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Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: The regiment was standing at order arms at the side of a lane, waiting for the command to march, when suddenly the youth remembered the little packet enwrapped in a faded yellow envelope which the loud young soldier with lugubrious words had intrusted to him. It made him start. He uttered an exclamation and turned toward his comrade. "Wilson!" "What?" His friend, at his side in the ranks, was thoughtfully staring down the road. From some cause his expression was at that moment very meek. The youth, regarding him with sidelong glances, felt impelled to change his purpose. "Oh, nothing," he said. His friend turned his head in some surprise, "Why, what was yeh goin' t' say?" "Oh, nothing," repeated the youth. He resolved not to deal the little blow. It was sufficient that the fact made him glad. It was not necessary to knock his friend on the head with the misguided packet. He had been possessed of much fear of his friend, for he saw how easily questionings could make holes in his feelings. Lately, he had assured himself that the altered comrade would not tantalize him with a persistent curiosity, but he felt certain that during the first period of leisure his friend would ask him to relate his adventures of the previous day. He now rejoiced in the possession of a small weapon with which he could prostrate his comrade at the first signs of a cross-examination. He was master. It would now be he who could laugh and shoot the shafts of derision. The friend had, in a weak hour, spoken with sobs of his own death. He had delivered a melancholy oration previous to his funeral, and had doubtless in the packet of letters, presented various keepsakes to relatives. But he had not died, and thus he had delivered himself into the hands of the youth. The latter felt immensely superior to his friend, but he inclined to condescension. He adopted toward him an air of patronizing good humor. His self-pride was now entirely restored. In the shade of its flourishing growth he stood with braced and self-confident legs, and since nothing could now be discovered he did not shrink from an encounter with the eyes of judges, and allowed no thoughts of his own to keep him from an attitude of manfulness. He had performed his mistakes in the dark, so he was still a man. Indeed, when he remembered his fortunes of yesterday, and looked at them from a distance he began to see something fine there. He had license to be pompous and veteranlike. His panting agonies of the past he put out of his sight. In the present, he declared to himself that it was only the doomed and the damned who roared with sincerity at circumstance. Few but they ever did it. A man with a full stomach and the respect of his fellows had no business to scold about anything that he might think to be wrong in the ways of the universe, or even with the ways of society. Let the unfortunates rail; the others may play marbles. He did not give a great deal of thought to these battles that lay directly before him. It was not essential that he should plan his ways in regard to them. He had been taught that many obligations of a life were easily avoided. The lessons of yesterday had been that retribution was a laggard and blind. With these facts before him he did not deem it necessary that he should become feverish over the possibilities of the ensuing twenty-four hours. He could leave much to chance. Besides, a faith in himself had secretly blossomed. There was a little flower of confidence growing within him. He was now a man of experience. He had been out among the dragons, he said, and he assured himself that they were not so hideous as he had imagined them. Also, they were inaccurate; they did not sting with precision. A stout heart often defied, and defying, escaped. And, furthermore, how could they kill him who was the chosen of gods and doomed to greatness? He remembered how some of the men had run from the battle. As he recalled their terror-struck faces he felt a scorn for them. They had surely been more fleet and more wild than was absolutely necessary. They were weak mortals. As for himself, he had fled with discretion and dignity. He was aroused from this reverie by his friend, who, having hitched about nervously and blinked at the trees for a time, suddenly coughed in an introductory way, and spoke. "Fleming!" "What?" The friend put his hand up to his mouth and coughed again. He fidgeted in his jacket. "Well," he gulped, at last, "I guess yeh might as well give me back them letters." Dark, prickling blood had flushed into his cheeks and brow. "All right, Wilson," said the youth. He loosened two buttons of his coat, thrust in his hand, and brought forth the packet. As he extended it to his friend the latter's face was turned from him. He had been slow in the act of producing the packet because during it he had been trying to invent a remarkable comment upon the affair. He could conjure nothing of sufficient point. He was compelled to allow his friend to escape unmolested with his packet. And for this he took unto himself considerable credit. It was a generous thing. His friend at his side seemed suffering great shame. As he contemplated him, the youth felt his heart grow more strong and stout. He had never been compelled to blush in such manner for his acts; he was an individual of extraordinary virtues. He reflected, with condescending pity: "Too bad! Too bad! The poor devil, it makes him feel tough!" After this incident, and as he reviewed the battle pictures he had seen, he felt quite competent to return home and make the hearts of the people glow with stories of war. He could see himself in a room of warm tints telling tales to listeners. He could exhibit laurels. They were insignificant; still, in a district where laurels were infrequent, they might shine. He saw his gaping audience picturing him as the central figure in blazing scenes. And he imagined the consternation and the ejaculations of his mother and the young lady at the seminary as they drank his recitals. Their vague feminine formula for beloved ones doing brave deeds on the field of battle without risk of life would be destroyed. Können Sie eine passende Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Das Regiment steht in Formation und wartet auf den Befehl zum Marsch. Plötzlich erinnert sich der Jugendliche daran, dass Wilson ihm am Vortag ein Paket mit Briefen gegeben hat, um es sicher aufzubewahren. Er ruft nach Wilson. Aber als dieser sich zu ihm umdreht, sagt Henry nur "Oh, nichts". Ihm wird bewusst, dass er nicht wollte, dass sein Freund im Gegenzug nach seiner eigenen Verletzung fragt. Das Paket ist eine Art kleiner Schutzschild gegen seine Verlegenheit. Er erinnert sich an seinen Freund, der mit Tränen in den Augen von seinem eigenen Tod sprach. Er war nicht gestorben und hatte sich somit in die Hände des Jugendlichen gegeben. Henry fühlt sich überlegen; sein Selbststolz ist wiederhergestellt. Seine Taten geschahen im Dunkeln; deshalb ist er immer noch ein Mann. Wilson machte eine Show aus seiner Verletzlichkeit, als er Henry die Briefe übergab. Henry hat aus den Ereignissen des vorherigen Tages gelernt, dass Vergeltung blind ist. Sein Glaube und seine Zuversicht blühen auf. Die Drachen, denen er begegnete, waren nicht so abscheulich. Er ist geflohen, im Gegensatz zu den anderen, mit Würde und nicht wild. Während dieser Überlegungen wendet sich Wilson zu Henry und bittet schüchtern um seine Briefe zurück. Henry versucht, etwas zu sagen, um seine eigene Überlegenheit zu zeigen, aber er kann nicht und gibt Wilson die Briefe unbehelligt zurück. Sein Freund scheint beschämt zu sein. Henry denkt selbstgefällig, dass er genug Geschichten zu erzählen hat, von den Geschichten des Krieges, um sie zu Hause weiterzugeben. Seine Lorbeeren sind zwar klein, gibt er zu, aber sie werden immer noch glänzen, wo vorher keine waren. Seine Mutter und das Mädchen, das mit ihm flirtete, werden seine Worte aufsaugen.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). 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 Eins. Erste Szene. Enter Kent, Gloucester, und Edmond. Kent. Ich dachte, der König hätte mehr Interesse an dem Herzog von Albany als an Cornwall. Glou. Es schien immer so für uns: Aber nun, bei der Aufteilung des Königreichs, erscheint es nicht, welchen der Herzöge er am meisten schätzt, denn Qualitäten werden so gewogen, dass Neugierde in keinem der beiden sich für eine Hälfte entscheiden kann. Kent. Ist das nicht Ihr Sohn, mein Herr? Glou. Seine Erziehung, Sir, war meine Aufgabe. Ich habe mich so oft geschämt, ihn anzuerkennen, dass ich jetzt daran gewöhnt bin. Kent. Ich kann Sie nicht verstehen. Glou. Sir, diese junge Person's Mutter könnte es; daraufhin wurde sie schwanger und hatte tatsächlich (Sir) einen Sohn für ihre Wiege, bevor sie einen Ehemann für ihr Bett hatte. Riechen Sie ein Problem? Kent. Ich kann den Fehler nicht rückgängig machen wünschen, das Ergebnis davon, ist so passend. Glou. Aber ich habe einen Sohn, Sir, aufgrund von Gesetzen, ein paar Jahre älter als dieser hier; dernoch ist er in meinen Augen nicht wertvoller, obwohl dieser Schurke etwas unverfroren in der Welt auftauchte, bevor er gerufen wurde; seine Mutter war jedoch schön, es gab ein gutes Schauspiel beim Zeugen seiner Entstehung, und der Schurke muss anerkannt werden. Kennen Sie diesen edlen Herrn, Edmond? Edm. Nein, mein Herr. Glou. Mein Herr von Kent: Erinnern Sie sich zukünftig an ihn als meinen ehrenwerten Freund. Edm. Meine Dienste Ihrem Lordship. Kent. Ich muss Sie lieben und darum bitten, Sie besser kennenzulernen. Edm. Sir, ich werde mich bemühen, es zu verdienen. Glou. Er war neun Jahre weg und er wird wieder gehen. Der König kommt. Sennet. König Lear, Cornwall, Albany, Gonerill, Regan, Cordelia und Begleiter treten auf. Lear. Achtet auf die Lords von Frankreich und Burgund, Gloster. Glou. Ich werde, mein Herr. Trete auf. Lear. In der Zwischenzeit werden wir unseren dunkleren Plan offenlegen. Gib mir die Karte dort. Wisse, dass wir unser Königreich in drei Teile aufgeteilt haben, und es ist unsere Absicht, alle Sorgen und Geschäfte unseres Alters abzulegen, indem wir sie jüngeren Kräften übertragen, während wir ungeladen zum Tod kriechen. Unser Sohn von Cornwal, und du, unser nicht weniger liebender Sohn von Albany, wir haben jetzt den festen Willen, die Morgengaben unserer Töchter bekannt zu geben, damit künftige Streitigkeiten jetzt vermieden werden können. Die Prinzen, Frankreich und Burgund, große Rivalen in der Liebe unserer jüngsten Töchter, lange in unserem Hof verweilt, haben sie ihre liebenden Gastgeber besucht, und hier sollen sie antworten. Sag mir, meine Töchter: (Da wir uns jetzt beide der Herrschaft entkleiden, des Territoriums, der Staatsbelange) Welche von euch sollen wir sagen, lieben uns am meisten, damit wir unsere größte Großzügigkeit erweitern können, wo die Natur mit Verdienst herausfordert? Gonerill, unsere erstgeborene, sprich zuerst. Gon. Sir, ich liebe dich mehr, als Worte zum Ausdruck bringen können, mehr als das Augenlicht, Raum und Freiheit, über das hinaus, was existiert, reich oder selten ist, nicht weniger als das Leben selbst mit Anmut, Gesundheit, Schönheit, Ehre: So sehr, wie ein Kind jemals geliebt hat, oder ein Vater gefunden hat. Eine Liebe, die den Atem arm und die Sprache unfähig macht, über alle Maßen, ich liebe dich so sehr. Cor. Was soll Cordelia sagen? Liebe, und schweige. Lear. Von all diesen Grenzen, angefangen von dieser Linie bis zu dieser, mit schattigen Wäldern und reichen Feldern, mit üppigen Flüssen und weitläufigen Wiesen machen wir dich zur Frau. An deine und Albanys Nachkommen sei das ewig so. Was sagt unsere zweite Tochter? Unsere liebste Regan, die Frau von Cornwall? Reg. Ich bin aus demselben Metall wie meine Schwester gemacht, und ich schätze mich genauso hoch ein. In meinem wahren Herzen finde ich, dass sie meine Liebe tatsächlich benennt: Nur, dass sie ein bisschen zu kurz kommt, da ich mich selbst als Feindin allen anderen Freuden bekenne, die das kostbarste Maß des Verstandes kennt, und feststelle, dass ich allein glücklich bin in deiner lieben Hoheit Liebe. Cor. Dann arme Cordelia, und doch auch nicht, da ich sicher bin, dass meine Liebe gewichtiger ist als meine Worte. Lear. Sei es so, deine Wahrhaftigkeit sei dann deine Mitgift: Denn mit der heiligen Strahlung der Sonne, den Mysterien der Hekate und der Nacht: Bei allen Umlaufbahnen, aus denen wir existieren und aufhören zu sein, verwerfe ich hiermit alle meine elterliche Sorge, Nähe und verwandtschaftlichen Besitz, und als Fremder zu meinem Herzen und mir, halte dich von nun an fern. Der barbarische Skythe, oder derjenige, der seine Nachkommen mit Unrat ernährt, sollen in meiner Brust genauso gut Nachbarn sein, bedauert und unterstützt, wie du, meine einstige Tochter. Kent. Mein Herr. Lear. Friede, Kent, Stell dich nicht zwischen den Drachen und seinen Zorn, ich liebte sie am meisten und dachte, mich auf ihre liebevolle Sorge verlassen zu können. Geh weg und meide meinen Anblick: Möge mein Grab mein Frieden sein, während ich ihr Vaters Herz nehme; rufe Frankreich, wer regt sich? Rufe Burgund, Cornwall und Albanie, mit den Morgengaben meiner beiden Töchter, verteile den dritten Teil, lass den Hochmut, den sie als Schlichtheit bezeichnet, sie heiraten; ich werde euch gemeinsam mit meiner Macht ausstatten, Vorrang, und all die großen Auswirkungen, die mit Majestät einhergehen. Uns selbst werden wir monatlich mit der Unterstützung von hundert Rittern bei euch residieren; nur wir werden den Namen und alle Zusätze eines Königs behalten: die Herrschaft, die Einnahmen, die Ausführung des Rests geliebte Söhne sollen euch gehören, um dies zu bestätigen, Dieses Diadem zu teilen zwischen euch. Kent. Königlicher Lear, den ich immer als meinen König geehrt habe, geliebt wie meinen Vater, als meinen Meister gefolgt, als mein großer Förderer in meinen Gebeten bedacht habe. Le. Der Bogen ist gespannt und gezogen, entferne dich von der Schusslinie. Kent. Lass ihn lieber fallen, obwohl die Zacken das Innere meines Herzens verletzen; sei herzlos, Kent, wenn Lear verrückt ist, was würdest du, alter Mann, tun? Denkst du, dass Pflicht Angst haben soll zu sprechen, wenn die Macht sich vor Schmeichelei beugt? Einfachheit wird durch Aufrichtigkeit geehrt, wenn Majestät in Torheit abgleitet, bewahre deinen Stand, und in deiner besten Überlegung überprüfe diesen abscheulichen Leichtsinn, beantworte mein Leben, meine Meinung: Deine jüngste Tochter liebt dich nicht am wenigsten, Kent. Mein Leben habe ich nie als Pfand gehalten Um gegen deine Feinde zu wetten, niemals sich zu fürchten, es zu verlieren, Deine Sicherheit als Grundlage. Lear. Hinaus aus meinem Blickfeld. Kent. Sieh besser hin, Lear, und lass mich immer noch bleiben Der wahre Schutz deines Auges. Lear. Nun bei Apollo, Kent. Nun bei Apollo, o König, Du schwörst vergebens bei deinen Göttern. Lear. Vasall! Bösewicht! Alb. Cor. Mein geliebter Herr, unterlasse dies. Kent. Töte deinen Arzt und gib dein Geld Der hässlichen Krankheit, nimm dein Geschenk zurück, Oder so lange ich Schreie aus meinem Mund bringen kann, Werde ich dir sagen, dass du Böses tust. Lea. Hört mich an, Feigling, höre mich, auf deinen Gehorsam höre mich; Dass du versucht hast, uns unsere Gelübde zu brechen, Wozu wir uns niemals haben hinreißen lassen; und mit angestrengtem Stolz, Um zwischen unsere Urteile und unsere Macht zu kommen, Was, weder unsere Natur noch unsere Stellung ertragen können; Unsere Macht gut gemacht, nimm deine Belohnung. Wir gewähren dir fünf Tage zur Vorbereitung, Um dich vor den Katastrophen der Welt zu schützen, Und am sechsten Tag, deinen gehassten Rücken In unserem Königreich abzuwenden: und wenn am zehnten Tag danach, Dein verbannter Körper in unseren Besitzungen gefunden wird, Ist der Moment deines Todes, weg. Bei Jupiter, Das kann nicht zurückgenommen werden. Kent. Lebe wohl König, da du so erscheinen willst, Freiheit lebt von jetzt an, und Verbannung ist hier; Mögen die Götter dich in ihre liebevolle Zuflucht nehmen, Die du gerecht denkst und am richtigen Ort gesagt hast: Und mögen sich deine großen Reden in deinen Handlungen bewahrheiten, Damit gute Ergebnisse aus Worten der Liebe entstehen können: So sagt Kent, O Prinzen, euch allen Adieu, Er wird seinen alten Kurs in einem neuen Land einschlagen. Tritt ein. Flourish. Gloster tritt mit Frankreich und Burgund sowie Begleitern auf. Cor. Hier sind Frankreich und Burgund, mein edler Herr. Lear. Mein Herr von Burgund, Wir wenden uns zuerst an Sie, der mit diesem König Für unsere Tochter gewetteifert hat; was fordern Sie An Mitgift für sie, oder hören Sie auf, um ihre Liebe zu werben? Bur. Königliche Hoheit, Ich begehre nicht mehr, als Ihre Hoheit angeboten hat, Noch werden Sie Dinge verlangen, die weniger wert sind? Lear. Edler Herr von Burgund, Als sie uns teuer war, hielten wir sie so, Aber jetzt ist ihr Wert gefallen: Herr, sie steht da, Wenn etwas von dieser scheinbaren Kleinigkeit, Oder alles davon mit unserem Unwillen verknüpft ist, Und nichts sonst der Gnade Ihrer Hoheit angemessen ist, Sie ist dort, und sie gehört Ihnen. Bur. Ich weiß keine Antwort. Lear. Willst du, dass sie mit all ihren Schwächen, Ohne Freunde, neu angenommen in unseren Hass, Fluchbeladen und von unserem Eid entfremdet, Nimmst du sie oder lässt du sie? Bur. Verzeihung, Königliche Hoheit, Diese Entscheidung sollte nicht unter solchen Bedingungen getroffen werden. Lea. Dann lass sie, Herr, denn bei der Macht, die mich erschaffen hat, Ich sage euch allen ihren Reichtum. Für dich, großer König, Würde ich von deiner Liebe nicht abweichen, Um dich mit jemandem zu verbinden, den ich hasse, daher bitte ich dich, Deine Sympathie auf einem geeigneteren Weg zu äußern, Als auf einen Elenden, der sich kaum traut, seine Natur Als zu zeigen, die deiner würdig ist. Fra. Das ist sehr seltsam, Dass sie, die gerade erst dein Ziel war, Das Argument deines Lobes, das Balsam deines Alters, Die Beste, die Liebste, in diesem kurzen Augenblick So abscheuliches tun könnte, um so viele Gunstbezeugungen In Frage zu stellen: Sicherlich muss ihre Beleidigung So unnatürlich sein, dass sie es als Monströsität darstellt: Oder deine vorwegnehmende Zuneigung Wirft einen Schatten darauf, was man von ihr halten soll, Das muss ein Glaube sein, den die Vernunft ohne Wunder Sollte niemals in mir einpflanzen. Cor. Ich bitte immer noch um Ihre Hoheit. Wenn ich nicht die fliessende und geschmeidige Art habe Zu sprechen und zu beabsichtigen, was ich vorhabe, Dann werde ich es tun, bevor ich spreche, damit du weißt, Dass es keine böse Tat, kein Mord oder Schmutz, Keine unkeusche Handlung oder ehrloser Schritt ist, Die mich deiner Gnade und Gunst beraubt haben, Sondern selbst wegen Mangel an dem, womit ich reicher bin, Ein fortdauernder, flehender Blick und eine solche Zunge, Die ich nicht besitze, und über die ich froh bin, sie nicht zu haben, Hat mich in deiner Zuneigung verloren. Lear. Besser wärst du nicht geboren worden, als mich nicht besser zufriedenzustellen. Fra. Ist es nur das? Eine Trägheit der Natur, Die oft die Geschichte ungesprochen lässt, Was sie beabsichtigt zu tun: Mein Herr von Burgund, Was sagst du zu der Dame? Liebe ist keine Liebe, Wenn sie mit Bedenken vermischt ist, die sich Von dem eigentlichen Punkt entfernen, willst du sie haben? Sie ist sich selbst eine Mitgift. Bur. Königlicher König, Gewähre mir nur den Teil, den du selbst vorgeschlagen hast, Und hier ergreife ich Cordelia bei der Hand, Herzogin von Burgund. Lear. Nichts, ich habe geschworen, ich bin standhaft. Bur. Es tut mir leid, dass du dann einen Vater verloren hast, Dass du einen Ehemann verlieren musst. Cor. Friede sei mit Burgund, Da Respekt und Glück jetzt seine Liebe sind, Werde ich nicht seine Frau sein. Fra. Liebste Cordelia, die du bist, ist am reichsten, obwohl arm, Am besten vergessen und am meisten geliebt verachtet, Dich und deine Tugenden ergreife ich hier, Ob es mir erlaubt ist, das aufzunehmen, was weggeworfen wurde. Götter, Götter! Es ist seltsam, dass sich aus ihrer kalten Vernachlässigung Meine Liebe zu entflammter Achtung entwickeln würde. Deine tochterlose Tochter, König, überlasse ich meinem Schicksal, Sie ist die Königin von uns, von uns und unserem schönen Frankreich: Nicht alle Herzöge des wässrigen Burgunds Können dieses unbezahlbare Mädchen von mir kaufen. Sagt ihnen Lebewohl, Cordelia, auch wenn es unhöflich ist, Du verlierst hier etwas Besseres, wo du es finden kannst. Lear. Du hast sie, Frankreich, lass sie dir gehören, denn wir Haben keine solche Tochter, und werden nie wieder Dieses Gesicht von ihr sehen, geh also, Ohne unsere Gnade, unsere Liebe, unseren Segen: Kommt, edler Burgund. Flourish. Abgang. Fra. Sag auch deinen Schwestern Lebewohl. Cor. Die Juwelen unseres Vaters, mit Tränen in den Augen Verlässt dich Cordelia, ich weiß, wer du bist, Und wie eine Schwester scheue ich mich, deine Fehler zu nennen, Als sie gen Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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

Die Szene eröffnet im Palast von König Lear. Ein Gespräch zwischen Kent, Gloucester und Gloucesters Sohn Edmund führt die Hauptgeschichte des Stücks ein: Der König plant, sein Königreich unter seinen drei Töchtern aufzuteilen. Das Publikum erfährt auch, dass Gloucester zwei Söhne hat. Der ältere, Edgar, ist sein legitimer Erbe, und der jüngere, Edmund, ist unehelich; dennoch liebt Gloucester beide Söhne gleichermaßen. Diese Informationen bilden den Nebenhandlungsstrang. König Lear tritt mit einem Fanfarenstoß ein, gefolgt von seinen beiden Schwiegersöhnen - Albany und Cornwall - und seinen drei Töchtern - Goneril, Regan und Cordelia. Lear verkündet, dass er sein Königreich in drei Teile aufgeteilt hat, die seinen Töchtern entsprechend ihrer Liebesbekundungen für ihn zugeteilt werden. Goneril spricht als älteste zuerst. Sie sagt ihrem Vater, dass ihre Liebe zu ihm grenzenlos ist. Regan spricht als mittleres Kind als Nächstes. Ihre Liebe, sagt sie, ist sogar größer als die von Goneril. Schließlich ist Cordelia an der Reihe, die Tiefe ihrer Liebe zu ihrem königlichen Vater auszudrücken. Aber als Lear sie befragt, antwortet Cordelia, dass sie ihn liebt, wie eine Tochter einen Vater lieben sollte, nicht mehr und nicht weniger. Sie erinnert ihren Vater daran, dass sie auch einem Ehemann, wenn sie heiratet, ihre Hingabe schuldet und daher nicht ehrlich ihre ganze Liebe ihrem Vater gegenüber anbieten kann. Lear betrachtet Cordelias Antwort als Ablehnung; wiederum verstößt er Cordelia und sagt, dass sie von nun an "eine Fremde für mein Herz und mich" sein wird. König Lear teilt dann sein Königreich zwischen Goneril und Regan auf und gibt ihnen jeweils einen gleichen Anteil. Kent greift ein und bittet Lear, seine übereilte Handlung zu überdenken. Lear lässt sich nicht beeindrucken und verbannnt Kent in seinem Zorn, weil er Cordelia verteidigt und den König konfrontiert hat. Bei Kents Abreise treten der König von Frankreich und der Herzog von Burgund ein, die beide um Cordelias Hand anhalten. Ihnen wird mitgeteilt, dass Cordelia keine Aussteuer oder Erbschaft von ihrem Vater erhalten wird. Der Herzog zieht sein Werben zurück, denn eine Frau ohne Aussteuer ist für ihn nutzlos. Im Gegensatz dazu behauptet der König von Frankreich, dass Cordelia auch ohne ihren Anteil am Königreich von Lear eine Trophäe ist und verkündet seine Absicht, Cordelia zu heiraten. Cordelia verabschiedet sich von ihren Schwestern und geht mit dem König von Frankreich. Als Goneril und Regan alleine zurückbleiben, enthüllen die beiden Schwestern ihren Plan, den König zu diskreditieren.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: CHAPTER XX. OF DOMINION PATERNALL AND DESPOTICALL A Common-wealth by Acquisition, is that, where the Soveraign Power is acquired by Force; And it is acquired by force, when men singly, or many together by plurality of voyces, for fear of death, or bonds, do authorise all the actions of that Man, or Assembly, that hath their lives and liberty in his Power. Wherein Different From A Common-wealth By Institution And this kind of Dominion, or Soveraignty, differeth from Soveraignty by Institution, onely in this, That men who choose their Soveraign, do it for fear of one another, and not of him whom they Institute: But in this case, they subject themselves, to him they are afraid of. In both cases they do it for fear: which is to be noted by them, that hold all such Covenants, as proceed from fear of death, or violence, voyd: which if it were true, no man, in any kind of Common-wealth, could be obliged to Obedience. It is true, that in a Common-wealth once Instituted, or acquired, Promises proceeding from fear of death, or violence, are no Covenants, nor obliging, when the thing promised is contrary to the Lawes; But the reason is not, because it was made upon fear, but because he that promiseth, hath no right in the thing promised. Also, when he may lawfully performe, and doth not, it is not the Invalidity of the Covenant, that absolveth him, but the Sentence of the Soveraign. Otherwise, whensoever a man lawfully promiseth, he unlawfully breaketh: But when the Soveraign, who is the Actor, acquitteth him, then he is acquitted by him that exorted the promise, as by the Author of such absolution. The Rights Of Soveraignty The Same In Both But the Rights, and Consequences of Soveraignty, are the same in both. His Power cannot, without his consent, be Transferred to another: He cannot Forfeit it: He cannot be Accused by any of his Subjects, of Injury: He cannot be Punished by them: He is Judge of what is necessary for Peace; and Judge of Doctrines: He is Sole Legislator; and Supreme Judge of Controversies; and of the Times, and Occasions of Warre, and Peace: to him it belongeth to choose Magistrates, Counsellours, Commanders, and all other Officers, and Ministers; and to determine of Rewards, and punishments, Honour, and Order. The reasons whereof, are the same which are alledged in the precedent Chapter, for the same Rights, and Consequences of Soveraignty by Institution. Dominion Paternall How Attained Not By Generation, But By Contract Dominion is acquired two wayes; By Generation, and by Conquest. The right of Dominion by Generation, is that, which the Parent hath over his Children; and is called PATERNALL. And is not so derived from the Generation, as if therefore the Parent had Dominion over his Child because he begat him; but from the Childs Consent, either expresse, or by other sufficient arguments declared. For as to the Generation, God hath ordained to man a helper; and there be alwayes two that are equally Parents: the Dominion therefore over the Child, should belong equally to both; and he be equally subject to both, which is impossible; for no man can obey two Masters. And whereas some have attributed the Dominion to the Man onely, as being of the more excellent Sex; they misreckon in it. For there is not always that difference of strength or prudence between the man and the woman, as that the right can be determined without War. In Common-wealths, this controversie is decided by the Civill Law: and for the most part, (but not alwayes) the sentence is in favour of the Father; because for the most part Common-wealths have been erected by the Fathers, not by the Mothers of families. But the question lyeth now in the state of meer Nature; where there are supposed no lawes of Matrimony; no lawes for the Education of Children; but the Law of Nature, and the naturall inclination of the Sexes, one to another, and to their children. In this condition of meer Nature, either the Parents between themselves dispose of the dominion over the Child by Contract; or do not dispose thereof at all. If they dispose thereof, the right passeth according to the Contract. We find in History that the Amazons Contracted with the Men of the neighbouring Countries, to whom they had recourse for issue, that the issue Male should be sent back, but the Female remain with themselves: so that the dominion of the Females was in the Mother. Or Education; If there be no Contract, the Dominion is in the Mother. For in the condition of Meer Nature, where there are no Matrimoniall lawes, it cannot be known who is the Father, unlesse it be declared by the Mother: and therefore the right of Dominion over the Child dependeth on her will, and is consequently hers. Again, seeing the Infant is first in the power of the Mother; so as she may either nourish, or expose it, if she nourish it, it oweth its life to the Mother; and is therefore obliged to obey her, rather than any other; and by consequence the Dominion over it is hers. But if she expose it, and another find, and nourish it, the Dominion is in him that nourisheth it. For it ought to obey him by whom it is preserved; because preservation of life being the end, for which one man becomes subject to another, every man is supposed to promise obedience, to him, in whose power it is to save, or destroy him. Or Precedent Subjection Of One Of The Parents To The Other If the Mother be the Fathers subject, the Child, is in the Fathers power: and if the Father be the Mothers subject, (as when a Soveraign Queen marrieth one of her subjects,) the Child is subject to the Mother; because the Father also is her subject. If a man and a woman, Monarches of two severall Kingdomes, have a Child, and contract concerning who shall have the Dominion of him, the Right of the Dominion passeth by the Contract. If they contract not, the Dominion followeth the Dominion of the place of his residence. For the Soveraign of each Country hath Dominion over all that reside therein. He that hath the Dominion over the Child, hath Dominion also over their Childrens Children. For he that hath Dominion over the person of a man, hath Dominion over all that is his; without which, Dominion were but a Title, without the effect. The Right Of Succession Followeth The Rules Of The Rights Of Possession The Right of Succession to Paternall dominion, proceedeth in the same manner, as doth the Right of Succession to Monarchy; of which I have already sufficiently spoken in the precedent chapter. Despoticall Dominion, How Attained Dominion acquired by Conquest, or Victory in war, is that which some Writers call DESPOTICALL, from Despotes, which signifieth a Lord, or Master; and is the Dominion of the Master over his Servant. And this Dominion is then acquired to the Victor, when the Vanquished, to avoyd the present stroke of death, covenanteth either in expresse words, or by other sufficient signes of the Will, that so long as his life, and the liberty of his body is allowed him, the Victor shall have the use thereof, at his pleasure. And after such Covenant made, the Vanquished is a SERVANT, and not before: for by the word Servant (whether it be derived from Servire, to Serve, or from Servare, to Save, which I leave to Grammarians to dispute) is not meant a Captive, which is kept in prison, or bonds, till the owner of him that took him, or bought him of one that did, shall consider what to do with him: (for such men, (commonly called Slaves,) have no obligation at all; but may break their bonds, or the prison; and kill, or carry away captive their Master, justly:) but one, that being taken, hath corporall liberty allowed him; and upon promise not to run away, nor to do violence to his Master, is trusted by him. Not By The Victory, But By The Consent Of The Vanquished It is not therefore the Victory, that giveth the right of Dominion over the Vanquished, but his own Covenant. Nor is he obliged because he is Conquered; that is to say, beaten, and taken, or put to flight; but because he commeth in, and submitteth to the Victor; Nor is the Victor obliged by an enemies rendring himselfe, (without promise of life,) to spare him for this his yeelding to discretion; which obliges not the Victor longer, than in his own discretion hee shall think fit. And that men do, when they demand (as it is now called) Quarter, (which the Greeks called Zogria, taking alive,) is to evade the present fury of the Victor, by Submission, and to compound for their life, with Ransome, or Service: and therefore he that hath Quarter, hath not his life given, but deferred till farther deliberation; For it is not an yeelding on condition of life, but to discretion. And then onely is his life in security, and his service due, when the Victor hath trusted him with his corporall liberty. For Slaves that work in Prisons, or Fetters, do it not of duty, but to avoyd the cruelty of their task-masters. The Master of the Servant, is Master also of all he hath; and may exact the use thereof; that is to say, of his goods, of his labour, of his servants, and of his children, as often as he shall think fit. For he holdeth his life of his Master, by the covenant of obedience; that is, of owning, and authorising whatsoever the Master shall do. And in case the Master, if he refuse, kill him, or cast him into bonds, or otherwise punish him for his disobedience, he is himselfe the author of the same; and cannot accuse him of injury. In summe the Rights and Consequences of both Paternall and Despoticall Dominion, are the very same with those of a Soveraign by Institution; and for the same reasons: which reasons are set down in the precedent chapter. So that for a man that is Monarch of divers Nations, whereof he hath, in one the Soveraignty by Institution of the people assembled, and in another by Conquest, that is by the Submission of each particular, to avoyd death or bonds; to demand of one Nation more than of the other, from the title of Conquest, as being a Conquered Nation, is an act of ignorance of the Rights of Soveraignty. For the Soveraign is absolute over both alike; or else there is no Soveraignty at all; and so every man may Lawfully protect himselfe, if he can, with his own sword, which is the condition of war. Difference Between A Family And A Kingdom By this it appears, that a great Family if it be not part of some Common-wealth, is of it self, as to the Rights of Soveraignty, a little Monarchy; whether that Family consist of a man and his children; or of a man and his servants; or of a man, and his children, and servants together: wherein the Father of Master is the Soveraign. But yet a Family is not properly a Common-wealth; unlesse it be of that power by its own number, or by other opportunities, as not to be subdued without the hazard of war. For where a number of men are manifestly too weak to defend themselves united, every one may use his own reason in time of danger, to save his own life, either by flight, or by submission to the enemy, as hee shall think best; in the same manner as a very small company of souldiers, surprised by an army, may cast down their armes, and demand quarter, or run away, rather than be put to the sword. And thus much shall suffice; concerning what I find by speculation, and deduction, of Soveraign Rights, from the nature, need, and designes of men, in erecting of Commonwealths, and putting themselves under Monarchs, or Assemblies, entrusted with power enough for their protection. The Right Of Monarchy From Scripture Let us now consider what the Scripture teacheth in the same point. To Moses, the children of Israel say thus. (Exod. 20. 19) "Speak thou to us, and we will heare thee; but let not God speak to us, lest we dye." This is absolute obedience to Moses. Concerning the Right of Kings, God himself by the mouth of Samuel, saith, (1 Sam. 8. 11, 12, &c.) "This shall be the Right of the King you will have to reigne over you. He shall take your sons, and set them to drive his Chariots, and to be his horsemen, and to run before his chariots; and gather in his harvest; and to make his engines of War, and Instruments of his chariots; and shall take your daughters to make perfumes, to be his Cookes, and Bakers. He shall take your fields, your vine-yards, and your olive-yards, and give them to his servants. He shall take the tyth of your corne and wine, and give it to the men of his chamber, and to his other servants. He shall take your man-servants, and your maid-servants, and the choice of your youth, and employ them in his businesse. He shall take the tyth of your flocks; and you shall be his servants." This is absolute power, and summed up in the last words, "you shall be his servants." Againe, when the people heard what power their King was to have, yet they consented thereto, and say thus, (Verse. 19 &c.) "We will be as all other nations, and our King shall judge our causes, and goe before us, to conduct our wars." Here is confirmed the Right that Soveraigns have, both to the Militia, and to all Judicature; in which is conteined as absolute power, as one man can possibly transferre to another. Again, the prayer of King Salomon to God, was this. (1 Kings 3. 9) "Give to thy servant understanding, to judge thy people, and to discerne between Good and Evill." It belongeth therefore to the Soveraigne to bee Judge, and to praescribe the Rules of Discerning Good and Evill; which Rules are Lawes; and therefore in him is the Legislative Power. Saul sought the life of David; yet when it was in his power to slay Saul, and his Servants would have done it, David forbad them, saying (1 Sam. 24. 9) "God forbid I should do such an act against my Lord, the anoynted of God." For obedience of servants St. Paul saith, (Coll. 3. 20) "Servants obey your masters in All things," and, (Verse. 22) "Children obey your Parents in All things." There is simple obedience in those that are subject to Paternall, or Despoticall Dominion. Again, (Math. 23. 2,3) "The Scribes and Pharisees sit in Moses chayre and therefore All that they shall bid you observe, that observe and do." There again is simple obedience. And St. Paul, (Tit. 3. 2) "Warn them that they subject themselves to Princes, and to those that are in Authority, & obey them." This obedience is also simple. Lastly, our Saviour himselfe acknowledges, that men ought to pay such taxes as are by Kings imposed, where he sayes, "Give to Caesar that which is Caesars;" and payed such taxes himselfe. And that the Kings word, is sufficient to take any thing from any subject, when there is need; and that the King is Judge of that need: For he himselfe, as King of the Jewes, commanded his Disciples to take the Asse, and Asses Colt to carry him into Jerusalem, saying, (Mat. 21. 2,3) "Go into the Village over against you, and you shall find a shee Asse tyed, and her Colt with her, unty them, and bring them to me. And if any man ask you, what you mean by it, Say the Lord hath need of them: And they will let them go." They will not ask whether his necessity be a sufficient title; nor whether he be judge of that necessity; but acquiesce in the will of the Lord. To these places may be added also that of Genesis, (Gen. 3. 5) "You shall be as Gods, knowing Good and Evill." and verse 11. "Who told thee that thou wast naked? hast thou eaten of the tree, of which I commanded thee thou shouldest not eat?" For the Cognisance of Judicature of Good and Evill, being forbidden by the name of the fruit of the tree of Knowledge, as a triall of Adams obedience; The Divell to enflame the Ambition of the woman, to whom that fruit already seemed beautifull, told her that by tasting it, they should be as Gods, knowing Good and Evill. Whereupon having both eaten, they did indeed take upon them Gods office, which is Judicature of Good and Evill; but acquired no new ability to distinguish between them aright. And whereas it is sayd, that having eaten, they saw they were naked; no man hath so interpreted that place, as if they had formerly blind, as saw not their own skins: the meaning is plain, that it was then they first judged their nakednesse (wherein it was Gods will to create them) to be uncomely; and by being ashamed, did tacitely censure God himselfe. And thereupon God saith, "Hast thou eaten, &c." as if he should say, doest thou that owest me obedience, take upon thee to judge of my Commandements? Whereby it is cleerly, (though Allegorically,) signified, that the Commands of them that have the right to command, are not by their Subjects to be censured, nor disputed. Soveraign Power Ought In All Common-wealths To Be Absolute So it appeareth plainly, to my understanding, both from Reason, and Scripture, that the Soveraign Power, whether placed in One Man, as in Monarchy, or in one Assembly of men, as in Popular, and Aristocraticall Common-wealths, is as great, as possibly men can be imagined to make it. And though of so unlimited a Power, men may fancy many evill consequences, yet the consequences of the want of it, which is perpetuall warre of every man against his neighbour, are much worse. The condition of man in this life shall never be without Inconveniences; but there happeneth in no Common-wealth any great Inconvenience, but what proceeds from the Subjects disobedience, and breach of those Covenants, from which the Common-wealth had its being. And whosoever thinking Soveraign Power too great, will seek to make it lesse; must subject himselfe, to the Power, that can limit it; that is to say, to a greater. The greatest objection is, that of the Practise; when men ask, where, and when, such Power has by Subjects been acknowledged. But one may ask them again, when, or where has there been a Kingdome long free from Sedition and Civill Warre. In those Nations, whose Common-wealths have been long-lived, and not been destroyed, but by forraign warre, the Subjects never did dispute of the Soveraign Power. But howsoever, an argument for the Practise of men, that have not sifted to the bottom, and with exact reason weighed the causes, and nature of Common-wealths, and suffer daily those miseries, that proceed from the ignorance thereof, is invalid. For though in all places of the world, men should lay the foundation of their houses on the sand, it could not thence be inferred, that so it ought to be. The skill of making, and maintaining Common-wealths, consisteth in certain Rules, as doth Arithmetique and Geometry; not (as Tennis-play) on Practise onely: which Rules, neither poor men have the leisure, nor men that have had the leisure, have hitherto had the curiosity, or the method to find out. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben stehenden Absätze verfassen?

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Deutschland verliert keine Zeit: Der Alarm für einen Luftangriff ertönt, was bedeutet, dass Deryn zu ihrer Kampfstation gehen muss. Sie versucht, Dr. Barlow dazu zu bringen, in ihre Kabine zurückzukehren, aber Dr. Barlow weigert sich und sagt, sie gehe zur Maschinenkammer, um ihre Ladung zu schützen - was auch immer es ist. Während Deryn sich eilt, um zu ihrer Kampfstation zu gelangen, erkennt sie, dass sie von mehreren deutschen Flugzeugen angegriffen werden. Schöne Zeiten. Deryn klettert an Deck, während die deutschen Flugzeuge mit Maschinengewehren angreifen und Löcher in die Leviathan reißen und Männer und Bestien töten. Es sind aufregende Zeiten: Straßenraubvögel retten das Luftschiff knapp davor, in einer phosphorbrennenden Kugel zu explodieren. Deryn muss verwundete Crewmitglieder zurücklassen, während sie weiterhin kämpft, um zu ihrer Kampfstation zu gelangen. Oben angekommen erreicht Deryn den Bug, wo Mr. Rigby und Newkirk bereits damit beschäftigt sind, die flechette Fledermäuse zu füttern. Die drei klicken ihre Sicherheitsleinen zusammen, um mehr Kontrolle zu haben, während sie vorwärts gehen, um mehr Fledermäuse zu füttern. Die Nase der Leviathan kippt nach unten, und Deryn erkennt, dass sie fallen. Mr. Rigby, Newkirk und Deryn versammeln sich in den Fledermaus-Höhlen, um nicht abzurutschen, aber als Deryn versucht, mehr Fledermäuse in die Luft zu bringen, stellt sie fest, dass sie alle verschwunden sind. Die Leviathan hebt sich, und die drei versuchen, sich vom Bug zu entfernen, bevor das Schiff erneut abtaucht. Deryn entdeckt die mit Kugellöchern übersäten Wirbelsäulen und mit Opfern bedeckt. Die letzten beiden verbliebenen deutschen Flugzeuge formieren sich erneut, um anzugreifen, aber eine Gruppe von Fledermäusen erledigt eines von ihnen; das andere wird von einem Luftgewehr zerstört, bevor es das Schiff rammen kann. Deryn bemerkt, dass Mr. Rigby angeschossen wurde. Als das Schiff nach vorne kippt, erkennt Deryn, dass Mr. Rigby und Newkirk in den Himmel fallen werden, weil sie sich immer noch an ihren Sicherheitsleinen befinden - sie springt über die andere Seite, um sie zu beschweren. Als Deryn an der Seite des Schiffs liegt, sieht sie die Alpen näherkommen und erkennt, dass die Leviathan abstürzt.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: About twelve o'clock that night was born the Catherine you saw at Wuthering Heights: a puny, seven-months' child; and two hours after the mother died, having never recovered sufficient consciousness to miss Heathcliff, or know Edgar. The latter's distraction at his bereavement is a subject too painful to be dwelt on; its after-effects showed how deep the sorrow sunk. A great addition, in my eyes, was his being left without an heir. I bemoaned that, as I gazed on the feeble orphan; and I mentally abused old Linton for (what was only natural partiality) the securing his estate to his own daughter, instead of his son's. An unwelcomed infant it was, poor thing! It might have wailed out of life, and nobody cared a morsel, during those first hours of existence. We redeemed the neglect afterwards; but its beginning was as friendless as its end is likely to be. Next morning--bright and cheerful out of doors--stole softened in through the blinds of the silent room, and suffused the couch and its occupant with a mellow, tender glow. Edgar Linton had his head laid on the pillow, and his eyes shut. His young and fair features were almost as deathlike as those of the form beside him, and almost as fixed: but _his_ was the hush of exhausted anguish, and _hers_ of perfect peace. Her brow smooth, her lids closed, her lips wearing the expression of a smile; no angel in heaven could be more beautiful than she appeared. And I partook of the infinite calm in which she lay: my mind was never in a holier frame than while I gazed on that untroubled image of Divine rest. I instinctively echoed the words she had uttered a few hours before: 'Incomparably beyond and above us all! Whether still on earth or now in heaven, her spirit is at home with God!' I don't know if it be a peculiarity in me, but I am seldom otherwise than happy while watching in the chamber of death, should no frenzied or despairing mourner share the duty with me. I see a repose that neither earth nor hell can break, and I feel an assurance of the endless and shadowless hereafter--the Eternity they have entered--where life is boundless in its duration, and love in its sympathy, and joy in its fulness. I noticed on that occasion how much selfishness there is even in a love like Mr. Linton's, when he so regretted Catherine's blessed release! To be sure, one might have doubted, after the wayward and impatient existence she had led, whether she merited a haven of peace at last. One might doubt in seasons of cold reflection; but not then, in the presence of her corpse. It asserted its own tranquillity, which seemed a pledge of equal quiet to its former inhabitant. Do you believe such people are happy in the other world, sir? I'd give a great deal to know. I declined answering Mrs. Dean's question, which struck me as something heterodox. She proceeded: Retracing the course of Catherine Linton, I fear we have no right to think she is; but we'll leave her with her Maker. The master looked asleep, and I ventured soon after sunrise to quit the room and steal out to the pure refreshing air. The servants thought me gone to shake off the drowsiness of my protracted watch; in reality, my chief motive was seeing Mr. Heathcliff. If he had remained among the larches all night, he would have heard nothing of the stir at the Grange; unless, perhaps, he might catch the gallop of the messenger going to Gimmerton. If he had come nearer, he would probably be aware, from the lights flitting to and fro, and the opening and shutting of the outer doors, that all was not right within. I wished, yet feared, to find him. I felt the terrible news must be told, and I longed to get it over; but how to do it I did not know. He was there--at least, a few yards further in the park; leant against an old ash-tree, his hat off, and his hair soaked with the dew that had gathered on the budded branches, and fell pattering round him. He had been standing a long time in that position, for I saw a pair of ousels passing and repassing scarcely three feet from him, busy in building their nest, and regarding his proximity no more than that of a piece of timber. They flew off at my approach, and he raised his eyes and spoke:--'She's dead!' he said; 'I've not waited for you to learn that. Put your handkerchief away--don't snivel before me. Damn you all! she wants none of your tears!' I was weeping as much for him as her: we do sometimes pity creatures that have none of the feeling either for themselves or others. When I first looked into his face, I perceived that he had got intelligence of the catastrophe; and a foolish notion struck me that his heart was quelled and he prayed, because his lips moved and his gaze was bent on the ground. 'Yes, she's dead!' I answered, checking my sobs and drying my cheeks. 'Gone to heaven, I hope; where we may, every one, join her, if we take due warning and leave our evil ways to follow good!' 'Did _she_ take due warning, then?' asked Heathcliff, attempting a sneer. 'Did she die like a saint? Come, give me a true history of the event. How did--?' He endeavoured to pronounce the name, but could not manage it; and compressing his mouth he held a silent combat with his inward agony, defying, meanwhile, my sympathy with an unflinching, ferocious stare. 'How did she die?' he resumed, at last--fain, notwithstanding his hardihood, to have a support behind him; for, after the struggle, he trembled, in spite of himself, to his very finger-ends. 'Poor wretch!' I thought; 'you have a heart and nerves the same as your brother men! Why should you be anxious to conceal them? Your pride cannot blind God! You tempt him to wring them, till he forces a cry of humiliation.' 'Quietly as a lamb!' I answered, aloud. 'She drew a sigh, and stretched herself, like a child reviving, and sinking again to sleep; and five minutes after I felt one little pulse at her heart, and nothing more!' 'And--did she ever mention me?' he asked, hesitating, as if he dreaded the answer to his question would introduce details that he could not bear to hear. 'Her senses never returned: she recognised nobody from the time you left her,' I said. 'She lies with a sweet smile on her face; and her latest ideas wandered back to pleasant early days. Her life closed in a gentle dream--may she wake as kindly in the other world!' 'May she wake in torment!' he cried, with frightful vehemence, stamping his foot, and groaning in a sudden paroxysm of ungovernable passion. 'Why, she's a liar to the end! Where is she? Not _there_--not in heaven--not perished--where? Oh! you said you cared nothing for my sufferings! And I pray one prayer--I repeat it till my tongue stiffens--Catherine Earnshaw, may you not rest as long as I am living; you said I killed you--haunt me, then! The murdered _do_ haunt their murderers, I believe. I know that ghosts _have_ wandered on earth. Be with me always--take any form--drive me mad! only _do_ not leave me in this abyss, where I cannot find you! Oh, God! it is unutterable! I _cannot_ live without my life! I _cannot_ live without my soul!' He dashed his head against the knotted trunk; and, lifting up his eyes, howled, not like a man, but like a savage beast being goaded to death with knives and spears. I observed several splashes of blood about the bark of the tree, and his hand and forehead were both stained; probably the scene I witnessed was a repetition of others acted during the night. It hardly moved my compassion--it appalled me: still, I felt reluctant to quit him so. But the moment he recollected himself enough to notice me watching, he thundered a command for me to go, and I obeyed. He was beyond my skill to quiet or console! Mrs. Linton's funeral was appointed to take place on the Friday following her decease; and till then her coffin remained uncovered, and strewn with flowers and scented leaves, in the great drawing-room. Linton spent his days and nights there, a sleepless guardian; and--a circumstance concealed from all but me--Heathcliff spent his nights, at least, outside, equally a stranger to repose. I held no communication with him: still, I was conscious of his design to enter, if he could; and on the Tuesday, a little after dark, when my master, from sheer fatigue, had been compelled to retire a couple of hours, I went and opened one of the windows; moved by his perseverance to give him a chance of bestowing on the faded image of his idol one final adieu. He did not omit to avail himself of the opportunity, cautiously and briefly; too cautiously to betray his presence by the slightest noise. Indeed, I shouldn't have discovered that he had been there, except for the disarrangement of the drapery about the corpse's face, and for observing on the floor a curl of light hair, fastened with a silver thread; which, on examination, I ascertained to have been taken from a locket hung round Catherine's neck. Heathcliff had opened the trinket and cast out its contents, replacing them by a black lock of his own. I twisted the two, and enclosed them together. Mr. Earnshaw was, of course, invited to attend the remains of his sister to the grave; he sent no excuse, but he never came; so that, besides her husband, the mourners were wholly composed of tenants and servants. Isabella was not asked. The place of Catherine's interment, to the surprise of the villagers, was neither in the chapel under the carved monument of the Lintons, nor yet by the tombs of her own relations, outside. It was dug on a green slope in a corner of the kirk-yard, where the wall is so low that heath and bilberry-plants have climbed over it from the moor; and peat-mould almost buries it. Her husband lies in the same spot now; and they have each a simple headstone above, and a plain grey block at their feet, to mark the graves. That Friday made the last of our fine days for a month. In the evening the weather broke: the wind shifted from south to north-east, and brought rain first, and then sleet and snow. On the morrow one could hardly imagine that there had been three weeks of summer: the primroses and crocuses were hidden under wintry drifts; the larks were silent, the young leaves of the early trees smitten and blackened. And dreary, and chill, and dismal, that morrow did creep over! My master kept his room; I took possession of the lonely parlour, converting it into a nursery: and there I was, sitting with the moaning doll of a child laid on my knee; rocking it to and fro, and watching, meanwhile, the still driving flakes build up the uncurtained window, when the door opened, and some person entered, out of breath and laughing! My anger was greater than my astonishment for a minute. I supposed it one of the maids, and I cried--'Have done! How dare you show your giddiness here; What would Mr. Linton say if he heard you?' 'Excuse me!' answered a familiar voice; 'but I know Edgar is in bed, and I cannot stop myself.' With that the speaker came forward to the fire, panting and holding her hand to her side. 'I have run the whole way from Wuthering Heights!' she continued, after a pause; 'except where I've flown. I couldn't count the number of falls I've had. Oh, I'm aching all over! Don't be alarmed! There shall be an explanation as soon as I can give it; only just have the goodness to step out and order the carriage to take me on to Gimmerton, and tell a servant to seek up a few clothes in my wardrobe.' The intruder was Mrs. Heathcliff. She certainly seemed in no laughing predicament: her hair streamed on her shoulders, dripping with snow and water; she was dressed in the girlish dress she commonly wore, befitting her age more than her position: a low frock with short sleeves, and nothing on either head or neck. The frock was of light silk, and clung to her with wet, and her feet were protected merely by thin slippers; add to this a deep cut under one ear, which only the cold prevented from bleeding profusely, a white face scratched and bruised, and a frame hardly able to support itself through fatigue; and you may fancy my first fright was not much allayed when I had had leisure to examine her. 'My dear young lady,' I exclaimed, 'I'll stir nowhere, and hear nothing, till you have removed every article of your clothes, and put on dry things; and certainly you shall not go to Gimmerton to-night, so it is needless to order the carriage.' 'Certainly I shall,' she said; 'walking or riding: yet I've no objection to dress myself decently. And--ah, see how it flows down my neck now! The fire does make it smart.' She insisted on my fulfilling her directions, before she would let me touch her; and not till after the coachman had been instructed to get ready, and a maid set to pack up some necessary attire, did I obtain her consent for binding the wound and helping to change her garments. 'Now, Ellen,' she said, when my task was finished and she was seated in an easy-chair on the hearth, with a cup of tea before her, 'you sit down opposite me, and put poor Catherine's baby away: I don't like to see it! You mustn't think I care little for Catherine, because I behaved so foolishly on entering: I've cried, too, bitterly--yes, more than any one else has reason to cry. We parted unreconciled, you remember, and I sha'n't forgive myself. But, for all that, I was not going to sympathise with him--the brute beast! Oh, give me the poker! This is the last thing of his I have about me:' she slipped the gold ring from her third finger, and threw it on the floor. 'I'll smash it!' she continued, striking it with childish spite, 'and then I'll burn it!' and she took and dropped the misused article among the coals. 'There! he shall buy another, if he gets me back again. He'd be capable of coming to seek me, to tease Edgar. I dare not stay, lest that notion should possess his wicked head! And besides, Edgar has not been kind, has he? And I won't come suing for his assistance; nor will I bring him into more trouble. Necessity compelled me to seek shelter here; though, if I had not learned he was out of the way, I'd have halted at the kitchen, washed my face, warmed myself, got you to bring what I wanted, and departed again to anywhere out of the reach of my accursed--of that incarnate goblin! Ah, he was in such a fury! If he had caught me! It's a pity Earnshaw is not his match in strength: I wouldn't have run till I'd seen him all but demolished, had Hindley been able to do it!' 'Well, don't talk so fast, Miss!' I interrupted; 'you'll disorder the handkerchief I have tied round your face, and make the cut bleed again. Drink your tea, and take breath, and give over laughing: laughter is sadly out of place under this roof, and in your condition!' 'An undeniable truth,' she replied. 'Listen to that child! It maintains a constant wail--send it out of my hearing for an hour; I sha'n't stay any longer.' I rang the bell, and committed it to a servant's care; and then I inquired what had urged her to escape from Wuthering Heights in such an unlikely plight, and where she meant to go, as she refused remaining with us. 'I ought, and I wished to remain,' answered she, 'to cheer Edgar and take care of the baby, for two things, and because the Grange is my right home. But I tell you he wouldn't let me! Do you think he could bear to see me grow fat and merry--could bear to think that we were tranquil, and not resolve on poisoning our comfort? Now, I have the satisfaction of being sure that he detests me, to the point of its annoying him seriously to have me within ear-shot or eyesight: I notice, when I enter his presence, the muscles of his countenance are involuntarily distorted into an expression of hatred; partly arising from his knowledge of the good causes I have to feel that sentiment for him, and partly from original aversion. It is strong enough to make me feel pretty certain that he would not chase me over England, supposing I contrived a clear escape; and therefore I must get quite away. I've recovered from my first desire to be killed by him: I'd rather he'd kill himself! He has extinguished my love effectually, and so I'm at my ease. I can recollect yet how I loved him; and can dimly imagine that I could still be loving him, if--no, no! Even if he had doted on me, the devilish nature would have revealed its existence somehow. Catherine had an awfully perverted taste to esteem him so dearly, knowing him so well. Monster! would that he could be blotted out of creation, and out of my memory!' 'Hush, hush! He's a human being,' I said. 'Be more charitable: there are worse men than he is yet!' 'He's not a human being,' she retorted; 'and he has no claim on my charity. I gave him my heart, and he took and pinched it to death, and flung it back to me. People feel with their hearts, Ellen: and since he has destroyed mine, I have not power to feel for him: and I would not, though he groaned from this to his dying day, and wept tears of blood for Catherine! No, indeed, indeed, I wouldn't!' And here Isabella began to cry; but, immediately dashing the water from her lashes, she recommenced. 'You asked, what has driven me to flight at last? I was compelled to attempt it, because I had succeeded in rousing his rage a pitch above his malignity. Pulling out the nerves with red hot pincers requires more coolness than knocking on the head. He was worked up to forget the fiendish prudence he boasted of, and proceeded to murderous violence. I experienced pleasure in being able to exasperate him: the sense of pleasure woke my instinct of self-preservation, so I fairly broke free; and if ever I come into his hands again he is welcome to a signal revenge. 'Yesterday, you know, Mr. Earnshaw should have been at the funeral. He kept himself sober for the purpose--tolerably sober: not going to bed mad at six o'clock and getting up drunk at twelve. Consequently, he rose, in suicidal low spirits, as fit for the church as for a dance; and instead, he sat down by the fire and swallowed gin or brandy by tumblerfuls. 'Heathcliff--I shudder to name him! has been a stranger in the house from last Sunday till to-day. Whether the angels have fed him, or his kin beneath, I cannot tell; but he has not eaten a meal with us for nearly a week. He has just come home at dawn, and gone up-stairs to his chamber; locking himself in--as if anybody dreamt of coveting his company! There he has continued, praying like a Methodist: only the deity he implored is senseless dust and ashes; and God, when addressed, was curiously confounded with his own black father! After concluding these precious orisons--and they lasted generally till he grew hoarse and his voice was strangled in his throat--he would be off again; always straight down to the Grange! I wonder Edgar did not send for a constable, and give him into custody! For me, grieved as I was about Catherine, it was impossible to avoid regarding this season of deliverance from degrading oppression as a holiday. 'I recovered spirits sufficient to bear Joseph's eternal lectures without weeping, and to move up and down the house less with the foot of a frightened thief than formerly. You wouldn't think that I should cry at anything Joseph could say; but he and Hareton are detestable companions. I'd rather sit with Hindley, and hear his awful talk, than with "t' little maister" and his staunch supporter, that odious old man! When Heathcliff is in, I'm often obliged to seek the kitchen and their society, or starve among the damp uninhabited chambers; when he is not, as was the case this week, I establish a table and chair at one corner of the house fire, and never mind how Mr. Earnshaw may occupy himself; and he does not interfere with my arrangements. He is quieter now than he used to be, if no one provokes him: more sullen and depressed, and less furious. Joseph affirms he's sure he's an altered man: that the Lord has touched his heart, and he is saved "so as by fire." I'm puzzled to detect signs of the favourable change: but it is not my business. 'Yester-evening I sat in my nook reading some old books till late on towards twelve. It seemed so dismal to go up-stairs, with the wild snow blowing outside, and my thoughts continually reverting to the kirk-yard and the new-made grave! I dared hardly lift my eyes from the page before me, that melancholy scene so instantly usurped its place. Hindley sat opposite, his head leant on his hand; perhaps meditating on the same subject. He had ceased drinking at a point below irrationality, and had neither stirred nor spoken during two or three hours. There was no sound through the house but the moaning wind, which shook the windows every now and then, the faint crackling of the coals, and the click of my snuffers as I removed at intervals the long wick of the candle. Hareton and Joseph were probably fast asleep in bed. It was very, very sad: and while I read I sighed, for it seemed as if all joy had vanished from the world, never to be restored. 'The doleful silence was broken at length by the sound of the kitchen latch: Heathcliff had returned from his watch earlier than usual; owing, I suppose, to the sudden storm. That entrance was fastened, and we heard him coming round to get in by the other. I rose with an irrepressible expression of what I felt on my lips, which induced my companion, who had been staring towards the door, to turn and look at me. '"I'll keep him out five minutes," he exclaimed. "You won't object?" '"No, you may keep him out the whole night for me," I answered. "Do! put the key in the lock, and draw the bolts." 'Earnshaw accomplished this ere his guest reached the front; he then came and brought his chair to the other side of my table, leaning over it, and searching in my eyes for a sympathy with the burning hate that gleamed from his: as he both looked and felt like an assassin, he couldn't exactly find that; but he discovered enough to encourage him to speak. '"You, and I," he said, "have each a great debt to settle with the man out yonder! If we were neither of us cowards, we might combine to discharge it. Are you as soft as your brother? Are you willing to endure to the last, and not once attempt a repayment?" '"I'm weary of enduring now," I replied; "and I'd be glad of a retaliation that wouldn't recoil on myself; but treachery and violence are spears pointed at both ends; they wound those who resort to them worse than their enemies." '"Treachery and violence are a just return for treachery and violence!" cried Hindley. "Mrs. Heathcliff, I'll ask you to do nothing; but sit still and be dumb. Tell me now, can you? I'm sure you would have as much pleasure as I in witnessing the conclusion of the fiend's existence; he'll be _your_ death unless you overreach him; and he'll be _my_ ruin. Damn the hellish villain! He knocks at the door as if he were master here already! Promise to hold your tongue, and before that clock strikes--it wants three minutes of one--you're a free woman!" 'He took the implements which I described to you in my letter from his breast, and would have turned down the candle. I snatched it away, however, and seized his arm. '"I'll not hold my tongue!" I said; "you mustn't touch him. Let the door remain shut, and be quiet!" '"No! I've formed my resolution, and by God I'll execute it!" cried the desperate being. "I'll do you a kindness in spite of yourself, and Hareton justice! And you needn't trouble your head to screen me; Catherine is gone. Nobody alive would regret me, or be ashamed, though I cut my throat this minute--and it's time to make an end!" 'I might as well have struggled with a bear, or reasoned with a lunatic. The only resource left me was to run to a lattice and warn his intended victim of the fate which awaited him. '"You'd better seek shelter somewhere else to-night!" I exclaimed, in rather a triumphant tone. "Mr. Earnshaw has a mind to shoot you, if you persist in endeavouring to enter." '"You'd better open the door, you--" he answered, addressing me by some elegant term that I don't care to repeat. '"I shall not meddle in the matter," I retorted again. "Come in and get shot, if you please. I've done my duty." 'With that I shut the window and returned to my place by the fire; having too small a stock of hypocrisy at my command to pretend any anxiety for the danger that menaced him. Earnshaw swore passionately at me: affirming that I loved the villain yet; and calling me all sorts of names for the base spirit I evinced. And I, in my secret heart (and conscience never reproached me), thought what a blessing it would be for _him_ should Heathcliff put him out of misery; and what a blessing for _me_ should he send Heathcliff to his right abode! As I sat nursing these reflections, the casement behind me was banged on to the floor by a blow from the latter individual, and his black countenance looked blightingly through. The stanchions stood too close to suffer his shoulders to follow, and I smiled, exulting in my fancied security. His hair and clothes were whitened with snow, and his sharp cannibal teeth, revealed by cold and wrath, gleamed through the dark. '"Isabella, let me in, or I'll make you repent!" he "girned," as Joseph calls it. '"I cannot commit murder," I replied. "Mr. Hindley stands sentinel with a knife and loaded pistol." '"Let me in by the kitchen door," he said. '"Hindley will be there before me," I answered: "and that's a poor love of yours that cannot bear a shower of snow! We were left at peace in our beds as long as the summer moon shone, but the moment a blast of winter returns, you must run for shelter! Heathcliff, if I were you, I'd go stretch myself over her grave and die like a faithful dog. The world is surely not worth living in now, is it? You had distinctly impressed on me the idea that Catherine was the whole joy of your life: I can't imagine how you think of surviving her loss." '"He's there, is he?" exclaimed my companion, rushing to the gap. "If I can get my arm out I can hit him!" 'I'm afraid, Ellen, you'll set me down as really wicked; but you don't know all, so don't judge. I wouldn't have aided or abetted an attempt on even _his_ life for anything. Wish that he were dead, I must; and therefore I was fearfully disappointed, and unnerved by terror for the consequences of my taunting speech, when he flung himself on Earnshaw's weapon and wrenched it from his grasp. 'The charge exploded, and the knife, in springing back, closed into its owner's wrist. Heathcliff pulled it away by main force, slitting up the flesh as it passed on, and thrust it dripping into his pocket. He then took a stone, struck down the division between two windows, and sprang in. His adversary had fallen senseless with excessive pain and the flow of blood, that gushed from an artery or a large vein. The ruffian kicked and trampled on him, and dashed his head repeatedly against the flags, holding me with one hand, meantime, to prevent me summoning Joseph. He exerted preterhuman self-denial in abstaining from finishing him completely; but getting out of breath, he finally desisted, and dragged the apparently inanimate body on to the settle. There he tore off the sleeve of Earnshaw's coat, and bound up the wound with brutal roughness; spitting and cursing during the operation as energetically as he had kicked before. Being at liberty, I lost no time in seeking the old servant; who, having gathered by degrees the purport of my hasty tale, hurried below, gasping, as he descended the steps two at once. '"What is ther to do, now? what is ther to do, now?" '"There's this to do," thundered Heathcliff, "that your master's mad; and should he last another month, I'll have him to an asylum. And how the devil did you come to fasten me out, you toothless hound? Don't stand muttering and mumbling there. Come, I'm not going to nurse him. Wash that stuff away; and mind the sparks of your candle--it is more than half brandy!" '"And so ye've been murthering on him?" exclaimed Joseph, lifting his hands and eyes in horror. "If iver I seed a seeght loike this! May the Lord--" 'Heathcliff gave him a push on to his knees in the middle of the blood, and flung a towel to him; but instead of proceeding to dry it up, he joined his hands and began a prayer, which excited my laughter from its odd phraseology. I was in the condition of mind to be shocked at nothing: in fact, I was as reckless as some malefactors show themselves at the foot of the gallows. '"Oh, I forgot you," said the tyrant. "You shall do that. Down with you. And you conspire with him against me, do you, viper? There, that is work fit for you!" 'He shook me till my teeth rattled, and pitched me beside Joseph, who steadily concluded his supplications, and then rose, vowing he would set off for the Grange directly. Mr. Linton was a magistrate, and though he had fifty wives dead, he should inquire into this. He was so obstinate in his resolution, that Heathcliff deemed it expedient to compel from my lips a recapitulation of what had taken place; standing over me, heaving with malevolence, as I reluctantly delivered the account in answer to his questions. It required a great deal of labour to satisfy the old man that Heathcliff was not the aggressor; especially with my hardly-wrung replies. However, Mr. Earnshaw soon convinced him that he was alive still; Joseph hastened to administer a dose of spirits, and by their succour his master presently regained motion and consciousness. Heathcliff, aware that his opponent was ignorant of the treatment received while insensible, called him deliriously intoxicated; and said he should not notice his atrocious conduct further, but advised him to get to bed. To my joy, he left us, after giving this judicious counsel, and Hindley stretched himself on the hearthstone. I departed to my own room, marvelling that I had escaped so easily. 'This morning, when I came down, about half an hour before noon, Mr. Earnshaw was sitting by the fire, deadly sick; his evil genius, almost as gaunt and ghastly, leant against the chimney. Neither appeared inclined to dine, and, having waited till all was cold on the table, I commenced alone. Nothing hindered me from eating heartily, and I experienced a certain sense of satisfaction and superiority, as, at intervals, I cast a look towards my silent companions, and felt the comfort of a quiet conscience within me. After I had done, I ventured on the unusual liberty of drawing near the fire, going round Earnshaw's seat, and kneeling in the corner beside him. 'Heathcliff did not glance my way, and I gazed up, and contemplated his features almost as confidently as if they had been turned to stone. His forehead, that I once thought so manly, and that I now think so diabolical, was shaded with a heavy cloud; his basilisk eyes were nearly quenched by sleeplessness, and weeping, perhaps, for the lashes were wet then: his lips devoid of their ferocious sneer, and sealed in an expression of unspeakable sadness. Had it been another, I would have covered my face in the presence of such grief. In _his_ case, I was gratified; and, ignoble as it seems to insult a fallen enemy, I couldn't miss this chance of sticking in a dart: his weakness was the only time when I could taste the delight of paying wrong for wrong.' 'Fie, fie, Miss!' I interrupted. 'One might suppose you had never opened a Bible in your life. If God afflict your enemies, surely that ought to suffice you. It is both mean and presumptuous to add your torture to his!' 'In general I'll allow that it would be, Ellen,' she continued; 'but what misery laid on Heathcliff could content me, unless I have a hand in it? I'd rather he suffered less, if I might cause his sufferings and he might _know_ that I was the cause. Oh, I owe him so much. On only one condition can I hope to forgive him. It is, if I may take an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth; for every wrench of agony return a wrench: reduce him to my level. As he was the first to injure, make him the first to implore pardon; and then--why then, Ellen, I might show you some generosity. But it is utterly impossible I can ever be revenged, and therefore I cannot forgive him. Hindley wanted some water, and I handed him a glass, and asked him how he was. '"Not as ill as I wish," he replied. "But leaving out my arm, every inch of me is as sore as if I had been fighting with a legion of imps!" '"Yes, no wonder," was my next remark. "Catherine used to boast that she stood between you and bodily harm: she meant that certain persons would not hurt you for fear of offending her. It's well people don't _really_ rise from their grave, or, last night, she might have witnessed a repulsive scene! Are not you bruised, and cut over your chest and shoulders?" '"I can't say," he answered, "but what do you mean? Did he dare to strike me when I was down?" '"He trampled on and kicked you, and dashed you on the ground," I whispered. "And his mouth watered to tear you with his teeth; because he's only half man: not so much, and the rest fiend." 'Mr. Earnshaw looked up, like me, to the countenance of our mutual foe; who, absorbed in his anguish, seemed insensible to anything around him: the longer he stood, the plainer his reflections revealed their blackness through his features. '"Oh, if God would but give me strength to strangle him in my last agony, I'd go to hell with joy," groaned the impatient man, writhing to rise, and sinking back in despair, convinced of his inadequacy for the struggle. '"Nay, it's enough that he has murdered one of you," I observed aloud. "At the Grange, every one knows your sister would have been living now had it not been for Mr. Heathcliff. After all, it is preferable to be hated than loved by him. When I recollect how happy we were--how happy Catherine was before he came--I'm fit to curse the day." 'Most likely, Heathcliff noticed more the truth of what was said, than the spirit of the person who said it. His attention was roused, I saw, for his eyes rained down tears among the ashes, and he drew his breath in suffocating sighs. I stared full at him, and laughed scornfully. The clouded windows of hell flashed a moment towards me; the fiend which usually looked out, however, was so dimmed and drowned that I did not fear to hazard another sound of derision. '"Get up, and begone out of my sight," said the mourner. 'I guessed he uttered those words, at least, though his voice was hardly intelligible. '"I beg your pardon," I replied. "But I loved Catherine too; and her brother requires attendance, which, for her sake, I shall supply. Now, that she's dead, I see her in Hindley: Hindley has exactly her eyes, if you had not tried to gouge them out, and made them black and red; and her--" '"Get up, wretched idiot, before I stamp you to death!" he cried, making a movement that caused me to make one also. '"But then," I continued, holding myself ready to flee, "if poor Catherine had trusted you, and assumed the ridiculous, contemptible, degrading title of Mrs. Heathcliff, she would soon have presented a similar picture! _She_ wouldn't have borne your abominable behaviour quietly: her detestation and disgust must have found voice." 'The back of the settle and Earnshaw's person interposed between me and him; so instead of endeavouring to reach me, he snatched a dinner-knife from the table and flung it at my head. It struck beneath my ear, and stopped the sentence I was uttering; but, pulling it out, I sprang to the door and delivered another; which I hope went a little deeper than his missile. The last glimpse I caught of him was a furious rush on his part, checked by the embrace of his host; and both fell locked together on the hearth. In my flight through the kitchen I bid Joseph speed to his master; I knocked over Hareton, who was hanging a litter of puppies from a chair-back in the doorway; and, blessed as a soul escaped from purgatory, I bounded, leaped, and flew down the steep road; then, quitting its windings, shot direct across the moor, rolling over banks, and wading through marshes: precipitating myself, in fact, towards the beacon-light of the Grange. And far rather would I be condemned to a perpetual dwelling in the infernal regions than, even for one night, abide beneath the roof of Wuthering Heights again.' Isabella ceased speaking, and took a drink of tea; then she rose, and bidding me put on her bonnet, and a great shawl I had brought, and turning a deaf ear to my entreaties for her to remain another hour, she stepped on to a chair, kissed Edgar's and Catherine's portraits, bestowed a similar salute on me, and descended to the carriage, accompanied by Fanny, who yelped wild with joy at recovering her mistress. She was driven away, never to revisit this neighbourhood: but a regular correspondence was established between her and my master when things were more settled. I believe her new abode was in the south, near London; there she had a son born a few months subsequent to her escape. He was christened Linton, and, from the first, she reported him to be an ailing, peevish creature. Mr. Heathcliff, meeting me one day in the village, inquired where she lived. I refused to tell. He remarked that it was not of any moment, only she must beware of coming to her brother: she should not be with him, if he had to keep her himself. Though I would give no information, he discovered, through some of the other servants, both her place of residence and the existence of the child. Still, he didn't molest her: for which forbearance she might thank his aversion, I suppose. He often asked about the infant, when he saw me; and on hearing its name, smiled grimly, and observed: 'They wish me to hate it too, do they?' 'I don't think they wish you to know anything about it,' I answered. 'But I'll have it,' he said, 'when I want it. They may reckon on that!' Fortunately its mother died before the time arrived; some thirteen years after the decease of Catherine, when Linton was twelve, or a little more. On the day succeeding Isabella's unexpected visit I had no opportunity of speaking to my master: he shunned conversation, and was fit for discussing nothing. When I could get him to listen, I saw it pleased him that his sister had left her husband; whom he abhorred with an intensity which the mildness of his nature would scarcely seem to allow. So deep and sensitive was his aversion, that he refrained from going anywhere where he was likely to see or hear of Heathcliff. Grief, and that together, transformed him into a complete hermit: he threw up his office of magistrate, ceased even to attend church, avoided the village on all occasions, and spent a life of entire seclusion within the limits of his park and grounds; only varied by solitary rambles on the moors, and visits to the grave of his wife, mostly at evening, or early morning before other wanderers were abroad. But he was too good to be thoroughly unhappy long. _He_ didn't pray for Catherine's soul to haunt him. Time brought resignation, and a melancholy sweeter than common joy. He recalled her memory with ardent, tender love, and hopeful aspiring to the better world; where he doubted not she was gone. And he had earthly consolation and affections also. For a few days, I said, he seemed regardless of the puny successor to the departed: that coldness melted as fast as snow in April, and ere the tiny thing could stammer a word or totter a step it wielded a despot's sceptre in his heart. It was named Catherine; but he never called it the name in full, as he had never called the first Catherine short: probably because Heathcliff had a habit of doing so. The little one was always Cathy: it formed to him a distinction from the mother, and yet a connection with her; and his attachment sprang from its relation to her, far more than from its being his own. I used to draw a comparison between him and Hindley Earnshaw, and perplex myself to explain satisfactorily why their conduct was so opposite in similar circumstances. They had both been fond husbands, and were both attached to their children; and I could not see how they shouldn't both have taken the same road, for good or evil. But, I thought in my mind, Hindley, with apparently the stronger head, has shown himself sadly the worse and the weaker man. When his ship struck, the captain abandoned his post; and the crew, instead of trying to save her, rushed into riot and confusion, leaving no hope for their luckless vessel. Linton, on the contrary, displayed the true courage of a loyal and faithful soul: he trusted God; and God comforted him. One hoped, and the other despaired: they chose their own lots, and were righteously doomed to endure them. But you'll not want to hear my moralising, Mr. Lockwood; you'll judge, as well as I can, all these things: at least, you'll think you will, and that's the same. The end of Earnshaw was what might have been expected; it followed fast on his sister's: there were scarcely six months between them. We, at the Grange, never got a very succinct account of his state preceding it; all that I did learn was on occasion of going to aid in the preparations for the funeral. Mr. Kenneth came to announce the event to my master. 'Well, Nelly,' said he, riding into the yard one morning, too early not to alarm me with an instant presentiment of bad news, 'it's yours and my turn to go into mourning at present. Who's given us the slip now, do you think?' 'Who?' I asked in a flurry. 'Why, guess!' he returned, dismounting, and slinging his bridle on a hook by the door. 'And nip up the corner of your apron: I'm certain you'll need it.' 'Not Mr. Heathcliff, surely?' I exclaimed. 'What! would you have tears for him?' said the doctor. 'No, Heathcliff's a tough young fellow: he looks blooming to-day. I've just seen him. He's rapidly regaining flesh since he lost his better half.' 'Who is it, then, Mr. Kenneth?' I repeated impatiently. 'Hindley Earnshaw! Your old friend Hindley,' he replied, 'and my wicked gossip: though he's been too wild for me this long while. There! I said we should draw water. But cheer up! He died true to his character: drunk as a lord. Poor lad! I'm sorry, too. One can't help missing an old companion: though he had the worst tricks with him that ever man imagined, and has done me many a rascally turn. He's barely twenty-seven, it seems; that's your own age: who would have thought you were born in one year?' I confess this blow was greater to me than the shock of Mrs. Linton's death: ancient associations lingered round my heart; I sat down in the porch and wept as for a blood relation, desiring Mr. Kenneth to get another servant to introduce him to the master. I could not hinder myself from pondering on the question--'Had he had fair play?' Whatever I did, that idea would bother me: it was so tiresomely pertinacious that I resolved on requesting leave to go to Wuthering Heights, and assist in the last duties to the dead. Mr. Linton was extremely reluctant to consent, but I pleaded eloquently for the friendless condition in which he lay; and I said my old master and foster-brother had a claim on my services as strong as his own. Besides, I reminded him that the child Hareton was his wife's nephew, and, in the absence of nearer kin, he ought to act as its guardian; and he ought to and must inquire how the property was left, and look over the concerns of his brother-in-law. He was unfit for attending to such matters then, but he bid me speak to his lawyer; and at length permitted me to go. His lawyer had been Earnshaw's also: I called at the village, and asked him to accompany me. He shook his head, and advised that Heathcliff should be let alone; affirming, if the truth were known, Hareton would be found little else than a beggar. 'His father died in debt,' he said; 'the whole property is mortgaged, and the sole chance for the natural heir is to allow him an opportunity of creating some interest in the creditor's heart, that he may be inclined to deal leniently towards him.' When I reached the Heights, I explained that I had come to see everything carried on decently; and Joseph, who appeared in sufficient distress, expressed satisfaction at my presence. Mr. Heathcliff said he did not perceive that I was wanted; but I might stay and order the arrangements for the funeral, if I chose. 'Correctly,' he remarked, 'that fool's body should be buried at the cross-roads, without ceremony of any kind. I happened to leave him ten minutes yesterday afternoon, and in that interval he fastened the two doors of the house against me, and he has spent the night in drinking himself to death deliberately! We broke in this morning, for we heard him sporting like a horse; and there he was, laid over the settle: flaying and scalping would not have wakened him. I sent for Kenneth, and he came; but not till the beast had changed into carrion: he was both dead and cold, and stark; and so you'll allow it was useless making more stir about him!' The old servant confirmed this statement, but muttered: 'I'd rayther he'd goan hisseln for t' doctor! I sud ha' taen tent o' t' maister better nor him--and he warn't deead when I left, naught o' t' soart!' I insisted on the funeral being respectable. Mr. Heathcliff said I might have my own way there too: only, he desired me to remember that the money for the whole affair came out of his pocket. He maintained a hard, careless deportment, indicative of neither joy nor sorrow: if anything, it expressed a flinty gratification at a piece of difficult work successfully executed. I observed once, indeed, something like exultation in his aspect: it was just when the people were bearing the coffin from the house. He had the hypocrisy to represent a mourner: and previous to following with Hareton, he lifted the unfortunate child on to the table and muttered, with peculiar gusto, 'Now, my bonny lad, you are _mine_! And we'll see if one tree won't grow as crooked as another, with the same wind to twist it!' The unsuspecting thing was pleased at this speech: he played with Heathcliff's whiskers, and stroked his cheek; but I divined its meaning, and observed tartly, 'That boy must go back with me to Thrushcross Grange, sir. There is nothing in the world less yours than he is!' 'Does Linton say so?' he demanded. 'Of course--he has ordered me to take him,' I replied. 'Well,' said the scoundrel, 'we'll not argue the subject now: but I have a fancy to try my hand at rearing a young one; so intimate to your master that I must supply the place of this with my own, if he attempt to remove it. I don't engage to let Hareton go undisputed; but I'll be pretty sure to make the other come! Remember to tell him.' This hint was enough to bind our hands. I repeated its substance on my return; and Edgar Linton, little interested at the commencement, spoke no more of interfering. I'm not aware that he could have done it to any purpose, had he been ever so willing. The guest was now the master of Wuthering Heights: he held firm possession, and proved to the attorney--who, in his turn, proved it to Mr. Linton--that Earnshaw had mortgaged every yard of land he owned for cash to supply his mania for gaming; and he, Heathcliff, was the mortgagee. In that manner Hareton, who should now be the first gentleman in the neighbourhood, was reduced to a state of complete dependence on his father's inveterate enemy; and lives in his own house as a servant, deprived of the advantage of wages: quite unable to right himself, because of his friendlessness, and his ignorance that he has been wronged. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Cathy bringt eine Tochter namens Catherine zur Welt. Sie kommt zwei Monate zu früh zur Welt und kurz danach stirbt Cathy. Heathcliff erfährt bald von Cathys Tod und ist verärgert zu erfahren, dass sie während ihrer sterblichen Momente nicht seinen Namen erwähnt hat. Er verflucht ihren Geist, während er um seinen Verlust trauert. Vor der Beerdigung wacht Edgar tagsüber über Cathys Körper, und Heathcliff wacht nachts darüber. Cathy trägt ein Medaillon um den Hals, das eine Locke von Edgars Haar enthält. Heathcliff nimmt dies ab und ersetzt es durch eine Locke von seinem eigenen Haar. Nelly findet die Strähnen von Edgars Haar und verwickelt sie sowohl mit seinen als auch mit Heathcliffs Haaren in das Medaillon. Cathy wird auf dem Grabplatz am nächsten an den Mooren, fern von ihren Verwandten und auch von der Linton-Grabstätte, beerdigt. Isabella kommt in einem schlechten Zustand auf dem Grange an, aber sie weiß, dass Edgar es ihr nicht erlauben wird, zu bleiben. Sie sucht lediglich Hilfe. Es gab Konfrontationen auf Wuthering Heights, denn als Heathcliff von der Wache am Grab von Cathy zurückkehrte, sperrte Hindley ihn aus. Hindley will Heathcliff ermorden. Schließlich bekommt Heathcliff Zugang und schlägt Hindley heftig. Am nächsten Tag wird der Kampf fortgesetzt und Isabella gelingt die Flucht. Danach ging Isabella nach London und brachte einen Sohn namens Linton zur Welt. Der Bruder und die Schwester tauschen sich aus und versöhnen sich bis zu einem gewissen Grad. Isabella stirbt 13 Jahre später. Hindley stirbt 6 Monate nach Cathys Tod, und Nelly kehrt nach Wuthering Heights zurück, um den jungen Hareton zurück zum Thrushcross Grange zu bringen. Es stellt sich heraus, dass Hindley verschuldet war und dass Heathcliff ihm große Geldsummen geliehen hat, um seine Spielsucht zu finanzieren, und jetzt besitzt er Wuthering Heights. Heathcliff erzählt Nelly, dass er Hareton aufziehen und auch seinen Sohn Linton aus London mitnehmen 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: THERE was a curious social situation in Black Hawk. All the young men felt the attraction of the fine, well-set-up country girls who had come to town to earn a living, and, in nearly every case, to help the father struggle out of debt, or to make it possible for the younger children of the family to go to school. Those girls had grown up in the first bitter-hard times, and had got little schooling themselves. But the younger brothers and sisters, for whom they made such sacrifices and who have had "advantages," never seem to me, when I meet them now, half as interesting or as well educated. The older girls, who helped to break up the wild sod, learned so much from life, from poverty, from their mothers and grandmothers; they had all, like Antonia, been early awakened and made observant by coming at a tender age from an old country to a new. I can remember a score of these country girls who were in service in Black Hawk during the few years I lived there, and I can remember something unusual and engaging about each of them. Physically they were almost a race apart, and out-of-door work had given them a vigor which, when they got over their first shyness on coming to town, developed into a positive carriage and freedom of movement, and made them conspicuous among Black Hawk women. That was before the day of High-School athletics. Girls who had to walk more than half a mile to school were pitied. There was not a tennis court in the town; physical exercise was thought rather inelegant for the daughters of well-to-do families. Some of the High-School girls were jolly and pretty, but they stayed indoors in winter because of the cold, and in summer because of the heat. When one danced with them their bodies never moved inside their clothes; their muscles seemed to ask but one thing--not to be disturbed. I remember those girls merely as faces in the schoolroom, gay and rosy, or listless and dull, cut off below the shoulders, like cherubs, by the ink-smeared tops of the high desks that were surely put there to make us round-shouldered and hollow-chested. The daughters of Black Hawk merchants had a confident, uninquiring belief that they were "refined," and that the country girls, who "worked out," were not. The American farmers in our county were quite as hard-pressed as their neighbors from other countries. All alike had come to Nebraska with little capital and no knowledge of the soil they must subdue. All had borrowed money on their land. But no matter in what straits the Pennsylvanian or Virginian found himself, he would not let his daughters go out into service. Unless his girls could teach a country school, they sat at home in poverty. The Bohemian and Scandinavian girls could not get positions as teachers, because they had had no opportunity to learn the language. Determined to help in the struggle to clear the homestead from debt, they had no alternative but to go into service. Some of them, after they came to town, remained as serious and as discreet in behavior as they had been when they ploughed and herded on their father's farm. Others, like the three Bohemian Marys, tried to make up for the years of youth they had lost. But every one of them did what she had set out to do, and sent home those hard-earned dollars. The girls I knew were always helping to pay for ploughs and reapers, brood-sows, or steers to fatten. One result of this family solidarity was that the foreign farmers in our county were the first to become prosperous. After the fathers were out of debt, the daughters married the sons of neighbors,--usually of like nationality,--and the girls who once worked in Black Hawk kitchens are to-day managing big farms and fine families of their own; their children are better off than the children of the town women they used to serve. I thought the attitude of the town people toward these girls very stupid. If I told my schoolmates that Lena Lingard's grandfather was a clergyman, and much respected in Norway, they looked at me blankly. What did it matter? All foreigners were ignorant people who could n't speak English. There was not a man in Black Hawk who had the intelligence or cultivation, much less the personal distinction, of Antonia's father. Yet people saw no difference between her and the three Marys; they were all Bohemians, all "hired girls." I always knew I should live long enough to see my country girls come into their own, and I have. To-day the best that a harassed Black Hawk merchant can hope for is to sell provisions and farm machinery and automobiles to the rich farms where that first crop of stalwart Bohemian and Scandinavian girls are now the mistresses. The Black Hawk boys looked forward to marrying Black Hawk girls, and living in a brand-new little house with best chairs that must not be sat upon, and hand-painted china that must not be used. But sometimes a young fellow would look up from his ledger, or out through the grating of his father's bank, and let his eyes follow Lena Lingard, as she passed the window with her slow, undulating walk, or Tiny Soderball, tripping by in her short skirt and striped stockings. The country girls were considered a menace to the social order. Their beauty shone out too boldly against a conventional background. But anxious mothers need have felt no alarm. They mistook the mettle of their sons. The respect for respectability was stronger than any desire in Black Hawk youth. Our young man of position was like the son of a royal house; the boy who swept out his office or drove his delivery wagon might frolic with the jolly country girls, but he himself must sit all evening in a plush parlor where conversation dragged so perceptibly that the father often came in and made blundering efforts to warm up the atmosphere. On his way home from his dull call, he would perhaps meet Tony and Lena, coming along the sidewalk whispering to each other, or the three Bohemian Marys in their long plush coats and caps, comporting themselves with a dignity that only made their eventful histories the more piquant. If he went to the hotel to see a traveling man on business, there was Tiny, arching her shoulders at him like a kitten. If he went into the laundry to get his collars, there were the four Danish girls, smiling up from their ironing-boards, with their white throats and their pink cheeks. The three Marys were the heroines of a cycle of scandalous stories, which the old men were fond of relating as they sat about the cigar-stand in the drug-store. Mary Dusak had been housekeeper for a bachelor rancher from Boston, and after several years in his service she was forced to retire from the world for a short time. Later she came back to town to take the place of her friend, Mary Svoboda, who was similarly embarrassed. The three Marys were considered as dangerous as high explosives to have about the kitchen, yet they were such good cooks and such admirable housekeepers that they never had to look for a place. The Vannis' tent brought the town boys and the country girls together on neutral ground. Sylvester Lovett, who was cashier in his father's bank, always found his way to the tent on Saturday night. He took all the dances Lena Lingard would give him, and even grew bold enough to walk home with her. If his sisters or their friends happened to be among the onlookers on "popular nights," Sylvester stood back in the shadow under the cottonwood trees, smoking and watching Lena with a harassed expression. Several times I stumbled upon him there in the dark, and I felt rather sorry for him. He reminded me of Ole Benson, who used to sit on the draw-side and watch Lena herd her cattle. Later in the summer, when Lena went home for a week to visit her mother, I heard from Antonia that young Lovett drove all the way out there to see her, and took her buggy-riding. In my ingenuousness I hoped that Sylvester would marry Lena, and thus give all the country girls a better position in the town. Sylvester dallied about Lena until he began to make mistakes in his work; had to stay at the bank until after dark to make his books balance. He was daft about her, and every one knew it. To escape from his predicament he ran away with a widow six years older than himself, who owned a half-section. This remedy worked, apparently. He never looked at Lena again, nor lifted his eyes as he ceremoniously tipped his hat when he happened to meet her on the sidewalk. So that was what they were like, I thought, these white-handed, high-collared clerks and bookkeepers! I used to glare at young Lovett from a distance and only wished I had some way of showing my contempt for him. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Jim erklärt die soziale Situation in Black Hawk. Die Männer, die in der Stadt leben, fühlen sich zu den Landmädchen hingezogen. Die Landmädchen sind wie Antonia in schwierigen Verhältnissen aufgewachsen und haben keine formale Bildung. Aber Jim denkt, dass sie klüger und interessanter sind als die Privilegierten. Körperlich sind sie stark und fit, vor allem im Vergleich zu den Mädchen aus der Stadt, die selten nach draußen gehen. Das bedeutet, sie sind bessere Tänzerinnen. Und trotzdem denken die Mädchen aus der Stadt immer noch, dass sie besser sind als die Landmädchen. Jim bemerkt, dass die Familien dieser Mädchen genauso schwer hatten, als sie noch Bauern waren, aber die Amerikaner waren nicht bereit, ihre Töchter genauso arbeiten zu lassen wie die Einwanderer. Alles, was die Töchter der Amerikaner tun können, ist zu unterrichten, aber die Töchter der Einwanderer können nicht gut genug Englisch, also müssen sie Dienstleistungen verrichten. Daher sind, sagt Jim, die ausländischen Bauern diejenigen, die als Erste erfolgreich werden, und die jüngere Generation wird reicher als die amerikanischen Familien, für die sie früher gearbeitet haben. Jim findet es dumm, dass die Stadtleute den Hausmädchen keinen Respekt entgegenbringen. Er weiß, dass viele der Einwanderer in ihren alten Ländern angesehen waren - Lenas Großvater war zum Beispiel Geistlicher. Der Erzähler Jim ist froh, dass er den Tag erlebt hat, an dem die Einwanderer erfolgreicher sind als die Menschen, denen sie einst gedient haben. Die Stadtbuben planen, die Mädchen aus der Stadt zu heiraten, fühlen sich jedoch zu den Einwanderermädchen hingezogen. Aus diesem Grund drohen die Einwanderer, die soziale Ordnung durcheinanderzubringen. Aber das ist eine leere Drohung, da die Stadtbuben nicht wagen würden, eine von ihnen zu heiraten. Aber die Einwanderermädchen sind immer noch eine Versuchung für jeden jungen Mann von Rang. Er würde ihnen überall in der Stadt begegnen und von ihrer Schönheit versucht werden. Jim spricht kurz über die drei Marys, Einwanderermädchen, die auch in der Stadt arbeiteten. Mary Dusak arbeitete als Haushälterin für einen Junggesellen, aber er hat sie schwanger gemacht. Später arbeitete sie anstelle von Mary Svoboda, die auch von ihrem Arbeitgeber schwanger wurde. Aufgrund dessen gelten die drei Marys als gefährlich. Aber sie sind sehr gut im Kochen und Putzen. Der Tanzpavillon bringt alle Menschen in der Stadt aus verschiedenen sozialen Schichten zusammen. Sylvester Lovett ist ein Stadtbub, der immer mit Lena samstagabends tanzt und sie sogar nach Hause begleitet. Aber er versucht sich zu verstecken, wenn seine Freunde vorbeigehen. Er erinnert Jim an Ole. Jim erfährt, dass Sylvester zu Lena gefahren ist, als sie ihre Familie auf dem Bauernhof besuchte. Er hat sie mit dem Wagen mitgenommen. Jim hofft, dass Sylvester Lena heiraten wird und das Tabu des Umgangs mit Hausmädchen beseitigt. Aber stattdessen heiratet Sylvester eine Witwe, die sechs Jahre älter ist als er. Danach war er nicht mehr von Lena versucht. Jim mag Sylvester wegen dieser Sache überhaupt 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. Kapitel: Während sie den Weg nach oben führte, empfahl sie mir, die Kerze zu verstecken und keinen Lärm zu machen, denn ihr Herr hatte eine seltsame Vorstellung von dem Zimmer, in dem sie mich unterbringen würde, und ließ niemanden freiwillig dort übernachten. Ich fragte nach dem Grund. Sie wusste es nicht, antwortete sie. Sie lebte dort erst ein oder zwei Jahre, und es gab so viele seltsame Vorgänge, dass sie gar nicht erst neugierig werden wollte. Zu benommen, um selbst neugierig zu sein, schloss ich meine Tür und schaute mich nach dem Bett um. Die gesamte Möblierung bestand aus einem Stuhl, einem Kleiderschrank und einem großen Eichenkasten mit am oberen Ende ausgeschnittenen Quadraten, die wie Kutschenfenster aussahen. Als ich diese Konstruktion näher betrachtete, sah ich, dass es sich um eine eigenartige Art von altmodischer Ruhebank handelte, die sehr praktisch entworfen war, um die Notwendigkeit zu vermeiden, dass jedes Familienmitglied ein eigenes Zimmer haben musste. Tatsächlich bildete sie eine kleine Kammer, und der Sims eines Fensters, das sie einschloss, diente als Tisch. Ich schob die verpanelten Seiten zurück, stieg mit meinem Licht hinein, zog sie wieder zusammen und fühlte mich sicher vor der Wachsamkeit von Heathcliff und allen anderen. Der Sims, auf dem ich meine Kerze platzierte, hatte einige schimmelige Bücher, die in einer Ecke gestapelt waren, und war mit Kratzereien überzogen. Diese Schrift war jedoch nichts anderes als ein Name, der in allen möglichen Buchstaben, groß und klein, wiederholt wurde - Catherine Earnshaw, hier und da variiert zu Catherine Heathcliff und dann wieder zu Catherine Linton. In völliger Teilnahmslosigkeit lehnte ich meinen Kopf ans Fenster und buchstabierte immer wieder Catherine Earnshaw - Heathcliff - Linton, bis mir die Augen zufielen. Aber sie hatten sich noch keine fünf Minuten ausgeruht, als ein Leuchten weißer Buchstaben aus der Dunkelheit auftauchte, so lebendig wie Gespenster - die Luft wimmelte von Catherines. Und um den aufdringlichen Namen zu vertreiben, riss ich mich zusammen und bemerkte, dass der Docht meiner Kerze auf einem der antiken Bücher lag und einen Geruch von geröstetem Kalbsleder verströmte. Ich schnupperte ihn ab und setzte mich sehr unwohl unter dem Einfluss von Kälte und anhaltender Übelkeit auf und breitete die beschädigte Schriftrolle auf meinem Knie aus. Es war ein Testament, in spärlicher Schrift und roch schrecklich muffig: Ein Vorsatzblatt trug die Inschrift - "Catherine Earnshaw, ihr Buch" und ein Datum vor etwa einem Vierteljahrhundert. Ich schloss es und nahm ein anderes und noch ein weiteres auf, bis ich alle durchgelesen hatte. Catherines Büchersammlung war ausgesucht und ihr Zustand des Verfalls zeugte davon, dass sie gut benutzt worden war, wenn auch nicht ganz zu einem legitimen Zweck: Kaum ein Kapitel war verschont geblieben, ein Kugelschreiberkommentar - zumindest das Erscheinungsbild eines solchen - bedeckte jedes leere Fleckchen, das der Drucker hinterlassen hatte. Einige waren lose Sätze, andere Teile nahmen die Form eines regulären Tagebuchs an, das in einer unausgebildeten, kindlichen Handschrift gekritzelt war. Oben auf einer zusätzlichen Seite (ganz offensichtlich ein Schatz, als er zum ersten Mal entdeckt wurde) war ich sehr amüsiert, als ich eine ausgezeichnete Karikatur meines Freundes Joseph sah - grob, aber kraftvoll gezeichnet. Ein sofortiges Interesse entflammte in mir für die unbekannte Catherine, und ich begann sofort, ihre verblassten Hieroglyphen zu entziffern. "Ein schrecklicher Sonntag", begann der Absatz darunter. "Ich wünschte, mein Vater wäre wieder da. Hindley ist ein abscheulicher Ersatz - sein Verhalten gegenüber Heathcliff ist abscheulich - H. und ich wollen rebellieren - wir haben heute Abend unseren ersten Schritt unternommen. Den ganzen Tag über regnete es stark, wir konnten nicht in die Kirche gehen, also musste Joseph unbedingt eine Versammlung auf dem Dachboden veranstalten; und während Hindley und seine Frau unten vor einem gemütlichen Feuer sonnten - alles Mögliche taten, nur nicht in ihren Bibeln lasen, darauf gebe ich meine Antwort - wurden Heathcliff, ich und der unglückliche Pflüger angewiesen, unsere Gebetbücher zu nehmen und uns aufzustellen: Wir wurden in einer Reihe auf einem Sack Getreide aufgereiht, stöhnten und zitterten und hofften, dass Joseph auch zittern würde, damit er uns eine kurze Predigt aus eigenem Interesse halten könnte. Eine vergebliche Idee! Der Gottesdienst dauerte genau drei Stunden, und doch rief mein Bruder aus, als er uns zurückkommend sah: "Was, schon fertig?" An Sonntagabenden durften wir spielen, wenn wir nicht viel Lärm machten; jetzt reicht schon ein leises Kichern aus, um uns in die Ecken zu schicken. "Du vergisst, dass du hier einen Herrn hast", sagt der Tyrann. "Ich werde denjenigen vernichten, der mich wütend macht! Ich bestehe auf vollkommener Nüchternheit und Stille. Oh, Kind! Warst du das? Frances, Liebling, zieh ihm an den Haaren, wenn du vorbei gehst: Ich habe ihn schnippen gehört." Frances zog kräftig an seinen Haaren und setzte sich dann auf den Schoß ihres Mannes, und da saßen sie, wie zwei Babys, küssten sich und sprachen Unsinn stundenlang, törichtes Gerede, für das wir uns schämen sollten. Wir machten es uns so gemütlich, wie es unsere Mittel erlaubten, in der Ecke des Küchenschrankes. Ich hatte gerade unsere Schürzen zusammengebunden und sie als Vorhang aufgehängt, als Joseph hereinkam, um etwas aus den Stallungen zu holen. Er riss meine Arbeit herunter, schlug mir auf die Ohren und krächzte: "'T' maister nobbut just buried, and Sabbath not o'ered, und t' sound o' t' gospel still i' yer lugs, and ye darr be laiking! Shame on ye! sit ye down, ill childer! there's good books eneugh if ye'll read 'em: sit ye down, and think o' yer sowls!" 'Er zwang uns so, uns in Position zu bringen, dass wir von der weit entfernten Feuerstelle einen dünnen Lichtstrahl empfangen konnten, der uns den Text des Gerümpels zeigte, den er uns aufzwang. Ich konnte diese Beschäftigung nicht ertragen. Ich nahm mein schmutziges Buch am Rücken und schleuderte es in den Hundezwinger, schwörend, dass ich ein gutes Buch hasste. Heathcliff trat seines an den gleichen Ort. Dann entstand ein Tumult! '"Maister Hindley!" rief unser Kaplan. "Maister, komm her! Miss Cathy hat den Rücken der 'Rüstung des Heils' zerrissen, und Heathcliff hat seinen Fuß in den ersten Teil des 'Breiten Wegs zur Verdammnis' gesetzt! Es ist fair furchterregend, dass ihr sie auf diese Weise gewähren lasst. Ech! Der alte Mann hätte sie ordentlich gezüchtigt - aber er ist fort!" Hindley eilte aus seinem Paradies am Kamin auf und packte uns einen am Kragen und den anderen am Arm und schleuderte uns beide in die hintere Küche, wo, wie Joseph versicherte, uns der Teufel höchstselbst holen würde, so sicher wie wir am Leben waren: und, so getröstet, suchten wir jeder eine separate Ecke, um seine Ankunft abzuwarten. Ich griff nach diesem Buch und nach einem Tintenfass von einem Regal und ließ die Haustür angelehnt, um Licht zu haben, und ich habe 20 Minuten lang geschrieben; aber mein Begleiter wird ungeduldig und schlägt vor, dass wir uns den Umhang der Milchköchin aneignen und unter seinem Schutz auf dem Moor herumtollen. Ein angenehmer Vorsch Ich begann über die unscheinbare Seite einzunicken: Mein Blick wanderte von Manuskript zu Druck. Ich sah einen roten verzierten Titel - 'Siebzig mal Sieben und der Erste des Einundsiebzigsten. Eine fromme Predigt, gehalten von Reverend Jabez Branderham in der Kapelle von Gimmerden Sough'. Und während ich halb bewusst mein Gehirn quälte, um zu erraten, was Jabez Branderham aus seinem Thema machen würde, sank ich zurück ins Bett und schlief ein. Ach, die Auswirkungen von schlechtem Tee und schlechter Laune! Was sonst könnte es sein, dass ich eine solch schreckliche Nacht durchmachen musste? Ich erinnere mich nicht an eine andere Nacht, die ich damit vergleichen könnte, seit ich fähig zum Leiden war. Bevor ich mich meiner Umgebung nicht mehr bewusst war, begann ich zu träumen. Ich dachte, es wäre Morgen und ich wäre auf dem Weg nach Hause mit Joseph als Führer. Der Schnee lag mehrere Yard auf unserer Straße und während wir uns mühsam durch ihn hindurch kämpften, belästigte mich mein Begleiter ständig und machte mir Vorwürfe, dass ich keinen Pilgerstab dabei hatte. Er sagte mir, dass ich ohne einen niemals ins Haus kommen könnte und schwang prahlerisch einen schweren Knüppel mit einem großen Kopf, wie ich verstand. Für einen Moment erschien es mir absurd, dass ich solch eine Waffe brauchen würde, um Zutritt zu meinem eigenen Haus zu bekommen. Dann kam mir eine neue Idee. Ich ging nicht dorthin. Wir reisten, um den berühmten Jabez Branderham predigen zu hören, mit dem Text - 'Siebzig mal Sieben'. Entweder Joseph, der Prediger, oder ich hatten den 'Ersten des Einundsiebzigsten' begangen und sollten öffentlich bloßgestellt und ausgeschlossen werden. Wir kamen in der Kapelle an. Ich bin in meinen Spaziergängen bereits zweimal oder dreimal daran vorbeigekommen; sie liegt in einem Hohlweg zwischen zwei Hügeln: ein erhöhter Hohlweg in der Nähe eines Sumpfes, dessen torfige Feuchtigkeit angeblich alle Zwecke der Einbalsamierung für die wenigen dort abgelegten Leichen erfüllt. Das Dach war bisher intakt geblieben, aber da das Gehalt des Geistlichen nur zwanzig Pfund im Jahr beträgt und das Haus mit zwei Zimmern droht, sich bald in eines zu verwandeln, wird kein Geistlicher die Pflichten eines Pastors übernehmen: besonders weil es Gerüchte gibt, dass seine Gemeinde ihn lieber verhungern lassen würde, als den Unterhalt auch nur um einen Penny aus eigener Tasche zu erhöhen. Aber in meinem Traum hatte Jabez eine volle und aufmerksame Gemeinde, und er predigte - mein Gott! Was für eine Predigt. Sie war unterteilt in _vierhundertundneunzig_ Teile, von denen jeder einem gewöhnlichen Vortrag von der Kanzel völlig gleichwertig war und sich mit einer eigenen Sünde befasste! Woher er sie bezog, kann ich nicht sagen. Er hatte seine eigene Art, den Ausdruck zu interpretieren, und es schien notwendig zu sein, dass der Bruder auf jeder Gelegenheit unterschiedliche Sünden begehen sollte. Sie hatten die merkwürdigsten Charaktere: eigenartige Verstöße, die ich nie zuvor vorgestellt hatte. Oh, wie müde ich wurde. Wie ich mich wand, gähnte, nickte und mich wieder belebte! Wie ich mich kniff und stach, mir in die Augen rieb, aufstand und mich wieder setzte und Joseph anstieß, um mich zu informieren, ob er jemals fertig sein würde. Ich war dazu verurteilt, alles bis zum Ende anzuhören; schließlich erreichte er den '_Ersten des Einundsiebzigsten_'. In dieser Krise kam mir eine plötzliche Inspiration; ich fühlte mich bewegt, aufzustehen und Jabez Branderham als den Sünder der Sünde anzuklagen, für die kein Christ Vergebung braucht. 'Herr', rief ich aus, 'hier drinnen innerhalb dieser vier Wände habe ich am Stück die vierhundertundneunzig Teile deiner Rede erduldet und verziehen. Siebzig mal sieben Mal habe ich meine Mütze gehoben und mich bereits auf den Weg gemacht - Siebzig mal sieben Mal hast du mich groteskerweise gezwungen, meinen Platz wieder einzunehmen. Die vierhundertundeinundneunzigste ist zu viel. Leidensgefährten, greift ihn an! Zerrt ihn herunter und zerschlagt ihn zu Staub, damit der Ort, der ihn kennt, ihn nie wieder kennt!' '_Du bist der Mann_!', rief Jabez aus, nach einer feierlichen Pause über sein Kissen gebeugt. 'Siebzig mal sieben Mal hast du dein Gesicht angewidert verzerrt - Siebzig mal sieben Mal habe ich mit meiner Seele beraten - Siehe, das ist menschliche Schwäche: auch das kann vergeben werden! Der Erste des Einundsiebzigsten ist gekommen. Brüder, vollstreckt über ihn das geschriebene Urteil. Eine solche Ehre haben all seine Heiligen!' Mit diesem Schlusswort stürmte die gesamte Versammlung, ihre Pilgerstöcke hoch erhebend, auf mich los und ich begann, mich mit Joseph, meinem nächsten und furchtbarsten Angreifer, zu prügeln, da ich keine Waffe zur Selbstverteidigung hatte. In der Menge überkreuzten sich mehrere Stöcke; Schläge, die auf mich abgezielt waren, trafen andere Köpfe. Bald hallte die gesamte Kapelle wider von Klopfen und Gegenklopfen: Jeder hatte es auf seinen Nachbarn abgesehen und Branderham, der nicht untätig bleiben wollte, ließ seinen Eifer in einem Schauer von lauten Schlägen auf das Podium ertönen, die so gellend antworteten, dass sie mich schließlich zu meiner unsagbaren Erleichterung aufwachten. Und was hatte den gewaltigen Tumult verursacht? Was hatte Jabez's Rolle im Aufruhr gespielt? Lediglich der Zweig einer Tanne, der an meinem Fenstergitter berührte, als der Wind heulte und seine trockenen Zapfen gegen die Fensterscheiben klapperten! Ich lauschte zweifelnd einen Augenblick, erkannte den Störenfried, dann drehte ich mich um, döste ein und träumte erneut: wenn möglich, noch unangenehmer als zuvor. Dieses Mal erinnerte ich mich daran, dass ich im Eichenschrank lag, und hörte deutlich den stürmischen Wind und das Treiben des Schnees. Ich hörte auch das Tannenzweigchen, wie es sein neckendes Geräusch wiederholte, und schrieb es der richtigen Ursache zu: aber es ärgerte mich so sehr, dass ich beschloss, es zu zum Schweigen zu bringen, wenn möglich; und ich dachte, ich sei aufgestanden und habe versucht, den Fensterflügel zu öffnen. Der Haken war ins Schließblech gelötet: ein Umstand, den ich im Wachzustand bemerkt hatte, aber vergessen hatte. "Ich muss es trotzdem aufhalten!" murmelte ich und schlug mit meinen Knöcheln durch das Glas und streckte einen Arm aus, um den aufdringlichen Ast zu ergreifen; stattdessen schlossen sich meine Finger um die Finger einer kleinen, eiskalten Hand! Der intensive Horror eines Albtraums überkam mich: Ich versuchte meinen Arm zurückzuziehen, aber die Hand hielt sich daran fest, und eine äußerst melancholische Stimme schluchzte: "Lass mich rein - lass mich rein!" "Wer bist du?" fragte ich, während ich mich gleichzeitig bemühte, mich zu befreien. "Catherine Linton", antwortete sie, zitternd (warum dachte ich an Linton? Ich hatte Earnshaw zwanzigmal anstelle von Linton gelesen) - "Ich bin nach Hause gekommen: Ich hatte mich auf der Moorlandschaft verirrt!" Während es sprach, erkannte ich undeutlich ein Kindergesicht, das durch das Fenster schaute. Die Angst machte mich grausam; und da ich feststellte, dass es nutzlos war, das Wesen abzuschütteln, zog ich sein Handgelenk auf das zerbrochene Fenster und rieb es hin und her, bis das Blut herunterlief und die Bettwäsche durchnässte: trotzdem jammerte es "Lass mich rein!" und behielt seinen hartnäckigen Griff bei, der mich fast wahnsinnig vor Angst machte. "Wie soll ich das tun!" sagte ich schließlich. "Lass _mich_ gehen, wenn du willst, dass ich dich reinlasse!" Die Finger entspannten sich, ich zog meine Hand durch das Loch, stapelte hastig die Bücher zu einem Pyramide dagegen und verschloss meine Ohren, um das beklagenswerte Gebet auszuschließen. Es schien, als ob ich sie eine Viertelstunde lang geschlossen hielt; dennoch, als ich wieder zuhörte, war da der klagende Schrei immer noch zu hören! "Verschwinde!" schrie ich. "Ich lasse dich nie herein, auch nicht wenn du zwanzig Jahre lang bettelst." "Es ist zwanzig Jahre", klagte die Stimme: "zwanzig Jahre. Ich bin zwanzig Jahre lang umhergeirrt!" Daraufhin begann ein schwaches Kratzen draußen, und der Stapel Bücher bewegte sich, als würde er nach vorne geschoben. Ich versuchte aufzuspringen, konnte aber kein Glied rühren; und so schrie ich vor Entsetzen laut auf. Zu meiner Verwirrung stellte ich fest, dass der Schrei nicht nur in meiner Vorstellung stattfand: Eilige Schritte näherten sich meiner Zimmertür; jemand stieß sie mit kräftiger Hand auf, und ein Licht schimmerte durch die Quadrate oben am Bett. Ich saß zitternd da und wischte mir den Schweiß von der Stirn: der Eindringling schien zu zögern und murmelte vor sich hin. Schließlich sagte er halblaut, offenbar ohne eine Antwort zu erwarten: "Ist hier jemand?" Ich hielt es für das Beste, meine Anwesenheit zu gestehen; schließlich kannte ich Heathcliffs Stimme und fürchtete, er könnte weiter suchen, wenn ich mich still verhielt. Mit diesem Vorsatz drehte ich mich um und öffnete die Paneele. Ich werde die Wirkung meiner Handlung nicht so bald vergessen. Heathcliff stand in Hemd und Hose nahe dem Eingang, eine Kerze tropfte über seine Finger, und sein Gesicht war so weiß wie die Wand dahinter. Das erste Knarren der Eiche erschreckte ihn wie ein elektrischer Schlag: das Licht sprang aus seiner Hand einige Schritte entfernt, und seine Aufregung war so groß, dass er es kaum aufheben konnte. "Es ist nur Ihr Gast, Sir", rief ich aus, um ihm die Demütigung zu ersparen, seine Feigheit weiter zu enthüllen. "Ich hatte das Pech, in meinem Schlaf zu schreien, aufgrund eines furchtbaren Albtraums. Es tut mir leid, dass ich Sie gestört habe." "Oh, Gott verdammt Sie, Herr Lockwood! Ich wünschte, Sie wären bei der–", begann mein Gastgeber und stellte die Kerze auf einen Stuhl, weil es ihm unmöglich war, sie ruhig zu halten. "Und wer hat Sie in dieses Zimmer geführt?" fuhr er fort und presste seine Nägel in seine Handflächen und knirschte mit den Zähnen, um die Kieferkrämpfe zu unterdrücken. "Wer war das? Ich habe großes Verlangen, sie in diesem Moment aus dem Haus zu werfen." "Es war Ihr Diener Zillah", antwortete ich und warf mich auf den Boden und zog meine Kleider schnell wieder an. "Es wäre mir egal, wenn Sie das täten, Mr. Heathcliff. Sie hat es reichlich verdient. Ich nehme an, dass sie einen weiteren Beweis dafür finden wollte, dass der Ort von Geistern heimgesucht wird, auf meine Kosten. Nun, das ist er auch – er wimmelt von Geistern und Kobolden! Sie haben Recht, ihn abzuschließen, das versichere ich Ihnen. Niemand wird Ihnen für ein Nickerchen in einem derartigen Schlupfwinkel danken!" "Was meinen Sie damit?" fragte Heathcliff. "Und was machen Sie da? Legen Sie sich hin und dösen Sie weiter, da Sie nun einmal hier sind; aber um Himmels willen! wiederholen Sie dieses schreckliche Geräusch nicht: Nichts könnte es rechtfertigen, es sei denn, Ihnen würde die Kehle durchgeschnitten!" "Wenn das kleine Ungeheuer durchs Fenster gekommen wäre, hätte sie mich wahrscheinlich erwürgt!" gab ich zurück. "Ich werde nicht die Verfolgung Ihrer gastfreundlichen Vorfahren ertragen. War nicht der Reverend Jabez Branderham mit Ihnen mütterlicherseits verwandt? Und dieses Teufelsmädchen Catherine Linton oder Earnshaw oder wie auch immer sie genannt wurde – sie muss eine Wechselbalg gewesen sein, eine böse kleine Seele! Sie hat mir erzählt, dass sie schon zwanzig Jahre auf der Erde umherwandelt: eine gerechte Strafe für ihre sterblichen Vergehen, da bin ich sicher!" Kaum waren diese Worte ausgesprochen, als mir die Verbindung zwischen Heathcliff und Catherines Namen im Buch wieder einfiel, die bis dahin völlig aus meiner Erinnerung verschwunden waren und nun wieder erweckt wurden. Ich errötete ob meiner Gedankenlosigkeit: aber ohne meine weitere Missachtung zu zeigen, beeilte ich mich, hinzuzufügen: "Die Wahrheit ist, Sir, ich habe den ersten Teil der Nacht damit verbracht –" An dieser Stelle stoppte ich erneut – ich hatte sagen wollen "indem ich diese alten Bücher gelesen habe", dann hätte ich mein Wissen über ihre geschriebenen, sowie ihre gedruckten, Inhalte offenbart; also korrigierte ich mich und fuhr fort: "indem ich den auf der Fensterbank eingeritzten Namen buchstabierte. Eine monotonen Beschäftigung, die mich einschlafen lassen soll, wie zählen oder –" "Was meinen Sie mit dieser Art des Sprechens zu _mir_!", donnerte Heathcliff mit wilder Heftigkeit Ich befolgte den Befehl, das Zimmer zu verlassen. Ahnungslos, wohin die engen Gänge führten, blieb ich stehen und wurde unwillentlich Zeuge eines Aberglaubens meines Vermieters, der seltsamerweise seinem offensichtlichen Verstand widersprach. Er stieg auf das Bett und riss das Gitter auf, dabei brach er in unkontrollierbares Weinen aus. "Komm rein! Komm rein!" schluchzte er. "Cathy, komm doch. Oh, bitte - noch einmal! Oh! Meine geliebte Catherine, höre mich _dieses_ Mal, endlich!" Das Gespenst zeigte den üblichen Launen eines Gespenstes: Es gab keine Anzeichen seiner Existenz, aber der Schnee und der Wind wirbelten wild hindurch, erreichten sogar meine Position und bliesen das Licht aus. In diesem tobenden Schmerzensstrom war so viel Leid, dass mein Mitgefühl mich dazu brachte, die Torheit zu übersehen. Ich zog mich halb verärgert zurück, dass ich überhaupt zugehört hatte und ärgerte mich, dass ich meinen lächerlichen Albtraum erzählt hatte, da er diese Qual hervorrief; obwohl ich nicht verstand, warum. Ich stieg vorsichtig hinunter in die unteren Räume und landete in der Hinterküche, wo ein Schimmer von Feuer, sorgfältig zusammengeschoben, es mir ermöglichte, meine Kerze wieder anzuzünden. Nichts regte sich außer einer gesprenkelten grauen Katze, die aus der Asche kroch und mich mit einem quengeligen Miauen begrüßte. Zwei Bänke, in Form von Teilkreisen, umgaben beinahe den Kamin; auf einem davon streckte ich mich aus und Grimalkin erklomm den anderen. Wir beide nickten ein, bevor jemand unseren Rückzug störte, und dann war es Joseph, der auf einer hölzernen Leiter, die im Dach verschwand, durch eine Falltür herabkam: vermutlich war das der Aufstieg zu seinem Dachboden. Er warf einen finsteren Blick auf die kleine Flamme, die ich zwischen den Rippen zum Spielen gebracht hatte, fegte die Katze von ihrer Erhöhung und nahm selbst in der Lücke Platz und begann, eine drei Zoll dicke Pfeife mit Tabak zu stopfen. Meine Anwesenheit in seinem Heiligtum wurde offensichtlich für eine Schamlosigkeit gehalten, die zu schändlich war, um sie anzumerken: Er setzte das Rohr stumm an seine Lippen, faltete die Arme und paffte vor sich hin. Ich ließ ihn ungestört die Luxusversion genießen, und nachdem er den letzten Rauchring herausgesogen und tief seufzend ausgestoßen hatte, stand er auf und ging so feierlich, wie er gekommen war. Ein paar Augenblick später betrat jemand mit einer elastischen Fußstape das Zimmer, und ich öffnete meinen Mund, um ein "Guten Morgen" zu sagen, schloss ihn aber wieder, da die Begrüßung unvollendet blieb; denn Hareton Earnshaw sprach seinen Gebetsfluch _sotto voce_ aus in einer Serie von Flüchen, die gegen jedes Objekt gerichtet waren, das er berührte, während er eine Ecke durchwühlte, um eine Schaufel oder einen Spaten zum Durchgraben der Schneeverwehungen zu finden. Er warf einen Blick über die Rückseite der Bank, blähte die Nüstern auf und dachte nicht im Geringsten daran, Höflichkeiten mit mir oder meiner Begleiterin, der Katze, auszutauschen. Ich schätzte, dass der Ausgang gestattet war und verließ meinen harten Schlafplatz und machte eine Bewegung, um ihm zu folgen. Er bemerkte das und stieß mit dem Ende seines Spatens gegen eine Innentür und gab mit einem undeutlichen Geräusch zu verstehen, dass dies der Ort war, an dem ich mich hinwenden musste, wenn ich meinen Standort ändern wollte. Es öffnete sich ins Haus, wo die Frauen schon aktiv waren; Zillah pustete Flammenzungen mit einem riesigen Blasebalg in den Kamin, und Mrs. Heathcliff kniete auf dem Kamin und las ein Buch im Licht des Feuers. Sie hielt ihre Hand zwischen die Hitze und ihre Augen und schien in ihrer Beschäftigung vertieft zu sein; sie unterbrach sie nur, um die Dienerin zu schelten, die sie mit Funken bedeckte oder um ab und zu einen Hund wegzustoßen, der ihr Nasens dürftig zu weit vorne hinübergeschnuppst hatte. Ich war überrascht, Heathcliff dort zu sehen. Er stand am Feuer, den Rücken zu mir gewandt und beendete gerade eine stürmische Szene mit der armen Zillah; die immer wieder ihre Arbeit unterbrach, um durch Berühren der Ecke ihrer Schürze empört zu stöhnen. "Und du, du wertloses...," brach er aus, als ich eintrat und wandte sich an seine Schwiegertochter und benutzte ein so harmloses Schimpfwort wie Ente oder Schaf, das jedoch allgemein durch einen Gedankenstrich repräsentiert wurde -., "Da bist du wieder, bei deinen nutzlosen Späßen! Alle anderen verdienen sich ihr Brot - du lebst von meiner Gnade! Räum dein Zeug weg und such dir etwas zu tun. Du wirst mir bezahlen für die Plage, dass ich dich ewig vor Augen habe - hörst du, verdammte Hexe?" "Ich werde mein Zeug weglegen, weil du mich dazu zwingen kannst, wenn ich es ablehne", antwortete die junge Dame, schloss ihr Buch und warf es auf einen Stuhl. "Aber ich werde nichts tun, auch wenn du dir die Zunge aus dem Hals schwörst, außer das, was mir gefällt!" Heathcliff hob die Hand, und die Sprecherin sprang auf einen sichereren Abstand, offensichtlich mit dem Gewicht vertraut. Da ich keine Lust hatte, einen Kampf zwischen Hund und Katze zu beobachten, trat ich energisch vor, als ob ich eifrig danach trachtete, die Wärme des Kamins zu genießen und nichts von dem unterbrochenen Streit wusste. Beide bewahrten genug Anstand, um weitere Feindseligkeiten zu unterlassen: Heathcliff steckte versuchungssicher die Fäuste in die Taschen; Mrs. Heathcliff zog die Lippen hoch und ging zu einem weit entfernten Platz, wo sie ihr Wort hielt und während des Rests meines Aufenthalts die Rolle einer Statue übernahm. Das dauerte nicht lange. Ich lehnte es ab, ihr Frühstück mit ihnen einzunehmen und nutzte beim ersten Aufblinken der Morgendämmerung die Gelegenheit, ins freie, nun klare, ruhige und kalte, greifbare Eis zu entkommen. Mein Vermieter rief mir zu, ich solle anhalten, bevor ich den unteren Teil des Gartens erreichte, und bot an, mich über die Heide zu begleiten. Gut, dass er es tat, denn der ganze Hügelrücken war ein wellenförmiger, weißer Ozean; die Erhebungen und Absenkungen zeigten keine entsprechenden Erhebungen und Senkungen im Gelände an: viele Gruben waren mindestens aufgefüllt, und ganze Haufen von Schutt, der aus den Steinbrüchen stammte, waren von der Karte verschwunden, die mein gestrige Spaziergang in meinem Kopf zurückgelassen hatte. Auf der einen Seite der Straße hatte ich in Abständen von sechs oder sieben Metern eine Reihe aufrechter Steine bemerkt, die sich durch die gesamte Länge der Ödnis erstreckten: Diese waren aufgestellt und mit Kalk bestrichen, um bei Dunkelheit als Orientierungshilfen zu dienen, und auch wenn eine Schneeverwehung wie die gegenwärtige den tiefen Sumpf rechts und links mit dem festeren Weg verwechselte: Aber mit Ausnahme eines schmutzigen Punktes, der hier und da nach oben zeigte, waren alle Spuren ihrer Existenz verschwunden, und mein Begleiter fand es notwendig, mich häufig davor zu warnen, nach rechts oder links zu steuern, wenn ich glaubte, den Windungen der Straße korrekt zu folgen. Wir tauschten wenig Worte aus, und er blieb am Eingang von Thrushcross Park stehen und sagte, dass ich dort keinen Fehler machen könne. Unsere Abschiede beschränkten sich auf einen eiligen Gruß, Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Lockwood wird nach oben zu einem Schlafzimmer geführt und gewarnt, dass es Heathcliff nicht recht wäre, wenn er herausfinden würde, dass dort jemand schläft. Das Bett ist eine merkwürdige Konstruktion mit Schiebefenstern. Innen befinden sich eine Menge alter Bücher und eine Schmalseite mit Namen, die hineingeschrieben sind: Catherine Earnshaw, Catherine Heathcliff und Catherine Linton. Andere Bücher enthalten Tagebucheinträge in den Rändern und auf den leeren Seiten. Beim Lesen der Einträge erinnert sich Lockwood daran, wie Heathcliff und der Verfasser der Einträge als junge Kinder zusammen waren. Das ist was wir erfahren: Hindley führt das Haus, wenn der Vater weg ist. Catherine beschreibt Hindley als einen "Tyrannen". Zwischen Hindleys Grausamkeit und Josephs erdrückender Predigt ist die Stimmung recht düster. Hindley behandelt Heathcliff wie einen Diener und Außenseiter - obwohl es noch nicht klar ist, wer all diese Personen zueinander sind. Catherine und Heathcliff trösten sich, indem sie sich unter Möbeln verstecken oder auf den Mooren rennen. Das alles liest sich wie ein Lichtblick inmitten eines Meeres aus bedrückendem Elend. Zurück in der Gegenwart: Lockwood verfällt in einen psychedelischen Traum über Joseph und einen Besuch in einer Kapelle, in der er eine endlose Predigt von einem gewissen Jabes Branderham über sich ergehen lässt. Die Predigt gipfelt darin, dass alle Anwesenden in der Kapelle sich gegenseitig angreifen, während Branderham auf der Kanzel hämmert und versucht, Ordnung unter der Menge zu schaffen. Ein verwirrter Lockwood erwacht und erkennt, dass ein Tannenzapfen am Fenster die eigentliche Ursache für die lauten Geräusche ist. Da das Fenster verlötet ist, muss Lockwood es zerbrechen und nach draußen greifen, um den Zweig zu bewegen. Der Zweig entpuppt sich als eiskalte Hand und eine Stimme stöhnt "Lass mich herein". Die Stimme identifiziert sich als "Catherine Linton" und erklärt, dass sie "nach Hause gekommen" sei. Anstatt das unglückliche Gespenst einfach hereinzulassen, reibt unser einfältiger Erzähler die Hand "hin und her" über das zerbrochene Glas, um ihren frostigen Griff zu lösen. Das Gespenst murmelt einige andere wichtige Informationen, die Lockwood nicht dazu bringen, mitfühlender zu sein. Heathcliff kommt herein, um zu sehen, was für ein Lärm das ist. Er ist sichtlich schockiert, seinen ungeschickten Mieter im lauten Eichenholzbett zu sehen. Lockwood erzählt Heathcliff von seinen Träumen und dem Gespenst und sagt, dass er überzeugt ist, dass das Haus verflucht ist. Heathcliff wird emotional, versucht es aber zu verbergen. Lockwood weiß, dass etwas nicht stimmt, als er Heathcliff schluchzen und durch das zerbrochene Fenster rufen sieht: "Cathy, komm doch. Oh, komm doch - ein letztes Mal! Oh! Mein liebstes Herz, hör mich dieses Mal - Catherine endlich!" Jetzt wissen wir, dass Heathcliff neben seiner Reizbarkeit auch untröstlich ist. Im Grunde möchte er von einem Geist heimgesucht werden. Was ist denn da los? Lockwood verbringt den Rest der Nacht damit, in der Küche zu sitzen und zuzusehen, wie die verschiedenen Hausbewohner sich gegenseitig beleidigen. Bei Tagesanbruch irrt Lockwood inmitten des dicken Schnees zurück nach Thrushcross Grange. Er ist ein Wrack.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). 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> 8--Those Who Are Found Where There Is Said to Be Nobody As soon as the sad little boy had withdrawn from the fire he clasped the money tight in the palm of his hand, as if thereby to fortify his courage, and began to run. There was really little danger in allowing a child to go home alone on this part of Egdon Heath. The distance to the boy's house was not more than three-eighths of a mile, his father's cottage, and one other a few yards further on, forming part of the small hamlet of Mistover Knap: the third and only remaining house was that of Captain Vye and Eustacia, which stood quite away from the small cottages and was the loneliest of lonely houses on these thinly populated slopes. He ran until he was out of breath, and then, becoming more courageous, walked leisurely along, singing in an old voice a little song about a sailor-boy and a fair one, and bright gold in store. In the middle of this the child stopped--from a pit under the hill ahead of him shone a light, whence proceeded a cloud of floating dust and a smacking noise. Only unusual sights and sounds frightened the boy. The shrivelled voice of the heath did not alarm him, for that was familiar. The thornbushes which arose in his path from time to time were less satisfactory, for they whistled gloomily, and had a ghastly habit after dark of putting on the shapes of jumping madmen, sprawling giants, and hideous cripples. Lights were not uncommon this evening, but the nature of all of them was different from this. Discretion rather than terror prompted the boy to turn back instead of passing the light, with a view of asking Miss Eustacia Vye to let her servant accompany him home. When the boy had reascended to the top of the valley he found the fire to be still burning on the bank, though lower than before. Beside it, instead of Eustacia's solitary form, he saw two persons, the second being a man. The boy crept along under the bank to ascertain from the nature of the proceedings if it would be prudent to interrupt so splendid a creature as Miss Eustacia on his poor trivial account. After listening under the bank for some minutes to the talk he turned in a perplexed and doubting manner and began to withdraw as silently as he had come. That he did not, upon the whole, think it advisable to interrupt her conversation with Wildeve, without being prepared to bear the whole weight of her displeasure, was obvious. Here was a Scyllaeo-Charybdean position for a poor boy. Pausing when again safe from discovery, he finally decided to face the pit phenomenon as the lesser evil. With a heavy sigh he retraced the slope, and followed the path he had followed before. The light had gone, the rising dust had disappeared--he hoped for ever. He marched resolutely along, and found nothing to alarm him till, coming within a few yards of the sandpit, he heard a slight noise in front, which led him to halt. The halt was but momentary, for the noise resolved itself into the steady bites of two animals grazing. "Two he'th-croppers down here," he said aloud. "I have never known 'em come down so far afore." The animals were in the direct line of his path, but that the child thought little of; he had played round the fetlocks of horses from his infancy. On coming nearer, however, the boy was somewhat surprised to find that the little creatures did not run off, and that each wore a clog, to prevent his going astray; this signified that they had been broken in. He could now see the interior of the pit, which, being in the side of the hill, had a level entrance. In the innermost corner the square outline of a van appeared, with its back towards him. A light came from the interior, and threw a moving shadow upon the vertical face of gravel at the further side of the pit into which the vehicle faced. The child assumed that this was the cart of a gipsy, and his dread of those wanderers reached but to that mild pitch which titillates rather than pains. Only a few inches of mud wall kept him and his family from being gipsies themselves. He skirted the gravel pit at a respectful distance, ascended the slope, and came forward upon the brow, in order to look into the open door of the van and see the original of the shadow. The picture alarmed the boy. By a little stove inside the van sat a figure red from head to heels--the man who had been Thomasin's friend. He was darning a stocking, which was red like the rest of him. Moreover, as he darned he smoked a pipe, the stem and bowl of which were red also. At this moment one of the heath-croppers feeding in the outer shadows was audibly shaking off the clog attached to its foot. Aroused by the sound, the reddleman laid down his stocking, lit a lantern which hung beside him, and came out from the van. In sticking up the candle he lifted the lantern to his face, and the light shone into the whites of his eyes and upon his ivory teeth, which, in contrast with the red surrounding, lent him a startling aspect enough to the gaze of a juvenile. The boy knew too well for his peace of mind upon whose lair he had lighted. Uglier persons than gipsies were known to cross Egdon at times, and a reddleman was one of them. "How I wish 'twas only a gipsy!" he murmured. The man was by this time coming back from the horses. In his fear of being seen the boy rendered detection certain by nervous motion. The heather and peat stratum overhung the brow of the pit in mats, hiding the actual verge. The boy had stepped beyond the solid ground; the heather now gave way, and down he rolled over the scarp of grey sand to the very foot of the man. The red man opened the lantern and turned it upon the figure of the prostrate boy. "Who be ye?" he said. "Johnny Nunsuch, master!" "What were you doing up there?" "I don't know." "Watching me, I suppose?" "Yes, master." "What did you watch me for?" "Because I was coming home from Miss Vye's bonfire." "Beest hurt?" "No." "Why, yes, you be--your hand is bleeding. Come under my tilt and let me tie it up." "Please let me look for my sixpence." "How did you come by that?" "Miss Vye gied it to me for keeping up her bonfire." The sixpence was found, and the man went to the van, the boy behind, almost holding his breath. The man took a piece of rag from a satchel containing sewing materials, tore off a strip, which, like everything else, was tinged red, and proceeded to bind up the wound. "My eyes have got foggy-like--please may I sit down, master?" said the boy. "To be sure, poor chap. 'Tis enough to make you feel fainty. Sit on that bundle." The man finished tying up the gash, and the boy said, "I think I'll go home now, master." "You are rather afraid of me. Do you know what I be?" The child surveyed his vermilion figure up and down with much misgiving and finally said, "Yes." "Well, what?" "The reddleman!" he faltered. "Yes, that's what I be. Though there's more than one. You little children think there's only one cuckoo, one fox, one giant, one devil, and one reddleman, when there's lots of us all." "Is there? You won't carry me off in your bags, will ye, master? 'Tis said that the reddleman will sometimes." "Nonsense. All that reddlemen do is sell reddle. You see all these bags at the back of my cart? They are not full of little boys--only full of red stuff." "Was you born a reddleman?" "No, I took to it. I should be as white as you if I were to give up the trade--that is, I should be white in time--perhaps six months; not at first, because 'tis grow'd into my skin and won't wash out. Now, you'll never be afraid of a reddleman again, will ye?" "No, never. Willy Orchard said he seed a red ghost here t'other day--perhaps that was you?" "I was here t'other day." "Were you making that dusty light I saw by now?" "Oh yes, I was beating out some bags. And have you had a good bonfire up there? I saw the light. Why did Miss Vye want a bonfire so bad that she should give you sixpence to keep it up?" "I don't know. I was tired, but she made me bide and keep up the fire just the same, while she kept going up across Rainbarrow way." "And how long did that last?" "Until a hopfrog jumped into the pond." The reddleman suddenly ceased to talk idly. "A hopfrog?" he inquired. "Hopfrogs don't jump into ponds this time of year." "They do, for I heard one." "Certain-sure?" "Yes. She told me afore that I should hear'n; and so I did. They say she's clever and deep, and perhaps she charmed 'en to come." "And what then?" "Then I came down here, and I was afeard, and I went back; but I didn't like to speak to her, because of the gentleman, and I came on here again." "A gentleman--ah! What did she say to him, my man?" "Told him she supposed he had not married the other woman because he liked his old sweetheart best; and things like that." "What did the gentleman say to her, my sonny?" "He only said he did like her best, and how he was coming to see her again under Rainbarrow o' nights." "Ha!" cried the reddleman, slapping his hand against the side of his van so that the whole fabric shook under the blow. "That's the secret o't!" The little boy jumped clean from the stool. "My man, don't you be afraid," said the dealer in red, suddenly becoming gentle. "I forgot you were here. That's only a curious way reddlemen have of going mad for a moment; but they don't hurt anybody. And what did the lady say then?" "I can't mind. Please, Master Reddleman, may I go home-along now?" "Ay, to be sure you may. I'll go a bit of ways with you." He conducted the boy out of the gravel pit and into the path leading to his mother's cottage. When the little figure had vanished in the darkness the reddleman returned, resumed his seat by the fire, and proceeded to darn again. </CHAPTER> <CHAPTER> 9--Love Leads a Shrewd Man into Strategy Reddlemen of the old school are now but seldom seen. Since the introduction of railways Wessex farmers have managed to do without these Mephistophelian visitants, and the bright pigment so largely used by shepherds in preparing sheep for the fair is obtained by other routes. Even those who yet survive are losing the poetry of existence which characterized them when the pursuit of the trade meant periodical journeys to the pit whence the material was dug, a regular camping out from month to month, except in the depth of winter, a peregrination among farms which could be counted by the hundred, and in spite of this Arab existence the preservation of that respectability which is insured by the never-failing production of a well-lined purse. Reddle spreads its lively hues over everything it lights on, and stamps unmistakably, as with the mark of Cain, any person who has handled it half an hour. A child's first sight of a reddleman was an epoch in his life. That blood-coloured figure was a sublimation of all the horrid dreams which had afflicted the juvenile spirit since imagination began. "The reddleman is coming for you!" had been the formulated threat of Wessex mothers for many generations. He was successfully supplanted for a while, at the beginning of the present century, by Buonaparte; but as process of time rendered the latter personage stale and ineffective the older phrase resumed its early prominence. And now the reddleman has in his turn followed Buonaparte to the land of worn-out bogeys, and his place is filled by modern inventions. The reddleman lived like a gipsy; but gipsies he scorned. He was about as thriving as travelling basket and mat makers; but he had nothing to do with them. He was more decently born and brought up than the cattledrovers who passed and repassed him in his wanderings; but they merely nodded to him. His stock was more valuable than that of pedlars; but they did not think so, and passed his cart with eyes straight ahead. He was such an unnatural colour to look at that the men of roundabouts and waxwork shows seemed gentlemen beside him; but he considered them low company, and remained aloof. Among all these squatters and folks of the road the reddleman continually found himself; yet he was not of them. His occupation tended to isolate him, and isolated he was mostly seen to be. It was sometimes suggested that reddlemen were criminals for whose misdeeds other men wrongfully suffered--that in escaping the law they had not escaped their own consciences, and had taken to the trade as a lifelong penance. Else why should they have chosen it? In the present case such a question would have been particularly apposite. The reddleman who had entered Egdon that afternoon was an instance of the pleasing being wasted to form the ground-work of the singular, when an ugly foundation would have done just as well for that purpose. The one point that was forbidding about this reddleman was his colour. Freed from that he would have been as agreeable a specimen of rustic manhood as one would often see. A keen observer might have been inclined to think--which was, indeed, partly the truth--that he had relinquished his proper station in life for want of interest in it. Moreover, after looking at him one would have hazarded the guess that good nature, and an acuteness as extreme as it could be without verging on craft, formed the framework of his character. While he darned the stocking his face became rigid with thought. Softer expressions followed this, and then again recurred the tender sadness which had sat upon him during his drive along the highway that afternoon. Presently his needle stopped. He laid down the stocking, arose from his seat, and took a leathern pouch from a hook in the corner of the van. This contained among other articles a brown-paper packet, which, to judge from the hinge-like character of its worn folds, seemed to have been carefully opened and closed a good many times. He sat down on a three-legged milking stool that formed the only seat in the van, and, examining his packet by the light of a candle, took thence an old letter and spread it open. The writing had originally been traced on white paper, but the letter had now assumed a pale red tinge from the accident of its situation; and the black strokes of writing thereon looked like the twigs of a winter hedge against a vermilion sunset. The letter bore a date some two years previous to that time, and was signed "Thomasin Yeobright." It ran as follows:-- DEAR DIGGORY VENN,--The question you put when you overtook me coming home from Pond-close gave me such a surprise that I am afraid I did not make you exactly understand what I meant. Of course, if my aunt had not met me I could have explained all then at once, but as it was there was no chance. I have been quite uneasy since, as you know I do not wish to pain you, yet I fear I shall be doing so now in contradicting what I seemed to say then. I cannot, Diggory, marry you, or think of letting you call me your sweetheart. I could not, indeed, Diggory. I hope you will not much mind my saying this, and feel in a great pain. It makes me very sad when I think it may, for I like you very much, and I always put you next to my cousin Clym in my mind. There are so many reasons why we cannot be married that I can hardly name them all in a letter. I did not in the least expect that you were going to speak on such a thing when you followed me, because I had never thought of you in the sense of a lover at all. You must not becall me for laughing when you spoke; you mistook when you thought I laughed at you as a foolish man. I laughed because the idea was so odd, and not at you at all. The great reason with my own personal self for not letting you court me is, that I do not feel the things a woman ought to feel who consents to walk with you with the meaning of being your wife. It is not as you think, that I have another in my mind, for I do not encourage anybody, and never have in my life. Another reason is my aunt. She would not, I know, agree to it, even if I wished to have you. She likes you very well, but she will want me to look a little higher than a small dairy-farmer, and marry a professional man. I hope you will not set your heart against me for writing plainly, but I felt you might try to see me again, and it is better that we should not meet. I shall always think of you as a good man, and be anxious for your well-doing. I send this by Jane Orchard's little maid,--And remain Diggory, your faithful friend, THOMASIN YEOBRIGHT. To MR. VENN, Dairy-farmer. Since the arrival of that letter, on a certain autumn morning long ago, the reddleman and Thomasin had not met till today. During the interval he had shifted his position even further from hers than it had originally been, by adopting the reddle trade; though he was really in very good circumstances still. Indeed, seeing that his expenditure was only one-fourth of his income, he might have been called a prosperous man. Rejected suitors take to roaming as naturally as unhived bees; and the business to which he had cynically devoted himself was in many ways congenial to Venn. But his wanderings, by mere stress of old emotions, had frequently taken an Egdon direction, though he never intruded upon her who attracted him thither. To be in Thomasin's heath, and near her, yet unseen, was the one ewe-lamb of pleasure left to him. Then came the incident of that day, and the reddleman, still loving her well, was excited by this accidental service to her at a critical juncture to vow an active devotion to her cause, instead of, as hitherto, sighing and holding aloof. After what had happened it was impossible that he should not doubt the honesty of Wildeve's intentions. But her hope was apparently centred upon him; and dismissing his regrets Venn determined to aid her to be happy in her own chosen way. That this way was, of all others, the most distressing to himself, was awkward enough; but the reddleman's love was generous. His first active step in watching over Thomasin's interests was taken about seven o'clock the next evening and was dictated by the news which he had learnt from the sad boy. That Eustacia was somehow the cause of Wildeve's carelessness in relation to the marriage had at once been Venn's conclusion on hearing of the secret meeting between them. It did not occur to his mind that Eustacia's love signal to Wildeve was the tender effect upon the deserted beauty of the intelligence which her grandfather had brought home. His instinct was to regard her as a conspirator against rather than as an antecedent obstacle to Thomasin's happiness. During the day he had been exceedingly anxious to learn the condition of Thomasin, but he did not venture to intrude upon a threshold to which he was a stranger, particularly at such an unpleasant moment as this. He had occupied his time in moving with his ponies and load to a new point in the heath, eastward to his previous station; and here he selected a nook with a careful eye to shelter from wind and rain, which seemed to mean that his stay there was to be a comparatively extended one. After this he returned on foot some part of the way that he had come; and, it being now dark, he diverged to the left till he stood behind a holly bush on the edge of a pit not twenty yards from Rainbarrow. He watched for a meeting there, but he watched in vain. Nobody except himself came near the spot that night. But the loss of his labour produced little effect upon the reddleman. He had stood in the shoes of Tantalus, and seemed to look upon a certain mass of disappointment as the natural preface to all realizations, without which preface they would give cause for alarm. The same hour the next evening found him again at the same place; but Eustacia and Wildeve, the expected trysters, did not appear. He pursued precisely the same course yet four nights longer, and without success. But on the next, being the day-week of their previous meeting, he saw a female shape floating along the ridge and the outline of a young man ascending from the valley. They met in the little ditch encircling the tumulus--the original excavation from which it had been thrown up by the ancient British people. The reddleman, stung with suspicion of wrong to Thomasin, was aroused to strategy in a moment. He instantly left the bush and crept forward on his hands and knees. When he had got as close as he might safely venture without discovery he found that, owing to a cross-wind, the conversation of the trysting pair could not be overheard. Near him, as in divers places about the heath, were areas strewn with large turves, which lay edgeways and upside down awaiting removal by Timothy Fairway, previous to the winter weather. He took two of these as he lay, and dragged them over him till one covered his head and shoulders, the other his back and legs. The reddleman would now have been quite invisible, even by daylight; the turves, standing upon him with the heather upwards, looked precisely as if they were growing. He crept along again, and the turves upon his back crept with him. Had he approached without any covering the chances are that he would not have been perceived in the dusk; approaching thus, it was as though he burrowed underground. In this manner he came quite close to where the two were standing. "Wish to consult me on the matter?" reached his ears in the rich, impetuous accents of Eustacia Vye. "Consult me? It is an indignity to me to talk so--I won't bear it any longer!" She began weeping. "I have loved you, and have shown you that I loved you, much to my regret; and yet you can come and say in that frigid way that you wish to consult with me whether it would not be better to marry Thomasin. Better--of course it would be. Marry her--she is nearer to your own position in life than I am!" "Yes, yes; that's very well," said Wildeve peremptorily. "But we must look at things as they are. Whatever blame may attach to me for having brought it about, Thomasin's position is at present much worse than yours. I simply tell you that I am in a strait." "But you shall not tell me! You must see that it is only harassing me. Damon, you have not acted well; you have sunk in my opinion. You have not valued my courtesy--the courtesy of a lady in loving you--who used to think of far more ambitious things. But it was Thomasin's fault. "She won you away from me, and she deserves to suffer for it. Where is she staying now? Not that I care, nor where I am myself. Ah, if I were dead and gone how glad she would be! Where is she, I ask?" "Thomasin is now staying at her aunt's shut up in a bedroom, and keeping out of everybody's sight," he said indifferently. "I don't think you care much about her even now," said Eustacia with sudden joyousness, "for if you did you wouldn't talk so coolly about her. Do you talk so coolly to her about me? Ah, I expect you do! Why did you originally go away from me? I don't think I can ever forgive you, except on one condition, that whenever you desert me, you come back again, sorry that you served me so." "I never wish to desert you." "I do not thank you for that. I should hate it to be all smooth. Indeed, I think I like you to desert me a little once now and then. Love is the dismallest thing where the lover is quite honest. O, it is a shame to say so; but it is true!" She indulged in a little laugh. "My low spirits begin at the very idea. Don't you offer me tame love, or away you go!" "I wish Tamsie were not such a confoundedly good little woman," said Wildeve, "so that I could be faithful to you without injuring a worthy person. It is I who am the sinner after all; I am not worth the little finger of either of you." "But you must not sacrifice yourself to her from any sense of justice," replied Eustacia quickly. "If you do not love her it is the most merciful thing in the long run to leave her as she is. That's always the best way. There, now I have been unwomanly, I suppose. When you have left me I am always angry with myself for things that I have said to you." Wildeve walked a pace or two among the heather without replying. The pause was filled up by the intonation of a pollard thorn a little way to windward, the breezes filtering through its unyielding twigs as through a strainer. It was as if the night sang dirges with clenched teeth. She continued, half sorrowfully, "Since meeting you last, it has occurred to me once or twice that perhaps it was not for love of me you did not marry her. Tell me, Damon--I'll try to bear it. Had I nothing whatever to do with the matter?" "Do you press me to tell?" "Yes, I must know. I see I have been too ready to believe in my own power." "Well, the immediate reason was that the license would not do for the place, and before I could get another she ran away. Up to that point you had nothing to do with it. Since then her aunt has spoken to me in a tone which I don't at all like." "Yes, yes! I am nothing in it--I am nothing in it. You only trifle with me. Heaven, what can I, Eustacia Vye, be made of to think so much of you!" "Nonsense; do not be so passionate.... Eustacia, how we roved among these bushes last year, when the hot days had got cool, and the shades of the hills kept us almost invisible in the hollows!" She remained in moody silence till she said, "Yes; and how I used to laugh at you for daring to look up to me! But you have well made me suffer for that since." "Yes, you served me cruelly enough until I thought I had found someone fairer than you. A blessed find for me, Eustacia." "Do you still think you found somebody fairer?" "Sometimes I do, sometimes I don't. The scales are balanced so nicely that a feather would turn them." "But don't you really care whether I meet you or whether I don't?" she said slowly. "I care a little, but not enough to break my rest," replied the young man languidly. "No, all that's past. I find there are two flowers where I thought there was only one. Perhaps there are three, or four, or any number as good as the first.... Mine is a curious fate. Who would have thought that all this could happen to me?" She interrupted with a suppressed fire of which either love or anger seemed an equally possible issue, "Do you love me now?" "Who can say?" "Tell me; I will know it!" "I do, and I do not," said he mischievously. "That is, I have my times and my seasons. One moment you are too tall, another moment you are too do-nothing, another too melancholy, another too dark, another I don't know what, except--that you are not the whole world to me that you used to be, my dear. But you are a pleasant lady to know and nice to meet, and I dare say as sweet as ever--almost." Eustacia was silent, and she turned from him, till she said, in a voice of suspended mightiness, "I am for a walk, and this is my way." "Well, I can do worse than follow you." "You know you can't do otherwise, for all your moods and changes!" she answered defiantly. "Say what you will; try as you may; keep away from me all that you can--you will never forget me. You will love me all your life long. You would jump to marry me!" "So I would!" said Wildeve. "Such strange thoughts as I've had from time to time, Eustacia; and they come to me this moment. You hate the heath as much as ever; that I know." "I do," she murmured deeply. "'Tis my cross, my shame, and will be my death!" "I abhor it too," said he. "How mournfully the wind blows round us now!" She did not answer. Its tone was indeed solemn and pervasive. Compound utterances addressed themselves to their senses, and it was possible to view by ear the features of the neighbourhood. Acoustic pictures were returned from the darkened scenery; they could hear where the tracts of heather began and ended; where the furze was growing stalky and tall; where it had been recently cut; in what direction the fir-clump lay, and how near was the pit in which the hollies grew; for these differing features had their voices no less than their shapes and colours. "God, how lonely it is!" resumed Wildeve. "What are picturesque ravines and mists to us who see nothing else? Why should we stay here? Will you go with me to America? I have kindred in Wisconsin." "That wants consideration." "It seems impossible to do well here, unless one were a wild bird or a landscape-painter. Well?" "Give me time," she softly said, taking his hand. "America is so far away. Are you going to walk with me a little way?" As Eustacia uttered the latter words she retired from the base of the barrow, and Wildeve followed her, so that the reddleman could hear no more. He lifted the turves and arose. Their black figures sank and disappeared from against the sky. They were as two horns which the sluggish heath had put forth from its crown, like a mollusc, and had now again drawn in. The reddleman's walk across the vale, and over into the next where his cart lay, was not sprightly for a slim young fellow of twenty-four. His spirit was perturbed to aching. The breezes that blew around his mouth in that walk carried off upon them the accents of a commination. He entered the van, where there was a fire in a stove. Without lighting his candle he sat down at once on the three-legged stool, and pondered on what he had seen and heard touching that still-loved one of his. He uttered a sound which was neither sigh nor sob, but was even more indicative than either of a troubled mind. "My Tamsie," he whispered heavily. "What can be done? Yes, I will see that Eustacia Vye." </CHAPTER> Können Sie eine geeignete Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze verfassen?

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

Nachdem Johnny Nunsuch seine Arbeit für Eustacia abgeschlossen hat, kehrt er nach Hause zurück, nur um von einem seltsamen Licht auf der Heide erschreckt zu werden. Er geht zurück zu Captain Vye, um Eustacia im Gespräch mit Wildeve vorzufinden. Verwirrt geht er in Richtung des Lichts zurück. Durch Zufall wird er entdeckt, als er den Rottöpfen, Venn, beobachtet. Nun befragt Venn den jungen Jungen. Obwohl Johnny Angst vor Venn hat, weil er ein Rottopf ist, enthüllt er dennoch, dass Eustacia und Wildeve sich treffen. Nachdem der Junge gegangen ist, liest Venn einen alten Brief von Thomasin erneut, der sein früheres Angebot, sie zu heiraten, ablehnt. Diese Ablehnung war es, die ihn dazu bewogen hat, Rottöpfer zu werden. Nach mehreren Versuchen gelingt es Venn tatsächlich, mitzuhören, was Eustacia und Wildeve bei einem Treffen in einem Graben um Rainbarrow sagen. Eustacia kann Wildeve erneut nicht dazu bringen, sich für sie oder sogar für Thomasin zu entscheiden, und sie zögert, seine Frage nach einer Reise nach Amerika mit ihm zu beantworten. Aufgrund dessen, was er in dem Gespräch gehört hat, beschließt Venn, bei Eustacia vorbeizuschauen.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). 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." 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.

Cacambo und Candide reisen weiter, aber ihre Pferde sterben und ihnen geht das Essen aus. Sie finden ein verlassenes Kanu und rudern einen Fluss hinunter, in der Hoffnung, Anzeichen von Zivilisation zu finden. Nach einem Tag zerbricht ihr Kanu an einigen Felsen. Cacambo und Candide machen sich auf den Weg zu einem Dorf, wo sie Kinder mit Smaragden, Rubinen und Diamanten spielen sehen. Als der Dorfschullehrer die Kinder ruft, lassen sie die Juwelen auf dem Boden liegen. Candide versucht, die Juwelen dem Schullehrer zu geben, aber der Schullehrer wirft sie einfach zurück auf den Boden. Cacambo und Candide besuchen die Dorfgaststätte, die wie ein europäischer Palast aussieht. Die Leute darin sprechen die Muttersprache von Cacambo. Cacambo und Candide essen ein großes Festmahl und versuchen, mit zwei großen Goldstücken, die sie vom Boden aufgehoben haben, zu bezahlen. Der Wirt lacht sie aus, weil sie ihm "Kieselsteine" geben wollen. Außerdem stellt die Regierung alle Gaststätten kostenlos zur Verfügung. Candide glaubt, dass dies der beste Ort der Welt ist, wo alles zum Besten steht.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Kapitel: Es ist eine allgemein anerkannte Wahrheit, dass ein alleinstehender Mann mit einem großen Vermögen eine Ehefrau sucht. Wie unbekannt die Gefühle oder Ansichten eines solchen Mannes auch sein mögen, wenn er zum ersten Mal in eine Nachbarschaft kommt, ist diese Wahrheit in den Köpfen der umliegenden Familien so gut verankert, dass er als das rechtmäßige Eigentum einer ihrer Töchter betrachtet wird. "Mein lieber Herr Bennet", sagte seine Frau eines Tages zu ihm, "haben Sie gehört, dass Netherfield Park endlich vermietet ist?" Mr. Bennet antwortete, dass er es nicht getan habe. "Aber doch", erwiderte sie, "denn Mrs. Long war gerade hier und hat mir alles davon erzählt." Mr. Bennet sagte nichts. "Möchten Sie nicht wissen, wer es genommen hat?" rief seine Frau ungeduldig aus. "Sie möchten es mir sagen, und ich habe nichts dagegen, es zu hören." Das war eine Einladung genug. "Nun, mein Lieber, du musst wissen, Mrs. Long sagt, dass Netherfield von einem jungen Mann mit großem Vermögen aus dem Norden Englands genommen wurde; dass er am Montag in einer Kutsche mit vier Pferden gekommen ist, um sich den Ort anzusehen, und dass er so begeistert davon war, dass er sofort mit Mr. Morris übereingekommen ist; dass er vor Michaelmas Besitz ergreifen soll und einige seiner Diener bis Ende nächster Woche im Haus sein werden." "Wie heißt er?" "Bingley." "Ist er verheiratet oder ledig?" "Oh! ledig, mein Lieber, natürlich! Ein lediger Mann mit großem Vermögen; vier oder fünf tausend Pfund im Jahr. Was für eine schöne Sache für unsere Mädchen!" "Wie so? Wie kann es sie betreffen?" "Mein lieber Herr Bennet", antwortete seine Frau, "wie kannst du so langweilig sein! Du musst wissen, dass ich daran denke, dass er eine von ihnen heiratet." "Ist das sein Plan, sich hier niederzulassen?" "Plan! Unsinn, wie kannst du so reden! Aber es ist sehr wahrscheinlich, dass er sich in eine von ihnen verliebt und daher musst du ihn besuchen, sobald er kommt." "Ich sehe dafür keinen Grund. Du und die Mädchen können gehen, oder du kannst sie alleine schicken, was vielleicht noch besser wäre, denn da du so hübsch bist wie sie alle, könnte Mr. Bingley dich am besten von der Gruppe gefallen." "Mein Lieber, du schmeichelst mir. Ich habe sicherlich meinen Anteil an Schönheit gehabt, aber ich behaupte nicht mehr außergewöhnlich zu sein. Wenn eine Frau fünf erwachsene Töchter hat, sollte sie aufhören, an ihre eigene Schönheit zu denken." "In solchen Fällen hat eine Frau oft nicht viel Schönheit, über die sie nachdenken kann." "Aber, mein Lieber, du musst wirklich und wahrhaftig gehen und Mr. Bingley besuchen, wenn er in die Nachbarschaft kommt." "Dafür garantiere ich nicht, versichere ich dir." "Aber denk an deine Töchter. Denk nur daran, was für eine Einrichtung es für eine von ihnen sein würde. Sir William und Lady Lucas haben sich entschlossen zu gehen, allein aus diesem Grund, denn im Allgemeinen besuchen sie keine Neulinge. Du musst tatsächlich gehen, denn es wird unmöglich für uns sein, ihn zu besuchen, wenn du es nicht tust." "Du bist zu gewissenhaft, das weiß ich genau. Ich bin sicher, Mr. Bingley wird sehr froh sein, dich zu sehen; und ich werde ein paar Zeilen schicken, um ihm meine herzliche Zustimmung zu seiner Heirat mit einem der Mädchen zu versichern, wen immer er auch wählen mag; obwohl ich ein gutes Wort für meine kleine Lizzy einwerfen muss." "Ich verlange, dass du das nicht tust. Lizzy ist nicht besser als die anderen; und ich bin sicher, dass sie nicht halb so hübsch ist wie Jane und nicht halb so gut gelaunt wie Lydia. Aber du gibst ihr immer den Vorzug." "Keine von ihnen hat viel, um sie zu empfehlen", antwortete er; "sie sind alle dumm und unwissend wie andere Mädchen; aber Lizzy hat etwas mehr Schnelligkeit als ihre Schwestern." "Mr. Bennet, wie kannst du deine eigenen Kinder auf solche Weise beleidigen? Du hast Vergnügen daran, mich zu ärgern. Du hast kein Mitgefühl mit meinen armen Nerven." "Du missverstehst mich, meine Liebe. Ich habe einen großen Respekt vor deinen Nerven. Sie sind meine alten Freunde. Ich habe dich diese zwanzig Jahre mindestens darauf ansprechen hören." "Ach! Du weißt nicht, was ich erleide." "Aber ich hoffe, du wirst darüber hinwegkommen und viele junge Männer mit viertausend Pfund im Jahr in die Nachbarschaft kommen sehen." "Es wird uns nichts nützen, wenn zwanzig solche kommen sollten, da du sie nicht besuchen wirst." "Darauf kannst du dich verlassen, meine Liebe, dass ich sie alle besuchen werde, wenn es zwanzig sind." Mr. Bennet war eine so eigentümliche Mischung aus schnellen Ansichten, sarkastischem Humor, Zurückhaltung und Launenhaftigkeit, dass die Erfahrung von dreiundzwanzig Jahren nicht ausreichte, um seine Frau seinen Charakter verstehen zu lassen. Ihr Geist war weniger schwer zu entfalten. Sie war eine Frau von geringem Verständnis, wenig Bildung und unsicherem Temperament. Wenn sie unzufrieden war, bildete sie sich ein, nervös zu sein. Das Geschäft ihres Lebens war es, ihre Töchter zu verheiraten; Trost fand sie im Besuch und in Neuigkeiten. 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 eins stellt Mr. und Mrs. Bennet vom Anwesen Longbourn vor. Mrs. Bennet wurde mitgeteilt, dass ein "junger Mann von großem Vermögen aus dem Norden Englands" nach Netherfield zieht, einem Anwesen in der Nähe ihres eigenen, und sie plant, ihn mit einer ihrer Töchter zu verheiraten. Mrs. Bennet sagt, dass Mr. Bennet zu Bingley, dem neuen Nachbarn, gehen muss, "sobald er ankommt", und dass er an seine Töchter und eine gute Ehe denken sollte. Mr. Bennets Vorliebe für seine Tochter Elizabeth wird auch deutlich, als er sagt, dass sie "etwas mehr Schnelligkeit als ihre Schwestern hat", die er als "albern und unwissend wie andere Mädchen" beschreibt. Mr. Bennet fragt scherzhaft, warum sein Besuch bei Bingley so wichtig sein könnte.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Kapitel: Das Vermögen von Herrn Bennet bestand fast ausschließlich aus einem Anwesen von zweitausend Pfund im Jahr, das leider für seine Töchter aufgrund des Mangels an männlichen Erben an einen entfernten Verwandten gebunden war; und das Vermögen ihrer Mutter, obwohl für ihre Lebenssituation ausreichend, konnte die finanziellen Lücken nicht füllen. Ihr Vater war ein Anwalt in Meryton gewesen und hatte ihr viertausend Pfund hinterlassen. Sie hatte eine Schwester, die einen Herrn Philips geheiratet hatte, der früher ein Angestellter ihres Vaters gewesen war und ihn im Geschäft beerbt hatte, sowie einen Bruder, der in London in einem angesehenen Handelsunternehmen niedergelassen war. Das Dorf Longbourn war nur eine Meile von Meryton entfernt; eine äußerst praktische Entfernung für die jungen Damen, die dort normalerweise drei oder viermal pro Woche versucht wurden, um ihrer Tante und einem Modewarenladen auf der anderen Straßenseite ihren Respekt zu erweisen. Die beiden jüngsten Töchter, Catherine und Lydia, waren besonders häufig bei diesen Aufmerksamkeiten; ihre Gedanken waren mehr leer als die ihrer Schwestern, und wenn nichts Besseres angeboten wurde, war ein Spaziergang nach Meryton notwendig, um ihre Morgenstunden zu unterhalten und Gesprächsstoff für den Abend zu liefern; und trotz der geringen Nachrichtenlage im Land gelang es ihnen immer, etwas von ihrer Tante zu erfahren. Gegenwärtig waren sie in der Tat durch die jüngste Ankunft eines Milizregiments in der Nachbarschaft sowohl mit Nachrichten als auch mit Glück erfüllt; es sollte den ganzen Winter dortbleiben, und Meryton war das Hauptquartier. Ihre Besuche bei Mrs. Philips waren nun äußerst interessant. Jeden Tag kam etwas Neues hinzu, was ihr Wissen über die Namen und Verbindungen der Offiziere betraf. Ihre Unterkünfte waren kein Geheimnis mehr, und schließlich lernten sie die Offiziere selbst kennen. Mr. Philips besuchte sie alle, und dies eröffnete seinen Nichten eine bisher unbekannte Quelle des Glücks. Sie konnten nur noch über Offiziere sprechen; und der große Reichtum von Mr. Bingley, von dem die Erwähnung ihre Mutter belebte, war in ihren Augen wertlos im Vergleich zu den Uniformen eines Fähnrichs. Nachdem er an einem Morgen ihren Ergüssen zu diesem Thema zugehört hatte, bemerkte Mr. Bennet gelassen: "Allem, was ich aus eurer Art zu reden heraushöre, müsst ihr zwei wohl die dümmsten Mädchen im ganzen Land sein. Ich habe es schon lange vermutet, aber jetzt bin ich überzeugt davon." Catherine war verwirrt und gab keine Antwort, aber Lydia äußerte mit völliger Gleichgültigkeit weiterhin ihre Bewunderung für Captain Carter und ihre Hoffnung, ihn im Laufe des Tages zu sehen, da er am nächsten Morgen nach London fahren wollte. "Ich bin erstaunt, meine Liebe", sagte Mrs. Bennet, "dass du so bereit bist, deine eigenen Kinder für dumm zu halten. Wenn ich abwertend über irgendjemandes Kinder denken wollte, wären es sicher nicht meine eigenen." "Wenn meine Kinder dumm sind, muss ich wohl immer hoffen, es zu bemerken." "Ja, aber wie es passiert, sie sind alle sehr klug." "Das ist der einzige Punkt, in dem ich mir einbilde, dass wir nicht übereinstimmen. Ich hatte gehofft, dass unsere Meinungen in jeder Hinsicht übereinstimmten, aber so weit muss ich von dir abweichen, um zu denken, dass unsere beiden jüngsten Töchter außergewöhnlich dumm sind." "Mein lieber Mr. Bennet, du darfst nicht erwarten, dass solche Mädchen den Verstand ihres Vaters und ihrer Mutter haben. Wenn sie unser Alter erreicht haben, werden sie sicherlich nicht mehr an Offiziere denken, genauso wenig wie wir. Ich erinnere mich daran, dass ich eine Zeit lang selbst gerne einen Mann im roten Rock mochte - und das tue ich tief in meinem Herzen immer noch; und wenn ein eleganter junger Colonel mit fünf- oder sechstausend Pfund im Jahr einen meiner Töchter haben möchte, würde ich nicht nein sagen; und Colonel Forster sah neulich Abend in seinen Uniformen bei Sir Williams sehr gut aus." "Mama", rief Lydia, "meine Tante sagt, dass Colonel Forster und Captain Carter nicht mehr so oft zu Miss Watson gehen wie am Anfang; sie sieht sie jetzt sehr oft in Clarkes Bibliothek stehen." Mrs. Bennet wurde durch das Betreten des Dieners mit einem Brief für Miss Bennet daran gehindert zu antworten; er kam aus Netherfield, und der Diener wartete auf eine Antwort. Mrs. Bennets Augen leuchteten vor Freude, und sie rief begeistert aus, während ihre Tochter den Brief las: "Nun, Jane, von wem ist er? Was steht drin? Was sagt er? Nun, Jane, beeil dich und erzähl es uns; beeil dich, meine Liebe." "Es ist von Miss Bingley", sagte Jane und las ihn dann laut vor. "Meine liebe Freundin, "Wenn du nicht so mitfühlend bist, heute mit Louisa und mir zu Abend zu essen, werden wir Gefahr laufen, uns für den Rest unseres Lebens zu hassen, denn ein ganzer Tag nur in Gesellschaft von zwei Frauen kann nie ohne Streit enden. Komm, sobald du diesen Brief erhältst. Mein Bruder und die Herren werden mit den Offizieren zu Abend essen. Bleib immer dein, "CAROLINE BINGLEY." "Mit den Offizieren!" rief Lydia. "Ich frage mich, warum meine Tante uns das nicht erzählt hat." "Auswärts essen", sagte Mrs. Bennet, "das ist sehr unglücklich." "Kann ich den Wagen haben?", fragte Jane. "Nein, meine Liebe, du solltest lieber zu Pferd gehen, denn es scheint, als würde es regnen; und dann müsstest du dort übernachten." "Das wäre ein guter Plan", sagte Elizabeth, "wenn du sicher wärst, dass sie nicht anbieten würden, sie nach Hause zu schicken." "Oh! Aber die Herren werden Mr. Bingleys Kutsche haben, um nach Meryton zu fahren; und die Hursts haben keine Pferde für sich." "Ich würde viel lieber mit dem Wagen fahren." "Aber, mein Liebes, dein Vater kann die Pferde nicht entbehren, da bin ich sicher. Sie werden auf dem Hof gebraucht, nicht wahr, Mr. Bennet?" "Sie werden viel öfter auf dem Hof gebraucht, als ich sie bekommen kann." "Aber wenn du sie heute bekommen hast", sagte Elizabeth, "würde damit der Plan meiner Mutter erfüllt." Sie erpresste schließlich von ihrem Vater ein Eingeständnis, dass die Pferde gebucht waren. Jane war daher gezwungen, zu Pferd zu gehen, und ihre Mutter begleitete sie mit vielen fröhlichen Vorhersagen für einen schlechten Tag zur Tür hinaus. Ihre Hoffnungen hatten sich erfüllt; Jane war nicht lange fort gewesen, als es stark zu regnen begann. Ihre Schwestern waren besorgt um sie, aber ihre Mutter war entzückt. Der Regen hielt den ganzen Abend ununterbrochen an; Jane konnte definitiv nicht zurückkommen. "Das war wirklich eine glückliche Idee von mir!", sagte Mrs. Bennet mehr als einmal, als ob sie für den Regen verantwortlich wäre. Bis zum nächsten Morgen war sie sich jedoch nicht der ganzen Glückseligkeit ihrer Vorrichtung bewusst. Das Frühstück war kaum beendet, als ein Diener aus Netherfield folgenden Brief für Elizabeth brachte: "Meine liebe Lizzy, "ICH fühle mich heute Morgen sehr unwohl, was ich vermutlich darauf zurückführen kann, dass ich gestern durch und durch nass geworden bin. Meine netten Freunde wollen nicht, dass ich nach Hause zurückkehre, bis es mir besser geht. Sie bestehen auch darauf, dass ich Mr. Jones treffe In Meryton trennten sie sich; die beiden Jüngsten begaben sich in die Unterkunft einer der Offiziersfrauen und Elizabeth setzte ihren Spaziergang alleine fort. Sie überquerte Feld um Feld in schnellem Tempo, sprang über Stile und Pfützen mit ungeduldiger Aktivität und fand sich schließlich mit müden Knöcheln, dreckigen Strümpfen und einem vom Sport geröteten Gesicht in Sichtweite des Hauses wieder. Sie wurde ins Frühstückszimmer geführt, wo alle außer Jane versammelt waren, und ihr Erscheinen sorgte für viel Überraschung. Dass sie früh am Tag bei so schlechtem Wetter und alleine drei Meilen gelaufen war, war für Mrs. Hurst und Miss Bingley kaum zu glauben, und Elizabeth war überzeugt, dass sie sie deshalb verachten. Sie wurde jedoch sehr höflich von ihnen empfangen, und in ihrem Bruder's Verhalten gab es etwas Besseres als Höflichkeit; es gab gute Laune und Freundlichkeit. Mr. Darcy sagte kaum etwas und Mr. Hurst überhaupt nichts. Ersterer war zwischen Bewunderung für die Strahlkraft, die das Training ihrem Teint gegeben hatte, und Zweifel an der Rechtfertigung ihres Alleingangs in dieser Entfernung hin und her gerissen. Letzterer dachte nur an sein Frühstück. Ihre Nachfragen nach ihrer Schwester wurden nicht sehr positiv beantwortet. Miss Bennet hatte schlecht geschlafen und war obwohl sie aufgestanden war, sehr fiebrig und nicht gut genug, um ihr Zimmer zu verlassen. Elizabeth war froh, sofort zu ihr gebracht zu werden, und Jane, die nur aus Angst, Alarm oder Unannehmlichkeiten zu verursachen, bei ihrem Brief zurückgehalten worden war, wie sehr sie sich nach einem solchen Besuch sehnte, freute sich über ihr Erscheinen. Sie war jedoch nicht in der Lage, viel zu reden, und als Miss Bingley sie alleine ließ, konnte sie außer Ausdrücken der Dankbarkeit für die außergewöhnliche Freundlichkeit, mit der sie behandelt wurde, wenig sagen. Elizabeth begleitete sie schweigend. Als das Frühstück vorbei war, wurden sie von den Schwestern begleitet, und Elizabeth begann, sie selbst zu mögen, als sie sah, wie viel Zuneigung und Fürsorge sie für Jane zeigten. Der Apotheker kam und nachdem er seine Patientin untersucht hatte, sagte er, wie zu erwarten sei, dass sie sich eine starke Erkältung zugezogen hatte und dass sie versuchen müssten, sie loszuwerden. Er riet ihr, ins Bett zurückzukehren, und versprach ihr einige Tränke. Der Rat wurde bereitwillig befolgt, denn die fiebrigen Symptome nahmen zu und ihr Kopf schmerzte stark. Elizabeth verließ ihr Zimmer keinen Moment lang, und die anderen Damen waren auch nicht oft abwesend. Da die Herren außer Haus waren, hatten sie tatsächlich nichts anderes zu tun. Als die Uhr drei schlug, fühlte Elizabeth, dass sie gehen musste, und sagte dies sehr ungern. Miss Bingley bot ihr die Kutsche an, und sie brauchte nur ein wenig Drängen, um sie anzunehmen, als Jane so besorgt über die Trennung von ihr war, dass Miss Bingley gezwungen war, das Angebot des Wagens in eine Einladung umzuwandeln, vorerst in Netherfield zu bleiben. Elizabeth nahm dankbar an, und ein Diener wurde nach Longbourn geschickt, um die Familie über ihren Aufenthalt zu informieren und eine Lieferung von Kleidung mitzubringen. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Die Bennets haben bescheidene Mittel. Herr Bennet hat nur ein Einkommen von zweitausend Pfund pro Jahr, das leider nach seinem Tod an einen entfernten Cousin übergehen wird. Frau Bennet hat nur viertausend Pfund von ihrem Vater geerbt, was ihren Töchtern keine ausreichende Sicherheit bietet. Die jungen Bennet-Mädchen, besonders Catherine und Lydia, besuchen häufig Meryton. Es ist ein Dorf in der Nähe von Longbourn, wo ihre mütterliche Tante, Frau Philips, wohnt. Die Ankunft eines Militärregiments in der Nachbarschaft ist für die jungen Mädchen eine große Aufregung. Frau Philips Berichte über die Offiziere unterhalten Catherine und Lydia, und sie reden endlos über die Soldaten. Ihr Vater stört sich an ihrem ständigen Gerede über Männer und nennt sie die dümmsten Mädchen im Land. Frau Bennet verteidigt sie immer. Ein Brief für Jane von Caroline Bingley kommt an, in dem sie sie zum Abendessen einlädt, da ihr Bruder und Darcy außer Haus essen. Jane reist auf einem Pferd nach Netherfield und schwere Regenfälle verhindern ihre Rückkehr nach Hause. Am nächsten Morgen kommt ein Brief bei den Bennets an, in dem steht, dass Jane krank ist und daher in Netherfield festsitzt. Frau Bennet ist darüber erfreut statt verärgert zu sein. Sie betrachtet es als eine günstige Entwicklung des ehelichen Traums, den sie für Jane hat. Elizabeth ist wirklich besorgt um ihre Schwester und läuft drei Meilen nach Netherfield, um nach ihr zu sehen. Als sie das Anwesen der Bingleys erreicht, ist Elizabeth ein Wrack. Die Damen sind entsetzt, sie in ihrem schmutzigen Zustand zu sehen. Darcy fragt sich, warum sie bei schlechtem Wetter und ganz alleine eine so weite Strecke gelaufen ist. Gleichzeitig bewundert er ihren strahlenden Teint, der von der Wärme der Bewegung leuchtet. Als Elizabeth zu Jane gebracht wird, findet sie diese fiebrig vor. Sie hat sich eine heftige Erkältung zugezogen und braucht Bettruhe. Elizabeth ist dankbar, als sie eingeladen wird, bei ihrer Schwester zu bleiben. Ein Diener wird nach Longbourn geschickt, um ihre Eltern zu informieren und Kleidung für Jane und Elizabeth zu holen.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: ACT V. SCENE I. Britain. The Roman camp Enter POSTHUMUS alone, with a bloody handkerchief POSTHUMUS. Yea, bloody cloth, I'll keep thee; for I wish'd Thou shouldst be colour'd thus. You married ones, If each of you should take this course, how many Must murder wives much better than themselves For wrying but a little! O Pisanio! Every good servant does not all commands; No bond but to do just ones. Gods! if you Should have ta'en vengeance on my faults, I never Had liv'd to put on this; so had you saved The noble Imogen to repent, and struck Me, wretch more worth your vengeance. But alack, You snatch some hence for little faults; that's love, To have them fall no more. You some permit To second ills with ills, each elder worse, And make them dread it, to the doer's thrift. But Imogen is your own. Do your best wills, And make me blest to obey. I am brought hither Among th' Italian gentry, and to fight Against my lady's kingdom. 'Tis enough That, Britain, I have kill'd thy mistress; peace! I'll give no wound to thee. Therefore, good heavens, Hear patiently my purpose. I'll disrobe me Of these Italian weeds, and suit myself As does a Britain peasant. So I'll fight Against the part I come with; so I'll die For thee, O Imogen, even for whom my life Is every breath a death. And thus unknown, Pitied nor hated, to the face of peril Myself I'll dedicate. Let me make men know More valour in me than my habits show. Gods, put the strength o' th' Leonati in me! To shame the guise o' th' world, I will begin The fashion- less without and more within. Exit Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze verfassen?

