühl in ihr aus. Sie hatte in Indien ähnliche Dinge gesehen. Eine der Sachen, die Miss Minchin ihr weggenommen hatte, war ein geschnitzter Schreibtisch aus Teakholz, den ihr Vater ihr geschickt hatte. "Sie sind wunderschöne Sachen", sagte sie; "sie sehen aus, als gehörten sie einer netten Person. Alle Sachen sehen ziemlich beeindruckend aus. Ich nehme an, es ist eine wohlhabende Familie." Die Möbelwagen kamen und wurden den ganzen Tag über entladen und durch andere ersetzt. Mehrmals hatte Sara die Gelegenheit, Dinge hereingetragen zu sehen. Es wurde deutlich, dass sie recht hatte, als sie vermutete, dass die Neuankömmlinge wohlhabende Leute waren. Alle Möbel waren reich und schön, und viele davon waren orientalisch. Wunderbare Teppiche und Vorhänge und Schmuckstücke wurden aus den Wagen geholt, viele Bilder und genug Bücher für eine Bibliothek. Unter anderem gab es einen prächtigen Gott Buddha in einem herrlichen Schrein. "Jemand in der Familie muss in Indien gewesen sein", dachte Sara. "Sie haben sich an indische Dinge gewöhnt und mögen sie. Das freut mich. Ich werde das Gefühl haben, dass sie Freunde sind, auch wenn nie ein Kopf aus dem Dachfenster schaut." Als sie am Abend die Milch für die Köchin hereinbrachte (es gab wirklich keine ungewöhnliche Aufgabe, die sie nicht erledigen sollte), sah sie etwas, was die Situation noch interessanter machte. Der gutaussehende, rosige Mann, der der Vater der Großfamilie war, ging in ganz sachlicher Weise über den Platz und lief die Stufen des Nachbarhauses hinauf. Er lief sie hoch, als ob er sich dort ganz zuhause fühlte und erwartete, dass er noch oft rauf und runter laufen würde. Er blieb da drinnen eine ganze Weile und gab den Arbeitern mehrmals Anweisungen, als hätte er das Recht dazu. Es war ganz offensichtlich, dass er in irgendeiner intimen Verbindung mit den Neuankömmlingen stand und für sie handelte. "Wenn die neuen Leute Kinder haben", überlegte Sara, "werden die Kinder der Großfamilie sicher mit ihnen spielen, und sie könnten einfach so aus Spaß in den Dachboden kommen." Nachts, nachdem ihre Arbeit erledigt war, kam Becky herein, um ihre Mitgefangene zu besuchen und Neuigkeiten zu bringen. "Es ist ein Inder, der nebenan einzieht, Miss", flüsterte sie. "Ich weiß nicht, ob er ein Schwarzer ist oder nicht, aber er ist ein Inder. Er ist sehr reich und krank, und der Herr von der Großfamilie ist sein Anwalt. Ihm ist viel Ärger widerfahren, und das hat ihn krank und niedergeschlagen gemacht. Er betet Götzen an, Miss. Er ist ein Heide und kniet vor Holz und Stein nieder. Ich habe gesehen, wie eine Götzenfigur für ihn hereingebracht wurde. Jemand sollte ihm eine Broschüre schicken. Man kann eine Broschüre für einen Penny bekommen." Sara lachte ein wenig. "Ich glaube nicht, dass er diese Götzenfigur anbetet", sagte sie. "Manche Leute behalten sie nur zum Anschauen, weil sie interessant sind. Mein Papa hatte eine wunderschöne, und er hat sie nicht angebetet." Aber Becky war eher geneigt zu glauben, dass der neue Nachbar "ein Heide" war. Es klang so viel romantischer, als dass er einfach nur die gewöhnliche Art von Gentleman war, der mit einem Gebetbuch in die Kirche ging. Sie saßen an diesem Abend lange zusammen und sprachen darüber, wie er sein würde, wie seine Frau wäre, wenn er eine hätte, und wie seine Kinder wären, wenn sie Kinder hätten. Sara sah privat ein, dass sie sehr hoffte, dass sie alle schwarz wären und Turbane tragen würden und vor allem, dass sie wie ihre Eltern alle "Heiden" wären. "Ich habe noch nie neben keinem Heiden gewohnt, Miss", sagte sie. "Ich würde gerne sehen, wie sie so sind." Es dauerte mehrere Wochen, bis ihre Neugier gestillt wurde, und dann wurde offenbart, dass der neue Mieter weder eine Frau noch Kinder hatte. Er war ein einsamer Mann ohne Familie, und es war offensichtlich, dass er gesundheitlich angeschlagen und unglücklich war. Eines Tages fuhr ein Wagen vor und hielt vor dem Haus. Als der Diener vom Kutschkasten abstieg und die Tür öffnete, stieg als Erster der Herr, der der Vater der Großfamilie war, aus. Nach ihm stieg eine Krankenschwester in Uniform aus, dann kamen zwei männliche Diener die Treppe hinunter. Sie kamen, um ihrem Herrn zu helfen, der, als er aus dem Wagen geholfen wurde, sich als Mann mit hagerem und verzweifeltem Gesicht und einem in Pelze gewickelten Körperskelett erwies. Er wurde die Treppe hinaufgetragen, und das Oberhaupt der Großfamilie begleitete ihn und wirkte sehr besorgt. Kurz darauf kam eine Kutsche des Arztes an, und der Doktor ging hinein - offensichtlich, um sich um ihn zu kümmern. "Es ist da ein gelber Herr nebenan, Sara", flüsterte Lottie später beim Französischunterricht. "Glaubst du, er ist ein Chinese? Das Geografiebuch sagt, dass die Chinesen gelb sind." "Nein, er ist nicht Chinese", flüsterte Sara zurück; "er ist sehr krank. Mach weiter mit deiner Übung, Lottie. 'Non, monsieur. Je n'ai pas le canif de mon oncle.'" Das war der Anfang der Geschichte des indischen Herrn. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Es ist gefährlich für Ermengarde und Lottie, Sara zu besuchen, da sie alle in große Schwierigkeiten geraten würden, wenn sie jemals entdeckt würden. Also geht Sara ihren Alltag alleine an und erledigt all ihre Besorgungen wie ein kleiner Bettler. Manchmal, wenn sie auf dem Heimweg ist, sieht sie die Large Familie, eine Familie, die in der Nähe von Miss Minchins Schule lebt. Es gibt acht Kinder im Haus, und sie sollten definitiv ihre eigene Reality-Show haben. Sie sind reich und glücklich. Sara erfindet Geschichten über sie und gibt ihnen Namen. Sie nennt sie die Montmorencys. Eines Abends geht ein Teil der Montmorencys auf eine Kinderparty. Guy Clarence, der Fünfjährige, bleibt stehen und sieht Sara. Er greift in seine Tasche, holt einen Sixpence heraus und gibt ihn Sara, weil er denkt, sie sei ein Bettlermädchen. Sie versucht, ihn zurückzugeben, aber Guy Clarence besteht darauf, dass sie ihn behält. Sie nimmt ihn an, obwohl sie sich stolz und ein wenig schämt. Die Large Familie fährt weg in ihrer Kutsche und die anderen Kinder fragen Donald, warum er Sara seinen Sixpence angeboten hat. Sie mag zwar eine Dienerin sein, aber sie scheint nicht viel wie eine Dienerin zu sein - zumindest nicht so, wie sie sich benimmt oder spricht. Sara nimmt den Sixpence und trägt ihn um den Hals. Eines Abends erzählt sie Emily, dass sie das nicht mehr ertragen kann. Emily sagt natürlich nichts. Denn sie ist eine Puppe. Wenn sie anfangen würde zu sprechen, wäre dies eine völlig andere Art von Geschichte. Sara stößt Emily vom Stuhl, sagt, dass sie nichts weiter als eine Puppe ist, und fängt an zu weinen. Aber dann tut es ihr leid und sie hebt Emily wieder auf. Eines Tages, als sie nach Hause kommt, sieht sie, dass jemand in das Haus nebenan einzieht. Die Möbel, die hineingebracht werden, stammen aus Indien, worüber Sara sehr aufgeregt ist. Als sie zuschaut, sieht sie den Vater der Large Familie zum Haus gehen - und sie realisiert, dass er die Person, die eingezogen ist, kennen muss. Spannende Zeiten! In dieser Nacht sagt Becky, dass ein indischer Herr eingezogen ist und er sehr reich und krank ist - und dass der Vater der Large Familie sein Anwalt ist. Es stellt sich heraus, dass der neue Nachbar keine Familie hat und eines Tages mit dem Vater der Large Familie und einer Krankenschwester und zwei Dienern ankommt. Lottie sagt, der Mann sei gelb, aber Sara korrigiert sie und sagt, dass er einfach sehr krank 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: The public, arriving by degrees. Troopers, burghers, lackeys, pages, a pickpocket, the doorkeeper, etc., followed by the marquises. Cuigy, Brissaille, the buffet-girl, the violinists, etc. (A confusion of loud voices is heard outside the door. A trooper enters hastily.) THE DOORKEEPER (following him): Hollo! You there! Your money! THE TROOPER: I enter gratis. THE DOORKEEPER: Why? THE TROOPER: Why? I am of the King's Household Cavalry, 'faith! THE DOORKEEPER (to another trooper who enters): And you? SECOND TROOPER: I pay nothing. THE DOORKEEPER: How so? SECOND TROOPER: I am a musketeer. FIRST TROOPER (to the second): The play will not begin till two. The pit is empty. Come, a bout with the foils to pass the time. (They fence with the foils they have brought.) A LACKEY (entering): Pst. . .Flanquin. . .! ANOTHER (already there): Champagne?. . . THE FIRST (showing him cards and dice which he takes from his doublet): See, here be cards and dice. (He seats himself on the floor): Let's play. THE SECOND (doing the same): Good; I am with you, villain! FIRST LACKEY (taking from his pocket a candle-end, which he lights, and sticks on the floor): I made free to provide myself with light at my master's expense! A GUARDSMAN (to a shop-girl who advances): 'Twas prettily done to come before the lights were lit! (He takes her round the waist.) ONE OF THE FENCERS (receiving a thrust): A hit! ONE OF THE CARD-PLAYERS: Clubs! THE GUARDSMAN (following the girl): A kiss! THE SHOP-GIRL (struggling to free herself): They're looking! THE GUARDSMAN (drawing her to a dark corner): No fear! No one can see! A MAN (sitting on the ground with others, who have brought their provisions): By coming early, one can eat in comfort. A BURGHER (conducting his son): Let us sit here, son. A CARD-PLAYER: Triple ace! A MAN (taking a bottle from under his cloak, and also seating himself on the floor): A tippler may well quaff his Burgundy (he drinks): in the Burgundy Hotel! THE BURGHER (to his son): 'Faith! A man might think he had fallen in a bad house here! (He points with his cane to the drunkard): What with topers! (One of the fencers in breaking off, jostles him): brawlers! (He stumbles into the midst of the card-players): gamblers! THE GUARDSMAN (behind him, still teasing the shop-girl): Come, one kiss! THE BURGHER (hurriedly pulling his son away): By all the holies! And this, my boy, is the theater where they played Rotrou erewhile. THE YOUNG MAN: Ay, and Corneille! A TROOP OF PAGES (hand-in-hand, enter dancing the farandole, and singing): Tra' a la, la, la, la, la, la, la, lere. . . THE DOORKEEPER (sternly, to the pages): You pages there, none of your tricks!. . . FIRST PAGE (with an air of wounded dignity): Oh, sir!--such a suspicion!. . . (Briskly, to the second page, the moment the doorkeeper's back is turned): Have you string? THE SECOND: Ay, and a fish-hook with it. FIRST PAGE: We can angle for wigs, then, up there i' th' gallery. A PICKPOCKET (gathering about him some evil-looking youths): Hark ye, young cut-purses, lend an ear, while I give you your first lesson in thieving. SECOND PAGE (calling up to others in the top galleries): You there! Have you peashooters? THIRD PAGE (from above): Ay, have we, and peas withal! (He blows, and peppers them with peas.) THE YOUNG MAN (to his father): What piece do they give us? THE BURGHER: 'Clorise.' THE YOUNG MAN: Who may the author be? THE BURGHER: Master Balthazar Baro. It is a play!. . . (He goes arm-in-arm with his son.) THE PICKPOCKET (to his pupils): Have a care, above all, of the lace knee-ruffles--cut them off! A SPECTATOR (to another, showing him a corner in the gallery): I was up there, the first night of the 'Cid.' THE PICKPOCKET (making with his fingers the gesture of filching): Thus for watches-- THE BURGHER (coming down again with his son): Ah! You shall presently see some renowned actors. . . THE PICKPOCKET (making the gestures of one who pulls something stealthily, with little jerks): Thus for handkerchiefs-- THE BURGHER: Montfleury. . . SOME ONE (shouting from the upper gallery): Light up, below there! THE BURGHER: . . .Bellerose, L'Epy, La Beaupre, Jodelet! A PAGE (in the pit): Here comes the buffet-girl! THE BUFFET-GIRL (taking her place behind the buffet): Oranges, milk, raspberry-water, cedar bitters! (A hubbub outside the door is heard.) A FALSETTO VOICE: Make place, brutes! A LACKEY (astonished): The Marquises!--in the pit?. . . ANOTHER LACKEY: Oh! only for a minute or two! (Enter a band of young marquises.) A MARQUIS (seeing that the hall is half empty): What now! So we make our entrance like a pack of woolen-drapers! Peaceably, without disturbing the folk, or treading on their toes!--Oh, fie! Fie! (Recognizing some other gentlemen who have entered a little before him): Cuigy! Brissaille! (Greetings and embraces.) CUIGY: True to our word!. . .Troth, we are here before the candles are lit. THE MARQUIS: Ay, indeed! Enough! I am of an ill humor. ANOTHER: Nay, nay, Marquis! see, for your consolation, they are coming to light up! ALL THE AUDIENCE (welcoming the entrance of the lighter): Ah!. . . (They form in groups round the lusters as they are lit. Some people have taken their seats in the galleries. Ligniere, a distinguished-looking roue, with disordered shirt-front arm-in-arm with christian de Neuvillette. Christian, who is dressed elegantly, but rather behind the fashion, seems preoccupied, and keeps looking at the boxes.) Können Sie eine passende Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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Der Vorhang öffnet sich und zeigt das Innere eines schwach beleuchteten Theaters. Einige Kavaliere betreten das Theater, ohne Eintritt zu zahlen, und üben sich im Fechten. Ihnen folgen zwei Hausdiener, die auf dem Boden sitzen und spielen. Ein Mann aus der Mittelschicht und sein Sohn betreten das Theater, gefolgt von einem Taschendieb und seinen Komplizen. Durch Gespräche erfahren wir, dass dies das Theater ist, in dem Corneilles Le Cid erstmals aufgeführt wurde, und dass das Stück heute Abend Baros Clorise ist, mit dem Star Montfleury.