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Posthumus ist jetzt im römischen Lager in Britannien und hat sich den römischen Streitkräften angeschlossen. Er trägt ein blutbeflecktes Tuch bei sich, das ihm von Pisanio als Beweis für Imogens Mord geschickt wurde. Er bereut es, Imogen getötet zu haben, eine Frau, die besser als er selbst war, nur weil sie sich ein wenig verirrt hatte. In einem Beispiel für dramatische Ironie wünscht er sich, dass Pisanio nur seinen gerechten Befehlen gehorcht hätte und dass die Götter Imogen gerettet und ihn mit mehr Rache getroffen hätten. Obwohl er nach Britannien gekommen ist, um gegen das Königreich seiner Frau zu kämpfen, fühlt er dies als falsch - er hat genug getan, indem er Imogen getötet hat, und wird keinen Schaden an ihrem Land verursachen. Er plant, seine römische Kleidung gegen die eines britischen Bauern zu tauschen und mit den Briten gegen die Römer zu kämpfen.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). 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. Wales. A mountainous country with a cave Enter from the cave BELARIUS, GUIDERIUS, and ARVIRAGUS BELARIUS. A goodly day not to keep house with such Whose roof's as low as ours! Stoop, boys; this gate Instructs you how t' adore the heavens, and bows you To a morning's holy office. The gates of monarchs Are arch'd so high that giants may jet through And keep their impious turbans on without Good morrow to the sun. Hail, thou fair heaven! We house i' th' rock, yet use thee not so hardly As prouder livers do. GUIDERIUS. Hail, heaven! ARVIRAGUS. Hail, heaven! BELARIUS. Now for our mountain sport. Up to yond hill, Your legs are young; I'll tread these flats. Consider, When you above perceive me like a crow, That it is place which lessens and sets off; And you may then revolve what tales I have told you Of courts, of princes, of the tricks in war. This service is not service so being done, But being so allow'd. To apprehend thus Draws us a profit from all things we see, And often to our comfort shall we find The sharded beetle in a safer hold Than is the full-wing'd eagle. O, this life Is nobler than attending for a check, Richer than doing nothing for a bribe, Prouder than rustling in unpaid-for silk: Such gain the cap of him that makes him fine, Yet keeps his book uncross'd. No life to ours! GUIDERIUS. Out of your proof you speak. We, poor unfledg'd, Have never wing'd from view o' th' nest, nor know not What air's from home. Haply this life is best, If quiet life be best; sweeter to you That have a sharper known; well corresponding With your stiff age. But unto us it is A cell of ignorance, travelling abed, A prison for a debtor that not dares To stride a limit. ARVIRAGUS. What should we speak of When we are old as you? When we shall hear The rain and wind beat dark December, how, In this our pinching cave, shall we discourse. The freezing hours away? We have seen nothing; We are beastly: subtle as the fox for prey, Like warlike as the wolf for what we eat. Our valour is to chase what flies; our cage We make a choir, as doth the prison'd bird, And sing our bondage freely. BELARIUS. How you speak! Did you but know the city's usuries, And felt them knowingly- the art o' th' court, As hard to leave as keep, whose top to climb Is certain falling, or so slipp'ry that The fear's as bad as falling; the toil o' th' war, A pain that only seems to seek out danger I' th'name of fame and honour, which dies i' th'search, And hath as oft a sland'rous epitaph As record of fair act; nay, many times, Doth ill deserve by doing well; what's worse- Must curtsy at the censure. O, boys, this story The world may read in me; my body's mark'd With Roman swords, and my report was once First with the best of note. Cymbeline lov'd me; And when a soldier was the theme, my name Was not far off. Then was I as a tree Whose boughs did bend with fruit; but in one night A storm, or robbery, call it what you will, Shook down my mellow hangings, nay, my leaves, And left me bare to weather. GUIDERIUS. Uncertain favour! BELARIUS. My fault being nothing- as I have told you oft- But that two villains, whose false oaths prevail'd Before my perfect honour, swore to Cymbeline I was confederate with the Romans. So Follow'd my banishment, and this twenty years This rock and these demesnes have been my world, Where I have liv'd at honest freedom, paid More pious debts to heaven than in all The fore-end of my time. But up to th' mountains! This is not hunters' language. He that strikes The venison first shall be the lord o' th' feast; To him the other two shall minister; And we will fear no poison, which attends In place of greater state. I'll meet you in the valleys. Exeunt GUIDERIUS and ARVIRAGUS How hard it is to hide the sparks of nature! These boys know little they are sons to th' King, Nor Cymbeline dreams that they are alive. They think they are mine; and though train'd up thus meanly I' th' cave wherein they bow, their thoughts do hit The roofs of palaces, and nature prompts them In simple and low things to prince it much Beyond the trick of others. This Polydore, The heir of Cymbeline and Britain, who The King his father call'd Guiderius- Jove! When on my three-foot stool I sit and tell The warlike feats I have done, his spirits fly out Into my story; say 'Thus mine enemy fell, And thus I set my foot on's neck'; even then The princely blood flows in his cheek, he sweats, Strains his young nerves, and puts himself in posture That acts my words. The younger brother, Cadwal, Once Arviragus, in as like a figure Strikes life into my speech, and shows much more His own conceiving. Hark, the game is rous'd! O Cymbeline, heaven and my conscience knows Thou didst unjustly banish me! Whereon, At three and two years old, I stole these babes, Thinking to bar thee of succession as Thou refts me of my lands. Euriphile, Thou wast their nurse; they took thee for their mother, And every day do honour to her grave. Myself, Belarius, that am Morgan call'd, They take for natural father. The game is up. Exit Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben stehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Aus einer Höhle in der bergigen walisischen Landschaft tritt Belarius ein, gefolgt von seinen Söhnen Guiderius und Arviragus. Es ist ein schöner Morgen, und Belarius ermahnt seine Söhne, nicht in der Höhle zu sitzen, sondern das wunderbare Wetter zu genießen. Sie planen wie gewöhnlich auf die Jagd zu gehen, wobei die Brüder den Hügel erklimmen, während Belarius versucht, Wild auf der Ebene aufzuspüren. Er sagt seinen Söhnen, dass ihr einfaches Leben alle Vorteile des höfischen Lebens wert ist, wo man jeden Moment damit rechnen kann, abgelehnt zu werden. Das Leben am Hof sei wie das Leben auf einer rutschigen Bahn, bemerkt Belarius bitter, denn genau in dem Moment, in dem man am erfolgreichsten ist, besteht die Gefahr zu fallen. Die beiden Jungen, Guiderius und Arviragus, sind unruhig. Sie haben nichts von dem höfischen Leben erfahren und können nicht sagen, ob das friedliche Leben, das sie führen, besser ist als alles andere. Belarius erzählt ihnen jedoch, dass sie, wenn sie nur das trügerische Leben am Hof kennen würden, mit ihm übereinstimmen würden, dass das Leben, das sie jetzt führen, das Beste ist. Er berichtet von seiner Zeit am Hof von Cymbeline, als der König ihn als tapferen und mutigen Soldaten liebte und respektierte. Der König hatte jedoch bereitwillig der falschen Aussage zweier Schurken zugehört, die behaupteten, Belarius verkehre mit den Römern. Cymbeline hatte Belarius nicht einmal die Möglichkeit gegeben, sich zu erklären, und hatte ihn verbannt. Erst als die Jungen weg sind, enthüllt Belarius in einem Monolog, dass Guiderius, der als Polydore bekannt ist, und Arviragus, der Cadwal genannt wird, tatsächlich die Söhne von Cymbeline sind. Verärgert über sein ungerechtes Verbot hatte er die Säuglingssöhne des Königs gestohlen, um die Thronfolge zu verhindern. Doch wie Belarius bemerkt, wird das Blut sich zeigen: Die Jungen, die nichts vom Hofleben wussten, haben das Auftreten und die Gedanken von Prinzen.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). 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: Half dead of that inconceivable anguish which the rolling of a ship produces, one-half of the passengers were not even sensible of the danger. The other half shrieked and prayed. The sheets were rent, the masts broken, the vessel gaped. Work who would, no one heard, no one commanded. The Anabaptist being upon deck bore a hand; when a brutish sailor struck him roughly and laid him sprawling; but with the violence of the blow he himself tumbled head foremost overboard, and stuck upon a piece of the broken mast. Honest James ran to his assistance, hauled him up, and from the effort he made was precipitated into the sea in sight of the sailor, who left him to perish, without deigning to look at him. Candide drew near and saw his benefactor, who rose above the water one moment and was then swallowed up for ever. He was just going to jump after him, but was prevented by the philosopher Pangloss, who demonstrated to him that the Bay of Lisbon had been made on purpose for the Anabaptist to be drowned. While he was proving this _a priori_, the ship foundered; all perished except Pangloss, Candide, and that brutal sailor who had drowned the good Anabaptist. The villain swam safely to the shore, while Pangloss and Candide were borne thither upon a plank. As soon as they recovered themselves a little they walked toward Lisbon. They had some money left, with which they hoped to save themselves from starving, after they had escaped drowning. Scarcely had they reached the city, lamenting the death of their benefactor, when they felt the earth tremble under their feet. The sea swelled and foamed in the harbour, and beat to pieces the vessels riding at anchor. Whirlwinds of fire and ashes covered the streets and public places; houses fell, roofs were flung upon the pavements, and the pavements were scattered. Thirty thousand inhabitants of all ages and sexes were crushed under the ruins.[4] The sailor, whistling and swearing, said there was booty to be gained here. "What can be the _sufficient reason_ of this phenomenon?" said Pangloss. "This is the Last Day!" cried Candide. The sailor ran among the ruins, facing death to find money; finding it, he took it, got drunk, and having slept himself sober, purchased the favours of the first good-natured wench whom he met on the ruins of the destroyed houses, and in the midst of the dying and the dead. Pangloss pulled him by the sleeve. "My friend," said he, "this is not right. You sin against the _universal reason_; you choose your time badly." "S'blood and fury!" answered the other; "I am a sailor and born at Batavia. Four times have I trampled upon the crucifix in four voyages to Japan[5]; a fig for thy universal reason." Some falling stones had wounded Candide. He lay stretched in the street covered with rubbish. "Alas!" said he to Pangloss, "get me a little wine and oil; I am dying." "This concussion of the earth is no new thing," answered Pangloss. "The city of Lima, in America, experienced the same convulsions last year; the same cause, the same effects; there is certainly a train of sulphur under ground from Lima to Lisbon." "Nothing more probable," said Candide; "but for the love of God a little oil and wine." "How, probable?" replied the philosopher. "I maintain that the point is capable of being demonstrated." Candide fainted away, and Pangloss fetched him some water from a neighbouring fountain. The following day they rummaged among the ruins and found provisions, with which they repaired their exhausted strength. After this they joined with others in relieving those inhabitants who had escaped death. Some, whom they had succoured, gave them as good a dinner as they could in such disastrous circumstances; true, the repast was mournful, and the company moistened their bread with tears; but Pangloss consoled them, assuring them that things could not be otherwise. "For," said he, "all that is is for the best. If there is a volcano at Lisbon it cannot be elsewhere. It is impossible that things should be other than they are; for everything is right." A little man dressed in black, Familiar of the Inquisition, who sat by him, politely took up his word and said: "Apparently, then, sir, you do not believe in original sin; for if all is for the best there has then been neither Fall nor punishment." "I humbly ask your Excellency's pardon," answered Pangloss, still more politely; "for the Fall and curse of man necessarily entered into the system of the best of worlds." "Sir," said the Familiar, "you do not then believe in liberty?" "Your Excellency will excuse me," said Pangloss; "liberty is consistent with absolute necessity, for it was necessary we should be free; for, in short, the determinate will----" Pangloss was in the middle of his sentence, when the Familiar beckoned to his footman, who gave him a glass of wine from Porto or Opporto. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Bei einer Geschäftsreise nach Lissabon bringt Jacques seine beiden Philosophenfreunde Candide und Pangloss mit. Ein schrecklicher Sturm tobt während der Bootsfahrt und zerstört das Schiff sowie alle außer drei Personen an Bord - Candide, Pangloss und ein "brutaler Matrose", der auf Kosten des freundlichen Christen Jacques überlebt. Nach der Ankunft an Land sehen Candide und sein Mentor die schrecklichen Auswirkungen des Erdbebens in Lissabon, einer historischen Naturkatastrophe, bei der über 30.000 Menschen starben. Während Candide vielen der überlebenden Opfer des Erdbebens hilft, "tröstet" Pangloss die Menschen mit seiner Lehre von der universellen Vernunft. Als ein Inquisitionsbeamter den weisen Philosophen fragt, ob er an die Erbsünde oder den freien Willen glaubt, behauptet Pangloss, dass beides mit seiner Theorie übereinstimmt.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: About a quarter to seven there was an unusual appearance of excitement in the village of Hayslope, and through the whole length of its little street, from the Donnithorne Arms to the churchyard gate, the inhabitants had evidently been drawn out of their houses by something more than the pleasure of lounging in the evening sunshine. The Donnithorne Arms stood at the entrance of the village, and a small farmyard and stackyard which flanked it, indicating that there was a pretty take of land attached to the inn, gave the traveller a promise of good feed for himself and his horse, which might well console him for the ignorance in which the weather-beaten sign left him as to the heraldic bearings of that ancient family, the Donnithornes. Mr. Casson, the landlord, had been for some time standing at the door with his hands in his pockets, balancing himself on his heels and toes and looking towards a piece of unenclosed ground, with a maple in the middle of it, which he knew to be the destination of certain grave-looking men and women whom he had observed passing at intervals. Mr. Casson's person was by no means of that common type which can be allowed to pass without description. On a front view it appeared to consist principally of two spheres, bearing about the same relation to each other as the earth and the moon: that is to say, the lower sphere might be said, at a rough guess, to be thirteen times larger than the upper which naturally performed the function of a mere satellite and tributary. But here the resemblance ceased, for Mr. Casson's head was not at all a melancholy-looking satellite nor was it a "spotty globe," as Milton has irreverently called the moon; on the contrary, no head and face could look more sleek and healthy, and its expression--which was chiefly confined to a pair of round and ruddy cheeks, the slight knot and interruptions forming the nose and eyes being scarcely worth mention--was one of jolly contentment, only tempered by that sense of personal dignity which usually made itself felt in his attitude and bearing. This sense of dignity could hardly be considered excessive in a man who had been butler to "the family" for fifteen years, and who, in his present high position, was necessarily very much in contact with his inferiors. How to reconcile his dignity with the satisfaction of his curiosity by walking towards the Green was the problem that Mr. Casson had been revolving in his mind for the last five minutes; but when he had partly solved it by taking his hands out of his pockets, and thrusting them into the armholes of his waistcoat, by throwing his head on one side, and providing himself with an air of contemptuous indifference to whatever might fall under his notice, his thoughts were diverted by the approach of the horseman whom we lately saw pausing to have another look at our friend Adam, and who now pulled up at the door of the Donnithorne Arms. "Take off the bridle and give him a drink, ostler," said the traveller to the lad in a smock-frock, who had come out of the yard at the sound of the horse's hoofs. "Why, what's up in your pretty village, landlord?" he continued, getting down. "There seems to be quite a stir." "It's a Methodis' preaching, sir; it's been gev hout as a young woman's a-going to preach on the Green," answered Mr. Casson, in a treble and wheezy voice, with a slightly mincing accent. "Will you please to step in, sir, an' tek somethink?" "No, I must be getting on to Rosseter. I only want a drink for my horse. And what does your parson say, I wonder, to a young woman preaching just under his nose?" "Parson Irwine, sir, doesn't live here; he lives at Brox'on, over the hill there. The parsonage here's a tumble-down place, sir, not fit for gentry to live in. He comes here to preach of a Sunday afternoon, sir, an' puts up his hoss here. It's a grey cob, sir, an' he sets great store by't. He's allays put up his hoss here, sir, iver since before I hed the Donnithorne Arms. I'm not this countryman, you may tell by my tongue, sir. They're cur'ous talkers i' this country, sir; the gentry's hard work to hunderstand 'em. I was brought hup among the gentry, sir, an' got the turn o' their tongue when I was a bye. Why, what do you think the folks here says for 'hevn't you?'--the gentry, you know, says, 'hevn't you'--well, the people about here says 'hanna yey.' It's what they call the dileck as is spoke hereabout, sir. That's what I've heared Squire Donnithorne say many a time; it's the dileck, says he." "Aye, aye," said the stranger, smiling. "I know it very well. But you've not got many Methodists about here, surely--in this agricultural spot? I should have thought there would hardly be such a thing as a Methodist to be found about here. You're all farmers, aren't you? The Methodists can seldom lay much hold on THEM." "Why, sir, there's a pretty lot o' workmen round about, sir. There's Mester Burge as owns the timber-yard over there, he underteks a good bit o' building an' repairs. An' there's the stone-pits not far off. There's plenty of emply i' this countryside, sir. An' there's a fine batch o' Methodisses at Treddles'on--that's the market town about three mile off--you'll maybe ha' come through it, sir. There's pretty nigh a score of 'em on the Green now, as come from there. That's where our people gets it from, though there's only two men of 'em in all Hayslope: that's Will Maskery, the wheelwright, and Seth Bede, a young man as works at the carpenterin'." "The preacher comes from Treddleston, then, does she?" "Nay, sir, she comes out o' Stonyshire, pretty nigh thirty mile off. But she's a-visitin' hereabout at Mester Poyser's at the Hall Farm--it's them barns an' big walnut-trees, right away to the left, sir. She's own niece to Poyser's wife, an' they'll be fine an' vexed at her for making a fool of herself i' that way. But I've heared as there's no holding these Methodisses when the maggit's once got i' their head: many of 'em goes stark starin' mad wi' their religion. Though this young woman's quiet enough to look at, by what I can make out; I've not seen her myself." "Well, I wish I had time to wait and see her, but I must get on. I've been out of my way for the last twenty minutes to have a look at that place in the valley. It's Squire Donnithorne's, I suppose?" "Yes, sir, that's Donnithorne Chase, that is. Fine hoaks there, isn't there, sir? I should know what it is, sir, for I've lived butler there a-going i' fifteen year. It's Captain Donnithorne as is th' heir, sir--Squire Donnithorne's grandson. He'll be comin' of hage this 'ay-'arvest, sir, an' we shall hev fine doin's. He owns all the land about here, sir, Squire Donnithorne does." "Well, it's a pretty spot, whoever may own it," said the traveller, mounting his horse; "and one meets some fine strapping fellows about too. I met as fine a young fellow as ever I saw in my life, about half an hour ago, before I came up the hill--a carpenter, a tall, broad-shouldered fellow with black hair and black eyes, marching along like a soldier. We want such fellows as he to lick the French." "Aye, sir, that's Adam Bede, that is, I'll be bound--Thias Bede's son everybody knows him hereabout. He's an uncommon clever stiddy fellow, an' wonderful strong. Lord bless you, sir--if you'll hexcuse me for saying so--he can walk forty mile a-day, an' lift a matter o' sixty ston'. He's an uncommon favourite wi' the gentry, sir: Captain Donnithorne and Parson Irwine meks a fine fuss wi' him. But he's a little lifted up an' peppery-like." "Well, good evening to you, landlord; I must get on." "Your servant, sir; good evenin'." The traveller put his horse into a quick walk up the village, but when he approached the Green, the beauty of the view that lay on his right hand, the singular contrast presented by the groups of villagers with the knot of Methodists near the maple, and perhaps yet more, curiosity to see the young female preacher, proved too much for his anxiety to get to the end of his journey, and he paused. The Green lay at the extremity of the village, and from it the road branched off in two directions, one leading farther up the hill by the church, and the other winding gently down towards the valley. On the side of the Green that led towards the church, the broken line of thatched cottages was continued nearly to the churchyard gate; but on the opposite northwestern side, there was nothing to obstruct the view of gently swelling meadow, and wooded valley, and dark masses of distant hill. That rich undulating district of Loamshire to which Hayslope belonged lies close to a grim outskirt of Stonyshire, overlooked by its barren hills as a pretty blooming sister may sometimes be seen linked in the arm of a rugged, tall, swarthy brother; and in two or three hours' ride the traveller might exchange a bleak treeless region, intersected by lines of cold grey stone, for one where his road wound under the shelter of woods, or up swelling hills, muffled with hedgerows and long meadow-grass and thick corn; and where at every turn he came upon some fine old country-seat nestled in the valley or crowning the slope, some homestead with its long length of barn and its cluster of golden ricks, some grey steeple looking out from a pretty confusion of trees and thatch and dark-red tiles. It was just such a picture as this last that Hayslope Church had made to the traveller as he began to mount the gentle slope leading to its pleasant uplands, and now from his station near the Green he had before him in one view nearly all the other typical features of this pleasant land. High up against the horizon were the huge conical masses of hill, like giant mounds intended to fortify this region of corn and grass against the keen and hungry winds of the north; not distant enough to be clothed in purple mystery, but with sombre greenish sides visibly specked with sheep, whose motion was only revealed by memory, not detected by sight; wooed from day to day by the changing hours, but responding with no change in themselves--left for ever grim and sullen after the flush of morning, the winged gleams of the April noonday, the parting crimson glory of the ripening summer sun. And directly below them the eye rested on a more advanced line of hanging woods, divided by bright patches of pasture or furrowed crops, and not yet deepened into the uniform leafy curtains of high summer, but still showing the warm tints of the young oak and the tender green of the ash and lime. Then came the valley, where the woods grew thicker, as if they had rolled down and hurried together from the patches left smooth on the slope, that they might take the better care of the tall mansion which lifted its parapets and sent its faint blue summer smoke among them. Doubtless there was a large sweep of park and a broad glassy pool in front of that mansion, but the swelling slope of meadow would not let our traveller see them from the village green. He saw instead a foreground which was just as lovely--the level sunlight lying like transparent gold among the gently curving stems of the feathered grass and the tall red sorrel, and the white ambels of the hemlocks lining the bushy hedgerows. It was that moment in summer when the sound of the scythe being whetted makes us cast more lingering looks at the flower-sprinkled tresses of the meadows. He might have seen other beauties in the landscape if he had turned a little in his saddle and looked eastward, beyond Jonathan Burge's pasture and woodyard towards the green corn-fields and walnut-trees of the Hall Farm; but apparently there was more interest for him in the living groups close at hand. Every generation in the village was there, from old "Feyther Taft" in his brown worsted night-cap, who was bent nearly double, but seemed tough enough to keep on his legs a long while, leaning on his short stick, down to the babies with their little round heads lolling forward in quilted linen caps. Now and then there was a new arrival; perhaps a slouching labourer, who, having eaten his supper, came out to look at the unusual scene with a slow bovine gaze, willing to hear what any one had to say in explanation of it, but by no means excited enough to ask a question. But all took care not to join the Methodists on the Green, and identify themselves in that way with the expectant audience, for there was not one of them that would not have disclaimed the imputation of having come out to hear the "preacher woman"--they had only come out to see "what war a-goin' on, like." The men were chiefly gathered in the neighbourhood of the blacksmith's shop. But do not imagine them gathered in a knot. Villagers never swarm: a whisper is unknown among them, and they seem almost as incapable of an undertone as a cow or a stag. Your true rustic turns his back on his interlocutor, throwing a question over his shoulder as if he meant to run away from the answer, and walking a step or two farther off when the interest of the dialogue culminates. So the group in the vicinity of the blacksmith's door was by no means a close one, and formed no screen in front of Chad Cranage, the blacksmith himself, who stood with his black brawny arms folded, leaning against the door-post, and occasionally sending forth a bellowing laugh at his own jokes, giving them a marked preference over the sarcasms of Wiry Ben, who had renounced the pleasures of the Holly Bush for the sake of seeing life under a new form. But both styles of wit were treated with equal contempt by Mr. Joshua Rann. Mr. Rann's leathern apron and subdued griminess can leave no one in any doubt that he is the village shoemaker; the thrusting out of his chin and stomach and the twirling of his thumbs are more subtle indications, intended to prepare unwary strangers for the discovery that they are in the presence of the parish clerk. "Old Joshway," as he is irreverently called by his neighbours, is in a state of simmering indignation; but he has not yet opened his lips except to say, in a resounding bass undertone, like the tuning of a violoncello, "Sehon, King of the Amorites; for His mercy endureth for ever; and Og the King of Basan: for His mercy endureth for ever"--a quotation which may seem to have slight bearing on the present occasion, but, as with every other anomaly, adequate knowledge will show it to be a natural sequence. Mr. Rann was inwardly maintaining the dignity of the Church in the face of this scandalous irruption of Methodism, and as that dignity was bound up with his own sonorous utterance of the responses, his argument naturally suggested a quotation from the psalm he had read the last Sunday afternoon. The stronger curiosity of the women had drawn them quite to the edge of the Green, where they could examine more closely the Quakerlike costume and odd deportment of the female Methodists. Underneath the maple there was a small cart, which had been brought from the wheelwright's to serve as a pulpit, and round this a couple of benches and a few chairs had been placed. Some of the Methodists were resting on these, with their eyes closed, as if wrapt in prayer or meditation. Others chose to continue standing, and had turned their faces towards the villagers with a look of melancholy compassion, which was highly amusing to Bessy Cranage, the blacksmith's buxom daughter, known to her neighbours as Chad's Bess, who wondered "why the folks war amakin' faces a that'ns." Chad's Bess was the object of peculiar compassion, because her hair, being turned back under a cap which was set at the top of her head, exposed to view an ornament of which she was much prouder than of her red cheeks--namely, a pair of large round ear-rings with false garnets in them, ornaments condemned not only by the Methodists, but by her own cousin and namesake Timothy's Bess, who, with much cousinly feeling, often wished "them ear-rings" might come to good. Timothy's Bess, though retaining her maiden appellation among her familiars, had long been the wife of Sandy Jim, and possessed a handsome set of matronly jewels, of which it is enough to mention the heavy baby she was rocking in her arms, and the sturdy fellow of five in knee-breeches, and red legs, who had a rusty milk-can round his neck by way of drum, and was very carefully avoided by Chad's small terrier. This young olive-branch, notorious under the name of Timothy's Bess's Ben, being of an inquiring disposition, unchecked by any false modesty, had advanced beyond the group of women and children, and was walking round the Methodists, looking up in their faces with his mouth wide open, and beating his stick against the milk-can by way of musical accompaniment. But one of the elderly women bending down to take him by the shoulder, with an air of grave remonstrance, Timothy's Bess's Ben first kicked out vigorously, then took to his heels and sought refuge behind his father's legs. "Ye gallows young dog," said Sandy Jim, with some paternal pride, "if ye donna keep that stick quiet, I'll tek it from ye. What dy'e mane by kickin' foulks?" "Here! Gie him here to me, Jim," said Chad Cranage; "I'll tie hirs up an' shoe him as I do th' hosses. Well, Mester Casson," he continued, as that personage sauntered up towards the group of men, "how are ye t' naight? Are ye coom t' help groon? They say folks allays groon when they're hearkenin' to th' Methodys, as if they war bad i' th' inside. I mane to groon as loud as your cow did th' other naight, an' then the praicher 'ull think I'm i' th' raight way." "I'd advise you not to be up to no nonsense, Chad," said Mr. Casson, with some dignity; "Poyser wouldn't like to hear as his wife's niece was treated any ways disrespectful, for all he mayn't be fond of her taking on herself to preach." "Aye, an' she's a pleasant-looked un too," said Wiry Ben. "I'll stick up for the pretty women preachin'; I know they'd persuade me over a deal sooner nor th' ugly men. I shouldna wonder if I turn Methody afore the night's out, an' begin to coort the preacher, like Seth Bede." "Why, Seth's looking rether too high, I should think," said Mr. Casson. "This woman's kin wouldn't like her to demean herself to a common carpenter." "Tchu!" said Ben, with a long treble intonation, "what's folks's kin got to do wi't? Not a chip. Poyser's wife may turn her nose up an' forget bygones, but this Dinah Morris, they tell me, 's as poor as iver she was--works at a mill, an's much ado to keep hersen. A strappin' young carpenter as is a ready-made Methody, like Seth, wouldna be a bad match for her. Why, Poysers make as big a fuss wi' Adam Bede as if he war a nevvy o' their own." "Idle talk! idle talk!" said Mr. Joshua Rann. "Adam an' Seth's two men; you wunna fit them two wi' the same last." "Maybe," said Wiry Ben, contemptuously, "but Seth's the lad for me, though he war a Methody twice o'er. I'm fair beat wi' Seth, for I've been teasin' him iver sin' we've been workin' together, an' he bears me no more malice nor a lamb. An' he's a stout-hearted feller too, for when we saw the old tree all afire a-comin' across the fields one night, an' we thought as it war a boguy, Seth made no more ado, but he up to't as bold as a constable. Why, there he comes out o' Will Maskery's; an' there's Will hisself, lookin' as meek as if he couldna knock a nail o' the head for fear o' hurtin't. An' there's the pretty preacher woman! My eye, she's got her bonnet off. I mun go a bit nearer." Several of the men followed Ben's lead, and the traveller pushed his horse on to the Green, as Dinah walked rather quickly and in advance of her companions towards the cart under the maple-tree. While she was near Seth's tall figure, she looked short, but when she had mounted the cart, and was away from all comparison, she seemed above the middle height of woman, though in reality she did not exceed it--an effect which was due to the slimness of her figure and the simple line of her black stuff dress. The stranger was struck with surprise as he saw her approach and mount the cart--surprise, not so much at the feminine delicacy of her appearance, as at the total absence of self-consciousness in her demeanour. He had made up his mind to see her advance with a measured step and a demure solemnity of countenance; he had felt sure that her face would be mantled with the smile of conscious saintship, or else charged with denunciatory bitterness. He knew but two types of Methodist--the ecstatic and the bilious. But Dinah walked as simply as if she were going to market, and seemed as unconscious of her outward appearance as a little boy: there was no blush, no tremulousness, which said, "I know you think me a pretty woman, too young to preach"; no casting up or down of the eyelids, no compression of the lips, no attitude of the arms that said, "But you must think of me as a saint." She held no book in her ungloved hands, but let them hang down lightly crossed before her, as she stood and turned her grey eyes on the people. There was no keenness in the eyes; they seemed rather to be shedding love than making observations; they had the liquid look which tells that the mind is full of what it has to give out, rather than impressed by external objects. She stood with her left hand towards the descending sun, and leafy boughs screened her from its rays; but in this sober light the delicate colouring of her face seemed to gather a calm vividness, like flowers at evening. It was a small oval face, of a uniform transparent whiteness, with an egg-like line of cheek and chin, a full but firm mouth, a delicate nostril, and a low perpendicular brow, surmounted by a rising arch of parting between smooth locks of pale reddish hair. The hair was drawn straight back behind the ears, and covered, except for an inch or two above the brow, by a net Quaker cap. The eyebrows, of the same colour as the hair, were perfectly horizontal and firmly pencilled; the eyelashes, though no darker, were long and abundant--nothing was left blurred or unfinished. It was one of those faces that make one think of white flowers with light touches of colour on their pure petals. The eyes had no peculiar beauty, beyond that of expression; they looked so simple, so candid, so gravely loving, that no accusing scowl, no light sneer could help melting away before their glance. Joshua Rann gave a long cough, as if he were clearing his throat in order to come to a new understanding with himself; Chad Cranage lifted up his leather skull-cap and scratched his head; and Wiry Ben wondered how Seth had the pluck to think of courting her. "A sweet woman," the stranger said to himself, "but surely nature never meant her for a preacher." Perhaps he was one of those who think that nature has theatrical properties and, with the considerate view of facilitating art and psychology, "makes up," her characters, so that there may be no mistake about them. But Dinah began to speak. "Dear friends," she said in a clear but not loud voice "let us pray for a blessing." She closed her eyes, and hanging her head down a little continued in the same moderate tone, as if speaking to some one quite near her: "Saviour of sinners! When a poor woman laden with sins, went out to the well to draw water, she found Thee sitting at the well. She knew Thee not; she had not sought Thee; her mind was dark; her life was unholy. But Thou didst speak to her, Thou didst teach her, Thou didst show her that her life lay open before Thee, and yet Thou wast ready to give her that blessing which she had never sought. Jesus, Thou art in the midst of us, and Thou knowest all men: if there is any here like that poor woman--if their minds are dark, their lives unholy--if they have come out not seeking Thee, not desiring to be taught; deal with them according to the free mercy which Thou didst show to her. Speak to them, Lord, open their ears to my message, bring their sins to their minds, and make them thirst for that salvation which Thou art ready to give. "Lord, Thou art with Thy people still: they see Thee in the night-watches, and their hearts burn within them as Thou talkest with them by the way. And Thou art near to those who have not known Thee: open their eyes that they may see Thee--see Thee weeping over them, and saying 'Ye will not come unto me that ye might have life'--see Thee hanging on the cross and saying, 'Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do'--see Thee as Thou wilt come again in Thy glory to judge them at the last. Amen." Dinah opened her eyes again and paused, looking at the group of villagers, who were now gathered rather more closely on her right hand. "Dear friends," she began, raising her voice a little, "you have all of you been to church, and I think you must have heard the clergyman read these words: 'The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he hath anointed me to preach the gospel to the poor.' Jesus Christ spoke those words--he said he came TO PREACH THE GOSPEL TO THE POOR. I don't know whether you ever thought about those words much, but I will tell you when I remember first hearing them. It was on just such a sort of evening as this, when I was a little girl, and my aunt as brought me up took me to hear a good man preach out of doors, just as we are here. I remember his face well: he was a very old man, and had very long white hair; his voice was very soft and beautiful, not like any voice I had ever heard before. I was a little girl and scarcely knew anything, and this old man seemed to me such a different sort of a man from anybody I had ever seen before that I thought he had perhaps come down from the sky to preach to us, and I said, 'Aunt, will he go back to the sky to-night, like the picture in the Bible?' "That man of God was Mr. Wesley, who spent his life in doing what our blessed Lord did--preaching the Gospel to the poor--and he entered into his rest eight years ago. I came to know more about him years after, but I was a foolish thoughtless child then, and I remembered only one thing he told us in his sermon. He told us as 'Gospel' meant 'good news.' The Gospel, you know, is what the Bible tells us about God. "Think of that now! Jesus Christ did really come down from heaven, as I, like a silly child, thought Mr. Wesley did; and what he came down for was to tell good news about God to the poor. Why, you and me, dear friends, are poor. We have been brought up in poor cottages and have been reared on oat-cake, and lived coarse; and we haven't been to school much, nor read books, and we don't know much about anything but what happens just round us. We are just the sort of people that want to hear good news. For when anybody's well off, they don't much mind about hearing news from distant parts; but if a poor man or woman's in trouble and has hard work to make out a living, they like to have a letter to tell 'em they've got a friend as will help 'em. To be sure, we can't help knowing something about God, even if we've never heard the Gospel, the good news that our Saviour brought us. For we know everything comes from God: don't you say almost every day, 'This and that will happen, please God,' and 'We shall begin to cut the grass soon, please God to send us a little more sunshine'? We know very well we are altogether in the hands of God. We didn't bring ourselves into the world, we can't keep ourselves alive while we're sleeping; the daylight, and the wind, and the corn, and the cows to give us milk--everything we have comes from God. And he gave us our souls and put love between parents and children, and husband and wife. But is that as much as we want to know about God? We see he is great and mighty, and can do what he will: we are lost, as if we was struggling in great waters, when we try to think of him. "But perhaps doubts come into your mind like this: Can God take much notice of us poor people? Perhaps he only made the world for the great and the wise and the rich. It doesn't cost him much to give us our little handful of victual and bit of clothing; but how do we know he cares for us any more than we care for the worms and things in the garden, so as we rear our carrots and onions? Will God take care of us when we die? And has he any comfort for us when we are lame and sick and helpless? Perhaps, too, he is angry with us; else why does the blight come, and the bad harvests, and the fever, and all sorts of pain and trouble? For our life is full of trouble, and if God sends us good, he seems to send bad too. How is it? How is it? "Ah, dear friends, we are in sad want of good news about God; and what does other good news signify if we haven't that? For everything else comes to an end, and when we die we leave it all. But God lasts when everything else is gone. What shall we do if he is not our friend?" Then Dinah told how the good news had been brought, and how the mind of God towards the poor had been made manifest in the life of Jesus, dwelling on its lowliness and its acts of mercy. "So you see, dear friends," she went on, "Jesus spent his time almost all in doing good to poor people; he preached out of doors to them, and he made friends of poor workmen, and taught them and took pains with them. Not but what he did good to the rich too, for he was full of love to all men, only he saw as the poor were more in want of his help. So he cured the lame and the sick and the blind, and he worked miracles to feed the hungry because, he said, he was sorry for them; and he was very kind to the little children and comforted those who had lost their friends; and he spoke very tenderly to poor sinners that were sorry for their sins. "Ah, wouldn't you love such a man if you saw him--if he were here in this village? What a kind heart he must have! What a friend he would be to go to in trouble! How pleasant it must be to be taught by him. "Well, dear friends, who WAS this man? Was he only a good man--a very good man, and no more--like our dear Mr. Wesley, who has been taken from us?...He was the Son of God--'in the image of the Father,' the Bible says; that means, just like God, who is the beginning and end of all things--the God we want to know about. So then, all the love that Jesus showed to the poor is the same love that God has for us. We can understand what Jesus felt, because he came in a body like ours and spoke words such as we speak to each other. We were afraid to think what God was before--the God who made the world and the sky and the thunder and lightning. We could never see him; we could only see the things he had made; and some of these things was very terrible, so as we might well tremble when we thought of him. But our blessed Saviour has showed us what God is in a way us poor ignorant people can understand; he has showed us what God's heart is, what are his feelings towards us. "But let us see a little more about what Jesus came on earth for. Another time he said, 'I came to seek and to save that which was lost'; and another time, 'I came not to call the righteous but sinners to repentance.' "The LOST!...SINNERS!...Ah, dear friends, does that mean you and me?" Hitherto the traveller had been chained to the spot against his will by the charm of Dinah's mellow treble tones, which had a variety of modulation like that of a fine instrument touched with the unconscious skill of musical instinct. The simple things she said seemed like novelties, as a melody strikes us with a new feeling when we hear it sung by the pure voice of a boyish chorister; the quiet depth of conviction with which she spoke seemed in itself an evidence for the truth of her message. He saw that she had thoroughly arrested her hearers. The villagers had pressed nearer to her, and there was no longer anything but grave attention on all faces. She spoke slowly, though quite fluently, often pausing after a question, or before any transition of ideas. There was no change of attitude, no gesture; the effect of her speech was produced entirely by the inflections of her voice, and when she came to the question, "Will God take care of us when we die?" she uttered it in such a tone of plaintive appeal that the tears came into some of the hardest eyes. The stranger had ceased to doubt, as he had done at the first glance, that she could fix the attention of her rougher hearers, but still he wondered whether she could have that power of rousing their more violent emotions, which must surely be a necessary seal of her vocation as a Methodist preacher, until she came to the words, "Lost!--Sinners!" when there was a great change in her voice and manner. She had made a long pause before the exclamation, and the pause seemed to be filled by agitating thoughts that showed themselves in her features. Her pale face became paler; the circles under her eyes deepened, as they did when tears half-gather without falling; and the mild loving eyes took an expression of appalled pity, as if she had suddenly discerned a destroying angel hovering over the heads of the people. Her voice became deep and muffled, but there was still no gesture. Nothing could be less like the ordinary type of the Ranter than Dinah. She was not preaching as she heard others preach, but speaking directly from her own emotions and under the inspiration of her own simple faith. But now she had entered into a new current of feeling. Her manner became less calm, her utterance more rapid and agitated, as she tried to bring home to the people their guilt, their wilful darkness, their state of disobedience to God--as she dwelt on the hatefulness of sin, the Divine holiness, and the sufferings of the Saviour, by which a way had been opened for their salvation. At last it seemed as if, in her yearning desire to reclaim the lost sheep, she could not be satisfied by addressing her hearers as a body. She appealed first to one and then to another, beseeching them with tears to turn to God while there was yet time; painting to them the desolation of their souls, lost in sin, feeding on the husks of this miserable world, far away from God their Father; and then the love of the Saviour, who was waiting and watching for their return. There was many a responsive sigh and groan from her fellow-Methodists, but the village mind does not easily take fire, and a little smouldering vague anxiety that might easily die out again was the utmost effect Dinah's preaching had wrought in them at present. Yet no one had retired, except the children and "old Feyther Taft," who being too deaf to catch many words, had some time ago gone back to his inglenook. Wiry Ben was feeling very uncomfortable, and almost wishing he had not come to hear Dinah; he thought what she said would haunt him somehow. Yet he couldn't help liking to look at her and listen to her, though he dreaded every moment that she would fix her eyes on him and address him in particular. She had already addressed Sandy Jim, who was now holding the baby to relieve his wife, and the big soft-hearted man had rubbed away some tears with his fist, with a confused intention of being a better fellow, going less to the Holly Bush down by the Stone-pits, and cleaning himself more regularly of a Sunday. In front of Sandy Jim stood Chad's Bess, who had shown an unwonted quietude and fixity of attention ever since Dinah had begun to speak. Not that the matter of the discourse had arrested her at once, for she was lost in a puzzling speculation as to what pleasure and satisfaction there could be in life to a young woman who wore a cap like Dinah's. Giving up this inquiry in despair, she took to studying Dinah's nose, eyes, mouth, and hair, and wondering whether it was better to have such a sort of pale face as that, or fat red cheeks and round black eyes like her own. But gradually the influence of the general gravity told upon her, and she became conscious of what Dinah was saying. The gentle tones, the loving persuasion, did not touch her, but when the more severe appeals came she began to be frightened. Poor Bessy had always been considered a naughty girl; she was conscious of it; if it was necessary to be very good, it was clear she must be in a bad way. She couldn't find her places at church as Sally Rann could, she had often been tittering when she "curcheyed" to Mr. Irwine; and these religious deficiencies were accompanied by a corresponding slackness in the minor morals, for Bessy belonged unquestionably to that unsoaped lazy class of feminine characters with whom you may venture to "eat an egg, an apple, or a nut." All this she was generally conscious of, and hitherto had not been greatly ashamed of it. But now she began to feel very much as if the constable had come to take her up and carry her before the justice for some undefined offence. She had a terrified sense that God, whom she had always thought of as very far off, was very near to her, and that Jesus was close by looking at her, though she could not see him. For Dinah had that belief in visible manifestations of Jesus, which is common among the Methodists, and she communicated it irresistibly to her hearers: she made them feel that he was among them bodily, and might at any moment show himself to them in some way that would strike anguish and penitence into their hearts. "See!" she exclaimed, turning to the left, with her eyes fixed on a point above the heads of the people. "See where our blessed Lord stands and weeps and stretches out his arms towards you. Hear what he says: 'How often would I have gathered you as a hen gathereth her chickens under her wings, and ye would not!'...and ye would not," she repeated, in a tone of pleading reproach, turning her eyes on the people again. "See the print of the nails on his dear hands and feet. It is your sins that made them! Ah! How pale and worn he looks! He has gone through all that great agony in the garden, when his soul was exceeding sorrowful even unto death, and the great drops of sweat fell like blood to the ground. They spat upon him and buffeted him, they scourged him, they mocked him, they laid the heavy cross on his bruised shoulders. Then they nailed him up. Ah, what pain! His lips are parched with thirst, and they mock him still in this great agony; yet with those parched lips he prays for them, 'Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.' Then a horror of great darkness fell upon him, and he felt what sinners feel when they are for ever shut out from God. That was the last drop in the cup of bitterness. 'My God, my God!' he cries, 'why hast Thou forsaken me?' "All this he bore for you! For you--and you never think of him; for you--and you turn your backs on him; you don't care what he has gone through for you. Yet he is not weary of toiling for you: he has risen from the dead, he is praying for you at the right hand of God--'Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.' And he is upon this earth too; he is among us; he is there close to you now; I see his wounded body and his look of love." Here Dinah turned to Bessy Cranage, whose bonny youth and evident vanity had touched her with pity. "Poor child! Poor child! He is beseeching you, and you don't listen to him. You think of ear-rings and fine gowns and caps, and you never think of the Saviour who died to save your precious soul. Your cheeks will be shrivelled one day, your hair will be grey, your poor body will be thin and tottering! Then you will begin to feel that your soul is not saved; then you will have to stand before God dressed in your sins, in your evil tempers and vain thoughts. And Jesus, who stands ready to help you now, won't help you then; because you won't have him to be your Saviour, he will be your judge. Now he looks at you with love and mercy and says, 'Come to me that you may have life'; then he will turn away from you, and say, 'Depart from me into ever-lasting fire!'" Poor Bessy's wide-open black eyes began to fill with tears, her great red cheeks and lips became quite pale, and her face was distorted like a little child's before a burst of crying. "Ah, poor blind child!" Dinah went on, "think if it should happen to you as it once happened to a servant of God in the days of her vanity. SHE thought of her lace caps and saved all her money to buy 'em; she thought nothing about how she might get a clean heart and a right spirit--she only wanted to have better lace than other girls. And one day when she put her new cap on and looked in the glass, she saw a bleeding Face crowned with thorns. That face is looking at you now"--here Dinah pointed to a spot close in front of Bessy--"Ah, tear off those follies! Cast them away from you, as if they were stinging adders. They ARE stinging you--they are poisoning your soul--they are dragging you down into a dark bottomless pit, where you will sink for ever, and for ever, and for ever, further away from light and God." Bessy could bear it no longer: a great terror was upon her, and wrenching her ear-rings from her ears, she threw them down before her, sobbing aloud. Her father, Chad, frightened lest he should be "laid hold on" too, this impression on the rebellious Bess striking him as nothing less than a miracle, walked hastily away and began to work at his anvil by way of reassuring himself. "Folks mun ha' hoss-shoes, praichin' or no praichin': the divil canna lay hould o' me for that," he muttered to himself. But now Dinah began to tell of the joys that were in store for the penitent, and to describe in her simple way the divine peace and love with which the soul of the believer is filled--how the sense of God's love turns poverty into riches and satisfies the soul so that no uneasy desire vexes it, no fear alarms it: how, at last, the very temptation to sin is extinguished, and heaven is begun upon earth, because no cloud passes between the soul and God, who is its eternal sun. "Dear friends," she said at last, "brothers and sisters, whom I love as those for whom my Lord has died, believe me, I know what this great blessedness is; and because I know it, I want you to have it too. I am poor, like you: I have to get my living with my hands; but no lord nor lady can be so happy as me, if they haven't got the love of God in their souls. Think what it is--not to hate anything but sin; to be full of love to every creature; to be frightened at nothing; to be sure that all things will turn to good; not to mind pain, because it is our Father's will; to know that nothing--no, not if the earth was to be burnt up, or the waters come and drown us--nothing could part us from God who loves us, and who fills our souls with peace and joy, because we are sure that whatever he wills is holy, just, and good. "Dear friends, come and take this blessedness; it is offered to you; it is the good news that Jesus came to preach to the poor. It is not like the riches of this world, so that the more one gets the less the rest can have. God is without end; his love is without end--" Its streams the whole creation reach, So plenteous is the store; Enough for all, enough for each, Enough for evermore. Dinah had been speaking at least an hour, and the reddening light of the parting day seemed to give a solemn emphasis to her closing words. The stranger, who had been interested in the course of her sermon as if it had been the development of a drama--for there is this sort of fascination in all sincere unpremeditated eloquence, which opens to one the inward drama of the speaker's emotions--now turned his horse aside and pursued his way, while Dinah said, "Let us sing a little, dear friends"; and as he was still winding down the slope, the voices of the Methodists reached him, rising and falling in that strange blending of exultation and sadness which belongs to the cadence of a hymn. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Um kurz vor sieben zeigt das Dorf Hayslope ungewöhnliche Anzeichen von Aufregung. Mr. Casson, der Wirt des Gasthauses der Stadt, steht am Eingang seines Anwesens. Obwohl sein Gesicht ziemlich gesund aussieht, ist er enorm dick. Der Reiter, der aufhört, um Adam anzusehen, hält vor der Tür auf seinem Pferd an. Mr. Casson erklärt, dass die Stadt beschäftigt ist, weil eine weibliche Methodistin auf dem Platz predigen wird. Ihr Pfarrer wohnt in der nächsten Stadt. Der Fremde drückt sein Erstaunen darüber aus, dass es Methodisten in einer so ländlichen Gegend gibt, und Mr. Casson erklärt, dass es eigentlich nur zwei gibt: Will Maskery und Seth Bede. Mr. Casson erklärt, dass er der Butler von Squire Donnithorne ist und nun sein Enkel, Captain Donnithorne, auf ihrem Anwesen namens Donnithorne Chase lebt. Der Fremde erwähnt, dass er Adam Bede gesehen hat, der, wie er sagt, gut darin wäre, den Franzosen "eins auf die Mütze zu geben". Mr. Casson sagt, dass er außergewöhnlich stark ist und bei den Adligen beliebt ist. Der Fremde reitet zum Platz, wo er sich für die Schönheit der Landschaft und die Menge neugieriger Stadtbewohner interessiert, die auf den Platz starren, aber darauf achten, ihn nicht zu betreten, um nicht mit Methodisten verwechselt zu werden. Eine Gruppe Männer ist um die Schmiede versammelt, wo der Schmied Chad Cranage über seine eigenen Witze lacht. Mr. Joshua Rann, von seinen Nachbarn "Alter Joshway" genannt, steht schweigend abgeneigt dabei. Die Frauen sind neugieriger und nähern sich dem Platz. Bessy Cranage, die üppige Tochter des Schmieds, wundert sich, warum die Methodisten solche lustigen Gesichter machen. Sie ist lokal als "Chads Bess" bekannt. Sie trägt auch gefälschte Granatohrringe, die von den Methodisten missbilligt werden. "Timothys Bess" ist die Frau von Sandy Jim, der zwei Kinder hat. Ihr kleiner Junge wird "Timothys Besss Ben" genannt und kämpft dagegen an, zurückgehalten zu werden, um die Methodisten zu inspizieren. Mr. Casson sagt, dass Seth seine Zeit verschwendet, wenn er versucht, die weibliche Predigerin zu umwerben, denn sie ist zu vornehm für ihn, da sie die Nichte der Poysers ist. Als Dinah herantritt, ist der Fremde überrascht von ihrer Ungezwungenheit und die anderen Stadtbewohner sind überrascht von ihrer Schönheit. Dinah betet und spricht dann darüber, wie sie Jesus' Gebet gehört hat, den Armen bei einer methodistischen Erweckung zu predigen, als sie ein junges Mädchen war - sie entschied damals, dass dies ist, was sie tun sollte. Sie versichert ihren Zuhörern, dass, obwohl sie arm sind, die Armen Jesus' Hauptbegünstigte während seines Lebens waren und auch nach ihrem Tod weiterhin begünstigt werden. Der Fremde bemerkt, dass Dinah im Gegensatz zu anderen "Fanatikern" nicht durch Schreien und Gestikulieren predigt, sondern einfach ihre Stimme an ihre wechselnden Emotionen anpasst. Bessy Chad fühlt sich von der Predigt vage unwohl, weil sie weiß, dass sie als "böses Mädchen" angesehen werden könnte, weil sie lockere Moralvorstellungen hat. Dinah bittet Bessy Chad, an Gott zu denken anstatt an Ohrringe, und das Mädchen wirft ihre Ohrringe in einem Anfall weg. Als der Gottesdienst endet, reitet der Reiter unter dem Klang methodistischer Hymnen 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. Chapter: The subject of this Essay is not the so-called Liberty of the Will, so unfortunately opposed to the misnamed doctrine of Philosophical Necessity; but Civil, or Social Liberty: the nature and limits of the power which can be legitimately exercised by society over the individual. A question seldom stated, and hardly ever discussed, in general terms, but which profoundly influences the practical controversies of the age by its latent presence, and is likely soon to make itself recognised as the vital question of the future. It is so far from being new, that in a certain sense, it has divided mankind, almost from the remotest ages; but in the stage of progress into which the more civilised portions of the species have now entered, it presents itself under new conditions, and requires a different and more fundamental treatment. The struggle between Liberty and Authority is the most conspicuous feature in the portions of history with which we are earliest familiar, particularly in that of Greece, Rome, and England. But in old times this contest was between subjects, or some classes of subjects, and the government. By liberty, was meant protection against the tyranny of the political rulers. The rulers were conceived (except in some of the popular governments of Greece) as in a necessarily antagonistic position to the people whom they ruled. They consisted of a governing One, or a governing tribe or caste, who derived their authority from inheritance or conquest, who, at all events, did not hold it at the pleasure of the governed, and whose supremacy men did not venture, perhaps did not desire, to contest, whatever precautions might be taken against its oppressive exercise. Their power was regarded as necessary, but also as highly dangerous; as a weapon which they would attempt to use against their subjects, no less than against external enemies. To prevent the weaker members of the community from being preyed upon by innumerable vultures, it was needful that there should be an animal of prey stronger than the rest, commissioned to keep them down. But as the king of the vultures would be no less bent upon preying on the flock than any of the minor harpies, it was indispensable to be in a perpetual attitude of defence against his beak and claws. The aim, therefore, of patriots, was to set limits to the power which the ruler should be suffered to exercise over the community; and this limitation was what they meant by liberty. It was attempted in two ways. First, by obtaining a recognition of certain immunities, called political liberties or rights, which it was to be regarded as a breach of duty in the ruler to infringe, and which if he did infringe, specific resistance, or general rebellion, was held to be justifiable. A second, and generally a later expedient, was the establishment of constitutional checks; by which the consent of the community, or of a body of some sort, supposed to represent its interests, was made a necessary condition to some of the more important acts of the governing power. To the first of these modes of limitation, the ruling power, in most European countries, was compelled, more or less, to submit. It was not so with the second; and to attain this, or when already in some degree possessed, to attain it more completely, became everywhere the principal object of the lovers of liberty. And so long as mankind were content to combat one enemy by another, and to be ruled by a master, on condition of being guaranteed more or less efficaciously against his tyranny, they did not carry their aspirations beyond this point. A time, however, came, in the progress of human affairs, when men ceased to think it a necessity of nature that their governors should be an independent power, opposed in interest to themselves. It appeared to them much better that the various magistrates of the State should be their tenants or delegates, revocable at their pleasure. In that way alone, it seemed, could they have complete security that the powers of government would never be abused to their disadvantage. By degrees, this new demand for elective and temporary rulers became the prominent object of the exertions of the popular party, wherever any such party existed; and superseded, to a considerable extent, the previous efforts to limit the power of rulers. As the struggle proceeded for making the ruling power emanate from the periodical choice of the ruled, some persons began to think that too much importance had been attached to the limitation of the power itself. _That_ (it might seem) was a resource against rulers whose interests were habitually opposed to those of the people. What was now wanted was, that the rulers should be identified with the people; that their interest and will should be the interest and will of the nation. The nation did not need to be protected against its own will. There was no fear of its tyrannising over itself. Let the rulers be effectually responsible to it, promptly removable by it, and it could afford to trust them with power of which it could itself dictate the use to be made. Their power was but the nation's own power, concentrated, and in a form convenient for exercise. This mode of thought, or rather perhaps of feeling, was common among the last generation of European liberalism, in the Continental section of which it still apparently predominates. Those who admit any limit to what a government may do, except in the case of such governments as they think ought not to exist, stand out as brilliant exceptions among the political thinkers of the Continent. A similar tone of sentiment might by this time have been prevalent in our own country, if the circumstances which for a time encouraged it, had continued unaltered. But, in political and philosophical theories, as well as in persons, success discloses faults and infirmities which failure might have concealed from observation. The notion, that the people have no need to limit their power over themselves, might seem axiomatic, when popular government was a thing only dreamed about, or read of as having existed at some distant period of the past. Neither was that notion necessarily disturbed by such temporary aberrations as those of the French Revolution, the worst of which were the work of a usurping few, and which, in any case, belonged, not to the permanent working of popular institutions, but to a sudden and convulsive outbreak against monarchical and aristocratic despotism. In time, however, a democratic republic came to occupy a large portion of the earth's surface, and made itself felt as one of the most powerful members of the community of nations; and elective and responsible government became subject to the observations and criticisms which wait upon a great existing fact. It was now perceived that such phrases as "self-government," and "the power of the people over themselves," do not express the true state of the case. The "people" who exercise the power are not always the same people with those over whom it is exercised; and the "self-government" spoken of is not the government of each by himself, but of each by all the rest. The will of the people, moreover, practically means, the will of the most numerous or the most active _part_ of the people; the majority, or those who succeed in making themselves accepted as the majority: the people, consequently, _may_ desire to oppress a part of their number; and precautions are as much needed against this, as against any other abuse of power. The limitation, therefore, of the power of government over individuals, loses none of its importance when the holders of power are regularly accountable to the community, that is, to the strongest party therein. This view of things, recommending itself equally to the intelligence of thinkers and to the inclination of those important classes in European society to whose real or supposed interests democracy is adverse, has had no difficulty in establishing itself; and in political speculations "the tyranny of the majority" is now generally included among the evils against which society requires to be on its guard. Like other tyrannies, the tyranny of the majority was at first, and is still vulgarly, held in dread, chiefly as operating through the acts of the public authorities. But reflecting persons perceived that when society is itself the tyrant--society collectively, over the separate individuals who compose it--its means of tyrannising are not restricted to the acts which it may do by the hands of its political functionaries. Society can and does execute its own mandates: and if it issues wrong mandates instead of right, or any mandates at all in things with which it ought not to meddle, it practises a social tyranny more formidable than many kinds of political oppression, since, though not usually upheld by such extreme penalties, it leaves fewer means of escape, penetrating much more deeply into the details of life, and enslaving the soul itself. Protection, therefore, against the tyranny of the magistrate is not enough: there needs protection also against the tyranny of the prevailing opinion and feeling; against the tendency of society to impose, by other means than civil penalties, its own ideas and practices as rules of conduct on those who dissent from them; to fetter the development, and, if possible, prevent the formation, of any individuality not in harmony with its ways, and compel all characters to fashion themselves upon the model of its own. There is a limit to the legitimate interference of collective opinion with individual independence: and to find that limit, and maintain it against encroachment, is as indispensable to a good condition of human affairs, as protection against political despotism. But though this proposition is not likely to be contested in general terms, the practical question, where to place the limit--how to make the fitting adjustment between individual independence and social control--is a subject on which nearly everything remains to be done. All that makes existence valuable to any one, depends on the enforcement of restraints upon the actions of other people. Some rules of conduct, therefore, must be imposed, by law in the first place, and by opinion on many things which are not fit subjects for the operation of law. What these rules should be, is the principal question in human affairs; but if we except a few of the most obvious cases, it is one of those which least progress has been made in resolving. No two ages, and scarcely any two countries, have decided it alike; and the decision of one age or country is a wonder to another. Yet the people of any given age and country no more suspect any difficulty in it, than if it were a subject on which mankind had always been agreed. The rules which obtain among themselves appear to them self-evident and self-justifying. This all but universal illusion is one of the examples of the magical influence of custom, which is not only, as the proverb says, a second nature, but is continually mistaken for the first. The effect of custom, in preventing any misgiving respecting the rules of conduct which mankind impose on one another, is all the more complete because the subject is one on which it is not generally considered necessary that reasons should be given, either by one person to others, or by each to himself. People are accustomed to believe, and have been encouraged in the belief by some who aspire to the character of philosophers, that their feelings, on subjects of this nature, are better than reasons, and render reasons unnecessary. The practical principle which guides them to their opinions on the regulation of human conduct, is the feeling in each person's mind that everybody should be required to act as he, and those with whom he sympathises, would like them to act. No one, indeed, acknowledges to himself that his standard of judgment is his own liking; but an opinion on a point of conduct, not supported by reasons, can only count as one person's preference; and if the reasons, when given, are a mere appeal to a similar preference felt by other people, it is still only many people's liking instead of one. To an ordinary man, however, his own preference, thus supported, is not only a perfectly satisfactory reason, but the only one he generally has for any of his notions of morality, taste, or propriety, which are not expressly written in his religious creed; and his chief guide in the interpretation even of that. Men's opinions, accordingly, on what is laudable or blamable, are affected by all the multifarious causes which influence their wishes in regard to the conduct of others, and which are as numerous as those which determine their wishes on any other subject. Sometimes their reason--at other times their prejudices or superstitions: often their social affections, not seldom their anti-social ones, their envy or jealousy, their arrogance or contemptuousness: but most commonly, their desires or fears for themselves--their legitimate or illegitimate self-interest. Wherever there is an ascendant class, a large portion of the morality of the country emanates from its class interests, and its feelings of class superiority. The morality between Spartans and Helots, between planters and negroes, between princes and subjects, between nobles and roturiers, between men and women, has been for the most part the creation of these class interests and feelings: and the sentiments thus generated, react in turn upon the moral feelings of the members of the ascendant class, in their relations among themselves. Where, on the other hand, a class, formerly ascendant, has lost its ascendancy, or where its ascendancy is unpopular, the prevailing moral sentiments frequently bear the impress of an impatient dislike of superiority. Another grand determining principle of the rules of conduct, both in act and forbearance, which have been enforced by law or opinion, has been the servility of mankind towards the supposed preferences or aversions of their temporal masters, or of their gods. This servility, though essentially selfish, is not hypocrisy; it gives rise to perfectly genuine sentiments of abhorrence; it made men burn magicians and heretics. Among so many baser influences, the general and obvious interests of society have of course had a share, and a large one, in the direction of the moral sentiments: less, however, as a matter of reason, and on their own account, than as a consequence of the sympathies and antipathies which grew out of them: and sympathies and antipathies which had little or nothing to do with the interests of society, have made themselves felt in the establishment of moralities with quite as great force. The likings and dislikings of society, or of some powerful portion of it, are thus the main thing which has practically determined the rules laid down for general observance, under the penalties of law or opinion. And in general, those who have been in advance of society in thought and feeling have left this condition of things unassailed in principle, however they may have come into conflict with it in some of its details. They have occupied themselves rather in inquiring what things society ought to like or dislike, than in questioning whether its likings or dislikings should be a law to individuals. They preferred endeavouring to alter the feelings of mankind on the particular points on which they were themselves heretical, rather than make common cause in defence of freedom, with heretics generally. The only case in which the higher ground has been taken on principle and maintained with consistency, by any but an individual here and there, is that of religious belief: a case instructive in many ways, and not least so as forming a most striking instance of the fallibility of what is called the moral sense: for the _odium theologicum_, in a sincere bigot, is one of the most unequivocal cases of moral feeling. Those who first broke the yoke of what called itself the Universal Church, were in general as little willing to permit difference of religious opinion as that church itself. But when the heat of the conflict was over, without giving a complete victory to any party, and each church or sect was reduced to limit its hopes to retaining possession of the ground it already occupied; minorities, seeing that they had no chance of becoming majorities, were under the necessity of pleading to those whom they could not convert, for permission to differ. It is accordingly on this battle-field, almost solely, that the rights of the individual against society have been asserted on broad grounds of principle, and the claim of society to exercise authority over dissentients, openly controverted. The great writers to whom the world owes what religious liberty it possesses, have mostly asserted freedom of conscience as an indefeasible right, and denied absolutely that a human being is accountable to others for his religious belief. Yet so natural to mankind is intolerance in whatever they really care about, that religious freedom has hardly anywhere been practically realised, except where religious indifference, which dislikes to have its peace disturbed by theological quarrels, has added its weight to the scale. In the minds of almost all religious persons, even in the most tolerant countries, the duty of toleration is admitted with tacit reserves. One person will bear with dissent in matters of church government, but not of dogma; another can tolerate everybody, short of a Papist or a Unitarian; another, every one who believes in revealed religion; a few extend their charity a little further, but stop at the belief in a God and in a future state. Wherever the sentiment of the majority is still genuine and intense, it is found to have abated little of its claim to be obeyed. In England, from the peculiar circumstances of our political history, though the yoke of opinion is perhaps heavier, that of law is lighter, than in most other countries of Europe; and there is considerable jealousy of direct interference, by the legislative or the executive power, with private conduct; not so much from any just regard for the independence of the individual, as from the still subsisting habit of looking on the government as representing an opposite interest to the public. The majority have not yet learnt to feel the power of the government their power, or its opinions their opinions. When they do so, individual liberty will probably be as much exposed to invasion from the government, as it already is from public opinion. But, as yet, there is a considerable amount of feeling ready to be called forth against any attempt of the law to control individuals in things in which they have not hitherto been accustomed to be controlled by it; and this with very little discrimination as to whether the matter is, or is not, within the legitimate sphere of legal control; insomuch that the feeling, highly salutary on the whole, is perhaps quite as often misplaced as well grounded in the particular instances of its application. There is, in fact, no recognised principle by which the propriety or impropriety of government interference is customarily tested. People decide according to their personal preferences. Some, whenever they see any good to be done, or evil to be remedied, would willingly instigate the government to undertake the business; while others prefer to bear almost any amount of social evil, rather than add one to the departments of human interests amenable to governmental control. And men range themselves on one or the other side in any particular case, according to this general direction of their sentiments; or according to the degree of interest which they feel in the particular thing which it is proposed that the government should do, or according to the belief they entertain that the government would, or would not, do it in the manner they prefer; but very rarely on account of any opinion to which they consistently adhere, as to what things are fit to be done by a government. And it seems to me that in consequence of this absence of rule or principle, one side is at present as often wrong as the other; the interference of government is, with about equal frequency, improperly invoked and improperly condemned. The object of this Essay is to assert one very simple principle, as entitled to govern absolutely the dealings of society with the individual in the way of compulsion and control, whether the means used be physical force in the form of legal penalties, or the moral coercion of public opinion. That principle is, that the sole end for which mankind are warranted, individually or collectively, in interfering with the liberty of action of any of their number, is self-protection. That the only purpose for which power can be rightfully exercised over any member of a civilised community, against his will, is to prevent harm to others. His own good, either physical or moral, is not a sufficient warrant. He cannot rightfully be compelled to do or forbear because it will be better for him to do so, because it will make him happier, because, in the opinions of others, to do so would be wise, or even right. These are good reasons for remonstrating with him, or reasoning with him, or persuading him, or entreating him, but not for compelling him, or visiting him with any evil in case he do otherwise. To justify that, the conduct from which it is desired to deter him must be calculated to produce evil to some one else. The only part of the conduct of any one, for which he is amenable to society, is that which concerns others. In the part which merely concerns himself, his independence is, of right, absolute. Over himself, over his own body and mind, the individual is sovereign. It is, perhaps, hardly necessary to say that this doctrine is meant to apply only to human beings in the maturity of their faculties. We are not speaking of children, or of young persons below the age which the law may fix as that of manhood or womanhood. Those who are still in a state to require being taken care of by others, must be protected against their own actions as well as against external injury. For the same reason, we may leave out of consideration those backward states of society in which the race itself may be considered as in its nonage. The early difficulties in the way of spontaneous progress are so great, that there is seldom any choice of means for overcoming them; and a ruler full of the spirit of improvement is warranted in the use of any expedients that will attain an end, perhaps otherwise unattainable. Despotism is a legitimate mode of government in dealing with barbarians, provided the end be their improvement, and the means justified by actually effecting that end. Liberty, as a principle, has no application to any state of things anterior to the time when mankind have become capable of being improved by free and equal discussion. Until then, there is nothing for them but implicit obedience to an Akbar or a Charlemagne, if they are so fortunate as to find one. But as soon as mankind have attained the capacity of being guided to their own improvement by conviction or persuasion (a period long since reached in all nations with whom we need here concern ourselves), compulsion, either in the direct form or in that of pains and penalties for non-compliance, is no longer admissible as a means to their own good, and justifiable only for the security of others. It is proper to state that I forego any advantage which could be derived to my argument from the idea of abstract right, as a thing independent of utility. I regard utility as the ultimate appeal on all ethical questions; but it must be utility in the largest sense, grounded on the permanent interests of man as a progressive being. Those interests, I contend, authorise the subjection of individual spontaneity to external control, only in respect to those actions of each, which concern the interest of other people. If any one does an act hurtful to others, there is a _prima facie_ case for punishing him, by law, or, where legal penalties are not safely applicable, by general disapprobation. There are also many positive acts for the benefit of others, which he may rightfully be compelled to perform; such as, to give evidence in a court of justice; to bear his fair share in the common defence, or in any other joint work necessary to the interest of the society of which he enjoys the protection; and to perform certain acts of individual beneficence, such as saving a fellow-creature's life, or interposing to protect the defenceless against ill-usage, things which whenever it is obviously a man's duty to do, he may rightfully be made responsible to society for not doing. A person may cause evil to others not only by his actions but by his inaction, and in either case he is justly accountable to them for the injury. The latter case, it is true, requires a much more cautious exercise of compulsion than the former. To make any one answerable for doing evil to others, is the rule; to make him answerable for not preventing evil, is, comparatively speaking, the exception. Yet there are many cases clear enough and grave enough to justify that exception. In all things which regard the external relations of the individual, he is _de jure_ amenable to those whose interests are concerned, and if need be, to society as their protector. There are often good reasons for not holding him to the responsibility; but these reasons must arise from the special expediencies of the case: either because it is a kind of case in which he is on the whole likely to act better, when left to his own discretion, than when controlled in any way in which society have it in their power to control him; or because the attempt to exercise control would produce other evils, greater than those which it would prevent. When such reasons as these preclude the enforcement of responsibility, the conscience of the agent himself should step into the vacant judgment seat, and protect those interests of others which have no external protection; judging himself all the more rigidly, because the case does not admit of his being made accountable to the judgment of his fellow-creatures. But there is a sphere of action in which society, as distinguished from the individual, has, if any, only an indirect interest; comprehending all that portion of a person's life and conduct which affects only himself, or if it also affects others, only with their free, voluntary, and undeceived consent and participation. When I say only himself, I mean directly, and in the first instance: for whatever affects himself, may affect others _through_ himself; and the objection which may be grounded on this contingency, will receive consideration in the sequel. This, then, is the appropriate region of human liberty. It comprises, first, the inward domain of consciousness; demanding liberty of conscience, in the most comprehensive sense; liberty of thought and feeling; absolute freedom of opinion and sentiment on all subjects, practical or speculative, scientific, moral, or theological. The liberty of expressing and publishing opinions may seem to fall under a different principle, since it belongs to that part of the conduct of an individual which concerns other people; but, being almost of as much importance as the liberty of thought itself, and resting in great part on the same reasons, is practically inseparable from it. Secondly, the principle requires liberty of tastes and pursuits; of framing the plan of our life to suit our own character; of doing as we like, subject to such consequences as may follow: without impediment from our fellow-creatures, so long as what we do does not harm them, even though they should think our conduct foolish, perverse, or wrong. Thirdly, from this liberty of each individual, follows the liberty, within the same limits, of combination among individuals; freedom to unite, for any purpose not involving harm to others: the persons combining being supposed to be of full age, and not forced or deceived. No society in which these liberties are not, on the whole, respected, is free, whatever may be its form of government; and none is completely free in which they do not exist absolute and unqualified. The only freedom which deserves the name, is that of pursuing our own good in our own way, so long as we do not attempt to deprive others of theirs, or impede their efforts to obtain it. Each is the proper guardian of his own health, whether bodily, or mental and spiritual. Mankind are greater gainers by suffering each other to live as seems good to themselves, than by compelling each to live as seems good to the rest. Though this doctrine is anything but new, and, to some persons, may have the air of a truism, there is no doctrine which stands more directly opposed to the general tendency of existing opinion and practice. Society has expended fully as much effort in the attempt (according to its lights) to compel people to conform to its notions of personal, as of social excellence. The ancient commonwealths thought themselves entitled to practise, and the ancient philosophers countenanced, the regulation of every part of private conduct by public authority, on the ground that the State had a deep interest in the whole bodily and mental discipline of every one of its citizens; a mode of thinking which may have been admissible in small republics surrounded by powerful enemies, in constant peril of being subverted by foreign attack or internal commotion, and to which even a short interval of relaxed energy and self-command might so easily be fatal, that they could not afford to wait for the salutary permanent effects of freedom. In the modern world, the greater size of political communities, and above all, the separation between spiritual and temporal authority (which placed the direction of men's consciences in other hands than those which controlled their worldly affairs), prevented so great an interference by law in the details of private life; but the engines of moral repression have been wielded more strenuously against divergence from the reigning opinion in self-regarding, than even in social matters; religion, the most powerful of the elements which have entered into the formation of moral feeling, having almost always been governed either by the ambition of a hierarchy, seeking control over every department of human conduct, or by the spirit of Puritanism. And some of those modern reformers who have placed themselves in strongest opposition to the religions of the past, have been noway behind either churches or sects in their assertion of the right of spiritual domination: M. Comte, in particular, whose social system, as unfolded in his _Traite de Politique Positive_, aims at establishing (though by moral more than by legal appliances) a despotism of society over the individual, surpassing anything contemplated in the political ideal of the most rigid disciplinarian among the ancient philosophers. Apart from the peculiar tenets of individual thinkers, there is also in the world at large an increasing inclination to stretch unduly the powers of society over the individual, both by the force of opinion and even by that of legislation: and as the tendency of all the changes taking place in the world is to strengthen society, and diminish the power of the individual, this encroachment is not one of the evils which tend spontaneously to disappear, but, on the contrary, to grow more and more formidable. The disposition of mankind, whether as rulers or as fellow-citizens to impose their own opinions and inclinations as a rule of conduct on others, is so energetically supported by some of the best and by some of the worst feelings incident to human nature, that it is hardly ever kept under restraint by anything but want of power; and as the power is not declining, but growing, unless a strong barrier of moral conviction can be raised against the mischief, we must expect, in the present circumstances of the world, to see it increase. It will be convenient for the argument, if, instead of at once entering upon the general thesis, we confine ourselves in the first instance to a single branch of it, on which the principle here stated is, if not fully, yet to a certain point, recognised by the current opinions. This one branch is the Liberty of Thought: from which it is impossible to separate the cognate liberty of speaking and of writing. Although these liberties, to some considerable amount, form part of the political morality of all countries which profess religious toleration and free institutions, the grounds, both philosophical and practical, on which they rest, are perhaps not so familiar to the general mind, nor so thoroughly appreciated by many even of the leaders of opinion, as might have been expected. Those grounds, when rightly understood, are of much wider application than to only one division of the subject, and a thorough consideration of this part of the question will be found the best introduction to the remainder. Those to whom nothing which I am about to say will be new, may therefore, I hope, excuse me, if on a subject which for now three centuries has been so often discussed, I venture on one discussion more. Können Sie eine passende Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Mill beginnt damit zu erklären, dass sein Zweck in diesem Aufsatz darin besteht, die maximale Macht zu diskutieren, die die Gesellschaft über eine Einzelperson ausüben kann, und den Kampf zwischen Freiheit und Autorität zu untersuchen. Früher wurde Freiheit als Schutz vor politischer Tyrannei genutzt, weil Herrscher sowohl die Rechte potenzieller Aggressoren als auch ihrer eigenen Bürger unterdrücken konnten. Im Laufe der Zeit jedoch begannen die Bürger zu wollen, dass eine Begrenzung der Macht der Regierung eingeführt wird, um ihre Freiheit zu erreichen. Dieser Versuch, Freiheit sicherzustellen, umfasste zwei Schritte: 1) den Erwerb politischer Rechte, die gegen jede Form von Tyrannei geschützt waren, und 2) die Implementierung der Sicherung einer Gemeinschaftszustimmung in Form eines Mandats oder einer Instanz, die gegen einen Missbrauch von Macht vorgehen würde. Der erste Schritt wurde leicht erreicht, aber der zweite Schritt stieß auf stärkeren Widerstand von Regierungen. Nach einer Weile begannen die Menschen zu erkennen, wie wichtig es ist, dass ihre Regierung als ihre Delegierten handelt, ein demokratischer Körper, der Entscheidungen gemäß dem Willen des Volkes trifft. Diese Entwicklung wurde von vielen als das Ende von Tyrannei angesehen - wie können Menschen sich selbst unterdrücken? "Selbstregierung" und "die Macht des Volkes über sich selbst" waren häufig verwendete Begriffe für das neue, mächtige Regierungssystem. Mill lehnt diese Charakterisierungen jedoch ab und behauptet vielmehr, dass diejenigen, die die Macht haben, nicht unbedingt diejenigen sind, die von der Macht betroffen sind. Er kommt zu dem Schluss, dass der Wille des Volkes einfach der Wille der Mehrheit der aktiv regierten Menschen ist. Mill behauptet, dass diese Art von Tyrannei, die Tyrannei der Mehrheit, genauso böse ist wie jede andere Form von politischer Despotie. Tatsächlich glaubt er, dass sie oft viel schlimmer ist als andere Formen von Despotie, weil sie allgegenwärtiger ist und unser Leben und unsere sozialen Interaktionen infiltrieren kann. Mill kommt zu dem Schluss, dass es Schutz vor dieser Tyrannei der vorherrschenden Meinung geben muss. Mill erkennt an, dass es eine schwierige Aufgabe ist, die richtige Grenze für den Einfluss der Mehrheit zu finden, insbesondere da die meisten Menschen unterschiedliche Vorstellungen von der richtigen Grenze haben. Jede Person, so Mill, wird denken, dass ihre eigene Meinung in einer Angelegenheit richtig ist, aber ihre Argumentation wird von ihren eigenen Eigeninteressen und den äußeren und inneren Drücken beeinflusst, von denen sie möglicherweise oder möglicherweise nicht wissen. Als Ergebnis davon bestimmen mehrere Prinzipien die Standards einer Gesellschaft. Erstens werden die moralischen Standards und Selbstwahrnehmungen der Oberschicht in einer Gesellschaft wahrscheinlich den größten Einfluss auf die Moral ihres Landes haben. Zweitens neigen Männer dazu, den Anforderungen ihrer Religion zu folgen, und dies trägt zu den Verhaltensregeln der Gesellschaft bei. Schließlich beeinflussen die grundlegenden Interessen der Gesellschaft die moralischen Empfindungen insgesamt. Mill weist darauf hin, dass es nicht die tatsächlichen Interessen sind, die beeinflussen, sondern vielmehr die Empathie und Apathie, die aus diesen Interessen resultieren. Aus diesen Prinzipien geht hervor, dass es die Vorlieben und Abneigungen der Gesellschaft sind, die die meisten Regeln für die Bürgerschaft schaffen. Oft überwiegt die Frage, was die Gesellschaft nicht mag oder mag, fälschlicherweise die Frage, ob die Gesellschaft diese Präferenzen als Gesetze umsetzen sollte. Eine Ausnahme hiervon betrifft die Religion, wo der Gesellschaft das Recht verweigert wurde, ihre Präferenzen einheitlich umzusetzen, aufgrund des Konzepts von Freiheit, zusammen mit den religiösen Minderheitsfraktionen, die nur wenige Mehrheiten ließen, um ihren Willen durchzusetzen. Allerdings behauptet Mill, dass es eigentlich keine vollständige religiöse Freiheit gibt, weil obwohl es religiöse Toleranz gibt, es immer noch wenig Raum für religiöse Dissidenten gibt, wenn die Mehrheit einer Gesellschaft eine starke religiöse Präferenz hat. Mill spricht über sein Heimatland England und wie die Menschen es respektieren, von der Regierung gesagt zu bekommen, was sie tun sollen, weil die Meinung besteht, dass die Meinung der Regierung in der Regel nicht mit der der Öffentlichkeit übereinstimmt oder im besten Interesse der Öffentlichkeit liegt. Die englische Bevölkerung wusste nicht, wie es sich anfühlt, dass ihre Stimme in den Entscheidungen des Landes widergespiegelt wird, aber sie glaubte, dass die Regierung keine Kontrolle über Bereiche ausüben sollte, in denen sie zuvor nicht involviert war. Sie hatten auch die Tendenz, den Wert der Regierung anhand ihrer eigenen persönlichen Vorlieben zu bestimmen - einige wollten, dass die Regierung Gutes tut und schlechte Dinge richtigstellt, und manche wollten, dass die Regierung sich unabhängig von den Kosten für die Gesellschaft nicht einmischt. Mill glaubt, dass der Umfang, in dem die Gesellschaft ihren Einfluss auf eine Einzelperson ausüben kann, darauf abzielen sollte, andere zu schützen. Wenn eine Person sich in eine gefährliche Position begibt, die nur ihn selbst betrifft, hat die Gesellschaft laut Mill kein Recht, einzugreifen. Nur weil die Gesellschaft glaubt, dass eine Handlung gut ist, kann sie nicht ihren Bürgern aufgezwungen werden, denn jeder Bürger ist autonom. Mill wendet diese Unabhängigkeit nicht auf kleine Kinder oder Personen an, die sich nicht selbst versorgen können -Mill erstreckt dies auf unterentwickelte Rassen, die durch die Regeln der Gesellschaft verbessert werden müssen- aber sobald das Erwachsenenalter erreicht ist, gibt es keinen Grund für die Gesellschaft, ihre Werte einem Erwachsenen aufzuzwingen. Wenn eine Person anderen Schaden zufügt, unterliegt sie strafrechtlicher Verfolgung, den Konsequenzen ihres Handelns. Mill behauptet, dass eine Person sowohl für den direkten Schaden an einer anderen Person als auch für das Unterlassen, das zu einem Schaden für eine Einzelperson führt, zur Rechenschaft gezogen werden sollte. Mill glaubt, dass die menschliche Freiheit folgende Bereiche umfassen sollte: 1) den inneren Bereich des Bewusstseins, 2) die Freiheit des Denkens und Fühlens, 3) die Freiheit der Meinungsäußerung und Veröffentlichung von Meinungen, 4) die Freiheit der Vorlieben und Bestrebungen und 5) die Freiheit der Einzelpersonen, sich einer Kollektivgruppe anzuschließen. Er glaubt, dass seine dargelegten Ideen das Gegenteil von dem sind, was die Instinkte der Gesellschaft diktieren. Die Gesellschaft beruht größtenteils auf der Kunst der Konformität in Meinung und Handeln, und Mill sieht nur, wie der Einfluss der Gesellschaft auf die Individuen im Laufe der Zeit wächst.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: SCENE IV PHAEDRA, THESEUS PHAEDRA My lord, I come to you, fill'd with just dread. Your voice raised high in anger reach'd mine ears, And much I fear that deeds have follow'd threats. Oh, if there yet is time, spare your own offspring. Respect your race and blood, I do beseech you. Let me not hear that blood cry from the ground; Save me the horror and perpetual pain Of having caused his father's hand to shed it. THESEUS No, Madam, from that stain my hand is free. But, for all that, the wretch has not escaped me. The hand of an Immortal now is charged With his destruction. 'Tis a debt that Neptune Owes me, and you shall be avenged. PHAEDRA A debt Owed you? Pray'rs made in anger-- THESEUS Never fear That they will fail. Rather join yours to mine In all their blackness paint for me his crimes, And fan my tardy passion to white heat. But yet you know not all his infamy; His rage against you overflows in slanders; Your mouth, he says, is full of all deceit, He says Aricia has his heart and soul, That her alone he loves. PHAEDRA Aricia? THESEUS Aye, He said it to my face! an idle pretext! A trick that gulls me not! Let us hope Neptune Will do him speedy justice. To his altars I go, to urge performance of his oaths. SCENE V PHAEDRA (alone) Ah, he is gone! What tidings struck mine ears? What fire, half smother'd, in my heart revives? What fatal stroke falls like a thunderbolt? Stung by remorse that would not let me rest, I tore myself out of Oenone's arms, And flew to help Hippolytus with all My soul and strength. Who knows if that repentance Might not have moved me to accuse myself? And, if my voice had not been choked with shame, Perhaps I had confess'd the frightful truth. Hippolytus can feel, but not for me! Aricia has his heart, his plighted troth. Ye gods, when, deaf to all my sighs and tears, He arm'd his eye with scorn, his brow with threats, I deem'd his heart, impregnable to love, Was fortified 'gainst all my sex alike. And yet another has prevail'd to tame His pride, another has secured his favour. Perhaps he has a heart easily melted; I am the only one he cannot bear! And shall I charge myself with his defence? SCENE VI PHAEDRA, OENONE PHAEDRA Know you, dear Nurse, what I have learn'd just now? OENONE No; but I come in truth with trembling limbs. I dreaded with what purpose you went forth, The fear of fatal madness made me pale. PHAEDRA Who would have thought it, Nurse? I had a rival. OENONE A rival? PHAEDRA Yes, he loves. I cannot doubt it. This wild untamable Hippolytus, Who scorn'd to be admired, whom lovers' sighs Wearied, this tiger, whom I fear'd to rouse, Fawns on a hand that has subdued his pride: Aricia has found entrance to his heart. OENONE Aricia? PHAEDRA Ah! anguish as yet untried! For what new tortures am I still reserved? All I have undergone, transports of passion, Longings and fears, the horrors of remorse, The shame of being spurn'd with contumely, Were feeble foretastes of my present torments. They love each other! By what secret charm Have they deceived me? Where, and when, and how Met they? You knew it all. Why was I cozen'd? You never told me of those stolen hours Of amorous converse. Have they oft been seen Talking together? Did they seek the shades Of thickest woods? Alas! full freedom had they To see each other. Heav'n approved their sighs; They loved without the consciousness of guilt; And every morning's sun for them shone clear, While I, an outcast from the face of Nature, Shunn'd the bright day, and sought to hide myself. Death was the only god whose aid I dared To ask: I waited for the grave's release. Water'd with tears, nourish'd with gall, my woe Was all too closely watch'd; I did not dare To weep without restraint. In mortal dread Tasting this dangerous solace, I disguised My terror 'neath a tranquil countenance, And oft had I to check my tears, and smile. OENONE What fruit will they enjoy of their vain love? They will not see each other more. PHAEDRA That love Will last for ever. Even while I speak, Ah, fatal thought, they laugh to scorn the madness Of my distracted heart. In spite of exile That soon must part them, with a thousand oaths They seal yet closer union. Can I suffer A happiness, Oenone, which insults me? I crave your pity. She must be destroy'd. My husband's wrath against a hateful stock Shall be revived, nor must the punishment Be light: the sister's guilt passes the brothers'. I will entreat him in my jealous rage. What am I saying? Have I lost my senses? Is Phaedra jealous, and will she implore Theseus for help? My husband lives, and yet I burn. For whom? Whose heart is this I claim As mine? At every word I say, my hair Stands up with horror. Guilt henceforth has pass'd All bounds. Hypocrisy and incest breathe At once thro' all. My murderous hands are ready To spill the blood of guileless innocence. Do I yet live, wretch that I am, and dare To face this holy Sun from whom I spring? My father's sire was king of all the gods; My ancestors fill all the universe. Where can I hide? In the dark realms of Pluto? But there my father holds the fatal urn; His hand awards th' irrevocable doom: Minos is judge of all the ghosts in hell. Ah! how his awful shade will start and shudder When he shall see his daughter brought before him, Forced to confess sins of such varied dye, Crimes it may be unknown to hell itself! What wilt thou say, my father, at a sight So dire? I think I see thee drop the urn, And, seeking some unheard-of punishment, Thyself become my executioner. Spare me! A cruel goddess has destroy'd Thy race; and in my madness recognize Her wrath. Alas! My aching heart has reap'd No fruit of pleasure from the frightful crime The shame of which pursues me to the grave, And ends in torment life-long misery. OENONE Ah, Madam, pray dismiss a groundless dread: Look less severely on a venial error. You love. We cannot conquer destiny. You were drawn on as by a fatal charm. Is that a marvel without precedent Among us? Has love triumph'd over you, And o'er none else? Weakness is natural To man. A mortal, to a mortal's lot Submit. You chafe against a yoke that others Have long since borne. The dwellers in Olympus, The gods themselves, who terrify with threats The sins of men, have burn'd with lawless fires. PHAEDRA What words are these I hear? What counsel this You dare to give me? Will you to the end Pour poison in mine ears? You have destroy'd me. You brought me back when I should else have quitted The light of day, made me forget my duty And see Hippolytus, till then avoided. What hast thou done? Why did your wicked mouth With blackest lies slander his blameless life? Perhaps you've slain him, and the impious pray'r Of an unfeeling father has been answer'd. No, not another word! Go, hateful monster; Away, and leave me to my piteous fate. May Heav'n with justice pay you your deserts! And may your punishment for ever be A terror to all those who would, like you, Nourish with artful wiles the weaknesses Of princes, push them to the brink of ruin To which their heart inclines, and smooth the path Of guilt. Such flatterers doth the wrath of Heav'n Bestow on kings as its most fatal gift. OENONE (alone) O gods! to serve her what have I not done? This is the due reward that I have won. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Phädra betritt, gekränkt, den Raum und bittet Theseus darum, seinen Sohn nicht zu töten, nicht die Schuld für ein solches Verbrechen auf ihr Gewissen zu laden. Theseus beruhigt sie damit, dass er Hippolytus nicht berührt hat; Neptun wird ihn rächen. Phädra, noch mehr erschreckt, beginnt zu fragen, aber Theseus unterbricht sie und sagt ihr, dass Hippolytus' Sünden gegen sie zu schwarz sind, um vergeben zu werden, und dass er sie noch verschlimmert hat, indem er Theseus glauben machen will, er sei in Aricia verliebt. Während Phädra von dieser Nachricht schockiert ist, geht er zu den Altären des Neptun, um für eine schnelle Erfüllung seines Wunsches zu beten. Phädra allein kann nicht glauben und doch nur zu gut das gerade Gehörte glauben. Reuevoll für das Verbrechen, das sie geduldet hat, hat sie sich aus Oenones Armen gerissen, um Hippolytus' Leben zu retten, vielleicht sogar um zu gestehen. Nun haben sich ihre Gefühle völlig geändert. Er liebt Aricia! Er liebt eine andere! Nie wird sie ihn verteidigen. Oenone tritt ein und Phädra erzählt ihr, was sie erfahren hat. Hippolytus liebt Aricia und ihr Leiden hat keine Grenzen. Was auch immer sie zuvor ertragen hat - die Qualen der Liebe und die Qualen der Reue waren mild im Vergleich zur Hölle der Eifersucht, die sie jetzt durchleidet. Hippolytus und Aricia trafen sich, liebten einander in aller Unschuld, und der Himmel selbst lächelte über ihre Glücksmomente, während sie, Phädra, ihre Liebe vor dem Tageslicht verstecken musste und nur den Tod suchte; sie wagte es nicht einmal zu weinen, um ihr Leiden zu lindern, sondern musste ständig ein ruhiges Gesicht in der Öffentlichkeit bewahren. Oenone, tröstend, erinnert sie daran, dass Hippolytus und Aricia sich nie wiedersehen werden, aber der Gedanke ist für Phädra bedeutungslos. "Sie werden einander noch immer lieben", ruft sie. "Selbst jetzt trotzen sie dem Zorn einer von Liebe Wahnsinnigen, schwören tausendmal, dass sie nie getrennt werden." Oenone muss Phädras Leidenschaft noch einmal dienen; sie muss Theseus gegen Aricia aufhetzen und ihn dazu überreden, sie zu töten. Sie selbst wird ihn bitten. Doch in diesem Moment schockt sie der außerordentliche Überschwang ihres Wahnsinns in die Vernunft und sie hält abrupt inne, erschüttert. "Mein Mann lebt noch und ich brenne noch immer für Hippolytus!", ruft sie aus. Von ihrer ersten Sünde der inzestuösen Liebe aus hat sie Lügen und falsche Anschuldigungen auf sich genommen; selbst jetzt könnte unschuldiges Blut von Hippolytus an ihren Händen kleben; Wie kann sie es ertragen zu leben? Lieber sollte sie sterben; doch selbst nach dem Tod wird ihr Vater, der Richter der Unterwelt, ihr entgegentreten, entsetzt über ihre Verbrechen, in dem Versuch, eine zu ihren Taten passende Qual zu finden. Oenone, verängstigt, versucht sie zu beruhigen. Ihre Liebe zu Hippolytus war kein Verbrechen, nur ein verzeihlicher Fehler. Jeder liebt; es ist das Schicksal der Sterblichen, und auch die Götter lieben manchmal unrechtmäßig. Ihre schwachen Argumente machen Phädra jedoch nur noch wütender. Welche neuen Verbrechen wird Oenone nun vorschlagen? Von Anfang an war die Krankenschwester die Verursacherin von Phädras bösen Taten. Sie drängte Phädra dazu, ihre Liebe zu Hippolytus zu gestehen; sie war es, die ihn zu Unrecht bei seinem Vater anklagte und die vielleicht sogar seinen Tod herbeigeführt hat. Von nun an wird Phädra über ihr eigenes Leben entscheiden, und möge Oenone das Schicksal erleiden, das alle Schmeichler verdienen, die die Schwächen ihres Herrschers unterstützen und von ihnen zehren! Sie geht ab und Oenone, allein gelassen, überlegt, dass sie trotz all ihrer Dienste für Phädra vielleicht die Belohnung erhalten hat, die sie verdient.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). 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 2. Leonato tritt auf, begleitet von einem alten Mann, der Leonatos Bruder ist. Leo: Was ist los, Bruder? Wo ist mein Neffe, dein Sohn? Hat er diese Musik organisiert? Alt: Er ist sehr damit beschäftigt, aber Bruder, ich kann dir Neuigkeiten erzählen, von denen du noch nicht geträumt hast. Leo: Sind sie gut? Alt: Wie die Ereignisse sie prägen, aber sie haben eine gute Tarnung. Sie wirken nach außen hin gut. Der Prinz und Graf Claudio gingen in einer dicht bewachsenen Allee in meinem Obstgarten spazieren und wurden von einem meiner Männer belauscht. Der Prinz gestand Claudio, dass er meine Nichte, deine Tochter, liebt und es heute Abend bei einem Tanz offenbaren wollte. Und wenn er ihre Zustimmung fände, würde er die Gelegenheit am Schopf packen und dir sofort davon erzählen. Leo: Hat dieser Kerl Verstand, der dir das erzählt hat? Alt: Ein cleverer Kerl, ich werde ihn holen lassen und du kannst ihn selbst befragen. Leo: Nein, nein, wir werden es als einen Traum behandeln, bis es sich beweist. Aber ich werde meine Tochter davon in Kenntnis setzen, damit sie besser auf eine Antwort vorbereitet ist, falls dies vielleicht wahr ist. Geh du und erzähle es ihr. Cousins, ihr wisst, was ihr zu tun habt. Ach, entschuldige, mein Freund, komm mit mir und ich werde deine Fähigkeiten nutzen. Guter Cousin, sei in dieser geschäftigen Zeit vorsichtig. Sie gehen ab. Sir John der Bastard tritt auf, begleitet von seinem Gefährten Conrade. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Sir John Falstaff betritt mit seinem Knappenjungen den Raum und macht Witze darüber, wie klein der Junge im Vergleich zu ihm ist, und kommentiert clever das Urteil des Arztes über seinen Gesundheitszustand. Dann macht er Witze darüber, wie jung Prinz Heinrich, sein Begleiter, ist, und erkundigt sich nach den neuen Kleidern, die er bestellt hat. Der Junge sagt ihm, dass der Schneider Falstaffs Kredit nicht vertraut hat und eine bessere Sicherheit wollte. Falstaff antwortet mit einer Reihe von Beleidigungen gegen den Mann. Der Lord Chief Justice tritt mit seinem Diener ein. Er versucht mit Falstaff zu sprechen, der anfangs vorgibt taub zu sein. Als die beiden Männer doch miteinander sprechen, ist Falstaff übertrieben höflich und bittet den Chief Justice, gut auf seine Gesundheit zu achten. Der Chief Justice rügt Falstaff dafür, dass er nicht gekommen ist, als er geschickt wurde, vor der Schlacht von Shrewsbury. Falstaff versucht das Thema zu wechseln. Als der Chief Justice ihm nachdrücklich sagt, dass schwerwiegende Anschuldigungen gegen ihn vorliegen, sagt Falstaff, dass er nicht gekommen ist, weil er militärischen Dienst hatte und daher von einer zivilen Vorladung befreit war. Der Chief Justice stimmt widerwillig zu, die Angelegenheit fallen zu lassen, weil Falstaff in Shrewsbury gedient hat und somit seine Rolle bei einem Raubüberfall auf Gad's Hill auslöscht. Der Chief Justice beschwert sich dann darüber, dass Falstaff einen schlechten Einfluss auf den Prinzen hat, was Falstaff aufgrund seiner hohen Körpermasse, die ein leichter Engel ist, geschickt leugnet. Nach weiterem verbalen Gefecht teilt der Chief Justice Falstaff mit, dass er für den Dienst an der Seite von Prinz John gegen die Armeen von Northumberland und York vorgeladen wurde. Falstaff gibt sich etwas bravourös und der Chief Justice wünscht ihm viel Glück bei der Expedition. Falstaff hat dann die Unverfrorenheit, den Chief Justice um ein Darlehen von tausend Pfund zu bitten, das der Chief Justice ablehnt. Nach dem Abgang des Chief Justice beschwert sich Falstaff über sein Geldmangel und schließt, Profit aus dem Krieg zu schlagen.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). 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 funeral was arranged for the next succeeding day, so that Lucy and her mother might be buried together. I attended to all the ghastly formalities, and the urbane undertaker proved that his staff were afflicted--or blessed--with something of his own obsequious suavity. Even the woman who performed the last offices for the dead remarked to me, in a confidential, brother-professional way, when she had come out from the death-chamber:-- "She makes a very beautiful corpse, sir. It's quite a privilege to attend on her. It's not too much to say that she will do credit to our establishment!" I noticed that Van Helsing never kept far away. This was possible from the disordered state of things in the household. There were no relatives at hand; and as Arthur had to be back the next day to attend at his father's funeral, we were unable to notify any one who should have been bidden. Under the circumstances, Van Helsing and I took it upon ourselves to examine papers, etc. He insisted upon looking over Lucy's papers himself. I asked him why, for I feared that he, being a foreigner, might not be quite aware of English legal requirements, and so might in ignorance make some unnecessary trouble. He answered me:-- "I know; I know. You forget that I am a lawyer as well as a doctor. But this is not altogether for the law. You knew that, when you avoided the coroner. I have more than him to avoid. There may be papers more--such as this." As he spoke he took from his pocket-book the memorandum which had been in Lucy's breast, and which she had torn in her sleep. "When you find anything of the solicitor who is for the late Mrs. Westenra, seal all her papers, and write him to-night. For me, I watch here in the room and in Miss Lucy's old room all night, and I myself search for what may be. It is not well that her very thoughts go into the hands of strangers." I went on with my part of the work, and in another half hour had found the name and address of Mrs. Westenra's solicitor and had written to him. All the poor lady's papers were in order; explicit directions regarding the place of burial were given. I had hardly sealed the letter, when, to my surprise, Van Helsing walked into the room, saying:-- "Can I help you, friend John? I am free, and if I may, my service is to you." "Have you got what you looked for?" I asked, to which he replied:-- "I did not look for any specific thing. I only hoped to find, and find I have, all that there was--only some letters and a few memoranda, and a diary new begun. But I have them here, and we shall for the present say nothing of them. I shall see that poor lad to-morrow evening, and, with his sanction, I shall use some." When we had finished the work in hand, he said to me:-- "And now, friend John, I think we may to bed. We want sleep, both you and I, and rest to recuperate. To-morrow we shall have much to do, but for the to-night there is no need of us. Alas!" Before turning in we went to look at poor Lucy. The undertaker had certainly done his work well, for the room was turned into a small _chapelle ardente_. There was a wilderness of beautiful white flowers, and death was made as little repulsive as might be. The end of the winding-sheet was laid over the face; when the Professor bent over and turned it gently back, we both started at the beauty before us, the tall wax candles showing a sufficient light to note it well. All Lucy's loveliness had come back to her in death, and the hours that had passed, instead of leaving traces of "decay's effacing fingers," had but restored the beauty of life, till positively I could not believe my eyes that I was looking at a corpse. The Professor looked sternly grave. He had not loved her as I had, and there was no need for tears in his eyes. He said to me: "Remain till I return," and left the room. He came back with a handful of wild garlic from the box waiting in the hall, but which had not been opened, and placed the flowers amongst the others on and around the bed. Then he took from his neck, inside his collar, a little gold crucifix, and placed it over the mouth. He restored the sheet to its place, and we came away. I was undressing in my own room, when, with a premonitory tap at the door, he entered, and at once began to speak:-- "To-morrow I want you to bring me, before night, a set of post-mortem knives." "Must we make an autopsy?" I asked. "Yes and no. I want to operate, but not as you think. Let me tell you now, but not a word to another. I want to cut off her head and take out her heart. Ah! you a surgeon, and so shocked! You, whom I have seen with no tremble of hand or heart, do operations of life and death that make the rest shudder. Oh, but I must not forget, my dear friend John, that you loved her; and I have not forgotten it, for it is I that shall operate, and you must only help. I would like to do it to-night, but for Arthur I must not; he will be free after his father's funeral to-morrow, and he will want to see her--to see _it_. Then, when she is coffined ready for the next day, you and I shall come when all sleep. We shall unscrew the coffin-lid, and shall do our operation: and then replace all, so that none know, save we alone." "But why do it at all? The girl is dead. Why mutilate her poor body without need? And if there is no necessity for a post-mortem and nothing to gain by it--no good to her, to us, to science, to human knowledge--why do it? Without such it is monstrous." For answer he put his hand on my shoulder, and said, with infinite tenderness:-- "Friend John, I pity your poor bleeding heart; and I love you the more because it does so bleed. If I could, I would take on myself the burden that you do bear. But there are things that you know not, but that you shall know, and bless me for knowing, though they are not pleasant things. John, my child, you have been my friend now many years, and yet did you ever know me to do any without good cause? I may err--I am but man; but I believe in all I do. Was it not for these causes that you send for me when the great trouble came? Yes! Were you not amazed, nay horrified, when I would not let Arthur kiss his love--though she was dying--and snatched him away by all my strength? Yes! And yet you saw how she thanked me, with her so beautiful dying eyes, her voice, too, so weak, and she kiss my rough old hand and bless me? Yes! And did you not hear me swear promise to her, that so she closed her eyes grateful? Yes! "Well, I have good reason now for all I want to do. You have for many years trust me; you have believe me weeks past, when there be things so strange that you might have well doubt. Believe me yet a little, friend John. If you trust me not, then I must tell what I think; and that is not perhaps well. And if I work--as work I shall, no matter trust or no trust--without my friend trust in me, I work with heavy heart and feel, oh! so lonely when I want all help and courage that may be!" He paused a moment and went on solemnly: "Friend John, there are strange and terrible days before us. Let us not be two, but one, that so we work to a good end. Will you not have faith in me?" I took his hand, and promised him. I held my door open as he went away, and watched him go into his room and close the door. As I stood without moving, I saw one of the maids pass silently along the passage--she had her back towards me, so did not see me--and go into the room where Lucy lay. The sight touched me. Devotion is so rare, and we are so grateful to those who show it unasked to those we love. Here was a poor girl putting aside the terrors which she naturally had of death to go watch alone by the bier of the mistress whom she loved, so that the poor clay might not be lonely till laid to eternal rest.... * * * * * I must have slept long and soundly, for it was broad daylight when Van Helsing waked me by coming into my room. He came over to my bedside and said:-- "You need not trouble about the knives; we shall not do it." "Why not?" I asked. For his solemnity of the night before had greatly impressed me. "Because," he said sternly, "it is too late--or too early. See!" Here he held up the little golden crucifix. "This was stolen in the night." "How, stolen," I asked in wonder, "since you have it now?" "Because I get it back from the worthless wretch who stole it, from the woman who robbed the dead and the living. Her punishment will surely come, but not through me; she knew not altogether what she did and thus unknowing, she only stole. Now we must wait." He went away on the word, leaving me with a new mystery to think of, a new puzzle to grapple with. The forenoon was a dreary time, but at noon the solicitor came: Mr. Marquand, of Wholeman, Sons, Marquand & Lidderdale. He was very genial and very appreciative of what we had done, and took off our hands all cares as to details. During lunch he told us that Mrs. Westenra had for some time expected sudden death from her heart, and had put her affairs in absolute order; he informed us that, with the exception of a certain entailed property of Lucy's father's which now, in default of direct issue, went back to a distant branch of the family, the whole estate, real and personal, was left absolutely to Arthur Holmwood. When he had told us so much he went on:-- "Frankly we did our best to prevent such a testamentary disposition, and pointed out certain contingencies that might leave her daughter either penniless or not so free as she should be to act regarding a matrimonial alliance. Indeed, we pressed the matter so far that we almost came into collision, for she asked us if we were or were not prepared to carry out her wishes. Of course, we had then no alternative but to accept. We were right in principle, and ninety-nine times out of a hundred we should have proved, by the logic of events, the accuracy of our judgment. Frankly, however, I must admit that in this case any other form of disposition would have rendered impossible the carrying out of her wishes. For by her predeceasing her daughter the latter would have come into possession of the property, and, even had she only survived her mother by five minutes, her property would, in case there were no will--and a will was a practical impossibility in such a case--have been treated at her decease as under intestacy. In which case Lord Godalming, though so dear a friend, would have had no claim in the world; and the inheritors, being remote, would not be likely to abandon their just rights, for sentimental reasons regarding an entire stranger. I assure you, my dear sirs, I am rejoiced at the result, perfectly rejoiced." He was a good fellow, but his rejoicing at the one little part--in which he was officially interested--of so great a tragedy, was an object-lesson in the limitations of sympathetic understanding. He did not remain long, but said he would look in later in the day and see Lord Godalming. His coming, however, had been a certain comfort to us, since it assured us that we should not have to dread hostile criticism as to any of our acts. Arthur was expected at five o'clock, so a little before that time we visited the death-chamber. It was so in very truth, for now both mother and daughter lay in it. The undertaker, true to his craft, had made the best display he could of his goods, and there was a mortuary air about the place that lowered our spirits at once. Van Helsing ordered the former arrangement to be adhered to, explaining that, as Lord Godalming was coming very soon, it would be less harrowing to his feelings to see all that was left of his _fiancee_ quite alone. The undertaker seemed shocked at his own stupidity and exerted himself to restore things to the condition in which we left them the night before, so that when Arthur came such shocks to his feelings as we could avoid were saved. Poor fellow! He looked desperately sad and broken; even his stalwart manhood seemed to have shrunk somewhat under the strain of his much-tried emotions. He had, I knew, been very genuinely and devotedly attached to his father; and to lose him, and at such a time, was a bitter blow to him. With me he was warm as ever, and to Van Helsing he was sweetly courteous; but I could not help seeing that there was some constraint with him. The Professor noticed it, too, and motioned me to bring him upstairs. I did so, and left him at the door of the room, as I felt he would like to be quite alone with her, but he took my arm and led me in, saying huskily:-- "You loved her too, old fellow; she told me all about it, and there was no friend had a closer place in her heart than you. I don't know how to thank you for all you have done for her. I can't think yet...." Here he suddenly broke down, and threw his arms round my shoulders and laid his head on my breast, crying:-- "Oh, Jack! Jack! What shall I do! The whole of life seems gone from me all at once, and there is nothing in the wide world for me to live for." I comforted him as well as I could. In such cases men do not need much expression. A grip of the hand, the tightening of an arm over the shoulder, a sob in unison, are expressions of sympathy dear to a man's heart. I stood still and silent till his sobs died away, and then I said softly to him:-- "Come and look at her." Together we moved over to the bed, and I lifted the lawn from her face. God! how beautiful she was. Every hour seemed to be enhancing her loveliness. It frightened and amazed me somewhat; and as for Arthur, he fell a-trembling, and finally was shaken with doubt as with an ague. At last, after a long pause, he said to me in a faint whisper:-- "Jack, is she really dead?" I assured him sadly that it was so, and went on to suggest--for I felt that such a horrible doubt should not have life for a moment longer than I could help--that it often happened that after death faces became softened and even resolved into their youthful beauty; that this was especially so when death had been preceded by any acute or prolonged suffering. It seemed to quite do away with any doubt, and, after kneeling beside the couch for a while and looking at her lovingly and long, he turned aside. I told him that that must be good-bye, as the coffin had to be prepared; so he went back and took her dead hand in his and kissed it, and bent over and kissed her forehead. He came away, fondly looking back over his shoulder at her as he came. I left him in the drawing-room, and told Van Helsing that he had said good-bye; so the latter went to the kitchen to tell the undertaker's men to proceed with the preparations and to screw up the coffin. When he came out of the room again I told him of Arthur's question, and he replied:-- "I am not surprised. Just now I doubted for a moment myself!" We all dined together, and I could see that poor Art was trying to make the best of things. Van Helsing had been silent all dinner-time; but when we had lit our cigars he said-- "Lord----"; but Arthur interrupted him:-- "No, no, not that, for God's sake! not yet at any rate. Forgive me, sir: I did not mean to speak offensively; it is only because my loss is so recent." The Professor answered very sweetly:-- "I only used that name because I was in doubt. I must not call you 'Mr.,' and I have grown to love you--yes, my dear boy, to love you--as Arthur." Arthur held out his hand, and took the old man's warmly. "Call me what you will," he said. "I hope I may always have the title of a friend. And let me say that I am at a loss for words to thank you for your goodness to my poor dear." He paused a moment, and went on: "I know that she understood your goodness even better than I do; and if I was rude or in any way wanting at that time you acted so--you remember"--the Professor nodded--"you must forgive me." He answered with a grave kindness:-- "I know it was hard for you to quite trust me then, for to trust such violence needs to understand; and I take it that you do not--that you cannot--trust me now, for you do not yet understand. And there may be more times when I shall want you to trust when you cannot--and may not--and must not yet understand. But the time will come when your trust shall be whole and complete in me, and when you shall understand as though the sunlight himself shone through. Then you shall bless me from first to last for your own sake, and for the sake of others and for her dear sake to whom I swore to protect." "And, indeed, indeed, sir," said Arthur warmly, "I shall in all ways trust you. I know and believe you have a very noble heart, and you are Jack's friend, and you were hers. You shall do what you like." The Professor cleared his throat a couple of times, as though about to speak, and finally said:-- "May I ask you something now?" "Certainly." "You know that Mrs. Westenra left you all her property?" "No, poor dear; I never thought of it." "And as it is all yours, you have a right to deal with it as you will. I want you to give me permission to read all Miss Lucy's papers and letters. Believe me, it is no idle curiosity. I have a motive of which, be sure, she would have approved. I have them all here. I took them before we knew that all was yours, so that no strange hand might touch them--no strange eye look through words into her soul. I shall keep them, if I may; even you may not see them yet, but I shall keep them safe. No word shall be lost; and in the good time I shall give them back to you. It's a hard thing I ask, but you will do it, will you not, for Lucy's sake?" Arthur spoke out heartily, like his old self:-- "Dr. Van Helsing, you may do what you will. I feel that in saying this I am doing what my dear one would have approved. I shall not trouble you with questions till the time comes." The old Professor stood up as he said solemnly:-- "And you are right. There will be pain for us all; but it will not be all pain, nor will this pain be the last. We and you too--you most of all, my dear boy--will have to pass through the bitter water before we reach the sweet. But we must be brave of heart and unselfish, and do our duty, and all will be well!" I slept on a sofa in Arthur's room that night. Van Helsing did not go to bed at all. He went to and fro, as if patrolling the house, and was never out of sight of the room where Lucy lay in her coffin, strewn with the wild garlic flowers, which sent, through the odour of lily and rose, a heavy, overpowering smell into the night. _Mina Harker's Journal._ _22 September._--In the train to Exeter. Jonathan sleeping. It seems only yesterday that the last entry was made, and yet how much between then, in Whitby and all the world before me, Jonathan away and no news of him; and now, married to Jonathan, Jonathan a solicitor, a partner, rich, master of his business, Mr. Hawkins dead and buried, and Jonathan with another attack that may harm him. Some day he may ask me about it. Down it all goes. I am rusty in my shorthand--see what unexpected prosperity does for us--so it may be as well to freshen it up again with an exercise anyhow.... The service was very simple and very solemn. There were only ourselves and the servants there, one or two old friends of his from Exeter, his London agent, and a gentleman representing Sir John Paxton, the President of the Incorporated Law Society. Jonathan and I stood hand in hand, and we felt that our best and dearest friend was gone from us.... We came back to town quietly, taking a 'bus to Hyde Park Corner. Jonathan thought it would interest me to go into the Row for a while, so we sat down; but there were very few people there, and it was sad-looking and desolate to see so many empty chairs. It made us think of the empty chair at home; so we got up and walked down Piccadilly. Jonathan was holding me by the arm, the way he used to in old days before I went to school. I felt it very improper, for you can't go on for some years teaching etiquette and decorum to other girls without the pedantry of it biting into yourself a bit; but it was Jonathan, and he was my husband, and we didn't know anybody who saw us--and we didn't care if they did--so on we walked. I was looking at a very beautiful girl, in a big cart-wheel hat, sitting in a victoria outside Guiliano's, when I felt Jonathan clutch my arm so tight that he hurt me, and he said under his breath: "My God!" I am always anxious about Jonathan, for I fear that some nervous fit may upset him again; so I turned to him quickly, and asked him what it was that disturbed him. He was very pale, and his eyes seemed bulging out as, half in terror and half in amazement, he gazed at a tall, thin man, with a beaky nose and black moustache and pointed beard, who was also observing the pretty girl. He was looking at her so hard that he did not see either of us, and so I had a good view of him. His face was not a good face; it was hard, and cruel, and sensual, and his big white teeth, that looked all the whiter because his lips were so red, were pointed like an animal's. Jonathan kept staring at him, till I was afraid he would notice. I feared he might take it ill, he looked so fierce and nasty. I asked Jonathan why he was disturbed, and he answered, evidently thinking that I knew as much about it as he did: "Do you see who it is?" "No, dear," I said; "I don't know him; who is it?" His answer seemed to shock and thrill me, for it was said as if he did not know that it was to me, Mina, to whom he was speaking:-- "It is the man himself!" The poor dear was evidently terrified at something--very greatly terrified; I do believe that if he had not had me to lean on and to support him he would have sunk down. He kept staring; a man came out of the shop with a small parcel, and gave it to the lady, who then drove off. The dark man kept his eyes fixed on her, and when the carriage moved up Piccadilly he followed in the same direction, and hailed a hansom. Jonathan kept looking after him, and said, as if to himself:-- "I believe it is the Count, but he has grown young. My God, if this be so! Oh, my God! my God! If I only knew! if I only knew!" He was distressing himself so much that I feared to keep his mind on the subject by asking him any questions, so I remained silent. I drew him away quietly, and he, holding my arm, came easily. We walked a little further, and then went in and sat for a while in the Green Park. It was a hot day for autumn, and there was a comfortable seat in a shady place. After a few minutes' staring at nothing, Jonathan's eyes closed, and he went quietly into a sleep, with his head on my shoulder. I thought it was the best thing for him, so did not disturb him. In about twenty minutes he woke up, and said to me quite cheerfully:-- "Why, Mina, have I been asleep! Oh, do forgive me for being so rude. Come, and we'll have a cup of tea somewhere." He had evidently forgotten all about the dark stranger, as in his illness he had forgotten all that this episode had reminded him of. I don't like this lapsing into forgetfulness; it may make or continue some injury to the brain. I must not ask him, for fear I shall do more harm than good; but I must somehow learn the facts of his journey abroad. The time is come, I fear, when I must open that parcel, and know what is written. Oh, Jonathan, you will, I know, forgive me if I do wrong, but it is for your own dear sake. * * * * * _Later._--A sad home-coming in every way--the house empty of the dear soul who was so good to us; Jonathan still pale and dizzy under a slight relapse of his malady; and now a telegram from Van Helsing, whoever he may be:-- "You will be grieved to hear that Mrs. Westenra died five days ago, and that Lucy died the day before yesterday. They were both buried to-day." Oh, what a wealth of sorrow in a few words! Poor Mrs. Westenra! poor Lucy! Gone, gone, never to return to us! And poor, poor Arthur, to have lost such sweetness out of his life! God help us all to bear our troubles. _Dr. Seward's Diary._ _22 September._--It is all over. Arthur has gone back to Ring, and has taken Quincey Morris with him. What a fine fellow is Quincey! I believe in my heart of hearts that he suffered as much about Lucy's death as any of us; but he bore himself through it like a moral Viking. If America can go on breeding men like that, she will be a power in the world indeed. Van Helsing is lying down, having a rest preparatory to his journey. He goes over to Amsterdam to-night, but says he returns to-morrow night; that he only wants to make some arrangements which can only be made personally. He is to stop with me then, if he can; he says he has work to do in London which may take him some time. Poor old fellow! I fear that the strain of the past week has broken down even his iron strength. All the time of the burial he was, I could see, putting some terrible restraint on himself. When it was all over, we were standing beside Arthur, who, poor fellow, was speaking of his part in the operation where his blood had been transfused to his Lucy's veins; I could see Van Helsing's face grow white and purple by turns. Arthur was saying that he felt since then as if they two had been really married and that she was his wife in the sight of God. None of us said a word of the other operations, and none of us ever shall. Arthur and Quincey went away together to the station, and Van Helsing and I came on here. The moment we were alone in the carriage he gave way to a regular fit of hysterics. He has denied to me since that it was hysterics, and insisted that it was only his sense of humour asserting itself under very terrible conditions. He laughed till he cried, and I had to draw down the blinds lest any one should see us and misjudge; and then he cried, till he laughed again; and laughed and cried together, just as a woman does. I tried to be stern with him, as one is to a woman under the circumstances; but it had no effect. Men and women are so different in manifestations of nervous strength or weakness! Then when his face grew grave and stern again I asked him why his mirth, and why at such a time. His reply was in a way characteristic of him, for it was logical and forceful and mysterious. He said:-- "Ah, you don't comprehend, friend John. Do not think that I am not sad, though I laugh. See, I have cried even when the laugh did choke me. But no more think that I am all sorry when I cry, for the laugh he come just the same. Keep it always with you that laughter who knock at your door and say, 'May I come in?' is not the true laughter. No! he is a king, and he come when and how he like. He ask no person; he choose no time of suitability. He say, 'I am here.' Behold, in example I grieve my heart out for that so sweet young girl; I give my blood for her, though I am old and worn; I give my time, my skill, my sleep; I let my other sufferers want that so she may have all. And yet I can laugh at her very grave--laugh when the clay from the spade of the sexton drop upon her coffin and say 'Thud! thud!' to my heart, till it send back the blood from my cheek. My heart bleed for that poor boy--that dear boy, so of the age of mine own boy had I been so blessed that he live, and with his hair and eyes the same. There, you know now why I love him so. And yet when he say things that touch my husband-heart to the quick, and make my father-heart yearn to him as to no other man--not even to you, friend John, for we are more level in experiences than father and son--yet even at such moment King Laugh he come to me and shout and bellow in my ear, 'Here I am! here I am!' till the blood come dance back and bring some of the sunshine that he carry with him to my cheek. Oh, friend John, it is a strange world, a sad world, a world full of miseries, and woes, and troubles; and yet when King Laugh come he make them all dance to the tune he play. Bleeding hearts, and dry bones of the churchyard, and tears that burn as they fall--all dance together to the music that he make with that smileless mouth of him. And believe me, friend John, that he is good to come, and kind. Ah, we men and women are like ropes drawn tight with strain that pull us different ways. Then tears come; and, like the rain on the ropes, they brace us up, until perhaps the strain become too great, and we break. But King Laugh he come like the sunshine, and he ease off the strain again; and we bear to go on with our labour, what it may be." I did not like to wound him by pretending not to see his idea; but, as I did not yet understand the cause of his laughter, I asked him. As he answered me his face grew stern, and he said in quite a different tone:-- "Oh, it was the grim irony of it all--this so lovely lady garlanded with flowers, that looked so fair as life, till one by one we wondered if she were truly dead; she laid in that so fine marble house in that lonely churchyard, where rest so many of her kin, laid there with the mother who loved her, and whom she loved; and that sacred bell going 'Toll! toll! toll!' so sad and slow; and those holy men, with the white garments of the angel, pretending to read books, and yet all the time their eyes never on the page; and all of us with the bowed head. And all for what? She is dead; so! Is it not?" "Well, for the life of me, Professor," I said, "I can't see anything to laugh at in all that. Why, your explanation makes it a harder puzzle than before. But even if the burial service was comic, what about poor Art and his trouble? Why, his heart was simply breaking." "Just so. Said he not that the transfusion of his blood to her veins had made her truly his bride?" "Yes, and it was a sweet and comforting idea for him." "Quite so. But there was a difficulty, friend John. If so that, then what about the others? Ho, ho! Then this so sweet maid is a polyandrist, and me, with my poor wife dead to me, but alive by Church's law, though no wits, all gone--even I, who am faithful husband to this now-no-wife, am bigamist." "I don't see where the joke comes in there either!" I said; and I did not feel particularly pleased with him for saying such things. He laid his hand on my arm, and said:-- "Friend John, forgive me if I pain. I showed not my feeling to others when it would wound, but only to you, my old friend, whom I can trust. If you could have looked into my very heart then when I want to laugh; if you could have done so when the laugh arrived; if you could do so now, when King Laugh have pack up his crown, and all that is to him--for he go far, far away from me, and for a long, long time--maybe you would perhaps pity me the most of all." I was touched by the tenderness of his tone, and asked why. "Because I know!" And now we are all scattered; and for many a long day loneliness will sit over our roofs with brooding wings. Lucy lies in the tomb of her kin, a lordly death-house in a lonely churchyard, away from teeming London; where the air is fresh, and the sun rises over Hampstead Hill, and where wild flowers grow of their own accord. So I can finish this diary; and God only knows if I shall ever begin another. If I do, or if I even open this again, it will be to deal with different people and different themes; for here at the end, where the romance of my life is told, ere I go back to take up the thread of my life-work, I say sadly and without hope, "FINIS." _"The Westminster Gazette," 25 September._ A HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY. The neighbourhood of Hampstead is just at present exercised with a series of events which seem to run on lines parallel to those of what was known to the writers of headlines as "The Kensington Horror," or "The Stabbing Woman," or "The Woman in Black." During the past two or three days several cases have occurred of young children straying from home or neglecting to return from their playing on the Heath. In all these cases the children were too young to give any properly intelligible account of themselves, but the consensus of their excuses is that they had been with a "bloofer lady." It has always been late in the evening when they have been missed, and on two occasions the children have not been found until early in the following morning. It is generally supposed in the neighbourhood that, as the first child missed gave as his reason for being away that a "bloofer lady" had asked him to come for a walk, the others had picked up the phrase and used it as occasion served. This is the more natural as the favourite game of the little ones at present is luring each other away by wiles. A correspondent writes us that to see some of the tiny tots pretending to be the "bloofer lady" is supremely funny. Some of our caricaturists might, he says, take a lesson in the irony of grotesque by comparing the reality and the picture. It is only in accordance with general principles of human nature that the "bloofer lady" should be the popular role at these _al fresco_ performances. Our correspondent naively says that even Ellen Terry could not be so winningly attractive as some of these grubby-faced little children pretend--and even imagine themselves--to be. There is, however, possibly a serious side to the question, for some of the children, indeed all who have been missed at night, have been slightly torn or wounded in the throat. The wounds seem such as might be made by a rat or a small dog, and although of not much importance individually, would tend to show that whatever animal inflicts them has a system or method of its own. The police of the division have been instructed to keep a sharp look-out for straying children, especially when very young, in and around Hampstead Heath, and for any stray dog which may be about. _"The Westminster Gazette," 25 September._ _Extra Special._ THE HAMPSTEAD HORROR. ANOTHER CHILD INJURED. _The "Bloofer Lady."_ We have just received intelligence that another child, missed last night, was only discovered late in the morning under a furze bush at the Shooter's Hill side of Hampstead Heath, which is, perhaps, less frequented than the other parts. It has the same tiny wound in the throat as has been noticed in other cases. It was terribly weak, and looked quite emaciated. It too, when partially restored, had the common story to tell of being lured away by the "bloofer lady." Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Leichenbestatter bereiten Lucys Leichnam für die Beerdigung vor. Van Helsing vollzieht seine eigenen Handlungen am Körper, indem er Knoblauchblumen und ein Kruzifix darauf platziert. Eine der Familienmädchen stiehlt jedoch das Kruzifix - ohne sich bewusst zu sein, dass sie gestohlen hat. Holmwood erfährt, dass Lucys Mutter ihr gesamtes Vermögen ihm vermacht hat. Van Helsing bittet Holmwood um Erlaubnis, die Papiere der Familie Westerna zu untersuchen, während er seine Forschungen zu dem, was das Leben dieser beiden Frauen genommen hat, fortsetzt. In der Zwischenzeit sind Mina und Jonathan Harker nach London zurückgekehrt. Bei einem Ausflug in der Nähe des Hyde Parks entdeckt Jonathan zufällig "einen großen, dünnen Mann mit einem adlerartigen Nasenrücken, schwarzem Schnurrbart und spitzen Bart" und spitzen, animalischen Zähnen. Jonathan reagiert sehr schlecht auf den Anblick dieses Mannes; er wird schwach und verliert sogar kurzzeitig das Bewusstsein. Er äußert den Kommentar, dass der Mann "jung geworden ist". Mina versteht nicht, wer dieser Mann ist oder wie Jonathan ihn kennt, aber sie beginnt zu befürchten, dass sie ihren Eid gegenüber ihrem neuen Ehemann brechen und den Inhalt des Tagebuchs lesen muss, das er während seiner Zeit in Transsilvanien geführt hat. Ein paar Tage nachdem Lucy beerdigt wurde, tauchen bedrohliche Berichte auf, dass eine "blutige Dame" - eine schöne Dame - Kinder spät in den Abendstunden anlockt. Wenn die Kinder am nächsten Morgen wieder gefunden werden, sind ihre Hälse merkwürdig verwundet. Die Polizei rät den Bürgern, "auf jeden herrenlosen Hund, der in der Nähe sein könnte, aufmerksam 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: ACT THE FOURTH. SCENE 1. _A Room in_ OLIVIA'S _House_. _Enter_ OLIVIA _and_ MARIA. _Oli._ I have sent after him:--He says, he'll come. How shall I feast him? what bestow on him? I speak too loud.---- Where is Malvolio? _Mar._ He's coming, madam; But in strange manner. He is sure possessed. _Oli._ Why, what's the matter? does he rave? _Mar._ No, madam, He does nothing but smile: your ladyship Were best have guard about you, if he come; For, sure, the man is tainted in his wits. _Oli._ Go call him hither. [_Exit_ MARIA. I'm as mad as he, If sad and merry madness equal be.-- _Enter_ MALVOLIO, _in yellow Stockings, cross-garter'd, and_ MARIA. How now, Malvolio? _Mal._ Sweet lady, ho, ho. [_Smiles fantastically._ _Oli._ Smilest thou? I sent for thee upon a sad occasion. _Mal._ Sad, lady? I could be sad: This does make some obstruction in the blood, this cross-gartering: But what of that? if it please the eye of one, it is with me as the very true sonnet is: _Please one, and please all_. _Oli._ Why, how dost thou, man? What is the matter with thee? _Mal._ Not black in my mind, though yellow in my legs.--It did come to his hands, and commands shall be executed. I think, we do know the sweet Roman hand. _Oli._ Wilt thou go to bed, Malvolio? _Mal._ To bed!--Ay, sweet-heart; and I'll come to thee. _Oli._ Heaven comfort thee! Why dost thou smile so, and kiss thy hand so oft? _Mar._ How do you, Malvolio? _Mal._ At your request? Yes; Nightingales answer daws. _Mar._ Why appear you with this ridiculous boldness before my lady? _Mal._ _Be not afraid of greatness_:--'Twas well writ. _Oli._ What mean'st thou by that, Malvolio? _Mal._ _Some are born great_,-- _Oli._ Ha? _Mal._ _Some achieve greatness_,-- _Oli._ What say'st thou? _Mal._ _ And some have greatness thrust upon them._ _Oli._ Heaven restore thee! _Mal._ _Remember who commended thy yellow stockings_;-- _Oli._ Thy yellow stockings? _Mal_ _And wished to see thee cross-garter'd._ _Oli._ Cross-garter'd? _Mal._ _Go to: thou art made, if thou desirest to be so_;-- _Oli._ Am I made? _Mal._ _If not, let me see thee a servant still._ _Oli._ Why, this is very Midsummer madness. _Enter_ FABIAN. _Fab._ Madam, the young gentleman of the Duke Orsino's is returned; I could hardly entreat him back: he attends your ladyship's pleasure. _Oli._ I'll come to him. Good Maria, let this fellow be look'd to.--Call my uncle Toby. [_Exit_ FABIAN. Let some of my people have a special care of him; I would not have him miscarry for the half of my dowry. [_Exeunt_ OLIVIA _and_ MARIA. _Mal._ Oh, ho! do you come near me now? No worse man than Sir Toby to look to me? She sends him on purpose, that I may appear stubborn to him; for she incites me to that in the letter. I have limed her.--And, when she went away now, _Let this fellow be looked to_:--Fellow! not Malvolio, nor after my degree, but fellow. Why, every thing adheres together.--Well, Jove, not I, is the doer of this, and he is to be thanked. _Sir To._ [_Without_] Which way is he, in the name of sanctity? If all the devils in hell be drawn in little, and Legion himself possessed him, yet I'll speak to him. _Enter_ FABIAN, SIR TOBY, _and_ MARIA. _Fab._ Here he is, here he is:--How is't with you, sir? how is't with you, man? _Mal._ Go off, I discard you; let me enjoy my private; go off. _Mar._ Lo, how hollow the fiend speaks within him! did not I tell you?--Sir Toby, my lady prays you to have a care of him. _Mal._ Ah, ha! does she so? _Sir To._ Go to, go to; we must deal gently with him. How do you, Malvolio? how is't with you? What, man! defy the devil: consider, he's an enemy to mankind. _Mal._ Do you know what you say? _Mar._ La you, an you speak ill of the devil, how he takes it at heart! Pray, heaven, he be not bewitch'd. _Fab._ Carry his water to the wise woman. _Sir To._ Pr'ythee, hold thy peace; do you not see, you move him? let me alone with him. _Fab._ No way but gentleness; gently, gently: the fiend is rough, and will not be roughly used. _Sir To._ Why, how now, my bawcock? how dost thou, chuck? _Mal._ Sir? _Sir To._ Ay, Biddy, come with me.--What, man! 'tis not for gravity to play at cherry-pit with Satan: Hang him, foul collier! _Mar._ Get him to say his prayers, Sir Toby. _Mal._ My prayers, minx? _Mar._ No, I warrant you, he'll not hear of godliness. _Mal._ Go, hang yourselves all! you are idle shallow things: I am not of your element; you shall know more hereafter. Begone. Ha! ha! ha! [_Exit_ MALVOLIO. _Omnes._ Ha! ha! ha! _Sir To._ Is't possible? _Fab._ If this were played upon a stage now, I could condemn it as an improbable fiction. _Sir To._ His very genius hath taken the infection of the device, man. _Mar._ Nay, pursue him now; lest the device take air, and taint. _Fab._ Why, we shall make him mad, indeed. _Mar._ The house will be the quieter. _Sir To._ Come, we'll have him in a dark room, and bound.--Follow him, and let him not from thy sight. [_Exit_ MARIA. But see, but see. _Fab._ More matter for a May morning. _Enter_ SIR ANDREW, _with a Letter_. _Sir And._ Here's the challenge, read it; I warrant, there's vinegar and pepper in't. _Fab._ Is't so saucy? _Sir And._ Ay, is it, I warrant him: do but read. _Sir To._ Give me.--[_Reads._] _Youth, whatsoever thou art, thou art but a scurvy fellow._ _Fab._ Good and valiant. _Sir To._ _Wonder not, nor admire not in thy mind, why I do call thee so, for I will show thee no reason for't._ _Fab._ A good note; that keeps you from the blow of the law. _Sir To._ _Thou comest to the Lady Olivia, and in my sight she uses thee kindly: but thou liest in thy throat, that is not the matter I challenge thee for._ _Fab._ Very brief, and exceeding good sense-less. _Sir To._ _I will way-lay thee going home; where if it be thy chance to kill me_,-- _Fab._ Good. _Sir To._ _Thou killest me like a rogue and a villain._ _Fab._ Still you keep o' the windy side of the law: Good. _Sir To._ _Fare thee well; and heaven have mercy upon one of our souls! He may have mercy upon mine; but my hope is better, and so look to thyself. Thy friend, as thou usest him, and thy sworn enemy_, ANDREW AGUECHEEK.--If this letter move him not, his legs cannot: I'll give't him. _Fab._ You may have very fit occasion for't; he is now in some commerce with my lady, and will by and by depart. _Sir To._ Go, Sir Andrew; scout me for him at the corner of the garden, like a bum-bailiff; so soon as ever thou seest him, draw; and, as thou draw'st, swear horrible; for it comes to pass oft, that a terrible oath, with a swaggering accent sharply twang'd off, gives manhood more approbation than ever proof itself would have earned him. Away. _Sir And._ Nay, let me alone for swearing. [_Exit_ SIR ANDREW. _Sir To._ Now will not I deliver his letter: for the behaviour of the young gentleman gives him out to be of good capacity and breeding; therefore this letter, being so excellently ignorant, will breed no terror in the youth, he will find it comes from a clodpole. But, sir, I will deliver his challenge by word of mouth; set upon Ague-cheek a notable report of valour; and drive the gentleman, (as, I know, his youth will aptly receive it,) into a most hideous opinion of his rage, skill, fury, and impetuosity. This will so fright them both, that they will kill one another by the look, like cockatrices. _Fab._ Here he comes with your niece: give them way, till he take leave, and presently after him. _Sir To._ I will meditate the while upon some horrid message for a challenge. [_Exeunt_ SIR TOBY _and_ FABIAN. _Enter_ VIOLA _and_ OLIVIA. _Oli._ I have said too much unto a heart of stone, And laid mine honour too unchary out: There's something in me, that reproves my fault; But such a headstrong potent fault it is, That it but mocks reproof. _Vio._ With the same 'haviour that your passion bears, Go on my master's griefs. _Oli._ Here, wear this jewel for me, 'tis my picture; Refuse it not, it hath no tongue to vex you: And, I beseech you, come again to-morrow. What shall you ask of me, that I'll deny; That honour, saved, may upon asking give? _Vio._ Nothing but this, your true love for my master. _Oli._ How with mine honour may I give him that Which I have given to you? _Vio._ I will acquit you. _Oli._ Well, come again to-morrow: Fare thee well! [_Exit_ OLIVIA. _Enter_ SIR TOBY _and_ FABIAN. _Sir To._ Gentleman, heaven save thee. _Vio._ And you, sir. _Sir To._ That defence thou hast, betake thee to't: of what nature the wrongs are thou hast done him, I know not; but thy intercepter, full of despight, bloody as the hunter, attends thee: dismount thy tuck, be yare in thy preparation, for thy assailant is quick, skilful, and deadly. _Vio._ You mistake, sir; I am sure, no man hath any quarrel to me; my remembrance is very free and clear from any image of offence done to any man. _Sir To._ You'll find it otherwise, I assure you: therefore, if you hold your life at any price, betake you to your guard; for your opposite hath in him what youth, strength, skill, and wrath, can furnish man withal. _Vio._ I pray you, sir, what is he? _Sir To._ He is knight, dubb'd with unhack'd rapier, and on carpet consideration: but he is a devil in private brawl: souls and bodies hath he divorced three; and his incensement at this moment is so implacable, that satisfaction can be none but by pangs of death and sepulchre: hob, nob, is his word; give 't or take 't. _Vio._ I will return, and desire some conduct of the lady. I am no fighter. _Sir To._ Back you shall not, unless you undertake that with me, which with as much safety you might answer him: therefore, on; or strip your sword stark naked, (for meddle you must, that's certain,) or forswear to wear iron about you. _Vio._ This is as uncivil, as strange. I beseech you, do me this courteous office, as to know of the knight what my offence to him is; it is something of my negligence, nothing of my purpose. _Sir To._ I will do so. Signior Fabian, stay you by this gentleman till my return. [_Exit_ SIR TOBY. _Vio._ 'Pray you, sir, do you know of this matter? _Fab._ I know, the knight is incensed against you, even to a mortal arbitrement; but nothing of the circumstance more. _Vio._ I beseech you, what manner of man is he? _Fab._ Nothing of that wonderful promise, to read him by his form, as you are like to find him in the proof of his valour. He is, indeed, sir, the most skilful, bloody, and fatal opposite that you could possibly have found in any part of Illyria: Will you walk towards him? I will make your peace with him, if I can. _Vio._ I shall be much bound to you for't: I am one, that would rather go with sir priest, than sir knight: I care not who knows so much of my mettle. [_Exeunt._ Kannst du eine geeignete Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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Die Szene eröffnet auf der Straße vor Olivias Haus. Sebastian und Feste unterhalten sich, und wir merken, dass Feste Sebastian für Cesario hält. Feste besteht darauf, dass seine Herrin Feste zu ihm geschickt hat, was Cesario bedeutet. Sebastian ist genervt von der Hartnäckigkeit des Narren; "Du bist ein törichter Kerl", sagt er und gibt ihm ein großzügiges Trinkgeld, um ihn loszuwerden - oder er wird Feste "schlimmere Bezahlung" geben, was einen Tritt in den Hintern bedeutet, wenn er ihn nicht in Ruhe lässt. Sir Andrew, Sir Toby und Fabian treten ein, und Sir Andrew nimmt an, dass Sebastian der "feige" Cesario ist; Sir Andrew schlägt ihn, woraufhin Sebastian prompt Sir Andrew schlägt und fragt: "Sind alle Leute verrückt?" Feste sagt, dass er Olivia alles, was passiert ist, berichten wird, und sie wird nicht erfreut sein zu erfahren, dass ihr Liebhaber, der widerwillige Cesario, sich mit Olivias Onkel und Sir Andrew gestritten hat. Sir Toby beschließt derweil, dass es Zeit für ihn ist zu handeln; er packt den jungen Emporkömmling an der Hand, um Sir Andrew vor größerer Verletzung zu bewahren. Olivia kommt an, nimmt an, dass Sebastian Cesario ist, und bittet ihn, ins Haus zu gehen. Sie tadelt Sir Toby streng und schickt ihn fort, aus ihrem Blickfeld, und dieser geht und nimmt die anderen beiden mit. Sie entschuldigt sich für die "Streiche von Rüpeln", und während sie spricht, ist Sebastian sprachlos. Er kann nicht glauben, was passiert: Eine wunderschöne junge Gräfin wirbt ihn in den leidenschaftlichsten Worten an; wenn dies ein Traum sein sollte, sagt er, "lass die Einbildungskraft meine Sinne in Lethe stillen... lass mich schlafen." Olivia besteht darauf: "Komm schon, ich bitte dich", sagt sie und bittet ihn, sie zu heiraten. Ohne zu zögern, sagt Sebastian zu: "Meine Dame, ich werde", und sie eilen los, um einen Priester zu suchen, der die Zeremonie durchführen 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: THE silken texture of the marriage tie bears a daily strain of wrong and insult to which no other human relation can be subjected without lesion; and sometimes the strength that knits society together might appear to the eye of faltering faith the curse of those immediately bound by it. Two people by no means reckless of each other's rights and feelings, but even tender of them for the most part, may tear at each other's heart-strings in this sacred bond with perfect impunity; though if they were any other two they would not speak or look at each other again after the outrages they exchange. It is certainly a curious spectacle, and doubtless it ought to convince an observer of the divinity of the institution. If the husband and wife are blunt, outspoken people like the Laphams, they do not weigh their words; if they are more refined, they weigh them very carefully, and know accurately just how far they will carry, and in what most sensitive spot they may be planted with most effect. Lapham was proud of his wife, and when he married her it had been a rise in life for him. For a while he stood in awe of his good fortune, but this could not last, and he simply remained supremely satisfied with it. The girl who had taught school with a clear head and a strong hand was not afraid of work; she encouraged and helped him from the first, and bore her full share of the common burden. She had health, and she did not worry his life out with peevish complaints and vagaries; she had sense and principle, and in their simple lot she did what was wise and right. Their marriage was hallowed by an early sorrow: they lost their boy, and it was years before they could look each other in the face and speak of him. No one gave up more than they when they gave up each other and Lapham went to the war. When he came back and began to work, her zeal and courage formed the spring of his enterprise. In that affair of the partnership she had tried to be his conscience, but perhaps she would have defended him if he had accused himself; it was one of those things in this life which seem destined to await justice, or at least judgment, in the next. As he said, Lapham had dealt fairly by his partner in money; he had let Rogers take more money out of the business than he put into it; he had, as he said, simply forced out of it a timid and inefficient participant in advantages which he had created. But Lapham had not created them all. He had been dependent at one time on his partner's capital. It was a moment of terrible trial. Happy is the man for ever after who can choose the ideal, the unselfish part in such an exigency! Lapham could not rise to it. He did what he could maintain to be perfectly fair. The wrong, if any, seemed to be condoned to him, except when from time to time his wife brought it up. Then all the question stung and burned anew, and had to be reasoned out and put away once more. It seemed to have an inextinguishable vitality. It slept, but it did not die. His course did not shake Mrs. Lapham's faith in him. It astonished her at first, and it always grieved her that he could not see that he was acting solely in his own interest. But she found excuses for him, which at times she made reproaches. She vaguely perceived that his paint was something more than business to him; it was a sentiment, almost a passion. He could not share its management and its profit with another without a measure of self-sacrifice far beyond that which he must make with something less personal to him. It was the poetry of that nature, otherwise so intensely prosaic; and she understood this, and for the most part forbore. She knew him good and true and blameless in all his life, except for this wrong, if it were a wrong; and it was only when her nerves tingled intolerably with some chance renewal of the pain she had suffered, that she shared her anguish with him in true wifely fashion. With those two there was never anything like an explicit reconciliation. They simply ignored a quarrel; and Mrs. Lapham had only to say a few days after at breakfast, "I guess the girls would like to go round with you this afternoon, and look at the new house," in order to make her husband grumble out as he looked down into his coffee-cup. "I guess we better all go, hadn't we?" "Well, I'll see," she said. There was not really a great deal to look at when Lapham arrived on the ground in his four-seated beach-wagon. But the walls were up, and the studding had already given skeleton shape to the interior. The floors were roughly boarded over, and the stairways were in place, with provisional treads rudely laid. They had not begun to lath and plaster yet, but the clean, fresh smell of the mortar in the walls mingling with the pungent fragrance of the pine shavings neutralised the Venetian odour that drew in over the water. It was pleasantly shady there, though for the matter of that the heat of the morning had all been washed out of the atmosphere by a tide of east wind setting in at noon, and the thrilling, delicious cool of a Boston summer afternoon bathed every nerve. The foreman went about with Mrs. Lapham, showing her where the doors were to be; but Lapham soon tired of this, and having found a pine stick of perfect grain, he abandoned himself to the pleasure of whittling it in what was to be the reception-room, where he sat looking out on the street from what was to be the bay-window. Here he was presently joined by his girls, who, after locating their own room on the water side above the music-room, had no more wish to enter into details than their father. "Come and take a seat in the bay-window, ladies," he called out to them, as they looked in at him through the ribs of the wall. He jocosely made room for them on the trestle on which he sat. They came gingerly and vaguely forward, as young ladies do when they wish not to seem to be going to do a thing they have made up their minds to do. When they had taken their places on their trestle, they could not help laughing with scorn, open and acceptable to their father; and Irene curled her chin up, in a little way she had, and said, "How ridiculous!" to her sister. "Well, I can tell you what," said the Colonel, in fond enjoyment of their young ladyishness, "your mother wa'n't ashamed to sit with me on a trestle when I called her out to look at the first coat of my paint that I ever tried on a house." "Yes; we've heard that story," said Penelope, with easy security of her father's liking what she said. "We were brought up on that story." "Well, it's a good story," said her father. At that moment a young man came suddenly in range, who began to look up at the signs of building as he approached. He dropped his eyes in coming abreast of the bay-window, where Lapham sat with his girls, and then his face lightened, and he took off his hat and bowed to Irene. She rose mechanically from the trestle, and her face lightened too. She was a very pretty figure of a girl, after our fashion of girls, round and slim and flexible, and her face was admirably regular. But her great beauty--and it was very great--was in her colouring. This was of an effect for which there is no word but delicious, as we use it of fruit or flowers. She had red hair, like her father in his earlier days, and the tints of her cheeks and temples were such as suggested May-flowers and apple-blossoms and peaches. Instead of the grey that often dulls this complexion, her eyes were of a blue at once intense and tender, and they seemed to burn on what they looked at with a soft, lambent flame. It was well understood by her sister and mother that her eyes always expressed a great deal more than Irene ever thought or felt; but this is not saying that she was not a very sensible girl and very honest. The young man faltered perceptibly, and Irene came a little forward, and then there gushed from them both a smiling exchange of greeting, of which the sum was that he supposed she was out of town, and that she had not known that he had got back. A pause ensued, and flushing again in her uncertainty as to whether she ought or ought not to do it, she said, "My father, Mr. Corey; and my sister." The young man took off his hat again, showing his shapely head, with a line of wholesome sunburn ceasing where the recently and closely clipped hair began. He was dressed in a fine summer check, with a blue white-dotted neckerchief, and he had a white hat, in which he looked very well when he put it back on his head. His whole dress seemed very fresh and new, and in fact he had cast aside his Texan habiliments only the day before. "How do you do, sir?" said the Colonel, stepping to the window, and reaching out of it the hand which the young man advanced to take. "Won't you come in? We're at home here. House I'm building." "Oh, indeed?" returned the young man; and he came promptly up the steps, and through its ribs into the reception-room. "Have a trestle?" asked the Colonel, while the girls exchanged little shocks of terror and amusement at the eyes. "Thank you," said the young man simply, and sat down. "Mrs. Lapham is upstairs interviewing the carpenter, but she'll be down in a minute." "I hope she's quite well," said Corey. "I supposed--I was afraid she might be out of town." "Well, we are off to Nantasket next week. The house kept us in town pretty late." "It must be very exciting, building a house," said Corey to the elder sister. "Yes, it is," she assented, loyally refusing in Irene's interest the opportunity of saying anything more. Corey turned to the latter. "I suppose you've all helped to plan it?" "Oh no; the architect and mamma did that." "But they allowed the rest of us to agree, when we were good," said Penelope. Corey looked at her, and saw that she was shorter than her sister, and had a dark complexion. "It's very exciting," said Irene. "Come up," said the Colonel, rising, "and look round if you'd like to." "I should like to, very much," said the young man. He helped the young ladies over crevasses of carpentry and along narrow paths of planking, on which they had made their way unassisted before. The elder sister left the younger to profit solely by these offices as much as possible. She walked between them and her father, who went before, lecturing on each apartment, and taking the credit of the whole affair more and more as he talked on. "There!" he said, "we're going to throw out a bay-window here, so as get the water all the way up and down. This is my girls' room," he added, looking proudly at them both. It seemed terribly intimate. Irene blushed deeply and turned her head away. But the young man took it all, apparently, as simply as their father. "What a lovely lookout!" he said. The Back Bay spread its glassy sheet before them, empty but for a few small boats and a large schooner, with her sails close-furled and dripping like snow from her spars, which a tug was rapidly towing toward Cambridge. The carpentry of that city, embanked and embowered in foliage, shared the picturesqueness of Charlestown in the distance. "Yes," said Lapham, "I go in for using the best rooms in your house yourself. If people come to stay with you, they can put up with the second best. Though we don't intend to have any second best. There ain't going to be an unpleasant room in the whole house, from top to bottom." "Oh, I wish papa wouldn't brag so!" breathed Irene to her sister, where they stood, a little apart, looking away together. The Colonel went on. "No, sir," he swelled out, "I have gone in for making a regular job of it. I've got the best architect in Boston, and I'm building a house to suit myself. And if money can do it, guess I'm going to be suited." "It seems very delightful," said Corey, "and very original." "Yes, sir. That fellow hadn't talked five minutes before I saw that he knew what he was about every time." "I wish mamma would come!" breathed Irene again. "I shall certainly go through the floor if papa says anything more." "They are making a great many very pretty houses nowadays," said the young man. "It's very different from the old-fashioned building." "Well," said the Colonel, with a large toleration of tone and a deep breath that expanded his ample chest, "we spend more on our houses nowadays. I started out to build a forty-thousand-dollar house. Well, sir! that fellow has got me in for more than sixty thousand already, and I doubt if I get out of it much under a hundred. You can't have a nice house for nothing. It's just like ordering a picture of a painter. You pay him enough, and he can afford to paint you a first-class picture; and if you don't, he can't. That's all there is of it. Why, they tell me that A. T. Stewart gave one of those French fellows sixty thousand dollars for a little seven-by-nine picture the other day. Yes, sir, give an architect money enough, and he'll give you a nice house every time." "I've heard that they're sharp at getting money to realise their ideas," assented the young man, with a laugh. "Well, I should say so!" exclaimed the Colonel. "They come to you with an improvement that you can't resist. It has good looks and common-sense and everything in its favour, and it's like throwing money away to refuse. And they always manage to get you when your wife is around, and then you're helpless." The Colonel himself set the example of laughing at this joke, and the young man joined him less obstreperously. The girls turned, and he said, "I don't think I ever saw this view to better advantage. It's surprising how well the Memorial Hall and the Cambridge spires work up, over there. And the sunsets must be magnificent." Lapham did not wait for them to reply. "Yes, sir, it's about the sightliest view I know of. I always did like the water side of Beacon. Long before I owned property here, or ever expected to, m'wife and I used to ride down this way, and stop the buggy to get this view over the water. When people talk to me about the Hill, I can understand 'em. It's snug, and it's old-fashioned, and it's where they've always lived. But when they talk about Commonwealth Avenue, I don't know what they mean. It don't hold a candle to the water side of Beacon. You've got just as much wind over there, and you've got just as much dust, and all the view you've got is the view across the street. No, sir! when you come to the Back Bay at all, give me the water side of Beacon." "Oh, I think you're quite right," said the young man. "The view here is everything." Irene looked "I wonder what papa is going to say next!" at her sister, when their mother's voice was heard overhead, approaching the opening in the floor where the stairs were to be; and she presently appeared, with one substantial foot a long way ahead. She was followed by the carpenter, with his rule sticking out of his overalls pocket, and she was still talking to him about some measurements they had been taking, when they reached the bottom, so that Irene had to say, "Mamma, Mr. Corey," before Mrs. Lapham was aware of him. He came forward with as much grace and speed as the uncertain footing would allow, and Mrs. Lapham gave him a stout squeeze of her comfortable hand. "Why, Mr. Corey! When did you get back?" "Yesterday. It hardly seems as if I HAD got back. I didn't expect to find you in a new house." "Well, you are our first caller. I presume you won't expect I should make excuses for the state you find it in. Has the Colonel been doing the honours?" "Oh yes. And I've seen more of your house than I ever shall again, I suppose." "Well, I hope not," said Lapham. "There'll be several chances to see us in the old one yet, before we leave." He probably thought this a neat, off-hand way of making the invitation, for he looked at his woman-kind as if he might expect their admiration. "Oh yes, indeed!" said his wife. "We shall be very glad to see Mr. Corey, any time." "Thank you; I shall be glad to come." He and the Colonel went before, and helped the ladies down the difficult descent. Irene seemed less sure-footed than the others; she clung to the young man's hand an imperceptible moment longer than need be, or else he detained her. He found opportunity of saying, "It's so pleasant seeing you again," adding, "all of you." "Thank you," said the girl. "They must all be glad to have you at home again." Corey laughed. "Well, I suppose they would be, if they were at home to have me. But the fact is, there's nobody in the house but my father and myself, and I'm only on my way to Bar Harbour." "Oh! Are they there?" "Yes; it seems to be the only place where my mother can get just the combination of sea and mountain air that she wants." "We go to Nantasket--it's convenient for papa; and I don't believe we shall go anywhere else this summer, mamma's so taken up with building. We do nothing but talk house; and Pen says we eat and sleep house. She says it would be a sort of relief to go and live in tents for a while." "She seems to have a good deal of humour," the young man ventured, upon the slender evidence. The others had gone to the back of the house a moment, to look at some suggested change. Irene and Corey were left standing in the doorway. A lovely light of happiness played over her face and etherealised its delicious beauty. She had some ado to keep herself from smiling outright, and the effort deepened the dimples in her cheeks; she trembled a little, and the pendants shook in the tips of her pretty ears. The others came back directly, and they all descended the front steps together. The Colonel was about to renew his invitation, but he caught his wife's eye, and, without being able to interpret its warning exactly, was able to arrest himself, and went about gathering up the hitching-weight, while the young man handed the ladies into the phaeton. Then he lifted his hat, and the ladies all bowed, and the Laphams drove off, Irene's blue ribbons fluttering backward from her hat, as if they were her clinging thoughts. "So that's young Corey, is it?" said the Colonel, letting the stately stepping, tall coupe horse make his way homeward at will with the beach-wagon. "Well, he ain't a bad-looking fellow, and he's got a good, fair and square, honest eye. But I don't see how a fellow like that, that's had every advantage in this world, can hang round home and let his father support him. Seems to me, if I had his health and his education, I should want to strike out and do something for myself." The girls on the back seat had hold of each other's hands, and they exchanged electrical pressures at the different points their father made. "I presume," said Mrs. Lapham, "that he was down in Texas looking after something." "He's come back without finding it, I guess." "Well, if his father has the money to support him, and don't complain of the burden, I don't see why WE should." "Oh, I know it's none of my business, but I don't like the principle. I like to see a man ACT like a man. I don't like to see him taken care of like a young lady. Now, I suppose that fellow belongs to two or three clubs, and hangs around 'em all day, lookin' out the window,--I've seen 'em,--instead of tryin' to hunt up something to do for an honest livin'." "If I was a young man," Penelope struck in, "I would belong to twenty clubs, if I could find them and I would hang around them all, and look out the window till I dropped." "Oh, you would, would you?" demanded her father, delighted with her defiance, and twisting his fat head around over his shoulder to look at her. "Well, you wouldn't do it on my money, if you were a son of MINE, young lady." "Oh, you wait and see," retorted the girl. This made them all laugh. But the Colonel recurred seriously to the subject that night, as he was winding up his watch preparatory to putting it under his pillow. "I could make a man of that fellow, if I had him in the business with me. There's stuff in him. But I spoke up the way I did because I didn't choose Irene should think I would stand any kind of a loafer 'round--I don't care who he is, or how well educated or brought up. And I guess, from the way Pen spoke up, that 'Rene saw what I was driving at." The girl, apparently, was less anxious about her father's ideas and principles than about the impression which he had made upon the young man. She had talked it over and over with her sister before they went to bed, and she asked in despair, as she stood looking at Penelope brushing out her hair before the glass-- "Do you suppose he'll think papa always talks in that bragging way?" "He'll be right if he does," answered her sister. "It's the way father always does talk. You never noticed it so much, that's all. And I guess if he can't make allowance for father's bragging, he'll be a little too good. I enjoyed hearing the Colonel go on." "I know you did," returned Irene in distress. Then she sighed. "Didn't you think he looked very nice?" "Who? The Colonel?" Penelope had caught up the habit of calling her father so from her mother, and she used his title in all her jocose and perverse moods. "You know very well I don't mean papa," pouted Irene. "Oh! Mr. Corey! Why didn't you say Mr. Corey if you meant Mr. Corey? If I meant Mr. Corey, I should say Mr. Corey. It isn't swearing! Corey, Corey, Co----" Her sister clapped her hand over her mouth "Will you HUSH, you wretched thing?" she whimpered. "The whole house can hear you." "Oh yes, they can hear me all over the square. Well, I think he looked well enough for a plain youth, who hadn't taken his hair out of curl-papers for some time." "It WAS clipped pretty close," Irene admitted; and they both laughed at the drab effect of Mr. Corey's skull, as they remembered it. "Did you like his nose?" asked Irene timorously. "Ah, now you're COMING to something," said Penelope. "I don't know whether, if I had so much of a nose, I should want it all Roman." "I don't see how you can expect to have a nose part one kind and part another," argued Irene. "Oh, I do. Look at mine!" She turned aside her face, so as to get a three-quarters view of her nose in the glass, and crossing her hands, with the brush in one of them, before her, regarded it judicially. "Now, my nose started Grecian, but changed its mind before it got over the bridge, and concluded to be snub the rest of the way." "You've got a very pretty nose, Pen," said Irene, joining in the contemplation of its reflex in the glass. "Don't say that in hopes of getting me to compliment HIS, Mrs."--she stopped, and then added deliberately--"C.!" Irene also had her hair-brush in her hand, and now she sprang at her sister and beat her very softly on the shoulder with the flat of it. "You mean thing!" she cried, between her shut teeth, blushing hotly. "Well, D., then," said Penelope. "You've nothing to say against D.? Though I think C. is just as nice an initial." "Oh!" cried the younger, for all expression of unspeakable things. "I think he has very good eyes," admitted Penelope. "Oh, he HAS! And didn't you like the way his sackcoat set? So close to him, and yet free--kind of peeling away at the lapels?" "Yes, I should say he was a young man of great judgment. He knows how to choose his tailor." Irene sat down on the edge of a chair. "It was so nice of you, Pen, to come in, that way, about clubs." "Oh, I didn't mean anything by it except opposition," said Penelope. "I couldn't have father swelling on so, without saying something." "How he did swell!" sighed Irene. "Wasn't it a relief to have mamma come down, even if she did seem to be all stocking at first?" The girls broke into a wild giggle, and hid their faces in each other's necks. "I thought I SHOULD die," said Irene. "'It's just like ordering a painting,'" said Penelope, recalling her father's talk, with an effect of dreamy absent-mindedness. "'You give the painter money enough, and he can afford to paint you a first-class picture. Give an architect money enough, and he'll give you a first-class house, every time.'" "Oh, wasn't it awful!" moaned her sister. "No one would ever have supposed that he had fought the very idea of an architect for weeks, before he gave in." Penelope went on. "'I always did like the water side of Beacon,--long before I owned property there. When you come to the Back Bay at all, give me the water side of Beacon.'" "Ow-w-w-w!" shrieked Irene. "DO stop!" The door of their mother's chamber opened below, and the voice of the real Colonel called, "What are you doing up there, girls? Why don't you go to bed?" This extorted nervous shrieks from both of them. The Colonel heard a sound of scurrying feet, whisking drapery, and slamming doors. Then he heard one of the doors opened again, and Penelope said, "I was only repeating something you said when you talked to Mr. Corey." "Very well, now," answered the Colonel. "You postpone the rest of it till to-morrow at breakfast, and see that you're up in time to let ME hear it." Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Persis Lapham versöhnt sich bald mit dem Bau des neuen Hauses und sie besuchen die Baustelle erneut. Dieses Mal besucht sie Tom Corey, der gerade aus Texas zurückgekehrt ist. Lapham mag ihn gerne, obwohl er später sagt, dass er es nicht gutheiße, wenn ein junger Mann von seinen Eltern abhängig lebt. "Ich mag es, wenn ein Mann sich wie ein Mann verhält. Ich mag es nicht, ihn wie eine junge Dame umsorgt zu sehen."

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: ACT III. SCENE I. Rome. A street Enter the JUDGES, TRIBUNES, and SENATORS, with TITUS' two sons MARTIUS and QUINTUS bound, passing on the stage to the place of execution, and TITUS going before, pleading TITUS. Hear me, grave fathers; noble Tribunes, stay! For pity of mine age, whose youth was spent In dangerous wars whilst you securely slept; For all my blood in Rome's great quarrel shed, For all the frosty nights that I have watch'd, And for these bitter tears, which now you see Filling the aged wrinkles in my cheeks, Be pitiful to my condemned sons, Whose souls are not corrupted as 'tis thought. For two and twenty sons I never wept, Because they died in honour's lofty bed. [ANDRONICUS lieth down, and the judges pass by him with the prisoners, and exeunt] For these, Tribunes, in the dust I write My heart's deep languor and my soul's sad tears. Let my tears stanch the earth's dry appetite; My sons' sweet blood will make it shame and blush. O earth, I will befriend thee more with rain That shall distil from these two ancient urns, Than youthful April shall with all his show'rs. In summer's drought I'll drop upon thee still; In winter with warm tears I'll melt the snow And keep eternal spring-time on thy face, So thou refuse to drink my dear sons' blood. Enter Lucius with his weapon drawn O reverend Tribunes! O gentle aged men! Unbind my sons, reverse the doom of death, And let me say, that never wept before, My tears are now prevailing orators. LUCIUS. O noble father, you lament in vain; The Tribunes hear you not, no man is by, And you recount your sorrows to a stone. TITUS. Ah, Lucius, for thy brothers let me plead! Grave Tribunes, once more I entreat of you. LUCIUS. My gracious lord, no tribune hears you speak. TITUS. Why, 'tis no matter, man: if they did hear, They would not mark me; if they did mark, They would not pity me; yet plead I must, And bootless unto them. Therefore I tell my sorrows to the stones; Who though they cannot answer my distress, Yet in some sort they are better than the Tribunes, For that they will not intercept my tale. When I do weep, they humbly at my feet Receive my tears, and seem to weep with me; And were they but attired in grave weeds, Rome could afford no tribunes like to these. A stone is soft as wax: tribunes more hard than stones. A stone is silent and offendeth not, And tribunes with their tongues doom men to death. [Rises] But wherefore stand'st thou with thy weapon drawn? LUCIUS. To rescue my two brothers from their death; For which attempt the judges have pronounc'd My everlasting doom of banishment. TITUS. O happy man! they have befriended thee. Why, foolish Lucius, dost thou not perceive That Rome is but a wilderness of tigers? Tigers must prey, and Rome affords no prey But me and mine; how happy art thou then From these devourers to be banished! But who comes with our brother Marcus here? Enter MARCUS with LAVINIA MARCUS. Titus, prepare thy aged eyes to weep, Or if not so, thy noble heart to break. I bring consuming sorrow to thine age. TITUS. Will it consume me? Let me see it then. MARCUS. This was thy daughter. TITUS. Why, Marcus, so she is. LUCIUS. Ay me! this object kills me. TITUS. Faint-hearted boy, arise, and look upon her. Speak, Lavinia, what accursed hand Hath made thee handless in thy father's sight? What fool hath added water to the sea, Or brought a fagot to bright-burning Troy? My grief was at the height before thou cam'st, And now like Nilus it disdaineth bounds. Give me a sword, I'll chop off my hands too, For they have fought for Rome, and all in vain; And they have nurs'd this woe in feeding life; In bootless prayer have they been held up, And they have serv'd me to effectless use. Now all the service I require of them Is that the one will help to cut the other. 'Tis well, Lavinia, that thou hast no hands; For hands to do Rome service is but vain. LUCIUS. Speak, gentle sister, who hath martyr'd thee? MARCUS. O, that delightful engine of her thoughts That blabb'd them with such pleasing eloquence Is torn from forth that pretty hollow cage, Where like a sweet melodious bird it sung Sweet varied notes, enchanting every ear! LUCIUS. O, say thou for her, who hath done this deed? MARCUS. O, thus I found her straying in the park, Seeking to hide herself as doth the deer That hath receiv'd some unrecuring wound. TITUS. It was my dear, and he that wounded her Hath hurt me more than had he kill'd me dead; For now I stand as one upon a rock, Environ'd with a wilderness of sea, Who marks the waxing tide grow wave by wave, Expecting ever when some envious surge Will in his brinish bowels swallow him. This way to death my wretched sons are gone; Here stands my other son, a banish'd man, And here my brother, weeping at my woes. But that which gives my soul the greatest spurn Is dear Lavinia, dearer than my soul. Had I but seen thy picture in this plight, It would have madded me; what shall I do Now I behold thy lively body so? Thou hast no hands to wipe away thy tears, Nor tongue to tell me who hath martyr'd thee; Thy husband he is dead, and for his death Thy brothers are condemn'd, and dead by this. Look, Marcus! Ah, son Lucius, look on her! When I did name her brothers, then fresh tears Stood on her cheeks, as doth the honey dew Upon a gath'red lily almost withered. MARCUS. Perchance she weeps because they kill'd her husband; Perchance because she knows them innocent. TITUS. If they did kill thy husband, then be joyful, Because the law hath ta'en revenge on them. No, no, they would not do so foul a deed; Witness the sorrow that their sister makes. Gentle Lavinia, let me kiss thy lips, Or make some sign how I may do thee ease. Shall thy good uncle and thy brother Lucius And thou and I sit round about some fountain, Looking all downwards to behold our cheeks How they are stain'd, like meadows yet not dry With miry slime left on them by a flood? And in the fountain shall we gaze so long, Till the fresh taste be taken from that clearness, And made a brine-pit with our bitter tears? Or shall we cut away our hands like thine? Or shall we bite our tongues, and in dumb shows Pass the remainder of our hateful days? What shall we do? Let us that have our tongues Plot some device of further misery To make us wonder'd at in time to come. LUCIUS. Sweet father, cease your tears; for at your grief See how my wretched sister sobs and weeps. MARCUS. Patience, dear niece. Good Titus, dry thine eyes. TITUS. Ah, Marcus, Marcus! Brother, well I wot Thy napkin cannot drink a tear of mine, For thou, poor man, hast drown'd it with thine own. LUCIUS. Ah, my Lavinia, I will wipe thy cheeks. TITUS. Mark, Marcus, mark! I understand her signs. Had she a tongue to speak, now would she say That to her brother which I said to thee: His napkin, with his true tears all bewet, Can do no service on her sorrowful cheeks. O, what a sympathy of woe is this As far from help as Limbo is from bliss! Enter AARON the Moor AARON. Titus Andronicus, my lord the Emperor Sends thee this word, that, if thou love thy sons, Let Marcus, Lucius, or thyself, old Titus, Or any one of you, chop off your hand And send it to the King: he for the same Will send thee hither both thy sons alive, And that shall be the ransom for their fault. TITUS. O gracious Emperor! O gentle Aaron! Did ever raven sing so like a lark That gives sweet tidings of the sun's uprise? With all my heart I'll send the Emperor my hand. Good Aaron, wilt thou help to chop it off? LUCIUS. Stay, father! for that noble hand of thine, That hath thrown down so many enemies, Shall not be sent. My hand will serve the turn, My youth can better spare my blood than you, And therefore mine shall save my brothers' lives. MARCUS. Which of your hands hath not defended Rome And rear'd aloft the bloody battle-axe, Writing destruction on the enemy's castle? O, none of both but are of high desert! My hand hath been but idle; let it serve To ransom my two nephews from their death; Then have I kept it to a worthy end. AARON. Nay, come, agree whose hand shall go along, For fear they die before their pardon come. MARCUS. My hand shall go. LUCIUS. By heaven, it shall not go! TITUS. Sirs, strive no more; such with'red herbs as these Are meet for plucking up, and therefore mine. LUCIUS. Sweet father, if I shall be thought thy son, Let me redeem my brothers both from death. MARCUS. And for our father's sake and mother's care, Now let me show a brother's love to thee. TITUS. Agree between you; I will spare my hand. LUCIUS. Then I'll go fetch an axe. MARCUS. But I will use the axe. Exeunt LUCIUS and MARCUS TITUS. Come hither, Aaron, I'll deceive them both; Lend me thy hand, and I will give thee mine. AARON. [Aside] If that be call'd deceit, I will be honest, And never whilst I live deceive men so; But I'll deceive you in another sort, And that you'll say ere half an hour pass. [He cuts off TITUS' hand] Re-enter LUCIUS and MARCUS TITUS. Now stay your strife. What shall be is dispatch'd. Good Aaron, give his Majesty my hand; Tell him it was a hand that warded him From thousand dangers; bid him bury it. More hath it merited- that let it have. As for my sons, say I account of them As jewels purchas'd at an easy price; And yet dear too, because I bought mine own. AARON. I go, Andronicus; and for thy hand Look by and by to have thy sons with thee. [Aside] Their heads I mean. O, how this villainy Doth fat me with the very thoughts of it! Let fools do good, and fair men call for grace: Aaron will have his soul black like his face. Exit TITUS. O, here I lift this one hand up to heaven, And bow this feeble ruin to the earth; If any power pities wretched tears, To that I call! [To LAVINIA] What, would'st thou kneel with me? Do, then, dear heart; for heaven shall hear our prayers, Or with our sighs we'll breathe the welkin dim And stain the sun with fog, as sometime clouds When they do hug him in their melting bosoms. MARCUS. O brother, speak with possibility, And do not break into these deep extremes. TITUS. Is not my sorrow deep, having no bottom? Then be my passions bottomless with them. MARCUS. But yet let reason govern thy lament. TITUS. If there were reason for these miseries, Then into limits could I bind my woes. When heaven doth weep, doth not the earth o'erflow? If the winds rage, doth not the sea wax mad, Threat'ning the welkin with his big-swol'n face? And wilt thou have a reason for this coil? I am the sea; hark how her sighs do blow. She is the weeping welkin, I the earth; Then must my sea be moved with her sighs; Then must my earth with her continual tears Become a deluge, overflow'd and drown'd; For why my bowels cannot hide her woes, But like a drunkard must I vomit them. Then give me leave; for losers will have leave To ease their stomachs with their bitter tongues. Enter a MESSENGER, with two heads and a hand MESSENGER. Worthy Andronicus, ill art thou repaid For that good hand thou sent'st the Emperor. Here are the heads of thy two noble sons; And here's thy hand, in scorn to thee sent back- Thy grief their sports, thy resolution mock'd, That woe is me to think upon thy woes, More than remembrance of my father's death. Exit MARCUS. Now let hot Aetna cool in Sicily, And be my heart an ever-burning hell! These miseries are more than may be borne. To weep with them that weep doth ease some deal, But sorrow flouted at is double death. LUCIUS. Ah, that this sight should make so deep a wound, And yet detested life not shrink thereat! That ever death should let life bear his name, Where life hath no more interest but to breathe! [LAVINIA kisses TITUS] MARCUS. Alas, poor heart, that kiss is comfortless As frozen water to a starved snake. TITUS. When will this fearful slumber have an end? MARCUS. Now farewell, flatt'ry; die, Andronicus. Thou dost not slumber: see thy two sons' heads, Thy warlike hand, thy mangled daughter here; Thy other banish'd son with this dear sight Struck pale and bloodless; and thy brother, I, Even like a stony image, cold and numb. Ah! now no more will I control thy griefs. Rent off thy silver hair, thy other hand Gnawing with thy teeth; and be this dismal sight The closing up of our most wretched eyes. Now is a time to storm; why art thou still? TITUS. Ha, ha, ha! MARCUS. Why dost thou laugh? It fits not with this hour. TITUS. Why, I have not another tear to shed; Besides, this sorrow is an enemy, And would usurp upon my wat'ry eyes And make them blind with tributary tears. Then which way shall I find Revenge's cave? For these two heads do seem to speak to me, And threat me I shall never come to bliss Till all these mischiefs be return'd again Even in their throats that have committed them. Come, let me see what task I have to do. You heavy people, circle me about, That I may turn me to each one of you And swear unto my soul to right your wrongs. The vow is made. Come, brother, take a head, And in this hand the other will I bear. And, Lavinia, thou shalt be employ'd in this; Bear thou my hand, sweet wench, between thy teeth. As for thee, boy, go, get thee from my sight; Thou art an exile, and thou must not stay. Hie to the Goths and raise an army there; And if ye love me, as I think you do, Let's kiss and part, for we have much to do. Exeunt all but Lucius LUCIUS. Farewell, Andronicus, my noble father, The woefull'st man that ever liv'd in Rome. Farewell, proud Rome; till Lucius come again, He leaves his pledges dearer than his life. Farewell, Lavinia, my noble sister; O, would thou wert as thou tofore hast been! But now nor Lucius nor Lavinia lives But in oblivion and hateful griefs. If Lucius live, he will requite your wrongs And make proud Saturnine and his empress Beg at the gates like Tarquin and his queen. Now will I to the Goths, and raise a pow'r To be reveng'd on Rome and Saturnine. Exit SCENE II. Rome. TITUS' house A banquet. Enter TITUS, MARCUS, LAVINIA, and the boy YOUNG LUCIUS TITUS. So so, now sit; and look you eat no more Than will preserve just so much strength in us As will revenge these bitter woes of ours. Marcus, unknit that sorrow-wreathen knot; Thy niece and I, poor creatures, want our hands, And cannot passionate our tenfold grief With folded arms. This poor right hand of mine Is left to tyrannize upon my breast; And, when my heart, all mad with misery, Beats in this hollow prison of my flesh, Then thus I thump it down. [To LAVINIA] Thou map of woe, that thus dost talk in signs! When thy poor heart beats with outrageous beating, Thou canst not strike it thus to make it still. Wound it with sighing, girl, kill it with groans; Or get some little knife between thy teeth And just against thy heart make thou a hole, That all the tears that thy poor eyes let fall May run into that sink and, soaking in, Drown the lamenting fool in sea-salt tears. MARCUS. Fie, brother, fie! Teach her not thus to lay Such violent hands upon her tender life. TITUS. How now! Has sorrow made thee dote already? Why, Marcus, no man should be mad but I. What violent hands can she lay on her life? Ah, wherefore dost thou urge the name of hands? To bid Aeneas tell the tale twice o'er How Troy was burnt and he made miserable? O, handle not the theme, to talk of hands, Lest we remember still that we have none. Fie, fie, how franticly I square my talk, As if we should forget we had no hands, If Marcus did not name the word of hands! Come, let's fall to; and, gentle girl, eat this: Here is no drink. Hark, Marcus, what she says- I can interpret all her martyr'd signs; She says she drinks no other drink but tears, Brew'd with her sorrow, mesh'd upon her cheeks. Speechless complainer, I will learn thy thought; In thy dumb action will I be as perfect As begging hermits in their holy prayers. Thou shalt not sigh, nor hold thy stumps to heaven, Nor wink, nor nod, nor kneel, nor make a sign, But I of these will wrest an alphabet, And by still practice learn to know thy meaning. BOY. Good grandsire, leave these bitter deep laments; Make my aunt merry with some pleasing tale. MARCUS. Alas, the tender boy, in passion mov'd, Doth weep to see his grandsire's heaviness. TITUS. Peace, tender sapling; thou art made of tears, And tears will quickly melt thy life away. [MARCUS strikes the dish with a knife] What dost thou strike at, Marcus, with thy knife? MARCUS. At that that I have kill'd, my lord- a fly. TITUS. Out on thee, murderer, thou kill'st my heart! Mine eyes are cloy'd with view of tyranny; A deed of death done on the innocent Becomes not Titus' brother. Get thee gone; I see thou art not for my company. MARCUS. Alas, my lord, I have but kill'd a fly. TITUS. 'But!' How if that fly had a father and mother? How would he hang his slender gilded wings And buzz lamenting doings in the air! Poor harmless fly, That with his pretty buzzing melody Came here to make us merry! And thou hast kill'd him. MARCUS. Pardon me, sir; it was a black ill-favour'd fly, Like to the Empress' Moor; therefore I kill'd him. TITUS. O, O, O! Then pardon me for reprehending thee, For thou hast done a charitable deed. Give me thy knife, I will insult on him, Flattering myself as if it were the Moor Come hither purposely to poison me. There's for thyself, and that's for Tamora. Ah, sirrah! Yet, I think, we are not brought so low But that between us we can kill a fly That comes in likeness of a coal-black Moor. MARCUS. Alas, poor man! grief has so wrought on him, He takes false shadows for true substances. TITUS. Come, take away. Lavinia, go with me; I'll to thy closet, and go read with thee Sad stories chanced in the times of old. Come, boy, and go with me; thy sight is young, And thou shalt read when mine begin to dazzle. Exeunt Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Als die römische Elite auf dem Weg zur Hinrichtungsstätte von Martius und Quintus ist, kniet Titus vor ihnen nieder und bittet sie, ihr überhastetes Urteil zu überdenken. Sie gehen wortlos an ihm vorbei. Lucius enthüllt, dass er verbannt wurde, und Titus sagt ihm, dass er froh sein soll, aus einem verfluchten Ort wie Rom verbannt zu sein. Gerade in diesem Moment, in größter Verzweiflung von Titus, tritt Marcus zusammen mit Lavinia ein und enthüllt das Ausmaß ihrer Verstümmelung. Titus und Marcus weinen um das Mädchen und überlegen, wie sie sich an ihr rächen können. Aaron tritt ein und erzählt Titus, dass der Kaiser beschlossen hat, seine Söhne doch zu verschonen, wenn er, Lucius oder Marcus eine Hand abhackt und sie ihm präsentiert. Alle drei Andronici ergreifen die Chance, das Opfer zu vollziehen. Marcus und Lucius eilen davon, um eine Axt zu holen, aber während sie weg sind, lässt Titus Aaron seine Hand abschneiden und kommt somit seinem Sohn und Bruder zuvor. Kurz darauf kehrt jedoch ein Bote mit den abgetrennten Köpfen von Titus' Söhnen und Titus' abgetrennter Hand zurück. Die Andronici brechen vor Trauer zusammen, und Lavinia küsst die Köpfe ihrer Brüder. Titus beginnt ghoulish zu lachen und schwört, Rache in ihrer Höhle aufzusuchen. Er befiehlt seiner Tochter, seine Hand zwischen ihren Zähnen zu nehmen; er und sein Bruder jeder nehmen einen Kopf auf. In der Zwischenzeit erklärt Lucius, dass er während seines Verbannung eine Armee gegen Rom erheben wird. Einige Zeit später sitzt Titus mit seiner Familie zu einer Mahlzeit zusammen. Titus erklärt, dass er Lavinia trotz ihrer Behinderung verstehen wird. Als Marcus eine Fliege tötet, tadelt Titus ihn und besteht darauf, dass jede Tötung ungerecht ist, aber nachdem Marcus die Fliege mit Aaron dem Mohren vergleicht, schlägt Titus das Tier selbst tot. So endet der Akt mit den Andronici im tiefsten Zustand der Verzweiflung.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). 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 many days, Oliver remained in the Jew's room, picking the marks out of the pocket-handkerchief, (of which a great number were brought home,) and sometimes taking part in the game already described: which the two boys and the Jew played, regularly, every morning. At length, he began to languish for fresh air, and took many occasions of earnestly entreating the old gentleman to allow him to go out to work with his two companions. Oliver was rendered the more anxious to be actively employed, by what he had seen of the stern morality of the old gentleman's character. Whenever the Dodger or Charley Bates came home at night, empty-handed, he would expatiate with great vehemence on the misery of idle and lazy habits; and would enforce upon them the necessity of an active life, by sending them supperless to bed. On one occasion, indeed, he even went so far as to knock them both down a flight of stairs; but this was carrying out his virtuous precepts to an unusual extent. At length, one morning, Oliver obtained the permission he had so eagerly sought. There had been no handkerchiefs to work upon, for two or three days, and the dinners had been rather meagre. Perhaps these were reasons for the old gentleman's giving his assent; but, whether they were or no, he told Oliver he might go, and placed him under the joint guardianship of Charley Bates, and his friend the Dodger. The three boys sallied out; the Dodger with his coat-sleeves tucked up, and his hat cocked, as usual; Master Bates sauntering along with his hands in his pockets; and Oliver between them, wondering where they were going, and what branch of manufacture he would be instructed in, first. The pace at which they went, was such a very lazy, ill-looking saunter, that Oliver soon began to think his companions were going to deceive the old gentleman, by not going to work at all. The Dodger had a vicious propensity, too, of pulling the caps from the heads of small boys and tossing them down areas; while Charley Bates exhibited some very loose notions concerning the rights of property, by pilfering divers apples and onions from the stalls at the kennel sides, and thrusting them into pockets which were so surprisingly capacious, that they seemed to undermine his whole suit of clothes in every direction. These things looked so bad, that Oliver was on the point of declaring his intention of seeking his way back, in the best way he could; when his thoughts were suddenly directed into another channel, by a very mysterious change of behaviour on the part of the Dodger. They were just emerging from a narrow court not far from the open square in Clerkenwell, which is yet called, by some strange perversion of terms, 'The Green': when the Dodger made a sudden stop; and, laying his finger on his lip, drew his companions back again, with the greatest caution and circumspection. 'What's the matter?' demanded Oliver. 'Hush!' replied the Dodger. 'Do you see that old cove at the book-stall?' 'The old gentleman over the way?' said Oliver. 'Yes, I see him.' 'He'll do,' said the Dodger. 'A prime plant,' observed Master Charley Bates. Oliver looked from one to the other, with the greatest surprise; but he was not permitted to make any inquiries; for the two boys walked stealthily across the road, and slunk close behind the old gentleman towards whom his attention had been directed. Oliver walked a few paces after them; and, not knowing whether to advance or retire, stood looking on in silent amazement. The old gentleman was a very respectable-looking personage, with a powdered head and gold spectacles. He was dressed in a bottle-green coat with a black velvet collar; wore white trousers; and carried a smart bamboo cane under his arm. He had taken up a book from the stall, and there he stood, reading away, as hard as if he were in his elbow-chair, in his own study. It is very possible that he fancied himself there, indeed; for it was plain, from his abstraction, that he saw not the book-stall, nor the street, nor the boys, nor, in short, anything but the book itself: which he was reading straight through: turning over the leaf when he got to the bottom of a page, beginning at the top line of the next one, and going regularly on, with the greatest interest and eagerness. What was Oliver's horror and alarm as he stood a few paces off, looking on with his eyelids as wide open as they would possibly go, to see the Dodger plunge his hand into the old gentleman's pocket, and draw from thence a handkerchief! To see him hand the same to Charley Bates; and finally to behold them, both running away round the corner at full speed! In an instant the whole mystery of the hankerchiefs, and the watches, and the jewels, and the Jew, rushed upon the boy's mind. He stood, for a moment, with the blood so tingling through all his veins from terror, that he felt as if he were in a burning fire; then, confused and frightened, he took to his heels; and, not knowing what he did, made off as fast as he could lay his feet to the ground. This was all done in a minute's space. In the very instant when Oliver began to run, the old gentleman, putting his hand to his pocket, and missing his handkerchief, turned sharp round. Seeing the boy scudding away at such a rapid pace, he very naturally concluded him to be the depredator; and shouting 'Stop thief!' with all his might, made off after him, book in hand. But the old gentleman was not the only person who raised the hue-and-cry. The Dodger and Master Bates, unwilling to attract public attention by running down the open street, had merely retired into the very first doorway round the corner. They no sooner heard the cry, and saw Oliver running, than, guessing exactly how the matter stood, they issued forth with great promptitude; and, shouting 'Stop thief!' too, joined in the pursuit like good citizens. Although Oliver had been brought up by philosophers, he was not theoretically acquainted with the beautiful axiom that self-preservation is the first law of nature. If he had been, perhaps he would have been prepared for this. Not being prepared, however, it alarmed him the more; so away he went like the wind, with the old gentleman and the two boys roaring and shouting behind him. 'Stop thief! Stop thief!' There is a magic in the sound. The tradesman leaves his counter, and the car-man his waggon; the butcher throws down his tray; the baker his basket; the milkman his pail; the errand-boy his parcels; the school-boy his marbles; the paviour his pickaxe; the child his battledore. Away they run, pell-mell, helter-skelter, slap-dash: tearing, yelling, screaming, knocking down the passengers as they turn the corners, rousing up the dogs, and astonishing the fowls: and streets, squares, and courts, re-echo with the sound. 'Stop thief! Stop thief!' The cry is taken up by a hundred voices, and the crowd accumulate at every turning. Away they fly, splashing through the mud, and rattling along the pavements: up go the windows, out run the people, onward bear the mob, a whole audience desert Punch in the very thickest of the plot, and, joining the rushing throng, swell the shout, and lend fresh vigour to the cry, 'Stop thief! Stop thief!' 'Stop thief! Stop thief!' There is a passion FOR _hunting_ _something_ deeply implanted in the human breast. One wretched breathless child, panting with exhaustion; terror in his looks; agony in his eyes; large drops of perspiration streaming down his face; strains every nerve to make head upon his pursuers; and as they follow on his track, and gain upon him every instant, they hail his decreasing strength with joy. 'Stop thief!' Ay, stop him for God's sake, were it only in mercy! Stopped at last! A clever blow. He is down upon the pavement; and the crowd eagerly gather round him: each new comer, jostling and struggling with the others to catch a glimpse. 'Stand aside!' 'Give him a little air!' 'Nonsense! he don't deserve it.' 'Where's the gentleman?' 'Here his is, coming down the street.' 'Make room there for the gentleman!' 'Is this the boy, sir!' 'Yes.' Oliver lay, covered with mud and dust, and bleeding from the mouth, looking wildly round upon the heap of faces that surrounded him, when the old gentleman was officiously dragged and pushed into the circle by the foremost of the pursuers. 'Yes,' said the gentleman, 'I am afraid it is the boy.' 'Afraid!' murmured the crowd. 'That's a good 'un!' 'Poor fellow!' said the gentleman, 'he has hurt himself.' '_I_ did that, sir,' said a great lubberly fellow, stepping forward; 'and preciously I cut my knuckle agin' his mouth. I stopped him, sir.' The fellow touched his hat with a grin, expecting something for his pains; but, the old gentleman, eyeing him with an expression of dislike, look anxiously round, as if he contemplated running away himself: which it is very possible he might have attempted to do, and thus have afforded another chase, had not a police officer (who is generally the last person to arrive in such cases) at that moment made his way through the crowd, and seized Oliver by the collar. 'Come, get up,' said the man, roughly. 'It wasn't me indeed, sir. Indeed, indeed, it was two other boys,' said Oliver, clasping his hands passionately, and looking round. 'They are here somewhere.' 'Oh no, they ain't,' said the officer. He meant this to be ironical, but it was true besides; for the Dodger and Charley Bates had filed off down the first convenient court they came to. 'Come, get up!' 'Don't hurt him,' said the old gentleman, compassionately. 'Oh no, I won't hurt him,' replied the officer, tearing his jacket half off his back, in proof thereof. 'Come, I know you; it won't do. Will you stand upon your legs, you young devil?' Oliver, who could hardly stand, made a shift to raise himself on his feet, and was at once lugged along the streets by the jacket-collar, at a rapid pace. The gentleman walked on with them by the officer's side; and as many of the crowd as could achieve the feat, got a little ahead, and stared back at Oliver from time to time. The boys shouted in triumph; and on they went. Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Oliver verbringt die nächsten acht oder zehn Tage in Fagins Zimmer und sucht die Markierungen auf den Taschentüchern heraus, die die anderen Jungen mitbringen. Manchmal beteiligt er sich auch an dem "Spiel", das darin besteht, Taschen zu stehlen. Oliver bekommt langsam Lagerkoller und möchte gerne mit den anderen nach draußen gehen. Natürlich weiß er nicht, was sie vorhaben. Alles, was er weiß, ist, dass Fagin harte Arbeit zu schätzen scheint: Immer wenn einer der Jungen mit leeren Händen wiederkommt, dreht Fagin völlig durch, und Oliver realisiert immer noch nicht, dass die Jungen die Sachen, die sie mitbringen, nicht herstellen, sondern stehlen. Seine Unschuld wäre irgendwie lustig, wenn es nicht so traurig wäre - schließlich ist er erst acht oder neun Jahre alt zu diesem Zeitpunkt. Schließlich erlaubt Fagin Oliver, mit dem Dodger und "Meister Bates" nach draußen zu gehen. Oliver glaubt immer noch, dass sie ihm beibringen werden, wie man Sachen herstellt. Er fragt sich, in welchem Bereich der Herstellung er zuerst unterrichtet werden soll. Oliver bemerkt, dass der Dodger die schlechte Angewohnheit hat, kleinen Kindern ihre Hüte über die Augen zu ziehen und sie umzustoßen, und dass Charley Äpfel von Obstverkäufern stiehlt. Er ist kurz davor, etwas über ihr schlechtes Verhalten zu sagen, als sie stehen bleiben und auf einen "Alten" vor einem Buchhändler zeigen. Der "Alte" ist ein "respektabel aussehender" "Alter Herr", der völlig in das Buch vertieft ist, das er am Bücherstand liest. Er ist völlig ahnungslos von allem, was um ihn herum passiert. Oliver starrt schockiert und mit offenem Mund auf Charley und den Dodger, während sie sich ihm nähern und sein Taschentuch aus der Tasche ziehen und um die Ecke schlüpfen. Dies ist eine weitere der absolut tollen Illustrationen von Cruikshank. Schaut es euch an, wenn ihr es noch nicht getan habt. Alles trifft Oliver auf einmal und plötzlich begreift er, woher all die Taschentücher kommen. Seine automatische Reaktion ist wegzulaufen, und er flitzt die Straße entlang. Aber Oliver läuft lärmender weg als die anderen Jungen und das holt den alten Kerl aus seinem Buch zurück. Er bemerkt sofort, dass sein Taschentuch weg ist. Der alte Mann nimmt sofort und instinktiv an, dass es Oliver war, der es gestohlen hat, da Oliver lärmend davonläuft, und er ruft "Haltet den Dieb!" Und die ganze Straßenszene richtet plötzlich ihre kollektive Aufmerksamkeit auf den kleinen Jungen, der die Straße hinunterläuft, und alle schließen sich an und rufen "Haltet den Dieb!" Schließlich bringt ihn jemand zu Boden und der alte Herr wird zur Vorderseite der Menge gezogen, um Oliver als den vermuteten Täter zu identifizieren. Aber er hat eindeutig Mitleid mit Oliver und nennt ihn einen "armen Kerl" und ist angewidert von dem "tollpatschigen Kerl", der ihm stolz erzählt, dass er Oliver zu Boden geschlagen hat, indem er ihm in den Mund geschlagen hat. Ein Polizist trifft ein und zieht Oliver hoch. Oliver versucht ihm zu sagen, dass er unschuldig ist und dass zwei andere Jungen es getan haben, aber der Polizist glaubt ihm nicht, da der Dodger und Charley ausgewichen sind. Der alte Herr folgt dem Polizisten, während er Oliver mit sich zieht, und scheint aus irgendeinem Grund neugierig auf Oliver 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: During the eight months which were employed in the work of excavation the preparatory works of the casting had been carried on simultaneously with extreme rapidity. A stranger arriving at Stones Hill would have been surprised at the spectacle offered to his view. At 600 yards from the well, and circularly arranged around it as a central point, rose 1,200 reverberating ovens, each six feet in diameter, and separated from each other by an interval of three feet. The circumference occupied by these 1,200 ovens presented a length of two miles. Being all constructed on the same plan, each with its high quadrangular chimney, they produced a most singular effect. It will be remembered that on their third meeting the committee had decided to use cast iron for the Columbiad, and in particular the white description. This metal, in fact, is the most tenacious, the most ductile, and the most malleable, and consequently suitable for all moulding operations; and when smelted with pit coal, is of superior quality for all engineering works requiring great resisting power, such as cannon, steam boilers, hydraulic presses, and the like. Cast iron, however, if subjected to only one single fusion, is rarely sufficiently homogeneous; and it requires a second fusion completely to refine it by dispossessing it of its last earthly deposits. So long before being forwarded to Tampa Town, the iron ore, molten in the great furnaces of Coldspring, and brought into contact with coal and silicium heated to a high temperature, was carburized and transformed into cast iron. After this first operation, the metal was sent on to Stones Hill. They had, however, to deal with 136,000,000 pounds of iron, a quantity far too costly to send by railway. The cost of transport would have been double that of material. It appeared preferable to freight vessels at New York, and to load them with the iron in bars. This, however, required not less than sixty- eight vessels of 1,000 tons, a veritable fleet, which, quitting New York on the 3rd of May, on the 10th of the same month ascended the Bay of Espiritu Santo, and discharged their cargoes, without dues, in the port at Tampa Town. Thence the iron was transported by rail to Stones Hill, and about the middle of January this enormous mass of metal was delivered at its destination. It will easily be understood that 1,200 furnaces were not too many to melt simultaneously these 60,000 tons of iron. Each of these furnaces contained nearly 140,000 pounds weight of metal. They were all built after the model of those which served for the casting of the Rodman gun; they were trapezoidal in shape, with a high elliptical arch. These furnaces, constructed of fireproof brick, were especially adapted for burning pit coal, with a flat bottom upon which the iron bars were laid. This bottom, inclined at an angle of 25 degrees, allowed the metal to flow into the receiving troughs; and the 1,200 converging trenches carried the molten metal down to the central well. The day following that on which the works of the masonry and boring had been completed, Barbicane set to work upon the central mould. His object now was to raise within the center of the well, and with a coincident axis, a cylinder 900 feet high, and nine feet in diameter, which should exactly fill up the space reserved for the bore of the Columbiad. This cylinder was composed of a mixture of clay and sand, with the addition of a little hay and straw. The space left between the mould and the masonry was intended to be filled up by the molten metal, which would thus form the walls six feet in thickness. This cylinder, in order to maintain its equilibrium, had to be bound by iron bands, and firmly fixed at certain intervals by cross-clamps fastened into the stone lining; after the castings these would be buried in the block of metal, leaving no external projection. This operation was completed on the 8th of July, and the run of the metal was fixed for the following day. "This _fete_ of the casting will be a grand ceremony," said J. T. Maston to his friend Barbicane. "Undoubtedly," said Barbicane; "but it will not be a public _fete_" "What! will you not open the gates of the enclosure to all comers?" "I must be very careful, Maston. The casting of the Columbiad is an extremely delicate, not to say a dangerous operation, and I should prefer its being done privately. At the discharge of the projectile, a _fete_ if you like-- till then, no!" The president was right. The operation involved unforeseen dangers, which a great influx of spectators would have hindered him from averting. It was necessary to preserve complete freedom of movement. No one was admitted within the enclosure except a delegation of members of the Gun Club, who had made the voyage to Tampa Town. Among these was the brisk Bilsby, Tom Hunter, Colonel Blomsberry, Major Elphinstone, General Morgan, and the rest of the lot to whom the casting of the Columbiad was a matter of personal interest. J. T. Maston became their cicerone. He omitted no point of detail; he conducted them throughout the magazines, workshops, through the midst of the engines, and compelled them to visit the whole 1,200 furnaces one after the other. At the end of the twelve-hundredth visit they were pretty well knocked up. The casting was to take place at twelve o'clock precisely. The previous evening each furnace had been charged with 114,000 pounds weight of metal in bars disposed cross-ways to each other, so as to allow the hot air to circulate freely between them. At daybreak the 1,200 chimneys vomited their torrents of flame into the air, and the ground was agitated with dull tremblings. As many pounds of metal as there were to cast, so many pounds of coal were there to burn. Thus there were 68,000 tons of coal which projected in the face of the sun a thick curtain of smoke. The heat soon became insupportable within the circle of furnaces, the rumbling of which resembled the rolling of thunder. The powerful ventilators added their continuous blasts and saturated with oxygen the glowing plates. The operation, to be successful, required to be conducted with great rapidity. On a signal given by a cannon-shot each furnace was to give vent to the molten iron and completely to empty itself. These arrangements made, foremen and workmen waited the preconcerted moment with an impatience mingled with a certain amount of emotion. Not a soul remained within the enclosure. Each superintendent took his post by the aperture of the run. Barbicane and his colleagues, perched on a neighboring eminence, assisted at the operation. In front of them was a piece of artillery ready to give fire on the signal from the engineer. Some minutes before midday the first driblets of metal began to flow; the reservoirs filled little by little; and, by the time that the whole melting was completely accomplished, it was kept in abeyance for a few minutes in order to facilitate the separation of foreign substances. Twelve o'clock struck! A gunshot suddenly pealed forth and shot its flame into the air. Twelve hundred melting-troughs were simultaneously opened and twelve hundred fiery serpents crept toward the central well, unrolling their incandescent curves. There, down they plunged with a terrific noise into a depth of 900 feet. It was an exciting and a magnificent spectacle. The ground trembled, while these molten waves, launching into the sky their wreaths of smoke, evaporated the moisture of the mould and hurled it upward through the vent-holes of the stone lining in the form of dense vapor-clouds. These artificial clouds unrolled their thick spirals to a height of 1,000 yards into the air. A savage, wandering somewhere beyond the limits of the horizon, might have believed that some new crater was forming in the bosom of Florida, although there was neither any eruption, nor typhoon, nor storm, nor struggle of the elements, nor any of those terrible phenomena which nature is capable of producing. No, it was man alone who had produced these reddish vapors, these gigantic flames worthy of a volcano itself, these tremendous vibrations resembling the shock of an earthquake, these reverberations rivaling those of hurricanes and storms; and it was his hand which precipitated into an abyss, dug by himself, a whole Niagara of molten metal! Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Mit dem vollständigen Loch ist es nun an der Zeit, den Kanonenkörper zu gießen. Maston möchte ein großes öffentliches Fest veranstalten, aber Barbicane lehnt ab - er will kein Risiko eingehen. Als sie schließlich die massiven Öfen starten, die zum Gießen erforderlich sind, steigen riesige "künstliche Wolken in dicken Spiralen" in den Himmel auf.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: ARTHUR had chosen the entrance-hall for the ballroom: very wisely, for no other room could have been so airy, or would have had the advantage of the wide doors opening into the garden, as well as a ready entrance into the other rooms. To be sure, a stone floor was not the pleasantest to dance on, but then, most of the dancers had known what it was to enjoy a Christmas dance on kitchen quarries. It was one of those entrance-halls which make the surrounding rooms look like closets--with stucco angels, trumpets, and flower-wreaths on the lofty ceiling, and great medallions of miscellaneous heroes on the walls, alternating with statues in niches. Just the sort of place to be ornamented well with green boughs, and Mr. Craig had been proud to show his taste and his hothouse plants on the occasion. The broad steps of the stone staircase were covered with cushions to serve as seats for the children, who were to stay till half-past nine with the servant-maids to see the dancing, and as this dance was confined to the chief tenants, there was abundant room for every one. The lights were charmingly disposed in coloured-paper lamps, high up among green boughs, and the farmers' wives and daughters, as they peeped in, believed no scene could be more splendid; they knew now quite well in what sort of rooms the king and queen lived, and their thoughts glanced with some pity towards cousins and acquaintances who had not this fine opportunity of knowing how things went on in the great world. The lamps were already lit, though the sun had not long set, and there was that calm light out of doors in which we seem to see all objects more distinctly than in the broad day. It was a pretty scene outside the house: the farmers and their families were moving about the lawn, among the flowers and shrubs, or along the broad straight road leading from the east front, where a carpet of mossy grass spread on each side, studded here and there with a dark flat-boughed cedar, or a grand pyramidal fir sweeping the ground with its branches, all tipped with a fringe of paler green. The groups of cottagers in the park were gradually diminishing, the young ones being attracted towards the lights that were beginning to gleam from the windows of the gallery in the abbey, which was to be their dancing-room, and some of the sober elder ones thinking it time to go home quietly. One of these was Lisbeth Bede, and Seth went with her--not from filial attention only, for his conscience would not let him join in dancing. It had been rather a melancholy day to Seth: Dinah had never been more constantly present with him than in this scene, where everything was so unlike her. He saw her all the more vividly after looking at the thoughtless faces and gay-coloured dresses of the young women--just as one feels the beauty and the greatness of a pictured Madonna the more when it has been for a moment screened from us by a vulgar head in a bonnet. But this presence of Dinah in his mind only helped him to bear the better with his mother's mood, which had been becoming more and more querulous for the last hour. Poor Lisbeth was suffering from a strange conflict of feelings. Her joy and pride in the honour paid to her darling son Adam was beginning to be worsted in the conflict with the jealousy and fretfulness which had revived when Adam came to tell her that Captain Donnithorne desired him to join the dancers in the hall. Adam was getting more and more out of her reach; she wished all the old troubles back again, for then it mattered more to Adam what his mother said and did. "Eh, it's fine talkin' o' dancin'," she said, "an' thy father not a five week in's grave. An' I wish I war there too, i'stid o' bein' left to take up merrier folks's room above ground." "Nay, don't look at it i' that way, Mother," said Adam, who was determined to be gentle to her to-day. "I don't mean to dance--I shall only look on. And since the captain wishes me to be there, it 'ud look as if I thought I knew better than him to say as I'd rather not stay. And thee know'st how he's behaved to me to-day." "Eh, thee't do as thee lik'st, for thy old mother's got no right t' hinder thee. She's nought but th' old husk, and thee'st slipped away from her, like the ripe nut." "Well, Mother," said Adam, "I'll go and tell the captain as it hurts thy feelings for me to stay, and I'd rather go home upo' that account: he won't take it ill then, I daresay, and I'm willing." He said this with some effort, for he really longed to be near Hetty this evening. "Nay, nay, I wonna ha' thee do that--the young squire 'ull be angered. Go an' do what thee't ordered to do, an' me and Seth 'ull go whome. I know it's a grit honour for thee to be so looked on--an' who's to be prouder on it nor thy mother? Hadna she the cumber o' rearin' thee an' doin' for thee all these 'ears?" "Well, good-bye, then, Mother--good-bye, lad--remember Gyp when you get home," said Adam, turning away towards the gate of the pleasure-grounds, where he hoped he might be able to join the Poysers, for he had been so occupied throughout the afternoon that he had had no time to speak to Hetty. His eye soon detected a distant group, which he knew to be the right one, returning to the house along the broad gravel road, and he hastened on to meet them. "Why, Adam, I'm glad to get sight on y' again," said Mr. Poyser, who was carrying Totty on his arm. "You're going t' have a bit o' fun, I hope, now your work's all done. And here's Hetty has promised no end o' partners, an' I've just been askin' her if she'd agreed to dance wi' you, an' she says no." "Well, I didn't think o' dancing to-night," said Adam, already tempted to change his mind, as he looked at Hetty. "Nonsense!" said Mr. Poyser. "Why, everybody's goin' to dance to-night, all but th' old squire and Mrs. Irwine. Mrs. Best's been tellin' us as Miss Lyddy and Miss Irwine 'ull dance, an' the young squire 'ull pick my wife for his first partner, t' open the ball: so she'll be forced to dance, though she's laid by ever sin' the Christmas afore the little un was born. You canna for shame stand still, Adam, an' you a fine young fellow and can dance as well as anybody." "Nay, nay," said Mrs. Poyser, "it 'ud be unbecomin'. I know the dancin's nonsense, but if you stick at everything because it's nonsense, you wonna go far i' this life. When your broth's ready-made for you, you mun swallow the thickenin', or else let the broth alone." "Then if Hetty 'ull dance with me," said Adam, yielding either to Mrs. Poyser's argument or to something else, "I'll dance whichever dance she's free." "I've got no partner for the fourth dance," said Hetty; "I'll dance that with you, if you like." "Ah," said Mr. Poyser, "but you mun dance the first dance, Adam, else it'll look partic'ler. There's plenty o' nice partners to pick an' choose from, an' it's hard for the gells when the men stan' by and don't ask 'em." Adam felt the justice of Mr. Poyser's observation: it would not do for him to dance with no one besides Hetty; and remembering that Jonathan Burge had some reason to feel hurt to-day, he resolved to ask Miss Mary to dance with him the first dance, if she had no other partner. "There's the big clock strikin' eight," said Mr. Poyser; "we must make haste in now, else the squire and the ladies 'ull be in afore us, an' that wouldna look well." When they had entered the hall, and the three children under Molly's charge had been seated on the stairs, the folding-doors of the drawing-room were thrown open, and Arthur entered in his regimentals, leading Mrs. Irwine to a carpet-covered dais ornamented with hot-house plants, where she and Miss Anne were to be seated with old Mr. Donnithorne, that they might look on at the dancing, like the kings and queens in the plays. Arthur had put on his uniform to please the tenants, he said, who thought as much of his militia dignity as if it had been an elevation to the premiership. He had not the least objection to gratify them in that way: his uniform was very advantageous to his figure. The old squire, before sitting down, walked round the hall to greet the tenants and make polite speeches to the wives: he was always polite; but the farmers had found out, after long puzzling, that this polish was one of the signs of hardness. It was observed that he gave his most elaborate civility to Mrs. Poyser to-night, inquiring particularly about her health, recommending her to strengthen herself with cold water as he did, and avoid all drugs. Mrs. Poyser curtsied and thanked him with great self-command, but when he had passed on, she whispered to her husband, "I'll lay my life he's brewin' some nasty turn against us. Old Harry doesna wag his tail so for nothin'." Mr. Poyser had no time to answer, for now Arthur came up and said, "Mrs. Poyser, I'm come to request the favour of your hand for the first dance; and, Mr. Poyser, you must let me take you to my aunt, for she claims you as her partner." The wife's pale cheek flushed with a nervous sense of unwonted honour as Arthur led her to the top of the room; but Mr. Poyser, to whom an extra glass had restored his youthful confidence in his good looks and good dancing, walked along with them quite proudly, secretly flattering himself that Miss Lydia had never had a partner in HER life who could lift her off the ground as he would. In order to balance the honours given to the two parishes, Miss Irwine danced with Luke Britton, the largest Broxton farmer, and Mr. Gawaine led out Mrs. Britton. Mr. Irwine, after seating his sister Anne, had gone to the abbey gallery, as he had agreed with Arthur beforehand, to see how the merriment of the cottagers was prospering. Meanwhile, all the less distinguished couples had taken their places: Hetty was led out by the inevitable Mr. Craig, and Mary Burge by Adam; and now the music struck up, and the glorious country-dance, best of all dances, began. Pity it was not a boarded floor! Then the rhythmic stamping of the thick shoes would have been better than any drums. That merry stamping, that gracious nodding of the head, that waving bestowal of the hand--where can we see them now? That simple dancing of well-covered matrons, laying aside for an hour the cares of house and dairy, remembering but not affecting youth, not jealous but proud of the young maidens by their side--that holiday sprightliness of portly husbands paying little compliments to their wives, as if their courting days were come again--those lads and lasses a little confused and awkward with their partners, having nothing to say--it would be a pleasant variety to see all that sometimes, instead of low dresses and large skirts, and scanning glances exploring costumes, and languid men in lacquered boots smiling with double meaning. There was but one thing to mar Martin Poyser's pleasure in this dance: it was that he was always in close contact with Luke Britton, that slovenly farmer. He thought of throwing a little glazed coldness into his eye in the crossing of hands; but then, as Miss Irwine was opposite to him instead of the offensive Luke, he might freeze the wrong person. So he gave his face up to hilarity, unchilled by moral judgments. How Hetty's heart beat as Arthur approached her! He had hardly looked at her to-day: now he must take her hand. Would he press it? Would he look at her? She thought she would cry if he gave her no sign of feeling. Now he was there--he had taken her hand--yes, he was pressing it. Hetty turned pale as she looked up at him for an instant and met his eyes, before the dance carried him away. That pale look came upon Arthur like the beginning of a dull pain, which clung to him, though he must dance and smile and joke all the same. Hetty would look so, when he told her what he had to tell her; and he should never be able to bear it--he should be a fool and give way again. Hetty's look did not really mean so much as he thought: it was only the sign of a struggle between the desire for him to notice her and the dread lest she should betray the desire to others. But Hetty's face had a language that transcended her feelings. There are faces which nature charges with a meaning and pathos not belonging to the single human soul that flutters beneath them, but speaking the joys and sorrows of foregone generations--eyes that tell of deep love which doubtless has been and is somewhere, but not paired with these eyes--perhaps paired with pale eyes that can say nothing; just as a national language may be instinct with poetry unfelt by the lips that use it. That look of Hetty's oppressed Arthur with a dread which yet had something of a terrible unconfessed delight in it, that she loved him too well. There was a hard task before him, for at that moment he felt he would have given up three years of his youth for the happiness of abandoning himself without remorse to his passion for Hetty. These were the incongruous thoughts in his mind as he led Mrs. Poyser, who was panting with fatigue, and secretly resolving that neither judge nor jury should force her to dance another dance, to take a quiet rest in the dining-room, where supper was laid out for the guests to come and take it as they chose. "I've desired Hetty to remember as she's got to dance wi' you, sir," said the good innocent woman; "for she's so thoughtless, she'd be like enough to go an' engage herself for ivery dance. So I told her not to promise too many." "Thank you, Mrs. Poyser," said Arthur, not without a twinge. "Now, sit down in this comfortable chair, and here is Mills ready to give you what you would like best." He hurried away to seek another matronly partner, for due honour must be paid to the married women before he asked any of the young ones; and the country-dances, and the stamping, and the gracious nodding, and the waving of the hands, went on joyously. At last the time had come for the fourth dance--longed for by the strong, grave Adam, as if he had been a delicate-handed youth of eighteen; for we are all very much alike when we are in our first love; and Adam had hardly ever touched Hetty's hand for more than a transient greeting--had never danced with her but once before. His eyes had followed her eagerly to-night in spite of himself, and had taken in deeper draughts of love. He thought she behaved so prettily, so quietly; she did not seem to be flirting at all she smiled less than usual; there was almost a sweet sadness about her. "God bless her!" he said inwardly; "I'd make her life a happy 'un, if a strong arm to work for her, and a heart to love her, could do it." And then there stole over him delicious thoughts of coming home from work, and drawing Hetty to his side, and feeling her cheek softly pressed against his, till he forgot where he was, and the music and the tread of feet might have been the falling of rain and the roaring of the wind, for what he knew. But now the third dance was ended, and he might go up to her and claim her hand. She was at the far end of the hall near the staircase, whispering with Molly, who had just given the sleeping Totty into her arms before running to fetch shawls and bonnets from the landing. Mrs. Poyser had taken the two boys away into the dining-room to give them some cake before they went home in the cart with Grandfather and Molly was to follow as fast as possible. "Let me hold her," said Adam, as Molly turned upstairs; "the children are so heavy when they're asleep." Hetty was glad of the relief, for to hold Totty in her arms, standing, was not at all a pleasant variety to her. But this second transfer had the unfortunate effect of rousing Totty, who was not behind any child of her age in peevishness at an unseasonable awaking. While Hetty was in the act of placing her in Adam's arms, and had not yet withdrawn her own, Totty opened her eyes, and forthwith fought out with her left fist at Adam's arm, and with her right caught at the string of brown beads round Hetty's neck. The locket leaped out from her frock, and the next moment the string was broken, and Hetty, helpless, saw beads and locket scattered wide on the floor. "My locket, my locket!" she said, in a loud frightened whisper to Adam; "never mind the beads." Adam had already seen where the locket fell, for it had attracted his glance as it leaped out of her frock. It had fallen on the raised wooden dais where the band sat, not on the stone floor; and as Adam picked it up, he saw the glass with the dark and light locks of hair under it. It had fallen that side upwards, so the glass was not broken. He turned it over on his hand, and saw the enamelled gold back. "It isn't hurt," he said, as he held it towards Hetty, who was unable to take it because both her hands were occupied with Totty. "Oh, it doesn't matter, I don't mind about it," said Hetty, who had been pale and was now red. "Not matter?" said Adam, gravely. "You seemed very frightened about it. I'll hold it till you're ready to take it," he added, quietly closing his hand over it, that she might not think he wanted to look at it again. By this time Molly had come with bonnet and shawl, and as soon as she had taken Totty, Adam placed the locket in Hetty's hand. She took it with an air of indifference and put it in her pocket, in her heart vexed and angry with Adam because he had seen it, but determined now that she would show no more signs of agitation. "See," she said, "they're taking their places to dance; let us go." Adam assented silently. A puzzled alarm had taken possession of him. Had Hetty a lover he didn't know of? For none of her relations, he was sure, would give her a locket like that; and none of her admirers, with whom he was acquainted, was in the position of an accepted lover, as the giver of that locket must be. Adam was lost in the utter impossibility of finding any person for his fears to alight on. He could only feel with a terrible pang that there was something in Hetty's life unknown to him; that while he had been rocking himself in the hope that she would come to love him, she was already loving another. The pleasure of the dance with Hetty was gone; his eyes, when they rested on her, had an uneasy questioning expression in them; he could think of nothing to say to her; and she too was out of temper and disinclined to speak. They were both glad when the dance was ended. Adam was determined to stay no longer; no one wanted him, and no one would notice if he slipped away. As soon as he got out of doors, he began to walk at his habitual rapid pace, hurrying along without knowing why, busy with the painful thought that the memory of this day, so full of honour and promise to him, was poisoned for ever. Suddenly, when he was far on through the Chase, he stopped, startled by a flash of reviving hope. After all, he might be a fool, making a great misery out of a trifle. Hetty, fond of finery as she was, might have bought the thing herself. It looked too expensive for that--it looked like the things on white satin in the great jeweller's shop at Rosseter. But Adam had very imperfect notions of the value of such things, and he thought it could certainly not cost more than a guinea. Perhaps Hetty had had as much as that in Christmas boxes, and there was no knowing but she might have been childish enough to spend it in that way; she was such a young thing, and she couldn't help loving finery! But then, why had she been so frightened about it at first, and changed colour so, and afterwards pretended not to care? Oh, that was because she was ashamed of his seeing that she had such a smart thing--she was conscious that it was wrong for her to spend her money on it, and she knew that Adam disapproved of finery. It was a proof she cared about what he liked and disliked. She must have thought from his silence and gravity afterwards that he was very much displeased with her, that he was inclined to be harsh and severe towards her foibles. And as he walked on more quietly, chewing the cud of this new hope, his only uneasiness was that he had behaved in a way which might chill Hetty's feeling towards him. For this last view of the matter must be the true one. How could Hetty have an accepted lover, quite unknown to him? She was never away from her uncle's house for more than a day; she could have no acquaintances that did not come there, and no intimacies unknown to her uncle and aunt. It would be folly to believe that the locket was given to her by a lover. The little ring of dark hair he felt sure was her own; he could form no guess about the light hair under it, for he had not seen it very distinctly. It might be a bit of her father's or mother's, who had died when she was a child, and she would naturally put a bit of her own along with it. And so Adam went to bed comforted, having woven for himself an ingenious web of probabilities--the surest screen a wise man can place between himself and the truth. His last waking thoughts melted into a dream that he was with Hetty again at the Hall Farm, and that he was asking her to forgive him for being so cold and silent. And while he was dreaming this, Arthur was leading Hetty to the dance and saying to her in low hurried tones, "I shall be in the wood the day after to-morrow at seven; come as early as you can." And Hetty's foolish joys and hopes, which had flown away for a little space, scared by a mere nothing, now all came fluttering back, unconscious of the real peril. She was happy for the first time this long day, and wished that dance would last for hours. Arthur wished it too; it was the last weakness he meant to indulge in; and a man never lies with more delicious languor under the influence of a passion than when he has persuaded himself that he shall subdue it to-morrow. But Mrs. Poyser's wishes were quite the reverse of this, for her mind was filled with dreary forebodings as to the retardation of to-morrow morning's cheese in consequence of these late hours. Now that Hetty had done her duty and danced one dance with the young squire, Mr. Poyser must go out and see if the cart was come back to fetch them, for it was half-past ten o'clock, and notwithstanding a mild suggestion on his part that it would be bad manners for them to be the first to go, Mrs. Poyser was resolute on the point, "manners or no manners." "What! Going already, Mrs. Poyser?" said old Mr. Donnithorne, as she came to curtsy and take leave; "I thought we should not part with any of our guests till eleven. Mrs. Irwine and I, who are elderly people, think of sitting out the dance till then." "Oh, Your Honour, it's all right and proper for gentlefolks to stay up by candlelight--they've got no cheese on their minds. We're late enough as it is, an' there's no lettin' the cows know as they mustn't want to be milked so early to-morrow mornin'. So, if you'll please t' excuse us, we'll take our leave." "Eh!" she said to her husband, as they set off in the cart, "I'd sooner ha' brewin' day and washin' day together than one o' these pleasurin' days. There's no work so tirin' as danglin' about an' starin' an' not rightly knowin' what you're goin' to do next; and keepin' your face i' smilin' order like a grocer o' market-day for fear people shouldna think you civil enough. An' you've nothing to show for't when it's done, if it isn't a yallow face wi' eatin' things as disagree." "Ach nein, ach nein", sagte Herr Poyser, der in bester Stimmung war und das Gefühl hatte, einen großartigen Tag gehabt zu haben, "ein bisschen Vergnügen tut dir manchmal gut. Und du tanzt genauso gut wie alle anderen, denn ich setze alles auf dich gegen all die Ehefrauen in der Gemeinde, was dein leichtfüßiges Tänzchen betrifft. Und es war eine große Ehre für den jungen Gutsherrn, dich zuerst zu fragen - ich denke, das lag daran, dass ich am Kopf des Tisches saß und die Rede hielt. Und Hetty auch - sie hatte noch nie einen solchen Tanzpartner, einen feinen jungen Gentleman in der Regimentsuniform. Das wird dir etwas zu erzählen geben, Hetty, wenn du alt bist - wie du mit dem jungen Gutsherrn getanzt hast, als er volljährig wurde." Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze verfassen?

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Der Ball findet im großen Empfangsraum des Anwesens von Chase statt. Lisbeth Bede lehnt es ab, dass Adam zum Tanzen eingeladen wird, weil er seine Familie verlässt. Aber als Adam sagt, dass er sich beim Kapitän entschuldigen und erklären könnte, dass seine Mutter nicht wollte, dass er teilnimmt, sagt sie, dass er doch gehen sollte. Seth ist froh, die Party zu verlassen, weil ihn alle Frauen in ihren feinen Kleidern zu sehr an Dinah erinnern, die nie Schmuck trägt. Er findet die Poyser-Party und Mr. Poyser ermutigt ihn, mit Hetty zu tanzen. Adam, der dachte, dass er nicht tanzen würde, engagiert sich mit ihr für den vierten Tanz und nimmt Mary Burge für den ersten Tanz mit. Der alte Gutsherr geht durch den Saal, um seinen Pächtern Hallo zu sagen, die ihn alle hassen. Der Kapitän führt Mrs. Poyser zum ersten Tanz, während Miss Lydia Mr. Poyser führt. Als er mit Hetty tanzt, drückt Arthur ihre Hand, was sie vor Aufregung blass werden lässt. Er stellt sich vor, dass sie genauso aussehen wird, wenn er die Beziehung endgültig beendet. Adam denkt, dass Hetty ernster und schöner aussieht als je zuvor und stellt sich vor, sie zu heiraten. Er geht zu ihr, nimmt das schlafende Totty von ihren Armen und erwacht. Totty wacht auf, schlägt mit den Armen aus und zerbricht die braunen Perlen um Hettys Hals und lässt das goldene Medaillon aus ihrem Kleid springen. Adam hebt es vom Boden auf, sieht die beiden Haarlocken und wird verwirrt. Während er mit Hetty tanzt, erkennt er, dass sie von einem anderen, etablierten, wohlhabenden Liebhaber gegeben worden sein müssen. Er rennt vom Tanz weg. Als er nach Hause geht, vermutet er, dass es niemanden in ihrem Leben geben könnte, von dem er nichts gewusst hat. Deshalb ist er zu dem Schluss gekommen, dass sie es selbst mit ihrem eigenen Geld gekauft hat und sich über ihre Eitelkeit schämt. In der Zwischenzeit arrangiert Arthur beim Tanzen mit Hetty ein Treffen mit ihr.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). 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: Scaena Quarta. Richard tritt auf. Rich. Ich habe darüber nachgedacht, wie ich dieses Gefängnis, in dem ich lebe, mit der Welt vergleichen kann. Und weil die Welt bevölkert ist und hier außer mir kein Geschöpf existiert, kann ich es nicht tun. Dennoch werde ich es herausarbeiten. Mein Gehirn, ich werde die Weiblichkeit meiner Seele beweisen, meine Seele, der Vater, und sie zeugen eine Generation von fortpflanzenden Gedanken; und diese Gedanken bevölkern diese kleine Welt mit Launen wie die Menschen dieser Welt, denn kein Gedanke ist zufrieden. Die bessere Sorte, wie Gedanken über göttliche Dinge, sind durch Bedenken durcheinandergebracht und stellen den Glauben selbst gegen den Glauben. Zum Beispiel: Kommt, Kleine, und dann wieder, es ist genauso schwer zu kommen wie für ein Kamel, das Nadelöhr zu passieren. Gedanken, die zur Ambition tendieren, ersinnen unwahrscheinliche Wunder, wie diese nichtsnutzigen, schwachen Nägel einen Durchgang durch die steinigen Rippen dieser harten Welt, meine zerlumpte Gefängnismauern, reißen können. Und weil sie es nicht können, sterben sie in ihrem eigenen Stolz. Gedanken, die zum Inhalt neigen, schmeicheln sich, dass sie nicht die ersten Sklaven des Schicksals sind und auch nicht die letzten sein werden. Wie einfältige Bettler, die in den Fußfesseln sitzen, suchen sie Schutz vor ihrer Schande und finden in diesem Gedanken eine Art Erleichterung, indem sie ihr eigenes Missgeschick auf dem Rücken derer tragen, die zuvor Ähnliches ertragen haben. So spiele ich in einem Gefängnis viele Menschen, und keiner ist zufrieden. Manchmal bin ich König, dann lässt mich der Verrat wünschen, ich sei ein Bettler – und so bin ich es. Dann überredet mich zerdrückende Armut, dass es mir besser ging, als ich ein König war. Dann bin ich wieder König und bald danach denke ich, dass ich durch Bullingbroke entthront wurde und dann bin ich nichts. Aber was auch immer ich bin, Musik weder ich noch irgendjemand, der nur Mensch ist, wird zufrieden sein, bis er durch das Nichts Erleichterung findet. Hört ihr Musik? Ha, ha? bleib im Takt: Wie bitter süß Musik ist, wenn die Zeit durcheinander kommt und keine Proportionen eingehalten werden? So ist es auch in der Musik des menschlichen Lebens: Hier habe ich die Feinheit des Gehörs, um zu hören, wie die Zeit in einer unordentlichen Melodie durcheinandergebracht wird. Aber wegen der Eintracht meines Standes und der Zeit hatte ich kein Ohr, um zu hören, wie meine wahre Zeit zerschlagen wurde. Ich habe Zeit verschwendet und jetzt verschwendet mich die Zeit: Denn jetzt hat mich die Zeit zu ihrer zählenden Uhr gemacht; Meine Gedanken sind Minuten und mit Seufzern machen sie ihre Uhren auf meine Augen, die äußere Uhr, zeigen. Mein Finger ist wie der Zeiger einer Sonnenuhr und reinigt damit meine Augen von Tränen. Nun, der Klang, der mir sagt, wie viel Uhr es ist, sind laute Seufzer, die auf mein Herz treffen, das die Glocke ist. So zeigen Seufzer, Tränen und Stöhnen Minuten, Stunden und Zeiten. Aber meine Zeit rennt schnell davon in Bullingbrookes stolzem Glück, während ich hier Dummkopf stehe, sein Handlanger. Diese Musik macht mich verrückt, lasst sie nicht mehr erklingen, denn obwohl sie Wahnsinnige zu Verstand gebracht hat, scheint sie in mir Weise verrückt zu machen. Doch Segen sei seinem Herzen, dass er sie mir gibt; Denn es ist ein Zeichen der Liebe, und Liebe zu Richard ist eine seltsame Brosche in dieser allhassenden Welt. Ein Lakai tritt auf. Lak. Sei gegrüßt, königlicher Prinz. Rich. Danke, nobler Prinz. Der billigste von uns ist zehn Schillinge zu teuer. Wer bist du? Und wie kommst du hierher, wo nie jemand kommt außer diesem traurigen Hund, der mir Essen bringt, um das Unglück am Leben zu erhalten? Lak. Ich war ein armer Stallknecht von deinem Stall, König, als du noch König warst. Ich habe mich auf den Weg nach York gemacht und mit Mühe schließlich die Erlaubnis bekommen, das Gesicht meines (ehemals königlichen) Herrn anzusehen. Oh, wie mein Herz danach verlangte, als ich an jenem Krönungstag auf Londons Straßen war, als Bullingbroke auf einem Roane Barbary ritt, dem Pferd, das du so oft bestiegen hast, dem Pferd, das ich so sorgfältig versorgt habe. Rich. Ritt er auf Barbary? Sag mir, guter Freund, wie ging es ihm damit? Lak. So stolz, als ob er den Boden verachtete. Rich. So stolz, dass Bullingbroke auf seinem Rücken saß. Dieses Pferd hat Brot aus meiner königlichen Hand gegessen. Diese Hand hat ihn stolz gemacht, indem ich ihn geklatscht habe. Wäre er nicht gestolpert? Wäre er nicht hingefallen (da Stolz fallen muss) und hätte den Nacken dessen gebrochen, der seinen Rücken usurpiert hat? Verzeihung, Pferd. Warum schimpfe ich auf dich, wo du doch dazu geschaffen wurdest, von Menschen beherrscht zu werden? Bist du nicht dazu geboren, Lasten zu tragen? Ich wurde nicht als Pferd geschaffen und doch trage ich eine Last wie ein Esel, von Bullingbrookes Treibpeitsche gequält und erschöpft. Der Gefängniswärter tritt auf und bringt eine Schüssel. Wärter: Gebt Platz, hier kann man nicht länger bleiben. Rich: Wenn du mich liebst, ist es Zeit zu gehen. Lak: Was meine Zunge nicht wagt, werde ich mit dem Herzen sagen. Der Lakai geht ab. Wärter: Mein Herr, möchtest du anfangen? Rich: Kosten Sie bitte zuerst davon, wie Sie es sonst immer getan haben. Wärter: Mein Herr, das wage ich nicht. Sir Pierce von Exton, der kürzlich vom König kam, ordnet das Gegenteil an. Rich: Der Teufel hole Heinrich von Lancaster und dich. Geduld ist fad, und ich bin ihrer müde. Wärter: Hilfe, Hilfe, Hilfe. Exton und Diener treten auf. Rich: Wie jetzt? Was bedeutet dieser rüde Angriff des Todes? Schurke, durch deine eigene Hand gibst du das Werkzeug deines Todes auf. Geh du und nimm einen anderen Platz in der Hölle ein. Exton schlägt ihn nieder. Diese Hand wird in nie erlöschendem Feuer brennen, die so meinen Körper wankend werden lässt. Exton, deine wilde Hand hat mit dem Blut des Königs das Land des Königs befleckt. Steig auf, steig auf, meine Seele, dein Sitz ist oben in den Höhen, während mein schwaches Fleisch hier unten versinkt und stirbt. Exton: So voller Tapferkeit wie königlichem Blut habe ich beides vergossen. Oh, wäre die Tat gut gewesen. Denn jetzt sagt der Teufel, der mir sagte, dass ich richtig gehandelt habe, dass diese Tat in der Hölle aufgezeichnet ist. Diesen toten König werde ich dem lebenden König bringen. Nehmt den Rest weg und begraben sie hier. Er geht ab. 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.

Sir Piers Exton hat König Henry sagen gehört: "Habe ich keinen Freund, der mich von dieser lebenden Angst befreit." Das bezieht sich auf Richard. Exton entscheidet daher, nach Pomfret zu gehen und Richard 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: BASS FAITHFUL TO HIS WORD--HIS ARRIVAL ON CHRISTMAS EVE--THE DIFFICULTY OF OBTAINING AN INTERVIEW--THE MEETING IN THE CABIN--NON-ARRIVAL OF THE LETTER--BASS ANNOUNCES HIS INTENTION TO PROCEED NORTH--CHRISTMAS--CONVERSATION BETWEEN EPPS AND BASS--YOUNG MISTRESS M'COY, THE BEAUTY OF BAYOU BOEUF--THE "NE PLUS ULTRA" OF DINNERS--MUSIC AND DANCING--PRESENCE OF THE MISTRESS--HER EXCEEDING BEAUTY--THE LAST SLAVE DANCE--WILLIAM PIERCE--OVERSLEEP MYSELF--THE LAST WHIPPING--DESPONDENCY--THE COLD MORNING--EPPS' THREATS--THE PASSING CARRIAGE--STRANGERS APPROACHING THROUGH THE COTTON-FIELD--LAST HOUR ON BAYOU BOEUF. Faithful to his word, the day before Christmas, just at night-fall, Bass came riding into the yard. "How are you," said Epps, shaking him by the hand, "glad to see you." He would not have been _very_ glad had he known the object of his errand. "Quite well, quite well," answered Bass. "Had some business out on the bayou, and concluded to call and see you, and stay over night." Epps ordered one of the slaves to take charge of his horse, and with much talk and laughter they passed into the house together; not, however, until Bass had looked at me significantly, as much as to say, "Keep dark, we understand each other." It was ten o'clock at night before the labors of the day were performed, when I entered the cabin. At that time Uncle Abram and Bob occupied it with me. I laid down upon my board and feigned I was asleep. When my companions had fallen into a profound slumber, I moved stealthily out of the door, and watched, and listened attentively for some sign or sound from Bass. There I stood until long after midnight, but nothing could be seen or heard. As I suspected, he dared not leave the house, through fear of exciting the suspicion of some of the family. I judged, correctly, he would rise earlier than was his custom, and take the opportunity of seeing me before Epps was up. Accordingly I aroused Uncle Abram an hour sooner than usual, and sent him into the house to build a fire, which, at that season of the year, is a part of Uncle Abram's duties. I also gave Bob a violent shake, and asked him if he intended to sleep till noon, saying master would be up before the mules were fed. He knew right well the consequence that would follow such an event, and, jumping to his feet, was at the horse-pasture in a twinkling. Presently, when both were gone, Bass slipped into the cabin. "No letter yet, Platt," said he. The announcement fell upon my heart like lead. "Oh, _do_ write again, Master Bass," I cried; "I will give you the names of a great many I know. Surely they are not all dead. Surely some one will pity me." "No use," Bass replied, "no use. I have made up my mind to that. I fear the Marksville post-master will mistrust something, I have inquired so often at his office. Too uncertain--too dangerous." "Then it is all over," I exclaimed. "Oh, my God, how can I end my days here!" "You're not going to end them here," he said, "unless you die very soon. I've thought this matter all over, and have come to a determination. There are more ways than one to manage this business, and a better and surer way than writing letters. I have a job or two on hand which can be completed by March or April. By that time I shall have a considerable sum of money, and then, Platt, I am going to Saratoga myself." I could scarcely credit my own senses as the words fell from his lips. But he assured me, in a manner that left no doubt of the sincerity of his intention, that if his life was spared until spring, he should certainly undertake the journey. "I have lived in this region long enough," he continued; "I may as well be in one place as another. For a long time I have been thinking of going back once more to the place where I was born. I'm tired of Slavery as well as you. If I can succeed in getting you away from here, it will be a good act that I shall like to think of all my life. And I _shall_ succeed, Platt; I'm _bound_ to do it. Now let me tell you what I want. Epps will be up soon, and it won't do to be caught here. Think of a great many men at Saratoga and Sandy Hill, and in that neighborhood, who once knew you. I shall make excuse to come here again in the course of the winter, when I will write down their names. I will then know who to call on when I go north. Think of all you can. Cheer up! Don't be discouraged. I'm with you, life or death. Good-bye. God bless you," and saying this he left the cabin quickly, and entered the great house. It was Christmas morning--the happiest day in the whole year for the slave. That morning he need not hurry to the field, with his gourd and cotton-bag. Happiness sparkled in the eyes and overspread the countenances of all. The time of feasting and dancing had come. The cane and cotton fields were deserted. That day the clean dress was to be donned--the red ribbon displayed; there were to be re-unions, and joy and laughter, and hurrying to and fro. It was to be a day of _liberty_ among the children of Slavery. Wherefore they were happy, and rejoiced. After breakfast Epps and Bass sauntered about the yard, conversing upon the price of cotton, and various other topics. "Where do your niggers hold Christmas?" Bass inquired. "Platt is going to Tanners to-day. His fiddle is in great demand. They want him at Marshall's Monday, and Miss Mary McCoy, on the old Norwood plantation, writes me a note that she wants him to play for her niggers Tuesday." "He is rather a smart boy, ain't he?" said Bass. "Come here, Platt," he added, looking at me as I walked up to them, as if he had never thought before to take any special notice of me. "Yes," replied Epps, taking hold of my arm and feeling it, "there isn't a bad joint in him. There ain't a boy on the bayou worth more than he is--perfectly sound, and no bad tricks. D--n him, he isn't like other niggers; doesn't look like 'em--don't act like 'em. I was offered seventeen hundred dollars for him last week." "And didn't take it?" Bass inquired, with an air of surprise. "Take it--no; devilish clear of it. Why, he's a reg'lar genius; can make a plough beam, wagon tongue--anything, as well as you can. Marshall wanted to put up one of his niggers agin him and raffle for them, but I told him I would see the devil have him first." "I don't see anything remarkable about him," Bass observed. "Why, just feel of him, now," Epps rejoined. "You don't see a boy very often put together any closer than he is. He's a thin-skin'd cuss, and won't bear as much whipping as some; but he's got the muscle in him, and no mistake." Bass felt of me, turned me round, and made a thorough examination, Epps all the while dwelling on my good points. But his visitor seemed to take but little interest finally in the subject, and consequently it was dropped. Bass soon departed, giving me another sly look of recognition and significance, as he trotted out of the yard. When he was gone I obtained a pass, and started for Tanner's--not Peter Tanner's, of whom mention has previously been made, but a relative of his. I played during the day and most of the night, spending the next day, Sunday, in my cabin. Monday I crossed the bayou to Douglas Marshall's, all Epps' slaves accompanying me, and on Tuesday went to the old Norwood place, which is the third plantation above Marshall's, on the same side of the water. This estate is now owned by Miss Mary McCoy, a lovely girl, some twenty years of age. She is the beauty and the glory of Bayou Boeuf. She owns about a hundred working hands, besides a great many house servants, yard boys, and young children. Her brother-in-law, who resides on the adjoining estate, is her general agent. She is beloved by all her slaves, and good reason indeed have they to be thankful that they have fallen into such gentle hands. Nowhere on the bayou are there such feasts, such merrymaking, as at young Madam McCoy's. Thither, more than to any other place, do the old and the young for miles around love to repair in the time of the Christmas holidays; for nowhere else can they find such delicious repasts; nowhere else can they hear a voice speaking to them so pleasantly. No one is so well beloved--no one fills so large a space in the hearts of a thousand slaves, as young Madam McCoy, the orphan mistress of the old Norwood estate. On my arrival at her place, I found two or three hundred had assembled. The table was prepared in a long building, which she had erected expressly for her slaves to dance in. It was covered with every variety of food the country afforded, and was pronounced by general acclamation to be the rarest of dinners. Roast turkey, pig, chicken, duck, and all kinds of meat, baked, boiled, and broiled, formed a line the whole length of the extended table, while the vacant spaces were filled with tarts, jellies, and frosted cake, and pastry of many kinds. The young mistress walked around the table, smiling and saying a kind word to each one, and seemed to enjoy the scene exceedingly. When the dinner was over the tables were removed to make room for the dancers. I tuned my violin and struck up a lively air; while some joined in a nimble reel, others patted and sang their simple but melodious songs, filling the great room with music mingled with the sound of human voices and the clatter of many feet. In the evening the mistress returned, and stood in the door a long time, looking at us. She was magnificently arrayed. Her dark hair and eyes contrasted strongly with her clear and delicate complexion. Her form was slender but commanding, and her movement was a combination of unaffected dignity and grace. As she stood there, clad in her rich apparel, her face animated with pleasure, I thought I had never looked upon a human being half so beautiful. I dwell with delight upon the description of this fair and gentle lady, not only because she inspired me with emotions of gratitude and admiration, but because I would have the reader understand that all slave-owners on Bayou Boeuf are not like Epps, or Tibeats, or Jim Burns. Occasionally can be found, rarely it may be, indeed, a good man like William Ford, or an angel of kindness like young Mistress McCoy. Tuesday concluded the three holidays Epps yearly allowed us. On my way home, Wednesday morning, while passing the plantation of William Pierce, that gentleman hailed me, saying he had received a line from Epps, brought down by William Varnell, permitting him to detain me for the purpose of playing for his slaves that night. It was the last time I was destined to witness a slave dance on the shores of Bayou Boeuf. The party at Pierce's continued their jollification until broad daylight, when I returned to my master's house, somewhat wearied with the loss of rest, but rejoicing in the possession of numerous bits and picayunes, which the whites, who were pleased with my musical performances, had contributed. On Saturday morning, for the first time in years, I overslept myself. I was frightened on coming out of the cabin to find the slaves were already in the field. They had preceded me some fifteen minutes. Leaving my dinner and water-gourd, I hurried after them as fast as I could move. It was not yet sunrise, but Epps was on the piazza as I left the hut, and cried out to me that it was a pretty time of day to be getting up. By extra exertion my row was up when he came out after breakfast. This, however, was no excuse for the offence of oversleeping. Bidding me strip and lie down, he gave me ten or fifteen lashes, at the conclusion of which he inquired if I thought, after that, I could get up sometime in the _morning_. I expressed myself quite positively that I _could_, and, with back stinging with pain, went about my work. The following day, Sunday, my thoughts were upon Bass, and the probabilities and hopes which hung upon his action and determination. I considered the uncertainty of life; that if it should be the will of God that he should die, my prospect of deliverance, and all expectation of happiness in this world, would be wholly ended and destroyed. My sore back, perhaps, did not have a tendency to render me unusually cheerful. I felt down-hearted and unhappy all day long, and when I laid down upon the hard board at night, my heart was oppressed with such a load of grief, it seemed that it must break. Monday morning, the third of January, 1853, we were in the field betimes. It was a raw, cold morning, such as is unusual in that region. I was in advance, Uncle Abram next to me, behind him Bob, Patsey and Wiley, with our cotton-bags about our necks. Epps happened (a rare thing, indeed,) to come out that morning without his whip. He swore, in a manner that would shame a pirate, that we were doing nothing. Bob ventured to say that his fingers were so numb with cold he couldn't pick fast. Epps cursed himself for not having brought his rawhide, and declared that when he came out again he would warm us well; yes, he would make us all hotter than that fiery realm in which I am sometimes compelled to believe he will himself eventually reside. With these fervent expressions, he left us. When out of hearing, we commenced talking to each other, saying how hard it was to be compelled to keep up our tasks with numb fingers; how unreasonable master was, and speaking of him generally in no flattering terms. Our conversation was interrupted by a carriage passing rapidly towards the house. Looking up, we saw two men approaching us through the cotton-field. * * * * * Having now brought down this narrative to the last hour I was to spend on Bayou Boeuf--having gotten through my last cotton picking, and about to bid Master Epps farewell--I must beg the reader to go back with me to the month of August; to follow Bass' letter on its long journey to Saratoga; to learn the effect it produced--and that, while I was repining and despairing in the slave hut of Edwin Epps, through the friendship of Bass and the goodness of Providence, all things were working together for my deliverance. 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.

Am Tag vor Weihnachten kehrt Bass wieder aus Marksville zurück. Er gibt Solomon ein Zeichen, sich nach Einbruch der Dunkelheit mit ihm zu treffen. Er taucht nicht auf und Solomon geht richtig davon aus, dass sie sich am nächsten Morgen treffen sollten, bevor der Rest des Haushalts aufwacht. Bass sagt ihm, dass er nichts gehört hat und Solomon verzweifelt. Bass fügt schnell hinzu, dass er selbst vorhat, nach Saratoga zu gehen. Schockiert hört Solomon zu, als Bass sagt, dass er den Süden und die Sklaverei satt hat und nach Saratoga gehen wird, um die Personen zu sehen, von denen Solomon sprach. Während der Weihnachtsfeiertage muss Solomon seine Geige für lokale Pflanzer spielen. Eines Tages spielt er für Madam McCoy und ihren Haushalt. Er stellt fest, dass McCoy eine entzückende, liebenswerte und gütige junge Frau ist, die ihre Sklaven gut behandelt und beweist, dass nicht alle Sklavenhalter Monster sind. Am Morgen des 3. Januars arbeitet Solomon in den kalten Feldern mit Abram, Patsey, Bob und Wiley. Epps schreit sie an, dass sie den Baumwollpflück nicht gut machen, aber ihre Finger sind vor Kälte taub. Die Sklaven schauen auf und sehen zwei Männer auf Pferden näher kommen. Solomon schreibt, dass er nun im Erzählstrang zurückgehen wird, um der Bewegung von Bass' Brief zu folgen.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Kapitel: Gestern war es hell, ruhig und frostig. Ich bin wie geplant zu den Heights gegangen: Meine Haushälterin bat mich, einen kleinen Brief von ihr an ihre junge Frau mitzunehmen, und ich lehnte nicht ab, denn die ehrwürdige Frau war sich keiner seltsamen Bitte bewusst. Die Vordertür stand offen, aber das eifersüchtige Tor war verschlossen, wie bei meinem letzten Besuch. Ich klopfte und rief Earnshaw aus dem Gartenbeet heraus. Er öffnete es und ich betrat das Haus. Der Kerl ist ein so gutaussehender Bauer, wie man ihn nur sehen kann. Ich habe diesmal besonders darauf geachtet, aber er scheint sein Bestes zu tun, um seine Vorteile möglichst gering zu halten. Ich fragte, ob Mr. Heathcliff zu Hause sei. Er antwortete Nein, aber er werde zum Abendessen da sein. Es war elf Uhr und ich kündigte an, dass ich reingehen und auf ihn warten würde. Daraufhin warf er sofort seine Werkzeuge hin und begleitete mich als Wachhund, nicht als Ersatz für den Gastgeber. Wir betraten gemeinsam das Haus; Catherine war da und machte sich nützlich, indem sie einige Gemüse für das bevorstehende Essen zubereitete. Sie schaute mürrischer und weniger lebhaft aus als bei meinem ersten Treffen mit ihr. Sie hob kaum die Augen, um mich zu bemerken, und setzte ihre Arbeit mit einer gleichgültigen Missachtung der gängigen Formen der Höflichkeit fort, indem sie meinen Gruß und mein "Guten Morgen" nicht beachtete. "Sie scheint nicht so liebenswürdig zu sein, wie Mrs. Dean mich glauben machen will", dachte ich. "Sie ist schön, das ist wahr, aber kein Engel." Earnshaw befahl ihr mürrisch, ihre Sachen in die Küche zu bringen. "Räum sie selbst weg", sagte sie und schob sie von sich, sobald sie fertig war. Dann zog sie sich auf einen Hocker am Fenster zurück, wo sie begann, Vögel und Tiere aus den Rübenabfällen in ihrem Schoß zu schnitzen. Ich näherte mich ihr und tat so, als würde ich einen Blick auf den Garten werfen wollen. Und wie ich annahm, ließ ich dabei unbemerkt Mrs. Deans Notiz auf ihren Schoß fallen. Hareton bemerkte es jedoch und fragte laut: "Was ist das?" und warf es weg. "Ein Brief von deiner alten Bekannten, der Haushälterin auf dem Grange", antwortete ich ungehalten darüber, dass sie meine freundliche Tat öffentlich gemacht hatte, und aus Angst, dass es als meine eigene Nachricht angesehen werden könnte. Sie hätte es gerne aufgelesen, als sie diese Information erhielt, aber Hareton kam ihr zuvor; er nahm es und steckte es in seine Weste, indem er sagte, dass Mr. Heathcliff es zuerst sehen sollte. Daraufhin drehte Catherine stumm ihr Gesicht von uns weg, zog sehr heimlich ihr Taschentuch heraus und tupfte es an ihre Augen, und ihr Cousin zog nach einem kurzen Kampf, um seine weicheren Gefühle niederzuhalten, den Brief heraus und warf ihn so wenig charmant wie möglich neben sie auf den Boden. Catherine fing ihn auf und las ihn aufmerksam. Dann stellte sie mir ein paar Fragen über die Bewohner, vernünftig und unvernünftig, ihres früheren Zuhauses und schaute auf die Hügel und murmelte in einem Monolog: "Ich würde gerne dort mit Minny reiten! Ich würde gerne dort klettern! Oh, ich bin müde - ich stecke fest, Hareton!" Und sie lehnte ihren hübschen Kopf mit halbem Gähnen und halbem Seufzen gegen die Fensterbank und verfiel in eine Haltung abwesender Traurigkeit, ohne darauf zu achten, ob wir es bemerkten oder nicht. "Mrs. Heathcliff", sagte ich nach einer Weile des Schweigens, "du bist dir nicht bewusst, dass ich eine Bekannte von dir bin? So vertraut, dass ich es merkwürdig finde, dass du nicht kommst und mit mir sprichst. Meine Haushälterin wird niemals aufhören, von dir zu reden und dich zu loben, und sie wird sehr enttäuscht sein, wenn ich keine Neuigkeiten von dir mitbringe, außer dass du ihren Brief erhalten hast und nichts gesagt hast!" Sie schien über diese Worte zu staunen und fragte: "Mag Ellen dich?" "Ja, sehr gut", antwortete ich zögernd. "Dann musst du ihr sagen", fuhr sie fort, "dass ich ihren Brief beantworten würde, aber ich habe keine Schreibmaterialien: nicht einmal ein Buch, aus dem ich ein Blatt heraustrennen könnte." "Keine Bücher!", rief ich aus. "Wie schaffst du es, hier ohne sie zu leben? Obwohl ich über eine große Bibliothek verfüge, bin ich oft sehr gelangweilt im Grange; nimm mir meine Bücher weg und ich wäre verzweifelt!" "Ich habe immer gelesen, wenn ich sie hatte", sagte Catherine, "und Mr. Heathcliff liest nie; also hat er beschlossen, meine Bücher zu zerstören. Ich habe seit Wochen keinen einzigen mehr gesehen. Nur einmal habe ich in Josephs theologischem Fundus gesucht, zu seinem großen Ärger, und einmal, Hareton, stieß ich in deinem Zimmer auf einen geheimen Vorrat - etwas Lateinisches und Griechisches und einige Geschichten und Gedichte: alles alte Bekannte. Ich habe die letzten hierher gebracht - und du hast sie gesammelt, wie ein Elster silberne Löffel sammelt, aus purer Diebesliebe! Sie nützen dir nichts; oder hast du sie geringschätzig verborgen, weil du sie nicht genießen kannst und niemand sonst soll? Vielleicht hat dich auch dein Neid dazu angestiftet, dass Mr. Heathcliff mich meiner Schätze beraubt hat? Aber ich habe die meisten von ihnen in meinem Gehirn geschrieben und in meinem Herzen gedruckt, und du kannst sie mir nicht nehmen!" Earnshaw wurde knallrot, als seine Cousine diese Enthüllung seiner privaten literarischen Sammlungen machte, und stotterte empört eine Leugnung ihrer Anschuldigungen. "Mr. Hareton möchte sein Wissen erweitern", sagte ich und kam ihm zur Hilfe. "Er ist nicht neidisch, sondern eifrig um deine Errungenschaften bemüht. Er wird in ein paar Jahren ein kluger Gelehrter sein." "Und er möchte, dass ich in der Zwischenzeit ein Dummkopf werde", antwortete Catherine. "Ja, ich höre ihn versuchen, für sich selbst zu buchstabieren und zu lesen, und er macht ziemlich viele Fehler! Ich wünschte, du würdest Chevy Chase wiederholen, wie du es gestern getan hast: es war äußerst lustig. Ich habe dich gehört; und ich habe dich gehört, wie du im Wörterbuch nach den schwierigen Wörtern gesucht und dann geflucht hast, weil du ihre Erklärungen nicht lesen konntest!" Der junge Mann fand es offensichtlich unfair, dass er wegen seiner Unwissenheit ausgelacht und dann ausgelacht wurde, weil er versuchte, diese abzubauen. Ich hatte eine ähnliche Vorstellung und erinnerte mich an Mrs. Deans Anekdote über seinen ersten Versuch, das Dunkel zu erhellen, in dem er aufgewachsen war. "Aber, Mrs. Heathcliff, wir haben beide einen Anfang gemacht und sind beide auf der Schwelle gestolpert und getaumelt; hätten unsere Lehrer uns verspottet anstatt uns zu unterstützen, würden wir immer noch stolpern und taumeln." "Oh!", antwortete sie, "ich möchte seine Wissensbildung nicht beschränken. Trotzdem hat er kein Recht, sich anzueignen, was mir gehört, und es mir mit seinen schrecklichen Fehlern und falschen Aussprachen lächerlich zu machen! Diese Bücher, sowohl die Prosa als auch die Verse, sind für mich durch andere Assoziationen geheiligt und ich hasse es, sie entehrt und entweiht aus seinem Mund zu hören! Außerdem hat er von all meinen Lieblingsstücken, die ich am liebsten aufsagen möchte, die ausgewählt, als ob er es mit böswilliger Absicht tun würde." Haretons Brust bebte eine Minute in Stille: Er litt unter einem starken Gefühl der Erniedrigung und des Zorns, das nicht leicht zu unterdrücken war. Ich stand auf, um seine Verlegenheit gentlemanlike zu lindern, und nahm meine Position in der Tür ein, während ich die äußere Aussicht betrachtete. Er Aber sein Selbstliebe ertrug keine weitere Qual: Ich hörte, und nicht gänzlich missbilligend, wie ihrer frechen Zunge ein manierlicher Tadel zuteil wurde. Das kleine Biest hatte ihr Äußerstes getan, um die sensiblen, wenn auch ungezügelten Gefühle ihres Vetters zu verletzen, und eine körperliche Auseinandersetzung war die einzige Möglichkeit, das Gleichgewicht wiederherzustellen und die Auswirkungen auf den Verursacher zu vergelten. Danach sammelte er die Bücher und warf sie ins Feuer. Ich las in seinem Gesicht den Schmerz ab, den es bedeutete, dieser Regung des Grolls dieses Opfer zu bringen. Ich glaubte zu erkennen, dass er, während sie verbrannten, die Freude, die sie ihm bereits bereitet hatten, und den Triumph und die immer größer werdende Freude, die er sich von ihnen erhoffte, wieder in Erinnerung rief; und ich glaubte auch den Ansporn für seine geheimen Studien zu erahnen. Er war mit seiner täglichen Arbeit und groben tierischen Freuden zufrieden gewesen, bis Catherine seinen Weg kreuzte. Scham über ihre Verachtung und die Hoffnung auf ihre Anerkennung waren seine ersten Anreger zu höheren Bestrebungen; jedoch anstatt ihn von einem abzuhalten und zum anderen zu bringen, hatten seine Bemühungen, sich zu erheben, genau das entgegengesetzte Ergebnis erzielt. "Ja, das ist alles, was ein solches Ungeheuer wie du von ihnen bekommen kann!" rief Catherine und saugte an ihrer lädierten Lippe und beobachtete das Feuer mit empörten Augen. "Du solltest jetzt besser den Mund halten", antwortete er böse. Und seine Aufregung verhinderte weitere Worte; er ging schnell zum Eingang, wo ich ihm Platz machte, um an ihm vorbeizukommen. Aber bevor er die Türschwelle überschritten hatte, traf ihn Mr. Heathcliff, der den Weg hinauf kam, und packte ihn am Schulter und fragte: "Was gibt's jetzt, mein Junge?" "Nichts, nichts", sagte er und riss sich los, um seinen Schmerz und seine Wut in Einsamkeit zu genießen. Heathcliff blickte ihm nach und seufzte. "Es wäre seltsam, wenn ich mir selbst im Weg stehen würde", murmelte er, unwissend, dass ich hinter ihm war. "Aber wenn ich in sein Gesicht schaue, finde ich jeden Tag mehr von ihr! Wie zum Teufel kann er so ähnlich sein? Ich kann es kaum ertragen, ihn anzusehen." Er senkte den Blick zum Boden und ging missmutig weiter. Es lag eine unruhige, besorgte Miene auf seinem Gesicht, die ich zuvor nie bemerkt hatte; und er sah magerer aus. Als seine Schwiegertochter ihn durch das Fenster wahrnahm, flüchtete sie sofort in die Küche, so dass ich alleine zurückblieb. "Ich bin froh, Sie wieder draußen zu sehen, Herr Lockwood", sagte er in Antwort auf meine Begrüßung, "aus teilweise selbstsüchtigen Motiven: Ich glaube, ich könnte Ihren Verlust in dieser Einsamkeit nicht leicht ersetzen. Ich habe mich schon öfter gefragt, was Sie hierher gebracht hat." "Ein nutzloser Einfall, fürchte ich, Herr", war meine Antwort, "oder vielleicht wird mich ein nutzloser Einfall fortzaubern. Ich werde nächste Woche nach London aufbrechen und ich muss Sie warnen, dass ich keinerlei Absicht habe, Thrushcross Grange über die vereinbarten zwölf Monate hinaus zu mieten. Ich glaube nicht, dass ich dort noch wohnen werde." "Oh, wirklich, Sie sind es leid, vom Rest der Welt verbannt zu sein, nicht wahr?" sagte er. "Aber wenn Sie kommen, um sich davon abzumelden, für einen Ort zu bezahlen, den Sie nicht beziehen werden, ist Ihre Reise sinnlos: Ich lasse nicht locker dabei, von jedem mein Recht einzufordern." "Ich komme nichts davon abmelden", rief ich ziemlich verärgert aus. "Sollten Sie es wünschen, werde ich sofort mit Ihnen abrechnen", und ich holte mein Notizbuch aus meiner Tasche. "Nein, nein", antwortete er ruhig, "Sie werden genug zurücklassen, um Ihre Schulden zu begleichen, falls Sie nicht zurückkehren: Ich habe es nicht eilig. Setzen Sie sich und essen Sie mit uns; ein Gast, der sicherlich keinen weiteren Besuch abstattet, kann normalerweise willkommen geheißen werden. Catherine! Bringe die Sachen herein: Wo bist du?" Catherine erschien wieder, eine Schale mit Messern und Gabeln tragend. "Du kannst mit Joseph zu Abend essen", brummelte Heathcliff beiseite, "und bleib in der Küche, bis er gegangen ist." Sie gehorchte seinen Anweisungen sehr pünktlich: Vielleicht hatte sie keine Versuchung, zu übertreten. Wenn sie unter Bauern und Misanthropen lebt, kann sie wahrscheinlich keine bessere Klasse von Menschen schätzen, wenn sie ihnen begegnet. Mit Mr. Heathcliff, grimmig und saturninisch, auf der einen Seite und Hareton, absolut stumm, auf der anderen Seite, hatte ich eine eher trostlose Mahlzeit und verabschiedete mich früh. Ich wäre gern auf dem Rückweg gegangen, um einen letzten Blick auf Catherine zu werfen und den alten Joseph zu ärgern; aber Hareton erhielt den Befehl, mein Pferd heranzuführen, und mein Gastgeber begleitete mich selbst zur Tür, so dass ich meinen Wunsch nicht erfüllen konnte. "Wie langweilig das Leben in diesem Haus wird!" dachte ich, während ich die Straße hinunterritt. "Es wäre eine Verwirklichung von etwas romantischerem als einem Märchen gewesen, wenn Mrs. Linton Heathcliff und ich, wie ihre gute Pflegerin es sich wünschte, eine Zuneigung entwickelt und zusammen in die aufregende Atmosphäre der Stadt gezogen wären!" Können Sie eine passende 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.

Lockwood geht zu den Heights und übergibt Cathy einen Brief von Nelly. Cathy kann keine Antwort schicken, weil sie kein Papier hat. Heathcliff hat ihr alles weggenommen und Hareton hat einige ihrer Bücher in seinem Zimmer versteckt. Nachdem Cathy ihn wegen seiner Analphabetismus gedemütigt hat, gibt Hareton ihr die Bücher zurück. Als sie weiterhin über ihn spottet, schlägt er sie und wirft ihre Bücher ins Feuer. Lockwood belauscht Heathcliff, wie er zu sich selbst sagt, wie sehr Haretons Gesicht ihn an Catherine erinnert. Lockwood bleibt zum Abendessen. Als er zurück zum Grange reitet, grübelt er vor sich hin: "Was für eine Erfüllung von etwas Romantischerem als einem Märchen hätte es für Mrs. Linton Heathcliff bedeutet, wenn sie und ich sich anfreunden würden, so wie es ihre gute Krankenschwester wünschte, und gemeinsam in die aufregende Atmosphäre der Stadt ziehen würden!" Er ist wirklich verwirrt.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). 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: V. BEING NEIGHBORLY. [Illustration: Being neighborly] "What in the world are you going to do now, Jo?" asked Meg, one snowy afternoon, as her sister came tramping through the hall, in rubber boots, old sack and hood, with a broom in one hand and a shovel in the other. "Going out for exercise," answered Jo, with a mischievous twinkle in her eyes. "I should think two long walks this morning would have been enough! It's cold and dull out; and I advise you to stay, warm and dry, by the fire, as I do," said Meg, with a shiver. "Never take advice! Can't keep still all day, and, not being a pussycat, I don't like to doze by the fire. I like adventures, and I'm going to find some." Meg went back to toast her feet and read "Ivanhoe"; and Jo began to dig paths with great energy. The snow was light, and with her broom she soon swept a path all round the garden, for Beth to walk in when the sun came out; and the invalid dolls needed air. Now, the garden separated the Marches' house from that of Mr. Laurence. Both stood in a suburb of the city, which was still country-like, with groves and lawns, large gardens, and quiet streets. A low hedge parted the two estates. On one side was an old, brown house, looking rather bare and shabby, robbed of the vines that in summer covered its walls, and the flowers which then surrounded it. On the other side was a stately stone mansion, plainly betokening every sort of comfort and luxury, from the big coach-house and well-kept grounds to the conservatory and the glimpses of lovely things one caught between the rich curtains. Yet it seemed a lonely, lifeless sort of house; for no children frolicked on the lawn, no motherly face ever smiled at the windows, and few people went in and out, except the old gentleman and his grandson. To Jo's lively fancy, this fine house seemed a kind of enchanted palace, full of splendors and delights, which no one enjoyed. She had long wanted to behold these hidden glories, and to know the "Laurence boy," who looked as if he would like to be known, if he only knew how to begin. Since the party, she had been more eager than ever, and had planned many ways of making friends with him; but he had not been seen lately, and Jo began to think he had gone away, when she one day spied a brown face at an upper window, looking wistfully down into their garden, where Beth and Amy were snow-balling one another. "That boy is suffering for society and fun," she said to herself. "His grandpa does not know what's good for him, and keeps him shut up all alone. He needs a party of jolly boys to play with, or somebody young and lively. I've a great mind to go over and tell the old gentleman so!" The idea amused Jo, who liked to do daring things, and was always scandalizing Meg by her queer performances. The plan of "going over" was not forgotten; and when the snowy afternoon came, Jo resolved to try what could be done. She saw Mr. Laurence drive off, and then sallied out to dig her way down to the hedge, where she paused, and took a survey. All quiet,--curtains down at the lower windows; servants out of sight, and nothing human visible but a curly black head leaning on a thin hand at the upper window. "There he is," thought Jo, "poor boy! all alone and sick this dismal day. It's a shame! I'll toss up a snow-ball, and make him look out, and then say a kind word to him." Up went a handful of soft snow, and the head turned at once, showing a face which lost its listless look in a minute, as the big eyes brightened and the mouth began to smile. Jo nodded and laughed, and flourished her broom as she called out,-- "How do you do? Are you sick?" [Illustration: Laurie opened the window] Laurie opened the window, and croaked out as hoarsely as a raven,-- "Better, thank you. I've had a bad cold, and been shut up a week." "I'm sorry. What do you amuse yourself with?" "Nothing; it's as dull as tombs up here." "Don't you read?" "Not much; they won't let me." "Can't somebody read to you?" "Grandpa does, sometimes; but my books don't interest him, and I hate to ask Brooke all the time." "Have some one come and see you, then." "There isn't any one I'd like to see. Boys make such a row, and my head is weak." "Isn't there some nice girl who'd read and amuse you? Girls are quiet, and like to play nurse." "Don't know any." "You know us," began Jo, then laughed, and stopped. "So I do! Will you come, please?" cried Laurie. "I'm not quiet and nice; but I'll come, if mother will let me. I'll go ask her. Shut that window, like a good boy, and wait till I come." With that, Jo shouldered her broom and marched into the house, wondering what they would all say to her. Laurie was in a flutter of excitement at the idea of having company, and flew about to get ready; for, as Mrs. March said, he was "a little gentleman," and did honor to the coming guest by brushing his curly pate, putting on a fresh collar, and trying to tidy up the room, which, in spite of half a dozen servants, was anything but neat. Presently there came a loud ring, then a decided voice, asking for "Mr. Laurie," and a surprised-looking servant came running up to announce a young lady. "All right, show her up, it's Miss Jo," said Laurie, going to the door of his little parlor to meet Jo, who appeared, looking rosy and kind and quite at her ease, with a covered dish in one hand and Beth's three kittens in the other. "Here I am, bag and baggage," she said briskly. "Mother sent her love, and was glad if I could do anything for you. Meg wanted me to bring some of her blanc-mange; she makes it very nicely, and Beth thought her cats would be comforting. I knew you'd laugh at them, but I couldn't refuse, she was so anxious to do something." It so happened that Beth's funny loan was just the thing; for, in laughing over the kits, Laurie forgot his bashfulness, and grew sociable at once. "That looks too pretty to eat," he said, smiling with pleasure, as Jo uncovered the dish, and showed the blanc-mange, surrounded by a garland of green leaves, and the scarlet flowers of Amy's pet geranium. "It isn't anything, only they all felt kindly, and wanted to show it. Tell the girl to put it away for your tea: it's so simple, you can eat it; and, being soft, it will slip down without hurting your sore throat. What a cosy room this is!" "It might be if it was kept nice; but the maids are lazy, and I don't know how to make them mind. It worries me, though." "I'll right it up in two minutes; for it only needs to have the hearth brushed, so,--and the things made straight on the mantel-piece so,--and the books put here, and the bottles there, and your sofa turned from the light, and the pillows plumped up a bit. Now, then, you're fixed." And so he was; for, as she laughed and talked, Jo had whisked things into place, and given quite a different air to the room. Laurie watched her in respectful silence; and when she beckoned him to his sofa, he sat down with a sigh of satisfaction, saying gratefully,-- "How kind you are! Yes, that's what it wanted. Now please take the big chair, and let me do something to amuse my company." "No; I came to amuse you. Shall I read aloud?" and Jo looked affectionately toward some inviting books near by. "Thank you; I've read all those, and if you don't mind, I'd rather talk," answered Laurie. "Not a bit; I'll talk all day if you'll only set me going. Beth says I never know when to stop." "Is Beth the rosy one, who stays at home a good deal, and sometimes goes out with a little basket?" asked Laurie, with interest. "Yes, that's Beth; she's my girl, and a regular good one she is, too." "The pretty one is Meg, and the curly-haired one is Amy, I believe?" "How did you find that out?" Laurie colored up, but answered frankly, "Why, you see, I often hear you calling to one another, and when I'm alone up here, I can't help looking over at your house, you always seem to be having such good times. I beg your pardon for being so rude, but sometimes you forget to put down the curtain at the window where the flowers are; and when the lamps are lighted, it's like looking at a picture to see the fire, and you all round the table with your mother; her face is right opposite, and it looks so sweet behind the flowers, I can't help watching it. I haven't got any mother, you know;" and Laurie poked the fire to hide a little twitching of the lips that he could not control. The solitary, hungry look in his eyes went straight to Jo's warm heart. She had been so simply taught that there was no nonsense in her head, and at fifteen she was as innocent and frank as any child. Laurie was sick and lonely; and, feeling how rich she was in home-love and happiness, she gladly tried to share it with him. Her face was very friendly and her sharp voice unusually gentle as she said,-- "We'll never draw that curtain any more, and I give you leave to look as much as you like. I just wish, though, instead of peeping, you'd come over and see us. Mother is so splendid, she'd do you heaps of good, and Beth would sing to you if _I_ begged her to, and Amy would dance; Meg and I would make you laugh over our funny stage properties, and we'd have jolly times. Wouldn't your grandpa let you?" "I think he would, if your mother asked him. He's very kind, though he does not look so; and he lets me do what I like, pretty much, only he's afraid I might be a bother to strangers," began Laurie, brightening more and more. "We are not strangers, we are neighbors, and you needn't think you'd be a bother. We _want_ to know you, and I've been trying to do it this ever so long. We haven't been here a great while, you know, but we have got acquainted with all our neighbors but you." "You see grandpa lives among his books, and doesn't mind much what happens outside. Mr. Brooke, my tutor, doesn't stay here, you know, and I have no one to go about with me, so I just stop at home and get on as I can." "That's bad. You ought to make an effort, and go visiting everywhere you are asked; then you'll have plenty of friends, and pleasant places to go to. Never mind being bashful; it won't last long if you keep going." Laurie turned red again, but wasn't offended at being accused of bashfulness; for there was so much good-will in Jo, it was impossible not to take her blunt speeches as kindly as they were meant. "Do you like your school?" asked the boy, changing the subject, after a little pause, during which he stared at the fire, and Jo looked about her, well pleased. "Don't go to school; I'm a business man--girl, I mean. I go to wait on my great-aunt, and a dear, cross old soul she is, too," answered Jo. Laurie opened his mouth to ask another question; but remembering just in time that it wasn't manners to make too many inquiries into people's affairs, he shut it again, and looked uncomfortable. Jo liked his good breeding, and didn't mind having a laugh at Aunt March, so she gave him a lively description of the fidgety old lady, her fat poodle, the parrot that talked Spanish, and the library where she revelled. Laurie enjoyed that immensely; and when she told about the prim old gentleman who came once to woo Aunt March, and, in the middle of a fine speech, how Poll had tweaked his wig off to his great dismay, the boy lay back and laughed till the tears ran down his cheeks, and a maid popped her head in to see what was the matter. [Illustration: Poll tweaked off his wig] "Oh! that does me no end of good. Tell on, please," he said, taking his face out of the sofa-cushion, red and shining with merriment. Much elated with her success, Jo did "tell on," all about their plays and plans, their hopes and fears for father, and the most interesting events of the little world in which the sisters lived. Then they got to talking about books; and to Jo's delight, she found that Laurie loved them as well as she did, and had read even more than herself. "If you like them so much, come down and see ours. Grandpa is out, so you needn't be afraid," said Laurie, getting up. "I'm not afraid of anything," returned Jo, with a toss of the head. "I don't believe you are!" exclaimed the boy, looking at her with much admiration, though he privately thought she would have good reason to be a trifle afraid of the old gentleman, if she met him in some of his moods. The atmosphere of the whole house being summer-like, Laurie led the way from room to room, letting Jo stop to examine whatever struck her fancy; and so at last they came to the library, where she clapped her hands, and pranced, as she always did when especially delighted. It was lined with books, and there were pictures and statues, and distracting little cabinets full of coins and curiosities, and sleepy-hollow chairs, and queer tables, and bronzes; and, best of all, a great open fireplace, with quaint tiles all round it. "What richness!" sighed Jo, sinking into the depth of a velvet chair, and gazing about her with an air of intense satisfaction. "Theodore Laurence, you ought to be the happiest boy in the world," she added impressively. "A fellow can't live on books," said Laurie, shaking his head, as he perched on a table opposite. Before he could say more, a bell rung, and Jo flew up, exclaiming with alarm, "Mercy me! it's your grandpa!" "Well, what if it is? You are not afraid of anything, you know," returned the boy, looking wicked. "I think I am a little bit afraid of him, but I don't know why I should be. Marmee said I might come, and I don't think you're any the worse for it," said Jo, composing herself, though she kept her eyes on the door. "I'm a great deal better for it, and ever so much obliged. I'm only afraid you are very tired talking to me; it was _so_ pleasant, I couldn't bear to stop," said Laurie gratefully. "The doctor to see you, sir," and the maid beckoned as she spoke. "Would you mind if I left you for a minute? I suppose I must see him," said Laurie. "Don't mind me. I'm as happy as a cricket here," answered Jo. Laurie went away, and his guest amused herself in her own way. She was standing before a fine portrait of the old gentleman, when the door opened again, and, without turning, she said decidedly, "I'm sure now that I shouldn't be afraid of him, for he's got kind eyes, though his mouth is grim, and he looks as if he had a tremendous will of his own. He isn't as handsome as _my_ grandfather, but I like him." "Thank you, ma'am," said a gruff voice behind her; and there, to her great dismay, stood old Mr. Laurence. Poor Jo blushed till she couldn't blush any redder, and her heart began to beat uncomfortably fast as she thought what she had said. For a minute a wild desire to run away possessed her; but that was cowardly, and the girls would laugh at her: so she resolved to stay, and get out of the scrape as she could. A second look showed her that the living eyes, under the bushy gray eyebrows, were kinder even than the painted ones; and there was a sly twinkle in them, which lessened her fear a good deal. The gruff voice was gruffer than ever, as the old gentleman said abruptly, after that dreadful pause, "So you're not afraid of me, hey?" "Not much, sir." "And you don't think me as handsome as your grandfather?" "Not quite, sir." "And I've got a tremendous will, have I?" "I only said I thought so." "But you like me, in spite of it?" "Yes, I do, sir." That answer pleased the old gentleman; he gave a short laugh, shook hands with her, and, putting his finger under her chin, turned up her face, examined it gravely, and let it go, saying, with a nod, "You've got your grandfather's spirit, if you haven't his face. He _was_ a fine man, my dear; but, what is better, he was a brave and an honest one, and I was proud to be his friend." [Illustration: Putting his finger under her chin] "Thank you, sir;" and Jo was quite comfortable after that, for it suited her exactly. "What have you been doing to this boy of mine, hey?" was the next question, sharply put. "Only trying to be neighborly, sir;" and Jo told how her visit came about. "You think he needs cheering up a bit, do you?" "Yes, sir; he seems a little lonely, and young folks would do him good perhaps. We are only girls, but we should be glad to help if we could, for we don't forget the splendid Christmas present you sent us," said Jo eagerly. "Tut, tut, tut! that was the boy's affair. How is the poor woman?" "Doing nicely, sir;" and off went Jo, talking very fast, as she told all about the Hummels, in whom her mother had interested richer friends than they were. "Just her father's way of doing good. I shall come and see your mother some fine day. Tell her so. There's the tea-bell; we have it early, on the boy's account. Come down, and go on being neighborly." "If you'd like to have me, sir." "Shouldn't ask you, if I didn't;" and Mr. Laurence offered her his arm with old-fashioned courtesy. "What _would_ Meg say to this?" thought Jo, as she was marched away, while her eyes danced with fun as she imagined herself telling the story at home. "Hey! Why, what the dickens has come to the fellow?" said the old gentleman, as Laurie came running down stairs, and brought up with a start of surprise at the astonishing sight of Jo arm-in-arm with his redoubtable grandfather. "I didn't know you'd come, sir," he began, as Jo gave him a triumphant little glance. "That's evident, by the way you racket down stairs. Come to your tea, sir, and behave like a gentleman;" and having pulled the boy's hair by way of a caress, Mr. Laurence walked on, while Laurie went through a series of comic evolutions behind their backs, which nearly produced an explosion of laughter from Jo. The old gentleman did not say much as he drank his four cups of tea, but he watched the young people, who soon chatted away like old friends, and the change in his grandson did not escape him. There was color, light, and life in the boy's face now, vivacity in his manner, and genuine merriment in his laugh. "She's right; the lad _is_ lonely. I'll see what these little girls can do for him," thought Mr. Laurence, as he looked and listened. He liked Jo, for her odd, blunt ways suited him; and she seemed to understand the boy almost as well as if she had been one herself. If the Laurences had been what Jo called "prim and poky," she would not have got on at all, for such people always made her shy and awkward; but finding them free and easy, she was so herself, and made a good impression. When they rose she proposed to go, but Laurie said he had something more to show her, and took her away to the conservatory, which had been lighted for her benefit. It seemed quite fairylike to Jo, as she went up and down the walks, enjoying the blooming walls on either side, the soft light, the damp sweet air, and the wonderful vines and trees that hung above her,--while her new friend cut the finest flowers till his hands were full; then he tied them up, saying, with the happy look Jo liked to see, "Please give these to your mother, and tell her I like the medicine she sent me very much." [Illustration: Please give these to your mother] They found Mr. Laurence standing before the fire in the great drawing-room, but Jo's attention was entirely absorbed by a grand piano, which stood open. "Do you play?" she asked, turning to Laurie with a respectful expression. "Sometimes," he answered modestly. "Please do now. I want to hear it, so I can tell Beth." "Won't you first?" "Don't know how; too stupid to learn, but I love music dearly." So Laurie played, and Jo listened, with her nose luxuriously buried in heliotrope and tea-roses. Her respect and regard for the "Laurence boy" increased very much, for he played remarkably well, and didn't put on any airs. She wished Beth could hear him, but she did not say so; only praised him till he was quite abashed, and his grandfather came to the rescue. "That will do, that will do, young lady. Too many sugar-plums are not good for him. His music isn't bad, but I hope he will do as well in more important things. Going? Well, I'm much obliged to you, and I hope you'll come again. My respects to your mother. Good-night, Doctor Jo." He shook hands kindly, but looked as if something did not please him. When they got into the hall, Jo asked Laurie if she had said anything amiss. He shook his head. "No, it was me; he doesn't like to hear me play." "Why not?" "I'll tell you some day. John is going home with you, as I can't." "No need of that; I am not a young lady, and it's only a step. Take care of yourself, won't you?" "Yes; but you will come again, I hope?" "If you promise to come and see us after you are well." "I will." "Good-night, Laurie!" "Good-night, Jo, good-night!" When all the afternoon's adventures had been told, the family felt inclined to go visiting in a body, for each found something very attractive in the big house on the other side of the hedge. Mrs. March wanted to talk of her father with the old man who had not forgotten him; Meg longed to walk in the conservatory; Beth sighed for the grand piano; and Amy was eager to see the fine pictures and statues. "Mother, why didn't Mr. Laurence like to have Laurie play?" asked Jo, who was of an inquiring disposition. "I am not sure, but I think it was because his son, Laurie's father, married an Italian lady, a musician, which displeased the old man, who is very proud. The lady was good and lovely and accomplished, but he did not like her, and never saw his son after he married. They both died when Laurie was a little child, and then his grandfather took him home. I fancy the boy, who was born in Italy, is not very strong, and the old man is afraid of losing him, which makes him so careful. Laurie comes naturally by his love of music, for he is like his mother, and I dare say his grandfather fears that he may want to be a musician; at any rate, his skill reminds him of the woman he did not like, and so he 'glowered,' as Jo said." "Dear me, how romantic!" exclaimed Meg. "How silly!" said Jo. "Let him be a musician, if he wants to, and not plague his life out sending him to college, when he hates to go." "That's why he has such handsome black eyes and pretty manners, I suppose. Italians are always nice," said Meg, who was a little sentimental. "What do you know about his eyes and his manners? You never spoke to him, hardly," cried Jo, who was _not_ sentimental. "I saw him at the party, and what you tell shows that he knows how to behave. That was a nice little speech about the medicine mother sent him." "He meant the blanc-mange, I suppose." "How stupid you are, child! He meant you, of course." "Did he?" and Jo opened her eyes as if it had never occurred to her before. "I never saw such a girl! You don't know a compliment when you get it," said Meg, with the air of a young lady who knew all about the matter. "I think they are great nonsense, and I'll thank you not to be silly, and spoil my fun. Laurie's a nice boy, and I like him, and I won't have any sentimental stuff about compliments and such rubbish. We'll all be good to him, because he hasn't got any mother, and he _may_ come over and see us, mayn't he, Marmee?" "Ja, Jo, dein kleiner Freund ist sehr willkommen und ich hoffe, Meg wird sich daran erinnern, dass Kinder so lange wie möglich Kinder sein sollten." "Ich nenne mich nicht selbst ein Kind und ich bin noch nicht in meinen Teenagerjahren", bemerkte Amy. "Was sagst du, Beth?" "Ich habe über unsere 'Pilgerreise zur seligen Ewigkeit' nachgedacht", antwortete Beth, die kein Wort gehört hatte. "Wie wir aus dem Sumpfloch herauskamen und durch das Türgitter gingen, indem wir beschlossen, brav zu sein, und den steilen Hügel hinauf, indem wir es versuchten; und dass vielleicht das Haus dort drüben, voller großartiger Dinge, unser Schloss Schönblick sein wird." "Wir müssen zuerst an den Löwen vorbei", sagte Jo, als ob sie die Aussicht eher mochte. [Illustration: Schlussbild] Können Sie eine geeignete Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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Jo kommt angezogen herein, um nach draußen zu gehen. Meg fragt, was sie vorhat, und Jo sagt, dass sie Sport treiben will. Meg kann nicht glauben, dass sie an einem so kalten, nassen Tag freiwillig rausgeht. Meg kehrt zurück, um Ivanhoe neben dem Feuer zu lesen. Jo geht aus dem gemütlichen Häuschen ihrer Familie zum grauen Steingebäude nebenan, um Laurie zu sehen. Jo hat bemerkt, dass Laurie viel drinnen bleibt und viel lernt, und sie hat beschlossen, zu ihm hinzugehen und seinem Großvater, dem alten Mr. Laurence, zu sagen, dass er mehr Spaß haben sollte. Nachdem Mr. Laurence gegangen ist, erregt Jo Lauries Aufmerksamkeit, indem sie ihm einen Schneeball gegen den Kopf wirft, während er aus dem Fenster lehnt. Er erklärt, dass er nicht rausgehen kann, weil er krank ist und dass ihm langweilig ist. Jo stimmt zu, zu Laurie zu gehen und ihm vorzulesen und ihn zu unterhalten, während er krank ist. Laurie macht sich ein wenig hübsch, während er auf sie wartet. Jo kommt mit guten Wünschen von ihrer Mutter, einer Blancmange von Meg und Beths Kätzchen herein. Diese Geschenke erheitern Laurie und Jo macht es ihm noch angenehmer, indem sie sein Zimmer ein wenig aufräumt. Jo bietet an, Laurie vorzulesen, aber er möchte lieber reden. Worüber er reden möchte, ist ihre Familie – er beobachtet sie aus seinem Fenster und beneidet ihr gemütliches Familienleben. Jo ist überrascht, dass Laurie ihre Familie beobachtet hat. Laurie ist etwas peinlich berührt, dass er sie ausspioniert hat, aber erklärt, dass ihre häusliche Atmosphäre so malerisch ist, dass er nicht anders konnte. Jo sagt Laurie, dass er ihre Familie durch das Fenster beobachten kann, wenn es ihm so viel Freude bereitet – aber sie lädt ihn auch ein, öfter vorbeizukommen und Zeit mit ihnen zu verbringen. Sie fragt, ob sein Großvater es erlauben würde; Laurie denkt, dass er es wahrscheinlich tun würde. Laurie fragt Jo nach ihrer Schule und sie erklärt, dass sie als Tante Marchs Begleiter arbeitet. Sie erzählt eine lustige Geschichte über Tante Marchs verwöhnten Papagei. Laurie ist so aufgeheitert von Jos Geschichte, dass sie ihm mehr Details aus dem Leben ihrer Familie erzählt. Jo und Laurie fangen an, über Bücher zu reden. Laurie lädt sie ein, in der Bibliothek seines Großvaters nachzuschauen. Jo ist überwältigt von Mr. Laurences Bibliothek, aber erschrocken, als er plötzlich nach Hause kommt! Mr. Laurence hat den Arzt mitgebracht, also geht Laurie, um sich untersuchen zu lassen. Jo bleibt alleine in der Bibliothek zurück. Sie betrachtet ein Porträt von dem alten Mr. Laurence und spekuliert laut darüber, wie der alte Herr wohl sein könnte. Sie denkt, dass er wahrscheinlich eine starke Persönlichkeit hat, aber auch sehr nett ist. Jo ist überrascht von dem alten Mr. Laurence selbst, der hinter ihr hereinkommt, ohne dass sie es bemerkt. Jo ist peinlich berührt, dass er sie dabei erwischt hat, wie sie sein Porträt beurteilt hat, aber es macht ihm nichts aus, weil er denkt, dass sie ziemlich genau war. Mr. Laurence fragt Jo, was sie mit Laurie gemacht hat, und sie erklärt, dass sie ihn aufgemuntert hat, während er krank war. Dann fragt er nach ihrer Mutter, und sie erzählt ihm, dass ihre Mutter sich um die Hummels kümmert. Der alte Mr. Laurence lädt Jo zum Tee ein. Während er, Laurie und Jo essen und trinken, bemerkt Mr. Laurence, wie viel glücklicher sein Enkel ist, seit er Jo als Freundin hat. Nach dem Tee führt Laurie Jo in das Gewächshaus und zeigt ihr die Sammlung von Gewächshausblumen seines Großvaters - Dinge, die normalerweise nicht in New England wachsen. Jo ist von dem Anblick begeistert und Laurie gibt ihr einige Blumen mit nach Hause. Jo und Laurie gehen wieder ins Haus und Jo bittet Laurie, Klavier zu spielen. Er macht das, aber es verärgert seinen Großvater, der den Raum verlässt. Laurie sagt Jo, dass er ihr das irgendwann erklären wird. Jo geht nach Hause, begleitet von John Brooke, Lauries Tutor. Zu Hause erzählt sie ihrer Mutter und ihren Schwestern von ihrem Besuch. Marmee erklärt Jo, dass Lauries Vater, Mr. Laurences Sohn, eine Musikerin geheiratet hat. Der alte Mr. Laurence war gegen die Ehe und hat die Familie abgeschnitten, aber dann starben sowohl Lauries Eltern als auch sein Großvater hat ihn adoptiert. Deshalb hört der alte Mr. Laurence nicht gerne, wenn Laurie Klavier spielt - es erinnert ihn an die ungeliebte Schwiegertochter, die die Familienfehde verursacht hat. Meg bemerkt, dass Laurie sehr gute Manieren hat und lobt Jo. Jo hat das nicht einmal bemerkt und weigert sich zu glauben, dass etwas Sentimentales passiert. Marmee sagt Jo, dass sie jederzeit Laurie einladen darf, vorbeizukommen. Beth vergleicht das Haus Laurence mit dem "Palace Beautiful" aus der Allegorie "The Pilgrim's Progress". Der "Palace Beautiful" ist genau das, wonach es klingt, aber er wird von gefährlichen Löwen bewacht.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). 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 a Hen Takes to Stratagem The days passed, and Mr. Tulliver showed, at least to the eyes of the medical man, stronger and stronger symptoms of a gradual return to his normal condition; the paralytic obstruction was, little by little, losing its tenacity, and the mind was rising from under it with fitful struggles, like a living creature making its way from under a great snowdrift, that slides and slides again, and shuts up the newly made opening. Time would have seemed to creep to the watchers by the bed, if it had only been measured by the doubtful, distant hope which kept count of the moments within the chamber; but it was measured for them by a fast-approaching dread which made the nights come too quickly. While Mr. Tulliver was slowly becoming himself again, his lot was hastening toward its moment of most palpable change. The taxing-masters had done their work like any respectable gunsmith conscientiously preparing the musket, that, duly pointed by a brave arm, will spoil a life or two. Allocaturs, filing of bills in Chancery, decrees of sale, are legal chain-shot or bomb-shells that can never hit a solitary mark, but must fall with widespread shattering. So deeply inherent is it in this life of ours that men have to suffer for each other's sins, so inevitably diffusive is human suffering, that even justice makes its victims, and we can conceive no retribution that does not spread beyond its mark in pulsations of unmerited pain. By the beginning of the second week in January, the bills were out advertising the sale, under a decree of Chancery, of Mr. Tulliver's farming and other stock, to be followed by a sale of the mill and land, held in the proper after-dinner hour at the Golden Lion. The miller himself, unaware of the lapse of time, fancied himself still in that first stage of his misfortunes when expedients might be thought of; and often in his conscious hours talked in a feeble, disjointed manner of plans he would carry out when he "got well." The wife and children were not without hope of an issue that would at least save Mr. Tulliver from leaving the old spot, and seeking an entirely strange life. For uncle Deane had been induced to interest himself in this stage of the business. It would not, he acknowledged, be a bad speculation for Guest & Co. to buy Dorlcote Mill, and carry on the business, which was a good one, and might be increased by the addition of steam power; in which case Tulliver might be retained as manager. Still, Mr. Deane would say nothing decided about the matter; the fact that Wakem held the mortgage on the land might put it into his head to bid for the whole estate, and further, to outbid the cautious firm of Guest & Co., who did not carry on business on sentimental grounds. Mr. Deane was obliged to tell Mrs. Tulliver something to that effect, when he rode over to the mill to inspect the books in company with Mrs. Glegg; for she had observed that "if Guest & Co. would only think about it, Mr. Tulliver's father and grandfather had been carrying on Dorlcote Mill long before the oil-mill of that firm had been so much as thought of." Mr. Deane, in reply, doubted whether that was precisely the relation between the two mills which would determine their value as investments. As for uncle Glegg, the thing lay quite beyond his imagination; the good-natured man felt sincere pity for the Tulliver family, but his money was all locked up in excellent mortgages, and he could run no risk; that would be unfair to his own relatives; but he had made up his mind that Tulliver should have some new flannel waistcoats which he had himself renounced in favor of a more elastic commodity, and that he would buy Mrs. Tulliver a pound of tea now and then; it would be a journey which his benevolence delighted in beforehand, to carry the tea and see her pleasure on being assured it was the best black. Still, it was clear that Mr. Deane was kindly disposed toward the Tullivers. One day he had brought Lucy, who was come home for the Christmas holidays, and the little blond angel-head had pressed itself against Maggie's darker cheek with many kisses and some tears. These fair slim daughters keep up a tender spot in the heart of many a respectable partner in a respectable firm, and perhaps Lucy's anxious, pitying questions about her poor cousins helped to make uncle Deane more prompt in finding Tom a temporary place in the warehouse, and in putting him in the way of getting evening lessons in book-keeping and calculation. That might have cheered the lad and fed his hopes a little, if there had not come at the same time the much-dreaded blow of finding that his father must be a bankrupt, after all; at least, the creditors must be asked to take less than their due, which to Tom's untechnical mind was the same thing as bankruptcy. His father must not only be said to have "lost his property," but to have "failed,"--the word that carried the worst obloquy to Tom's mind. For when the defendant's claim for costs had been satisfied, there would remain the friendly bill of Mr. Gore, and the deficiency at the bank, as well as the other debts which would make the assets shrink into unequivocal disproportion; "not more than ten or twelve shillings in the pound," predicted Mr. Deane, in a decided tone, tightening his lips; and the words fell on Tom like a scalding liquied, leaving a continual smart. He was sadly in want of something to keep up his spirits a little in the unpleasant newness of his position,--suddenly transported from the easy carpeted _ennui_ of study-hours at Mr. Stelling's, and the busy idleness of castle-building in a "last half" at school, to the companionship of sacks and hides, and bawling men thundering down heavy weights at his elbow. The first step toward getting on in the world was a chill, dusty, noisy affair, and implied going without one's tea in order to stay in St. Ogg's and have an evening lesson from a one-armed elderly clerk, in a room smelling strongly of bad tobacco. Tom's young pink-and-white face had its colors very much deadened by the time he took off his hat at home, and sat down with keen hunger to his supper. No wonder he was a little cross if his mother or Maggie spoke to him. But all this while Mrs. Tulliver was brooding over a scheme by which she, and no one else, would avert the result most to be dreaded, and prevent Wakem from entertaining the purpose of bidding for the mill. Imagine a truly respectable and amiable hen, by some portentous anomaly, taking to reflection and inventing combinations by which she might prevail on Hodge not to wring her neck, or send her and her chicks to market; the result could hardly be other than much cackling and fluttering. Mrs. Tulliver, seeing that everything had gone wrong, had begun to think she had been too passive in life; and that, if she had applied her mind to business, and taken a strong resolution now and then, it would have been all the better for her and her family. Nobody, it appeared, had thought of going to speak to Wakem on this business of the mill; and yet, Mrs. Tulliver reflected, it would have been quite the shortest method of securing the right end. It would have been of no use, to be sure, for Mr. Tulliver to go,--even if he had been able and willing,--for he had been "going to law against Wakem" and abusing him for the last ten years; Wakem was always likely to have a spite against him. And now that Mrs. Tulliver had come to the conclusion that her husband was very much in the wrong to bring her into this trouble, she was inclined to think that his opinion of Wakem was wrong too. To be sure, Wakem had "put the bailies in the house, and sold them up"; but she supposed he did that to please the man that lent Mr. Tulliver the money, for a lawyer had more folks to please than one, and he wasn't likely to put Mr. Tulliver, who had gone to law with him, above everybody else in the world. The attorney might be a very reasonable man; why not? He had married a Miss Clint, and at the time Mrs. Tulliver had heard of that marriage, the summer when she wore her blue satin spencer, and had not yet any thoughts of Mr. Tulliver, she knew no harm of Wakem. And certainly toward herself, whom he knew to have been a Miss Dodson, it was out of all possibility that he could entertain anything but good-will, when it was once brought home to his observation that she, for her part, had never wanted to go to law, and indeed was at present disposed to take Mr. Wakem's view of all subjects rather than her husband's. In fact, if that attorney saw a respectable matron like herself disposed "to give him good words," why shouldn't he listen to her representations? For she would put the matter clearly before him, which had never been done yet. And he would never go and bid for the mill on purpose to spite her, an innocent woman, who thought it likely enough that she had danced with him in their youth at Squire Darleigh's, for at those big dances she had often and often danced with young men whose names she had forgotten. Mrs. Tulliver hid these reasonings in her own bosom; for when she had thrown out a hint to Mr. Deane and Mr. Glegg that she wouldn't mind going to speak to Wakem herself, they had said, "No, no, no," and "Pooh, pooh," and "Let Wakem alone," in the tone of men who were not likely to give a candid attention to a more definite exposition of her project; still less dared she mention the plan to Tom and Maggie, for "the children were always so against everything their mother said"; and Tom, she observed, was almost as much set against Wakem as his father was. But this unusual concentration of thought naturally gave Mrs. Tulliver an unusual power of device and determination: and a day or two before the sale, to be held at the Golden Lion, when there was no longer any time to be lost, she carried out her plan by a stratagem. There were pickles in question, a large stock of pickles and ketchup which Mrs. Tulliver possessed, and which Mr. Hyndmarsh, the grocer, would certainly purchase if she could transact the business in a personal interview, so she would walk with Tom to St. Ogg's that morning; and when Tom urged that she might let the pickles be at present,--he didn't like her to go about just yet,--she appeared so hurt at this conduct in her son, contradicting her about pickles which she had made after the family receipts inherited from his own grandmother, who had died when his mother was a little girl, that he gave way, and they walked together until she turned toward Danish Street, where Mr. Hyndmarsh retailed his grocery, not far from the offices of Mr. Wakem. That gentleman was not yet come to his office; would Mrs. Tulliver sit down by the fire in his private room and wait for him? She had not long to wait before the punctual attorney entered, knitting his brow with an examining glance at the stout blond woman who rose, curtsying deferentially,--a tallish man, with an aquiline nose and abundant iron-gray hair. You have never seen Mr. Wakem before, and are possibly wondering whether he was really as eminent a rascal, and as crafty, bitter an enemy of honest humanity in general, and of Mr. Tulliver in particular, as he is represented to be in that eidolon or portrait of him which we have seen to exist in the miller's mind. It is clear that the irascible miller was a man to interpret any chance-shot that grazed him as an attempt on his own life, and was liable to entanglements in this puzzling world, which, due consideration had to his own infallibility, required the hypothesis of a very active diabolical agency to explain them. It is still possible to believe that the attorney was not more guilty toward him than an ingenious machine, which performs its work with much regularity, is guilty toward the rash man who, venturing too near it, is caught up by some fly-wheel or other, and suddenly converted into unexpected mince-meat. But it is really impossible to decide this question by a glance at his person; the lines and lights of the human countenance are like other symbols,--not always easy to read without a key. On an _a priori_ view of Wakem's aquiline nose, which offended Mr. Tulliver, there was not more rascality than in the shape of his stiff shirt-collar, though this too along with his nose, might have become fraught with damnatory meaning when once the rascality was ascertained. "Mrs. Tulliver, I think?" said Mr. Wakem. "Yes, sir; Miss Elizabeth Dodson as was." "Pray be seated. You have some business with me?" "Well, sir, yes," said Mrs. Tulliver, beginning to feel alarmed at her own courage, now she was really in presence of the formidable man, and reflecting that she had not settled with herself how she should begin. Mr. Wakem felt in his waistcoat pockets, and looked at her in silence. "I hope, sir," she began at last,--"I hope, sir, you're not a-thinking as _I_ bear you any ill-will because o' my husband's losing his lawsuit, and the bailies being put in, and the linen being sold,--oh dear!--for I wasn't brought up in that way. I'm sure you remember my father, sir, for he was close friends with Squire Darleigh, and we allays went to the dances there, the Miss Dodsons,--nobody could be more looked on,--and justly, for there was four of us, and you're quite aware as Mrs. Glegg and Mrs. Deane are my sisters. And as for going to law and losing money, and having sales before you're dead, I never saw anything o' that before I was married, nor for a long while after. And I'm not to be answerable for my bad luck i' marrying out o' my own family into one where the goings-on was different. And as for being drawn in t' abuse you as other folks abuse you, sir, _that_ I niver was, and nobody can say it of me." Mrs. Tulliver shook her head a little, and looked at the hem of her pocket-handkerchief. "I've no doubt of what you say, Mrs. Tulliver," said Mr. Wakem, with cold politeness. "But you have some question to ask me?" "Well, sir, yes. But that's what I've said to myself,--I've said you'd had some nat'ral feeling; and as for my husband, as hasn't been himself for this two months, I'm not a-defending him, in no way, for being so hot about th' erigation,--not but what there's worse men, for he never wronged nobody of a shilling nor a penny, not willingly; and as for his fieriness and lawing, what could I do? And him struck as if it was with death when he got the letter as said you'd the hold upo' the land. But I can't believe but what you'll behave as a gentleman." "What does all this mean, Mrs. Tulliver?" said Mr. Wakem rather sharply. "What do you want to ask me?" "Why, sir, if you'll be so good," said Mrs. Tulliver, starting a little, and speaking more hurriedly,--"if you'll be so good not to buy the mill an' the land,--the land wouldn't so much matter, only my husband ull' be like mad at your having it." Something like a new thought flashed across Mr. Wakem's face as he said, "Who told you I meant to buy it?" "Why, sir, it's none o' my inventing, and I should never ha' thought of it; for my husband, as ought to know about the law, he allays used to say as lawyers had never no call to buy anything,--either lands or houses,--for they allays got 'em into their hands other ways. An' I should think that 'ud be the way with you, sir; and I niver said as you'd be the man to do contrairy to that." "Ah, well, who was it that _did_ say so?" said Wakem, opening his desk, and moving things about, with the accompaniment of an almost inaudible whistle. "Why, sir, it was Mr. Glegg and Mr. Deane, as have all the management; and Mr. Deane thinks as Guest & Co. 'ud buy the mill and let Mr. Tulliver work it for 'em, if you didn't bid for it and raise the price. And it 'ud be such a thing for my husband to stay where he is, if he could get his living: for it was his father's before him, the mill was, and his grandfather built it, though I wasn't fond o' the noise of it, when first I was married, for there was no mills in our family,--not the Dodson's,--and if I'd known as the mills had so much to do with the law, it wouldn't have been me as 'ud have been the first Dodson to marry one; but I went into it blindfold, that I did, erigation and everything." "What! Guest & Co. would keep the mill in their own hands, I suppose, and pay your husband wages?" "Oh dear, sir, it's hard to think of," said poor Mrs. Tulliver, a little tear making its way, "as my husband should take wage. But it 'ud look more like what used to be, to stay at the mill than to go anywhere else; and if you'll only think--if you was to bid for the mill and buy it, my husband might be struck worse than he was before, and niver get better again as he's getting now." "Well, but if I bought the mill, and allowed your husband to act as my manager in the same way, how then?" said Mr. Wakem. "Oh, sir, I doubt he could niver be got to do it, not if the very mill stood still to beg and pray of him. For your name's like poison to him, it's so as never was; and he looks upon it as you've been the ruin of him all along, ever since you set the law on him about the road through the meadow,--that's eight year ago, and he's been going on ever since--as I've allays told him he was wrong----" "He's a pig-headed, foul-mouthed fool!" burst out Mr. Wakem, forgetting himself. "Oh dear, sir!" said Mrs. Tulliver, frightened at a result so different from the one she had fixed her mind on; "I wouldn't wish to contradict you, but it's like enough he's changed his mind with this illness,--he's forgot a many things he used to talk about. And you wouldn't like to have a corpse on your mind, if he was to die; and they _do_ say as it's allays unlucky when Dorlcote Mill changes hands, and the water might all run away, and _then_--not as I'm wishing you any ill-luck, sir, for I forgot to tell you as I remember your wedding as if it was yesterday; Mrs. Wakem was a Miss Clint, I know _that;_ and my boy, as there isn't a nicer, handsomer, straighter boy nowhere, went to school with your son----" Mr. Wakem rose, opened the door, and called to one of his clerks. "You must excuse me for interrupting you, Mrs. Tulliver; I have business that must be attended to; and I think there is nothing more necessary to be said." "But if you _would_ bear it in mind, sir," said Mrs. Tulliver, rising, "and not run against me and my children; and I'm not denying Mr. Tulliver's been in the wrong, but he's been punished enough, and there's worse men, for it's been giving to other folks has been his fault. He's done nobody any harm but himself and his family,--the more's the pity,--and I go and look at the bare shelves every day, and think where all my things used to stand." "Yes, yes, I'll bear it in mind," said Mr. Wakem, hastily, looking toward the open door. "And if you'd please not to say as I've been to speak to you, for my son 'ud be very angry with me for demeaning myself, I know he would, and I've trouble enough without being scolded by my children." Poor Mrs. Tulliver's voice trembled a little, and she could make no answer to the attorney's "good morning," but curtsied and walked out in silence. "Which day is it that Dorlcote Mill is to be sold? Where's the bill?" said Mr. Wakem to his clerk when they were alone. "Next Friday is the day,--Friday at six o'clock." "Oh, just run to Winship's the auctioneer, and see if he's at home. I have some business for him; ask him to come up." Although, when Mr. Wakem entered his office that morning, he had had no intention of purchasing Dorlcote Mill, his mind was already made up. Mrs. Tulliver had suggested to him several determining motives, and his mental glance was very rapid; he was one of those men who can be prompt without being rash, because their motives run in fixed tracks, and they have no need to reconcile conflicting aims. To suppose that Wakem had the same sort of inveterate hatred toward Tulliver that Tulliver had toward him would be like supposing that a pike and a roach can look at each other from a similar point of view. The roach necessarily abhors the mode in which the pike gets his living, and the pike is likely to think nothing further even of the most indignant roach than that he is excellent good eating; it could only be when the roach choked him that the pike could entertain a strong personal animosity. If Mr. Tulliver had ever seriously injured or thwarted the attorney, Wakem would not have refused him the distinction of being a special object of his vindictiveness. But when Mr. Tulliver called Wakem a rascal at the market dinner-table, the attorneys' clients were not a whit inclined to withdraw their business from him; and if, when Wakem himself happened to be present, some jocose cattle-feeder, stimulated by opportunity and brandy, made a thrust at him by alluding to old ladies' wills, he maintained perfect _sang froid_, and knew quite well that the majority of substantial men then present were perfectly contented with the fact that "Wakem was Wakem"; that is to say, a man who always knew the stepping-stones that would carry him through very muddy bits of practice. A man who had made a large fortune, had a handsome house among the trees at Tofton, and decidedly the finest stock of port-wine in the neighborhood of St. Ogg's, was likely to feel himself on a level with public opinion. And I am not sure that even honest Mr. Tulliver himself, with his general view of law as a cockpit, might not, under opposite circumstances, have seen a fine appropriateness in the truth that "Wakem was Wakem"; since I have understood from persons versed in history, that mankind is not disposed to look narrowly into the conduct of great victors when their victory is on the right side. Tulliver, then, could be no obstruction to Wakem; on the contrary, he was a poor devil whom the lawyer had defeated several times; a hot-tempered fellow, who would always give you a handle against him. Wakem's conscience was not uneasy because he had used a few tricks against the miller; why should he hate that unsuccessful plaintiff, that pitiable, furious bull entangled in the meshes of a net? Still, among the various excesses to which human nature is subject, moralists have never numbered that of being too fond of the people who openly revile us. The successful Yellow candidate for the borough of Old Topping, perhaps, feels no pursuant meditative hatred toward the Blue editor who consoles his subscribers with vituperative rhetoric against Yellow men who sell their country, and are the demons of private life; but he might not be sorry, if law and opportunity favored, to kick that Blue editor to a deeper shade of his favorite color. Prosperous men take a little vengeance now and then, as they take a diversion, when it comes easily in their way, and is no hindrance to business; and such small unimpassioned revenges have an enormous effect in life, running through all degrees of pleasant infliction, blocking the fit men out of places, and blackening characters in unpremeditated talk. Still more, to see people who have been only insignificantly offensive to us reduced in life and humiliated, without any special effort of ours, is apt to have a soothing, flattering influence. Providence or some other prince of this world, it appears, has undertaken the task of retribution for us; and really, by an agreeable constitution of things, our enemies somehow _don't_ prosper. Wakem was not without this parenthetic vindictiveness toward the uncomplimentary miller; and now Mrs. Tulliver had put the notion into his head, it presented itself to him as a pleasure to do the very thing that would cause Mr. Tulliver the most deadly mortification,-- and a pleasure of a complex kind, not made up of crude malice, but mingling with it the relish of self-approbation. To see an enemy humiliated gives a certain contentment, but this is jejune compared with the highly blent satisfaction of seeing him humiliated by your benevolent action or concession on his behalf. That is a sort of revenge which falls into the scale of virtue, and Wakem was not without an intention of keeping that scale respectably filled. He had once had the pleasure of putting an old enemy of his into one of the St. Ogg's alms-houses, to the rebuilding of which he had given a large subscription; and here was an opportunity of providing for another by making him his own servant. Such things give a completeness to prosperity, and contribute elements of agreeable consciousness that are not dreamed of by that short-sighted, overheated vindictiveness which goes out its way to wreak itself in direct injury. And Tulliver, with his rough tongue filed by a sense of obligation, would make a better servant than any chance-fellow who was cap-in-hand for a situation. Tulliver was known to be a man of proud honesty, and Wakem was too acute not to believe in the existence of honesty. He was given too observing individuals, not to judging of them according to maxims, and no one knew better than he that all men were not like himself. Besides, he intended to overlook the whole business of land and mill pretty closely; he was fond of these practical rural matters. But there were good reasons for purchasing Dorlcote Mill, quite apart from any benevolent vengeance on the miller. It was really a capital investment; besides, Guest & Co. were going to bid for it. Mr. Guest and Mr. Wakem were on friendly dining terms, and the attorney liked to predominate over a ship-owner and mill-owner who was a little too loud in the town affairs as well as in his table-talk. For Wakem was not a mere man of business; he was considered a pleasant fellow in the upper circles of St. Ogg's--chatted amusingly over his port-wine, did a little amateur farming, and had certainly been an excellent husband and father; at church, when he went there, he sat under the handsomest of mural monuments erected to the memory of his wife. Most men would have married again under his circumstances, but he was said to be more tender to his deformed son than most men were to their best-shapen offspring. Not that Mr. Wakem had not other sons beside Philip; but toward them he held only a chiaroscuro parentage, and provided for them in a grade of life duly beneath his own. In this fact, indeed, there lay the clenching motive to the purchase of Dorlcote Mill. While Mrs. Tulliver was talking, it had occurred to the rapid-minded lawyer, among all the other circumstances of the case, that this purchase would, in a few years to come, furnish a highly suitable position for a certain favorite lad whom he meant to bring on in the world. These were the mental conditions on which Mrs. Tulliver had undertaken to act persuasively, and had failed; a fact which may receive some illustration from the remark of a great philosopher, that fly-fishers fail in preparing their bait so as to make it alluring in the right quarter, for want of a due acquaintance with the subjectivity of fishes. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden 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.

Ein paar weitere Tage vergehen und Mr. Tulliver erholt sich langsam. In der Zwischenzeit werden das Land und die Nutztiere der Tullivers verkauft. Herr Deane denkt darüber nach, dass Guest & Co. die Familie Mühle kaufen, aber er zögert, da Wakem immer noch die Hypothek besitzt. Die Gleggs betrachten die Mühle, aber Herr Glegg möchte sein Geld nicht dafür verwenden, sie zu kaufen. Mr. Tulliver wird für bankrott erklärt und der Stolz von Tom schmerzt über diesen Schlag gegen die Familienehre. Tom nimmt eine Einstiegsposition bei Guest & Co. an und schuftet quasi für den Mindestlohn. In der Zwischenzeit schmiedet Mrs. Tulliver Pläne. Sie beschließt, Mr. Wakem zu besuchen und ihn darum zu bitten, sie nicht aus ihrem Haus zu werfen. Sie glaubt, dass Mr. Wakem nett zu ihr sein wird, da das alles die Schuld ihres Ehemanns ist und da sie früher eine Miss Dodson war und anscheinend alle die Dodsons lieben. Die Dodsons lieben sich auf jeden Fall. Also geht Mrs. Tulliver zu Mr. Wakem, der wirklich von ihrem Besuch in seinem Büro verwirrt ist. Mrs. Tulliver redet sich um Kopf und Kragen, bis Mr. Wakem sie endlich unterbricht und sie auffordert, endlich auf den Punkt zu kommen. Mrs. Tulliver platzt heraus, dass sie möchte, dass Mr. Wakem Guest & Co. die Mühle kaufen lässt, damit die Tullivers dort bleiben können. Mr. Wakem wusste nichts von den Plänen von Guest & Co. Oh oh! Mr. Wakem schlägt vor, die Mühle selbst zu kaufen und Mr. Tulliver als Manager dort zu lassen. Mrs. Tulliver findet das nett, aber ihr Ehemann hasst ihn und wird wahrscheinlich nicht zustimmen, für ihn zu arbeiten. Wakem nennt Herrn Tulliver ein paar gemeine Namen und Mrs. Tulliver wird besorgt. Sie versucht, über Mrs. Wakem zu sprechen, um ihn zu beruhigen. Mr. Wakem lässt Mrs. Tulliver schnell aus seinem Büro werfen. Er fragt dann seinen Sekretär, wann die Mühle verkauft wird und plant offensichtlich, sie selbst zu kaufen, da er ein böser Anwalt ist. Aber der Erzähler unterbricht nun, um uns eine sehr ausführliche Analyse von Mr. Wakems Motiven zu geben. Wakem ist an sich nicht böse. Er ist nur ein reicher Mann, der es oft genießt, ärmeren Leuten einen Streich zu spielen. Wie Dr. Frankenstein kauft Wakem Dinge und nimmt Rache an seinen Nachbarn, weil er es kann. Wakem hat jedoch auch einige gute Eigenschaften - er war seiner verstorbenen Frau gegenüber liebevoll und er ist gut zu seinem Sohn Philip, trotz dessen Entstellungen. Aber insgesamt ist er irgendwie ein Punk. Und baldiger Mühlenbesitzer.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Kapitel: Die Damen von Longbourn warteten bald auf diejenigen von Netherfield. Der Besuch wurde formgerecht erwidert. Miss Bennets angenehme Manieren gefielen Mrs. Hurst und Miss Bingley, und obwohl die Mutter unerträglich und die jüngeren Schwestern nicht erwähnenswert waren, wurde ein Wunsch geäußert, die beiden ältesten besser kennenzulernen. Jane empfing diese Aufmerksamkeit mit dem größten Vergnügen, aber Elizabeth sah immer noch Überheblichkeit in ihrer Behandlung von jedem, einschließlich ihrer Schwester, und konnte sie nicht mögen. Obwohl deren Freundlichkeit zu Jane, so wie sie war, einen Wert hatte, der wahrscheinlich aus dem Einfluss der Bewunderung ihres Bruders herrührte. Es wurde allgemein deutlich, immer wenn sie aufeinander trafen, dass er sie bewunderte, und für sie war es ebenso deutlich, dass Jane ihrem Wohlwollen nachgab, das sie seit Anfang an für ihn hegte, und dass sie auf dem besten Weg war, sich sehr zu verlieben; aber sie freute sich darüber, dass es wahrscheinlich nicht von der Welt im Allgemeinen entdeckt würde, da Jane neben einer starken emotionalen Empfindung auch eine Gelassenheit und eine gleichbleibende Fröhlichkeit zeigte, was sie vor den Vermutungen der Übergriffigen schützen würde. Sie erwähnte dies ihrem Freund, Miss Lucas. "Es mag vielleicht angenehm sein", antwortete Charlotte, "das Publikum in einem solchen Fall täuschen zu können; aber es kann manchmal ein Nachteil sein, zu sehr auf der Hut zu sein. Wenn eine Frau ihre Zuneigung vor dem Objekt nicht zu verbergen versucht, kann sie die Gelegenheit verpassen, ihn für sich zu gewinnen; und dann ist es ein schwacher Trost zu glauben, dass die Welt ebenso im Dunkeln ist. In fast jeder Bindung gibt es so viel Dankbarkeit oder Eitelkeit, dass es nicht sicher ist, irgendetwas dem Zufall zu überlassen. Wir können alle frei anfangen - eine leichte Vorliebe ist ganz natürlich; aber nur wenige von uns haben genug Herz, um wirklich verliebt zu sein, ohne Zustimmung. In neun von zehn Fällen ist es für eine Frau besser, _mehr_ Zuneigung zu zeigen, als sie empfindet. Bingley mag zweifellos deine Schwester, aber wenn sie ihn nicht unterstützt, wird er vielleicht nie mehr als das mögen." "Aber sie unterstützt ihn so gut wie ihre Natur es zulässt. Wenn _ich_ ihre Zuneigung erkennen kann, muss er wirklich ein Einfaltspinsel sein, der es nicht auch bemerkt." "Denk daran, Eliza, dass er Janes Wesen nicht so gut kennt wie du." "Aber wenn eine Frau einem Mann zugetan ist und nicht versucht, es zu verbergen, dann muss er es herausfinden." "Vielleicht muss er das, wenn er genug von ihr sieht. Aber obwohl sich Bingley und Jane recht häufig treffen, ist es nie für viele Stunden hintereinander; und da sie sich immer in großen gemischten Gruppen begegnen, ist es unmöglich, dass sie jede Minute miteinander sprechen. Jane sollte also das Beste aus jeder halben Stunde machen, in der sie seine Aufmerksamkeit erlangen kann. Wenn sie sich seiner sicher ist, wird es Gelegenheit genug geben, um sich so sehr zu verlieben, wie sie möchte." "Dein Plan ist gut", antwortete Elizabeth, "wenn es nur darum geht, einen guten Ehemann zu finden; und wenn ich entschlossen wäre, einen reichen Ehemann oder irgendeinen Ehemann zu bekommen, würde ich ihn sicherlich anwenden. Aber das sind nicht Janes Gefühle; sie handelt nicht gezielt. Bisher kann sie sich nicht einmal sicher sein, wie stark ihre Zuneigung ist oder wie vernünftig sie ist. Sie kennt ihn erst seit zwei Wochen. Sie hat vier Tänze mit ihm in Meryton getanzt; sie hat ihn einen Morgen in seinem eigenen Haus gesehen und seitdem viermal in Gesellschaft mit ihm zu Abend gegessen. Dies reicht nicht aus, um seinen Charakter zu verstehen." "Nicht wie du ihn darstellst. Wenn sie nur mit ihm zu Abend gegessen hätte, hätte sie vielleicht nur herausgefunden, ob er einen guten Appetit hat; aber du musst bedenken, dass sie auch an vier Abenden zusammen verbracht haben - und vier Abende können viel bewirken." "Ja, diese vier Abende haben ihnen ermöglicht festzustellen, dass sie beide Vingt-un lieber mögen als Commerce; aber was andere führende Eigenschaften betrifft, glaube ich nicht, dass viel enthüllt wurde." "Nun", sagte Charlotte, "ich wünsche Jane von ganzem Herzen Erfolg; und wenn sie morgen mit ihm verheiratet wäre, würde ich denken, sie hätte genauso gute Chancen auf Glück wie wenn sie ein Jahr lang seinen Charakter studieren würde. Glück in der Ehe hängt vollständig vom Zufall ab. Auch wenn die Charaktere der Paare einander bekannt sind oder bereits vorher ähnlich waren, führt es ihr Glück keineswegs voran. Sie werden immer genug Unterschiede entwickeln, um Ärger zu haben; und es ist besser, so wenig wie möglich von den Mängeln der Person zu wissen, mit der man den Rest seines Lebens verbringen wird." "Du bringst mich zum Lachen, Charlotte, aber das ist nicht vernünftig. Du weißt, dass es nicht vernünftig ist und dass du selbst nicht auf diese Weise handeln würdest." Beschäftigt damit, auf Mr. Bingleys Aufmerksamkeiten gegenüber ihrer Schwester zu achten, hatte Elizabeth nicht den geringsten Verdacht, dass sie selbst in den Augen seines Freundes zu einem gewissen Objekt von Interesse wurde. Mr. Darcy hatte anfangs kaum zugelassen, dass sie hübsch war; er hatte sie ohne Bewunderung auf dem Ball angesehen; und als sie sich das nächste Mal trafen, betrachtete er sie nur, um Kritik zu üben. Aber kaum hatte er sich selbst und seinen Freunden klargemacht, dass sie kaum ein gutes Merkmal in ihrem Gesicht hatte, als er feststellte, dass es durch den schönen Ausdruck ihrer dunklen Augen außergewöhnlich intelligent wirkte. Dieser Entdeckung folgten einige andere, ebenso erniedrigende. Obwohl er mit kritischem Blick mehr als eine Unvollkommenheit in ihrer körperlichen Symmetrie entdeckt hatte, musste er zugeben, dass ihre Figur leicht und ansprechend war; und trotz seiner Behauptung, ihre Manieren seien nicht die der modebewussten Welt, war er von ihrer leichten Verspieltheit beeindruckt. Davon hatte sie keine Ahnung - für sie war er nur der Mann, der sich überall beliebt machte und der sie nicht hübsch genug fand, um mit ihr zu tanzen. Er begann, mehr von ihr erfahren zu wollen, und als ersten Schritt, um mit ihr selbst zu sprechen, hörte er ihren Gesprächen mit anderen zu. Dadurch wurde ihre Aufmerksamkeit auf ihn gelenkt. Es geschah bei Sir William Lucas, wo eine große Gesellschaft versammelt war. "Was meint Mr. Darcy", sagte sie zu Charlotte, "damit, dass er meinem Gespräch mit Colonel Forster zuhört?" "Das ist eine Frage, die nur Mr. Darcy beantworten kann." "Aber wenn er es weiterhin tut, werde ich ihm sicherlich mitteilen, dass ich sehe, worum es ihm geht. Er hat einen sehr sarkastischen Blick, und wenn ich nicht selbst anfange, unhöflich zu sein, werde ich bald Angst vor ihm bekommen." Als er bald darauf auf sie zukam, ohne offensichtlich die Absicht zu haben zu sprechen, forderte Miss Lucas ihre Freundin heraus, ein solches Thema vor ihm anzusprechen - was Elizabeth unmittelbar provozierte, es zu tun. Sie wandte sich ihm zu und sagte: "Meinen Sie nicht, Mr. Darcy, dass ich mich gerade außergewöhnlich gut ausgedrückt habe, als ich Colonel Forster darum Mr. Darcy stand in der Nähe von ihnen in einer stillen Empörung über eine solche Art, den Abend zu verbringen, mit Ausschluss jeglicher Konversation, und war zu sehr mit seinen eigenen Gedanken beschäftigt, um zu bemerken, dass Sir William Lucas sein Nachbar war, bis Sir William so begann. "Was für ein charmantes Vergnügen für junge Leute, Mr. Darcy! Da gibt es nichts wie Tanzen. Ich betrachte es als eine der ersten Verfeinerungen der höfischen Gesellschaft." "Gewiss, Sir, und es hat auch den Vorteil, beliebt zu sein in den weniger verfeinerten Gesellschaften der Welt. Jeder Wilde kann tanzen." Sir William lächelte nur. "Ihr Freund tanzt bezaubernd", fuhr er fort, nach einer Pause, als er sah, dass Bingley sich der Gruppe anschloss. "Und ich bezweifle nicht, dass Sie selbst ein Könner in dieser Kunst sind, Mr. Darcy." "Sie haben mich in Meryton tanzen gesehen, glaube ich, Sir." "Ja, in der Tat, und ich habe großen Vergnügen beim Anblick empfunden. Tanzen Sie oft in St. James?" "Niemals, Sir." "Sie denken also nicht, dass es eine angemessene Höflichkeit gegenüber dem Ort wäre?" "Es ist eine Höflichkeit, die ich keinem Ort erweise, wenn ich sie vermeiden kann." "Sie haben ein Haus in der Stadt, nehme ich an?" Mr. Darcy verneigte sich. "Ich hatte einmal darüber nachgedacht, mich selbst in der Stadt niederzulassen - denn ich liebe die überlegene Gesellschaft. Aber ich war nicht ganz sicher, ob die Luft in London Lady Lucas bekommen würde." Er machte eine Pause, in der Hoffnung auf eine Antwort, aber sein Begleiter war nicht gewillt, eine zu geben, und gerade als Elizabeth auf sie zukam, kam ihm die Idee, etwas sehr galantes zu tun, und rief ihr zu: "Liebe Miss Eliza, warum tanzen Sie nicht? Mr. Darcy, Sie müssen mir erlauben, Ihnen diese junge Dame als eine sehr begehrenswerte Tanzpartnerin vorzustellen. Sie können sicherlich nicht ablehnen zu tanzen, wenn so viel Schönheit vor Ihnen ist." Und er nahm ihre Hand und wollte sie Mr. Darcy geben, der, obwohl äußerst überrascht, nicht abgeneigt war, sie anzunehmen, als sie sich sofort zurückzog und mit etwas Bestürzung zu Sir William sagte: "In der Tat, Sir, habe ich nicht die geringste Absicht zu tanzen. Ich bitte Sie, nicht anzunehmen, dass ich auf diese Weise hergekommen bin, um nach einem Tanzpartner zu fragen." Mr. Darcy bat mit angemessener Ernsthaftigkeit um die Ehre, ihre Hand haben zu dürfen, aber vergeblich. Elizabeth war entschlossen, und auch Sir William konnte ihren Entschluss nicht durch seine Überredungsversuche erschüttern. "Sie tanzen so gut, Miss Eliza, dass es grausam ist, mir das Glück zu verweigern, Sie zu sehen. Und obwohl dieser Herr das Vergnügen im Allgemeinen nicht mag, wird er sicherlich keine Einwände haben, uns für eine halbe Stunde zu beglücken." "Mr. Darcy ist überaus höflich," sagte Elizabeth lächelnd. "In der Tat - aber wenn man den Anreiz bedenkt, meine liebe Miss Eliza, können wir uns nicht wundern über seine Gefälligkeit. Wer würde sich gegen eine solche Partnerin sträuben?" Elizabeth schaute listig und wandte sich ab. Ihr Widerstand hatte sie beim Gentleman nicht beeinträchtigt, und er dachte mit einiger Zufriedenheit an sie, als Miss Bingley ihn folgendermaßen ansprach: "Ich kann das Thema Ihrer Träumereien erraten." "Das glaube ich nicht." "Sie denken darüber nach, wie unerträglich es wäre, viele Abende auf diese Weise - in solcher Gesellschaft - zu verbringen, und tatsächlich stimme ich Ihnen vollkommen zu. Mich hat es noch nie mehr gestört! Die Mittelmäßigkeit und dennoch der Lärm, die Nichtigkeit und doch die Selbstgefälligkeit all dieser Leute! Oh, was würde ich geben, Ihre Kritik über sie zu hören!" "Ihre Vermutung ist völlig falsch, versichere ich Ihnen. Mein Geist war angenehmer beschäftigt. Ich habe über das große Vergnügen nachgedacht, das ein Paar schöner Augen im Gesicht einer hübschen Frau bereiten kann." Miss Bingley richtete sofort ihre Augen auf sein Gesicht und bat ihn, ihr zu sagen, welche Dame das Verdienst hatte, solche Überlegungen in ihm zu wecken. Mr. Darcy antwortete mit großer Kühnheit: "Miss Elizabeth Bennet." "Miss Elizabeth Bennet!", wiederholte Miss Bingley. "Ich bin ganz erstaunt. Seit wann ist sie solch eine Favoritin? Und wann darf ich Ihnen Glück wünschen?" "Das ist genau die Frage, die ich von Ihnen erwartet hatte. Die Vorstellungskraft einer Dame ist sehr schnell; sie springt von Bewunderung zu Liebe, von Liebe zu Ehe in einem Augenblick. Ich wusste, dass Sie mir Glück wünschen würden." "Nun, wenn Sie so ernsthaft sind, werde ich die Angelegenheit als endgültig betrachtet. Sie werden eine bezaubernde Schwiegermutter haben, in der Tat, und natürlich wird sie immer mit Ihnen in Pemberley sein." Er hörte ihr mit völliger Gleichgültigkeit zu, während sie sich auf diese Weise unterhielt, und da seine Ruhe ihr bewies, dass alles sicher war, floss ihr Witz noch lange.+ Die Besitztümer von Mr. Bennet bestanden fast ausschließlich aus einem Anwesen von zweitausend Pfund im Jahr, das leider für seine Töchter nur in Ermangelung männlicher Erben einem entfernten Verwandten anvertraut war. Und das Vermögen ihrer Mutter, obwohl für ihre soziale Stellung ausreichend, konnte die Defizite ihres Mannes nur schlecht ausgleichen. Ihr Vater war ein Notar in Meryton gewesen und hatte ihr viertausend Pfund hinterlassen. Sie hatte eine Schwester, die einen Mr. Philips geheiratet hatte, der ein Angestellter bei ihrem Vater gewesen war und ihn im Geschäft beerbt hatte. Ihr Bruder hatte sich in London in einer angesehenen Handelslinie niedergelassen. Das Dorf Longbourn lag nur eine Meile von Meryton entfernt, eine äußerst günstige Entfernung für die jungen Damen, die dort üblicherweise drei oder viermal pro Woche ihre Pflichten gegenüber ihrer Tante und einem Hutladen über die Straße erfüllten. Die beiden jüngsten Mitglieder der Familie, Catherine und Lydia, waren besonders häufig bei diesen Besuchen; ihre Köpfe waren leerer als die ihrer Schwestern, und wenn ihnen nichts Besseres einfiel, musste ein Spaziergang nach Meryton ihre Morgenstunden unterhalten und Gesprächsstoff für den Abend liefern; und wie karg die Nachrichten im Allgemeinen im Land auch sein mochten, sie schafften es immer wieder, etwas von ihrer Tante zu erfahren.+ Gegenwärtig wurden sie jedoch sowohl durch Neuigkeiten als auch durch das Glück begünstigt, dass gerade ein Milizenregiment in der Nähe stationiert worden war; es sollte den ganzen Winter lang bleiben, und Meryton war das Hauptquartier. Die Besuche bei Mrs. Philips waren jetzt äußerst interessant geworden. Jeden Tag erweiterten sie ihr Wissen über die Namen und Verbindungen der Offiziere. Ihre Unterkünfte waren kein Geheimnis mehr, und schließlich begannen sie die Offiziere selbst kennenzulernen. Mr. Philips besuchte sie alle, und dies eröffnete seinen Nichten eine bis dahin unbekannte Quelle des Glücks. Sie konnten nur noch von Offizieren sprechen; und Mr. Bingleys großes Vermögen, von dem die Erwähnung ihre Mutter begeisterte, war in ihren Augen nichts wert im Vergleich zu den Uniformen eines Fähnrichs. Nachdem er an einem Morgen ihren "Nun, Jane, von wem ist es? Worüber handelt es sich? Was sagt er? Nun, Jane, beeile dich und sag uns Bescheid; beeile dich, meine Liebe." "Es ist von Miss Bingley", sagte Jane und las es dann laut vor. "Meine liebe Freundin, "Falls du nicht so mitfühlend bist, heute mit Louisa und mir zu Abend zu essen, werden wir uns für den Rest unseres Lebens hassen, denn ein ganztägiges tête-à-tête zwischen zwei Frauen kann niemals ohne Streit enden. Komm so schnell wie möglich nach Erhalt dieses. Mein Bruder und die Herren werden mit den Offizieren zu Abend essen. Immer deine, "CAROLINE BINGLEY." "Mit den Offizieren!" rief Lydia. "Ich frage mich, warum Tante uns das nicht gesagt hat." "Auswärts essen", sagte Mrs. Bennet, "das ist sehr unglücklich." "Kann ich den Wagen haben?", fragte Jane. "Nein, mein Liebes, du solltest besser zu Pferd gehen, denn es scheint, als würde es regnen; und dann müsstest du über Nacht bleiben." "Das wäre ein guter Plan", sagte Elizabeth, "wenn du sicher wärst, dass sie ihr nicht anbieten, nach Hause zu fahren." "Oh! Aber die Herren werden Mr. Bingleys Kutsche haben, um nach Meryton zu fahren; und die Hursts haben keine Pferde für ihre Kutsche." "Ich würde viel lieber mit der Kutsche fahren." "Aber, mein Liebes, dein Vater kann die Pferde nicht entbehren, da bin ich mir sicher. Sie werden auf der Farm gebraucht, nicht wahr, Mr. Bennet?" "Sie werden auf der Farm viel öfter gebraucht, als ich sie bekommen kann." "Aber wenn du sie heute bekommen hast", sagte Elizabeth, "wird der Plan meiner Mutter erfüllt sein." Schließlich drang sie ihrem Vater das Geständnis ab, dass die Pferde vergeben waren. Jane war daher gezwungen, zu Pferd zu gehen, und ihre Mutter begleitete sie zur Tür mit vielen fröhlichen Prognosen für einen schlechten Tag. Ihre Hoffnungen wurden erfüllt; Jane war noch nicht lange weg, als es stark zu regnen begann. Ihre Schwestern waren besorgt um sie, aber ihre Mutter war begeistert. Der Regen dauerte den ganzen Abend ununterbrochen an; Jane konnte sicherlich nicht zurückkommen. "Das war wirklich eine glückliche Idee von mir!", sagte Mrs. Bennet mehr als einmal, als ob allein sie für den Regen verantwortlich gewesen wäre. Bis zum nächsten Morgen war sie sich jedoch nicht bewusst, wie viel Glück sie mit ihrem Plan hatte. Das Frühstück war kaum vorbei, als ein Diener aus Netherfield folgendes Notiz für Elizabeth brachte: "Meine liebe Lizzy, "Ich fühle mich heute Morgen sehr unwohl, was, nehme ich an, darauf zurückzuführen ist, dass ich gestern durchnässt worden bin. Meine netten Freunde werden nicht zulassen, dass ich nach Hause zurückkehre, bis es mir besser geht. Sie bestehen darauf, dass ich Mr. Jones sehe - sei also nicht beunruhig, wenn du hörst, dass er bei mir war - abgesehen von Halsschmerzen und Kopfschmerzen gibt es nicht viel, was mich betrifft. "Deine etc." "Nun, mein Liebes", sagte Mr. Bennet, als Elizabeth den Brief laut vorgelesen hatte, "wenn deine Tochter einen gefährlichen Krankheitsanfall haben sollte, wenn sie sterben sollte, wäre es ein Trost zu wissen, dass alles in der Verfolgung von Mr. Bingley und unter deinem Befehl geschehen ist." "Oh! Ich habe überhaupt keine Angst, dass sie sterben wird. Die Leute sterben nicht an kleinen Erkältungen. Sie wird gut versorgt werden. Solange sie dort bleibt, ist alles in Ordnung. Ich würde sie besuchen gehen, wenn ich den Wagen haben könnte." Elizabeth, die wirklich besorgt war, entschied sich, zu ihr zu gehen, auch wenn der Wagen nicht verfügbar war; und da sie kein Pferdemädchen war, war Gehen die einzige Alternative. Sie erklärte ihren Entschluss. "Wie kannst du so dumm sein", rief ihre Mutter, "sowas in all diesem Dreck zu denken! Du wirst nicht ansehnlich sein, wenn du dort ankommst." "Ich werde sehr gut aussehen, um Jane zu sehen - das ist alles, was ich will." "Was willst du mir damit sagen, Lizzy", sagte ihr Vater, "soll ich die Pferde holen lassen?" "Nein, wirklich nicht. Ich möchte nicht auf den Spaziergang verzichten. Die Entfernung ist nichts, wenn man ein Ziel hat; nur drei Meilen. Ich werde zum Abendessen zurück sein." "Ich bewundere die Aktivität deiner Güte", bemerkte Mary, "aber jeder Impuls des Gefühls sollte von der Vernunft geleitet werden; und meiner Meinung nach sollte Anstrengung immer im Verhältnis zu dem stehen, was erforderlich ist." "Wir werden bis Meryton mit dir gehen", sagten Catherine und Lydia. --Elizabeth akzeptierte ihre Begleitung, und die drei jungen Damen machten sich zusammen auf den Weg. "Wenn wir uns beeilen", sagte Lydia, als sie gingen, "können wir vielleicht noch etwas von Captain Carter sehen, bevor er geht." In Meryton trennten sie sich; die beiden jüngsten begaben sich zu den Unterkünften einer der Offiziersehefrauen und Elizabeth setzte ihren Spaziergang alleine fort, Feld um Feld überquerend, in schnellem Tempo über Baumstümpfe springend und über Pfützen springend, ungeduldig aktiv, und fand sich schließlich in Sichtweite des Hauses mit müden Knöcheln, schmutzigen Strümpfen und einem vom Training erhitzten Gesicht. Sie wurde in das Frühstückszimmer geführt, in dem alle außer Jane versammelt waren, und ihr Erscheinen sorgte für große Überraschung. Dass sie an einem so frühen Tag drei Meilen gelaufen war, bei einem so schmutzigen Wetter und alleine, war für Mrs. Hurst und Miss Bingley fast unglaublich; und Elizabeth war überzeugt, dass sie sie deswegen verachteten. Sie wurde jedoch sehr höflich von ihnen empfangen, und in das Verhalten ihres Bruders war etwas mehr als Höflichkeit zu erkennen. Es war gute Laune und Freundlichkeit. Mr. Darcy sagte nur sehr wenig, und Mr. Hurst überhaupt nichts. Er letztere dachte nur an sein Frühstück. Ihre Erkundigungen nach ihrer Schwester wurden nicht sehr positiv beantwortet. Miss Bennet hatte schlecht geschlafen und war zwar auf, aber sehr fiebrig und nicht gut genug, um ihr Zimmer zu verlassen. Elizabeth war froh, sofort zu ihr gebracht zu werden, und Jane, die nur von der Angst aufgehalten worden war, durch ihre Notiz auszudrücken, wie sehr sie sich nach einem solchen Besuch sehnte, war über ihren Eintritt begeistert. Sie war jedoch nicht in der Lage, viel zu reden, und als Miss Bingley sie alleine ließ, konnte sie außer Ausdrücken der Dankbarkeit für die außergewöhnliche Freundlichkeit, die ihr erwiesen wurde, wenig tun. Elizabeth begleitete sie schweigend. Als das Frühstück vorbei war, wurden sie von den Schwestern begleitet, und Elizabeth begann, sie selbst zu mögen, als sie sah, wie sehr Zuneigung und Fürsorge sie für Jane zeigten. Der Apotheker kam und nachdem er seine Patientin untersucht hatte, sagte er, wie zu erwarten war, dass sie sich eine starke Erkältung zugezogen hatte und dass sie versuchen müssten, darüber hinwegzukommen. Er riet ihr, ins Bett zurückzukehren, und versprach ihr einige Medikamente. Der Rat wurde gerne befolgt, denn die Fieberanzeichen nahmen zu und ihr Kopf schmerzte heftig. Elizabeth verließ ihr Zimmer keinen Moment lang, und die anderen Damen waren auch selten abwesend; da die Herren nicht da waren, hatten sie ansonsten nichts zu tun. Als die Uhr drei schlug, fühlte Elizabeth, dass sie gehen musste, und sagte dies sehr unwillig. Miss Bingley bot ihr den Wagen an, und sie brauchte nur ein wenig Überredungskunst, um es anzunehmen, als Jane so besorgt war, sich von ihr zu trennen, dass Miss Bingley gezw Ihr Bruder war in der Tat der Einzige der Gruppe, den sie mit Wohlwollen betrachten konnte. Seine Sorge um Jane war offensichtlich, und seine Aufmerksamkeiten ihr gegenüber äußerst angenehm und verhinderten, dass sie sich so sehr wie eine Eindringling fühlte, wie sie von den anderen wahrgenommen wurde. Sie bekam von keinem anderen außer ihm so gut wie keine Beachtung. Miss Bingley wurde von Mr. Darcy in Anspruch genommen, ihre Schwester kaum weniger; und was Mr. Hurst betraf, bei dem Elizabeth saß, er war ein träge Mann, der nur lebte, um zu essen, zu trinken und Karten zu spielen, und als er sah, dass sie ein einfaches Gericht einem Ragout vorzog, hatte er nichts zu sagen. Nach dem Essen kehrte sie sofort zu Jane zurück, und Miss Bingley fing an, sie zu beschimpfen, sobald sie den Raum verlassen hatte. Ihre Manieren wurden als sehr schlecht angesehen, eine Mischung aus Stolz und Unhöflichkeit; sie hatte kein Gespräch, kein Stil, keinen Geschmack, keine Schönheit. Mrs. Hurst dachte dasselbe und fügte hinzu: "Sie hat nichts, um sie zu empfehlen, außer dass sie eine ausgezeichnete Spaziergängerin ist. Ich werde ihr Erscheinungsbild heute Morgen nie vergessen. Sie sah wirklich fast wild aus." "Das tat sie in der Tat, Louisa. Ich konnte mein Gesicht kaum bewahren. Völlig unsinnig, überhaupt zu kommen! Warum muss sie durch das Land rennen, nur weil ihre Schwester erkältet ist? Ihr Haar so ungeordnet, so verwuschelt!" "Ja, und ihr Unterkleid; ich hoffe, du hast ihr Unterkleid gesehen, sechs Zoll tief im Schlamm, da bin ich mir ganz sicher; und das Kleid, das heruntergezogen wurde, um es zu verbergen, hat seine Aufgabe nicht erfüllt." "Dein Bild mag sehr genau sein, Louisa", sagte Bingley, "aber das ging alles an mir vorbei. Ich fand, dass Miss Elizabeth Bennet ziemlich gut aussah, als sie heute Morgen in den Raum kam. Ihr schmutziges Unterkleid ist mir völlig entgangen." "Sie haben es bemerkt, Mr. Darcy, da bin ich sicher", sagte Miss Bingley, "und ich neige dazu zu denken, dass Sie nicht wünschen würden, dass _Ihre Schwester_ eine solche Ausstellung gibt." "Ganz und gar nicht." "Drei Meilen, vier Meilen, fünf Meilen zu gehen, oder wie viele es auch sind, mit dem Knöchel tief im Dreck, und allein, ganz allein! Was könnte sie damit gemeint haben? Es scheint mir eine schreckliche Art von eingebildeter Unabhängigkeit zu zeigen, eine absolute Gleichgültigkeit gegenüber Anstand." "Es zeigt eine Zuneigung für ihre Schwester, die sehr erfreulich ist", sagte Bingley. "Ich befürchte, Mr. Darcy", bemerkte Miss Bingley halb flüsternd, "dass dieses Abenteuer Ihre Bewunderung für ihre schönen Augen etwas beeinflusst hat." "Ganz und gar nicht", antwortete er, "sie wurden durch die Bewegung noch heller."- Es folgte eine kurze Pause nach dieser Äußerung, und Mrs. Hurst fing wieder an. "Ich habe eine übermäßige Achtung vor Jane Bennet, sie ist wirklich ein sehr süßes Mädchen, und ich wünsche von ganzem Herzen, dass sie sich gut niederlässt. Aber mit einem solchen Vater und einer solchen Mutter und solch niedrigen Verbindungen fürchte ich, dass keine Chance besteht." "Ich glaube, ich habe dich sagen hören, dass ihr Onkel ein Anwalt in Meryton ist." "Ja, und sie haben noch einen, der irgendwo in der Nähe von Cheapside lebt." "Das ist wunderbar", fügte ihre Schwester hinzu, und sie lachten beide herzlich. "Wenn sie genug Onkel hätten, um _ganz_ Cheapside zu füllen", rief Bingley aus, "würde es sie nicht im Geringsten weniger liebenswert machen." "Aber es muss ihre Aussichten, Männer von Ansehen zu heiraten, sehr beeinträchtigen", erwiderte Darcy. Bingley antwortete nicht auf diese Äußerung, aber seine Schwestern stimmten ihr herzlich zu und ergötzten sich einige Zeit auf Kosten der vulgären Verwandtschaft ihrer geliebten Freundin. Mit einer erneuten Zärtlichkeit begaben sie sich jedoch beim Verlassen des Speisesaals in ihr Zimmer und saßen bei ihr, bis sie zum Kaffee gerufen wurden. Sie fühlte sich immer noch sehr schlecht, und Elizabeth wollte sie überhaupt nicht verlassen, bis spät am Abend, als sie den Trost hatte, sie schlafend zu sehen, und es ihr eher richtig als angenehm erschien, selbst hinunterzugehen. Beim Betreten des Salons fand sie die ganze Gesellschaft beim Kartenspiel, und wurde sofort eingeladen, sich ihnen anzuschließen; aber da sie vermutete, dass sie hoch spielten, lehnte sie ab und machte ihre Schwester als Entschuldigung und sagte, dass sie sich für die kurze Zeit, die sie unten bleiben könnte, mit einem Buch amüsieren würde. Mr. Hurst sah sie erstaunt an. "Bevorzugen Sie Lesen vor Karten?", sagte er; "das ist recht eigenartig." "Miss Eliza Bennet", sagte Miss Bingley, "verachtet Karten. Sie ist eine große Leserin und hat an nichts anderem Vergnügen." "Ich verdiene weder ein solches Lob noch eine solche Kritik", rief Elizabeth; "ich bin keine große Leserin, und ich habe Freude an vielen Dingen." "Ich bin sicher, dass Sie Freude daran haben, Ihre Schwester zu pflegen", sagte Bingley; "und ich hoffe, dass diese Freude bald dadurch noch gesteigert wird, dass sie vollständig gesund wird." Elizabeth dankte ihm von Herzen und ging dann zu einem Tisch, auf dem einige Bücher lagen. Er bot sofort an, ihr andere zu holen, alles, was seine Bibliothek hergab. "Und ich wünschte, meine Sammlung wäre größer zum Vorteil für Sie und zur Ehre", fuhr er fort, "aber ich bin ein fauler Kerl, und obwohl ich nicht viele habe, habe ich mehr, als ich je anschaue." Elizabeth versicherte ihm, dass sie sich mit denen im Raum perfekt zufriedenstellen könne. "Ich bin erstaunt", sagte Miss Bingley, "dass mein Vater so eine kleine Büchersammlung hinterlassen hat - Was für eine schöne Bibliothek Sie in Pemberley haben, Mr. Darcy!" "Das sollte sie sein", erwiderte er, "sie ist das Werk vieler Generationen." "Und dann haben Sie selbst so viel dazu beigetragen, Sie kaufen immer Bücher." "Ich kann die Vernachlässigung einer Familienbibliothek in solchen Tagen wie diesen nicht begreifen." "Vernachlässigung! Ich bin sicher, dass Sie nichts vernachlässigen, was zur Schönheit dieses noblen Ortes beitragen kann. Charles, wenn Sie _Ihr_ Haus bauen, wünsche ich mir, dass es halb so schön wie Pemberley sein mag." Das wünsche ich mir auch." "Aber ich würde Ihnen wirklich raten, Ihren Kauf in dieser Gegend zu tätigen und Pemberley als eine Art Modell zu nehmen. Es gibt kein schöneres County in England als Derbyshire." "Von ganzem Herzen, ich werde Pemberley selbst kaufen, wenn Darcy es verkaufen will." "Ich spreche von Möglichkeiten, Charles." "Wahrhaftig, Caroline, ich würde meinen, es ist wahrscheinlicher, Pemberley zu kaufen als es nachzuahmen." Elizabeth war so sehr von dem Geschehen eingenommen, dass sie kaum noch Aufmerksamkeit für ihr Buch hatte und es bald ganz beiseite legte. Sie näherte sich dem Kartentisch und stellte sich zwischen Mr. Bingley und seiner ältesten Schwester auf, um das Spiel zu beobachten. "I "Ich bin nicht mehr überrascht darüber, dass du _nur_ sechs gebildete Frauen kennst. Vielmehr wundere ich mich jetzt, dass du überhaupt irgendwelche kennst." "Bist du so hart zu deinem eigenen Geschlecht, dass du an der Möglichkeit all dessen zweifelst?" "Ich habe noch nie eine solche Frau gesehen. Ich habe noch nie eine solche Fähigkeit, Geschmack, Einsatz und Eleganz gesehen, wie du sie beschreibst, vereint." Mrs. Hurst und Miss Bingley protestierten beide gegen das Unrecht ihrer implizierten Zweifel und behaupteten, sie würden viele Frauen kennen, die diese Beschreibung erfüllen. Da sie jedoch nicht auf das achteten, was vor sich ging, rief Mr. Hurst sie zur Ordnung. Da nun jegliche Unterhaltung beendet war, verließ Elizabeth kurz darauf den Raum. "Eliza Bennet", sagte Miss Bingley, als die Tür hinter ihr geschlossen war, "ist eine von diesen jungen Damen, die versuchen, sich dem anderen Geschlecht zu empfehlen, indem sie ihr eigenes herabsetzen; und bei vielen Männern, da bin ich mir sicher, hat das Erfolg. Aber meiner Meinung nach ist das eine armselige Strategie, eine sehr niedrige Kunst." "Zweifellos", antwortete Darcy, an den sich diese Bemerkung hauptsächlich richtete, "ist alles, was Ähnlichkeit mit List hat, verachtenswert." Miss Bingley war mit dieser Antwort nicht vollständig zufrieden und wollte das Thema nicht weiter verfolgen. Elizabeth schloss sich ihnen wieder an, um nur zu sagen, dass ihre Schwester schlimmer wurde und dass sie nicht bei ihr weggehen konnte. Bingley drängte darauf, Mr. Jones sofort zu rufen, während seine Schwestern überzeugt waren, dass ein Rat vom Lande nichts helfen würde, und empfahlen die sofortige Beauftragung eines der angesehensten Ärzte der Stadt. Das wollte sie jedoch nicht hören, aber sie war nicht so abgeneigt, dem Vorschlag ihres Bruders nachzukommen, und es wurde vereinbart, dass Mr. Jones früh am Morgen gerufen werden sollte, falls es Miss Bennet nicht deutlich besser ging. Bingley war sehr unwohl dabei; seine Schwestern erklärten, dass sie unglücklich seien. Sie trösteten ihre Elendigkeit jedoch durch Duette nach dem Abendessen, während er keine bessere Erleichterung für seine Gefühle finden konnte, als seiner Haushälterin Anweisungen zu geben, dass der kranken Dame und ihrer Schwester jede mögliche Aufmerksamkeit geschenkt werden sollte. Elizabeth verbrachte den Großteil der Nacht im Zimmer ihrer Schwester und hatte am Morgen das Vergnügen, eine annehmbare Antwort auf die Anfragen, die sie sehr früh von Mr. Bingley durch eine Hausmädchen erhielt, und einige Zeit später von den beiden eleganten Damen, die seine Schwestern begleiteten, schicken zu können. Trotz dieser Besserung bat sie jedoch darum, dass eine Notiz nach Longbourn geschickt würde, in der sie ihre Mutter bat, Jane zu besuchen und sich selbst ein Urteil über ihre Situation zu bilden. Die Notiz wurde sofort abgeschickt und ihr Inhalt ebenso schnell erfüllt. Mrs. Bennet, begleitet von ihren beiden jüngsten Töchtern, erreichte Netherfield kurz nach dem Frühstück der Familie. Hätte Mrs. Bennet Jane in einer offensichtlichen Gefahr vorgefunden, wäre sie sehr unglücklich gewesen, aber nachdem sie gesehen hatte, dass ihre Krankheit nicht beunruhigend war, wünschte sie nicht sofortige Genesung für sie, da ihre Rückkehr zur Gesundheit sie wahrscheinlich von Netherfield entfernen würde. Sie wollte daher auch nicht auf den Vorschlag ihrer Tochter eingehen, nach Hause gebracht zu werden; auch der Apotheker, der zur gleichen Zeit ankam, hielt dies für nicht ratsam. Nachdem sie eine Weile bei Jane gesessen hatte, auf Erscheinen und Einladung von Miss Bingley, gingen die Mutter und die drei Töchter alle mit ihr in das Frühstückszimmer. Bingley empfing sie mit der Hoffnung, dass Mrs. Bennet Miss Bennet nicht schlechter vorgefunden hatte als erwartet. "In der Tat habe ich das, Sir", war ihre Antwort. "Sie ist viel zu krank, um bewegt zu werden. Mr. Jones sagt, wir dürfen nicht daran denken, sie zu bewegen. Wir müssen noch ein wenig länger auf Ihre Freundlichkeit in Anspruch nehmen." "Bewegt!" rief Bingley aus. "Darüber darf nicht nachgedacht werden. Meine Schwester wird es bestimmt nicht zulassen." "Sie können darauf vertrauen, Madam", sagte Miss Bingley mit kalter Höflichkeit, "dass Miss Bennet jede mögliche Aufmerksamkeit erhalten wird, solange sie bei uns bleibt." Mrs. Bennet war überaus dankbar. "Ich bin mir sicher", fügte sie hinzu, "wenn es nicht so gute Freunde gäbe, wüsste ich nicht, was aus ihr werden sollte, denn sie ist wirklich sehr krank und leidet sehr viel, obwohl sie die größte Geduld der Welt hat, das ist immer ihre Art, denn sie hat zweifellos das süßeste Wesen, das ich je getroffen habe. Ich erzähle meinen anderen Mädchen oft, dass sie im Vergleich zu ihr nichts sind. Mr. Bingley, Sie haben hier ein schönes Zimmer und einen charmanten Blick auf diesen Kiesweg. Ich kenne keinen Ort auf dem Land, der mit Netherfield vergleichbar wäre. Sie werden hoffentlich nicht daran denken, es so schnell zu verlassen, obwohl Sie nur einen kurzen Pachtvertrag haben." "Was auch immer ich tue, geschieht in Eile", antwortete er, "und daher, wenn ich beschließen sollte, Netherfield zu verlassen, würde ich wahrscheinlich in fünf Minuten fort sein. Im Moment jedoch betrachte ich mich als hier fest entschlossen." "Das ist genau das, was ich von Ihnen erwartet hätte", sagte Elizabeth. "Du fängst an, mich zu verstehen, oder?" rief er aus und wandte sich ihr zu. "Oh ja, ich verstehe dich perfekt." "Ich wünschte, ich könnte das als ein Kompliment nehmen; aber so leicht durchschaubar zu sein, ist meiner Meinung nach bedauernswert." "Das hängt davon ab. Es bedeutet nicht zwangsläufig, dass ein raffinierter Charakter mehr oder weniger schätzbar ist als ein Charakter wie deiner." "Lizzy", rief ihre Mutter, "erinnere dich, wo du bist, und rede nicht in der wilden Art und Weise, wie du es zu Hause tun darfst." "Ich wusste vorher nicht", fuhr Bingley sofort fort, "dass du eine Charakterstudierende bist. Das muss eine amüsante Studie sein." "Ja, aber komplexe Charaktere sind die amüsantesten. Das haben sie zumindest voraus." "Das Land", sagte Darcy, "kann im Allgemeinen nur wenige Themen für eine solche Studie bieten. In einer ländlichen Umgebung bewegt man sich in einer sehr begrenzten und unveränderlichen Gesellschaft." "Menschen selbst verändern sich jedoch so sehr, dass es immer etwas Neues an ihnen zu beobachten gibt." "Ja, das stimmt", rief Mrs. Bennet beleidigt über seine Art, eine ländliche Nachbarschaft zu erwähnen. "Ich kann Ihnen versichern, dass in der Tat genauso viel _davon_ auf dem Land passiert wie in der Stadt." Jeder war überrascht, und Darcy wandte sich nach einem kurzen Blick auf sie schweigend ab. Mrs. Bennet, die glaubte, einen vollständigen Sieg über ihn errungen zu haben, setzte ihren Triumph fort. "Ich kann nicht erkennen, dass London irgendwelche großen Vorteile gegenüber dem Land hat, zumindest für meinen Teil, außer den Geschäften und öffentlichen Plätzen. Das Land ist um vieles angenehmer, nicht wahr, Mr. Bingley?" "Wenn ich auf dem Land bin", antwortete er, "möchte ich nie weg; und wenn ich in der Stadt bin, ist es so z "Oh! Ja, aber du musst zugeben, dass sie sehr gewöhnlich ist. Lady Lucas selbst hat das oft gesagt und hat mir Janes Schönheit beneidet. Ich möchte nicht mit dem Lob für mein eigenes Kind prahlen, aber ja, Jane - man sieht nicht oft jemanden, der besser aussieht. Das sagen alle. Ich vertraue meiner eigenen Bevorzugung nicht. Als sie erst fünfzehn war, war ein Herr bei meinem Bruder Gardiner in der Stadt, der so sehr in sie verliebt war, dass meine Schwägerin sicher war, dass er ihr einen Heiratsantrag machen würde, bevor wir weggingen. Aber er hat es nicht getan. Vielleicht hielt er sie für zu jung. Aber er hat einige Gedichte über sie geschrieben, und sie waren sehr schön." "Und so endete seine Zuneigung", sagte Elizabeth ungeduldig. "Es gab sicher viele, die auf die gleiche Weise überwunden wurden. Ich frage mich, wer als Erster die Effektivität von Gedichten entdeckt hat, um die Liebe zu vertreiben!" "Ich habe mich daran gewöhnt, Poesie als die Nahrung der Liebe zu betrachten", sagte Darcy. "Für eine starke, kräftige, gesunde Liebe mag das stimmen. Alles nährt, was bereits stark ist. Aber wenn es nur eine leichte, flüchtige Neigung ist, bin ich überzeugt, dass ein gutes Sonett es vollständig verhungern lässt." Darcy lächelte nur, und die allgemeine Pause, die darauf folgte, ließ Elizabeth zittern, dass ihre Mutter sich wieder bloßstellen könnte. Sie sehnte sich danach, zu sprechen, konnte aber nichts sagen und nach einer kurzen Stille begann Mrs. Bennet, sich bei Mr. Bingley für seine Freundlichkeit gegenüber Jane zu bedanken, mit einer Entschuldigung, dass sie ihn auch mit Lizzy belästigte. Mr. Bingley war ehrlich höflich in seiner Antwort und zwang auch seine jüngere Schwester, höflich zu sein und das zu sagen, was die Gelegenheit erforderte. Sie erfüllte ihre Aufgabe zwar nicht sehr freundlich, aber Mrs. Bennet war zufrieden und ließ kurz darauf ihren Wagen bestellen. Bei diesem Signal trat die jüngste ihrer Töchter vor. Die beiden Mädchen hatten sich während des gesamten Besuchs zugeflüstert, und das Ergebnis war, dass die jüngste von ihnen Mr. Bingley auffordern sollte, sein Versprechen einzulösen, bei seinem ersten Aufenthalt im Land einen Ball in Netherfield zu geben. Lydia war ein stämmiges, gut gewachsenes Mädchen von fünfzehn Jahren, mit einem schönen Teint und einem gutmütigen Gesicht; eine Lieblingstochter ihrer Mutter, deren Zuneigung sie schon früh in der Öffentlichkeit gebracht hatte. Sie hatte eine große Begeisterung und eine Art natürliche Selbstsicherheit, die durch die Aufmerksamkeiten der Offiziere, denen die guten Essen ihres Onkels und ihre unbeschwerte Art empfohlen hatten, zur Arroganz geworden war. Sie war also sehr geeignet, Mr. Bingley auf das Thema des Balls anzusprechen, und erinnerte ihn abrupt an sein Versprechen mit der Bemerkung, dass es das schändlichste wäre, wenn er es nicht einhielte. Seine Antwort auf diesen plötzlichen Angriff war ein Genuss für die Ohren ihrer Mutter. "Ich bin vollkommen bereit, Ihnen meine Verpflichtung zu erfüllen, und wenn Ihre Schwester sich erholt hat, können Sie gerne den genauen Tag für den Ball festlegen. Aber Sie möchten sicher nicht tanzen, während sie krank ist." Lydia erklärte sich zufrieden. "Oh ja, es wäre viel besser, auf Jane's Genesung zu warten, und bis dahin wäre höchstwahrscheinlich Captain Carter wieder in Meryton. Und nachdem Sie Ihren Ball gegeben haben", fügte sie hinzu, "werde ich darauf bestehen, dass sie auch einen geben. Ich werde Colonel Forster sagen, dass es eine Schande wäre, wenn er es nicht tut." Mrs. Bennet und ihre Töchter verließen dann das Haus, und Elizabeth kehrte sofort zu Jane zurück und überließ das Verhalten ihrer eigenen und ihrer Verwandten den Bemerkungen der beiden Damen und Mr. Darcy; Letzterer konnte jedoch nicht dazu gebracht werden, sich ihrer Kritik an _ihr_ anzuschließen, trotz aller Witzchen von Miss Bingley über _schöne Augen_. Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Jane und Elizabeth verbringen mehr Zeit mit den Bewohnern von Netherfield. Caroline Bingley und Mrs. Hurst scheinen Jane zu mögen, und die Anziehungskraft zwischen Mr. Bingley und Jane wächst weiterhin. Inzwischen findet Elizabeth Miss Bingley und Mrs. Hurst selbstgefällig, ist aber mit ihrem Bruder und der sich entwickelnden Beziehung zwischen ihm und Jane einverstanden. Was Mr. Darcy betrifft, so betrachtet Elizabeth ihn weiterhin als stolz und reserviert. Sie ist sich nicht bewusst, dass seine ursprüngliche Einschätzung von ihr sich geändert hat und dass er gegen seinen Willen zu ihr hingezogen wird. Als er Miss Bingley gegenüber Elizabeths "schönen Augen" erwähnt, neckt Miss Bingley ihn eifersüchtig damit, dass er Elizabeth heiraten möchte. Eines Morgens erhält Jane eine Einladung von Caroline Bingley, zum Abendessen nach Netherfield zu kommen. Da es nach Regen aussieht, schickt Mrs. Bennet Jane auf einem Pferd nach Netherfield, anstatt mit einer Kutsche, damit sie die Nacht bei Netherfield verbringen muss anstatt im Regen nach Hause zu reiten. Der Trick funktioniert, und am nächsten Morgen erhalten die Bennets eine Notiz von Jane, die ihnen mitteilt, dass sie krank ist, weil sie sich am Vortag auf dem Weg nach Netherfield durchnässt hat und bis zur Genesung in Netherfield bleiben muss. Obwohl Mrs. Bennet damit zufrieden ist, dass Jane mehr Zeit in Mr. Bingleys Haus verbringt, ist Elizabeth besorgt und beschließt, die drei Meilen nach Netherfield zu laufen, um selbst zu sehen, wie es ihrer Schwester geht. Als Elizabeth Netherfield erreicht, stellt sie fest, dass Jane kranker ist, als ihr Brief vermuten ließ, und Miss Bingley lädt sie widerwillig ein, bei Jane zu bleiben. Obwohl Elizabeth die meiste Zeit bei Jane in Netherfield verbringt, isst sie mit den anderen zu Abend und gesellt sich später am Abend zu ihnen in das Wohnzimmer. Während Elizabeth in ihrer Gesellschaft ist, sind Miss Bingley und Mrs. Hurst höflich zu ihr, aber wenn sie abwesend ist, erfreuen sich die beiden Frauen daran, ihre Verwandten und die Tatsache zu kritisieren, dass sie den ganzen Weg nach Netherfield gelaufen ist, um Jane zu sehen. Trotz der Herabsetzung von Elizabeth äußern Mr. Bingley und Mr. Darcy ihre Zustimmung zu ihr. Am nächsten Tag besuchen Mrs. Bennet, Kitty und Lydia Netherfield, um sich nach Jane zu erkundigen. Während sie dort sind, ist Elizabeth von dem rüpelhaften Verhalten ihrer Familie peinlich berührt. Mrs. Bennet hofiert Mr. Bingley, während sie gleichzeitig offen unhöflich zu Mr. Darcy ist, während Lydia gegenüber Mr. Bingley allzu offen ist und ihn daran erinnert, dass er versprochen hat, einen Ball zu geben. Mr. Bingley stimmt gutmütig zu, dass er einen Ball geben wird, sobald es Jane besser geht.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). 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: MOTHER Elizabeth Willard, the mother of George Willard, was tall and gaunt and her face was marked with smallpox scars. Although she was but forty-five, some obscure disease had taken the fire out of her figure. Listlessly she went about the disorderly old hotel looking at the faded wall-paper and the ragged carpets and, when she was able to be about, doing the work of a chambermaid among beds soiled by the slumbers of fat traveling men. Her husband, Tom Willard, a slender, graceful man with square shoulders, a quick military step, and a black mustache trained to turn sharply up at the ends, tried to put the wife out of his mind. The presence of the tall ghostly figure, moving slowly through the halls, he took as a reproach to himself. When he thought of her he grew angry and swore. The hotel was unprofitable and forever on the edge of failure and he wished himself out of it. He thought of the old house and the woman who lived there with him as things defeated and done for. The hotel in which he had begun life so hopefully was now a mere ghost of what a hotel should be. As he went spruce and business-like through the streets of Winesburg, he sometimes stopped and turned quickly about as though fearing that the spirit of the hotel and of the woman would follow him even into the streets. "Damn such a life, damn it!" he sputtered aimlessly. Tom Willard had a passion for village politics and for years had been the leading Democrat in a strongly Republican community. Some day, he told himself, the tide of things political will turn in my favor and the years of ineffectual service count big in the bestowal of rewards. He dreamed of going to Congress and even of becoming governor. Once when a younger member of the party arose at a political conference and began to boast of his faithful service, Tom Willard grew white with fury. "Shut up, you," he roared, glaring about. "What do you know of service? What are you but a boy? Look at what I've done here! I was a Democrat here in Winesburg when it was a crime to be a Democrat. In the old days they fairly hunted us with guns." Between Elizabeth and her one son George there was a deep unexpressed bond of sympathy, based on a girlhood dream that had long ago died. In the son's presence she was timid and reserved, but sometimes while he hurried about town intent upon his duties as a reporter, she went into his room and closing the door knelt by a little desk, made of a kitchen table, that sat near a window. In the room by the desk she went through a ceremony that was half a prayer, half a demand, addressed to the skies. In the boyish figure she yearned to see something half forgotten that had once been a part of herself recreated. The prayer concerned that. "Even though I die, I will in some way keep defeat from you," she cried, and so deep was her determination that her whole body shook. Her eyes glowed and she clenched her fists. "If I am dead and see him becoming a meaningless drab figure like myself, I will come back," she declared. "I ask God now to give me that privilege. I demand it. I will pay for it. God may beat me with his fists. I will take any blow that may befall if but this my boy be allowed to express something for us both." Pausing uncertainly, the woman stared about the boy's room. "And do not let him become smart and successful either," she added vaguely. The communion between George Willard and his mother was outwardly a formal thing without meaning. When she was ill and sat by the window in her room he sometimes went in the evening to make her a visit. They sat by a window that looked over the roof of a small frame building into Main Street. By turning their heads they could see through another window, along an alleyway that ran behind the Main Street stores and into the back door of Abner Groff's bakery. Sometimes as they sat thus a picture of village life presented itself to them. At the back door of his shop appeared Abner Groff with a stick or an empty milk bottle in his hand. For a long time there was a feud between the baker and a grey cat that belonged to Sylvester West, the druggist. The boy and his mother saw the cat creep into the door of the bakery and presently emerge followed by the baker, who swore and waved his arms about. The baker's eyes were small and red and his black hair and beard were filled with flour dust. Sometimes he was so angry that, although the cat had disappeared, he hurled sticks, bits of broken glass, and even some of the tools of his trade about. Once he broke a window at the back of Sinning's Hardware Store. In the alley the grey cat crouched behind barrels filled with torn paper and broken bottles above which flew a black swarm of flies. Once when she was alone, and after watching a prolonged and ineffectual outburst on the part of the baker, Elizabeth Willard put her head down on her long white hands and wept. After that she did not look along the alleyway any more, but tried to forget the contest between the bearded man and the cat. It seemed like a rehearsal of her own life, terrible in its vividness. In the evening when the son sat in the room with his mother, the silence made them both feel awkward. Darkness came on and the evening train came in at the station. In the street below feet tramped up and down upon a board sidewalk. In the station yard, after the evening train had gone, there was a heavy silence. Perhaps Skinner Leason, the express agent, moved a truck the length of the station platform. Over on Main Street sounded a man's voice, laughing. The door of the express office banged. George Willard arose and crossing the room fumbled for the doorknob. Sometimes he knocked against a chair, making it scrape along the floor. By the window sat the sick woman, perfectly still, listless. Her long hands, white and bloodless, could be seen drooping over the ends of the arms of the chair. "I think you had better be out among the boys. You are too much indoors," she said, striving to relieve the embarrassment of the departure. "I thought I would take a walk," replied George Willard, who felt awkward and confused. One evening in July, when the transient guests who made the New Willard House their temporary home had become scarce, and the hallways, lighted only by kerosene lamps turned low, were plunged in gloom, Elizabeth Willard had an adventure. She had been ill in bed for several days and her son had not come to visit her. She was alarmed. The feeble blaze of life that remained in her body was blown into a flame by her anxiety and she crept out of bed, dressed and hurried along the hallway toward her son's room, shaking with exaggerated fears. As she went along she steadied herself with her hand, slipped along the papered walls of the hall and breathed with difficulty. The air whistled through her teeth. As she hurried forward she thought how foolish she was. "He is concerned with boyish affairs," she told herself. "Perhaps he has now begun to walk about in the evening with girls." Elizabeth Willard had a dread of being seen by guests in the hotel that had once belonged to her father and the ownership of which still stood recorded in her name in the county courthouse. The hotel was continually losing patronage because of its shabbiness and she thought of herself as also shabby. Her own room was in an obscure corner and when she felt able to work she voluntarily worked among the beds, preferring the labor that could be done when the guests were abroad seeking trade among the merchants of Winesburg. By the door of her son's room the mother knelt upon the floor and listened for some sound from within. When she heard the boy moving about and talking in low tones a smile came to her lips. George Willard had a habit of talking aloud to himself and to hear him doing so had always given his mother a peculiar pleasure. The habit in him, she felt, strengthened the secret bond that existed between them. A thousand times she had whispered to herself of the matter. "He is groping about, trying to find himself," she thought. "He is not a dull clod, all words and smartness. Within him there is a secret something that is striving to grow. It is the thing I let be killed in myself." In the darkness in the hallway by the door the sick woman arose and started again toward her own room. She was afraid that the door would open and the boy come upon her. When she had reached a safe distance and was about to turn a corner into a second hallway she stopped and bracing herself with her hands waited, thinking to shake off a trembling fit of weakness that had come upon her. The presence of the boy in the room had made her happy. In her bed, during the long hours alone, the little fears that had visited her had become giants. Now they were all gone. "When I get back to my room I shall sleep," she murmured gratefully. But Elizabeth Willard was not to return to her bed and to sleep. As she stood trembling in the darkness the door of her son's room opened and the boy's father, Tom Willard, stepped out. In the light that steamed out at the door he stood with the knob in his hand and talked. What he said infuriated the woman. Tom Willard was ambitious for his son. He had always thought of himself as a successful man, although nothing he had ever done had turned out successfully. However, when he was out of sight of the New Willard House and had no fear of coming upon his wife, he swaggered and began to dramatize himself as one of the chief men of the town. He wanted his son to succeed. He it was who had secured for the boy the position on the Winesburg Eagle. Now, with a ring of earnestness in his voice, he was advising concerning some course of conduct. "I tell you what, George, you've got to wake up," he said sharply. "Will Henderson has spoken to me three times concerning the matter. He says you go along for hours not hearing when you are spoken to and acting like a gawky girl. What ails you?" Tom Willard laughed good-naturedly. "Well, I guess you'll get over it," he said. "I told Will that. You're not a fool and you're not a woman. You're Tom Willard's son and you'll wake up. I'm not afraid. What you say clears things up. If being a newspaper man had put the notion of becoming a writer into your mind that's all right. Only I guess you'll have to wake up to do that too, eh?" Tom Willard went briskly along the hallway and down a flight of stairs to the office. The woman in the darkness could hear him laughing and talking with a guest who was striving to wear away a dull evening by dozing in a chair by the office door. She returned to the door of her son's room. The weakness had passed from her body as by a miracle and she stepped boldly along. A thousand ideas raced through her head. When she heard the scraping of a chair and the sound of a pen scratching upon paper, she again turned and went back along the hallway to her own room. A definite determination had come into the mind of the defeated wife of the Winesburg hotel keeper. The determination was the result of long years of quiet and rather ineffectual thinking. "Now," she told herself, "I will act. There is something threatening my boy and I will ward it off." The fact that the conversation between Tom Willard and his son had been rather quiet and natural, as though an understanding existed between them, maddened her. Although for years she had hated her husband, her hatred had always before been a quite impersonal thing. He had been merely a part of something else that she hated. Now, and by the few words at the door, he had become the thing personified. In the darkness of her own room she clenched her fists and glared about. Going to a cloth bag that hung on a nail by the wall she took out a long pair of sewing scissors and held them in her hand like a dagger. "I will stab him," she said aloud. "He has chosen to be the voice of evil and I will kill him. When I have killed him something will snap within myself and I will die also. It will be a release for all of us." In her girlhood and before her marriage with Tom Willard, Elizabeth had borne a somewhat shaky reputation in Winesburg. For years she had been what is called "stage-struck" and had paraded through the streets with traveling men guests at her father's hotel, wearing loud clothes and urging them to tell her of life in the cities out of which they had come. Once she startled the town by putting on men's clothes and riding a bicycle down Main Street. In her own mind the tall dark girl had been in those days much confused. A great restlessness was in her and it expressed itself in two ways. First there was an uneasy desire for change, for some big definite movement to her life. It was this feeling that had turned her mind to the stage. She dreamed of joining some company and wandering over the world, seeing always new faces and giving something out of herself to all people. Sometimes at night she was quite beside herself with the thought, but when she tried to talk of the matter to the members of the theatrical companies that came to Winesburg and stopped at her father's hotel, she got nowhere. They did not seem to know what she meant, or if she did get something of her passion expressed, they only laughed. "It's not like that," they said. "It's as dull and uninteresting as this here. Nothing comes of it." With the traveling men when she walked about with them, and later with Tom Willard, it was quite different. Always they seemed to understand and sympathize with her. On the side streets of the village, in the darkness under the trees, they took hold of her hand and she thought that something unexpressed in herself came forth and became a part of an unexpressed something in them. And then there was the second expression of her restlessness. When that came she felt for a time released and happy. She did not blame the men who walked with her and later she did not blame Tom Willard. It was always the same, beginning with kisses and ending, after strange wild emotions, with peace and then sobbing repentance. When she sobbed she put her hand upon the face of the man and had always the same thought. Even though he were large and bearded she thought he had become suddenly a little boy. She wondered why he did not sob also. In her room, tucked away in a corner of the old Willard House, Elizabeth Willard lighted a lamp and put it on a dressing table that stood by the door. A thought had come into her mind and she went to a closet and brought out a small square box and set it on the table. The box contained material for make-up and had been left with other things by a theatrical company that had once been stranded in Winesburg. Elizabeth Willard had decided that she would be beautiful. Her hair was still black and there was a great mass of it braided and coiled about her head. The scene that was to take place in the office below began to grow in her mind. No ghostly worn-out figure should confront Tom Willard, but something quite unexpected and startling. Tall and with dusky cheeks and hair that fell in a mass from her shoulders, a figure should come striding down the stairway before the startled loungers in the hotel office. The figure would be silent--it would be swift and terrible. As a tigress whose cub had been threatened would she appear, coming out of the shadows, stealing noiselessly along and holding the long wicked scissors in her hand. With a little broken sob in her throat, Elizabeth Willard blew out the light that stood upon the table and stood weak and trembling in the darkness. The strength that had been as a miracle in her body left and she half reeled across the floor, clutching at the back of the chair in which she had spent so many long days staring out over the tin roofs into the main street of Winesburg. In the hallway there was the sound of footsteps and George Willard came in at the door. Sitting in a chair beside his mother he began to talk. "I'm going to get out of here," he said. "I don't know where I shall go or what I shall do but I am going away." The woman in the chair waited and trembled. An impulse came to her. "I suppose you had better wake up," she said. "You think that? You will go to the city and make money, eh? It will be better for you, you think, to be a business man, to be brisk and smart and alive?" She waited and trembled. Der Sohn schüttelte den Kopf. "Ich nehme an, ich kann dir das nicht verständlich machen, aber oh, wie ich wünschte, ich könnte es", sagte er ernsthaft. "Ich kann noch nicht einmal mit Vater darüber reden. Ich versuche es nicht. Es hat keinen Sinn. Ich weiß nicht, was ich tun soll. Ich möchte einfach nur weggehen und Leute anschauen und nachdenken." Schweigen legte sich über den Raum, wo der Junge und die Frau zusammen saßen. Wieder einmal waren sie verlegen, wie an den anderen Abenden auch. Nach einer Weile versuchte der Junge erneut zu reden. "Ich nehme an, es wird noch ein Jahr oder zwei dauern, aber ich habe darüber nachgedacht", sagte er und stand auf und ging zur Tür. "Etwas, was Vater gesagt hat, macht es sicher, dass ich weggehen muss." Er nestelte an der Türklinke herum. In dem Raum wurde die Stille unerträglich für die Frau. Sie wollte vor Freude aufschreien wegen der Worte, die aus dem Mund ihres Sohnes gekommen waren, aber die Ausdrucksform der Freude war ihr unmöglich geworden. "Ich denke, du solltest zu den Jungs rausgehen. Du bist zu viel drinnen", sagte sie. "Ich dachte, ich mache einen kleinen Spaziergang", antwortete der Sohn und ging ungeschickt aus dem Raum und schloss die Tür. Kannst du eine geeignete Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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Elizabeth Willard besitzt das Winesburg Hotel, das sie von ihren Eltern geerbt hat. Ihr Ehemann Tom führt das heruntergekommene und unrentable Hotel und gibt sich dabei als sehr wichtiger Mann aus. Er träumt davon, eines Tages zum Kongressabgeordneten oder sogar zum Gouverneur zu werden. Elizabeth hingegen ist verblasst und möchte nicht von Menschen gesehen werden. Sie fühlt sich vom Leben besiegt. Dennoch glaubt sie, eine besondere Beziehung zu ihrem Sohn George zu haben, der manchmal zu ihr kommt, um sich mit ihr in ihrem Zimmer hinzusetzen, wenn sie krank ist. Aber sie sind unsicher im Umgang miteinander. Einmal hört sie, wie ihr Mann ihren Sohn ermahnt, mutig zu sein, und sie möchte verzweifelt mit George kommunizieren, dass er nicht zu gewieft sein sollte, sondern stattdessen Träume hegen sollte. Leider ist sie nicht in der Lage, dies George mitzuteilen.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). 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: [Spain: near the DUKE's castle.] Enter HIERONIMO. HIERO. Oh eyes! no eyes but fountains fraught with tears; Oh life! no life, but lively form of death; Oh world! no world, but mass of public wrongs, Confus'd and fill'd with murder and misdeeds; Oh sacred heav'ns, if this unhallow'd deed, If this inhuman and barbarous attempt, If this incomparable murder thus Of mine, but now no more my son shall pass, Unreveal'd and unrevenged pass, How should we term your dealings to be just, If you unjustly deal with those that in your justice trust? The night, sad secretary to my moans, With direful visions wake my vexed soul, And with the wounds of my distressful son Solicit me for notice of his death; The ugly fiends do sally forth of hell, And frame my heart with fierce inflamed thoughts; The cloudy day my discontents records, Early begins to register my dreams And drive me forth to seek the murderer. Eyes, life, world, heav'ns, hell, night and day, See, search, show, send, some man, some mean, that may-- A letter falleth. What's here? a letter? Tush, it is not so! A letter for Hieronimo. [Reads] "For want of ink receive this bloody writ. Me hath my hapless brother hid from thee. Revenge thyself on Balthazar and him, For these were they that murdered thy son. Hieronimo, revenge Horatio's death, And better fare then Bel-imperia doth!"-- What means this unexpected miracle? My son slain by Lorenzo and the prince? What cause had they Horatio to malign? Or what might move thee, Bel-imperia, To accuse thy brother, had he been the mean? Hieronimo, beware! thou art betray'd, And to entrap thy life this train is laid. Advise thee therefore, be not credulous: This is devised to endanger thee, That thou, by this, Lorenzo should'st accuse. And he, for thy dishonour done, should draw Thy life in question and thy name in hate. Dear was the life of my beloved son, And of his death behooves me be aveng'd: Then hazard not thine own, Hieronimo, But live t'effect thy resolution! I therefore will by circumstances try What I can gather to confirm this writ, And, harken near the Duke of Castile's house, Close if I can with Bel-imperia, To listen more, but nothing to bewray. Enter PEDRINGANO. Now, Pedringano! PED. Now, Hieronimo! HIERO. Where's thy lady? PED. I know not; here's my lord. Enter LORENZO. LOR. How now, who's this? Hieronimo? HIERO. My lord. PED. He asketh for my lady Bel-imperia. LOR. What to do, Hieronimo? Use me. HIERO. Oh, no, my lord, I dare not, it must not be; I humbly thank your lordship. LOR. Why then, farewell! HIERO. My grief no heart, my thoughts no tongue can tell. Exit. LOR. Come hither, Pedringano; see'st thou this? PED. My lord, I see it, and suspect it too. LOR. This is that damned villain Serberine, That hath, I fear, reveal'd Horatio's death. PED. My lord, he could not; 'twas so lately done, And since he hath not left my company. LOR. Admit he have not; his conditions such As fear or flattering words may make him false. I know his humour, and therewith repent That e'er I us'd him in this enterprise. But, Pedringano, to prevent the worst, And 'cause I know thee secret as my soul, Here, for thy further satisfaction, take thou this! Gives him more gold. And hearken to me; thus it is devis'd: This night thou must--and prithee so resolve-- Meet Serberine at St. Luigi's Park,-- Thou knowest 'tis here hard by behind the house; There take thy stand, and see thou strike him sure, For die he must, if we do mean to live. PED. But how shall Serberine be there, my lord? LOR. Let me alone, I'll send him to meet The prince and me where thou must do this deed. PED. It shall be done, my lord; it shall be done; And I'll go arm myself to meet him there. LOR. When things shall alter, as I hope they will, Then shalt thou mount for this, thou knowest my mind. Exit PEDRINGANO. Che le Ieron! Enter PAGE. PAGE. My lord. LOR. Go, sirrah, To Serberine, and bid him forthwith meet The prince and me at S. Luigi's Park, Behind the house, this evening, boy. PAGE. I go, my lord. LOR. But, sirrah, let the hour be eight o'clock. Bid him not fail. PAGE. I fly, my lord. Exit. LOR. Now to confirm the complot thou hast cast Of all these practices, I'll spread the watch, Upon precise commandment from the king Strongly to guard the place where Pedringano This night shall murder hapless Serberine. Thus must we work that will avoid distrust, Thus must we practice to prevent mishap, And thus one ill another must expulse. This sly enquiry of Hieronimo For Bel-imperia breeds suspicion; And this suspicion bodes a further ill. As for myself, I know my secret fault, And so do they, but I have dealt for them. They that for coin their souls endangered To save my life, for coin shall venture theirs; And better 'tis that base companions die Than by their life to hazard our good haps. Nor shall they live for me to fear their faith; I'll trust myself, myself shall be my friend; For die they shall,-- Slaves are ordain'd to no other end. Exit. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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Hieronimo betritt allein die Bühne und hält eine ernüchternde Soliloquy. Seine Rede dreht sich darum, keine Gerechtigkeit zu bekommen, und das ist äußerst ironisch, denn er sollte eigentlich derjenige sein, der in Spanien Gerechtigkeit schafft. Während er sein Monolog hält, fällt magischerweise ein Brief vom Himmel. Wir wissen jedoch, dass Bel-Imperia den Brief hat fallen lassen. Hieronimo steht zufällig genau unter dem Ort, an dem Lorenzo seine Schwester versteckt hat - wie praktisch ist das denn? Aber das Ganze war tatsächlich etwas lästig für Bel-Imperia. Sie hatte keinen Stift zur Hand, was bedeutet, dass sie den Brief mit ihrem eigenen Blut schreiben musste. Es scheint passend zu sein, dass dieses blutige Stück auch einen blutigen Brief enthält. Blutig und doch klar, der Brief enthüllt eindeutig, wer Horatio getötet hat, und bittet Hieronimo, mit der Rache anzufangen. Hieronimo ist bereit, seinen Mord durchzuführen, entscheidet sich jedoch, die Wahrhaftigkeit des Briefes zu überprüfen, bevor er zwei wichtige königliche Personen tötet. Hieronimo beschließt, Bel-Imperia zu finden, um die Echtheit des Briefes zu bestätigen - sie würde sagen: "Mann, den hab ich doch mit Blut geschrieben!" Pedringano betritt dann bequemerweise die Szene, was Hieronimo die Gelegenheit gibt, nach Bel-Imperias Aufenthaltsort zu fragen. Der gewiefte Diener sagt so etwas wie: "Keine Ahnung." Zu diesem Zeitpunkt kommt Lorenzo herein und sagt so etwas wie: "Wenn du nach meiner Schwester suchst, such nicht weiter. Unser Vater hat sie versteckt, um unseren Namen nicht zu beschämen." Lorenzo sagt Hieronimo, dass er ihr eine Nachricht zukommen lassen kann. Doch Hieronimo vertraut keinem Menschen klug, also sagt er, dass seine Nachricht warten kann. All dies lässt Lorenzo denken, dass Hieronimo etwas riecht. Er zieht daraufhin den falschen Schluss, dass sein Handlanger Serberine Informationen an Hieronimo weitergegeben haben muss. Kein Problem, schlussfolgert er. Ich werde Pedringano bezahlen, um Serberine zu töten - was er auch tut. Doch als Pedringano geht, um die Tat zu vollbringen, erfahren wir durch einen Soliloquy, dass einige weitere Schergen Lorenzos am Tatort warten, um Pedringano bei der Tat zu erwischen. Lorenzo ist böse, aber man muss ihn bewundern - er ist gut in dem, was er tut.

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

Zur Zeit dieser Geschichte fand die jährliche Landwirtschaftsausstellung für das Departement Seine-Inferieure in Yonville statt. Alle freuten sich sehr auf die Messe; als der langersehnte Tag endlich kam, war Yonville mit Besuchern von den umliegenden Farmen und Städten überfüllt. Es gab Ausstellungen und Wettbewerbe aller Art, und alles hatte einen Karnevalcharakter. Das wichtigste Ereignis des Tages war die Rede und Preisverleihung durch einen Vertreter des Präfekten. Gemäß seinem sorgfältig durchdachten Plan nutzte Rodolphe die Aufregung des Tages, um seine Bekanntschaft mit Emma zu erneuern. Sie gingen zusammen spazieren und sprachen über verschiedene Dinge. Rodolphe nutzte jede Gelegenheit, um Andeutungen über seine Liebe zu Emma zu machen. Er führte sie allmählich zum Rathaus, damit sie alleine sein konnten. Inzwischen kam der Vertreter des Präfekten an, und obwohl die Leute den Präfekten selbst erwarteten, waren sie dennoch durch diesen Mann geehrt. Bei dem Versuch, ihm Ehre zu erweisen, verwirrte die Gruppe von Männern ihre Anweisungen und alles endete im Chaos. Während er über die Regierung sprach, begann Rodolphe, Emma seine Zuneigung immer deutlicher zu machen. Und während im Hintergrund eine Rede über Moral und Regierung gehalten wurde, erklärt Rodolphe seine Liebe zu Emma und besteht darauf, dass seine Gefühle edler sind als die gewöhnliche Moral. Er erklärt weiterhin seine Liebe zu ihr in pathetischer Sprache, während der Vertreter des Präfekten Preise an verschiedene Personen vergibt. Nach der Preisverleihung trennt sich Emma von Rodolphe und sieht ihn erst wieder an jenem Abend beim Bankett und später beim Feuerwerk. Sie war geschmeichelt von seiner Aufmerksamkeit, doch hatte sie sich ständig so verhalten, wie es sich für eine angesehene, verheiratete Frau gehörte. Als das Feuerwerk abgebrannt wurde, beobachtete Emma Rodolphe. Sie bemerkte nicht einmal, dass das Feuerwerk nass geworden war und nicht abgehen würde. Später jedoch verfasste Homais einen begeisterten Bericht über die Aktivitäten des ganzen Tages.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). 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 don't think I have any words in which to tell the meeting of the mother and daughters. Such hours are beautiful to live, but very hard to describe, so I will leave it to the imagination of my readers, merely saying that the house was full of genuine happiness, and that Meg's tender hope was realized, for when Beth woke from that long, healing sleep, the first objects on which her eyes fell were the little rose and Mother's face. Too weak to wonder at anything, she only smiled and nestled close in the loving arms about her, feeling that the hungry longing was satisfied at last. Then she slept again, and the girls waited upon their mother, for she would not unclasp the thin hand which clung to hers even in sleep. Hannah had 'dished up' an astonishing breakfast for the traveler, finding it impossible to vent her excitement in any other way, and Meg and Jo fed their mother like dutiful young storks, while they listened to her whispered account of Father's state, Mr. Brooke's promise to stay and nurse him, the delays which the storm occasioned on the homeward journey, and the unspeakable comfort Laurie's hopeful face had given her when she arrived, worn out with fatigue, anxiety, and cold. What a strange yet pleasant day that was. So brilliant and gay without, for all the world seemed abroad to welcome the first snow. So quiet and reposeful within, for everyone slept, spent with watching, and a Sabbath stillness reigned through the house, while nodding Hannah mounted guard at the door. With a blissful sense of burdens lifted off, Meg and Jo closed their weary eyes, and lay at rest, like storm-beaten boats safe at anchor in a quiet harbor. Mrs. March would not leave Beth's side, but rested in the big chair, waking often to look at, touch, and brood over her child, like a miser over some recovered treasure. Laurie meanwhile posted off to comfort Amy, and told his story so well that Aunt March actually 'sniffed' herself, and never once said "I told you so". Amy came out so strong on this occasion that I think the good thoughts in the little chapel really began to bear fruit. She dried her tears quickly, restrained her impatience to see her mother, and never even thought of the turquoise ring, when the old lady heartily agreed in Laurie's opinion, that she behaved 'like a capital little woman'. Even Polly seemed impressed, for he called her a good girl, blessed her buttons, and begged her to "come and take a walk, dear", in his most affable tone. She would very gladly have gone out to enjoy the bright wintry weather, but discovering that Laurie was dropping with sleep in spite of manful efforts to conceal the fact, she persuaded him to rest on the sofa, while she wrote a note to her mother. She was a long time about it, and when she returned, he was stretched out with both arms under his head, sound asleep, while Aunt March had pulled down the curtains and sat doing nothing in an unusual fit of benignity. After a while, they began to think he was not going to wake up till night, and I'm not sure that he would, had he not been effectually roused by Amy's cry of joy at sight of her mother. There probably were a good many happy little girls in and about the city that day, but it is my private opinion that Amy was the happiest of all, when she sat in her mother's lap and told her trials, receiving consolation and compensation in the shape of approving smiles and fond caresses. They were alone together in the chapel, to which her mother did not object when its purpose was explained to her. "On the contrary, I like it very much, dear," looking from the dusty rosary to the well-worn little book, and the lovely picture with its garland of evergreen. "It is an excellent plan to have some place where we can go to be quiet, when things vex or grieve us. There are a good many hard times in this life of ours, but we can always bear them if we ask help in the right way. I think my little girl is learning this." "Yes, Mother, and when I go home I mean to have a corner in the big closet to put my books and the copy of that picture which I've tried to make. The woman's face is not good, it's too beautiful for me to draw, but the baby is done better, and I love it very much. I like to think He was a little child once, for then I don't seem so far away, and that helps me." As Amy pointed to the smiling Christ child on his Mother's knee, Mrs. March saw something on the lifted hand that made her smile. She said nothing, but Amy understood the look, and after a minute's pause, she added gravely, "I wanted to speak to you about this, but I forgot it. Aunt gave me the ring today. She called me to her and kissed me, and put it on my finger, and said I was a credit to her, and she'd like to keep me always. She gave that funny guard to keep the turquoise on, as it's too big. I'd like to wear them Mother, can I?" "They are very pretty, but I think you're rather too young for such ornaments, Amy," said Mrs. March, looking at the plump little hand, with the band of sky-blue stones on the forefinger, and the quaint guard formed of two tiny golden hands clasped together. "I'll try not to be vain," said Amy. "I don't think I like it only because it's so pretty, but I want to wear it as the girl in the story wore her bracelet, to remind me of something." "Do you mean Aunt March?" asked her mother, laughing. "No, to remind me not to be selfish." Amy looked so earnest and sincere about it that her mother stopped laughing, and listened respectfully to the little plan. "I've thought a great deal lately about my 'bundle of naughties', and being selfish is the largest one in it, so I'm going to try hard to cure it, if I can. Beth isn't selfish, and that's the reason everyone loves her and feels so bad at the thoughts of losing her. People wouldn't feel so bad about me if I was sick, and I don't deserve to have them, but I'd like to be loved and missed by a great many friends, so I'm going to try and be like Beth all I can. I'm apt to forget my resolutions, but if I had something always about me to remind me, I guess I should do better. May we try this way?" "Yes, but I have more faith in the corner of the big closet. Wear your ring, dear, and do your best. I think you will prosper, for the sincere wish to be good is half the battle. Now I must go back to Beth. Keep up your heart, little daughter, and we will soon have you home again." That evening while Meg was writing to her father to report the traveler's safe arrival, Jo slipped upstairs into Beth's room, and finding her mother in her usual place, stood a minute twisting her fingers in her hair, with a worried gesture and an undecided look. "What is it, deary?" asked Mrs. March, holding out her hand, with a face which invited confidence. "I want to tell you something, Mother." "About Meg?" "How quickly you guessed! Yes, it's about her, and though it's a little thing, it fidgets me." "Beth is asleep. Speak low, and tell me all about it. That Moffat hasn't been here, I hope?" asked Mrs. March rather sharply. "No. I should have shut the door in his face if he had," said Jo, settling herself on the floor at her mother's feet. "Last summer Meg left a pair of gloves over at the Laurences' and only one was returned. We forgot about it, till Teddy told me that Mr. Brooke owned that he liked Meg but didn't dare say so, she was so young and he so poor. Now, isn't it a dreadful state of things?" "Do you think Meg cares for him?" asked Mrs. March, with an anxious look. "Mercy me! I don't know anything about love and such nonsense!" cried Jo, with a funny mixture of interest and contempt. "In novels, the girls show it by starting and blushing, fainting away, growing thin, and acting like fools. Now Meg does not do anything of the sort. She eats and drinks and sleeps like a sensible creature, she looks straight in my face when I talk about that man, and only blushes a little bit when Teddy jokes about lovers. I forbid him to do it, but he doesn't mind me as he ought." "Then you fancy that Meg is not interested in John?" "Who?" cried Jo, staring. "Mr. Brooke. I call him 'John' now. We fell into the way of doing so at the hospital, and he likes it." "Oh, dear! I know you'll take his part. He's been good to Father, and you won't send him away, but let Meg marry him, if she wants to. Mean thing! To go petting Papa and helping you, just to wheedle you into liking him." And Jo pulled her hair again with a wrathful tweak. "My dear, don't get angry about it, and I will tell you how it happened. John went with me at Mr. Laurence's request, and was so devoted to poor Father that we couldn't help getting fond of him. He was perfectly open and honorable about Meg, for he told us he loved her, but would earn a comfortable home before he asked her to marry him. He only wanted our leave to love her and work for her, and the right to make her love him if he could. He is a truly excellent young man, and we could not refuse to listen to him, but I will not consent to Meg's engaging herself so young." "Of course not. It would be idiotic! I knew there was mischief brewing. I felt it, and now it's worse than I imagined. I just wish I could marry Meg myself, and keep her safe in the family." This odd arrangement made Mrs. March smile, but she said gravely, "Jo, I confide in you and don't wish you to say anything to Meg yet. When John comes back, and I see them together, I can judge better of her feelings toward him." "She'll see those handsome eyes that she talks about, and then it will be all up with her. She's got such a soft heart, it will melt like butter in the sun if anyone looks sentimentlly at her. She read the short reports he sent more than she did your letters, and pinched me when I spoke of it, and likes brown eyes, and doesn't think John an ugly name, and she'll go and fall in love, and there's an end of peace and fun, and cozy times together. I see it all! They'll go lovering around the house, and we shall have to dodge. Meg will be absorbed and no good to me any more. Brooke will scratch up a fortune somehow, carry her off, and make a hole in the family, and I shall break my heart, and everything will be abominably uncomfortable. Oh, dear me! Why weren't we all boys, then there wouldn't be any bother." Jo leaned her chin on her knees in a disconsolate attitude and shook her fist at the reprehensible John. Mrs. March sighed, and Jo looked up with an air of relief. "You don't like it, Mother? I'm glad of it. Let's send him about his business, and not tell Meg a word of it, but all be happy together as we always have been." "I did wrong to sigh, Jo. It is natural and right you should all go to homes of your own in time, but I do want to keep my girls as long as I can, and I am sorry that this happened so soon, for Meg is only seventeen and it will be some years before John can make a home for her. Your father and I have agreed that she shall not bind herself in any way, nor be married, before twenty. If she and John love one another, they can wait, and test the love by doing so. She is conscientious, and I have no fear of her treating him unkindly. My pretty, tender hearted girl! I hope things will go happily with her." "Hadn't you rather have her marry a rich man?" asked Jo, as her mother's voice faltered a little over the last words. "Money is a good and useful thing, Jo, and I hope my girls will never feel the need of it too bitterly, nor be tempted by too much. I should like to know that John was firmly established in some good business, which gave him an income large enough to keep free from debt and make Meg comfortable. I'm not ambitious for a splendid fortune, a fashionable position, or a great name for my girls. If rank and money come with love and virtue, also, I should accept them gratefully, and enjoy your good fortune, but I know, by experience, how much genuine happiness can be had in a plain little house, where the daily bread is earned, and some privations give sweetness to the few pleasures. I am content to see Meg begin humbly, for if I am not mistaken, she will be rich in the possession of a good man's heart, and that is better than a fortune." "I understand, Mother, and quite agree, but I'm disappointed about Meg, for I'd planned to have her marry Teddy by-and-by and sit in the lap of luxury all her days. Wouldn't it be nice?" asked Jo, looking up with a brighter face. "He is younger than she, you know," began Mrs. March, but Jo broke in... "Only a little, he's old for his age, and tall, and can be quite grown-up in his manners if he likes. Then he's rich and generous and good, and loves us all, and I say it's a pity my plan is spoiled." "I'm afraid Laurie is hardly grown-up enough for Meg, and altogether too much of a weathercock just now for anyone to depend on. Don't make plans, Jo, but let time and their own hearts mate your friends. We can't meddle safely in such matters, and had better not get 'romantic rubbish' as you call it, into our heads, lest it spoil our friendship." "Well, I won't, but I hate to see things going all crisscross and getting snarled up, when a pull here and a snip there would straighten it out. I wish wearing flatirons on our heads would keep us from growing up. But buds will be roses, and kittens cats, more's the pity!" "What's that about flatirons and cats?" asked Meg, as she crept into the room with the finished letter in her hand. "Only one of my stupid speeches. I'm going to bed. Come, Peggy," said Jo, unfolding herself like an animated puzzle. "Quite right, and beautifully written. Please add that I send my love to John," said Mrs. March, as she glanced over the letter and gave it back. "Do you call him 'John'?" asked Meg, smiling, with her innocent eyes looking down into her mother's. "Yes, he has been like a son to us, and we are very fond of him," replied Mrs. March, returning the look with a keen one. "I'm glad of that, he is so lonely. Good night, Mother, dear. It is so inexpressibly comfortable to have you here," was Meg's answer. The kiss her mother gave her was a very tender one, and as she went away, Mrs. March said, with a mixture of satisfaction and regret, "She does not love John yet, but will soon learn to." 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.