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 Judiciary Continued in Relation to Trial by Jury From MCLEAN's Edition, New York. Wednesday, May 28, 1788 HAMILTON To the People of the State of New York: THE objection to the plan of the convention, which has met with most success in this State, and perhaps in several of the other States, is that relative to the want of a constitutional provision for the trial by jury in civil cases. The disingenuous form in which this objection is usually stated has been repeatedly adverted to and exposed, but continues to be pursued in all the conversations and writings of the opponents of the plan. The mere silence of the Constitution in regard to civil causes, is represented as an abolition of the trial by jury, and the declamations to which it has afforded a pretext are artfully calculated to induce a persuasion that this pretended abolition is complete and universal, extending not only to every species of civil, but even to criminal causes. To argue with respect to the latter would, however, be as vain and fruitless as to attempt the serious proof of the existence of matter, or to demonstrate any of those propositions which, by their own internal evidence, force conviction, when expressed in language adapted to convey their meaning. With regard to civil causes, subtleties almost too contemptible for refutation have been employed to countenance the surmise that a thing which is only not provided for, is entirely abolished. Every man of discernment must at once perceive the wide difference between silence and abolition. But as the inventors of this fallacy have attempted to support it by certain legal maxims of interpretation, which they have perverted from their true meaning, it may not be wholly useless to explore the ground they have taken. The maxims on which they rely are of this nature: "A specification of particulars is an exclusion of generals"; or, "The expression of one thing is the exclusion of another." Hence, say they, as the Constitution has established the trial by jury in criminal cases, and is silent in respect to civil, this silence is an implied prohibition of trial by jury in regard to the latter. The rules of legal interpretation are rules of common sense, adopted by the courts in the construction of the laws. The true test, therefore, of a just application of them is its conformity to the source from which they are derived. This being the case, let me ask if it is consistent with common-sense to suppose that a provision obliging the legislative power to commit the trial of criminal causes to juries, is a privation of its right to authorize or permit that mode of trial in other cases? Is it natural to suppose, that a command to do one thing is a prohibition to the doing of another, which there was a previous power to do, and which is not incompatible with the thing commanded to be done? If such a supposition would be unnatural and unreasonable, it cannot be rational to maintain that an injunction of the trial by jury in certain cases is an interdiction of it in others. A power to constitute courts is a power to prescribe the mode of trial; and consequently, if nothing was said in the Constitution on the subject of juries, the legislature would be at liberty either to adopt that institution or to let it alone. This discretion, in regard to criminal causes, is abridged by the express injunction of trial by jury in all such cases; but it is, of course, left at large in relation to civil causes, there being a total silence on this head. The specification of an obligation to try all criminal causes in a particular mode, excludes indeed the obligation or necessity of employing the same mode in civil causes, but does not abridge the power of the legislature to exercise that mode if it should be thought proper. The pretense, therefore, that the national legislature would not be at full liberty to submit all the civil causes of federal cognizance to the determination of juries, is a pretense destitute of all just foundation. From these observations this conclusion results: that the trial by jury in civil cases would not be abolished; and that the use attempted to be made of the maxims which have been quoted, is contrary to reason and common-sense, and therefore not admissible. Even if these maxims had a precise technical sense, corresponding with the idea of those who employ them upon the present occasion, which, however, is not the case, they would still be inapplicable to a constitution of government. In relation to such a subject, the natural and obvious sense of its provisions, apart from any technical rules, is the true criterion of construction. Having now seen that the maxims relied upon will not bear the use made of them, let us endeavor to ascertain their proper use and true meaning. This will be best done by examples. The plan of the convention declares that the power of Congress, or, in other words, of the national legislature, shall extend to certain enumerated cases. This specification of particulars evidently excludes all pretension to a general legislative authority, because an affirmative grant of special powers would be absurd, as well as useless, if a general authority was intended. In like manner the judicial authority of the federal judicatures is declared by the Constitution to comprehend certain cases particularly specified. The expression