Vertraulich: Marmee wacht sorgfältig über Beth, während Laurie zu Tante March geht, um Amy von Beths Genesung zu berichten. Später besucht Marmee auch Amy. Amy zeigt ihr die Kapelle, die Marmee als einen Ort der stillen Besinnung billigt. Amy fragt Marmee auch, ob sie den türkisfarbenen Ring tragen darf, den Tante March ihr nun gegeben hat. Sie möchte ihn tragen, um sich daran zu erinnern, nicht selbstsüchtig zu sein, und Marmee stimmt diesem Plan zu. Als Marmee nach Hause kommt, erzählt Jo ihr, dass Mr. Brooke Megs Handschuh hat. Marmee fragt Jo, ob sie glaubt, dass Meg etwas für Mr. Brooke empfindet, und erzählt ihr, dass Mr. Brooke ein Interesse an Meg gestanden hat. Diese unerwünschte Enthüllung macht Jo traurig, weil sie Meg nicht verlieren will. Marmee sagt, dass sie auch gerne hätte, dass Meg zumindest bis sie zwanzig Jahre alt ist, im Haus bleibt. Jo sagt, dass sie wollte, dass Meg Laurie heiratet und im Luxus lebt. Meg kommt herein, und Marmee beurteilt, wie Meg auf die Diskussion über Mr. Brooke reagiert. Sie beschließt, dass Meg ihn noch nicht liebt, aber dass sie bald lernen wird, ihn zu lieben.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). 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 sechs. Betritt Kent und Gloucester. Glou. Hier ist es besser als draußen an der frischen Luft, nimm es dankbar an: Ich werde den Trost ergänzen, so gut ich kann. Ich werde nicht lange von dir weg sein. Er geht ab. Kent. Die ganze Macht seines Verstands ist seiner Ungeduld gewichen. Mögen die Götter deine Freundlichkeit belohnen. Betritt Lear, Edgar und Narr. Edg. Fraterretto nennt er mich und erzählt mir, dass Nero ein Angler im See der Dunkelheit ist. Bete, Unschuldiger, und hüte dich vor dem bösen Teufel. Narr. Herr Onkel, sag mir doch, ob ein Verrückter ein Gentleman oder ein Knecht ist. Lear. Ein König, ein König. Narr. Nein, er ist ein Knecht, der einen Gentleman zu seinem Sohn hat. Denn er ist ein verrückter Knecht, der seinen Sohn als Gentleman vor sich sieht. Lear. Dass tausend mit rot glühenden Spießen auf sie zukommen und zischen. Edg. Segne deine fünf Sinne. Kent. Ach Mitleid, Herr, wo ist jetzt die Geduld, von der du so oft geprahlt hast, sie zu bewahren? Edg. Meine Tränen fangen an, so sehr auf seiner Seite zu stehen. Sie verderben mein Nachahmen. Lear. Auch die kleinen Hunde, Trey, Blanch und Sweet-heart: Schau, sie bellen mich an. Edg. Tom wird den Kopf nach ihnen werfen: Verschwinde, ihr Köter, sei dein Maul schwarz oder weiß: ein Zahn, der vergiftet, wenn er beißt: Mastiff, Windhund, Mischling, Grim, Hund oder Spaniel, Brache oder Hymne: Oder festes Bobtaile oder Troudle-Schwanz, Tom wird ihn weinen und jammern lassen, denn wenn ich so meinen Kopf werfe, sind die Hunde über die Klappe gesprungen und alle sind geflohen. Tu, tu, tu, tu: sese: Komm, marschiere zu Jahrmärkten und Festen und Marktstädten: Armer Tom, dein Horn ist trocken. Lear. Dann sollen sie sich Regan anatomisieren: Schau, was um ihr Herz herum züchtet. Gibt es einen Grund in der Natur, der diese hartherzigen Menschen hervorbringt? Du, Sir, akzeptiere ich als einen von meinen Hundert. Nur mag ich den Stil deiner Kleidung nicht. Du wirst sagen, es ist persisch, aber lass sie geändert werden. Betritt Gloucester. Kent. Nun gut, mein Herr, leg dich hier hin und ruhe eine Weile. Lear. Kein Lärm, kein Lärm, zieh die Vorhänge zu. So, so, wir werden morgen zu Abend essen gehen. Narr. Und ich werde mittags ins Bett gehen. Glou. Komm her, Freund. Wo ist der König, mein Herr? Kent. Hier, Sir, aber bedrängen Sie ihn nicht, sein Verstand ist weg. Glou. Guter Freund, bitte nimm ihn in deine Arme. Ich habe eine Verschwörung gegen ihn gehört. Es ist eine Tragbahre bereit, lege ihn hinein und fahre in Richtung Dover, mein Freund, wo du sowohl willkommen als auch geschützt sein wirst. Nimm deinen Herrn auf. Wenn du dich eine halbe Stunde hinziehen solltest, dann wird dein Leben zusammen mit seinem und alles, was versucht, ihn zu verteidigen, sicher verloren sein. Nimm auf, nimm auf und folge mir, ich werde dir eine schnelle Führung geben. Komm, komm, weg. Abgang. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben stehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Gloucester lässt den König und seine Begleiter sicher auf einem Bauernhof in der Nähe des Schlosses zurück und macht sich auf den Weg, um Proviant zu besorgen. Allein in seinem Leid denkt Lear über seine schlechte Behandlung nach. Er ruft ein fiktives Gerichtsverfahren gegen Goneril und Regan herbei, in dem er als Richter sitzt und seine älteren Töchter für ihre Grausamkeit gegenüber ihrem Vater bestraft. Dieser eingebildete Prozess findet statt, während Tom verrückt räsoniert und der Narr halb wahnsinnige Lieder singt. Die abwechselnden Dialoge zwischen Tom und dem Narren sind äußerst aufschlussreich, aber Kent unterbricht sie. Er erträgt es nicht, Lear in einem solchen Zustand von Qual und Demenz zu sehen. Lear fährt jedoch mit dem vorgetäuschten Prozess fort und beschuldigt Goneril, ihren Vater getreten zu haben. Er stellt sich vor, wie Goneril versucht zu fliehen und ruft, dass sie aufgehalten werden soll. Kent wird von der erbärmlichen Natur der wirren Äußerungen des Königs bewegt, und Edgar, noch immer verkleidet, ist tief bestürzt. Kent tritt vor und bittet Lear, sich auszuruhen, damit er sich erholen kann. Er stimmt zu, aber fast sofort kehrt Gloucester hastig mit schlechten Nachrichten zurück. Gloucester informiert die Gruppe über eine Verschwörung, den König zu ermorden, und besteht darauf, dass der König sofort nach Dover aufbricht. Kent beklagt, dass der Schlaf, der die zerstörten Nerven des Königs beruhigen könnte, nicht sein soll. Während ein benommener Lear zu seiner Reise geführt wird, kehrt Gloucester zu seinem Schloss zurück. Die Szene endet mit einem Monolog von Edgar, in dem er empfindet, dass seine eigenen Mißgeschicke im Vergleich zu den Tragödien, die Lear erlitten hat, verblassen. Er erklärt weiterhin, dass er sich als wahnsinniger Bettler verkleiden wird, bis seine Ehrlichkeit bewiesen ist, seine Ächtung aufgehoben ist und seine Position wiederhergestellt ist.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: SCENE II. The same. Before the Princess's pavilion. [Enter the PRINCESS, KATHARINE, ROSALINE and MARIA.] PRINCESS. Sweet hearts, we shall be rich ere we depart, If fairings come thus plentifully in. A lady wall'd about with diamonds! Look you what I have from the loving king. ROSALINE. Madam, came nothing else along with that? PRINCESS. Nothing but this! Yes, as much love in rime As would be cramm'd up in a sheet of paper Writ o' both sides the leaf, margent and all, That he was fain to seal on Cupid's name. ROSALINE. That was the way to make his godhead wax; For he hath been five thousand years a boy. KATHARINE. Ay, and a shrewd unhappy gallows too. ROSALINE. You'll ne'er be friends with him: a' kill'd your sister. KATHARINE. He made her melancholy, sad, and heavy; And so she died: had she been light, like you, Of such a merry, nimble, stirring spirit, She might ha' been a grandam ere she died; And so may you, for a light heart lives long. ROSALINE. What's your dark meaning, mouse, of this light word? KATHARINE. A light condition in a beauty dark. ROSALINE. We need more light to find your meaning out. KATHARINE. You'll mar the light by taking it in snuff; Therefore I'll darkly end the argument. ROSALINE. Look what you do, you do it still i' the dark. KATHARINE. So do not you; for you are a light wench. ROSALINE. Indeed, I weigh not you; and therefore light. KATHARINE. You weigh me not? O! that's you care not for me. ROSALINE. Great reason; for 'past cure is still past care.' PRINCESS. Well bandied both; a set of wit well play'd. But, Rosaline, you have a favour too: Who sent it? and what is it? ROSALINE. I would you knew. An if my face were but as fair as yours, My favour were as great: be witness this. Nay, I have verses too, I thank Berowne; The numbers true, and, were the numbering too, I were the fairest goddess on the ground: I am compar'd to twenty thousand fairs. O! he hath drawn my picture in his letter. PRINCESS. Anything like? ROSALINE. Much in the letters; nothing in the praise. PRINCESS. Beauteous as ink; a good conclusion. KATHARINE. Fair as a text B in a copy-book. ROSALINE. 'Ware pencils! how! let me not die your debtor, My red dominical, my golden letter: O, that your face were not so full of O's! KATHARINE. A pox of that jest! and beshrew all shrows! PRINCESS. But, Katharine, what was sent to you from fair Dumaine? KATHARINE. Madam, this glove. PRINCESS. Did he not send you twain? KATHARINE. Yes, madam; and, moreover, Some thousand verses of a faithful lover; A huge translation of hypocrisy, Vilely compil'd, profound simplicity. MARIA. This, and these pearl, to me sent Longaville; The letter is too long by half a mile. PRINCESS. I think no less. Dost thou not wish in heart The chain were longer and the letter short? MARIA. Ay, or I would these hands might never part. PRINCESS. We are wise girls to mock our lovers so. ROSALINE. They are worse fools to purchase mocking so. That same Berowne I'll torture ere I go. O that I knew he were but in by th' week! How I would make him fawn, and beg, and seek, And wait the season, and observe the times, And spend his prodigal wits in bootless rimes, And shape his service wholly to my hests, And make him proud to make me proud that jests! So perttaunt-like would I o'ersway his state That he should be my fool, and I his fate. PRINCESS. None are so surely caught, when they are catch'd, As wit turn'd fool: folly, in wisdom hatch'd, Hath wisdom's warrant and the help of school And wit's own grace to grace a learned fool. ROSALINE. The blood of youth burns not with such excess As gravity's revolt to wantonness. MARIA. Folly in fools bears not so strong a note As fool'ry in the wise when wit doth dote; Since all the power thereof it doth apply To prove, by wit, worth in simplicity. [Enter BOYET.] PRINCESS. Here comes Boyet, and mirth is in his face. BOYET. O! I am stabb'd with laughter! Where's her Grace? PRINCESS. Thy news, Boyet? BOYET. Prepare, madam, prepare!-- Arm, wenches, arm! encounters mounted are Against your peace: Love doth approach disguis'd, Armed in arguments; you'll be surpris'd: Muster your wits; stand in your own defence; Or hide your heads like cowards, and fly hence. PRINCESS. Saint Denis to Saint Cupid! What are they That charge their breath against us? Say, scout, say. BOYET. Under the cool shade of a sycamore I thought to close mine eyes some half an hour; When, lo, to interrupt my purpos'd rest, Toward that shade I might behold addrest The king and his companions: warily I stole into a neighbour thicket by, And overheard what you shall overhear; That, by and by, disguis'd they will be here. Their herald is a pretty knavish page, That well by heart hath conn'd his embassage: Action and accent did they teach him there; 'Thus must thou speak' and 'thus thy body bear,' And ever and anon they made a doubt Presence majestical would put him out; 'For' quoth the King 'an angel shalt thou see; Yet fear not thou, but speak audaciously.' The boy replied 'An angel is not evil; I should have fear'd her had she been a devil.' With that all laugh'd, and clapp'd him on the shoulder, Making the bold wag by their praises bolder. One rubb'd his elbow, thus, and fleer'd, and swore A better speech was never spoke before. Another with his finger and his thumb Cried 'Via! we will do't, come what will come.' The third he caper'd, and cried 'All goes well.' The fourth turn'd on the toe, and down he fell. With that they all did tumble on the ground, With such a zealous laughter, so profound, That in this spleen ridiculous appears, To check their folly, passion's solemn tears. PRINCESS. But what, but what, come they to visit us? BOYET. They do, they do, and are apparell'd thus, Like Muscovites or Russians, as I guess. Their purpose is to parley, court, and dance; And every one his love-feat will advance Unto his several mistress; which they'll know By favours several which they did bestow. PRINCESS. And will they so? The gallants shall be task'd: For, ladies, we will every one be mask'd; And not a man of them shall have the grace, Despite of suit, to see a lady's face. Hold, Rosaline, this favour thou shalt wear, And then the king will court thee for his dear; Hold, take thou this, my sweet, and give me thine, So shall Berowne take me for Rosaline. And change you favours too; so shall your loves Woo contrary, deceiv'd by these removes. ROSALINE. Come on, then, wear the favours most in sight. KATHARINE. But, in this changing, what is your intent? PRINCESS. The effect of my intent is to cross theirs; They do it but in mocking merriment; And mock for mock is only my intent. Their several counsels they unbosom shall To loves mistook, and so be mock'd withal Upon the next occasion that we meet With visages display'd to talk and greet. ROSALINE. But shall we dance, if they desire us to't? PRINCESS. No, to the death, we will not move a foot, Nor to their penn'd speech render we no grace; But while 'tis spoke each turn away her face. BOYET. Why, that contempt will kill the speaker's heart, And quite divorce his memory from his part. PRINCESS. Therefore I do it; and I make no doubt The rest will ne'er come in, if he be out. There's no such sport as sport by sport o'erthrown, To make theirs ours, and ours none but our own: So shall we stay, mocking intended game, And they well mock'd, depart away with shame. [Trumpet sounds within.] BOYET. The trumpet sounds: be mask'd; the maskers come. [The LADIES mask.] [Enter BLACKAMOORS with music; MOTH, the KING, BEROWNE, LONGAVILLE, and DUMAINE in Russian habits, and masked.] MOTH. 'All hail, the richest heauties on the earth!' BOYET. Beauties no richer than rich taffeta. MOTH. 'A holy parcel of the fairest dames [The LADIES turn their backs to him.] That ever turn'd their--backs--to mortal views! BEROWNE. 'Their eyes,' villain, 'their eyes.' MOTH. 'That ever turn'd their eyes to mortal views! Out'-- BOYET. True; 'out,' indeed. MOTH. 'Out of your favours, heavenly spirits, vouchsafe Not to behold'-- BEROWNE. 'Once to behold,' rogue. MOTH. 'Once to behold with your sun-beamed eyes--with your sun-beamed eyes'-- BOYET. They will not answer to that epithet; You were best call it 'daughter-beamed eyes.' MOTH. They do not mark me, and that brings me out. BEROWNE. Is this your perfectness? be gone, you rogue. [Exit MOTH.] ROSALINE. What would these strangers? Know their minds, Boyet. If they do speak our language, 'tis our will That some plain man recount their purposes: Know what they would. BOYET. What would you with the princess? BEROWNE. Nothing but peace and gentle visitation. ROSALINE. What would they, say they? BOYET. Nothing but peace and gentle visitation. ROSALINE. Why, that they have; and bid them so be gone. BOYET. She says you have it, and you may be gone. KING. Say to her we have measur'd many miles To tread a measure with her on this grass. BOYET. They say that they have measur'd many a mile To tread a measure with you on this grass. ROSALINE. It is not so. Ask them how many inches Is in one mile? If they have measured many, The measure then of one is easily told. BOYET. If to come hither you have measur'd miles, And many miles, the Princess bids you tell How many inches doth fill up one mile. BEROWNE. Tell her we measure them by weary steps. BOYET. She hears herself. ROSALINE. How many weary steps Of many weary miles you have o'ergone Are number'd in the travel of one mile? BEROWNE. We number nothing that we spend for you; Our duty is so rich, so infinite, That we may do it still without accompt. Vouchsafe to show the sunshine of your face, That we, like savages, may worship it. ROSALINE. My face is but a moon, and clouded too. KING. Blessed are clouds, to do as such clouds do! Vouchsafe, bright moon, and these thy stars, to shine, Those clouds remov'd, upon our watery eyne. ROSALINE. O vain petitioner! beg a greater matter; Thou now requests'st but moonshine in the water. KING. Then in our measure do but vouchsafe one change. Thou bid'st me beg; this begging is not strange. ROSALINE. Play, music, then! Nay, you must do it soon. [Music plays.] Not yet! No dance! thus change I like the moon. KING. Will you not dance? How come you thus estranged? ROSALINE. You took the moon at full; but now she's chang'd. KING. Yet still she is the moon, and I the man. The music plays; vouchsafe some motion to it. ROSALINE. Our ears vouchsafe it. KING. But your legs should do it. ROSALINE. Since you are strangers, and come here by chance, We'll not be nice: take hands; we will not dance. KING. Why take we hands then? ROSALINE. Only to part friends. Curtsy, sweet hearts; and so the measure ends. KING. More measure of this measure: be not nice. ROSALINE. We can afford no more at such a price. KING. Price you yourselves? what buys your company? ROSALINE. Your absence only. KING. That can never be. ROSALINE. Then cannot we be bought: and so adieu; Twice to your visor, and half once to you! KING. If you deny to dance, let's hold more chat. ROSALINE. In private then. KING. I am best pleas'd with that. [They converse apart.] BEROWNE. White-handed mistress, one sweet word with thee. PRINCESS. Honey, and milk, and sugar; there is three. BEROWNE. Nay, then, two treys, an if you grow so nice, Metheglin, wort, and malmsey: well run, dice! There's half a dozen sweets. PRINCESS. Seventh sweet, adieu: Since you can cog, I'll play no more with you. BEROWNE. One word in secret. PRINCESS. Let it not be sweet. BEROWNE. Thou griev'st my gall. PRINCESS. Gall! bitter. BEROWNE. Therefore meet. [They converse apart.] DUMAINE. Will you vouchsafe with me to change a word? MARIA. Name it. DUMAINE. Fair lady,-- MARIA. Say you so? Fair lord, Take that for your fair lady. DUMAINE. Please it you, As much in private, and I'll bid adieu. [They converse apart.] KATHARINE. What, was your visord made without a tongue? LONGAVILLE. I know the reason, lady, why you ask. KATHARINE. O! for your reason! quickly, sir; I long. LONGAVILLE. You have a double tongue within your mask, And would afford my speechless visor half. KATHARINE. 'Veal' quoth the Dutchman. Is not 'veal' a calf? LONGAVILLE. A calf, fair lady! KATHARINE. No, a fair lord calf. LONGAVILLE. Let's part the word. KATHARINE. No, I'll not be your half. Take all and wean it; it may prove an ox. LONGAVILLE. Look how you butt yourself in these sharp mocks! Will you give horns, chaste lady? do not so. KATHARINE. Then die a calf, before your horns do grow. LONGAVILLE. One word in private with you ere I die. KATHARINE. Bleat softly, then; the butcher hears you cry. [They converse apart.] BOYET. The tongues of mocking wenches are as keen As is the razor's edge invisible, Cutting a smaller hair than may be seen, Above the sense of sense; so sensible Seemeth their conference; their conceits have wings, Fleeter than arrows, bullets, wind, thought, swifter things. ROSALINE. Not one word more, my maids; break off, break off. BEROWNE. By heaven, all dry-beaten with pure scoff! KING. Farewell, mad wenches; you have simple wits. PRINCESS. Twenty adieus, my frozen Muscovits. [Exeunt KING, LORDS, Music, and Attendants.] Are these the breed of wits so wondered at? BOYET. Tapers they are, with your sweet breaths puff'd out. ROSALINE. Well-liking wits they have; gross, gross; fat, fat. PRINCESS. O poverty in wit, kingly-poor flout! Will they not, think you, hang themselves to-night? Or ever, but in vizors, show their faces? This pert Berowne was out of countenance quite. ROSALINE. O! They were all in lamentable cases! The King was weeping-ripe for a good word. PRINCESS. Berowne did swear himself out of all suit. MARIA. Dumaine was at my service, and his sword: 'No point' quoth I; my servant straight was mute. KATHARINE. Lord Longaville said, I came o'er his heart; And trow you what he call'd me? PRINCESS. Qualm, perhaps. KATHARINE. Yes, in good faith. PRINCESS. Go, sickness as thou art! ROSALINE. Well, better wits have worn plain statute-caps. But will you hear? The king is my love sworn. PRINCESS. And quick Berowne hath plighted faith to me. KATHARINE. And Longaville was for my service born. MARIA. Dumaine is mine, as sure as bark on tree. BOYET. Madam, and pretty mistresses, give ear: Immediately they will again be here In their own shapes; for it can never be They will digest this harsh indignity. PRINCESS. Will they return? BOYET. They will, they will, God knows, And leap for joy, though they are lame with blows; Therefore, change favours; and, when they repair, Blow like sweet roses in this summer air. PRINCESS. How blow? how blow? Speak to be understood. BOYET. Fair ladies mask'd are roses in their bud: Dismask'd, their damask sweet commixture shown, Are angels vailing clouds, or roses blown. PRINCESS. Avaunt, perplexity! What shall we do If they return in their own shapes to woo? ROSALINE. Good madam, if by me you'll be advis'd, Let's mock them still, as well known as disguis'd. Let us complain to them what fools were here, Disguis'd like Muscovites, in shapeless gear; And wonder what they were, and to what end Their shallow shows and prologue vilely penn'd, And their rough carriage so ridiculous, Should be presented at our tent to us. BOYET. Ladies, withdraw: the gallants are at hand. PRINCESS. Whip to our tents, as roes run over land. [Exeunt PRINCESS, ROSALINE, KATHARINE, and MARIA.] [Re-enter the KING, BEROWNE, LONGAVILLE, and DUMAINE in their proper habits.] KING. Fair sir, God save you! Where's the princess? BOYET. Gone to her tent. Please it your Majesty Command me any service to her thither? KING. That she vouchsafe me audience for one word. BOYET. I will; and so will she, I know, my lord. [Exit.] BEROWNE. This fellow pecks up wit as pigeons pease, And utters it again when God doth please: He is wit's pedlar, and retails his wares At wakes, and wassails, meetings, markets, fairs; And we that sell by gross, the Lord doth know, Have not the grace to grace it with such show. This gallant pins the wenches on his sleeve; Had he been Adam, he had tempted Eve: He can carve too, and lisp: why this is he That kiss'd his hand away in courtesy; This is the ape of form, monsieur the nice, That, when he plays at tables, chides the dice In honourable terms; nay, he can sing A mean most meanly; and in ushering Mend him who can: the ladies call him sweet; The stairs, as he treads on them, kiss his feet. This is the flower that smiles on every one, To show his teeth as white as whales-bone; And consciences that will not die in debt Pay him the due of honey-tongued Boyet. KING. A blister on his sweet tongue, with my heart, That put Armado's page out of his part! [Re-enter the PRINCESS, ushered by BOYET; ROSALINE, MARIA, KATHARINE, and Attendants.] BEROWNE. See where it comes! Behaviour, what wert thou, Till this man show'd thee? and what art thou now? KING. All hail, sweet madam, and fair time of day! PRINCESS. 'Fair' in 'all hail' is foul, as I conceive. KING. Construe my speeches better, if you may. PRINCESS. Then wish me better: I will give you leave. KING. We came to visit you, and purpose now To lead you to our court; vouchsafe it then. PRINCESS. This field shall hold me, and so hold your vow: Nor God, nor I, delights in perjur'd men. KING. Rebuke me not for that which you provoke: The virtue of your eye must break my oath. PRINCESS. You nickname virtue: vice you should have spoke; For virtue's office never breaks men's troth. Now by my maiden honour, yet as pure As the unsullied lily, I protest, A world of torments though I should endure, I would not yield to be your house's guest; So much I hate a breaking cause to be Of heavenly oaths, vowed with integrity. KING. O! you have liv'd in desolation here, Unseen, unvisited, much to our shame. PRINCESS. Not so, my lord; it is not so, I swear; We have had pastimes here, and pleasant game. A mess of Russians left us but of late. KING. How, madam! Russians? PRINCESS. Ay, in truth, my lord; Trim gallants, full of courtship and of state. ROSALINE. Madam, speak true. It is not so, my lord: My lady, to the manner of the days, In courtesy gives undeserving praise. We four indeed confronted were with four In Russian habit: here they stay'd an hour, And talk'd apace; and in that hour, my lord, They did not bless us with one happy word. I dare not call them fools; but this I think, When they are thirsty, fools would fain have drink. BEROWNE. This jest is dry to me. Fair gentle sweet, Your wit makes wise things foolish:when we greet, With eyes best seeing, heaven's fiery eye, By light we lose light: your capacity Is of that nature that to your huge store Wise things seem foolish and rich things but poor. ROSALINE. This proves you wise and rich, for in my eye- BEROWNE. I am a fool, and full of poverty. ROSALINE. But that you take what doth to you belong, It were a fault to snatch words from my tongue. BEROWNE. O! am yours, and all that I possess. ROSALINE. All the fool mine? BEROWNE. I cannot give you less. ROSALINE. Which of the visors was it that you wore? BEROWNE. Where? when? what visor? why demand you this? ROSALINE. There, then, that visor; that superfluous case That hid the worse,and show'd the better face. KING. We are descried: they'll mock us now downright. DUMAINE. Let us confess, and turn it to a jest. PRINCESS. Amaz'd, my lord? Why looks your Highness sad? ROSALINE. Help! hold his brows! he'll swound. Why look you pale? Sea-sick, I think, coming from Muscovy. BEROWNE. Thus pour the stars down plagues for perjury. Can any face of brass hold longer out?-- Here stand I, lady; dart thy skill at me; Bruise me with scorn, confound me with a flout; Thrust thy sharp wit quite through my ignorance; Cut me to pieces with thy keen conceit; And I will wish thee never more to dance, Nor never more in Russian habit wait. O! never will I trust to speeches penn'd, Nor to the motion of a school-boy's tongue, Nor never come in visor to my friend, Nor woo in rime, like a blind harper's song. Taffeta phrases, silken terms precise, Three-pil'd hyperboles, spruce affectation, Figures pedantical; these summer-flies Have blown me full of maggot ostentation: I do forswear them; and I here protest, By this white glove,--how white the hand, God knows!-- Henceforth my wooing mind shall be express'd In russet yeas, and honest kersey noes; And, to begin, wench,--so God help me, la!-- My love to thee is sound, sans crack or flaw. ROSALINE. Sans 'sans,' I pray you. BEROWNE. Yet I have a trick Of the old rage: bear with me, I am sick; I'll leave it by degrees. Soft! let us see: Write 'Lord have mercy on us' on those three; They are infected; in their hearts it lies; They have the plague, and caught it of your eyes: These lords are visited; you are not free, For the Lord's tokens on you do I see. PRINCESS. No, they are free that gave these tokens to us. BEROWNE. Our states are forfeit; seek not to undo us. ROSALINE. It is not so. For how can this be true, That you stand forfeit, being those that sue? BEROWNE. Peace! for I will not have to do with you. ROSALINE. Nor shall not, if I do as I intend. BEROWNE. Speak for yourselves: my wit is at an end. KING. Teach us, sweet madam, for our rude transgression Some fair excuse. PRINCESS. The fairest is confession. Were not you here but even now, disguis'd? KING. Madam, I was. PRINCESS. And were you well advis'd? KING. I was, fair madam. PRINCESS. When you then were here, What did you whisper in your lady's ear? KING. That more than all the world I did respect her. PRINCESS. When she shall challenge this, you will reject her. KING. Upon mine honour, no. PRINCESS. Peace! peace! forbear; Your oath once broke, you force not to forswear. KING. Despise me when I break this oath of mine. PRINCESS. I will; and therefore keep it. Rosaline, What did the Russian whisper in your ear? ROSALINE. Madam, he swore that he did hold me dear As precious eyesight, and did value me Above this world; adding thereto, moreover, That he would wed me, or else die my lover. PRINCESS. God give thee joy of him! The noble lord Most honourably doth uphold his word. KING. What mean you, madam? by my life, my troth, I never swore this lady such an oath. ROSALINE. By heaven, you did; and, to confirm it plain, You gave me this: but take it, sir, again. KING. My faith and this the princess I did give; I knew her by this jewel on her sleeve. PRINCESS. Pardon me, sir, this jewel did she wear; And Lord Berowne, I thank him, is my dear. What, will you have me, or your pearl again? BEROWNE. Neither of either; I remit both twain. I see the trick on't: here was a consent, Knowing aforehand of our merriment, To dash it like a Christmas comedy. Some carry-tale, some please-man, some slight zany, Some mumble-news, some trencher-knight, some Dick, That smiles his cheek in years, and knows the trick To make my lady laugh when she's dispos'd, Told our intents before; which once disclos'd, The ladies did change favours, and then we, Following the signs, woo'd but the sign of she. Now, to our perjury to add more terror, We are again forsworn, in will and error. Much upon this it is: [To BOYET.] and might not you Forestall our sport, to make us thus untrue? Do not you know my lady's foot by the squire, And laugh upon the apple of her eye? And stand between her back, sir, and the fire, Holding a trencher, jesting merrily? You put our page out: go, you are allow'd; Die when you will, a smock shall be your shroud. You leer upon me, do you? There's an eye Wounds like a leaden sword. BOYET. Full merrily Hath this brave manage, this career, been run. BEROWNE. Lo! he is tilting straight! Peace! I have done. [Enter COSTARD Welcome, pure wit! thou part'st a fair fray. COSTARD. O Lord, sir, they would know Whether the three Worthies shall come in or no? BEROWNE. What, are there but three? COSTARD. No, sir; but it is vara fine, For every one pursents three. BEROWNE. And three times thrice is nine. COSTARD. Not so, sir; under correction, sir, I hope it is not so. You cannot beg us, sir, I can assure you, sir; we know what we know: I hope, sir, three times thrice, sir,-- BEROWNE. Is not nine. COSTARD. Under correction, sir, we know whereuntil it doth amount. BEROWNE. By Jove, I always took three threes for nine. COSTARD. O Lord, sir! it were pity you should get your living by reckoning, sir. BEROWNE. How much is it? COSTARD. O Lord, sir, the parties themselves, the actors, sir, will show whereuntil it doth amount: for mine own part, I am, as they say, but to parfect one man in one poor man, Pompion the Great, sir. BEROWNE. Art thou one of the Worthies? COSTARD. It pleased them to think me worthy of Pompion the Great; for mine own part, I know not the degree of the Worthy; but I am to stand for him. BEROWNE. Go, bid them prepare. COSTARD. We will turn it finely off, sir; we will take some care. [Exit COSTARD.] KING. Berowne, they will shame us; let them not approach. BEROWNE. We are shame-proof, my lord, and 'tis some policy To have one show worse than the king's and his company. KING. I say they shall not come. PRINCESS. Nay, my good lord, let me o'errule you now. That sport best pleases that doth least know how; Where zeal strives to content, and the contents Die in the zeal of those which it presents; Their form confounded makes most form in mirth, When great things labouring perish in their birth. BEROWNE. A right description of our sport, my lord. [Enter ARMADO.] ARMADO. Anointed, I implore so much expense of thy royal sweet breath as will utter a brace of words. [Converses apart with the KING, and delivers a paper to him.] PRINCESS. Doth this man serve God? BEROWNE. Why ask you? PRINCESS. He speaks not like a man of God his making. ARMADO. That is all one, my fair, sweet, honey monarch; for, I protest, the schoolmaster is exceeding fantastical; too-too vain, too-too vain: but we will put it, as they say, to fortuna de la guerra. I wish you the peace of mind, most royal couplement! [Exit.] KING. Here is like to be a good presence of Worthies. He presents Hector of Troy; the swain, Pompey the Great; the parish curate, Alexander; Armado's page, Hercules; the pedant, Judas Maccabaeus: And if these four Worthies in their first show thrive, These four will change habits and present the other five. BEROWNE. There is five in the first show. KING. You are deceived, 'tis not so. BEROWNE. The pedant, the braggart, the hedge-priest, the fool, and the boy:-- Abate throw at novum, and the whole world again Cannot pick out five such, take each one in his vein. KING. The ship is under sail, and here she comes amain. [Enter COSTARD, armed for POMPEY.] COSTARD. 'I Pompey am'-- BEROWNE. You lie, you are not he. COSTARD. 'I Pompey am'-- BOYET. With libbard's head on knee. BEROWNE. Well said, old mocker: I must needs be friends with thee. COSTARD. 'I Pompey am, Pompey surnam'd the Big'-- DUMAINE. 'The Great.' COSTARD. It is 'Great,' sir; 'Pompey surnam'd the Great, That oft in field, with targe and shield, did make my foe to sweat: And travelling along this coast, I here am come by chance, And lay my arms before the legs of this sweet lass of France. If your ladyship would say 'Thanks, Pompey,' I had done. PRINCESS. Great thanks, great Pompey. COSTARD. 'Tis not so much worth; but I hope I was perfect. I made a little fault in 'Great.' BEROWNE. My hat to a halfpenny, Pompey proves the best Worthy. [Enter SIR NATHANIEL armed, for ALEXANDER.] NATHANIEL. 'When in the world I liv'd, I was the world's commander; By east, west, north, and south, I spread my conquering might: My scutcheon plain declares that I am Alisander'-- BOYET. Your nose says, no, you are not; for it stands to right. BEROWNE. Your nose smells 'no' in this, most tender-smelling knight. PRINCESS. The conqueror is dismay'd. Proceed, good Alexander. NATHANIEL. 'When in the world I liv'd, I was the world's commander;'-- BOYET. Most true; 'tis right, you were so, Alisander. BEROWNE. Pompey the Great,-- COSTARD. Your servant, and Costard. BEROWNE. Take away the conqueror, take away Alisander. COSTARD. [To Sir Nathaniel.] O! sir, you have overthrown Alisander the conqueror! You will be scraped out of the painted cloth for this; your lion, that holds his poll-axe sitting on a close-stool, will be given to Ajax: he will be the ninth Worthy. A conqueror, and afeard to speak! Run away for shame, Alisander. [Nathaniel retires.] There, an't shall please you: a foolish mild man; an honest man, look you, and soon dashed! He is a marvellous good neighbour, faith, and a very good bowler; but for Alisander,--alas! you see how 'tis--a little o'erparted. But there are Worthies a-coming will speak their mind in some other sort. PRINCESS. Stand aside, good Pompey. [Enter HOLOFERNES armed, for JUDAS; and MOTH armed, for HERCULES.] HOLOFERNES. 'Great Hercules is presented by this imp, Whose club kill'd Cerberus, that three-headed canis; And when he was a babe, a child, a shrimp, Thus did he strangle serpents in his manus. Quoniam he seemeth in minority, Ergo I come with this apology.' Keep some state in thy exit, and vanish.--[MOTH retires.] 'Judas I am.'-- DUMAINE. A Judas! HOLOFERNES. Not Iscariot, sir. 'Judas I am, ycliped Maccabaeus.' DUMAINE. Judas Maccabaeus clipt is plain Judas. BEROWNE. A kissing traitor. How art thou prov'd Judas? HOLOFERNES. 'Judas I am.'-- DUMAINE. The more shame for you, Judas. HOLOFERNES. What mean you, sir? BOYET. To make Judas hang himself. HOLOFERNES. Begin, sir; you are my elder. BEROWNE. Well follow'd: Judas was hanged on an elder. HOLOFERNES. I will not be put out of countenance. BEROWNE. Because thou hast no face. HOLOFERNES. What is this? BOYET. A cittern-head. DUMAINE. The head of a bodkin. BEROWNE. A death's face in a ring. @@@ LONGAVILLE. The face of an old Roman coin, scarce seen. BOYET. The pommel of Caesar's falchion. DUMAINE. The carved-bone face on a flask. BEROWNE. Saint George's half-cheek in a brooch. DUMAINE. Ay, and in a brooch of lead. BEROWNE. Ay, and worn in the cap of a tooth-drawer. And now, forward; for we have put thee in countenance. HOLOFERNES. You have put me out of countenance. BEROWNE. False: we have given thee faces. HOLOFERNES. But you have outfaced them all. BEROWNE. An thou wert a lion we would do so. BOYET. Therefore, as he is an ass, let him go. And so adieu, sweet Jude! nay, why dost thou stay? DUMAINE. For the latter end of his name. BEROWNE. For the ass to the Jude? give it him:--Jud-as, away! HOLOFERNES. This is not generous, not gentle, not humble. BOYET. A light for Monsieur Judas! It grows dark, he may stumble. PRINCESS. Alas! poor Maccabaeus, how hath he been baited. [Enter ARMADO armed, for HECTOR.] BEROWNE. Hide thy head, Achilles: here comes Hector in arms. DUMAINE. Though my mocks come home by me, I will now be merry. KING. Hector was but a Troyan in respect of this. BOYET. But is this Hector? DUMAINE. I think Hector was not so clean-timber'd. LONGAVILLE. His leg is too big for Hector's. DUMAINE. More calf, certain. BOYET. No; he is best indued in the small. BEROWNE. This cannot be Hector. DUMAINE. He's a god or a painter; for he makes faces. ARMADO. 'The armipotent Mars, of lances the almighty, Gave Hector a gift,'-- DUMAINE. A gilt nutmeg. BEROWNE. A lemon. LONGAVILLE. Stuck with cloves. DUMAINE. No, cloven. ARMADO. Peace! 'The armipotent Mars, of lances the almighty, Gave Hector a gift, the heir of Ilion; A man so breath'd that certain he would fight ye, From morn till night, out of his pavilion. I am that flower,'-- DUMAINE. That mint. LONGAVILLE. That columbine. ARMADO. Sweet Lord Longaville, rein thy tongue. LONGAVILLE. I must rather give it the rein, for it runs against Hector. DUMAINE. Ay, and Hector's a greyhound. ARMADO. The sweet war-man is dead and rotten; sweet chucks, beat not the bones of the buried; when he breathed, he was a man. But I will forward with my device. [To the PRINCESS.] Sweet royalty, bestow on me the sense of hearing. PRINCESS. Speak, brave Hector; we are much delighted. ARMADO. I do adore thy sweet Grace's slipper. BOYET. [Aside to DUMAIN.] Loves her by the foot. DUMAINE. [Aside to BOYET.] He may not by the yard. ARMADO. 'This Hector far surmounted Hannibal,'-- COSTARD. The party is gone; fellow Hector, she is gone; she is two months on her way. ARMADO. What meanest thou? COSTARD. Faith, unless you play the honest Troyan, the poor wench is cast away: she's quick; the child brags in her belly already; 'tis yours. ARMADO. Dost thou infamonize me among potentates? Thou shalt die. COSTARD. Then shall Hector be whipped for Jaquenetta that is quick by him, and hanged for Pompey that is dead by him. DUMAINE. Most rare Pompey! BOYET. Renowned Pompey! BEROWNE. Greater than great, great, great, great Pompey! Pompey the Huge! DUMAINE. Hector trembles. BEROWNE. Pompey is moved. More Ates, more Ates! Stir them on! stir them on! DUMAINE. Hector will challenge him. BEROWNE. Ay, if a' have no more man's blood in his belly than will sup a flea. ARMADO. By the north pole, I do challenge thee. COSTARD. I will not fight with a pole, like a northern man: I'll slash; I'll do it by the sword. I bepray you, let me borrow my arms again. DUMAINE. Room for the incensed Worthies! COSTARD. I'll do it in my shirt. DUMAINE. Most resolute Pompey! MOTH. Master, let me take you a buttonhole lower. Do you not see Pompey is uncasing for the combat? What mean you? You will lose your reputation. ARMADO. Gentlemen and soldiers, pardon me; I will not combat in my shirt. DUMAINE. You may not deny it: Pompey hath made the challenge. ARMADO. Sweet bloods, I both may and will. BEROWNE. What reason have you for 't? ARMADO. The naked truth of it is: I have no shirt; I go woolward for penance. BOYET. True, and it was enjoined him in Rome for want of linen; since when, I'll be sworn, he wore none but a dish-clout of Jaquenetta's, and that a' wears next his heart for a favour. [Enter MONSIEUR MARCADE, a messenger.] MARCADE. God save you, madam! PRINCESS. Welcome, Marcade; But that thou interrupt'st our merriment. MARCADE. I am sorry, madam; for the news I bring Is heavy in my tongue. The king your father-- PRINCESS. Dead, for my life! MARCADE. Even so: my tale is told. BEROWNE. Worthies away! the scene begins to cloud. ARMADO. For mine own part, I breathe free breath. I have seen the day of wrong through the little hole of discretion, and I will right myself like a soldier. [Exeunt WORTHIES.] KING. How fares your Majesty? PRINCESS. Boyet, prepare: I will away to-night. KING. Madam, not so: I do beseech you stay. PRINCESS. Prepare, I say. I thank you, gracious lords, For all your fair endeavours; and entreat, Out of a new-sad soul, that you vouchsafe In your rich wisdom to excuse or hide The liberal opposition of our spirits, If over-boldly we have borne ourselves In the converse of breath; your gentleness Was guilty of it. Farewell, worthy lord! A heavy heart bears not a nimble tongue. Excuse me so, coming so short of thanks For my great suit so easily obtain'd. KING. The extreme parts of time extremely forms All causes to the purpose of his speed, And often at his very loose decides That which long process could not arbitrate: And though the mourning brow of progeny Forbid the smiling courtesy of love The holy suit which fain it would convince; Yet, since love's argument was first on foot, Let not the cloud of sorrow justle it From what it purpos'd; since, to wail friends lost Is not by much so wholesome-profitable As to rejoice at friends but newly found. PRINCESS. I understand you not: my griefs are double. BEROWNE. Honest plain words best pierce the ear of grief; And by these badges understand the king. For your fair sakes have we neglected time, Play'd foul play with our oaths. Your beauty, ladies, Hath much deform'd us, fashioning our humours Even to the opposed end of our intents; And what in us hath seem'd ridiculous,-- As love is full of unbefitting strains; All wanton as a child, skipping and vain; Form'd by the eye, and, therefore, like the eye, Full of strange shapes, of habits and of forms, Varying in subjects, as the eye doth roll To every varied object in his glance: Which parti-coated presence of loose love Put on by us, if, in your heavenly eyes, Have misbecom'd our oaths and gravities, Those heavenly eyes that look into these faults Suggested us to make. Therefore, ladies, Our love being yours, the error that love makes Is likewise yours: we to ourselves prove false, By being once false for ever to be true To those that make us both,--fair ladies, you: And even that falsehood, in itself a sin, Thus purifies itself and turns to grace. PRINCESS. We have receiv'd your letters, full of love; Your favours, the ambassadors of love; And, in our maiden council, rated them At courtship, pleasant jest, and courtesy, As bombast and as lining to the time; But more devout than this in our respects Have we not been; and therefore met your loves In their own fashion, like a merriment. DUMAINE. Our letters, madam, show'd much more than jest. LONGAVILLE. So did our looks. ROSALINE. We did not quote them so. KING. Now, at the latest minute of the hour, Grant us your loves. PRINCESS. A time, methinks, too short To make a world-without-end bargain in. No, no, my lord, your Grace is perjur'd much, Full of dear guiltiness; and therefore this: If for my love,--as there is no such cause,-- You will do aught, this shall you do for me: Your oath I will not trust; but go with speed To some forlorn and naked hermitage, Remote from all the pleasures of the world; There stay until the twelve celestial signs Have brought about the annual reckoning. If this austere insociable life Change not your offer made in heat of blood, If frosts and fasts, hard lodging and thin weeds, Nip not the gaudy blossoms of your love, But that it bear this trial, and last love, Then, at the expiration of the year, Come, challenge me, challenge me by these deserts; And, by this virgin palm now kissing thine, I will be thine; and, till that instant, shut My woeful self up in a mournful house, Raining the tears of lamentation For the remembrance of my father's death. If this thou do deny, let our hands part, Neither intitled in the other's heart. KING. If this, or more than this, I would deny, To flatter up these powers of mine with rest, The sudden hand of death close up mine eye! Hence ever then my heart is in thy breast. BEROWNE. And what to me, my love? and what to me? ROSALINE. You must he purged too, your sins are rack'd; You are attaint with faults and perjury; Therefore, if you my favour mean to get, A twelvemonth shall you spend, and never rest, But seek the weary beds of people sick. DUMAINE. But what to me, my love? but what to me? KATHARINE. A wife! A beard, fair health, and honesty; With three-fold love I wish you all these three. DUMAINE. O! shall I say I thank you, gentle wife? KATHARINE. No so, my lord; a twelvemonth and a day I'll mark no words that smooth-fac'd wooers say. Come when the King doth to my lady come; Then, if I have much love, I'll give you some. DUMAINE. I'll serve thee true and faithfully till then. KATHARINE. Yet swear not, lest ye be forsworn again. LONGAVILLE. What says Maria? MARIA. At the twelvemonth's end I'll change my black gown for a faithful friend. LONGAVILLE. I'll stay with patience; but the time is long. MARIA. The liker you; few taller are so young. BEROWNE. Studies my lady? mistress, look on me; Behold the window of my heart, mine eye, What humble suit attends thy answer there. Impose some service on me for thy love. ROSALINE. Oft have I heard of you, my Lord Berowne, Before I saw you; and the world's large tongue Proclaims you for a man replete with mocks; Full of comparisons and wounding flouts, Which you on all estates will execute That lie within the mercy of your wit: To weed this wormwood from your fruitful brain, And therewithal to win me, if you please,-- Without the which I am not to be won,-- You shall this twelvemonth term, from day to day, Visit the speechless sick, and still converse With groaning wretches; and your task shall be, With all the fierce endeavour of your wit To enforce the pained impotent to smile. BEROWNE. To move wild laughter in the throat of death? It cannot be; it is impossible: Mirth cannot move a soul in agony. ROSALINE. Why, that's the way to choke a gibing spirit, Whose influence is begot of that loose grace Which shallow laughing hearers give to fools. A jest's prosperity lies in the ear Of him that hears it, never in the tongue Of him that makes it: then, if sickly ears, Deaf'd with the clamours of their own dear groans, Will hear your idle scorns, continue then, And I will have you and that fault withal; But if they will not, throw away that spirit, And I shall find you empty of that fault, Right joyful of your reformation. BEROWNE. A twelvemonth! well, befall what will befall, I'll jest a twelvemonth in an hospital. PRINCESS. [To the King.] Ay, sweet my lord; and so I take my leave. KING. No, madam; we will bring you on your way. BEROWNE. Our wooing doth not end like an old play: Jack hath not Jill; these ladies' courtesy Might well have made our sport a comedy. KING. Come, sir, it wants a twelvemonth and a day, And then 'twill end. BEROWNE. That's too long for a play. [Enter ARMADO.] ARMADO. Sweet Majesty, vouchsafe me,-- PRINCESS. Was not that not Hector? DUMAINE. The worthy knight of Troy. ARMADO. I will kiss thy royal finger, and take leave. I am a votary: I have vowed to Jaquenetta to hold the plough for her sweet love three yeasr. But, most esteemed greatness, will you hear the dialogue that the two learned men have compiled in praise of the owl and the cuckoo? It should have followed in the end of our show. KING. Call them forth quickly; we will do so. ARMADO. Holla! approach. [Enter HOLOFERNES, NATHANIEL, MOTH, COSTARD, and others.] This side is Hiems, Winter; this Ver, the Spring; the one maintained by the owl, the other by the cuckoo. Ver, begin. SPRING I. When daisies pied and violets blue And lady-smocks all silver-white And cuckoo-buds of yellow hue Do paint the meadows with delight, The cuckoo then on every tree Mocks married men, for thus sings he, Cuckoo; Cuckoo, cuckoo: O, word of fear, Unpleasing to a married ear! II. When shepherds pipe on oaten straws, And merry larks are ploughmen's clocks, When turtles tread, and rooks and daws, And maidens bleach their summer smocks, The cuckoo then, on every tree, Mocks married men, for thus sings he: Cuckoo; Cuckoo, cuckoo: O, word of fear, Unpleasing to a married ear! WINTER III. When icicles hang by the wall, And Dick the shepherd blows his nail, And Tom bears logs into the hall, And milk comes frozen home in pail, When blood is nipp'd, and ways be foul, Then nightly sings the staring owl: Tu-who; Tu-whit, tu-who--a merry note, While greasy Joan doth keel the pot. IV. When all aloud the wind doth blow, And coughing drowns the parson's saw, And birds sit brooding in the snow, And Marian's nose looks red and raw, When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl, Then nightly sings the staring owl: Tu-who; Tu-whit, to-who--a merry note, While greasy Joan doth keel the pot. ARMADO. The words of Mercury are harsh after the songs of Apollo. You that way: we this way. [Exeunt.] Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben stehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Die Prinzessin, Katherine, Rosaline und Maria sprechen darüber, wie sehr sie vom König und seinem Hof geschmeichelt und mit Geschenken überhäuft wurden. Die Prinzessin macht sich spöttisch über Navarres Gedichte lustig - "so viel Liebe in einem Reim, wie in einem Blatt Papier untergebracht werden würde" - und jede der anderen beklagt sich ebenfalls über die übermäßige Wortwahl, mit der sie belästigt wurden: "Der Brief ist um eine Meile zu lang." Die Frauen kommentieren die Wege von Cupido und kommen zu dem Schluss, dass es am besten ist, "ein leichtes Herz" in der Liebe zu bewahren, damit sie nicht das gleiche Schicksal wie Katherines Schwester erleiden: Er machte sie melancholisch, traurig und schwer; Und so starb sie. Alle vier wünschen sich, diese Hofleute - "die zu Narren gewordenen Witzbolde" - für ihre Übertreibungen zu bestrafen, denn keiner von ihnen stellt sich seine Dummheit vor, als sie zu Beginn des Stücks schwört, die Liebe abzuschwören. "Wie ich ihn winseln und betteln und suchen lassen würde...", sagt Rosaline. Boyet kommt mit einem Schwall von Energie auf die Bühne, außer sich vor Lachen über das, was er in der Nähe im Park belauscht hat. Der König und sein Gefolge sind auf dem Weg, als Russen elegant gekleidet, um die Damen zu umwerben. Er beobachtet sie dabei, wie sie die höfische Maskerade planen: Damit fielen sie alle auf den BodenMit einem solchen eifrigen Lachen, so tief,Dass in diesem lächerlichen Rücken ihre TorheitErscheint, um ihre Torheit, die Tränen der Leidenschaft, zu überprüfen. Im Handumdrehen beschließt die Prinzessin, dass sie die Lords in ihrem "spöttischen Vergnügen" vereiteln sollten, indem sie Masken tragen, um die einzelnen Werber zu verwirren, wen sie tatsächlich umwerben sollen. "Sollen wir tanzen?", wird sie gefragt. Nein, bis zum Tod, wir werden keinen Fuß rühren,Noch erweisen wir ihren geschriebenen Reden keine Gnade,Aber während es gesprochen wird, wendet jede ihr Gesicht ab. Trompetenfanfaren kündigen die Ankunft der maskierten Hofleute an, die von Moth begleitet werden, der versucht, eine formelle Einführungsrede zu halten. Er antwortet auf die berechnete Unhöflichkeit der Damen, indem er spontane Änderungen in seiner Rede vornimmt, sehr zum Missfallen von Biron. Moth: "Ein heiliger Teil der schönsten Frauen,Die jemals ihre... Rücken... den Sterblichen wandten!" Biron: "Ihre Augen, Bösewicht, ihre Augen!" Als jeder der Männer auf eine Dame zugeht, wird er mit dem normalen koketten Widerstand empfangen, aber keiner von ihnen weiß, dass sie zu den falschen Damen geführt wurden. Typisch für den Austausch ist der folgende Dialog zwischen dem König und Rosaline: Rosaline: Wir werden nicht tanzen.König: Warum nehmen wir uns dann an den Händchen?Rosaline: Nur um uns als Freunde zu trennen. Verbeugt euch, meine Lieben. Und so endet das maßvolle Spiel. König: Mehr von dieser maßvollen Maßnahme. Sei nicht so zimperlich. Rosaline: Wir können uns zu diesem Preis nichts weiter leisten. König: Euren Preis. Was kostet eure Gesellschaft? Rosaline: Nur eure Abwesenheit. Biron und die Prinzessin, Dumain und Maria sowie Longaville und Katherine spielen ähnliche Szenen nach, während jedes Paar sich zurückzieht, um weiter privat zu sprechen. Boyet genießt das Spektakel: Die Zungen spöttischer Mädchen sind so scharf wie der unsichtbare Rand des Rasiermessers... Er rät den Damen, nachdem die "Maskenspieler" ohne ihre Kostüme zurückkehren, weiterhin "wie süße Rosen in dieser Sommerluft zu duften". Rosaline greift die Idee auf und fügt begeistert hinzu: Lasst uns sie immer noch verspotten, bekannt als Verkleidete. Lasst uns ihnen klagen, welche Narren hier waren, Verkleidet wie Moskowiter in formloser Kleidung... Als Boyet als Vermittler zwischen den Damen und dem König auftritt, betrachten ihn die Herren verächtlich. Er ist der einzige Adlige, der Zugang zur Kammer der Damen hat. Biron gibt seinen Frust in Shakespeares schärfster Sprache Preis: 'Er kann auch schnitzen und nuscheln. So ist er derjenige, der seine Hand auf höfliche Weise weggeküsst hat. Das ist der Affe der Form, Monsieur der Schickliche, der, wenn er am Tisch spielt, die Würfel mit ehrenhaften Worten schilt... Die Stufen küssen ihm die Füße, wenn er darauf tritt. Mit der Rückkehr von Boyet und den Damen wird die "Komödie der Irrtümer" aufgedeckt, aber nicht bevor die Prinzessin ihre letzten Augenblicke des Vergnügens aus der Situation herausholt. Als der König sie bittet, ihm zum Hof zu folgen, zeigt sie falsches Mitgefühl für sein "heiliges Versprechen": Dieses Feld soll mich halten, und so halte Dein Versprechen. Weder Gott noch ich haben Freude an Meineidigen. Rosaline fügt ihrem spielerischen Gift hinzu, indem sie die "russischen" Besucher als Stümper diskreditiert: ...in jener Stunde, mein Herr, Segneten sie uns nicht mit einem glücklichen Wort. Die letztendliche Aufdeckung ihres Unsinns veranlasst Biron, fancy Phrasen gegen einfache Worte einzutauschen, als er seine Liebe erklärt: Taffeta-Begriffe, präzise seidene Ausdrücke,Dreifach übertreibende Hyperbole, kecke Koketterie,Pedantische Figuren - Diese SommerfliegenHaben mich mit prahlerischer Angeberei erfüllt.Ich schwöre ihnen ab. Jeder der Herren erkennt, dass er nur das Zeichen der Dame umworben hat, die er liebte, und so endet dieser Teil der Szene. Costard tritt auf, um die bevorstehende Unterhaltung anzukündigen, die von Armado und Holofernes organisiert wurde. Obwohl der König um seinen Ruf fürchtet, bestehen sowohl Biron als auch die Prinzessin darauf, dass die Aufführung stattfindet: Prinzessin: Nein, mein guter Herr, lasst mich euch jetzt überreden.Das Vergnügen gefällt am besten, das am wenigsten weiß, wie es geht,Wo Eifer versucht zu gefallen und die InhalteIn der Begeisterung dessen, was es präsentiert, sterben. Armado soll Hektor von Troja spielen; Costard, Pompeius der Große; Nathaniel, Alexander der Große; Moth, Herkules; und Holofernes, Judas Maccabaeus. Jeder der Darsteller spricht seinen Teil und wird von den spöttischen Unterbrechungen des Publikums belästigt. Die Herren genießen das Verspotten sehr und sind glücklich, ihre eigene Demütigung auf andere zu übertragen. Biron wird sogar wieder mit Boyet warm: "Gut gesagt, alter Spötter. Ich muss mit dir befreundet sein." Holofernes spielt seine Rolle im typisch pedantischen Stil, indem er zunächst das Besetzen des winzigen Moth als den riesigen Herkules rationalisiert: Der große Herkules wird von diesem Wicht präsentiert,Dessen Knüppel Cerberus, den dreiköpfigen Hund, erschlug;Und als er ein Baby, ein Kind, ein Zwerg war, erwürgte er so Schlangen mit seinen Händen. Als alle Adligen ihn mit Witzen überziehen, zieht er sich missmutig zurück - "Das ist nicht großzügig, nicht sanft, nicht demütig" - und erregt das Mitleid der Prinzessin: "Ach, der arme Makkabäus, wie ist er geschüttelt worden!" Das Spiel droht zusammenzubrechen, als Costard, scheinbar von Biron ermutigt, Armado den Krieger beschuldigt, Jaquenetta schwanger gemacht zu haben. Der Prahler weicht vor einem Kampf zurück: "Ich werde nicht in meinem Hemd kämpfen." Die Stimmung ändert sich abrupt, als der Bote Mercade eintrifft und der Prinzessin von dem Tod ihres Vaters berichtet. Obwohl er es versucht, kann der König sie nicht überzeugen, bei ihm zu bleiben. Sie schwört, sich für ein Jahr in einem "traurigen Haus" einzuschließen, und sie

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: For the first three years after John Bergson's death, the affairs of his family prospered. Then came the hard times that brought every one on the Divide to the brink of despair; three years of drouth and failure, the last struggle of a wild soil against the encroaching plowshare. The first of these fruitless summers the Bergson boys bore courageously. The failure of the corn crop made labor cheap. Lou and Oscar hired two men and put in bigger crops than ever before. They lost everything they spent. The whole country was discouraged. Farmers who were already in debt had to give up their land. A few foreclosures demoralized the county. The settlers sat about on the wooden sidewalks in the little town and told each other that the country was never meant for men to live in; the thing to do was to get back to Iowa, to Illinois, to any place that had been proved habitable. The Bergson boys, certainly, would have been happier with their uncle Otto, in the bakery shop in Chicago. Like most of their neighbors, they were meant to follow in paths already marked out for them, not to break trails in a new country. A steady job, a few holidays, nothing to think about, and they would have been very happy. It was no fault of theirs that they had been dragged into the wilderness when they were little boys. A pioneer should have imagination, should be able to enjoy the idea of things more than the things themselves. The second of these barren summers was passing. One September afternoon Alexandra had gone over to the garden across the draw to dig sweet potatoes--they had been thriving upon the weather that was fatal to everything else. But when Carl Linstrum came up the garden rows to find her, she was not working. She was standing lost in thought, leaning upon her pitchfork, her sunbonnet lying beside her on the ground. The dry garden patch smelled of drying vines and was strewn with yellow seed-cucumbers and pumpkins and citrons. At one end, next the rhubarb, grew feathery asparagus, with red berries. Down the middle of the garden was a row of gooseberry and currant bushes. A few tough zenias and marigolds and a row of scarlet sage bore witness to the buckets of water that Mrs. Bergson had carried there after sundown, against the prohibition of her sons. Carl came quietly and slowly up the garden path, looking intently at Alexandra. She did not hear him. She was standing perfectly still, with that serious ease so characteristic of her. Her thick, reddish braids, twisted about her head, fairly burned in the sunlight. The air was cool enough to make the warm sun pleasant on one's back and shoulders, and so clear that the eye could follow a hawk up and up, into the blazing blue depths of the sky. Even Carl, never a very cheerful boy, and considerably darkened by these last two bitter years, loved the country on days like this, felt something strong and young and wild come out of it, that laughed at care. "Alexandra," he said as he approached her, "I want to talk to you. Let's sit down by the gooseberry bushes." He picked up her sack of potatoes and they crossed the garden. "Boys gone to town?" he asked as he sank down on the warm, sun-baked earth. "Well, we have made up our minds at last, Alexandra. We are really going away." She looked at him as if she were a little frightened. "Really, Carl? Is it settled?" "Yes, father has heard from St. Louis, and they will give him back his old job in the cigar factory. He must be there by the first of November. They are taking on new men then. We will sell the place for whatever we can get, and auction the stock. We haven't enough to ship. I am going to learn engraving with a German engraver there, and then try to get work in Chicago." Alexandra's hands dropped in her lap. Her eyes became dreamy and filled with tears. Carl's sensitive lower lip trembled. He scratched in the soft earth beside him with a stick. "That's all I hate about it, Alexandra," he said slowly. "You've stood by us through so much and helped father out so many times, and now it seems as if we were running off and leaving you to face the worst of it. But it isn't as if we could really ever be of any help to you. We are only one more drag, one more thing you look out for and feel responsible for. Father was never meant for a farmer, you know that. And I hate it. We'd only get in deeper and deeper." "Yes, yes, Carl, I know. You are wasting your life here. You are able to do much better things. You are nearly nineteen now, and I wouldn't have you stay. I've always hoped you would get away. But I can't help feeling scared when I think how I will miss you--more than you will ever know." She brushed the tears from her cheeks, not trying to hide them. "But, Alexandra," he said sadly and wistfully, "I've never been any real help to you, beyond sometimes trying to keep the boys in a good humor." Alexandra smiled and shook her head. "Oh, it's not that. Nothing like that. It's by understanding me, and the boys, and mother, that you've helped me. I expect that is the only way one person ever really can help another. I think you are about the only one that ever helped me. Somehow it will take more courage to bear your going than everything that has happened before." Carl looked at the ground. "You see, we've all depended so on you," he said, "even father. He makes me laugh. When anything comes up he always says, 'I wonder what the Bergsons are going to do about that? I guess I'll go and ask her.' I'll never forget that time, when we first came here, and our horse had the colic, and I ran over to your place--your father was away, and you came home with me and showed father how to let the wind out of the horse. You were only a little girl then, but you knew ever so much more about farm work than poor father. You remember how homesick I used to get, and what long talks we used to have coming from school? We've someway always felt alike about things." "Yes, that's it; we've liked the same things and we've liked them together, without anybody else knowing. And we've had good times, hunting for Christmas trees and going for ducks and making our plum wine together every year. We've never either of us had any other close friend. And now--" Alexandra wiped her eyes with the corner of her apron, "and now I must remember that you are going where you will have many friends, and will find the work you were meant to do. But you'll write to me, Carl? That will mean a great deal to me here." "I'll write as long as I live," cried the boy impetuously. "And I'll be working for you as much as for myself, Alexandra. I want to do something you'll like and be proud of. I'm a fool here, but I know I can do something!" He sat up and frowned at the red grass. Alexandra sighed. "How discouraged the boys will be when they hear. They always come home from town discouraged, anyway. So many people are trying to leave the country, and they talk to our boys and make them low-spirited. I'm afraid they are beginning to feel hard toward me because I won't listen to any talk about going. Sometimes I feel like I'm getting tired of standing up for this country." "I won't tell the boys yet, if you'd rather not." "Oh, I'll tell them myself, to-night, when they come home. They'll be talking wild, anyway, and no good comes of keeping bad news. It's all harder on them than it is on me. Lou wants to get married, poor boy, and he can't until times are better. See, there goes the sun, Carl. I must be getting back. Mother will want her potatoes. It's chilly already, the moment the light goes." Alexandra rose and looked about. A golden afterglow throbbed in the west, but the country already looked empty and mournful. A dark moving mass came over the western hill, the Lee boy was bringing in the herd from the other half-section. Emil ran from the windmill to open the corral gate. From the log house, on the little rise across the draw, the smoke was curling. The cattle lowed and bellowed. In the sky the pale half-moon was slowly silvering. Alexandra and Carl walked together down the potato rows. "I have to keep telling myself what is going to happen," she said softly. "Since you have been here, ten years now, I have never really been lonely. But I can remember what it was like before. Now I shall have nobody but Emil. But he is my boy, and he is tender-hearted." That night, when the boys were called to supper, they sat down moodily. They had worn their coats to town, but they ate in their striped shirts and suspenders. They were grown men now, and, as Alexandra said, for the last few years they had been growing more and more like themselves. Lou was still the slighter of the two, the quicker and more intelligent, but apt to go off at half-cock. He had a lively blue eye, a thin, fair skin (always burned red to the neckband of his shirt in summer), stiff, yellow hair that would not lie down on his head, and a bristly little yellow mustache, of which he was very proud. Oscar could not grow a mustache; his pale face was as bare as an egg, and his white eyebrows gave it an empty look. He was a man of powerful body and unusual endurance; the sort of man you could attach to a corn-sheller as you would an engine. He would turn it all day, without hurrying, without slowing down. But he was as indolent of mind as he was unsparing of his body. His love of routine amounted to a vice. He worked like an insect, always doing the same thing over in the same way, regardless of whether it was best or no. He felt that there was a sovereign virtue in mere bodily toil, and he rather liked to do things in the hardest way. If a field had once been in corn, he couldn't bear to put it into wheat. He liked to begin his corn-planting at the same time every year, whether the season were backward or forward. He seemed to feel that by his own irreproachable regularity he would clear himself of blame and reprove the weather. When the wheat crop failed, he threshed the straw at a dead loss to demonstrate how little grain there was, and thus prove his case against Providence. Lou, on the other hand, was fussy and flighty; always planned to get through two days' work in one, and often got only the least important things done. He liked to keep the place up, but he never got round to doing odd jobs until he had to neglect more pressing work to attend to them. In the middle of the wheat harvest, when the grain was over-ripe and every hand was needed, he would stop to mend fences or to patch the harness; then dash down to the field and overwork and be laid up in bed for a week. The two boys balanced each other, and they pulled well together. They had been good friends since they were children. One seldom went anywhere, even to town, without the other. To-night, after they sat down to supper, Oscar kept looking at Lou as if he expected him to say something, and Lou blinked his eyes and frowned at his plate. It was Alexandra herself who at last opened the discussion. "The Linstrums," she said calmly, as she put another plate of hot biscuit on the table, "are going back to St. Louis. The old man is going to work in the cigar factory again." At this Lou plunged in. "You see, Alexandra, everybody who can crawl out is going away. There's no use of us trying to stick it out, just to be stubborn. There's something in knowing when to quit." "Where do you want to go, Lou?" "Any place where things will grow," said Oscar grimly. Lou reached for a potato. "Chris Arnson has traded his half-section for a place down on the river." "Who did he trade with?" "Charley Fuller, in town." "Fuller the real estate man? You see, Lou, that Fuller has a head on him. He's buying and trading for every bit of land he can get up here. It'll make him a rich man, some day." "He's rich now, that's why he can take a chance." "Why can't we? We'll live longer than he will. Some day the land itself will be worth more than all we can ever raise on it." Lou laughed. "It could be worth that, and still not be worth much. Why, Alexandra, you don't know what you're talking about. Our place wouldn't bring now what it would six years ago. The fellows that settled up here just made a mistake. Now they're beginning to see this high land wasn't never meant to grow nothing on, and everybody who ain't fixed to graze cattle is trying to crawl out. It's too high to farm up here. All the Americans are skinning out. That man Percy Adams, north of town, told me that he was going to let Fuller take his land and stuff for four hundred dollars and a ticket to Chicago." "There's Fuller again!" Alexandra exclaimed. "I wish that man would take me for a partner. He's feathering his nest! If only poor people could learn a little from rich people! But all these fellows who are running off are bad farmers, like poor Mr. Linstrum. They couldn't get ahead even in good years, and they all got into debt while father was getting out. I think we ought to hold on as long as we can on father's account. He was so set on keeping this land. He must have seen harder times than this, here. How was it in the early days, mother?" Mrs. Bergson was weeping quietly. These family discussions always depressed her, and made her remember all that she had been torn away from. "I don't see why the boys are always taking on about going away," she said, wiping her eyes. "I don't want to move again; out to some raw place, maybe, where we'd be worse off than we are here, and all to do over again. I won't move! If the rest of you go, I will ask some of the neighbors to take me in, and stay and be buried by father. I'm not going to leave him by himself on the prairie, for cattle to run over." She began to cry more bitterly. The boys looked angry. Alexandra put a soothing hand on her mother's shoulder. "There's no question of that, mother. You don't have to go if you don't want to. A third of the place belongs to you by American law, and we can't sell without your consent. We only want you to advise us. How did it use to be when you and father first came? Was it really as bad as this, or not?" "Oh, worse! Much worse," moaned Mrs. Bergson. "Drouth, chince-bugs, hail, everything! My garden all cut to pieces like sauerkraut. No grapes on the creek, no nothing. The people all lived just like coyotes." Oscar got up and tramped out of the kitchen. Lou followed him. They felt that Alexandra had taken an unfair advantage in turning their mother loose on them. The next morning they were silent and reserved. They did not offer to take the women to church, but went down to the barn immediately after breakfast and stayed there all day. When Carl Linstrum came over in the afternoon, Alexandra winked to him and pointed toward the barn. He understood her and went down to play cards with the boys. They believed that a very wicked thing to do on Sunday, and it relieved their feelings. Alexandra stayed in the house. On Sunday afternoon Mrs. Bergson always took a nap, and Alexandra read. During the week she read only the newspaper, but on Sunday, and in the long evenings of winter, she read a good deal; read a few things over a great many times. She knew long portions of the "Frithjof Saga" by heart, and, like most Swedes who read at all, she was fond of Longfellow's verse,--the ballads and the "Golden Legend" and "The Spanish Student." To-day she sat in the wooden rocking-chair with the Swedish Bible open on her knees, but she was not reading. She was looking thoughtfully away at the point where the upland road disappeared over the rim of the prairie. Her body was in an attitude of perfect repose, such as it was apt to take when she was thinking earnestly. Her mind was slow, truthful, steadfast. She had not the least spark of cleverness. All afternoon the sitting-room was full of quiet and sunlight. Emil was making rabbit traps in the kitchen shed. The hens were clucking and scratching brown holes in the flower beds, and the wind was teasing the prince's feather by the door. That evening Carl came in with the boys to supper. "Emil," said Alexandra, when they were all seated at the table, "how would you like to go traveling? Because I am going to take a trip, and you can go with me if you want to." The boys looked up in amazement; they were always afraid of Alexandra's schemes. Carl was interested. "I've been thinking, boys," she went on, "that maybe I am too set against making a change. I'm going to take Brigham and the buckboard to-morrow and drive down to the river country and spend a few days looking over what they've got down there. If I find anything good, you boys can go down and make a trade." "Nobody down there will trade for anything up here," said Oscar gloomily. "That's just what I want to find out. Maybe they are just as discontented down there as we are up here. Things away from home often look better than they are. You know what your Hans Andersen book says, Carl, about the Swedes liking to buy Danish bread and the Danes liking to buy Swedish bread, because people always think the bread of another country is better than their own. Anyway, I've heard so much about the river farms, I won't be satisfied till I've seen for myself." Lou fidgeted. "Look out! Don't agree to anything. Don't let them fool you." Lou was apt to be fooled himself. He had not yet learned to keep away from the shell-game wagons that followed the circus. After supper Lou put on a necktie and went across the fields to court Annie Lee, and Carl and Oscar sat down to a game of checkers, while Alexandra read "The Swiss Family Robinson" aloud to her mother and Emil. It was not long before the two boys at the table neglected their game to listen. They were all big children together, and they found the adventures of the family in the tree house so absorbing that they gave them their undivided attention. 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.

Einige Jahre sind vergangen und die Familie Bergson kämpft mit einer Periode von Dürre und Ernteausfällen. Alle fragen sich langsam, ob die Prärien von Nebraska überhaupt jemals zur Besiedlung geeignet waren. Lou und Oscar wären wahrscheinlich glücklicher mit einem normalen Job in der Stadt, wie ihr Onkel Otto, der Bäcker in Chicago ist. In dieser Hinsicht gleichen sie ihren Nachbarn. Ein wahrer Pionier sollte jedoch, wie der Erzähler uns mitteilt, "Vorstellungskraft haben" und sich nicht davor scheuen, Ausdauer zu zeigen. Das Kapitel beginnt im September, kurz nach dem zweiten schlechten Sommer in Folge. Alexandra gräbt gerade Süßkartoffeln aus, als Carl auftaucht. Er fängt sie in Gedanken versunken ein. Trotz all der Depressionen aufgrund der Dürre freut sich Carl, einen Blick auf Alexandra zu erhaschen, mit ihrer langen, rötlichen Haarzopf, der "beinahe im Sonnenlicht brannte". Carl bittet darum, mit Alexandra sprechen zu können. Ohne große Umschweife erzählt er ihr, dass seine Familie beschlossen hat, wegzuziehen. Carl sagt, dass sein Vater wieder in einer Zigarrenfabrik in St. Louis arbeiten wird und dass er selbst eine Ausbildung zum Graveur machen wird. Beide sind an diesem Punkt den Tränen nahe. Carl sagt, dass es das Beste sei; auf diese Weise brauche sich Alexandra um eine Sorge weniger kümmern. Außerdem sei sein Vater nie wirklich für die Landwirtschaft geeignet gewesen. Alexandra stimmt zu, dass es am besten ist, wenn sie gehen. Aber sie hat immer noch Angst daran zu denken, wie sehr sie ihn vermissen wird. Sie versucht nicht, ihre Tränen zu verbergen. Carl besteht darauf, dass er Alexandra nie wirklich viel geholfen habe. Sie erinnert ihn daran, dass er ihrer ganzen Familie, und vor allem ihr, geholfen hat, indem er sie versteht. Dann werden Carl und Alexandra sentimental und erzählen von alten Zeiten, als Carl gerade mit seinem armen Vater angekommen war, der nichts über die Landwirtschaft wusste, vom Suchen nach Weihnachtsbäumen, vom Herstellen von Pflaumenwein, usw. Wir verstehen es - sie sind beste Freunde für immer und nun zieht einer von ihnen weg. Schade. Carl verspricht Alexandra, "ihr so lange zu schreiben, wie ich lebe", und sagt, dass er für sie genauso arbeiten wird wie für sich selbst. Alexandra fürchtet sich davor, es ihren Brüdern zu sagen, die bereits böse auf sie sind, weil sie sich weigerte wegzuziehen wie fast alle anderen. Alexandra bemerkt, dass es dunkel wird und sagt, dass sie reingehen muss. Während sie zusammen gehen, erwähnt sie, dass sie nach seinem Wegzug keine Freunde mehr haben wird, außer ihrem kleinen Bruder Emil. Später beschreibt der Erzähler die Essensszene mit Alexandra, ihrer Mutter und ihren Brüdern. Lou und Oscar sind mittlerweile erwachsen und ihre Persönlichkeiten haben sich endlich geformt. Lou ist der dünnere und schlauere von beiden, mit einer Tendenz dazu, impulsiv und flatterhaft zu sein. Sein Bruder Oscar ist viel größer und stärker und legt vor allem Wert auf Routine, unabhängig davon, ob er das beste Ergebnis bekommt oder nicht. Die beiden sind gute Freunde und selten voneinander getrennt. Beim Abendessen verkündet Alexandra ruhig, dass die Linstrums, Carls Familie, nach St. Louis zurückziehen. Lou und Oscar fangen an zu murren und sagen, dass es ein Zeichen der Zeit ist. Ihre eigene Familie sollte eher wegziehen, solange sie noch können. Alexandra hingegen ist überzeugt, dass das Land, das sie besitzen, eines Tages ein Vermögen wert sein wird, daher hat derzeitiger Verkauf keinen Nutzen. Lou spottet darüber. Er ist der Meinung, dass diejenigen, die sich entschieden haben, dieses Land zu besiedeln, einen großen Fehler gemacht haben. Es ist an der Zeit weiterzuziehen, wie die anderen, die ihr Eigentum an Charly Fuller, einen wohlhabenden Immobilieninvestor, verkauft haben. Die Tatsache, dass ein wohlhabender Mann das Land aufkauft, sagt Alexandra, dass es etwas wertvolles gibt, an dem man festhalten sollte, und dass diejenigen, die jetzt verkaufen und gehen, wahrscheinlich nur schlechte Farmer sind. Inzwischen hat Mrs. Bergson begonnen, still zu weinen. Sie will nicht noch einmal umziehen und ein noch schlechteres Schicksal erleiden. Alexandra erinnert ihre Mutter daran, dass sie ihr Eigentum ohne ihre Zustimmung nicht verkaufen können, laut amerikanischem Recht. Sie fragt Mrs. Bergson, wie das Land war, als sie zum ersten Mal ankamen, und Mrs. Bergson ruft aus, dass es damals viel, viel schlimmer war. Die Jungen stehen auf und stürmen davon. Am nächsten Tag, einem Sonntag, beschließen die Jungen, Karten in der Scheune zu spielen anstatt in die Kirche zu gehen. Als Carl vorbeikommt, schickt ihn Alexandra zu ihnen, um mit ihnen über seine Abreise zu sprechen. Alexandra setzt sich drinnen und liest. Sie liest gerne einiges immer wieder, wie die "Frithjof Saga", ein skandinavisches Epos, und Gedichte des amerikanischen Dichters Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. Ihr Verstand ist langsam und bedächtig, erzählt uns der Erzähler, ohne "den geringsten Funken von Intelligenz". Zur Essenszeit kommt Carl mit Lou und Oscar herein. Sie sind alle überrascht, als Alexandra Emil fragt, ob er sie auf einer Reise begleiten möchte. Alexandra erzählt ihnen, dass sie beschlossen hat, eine Reise in die Flussgegend zu machen, um zu sehen, ob es sich lohnt, dort sesshaft zu werden, anstatt sich auf der Divide niederzulassen. Als Lou bezweifelt, ob dort jemand bereit wäre, ihr Eigentum mit den Bergsons zu tauschen, ist Alexandra sich nicht so sicher - das Gras ist immer grüner auf der anderen Seite. Lou hofft nur, dass sie nicht betrogen wird, obwohl der Erzähler uns informiert, dass Lou glücklicherweise dem Glücksspiel verfällt und oft selbst betrogen wird. Nach dem Abendessen geht Lou zu Annie Lee, einem Mädchen aus der Nähe, um sie zu umwerben, und Alexandra setzt sich hin, um "Die Schweizer Familie Robinson" Emil vorzulesen. Bald sitzt die ganze Familie um sie herum und hört zu.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). 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. [Es treten auf, mit Trommel und Farben, Malcolm, der alte Siward und sein Sohn, Macduff, Menteith, Caithness, Angus, Lennox, Ross und Soldaten, marschierend.] MALCOLM. Cousins, ich hoffe, die Tage sind nahe, in denen die Kammern sicher sein werden. MENTEITH. Wir zweifeln daran nicht. SIWARD. Welcher Wald ist das vor uns? MENTEITH. Der Wald von Birnam. MALCOLM. Lasst jeden Soldaten einen Zweig abschlagen und ihn vor sich tragen; dadurch werden wir die Anzahl unserer Armee verdecken und in der Berichterstattung über uns Fehler verursachen. SOLDATEN. Es wird erledigt. SIWARD. Wir wissen nichts anderes, außer dass der selbstbewusste Tyrann immer noch in Dunsinane bleibt und ertragen wird, dass wir uns niederlassen. MALCOLM. Das ist seine große Hoffnung: Denn wo es Vorteile zu geben gibt, haben ihm sowohl mehr als auch weniger den Rücken gekehrt; Und niemand dient mit ihm außer gezwungenen Wesen, deren Herzen ebenfalls abwesend sind. MACDUFF. Lasst uns unsere gerechten Urteile auf das wahre Ergebnis ausrichten und wir sollen fleißige Krieger sein. SIWARD. Die Zeit rückt näher, die uns in gebührender Entschlossenheit wissen lässt, was wir sagen werden, dass wir haben und was wir schulden. Spekulative Gedanken beziehen sich auf unsichere Hoffnungen; Aber sichere Ergebnisse werden die Entscheidung fällen: Dem Krieg entgegen vorrücken. [Abmarsch, marschierend.] Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben genannten 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.

Mehr Leute treffen sich, insbesondere Malcolm, Siward, Macduff, Menteith, Caithness, Angus, Lennox und Ross. Hat jemand dafür ein Eselsbrücke? Sie schmieden einen Plan: Die Soldaten werden Äste abschneiden, um sich während des Marsches nach Dunsinane zu verstecken. Hm. Das klingt sehr danach, als ob sich der Birnam-Wald in Bewegung setzen würde. Viele von Macbeths Männern haben ihn verlassen, und es ist klar, dass diejenigen, die noch auf Macbeths Seite sind, nicht an die Sache glauben. Dennoch ist Macbeth so sicher, dass er den Sieg davonträgt, dass er sie direkt nach Dunsinane marschieren lässt, in dem Glauben, dass die Burg durch die Prophezeiung der Hexen geschützt ist. An diesem Punkt könnte es klug sein, die Prophezeiung nochmals zu überprüfen.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). 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 hall in the Castle. Enter Hamlet and Horatio. Ham. So much for this, sir; now shall you see the other. You do remember all the circumstance? Hor. Remember it, my lord! Ham. Sir, in my heart there was a kind of fighting That would not let me sleep. Methought I lay Worse than the mutinies in the bilboes. Rashly- And prais'd be rashness for it; let us know, Our indiscretion sometime serves us well When our deep plots do pall; and that should learn us There's a divinity that shapes our ends, Rough-hew them how we will- Hor. That is most certain. Ham. Up from my cabin, My sea-gown scarf'd about me, in the dark Grop'd I to find out them; had my desire, Finger'd their packet, and in fine withdrew To mine own room again; making so bold (My fears forgetting manners) to unseal Their grand commission; where I found, Horatio (O royal knavery!), an exact command, Larded with many several sorts of reasons, Importing Denmark's health, and England's too, With, hoo! such bugs and goblins in my life- That, on the supervise, no leisure bated, No, not to stay the finding of the axe, My head should be struck off. Hor. Is't possible? Ham. Here's the commission; read it at more leisure. But wilt thou bear me how I did proceed? Hor. I beseech you. Ham. Being thus benetted round with villanies, Or I could make a prologue to my brains, They had begun the play. I sat me down; Devis'd a new commission; wrote it fair. I once did hold it, as our statists do, A baseness to write fair, and labour'd much How to forget that learning; but, sir, now It did me yeoman's service. Wilt thou know Th' effect of what I wrote? Hor. Ay, good my lord. Ham. An earnest conjuration from the King, As England was his faithful tributary, As love between them like the palm might flourish, As peace should still her wheaten garland wear And stand a comma 'tween their amities, And many such-like as's of great charge, That, on the view and knowing of these contents, Without debatement further, more or less, He should the bearers put to sudden death, Not shriving time allow'd. Hor. How was this seal'd? Ham. Why, even in that was heaven ordinant. I had my father's signet in my purse, Which was the model of that Danish seal; Folded the writ up in the form of th' other, Subscrib'd it, gave't th' impression, plac'd it safely, The changeling never known. Now, the next day Was our sea-fight; and what to this was sequent Thou know'st already. Hor. So Guildenstern and Rosencrantz go to't. Ham. Why, man, they did make love to this employment! They are not near my conscience; their defeat Does by their own insinuation grow. 'Tis dangerous when the baser nature comes Between the pass and fell incensed points Of mighty opposites. Hor. Why, what a king is this! Ham. Does it not, thinks't thee, stand me now upon- He that hath kill'd my king, and whor'd my mother; Popp'd in between th' election and my hopes; Thrown out his angle for my proper life, And with such coz'nage- is't not perfect conscience To quit him with this arm? And is't not to be damn'd To let this canker of our nature come In further evil? Hor. It must be shortly known to him from England What is the issue of the business there. Ham. It will be short; the interim is mine, And a man's life is no more than to say 'one.' But I am very sorry, good Horatio, That to Laertes I forgot myself, For by the image of my cause I see The portraiture of his. I'll court his favours. But sure the bravery of his grief did put me Into a tow'ring passion. Hor. Peace! Who comes here? Enter young Osric, a courtier. Osr. Your lordship is right welcome back to Denmark. Ham. I humbly thank you, sir. [Aside to Horatio] Dost know this waterfly? Hor. [aside to Hamlet] No, my good lord. Ham. [aside to Horatio] Thy state is the more gracious; for 'tis a vice to know him. He hath much land, and fertile. Let a beast be lord of beasts, and his crib shall stand at the king's mess. 'Tis a chough; but, as I say, spacious in the possession of dirt. Osr. Sweet lord, if your lordship were at leisure, I should impart a thing to you from his Majesty. Ham. I will receive it, sir, with all diligence of spirit. Put your bonnet to his right use. 'Tis for the head. Osr. I thank your lordship, it is very hot. Ham. No, believe me, 'tis very cold; the wind is northerly. Osr. It is indifferent cold, my lord, indeed. Ham. But yet methinks it is very sultry and hot for my complexion. Osr. Exceedingly, my lord; it is very sultry, as 'twere- I cannot tell how. But, my lord, his Majesty bade me signify to you that he has laid a great wager on your head. Sir, this is the matter- Ham. I beseech you remember. [Hamlet moves him to put on his hat.] Osr. Nay, good my lord; for mine ease, in good faith. Sir, here is newly come to court Laertes; believe me, an absolute gentleman, full of most excellent differences, of very soft society and great showing. Indeed, to speak feelingly of him, he is the card or calendar of gentry; for you shall find in him the continent of what part a gentleman would see. Ham. Sir, his definement suffers no perdition in you; though, I know, to divide him inventorially would dozy th' arithmetic of memory, and yet but yaw neither in respect of his quick sail. But, in the verity of extolment, I take him to be a soul of great article, and his infusion of such dearth and rareness as, to make true diction of him, his semblable is his mirror, and who else would trace him, his umbrage, nothing more. Osr. Your lordship speaks most infallibly of him. Ham. The concernancy, sir? Why do we wrap the gentleman in our more rawer breath? Osr. Sir? Hor [aside to Hamlet] Is't not possible to understand in another tongue? You will do't, sir, really. Ham. What imports the nomination of this gentleman? Osr. Of Laertes? Hor. [aside] His purse is empty already. All's golden words are spent. Ham. Of him, sir. Osr. I know you are not ignorant- Ham. I would you did, sir; yet, in faith, if you did, it would not much approve me. Well, sir? Osr. You are not ignorant of what excellence Laertes is- Ham. I dare not confess that, lest I should compare with him in excellence; but to know a man well were to know himself. Osr. I mean, sir, for his weapon; but in the imputation laid on him by them, in his meed he's unfellowed. Ham. What's his weapon? Osr. Rapier and dagger. Ham. That's two of his weapons- but well. Osr. The King, sir, hath wager'd with him six Barbary horses; against the which he has impon'd, as I take it, six French rapiers and poniards, with their assigns, as girdle, hangers, and so. Three of the carriages, in faith, are very dear to fancy, very responsive to the hilts, most delicate carriages, and of very liberal conceit. Ham. What call you the carriages? Hor. [aside to Hamlet] I knew you must be edified by the margent ere you had done. Osr. The carriages, sir, are the hangers. Ham. The phrase would be more germane to the matter if we could carry cannon by our sides. I would it might be hangers till then. But on! Six Barbary horses against six French swords, their assigns, and three liberal-conceited carriages: that's the French bet against the Danish. Why is this all impon'd, as you call it? Osr. The King, sir, hath laid that, in a dozen passes between yourself and him, he shall not exceed you three hits; he hath laid on twelve for nine, and it would come to immediate trial if your lordship would vouchsafe the answer. Ham. How if I answer no? Osr. I mean, my lord, the opposition of your person in trial. Ham. Sir, I will walk here in the hall. If it please his Majesty, it is the breathing time of day with me. Let the foils be brought, the gentleman willing, and the King hold his purpose, I will win for him if I can; if not, I will gain nothing but my shame and the odd hits. Osr. Shall I redeliver you e'en so? Ham. To this effect, sir, after what flourish your nature will. Osr. I commend my duty to your lordship. Ham. Yours, yours. [Exit Osric.] He does well to commend it himself; there are no tongues else for's turn. Hor. This lapwing runs away with the shell on his head. Ham. He did comply with his dug before he suck'd it. Thus has he, and many more of the same bevy that I know the drossy age dotes on, only got the tune of the time and outward habit of encounter- a kind of yesty collection, which carries them through and through the most fann'd and winnowed opinions; and do but blow them to their trial-the bubbles are out, Enter a Lord. Lord. My lord, his Majesty commended him to you by young Osric, who brings back to him, that you attend him in the hall. He sends to know if your pleasure hold to play with Laertes, or that you will take longer time. Ham. I am constant to my purposes; they follow the King's pleasure. If his fitness speaks, mine is ready; now or whensoever, provided I be so able as now. Lord. The King and Queen and all are coming down. Ham. In happy time. Lord. The Queen desires you to use some gentle entertainment to Laertes before you fall to play. Ham. She well instructs me. [Exit Lord.] Hor. You will lose this wager, my lord. Ham. I do not think so. Since he went into France I have been in continual practice. I shall win at the odds. But thou wouldst not think how ill all's here about my heart. But it is no matter. Hor. Nay, good my lord - Ham. It is but foolery; but it is such a kind of gaingiving as would perhaps trouble a woman. Hor. If your mind dislike anything, obey it. I will forestall their repair hither and say you are not fit. Ham. Not a whit, we defy augury; there's a special providence in the fall of a sparrow. If it be now, 'tis not to come; if it be not to come, it will be now; if it be not now, yet it will come: the readiness is all. Since no man knows aught of what he leaves, what is't to leave betimes? Let be. Enter King, Queen, Laertes, Osric, and Lords, with other Attendants with foils and gauntlets. A table and flagons of wine on it. King. Come, Hamlet, come, and take this hand from me. [The King puts Laertes' hand into Hamlet's.] Ham. Give me your pardon, sir. I have done you wrong; But pardon't, as you are a gentleman. This presence knows, And you must needs have heard, how I am punish'd With sore distraction. What I have done That might your nature, honour, and exception Roughly awake, I here proclaim was madness. Was't Hamlet wrong'd Laertes? Never Hamlet. If Hamlet from himself be taken away, And when he's not himself does wrong Laertes, Then Hamlet does it not, Hamlet denies it. Who does it, then? His madness. If't be so, Hamlet is of the faction that is wrong'd; His madness is poor Hamlet's enemy. Sir, in this audience, Let my disclaiming from a purpos'd evil Free me so far in your most generous thoughts That I have shot my arrow o'er the house And hurt my brother. Laer. I am satisfied in nature, Whose motive in this case should stir me most To my revenge. But in my terms of honour I stand aloof, and will no reconcilement Till by some elder masters of known honour I have a voice and precedent of peace To keep my name ungor'd. But till that time I do receive your offer'd love like love, And will not wrong it. Ham. I embrace it freely, And will this brother's wager frankly play. Give us the foils. Come on. Laer. Come, one for me. Ham. I'll be your foil, Laertes. In mine ignorance Your skill shall, like a star i' th' darkest night, Stick fiery off indeed. Laer. You mock me, sir. Ham. No, by this hand. King. Give them the foils, young Osric. Cousin Hamlet, You know the wager? Ham. Very well, my lord. Your Grace has laid the odds o' th' weaker side. King. I do not fear it, I have seen you both; But since he is better'd, we have therefore odds. Laer. This is too heavy; let me see another. Ham. This likes me well. These foils have all a length? Prepare to play. Osr. Ay, my good lord. King. Set me the stoups of wine upon that table. If Hamlet give the first or second hit, Or quit in answer of the third exchange, Let all the battlements their ordnance fire; The King shall drink to Hamlet's better breath, And in the cup an union shall he throw Richer than that which four successive kings In Denmark's crown have worn. Give me the cups; And let the kettle to the trumpet speak, The trumpet to the cannoneer without, The cannons to the heavens, the heaven to earth, 'Now the King drinks to Hamlet.' Come, begin. And you the judges, bear a wary eye. Ham. Come on, sir. Laer. Come, my lord. They play. Ham. One. Laer. No. Ham. Judgment! Osr. A hit, a very palpable hit. Laer. Well, again! King. Stay, give me drink. Hamlet, this pearl is thine; Here's to thy health. [Drum; trumpets sound; a piece goes off [within]. Give him the cup. Ham. I'll play this bout first; set it by awhile. Come. (They play.) Another hit. What say you? Laer. A touch, a touch; I do confess't. King. Our son shall win. Queen. He's fat, and scant of breath. Here, Hamlet, take my napkin, rub thy brows. The Queen carouses to thy fortune, Hamlet. Ham. Good madam! King. Gertrude, do not drink. Queen. I will, my lord; I pray you pardon me. Drinks. King. [aside] It is the poison'd cup; it is too late. Ham. I dare not drink yet, madam; by-and-by. Queen. Come, let me wipe thy face. Laer. My lord, I'll hit him now. King. I do not think't. Laer. [aside] And yet it is almost against my conscience. Ham. Come for the third, Laertes! You but dally. Pray you pass with your best violence; I am afeard you make a wanton of me. Laer. Say you so? Come on. Play. Osr. Nothing neither way. Laer. Have at you now! [Laertes wounds Hamlet; then] in scuffling, they change rapiers, [and Hamlet wounds Laertes]. King. Part them! They are incens'd. Ham. Nay come! again! The Queen falls. Osr. Look to the Queen there, ho! Hor. They bleed on both sides. How is it, my lord? Osr. How is't, Laertes? Laer. Why, as a woodcock to mine own springe, Osric. I am justly kill'd with mine own treachery. Ham. How does the Queen? King. She sounds to see them bleed. Queen. No, no! the drink, the drink! O my dear Hamlet! The drink, the drink! I am poison'd. [Dies.] Ham. O villany! Ho! let the door be lock'd. Treachery! Seek it out. [Laertes falls.] Laer. It is here, Hamlet. Hamlet, thou art slain; No medicine in the world can do thee good. In thee there is not half an hour of life. The treacherous instrument is in thy hand, Unbated and envenom'd. The foul practice Hath turn'd itself on me. Lo, here I lie, Never to rise again. Thy mother's poison'd. I can no more. The King, the King's to blame. Ham. The point envenom'd too? Then, venom, to thy work. Hurts the King. All. Treason! treason! King. O, yet defend me, friends! I am but hurt. Ham. Here, thou incestuous, murd'rous, damned Dane, Drink off this potion! Is thy union here? Follow my mother. King dies. Laer. He is justly serv'd. It is a poison temper'd by himself. Exchange forgiveness with me, noble Hamlet. Mine and my father's death come not upon thee, Nor thine on me! Dies. Ham. Heaven make thee free of it! I follow thee. I am dead, Horatio. Wretched queen, adieu! You that look pale and tremble at this chance, That are but mutes or audience to this act, Had I but time (as this fell sergeant, Death, Is strict in his arrest) O, I could tell you- But let it be. Horatio, I am dead; Thou liv'st; report me and my cause aright To the unsatisfied. Hor. Never believe it. I am more an antique Roman than a Dane. Here's yet some liquor left. Ham. As th'art a man, Give me the cup. Let go! By heaven, I'll ha't. O good Horatio, what a wounded name (Things standing thus unknown) shall live behind me! If thou didst ever hold me in thy heart, Absent thee from felicity awhile, And in this harsh world draw thy breath in pain, To tell my story. [March afar off, and shot within.] What warlike noise is this? Osr. Young Fortinbras, with conquest come from Poland, To the ambassadors of England gives This warlike volley. Ham. O, I die, Horatio! The potent poison quite o'ercrows my spirit. I cannot live to hear the news from England, But I do prophesy th' election lights On Fortinbras. He has my dying voice. So tell him, with th' occurrents, more and less, Which have solicited- the rest is silence. Dies. Hor. Now cracks a noble heart. Good night, sweet prince, And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest! [March within.] Why does the drum come hither? Enter Fortinbras and English Ambassadors, with Drum, Colours, and Attendants. Fort. Where is this sight? Hor. What is it you will see? If aught of woe or wonder, cease your search. Fort. This quarry cries on havoc. O proud Death, What feast is toward in thine eternal cell That thou so many princes at a shot So bloodily hast struck. Ambassador. The sight is dismal; And our affairs from England come too late. The ears are senseless that should give us hearing To tell him his commandment is fulfill'd That Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are dead. Where should we have our thanks? Hor. Not from his mouth, Had it th' ability of life to thank you. He never gave commandment for their death. But since, so jump upon this bloody question, You from the Polack wars, and you from England, Are here arriv'd, give order that these bodies High on a stage be placed to the view; And let me speak to the yet unknowing world How these things came about. So shall you hear Of carnal, bloody and unnatural acts; Of accidental judgments, casual slaughters; Of deaths put on by cunning and forc'd cause; And, in this upshot, purposes mistook Fall'n on th' inventors' heads. All this can I Truly deliver. Fort. Let us haste to hear it, And call the noblest to the audience. For me, with sorrow I embrace my fortune. I have some rights of memory in this kingdom Which now, to claim my vantage doth invite me. Hor. Of that I shall have also cause to speak, And from his mouth whose voice will draw on more. But let this same be presently perform'd, Even while men's minds are wild, lest more mischance On plots and errors happen. Fort. Let four captains Bear Hamlet like a soldier to the stage; For he was likely, had he been put on, To have prov'd most royally; and for his passage The soldiers' music and the rites of war Speak loudly for him. Take up the bodies. Such a sight as this Becomes the field but here shows much amiss. Go, bid the soldiers shoot. Exeunt marching; after the which a peal of ordnance are shot off. Könnten Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Hamlet erzählt Horatio, was während seiner Abwesenheit aus Dänemark passiert ist: Er war auf dem Schiff nach England, als er auf die Idee kam, den Brief von Claudius in Rosencrantz und Guildensterns Gepäck zu überprüfen. Überraschung! Der Brief besagt, dass der König Hamlet töten lassen soll - zum Wohl des Landes und aller. Aber Hamlet hat einige Tricks auf Lager, also verändert er den Brief so, dass der König angewiesen wird, die Überbringer des Briefes zu töten. Hamlet versiegelt den neuen Brief sogar mit dem eigenen Siegel seines Vaters, das er bequemerweise in seiner Tasche hatte. Wie es der Zufall so will, war am nächsten Tag die große Seeschlacht, bei der Hamlet mit den Piraten floh. Horatio und das Publikum kennen den Rest. Horatio gibt Hamlet die Möglichkeit zu sagen: "Es tut mir leid, dass ich unsere Freunde auf eine Weise getötet habe, die sie für immer in die Hölle verdammt", aber statt dessen zuckt Hamlet nur mit den Schultern. Sie sind Kollateralschäden, wie es in einer Schlacht zwischen zwei großen Kräften zu erwarten ist. Es ist logisch: Claudius hat versucht, ihn zu töten; Claudius hat seinen Vater getötet; Claudius hat seine Mutter "geschändet"; und Claudius stellt sich bewusst Hamlets Zugang zum dänischen Thron in den Weg. Ergo, wenn überhaupt, wäre es falsch, Claudius nicht zu töten, da er mit der Zeit nur noch mehr Schaden anrichten würde. Aber es tut ihm leid, dass Laertes in die ganze Sache verwickelt wurde, und er will tatsächlich versuchen, sich mit ihm zu versöhnen. Gerade dann betritt Oscric, ein lächerliches Mitglied am Hof, um Hamlet zu fragen, ob er bereit ist, sich basierend auf einer Wette mit Laertes in einem freundlichen Zweikampf zu messen. König Claudius hat sechs edle Pferde, sechs edle französische Schwerter und drei wunderschöne Kutschen auf die Wette gesetzt, dass Laertes in einem Fechtkampf nicht mehr als drei Treffer gegen Hamlet landen wird. Das einzige andere Detail ist, dass der Zweikampf jetzt stattfinden muss. Hamlet, immer der Fatalist, stimmt zu. Alle schlendern herein, um den Kampf zu beobachten, einschließlich des Königs und der Königin. Hamlet ist schockierenderweise das Bild der stillen Sanftheit. Claudius bietet an, Laertes' Hand in Hamlets Hand zu legen, und Hamlet nutzt die Gelegenheit, sich zu entschuldigen: Er war verrückt. Tatsächlich erklärt Hamlet, dass er selbst nur ein Mitglied der Gruppe von Menschen ist, die Unrecht getan wird, und dass er ein tödlicher Feind von Hamlets Wahnsinn ist. Hm, klingt für uns immer noch ein bisschen verrückt. Laertes hört all das. Er sagt, er sei zufrieden mit Hamlets Entschuldigung, aber er würde ein bisschen dumm aussehen, wenn er einfach antworten würde: "Danke, dass du dich dafür entschuldigt hast, meinen Vater getötet zu haben", und es dabei belassen würde. Im Grunde genommen müssen sie kämpfen, um Laertes' Ruf zu retten - aber es wird ein freundlicher kleiner Kampf sein. Kurz bevor der Zweikampf beginnt, erklärt Hamlet sich selbst zum schwächeren Spieler, aber Claudius erklärt, dass es ihm nichts ausmacht. Als Osric den Männern die Schwerter präsentiert, meckert Laertes herum und lehnt eines ab, weil es zu schwer ist. Er sucht offensichtlich die Schwerter durch, scheint wählerisch zu sein, als ob er nach dem geschärften, vergifteten Schwert sucht. Also geht er offenbar trotz des scheinbaren Waffenstillstands mit seinem Plan weiter. Hamlet ist viel weniger wählerisch als Laertes; er ist zufrieden und nimmt ein Schwert, nachdem er nur eine Frage gestellt hat, ob die Schwerter alle gleich lang sind. Claudius macht auch eine große Show daraus, indem er sagt, dass Kanonen schießen und der König auf Hamlets gute Treffer trinken wird. Als Hamlet und Laertes ihre Schwerter kreuzen, erzielt Hamlet die ersten Punkte. Claudius bietet ihm den vergifteten Weinkelch an, aber Hamlet lehnt ab und kämpft weiter. Gertrude stößt dann auf Hamlet mit dem vergifteten Wein an, und... die Königin trinkt. Ups. In der Zwischenzeit kämpft Laertes in einem Gedankenmonolog mit sich selbst und fragt sich, ob es nicht gegen sein Gewissen verstößt, Hamlet mit dem vergifteten Schwert zu treffen. Am Ende trifft Laertes Hamlet, und im Gerangel tauschen die beiden Männer auf seltsame Weise ihre Schwerter aus, und Laertes wird von seinem eigenen vergifteten Schwert verwundet. Alle fangen im Grunde genommen zur gleichen Zeit an zu sterben. Laertes erklärt, dass es angemessen sei, dass er durch die Tücke seines eigenen Schwertes stirbt. Die Königin ruft aus, und Claudius versucht, ihren Sturz als ein spaßiges Spiel abzutun, das sie gerne spielt, wenn sie Schwertkämpfe sieht. Und dann erklärt sie schließlich über den Aufruhr hinweg, dass der Trank vergiftet war. Hamlet erklärt, dass Verrat im Gange ist. Ja, sagt Laertes. Er und Hamlet werden innerhalb einer halben Stunde an vergifteten Schwertern sterben, und Gertrude wird sie um ein paar Minuten zuerst zu Tode prügeln. Laertes erklärt sofort, in so vielen Worten: "Es ist alles Claudius' Schuld! Claudius war es!" Hamlet, der immer schnell denkt, packt das vergiftete Schwert und sticht Claudius nieder. Die Leute rufen alle, dass es Verrat ist. Für den Fall der Fälle zwingt Hamlet auch Claudius, den restlichen Wein zu trinken. Kurz vor Laertes' Tod bittet er um Hamlets Vergebung; Hamlet ist genauso für seinen Tod verantwortlich wie Laertes für Hamlets. Hamlet erkennt, dass er auch sterben wird, also sagt er, dass er nicht genug Zeit hat, um die Geschichte selbst zu erzählen, aber Horatio soll der Welt erklären, was gerade passiert ist. Gerade dann hören wir das Geräusch von herannahenden Soldaten: Es ist Fortinbras! Und seine Armee! Sie kehren siegreich von ihrer Schlacht gegen Polen zurück! Hamlet eröffnet seine letzte Rede mit den Worten "O, ich sterbe." Hamlet erklärt, dass Fortinbras der nächste König von Dänemark werden sollte, wahrscheinlich weil alle in Dänemark tot sind. "Der Rest ist Stille", sagt er und stirbt. Dann spricht Horatio über Hamlets edles Herz und wie er hofft, dass schöne kleine Engel den süßen Prinzen zur Ruhe bringen werden. Dann gibt es viel Trommeln, als Fortinbras mit den englischen Botschaftern eintritt. Fortinbras ist verwirrt über all die Leichen, die herumliegen. Die englischen Botschafter sagen, sie seien gerade gekommen, um zu berichten, dass Rosencrantz und Guildenstern gemäß den Anweisungen getötet wurden. Alle sind angemessen schockiert, aber Horatio verspricht, die ganze blutige Geschichte zu erklären. Fortinbras sagt, es sei wirklich schade, aber er habe Anspruch auf den Thron, und da er irgendwie leer sei, werde er sich einfach dort niederlassen, um die Geschichte zu hören. In der Zwischenzeit sollte Hamlet eine schöne Beerdigung mit den Bräuchen des Krieges und Soldatenmusik haben, da Fortinbras sicher ist, dass Hamlet ein guter König gewesen wäre. Und mit einer Leichenzahl von acht ist es vorbei: Das Ende.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: The Miss Alans did go to Greece, but they went by themselves. They alone of this little company will double Malea and plough the waters of the Saronic gulf. They alone will visit Athens and Delphi, and either shrine of intellectual song--that upon the Acropolis, encircled by blue seas; that under Parnassus, where the eagles build and the bronze charioteer drives undismayed towards infinity. Trembling, anxious, cumbered with much digestive bread, they did proceed to Constantinople, they did go round the world. The rest of us must be contented with a fair, but a less arduous, goal. Italiam petimus: we return to the Pension Bertolini. George said it was his old room. "No, it isn't," said Lucy; "because it is the room I had, and I had your father's room. I forget why; Charlotte made me, for some reason." He knelt on the tiled floor, and laid his face in her lap. "George, you baby, get up." "Why shouldn't I be a baby?" murmured George. Unable to answer this question, she put down his sock, which she was trying to mend, and gazed out through the window. It was evening and again the spring. "Oh, bother Charlotte," she said thoughtfully. "What can such people be made of?" "Same stuff as parsons are made of." "Nonsense!" "Quite right. It is nonsense." "Now you get up off the cold floor, or you'll be starting rheumatism next, and you stop laughing and being so silly." "Why shouldn't I laugh?" he asked, pinning her with his elbows, and advancing his face to hers. "What's there to cry at? Kiss me here." He indicated the spot where a kiss would be welcome. He was a boy after all. When it came to the point, it was she who remembered the past, she into whose soul the iron had entered, she who knew whose room this had been last year. It endeared him to her strangely that he should be sometimes wrong. "Any letters?" he asked. "Just a line from Freddy." "Now kiss me here; then here." Then, threatened again with rheumatism, he strolled to the window, opened it (as the English will), and leant out. There was the parapet, there the river, there to the left the beginnings of the hills. The cab-driver, who at once saluted him with the hiss of a serpent, might be that very Phaethon who had set this happiness in motion twelve months ago. A passion of gratitude--all feelings grow to passions in the South--came over the husband, and he blessed the people and the things who had taken so much trouble about a young fool. He had helped himself, it is true, but how stupidly! All the fighting that mattered had been done by others--by Italy, by his father, by his wife. "Lucy, you come and look at the cypresses; and the church, whatever its name is, still shows." "San Miniato. I'll just finish your sock." "Signorino, domani faremo uno giro," called the cabman, with engaging certainty. George told him that he was mistaken; they had no money to throw away on driving. And the people who had not meant to help--the Miss Lavishes, the Cecils, the Miss Bartletts! Ever prone to magnify Fate, George counted up the forces that had swept him into this contentment. "Anything good in Freddy's letter?" "Not yet." His own content was absolute, but hers held bitterness: the Honeychurches had not forgiven them; they were disgusted at her past hypocrisy; she had alienated Windy Corner, perhaps for ever. "What does he say?" "Silly boy! He thinks he's being dignified. He knew we should go off in the spring--he has known it for six months--that if mother wouldn't give her consent we should take the thing into our own hands. They had fair warning, and now he calls it an elopement. Ridiculous boy--" "Signorino, domani faremo uno giro--" "But it will all come right in the end. He has to build us both up from the beginning again. I wish, though, that Cecil had not turned so cynical about women. He has, for the second time, quite altered. Why will men have theories about women? I haven't any about men. I wish, too, that Mr. Beebe--" "You may well wish that." "He will never forgive us--I mean, he will never be interested in us again. I wish that he did not influence them so much at Windy Corner. I wish he hadn't--But if we act the truth, the people who really love us are sure to come back to us in the long run." "Perhaps." Then he said more gently: "Well, I acted the truth--the only thing I did do--and you came back to me. So possibly you know." He turned back into the room. "Nonsense with that sock." He carried her to the window, so that she, too, saw all the view. They sank upon their knees, invisible from the road, they hoped, and began to whisper one another's names. Ah! it was worth while; it was the great joy that they had expected, and countless little joys of which they had never dreamt. They were silent. "Signorino, domani faremo--" "Oh, bother that man!" But Lucy remembered the vendor of photographs and said, "No, don't be rude to him." Then with a catching of her breath, she murmured: "Mr. Eager and Charlotte, dreadful frozen Charlotte. How cruel she would be to a man like that!" "Look at the lights going over the bridge." "But this room reminds me of Charlotte. How horrible to grow old in Charlotte's way! To think that evening at the rectory that she shouldn't have heard your father was in the house. For she would have stopped me going in, and he was the only person alive who could have made me see sense. You couldn't have made me. When I am very happy"--she kissed him--"I remember on how little it all hangs. If Charlotte had only known, she would have stopped me going in, and I should have gone to silly Greece, and become different for ever." "But she did know," said George; "she did see my father, surely. He said so." "Oh, no, she didn't see him. She was upstairs with old Mrs. Beebe, don't you remember, and then went straight to the church. She said so." George was obstinate again. "My father," said he, "saw her, and I prefer his word. He was dozing by the study fire, and he opened his eyes, and there was Miss Bartlett. A few minutes before you came in. She was turning to go as he woke up. He didn't speak to her." Then they spoke of other things--the desultory talk of those who have been fighting to reach one another, and whose reward is to rest quietly in each other's arms. It was long ere they returned to Miss Bartlett, but when they did her behaviour seemed more interesting. George, who disliked any darkness, said: "It's clear that she knew. Then, why did she risk the meeting? She knew he was there, and yet she went to church." They tried to piece the thing together. As they talked, an incredible solution came into Lucy's mind. She rejected it, and said: "How like Charlotte to undo her work by a feeble muddle at the last moment." But something in the dying evening, in the roar of the river, in their very embrace warned them that her words fell short of life, and George whispered: "Or did she mean it?" "Mean what?" "Signorino, domani faremo uno giro--" Lucy bent forward and said with gentleness: "Lascia, prego, lascia. Siamo sposati." "Scusi tanto, signora," he replied in tones as gentle and whipped up his horse. "Buona sera--e grazie." "Niente." The cabman drove away singing. "Mean what, George?" He whispered: "Is it this? Is this possible? I'll put a marvel to you. That your cousin has always hoped. That from the very first moment we met, she hoped, far down in her mind, that we should be like this--of course, very far down. That she fought us on the surface, and yet she hoped. I can't explain her any other way. Can you? Look how she kept me alive in you all the summer; how she gave you no peace; how month after month she became more eccentric and unreliable. The sight of us haunted her--or she couldn't have described us as she did to her friend. There are details--it burnt. I read the book afterwards. She is not frozen, Lucy, she is not withered up all through. She tore us apart twice, but in the rectory that evening she was given one more chance to make us happy. We can never make friends with her or thank her. But I do believe that, far down in her heart, far below all speech and behaviour, she is glad." "It is impossible," murmured Lucy, and then, remembering the experiences of her own heart, she said: "No--it is just possible." Youth enwrapped them; the song of Phaethon announced passion requited, love attained. But they were conscious of a love more mysterious than this. The song died away; they heard the river, bearing down the snows of winter into the Mediterranean. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Die Schwestern Alan enden damit, ihr griechisches Abenteuer zu unternehmen, jedoch ohne Lucy. Anstatt ihnen dorthin zu folgen, führt uns der Erzähler zurück nach Italien - genauer gesagt zurück zur guten alten Pension Bertolini. Sie sind sogar im selben Zimmer mit Ausblick, das Lucy von Mr. Emerson übernommen hat. George und Lucy reden liebevoll über Belanglosigkeiten, während Lucy die Socken ihres neuen Ehemanns stopft. Offensichtlich sind sie sehr, sehr glücklich. George beschäftigt sich selig mit den Ereignissen, die sie an diesen Punkt gebracht haben, hauptsächlich durch seinen Vater und Lucy. Er denkt sogar an die Menschen, die nicht beabsichtigt haben zu helfen, es aber irgendwie getan haben, wie z.B. Miss Lavish, Charlotte und Cecil. Ein Brief von Freddy ist angekommen; wir erfahren, dass er und Mrs. Honeychurch sehr verärgert über das frisch verheiratete Paar sind, das, wie Freddy dramatisch sagt, "unerlaubt" davongelaufen ist. Windy Corner ist immer noch aufgebracht, obwohl jeder wusste, dass es kommen würde. Dies ist das einzige, was Lucys Glück nicht vollkommen macht. Offensichtlich hatte die Wahl der wahren Liebe und des persönlichen Glücks einige Konsequenzen - Entfremdung von der Gesellschaft, in der sie aufgewachsen ist. Lucy ist sicher, dass Freddy zur Vernunft kommt, aber sie sorgt sich um Cecil; offensichtlich hat ihre Ehe ihn sehr zynisch gegenüber Frauen gemacht. Seine sanfte und respektvolle Phase war offensichtlich von kurzer Dauer. Mr. Beebe ist mit Lucy und George fertig, er hat alles mit ihnen gemacht, was er konnte. Er scheint nicht wütend zu sein - er hat einfach das Interesse verloren. Ein Kutscher, der sie aus dem Fenster heraus anruft, erinnert Lucy an den Fotoverkäufer, der ihr vor Monaten mit Charlotte und Mr. Eager geholfen hat. Sie denkt daran, wie nahe sie daran war, dem Schicksal ihrer Cousine zu erliegen, zu altern und einsam zu sein. Sie bemerkt, wie Charlotte Lucy womöglich weggeschickt hätte, wenn sie gewusst hätte, dass Mr. Emerson an jenem letzten Tag im Pfarrhaus war, und dies nie geschehen wäre. George hat jedoch eine andere Vorstellung. Sein Vater hat ihm gesagt, dass er Miss Bartlett gesehen hat - sie hat es Lucy einfach nicht gesagt. Dies führt George, der nun so etwas wie ein Optimist ist, zu der Annahme, dass Charlotte bewusst Lucy nicht vor Mr. Emersons Anwesenheit gewarnt hat. Könnte es sein, dass Charlotte tatsächlich gehofft hat, dass Lucy und George am Ende zusammenkommen würden? Mit diesem ungelösten Rätsel verlassen wir Lucy und George: isoliert von der Gesellschaft, aber glücklich miteinander.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). 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 V. OF REASON, AND SCIENCE. Reason What It Is When a man Reasoneth, hee does nothing els but conceive a summe totall, from Addition of parcels; or conceive a Remainder, from Substraction of one summe from another: which (if it be done by Words,) is conceiving of the consequence of the names of all the parts, to the name of the whole; or from the names of the whole and one part, to the name of the other part. And though in some things, (as in numbers,) besides Adding and Substracting, men name other operations, as Multiplying and Dividing; yet they are the same; for Multiplication, is but Addition together of things equall; and Division, but Substracting of one thing, as often as we can. These operations are not incident to Numbers onely, but to all manner of things that can be added together, and taken one out of another. For as Arithmeticians teach to adde and substract in Numbers; so the Geometricians teach the same in Lines, Figures (solid and superficiall,) Angles, Proportions, Times, degrees of Swiftnesse, Force, Power, and the like; The Logicians teach the same in Consequences Of Words; adding together Two Names, to make an Affirmation; and Two Affirmations, to make a syllogisme; and Many syllogismes to make a Demonstration; and from the Summe, or Conclusion of a syllogisme, they substract one Proposition, to finde the other. Writers of Politiques, adde together Pactions, to find mens Duties; and Lawyers, Lawes and Facts, to find what is Right and Wrong in the actions of private men. In summe, in what matter soever there is place for Addition and Substraction, there also is place for Reason; and where these have no place, there Reason has nothing at all to do. Reason Defined Out of all which we may define, (that is to say determine,) what that is, which is meant by this word Reason, when wee reckon it amongst the Faculties of the mind. For Reason, in this sense, is nothing but Reckoning (that is, Adding and Substracting) of the Consequences of generall names agreed upon, for the Marking and Signifying of our thoughts; I say Marking them, when we reckon by our selves; and Signifying, when we demonstrate, or approve our reckonings to other men. Right Reason Where And as in Arithmetique, unpractised men must, and Professors themselves may often erre, and cast up false; so also in any other subject of Reasoning, the ablest, most attentive, and most practised men, may deceive themselves, and inferre false Conclusions; Not but that Reason it selfe is always Right Reason, as well as Arithmetique is a certain and infallible art: But no one mans Reason, nor the Reason of any one number of men, makes the certaintie; no more than an account is therefore well cast up, because a great many men have unanimously approved it. And therfore, as when there is a controversy in an account, the parties must by their own accord, set up for right Reason, the Reason of some Arbitrator, or Judge, to whose sentence they will both stand, or their controversie must either come to blowes, or be undecided, for want of a right Reason constituted by Nature; so is it also in all debates of what kind soever: And when men that think themselves wiser than all others, clamor and demand right Reason for judge; yet seek no more, but that things should be determined, by no other mens reason but their own, it is as intolerable in the society of men, as it is in play after trump is turned, to use for trump on every occasion, that suite whereof they have most in their hand. For they do nothing els, that will have every of their passions, as it comes to bear sway in them, to be taken for right Reason, and that in their own controversies: bewraying their want of right Reason, by the claym they lay to it. The Use Of Reason The Use and End of Reason, is not the finding of the summe, and truth of one, or a few consequences, remote from the first definitions, and settled significations of names; but to begin at these; and proceed from one consequence to another. For there can be no certainty of the last Conclusion, without a certainty of all those Affirmations and Negations, on which it was grounded, and inferred. As when a master of a family, in taking an account, casteth up the summs of all the bills of expence, into one sum; and not regarding how each bill is summed up, by those that give them in account; nor what it is he payes for; he advantages himselfe no more, than if he allowed the account in grosse, trusting to every of the accountants skill and honesty; so also in Reasoning of all other things, he that takes up conclusions on the trust of Authors, and doth not fetch them from the first Items in every Reckoning, (which are the significations of names settled by definitions), loses his labour; and does not know any thing; but onely beleeveth. Of Error And Absurdity When a man reckons without the use of words, which may be done in particular things, (as when upon the sight of any one thing, wee conjecture what was likely to have preceded, or is likely to follow upon it;) if that which he thought likely to follow, followes not; or that which he thought likely to have preceded it, hath not preceded it, this is called ERROR; to which even the most prudent men are subject. But when we Reason in Words of generall signification, and fall upon a generall inference which is false; though it be commonly called Error, it is indeed an ABSURDITY, or senseless Speech. For Error is but a deception, in presuming that somewhat is past, or to come; of which, though it were not past, or not to come; yet there was no impossibility discoverable. But when we make a generall assertion, unlesse it be a true one, the possibility of it is unconceivable. And words whereby we conceive nothing but the sound, are those we call Absurd, insignificant, and Non-sense. And therefore if a man should talk to me of a Round Quadrangle; or Accidents Of Bread In Cheese; or Immaterial Substances; or of A Free Subject; A Free Will; or any Free, but free from being hindred by opposition, I should not say he were in an Errour; but that his words were without meaning; that is to say, Absurd. I have said before, (in the second chapter,) that a Man did excell all other Animals in this faculty, that when he conceived any thing whatsoever, he was apt to enquire the consequences of it, and what effects he could do with it. And now I adde this other degree of the same excellence, that he can by words reduce the consequences he findes to generall Rules, called Theoremes, or Aphorismes; that is, he can Reason, or reckon, not onely in number; but in all other things, whereof one may be added unto, or substracted from another. But this priviledge, is allayed by another; and that is, by the priviledge of Absurdity; to which no living creature is subject, but man onely. And of men, those are of all most subject to it, that professe Philosophy. For it is most true that Cicero sayth of them somewhere; that there can be nothing so absurd, but may be found in the books of Philosophers. And the reason is manifest. For there is not one of them that begins his ratiocination from the Definitions, or Explications of the names they are to use; which is a method that hath been used onely in Geometry; whose Conclusions have thereby been made indisputable. Causes Of Absurditie The first cause of Absurd conclusions I ascribe to the want of Method; in that they begin not their Ratiocination from Definitions; that is, from settled significations of their words: as if they could cast account, without knowing the value of the numerall words, One, Two, and Three. And whereas all bodies enter into account upon divers considerations, (which I have mentioned in the precedent chapter;) these considerations being diversly named, divers absurdities proceed from the confusion, and unfit connexion of their names into assertions. And therefore The second cause of Absurd assertions, I ascribe to the giving of names of Bodies, to Accidents; or of Accidents, to Bodies; As they do, that say, Faith Is Infused, or Inspired; when nothing can be Powred, or Breathed into any thing, but body; and that, Extension is Body; that Phantasmes are Spirits, &c. The third I ascribe to the giving of the names of the Accidents of Bodies Without Us, to the Accidents of our Own Bodies; as they do that say, the Colour Is In The Body; The Sound Is In The Ayre, &c. The fourth, to the giving of the names of Bodies, to Names, or Speeches; as they do that say, that There Be Things Universall; that A Living Creature Is Genus, or A Generall Thing, &c. The fifth, to the giving of the names of Accidents, to Names and Speeches; as they do that say, The Nature Of A Thing Is In Its Definition; A Mans Command Is His Will; and the like. The sixth, to the use of Metaphors, Tropes, and other Rhetoricall figures, in stead of words proper. For though it be lawfull to say, (for example) in common speech, The Way Goeth, Or Leadeth Hither, Or Thither, The Proverb Sayes This Or That (whereas wayes cannot go, nor Proverbs speak;) yet in reckoning, and seeking of truth, such speeches are not to be admitted. The seventh, to names that signifie nothing; but are taken up, and learned by rote from the Schooles, as Hypostatical, Transubstantiate, Consubstantiate, Eternal-now, and the like canting of Schoole-men. To him that can avoyd these things, it is not easie to fall into any absurdity, unlesse it be by the length of an account; wherein he may perhaps forget what went before. For all men by nature reason alike, and well, when they have good principles. For who is so stupid, as both to mistake in Geometry, and also to persist in it, when another detects his error to him? Science By this it appears that Reason is not as Sense, and Memory, borne with us; nor gotten by Experience onely; as Prudence is; but attayned by Industry; first in apt imposing of Names; and secondly by getting a good and orderly Method in proceeding from the Elements, which are Names, to Assertions made by Connexion of one of them to another; and so to syllogismes, which are the Connexions of one Assertion to another, till we come to a knowledge of all the Consequences of names appertaining to the subject in hand; and that is it, men call SCIENCE. And whereas Sense and Memory are but knowledge of Fact, which is a thing past, and irrevocable; Science is the knowledge of Consequences, and dependance of one fact upon another: by which, out of that we can presently do, we know how to do something els when we will, or the like, another time; Because when we see how any thing comes about, upon what causes, and by what manner; when the like causes come into our power, wee see how to make it produce the like effects. Children therefore are not endued with Reason at all, till they have attained the use of Speech: but are called Reasonable Creatures, for the possibility apparent of having the use of Reason in time to come. And the most part of men, though they have the use of Reasoning a little way, as in numbring to some degree; yet it serves them to little use in common life; in which they govern themselves, some better, some worse, according to their differences of experience, quicknesse of memory, and inclinations to severall ends; but specially according to good or evill fortune, and the errors of one another. For as for Science, or certain rules of their actions, they are so farre from it, that they know not what it is. Geometry they have thought Conjuring: but for other Sciences, they who have not been taught the beginnings, and some progresse in them, that they may see how they be acquired and generated, are in this point like children, that having no thought of generation, are made believe by the women, that their brothers and sisters are not born, but found in the garden. But yet they that have no Science, are in better, and nobler condition with their naturall Prudence; than men, that by mis-reasoning, or by trusting them that reason wrong, fall upon false and absurd generall rules. For ignorance of causes, and of rules, does not set men so farre out of their way, as relying on false rules, and taking for causes of what they aspire to, those that are not so, but rather causes of the contrary. To conclude, The Light of humane minds is Perspicuous Words, but by exact definitions first snuffed, and purged from ambiguity; Reason is the Pace; Encrease of Science, the Way; and the Benefit of man-kind, the End. And on the contrary, Metaphors, and senslesse and ambiguous words, are like Ignes Fatui; and reasoning upon them, is wandering amongst innumerable absurdities; and their end, contention, and sedition, or contempt. Prudence & Sapience, With Their Difference As, much Experience, is Prudence; so, is much Science, Sapience. For though wee usually have one name of Wisedome for them both; yet the Latines did always distinguish between Prudentia and Sapientia, ascribing the former to Experience, the later to Science. But to make their difference appeare more cleerly, let us suppose one man endued with an excellent naturall use, and dexterity in handling his armes; and another to have added to that dexterity, an acquired Science, of where he can offend, or be offended by his adversarie, in every possible posture, or guard: The ability of the former, would be to the ability of the later, as Prudence to Sapience; both usefull; but the later infallible. But they that trusting onely to the authority of books, follow the blind blindly, are like him that trusting to the false rules of the master of fence, ventures praesumptuously upon an adversary, that either kills, or disgraces him. Signes Of Science The signes of Science, are some, certain and infallible; some, uncertain. Certain, when he that pretendeth the Science of any thing, can teach the same; that is to say, demonstrate the truth thereof perspicuously to another: Uncertain, when onely some particular events answer to his pretence, and upon many occasions prove so as he sayes they must. Signes of prudence are all uncertain; because to observe by experience, and remember all circumstances that may alter the successe, is impossible. But in any businesse, whereof a man has not infallible Science to proceed by; to forsake his own natural judgement, and be guided by generall sentences read in Authors, and subject to many exceptions, is a signe of folly, and generally scorned by the name of Pedantry. And even of those men themselves, that in Councells of the Common-wealth, love to shew their reading of Politiques and History, very few do it in their domestique affaires, where their particular interest is concerned; having Prudence enough for their private affaires: but in publique they study more the reputation of their owne wit, than the successe of anothers businesse. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze verfassen?

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Alek erwacht im Inneren des Wandlers, wo einer der Männer ein Auge auf ihn hält. Der Mann stellt sich als Korporal Bauer vor, und als Alek verlangt, freigelassen zu werden, ruft Bauer nach Volger. Es scheint, dass man als Prinz nur so weit kommt. Während Klopp den Wandler steuert, erzählt Volger Alek, dass er und Aleks Vater einen Plan gemacht haben, falls dem Erzherzog etwas zustoßen sollte. Volger erzählt Alek, wie seine Eltern ermordet wurden, eine Geschichte, die sich geringfügig von dem historischen Attentat auf Erzherzog Franz Ferdinand und seine Frau Sophie unterscheidet. Alek versucht immer noch zu glauben, dass Volger und Klopp ihn entführt haben und seine Eltern noch am Leben sind - mit anderen Worten, er leugnet die Realität. Plötzlich schreit Volger Klopp an, die Motoren anzuhalten. Dann spüren sie dieses unheilvolle Gefühl: das Geräusch von etwas Schwerem, das sich über den Boden auf sie zubewegt. Volger geht durch die Luke, um hinauszusehen, und ruft Alek, dass er sich ihm anschließen soll - ein deutsches Landdreadnought ist hinter ihnen her. Volger sagt, dass dies Aleks Feinde seien, aber Alek klammert sich an die Hoffnung, dass es sich um eine Rettungsmission handelt. Diese Hoffnung wird jedoch schnell zerschlagen, als der Dreadnought sie verfolgt - im Sinne, dass er auf sie schießt. Alek erkennt, dass Klopp und Volger die Wahrheit gesagt haben, als Volger ihm sagt, dass dies beweist, dass die Deutschen glauben, er habe Ansprüche auf den Thron von Österreich-Ungarn. Also gibt es gute und schlechte Nachrichten.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). 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 ist eine allgemein anerkannte Wahrheit, dass ein einzelner Mann mit einem guten Vermögen nach einer Ehefrau sucht. Auch wenn die Gefühle oder Ansichten eines solchen Mannes bei seinem ersten Besuch in einer Nachbarschaft kaum bekannt sind, ist diese Wahrheit in den Köpfen der umliegenden Familien so fest verankert, dass er als rechtmäßiges Eigentum einer ihrer Töchter betrachtet wird. "Lieber Herr Bennet", sagte seine Frau eines Tages zu ihm, "hast du gehört, dass Netherfield Park endlich vermietet ist?" Herr Bennet antwortete, dass er es nicht gehört hätte. "Aber das ist es", erwiderte sie, "denn Mrs. Long war gerade hier und sie hat mir alles darüber erzählt." Herr Bennet antwortete nicht. "Möchtest du nicht wissen, wer es genommen hat?", rief seine Frau ungeduldig aus. "Du möchtest es mir erzählen und ich habe nichts dagegen, es zu hören." Das war genug Einladung. "Nun, mein Lieber, du musst wissen, dass Mrs. Long sagt, dass Netherfield von einem jungen Mann aus dem Norden Englands, der ein großes Vermögen hat, genommen wurde. Er kam am Montag in einer Kutsche mit vier Pferden, um sich den Ort anzusehen, und war so begeistert davon, dass er sofort mit Mr. Morris übereinkam. Er wird vor Michaelmas Besitz ergreifen und einige seiner Diener werden bis Ende nächster Woche im Haus sein." "Wie lautet sein Name?" "Bingley." "Ist er verheiratet oder single?" "Oh! Single, mein Lieber, natürlich! Ein einzelner Mann mit großem Vermögen; vier oder fünf tausend Pfund im Jahr. Was für eine großartige Sache für unsere Mädchen!" "Wie so? Wie kann es sie beeinflussen?" "Mein lieber Herr Bennet", antwortete seine Frau, "wie kannst du so langweilig sein! Du musst wissen, dass ich daran denke, dass er eine von ihnen heiratet." "Ist das sein Plan, sich hier niederzulassen?" "Plan! Unsinn, wie kannst du so reden! Aber es ist sehr wahrscheinlich, dass er sich in eine von ihnen verlieben könnte, und du musst ihn besuchen, sobald er kommt." "Ich sehe keinen Grund dafür. Du und die Mädchen können gehen, oder du kannst sie alleine schicken, was vielleicht sogar besser wäre, denn du bist genauso hübsch wie sie, und Mr. Bingley könnte dich am besten von der Gruppe mögen." "Mein lieber, du schmeichelst mir. Ich habe sicherlich meinen Anteil an Schönheit gehabt, aber ich gebe nicht vor, etwas Außergewöhnliches zu sein. Wenn eine Frau fünf erwachsene Töchter hat, sollte sie aufhören, an ihre eigene Schönheit zu denken." "In solchen Fällen hat eine Frau oft nicht viel Schönheit, über die sie nachdenken könnte." "Aber, mein Lieber, du musst in der Tat gehen und Mr. Bingley sehen, wenn er in die Nachbarschaft kommt." "Es ist mehr, als ich zusichere, das versichere ich dir." "Aber denk an deine Töchter. Denk nur, was für eine Einrichtung es für eine von ihnen wäre. Sir William und Lady Lucas haben sich entschlossen zu gehen, nur deswegen, denn normalerweise besuchen sie keine Neulinge. Tatsächlich musst du gehen, denn es wird für uns unmöglich sein, ihn zu besuchen, wenn du es nicht tust." "Du bist zu gewissenhaft, sicherlich. Ich bin sicher, Mr. Bingley wird sehr froh sein, dich zu sehen; und ich werde ihm ein paar Zeilen schicken, um ihm meine herzliche Zustimmung zu seiner Heirat mit einer der Mädchen zu versichern; obwohl ich auch ein gutes Wort für meine kleine Lizzy einlegen muss." "Ich bitte dich, sowas nicht zu tun. Lizzy ist nicht besser als die anderen; und ich bin sicher, sie ist nicht halb so hübsch wie Jane, oder halb so gutmütig wie Lydia. Aber du gibst ihr immer den Vorzug." "Keine von ihnen hat viel zu bieten", antwortete er, "sie sind alle albern und unwissend wie andere Mädchen; aber Lizzy hat etwas mehr Schlauheit als ihre Schwestern." "Herr Bennet, wie kannst du deine eigenen Kinder auf solche Weise beleidigen? Du hast keine Schonung für meine armen Nerven." "Du missverstehst mich, meine Liebe. Ich habe großen Respekt vor deinen Nerven. Sie sind meine alten Freunde. Ich habe dich diese zwanzig Jahre lang zumindest mit Bedacht erwähnen hören." "Ach! Du weißt nicht, unter welchen Qualen ich leide." "Aber ich hoffe, du wirst darüber hinwegkommen und viele junge Männer mit viertausend Pfund im Jahr in die Nachbarschaft kommen sehen." "Es wird uns nichts nützen, wenn zwanzig solche kommen sollten, da du sie nicht besuchen wirst." "Verlass dich darauf, meine Liebe, dass wenn es zwanzig sind, ich sie alle besuchen werde." Herr Bennet war eine seltsame Mischung aus schnellen Auffassungsgaben, sarkastischem Humor, Zurückhaltung und Launenhaftigkeit, so dass die Erfahrung von dreiundzwanzig Jahren nicht ausreichte, um seine Frau seinen Charakter verstehen zu lassen. Ihr Geist war weniger schwer zu entwickeln. Sie war eine Frau mit wenig Verständnis, geringer Bildung und unbeständigem Temperament. Wenn sie unzufrieden war, bildete sie sich ein, nervös zu sein. Das Geschäft ihres Lebens bestand darin, ihre Töchter zu verheiraten; ihr Trost war Besuche und Neuigkeiten. Herr Bennet war einer der ersten, die bei Herrn Bingley vorsprachen. Er hatte immer vor, ihn zu besuchen, obwohl er seiner Frau bis zuletzt versicherte, dass er nicht gehen werde; und bis zum Abend nach dem Besuch hatte sie keine Kenntnis davon. Es wurde dann in folgender Weise offenbart. Als er seine zweite Tochter beobachtete, wie sie damit beschäftigt war, einen Hut zu verziehen, sprach er sie plötzlich an: "Ich hoffe, Mr. Bingley wird es mögen, Lizzy." "Wir sind nicht in der Lage zu wissen, was Mr. Bingley mag", sagte ihre Mutter ärgerlich, "da wir ihn nicht besuchen dürfen." "Aber du vergisst, Mama", sagte Elizabeth, "dass wir ihn bei den Versammlungen treffen werden, und dass Mrs. Long versprochen hat, ihn vorzustellen." "Ich glaube nicht, dass Mrs. Long so etwas tun wird. Sie hat zwei eigene Nichten. Sie ist eine egoistische, heuchlerische Frau und ich habe keine Meinung von ihr." "Ich auch nicht", sagte Herr Bennet, "und ich bin froh zu hören, dass du nicht auf ihre Hilfe angewiesen bist." Frau Bennet erhob sich nicht, um zu antworten; aber unfähig, sich zu beherrschen, begann sie eine ihrer Töchter zu schimpfen. "Hör auf so zu husten, Kitty, um Himmels willen! Sei ein wenig mitfühlend mit meinen Nerven. Du zerreißen sie." "Kitty hat keine Diskretion, wenn es um ihre Husten geht", sagte ihr Vater, "sie timingt sie schlecht." "Ich huste nicht zum eigenen Vergnügen", antwortete Kitty gereizt. "Wann ist dein nächster Ball, Lizzy?" "In vierzehn Tagen." "Ja, so ist es", rief ihre Mutter aus, "und Mrs. Long kommt erst am Tag zuvor zurück; also wird es für sie unmöglich sein, ihn vorzustellen, denn sie wird ihn selbst nicht kennen." "Dann, mein Liebes, könntest du den Vorteil gegenüber deiner Freundin haben und Mr. Bingley ihr vorstellen." "Unmöglich, Herr Bennet, unmöglich, wenn ich ihn selbst nicht kenne; wie kannst du so nerven?" "Ich ehre deine Umsicht. Eine Bekanntschaft von vierzehn Tagen ist sicherlich sehr wenig. Man kann bis zum Ende von vierzehn Tagen nicht wissen, wie ein Mann wirklich ist. Aber wenn wir es nicht wagen, wird es jemand anderes tun; und letztendlich müssen sich Mrs. Long und ihre beiden Nichten dem Zufall überlassen; und deshalb, da sie es als eine freundliche Geste betrachten wird, wenn du ablehnst, werde ich es selbst übernehmen." Die Mädchen starrten ihren Vater an. Frau Bennet sagte Wie gut es in Ihnen war, mein lieber Herr Bennet! Aber ich wusste, dass ich Sie schließlich überzeugen würde. Ich war mir sicher, dass Sie Ihre Mädchen zu sehr lieben würden, um solche Bekanntschaften zu vernachlässigen. Nun, wie erfreut ich bin! Und es ist auch ein guter Scherz, dass Sie heute Morgen gegangen sind und bis jetzt kein Wort darüber gesagt haben." "Nun, Kitty, du darfst so viel husten, wie du möchtest", sagte Mr. Bennet und verließ dabei das Zimmer, müde von den Entzückungen seiner Frau. "Was für einen ausgezeichneten Vater ihr habt, Mädchen", sagte sie, als die Tür geschlossen war. "Ich weiß nicht, wie ihr ihm jemals für seine Freundlichkeit danken werdet; oder mir ebenfalls. In unserem Alter ist es nicht so angenehm, jeden Tag neue Bekanntschaften zu machen; aber euretwegen würden wir alles tun. Lydia, meine Liebe, obwohl du die jüngste bist, bin ich sicher, dass Mr. Bingley mit dir auf dem nächsten Ball tanzen wird." "Oh!" sagte Lydia trotzig, "ich habe keine Angst; denn obwohl ich die Jüngste bin, bin ich die Größte." Der Rest des Abends verging damit, zu spekulieren, wie bald Mr. Bennet Mr. Bingleys Besuch erwidern würde, und zu bestimmen, wann sie ihn zum Abendessen einladen sollten. Jedoch konnte Mrs. Bennet, unterstützt von ihren fünf Töchtern, ihren Ehemann nicht dazu bringen, eine zufriedenstellende Beschreibung von Mr. Bingley zu liefern. Sie versuchten es auf verschiedene Weisen: mit offenen Fragen, raffinierten Vermutungen und vagen Vermutungen. Aber er entzog sich ihrer geschicktesten Fragestellung, und schließlich mussten sie sich mit den Informationen von ihrer Nachbarin Lady Lucas zufrieden geben. Ihr Bericht war äußerst positiv. Sir William war begeistert von ihm. Er war sehr jung, wunderbar gutaussehend, äußerst angenehm und um das Ganze abzurunden, er plante, mit einer großen Gruppe zum nächsten Ball zu kommen. Es konnte nichts Schöneres geben! Die Vorliebe fürs Tanzen war ein sicherer Schritt Richtung Verliebtsein, und es wurden sehr lebhafte Hoffnungen auf Mr. Bingleys Herz gehegt. "Wenn ich nur eine meiner Töchter glücklich in Netherfield untergebracht sehen könnte", sagte Mrs. Bennet zu ihrem Ehemann, "und alle anderen genauso gut verheiratet wären, dann hätte ich nichts mehr zu wünschen übrig." Einige Tage später besuchte Mr. Bingley Mr. Bennet und verweilte etwa zehn Minuten mit ihm in seiner Bibliothek. Er hatte gehofft, einen Blick auf die jungen Damen werfen zu können, von deren Schönheit er viel gehört hatte, aber er sah nur den Vater. Die Damen hatten etwas mehr Glück, denn sie hatten den Vorteil, von einem oberen Fenster aus feststellen zu können, dass er einen blauen Mantel trug und auf einem schwarzen Pferd ritt. Eine Einladung zum Abendessen wurde kurz darauf abgeschickt, und Mrs. Bennet hatte bereits die Menüfolge geplant, die ihr Haushalt Ehre machen sollte, als eine Antwort eintraf, die alles verzögerte. Mr. Bingley musste am folgenden Tag in der Stadt sein und konnte daher die Ehre ihrer Einladung nicht annehmen, usw. Mrs. Bennet war völlig verwirrt. Sie konnte sich nicht vorstellen, welches Geschäft er so bald nach seiner Ankunft in Hertfordshire in der Stadt haben könnte, und sie begann zu befürchten, dass er immer von einem Ort zum anderen fliegen könnte und sich niemals in Netherfield niederlassen würde, wie er es sollte. Lady Lucas beruhigte ihre Ängste ein wenig, indem sie die Idee aufwarf, dass er nur nach London gegangen war, um eine große Party für den Ball zu organisieren; und bald darauf wurde berichtet, dass Mr. Bingley zwölf Damen und sieben Herren mitbringen würde. Die Mädchen betrübte diese Anzahl von Damen, aber sie wurden einen Tag vor dem Ball getröstet, als sie hörten, dass er anstatt zwölf nur sechs von ihnen aus London mitgebracht hatte – seine fünf Schwestern und eine Cousine. Und als die Gruppe den Ballsaal betrat, bestand sie insgesamt nur aus fünf Personen: Mr. Bingley, seinen zwei Schwestern, dem Ehemann der ältesten und einem anderen jungen Mann. Mr. Bingley war gutaussehend und vornehm; er hatte ein angenehmes Gesicht und ungezwungene, natürliche Manieren. Seine Schwestern waren hübsche Frauen mit einer entschiedenen modischen Ausstrahlung. Sein Schwager, Mr. Hurst, wirkte nur wie ein Gentleman, aber sein Freund Mr. Darcy zog schon bald die Aufmerksamkeit der Anwesenden auf sich mit seiner stattlichen, großen Gestalt, seinem schönen Gesicht und edlem Auftreten; und das Gerücht, das sich innerhalb von fünf Minuten nach seinem Eintreten im Raum verbreitete, dass er ein Jahreseinkommen von zehntausend Pfund hatte. Die Herren befanden ihn für einen gutaussehenden Mann, die Damen erklärten, dass er viel hübscher als Mr. Bingley sei, und er wurde etwa die Hälfte des Abends lang mit großer Bewunderung betrachtet, bis seine Manieren Ekel erregten und seine Popularität sank. Es stellte sich heraus, dass er hochnäsig war, seine Begleitung gering achtete und nicht zu beeindrucken war, und selbst sein großes Anwesen in Derbyshire konnte ihn dann nicht davor bewahren, ein abschreckendes, unangenehmes Gesicht zu haben und im Vergleich zu seinem Freund unwürdig zu sein. Mr. Bingley hatte sich bald mit den wichtigsten Leuten im Raum bekannt gemacht; er war lebhaft und ungezwungen, tanzte jeden Tanz, ärgerte sich darüber, dass der Ball so früh endete, und sprach davon, selbst einen Ball in Netherfield zu geben. Solch liebenswerte Eigenschaften müssen für sich sprechen. Was für ein Kontrast zu seinem Freund! Mr. Darcy tanzte nur einmal mit Mrs. Hurst und einmal mit Miss Bingley, lehnte es ab, einer anderen Dame vorgestellt zu werden, und verbrachte den Rest des Abends damit, im Raum umherzugehen und gelegentlich mit einem Mitglied seiner eigenen Gruppe zu sprechen. Sein Charakter war festgelegt. Er war der stolzeste, unangenehmste Mann auf der Welt, und jeder hoffte, dass er nie wieder dort auftauchen würde. Zu den lautesten Gegnern gehörte Mrs. Bennet, deren Abneigung gegen sein allgemeines Verhalten durch seine Missachtung einer ihrer Töchter noch verstärkt wurde. Elizabeth Bennet musste aus Mangel an Herren bei zwei Tänzen sitzen bleiben; und während eines Teils dieser Zeit stand Mr. Darcy nahe genug, dass sie ein Gespräch zwischen ihm und Mr. Bingley belauschen konnte, der für ein paar Minuten vom Tanz zurückkam, um seinen Freund zu drängen, daran teilzunehmen. "Komm schon, Darcy", sagte er, "du musst tanzen. Ich kann es nicht ertragen, dich hier allein auf so dumme Art herumstehen zu sehen. Es wäre viel besser für dich zu tanzen." "Ich werde das auf keinen Fall tun. Du weißt, wie sehr ich es verabscheue, es sei denn, ich bin besonders vertraut mit meinem Tanzpartner. Bei einem solchen Ball wie diesem wäre es unerträglich. Deine Schwestern sind bereits vergeben, und es gibt sonst keine Frau im Raum, mit der es mir nicht wie eine Strafe vorkäme, mit ihr aufzustehen." "Ich wäre nicht so wählerisch wie du", rief Bingley aus, "für ein Königreich nicht! Auf mein Ehrenwort, ich habe noch nie so viele angenehme Mädchen in meinem Leben getroffen wie heute Abend; und einige von ihnen sind außergewöhnlich hübsch." "Du tanzt mit dem einzigen hübschen Mädchen im Raum", sagte Mr. Darcy und sah die älteste Miss Bennet an. "Oh! Sie ist das schönste Geschöpf, das ich je gesehen habe! Aber da ist eine ihrer Schwestern, die gerade hinter dir sitzt, die sehr hübsch ist, und ich bin sicher, auch sehr angenehm. Lass mich meine Partnerin bitten, dich vorzustellen." "Wen meinst du?", und sich umdrehend, sah er einen Moment lang Elizabeth an, bis er ihren Blick auffing, zog er seinen eigenen zurück und sagte kühl: "Sie ist erträglich; aber nicht hübsch genug, um mich zu verführen; und im Moment habe ich keine Lust, junge Damen, Der Abend verlief insgesamt angenehm für die ganze Familie. Mrs. Bennet hatte gesehen, wie ihre älteste Tochter von der Gesellschaft in Netherfield bewundert wurde. Mr. Bingley hatte zweimal mit ihr getanzt und sie war von seinen Schwestern ausgezeichnet worden. Jane war genauso erfreut darüber wie ihre Mutter, wenn auch auf ruhigere Weise. Elizabeth freute sich für Jane. Mary hatte gehört, wie sie Miss Bingley als das talentierteste Mädchen in der Umgebung erwähnt hatte, und Catherine und Lydia hatten das Glück, nie ohne Tanzpartner zu sein, was alles war, um sich auf einem Ball zu kümmern. Sie kehrten also in guter Stimmung nach Longbourn, dem Dorf, in dem sie lebten und von dem sie die Hauptbewohner waren, zurück. Mr. Bennet war immer noch wach. Mit einem Buch, ihm war die Zeit egal, und bei dieser Gelegenheit hatte er eine große Neugier über den Verlauf des Abends, der so glänzende Erwartungen geweckt hatte. Er hatte gehofft, dass alle Ansichten seiner Frau über den Fremden enttäuscht würden, aber er merkte bald, dass er eine ganz andere Geschichte hören würde. "Oh! Mein lieber Mr. Bennet", als sie in den Raum trat, "wir hatten einen allerliebsten Abend, einen ausgezeichneten Ball. Ich wünschte, Sie wären dabei gewesen. Jane wurde so bewundert, es konnte nichts Vergleichbares geben. Jeder sagte, wie gut sie aussah, und Mr. Bingley fand sie ganz wunderschön und tanzte zweimal mit ihr. Stell dir nur _das_ vor, mein Lieber! Er hat tatsächlich zweimal mit ihr getanzt, und sie war die einzige Person im Raum, die er ein zweites Mal gebeten hat. Zuerst hat er Miss Lucas gefragt. Es ärgerte mich so sehr, ihn mit ihr tanzen zu sehen, aber er fand sie überhaupt nicht bewundernswert: tatsächlich kann das niemand tun, das weißt du; und er schien ganz hin und weg von Jane zu sein, als sie den Tanz machte. Also fragte er, wer sie war, und wurde vorgestellt und bat sie um die beiden nächsten Tänze. Dann tanzte er den dritten Tanz mit Miss King und den vierten mit Maria Lucas, den fünften mit Jane wieder und den sechsten mit Lizzy, und der Boulanger ... " "Wenn er nur etwas Mitgefühl mit _mir_ gehabt hätte!", rief ihr Mann ungeduldig, "dann hätte er nicht halb so viel getanzt! Um Gottes willen, rede nicht mehr von seinen Tanzpartnern. Oh! dass er sich im ersten Tanz den Knöchel verstaucht hätte!" "Oh! Meine Liebe," fuhr Mrs. Bennet fort, "ich bin ganz begeistert von ihm. Er ist so außerordentlich gutaussehend! Und seine Schwestern sind reizende Frauen. Ich habe noch nie in meinem Leben etwas Eleganteres als ihre Kleider gesehen. Ich wette das Spitzenband auf Mrs. Hursts Kleid ... " Hier wurde sie wieder unterbrochen. Mr. Bennet protestierte gegen jede Beschreibung von Aufputz. Sie war also gezwungen, ein anderes Thema anzusprechen und erzählte mit viel Bitterkeit und einer gewissen Übertreibung von der schockierenden Unhöflichkeit von Mr. Darcy. "Aber ich kann Ihnen versichern", fügte sie hinzu, "dass Lizzy nicht viel verliert, dass sie _seinem_ Geschmack nicht entspricht; denn er ist ein sehr unangenehmer, furchtbarer Mann, der es nicht wert ist, jemandem zu gefallen. So hochmütig und eingebildet, dass man ihn nicht ertragen kann! Er ging hierhin und dorthin und hielt sich für so großartig! Nicht attraktiv genug, um mit ihm zu tanzen! Ich wünschte, Sie wären dabei gewesen, mein Lieber, um ihm eine Ihrer schlagfertigen Bemerkungen zu geben. Ich verabscheue den Mann wirklich." Als Jane und Elizabeth alleine waren, äußerte die erstere, die zuvor vorsichtig in ihrem Lob von Mr. Bingley gewesen war, ihrer Schwester gegenüber, wie sehr sie ihn bewunderte. "Er ist genau das, was ein junger Mann sein sollte", sagte sie, "vernünftig, gut gelaunt, lebhaft; und ich habe noch nie solch glückliche Manieren gesehen! - so viel Leichtigkeit und gleichzeitig tadellose gute Erziehung!" "Er ist auch gutaussehend", antwortete Elizabeth, "was ein junger Mann ebenfalls sein sollte, wenn er es irgendwie kann. Dadurch ist sein Charakter vollkommen." "Ich war sehr geschmeichelt, als er mich fragte, ob ich ein zweites Mal mit ihm tanzen würde. Ich habe solch ein Kompliment nicht erwartet." "Hast du das nicht? _Ich_ habe es für dich erwartet. Aber das ist ein großer Unterschied zwischen uns. Komplimente überraschen immer _dich_, und mir nie. Was könnte natürlicher sein, als dass er dich noch einmal fragt? Er konnte nicht umhin zu sehen, dass du etwa fünfmal so hübsch warst wie alle anderen Frauen im Raum. Das hat nichts mit seiner Galanterie zu tun. Nun, er ist sicherlich sehr angenehm, und ich erlaube dir, ihn zu mögen. Du hast schon viele dümmeren Menschen gemocht." "Liebe Lizzy!" "Oh! Du bist viel zu leicht dazu geneigt, Menschen im Allgemeinen zu mögen. Du siehst nie einen Fehler in irgendjemandem. Die ganze Welt ist in deinen Augen gut und angenehm. Ich habe dich noch nie in meinem Leben schlecht über einen Menschen reden hören." "Ich möchte nicht voreilig sein, jemanden zu kritisieren, aber ich sage immer, was ich denke." "Das weiß ich; und das ist es, was das Wunderbare ist. Mit _deinem_ Verstand, so ehrlich blind gegenüber den Torheiten und dem Unsinn anderer zu sein! Die Vortäuschung von Offenheit ist verbreitet genug - man begegnet ihr überall. Aber aufrichtig ohne Aufdringlichkeit oder Absicht zu sein - das Gute im Charakter jedes Menschen anzunehmen und es noch besser zu machen und nichts Schlechtes zu erwähnen - das gehört nur dir. Und du magst auch die Schwestern dieses Mannes, oder? Ihre Manieren stehen nicht auf einer Stufe mit seinen." "Gewiss nicht; zumindest anfangs. Aber sie sind sehr sympathische Frauen, wenn man mit ihnen spricht. Miss Bingley wird bei ihrem Bruder wohnen und sein Haus führen; und ich würde mich sehr irren, wenn wir in ihr nicht eine sehr charmante Nachbarin finden werden." Elizabeth hörte schweigend zu, war aber nicht überzeugt; ihr Verhalten bei der Versammlung war nicht berechnet, um im Allgemeinen zu gefallen; und mit mehr Beobachtungsgabe und weniger Anpassungsfähigkeit als ihre Schwester und mit einem Urteilsvermögen, das von jeder Aufmerksamkeit auf sich selbst unberührt war, war sie sehr wenig bereit, sie zu billigen. Sie waren tatsächlich sehr feine Damen; nicht mangelhaft an guter Laune, wenn sie zufrieden waren, oder an der Fähigkeit, angenehm zu sein, wenn sie es wollten; aber stolz und eingebildet. Sie waren ziemlich hübsch, hatten in einer der ersten Privatschulen in der Stadt gelernt, hatten ein Vermögen von zwanzigtausend Pfund, waren daran gewöhnt, mehr auszugeben, als sie sollten, und mit Menschen von Rang umzugehen; und waren deshalb in jeder Hinsicht berechtigt, gut von sich selbst zu denken und gering von anderen. Sie entstammten einer angesehenen Familie im Norden Englands; eine Tatsache, die tiefer auf ihr Gedächtnis eingraviert war als dass der Reichtum ihres Bruders und ihrer eigenen durch Handel erworben worden war. Mr. Bingley erbte fast hunderttausend Pfund an Vermögen von seinem Vater, der beabsichtigt hatte, ein Anwesen zu kaufen, aber nicht mehr dazu kam, es zu tun - Mr. Bingley beabsichtigte es ebenfalls und wählte manchmal seine Grafschaft, aber da er jetzt ein gutes Haus und die Freiheit eines Gutshofes Die Art und Weise, wie sie über den Meryton-Ball sprachen, war charakteristisch genug. Bingley hatte noch nie angenehmere Menschen oder hübschere Mädchen in seinem Leben getroffen; jeder war sehr nett und aufmerksam zu ihm gewesen, es gab keine Formalitäten, keine Steifheit, er fühlte sich schnell mit dem ganzen Raum vertraut; und was Miss Bennet betraf, konnte er sich keinen schöneren Engel vorstellen. Darcy hingegen hatte eine Gruppe von Menschen gesehen, die wenig Schönheit und keine Mode hatten, für die er kein Interesse verspürte und von denen er weder Aufmerksamkeit noch Vergnügen erhielt. Miss Bennet gab er zu, dass sie hübsch war, aber sie lächelte zu viel. Frau Hurst und ihre Schwester stimmten zu - aber sie bewunderten sie trotzdem und mochten sie und nannten sie ein süßes Mädchen, mit dem sie kein Problem hätten, mehr zu tun zu haben. Miss Bennet wurde daher als süßes Mädchen etabliert, und ihrer Bruder fühlte sich durch eine solche Anerkennung berechtigt, nach Belieben an sie zu denken. In der Nähe von Longbourn wohnte eine Familie, mit der die Bennets besonders vertraut waren. Sir William Lucas hatte früher in Meryton im Handel gearbeitet, wo er ein ansehnliches Vermögen gemacht und durch eine Adresse an den König während seiner Zeit als Bürgermeister den Ritterorden errungen hatte. Die Auszeichnung war vielleicht zu stark empfunden worden. Es hatte ihm Ekel vor seinem Geschäft und seinem Wohnsitz in einer kleinen Marktgemeinde gegeben, und er hatte beide verlassen und war mit seiner Familie in ein Haus etwa eine Meile von Meryton entfernt gezogen, das seit dieser Zeit Lucas Lodge genannt wurde, wo er mit Freude an seine eigene Bedeutung denken konnte und frei von Geschäften sich nur darin beschäftigen konnte, nett zu all den Leuten zu sein. Denn obwohl er von seinem Stand erhoben war, machte ihn das keineswegs herablassend; im Gegenteil, er war zu jedermann aufmerksam. Von Natur aus harmlos, freundlich und hilfsbereit, hatte ihn seine Vorstellung bei St. James höflich gemacht. Lady Lucas war eine sehr gute Art von Frau, nicht zu clever, um eine wertvolle Nachbarin für Frau Bennet zu sein. Sie hatten mehrere Kinder. Die älteste von ihnen, eine verständige, intelligente junge Frau von ungefähr siebenundzwanzig Jahren, war Elizabeths enge Freundin. Dass die Miss Lucases und die Miss Bennets sich trafen, um über einen Ball zu sprechen, war unbedingt notwendig; und am Morgen nach dem Ball kamen die Ersteren nach Longbourn, um zuzuhören und zu kommunizieren. "Du hast den Abend gut begonnen, Charlotte", sagte Mrs. Bennet höflich zu Miss Lucas. "Du warst Mr. Bingleys erste Wahl." "Ja; - aber er schien seine Zweite mehr zu mögen." "Oh! Du meinst Jane, nehme ich an - weil er zweimal mit ihr getanzt hat. Sicherlich schien es so, als ob er sie bewundert hätte - ich glaube sogar, dass er es getan hat - ich habe etwas darüber gehört - aber ich weiß kaum, was - etwas über Mr. Robinson." "Vielleicht meinst du, was ich zwischen ihm und Mr. Robinson belauscht habe; habe ich es dir nicht erwähnt? Mr. Robinson hat ihn gefragt, wie ihm unsere Bälle in Meryton gefallen haben und ob er nicht dachte, dass es viele hübsche Frauen im Raum gibt und welche er für die hübscheste hielt? und seine unmittelbare Antwort auf die letzte Frage - Oh! die älteste Miss Bennet ohne jeden Zweifel, es kann darüber keine zwei Meinungen geben." "Auf Worte hin! Nun, das war wirklich eindeutig - das scheint doch so zu sein - aber wie auch immer, es könnte ja alles umsonst sein, wer weiß." "Meine Ohrenzeugen waren zielgerichteter als deine, Eliza", sagte Charlotte. "Mr. Darcy ist nicht so sehr wert, zugehört zu werden wie sein Freund, oder? - Arme Eliza! - nur gerade genug, um erträglich zu sein." "Ich flehe dich an, bringe Lizzy nicht auf die Idee, sich über seine schlechte Behandlung zu ärgern; denn er ist ein so unangenehmer Mann, dass es wirklich ein Unglück wäre, von ihm gemocht zu werden. Mrs. Long hat mir gestern Abend erzählt, dass er eine halbe Stunde lang dicht neben ihr saß, ohne ein einziges Wort zu sagen." "Bist du ganz sicher, Madame? Gibt es da nicht einen kleinen Irrtum?" sagte Jane. - "Ich habe sicherlich Mr. Darcy gesehen, wie er mit ihr sprach." "Ach - weil sie ihn schließlich gefragt hat, wie ihm Netherfield gefällt, und er konnte nicht anders, als ihr zu antworten; - aber sie sagte, er schien sehr wütend zu sein, weil man mit ihm sprach." "Miss Bingley hat mir gesagt", sagte Jane, "dass er nicht viel spricht, es sei denn, es sind seine engsten Bekannten. Gegenüber ihnen ist er außerordentlich angenehm." "Ich glaube kein Wort davon, meine Liebe. Wenn er so sehr angenehm gewesen wäre, hätte er mit Mrs. Long geredet. Aber ich kann mir vorstellen, wie es war; jeder sagt, dass er voller Stolz ist, und ich vermute, dass er irgendwie gehört hat, dass Mrs. Long keinen Wagen hat und mit einer Kutsche zum Ball gekommen ist." "Ich habe nichts dagegen, dass er nicht mit Mrs. Long spricht", sagte Miss Lucas, "aber ich wünschte, er hätte mit Eliza getanzt." "Ein anderes Mal, Lizzy", sagte ihre Mutter, "Ich würde nicht mit _ihm_ tanzen, wenn ich du wäre." "Ich glaube, Madame, ich kann Ihnen sicher versprechen, _niemals_ mit ihm zu tanzen." "Sein Stolz", sagte Miss Lucas, "beleidigt _mich_ nicht so sehr wie Stolz es oft tut, weil es dafür eine Entschuldigung gibt. Man kann sich nicht wundern, dass ein so feiner junger Mann mit Familie, Vermögen und allem, was ihm zugute kommt, viel von sich hält. Wenn ich es so ausdrücken darf, hat er ein _Recht_, stolz zu sein." "Das ist absolut wahr", antwortete Elizabeth, "und ich könnte seinen Stolz leicht verzeihen, wenn er nicht _meinen_ verletzt hätte." "Stolz", bemerkte Mary, die stolz auf die Solidität ihrer Überlegungen war, "ist ein sehr verbreiteter Fehler, glaube ich. Alles, was ich je gelesen habe, überzeugt mich davon, dass es sehr verbreitet ist, dass die menschliche Natur besonders dazu neigt und dass es sehr wenige von uns gibt, die nicht aufgrund irgendeiner Eigenschaft, sei sie real oder eingebildet, ein Gefühl der Selbstgefälligkeit hegen. Eitelkeit und Stolz sind verschiedene Dinge, obwohl die Wörter oft synonym verwendet werden. Eine Person kann stolz sein, ohne eingebildet zu sein. Stolz bezieht sich mehr auf unsere Meinung von uns selbst, Eitelkeit darauf, was wir möchten, dass andere von uns denken." "Wenn ich so reich wäre wie Mr. Darcy", rief ein junger Lucas, der mit seinen Schwestern gekommen war, "wäre es mir egal, wie stolz ich war. Ich würde ein Rudel von Jagdhunden halten und jeden Tag eine Flasche Wein trinken." "Dann würdest du viel mehr trinken, als du solltest", sagte Mrs. Bennet; "und wenn ich dich dabei sehen würde, würde ich dir deine Flasche sofort wegnehmen." Der Junge protestierte, dass sie es nicht tun solle; sie erklärte weiterhin, dass sie es tun würde, und das Argument endete erst mit dem Besuch. Die Damen von Longbourn warteten bald auf die von Netherfield. Der Besuch wurde in angemessener Form erwidert. Miss Bennets angenehme Umgangsformen fanden Wohlwollen bei Mrs. Hurst und Miss Bingley; und obwohl die Mutter als unerträglich angesehen wurde und die jüngeren Schwestern keines Gesprächs würdig waren, wurde der Wunsch geäußert, die beiden Ältesten besser kennenzulernen. Jane empfing diese Aufmerksamkeit mit größtem Vergnügen; aber Elizabeth sah immer noch Überheblichkeit in ihrem Verhalten gegenüber jedermann, sogar ihrer eigenen Schwester, und mochte sie nicht; obwohl ihre Freundlichkeit zu Jane, so wie sie war, einen Wert hatte, der wahrscheinlich aus dem Einfluss der Bewunderung ihres Bruders entstanden war. Es war im Allgemeinen offensicht "Es mag vielleicht angenehm sein", antwortete Charlotte, "die Öffentlichkeit in solch einem Fall täuschen zu können; aber es ist manchmal ein Nachteil, so vorsichtig zu sein. Wenn eine Frau ihre Zuneigung genauso gut vor dem Gegenstand verbirgt, kann sie die Gelegenheit verpassen, ihn für sich zu gewinnen; und es wird dann nur ein schwacher Trost sein zu glauben, dass die Welt genauso im Dunkeln ist. In fast jeder Beziehung gibt es so viel Dankbarkeit oder Eitelkeit, dass es nicht sicher ist, irgendetwas dem Zufall zu überlassen. Wir können alle frei anfangen - eine leichte Vorliebe ist natürlich genug; aber es gibt nur sehr wenige von uns, die genug Herz haben, wirklich verliebt zu sein, ohne Ermutigung. In neun von zehn Fällen ist es für eine Frau besser, _mehr_ Zuneigung zu zeigen, als sie empfindet. Bingley mag deine Schwester zweifellos gern; aber er wird sie vielleicht nie mehr mögen, wenn sie ihm nicht weiterhilft." "Aber sie hilft ihm so gut sie kann, soviel ihr Naturell es zulässt. Wenn _ich_ ihre Zuneigung für ihn bemerken kann, muss er wirklich ein Idiot sein, um es nicht zu merken." "Denk daran, Eliza, dass er Janes Wesen nicht so gut kennt wie du." "Aber wenn eine Frau einem Mann zugeneigt ist und sich nicht bemüht, es zu verbergen, muss er es herausfinden." "Vielleicht muss er es, wenn er genug von ihr sieht. Aber obwohl Bingley und Jane sich ziemlich oft treffen, ist es nie für viele Stunden hintereinander; und da sie sich immer in großen gemischten Gruppen sehen, ist es unmöglich, dass jeder Moment damit verbracht wird, miteinander zu sprechen. Jane sollte also das Beste aus jeder halben Stunde machen, in der sie seine Aufmerksamkeit auf sich ziehen kann. Wenn sie sich seiner sicher ist, wird es genügend Zeit geben, sich so sehr zu verlieben, wie sie möchte." "Dein Plan ist gut", antwortete Elizabeth, "wenn es nur darum geht, den Wunsch zu haben, gut verheiratet zu sein; und wenn ich entschlossen wäre, einen reichen Ehemann oder irgendeinen Ehemann zu bekommen, würde ich es sicherlich so machen. Aber das sind nicht Janes Gefühle; sie handelt nicht absichtlich. Bisher kann sie nicht einmal sicher sein, wie stark ihre eigene Zuneigung ist, und ob sie vernünftig ist. Sie kennt ihn erst seit zwei Wochen. Sie tanzte vier Tänze mit ihm in Meryton; sie sah ihn an einem Morgen in seinem eigenen Haus und hat seitdem viermal in Gesellschaft mit ihm zu Abend gegessen. Das reicht nicht aus, um seinen Charakter zu verstehen." "Nicht so, wie du es darstellst. Wenn sie nur mit ihm zu Abend gegessen hätte, könnte sie höchstens herausgefunden haben, ob er einen guten Appetit hat; aber du musst bedenken, dass sie auch vier Abende zusammen verbracht haben - und vier Abende können viel bewirken." "Ja, diese vier Abende haben ihnen ermöglicht festzustellen, dass sie beide Vingt-un besser mögen als Commerce; aber was andere führende Eigenschaften angeht, glaube ich nicht, dass viel enthüllt wurde." "Nun gut", sagte Charlotte, "ich wünsche Jane von ganzem Herzen Erfolg; und wenn sie morgen mit ihm verheiratet wäre, würde ich denken, dass sie genauso gute Chancen auf Glück hätte, als ob sie ein Jahr lang seinen Charakter studieren würde. Glück in der Ehe ist vollkommen eine Frage des Glücks. Selbst wenn die Wesenszüge der Partner einander gut bekannt sind oder sogar im Voraus sehr ähnlich sind, wird ihr Glück dadurch nicht im geringsten verbessert. Sie werden immer ausreichend unterschiedlich sein, um ihren Teil an Ärger zu haben; und es ist besser, so wenig wie möglich über die Fehler der Person zu wissen, mit der man sein Leben verbringen wird." "Du bringst mich zum Lachen, Charlotte; aber es ist nicht vernünftig. Du weißt, dass es nicht vernünftig ist und dass du selbst niemals auf diese Weise handeln würdest." Damit beschäftigt, Mr. Bingleys Aufmerksamkeiten gegenüber ihrer Schwester zu beobachten, ahnte Elizabeth nicht im Geringsten, dass sie selbst für den Freund von Interesse wurde. Mr. Darcy hatte anfangs kaum gedacht, dass sie hübsch sei; er hatte sie ohne Bewunderung auf dem Ball betrachtet; und als sie sich das nächste Mal trafen, betrachtete er sie nur, um Kritik zu üben. Aber kaum hatte er sich selbst und seinen Freunden klar gemacht, dass sie kaum eine gute Gesichtszüge habe, da begann er zu erkennen, dass ihr dunkle Augen einen außergewöhnlich intelligenten Ausdruck hatten. Dieser Entdeckung folgten einige ebenso demütigende. Obwohl er mit einem kritischen Auge mehr als einen Fehler der vollkommenen Symmetrie an ihrem Körper entdeckt hatte, musste er zugeben, dass ihre Figur leicht und angenehm war; und trotz seiner Behauptung, dass ihre Manieren nicht denen der modischen Welt entsprachen, wurde er von ihrer leichten Verspieltheit ergriffen. Davon war sie sich völlig unbewusst; für sie war er nur der Mann, der es sich überall recht machen wollte und der sie nicht hübsch genug fand, um mit ihr zu tanzen. Er begann, mehr von ihr wissen zu wollen, und als ein Schritt auf dem Weg, selbst mit ihr zu sprechen, widmete er ihrer Unterhaltung mit anderen seine Aufmerksamkeit. Dadurch wurde seine Anwesenheit bemerkt. Es war bei Sir William Lucas, wo eine große Gesellschaft versammelt war. "Was bedeutet das, Mr. Darcy", fragte sie Charlotte, "dass er meiner Unterhaltung mit Colonel Forster zuhört?" "Das ist eine Frage, die nur Mr. Darcy beantworten kann." "Aber wenn er es weiterhin tut, werde ich ihm sicher mitteilen, dass ich sehe, was er vorhat. Er hat einen sehr sarkastischen Blick, und wenn ich nicht damit anfange, impertinent zu sein, werde ich bald Angst vor ihm bekommen." Als er bald darauf auf sie zukam, ohne den Anschein zu haben, dass er sprechen wollte, trotzte Miss Lucas ihrer Freundin und forderte sie auf, dieses Thema vor ihm anzusprechen, was Elizabeth sofort dazu veranlasste, es zu tun. Sie wandte sich ihm zu und sagte: "Haben Sie nicht gedacht, Mr. Darcy, dass ich mich gerade sehr gut ausgedrückt habe, als ich Colonel Forster dazu überredet habe, uns einen Ball in Meryton zu geben?" "Mit großer Energie; - aber das ist ein Thema, bei dem eine Dame immer energisch ist." "Du bist streng zu uns." "Bald wird sie an der Reihe sein, sich ärgern zu lassen", sagte Miss Lucas. "Ich werde das Instrument öffnen, Eliza, und du weißt, was dann kommt." "Du bist ein sehr seltsames Wesen als Freund! Du willst mich immer vor jedem und jedem spielen und singen lassen! Wenn meine Eitelkeit eine musikalische Wendung genommen hätte, wärst du unbezahlbar gewesen, aber da dies nicht der Fall ist, würde ich wirklich lieber nicht vor denen sitzen, die gewohnt sind, die besten Darsteller zu hören." Als Miss Lucas jedoch hartnäckig blieb, fügte sie hinzu: "Sehr gut; wenn es sein muss, dann muss es eben so sein." Und sie warf einen ernsten Blick auf Mr. Darcy: "Es gibt ein altes Sprichwort, das hier natürlich jedem bekannt ist - 'Halte deinen Atem an, um deinen Brei abzukühlen' - und ich werde meinen benutzen, um mein Lied anzustimmen." Ihre Darbietung war angenehm, wenn auch nicht herausragend. Nach einem oder zwei Liedern und noch bevor sie auf die Bitten mehrerer antworten konnte, noch einmal zu singen, wurde sie eifrig am Instrument von ihrer Schwester Mary abgelöst, die aufgrund ihrer Rolle als einzige Ich hatte einmal darüber nachgedacht, mich selbst in der Stadt niederzulassen - denn ich bin gerne in überlegener Gesellschaft; aber ich war mir nicht ganz sicher, ob die Luft von London Lady Lucas bekommen würde." Er hielt inne, in der Hoffnung auf eine Antwort; doch sein Begleiter hatte keine Lust, eine abzugeben; und in diesem Moment kam Elizabeth auf sie zu, und er kam auf die Idee, etwas sehr Galantes zu tun, und rief ihr zu: "Meine liebe Miss Eliza, warum tanzt du nicht? - Mr. Darcy, Sie müssen mir erlauben, Ihnen diese junge Dame als äußerst wünschenswerten Tanzpartner vorzustellen. - Sie können nicht ablehnen zu tanzen, da Ihnen so viel Schönheit gegenübersteht." Und er nahm ihre Hand und wollte sie Herrn Darcy geben, der, obwohl er sehr überrascht war, nicht abgeneigt war, sie anzunehmen, als sie sich sofort zurückzog und mit einiger Verwirrung zu Sir William sagte: "Tatsächlich, Sir, habe ich nicht die geringste Absicht zu tanzen. - Ich bitte Sie, nicht anzunehmen, dass ich mich auf diese Weise bewegt habe, um nach einem Tanzpartner zu fragen." Mr. Darcy bat mit angemessener Seriosität um die Ehre, ihre Hand halten zu dürfen; aber vergeblich. Elizabeth war entschlossen, und auch Sir William konnte sie mit seinem Überredungsversuch nicht von ihrem Vorhaben abbringen. "Sie tanzen so hervorragend, Miss Eliza, dass es grausam ist, mir das Glück zu verweigern, Sie zu sehen; und obwohl dieser Herr die Unterhaltung im Allgemeinen nicht mag, kann er sicherlich nicht dagegen Einwände haben, uns eine halbe Stunde lang einen Gefallen zu tun." "Mr. Darcy ist äußerst höflich", sagte Elizabeth lächelnd. "Das ist er in der Tat - aber wenn man bedenkt, was ihn dazu verführt, meine liebe Miss Eliza, dann können wir uns über seine Nachgiebigkeit nicht wundern; denn wer würde sich gegen einen solchen Partner sträuben?" Elizabeth sah ihn schelmisch an und wandte sich ab. Ihr Widerstand hatte sie beim Gentleman nicht geschadet, und er dachte mit einiger Zufriedenheit an sie, als ihn Miss Bingley ansprach: "Ich kann das Thema deiner Träumerei erraten." "Das glaube ich nicht." "Du überlegst, wie unerträglich es wäre, viele Abende auf diese Weise zu verbringen - in solcher Gesellschaft; und tatsächlich bin ich ganz deiner Meinung. Ich war nie mehr verärgert! Die Einfallslosigkeit und doch der Lärm; die Nichtigkeit und doch die Selbstbedeutung all dieser Leute! - Was würde ich geben, um deine Kritik über sie zu hören!" "Deine Vermutung ist völlig falsch, das versichere ich dir. Mein Geist war angenehmer beschäftigt. Ich habe über das große Vergnügen nachgedacht, das ein Paar schöner Augen im Gesicht einer hübschen Frau bereiten kann." Miss Bingley richtete sofort ihren Blick auf sein Gesicht und bat ihn, ihr zu sagen, welcher Dame die Ehre zugeschrieben wird, solche Gedanken zu inspirieren. Mr. Darcy antwortete mit großer Kühnheit: "Miss Elizabeth Bennet." "Miss Elizabeth Bennet!" wiederholte Miss Bingley. "Ich bin ganz erstaunt. Seit wann ist sie so eine Favoritin? - und wann soll ich Ihnen Glück wünschen?" "Das ist genau die Frage, von der ich erwartet hätte, dass du sie stellst. Die Fantasie einer Dame ist sehr schnelllebig; sie springt vom Bewundern zur Liebe, von der Liebe zur Ehe in einem Moment. Ich wusste, dass du mir Glück wünschen würdest." "Wenn du so ernsthaft dabei bist, werde ich die Sache als absolut geklärt betrachten. Du wirst eine bezaubernde Schwiegermutter haben, in der Tat, und sie wird natürlich immer bei dir in Pemberley sein." Er hörte ihr mit vollkommener Gleichgültigkeit zu, während sie sich auf diese Weise amüsierte, und da seine Ruhe sie davon überzeugte, dass alles in Ordnung war, floss ihr Witz lange. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden 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.

Der Roman beginnt in Longbourn, auf dem Anwesen der Bennets. Die Bennets führen ein ausführliches Gespräch über Mr. Bingley, "einem einzelnen Mann von großem Vermögen", der bald das nahe gelegene Anwesen Netherfield Park beziehen wird. Mrs. Bennet hofft, dass Mr. Bingley ein potenzieller Verehrer für eine ihrer Töchter sein wird. Sie wünscht sich verzweifelt, dass ihr Mann ihn besucht, in der Hoffnung auf eine Bekanntschaft. Mr. Bennet bleibt jedoch distanziert und weigert sich, sich festzulegen. Seine Einstellung ärgert seine Frau, deren Hauptanliegen es ist, Ehemänner für ihre Töchter zu finden. Die Bennet-Familie hat fünf Töchter: Jane, Elizabeth, Mary, Kitty und Lydia. Es ist von Anfang an klar, dass Mr. Bennet Elizabeth bevorzugt wegen ihrer praktischen Natur. Mrs. Bennet hingegen scheint Jane wegen ihrer Schönheit und Lydia wegen ihres guten Humors mehr zu mögen. Kapitel 2 Mr. Bennet besucht Mr. Bingley, ohne seiner Familie etwas davon zu sagen, und erwähnt es erst einige Tage später beiläufig. Er hatte immer vor, ihn zu besuchen, aber er hatte immer abgelehnt, um Mrs. Bennet zu ärgern. Nach seiner Offenbarung ärgert Mr. Bennet seine Frau weiterhin - und auch ihre jüngeren Töchter -, indem er sich weigert, ihre Fragen über den mysteriösen Bingley zu beantworten. Kapitel 3 Mr. Bingley kehrt einige Tage später den Besuch von Mr. Bennet zurück, aber die Frauen treffen ihn zu diesem Zeitpunkt nicht. Mrs. Bennets einzige Informationen über Bingley stammen von ihrer Nachbarin, Mrs. Lucas. Nachdem sie von ihm gehört hat, ist Mrs. Bennet überzeugt, dass sie Bingley für eine ihrer Töchter ergattern kann. Sie lädt Bingley zum Abendessen ein. Leider muss er ablehnen, weil er verpflichtet ist, eine Gesellschaft aus London abzuholen, um einen Ball zu besuchen, den er im nahegelegenen Meryton veranstaltet. In der Nacht des Meryton Balls treffen die Bennet-Damen endlich Mr. Bingley, seine Schwestern und Mr. Darcy, seinen Freund aus London. Die Bennet-Mädchen urteilen schnell, dass Mr. Darcy "der stolzeste, unangenehmste Mensch der Welt" ist, wegen seiner Zurückhaltung und seiner Weigerung, mit jemandem außerhalb seiner eigenen Gesellschaft zu tanzen. Zu einem Zeitpunkt ermutigt Bingley Darcy, mit Elizabeth zu tanzen, die auch nicht tanzt, aber er lehnt ab. Elizabeth hört, wie Darcy sie als "akzeptabel, aber nicht schön genug, um mich zu reizen" beschreibt. Sie ist verständlicherweise empört, und die Begegnung festigt ihre schlechte Meinung von ihm. Auf der anderen Seite finden die Bennet-Mädchen Mr. Bingley vollkommen liebenswert. Er tanzt den ersten Tanz mit Charlotte Lucas, der Nachbarin der Bennets und Elizabeths bester Freundin, aber er scheint am meisten an Jane interessiert zu sein, mit der er zweimal tanzt und häufig spricht. Nach der Rückkehr nach Hause versucht Mrs. Bennet, den Ball Mr. Bennet zu beschreiben, aber er ist gleichgültig gegenüber den Neuigkeiten und wird schnell genervt von allem, was seine Frau sagt. Kapitel 4 Wenn sie alleine sind, gesteht Jane Elizabeth ihre Gefühle für Bingley. Es ist klar, dass die Schwestern sehr eng sind. Elizabeth ist mit Bingley einverstanden, fordert aber Jane auf, sich über die Natur ihrer Gefühle im Klaren zu sein, weil die ältere Bennet-Tochter bei niemandem Fehler sieht. Sie sprechen auch über Caroline und Bingleys andere Schwestern. Elizabeth findet sie snobistisch, aber Jane beschreibt sie als charmant. Der Erzähler enthüllt dann wichtige persönliche Informationen über Bingley und Darcy. Bingley ist außergewöhnlich wohlhabend aufgrund eines großen Erbes von seinem verstorbenen Vater. Er ist schon lange mit Darcy befreundet, obwohl ihre Persönlichkeiten gegensätzlich sind. Bingley ist unkompliziert und offen, während Darcy hochmütig und zurückhaltend ist. Während Bingley die Gesellschaft des Meryton-Balls als sehr angenehm empfand, fand Darcy niemanden, mit dem er sich verbinden wollte. Darcy findet sogar Fehler bei der schönen Jane; sie lächelt ihm zu viel. Bingleys Schwestern mögen Jane jedoch, was ihren Bruder glücklich macht. Kapitel 5 Der Erzähler beschreibt die Lucas-Familie, die in der Nähe von Longbourn wohnt. Sir William Lucas war einmal ein Händler, aber nachdem er zum Ritter geschlagen wurde, ist er übermäßig stolz geworden. Seine Frau, Mrs. Lucas, ist eine enge Vertraute von Frau Bennet, und ihre Tochter Charlotte ist Elizabeths engste Freundin. Am Tag nach dem Ball besuchen Charlotte und Mrs. Lucas die Bennet-Damen, um ihre Erfahrungen zu teilen. Sie alle äußern ihre allgemeine Bewunderung für Jane und sind der Meinung, dass Bingley sich zu ihr hingezogen fühlt. Sie kritisieren auch Darcy wegen seines Stolzes. Mary bemerkt, dass Stolz universell in der menschlichen Natur vorhanden ist, und erklärt den Unterschied zwischen Stolz und Eitelkeit. Sie bemerkt: "Stolz bezieht sich mehr auf unsere Meinung von uns selbst, Eitelkeit darauf, was wir möchten, dass andere von uns denken." Kapitel 6 Obwohl sie sich nicht um Mrs. Bennet oder die jüngeren Bennet-Schwestern kümmern, lernen Bingleys Schwestern Jane und Elizabeth im Laufe mehrerer Besuche kennen. Jane freut sich über ihre Aufmerksamkeit, während Elizabeth weiterhin kritisch gegenüber ihnen ist. Die Bennet-Schwestern sehen Bingley und Darcy auch gelegentlich. Als Elizabeth mit Charlotte über Bingleys Zuneigung zu Jane spricht, sagt Charlotte Elizabeth, dass Jane offensichtlicher in ihrer Zuneigung sein muss, sonst könnte die "andauernde Fröhlichkeit ihrer Art" Bingley entmutigen. Charlotte glaubt, dass eine Frau mehr Zuneigung zeigen sollte, als sie empfindet, um einen Mann anzuziehen, und bemerkt, dass "Glück in der Ehe vollständig eine Frage des Zufalls ist". Elizabeth ist skeptisch gegenüber beiden Behauptungen. Während dieser Zeit interessiert sich Mr. Darcy zunehmend für Elizabeth. Er fühlt sich von ihren dunklen, intelligenten Augen und ihrer "leichtfüßigen Verspieltheit" angezogen. Bei einem Dinner bei Sir William Lucas belauscht Darcy ein Gespräch zwischen Elizabeth und Sir William Lucas. Sir William, der nichts von Darcys Zuneigung weiß, bittet Elizabeth, mit Darcy zu tanzen - aber sie lehnt standhaft ab. Darcy erwähnt Caroline Bingley gegenüber seine Bewunderung für Elizabeth. Caroline reagiert auf seine Offenbarung, indem sie die Bennet-Familie kritisiert, aber Darcy beteiligt sich nicht an ihrem Spott.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). 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. The same. A public place. [Enter, in procession, with music, Caesar; Antony, for the course; Calpurnia, Portia, Decius, Cicero, Brutus, Cassius, and Casca; a great crowd following, among them a Soothsayer.] CAESAR. Calpurnia,-- CASCA. Peace, ho! Caesar speaks. [Music ceases.] CAESAR. Calpurnia,-- CALPURNIA. Here, my lord. CAESAR. Stand you directly in Antonius' way, When he doth run his course.--Antonius,-- ANTONY. Caesar, my lord? CAESAR. Forget not in your speed, Antonius, To touch Calpurnia; for our elders say, The barren, touched in this holy chase, Shake off their sterile curse. ANTONY. I shall remember. When Caesar says "Do this," it is perform'd. CAESAR. Set on; and leave no ceremony out. [Music.] SOOTHSAYER. Caesar! CAESAR. Ha! Who calls? CASCA. Bid every noise be still.--Peace yet again! [Music ceases.] CAESAR. Who is it in the press that calls on me? I hear a tongue, shriller than all the music, Cry "Caesar"! Speak, Caesar is turn'd to hear. SOOTHSAYER. Beware the Ides of March. CAESAR. What man is that? BRUTUS. A soothsayer bids you beware the Ides of March. CAESAR. Set him before me; let me see his face. CASSIUS. Fellow, come from the throng; look upon Caesar. CAESAR. What say'st thou to me now? Speak once again. SOOTHSAYER. Beware the Ides of March. CAESAR. He is a dreamer; let us leave him. Pass. [Sennet. Exeunt all but BRUTUS and CASSIUS.] CASSIUS. Will you go see the order of the course? BRUTUS. Not I. CASSIUS. I pray you, do. BRUTUS. I am not gamesome; I do lack some part Of that quick spirit that is in Antony. Let me not hinder, Cassius, your desires; I'll leave you. CASSIUS. Brutus, I do observe you now of late: I have not from your eyes that gentleness And show of love as I was wont to have: You bear too stubborn and too strange a hand Over your friend that loves you. BRUTUS. Cassius, Be not deceived: if I have veil'd my look, I turn the trouble of my countenance Merely upon myself. Vexed I am Of late with passions of some difference, Conceptions only proper to myself, Which give some soil perhaps to my behaviors; But let not therefore my good friends be grieved-- Among which number, Cassius, be you one-- Nor construe any further my neglect, Than that poor Brutus, with himself at war, Forgets the shows of love to other men. CASSIUS. Then, Brutus, I have much mistook your passion; By means whereof this breast of mine hath buried Thoughts of great value, worthy cogitations. Tell me, good Brutus, can you see your face? BRUTUS. No, Cassius, for the eye sees not itself But by reflection, by some other thing. CASSIUS. 'Tis just: And it is very much lamented, Brutus, That you have no such mirrors as will turn Your hidden worthiness into your eye, That you might see your shadow. I have heard Where many of the best respect in Rome,-- Except immortal Caesar!-- speaking of Brutus, And groaning underneath this age's yoke, Have wish'd that noble Brutus had his eyes. BRUTUS. Into what dangers would you lead me, Cassius, That you would have me seek into myself For that which is not in me? CASSIUS. Therefore, good Brutus, be prepared to hear; And since you know you cannot see yourself So well as by reflection, I, your glass, Will modestly discover to yourself That of yourself which you yet know not of. And be not jealous on me, gentle Brutus; Were I a common laugher, or did use To stale with ordinary oaths my love To every new protester; if you know That I do fawn on men, and hug them hard And after scandal them; or if you know That I profess myself, in banqueting, To all the rout, then hold me dangerous. [Flourish and shout.] BRUTUS. What means this shouting? I do fear the people Choose Caesar for their king. CASSIUS. Ay, do you fear it? Then must I think you would not have it so. BRUTUS. I would not, Cassius; yet I love him well, But wherefore do you hold me here so long? What is it that you would impart to me? If it be aught toward the general good, Set honor in one eye and death i' the other And I will look on both indifferently; For let the gods so speed me as I love The name of honor more than I fear death. CASSIUS. I know that virtue to be in you, Brutus, As well as I do know your outward favor. Well, honor is the subject of my story. I cannot tell what you and other men Think of this life; but, for my single self, I had as lief not be as live to be In awe of such a thing as I myself. I was born free as Caesar; so were you: We both have fed as well; and we can both Endure the winter's cold as well as he: For once, upon a raw and gusty day, The troubled Tiber chafing with her shores, Caesar said to me, "Darest thou, Cassius, now Leap in with me into this angry flood And swim to yonder point?" Upon the word, Accoutred as I was, I plunged in, And bade him follow: so indeed he did. The torrent roar'd, and we did buffet it With lusty sinews, throwing it aside And stemming it with hearts of controversy; But ere we could arrive the point proposed, Caesar cried, "Help me, Cassius, or I sink! I, as Aeneas, our great ancestor, Did from the flames of Troy upon his shoulder The old Anchises bear, so from the waves of Tiber Did I the tired Caesar: and this man Is now become a god; and Cassius is A wretched creature, and must bend his body, If Caesar carelessly but nod on him. He had a fever when he was in Spain; And when the fit was on him I did mark How he did shake: 'tis true, this god did shake: His coward lips did from their color fly; And that same eye whose bend doth awe the world Did lose his luster. I did hear him groan: Ay, and that tongue of his that bade the Romans Mark him, and write his speeches in their books, Alas, it cried, "Give me some drink, Titinius," As a sick girl.--Ye gods, it doth amaze me, A man of such a feeble temper should So get the start of the majestic world, And bear the palm alone. [Shout. Flourish.] BRUTUS. Another general shout! I do believe that these applauses are For some new honors that are heap'd on Caesar. CASSIUS. Why, man, he doth bestride the narrow world Like a Colossus; and we petty men Walk under his huge legs and peep about To find ourselves dishonorable graves. Men at some time are masters of their fates: The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, But in ourselves,that we are underlings. "Brutus" and "Caesar": what should be in that "Caesar"? Why should that name be sounded more than yours? Write them together, yours is as fair a name; Sound them, it doth become the mouth as well; Weigh them, it is as heavy; conjure with them, "Brutus" will start a spirit as soon as "Caesar." Now, in the names of all the gods at once, Upon what meat doth this our Caesar feed That he is grown so great? Age, thou art shamed! Rome, thou hast lost the breed of noble bloods! When went there by an age since the great flood, But it was famed with more than with one man? When could they say, till now, that talk'd of Rome, That her wide walls encompass'd but one man? Now is it Rome indeed, and room enough, When there is in it but one only man. O, you and I have heard our fathers say There was a Brutus once that would have brook'd Th' eternal devil to keep his state in Rome, As easily as a king! BRUTUS. That you do love me, I am nothing jealous; What you would work me to, I have some aim: How I have thought of this, and of these times, I shall recount hereafter; for this present, I would not, so with love I might entreat you, Be any further moved. What you have said, I will consider; what you have to say, I will with patience hear; and find a time Both meet to hear and answer such high things. Till then, my noble friend, chew upon this: Brutus had rather be a villager Than to repute himself a son of Rome Under these hard conditions as this time Is like to lay upon us. CASSIUS. I am glad that my weak words Have struck but thus much show of fire from Brutus. BRUTUS. The games are done, and Caesar is returning. CASSIUS. As they pass by, pluck Casca by the sleeve; And he will, after his sour fashion, tell you What hath proceeded worthy note today. [Re-enter Caesar and his Train.] BRUTUS. I will do so.--But, look you, Cassius, The angry spot doth glow on Caesar's brow, And all the rest look like a chidden train: Calpurnia's cheek is pale; and Cicero Looks with such ferret and such fiery eyes As we have seen him in the Capitol, Being cross'd in conference by some senators. CASSIUS. Casca will tell us what the matter is. CAESAR. Antonius,-- ANTONY. Caesar? CAESAR. Let me have men about me that are fat; Sleek-headed men, and such as sleep o' nights: Yond Cassius has a lean and hungry look; He thinks too much: such men are dangerous. ANTONY. Fear him not, Caesar; he's not dangerous; He is a noble Roman and well given. CAESAR. Would he were fatter! But I fear him not: Yet, if my name were liable to fear, I do not know the man I should avoid So soon as that spare Cassius. He reads much; He is a great observer, and he looks Quite through the deeds of men: he loves no plays, As thou dost, Antony; he hears no music: Seldom he smiles; and smiles in such a sort As if he mock'd himself and scorn'd his spirit That could be moved to smile at any thing. Such men as he be never at heart's ease Whiles they behold a greater than themselves; And therefore are they very dangerous. I rather tell thee what is to be fear'd Than what I fear, for always I am Caesar. Come on my right hand, for this ear is deaf, And tell me truly what thou think'st of him. [Exeunt Caesar and his Train. Casca stays.] CASCA. You pull'd me by the cloak; would you speak with me? BRUTUS. Ay, Casca, tell us what hath chanced today, That Caesar looks so sad. CASCA. Why, you were with him, were you not? BRUTUS. I should not then ask Casca what had chanced. CASCA. Why, there was a crown offer'd him; and being offer'd him, he put it by with the back of his hand, thus; and then the people fell a-shouting. BRUTUS. What was the second noise for? CASCA. Why, for that too. CASSIUS. They shouted thrice: what was the last cry for? CASCA. Why, for that too. BRUTUS. Was the crown offer'd him thrice? CASCA. Ay, marry, was't, and he put it by thrice, every time gentler than other; and at every putting-by mine honest neighbors shouted. CASSIUS. Who offer'd him the crown? CASCA. Why, Antony. BRUTUS. Tell us the manner of it, gentle Casca. CASCA. I can as well be hang'd, as tell the manner of it: it was mere foolery; I did not mark it. I saw Mark Antony offer him a crown;--yet 'twas not a crown neither, 'twas one of these coronets;--and, as I told you, he put it by once: but, for all that, to my thinking, he would fain have had it. Then he offered it to him again: then he put it by again: but, to my thinking, he was very loath to lay his fingers off it. And then he offered it the third time; he put it the third time by; and still, as he refused it, the rabblement shouted, and clapp'd their chopt hands, and threw up their sweaty night-caps, and uttered such a deal of stinking breath because Caesar refused the crown, that it had almost choked Caesar, for he swooned and fell down at it: and for mine own part, I durst not laugh for fear of opening my lips and receiving the bad air. CASSIUS. But, soft! I pray you. What, did Caesar swoon? CASCA. He fell down in the market-place, and foam'd at mouth, and was speechless. BRUTUS. 'Tis very like: he hath the falling-sickness. CASSIUS. No, Caesar hath it not; but you, and I, And honest Casca, we have the falling-sickness. CASCA. I know not what you mean by that; but I am sure Caesar fell down. If the tag-rag people did not clap him and hiss him, according as he pleased and displeased them, as they use to do the players in the theatre, I am no true man. BRUTUS. What said he when he came unto himself? CASCA. Marry, before he fell down, when he perceived the common herd was glad he refused the crown, he pluck'd me ope his doublet, and offered them his throat to cut: an I had been a man of any occupation, if I would not have taken him at a word, I would I might go to hell among the rogues:--and so he fell. When he came to himself again, he said, if he had done or said any thing amiss, he desired their worships to think it was his infirmity. Three or four wenches where I stood cried, "Alas, good soul!" and forgave him with all their hearts. But there's no heed to be taken of them: if Caesar had stabb'd their mothers, they would have done no less. BRUTUS. And, after that he came, thus sad away? CASCA. Ay. CASSIUS. Did Cicero say any thing? CASCA. Ay, he spoke Greek. CASSIUS. To what effect? CASCA. Nay, an I tell you that, I'll ne'er look you i' the face again: but those that understood him smiled at one another and shook their heads; but for mine own part, it was Greek to me. I could tell you more news too: Marullus and Flavius, for pulling scarfs off Caesar's images, are put to silence. Fare you well. There was more foolery yet, if could remember it. CASSIUS. Will you sup with me tonight, Casca? CASCA. No, I am promised forth. CASSIUS. Will you dine with me tomorrow? CASCA. Ay, if I be alive, and your mind hold, and your dinner worth the eating. CASSIUS. Good; I will expect you. CASCA. Do so; farewell both. [Exit CASCA.] BRUTUS. What a blunt fellow is this grown to be! He was quick mettle when he went to school. CASSIUS. So is he now in execution Of any bold or noble enterprise, However he puts on this tardy form. This rudeness is a sauce to his good wit, Which gives men stomach to digest his words With better appetite. BRUTUS. And so it is. For this time I will leave you: Tomorrow, if you please to speak with me, I will come home to you; or, if you will, Come home to me, and I will wait for you. CASSIUS. I will do so: till then, think of the world.-- [Exit Brutus.] Nun Brutus, du bist edel; doch sehe ich, Dass deine ehrenhafte Natur geformt werden kann, Von dem, wozu sie prädisponiert ist: Daher ist es passend, Dass edle Geister immer bei ihresgleichen bleiben; Denn wer ist so fest, dass er nicht verführt werden kann? Caesar verhält sich hart zu mir, doch er liebt Brutus; Wenn ich jetzt Brutus wäre und er Cassius, Dann würde er sich nicht auf mich einlassen. Diese Nacht werde ich, Mit verschiedenen Händen, durch seine Fenster werfen, Als kämen sie von verschiedenen Bürgern, Schriften, die alle zur großen Meinung neigen, Die Rom von seinem Namen hat; worin verschleiert Caesars Ehrgeiz angedeutet wird: Und nach diesem soll sich Caesar sicher setzen; Denn wir werden ihn erschüttern oder schlechtere Tage ertragen. [Abtritt.] Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Caesar tritt in einer Prozession auf, begleitet von seinem engen Freund Mark Antonius, seiner Frau Calphurnia und anderen. Mark Antonius bereitet sich darauf vor, an einem Rennen teilzunehmen, um das traditionelle Fest Lupercal zu feiern. Es ist ein wichtiges Rennen, denn unfruchtbare Frauen sollen angeblich von Unfruchtbarkeit geheilt werden, wenn sie von den jungen Männern berührt werden, die die Strecke entlang laufen. Caesar, der sich einen Sohn wünscht, sagt Calphurnia, sie solle sich in den Weg von Antonius stellen; dann erinnert er Antonius daran, Calphurnia während des Rennens zu berühren. Jemand in der Menge warnt Caesar: "Hüte dich vor den Iden des März." Caesar ignoriert die Warnung und ordnet an, dass das Rennen beginnen soll. Während Caesar und seine Prozession über die Bühne ziehen, bleiben Brutus und Cassius zurück. Cassius nutzt diese Gelegenheit, um Brutus' Gefühle gegenüber Caesar abzuschätzen, ohne seine eigene Position direkt anzugeben. Er bemerkt, dass Brutus sich seltsam und reserviert verhalten habe in seinem Umgang mit seinen Freunden. Brutus sagt Cassius, er sei mit einigen Sorgen beschäftigt und bittet um Vergebung für sein Verhalten. In dem Gefühl, dass Brutus offen für das sein könnte, was er zu sagen hat, schmeichelt Cassius Brutus und versucht, seine Unterstützung für den Aufstand gegen Caesars Herrschaft zu gewinnen. Brutus widersetzt sich zunächst und besteht darauf, dass er treu und loyal ist; er sagt, er tratsche nicht hinter dem Rücken von Freunden. Ein Fanfarenstoß erschreckt ihn jedoch, und er lässt seine wahren Gefühle zu der Angelegenheit heraussprudeln und sagt: "Ich fürchte dass das Volk Caesar zu ihrem König wählen könnte." Das ist alles, was Cassius braucht, um seine Überredungskunst zu intensivieren. Brutus gesteht Cassius, dass er zwar Caesar sehr liebt, aber auch besorgt über die möglichen Konsequenzen der großen Macht ist, die der König jetzt hat. Cassius fängt an, Brutus zu schmeicheln; dann erzählt er zwei Beispiele für Caesars körperliche Schwäche. Das erste Mal war angeblich, als Caesar Cassius herausforderte, den überfluteten Fluss Tiber an einem stürmischen Tag zu durchschwimmen. Caesar konnte den Schwimmvorgang nicht beenden, und Cassius behauptet, dass er ihm helfen musste, ans Ufer zu gelangen. Cassius ist angewidert, dass ein so schwacher Mann nun der absolute Herrscher Roms geworden ist. Außerdem erzählt er von einer Zeit in Spanien, als Caesar sehr krank mit Fieber war. Er deutet an, dass seine Krankheit eine Schwäche, keine natürliche Erscheinung war. Es ertönt erneut ein Fanfarenstoß und ein weiterer allgemeiner Jubel ist von der Bühne zu hören. Brutus bemerkt, dass die Menge wahrscheinlich einige neuen Ehren bejubelt, die Caesar zuteilgeworden sind. Auf diese Mitteilung provoziert Cassius weiterhin Brutus' Missgunst gegenüber Caesar und deutet an, dass sogar Brutus ein besserer Herrscher sei. Brutus antwortet, dass er ernsthaft darüber nachdenken werde, was Cassius ihm gesagt hat; er geht mit der Zusage, dass die beiden später über diese Angelegenheiten diskutieren werden. Caesar betritt die Bühne und erzählt seinem Vertrauten, Mark Antonius, dass er Cassius nicht vertraut. Caesar erklärt, dass er einen "mageren und hungrigen Blick" in Cassius sieht, der klar darauf hinweist, dass der Mann große Ambitionen hat, die gefährlich sein könnten; das ist eine klare Vorahnung der Ereignisse, die kommen werden. Als die beiden Männer die Bühne verlassen, werden Brutus und Cassius mit Casca auf der Bühne gesehen, der wichtige Neuigkeiten hat. Vor der Menge hat Antonius Caesar drei Mal die römische Krone angeboten, und drei Mal hat Caesar sie abgelehnt. Caesar ist dann vor der Menge in Ohnmacht gefallen und scheint sich für einen kurzen Moment zu verlieren. Brutus bemerkt, dass Caesar "die fallende Krankheit" hat, heute bekannt als Epilepsie. Casca fügt hinzu, dass Marullus und Flavius, zwei Tribunen, getötet wurden, weil sie Caesar Schals von den Statuen abgenommen haben. Nachdem er die Nachrichten gemeldet hat, verlässt Casca die Bühne und kurz darauf auch Brutus. Cassius, allein auf der Bühne, hält eine Ansprache, in der er sagt, dass Brutus' Charakter so leicht formbar ist wie Metall. Cassius spürt, dass Brutus die Pflicht gegenüber dem Staat mehr schätzt als jede persönliche Loyalität gegenüber Caesar. Aus diesem Grund plant er, Brutus seine Verpflichtungen gegenüber Rom eindrücklich zu vermitteln und ihn für seine Sache zu gewinnen. Um Brutus weiter davon zu überzeugen, sich einer Verschwörung gegen Caesar anzuschließen, wird Cassius einige gefälschte Briefe schreiben, in denen die Angst der einfachen Bürger vor Caesars ehrgeiziger Natur zum Ausdruck gebracht wird; er wird dann sicherstellen, dass Brutus die gefälschten Briefe liest, die mit Sicherheit seinen Denkprozess beeinflussen 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: As they were seated at Aunt Juley's breakfast-table at The Bays, parrying her excessive hospitality and enjoying the view of the bay, a letter came for Margaret and threw her into perturbation. It was from Mr. Wilcox. It announced an "important change" in his plans. Owing to Evie's marriage, he had decided to give up his house in Ducie Street, and was willing to let it on a yearly tenancy. It was a businesslike letter, and stated frankly what he would do for them and what he would not do. Also the rent. If they approved, Margaret was to come up AT ONCE--the words were underlined, as is necessary when dealing with women--and to go over the house with him. If they disapproved, a wire would oblige, as he should put it into the hands of an agent. The letter perturbed, because she was not sure what it meant. If he liked her, if he had manoeuvred to get her to Simpson's, might this be a manoeuvre to get her to London, and result in an offer of marriage? She put it to herself as indelicately as possible, in the hope that her brain would cry, "Rubbish, you're a self-conscious fool!" But her brain only tingled a little and was silent, and for a time she sat gazing at the mincing waves, and wondering whether the news would seem strange to the others. As soon as she began speaking, the sound of her own voice reassured her. There could be nothing in it. The replies also were typical, and in the burr of conversation her fears vanished. "You needn't go though--" began her hostess. "I needn't, but hadn't I better? It's really getting rather serious. We let chance after chance slip, and the end of it is we shall be bundled out bag and baggage into the street. We don't know what we WANT, that's the mischief with us--" "No, we have no real ties," said Helen, helping herself to toast. "Shan't I go up to town to-day, take the house if it's the least possible, and then come down by the afternoon train to-morrow, and start enjoying myself. I shall be no fun to myself or to others until this business is off my mind. "But you won't do anything rash, Margaret?" "There's nothing rash to do." "Who ARE the Wilcoxes?" said Tibby, a question that sounds silly, but was really extremely subtle as his aunt found to her cost when she tried to answer it. "I don't MANAGE the Wilcoxes; I don't see where they come IN." "No more do I," agreed Helen. "It's funny that we just don't lose sight of them. Out of all our hotel acquaintances, Mr. Wilcox is the only one who has stuck. It is now over three years, and we have drifted away from far more interesting people in that time." "Interesting people don't get one houses." "Meg, if you start in your honest-English vein, I shall throw the treacle at you." "It's a better vein than the cosmopolitan," said Margaret, getting up. "Now, children, which is it to be? You know the Ducie Street house. Shall I say yes or shall I say no? Tibby love--which? I'm specially anxious to pin you both." "It all depends on what meaning you attach to the word 'possible'" "It depends on nothing of the sort. Say 'yes.'" "Say 'no.'" Then Margaret spoke rather seriously. "I think," she said, "that our race is degenerating. We cannot settle even this little thing; what will it be like when we have to settle a big one?" "It will be as easy as eating," returned Helen. "I was thinking of father. How could he settle to leave Germany as he did, when he had fought for it as a young man, and all his feelings and friends were Prussian? How could he break loose with Patriotism and begin aiming at something else? It would have killed me. When he was nearly forty he could change countries and ideals--and we, at our age, can't change houses. It's humiliating." "Your father may have been able to change countries," said Mrs. Munt with asperity, "and that may or may not be a good thing. But he could change houses no better than you can, in fact, much worse. Never shall I forget what poor Emily suffered in the move from Manchester." "I knew it," cried Helen. "I told you so. It is the little things one bungles at. The big, real ones are nothing when they come." "Bungle, my dear! You are too little to recollect--in fact, you weren't there. But the furniture was actually in the vans and on the move before the lease for Wickham Place was signed, and Emily took train with baby--who was Margaret then--and the smaller luggage for London, without so much as knowing where her new home would be. Getting away from that house may be hard, but it is nothing to the misery that we all went through getting you into it." Helen, with her mouth full, cried: "And that's the man who beat the Austrians, and the Danes, and the French, and who beat the Germans that were inside himself. And we're like him." "Speak for yourself," said Tibby. "Remember that I am cosmopolitan, please." "Helen may be right." "Of course she's right," said Helen. Helen might be right, but she did not go up to London. Margaret did that. An interrupted holiday is the worst of the minor worries, and one may be pardoned for feeling morbid when a business letter snatches one away from the sea and friends. She could not believe that her father had ever felt the same. Her eyes had been troubling her lately, so that she could not read in the train and it bored her to look at the landscape, which she had seen but yesterday. At Southampton she "waved" to Frieda; Frieda was on her way down to join them at Swanage, and Mrs. Munt had calculated that their trains would cross. But Frieda was looking the other way, and Margaret travelled on to town feeling solitary and old-maidish. How like an old maid to fancy that Mr. Wilcox was courting her! She had once visited a spinster--poor, silly, and unattractive--whose mania it was that every man who approached her fell in love. How Margaret's heart had bled for the deluded thing! How she had lectured, reasoned, and in despair acquiesced! "I may have been deceived by the curate, my dear, but the young fellow who brings the midday post really is fond of me, and has, as a matter of fact--" It had always seemed to her the most hideous corner of old age, yet she might be driven into it herself by the mere pressure of virginity. Mr. Wilcox met her at Waterloo himself. She felt certain that he was not the same as usual; for one thing, he took offence at everything she said. "This is awfully kind of you," she began, "but I'm afraid it's not going to do. The house has not been built that suits the Schlegel family." "What! Have you come up determined not to deal?" "Not exactly." "Not exactly? In that case let's be starting." She lingered to admire the motor, which was new, and a fairer creature than the vermilion giant that had borne Aunt Juley to her doom three years before. "Presumably it's very beautiful," she said. "How do you like it, Crane?" "Come, let's be starting," repeated her host. "How on earth did you know that my chauffeur was called Crane?" "Why, I know Crane; I've been for a drive with Evie once. I know that you've got a parlourmaid called Milton. I know all sorts of things." "Evie!" he echoed in injured tones. "You won't see her. She's gone out with Cahill. It's no fun, I can tell you, being left so much alone. I've got my work all day--indeed, a great deal too much of it--but when I come home in the evening, I tell you, I can't stand the house." "In my absurd way, I'm lonely too," Margaret replied. "It's heart-breaking to leave one's old home. I scarcely remember anything before Wickham Place, and Helen and Tibby were born there. Helen says--" "You, too, feel lonely?" "Horribly. Hullo, Parliament's back!" Mr. Wilcox glanced at Parliament contemptuously. The more important ropes of life lay elsewhere. "Yes, they are talking again," said he. "But you were going to say--" "Only some rubbish about furniture. Helen says it alone endures while men and houses perish, and that in the end the world will be a desert of chairs and sofas--just imagine it!--rolling through infinity with no one to sit upon them." "Your sister always likes her little joke." "She says 'Yes,' my brother says `No,' to Ducie Street. It's no fun helping us, Mr. Wilcox, I assure you." "You are not as unpractical as you pretend. I shall never believe it." Margaret laughed. But she was--quite as unpractical. She could not concentrate on details. Parliament, the Thames, the irresponsive chauffeur, would flash into the field of house-hunting, and all demand some comment or response. It is impossible to see modern life steadily and see it whole, and she had chosen to see it whole. Mr. Wilcox saw steadily. He never bothered over the mysterious or the private. The Thames might run inland from the sea, the chauffeur might conceal all passion and philosophy beneath his unhealthy skin. They knew their own business, and he knew his. Yet she liked being with him. He was not a rebuke, but a stimulus, and banished morbidity. Some twenty years her senior, he preserved a gift that she supposed herself to have already lost--not youth's creative power, but its self-confidence and optimism. He was so sure that it was a very pleasant world. His complexion was robust, his hair had receded but not thinned, the thick moustache and the eyes that Helen had compared to brandy-balls had an agreeable menace in them, whether they were turned towards the slums or towards the stars. Some day--in the millennium--there may be no need for his type. At present, homage is due to it from those who think themselves superior, and who possibly are. "At all events you responded to my telegram promptly," he remarked. "Oh, even I know a good thing when I see it." "I'm glad you don't despise the goods of this world." "Heavens, no! Only idiots and prigs do that." "I am glad, very glad," he repeated, suddenly softening and turning to her, as if the remark had pleased him. "There is so much cant talked in would-be intellectual circles. I am glad you don't share it. Self-denial is all very well as a means of strengthening the character. But I can't stand those people who run down comforts. They have usually some axe to grind. Can you?" "Comforts are of two kinds," said Margaret, who was keeping herself in hand--"those we can share with others, like fire, weather, or music; and those we can't--food, food, for instance. It depends." "I mean reasonable comforts, of course. I shouldn't like to think that you--" He bent nearer; the sentence died unfinished. Margaret's head turned very stupid, and the inside of it seemed to revolve like the beacon in a lighthouse. He did not kiss her, for the hour was half-past twelve, and the car was passing by the stables of Buckingham Palace. But the atmosphere was so charged with emotion that people only seemed to exist on her account, and she was surprised that Crane did not realise this, and turn round. Idiot though she might be, surely Mr. Wilcox was more--how should one put it?--more psychological than usual. Always a good judge of character for business purposes, he seemed this afternoon to enlarge his field, and to note qualities outside neatness, obedience, and decision. "I want to go over the whole house," she announced when they arrived. "As soon as I get back to Swanage, which will be to-morrow afternoon, I'll talk it over once more with Helen and Tibby, and wire you 'yes' or 'no.'" "Right. The dining-room." And they began their survey. The dining-room was big, but over-furnished. Chelsea would have moaned aloud. Mr. Wilcox had eschewed those decorative schemes that wince, and relent, and refrain, and achieve beauty by sacrificing comfort and pluck. After so much self-colour and self-denial, Margaret viewed with relief the sumptuous dado, the frieze, the gilded wall-paper, amid whose foliage parrots sang. It would never do with her own furniture, but those heavy chairs, that immense sideboard loaded with presentation plate, stood up against its pressure like men. The room suggested men, and Margaret, keen to derive the modern capitalist from the warriors and hunters of the past, saw it as an ancient guest-hall, where the lord sat at meat among his thanes. Even the Bible--the Dutch Bible that Charles had brought back from the Boer War--fell into position. Such a room admitted loot. "Now the entrance-hall." The entrance-hall was paved. "Here we fellows smoke." We fellows smoked in chairs of maroon leather. It was as if a motor-car had spawned. "Oh, jolly!" said Margaret, sinking into one of them. "You do like it?" he said, fixing his eyes on her upturned face, and surely betraying an almost intimate note. "It's all rubbish not making oneself comfortable. Isn't it?" "Ye--es. Semi-rubbish. Are those Cruikshanks?" "Gillrays. Shall we go on upstairs?" "Does all this furniture come from Howards End?" "The Howards End furniture has all gone to Oniton." "Does--However, I'm concerned with the house, not the furniture. How big is this smoking-room?" "Thirty by fifteen. No, wait a minute. Fifteen and a half." "Ah, well. Mr. Wilcox, aren't you ever amused at the solemnity with which we middle classes approach the subject of houses?" They proceeded to the drawing-room. Chelsea managed better here. It was sallow and ineffective. One could visualise the ladies withdrawing to it, while their lords discussed life's realities below, to the accompaniment of cigars. Had Mrs. Wilcox's drawing-room at Howards End looked thus? Just as this thought entered Margaret's brain, Mr. Wilcox did ask her to be his wife, and the knowledge that she had been right so overcame her that she nearly fainted. But the proposal was not to rank among the world's great love scenes. "Miss Schlegel"--his voice was firm--"I have had you up on false pretences. I want to speak about a much more serious matter than a house." Margaret almost answered: "I know--" "Could you be induced to share my--is it probable--" "Oh, Mr. Wilcox!" she interrupted, taking hold of the piano and averting her eyes. "I see, I see. I will write to you afterwards if I may." He began to stammer. "Miss Schlegel--Margaret you don't understand." "Oh yes! Indeed, yes!" said Margaret. "I am asking you to be my wife." So deep already was her sympathy, that when he said, "I am asking you to be my wife," she made herself give a little start. She must show surprise if he expected it. An immense joy came over her. It was indescribable. It had nothing to do with humanity, and most resembled the all-pervading happiness of fine weather. Fine weather is due to the sun, but Margaret could think of no central radiance here. She stood in his drawing-room happy, and longing to give happiness. On leaving him she realised that the central radiance had been love. "You aren't offended, Miss Schlegel?" "How could I be offended?" There was a moment's pause. He was anxious to get rid of her, and she knew it. She had too much intuition to look at him as he struggled for possessions that money cannot buy. He desired comradeship and affection, but he feared them, and she, who had taught herself only to desire, and could have clothed the struggle with beauty, held back, and hesitated with him. "Good-bye," she continued. "You will have a letter from me--I am going back to Swanage to-morrow." "Thank you." "Good-bye, and it's you I thank." "I may order the motor round, mayn't I?" "That would be most kind." "I wish I had written. Ought I to have written?" "Not at all." "There's just one question--" She shook her head. He looked a little bewildered as they parted. They parted without shaking hands; she had kept the interview, for his sake, in tints of the quietest grey. She thrilled with happiness ere she reached her house. Others had loved her in the past, if one apply to their brief desires so grave a word, but the others had been "ninnies"--young men who had nothing to do, old men who could find nobody better. And she had often 'loved,' too, but only so far as the facts of sex demanded: mere yearnings for the masculine sex to be dismissed for what they were worth, with a sigh. Never before had her personality been touched. She was not young or very rich, and it amazed her that a man of any standing should take her seriously as she sat, trying to do accounts in her empty house, amidst beautiful pictures and noble books, waves of emotion broke, as if a tide of passion was flowing through the night air. She shook her head, tried to concentrate her attention, and failed. In vain did she repeat: "But I've been through this sort of thing before." She had never been through it; the big machinery, as opposed to the little, had been set in motion, and the idea that Mr. Wilcox loved, obsessed her before she came to love him in return. She would come to no decision yet. "Oh, sir, this is so sudden"--that prudish phrase exactly expressed her when her time came. Premonitions are not preparation. She must examine more closely her own nature and his; she must talk it over judicially with Helen. It had been a strange love-scene--the central radiance unacknowledged from first to last. She, in his place, would have said Ich liebe dich, but perhaps it was not his habit to open the heart. He might have done it if she had pressed him--as a matter of duty, perhaps; England expects every man to open his heart once; but the effort would have jarred him, and never, if she could avoid it, should he lose those defences that he had chosen to raise against the world. He must never be bothered with emotional talk, or with a display of sympathy. He was an elderly man now, and it would be futile and impudent to correct him. Mrs. Wilcox strayed in and out, ever a welcome ghost; surveying the scene, thought Margaret, without one hint of bitterness. If one wanted to show a foreigner England, perhaps the wisest course would be to take him to the final section of the Purbeck Hills, and stand him on their summit, a few miles to the east of Corfe. Then system after system of our island would roll together under his feet. Beneath him is the valley of the Frome, and all the wild lands that come tossing down from Dorchester, black and gold, to mirror their gorse in the expanses of Poole. The valley of the Stour is beyond, unaccountable stream, dirty at Blandford, pure at Wimborne--the Stour, sliding out of fat fields, to marry the Avon beneath the tower of Christ church. The valley of the Avon--invisible, but far to the north the trained eye may see Clearbury Ring that guards it, and the imagination may leap beyond that on to Salisbury Plain itself, and beyond the Plain to all the glorious downs of Central England. Nor is Suburbia absent. Bournemouth's ignoble coast cowers to the right, heralding the pine-trees that mean, for all their beauty, red houses, and the Stock Exchange, and extend to the gates of London itself. So tremendous is the City's trail! But the cliffs of Freshwater it shall never touch, and the island will guard the Island's purity till the end of time. Seen from the west the Wight is beautiful beyond all laws of beauty. It is as if a fragment of England floated forward to greet the foreigner--chalk of our chalk, turf of our turf, epitome of what will follow. And behind the fragment lies Southampton, hostess to the nations, and Portsmouth, a latent fire, and all around it, with double and treble collision of tides, swirls the sea. How many villages appear in this view! How many castles! How many churches, vanished or triumphant! How many ships, railways, and roads! What incredible variety of men working beneath that lucent sky to what final end! The reason fails, like a wave on the Swanage beach; the imagination swells, spreads, and deepens, until it becomes geographic and encircles England. So Frieda Mosebach, now Frau Architect Liesecke, and mother to her husband's baby, was brought up to these heights to be impressed, and, after a prolonged gaze, she said that the hills were more swelling here than in Pomerania, which was true, but did not seem to Mrs. Munt apposite. Poole Harbour was dry, which led her to praise the absence of muddy foreshore at Friedrich Wilhelms Bad, Rugen, where beech-trees hang over the tideless Baltic, and cows may contemplate the brine. Rather unhealthy Mrs. Munt thought this would be, water being safer when it moved about. "And your English lakes--Vindermere, Grasmere they, then, unhealthy?" "No, Frau Liesecke; but that is because they are fresh water, and different. Salt water ought to have tides, and go up and down a great deal, or else it smells. Look, for instance, at an aquarium." "An aquarium! Oh, MEESIS Munt, you mean to tell me that fresh aquariums stink less than salt? Why, then Victor, my brother-in-law, collected many tadpoles--" "You are not to say 'stink,'" interrupted Helen; "at least, you may say it, but you must pretend you are being funny while you say it." "Then 'smell.' And the mud of your Pool down there--does it not smell, or may I say 'stink,' ha, ha?" "There always has been mud in Poole Harbour," said Mrs. Munt, with a slight frown. "The rivers bring it down, and a most valuable oyster-fishery depends upon it." "Yes, that is so," conceded Frieda; and another international incident was closed. "'Bournemouth is,'" resumed their hostess, quoting a local rhyme to which she was much attached--"'Bournemouth is, Poole was, and Swanage is to be the most important town of all and biggest of the three.' Now, Frau Liesecke, I have shown you Bournemouth, and I have shown you Poole, so let us walk backward a little, and look down again at Swanage." "Aunt Juley, wouldn't that be Meg's train?" A tiny puff of smoke had been circling the harbour, and now was bearing southwards towards them over the black and the gold. "Oh, dearest Margaret, I do hope she won't be overtired." "Oh, I do wonder--I do wonder whether she's taken the house." "I hope she hasn't been hasty." "So do I--oh, SO do I." "Will it be as beautiful as Wickham Place?" Frieda asked. "I should think it would. Trust Mr. Wilcox for doing himself proud. All those Ducie Street houses are beautiful in their modern way, and I can't think why he doesn't keep on with it. But it's really for Evie that he went there, and now that Evie's going to be married--" "Ah!" "You've never seen Miss Wilcox, Frieda. How absurdly matrimonial you are!" "But sister to that Paul?" "Yes." "And to that Charles," said Mrs. Munt with feeling. "Oh, Helen, Helen, what a time that was!" Helen laughed. "Meg and I haven't got such tender hearts. If there's a chance of a cheap house, we go for it." "Now look, Frau Liesecke, at my niece's train. You see, it is coming towards us--coming, coming; and, when it gets to Corfe, it will actually go THROUGH the downs, on which we are standing, so that, if we walk over, as I suggested, and look down on Swanage, we shall see it coming on the other side. Shall we?" Frieda assented, and in a few minutes they had crossed the ridge and exchanged the greater view for the lesser. Rather a dull valley lay below, backed by the slope of the coastward downs. They were looking across the Isle of Purbeck and on to Swanage, soon to be the most important town of all, and ugliest of the three. Margaret's train reappeared as promised, and was greeted with approval by her aunt. It came to a standstill in the middle distance, and there it had been planned that Tibby should meet her, and drive her, and a tea-basket, up to join them. "You see," continued Helen to her cousin, "the Wilcoxes collect houses as your Victor collects tadpoles. They have, one, Ducie Street; two, Howards End, where my great rumpus was; three, a country seat in Shropshire; four, Charles has a house in Hilton; and five, another near Epsom; and six, Evie will have a house when she marries, and probably a pied-a-terre in the country--which makes seven. Oh yes, and Paul a hut in Africa makes eight. I wish we could get Howards End. That was something like a dear little house! Didn't you think so, Aunt Juley?" "I had too much to do, dear, to look at it," said Mrs. Munt, with a gracious dignity. "I had everything to settle and explain, and Charles Wilcox to keep in his place besides. It isn't likely I should remember much. I just remember having lunch in your bedroom." "Yes, so do I. But, oh dear, dear, how dreadful it all seems! And in the autumn there began that anti-Pauline movement--you, and Frieda, and Meg, and Mrs. Wilcox, all obsessed with the idea that I might yet marry Paul." "You yet may," said Frieda despondently. Helen shook her head. "The Great Wilcox Peril will never return. If I'm certain of anything it's of that." "One is certain of nothing but the truth of one's own emotions." The remark fell damply on the conversation. But Helen slipped her arm round her cousin, somehow liking her the better for making it. It was not an original remark, nor had Frieda appropriated it passionately, for she had a patriotic rather than a philosophic mind. Yet it betrayed that interest in the universal which the average Teuton possesses and the average Englishman does not. It was, however illogically, the good, the beautiful, the true, as opposed to the respectable, the pretty, the adequate. It was a landscape of Bocklin's beside a landscape of Leader's, strident and ill-considered, but quivering into supernatural life. It sharpened idealism, stirred the soul. It may have been a bad preparation for what followed. "Look!" cried Aunt Juley, hurrying away from generalities over the narrow summit of the down. "Stand where I stand, and you will see the pony-cart coming. I see the pony-cart coming." They stood and saw the pony-cart coming. Margaret and Tibby were presently seen coming in it. Leaving the outskirts of Swanage, it drove for a little through the budding lanes, and then began the ascent. "Have you got the house?" they shouted, long before she could possibly hear. Helen ran down to meet her. The highroad passed over a saddle, and a track went thence at right angles alone the ridge of the down. "Have you got the house?" Margaret shook her head. "Oh, what a nuisance! So we're as we were?" "Not exactly." She got out, looking tired. "Some mystery," said Tibby. "We are to be enlightened presently." Margaret came close up to her and whispered that she had had a proposal of marriage from Mr. Wilcox. Helen was amused. She opened the gate on to the downs so that her brother might lead the pony through. "It's just like a widower," she remarked. "They've cheek enough for anything, and invariably select one of their first wife's friends." Margaret's face flashed despair. "That type--" She broke off with a cry. "Meg, not anything wrong with you?" "Wait one minute," said Margaret, whispering always. "But you've never conceivably--you've never--" She pulled herself together. "Tibby, hurry up through; I can't hold this gate indefinitely. Aunt Juley! I say, Aunt Juley, make the tea, will you, and Frieda; we've got to talk houses, and will come on afterwards." And then, turning her face to her sister's, she burst into tears. Margaret was stupefied. She heard herself saying, "Oh, really--" She felt herself touched with a hand that trembled. "Don't," sobbed Helen, "don't, don't, Meg, don't!" She seemed incapable of saying any other word. Margaret, trembling herself, led her forward up the road, till they strayed through another gate on to the down. "Don't, don't do such a thing! I tell you not to--don't! I know--don't!" "What do you know?" "Panic and emptiness," sobbed Helen. "Don't!" Then Margaret thought, "Helen is a little selfish. I have never behaved like this when there has seemed a chance of her marrying." She said: "But we would still see each other very--often, and you--" "It's not a thing like that," sobbed Helen. And she broke right away and wandered distractedly upwards, stretching her hands towards the view and crying. "What's happened to you?" called Margaret, following through the wind that gathers at sundown on the northern slopes of hills. "But it's stupid!" And suddenly stupidity seized her, and the immense landscape was blurred. But Helen turned back. "I don't know what's happened to either of us," said Margaret, wiping her eyes. "We must both have done mad." Then Helen wiped hers, and they even laughed a little. "Look here, sit down." "All right; I'll sit down if you'll sit down." "There. (One kiss.) Now, whatever, whatever is the matter?" "I do mean what I said. Don't; it wouldn't do." "Oh, Helen, stop saying 'don't'! It's ignorant. It's as if your head wasn't out of the slime. 'Don't' is probably what Mrs. Bast says all the day to Mr. Bast." Helen was silent. "Well?" "Tell me about it first, and meanwhile perhaps I'll have got my head out of the slime." "That's better. Well, where shall I begin? When I arrived at Waterloo--no, I'll go back before that, because I'm anxious you should know everything from the first. The 'first' was about ten days ago. It was the day Mr. Bast came to tea and lost his temper. I was defending him, and Mr. Wilcox became jealous about me, however slightly. I thought it was the involuntary thing, which men can't help any more than we can. You know--at least, I know in my own case--when a man has said to me, 'So-and-so's a pretty girl,' I am seized with a momentary sourness against So-and-so, and long to tweak her ear. It's a tiresome feeling, but not an important one, and one easily manages it. But it wasn't only this in Mr. Wilcox's case, I gather now." "Then you love him?" Margaret considered. "It is wonderful knowing that a real man cares for you," she said. "The mere fact of that grows more tremendous. Remember, I've known and liked him steadily for nearly three years." "But loved him?" Margaret peered into her past. It is pleasant to analyse feelings while they are still only feelings, and unembodied in the social fabric. With her arm round Helen, and her eyes shifting over the view, as if this country or that could reveal the secret of her own heart, she meditated honestly, and said, "No." "But you will?" "Yes," said Margaret, "of that I'm pretty sure. Indeed, I began the moment he spoke to me." "And have settled to marry him?" "I had, but am wanting a long talk about it now. What is it against him, Helen? You must try and say." Helen, in her turn, looked outwards. "It is ever since Paul," she said finally. "But what has Mr. Wilcox to do with Paul?" "But he was there, they were all there that morning when I came down to breakfast, and saw that Paul was frightened--the man who loved me frightened and all his paraphernalia fallen, so that I knew it was impossible, because personal relations are the important thing for ever and ever, and not this outer life of telegrams and anger." She poured the sentence forth in one breath, but her sister understood it, because it touched on thoughts that were familiar between them. "That's foolish. In the first place, I disagree about the outer life. Well, we've often argued that. The real point is that there is the widest gulf between my love-making and yours. Yours was romance; mine will be prose. I'm not running it down--a very good kind of prose, but well considered, well thought out. For instance, I know all Mr. Wilcox's faults. He's afraid of emotion. He cares too much about success, too little about the past. His sympathy lacks poetry, and so isn't sympathy really. I'd even say "--she looked at the shining lagoons--"that, spiritually, he's not as honest as I am. Doesn't that satisfy you?" "No, it doesn't," said Helen. "It makes me feel worse and worse. You must be mad." Margaret made a movement of irritation. "I don't intend him, or any man or any woman, to be all my life--good heavens, no! There are heaps of things in me that he doesn't, and shall never, understand." Thus she spoke before the wedding ceremony and the physical union, before the astonishing glass shade had fallen that interposes between married couples and the world. She was to keep her independence more than do most women as yet. Marriage was to alter her fortunes rather than her character, and she was not far wrong in boasting that she understood her future husband. Yet he did alter her character--a little. There was an unforeseen surprise, a cessation of the winds and odours of life, a social pressure that would have her think conjugally. "So with him," she continued. "There are heaps of things in him--more especially things that he does that will always be hidden from me. He has all those public qualities which you so despise and which enable all this--" She waved her hand at the landscape, which confirmed anything. "If Wilcoxes hadn't worked and died in England for thousands of years, you and I couldn't sit here without having our throats cut. There would be no trains, no ships to carry us literary people about in, no fields even. Just savagery. No--perhaps not even that. Without their spirit life might never have moved out of protoplasm. More and more do I refuse to draw my income and sneer at those who guarantee it. There are times when it seems to me--" "And to me, and to all women. So one kissed Paul." "That's brutal." said 'Margaret. "Mine is an absolutely different case. I've thought things out." "It makes no difference thinking things out. They come to the same." "Rubbish!" There was a long silence, during which the tide returned into Poole Harbour. "One would lose something," murmured Helen, apparently to herself. The water crept over the mud-flats towards the gorse and the blackened heather. Branksea Island lost its immense foreshores, and became a sombre episode of trees. Frome was forced inward towards Dorchester, Stour against Wimborne, Avon towards Salisbury, and over the immense displacement the sun presided, leading it to triumph ere he sank to rest. England was alive, throbbing through all her estuaries, crying for joy through the mouths of all her gulls, and the north wind, with contrary motion, blew stronger against her rising seas. What did it mean? For what end are her fair complexities, her changes of soil, her sinuous coast? Does she belong to those who have moulded her and made her feared by other lands, or to those who have added nothing to her power, but have somehow seen her, seen the whole island at once, lying as a jewel in a silver sea, sailing as a ship of souls, with all the brave world's fleet accompanying her towards eternity? Margaret had often wondered at the disturbance that takes place in the world's waters, when Love, who seems so tiny a pebble, slips in. Whom does Love concern beyond the beloved and the lover? Yet his impact deluges a hundred shores. No doubt the disturbance is really the spirit of the generations, welcoming the new generation, and chafing against the ultimate Fate, who holds all the seas in the palm of her hand. But Love cannot understand this. He cannot comprehend another's infinity; he is conscious only of his own--flying sunbeam, falling rose, pebble that asks for one quiet plunge below the fretting interplay of space and time. He knows that he will survive at the end of things, and be gathered by Fate as a jewel from the slime, and be handed with admiration round the assembly of the gods. "Men did produce this" they will say, and, saying, they will give men immortality. But meanwhile--what agitations meanwhile! The foundations of Property and Propriety are laid bare, twin rocks; Family Pride flounders to the surface, puffing and blowing and refusing to be comforted; Theology, vaguely ascetic, gets up a nasty ground swell. Then the lawyers are aroused--cold brood--and creep out of their holes. They do what they can; they tidy up Property and Propriety, reassure Theology and Family Pride. Half-guineas are poured on the troubled waters, the lawyers creep back, and, if all has gone well, Love joins one man and woman together in Matrimony. Margaret had expected the disturbance, and was not irritated by it. For a sensitive woman she had steady nerves, and could bear with the incongruous and the grotesque; and, besides, there was nothing excessive about her love-affair. Good-humour was the dominant note of her relations with Mr. Wilcox, or, as I must now call him, Henry. Henry did not encourage romance, and she was no girl to fidget for it. An acquaintance had become a lover, might become a husband, but would retain all that she had noted in the acquaintance; and love must confirm an old relation rather than reveal a new one. In this spirit she promised to marry him. He was in Swanage on the morrow bearing the engagement ring. They greeted one another with a hearty cordiality that impressed Aunt Juley. Henry dined at The Bays, but had engaged a bedroom in the principal hotel; he was one of those men who know the principal hotel by instinct. After dinner he asked Margaret if she wouldn't care for a turn on the Parade. She accepted, and could not repress a little tremor; it would be her first real love scene. But as she put on her hat she burst out laughing. Love was so unlike the article served up in books; the joy, though genuine was different; the mystery an unexpected mystery. For one thing, Mr. Wilcox still seemed a stranger. For a time they talked about the ring; then she said: "Do you remember the Embankment at Chelsea? It can't be ten days ago." "Yes," he said, laughing. "And you and your sister were head and ears deep in some Quixotic scheme. Ah well!" "I little thought then, certainly. Did you?" "I don't know about that; I shouldn't like to say." "Why, was it earlier?" she cried. "Did you think of me this way earlier! How extraordinarily interesting, Henry! Tell me." But Henry had no intention of telling. Perhaps he could not have told, for his mental states became obscure as soon as he had passed through them. He misliked the very word "interesting," connoting it with wasted energy and even with morbidity. Hard facts were enough for him. "I didn't think of it," she pursued. "No; when you spoke to me in the drawing-room, that was practically the first. It was all so different from what it's supposed to be. On the stage, or in books, a proposal is--how shall I put it?--a full-blown affair, a hind of bouquet; it loses its literal meaning. But in life a proposal really is a proposal--" "By the way--" "Oh, very well." "I am so glad," she answered, a little surprised. "What did you talk about? Me, presumably." "About Greece too." "Greece was a very good card, Henry. Tibby's only a boy still, and one has to pick and choose subjects a little. Well done." "I was telling him I have shares in a currant-farm near Calamata." "What a delightful thing to have shares in! Can't we go there for our honeymoon?" "What to do?" "To eat the currants. And isn't there marvellous scenery?" "Moderately, but it's not the kind of place one could possibly go to with a lady." "Why not?" "No hotels." "Some ladies do without hotels. Are you aware that Helen and I have walked alone over the Apennines, with our luggage on our backs?" "I wasn't aware, and, if I can manage it, you will never do such a thing again." She said more gravely: "You haven't found time for a talk with Helen yet, I suppose?" "No." "Do, before you go. I am so anxious you two should be friends." "Your sister and I have always hit it off," he said negligently. "But we're drifting away from our business. Let me begin at the beginning. You know that Evie is going to marry Percy Cahill." "Dolly's uncle." "Exactly. The girl's madly in love with him. A very good sort of fellow, but he demands--and rightly--a suitable provision with her. And in the second place you will naturally understand, there is Charles. Before leaving town, I wrote Charles a very careful letter. You see, he has an increasing family and increasing expenses, and the I. and W. A. is nothing particular just now, though capable of development." "Poor fellow!" murmured Margaret, looking out to sea, and not understanding. "Charles being the elder son, some day Charles will have Howards End; but I am anxious, in my own happiness, not to be unjust to others." "Of course not," she began, and then gave a little cry. "you mean money. How stupid I am! Of course not!" Oddly enough, he winced a little at the word. "Yes, Money, since you put it so frankly. I am determined to be just to all--just to you, just to them. I am determined that my children shall have me." "Be generous to them," she said sharply. "Bother justice!" "I am determined--and have already written to Charles to that effect--" "But how much have you got?" "What?" "How much have you a year? I've six hundred." "My income?" "Yes. We must begin with how much you have, before we can settle how much you can give Charles. Justice, and even generosity, depend on that." "I must say you're a downright young woman," he observed, patting her arm and laughing a little. "What a question to spring on a fellow!" "Don't you know your income? Or don't you want to tell it me?" "I--" "That's all right"--now she patted him--"don't tell me. I don't want to know. I can do the sum just as well by proportion. Divide your income into ten parts. How many parts would you give to Evie, how many to Charles, how many to Paul?" "The fact is, my dear, I hadn't any intention of bothering you with details. I only wanted to let you know that--well, that something must be done for the others, and you've understood me perfectly, so let's pass on to the next point." "Yes, we've settled that," said Margaret, undisturbed by his strategic blunderings. "Go ahead; give away all you can, bearing in mind that I've a clear six hundred. What a mercy it is to have all this money about one." "We've none too much, I assure you; you're marrying a poor man." "Helen wouldn't agree with me here," she continued. "Helen daren't slang the rich, being rich herself, but she would like to. There's an odd notion, that I haven't yet got hold of, running about at the back of her brain, that poverty is somehow 'real.' She dislikes all organisation, and probably confuses wealth with the technique of wealth. Sovereigns in a stocking wouldn't bother her; cheques do. Helen is too relentless. One can't deal in her high-handed manner with the world." "There's this other point, and then I must go back to my hotel and write some letters. What's to be done now about the house in Ducie Street?" "Keep it on--at least, it depends. When do you want to marry me?" She raised her voice, as too often, and some youths, who were also taking the evening air, overheard her. "Getting a bit hot, eh?" said one. Mr. Wilcox turned on them, and said sharply, "I say!" There was silence. "Take care I don't report you to the police." They moved away quietly enough, but were only biding their time, and the rest of the conversation was punctuated by peals of ungovernable laughter. Lowering his voice and infusing a hint of reproof into it, he said: "Evie will probably be married in September. We could scarcely think of anything before then." "The earlier the nicer, Henry. Females are not supposed to say such things, but the earlier the nicer." "How about September for us too?" he asked, rather dryly. "Right. Shall we go into Ducie Street ourselves in September? Or shall we try to bounce Helen and Tibby into it? That's rather an idea. They are so unbusinesslike, we could make them do anything by judicious management. Look here--yes. We'll do that. And we ourselves could live at Howards End or Shropshire." He blew out his cheeks. "Heavens! how you women do fly round! My head's in a whirl. Point by point, Margaret. Howards End's impossible. I let it to Hamar Bryce on a three years' agreement last March. Don't you remember? Oniton. Well, that is much, much too far away to rely on entirely. You will be able to be down there entertaining a certain amount, but we must have a house within easy reach of Town. Only Ducie Street has huge drawbacks. There's a mews behind." Margaret could not help laughing. It was the first she had heard of the mews behind Ducie Street. When she was a possible tenant it had suppressed itself, not consciously, but automatically. The breezy Wilcox manner, though genuine, lacked the clearness of vision that is imperative for truth. When Henry lived in Ducie Street he remembered the mews; when he tried to let he forgot it; and if any one had remarked that the mews must be either there or not, he would have felt annoyed, and afterwards have found some opportunity of stigmatising the speaker as academic. So does my grocer stigmatise me when I complain of the quality of his sultanas, and he answers in one breath that they are the best sultanas, and how can I expect the best sultanas at that price? It is a flaw inherent in the business mind, and Margaret may do well to be tender to it, considering all that the business mind has done for England. "Yes, in summer especially, the mews is a serious nuisance. The smoking-room, too, is an abominable little den. The house opposite has been taken by operatic people. Ducie Street's going down, it's my private opinion." "How sad! It's only a few years since they built those pretty houses." "Shows things are moving. Good for trade." "I hate this continual flux of London. It is an epitome of us at our worst--eternal formlessness; all the qualities, good, bad, and indifferent, streaming away--streaming, streaming for ever. That's why I dread it so. I mistrust rivers, even in scenery. Now, the sea--" "High tide, yes." "Hoy toid"--from the promenading youths. "And these are the men to whom we give the vote," observed Mr. Wilcox, omitting to add that they were also the men to whom he gave work as clerks--work that scarcely encouraged them to grow into other men. "However, they have their own lives and interests. Let's get on." He turned as he spoke, and prepared to see her back to The Bays. The business was over. His hotel was in the opposite direction, and if he accompanied her his letters would be late for the post. She implored him not to come, but he was obdurate. "A nice beginning, if your aunt saw you slip in alone!" "But I always do go about alone. Considering I've walked over the Apennines, it's common sense. You will make me so angry. I don't the least take it as a compliment." He laughed, and lit a cigar. "It isn't meant as a compliment, my dear. I just won't have you going about in the dark. Such people about too! It's dangerous." "Can't I look after myself? I do wish--" "Come along, Margaret; no wheedling." A younger woman might have resented his masterly ways, but Margaret had too firm a grip of life to make a fuss. She was, in her own way, as masterly. If he was a fortress she was a mountain peak, whom all might tread, but whom the snows made nightly virginal. Disdaining the heroic outfit, excitable in her methods, garrulous, episodical, shrill, she misled her lover much as she had misled her aunt. He mistook her fertility for Weakness. He supposed her "as clever as they make them," but no more, not realising that she was penetrating to the depths of his soul, and approving of what she found there. And if insight were sufficient, if the inner life were the whole of life, their happiness had been assured. They walked ahead briskly. The parade and the road after it were well lighted, but it was darker in Aunt Juley's garden. As they were going up by the side-paths, through some rhododendrons, Mr. Wilcox, who was in front, said "Margaret" rather huskily, turned, dropped his cigar, and took her in his arms. She was startled, and nearly screamed, but recovered herself at once, and kissed with genuine love the lips that were pressed against her own. It was their first kiss, and when it was over he saw her safely to the door and rang the bell for her but disappeared into the night before the maid answered it. On looking back, the incident displeased her. It was so isolated. Nothing in their previous conversation had heralded it, and, worse still, no tenderness had ensued. If a man cannot lead up to passion he can at all events lead down from it, and she had hoped, after her complaisance, for some interchange of gentle words. But he had hurried away as if ashamed, and for an instant she was reminded of Helen and Paul. Charles had just been scolding his Dolly. She deserved the scolding, and had bent before it, but her head, though bloody was unsubdued and her began to mingle with his retreating thunder. "You've waked the baby. I knew you would. (Rum-ti-foo, Rackety-tackety-Tompkin!) I'm not responsible for what Uncle Percy does, nor for anybody else or anything, so there!" "Who asked him while I was away? Who asked my sister down to meet him? Who sent them out in the motor day after day?" "Charles, that reminds me of some poem." "Does it indeed? We shall all be dancing to a very different music presently. Miss Schlegel has fairly got us on toast." "I could simply scratch that woman's eyes out, and to say it's my fault is most unfair." "It's your fault, and five months ago you admitted it." "I didn't." "You did." "Tootle, tootle, playing on the pootle!" exclaimed Dolly, suddenly devoting herself to the child. "It's all very well to turn the conversation, but father would never have dreamt of marrying as long as Evie was there to make him comfortable. But you must needs start match-making. Besides, Cahill's too old." "Of course, if you're going to be rude to Uncle Percy." "Miss Schlegel always meant to get hold of Howards End, and, thanks to you, she's got it." "I call the way you twist things round and make them hang together most unfair. You couldn't have been nastier if you'd caught me flirting. Could he, diddums?" "We're in a bad hole, and must make the best of it. I shall answer the pater's letter civilly. He's evidently anxious to do the decent thing. But I do not intend to forget these Schlegels in a hurry. As long as they're on their best behaviour--Dolly, are you listening?--we'll behave, too. But if I find them giving themselves airs or monopolising my father, or at all ill-treating him, or worrying him with their artistic beastliness, I intend to put my foot down, yes, firmly. Taking my mother's place! Heaven knows what poor old Paul will say when the news reaches him." The interlude closes. It has taken place in Charles's garden at Hilton. He and Dolly are sitting in deckchairs, and their motor is regarding them placidly from its garage across the lawn. A short-frocked edition of Charles also regards them placidly; a perambulator edition is squeaking; a third edition is expected shortly. Nature is turning out Wilcoxes in this peaceful abode, so that they may inherit the earth. Margaret greeted her lord with peculiar tenderness on the morrow. Mature as he was, she might yet be able to help him to the building of the rainbow bridge that should connect the prose in us with the passion. Without it we are meaningless fragments, half monks, half beasts, unconnected arches that have never joined into a man. With it love is born, and alights on the highest curve, glowing against the grey, sober against the fire. Happy the man who sees from either aspect the glory of these outspread wings. The roads of his soul lie clear, and he and his friends shall find easy-going. It was hard-going in the roads of Mr. Wilcox's soul. From boyhood he had neglected them. "I am not a fellow who bothers about my own inside." Outwardly he was cheerful, reliable, and brave; but within, all had reverted to chaos, ruled, so far as it was ruled at all, by an incomplete asceticism. Whether as boy, husband, or widower, he had always the sneaking belief that bodily passion is bad, a belief that is desirable only when held passionately. Religion had confirmed him. The words that were read aloud on Sunday to him and to other respectable men were the words that had once kindled the souls of St. Catherine and St. Francis into a white-hot hatred of the carnal. He could not be as the saints and love the Infinite with a seraphic ardour, but he could be a little ashamed of loving a wife. Amabat, amare timebat. And it was here that Margaret hoped to help him. It did not seem so difficult. She need trouble him with no gift of her own. She would only point out the salvation that was latent in his own soul, and in the soul of every man. Only connect! That was the whole of her sermon. Only connect the prose and the passion, and both will be exalted, and human love will be seen at its height. Live in fragments no longer. Only connect and the beast and the monk, robbed of the isolation that is life to either, will die. Nor was the message difficult to give. It need not take the form of a good "talking." By quiet indications the bridge would be built and span their lives with beauty. But she failed. For there was one quality in Henry for which she was never prepared, however much she reminded herself of it: his obtuseness. He simply did not notice things, and there was no more to be said. He never noticed that Helen and Frieda were hostile, or that Tibby was not interested in currant plantations; he never noticed the lights and shades that exist in the greyest conversation, the finger-posts, the milestones, the collisions, the illimitable views. Once--on another occasion--she scolded him about it. He was puzzled, but replied with a laugh: "My motto is Concentrate. I've no intention of frittering away my strength on that sort of thing." "It isn't frittering away the strength," she protested. "It's enlarging the space in which you may be strong." He answered: "You're a clever little woman, but my motto's Concentrate." And this morning he concentrated with a vengeance. They met in the rhododendrons of yesterday. In the daylight the bushes were inconsiderable and the path was bright in the morning sun. She was with Helen, who had been ominously quiet since the affair was settled. "Here we all are!" she cried, and took him by one hand, retaining her sister's in the other. "Here we are. Good-morning, Helen." Helen replied, "Good-morning, Mr. Wilcox." "Henry, she has had such a nice letter from the queer, cross boy. Do you remember him? He had a sad moustache, but the back of his head was young." "I have had a letter too. Not a nice one--I want to talk it over with you"; for Leonard Bast was nothing to him now that she had given him her word; the triangle of sex was broken for ever. "Thanks to your hint, he's clearing out of the Porphyrion." "Not a bad business that Porphyrion," he said absently, as he took his own letter out of his pocket. "Not a BAD--" she exclaimed, dropping his hand. "Surely, on Chelsea Embankment--" "Here's our hostess. Good-morning, Mrs. Munt. Fine rhododendrons. Good-morning, Frau Liesecke; we manage to grow flowers in England, don't we?" "Not a BAD business?" "No. My letter's about Howards End. Bryce has been ordered abroad, and wants to sublet it--I am far from sure that I shall give him permission. There was no clause in the agreement. In my opinion, subletting is a mistake. If he can find me another tenant, whom I consider suitable, I may cancel the agreement. Morning, Schlegel. Don't you think that's better than subletting?" Helen had dropped her hand now, and he had steered her past the whole party to the seaward side of the house. Beneath them was the bourgeois little bay, which must have yearned all through the centuries for just such a watering-place as Swanage to be built on its margin. The waves were colourless, and the Bournemouth steamer gave a further touch of insipidity, drawn up against the pier and hooting wildly for excursionists. "When there is a sublet I find that damage--" "Do excuse me, but about the Porphyrion. I don't feel easy--might I just bother you, Henry?" Her manner was so serious that he stopped, and asked her a little sharply what she wanted. "You said on Chelsea Embankment, surely, that it was a bad concern, so we advised this clerk to clear out. He writes this morning that he's taken our advice, and now you say it's not a bad concern." "A clerk who clears out of any concern, good or bad, without securing a berth somewhere else first, is a fool, and I've no pity for him." "He has not done that. He's going into a bank in Camden Town, he says. The salary's much lower, but he hopes to manage--a branch of Dempster's Bank. Is that all right?" "Dempster! Why goodness me, yes." "More right than the Porphyrion?" "Yes, yes, yes; safe as houses--safer." "Very many thanks. I'm sorry--if you sublet--?" "If he sublets, I shan't have the same control. In theory there should be no more damage done at Howards End; in practice there will be. Things may be done for which no money can compensate. For instance, I shouldn't want that fine wych-elm spoilt. It hangs--Margaret, we must go and see the old place some time. It's pretty in its way. We'll motor down and have lunch with Charles." "I should enjoy that," said Margaret bravely. "What about next Wednesday?" "Wednesday? No, I couldn't well do that. Aunt Juley expects us to stop here another week at least." "But you can give that up now." "Er--no," said Margaret, after a moment's thought. "Oh, that'll be all right. I'll speak to her." "This visit is a high solemnity. My aunt counts on it year after year. She turns the house upside down for us; she invites our special friends--she scarcely knows Frieda, and we can't leave her on her hands. I missed one day, and she would be so hurt if I didn't stay the full ten." "But I'll say a word to her. Don't you bother." "Henry, I won't go. Don't bully me." "You want to see the house, though?" "Very much--I've heard so much about it, one way or the other. Aren't there pigs' teeth in the wych-elm?" "PIGS TEETH?" "And you chew the bark for toothache." "What a rum notion! Of course not!" "Perhaps I have confused it with some other tree. There are still a great number of sacred trees in England, it seems." But he left her to intercept Mrs. Munt, whose voice could be heard in the distance; to be intercepted himself by Helen. "Oh. Mr. Wilcox, about the Porphyrion--" she began and went scarlet all over her face. "It's all right," called Margaret, catching them up. "Dempster's Bank's better." "But I think you told us the Porphyrion was bad, and would smash before Christmas." "Did I? It was still outside the Tariff Ring, and had to take rotten policies. Lately it came in--safe as houses now." "In other words, Mr. Bast need never have left it." "No, the fellow needn't." "--and needn't have started life elsewhere at a greatly reduced salary." "He only says 'reduced,'" corrected Margaret, seeing trouble ahead. "With a man so poor, every reduction must be great. I consider it a deplorable misfortune." Mr. Wilcox, intent on his business with Mrs. Munt, was going steadily on, but the last remark made him say: "What? What's that? Do you mean that I'm responsible?" "You're ridiculous, Helen." "You seem to think--" He looked at his watch. "Let me explain the point to you. It is like this. You seem to assume, when a business concern is conducting a delicate negotiation, it ought to keep the public informed stage by stage. The Porphyrion, according to you, was bound to say, 'I am trying all I can to get into the Tariff Ring. I am not sure that I shall succeed, but it is the only thing that will save me from insolvency, and I am trying.' My dear Helen--" "Is that your point? A man who had little money has less--that's mine." "I am grieved for your clerk. But it is all in the days work. It's part of the battle of life." "A man who had little money--" she repeated, "has less, owing to us. Under these circumstances I consider 'the battle of life' a happy expression. "Oh come, come!" he protested pleasantly, "you're not to blame. No one's to blame." "Is no one to blame for anything?" "I wouldn't say that, but you're taking it far too seriously. Who is this fellow?" "We have told you about the fellow twice already," said Helen. "You have even met the fellow. He is very poor and his wife is an extravagant imbecile. He is capable of better things. We--we, the upper classes--thought we would help him from the height of our superior knowledge--and here's the result!" He raised his finger. "Now, a word of advice." "I require no more advice." "A word of advice. Don't take up that sentimental attitude over the poor. See that she doesn't, Margaret. The poor are poor, and one's sorry for them, but there it is. As civilisation moves forward, the shoe is bound to pinch in places, and it's absurd to pretend that any one is responsible personally. Neither you, nor I, nor my informant, nor the man who informed him, nor the directors of the Porphyrion, are to blame for this clerk's loss of salary. It's just the shoe pinching--no one can help it; and it might easily have been worse." Helen quivered with indignation. "By all means subscribe to charities--subscribe to them largely--but don't get carried away by absurd schemes of Social Reform. I see a good deal behind the scenes, and you can take it from me that there is no Social Question--except for a few journalists who try to get a living out of the phrase. There are just rich and poor, as there always have been and always will be. Point me out a time when men have been equal--" "I didn't say--" "Point me out a time when desire for equality has made them happier. No, no. You can't. There always have been rich and poor. I'm no fatalist. Heaven forbid! But our civilisation is moulded by great impersonal forces" (his voice grew complacent; it always did when he eliminated the personal), "and there always will be rich and poor. You can't deny it" (and now it was a respectful voice)--"and you can't deny that, in spite of all, the tendency of civilisation has on the whole been upward." "Owing to God, I suppose," flashed Helen. He stared at her. "You grab the dollars. God does the rest." It was no good instructing the girl if she was going to talk about God in that neurotic modern way. Fraternal to the last, he left her for the quieter company of Mrs. Munt. He thought, "She rather reminds me of Dolly." Helen looked out at the sea. "Don't ever discuss political economy with Henry," advised her sister. "It'll only end in a cry." "But he must be one of those men who have reconciled science with religion," said Helen slowly. "I don't like those men. They are scientific themselves, and talk of the survival of the fittest, and cut down the salaries of their clerks, and stunt the independence of all who may menace their comfort, but yet they believe that somehow good--it is always that sloppy 'somehow' will be the outcome, and that in some mystical way the Mr. Basts of the future will benefit because the Mr. Brits of today are in pain." "He is such a man in theory. But oh, Helen, in theory!" "But oh, Meg, what a theory!" "Why should you put things so bitterly, dearie?" "Because I'm an old maid," said Helen, biting her lip. "I can't think why I go on like this myself." She shook off her sister's hand and went into the house. Margaret, distressed at the day's beginning, followed the Bournemouth steamer with her eyes. She saw that Helen's nerves were exasperated by the unlucky Bast business beyond the bounds of politeness. There might at any minute be a real explosion, which even Henry would notice. Henry must be removed. "Margaret!" her aunt called. "Magsy! It isn't true, surely, what Mr. Wilcox says, that you want to go away early next week?" "Not 'want,'" was Margaret's prompt reply; "but there is so much to be settled, and I do want to see the Charles's." "But going away without taking the Weymouth trip, or even the Lulworth?" said Mrs. Munt, coming nearer. "Without going once more up Nine Barrows Down?" "I'm afraid so." Mr. Wilcox rejoined her with, "Good! I did the breaking of the ice." A wave of tenderness came over her. She put a hand on either shoulder, and looked deeply into the black, bright eyes. What was behind their competent stare? She knew, but was not disquieted. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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Im Urlaub mit Tante Juley in Swanage erhält Margaret einen Brief von Herrn Wilcox, in dem er sagt, dass er in ein anderes Haus zieht und bereit wäre, das alte Haus den Schlegels zu vermieten. Er bittet Margaret, zu kommen und es sich anzusehen. Margaret hat plötzlich eine Vorahnung, dass er ihr einen Antrag machen will, aber sie verwirft die Idee als albern. Sie reist zurück nach London und macht eine Besichtigung des Hauses mit Herrn Wilcox - der plötzlich tatsächlich einen Antrag macht. Margaret ist überwältigt von einer überraschenden Freude. Sie verspricht, ihm am nächsten Tag mit einer Antwort zu schreiben, und kehrt nach Swanage zurück, um mit Helen darüber zu sprechen. Helen ist entsetzt und denkt, dass die Wilcox-Männer unter ihrer Fassade aus Kompetenz und Selbstvertrauen aus "Panik und Leere" bestehen. Aber Margaret verteidigt Herrn Wilcox und akzeptiert schließlich seinen Antrag. Sie ist entschlossen, ihre Unabhängigkeit nicht zu verlieren und glaubt, dass Liebe ihre Freundschaft festigen und nicht verändern muss. Herr Wilcox reist sofort mit dem Verlobungsring nach Swanage und er und Margaret machen einen Spaziergang am Meer. Margaret erkennt, dass Herr Wilcox vor Emotionen Angst hat. Sein Motto ist "Konzentriere dich", während ihres "Verbinde dich nur" ist. Er küsst sie plötzlich und sie denkt, dass sie ihm nur beibringen könnte, sein leidenschaftliches Unterbewusstsein mit seinem zurückhaltenden moralischen Äußeren zu verbinden, aber er ist zu stur, um Hilfe anzunehmen. Als Helen ihm erzählt, dass sie einen Brief von Leonard erhalten hat, in dem er sagt, dass er auf Herrn Wilcoxs Rat hin die Porphyrion verlassen hat und jetzt in einem viel schlechter bezahlten Job bei einer Bank arbeitet, antwortet Herr Wilcox, dass die Porphyrion kein schlechtes Unternehmen sei. Helen ist empört: Nicht lange zuvor hatte Herr Wilcox gesagt, dass die Porphyrion zum Scheitern verurteilt sei. Herr Wilcox weigert sich, die Verantwortung für die Angelegenheit zu übernehmen und argumentiert, dass die Kämpfe der Armen lediglich Teil des "Kampfes des Lebens" sind. Als Charles den Brief von seinem Vater über die Verlobung erhält, gibt er Dolly die Schuld: Wenn sie Evie nicht ihrem Verlobten vorgestellt hätte, wäre Herr Wilcox nicht einsam gewesen und hätte Margaret keinen Antrag gemacht. Charles verdächtigt Margaret, es auf Howards End abgesehen zu haben, und sagt, dass er sie nur tolerieren wird, solange sie sich benimmt.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: The detective passed down the quay, and rapidly made his way to the consul's office, where he was at once admitted to the presence of that official. "Consul," said he, without preamble, "I have strong reasons for believing that my man is a passenger on the Mongolia." And he narrated what had just passed concerning the passport. "Well, Mr. Fix," replied the consul, "I shall not be sorry to see the rascal's face; but perhaps he won't come here--that is, if he is the person you suppose him to be. A robber doesn't quite like to leave traces of his flight behind him; and, besides, he is not obliged to have his passport countersigned." "If he is as shrewd as I think he is, consul, he will come." "To have his passport visaed?" "Yes. Passports are only good for annoying honest folks, and aiding in the flight of rogues. I assure you it will be quite the thing for him to do; but I hope you will not visa the passport." "Why not? If the passport is genuine I have no right to refuse." "Still, I must keep this man here until I can get a warrant to arrest him from London." "Ah, that's your look-out. But I cannot--" The consul did not finish his sentence, for as he spoke a knock was heard at the door, and two strangers entered, one of whom was the servant whom Fix had met on the quay. The other, who was his master, held out his passport with the request that the consul would do him the favour to visa it. The consul took the document and carefully read it, whilst Fix observed, or rather devoured, the stranger with his eyes from a corner of the room. "You are Mr. Phileas Fogg?" said the consul, after reading the passport. "I am." "And this man is your servant?" "He is: a Frenchman, named Passepartout." "You are from London?" "Yes." "And you are going--" "To Bombay." "Very good, sir. You know that a visa is useless, and that no passport is required?" "I know it, sir," replied Phileas Fogg; "but I wish to prove, by your visa, that I came by Suez." "Very well, sir." The consul proceeded to sign and date the passport, after which he added his official seal. Mr. Fogg paid the customary fee, coldly bowed, and went out, followed by his servant. "Well?" queried the detective. "Well, he looks and acts like a perfectly honest man," replied the consul. "Possibly; but that is not the question. Do you think, consul, that this phlegmatic gentleman resembles, feature by feature, the robber whose description I have received?" "I concede that; but then, you know, all descriptions--" "I'll make certain of it," interrupted Fix. "The servant seems to me less mysterious than the master; besides, he's a Frenchman, and can't help talking. Excuse me for a little while, consul." Fix started off in search of Passepartout. Meanwhile Mr. Fogg, after leaving the consulate, repaired to the quay, gave some orders to Passepartout, went off to the Mongolia in a boat, and descended to his cabin. He took up his note-book, which contained the following memoranda: "Left London, Wednesday, October 2nd, at 8.45 p.m. "Reached Paris, Thursday, October 3rd, at 7.20 a.m. "Left Paris, Thursday, at 8.40 a.m. "Reached Turin by Mont Cenis, Friday, October 4th, at 6.35 a.m. "Left Turin, Friday, at 7.20 a.m. "Arrived at Brindisi, Saturday, October 5th, at 4 p.m. "Sailed on the Mongolia, Saturday, at 5 p.m. "Reached Suez, Wednesday, October 9th, at 11 a.m. "Total of hours spent, 158+; or, in days, six days and a half." These dates were inscribed in an itinerary divided into columns, indicating the month, the day of the month, and the day for the stipulated and actual arrivals at each principal point Paris, Brindisi, Suez, Bombay, Calcutta, Singapore, Hong Kong, Yokohama, San Francisco, New York, and London--from the 2nd of October to the 21st of December; and giving a space for setting down the gain made or the loss suffered on arrival at each locality. This methodical record thus contained an account of everything needed, and Mr. Fogg always knew whether he was behind-hand or in advance of his time. On this Friday, October 9th, he noted his arrival at Suez, and observed that he had as yet neither gained nor lost. He sat down quietly to breakfast in his cabin, never once thinking of inspecting the town, being one of those Englishmen who are wont to see foreign countries through the eyes of their domestics. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden 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.

Dies demonstriert erneut die Nutzlosigkeit von Reisepässen als Hilfsmittel für Detektive. Fix versucht, den britischen Konsul daran zu beteiligen, nach Fogg Ausschau zu halten. Der Konsul sagt, dass Fogg seinen Reisepass nicht abstempeln lassen muss und auch kein Visum für Bombay benötigt. Fix ist sich sicher, dass Fogg ins Büro kommen wird, und bittet den Konsul, ihm keinen Stempel zu geben. Der Konsul sagt, dass er dies tun muss, wenn der Reisepass legitim ist. Er weigert sich, Fogg zu vertrödeln, bis der Haftbefehl eintrifft. Als der Konsul Fogg trifft, ist er zufrieden, dass er ehrlich aussieht und stempelt den Reisepass. Fogg geht zurück zum Schiff und macht Notizen in einem Notizbuch über die Zeit und das Datum jeder Abfahrt und Ankunft. Er hat bis jetzt sechs einhalb Tage für die Reise gebraucht. Sein Notizbuch gibt erwartete Ankunftszeiten und tatsächliche Ankunftszeiten an. Er hat die wichtigsten Zwischenstopps aufgelistet - Paris, Brindisi, Suez, Bombay, Calcutta, Singapur, Hongkong, Yokohama, San Francisco, New York, London. Bisher ist er pünktlich, weder im Rückstand noch voraus.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). 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: Two days are passed. It is a summer evening; the coachman has set me down at a place called Whitcross; he could take me no farther for the sum I had given, and I was not possessed of another shilling in the world. The coach is a mile off by this time; I am alone. At this moment I discover that I forgot to take my parcel out of the pocket of the coach, where I had placed it for safety; there it remains, there it must remain; and now, I am absolutely destitute. Whitcross is no town, nor even a hamlet; it is but a stone pillar set up where four roads meet: whitewashed, I suppose, to be more obvious at a distance and in darkness. Four arms spring from its summit: the nearest town to which these point is, according to the inscription, distant ten miles; the farthest, above twenty. From the well-known names of these towns I learn in what county I have lighted; a north-midland shire, dusk with moorland, ridged with mountain: this I see. There are great moors behind and on each hand of me; there are waves of mountains far beyond that deep valley at my feet. The population here must be thin, and I see no passengers on these roads: they stretch out east, west, north, and south--white, broad, lonely; they are all cut in the moor, and the heather grows deep and wild to their very verge. Yet a chance traveller might pass by; and I wish no eye to see me now: strangers would wonder what I am doing, lingering here at the sign-post, evidently objectless and lost. I might be questioned: I could give no answer but what would sound incredible and excite suspicion. Not a tie holds me to human society at this moment--not a charm or hope calls me where my fellow-creatures are--none that saw me would have a kind thought or a good wish for me. I have no relative but the universal mother, Nature: I will seek her breast and ask repose. I struck straight into the heath; I held on to a hollow I saw deeply furrowing the brown moorside; I waded knee-deep in its dark growth; I turned with its turnings, and finding a moss-blackened granite crag in a hidden angle, I sat down under it. High banks of moor were about me; the crag protected my head: the sky was over that. Some time passed before I felt tranquil even here: I had a vague dread that wild cattle might be near, or that some sportsman or poacher might discover me. If a gust of wind swept the waste, I looked up, fearing it was the rush of a bull; if a plover whistled, I imagined it a man. Finding my apprehensions unfounded, however, and calmed by the deep silence that reigned as evening declined at nightfall, I took confidence. As yet I had not thought; I had only listened, watched, dreaded; now I regained the faculty of reflection. What was I to do? Where to go? Oh, intolerable questions, when I could do nothing and go nowhere!--when a long way must yet be measured by my weary, trembling limbs before I could reach human habitation--when cold charity must be entreated before I could get a lodging: reluctant sympathy importuned, almost certain repulse incurred, before my tale could be listened to, or one of my wants relieved! I touched the heath: it was dry, and yet warm with the heat of the summer day. I looked at the sky; it was pure: a kindly star twinkled just above the chasm ridge. The dew fell, but with propitious softness; no breeze whispered. Nature seemed to me benign and good; I thought she loved me, outcast as I was; and I, who from man could anticipate only mistrust, rejection, insult, clung to her with filial fondness. To-night, at least, I would be her guest, as I was her child: my mother would lodge me without money and without price. I had one morsel of bread yet: the remnant of a roll I had bought in a town we passed through at noon with a stray penny--my last coin. I saw ripe bilberries gleaming here and there, like jet beads in the heath: I gathered a handful and ate them with the bread. My hunger, sharp before, was, if not satisfied, appeased by this hermit's meal. I said my evening prayers at its conclusion, and then chose my couch. {I said my evening prayers: p311.jpg} Beside the crag the heath was very deep: when I lay down my feet were buried in it; rising high on each side, it left only a narrow space for the night-air to invade. I folded my shawl double, and spread it over me for a coverlet; a low, mossy swell was my pillow. Thus lodged, I was not, at least--at the commencement of the night, cold. My rest might have been blissful enough, only a sad heart broke it. It plained of its gaping wounds, its inward bleeding, its riven chords. It trembled for Mr. Rochester and his doom; it bemoaned him with bitter pity; it demanded him with ceaseless longing; and, impotent as a bird with both wings broken, it still quivered its shattered pinions in vain attempts to seek him. Worn out with this torture of thought, I rose to my knees. Night was come, and her planets were risen: a safe, still night: too serene for the companionship of fear. We know that God is everywhere; but certainly we feel His presence most when His works are on the grandest scale spread before us; and it is in the unclouded night-sky, where His worlds wheel their silent course, that we read clearest His infinitude, His omnipotence, His omnipresence. I had risen to my knees to pray for Mr. Rochester. Looking up, I, with tear-dimmed eyes, saw the mighty Milky- way. Remembering what it was--what countless systems there swept space like a soft trace of light--I felt the might and strength of God. Sure was I of His efficiency to save what He had made: convinced I grew that neither earth should perish, nor one of the souls it treasured. I turned my prayer to thanksgiving: the Source of Life was also the Saviour of spirits. Mr. Rochester was safe; he was God's, and by God would he be guarded. I again nestled to the breast of the hill; and ere long in sleep forgot sorrow. But next day, Want came to me pale and bare. Long after the little birds had left their nests; long after bees had come in the sweet prime of day to gather the heath honey before the dew was dried--when the long morning shadows were curtailed, and the sun filled earth and sky--I got up, and I looked round me. What a still, hot, perfect day! What a golden desert this spreading moor! Everywhere sunshine. I wished I could live in it and on it. I saw a lizard run over the crag; I saw a bee busy among the sweet bilberries. I would fain at the moment have become bee or lizard, that I might have found fitting nutriment, permanent shelter here. But I was a human being, and had a human being's wants: I must not linger where there was nothing to supply them. I rose; I looked back at the bed I had left. Hopeless of the future, I wished but this--that my Maker had that night thought good to require my soul of me while I slept; and that this weary frame, absolved by death from further conflict with fate, had now but to decay quietly, and mingle in peace with the soil of this wilderness. Life, however, was yet in my possession, with all its requirements, and pains, and responsibilities. The burden must be carried; the want provided for; the suffering endured; the responsibility fulfilled. I set out. Whitcross regained, I followed a road which led from the sun, now fervent and high. By no other circumstance had I will to decide my choice. I walked a long time, and when I thought I had nearly done enough, and might conscientiously yield to the fatigue that almost overpowered me--might relax this forced action, and, sitting down on a stone I saw near, submit resistlessly to the apathy that clogged heart and limb--I heard a bell chime--a church bell. I turned in the direction of the sound, and there, amongst the romantic hills, whose changes and aspect I had ceased to note an hour ago, I saw a hamlet and a spire. All the valley at my right hand was full of pasture- fields, and cornfields, and wood; and a glittering stream ran zig-zag through the varied shades of green, the mellowing grain, the sombre woodland, the clear and sunny lea. Recalled by the rumbling of wheels to the road before me, I saw a heavily-laden waggon labouring up the hill, and not far beyond were two cows and their drover. Human life and human labour were near. I must struggle on: strive to live and bend to toil like the rest. About two o'clock p.m. I entered the village. At the bottom of its one street there was a little shop with some cakes of bread in the window. I coveted a cake of bread. With that refreshment I could perhaps regain a degree of energy: without it, it would be difficult to proceed. The wish to have some strength and some vigour returned to me as soon as I was amongst my fellow-beings. I felt it would be degrading to faint with hunger on the causeway of a hamlet. Had I nothing about me I could offer in exchange for one of these rolls? I considered. I had a small silk handkerchief tied round my throat; I had my gloves. I could hardly tell how men and women in extremities of destitution proceeded. I did not know whether either of these articles would be accepted: probably they would not; but I must try. I entered the shop: a woman was there. Seeing a respectably-dressed person, a lady as she supposed, she came forward with civility. How could she serve me? I was seized with shame: my tongue would not utter the request I had prepared. I dared not offer her the half-worn gloves, the creased handkerchief: besides, I felt it would be absurd. I only begged permission to sit down a moment, as I was tired. Disappointed in the expectation of a customer, she coolly acceded to my request. She pointed to a seat; I sank into it. I felt sorely urged to weep; but conscious how unseasonable such a manifestation would be, I restrained it. Soon I asked her "if there were any dressmaker or plain-workwoman in the village?" "Yes; two or three. Quite as many as there was employment for." I reflected. I was driven to the point now. I was brought face to face with Necessity. I stood in the position of one without a resource, without a friend, without a coin. I must do something. What? I must apply somewhere. Where? "Did she know of any place in the neighbourhood where a servant was wanted?" "Nay; she couldn't say." "What was the chief trade in this place? What did most of the people do?" "Some were farm labourers; a good deal worked at Mr. Oliver's needle-factory, and at the foundry." "Did Mr. Oliver employ women?" "Nay; it was men's work." "And what do the women do?" "I knawn't," was the answer. "Some does one thing, and some another. Poor folk mun get on as they can." She seemed to be tired of my questions: and, indeed, what claim had I to importune her? A neighbour or two came in; my chair was evidently wanted. I took leave. I passed up the street, looking as I went at all the houses to the right hand and to the left; but I could discover no pretext, nor see an inducement to enter any. I rambled round the hamlet, going sometimes to a little distance and returning again, for an hour or more. Much exhausted, and suffering greatly now for want of food, I turned aside into a lane and sat down under the hedge. Ere many minutes had elapsed, I was again on my feet, however, and again searching something--a resource, or at least an informant. A pretty little house stood at the top of the lane, with a garden before it, exquisitely neat and brilliantly blooming. I stopped at it. What business had I to approach the white door or touch the glittering knocker? In what way could it possibly be the interest of the inhabitants of that dwelling to serve me? Yet I drew near and knocked. A mild-looking, cleanly-attired young woman opened the door. In such a voice as might be expected from a hopeless heart and fainting frame--a voice wretchedly low and faltering--I asked if a servant was wanted here? "No," said she; "we do not keep a servant." "Can you tell me where I could get employment of any kind?" I continued. "I am a stranger, without acquaintance in this place. I want some work: no matter what." But it was not her business to think for me, or to seek a place for me: besides, in her eyes, how doubtful must have appeared my character, position, tale. She shook her head, she "was sorry she could give me no information," and the white door closed, quite gently and civilly: but it shut me out. If she had held it open a little longer, I believe I should have begged a piece of bread; for I was now brought low. I could not bear to return to the sordid village, where, besides, no prospect of aid was visible. I should have longed rather to deviate to a wood I saw not far off, which appeared in its thick shade to offer inviting shelter; but I was so sick, so weak, so gnawed with nature's cravings, instinct kept me roaming round abodes where there was a chance of food. Solitude would be no solitude--rest no rest--while the vulture, hunger, thus sank beak and talons in my side. I drew near houses; I left them, and came back again, and again I wandered away: always repelled by the consciousness of having no claim to ask--no right to expect interest in my isolated lot. Meantime, the afternoon advanced, while I thus wandered about like a lost and starving dog. In crossing a field, I saw the church spire before me: I hastened towards it. Near the churchyard, and in the middle of a garden, stood a well-built though small house, which I had no doubt was the parsonage. I remembered that strangers who arrive at a place where they have no friends, and who want employment, sometimes apply to the clergyman for introduction and aid. It is the clergyman's function to help--at least with advice--those who wished to help themselves. I seemed to have something like a right to seek counsel here. Renewing then my courage, and gathering my feeble remains of strength, I pushed on. I reached the house, and knocked at the kitchen-door. An old woman opened: I asked was this the parsonage? "Yes." "Was the clergyman in?" "No." "Would he be in soon?" "No, he was gone from home." "To a distance?" "Not so far--happen three mile. He had been called away by the sudden death of his father: he was at Marsh End now, and would very likely stay there a fortnight longer." "Was there any lady of the house?" "Nay, there was naught but her, and she was housekeeper;" and of her, reader, I could not bear to ask the relief for want of which I was sinking; I could not yet beg; and again I crawled away. Once more I took off my handkerchief--once more I thought of the cakes of bread in the little shop. Oh, for but a crust! for but one mouthful to allay the pang of famine! Instinctively I turned my face again to the village; I found the shop again, and I went in; and though others were there besides the woman I ventured the request--"Would she give me a roll for this handkerchief?" She looked at me with evident suspicion: "Nay, she never sold stuff i' that way." Almost desperate, I asked for half a cake; she again refused. "How could she tell where I had got the handkerchief?" she said. "Would she take my gloves?" "No! what could she do with them?" Reader, it is not pleasant to dwell on these details. Some say there is enjoyment in looking back to painful experience past; but at this day I can scarcely bear to review the times to which I allude: the moral degradation, blent with the physical suffering, form too distressing a recollection ever to be willingly dwelt on. I blamed none of those who repulsed me. I felt it was what was to be expected, and what could not be helped: an ordinary beggar is frequently an object of suspicion; a well-dressed beggar inevitably so. To be sure, what I begged was employment; but whose business was it to provide me with employment? Not, certainly, that of persons who saw me then for the first time, and who knew nothing about my character. And as to the woman who would not take my handkerchief in exchange for her bread, why, she was right, if the offer appeared to her sinister or the exchange unprofitable. Let me condense now. I am sick of the subject. A little before dark I passed a farm-house, at the open door of which the farmer was sitting, eating his supper of bread and cheese. I stopped and said-- "Will you give me a piece of bread? for I am very hungry." He cast on me a glance of surprise; but without answering, he cut a thick slice from his loaf, and gave it to me. I imagine he did not think I was a beggar, but only an eccentric sort of lady, who had taken a fancy to his brown loaf. As soon as I was out of sight of his house, I sat down and ate it. I could not hope to get a lodging under a roof, and sought it in the wood I have before alluded to. But my night was wretched, my rest broken: the ground was damp, the air cold: besides, intruders passed near me more than once, and I had again and again to change my quarters; no sense of safety or tranquillity befriended me. Towards morning it rained; the whole of the following day was wet. Do not ask me, reader, to give a minute account of that day; as before, I sought work; as before, I was repulsed; as before, I starved; but once did food pass my lips. At the door of a cottage I saw a little girl about to throw a mess of cold porridge into a pig trough. "Will you give me that?" I asked. {"Will you give me that?" I asked: p316.jpg} She stared at me. "Mother!" she exclaimed, "there is a woman wants me to give her these porridge." "Well lass," replied a voice within, "give it her if she's a beggar. T' pig doesn't want it." The girl emptied the stiffened mould into my hand, and I devoured it ravenously. As the wet twilight deepened, I stopped in a solitary bridle-path, which I had been pursuing an hour or more. "My strength is quite failing me," I said in a soliloquy. "I feel I cannot go much farther. Shall I be an outcast again this night? While the rain descends so, must I lay my head on the cold, drenched ground? I fear I cannot do otherwise: for who will receive me? But it will be very dreadful, with this feeling of hunger, faintness, chill, and this sense of desolation--this total prostration of hope. In all likelihood, though, I should die before morning. And why cannot I reconcile myself to the prospect of death? Why do I struggle to retain a valueless life? Because I know, or believe, Mr. Rochester is living: and then, to die of want and cold is a fate to which nature cannot submit passively. Oh, Providence! sustain me a little longer! Aid!--direct me!" My glazed eye wandered over the dim and misty landscape. I saw I had strayed far from the village: it was quite out of sight. The very cultivation surrounding it had disappeared. I had, by cross-ways and by- paths, once more drawn near the tract of moorland; and now, only a few fields, almost as wild and unproductive as the heath from which they were scarcely reclaimed, lay between me and the dusky hill. "Well, I would rather die yonder than in a street or on a frequented road," I reflected. "And far better that crows and ravens--if any ravens there be in these regions--should pick my flesh from my bones, than that they should be prisoned in a workhouse coffin and moulder in a pauper's grave." To the hill, then, I turned. I reached it. It remained now only to find a hollow where I could lie down, and feel at least hidden, if not secure. But all the surface of the waste looked level. It showed no variation but of tint: green, where rush and moss overgrew the marshes; black, where the dry soil bore only heath. Dark as it was getting, I could still see these changes, though but as mere alternations of light and shade; for colour had faded with the daylight. My eye still roved over the sullen swell and along the moor-edge, vanishing amidst the wildest scenery, when at one dim point, far in among the marshes and the ridges, a light sprang up. "That is an _ignis fatuus_," was my first thought; and I expected it would soon vanish. It burnt on, however, quite steadily, neither receding nor advancing. "Is it, then, a bonfire just kindled?" I questioned. I watched to see whether it would spread: but no; as it did not diminish, so it did not enlarge. "It may be a candle in a house," I then conjectured; "but if so, I can never reach it. It is much too far away: and were it within a yard of me, what would it avail? I should but knock at the door to have it shut in my face." And I sank down where I stood, and hid my face against the ground. I lay still a while: the night-wind swept over the hill and over me, and died moaning in the distance; the rain fell fast, wetting me afresh to the skin. Could I but have stiffened to the still frost--the friendly numbness of death--it might have pelted on; I should not have felt it; but my yet living flesh shuddered at its chilling influence. I rose ere long. The light was yet there, shining dim but constant through the rain. I tried to walk again: I dragged my exhausted limbs slowly towards it. It led me aslant over the hill, through a wide bog, which would have been impassable in winter, and was splashy and shaking even now, in the height of summer. Here I fell twice; but as often I rose and rallied my faculties. This light was my forlorn hope: I must gain it. Having crossed the marsh, I saw a trace of white over the moor. I approached it; it was a road or a track: it led straight up to the light, which now beamed from a sort of knoll, amidst a clump of trees--firs, apparently, from what I could distinguish of the character of their forms and foliage through the gloom. My star vanished as I drew near: some obstacle had intervened between me and it. I put out my hand to feel the dark mass before me: I discriminated the rough stones of a low wall--above it, something like palisades, and within, a high and prickly hedge. I groped on. Again a whitish object gleamed before me: it was a gate--a wicket; it moved on its hinges as I touched it. On each side stood a sable bush-holly or yew. Entering the gate and passing the shrubs, the silhouette of a house rose to view, black, low, and rather long; but the guiding light shone nowhere. All was obscurity. Were the inmates retired to rest? I feared it must be so. In seeking the door, I turned an angle: there shot out the friendly gleam again, from the lozenged panes of a very small latticed window, within a foot of the ground, made still smaller by the growth of ivy or some other creeping plant, whose leaves clustered thick over the portion of the house wall in which it was set. The aperture was so screened and narrow, that curtain or shutter had been deemed unnecessary; and when I stooped down and put aside the spray of foliage shooting over it, I could see all within. I could see clearly a room with a sanded floor, clean scoured; a dresser of walnut, with pewter plates ranged in rows, reflecting the redness and radiance of a glowing peat-fire. I could see a clock, a white deal table, some chairs. The candle, whose ray had been my beacon, burnt on the table; and by its light an elderly woman, somewhat rough-looking, but scrupulously clean, like all about her, was knitting a stocking. I noticed these objects cursorily only--in them there was nothing extraordinary. A group of more interest appeared near the hearth, sitting still amidst the rosy peace and warmth suffusing it. Two young, graceful women--ladies in every point--sat, one in a low rocking-chair, the other on a lower stool; both wore deep mourning of crape and bombazeen, which sombre garb singularly set off very fair necks and faces: a large old pointer dog rested its massive head on the knee of one girl--in the lap of the other was cushioned a black cat. A strange place was this humble kitchen for such occupants! Who were they? They could not be the daughters of the elderly person at the table; for she looked like a rustic, and they were all delicacy and cultivation. I had nowhere seen such faces as theirs: and yet, as I gazed on them, I seemed intimate with every lineament. I cannot call them handsome--they were too pale and grave for the word: as they each bent over a book, they looked thoughtful almost to severity. A stand between them supported a second candle and two great volumes, to which they frequently referred, comparing them, seemingly, with the smaller books they held in their hands, like people consulting a dictionary to aid them in the task of translation. This scene was as silent as if all the figures had been shadows and the firelit apartment a picture: so hushed was it, I could hear the cinders fall from the grate, the clock tick in its obscure corner; and I even fancied I could distinguish the click-click of the woman's knitting-needles. When, therefore, a voice broke the strange stillness at last, it was audible enough to me. "Listen, Diana," said one of the absorbed students; "Franz and old Daniel are together in the night-time, and Franz is telling a dream from which he has awakened in terror--listen!" And in a low voice she read something, of which not one word was intelligible to me; for it was in an unknown tongue--neither French nor Latin. Whether it were Greek or German I could not tell. "That is strong," she said, when she had finished: "I relish it." The other girl, who had lifted her head to listen to her sister, repeated, while she gazed at the fire, a line of what had been read. At a later day, I knew the language and the book; therefore, I will here quote the line: though, when I first heard it, it was only like a stroke on sounding brass to me--conveying no meaning:-- "'Da trat hervor Einer, anzusehen wie die Sternen Nacht.' Good! good!" she exclaimed, while her dark and deep eye sparkled. "There you have a dim and mighty archangel fitly set before you! The line is worth a hundred pages of fustian. 'Ich wage die Gedanken in der Schale meines Zornes und die Werke mit dem Gewichte meines Grimms.' I like it!" Both were again silent. "Is there ony country where they talk i' that way?" asked the old woman, looking up from her knitting. "Yes, Hannah--a far larger country than England, where they talk in no other way." "Well, for sure case, I knawn't how they can understand t' one t'other: and if either o' ye went there, ye could tell what they said, I guess?" "We could probably tell something of what they said, but not all--for we are not as clever as you think us, Hannah. We don't speak German, and we cannot read it without a dictionary to help us." "And what good does it do you?" "We mean to teach it some time--or at least the elements, as they say; and then we shall get more money than we do now." "Varry like: but give ower studying; ye've done enough for to-night." "I think we have: at least I'm tired. Mary, are you?" "Mortally: after all, it's tough work fagging away at a language with no master but a lexicon." "It is, especially such a language as this crabbed but glorious Deutsch. I wonder when St. John will come home." "Surely he will not be long now: it is just ten (looking at a little gold watch she drew from her girdle). It rains fast, Hannah: will you have the goodness to look at the fire in the parlour?" The woman rose: she opened a door, through which I dimly saw a passage: soon I heard her stir a fire in an inner room; she presently came back. "Ah, childer!" said she, "it fair troubles me to go into yond' room now: it looks so lonesome wi' the chair empty and set back in a corner." She wiped her eyes with her apron: the two girls, grave before, looked sad now. "But he is in a better place," continued Hannah: "we shouldn't wish him here again. And then, nobody need to have a quieter death nor he had." "You say he never mentioned us?" inquired one of the ladies. "He hadn't time, bairn: he was gone in a minute, was your father. He had been a bit ailing like the day before, but naught to signify; and when Mr. St. John asked if he would like either o' ye to be sent for, he fair laughed at him. He began again with a bit of a heaviness in his head the next day--that is, a fortnight sin'--and he went to sleep and niver wakened: he wor a'most stark when your brother went into t' chamber and fand him. Ah, childer! that's t' last o' t' old stock--for ye and Mr. St. John is like of different soart to them 'at's gone; for all your mother wor mich i' your way, and a'most as book-learned. She wor the pictur' o' ye, Mary: Diana is more like your father." I thought them so similar I could not tell where the old servant (for such I now concluded her to be) saw the difference. Both were fair complexioned and slenderly made; both possessed faces full of distinction and intelligence. One, to be sure, had hair a shade darker than the other, and there was a difference in their style of wearing it; Mary's pale brown locks were parted and braided smooth: Diana's duskier tresses covered her neck with thick curls. The clock struck ten. "Ye'll want your supper, I am sure," observed Hannah; "and so will Mr. St. John when he comes in." And she proceeded to prepare the meal. The ladies rose; they seemed about to withdraw to the parlour. Till this moment, I had been so intent on watching them, their appearance and conversation had excited in me so keen an interest, I had half-forgotten my own wretched position: now it recurred to me. More desolate, more desperate than ever, it seemed from contrast. And how impossible did it appear to touch the inmates of this house with concern on my behalf; to make them believe in the truth of my wants and woes--to induce them to vouchsafe a rest for my wanderings! As I groped out the door, and knocked at it hesitatingly, I felt that last idea to be a mere chimera. Hannah opened. "What do you want?" she inquired, in a voice of surprise, as she surveyed me by the light of the candle she held. "May I speak to your mistresses?" I said. "You had better tell me what you have to say to them. Where do you come from?" "I am a stranger." "What is your business here at this hour?" "I want a night's shelter in an out-house or anywhere, and a morsel of bread to eat." Distrust, the very feeling I dreaded, appeared in Hannah's face. "I'll give you a piece of bread," she said, after a pause; "but we can't take in a vagrant to lodge. It isn't likely." "Do let me speak to your mistresses." "No, not I. What can they do for you? You should not be roving about now; it looks very ill." "But where shall I go if you drive me away? What shall I do?" "Oh, I'll warrant you know where to go and what to do. Mind you don't do wrong, that's all. Here is a penny; now go--" "A penny cannot feed me, and I have no strength to go farther. Don't shut the door:--oh, don't, for God's sake!" "I must; the rain is driving in--" "Tell the young ladies. Let me see them--" "Indeed, I will not. You are not what you ought to be, or you wouldn't make such a noise. Move off." "But I must die if I am turned away." "Not you. I'm fear'd you have some ill plans agate, that bring you about folk's houses at this time o' night. If you've any followers--housebreakers or such like--anywhere near, you may tell them we are not by ourselves in the house; we have a gentleman, and dogs, and guns." Here the honest but inflexible servant clapped the door to and bolted it within. This was the climax. A pang of exquisite suffering--a throe of true despair--rent and heaved my heart. Worn out, indeed, I was; not another step could I stir. I sank on the wet doorstep: I groaned--I wrung my hands--I wept in utter anguish. Oh, this spectre of death! Oh, this last hour, approaching in such horror! Alas, this isolation--this banishment from my kind! Not only the anchor of hope, but the footing of fortitude was gone--at least for a moment; but the last I soon endeavoured to regain. "I can but die," I said, "and I believe in God. Let me try to wait His will in silence." These words I not only thought, but uttered; and thrusting back all my misery into my heart, I made an effort to compel it to remain there--dumb and still. "All men must die," said a voice quite close at hand; "but all are not condemned to meet a lingering and premature doom, such as yours would be if you perished here of want." "Who or what speaks?" I asked, terrified at the unexpected sound, and incapable now of deriving from any occurrence a hope of aid. A form was near--what form, the pitch-dark night and my enfeebled vision prevented me from distinguishing. With a loud long knock, the new-comer appealed to the door. "Is it you, Mr. St. John?" cried Hannah. "Yes--yes; open quickly." "Well, how wet and cold you must be, such a wild night as it is! Come in--your sisters are quite uneasy about you, and I believe there are bad folks about. There has been a beggar-woman--I declare she is not gone yet!--laid down there. Get up! for shame! Move off, I say!" "Hush, Hannah! I have a word to say to the woman. You have done your duty in excluding, now let me do mine in admitting her. I was near, and listened to both you and her. I think this is a peculiar case--I must at least examine into it. Young woman, rise, and pass before me into the house." {Hush, Hannah; I have a word to say to the woman: p323.jpg} With difficulty I obeyed him. Presently I stood within that clean, bright kitchen--on the very hearth--trembling, sickening; conscious of an aspect in the last degree ghastly, wild, and weather-beaten. The two ladies, their brother, Mr. St. John, the old servant, were all gazing at me. "St. John, who is it?" I heard one ask. "I cannot tell: I found her at the door," was the reply. "She does look white," said Hannah. "As white as clay or death," was responded. "She will fall: let her sit." And indeed my head swam: I dropped, but a chair received me. I still possessed my senses, though just now I could not speak. "Perhaps a little water would restore her. Hannah, fetch some. But she is worn to nothing. How very thin, and how very bloodless!" "A mere spectre!" "Is she ill, or only famished?" "Famished, I think. Hannah, is that milk? Give it me, and a piece of bread." Diana (I knew her by the long curls which I saw drooping between me and the fire as she bent over me) broke some bread, dipped it in milk, and put it to my lips. Her face was near mine: I saw there was pity in it, and I felt sympathy in her hurried breathing. In her simple words, too, the same balm-like emotion spoke: "Try to eat." "Yes--try," repeated Mary gently; and Mary's hand removed my sodden bonnet and lifted my head. I tasted what they offered me: feebly at first, eagerly soon. "Not too much at first--restrain her," said the brother; "she has had enough." And he withdrew the cup of milk and the plate of bread. "A little more, St. John--look at the avidity in her eyes." "No more at present, sister. Try if she can speak now--ask her her name." I felt I could speak, and I answered--"My name is Jane Elliott." Anxious as ever to avoid discovery, I had before resolved to assume an _alias_. "And where do you live? Where are your friends?" I was silent. "Can we send for any one you know?" I shook my head. "What account can you give of yourself?" Somehow, now that I had once crossed the threshold of this house, and once was brought face to face with its owners, I felt no longer outcast, vagrant, and disowned by the wide world. I dared to put off the mendicant--to resume my natural manner and character. I began once more to know myself; and when Mr. St. John demanded an account--which at present I was far too weak to render--I said after a brief pause-- "Sir, I can give you no details to-night." "But what, then," said he, "do you expect me to do for you?" "Nothing," I replied. My strength sufficed for but short answers. Diana took the word-- "Do you mean," she asked, "that we have now given you what aid you require? and that we may dismiss you to the moor and the rainy night?" I looked at her. She had, I thought, a remarkable countenance, instinct both with power and goodness. I took sudden courage. Answering her compassionate gaze with a smile, I said--"I will trust you. If I were a masterless and stray dog, I know that you would not turn me from your hearth to-night: as it is, I really have no fear. Do with me and for me as you like; but excuse me from much discourse--my breath is short--I feel a spasm when I speak." All three surveyed me, and all three were silent. "Hannah," said Mr. St. John, at last, "let her sit there at present, and ask her no questions; in ten minutes more, give her the remainder of that milk and bread. Mary and Diana, let us go into the parlour and talk the matter over." They withdrew. Very soon one of the ladies returned--I could not tell which. A kind of pleasant stupor was stealing over me as I sat by the genial fire. In an undertone she gave some directions to Hannah. Ere long, with the servant's aid, I contrived to mount a staircase; my dripping clothes were removed; soon a warm, dry bed received me. I thanked God--experienced amidst unutterable exhaustion a glow of grateful joy--and slept. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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

Als Jane in einer Kutsche fährt, erschöpft sie schnell ihren geringen Geldvorrat und ist gezwungen, draußen zu schlafen. Sie verbringt den Großteil der Nacht mit Gebeten und bettelt am nächsten Tag um Essen oder Arbeit in der nahegelegenen Stadt. Niemand hilft ihr, außer einem Bauern, der bereit ist, ihr eine Scheibe Brot zu geben. Nach einem weiteren Tag sieht Jane ein Licht, das über die Moore scheint. Sie folgt ihm und gelangt zu einem Haus. Durch das Fenster sieht Jane zwei junge Frauen, die Deutsch lernen, während ihre Bedienstete strickt. Aus ihrem Gespräch erfährt Jane, dass die Bedienstete Hannah heißt und die anmutigen jungen Frauen Diana und Mary sind. Die drei Frauen warten auf jemanden namens St. John. Jane klopft an die Tür, aber Hannah weigert sich, sie hereinzulassen. Zusammenbrechend vor Angst und Schwäche auf der Haustreppe weint Jane: "Ich kann nur sterben und ich glaube an Gott. Lasst mich versuchen, seinen Willen in Stille abzuwarten." Eine Stimme antwortet: "Alle Menschen müssen sterben, aber nicht alle sind dazu verurteilt, eine langsame und vorzeitige Verdammnis zu erleiden, wie es bei dir der Fall wäre, wenn du hier vor Hunger umkommen würdest." Die Stimme gehört zu "St. John," der Jane ins Haus bringt. Er ist der Bruder von Diana und Mary, und die drei Geschwister geben Jane Essen und Unterkunft. Sie stellen ihr einige Fragen, und sie gibt ihnen einen falschen Namen: "Jane Elliott".

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). 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: ARTHUR DONNITHORNE, you remember, is under an engagement with himself to go and see Mr. Irwine this Friday morning, and he is awake and dressing so early that he determines to go before breakfast, instead of after. The rector, he knows, breakfasts alone at half-past nine, the ladies of the family having a different breakfast-hour; Arthur will have an early ride over the hill and breakfast with him. One can say everything best over a meal. The progress of civilization has made a breakfast or a dinner an easy and cheerful substitute for more troublesome and disagreeable ceremonies. We take a less gloomy view of our errors now our father confessor listens to us over his egg and coffee. We are more distinctly conscious that rude penances are out of the question for gentlemen in an enlightened age, and that mortal sin is not incompatible with an appetite for muffins. An assault on our pockets, which in more barbarous times would have been made in the brusque form of a pistol-shot, is quite a well-bred and smiling procedure now it has become a request for a loan thrown in as an easy parenthesis between the second and third glasses of claret. Still, there was this advantage in the old rigid forms, that they committed you to the fulfilment of a resolution by some outward deed: when you have put your mouth to one end of a hole in a stone wall and are aware that there is an expectant ear at the other end, you are more likely to say what you came out with the intention of saying than if you were seated with your legs in an easy attitude under the mahogany with a companion who will have no reason to be surprised if you have nothing particular to say. However, Arthur Donnithorne, as he winds among the pleasant lanes on horseback in the morning sunshine, has a sincere determination to open his heart to the rector, and the swirling sound of the scythe as he passes by the meadow is all the pleasanter to him because of this honest purpose. He is glad to see the promise of settled weather now, for getting in the hay, about which the farmers have been fearful; and there is something so healthful in the sharing of a joy that is general and not merely personal, that this thought about the hay-harvest reacts on his state of mind and makes his resolution seem an easier matter. A man about town might perhaps consider that these influences were not to be felt out of a child's story-book; but when you are among the fields and hedgerows, it is impossible to maintain a consistent superiority to simple natural pleasures. Arthur had passed the village of Hayslope and was approaching the Broxton side of the hill, when, at a turning in the road, he saw a figure about a hundred yards before him which it was impossible to mistake for any one else than Adam Bede, even if there had been no grey, tailless shepherd-dog at his heels. He was striding along at his usual rapid pace, and Arthur pushed on his horse to overtake him, for he retained too much of his boyish feeling for Adam to miss an opportunity of chatting with him. I will not say that his love for that good fellow did not owe some of its force to the love of patronage: our friend Arthur liked to do everything that was handsome, and to have his handsome deeds recognized. Adam looked round as he heard the quickening clatter of the horse's heels, and waited for the horseman, lifting his paper cap from his head with a bright smile of recognition. Next to his own brother Seth, Adam would have done more for Arthur Donnithorne than for any other young man in the world. There was hardly anything he would not rather have lost than the two-feet ruler which he always carried in his pocket; it was Arthur's present, bought with his pocket-money when he was a fair-haired lad of eleven, and when he had profited so well by Adam's lessons in carpentering and turning as to embarrass every female in the house with gifts of superfluous thread-reels and round boxes. Adam had quite a pride in the little squire in those early days, and the feeling had only become slightly modified as the fair-haired lad had grown into the whiskered young man. Adam, I confess, was very susceptible to the influence of rank, and quite ready to give an extra amount of respect to every one who had more advantages than himself, not being a philosopher or a proletaire with democratic ideas, but simply a stout-limbed clever carpenter with a large fund of reverence in his nature, which inclined him to admit all established claims unless he saw very clear grounds for questioning them. He had no theories about setting the world to rights, but he saw there was a great deal of damage done by building with ill-seasoned timber--by ignorant men in fine clothes making plans for outhouses and workshops and the like without knowing the bearings of things--by slovenly joiners' work, and by hasty contracts that could never be fulfilled without ruining somebody; and he resolved, for his part, to set his face against such doings. On these points he would have maintained his opinion against the largest landed proprietor in Loamshire or Stonyshire either; but he felt that beyond these it would be better for him to defer to people who were more knowing than himself. He saw as plainly as possible how ill the woods on the estate were managed, and the shameful state of the farm-buildings; and if old Squire Donnithorne had asked him the effect of this mismanagement, he would have spoken his opinion without flinching, but the impulse to a respectful demeanour towards a "gentleman" would have been strong within him all the while. The word "gentleman" had a spell for Adam, and, as he often said, he "couldn't abide a fellow who thought he made himself fine by being coxy to's betters." I must remind you again that Adam had the blood of the peasant in his veins, and that since he was in his prime half a century ago, you must expect some of his characteristics to be obsolete. Towards the young squire this instinctive reverence of Adam's was assisted by boyish memories and personal regard so you may imagine that he thought far more of Arthur's good qualities, and attached far more value to very slight actions of his, than if they had been the qualities and actions of a common workman like himself. He felt sure it would be a fine day for everybody about Hayslope when the young squire came into the estate--such a generous open-hearted disposition as he had, and an "uncommon" notion about improvements and repairs, considering he was only just coming of age. Thus there was both respect and affection in the smile with which he raised his paper cap as Arthur Donnithorne rode up. "Well, Adam, how are you?" said Arthur, holding out his hand. He never shook hands with any of the farmers, and Adam felt the honour keenly. "I could swear to your back a long way off. It's just the same back, only broader, as when you used to carry me on it. Do you remember?" "Aye, sir, I remember. It 'ud be a poor look-out if folks didn't remember what they did and said when they were lads. We should think no more about old friends than we do about new uns, then." "You're going to Broxton, I suppose?" said Arthur, putting his horse on at a slow pace while Adam walked by his side. "Are you going to the rectory?" "No, sir, I'm going to see about Bradwell's barn. They're afraid of the roof pushing the walls out, and I'm going to see what can be done with it before we send the stuff and the workmen." "Why, Burge trusts almost everything to you now, Adam, doesn't he? I should think he will make you his partner soon. He will, if he's wise." "Nay, sir, I don't see as he'd be much the better off for that. A foreman, if he's got a conscience and delights in his work, will do his business as well as if he was a partner. I wouldn't give a penny for a man as 'ud drive a nail in slack because he didn't get extra pay for it." "I know that, Adam; I know you work for him as well as if you were working for yourself. But you would have more power than you have now, and could turn the business to better account perhaps. The old man must give up his business sometime, and he has no son; I suppose he'll want a son-in-law who can take to it. But he has rather grasping fingers of his own, I fancy. I daresay he wants a man who can put some money into the business. If I were not as poor as a rat, I would gladly invest some money in that way, for the sake of having you settled on the estate. I'm sure I should profit by it in the end. And perhaps I shall be better off in a year or two. I shall have a larger allowance now I'm of age; and when I've paid off a debt or two, I shall be able to look about me." "You're very good to say so, sir, and I'm not unthankful. But"--Adam continued, in a decided tone--"I shouldn't like to make any offers to Mr. Burge, or t' have any made for me. I see no clear road to a partnership. If he should ever want to dispose of the business, that 'ud be a different matter. I should be glad of some money at a fair interest then, for I feel sure I could pay it off in time." "Very well, Adam," said Arthur, remembering what Mr. Irwine had said about a probable hitch in the love-making between Adam and Mary Burge, "we'll say no more about it at present. When is your father to be buried?" "On Sunday, sir; Mr. Irwine's coming earlier on purpose. I shall be glad when it's over, for I think my mother 'ull perhaps get easier then. It cuts one sadly to see the grief of old people; they've no way o' working it off, and the new spring brings no new shoots out on the withered tree." "Ah, you've had a good deal of trouble and vexation in your life, Adam. I don't think you've ever been hare-brained and light-hearted, like other youngsters. You've always had some care on your mind." "Why, yes, sir; but that's nothing to make a fuss about. If we're men and have men's feelings, I reckon we must have men's troubles. We can't be like the birds, as fly from their nest as soon as they've got their wings, and never know their kin when they see 'em, and get a fresh lot every year. I've had enough to be thankful for: I've allays had health and strength and brains to give me a delight in my work; and I count it a great thing as I've had Bartle Massey's night-school to go to. He's helped me to knowledge I could never ha' got by myself." "What a rare fellow you are, Adam!" said Arthur, after a pause, in which he had looked musingly at the big fellow walking by his side. "I could hit out better than most men at Oxford, and yet I believe you would knock me into next week if I were to have a battle with you." "God forbid I should ever do that, sir," said Adam, looking round at Arthur and smiling. "I used to fight for fun, but I've never done that since I was the cause o' poor Gil Tranter being laid up for a fortnight. I'll never fight any man again, only when he behaves like a scoundrel. If you get hold of a chap that's got no shame nor conscience to stop him, you must try what you can do by bunging his eyes up." Arthur did not laugh, for he was preoccupied with some thought that made him say presently, "I should think now, Adam, you never have any struggles within yourself. I fancy you would master a wish that you had made up your mind it was not quite right to indulge, as easily as you would knock down a drunken fellow who was quarrelsome with you. I mean, you are never shilly-shally, first making up your mind that you won't do a thing, and then doing it after all?" "Well," said Adam, slowly, after a moment's hesitation, "no. I don't remember ever being see-saw in that way, when I'd made my mind up, as you say, that a thing was wrong. It takes the taste out o' my mouth for things, when I know I should have a heavy conscience after 'em. I've seen pretty clear, ever since I could cast up a sum, as you can never do what's wrong without breeding sin and trouble more than you can ever see. It's like a bit o' bad workmanship--you never see th' end o' the mischief it'll do. And it's a poor look-out to come into the world to make your fellow-creatures worse off instead o' better. But there's a difference between the things folks call wrong. I'm not for making a sin of every little fool's trick, or bit o' nonsense anybody may be let into, like some o' them dissenters. And a man may have two minds whether it isn't worthwhile to get a bruise or two for the sake of a bit o' fun. But it isn't my way to be see-saw about anything: I think my fault lies th' other way. When I've said a thing, if it's only to myself, it's hard for me to go back." "Yes, that's just what I expected of you," said Arthur. "You've got an iron will, as well as an iron arm. But however strong a man's resolution may be, it costs him something to carry it out, now and then. We may determine not to gather any cherries and keep our hands sturdily in our pockets, but we can't prevent our mouths from watering." "That's true, sir, but there's nothing like settling with ourselves as there's a deal we must do without i' this life. It's no use looking on life as if it was Treddles'on Fair, where folks only go to see shows and get fairings. If we do, we shall find it different. But where's the use o' me talking to you, sir? You know better than I do." "I'm not so sure of that, Adam. You've had four or five years of experience more than I've had, and I think your life has been a better school to you than college has been to me." "Why, sir, you seem to think o' college something like what Bartle Massey does. He says college mostly makes people like bladders--just good for nothing but t' hold the stuff as is poured into 'em. But he's got a tongue like a sharp blade, Bartle has--it never touches anything but it cuts. Here's the turning, sir. I must bid you good-morning, as you're going to the rectory." "Good-bye, Adam, good-bye." Arthur gave his horse to the groom at the rectory gate, and walked along the gravel towards the door which opened on the garden. He knew that the rector always breakfasted in his study, and the study lay on the left hand of this door, opposite the dining-room. It was a small low room, belonging to the old part of the house--dark with the sombre covers of the books that lined the walls; yet it looked very cheery this morning as Arthur reached the open window. For the morning sun fell aslant on the great glass globe with gold fish in it, which stood on a scagliola pillar in front of the ready-spread bachelor breakfast-table, and by the side of this breakfast-table was a group which would have made any room enticing. In the crimson damask easy-chair sat Mr. Irwine, with that radiant freshness which he always had when he came from his morning toilet; his finely formed plump white hand was playing along Juno's brown curly back; and close to Juno's tail, which was wagging with calm matronly pleasure, the two brown pups were rolling over each other in an ecstatic duet of worrying noises. On a cushion a little removed sat Pug, with the air of a maiden lady, who looked on these familiarities as animal weaknesses, which she made as little show as possible of observing. On the table, at Mr. Irwine's elbow, lay the first volume of the Foulis AEschylus, which Arthur knew well by sight; and the silver coffee-pot, which Carroll was bringing in, sent forth a fragrant steam which completed the delights of a bachelor breakfast. "Hallo, Arthur, that's a good fellow! You're just in time," said Mr. Irwine, as Arthur paused and stepped in over the low window-sill. "Carroll, we shall want more coffee and eggs, and haven't you got some cold fowl for us to eat with that ham? Why, this is like old days, Arthur; you haven't been to breakfast with me these five years." "It was a tempting morning for a ride before breakfast," said Arthur; "and I used to like breakfasting with you so when I was reading with you. My grandfather is always a few degrees colder at breakfast than at any other hour in the day. I think his morning bath doesn't agree with him." Arthur was anxious not to imply that he came with any special purpose. He had no sooner found himself in Mr. Irwine's presence than the confidence which he had thought quite easy before, suddenly appeared the most difficult thing in the world to him, and at the very moment of shaking hands he saw his purpose in quite a new light. How could he make Irwine understand his position unless he told him those little scenes in the wood; and how could he tell them without looking like a fool? And then his weakness in coming back from Gawaine's, and doing the very opposite of what he intended! Irwine would think him a shilly-shally fellow ever after. However, it must come out in an unpremeditated way; the conversation might lead up to it. "I like breakfast-time better than any other moment in the day," said Mr. Irwine. "No dust has settled on one's mind then, and it presents a clear mirror to the rays of things. I always have a favourite book by me at breakfast, and I enjoy the bits I pick up then so much, that regularly every morning it seems to me as if I should certainly become studious again. But presently Dent brings up a poor fellow who has killed a hare, and when I've got through my 'justicing,' as Carroll calls it, I'm inclined for a ride round the glebe, and on my way back I meet with the master of the workhouse, who has got a long story of a mutinous pauper to tell me; and so the day goes on, and I'm always the same lazy fellow before evening sets in. Besides, one wants the stimulus of sympathy, and I have never had that since poor D'Oyley left Treddleston. If you had stuck to your books well, you rascal, I should have had a pleasanter prospect before me. But scholarship doesn't run in your family blood." "No indeed. It's well if I can remember a little inapplicable Latin to adorn my maiden speech in Parliament six or seven years hence. 'Cras ingens iterabimus aequor,' and a few shreds of that sort, will perhaps stick to me, and I shall arrange my opinions so as to introduce them. But I don't think a knowledge of the classics is a pressing want to a country gentleman; as far as I can see, he'd much better have a knowledge of manures. I've been reading your friend Arthur Young's books lately, and there's nothing I should like better than to carry out some of his ideas in putting the farmers on a better management of their land; and, as he says, making what was a wild country, all of the same dark hue, bright and variegated with corn and cattle. My grandfather will never let me have any power while he lives, but there's nothing I should like better than to undertake the Stonyshire side of the estate--it's in a dismal condition--and set improvements on foot, and gallop about from one place to another and overlook them. I should like to know all the labourers, and see them touching their hats to me with a look of goodwill." "Bravo, Arthur! A man who has no feeling for the classics couldn't make a better apology for coming into the world than by increasing the quantity of food to maintain scholars--and rectors who appreciate scholars. And whenever you enter on your career of model landlord may I be there to see. You'll want a portly rector to complete the picture, and take his tithe of all the respect and honour you get by your hard work. Only don't set your heart too strongly on the goodwill you are to get in consequence. I'm not sure that men are the fondest of those who try to be useful to them. You know Gawaine has got the curses of the whole neighbourhood upon him about that enclosure. You must make it quite clear to your mind which you are most bent upon, old boy--popularity or usefulness--else you may happen to miss both." "Oh! Gawaine is harsh in his manners; he doesn't make himself personally agreeable to his tenants. I don't believe there's anything you can't prevail on people to do with kindness. For my part, I couldn't live in a neighbourhood where I was not respected and beloved. And it's very pleasant to go among the tenants here--they seem all so well inclined to me I suppose it seems only the other day to them since I was a little lad, riding on a pony about as big as a sheep. And if fair allowances were made to them, and their buildings attended to, one could persuade them to farm on a better plan, stupid as they are." "Then mind you fall in love in the right place, and don't get a wife who will drain your purse and make you niggardly in spite of yourself. My mother and I have a little discussion about you sometimes: she says, 'I'll never risk a single prophecy on Arthur until I see the woman he falls in love with.' She thinks your lady-love will rule you as the moon rules the tides. But I feel bound to stand up for you, as my pupil you know, and I maintain that you're not of that watery quality. So mind you don't disgrace my judgment." Arthur winced under this speech, for keen old Mrs. Irwine's opinion about him had the disagreeable effect of a sinister omen. This, to be sure, was only another reason for persevering in his intention, and getting an additional security against himself. Nevertheless, at this point in the conversation, he was conscious of increased disinclination to tell his story about Hetty. He was of an impressible nature, and lived a great deal in other people's opinions and feelings concerning himself; and the mere fact that he was in the presence of an intimate friend, who had not the slightest notion that he had had any such serious internal struggle as he came to confide, rather shook his own belief in the seriousness of the struggle. It was not, after all, a thing to make a fuss about; and what could Irwine do for him that he could not do for himself? He would go to Eagledale in spite of Meg's lameness--go on Rattler, and let Pym follow as well as he could on the old hack. That was his thought as he sugared his coffee; but the next minute, as he was lifting the cup to his lips, he remembered how thoroughly he had made up his mind last night to tell Irwine. No! He would not be vacillating again--he WOULD do what he had meant to do, this time. So it would be well not to let the personal tone of the conversation altogether drop. If they went to quite indifferent topics, his difficulty would be heightened. It had required no noticeable pause for this rush and rebound of feeling, before he answered, "But I think it is hardly an argument against a man's general strength of character that he should be apt to be mastered by love. A fine constitution doesn't insure one against smallpox or any other of those inevitable diseases. A man may be very firm in other matters and yet be under a sort of witchery from a woman." "Yes; but there's this difference between love and smallpox, or bewitchment either--that if you detect the disease at an early stage and try change of air, there is every chance of complete escape without any further development of symptoms. And there are certain alternative doses which a man may administer to himself by keeping unpleasant consequences before his mind: this gives you a sort of smoked glass through which you may look at the resplendent fair one and discern her true outline; though I'm afraid, by the by, the smoked glass is apt to be missing just at the moment it is most wanted. I daresay, now, even a man fortified with a knowledge of the classics might be lured into an imprudent marriage, in spite of the warning given him by the chorus in the Prometheus." The smile that flitted across Arthur's face was a faint one, and instead of following Mr. Irwine's playful lead, he said, quite seriously--"Yes, that's the worst of it. It's a desperately vexatious thing, that after all one's reflections and quiet determinations, we should be ruled by moods that one can't calculate on beforehand. I don't think a man ought to be blamed so much if he is betrayed into doing things in that way, in spite of his resolutions." "Ah, but the moods lie in his nature, my boy, just as much as his reflections did, and more. A man can never do anything at variance with his own nature. He carries within him the germ of his most exceptional action; and if we wise people make eminent fools of ourselves on any particular occasion, we must endure the legitimate conclusion that we carry a few grains of folly to our ounce of wisdom." "Well, but one may be betrayed into doing things by a combination of circumstances, which one might never have done otherwise." "Why, yes, a man can't very well steal a bank-note unless the bank-note lies within convenient reach; but he won't make us think him an honest man because he begins to howl at the bank-note for falling in his way." "But surely you don't think a man who struggles against a temptation into which he falls at last as bad as the man who never struggles at all?" "No, certainly; I pity him in proportion to his struggles, for they foreshadow the inward suffering which is the worst form of Nemesis. Consequences are unpitying. Our deeds carry their terrible consequences, quite apart from any fluctuations that went before--consequences that are hardly ever confined to ourselves. And it is best to fix our minds on that certainty, instead of considering what may be the elements of excuse for us. But I never knew you so inclined for moral discussion, Arthur? Is it some danger of your own that you are considering in this philosophical, general way?" In asking this question, Mr. Irwine pushed his plate away, threw himself back in his chair, and looked straight at Arthur. He really suspected that Arthur wanted to tell him something, and thought of smoothing the way for him by this direct question. But he was mistaken. Brought suddenly and involuntarily to the brink of confession, Arthur shrank back and felt less disposed towards it than ever. The conversation had taken a more serious tone than he had intended--it would quite mislead Irwine--he would imagine there was a deep passion for Hetty, while there was no such thing. He was conscious of colouring, and was annoyed at his boyishness. "Oh no, no danger," he said as indifferently as he could. "I don't know that I am more liable to irresolution than other people; only there are little incidents now and then that set one speculating on what might happen in the future." Was there a motive at work under this strange reluctance of Arthur's which had a sort of backstairs influence, not admitted to himself? Our mental business is carried on much in the same way as the business of the State: a great deal of hard work is done by agents who are not acknowledged. In a piece of machinery, too, I believe there is often a small unnoticeable wheel which has a great deal to do with the motion of the large obvious ones. Possibly there was some such unrecognized agent secretly busy in Arthur's mind at this moment--possibly it was the fear lest he might hereafter find the fact of having made a confession to the rector a serious annoyance, in case he should NOT be able quite to carry out his good resolutions? I dare not assert that it was not so. The human soul is a very complex thing. The idea of Hetty had just crossed Mr. Irwine's mind as he looked inquiringly at Arthur, but his disclaiming indifferent answer confirmed the thought which had quickly followed--that there could be nothing serious in that direction. There was no probability that Arthur ever saw her except at church, and at her own home under the eye of Mrs. Poyser; and the hint he had given Arthur about her the other day had no more serious meaning than to prevent him from noticing her so as to rouse the little chit's vanity, and in this way perturb the rustic drama of her life. Arthur would soon join his regiment, and be far away: no, there could be no danger in that quarter, even if Arthur's character had not been a strong security against it. His honest, patronizing pride in the good-will and respect of everybody about him was a safeguard even against foolish romance, still more against a lower kind of folly. If there had been anything special on Arthur's mind in the previous conversation, it was clear he was not inclined to enter into details, and Mr. Irwine was too delicate to imply even a friendly curiosity. He perceived a change of subject would be welcome, and said, "By the way, Arthur, at your colonel's birthday fete there were some transparencies that made a great effect in honour of Britannia, and Pitt, and the Loamshire Militia, and, above all, the 'generous youth,' the hero of the day. Don't you think you should get up something of the same sort to astonish our weak minds?" The opportunity was gone. While Arthur was hesitating, the rope to which he might have clung had drifted away--he must trust now to his own swimming. In ten minutes from that time, Mr. Irwine was called for on business, and Arthur, bidding him good-bye, mounted his horse again with a sense of dissatisfaction, which he tried to quell by determining to set off for Eagledale without an hour's delay. Book Two Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der vorherigen Absätze schreiben?

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Arthur Donnithorne reitet früh los, um mit Mr. Irwine frühstücken zu gehen. Er denkt, es wird einfacher sein, ihm beim Frühstück von Hetty zu erzählen. Auf dem Weg dorthin sieht er Adam Bede und unterhält sich mit ihm über seine Ambitionen. Adam sagt, er würde gerne Forst- und Hochbau betreiben, aber er möchte nicht Partner von Mr. Burge sein. Adam empfindet Ehrfurcht für Arthur, weil er ihn als Jungen kannte und weil er der zukünftige Gutsbesitzer ist. Arthur schüttelt Adam die Hand und bietet an, Geld zu investieren, um ihm in Zukunft bei der Gründung eines Unternehmens zu helfen. Er bringt den Punkt zur Sprache, dass Adam wahrscheinlich so stark ist, dass er niemals etwas tun würde, von dem er wüsste, dass es falsch ist. Adam sagt, dass er niemals etwas genießen könnte, das sein Gewissen belastet. Arthur will nicht, dass Irwine weiß, warum er gekommen ist, und so unterhält er sich mit ihm in indirekter Weise und spricht darüber, wie er ein vorbildlicher Landlord sein möchte. Er genießt es, von seinen Mietern gemocht zu werden. Arthur sagt, er könnte niemals an einem Ort leben, an dem er nicht respektiert wird, und Irwine antwortet, dass er dann die richtige Wahl seiner Ehefrau treffen muss. Mrs. Irwine hat vorausgesagt, dass sie Arthurs Zukunft anhand der Frau, die er wählt, erkennen wird. Irwine fügt hinzu, dass er auf Arthurs Erfolg gewettet hat und dass er seinen alten Tutor nicht enttäuschen darf. Dies macht Arthur sofort zögerlich, sein Geheimnis zu verraten, denn er verlässt sich auf die Meinungen anderer. Der Pfarrer und der junge Gutsbesitzer diskutieren, was es braucht, damit ein Mann die richtige moralische Entscheidung trifft. Irwine vermutet, dass Arthur versucht, ihm etwas mitzuteilen, aber als er ihn direkt danach fragt, schreckt Arthur zurück. Er denkt, er wird sein Dilemma selbst bewältigen und entscheidet sich erneut, auf eine Reise zu gehen.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: IT was no longer light enough to go to bed without a candle, even in Mrs. Poyser's early household, and Hetty carried one with her as she went up at last to her bedroom soon after Adam was gone, and bolted the door behind her. Now she would read her letter. It must--it must have comfort in it. How was Adam to know the truth? It was always likely he should say what he did say. She set down the candle and took out the letter. It had a faint scent of roses, which made her feel as if Arthur were close to her. She put it to her lips, and a rush of remembered sensations for a moment or two swept away all fear. But her heart began to flutter strangely, and her hands to tremble as she broke the seal. She read slowly; it was not easy for her to read a gentleman's handwriting, though Arthur had taken pains to write plainly. "DEAREST HETTY--I have spoken truly when I have said that I loved you, and I shall never forget our love. I shall be your true friend as long as life lasts, and I hope to prove this to you in many ways. If I say anything to pain you in this letter, do not believe it is for want of love and tenderness towards you, for there is nothing I would not do for you, if I knew it to be really for your happiness. I cannot bear to think of my little Hetty shedding tears when I am not there to kiss them away; and if I followed only my own inclinations, I should be with her at this moment instead of writing. It is very hard for me to part from her--harder still for me to write words which may seem unkind, though they spring from the truest kindness. "Dear, dear Hetty, sweet as our love has been to me, sweet as it would be to me for you to love me always, I feel that it would have been better for us both if we had never had that happiness, and that it is my duty to ask you to love me and care for me as little as you can. The fault has all been mine, for though I have been unable to resist the longing to be near you, I have felt all the while that your affection for me might cause you grief. I ought to have resisted my feelings. I should have done so, if I had been a better fellow than I am; but now, since the past cannot be altered, I am bound to save you from any evil that I have power to prevent. And I feel it would be a great evil for you if your affections continued so fixed on me that you could think of no other man who might be able to make you happier by his love than I ever can, and if you continued to look towards something in the future which cannot possibly happen. For, dear Hetty, if I were to do what you one day spoke of, and make you my wife, I should do what you yourself would come to feel was for your misery instead of your welfare. I know you can never be happy except by marrying a man in your own station; and if I were to marry you now, I should only be adding to any wrong I have done, besides offending against my duty in the other relations of life. You know nothing, dear Hetty, of the world in which I must always live, and you would soon begin to dislike me, because there would be so little in which we should be alike. "And since I cannot marry you, we must part--we must try not to feel like lovers any more. I am miserable while I say this, but nothing else can be. Be angry with me, my sweet one, I deserve it; but do not believe that I shall not always care for you--always be grateful to you--always remember my Hetty; and if any trouble should come that we do not now foresee, trust in me to do everything that lies in my power. "I have told you where you are to direct a letter to, if you want to write, but I put it down below lest you should have forgotten. Do not write unless there is something I can really do for you; for, dear Hetty, we must try to think of each other as little as we can. Forgive me, and try to forget everything about me, except that I shall be, as long as I live, your affectionate friend, "ARTHUR DONNITHORNE." Slowly Hetty had read this letter; and when she looked up from it there was the reflection of a blanched face in the old dim glass--a white marble face with rounded childish forms, but with something sadder than a child's pain in it. Hetty did not see the face--she saw nothing--she only felt that she was cold and sick and trembling. The letter shook and rustled in her hand. She laid it down. It was a horrible sensation--this cold and trembling. It swept away the very ideas that produced it, and Hetty got up to reach a warm cloak from her clothes-press, wrapped it round her, and sat as if she were thinking of nothing but getting warm. Presently she took up the letter with a firmer hand, and began to read it through again. The tears came this time--great rushing tears that blinded her and blotched the paper. She felt nothing but that Arthur was cruel--cruel to write so, cruel not to marry her. Reasons why he could not marry her had no existence for her mind; how could she believe in any misery that could come to her from the fulfilment of all she had been longing for and dreaming of? She had not the ideas that could make up the notion of that misery. As she threw down the letter again, she caught sight of her face in the glass; it was reddened now, and wet with tears; it was almost like a companion that she might complain to--that would pity her. She leaned forward on her elbows, and looked into those dark overflooding eyes and at the quivering mouth, and saw how the tears came thicker and thicker, and how the mouth became convulsed with sobs. The shattering of all her little dream-world, the crushing blow on her new-born passion, afflicted her pleasure-craving nature with an overpowering pain that annihilated all impulse to resistance, and suspended her anger. She sat sobbing till the candle went out, and then, wearied, aching, stupefied with crying, threw herself on the bed without undressing and went to sleep. There was a feeble dawn in the room when Hetty awoke, a little after four o'clock, with a sense of dull misery, the cause of which broke upon her gradually as she began to discern the objects round her in the dim light. And then came the frightening thought that she had to conceal her misery as well as to bear it, in this dreary daylight that was coming. She could lie no longer. She got up and went towards the table: there lay the letter. She opened her treasure-drawer: there lay the ear-rings and the locket--the signs of all her short happiness--the signs of the lifelong dreariness that was to follow it. Looking at the little trinkets which she had once eyed and fingered so fondly as the earnest of her future paradise of finery, she lived back in the moments when they had been given to her with such tender caresses, such strangely pretty words, such glowing looks, which filled her with a bewildering delicious surprise--they were so much sweeter than she had thought anything could be. And the Arthur who had spoken to her and looked at her in this way, who was present with her now--whose arm she felt round her, his cheek against hers, his very breath upon her--was the cruel, cruel Arthur who had written that letter, that letter which she snatched and crushed and then opened again, that she might read it once more. The half-benumbed mental condition which was the effect of the last night's violent crying made it necessary to her to look again and see if her wretched thoughts were actually true--if the letter was really so cruel. She had to hold it close to the window, else she could not have read it by the faint light. Yes! It was worse--it was more cruel. She crushed it up again in anger. She hated the writer of that letter--hated him for the very reason that she hung upon him with all her love--all the girlish passion and vanity that made up her love. She had no tears this morning. She had wept them all away last night, and now she felt that dry-eyed morning misery, which is worse than the first shock because it has the future in it as well as the present. Every morning to come, as far as her imagination could stretch, she would have to get up and feel that the day would have no joy for her. For there is no despair so absolute as that which comes with the first moments of our first great sorrow, when we have not yet known what it is to have suffered and be healed, to have despaired and to have recovered hope. As Hetty began languidly to take off the clothes she had worn all the night, that she might wash herself and brush her hair, she had a sickening sense that her life would go on in this way. She should always be doing things she had no pleasure in, getting up to the old tasks of work, seeing people she cared nothing about, going to church, and to Treddleston, and to tea with Mrs. Best, and carrying no happy thought with her. For her short poisonous delights had spoiled for ever all the little joys that had once made the sweetness of her life--the new frock ready for Treddleston Fair, the party at Mr. Britton's at Broxton wake, the beaux that she would say "No" to for a long while, and the prospect of the wedding that was to come at last when she would have a silk gown and a great many clothes all at once. These things were all flat and dreary to her now; everything would be a weariness, and she would carry about for ever a hopeless thirst and longing. She paused in the midst of her languid undressing and leaned against the dark old clothes-press. Her neck and arms were bare, her hair hung down in delicate rings--and they were just as beautiful as they were that night two months ago, when she walked up and down this bed-chamber glowing with vanity and hope. She was not thinking of her neck and arms now; even her own beauty was indifferent to her. Her eyes wandered sadly over the dull old chamber, and then looked out vacantly towards the growing dawn. Did a remembrance of Dinah come across her mind? Of her foreboding words, which had made her angry? Of Dinah's affectionate entreaty to think of her as a friend in trouble? No, the impression had been too slight to recur. Any affection or comfort Dinah could have given her would have been as indifferent to Hetty this morning as everything else was except her bruised passion. She was only thinking she could never stay here and go on with the old life--she could better bear something quite new than sinking back into the old everyday round. She would like to run away that very morning, and never see any of the old faces again. But Hetty's was not a nature to face difficulties--to dare to loose her hold on the familiar and rush blindly on some unknown condition. Hers was a luxurious and vain nature--not a passionate one--and if she were ever to take any violent measure, she must be urged to it by the desperation of terror. There was not much room for her thoughts to travel in the narrow circle of her imagination, and she soon fixed on the one thing she would do to get away from her old life: she would ask her uncle to let her go to be a lady's maid. Miss Lydia's maid would help her to get a situation, if she knew Hetty had her uncle's leave. When she had thought of this, she fastened up her hair and began to wash: it seemed more possible to her to go downstairs and try to behave as usual. She would ask her uncle this very day. On Hetty's blooming health it would take a great deal of such mental suffering as hers to leave any deep impress; and when she was dressed as neatly as usual in her working-dress, with her hair tucked up under her little cap, an indifferent observer would have been more struck with the young roundness of her cheek and neck and the darkness of her eyes and eyelashes than with any signs of sadness about her. But when she took up the crushed letter and put it in her drawer, that she might lock it out of sight, hard smarting tears, having no relief in them as the great drops had that fell last night, forced their way into her eyes. She wiped them away quickly: she must not cry in the day-time. Nobody should find out how miserable she was, nobody should know she was disappointed about anything; and the thought that the eyes of her aunt and uncle would be upon her gave her the self-command which often accompanies a great dread. For Hetty looked out from her secret misery towards the possibility of their ever knowing what had happened, as the sick and weary prisoner might think of the possible pillory. They would think her conduct shameful, and shame was torture. That was poor little Hetty's conscience. So she locked up her drawer and went away to her early work. In the evening, when Mr. Poyser was smoking his pipe, and his good-nature was therefore at its superlative moment, Hetty seized the opportunity of her aunt's absence to say, "Uncle, I wish you'd let me go for a lady's maid." Mr. Poyser took the pipe from his mouth and looked at Hetty in mild surprise for some moments. She was sewing, and went on with her work industriously. "Why, what's put that into your head, my wench?" he said at last, after he had given one conservative puff. "I should like it--I should like it better than farm-work." "Nay, nay; you fancy so because you donna know it, my wench. It wouldn't be half so good for your health, nor for your luck i' life. I'd like you to stay wi' us till you've got a good husband: you're my own niece, and I wouldn't have you go to service, though it was a gentleman's house, as long as I've got a home for you." Mr. Poyser paused, and puffed away at his pipe. "I like the needlework," said Hetty, "and I should get good wages." "Has your aunt been a bit sharp wi' you?" said Mr. Poyser, not noticing Hetty's further argument. "You mustna mind that, my wench--she does it for your good. She wishes you well; an' there isn't many aunts as are no kin to you 'ud ha' done by you as she has." "No, it isn't my aunt," said Hetty, "but I should like the work better." "It was all very well for you to learn the work a bit--an' I gev my consent to that fast enough, sin' Mrs. Pomfret was willing to teach you. For if anything was t' happen, it's well to know how to turn your hand to different sorts o' things. But I niver meant you to go to service, my wench; my family's ate their own bread and cheese as fur back as anybody knows, hanna they, Father? You wouldna like your grand-child to take wage?" "Na-a-y," said old Martin, with an elongation of the word, meant to make it bitter as well as negative, while he leaned forward and looked down on the floor. "But the wench takes arter her mother. I'd hard work t' hould HER in, an' she married i' spite o' me--a feller wi' on'y two head o' stock when there should ha' been ten on's farm--she might well die o' th' inflammation afore she war thirty." It was seldom the old man made so long a speech, but his son's question had fallen like a bit of dry fuel on the embers of a long unextinguished resentment, which had always made the grandfather more indifferent to Hetty than to his son's children. Her mother's fortune had been spent by that good-for-nought Sorrel, and Hetty had Sorrel's blood in her veins. "Poor thing, poor thing!" said Martin the younger, who was sorry to have provoked this retrospective harshness. "She'd but bad luck. But Hetty's got as good a chance o' getting a solid, sober husband as any gell i' this country." After throwing out this pregnant hint, Mr. Poyser recurred to his pipe and his silence, looking at Hetty to see if she did not give some sign of having renounced her ill-advised wish. But instead of that, Hetty, in spite of herself, began to cry, half out of ill temper at the denial, half out of the day's repressed sadness. "Hegh, hegh!" said Mr. Poyser, meaning to check her playfully, "don't let's have any crying. Crying's for them as ha' got no home, not for them as want to get rid o' one. What dost think?" he continued to his wife, who now came back into the house-place, knitting with fierce rapidity, as if that movement were a necessary function, like the twittering of a crab's antennae. "Think? Why, I think we shall have the fowl stole before we are much older, wi' that gell forgetting to lock the pens up o' nights. What's the matter now, Hetty? What are you crying at?" "Why, she's been wanting to go for a lady's maid," said Mr. Poyser. "I tell her we can do better for her nor that." "I thought she'd got some maggot in her head, she's gone about wi' her mouth buttoned up so all day. It's all wi' going so among them servants at the Chase, as we war fools for letting her. She thinks it 'ud be a finer life than being wi' them as are akin to her and ha' brought her up sin' she war no bigger nor Marty. She thinks there's nothing belongs to being a lady's maid but wearing finer clothes nor she was born to, I'll be bound. It's what rag she can get to stick on her as she's thinking on from morning till night, as I often ask her if she wouldn't like to be the mawkin i' the field, for then she'd be made o' rags inside and out. I'll never gi' my consent to her going for a lady's maid, while she's got good friends to take care on her till she's married to somebody better nor one o' them valets, as is neither a common man nor a gentleman, an' must live on the fat o' the land, an's like enough to stick his hands under his coat-tails and expect his wife to work for him." "Aye, aye," said Mr. Poyser, "we must have a better husband for her nor that, and there's better at hand. Come, my wench, give over crying and get to bed. I'll do better for you nor letting you go for a lady's maid. Let's hear no more on't." When Hetty was gone upstairs he said, "I canna make it out as she should want to go away, for I thought she'd got a mind t' Adam Bede. She's looked like it o' late." "Eh, there's no knowing what she's got a liking to, for things take no more hold on her than if she was a dried pea. I believe that gell, Molly--as is aggravatin' enough, for the matter o' that--but I believe she'd care more about leaving us and the children, for all she's been here but a year come Michaelmas, nor Hetty would. But she's got this notion o' being a lady's maid wi' going among them servants--we might ha' known what it 'ud lead to when we let her go to learn the fine work. But I'll put a stop to it pretty quick." "Thee'dst be sorry to part wi' her, if it wasn't for her good," said Mr. Poyser. "She's useful to thee i' the work." "Sorry? Yes, I'm fonder on her nor she deserves--a little hard-hearted hussy, wanting to leave us i' that way. I can't ha' had her about me these seven year, I reckon, and done for her, and taught her everything wi'out caring about her. An' here I'm having linen spun, an' thinking all the while it'll make sheeting and table-clothing for her when she's married, an' she'll live i' the parish wi' us, and never go out of our sights--like a fool as I am for thinking aught about her, as is no better nor a cherry wi' a hard stone inside it." "Nay, nay, thee mustna make much of a trifle," said Mr. Poyser, soothingly. "She's fond on us, I'll be bound; but she's young, an' gets things in her head as she can't rightly give account on. Them young fillies 'ull run away often wi'-ou knowing why." Her uncle's answers, however, had had another effect on Hetty besides that of disappointing her and making her cry. She knew quite well whom he had in his mind in his allusions to marriage, and to a sober, solid husband; and when she was in her bedroom again, the possibility of her marrying Adam presented itself to her in a new light. In a mind where no strong sympathies are at work, where there is no supreme sense of right to which the agitated nature can cling and steady itself to quiet endurance, one of the first results of sorrow is a desperate vague clutching after any deed that will change the actual condition. Poor Hetty's vision of consequences, at no time more than a narrow fantastic calculation of her own probable pleasures and pains, was now quite shut out by reckless irritation under present suffering, and she was ready for one of those convulsive, motiveless actions by which wretched men and women leap from a temporary sorrow into a lifelong misery. Why should she not marry Adam? She did not care what she did, so that it made some change in her life. She felt confident that he would still want to marry her, and any further thought about Adam's happiness in the matter had never yet visited her. "Strange!" perhaps you will say, "this rush of impulse to-wards a course that might have seemed the most repugnant to her present state of mind, and in only the second night of her sadness!" Yes, the actions of a little trivial soul like Hetty's, struggling amidst the serious sad destinies of a human being, are strange. So are the motions of a little vessel without ballast tossed about on a stormy sea. How pretty it looked with its parti-coloured sail in the sunlight, moored in the quiet bay! "Let that man bear the loss who loosed it from its moorings." But that will not save the vessel--the pretty thing that might have been a lasting joy. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Hetty liest den Brief von Arthur in ihrem Schlafgemach. Es fällt ihr nicht leicht, die schmucke Handschrift zu lesen, obwohl Arthur versucht hat, deutlich zu schreiben. Er sagt, dass er sie liebt und ihre Liebe immer in Erinnerung behalten wird, aber es wäre besser gewesen, wenn sie sie von Anfang an nicht gehabt hätten. Er sagt, dass selbst wenn er sie heiraten würde, sie sehr unglücklich enden würde und dass sie am glücklichsten wäre, jemanden aus ihrer eigenen Klasse zu heiraten. Er sagt, dass er ihr helfen wird, wenn sie jemals Unglück hat, auf jede erdenkliche Weise. Er bittet sie, ihm nur dann zu antworten, wenn sie in wahrer Not ist, denn sie müssen versuchen, einander zu vergessen. Hetty weint und denkt, Arthur sei grausam, weil er geschrieben hat und grausam, weil er sie nicht heiraten will. Die Kerze erlischt, und sie wirft sich ohne sich auszuziehen auf ihr Bett. Sie wacht bei Tagesanbruch auf, erinnert sich an ihr Elend, liest den Brief erneut und betastet die Schmuckstücke, die Arthur ihr gegeben hat. Sie denkt elend, dass sie ihr Leid vor ihrer Familie verbergen muss. Zuerst denkt sie daran wegzulaufen, aber das scheint zu schwer zu sein, also plant sie, ein Mädchendienst zu werden. Sie bittet ihren Onkel um Erlaubnis, aber er sagt, dass die Landwirtschaft besser für ihre Gesundheit ist und dass sie auf diese Weise eher einen Ehemann finden wird. Der ältere Mr. Poyser sagt, dass Hetty nach ihrer Taugenichts-Mutter kommt. Mr. Poyser deutet an, dass sie Adam Bede heiraten könnte, und Hetty fängt an zu weinen. Nachdem sie in ihr Zimmer gegangen ist, sind die Poysers der Ansicht, dass selbst die Magd mehr Familiengefühl hat als sie. Hetty überlegt in ihrem Zimmer, warum sie nicht Adam heiraten sollte - sie will schließlich eine Veränderung in ihrem Leben.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: In the huge new cemetery, some two miles distant, the old people buried their dead, and came back to a house steeped in shadow and silence. It was all over so quickly that at first they could hardly realize it, and remained in a state of expectation as though of something else to happen --something else which was to lighten this load, too heavy for old hearts to bear. But the days passed, and expectation gave place to resignation--the hopeless resignation of the old, sometimes miscalled, apathy. Sometimes they hardly exchanged a word, for now they had nothing to talk about, and their days were long to weariness. It was about a week after that the old man, waking suddenly in the night, stretched out his hand and found himself alone. The room was in darkness, and the sound of subdued weeping came from the window. He raised himself in bed and listened. "Come back," he said, tenderly. "You will be cold." "It is colder for my son," said the old woman, and wept afresh. The sound of her sobs died away on his ears. The bed was warm, and his eyes heavy with sleep. He dozed fitfully, and then slept until a sudden wild cry from his wife awoke him with a start. "The paw!" she cried wildly. "The monkey's paw!" He started up in alarm. "Where? Where is it? What's the matter?" She came stumbling across the room toward him. "I want it," she said, quietly. "You've not destroyed it?" "It's in the parlour, on the bracket," he replied, marvelling. "Why?" She cried and laughed together, and bending over, kissed his cheek. "I only just thought of it," she said, hysterically. "Why didn't I think of it before? Why didn't you think of it?" "Think of what?" he questioned. "The other two wishes," she replied, rapidly. "We've only had one." "Was not that enough?" he demanded, fiercely. "No," she cried, triumphantly; "we'll have one more. Go down and get it quickly, and wish our boy alive again." The man sat up in bed and flung the bedclothes from his quaking limbs. "Good God, you are mad!" he cried, aghast. "Get it," she panted; "get it quickly, and wish--Oh, my boy, my boy!" Her husband struck a match and lit the candle. "Get back to bed," he said, unsteadily. "You don't know what you are saying." "We had the first wish granted," said the old woman, feverishly; "why not the second?" "A coincidence," stammered the old man. "Go and get it and wish," cried his wife, quivering with excitement. The old man turned and regarded her, and his voice shook. "He has been dead ten days, and besides he--I would not tell you else, but--I could only recognize him by his clothing. If he was too terrible for you to see then, how now?" "Bring him back," cried the old woman, and dragged him toward the door. "Do you think I fear the child I have nursed?" He went down in the darkness, and felt his way to the parlour, and then to the mantelpiece. The talisman was in its place, and a horrible fear that the unspoken wish might bring his mutilated son before him ere he could escape from the room seized upon him, and he caught his breath as he found that he had lost the direction of the door. His brow cold with sweat, he felt his way round the table, and groped along the wall until he found himself in the small passage with the unwholesome thing in his hand. Even his wife's face seemed changed as he entered the room. It was white and expectant, and to his fears seemed to have an unnatural look upon it. He was afraid of her. "Wish!" she cried, in a strong voice. "It is foolish and wicked," he faltered. "Wish!" repeated his wife. He raised his hand. "I wish my son alive again." The talisman fell to the floor, and he regarded it fearfully. Then he sank trembling into a chair as the old woman, with burning eyes, walked to the window and raised the blind. He sat until he was chilled with the cold, glancing occasionally at the figure of the old woman peering through the window. The candle-end, which had burned below the rim of the china candlestick, was throwing pulsating shadows on the ceiling and walls, until, with a flicker larger than the rest, it expired. The old man, with an unspeakable sense of relief at the failure of the talisman, crept back to his bed, and a minute or two afterward the old woman came silently and apathetically beside him. Neither spoke, but lay silently listening to the ticking of the clock. A stair creaked, and a squeaky mouse scurried noisily through the wall. The darkness was oppressive, and after lying for some time screwing up his courage, he took the box of matches, and striking one, went downstairs for a candle. At the foot of the stairs the match went out, and he paused to strike another; and at the same moment a knock, so quiet and stealthy as to be scarcely audible, sounded on the front door. The matches fell from his hand and spilled in the passage. He stood motionless, his breath suspended until the knock was repeated. Then he turned and fled swiftly back to his room, and closed the door behind him. A third knock sounded through the house. "What's that?" cried the old woman, starting up. "A rat," said the old man in shaking tones--"a rat. It passed me on the stairs." His wife sat up in bed listening. A loud knock resounded through the house. "It's Herbert!" she screamed. "It's Herbert!" She ran to the door, but her husband was before her, and catching her by the arm, held her tightly. "What are you going to do?" he whispered hoarsely. "It's my boy; it's Herbert!" she cried, struggling mechanically. "I forgot it was two miles away. What are you holding me for? Let go. I must open the door." "For God's sake don't let it in," cried the old man, trembling. "You're afraid of your own son," she cried, struggling. "Let me go. I'm coming, Herbert; I'm coming." There was another knock, and another. The old woman with a sudden wrench broke free and ran from the room. Her husband followed to the landing, and called after her appealingly as she hurried downstairs. He heard the chain rattle back and the bottom bolt drawn slowly and stiffly from the socket. Then the old woman's voice, strained and panting. "The bolt," she cried, loudly. "Come down. I can't reach it." But her husband was on his hands and knees groping wildly on the floor in search of the paw. If he could only find it before the thing outside got in. A perfect fusillade of knocks reverberated through the house, and he heard the scraping of a chair as his wife put it down in the passage against the door. He heard the creaking of the bolt as it came slowly back, and at the same moment he found the monkey's paw, and frantically breathed his third and last wish. The knocking ceased suddenly, although the echoes of it were still in the house. He heard the chair drawn back, and the door opened. A cold wind rushed up the staircase, and a long loud wail of disappointment and misery from his wife gave him courage to run down to her side, and then to the gate beyond. The street lamp flickering opposite shone on a quiet and deserted road. Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Bevor sie überhaupt realisieren, dass es vorbei ist, ist Herbert auf einem Friedhof begraben und das Paar zurück in ihrem Haus. Anfangs fühlen sie eine seltsame Erwartung, aber bald setzt Resignation ein. Sie sind still und müde. Eines dunklen Nachts hört Mr. White seine Frau weinen und ruft sie, wieder ins Bett zu kommen. Er schläft wieder ein, wird aber von ihrem Schrei geweckt: "Die Klaue. Die Klaue des Affen. Er ist verwirrt und fragt, was sie meint. Sie weint und lächelt; dann platzt es hysterisch aus ihr heraus, dass sie gerade daran gedacht hat, was zu tun ist: Sie wird einen weiteren Wunsch benutzen und ihren Sohn wieder zum Leben erwecken. Mr. White ist schockiert und sagt, dass sie verrückt ist, so etwas zu sagen. Sie ist fiebrig und verlangt, dass er die Klaue holt. Seine Stimme zitternd, sagt er ihr, dass der Zustand von Herberts Körper so verstümmelt war, dass er ihn nur anhand der Kleidung identifizieren konnte; deshalb wäre es zu schrecklich, ihn wieder lebendig zu sehen. Sie ist nicht überzeugt und schreit, dass er die Klaue holen muss. Als Mr. White die Treppe hinunter zum Salon geht, überkommt ihn eine Vorahnung. Er hat sogar Angst, dass seine unausgesprochenen Worte den Wunsch erfüllen könnten. Er ergreift die Klaue und kehrt zu seiner Frau zurück. Sie verlangt, dass er den Wunsch äußert und er gehorcht, indem er sagt: "Ich wünsche mir meinen Sohn wieder lebendig." Die Klaue fällt auf den Boden und er setzt sich zitternd hin. Die Nacht ist kalt, als er und seine Frau warten. Die Kerze flackert und erlischt; sie gehen zurück ins Bett und liegen dort schweigend. Die Uhr tickt. Mr. White fühlt sich erleichtert, aber wird beunruhigt durch die Dunkelheit in seinem Zimmer. Er zündet ein Streichholz an, um nach unten zu gehen und eine Kerze zu holen. Am Fuße der Treppe erlischt das Streichholz und es klopft an der Tür. Ängstlich rennt Mr. White wieder nach oben. Seine Frau fragt, was es war, und er lügt, indem er ihr sagt, dass es eine Ratte war. Das Klopfen wird lauter und ertönt erneut. Sie schreit, dass es ihr Sohn ist und bereitet sich darauf vor, nach unten zu fliegen, aber er packt ihren Arm. Sie kämpft und Mr. White weigert sich loszulassen. Sie ruft, dass sie zu ihrem Sohn kommt. Die Klopfgeräusche gehen weiter. Mrs. White bricht sich los und rennt die Treppe hinunter. Er folgt ihr und kann hören, wie sie versucht, den Riegel der Kette zu öffnen. Sie ruft nach ihm, weil sie es nicht schafft, aber er sucht verzweifelt nach der Klaue auf dem Boden. Er muss sie finden, bevor das Ding ins Haus kommt. Die Klopfgeräusche werden lauter und häufiger. Er hört seine Frau einen Stuhl greifen, um den Riegel zu erreichen. Er hört, wie der Riegel anfängt, sich zu öffnen, während seine Hände sich um die Klaue schließen und er seinen letzten Wunsch atmet. Das Klopfen hört auf. Alles ist ruhig. Er hört seine Frau die Tür öffnen und enttäuscht ausrufen. Er schließt sich ihr an und schaut nach draußen, wo nur eine Straßenlaterne einen verlassenen Weg sanft beleuchtet.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). 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: Da sie romantischen Effekten zugewandt war, wagte Lord Warburton die Hoffnung auszudrücken, dass sie eines Tages sein Haus besuchen würde, ein sehr interessanter alter Ort. Er brachte Frau Touchett dazu, ihm das Versprechen abzugeben, ihre Nichte nach Lockleigh zu bringen, und Ralph zeigte sich bereit, die Damen zu begleiten, falls es sein Vater ihm erlauben sollte. Lord Warburton versicherte unserer Heldin, dass seine Schwestern in der Zwischenzeit zu ihr kommen würden. Sie wusste einiges über seine Schwestern, nachdem sie ihn während der Stunden, die sie zusammen in Gardencourt verbracht hatten, zu vielen Fragen über seine Familie befragt hatte. Wenn Isabel interessiert war, stellte sie viele Fragen, und da ihr Begleiter ein ausgiebiger Erzähler war, forderte sie ihn an diesem Anlass keineswegs vergeblich dazu auf. Er erzählte ihr, dass er vier Schwestern und zwei Brüder hatte und beide Eltern verloren hatte. Die Brüder und Schwestern waren sehr liebe Menschen - "nicht besonders clever, wissen Sie", sagte er, "aber sehr anständig und angenehm"; und er hatte die Freundlichkeit zu hoffen, dass Miss Archer sie gut kennen lernen würde. Einer der Brüder war in der Kirche und hatte sich in der Familienkapelle niedergelassen, die von Lockleigh war, einer schweren, ausgedehnten Pfarrei, und trotz der Tatsache, dass er zu jedem denkbaren Thema eine andere Meinung hatte, war er ein ausgezeichneter Mann. Lord Warburton erwähnte dann einige der Meinungen seines Bruders, Meinungen, von denen Isabel oft gehört hatte, dass sie von einem beträchtlichen Teil der menschlichen Gemeinschaft vertreten wurden. Viele von ihnen hatte sie in der Tat selbst gehalten, bis er ihr versicherte, dass sie völlig fehlaglag, dass sie sich dies sicherlich nur eingebildet hatte, dass sie, wenn sie einmal darüber nachdachte, herausfinden würde, dass nichts daran war. Als sie antwortete, dass sie bereits einige der damit verbundenen Fragen sehr aufmerksam durchdacht hatte, erklärte er, dass sie nur ein weiteres Beispiel für das war, was ihm oft aufgefallen war - der Tatsache, dass von allen Menschen auf der Welt die Amerikaner die abergläubischsten waren. Sie waren überzeugte Tories und Fanatiker, alle miteinander; es gab keine Konservativen wie die amerikanischen Konservativen. Ihr Onkel und ihr Cousin seien dort, um es zu beweisen; nichts sei mittelalterlicher als viele ihrer Ansichten; sie hätten Ideen, zu denen die Menschen in England heutzutage sich schämten, zuzugeben; und sie hatten außerdem die Frechheit, sagte sein Herrschaft, lachend, vorzugeben, dass sie mehr über die Bedürfnisse und Gefahren dieses armen lieben dummen alten Englands wüssten als er, der darin geboren wurde und einen beträchtlichen Teil davon besaß - umso mehr Schande über ihn! Von all dem erfuhr Isabel, dass Lord Warburton ein Adliger nach dem neuesten Muster war, ein Reformer, ein Radikaler, ein Verächter alter Wege. Sein anderer Bruder, der sich im Dienst in Indien befand, war ziemlich wild und sturköpfig und hatte bisher nicht viel nützliches getan, außer Schulden zu machen, die Warburton bezahlen musste - eines der kostbarsten Privilegien eines älteren Bruders. "Ich glaube, ich werde nichts mehr bezahlen", sagte ihr Freund; "er lebt viel prächtiger als ich, genießt nie gehörte Luxusgüter und hält sich für einen feineren Gentlemen als ich. Als konsequenter Radikaler strebe ich nur nach Gleichheit; ich strebe nicht nach der Überlegenheit der jüngeren Brüder." Zwei seiner vier Schwestern, die zweite und die vierte, waren verheiratet, und eine von ihnen hatte es sehr gut gemacht, wie sie sagten, die andere nur so lala. Der Ehemann der älteren, Lord Haycock, war ein sehr netter Mensch, aber leider ein schrecklicher Tory; und seine Frau, wie alle guten englischen Ehefrauen, war schlimmer als ihr Ehemann. Die andere hatte einen kleinen Gutsherrn in Norfolk geheiratet und, obwohl sie erst vor Kurzem verheiratet war, schon fünf Kinder. Lord Warburton teilte dieser jungen Amerikanerin viele Informationen und vieles mehr mit, nahm sich die Zeit, viele Dinge klarzustellen und ihr die Besonderheiten des englischen Lebens nahezubringen. Isabel amüsierte sich oft über seine Offenheit und die geringe Rücksichtnahme, die er sowohl auf ihre eigene Erfahrung als auch auf ihre Vorstellungskraft zu nehmen schien. "Er hält mich für eine Barbaren", sagte sie, "und dass ich noch nie Gabeln und Löffel gesehen habe"; und sie stellte ihm arglose Fragen, um ihn ernsthaft antworten zu hören. Dann, als er in die Falle getappt war, bemerkte sie: "Es ist schade, dass Sie mich nicht in meiner Kriegsbemalung und meinem Federkopfschmuck sehen können; wenn ich gewusst hätte, wie liebenswürdig Sie zu den armen Wilden sind, hätte ich meine einheimische Tracht mitgebracht!" Lord Warburton war durch die Vereinigten Staaten gereist und wusste viel mehr über sie als Isabel; er hatte die Freundlichkeit zu sagen, dass Amerika das bezauberndste Land der Welt sei, aber seine Erinnerungen schienen die Vorstellung zu unterstützen, dass Amerikaner in England viele Dinge erklärt bekommen müssten. "Wenn ich nur gehabt hätte, der mir in Amerika Dinge erklärt!", sagte er. "Ich war ein wenig verwirrt in Ihrem Land; tatsächlich war ich völlig verwirrt, und das Problem war, dass mich die Erklärungen nur noch mehr verwirrten. Sie wissen, ich glaube, sie haben mir oft absichtlich die falschen gegeben; sie sind in dieser Hinsicht recht schlau dort drüben. Aber wenn ich es erkläre, können Sie mir vertrauen; bei dem, was ich Ihnen sage, gibt es keinen Fehler." Es gab zumindest keinen Fehler darin, dass er sehr intelligent, gebildet und fast alles in der Welt kannte. Obwohl er die interessantesten und aufregendsten Einblicke gab, hatte Isabel das Gefühl, dass er es nie tat, um sich selbst zur Schau zu stellen, und obwohl er seltene Chancen hatte und hohe Gewinne abstaubte, vermied er es, damit anzugeben. Er hatte das Beste vom Leben genossen, aber es hatte seinen Sinn für Proportionen nicht verdorben. Sein Wesen war eine Mischung aus der Wirkung reicher Erfahrungen - oh, so einfach zu bekommen! - mit einer Bescheidenheit, die manchmal fast kindlich war; der süße und gesunde Geschmack davon - er war so angenehm wie etwas Schmeckendes - bekam durch einen Hauch verantwortungsvoller Freundlichkeit nichts von der Wirkung. "Ich mag Ihren englischen Gentleman-Spezimen sehr", sagte Isabel zu Ralph, nachdem Lord Warburton gegangen war. "Ich auch - ich habe ihn sehr gerne", erwiderte Ralph. "Aber ich bedaure ihn noch mehr." Isabel sah ihn schräg an. "Warum, das scheint mir sein einziger Fehler zu sein - dass man ihn wenig bedauern kann. Er scheint alles zu haben, alles zu wissen, alles zu sein." "Oh, es geht ihm schlecht!" beharrte Ralph. "Ich nehme an, Sie meinen nicht seine Gesundheit?" "Nein, dafür ist er abscheulich gesund. Was ich meine ist, dass er ein Mann mit einer großen Position ist, der allerlei Spielchen damit treibt. Er nimmt sich selbst nicht ernst." "Hält er sich für einen Witz?" "Viel schlimmer; er hält sich für eine Zumutung - für einen Missbrauch." "Nun, vielleicht ist er "Er denkt, dass dein Freund zu subversiv ist - oder nicht subversiv genug! Ich verstehe nicht ganz, was er damit meint", sagte Isabel. Der alte Mann schüttelte langsam den Kopf, lächelte und stellte seine Tasse ab. "Ich weiß es auch nicht. Er geht sehr weit, aber es ist durchaus möglich, dass er nicht weit genug geht. Es scheint, als wolle er viele Dinge abschaffen, aber er scheint auch sich selbst bleiben zu wollen. Das ist wohl natürlich, aber es ist ziemlich inkonsequent." "Oh, ich hoffe, er bleibt er selbst", sagte Isabel. "Wenn er abgeschafft würde, würden seine Freunde ihn schmerzlich vermissen." "Nun gut", sagte der alte Mann, "ich denke, er wird bleiben und seine Freunde amüsieren. Ich würde ihn hier in Gardencourt sehr vermissen. Er unterhält mich immer, wenn er vorbeikommt, und ich denke, er unterhält sich selbst auch. Es gibt ziemlich viele Leute wie ihn in der Gesellschaft; sie sind momentan sehr modern. Ich weiß nicht, was sie versuchen zu tun - ob sie eine Revolution anzetteln wollen. Ich hoffe jedenfalls, sie verschieben es, bis ich weg bin. Sie wollen schließlich alles abschaffen; aber ich bin ein ziemlich großer Grundbesitzer hier und möchte nicht abgeschafft werden. Ich wäre nicht herübergekommen, wenn ich gewusst hätte, dass sie sich so verhalten würden", fuhr Herr Touchett mit ausgelassener Heiterkeit fort. "Ich bin herübergekommen, weil ich dachte, England sei ein sicheres Land. Wenn sie also bedeutende Veränderungen einführen wollen, nenne ich es einen echten Betrug; viele wären in diesem Fall enttäuscht." "Oh, ich hoffe, sie machen eine Revolution!", rief Isabel. "Ich würde es gerne sehen." "Lass mich überlegen", sagte ihr Onkel mit humoristischer Absicht. "Ich vergesse immer, ob du auf der Seite des Alten oder des Neuen stehst. Ich habe dich schon so unterschiedliche Standpunkte einnehmen hören." "Ich stehe auf beiden Seiten. Ich denke, ich bin ein bisschen auf jeder Seite. In einer Revolution - nachdem sie gut begonnen hat - glaube ich, dass ich eine hohe, stolze Loyalistin wäre. Man sympathisiert mehr mit ihnen, und sie hätten die Chance, sich so vorzüglich zu verhalten. Ich meine, so malerisch." "Ich weiß nicht, ob ich verstehe, was du mit malerischem Verhalten meinst, aber es scheint mir, dass du das immer tust, meine Liebe." "Oh, du wunderbarer Mann, wenn ich das doch nur glauben könnte!", unterbrach das Mädchen. "Ich fürchte, du wirst hier jetzt keine Freude daran haben, dich graziös unter die Guillotine zu begeben", fuhr Herr Touchett fort. "Wenn du einen großen Ausbruch sehen willst, müsstest du uns einen langen Besuch abstatten. Siehst du, wenn es konkret wird, würde es ihnen nicht passen, wenn man sie beim Wort nähme." "Von wem sprichst du?" "Nun gut, ich meine Lord Warburton und seine Freunde - die Radikalen der Oberschicht. Natürlich weiß ich nur, wie es mir erscheint. Sie sprechen von Veränderungen, aber ich glaube nicht, dass sie es wirklich begreifen. Du und ich, weißt du, wir wissen, wie es ist, unter demokratischen Institutionen zu leben: Ich fand sie immer sehr bequem, aber ich war von Anfang an daran gewöhnt. Und dann bin ich kein Lord; du bist eine Lady, meine Liebe, aber ich bin kein Lord. Hier drüben scheint es mir nicht ganz anzukommen. Es ist eine Frage des Alltags und jeder Stunde, und ich glaube nicht, dass es ihnen so angenehm wäre wie das, was sie haben. Natürlich, wenn sie es versuchen wollen, ist es ihre eigene Sache; aber ich denke, sie werden es nicht sehr ernsthaft versuchen." "Glaubst du nicht, dass sie aufrichtig sind?", fragte Isabel. "Nun, sie möchten sich aufrichtig fühlen", erlaubte Herr Touchett, "aber es scheint, als ob sie sich hauptsächlich in Theorien austoben. Ihre radikalen Ansichten sind eine Art Unterhaltung; sie müssen irgendeine Unterhaltung haben, und sie könnten grobere Vorlieben haben als diese. Sie sind sehr luxuriös, und diese progressiven Ideen sind ihre größte Luxusartikel. Sie geben ihnen ein moralisches Gefühl, ohne ihre Position zu gefährden. Sie legen viel Wert auf ihre Position; lass dich von ihnen niemals überzeugen, dass sie es nicht tun, denn wenn du auf dieser Grundlage fortfahren würdest, würden sie dich schnell stoppen." Isabel folgte dem Argument ihres Onkels, den er mit seiner eigenartigen Deutlichkeit entfaltete, sehr aufmerksam, und obwohl sie mit dem britischen Adel nicht vertraut war, fand sie, dass es mit ihren allgemeinen Eindrücken von der menschlichen Natur in Einklang stand. Aber sie fühlte sich veranlasst, für Lord Warburton Partei zu ergreifen. "Ich glaube nicht, dass Lord Warburton ein Heuchler ist; es ist mir egal, was die anderen sind. Ich würde Lord Warburton gerne auf die Probe stellen." "Gott behüte mich vor meinen Freunden!" antwortete Herr Touchett. "Lord Warburton ist ein sehr liebenswürdiger junger Mann - ein sehr feiner junger Mann. Er hat ein Einkommen von hunderttausend Pfund im Jahr. Er besitzt fünfzigtausend Acres Land auf dieser kleinen Insel und noch viele andere Dinge. Er hat ein halbes Dutzend Häuser zum Wohnen. Er hat einen Sitz im Parlament, so wie ich einen bei meinem eigenen Abendessen habe. Er hat elegante Vorlieben - interessiert sich für Literatur, Kunst, Wissenschaft, charmante junge Damen. Am elegantesten ist jedoch sein Geschmack für neue Ansichten. Das bereitet ihm sehr viel Vergnügen - vielleicht sogar mehr als alles andere, abgesehen von den jungen Damen. Sein altes Haus da drüben - wie nennt er es, Lockleigh? - ist sehr attraktiv, aber ich glaube nicht, es ist so angenehm wie dieses hier. Das spielt jedoch keine Rolle - er hat so viele andere. Seine Ansichten schaden niemandem, soweit ich sehen kann; sie schaden ihm sicherlich nicht. Und wenn es eine Revolution geben sollte, würde er sehr leicht davonkommen. Sie würden ihn in Ruhe lassen, so wie er ist: Er ist zu beliebt." "Ah, er könnte nicht einmal ein Märtyrer sein, wenn er es wollte!" seufzte Isabel. "Das ist eine sehr schwache Position." "Er wird niemals ein Märtyrer sein, es sei denn, du machst ihn zu einem", sagte der alte Mann. Isabel schüttelte den Kopf; es hätte etwas Lächerliches darin liegen können, dass sie es mit einem Hauch von Melancholie tat. "Ich werde niemanden zum Märtyrer machen." "Ich hoffe, du wirst niemals einer sein." "Ich hoffe nicht. Aber du bedauerst Lord Warburton also nicht so wie Ralph es tut?" Ihr Onkel betrachtete sie eine Weile mit freundlicher Schärfe. "Doch, tue ich, letztendlich!" Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Lord Warburton lädt Isabel zu seinem Anwesen Lockleigh ein. Auch Mrs. Touchett und Ralph planen mitzukommen. Lord Warburton plant, dass zwei seiner Schwestern währenddessen Isabel besuchen. Lord Warburton hat Isabel bereits einen Überblick über seine Familie gegeben: Er hat zwei Brüder und vier Schwestern, zwei unverheiratet und zwei verheiratet. Ralph und Isabel sprechen über Lord Warburton. Zu Isabels Überraschung drückt Ralph sein Mitleid für Lord Warburton aus. Er denkt, dass Lord Warburton unglücklich ist, weil er teuren Luxus besitzt, aber nicht weiß, was er eigentlich sein sollte. Herr Touchett spricht Lord Warburton an, als er am Nachmittag bei Isabel sitzt. Er warnt sie davor, sich in ihn zu verlieben, und sie sagt, dass sie sich nur in jemanden verlieben würde, den er gutheißt. Herr Touchett hofft, dass Leute wie Lord Warburton, deren Politik ziemlich radikal ist, warten, bis er tot ist, um eine Revolution in England zu beginnen. Isabel ist natürlich begeistert von der Idee einer Revolution und hofft, dass sie sie miterleben kann. Herr Touchett führt alle herausragenden gesellschaftlichen Rollen von Lord Warburton auf und sagt, dass selbst wenn es eine Revolution geben würde, niemand Lord Warburton Verletzungen zufügen würde, weil alle zu sehr an ihm hängen. Isabel findet es schade, dass Lord Warburton kein Märtyrer sein könnte, selbst wenn er die Chance dazu hätte. Herr Touchett entscheidet, dass er letztendlich doch Grund hat, Lord Warburton zu bemitleiden.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). 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: CANTO THE NINTH. O, Wellington! (or 'Villainton'--for Fame Sounds the heroic syllables both ways; France could not even conquer your great name, But punn'd it down to this facetious phrase-- Beating or beaten she will laugh the same), You have obtain'd great pensions and much praise: Glory like yours should any dare gainsay, Humanity would rise, and thunder 'Nay!' I don't think that you used Kinnaird quite well In Marinet's affair--in fact, 't was shabby, And like some other things won't do to tell Upon your tomb in Westminster's old abbey. Upon the rest 't is not worth while to dwell, Such tales being for the tea-hours of some tabby; But though your years as man tend fast to zero, In fact your grace is still but a young hero. Though Britain owes (and pays you too) so much, Yet Europe doubtless owes you greatly more: You have repair'd Legitimacy's crutch, A prop not quite so certain as before: The Spanish, and the French, as well as Dutch, Have seen, and felt, how strongly you restore; And Waterloo has made the world your debtor (I wish your bards would sing it rather better). You are 'the best of cut-throats:'--do not start; The phrase is Shakspeare's, and not misapplied: War 's a brain-spattering, windpipe-slitting art, Unless her cause by right be sanctified. If you have acted once a generous part, The world, not the world's masters, will decide, And I shall be delighted to learn who, Save you and yours, have gain'd by Waterloo? I am no flatterer--you 've supp'd full of flattery: They say you like it too--'t is no great wonder. He whose whole life has been assault and battery, At last may get a little tired of thunder; And swallowing eulogy much more than satire, he May like being praised for every lucky blunder, Call'd 'Saviour of the Nations'--not yet saved, And 'Europe's Liberator'--still enslaved. I 've done. Now go and dine from off the plate Presented by the Prince of the Brazils, And send the sentinel before your gate A slice or two from your luxurious meals: He fought, but has not fed so well of late. Some hunger, too, they say the people feels:-- There is no doubt that you deserve your ration, But pray give back a little to the nation. I don't mean to reflect--a man so great as You, my lord duke! is far above reflection: The high Roman fashion, too, of Cincinnatus, With modern history has but small connection: Though as an Irishman you love potatoes, You need not take them under your direction; And half a million for your Sabine farm Is rather dear!--I 'm sure I mean no harm. Great men have always scorn'd great recompenses: Epaminondas saved his Thebes, and died, Not leaving even his funeral expenses: George Washington had thanks and nought beside, Except the all-cloudless glory which few men's is To free his country: Pitt too had his pride, And as a high-soul'd minister of state is Renown'd for ruining Great Britain gratis. Never had mortal man such opportunity, Except Napoleon, or abused it more: You might have freed fallen Europe from the unity Of tyrants, and been blest from shore to shore: And now--what is your fame? Shall the Muse tune it ye? Now--that the rabble's first vain shouts are o'er? Go! hear it in your famish'd country's cries! Behold the world! and curse your victories! As these new cantos touch on warlike feats, To you the unflattering Muse deigns to inscribe Truths, that you will not read in the Gazettes, But which 't is time to teach the hireling tribe Who fatten on their country's gore, and debts, Must be recited, and--without a bribe. You did great things; but not being great in mind, Have left undone the greatest--and mankind. Death laughs--Go ponder o'er the skeleton With which men image out the unknown thing That hides the past world, like to a set sun Which still elsewhere may rouse a brighter spring-- Death laughs at all you weep for:--look upon This hourly dread of all! whose threaten'd sting Turns life to terror, even though in its sheath: Mark how its lipless mouth grins without breath! Mark how it laughs and scorns at all you are! And yet was what you are: from ear to ear It laughs not--there is now no fleshy bar So call'd; the Antic long hath ceased to hear, But still he smiles; and whether near or far, He strips from man that mantle (far more dear Than even the tailor's), his incarnate skin, White, black, or copper--the dead bones will grin. And thus Death laughs,--it is sad merriment, But still it is so; and with such example Why should not Life be equally content With his superior, in a smile to trample Upon the nothings which are daily spent Like bubbles on an ocean much less ample Than the eternal deluge, which devours Suns as rays--worlds like atoms--years like hours? 'To be, or not to be? that is the question,' Says Shakspeare, who just now is much in fashion. I am neither Alexander nor Hephaestion, Nor ever had for abstract fame much passion; But would much rather have a sound digestion Than Buonaparte's cancer: could I dash on Through fifty victories to shame or fame-- Without a stomach what were a good name? 'O dura ilia messorum!'--'Oh Ye rigid guts of reapers!' I translate For the great benefit of those who know What indigestion is--that inward fate Which makes all Styx through one small liver flow. A peasant's sweat is worth his lord's estate: Let this one toil for bread--that rack for rent, He who sleeps best may be the most content. 'To be, or not to be?'--Ere I decide, I should be glad to know that which is being? 'T is true we speculate both far and wide, And deem, because we see, we are all-seeing: For my part, I 'll enlist on neither side, Until I see both sides for once agreeing. For me, I sometimes think that life is death, Rather than life a mere affair of breath. 'Que scais-je?' was the motto of Montaigne, As also of the first academicians: That all is dubious which man may attain, Was one of their most favourite positions. There 's no such thing as certainty, that 's plain As any of Mortality's conditions; So little do we know what we 're about in This world, I doubt if doubt itself be doubting. It is a pleasant voyage perhaps to float, Like Pyrrho, on a sea of speculation; But what if carrying sail capsize the boat? Your wise men don't know much of navigation; And swimming long in the abyss of thought Is apt to tire: a calm and shallow station Well nigh the shore, where one stoops down and gathers Some pretty shell, is best for moderate bathers. 'But heaven,' as Cassio says, 'is above all-- No more of this, then,--let us pray!' We have Souls to save, since Eve's slip and Adam's fall, Which tumbled all mankind into the grave, Besides fish, beasts, and birds. 'The sparrow's fall Is special providence,' though how it gave Offence, we know not; probably it perch'd Upon the tree which Eve so fondly search'd. O, ye immortal gods! what is theogony? O, thou too, mortal man! what is philanthropy? O, world! which was and is, what is cosmogony? Some people have accused me of misanthropy; And yet I know no more than the mahogany That forms this desk, of what they mean; lykanthropy I comprehend, for without transformation Men become wolves on any slight occasion. But I, the mildest, meekest of mankind, Like Moses, or Melancthon, who have ne'er Done anything exceedingly unkind,-- And (though I could not now and then forbear Following the bent of body or of mind) Have always had a tendency to spare,-- Why do they call me misanthrope? Because They hate me, not I them.--and here we 'll pause. 'T is time we should proceed with our good poem,-- For I maintain that it is really good, Not only in the body but the proem, However little both are understood Just now,--but by and by the Truth will show 'em Herself in her sublimest attitude: And till she doth, I fain must be content To share her beauty and her banishment. Our hero (and, I trust, kind reader, yours) Was left upon his way to the chief city Of the immortal Peter's polish'd boors Who still have shown themselves more brave than witty. I know its mighty empire now allures Much flattery--even Voltaire's, and that 's a pity. For me, I deem an absolute autocrat Not a barbarian, but much worse than that. And I will war, at least in words (and--should My chance so happen--deeds), with all who war With Thought;--and of Thought's foes by far most rude, Tyrants and sycophants have been and are. I know not who may conquer: if I could Have such a prescience, it should be no bar To this my plain, sworn, downright detestation Of every depotism in every nation. It is not that I adulate the people: Without me, there are demagogues enough, And infidels, to pull down every steeple, And set up in their stead some proper stuff. Whether they may sow scepticism to reap hell, As is the Christian dogma rather rough, I do not know;--I wish men to be free As much from mobs as kings--from you as me. The consequence is, being of no party, I shall offend all parties: never mind! My words, at least, are more sincere and hearty Than if I sought to sail before the wind. He who has nought to gain can have small art: he Who neither wishes to be bound nor bind, May still expatiate freely, as will I, Nor give my voice to slavery's jackal cry. That 's an appropriate simile, that jackal;-- I 've heard them in the Ephesian ruins howl By night, as do that mercenary pack all, Power's base purveyors, who for pickings prowl, And scent the prey their masters would attack all. However, the poor jackals are less foul (As being the brave lions' keen providers) Than human insects, catering for spiders. Raise but an arm! 't will brush their web away, And without that, their poison and their claws Are useless. Mind, good people! what I say (Or rather peoples)--go on without pause! The web of these tarantulas each day Increases, till you shall make common cause: None, save the Spanish fly and Attic bee, As yet are strongly stinging to be free. Don Juan, who had shone in the late slaughter, Was left upon his way with the despatch, Where blood was talk'd of as we would of water; And carcasses that lay as thick as thatch O'er silenced cities, merely served to flatter Fair Catherine's pastime--who look'd on the match Between these nations as a main of cocks, Wherein she liked her own to stand like rocks. And there in a kibitka he roll'd on (A cursed sort of carriage without springs, Which on rough roads leaves scarcely a whole bone), Pondering on glory, chivalry, and kings, And orders, and on all that he had done-- And wishing that post-horses had the wings Of Pegasus, or at the least post-chaises Had feathers, when a traveller on deep ways is. At every jolt--and they were many--still He turn'd his eyes upon his little charge, As if he wish'd that she should fare less ill Than he, in these sad highways left at large To ruts, and flints, and lovely Nature's skill, Who is no paviour, nor admits a barge On her canals, where God takes sea and land, Fishery and farm, both into his own hand. At least he pays no rent, and has best right To be the first of what we used to call 'Gentlemen farmer'--a race worn out quite, Since lately there have been no rents at all, And 'gentlemen' are in a piteous plight, And 'farmers' can't raise Ceres from her fall: She fell with Buonaparte--What strange thoughts Arise, when we see emperors fall with oats! But Juan turn'd his eyes on the sweet child Whom he had saved from slaughter--what a trophy O! ye who build up monuments, defiled With gore, like Nadir Shah, that costive sophy, Who, after leaving Hindostan a wild, And scarce to the Mogul a cup of coffee To soothe his woes withal, was slain, the sinner! Because he could no more digest his dinner;-- O ye! or we! or he! or she! reflect, That one life saved, especially if young Or pretty, is a thing to recollect Far sweeter than the greenest laurels sprung From the manure of human clay, though deck'd With all the praises ever said or sung: Though hymn'd by every harp, unless within Your heart joins chorus, Fame is but a din. O! ye great authors luminous, voluminous! Ye twice ten hundred thousand daily scribes! Whose pamphlets, volumes, newspapers, illumine us! Whether you 're paid by government in bribes, To prove the public debt is not consuming us-- Or, roughly treading on the 'courtier's kibes' With clownish heel, your popular circulation Feeds you by printing half the realm's starvation;-- O, ye great authors!--'Apropos des bottes,'- I have forgotten what I meant to say, As sometimes have been greater sages' lots; 'T was something calculated to allay All wrath in barracks, palaces, or cots: Certes it would have been but thrown away, And that 's one comfort for my lost advice, Although no doubt it was beyond all price. But let it go:--it will one day be found With other relics of 'a former world,' When this world shall be former, underground, Thrown topsy-turvy, twisted, crisp'd, and curl'd, Baked, fried, or burnt, turn'd inside-out, or drown'd, Like all the worlds before, which have been hurl'd First out of, and then back again to chaos, The superstratum which will overlay us. So Cuvier says;--and then shall come again Unto the new creation, rising out From our old crash, some mystic, ancient strain Of things destroy'd and left in airy doubt: Like to the notions we now entertain Of Titans, giants, fellows of about Some hundred feet in height, not to say miles, And mammoths, and your winged crocodiles. Think if then George the Fourth should be dug up! How the new worldlings of the then new East Will wonder where such animals could sup! (For they themselves will be but of the least: Even worlds miscarry, when too oft they pup, And every new creation hath decreased In size, from overworking the material-- Men are but maggots of some huge Earth's burial.) How will--to these young people, just thrust out From some fresh Paradise, and set to plough, And dig, and sweat, and turn themselves about, And plant, and reap, and spin, and grind, and sow, Till all the arts at length are brought about, Especially of war and taxing,--how, I say, will these great relics, when they see 'em, Look like the monsters of a new museum? But I am apt to grow too metaphysical: 'The time is out of joint,'--and so am I; I quite forget this poem 's merely quizzical, And deviate into matters rather dry. I ne'er decide what I shall say, and this I cal Much too poetical: men should know why They write, and for what end; but, note or text, I never know the word which will come next. So on I ramble, now and then narrating, Now pondering:--it is time we should narrate. I left Don Juan with his horses baiting-- Now we 'll get o'er the ground at a great rate. I shall not be particular in stating His journey, we 've so many tours of late: Suppose him then at Petersburgh; suppose That pleasant capital of painted snows; Suppose him in a handsome uniform,-- A scarlet coat, black facings, a long plume, Waving, like sails new shiver'd in a storm, Over a cock'd hat in a crowded room, And brilliant breeches, bright as a Cairn Gorme, Of yellow casimere we may presume, White stocking drawn uncurdled as new milk O'er limbs whose symmetry set off the silk; Suppose him sword by side, and hat in hand, Made up by youth, fame, and an army tailor-- That great enchanter, at whose rod's command Beauty springs forth, and Nature's self turns paler, Seeing how Art can make her work more grand (When she don't pin men's limbs in like a gaoler),-- Behold him placed as if upon a pillar! He Seems Love turn'd a lieutenant of artillery:-- His bandage slipp'd down into a cravat; His wings subdued to epaulettes; his quiver Shrunk to a scabbard, with his arrows at His side as a small sword, but sharp as ever; His bow converted into a cock'd hat; But still so like, that Psyche were more clever Than some wives (who make blunders no less stupid), If she had not mistaken him for Cupid. The courtiers stared, the ladies whisper'd, and The empress smiled: the reigning favourite frown'd-- I quite forget which of them was in hand Just then; as they are rather numerous found, Who took by turns that difficult command Since first her majesty was singly crown'd: But they were mostly nervous six-foot fellows, All fit to make a Patagonian jealous. Juan was none of these, but slight and slim, Blushing and beardless; and yet ne'ertheless There was a something in his turn of limb, And still more in his eye, which seem'd to express, That though he look'd one of the seraphim, There lurk'd a man beneath the spirit's dress. Besides, the empress sometimes liked a boy, And had just buried the fair-faced Lanskoi. No wonder then that Yermoloff, or Momonoff, Or Scherbatoff, or any other off Or on, might dread her majesty had not room enough Within her bosom (which was not too tough) For a new flame; a thought to cast of gloom enough Along the aspect, whether smooth or rough, Of him who, in the language of his station, Then held that 'high official situation.' O, gentle ladies! should you seek to know The import of this diplomatic phrase, Bid Ireland's Londonderry's Marquess show His parts of speech; and in the strange displays Of that odd string of words, all in a row, Which none divine, and every one obeys, Perhaps you may pick out some queer no meaning, Of that weak wordy harvest the sole gleaning. I think I can explain myself without That sad inexplicable beast of prey-- That Sphinx, whose words would ever be a doubt, Did not his deeds unriddle them each day-- That monstrous hieroglyphic--that long spout Of blood and water, leaden Castlereagh! And here I must an anecdote relate, But luckily of no great length or weight. An English lady ask'd of an Italian, What were the actual and official duties Of the strange thing some women set a value on, Which hovers oft about some married beauties, Called 'Cavalier servente?'--a Pygmalion Whose statues warm (I fear, alas! too true 't is) Beneath his art. The dame, press'd to disclose them, Said--'Lady, I beseech you to suppose them.' And thus I supplicate your supposition, And mildest, matron-like interpretation, Of the imperial favourite's condition. 'T was a high place, the highest in the nation In fact, if not in rank; and the suspicion Of any one's attaining to his station, No doubt gave pain, where each new pair of shoulders, If rather broad, made stocks rise and their holders. Juan, I said, was a most beauteous boy, And had retain'd his boyish look beyond The usual hirsute seasons which destroy, With beards and whiskers, and the like, the fond Parisian aspect which upset old Troy And founded Doctors' Commons:--I have conn'd The history of divorces, which, though chequer'd, Calls Ilion's the first damages on record. And Catherine, who loved all things (save her lord, Who was gone to his place), and pass'd for much Admiring those (by dainty dames abhorr'd) Gigantic gentlemen, yet had a touch Of sentiment; and he she most adored Was the lamented Lanskoi, who was such A lover as had cost her many a tear, And yet but made a middling grenadier. O thou 'teterrima causa' of all 'belli'- Thou gate of life and death--thou nondescript! Whence is our exit and our entrance,--well I May pause in pondering how all souls are dipt In thy perennial fountain:--how man fell I Know not, since knowledge saw her branches stript Of her first fruit; but how he falls and rises Since, thou hast settled beyond all surmises. Some call thee 'the worst cause of war,' but I Maintain thou art the best: for after all From thee we come, to thee we go, and why To get at thee not batter down a wall, Or waste a world? since no one can deny Thou dost replenish worlds both great and small: With, or without thee, all things at a stand Are, or would be, thou sea of life's dry land! Catherine, who was the grand epitome Of that great cause of war, or peace, or what You please (it causes all the things which be, So you may take your choice of this or that)-- Catherine, I say, was very glad to see The handsome herald, on whose plumage sat Victory; and pausing as she saw him kneel With his despatch, forgot to break the seal. Then recollecting the whole empress, nor forgetting quite the woman (which composed At least three parts of this great whole), she tore The letter open with an air which posed The court, that watch'd each look her visage wore, Until a royal smile at length disclosed Fair weather for the day. Though rather spacious, Her face was noble, her eyes fine, mouth gracious. Great joy was hers, or rather joys: the first Was a ta'en city, thirty thousand slain. Glory and triumph o'er her aspect burst, As an East Indian sunrise on the main. These quench'd a moment her ambition's thirst-- So Arab deserts drink in summer's rain: In vain!--As fall the dews on quenchless sands, Blood only serves to wash Ambition's hands! Her next amusement was more fanciful; She smiled at mad Suwarrow's rhymes, who threw Into a Russian couplet rather dull The whole gazette of thousands whom he slew. Her third was feminine enough to annul The shudder which runs naturally through Our veins, when things call'd sovereigns think it best To kill, and generals turn it into jest. The two first feelings ran their course complete, And lighted first her eye, and then her mouth: The whole court look'd immediately most sweet, Like flowers well water'd after a long drouth. But when on the lieutenant at her feet Her majesty, who liked to gaze on youth Almost as much as on a new despatch, Glanced mildly, all the world was on the watch. Though somewhat large, exuberant, and truculent, When wroth--while pleased, she was as fine a figure As those who like things rosy, ripe, and succulent, Would wish to look on, while they are in vigour. She could repay each amatory look you lent With interest, and in turn was wont with rigour To exact of Cupid's bills the full amount At sight, nor would permit you to discount. With her the latter, though at times convenient, Was not so necessary; for they tell That she was handsome, and though fierce look'd lenient, And always used her favourites too well. If once beyond her boudoir's precincts in ye went, Your 'fortune' was in a fair way 'to swell A man' (as Giles says); for though she would widow all Nations, she liked man as an individual. What a strange thing is man? and what a stranger Is woman! What a whirlwind is her head, And what a whirlpool full of depth and danger Is all the rest about her! Whether wed Or widow, maid or mother, she can change her Mind like the wind: whatever she has said Or done, is light to what she 'll say or do;-- The oldest thing on record, and yet new! O Catherine! (for of all interjections, To thee both oh! and ah! belong of right In love and war) how odd are the connections Of human thoughts, which jostle in their flight! Just now yours were cut out in different sections: First Ismail's capture caught your fancy quite; Next of new knights, the fresh and glorious batch; And thirdly he who brought you the despatch! Shakspeare talks of 'the herald Mercury New lighted on a heaven-kissing hill;' And some such visions cross'd her majesty, While her young herald knelt before her still. 'T is very true the hill seem'd rather high, For a lieutenant to climb up; but skill Smooth'd even the Simplon's steep, and by God's blessing With youth and health all kisses are 'heaven-kissing.' Her majesty look'd down, the youth look'd up-- And so they fell in love;--she with his face, His grace, his God-knows-what: for Cupid's cup With the first draught intoxicates apace, A quintessential laudanum or 'black drop,' Which makes one drunk at once, without the base Expedient of full bumpers; for the eye In love drinks all life's fountains (save tears) dry. He, on the other hand, if not in love, Fell into that no less imperious passion, Self-love--which, when some sort of thing above Ourselves, a singer, dancer, much in fashion, Or duchess, princess, empress, 'deigns to prove' ('T is Pope's phrase) a great longing, though a rash one, For one especial person out of many, Makes us believe ourselves as good as any. Besides, he was of that delighted age Which makes all female ages equal--when We don't much care with whom we may engage, As bold as Daniel in the lion's den, So that we can our native sun assuage In the next ocean, which may flow just then, To make a twilight in, just as Sol's heat is Quench'd in the lap of the salt sea, or Thetis. And Catherine (we must say thus much for Catherine), Though bold and bloody, was the kind of thing Whose temporary passion was quite flattering, Because each lover look'd a sort of king, Made up upon an amatory pattern, A royal husband in all save the ring-- Which, being the damn'dest part of matrimony, Seem'd taking out the sting to leave the honey. And when you add to this, her womanhood In its meridian, her blue eyes or gray (The last, if they have soul, are quite as good, Or better, as the best examples say: Napoleon's, Mary's (queen of Scotland), should Lend to that colour a transcendent ray; And Pallas also sanctions the same hue, Too wise to look through optics black or blue)-- Her sweet smile, and her then majestic figure, Her plumpness, her imperial condescension, Her preference of a boy to men much bigger (Fellows whom Messalina's self would pension), Her prime of life, just now in juicy vigour, With other extras, which we need not mention,-- All these, or any one of these, explain Enough to make a stripling very vain. And that 's enough, for love is vanity, Selfish in its beginning as its end, Except where 't is a mere insanity, A maddening spirit which would strive to blend Itself with beauty's frail inanity, On which the passion's self seems to depend: And hence some heathenish philosophers Make love the main spring of the universe. Besides Platonic love, besides the love Of God, the love of sentiment, the loving Of faithful pairs (I needs must rhyme with dove, That good old steam-boat which keeps verses moving 'Gainst reason--Reason ne'er was hand-and-glove With rhyme, but always leant less to improving The sound than sense)--beside all these pretences To love, there are those things which words name senses; Those movements, those improvements in our bodies Which make all bodies anxious to get out Of their own sand-pits, to mix with a goddess, For such all women are at first no doubt. How beautiful that moment! and how odd is That fever which precedes the languid rout Of our sensations! What a curious way The whole thing is of clothing souls in clay! The noblest kind of love is love Platonical, To end or to begin with; the next grand Is that which may be christen'd love canonical, Because the clergy take the thing in hand; The third sort to be noted in our chronicle As flourishing in every Christian land, Is when chaste matrons to their other ties Add what may be call'd marriage in disguise. Well, we won't analyse--our story must Tell for itself: the sovereign was smitten, Juan much flatter'd by her love, or lust;-- I cannot stop to alter words once written, And the two are so mix'd with human dust, That he who names one, both perchance may hit on: But in such matters Russia's mighty empress Behaved no better than a common sempstress. The whole court melted into one wide whisper, And all lips were applied unto all ears! The elder ladies' wrinkles curl'd much crisper As they beheld; the younger cast some leers On one another, and each lovely lisper Smiled as she talk'd the matter o'er; but tears Of rivalship rose in each clouded eye Of all the standing army who stood by. All the ambassadors of all the powers Enquired, Who was this very new young man, Who promised to be great in some few hours? Which is full soon--though life is but a span. Already they beheld the silver showers Of rubles rain, as fast as specie can, Upon his cabinet, besides the presents Of several ribands, and some thousand peasants. Catherine was generous,--all such ladies are: Love, that great opener of the heart and all The ways that lead there, be they near or far, Above, below, by turnpikes great or small,-- Love (though she had a cursed taste for war, And was not the best wife, unless we call Such Clytemnestra, though perhaps 't is better That one should die, than two drag on the fetter)-- Love had made Catherine make each lover's fortune, Unlike our own half-chaste Elizabeth, Whose avarice all disbursements did importune, If history, the grand liar, ever saith The truth; and though grief her old age might shorten, Because she put a favourite to death, Her vile, ambiguous method of flirtation, And stinginess, disgrace her sex and station. But when the levee rose, and all was bustle In the dissolving circle, all the nations' Ambassadors began as 't were to hustle Round the young man with their congratulations. Also the softer silks were heard to rustle Of gentle dames, among whose recreations It is to speculate on handsome faces, Especially when such lead to high places. Juan, der sich plötzlich in einer unklaren Situation wiederfand, Antwortete mit sehr anmutigem Verbeugen, Als ob er für den diplomatischen Dienst geboren worden wäre. Obwohl bescheiden, war auf seiner unbeschwerten Stirn Die Naturalschrift eines Gentleman zu sehen. Er sagte Wenig, aber zielgerichtet; und sein Auftreten Warf schwebende Anmut um ihn herum wie eine Fahne. Ein Befehl von Ihrer Majestät übertrug Unseren jungen Leutnant der freundlichen Obhut Derer im Amt: Die ganze Welt schien freundlich (Wie sie es manchmal bei dem ersten Blick tut, Den die Jugend nicht vergessen sollte), Auch Miss Protasoff war damals dort, Genannt nach ihrem mysteriösen Amt 'l'Eprouveuse,' Ein für die Muse unerklärlicher Begriff. Mit ihr zusammen, aus pflichtbewusster Unterwürfigkeit, Zog sich Juan zurück - und das werde auch ich tun, Bis mein Pegasus müde wird, den Boden zu berühren. Wir sind gerade auf einen 'himmelhohen Berg' gestoßen, So hoch, dass ich meinen Kopf drehen fühle Und all meine Fantasien wie in einem Mühlenrad wirbeln; Was ein Zeichen ist für meine Nerven und meinen Verstand, Eine ruhige Fahrt auf einer grünen Allee zu machen. Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Die ersten zehn Strophen sind ein Angriff auf Wellington, der die Schlacht von Waterloo gewonnen und von England für seinen Sieg reichlich belohnt worden ist. Byron denkt, dass er die Geschenke seines Landes nicht hätte annehmen sollen; er hätte mit Dank zufrieden sein sollen, wie Epaminondas, der Theben gerettet hat, und Washington, der sein Land befreit hat. Er hätte Europa von den tyrannischen Königen befreien können, die es regieren, aber das hat er nicht getan. "Nie hatte ein sterblicher Mann eine solche Gelegenheit, Außer Napoleon, oder hat sie mehr missbraucht." In der Erzählung wird deutlich, dass Don Juan von Suwarow ausgewählt wurde, die Nachricht von der Eroberung von Ismail nach Petersburg zur Zarin Katharina zu bringen. Als er vor der Königin kniet und seine Depesche überreicht, machen seine jugendliche Schönheit einen so großen Eindruck auf sie, dass sie für einige Augenblicke vergisst, das Siegel zu brechen. Sie verliebt sich in ihn, während sie ihn betrachtet. Dann öffnet sie die Depesche und "große Freude erfüllt sie". Die Aufmerksamkeit des ganzen Hofes ist auf Juan gerichtet, als sie sehen, dass er die Gunst der Zarin gewonnen hat. Katharinas Liebe zu Juan wird erwidert. Obwohl sie viel älter ist als er, "war er von dem erfreuten Alter, / Das alle weiblichen Zeitalter gleich macht".