of those cases marks the precise limits, beyond which the federal courts cannot extend their jurisdiction, because the objects of their cognizance being enumerated, the specification would be nugatory if it did not exclude all ideas of more extensive authority. These examples are sufficient to elucidate the maxims which have been mentioned, and to designate the manner in which they should be used. But that there may be no misapprehensions upon this subject, I shall add one case more, to demonstrate the proper use of these maxims, and the abuse which has been made of them. Let us suppose that by the laws of this State a married woman was incapable of conveying her estate, and that the legislature, considering this as an evil, should enact that she might dispose of her property by deed executed in the presence of a magistrate. In such a case there can be no doubt but the specification would amount to an exclusion of any other mode of conveyance, because the woman having no previous power to alienate her property, the specification determines the particular mode which she is, for that purpose, to avail herself of. But let us further suppose that in a subsequent part of the same act it should be declared that no woman should dispose of any estate of a determinate value without the consent of three of her nearest relations, signified by their signing the deed; could it be inferred from this regulation that a married woman might not procure the approbation of her relations to a deed for conveying property of inferior value? The position is too absurd to merit a refutation, and yet this is precisely the position which those must establish who contend that the trial by juries in civil cases is abolished, because it is expressly provided for in cases of a criminal nature. From these observations it must appear unquestionably true, that trial by jury is in no case abolished by the proposed Constitution, and it is equally true, that in those controversies between individuals in which the great body of the people are likely to be interested, that institution will remain precisely in the same situation in which it is placed by the State constitutions, and will be in no degree altered or influenced by the adoption of the plan under consideration. The foundation of this assertion is, that the national judiciary will have no cognizance of them, and of course they will remain determinable as heretofore by the State courts only, and in the manner which the State constitutions and laws prescribe. All land causes, except where claims under the grants of different States come into question, and all other controversies between the citizens of the same State, unless where they depend upon positive violations of the articles of union, by acts of the State legislatures, will belong exclusively to the jurisdiction of the State tribunals. Add to this, that admiralty causes, and almost all those which are of equity jurisdiction, are determinable under our own government without the intervention of a jury, and the inference from the whole will be, that this institution, as it exists with us at present, cannot possibly be affected to any great extent by the proposed alteration in our system of government. The friends and adversaries of the plan of the convention, if they agree in nothing else, concur at least in the value they set upon the trial by jury; or if there is any difference between them it consists in this: the former regard it as a valuable safeguard to liberty; the latter represent it as the very palladium of free government. For my own part, the more the operation of the institution has fallen under my observation, the more reason I have discovered for holding it in high estimation; and it would be altogether superfluous to examine to what extent it deserves to be esteemed useful or essential in a representative republic, or how much more merit it may be entitled to, as a defense against the oppressions of an hereditary monarch, than as a barrier to the tyranny of popular magistrates in a popular government. Discussions of this kind would be more curious than beneficial, as all are satisfied of the utility of the institution, and of its friendly aspect to liberty. But I must acknowledge that I cannot readily discern the inseparable connection between the existence of liberty, and the trial by jury in civil cases. Arbitrary impeachments, arbitrary methods of prosecuting pretended offenses, and arbitrary punishments upon arbitrary convictions, have ever appeared to me to be the great engines of judicial despotism; and these have all relation to criminal proceedings. The trial by jury in criminal cases, aided by the habeas corpus act, seems therefore to be alone concerned in the question. And both of these are provided for, in the most ample manner, in the plan of the convention. It has been observed, that trial by jury is a safeguard against an oppressive exercise of the power of taxation. This observation deserves to be canvassed. It is evident that it can have no influence upon the legislature, in regard to the amount of taxes to be laid, to the objects upon which they are to be imposed, or to the rule by which they are to be apportioned. If it can have any influence, therefore, it must be upon the mode of collection, and the conduct of the officers intrusted with the execution of the revenue laws. As to the mode of collection in this State, under our own Constitution, the trial by jury is in most cases out of use. The taxes are usually levied by the more summary proceeding of distress and sale, as in cases of rent. And it is acknowledged on all hands, that this is essential to the efficacy of the revenue laws. The dilatory course of a trial at law to recover the taxes imposed on individuals, would neither suit the exigencies of the public nor promote the convenience of the citizens. It would often occasion an accumulation of costs, more burdensome than the original sum of the tax to be levied. And as to the conduct of the officers of the revenue, the provision in favor of trial by jury in criminal cases, will afford the security aimed at. Wilful abuses of a public authority, to the oppression of the subject, and every species of official extortion, are offenses against the government, for which the persons who commit them may be indicted and punished