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: It is indispensable to present the accomplished lady who was of sufficient importance in the suite of the Dorrit Family to have a line to herself in the Travellers' Book. Mrs General was the daughter of a clerical dignitary in a cathedral town, where she had led the fashion until she was as near forty-five as a single lady can be. A stiff commissariat officer of sixty, famous as a martinet, had then become enamoured of the gravity with which she drove the proprieties four-in-hand through the cathedral town society, and had solicited to be taken beside her on the box of the cool coach of ceremony to which that team was harnessed. His proposal of marriage being accepted by the lady, the commissary took his seat behind the proprieties with great decorum, and Mrs General drove until the commissary died. In the course of their united journey, they ran over several people who came in the way of the proprieties; but always in a high style and with composure. The commissary having been buried with all the decorations suitable to the service (the whole team of proprieties were harnessed to his hearse, and they all had feathers and black velvet housings with his coat of arms in the corner), Mrs General began to inquire what quantity of dust and ashes was deposited at the bankers'. It then transpired that the commissary had so far stolen a march on Mrs General as to have bought himself an annuity some years before his marriage, and to have reserved that circumstance in mentioning, at the period of his proposal, that his income was derived from the interest of his money. Mrs General consequently found her means so much diminished, that, but for the perfect regulation of her mind, she might have felt disposed to question the accuracy of that portion of the late service which had declared that the commissary could take nothing away with him. In this state of affairs it occurred to Mrs General, that she might 'form the mind,' and eke the manners of some young lady of distinction. Or, that she might harness the proprieties to the carriage of some rich young heiress or widow, and become at once the driver and guard of such vehicle through the social mazes. Mrs General's communication of this idea to her clerical and commissariat connection was so warmly applauded that, but for the lady's undoubted merit, it might have appeared as though they wanted to get rid of her. Testimonials representing Mrs General as a prodigy of piety, learning, virtue, and gentility, were lavishly contributed from influential quarters; and one venerable archdeacon even shed tears in recording his testimony to her perfections (described to him by persons on whom he could rely), though he had never had the honour and moral gratification of setting eyes on Mrs General in all his life. Thus delegated on her mission, as it were by Church and State, Mrs General, who had always occupied high ground, felt in a condition to keep it, and began by putting herself up at a very high figure. An interval of some duration elapsed, in which there was no bid for Mrs General. At length a county-widower, with a daughter of fourteen, opened negotiations with the lady; and as it was a part either of the native dignity or of the artificial policy of Mrs General (but certainly one or the other) to comport herself as if she were much more sought than seeking, the widower pursued Mrs General until he prevailed upon her to form his daughter's mind and manners. The execution of this trust occupied Mrs General about seven years, in the course of which time she made the tour of Europe, and saw most of that extensive miscellany of objects which it is essential that all persons of polite cultivation should see with other people's eyes, and never with their own. When her charge was at length formed, the marriage, not only of the young lady, but likewise of her father, the widower, was resolved on. The widower then finding Mrs General both inconvenient and expensive, became of a sudden almost as much affected by her merits as the archdeacon had been, and circulated such praises of her surpassing worth, in all quarters where he thought an opportunity might arise of transferring the blessing to somebody else, that Mrs General was a name more honourable than ever. The phoenix was to let, on this elevated perch, when Mr Dorrit, who had lately succeeded to his property, mentioned to his bankers that he wished to discover a lady, well-bred, accomplished, well connected, well accustomed to good society, who was qualified at once to complete the education of his daughters, and to be their matron or chaperon. Mr Dorrit's bankers, as bankers of the county-widower, instantly said, 'Mrs General.' Pursuing the light so fortunately hit upon, and finding the concurrent testimony of the whole of Mrs General's acquaintance to be of the pathetic nature already recorded, Mr Dorrit took the trouble of going down to the county of the county-widower to see Mrs General, in whom he found a lady of a quality superior to his highest expectations. 'Might I be excused,' said Mr Dorrit, 'if I inquired--ha--what remune--' 'Why, indeed,' returned Mrs General, stopping the word, 'it is a subject on which I prefer to avoid entering. I have never entered on it with my friends here; and I cannot overcome the delicacy, Mr Dorrit, with which I have always regarded it. I am not, as I hope you are aware, a governess--' 'O dear no!' said Mr Dorrit. 'Pray, madam, do not imagine for a moment that I think so.' He really blushed to be suspected of it. Mrs General gravely inclined her head. 'I cannot, therefore, put a price upon services which it is a pleasure to me to render if I can render them spontaneously, but which I could not render in mere return for any consideration. Neither do I know how, or where, to find a case parallel to my own. It is peculiar.' No doubt. But how then (Mr Dorrit not unnaturally hinted) could the subject be approached? 'I cannot object,' said Mrs General--'though even that is disagreeable to me--to Mr Dorrit's inquiring, in confidence of my friends here, what amount they have been accustomed, at quarterly intervals, to pay to my credit at my bankers'.' Mr Dorrit bowed his acknowledgements. 'Permit me to add,' said Mrs General, 'that beyond this, I can never resume the topic. Also that I can accept no second or inferior position. If the honour were proposed to me of becoming known to Mr Dorrit's family--I think two daughters were mentioned?--' 'Two daughters.' 'I could only accept it on terms of perfect equality, as a companion, protector, Mentor, and friend.' Mr Dorrit, in spite of his sense of his importance, felt as if it would be quite a kindness in her to accept it on any conditions. He almost said as much. 'I think,' repeated Mrs General, 'two daughters were mentioned?' 'Two daughters,' said Mr Dorrit again. 'It would therefore,' said Mrs General, 'be necessary to add a third more to the payment (whatever its amount may prove to be), which my friends here have been accustomed to make to my bankers'.' Mr Dorrit lost no time in referring the delicate question to the county-widower, and finding that he had been accustomed to pay three hundred pounds a-year to the credit of Mrs General, arrived, without any severe strain on his arithmetic, at the conclusion that he himself must pay four. Mrs General being an article of that lustrous surface which suggests that it is worth any money, he made a formal proposal to be allowed to have the honour and pleasure of regarding her as a member of his family. Mrs General conceded that high privilege, and here she was. In person, Mrs General, including her skirts which had much to do with it, was of a dignified and imposing appearance; ample, rustling, gravely voluminous; always upright behind the proprieties. She might have been taken--had been taken--to the top of the Alps and the bottom of Herculaneum, without disarranging a fold in her dress, or displacing a pin. If her countenance and hair had rather a floury appearance, as though from living in some transcendently genteel Mill, it was rather because she was a chalky creation altogether, than because she mended her complexion with violet powder, or had turned grey. If her eyes had no expression, it was probably because they had nothing to express. If she had few wrinkles, it was because her mind had never traced its name or any other inscription on her face. A cool, waxy, blown-out woman, who had never lighted well. Mrs General had no opinions. Her way of forming a mind was to prevent it from forming opinions. She had a little circular set of mental grooves or rails on which she started little trains of other people's opinions, which never overtook one another, and never got anywhere. Even her propriety could not dispute that there was impropriety in the world; but Mrs General's way of getting rid of it was to put it out of sight, and make believe that there was no such thing. This was another of her ways of forming a mind--to cram all articles of difficulty into cupboards, lock them up, and say they had no existence. It was the easiest way, and, beyond all comparison, the properest. Mrs General was not to be told of anything shocking. Accidents, miseries, and offences, were never to be mentioned before her. Passion was to go to sleep in the presence of Mrs General, and blood was to change to milk and water. The little that was left in the world, when all these deductions were made, it was Mrs General's province to varnish. In that formation process of hers, she dipped the smallest of brushes into the largest of pots, and varnished the surface of every object that came under consideration. The more cracked it was, the more Mrs General varnished it. There was varnish in Mrs General's voice, varnish in Mrs General's touch, an atmosphere of varnish round Mrs General's figure. Mrs General's dreams ought to have been varnished--if she had any--lying asleep in the arms of the good Saint Bernard, with the feathery snow falling on his house-top. Können Sie eine passende Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Auf unserer Reise sind auch unsere Freunde dabei, zum Beispiel Frau General, die im Grunde genommen eine Gouvernante für die jungen Dorrit-Damen ist, aber viel zu wichtig, um sich so nennen zu lassen. Wer ist Frau General? Nun, sie ist so eine Art streng und überaus korrekte Dame. Früher war sie mit einem Armeeoffizier verheiratet, der gestorben ist und ihr viel weniger Geld hinterlassen hat, als sie eigentlich wollte. Deshalb hat sie beschlossen, eine Art erzieherische Beraterin in Vollzeit zu werden. Okay, wen versuchen wir hier zu täuschen - sie hat beschlossen, eine Gouvernante zu werden, will aber nicht so genannt werden. Dorrit ist bei ihrer Suche nach einer solchen Frau zufällig auf sie gestoßen - um seinen Töchtern eine bessere Bildung zu ermöglichen und die Dorrit-Mädchen auf eine Position in der High Society vorzubereiten. Als er kam, um sie bei ihrem ersten Job zu treffen, versuchte er zu fragen, wie viel sie bezahlt werden möchte. Frau General machte dann ein riesiges, verrücktes Aufhebens darüber, dass sie niemals über Geld spreche und es jetzt auch nicht tun würde. Aber weißt du, wenn er ihre früheren Arbeitgeber fragen wolle, sei das schon okay. Ach ja, und er müsste ein Drittel mehr bezahlen als sie, denn er hatte zwei Mädchen. Na dann, Frau General. Ihre grundlegende Bildungsphilosophie ist eine scharfe Satire auf die Art von ausgelutschten Klischees, die damals verwendet wurden, um "Kultur" zu vermitteln. Sie ignoriert alles Negative, Unangenehme oder Reale und will auch nichts davon hören. Sie möchte nie, dass ihre Schüler ihre eigenen Meinungen zu irgendetwas entwickeln. In erster Linie möchte sie einfach, dass sie superkorrekt, steif und äußerst ordentlich sind. Mit anderen Worten, halb tot und halb komatös. Was für ein Vergnügen.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Kapitel: KAPITEL IV. MILENDO, DIE METROPOLE VON LILLIPUT, ZUSAMMEN MIT DEM KAISERPALAST. EIN GESPRÄCH ZWISCHEN DEM AUTOR UND EINEM HOCHGESCHETZTEN SEKRETÄR ÜBER DIE ANGELEGENHEITEN DES REICHES. DER AUTOR BIETET AN, DEM KAISER IN SEINEN KRIEGEN ZU DIENEN. Die erste Bitte, die ich stellte, nachdem ich meine Freiheit erlangt hatte, war, dass ich die Erlaubnis bekommen könnte, Milendo, die Metropole, zu besichtigen. Der Kaiser gewährte mir dies ohne Probleme, aber mit der besonderen Auflage, weder den Bewohnern noch ihren Häusern Schaden zuzufügen. Die Bevölkerung erhielt durch eine Proklamation Kenntnis von meinem Vorhaben, die Stadt zu besuchen. Die Stadtmauer ist zweieinhalb Fuß hoch und mindestens elf Zoll breit, so dass eine Kutsche und Pferde sicher daran entlang fahren können. Sie wird von starken Türmen flankiert, die zehn Fuß voneinander entfernt sind. Ich ging über das große Westtor und ging sehr vorsichtig und seitlich durch die beiden Hauptstraßen, nur in meiner kurzen Weste, um die Dächer und Traufen der Häuser nicht zu beschädigen. Ich ging äußerst umsichtig, um nicht auf streunende Personen zu treten, die sich noch in den Straßen aufhalten könnten, obwohl die Anordnungen sehr streng waren, dass sich alle Menschen auf eigenes Risiko in ihren Häusern aufhalten sollten. Die Fenster und Dächer waren so voller Zuschauer, dass ich dachte, an keinem anderen Ort in meinen Reisen eine bevölkertere Gegend gesehen zu haben. Die Stadt ist ein exaktes Quadrat, jede Seite der Mauer ist 500 Fuß lang. Die beiden Hauptstraßen, die sie durchqueren und in vier Viertel aufteilen, sind fünf Fuß breit. Die Gassen und Gassen, in die ich nicht eintreten konnte, sondern sie nur beim Vorbeigehen betrachtete, sind zwischen zwölf und achtzehn Zoll breit. Die Stadt kann eine halbe Million Menschen aufnehmen; die Häuser haben drei bis fünf Stockwerke; die Geschäfte und Märkte sind gut ausgestattet. Der Kaiserpalast befindet sich im Zentrum der Stadt, wo sich die beiden großen Straßen treffen. Er ist von einer zwei Fuß hohen Mauer umgeben, die zwanzig Fuß von den Gebäuden entfernt ist. Ich hatte die Erlaubnis seiner Majestät, über diese Mauer zu steigen; und da der Raum zwischen dieser Mauer und dem Palast so breit war, konnte ich ihn problemlos von allen Seiten betrachten. Der äußere Hof ist ein Quadrat von vierzig Fuß und umfasst zwei weitere Höfe; im innersten befinden sich die königlichen Gemächer, die ich sehr gerne sehen wollte, was sich jedoch als äußerst schwierig erwies; denn die großen Tore von einem Hof in den anderen waren nur achtzehn Zoll hoch und sieben Zoll breit. Die Gebäude des äußeren Hofes waren mindestens fünf Fuß hoch, und es war für mich unmöglich, darüber zu treten, ohne unendlichen Schaden an dem Bauwerk anzurichten, obwohl die Mauern stark aus gehauenem Stein und vier Zoll dick waren. Zu dieser Zeit hatte der Kaiser jedoch den großen Wunsch, dass ich die Pracht seines Palastes sehen sollte; aber das konnte ich erst drei Tage später tun, in denen ich damit verbrachte, mit meinem Messer einige der größten Bäume im königlichen Park etwa hundert Meter von der Stadt entfernt umzuschneiden. Aus diesen Bäumen machte ich zwei Hocker, jeweils etwa einen Meter hoch und stark genug, um mein Gewicht zu tragen. [Abbildung: "IHRE KAISERLICHE MAJESTÄT HATTE DIE GÜTE, SEHR GÜNSTIG AUF MICH ZU LÄCHELN" S. 50.] Als die Menschen zum zweiten Mal davon Kenntnis erhielten, ging ich wieder durch die Stadt zum Palast, mit meinen beiden Hockern in den Händen. Als ich an der Seite des äußeren Hofes ankam, stellte ich mich auf einen Hocker und nahm den anderen in die Hand; diesen hob ich über das Dach und setzte ihn vorsichtig in den Raum zwischen dem ersten und zweiten Hof, der acht Fuß breit war. Dann ging ich sehr bequem über das Gebäude, von einem Hocker zum anderen, und zog den ersten mithilfe eines gekrümmten Stockes nach oben. Mit dieser Vorrichtung gelangte ich in den innersten Hof; und indem ich mich seitlich hinlegte, legte ich mein Gesicht an die Fenster der mittleren Stockwerke, die extra offen gelassen wurden, und entdeckte die prächtigsten Gemächer, die man sich vorstellen kann. Dort sah ich die Kaiserin und die jungen Prinzen in ihren verschiedenen Wohnungen, mit ihren wichtigsten Begleitern um sich herum. Ihre Kaiserliche Majestät hatte die Güte, sehr günstig auf mich zu lächeln und mir aus dem Fenster ihre Hand zum Küssen zu reichen. Aber ich werde dem Leser hier keine weiteren Beschreibungen dieser Art vorwegnehmen, da ich sie für ein größeres Werk aufbewahre, das nun fast druckfertig ist und eine allgemeine Beschreibung dieses Reiches vom Beginn seiner Gründung bis hin zu einer langen Reihe von Herrschern enthält, zusammen mit einem besonderen Bericht über ihre Kriege und Politik, Gesetze, Bildung und Religion, ihre Pflanzen und Tiere, ihre eigentümlichen Sitten und Gebräuche sowie andere äußerst interessante und nützliche Angelegenheiten. Mein Hauptziel ist es derzeit nur, solche Ereignisse und Vorkommnisse zu berichten, die in der Öffentlichkeit oder für mich während eines Aufenthalts von etwa neun Monaten in diesem Reich passiert sind. Eines Morgens, etwa zwei Wochen nachdem ich meine Freiheit erlangt hatte, kam Reldresal, der Hauptsekretär (wie sie ihn nennen) für private Angelegenheiten, zusammen mit einem Diener zu mir nach Hause. Er ließ seinen Kutscher in einiger Entfernung warten und bat um eine Stunde Audienz, was ich angesichts seiner Stellung und persönlichen Verdienste sowie der vielen guten Taten, die er mir während meines Einsatzes am Hofes erwiesen hatte, gerne zustimmte. Ich bot an, mich hinzulegen, damit er mein Ohr bequemer erreichen konnte; aber er entschied sich dafür, dass ich ihn während unseres Gesprächs in meiner Hand halten solle. Er begann mit Komplimenten über meine Freiheit; sagte, er könnte gewissermaßen darin einen Verdienst sehen. Aber dennoch fügte er hinzu, dass ich, wenn es nicht für die gegenwärtige Lage am Hof gewesen wäre, sie vielleicht nicht so bald erhalten hätte. Denn, sagte er, so blühend wir Ausländern auch erscheinen mögen, wir leiden unter zwei großen Übeln: einer militanten Fraktion daheim und der Gefahr einer Invasion von einem äußerst mächtigen Feind aus dem Ausland. Was das erste betrifft, ist zu verstehen, dass es in diesem Imperium seit über siebzig Monden zwei kämpfende Parteien gibt, die sich unter den Namen Tramecksan und Slamecksan kennzeichnen, basierend auf den hohen und niedrigen Absätzen ihrer Schuhe. Es wird tatsächlich behauptet, dass die hohen Absätze unserer alten Verfassung am angenehmsten sind; aber wie dem auch sei, seine Majestät hat entschieden, in der Regierung und in allen vom König vergebenen Ämtern nur von niedrigen Absätzen Gebrauch zu machen, wie Sie deutlich sehen können: und insbesondere sind die Absätze seiner imperialen Majestät um mindestens einen drurr niedriger als die aller seiner Hofmitglieder (ein drurr ist ein Maß von etwa einem vierzehnten Zoll). Die Feindseligkeiten zwischen diesen beiden Parteien sind derart, dass sie weder miteinander essen, trinken noch sprechen. Wir schätzen, dass die Tramecksan oder hohen Absätze in der Anzahl überlegen sind; aber die Macht liegt ganz auf unserer Seite. Wir nehmen an, dass der Thronfolger, seine kaiserliche Hoheit, einen Hang zu den hohen Absätzen hat; zumindest können wir deutlich erkennen, dass einer seiner Absätze höher ist als der andere, was zu einem Hinken führt. Mitten in diesen inneren Unruhen werden wir also von einer Invasion der Insel Blefuscu bedroht, die das andere große Imperium des Universums darstellt, fast so groß und mächtig wie das von seiner Majestät. Denn was wir von Ihnen gehört haben, nämlich dass es andere Königreiche und Staaten in der Welt gibt, in denen menschliche Wesen leben, die so groß sind wie Sie, veranlasst unsere Philosophen zu große Zweifel, und sie würden eher vermuten, dass Sie vom Mond oder einem der Sterne gefallen sind, denn es ist sicher, dass hundert Sterbliche von Ihrer Größe in kurzer Zeit alle Früchte und das Vieh seines majestätischen Herrschaftsgebiets vernichten würden. Unsere Geschichtsbücher mit sechstausend Monden erwähnen keine anderen Regionen als die beiden großen Imperien von Lilliput und Blefuscu. Diese beiden mächtigen Mächte haben, wie ich Ihnen schon sagen wollte, seit sechsunddreißig Monden einen äußerst hartnäckigen Krieg geführt. Er begann mit folgendem Vorfall: Es steht außer Frage, dass die ursprüngliche Methode, Eier vor dem Verzehr aufzuschlagen, darin bestand, dies am dickeren Ende zu tun; aber sein derzeitiger Majestätsgroßvater, als er noch ein kleiner Junge war und ein Ei essen wollte, brach es in Übereinstimmung mit der alten Praxis und schnitt sich dabei versehentlich einen Finger. Daraufhin erließ der Kaiser, sein Vater, ein Edikt, das all seinen Untertanen unter großen Strafen vorschrieb, die Eier am kleineren Ende aufzuschlagen. Das Volk war so wütend über dieses Gesetz, dass unsere Geschichtsbücher uns von sechs Aufständen berichten, bei denen ein Kaiser sein Leben und ein anderer seine Krone verlor. Diese inneren Unruhen wurden ständig von den Monarchen von Blefuscu geschürt, und wenn sie niedergeschlagen wurden, flohen die Exilierten immer nach Blefuscu. Es wird geschätzt, dass elftausend Personen zu verschiedenen Zeiten eher den Tod erlitten haben, als sich dem Aufschlagen der Eier am dünneren Ende zu beugen. Aufgrund dieser Kontroverse wurden viele hundert dicke Bücher veröffentlicht, aber die Bücher der Endießen wurden lange Zeit verboten, und die gesamte Partei wurde gesetzlich daran gehindert, Ämter zu bekleiden. Während dieser Unruhen protestierten die Kaiser von Blefuscu mehrmals durch ihre Botschafter und beschuldigten uns, wegen Verstoßes gegen eine grundlegende Lehre unseres großen Propheten Lustrog in Kapitel vierundfünfzig des Blundecral (das ist ihr Alcoran) eine Spaltung in der Religion zu verursachen.[24] Dies wird jedoch als bloße Auslegung des Textes angesehen, da dort steht: Dass alle wahren Gläubigen das Ei an dem günstigen Ende aufschlagen. Und welches Ende günstig ist, scheint meiner bescheidenen Meinung nach jedem Gewissensentscheid zu überlassen zu sein oder zumindest der Entscheidung des Obersten Hauptmanns. Nun, die Endießen der Exilierten haben in der kaiserlichen Hof des Kaisers von Blefuscu so viel Zustimmung gefunden und so viel private Unterstützung und Ermutigung von ihrer Partei hier zu Hause, dass zwischen den beiden Reichen seit sechsunddreißig Monden ein blutiger Krieg mit wechselhaftem Erfolg geführt wird. In dieser Zeit haben wir vierzig Hauptkriegsschiffe und eine viel größere Anzahl von kleineren Schiffen sowie dreißigtausend unserer besten Seeleute und Soldaten verloren; und der entstandene Schaden beim Feind wird auf etwas Größeres als unseren geschätzt. Sie haben jetzt jedoch eine zahlreiche Flotte ausgerüstet und bereiten sich gerade darauf vor, auf uns zu landen; und seine kaiserliche Majestät hat großes Vertrauen in Ihre Tapferkeit und Stärke und hat mir den Befehl gegeben, Ihnen diesen Bericht über seine Angelegenheiten vorzulegen. Ich bat den Sekretär, dem Kaiser meinen demütigen Gruß zu übermitteln und ihm mitzuteilen, dass es mir als Ausländer nicht zustehe, mich in die Parteien einzumischen; aber dass ich bereit sei, mit der Gefahr meines Lebens seinen Person und Staat gegen alle Angreifer zu verteidigen. Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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

Nachdem Gulliver seine Freiheit zurückerlangt hat, fragt er als erstes den Kaiser, ob er nach Mildendo kann, die Hauptstadt von Lilliput. Der Kaiser stimmt zu und Gulliver betritt die Stadt. Er geht durch die Hauptstraßen und besucht den Palast des Kaisers. An dieser Stelle beschreibt Gulliver ausführlich den Zustand von Lilliput selbst, wie ihm von Redresal, dem Hauptsekretär des Landes, berichtet wurde. Anscheinend gibt es im Reich zwei rivalisierende Fraktionen, die Tramecksaner und die Slamecksaner. Die Tramecksaner werden auch als die "Hochhackigen" bezeichnet, weil sie hochhackige Schuhe tragen; die Slamecksaner sind die "Flachhackigen". Obwohl die Hochhackigen große Fans der Verfassung von Lilliput sind, besetzt der Kaiser seine Regierung nur mit Vertretern der Flachhackigen. Die beiden Parteien hassen einander so sehr, dass sie nicht miteinander essen, trinken oder reden können. Während die Absätze des Kaisers definitiv flach sind, scheint sein Sohn, der Thronfolger, weniger entschieden zu sein: einer seiner Absätze ist hoch, der andere niedrig, was es schwierig für ihn macht, herumzulaufen. Lilliput ist nicht nur innerlich gespalten, sondern wird auch von der Insel Blefuscu, einem zweiten Inselreich, das "fast so groß und mächtig wie das seines Majestät" ist, von außen bedroht. Redresal gibt zu, dass es außerhalb der Lilliput/Blefuscu-Binarität möglicherweise Länder gibt, aber die Philosophen von Lilliput denken, dass es wahrscheinlich keine gibt. Sie glauben gerne, dass Gulliver ein Außerirdischer ist, der vom Mond gefallen ist. Der Krieg zwischen Lilliput und Blefuscu dauert bereits seit drei Jahren an. Alles begann mit dem Großvater des aktuellen Kaisers, der sich als Kind an einem Eierschalenstück den Finger geschnitten hat. Der Urgroßvater des Kaisers glaubt, dass sein Sohn sich den Finger geschnitten hat, weil er sein Ei auf der runden, großen Seite statt der kleinen, spitzen Seite gebrochen hat. Obwohl bis zu diesem Moment immer alle ihre Eier auf der großen Seite aufgeklopft haben, verordnet der Großvater des aktuellen Kaisers, dass ab sofort jeder sein Ei auf der kleinen Seite aufklopfen muss - der Sicherheit halber! Redresal nennt diejenigen, die ihre Eier an der großen Seite aufklopfen, Großseitler; diejenigen, die ihre Eier an der kleinen Seite aufklopfen, werden Kleinschachtler genannt. Die Menschen sind so gegen dieses neue Ei-Aufklopp-Gesetz, dass sie immer wieder gegen den Kaiser rebellieren. Diese Aufstände werden von Blefuscu finanziert, einem Land der Großseitler. Tatsächlich ruft Blefuscu derzeit seine Marine für eine Großoffensive gegen Lilliput zusammen, weil so viele Großseitler aus der Regierung der Kleinschachtler Lilliputs den Weg nach Blefuscu gefunden haben. Der Kaiser von Lilliput erwartet von Gulliver, dass er seine Stärke einsetzt, um die Insel zu verteidigen, weshalb er Redresal befohlen hat, Gulliver von dem Konflikt zwischen Großseitlern und Kleinschachtlern zu erzählen. Gulliver verspricht Redresal, dass er alles tun wird, um Lilliput zu schützen.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). 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. Plains near Rome Enter LUCIUS with an army of GOTHS with drums and colours LUCIUS. Approved warriors and my faithful friends, I have received letters from great Rome Which signifies what hate they bear their Emperor And how desirous of our sight they are. Therefore, great lords, be, as your titles witness, Imperious and impatient of your wrongs; And wherein Rome hath done you any scath, Let him make treble satisfaction. FIRST GOTH. Brave slip, sprung from the great Andronicus, Whose name was once our terror, now our comfort, Whose high exploits and honourable deeds Ingrateful Rome requites with foul contempt, Be bold in us: we'll follow where thou lead'st, Like stinging bees in hottest summer's day, Led by their master to the flow'red fields, And be aveng'd on cursed Tamora. ALL THE GOTHS. And as he saith, so say we all with him. LUCIUS. I humbly thank him, and I thank you all. But who comes here, led by a lusty Goth? Enter a GOTH, leading AARON with his CHILD in his arms SECOND GOTH. Renowned Lucius, from our troops I stray'd To gaze upon a ruinous monastery; And as I earnestly did fix mine eye Upon the wasted building, suddenly I heard a child cry underneath a wall. I made unto the noise, when soon I heard The crying babe controll'd with this discourse: 'Peace, tawny slave, half me and half thy dam! Did not thy hue bewray whose brat thou art, Had nature lent thee but thy mother's look, Villain, thou mightst have been an emperor; But where the bull and cow are both milk-white, They never do beget a coal-black calf. Peace, villain, peace!'- even thus he rates the babe- 'For I must bear thee to a trusty Goth, Who, when he knows thou art the Empress' babe, Will hold thee dearly for thy mother's sake.' With this, my weapon drawn, I rush'd upon him, Surpris'd him suddenly, and brought him hither To use as you think needful of the man. LUCIUS. O worthy Goth, this is the incarnate devil That robb'd Andronicus of his good hand; This is the pearl that pleas'd your Empress' eye; And here's the base fruit of her burning lust. Say, wall-ey'd slave, whither wouldst thou convey This growing image of thy fiend-like face? Why dost not speak? What, deaf? Not a word? A halter, soldiers! Hang him on this tree, And by his side his fruit of bastardy. AARON. Touch not the boy, he is of royal blood. LUCIUS. Too like the sire for ever being good. First hang the child, that he may see it sprawl- A sight to vex the father's soul withal. Get me a ladder. [A ladder brought, which AARON is made to climb] AARON. Lucius, save the child, And bear it from me to the Empress. If thou do this, I'll show thee wondrous things That highly may advantage thee to hear; If thou wilt not, befall what may befall, I'll speak no more but 'Vengeance rot you all!' LUCIUS. Say on; an if it please me which thou speak'st, Thy child shall live, and I will see it nourish'd. AARON. An if it please thee! Why, assure thee, Lucius, 'Twill vex thy soul to hear what I shall speak; For I must talk of murders, rapes, and massacres, Acts of black night, abominable deeds, Complots of mischief, treason, villainies, Ruthful to hear, yet piteously perform'd; And this shall all be buried in my death, Unless thou swear to me my child shall live. LUCIUS. Tell on thy mind; I say thy child shall live. AARON. Swear that he shall, and then I will begin. LUCIUS. Who should I swear by? Thou believest no god; That granted, how canst thou believe an oath? AARON. What if I do not? as indeed I do not; Yet, for I know thou art religious And hast a thing within thee called conscience, With twenty popish tricks and ceremonies Which I have seen thee careful to observe, Therefore I urge thy oath. For that I know An idiot holds his bauble for a god, And keeps the oath which by that god he swears, To that I'll urge him. Therefore thou shalt vow By that same god- what god soe'er it be That thou adorest and hast in reverence- To save my boy, to nourish and bring him up; Or else I will discover nought to thee. LUCIUS. Even by my god I swear to thee I will. AARON. First know thou, I begot him on the Empress. LUCIUS. O most insatiate and luxurious woman! AARON. Tut, Lucius, this was but a deed of charity To that which thou shalt hear of me anon. 'Twas her two sons that murdered Bassianus; They cut thy sister's tongue, and ravish'd her, And cut her hands, and trimm'd her as thou sawest. LUCIUS. O detestable villain! Call'st thou that trimming? AARON. Why, she was wash'd, and cut, and trimm'd, and 'twas Trim sport for them which had the doing of it. LUCIUS. O barbarous beastly villains like thyself! AARON. Indeed, I was their tutor to instruct them. That codding spirit had they from their mother, As sure a card as ever won the set; That bloody mind, I think, they learn'd of me, As true a dog as ever fought at head. Well, let my deeds be witness of my worth. I train'd thy brethren to that guileful hole Where the dead corpse of Bassianus lay; I wrote the letter that thy father found, And hid the gold within that letter mention'd, Confederate with the Queen and her two sons; And what not done, that thou hast cause to rue, Wherein I had no stroke of mischief in it? I play'd the cheater for thy father's hand, And, when I had it, drew myself apart And almost broke my heart with extreme laughter. I pried me through the crevice of a wall, When, for his hand, he had his two sons' heads; Beheld his tears, and laugh'd so heartily That both mine eyes were rainy like to his; And when I told the Empress of this sport, She swooned almost at my pleasing tale, And for my tidings gave me twenty kisses. GOTH. What, canst thou say all this and never blush? AARON. Ay, like a black dog, as the saying is. LUCIUS. Art thou not sorry for these heinous deeds? AARON. Ay, that I had not done a thousand more. Even now I curse the day- and yet, I think, Few come within the compass of my curse- Wherein I did not some notorious ill; As kill a man, or else devise his death; Ravish a maid, or plot the way to do it; Accuse some innocent, and forswear myself; Set deadly enmity between two friends; Make poor men's cattle break their necks; Set fire on barns and hay-stacks in the night, And bid the owners quench them with their tears. Oft have I digg'd up dead men from their graves, And set them upright at their dear friends' door Even when their sorrows almost was forgot, And on their skins, as on the bark of trees, Have with my knife carved in Roman letters 'Let not your sorrow die, though I am dead.' Tut, I have done a thousand dreadful things As willingly as one would kill a fly; And nothing grieves me heartily indeed But that I cannot do ten thousand more. LUCIUS. Bring down the devil, for he must not die So sweet a death as hanging presently. AARON. If there be devils, would I were a devil, To live and burn in everlasting fire, So I might have your company in hell But to torment you with my bitter tongue! LUCIUS. Sirs, stop his mouth, and let him speak no more. Enter AEMILIUS GOTH. Mein Herr, es ist ein Bote aus Rom da, Der wünscht, zu eurer Anwesenheit zugelassen zu werden. LUCIUS. Lasst ihn näher kommen. Willkommen, Aemilius. Was gibt es Neues aus Rom? AEMILIUS. Herr Lucius und ihr Fürsten der Goten, Der römische Kaiser grüßt euch alle durch mich; Und weil er versteht, dass ihr in Waffen seid, Bittet er um eine Unterredung im Haus eures Vaters, Er fordert euch auf, eure Geiseln zu verlangen, Und sie werden sofort ausgeliefert. ERSTER GOTH. Was sagt unser General? LUCIUS. Aemilius, lass den Kaiser seine Zusagen machen Ihrem Vater und meinem Onkel Marcus gegenüber. Und wir werden kommen. Marschieren wir weiter. Exeunt Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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In einem Feld in der Nähe von Rom hat Lucius eine Armee der Goten und römische Unterstützer von Titus versammelt. Es stellt sich heraus, dass das römische Volk ihren derzeitigen Kaiser hasst. Lucius hält eine mitreißende Rede an die Goten - jetzt ist ihre Chance, Rom alles heimzuzahlen, was sie ihnen je angetan hat! Ein Goten verkündet, dass sie bereit sind anzufangen. Dann taucht ein weiterer Goten mit Aaron und seinem Baby auf. Offensichtlich war dieser Gotische Krieger auf einer Besichtigungstour einiger römischer Ruinen, als er ein weinendes Baby und einen Mann hörte, der das Kind zum Schweigen brachte. Lucius befiehlt, dass Aaron und sein "Frucht der Schande" an einen Baum gehängt werden sollen. Aaron verspricht, einige saftige Informationen preiszugeben, wenn Lucius verspricht, sein Kind nicht zu töten. Lucius stimmt mehr oder weniger zu. Aaron enthüllt, dass Chiron und Demetrius Lavinia vergewaltigt und verstümmelt haben und gesteht, dass es alles seine Idee war. Er gesteht auch, dass er Titus dazu gebracht hat, ihm die Hand abzuschneiden und als er Tamora von seinem Tun erzählte, feierte das Paar Aarons Schabernack, indem sie miteinander rummachte. Bevor Lucius seine Männer anweist, Aarons Mund zu stopfen, macht Aaron eine überraschende Erklärung: Aemilius tritt mit einer Botschaft von Saturninus ein: Der Kaiser möchte sich im Haus von Titus treffen, um einen Friedensvertrag auszuarbeiten. Lucius stimmt zu, hinzugehen.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Kapitel: Sie betete nicht; sie bebte - sie bebte am ganzen Körper. Schwingungen kamen ihr leicht von der Hand, waren in der Tat zu konstant für sie, und sie merkte, dass sie jetzt wie eine geschlagene Harfe summte. Sie wollte nur die Decke aufsetzen, sich wieder in braunes Leinen hüllen, aber sie wollte ihre Aufregung unterdrücken und die fromme Haltung, die sie eine Weile beibehielt, schien ihr dabei zu helfen, ruhig zu bleiben. Sie freute sich aufrichtig, dass Caspar Goodwood weg war; es gab etwas daran, ihn so loszuwerden, das wie die Bezahlung, der quittierte Erhalt einer lang schwelenden Schuld auf ihrer Schulter war. Als sie erleichtert aufatmete, senkte sie ein wenig den Kopf; das Gefühl war da, pulsierte in ihrem Herzen; es war Teil ihrer Emotion, aber es war etwas, worüber sie sich schämte - es war profan und unangemessen. Erst nach zehn Minuten stand sie von den Knien auf, und auch als sie ins Wohnzimmer zurückkehrte, hatte sich ihr Zittern nicht ganz gelegt. Es hatte tatsächlich zwei Ursachen: Ein Teil davon konnte durch die lange Diskussion mit Mr. Goodwood erklärt werden, aber es musste befürchtet werden, dass der Rest einfach die Freude war, die sie der Ausübung ihrer Macht abgewann. Sie setzte sich wieder in den gleichen Stuhl und nahm ihr Buch auf, ohne es jedoch aufzuschlagen. Sie lehnte sich zurück und gab leise und sanft den Klang von sich, mit dem sie oft auf Ereignisse reagierte, bei denen die positiven Aspekte nicht offensichtlich waren, und gab sich der Zufriedenheit hin, in zwei Wochen zwei leidenschaftlichen Verehrern widerstanden zu haben. Diese Liebe zur Freiheit, von der sie Caspar Goodwood ein so kühnes Bild gezeichnet hatte, war bisher fast ausschließlich theoretisch gewesen; sie hatte sich noch nicht in großem Maßstab darauf einlassen können. Aber es schien ihr, als ob sie etwas getan habe; sie hatte von dem Genuss gekostet, wenn auch nicht von der Schlacht, zumindest von dem Sieg; sie hatte das getan, was ihrem Plan am treuesten war. Im Glühen dieses Bewusstseins erschien das Bild von Mr. Goodwood, wie er traurig durch die schmutzige Stadt nach Hause ging, mit einer gewissen vorwurfsvollen Kraft; so dass sie, als zur gleichen Zeit die Tür des Raumes geöffnet wurde, mit der Befürchtung aufstand, dass er zurückgekommen sei. Aber es war nur Henrietta Stackpole, die von ihrem Abendessen zurückkehrte. Miss Stackpole sah sofort, dass unsere junge Dame "etwas durchgemacht" hatte, und tatsächlich erforderte die Entdeckung keine große Durchdringungsgabe. Sie ging direkt auf ihre Freundin zu, die sie ohne Begrüßung empfing. Isabels Begeisterung darüber, Caspar Goodwood nach Amerika zurückgeschickt zu haben, setzte voraus, dass sie einigermaßen froh darüber war, dass er sie besucht hatte; aber gleichzeitig erinnerte sie sich perfekt daran, dass Henrietta kein Recht hatte, eine Falle für sie zu stellen. "War er hier, Liebes?" fragte Henrietta sehnsüchtig. Isabel wandte sich ab und antwortete einige Momente lang nichts. "Du hast sehr falsch gehandelt", erklärte sie schließlich. "Ich habe das Beste getan. Ich hoffe nur, du hast dasselbe getan." "Du bist nicht der Richter. Ich kann dir nicht vertrauen", sagte Isabel. Diese Aussage war nicht schmeichelhaft, aber Henrietta war viel zu selbstlos, um auf den damit verbundenen Vorwurf zu achten; sie sorgte sich nur um das, was es bezüglich ihrer Freundin bedeutete. "Isabel Archer", bemerkte sie mit gleicher Plötzlichkeit und Feierlichkeit, "wenn du einen dieser Menschen heiratest, werde ich nie wieder mit dir sprechen!" "Ehe du solch eine schreckliche Drohung aussprichst, solltest du lieber warten, bis ich gefragt werde", antwortete Isabel. Da sie Miss Stackpole noch kein Wort über Lord Warburtons Annäherungsversuche gesagt hatte, fühlte sie keinerlei Impuls, sich Henrietta zu rechtfertigen, indem sie ihr sagte, dass sie diesen Edelmann abgelehnt hatte. "Oh, du wirst schnell genug gefragt werden, sobald du auf den Kontinent kommst. Annie Climber wurde dreimal in Italien gefragt - arme, einfache kleine Annie." "Nun, wenn Annie Climber nicht erobert wurde, warum sollte ich es dann sein?" "Ich glaube nicht, dass man Annie gedrängt hat, aber du wirst es sein." "Das ist eine schmeichelhafte Überzeugung", sagte Isabel ohne Alarm. "Ich schmeichle dir nicht, Isabel, ich sage dir die Wahrheit!" rief ihre Freundin aus. "Ich hoffe, du willst mir nicht sagen, dass du Mr. Goodwood keine Hoffnung gemacht hast." "Ich sehe nicht ein, warum ich dir etwas sagen sollte; wie ich dir gerade gesagt habe, kann ich dir nicht vertrauen. Aber da du dich so sehr für Mr. Goodwood interessierst, werde ich dir nicht verheimlichen, dass er sofort nach Amerika zurückkehrt." "Sag bloß, du hast ihn weggeschickt?" Henrietta schrie fast. "Ich habe ihn gebeten, mich in Ruhe zu lassen; und das bitte ich auch von dir, Henrietta." Miss Stackpole schimmerte einen Moment lang vor Bestürzung und ging dann zum Spiegel über dem Kamin und nahm ihren Hut ab. "Ich hoffe, du hast dein Abendessen genossen", fuhr Isabel fort. Aber ihre Begleiterin ließ sich nicht von solch belanglosen Aussagen ablenken. "Weißt du, wohin du treibst, Isabel Archer?" "Jetzt gehe ich schlafen", sagte Isabel mit hartnäckiger Belanglosigkeit. "Wissen Sie, wohin Sie treiben?" Henrietta fuhr fort und hielt ihren Hut zierlich hoch. "Nein, ich habe keine Ahnung und finde es sehr angenehm, es nicht zu wissen. Eine schnelle Kutsche, in einer dunklen Nacht, die mit vier Pferden über Straßen rattert, die man nicht sehen kann - das ist meine Vorstellung von Glück." "Mr. Goodwood hat Ihnen sicherlich nicht beigebracht, solche Dinge zu sagen - wie die Heldin eines unmoralischen Romans", sagte Miss Stackpole. "Sie treiben auf einen großen Fehler zu." Isabel ärgerte sich über die Einmischung ihrer Freundin, versuchte aber dennoch, darüber nachzudenken, welche Wahrheit diese Erklärung repräsentieren könnte. Ihr fiel nichts ein, was sie davon ablenkte zu sagen: "Du musst mich sehr lieb haben, Henrietta, wenn du so aggressiv sein willst." "Ich liebe dich unendlich, Isabel", sagte Miss Stackpole mit Gefühl. "Nun, wenn du mich so sehr liebst, lass mich genauso intensiv in Ruhe. Das habe ich von Mr. Goodwood verlangt, und das muss ich auch von dir verlangen." "Pass auf, dass du nicht zu sehr alleingelassen wirst." "Das hat auch Mr. Goodwood zu mir gesagt. Ich sagte ihm, dass ich das Risiko eingehen muss." "Du bist eine risikofreudige Person - du lässt mich erschaudern!" rief Henrietta. "Wann kehrt Mr. Goodwood nach Amerika zurück?" "Ich weiß es nicht - er hat es mir nicht gesagt." "Vielleicht hast du nicht gefragt", sagte Henrietta mit einem Hauch von gerechter Ironie. "Ich habe ihm zu wenig Zufriedenheit gegeben, um das Recht zu haben, Fragen an ihn zu stellen." Diese Aussage schien Miss Stackpole für einen Moment zum Kommentar zu trotzen; aber schließlich rief sie: "Nun, Isabel, wenn ich dich nicht kennen würde, könnte ich denken, du wärst gefühllos!" "Pass auf", sagte Isabel, "du verdirbst mich." "Ich fürchte, das habe ich bereits getan. Ich hoffe zumindest", fügte Miss Stackpole hinzu, "dass er mit Annie Climber zusammenkommt!" Isabel erfuhr am nächsten Morgen von ihr, dass sie beschlossen hatte, nicht nach Gardencourt zurückzukehren (wo der alte Mr. Touch "Ich habe es für das Beste gehalten, zuerst den großartigen Doktor Sir Matthew Hope zu besuchen", sagte Ralph. "Durch großes Glück ist er in der Stadt. Er will mich um halb eins sehen, und ich werde sicherstellen, dass er nach Gardencourt kommt - was er bereitwillig tun wird, da er bereits mehrere Male meinen Vater dort und in London gesehen hat. Es gibt einen Zug um 14:45 Uhr, den ich nehmen werde, und du kommst entweder mit mir zurück oder bleibst noch ein paar Tage hier, wie du es lieber hast." "Ich werde auf jeden Fall mit dir gehen", antwortete Isabel. "Ich glaube nicht, dass ich meinem Onkel von Nutzen sein kann, aber wenn er krank ist, möchte ich in seiner Nähe sein." "Ich denke, du magst ihn sehr", sagte Ralph mit einer gewissen schüchternen Freude im Gesicht. "Du schätzt ihn, was nicht die ganze Welt getan hat. Die Qualität ist zu fein." "Ich verehre ihn sehr", sagte Isabel nach einem Moment. "Das ist sehr gut. Nach seinem Sohn ist er dein größter Bewunderer." Sie begrüßte diese Zusicherung, gab aber heimlich einen kleinen Seufzer der Erleichterung ab bei dem Gedanken, dass Herr Touchett einer dieser Bewunderer war, die ihr keinen Heiratsantrag machen könnten. Das war jedoch nicht das, was sie sagte; sie setzte fort, Ralph darüber zu informieren, dass es noch andere Gründe gab, warum sie nicht in London bleiben wollte. Sie war es leid und wollte es verlassen; außerdem würde Henrietta weggehen - nach Bedfordshire gehen. "In Bedfordshire?" "Mit Lady Pensil, der Schwester von Herrn Bantling, der für eine Einladung gebürgt hat." Ralph wurde besorgt, brach jedoch in Gelächter aus. Plötzlich kehrte jedoch seine Ernsthaftigkeit zurück. "Bantling ist ein Mann mit Mut. Aber was ist, wenn die Einladung auf dem Weg verloren geht?" "Ich dachte, die britische Post sei makellos." "Der gute Homer nickt manchmal ein", sagte Ralph. "Wie dem auch sei", fuhr er heller fort, "der gute Bantling niemals, und egal was passiert, er wird auf Henrietta aufpassen." Ralph ging zu seinem Termin mit Sir Matthew Hope und Isabel organisierte ihre Abreise aus dem Pratt's Hotel. Die Gefahr, in der sich ihr Onkel befand, berührte sie tief und als sie vor ihrem offenen Koffer stand und vage nach Dingen suchte, die sie hineinlegen sollte, stiegen ihr plötzlich die Tränen in die Augen. Vielleicht war es aus diesem Grund, dass sie um zwei Uhr noch nicht fertig war, als Ralph kam, um sie zum Bahnhof zu bringen. Er fand jedoch Miss Stackpole im Sitzungszimmer, wo sie gerade von ihrem Mittagessen aufgestanden war, und diese Lady drückte sofort ihr Bedauern über die Krankheit seines Vaters aus. "Er ist ein großartiger alter Mann", sagte sie. "Er ist bis zum Schluss treu. Wenn es wirklich das Ende ist - verzeihen Sie, dass ich darauf hinweise, aber Sie müssen oft an die Möglichkeit gedacht haben -, dann bedauere ich, dass ich nicht in Gardencourt sein werde." "In Bedfordshire werden Sie sich viel besser amüsieren." "Ich werde es bedauern, mich in solch einer Zeit zu amüsieren", sagte Henrietta mit großer Anständigkeit. Aber sie fügte sofort hinzu: "Ich möchte diese letzte Szene gerne würdigen." "Mein Vater könnte noch lange leben", sagte Ralph einfach. Dann sprach er über fröhlichere Themen und befragte Miss Stackpole nach ihrer eigenen Zukunft. Da Ralph nun in Schwierigkeiten war, sprach sie ihn in einem großzügigeren Ton an und sagte ihm, dass sie ihm sehr dankbar sei, dass er sie mit Herrn Bantling bekannt gemacht habe. "Er hat mir genau die Dinge erzählt, die ich wissen wollte", sagte sie. "Alle gesellschaftlichen Ereignisse und alles über die königliche Familie. Ich kann nicht behaupten, dass das, was er mir über die königliche Familie erzählt hat, zu ihrem Kredit gereicht; aber er sagt, das sei nur meine besondere Sichtweise. Nun, das Einzige, was ich will, ist, dass er mir die Fakten liefert; ich kann sie schnell genug zusammensetzen, sobald ich sie habe." Und sie fügte hinzu, dass Herr Bantling so freundlich gewesen sei, zu versprechen, dass er sie an diesem Nachmittag abholen würde. "Wohin nimmt er Sie mit?" fragte Ralph vorsichtig. "Zum Buckingham Palace. Er wird mir eine Führung geben, damit ich mir eine Vorstellung davon machen kann, wie sie leben." "Ah", sagte Ralph, "Sie sind in guten Händen. Wir werden als Erstes hören, dass Sie zu Windsor Castle eingeladen sind." "Wenn sie mich fragen, werde ich auf jeden Fall hingehen. Wenn ich erstmal losgelegt habe, habe ich keine Angst. Aber trotzdem", fügte Henrietta nach einem Moment hinzu, "bin ich nicht zufrieden; ich habe keine Ruhe wegen Isabel." "Was ist ihr jüngstes Vergehen?" "Nun, ich habe es Ihnen bereits gesagt, und ich nehme an, es schadet nicht, wenn ich weitermache. Mr. Goodwood war letzte Nacht hier." Ralph öffnete die Augen; er errötete sogar ein wenig - sein Erröten war das Zeichen einer ziemlich starken Emotion. Er erinnerte sich daran, dass Isabel bei der Trennung von ihm auf dem Winchester Square seine Vermutung abgelehnt hatte, dass ihr Motiv für die Trennung die Erwartung eines Besuchers im Pratt's Hotel sei, und es war für ihn eine neue Qual, sie des Doppelspiels zu verdächtigen. Andererseits sagte er sich schnell, dass es ihn nichts anging, dass sie einen Termin mit einem Liebhaber vereinbart hatte. War es nicht in allen Epochen als anmutig empfunden worden, dass junge Damen ein Geheimnis aus solchen Verabredungen machten? Ralph gab Miss Stackpole eine diplomatische Antwort. "Mit den Ansichten, die Sie mir neulich mitgeteilt haben, hätte ich gedacht, dass dies Sie vollkommen zufriedenstellt." "Dass er sie besuchen kommt? Das ist so weit in Ordnung. Es war ein kleiner Plan von mir; ich habe ihm mitgeteilt, dass wir in London sind, und als es vereinbart wurde, dass ich den Abend draußen verbringen würde, habe ich ihm ein Wort geschickt - das Wort, das wir der 'Weisen' gerade aussprechen. Ich hoffte, er würde sie alleine antreffen; ich gebe nicht vor, nicht gehofft zu haben, dass Sie außer Reichweite sein würden. Er kam, um sie zu sehen, aber er hätte auch fernbleiben können." "War Isabel grausam?" und Ralphs Gesicht hellte sich auf, erleichtert, dass seine Cousine keine Doppelzüngigkeit gezeigt hatte. "Ich weiß nicht genau, was zwischen ihnen vorgefallen ist. Aber sie hat ihm keine Zufriedenheit gegeben - sie hat ihn zurück nach Amerika geschickt." "Armer Mr. Goodwood!" seufzte Ralph. "Ihre einzige Idee scheint zu sein, ihn loszuwerden", fuhr Henrietta fort. "Armer Mr. Goodwood!" wiederholte Ralph. Das Ausrufezeichen muss zugegeben werden, dass es automatisch war; es drückte nicht genau seine Gedanken aus, die eine andere Richtung einschlugen. "Du sagst das nicht so, als ob es dich interessiert. Ich glaube nicht, dass es dir etwas ausmacht." "Ah", sagte Ralph, "du musst bedenken, dass ich diesen interessanten jungen Mann nicht kenne - dass ich ihn nie gesehen habe." "Nun, ich werde ihn sehen, und ich werde ihm sagen, dass er nicht aufgeben sollte. Wenn ich nicht daran glauben würde, dass Isabel zur Vernunft kommt", fügte Miss Stackpole hinzu, "nun, dann würde ich aufgeben. Ich meine, ich würde SIE aufgeben." Ralph kam der Gedanke, dass Isabels Abschied von ihrer Freundin unter den gegebenen Umständen möglicherweise etwas peinlich sein könnte. Er ging voraus zur Tür des Hotels, gefolgt von seiner Cousine, die nach einer kleinen Verzögerung mit einem Blick in ihren Augen, den er als unannehmbare Mahnung interpretierte, kam. Die beiden machten die Reise nach Gardencourt in fast ununterbrochenem Schweigen, und der Diener, der sie am Bahnhof empfing, hatte keine besseren Nachrichten über Mr. Touchett zu geben - eine Tatsache, die Ralph veranlasste, sich erneut darüber zu freuen, dass Sir Matthew Hope versprochen hatte, mit dem Fünf-Uhr-Zug herunterzufahren und die Nacht zu verbringen. Frau Touchett war, wie Ralph erfuhr, bei der Ankunft zu Hause ständig bei dem alten Mann gewesen und war in diesem Moment bei ihm. Diese Tatsache veranlasste Ralph, sich selbst zu sagen, dass seine Mutter letztendlich nur eine einfache Gelegenheit wollte. Die feineren Naturen waren diejenigen, die zu den größeren Zeiten glänzten. Isabel ging auf ihr Zimmer und bemerkte im ganzen Haus eine spürbare Stille, die einer Krise vorausging. Nach einer Stunde kam sie jedoch auf der Suche nach ihrer Tante wieder nach unten, die sie nach Mr. Touchett fragen wollte. Sie ging in die Bibliothek, aber Frau Touchett war nicht dort, und da das Wetter, das bisher feucht und kalt gewesen war, jetzt völlig verregnet war, war es unwahrscheinlich, dass sie ihren üblichen Spaziergang im Garten gemacht hatte. Isabel war im Begriff, anzuklingeln, um eine Frage auf ihr Zimmer zu schicken, als dieses Vorhaben schnell einem unerwarteten Klang wich - dem Klang leiser Musik, die anscheinend aus dem Salon kam. Sie wusste, dass ihre Tante das Klavier nie berührte, und der Musiker war daher wahrscheinlich Ralph, der zu seinem eigenen Vergnügen spielte. Dass er sich in dieser Zeit der Erholung um seinen Vater sorgte, deutete offensichtlich darauf hin, dass seine Ängste gelindert worden waren. Das Mädchen machte sich also fast mit wiedergewonnener Heiterkeit auf den Weg zur Quelle der Harmonie. Das Wohnzimmer in Gardencourt war ein Raum von großer Ausdehnung, und da das Klavier an dem Ende stand, das am weitesten von der Tür entfernt war, wurde ihre Ankunft von der Person, die vor dem Instrument saß, nicht bemerkt. Diese Person war weder Ralph noch seine Mutter; es war eine Dame, die Isabel sofort als eine Unbekannte erkannte, obwohl sie ihr den Rücken zuwandte. Dieser Rücken - ein üppiger und gut gekleideter - betrachtete Isabel einige Minuten lang überrascht. Die Dame war natürlich eine Besucherin, die während ihrer Abwesenheit angekommen war und von keinem der Bediensteten erwähnt worden war - von denen einer der Diener von ihrer Tante stammt -, mit denen sie seit ihrer Rückkehr gesprochen hatte. Isabel hatte jedoch bereits gelernt, mit welchen Schätzen der Zurückhaltung die Funktion des Befehlempfangs einhergehen kann, und sie war sich ganz besonders bewusst, von der Zofe ihrer Tante mit Trockenheit behandelt worden zu sein, durch deren Hände sie vielleicht ein wenig zu misstrauisch gegangen war und dabei einen Effekt des glänzenderen Gefieders hatte. Die Ankunft eines Gastes war an sich wenig beunruhigend; Sie hatte sich noch nicht von dem jungen Glauben befreit, dass jede neue Bekanntschaft einen bedeutenden Einfluss auf ihr Leben haben würde. Als sie diese Reflexionen angestellt hatte, bemerkte sie, dass die Dame am Klavier bemerkenswert gut spielte. Sie spielte etwas von Schubert - Isabel wusste nicht was, aber sie erkannte Schubert - und sie berührte das Klavier mit einer gewissen Diskretion. Es zeigte Geschicklichkeit, es zeigte Gefühl; Isabel setzte sich lautlos auf den nächsten Stuhl und wartete, bis das Stück zu Ende war. Als es beendet war, verspürte sie einen starken Wunsch, den Spieler zu danken, und stand auf, um dies zu tun, während die Fremde sich schnell umdrehte, als wäre sie gerade erst auf ihre Anwesenheit aufmerksam geworden. "Das ist sehr schön, und Ihr Spiel macht es noch schöner", sagte Isabel mit all dem jungen Strahlen, mit dem sie normalerweise eine wahrheitsgemäße Begeisterung ausdrückte. "Denken Sie, dass ich Mr. Touchett gestört habe?" antwortete die Musikerin so süß wie dieses Kompliment es verdiente. "Das Haus ist so groß und sein Zimmer so weit weg, dass ich dachte, ich könnte es wagen, besonders da ich nur mit den Fingerspitzen gespielt habe." "Sie ist eine Französin", sagte sich Isabel selbst; "Sie sagt das, als ob sie Französin wäre." Und diese Vermutung machte die Besucherin für unsere spekulativ veranlagte Heldin interessanter. "Ich hoffe, es geht meinem Onkel gut", fügte Isabel hinzu. "Ich denke, dass ihn solch schöne Musik wirklich besser fühlen lässt." Die Dame lächelte und unterschied. "Ich fürchte, es gibt Momente im Leben, in denen auch Schubert nichts zu uns sagte. Wir müssen jedoch zugeben, dass das unsere schlimmsten sind." "Ich fühle mich jetzt nicht so", sagte Isabel. "Im Gegenteil, ich würde mich sehr freuen, wenn Sie noch etwas spielen würden." "Wenn es Ihnen Freude bereitet - gerne." Und diese zuvorkommende Person nahm wieder ihren Platz ein und schlug ein paar Akkorde an, während Isabel sich näher am Instrument niederließ. Plötzlich unterbrach die Neuankömmling mit den Händen auf den Tasten und drehte sich halb um und schaute über die Schulter. Sie war vierzig Jahre alt und nicht hübsch, obwohl ihr Ausdruck bezaubernd war. "Entschuldigen Sie", sagte sie, "sind Sie die Nichte - die junge Amerikanerin?" "Ich bin die Nichte meiner Tante", antwortete Isabel einfach. Die Dame am Klavier saß noch einen Moment still und warf ihren interessierten Blick über die Schulter. "Das ist sehr gut, wir sind Landsleute." Dann begann sie zu spielen. "Ah, also ist sie nicht Französin", murmelte Isabel. Und da die entgegengesetzte Vermutung sie romantisch gemacht hatte, könnte man meinen, dass diese Enthüllung einen Abfall markiert hätte. Das war jedoch nicht der Fall. Noch seltener als Französin zu sein, schien es umso interessanter, Amerikanerin auf solch interessante Weise zu sein. Die Dame spielte auf die gleiche Weise wie zuvor, leise und feierlich, und während sie spielte, vertieften sich die Schatten im Raum. Der Herbstabend kam herein, und von ihrem Platz aus konnte Isabel den Regen sehen, der nun ernsthaft auf den kalten Rasen fiel und den Wind, der die großen Bäume schüttelte. Schließlich, als die Musik aufhörte, stand ihre Begleiterin auf und kam mit einem Lächeln näher, bevor Isabel Zeit hatte, sich erneut zu bedanken, sagte sie: "Ich freue mich sehr, dass Sie zurückgekommen sind. Ich habe viel über Sie gehört." Isabel hielt sie für eine sehr attraktive Person, sprach aber dennoch mit einer gewissen Abruptheit in ihrer Antwort auf diese Worte. "Von wem haben Sie von mir gehört?" Die Fremde zögerte einen Moment und antwortete dann: "Von Ihrem Onkel. Ich bin seit drei Tagen hier, und am ersten Tag hat er mir erlaubt, ihn in seinem Zimmer zu besuchen. Seitdem hat er ständig von Ihnen gesprochen." "Da Sie mich nicht kannten, muss Sie das eher gelangweilt haben." "Es hat mich dazu gebracht, Sie kennenlernen zu wollen. Umso mehr, als ich seitdem - Ihre Tante ist so viel "Sie ist zu sehr von Geheimnissen besessen", sagte Mrs. Touchett; "das ist ihr großes Fehler." "Ah", rief Madame Merle aus, "ich habe große Fehler, aber ich glaube nicht, dass das einer von ihnen ist; es ist sicherlich nicht der größte. Ich wurde in der Brooklyn Navy Yard geboren. Mein Vater war ein hoher Offizier in der United States Navy und hatte zur Zeit eine verantwortungsvolle Position in dieser Einrichtung. Ich nehme an, ich sollte das Meer lieben, aber ich hasse es. Deshalb kehre ich nicht nach Amerika zurück. Ich liebe das Land; das Wichtige ist, etwas zu lieben." Isabel, als unvoreingenommene Zeugin, war nicht von der Kraft von Mrs. Touchetts Charakterisierung ihres Besuchers beeindruckt, der ein ausdrucksvolles, kommunikatives und reaktionsfreudiges Gesicht hatte, das keineswegs auf eine geheime Veranlagung hinwies, wie Isabel dachte. Es war ein Gesicht, das von einer umfangreichen Natur und schnellen, freien Bewegungen zeugte und obwohl es keine regelmäßige Schönheit hatte, höchst ansprechend und bindend war. Madame Merle war eine großgewachsene, blonde, glatte Frau; alles an ihr war rund und voll, jedoch ohne jene Ansammlungen, die auf Schwere hinweisen. Ihre Gesichtszüge waren dick, aber in perfekter Proportion und Harmonie, und ihr Teint hatte eine gesunde Klarheit. Ihre grauen Augen waren klein, aber voller Licht und unfähig zu Dummheit - unfähig, laut einiger Leute sogar zu Tränen; sie hatte einen großzügigen, vollen Mund, der sich beim Lächeln auf der linken Seite auf eine Art nach oben zog, die die meisten Menschen sehr eigenartig, einige sehr aufgesetzt und ein paar sehr anmutig fanden. Isabel neigte dazu, sich in die letzte Kategorie einzuordnen. Madame Merle hatte dickes, blondes Haar, das irgendwie "klassisch" arrangiert war und so, wie Isabel urteilte, wie eine Büste aussah - Juno oder Niobe; und große weiße Hände von vollkommener Form, einer so vollkommenen Form, dass ihre Besitzerin darauf verzichtete, sie geschmückt mit Schmuckringen zu tragen. Isabel hatte sie anfangs, wie wir gesehen haben, für eine Französin gehalten; jedoch hätte eine umfassendere Beobachtung sie eher als Deutsche - eine Deutsche von hohem Rang, vielleicht eine Österreicherin, eine Baroness, eine Gräfin, eine Prinzessin - eingestuft. Man hätte nie vermutet, dass sie in Brooklyn zur Welt gekommen war - obwohl man zweifellos bei keinem Argument durchgekommen wäre, dass die Ausstrahlung von Würde, die sie in so hohem Maß auszeichnete, mit solch einer Geburt unvereinbar wäre. Es war wahr, dass das Landesbanner unmittelbar über ihrer Wiege geweht hatte, und die windige Freiheit der Sterne und der Streifen mag einen Einfluss auf die Haltung gehabt haben, die sie gegenüber dem Leben einnahm. Und doch hatte sie offensichtlich nichts von der flatterhaften, flatternden Qualität eines Fetzchens Bunting im Wind; ihre Art drückte eine Ruhe und Zuversicht aus, die aus einer großen Erfahrung herrühren. Erfahrung hatte jedoch ihre Jugend nicht erstickt; sie hatte sie einfach nur mitfühlend und geschmeidig gemacht. Sie war mit einem Wort eine Frau mit starken Impulsen, die in bewunderungswürdiger Ordnung gehalten wurden. Das gefiel Isabel als ideale Kombination. Das Mädchen machte sich diese Überlegungen, während die drei Damen beim Tee saßen, aber schon bald wurde diese Zeremonie durch die Ankunft des großen Arztes aus London unterbrochen, der sofort ins Wohnzimmer geführt wurde. Mrs. Touchett nahm ihn mit in die Bibliothek für ein vertrauliches Gespräch; und dann trennten sich Madame Merle und Isabel, um sich beim Abendessen wieder zu treffen. Die Vorstellung, mehr von dieser interessanten Frau zu sehen, minderte Isabels Gefühl der Traurigkeit, das sich jetzt über Gardencourt legte. Als sie vor dem Abendessen ins Wohnzimmer kam, fand sie den Raum leer; doch in dem Moment kam Ralph herein. Seine Sorge um seinen Vater hatte sich etwas gelindert; Sir Matthew Hopes Einschätzung seines Zustands war weniger pessimistisch als seine eigene gewesen. Der Arzt empfahl, dass für die nächsten drei oder vier Stunden nur die Krankenschwester beim alten Herrn bleiben sollte; sodass Ralph, seine Mutter und der große Arzt selbst frei waren, beim Essen am Tisch Platz zu nehmen. Mrs. Touchett und Sir Matthew erschienen; Madame Merle war die Letzte. Bevor sie kam, sprach Isabel mit Ralph, der vor dem Kamin stand. "Wer ist bitte diese Madame Merle?" "Die klügste Frau, die ich kenne, einschließlich dir selbst", sagte Ralph. "Ich fand, sie schien sehr angenehm." "Ich war mir sicher, dass du sie sehr angenehm finden würdest." "Ist das der Grund, warum du sie eingeladen hast?" "Ich habe sie nicht eingeladen, und als wir aus London zurückkamen, wusste ich nicht, dass sie hier ist. Niemand hat sie eingeladen. Sie ist eine Freundin meiner Mutter, und kurz nachdem du und ich in die Stadt gefahren sind, hat meine Mutter eine Notiz von ihr bekommen. Sie war nach England gekommen (sie lebt normalerweise im Ausland, obwohl sie viel Zeit hier verbracht hat) und hat um Erlaubnis gebeten, für ein paar Tage herunterzukommen. Sie ist eine Frau, die solche Vorschläge mit vollkommener Zuversicht machen kann; sie ist überall willkommen. Und bei meiner Mutter konnte es keine Frage des Zögerns geben; sie ist die einzige Person auf der Welt, die meine Mutter sehr bewundert. Wenn sie nicht sie selbst (was sie schließlich sehr bevorzugt), würde sie gerne Madame Merle sein. Es wäre in der Tat eine große Veränderung." "Nun ja, sie ist sehr charmant", sagte Isabel. "Und sie spielt wunderschön." "Sie macht alles wunderschön. Sie ist vollständig." Isabel sah ihren Cousin einen Moment lang an. "Du magst sie nicht." "Ganz im Gegenteil, ich habe mich einmal in sie verliebt." "Und sie mochte dich nicht, und deshalb magst du sie nicht." "Wie können wir über solche Dinge gesprochen haben? Monsieur Merle war damals noch am Leben." "Ist er jetzt tot?" "So sagt sie." "Glaubst du ihr nicht?" "Doch, weil die Aussage mit den Wahrscheinlichkeiten übereinstimmt. Der Ehemann von Madame Merle wäre wahrscheinlich verstorben." Isabel starrte ihren Cousin erneut an. "Ich weiß nicht, was du meinst. Du meinst etwas - aber du meinst es nicht. Was war Monsieur Merle?" "Der Ehemann von Madame." "Du bist sehr gemein. Hat sie Kinder?" "Kein einziges kleines Kind - zum Glück." "Zum Glück?" "Ich meine zum Glück für das Kind. Sie würde es sicherlich verziehen." Isabel war offenbar kurz davor, ihrem Cousin zum dritten Mal zu versichern, dass er gemein war; aber die Diskussion wurde durch die Ankunft der Dame unterbrochen, um die es ging. Sie kam schnell hereingeraschelt, entschuldigte sich für ihre Verspätung, befestigte ein Armband, war in dunkelblauem Satin gekleidet, das einen weißen Busen freilegte, der von einer merkwürdigen silbernen Halskette ineffektiv bedeckt war. Ralph bot ihr galant den Arm an, wie es ein Mann tut, der nicht länger ein Liebhaber ist. Selbst wenn dies noch seine Situation gewesen wäre, hatte Ralph jedoch noch andere Dinge im Kopf. Der große Arzt verbrachte die Nacht in Gardencourt und kehrte am nächsten Tag nach London zurück, nach einer weiteren Konsultation mit Mr. Touchetts eigenem Arzt, und stimmte Ralphs Wunsch zu, den Patienten am folgenden Tag wieder zu sehen. Am nächsten Tag erschien Sir Matthew Hope erneut in Gardencourt und nahm jetzt eine weniger ermutigende Sicht auf den alten Mann, der sich in den vierundzwanzig Stunden verschlechtert hatte. Seine Schwäche war extrem, und seinem So "Es wird nicht nötig sein, es zu leugnen, wenn du es nicht sagst", antwortete der alte Mann. "Warum sollten wir uns gerade jetzt hintergehen? Das haben wir zuvor nie getan. Ich muss irgendwann sterben und es ist besser, krank zu sein, als gesund zu sterben. Ich bin sehr krank, so krank wie ich immer sein werde. Ich hoffe, du möchtest nicht beweisen, dass es mir jemals schlechter gehen wird als jetzt? Das wäre zu schlimm. Tust du das nicht? Gut, dann." Nachdem er diesen ausgezeichneten Punkt gemacht hatte, wurde er ruhig, aber das nächste Mal, als Ralph bei ihm war, sprach er wieder mit ihm. Die Krankenschwester war zum Abendessen gegangen und Ralph war allein zuständig, nachdem er gerade Mrs. Touchett, die seit dem Abendessen auf Wache gewesen war, abgelöst hatte. Der Raum wurde nur von dem flackernden Feuer beleuchtet, das in letzter Zeit notwendig geworden war, und Ralph's großer Schatten wurde an Wand und Decke projiziert, mit einer ständig variierenden, aber immer grotesken Umrisse. "Wer ist da bei mir - ist es mein Sohn?" fragte der alte Mann. "Ja, es ist dein Sohn, Papa." "Und ist da sonst niemand?" "Niemand sonst." Herr Touchett sagte eine Weile nichts; und dann fuhr er fort: "Ich möchte ein wenig reden." "Wird es dich nicht ermüden?" gab Ralph zu bedenken. "Es macht nichts aus, selbst wenn es so ist. Ich werde eine lange Ruhe haben. Ich möchte über dich sprechen." Ralph war näher ans Bett gerückt; er saß vorgebeugt mit der Hand auf seinem Vater. "Du solltest ein erfreulicheres Thema wählen." "Du warst immer klug; ich war stolz auf deine Klugheit. Ich wünschte mir so sehr, dass du etwas tun würdest." "Wenn du uns verlässt", sagte Ralph, "werde ich nichts tun außer dich vermissen." "Das möchte ich nicht; darum möchte ich darüber reden. Du musst dir ein neues Interesse suchen." "Ich möchte kein neues Interesse, Papa. Ich habe mehr alte Interessen, als ich weiß, was ich damit machen soll." Der alte Mann lag da und schaute seinen Sohn an; sein Gesicht war das Gesicht des Sterbenden, aber seine Augen waren die Augen von Daniel Touchett. Er schien Ralph's Interessen abzuwägen. "Natürlich hast du deine Mutter", sagte er schließlich. "Du wirst dich um sie kümmern." "Meine Mutter wird immer gut für sich selbst sorgen", erwiderte Ralph. "Nun gut", sagte sein Vater, "vielleicht wird sie, wenn sie älter wird, ein wenig Hilfe brauchen." "Das werde ich nicht miterleben. Sie wird mich überleben." "Sehr wahrscheinlich wird sie das; aber das ist kein Grund -!" Herr Touchett ließ seinen Satz in einem hilflosen, aber nicht ganz klagenden Seufzer verklingen und schwieg wieder. "Mach dir keine Sorgen um uns", sagte sein Sohn, "Meine Mutter und ich kommen gut miteinander aus, weißt du." "Ihr versteht euch, indem ihr immer getrennt seid; das ist nicht natürlich." "Wenn du uns verlässt, werden wir uns wahrscheinlich öfter sehen." "Nun", bemerkte der alte Mann mit einer wandelnden Belanglosigkeit, "man kann nicht sagen, dass mein Tod viel Unterschied in Mutterleins Leben machen wird." "Es wird wahrscheinlich mehr Unterschied machen, als du denkst." "Nun, sie wird mehr Geld haben", sagte Herr Touchett. "Ich habe ihr einen guten Anteil hinterlassen, so als ob sie eine gute Ehefrau gewesen wäre." "Das ist sie, Papa, nach ihrer eigenen Theorie. Sie hat dich nie belästigt." "Ah, manche Probleme sind angenehm", murmelte Herr Touchett. "Die, die du mir bereitet hast, zum Beispiel. Aber deine Mutter war weniger - weniger - wie soll ich es nennen? weniger abwesend, seit ich krank bin. Ich nehme an, sie weiß, dass ich es bemerkt habe." "Ich werde es ihr auf jeden Fall sagen. Ich bin froh, dass du es erwähnst." "Es wird keinen Unterschied für sie machen; sie tut es nicht, um mich zu erfreuen. Sie tut es, um - um - zu erfreuen ..." Und er lag eine Weile da und versuchte nachzudenken, warum sie es tat. "Sie tut es, weil es ihr passt. Aber darum geht es mir nicht", fügte er hinzu. "Es geht um dich. Du wirst sehr wohlhabend sein." "Ja", sagte Ralph, "das weiß ich. Aber ich hoffe, du hast unser Gespräch vor einem Jahr nicht vergessen - als ich dir genau gesagt habe, wie viel Geld ich brauchen werde und dich gebeten habe, den Rest sinnvoll zu nutzen." "Ja, ja, ich erinnere mich. Ich werde in ein paar Tagen ein neues Testament machen. Ich denke, das ist das erste Mal, dass so etwas passiert ist - dass ein junger Mann versucht, ein Testament zu machen, gegen ihn selbst." "Es ist nicht gegen mich", sagte Ralph. "Es wäre gegen mich, ein großes Vermögen zu haben, um mich darum zu kümmern. Es ist für einen Mann in meinem Gesundheitszustand unmöglich, viel Geld auszugeben, und genug ist so gut wie ein Festmahl." "Nun, du wirst genug haben - und noch etwas. Es wird mehr als genug für einen geben - es wird genug für zwei geben." Das ist zu viel", sagte Ralph. "Ah, sage das nicht. Das Beste, was du tun kannst, wenn ich weg bin, ist zu heiraten." Ralph hatte vorausgesehen, worauf sein Vater hinauswollte, und dieser Vorschlag war keineswegs neu. Es war schon lange die einfallsreichste Art von Herrn Touchett, Ralphs mögliche Dauer optimistisch anzugehen. Ralph hatte es meistens humorvoll betrachtet; aber gegenwärtige Umstände ließen keinen Platz für Ironie. Er fiel einfach in seinen Stuhl zurück und erwiderte den flehenden Blick seines Vaters. "Wenn ich mit einer Frau, die nicht sehr liebevoll zu mir war, ein sehr glückliches Leben hatte", sagte der alte Mann und trieb seine Einfallsreichtum noch weiter in die Tat um, "welch ein Leben könntest du wohl haben, wenn du eine Person heiratest, die anders ist als Mrs. Touchett. Es gibt mehr, die anders sind als sie." Ralph sagte immer noch nichts und nach einer Pause nahm sein Vater wieder leise das Wort: "Was hältst du von deiner Cousine?" Daraufhin erschrak Ralph und begegnete der Frage mit einem angespannten Lächeln. "Versteh ich dich richtig, dass du vorschlägst, dass ich Isabel heiraten soll?" "Nun, es kommt darauf hinaus. Magst du Isabel nicht?" "Ja, sehr", antwortete Ralph. Und er stand von seinem Stuhl auf und wanderte zum Feuer. Er stand einen Moment davor und dann beugte er sich nieder und rührte mechanisch darin herum. "Ich mag Isabel sehr", wiederholte er. "Gut", sagte sein Vater, "ich weiß, dass sie dich mag. Sie hat mir erzählt, wie sehr sie dich mag." "Hat sie erzählt, dass sie mich heiraten möchte?" "Nein, aber sie kann nichts gegen dich haben. Und sie ist die charmanteste junge Dame, die ich je gesehen habe. Und sie würde gut für dich sein. Ich habe viel darüber nachgedacht." "Ich auch", sagte Ralph und kehrte wieder zum Bett zurück. "Ich habe keine Bedenken, es dir zu sagen." "Du bist also in sie verliebt? Das solltest du auch sein. Es ist, als hätte sie extra dafür den Weg zu dir gefunden." "Nein, ich bin nicht in sie verliebt; aber ich wäre es, wenn... wenn bestimmte Dinge anders wären." "Ah, die Dinge sind immer anders als sie sein könnten", sagte der alte Mann. "Wenn du darauf wartest, dass sie sich ändern, wirst du nie etwas tun. Ich weiß nicht, ob du es weißt", fuhr er fort, "aber ich nehme an, es sch "Das wird dich nur müde machen, lieber Papa", sagte Ralph, der sich über die Zähigkeit seines Vaters wunderte und über seine Kraft, darauf zu bestehen. "Aber wo werden wir alle sein?" "Wo wirst du sein, wenn ich nicht für dich sorge? Du wirst nichts mit der Bank zu tun haben und du wirst mich nicht haben, um dich zu versorgen. Du sagst, du hast so viele Interessen, aber ich kann sie nicht verstehen." Ralph lehnte sich mit verschränkten Armen in seinem Stuhl zurück; seine Augen verharrten eine Weile meditierend. Schließlich, mit der Haltung eines Mannes, der sich mutig sammelt, sagte er: "Ich interessiere mich sehr für meine Cousine, aber nicht so, wie du es wünschst. Ich werde nicht mehr lange leben, aber ich hoffe, ich werde lange genug leben, um zu sehen, was sie aus sich macht. Sie ist völlig unabhängig von mir; ich kann nur wenig Einfluss auf ihr Leben ausüben. Aber ich würde gerne etwas für sie tun." "Was möchtest du tun?" "Ich möchte ihr ein wenig Wind in die Segel geben." "Was meinst du damit?" "Ich möchte, dass sie die Möglichkeit hat, einige der Dinge zu tun, die sie möchte. Sie möchte zum Beispiel die Welt sehen. Ich würde gerne Geld in ihre Tasche stecken." "Ach, ich bin froh, dass du daran gedacht hast", sagte der alte Mann. "Aber ich habe auch daran gedacht. Ich habe ihr ein Erbe von fünftausend Pfund hinterlassen." "Das ist großartig; das ist sehr nett von dir. Aber ich würde gerne noch etwas mehr tun." Etwas von der verborgenen Spitzfindigkeit, mit der es für Daniel Touchett zur Gewohnheit geworden war, einem finanziellen Vorschlag zuzuhören, verharrte in dem Gesicht, in dem der Kranke den Geschäftsmann noch nicht vollständig getilgt hatte. "Ich werde gerne darüber nachdenken", sagte er leise. "Isabel ist arm. Meine Mutter erzählt mir, dass sie nur ein paar hundert Dollar im Jahr hat. Ich möchte sie reich machen." "Was meinst du mit reich?" "Ich nenne Menschen reich, wenn sie in der Lage sind, ihren Vorstellungen zu entsprechen. Isabel hat viel Vorstellungskraft." "Du auch, mein Sohn", sagte Mr. Touchett und hörte sehr aufmerksam, aber auch ein wenig verwirrt zu. "Du sagst mir, dass ich genug Geld für zwei haben werde. Was ich will, ist, dass du mich freundlicherweise von meinem Überfluss befreist und ihn Isabel gibst. Teile mein Erbe in zwei gleiche Teile und gib ihr den zweiten." "Damit sie damit machen kann, was sie will?" "Absolut, was immer sie will." "Und ohne Gegenleistung?" "Was für eine Gegenleistung könnte es geben?" "Die, die ich bereits erwähnt habe." "Dass sie heiratet - irgendjemanden? Es ist nur, um solche Dinge zu verhindern, dass ich meinen Vorschlag mache. Wenn sie ein leichtes Einkommen hat, wird sie nie aus finanziellen Gründen heiraten müssen. Das ist es, was ich geschickt verhindern möchte. Sie möchte frei sein, und dein Vermächtnis wird sie frei machen." "Nun, du scheinst es durchdacht zu haben", sagte Mr. Touchett. "Aber ich sehe nicht, warum du dich an mich wendest. Das Geld wird dir gehören und du kannst es ihr leicht selbst geben." Ralph starrte offen. "Oh, lieber Papa, ich kann Isabel kein Geld anbieten!" Der alte Mann stöhnte. "Sag mir nicht, dass du nicht in sie verliebt bist! Willst du, dass ich das verdient habe?" "Ganz und gar. Ich möchte, dass es einfach eine Klausel in deinem Testament ist, ohne den geringsten Hinweis auf mich." "Willst du, dass ich ein neues Testament mache?" "Ein paar Worte genügen; du kannst es das nächste Mal erledigen, wenn du etwas lebendiger bist." "Du musst dann Mr. Hilary telegrafieren. Ich werde nichts tun, ohne meinen Anwalt." "Du wirst Mr. Hilary morgen treffen." "Er wird denken, dass wir uns gestritten haben, du und ich", sagte der alte Mann. "Ganz wahrscheinlich; ich möchte, dass er es denkt", sagte Ralph und lächelte. "Und um die Idee umzusetzen, gebe ich dir Bescheid, dass ich sehr scharf, ziemlich grässlich und eigenartig mit dir sein werde." Der Humor daran schien seinen Vater zu berühren, der eine Weile regungslos dastreckte, um es zu verinnerlichen. "Ich werde alles tun, was du willst", sagte Mr. Touchett schließlich. "Aber ich bin mir nicht sicher, ob es richtig ist. Du sagst, du möchtest ihr Wind in die Segel geben, aber hast du keine Angst, dass du zu viel gibst?" "Ich würde sie gerne vor dem Wind sehen!", antwortete Ralph. "Du redest, als ob es nur um dein Vergnügen ginge." "Zu einem großen Teil ist es das auch." "Nun, ich glaube, ich verstehe es nicht", sagte Mr. Touchett mit einem Seufzer. "Junge Männer sind ganz anders als ich es war. Als ich mich für ein Mädchen interessierte - als ich jung war - wollte ich mehr tun, als sie nur anzusehen." "Du hast Bedenken, die ich nicht gehabt hätte, und du hast Ideen, die ich auch nicht gehabt hätte. Du sagst, Isabel möchte frei sein und dass ihr Reichtum verhindern wird, dass sie aus finanziellen Gründen heiratet. Glaubst du, dass sie ein Mädchen ist, das das tun würde?" "Keineswegs. Aber sie hat weniger Geld als je zuvor. Ihr Vater hat ihr damals alles gegeben, weil er sein Kapital ausgegeben hat. Sie hat nichts außer den Krümeln von diesem Fest, von denen sie noch nicht wirklich weiß, wie karg sie sind - das muss sie erst noch lernen. Meine Mutter hat es mir alles erzählt. Isabel wird es lernen, wenn sie wirklich in die Welt geworfen wird, und es wäre mir sehr unangenehm zu denken, dass sie sich ihrer vielen Bedürfnisse bewusst wird, die sie nicht befriedigen kann." "Ich habe ihr fünftausend Pfund hinterlassen. Damit kann sie viele Wünsche erfüllen." "Das kann sie in der Tat. Aber sie würde es wahrscheinlich in zwei oder drei Jahren ausgeben." "Du denkst also, dass sie verschwenderisch sein würde?" "Ganz sicher", sagte Ralph und lächelte gelassen. Die Schärfe des armen Mr. Touchett wich allmählich der puren Verwirrung. "Es wäre dann nur eine Frage der Zeit, bis sie die größere Summe ausgibt?" "Nein - obwohl sie anfangs wohl recht freigiebig damit umgehen würde: Sie würde wahrscheinlich einen Teil davon an ihre Schwestern abgeben. Aber danach würde sie wieder zur Vernunft kommen, sich daran erinnern, dass sie noch ein ganzes Leben vor sich hat, und innerhalb ihrer Möglichkeiten leben." "Nun, du hast es durchdacht", sagte der alte Mann hilflos. "Du interessierst dich tatsächlich für sie." "Du kannst nicht wirklich sagen, dass ich zu weit gehe. Du hast gewollt, dass ich weiter gehe." "Nun, ich weiß nicht", antwortete Mr. Touchett. "Ich glaube, ich verstehe nicht deine Absicht. Es scheint mir unmoralisch zu sein." "Unmoralisch, lieber Papa?" "Nun ja, ich weiß nicht, ob es richtig ist, alles so einfach für eine Person zu machen." "Das hängt sicher von der Person ab. Wenn die Person gut ist, ist es eine große Anerkennung von Tugend, die Dinge leichter zu machen. Einen guten Impuls zu erleichtern, was kann nobler sein?" Das war etwas schwierig zu verstehen, und Mr. Touchett überlegte eine Weile. Schließlich sagte er: "Isabel ist ein süßes junges Ding; aber denkst du wirklich, dass sie so gut ist?" "Sie ist so gut wie ihre besten Möglichkeiten", erwiderte Ralph. "Nun", erklärte Mr. Touchett, "sie sollte für sechzigtausend Pfund viele Möglichkeiten bekommen." "Da habe ich keinen Zweifel." "Natürlich werde ich tun, was du willst", sagte der alte Mann. "Ich möchte es nur ein wenig verstehen." "Nun, lieber Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Kurz nach dem Besuch von Caspar Goodwood stellt Henrietta Isabel Fragen über das Interview, nur um zu erfahren, dass Goodwood ohne Zufriedenheit von Isabel nach Amerika zurückkehrt. Henrietta befürchtet, dass Isabel ihren Werteverlust hat und versucht, Isabel bezüglich ihres Verhaltens zu beraten. Isabel ist gezwungen, Henrietta zu sagen, dass die Angelegenheit abgeschlossen ist und bittet Henrietta, sie in Ruhe zu lassen. Ralph erhält ein Telegramm, das ihn darüber informiert, dass es seinem Vater schlechter geht. Als Isabel davon hört, möchte sie mit Ralph nach Gardencourt zurückkehren. Henrietta sagt, dass sie andere Pläne hat und nicht zurückkehren wird. Allein mit Ralph erzählt Henrietta ihm, dass Isabel Herrn Goodwood fortgeschickt hat. In Gardencourt betritt Isabel das Wohnzimmer und sieht eine Dame, die am Klavier mit großem Talent spielt. Sie erfährt von der Dame, dass es Herrn Touchett nicht besser geht und dass sie gekommen ist, um Frau Touchett zu besuchen. Sie hat bereits viel über Isabel gehört und stellt sich als Madame Merle vor, eine alte Freundin von Frau Touchett. Als Isabel später Ralph über Madame Merle befragt, erzählt er ihr, dass sie die klügste Frau ist, die er je gekannt hat. "Sie macht alles wunderschön. Sie ist vollkommen." Aufgrund seiner Kommentare schließt Isabel daraus, dass Ralph ein Verhältnis mit Madame Merle hat. Ralph verbringt die meiste Zeit damit, mit seinem Vater zu reden. In einem Gespräch erzählt er Mr. Touchett, dass Isabel in London einen weiteren Verehrer abgelehnt hat. Ralph sagt dann, er würde gerne sehen, dass Isabel die Macht hat, vöölig unabhängig zu sein. Er möchte "ihr ein bisschen Wind in die Segel legen". Er würde gerne "ihr die Möglichkeit geben, einige der Dinge zu tun, die sie möchte. Sie möchte zum Beispiel die Welt sehen." Er würde "ihr Geld in die Tasche stecken". Er möchte, dass sie reich genug ist, "den Anforderungen ihrer Phantasie gerecht zu werden" und er glaubt, "Isabel hat eine Menge Phantasie". Dann schlägt er vor, dass Mr. Touchett sein Testament ändert, um die Hälfte des Erbes, das für seinen Sohn vorgesehen ist, Isabel zu hinterlassen. Er erklärt, dass er Isabel kein Geld anbieten kann, sie es aber durch so ein Erbe annehmen könnte. Mr. Touchett überlegt, ob dieser Schritt nicht unklug wäre. Er fragt sich, ob es ein Gefallen wäre, sich so stark in ihr Leben einzumischen und ihr Schicksal so radikal zu verändern. Er äußert die Befürchtung, dass Isabel an einen Schatzsucher geraten könnte. Ralph glaubt jedoch, dass Isabel kaum zum Opfer von jemandem werden wird. Außerdem wird er davon profitieren, "den Anforderungen seiner Phantasie gerecht geworden" 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: One night towards eleven o'clock they were awakened by the noise of a horse pulling up outside their door. The servant opened the garret-window and parleyed for some time with a man in the street below. He came for the doctor, had a letter for him. Natasie came downstairs shivering and undid the bars and bolts one after the other. The man left his horse, and, following the servant, suddenly came in behind her. He pulled out from his wool cap with grey top-knots a letter wrapped up in a rag and presented it gingerly to Charles, who rested on his elbow on the pillow to read it. Natasie, standing near the bed, held the light. Madame in modesty had turned to the wall and showed only her back. This letter, sealed with a small seal in blue wax, begged Monsieur Bovary to come immediately to the farm of the Bertaux to set a broken leg. Now from Tostes to the Bertaux was a good eighteen miles across country by way of Longueville and Saint-Victor. It was a dark night; Madame Bovary junior was afraid of accidents for her husband. So it was decided the stable-boy should go on first; Charles would start three hours later when the moon rose. A boy was to be sent to meet him, and show him the way to the farm, and open the gates for him. Towards four o'clock in the morning, Charles, well wrapped up in his cloak, set out for the Bertaux. Still sleepy from the warmth of his bed, he let himself be lulled by the quiet trot of his horse. When it stopped of its own accord in front of those holes surrounded with thorns that are dug on the margin of furrows, Charles awoke with a start, suddenly remembered the broken leg, and tried to call to mind all the fractures he knew. The rain had stopped, day was breaking, and on the branches of the leafless trees birds roosted motionless, their little feathers bristling in the cold morning wind. The flat country stretched as far as eye could see, and the tufts of trees round the farms at long intervals seemed like dark violet stains on the cast grey surface, that on the horizon faded into the gloom of the sky. Charles from time to time opened his eyes, his mind grew weary, and, sleep coming upon him, he soon fell into a doze wherein, his recent sensations blending with memories, he became conscious of a double self, at once student and married man, lying in his bed as but now, and crossing the operation theatre as of old. The warm smell of poultices mingled in his brain with the fresh odour of dew; he heard the iron rings rattling along the curtain-rods of the bed and saw his wife sleeping. As he passed Vassonville he came upon a boy sitting on the grass at the edge of a ditch. "Are you the doctor?" asked the child. And on Charles's answer he took his wooden shoes in his hands and ran on in front of him. The general practitioner, riding along, gathered from his guide's talk that Monsieur Rouault must be one of the well-to-do farmers. He had broken his leg the evening before on his way home from a Twelfth-night feast at a neighbour's. His wife had been dead for two years. There was with him only his daughter, who helped him to keep house. The ruts were becoming deeper; they were approaching the Bertaux. The little lad, slipping through a hole in the hedge, disappeared; then he came back to the end of a courtyard to open the gate. The horse slipped on the wet grass; Charles had to stoop to pass under the branches. The watchdogs in their kennels barked, dragging at their chains. As he entered the Bertaux, the horse took fright and stumbled. It was a substantial-looking farm. In the stables, over the top of the open doors, one could see great cart-horses quietly feeding from new racks. Right along the outbuildings extended a large dunghill, from which manure liquid oozed, while amidst fowls and turkeys, five or six peacocks, a luxury in Chauchois farmyards, were foraging on the top of it. The sheepfold was long, the barn high, with walls smooth as your hand. Under the cart-shed were two large carts and four ploughs, with their whips, shafts and harnesses complete, whose fleeces of blue wool were getting soiled by the fine dust that fell from the granaries. The courtyard sloped upwards, planted with trees set out symmetrically, and the chattering noise of a flock of geese was heard near the pond. A young woman in a blue merino dress with three flounces came to the threshold of the door to receive Monsieur Bovary, whom she led to the kitchen, where a large fire was blazing. The servant's breakfast was boiling beside it in small pots of all sizes. Some damp clothes were drying inside the chimney-corner. The shovel, tongs, and the nozzle of the bellows, all of colossal size, shone like polished steel, while along the walls hung many pots and pans in which the clear flame of the hearth, mingling with the first rays of the sun coming in through the window, was mirrored fitfully. Charles went up the first floor to see the patient. He found him in his bed, sweating under his bed-clothes, having thrown his cotton nightcap right away from him. He was a fat little man of fifty, with white skin and blue eyes, the forepart of his head bald, and he wore earrings. By his side on a chair stood a large decanter of brandy, whence he poured himself a little from time to time to keep up his spirits; but as soon as he caught sight of the doctor his elation subsided, and instead of swearing, as he had been doing for the last twelve hours, began to groan freely. The fracture was a simple one, without any kind of complication. Charles could not have hoped for an easier case. Then calling to mind the devices of his masters at the bedsides of patients, he comforted the sufferer with all sorts of kindly remarks, those caresses of the surgeon that are like the oil they put on bistouries. In order to make some splints a bundle of laths was brought up from the cart-house. Charles selected one, cut it into two pieces and planed it with a fragment of windowpane, while the servant tore up sheets to make bandages, and Mademoiselle Emma tried to sew some pads. As she was a long time before she found her work-case, her father grew impatient; she did not answer, but as she sewed she pricked her fingers, which she then put to her mouth to suck them. Charles was surprised at the whiteness of her nails. They were shiny, delicate at the tips, more polished than the ivory of Dieppe, and almond-shaped. Yet her hand was not beautiful, perhaps not white enough, and a little hard at the knuckles; besides, it was too long, with no soft inflections in the outlines. Her real beauty was in her eyes. Although brown, they seemed black because of the lashes, and her look came at you frankly, with a candid boldness. The bandaging over, the doctor was invited by Monsieur Rouault himself to "pick a bit" before he left. Charles went down into the room on the ground floor. Knives and forks and silver goblets were laid for two on a little table at the foot of a huge bed that had a canopy of printed cotton with figures representing Turks. There was an odour of iris-root and damp sheets that escaped from a large oak chest opposite the window. On the floor in corners were sacks of flour stuck upright in rows. These were the overflow from the neighbouring granary, to which three stone steps led. By way of decoration for the apartment, hanging to a nail in the middle of the wall, whose green paint scaled off from the effects of the saltpetre, was a crayon head of Minerva in gold frame, underneath which was written in Gothic letters "To dear Papa." First they spoke of the patient, then of the weather, of the great cold, of the wolves that infested the fields at night. Mademoiselle Rouault did not at all like the country, especially now that she had to look after the farm almost alone. As the room was chilly, she shivered as she ate. This showed something of her full lips, that she had a habit of biting when silent. Her neck stood out from a white turned-down collar. Her hair, whose two black folds seemed each of a single piece, so smooth were they, was parted in the middle by a delicate line that curved slightly with the curve of the head; and, just showing the tip of the ear, it was joined behind in a thick chignon, with a wavy movement at the temples that the country doctor saw now for the first time in his life. The upper part of her cheek was rose-coloured. She had, like a man, thrust in between two buttons of her bodice a tortoise-shell eyeglass. When Charles, after bidding farewell to old Rouault, returned to the room before leaving, he found her standing, her forehead against the window, looking into the garden, where the bean props had been knocked down by the wind. She turned round. "Are you looking for anything?" she asked. "My whip, if you please," he answered. He began rummaging on the bed, behind the doors, under the chairs. It had fallen to the floor, between the sacks and the wall. Mademoiselle Emma saw it, and bent over the flour sacks. Charles out of politeness made a dash also, and as he stretched out his arm, at the same moment felt his breast brush against the back of the young girl bending beneath him. She drew herself up, scarlet, and looked at him over her shoulder as she handed him his whip. Instead of returning to the Bertaux in three days as he had promised, he went back the very next day, then regularly twice a week, without counting the visits he paid now and then as if by accident. Everything, moreover, went well; the patient progressed favourably; and when, at the end of forty-six days, old Rouault was seen trying to walk alone in his "den," Monsieur Bovary began to be looked upon as a man of great capacity. Old Rouault said that he could not have been cured better by the first doctor of Yvetot, or even of Rouen. As to Charles, he did not stop to ask himself why it was a pleasure to him to go to the Bertaux. Had he done so, he would, no doubt, have attributed his zeal to the importance of the case, or perhaps to the money he hoped to make by it. Was it for this, however, that his visits to the farm formed a delightful exception to the meagre occupations of his life? On these days he rose early, set off at a gallop, urging on his horse, then got down to wipe his boots in the grass and put on black gloves before entering. He liked going into the courtyard, and noticing the gate turn against his shoulder, the cock crow on the wall, the lads run to meet him. He liked the granary and the stables; he liked old Rouault, who pressed his hand and called him his saviour; he liked the small wooden shoes of Mademoiselle Emma on the scoured flags of the kitchen--her high heels made her a little taller; and when she walked in front of him, the wooden soles springing up quickly struck with a sharp sound against the leather of her boots. She always accompanied him to the first step of the stairs. When his horse had not yet been brought round she stayed there. They had said "Good-bye"; there was no more talking. The open air wrapped her round, playing with the soft down on the back of her neck, or blew to and fro on her hips the apron-strings, that fluttered like streamers. Once, during a thaw the bark of the trees in the yard was oozing, the snow on the roofs of the outbuildings was melting; she stood on the threshold, and went to fetch her sunshade and opened it. The sunshade of silk of the colour of pigeons' breasts, through which the sun shone, lighted up with shifting hues the white skin of her face. She smiled under the tender warmth, and drops of water could be heard falling one by one on the stretched silk. During the first period of Charles's visits to the Bertaux, Madame Bovary junior never failed to inquire after the invalid, and she had even chosen in the book that she kept on a system of double entry a clean blank page for Monsieur Rouault. But when she heard he had a daughter, she began to make inquiries, and she learnt the Mademoiselle Rouault, brought up at the Ursuline Convent, had received what is called "a good education"; and so knew dancing, geography, drawing, how to embroider and play the piano. That was the last straw. "So it is for this," she said to herself, "that his face beams when he goes to see her, and that he puts on his new waistcoat at the risk of spoiling it with the rain. Ah! that woman! That woman!" And she detested her instinctively. At first she solaced herself by allusions that Charles did not understand, then by casual observations that he let pass for fear of a storm, finally by open apostrophes to which he knew not what to answer. "Why did he go back to the Bertaux now that Monsieur Rouault was cured and that these folks hadn't paid yet? Ah! it was because a young lady was there, some one who know how to talk, to embroider, to be witty. That was what he cared about; he wanted town misses." And she went on-- "The daughter of old Rouault a town miss! Get out! Their grandfather was a shepherd, and they have a cousin who was almost had up at the assizes for a nasty blow in a quarrel. It is not worth while making such a fuss, or showing herself at church on Sundays in a silk gown like a countess. Besides, the poor old chap, if it hadn't been for the colza last year, would have had much ado to pay up his arrears." For very weariness Charles left off going to the Bertaux. Heloise made him swear, his hand on the prayer-book, that he would go there no more after much sobbing and many kisses, in a great outburst of love. He obeyed then, but the strength of his desire protested against the servility of his conduct; and he thought, with a kind of naive hypocrisy, that his interdict to see her gave him a sort of right to love her. And then the widow was thin; she had long teeth; wore in all weathers a little black shawl, the edge of which hung down between her shoulder-blades; her bony figure was sheathed in her clothes as if they were a scabbard; they were too short, and displayed her ankles with the laces of her large boots crossed over grey stockings. Charles's mother came to see them from time to time, but after a few days the daughter-in-law seemed to put her own edge on her, and then, like two knives, they scarified him with their reflections and observations. It was wrong of him to eat so much. Why did he always offer a glass of something to everyone who came? What obstinacy not to wear flannels! In the spring it came about that a notary at Ingouville, the holder of the widow Dubuc's property, one fine day went off, taking with him all the money in his office. Heloise, it is true, still possessed, besides a share in a boat valued at six thousand francs, her house in the Rue St. Francois; and yet, with all this fortune that had been so trumpeted abroad, nothing, excepting perhaps a little furniture and a few clothes, had appeared in the household. The matter had to be gone into. The house at Dieppe was found to be eaten up with mortgages to its foundations; what she had placed with the notary God only knew, and her share in the boat did not exceed one thousand crowns. She had lied, the good lady! In his exasperation, Monsieur Bovary the elder, smashing a chair on the flags, accused his wife of having caused misfortune to the son by harnessing him to such a harridan, whose harness wasn't worth her hide. They came to Tostes. Explanations followed. There were scenes. Heloise in tears, throwing her arms about her husband, implored him to defend her from his parents. Charles tried to speak up for her. They grew angry and left the house. But "the blow had struck home." A week after, as she was hanging up some washing in her yard, she was seized with a spitting of blood, and the next day, while Charles had his back turned to her drawing the window-curtain, she said, "O God!" gave a sigh and fainted. She was dead! What a surprise! When all was over at the cemetery Charles went home. He found no one downstairs; he went up to the first floor to their room; saw her dress still hanging at the foot of the alcove; then, leaning against the writing-table, he stayed until the evening, buried in a sorrowful reverie. She had loved him after all! Können Sie eine passende Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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Der junge "Arzt" wird in der Nacht durch einen Anruf eines Patienten geweckt; jemand auf einem Bauernhof namens Les Bertaux außerhalb der Stadt hat einen gebrochenen Bein, der behandelt werden muss. Es wird vereinbart, dass Charles bei Mondaufgang zum Patienten fährt. Bis dahin liegt Charles wach und fürchtet sich vor dem medizinischen Desaster, das sich entfalten wird. Wir haben bereits herausgefunden, dass er nicht gerade das schärfste Messer im Schrank ist und er wenig Vertrauen in seine Heilkräfte hat. Wir müssen zugeben, dass wir nervös für ihn und seinen Patienten sind...ernsthaft, würdest du wollen, dass dieser Typ dein gebrochenes Bein behandelt? Les Bertaux entpuppt sich als schönes Stück Land. Monsieur Rouault, der Bauer/Patient, ist offensichtlich ziemlich wohlhabend. Als Witwer kümmert er sich mit Hilfe seiner jungen Tochter um den Familienbauernhof. Die Tochter lässt Charles herein und bringt ihn zum Patienten. Monsieur Rouault ist ein gutmütiger Mann und sein Bruch erweist sich auch als ziemlich gutmütig; es ist ein völlig sauberer Bruch und Charles fängt wieder an, sich zuversichtlich zu fühlen. Er macht seinen Patienten wieder froh und kümmert sich kompetent um die Verletzung. Inzwischen versucht die Tochter, Emma, sich nützlich zu machen, indem sie etwas Polsterung näht, aber sie stellt sich als eine schlechte Schneiderin heraus. Ihre Unfähigkeit spielt jedoch keine Rolle - Charles ist ganz hin und weg von ihrem zierlichen Aussehen. Als die drei hinuntergehen, um etwas zu essen, betrachtet der junge Arzt die junge Tochter genauer. Charles lernt Emma ein wenig besser kennen. Sie hasst das Landleben und scheint mit ihrem Leben nicht ganz zufrieden zu sein. Wir sind uns nicht sicher, ob Charles das bemerkt. Was er bemerkt, ist, dass sie wirklich schön ist. Sie hat wunderschöne braune Augen, volle Lippen, sorgfältig frisiertes schwarzes Haar und rosige Wangen. Da hat jemand einen Schwarm... Charles besucht Les Bertaux weiterhin, angeblich um sich nach seinem Patienten zu erkundigen, aber eigentlich um Emma zu sehen. Seine gereizte/ärgerliche Ehefrau erfährt, dass Emma eine feine junge Dame ist, die eine luxuriöse Erziehung in einem Kloster genossen hat, und ist verärgert über die Vorstellung, dass Charles in das Mädchen verliebt ist. Sie zwingt Charles, zu versprechen, Les Bertaux nicht mehr zu besuchen. Charles' erste Frau bleibt nicht lange in dieser Welt. Es tauchen schlechte finanzielle Nachrichten auf, und die verzweifelte Frau bricht tatsächlich zusammen und stirbt. Charles ist nun frei, obwohl er sich ein wenig traurig fühlt, da sie ihn geliebt 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 brigade was halted in the fringe of a grove. The men crouched among the trees and pointed their restless guns out at the fields. They tried to look beyond the smoke. Out of this haze they could see running men. Some shouted information and gestured as they hurried. The men of the new regiment watched and listened eagerly, while their tongues ran on in gossip of the battle. They mouthed rumors that had flown like birds out of the unknown. "They say Perry has been driven in with big loss." "Yes, Carrott went t' th' hospital. He said he was sick. That smart lieutenant is commanding 'G' Company. Th' boys say they won't be under Carrott no more if they all have t' desert. They allus knew he was a--" "Hannises' batt'ry is took." "It ain't either. I saw Hannises' batt'ry off on th' left not more'n fifteen minutes ago." "Well--" "Th' general, he ses he is goin' t' take th' hull cammand of th' 304th when we go inteh action, an' then he ses we'll do sech fightin' as never another one reg'ment done." "They say we're catchin' it over on th' left. They say th' enemy driv' our line inteh a devil of a swamp an' took Hannises' batt'ry." "No sech thing. Hannises' batt'ry was 'long here 'bout a minute ago." "That young Hasbrouck, he makes a good off'cer. He ain't afraid 'a nothin'." "I met one of th' 148th Maine boys an' he ses his brigade fit th' hull rebel army fer four hours over on th' turnpike road an' killed about five thousand of 'em. He ses one more sech fight as that an' th' war 'll be over." "Bill wasn't scared either. No, sir! It wasn't that. Bill ain't a-gittin' scared easy. He was jest mad, that's what he was. When that feller trod on his hand, he up an' sed that he was willin' t' give his hand t' his country, but he be dumbed if he was goin' t' have every dumb bushwhacker in th' kentry walkin' 'round on it. Se he went t' th' hospital disregardless of th' fight. Three fingers was crunched. Th' dern doctor wanted t' amputate 'm, an' Bill, he raised a heluva row, I hear. He's a funny feller." The din in front swelled to a tremendous chorus. The youth and his fellows were frozen to silence. They could see a flag that tossed in the smoke angrily. Near it were the blurred and agitated forms of troops. There came a turbulent stream of men across the fields. A battery changing position at a frantic gallop scattered the stragglers right and left. A shell screaming like a storm banshee went over the huddled heads of the reserves. It landed in the grove, and exploding redly flung the brown earth. There was a little shower of pine needles. Bullets began to whistle among the branches and nip at the trees. Twigs and leaves came sailing down. It was as if a thousand axes, wee and invisible, were being wielded. Many of the men were constantly dodging and ducking their heads. The lieutenant of the youth's company was shot in the hand. He began to swear so wondrously that a nervous laugh went along the regimental line. The officer's profanity sounded conventional. It relieved the tightened senses of the new men. It was as if he had hit his fingers with a tack hammer at home. He held the wounded member carefully away from his side so that the blood would not drip upon his trousers. The captain of the company, tucking his sword under his arm, produced a handkerchief and began to bind with it the lieutenant's wound. And they disputed as to how the binding should be done. The battle flag in the distance jerked about madly. It seemed to be struggling to free itself from an agony. The billowing smoke was filled with horizontal flashes. Men running swiftly emerged from it. They grew in numbers until it was seen that the whole command was fleeing. The flag suddenly sank down as if dying. Its motion as it fell was a gesture of despair. Wild yells came from behind the walls of smoke. A sketch in gray and red dissolved into a moblike body of men who galloped like wild horses. The veteran regiments on the right and left of the 304th immediately began to jeer. With the passionate song of the bullets and the banshee shrieks of shells were mingled loud catcalls and bits of facetious advice concerning places of safety. But the new regiment was breathless with horror. "Gawd! Saunders's got crushed!" whispered the man at the youth's elbow. They shrank back and crouched as if compelled to await a flood. The youth shot a swift glance along the blue ranks of the regiment. The profiles were motionless, carven; and afterward he remembered that the color sergeant was standing with his legs apart, as if he expected to be pushed to the ground. The following throng went whirling around the flank. Here and there were officers carried along on the stream like exasperated chips. They were striking about them with their swords and with their left fists, punching every head they could reach. They cursed like highwaymen. A mounted officer displayed the furious anger of a spoiled child. He raged with his head, his arms, and his legs. Another, the commander of the brigade, was galloping about bawling. His hat was gone and his clothes were awry. He resembled a man who has come from bed to go to a fire. The hoofs of his horse often threatened the heads of the running men, but they scampered with singular fortune. In this rush they were apparently all deaf and blind. They heeded not the largest and longest of the oaths that were thrown at them from all directions. Frequently over this tumult could be heard the grim jokes of the critical veterans; but the retreating men apparently were not even conscious of the presence of an audience. The battle reflection that shone for an instant in the faces on the mad current made the youth feel that forceful hands from heaven would not have been able to have held him in place if he could have got intelligent control of his legs. There was an appalling imprint upon these faces. The struggle in the smoke had pictured an exaggeration of itself on the bleached cheeks and in the eyes wild with one desire. The sight of this stampede exerted a floodlike force that seemed able to drag sticks and stones and men from the ground. They of the reserves had to hold on. They grew pale and firm, and red and quaking. The youth achieved one little thought in the midst of this chaos. The composite monster which had caused the other troops to flee had not then appeared. He resolved to get a view of it, and then, he thought he might very likely run better than the best of them. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze verfassen?

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Das neue Regiment steht jetzt gerade innerhalb eines Hains an, mit Blick auf ein Feld, das in Rauch gehüllt ist. Sie sprechen über Gerüchte und Berichte von Schlachten, wer was verloren hat und wohin verlegt wurde. Wie immer herrscht Uneinigkeit darüber, was tatsächlich mit einer Unionseinheit passiert ist. Dann wird der Lärm und das Durcheinander auf dem Feld vor ihnen lauter und die neuen Truppen schweigen. Die Unionstruppen auf dem vernebelten Feld beginnen zu rennen. Eine Granate schießt über das neue Regiment hinweg und landet im Hain, wirft dabei eine Dusche aus Kiefernnadeln auf. Auch Kugeln fliegen nun auf sie zu. Der Leutnant der Kompanie des Jugendlichen wird dann in die Hand geschossen. Er flucht, als hätte er sich mit einem Hammer auf den Finger geschlagen, was dem Rest der Truppen ziemlich lustig vorkommt. Seltsamerweise hält der Leutnant seine Wunde von seiner Uniform fern, um sie nicht zu beschmutzen. Die Unionstruppen auf dem Feld beginnen wegzurennen und die Schlachtfahne fällt. Die erfahrenen Regimente, die die neuen Truppen flankieren, rufen den fliehenden Männern Schimpfworte zu und lachen über sie. Henry Flemings Regiment ist vor Entsetzen verstummt; sie haben gerade eine Niederlage eines Regiments miterlebt, bevor sie zum Kampf gerufen werden. Die Offiziere versuchen, die fliehenden Männer mit ihren Schwertern, Fäusten und Flüchen aufzuhalten. Sie toben vor Wut über das sich zurückziehende Regiment. Der Kommandeur dieser Brigade galoppiert auf seinem Pferd herum und weint. Er sieht aus wie "ein Mann, der aus dem Bett aufgestanden ist, um zu einem Brand zu gehen". Die fliehenden Truppen beachten diese Offiziere jedoch nicht, während sie rennen. Dadurch ist Henry sicher, dass auch er rennen wird. Als er sieht, wie "der wahnsinnige Strom" des Rückzugs das Gewissen der Männer verschlingt, ist er sich sicher, dass er von der Schlacht mitgerissen wird und in Panik gerät. Dennoch fasst Henry am Ende des Kapitels den Entschluss, dass jetzt die Zeit gekommen ist, in der er das "Monster" sehen muss, das sie zum Rückzug gebracht hat, egal ob er selbst rennt.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). 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 XXXIV. Among Women. D'Artagnan had not been able to hide his feelings from his friends so much as he would have wished. The stoical soldier, the impassive man-at-arms, overcome by fear and sad presentiments, had yielded, for a few moments, to human weakness. When, therefore, he had silenced his heart and calmed the agitation of his nerves, turning towards his lackey, a silent servant, always listening, in order to obey the more promptly: "Rabaud," said he, "mind, we must travel thirty leagues a day." "At your pleasure, captain," replied Rabaud. And from that moment, D'Artagnan, accommodating his action to the pace of the horse, like a true centaur, gave up his thoughts to nothing--that is to say, to everything. He asked himself why the king had sent for him back; why the Iron Mask had thrown the silver plate at the feet of Raoul. As to the first subject, the reply was negative; he knew right well that the king's calling him was from necessity. He still further knew that Louis XIV. must experience an imperious desire for a private conversation with one whom the possession of such a secret placed on a level with the highest powers of the kingdom. But as to saying exactly what the king's wish was, D'Artagnan found himself completely at a loss. The musketeer had no doubts, either, upon the reason which had urged the unfortunate Philippe to reveal his character and birth. Philippe, buried forever beneath a mask of steel, exiled to a country where the men seemed little more than slaves of the elements; Philippe, deprived even of the society of D'Artagnan, who had loaded him with honors and delicate attentions, had nothing more to see than odious specters in this world, and, despair beginning to devour him, he poured himself forth in complaints, in the belief that his revelations would raise up some avenger for him. The manner in which the musketeer had been near killing his two best friends, the destiny which had so strangely brought Athos to participate in the great state secret, the farewell of Raoul, the obscurity of the future which threatened to end in a melancholy death; all this threw D'Artagnan incessantly back on lamentable predictions and forebodings, which the rapidity of his pace did not dissipate, as it used formerly to do. D'Artagnan passed from these considerations to the remembrance of the proscribed Porthos and Aramis. He saw them both, fugitives, tracked, ruined--laborious architects of fortunes they had lost; and as the king called for his man of execution in hours of vengeance and malice, D'Artagnan trembled at the very idea of receiving some commission that would make his very soul bleed. Sometimes, ascending hills, when the winded horse breathed hard from his red nostrils, and heaved his flanks, the captain, left to more freedom of thought, reflected on the prodigious genius of Aramis, a genius of acumen and intrigue, a match to which the Fronde and the civil war had produced but twice. Soldier, priest, diplomatist; gallant, avaricious, cunning; Aramis had never taken the good things of this life except as stepping-stones to rise to giddier ends. Generous in spirit, if not lofty in heart, he never did ill but for the sake of shining even yet more brilliantly. Towards the end of his career, at the moment of reaching the goal, like the patrician Fuscus, he had made a false step upon a plank, and had fallen into the sea. But Porthos, good, harmless Porthos! To see Porthos hungry, to see Mousqueton without gold lace, imprisoned, perhaps; to see Pierrefonds, Bracieux, razed to the very stones, dishonored even to the timber,--these were so many poignant griefs for D'Artagnan, and every time that one of these griefs struck him, he bounded like a horse at the sting of a gadfly beneath the vaults of foliage where he has sought shady shelter from the burning sun. Never was the man of spirit subjected to _ennui_, if his body was exposed to fatigue; never did the man of healthy body fail to find life light, if he had something to engage his mind. D'Artagnan, riding fast, thinking as constantly, alighted from his horse in Pairs, fresh and tender in his muscles as the athlete preparing for the gymnasium. The king did not expect him so soon, and had just departed for the chase towards Meudon. D'Artagnan, instead of riding after the king, as he would formerly have done, took off his boots, had a bath, and waited till his majesty should return dusty and tired. He occupied the interval of five hours in taking, as people say, the air of the house, and in arming himself against all ill chances. He learned that the king, during the last fortnight, had been gloomy; that the queen-mother was ill and much depressed; that Monsieur, the king's brother, was exhibiting a devotional turn; that Madame had the vapors; and that M. de Guiche was gone to one of his estates. He learned that M. Colbert was radiant; that M. Fouquet consulted a fresh physician every day, who still did not cure him, and that his principal complaint was one which physicians do not usually cure, unless they are political physicians. The king, D'Artagnan was told, behaved in the kindest manner to M. Fouquet, and did not allow him to be ever out of his sight; but the surintendant, touched to the heart, like one of those fine trees a worm has punctured, was declining daily, in spite of the royal smile, that sun of court trees. D'Artagnan learned that Mademoiselle de la Valliere had become indispensable to the king; that the king, during his sporting excursions, if he did not take her with him, wrote to her frequently, no longer verses, but, which was much worse, prose, and that whole pages at a time. Thus, as the political Pleiad of the day said, the _first king in the world_ was seen descending from his horse _with an ardor beyond compare_, and on the crown of his hat scrawling bombastic phrases, which M. de Saint-Aignan, aide-de-camp in perpetuity, carried to La Valliere at the risk of foundering his horses. During this time, deer and pheasants were left to the free enjoyment of their nature, hunted so lazily that, it was said, the art of venery ran great risk of degenerating at the court of France. D'Artagnan then thought of the wishes of poor Raoul, of that desponding letter destined for a woman who passed her life in hoping, and as D'Artagnan loved to philosophize a little occasionally, he resolved to profit by the absence of the king to have a minute's talk with Mademoiselle de la Valliere. This was a very easy affair; while the king was hunting, Louise was walking with some other ladies in one of the galleries of the Palais Royal, exactly where the captain of the musketeers had some guards to inspect. D'Artagnan did not doubt that, if he could but open the conversation on Raoul, Louise might give him grounds for writing a consolatory letter to the poor exile; and hope, or at least consolation for Raoul, in the state of heart in which he had left him, was the sun, was life to two men, who were very dear to our captain. He directed his course, therefore, to the spot where he knew he should find Mademoiselle de la Valliere. D'Artagnan found La Valliere the center of the circle. In her apparent solitude, the king's favorite received, like a queen, more, perhaps, than the queen, a homage of which Madame had been so proud, when all the king's looks were directed to her and commanded the looks of the courtiers. D'Artagnan, although no squire of dames, received, nevertheless, civilities and attentions from the ladies; he was polite, as a brave man always is, and his terrible reputation had conciliated as much friendship among the men as admiration among the women. On seeing him enter, therefore, they immediately accosted him; and, as is not unfrequently the case with fair ladies, opened the attack by questions. "Where _had_ he been? What _had_ become of him so long? Why had they not seen him as usual make his fine horse curvet in such beautiful style, to the delight and astonishment of the curious from the king's balcony?" He replied that he had just come from the land of oranges. This set all the ladies laughing. Those were times in which everybody traveled, but in which, notwithstanding, a journey of a hundred leagues was a problem often solved by death. "From the land of oranges?" cried Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente. "From Spain?" "Eh! eh!" said the musketeer. "From Malta?" echoed Montalais. "_Ma foi!_ You are coming very near, ladies." "Is it an island?" asked La Valliere. "Mademoiselle," said D'Artagnan; "I will not give you the trouble of seeking any further; I come from the country where M. de Beaufort is, at this moment, embarking for Algiers." "Have you seen the army?" asked several warlike fair ones. "As plainly as I see you," replied D'Artagnan. "And the fleet?" "Yes, I saw everything." "Have we any of us any friends there?" said Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente, coldly, but in a manner to attract attention to a question that was not without its calculated aim. "Why," replied D'Artagnan, "yes; there were M. de la Guillotiere, M. de Manchy, M. de Bragelonne--" La Valliere became pale. "M. de Bragelonne!" cried the perfidious Athenais. "Eh, what!--is he gone to the wars?--he!" Montalais trod on her toe, but all in vain. "Do you know what my opinion is?" continued she, addressing D'Artagnan. "No, mademoiselle; but I should like very much to know it." "My opinion is, then, that all the men who go to this war are desperate, desponding men, whom love has treated ill; and who go to try if they cannot find jet-complexioned women more kind than fair ones have been." Some of the ladies laughed; La Valliere was evidently confused; Montalais coughed loud enough to waken the dead. "Mademoiselle," interrupted D'Artagnan, "you are in error when you speak of black women at Gigelli; the women there have not jet faces; it is true they are not white--they are yellow." "Yellow!" exclaimed the bevy of fair beauties. "Eh! do not disparage it. I have never seen a finer color to match with black eyes and a coral mouth." "So much the better for M. de Bragelonne," said Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente, with persistent malice. "He will make amends for his loss. Poor fellow!" A profound silence followed these words; and D'Artagnan had time to observe and reflect that women--mild doves--treat each other more cruelly than tigers. But making La Valliere pale did not satisfy Athenais; she determined to make her blush likewise. Resuming the conversation without pause, "Do you know, Louise," said she, "that there is a great sin on your conscience?" "What sin, mademoiselle?" stammered the unfortunate girl, looking round her for support, without finding it. "Eh!--why," continued Athenais, "the poor young man was affianced to you; he loved you; you cast him off." "Well, that is a right which every honest woman has," said Montalais, in an affected tone. "When we know we cannot constitute the happiness of a man, it is much better to cast him off." "Cast him off! or refuse him!--that's all very well," said Athenais, "but that is not the sin Mademoiselle de la Valliere has to reproach herself with. The actual sin is sending poor Bragelonne to the wars; and to wars in which death is so very likely to be met with." Louise pressed her hand over her icy brow. "And if he dies," continued her pitiless tormentor, "you will have killed him. That is the sin." Louise, half-dead, caught at the arm of the captain of the musketeers, whose face betrayed unusual emotion. "You wished to speak with me, Monsieur d'Artagnan," said she, in a voice broken by anger and pain. "What had you to say to me?" D'Artagnan made several steps along the gallery, holding Louise on his arm; then, when they were far enough removed from the others--"What I had to say to you, mademoiselle," replied he, "Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente has just expressed; roughly and unkindly, it is true but still in its entirety." She uttered a faint cry; pierced to the heart by this new wound, she went her way, like one of those poor birds which, struck unto death, seek the shade of the thicket in which to die. She disappeared at one door, at the moment the king was entering by another. The first glance of the king was directed towards the empty seat of his mistress. Not perceiving La Valliere, a frown came over his brow; but as soon as he saw D'Artagnan, who bowed to him--"Ah! monsieur!" cried he, "you _have_ been diligent! I am much pleased with you." This was the superlative expression of royal satisfaction. Many men would have been ready to lay down their lives for such a speech from the king. The maids of honor and the courtiers, who had formed a respectful circle round the king on his entrance, drew back, on observing he wished to speak privately with his captain of the musketeers. The king led the way out of the gallery, after having again, with his eyes, sought everywhere for La Valliere, whose absence he could not account for. The moment they were out of the reach of curious ears, "Well! Monsieur d'Artagnan," said he, "the prisoner?" "Is in his prison, sire." "What did he say on the road?" "Nothing, sire." "What did he do?" "There was a moment at which the fisherman--who took me in his boat to Sainte-Marguerite--revolted, and did his best to kill me. The--the prisoner defended me instead of attempting to fly." The king became pale. "Enough!" said he; and D'Artagnan bowed. Louis walked about his cabinet with hasty steps. "Were you at Antibes," said he, "when Monsieur de Beaufort came there?" "No, sire; I was setting off when monsieur le duc arrived." "Ah!" which was followed by a fresh silence. "Whom did you see there?" "A great many persons," said D'Artagnan, coolly. The king perceived he was unwilling to speak. "I have sent for you, monsieur le capitaine, to desire you to go and prepare my lodgings at Nantes." "At Nantes!" cried D'Artagnan. "In Bretagne." "Yes, sire, it is in Bretagne. Will you majesty make so long a journey as to Nantes?" "The States are assembled there," replied the king. "I have two demands to make of them: I wish to be there." "When shall I set out?" said the captain. "This evening--to-morrow--to-morrow evening; for you must stand in need of rest." "I have rested, sire." "That is well. Then between this and to-morrow evening, when you please." D'Artagnan bowed as if to take his leave; but, perceiving the king very much embarrassed, "Will you majesty," said he, stepping two paces forward, "take the court with you?" "Certainly I shall." "Then you majesty will, doubtless, want the musketeers?" And the eye of the king sank beneath the penetrating glance of the captain. "Take a brigade of them," replied Louis. "Is that all? Has your majesty no other orders to give me?" "No--ah--yes." "I am all attention, sire." "At the castle of Nantes, which I hear is very ill arranged, you will adopt the practice of placing musketeers at the door of each of the principal dignitaries I shall take with me." "Of the principal?" "Yes." "For instance, at the door of M. de Lyonne?" "Yes." "And that of M. Letellier?" "Yes." "Of M. de Brienne?" "Yes." "And of monsieur le surintendant?" "Without doubt." "Very well, sire. By to-morrow I shall have set out." "Oh, yes; but one more word, Monsieur d'Artagnan. At Nantes you will meet with M. le Duc de Gesvres, captain of the guards. Be sure that your musketeers are placed before his guards arrive. Precedence always belongs to the first comer." "Yes, sire." "And if M. de Gesvres should question you?" "Question me, sire! Is it likely that M. de Gesvres should question me?" And the musketeer, turning cavalierly on his heel, disappeared. "To Nantes!" said he to himself, as he descended from the stairs. "Why did he not dare to say, from thence to Belle-Isle?" As he reached the great gates, one of M. Brienne's clerks came running after him, exclaiming, "Monsieur d'Artagnan! I beg your pardon--" "What is the matter, Monsieur Ariste?" "The king has desired me to give you this order." "Upon your cash-box?" asked the musketeer. "No, monsieur; on that of M. Fouquet." D'Artagnan was surprised, but he took the order, which was in the king's own writing, and was for two hundred pistoles. "What!" thought he, after having politely thanked M. Brienne's clerk, "M. Fouquet is to pay for the journey, then! _Mordioux!_ that is a bit of pure Louis XI. Why was not this order on the chest of M. Colbert? He would have paid it with such joy." And D'Artagnan, faithful to his principle of never letting an order at sight get cold, went straight to the house of M. Fouquet, to receive his two hundred pistoles. 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.

D'Artagnan reitet so schnell wie möglich nach Paris. Als er ankommt, geht der König auf die Jagd. D'Artagnan verbringt fünf Stunden damit, sich über die neuesten Nachrichten am Hof auf dem Laufenden zu halten. Einige der wichtigsten Punkte sind: Madame ist krank, de Guiche ist außerhalb der Stadt, Colbert ist glücklich und Fouquet ist wirklich krank. Offenbar behandelt der König Fouquet nett, weigert sich aber, ihn aus den Augen zu lassen. Der König ist auch enger mit La Valliere verbunden als je zuvor. D'Artagnan beschließt, mit der Frau zu sprechen. La Valliere sitzt in der Mitte einer Gruppe von Damen, die ihn mit Fragen überschütten. Die Hofdamen fragen nach Neuigkeiten über Beauforts Armee und ihren Feldzug in Afrika. Eine gewisse Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente fragt, ob jemand von ihnen Freunde hat, die in der Armee dienen. D'Artagnan nennt ein paar Namen, darunter auch Raoul. La Valliere wird blass. Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente argumentiert, dass alle Männer, die nach Afrika gehen, solche sind, die zuhause in der Liebe Pech hatten. La Valliere ist zu diesem Zeitpunkt sehr blass, aber Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente ist nicht zufrieden. Sie ist fest entschlossen, die Frau erröten zu lassen. Sie sagt La Valliere, dass ihre Ablehnung von Raoul ein großes Sündenbewusstsein bei ihr hervorrufen müsse. Montalais springt La Valliere bei und sagt, es sei besser, einen Mann abzulehnen, den man nicht lieben könne, anstatt ihm Hoffnungen zu machen. Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente drängt weiter und beschuldigt La Valliere, Raoul zu töten, wenn er in Afrika stirbt. La Valliere entgeht einer Antwort, indem sie mit D'Artagnan einen privaten Spaziergang macht. Sie fragt D'Artagnan, warum er mit ihr sprechen wollte. D'Artagnan gesteht, dass seine Botschaft bereits von Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente treffend übermittelt wurde. La Valliere ist offensichtlich verletzt. Sie geht in einen anderen Raum, genau in dem Moment, in dem der König eintritt. König Louis XIV. sucht sofort nach seiner Geliebten und entdeckt dann D'Artagnan. Die beiden Männer ziehen sich zurück, um geschäftlich zu sprechen. D'Artagnan erzählt dem König, dass der Gefangene zu seiner Verteidigung kam, als er hätte fliehen können. Der König will es nicht hören. Der König sagt D'Artagnan, dass er Unterkünfte in Nantes organisieren soll, weil er dort Geschäfte hat. Der König sagt D'Artagnan, dass er zwischen heute Abend und morgen abreisen soll und dass er eine Brigade Musketiere mitbringen soll. Am Schloss sagt der König D'Artagnan, dass er vor Monsieur le Duc de Gesvres, dem Hauptmann der Wachen, am Schloss sein soll. Ein Schreiber gibt D'Artagnan einen Gutschein über zweihundert Pistolen, die von Fouquet eingezogen werden 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: SEARCH FOR MR. HYDE THAT evening Mr. Utterson came home to his bachelor house in sombre spirits and sat down to dinner without relish. It was his custom of a Sunday, when this meal was over, to sit close by the fire, a volume of some dry divinity on his reading-desk, until the clock of the neighbouring church rang out the hour of twelve, when he would go soberly and gratefully to bed. On this night, however, as soon as the cloth was taken away, he took up a candle and went into his business-room. There he opened his safe, took from the most private part of it a document endorsed on the envelope as Dr. Jekyll's Will, and sat down with a clouded brow to study its contents. The will was holograph, for Mr. Utterson, though he took charge of it now that it was made, had refused to lend the least assistance in the making of it; it provided not only that, in case of the decease of Henry Jekyll, M.D., D.C.L., L.L.D., F.R.S., etc., all his possessions were to pass into the hands of his "friend and benefactor Edward Hyde," but that in case of 12) Dr. Jekyll's "disappearance or unexplained absence for any period exceeding three calendar months," the said Edward Hyde should step into the said Henry Jekyll's shoes without further delay and free from any burthen or obligation, beyond the payment of a few small sums to the members of the doctor's household. This document had long been the lawyer's eyesore. It offended him both as a lawyer and as a lover of the sane and customary sides of life, to whom the fanciful was the immodest. And hitherto it was his ignorance of Mr. Hyde that had swelled his indignation; now, by a sudden turn, it was his knowledge. It was already bad enough when the name was but a name of which he could learn no more. It was worse when it began to be clothed upon with detestable attributes; and out of the shifting, insubstantial mists that had so long baffled his eye, there leaped up the sudden, definite presentment of a fiend. "I thought it was madness," he said, as he replaced the obnoxious paper in the safe, "and now I begin to fear it is disgrace." With that he blew out his candle, put on a great-coat, and set forth in the direction of Cavendish Square, that citadel of medicine, where his friend, the great Dr. Lanyon, had his house and received his crowding patients. "If any one knows, it will be Lanyon," he had thought. The solemn butler knew and welcomed him; 13) he was subjected to no stage of delay, but ushered direct from the door to the dining-room where Dr. Lanyon sat alone over his wine. This was a hearty, healthy, dapper, red-faced gentleman, with a shock of hair prematurely white, and a boisterous and decided manner. At sight of Mr. Utterson, he sprang up from his chair and welcomed him with both hands. The geniality, as was the way of the man, was somewhat theatrical to the eye; but it reposed on genuine feeling. For these two were old friends, old mates both at school and college, both thorough respecters of themselves and of each other, and, what does not always follow, men who thoroughly enjoyed each other's company. After a little rambling talk, the lawyer led up to the subject which so disagreeably pre-occupied his mind. "I suppose, Lanyon," said he "you and I must be the two oldest friends that Henry Jekyll has?" "I wish the friends were younger," chuckled Dr. Lanyon. "But I suppose we are. And what of that? I see little of him now." "Indeed?" said Utterson. "I thought you had a bond of common interest." "We had," was the reply. "But it is more than ten years since Henry Jekyll became too fanciful for me. He began to go wrong, wrong in mind; and though of course I continue to take an interest in him for old sake's sake, as they say, 14) I see and I have seen devilish little of the man. Such unscientific balderdash," added the doctor, flushing suddenly purple, "would have estranged Damon and Pythias." This little spirit of temper was somewhat of a relief to Mr. Utterson. "They have only differed on some point of science," he thought; and being a man of no scientific passions (except in the matter of conveyancing), he even added: "It is nothing worse than that!" He gave his friend a few seconds to recover his composure, and then approached the question he had come to put. "Did you ever come across a protege of his--one Hyde?" he asked. "Hyde?" repeated Lanyon. "No. Never heard of him. Since my time." That was the amount of information that the lawyer carried back with him to the great, dark bed on which he tossed to and fro, until the small hours of the morning began to grow large. It was a night of little ease to his toiling mind, toiling in mere darkness and besieged by questions. Six o'clock struck on the bells of the church that was so conveniently near to Mr. Utterson's dwelling, and still he was digging at the problem. Hitherto it had touched him on the intellectual side alone; but now his imagination also was engaged, or rather enslaved; and as he lay and tossed in the gross darkness of the night and the curtained room, Mr. Enfield's tale went by 15) before his mind in a scroll of lighted pictures. He would be aware of the great field of lamps of a nocturnal city; then of the figure of a man walking swiftly; then of a child running from the doctor's; and then these met, and that human Juggernaut trod the child down and passed on regardless of her screams. Or else he would see a room in a rich house, where his friend lay asleep, dreaming and smiling at his dreams; and then the door of that room would be opened, the curtains of the bed plucked apart, the sleeper recalled, and lo! there would stand by his side a figure to whom power was given, and even at that dead hour, he must rise and do its bidding. The figure in these two phases haunted the lawyer all night; and if at any time he dozed over, it was but to see it glide more stealthily through sleeping houses, or move the more swiftly and still the more swiftly, even to dizziness, through wider labyrinths of lamplighted city, and at every street-corner crush a child and leave her screaming. And still the figure had no face by which he might know it; even in his dreams, it had no face, or one that baffled him and melted before his eyes; and thus it was that there sprang up and grew apace in the lawyer's mind a singularly strong, almost an inordinate, curiosity to behold the features of the real Mr. Hyde. If he could but once set eyes on him, he thought the mystery would lighten and perhaps roll altogether away, as was the habit of mysterious 16) things when well examined. He might see a reason for his friend's strange preference or bondage (call it which you please) and even for the startling clause of the will. At least it would be a face worth seeing: the face of a man who was without bowels of mercy: a face which had but to show itself to raise up, in the mind of the unimpressionable Enfield, a spirit of enduring hatred. From that time forward, Mr. Utterson began to haunt the door in the by-street of shops. In the morning before office hours, at noon when business was plenty, and time scarce, at night under the face of the fogged city moon, by all lights and at all hours of solitude or concourse, the lawyer was to be found on his chosen post. "If he be Mr. Hyde," he had thought, "I shall be Mr. Seek." And at last his patience was rewarded. It was a fine dry night; frost in the air; the streets as clean as a ballroom floor; the lamps, unshaken, by any wind, drawing a regular pattern of light and shadow. By ten o'clock, when the shops were closed, the by-street was very solitary and, in spite of the low growl of London from all round, very silent. Small sounds carried far; domestic sounds out of the houses were clearly audible on either side of the roadway; and the rumour of the approach of any passenger preceded him by a long time. Mr. Utterson had been some minutes at his post, when he was 17) verwandelte sich in einen kalten Schauer, als er daran dachte, wie dieses Wesen durch die Stadt schlich und sich in das Haus von Dr. Jekyll einschlich. Es musste etwas unternommen werden, um diese Gefahr abzuwehren und die Wahrheit herauszufinden. Mr. Utterson beschloss, in dieser Angelegenheit keine Zeit zu verlieren und sofort zu handeln. Er wandte sich um und machte sich auf den Weg zum Polizeirevier, um den Vorfall zu melden und die Hilfe der Beamten in Anspruch zu nehmen. Er wusste, dass er Dr. Jekyll warnen musste und dass es wichtig war, diesen rätselhaften Mr. Hyde daran zu hindern, weiteres Unheil anzurichten. So eilte er durch die dunklen Straßen der Stadt und hoffte, dass er rechtzeitig sein Ziel erreichen würde. Der Dieb war an Harrys Bettseite; armer Harry, was für ein Erwachen! Und die Gefahr davon; denn wenn dieser Hyde das Vorhandensein des Testaments ahnt, könnte er ungeduldig werden, es zu erben. Ja, ich muss aktiv werden, wenn Jekyll mich nur ließe", fügte er hinzu, "wenn Jekyll mich nur lassen würde." Denn noch einmal sah er vor seinem geistigen Auge, klar wie eine Durchsicht, die merkwürdigen Klauseln des Testaments. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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An diesem Abend kehrt Herr Utterson mit schlechter Stimmung nach Hause zurück. Nach dem Abendessen nimmt er einen Umschlag mit dem Testament von Dr. Jekyll aus seinem Safe und studiert es. Das Testament besagt, dass nach seinem Tod all Jekylls Besitztümer an seinen "Freund und Wohltäter" Herrn Edward Hyde übergehen sollen. Zudem soll Hyde auch Jekylls Nachlass erben, sollte dieser unerklärlicherweise für mehr als drei Monate verschwinden. Das Testament erscheint ihm verrückt und nun, da ihm jemand eine Beschreibung von Hyde und seinem Verhalten gegeben hat, ist Utterson noch verwirrter und verstört. Er beschließt, ihren gemeinsamen Freund Dr. Lanyon zu besuchen, um mehr über die Angelegenheit zu erfahren. Als Utterson Jekylls Namen erwähnt, sagt Lanyon, dass sie sich entfremdet hätten und bezeichnet seine Forschung wütend als "unwissenschaftlichen Unsinn". Utterson spielt Lanyons Bemerkung herunter und nimmt an, dass es sich um einen bloßen wissenschaftlichen Streit handelt. Als er nach Mr. Hyde fragt, sagt Lanyon, dass er noch nie von ihm gehört habe. Enttäuscht kehrt Utterson nach Hause zurück und schläft schlecht in dieser Nacht. Am nächsten Morgen wird er immer noch von der gesichtslosen Gestalt von Mr. Hyde heimgesucht. Er ist sehr darauf versessen, Hyde zu treffen und herauszufinden, warum Dr. Jekyll ihm sein Vermögen vermacht hat. Utterson beginnt regelmäßig die Tür zu besuchen. Eines Nachts hört er Schritte. Er sieht einen seltsam aussehenden Mann an der Tür und fragt ihn, ob er Hyde heißt. Der Mann weicht zurück, als ob er Angst hätte. Dann stellt er sich Utterson trotzig entgegen und fragt ihn, wie er ihn kennt. Utterson sagt, dass er ihn durch die Beschreibung kennt. Immerhin haben sie gemeinsame Freunde wie Dr. Jekyll. Daraufhin wird Hyde sehr wütend und beschuldigt ihn, zu lügen, da er weiß, dass Jekyll ihn Utterson gegenüber niemals erwähnt hätte. Als Utterson versucht, ihn zu beruhigen, lacht Hyde grausam und geht schnell hinein. Utterson bleibt eine Weile verstört stehen. Dann geht er weiter und denkt über das Problem nach. Er empfindet eine enorme Abscheu gegenüber Hyde und fürchtet, dass er eine böse Seele hat. Er hat Mitleid mit Dr. Jekyll, der mit solch einem Gefährten verflucht ist. Utterson geht zu Jekylls Haus und wird von Poole, Jekylls Butler, eingelassen, der hineingeht, um nachzusehen, ob Dr. Jekyll zu Hause ist. Er kehrt zurück und sagt, dass er nicht da sei. Utterson bemerkt, dass er Mr. Hyde "durch die alte Sektionstür" habe eintreten sehen, und Poole antwortet, dass Hyde tatsächlich einen Schlüssel hat und dass außerdem alle Diener angewiesen sind, ihm zu gehorchen. Er speist jedoch nie im Haus, sondern verbringt nur Zeit im Labor. Utterson geht mit schwerem Herzen fort. Er empfindet Mitleid mit Dr. Jekyll und denkt, dass er erpresst wird für etwas Falsches, das er in seiner Jugend begangen hat. Dann denkt er an seine eigene Vergangenheit; obwohl "relativ tadellos", hat er dennoch einige demütigende Vergehen begangen. Er denkt dann an Hyde und spekuliert, dass dieser viele schwarze Taten heimlich begangen haben muss. Er befürchtet, dass Jekylls Leben in Gefahr sein könnte, wenn Hyde den Inhalt von Jekylls Testament ahnt, und er beschließt, seinem Freund zu helfen.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Kapitel: Der Tag verging im Wesentlichen wie der Tag zuvor. Mrs. Hurst und Miss Bingley verbrachten einige Stunden am Morgen bei der Kranken, die sich langsam weiterhin erholte; und am Abend gesellte sich Elizabeth ihrer Gruppe im Salon bei. Der Spieltisch war jedoch nicht zu sehen. Mr. Darcy schrieb, und Miss Bingley, die nahe bei ihm saß, beobachtete den Fortschritt seines Briefes und lenkte seine Aufmerksamkeit immer wieder mit Nachrichten an seine Schwester ab. Mr. Hurst und Mr. Bingley spielten Pikett, und Mrs. Hurst beobachtete ihr Spiel. Elizabeth nahm etwas Handarbeit auf und wurde ausreichend unterhalten, indem sie auf das einging, was zwischen Darcy und seinem Begleiter vor sich ging. Die ständigen Komplimente der Dame entweder über seine Handschrift, über die Gleichmäßigkeit seiner Zeilen oder über die Länge seines Briefes, und die vollkommene Gleichgültigkeit, mit der ihre Lobeshymnen aufgenommen wurden, bildeten einen kuriosen Dialog und stimmten genau mit ihrer Meinung überein. "Wie begeistert wird Miss Darcy sein, einen solchen Brief zu erhalten!" Er antwortete nicht. "Du schreibst außergewöhnlich schnell." "Du irrst dich. Ich schreibe eher langsam." "Wie viele Briefe musst du im Laufe des Jahres wohl schreiben! Geschäftsbriefe auch noch! Wie abscheulich, denke ich mir." "Dann ist es wohl glücklich, dass sie mir zufallen und nicht dir." "Bitte sag deiner Schwester, dass ich mich darauf freue, sie zu sehen." "Das habe ich bereits einmal getan, auf deinen Wunsch hin." "Ich befürchte, du magst deine Feder nicht. Lass mich sie für dich reparieren. Ich kann Federn besonders gut reparieren." "Danke, aber ich repariere meine eigenen Federn immer selbst." "Wie schaffst du es, so gleichmäßig zu schreiben?" Er schwieg. "Sag deiner Schwester, dass ich entzückt bin, von ihrem Fortschritt auf der Harfe zu hören, und lass sie wissen, dass ich hin und weg bin von ihrem wunderschönen Tischdesign, und ich halte es für unendlich überlegen gegenüber dem von Miss Grantley." "Darf ich deine Begeisterung aufschieben, bis ich wieder schreibe? Im Moment habe ich keinen Platz, um ihnen gerecht zu werden." "Oh, es spielt keine Rolle. Ich werde sie im Januar sehen. Aber schreibst du immer solch charmante, lange Briefe an sie, Mr. Darcy?" "Sie sind allgemein lang; aber ob immer charmant, das steht nicht in meiner Macht zu bestimmen." "Bei mir gilt die Regel, dass eine Person, die einen langen Brief mühelos schreiben kann, nicht schlecht schreiben kann." "Das funktioniert nicht als Kompliment für Darcy, Caroline", rief ihr Bruder, "weil er _nicht_ mühelos schreibt. Er studiert zu sehr, um Wörter mit vier Silben zu finden. Nicht wahr, Darcy?" "Mein Schreibstil ist sehr unterschiedlich zu deinem." "Oh!" rief Miss Bingley aus, "Charles schreibt auf die nachlässigste Art vorstellbar. Er lässt die Hälfte seiner Worte weg und verschmiert den Rest." "Meine Ideen fließen so schnell, dass ich keine Zeit habe, sie auszudrücken - wodurch meine Briefe manchmal überhaupt keine Ideen an meine Korrespondenten vermitteln." "Deine Bescheidenheit, Mr. Bingley", sagte Elizabeth, "muss eine Zurechtweisung verhindern." "Es gibt nichts Täuschenderes", sagte Darcy, "als der Anschein von Bescheidenheit. Es ist oft nur Gleichgültigkeit gegenüber Meinungen und manchmal auch ein indirektes Eigenlob." "Und welches der beiden nenne ich _mein_ kleines Beispiel für Bescheidenheit?" "Das indirekte Eigenlob; - denn du bist wirklich stolz auf deine Mängel beim Schreiben, weil du sie als Resultat einer schnellen Gedankenfähigkeit und Nachlässigkeit in der Ausführung betrachtest, die, falls nicht bewundernswert, du zumindest als hochinteressant ansiehst. Die Fähigkeit, etwas schnell zu tun, wird immer sehr geschätzt von dem Besitzer und oft ohne Aufmerksamkeit auf die Unvollkommenheit der Leistung. Als du Mrs. Bennet heute Morgen sagtest, dass du, wenn du beschließen würdest, Netherfield zu verlassen, in fünf Minuten weg sein würdest, meintest du es als eine Art Lob, als ein Kompliment an dich selbst - und doch, was ist so sehr lobenswert an einer Voreiligkeit, die notwendige Geschäfte unerledigt lässt und keinem echten Vorteil für dich oder irgendjemand anderen dienen kann?" "Nun", rief Bingley, "das ist zu viel, um sich abends an all die dummen Dinge zu erinnern, die morgens gesagt wurden. Und doch, bei meinem Ehrenwort, ich glaubte, was ich von mir selbst gesagt habe, wäre wahr und ich glaube es auch jetzt. Zumindest habe ich die Rolle eines unnötig voreiligen Menschen nicht angenommen, nur um vor den Damen anzugeben." "Ich vermute, du hast es geglaubt; aber ich bin keineswegs überzeugt, dass du mit solch einer Schnelligkeit weggegangen wärst. Dein Verhalten wäre genauso abhängig vom Zufall wie das eines jeden Mannes, den ich kenne; und wenn dir, während du auf dein Pferd steigst, ein Freund sagen würde: 'Bingley, du solltest bis nächste Woche bleiben', würdest du es wahrscheinlich tun, du würdest wahrscheinlich nicht gehen - und mit einem anderen Wort könntest du einen Monat bleiben." "Du hast hiermit nur bewiesen", rief Elizabeth, "dass Herr Bingley seiner eigenen Natur nicht gerecht geworden ist. Du hast ihn jetzt viel mehr zur Schau gestellt, als er sich selbst." "Ich bin äußerst zufrieden", sagte Bingley, "dass du das, was mein Freund sagt, in ein Lob für meine Sanftmut umwandelst. Aber ich befürchte, du gibst dem Ganzen eine Wendung, die dieser Herr keineswegs beabsichtigt hat; denn er würde mit Sicherheit besser von mir denken, wenn ich unter solchen Umständen einen glatten Widerspruch aussprechen und so schnell wie möglich abziehen würde." "Würde Mr. Darcy dann die Unbedachtheit deiner ursprünglichen Absicht als durch deine Halsstarrigkeit wiedergutgemacht betrachten?" "Bei meinem Wort, ich kann die Angelegenheit nicht genau erklären, Darcy muss für sich sprechen." "Du erwartest von mir, dass ich für Meinungen Rechenschaft ablege, die du als meine bezeichnest, aber die ich nie anerkannt habe. Selbst wenn wir den Fall nach deiner Darstellung betrachten, musst du bedenken, Miss Bennet, dass der Freund, von dem angenommen wird, dass er sich seine Rückkehr ins Haus und die Verzögerung seines Plans wünscht, dies lediglich gewünscht, ohne ein einziges Argument für die Angemessenheit vorzubringen." "Bereitwillig - leicht - der _Überredung_ eines Freundes nachzugeben, ist für dich kein Verdienst." "Ohne Überzeugung nachzugeben, ist kein Kompliment für das Verständnis von irgendeinem." "Sie erscheinen mir, Mr. Darcy, als ob Sie keinen Einfluss von Freundschaft und Zuneigung zulassen. Die Rücksicht auf den Bittenden würde oft dazu führen, dass man einem Wunsch bereitwillig nachkommt, ohne auf Argumente zu warten. Ich spreche besonders nicht von einem Fall wie dem von Mr. Bingley, den du angenommen hast. Wir sollten vielleicht warten, bis sich die Umstände ergeben, bevor wir die Weisheit seines Verhaltens bezüglich dessen diskutieren. Aber im Allgemeinen und bei gewöhnlichen Fällen zwischen Freunden, wenn einer von ihnen vom anderen gebeten wird, eine Entscheidung von nicht allzu großer Bedeutung zu ä Mrs. Hurst sang mit ihrer Schwester, und während sie so beschäftigt waren, konnte Elizabeth nicht umhin, zu beobachten, wie häufig Mr. Darcys Augen auf sie gerichtet waren, während sie einige Musikbücher durchblätterte, die auf dem Instrument lagen. Sie wusste kaum, wie sie annehmen sollte, dass sie ein Objekt der Bewunderung für einen so großen Mann sein könnte; und doch war es noch merkwürdiger, dass er sie ansehen sollte, weil er sie nicht mochte. Sie konnte sich jedoch nur vorstellen, dass sie seine Aufmerksamkeit auf sich zog, weil etwas an ihr falsch und tadelnswert war, nach seinen Vorstellungen von richtig, als bei jeder anderen anwesenden Person. Diese Annahme schmerzte sie nicht. Sie mochte ihn zu wenig, um sich um seine Anerkennung zu kümmern. Nachdem sie einige italienische Lieder gespielt hatte, erheiterte Miss Bingley den Charme mit einer lebhaften schottischen Melodie; und kurz danach, als sich Mr. Darcy Elizabeth näherte, sagte er zu ihr: "Haben Sie nicht eine große Lust, Miss Bennet, diese Gelegenheit zu nutzen und einen Reel zu tanzen?" Sie lächelte, antwortete aber nicht. Er wiederholte die Frage und war überrascht über ihr Schweigen. "Oh!" sagte sie, "Ich habe Sie gehört, konnte aber nicht sofort entscheiden, was ich als Antwort sagen sollte. Sie wollten, dass ich 'Ja' sage, damit Sie das Vergnügen haben, meinen Geschmack zu verachten, aber ich erfreue mich immer daran, solche Pläne zu vereiteln und einer Person ihren vorausgeplanten Verachtung zu entziehen. Deshalb habe ich mich entschieden, Ihnen zu sagen, dass ich überhaupt keinen Reel tanzen möchte - und verachten Sie mich jetzt, wenn Sie sich trauen." "Nein, das traue ich mich wirklich nicht." Elizabeth war erstaunt über seine Galanterie, da sie eher erwartet hatte, ihn zu kränken; aber ihre Art hatte eine Mischung aus Freundlichkeit und Verspieltheit, die es ihr schwer machte, jemanden zu beleidigen, und Darcy war noch nie so von einer Frau verzaubert worden wie von ihr. Er glaubte wirklich, dass, wäre es nicht für die Minderwertigkeit ihrer Verbindungen, er in irgendeiner Gefahr wäre. Miss Bingley sah oder vermutete genug, um eifersüchtig zu sein; und ihre große Sorge um die Genesung ihrer lieben Freundin Jane erhielt Unterstützung von ihrem Wunsch, Elizabeth loszuwerden. Sie versuchte oft, Darcy durch Gespräche über ihre angebliche Heirat zu provozieren und sein Glück in einer solchen Allianz zu planen. "Ich hoffe," sagte sie, als sie am nächsten Tag zusammen im Gebüsch spazierten, "Sie werden Ihrer Schwiegermutter ein paar Hinweise geben, wenn dieses wünschenswerte Ereignis eintritt, wie vorteilhaft es ist, den Mund zu halten; und wenn es Ihnen möglich ist, versuchen Sie die jüngeren Mädchen davon abzuhalten, den Offizieren nachzulaufen. Und wenn ich ein so heikles Thema ansprechen darf, bemühen Sie sich, diese kleine Neigung, die an Überheblichkeit und Unverschämtheit grenzt, die Ihre Dame besitzt, einzudämmen." "Haben Sie noch etwas anderes für mein häusliches Glück vorzuschlagen?" "Oh! Ja. Lassen Sie die Porträts Ihres Onkels und Ihrer Tante Philips in der Galerie in Pemberley aufhängen. Stellen Sie sie neben Ihren Großonkel, dem Richter. Sie sind im gleichen Beruf, wissen Sie; nur in verschiedenen Bereichen. Was das Bild von Elizabeth betrifft, sollten Sie nicht versuchen, es machen zu lassen, denn welcher Maler könnte diesen schönen Augen gerecht werden?" "Es wäre in der Tat nicht einfach, ihren Ausdruck einzufangen, aber ihre Farbe und Form und die Wimpern, die so bemerkenswert fein sind, könnten kopiert werden." In diesem Moment trafen sie auf Mrs. Hurst und Elizabeth selbst, die aus einem anderen Spaziergang kamen. "Ich wusste nicht, dass Sie spazieren gehen wollten", sagte Miss Bingley, etwas verwirrt, dass sie abgehört worden waren. "Sie haben uns schrecklich behandelt, indem Sie davonliefen, ohne uns zu sagen, dass Sie herauskommen werden", antwortete Mrs. Hurst. Dann nahm sie den freien Arm von Mr. Darcy und ließ Elizabeth alleine spazieren gehen. Der Weg ließ nur drei Personen zu. Mr. Darcy empfand ihre Grobheit und sagte sofort: "Dieser Weg ist nicht breit genug für unsere Gruppe. Wir sollten besser in die Allee gehen." Aber Elizabeth hatte überhaupt keine Lust, mit ihnen zusammen zu bleiben. Sie antwortete lachend: "Nein, nein, bleiben Sie, wo Sie sind. Sie sind entzückend gruppiert und sehen außergewöhnlich gut aus. Das malerische Bild würde durch eine vierte Person ruiniert werden. Tschüss." Dann lief sie vergnügt davon und freute sich, während sie herumschlenderte, in der Hoffnung, in einem oder zwei Tagen wieder zu Hause zu sein. Jane hatte sich bereits so weit erholt, dass sie beabsichtigte, für ein paar Stunden an diesem Abend ihr Zimmer zu verlassen. 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.

Jane wird immer besser. Ein großer Teil des Tages verbringt sie im Zeichenzimmer mit Lesen, Briefeschreiben und Musik. Während Miss Bingley Klavier spielt, bittet Darcy Elizabeth zum Tanz und sie lehnt ab. Sie denkt, dass er nur mit ihr tanzen will, um "das Vergnügen zu haben, ihren Geschmack zu verachten". Dies macht Miss Bingley eifersüchtig und am nächsten Tag neckt sie Darcy noch mehr wegen seiner Bewunderung für Elizabeth.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). 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: AWAKENING When Siddhartha left the grove, where the Buddha, the perfected one, stayed behind, where Govinda stayed behind, then he felt that in this grove his past life also stayed behind and parted from him. He pondered about this sensation, which filled him completely, as he was slowly walking along. He pondered deeply, like diving into a deep water he let himself sink down to the ground of the sensation, down to the place where the causes lie, because to identify the causes, so it seemed to him, is the very essence of thinking, and by this alone sensations turn into realizations and are not lost, but become entities and start to emit like rays of light what is inside of them. Slowly walking along, Siddhartha pondered. He realized that he was no youth any more, but had turned into a man. He realized that one thing had left him, as a snake is left by its old skin, that one thing no longer existed in him, which had accompanied him throughout his youth and used to be a part of him: the wish to have teachers and to listen to teachings. He had also left the last teacher who had appeared on his path, even him, the highest and wisest teacher, the most holy one, Buddha, he had left him, had to part with him, was not able to accept his teachings. Slower, he walked along in his thoughts and asked himself: "But what is this, what you have sought to learn from teachings and from teachers, and what they, who have taught you much, were still unable to teach you?" And he found: "It was the self, the purpose and essence of which I sought to learn. It was the self, I wanted to free myself from, which I sought to overcome. But I was not able to overcome it, could only deceive it, could only flee from it, only hide from it. Truly, no thing in this world has kept my thoughts thus busy, as this my very own self, this mystery of me being alive, of me being one and being separated and isolated from all others, of me being Siddhartha! And there is no thing in this world I know less about than about me, about Siddhartha!" Having been pondering while slowly walking along, he now stopped as these thoughts caught hold of him, and right away another thought sprang forth from these, a new thought, which was: "That I know nothing about myself, that Siddhartha has remained thus alien and unknown to me, stems from one cause, a single cause: I was afraid of myself, I was fleeing from myself! I searched Atman, I searched Brahman, I was willing to dissect my self and peel off all of its layers, to find the core of all peels in its unknown interior, the Atman, life, the divine part, the ultimate part. But I have lost myself in the process." Siddhartha opened his eyes and looked around, a smile filled his face and a feeling of awakening from long dreams flowed through him from his head down to his toes. And it was not long before he walked again, walked quickly like a man who knows what he has got to do. "Oh," he thought, taking a deep breath, "now I would not let Siddhartha escape from me again! No longer, I want to begin my thoughts and my life with Atman and with the suffering of the world. I do not want to kill and dissect myself any longer, to find a secret behind the ruins. Neither Yoga-Veda shall teach me any more, nor Atharva-Veda, nor the ascetics, nor any kind of teachings. I want to learn from myself, want to be my student, want to get to know myself, the secret of Siddhartha." He looked around, as if he was seeing the world for the first time. Beautiful was the world, colourful was the world, strange and mysterious was the world! Here was blue, here was yellow, here was green, the sky and the river flowed, the forest and the mountains were rigid, all of it was beautiful, all of it was mysterious and magical, and in its midst was he, Siddhartha, the awakening one, on the path to himself. All of this, all this yellow and blue, river and forest, entered Siddhartha for the first time through the eyes, was no longer a spell of Mara, was no longer the veil of Maya, was no longer a pointless and coincidental diversity of mere appearances, despicable to the deeply thinking Brahman, who scorns diversity, who seeks unity. Blue was blue, river was river, and if also in the blue and the river, in Siddhartha, the singular and divine lived hidden, so it was still that very divinity's way and purpose, to be here yellow, here blue, there sky, there forest, and here Siddhartha. The purpose and the essential properties were not somewhere behind the things, they were in them, in everything. "How deaf and stupid have I been!" he thought, walking swiftly along. "When someone reads a text, wants to discover its meaning, he will not scorn the symbols and letters and call them deceptions, coincidence, and worthless hull, but he will read them, he will study and love them, letter by letter. But I, who wanted to read the book of the world and the book of my own being, I have, for the sake of a meaning I had anticipated before I read, scorned the symbols and letters, I called the visible world a deception, called my eyes and my tongue coincidental and worthless forms without substance. No, this is over, I have awakened, I have indeed awakened and have not been born before this very day." In thinking these thoughts, Siddhartha stopped once again, suddenly, as if there was a snake lying in front of him on the path. Because suddenly, he had also become aware of this: He, who was indeed like someone who had just woken up or like a new-born baby, he had to start his life anew and start again at the very beginning. When he had left in this very morning from the grove Jetavana, the grove of that exalted one, already awakening, already on the path towards himself, he had every intention, regarded as natural and took for granted, that he, after years as an ascetic, would return to his home and his father. But now, only in this moment, when he stopped as if a snake was lying on his path, he also awoke to this realization: "But I am no longer the one I was, I am no ascetic any more, I am not a priest any more, I am no Brahman any more. Whatever should I do at home and at my father's place? Study? Make offerings? Practise meditation? But all this is over, all of this is no longer alongside my path." Motionless, Siddhartha remained standing there, and for the time of one moment and breath, his heart felt cold, he felt a cold in his chest, as a small animal, a bird or a rabbit, would when seeing how alone he was. For many years, he had been without home and had felt nothing. Now, he felt it. Still, even in the deepest meditation, he had been his father's son, had been a Brahman, of a high caste, a cleric. Now, he was nothing but Siddhartha, the awoken one, nothing else was left. Deeply, he inhaled, and for a moment, he felt cold and shivered. Nobody was thus alone as he was. There was no nobleman who did not belong to the noblemen, no worker that did not belong to the workers, and found refuge with them, shared their life, spoke their language. No Brahman, who would not be regarded as Brahmans and lived with them, no ascetic who would not find his refuge in the caste of the Samanas, and even the most forlorn hermit in the forest was not just one and alone, he was also surrounded by a place he belonged to, he also belonged to a caste, in which he was at home. Govinda had become a monk, and a thousand monks were his brothers, wore the same robe as he, believed in his faith, spoke his language. But he, Siddhartha, where did he belong to? With whom would he share his life? Whose language would he speak? Out of this moment, when the world melted away all around him, when he stood alone like a star in the sky, out of this moment of a cold and despair, Siddhartha emerged, more a self than before, more firmly concentrated. He felt: This had been the last tremor of the awakening, the last struggle of this birth. And it was not long until he walked again in long strides, started to proceed swiftly and impatiently, heading no longer for home, no longer to his father, no longer back. Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der oben stehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Siddhartha verlässt den Hain, in dem der Buddha lebt, und hat das Gefühl, sein früheres Leben hinter sich gelassen zu haben. Er verspürt keine Lust mehr, Lehrer zu hören. Er beschließt, dass er sich selbst verloren hat, indem er nach dem Göttlichen gesucht hat, und er nimmt sich vor, nicht länger zu versuchen, vor sich selbst zu fliehen. Er wird die Welt nicht länger verachten und sie als Illusion betrachten. Er möchte meaning in der Welt finden, nicht jenseits davon. Er möchte sein Leben von vorn beginnen. Er hat ein paar Momente der Einsamkeit, als er realisiert, wie isoliert er ist, da er nun sein altes Leben hinter sich lässt. Er weiß, dass er nicht zu seinem Vater, dem Brahmanenpriester, zurückkehren kann. Aber er gewinnt schnell sein Vertrauen zurück und geht energisch vorwärts.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). 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: Spring flew swiftly by, and summer came. If the village had been beautiful at first it was now in the full glow and luxuriance of its richness. The great trees, which had looked shrunken and bare in the earlier months, had now burst into strong life and health; and stretching forth their green arms over the thirsty ground, converted open and naked spots into choice nooks, where was a deep and pleasant shade from which to look upon the wide prospect, steeped in sunshine, which lay stretched beyond. The earth had donned her mantle of brightest green; and shed her richest perfumes abroad. It was the prime and vigour of the year; all things were glad and flourishing. Still, the same quiet life went on at the little cottage, and the same cheerful serenity prevailed among its inmates. Oliver had long since grown stout and healthy; but health or sickness made no difference in his warm feelings of a great many people. He was still the same gentle, attached, affectionate creature that he had been when pain and suffering had wasted his strength, and when he was dependent for every slight attention, and comfort on those who tended him. One beautiful night, when they had taken a longer walk than was customary with them: for the day had been unusually warm, and there was a brilliant moon, and a light wind had sprung up, which was unusually refreshing. Rose had been in high spirits, too, and they had walked on, in merry conversation, until they had far exceeded their ordinary bounds. Mrs. Maylie being fatigued, they returned more slowly home. The young lady merely throwing off her simple bonnet, sat down to the piano as usual. After running abstractedly over the keys for a few minutes, she fell into a low and very solemn air; and as she played it, they heard a sound as if she were weeping. 'Rose, my dear!' said the elder lady. Rose made no reply, but played a little quicker, as though the words had roused her from some painful thoughts. 'Rose, my love!' cried Mrs. Maylie, rising hastily, and bending over her. 'What is this? In tears! My dear child, what distresses you?' 'Nothing, aunt; nothing,' replied the young lady. 'I don't know what it is; I can't describe it; but I feel--' 'Not ill, my love?' interposed Mrs. Maylie. 'No, no! Oh, not ill!' replied Rose: shuddering as though some deadly chillness were passing over her, while she spoke; 'I shall be better presently. Close the window, pray!' Oliver hastened to comply with her request. The young lady, making an effort to recover her cheerfulness, strove to play some livelier tune; but her fingers dropped powerless over the keys. Covering her face with her hands, she sank upon a sofa, and gave vent to the tears which she was now unable to repress. 'My child!' said the elderly lady, folding her arms about her, 'I never saw you so before.' 'I would not alarm you if I could avoid it,' rejoined Rose; 'but indeed I have tried very hard, and cannot help this. I fear I _am_ ill, aunt.' She was, indeed; for, when candles were brought, they saw that in the very short time which had elapsed since their return home, the hue of her countenance had changed to a marble whiteness. Its expression had lost nothing of its beauty; but it was changed; and there was an anxious haggard look about the gentle face, which it had never worn before. Another minute, and it was suffused with a crimson flush: and a heavy wildness came over the soft blue eye. Again this disappeared, like the shadow thrown by a passing cloud; and she was once more deadly pale. Oliver, who watched the old lady anxiously, observed that she was alarmed by these appearances; and so in truth, was he; but seeing that she affected to make light of them, he endeavoured to do the same, and they so far succeeded, that when Rose was persuaded by her aunt to retire for the night, she was in better spirits; and appeared even in better health: assuring them that she felt certain she should rise in the morning, quite well. 'I hope,' said Oliver, when Mrs. Maylie returned, 'that nothing is the matter? She don't look well to-night, but--' The old lady motioned to him not to speak; and sitting herself down in a dark corner of the room, remained silent for some time. At length, she said, in a trembling voice: 'I hope not, Oliver. I have been very happy with her for some years: too happy, perhaps. It may be time that I should meet with some misfortune; but I hope it is not this.' 'What?' inquired Oliver. 'The heavy blow,' said the old lady, 'of losing the dear girl who has so long been my comfort and happiness.' 'Oh! God forbid!' exclaimed Oliver, hastily. 'Amen to that, my child!' said the old lady, wringing her hands. 'Surely there is no danger of anything so dreadful?' said Oliver. 'Two hours ago, she was quite well.' 'She is very ill now,' rejoined Mrs. Maylies; 'and will be worse, I am sure. My dear, dear Rose! Oh, what shall I do without her!' She gave way to such great grief, that Oliver, suppressing his own emotion, ventured to remonstrate with her; and to beg, earnestly, that, for the sake of the dear young lady herself, she would be more calm. 'And consider, ma'am,' said Oliver, as the tears forced themselves into his eyes, despite of his efforts to the contrary. 'Oh! consider how young and good she is, and what pleasure and comfort she gives to all about her. I am sure--certain--quite certain--that, for your sake, who are so good yourself; and for her own; and for the sake of all she makes so happy; she will not die. Heaven will never let her die so young.' 'Hush!' said Mrs. Maylie, laying her hand on Oliver's head. 'You think like a child, poor boy. But you teach me my duty, notwithstanding. I had forgotten it for a moment, Oliver, but I hope I may be pardoned, for I am old, and have seen enough of illness and death to know the agony of separation from the objects of our love. I have seen enough, too, to know that it is not always the youngest and best who are spared to those that love them; but this should give us comfort in our sorrow; for Heaven is just; and such things teach us, impressively, that there is a brighter world than this; and that the passage to it is speedy. God's will be done! I love her; and He knows how well!' Oliver was surprised to see that as Mrs. Maylie said these words, she checked her lamentations as though by one effort; and drawing herself up as she spoke, became composed and firm. He was still more astonished to find that this firmness lasted; and that, under all the care and watching which ensued, Mrs. Maylie was ever ready and collected: performing all the duties which had devolved upon her, steadily, and, to all external appearances, even cheerfully. But he was young, and did not know what strong minds are capable of, under trying circumstances. How should he, when their possessors so seldom know themselves? An anxious night ensued. When morning came, Mrs. Maylie's predictions were but too well verified. Rose was in the first stage of a high and dangerous fever. 'We must be active, Oliver, and not give way to useless grief,' said Mrs. Maylie, laying her finger on her lip, as she looked steadily into his face; 'this letter must be sent, with all possible expedition, to Mr. Losberne. It must be carried to the market-town: which is not more than four miles off, by the footpath across the field: and thence dispatched, by an express on horseback, straight to Chertsey. The people at the inn will undertake to do this: and I can trust to you to see it done, I know.' Oliver could make no reply, but looked his anxiety to be gone at once. 'Here is another letter,' said Mrs. Maylie, pausing to reflect; 'but whether to send it now, or wait until I see how Rose goes on, I scarcely know. I would not forward it, unless I feared the worst.' 'Is it for Chertsey, too, ma'am?' inquired Oliver; impatient to execute his commission, and holding out his trembling hand for the letter. 'No,' replied the old lady, giving it to him mechanically. Oliver glanced at it, and saw that it was directed to Harry Maylie, Esquire, at some great lord's house in the country; where, he could not make out. 'Shall it go, ma'am?' asked Oliver, looking up, impatiently. 'I think not,' replied Mrs. Maylie, taking it back. 'I will wait until to-morrow.' With these words, she gave Oliver her purse, and he started off, without more delay, at the greatest speed he could muster. Swiftly he ran across the fields, and down the little lanes which sometimes divided them: now almost hidden by the high corn on either side, and now emerging on an open field, where the mowers and haymakers were busy at their work: nor did he stop once, save now and then, for a few seconds, to recover breath, until he came, in a great heat, and covered with dust, on the little market-place of the market-town. Here he paused, and looked about for the inn. There were a white bank, and a red brewery, and a yellow town-hall; and in one corner there was a large house, with all the wood about it painted green: before which was the sign of 'The George.' To this he hastened, as soon as it caught his eye. He spoke to a postboy who was dozing under the gateway; and who, after hearing what he wanted, referred him to the ostler; who after hearing all he had to say again, referred him to the landlord; who was a tall gentleman in a blue neckcloth, a white hat, drab breeches, and boots with tops to match, leaning against a pump by the stable-door, picking his teeth with a silver toothpick. This gentleman walked with much deliberation into the bar to make out the bill: which took a long time making out: and after it was ready, and paid, a horse had to be saddled, and a man to be dressed, which took up ten good minutes more. Meanwhile Oliver was in such a desperate state of impatience and anxiety, that he felt as if he could have jumped upon the horse himself, and galloped away, full tear, to the next stage. At length, all was ready; and the little parcel having been handed up, with many injunctions and entreaties for its speedy delivery, the man set spurs to his horse, and rattling over the uneven paving of the market-place, was out of the town, and galloping along the turnpike-road, in a couple of minutes. As it was something to feel certain that assistance was sent for, and that no time had been lost, Oliver hurried up the inn-yard, with a somewhat lighter heart. He was turning out of the gateway when he accidently stumbled against a tall man wrapped in a cloak, who was at that moment coming out of the inn door. 'Hah!' cried the man, fixing his eyes on Oliver, and suddenly recoiling. 'What the devil's this?' 'I beg your pardon, sir,' said Oliver; 'I was in a great hurry to get home, and didn't see you were coming.' 'Death!' muttered the man to himself, glaring at the boy with his large dark eyes. 'Who would have thought it! Grind him to ashes! He'd start up from a stone coffin, to come in my way!' 'I am sorry,' stammered Oliver, confused by the strange man's wild look. 'I hope I have not hurt you!' 'Rot you!' murmured the man, in a horrible passion; between his clenched teeth; 'if I had only had the courage to say the word, I might have been free of you in a night. Curses on your head, and black death on your heart, you imp! What are you doing here?' The man shook his fist, as he uttered these words incoherently. He advanced towards Oliver, as if with the intention of aiming a blow at him, but fell violently on the ground: writhing and foaming, in a fit. Oliver gazed, for a moment, at the struggles of the madman (for such he supposed him to be); and then darted into the house for help. Having seen him safely carried into the hotel, he turned his face homewards, running as fast as he could, to make up for lost time: and recalling with a great deal of astonishment and some fear, the extraordinary behaviour of the person from whom he had just parted. The circumstance did not dwell in his recollection long, however: for when he reached the cottage, there was enough to occupy his mind, and to drive all considerations of self completely from his memory. Rose Maylie had rapidly grown worse; before mid-night she was delirious. A medical practitioner, who resided on the spot, was in constant attendance upon her; and after first seeing the patient, he had taken Mrs. Maylie aside, and pronounced her disorder to be one of a most alarming nature. 'In fact,' he said, 'it would be little short of a miracle, if she recovered.' How often did Oliver start from his bed that night, and stealing out, with noiseless footstep, to the staircase, listen for the slightest sound from the sick chamber! How often did a tremble shake his frame, and cold drops of terror start upon his brow, when a sudden trampling of feet caused him to fear that something too dreadful to think of, had even then occurred! And what had been the fervency of all the prayers he had ever muttered, compared with those he poured forth, now, in the agony and passion of his supplication for the life and health of the gentle creature, who was tottering on the deep grave's verge! Oh! the suspense, the fearful, acute suspense, of standing idly by while the life of one we dearly love, is trembling in the balance! Oh! the racking thoughts that crowd upon the mind, and make the heart beat violently, and the breath come thick, by the force of the images they conjure up before it; the desperate anxiety _to be doing something_ to relieve the pain, or lessen the danger, which we have no power to alleviate; the sinking of soul and spirit, which the sad remembrance of our helplessness produces; what tortures can equal these; what reflections or endeavours can, in the full tide and fever of the time, allay them! Morning came; and the little cottage was lonely and still. People spoke in whispers; anxious faces appeared at the gate, from time to time; women and children went away in tears. All the livelong day, and for hours after it had grown dark, Oliver paced softly up and down the garden, raising his eyes every instant to the sick chamber, and shuddering to see the darkened window, looking as if death lay stretched inside. Late that night, Mr. Losberne arrived. 'It is hard,' said the good doctor, turning away as he spoke; 'so young; so much beloved; but there is very little hope.' Another morning. The sun shone brightly; as brightly as if it looked upon no misery or care; and, with every leaf and flower in full bloom about her; with life, and health, and sounds and sights of joy, surrounding her on every side: the fair young creature lay, wasting fast. Oliver crept away to the old churchyard, and sitting down on one of the green mounds, wept and prayed for her, in silence. There was such peace and beauty in the scene; so much of brightness and mirth in the sunny landscape; such blithesome music in the songs of the summer birds; such freedom in the rapid flight of the rook, careering overhead; so much of life and joyousness in all; that, when the boy raised his aching eyes, and looked about, the thought instinctively occurred to him, that this was not a time for death; that Rose could surely never die when humbler things were all so glad and gay; that graves were for cold and cheerless winter: not for sunlight and fragrance. He almost thought that shrouds were for the old and shrunken; and that they never wrapped the young and graceful form in their ghastly folds. A knell from the church bell broke harshly on these youthful thoughts. Another! Again! It was tolling for the funeral service. A group of humble mourners entered the gate: wearing white favours; for the corpse was young. They stood uncovered by a grave; and there was a mother--a mother once--among the weeping train. But the sun shone brightly, and the birds sang on. Oliver turned homeward, thinking on the many kindnesses he had received from the young lady, and wishing that the time could come again, that he might never cease showing her how grateful and attached he was. He had no cause for self-reproach on the score of neglect, or want of thought, for he had been devoted to her service; and yet a hundred little occasions rose up before him, on which he fancied he might have been more zealous, and more earnest, and wished he had been. We need be careful how we deal with those about us, when every death carries to some small circle of survivors, thoughts of so much omitted, and so little done--of so many things forgotten, and so many more which might have been repaired! There is no remorse so deep as that which is unavailing; if we would be spared its tortures, let us remember this, in time. When he reached home Mrs. Maylie was sitting in the little parlour. Oliver's heart sank at sight of her; for she had never left the bedside of her niece; and he trembled to think what change could have driven her away. He learnt that she had fallen into a deep sleep, from which she would waken, either to recovery and life, or to bid them farewell, and die. They sat, listening, and afraid to speak, for hours. The untasted meal was removed, with looks which showed that their thoughts were elsewhere, they watched the sun as he sank lower and lower, and, at length, cast over sky and earth those brilliant hues which herald his departure. Their quick ears caught the sound of an approaching footstep. They both involuntarily darted to the door, as Mr. Losberne entered. 'What of Rose?' cried the old lady. 'Tell me at once! I can bear it; anything but suspense! Oh, tell me! in the name of Heaven!' 'You must compose yourself,' said the doctor supporting her. 'Be calm, my dear ma'am, pray.' 'Let me go, in God's name! My dear child! She is dead! She is dying!' 'No!' cried the doctor, passionately. 'As He is good and merciful, she will live to bless us all, for years to come.' The lady fell upon her knees, and tried to fold her hands together; but the energy which had supported her so long, fled up to Heaven with her first thanksgiving; and she sank into the friendly arms which were extended to receive her. It was almost too much happiness to bear. Oliver felt stunned and stupefied by the unexpected intelligence; he could not weep, or speak, or rest. He had scarcely the power of understanding anything that had passed, until, after a long ramble in the quiet evening air, a burst of tears came to his relief, and he seemed to awaken, all at once, to a full sense of the joyful change that had occurred, and the almost insupportable load of anguish which had been taken from his breast. The night was fast closing in, when he returned homeward: laden with flowers which he had culled, with peculiar care, for the adornment of the sick chamber. As he walked briskly along the road, he heard behind him, the noise of some vehicle, approaching at a furious pace. Looking round, he saw that it was a post-chaise, driven at great speed; and as the horses were galloping, and the road was narrow, he stood leaning against a gate until it should have passed him. As it dashed on, Oliver caught a glimpse of a man in a white nightcap, whose face seemed familiar to him, although his view was so brief that he could not identify the person. In another second or two, the nightcap was thrust out of the chaise-window, and a stentorian voice bellowed to the driver to stop: which he did, as soon as he could pull up his horses. Then, the nightcap once again appeared: and the same voice called Oliver by his name. 'Here!' cried the voice. 'Oliver, what's the news? Miss Rose! Master O-li-ver!' 'Is it you, Giles?' cried Oliver, running up to the chaise-door. Giles popped out his nightcap again, preparatory to making some reply, when he was suddenly pulled back by a young gentleman who occupied the other corner of the chaise, and who eagerly demanded what was the news. 'In a word!' cried the gentleman, 'Better or worse?' 'Better--much better!' replied Oliver, hastily. 'Thank Heaven!' exclaimed the gentleman. 'You are sure?' 'Quite, sir,' replied Oliver. 'The change took place only a few hours ago; and Mr. Losberne says, that all danger is at an end.' The gentleman said not another word, but, opening the chaise-door, leaped out, and taking Oliver hurriedly by the arm, led him aside. 'You are quite certain? There is no possibility of any mistake on your part, my boy, is there?' demanded the gentleman in a tremulous voice. 'Do not deceive me, by awakening hopes that are not to be fulfilled.' 'I would not for the world, sir,' replied Oliver. 'Indeed you may believe me. Mr. Losberne's words were, that she would live to bless us all for many years to come. I heard him say so.' The tears stood in Oliver's eyes as he recalled the scene which was the beginning of so much happiness; and the gentleman turned his face away, and remained silent, for some minutes. Oliver thought he heard him sob, more than once; but he feared to interrupt him by any fresh remark--for he could well guess what his feelings were--and so stood apart, feigning to be occupied with his nosegay. All this time, Mr. Giles, with the white nightcap on, had been sitting on the steps of the chaise, supporting an elbow on each knee, and wiping his eyes with a blue cotton pocket-handkerchief dotted with white spots. That the honest fellow had not been feigning emotion, was abundantly demonstrated by the very red eyes with which he regarded the young gentleman, when he turned round and addressed him. 'I think you had better go on to my mother's in the chaise, Giles,' said he. 'I would rather walk slowly on, so as to gain a little time before I see her. You can say I am coming.' 'I beg your pardon, Mr. Harry,' said Giles: giving a final polish to his ruffled countenance with the handkerchief; 'but if you would leave the postboy to say that, I should be very much obliged to you. It wouldn't be proper for the maids to see me in this state, sir; I should never have any more authority with them if they did.' 'Well,' rejoined Harry Maylie, smiling, 'you can do as you like. Let him go on with the luggage, if you wish it, and do you follow with us. Only first exchange that nightcap for some more appropriate covering, or we shall be taken for madmen.' Mr. Giles, reminded of his unbecoming costume, snatched off and pocketed his nightcap; and substituted a hat, of grave and sober shape, which he took out of the chaise. This done, the postboy drove off; Giles, Mr. Maylie, and Oliver, followed at their leisure. As they walked along, Oliver glanced from time to time with much interest and curiosity at the new comer. He seemed about five-and-twenty years of age, and was of the middle height; his countenance was frank and handsome; and his demeanor easy and prepossessing. Notwithstanding the difference between youth and age, he bore so strong a likeness to the old lady, that Oliver would have had no great difficulty in imagining their relationship, if he had not already spoken of her as his mother. Mrs. Maylie was anxiously waiting to receive her son when he reached the cottage. The meeting did not take place without great emotion on both sides. 'Mother!' whispered the young man; 'why did you not write before?' 'I did,' replied Mrs. Maylie; 'but, on reflection, I determined to keep back the letter until I had heard Mr. Losberne's opinion.' 'But why,' said the young man, 'why run the chance of that occurring which so nearly happened? If Rose had--I cannot utter that word now--if this illness had terminated differently, how could you ever have forgiven yourself! How could I ever have know happiness again!' 'If that _had_ been the case, Harry,' said Mrs. Maylie, 'I fear your happiness would have been effectually blighted, and that your arrival here, a day sooner or a day later, would have been of very, very little import.' 'And who can wonder if it be so, mother?' rejoined the young man; 'or why should I say, _if_?--It is--it is--you know it, mother--you must know it!' 'I know that she deserves the best and purest love the heart of man can offer,' said Mrs. Maylie; 'I know that the devotion and affection of her nature require no ordinary return, but one that shall be deep and lasting. If I did not feel this, and know, besides, that a changed behaviour in one she loved would break her heart, I should not feel my task so difficult of performance, or have to encounter so many struggles in my own bosom, when I take what seems to me to be the strict line of duty.' 'This is unkind, mother,' said Harry. 'Do you still suppose that I am a boy ignorant of my own mind, and mistaking the impulses of my own soul?' 'I think, my dear son,' returned Mrs. Maylie, laying her hand upon his shoulder, 'that youth has many generous impulses which do not last; and that among them are some, which, being gratified, become only the more fleeting. Above all, I think' said the lady, fixing her eyes on her son's face, 'that if an enthusiastic, ardent, and ambitious man marry a wife on whose name there is a stain, which, though it originate in no fault of hers, may be visited by cold and sordid people upon her, and upon his children also: and, in exact proportion to his success in the world, be cast in his teeth, and made the subject of sneers against him: he may, no matter how generous and good his nature, one day repent of the connection he formed in early life. And she may have the pain of knowing that he does so.' 'Mother,' said the young man, impatiently, 'he would be a selfish brute, unworthy alike of the name of man and of the woman you describe, who acted thus.' 'You think so now, Harry,' replied his mother. 'And ever will!' said the young man. 'The mental agony I have suffered, during the last two days, wrings from me the avowal to you of a passion which, as you well know, is not one of yesterday, nor one I have lightly formed. On Rose, sweet, gentle girl! my heart is set, as firmly as ever heart of man was set on woman. I have no thought, no view, no hope in life, beyond her; and if you oppose me in this great stake, you take my peace and happiness in your hands, and cast them to the wind. Mother, think better of this, and of me, and do not disregard the happiness of which you seem to think so little.' 'Harry,' said Mrs. Maylie, 'it is because I think so much of warm and sensitive hearts, that I would spare them from being wounded. But we have said enough, and more than enough, on this matter, just now.' 'Let it rest with Rose, then,' interposed Harry. 'You will not press these overstrained opinions of yours, so far, as to throw any obstacle in my way?' 'I will not,' rejoined Mrs. Maylie; 'but I would have you consider--' 'I _have_ considered!' was the impatient reply; 'Mother, I have considered, years and years. I have considered, ever since I have been capable of serious reflection. My feelings remain unchanged, as they ever will; and why should I suffer the pain of a delay in giving them vent, which can be productive of no earthly good? No! Before I leave this place, Rose shall hear me.' 'She shall,' said Mrs. Maylie. 'There is something in your manner, which would almost imply that she will hear me coldly, mother,' said the young man. 'Not coldly,' rejoined the old lady; 'far from it.' 'How then?' urged the young man. 'She has formed no other attachment?' 'No, indeed,' replied his mother; 'you have, or I mistake, too strong a hold on her affections already. What I would say,' resumed the old lady, stopping her son as he was about to speak, 'is this. Before you stake your all on this chance; before you suffer yourself to be carried to the highest point of hope; reflect for a few moments, my dear child, on Rose's history, and consider what effect the knowledge of her doubtful birth may have on her decision: devoted as she is to us, with all the intensity of her noble mind, and with that perfect sacrifice of self which, in all matters, great or trifling, has always been her characteristic.' 'What do you mean?' 'That I leave you to discover,' replied Mrs. Maylie. 'I must go back to her. God bless you!' 'I shall see you again to-night?' said the young man, eagerly. 'By and by,' replied the lady; 'when I leave Rose.' 'You will tell her I am here?' said Harry. 'Of course,' replied Mrs. Maylie. 'And say how anxious I have been, and how much I have suffered, and how I long to see her. You will not refuse to do this, mother?' 'No,' said the old lady; 'I will tell her all.' And pressing her son's hand, affectionately, she hastened from the room. Mr. Losberne and Oliver had remained at another end of the apartment while this hurried conversation was proceeding. The former now held out his hand to Harry Maylie; and hearty salutations were exchanged between them. The doctor then communicated, in reply to multifarious questions from his young friend, a precise account of his patient's situation; which was quite as consolatory and full of promise, as Oliver's statement had encouraged him to hope; and to the whole of which, Mr. Giles, who affected to be busy about the luggage, listened with greedy ears. 'Have you shot anything particular, lately, Giles?' inquired the doctor, when he had concluded. 'Nothing particular, sir,' replied Mr. Giles, colouring up to the eyes. 'Nor catching any thieves, nor identifying any house-breakers?' said the doctor. 'None at all, sir,' replied Mr. Giles, with much gravity. 'Well,' said the doctor, 'I am sorry to hear it, because you do that sort of thing admirably. Pray, how is Brittles?' 'The boy is very well, sir,' said Mr. Giles, recovering his usual tone of patronage; 'and sends his respectful duty, sir.' 'That's well,' said the doctor. 'Seeing you here, reminds me, Mr. Giles, that on the day before that on which I was called away so hurriedly, I executed, at the request of your good mistress, a small commission in your favour. Just step into this corner a moment, will you?' Mr. Giles walked into the corner with much importance, and some wonder, and was honoured with a short whispering conference with the doctor, on the termination of which, he made a great many bows, and retired with steps of unusual stateliness. The subject matter of this conference was not disclosed in the parlour, but the kitchen was speedily enlightened concerning it; for Mr. Giles walked straight thither, and having called for a mug of ale, announced, with an air of majesty, which was highly effective, that it had pleased his mistress, in consideration of his gallant behaviour on the occasion of that attempted robbery, to deposit, in the local savings-bank, the sum of five-and-twenty pounds, for his sole use and benefit. At this, the two women-servants lifted up their hands and eyes, and supposed that Mr. Giles, pulling out his shirt-frill, replied, 'No, no'; and that if they observed that he was at all haughty to his inferiors, he would thank them to tell him so. And then he made a great many other remarks, no less illustrative of his humility, which were received with equal favour and applause, and were, withal, as original and as much to the purpose, as the remarks of great men commonly are. Above stairs, the remainder of the evening passed cheerfully away; for the doctor was in high spirits; and however fatigued or thoughtful Harry Maylie might have been at first, he was not proof against the worthy gentleman's good humour, which displayed itself in a great variety of sallies and professional recollections, and an abundance of small jokes, which struck Oliver as being the drollest things he had ever heard, and caused him to laugh proportionately; to the evident satisfaction of the doctor, who laughed immoderately at himself, and made Harry laugh almost as heartily, by the very force of sympathy. So, they were as pleasant a party as, under the circumstances, they could well have been; and it was late before they retired, with light and thankful hearts, to take that rest of which, after the doubt and suspense they had recently undergone, they stood much in need. Oliver rose next morning, in better heart, and went about his usual occupations, with more hope and pleasure than he had known for many days. The birds were once more hung out, to sing, in their old places; and the sweetest wild flowers that could be found, were once more gathered to gladden Rose with their beauty. The melancholy which had seemed to the sad eyes of the anxious boy to hang, for days past, over every object, beautiful as all were, was dispelled by magic. The dew seemed to sparkle more brightly on the green leaves; the air to rustle among them with a sweeter music; and the sky itself to look more blue and bright. Such is the influence which the condition of our own thoughts, exercise, even over the appearance of external objects. Men who look on nature, and their fellow-men, and cry that all is dark and gloomy, are in the right; but the sombre colours are reflections from their own jaundiced eyes and hearts. The real hues are delicate, and need a clearer vision. It is worthy of remark, and Oliver did not fail to note it at the time, that his morning expeditions were no longer made alone. Harry Maylie, after the very first morning when he met Oliver coming laden home, was seized with such a passion for flowers, and displayed such a taste in their arrangement, as left his young companion far behind. If Oliver were behindhand in these respects, he knew where the best were to be found; and morning after morning they scoured the country together, and brought home the fairest that blossomed. The window of the young lady's chamber was opened now; for she loved to feel the rich summer air stream in, and revive her with its freshness; but there always stood in water, just inside the lattice, one particular little bunch, which was made up with great care, every morning. Oliver could not help noticing that the withered flowers were never thrown away, although the little vase was regularly replenished; nor, could he help observing, that whenever the doctor came into the garden, he invariably cast his eyes up to that particular corner, and nodded his head most expressively, as he set forth on his morning's walk. Pending these observations, the days were flying by; and Rose was rapidly recovering. Nor did Oliver's time hang heavy on his hands, although the young lady had not yet left her chamber, and there were no evening walks, save now and then, for a short distance, with Mrs. Maylie. He applied himself, with redoubled assiduity, to the instructions of the white-headed old gentleman, and laboured so hard that his quick progress surprised even himself. It was while he was engaged in this pursuit, that he was greatly startled and distressed by a most unexpected occurrence. The little room in which he was accustomed to sit, when busy at his books, was on the ground-floor, at the back of the house. It was quite a cottage-room, with a lattice-window: around which were clusters of jessamine and honeysuckle, that crept over the casement, and filled the place with their delicious perfume. It looked into a garden, whence a wicket-gate opened into a small paddock; all beyond, was fine meadow-land and wood. There was no other dwelling near, in that direction; and the prospect it commanded was very extensive. One beautiful evening, when the first shades of twilight were beginning to settle upon the earth, Oliver sat at this window, intent upon his books. He had been poring over them for some time; and, as the day had been uncommonly sultry, and he had exerted himself a great deal, it is no disparagement to the authors, whoever they may have been, to say, that gradually and by slow degrees, he fell asleep. There is a kind of sleep that steals upon us sometimes, which, while it holds the body prisoner, does not free the mind from a sense of things about it, and enable it to ramble at its pleasure. So far as an overpowering heaviness, a prostration of strength, and an utter inability to control our thoughts or power of motion, can be called sleep, this is it; and yet, we have a consciousness of all that is going on about us, and, if we dream at such a time, words which are really spoken, or sounds which really exist at the moment, accommodate themselves with surprising readiness to our visions, until reality and imagination become so strangely blended that it is afterwards almost matter of impossibility to separate the two. Nor is this, the most striking phenomenon incidental to such a state. It is an undoubted fact, that although our senses of touch and sight be for the time dead, yet our sleeping thoughts, and the visionary scenes that pass before us, will be influenced and materially influenced, by the _mere silent presence_ of some external object; which may not have been near us when we closed our eyes: and of whose vicinity we have had no waking consciousness. Oliver knew, perfectly well, that he was in his own little room; that his books were lying on the table before him; that the sweet air was stirring among the creeping plants outside. And yet he was asleep. Suddenly, the scene changed; the air became close and confined; and he thought, with a glow of terror, that he was in the Jew's house again. There sat the hideous old man, in his accustomed corner, pointing at him, and whispering to another man, with his face averted, who sat beside him. 'Hush, my dear!' he thought he heard the Jew say; 'it is he, sure enough. Come away.' 'He!' the other man seemed to answer; 'could I mistake him, think you? If a crowd of ghosts were to put themselves into his exact shape, and he stood amongst them, there is something that would tell me how to point him out. If you buried him fifty feet deep, and took me across his grave, I fancy I should know, if there wasn't a mark above it, that he lay buried there?' The man seemed to say this, with such dreadful hatred, that Oliver awoke with the fear, and started up. Good Heaven! what was that, which sent the blood tingling to his heart, and deprived him of his voice, and of power to move! There--there--at the window--close before him--so close, that he could have almost touched him before he started back: with his eyes peering into the room, and meeting his: there stood the Jew! And beside him, white with rage or fear, or both, were the scowling features of the man who had accosted him in the inn-yard. It was but an instant, a glance, a flash, before his eyes; and they were gone. But they had recognised him, and he them; and their look was as firmly impressed upon his memory, as if it had been deeply carved in stone, and set before him from his birth. He stood transfixed for a moment; then, leaping from the window into the garden, called loudly for help. When the inmates of the house, attracted by Oliver's cries, hurried to the spot from which they proceeded, they found him, pale and agitated, pointing in the direction of the meadows behind the house, and scarcely able to articulate the words, 'The Jew! the Jew!' Mr. Giles was at a loss to comprehend what this outcry meant; but Harry Maylie, whose perceptions were something quicker, and who had heard Oliver's history from his mother, understood it at once. 'What direction did he take?' he asked, catching up a heavy stick which was standing in a corner. 'That,' replied Oliver, pointing out the course the man had taken; 'I missed them in an instant.' 'Then, they are in the ditch!' said Harry. 'Follow! And keep as near me, as you can.' So saying, he sprang over the hedge, and darted off with a speed which rendered it matter of exceeding difficulty for the others to keep near him. Giles followed as well as he could; and Oliver followed too; and in the course of a minute or two, Mr. Losberne, who had been out walking, and just then returned, tumbled over the hedge after them, and picking himself up with more agility than he could have been supposed to possess, struck into the same course at no contemptible speed, shouting all the while, most prodigiously, to know what was the matter. On they all went; nor stopped they once to breathe, until the leader, striking off into an angle of the field indicated by Oliver, began to search, narrowly, the ditch and hedge adjoining; which afforded time for the remainder of the party to come up; and for Oliver to communicate to Mr. Losberne the circumstances that had led to so vigorous a pursuit. The search was all in vain. There were not even the traces of recent footsteps, to be seen. They stood now, on the summit of a little hill, commanding the open fields in every direction for three or four miles. There was the village in the hollow on the left; but, in order to gain that, after pursuing the track Oliver had pointed out, the men must have made a circuit of open ground, which it was impossible they could have accomplished in so short a time. A thick wood skirted the meadow-land in another direction; but they could not have gained that covert for the same reason. 'It must have been a dream, Oliver,' said Harry Maylie. 'Oh no, indeed, sir,' replied Oliver, shuddering at the very recollection of the old wretch's countenance; 'I saw him too plainly for that. I saw them both, as plainly as I see you now.' 'Who was the other?' inquired Harry and Mr. Losberne, together. 'The very same man I told you of, who came so suddenly upon me at the inn,' said Oliver. 'We had our eyes fixed full upon each other; and I could swear to him.' 'They took this way?' demanded Harry: 'are you sure?' 'As I am that the men were at the window,' replied Oliver, pointing down, as he spoke, to the hedge which divided the cottage-garden from the meadow. 'The tall man leaped over, just there; and the Jew, running a few paces to the right, crept through that gap.' The two gentlemen watched Oliver's earnest face, as he spoke, and looking from him to each other, seemed to feel satisfied of the accuracy of what he said. Still, in no direction were there any appearances of the trampling of men in hurried flight. The grass was long; but it was trodden down nowhere, save where their own feet had crushed it. The sides and brinks of the ditches were of damp clay; but in no one place could they discern the print of men's shoes, or the slightest mark which would indicate that any feet had pressed the ground for hours before. 'This is strange!' said Harry. 'Strange?' echoed the doctor. 'Blathers and Duff, themselves, could make nothing of it.' Notwithstanding the evidently useless nature of their search, they did not desist until the coming on of night rendered its further prosecution hopeless; and even then, they gave it up with reluctance. Giles was dispatched to the different ale-houses in the village, furnished with the best description Oliver could give of the appearance and dress of the strangers. Of these, the Jew was, at all events, sufficiently remarkable to be remembered, supposing he had been seen drinking, or loitering about; but Giles returned without any intelligence, calculated to dispel or lessen the mystery. On the next day, fresh search was made, and the inquiries renewed; but with no better success. On the day following, Oliver and Mr. Maylie repaired to the market-town, in the hope of seeing or hearing something of the men there; but this effort was equally fruitless. After a few days, the affair began to be forgotten, as most affairs are, when wonder, having no fresh food to support it, dies away of itself. Meanwhile, Rose was rapidly recovering. She had left her room: was able to go out; and mixing once more with the family, carried joy into the hearts of all. But, although this happy change had a visible effect on the little circle; and although cheerful voices and merry laughter were once more heard in the cottage; there was at times, an unwonted restraint upon some there: even upon Rose herself: which Oliver could not fail to remark. Mrs. Maylie and her son were often closeted together for a long time; and more than once Rose appeared with traces of tears upon her face. After Mr. Losberne had fixed a day for his departure to Chertsey, these symptoms increased; and it became evident that something was in progress which affected the peace of the young lady, and of somebody else besides. At length, one morning, when Rose was alone in the breakfast-parlour, Harry Maylie entered; and, with some hesitation, begged permission to speak with her for a few moments. 'A few--a very few--will suffice, Rose,' said the young man, drawing his chair towards her. 'What I shall have to say, has already presented itself to your mind; the most cherished hopes of my heart are not unknown to you, though from my lips you have not heard them stated.' Rose had been very pale from the moment of his entrance; but that might have been the effect of her recent illness. She merely bowed; and bending over some plants that stood near, waited in silence for him to proceed. 'I--I--ought to have left here, before,' said Harry. 'You should, indeed,' replied Rose. 'Forgive me for saying so, but I wish you had.' 'I was brought here, by the most dreadful and agonising of all apprehensions,' said the young man; 'the fear of losing the one dear being on whom my every wish and hope are fixed. You had been dying; trembling between earth and heaven. We know that when the young, the beautiful, and good, are visited with sickness, their pure spirits insensibly turn towards their bright home of lasting rest; we know, Heaven help us! that the best and fairest of our kind, too often fade in blooming.' There were tears in the eyes of the gentle girl, as these words were spoken; and when one fell upon the flower over which she bent, and glistened brightly in its cup, making it more beautiful, it seemed as though the outpouring of her fresh young heart, claimed kindred naturally, with the loveliest things in nature. 'A creature,' continued the young man, passionately, 'a creature as fair and innocent of guile as one of God's own angels, fluttered between life and death. Oh! who could hope, when the distant world to which she was akin, half opened to her view, that she would return to the sorrow and calamity of this! Rose, Rose, to know that you were passing away like some soft shadow, which a light from above, casts upon the earth; to have no hope that you would be spared to those who linger here; hardly to know a reason why you should be; to feel that you belonged to that bright sphere whither so many of the fairest and the best have winged their early flight; and yet to pray, amid all these consolations, that you might be restored to those who loved you--these were distractions almost too great to bear. They were mine, by day and night; and with them, came such a rushing torrent of fears, and apprehensions, and selfish regrets, lest you should die, and never know how devotedly I loved you, as almost bore down sense and reason in its course. You recovered. Day by day, and almost hour by hour, some drop of health came back, and mingling with the spent and feeble stream of life which circulated languidly within you, swelled it again to a high and rushing tide. I have watched you change almost from death, to life, with eyes that turned blind with their eagerness and deep affection. Do not tell me that you wish I had lost this; for it has softened my heart to all mankind.' 'I did not mean that,' said Rose, weeping; 'I only wish you had left here, that you might have turned to high and noble pursuits again; to pursuits well worthy of you.' 'There is no pursuit more worthy of me: more worthy of the highest nature that exists: than the struggle to win such a heart as yours,' said the young man, taking her hand. 'Rose, my own dear Rose! For years--for years--I have loved you; hoping to win my way to fame, and then come proudly home and tell you it had been pursued only for you to share; thinking, in my daydreams, how I would remind you, in that happy moment, of the many silent tokens I had given of a boy's attachment, and claim your hand, as in redemption of some old mute contract that had been sealed between us! That time has not arrived; but here, with not fame won, and no young vision realised, I offer you the heart so long your own, and stake my all upon the words with which you greet the offer.' 'Your behaviour has ever been kind and noble.' said Rose, mastering the emotions by which she was agitated. 'As you believe that I am not insensible or ungrateful, so hear my answer.' 'It is, that I may endeavour to deserve you; it is, dear Rose?' 'It is,' replied Rose, 'that you must endeavour to forget me; not as your old and dearly-attached companion, for that would wound me deeply; but, as the object of your love. Look into the world; think how many hearts you would be proud to gain, are there. Confide some other passion to me, if you will; I will be the truest, warmest, and most faithful friend you have.' There was a pause, during which, Rose, who had covered her face with one hand, gave free vent to her tears. Harry still retained the other. 'And your reasons, Rose,' he said, at length, in a low voice; 'your reasons for this decision?' 'You have a right to know them,' rejoined Rose. 'You can say nothing to alter my resolution. It is a duty that I must perform. I owe it, alike to others, and to myself.' 'To yourself?' 'Yes, Harry. I owe it to myself, that I, a friendless, portionless, girl, with a blight upon my name, should not give your friends reason to suspect that I had sordidly yielded to your first passion, and fastened myself, a clog, on all your hopes and projects. I owe it to you and yours, to prevent you from opposing, in the warmth of your generous nature, this great obstacle to your progress in the world.' 'If your inclinations chime with your sense of duty--' Harry began. 'They do not,' replied Rose, colouring deeply. 'Then you return my love?' said Harry. 'Say but that, dear Rose; say but that; and soften the bitterness of this hard disappointment!' 'If I could have done so, without doing heavy wrong to him I loved,' rejoined Rose, 'I could have--' 'Have received this declaration very differently?' said Harry. 'Do not conceal that from me, at least, Rose.' 'I could,' said Rose. 'Stay!' she added, disengaging her hand, 'why should we prolong this painful interview? Most painful to me, and yet productive of lasting happiness, notwithstanding; for it _will_ be happiness to know that I once held the high place in your regard which I now occupy, and every triumph you achieve in life will animate me with new fortitude and firmness. Farewell, Harry! As we have met to-day, we meet no more; but in other relations than those in which this conversation have placed us, we may be long and happily entwined; and may every blessing that the prayers of a true and earnest heart can call down from the source of all truth and sincerity, cheer and prosper you!' 'Another word, Rose,' said Harry. 'Your reason in your own words. From your own lips, let me hear it!' 'The prospect before you,' answered Rose, firmly, 'is a brilliant one. All the honours to which great talents and powerful connections can help men in public life, are in store for you. But those connections are proud; and I will neither mingle with such as may hold in scorn the mother who gave me life; nor bring disgrace or failure on the son of her who has so well supplied that mother's place. In a word,' said the young lady, turning away, as her temporary firmness forsook her, 'there is a stain upon my name, which the world visits on innocent heads. I will carry it into no blood but my own; and the reproach shall rest alone on me.' 'One word more, Rose. Dearest Rose! one more!' cried Harry, throwing himself before her. 'If I had been less--less fortunate, the world would call it--if some obscure and peaceful life had been my destiny--if I had been poor, sick, helpless--would you have turned from me then? Or has my probable advancement to riches and honour, given this scruple birth?' 'Do not press me to reply,' answered Rose. 'The question does not arise, and never will. It is unfair, almost unkind, to urge it.' 'If your answer be what I almost dare to hope it is,' retorted Harry, 'it will shed a gleam of happiness upon my lonely way, and light the path before me. It is not an idle thing to do so much, by the utterance of a few brief words, for one who loves you beyond all else. Oh, Rose: in the name of my ardent and enduring attachment; in the name of all I have suffered for you, and all you doom me to undergo; answer me this one question!' 'Then, if your lot had been differently cast,' rejoined Rose; 'if you had been even a little, but not so far, above me; if I could have been a help and comfort to you in any humble scene of peace and retirement, and not a blot and drawback in ambitious and distinguished crowds; I should have been spared this trial. I have every reason to be happy, very happy, now; but then, Harry, I own I should have been happier.' Busy recollections of old hopes, cherished as a girl, long ago, crowded into the mind of Rose, while making this avowal; but they brought tears with them, as old hopes will when they come back withered; and they relieved her. 'I cannot help this weakness, and it makes my purpose stronger,' said Rose, extending her hand. 'I must leave you now, indeed.' 'I ask one promise,' said Harry. 'Once, and only once more,--say within a year, but it may be much sooner,--I may speak to you again on this subject, for the last time.' 'Not to press me to alter my right determination,' replied Rose, with a melancholy smile; 'it will be useless.' 'No,' said Harry; 'to hear you repeat it, if you will--finally repeat it! I will lay at your feet, whatever of station of fortune I may possess; and if you still adhere to your present resolution, will not seek, by word or act, to change it.' 'Then let it be so,' rejoined Rose; 'it is but one pang the more, and by that time I may be enabled to bear it better.' She extended her hand again. But the young man caught her to his bosom; and imprinting one kiss on her beautiful forehead, hurried from the room. 'And so you are resolved to be my travelling companion this morning; eh?' said the doctor, as Harry Maylie joined him and Oliver at the breakfast-table. 'Why, you are not in the same mind or intention two half-hours together!' 'You will tell me a different tale one of these days,' said Harry, colouring without any perceptible reason. 'I hope I may have good cause to do so,' replied Mr. Losberne; 'though I confess I don't think I shall. But yesterday morning you had made up your mind, in a great hurry, to stay here, and to accompany your mother, like a dutiful son, to the sea-side. Before noon, you announce that you are going to do me the honour of accompanying me as far as I go, on your road to London. And at night, you urge me, with great mystery, to start before the ladies are stirring; the consequence of which is, that young Oliver here is pinned down to his breakfast when he ought to be ranging the meadows after botanical phenomena of all kinds. Too bad, isn't it, Oliver?' 'I should have been very sorry not to have been at home when you and Mr. Maylie went away, sir,' rejoined Oliver. 'That's a fine fellow,' said the doctor; 'you shall come and see me when you return. But, to speak seriously, Harry; has any communication from the great nobs produced this sudden anxiety on your part to be gone?' 'The great nobs,' replied Harry, 'under which designation, I presume, you include my most stately uncle, have not communicated with me at all, since I have been here; nor, at this time of the year, is it likely that anything would occur to render necessary my immediate attendance among them.' 'Well,' said the doctor, 'you are a queer fellow. But of course they will get you into parliament at the election before Christmas, and these sudden shiftings and changes are no bad preparation for political life. There's something in that. Good training is always desirable, whether the race be for place, cup, or sweepstakes.' Harry Maylie looked as if he could have followed up this short dialogue by one or two remarks that would have staggered the doctor not a little; but he contented himself with saying, 'We shall see,' and pursued the subject no farther. The post-chaise drove up to the door shortly afterwards; and Giles coming in for the luggage, the good doctor bustled out, to see it packed. 'Oliver,' said Harry Maylie, in a low voice, 'let me speak a word with you.' Oliver walked into the window-recess to which Mr. Maylie beckoned him; much surprised at the mixture of sadness and boisterous spirits, which his whole behaviour displayed. 'You can write well now?' said Harry, laying his hand upon his arm. 'I hope so, sir,' replied Oliver. 'I shall not be at home again, perhaps for some time; I wish you would write to me--say once a fort-night: every alternate Monday: to the General Post Office in London. Will you?' 'Oh! certainly, sir; I shall be proud to do it,' exclaimed Oliver, greatly delighted with the commission. 'I should like to know how--how my mother and Miss Maylie are,' said the young man; 'and you can fill up a sheet by telling me what walks you take, and what you talk about, and whether she--they, I mean--seem happy and quite well. You understand me?' 'Oh! quite, sir, quite,' replied Oliver. 'I would rather you did not mention it to them,' said Harry, hurrying over his words; 'because it might make my mother anxious to write to me oftener, and it is a trouble and worry to her. Let it be a secret between you and me; and mind you tell me everything! I depend upon you.' Oliver, quite elated and honoured by a sense of his importance, faithfully promised to be secret and explicit in his communications. Mr. Maylie took leave of him, with many assurances of his regard and protection. The doctor was in the chaise; Giles (who, it had been arranged, should be left behind) held the door open in his hand; and the women-servants were in the garden, looking on. Harry cast one slight glance at the latticed window, and jumped into the carriage. 'Drive on!' he cried, 'hard, fast, full gallop! Nothing short of flying will keep pace with me, to-day.' 'Halloa!' cried the doctor, letting down the front glass in a great hurry, and shouting to the postillion; 'something very short of flying will keep pace with _me_. Do you hear?' Jingling and clattering, till distance rendered its noise inaudible, and its rapid progress only perceptible to the eye, the vehicle wound its way along the road, almost hidden in a cloud of dust: now wholly disappearing, and now becoming visible again, as intervening objects, or the intricacies of the way, permitted. It was not until even the dusty cloud was no longer to be seen, that the gazers dispersed. And there was one looker-on, who remained with eyes fixed upon the spot where the carriage had disappeared, long after it was many miles away; for, behind the white curtain which had shrouded her from view when Harry raised his eyes towards the window, sat Rose herself. 'He seems in high spirits and happy,' she said, at length. 'I feared for a time he might be otherwise. I was mistaken. I am very, very glad.' Tears are signs of gladness as well as grief; but those which coursed down Rose's face, as she sat pensively at the window, still gazing in the same direction, seemed to tell more of sorrow than of joy. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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An einem warmen Abend, nachdem Oliver und die Damen von ihrem üblichen Spaziergang zurückgekehrt sind, wird Rose von einem Anfall unkontrollierbaren Weinens überwältigt. Sie bemüht sich tapfer, sich zu beruhigen, muss aber bald zugeben: "Ich fürchte, ich bin krank, Tante." Doch als das Mädchen in ihr Zimmer geht, scheint sie sich etwas erholt zu haben. Dennoch ist sich Mrs. Maylie sicher, dass der Zustand ihrer Nichte ernst ist und sich verschlechtern wird. Die besorgte alte Dame versucht, sich zu beherrschen. Am nächsten Morgen leidet Rose an einem gefährlichen Fieber. Mrs. Maylie schreibt zwei Briefe. Einer, der Mr. Losberne aus Chertsey herbeiruft, soll sofort abgeschickt werden, aber sie entscheidet sich, den anderen, an "Harry Maylie, Esquire" adressierten Brief noch nicht zu verschicken. Oliver nimmt den Brief an Losberne und eilt vier Meilen durch die Felder zum nächsten Dorf. Im Gasthaus wird die Nachricht an den Arzt einem besonderen Boten anvertraut. Als Oliver eilig davonläuft, stößt er versehentlich mit einem großen Mann zusammen, der einen Umhang trägt. Der Fremde schnauzt den Jungen an und fällt dann krampfartig zu Boden. Oliver ruft um Hilfe und der Mann wird ins Gasthaus getragen. Die Notlage wegen Roses Krankheit vertreibt den Vorfall aus Olivers Gedanken. Rose ist viel schlechter und der örtliche Arzt hat die Hoffnung aufgegeben. Vor Mitternacht verfällt das Mädchen in Delirium. Oliver verbringt eine Nacht voller Spannung und Terror. Der nächste Tag ist eine Zeit voller ängstlichen Wartens. Mr. Losberne kommt, kann aber nur sein Mitgefühl ausdrücken: "Es ist hart; so jung; so sehr geliebt; aber es besteht sehr wenig Hoffnung." Am nächsten Tag sitzt Oliver im örtlichen Friedhof und betet für Rose. Es scheint unglaublich, dass jemand so Junges und Gutes sterben sollte, während überall lebendiges Leben unter dem sonnigen Himmel gedeiht. Aber der Widerspruch wird bestätigt durch den Klang der Kirchenglocke, die für die Beerdigung einer anderen jungen Person läutet. Der betrübte Junge kehrt nach Hause zurück und schließt sich der Wache von Mrs. Maylie im Salon an. Die Patientin schlummert tief und wird entweder sterben oder sich erholen. Stunden später kommt Mr. Losberne herein, um mitzuteilen, dass Rose die Krise überstanden hat und leben wird. Oliver geht nach draußen und erleichtert die Anspannung mit einem Strom von Tränen. Ein Postkutsche kommt mit voller Geschwindigkeit die Straße herauf. Die Pferde werden angehalten und Giles brüllt aus dem Fenster nach Oliver, um Nachrichten zu bekommen. Der Junge überzeugt ihn und den anderen Fahrgast, Mrs. Maylies Sohn Harry, dass Rose außer Gefahr ist. Als er seine Mutter begrüßt, wirft Harry ihr vor, dass sie ihm nicht früher geschrieben habe, denn die alte Dame hatte erst ihren Brief an ihn geschickt, nachdem Mr. Losberne seine Meinung geäußert hatte. Harry erzählt seiner Mutter nun von seiner tiefen und unerschütterlichen Liebe zu Rose. Mrs. Maylie antwortet, indem sie ihren Glauben äußert, dass die innigste Bindung verwundbar ist, wenn die Ehefrau, auch wenn unschuldig, dem Skandal ausgesetzt ist. Dies hat keinen Einfluss auf Harry, der jegliche Argumentation beiseite schiebt und schwört, dass er seine Gefühle Rose innerhalb von zwei Tagen offenbaren wird. Nun erinnert die alte Dame ihn daran, dass Rose ihn wegen ihrer "zweifelhaften Herkunft" ablehnen könnte. Mr. Losberne neckt Giles ein wenig auf seine charakteristische Art und nimmt dann den Butler beiseite, um ihm anzuvertrauen, dass Mrs. Maylie 25 Pfund auf einer Bank für ihn hinterlegt hat, als Anerkennung für sein tapferes Verhalten in der Nacht, als der Raubüberfall vereitelt wurde. Das gesamte Haushalt verbringt den Abend in einer Atmosphäre gutmütiger Dankbarkeit. Am nächsten Tag findet Oliver die Welt wieder fröhlich und bunt. Er ist nicht mehr allein bei seinen morgendlichen Ausflügen, sondern wird von Harry begleitet, der energisch Blumen für Rose sammelt. Da er nun mehr für sich selbst gelassen wird, widmet sich Oliver fleißig seinem Studium. An einem Abend, nach einem aktiven Tag, beginnt er über seinem Buch einzuschlafen. In einem halbwachen Zustand träumt er davon, wieder im Haus von Fagin zu sein. Im Traum zeigt Fagin auf Oliver und scheint zu einem anderen Mann bei sich zu sagen: "Es ist er, ganz sicher." Der andere Mann stimmt mit Worten voller Hass zu. Oliver erwacht erschrocken. Dort am Fenster im Erdgeschoss stehen Fagin und der Mann, dem Oliver im Gasthaus begegnet ist. Die gegenseitige Erkennung erfolgt augenblicklich. Das unheilvolle Paar verschwindet, als Oliver um Hilfe ruft. Harry Maylie reagiert auf Olivers Alarm und überquert die Hecke, um den Eindringlingen hinterherzurennen. Giles und Mr. Losberne schließen sich der Verfolgungsjagd an. Aber die Flüchtigen sind nicht zu sehen und es gibt keine Spur von ihren Bewegungen. Die Dunkelheit zwingt zur Aufgabe der Suche. Giles unternimmt in dem Dorf einen vergeblichen Versuch, Hinweise über die Männer zu finden. Die Bemühungen werden am nächsten Tag wiederholt, immer noch ohne Ergebnisse, und das Interesse an dem Vorfall schwindet. Rose erholt sich schnell und nimmt ihren Platz im Familienleben wieder ein. Dennoch herrscht eine angespannte Atmosphäre. Harry und seine Mutter haben lange private Gespräche. Rose scheint häufig geweint zu haben, und ihre Unruhe nimmt zu, nachdem Mr. Losberne den Tag für seine Abreise festlegt. Schließlich bringt Harry Maylie die Dinge offen zur Sprache und erklärt Rose seine Liebe in einer langen, leidenschaftlichen Rede. Ihre erste Reaktion ist der Wunsch, dass er früher gegangen wäre, um eine Arbeit zu finden, die seinen Fähigkeiten würdig ist. Harry sagt ihr, dass alles, was er je wollte, war, ihre Liebe zu gewinnen. Rose ist entschieden; sie sagt Harry, dass er aufhören muss, an sie als Liebesobjekt zu denken. Auf Nachfrage nennt Rose die Bedenken ihrer Ungeeignetheit, die Ehefrau eines Mannes zu sein, der danach strebt, in der Welt aufzusteigen. Sie gibt zu, dass ihre Entscheidung aus dem Verstand und nicht aus dem Herzen kommt. Rose räumt auch ein, dass sich die Dinge ändern würden, wenn Harry nicht so weit über ihr in Stand und Aussichten stünde. Bevor sie sich trennen, überzeugt er Rose, ihm innerhalb eines Jahres oder weniger erneut einen Heiratsantrag zu ermöglichen. Während Mr. Losberne, Harry Maylie und Oliver beim Frühstück sind, tadelt der Arzt Harry dafür, dass er seine Pläne immer wieder ändert. Der junge Mann hat sich endlich entschlossen, mit dem Arzt zu gehen, ohne sich an diesem Morgen von den Damen verabschieden zu sehen. Harry hat private Worte mit Oliver. Der junge Herr sagt, dass er für eine Weile nicht zu Hause sein wird und bittet Oliver, ihm alle zwei Wochen einen Brief zu schreiben, adressiert an das Hauptpostamt in London. Harry möchte wissen, wie es seiner Mutter und Rose geht, möchte aber seinen Aufenthaltsort geheim halten. Der Junge akzeptiert stolz das Vertrauen. Harry blickt zum Fenster von Rose, steigt in die Kutsche und fährt mit hoher Geschwindigkeit davon. Rose schaut hinter den Vorhängen hervor und weint.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). 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: Reader, I married him. A quiet wedding we had: he and I, the parson and clerk, were alone present. When we got back from church, I went into the kitchen of the manor-house, where Mary was cooking the dinner and John cleaning the knives, and I said-- "Mary, I have been married to Mr. Rochester this morning." The housekeeper and her husband were both of that decent phlegmatic order of people, to whom one may at any time safely communicate a remarkable piece of news without incurring the danger of having one's ears pierced by some shrill ejaculation, and subsequently stunned by a torrent of wordy wonderment. Mary did look up, and she did stare at me: the ladle with which she was basting a pair of chickens roasting at the fire, did for some three minutes hang suspended in air; and for the same space of time John's knives also had rest from the polishing process: but Mary, bending again over the roast, said only-- "Have you, Miss? Well, for sure!" A short time after she pursued--"I seed you go out with the master, but I didn't know you were gone to church to be wed;" and she basted away. John, when I turned to him, was grinning from ear to ear. "I telled Mary how it would be," he said: "I knew what Mr. Edward" (John was an old servant, and had known his master when he was the cadet of the house, therefore, he often gave him his Christian name)--"I knew what Mr. Edward would do; and I was certain he would not wait long neither: and he's done right, for aught I know. I wish you joy, Miss!" and he politely pulled his forelock. "Thank you, John. Mr. Rochester told me to give you and Mary this." I put into his hand a five-pound note. Without waiting to hear more, I left the kitchen. In passing the door of that sanctum some time after, I caught the words-- "She'll happen do better for him nor ony o't' grand ladies." And again, "If she ben't one o' th' handsomest, she's noan faal and varry good-natured; and i' his een she's fair beautiful, onybody may see that." I wrote to Moor House and to Cambridge immediately, to say what I had done: fully explaining also why I had thus acted. Diana and Mary approved the step unreservedly. Diana announced that she would just give me time to get over the honeymoon, and then she would come and see me. "She had better not wait till then, Jane," said Mr. Rochester, when I read her letter to him; "if she does, she will be too late, for our honeymoon will shine our life long: its beams will only fade over your grave or mine." How St. John received the news, I don't know: he never answered the letter in which I communicated it: yet six months after he wrote to me, without, however, mentioning Mr. Rochester's name or alluding to my marriage. His letter was then calm, and, though very serious, kind. He has maintained a regular, though not frequent, correspondence ever since: he hopes I am happy, and trusts I am not of those who live without God in the world, and only mind earthly things. You have not quite forgotten little Adele, have you, reader? I had not; I soon asked and obtained leave of Mr. Rochester, to go and see her at the school where he had placed her. Her frantic joy at beholding me again moved me much. She looked pale and thin: she said she was not happy. I found the rules of the establishment were too strict, its course of study too severe for a child of her age: I took her home with me. I meant to become her governess once more, but I soon found this impracticable; my time and cares were now required by another--my husband needed them all. So I sought out a school conducted on a more indulgent system, and near enough to permit of my visiting her often, and bringing her home sometimes. I took care she should never want for anything that could contribute to her comfort: she soon settled in her new abode, became very happy there, and made fair progress in her studies. As she grew up, a sound English education corrected in a great measure her French defects; and when she left school, I found in her a pleasing and obliging companion: docile, good-tempered, and well-principled. By her grateful attention to me and mine, she has long since well repaid any little kindness I ever had it in my power to offer her. My tale draws to its close: one word respecting my experience of married life, and one brief glance at the fortunes of those whose names have most frequently recurred in this narrative, and I have done. I have now been married ten years. I know what it is to live entirely for and with what I love best on earth. I hold myself supremely blest--blest beyond what language can express; because I am my husband's life as fully as he is mine. No woman was ever nearer to her mate than I am: ever more absolutely bone of his bone and flesh of his flesh. I know no weariness of my Edward's society: he knows none of mine, any more than we each do of the pulsation of the heart that beats in our separate bosoms; consequently, we are ever together. To be together is for us to be at once as free as in solitude, as gay as in company. We talk, I believe, all day long: to talk to each other is but a more animated and an audible thinking. All my confidence is bestowed on him, all his confidence is devoted to me; we are precisely suited in character--perfect concord is the result. Mr. Rochester continued blind the first two years of our union; perhaps it was that circumstance that drew us so very near--that knit us so very close: for I was then his vision, as I am still his right hand. Literally, I was (what he often called me) the apple of his eye. He saw nature--he saw books through me; and never did I weary of gazing for his behalf, and of putting into words the effect of field, tree, town, river, cloud, sunbeam--of the landscape before us; of the weather round us--and impressing by sound on his ear what light could no longer stamp on his eye. Never did I weary of reading to him; never did I weary of conducting him where he wished to go: of doing for him what he wished to be done. And there was a pleasure in my services, most full, most exquisite, even though sad--because he claimed these services without painful shame or damping humiliation. He loved me so truly, that he knew no reluctance in profiting by my attendance: he felt I loved him so fondly, that to yield that attendance was to indulge my sweetest wishes. One morning at the end of the two years, as I was writing a letter to his dictation, he came and bent over me, and said--"Jane, have you a glittering ornament round your neck?" I had a gold watch-chain: I answered "Yes." "And have you a pale blue dress on?" {And have you a pale blue dress on?: p435.jpg} I had. He informed me then, that for some time he had fancied the obscurity clouding one eye was becoming less dense; and that now he was sure of it. He and I went up to London. He had the advice of an eminent oculist; and he eventually recovered the sight of that one eye. He cannot now see very distinctly: he cannot read or write much; but he can find his way without being led by the hand: the sky is no longer a blank to him--the earth no longer a void. When his first-born was put into his arms, he could see that the boy had inherited his own eyes, as they once were--large, brilliant, and black. On that occasion, he again, with a full heart, acknowledged that God had tempered judgment with mercy. My Edward and I, then, are happy: and the more so, because those we most love are happy likewise. Diana and Mary Rivers are both married: alternately, once every year, they come to see us, and we go to see them. Diana's husband is a captain in the navy, a gallant officer and a good man. Mary's is a clergyman, a college friend of her brother's, and, from his attainments and principles, worthy of the connection. Both Captain Fitzjames and Mr. Wharton love their wives, and are loved by them. As to St. John Rivers, he left England: he went to India. He entered on the path he had marked for himself; he pursues it still. A more resolute, indefatigable pioneer never wrought amidst rocks and dangers. Firm, faithful, and devoted, full of energy, and zeal, and truth, he labours for his race; he clears their painful way to improvement; he hews down like a giant the prejudices of creed and caste that encumber it. He may be stern; he may be exacting; he may be ambitious yet; but his is the sternness of the warrior Greatheart, who guards his pilgrim convoy from the onslaught of Apollyon. His is the exaction of the apostle, who speaks but for Christ, when he says--"Whosoever will come after me, let him deny himself, and take up his cross and follow me." His is the ambition of the high master-spirit, which aims to fill a place in the first rank of those who are redeemed from the earth--who stand without fault before the throne of God, who share the last mighty victories of the Lamb, who are called, and chosen, and faithful. St. John is unmarried: he never will marry now. Himself has hitherto sufficed to the toil, and the toil draws near its close: his glorious sun hastens to its setting. The last letter I received from him drew from my eyes human tears, and yet filled my heart with divine joy: he anticipated his sure reward, his incorruptible crown. I know that a stranger's hand will write to me next, to say that the good and faithful servant has been called at length into the joy of his Lord. And why weep for this? No fear of death will darken St. John's last hour: his mind will be unclouded, his heart will be undaunted, his hope will be sure, his faith steadfast. His own words are a pledge of this-- "My Master," he says, "has forewarned me. Daily He announces more distinctly,--'Surely I come quickly!' and hourly I more eagerly respond,--'Amen; even so come, Lord Jesus!'" Kannst du eine geeignete Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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

Jane und Rochester heiraten ohne Zeugen außer dem Pfarrer und dem Kirchenschreiber. Jane schreibt ihren Cousinen die Nachricht. St. John bestätigt nie, was passiert ist, aber Mary und Diana antworten mit ihren Glückwünschen. Jane besucht Adele in ihrer Schule und findet sie unglücklich. Als sie sich an ihre eigene Kindheit erinnert, bringt Jane Adele in eine angenehmere Schule, und Adele wächst zu einer sehr angenehmen und gutmütigen jungen Frau heran. Jane schreibt, dass sie ihre Geschichte nach zehn Jahren Ehe mit Rochester erzählt, die sie als unbeschreiblich glücklich beschreibt. Sie leben als gleichberechtigte Partner, und sie hilft ihm, mit seiner Blindheit umzugehen. Nach zwei Jahren beginnt Rochester, sein Augenlicht in einem Auge wiederzugewinnen, und als ihr erstes Kind - ein Junge - geboren wird, kann Rochester das Baby sehen. Jane schreibt, dass sowohl Diana als auch Mary Ehemänner gefunden haben und dass St. John wie geplant nach Indien gegangen ist. Sie bemerkt, dass St. John in seinem letzten Brief behauptet hat, eine Vorahnung seines bevorstehenden Todes gehabt zu haben. Sie glaubt nicht, dass sie wieder von St. John hören wird, aber sie trauert nicht um ihn und sagt, dass er sein Versprechen erfüllt hat und Gottes Werk getan hat. Sie schließt ihr Buch mit einem Zitat aus seinem Brief, in dem er den Herrn Jesus bittet, für ihn schnell zu kommen.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Kapitel: Gilbert Osmond kam, um Isabel erneut zu sehen; das heißt, er kam zum Palazzo Crescentini. Er hatte dort auch andere Freunde, und gegenüber Mrs. Touchett und Madame Merle verhielt er sich immer gleich höflich. Aber eine der beiden Damen bemerkte, dass er innerhalb von zwei Wochen fünfmal angerufen hatte, und verglich diese Tatsache mit einer anderen, an die sie sich nicht schwer erinnern konnte. Bisher hatte er zweimal im Jahr seinen regelmäßigen Tribut an Mrs. Touchetts Wert geleistet, und sie hatte nie beobachtet, dass er für solche Besuche jene Momente ausgesucht hatte, die fast periodisch wiederkehrten, wenn Madame Merle bei ihr zu Gast war. Es war nicht wegen Madame Merle, dass er kam; diese beiden waren alte Freunde, und er stellte sich nie für sie heraus. Ralph mochte dich nicht - das hatte Ralph ihr gesagt - und es war nicht anzunehmen, dass Mr. Osmond plötzlich Gefallen an ihrem Sohn gefunden hatte. Ralph war unerschütterlich - Ralph hatte eine Art entspannter Umgänglichkeit, die ihn wie einen schlecht gemachten Übermantel umhüllte, von dem er sich nie befreite; er fand Mr. Osmond sehr gute Gesellschaft und war jederzeit bereit, ihn in gastfreundlichem Licht zu betrachten. Aber es schmeichelte ihm nicht, dass der Wunsch, eine vergangene Ungerechtigkeit wieder gutzumachen, das Motiv für die Besuche ihres Besuchers war; er sah die Situation klarer. Isabel war die Attraktion, und das war zweifellos genug. Osmond war Kritiker, ein Kenner des Exquisiten, und es war natürlich, dass er neugierig auf eine so seltene Erscheinung war. Als seine Mutter ihm bemerkte, dass es offensichtlich war, was Mr. Osmond dachte, antwortete Ralph, dass er ganz ihrer Meinung sei. Mrs. Touchett hatte für diesen Herrn seit langem einen Platz auf ihrer knappen Liste gefunden, obwohl sie sich wundernde fraglos wundernde Art und Weise, wie er überall effektiv eingeführt hatte. Da er nie ein aufdringlicher Besucher gewesen war, hatte er keine Chance, anstößig zu sein, und er hatte sich ihr durch sein Aussehen empfohlen, als ob er ebenso gut ohne sie auskommen könnte, wie sie ohne ihn - eine Eigenschaft, die sie immer seltsam genug als Grundlage für eine Beziehung betrachtete. Es gab ihr jedoch keine Befriedigung zu wissen, dass er auf die Idee gekommen war, ihre Nichte zu heiraten. Solch eine Verbindung seitens Isabel würde einen Hauch von fast krankhafter Verkehrtheit haben. Frau Touchett erinnerte sich leicht daran, dass das Mädchen einem englischen Adligen abgesagt hatte; und dass eine junge Dame, mit der Lord Warburton erfolglos gerungen hatte, sich zufrieden geben sollte mit einem obskuren amerikanischen Dilettanten, einem mittelalten Witwer mit einem unheimlichen Kind und einem zweifelhaften Einkommen, das entsprach nichts in Frau Touchetts Vorstellung von Erfolg. Sie nahm, wie man bemerken wird, nicht die sentimentale, sondern die politische Sicht der Ehe ein - eine Sicht, die immer viel für sich hatte. "Ich hoffe, sie wird nicht die Torheit haben, ihm zuzuhören", sagte sie zu ihrem Sohn, worauf Ralph antwortete, dass Isabels Zuhören eine Sache und Isabels Antworten eine ganz andere sei. Er wusste, dass sie mehreren Parteien zugehört hatte, wie sein Vater gesagt hätte, sie aber wiederum zuzuhören gezwungen hatte; und er fand es sehr amüsant, dass er in diesen wenigen Monaten seitdem er sie kannte, einen neuen Verehrer vor ihrem Tor beobachten sollte. Sie wollte das Leben kennenlernen, und das Schicksal servierte ihr dies nach ihrem Geschmack; eine Folge von feinen Herren, die ihr zu Füßen fielen, würde genauso gut passen wie alles andere. Ralph freute sich auf einen vierten, fünften, zehnten Belagerer, er war nicht davon überzeugt, dass sie bei dem dritten aufhören würde. Sie würde das Tor einen Spalt geöffnet halten und eine Verhandlung beginnen; sie würde sicherlich nicht zulassen, dass Nummer drei hereinkommt. Er drückte diese Ansicht in etwa so aus, als er seiner Mutter gegenüber, die ihn ansah, als ob er einen Tanz aufführte. Er hatte so eine phantasievolle, bildhafte Art, Dinge zu sagen, dass er sie ebenso gut im Taubstummendialekt ansprechen könnte. "Ich glaube, ich verstehe nicht, was du meinst", sagte sie. "Du benutzt zu viele Metaphern; ich konnte Allegorien noch nie verstehen. Die beiden Wörter in der Sprache, die ich am meisten respektiere, sind Ja und Nein. Wenn Isabel Mr. Osmond heiraten will, wird sie es trotz aller deiner Vergleiche tun. Überlasse es ihr, für alles, was sie unternimmt, selbst etwas Gutes zu finden. Ich weiß sehr wenig über den jungen Mann in Amerika; Ich glaube nicht, dass sie viel Zeit damit verbringt, an ihn zu denken, und ich vermute, er hat genug vom Warten auf sie. Es gibt nichts im Leben, was sie daran hindert, Mr. Osmond zu heiraten, wenn sie ihn nur auf eine bestimmte Weise betrachtet. Das ist alles gut und schön; niemand ist mehr dafür, sich zu gefallen, als ich. Aber sie findet ihren Spaß an so seltsamen Dingen; sie ist fähig, Mr. Osmond wegen der Schönheit seiner Meinungen oder wegen seines Autogramms von Michael Angelo zu heiraten. Sie will selbstlos sein, als ob sie die einzige Person wäre, die Gefahr läuft, nicht selbstlos zu sein! Wird ER selbstlos sein, wenn er über ihr Geld verfügen kann? Das war ihre Idee vor dem Tod deines Vaters, und seitdem hat sie daran Charme gewonnen. Sie sollte jemanden heiraten, von dessen Selbstlosigkeit sie sich sicher ist; und nichts beweist das mehr, als dass er sein eigenes Vermögen hat." "Meine liebe Mutter, ich habe keine Angst", antwortete Ralph. "Sie verspottet uns alle. Sie wird sich selbst gefallen, natürlich; aber sie wird dies tun, indem sie die Menschheit aus nächster Nähe beobachtet und gleichzeitig ihre Freiheit bewahrt. Sie hat eine Erkundungsexpedition begonnen, und ich glaube nicht, dass sie zu Beginn, auf ein Signal von Gilbert Osmond hin, ihren Kurs ändern wird. Sie mag für eine Stunde die Geschwindigkeit gedrosselt haben, aber bevor wir es wissen, wird sie wieder in Fahrt kommen. Entschuldigen Sie bitte eine weitere Metapher." Mrs. Touchett entschuldigte es vielleicht, war aber nicht so beruhigt, dass sie Madame Merle nicht ihre Ängste mitteilte. "Du, die alles weiß", sagte sie, "du musst das wissen: ob dieser eigentümliche Kerl meiner Nichte wirklich den Hof macht." "Gilbert Osmond?" Madame Merle weitete ihre klaren Augen und mit voller Intelligenz aus, "Hilfe, das ist eine Idee!" "Ist dir das nicht eingefallen?" "Du lässt mich wie eine Idiotin fühlen, aber ich gestehe, es war mir nicht eingefallen. Ich frage mich," fügte sie hinzu, "ob es Isabel eingefallen ist." "Oh, ich werde sie jetzt fragen", sagte Mrs. Touchett. Madame Merle überlegte. "Bringe es ihr nicht in den Kopf. Das Beste wäre, Mr. Osmond zu fragen." "Das kann ich nicht tun", sagte Mrs. Touchett. "Ich werde nicht haben, dass er mich fragt - was er wirklich kann, in Anbetracht von Isabels Situation - was für ein Geschäft das von mir ist." "Ich werde ihn selbst fragen", erklärte Madame Merle mutig. "Aber was für ein Geschäft - für IHN - ist das von dir?" "Das es mich überhaupt nichts angeht, ist genau der Grund, warum ich es mir erlauben kann Isabel würde wahrscheinlich nichts dagegen haben, nett zu ihr zu sein. Ich glaube, sie mag das arme Kind. "Noch ein Grund also, warum Mr. Osmond zu Hause bleiben sollte! Andernfalls wird meine Nichte in einer Woche zur Überzeugung gelangen, dass ihre Lebensaufgabe darin besteht zu beweisen, dass eine Stiefmutter sich opfern kann - und dass sie, um das zu beweisen, selbst erst eine werden muss." "Sie würde eine charmante Stiefmutter abgeben", lächelte Madame Merle, "aber ich stimme Ihnen vollkommen zu, dass sie ihre Aufgabe nicht zu voreilig festlegen sollte. Die Form der Aufgabe zu ändern ist fast genauso schwierig wie die Form der Nase zu ändern: Da sind sie, beide, in der Mitte des Gesichts und des Charakters - man müsste viel weiter zurück anfangen. Aber ich werde untersuchen und Ihnen berichten." All das ging über Isabels Kopf hinweg; sie hatte keinen Verdacht, dass ihre Beziehung zu Mr. Osmond besprochen wurde. Madame Merle hatte nichts gesagt, um sie zu warnen; sie spielte nicht deutlicher auf ihn an als auf die anderen Herren von Florenz, einheimischen und ausländischen, die nun in beträchtlicher Zahl eintrafen, um ihre Aufwartung bei Miss Archers Tante zu machen. Isabel fand ihn interessant - sie kam immer wieder darauf zurück; sie dachte gerne an ihn. Sie hatte ein Bild von ihrem Besuch auf seinem Hügel mitgenommen, das ihr nachfolgendes Wissen über ihn nicht auslöschte und das sich für sie in einer besonderen Harmonie mit anderen vermuteten und erahnten Dingen, Geschichten innerhalb von Geschichten, befand: das Bild eines ruhigen, cleveren, empfindsamen, vornehmen Mannes, der auf einer mit Moos bewachsenen Terrasse über dem süßen Val d'Arno spazierte und an der Hand ein kleines Mädchen führte, dessen glockenhelle Reinheit der Kindheit eine neue Anmut verlieh. Das Bild hatte keine Schnörkel, aber sie mochte seine gedämpfte Tonlage und die Atmosphäre des sommerlichen Zwielichts, die es durchdrang. Es sprach von der Art persönlicher Herausforderung, die sie am meisten berührte; von der Wahl zwischen Objekten, Themen, Kontakten - wie könnte sie sie nennen? - einer dünnen und einer reichen Verbindung; von einem einsamen, studierten Leben in einem wunderschönen Land; von einem alten Leid, das manchmal heute noch schmerzte; von einem Stolz, der vielleicht übertrieben war, aber einen edlen Kern hatte; von einer Sorge um Schönheit und Vollkommenheit, so natürlich und zugleich so kultiviert, dass sich die Karriere darunter in den angeordneten Aussichten und mit den Reihen von Stufen und Terrassen und Springbrunnen eines formellen italienischen Gartens ausbreitete - nur einige aride Stellen, erfrischt von den natürlichen Tauen einer eigenartigen, halbängstlichen, halbhilflosen Vaterschaft. Im Palazzo Crescentini blieb Mr. Osmunds Benehmen dasselbe; zuerst schüchtern - ohne Zweifel selbstbewusst! - und mit der Anstrengung (nur für das sympathische Auge sichtbar), dieses Handicap zu überwinden, was gewöhnlich zu einer Menge leichter, lebhafter, sehr bestimmter, eher aggressiver, aber immer anregender Gespräche führte. Mr. Osmunds Reden wurde nicht dadurch beeinträchtigt, dass er nach außen hin nach Ansehen strebte; Isabel fand es nicht schwierig zu glauben, dass eine Person aufrichtig war, die so viele Anzeichen von fester Überzeugung hatte - wie zum Beispiel eine explizite und graziöse Wertschätzung von allem, was auf seine eigene Seite der Argumentation gesagt werden mochte, insbesondere von Miss Archer. Was diese junge Frau weiterhin gefiel, war, dass er so für Unterhaltung sprach und nicht, wie sie von anderen gehört hatte, für "Eindruck". Er äußerte seine Ideen so, als ob er, so sonderbar sie oft schienen, an sie gewöhnt und mit ihnen gelebt hätte; alte polierte Knaufe und Köpfe und Griffe, aus kostbarem Material, die bei Bedarf an neue Gehstöcke befestigt werden konnten - keine abgerissenen Zweige, die in Not von einem gewöhnlichen Baum geholt und dann zu elegant geschwungen wurden. Eines Tages brachte er seine kleine Tochter mit, und sie freute sich, die Bekanntschaft des Kindes wieder aufzufrischen, das sie lebhaft an eine jugendliche Schauspielerin in einem französischen Theaterstück erinnerte, als es jedem Mitglied des Kreises die Stirn zum Küssen hinhielt. Isabel hatte noch nie eine kleine Person dieses Musters gesehen; amerikanische Mädchen waren sehr verschieden - ebenso die Mädchen Englands. Pansy war so gestaltet und fertig für ihren winzigen Platz in der Welt und doch in ihrer Vorstellungskraft, wie man sehen konnte, so unschuldig und kindlich. Sie saß auf dem Sofa neben Isabel; sie trug einen kleinen Grenadine-Mantel und ein Paar der praktischen Handschuhe, die Madame Merle ihr geschenkt hatte: kleine graue Handschuhe mit einem einzigen Knopf. Sie war wie ein weißes Blatt Papier - das ideale junge Mädchen der ausländischen Literatur. Isabel hoffte, dass eine so helle und glatte Seite mit einem erbaulichen Text gefüllt werden würde. Die Gräfin Gemini kam ebenfalls zu Besuch, aber die Gräfin war eine ganz andere Angelegenheit. Sie war keineswegs ein weißes Blatt; sie war von verschiedenen Händen beschrieben worden, und Mrs. Touchett, die sich durch ihren Besuch keineswegs geehrt fühlte, erklärte, dass auf ihrer Oberfläche eine Reihe von unverkennbaren Flecken zu sehen waren. Die Gräfin gab tatsächlich Anlass zu einer Diskussion zwischen der Hausherrin und der Besucherin aus Rom, in der sich Madame Merle (die nicht so dumm war, Leute immer zu ärgern, indem sie ständig mit ihnen übereinstimmte) glücklicherweise des großen Widerspruchsrechts bediente, das ihre Gastgeberin genauso frei gewährte wie sie es praktizierte. Mrs. Touchett hatte es für kühn erklärt, dass diese höchst kompromittierte Person sich zu einer solchen Tageszeit an der Tür eines Hauses gemeldet hatte, in dem sie, wie sie seit langem gewusst haben musste, so wenig geschätzt wurde wie im Palazzo Crescentini. Isabel war mit der Einschätzung vertraut, die unter diesem Dach herrschte: Sie stellte Mr. Osmunds Schwester als eine Dame dar, die ihre Anzüglichkeiten so schlecht gemanagt hatte, dass sie aufgehört hatten, zusammenzuhängen - was man zumindest von solchen Angelegenheiten erwartete - und zur bloßen schwimmenden Trümmerreste eines verrufenen Rufs geworden waren, die den sozialen Verkehr beeinträchtigten. Sie war von ihrer Mutter mit einem italienischen Adligen verheiratet worden, der ihr vielleicht eine Entschuldigung für den Versuch gegeben hatte, das Bewusstsein der Unverschämtheit zu verbergen. Die Gräfin hatte sich jedoch unverfroren getröstet, und die Liste ihrer Entschuldigungen hatte sich jetzt im Labyrinth ihrer Abenteuer verloren. Mrs. Touchett hatte es nie zugelassen, sie zu empfangen, obwohl die Gräfin in der Vergangenheit Annäherungsversuche gemacht hatte. Florenz war keine strenge Stadt; aber wie Mrs. Touchett sagte, musste sie irgendwo eine Grenze ziehen. Madame Merle verteidigte die unglückliche Lady mit viel Eifer und Geist. Sie konnte nicht verstehen, warum Mrs. Touchett ausgerechnet eine Frau zum Sündenbock machen sollte, die eigentlich keinen Schaden angerichtet hatte, sondern nur auf die falsche Art und Weise Gutes getan hatte. Man müsse natürlich eine Grenze ziehen, aber während man dabei war, sollte man sie gerade ziehen: Es wäre eine sehr krumme Kreide-Linie, die die Gräfin Gemini ausschließen würde. In diesem Fall sollte Mrs. Touchett besser ihr Haus schließen; das wäre vielleicht der beste Weg, solange sie in Florenz blieb. Man müsse fair sein und keine willkürlichen Unterschiede machen: Die Gräfin war zweifellos unvorsichtig gewesen, sie war nicht so clever wie andere Frauen. Sie war ein gutmütiges Wesen, überhaupt nicht klug; aber seit wann war das ein Grund für den Ausschluss aus der besten Gesellschaft? Es gab schon eine ganze Weile keine Nachrichten mehr über sie und das war der beste Beweis dafür, dass sie ihren Fehler bereut hatte und Mitglied von Mrs. Touchetts Kreis werden wollte. Isabel konnte nichts zu dieser interessanten Auseinandersetzung beitragen, nicht einmal geduldige Aufmerksamkeit; sie begnügte sich damit, die unglückliche Dame freundlich willkommen zu heißen, die trotz ihrer Mängel zumindest den Verdienst hatte, die Schwester von Mr. Osmond zu sein. Da sie den Bruder mochte, hielt Isabel es für angebracht, auch die Schwester zu mögen: Trotz der wachsenden Komplexität der Dinge war sie immer noch fähig, solche einfachen Zusammenhänge herzustellen. Sie hatte keinen glücklichen Eindruck von der Gräfin gewonnen, als sie sie in der Villa traf, aber sie war froh über die Möglichkeit, den Unfall zu beheben. Hatte nicht Mr. Osmond bemerkt, dass sie eine anständige Person war? Wenn diese Aussage von Gilbert Osmond stammte, war es eine primitive Behauptung, aber Madame Merle verlieh ihr einen gewissen verbesserten Glanz. Sie erzählte Isabel mehr über die arme Gräfin, als es Mr. Osmond getan hatte, und berichtete von ihrer Ehe und ihren Folgen. Der Graf gehörte zu einer alten toskanischen Familie, war aber so wenig vermögend, dass er Amy Osmond trotz ihrer fragwürdigen Schönheit, die ihre Karriere doch nicht behindert hatte, und ihres bescheidenen Mitgifts, das ihre Mutter hatte anbieten können - eine Summe, die ungefähr dem entsprach, was bereits ihren Anteil an ihrem Erbe ausmachte -, dankbar angenommen hatte. Der Graf Gemini hatte seitdem allerdings Geld geerbt und jetzt waren sie reich genug, soweit Italiener reich werden konnten, obwohl Amy schrecklich verschwenderisch war. Der Graf war ein niederträchtiges Tier; er hatte seiner Frau jeden Vorwand gegeben. Sie hatte keine Kinder; innerhalb eines Jahres nach der Geburt hatten sie drei verloren. Ihre Mutter, die von pretentiöser eleganter Gelehrsamkeit strotzte und beschreibende Gedichte veröffentlichte und zu italienischen Themen Briefe an englische Wochenzeitschriften schrieb, ihre Mutter war drei Jahre nach der Hochzeit der Gräfin gestorben, der Vater, der in der grauen amerikanischen Morgenröte der Situation verloren gegangen war, aber ursprünglich als reich und wild galt, war schon viel früher gestorben. Das konnte man bei Gilbert Osmond sehen, behauptete Madame Merle - man konnte sehen, dass er von einer Frau erzogen worden war; obwohl man ihm gerechterweise zugutehalten sollte, dass es sich um eine vernünftigere Frau gehandelt haben müsste als die amerikanische Corinne, wie sich Mrs. Osmond gerne nennen ließ. Sie hatte ihre Kinder nach dem Tod ihres Mannes nach Italien gebracht und Mrs. Touchett erinnerte sich an sie im Jahr, das auf ihre Ankunft folgte. Sie hielt sie für einen furchtbaren Snob; aber das war ein Urteilsfehler von Mrs. Touchett, denn sie mochte, wie auch Mrs. Osmond, politische Ehen. Die Gräfin war sehr angenehm und gar nicht so flatterhaft, wie es schien; man musste nur die einfache Bedingung erfüllen, ihr kein Wort zu glauben. Madame Merle hatte immer das Beste aus ihr gemacht, um ihres Bruders willen; er schätzte jede Freundlichkeit, die Amy erwiesen wurde, weil sie (wenn man es für ihn gestehen musste) das Ansehen ihres gemeinsamen Namens geschädigt hatte. Natürlich konnte er ihren Stil nicht mögen, ihre Schrillheit, ihren Egoismus, ihre Geschmacksverstöße und vor allem die Lügen; all das strapazierte seine Nerven, denn sie war nicht SEINE Art von Frau. Was war denn seine Art von Frau? Oh, genau das Gegenteil der Gräfin, eine Frau, für die die Wahrheit zur Gewohnheit werden sollte. Isabel konnte nicht abschätzen, wie oft ihr Besucher in einer halben Stunde die Wahrheit entweiht hatte: Die Gräfin hatte ihr tatsächlich den Eindruck von alberner Ehrlichkeit vermittelt. Sie hatte fast ausschließlich über sich selbst gesprochen; wie gerne sie Miss Archer kennenlernen würde; wie dankbar sie für eine echte Freundin sein würde; wie schlecht die Leute in Florenz seien; wie müde sie von dem Ort sei; wie gerne sie woanders leben würde - in Paris, in London, in Washington; wie schwierig es sei, in Italien etwas Schönes zum Anziehen zu bekommen, abgesehen von ein wenig alter Spitze; wie teuer die Welt überall geworden war; welch ein Leben voller Leiden und Entbehrungen sie geführt hatte. Madame Merle hörte sich Isabels Bericht über diese Passage interessiert an, aber sie hatte ihn nicht gebraucht, um sich von Ängsten befreit zu fühlen. Im Großen und Ganzen fürchtete sie die Gräfin nicht und sie konnte es sich leisten, das Beste zu tun - nämlich nicht so zu erscheinen. In der Zwischenzeit hatte Isabel einen weiteren Besucher, bei dem es nicht ganz so einfach war, ihn selbst hinter ihrem Rücken zu dominieren: Henrietta Stackpole, die nach der Abreise von Mrs. Touchett nach San Remo Paris verlassen hatte und sich, wie sie sagte, durch die Städte Norditaliens gearbeitet hatte, erreichte Mitte Mai die Ufer des Arno. Madame Merle betrachtete sie mit einem einzigen Blick, nahm sie von Kopf bis Fuß in Augenschein und beschloss nach einem Moment der Verzweiflung, sie zu ertragen. Sie beschloss sogar, sich an ihr zu erfreuen. Sie mochte nicht wie eine Rose duften, aber man konnte sie wie eine Brennnessel festhalten. Madame Merle drückte sie freundlich ins Nichts und Isabel fühlte, dass sie der Intelligenz ihrer Freundin gerecht geworden war, als sie diese Großzügigkeit vorausgesehen hatte. Henriettas Ankunft wurde von Mr. Bantling angekündigt, der von Nizza kam, während sie in Venedig war und der sie in Florenz erwartete, das sie noch nicht erreicht hatte. Henriettas eigene Ankunft erfolgte zwei Tage später und rief in Mr. Bantling eine Emotion hervor, die durchaus damit erklärt werden konnte, dass er sie seit dem Ende der Episode in Versailles nicht mehr gesehen hatte. Die humorvolle Sicht auf seine Situation wurde im Allgemeinen geteilt, aber geäußert wurde sie nur von Ralph Touchett, der, in der Privatsphäre seines eigenen Zimmers, wenn Bantling eine Zigarre rauchte, sich in ihm weiß Gott was für komischer Stärke auf die Seite der allwissenden Person und ihres britischen Förderers erging. Der Herr nahm den Scherz in bester Verfassung auf und gestand offen, dass er die Angelegenheit als ein echtes intellektuelles Abenteuer betrachtete. Er mochte Miss Stackpole außerordentlich gern; er hielt sie für eine bemerkenswert kluge Frau und fand viel Trost in der Gesellschaft einer Frau, die nicht ständig darüber nachdachte, was gesagt werden würde und wie sie, was sie taten, wie das, was sie taten - und sie hatten Dinge getan! - aussehen würde. Es war Miss Stackpole völlig egal, wie etwas aussah und wenn sie sich nicht darum kümmerte, warum sollte er es tun? Aber seine Neugier war geweckt; er wollte unbedingt sehen, ob sie je dazu kommen würde, sich zu interessieren. Er war bereit, so weit zu gehen wie sie - er sah nicht ein, warum er zuerst nachgeben sollte. Henrietta zeigte keinerlei Anzeichen eines Zusammenbruchs. Ihre Perspektiven hatten sich verbessert, als sie England verließ, und sie genoss nun in vollen Zügen ihre umfangreichen Ressourcen. Tatsächlich musste sie ihre Hoffnungen in Bezug auf das geistige Leben opfern; die soziale Frage auf dem Kontinent stellte sich als mit noch zahlreicheren Schwierigkeiten behaftet dar als die, denen sie in England begegnet war. Aber auf dem Kontinent gab es das äußere Leben, das an jeder Ecke greifbar und sichtbar war und sich leichter für literarische Zwecke nutzen ließ als die Bräuche dieser undurchsichtigen Insulaner. Wie sie geschickt bemerkte, schien man draußen in fremden Ländern die richtige Seite des Wandteppichs zu sehen, während man draußen in England die falsche Seite zu sehen schien, die einem keine Vorstellung von der Figur gab. Das Eingeständnis bereitete ihrem Historiker zwar Schmerzen, aber Henrietta, die keine Hoffnung auf okkulte Dinge mehr hatte, schenkte dem äußeren Leben nun viel Aufmerksamkeit. Sie hatte es in den letzten zwei Monaten in Venedig studiert und von dort aus dem Interviewer einen gewissenhaften Bericht über die Gondeln, den Platz, die Seufzerbrücke, die Tauben und den jungen Bootsmann geschickt, der Tasso sang. Der Interviewer war vielleicht enttäuscht, aber Henrietta war zumindest in Europa unterwegs. Ihr aktuelles Ziel war es, vor dem Ausbruch der Malaria nach Rom zu gelangen - offenbar nahm sie an, dass sie an einem bestimmten Tag beginnt; und mit diesem Vorhaben wollte sie vorerst nur wenige Tage in Florenz verbringen. Mr. Bantling sollte sie nach Rom begleiten, und sie wies Isabel darauf hin, dass er bereits dort gewesen sei, Militär war und eine klassische Bildung genossen hatte - er war in Eton erzogen worden, wo sie nichts anderes als Latein und Whyte-Melville studieren, sagte Miss Stackpole - und daher ein äußerst nützlicher Begleiter in der Stadt der Cäsaren sein würde. Ralph hatte in diesem Moment den glücklichen Einfall, Isabel vorzuschlagen, dass sie ebenfalls zusammen mit ihm selbst eine Pilgerreise nach Rom unternehmen sollte. Sie plante, einen Teil des nächsten Winters dort zu verbringen - das war sehr gut; aber in der Zwischenzeit schadete es nicht, sich das Gebiet anzusehen. Es waren noch zehn Tage des schönen Monats Mai übrig - der kostbarste Monat überhaupt für wahre Rom-Liebhaber. Isabel würde eine Rom-Liebhaberin werden; das stand außer Frage. Sie hatte eine zuverlässige Begleiterin ihres eigenen Geschlechts, deren Gesellschaft dank der Tatsache, dass diese Dame auch andere Verpflichtungen hatte, wahrscheinlich nicht erdrückend sein würde. Madame Merle würde bei Mrs. Touchett bleiben; sie hatte Rom für den Sommer verlassen und würde nicht den Wunsch haben zurückzukehren. Sie erklärte jedoch, dass Isabel Ralphs Vorschlag zustimmen sollte, und versicherte ihr, dass eine gute Einführung in Rom keine Sache sei, die man verachten sollte. Isabel brauchte in Wahrheit keine Überredungskunst, und die vierköpfige Gruppe plante ihre kleine Reise. Mrs. Touchett hatte sich dieses Mal mit dem Fehlen einer Aufpasserin abgefunden; wir haben bereits gesehen, dass sie nun der Ansicht war, ihre Nichte solle auf eigenen Beinen stehen. Eine von Isabels Vorbereitungen bestand darin, Gilbert Osmond zu treffen, bevor sie losfuhr, und ihm ihre Absicht mitzuteilen. "Es würde mir gefallen, mit dir in Rom zu sein", bemerkte er. "Ich würde dich auf diesem wunderbaren Boden sehen wollen." Sie zögerte kaum. "Dann könntest du kommen." "Aber du wirst viele Leute bei dir haben." "Ah", gab Isabel zu, "natürlich werde ich nicht alleine sein." Für einen Moment sagte er nichts mehr. "Du wirst es mögen", fuhr er schließlich fort. "Sie haben es verdorben, aber du wirst davon schwärmen." "Sollte ich es deshalb nicht mögen, weil es, armer alter Schatz – die Niobe der Nationen, weißt du – verdorben wurde?" fragte sie. "Nein, das denke ich nicht. Es wurde so oft verdorben", lächelte er. "Wenn ich mitgehen würde, was würde ich mit meinem kleinen Mädchen machen?" "Kannst du sie nicht in der Villa lassen?" "Ich weiß nicht, ob ich das mag – obwohl es eine sehr gute alte Frau gibt, die sich um sie kümmert. Eine Gouvernante kann ich mir nicht leisten." "Bring sie dann mit", sagte Isabel prompt. Mr. Osmond schaute ernst. "Sie war den ganzen Winter in Rom, in ihrem Kloster; und sie ist zu jung, um Vergnügungsreisen zu machen." "Du magst es nicht, sie ins Rampenlicht zu bringen?" erkundigte sich Isabel. "Nein, ich finde, junge Mädchen sollten aus der Welt herausgehalten werden." "Ich wurde nach einem anderen System erzogen." "Du? Oh, bei dir hat es funktioniert, weil du – du warst eine Ausnahme." "Ich sehe nicht, warum", sagte Isabel, die jedoch nicht sicher war, ob in der Aussage nicht etwas Wahres steckte. Mr. Osmond erklärte es nicht; er fuhr einfach fort: "Wenn ich denke, dass es sie dazu bringen würde, einer sozialen Gruppe in Rom ähnlich zu sein, würde ich sie morgen dorthin bringen." "Mach sie nicht zu einer Kopie von mir", sagte Isabel. "Lass sie so bleiben, wie sie ist." "Ich könnte sie zu meiner Schwester schicken", bemerkte Mr. Osmond. Er hatte fast den Anschein, als würde er um Rat fragen; es schien ihm zu gefallen, seine familiären Angelegenheiten mit Miss Archer zu besprechen. "Ja", stimmte sie zu. "Ich denke nicht, dass das viel dazu beiträgt, sie mir ähnlich zu machen!" Nachdem sie Florenz verlassen hatte, traf Gilbert Osmond Madame Merle bei der Gräfin Gemini. Es waren noch andere Leute anwesend; das Wohnzimmer der Gräfin war normalerweise gut gefüllt, und die Unterhaltung war allgemein gewesen, aber nach einer Weile verließ Osmond seinen Platz und setzte sich auf ein Sofa, halb hinter, halb neben dem Stuhl von Madame Merle. "Sie möchte, dass ich mit ihr nach Rom gehe", bemerkte er leise. "Mit ihr gehen?" "Dort sein, solange sie da ist. Sie hat es vorgeschlagen." "Ich nehme an, du meinst, du hast es vorgeschlagen und sie hat zugestimmt." "Natürlich habe ich ihr die Möglichkeit gegeben. Aber sie ist ermutigend – sie ist sehr ermutigend." "Das freut mich zu hören – aber rufe nicht zu früh den Sieg aus. Natürlich wirst du nach Rom gehen." "Ah", sagte Osmond, "es lässt einen arbeiten, diese Idee von dir!" "Gib nicht vor, dass es dir nicht gefällt – du bist sehr undankbar. Du warst seit vielen Jahren nicht mehr so gut beschäftigt." "Die Art und Weise, wie du es nimmst, ist wunderbar", sagte Osmond. "Dafür sollte ich dankbar sein." "Nicht zu sehr jedoch", antwortete Madame Merle. Sie sprach mit ihrem üblichen Lächeln, lehnte sich in ihrem Stuhl zurück und blickte durch den Raum. "Du hast einen sehr guten Eindruck gemacht, und ich habe selbst gesehen, dass du einen bekommen hast. Du bist nicht siebenmal zu Mrs. Touchett gekommen, um mich zu beglücken." "Hübsches Mädchen", räumte Osmond ruhig ein. Madame Merle schaute ihm einen Moment lang in die Augen, während ihre Lippen sich mit einer gewissen Festigkeit schlossen. "Ist das alles, was du über diese wunderbare Kreatur zu sagen findest?" "Alles? Ist das nicht genug? Von wie vielen Menschen hast du mich mehr sagen hören?" Sie antwortete nicht darauf Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze verfassen?

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Gilbert Osmond besucht Isabel fünfmal im Palazzo Crescentini, wo sie und ihre Tante wohnen. Mrs. Touchett bemerkt die Anomalie: Obwohl Osmond sie zuvor besucht hat, hat er es noch nie so oft getan. Ralph genießt Osmonds Gesellschaft und versteht seine Anziehungskraft auf Isabel. Beide raten jedoch von seinen wahren Motiven. Beide glauben aber nicht, dass Isabel ihn heiraten will. Mrs. Touchett glaubt, dass sie Osmond nicht heiraten wird, weil er nicht ihrem Erfolgskonzept entspricht. Ralph glaubt, dass Isabel ihn ablehnen wird, weil sie "Menschenkenntnis" studiert und ihre Freiheit behalten will. Mrs. Touchett will Isabel mitteilen, dass Osmond wahrscheinlich um ihre Hand anhalten wird, doch Madame Merle hindert sie daran und behauptet, dass sie mit Osmond über die Angelegenheit sprechen werde. Madame Merle warnt Mrs. Touchett davor, Isabels Vorstellungskraft anzuregen. Mrs. Touchett erwidert, dass sie so etwas in ihrem ganzen Leben noch nie getan habe. In der Zwischenzeit hat Isabel keine Ahnung, dass andere über ihre Beziehung zu Osmond diskutieren. Sie hat nur ein Bild von Osmond in ihrem Kopf - beschrieben als ein Bild ohne "Verzierungen", mit einem tiefen Ton und einer Atmosphäre des Sommerdämmerlichts. Auch Countess Gemini besucht das Haus. Sie wird von anderen nicht gut angesehen, da anscheinend einige ihrer Unangebrachtheiten als Klatsch in der Stadt kursieren. Madame Merle verteidigt Countess Gemini gegen Mrs. Touchetts Ärger. Merle erklärt Isabel, dass man nur den Zustand des Nichtglaubens an alles, was Countess Gemini sagt, beobachten müsse und dann sei sie durchaus erträglich. Natürlich wird Countess Gemini laut Madame Merles Beschreibung nicht von ihrem Bruder gemocht, denn Osmond mag Frauen, die die Wahrheit heilig halten. Auch Mr. Bantling und Henrietta besuchen Isabel. Sie beschließen, gemeinsam nach Rom zu gehen, da sich Henrietta Stackpole nun dem Studium der äußeren Aspekte des Lebens in Kontinentaleuropa widmet. Als Isabel Osmond von ihren Absichten informiert, sagt er, dass er es gerne mit ihr sehen würde, lehnt aber ihre Einladung ab, dies in einer Gruppe mit anderen zu tun. Er behauptet, er könne Pansy nicht alleine lassen. Madame Merle und Osmond haben ein Gespräch in Countess Geminis Privaträumen. Madame Merle rät ihm, nach Rom zu gehen. Osmond findet, dass es viel Arbeit aussieht, und Madame Merle antwortet, dass er undankbar sei. Osmond sagt, dass Isabel nicht unangenehm sei, aber sie habe einen Fehler. Sie habe zu viele Ideen. Er ist zumindest froh, dass sie schlechte Ideen hat, denn sie müssen geopfert 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: BOOK III Hail holy light, ofspring of Heav'n first-born, Or of th' Eternal Coeternal beam May I express thee unblam'd? since God is light, And never but in unapproached light Dwelt from Eternitie, dwelt then in thee, Bright effluence of bright essence increate. Or hear'st thou rather pure Ethereal stream, Whose Fountain who shall tell? before the Sun, Before the Heavens thou wert, and at the voice Of God, as with a Mantle didst invest The rising world of waters dark and deep, Won from the void and formless infinite. Thee I re-visit now with bolder wing, Escap't the STYGIAN Pool, though long detain'd In that obscure sojourn, while in my flight Through utter and through middle darkness borne With other notes then to th' ORPHEAN Lyre I sung of CHAOS and ETERNAL NIGHT, Taught by the heav'nly Muse to venture down The dark descent, and up to reascend, Though hard and rare: thee I revisit safe, And feel thy sovran vital Lamp; but thou Revisit'st not these eyes, that rowle in vain To find thy piercing ray, and find no dawn; So thick a drop serene hath quencht thir Orbs, Or dim suffusion veild. Yet not the more Cease I to wander where the Muses haunt Cleer Spring, or shadie Grove, or Sunnie Hill, Smit with the love of sacred song; but chief Thee SION and the flowrie Brooks beneath That wash thy hallowd feet, and warbling flow, Nightly I visit: nor somtimes forget Those other two equal'd with me in Fate, So were I equal'd with them in renown, Blind THAMYRIS and blind MAEONIDES, And TIRESIAS and PHINEUS Prophets old. Then feed on thoughts, that voluntarie move Harmonious numbers; as the wakeful Bird Sings darkling, and in shadiest Covert hid Tunes her nocturnal Note. Thus with the Year Seasons return, but not to me returns Day, or the sweet approach of Ev'n or Morn, Or sight of vernal bloom, or Summers Rose, Or flocks, or herds, or human face divine; But cloud in stead, and ever-during dark Surrounds me, from the chearful waies of men Cut off, and for the book of knowledg fair Presented with a Universal blanc Of Natures works to mee expung'd and ras'd, And wisdome at one entrance quite shut out. So much the rather thou Celestial light Shine inward, and the mind through all her powers Irradiate, there plant eyes, all mist from thence Purge and disperse, that I may see and tell Of things invisible to mortal sight. Now had the Almighty Father from above, From the pure Empyrean where he sits High Thron'd above all highth, bent down his eye, His own works and their works at once to view: About him all the Sanctities of Heaven Stood thick as Starrs, and from his sight receiv'd Beatitude past utterance; on his right The radiant image of his Glory sat, His onely Son; On Earth he first beheld Our two first Parents, yet the onely two Of mankind, in the happie Garden plac't, Reaping immortal fruits of joy and love, Uninterrupted joy, unrivald love In blissful solitude; he then survey'd Hell and the Gulf between, and SATAN there Coasting the wall of Heav'n on this side Night In the dun Air sublime, and ready now To stoop with wearied wings, and willing feet On the bare outside of this World, that seem'd Firm land imbosom'd without Firmament, Uncertain which, in Ocean or in Air. Him God beholding from his prospect high, Wherein past, present, future he beholds, Thus to his onely Son foreseeing spake. Onely begotten Son, seest thou what rage Transports our adversarie, whom no bounds Prescrib'd, no barrs of Hell, nor all the chains Heapt on him there, nor yet the main Abyss Wide interrupt can hold; so bent he seems On desperat revenge, that shall redound Upon his own rebellious head. And now Through all restraint broke loose he wings his way Not farr off Heav'n, in the Precincts of light, Directly towards the new created World, And Man there plac't, with purpose to assay If him by force he can destroy, or worse, By som false guile pervert; and shall pervert; For man will heark'n to his glozing lyes, And easily transgress the sole Command, Sole pledge of his obedience: So will fall Hee and his faithless Progenie: whose fault? Whose but his own? ingrate, he had of mee All he could have; I made him just and right, Sufficient to have stood, though free to fall. Such I created all th' Ethereal Powers And Spirits, both them who stood & them who faild; Freely they stood who stood, and fell who fell. Not free, what proof could they have givn sincere Of true allegiance, constant Faith or Love, Where onely what they needs must do, appeard, Not what they would? what praise could they receive? What pleasure I from such obedience paid, When Will and Reason (Reason also is choice) Useless and vain, of freedom both despoild, Made passive both, had servd necessitie, Not mee. They therefore as to right belongd, So were created, nor can justly accuse Thir maker, or thir making, or thir Fate; As if Predestination over-rul'd Thir will, dispos'd by absolute Decree Or high foreknowledge; they themselves decreed Thir own revolt, not I: if I foreknew, Foreknowledge had no influence on their fault, Which had no less prov'd certain unforeknown. So without least impulse or shadow of Fate, Or aught by me immutablie foreseen, They trespass, Authors to themselves in all Both what they judge and what they choose; for so I formd them free, and free they must remain, Till they enthrall themselves: I else must change Thir nature, and revoke the high Decree Unchangeable, Eternal, which ordain'd Thir freedom, they themselves ordain'd thir fall. The first sort by thir own suggestion fell, Self-tempted, self-deprav'd: Man falls deceiv'd By the other first: Man therefore shall find grace, The other none: in Mercy and Justice both, Through Heav'n and Earth, so shall my glorie excel, But Mercy first and last shall brightest shine. Thus while God spake, ambrosial fragrance fill'd All Heav'n, and in the blessed Spirits elect Sense of new joy ineffable diffus'd: Beyond compare the Son of God was seen Most glorious, in him all his Father shon Substantially express'd, and in his face Divine compassion visibly appeerd, Love without end, and without measure Grace, Which uttering thus he to his Father spake. O Father, gracious was that word which clos'd Thy sovran sentence, that Man should find grace; For which both Heav'n and Earth shall high extoll Thy praises, with th' innumerable sound Of Hymns and sacred Songs, wherewith thy Throne Encompass'd shall resound thee ever blest. For should Man finally be lost, should Man Thy creature late so lov'd, thy youngest Son Fall circumvented thus by fraud, though joynd With his own folly? that be from thee farr, That farr be from thee, Father, who art Judge Of all things made, and judgest onely right. Or shall the Adversarie thus obtain His end, and frustrate thine, shall he fulfill His malice, and thy goodness bring to naught, Or proud return though to his heavier doom, Yet with revenge accomplish't and to Hell Draw after him the whole Race of mankind, By him corrupted? or wilt thou thy self Abolish thy Creation, and unmake, For him, what for thy glorie thou hast made? So should thy goodness and thy greatness both Be questiond and blaspheam'd without defence. To whom the great Creatour thus reply'd. O Son, in whom my Soul hath chief delight, Son of my bosom, Son who art alone My word, my wisdom, and effectual might, All hast thou spok'n as my thoughts are, all As my Eternal purpose hath decreed: Man shall not quite be lost, but sav'd who will, Yet not of will in him, but grace in me Freely voutsaft; once more I will renew His lapsed powers, though forfeit and enthrall'd By sin to foul exorbitant desires; Upheld by me, yet once more he shall stand On even ground against his mortal foe, By me upheld, that he may know how frail His fall'n condition is, and to me ow All his deliv'rance, and to none but me. Some I have chosen of peculiar grace Elect above the rest; so is my will: The rest shall hear me call, and oft be warnd Thir sinful state, and to appease betimes Th' incensed Deitie, while offerd grace Invites; for I will cleer thir senses dark, What may suffice, and soft'n stonie hearts To pray, repent, and bring obedience due. To prayer, repentance, and obedience due, Though but endevord with sincere intent, Mine eare shall not be slow, mine eye not shut. And I will place within them as a guide My Umpire CONSCIENCE, whom if they will hear, Light after light well us'd they shall attain, And to the end persisting, safe arrive. This my long sufferance and my day of grace They who neglect and scorn, shall never taste; But hard be hard'nd, blind be blinded more, That they may stumble on, and deeper fall; And none but such from mercy I exclude. But yet all is not don; Man disobeying, Disloyal breaks his fealtie, and sinns Against the high Supremacie of Heav'n, Affecting God-head, and so loosing all, To expiate his Treason hath naught left, But to destruction sacred and devote, He with his whole posteritie must die, Die hee or Justice must; unless for him Som other able, and as willing, pay The rigid satisfaction, death for death. Say Heav'nly Powers, where shall we find such love, Which of ye will be mortal to redeem Mans mortal crime, and just th' unjust to save, Dwels in all Heaven charitie so deare? He ask'd, but all the Heav'nly Quire stood mute, And silence was in Heav'n: on mans behalf Patron or Intercessor none appeerd, Much less that durst upon his own head draw The deadly forfeiture, and ransom set. And now without redemption all mankind Must have bin lost, adjudg'd to Death and Hell By doom severe, had not the Son of God, In whom the fulness dwels of love divine, His dearest mediation thus renewd. Father, thy word is past, man shall find grace; And shall grace not find means, that finds her way, The speediest of thy winged messengers, To visit all thy creatures, and to all Comes unprevented, unimplor'd, unsought, Happie for man, so coming; he her aide Can never seek, once dead in sins and lost; Attonement for himself or offering meet, Indebted and undon, hath none to bring: Behold mee then, mee for him, life for life I offer, on mee let thine anger fall; Account mee man; I for his sake will leave Thy bosom, and this glorie next to thee Freely put off, and for him lastly die Well pleas'd, on me let Death wreck all his rage; Under his gloomie power I shall not long Lie vanquisht; thou hast givn me to possess Life in my self for ever, by thee I live, Though now to Death I yeild, and am his due All that of me can die, yet that debt paid, Thou wilt not leave me in the loathsom grave His prey, nor suffer my unspotted Soule For ever with corruption there to dwell; But I shall rise Victorious, and subdue My Vanquisher, spoild of his vanted spoile; Death his deaths wound shall then receive, & stoop Inglorious, of his mortall sting disarm'd. I through the ample Air in Triumph high Shall lead Hell Captive maugre Hell, and show The powers of darkness bound. Thou at the sight Pleas'd, out of Heaven shalt look down and smile, While by thee rais'd I ruin all my Foes, Death last, and with his Carcass glut the Grave: Then with the multitude of my redeemd Shall enter Heaven long absent, and returne, Father, to see thy face, wherein no cloud Of anger shall remain, but peace assur'd, And reconcilement; wrauth shall be no more Thenceforth, but in thy presence Joy entire. His words here ended, but his meek aspect Silent yet spake, and breath'd immortal love To mortal men, above which only shon Filial obedience: as a sacrifice Glad to be offer'd, he attends the will Of his great Father. Admiration seis'd All Heav'n, what this might mean, & whither tend Wondring; but soon th' Almighty thus reply'd: O thou in Heav'n and Earth the only peace Found out for mankind under wrauth, O thou My sole complacence! well thou know'st how dear, To me are all my works, nor Man the least Though last created, that for him I spare Thee from my bosom and right hand, to save, By loosing thee a while, the whole Race lost. Thou therefore whom thou only canst redeeme, Thir Nature also to thy Nature joyne; And be thy self Man among men on Earth, Made flesh, when time shall be, of Virgin seed, By wondrous birth: Be thou in ADAMS room The Head of all mankind, though ADAMS Son. As in him perish all men, so in thee As from a second root shall be restor'd, As many as are restor'd, without thee none. His crime makes guiltie all his Sons, thy merit Imputed shall absolve them who renounce Thir own both righteous and unrighteous deeds, And live in thee transplanted, and from thee Receive new life. So Man, as is most just, Shall satisfie for Man, be judg'd and die, And dying rise, and rising with him raise His Brethren, ransomd with his own dear life. So Heav'nly love shal outdoo Hellish hate, Giving to death, and dying to redeeme, So dearly to redeem what Hellish hate So easily destroy'd, and still destroyes In those who, when they may, accept not grace. Nor shalt thou by descending to assume Mans Nature, less'n or degrade thine owne. Because thou hast, though Thron'd in highest bliss Equal to God, and equally enjoying God-like fruition, quitted all to save A World from utter loss, and hast been found By Merit more then Birthright Son of God, Found worthiest to be so by being Good, Farr more then Great or High; because in thee Love hath abounded more then Glory abounds, Therefore thy Humiliation shall exalt With thee thy Manhood also to this Throne; Here shalt thou sit incarnate, here shalt Reigne Both God and Man, Son both of God and Man, Anointed universal King; all Power I give thee, reign for ever, and assume Thy Merits; under thee as Head Supream Thrones, Princedoms, Powers, Dominions I reduce: All knees to thee shall bow, of them that bide In Heaven, or Earth, or under Earth in Hell; When thou attended gloriously from Heav'n Shalt in the Skie appeer, and from thee send The summoning Arch-Angels to proclaime Thy dread Tribunal: forthwith from all Windes The living, and forthwith the cited dead Of all past Ages to the general Doom Shall hast'n, such a peal shall rouse thir sleep. Then all thy Saints assembl'd, thou shalt judge Bad men and Angels, they arraignd shall sink Beneath thy Sentence; Hell, her numbers full, Thenceforth shall be for ever shut. Mean while The World shall burn, and from her ashes spring New Heav'n and Earth, wherein the just shall dwell And after all thir tribulations long See golden days, fruitful of golden deeds, With Joy and Love triumphing, and fair Truth. Then thou thy regal Scepter shalt lay by, For regal Scepter then no more shall need, God shall be All in All. But all ye Gods, Adore him, who to compass all this dies, Adore the Son, and honour him as mee. No sooner had th' Almighty ceas't, but all The multitude of Angels with a shout Loud as from numbers without number, sweet As from blest voices, uttering joy, Heav'n rung With Jubilee, and loud Hosanna's fill'd Th' eternal Regions: lowly reverent Towards either Throne they bow, & to the ground With solemn adoration down they cast Thir Crowns inwove with Amarant and Gold, Immortal Amarant, a Flour which once In Paradise, fast by the Tree of Life Began to bloom, but soon for mans offence To Heav'n remov'd where first it grew, there grows, And flours aloft shading the Fount of Life, And where the river of Bliss through midst of Heavn Rowls o're ELISIAN Flours her Amber stream; With these that never fade the Spirits Elect Bind thir resplendent locks inwreath'd with beams, Now in loose Garlands thick thrown off, the bright Pavement that like a Sea of Jasper shon Impurpl'd with Celestial Roses smil'd. Then Crown'd again thir gold'n Harps they took, Harps ever tun'd, that glittering by their side Like Quivers hung, and with Praeamble sweet Of charming symphonie they introduce Thir sacred Song, and waken raptures high; No voice exempt, no voice but well could joine Melodious part, such concord is in Heav'n. Thee Father first they sung Omnipotent, Immutable, Immortal, Infinite, Eternal King; thee Author of all being, Fountain of Light, thy self invisible Amidst the glorious brightness where thou sit'st Thron'd inaccessible, but when thou shad'st The full blaze of thy beams, and through a cloud Drawn round about thee like a radiant Shrine, Dark with excessive bright thy skirts appeer, Yet dazle Heav'n, that brightest Seraphim Approach not, but with both wings veil thir eyes. Thee next they sang of all Creation first, Begotten Son, Divine Similitude, In whose conspicuous count'nance, without cloud Made visible, th' Almighty Father shines, Whom else no Creature can behold; on thee Impresst the effulgence of his Glorie abides, Transfus'd on thee his ample Spirit rests. Hee Heav'n of Heavens and all the Powers therein By thee created, and by thee threw down Th' aspiring Dominations: thou that day Thy Fathers dreadful Thunder didst not spare, Nor stop thy flaming Chariot wheels, that shook Heav'ns everlasting Frame, while o're the necks Thou drov'st of warring Angels disarraid. Back from pursuit thy Powers with loud acclaime Thee only extold, Son of thy Fathers might, To execute fierce vengeance on his foes, Not so on Man; him through their malice fall'n, Father of Mercie and Grace, thou didst not doome So strictly, but much more to pitie encline: No sooner did thy dear and onely Son Perceive thee purpos'd not to doom frail Man So strictly, but much more to pitie enclin'd, He to appease thy wrauth, and end the strife Of Mercy and Justice in thy face discern'd, Regardless of the Bliss wherein hee sat Second to thee, offerd himself to die For mans offence. O unexampl'd love, Love no where to be found less then Divine! Hail Son of God, Saviour of Men, thy Name Shall be the copious matter of my Song Henceforth, and never shall my Harp thy praise Forget, nor from thy Fathers praise disjoine. Thus they in Heav'n, above the starry Sphear, Thir happie hours in joy and hymning spent. Mean while upon the firm opacous Globe Of this round World, whose first convex divides The luminous inferior Orbs, enclos'd From CHAOS and th' inroad of Darkness old, SATAN alighted walks: a Globe farr off It seem'd, now seems a boundless Continent Dark, waste, and wild, under the frown of Night Starless expos'd, and ever-threatning storms Of CHAOS blustring round, inclement skie; Save on that side which from the wall of Heav'n Though distant farr som small reflection gaines Of glimmering air less vext with tempest loud: Here walk'd the Fiend at large in spacious field. As when a Vultur on IMAUS bred, Whose snowie ridge the roving TARTAR bounds, Dislodging from a Region scarce of prey To gorge the flesh of Lambs or yeanling Kids On Hills where Flocks are fed, flies toward the Springs Of GANGES or HYDASPES, INDIAN streams; But in his way lights on the barren plaines Of SERICANA, where CHINESES drive With Sails and Wind thir canie Waggons light: So on this windie Sea of Land, the Fiend Walk'd up and down alone bent on his prey, Alone, for other Creature in this place Living or liveless to be found was none, None yet, but store hereafter from the earth Up hither like Aereal vapours flew Of all things transitorie and vain, when Sin With vanity had filld the works of men: Both all things vain, and all who in vain things Built thir fond hopes of Glorie or lasting fame, Or happiness in this or th' other life; All who have thir reward on Earth, the fruits Of painful Superstition and blind Zeal, Naught seeking but the praise of men, here find Fit retribution, emptie as thir deeds; All th' unaccomplisht works of Natures hand, Abortive, monstrous, or unkindly mixt, Dissolvd on earth, fleet hither, and in vain, Till final dissolution, wander here, Not in the neighbouring Moon, as some have dreamd; Those argent Fields more likely habitants, Translated Saints, or middle Spirits hold Betwixt th' Angelical and Human kinde: Hither of ill-joynd Sons and Daughters born First from the ancient World those Giants came With many a vain exploit, though then renownd: The builders next of BABEL on the Plain Of SENNAAR, and still with vain designe New BABELS, had they wherewithall, would build: Others came single; hee who to be deemd A God, leap'd fondly into AETNA flames, EMPEDOCLES, and hee who to enjoy PLATO'S ELYSIUM, leap'd into the Sea, CLEOMBROTUS, and many more too long, Embryo's and Idiots, Eremits and Friers White, Black and Grey, with all thir trumperie. Here Pilgrims roam, that stray'd so farr to seek In GOLGOTHA him dead, who lives in Heav'n; And they who to be sure of Paradise Dying put on the weeds of DOMINIC, Or in FRANCISCAN think to pass disguis'd; They pass the Planets seven, and pass the fixt, And that Crystalline Sphear whose ballance weighs The Trepidation talkt, and that first mov'd; And now Saint PETER at Heav'ns Wicket seems To wait them with his Keys, and now at foot Of Heav'ns ascent they lift thir Feet, when loe A violent cross wind from either Coast Blows them transverse ten thousand Leagues awry Into the devious Air; then might ye see Cowles, Hoods and Habits with thir wearers tost And flutterd into Raggs, then Reliques, Beads, Indulgences, Dispenses, Pardons, Bulls, The sport of Winds: all these upwhirld aloft Fly o're the backside of the World farr off Into a LIMBO large and broad, since calld The Paradise of Fools, to few unknown Long after, now unpeopl'd, and untrod; All this dark Globe the Fiend found as he pass'd, And long he wanderd, till at last a gleame Of dawning light turnd thither-ward in haste His travell'd steps; farr distant hee descries Ascending by degrees magnificent Up to the wall of Heaven a Structure high, At top whereof, but farr more rich appeerd The work as of a Kingly Palace Gate With Frontispice of Diamond and Gold Imbellisht, thick with sparkling orient Gemmes The Portal shon, inimitable on Earth By Model, or by shading Pencil drawn. The Stairs were such as whereon JACOB saw Angels ascending and descending, bands Of Guardians bright, when he from ESAU fled To PADAN-ARAM in the field of LUZ, Dreaming by night under the open Skie, And waking cri'd, This is the Gate of Heav'n. Each Stair mysteriously was meant, nor stood There alwaies, but drawn up to Heav'n somtimes Viewless, and underneath a bright Sea flow'd Of Jasper, or of liquid Pearle, whereon Who after came from Earth, sayling arriv'd, Wafted by Angels, or flew o're the Lake Rapt in a Chariot drawn by fiery Steeds. The Stairs were then let down, whether to dare The Fiend by easie ascent, or aggravate His sad exclusion from the dores of Bliss. Direct against which op'nd from beneath, Just o're the blissful seat of Paradise, A passage down to th' Earth, a passage wide, Wider by farr then that of after-times Over Mount SION, and, though that were large, Over the PROMIS'D LAND to God so dear, By which, to visit oft those happy Tribes, On high behests his Angels to and fro Pass'd frequent, and his eye with choice regard From PANEAS the fount of JORDANS flood To BEERSABA, where the HOLY LAND Borders on AEGYPT and the ARABIAN shoare; So wide the op'ning seemd, where bounds were set To darkness, such as bound the Ocean wave. SATAN from hence now on the lower stair That scal'd by steps of Gold to Heav'n Gate Looks down with wonder at the sudden view Of all this World at once. As when a Scout Through dark and desart wayes with peril gone All night; at last by break of chearful dawne Obtains the brow of some high-climbing Hill, Which to his eye discovers unaware The goodly prospect of some forein land First-seen, or some renownd Metropolis With glistering Spires and Pinnacles adornd, Which now the Rising Sun guilds with his beams. Such wonder seis'd, though after Heaven seen, The Spirit maligne, but much more envy seis'd At sight of all this World beheld so faire. Round he surveys, and well might, where he stood So high above the circling Canopie Of Nights extended shade; from Eastern Point Of LIBRA to the fleecie Starr that bears ANDROMEDA farr off ATLANTICK Seas Beyond th' HORIZON; then from Pole to Pole He views in bredth, and without longer pause Down right into the Worlds first Region throws His flight precipitant, and windes with ease Through the pure marble Air his oblique way Amongst innumerable Starrs, that shon Stars distant, but nigh hand seemd other Worlds, Or other Worlds they seemd, or happy Iles, Like those HESPERIAN Gardens fam'd of old, Fortunate Fields, and Groves and flourie Vales, Thrice happy Iles, but who dwelt happy there He stayd not to enquire: above them all The golden Sun in splendor likest Heaven Allur'd his eye: Thither his course he bends Through the calm Firmament; but up or downe By center, or eccentric, hard to tell, Or Longitude, where the great Luminarie Alooff the vulgar Constellations thick, That from his Lordly eye keep distance due, Dispenses Light from farr; they as they move Thir Starry dance in numbers that compute Days, months, and years, towards his all-chearing Lamp Turn swift their various motions, or are turnd By his Magnetic beam, that gently warms The Univers, and to each inward part With gentle penetration, though unseen, Shoots invisible vertue even to the deep: So wondrously was set his Station bright. There lands the Fiend, a spot like which perhaps Astronomer in the Sun's lucent Orbe Through his glaz'd Optic Tube yet never saw. The place he found beyond expression bright, Compar'd with aught on Earth, Medal or Stone; Not all parts like, but all alike informd With radiant light, as glowing Iron with fire; If mettal, part seemd Gold, part Silver cleer; If stone, Carbuncle most or Chrysolite, Rubie or Topaz, to the Twelve that shon In AARONS Brest-plate, and a stone besides Imagind rather oft then elsewhere seen, That stone, or like to that which here below Philosophers in vain so long have sought, In vain, though by thir powerful Art they binde Volatil HERMES, and call up unbound In various shapes old PROTEUS from the Sea, Draind through a Limbec to his Native forme. What wonder then if fields and regions here Breathe forth ELIXIR pure, and Rivers run Potable Gold, when with one vertuous touch Th' Arch-chimic Sun so farr from us remote Produces with Terrestrial Humor mixt Here in the dark so many precious things Of colour glorious and effect so rare? Here matter new to gaze the Devil met Undazl'd, farr and wide his eye commands, For sight no obstacle found here, nor shade, But all Sun-shine, as when his Beams at Noon Culminate from th' AEQUATOR, as they now Shot upward still direct, whence no way round Shadow from body opaque can fall, and the Aire, No where so cleer, sharp'nd his visual ray To objects distant farr, whereby he soon Saw within kenn a glorious Angel stand, The same whom JOHN saw also in the Sun: His back was turnd, but not his brightness hid; Of beaming sunnie Raies, a golden tiar Circl'd his Head, nor less his Locks behind Illustrious on his Shoulders fledge with wings Lay waving round; on som great charge imploy'd Hee seemd, or fixt in cogitation deep. Glad was the Spirit impure as now in hope To find who might direct his wandring flight To Paradise the happie seat of Man, His journies end and our beginning woe. But first he casts to change his proper shape, Which else might work him danger or delay: And now a stripling Cherube he appeers, Not of the prime, yet such as in his face Youth smil'd Celestial, and to every Limb Sutable grace diffus'd, so well he feignd; Under a Coronet his flowing haire In curles on either cheek plaid, wings he wore Of many a colourd plume sprinkl'd with Gold, His habit fit for speed succinct, and held Before his decent steps a Silver wand. He drew not nigh unheard, the Angel bright, Ere he drew nigh, his radiant visage turnd, Admonisht by his eare, and strait was known Th' Arch-Angel URIEL, one of the seav'n Who in Gods presence, neerest to his Throne Stand ready at command, and are his Eyes That run through all the Heav'ns, or down to th' Earth Bear his swift errands over moist and dry, O're Sea and Land: him SATAN thus accostes; URIEL, for thou of those seav'n Spirits that stand In sight of God's high Throne, gloriously bright, The first art wont his great authentic will Interpreter through highest Heav'n to bring, Where all his Sons thy Embassie attend; And here art likeliest by supream decree Like honour to obtain, and as his Eye To visit oft this new Creation round; Unspeakable desire to see, and know All these his wondrous works, but chiefly Man, His chief delight and favour, him for whom All these his works so wondrous he ordaind, Hath brought me from the Quires of Cherubim Alone thus wandring. Brightest Seraph tell In which of all these shining Orbes hath Man His fixed seat, or fixed seat hath none, But all these shining Orbes his choice to dwell; That I may find him, and with secret gaze, Or open admiration him behold On whom the great Creator hath bestowd Worlds, and on whom hath all these graces powrd; That both in him and all things, as is meet, The Universal Maker we may praise; Who justly hath drivn out his Rebell Foes To deepest Hell, and to repair that loss Created this new happie Race of Men To serve him better: wise are all his wayes. So spake the false dissembler unperceivd; For neither Man nor Angel can discern Hypocrisie, the only evil that walks Invisible, except to God alone, By his permissive will, through Heav'n and Earth: And oft though wisdom wake, suspicion sleeps At wisdoms Gate, and to simplicitie Resigns her charge, while goodness thinks no ill Where no ill seems: Which now for once beguil'd URIEL, though Regent of the Sun, and held The sharpest sighted Spirit of all in Heav'n; Who to the fraudulent Impostor foule In his uprightness answer thus returnd. Faire Angel, thy desire which tends to know The works of God, thereby to glorifie The great Work-Maister, leads to no excess That reaches blame, but rather merits praise The more it seems excess, that led thee hither From thy Empyreal Mansion thus alone, To witness with thine eyes what some perhaps Contented with report heare onely in heav'n: For wonderful indeed are all his works, Pleasant to know, and worthiest to be all Had in remembrance alwayes with delight; But what created mind can comprehend Thir number, or the wisdom infinite That brought them forth, but hid thir causes deep. I saw when at his Word the formless Mass, This worlds material mould, came to a heap: Confusion heard his voice, and wilde uproar Stood rul'd, stood vast infinitude confin'd; Till at his second bidding darkness fled, Light shon, and order from disorder sprung: Swift to thir several Quarters hasted then The cumbrous Elements, Earth, Flood, Aire, Fire, And this Ethereal quintessence of Heav'n Flew upward, spirited with various forms, That rowld orbicular, and turnd to Starrs Numberless, as thou seest, and how they move; Each had his place appointed, each his course, The rest in circuit walles this Universe. Look downward on that Globe whose hither side With light from hence, though but reflected, shines; That place is Earth the seat of Man, that light His day, which else as th' other Hemisphere Night would invade, but there the neighbouring Moon (So call that opposite fair Starr) her aide Timely interposes, and her monthly round Still ending, still renewing, through mid Heav'n; With borrowd light her countenance triform Hence fills and empties to enlighten th' Earth, And in her pale dominion checks the night. That spot to which I point is PARADISE, ADAMS abode, those loftie shades his Bowre. Thy way thou canst not miss, me mine requires. Thus said, he turnd, and SATAN bowing low, As to superior Spirits is wont in Heaven, Where honour due and reverence none neglects, Took leave, and toward the coast of Earth beneath, Down from th' Ecliptic, sped with hop'd success, Throws his steep flight with many an Aerie wheele, Nor staid, till on NIPHATES top he lights. THE END OF THE THIRD BOOK. PARADISE LOST Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Buch III beginnt mit einer zweiten Anrufung an seine Muse, diesmal an die "heilige Lichtquelle" gerichtet. Milton bittet darum, dass das himmlische Licht in ihm scheint und seinen Geist mit göttlicher Erkenntnis erleuchtet, damit er dieses Wissen mit seinen Lesern teilen kann. Die Szene wechselt in den Himmel, wo Gott alle Ereignisse in der Hölle beobachtet hat, während sein Sohn zu seiner Rechten sitzt. Er sieht Satan zum neuen Jahr aufsteigen und die Eltern der Menschheit anfliegen. Gleichzeitig sieht er alles, was deshalb passieren wird und nimmt Vergangenheit, Gegenwart und Zukunft gleichzeitig wahr. Er sieht, dass der Mensch durch seine eigene Schuld fallen wird, weil Gott ihm den freien Willen gegeben hat - doch ohne diesen Willen wäre der Mensch nicht fähig zur aufrichtigen Liebe. Der Mensch würde einfach nur die Bewegungen durchführen. Während es gerecht wäre, den Menschen für seine eigenen Handlungen zu bestrafen, entscheidet Gott, dass er in erster Linie aus Liebe und Barmherzigkeit handeln wird. Der Sohn, voller Mitgefühl, lobt Gott für seine Güte gegenüber dem Menschen, fragt aber, wie Barmherzigkeit ohne Zerstörung der Gerechtigkeit gewährt werden könne. Gott antwortet, dass ein angemessenes Opfer dargebracht werden muss: Jemand Würdigeres muss sich opfern, um für die Sünde des Menschen zu sterben. Die engelhaften Chöre verharren in Stille, aber der Sohn bietet sich sofort an. Er wird sterblich werden, damit Gott dem Tod nachgeben und die Hölle bezwingen kann. Gott ist überglücklich, obwohl er seinen Sohn aufgeben wird, denn er weiß, dass es gut ist, seinen Sohn für das Heil der Menschheit zu opfern, um Gerechtigkeit und Barmherzigkeit zu dienen. Diejenigen, die an den Sohn glauben, werden erlöst werden, aber diejenigen, die Gnade nicht annehmen, werden dennoch in die Hölle verdammt sein. Die Chöre der Engel stimmen nun in ein Loblied ein, das die Güte sowohl des Vaters als auch des Sohnes preist, was aus einer traurigen Tat eine größere Herrlichkeit für Gott und den Menschen machen wird. Die Geschichte kehrt zu Satan zurück, der auf dem, was jetzt China ist, auf der Erde landet. Dort gibt es noch keine lebenden Wesen oder Werke des Menschen, die den menschlichen Geist letztendlich von Gott ablenken werden. Schließlich sieht Satan eine hoch aufragende Struktur in der Ferne, ein enormes königliches Tor am Himmel mit Treppen, die bis zur Erde hinunterführen. Dieses Tor bewacht den Himmel, der zu dieser Zeit von der Erde aus sichtbar war. Satan fliegt dorthin und steigt einige Stufen hinauf, um einen besseren Blick zu bekommen. Er sieht die neue Schöpfung in all ihrer Pracht, kann aber nur Neid empfinden. Doch er bleibt nicht lange an einem Ort: Er wird vom goldenen Sonnenlicht angezogen, das über dem grünen und üppigen Land schwebt, und fliegt darauf zu. Dort sieht er einen Engel, der auf einem Hügel steht. Um ihn zu täuschen, verwandelt sich Satan in einen Cherubim, oder niederrangigen Engel. Satan erkennt den anderen Engel als den Erzengel Uriel und spricht ihn an. Satan behauptet, gerade aus dem Himmel gekommen zu sein, voller Neugierde auf die neue Welt, von der er so viel gehört hat, und neugierig auf ihre Bewohner. Satans Verwandlung und seine Rede sind so makellos, dass selbst Uriel den Schwindel nicht durchschauen kann. Der Erzengel freut sich, dass ein junger Engel so viel Eifer zeigt, um mehr über die Welt herauszufinden, die Gott aus dem Chaos aus Erde, Luft, Wind und Feuer hervorgebracht hat. Er zeigt ihm bereitwillig den Weg zum Paradies, wo Adam lebt. Nachdem er seine Respekt bekundet hat, fliegt Satan mit dunklen Absichten davon.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Kapitel: Dies an Jonathan Harker. Du sollst bei deiner lieben Frau Mina bleiben. Wir werden gehen, um unsere Suche durchzuführen – wenn man es so nennen kann, denn es handelt sich nicht um eine Suche, sondern um ein Wissen, und wir suchen nur Bestätigung. Aber bleibe du hier und kümmere dich um sie heute. Dies ist deine beste und heiligste Aufgabe. An diesem Tag kann ihn hier nichts finden. Lass mich dir das sagen, damit du weißt, was wir vier bereits wissen, denn ich habe es ihnen erzählt. Er, unser Feind, ist weggegangen; er ist zurückgegangen zu seinem Schloss in Transsilvanien. Ich weiß es so genau, als ob eine große Feuerhand es an die Wand geschrieben hätte. Er hat sich irgendwie darauf vorbereitet und diese letzte Erdkiste war bereit, irgendwohin verschickt zu werden. Dafür hat er das Geld genommen; dafür hat er sich in Eile versetzt, damit wir ihn nicht vor Sonnenuntergang erwischen. Es war seine letzte Hoffnung, außer dass er sich im Grab verstecken könnte, das er armes Fräulein Lucy, das er – wie er dachte – für ihn offen halten würde. Aber es war keine Zeit mehr. Als das scheiterte, ging er direkt zu seiner letzten Ressource - seinem letzten Erdbau, könnte ich sagen, wenn ich einen Doppeldeutigkeitseinsatz wollte. Er ist schlau, oh, so schlau! Er weiß, dass sein Spiel hier beendet war und so entscheidet er, dass er nach Hause zurückgehen wird. Er findet ein Schiff, das auf der Route fährt, die er gekommen ist, und er geht hinein. Wir gehen jetzt los, um herauszufinden, welches Schiff und wohin es fährt; wenn wir das herausgefunden haben, kommen wir zurück und erzählen dir alles. Dann werden wir dich und die arme liebe Frau Mina mit neuer Hoffnung trösten. Denn wenn du darüber nachdenkst, wird es Hoffnung sein: dass noch nicht alles verloren ist. Dieses Wesen, dem wir nachjagen, hat Hunderte von Jahren gebraucht, um so weit wie London zu gelangen; und doch vertreiben wir es an einem Tag, als wir wissen, wo es hingeht. Er ist endlich, obwohl er mächtig ist, viel Schaden anzurichten und nicht leidet wie wir. Aber wir sind stark in unserem Vorhaben; und zusammen sind wir alle noch stärker. Fass frischen Mut, lieber Ehemann von Madam Mina. Dieser Kampf hat gerade erst begonnen, und am Ende werden wir gewinnen – so sicher wie Gott hoch oben sitzt und über seine Kinder wacht. Sei daher bis zu unserer Rückkehr sehr getröstet. VAN HELSING. _Jonathan Harkers Tagebuch._ _4. Oktober._ – Als ich Minas Harker Van Helsings Nachricht aus dem Phonographen vorlas, hellte sich das arme Mädchen deutlich auf. Die Gewissheit, dass der Graf das Land verlassen hat, hat ihr bereits Trost spendet;n und Trost ist Stärke für sie. Im Moment erscheint es mir nahezu unmöglich, an diese schreckliche Gefahr zu glauben, da sie nicht mehr direkt vor uns steht. Sogar meine eigenen schrecklichen Erfahrungen im Schloss Dracula scheinen wie ein längst vergessener Traum. Hier in der klaren Herbstluft im hellen Sonnenlicht... Ach! Wie kann ich daran zweifeln! Mitten in meinen Gedanken fiel mein Blick auf die rote Narbe auf Minas weißer Stirn. Solange diese Narbe besteht, kann es keinen Zweifel geben. Und später wird auch die bloße Erinnerung daran den Glauben kristallklar halten. Mina und ich fürchten, untätig zu sein, also haben wir die Tagebücher immer wieder durchgegangen. Irgendwie, obwohl die Realität jedes Mal größer erscheint, werden der Schmerz und die Angst geringer. Es ist ein göttlicher Zweck erkennbar, der tröstlich ist. Mina sagt, dass wir vielleicht Instrumente des ultimativen Guten sind. Es könnte sein! Ich werde versuchen, so zu denken wie sie. Wir haben noch nie über die Zukunft gesprochen. Es ist besser, bis wir den Professor und die anderen nach ihren Untersuchungen sehen, zu warten. Der Tag vergeht schneller, als ich je gedacht hätte, dass ein Tag für mich wieder vergehen könnte. Es ist jetzt drei Uhr. _Mina Harkers Tagebuch._ _5. Oktober, 17 Uhr._ – Unser Treffen zur Berichterstattung. Anwesend: Professor Van Helsing, Lord Godalming, Dr. Seward, Mr. Quincey Morris, Jonathan Harker, Mina Harker. Dr. Van Helsing beschrieb, welche Schritte unternommen wurden, um während des Tages herauszufinden, auf welchem Schiff und wohin hin sich Graf Dracula abgesetzt hat:... "Da ich wusste, dass er zurück nach Transsilvanien wollte, war ich sicher, dass er über den Donaumündung gehen musste oder vielleicht irgendwo im Schwarzen Meer, da er auf diese Weise gekommen ist. Vor uns gab es eine trostlose Leere. _Omne ignotum pro magnifico_. Mit schweren Herzen machen wir uns also auf den Weg, um herauszufinden, welche Schiffe gestern Nacht in das Schwarze Meer abgefahren sind. Es war ein Segelschiff, da Madam Mina von gesetzten Segeln erzählte. Diese Informationen waren nicht so wichtig, um in deiner Liste der Schiffsfahrten in der _Times_ zu stehen, deshalb begaben wir uns auf Anregung von Lord Godalming zu Lloyd's, wo Notizen über alle Schiffe gemacht werden, die segeln, wie klein sie auch sein mögen. Dort stellten wir fest, dass nur ein einziges Schiff, das in Richtung Schwarzes Meer segelte, mit der Flut abfuhr. Es ist die _Czarina Catherine_, und sie segelte von Doolittle's Wharf nach Varna und von dort aus weiter entlang der Donau. 'Aha!' sagte ich, 'das ist das Schiff, auf dem sich der Graf befindet.' Also machten wir uns auf den Weg nach Doolittle's Wharf und dort fanden wir einen Mann in einem so kleinen Holzbüro, dass der Mann größer aussah als das Büro. Von ihm erkundigten wir uns nach dem Verbleib der _Czarina Catherine_. Er fluchte viel und hatte ein rotes Gesicht und lautstarke Stimme, aber er war trotzdem ein guter Kerl; und als Quincey ihm etwas aus seiner Tasche gab, das beim Aufrollen knisterte, und es in eine so kleine Tasche steckte, die er tief in seiner Kleidung verbarg, war er sogar ein noch besserer Kerl und ein demütiger Diener für uns. Er kam mit uns und fragte viele grobe und hitzige Kerle; auch diese waren bessere Kerle, nachdem sie nicht mehr durstig waren. Sie redeten viel von Blut und Flor, und von anderen Dingen, die ich nicht verstand, obwohl ich vermute, was sie meinten; aber sie erzählten uns trotzdem alles, was wir wissen wollten. Unter ihnen wurde uns bekannt, dass gestern Nachmittag kurz vor fünf Uhr ein Mann so gehetzt ankam. Ein großer, dünner und blasser Mann mit einer hohen Nase und weißen Zähnen und Augen, die zu brennen schienen. Er war ganz in Schwarz gekleidet, außer dass er einen Strohhut trug, der nicht zu ihm oder zur Jahreszeit passte. Er verteilte sein Geld und erkundigte sich schnell, welches Schiff in das Schwarze Meer und wohin fährt. Man führte ihn zum Büro und dann zum Schiff, auf das er nicht an Bord gehen wollte, sondern am Landende der Gangway hielt und darum bat, dass der Kapitän zu ihm komme. Der Kapitän kam, als ihm gesagt wurde, dass er gut bezahlt werde; und obwohl er anfangs viel fluchte, stimmte er schließlich zu. Dann ging der schlanke Mann weg und jemand sagte ihm, wo man ein Pferd und einen Wagen mieten kann. Er ging dorthin und kam bald wieder; er selbst fuhr den Wagen, auf dem sich eine große Kiste befand – er hob sie selbst herunter, obwohl es mehrere Leute brauchte, um sie auf den Lastwagen für das Schiff zu laden. Er unterhielt sich ausführlich mit dem Kapitän darüber, wie und wo seine Kiste platziert werden soll, aber der Kapitän mochte es nicht und fluchte ihn in vielen Sprachen an und sagte ihm, dass er kommen könne und sehen könne, wo sie sein sollte, aber er sagte 'nein'; dass er noch nicht kommen würde, weil er noch viel zu tun hätte. Daraufhin sagte der Kapitän ihm, dass er sich beeilen solle – mit Blut – da sein Schiff – mit Blut – den Ort – mit Blut – vor der Drehung der Flut – mit Blut – ver Niemand wusste, wohin er gegangen war oder sich überhaupt darum gekümmert hatte, wie sie sagten, denn sie hatten etwas anderes zu bedenken - na ja, wieder mit Blut; denn bald wurde allen klar, dass die Czarina Catherine nicht wie erwartet in See stechen würde. Ein dünner Nebel begann sich vom Fluss aus zu erheben und wuchs und wuchs; bald hüllte eine dichte Nebelwand das Schiff und alles um sie herum ein. Der Kapitän fluchte mehrsprachig - sehr mehrsprachig - mit Blüten und Blut; aber er konnte nichts tun. Das Wasser stieg immer weiter an und er begann zu befürchten, dass er die Flut ganz verlieren würde. Er war nicht gerade gut gelaunt, als der schmale Mann gerade bei Flut wieder die Gangway hochkam und darum bat, zu sehen, wo seine Kiste verstaut worden war. Dann antwortete der Kapitän, er wünsche, dass er und seine Kiste - alte und mit viel Blüte und Blut - in der Hölle wären. Aber der schmale Mann war nicht beleidigt und ging mit dem Maat hinunter und sah, wo sie hingelegt worden war, und kam wieder auf das Deck und stand eine Weile im Nebel. Er muss alleine gekommen sein, denn niemand bemerkte ihn. In der Tat dachten sie nicht an ihn; denn bald begann der Nebel sich aufzulösen und alles war wieder klar. Meine Freunde von dem Durst und der Sprache, die von Blüte und Blut stammte, lachten, als sie erzählten, wie die Flüche des Kapitäns selbst sein gewohntes Kauderwelsch übertrafen und noch malerischer waren, als er andere Seeleute befragte, die in dieser Stunde auf dem Fluss auf- und abfuhren und feststellte, dass nur wenige von ihnen Nebel gesehen hatten, außer dort, wo er um den Kai lag. Die Schifffahrt wurde jedoch bei Ebbe fortgesetzt und war zweifellos am Morgen weit hinunter in den Flussmund gelangt. Als sie uns das erzählten, war sie bereits draußen auf See. "Und so, meine liebe Frau Mina, müssen wir uns für eine Weile ausruhen, denn unser Feind ist auf dem Meer, mit dem Nebel unter seiner Kontrolle, auf dem Weg zur Mündung der Donau. Ein Schiff zu segeln dauert Zeit, selbst wenn es schnell ist; und wenn wir losfahren, kommen wir auf dem Land schneller voran und treffen ihn dort. Unsere beste Hoffnung ist, wenn wir ihm begegnen, wenn er in der Kiste zwischen Sonnenaufgang und Sonnenuntergang gefangen ist; denn dann kann er keinen Widerstand leisten und wir können mit ihm umgehen, wie wir wollen. Es gibt Tage für uns, an denen wir unseren Plan vorbereiten können. Wir wissen genau, wohin er geht; denn wir haben den Schiffseigner getroffen, der uns Rechnungen und alle möglichen Papiere gezeigt hat. Die Kiste, nach der wir suchen, soll in Varna gelandet und einem Agenten namens Ristics übergeben werden, der dort seine Referenzen vorlegen wird; und unser kaufmännischer Freund wird dann seinen Teil erfüllt haben. Wenn er fragen sollte, ob etwas nicht stimmt, sodass er telegrafieren und in Varna Nachforschungen anstellen kann, sagen wir 'nein'; denn was getan werden muss, obliegt nicht der Polizei oder dem Zoll. Es muss allein von uns und auf unsere eigene Weise erledigt werden." Als Dr. Van Helsing geendet hatte, fragte ich ihn, ob er sich sicher sei, dass der Graf an Bord des Schiffes geblieben sei. Er antwortete: "Davon haben wir den besten Beweis: Ihre eigene Aussage, als Sie heute Morgen in Trance waren." Ich fragte ihn erneut, ob es wirklich notwendig sei, dass sie den Grafen verfolgen sollten, denn oh! Ich fürchte, dass Jonathan mich verlässt, und ich weiß, dass er sicher gehen würde, wenn die anderen gehen. Er antwortete anfangs ruhig, aber mit wachsender Leidenschaft. Mit fortschreitender Rede wurde er jedoch immer wütender und bestimmter, bis wir schließlich sehen mussten, worin zumindest ein Teil dieser persönlichen Dominanz bestand, die ihn so lange zu einem Meister unter den Menschen gemacht hatte:-- "Ja, es ist notwendig - notwendig - notwendig! Zuerst für dich, und dann für die Menschheit. Dieses Monster hat bereits in dem begrenzten Gebiet, in dem es sich befindet, großen Schaden angerichtet und in der kurzen Zeit, als es nur wie ein Körper war, der seinen so kleinen Platz in der Dunkelheit tastet und nichts weiß, viel Schaden angerichtet. All dies habe ich diesen anderen erzählt; du, meine liebe Frau Mina, wirst es in der Phonographen-Aufzeichnung meines Freundes John erfahren oder in der deines Mannes. Ich habe ihnen erzählt, wie es Jahrhunderte gedauert hat, sein karges Land - ein Land ohne Menschen - zu verlassen und in ein neues Land zu kommen, wo das Leben der Menschen in solcher Fülle existiert, dass es so aussieht, als seien sie eine unendliche Menge stehenden Getreides. Würde ein anderer der Un-Dead, wie er, versuchen, das zu tun, was er getan hat, könnten ihm vielleicht nicht alle bisherigen oder zukünftigen Jahrhunderte der Welt helfen. Bei diesem hier müssen alle okkulten, tiefen und starken Kräfte der Natur auf wundersame Weise zusammengewirkt haben. Der Ort selbst, an dem er all die Jahrhunderte hindurch als Un-Dead gelebt hat, ist voller geologischer und chemischer Seltsamkeiten. Es gibt tiefe Höhlen und Spalten, die niemand kennt. Es hat Vulkane gegeben, einige von deren Öffnungen immer noch Wasser mit seltsamen Eigenschaften und Gase aussenden, die töten oder beleben können. Zweifellos gibt es in einigen dieser Kombinationen okkulter Kräfte etwas Magnetisches oder Elektrisches, das auf merkwürdige Weise für das physische Leben wirkt; und von Anfang an hatte er selbst einige großartige Eigenschaften. In einer harten und kriegerischen Zeit wurde gefeiert, dass er mehr eisernes Nerven, ein raffinierteres Gehirn und ein mutigeres Herz als jeder andere Mann hatte. In ihm haben sich einige vitale Prinzipien auf seltsame Weise bis zum Äußersten entwickelt; und während sein Körper stark bleibt und wächst und gedeiht, wächst auch sein Gehirn. All dies ohne die diabolische Hilfe, die ihm sicherlich zur Verfügung steht; denn er muss den Mächten weichen, die von gutem Willen stammen und seine symbolische Bedeutung haben. Und nun ist dies, was er für uns ist. Er hat dich infiziert - oh, verzeih mir, meine Liebe, dass ich so sprechen muss; aber ich tue es zu deinem Besten. Er hat dich auf solche Weise infiziert, dass du, selbst wenn er nichts weiter tut, nur weiterleben musst - weiterleben auf deine gewohnte, alte Art; und so wird dich schließlich der Tod, der das gemeinsame Los der Menschen ist und mit Gottes Segen kommt, ihm ähnlich machen. Das darf nicht sein! Wir haben zusammen geschworen, dass es nicht sein darf. So sind wir Diener von Gottes eigenem Wunsch: dass die Welt und die Menschen, für die sein Sohn gestorben ist, nicht den Monstern überlassen werden, deren bloße Existenz ihn verunehren würde. Er hat uns bereits erlaubt, eine Seele zu erretten, und wir gehen hinaus wie die alten Kreuzritter, um weitere zu erlösen. Wie sie werden wir in Richtung Sonnenaufgang reisen; und wie sie werden wir, wenn wir fallen, für eine gute Sache fallen." Er machte eine Pause und ich sagte:-- "Aber wird der Graf seine Zurückweisung weise akzeptieren? Da er aus England vertrieben wurde, wird er es dann nicht vermeiden, wie ein Tiger das Dorf zu meiden, aus dem er gejagt wurde?" "Aha!", sagte er, "dein Vergleich mit dem Tiger ist gut für mich, und ich werde ihn übernehmen. Dein Menschenfresser, wie sie in Indien den Tiger nennen, der einmal das Blut eines Menschen gekostet hat, sorgt sich nicht mehr um andere Beute, sondern streift unermüdlich umher, bis er ihn bekommt. Das, was wir aus unserem Dorf jagen, ist ebenfalls ein Tiger, ein Menschenfresser, der nie aufhört zu streunen. Nein, er ist nicht jemand, der sich zurückzieht und in der Ferne bleibt. In seinem Leben, seinem lebendigen Leben, geht er über die türkische Grenze und greift seinen Feind auf dessen eigenem Boden an; er wird zurückgeschlagen, aber bleibt er dann? Nein! Er kommt wieder und wieder und wieder. Schau dir seine Ausdauer und sein Durchhaltevermögen an. Mit dem kindlichen Verstand, den er hatte, hat er längst die Idee entwickelt, in eine große Stadt zu kommen. Was tut er? Er findet den Ort auf der ganzen Welt, der für ihn am vielversprechendsten ist. Dann setzt er sich bewusst hin, um sich auf die Aufgabe vorzubereiten. Er findet geduldig heraus, wie stark er ist und welche Kräfte er hat. Er studiert neue Sprachen. Er lernt ein neues soziales Leben; neue Umgebungen alter Traditionen, die Politik, das Recht, die Finanzen, die Wissenschaft, die Gewohnheiten eines neuen Landes und eines neuen Volkes, die es gibt, seit er da war. Das, was er bereits gesehen hat, schärft nur seinen Appetit und steigert sein Verlangen. Nein, es hilft ihm, in seinem Denken zu wachsen; denn alles beweist ihm, wie richtig er mit seinen Vermutungen war. Er hat das alles alleine getan; ganz alleine! von einem Grab in einem vergessenen Land. Was könnte er noch tun, wenn ihm die große Welt des Denkens offensteht. Er kann über den Tod lächeln, wie wir ihn kennen; er kann inmitten von Krankheiten, die ganze Völker töten, gedeihen. Oh, wenn ein solcher Mensch von Gott kommen würde, und nicht vom Teufel, welche positive Wirkung könnte er nicht in dieser alten Welt von uns haben. Aber wir haben uns verpflichtet, die Welt zu befreien. Unsere Arbeit muss in Stille geschehen, und unsere Anstrengungen müssen alle geheim bleiben; denn in diesem aufgeklärten Zeitalter, in dem die Menschen nicht einmal das glauben, was sie sehen, wäre das Zweifeln der Weisen seine größte Stärke. Es wäre zugleich seine Hülle und seine Rüstung, und seine Waffen, um uns, seine Feinde, zu zerstören, die bereit sind, sogar unsere eigenen Seelen für die Sicherheit derer zu riskieren, die wir lieben - für das Wohl der Menschheit und für die Ehre und Herrlichkeit Gottes." Nach einer allgemeinen Diskussion wurde beschlossen, dass heute Abend vorerst nichts endgültig festgelegt wird. Wir sollten alle auf den Fakten schlafen und versuchen, zu den richtigen Schlussfolgerungen zu kommen. Morgen beim Frühstück werden wir uns wieder treffen und nachdem wir unsere Schlussfolgerungen bekannt gegeben haben, werden wir uns auf eine konkrete Vorgehensweise einigen. Ich fühle heute Abend eine wunderbare Ruhe und Erholung. Es ist, als ob eine unheimliche Präsenz von mir genommen ist. Vielleicht ... Meine Vermutung war nicht zu Ende, konnte nicht zu Ende sein, denn ich sah im Spiegel den roten Fleck auf meiner Stirn, und ich wusste, dass ich immer noch unrein bin. _Dr. Sewards Tagebuch._ _5. Oktober._ - Wir sind alle früh aufgestanden, und ich glaube, dass der Schlaf für uns alle viel bewirkt hat. Als wir uns zum frühen Frühstück trafen, herrschte allgemein mehr Fröhlichkeit, als wir jemals erwartet hatten wieder zu erleben. Es ist wirklich erstaunlich, wie viel Widerstandskraft die menschliche Natur hat. Lassen Sie jede behindernde Ursache, egal welche, in irgendeiner Weise, selbst durch den Tod, entfernt werden, und wir kehren zu den Grundprinzipien von Hoffnung und Freude zurück. Mehr als einmal, als wir um den Tisch saßen, öffneten sich meine Augen vor Staunen darüber, ob die vergangenen Tage nicht alles nur ein Traum gewesen waren. Es war nur, als ich den roten Fleck auf der Stirn von Mrs. Harker sah, dass ich zur Realität zurückgeholt wurde. Selbst jetzt, wenn ich die Angelegenheit ernsthaft überlege, ist es fast unmöglich zu realisieren, dass die Ursache all unserer Probleme immer noch vorhanden ist. Selbst Mrs. Harker scheint ihre Probleme für ganze Zeiträume aus den Augen zu verlieren; es ist nur ab und zu, wenn etwas sie daran erinnert, dass sie an ihre furchtbare Narbe denkt. Wir treffen uns hier in meinem Arbeitszimmer in einer halben Stunde und entscheiden über unser Handeln. Ich sehe nur eine unmittelbare Schwierigkeit, ich weiß es instinktiv und nicht aus Gründen: wir müssen alle offen sprechen; und doch fürchte ich, dass auf mysteriöse Weise die Zunge von armen Frau Harker gebunden ist. Ich _weiß_, dass sie ihre eigenen Schlussfolgerungen zieht, und aus allem, was gewesen ist, kann ich erahnen, wie brilliant und wahr sie sein müssen; aber sie will nicht, oder kann nicht, sie aussprechen. Ich habe das Van Helsing erwähnt, und er und ich werden das besprechen, wenn wir alleine sind. Ich vermute, dass es irgendein schreckliches Gift ist, das in ihre Adern gelangt ist und anfängt zu wirken. Der Graf hatte seine eigenen Absichten, als er ihr das gab, was Van Helsing "die Taufe des Vampirs" nannte. Nun, es kann ein Gift geben, das sich aus guten Dingen destilliert; In einem Zeitalter, in dem die Existenz von Ptomainen ein Rätsel ist, sollten wir uns über nichts wundern! Eines weiß ich: Wenn meine Intuition bezüglich der Stille von Mrs. Harker zutrifft, dann gibt es eine furchtbare Schwierigkeit - eine unbekannte Gefahr - bei unserer Arbeit vor uns. Die gleiche Macht, die sie zum Schweigen bringt, kann sie zum Sprechen zwingen. Ich wage es nicht weiter zu denken; denn so würde ich in meinen Gedanken eine noble Frau entehren! Van Helsing kommt ein wenig früher als die anderen in mein Arbeitszimmer. Ich werde versuchen, das Thema mit ihm anzusprechen. _Später._ - Als der Professor hereinkam, sprachen wir über den Stand der Dinge. Ich konnte sehen, dass er etwas auf dem Herzen hatte, von dem er sprechen wollte, sich aber etwas zögerte, das Thema anzusprechen. Nachdem er ein wenig um den heißen Brei geredet hatte, sagte er plötzlich: "Freund John, es gibt etwas, über das du und ich alleine sprechen müssen, zumindest zu Beginn. Später werden wir vielleicht die anderen in unser Vertrauen einweihen müssen." Dann hielt er inne, also wartete ich; er fuhr fort: "Madam Mina, unsere arme, liebe Madam Mina, verändert sich." Es lief mir ein kalter Schauer über den Rücken, als ich meine schlimmsten Befürchtungen auf diese Weise bestätigt fand. Van Helsing fuhr fort: "Nach der traurigen Erfahrung mit Miss Lucy müssen wir dieses Mal gewarnt sein, bevor die Dinge zu weit gehen. Unsere Aufgabe ist jetzt wirklich schwieriger als je zuvor, und dieses neue Problem macht jede Stunde äußerst wichtig. Ich kann die Merkmale des Vampirs in ihrem Gesicht erkennen. Sie sind jetzt nur sehr, sehr gering; aber man kann sie sehen, wenn man Augen hat, um zu bemerken, ohne voreingenommen zu sein. Ihre Zähne sind ein wenig schärfer, und manchmal sind ihre Augen härter. Aber das ist nicht alles, jetzt gibt es oft Stille; so war es auch bei Miss Lucy. Sie sprach nicht einmal, als sie aufschrieb, was sie später bekannt machen wollte. Nun ist meine Angst diese. Wenn es sein kann, dass sie uns durch unseren hypnotischen Trance erzählen kann, was der Graf sieht und hört, ist es nicht eher wahr, dass er, der sie zuerst hypnotisiert hat und von ihrem eigenen Blut getrunken hat "Später." - Zu Beginn unseres Treffens spürten sowohl Van Helsing als auch ich eine große Erleichterung. Frau Harker hatte ihrem Mann eine Nachricht geschickt, dass sie uns vorerst nicht begleiten würde, da sie dachte, es sei besser, dass wir unsere Pläne ohne ihre Anwesenheit besprechen können, um uns nicht zu behindern. Der Professor und ich schauten uns einen kurzen Moment lang an, und irgendwie schienen wir beide erleichtert zu sein. Ich persönlich dachte, wenn Frau Harker selbst die Gefahr erkannte, wäre damit viel Schmerz und auch viel Gefahr abgewendet. Unter den gegebenen Umständen stimmten wir mit einem fragenden Blick und einer Antwort, mit dem Finger auf den Lippen, überein, unsere Verdachtsmomente vorerst geheim zu halten, bis wir wieder alleine beraten könnten. Wir begannen sofort mit unserem Plan. Van Helsing stellte zunächst die Fakten vor: "Die Czarina Catherine verließ gestern Morgen die Themse. Es wird ihr mindestens drei Wochen dauern, um Varna zu erreichen, selbst bei höchstmöglicher Geschwindigkeit. Aber wir können über Land in drei Tagen an denselben Ort gelangen. Wenn wir zwei Tage für die Schiffsfahrt abziehen wegen des Wetters, von dem wir wissen, dass der Graf es beeinflussen kann, und wenn wir einen ganzen Tag und eine ganze Nacht für mögliche Verzögerungen einplanen, dann haben wir einen Puffer von fast zwei Wochen. Um also ganz sicher zu sein, müssen wir spätestens am 17. hier abfahren. Dann werden wir mindestens einen Tag vor dem Eintreffen des Schiffes in Varna sein und notwendige Vorbereitungen treffen können. Natürlich werden wir alle bewaffnet sein - bewaffnet gegen böse Dinge, sowohl spirituell als auch physisch." An dieser Stelle fügte Quincey Morris hinzu: "Ich habe gehört, der Graf stammt aus einer Gegend, in der es viele Wölfe gibt, und es ist möglich, dass er uns zuvorkommt. Ich schlage vor, dass wir Winchester-Gewehre zu unserer Ausrüstung hinzufügen. Ich habe so eine Art Glauben an ein Winchester, wenn es darum geht, sich mit solchen Schwierigkeiten herumzuschlagen. Erinnerst du dich, Art, als wir in Tobolsk von einer Meute gejagt wurden? Wie viel hätten wir damals für ein Repetiergewehr gegeben!" "Gut!", sagte Van Helsing, "Winchesters sollen es sein. Quinceys Verstand ist zu jeder Zeit klar, aber besonders wenn es darum geht zu jagen. Die Metapher wäre eher eine Schande für die Wissenschaft als dass Wölfe eine Gefahr für den Menschen sind. In der Zwischenzeit können wir hier nichts tun, und da ich denke, dass Varna für keinen von uns vertraut ist, warum nicht früher dorthin gehen? Es ist genauso lange zu warten hier wie dort. Heute Nacht und morgen können wir uns vorbereiten, und dann können wir, wenn alles gut geht, zu viert unsere Reise antreten." "Wie zu viert?", sagte Harker fragend und blickte abwechselnd einen von uns an. "Natürlich!", antwortete der Professor schnell, "du musst hier bleiben und dich um deine süße Frau kümmern!" Harker schwieg eine Weile und sagte dann mit hohler Stimme: "Lassen Sie uns morgen über diesen Teil sprechen. Ich möchte mich mit Mina beraten." Ich dachte, jetzt sei es an der Zeit, dass Van Helsing ihn warnt, unsere Pläne nicht an sie weiterzugeben, aber er beachtete es nicht. Ich sah ihn bedeutungsvoll an und hüstelte. Als Antwort legte er seinen Finger auf seine Lippen und wandte sich ab. _Jonathan Harkers Tagebuch._ _5. Oktober, Nachmittag._ - Nach unserem heutigen Treffen konnte ich eine Weile nicht denken. Die neuen Wendungen der Ereignisse lassen meinen Geist in einem Zustand des Wunders zurück, der keinen Platz für aktives Denken lässt. Minas Entschlossenheit, nicht an der Diskussion teilzunehmen, brachte mich zum Nachdenken, und da ich die Angelegenheit nicht mit ihr diskutieren konnte, konnte ich nur vermuten. Ich bin immer noch genauso weit entfernt von einer Lösung. Die Reaktion der anderen auf ihre Entscheidung hat mich auch verwirrt. Das letzte Mal, als wir über das Thema sprachen, waren wir uns einig, dass es keine weiteren Geheimnisse unter uns geben sollte. Mina schläft jetzt ruhig und süß wie ein kleines Kind. Ihre Lippen sind gekrümmt und ihr Gesicht strahlt vor Glück. Gott sei Dank, dass es solche Momente noch für sie gibt. * * * * * _Später._ - Wie seltsam das alles ist. Ich saß da und beobachtete Minas glücklichen Schlaf und wurde beinahe selbst glücklich. Als der Abend hereinbrach und die Erde ihre Schatten von der sinkenden Sonne empfing, wurde die Stille des Raumes für mich immer feierlicher. Plötzlich öffnete Mina ihre Augen und schaute mich liebevoll an und sagte: "Jonathan, ich will, dass du mir etwas versprichst, auf dein Ehrenwort. Ein Versprechen, das du mir gibst, heilig vor Gottes Augen, und das nicht gebrochen werden darf, auch wenn ich auf die Knie gehe und dich bitterlich anflehe. Schnell, du musst es mir sofort geben." "Mina", sagte ich, "ein solches Versprechen kann ich nicht sofort geben. Vielleicht habe ich kein Recht dazu." "Aber, Lieber," sagte sie mit einer solchen spirituellen Intensität, dass ihre Augen wie Polarsterne leuchteten, "ich wünsche es mir so sehr, und es ist nicht für mich selbst. Du kannst Dr. Van Helsing fragen, ob ich Recht habe; wenn er anderer Meinung ist, dann kannst du tun, was du willst. Noch mehr: Wenn ihr alle später zustimmt, bist du von deinem Versprechen entbunden." "Ich verspreche es!", sagte ich, und für einen Moment schien sie überglücklich zu sein, obwohl für mich jegliches Glück für sie durch die rote Narbe auf ihrer Stirn verwehrt blieb. Sie sagte: "Versprich mir, dass du mir nichts von den Plänen verrätst, die für die Aktion gegen den Grafen gemacht wurden. Nicht mit Worten, Andeutungen oder Implikationen, zu keiner Zeit, solange ich das habe!" und sie zeigte feierlich auf die Narbe. Ich sah, dass sie es ernst meinte, und sagte feierlich: "Ich verspreche es!" und während ich es sagte, spürte ich, dass sich von diesem Augenblick an eine Tür zwischen uns geschlossen hatte. * * * * * _Später, Mitternacht._ - Mina war den ganzen Abend über fröhlich und frohgemut. So sehr, dass der Rest von uns mut schöpfte, als wären wir etwas von ihrer Heiterkeit angesteckt worden; als Resultat fühlte auch ich, als ob sich die schwere Bleihaube, die auf uns lastet, ein wenig gelüftet hätte. Wir gingen alle früh ins Bett. Mina schläft jetzt wie ein kleines Kind, es ist wunderbar, dass ihre Schlaffähigkeit inmitten ihrer schrecklichen Bedrängnis erhalten bleibt. Gott sei Dank dafür, denn dann kann sie zumindest ihre Sorgen vergessen. Vielleicht beeinflusst ihr Beispiel mich so wie ihre Fröhlichkeit heute Abend. Ich werde es versuchen. Oh! Für einen traumlosen Schlaf. * * * * * _6. Oktober, Morgen._ - Eine weitere Überraschung. Mina weckte mich früh, zur gleichen Zeit wie gestern, und bat mich, Dr. Van Helsing holen zu sollen. Ich dachte, es sei wieder ein Anlass für Hypnose und ging ohne Frage nach dem Professor. Offensichtlich hatte er auf einen solchen Anruf gewartet, denn ich fand ihn angekleidet in seinem Zimmer. Seine Tür stand einen Spalt offen, so dass er hören konnte, wie sich unsere Tür öffnete. Er kam sofort und fragte Mina, ob die anderen auch kommen könnten. " Madam Mina, du bist, wie immer, klug. Du sollst mit uns kommen; und gemeinsam werden wir das tun, was wir tun, um unser Ziel zu erreichen. Als er gesprochen hatte, ließ Mina's lange stille Zeit mich sie anschauen. Sie war zurück auf ihrem Kissen eingeschlafen; sie wachte noch nicht einmal auf, als ich die Jalousie hochzog und das Zimmer mit Sonnenlicht flutete. Van Helsing zeigte mir, dass ich leise mit ihm kommen sollte. Wir gingen in sein Zimmer und innerhalb einer Minute waren auch Lord Godalming, Dr. Seward und Mr. Morris bei uns. Er erzählte ihnen, was Mina gesagt hatte und fuhr fort: "Am Morgen werden wir nach Varna aufbrechen. Wir haben jetzt mit einem neuen Faktor zu tun: Madam Mina. Oh, aber ihre Seele ist wahr. Es ist für sie eine Qual, uns so viele Dinge zu erzählen; aber es ist das Richtige und wir sind rechtzeitig gewarnt. Es darf keine Chance verloren gehen und in Varna müssen wir bereit sein, sofort zu handeln, wenn dieses Schiff ankommt." "Was genau sollen wir tun?" fragte Mr. Morris lakonisch. Der Professor wartete einen Moment, bevor er antwortete: "Wir werden als Erstes auf dieses Schiff gehen; dann, wenn wir die Kiste identifiziert haben, werden wir einen Zweig der Wildrose darauf legen. Diesen werden wir befestigen, denn wenn er da ist, kann niemand herauskommen; so sagt es zumindest der Aberglaube. Und auf den Aberglauben müssen wir uns zunächst verlassen; es war der Glaube der Menschen in der Frühzeit und er hat noch immer seine Wurzeln im Glauben. Dann, wenn wir die Gelegenheit bekommen, nach der wir suchen, wenn niemand in der Nähe ist, um es zu sehen, werden wir die Kiste öffnen und - und alles wird gut sein." "Ich werde nicht auf eine Gelegenheit warten," sagte Morris. "Wenn ich die Kiste sehe, werde ich sie öffnen und das Monster zerstören, auch wenn tausend Männer zuschauen, und wenn ich dafür im nächsten Moment ausgelöscht werde!" Ich ergriff instinktiv seine Hand und fand sie so fest wie ein Stück Stahl. Ich glaube, er verstand meinen Blick; ich hoffe, er tat es. "Guter Junge", sagte Dr. Van Helsing. "Tapferer Junge. Quincey ist ein ganzer Mann. Gott segne ihn dafür. Meine Kinder, glaubt mir, keiner von uns wird zurückbleiben oder vor Angst haltmachen. Ich sage nur, was wir tun können - was wir tun müssen. Aber, in der Tat, wir können nicht sagen, was wir tun werden. Es gibt so viele Dinge, die passieren können, und ihre Wege und Ziele sind so unterschiedlich, dass wir es bis zum Moment selbst nicht sagen können. Wir werden alle bewaffnet sein, in jeder Hinsicht; und wenn die Zeit für das Ende gekommen ist, wird es uns nicht an Bemühung mangeln. Jetzt lasst uns noch heute alle unsere Angelegenheiten in Ordnung bringen. Lassen Sie alle Dinge, die unsere lieben Mitmenschen betreffen und von uns abhängen, vollständig sein; denn keiner von uns kann sagen, was, oder wann, oder wie das Ende sein wird. Was mich betrifft, so sind meine eigenen Angelegenheiten geregelt; und da ich sonst nichts zu tun habe, werde ich Vorkehrungen für die Reise treffen. Ich werde alle Tickets und so weiter für unsere Reise haben." Es gab nichts weiter zu sagen, und wir gingen auseinander. Ich werde jetzt alle meine irdischen Angelegenheiten regeln und für das bereit sein, was auch immer kommen mag... Später. Es ist alles erledigt; mein Testament ist gemacht und vollständig. Mina ist, wenn sie überlebt, meine einzige Erbin. Wenn es nicht so sein sollte, sollen die anderen, die so gut zu uns waren, den Rest haben. Es neigt sich jetzt dem Sonnenuntergang zu; Minas Unruhe ruft meine Aufmerksamkeit darauf. Ich bin sicher, dass sie etwas auf dem Herzen hat, das beim genauen Sonnenuntergang enthüllt wird. Diese Momente werden für uns alle immer qualvoller, denn jeder Sonnenauf- und Sonnenuntergang bringt eine neue Gefahr - einen neuen Schmerz, der jedoch in Gottes Willen ein guter Zweck sein mag. Ich schreibe all diese Dinge in das Tagebuch, da meine Geliebte sie jetzt nicht hören darf; aber wenn es sein kann, dass sie sie wieder sehen kann, sollen sie bereit sein. Sie ruft nach mir. 11. Oktober, Abend. Jonathan Harker hat mich gebeten, dies zu notieren, da er sagt, dass er der Aufgabe kaum gewachsen ist und ein genauer Bericht erstellt werden soll. Ich glaube, dass keiner von uns überrascht war, als wir gebeten wurden, Mrs. Harker ein wenig vor Sonnenuntergang zu sehen. In letzter Zeit haben wir verstanden, dass Sonnenaufgang und -untergang für sie Zeiten besonderer Freiheit sind; Zeiten, in denen ihr altes Selbst ohne irgendwelche kontrollierenden Kräfte, die sie unterwerfen oder zurückhalten, oder zu Handlungen anstacheln, zum Vorschein kommen kann. Diese Stimmung oder Zustand beginnt etwa eine halbe Stunde oder mehr vor dem eigentlichen Sonnenauf- oder -untergang und dauert an, solange die Sonne hoch steht oder die Wolken noch von den Strahlen über dem Horizont erhellt sind. Zuerst gibt es eine Art negativen Zustand, als ob eine Verbindung gelöst wäre, und dann folgt die absolute Freiheit schnell; wenn jedoch die Freiheit endet, kommt der Rückfall nur schnell, nachdem eine Zeit stiller Warnung vergangen ist. Heute Abend war sie etwas gezwungen und trug alle Anzeichen eines inneren Kampfes. Ich nehme an, dass sie sich selbst zu einem gewaltsamen Versuch bewegen wollte, sobald es ihr möglich war. Nur wenige Minuten jedoch gaben ihr die volle Kontrolle über sich selbst; dann bedeutete sie ihrem Mann, sich neben sie auf das Sofa zu setzen, auf dem sie halb liegend war, und ließ den Rest von uns Stühle direkt daneben bringen. Sie nahm die Hand ihres Mannes in die ihre und begann: "Wir sind alle zusammen hier in Freiheit, möglicherweise zum letzten Mal! Ich weiß, mein Lieber; ich weiß, dass du bis zum Ende immer bei mir sein wirst." Das war an ihren Mann gerichtet, dessen Hand, wie wir sehen konnten, sich um ihre verengte. "Morgen machen wir uns auf zu unserer Aufgabe und nur Gott allein weiß, was für uns alle auf uns wartet. Du wirst so gut zu mir sein, mich mit dir zu nehmen. Ich weiß, dass alles, was tapfere und ernsthafte Männer für eine arme schwache Frau tun können, deren Seele vielleicht verloren ist - nein, nein, noch nicht, aber zumindest in Gefahr ist - du wirst tun. Aber du musst bedenken, dass ich nicht so bin wie du. Es gibt ein Gift in meinem Blut, in meiner Seele, das mich vernichten könnte; das mich vernichten muss, es sei denn, es kommt eine Erleichterung für uns. Oh, meine Freunde, ihr wisst genauso gut wie ich, dass meine Seele auf dem Spiel steht; und obwohl ich weiß, dass es einen Ausweg für mich gibt, dürfen wir ihn nicht nehmen!" Sie schaute fragend nacheinander zu uns allen, begann und endete jedoch mit ihrem Mann. "Was ist das für ein Weg?" fragte Van Helsing mit rauer Stimme. "Was ist das für ein Weg, den wir nicht - dürfen oder können - gehen sollen?" "Dass ich jetzt sterbe, entweder durch meine eigene Hand oder durch die eines anderen, bevor das größere Übel vollständig vollbracht ist. Ich weiß und ihr wisst, dass ihr mich, wenn ich einmal tot bin, meinen unsterblichen Geist befreien könnt, so wie ihr es mit meiner armen Lucy getan habt. Wenn der Tod oder die Angst vor dem Tod das einzige wäre, das uns im Weg stehen würde, würde ich nicht zurückschrecken, hier, jetzt, unter den Freunden, die mich lieben Quincey war der Erste, der nach der Pause aufstand. Er kniete vor ihr nieder und nahm ihre Hand. Ernsthaft sagte er: "Ich bin nur ein grober Kerl, der vielleicht nicht so gelebt hat, wie es sich gehört, um eine solche Auszeichnung zu verdienen. Aber ich schwöre Ihnen bei allem, was mir heilig und teuer ist, dass ich, sollte der Moment jemals kommen, nicht vor der Pflicht zurückschrecken werde, die Sie uns auferlegt haben. Und ich verspreche Ihnen auch, dass ich alles sicherstelle, denn wenn ich nur Zweifel habe, werde ich annehmen, dass die Zeit gekommen ist!" "Mein wahrer Freund!" war alles, was sie zwischen ihren Tränen hervorbringen konnte, als sie sich über ihn beugte und seine Hand küsste. "Das gleiche schwöre ich, meine liebe Frau Mina!", sagte Van Helsing. "Und ich auch!", sagte Lord Godalming, und sie knieten nacheinander vor ihr nieder, um den Schwur abzulegen. Ich folgte selbst. Dann wandte sich ihr Ehemann mit blassen Augen und einer grünlichen Blässe, die die schneeweiße Haarpracht überlagerte, an sie und fragte: "Und muss ich, mein liebes Weib, auch ein solches Versprechen ablegen?" "Auch du, mein Liebster", sagte sie mit unendlicher Mitleidserfüllung in ihrer Stimme und ihren Augen. "Du musst nicht zurückschrecken. Du bist mir am nächsten und liebsten in der ganzen Welt; unsere Seelen sind für immer vereint, für das ganze Leben und alle Zeit. Bedenke, mein Lieber, dass es Zeiten gab, in denen tapfere Männer ihre Frauen und ihre weiblichen Angehörigen getötet haben, um zu verhindern, dass sie in die Hände des Feindes fallen. Ihre Hände zitterten nicht mehr, nur weil ihre Geliebten sie anflehten, sie zu töten. In solchen Zeiten schwerer Prüfung ist es die Pflicht von Männern gegenüber ihren Liebsten! Und oh, meine Liebe, wenn ich diesen Umständen zum Opfer fallen muss, dann lasse es die Hand sein, die mich am meisten liebt. Dr. Van Helsing, ich habe Ihre Gnade in Lucys Fall gegenüber demjenigen, der sie liebte, nicht vergessen -" Sie hielt inne und errötete leicht, und änderte ihre Wortwahl - "gegenüber demjenigen, der am meisten Recht hatte, ihr Frieden zu schenken. Wenn diese Zeit wieder kommen sollte, verlasse ich mich darauf, dass Sie mir eine glückliche Erinnerung an das Leben meines Mannes geben, dass es seine liebevolle Hand war, die mich von der schrecklichen Knechtschaft befreit hat." "Wiederum schwöre ich!", ertönte die kraftvolle Stimme des Professors. Mrs. Harker lächelte, tatsächlich lächelte sie, als sie sich erleichtert zurücklehnte und sagte: "Und nun eine warnende Bemerkung, eine Warnung, die ihr niemals vergessen dürft: Diesmal, wenn es je kommt, kann es schnell und unerwartet kommen, und in diesem Fall dürft ihr keine Zeit verlieren, eure Chance zu nutzen. In dieser Zeit könnte ich selbst - nein! Wenn die Zeit je kommt, werde ich - mit eurem Feind gegen euch verbündet sein." "Noch eine Bitte," sie wurde sehr feierlich, als sie dies sagte, "sie ist nicht so wichtig und notwendig wie die andere, aber ich möchte, dass ihr etwas für mich tut, wenn ihr wollt." Wir alle stimmten zu, aber niemand sprach; es war nicht nötig zu sprechen: "Ich möchte, dass ihr den Begräbnisgottesdienst lest." Ihr Ehemann wurde durch einen tiefen Seufzer unterbrochen; er nahm ihre Hand in seine und hielt sie über ihrem Herzen und fuhr fort: "Du musst ihn eines Tages über mich lesen. Was auch immer das Ergebnis dieser furchterregenden Ereignisse sein mag, es wird ein süßer Gedanke für uns alle oder einige von uns sein. Du, mein Liebster, wirst es, hoffe ich, lesen, denn dann wird es in meiner Erinnerung für immer deine Stimme sein - komme, was da wolle!" "Aber oh, meine Liebste," flehte er, "der Tod ist noch weit von dir entfernt." "Nun", sagte sie und hob warnend die Hand. "Ich bin in diesem Moment tiefer in den Tod versunken, als wenn mich das Gewicht eines irdischen Grabes schwer belastete!" "Oh, meine Frau, muss ich das lesen?", sagte er, bevor er begann. "Es würde mich trösten, mein Mann!", war alles, was sie sagte, und er begann zu lesen, als sie das Buch bereithatte. "Wie kann ich - wie könnte jemand - von dieser seltsamen Szene erzählen, ihrer Feierlichkeit, ihrer Dunkelheit, ihrer Traurigkeit, ihrer Grausamkeit und vor allem ihrer Süße. Selbst ein Skeptiker, der in allem Heiligen oder Emotionalen nur eine Travestie bitterer Wahrheit sieht, wäre zu Herzen gegangen, wenn er diese kleine Gruppe von liebenden und hingebungsvollen Freunden um diese gequälte und trauernde Dame hätte sehen können; oder die zärtliche Leidenschaft der Stimme ihres Mannes gehört hätte, der in so von Emotion gebrochener Tonlage sprach, dass er oft innehalten musste, als er den einfachen und schönen Gottesdienst aus dem Ritus für die Toten las. Ich - ich kann nicht weitermachen - Worte - und - St-stimme - versagen mich!" * * * * * Ihr Instinkt lag richtig. So seltsam das Ganze auch war und so bizarr es uns, die wir zu dieser Zeit ihre mächtige Wirkung verspürten, auch in Zukunft erscheinen mag, es tröstete uns sehr; und die Stille, die darauf hinwies, dass Mrs. Harker wieder in ihre Freiheit der Seele zurückfiel, erschien uns allen nicht so verzweifelt, wie wir es befürchtet hatten. _Jonathan Harkers Tagebuch._ _15. Oktober, Varna._ Wir verließen Charing Cross am Morgen des 12. und kamen am Abend nach Paris. Dort nahmen wir die Plätze im Orient Express ein, die für uns reserviert waren. Wir reisten Tag und Nacht und kamen gegen fünf Uhr hier an. Lord Godalming ging zum Konsulat, um zu sehen, ob für ihn eine Telegramm eingetroffen war, während der Rest von uns in dieses Hotel, das "Odessus", kam. Die Reise mag Zwischenfälle gehabt haben, aber ich war zu ungeduldig, um mich darum zu kümmern. Bis die "Czarina Catherine" im Hafen anlegt, wird es für mich nichts von Interesse geben in der ganzen Welt. Gott sei Dank! Mina ist wohlauf und scheint stärker zu werden; ihre Farbe kommt zurück. Sie schläft viel; während der Reise hat sie fast die ganze Zeit geschlafen. Vor Sonnenaufgang und Sonnenuntergang ist sie jedoch sehr wachsam und aufmerksam; und es ist zur Gewohnheit geworden, dass Van Helsing sie zu solchen Zeiten hypnotisiert. Zuerst war einiger Aufwand nötig und er musste viele Handbewegungen machen, aber jetzt scheint sie sofort nachzugeben, als ob es zur Gewohnheit geworden ist, und kaum eine Handlung ist erforderlich. In diesen besonderen Momenten scheint er die Macht zu haben, einfach zu wollen, und ihre Gedanken gehorchen ihm. Er fragt sie immer, was sie sehen und hören kann. Sie antwortet auf die erste Frage: "Nichts; alles ist dunkel." Und auf die zweite Frage: "Ich kann die Wellen gegen das Schiff schlagen hören und das Wasser vorbeiströmen. Segel und Leinen spannen, Masten und Rahen knarren. Der Wind ist stark - ich kann es in den Wanten hören, und der Bug wirft den Schaum zurück." Es ist offensichtlich, dass die "Czarina Catherine" noch _17. Oktober._ - Ich denke, alles ist jetzt ziemlich gut arrangiert, um den Grafen bei seiner Rückkehr von seiner Reise willkommen zu heißen. Godalming erzählte den Verschiffungszuständigen, dass er glaubt, dass die an Bord geschickte Kiste etwas gestohlenes von einem seiner Freunde enthalten könnte, und bekam eine halbe Zustimmung, dass er sie auf eigenes Risiko öffnen durfte. Der Besitzer gab ihm einen Brief, in dem der Kapitän angewiesen wurde, ihm jede erdenkliche Hilfe bei seinen Aktivitäten an Bord zu gewähren, sowie eine ähnliche Vollmacht für seinen Agenten in Varna. Wir haben den Agent gesehen, der von Godalmings freundlichem Umgang mit ihm beeindruckt war, und wir sind alle zufrieden, dass er alles tun wird, um unsere Wünsche zu erfüllen. Wir haben bereits arrangiert, was wir tun werden, wenn wir die Kiste öffnen. Wenn der Graf darin ist, werden Van Helsing und Seward ihm sofort den Kopf abschlagen und einen Pflock durch sein Herz treiben. Morris, Godalming und ich werden jegliche Einmischung verhindern, auch wenn wir die Waffen benutzen müssen, die wir bereithalten werden. Der Professor sagt, dass wenn wir den Körper des Grafen so behandeln können, wird er bald zu Staub zerfallen. In diesem Fall gäbe es keine Beweise gegen uns, falls Verdacht auf Mord aufkommt. Aber selbst wenn nicht, werden wir aufgrund unserer Tat stehen oder fallen, und vielleicht wird eines Tages dieses Skript selbst zwischen einige von uns und eine Schlinge kommen. Ich würde die Chance für mich selbst nur zu gerne ergreifen, wenn sie sich bieten würde. Wir werden keine Mühen scheuen, um unseren Plan umzusetzen. Wir haben mit bestimmten Beamten vereinbart, dass wir unverzüglich per Sonderkurier informiert werden, sobald die Czarina Catherine auftaucht. _24. Oktober._ - Eine ganze Woche des Wartens. Tägliche Telegramme an Godalming, aber immer die gleiche Nachricht: "Noch nicht gemeldet". Minas morgendliche und abendliche hypnotische Antwort ist unverändert: Rauschende Wellen, fließendes Wasser und knarrende Masten. Telegramm, 24. Oktober. Rufus Smith, Lloyd's, London, an Lord Godalming, pfleglich des H.B.M. Vizekonsuls, Varna. "Czarina Catherine heute Morgen aus den Dardanellen berichtet." Dr. Sewards Tagebuch. _25. Oktober._ - Wie ich meinen Phonographen vermisse! Tagebuch mit einem Stift zu schreiben ist mir zuwider, aber Van Helsing sagt, dass ich es tun muss. Gestern waren wir alle wild vor Aufregung, als Godalming sein Telegramm von Lloyd's bekam. Jetzt verstehe ich, wie sich Männer im Kampf fühlen, wenn sie den Ruf zum Handeln hören. Mrs. Harker zeigte als einzige in unserer Gruppe keine Anzeichen von Emotionen. Schließlich ist es nicht verwunderlich, dass sie es nicht tat; wir haben extra darauf geachtet, ihr nichts darüber zu sagen, und wir haben alle versucht, keine Aufregung zu zeigen, wenn wir in ihrer Anwesenheit waren. Früher hätte sie es sicherlich gemerkt, egal wie sehr wir versucht hätten, es zu verbergen; aber in letzter Zeit hat sie sich sehr verändert. Die Lethargie nimmt bei ihr zu, obwohl sie stark und gesund wirkt und wieder etwas Farbe bekommt. Van Helsing und ich sind nicht zufrieden. Wir sprechen oft über sie; wir haben jedoch kein Wort darüber mit den anderen gesprochen. Es würde das Herz von Harker brechen - bestimmt auch seine Nerven -, wenn er wüsste, dass wir auch nur einen Verdacht in dieser Angelegenheit haben. Van Helsing untersucht, wie er mir mitteilt, ihre Zähne sehr sorgfältig, während sie in tranceartigem Zustand ist, denn solange sie nicht anfangen, sich zu spitzen, besteht keine aktive Gefahr einer Veränderung bei ihr. Wenn diese Veränderung eintreten sollte, müssten wir Maßnahmen ergreifen!... Wir wissen beide, welche Maßnahmen ergriffen werden müssten, obwohl wir einander unsere Gedanken nicht mitteilen. Wir dürften beide nicht davor zurückschrecken, auch wenn es schrecklich wäre, darüber nachzudenken. "Euthanasie" ist ein ausgezeichneter und beruhigender Begriff! Ich bin demjenigen, der ihn erfunden hat, dankbar. Vom Dardanellen bis hierher sind es nur etwa 24 Stunden Segeln mit der Geschwindigkeit, mit der die Czarina Catherine von London gekommen ist. Sie sollte daher irgendwann am Morgen ankommen; aber da sie unmöglich vorher eintreffen kann, werden wir alle früh schlafen gehen. Wir werden um ein Uhr aufwachen, um bereit zu sein. _25. Oktober, Mittag._ - Es gibt immer noch keine Nachricht von der Ankunft des Schiffs. Minas hypnotischer Bericht heute Morgen war wie immer, also ist es möglich, dass wir jederzeit Nachrichten bekommen. Die Männer sind alle vor Aufregung ganz aus dem Häuschen, außer Harker, der ruhig ist; seine Hände sind eiskalt, und vor einer Stunde habe ich ihn dabei erwischt, wie er die Klinge des großen Ghoorka-Messers, das er jetzt immer bei sich trägt, wetzte. Für den Grafen wird es übel aussehen, wenn die Klinge dieses "Kukri" jemals seine Kehle berührt, getrieben von dieser strengen, eiskalten Hand! Van Helsing und ich waren heute etwas besorgt um Frau Harker. Gegen Mittag verfiel sie in eine Art Lethargie, die uns nicht gefiel. Obwohl wir es den anderen gegenüber verschwiegen haben, waren wir beide nicht zufrieden. Sie war den ganzen Morgen unruhig gewesen, so dass wir zuerst froh waren zu wissen, dass sie schlief. Als ihr Mann jedoch beiläufig erwähnte, dass sie so fest schlief, dass er sie nicht wecken konnte, gingen wir in ihr Zimmer, um selbst nachzusehen. Sie atmete normal und sah so gut und friedlich aus, dass wir übereinstimmten, dass der Schlaf ihr besser tat als alles andere. Armes Mädchen, sie hat so viel zu vergessen, dass es kein Wunder ist, dass Schlaf, wenn er ihr das Vergessen bringt, ihr gut tut. _Nachtrag._ - Unsere Meinung wurde bestätigt, denn als sie nach einigen Stunden des erfrischenden Schlafs aufwachte, schien sie aufgeweckter und besser zu sein als in den letzten Tagen. Bei Sonnenuntergang gab sie den üblichen hypnotischen Bericht ab. Wo immer er sich im Schwarzen Meer aufhält, eilt der Graf seinem Ziel entgegen. Zu seinem Verderben, hoffe ich! _26. Oktober._ - Ein weiterer Tag und keine Nachricht von der Czarina Catherine. Sie sollte jetzt hier sein. Dass sie immer noch irgendwohin unterwegs ist, wird deutlich, denn Minas hypnotischer Bericht bei Sonnenaufgang war immer noch der gleiche. Es ist möglich, dass das Schiff aufgrund von Nebel zeitweise in den Hafen liegt; einige der gestern Abend eingetroffenen Dampfer haben Nebelflecken sowohl im Norden als auch im Süden des Hafens gemeldet. Wir müssen weiterhin wachsam bleiben, da das Schiff jederzeit ankommen kann. _27. Oktober, Mittag._ - Sehr merkwürdig; immer noch keine Nachricht von dem Schiff, auf das wir warten. Mrs. Harkers hypnotischer Bericht gestern Abend und heute Morgen war wie immer: "rauschende Wellen und fließendes Wasser", obwohl sie hinzufügte, dass "die Wellen sehr leise waren". Die Telegramme aus London waren die gleichen: "keine weiteren Berichte". Van Helsing ist schrecklich besorgt und hat mir gerade gesagt, dass er fürchtet, dass der Graf uns entkommt. Er fügte bedeutungsvoll hinzu:- "Ich mochte die Lethargie von Frau Mina nicht. Seelen und Erinnerungen können während der Trance merkwürdige Dinge tun." Ich wollte gerade mehr von ihm erfahren, aber Harker kam herein, und er hob warnend die Hand. Wir werden heute Abend bei Sonnenuntergang versuchen, sie in ihrem hypnotischen Zustand ausführlicher sprechen zu lassen. _28. Oktober._ - Telegramm. Rufus Smith, London, an Lord Godalming, pfleglich H. B. M. Vizekonsul, Varna. "Czarina Catherine heute um ein Uhr in Galatz gemeldet." Dr. Sewards Tagebuch. _28 October._--When the telegram came announcing the arrival in Galatz I do not think it was such a shock to any of us as might have been expected. True, we did not know whence, or how, or when, the bolt would come; but I think we all expected that something strange would happen. The delay of arrival at Varna made us individually satisfied that things would not be just as we had expected; we only waited to learn where the change would occur. None the less, however, was it a surprise. I suppose that nature works on such a hopeful basis that we believe against ourselves that things will be as they ought to be, not as we should know that they will be. Transcendentalism is a beacon to the angels, even if it be a will-o'-the-wisp to man. It was an odd experience and we all took it differently. Van Helsing raised his hand over his head for a moment, as though in remonstrance with the Almighty; but he said not a word, and in a few seconds stood up with his face sternly set. Lord Godalming grew very pale, and sat breathing heavily. I was myself half stunned and looked in wonder at one after another. Quincey Morris tightened his belt with that quick movement which I knew so well; in our old wandering days it meant "action." Mrs. Harker grew ghastly white, so that the scar on her forehead seemed to burn, but she folded her hands meekly and looked up in prayer. Harker smiled--actually smiled--the dark, bitter smile of one who is without hope; but at the same time his action belied his words, for his hands instinctively sought the hilt of the great Kukri knife and rested there. "When does the next train start for Galatz?" said Van Helsing to us generally. "At 6:30 to-morrow morning!" We all started, for the answer came from Mrs. Harker. "How on earth do you know?" said Art. "You forget--or perhaps you do not know, though Jonathan does and so does Dr. Van Helsing--that I am the train fiend. At home in Exeter I always used to make up the time-tables, so as to be helpful to my husband. I found it so useful sometimes, that I always make a study of the time-tables now. I knew that if anything were to take us to Castle Dracula we should go by Galatz, or at any rate through Bucharest, so I learned the times very carefully. Unhappily there are not many to learn, as the only train to-morrow leaves as I say." "Wonderful woman!" murmured the Professor. "Can't we get a special?" asked Lord Godalming. Van Helsing shook his head: "I fear not. This land is very different from yours or mine; even if we did have a special, it would probably not arrive as soon as our regular train. Moreover, we have something to prepare. We must think. Now let us organize. You, friend Arthur, go to the train and get the tickets and arrange that all be ready for us to go in the morning. Do you, friend Jonathan, go to the agent of the ship and get from him letters to the agent in Galatz, with authority to make search the ship just as it was here. Morris Quincey, you see the Vice-Consul, and get his aid with his fellow in Galatz and all he can do to make our way smooth, so that no times be lost when over the Danube. John will stay with Madam Mina and me, and we shall consult. For so if time be long you may be delayed; and it will not matter when the sun set, since I am here with Madam to make report." "And I," said Mrs. Harker brightly, and more like her old self than she had been for many a long day, "shall try to be of use in all ways, and shall think and write for you as I used to do. Something is shifting from me in some strange way, and I feel freer than I have been of late!" The three younger men looked happier at the moment as they seemed to realise the significance of her words; but Van Helsing and I, turning to each other, met each a grave and troubled glance. We said nothing at the time, however. When the three men had gone out to their tasks Van Helsing asked Mrs. Harker to look up the copy of the diaries and find him the part of Harker's journal at the Castle. She went away to get it; when the door was shut upon her he said to me:-- "We mean the same! speak out!" "There is some change. It is a hope that makes me sick, for it may deceive us." "Quite so. Do you know why I asked her to get the manuscript?" "No!" said I, "unless it was to get an opportunity of seeing me alone." "You are in part right, friend John, but only in part. I want to tell you something. And oh, my friend, I am taking a great--a terrible--risk; but I believe it is right. In the moment when Madam Mina said those words that arrest both our understanding, an inspiration came to me. In the trance of three days ago the Count sent her his spirit to read her mind; or more like he took her to see him in his earth-box in the ship with water rushing, just as it go free at rise and set of sun. He learn then that we are here; for she have more to tell in her open life with eyes to see and ears to hear than he, shut, as he is, in his coffin-box. Now he make his most effort to escape us. At present he want her not. "He is sure with his so great knowledge that she will come at his call; but he cut her off--take her, as he can do, out of his own power, that so she come not to him. Ah! there I have hope that our man-brains that have been of man so long and that have not lost the grace of God, will come higher than his child-brain that lie in his tomb for centuries, that grow not yet to our stature, and that do only work selfish and therefore small. Here comes Madam Mina; not a word to her of her trance! She know it not; and it would overwhelm her and make despair just when we want all her hope, all her courage; when most we want all her great brain which is trained like man's brain, but is of sweet woman and have a special power which the Count give her, and which he may not take away altogether--though he think not so. Hush! let me speak, and you shall learn. Oh, John, my friend, we are in awful straits. I fear, as I never feared before. We can only trust the good God. Silence! here she comes!" I thought that the Professor was going to break down and have hysterics, just as he had when Lucy died, but with a great effort he controlled himself and was at perfect nervous poise when Mrs. Harker tripped into the room, bright and happy-looking and, in the doing of work, seemingly forgetful of her misery. As she came in, she handed a number of sheets of typewriting to Van Helsing. He looked over them gravely, his face brightening up as he read. Then holding the pages between his finger and thumb he said:-- "Friend John, to you with so much of experience already--and you, too, dear Madam Mina, that are young--here is a lesson: do not fear ever to think. A half-thought has been buzzing often in my brain, but I fear to let him loose his wings. Here now, with more knowledge, I go back to where that half-thought come from and I find that he be no half-thought at all; that be a whole thought, though so young that he is not yet strong to use his little wings. Nay, like the "Ugly Duck" of my friend Hans Andersen, he be no duck-thought at all, but a big swan-thought that sail nobly on big wings, when the time come for him to try them. See I read here what Jonathan have written:-- "That other of his race who, in a later age, again and again, brought his forces over The Great River into Turkey Land; who, when he was beaten back, came again, and again, and again, though he had to come alone from the bloody field where his troops were being slaughtered, since he knew that he alone could ultimately triumph." Was sagt uns das? Nicht viel? Nein! Die Gedanken des Grafen sehen nichts; deshalb spricht er so frei. Deine Gedanken sehen nichts; meine Gedanken sehen nichts, bis gerade jetzt. Nein! Aber es kommt ein anderes Wort von jemandem, der ohne Gedanken spricht, weil sie auch nicht weiß, was es bedeutet - was es bedeuten könnte. Genau wie es Elemente gibt, die ruhen, aber wenn sie sich in natürlicher Weise bewegen und sich berühren - dann bam! und es kommt ein Blitzlicht, der den Himmel erhellt, den einige blenden und töten und zerstören mag, aber der alle Erde unterhalb für Meilen und Meilen deutlich zeigt. Ist das nicht so? Nun, ich werde es erklären. Hast du jemals die Philosophie des Verbrechens studiert? Ja und nein. Du, John, ja; denn es ist eine Studie des Wahnsinns. Du, nein, Frau Mina; denn das Verbrechen berührt dich nicht - nicht mehr als einmal. Trotzdem funktioniert dein Verstand richtig und argumentiert nicht _a particulari ad universale_. Es gibt diese Besonderheit bei Kriminellen. Es ist so konstant, in allen Ländern und zu allen Zeiten, dass auch die Polizei, die nicht viel von Philosophie versteht, es empirisch herausfindet, dass es so ist, wie es ist. Das ist empisches Wissen. Der Verbrecher begeht immer dasselbe Verbrechen - das ist der wahre Verbrecher, der anscheinend zum Verbrechen vorherbestimmt ist und kein anderes begehen will. Dieser Verbrecher hat kein vollständig ausgereiftes Gehirn eines Erwachsenen. Er ist klug, raffiniert und findig; aber sein Gehirn ist größtenteils kindlich. Nun, auch unser Verbrecher ist zum Verbrechen vorherbestimmt; er hat ebenfalls ein kindliches Gehirn und es ist kindlich, dass er getan hat, was er getan hat. Der kleine Vogel, der kleine Fisch, das kleine Tier lernen nicht nach Prinzipien, sondern empirisch; und wenn sie gelernt haben, was zu tun ist, haben sie eine Grundlage, um mehr zu tun. '_Dos pou sto_' hat Archimedes gesagt. 'Gib mir einen Hebel, und ich werde die Welt bewegen!' Einmal etwas tun, ist der Hebel, durch den ein kindliches Gehirn zu einem erwachsenen Gehirn wird; und bis er den Vorsatz hat, mehr zu tun, wird er jedes Mal dasselbe tun, was er zuvor getan hat! Oh, meine Liebe, ich sehe, dass deine Augen offen sind und dass der Blitz dir alle Meilen zeigt", denn Frau Harker begann zu klatschen und ihre Augen funkelten. Er fuhr fort: "Nun, du solltest sprechen. Sage uns zwei trocken und wissenschaftlich denkenden Männern, was du mit diesen so leuchtenden Augen siehst." Er nahm ihre Hand und hielt sie fest, während sie sprach. Sein Finger und Daumen umschlossen ihren Puls, wie ich instinktiv und unbewusst dachte, als sie sprach: "Der Graf ist ein Verbrecher und von krimineller Art. Nordau und Lombroso würden ihn so klassifizieren und _qua_ Verbrecher hat er einen unvollkommen geformten Verstand. Daher muss er in einer Schwierigkeit Zuflucht in Gewohnheiten suchen. Seine Vergangenheit ist ein Hinweis, und die einzige Seite, die wir kennen - und das aus seinem eigenen Mund - erzählt, dass er früher, als er in dem, was Herr Morris eine 'schwierige Situation' nennen würde, zurückging in sein eigenes Land von dem Land, das er zu überfallen versuchte, und von dort aus, ohne den Zweck zu verlieren, sich auf einen neuen Versuch vorzubereiten. Er kam erneut besser ausgerüstet für seine Arbeit und gewann. Also kam er nach London, um ein neues Land zu überfallen. Er wurde geschlagen, und als alle Hoffnung auf Erfolg verloren war und sein Leben in Gefahr war, floh er über das Meer in seine Heimat zurück; genauso wie er sich früher über die Donau aus der Türkei zurückgezogen hatte." "Gut, gut! Oh, du so kluge Dame!" sagte Van Helsing begeistert, als er sich niederbeugte und ihre Hand küsste. Einen Moment später sagte er zu mir, so ruhig, als hätten wir eine Konsultation im Krankenzimmer gehabt: "Nur zweiundsiebzig; und das alles in dieser Aufregung. Ich habe Hoffnung." Wieder wandte er sich ihr zu, mit großer Erwartung: "Aber weiter. Geht weiter! Es gibt noch mehr zu erzählen, wenn ihr wollt. Fürchtet euch nicht; John und ich wissen Bescheid. Ich weiß es sowieso und werde es euch sagen, wenn ihr recht habt. Sprecht, ohne Furcht!" "Ich werde es versuchen; aber verzeiht mir, wenn ich egoistisch erscheine." "Nichts zu befürchten, du musst egoistisch sein, denn es ist von dir, dass wir denken." "Dann ist er als Verbrecher egoistisch; und da sein Verstand klein ist und sein Handeln auf Egoismus beruht, beschränkt er sich auf ein Ziel. Dieses Ziel ist rücksichtslos. Als er über die Donau zurückfloh, seine Einheiten dem Tode überlassen, ist er jetzt darauf bedacht, sicher zu sein, ohne Rücksicht auf alles. So befreit mich sein eigener Egoismus ein Stück weit von der schrecklichen Macht, die er über mich an jenem schrecklichen Abend erlangt hat. Ich habe es gespürt! Oh, ich habe es gespürt! Gott sei Dank, für seine große Barmherzigkeit! Meine Seele ist freier als seit jener schrecklichen Stunde; und alles, was mich verfolgt, ist die Angst, dass er in einer Trance oder einem Traum mein Wissen für seine Zwecke genutzt haben könnte." Der Professor stand auf: "Er hat deinen Verstand genutzt; und dadurch hat er uns hier in Varna gelassen, während das Schiff, das ihn trug, durch einen einhüllenden Nebel bis nach Galatz fuhr, wo er sich zweifellos auf die Flucht vorbereitet hatte. Aber sein kindlicher Verstand hat nur bis dahin gesehen; und es mag sein, dass, wie es immer in Gottes Vorsehung ist, das Ding, worauf sich der Übeltäter am meisten für seinen egoistischen Nutzen verlässt, sich als sein größter Schaden erweist. Der Jäger wird in sein eigenes Netz gefangen, wie der große Psalmist sagt. Denn jetzt, da er denkt, er sei von jeder Spur von uns befreit und dass er mit so vielen Stunden Vorsprung vor uns entkommen ist, wird ihm sein egoistisches Kindergehirn zuflüstern, dass er schlafen soll. Er denkt auch, dass er, indem er sich von deinem Wissen abgeschnitten hat, nichts über ihn wissen kann; genau dort irrt er! Diese schreckliche Bluttaufe, die er dir gegeben hat, ermöglicht es dir, ihn in Geist und Seele aufzusuchen, wie du es noch in deinen Zeiten der Freiheit getan hast, wenn die Sonne auf- und untergeht. Zu solchen Zeiten gehst du nach meinem Willen und nicht nach seinem; und diese Macht zu Gutes, die du und andere durch dein Leiden von ihm gewonnen hast, ist nun umso kostbarer, da er es nicht weiß und sich sogar von der Kenntnis unserer Aufenthaltsorte abgeschnitten hat. Wir hingegen sind nicht egoistisch, und wir glauben, dass Gott bei uns ist - in all dieser Dunkelheit und all diesen dunklen Stunden. Wir werden ihm folgen und nicht zurückschrecken, selbst wenn wir uns damit in Gefahr bringen, ihm ähnlich zu werden. Freund John, das war eine großartige Stunde und es hat uns auf unserem Weg weit vorangebracht. Du musst Schreiber sein und alles aufschreiben, damit du es ihnen geben kannst, wenn die anderen von ihrer Arbeit zurückkehren; dann sollen sie wissen, was wir wissen." Und so habe ich es aufgeschrieben, während wir auf ihre Rückkehr warten, und Frau Harker hat alles seitdem sie uns das Manuskript gebracht hat, mit ihrer Schreibmaschine geschrieben. Kannst du eine geeignete Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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Van Helsing denkt, dass Jonathan Harker bei seiner Frau in England bleiben sollte, da er nun weiß, dass Dracula nach Transsilvanien zurückkehrt. Jonathan Harker beschreibt in seinem Tagebuch, wie glücklich Mina darüber ist, dass Dracula nach Transsilvanien zurückkehrt, aber als Harker das schreckliche Mal auf Minas Stirn sieht, erinnert er sich an die Realität des Vampirs. In ihrem Tagebuch nimmt Mina Harker die verschiedenen Berichte über Draculas Abreise auf. Bei den Untersuchungen wurde festgestellt, dass Dracula an Bord eines Schiffes gegangen ist, das in Richtung Varna fuhr, einem Hafen am Schwarzen Meer, in der Nähe der Mündung des Flusses Donau, demselben Ort, von dem er vor drei Monaten abgereist war. Offensichtlich hat Van Helsing den Grund dafür erkannt, warum Dracula nach England kam: Draculas Heimatland ist so "menschleer", dass er nach England kam, einem Ort, an dem das Leben reich und blühend ist; er kehrt nun in seine Heimat zurück, um der Entdeckung zu entgehen. Seward erinnert sich an seine Angst um Mina Harker und Van Helsing bestätigt bald seine Ansichten: Mina verändert sich. Vampireigenschaften zeigen sich in ihrem Gesicht - ihre Zähne werden länger und ihre Augen kälter. Er befürchtet nun, dass der Graf durch Hypnose selbst über große Entfernungen ihre Pläne entdecken könnte, daher müssen sie Mina über ihre Pläne im Unklaren lassen, damit der Graf durch sie nicht ihren Aufenthaltsort entdecken kann. Sie bestimmen, wie lange das Schiff brauchen wird, um Varna auf dem Seeweg zu erreichen, und setzen ein Datum für ihre eigene Abreise fest, damit sie in Varna ankommen, bevor Graf Dracula eintrifft. Dann überrascht sie Mina, indem sie ihnen mitteilt, dass sie sie auf der Reise begleiten sollte, da sie durch Hypnose den Aufenthaltsort und die Absichten von Graf Dracula herausfinden können. Alle stimmen ihr zu, also ist es beschlossen: Mina wird sie begleiten. Kapitel 25 beginnt mit Dr. Sewards Tagebuch, das am Abend des 11. Oktober geschrieben wurde. Während Mina Harker froh darüber ist, dass sie mitgenommen wird, lässt sie sich versprechen, dass sie getötet wird, wenn sie jemals so vollkommen in eine Vampirgestalt verwandelt ist, dass sie nicht gerettet werden kann. Alle schwören es, und Seward ist froh, dass das Wort "Euthanasie" existiert, weil es die Natur ihres Wunsches euphemistisch verschleiert. Mina stellt eine scheinbar ungewöhnliche Bitte - für den Fall, dass sie getötet werden muss, würde sie gerne noch in dieser Nacht die "Beerdigungszeremonie" hören. Vier Tage später, am 15. Oktober, kommen die sechs Personen mit dem Orient-Express in Varna an, und als sie ankommen, versetzen sie Mina in Hypnose, während der sie berichtet, dass sie immer noch das Plätschern von Wasser gegen das Schiff spürt. Van Helsing drückt seinen Wunsch aus, dass sie das Schiff besteigen, sobald es in Varna ankommt. Wenn sie das Schiff betreten können, bevor Draculas Sarg entfernt wird, haben sie ihn in der Falle, denn eine der Einschränkungen von Vampiren ist, dass sie keine fließenden Gewässer überqueren können. Am 17. stellt Jonathan in seinem Tagebuch fest, dass Van Helsing für die Gruppe den Zutritt zum Schiff gesichert hat, sobald es ankommt, damit sie die Vernichtung des Vampirs leichter durchführen können. Eine Woche später erhalten sie ein Telegramm aus London, das meldet, dass das Schiff bei den Dardanellen gesichtet wurde. Dr. Seward geht daher davon aus, dass es am nächsten Tag ankommen wird. Während sie warten, machen sich Dr. Seward and Van Helsing Sorgen um Minas Lethargie und ihren allgemeinen Zustand der Schwäche. Sie warten zwei Tage, aber das Schiff kommt nicht an. Am 28. Oktober erhalten sie ein Telegramm, das meldet, dass das Schiff im Hafen von Galatz, einer Stadt an der Küste in der Nähe von Varna, angekommen ist. Van Helsing bietet eine Theorie an, dass der Graf Mina, als sie schwach war, ihren Geist zu sich gezogen hat; jetzt weiß der Graf von ihrer Anwesenheit, sowie von ihren Bemühungen, ihn zu fangen und zu vernichten. Gegenwärtig fühlt sich Mina jedoch frei und gesund, und sie und Van Helsing nutzen ihr Wissen über Kriminologie, um festzustellen, dass der Graf ein "Verbrechertyp" ist - daher wird er sich wie ein Krimineller verhalten, und daher wird sein Hauptzweck darin bestehen, seinen Verfolgern zu entkommen.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). 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: STAVE ONE MARLEY'S GHOST Marley was dead, to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that. The register of his burial was signed by the clergyman, the clerk, the undertaker, and the chief mourner. Scrooge signed it. And Scrooge's name was good upon 'Change for anything he chose to put his hand to. Old Marley was as dead as a door-nail. Mind! I don't mean to say that I know, of my own knowledge, what there is particularly dead about a door-nail. I might have been inclined, myself, to regard a coffin-nail as the deadest piece of ironmongery in the trade. But the wisdom of our ancestors is in the simile; and my unhallowed hands shall not disturb it, or the Country's done for. You will, therefore, permit me to repeat, emphatically, that Marley was as dead as a door-nail. Scrooge knew he was dead? Of course he did. How could it be otherwise? Scrooge and he were partners for I don't know how many years. Scrooge was his sole executor, his sole administrator, his sole assign, his sole residuary legatee, his sole friend, and sole mourner. And even Scrooge was not so dreadfully cut up by the sad event, but that he was an excellent man of business on the very day of the funeral, and solemnised it with an undoubted bargain. The mention of Marley's funeral brings me back to the point I started from. There is no doubt that Marley was dead. This must be distinctly understood, or nothing wonderful can come of the story I am going to relate. If we were not perfectly convinced that Hamlet's Father died before the play began, there would be nothing more remarkable in his taking a stroll at night, in an easterly wind, upon his own ramparts, than there would be in any other middle-aged gentleman rashly turning out after dark in a breezy spot--say St. Paul's Church-yard, for instance--literally to astonish his son's weak mind. Scrooge never painted out Old Marley's name. There it stood, years afterwards, above the warehouse door: Scrooge and Marley. The firm was known as Scrooge and Marley. Sometimes people new to the business called Scrooge Scrooge, and sometimes Marley, but he answered to both names. It was all the same to him. Oh! but he was a tight-fisted hand at the grindstone, Scrooge! a squeezing, wrenching, grasping, scraping, clutching, covetous, old sinner! Hard and sharp as flint, from which no steel had ever struck out generous fire; secret, and self-contained, and solitary as an oyster. The cold within him froze his old features, nipped his pointed nose, shrivelled his cheek, stiffened his gait; made his eyes red, his thin lips blue; and spoke out shrewdly in his grating voice. A frosty rime was on his head, and on his eyebrows, and his wiry chin. He carried his own low temperature always about with him; he iced his office in the dog-days; and didn't thaw it one degree at Christmas. External heat and cold had little influence on Scrooge. No warmth could warm, no wintry weather chill him. No wind that blew was bitterer than he, no falling snow was more intent upon its purpose, no pelting rain less open to entreaty. Foul weather didn't know where to have him. The heaviest rain, and snow, and hail, and sleet could boast of the advantage over him in only one respect. They often "came down" handsomely and Scrooge never did. Nobody ever stopped him in the street to say, with gladsome looks, "My dear Scrooge, how are you? When will you come to see me?" No beggars implored him to bestow a trifle, no children asked him what it was o'clock, no man or woman ever once in all his life inquired the way to such and such a place, of Scrooge. Even the blind men's dogs appeared to know him; and, when they saw him coming on, would tug their owners into doorways and up courts; and then would wag their tails as though they said, "No eye at all is better than an evil eye, dark master!" But what did Scrooge care? It was the very thing he liked. To edge his way along the crowded paths of life, warning all human sympathy to keep its distance, was what the knowing ones call "nuts" to Scrooge. Once upon a time--of all the good days in the year, on Christmas Eve--old Scrooge sat busy in his counting-house. It was cold, bleak, biting weather: foggy withal: and he could hear the people in the court outside go wheezing up and down, beating their hands upon their breasts, and stamping their feet upon the pavement stones to warm them. The City clocks had only just gone three, but it was quite dark already--it had not been light all day--and candles were flaring in the windows of the neighbouring offices, like ruddy smears upon the palpable brown air. The fog came pouring in at every chink and keyhole, and was so dense without, that, although the court was of the narrowest, the houses opposite were mere phantoms. To see the dingy cloud come drooping down, obscuring everything, one might have thought that nature lived hard by and was brewing on a large scale. The door of Scrooge's counting-house was open, that he might keep his eye upon his clerk, who in a dismal little cell beyond, a sort of tank, was copying letters. Scrooge had a very small fire, but the clerk's fire was so very much smaller that it looked like one coal. But he couldn't replenish it, for Scrooge kept the coal-box in his own room; and so surely as the clerk came in with the shovel, the master predicted that it would be necessary for them to part. Wherefore the clerk put on his white comforter, and tried to warm himself at the candle; in which effort, not being a man of strong imagination, he failed. "A merry Christmas, uncle! God save you!" cried a cheerful voice. It was the voice of Scrooge's nephew, who came upon him so quickly that this was the first intimation he had of his approach. "Bah!" said Scrooge. "Humbug!" He had so heated himself with rapid walking in the fog and frost, this nephew of Scrooge's, that he was all in a glow; his face was ruddy and handsome; his eyes sparkled, and his breath smoked again. "Christmas a humbug, uncle!" said Scrooge's nephew. "You don't mean that, I am sure?" "I do," said Scrooge. "Merry Christmas! What right have you to be merry? What reason have you to be merry? You're poor enough." "Come, then," returned the nephew gaily. "What right have you to be dismal? What reason have you to be morose? You're rich enough." Scrooge, having no better answer ready on the spur of the moment, said, "Bah!" again; and followed it up with "Humbug!" "Don't be cross, uncle!" said the nephew. [Illustration: _"A Merry Christmas, uncle! God save you!" cried a cheerful voice._] "What else can I be," returned the uncle, "when I live in such a world of fools as this? Merry Christmas! Out upon merry Christmas! What's Christmas-time to you but a time for paying bills without money; a time for finding yourself a year older, and not an hour richer; a time for balancing your books, and having every item in 'em through a round dozen of months presented dead against you? If I could work my will," said Scrooge indignantly, "every idiot who goes about with 'Merry Christmas' on his lips should be boiled with his own pudding, and buried with a stake of holly through his heart. He should!" "Uncle!" pleaded the nephew. "Nephew!" returned the uncle sternly, "keep Christmas in your own way, and let me keep it in mine." "Keep it!" repeated Scrooge's nephew. "But you don't keep it." "Let me leave it alone, then," said Scrooge. "Much good may it do you! Much good it has ever done you!" "There are many things from which I might have derived good, by which I have not profited, I dare say," returned the nephew; "Christmas among the rest. But I am sure I have always thought of Christmas-time, when it has come round--apart from the veneration due to its sacred name and origin, if anything belonging to it can be apart from that--as a good time; a kind, forgiving, charitable, pleasant time; the only time I know of, in the long calendar of the year, when men and women seem by one consent to open their shut-up hearts freely, and to think of people below them as if they really were fellow-passengers to the grave, and not another race of creatures bound on other journeys. And therefore, uncle, though it has never put a scrap of gold or silver in my pocket, I believe that it _has_ done me good, and _will_ do me good; and I say, God bless it!" The clerk in the tank involuntarily applauded. Becoming immediately sensible of the impropriety, he poked the fire, and extinguished the last frail spark for ever. "Let me hear another sound from _you_," said Scrooge, "and you'll keep your Christmas by losing your situation! You're quite a powerful speaker, sir," he added, turning to his nephew. "I wonder you don't go into Parliament." "Don't be angry, uncle. Come! Dine with us to-morrow." Scrooge said that he would see him----Yes, indeed he did. He went the whole length of the expression, and said that he would see him in that extremity first. "But why?" cried Scrooge's nephew. "Why?" "Why did you get married?" said Scrooge. "Because I fell in love." "Because you fell in love!" growled Scrooge, as if that were the only one thing in the world more ridiculous than a merry Christmas. "Good afternoon!" "Nay, uncle, but you never came to see me before that happened. Why give it as a reason for not coming now?" "Good afternoon," said Scrooge. "I want nothing from you; I ask nothing of you; why cannot we be friends?" "Good afternoon!" said Scrooge. "I am sorry, with all my heart, to find you so resolute. We have never had any quarrel to which I have been a party. But I have made the trial in homage to Christmas, and I'll keep my Christmas humour to the last. So A Merry Christmas, uncle!" "Good afternoon," said Scrooge. "And A Happy New Year!" "Good afternoon!" said Scrooge. His nephew left the room without an angry word, notwithstanding. He stopped at the outer door to bestow the greetings of the season on the clerk, who, cold as he was, was warmer than Scrooge; for he returned them cordially. "There's another fellow," muttered Scrooge, who overheard him: "my clerk, with fifteen shillings a week, and a wife and family, talking about a merry Christmas. I'll retire to Bedlam." This lunatic, in letting Scrooge's nephew out, had let two other people in. They were portly gentlemen, pleasant to behold, and now stood, with their hats off, in Scrooge's office. They had books and papers in their hands, and bowed to him. "Scrooge and Marley's, I believe," said one of the gentlemen, referring to his list. "Have I the pleasure of addressing Mr. Scrooge, or Mr. Marley?" "Mr. Marley has been dead these seven years," Scrooge replied. "He died seven years ago, this very night." "We have no doubt his liberality is well represented by his surviving partner," said the gentleman, presenting his credentials. It certainly was; for they had been two kindred spirits. At the ominous word "liberality" Scrooge frowned, and shook his head, and handed the credentials back. "At this festive season of the year, Mr. Scrooge," said the gentleman, taking up a pen, "it is more than usually desirable that we should make some slight provision for the poor and destitute, who suffer greatly at the present time. Many thousands are in want of common necessaries; hundreds of thousands are in want of common comforts, sir." "Are there no prisons?" asked Scrooge. "Plenty of prisons," said the gentleman, laying down the pen again. "And the Union workhouses?" demanded Scrooge. "Are they still in operation?" "They are. Still," returned the gentleman, "I wish I could say they were not." "The Treadmill and the Poor Law are in full vigour, then?" said Scrooge. "Both very busy, sir." "Oh! I was afraid, from what you said at first, that something had occurred to stop them in their useful course," said Scrooge. "I am very glad to hear it." "Under the impression that they scarcely furnish Christian cheer of mind or body to the multitude," returned the gentleman, "a few of us are endeavouring to raise a fund to buy the Poor some meat and drink, and means of warmth. We choose this time, because it is a time, of all others, when Want is keenly felt, and Abundance rejoices. What shall I put you down for?" "Nothing!" Scrooge replied. "You wish to be anonymous?" "I wish to be left alone," said Scrooge. "Since you ask me what I wish, gentlemen, that is my answer. I don't make merry myself at Christmas, and I can't afford to make idle people merry. I help to support the establishments I have mentioned--they cost enough; and those who are badly off must go there." "Many can't go there; and many would rather die." "If they would rather die," said Scrooge, "they had better do it, and decrease the surplus population. Besides--excuse me--I don't know that." "But you might know it," observed the gentleman. "It's not my business," Scrooge returned. "It's enough for a man to understand his own business, and not to interfere with other people's. Mine occupies me constantly. Good afternoon, gentlemen!" Seeing clearly that it would be useless to pursue their point, the gentlemen withdrew. Scrooge resumed his labours with an improved opinion of himself, and in a more facetious temper than was usual with him. Meanwhile the fog and darkness thickened so, that people ran about with flaring links, proffering their services to go before horses in carriages, and conduct them on their way. The ancient tower of a church, whose gruff old bell was always peeping slily down at Scrooge out of a Gothic window in the wall, became invisible, and struck the hours and quarters in the clouds, with tremulous vibrations afterwards, as if its teeth were chattering in its frozen head up there. The cold became intense. In the main street, at the corner of the court, some labourers were repairing the gas-pipes, and had lighted a great fire in a brazier, round which a party of ragged men and boys were gathered: warming their hands and winking their eyes before the blaze in rapture. The water-plug being left in solitude, its overflowings suddenly congealed, and turned to misanthropic ice. The brightness of the shops, where holly sprigs and berries crackled in the lamp heat of the windows, made pale faces ruddy as they passed. Poulterers' and grocers' trades became a splendid joke: a glorious pageant, with which it was next to impossible to believe that such dull principles as bargain and sale had anything to do. The Lord Mayor, in the stronghold of the mighty Mansion House, gave orders to his fifty cooks and butlers to keep Christmas as a Lord Mayor's household should; and even the little tailor, whom he had fined five shillings on the previous Monday for being drunk and blood-thirsty in the streets, stirred up to-morrow's pudding in his garret, while his lean wife and the baby sallied out to buy the beef. Foggier yet, and colder! Piercing, searching, biting cold. If the good St. Dunstan had but nipped the Evil Spirit's nose with a touch of such weather as that, instead of using his familiar weapons, then indeed he would have roared to lusty purpose. The owner of one scant young nose, gnawed and mumbled by the hungry cold as bones are gnawed by dogs, stooped down at Scrooge's keyhole to regale him with a Christmas carol; but, at the first sound of "God bless you, merry gentleman, May nothing you dismay!" Scrooge seized the ruler with such energy of action, that the singer fled in terror, leaving the keyhole to the fog, and even more congenial frost. At length the hour of shutting up the counting-house arrived. With an ill-will Scrooge dismounted from his stool, and tacitly admitted the fact to the expectant clerk in the tank, who instantly snuffed his candle out, and put on his hat. "You'll want all day to-morrow, I suppose?" said Scrooge. "If quite convenient, sir." "It's not convenient," said Scrooge, "and it's not fair. If I was to stop half-a-crown for it, you'd think yourself ill used, I'll be bound?" The clerk smiled faintly. "And yet," said Scrooge, "you don't think _me_ ill used when I pay a day's wages for no work." The clerk observed that it was only once a year. "A poor excuse for picking a man's pocket every twenty-fifth of December!" said Scrooge, buttoning his great-coat to the chin. "But I suppose you must have the whole day. Be here all the earlier next morning." The clerk promised that he would; and Scrooge walked out with a growl. The office was closed in a twinkling, and the clerk, with the long ends of his white comforter dangling below his waist (for he boasted no great-coat), went down a slide on Cornhill, at the end of a lane of boys, twenty times, in honour of its being Christmas-eve, and then ran home to Camden Town as hard as he could pelt, to play at blindman's buff. Scrooge took his melancholy dinner in his usual melancholy tavern; and having read all the newspapers, and beguiled the rest of the evening with his banker's book, went home to bed. He lived in chambers which had once belonged to his deceased partner. They were a gloomy suite of rooms, in a lowering pile of building up a yard, where it had so little business to be, that one could scarcely help fancying it must have run there when it was a young house, playing at hide-and-seek with other houses, and have forgotten the way out again. It was old enough now, and dreary enough; for nobody lived in it but Scrooge, the other rooms being all let out as offices. The yard was so dark that even Scrooge, who knew its every stone, was fain to grope with his hands. The fog and frost so hung about the black old gateway of the house, that it seemed as if the Genius of the Weather sat in mournful meditation on the threshold. Now, it is a fact that there was nothing at all particular about the knocker on the door, except that it was very large. It is also a fact that Scrooge had seen it, night and morning, during his whole residence in that place; also that Scrooge had as little of what is called fancy about him as any man in the City of London, even including--which is a bold word--the corporation, aldermen, and livery. Let it also be borne in mind that Scrooge had not bestowed one thought on Marley since his last mention of his seven-years'-dead partner that afternoon. And then let any man explain to me, if he can, how it happened that Scrooge, having his key in the lock of the door, saw in the knocker, without its undergoing any intermediate process of change--not a knocker, but Marley's face. Marley's face. It was not in impenetrable shadow, as the other objects in the yard were, but had a dismal light about it, like a bad lobster in a dark cellar. It was not angry or ferocious, but looked at Scrooge as Marley used to look: with ghostly spectacles turned up on its ghostly forehead. The hair was curiously stirred, as if by breath of hot air; and, though the eyes were wide open, they were perfectly motionless. That, and its livid colour, made it horrible; but its horror seemed to be in spite of the face, and beyond its control, rather than a part of its own expression. As Scrooge looked fixedly at this phenomenon, it was a knocker again. To say that he was not startled, or that his blood was not conscious of a terrible sensation to which it had been a stranger from infancy, would be untrue. But he put his hand upon the key he had relinquished, turned it sturdily, walked in, and lighted his candle. He _did_ pause, with a moment's irresolution, before he shut the door; and he _did_ look cautiously behind it first, as if he half expected to be terrified with the sight of Marley's pigtail sticking out into the hall. But there was nothing on the back of the door, except the screws and nuts that held the knocker on, so he said, "Pooh, pooh!" and closed it with a bang. The sound resounded through the house like thunder. Every room above, and every cask in the wine merchant's cellars below, appeared to have a separate peal of echoes of its own. Scrooge was not a man to be frightened by echoes. He fastened the door, and walked across the hall, and up the stairs: slowly, too: trimming his candle as he went. You may talk vaguely about driving a coach and six up a good old flight of stairs, or through a bad young Act of Parliament; but I mean to say you might have got a hearse up that staircase, and taken it broadwise, with the splinter-bar towards the wall, and the door towards the balustrades: and done it easy. There was plenty of width for that, and room to spare; which is perhaps the reason why Scrooge thought he saw a locomotive hearse going on before him in the gloom. Half-a-dozen gas-lamps out of the street wouldn't have lighted the entry too well, so you may suppose that it was pretty dark with Scrooge's dip. Up Scrooge went, not caring a button for that. Darkness is cheap, and Scrooge liked it. But, before he shut his heavy door, he walked through his rooms to see that all was right. He had just enough recollection of the face to desire to do that. Sitting-room, bedroom, lumber-room. All as they should be. Nobody under the table, nobody under the sofa; a small fire in the grate; spoon and basin ready; and the little saucepan of gruel (Scrooge had a cold in his head) upon the hob. Nobody under the bed; nobody in the closet; nobody in his dressing-gown, which was hanging up in a suspicious attitude against the wall. Lumber-room as usual. Old fire-guard, old shoes, two fish baskets, washing-stand on three legs, and a poker. Quite satisfied, he closed his door, and locked himself in; double locked himself in, which was not his custom. Thus secured against surprise, he took off his cravat; put on his dressing-gown and slippers, and his nightcap; and sat down before the fire to take his gruel. It was a very low fire indeed; nothing on such a bitter night. He was obliged to sit close to it, and brood over it, before he could extract the least sensation of warmth from such a handful of fuel. The fire-place was an old one, built by some Dutch merchant long ago, and paved all round with quaint Dutch tiles, designed to illustrate the Scriptures. There were Cains and Abels, Pharaoh's daughters, Queens of Sheba, Angelic messengers descending through the air on clouds like feather beds, Abrahams, Belshazzars, Apostles putting off to sea in butter-boats, hundreds of figures to attract his thoughts; and yet that face of Marley, seven years dead, came like the ancient Prophet's rod, and swallowed up the whole. If each smooth tile had been a blank at first, with power to shape some picture on its surface from the disjointed fragments of his thoughts, there would have been a copy of old Marley's head on every one. "Humbug!" said Scrooge; and walked across the room. After several turns he sat down again. As he threw his head back in the chair, his glance happened to rest upon a bell, a disused bell, that hung in the room, and communicated, for some purpose now forgotten, with a chamber in the highest story of the building. It was with great astonishment, and with a strange, inexplicable dread, that, as he looked, he saw this bell begin to swing. It swung so softly in the outset that it scarcely made a sound; but soon it rang out loudly, and so did every bell in the house. This might have lasted half a minute, or a minute, but it seemed an hour. The bells ceased, as they had begun, together. They were succeeded by a clanking noise, deep down below, as if some person were dragging a heavy chain over the casks in the wine merchant's cellar. Scrooge then remembered to have heard that ghosts in haunted houses were described as dragging chains. The cellar door flew open with a booming sound, and then he heard the noise much louder on the floors below; then coming up the stairs; then coming straight towards his door. "It's humbug still!" said Scrooge. "I won't believe it." His colour changed, though, when, without a pause, it came on through the heavy door, and passed into the room before his eyes. Upon its coming in, the dying flame leaped up, as though it cried, "I know him! Marley's Ghost!" and fell again. The same face: the very same. Marley in his pigtail, usual waistcoat, tights, and boots; the tassels on the latter bristling, like his pigtail, and his coat-skirts, and the hair upon his head. The chain he drew was clasped about his middle. It was long, and wound about him like a tail; and it was made (for Scrooge observed it closely) of cash-boxes, keys, padlocks, ledgers, deeds, and heavy purses wrought in steel. His body was transparent; so that Scrooge, observing him, and looking through his waistcoat, could see the two buttons on his coat behind. Scrooge had often heard it said that Marley had no bowels, but he had never believed it until now. No, nor did he believe it even now. Though he looked the phantom through and through, and saw it standing before him; though he felt the chilling influence of its death-cold eyes; and marked the very texture of the folded kerchief bound about its head and chin, which wrapper he had not observed before; he was still incredulous, and fought against his senses. "How now!" said Scrooge, caustic and cold as ever. "What do you want with me?" "Much!"--Marley's voice, no doubt about it. "Who are you?" "Ask me who I _was_." "Who _were_ you, then?" said Scrooge, raising his voice. "You're particular, for a shade." He was going to say "_to_ a shade," but substituted this, as more appropriate. "In life I was your partner, Jacob Marley." "Can you--can you sit down?" asked Scrooge, looking doubtfully at him. "I can." "Do it, then." Scrooge asked the question, because he didn't know whether a ghost so transparent might find himself in a condition to take a chair; and felt that, in the event of its being impossible, it might involve the necessity of an embarrassing explanation. But the Ghost sat down on the opposite side of the fire-place, as if he were quite used to it. "You don't believe in me," observed the Ghost. "I don't," said Scrooge. "What evidence would you have of my reality beyond that of your own senses?" "I don't know," said Scrooge. "Why do you doubt your senses?" "Because," said Scrooge, "a little thing affects them. A slight disorder of the stomach makes them cheats. You may be an undigested bit of beef, a blot of mustard, a crumb of cheese, a fragment of an underdone potato. There's more of gravy than of grave about you, whatever you are!" Scrooge was not much in the habit of cracking jokes, nor did he feel in his heart by any means waggish then. The truth is, that he tried to be smart, as a means of distracting his own attention, and keeping down his terror; for the spectre's voice disturbed the very marrow in his bones. To sit staring at those fixed glazed eyes in silence, for a moment, would play, Scrooge felt, the very deuce with him. There was something very awful, too, in the spectre's being provided with an infernal atmosphere of his own. Scrooge could not feel it himself, but this was clearly the case; for though the Ghost sat perfectly motionless, its hair, and skirts, and tassels were still agitated as by the hot vapour from an oven. "You see this toothpick?" said Scrooge, returning quickly to the charge, for the reason just assigned; and wishing, though it were only for a second, to divert the vision's stony gaze from himself. "I do," replied the Ghost. "You are not looking at it," said Scrooge. "But I see it," said the Ghost, "notwithstanding." "Well!" returned Scrooge, "I have but to swallow this, and be for the rest of my days persecuted by a legion of goblins, all of my own creation. Humbug, I tell you; humbug!" At this the spirit raised a frightful cry, and shook its chain with such a dismal and appalling noise, that Scrooge held on tight to his chair, to save himself from falling in a swoon. But how much greater was his horror when the phantom, taking off the bandage round his head, as if it were too warm to wear indoors, its lower jaw dropped down upon its breast! Scrooge fell upon his knees, and clasped his hands before his face. "Mercy!" he said. "Dreadful apparition, why do you trouble me?" "Man of the worldly mind!" replied the Ghost, "do you believe in me or not?" "I do," said Scrooge. "I must. But why do spirits walk the earth, and why do they come to me?" [Illustration: _To sit staring at those fixed glazed eyes in silence, for a moment, would play, Scrooge felt, the very deuce with him._] "It is required of every man," the Ghost returned, "that the spirit within him should walk abroad among his fellow-men, and travel far and wide; and, if that spirit goes not forth in life, it is condemned to do so after death. It is doomed to wander through the world--oh, woe is me!--and witness what it cannot share, but might have shared on earth, and turned to happiness!" Again the spectre raised a cry, and shook its chain and wrung its shadowy hands. "You are fettered," said Scrooge, trembling. "Tell me why?" "I wear the chain I forged in life," replied the Ghost. "I made it link by link, and yard by yard; I girded it on of my own free-will, and of my own free-will I wore it. Is its pattern strange to _you_?" Scrooge trembled more and more. "Or would you know," pursued the Ghost, "the weight and length of the strong coil you bear yourself? It was full as heavy and as long as this, seven Christmas-eves ago. You have laboured on it since. It is a ponderous chain!" Scrooge glanced about him on the floor, in the expectation of finding himself surrounded by some fifty or sixty fathoms of iron cable, but he could see nothing. "Jacob!" he said imploringly. "Old Jacob Marley, tell me more! Speak comfort to me, Jacob!" "I have none to give," the Ghost replied. "It comes from other regions, Ebenezer Scrooge, and is conveyed by other ministers, to other kinds of men. Nor can I tell you what I would. A very little more is all permitted to me. I cannot rest, I cannot stay, I cannot linger anywhere. My spirit never walked beyond our counting-house--mark me;--in life my spirit never roved beyond the narrow limits of our money-changing hole; and weary journeys lie before me!" It was a habit with Scrooge, whenever he became thoughtful, to put his hands in his breeches pockets. Pondering on what the Ghost had said, he did so now, but without lifting up his eyes, or getting off his knees. "You must have been very slow about it, Jacob," Scrooge observed in a business-like manner, though with humility and deference. "Slow!" the Ghost repeated. "Seven years dead," mused Scrooge. "And travelling all the time?" "The whole time," said the Ghost. "No rest, no peace. Incessant torture of remorse." "You travel fast?" said Scrooge. "On the wings of the wind," replied the Ghost. "You might have got over a great quantity of ground in seven years," said Scrooge. The Ghost, on hearing this, set up another cry, and clanked its chain so hideously in the dead silence of the night, that the Ward would have been justified in indicting it for a nuisance. "Oh! captive, bound, and double-ironed," cried the phantom, "not to know that ages of incessant labour, by immortal creatures, for this earth must pass into eternity before the good of which it is susceptible is all developed! Not to know that any Christian spirit working kindly in its little sphere, whatever it may be, will find its mortal life too short for its vast means of usefulness! Not to know that no space of regret can make amends for one life's opportunities misused! Yet such was I! Oh, such was I!" "But you were always a good man of business, Jacob," faltered Scrooge, who now began to apply this to himself. "Business!" cried the Ghost, wringing its hands again. "Mankind was my business. The common welfare was my business; charity, mercy, forbearance, and benevolence were, all, my business. The dealings of my trade were but a drop of water in the comprehensive ocean of my business!" It held up its chain at arm's length, as if that were the cause of all its unavailing grief, and flung it heavily upon the ground again. "At this time of the rolling year," the spectre said, "I suffer most. Why did I walk through crowds of fellow-beings with my eyes turned down, and never raise them to that blessed Star which led the Wise Men to a poor abode? Were there no poor homes to which its light would have conducted _me_?" Scrooge was very much dismayed to hear the spectre going on at this rate, and began to quake exceedingly. "Hear me!" cried the Ghost. "My time is nearly gone." "I will," said Scrooge. "But don't be hard upon me! Don't be flowery, Jacob! Pray!" "How it is that I appear before you in a shape that you can see, I may not tell. I have sat invisible beside you many and many a day." It was not an agreeable idea. Scrooge shivered, and wiped the perspiration from his brow. "That is no light part of my penance," pursued the Ghost. "I am here to-night to warn you that you have yet a chance and hope of escaping my fate. A chance and hope of my procuring, Ebenezer." "You were always a good friend to me," said Scrooge. "Thankee!" "You will be haunted," resumed the Ghost, "by Three Spirits." Scrooge's countenance fell almost as low as the Ghost's had done. "Is that the chance and hope you mentioned, Jacob?" he demanded in a faltering voice. "It is." "I--I think I'd rather not," said Scrooge. "Without their visits," said the Ghost, "you cannot hope to shun the path I tread. Expect the first to-morrow when the bell tolls One." "Couldn't I take 'em all at once, and have it over, Jacob?" hinted Scrooge. "Expect the second on the next night at the same hour. The third, upon the next night when the last stroke of Twelve has ceased to vibrate. Look to see me no more; and look that, for your own sake, you remember what has passed between us!" When it had said these words, the spectre took its wrapper from the table, and bound it round its head as before. Scrooge knew this by the smart sound its teeth made when the jaws were brought together by the bandage. He ventured to raise his eyes again, and found his supernatural visitor confronting him in an erect attitude, with its chain wound over and about its arm. The apparition walked backward from him; and, at every step it took, the window raised itself a little, so that, when the spectre reached it, it was wide open. It beckoned Scrooge to approach, which he did. When they were within two paces of each other, Marley's Ghost held up its hand, warning him to come no nearer. Scrooge stopped. Not so much in obedience as in surprise and fear; for, on the raising of the hand, he became sensible of confused noises in the air; incoherent sounds of lamentation and regret; wailings inexpressibly sorrowful and self-accusatory. The spectre, after listening for a moment, joined in the mournful dirge; and floated out upon the bleak, dark night. Scrooge followed to the window: desperate in his curiosity. He looked out. The air was filled with phantoms, wandering hither and thither in restless haste, and moaning as they went. Every one of them wore chains like Marley's Ghost; some few (they might be guilty governments) were linked together; none were free. Many had been personally known to Scrooge in their lives. He had been quite familiar with one old ghost in a white waistcoat, with a monstrous iron safe attached to its ankle, who cried piteously at being unable to assist a wretched woman with an infant, whom it saw below upon a doorstep. The misery with them all was, clearly, that they sought to interfere, for good, in human matters, and had lost the power for ever. Whether these creatures faded into mist, or mist enshrouded them, he could not tell. But they and their spirit voices faded together; and the night became as it had been when he walked home. Scrooge closed the window, and examined the door by which the Ghost had entered. It was double locked, as he had locked it with his own hands, and the bolts were undisturbed. He tried to say "Humbug!" but stopped at the first syllable. And being, from the emotion he had undergone, or the fatigues of the day, or his glimpse of the Invisible World, or the dull conversation of the Ghost, or the lateness of the hour, much in need of repose, went straight to bed without undressing, and fell asleep upon the instant. 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.

Jacob Marley, der Geschäftspartner von Ebenezer Scrooge, starb vor sieben Jahren. An einem düsteren Heiligabend arbeitet Scrooge, ein kalter, unfreundlicher Geizhals, in seinem Büro und behält seinen Angestellten, einen kleinen Mann namens Bob Cratchit, im Auge. Scrooges Neffe wünscht ihm frohe Weihnachten, aber Scrooge antwortet ihm verächtlich mit "Bah! Humbug!" Er glaubt, dass Weihnachten genauso ist wie jeder andere Tag des Jahres, ein Tag, an dem man immer noch Rechnungen bezahlen muss. Sein Neffe Fred hingegen betrachtet Weihnachten als eine "freundliche, vergebende, wohlwollende, angenehme Zeit". Er lädt Scrooge zum Essen ein, aber sein Onkel lehnt das Angebot ab. Zwei beleibte Herren betreten das Büro und bitten Scrooge um Wohltätigkeit für die Armen. Scrooge glaubt, dass Gefängnisse und Arbeitshäuser ausreichend sind und weist sie ab. Draußen wird es immer kälter. Ein Weihnachtsliedsänger versucht vor Scrooges Tür zu singen, aber der alte Mann jagt ihn fort. Scrooge schließt das Büro und sagt Cratchit, dass er an Weihnachten arbeiten soll. Cratchit geht nach Hause. Scrooge durchläuft seine trostlose Routine mit einem Abendessen in einer Taverne und kehrt dann in sein düsteres Zuhause zurück. Scrooge sieht das Gesicht des verstorbenen Marley im Türklopfer, bis es sich wieder in einen Türklopfer verwandelt. Das gibt Scrooge zu denken, aber er entschließt sich, keine Angst zu haben. Er glaubt, eine dicht gedrängte Leichenwagenlokomotive die Treppe hinauf fahren zu sehen. Er geht durch seine Zimmer, um sicherzugehen, dass niemand da ist. Danach wärmt er sich an einem kleinen Feuer. Eine Glocke im Raum beginnt zu läuten und bald läuten alle anderen Glocken im Haus. Nach einiger Zeit hören die Glocken auf und Scrooge hört, wie sich die Kellertür öffnet. Marleys Geisttransparent und an eine lange Kette aus Kassen, Schlüsseln, Vorhängeschlössern, Büchern, Urkunden und schweren Geldbeuteln gebundenbetritt den Raum. Scrooge behauptet, er glaube nicht, dass es den Geist gibt, aber bald gibt er zu, dass er es tut. Marley sagt, dass sein Geist seit seinem Tod umherwandert, als Strafe dafür, dass er zu Lebzeiten nur von Geschäften besessen war und nicht von Menschen. Er ist gekommen, um Scrooge zu warnen und ihn vielleicht vor dem gleichen Schicksal zu retten. Er sagt ihm, dass in den nächsten drei Nächten drei Geister zu ihm kommen werden. Marley macht unverständliche, traurige Geräusche und geht dann weg. Scrooge schaut aus dem Fenster und sieht den Himmel voller anderer gefesselter Geister, von denen ihm einige bekannt vorkommen und die über ihre Unfähigkeit weinen, sich mit anderen zu verbinden. Er geht schlafen.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). 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 Fünf. Betritt Lear, Kent, Gentleman und Narr. Lear: Geh voraus nach Gloster mit diesen Briefen; teile meiner Tochter nichts weiter mit, als was in dem Brief steht. Wenn du nicht schnell genug bist, werde ich vor dir dort sein. Kent: Ich werde nicht schlafen, mein Herr, bis ich Ihren Brief überbracht habe. Narr tritt ein. Narr: Wenn ein Mann sein Gehirn in seinen Fersen hätte, wäre er dann nicht in Gefahr, schmerzende Blasen zu bekommen? Lear: Ja, mein Junge. Narr: Dann sei fröhlich, dein Verstand wird nicht lahmen. Lear: Ha, ha, ha. Narr: Du wirst sehen, dass dich deine andere Tochter freundlich behandeln wird, denn obwohl sie genauso ist wie diese, wie ein Krabbenapfel, kann ich sagen, was ich sagen kann. Lear: Was kannst du sagen, Junge? Narr: Sie wird genauso schmecken wie diese, wie eine Krabbe für eine Krabbe. Kannst du sagen, warum die Nase eines Menschen in der Mitte seines Gesichts ist? Lear: Nein. Narr: Um seine Augen von beiden Seiten seiner Nase fernzuhalten, damit er sehen kann, was er nicht riechen kann. Lear: Ich habe ihr Unrecht getan. Narr: Kannst du erklären, wie eine Auster ihre Schale bildet? Lear: Nein. Narr: Ich auch nicht. Aber ich kann dir sagen, warum eine Schnecke ein Haus hat. Lear: Warum? Narr: Um ihren Kopf hinein zu stecken und ihn nicht an ihre Töchter abzugeben und ihre Hörner ohne Schutz zu lassen. Lear: Ich werde meine Natur vergessen, so ein freundlicher Vater? Sind meine Pferde bereit? Narr: Deine Esel sind um sie herumgegangen. Der Grund, warum es nur sieben Sterne gibt, ist ein netter Grund. Lear: Weil es nicht acht sind. Narr: Ja, genau, du würdest ein guter Narr abgeben. Lear: Um es gewaltsam zurückzunehmen. Monster der Undankbarkeit! Narr: Wenn du mein Narr wärst, mein lieber Onkel, würde ich dich dafür schlagen lassen, dass du vor deiner Zeit alt bist. Lear: Wie meinst du das? Narr: Du hättest nicht alt sein sollen, bis du weise geworden wärst. Lear: Oh, lass mich nicht verrückt werden, nicht verrückt, süßer Himmel. Halte mich in Schach, ich will nicht verrückt sein. Wie sieht es aus, sind die Pferde bereit? Gentleman: Bereit, mein Herr. Lear: Komm, Junge. Narr: Sie, die jetzt noch Jungfrau ist und über meine Abreise lacht, wird nicht mehr lange Jungfrau sein, es sei denn, die Dinge werden verkürzt. Abgang. 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.