according to the circumstances of the case. The excellence of the trial by jury in civil cases appears to depend on circumstances foreign to the preservation of liberty. The strongest argument in its favor is, that it is a security against corruption. As there is always more time and better opportunity to tamper with a standing body of magistrates than with a jury summoned for the occasion, there is room to suppose that a corrupt influence would more easily find its way to the former than to the latter. The force of this consideration is, however, diminished by others. The sheriff, who is the summoner of ordinary juries, and the clerks of courts, who have the nomination of special juries, are themselves standing officers, and, acting individually, may be supposed more accessible to the touch of corruption than the judges, who are a collective body. It is not difficult to see, that it would be in the power of those officers to select jurors who would serve the purpose of the party as well as a corrupted bench. In the next place, it may fairly be supposed, that there would be less difficulty in gaining some of the jurors promiscuously taken from the public mass, than in gaining men who had been chosen by the government for their probity and good character. But making every deduction for these considerations, the trial by jury must still be a valuable check upon corruption. It greatly multiplies the impediments to its success. As matters now stand, it would be necessary to corrupt both court and jury; for where the jury have gone evidently wrong, the court will generally grant a new trial, and it would be in most cases of little use to practice upon the jury, unless the court could be likewise gained. Here then is a double security; and it will readily be perceived that this complicated agency tends to preserve the purity of both institutions. By increasing the obstacles to success, it discourages attempts to seduce the integrity of either. The temptations to prostitution which the judges might have to surmount, must certainly be much fewer, while the co-operation of a jury is necessary, than they might be, if they had themselves the exclusive determination of all causes. Notwithstanding, therefore, the doubts I have expressed, as to the essentiality of trial by jury in civil cases to liberty, I admit that it is in most cases, under proper regulations, an excellent method of determining questions of property; and that on this account alone it would be entitled to a constitutional provision in its favor if it were possible to fix the limits within which it ought to be comprehended. There is, however, in all cases, great difficulty in this; and men not blinded by enthusiasm must be sensible that in a federal government, which is a composition of societies whose ideas and institutions in relation to the matter materially vary from each other, that difficulty must be not a little augmented. For my own part, at every new view I take of the subject, I become more convinced of the reality of the obstacles which, we are authoritatively informed, prevented the insertion of a provision on this head in the plan of the convention. The great difference between the limits of the jury trial in different States is not generally understood; and as it must have considerable influence on the sentence we ought to pass upon the omission complained of in regard to this point, an explanation of it is necessary. In this State, our judicial establishments resemble, more nearly than in any other, those of Great Britain. We have courts of common law, courts of probates (analogous in certain matters to the spiritual courts in England), a court of admiralty and a court of chancery. In the courts of common law only, the trial by jury prevails, and this with some exceptions. In all the others a single judge presides, and proceeds in general either according to the course of the canon or civil law, without the aid of a jury.(1) In New Jersey, there is a court of chancery which proceeds like ours, but neither courts of admiralty nor of probates, in the sense in which these last are established with us. In that State the courts of common law have the cognizance of those causes which with us are determinable in the courts of admiralty and of probates, and of course the jury trial is more extensive in New Jersey than in New York. In Pennsylvania, this is perhaps still more the case, for there is no court of chancery in that State, and its common-law courts have equity jurisdiction. It has a court of admiralty, but none of probates, at least on the plan of ours. Delaware has in these respects imitated Pennsylvania. Maryland approaches more nearly to New York, as does also Virginia, except that the latter has a plurality of chancellors. North Carolina bears most affinity to Pennsylvania; South Carolina to Virginia. I believe, however, that in some of those States which have distinct courts of admiralty, the causes depending in them are triable by juries. In Georgia there are none but common-law courts, and an appeal of course lies from the verdict of one jury to another, which is called a special jury, and for which a particular mode of appointment is marked out. In Connecticut, they have no distinct courts either of chancery or of admiralty, and their courts of probates have no jurisdiction of causes. Their common-law courts have admiralty and, to a certain extent, equity jurisdiction. In cases of importance, their General Assembly is the only court of chancery. In Connecticut, therefore, the trial by jury extends in practice further than in any other State yet mentioned. Rhode Island is, I believe, in this particular, pretty much in the situation of Connecticut. Massachusetts and New Hampshire, in regard to the blending of law, equity, and admiralty jurisdictions, are in a similar predicament. In the four Eastern States, the trial by jury not only stands upon a broader foundation than in the other States, but it is attended with a peculiarity unknown, in its full extent, to any of them. There is an appeal of course from one jury to another, till there have been two verdicts out of three on one side. From this sketch it appears that there is a material diversity, as well in the modification as in the extent of the institution of trial by jury in civil cases, in the several States; and from this fact these obvious reflections flow: first, that no general rule could have been fixed upon by the convention which would have corresponded with the circumstances of all the States; and secondly, that more or at least as much might have been hazarded by taking the system of any one State for a standard, as by omitting a provision altogether and leaving the matter, as has been done, to legislative regulation. The propositions which have been made for supplying the omission have rather served to illustrate than to obviate the difficulty of the thing. The minority of Pennsylvania have proposed this mode of expression for the purpose--"Trial by jury shall be as heretofore"--and this I maintain would be senseless and nugatory. The United States, in their united or collective capacity, are the OBJECT to which all general provisions in the Constitution must necessarily be construed to refer. Now it is evident that though trial by jury, with various limitations, is known in each State individually, yet in the United States, as such, it is at this time altogether unknown, because the present federal government has no judiciary power whatever; and consequently there is no proper antecedent or previous establishment to which the term heretofore could relate. It would therefore be destitute of a precise meaning, and inoperative from its uncertainty. As, on the one hand, the form of the provision would not fulfil the intent of its proposers, so, on the other, if I apprehend that intent rightly, it would be in itself inexpedient. I presume it to be, that causes in the federal courts should be tried by jury, if, in the State where the courts sat, that mode of trial would obtain in a similar case in the State courts; that is to say, admiralty causes should be tried in Connecticut by a jury, in New York without one. The capricious operation of so dissimilar a method of trial in the same cases, under the same government, is of itself sufficient to indispose every wellregulated judgment towards it. Whether the cause should be tried with or without a jury, would depend, in a great number of cases, on the accidental situation of the court and parties. But this is not, in my estimation, the greatest objection. I feel a deep and deliberate conviction that there are many cases in which the trial by jury is an ineligible one. I think it so particularly in cases which concern the public peace with foreign nations--that is, in most cases where the question turns wholly on the laws of nations. Of this nature, among others, are all prize causes. Juries cannot be supposed competent to investigations that require a thorough knowledge of the laws and usages of nations; and they will sometimes be under the influence of impressions which will not suffer them to pay sufficient regard to those considerations of public policy which ought to guide their inquiries. There would of course be always danger that the rights of other nations might be infringed by their decisions, so as to afford occasions of reprisal and war. Though the proper province of juries be to determine matters of fact, yet in most cases legal consequences are complicated with fact in such a manner as to render a separation impracticable. It will add great weight to this remark, in relation to prize causes, to mention that the method of determining them has been thought worthy of particular regulation in various treaties between different powers of Europe, and that, pursuant to such treaties, they are determinable in Great Britain, in the last resort, before the king himself, in his privy council, where the fact, as well as the law, undergoes a re-examination. This alone demonstrates the impolicy of inserting a fundamental provision in the Constitution which would make the State systems a standard for the national government in the article under consideration, and the danger of encumbering the government with any constitutional provisions the propriety of which is not indisputable. My convictions are equally strong that great advantages result from the separation of the equity from the law jurisdiction, and that the causes which belong to the former would be improperly committed to juries. The great and primary use of a court of equity is to give relief in extraordinary cases, which are exceptions(2) to general rules. To unite the jurisdiction of such cases with the ordinary jurisdiction, must have a tendency to unsettle the general rules, and to subject every case that arises to a special determination; while a separation of the one from the other has the contrary effect of rendering one a sentinel over the other, and of keeping each within the expedient limits. Besides this, the circumstances that constitute cases proper for courts of equity are in many instances so nice and intricate, that they are incompatible with the genius of trials by jury. They require often such long, deliberate, and critical investigation as would be impracticable to men called from their occupations, and obliged to decide before they were permitted to return to them. The simplicity and expedition which form the distinguishing characters of this mode of trial require that the matter to be decided should be reduced to some single and obvious point; while the litigations usual in chancery frequently comprehend a long train of minute and independent particulars. It is true that the separation of the equity from the legal jurisdiction is peculiar to the English system of jurisprudence: which is the model that has been followed in several of the States. But it is equally true that the trial by jury has been unknown in every case in which they have been united. And the separation is essential to the preservation of that institution in its pristine purity. The nature of a court of equity will readily permit the extension of its jurisdiction to matters of law; but it is not a little to be suspected, that the attempt to extend the jurisdiction of the courts of law to matters of equity will not only be unproductive of the advantages which may be derived from courts of chancery, on the plan upon which they are established in this State, but will tend gradually to change the nature of the courts of law, and to undermine the trial by jury, by introducing questions too complicated for a decision in that mode. These appeared to be conclusive reasons against incorporating the systems of all the States, in the formation of the national judiciary, according to what may be conjectured to have been the attempt of the Pennsylvania minority. Let us now examine how far the proposition of Massachusetts is calculated to remedy the supposed defect. It is in this form: "In civil actions between citizens of different States, every issue of fact, arising in actions at common law, may be tried by a jury if the parties, or either of them request it." This, at best, is a proposition confined to one description of causes; and the inference is fair, either that the Massachusetts convention considered that as the only class of federal causes, in which the trial by jury would be proper; or that if desirous of a more extensive provision, they found it impracticable to devise one which would properly answer the end. If the first, the omission of a regulation respecting so partial an object can never be considered as a material imperfection in the system. If the last, it affords a strong corroboration of the extreme difficulty of the thing. But this is not all: if we advert to the observations already made respecting the courts that subsist in the several States of the Union, and the different powers exercised by them, it will appear that there are no expressions more vague and indeterminate than those which have been employed to characterize that species of causes which it is intended shall be entitled to a trial by jury. In this State, the boundaries between actions at common law and actions of equitable jurisdiction, are ascertained in conformity to the rules which prevail in England upon that subject. In many of the other States the boundaries are less precise. In some of them every cause is to be tried in a court of common law, and upon that foundation every action may be considered as an action at common law, to be determined by a jury, if the parties, or either of them, choose it. Hence the same irregularity and confusion would be introduced by a compliance with this proposition, that I have already noticed as resulting from the regulation proposed by the Pennsylvania minority. In one State a cause would receive its determination from a jury, if the parties, or either of them, requested it; but in another State, a cause exactly similar to the other, must be decided without the intervention of a jury, because the State judicatories varied as to common-law jurisdiction. It is obvious, therefore, that the Massachusetts proposition, upon this subject cannot operate as a general regulation, until some uniform plan, with respect to the limits of common-law and equitable jurisdictions, shall be adopted by the different States. To devise a plan of that kind is a task arduous in itself, and which it would require much time and reflection to mature. It would be extremely difficult, if not impossible, to suggest any general regulation that would be acceptable to all the States in the Union, or that would perfectly quadrate with the several State institutions. It may be asked, Why could not a reference have been made to the constitution of this State, taking that, which is allowed by me to be a good one, as a standard for the United States? I answer that it is not very probable the other States would entertain the same opinion of our institutions as we do ourselves. It is natural to suppose that they are hitherto more attached to their own, and that each would struggle for the preference. If the plan of taking one State as a model for the whole had been thought of in the convention, it is to be presumed that the adoption of it in that body would have been rendered difficult by the predilection of each representation in favor of its own government; and it must be uncertain which of the States would have been taken as the model. It has been shown that many of them would be improper ones. And I leave it to conjecture, whether, under all circumstances, it is most likely that New York, or some other State, would have been preferred. But admit that a judicious selection could have been effected in the convention, still there would have been great danger of jealousy and disgust in the other States, at the partiality which had been shown to the institutions of one. The enemies of the plan would have been furnished with a fine pretext for raising a host of local prejudices against it, which perhaps might have hazarded, in no inconsiderable degree, its final establishment. To avoid the embarrassments of a definition of the cases which the trial by jury ought to embrace, it is sometimes suggested by men of enthusiastic tempers, that a provision might have been inserted for establishing it in all cases whatsoever. For this I believe, no precedent is to be found in any member of the Union; and the considerations which have been stated in discussing the proposition of the minority of Pennsylvania, must satisfy every sober mind that the establishment of the trial by jury in all cases would have been an unpardonable error in the plan. In short, the more it is considered the more arduous will appear the task of fashioning a provision in such a form as not to express too little to answer the purpose, or too much to be advisable; or which might not have opened other sources of opposition to the great and essential object of introducing a firm national government. I cannot but persuade myself, on the other hand, that the different lights in which the subject has been placed in the course of these observations, will go far towards removing in candid minds the apprehensions they may have entertained on the point. They have tended to show that the security of liberty is materially concerned only in the trial by jury in criminal cases, which is provided for in the most ample manner in the plan of the convention; that even in far the greatest proportion of civil cases, and those in which the great body of the community is interested, that mode of trial will remain in its full force, as established in the State constitutions, untouched and unaffected by the plan of the convention; that it is in no case abolished(3) by that plan; and that there are great if not insurmountable difficulties in the way of making any precise and proper provision for it in a Constitution for the United States. The best judges of the matter will be the least anxious for a constitutional establishment of the trial by jury in civil cases, and will be the most ready to admit that the changes which are continually happening in the affairs of society may render a different mode of determining questions of property preferable in many cases in which that mode of trial now prevails. For my part, I acknowledge myself to be convinced that even in this State it might be advantageously extended to some cases to which it does not at present apply, and might as advantageously be abridged in others. It is conceded by all reasonable men that it ought not to obtain in all cases. The examples of innovations which contract its ancient limits, as well in these States as in Great Britain, afford a strong presumption that its former extent has been found inconvenient, and give room to suppose that future experience may discover the propriety and utility of other exceptions. I suspect it to be impossible in the nature of the thing to fix the salutary point at which the operation of the institution ought to stop, and this is with me a strong argument for leaving the matter to the discretion of the legislature. This is now clearly understood to be the case in Great Britain, and it is equally so in the State of Connecticut; and yet it may be safely affirmed that more numerous encroachments have been made upon the trial by jury in this State since the Revolution, though provided for by a positive article of our constitution, than has happened in the same time either in Connecticut or Great Britain. It may be added that these encroachments have generally originated with the men who endeavor to persuade the people they are the warmest defenders of popular liberty, but who have rarely suffered constitutional obstacles to arrest them in a favorite career. The truth is that the general GENIUS of a government is all that can be substantially relied upon for permanent effects. Particular provisions, though not altogether useless, have far less virtue and efficacy than are commonly ascribed to them; and the want of them will never be, with men of sound discernment, a decisive objection to any plan which exhibits the leading characters of a good government. It certainly sounds not a little harsh and extraordinary to affirm that there is no security for liberty in a Constitution which expressly establishes the trial by jury in criminal cases, because it does not do it in civil also; while it is a notorious fact that Connecticut, which has been always regarded as the most popular State in the Union, can boast of no constitutional provision for either. PUBLIUS 1. It has been erroneously insinuated with regard to the court of chancery, that this court generally tries disputed facts by a jury. The truth is, that references to a jury in that court rarely happen, and are in no case necessary but where the validity of a devise of land comes into question. 2. It is true that the principles by which that relief is governed are now reduced to a regular system; but it is not the less true that they are in the main applicable to SPECIAL circumstances, which form exceptions to general rules. 3. Vide No. 81, in which the supposition of its being abolished by the appellate jurisdiction in matters of fact being vested in the Supreme Court, is examined and refuted. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben stehenden Absätze verfassen?

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In diesem abschließenden Aufsatz über die Judikative und dem längsten Aufsatz im Federalist reagiert Hamilton auf Bedenken hinsichtlich des fehlenden verfassungsmäßigen Vorbehalts für ein Geschworenengerichtsverfahren in Zivilsachen. Obwohl die Verfassung das Recht auf ein Geschworenengerichtsverfahren in Strafsachen ausdrücklich schützt, bietet sie keine Garantie für solch eine Regelung in Zivilsachen. Anti-Federalisten argumentierten, dass diese Auslassung ein bewusster Versuch sei, den Bürgern das Recht auf ein Geschworenengerichtsverfahren in Zivilsachen zu verwehren. Hamilton erwidert, dass nur weil die Verfassung das Recht auf ein Geschworenengerichtsverfahren in Zivilsachen nicht explizit garantiert, dies nicht bedeutet, dass Geschworenengerichte in solchen Fällen verboten sind. Vielmehr überlässt es die Verfassung der nationalen Legislative, zu entscheiden, ob Geschworenengerichte in Zivilsachen zugelassen werden sollen und sogar in welchen Arten von Zivilsachen Geschworenengerichte erlaubt sind. Hamilton argumentiert, dass es notwendig war, das Recht auf ein Geschworenengerichtsverfahren in Strafsachen explizit zu garantieren, da ein Fehlverhalten der Justiz in solchen Fällen eine weitaus größere Bedrohung für die Freiheit des Einzelnen darstellt als in Zivilsachen. Es wurde allgemein angenommen, dass Geschworene mehr vertrauenswürdig sind als einzelne Richter, um Gerechtigkeit zu wahren. Daher ist es in Fällen, in denen das Urteil dazu führen kann, dass der Angeklagte eine Gefängnisstrafe oder die Todesstrafe erhält, unerlässlich, Geschworenengerichte zuzulassen. Im Gegensatz dazu gefährden Zivilsachen das Bestehen der Freiheit nicht in gleicher Weise. Hamilton argumentiert weiter, dass Zivilsachen weitaus komplizierter und vielfältiger sind als Strafsachen, so sehr, dass sie möglicherweise über die Fähigkeit des durchschnittlichen Bürgers hinausgehen, der als Geschworener tätig ist, um fair zu urteilen. In Zivilsachen, die komplexe Finanztransaktionen und geschäftliche Streitigkeiten betreffen, können die kleinste Details außerhalb der Fähigkeit durchschnittlicher Bürger liegen, gerecht zu urteilen. Andere Fälle, wie solche, die Streitigkeiten mit anderen Nationen betreffen, könnten auch für Geschworenengerichte unangemessen sein, da sie hochsensible Fragen beinhalten können, die, wenn sie nicht behutsam behandelt werden, zu Krieg führen könnten. Hamilton kommt daher zu dem Schluss, dass es am besten sei, dem Kongress zu überlassen, zu entscheiden, wann Geschworenengerichte in Zivilsachen zulässig sein sollten. Die Verfasser der Verfassung beabsichtigten nicht, das Geschworenengerichtsverfahren in Zivilsachen abzuschaffen. Stattdessen hielt man es für klug, es den Vertretern des Volkes zu überlassen, zu entscheiden, in welchen Arten von Zivilsachen Geschworenengerichte zugelassen sein sollten.