Der Schauplatz dieser kurzen Szene ist vor Gonerils Palast. Lear weist Kent an, sofort zum Palast von Regan zu gehen und einen Brief zu übergeben. Als Kent geht, versucht der Narr, den König mit albernen Bemerkungen abzulenken, doch deren Inhalt deutet ironisch auf Leares Handlungen hin. Die Qual des Königs ist offensichtlich, während er sein Verhalten gegenüber Cordelia beklagt. Lear äußert seine ersten Bedenken, eine Vorahnung, bezüglich seines Verstandes. Bald sind die Pferde bereit und der König beginnt seine Reise zum Palast seiner zweiten Tochter.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: "What in the world are you going to do now, Jo?" asked Meg one snowy afternoon, as her sister came tramping through the hall, in rubber boots, old sack, and hood, with a broom in one hand and a shovel in the other. "Going out for exercise," answered Jo with a mischievous twinkle in her eyes. "I should think two long walks this morning would have been enough! It's cold and dull out, and I advise you to stay warm and dry by the fire, as I do," said Meg with a shiver. "Never take advice! Can't keep still all day, and not being a pussycat, I don't like to doze by the fire. I like adventures, and I'm going to find some." Meg went back to toast her feet and read _Ivanhoe_, and Jo began to dig paths with great energy. The snow was light, and with her broom she soon swept a path all round the garden, for Beth to walk in when the sun came out and the invalid dolls needed air. Now, the garden separated the Marches' house from that of Mr. Laurence. Both stood in a suburb of the city, which was still country-like, with groves and lawns, large gardens, and quiet streets. A low hedge parted the two estates. On one side was an old, brown house, looking rather bare and shabby, robbed of the vines that in summer covered its walls and the flowers, which then surrounded it. On the other side was a stately stone mansion, plainly betokening every sort of comfort and luxury, from the big coach house and well-kept grounds to the conservatory and the glimpses of lovely things one caught between the rich curtains. Yet it seemed a lonely, lifeless sort of house, for no children frolicked on the lawn, no motherly face ever smiled at the windows, and few people went in and out, except the old gentleman and his grandson. To Jo's lively fancy, this fine house seemed a kind of enchanted palace, full of splendors and delights which no one enjoyed. She had long wanted to behold these hidden glories, and to know the Laurence boy, who looked as if he would like to be known, if he only knew how to begin. Since the party, she had been more eager than ever, and had planned many ways of making friends with him, but he had not been seen lately, and Jo began to think he had gone away, when she one day spied a brown face at an upper window, looking wistfully down into their garden, where Beth and Amy were snow-balling one another. "That boy is suffering for society and fun," she said to herself. "His grandpa does not know what's good for him, and keeps him shut up all alone. He needs a party of jolly boys to play with, or somebody young and lively. I've a great mind to go over and tell the old gentleman so!" The idea amused Jo, who liked to do daring things and was always scandalizing Meg by her queer performances. The plan of 'going over' was not forgotten. And when the snowy afternoon came, Jo resolved to try what could be done. She saw Mr. Lawrence drive off, and then sallied out to dig her way down to the hedge, where she paused and took a survey. All quiet, curtains down at the lower windows, servants out of sight, and nothing human visible but a curly black head leaning on a thin hand at the upper window. "There he is," thought Jo, "Poor boy! All alone and sick this dismal day. It's a shame! I'll toss up a snowball and make him look out, and then say a kind word to him." Up went a handful of soft snow, and the head turned at once, showing a face which lost its listless look in a minute, as the big eyes brightened and the mouth began to smile. Jo nodded and laughed, and flourished her broom as she called out... "How do you do? Are you sick?" Laurie opened the window, and croaked out as hoarsely as a raven... "Better, thank you. I've had a bad cold, and been shut up a week." "I'm sorry. What do you amuse yourself with?" "Nothing. It's dull as tombs up here." "Don't you read?" "Not much. They won't let me." "Can't somebody read to you?" "Grandpa does sometimes, but my books don't interest him, and I hate to ask Brooke all the time." "Have someone come and see you then." "There isn't anyone I'd like to see. Boys make such a row, and my head is weak." "Isn't there some nice girl who'd read and amuse you? Girls are quiet and like to play nurse." "Don't know any." "You know us," began Jo, then laughed and stopped. "So I do! Will you come, please?" cried Laurie. "I'm not quiet and nice, but I'll come, if Mother will let me. I'll go ask her. Shut the window, like a good boy, and wait till I come." With that, Jo shouldered her broom and marched into the house, wondering what they would all say to her. Laurie was in a flutter of excitement at the idea of having company, and flew about to get ready, for as Mrs. March said, he was 'a little gentleman', and did honor to the coming guest by brushing his curly pate, putting on a fresh collar, and trying to tidy up the room, which in spite of half a dozen servants, was anything but neat. Presently there came a loud ring, than a decided voice, asking for 'Mr. Laurie', and a surprised-looking servant came running up to announce a young lady. "All right, show her up, it's Miss Jo," said Laurie, going to the door of his little parlor to meet Jo, who appeared, looking rosy and quite at her ease, with a covered dish in one hand and Beth's three kittens in the other. "Here I am, bag and baggage," she said briskly. "Mother sent her love, and was glad if I could do anything for you. Meg wanted me to bring some of her blanc mange, she makes it very nicely, and Beth thought her cats would be comforting. I knew you'd laugh at them, but I couldn't refuse, she was so anxious to do something." It so happened that Beth's funny loan was just the thing, for in laughing over the kits, Laurie forgot his bashfulness, and grew sociable at once. "That looks too pretty to eat," he said, smiling with pleasure, as Jo uncovered the dish, and showed the blanc mange, surrounded by a garland of green leaves, and the scarlet flowers of Amy's pet geranium. "It isn't anything, only they all felt kindly and wanted to show it. Tell the girl to put it away for your tea. It's so simple you can eat it, and being soft, it will slip down without hurting your sore throat. What a cozy room this is!" "It might be if it was kept nice, but the maids are lazy, and I don't know how to make them mind. It worries me though." "I'll right it up in two minutes, for it only needs to have the hearth brushed, so--and the things made straight on the mantelpiece, so--and the books put here, and the bottles there, and your sofa turned from the light, and the pillows plumped up a bit. Now then, you're fixed." And so he was, for, as she laughed and talked, Jo had whisked things into place and given quite a different air to the room. Laurie watched her in respectful silence, and when she beckoned him to his sofa, he sat down with a sigh of satisfaction, saying gratefully... "How kind you are! Yes, that's what it wanted. Now please take the big chair and let me do something to amuse my company." "No, I came to amuse you. Shall I read aloud?" and Jo looked affectionately toward some inviting books near by. "Thank you! I've read all those, and if you don't mind, I'd rather talk," answered Laurie. "Not a bit. I'll talk all day if you'll only set me going. Beth says I never know when to stop." "Is Beth the rosy one, who stays at home good deal and sometimes goes out with a little basket?" asked Laurie with interest. "Yes, that's Beth. She's my girl, and a regular good one she is, too." "The pretty one is Meg, and the curly-haired one is Amy, I believe?" "How did you find that out?" Laurie colored up, but answered frankly, "Why, you see I often hear you calling to one another, and when I'm alone up here, I can't help looking over at your house, you always seem to be having such good times. I beg your pardon for being so rude, but sometimes you forget to put down the curtain at the window where the flowers are. And when the lamps are lighted, it's like looking at a picture to see the fire, and you all around the table with your mother. Her face is right opposite, and it looks so sweet behind the flowers, I can't help watching it. I haven't got any mother, you know." And Laurie poked the fire to hide a little twitching of the lips that he could not control. The solitary, hungry look in his eyes went straight to Jo's warm heart. She had been so simply taught that there was no nonsense in her head, and at fifteen she was as innocent and frank as any child. Laurie was sick and lonely, and feeling how rich she was in home and happiness, she gladly tried to share it with him. Her face was very friendly and her sharp voice unusually gentle as she said... "We'll never draw that curtain any more, and I give you leave to look as much as you like. I just wish, though, instead of peeping, you'd come over and see us. Mother is so splendid, she'd do you heaps of good, and Beth would sing to you if I begged her to, and Amy would dance. Meg and I would make you laugh over our funny stage properties, and we'd have jolly times. Wouldn't your grandpa let you?" "I think he would, if your mother asked him. He's very kind, though he does not look so, and he lets me do what I like, pretty much, only he's afraid I might be a bother to strangers," began Laurie, brightening more and more. "We are not strangers, we are neighbors, and you needn't think you'd be a bother. We want to know you, and I've been trying to do it this ever so long. We haven't been here a great while, you know, but we have got acquainted with all our neighbors but you." "You see, Grandpa lives among his books, and doesn't mind much what happens outside. Mr. Brooke, my tutor, doesn't stay here, you know, and I have no one to go about with me, so I just stop at home and get on as I can." "That's bad. You ought to make an effort and go visiting everywhere you are asked, then you'll have plenty of friends, and pleasant places to go to. Never mind being bashful. It won't last long if you keep going." Laurie turned red again, but wasn't offended at being accused of bashfulness, for there was so much good will in Jo it was impossible not to take her blunt speeches as kindly as they were meant. "Do you like your school?" asked the boy, changing the subject, after a little pause, during which he stared at the fire and Jo looked about her, well pleased. "Don't go to school, I'm a businessman--girl, I mean. I go to wait on my great-aunt, and a dear, cross old soul she is, too," answered Jo. Laurie opened his mouth to ask another question, but remembering just in time that it wasn't manners to make too many inquiries into people's affairs, he shut it again, and looked uncomfortable. Jo liked his good breeding, and didn't mind having a laugh at Aunt March, so she gave him a lively description of the fidgety old lady, her fat poodle, the parrot that talked Spanish, and the library where she reveled. Laurie enjoyed that immensely, and when she told about the prim old gentleman who came once to woo Aunt March, and in the middle of a fine speech, how Poll had tweaked his wig off to his great dismay, the boy lay back and laughed till the tears ran down his cheeks, and a maid popped her head in to see what was the matter. "Oh! That does me no end of good. Tell on, please," he said, taking his face out of the sofa cushion, red and shining with merriment. Much elated with her success, Jo did 'tell on', all about their plays and plans, their hopes and fears for Father, and the most interesting events of the little world in which the sisters lived. Then they got to talking about books, and to Jo's delight, she found that Laurie loved them as well as she did, and had read even more than herself. "If you like them so much, come down and see ours. Grandfather is out, so you needn't be afraid," said Laurie, getting up. "I'm not afraid of anything," returned Jo, with a toss of the head. "I don't believe you are!" exclaimed the boy, looking at her with much admiration, though he privately thought she would have good reason to be a trifle afraid of the old gentleman, if she met him in some of his moods. The atmosphere of the whole house being summerlike, Laurie led the way from room to room, letting Jo stop to examine whatever struck her fancy. And so, at last they came to the library, where she clapped her hands and pranced, as she always did when especially delighted. It was lined with books, and there were pictures and statues, and distracting little cabinets full of coins and curiosities, and Sleepy Hollow chairs, and queer tables, and bronzes, and best of all, a great open fireplace with quaint tiles all round it. "What richness!" sighed Jo, sinking into the depth of a velour chair and gazing about her with an air of intense satisfaction. "Theodore Laurence, you ought to be the happiest boy in the world," she added impressively. "A fellow can't live on books," said Laurie, shaking his head as he perched on a table opposite. Before he could more, a bell rang, and Jo flew up, exclaiming with alarm, "Mercy me! It's your grandpa!" "Well, what if it is? You are not afraid of anything, you know," returned the boy, looking wicked. "I think I am a little bit afraid of him, but I don't know why I should be. Marmee said I might come, and I don't think you're any the worse for it," said Jo, composing herself, though she kept her eyes on the door. "I'm a great deal better for it, and ever so much obliged. I'm only afraid you are very tired of talking to me. It was so pleasant, I couldn't bear to stop," said Laurie gratefully. "The doctor to see you, sir," and the maid beckoned as she spoke. "Would you mind if I left you for a minute? I suppose I must see him," said Laurie. "Don't mind me. I'm happy as a cricket here," answered Jo. Laurie went away, and his guest amused herself in her own way. She was standing before a fine portrait of the old gentleman when the door opened again, and without turning, she said decidedly, "I'm sure now that I shouldn't be afraid of him, for he's got kind eyes, though his mouth is grim, and he looks as if he had a tremendous will of his own. He isn't as handsome as my grandfather, but I like him." "Thank you, ma'am," said a gruff voice behind her, and there, to her great dismay, stood old Mr. Laurence. Poor Jo blushed till she couldn't blush any redder, and her heart began to beat uncomfortably fast as she thought what she had said. For a minute a wild desire to run away possessed her, but that was cowardly, and the girls would laugh at her, so she resolved to stay and get out of the scrape as she could. A second look showed her that the living eyes, under the bushy eyebrows, were kinder even than the painted ones, and there was a sly twinkle in them, which lessened her fear a good deal. The gruff voice was gruffer than ever, as the old gentleman said abruptly, after the dreadful pause, "So you're not afraid of me, hey?" "Not much, sir." "And you don't think me as handsome as your grandfather?" "Not quite, sir." "And I've got a tremendous will, have I?" "I only said I thought so." "But you like me in spite of it?" "Yes, I do, sir." That answer pleased the old gentleman. He gave a short laugh, shook hands with her, and, putting his finger under her chin, turned up her face, examined it gravely, and let it go, saying with a nod, "You've got your grandfather's spirit, if you haven't his face. He was a fine man, my dear, but what is better, he was a brave and an honest one, and I was proud to be his friend." "Thank you, sir," And Jo was quite comfortable after that, for it suited her exactly. "What have you been doing to this boy of mine, hey?" was the next question, sharply put. "Only trying to be neighborly, sir." And Jo told how her visit came about. "You think he needs cheering up a bit, do you?" "Yes, sir, he seems a little lonely, and young folks would do him good perhaps. We are only girls, but we should be glad to help if we could, for we don't forget the splendid Christmas present you sent us," said Jo eagerly. "Tut, tut, tut! That was the boy's affair. How is the poor woman?" "Doing nicely, sir." And off went Jo, talking very fast, as she told all about the Hummels, in whom her mother had interested richer friends than they were. "Just her father's way of doing good. I shall come and see your mother some fine day. Tell her so. There's the tea bell, we have it early on the boy's account. Come down and go on being neighborly." "If you'd like to have me, sir." "Shouldn't ask you, if I didn't." And Mr. Laurence offered her his arm with old-fashioned courtesy. "What would Meg say to this?" thought Jo, as she was marched away, while her eyes danced with fun as she imagined herself telling the story at home. "Hey! Why, what the dickens has come to the fellow?" said the old gentleman, as Laurie came running downstairs and brought up with a start of surprise at the astounding sight of Jo arm in arm with his redoubtable grandfather. "I didn't know you'd come, sir," he began, as Jo gave him a triumphant little glance. "That's evident, by the way you racket downstairs. Come to your tea, sir, and behave like a gentleman." And having pulled the boy's hair by way of a caress, Mr. Laurence walked on, while Laurie went through a series of comic evolutions behind their backs, which nearly produced an explosion of laughter from Jo. The old gentleman did not say much as he drank his four cups of tea, but he watched the young people, who soon chatted away like old friends, and the change in his grandson did not escape him. There was color, light, and life in the boy's face now, vivacity in his manner, and genuine merriment in his laugh. "She's right, the lad is lonely. I'll see what these little girls can do for him," thought Mr. Laurence, as he looked and listened. He liked Jo, for her odd, blunt ways suited him, and she seemed to understand the boy almost as well as if she had been one herself. If the Laurences had been what Jo called 'prim and poky', she would not have got on at all, for such people always made her shy and awkward. But finding them free and easy, she was so herself, and made a good impression. When they rose she proposed to go, but Laurie said he had something more to show her, and took her away to the conservatory, which had been lighted for her benefit. It seemed quite fairylike to Jo, as she went up and down the walks, enjoying the blooming walls on either side, the soft light, the damp sweet air, and the wonderful vines and trees that hung about her, while her new friend cut the finest flowers till his hands were full. Then he tied them up, saying, with the happy look Jo liked to see, "Please give these to your mother, and tell her I like the medicine she sent me very much." They found Mr. Laurence standing before the fire in the great drawing room, but Jo's attention was entirely absorbed by a grand piano, which stood open. "Do you play?" she asked, turning to Laurie with a respectful expression. "Sometimes," he answered modestly. "Please do now. I want to hear it, so I can tell Beth." "Won't you first?" "Don't know how. Too stupid to learn, but I love music dearly." So Laurie played and Jo listened, with her nose luxuriously buried in heliotrope and tea roses. Her respect and regard for the 'Laurence' boy increased very much, for he played remarkably well and didn't put on any airs. She wished Beth could hear him, but she did not say so, only praised him till he was quite abashed, and his grandfather came to his rescue. "That will do, that will do, young lady. Too many sugarplums are not good for him. His music isn't bad, but I hope he will do as well in more important things. Going? well, I'm much obliged to you, and I hope you'll come again. My respects to your mother. Good night, Doctor Jo." He shook hands kindly, but looked as if something did not please him. When they got into the hall, Jo asked Laurie if she had said something amiss. He shook his head. "No, it was me. He doesn't like to hear me play." "Why not?" "I'll tell you some day. John is going home with you, as I can't." "No need of that. I am not a young lady, and it's only a step. Take care of yourself, won't you?" "Yes, but you will come again, I hope?" "If you promise to come and see us after you are well." "I will." "Good night, Laurie!" "Good night, Jo, good night!" When all the afternoon's adventures had been told, the family felt inclined to go visiting in a body, for each found something very attractive in the big house on the other side of the hedge. Mrs. March wanted to talk of her father with the old man who had not forgotten him, Meg longed to walk in the conservatory, Beth sighed for the grand piano, and Amy was eager to see the fine pictures and statues. "Mother, why didn't Mr. Laurence like to have Laurie play?" asked Jo, who was of an inquiring disposition. "I am not sure, but I think it was because his son, Laurie's father, married an Italian lady, a musician, which displeased the old man, who is very proud. The lady was good and lovely and accomplished, but he did not like her, and never saw his son after he married. They both died when Laurie was a little child, and then his grandfather took him home. I fancy the boy, who was born in Italy, is not very strong, and the old man is afraid of losing him, which makes him so careful. Laurie comes naturally by his love of music, for he is like his mother, and I dare say his grandfather fears that he may want to be a musician. At any rate, his skill reminds him of the woman he did not like, and so he 'glowered' as Jo said." "Dear me, how romantic!" exclaimed Meg. "How silly!" said Jo. "Let him be a musician if he wants to, and not plague his life out sending him to college, when he hates to go." "That's why he has such handsome black eyes and pretty manners, I suppose. Italians are always nice," said Meg, who was a little sentimental. "What do you know about his eyes and his manners? You never spoke to him, hardly," cried Jo, who was not sentimental. "I saw him at the party, and what you tell shows that he knows how to behave. That was a nice little speech about the medicine Mother sent him." "He meant the blanc mange, I suppose." "How stupid you are, child! He meant you, of course." "Did he?" And Jo opened her eyes as if it had never occurred to her before. "I never saw such a girl! You don't know a compliment when you get it," said Meg, with the air of a young lady who knew all about the matter. "I think they are great nonsense, and I'll thank you not to be silly and spoil my fun. Laurie's a nice boy and I like him, and I won't have any sentimental stuff about compliments and such rubbish. We'll all be good to him because he hasn't got any mother, and he may come over and see us, mayn't he, Marmee?" "Yes, Jo, your little friend is very welcome, and I hope Meg will remember that children should be children as long as they can." "Ich bezeichne mich nicht als Kind und bin noch nicht in meinen Teenagerjahren", bemerkte Amy. "Was sagst du, Beth?" "Ich habe über unser '_Pilgerreise_' nachgedacht", antwortete Beth, die kein Wort gehört hatte. "Wie wir aus dem Schlammloch gekommen sind und durch das Wicking-Tor, indem wir beschlossen, gut zu sein, und den steilen Hügel hinauf durch Versuch, und dass vielleicht das Haus dort drüben, voller herrlicher Dinge, unser Schloss Schönheit sein wird." "Wir müssen zuerst an den Löwen vorbei", sagte Jo, als ob sie die Aussicht eher mochte. 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An einem winterlichen Nachmittag geht Jo nach draußen, um einen Weg im Schnee frei zu schaufeln. Während sie draußen ist, sieht sie Laurie am Fenster. Sie wirft einen Schneeball an das Fenster, um seine Aufmerksamkeit zu erregen. Laurie lehnt sich heraus und erzählt Jo, dass es ihm schlecht geht. Mitfühlend sagt Jo ihm, dass sie zu ihm gehen wird, um ihm Gesellschaft zu leisten, wenn es in Ordnung ist für ihre Mutter. Marmee erlaubt ihr zu gehen und Jo kommt mit Essen, Kätzchen und kleinen Geschenken in Lauries Haus, um ihn aufzuheitern. Sie plaudern und lachen den ganzen Nachmittag. Laurie erzählt Jo, dass er einsam ist und sich danach sehnt, mit ihrer Familie befreundet zu sein. Zur Freude von Jo zeigt ihr Laurie die Bibliothek seines Großvaters. Als Laurie zum Arzt muss, bleibt Jo im Raum. Mr. Laurence kommt herein und Jo, die denkt, dass er Laurie ist, spricht etwas abfällig über ein Gemälde von Mr. Laurence. Glücklicherweise erfreut sich Mr. Laurence an Jos Aufrichtigkeit und sie werden schnell Freunde. Er lädt Jo ein, zum Tee zu bleiben, da er glaubt, dass diese Gesellschaft genau das ist, was Laurie braucht. Nach dem Tee spielt Laurie Klavier für Jo. Diese Tätigkeit stört Mr. Laurence, der nicht möchte, dass Laurie sich der Musik widmet. Jo geht nach Hause und erzählt ihrer Familie von dem schönen Tag und dem wunderschönen Haus.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). 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 erste Mal, dass sie in ihrem Dachboden verbrachte, war etwas, woran sich Sara niemals vergaß. Währenddessen erlebte sie ein wildes, kinderuntypisches Leid, über das sie mit niemandem sprach. Niemand hätte es verstanden. In der Tat war es gut für sie, dass sie, während sie wach im Dunkeln lag, gezwungen war, sich von Zeit zu Zeit von der Fremdartigkeit ihrer Umgebung abzulenken. Es war vielleicht gut für sie, dass sie durch ihren kleinen Körper an materielle Dinge erinnert wurde. Wenn dem nicht so gewesen wäre, wäre der Schmerz ihres jungen Geistes möglicherweise zu groß gewesen, um von einem Kind ertragen zu werden. Aber tatsächlich wusste sie während der Nacht kaum, dass sie einen Körper hatte, oder erinnerte sich an irgendetwas anderes als an eines. "Mein Papa ist tot!" flüsterte sie immer wieder zu sich selbst. "Mein Papa ist tot!" Es dauerte lange, bis sie später realisierte, dass ihr Bett so hart war, dass sie sich darin umdrehte, um einen Platz zum Ausruhen zu finden, dass die Dunkelheit intensiver schien als alles, was sie je gekannt hatte, und dass der Wind über das Dach zwischen den Schornsteinen heulte wie etwas, das laut klagte. Dann gab es etwas Schlimmeres. Dies waren gewisse Scharr- und Kratzgeräusche in den Wänden und hinter den Sockelleisten. Sie wusste, was sie bedeuteten, weil Becky sie beschrieben hatte. Sie bedeuteten Ratten und Mäuse, die entweder miteinander kämpften oder zusammen spielten. Ein- oder zweimal hörte sie sogar scharfe Pfoten über den Boden huschen, und sie erinnerte sich in den folgenden Tagen, wenn sie sich an die Dinge erinnerte, dass sie beim ersten Mal, als sie sie hörte, im Bett aufstarrte und zitterte und als sie sich wieder hinlegte, ihren Kopf mit den Bettdecken bedeckte. Die Veränderung in ihrem Leben geschah nicht allmählich, sondern geschah plötzlich. "Sie muss so beginnen, wie sie weitermachen wird", sagte Miss Minchin zu Miss Amelia. "Sie muss sofort lernen, was sie zu erwarten hat." Mariette hatte das Haus am nächsten Morgen verlassen. Der Blick, den Sara auf ihr Wohnzimmer erhaschte, als sie an der offenen Tür vorbeikam, zeigte ihr, dass alles verändert worden war. Ihr Schmuck und Luxusartikel waren entfernt worden, und ein Bett wurde in eine Ecke gestellt, um es in ein Schlafzimmer für eine neue Schülerin umzuwandeln. Als sie zum Frühstück hinunterging, sah sie, dass ihr Platz neben Miss Minchin von Lavinia eingenommen wurde, und Miss Minchin sprach kühl zu ihr. "Sara, du wirst deine neuen Aufgaben damit beginnen, dass du dich mit den jüngeren Kindern an einen kleineren Tisch setzt. Du musst sie ruhig halten und darauf achten, dass sie sich gut benehmen und ihr Essen nicht verschwenden. Du hättest früher unten sein sollen. Lottie hat bereits ihren Tee verschüttet." Das war der Anfang, und von Tag zu Tag wurden ihre Aufgaben erweitert. Sie unterrichtete die jüngeren Kinder Französisch und hörte ihre anderen Lektionen, und das waren die geringsten ihrer Arbeitsbelastungen. Man stellte fest, dass sie in unzähligen Bereichen nützlich sein konnte. Sie konnte jederzeit und bei jedem Wetter auf Botengänge geschickt werden. Man konnte ihr Aufgaben übertragen, die andere vernachlässigten. Die Köchin und die Hausmädchen nahmen sich ein Beispiel an Miss Minchin und hatten sogar Spaß daran, das "junge Ding" herumzukommandieren, um das so viel Aufheben gemacht worden war. Sie waren keine Dienstboten der besten Klasse und hatten weder gute Manieren noch gute Launen, und es war oft praktisch, jemanden zur Hand zu haben, dem die Schuld gegeben werden konnte. Während des ersten Monats oder zwei dachte Sara, dass ihre Bereitschaft, die Dinge so gut wie möglich zu erledigen, und ihr Schweigen bei Tadel diejenigen erweichen könnten, die sie so hart antrieben. In ihrem stolzen kleinen Herzen wollte sie, dass sie sehen sollten, dass sie versuchte, ihren Lebensunterhalt zu verdienen und keine Wohltaten anzunehmen. Aber es kam der Zeitpunkt, an dem sie sah, dass niemand überhaupt erweicht wurde; und je williger sie war, das zu tun, was man ihr sagte, desto herrischer und anspruchsvoller wurden die gleichgültigen Hausmädchen, und die schimpfende Köchin war bereit, sie dafür zu beschuldigen. Wenn sie älter gewesen wäre, hätte Miss Minchin ihr die älteren Mädchen zum Unterrichten gegeben und Geld gespart, indem sie eine Lehrerin entlassen hätte; aber solange sie blieb und wie ein Kind aussah, konnte sie als eine Art überlegenes Dienstmädchen und Mädchen für alles nützlicher sein. Ein gewöhnlicher Laufbursche wäre nicht so klug und verlässlich gewesen. Sara konnte schwierigen Aufträgen und komplizierten Nachrichten vertraut werden. Sie konnte sogar Rechnungen bezahlen gehen und dies mit der Fähigkeit kombinieren, ein Zimmer gut abzustauben und Ordnung zu schaffen. Ihr eigener Unterricht wurde zur Vergangenheit. Sie wurde nichts beigebracht, und erst nach langen und arbeitsreichen Tagen, die sie hierhin und dorthin trieben und alle nach Belieben befahlen, wurde ihr widerwillig erlaubt, in das verlassene Klassenzimmer zu gehen, mit einem Stapel alter Bücher, und alleine in der Nacht zu lernen. "Wenn ich mich nicht an die Dinge, die ich gelernt habe, erinnere, könnte ich sie vielleicht vergessen", sagte sie zu sich selbst. "Ich bin fast ein Dienermädchen, und wenn ich ein Dienermädchen bin, das nichts weiß, werde ich wie die arme Becky sein. Ich frage mich, ob ich so weit vergessen und anfangen könnte, meine H's fallen zu lassen und mich nicht daran zu erinnern, dass Heinrich der Achte sechs Frauen hatte." Eine der merkwürdigsten Dinge in ihrem neuen Dasein war ihre veränderte Position unter den Schülerinnen. Statt eine Art kleine königliche Persönlichkeit unter ihnen zu sein, schien sie überhaupt nicht mehr zu ihnen zu gehören. Sie wurde so ständig beschäftigt gehalten, dass sie kaum Gelegenheit hatte, mit ihnen zu sprechen, und sie konnte nicht vermeiden, dass Miss Minchin lieber wollte, dass sie ein eigenes Leben fernab von dem der Bewohner des Klassenzimmers führt. "Ich möchte nicht, dass sie enge Freundschaften schließt und mit den anderen Kindern spricht", sagte die Dame. "Mädchen haben gerne Beschwerden, und wenn sie anfängt, romantische Geschichten über sich selbst zu erzählen, wird sie zu einer schlecht behandelten Heldin werden, und Eltern werden einen falschen Eindruck bekommen. Es ist besser, dass sie ein separates Leben führt - eins, das ihrer Situation entspricht. Ich gebe ihr ein Zuhause, und das ist mehr, als sie von mir erwarten kann." Sara erwartete nicht viel und war viel zu stolz, um weiterhin mit Mädchen intim zu sein, die offensichtlich etwas unsicher und verlegen in ihrer Gegenwart waren. Tatsache war, dass Miss Minchins Schülerinnen eine Gruppe von langweiligen, nüchternen jungen Leuten waren. Sie waren es gewohnt, reich und bequem zu sein, und als Saras Kleider kürzer, schäbiger und merkwürdiger wurden und zur festen Tatsache wurde, dass sie Schuhe mit Löchern trug und zum Einkaufen von Lebensmitteln geschickt wurde und sie auf der Straße in einem Korb am Arm tragen musste, wenn die Köchin sie eilig brauchte, fühlten sie sich eher so, als würden sie, wenn sie mit ihr sprachen, einen Untergebenen ansprechen. "Denkt mal daran, dass sie das Mädchen mit den Diamantenminen war", kommentierte Lavinia. "Sie sieht ja furchtbar aus. Und sie ist merkwürdiger als je zuvor. Ich mochte sie nie besonders, aber ich kann diese Art, wie sie die Leute ansieht, ohne ein Wort zu sagen, nicht ertragen - so, als ob sie sie durchschaut." "Tatsächlich", sagte Sara prompt, als sie davon hörte. "So sehe ich manche Leute an. Ich mag es, über sie Bescheid zu wissen. Ich denke später über sie nach." Die Wahrheit war, dass sie sich mehrmals Ärger erspart hatte, Das erste, muss man zugeben, war Becky - einfach nur Becky. Während der ganzen ersten Nacht in der Dachkammer empfand sie eine vage Behaglichkeit in dem Wissen, dass auf der anderen Seite der Wand, in der die Ratten herumscharwenzelten und quietschten, ein weiteres menschliches Wesen war. Und in den folgenden Nächten wuchs dieses Gefühl des Trostes. Sie hatten während des Tages kaum Gelegenheit, miteinander zu sprechen. Jede hatte ihre eigenen Aufgaben zu erledigen und jeder Versuch einer Unterhaltung wäre als tendenzielles Faulenzen und Zeitverschwendung angesehen worden. "Beachten Sie mich nicht, Miss", flüsterte Becky am ersten Morgen, "wenn ich nicht höflich bin. Manche würden uns bestrafen, wenn ich es täte. Ich meine 'bitte' und 'danke' und 'Verzeihung', aber ich wage es nicht, Zeit zu verlieren und es auszusprechen." Aber noch vor Tagesanbruch schlüpfte sie heimlich in Saras Dachkammer, knöpfte ihr Kleid zu und half ihr so, wie sie es brauchte, bevor sie nach unten ging, um das Küchenfeuer anzuzünden. Und wenn die Nacht kam, hörte Sara immer das bescheidene Klopfen an ihrer Tür, das bedeutete, dass ihre Gehilfin bereit war, ihr erneut zu helfen, falls Bedarf bestand. In den ersten Wochen ihrer Trauer fühlte Sara sich wie betäubt und konnte kaum sprechen, sodass einige Zeit verging, bevor sie sich öfter sahen oder Besuche austauschten. Becky spürte in ihrem Herzen, dass es am besten war, Menschen, die in Schwierigkeiten waren, allein zu lassen. Die zweite der drei Trösterinnen war Ermengarde, aber es geschahen merkwürdige Dinge, bevor Ermengarde ihren Platz fand. Als Saras Geist wieder zum Leben zu erwachen schien, wurde ihr klar, dass sie vergessen hatte, dass es eine Ermengarde in der Welt gab. Die beiden waren immer schon befreundet gewesen, aber Sara hatte das Gefühl, als wäre sie um Jahre älter. Man könnte nicht bestreiten, dass Ermengarde so trübsinnig war wie liebevoll. Sie klammerte sich auf einfache, hilflose Weise an Sara, brachte ihr ihre Lektionen, damit sie ihr helfen konnte, hörte jedes Wort von ihr und belagerte sie mit Erzählwünschen. Aber sie hatte selbst nichts Interessantes zu erzählen und verabscheute Bücher jeglicher Art. Tatsächlich war sie keine Person, an die man sich erinnern würde, wenn man von einem großen Unglück überwältigt wurde, und Sara vergaß sie. Es war umso leichter, sie zu vergessen, weil sie plötzlich für einige Wochen nach Hause gerufen wurde. Als sie zurückkam, sah sie Sara einen Tag oder zwei nicht und als sie sie zum ersten Mal traf, begegnete sie ihr in einem Korridor, wie sie mit den Armen voller Kleidung den Gang hinunterkam, um sie nach unten zum Flicken zu bringen. Sara selbst hatte bereits gelernt, sie zu flicken. Ihre Haut war blass und sie trug das seltsame Kleid, das ihr zu kurz war und ihre dünnen, schwarzen Beine zeigte. Ermengarde war zu langsam, um mit einer solchen Situation umgehen zu können. Ihr fiel nichts ein, was sie sagen könnte. Sie wusste, was passiert war, aber irgendwie hatte sie sich nie vorstellen können, dass Sara so aussehen könnte - so seltsam, arm und fast wie eine Dienerin. Es machte sie ganz elend und sie konnte nichts tun, außer in ein kurzes, hysterisches Lachen auszubrechen und ziellos und ohne Bedeutung zu rufen: "Oh, Sara, bist du das?" "Ja", antwortete Sara und plötzlich schoss ihr ein seltsamer Gedanke durch den Kopf und ließ ihr Gesicht erröten. Sie hielt den Stapel Kleidung in den Armen und ihr Kinn ruhte darauf, um ihn stabil zu halten. Etwas in ihrem Blick - ihre geradeaus blickenden Augen - ließ Ermengarde noch verstörter werden. Es schien, als hätte sich Sara in ein neues Mädchen verwandelt, und sie kannte sie vorher nicht. Vielleicht lag es daran, dass sie plötzlich arm geworden war und wie Becky Dinge reparieren und arbeiten musste. "Oh", stammelte sie. "Wie - wie geht es dir?" "Ich weiß es nicht", antwortete Sara. "Wie geht es dir?" "Ich bin - ich bin ganz gut", sagte Ermengarde, von Schüchternheit überwältigt. Dann dachte sie krampfhaft an etwas Intimeres zu sagen. "Bist du - bist du sehr unglücklich?", sagte sie in einem Rutsch. Dann machte Sara sich einer Ungerechtigkeit schuldig. Gerade in diesem Moment schwoll ihr zerrissenes Herz an und sie fühlte, dass man sich besser von jemandem fernhalten sollte, der so dumm war. "Was denkst du?", sagte sie. "Glaubst du, ich bin sehr glücklich?" Und sie marschierte ohne ein weiteres Wort an ihr vorbei. Mit der Zeit erkannte sie, dass, wenn ihr Unglück sie nicht vergessen hätte, sie gewusst hätte, dass die arme, dumme Ermengarde nicht für ihre unvorbereiteten, unbeholfenen Wege verantwortlich gemacht werden durfte. Sie war immer ungeschickt gewesen und je mehr sie fühlte, desto dümmer war sie oft. Aber der plötzliche Gedanke, der ihr gekommen war, hatte sie überempfindlich gemacht. "Sie ist wie die anderen", dachte sie. "Sie möchte wirklich nicht mit mir reden. Sie weiß, dass niemand das will." So stand mehrere Wochen eine Barriere zwischen ihnen. Wenn sie sich zufällig trafen, schaute Sara weg und Ermengarde fühlte sich zu steif und verlegen, um zu sprechen. Manchmal nickten sie sich bei Begegnungen nur zu, aber es gab auch Zeiten, in denen sie sich nicht einmal grüßten. "Wenn sie lieber nicht mit mir sprechen will", dachte Sara, "werde ich ihren Weg meiden. Miss Minchin macht das leicht genug." Miss Minchin machte es wirklich so einfach, dass sie sich schließlich fast gar nicht mehr sahen. Zu dieser Zeit bemerkte man, dass Ermengarde dümmer als je zuvor war und dass sie müde und unglücklich aussah. Sie saß in der Fensternische zusammengesunken und starrte ohne ein Wort nach draußen. Einmal blieb Jessie stehen und betrachtete sie mit Neugier. "Wieso weinst du, Ermengarde?", fragte sie. "Ich weine nicht", antwortete Ermengarde mit gedämpfter, unsicherer Stimme. "Doch, tust du", sagte Jessie. "Eine dicke Träne rollte gerade über die Nasenwurzel und tropfte am Ende davon ab. Und da geht eine weitere." "Nun", sagte Ermengarde, "ich bin elend - und niemand braucht sich einzumischen." Und sie drehte sich mit ihrem kugelrunden Rücken um, holte ihr Taschentuch heraus und verbarg entschlossen ihr Gesicht darin. An diesem Abend war Sara später als gewöhnlich in ihrer Dachkammer. Sie musste bis nach der Bettzeit der Schülerinnen arbeiten und danach hatte sie ihren Unterricht im einsamen Klassenzimmer. Als sie die Treppe hinaufging, war sie überrascht, einen schwachen Lichtschein unter der Dachkammertür zu sehen. "Niemand außer mir geht dort hin", dachte sie schnell, "aber jemand hat eine Kerze angezündet." Tatsächlich hatte jemand eine Kerze angezündet und sie brannte nicht im Kerzenhalter in der Küche, den sie hätte benutzen sollen, sondern in einem derer, die den Schülerinnen-Schlafzimmern gehörten. Die Person saß auf dem ramponierten Schemel und war in ihr Nachthemd gehüllt und mit einem roten Schal umwickelt. Es war Ermengarde. "Ermengarde!" rief Sara. Sie war so erschrocken, dass sie fast Angst hatte. "Du wirst Är "Oh, Sara", stöhnte Ermengarde fast jammernd in ihrem vorwurfsvollen Erstaunen. Und dann stürzten sie sich nach einem weiteren Blick in die Arme des anderen. Es muss zugegeben werden, dass Saras kleiner schwarzer Kopf einige Minuten lang auf der von dem roten Tuch bedeckten Schulter lag. Als Ermengarde sie zu verlassen schien, fühlte sie sich schrecklich einsam. Danach setzten sie sich zusammen auf den Boden, Sara hielt ihre Knie mit den Armen umklammert, und Ermengarde wickelte sich in ihr Tuch ein. Ermengarde betrachtete das eigentümliche, großäugige kleine Gesicht voller Liebe. "Ich konnte es nicht mehr ertragen", sagte sie. "Ich nehme an, du könntest ohne mich leben, Sara, aber ich könnte ohne dich nicht leben. Ich war fast TOT. Deshalb dachte ich heute Abend, als ich unter der Bettwäsche weinte, plötzlich daran, hier heraufzukriechen und dich einfach zu bitten, dass wir wieder Freunde sein dürfen." "Du bist netter als ich", sagte Sara. "Ich war zu stolz, um es zu versuchen, Freunde zu finden. Siehst du, jetzt, da Prüfungen gekommen sind, haben sie gezeigt, dass ich KEIN nettes Kind bin. Ich hatte Angst, dass sie das tun würden. Vielleicht", und sie runzelte ihre Stirn weise, "ist das der Grund, warum sie geschickt wurden." "Ich sehe darin keinen Nutzen", sagte Ermengarde standhaft. "Ich auch nicht - um die Wahrheit zu sagen", gab Sara offen zu. "Aber ich nehme an, dass es Gutes in Dingen geben könnte, auch wenn wir es nicht sehen. Es könnte", mit Zweifel in der Stimme, "gutes an Miss Minchin geben." Ermengarde schaute mit einer beängstigenden Neugierde im Dachboden umher. "Sara", sagte sie, "glaubst du, du kannst es hier aushalten?" Auch Sara schaute sich um. "Wenn ich so tue, als wäre es ganz anders, kann ich das", antwortete sie. "Oder wenn ich so tue, als wäre es ein Ort in einer Geschichte." Sie sprach langsam. Ihre Fantasie begann für sie zu arbeiten, seit ihre Probleme anfingen. Sie hatte das Gefühl, als wäre sie betäubt gewesen. "Andere Leute haben in schlimmeren Orten gelebt. Denke an den Grafen von Monte Cristo in den Kerkern des Chateau d'If. Und denke an die Menschen in der Bastille!" "Die Bastille", flüsterte Ermengarde halblaut und wurde fasziniert. Sie erinnerte sich an Geschichten über die Französische Revolution, die Sara durch ihre dramatische Erzählung in ihrem Gedächtnis festhalten konnte. Nur Sara konnte das. Ein bekannter Glanz trat in Saras Augen. "Ja", sagte sie und umarmte ihre Knie, "das wird ein guter Ort zum Tun vorgeben sein. Ich bin eine Gefangene in der Bastille. Ich bin hier seit Jahren und Jahren - und Jahren; und jeder hat mich vergessen. Miss Minchin ist die Aufseherin - und Becky", ein plötzliches Licht fügte sich dem Glanz in ihren Augen hinzu, "Becky ist die Gefangene in der nächsten Zelle." Sie wandte sich an Ermengarde und sah ganz wie die alte Sara aus. "Das werde ich so tun", sagte sie, "und es wird ein großer Trost sein." Ermengarde war sofort begeistert und ehrfürchtig. "Und erzählst du mir alles darüber?", sagte sie. "Darf ich nachts heraufkriechen, wann immer es sicher ist, und die Dinge hören, die du dir am Tag ausgedacht hast? Es wird so scheinen, als wären wir noch "beste Freunde"." "Ja", antwortete Sara nickend. "Schwierigkeiten prüfen die Menschen, und meine haben dich geprüft und gezeigt, wie nett du bist." Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Sara ist offensichtlich fertig, aber Miss Minchin möchte, dass sie einfach weitermacht. Sie schickt Mariette weg und nimmt all von Saras schönem Zeug mit und sagt ihr dann, dass sie bei den jüngeren Kindern sitzen soll, um auf sie aufzupassen und sie ruhig zu halten. Also wird Sara sozusagen ein weiteres Dienstmädchen in Miss Minchins Schule, das den Kindern bei ihren Lektionen hilft, Botengänge erledigt und allerlei andere Dinge tut. Hat hier niemand von den Gesetzen über Kinderarbeit gehört?! Als Dienstmädchen hat Sara kaum noch Zeit, mit ihren Freunden zu sprechen, und viele der Mädchen, mit denen sie früher abhing, behandeln sie anders. Lavinia natürlich ist begeistert. Sara beschwert sich nicht und arbeitet sehr hart und kämpft sich durch. Glücklicherweise hat sie gute Freunde. Nachts tröstet sich Sara damit, dass Becky auf der anderen Seite der Wand ist und immer da ist, um sicherzustellen, dass es ihr gut geht. Ihre Beziehung zu Ermengarde ist ein bisschen komplizierter; zuerst ist es unangenehm, weil Sara annimmt, dass Ermengarde sie wie die anderen Mädchen meidet. Dann eines Nachts geht Sara in den Dachboden, um schlafen zu gehen, und sieht, dass Licht unter ihrer Tür hervorkommt - gruselig! Als sie sie öffnet, steht Ermengarde davor. Ermengarde stellt Sara zur Rede und fragt sie, warum sie sie nicht mehr mag - und Sara erkennt, dass sie einen ziemlich dummen Fehler gemacht hat. Sie hatte angenommen, dass Ermengarde sie verurteilt und meidet, aber in Wirklichkeit hat sie Ermengarde gemieden. Die Mädchen versöhnen sich und Sara sagt, dass sie so tut, als sei sie eine Gefangene in der Bastille, wenn sie im Dachboden eingesperrt ist. Ermengarde fragt, ob sie manchmal nachts hochkommen kann, um Saras Geschichten zu hören. Natürlich!

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

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Die Szene findet im Haus von Caesar während einer Nacht mit Donner und Blitz statt, und Caesar kommentiert das stürmische Wetter und Calphurnias Traum von seiner Ermordung. Er schickt einen Diener, um seine Auguren, Männer, die dazu bestimmt sind, Zeichen zu interpretieren und die Götter zu besänftigen, zu beauftragen, ein Opfer darzubringen. Calphurnia tritt ein und bittet Caesar inständig, an diesem Tag nicht das Haus zu verlassen. Sie beschreibt die unnatürlichen Phänomene, die sie dazu gebracht haben, an die Gültigkeit von Omen zu glauben. Caesar antwortet, dass niemand die Pläne der Götter ändern kann und dass er hinausgehen wird. Als Calphurnia sagt, dass der Himmel den Tod von Prinzen, nicht von Bettlern, verkündet, argumentiert Caesar, dass die Angst vor dem Tod sinnlos ist, weil die Menschen seiner Unvermeidlichkeit nicht entgehen können. Der Diener kehrt mit der Information zurück, dass die Priester vorschlagen, dass Caesar heute zu Hause bleiben soll, weil sie kein Herz im geopferten Tier gefunden haben. Caesar lehnt ihre Interpretation ab, aber Calphurnia überredet ihn schließlich, zu Hause zu bleiben und Antony den Senatoren mitzuteilen, dass er krank ist. Decius tritt dann ein, und Caesar beschließt, ihm die Botschaft zu übergeben; Decius fragt, welchen Grund er den Senatoren für Caesar's Nichterscheinen bei der heutigen Sitzung geben soll, und Caesar sagt, er solle ihnen einfach sagen, dass er "nicht kommen wird. / Das reicht aus, um den Senat zufrieden zu stellen." Privat gibt er jedoch Decius zu, dass es wegen Calphurnias Traum ist, in dem viele "lächelnde Römer" ihre Hände in Blut tauchten, das von einer Statue von ihm floss. Decius, der sich der Schmeichelei bewusst ist, der Caesar erliegt, interpretiert den Traum neu und sagt, dass Calphurnias Traum symbolisch für das Blut von Caesar ist, das Rom wieder belebt; die lächelnden Römer suchen besondere Vitalität vom großartigen Caesar. Als Decius vorschlägt, dass der Senat Caesar verspotten wird, weil er von den Träumen seiner Frau regiert wird, empfindet Caesar Schande darüber, dass er von Calphurnias törichten Ängsten beeinflusst wurde. Er erklärt, dass er zum Kapitol gehen wird. Publius und die übrigen Verschwörer - alle außer Cassius - treten ein, und Brutus erinnert Caesar daran, dass es nach acht Uhr ist. Caesar heißt Antony herzlich willkommen und kommentiert seine Gewohnheit, bis spät in die Nacht zu feiern. Caesar macht sich dann bereit zu gehen und bittet Trebonius darum, "in meiner Nähe" zu sein, um etwas Geschäftliches zu erledigen. Trebonius stimmt zu und erklärt in einem Nebensatz, dass er näher sein wird, als Caesars "beste Freunde" es wünschen würden. In einem weiteren Nebensatz trauert Brutus, als er erkennt, dass alle vermeintlichen Freunde von Caesar keine wahren Freunde 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. "Where do you think he got it from?" she asked. "I don't know. The doctor said he's been in a bit of a mess lately. His wife left him, apparently." Clara sighed and looked away. "I feel sorry for him," she admitted quietly. "Me too," Paul replied. "It's strange how we're connected, even after everything." They sat in silence for a while, both lost in their own thoughts. The weight of the past hung heavy on them. "Do you think we should help him?" Clara finally asked. Paul hesitated for a moment. "I don't know," he said. "But I think I'll try to visit him again. Maybe it will help us both." Clara nodded, understanding his need to find closure in this strange connection they shared. "I'll go with you," she said softly. And so, amidst the vibrant colors of the Castle grounds, they made a silent promise to confront their past and find a way to move forward together. She went about shut up and silent. The next time they took a walk together, she disengaged herself from his arm, and walked at a distance from him. He was wanting her comfort badly. "Won't you be nice with me?" he asked. She did not answer. "What's the matter?" he said, putting his arm across her shoulder. "Don't!" she said, disengaging herself. He left her alone, and returned to his own brooding. "Is it Baxter that upsets you?" he asked at length. "I HAVE been VILE to him!" she said. "I've said many a time you haven't treated him well," he replied. And there was a hostility between them. Each pursued his own train of thought. "I've treated him--no, I've treated him badly," she said. "And now you treat ME badly. It serves me right." "How do I treat you badly?" he said. "It serves me right," she repeated. "I never considered him worth having, and now you don't consider ME. But it serves me right. He loved me a thousand times better than you ever did." "He didn't!" protested Paul. "He did! At any rate, he did respect me, and that's what you don't do." "It looked as if he respected you!" he said. "He did! And I MADE him horrid--I know I did! You've taught me that. And he loved me a thousand times better than ever you do." "All right," said Paul. He only wanted to be left alone now. He had his own trouble, which was almost too much to bear. Clara only tormented him and made him tired. He was not sorry when he left her. She went on the first opportunity to Sheffield to see her husband. The meeting was not a success. But she left him roses and fruit and money. She wanted to make restitution. It was not that she loved him. As she looked at him lying there her heart did not warm with love. Only she wanted to humble herself to him, to kneel before him. She wanted now to be self-sacrificial. After all, she had failed to make Morel really love her. She was morally frightened. She wanted to do penance. So she kneeled to Dawes, and it gave him a subtle pleasure. But the distance between them was still very great--too great. It frightened the man. It almost pleased the woman. She liked to feel she was serving him across an insuperable distance. She was proud now. Morel went to see Dawes once or twice. There was a sort of friendship between the two men, who were all the while deadly rivals. But they never mentioned the woman who was between them. Mrs. Morel got gradually worse. At first they used to carry her downstairs, sometimes even into the garden. She sat propped in her chair, smiling, and so pretty. The gold wedding-ring shone on her white hand; her hair was carefully brushed. And she watched the tangled sunflowers dying, the chrysanthemums coming out, and the dahlias. Paul and she were afraid of each other. He knew, and she knew, that she was dying. But they kept up a pretence of cheerfulness. Every morning, when he got up, he went into her room in his pyjamas. "Did you sleep, my dear?" he asked. "Yes," she answered. "Not very well?" "Well, yes!" Then he knew she had lain awake. He saw her hand under the bedclothes, pressing the place on her side where the pain was. "Has it been bad?" he asked. "No. It hurt a bit, but nothing to mention." And she sniffed in her old scornful way. As she lay she looked like a girl. And all the while her blue eyes watched him. But there were the dark pain-circles beneath that made him ache again. "It's a sunny day," he said. "It's a beautiful day." "Do you think you'll be carried down?" "I shall see." Then he went away to get her breakfast. All day long he was conscious of nothing but her. It was a long ache that made him feverish. Then, when he got home in the early evening, he glanced through the kitchen window. She was not there; she had not got up. He ran straight upstairs and kissed her. He was almost afraid to ask: "Didn't you get up, pigeon?" "No," she said, "it was that morphia; it made me tired." "I think he gives you too much," he said. "I think he does," she answered. He sat down by the bed, miserably. She had a way of curling and lying on her side, like a child. The grey and brown hair was loose over her ear. "Doesn't it tickle you?" he said, gently putting it back. "It does," she replied. His face was near hers. Her blue eyes smiled straight into his, like a girl's--warm, laughing with tender love. It made him pant with terror, agony, and love. "You want your hair doing in a plait," he said. "Lie still." And going behind her, he carefully loosened her hair, brushed it out. It was like fine long silk of brown and grey. Her head was snuggled between her shoulders. As he lightly brushed and plaited her hair, he bit his lip and felt dazed. It all seemed unreal, he could not understand it. At night he often worked in her room, looking up from time to time. And so often he found her blue eyes fixed on him. And when their eyes met, she smiled. He worked away again mechanically, producing good stuff without knowing what he was doing. Sometimes he came in, very pale and still, with watchful, sudden eyes, like a man who is drunk almost to death. They were both afraid of the veils that were ripping between them. Then she pretended to be better, chattered to him gaily, made a great fuss over some scraps of news. For they had both come to the condition when they had to make much of the trifles, lest they should give in to the big thing, and their human independence would go smash. They were afraid, so they made light of things and were gay. Sometimes as she lay he knew she was thinking of the past. Her mouth gradually shut hard in a line. She was holding herself rigid, so that she might die without ever uttering the great cry that was tearing from her. He never forgot that hard, utterly lonely and stubborn clenching of her mouth, which persisted for weeks. Sometimes, when it was lighter, she talked about her husband. Now she hated him. She did not forgive him. She could not bear him to be in the room. And a few things, the things that had been most bitter to her, came up again so strongly that they broke from her, and she told her son. He felt as if his life were being destroyed, piece by piece, within him. Often the tears came suddenly. He ran to the station, the tear-drops falling on the pavement. Often he could not go on with his work. The pen stopped writing. He sat staring, quite unconscious. And when he came round again he felt sick, and trembled in his limbs. He never questioned what it was. His mind did not try to analyse or understand. He merely submitted, and kept his eyes shut; let the thing go over him. His mother did the same. She thought of the pain, of the morphia, of the next day; hardly ever of the death. That was coming, she knew. She had to submit to it. But she would never entreat it or make friends with it. Blind, with her face shut hard and blind, she was pushed towards the door. The days passed, the weeks, the months. Sometimes, in the sunny afternoons, she seemed almost happy. "I try to think of the nice times--when we went to Mablethorpe, and Robin Hood's Bay, and Shanklin," she said. "After all, not everybody has seen those beautiful places. And wasn't it beautiful! I try to think of that, not of the other things." Then, again, for a whole evening she spoke not a word; neither did he. They were together, rigid, stubborn, silent. He went into his room at last to go to bed, and leaned against the doorway as if paralysed, unable to go any farther. His consciousness went. A furious storm, he knew not what, seemed to ravage inside him. He stood leaning there, submitting, never questioning. In the morning they were both normal again, though her face was grey with the morphia, and her body felt like ash. But they were bright again, nevertheless. Often, especially if Annie or Arthur were at home, he neglected her. He did not see much of Clara. Usually he was with men. He was quick and active and lively; but when his friends saw him go white to the gills, his eyes dark and glittering, they had a certain mistrust of him. Sometimes he went to Clara, but she was almost cold to him. "Take me!" he said simply. Occasionally she would. But she was afraid. When he had her then, there was something in it that made her shrink away from him--something unnatural. She grew to dread him. He was so quiet, yet so strange. She was afraid of the man who was not there with her, whom she could feel behind this make-belief lover; somebody sinister, that filled her with horror. She began to have a kind of horror of him. It was almost as if he were a criminal. He wanted her--he had her--and it made her feel as if death itself had her in its grip. She lay in horror. There was no man there loving her. She almost hated him. Then came little bouts of tenderness. But she dared not pity him. Dawes had come to Colonel Seely's Home near Nottingham. There Paul visited him sometimes, Clara very occasionally. Between the two men the friendship developed peculiarly. Dawes, who mended very slowly and seemed very feeble, seemed to leave himself in the hands of Morel. In the beginning of November Clara reminded Paul that it was her birthday. "I'd nearly forgotten," he said. "I'd thought quite," she replied. "No. Shall we go to the seaside for the week-end?" They went. It was cold and rather dismal. She waited for him to be warm and tender with her, instead of which he seemed hardly aware of her. He sat in the railway-carriage, looking out, and was startled when she spoke to him. He was not definitely thinking. Things seemed as if they did not exist. She went across to him. "What is it dear?" she asked. "Nothing!" he said. "Don't those windmill sails look monotonous?" He sat holding her hand. He could not talk nor think. It was a comfort, however, to sit holding her hand. She was dissatisfied and miserable. He was not with her; she was nothing. And in the evening they sat among the sandhills, looking at the black, heavy sea. "She will never give in," he said quietly. Clara's heart sank. "No," she replied. "There are different ways of dying. My father's people are frightened, and have to be hauled out of life into death like cattle into a slaughter-house, pulled by the neck; but my mother's people are pushed from behind, inch by inch. They are stubborn people, and won't die." "Yes," said Clara. "And she won't die. She can't. Mr. Renshaw, the parson, was in the other day. 'Think!' he said to her; 'you will have your mother and father, and your sisters, and your son, in the Other Land.' And she said: 'I have done without them for a long time, and CAN do without them now. It is the living I want, not the dead.' She wants to live even now." "Oh, how horrible!" said Clara, too frightened to speak. "And she looks at me, and she wants to stay with me," he went on monotonously. "She's got such a will, it seems as if she would never go--never!" "Don't think of it!" cried Clara. "And she was religious--she is religious now--but it is no good. She simply won't give in. And do you know, I said to her on Thursday: 'Mother, if I had to die, I'd die. I'd WILL to die.' And she said to me, sharp: 'Do you think I haven't? Do you think you can die when you like?'" His voice ceased. He did not cry, only went on speaking monotonously. Clara wanted to run. She looked round. There was the black, re-echoing shore, the dark sky down on her. She got up terrified. She wanted to be where there was light, where there were other people. She wanted to be away from him. He sat with his head dropped, not moving a muscle. "And I don't want her to eat," he said, "and she knows it. When I ask her: 'Shall you have anything' she's almost afraid to say 'Yes.' 'I'll have a cup of Benger's,' she says. 'It'll only keep your strength up,' I said to her. 'Yes'--and she almost cried--'but there's such a gnawing when I eat nothing, I can't bear it.' So I went and made her the food. It's the cancer that gnaws like that at her. I wish she'd die!" "Come!" said Clara roughly. "I'm going." He followed her down the darkness of the sands. He did not come to her. He seemed scarcely aware of her existence. And she was afraid of him, and disliked him. In the same acute daze they went back to Nottingham. He was always busy, always doing something, always going from one to the other of his friends. On the Monday he went to see Baxter Dawes. Listless and pale, the man rose to greet the other, clinging to his chair as he held out his hand. "You shouldn't get up," said Paul. Dawes sat down heavily, eyeing Morel with a sort of suspicion. "Don't you waste your time on me," he said, "if you've owt better to do." "I wanted to come," said Paul. "Here! I brought you some sweets." The invalid put them aside. "It's not been much of a week-end," said Morel. "How's your mother?" asked the other. "Hardly any different." "I thought she was perhaps worse, being as you didn't come on Sunday." "I was at Skegness," said Paul. "I wanted a change." The other looked at him with dark eyes. He seemed to be waiting, not quite daring to ask, trusting to be told. "I went with Clara," said Paul. "I knew as much," said Dawes quietly. "It was an old promise," said Paul. "You have it your own way," said Dawes. This was the first time Clara had been definitely mentioned between them. "Nay," said Morel slowly; "she's tired of me." Again Dawes looked at him. "Since August she's been getting tired of me," Morel repeated. The two men were very quiet together. Paul suggested a game of draughts. They played in silence. "I s'll go abroad when my mother's dead," said Paul. "Abroad!" repeated Dawes. "Yes; I don't care what I do." They continued the game. Dawes was winning. "I s'll have to begin a new start of some sort," said Paul; "and you as well, I suppose." He took one of Dawes's pieces. "I dunno where," said the other. "Things have to happen," Morel said. "It's no good doing anything--at least--no, I don't know. Give me some toffee." The two men ate sweets, and began another game of draughts. "What made that scar on your mouth?" asked Dawes. Paul put his hand hastily to his lips, and looked over the garden. "I had a bicycle accident," he said. Dawes's hand trembled as he moved the piece. "You shouldn't ha' laughed at me," he said, very low. "When?" "That night on Woodborough Road, when you and her passed me--you with your hand on her shoulder." "I never laughed at you," said Paul. Dawes kept his fingers on the draught-piece. "I never knew you were there till the very second when you passed," said Morel. "It was that as did me," Dawes said, very low. Paul took another sweet. "I never laughed," he said, "except as I'm always laughing." They finished the game. That night Morel walked home from Nottingham, in order to have something to do. The furnaces flared in a red blotch over Bulwell; the black clouds were like a low ceiling. As he went along the ten miles of highroad, he felt as if he were walking out of life, between the black levels of the sky and the earth. But at the end was only the sick-room. If he walked and walked for ever, there was only that place to come to. He was not tired when he got near home, or He did not know it. Across the field he could see the red firelight leaping in her bedroom window. "When she's dead," he said to himself, "that fire will go out." He took off his boots quietly and crept upstairs. His mothers door was wide open, because she slept alone still. The red firelight dashed its glow on the landing. Soft as a shadow, he peeped in her doorway. "Paul!" she murmured. His heart seemed to break again. He went in and sat by the bed. "How late you are!" she murmured. "Not very," he said. "Why, what time is it?" The murmur came plaintive and helpless. "It's only just gone eleven." That was not true; it was nearly one o'clock. "Oh!" she said; "I thought it was later." And he knew the unutterable misery of her nights that would not go. "Can't you sleep, my pigeon?" he said. "No, I can't," she wailed. "Never mind, Little!" He said crooning. "Never mind, my love. I'll stop with you half an hour, my pigeon; then perhaps it will be better." And he sat by the bedside, slowly, rhythmically stroking her brows with his finger-tips, stroking her eyes shut, soothing her, holding her fingers in his free hand. They could hear the sleepers' breathing in the other rooms. "Now go to bed," she murmured, lying quite still under his fingers and his love. "Will you sleep?" he asked. "Yes, I think so." "You feel better, my Little, don't you?" "Yes," she said, like a fretful, half-soothed child. Still the days and the weeks went by. He hardly ever went to see Clara now. But he wandered restlessly from one person to another for some help, and there was none anywhere. Miriam had written to him tenderly. He went to see her. Her heart was very sore when she saw him, white, gaunt, with his eyes dark and bewildered. Her pity came up, hurting her till she could not bear it. "How is she?" she asked. "The same--the same!" he said. "The doctor says she can't last, but I know she will. She'll be here at Christmas." Miriam shuddered. She drew him to her; she pressed him to her bosom; she kissed him and kissed him. He submitted, but it was torture. She could not kiss his agony. That remained alone and apart. She kissed his face, and roused his blood, while his soul was apart writhing with the agony of death. And she kissed him and fingered his body, till at last, feeling he would go mad, he got away from her. It was not what he wanted just then--not that. And she thought she had soothed him and done him good. December came, and some snow. He stayed at home all the while now. They could not afford a nurse. Annie came to look after her mother; the parish nurse, whom they loved, came in morning and evening. Paul shared the nursing with Annie. Often, in the evenings, when friends were in the kitchen with them, they all laughed together and shook with laughter. It was reaction. Paul was so comical, Annie was so quaint. The whole party laughed till they cried, trying to subdue the sound. And Mrs. Morel, lying alone in the darkness heard them, and among her bitterness was a feeling of relief. Then Paul would go upstairs gingerly, guiltily, to see if she had heard. "Shall I give you some milk?" he asked. "A little," she replied plaintively. And he would put some water with it, so that it should not nourish her. Yet he loved her more than his own life. She had morphia every night, and her heart got fitful. Annie slept beside her. Paul would go in in the early morning, when his sister got up. His mother was wasted and almost ashen in the morning with the morphia. Darker and darker grew her eyes, all pupil, with the torture. In the mornings the weariness and ache were too much to bear. Yet she could not--would not--weep, or even complain much. "You slept a bit later this morning, little one," he would say to her. "Did I?" she answered, with fretful weariness. "Yes; it's nearly eight o'clock." He stood looking out of the window. The whole country was bleak and pallid under the snow. Then he felt her pulse. There was a strong stroke and a weak one, like a sound and its echo. That was supposed to betoken the end. She let him feel her wrist, knowing what he wanted. Sometimes they looked in each other's eyes. Then they almost seemed to make an agreement. It was almost as if he were agreeing to die also. But she did not consent to die; she would not. Her body was wasted to a fragment of ash. Her eyes were dark and full of torture. "Can't you give her something to put an end to it?" he asked the doctor at last. But the doctor shook his head. "She can't last many days now, Mr. Morel," he said. Paul went indoors. "I can't bear it much longer; we shall all go mad," said Annie. The two sat down to breakfast. "Go and sit with her while we have breakfast, Minnie," said Annie. But the girl was frightened. Paul went through the country, through the woods, over the snow. He saw the marks of rabbits and birds in the white snow. He wandered miles and miles. A smoky red sunset came on slowly, painfully, lingering. He thought she would die that day. There was a donkey that came up to him over the snow by the wood's edge, and put its head against him, and walked with him alongside. He put his arms round the donkey's neck, and stroked his cheeks against his ears. His mother, silent, was still alive, with her hard mouth gripped grimly, her eyes of dark torture only living. It was nearing Christmas; there was more snow. Annie and he felt as if they could go on no more. Still her dark eyes were alive. Morel, silent and frightened, obliterated himself. Sometimes he would go into the sick-room and look at her. Then he backed out, bewildered. She kept her hold on life still. The miners had been out on strike, and returned a fortnight or so before Christmas. Minnie went upstairs with the feeding-cup. It was two days after the men had been in. "Have the men been saying their hands are sore, Minnie?" she asked, in the faint, querulous voice that would not give in. Minnie stood surprised. "Not as I know of, Mrs. Morel," she answered. "But I'll bet they are sore," said the dying woman, as she moved her head with a sigh of weariness. "But, at any rate, there'll be something to buy in with this week." Not a thing did she let slip. "Your father's pit things will want well airing, Annie," she said, when the men were going back to work. "Don't you bother about that, my dear," said Annie. One night Annie and Paul were alone. Nurse was upstairs. "She'll live over Christmas," said Annie. They were both full of horror. "She won't," he replied grimly. "I s'll give her morphia." "Which?" said Annie. "All that came from Sheffield," said Paul. "Ay--do!" said Annie. The next day he was painting in the bedroom. She seemed to be asleep. He stepped softly backwards and forwards at his painting. Suddenly her small voice wailed: "Don't walk about, Paul." He looked round. Her eyes, like dark bubbles in her face, were looking at him. "No, my dear," he said gently. Another fibre seemed to snap in his heart. That evening he got all the morphia pills there were, and took them downstairs. Carefully he crushed them to powder. "What are you doing?" said Annie. "I s'll put 'em in her night milk." Then they both laughed together like two conspiring children. On top of all their horror flicked this little sanity. Nurse did not come that night to settle Mrs. Morel down. Paul went up with the hot milk in a feeding-cup. It was nine o'clock. She was reared up in bed, and he put the feeding-cup between her lips that he would have died to save from any hurt. She took a sip, then put the spout of the cup away and looked at him with her dark, wondering eyes. He looked at her. "Oh, it IS bitter, Paul!" she said, making a little grimace. "It's a new sleeping draught the doctor gave me for you," he said. "He thought it would leave you in such a state in the morning." "And I hope it won't," she said, like a child. She drank some more of the milk. "But it IS horrid!" she said. He saw her frail fingers over the cup, her lips making a little move. "I know--I tasted it," he said. "But I'll give you some clean milk afterwards." "I think so," she said, and she went on with the draught. She was obedient to him like a child. He wondered if she knew. He saw her poor wasted throat moving as she drank with difficulty. Then he ran downstairs for more milk. There were no grains in the bottom of the cup. "Has she had it?" whispered Annie. "Yes--and she said it was bitter." "Oh!" laughed Annie, putting her under lip between her teeth. "And I told her it was a new draught. Where's that milk?" They both went upstairs. "I wonder why nurse didn't come to settle me down?" complained the mother, like a child, wistfully. "She said she was going to a concert, my love," replied Annie. "Did she?" They were silent a minute. Mrs. Morel gulped the little clean milk. "Annie, that draught WAS horrid!" she said plaintively. "Was it, my love? Well, never mind." The mother sighed again with weariness. Her pulse was very irregular. "Let US settle you down," said Annie. "Perhaps nurse will be so late." "Ay," said the mother--"try." They turned the clothes back. Paul saw his mother like a girl curled up in her flannel nightdress. Quickly they made one half of the bed, moved her, made the other, straightened her nightgown over her small feet, and covered her up. "There," said Paul, stroking her softly. "There!--now you'll sleep." "Yes," she said. "I didn't think you could do the bed so nicely," she added, almost gaily. Then she curled up, with her cheek on her hand, her head snugged between her shoulders. Paul put the long thin plait of grey hair over her shoulder and kissed her. "You'll sleep, my love," he said. "Yes," she answered trustfully. "Good-night." They put out the light, and it was still. Morel was in bed. Nurse did not come. Annie and Paul came to look at her at about eleven. She seemed to be sleeping as usual after her draught. Her mouth had come a bit open. "Shall we sit up?" said Paul. "I s'll lie with her as I always do," said Annie. "She might wake up." "All right. And call me if you see any difference." "Yes." They lingered before the bedroom fire, feeling the night big and black and snowy outside, their two selves alone in the world. At last he went into the next room and went to bed. He slept almost immediately, but kept waking every now and again. Then he went sound asleep. He started awake at Annie's whispered, "Paul, Paul!" He saw his sister in her white nightdress, with her long plait of hair down her back, standing in the darkness. "Yes?" he whispered, sitting up. "Come and look at her." He slipped out of bed. A bud of gas was burning in the sick chamber. His mother lay with her cheek on her hand, curled up as she had gone to sleep. But her mouth had fallen open, and she breathed with great, hoarse breaths, like snoring, and there were long intervals between. "She's going!" he whispered. "Yes," said Annie. "How long has she been like it?" "I only just woke up." Annie huddled into the dressing-gown, Paul wrapped himself in a brown blanket. It was three o'clock. He mended the fire. Then the two sat waiting. The great, snoring breath was taken--held awhile--then given back. There was a space--a long space. Then they started. The great, snoring breath was taken again. He bent close down and looked at her. "Isn't it awful!" whispered Annie. He nodded. They sat down again helplessly. Again came the great, snoring breath. Again they hung suspended. Again it was given back, long and harsh. The sound, so irregular, at such wide intervals, sounded through the house. Morel, in his room, slept on. Paul and Annie sat crouched, huddled, motionless. The great snoring sound began again--there was a painful pause while the breath was held--back came the rasping breath. Minute after minute passed. Paul looked at her again, bending low over her. "She may last like this," he said. They were both silent. He looked out of the window, and could faintly discern the snow on the garden. "You go to my bed," he said to Annie. "I'll sit up." "No," she said, "I'll stop with you." "I'd rather you didn't," he said. At last Annie crept out of the room, and he was alone. He hugged himself in his brown blanket, crouched in front of his mother, watching. She looked dreadful, with the bottom jaw fallen back. He watched. Sometimes he thought the great breath would never begin again. He could not bear it--the waiting. Then suddenly, startling him, came the great harsh sound. He mended the fire again, noiselessly. She must not be disturbed. The minutes went by. The night was going, breath by breath. Each time the sound came he felt it wring him, till at last he could not feel so much. His father got up. Paul heard the miner drawing his stockings on, yawning. Then Morel, in shirt and stockings, entered. "Hush!" said Paul. Morel stood watching. Then he looked at his son, helplessly, and in horror. "Had I better stop a-whoam?" he whispered. "No. Go to work. She'll last through to-morrow." "I don't think so." "Yes. Go to work." The miner looked at her again, in fear, and went obediently out of the room. Paul saw the tape of his garters swinging against his legs. After another half-hour Paul went downstairs and drank a cup of tea, then returned. Morel, dressed for the pit, came upstairs again. "Am I to go?" he said. "Yes." And in a few minutes Paul heard his father's heavy steps go thudding over the deadening snow. Miners called in the streets as they tramped in gangs to work. The terrible, long-drawn breaths continued--heave--heave--heave; then a long pause--then--ah-h-h-h-h! as it came back. Far away over the snow sounded the hooters of the ironworks. One after another they crowed and boomed, some small and far away, some near, the blowers of the collieries and the other works. Then there was silence. He mended the fire. The great breaths broke the silence--she looked just the same. He put back the blind and peered out. Still it was dark. Perhaps there was a lighter tinge. Perhaps the snow was bluer. He drew up the blind and got dressed. Then, shuddering, he drank brandy from the bottle on the wash-stand. The snow WAS growing blue. He heard a cart clanking down the street. Yes, it was seven o'clock, and it was coming a little bit light. He heard some people calling. The world was waking. A grey, deathly dawn crept over the snow. Yes, he could see the houses. He put out the gas. It seemed very dark. The breathing came still, but he was almost used to it. He could see her. She was just the same. He wondered if he piled heavy clothes on top of her it would stop. He looked at her. That was not her--not her a bit. If he piled the blanket and heavy coats on her-- Suddenly the door opened, and Annie entered. She looked at him questioningly. "Just the same," he said calmly. They whispered together a minute, then he went downstairs to get breakfast. It was twenty to eight. Soon Annie came down. "Isn't it awful! Doesn't she look awful!" she whispered, dazed with horror. He nodded. "If she looks like that!" said Annie. "Drink some tea," he said. They went upstairs again. Soon the neighbours came with their frightened question: "How is she?" It went on just the same. She lay with her cheek in her hand, her mouth fallen open, and the great, ghastly snores came and went. At ten o'clock nurse came. She looked strange and woebegone. "Nurse," cried Paul, "she'll last like this for days?" "She can't, Mr. Morel," said nurse. "She can't." There was a silence. "Isn't it dreadful!" wailed the nurse. "Who would have thought she could stand it? Go down now, Mr. Morel, go down." At last, at about eleven o'clock, he went downstairs and sat in the neighbour's house. Annie was downstairs also. Nurse and Arthur were upstairs. Paul sat with his head in his hand. Suddenly Annie came flying across the yard crying, half mad: "Paul--Paul--she's gone!" In a second he was back in his own house and upstairs. She lay curled up and still, with her face on her hand, and nurse was wiping her mouth. They all stood back. He kneeled down, and put his face to hers and his arms round her: "My love--my love--oh, my love!" he whispered again and again. "My love--oh, my love!" Then he heard the nurse behind him, crying, saying: "She's better, Mr. Morel, she's better." When he took his face up from his warm, dead mother he went straight downstairs and began blacking his boots. There was a good deal to do, letters to write, and so on. The doctor came and glanced at her, and sighed. "Ay--poor thing!" he said, then turned away. "Well, call at the surgery about six for the certificate." The father came home from work at about four o'clock. He dragged silently into the house and sat down. Minnie bustled to give him his dinner. Tired, he laid his black arms on the table. There were swede turnips for his dinner, which he liked. Paul wondered if he knew. It was some time, and nobody had spoken. At last the son said: "You noticed the blinds were down?" Morel looked up. "No," he said. "Why--has she gone?" "Yes." "When wor that?" "About twelve this morning." "H'm!" The miner sat still for a moment, then began his dinner. It was as if nothing had happened. He ate his turnips in silence. Afterwards he washed and went upstairs to dress. The door of her room was shut. "Have you seen her?" Annie asked of him when he came down. "No," he said. In a little while he went out. Annie went away, and Paul called on the undertaker, the clergyman, the doctor, the registrar. It was a long business. He got back at nearly eight o'clock. The undertaker was coming soon to measure for the coffin. The house was empty except for her. He took a candle and went upstairs. The room was cold, that had been warm for so long. Flowers, bottles, plates, all sick-room litter was taken away; everything was harsh and austere. She lay raised on the bed, the sweep of the sheet from the raised feet was like a clean curve of snow, so silent. She lay like a maiden asleep. With his candle in his hand, he bent over her. She lay like a girl asleep and dreaming of her love. The mouth was a little open as if wondering from the suffering, but her face was young, her brow clear and white as if life had never touched it. He looked again at the eyebrows, at the small, winsome nose a bit on one side. She was young again. Only the hair as it arched so beautifully from her temples was mixed with silver, and the two simple plaits that lay on her shoulders were filigree of silver and brown. She would wake up. She would lift her eyelids. She was with him still. He bent and kissed her passionately. But there was coldness against his mouth. He bit his lips with horror. Looking at her, he felt he could never, never let her go. No! He stroked the hair from her temples. That, too, was cold. He saw the mouth so dumb and wondering at the hurt. Then he crouched on the floor, whispering to her: "Mother, mother!" He was still with her when the undertakers came, young men who had been to school with him. They touched her reverently, and in a quiet, businesslike fashion. They did not look at her. He watched jealously. He and Annie guarded her fiercely. They would not let anybody come to see her, and the neighbours were offended. After a while Paul went out of the house, and played cards at a friend's. It was midnight when he got back. His father rose from the couch as he entered, saying in a plaintive way: "I thought tha wor niver comin', lad." "I didn't think you'd sit up," said Paul. His father looked so forlorn. Morel had been a man without fear--simply nothing frightened him. Paul realised with a start that he had been afraid to go to bed, alone in the house with his dead. He was sorry. "I forgot you'd be alone, father," he said. "Dost want owt to eat?" asked Morel. "No." "Sithee--I made thee a drop o' hot milk. Get it down thee; it's cold enough for owt." Paul drank it. After a while Morel went to bed. He hurried past the closed door, and left his own door open. Soon the son came upstairs also. He went in to kiss her good-night, as usual. It was cold and dark. He wished they had kept her fire burning. Still she dreamed her young dream. But she would be cold. "My dear!" he whispered. "My dear!" And he did not kiss her, for fear she should be cold and strange to him. It eased him she slept so beautifully. He shut her door softly, not to wake her, and went to bed. In the morning Morel summoned his courage, hearing Annie downstairs and Paul coughing in the room across the landing. He opened her door, and went into the darkened room. He saw the white uplifted form in the twilight, but her he dared not see. Bewildered, too frightened to possess any of his faculties, he got out of the room again and left her. He never looked at her again. He had not seen her for months, because he had not dared to look. And she looked like his young wife again. "Have you seen her?" Annie asked of him sharply after breakfast. "Yes," he said. "And don't you think she looks nice?" "Yes." He went out of the house soon after. And all the time he seemed to be creeping aside to avoid it. Paul went about from place to place, doing the business of the death. He met Clara in Nottingham, and they had tea together in a cafe, when they were quite jolly again. She was infinitely relieved to find he did not take it tragically. Later, when the relatives began to come for the funeral, the affair became public, and the children became social beings. They put themselves aside. They buried her in a furious storm of rain and wind. The wet clay glistened, all the white flowers were soaked. Annie gripped his arm and leaned forward. Down below she saw a dark corner of William's coffin. The oak box sank steadily. She was gone. The rain poured in the grave. The procession of black, with its umbrellas glistening, turned away. The cemetery was deserted under the drenching cold rain. Paul went home and busied himself supplying the guests with drinks. His father sat in the kitchen with Mrs. Morel's relatives, "superior" people, and wept, and said what a good lass she'd been, and how he'd tried to do everything he could for her--everything. He had striven all his life to do what he could for her, and he'd nothing to reproach himself with. She was gone, but he'd done his best for her. He wiped his eyes with his white handkerchief. He'd nothing to reproach himself for, he repeated. All his life he'd done his best for her. And that was how he tried to dismiss her. He never thought of her personally. Everything deep in him he denied. Paul hated his father for sitting sentimentalising over her. He knew he would do it in the public-houses. For the real tragedy went on in Morel in spite of himself. Sometimes, later, he came down from his afternoon sleep, white and cowering. "I HAVE been dreaming of thy mother," he said in a small voice. "Have you, father? When I dream of her it's always just as she was when she was well. I dream of her often, but it seems quite nice and natural, as if nothing had altered." But Morel crouched in front of the fire in terror. The weeks passed half-real, not much pain, not much of anything, perhaps a little relief, mostly a _nuit blanche_. Paul went restless from place to place. For some months, since his mother had been worse, he had not made love to Clara. She was, as it were, dumb to him, rather distant. Dawes saw her very occasionally, but the two could not get an inch across the great distance between them. The three of them were drifting forward. Dawes mended very slowly. He was in the convalescent home at Skegness at Christmas, nearly well again. Paul went to the seaside for a few days. His father was with Annie in Sheffield. Dawes came to Paul's lodgings. His time in the home was up. The two men, between whom was such a big reserve, seemed faithful to each other. Dawes depended on Morel now. He knew Paul and Clara had practically separated. Two days after Christmas Paul was to go back to Nottingham. The evening before he sat with Dawes smoking before the fire. "You know Clara's coming down for the day to-morrow?" he said. The other man glanced at him. "Yes, you told me," he replied. Paul drank the remainder of his glass of whisky. "I told the landlady your wife was coming," he said. "Did you?" said Dawes, shrinking, but almost leaving himself in the other's hands. He got up rather stiffly, and reached for Morel's glass. "Let me fill you up," he said. Paul jumped up. "You sit still," he said. But Dawes, with rather shaky hand, continued to mix the drink. "Say when," he said. "Thanks!" replied the other. "But you've no business to get up." "It does me good, lad," replied Dawes. "I begin to think I'm right again, then." "You are about right, you know." "I am, certainly I am," said Dawes, nodding to him. "And Len says he can get you on in Sheffield." Dawes glanced at him again, with dark eyes that agreed with everything the other would say, perhaps a trifle dominated by him. "It's funny," said Paul, "starting again. I feel in a lot bigger mess than you." "In what way, lad?" "I don't know. I don't know. It's as if I was in a tangled sort of hole, rather dark and dreary, and no road anywhere." "I know--I understand it," Dawes said, nodding. "But you'll find it'll come all right." He spoke caressingly. "I suppose so," said Paul. Dawes knocked his pipe in a hopeless fashion. "You've not done for yourself like I have," he said. Morel saw the wrist and the white hand of the other man gripping the stem of the pipe and knocking out the ash, as if he had given up. "How old are you?" Paul asked. "Thirty-nine," replied Dawes, glancing at him. Those brown eyes, full of the consciousness of failure, almost pleading for reassurance, for someone to re-establish the man in himself, to warm him, to set him up firm again, troubled Paul. "You'll just be in your prime," said Morel. "You don't look as if much life had gone out of you." The brown eyes of the other flashed suddenly. "It hasn't," he said. "The go is there." Paul looked up and laughed. "We've both got plenty of life in us yet to make things fly," he said. The eyes of the two men met. They exchanged one look. Having recognised the stress of passion each in the other, they both drank their whisky. "Yes, begod!" said Dawes, breathless. There was a pause. "And I don't see," said Paul, "why you shouldn't go on where you left off." "What--" said Dawes, suggestively. "Yes--fit your old home together again." Dawes hid his face and shook his head. "Couldn't be done," he said, and looked up with an ironic smile. "Why? Because you don't want?" "Perhaps." They smoked in silence. Dawes showed his teeth as he bit his pipe stem. "You mean you don't want her?" asked Paul. Dawes stared up at the picture with a caustic expression on his face. "I hardly know," he said. The smoke floated softly up. "I believe she wants you," said Paul. "Do you?" replied the other, soft, satirical, abstract. "Yes. She never really hitched on to me--you were always there in the background. That's why she wouldn't get a divorce." Dawes continued to stare in a satirical fashion at the picture over the mantelpiece. "That's how women are with me," said Paul. "They want me like mad, but they don't want to belong to me. And she BELONGED to you all the time. I knew." The triumphant male came up in Dawes. He showed his teeth more distinctly. "Perhaps I was a fool," he said. "You were a big fool," said Morel. "But perhaps even THEN you were a bigger fool," said Dawes. There was a touch of triumph and malice in it. "Do you think so?" said Paul. They were silent for some time. "At any rate, I'm clearing out to-morrow," said Morel. "I see," answered Dawes. Then they did not talk any more. The instinct to murder each other had returned. They almost avoided each other. They shared the same bedroom. When they retired Dawes seemed abstract, thinking of something. He sat on the side of the bed in his shirt, looking at his legs. "Aren't you getting cold?" asked Morel. "I was lookin' at these legs," replied the other. "What's up with 'em? They look all right," replied Paul, from his bed. "They look all right. But there's some water in 'em yet." "And what about it?" "Come and look." Paul reluctantly got out of bed and went to look at the rather handsome legs of the other man that were covered with glistening, dark gold hair. "Look here," said Dawes, pointing to his shin. "Look at the water under here." "Where?" said Paul. The man pressed in his finger-tips. They left little dents that filled up slowly. "It's nothing," said Paul. "You feel," said Dawes. Paul tried with his fingers. It made little dents. "H'm!" he said. "Rotten, isn't it?" said Dawes. "Why? It's nothing much." "You're not much of a man with water in your legs." "I can't see as it makes any difference," said Morel. "I've got a weak chest." He returned to his own bed. "I suppose the rest of me's all right," said Dawes, and he put out the light. In the morning it was raining. Morel packed his bag. The sea was grey and shaggy and dismal. He seemed to be cutting himself off from life more and more. It gave him a wicked pleasure to do it. The two men were at the station. Clara stepped out of the train, and came along the platform, very erect and coldly composed. She wore a long coat and a tweed hat. Both men hated her for her composure. Paul shook hands with her at the barrier. Dawes was leaning against the bookstall, watching. His black overcoat was buttoned up to the chin because of the rain. He was pale, with almost a touch of nobility in his quietness. He came forward, limping slightly. "You ought to look better than this," she said. "Oh, I'm all right now." The three stood at a loss. She kept the two men hesitating near her. "Shall we go to the lodging straight off," said Paul, "or somewhere else?" "We may as well go home," said Dawes. Paul walked on the outside of the pavement, then Dawes, then Clara. They made polite conversation. The sitting-room faced the sea, whose tide, grey and shaggy, hissed not far off. Morel swung up the big arm-chair. "Sit down, Jack," he said. "I don't want that chair," said Dawes. "Sit down!" Morel repeated. Clara took off her things and laid them on the couch. She had a slight air of resentment. Lifting her hair with her fingers, she sat down, rather aloof and composed. Paul ran downstairs to speak to the landlady. "I should think you're cold," said Dawes to his wife. "Come nearer to the fire." "Thank you, I'm quite warm," she answered. She looked out of the window at the rain and at the sea. "When are you going back?" she asked. "Well, the rooms are taken until to-morrow, so he wants me to stop. He's going back to-night." "And then you're thinking of going to Sheffield?" "Yes." "Are you fit to start work?" "I'm going to start." "You've really got a place?" "Yes--begin on Monday." "You don't look fit." "Why don't I?" She looked again out of the window instead of answering. "And have you got lodgings in Sheffield?" "Yes." Again she looked away out of the window. The panes were blurred with streaming rain. "And can you manage all right?" she asked. "I s'd think so. I s'll have to!" They were silent when Morel returned. "I shall go by the four-twenty," he said as he entered. Nobody answered. "I wish you'd take your boots off," he said to Clara. "There's a pair of slippers of mine." "Thank you," she said. "They aren't wet." He put the slippers near her feet. She left them there. Morel sat down. Both the men seemed helpless, and each of them had a rather hunted look. But Dawes now carried himself quietly, seemed to yield himself, while Paul seemed to screw himself up. Clara thought she had never seen him look so small and mean. He was as if trying to get himself into the smallest possible compass. And as he went about arranging, and as he sat talking, there seemed something false about him and out of tune. Watching him unknown, she said to herself there was no stability about him. He was fine in his way, passionate, and able to give her drinks of pure life when he was in one mood. And now he looked paltry and insignificant. There was nothing stable about him. Her husband had more manly dignity. At any rate HE did not waft about with any wind. There was something evanescent about Morel, she thought, something shifting and false. He would never make sure ground for any woman to stand on. She despised him rather for his shrinking together, getting smaller. Her husband at least was manly, and when he was beaten gave in. But this other would never own to being beaten. He would shift round and round, prowl, get smaller. She despised him. And yet she watched him rather than Dawes, and it seemed as if their three fates lay in his hands. She hated him for it. She seemed to understand better now about men, and what they could or would do. She was less afraid of them, more sure of herself. That they were not the small egoists she had imagined them made her more comfortable. She had learned a good deal--almost as much as she wanted to learn. Her cup had been full. It was still as full as she could carry. On the whole, she would not be sorry when he was gone. They had dinner, and sat eating nuts and drinking by the fire. Not a serious word had been spoken. Yet Clara realised that Morel was withdrawing from the circle, leaving her the option to stay with her husband. It angered her. He was a mean fellow, after all, to take what he wanted and then give her back. She did not remember that she herself had had what she wanted, and really, at the bottom of her heart, wished to be given back. Paul felt crumpled up and lonely. His mother had really supported his life. He had loved her; they two had, in fact, faced the world together. Now she was gone, and for ever behind him was the gap in life, the tear in the veil, through which his life seemed to drift slowly, as if he were drawn towards death. He wanted someone of their own free initiative to help him. The lesser things he began to let go from him, for fear of this big thing, the lapse towards death, following in the wake of his beloved. Clara could not stand for him to hold on to. She wanted him, but not to understand him. He felt she wanted the man on top, not the real him that was in trouble. That would be too much trouble to her; he dared not give it her. She could not cope with him. It made him ashamed. So, secretly ashamed because he was in such a mess, because his own hold on life was so unsure, because nobody held him, feeling unsubstantial, shadowy, as if he did not count for much in this concrete world, he drew himself together smaller and smaller. He did not want to die; he would not give in. But he was not afraid of death. If nobody would help, he would go on alone. Dawes had been driven to the extremity of life, until he was afraid. He could go to the brink of death, he could lie on the edge and look in. Then, cowed, afraid, he had to crawl back, and like a beggar take what offered. There was a certain nobility in it. As Clara saw, he owned himself beaten, and he wanted to be taken back whether or not. That she could do for him. It was three o'clock. "I am going by the four-twenty," said Paul again to Clara. "Are you coming then or later?" "I don't know," she said. "I'm meeting my father in Nottingham at seven-fifteen," he said. "Then," she answered, "I'll come later." Dawes jerked suddenly, as if he had been held on a strain. He looked out over the sea, but he saw nothing. "There are one or two books in the corner," said Morel. "I've done with 'em." At about four o'clock he went. "I shall see you both later," he said, as he shook hands. "I suppose so," said Dawes. "An' perhaps--one day--I s'll be able to pay you back the money as--" "I shall come for it, you'll see," laughed Paul. "I s'll be on the rocks before I'm very much older." "Ay--well--" said Dawes. "Good-bye," he said to Clara. "Good-bye," she said, giving him her hand. Then she glanced at him for the last time, dumb and humble. He was gone. Dawes and his wife sat down again. "It's a nasty day for travelling," said the man. "Yes," she answered. They talked in a desultory fashion until it grew dark. The landlady brought in the tea. Dawes drew up his chair to the table without being invited, like a husband. Then he sat humbly waiting for his cup. She served him as she would, like a wife, not consulting his wish. After tea, as it drew near to six o'clock, he went to the window. All was dark outside. The sea was roaring. "It's raining yet," he said. "Is it?" she answered. "You won't go to-night, shall you?" he said, hesitating. She did not answer. He waited. "I shouldn't go in this rain," he said. "Do you WANT me to stay?" she asked. His hand as he held the dark curtain trembled. "Yes," he said. He remained with his back to her. She rose and went slowly to him. He let go the curtain, turned, hesitating, towards her. She stood with her hands behind her back, looking up at him in a heavy, inscrutable fashion. "Do you want me, Baxter?" she asked. His voice was hoarse as he answered: "Do you want to come back to me?" She made a moaning noise, lifted her arms, and put them round his neck, drawing him to her. He hid his face on her shoulder, holding her clasped. "Take me back!" she whispered, ecstatic. "Take me back, take me back!" And she put her fingers through his fine, thin dark hair, as if she were only semi-conscious. He tightened his grasp on her. "Do you want me again?" he murmured, broken. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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Dr. Ansell erzählt Paul, dass Baxter Dawes im Fieberkrankenhaus in Sheffield ist und Paul beschließt, ihn zu besuchen. Paul sagt Dawes, dass er ihm ein Erholungsheim in Seathorpe empfehlen kann. Er erzählt Clara, dass er Dawes im Krankenhaus besucht hat und sie wird traurig und erkennt, dass sie ihren Mann schlecht behandelt hat. Sie geht zu ihm, um sich zu versöhnen, aber anfangs verstehen sie sich nicht gut. Paul besucht Dawes auch ein paar Mal und die beiden Männer beginnen eine Art Freundschaft aufzubauen. Paul verbringt jetzt nicht mehr viel Zeit mit Clara, weil er mit der Krankheit seiner Mutter beschäftigt ist. Mrs. Morel wird allmählich schlechter und Paul kümmert sich viel um sie. Als Clara ihn daran erinnert, dass es ihr Geburtstag ist, nimmt er sie mit ans Meer, redet aber die meiste Zeit über seine Mutter und wie er sich wünscht, dass sie sterben würde. Beim nächsten Treffen mit Dawes erwähnt Paul, dass er mit Clara zusammen war, und das ist das erste Mal, dass die beiden Männer von Clara sprechen. Er erzählt Dawes, dass er nach dem Tod seiner Mutter ins Ausland gehen wird. Die Zeit vergeht und Mrs. Morel bleibt gleich. Miriam schreibt Paul einen Brief und er besucht sie. Sie küsst ihn in der Hoffnung, dass er Trost finden wird, aber er will diese Art von Trost nicht von ihr und kann schließlich entkommen. Paul und Annie kümmern sich gemeinsam um ihre Mutter. Sie haben das Gefühl, dass sie nicht mehr weitermachen können, und Paul beschließt, seiner Mutter eine Überdosis Morphin zu geben, um ihrem Leiden ein Ende zu setzen. Er zerdrückt alle Pillen, die sie haben, in ihrer Milch und sie trinkt sie gehorsam, in dem Glauben, dass es ein neues Schlafmittel sei. Sie überlebt die Nacht und stirbt schließlich am nächsten Morgen. Dawes ist jetzt in einem Erholungsheim und Paul besucht ihn erneut und schlägt vor, dass er noch genug Leben in sich hat und versuchen sollte, Clara zurückzugewinnen, um etwas von seinem früheren Leben zurückzuerhalten. Am nächsten Tag bringen er und Clara Dawes zu seiner Unterkunft und Paul lässt sie alleine.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). 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: "Bot.--Sind wir alle versammelt?" "Qui.--Klopf, klopf; und hier ist ein wunderbar günstiger Ort für unsere Probe." Sommernachtstraum Der Leser kann sich besser vorstellen als wir beschreiben, wie überrascht Heyward war. Seine lauernden Indianer waren plötzlich in Vierbeiner verwandelt; sein See in einen Bibersee; sein Wasserfall in einen Damm, der von diesen fleißigen und einfallsreichen Vierbeinern gebaut wurde; und ein vermuteter Feind in seinen bewährten Freund, David Gamut, den Meister der Psalmodie. Die Anwesenheit des Letzteren weckte so viele unerwartete Hoffnungen in Bezug auf die Schwestern, dass der junge Mann ohne zu zögern aus seinem Hinterhalt ausbrach und sich zu den beiden Hauptdarstellern der Szene gesellte. Die Heiterkeit von Hawkeye ließ sich nicht leicht besänftigen. Ohne Zeremonie und mit grober Hand drehte er den biegsamen Gamut um seine Achse und behauptete mehrmals, dass die Huronen sich mit der Art seiner Kleidung große Ehre gemacht hätten. Dann packte er die Hand des anderen und drückte sie mit einem Griff, der Tränen in die Augen des ruhigen David trieb, und wünschte ihm Glück zu seinem neuen Zustand. "Ihr ward gerade dabei, eure Kehlübungen unter den Bibern zu eröffnen, nicht wahr?", sagte er. "Die listigen Teufel kennen die Hälfte des Handwerks bereits, denn sie schlagen mit ihren Schwänzen den Takt, wie ihr gerade gehört habt; und es war auch an der Zeit, oder 'Killdeer' hätte den ersten Ton unter ihnen angestimmt. Ich habe größere Narren gekannt, die lesen und schreiben konnten, als einen erfahrenen alten Biber; aber was das Schreien angeht, so sind die Tiere stumm geboren! Was haltet ihr von einem Lied wie diesem?" David verschloss seine empfindlichen Ohren, und selbst Heyward, der sich der Natur des Rufes bewusst war, schaute nach oben, um nach dem Vogel Ausschau zu halten, als das Krächzen einer Krähe in der Luft um sie herum erschallte. "Seht her!", fuhr der lachende Kundschafter fort, als er auf den Rest der Gruppe zeigte, die bereits auf das Signal hin auf sie zukam. "Das ist Musik, die ihre natürlichen Tugenden hat; sie bringt zwei gute Gewehre an meine Seite, ganz zu schweigen von den Messern und Tomahawks. Aber wir sehen, dass ihr in Sicherheit seid; sagt uns nun, was aus den Mädchen geworden ist." "Sie sind Gefangene der Heiden", sagte David, "und obwohl sie in ihrer Seele große Qualen haben, haben sie Trost und Sicherheit im Körper." "Beides?", forderte der atemlose Heyward. "Tatsächlich. Obwohl unser Weg beschwerlich war und unsere Nahrung knapp, hatten wir wenig Grund zur Klage, abgesehen von der Gewalt, die unseren Gefühlen durch diese Gefangenschaft in ein fernes Land angetan wurde." "Gesegnet euch für diese Worte!", rief der zitternde Munro aus, "dann werde ich meine unschuldigen und engelhaften Kinder ebenso empfangen wie ich sie verloren habe!" "Ich weiß nicht, ob ihre Befreiung nahe ist", erwiderte der zweifelnde David, "der Anführer dieser Wilden ist von einem bösen Geist besessen, den keine Macht außer der Allmacht bändigen kann. Ich habe ihn schlafend und wachend versucht, aber weder Geräusche noch Sprache scheinen seine Seele zu berühren." "Wo ist der Schurke?", unterbrach der Kundschafter abrupt. "Er jagt heute die Elche mit seinen jungen Männern; und morgen, wie ich höre, ziehen sie weiter in diese Wälder und näher an die Grenzen Kanadas heran. Die ältere Schwester ist zu einem benachbarten Volk gebracht worden, dessen Lager jenseits jenes schwarzen Felsenspitzens liegt; während die jüngere bei den Frauen der Huronen festgehalten wird, deren Behausungen nur zwei Meilen von hier entfernt auf einer Hochebene liegen, wo das Feuer die Arbeit der Axt verrichtet hat und den Ort für ihre Aufnahme vorbereitet hat." "Alice, meine sanfte Alice!", murmelte Heyward, "sie hat den Trost der Gegenwart ihrer Schwester verloren!" "Tatsächlich. Aber so weit es das Lob und das Dankgebet in der Psalmodie betrifft, kann sie ihren Geist inmitten der Trübsal stärken." "Hat sie also ein Herz für Musik?" "Eher das ernstere und feierlichere; obwohl zugegeben werden muss, dass das Mädchen öfter weint als lächelt. In solchen Momenten lasse ich von den heiligen Liedern ab; aber es gibt viele süße und tröstliche Zeiten der befriedigenden Kommunikation, in denen die Ohren der Wilden von unseren erhebenden Stimmen erschüttert werden." "Und warum darfst du frei umhergehen, ohne bewacht zu werden?" David legte sein Gesicht in eine Miene, die demütige Bescheidenheit ausdrücken sollte, bevor er demütig antwortete: "Wenig sollte einem solchen Wurm wie mir das Lob gegeben werden. Aber obwohl die Macht der Psalmodie in dem schrecklichen Geschäft jener Mordschlacht, durch die wir gegangen sind, ausgesetzt war, hat sie ihre Wirkung sogar auf die Seelen der Heiden zurückerlangt und ich darf kommen und gehen wie ich will." Der Kundschafter lachte und tippte sich an die eigene Stirn, was erklärte, warum die seltsame Nachsicht gewährt wurde, als er sagte: "Die Indianer tun einem geistig Umnachteten nie etwas zuleide. Aber warum bist du, als der Pfad vor deinen Augen offenlag (er ist nicht so blind wie der, den ein Eichhörnchen machen würde), nicht den eigenen Spuren gefolgt und hast die Nachrichten zu Edward gebracht?" Der Kundschafter, der nur seine eigene robuste und eiserne Natur bedacht hatte, hatte wahrscheinlich eine Aufgabe verlangt, die David unter keinen Umständen hätte erfüllen können. Aber ohne die Sanftmut in seinem Auftreten völlig zu verlieren, war der Letztere zufrieden zu antworten: "Auch wenn meine Seele sich freuen würde, die Wohnstätten des Christentums noch einmal zu besuchen, so würden meine Füße den sanften Geistern, die ich in meiner Obhut habe, eher in die Gegend der Jesuiten folgen, als einen Schritt rückwärts zu machen, während sie in Gefangenschaft und Kummer dahinschmachten." Obwohl die bildhafte Sprache von David nicht sehr verständlich war, ließen sich der aufrichtige und entschlossene Ausdruck in seinen Augen und das Leuchten auf seinem ehrlichen Gesicht nicht leicht missverstehen. Uncas rückte näher zu ihm und betrachtete ihn mit einem Blick der Anerkennung, während sein Vater seine Zufriedenheit durch den gewöhnlichen knappen Ausruf der Zustimmung zum Ausdruck brachte. Der Kundschafter schüttelte den Kopf, als er sich anschloss: "Der Herr hat nie beabsichtigt, dass der Mensch all seine Bemühungen in den Hals stecken sollte, um andere und bessere Gaben zu vernachlässigen! Aber er ist in die Hände einer törichten Frau gefallen, als er seine Ausbildung unter freiem Himmel, unter den Schönheiten des Waldes, hätte absolvieren sollen. Hier, Freund; ich hatte vor, mit diesem Tröten auf deiner Pfeife ein Feuer anzuzünden; aber wenn du das Ding schätzt, nimm es und blase dein Bestes darauf!" Gamut nahm seine Stimmflöte mit so großer Freude entgegen, wie er sie für seine würdige Aufgabe hielt. Nachdem er ihre Vorzüge mehrmals im Vergleich zu seiner eigenen Stimme getestet und sich versichert hatte, dass nichts von ihrer Melodie verloren ging, unternahm er eine sehr ernsthafte Demonstration, um ein paar Strophen einer der längsten Dichtungen in dem oft erwähnten kleinen Band zu vollbringen. Heyward unterbrach jedoch hastig seinen frommen Zweck, indem er Fragen über den vergangenen und gegenwärtigen Zustand seiner Mitgefangenen stellte, und das in einer methodischeren Art und Weise, als es seinen Gefühlen am Anfang ihres Gesprächs erlaubt war. David, obwohl er seine Schätze mit sehnsüchtigen Augen betrachtete, war gezwungen zu antworten, vor allem da der verehrte Vater an den Fragestellungen mit einem zu beeindruckenden Interesse teilnahm, um ihnen zu widersprechen. Auch der Kundschafter versäumte es nicht, bei passender Gelegenheit eine treffende Frage einzufügen. Magua hatte auf dem Berg gewartet, bis sich ein sicherer Moment zum Rückzug ergab, als er hinabgestiegen war und den Weg entlang der westlichen Seite des Horican in Richtung der Kanadas eingeschlagen hatte. Da der subtile Hurone mit den Pfaden vertraut war und gut wusste, dass keine unmittelbare Gefahr der Verfolgung drohte, hatten sie sich moderat und keineswegs ermüdend fortbewegt. Aus Davids schlichter Aussage ging hervor, dass seine Anwesenheit eher ertragen als gewünscht worden war, obwohl selbst Magua nicht ganz frei von jener Ehrfurcht war, mit der die Indianer jene betrachten, die der Große Geist in ihrem Verstand aufgesucht hat. Nachts wurde größte Sorgfalt auf die Gefangenen gelegt, um Verletzungen durch die Feuchtigkeit des Waldes zu vermeiden und einer Flucht vorzubeugen. Am Quell wurden die Pferde, wie bereits gesehen wurde, freigelassen; und trotz der Entfernung und Länge ihres Weges wurden die bereits genannten Listigkeiten angewendet, um jede Spur zu ihrem Rückzugsort abzuschneiden. Bei ihrer Ankunft in dem Lager seines Volkes hatte Magua entsprechend einer selten gebrochenen Taktik seine Gefangenen getrennt. Cora war zu einem Stamm geschickt worden, der ein angrenzendes Tal vorübergehend besetzte, obwohl David zu unwissend über die Bräuche und Geschichte der Einheimischen war, um etwas Zufriedenstellendes über ihren Namen oder ihren Charakter sagen zu können. Er wusste nur, dass sie nicht an dem kürzlichen Vorstoß gegen William Henry teilgenommen hatten, dass sie wie die Huronen selbst Verbündete Montcalms waren und dass sie einen freundlichen, wenn auch wachsamen Austausch mit den kriegerischen und wilden Menschen pflegten, mit denen sie sich zufälligerweise für eine Zeit in so engen und unangenehmen Kontakt gebracht hatten. Die Mohikaner und der Waldläufer hörten seiner unterbrochenen und unvollkommenen Erzählung mit wachsendem Interesse zu, und gerade als er versuchte, die Aktivitäten der Gemeinschaft zu erklären, in der Cora festgehalten wurde, fragte letztere abrupt: „Hast du die Form ihrer Messer gesehen? Waren sie von englischer oder französischer Art?“ Ich dachte an keine solche Nichtigkeiten, sondern mischte meinen Trost vielmehr mit dem der jungen Frauen“, erwiderte David. „Es wird eine Zeit kommen, in der du ein Messer eines Wilden nicht mehr für eine verachtenswerte Nichtigkeit halten wirst“, erwiderte der Waldläufer mit einem starken Ausdruck der Verachtung für die Dummheit des anderen. „Hatten sie ihr Maisfest abgehalten – oder kannst du etwas über die Totems des Stammes sagen?“ „Von Mais hatten wir viele und reichliche Feste; denn der Mais, wenn er noch in der Milch ist, ist sowohl süß für den Mund als auch angenehm für den Magen. Was Totem bedeutet, weiß ich nicht; aber wenn es sich auf die Kunst der indianischen Musik bezieht, muss danach bei ihren Händen nicht gefragt werden. Sie verbinden niemals ihre Stimmen im Lobpreis, und es scheint, als seien sie unter den gottlosen Menschen am profansten.“ „Damit verleugnest du die Natur eines Indianers. Selbst der Mingo betet nur den wahren und lebendigen Gott an. Es ist eine böse Erfindung der Weißen, und ich sage es zur Schande meiner Hautfarbe, die den Krieger vor den Bildern seiner eigenen Schöpfung niederwerfen würden. Es ist wahr, dass sie versuchen, Waffenstillstände mit dem Bösen zu schließen – wie sollte man es nicht mit einem Feind tun, den man nicht besiegen kann! – aber sie suchen Gunst und Hilfe nur beim Großen und Guten Geist.“ „Das mag sein“, sagte David, „aber ich habe seltsame und fantastische Bilder in ihrer Gesichtsbemalung gesehen, von deren Bewunderung und Sorgfalt Geschmack von geistlichem Hochmut ausging; besonders eins, und das war ein schmutziges und widerwärtiges Objekt.“ „War es eine Schlange?“, fragte der Waldläufer schnell. „So ähnlich. Es war der Gestalt einer erbärmlichen und kriechenden Schildkröte.“ „Hm!“, sagten beide aufmerksamen Mohikaner gleichzeitig, während der Waldläufer den Kopf schüttelte, als hätte er eine wichtige, aber keineswegs erfreuliche Entdeckung gemacht. Dann sprach der Vater in der Sprache der Delawaren mit Ruhe und Würde, die sofort die Aufmerksamkeit selbst derjenigen an sich zog, deren Worte unverständlich waren. Seine Gesten waren eindrucksvoll und manchmal energisch. Einmal hob er seinen Arm hoch, und als er ihn senkte, warf die Bewegung die Falten seines leichten Umhangs zurück, ein Finger ruhte auf seiner Brust, als ob er seinen Sinn durch die Haltung verdeutlichen wollte. Duncans Augen folgten der Bewegung, und er erkannte, dass das eben erwähnte Tier schön, wenn auch kaum sichtbar, in einem blauen Farbton auf der dunklen Brust des Häuptlings gearbeitet war. Alles, was er jemals von der gewaltsamen Trennung der großen Stämme der Delawaren gehört hatte, schoss ihm durch den Kopf, und er wartete auf den richtigen Moment, um zu sprechen, in einer Spannung, die durch sein Interesse an dem Einsatz fast unerträglich wurde. Sein Wunsch wurde jedoch vom Waldläufer vorausgeahnt, der sich von seinem roten Freund abwandte und sagte: „Wir haben etwas gefunden, das für uns gut oder böse sein kann, je nachdem, wie der Himmel es vorsieht. Der Sagamore ist von hochrangigem Delaware-Blut und ist der große Häuptling ihrer Schildkröten! Dass einige von dieser Gruppe unter den Menschen sind, von denen uns der Sänger erzählt, ergibt sich aus seinen Worten. Hätte er aber nur die Hälfte des Atems, den er braucht, um eine Trompete aus seinem Hals zu machen, in vernünftigen Fragen verbracht, so hätten wir erfahren können, wie viele Krieger sie zählten. Es ist insgesamt ein gefährlicher Pfad, den wir beschreiten; denn ein Freund, der dir den Rücken zukehrt, hegt oft blutigere Absichten als der Feind, der nach deinem Skalp trachtet.“ „Erkläre“, sagte Duncan. „Es ist eine lange und melancholische Tradition, über die ich lieber nicht nachdenke; denn man kann nicht leugnen, dass das Böse hauptsächlich von Männern mit weißer Haut begangen wurde. Aber es hat dazu geführt, dass der Tomahawk Bruder gegen Bruder gerichtet hat und Mingo und Delaware denselben Weg beschritten haben.“ „Du vermutest also, dass es ein Teil dieses Volkes ist, unter dem Cora lebt?“ Der Waldläufer nickte zustimmend, obwohl er bemüht schien, die weitere Diskussion eines für ihn schmerzhaften Themas zu umgehen. Der ungeduldige Duncan machte nun mehrere hastige und verzweifelte Vorschläge, um die Schwestern zu befreien. Munro schien seine Apathie abzuschütteln und hörte den wilden Plänen des jungen Mannes mit einem Respekt zu, den seine grauen Haare und sein ehrwürdiges Alter hätten verweigern sollen. Aber der Waldläufer fand nachdem er der Hitze des Liebenden ein wenig Raum gegeben hatte, Mittel, um ihn von der Torheit einer überstürzten Handlung zu überzeugen, die ihr kühler Kopf und größte Tapferkeit erfordern würde. '"Es wäre gut", fügte er hinzu, "diesen Mann wie gewohnt wieder hineinzuschicken und ihn in den Hütten zu lassen, den zarten Seelen von unserer Annäherung Mitteil "Höre mal", unterbrach Duncan; "du hast von diesem treuen Anhänger der Gefangenen gehört, dass die Indianer zwei Stämme, wenn nicht sogar verschiedene Nationen sind. Mit einem, von dem du denkst, dass er ein Zweig der Delawaren ist, ist sie, die du die 'dunkelhaarige' nennst; die andere, und jüngere der Damen, ist zweifellos bei unseren erklärten Feinden, den Huronen. Es liegt an meiner Jugend und meinem Rang, das letztere Abenteuer zu versuchen. Während du also mit deinen Freunden verhandelst, um eine der Schwestern freizulassen, werde ich das der anderen bewerkstelligen oder sterben." Der erwachte Geist des jungen Soldaten leuchtete in seinen Augen, und seine Gestalt wurde unter seinem Einfluss beeindruckend. Hawkeye, der zu sehr an die List der Indianer gewöhnt war, um nicht die Gefahr des Experiments vorauszusehen, wusste nicht recht, wie er dieser plötzlichen Entschlossenheit entgegentreten sollte. Vielleicht gab es etwas in dem Vorschlag, das zu seiner eigenen robusten Natur passte und dass er die heimliche Liebe für waghalsige Abenteuer hatte, die mit seiner Erfahrung gewachsen war, bis Risiko und Gefahr in gewisser Hinsicht notwendig für die Freude an seinem Dasein geworden waren. Anstatt weiterhin das Schema von Duncan zu bekämpfen, änderte sich seine Stimmung plötzlich, und er ließ sich auf die Ausführung ein. "Komm", sagte er mit einem gutmütigen Lächeln, "das Reh, das ins Wasser geht, muss geleitet und nicht verfolgt werden. Chingachgook hat so viele verschiedene Farben wie die Frau des Ingenieur-Offiziers, die die Natur auf Papierschnipsel festhält und die Berge wie Rostheuhen und den blauen Himmel in Reichweite deiner Hand aussehen lässt. Der Sagamore kann sie auch benutzen. Setz dich auf den Baumstamm, und mein Leben darauf, er kann dich bald wie einen natürlichen Narren aussehen lassen, und zwar zu deiner Zufriedenheit." Duncan kam der Aufforderung nach, und der Mohikaner, der aufmerksam dem Gespräch zugehört hatte, übernahm bereitwillig die Aufgabe. Als alter Hase in allen subtilen Künsten seines Volkes zeichnete er mit großer Geschicklichkeit und Schnelligkeit den fantastischen Schatten, den die Ureinwohner als Beweis für einen freundlichen und scherzhaften Charakter betrachteten. Jede Linie, die möglicherweise als geheimer Hang zum Krieg interpretiert werden konnte, wurde sorgfältig vermieden, während er andererseits die Scherze studierte, die als Freundschaft gedeutet werden konnten. Kurz gesagt, opferte er völlig jede Erscheinung des Kriegers für die Maskerade eines Spaßmachers. Solche Vorführungen waren unter den Indianern nicht ungewöhnlich, und da Duncan bereits durch seine Kleidung ausreichend verkleidet war, gab es in der Tat einige Gründe zu der Annahme, dass er mit seinen Französischkenntnissen als Gaukler aus Ticonderoga durchging und unter den verbündeten und befreundeten Stämmen umherstreifte. Als er für ausreichend bemalt angesehen wurde, gab der Scout ihm viele freundliche Ratschläge, legte vereinbarte Signale fest und bestimmte den Ort, an dem sie sich im Falle eines gegenseitigen Erfolgs treffen sollten. Die Trennung zwischen Munro und seinem jungen Freund war melancholischer, dennoch akzeptierte der erstere die Trennung mit einer Gleichgültigkeit, die seine warme und ehrliche Natur in einem gesunden Geisteszustand niemals zugelassen hätte. Der Scout führte Heyward beiseite und informierte ihn über seine Absicht, den Veteranen an einem sicheren Lagerplatz in der Obhut von Chingachgook zurückzulassen, während er und Uncas ihre Nachforschungen unter den Stämmen fortsetzten, von denen sie glaubten, dass es sich um Delawaren handelte. Nachdem er seine Warnungen und Ratschläge erneuert hatte, endete er mit einer Feierlichkeit und Wärme des Gefühls, die Duncan zutiefst berührten: "Und nun, Gott segne dich! Du zeigst einen Geist, den ich mag, denn er ist das Geschenk der Jugend, insbesondere die einer warmherzigen Person mit einem tapferen Herzen. Aber glaube den Warnungen eines Mannes, der Grund hat, alles, was er sagt, für wahr zu halten. Du wirst deine ganze Männlichkeit und einen schärferen Verstand als das, was man aus Büchern lernen kann, brauchen, bevor du die Schlauheit übertreffen oder den Mut eines Mingo besiegen kannst. Gott segne dich! Wenn die Huronen sich deine Skalps holen, dann verlass dich auf das Versprechen eines Mannes, der zwei tapfere Krieger hinter sich hat. Sie sollen für ihren Sieg mit einem Leben pro Haar, das sie halten, bezahlen. Ich sage, junger Herr, möge die Vorsehung dein Unternehmen segnen, das insgesamt gut ist; und denke daran, dass es rechtens ist, die Gauner auszutricksen, indem man Dinge praktiziert, die natürlicherweise nicht zur Gabe eines weißen Menschen gehören." Duncan schüttelte seinem ehrenwerten und widerwilligen Partner herzlich die Hand, empfahl seinen alten Freund noch einmal seiner Obhut und gab seine guten Wünsche zurück, indem er David winkte weiterzugehen. Hawkeye sah dem hochmütigen und abenteuerlustigen jungen Mann mehrere Augenblicke lang in offener Bewunderung nach, schüttelte dann jedoch zweifelnd den Kopf, wandte sich um und führte seine eigene Gruppe in die Verborgenheit des Waldes. Die von Duncan und David gewählte Route führte direkt über die Lichtung der Biber und entlang des Ufers ihres Teiches. Als sich Duncan mit einem so einfachen und wenig qualifizierten Helfer in einer verzweifelten Notlage alleine sah, wurde er sich zum ersten Mal der Schwierigkeiten der Aufgabe bewusst, die er übernommen hatte. Das schwindende Licht verstärkte die Düsternis der kargen und wilden Wildnis, die sich auf allen Seiten erstreckte, und es lag sogar ein furchteinflößender Charakter in der Stille der kleinen Hütten, die er wusste, so reich bevölkert zu sein. Ihm wurde beim Anblick der bewundernswerten Bauten und der wunderbaren Vorsichtsmaßnahmen ihrer klugen Bewohner klar, dass selbst die Tiere dieser weiten Wildnis über einen Instinkt verfügten, der fast mit seiner eigenen Vernunft gleichkam, und er konnte ohne Sorge an den ungleichen Kampf denken, den er so leichtsinnig herausgefordert hatte. Dann tauchte das leuchtende Bild von Alice auf; ihre Not; ihre tatsächliche Gefahr; und all die Gefahr seiner Situation wurde vergessen. Er ermutigte David und ging mit dem leichten und energischen Schritt der Jugend und des Unternehmergeistes weiter. Nachdem sie fast einen Halbkreis um den Teich gemacht hatten, wich ihre Route von der Wasserstraße ab, und sie begannen, auf das Niveau einer leichten Erhebung in dem Flachland aufzusteigen, über das sie reisten. Innerhalb einer halben Stunde erreichten sie den Rand einer anderen Lichtung, die alle Anzeichen aufwies, ebenfalls von den Bibern erstellt worden zu sein, und die diese klugen Tiere wahrscheinlich verlassen hatten, um die günstigere Position einzunehmen, die sie nun besetzten. Ein ganz natürlicher Instinkt veranlasste Duncan für einen Moment zu zögern, da er ungern den Schutz ihres buschigen Pfades verließ, wie ein Mann innehalten würde, um seine Energien zu sammeln, bevor er ein riskantes Experiment unternimmt, bei dem er heimlich weiß, dass sie alle gebraucht werden. Er nutzte den Halt, um so viele Informationen wie möglich aus seinen kurzen und hastigen Blicken zu sammeln. Auf der gegenüberliegenden Seite der Lichtung und in der Nähe einer Stelle, an der der Bach über einige Felsen von einem noch höheren Niveau herabstürzte, waren unge Es ist eher Freude als Arbeit für den Geist, die Stimme im Lob zu erheben; aber traurig missbrauchen diese Jungs ihre Talente. Selten habe ich jemanden in ihrem Alter gefunden, dem die Natur die Elemente des Psalmengesangs so reichlich geschenkt hat; und sicherlich sind da keine, die sie mehr vernachlässigen. Drei Nächte bin ich nun hier verweilt, und drei Mal habe ich die Bengel versammelt, um in heiliger Gesang einzustimmen; und genauso oft haben sie meine Bemühungen mit schrumpfigen und heulenden Antworten erwidert, die meine Seele erschauern ließen!" "Wovon sprichst du?" "Von diesen Kindern des Teufels, die die kostbaren Momente mit ihren nutzlosen Possen vergeuden. Ah! Die wohltuende Einschränkung der Disziplin ist bei diesem sich selbst überlassenen Volk kaum bekannt. In einem Land der Birken wird nie eine Rute gesehen; und es sollte mir nicht als Wunder erscheinen, dass die besten Segnungen der Vorsehung in solchen Schreien wie diesen verschwendet werden." David verschloss seine Ohren vor dem Geschrei des jugendlichen Rudels, das gerade durch den Wald schrillte; und Duncan, während er seine Lippen spöttisch aufkräuselte, als verspotte er seinen eigenen Aberglauben, sagte entschieden: "Wir werden weitergehen." Ohne die Schutzvorrichtungen von seinen Ohren zu entfernen, kam der Meister des Gesangs der Aufforderung nach, und gemeinsam setzten sie ihren Weg fort in Richtung dessen, was David manchmal "die Zelte der Philister" zu nennen pflegte. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Als Hawkeye über Gamuts Indianerpaste und rasierten Kopf lacht, erzählt der Psalmodist den Männern, dass Magua Alice und Cora kürzlich getrennt hat. Magua hat Alice in ein Huronenlager geschickt und Cora in eine Delaware-Siedlung; er hat Gamut nur freigelassen, weil die Indianer dachten, er sei wahnsinnig, nachdem sie sein religiöses Singen gehört hatten. Gamut und Heyward beschließen, den Frauen heimlich mitzuteilen, dass sie bald gerettet werden. Chingachgook verkleidet Heyward als Clown, da Heywards Kenntnis des Französischen ihm helfen kann, sich als Jongleur aus Ticonderoga auszugeben. Heyward und Gamut begeben sich zum Lager der Huronen, während Uncas und Hawkeye nach Cora im Delaware-Lager suchen. Im Huronenlager sehen Gamut und Heyward seltsame Formen aus dem Gras aufsteigen. Als sie sich den Zelten nähern, erkennen sie, dass die seltsamen Formen nur spielende Kinder 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> 4--The Halt on the Turnpike Road Down, downward they went, and yet further down--their descent at each step seeming to outmeasure their advance. Their skirts were scratched noisily by the furze, their shoulders brushed by the ferns, which, though dead and dry, stood erect as when alive, no sufficient winter weather having as yet arrived to beat them down. Their Tartarean situation might by some have been called an imprudent one for two unattended women. But these shaggy recesses were at all seasons a familiar surrounding to Olly and Mrs. Yeobright; and the addition of darkness lends no frightfulness to the face of a friend. "And so Tamsin has married him at last," said Olly, when the incline had become so much less steep that their foot-steps no longer required undivided attention. Mrs. Yeobright answered slowly, "Yes; at last." "How you will miss her--living with 'ee as a daughter, as she always have." "I do miss her." Olly, though without the tact to perceive when remarks were untimely, was saved by her very simplicity from rendering them offensive. Questions that would have been resented in others she could ask with impunity. This accounted for Mrs. Yeobright's acquiescence in the revival of an evidently sore subject. "I was quite strook to hear you'd agreed to it, ma'am, that I was," continued the besom-maker. "You were not more struck by it than I should have been last year this time, Olly. There are a good many sides to that wedding. I could not tell you all of them, even if I tried." "I felt myself that he was hardly solid-going enough to mate with your family. Keeping an inn--what is it? But 'a's clever, that's true, and they say he was an engineering gentleman once, but has come down by being too outwardly given." "I saw that, upon the whole, it would be better she should marry where she wished." "Poor little thing, her feelings got the better of her, no doubt. 'Tis nature. Well, they may call him what they will--he've several acres of heth-ground broke up here, besides the public house, and the heth-croppers, and his manners be quite like a gentleman's. And what's done cannot be undone." "It cannot," said Mrs. Yeobright. "See, here's the wagon-track at last. Now we shall get along better." The wedding subject was no further dwelt upon; and soon a faint diverging path was reached, where they parted company, Olly first begging her companion to remind Mr. Wildeve that he had not sent her sick husband the bottle of wine promised on the occasion of his marriage. The besom-maker turned to the left towards her own house, behind a spur of the hill, and Mrs. Yeobright followed the straight track, which further on joined the highway by the Quiet Woman Inn, whither she supposed her niece to have returned with Wildeve from their wedding at Anglebury that day. She first reached Wildeve's Patch, as it was called, a plot of land redeemed from the heath, and after long and laborious years brought into cultivation. The man who had discovered that it could be tilled died of the labour; the man who succeeded him in possession ruined himself in fertilizing it. Wildeve came like Amerigo Vespucci, and received the honours due to those who had gone before. When Mrs. Yeobright had drawn near to the inn, and was about to enter, she saw a horse and vehicle some two hundred yards beyond it, coming towards her, a man walking alongside with a lantern in his hand. It was soon evident that this was the reddleman who had inquired for her. Instead of entering the inn at once, she walked by it and towards the van. The conveyance came close, and the man was about to pass her with little notice, when she turned to him and said, "I think you have been inquiring for me? I am Mrs. Yeobright of Blooms-End." The reddleman started, and held up his finger. He stopped the horses, and beckoned to her to withdraw with him a few yards aside, which she did, wondering. "You don't know me, ma'am, I suppose?" he said. "I do not," said she. "Why, yes, I do! You are young Venn--your father was a dairyman somewhere here?" "Yes; and I knew your niece, Miss Tamsin, a little. I have something bad to tell you." "About her--no! She has just come home, I believe, with her husband. They arranged to return this afternoon--to the inn beyond here." "She's not there." "How do you know?" "Because she's here. She's in my van," he added slowly. "What new trouble has come?" murmured Mrs. Yeobright, putting her hand over her eyes. "I can't explain much, ma'am. All I know is that, as I was going along the road this morning, about a mile out of Anglebury, I heard something trotting after me like a doe, and looking round there she was, white as death itself. 'Oh, Diggory Venn!' she said, 'I thought 'twas you--will you help me? I am in trouble.'" "How did she know your Christian name?" said Mrs. Yeobright doubtingly. "I had met her as a lad before I went away in this trade. She asked then if she might ride, and then down she fell in a faint. I picked her up and put her in, and there she has been ever since. She has cried a good deal, but she has hardly spoke; all she has told me being that she was to have been married this morning. I tried to get her to eat something, but she couldn't; and at last she fell asleep." "Let me see her at once," said Mrs. Yeobright, hastening towards the van. The reddleman followed with the lantern, and, stepping up first, assisted Mrs. Yeobright to mount beside him. On the door being opened she perceived at the end of the van an extemporized couch, around which was hung apparently all the drapery that the reddleman possessed, to keep the occupant of the little couch from contact with the red materials of his trade. A young girl lay thereon, covered with a cloak. She was asleep, and the light of the lantern fell upon her features. A fair, sweet, and honest country face was revealed, reposing in a nest of wavy chestnut hair. It was between pretty and beautiful. Though her eyes were closed, one could easily imagine the light necessarily shining in them as the culmination of the luminous workmanship around. The groundwork of the face was hopefulness; but over it now I ay like a foreign substance a film of anxiety and grief. The grief had been there so shortly as to have abstracted nothing of the bloom, and had as yet but given a dignity to what it might eventually undermine. The scarlet of her lips had not had time to abate, and just now it appeared still more intense by the absence of the neighbouring and more transient colour of her cheek. The lips frequently parted, with a murmur of words. She seemed to belong rightly to a madrigal--to require viewing through rhyme and harmony. One thing at least was obvious: she was not made to be looked at thus. The reddleman had appeared conscious of as much, and, while Mrs. Yeobright looked in upon her, he cast his eyes aside with a delicacy which well became him. The sleeper apparently thought so too, for the next moment she opened her own. The lips then parted with something of anticipation, something more of doubt; and her several thoughts and fractions of thoughts, as signalled by the changes on her face, were exhibited by the light to the utmost nicety. An ingenuous, transparent life was disclosed, as if the flow of her existence could be seen passing within her. She understood the scene in a moment. "O yes, it is I, Aunt," she cried. "I know how frightened you are, and how you cannot believe it; but all the same, it is I who have come home like this!" "Tamsin, Tamsin!" said Mrs. Yeobright, stooping over the young woman and kissing her. "O my dear girl!" Thomasin was now on the verge of a sob, but by an unexpected self-command she uttered no sound. With a gentle panting breath she sat upright. "I did not expect to see you in this state, any more than you me," she went on quickly. "Where am I, Aunt?" "Nearly home, my dear. In Egdon Bottom. What dreadful thing is it?" "I'll tell you in a moment. So near, are we? Then I will get out and walk. I want to go home by the path." "But this kind man who has done so much will, I am sure, take you right on to my house?" said the aunt, turning to the reddleman, who had withdrawn from the front of the van on the awakening of the girl, and stood in the road. "Why should you think it necessary to ask me? I will, of course," said he. "He is indeed kind," murmured Thomasin. "I was once acquainted with him, Aunt, and when I saw him today I thought I should prefer his van to any conveyance of a stranger. But I'll walk now. Reddleman, stop the horses, please." The man regarded her with tender reluctance, but stopped them Aunt and niece then descended from the van, Mrs. Yeobright saying to its owner, "I quite recognize you now. What made you change from the nice business your father left you?" "Well, I did," he said, and looked at Thomasin, who blushed a little. "Then you'll not be wanting me any more tonight, ma'am?" Mrs. Yeobright glanced around at the dark sky, at the hills, at the perishing bonfires, and at the lighted window of the inn they had neared. "I think not," she said, "since Thomasin wishes to walk. We can soon run up the path and reach home--we know it well." And after a few further words they parted, the reddleman moving onwards with his van, and the two women remaining standing in the road. As soon as the vehicle and its driver had withdrawn so far as to be beyond all possible reach of her voice, Mrs. Yeobright turned to her niece. "Now, Thomasin," she said sternly, "what's the meaning of this disgraceful performance?" </CHAPTER> <CHAPTER> 5--Perplexity among Honest People Thomasin looked as if quite overcome by her aunt's change of manner. "It means just what it seems to mean: I am--not married," she replied faintly. "Excuse me--for humiliating you, Aunt, by this mishap--I am sorry for it. But I cannot help it." "Me? Think of yourself first." "It was nobody's fault. When we got there the parson wouldn't marry us because of some trifling irregularity in the license." "What irregularity?" "I don't know. Mr. Wildeve can explain. I did not think when I went away this morning that I should come back like this." It being dark, Thomasin allowed her emotion to escape her by the silent way of tears, which could roll down her cheek unseen. "I could almost say that it serves you right--if I did not feel that you don't deserve it," continued Mrs. Yeobright, who, possessing two distinct moods in close contiguity, a gentle mood and an angry, flew from one to the other without the least warning. "Remember, Thomasin, this business was none of my seeking; from the very first, when you began to feel foolish about that man, I warned you he would not make you happy. I felt it so strongly that I did what I would never have believed myself capable of doing--stood up in the church, and made myself the public talk for weeks. But having once consented, I don't submit to these fancies without good reason. Marry him you must after this." "Do you think I wish to do otherwise for one moment?" said Thomasin, with a heavy sigh. "I know how wrong it was of me to love him, but don't pain me by talking like that, Aunt! You would not have had me stay there with him, would you?--and your house is the only home I have to return to. He says we can be married in a day or two." "I wish he had never seen you." "Very well; then I will be the miserablest woman in the world, and not let him see me again. No, I won't have him!" "It is too late to speak so. Come with me. I am going to the inn to see if he has returned. Of course I shall get to the bottom of this story at once. Mr. Wildeve must not suppose he can play tricks upon me, or any belonging to me." "It was not that. The license was wrong, and he couldn't get another the same day. He will tell you in a moment how it was, if he comes." "Why didn't he bring you back?" "That was me!" again sobbed Thomasin. "When I found we could not be married I didn't like to come back with him, and I was very ill. Then I saw Diggory Venn, and was glad to get him to take me home. I cannot explain it any better, and you must be angry with me if you will." "I shall see about that," said Mrs. Yeobright; and they turned towards the inn, known in the neighbourhood as the Quiet Woman, the sign of which represented the figure of a matron carrying her head under her arm, beneath which gruesome design was written the couplet so well known to frequenters of the inn:-- SINCE THE WOMAN'S QUIET LET NO MAN BREED A RIOT.(1) (1) The inn which really bore this sign and legend stood some miles to the northwest of the present scene, wherein the house more immediately referred to is now no longer an inn; and the surroundings are much changed. But another inn, some of whose features are also embodied in this description, the RED LION at Winfrith, still remains as a haven for the wayfarer (1912). The front of the house was towards the heath and Rainbarrow, whose dark shape seemed to threaten it from the sky. Upon the door was a neglected brass plate, bearing the unexpected inscription, "Mr. Wildeve, Engineer"--a useless yet cherished relic from the time when he had been started in that profession in an office at Budmouth by those who had hoped much from him, and had been disappointed. The garden was at the back, and behind this ran a still deep stream, forming the margin of the heath in that direction, meadow-land appearing beyond the stream. But the thick obscurity permitted only skylines to be visible of any scene at present. The water at the back of the house could be heard, idly spinning whirpools in its creep between the rows of dry feather-headed reeds which formed a stockade along each bank. Their presence was denoted by sounds as of a congregation praying humbly, produced by their rubbing against each other in the slow wind. The window, whence the candlelight had shone up the vale to the eyes of the bonfire group, was uncurtained, but the sill lay too high for a pedestrian on the outside to look over it into the room. A vast shadow, in which could be dimly traced portions of a masculine contour, blotted half the ceiling. "He seems to be at home," said Mrs. Yeobright. "Must I come in, too, Aunt?" asked Thomasin faintly. "I suppose not; it would be wrong." "You must come, certainly--to confront him, so that he may make no false representations to me. We shall not be five minutes in the house, and then we'll walk home." Entering the open passage, she tapped at the door of the private parlour, unfastened it, and looked in. The back and shoulders of a man came between Mrs. Yeobright's eyes and the fire. Wildeve, whose form it was, immediately turned, arose, and advanced to meet his visitors. He was quite a young man, and of the two properties, form and motion, the latter first attracted the eye in him. The grace of his movement was singular--it was the pantomimic expression of a lady-killing career. Next came into notice the more material qualities, among which was a profuse crop of hair impending over the top of his face, lending to his forehead the high-cornered outline of an early Gothic shield; and a neck which was smooth and round as a cylinder. The lower half of his figure was of light build. Altogether he was one in whom no man would have seen anything to admire, and in whom no woman would have seen anything to dislike. He discerned the young girl's form in the passage, and said, "Thomasin, then, has reached home. How could you leave me in that way, darling?" And turning to Mrs. Yeobright--"It was useless to argue with her. She would go, and go alone." "But what's the meaning of it all?" demanded Mrs. Yeobright haughtily. "Take a seat," said Wildeve, placing chairs for the two women. "Well, it was a very stupid mistake, but such mistakes will happen. The license was useless at Anglebury. It was made out for Budmouth, but as I didn't read it I wasn't aware of that." "But you had been staying at Anglebury?" "No. I had been at Budmouth--till two days ago--and that was where I had intended to take her; but when I came to fetch her we decided upon Anglebury, forgetting that a new license would be necessary. There was not time to get to Budmouth afterwards." "I think you are very much to blame," said Mrs. Yeobright. "It was quite my fault we chose Anglebury," Thomasin pleaded. "I proposed it because I was not known there." "I know so well that I am to blame that you need not remind me of it," replied Wildeve shortly. "Such things don't happen for nothing," said the aunt. "It is a great slight to me and my family; and when it gets known there will be a very unpleasant time for us. How can she look her friends in the face tomorrow? It is a very great injury, and one I cannot easily forgive. It may even reflect on her character." "Nonsense," said Wildeve. Thomasin's large eyes had flown from the face of one to the face of the other during this discussion, and she now said anxiously, "Will you allow me, Aunt, to talk it over alone with Damon for five minutes? Will you, Damon?" "Certainly, dear," said Wildeve, "if your aunt will excuse us." He led her into an adjoining room, leaving Mrs. Yeobright by the fire. As soon as they were alone, and the door closed, Thomasin said, turning up her pale, tearful face to him, "It is killing me, this, Damon! I did not mean to part from you in anger at Anglebury this morning; but I was frightened and hardly knew what I said. I've not let Aunt know how much I suffered today; and it is so hard to command my face and voice, and to smile as if it were a slight thing to me; but I try to do so, that she may not be still more indignant with you. I know you could not help it, dear, whatever Aunt may think." "She is very unpleasant." "Yes," Thomasin murmured, "and I suppose I seem so now.... Damon, what do you mean to do about me?" "Do about you?" "Yes. Those who don't like you whisper things which at moments make me doubt you. We mean to marry, I suppose, don't we?" "Of course we do. We have only to go to Budmouth on Monday, and we marry at once." "Then do let us go!--O Damon, what you make me say!" She hid her face in her handkerchief. "Here am I asking you to marry me, when by rights you ought to be on your knees imploring me, your cruel mistress, not to refuse you, and saying it would break your heart if I did. I used to think it would be pretty and sweet like that; but how different!" "Yes, real life is never at all like that." "But I don't care personally if it never takes place," she added with a little dignity; "no, I can live without you. It is Aunt I think of. She is so proud, and thinks so much of her family respectability, that she will be cut down with mortification if this story should get abroad before--it is done. My cousin Clym, too, will be much wounded." "Then he will be very unreasonable. In fact, you are all rather unreasonable." Thomasin coloured a little, and not with love. But whatever the momentary feeling which caused that flush in her, it went as it came, and she humbly said, "I never mean to be, if I can help it. I merely feel that you have my aunt to some extent in your power at last." "As a matter of justice it is almost due to me," said Wildeve. "Think what I have gone through to win her consent; the insult that it is to any man to have the banns forbidden--the double insult to a man unlucky enough to be cursed with sensitiveness, and blue demons, and Heaven knows what, as I am. I can never forget those banns. A harsher man would rejoice now in the power I have of turning upon your aunt by going no further in the business." She looked wistfully at him with her sorrowful eyes as he said those words, and her aspect showed that more than one person in the room could deplore the possession of sensitiveness. Seeing that she was really suffering he seemed disturbed and added, "This is merely a reflection you know. I have not the least intention to refuse to complete the marriage, Tamsie mine--I could not bear it." "You could not, I know!" said the fair girl, brightening. "You, who cannot bear the sight of pain in even an insect, or any disagreeable sound, or unpleasant smell even, will not long cause pain to me and mine." "I will not, if I can help it." "Your hand upon it, Damon." He carelessly gave her his hand. "Ah, by my crown, what's that?" he said suddenly. There fell upon their ears the sound of numerous voices singing in front of the house. Among these, two made themselves prominent by their peculiarity: one was a very strong bass, the other a wheezy thin piping. Thomasin recognized them as belonging to Timothy Fairway and Grandfer Cantle respectively. "What does it mean--it is not skimmity-riding, I hope?" she said, with a frightened gaze at Wildeve. "Of course not; no, it is that the heath-folk have come to sing to us a welcome. This is intolerable!" He began pacing about, the men outside singing cheerily-- "He told' her that she' was the joy' of his life', And if' she'd con-sent' he would make her his wife'; She could' not refuse' him; to church' so they went', Young Will was forgot', and young Sue' was content'; And then' was she kiss'd' and set down' on his knee', No man' in the world' was so lov'-ing as he'!" Mrs. Yeobright burst in from the outer room. "Thomasin, Thomasin!" she said, looking indignantly at Wildeve; "here's a pretty exposure! Let us escape at once. Come!" It was, however, too late to get away by the passage. A rugged knocking had begun upon the door of the front room. Wildeve, who had gone to the window, came back. "Stop!" he said imperiously, putting his hand upon Mrs. Yeobright's arm. "We are regularly besieged. There are fifty of them out there if there's one. You stay in this room with Thomasin; I'll go out and face them. You must stay now, for my sake, till they are gone, so that it may seem as if all was right. Come, Tamsie dear, don't go making a scene--we must marry after this; that you can see as well as I. Sit still, that's all--and don't speak much. I'll manage them. Blundering fools!" He pressed the agitated girl into a seat, returned to the outer room and opened the door. Immediately outside, in the passage, appeared Grandfer Cantle singing in concert with those still standing in front of the house. He came into the room and nodded abstractedly to Wildeve, his lips still parted, and his features excruciatingly strained in the emission of the chorus. This being ended, he said heartily, "Here's welcome to the new-made couple, and God bless 'em!" "Thank you," said Wildeve, with dry resentment, his face as gloomy as a thunderstorm. At the Grandfer's heels now came the rest of the group, which included Fairway, Christian, Sam the turf-cutter, Humphrey, and a dozen others. All smiled upon Wildeve, and upon his tables and chairs likewise, from a general sense of friendliness towards the articles as well as towards their owner. "We be not here afore Mrs. Yeobright after all," said Fairway, recognizing the matron's bonnet through the glass partition which divided the public apartment they had entered from the room where the women sat. "We struck down across, d'ye see, Mr. Wildeve, and she went round by the path." "And I see the young bride's little head!" said Grandfer, peeping in the same direction, and discerning Thomasin, who was waiting beside her aunt in a miserable and awkward way. "Not quite settled in yet--well, well, there's plenty of time." Wildeve made no reply; and probably feeling that the sooner he treated them the sooner they would go, he produced a stone jar, which threw a warm halo over matters at once. "That's a drop of the right sort, I can see," said Grandfer Cantle, with the air of a man too well-mannered to show any hurry to taste it. "Yes," said Wildeve, "'tis some old mead. I hope you will like it." "O ay!" replied the guests, in the hearty tones natural when the words demanded by politeness coincide with those of deepest feeling. "There isn't a prettier drink under the sun." "I'll take my oath there isn't," added Grandfer Cantle. "All that can be said against mead is that 'tis rather heady, and apt to lie about a man a good while. But tomorrow's Sunday, thank God." "I feel'd for all the world like some bold soldier after I had had some once," said Christian. "You shall feel so again," said Wildeve, with condescension, "Cups or glasses, gentlemen?" "Well, if you don't mind, we'll have the beaker, and pass 'en round; 'tis better than heling it out in dribbles." "Jown the slippery glasses," said Grandfer Cantle. "What's the good of a thing that you can't put down in the ashes to warm, hey, neighbours; that's what I ask?" "Right, Grandfer," said Sam; and the mead then circulated. "Well," said Timothy Fairway, feeling demands upon his praise in some form or other, "'tis a worthy thing to be married, Mr. Wildeve; and the woman you've got is a dimant, so says I. Yes," he continued, to Grandfer Cantle, raising his voice so as to be heard through the partition, "her father (inclining his head towards the inner room) was as good a feller as ever lived. He always had his great indignation ready against anything underhand." "Is that very dangerous?" said Christian. "And there were few in these parts that were upsides with him," said Sam. "Whenever a club walked he'd play the clarinet in the band that marched before 'em as if he'd never touched anything but a clarinet all his life. And then, when they got to church door he'd throw down the clarinet, mount the gallery, snatch up the bass viol, and rozum away as if he'd never played anything but a bass viol. Folk would say--folk that knowed what a true stave was--'Surely, surely that's never the same man that I saw handling the clarinet so masterly by now!" "I can mind it," said the furze-cutter. "'Twas a wonderful thing that one body could hold it all and never mix the fingering." "There was Kingsbere church likewise," Fairway recommenced, as one opening a new vein of the same mine of interest. Wildeve breathed the breath of one intolerably bored, and glanced through the partition at the prisoners. "He used to walk over there of a Sunday afternoon to visit his old acquaintance Andrew Brown, the first clarinet there; a good man enough, but rather screechy in his music, if you can mind?" "'A was." "And neighbour Yeobright would take Andrey's place for some part of the service, to let Andrey have a bit of a nap, as any friend would naturally do." "As any friend would," said Grandfer Cantle, the other listeners expressing the same accord by the shorter way of nodding their heads. "No sooner was Andrey asleep and the first whiff of neighbour Yeobright's wind had got inside Andrey's clarinet than everyone in church feeled in a moment there was a great soul among 'em. All heads would turn, and they'd say, 'Ah, I thought 'twas he!' One Sunday I can well mind--a bass viol day that time, and Yeobright had brought his own. 'Twas the Hundred-and-thirty-third to 'Lydia'; and when they'd come to 'Ran down his beard and o'er his robes its costly moisture shed,' neighbour Yeobright, who had just warmed to his work, drove his bow into them strings that glorious grand that he e'en a'most sawed the bass viol into two pieces. Every winder in church rattled as if 'twere a thunderstorm. Old Pa'son Williams lifted his hands in his great holy surplice as natural as if he'd been in common clothes, and seemed to say hisself, 'O for such a man in our parish!' But not a soul in Kingsbere could hold a candle to Yeobright." "Was it quite safe when the winder shook?" Christian inquired. He received no answer, all for the moment sitting rapt in admiration of the performance described. As with Farinelli's singing before the princesses, Sheridan's renowned Begum Speech, and other such examples, the fortunate condition of its being for ever lost to the world invested the deceased Mr. Yeobright's tour de force on that memorable afternoon with a cumulative glory which comparative criticism, had that been possible, might considerably have shorn down. "He was the last you'd have expected to drop off in the prime of life," said Humphrey. "Ah, well; he was looking for the earth some months afore he went. At that time women used to run for smocks and gown-pieces at Greenhill Fair, and my wife that is now, being a long-legged slittering maid, hardly husband-high, went with the rest of the maidens, for 'a was a good, runner afore she got so heavy. When she came home I said--we were then just beginning to walk together--'What have ye got, my honey?' 'I've won--well, I've won--a gown-piece,' says she, her colours coming up in a moment. 'Tis a smock for a crown, I thought; and so it turned out. Ay, when I think what she'll say to me now without a mossel of red in her face, it do seem strange that 'a wouldn't say such a little thing then.... However, then she went on, and that's what made me bring up the story. Well, whatever clothes I've won, white or figured, for eyes to see or for eyes not to see' ('a could do a pretty stroke of modesty in those days), 'I'd sooner have lost it than have seen what I have. Poor Mr. Yeobright was took bad directly he reached the fair ground, and was forced to go home again.' That was the last time he ever went out of the parish." "'A faltered on from one day to another, and then we heard he was gone." "D'ye think he had great pain when 'a died?" said Christian. "O no--quite different. Nor any pain of mind. He was lucky enough to be God A'mighty's own man." "And other folk--d'ye think 'twill be much pain to 'em, Mister Fairway?" "That depends on whether they be afeard." "I bain't afeard at all, I thank God!" said Christian strenuously. "I'm glad I bain't, for then 'twon't pain me.... I don't think I be afeard--or if I be I can't help it, and I don't deserve to suffer. I wish I was not afeard at all!" There was a solemn silence, and looking from the window, which was unshuttered and unblinded, Timothy said, "Well, what a fess little bonfire that one is, out by Cap'n Vye's! 'Tis burning just the same now as ever, upon my life." All glances went through the window, and nobody noticed that Wildeve disguised a brief, telltale look. Far away up the sombre valley of heath, and to the right of Rainbarrow, could indeed be seen the light, small, but steady and persistent as before. "It was lighted before ours was," Fairway continued; "and yet every one in the country round is out afore 'n." "Perhaps there's meaning in it!" murmured Christian. "How meaning?" said Wildeve sharply. Christian was too scattered to reply, and Timothy helped him. "He means, sir, that the lonesome dark-eyed creature up there that some say is a witch--ever I should call a fine young woman such a name--is always up to some odd conceit or other; and so perhaps 'tis she." "I'd be very glad to ask her in wedlock, if she'd hae me and take the risk of her wild dark eyes ill-wishing me," said Grandfer Cantle staunchly. "Don't ye say it, Father!" implored Christian. "Well, be dazed if he who do marry the maid won't hae an uncommon picture for his best parlour," said Fairway in a liquid tone, placing down the cup of mead at the end of a good pull. "And a partner as deep as the North Star," said Sam, taking up the cup and finishing the little that remained. "Well, really, now I think we must be moving," said Humphrey, observing the emptiness of the vessel. "But we'll gie 'em another song?" said Grandfer Cantle. "I'm as full of notes as a bird!" "Thank you, Grandfer," said Wildeve. "But we will not trouble you now. Some other day must do for that--when I have a party." "Be jown'd if I don't learn ten new songs for't, or I won't learn a line!" said Grandfer Cantle. "And you may be sure I won't disappoint ye by biding away, Mr. Wildeve." "I quite believe you," said that gentleman. All then took their leave, wishing their entertainer long life and happiness as a married man, with recapitulations which occupied some time. Wildeve attended them to the door, beyond which the deep-dyed upward stretch of heath stood awaiting them, an amplitude of darkness reigning from their feet almost to the zenith, where a definite form first became visible in the lowering forehead of Rainbarrow. Diving into the dense obscurity in a line headed by Sam the turf-cutter, they pursued their trackless way home. When the scratching of the furze against their leggings had fainted upon the ear, Wildeve returned to the room where he had left Thomasin and her aunt. The women were gone. They could only have left the house in one way, by the back window; and this was open. Wildeve laughed to himself, remained a moment thinking, and idly returned to the front room. Here his glance fell upon a bottle of wine which stood on the mantelpiece. "Ah--old Dowden!" he murmured; and going to the kitchen door shouted, "Is anybody here who can take something to old Dowden?" There was no reply. The room was empty, the lad who acted as his factotum having gone to bed. Wildeve came back put on his hat, took the bottle, and left the house, turning the key in the door, for there was no guest at the inn tonight. As soon as he was on the road the little bonfire on Mistover Knap again met his eye. "Still waiting, are you, my lady?" he murmured. However, he did not proceed that way just then; but leaving the hill to the left of him, he stumbled over a rutted road that brought him to a cottage which, like all other habitations on the heath at this hour, was only saved from being visible by a faint shine from its bedroom window. This house was the home of Olly Dowden, the besom-maker, and he entered. The lower room was in darkness; but by feeling his way he found a table, whereon he placed the bottle, and a minute later emerged again upon the heath. He stood and looked northeast at the undying little fire--high up above him, though not so high as Rainbarrow. We have been told what happens when a woman deliberates; and the epigram is not always terminable with woman, provided that one be in the case, and that a fair one. Wildeve stood, and stood longer, and breathed perplexedly, and then said to himself with resignation, "Yes--by Heaven, I must go to her, I suppose!" Instead of turning in the direction of home he pressed on rapidly by a path under Rainbarrow towards what was evidently a signal light. </CHAPTER> Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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Frau Yeobright trifft den Rotfärbler Diggory Venn vor der Gaststätte "Quiet Woman Inn". Er erzählt ihr, dass Thomasin in seinem Wagen ist. Als sie ihre Nichte findet, erfährt Frau Yeobright, dass die Hochzeit von Thomasin nicht stattgefunden hat. Frau Yeobright nimmt Thomasin mit und geht in die Gaststätte, um Wildeve zur Rede zu stellen und herauszufinden, was mit den Hochzeitsplänen passiert ist. Die Tante ist mit Wildeves Erklärung nicht zufrieden, aber er versichert Thomasin heimlich, dass er immer noch vorhat, sie zu heiraten. Die Gruppe von Heidebewohnern aus Rainbarrow kommt an und beendet effektiv das Gespräch zwischen Frau Yeobright, Thomasin und Wildeve. Sie sind gekommen, um die frisch Vermählten zu begrüßen und zu serenadieren. Erregt, aber geduldig gegenüber ihren wirren Versuchen zu singen und zu reden, behandelt Wildeve sie mit einem Trunk Met. Die Gruppe geht vergnügt davon. Als sie gehen, bemerkt Wildeve, dass Thomasin und ihre Tante gegangen sind. Wildeve sieht das Feuer, das von Eustacia entzündet wurde, und glaubt, dass es ein Signal für ihn ist. Er macht sich sofort auf den Weg nach Mistover Knap.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). 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 Zwei Betritt Yorke und seine Herzogin. Herzogin: Mein Herr, du hast mir versprochen, den Rest zu erzählen, als du die Geschichte unter Tränen abgebrochen hast, von unseren beiden Cousins, die nach London kommen. Yorke: Wo habe ich aufgehört? Herzogin: An dieser traurigen Stelle, mein Herr, wo ungesteuerte Hände vom Fenster aus Staub und Schutt auf König Richards Kopf geworfen haben. Yorke: Dann, wie ich sagte, stieg der Herzog, der große Bullingbrooke, auf ein heißes und feuriges Pferd, das seinem aufstrebenden Reiter zu gehorchen schien. Mit langsamer, aber stattlicher Geschwindigkeit setzte er seinen Kurs fort, während alle Zungen riefen: Gott segne dich, Bullingbrooke. Man hätte gedacht, die Fenster würden sprechen, so viele gierige Blicke junger und alter Menschen schossen aus den Fenstern auf sein Gesicht. Und alle Wände, mit ihren Gemälden, schienen auf einmal zu sagen: Jesus, erhalte dich, willkommen Bullingbrooke. Während er sich von einer Seite zur anderen wandte, mit heruntergelassener Mütze, tiefer als der stolze Hals seines Pferdes, sprach er zu ihnen: Ich danke euch, Landsleute. Und während er dies tat, ging er weiter. Herzogin: Ach, armer Richard, wo reitet er währenddessen? Yorke: Wie in einem Theater richten sich die Blicke der Menschen nach einem gutmütigen Schauspieler auf den nächsten, in der Hoffnung, sein Gerede sei langweilig. Ebenso oder mit noch mehr Verachtung starrten die Augen der Menschen auf Richard. Niemand rief: Gott segne ihn. Keine freudige Zunge hieß ihn willkommen zu Hause. Aber Staub wurde auf seinen heiligen Kopf geworfen, den er mit sanftem Schmerz abschüttelte, während sein Gesicht immer noch mit Tränen und Lächeln kämpfte, den Zeichen seines Kummers und seiner Geduld. Wenn Gott nicht (aus einem bestimmten Grund) die Herzen der Menschen verhärtet hätte, müssten sie zwangsläufig erweichen, und selbst der Barbarismus hätte Mitleid mit ihm gehabt. Aber der Himmel hat seine Hand in diesen Ereignissen, zu dessen hohem Willen wir unsere ruhigen Gefühle ergeben haben. Wir sind jetzt Bürgen für Bullingbrooke, dessen Stand und Ehre ich für immer anerkenne. Betritt Aumerle. Herzogin: Hier kommt mein Sohn Aumerle. Yorke: Aumerle, der einmal war, aber nun verloren ist, weil er Richards Freund war. Und, meine Dame, du musst ihn nun Rutland nennen. Ich stehe im Parlament als Bürge für seine Treue und Verehrung gegenüber dem neuen König. Herzogin: Willkommen, mein Sohn. Wer sind jetzt die Veilchen, die den grünen Schoß des neu gekommenen Frühlings bedecken? Aumerle: Madame, ich weiß es nicht und es ist mir auch gleichgültig. Gott weiß, ich wäre lieber keiner als einer. Yorke: Nun, mach es gut in diesem neuen Frühling der Zeit, damit du nicht abgeerntet wirst, bevor du reif geworden bist. Was gibt es Neues aus Oxford? Finden dort die Ritterkämpfe und Triumphzüge statt? Aumerle: Soweit ich weiß, mein Herr, schon. Yorke: Du wirst dort sein, das weiß ich. Aumerle: Wenn Gott es nicht verhindert, habe ich vor, es zu tun. Yorke: Was ist das für ein Siegel, das außerhalb deiner Brust hängt? Siehst du blass aus? Lass mich den Brief sehen. Aumerle: Mein Herr, es ist nichts. Yorke: Dann ist es egal, wer es sehen darf. Ich werde zufriedengestellt sein. Lass mich den Brief sehen. Aumerle: Ich bitte Eure Gnade um Verzeihung. Es ist eine Angelegenheit von geringer Bedeutung, die ich aus bestimmten Gründen nicht gesehen haben möchte. Yorke: Die ich aus bestimmten Gründen sehen möchte, Sir. Ich fürchte, ich fürchte... Herzogin: Wovor hast du Angst? Yorke: Es ist nichts weiter als eine Bindung, in die er eingetreten ist, um sich für den Triumph schick anzuziehen. Yorke: An sich selbst gebunden? Was will er mit einer Bindung, zu der er verpflichtet ist? Frau, du bist eine Narren. Junge, lass mich den Brief sehen. Aumerle: Ich bitte Euch, verzeiht mir, ich darf ihn nicht zeigen. Yorke: Ich werde zufriedengestellt sein und ihn sehen, sage ich. Nimmt ihn sich. Verrat, schändlicher Verrat, Schurke, Verräter, Sklave! Herzogin: Was ist los, mein Herr? Yorke: Ho, wer ist da? Sattle mein Pferd. Gott sei Dank: Welcher Verrat ist hier? Herzogin: Warum, was ist denn los, mein Herr? Yorke: Gib mir meine Stiefel, sage ich: Sattle mein Pferd. Jetzt schwöre ich bei meiner Ehre, meinem Leben, meinem Glauben, dass ich den Schurken anklagen werde. Herzogin: Was ist los? Yorke: Friede, törichte Frau! Herzogin: Ich werde keinen Frieden halten. Was ist los, mein Sohn? Aumerle: Gute Mutter, sei ruhig, es ist nichts weiter als dass mein armes Leben dafür büßen muss. Herzogin: Soll dein Leben antworten? Betritt Diener mit Stiefeln. Yorke: Bring mir meine Stiefel, ich werde zum König gehen. Herzogin: Schlag ihn, Aumerle. Armer Junge, du bist verwirrt. Geh weg, Schurke, komm nie wieder in meinen Anblick. Yorke: Gib mir meine Stiefel, sage ich. Herzogin: Yorke, was willst du tun? Willst du das Fehlverhalten deines eigenen Sohnes verbergen? Haben wir noch mehr Söhne? Oder werden wir noch welche haben? Ist nicht mein Geburtsdatum mit der Zeit aufgebraucht? Und willst du mir meinen schönen Sohn in meinen alten Tagen wegnehmen und mir meinen glücklichen Mütternamen rauben? Ist er nicht wie du? Ist er nicht dein eigener? Yorke: Dumme, verrückte Frau! Willst du diese dunkle Verschwörung verheimlichen? Ein Dutzend von ihnen hat das Sakrament genommen und ihre Hände untereinander ausgetauscht, um den König in Oxford zu töten. Herzogin: Er wird nicht einer von ihnen sein. Wir werden ihn hier behalten. Was geht es ihn an? Yorke: Weg, dumme Frau! Selbst wenn er zwanzig Mal mein Sohn wäre, würde ich ihn anklagen. Herzogin: Wenn du für ihn gestöhnt hättest, wie ich es getan habe, wärst du mitleidiger. Aber jetzt kenne ich deinen Gedanken: du vermutest, dass ich deinem Bett untreu war und dass er ein Bastard ist, nicht dein Sohn. Lieber Yorke, lieber Ehemann, sei nicht so gesinnt. Er ist so wie du, wie ein Mann sein kann, nicht wie ich oder einer meiner Verwandten. Und dennoch liebe ich ihn. Yorke: Mach Platz, ungezähmte Frau. Abgang Herzogin: Folge Aumerle. Springe auf sein Pferd, jage los und komm ihm zum König vor, und bitte um Vergebung, bevor er dich beschuldigt. Ich werde nicht lange bleiben. Obwohl ich alt bin, bin ich zuversichtlich, dass ich genauso schnell reiten kann wie Yorke. Ich werde nie wieder aufstehen, bis Bullingbrooke dir vergeben hat. Weg, geh! Abgang Szene Drei. Betritt Bullingbrooke, Percie und andere Lords. Bullingbrooke: Kann mir niemand von meinem verschwenderischen Sohn ber Enten und Diener. Ser. Hast du nicht bemerkt, was der König gesagt hat? Gibt es keinen Freund, der mich von dieser lebendigen Angst befreien wird? War das nicht so? Ext. Das waren seine genauen Worte. Habe ich keinen Freund? (sagte er :) Er hat es zweimal gesagt, und zweimal betont, nicht wahr? Ser. Das hat er. Ext. Und als er es sagte, schaute er mich an, als wollte er sagen, ich wünschte du wärst der Mann, der diesen Schrecken aus meinem Herzen vertreiben würde, den König in Pomfret meinen. Komm, lass uns gehen; Ich bin der Freund des Königs und werde seinen Feind loswerden. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Im Haus des Duke of York in Langley empfängt der alte Duke seine Frau, die Duchess of York, und erzählt ihr von seinem langen Tag: Als Bolingbroke triumphierend in London für seine Krönung ritt, Richard in Gefangenschaft voraus, verachteten die Menschen Richard und warfen Müll auf seinen Kopf, jubelten aber wild für Bolingbroke. Sie öffnen die Fenster, um ihm zuzusehen, wie er vorbeifährt, und rufen: "Gott schütze dich, Bolingbroke! . . . Willkommen, Bolingbroke!" . York ist über die schlechte Behandlung des ehemaligen Königs Richard verärgert, schwört aber dem neuen König die Treue. Aumerle, der Sohn des Duke und der Duchess of York, tritt ein; er wird jetzt "Rutland" genannt, offensichtlich hat er seinen edleren Titel aufgrund von Bolingbrokes Urteil in der "Gerichtsverhandlung" des vierten Aktes, erster Szene verloren. Während er lustlos über die triumphalen Feierlichkeiten spricht, die in Oxford zu Ehren des neuen Königs Heinrich IV. stattfinden, bemerkt sein Vater, York, einen Brief, den er in seinem Hemd verbirgt. Aumerle versucht, seinen Vater daran zu hindern, ihn zu sehen, aber York ergreift ihn und liest ihn. Er wird sofort sehr aufgeregt und nennt seinen Sohn "Schurke! Verräter! Sklave!" . Es stellt sich heraus, dass der Brief zeigt, dass Aumerle sich einer Verschwörung von zwölf Adligen angeschlossen hat, die planen, König Heinrich in Oxford zu ermorden. Die Duchess versucht, mit York zu vernünfteln und ihn zu bitten, Aumerles Beteiligung geheim zu halten, da er ihr einziger Sohn ist und sie zu alt ist, um weitere Kinder zu bekommen. York will jedoch nicht hören, und er sattelt sein Pferd, um zum König zu reiten und ihm alles zu erzählen. Die Duchess instruiert Aumerle, seinem Vater zu folgen und zu versuchen, den König zuerst zu erreichen, um um Vergebung zu bitten. Sie selbst wird so schnell wie möglich folgen, um für Aumerles Leben zu bitten. In Windsor Castle, in der Nähe von London, beklagt Bolingbroke sich bei dem jungen Harry Percy über die wilden Wege von Bolingbrokes Sohn, den er seit ganzen drei Monaten nicht mehr gesehen hat. Der junge Prinz hat anscheinend seine Zeit in Tavernen und Bordellen verbracht und sich mit Räubern und Straßenräubern abgegeben. Bolingbroke ist besorgt, sieht aber immer noch Hoffnungsschimmer in dem Jungen. Aumerle tritt ein und bittet seinen Cousin Bolingbroke um ein privates Gespräch. Der neue König entlässt seine Gefährten, und Aumerle fällt auf die Knie und sagt, er werde nicht aufstehen, bis der König ihm für das Verbrechen vergeben hat, das er begangen hat - noch werde er das Verbrechen nennen, bis er die Vergebung des Königs hat. Er bittet auch den König, die Tür zu verschließen, bis ihre Konferenz beendet ist. Bolingbroke kommt dieser Bitte nach, aber plötzlich hört man den Duke of York an die Tür klopfen. Er ruft aus, dass Aumerle ein Verräter ist; Bolingbroke zieht sein Schwert, aber Aumerle schwört, dass der König keine Angst vor ihm haben muss. York tritt dann ein und zeigt Bolingbroke den verräterischen Brief. Die Stimme der Duchess ist von draußen zu hören, und auch sie betritt die Kammer; sie ist von ihrem Haus geritten, um den König zu bitten, das Leben ihres Sohnes zu verschonen. Ein seltsames dreifaches Gespräch in hochgradig formeller Sprache entwickelt sich zwischen der Duchess of York, dem Duke of York und dem König: York fleht den König an, seinen Sohn als Verräter hinzurichten, während die Duchess ihn bittet, Aumerles Leben zu verschonen. Schließlich entscheidet der König, Aumerle zu begnadigen, fügt aber hinzu, dass alle anderen Verschwörer sofort verhaftet und hingerichtet 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: She thought, sometimes, that, after all, this was the happiest time of her life--the honeymoon, as people called it. To taste the full sweetness of it, it would have been necessary doubtless to fly to those lands with sonorous names where the days after marriage are full of laziness most suave. In post chaises behind blue silken curtains to ride slowly up steep road, listening to the song of the postilion re-echoed by the mountains, along with the bells of goats and the muffled sound of a waterfall; at sunset on the shores of gulfs to breathe in the perfume of lemon trees; then in the evening on the villa-terraces above, hand in hand to look at the stars, making plans for the future. It seemed to her that certain places on earth must bring happiness, as a plant peculiar to the soil, and that cannot thrive elsewhere. Why could not she lean over balconies in Swiss chalets, or enshrine her melancholy in a Scotch cottage, with a husband dressed in a black velvet coat with long tails, and thin shoes, a pointed hat and frills? Perhaps she would have liked to confide all these things to someone. But how tell an undefinable uneasiness, variable as the clouds, unstable as the winds? Words failed her--the opportunity, the courage. If Charles had but wished it, if he had guessed it, if his look had but once met her thought, it seemed to her that a sudden plenty would have gone out from her heart, as the fruit falls from a tree when shaken by a hand. But as the intimacy of their life became deeper, the greater became the gulf that separated her from him. Charles's conversation was commonplace as a street pavement, and everyone's ideas trooped through it in their everyday garb, without exciting emotion, laughter, or thought. He had never had the curiosity, he said, while he lived at Rouen, to go to the theatre to see the actors from Paris. He could neither swim, nor fence, nor shoot, and one day he could not explain some term of horsemanship to her that she had come across in a novel. A man, on the contrary, should he not know everything, excel in manifold activities, initiate you into the energies of passion, the refinements of life, all mysteries? But this one taught nothing, knew nothing, wished nothing. He thought her happy; and she resented this easy calm, this serene heaviness, the very happiness she gave him. Sometimes she would draw; and it was great amusement to Charles to stand there bolt upright and watch her bend over her cardboard, with eyes half-closed the better to see her work, or rolling, between her fingers, little bread-pellets. As to the piano, the more quickly her fingers glided over it the more he wondered. She struck the notes with aplomb, and ran from top to bottom of the keyboard without a break. Thus shaken up, the old instrument, whose strings buzzed, could be heard at the other end of the village when the window was open, and often the bailiff's clerk, passing along the highroad bare-headed and in list slippers, stopped to listen, his sheet of paper in his hand. Emma, on the other hand, knew how to look after her house. She sent the patients' accounts in well-phrased letters that had no suggestion of a bill. When they had a neighbour to dinner on Sundays, she managed to have some tasty dish--piled up pyramids of greengages on vine leaves, served up preserves turned out into plates--and even spoke of buying finger-glasses for dessert. From all this much consideration was extended to Bovary. Charles finished by rising in his own esteem for possessing such a wife. He showed with pride in the sitting room two small pencil sketches by her that he had had framed in very large frames, and hung up against the wallpaper by long green cords. People returning from mass saw him at his door in his wool-work slippers. He came home late--at ten o'clock, at midnight sometimes. Then he asked for something to eat, and as the servant had gone to bed, Emma waited on him. He took off his coat to dine more at his ease. He told her, one after the other, the people he had met, the villages where he had been, the prescriptions he had written, and, well pleased with himself, he finished the remainder of the boiled beef and onions, picked pieces off the cheese, munched an apple, emptied his water-bottle, and then went to bed, and lay on his back and snored. As he had been for a time accustomed to wear nightcaps, his handkerchief would not keep down over his ears, so that his hair in the morning was all tumbled pell-mell about his face and whitened with the feathers of the pillow, whose strings came untied during the night. He always wore thick boots that had two long creases over the instep running obliquely towards the ankle, while the rest of the upper continued in a straight line as if stretched on a wooden foot. He said that "was quite good enough for the country." His mother approved of his economy, for she came to see him as formerly when there had been some violent row at her place; and yet Madame Bovary senior seemed prejudiced against her daughter-in-law. She thought "her ways too fine for their position"; the wood, the sugar, and the candles disappeared as "at a grand establishment," and the amount of firing in the kitchen would have been enough for twenty-five courses. She put her linen in order for her in the presses, and taught her to keep an eye on the butcher when he brought the meat. Emma put up with these lessons. Madame Bovary was lavish of them; and the words "daughter" and "mother" were exchanged all day long, accompanied by little quiverings of the lips, each one uttering gentle words in a voice trembling with anger. In Madame Dubuc's time the old woman felt that she was still the favorite; but now the love of Charles for Emma seemed to her a desertion from her tenderness, an encroachment upon what was hers, and she watched her son's happiness in sad silence, as a ruined man looks through the windows at people dining in his old house. She recalled to him as remembrances her troubles and her sacrifices, and, comparing these with Emma's negligence, came to the conclusion that it was not reasonable to adore her so exclusively. Charles knew not what to answer: he respected his mother, and he loved his wife infinitely; he considered the judgment of the one infallible, and yet he thought the conduct of the other irreproachable. When Madam Bovary had gone, he tried timidly and in the same terms to hazard one or two of the more anodyne observations he had heard from his mamma. Emma proved to him with a word that he was mistaken, and sent him off to his patients. And yet, in accord with theories she believed right, she wanted to make herself in love with him. By moonlight in the garden she recited all the passionate rhymes she knew by heart, and, sighing, sang to him many melancholy adagios; but she found herself as calm after as before, and Charles seemed no more amorous and no more moved. When she had thus for a while struck the flint on her heart without getting a spark, incapable, moreover, of understanding what she did not experience as of believing anything that did not present itself in conventional forms, she persuaded herself without difficulty that Charles's passion was nothing very exorbitant. His outbursts became regular; he embraced her at certain fixed times. It was one habit among other habits, and, like a dessert, looked forward to after the monotony of dinner. A gamekeeper, cured by the doctor of inflammation of the lungs, had given madame a little Italian greyhound; she took her out walking, for she went out sometimes in order to be alone for a moment, and not to see before her eyes the eternal garden and the dusty road. She went as far as the beeches of Banneville, near the deserted pavilion which forms an angle of the wall on the side of the country. Amidst the vegetation of the ditch there are long reeds with leaves that cut you. She began by looking round her to see if nothing had changed since last she had been there. She found again in the same places the foxgloves and wallflowers, the beds of nettles growing round the big stones, and the patches of lichen along the three windows, whose shutters, always closed, were rotting away on their rusty iron bars. Her thoughts, aimless at first, wandered at random, like her greyhound, who ran round and round in the fields, yelping after the yellow butterflies, chasing the shrew-mice, or nibbling the poppies on the edge of a cornfield. Then gradually her ideas took definite shape, and, sitting on the grass that she dug up with little prods of her sunshade, Emma repeated to herself, "Good heavens! Why did I marry?" She asked herself if by some other chance combination it would have not been possible to meet another man; and she tried to imagine what would have been these unrealised events, this different life, this unknown husband. All, surely, could not be like this one. He might have been handsome, witty, distinguished, attractive, such as, no doubt, her old companions of the convent had married. What were they doing now? In town, with the noise of the streets, the buzz of the theatres and the lights of the ballroom, they were living lives where the heart expands, the senses bourgeon out. But she--her life was cold as a garret whose dormer window looks on the north, and ennui, the silent spider, was weaving its web in the darkness in every corner of her heart. She recalled the prize days, when she mounted the platform to receive her little crowns, with her hair in long plaits. In her white frock and open prunella shoes she had a pretty way, and when she went back to her seat, the gentlemen bent over her to congratulate her; the courtyard was full of carriages; farewells were called to her through their windows; the music master with his violin case bowed in passing by. How far all of this! How far away! She called Djali, took her between her knees, and smoothed the long delicate head, saying, "Come, kiss mistress; you have no troubles." Then noting the melancholy face of the graceful animal, who yawned slowly, she softened, and comparing her to herself, spoke to her aloud as to somebody in trouble whom one is consoling. Occasionally there came gusts of winds, breezes from the sea rolling in one sweep over the whole plateau of the Caux country, which brought even to these fields a salt freshness. The rushes, close to the ground, whistled; the branches trembled in a swift rustling, while their summits, ceaselessly swaying, kept up a deep murmur. Emma drew her shawl round her shoulders and rose. In the avenue a green light dimmed by the leaves lit up the short moss that crackled softly beneath her feet. The sun was setting; the sky showed red between the branches, and the trunks of the trees, uniform, and planted in a straight line, seemed a brown colonnade standing out against a background of gold. A fear took hold of her; she called Djali, and hurriedly returned to Tostes by the high road, threw herself into an armchair, and for the rest of the evening did not speak. But towards the end of September something extraordinary fell upon her life; she was invited by the Marquis d'Andervilliers to Vaubyessard. Secretary of State under the Restoration, the Marquis, anxious to re-enter political life, set about preparing for his candidature to the Chamber of Deputies long beforehand. In the winter he distributed a great deal of wood, and in the Conseil General always enthusiastically demanded new roads for his arrondissement. During the dog-days he had suffered from an abscess, which Charles had cured as if by miracle by giving a timely little touch with the lancet. The steward sent to Tostes to pay for the operation reported in the evening that he had seen some superb cherries in the doctor's little garden. Now cherry trees did not thrive at Vaubyessard; the Marquis asked Bovary for some slips; made it his business to thank his personally; saw Emma; thought she had a pretty figure, and that she did not bow like a peasant; so that he did not think he was going beyond the bounds of condescension, nor, on the other hand, making a mistake, in inviting the young couple. On Wednesday at three o'clock, Monsieur and Madame Bovary, seated in their dog-cart, set out for Vaubyessard, with a great trunk strapped on behind and a bonnet-box in front of the apron. Besides these Charles held a bandbox between his knees. They arrived at nightfall, just as the lamps in the park were being lit to show the way for the carriages. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Emma fragt sich, ob diese "Flitterwochen-Tage" wirklich die besten Tage ihres Lebens sind. Sie beginnt sich betrogen zu fühlen, als ob Charles ihr die klischeehaften romantischen Fantasien vorenthalten hätte, die sie ausdenkt. Sie ist sich sicher, dass sie glücklicher wäre, wenn sie nur woanders wäre... am liebsten mit jemand anderem... Emma möchte diese Gefühle der Unzufriedenheit jemandem offenbaren und wünscht sich, Charles wäre etwas sensibler. Tag für Tag wird er für sie immer uninteressanter und sie ist ständig enttäuscht von dem Mann, den sie geheiratet hat. Sie glaubt, dass Männer alles wissen und alles können sollten - Charles ist jedoch nur ein durchschnittlicher Mann. Emma versucht, ihre stürmischen Gefühle durch Zeichnen und Musik zum Ausdruck zu bringen; Charles liebt es, ihr dabei zuzusehen, und die Leute im Dorf sind beeindruckt von ihren Leistungen. Übrigens entpuppt sich Emma als ziemlich fähige Ehefrau, wenn sie es versucht. Sie weiß, wie sie sich um das Haus und Charles' Geschäfte kümmern kann, und das lässt das Dorf den Arzt und seine junge Frau noch mehr respektieren. Charles selbst ist auch sehr beeindruckt, dass er so eine fantastische Ehefrau hat. Für ihn ist alles wunderbar. Soweit wir das beurteilen können, ist er ein wirklich einfacher Mensch, mit sehr wenigen Wünschen und keinerlei Ambitionen. Er ist geizig und ein bisschen einfältig, aber im Großen und Ganzen ist er immer noch der gleiche alte berechenbare Charles – der nette Kerl, der als Letzter ins Ziel kommt. Charles' Mutter befürwortet das Verhalten ihres Sohnes uneingeschränkt, aber sie ist skeptisch gegenüber ihrer Schwiegertochter. Sie macht sich Sorgen, dass Emma zu viel Geld verschwendet, und jedes Mal, wenn sie zu Besuch kommt, belästigen sich die beiden Frauen gegenseitig. Dies entspringt größtenteils den Ängsten von Charles' Mutter in Bezug auf seine Liebe zu Emma – sie ist nicht mehr die Lieblingsperson, jetzt da Ehefrau Nr. 2 im Bild ist. Charles steckt in der Zwickmühle zwischen den beiden Frauen, die er liebt. Er kann nicht glauben, dass seine Mutter jemals Unrecht haben könnte, aber er kann auch nicht glauben, dass Emma jemals Fehler macht. Es ist eine verwirrende Zeit für ihn; meistens stolpert er einfach nur herum, was nicht hilft. Emma beschließt, zumindest den Versuch zu machen "die Liebe zu erleben". Sie singt Lieder und rezitiert Gedichte für Charles, aber es bringt nichts. Schlussendlich ist Emma sicher, dass sie Charles nicht liebt und darüber hinaus, dass sie unfähig ist, ihn zu lieben. Sie ist mit ihrem Leben insgesamt sehr, sehr gelangweilt. Einer der großen Konstanten im Leben ist die Tatsache, dass Welpen großartig sind. Emma bekommt einen kleinen Windhundwelpen als Geschenk von einem von Charles' Patienten und für eine Weile lässt die Großartigkeit des Welpen sie tatsächlich ein bisschen besser fühlen. Sie nennt den Hund Djali und erzählt ihm von den Problemen des Ehelebens. Du hast es vielleicht nicht gemerkt, aber der Hund ist auch der beste Freund einer Frau. Emma ist sicher, dass sie jemand anderen - und besseren - hätte heiraten können, wenn sie die Chance gehabt hätte. Sie fragt sich, was aus ihren früheren Klassenkameraden aus dem Klosterschule geworden ist und ist sich sicher, dass sie bessere Ehemänner hat als sie. Ihr früheres Leben scheint schmerzlich weit weg zu sein. Gerade als es so aussieht, als würde für Emma nie etwas passieren, kommt eine Einladung: Sie und Charles sind zu einer Party im Haus eines örtlichen Großkopfes, des Marquis d'Andervilliers, eingeladen. Der Marquis, ein ehemaliger Patient von Charles, war von Emmas Eleganz beeindruckt. Das Kapitel endet, als das Paar in das Schloss des Marquis ankommt.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). 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: Her sleep was drawn out, she instantly recognised lateness in the way her eyes opened to Mrs. Wix, erect, completely dressed, more dressed than ever, and gazing at her from the centre of the room. The next thing she was sitting straight up, wide awake with the fear of the hours of "abroad" that she might have lost. Mrs. Wix looked as if the day had already made itself felt, and the process of catching up with it began for Maisie in hearing her distinctly say: "My poor dear, he has come!" "Sir Claude?" Maisie, clearing the little bed-rug with the width of her spring, felt the polished floor under her bare feet. "He crossed in the night; he got in early." Mrs. Wix's head jerked stiffly backward. "He's there." "And you've seen him?" "No. He's there--he's there," Mrs. Wix repeated. Her voice came out with a queer extinction that was not a voluntary drop, and she trembled so that it added to their common emotion. Visibly pale, they gazed at each other. "Isn't it too BEAUTIFUL?" Maisie panted back at her; a challenge with an answer to which, however, she was not ready at once. The term Maisie had used was a flash of diplomacy--to prevent at any rate Mrs. Wix's using another. To that degree it was successful; there was only an appeal, strange and mute, in the white old face, which produced the effect of a want of decision greater than could by any stretch of optimism have been associated with her attitude toward what had happened. For Maisie herself indeed what had happened was oddly, as she could feel, less of a simple rapture than any arrival or return of the same supreme friend had ever been before. What had become overnight, what had become while she slept, of the comfortable faculty of gladness? She tried to wake it up a little wider by talking, by rejoicing, by plunging into water and into clothes, and she made out that it was ten o'clock, but also that Mrs. Wix had not yet breakfasted. The day before, at nine, they had had together a _cafe complet_ in their sitting-room. Mrs. Wix on her side had evidently also a refuge to seek. She sought it in checking the precipitation of some of her pupil's present steps, in recalling to her with an approach to sternness that of such preliminaries those embodied in a thorough use of soap should be the most thorough, and in throwing even a certain reprobation on the idea of hurrying into clothes for the sake of a mere stepfather. She took her in hand with a silent insistence; she reduced the process to sequences more definite than any it had known since the days of Moddle. Whatever it might be that had now, with a difference, begun to belong to Sir Claude's presence was still after all compatible, for our young lady, with the instinct of dressing to see him with almost untidy haste. Mrs. Wix meanwhile luckily was not wholly directed to repression. "He's there--he's there!" she had said over several times. It was her answer to every invitation to mention how long she had been up and her motive for respecting so rigidly the slumber of her companion. It formed for some minutes her only account of the whereabouts of the others and her reason for not having yet seen them, as well as of the possibility of their presently being found in the salon. "He's there--he's there!" she declared once more as she made, on the child, with an almost invidious tug, a strained undergarment "meet." "Do you mean he's in the salon?" Maisie asked again. "He's WITH her," Mrs. Wix desolately said. "He's with her," she reiterated. "Do you mean in her own room?" Maisie continued. She waited an instant. "God knows!" Maisie wondered a little why, or how, God should know; this, however, delayed but an instant her bringing out: "Well, won't she go back?" "Go back? Never!" "She'll stay all the same?" "All the more." "Then won't Sir Claude go?" Maisie asked. "Go back--if SHE doesn't?" Mrs. Wix appeared to give this question the benefit of a minute's thought. "Why should he have come--only to go back?" Maisie produced an ingenious solution. "To MAKE her go. To take her." Mrs. Wix met it without a concession. "If he can make her go so easily, why should he have let her come?" Maisie considered. "Oh just to see ME. She has a right." "Yes--she has a right." "She's my mother!" Maisie tentatively tittered. "Yes--she's your mother." "Besides," Maisie went on, "he didn't let her come. He doesn't like her coming, and if he doesn't like it--" Mrs. Wix took her up. "He must lump it--that's what he must do! Your mother was right about him--I mean your real one. He has no strength. No--none at all." She seemed more profoundly to muse. "He might have had some even with HER--I mean with her ladyship. He's just a poor sunk slave," she asserted with sudden energy. Maisie wondered again. "A slave?" "To his passions." She continued to wonder and even to be impressed; after which she went on: "But how do you know he'll stay?" "Because he likes us!"--and Mrs. Wix, with her emphasis of the word, whirled her charge round again to deal with posterior hooks. She had positively never shaken her so. It was as if she quite shook something out of her. "But how will that help him if we--in spite of his liking!--don't stay?" "Do you mean if we go off and leave him with her?--" Mrs. Wix put the question to the back of her pupil's head. "It WON'T help him. It will be his ruin. He'll have got nothing. He'll have lost everything. It will be his utter destruction, for he's certain after a while to loathe her." "Then when he loathes her"--it was astonishing how she caught the idea--"he'll just come right after us!" Maisie announced. "Never." "Never?" "She'll keep him. She'll hold him for ever." Maisie doubted. "When he 'loathes' her?" "That won't matter. She won't loathe HIM. People don't!" Mrs. Wix brought up. "Some do. Mamma does," Maisie contended. "Mamma does NOT!" It was startling--her friend contradicted her flat. "She loves him--she adores him. A woman knows." Mrs. Wix spoke not only as if Maisie were not a woman, but as if she would never be one. "_I_ know!" she cried. "Then why on earth has she left him?" Mrs. Wix hesitated. "He hates HER. Don't stoop so--lift up your hair. You know how I'm affected toward him," she added with dignity; "but you must also know that I see clear." Maisie all this time was trying hard to do likewise. "Then if she has left him for that why shouldn't Mrs. Beale leave him?" "Because she's not such a fool!" "Not such a fool as mamma?" "Precisely--if you WILL have it. Does it look like her leaving him?" Mrs. Wix enquired. She brooded again; then she went on with more intensity: "Do you want to know really and truly why? So that she may be his wretchedness and his punishment." "His punishment?"--this was more than as yet Maisie could quite accept. "For what?" "For everything. That's what will happen: he'll be tied to her for ever. She won't mind in the least his hating her, and she won't hate him back. She'll only hate US." "Us?" the child faintly echoed. "She'll hate YOU." "Me? Why, I brought them together!" Maisie resentfully cried. "You brought them together." There was a completeness in Mrs. Wix's assent. "Yes; it was a pretty job. Sit down." She began to brush her pupil's hair and, as she took up the mass of it with some force of hand, went on with a sharp recall: "Your mother adored him at first--it might have lasted. But he began too soon with Mrs. Beale. As you say," she pursued with a brisk application of the brush, "you brought them together." "I brought them together"--Maisie was ready to reaffirm it. She felt none the less for a moment at the bottom of a hole; then she seemed to see a way out. "But I didn't bring mamma together--" She just faltered. "With all those gentlemen?"--Mrs. Wix pulled her up. "No; it isn't quite so bad as that." "I only said to the Captain"--Maisie had the quick memory of it--"that I hoped he at least (he was awfully nice!) would love her and keep her." "And even that wasn't much harm," threw in Mrs. Wix. "It wasn't much good," Maisie was obliged to recognise. "She can't bear him--not even a mite. She told me at Folkestone." Mrs. Wix suppressed a gasp; then after a bridling instant during which she might have appeared to deflect with difficulty from her odd consideration of Ida's wrongs: "He was a nice sort of person for her to talk to you about!" "Oh I LIKE him!" Maisie promptly rejoined; and at this, with an inarticulate sound and an inconsequence still more marked, her companion bent over and dealt her on the cheek a rapid peck which had the apparent intention of a kiss. "Well, if her ladyship doesn't agree with you, what does it only prove?" Mrs. Wix demanded in conclusion. "It proves that she's fond of Sir Claude!" Maisie, in the light of some of the evidence, reflected on that till her hair was finished, but when she at last started up she gave a sign of no very close embrace of it. She grasped at this moment Mrs. Wix's arm. "He must have got his divorce!" "Since day before yesterday? Don't talk trash." This was spoken with an impatience which left the child nothing to reply; whereupon she sought her defence in a completely different relation to the fact. "Well, I knew he would come!" "So did I; but not in twenty-four hours. I gave him a few days!" Mrs. Wix wailed. Maisie, whom she had now released, looked at her with interest. "How many did SHE give him?" Mrs. Wix faced her a moment; then as if with a bewildered sniff: "You had better ask her!" But she had no sooner uttered the words than she caught herself up. "Lord o' mercy, how we talk!" Maisie felt that however they talked she must see him, but she said nothing more for a time, a time during which she conscientiously finished dressing and Mrs. Wix also kept silence. It was as if they each had almost too much to think of, and even as if the child had the sense that her friend was watching her and seeing if she herself were watched. At last Mrs. Wix turned to the window and stood--sightlessly, as Maisie could guess--looking away. Then our young lady, before the glass, gave the supreme shake. "Well, I'm ready. And now to SEE him!" Mrs. Wix turned round, but as if without having heard her. "It's tremendously grave." There were slow still tears behind the straighteners. "It is--it is." Maisie spoke as if she were now dressed quite up to the occasion; as if indeed with the last touch she had put on the judgement-cap. "I must see him immediately." "How can you see him if he doesn't send for you?" "Why can't I go and find him?" "Because you don't know where he is." "Can't I just look in the salon?" That still seemed simple to Maisie. Mrs. Wix, however, instantly cut it off. "I wouldn't have you look in the salon for all the world!" Then she explained a little: "The salon isn't ours now." "Ours?" "Yours and mine. It's theirs." "Theirs?" Maisie, with her stare, continued to echo. "You mean they want to keep us out?" Mrs. Wix faltered; she sank into a chair and, as Maisie had often enough seen her do before, covered her face with her hands. "They ought to, at least. The situation's too monstrous!" Maisie stood there a moment--she looked about the room. "I'll go to him--I'll find him." "_I_ won't! I won't go NEAR them!" cried Mrs. Wix. "Then I'll see him alone." The child spied what she had been looking for--she possessed herself of her hat. "Perhaps I'll take him out!" And with decision she quitted the room. When she entered the salon it was empty, but at the sound of the opened door some one stirred on the balcony, and Sir Claude, stepping straight in, stood before her. He was in light fresh clothes and wore a straw hat with a bright ribbon; these things, besides striking her in themselves as the very promise of the grandest of grand tours, gave him a certain radiance and, as it were, a tropical ease; but such an effect only marked rather more his having stopped short and, for a longer minute than had ever at such a juncture elapsed, not opened his arms to her. His pause made her pause and enabled her to reflect that he must have been up some time, for there were no traces of breakfast; and that though it was so late he had rather markedly not caused her to be called to him. Had Mrs. Wix been right about their forfeiture of the salon? Was it all his now, all his and Mrs. Beale's? Such an idea, at the rate her small thoughts throbbed, could only remind her of the way in which what had been hers hitherto was what was exactly most Mrs. Beale's and his. It was strange to be standing there and greeting him across a gulf, for he had by this time spoken, smiled and said: "My dear child, my dear child!" but without coming any nearer. In a flash she saw he was different--more so than he knew or designed. The next minute indeed it was as if he caught an impression from her face: this made him hold out his hand. Then they met, he kissed her, he laughed, she thought he even blushed: something of his affection rang out as usual. "Here I am, you see, again--as I promised you." It was not as he had promised them--he had not promised them Mrs. Beale; but Maisie said nothing about that. What she said was simply: "I knew you had come. Mrs. Wix told me." "Oh yes. And where is she?" "In her room. She got me up--she dressed me." Sir Claude looked at her up and down; a sweetness of mockery that she particularly loved came out in his face whenever he did that, and it was not wanting now. He raised his eyebrows and his arms to play at admiration; he was evidently after all disposed to be gay. "Got you up?--I should think so! She has dressed you most beautifully. Isn't she coming?" Maisie wondered if she had better tell. "She said not." "Doesn't she want to see a poor devil?" She looked about under the vibration of the way he described himself, and her eyes rested on the door of the room he had previously occupied. "Is Mrs. Beale in there?" Sir Claude looked blankly at the same object. "I haven't the least idea!" "You haven't seen her?" "Not the tip of her nose." Maisie thought: there settled on her, in the light of his beautiful smiling eyes, the faintest purest coldest conviction that he wasn't telling the truth. "She hasn't welcomed you?" "Not by a single sign." "Then where is she?" Sir Claude laughed; he seemed both amused and surprised at the point she made of it. "I give it up!" "Doesn't she know you've come?" He laughed again. "Perhaps she doesn't care!" Maisie, with an inspiration, pounced on his arm. "Has she GONE?" He met her eyes and then she could see that his own were really much graver than his manner. "Gone?" She had flown to the door, but before she could raise her hand to knock he was beside her and had caught it. "Let her be. I don't care about her. I want to see YOU." "Then she HASN'T gone?" Maisie fell back with him. He still looked as if it were a joke, but the more she saw of him the more she could make out that he was troubled. "It wouldn't be like her!" She stood wondering at him. "Did you want her to come?" "How can you suppose--?" He put it to her candidly. "We had an immense row over it." "Do you mean you've quarrelled?" Sir Claude was at a loss. "What has she told you?" "That I'm hers as much as yours. That she represents papa." His gaze struck away through the open window and up to the sky; she could hear him rattle in his trousers-pockets his money or his keys. "Yes--that's what she keeps saying." It gave him for a moment an air that was almost helpless. "You say you don't care about her," Maisie went on. "DO you mean you've quarrelled?" "We do nothing in life but quarrel." He rose before her, as he said this, so soft and fair, so rich, in spite of what might worry him, in restored familiarities, that it gave a bright blur to the meaning--to what would otherwise perhaps have been the palpable promise--of the words. "Oh YOUR quarrels!" she exclaimed with discouragement. "I assure you hers are quite fearful!" "I don't speak of hers. I speak of yours." "Ah don't do it till I've had my coffee! You're growing up clever," he added. Then he said: "I suppose you've breakfasted?" "Oh no--I've had nothing." "Nothing in your room?"--he was all compunction. "My dear old man!--we'll breakfast then together." He had one of his happy thoughts. "I say--we'll go out." "That was just what I hoped. I've brought my hat." "You ARE clever! We'll go to a cafe." Maisie was already at the door; he glanced round the room. "A moment--my stick." But there appeared to be no stick. "No matter; I left it--oh!" He remembered with an odd drop and came out. "You left it in London?" she asked as they went downstairs. "Yes--in London: fancy!" "You were in such a hurry to come," Maisie explained. He had his arm round her. "That must have been the reason." Halfway down he stopped short again, slapping his leg. "And poor Mrs. Wix?" Maisie's face just showed a shadow. "Do you want her to come?" "Dear no--I want to see you alone." "That's the way I want to see YOU!" she replied. "Like before." "Like before!" he gaily echoed. "But I mean has she had her coffee?" "No, nothing." "Then I'll send it up to her. Madame!" He had already, at the foot of the stair, called out to the stout _patronne_, a lady who turned to him from the bustling, breezy hall a countenance covered with fresh matutinal powder and a bosom as capacious as the velvet shelf of a chimneypiece, over which her round white face, framed in its golden frizzle, might have figured as a showy clock. He ordered, with particular recommendations, Mrs. Wix's repast, and it was a charm to hear his easy brilliant French: even his companion's ignorance could measure the perfection of it. The _patronne_, rubbing her hands and breaking in with high swift notes as into a florid duet, went with him to the street, and while they talked a moment longer Maisie remembered what Mrs. Wix had said about every one's liking him. It came out enough through the morning powder, it came out enough in the heaving bosom, how the landlady liked him. He had evidently ordered something lovely for Mrs. Wix. _"Et bien soigne, n'est-ce-pas?"_ _"Soyez tranquille"_--the patronne beamed upon him. _"Et pour Madame?"_ _"Madame?"_ he echoed--it just pulled him up a little. _"Rien encore?"_ "_Rien encore._ Come, Maisie." She hurried along with him, but on the way to the cafe he said nothing. Können Sie eine geeignete Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Maisie wacht auf und stellt fest, dass Sir Claude zurückgekehrt ist. Während sich Maisie anzieht, überprüfen sie und Mrs. Wix erneut ihre Situation. Maisie sieht Sir Claude und erzählt Mrs. Wix, dass er nicht wollte, dass Mrs. Beale kommt. Maisie stimmt zu, alleine mit Sir Claude in ein Café zu gehen.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). 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. Five Years Later Tellson's Bank by Temple Bar was an old-fashioned place, even in the year one thousand seven hundred and eighty. It was very small, very dark, very ugly, very incommodious. It was an old-fashioned place, moreover, in the moral attribute that the partners in the House were proud of its smallness, proud of its darkness, proud of its ugliness, proud of its incommodiousness. They were even boastful of its eminence in those particulars, and were fired by an express conviction that, if it were less objectionable, it would be less respectable. This was no passive belief, but an active weapon which they flashed at more convenient places of business. Tellson's (they said) wanted no elbow-room, Tellson's wanted no light, Tellson's wanted no embellishment. Noakes and Co.'s might, or Snooks Brothers' might; but Tellson's, thank Heaven--! Any one of these partners would have disinherited his son on the question of rebuilding Tellson's. In this respect the House was much on a par with the Country; which did very often disinherit its sons for suggesting improvements in laws and customs that had long been highly objectionable, but were only the more respectable. Thus it had come to pass, that Tellson's was the triumphant perfection of inconvenience. After bursting open a door of idiotic obstinacy with a weak rattle in its throat, you fell into Tellson's down two steps, and came to your senses in a miserable little shop, with two little counters, where the oldest of men made your cheque shake as if the wind rustled it, while they examined the signature by the dingiest of windows, which were always under a shower-bath of mud from Fleet-street, and which were made the dingier by their own iron bars proper, and the heavy shadow of Temple Bar. If your business necessitated your seeing "the House," you were put into a species of Condemned Hold at the back, where you meditated on a misspent life, until the House came with its hands in its pockets, and you could hardly blink at it in the dismal twilight. Your money came out of, or went into, wormy old wooden drawers, particles of which flew up your nose and down your throat when they were opened and shut. Your bank-notes had a musty odour, as if they were fast decomposing into rags again. Your plate was stowed away among the neighbouring cesspools, and evil communications corrupted its good polish in a day or two. Your deeds got into extemporised strong-rooms made of kitchens and sculleries, and fretted all the fat out of their parchments into the banking-house air. Your lighter boxes of family papers went up-stairs into a Barmecide room, that always had a great dining-table in it and never had a dinner, and where, even in the year one thousand seven hundred and eighty, the first letters written to you by your old love, or by your little children, were but newly released from the horror of being ogled through the windows, by the heads exposed on Temple Bar with an insensate brutality and ferocity worthy of Abyssinia or Ashantee. But indeed, at that time, putting to death was a recipe much in vogue with all trades and professions, and not least of all with Tellson's. Death is Nature's remedy for all things, and why not Legislation's? Accordingly, the forger was put to Death; the utterer of a bad note was put to Death; the unlawful opener of a letter was put to Death; the purloiner of forty shillings and sixpence was put to Death; the holder of a horse at Tellson's door, who made off with it, was put to Death; the coiner of a bad shilling was put to Death; the sounders of three-fourths of the notes in the whole gamut of Crime, were put to Death. Not that it did the least good in the way of prevention--it might almost have been worth remarking that the fact was exactly the reverse--but, it cleared off (as to this world) the trouble of each particular case, and left nothing else connected with it to be looked after. Thus, Tellson's, in its day, like greater places of business, its contemporaries, had taken so many lives, that, if the heads laid low before it had been ranged on Temple Bar instead of being privately disposed of, they would probably have excluded what little light the ground floor had, in a rather significant manner. Cramped in all kinds of dim cupboards and hutches at Tellson's, the oldest of men carried on the business gravely. When they took a young man into Tellson's London house, they hid him somewhere till he was old. They kept him in a dark place, like a cheese, until he had the full Tellson flavour and blue-mould upon him. Then only was he permitted to be seen, spectacularly poring over large books, and casting his breeches and gaiters into the general weight of the establishment. Outside Tellson's--never by any means in it, unless called in--was an odd-job-man, an occasional porter and messenger, who served as the live sign of the house. He was never absent during business hours, unless upon an errand, and then he was represented by his son: a grisly urchin of twelve, who was his express image. People understood that Tellson's, in a stately way, tolerated the odd-job-man. The house had always tolerated some person in that capacity, and time and tide had drifted this person to the post. His surname was Cruncher, and on the youthful occasion of his renouncing by proxy the works of darkness, in the easterly parish church of Hounsditch, he had received the added appellation of Jerry. The scene was Mr. Cruncher's private lodging in Hanging-sword-alley, Whitefriars: the time, half-past seven of the clock on a windy March morning, Anno Domini seventeen hundred and eighty. (Mr. Cruncher himself always spoke of the year of our Lord as Anna Dominoes: apparently under the impression that the Christian era dated from the invention of a popular game, by a lady who had bestowed her name upon it.) Mr. Cruncher's apartments were not in a savoury neighbourhood, and were but two in number, even if a closet with a single pane of glass in it might be counted as one. But they were very decently kept. Early as it was, on the windy March morning, the room in which he lay abed was already scrubbed throughout; and between the cups and saucers arranged for breakfast, and the lumbering deal table, a very clean white cloth was spread. Mr. Cruncher reposed under a patchwork counterpane, like a Harlequin at home. At first, he slept heavily, but, by degrees, began to roll and surge in bed, until he rose above the surface, with his spiky hair looking as if it must tear the sheets to ribbons. At which juncture, he exclaimed, in a voice of dire exasperation: "Bust me, if she ain't at it agin!" A woman of orderly and industrious appearance rose from her knees in a corner, with sufficient haste and trepidation to show that she was the person referred to. "What!" said Mr. Cruncher, looking out of bed for a boot. "You're at it agin, are you?" After hailing the morn with this second salutation, he threw a boot at the woman as a third. It was a very muddy boot, and may introduce the odd circumstance connected with Mr. Cruncher's domestic economy, that, whereas he often came home after banking hours with clean boots, he often got up next morning to find the same boots covered with clay. "What," said Mr. Cruncher, varying his apostrophe after missing his mark--"what are you up to, Aggerawayter?" "I was only saying my prayers." "Saying your prayers! You're a nice woman! What do you mean by flopping yourself down and praying agin me?" "I was not praying against you; I was praying for you." "You weren't. And if you were, I won't be took the liberty with. Here! your mother's a nice woman, young Jerry, going a praying agin your father's prosperity. You've got a dutiful mother, you have, my son. You've got a religious mother, you have, my boy: going and flopping herself down, and praying that the bread-and-butter may be snatched out of the mouth of her only child." Master Cruncher (who was in his shirt) took this very ill, and, turning to his mother, strongly deprecated any praying away of his personal board. "And what do you suppose, you conceited female," said Mr. Cruncher, with unconscious inconsistency, "that the worth of _your_ prayers may be? Name the price that you put _your_ prayers at!" "They only come from the heart, Jerry. They are worth no more than that." "Worth no more than that," repeated Mr. Cruncher. "They ain't worth much, then. Whether or no, I won't be prayed agin, I tell you. I can't afford it. I'm not a going to be made unlucky by _your_ sneaking. If you must go flopping yourself down, flop in favour of your husband and child, and not in opposition to 'em. If I had had any but a unnat'ral wife, and this poor boy had had any but a unnat'ral mother, I might have made some money last week instead of being counter-prayed and countermined and religiously circumwented into the worst of luck. B-u-u-ust me!" said Mr. Cruncher, who all this time had been putting on his clothes, "if I ain't, what with piety and one blowed thing and another, been choused this last week into as bad luck as ever a poor devil of a honest tradesman met with! Young Jerry, dress yourself, my boy, and while I clean my boots keep a eye upon your mother now and then, and if you see any signs of more flopping, give me a call. For, I tell you," here he addressed his wife once more, "I won't be gone agin, in this manner. I am as rickety as a hackney-coach, I'm as sleepy as laudanum, my lines is strained to that degree that I shouldn't know, if it wasn't for the pain in 'em, which was me and which somebody else, yet I'm none the better for it in pocket; and it's my suspicion that you've been at it from morning to night to prevent me from being the better for it in pocket, and I won't put up with it, Aggerawayter, and what do you say now!" Growling, in addition, such phrases as "Ah! yes! You're religious, too. You wouldn't put yourself in opposition to the interests of your husband and child, would you? Not you!" and throwing off other sarcastic sparks from the whirling grindstone of his indignation, Mr. Cruncher betook himself to his boot-cleaning and his general preparation for business. In the meantime, his son, whose head was garnished with tenderer spikes, and whose young eyes stood close by one another, as his father's did, kept the required watch upon his mother. He greatly disturbed that poor woman at intervals, by darting out of his sleeping closet, where he made his toilet, with a suppressed cry of "You are going to flop, mother. --Halloa, father!" and, after raising this fictitious alarm, darting in again with an undutiful grin. Mr. Cruncher's temper was not at all improved when he came to his breakfast. He resented Mrs. Cruncher's saying grace with particular animosity. "Now, Aggerawayter! What are you up to? At it again?" His wife explained that she had merely "asked a blessing." "Don't do it!" said Mr. Crunches looking about, as if he rather expected to see the loaf disappear under the efficacy of his wife's petitions. "I ain't a going to be blest out of house and home. I won't have my wittles blest off my table. Keep still!" Exceedingly red-eyed and grim, as if he had been up all night at a party which had taken anything but a convivial turn, Jerry Cruncher worried his breakfast rather than ate it, growling over it like any four-footed inmate of a menagerie. Towards nine o'clock he smoothed his ruffled aspect, and, presenting as respectable and business-like an exterior as he could overlay his natural self with, issued forth to the occupation of the day. It could scarcely be called a trade, in spite of his favourite description of himself as "a honest tradesman." His stock consisted of a wooden stool, made out of a broken-backed chair cut down, which stool, young Jerry, walking at his father's side, carried every morning to beneath the banking-house window that was nearest Temple Bar: where, with the addition of the first handful of straw that could be gleaned from any passing vehicle to keep the cold and wet from the odd-job-man's feet, it formed the encampment for the day. On this post of his, Mr. Cruncher was as well known to Fleet-street and the Temple, as the Bar itself,--and was almost as in-looking. Encamped at a quarter before nine, in good time to touch his three-cornered hat to the oldest of men as they passed in to Tellson's, Jerry took up his station on this windy March morning, with young Jerry standing by him, when not engaged in making forays through the Bar, to inflict bodily and mental injuries of an acute description on passing boys who were small enough for his amiable purpose. Father and son, extremely like each other, looking silently on at the morning traffic in Fleet-street, with their two heads as near to one another as the two eyes of each were, bore a considerable resemblance to a pair of monkeys. The resemblance was not lessened by the accidental circumstance, that the mature Jerry bit and spat out straw, while the twinkling eyes of the youthful Jerry were as restlessly watchful of him as of everything else in Fleet-street. The head of one of the regular indoor messengers attached to Tellson's establishment was put through the door, and the word was given: "Porter wanted!" "Hooray, father! Here's an early job to begin with!" Having thus given his parent God speed, young Jerry seated himself on the stool, entered on his reversionary interest in the straw his father had been chewing, and cogitated. "Al-ways rusty! His fingers is al-ways rusty!" muttered young Jerry. "Where does my father get all that iron rust from? He don't get no iron rust here!" II. A Sight "You know the Old Bailey well, no doubt?" said one of the oldest of clerks to Jerry the messenger. "Ye-es, sir," returned Jerry, in something of a dogged manner. "I _do_ know the Bailey." "Just so. And you know Mr. Lorry." "I know Mr. Lorry, sir, much better than I know the Bailey. Much better," said Jerry, not unlike a reluctant witness at the establishment in question, "than I, as a honest tradesman, wish to know the Bailey." "Very well. Find the door where the witnesses go in, and show the door-keeper this note for Mr. Lorry. He will then let you in." "Into the court, sir?" "Into the court." Mr. Cruncher's eyes seemed to get a little closer to one another, and to interchange the inquiry, "What do you think of this?" "Am I to wait in the court, sir?" he asked, as the result of that conference. "I am going to tell you. The door-keeper will pass the note to Mr. Lorry, and do you make any gesture that will attract Mr. Lorry's attention, and show him where you stand. Then what you have to do, is, to remain there until he wants you." "Is that all, sir?" "That's all. He wishes to have a messenger at hand. This is to tell him you are there." As the ancient clerk deliberately folded and superscribed the note, Mr. Cruncher, after surveying him in silence until he came to the blotting-paper stage, remarked: "I suppose they'll be trying Forgeries this morning?" "Treason!" "That's quartering," said Jerry. "Barbarous!" "It is the law," remarked the ancient clerk, turning his surprised spectacles upon him. "It is the law." "It's hard in the law to spile a man, I think. It's hard enough to kill him, but it's wery hard to spile him, sir." "Not at all," retained the ancient clerk. "Speak well of the law. Take care of your chest and voice, my good friend, and leave the law to take care of itself. I give you that advice." "It's the damp, sir, what settles on my chest and voice," said Jerry. "I leave you to judge what a damp way of earning a living mine is." "Well, well," said the old clerk; "we all have our various ways of gaining a livelihood. Some of us have damp ways, and some of us have dry ways. Here is the letter. Go along." Jerry took the letter, and, remarking to himself with less internal deference than he made an outward show of, "You are a lean old one, too," made his bow, informed his son, in passing, of his destination, and went his way. They hanged at Tyburn, in those days, so the street outside Newgate had not obtained one infamous notoriety that has since attached to it. But, the gaol was a vile place, in which most kinds of debauchery and villainy were practised, and where dire diseases were bred, that came into court with the prisoners, and sometimes rushed straight from the dock at my Lord Chief Justice himself, and pulled him off the bench. It had more than once happened, that the Judge in the black cap pronounced his own doom as certainly as the prisoner's, and even died before him. For the rest, the Old Bailey was famous as a kind of deadly inn-yard, from which pale travellers set out continually, in carts and coaches, on a violent passage into the other world: traversing some two miles and a half of public street and road, and shaming few good citizens, if any. So powerful is use, and so desirable to be good use in the beginning. It was famous, too, for the pillory, a wise old institution, that inflicted a punishment of which no one could foresee the extent; also, for the whipping-post, another dear old institution, very humanising and softening to behold in action; also, for extensive transactions in blood-money, another fragment of ancestral wisdom, systematically leading to the most frightful mercenary crimes that could be committed under Heaven. Altogether, the Old Bailey, at that date, was a choice illustration of the precept, that "Whatever is is right;" an aphorism that would be as final as it is lazy, did it not include the troublesome consequence, that nothing that ever was, was wrong. Making his way through the tainted crowd, dispersed up and down this hideous scene of action, with the skill of a man accustomed to make his way quietly, the messenger found out the door he sought, and handed in his letter through a trap in it. For, people then paid to see the play at the Old Bailey, just as they paid to see the play in Bedlam--only the former entertainment was much the dearer. Therefore, all the Old Bailey doors were well guarded--except, indeed, the social doors by which the criminals got there, and those were always left wide open. After some delay and demur, the door grudgingly turned on its hinges a very little way, and allowed Mr. Jerry Cruncher to squeeze himself into court. "What's on?" he asked, in a whisper, of the man he found himself next to. "Nothing yet." "What's coming on?" "The Treason case." "The quartering one, eh?" "Ah!" returned the man, with a relish; "he'll be drawn on a hurdle to be half hanged, and then he'll be taken down and sliced before his own face, and then his inside will be taken out and burnt while he looks on, and then his head will be chopped off, and he'll be cut into quarters. That's the sentence." "If he's found Guilty, you mean to say?" Jerry added, by way of proviso. "Oh! they'll find him guilty," said the other. "Don't you be afraid of that." Mr. Cruncher's attention was here diverted to the door-keeper, whom he saw making his way to Mr. Lorry, with the note in his hand. Mr. Lorry sat at a table, among the gentlemen in wigs: not far from a wigged gentleman, the prisoner's counsel, who had a great bundle of papers before him: and nearly opposite another wigged gentleman with his hands in his pockets, whose whole attention, when Mr. Cruncher looked at him then or afterwards, seemed to be concentrated on the ceiling of the court. After some gruff coughing and rubbing of his chin and signing with his hand, Jerry attracted the notice of Mr. Lorry, who had stood up to look for him, and who quietly nodded and sat down again. "What's _he_ got to do with the case?" asked the man he had spoken with. "Blest if I know," said Jerry. "What have _you_ got to do with it, then, if a person may inquire?" "Blest if I know that either," said Jerry. The entrance of the Judge, and a consequent great stir and settling down in the court, stopped the dialogue. Presently, the dock became the central point of interest. Two gaolers, who had been standing there, went out, and the prisoner was brought in, and put to the bar. Everybody present, except the one wigged gentleman who looked at the ceiling, stared at him. All the human breath in the place, rolled at him, like a sea, or a wind, or a fire. Eager faces strained round pillars and corners, to get a sight of him; spectators in back rows stood up, not to miss a hair of him; people on the floor of the court, laid their hands on the shoulders of the people before them, to help themselves, at anybody's cost, to a view of him--stood a-tiptoe, got upon ledges, stood upon next to nothing, to see every inch of him. Conspicuous among these latter, like an animated bit of the spiked wall of Newgate, Jerry stood: aiming at the prisoner the beery breath of a whet he had taken as he came along, and discharging it to mingle with the waves of other beer, and gin, and tea, and coffee, and what not, that flowed at him, and already broke upon the great windows behind him in an impure mist and rain. The object of all this staring and blaring, was a young man of about five-and-twenty, well-grown and well-looking, with a sunburnt cheek and a dark eye. His condition was that of a young gentleman. He was plainly dressed in black, or very dark grey, and his hair, which was long and dark, was gathered in a ribbon at the back of his neck; more to be out of his way than for ornament. As an emotion of the mind will express itself through any covering of the body, so the paleness which his situation engendered came through the brown upon his cheek, showing the soul to be stronger than the sun. He was otherwise quite self-possessed, bowed to the Judge, and stood quiet. The sort of interest with which this man was stared and breathed at, was not a sort that elevated humanity. Had he stood in peril of a less horrible sentence--had there been a chance of any one of its savage details being spared--by just so much would he have lost in his fascination. The form that was to be doomed to be so shamefully mangled, was the sight; the immortal creature that was to be so butchered and torn asunder, yielded the sensation. Whatever gloss the various spectators put upon the interest, according to their several arts and powers of self-deceit, the interest was, at the root of it, Ogreish. Silence in the court! Charles Darnay had yesterday pleaded Not Guilty to an indictment denouncing him (with infinite jingle and jangle) for that he was a false traitor to our serene, illustrious, excellent, and so forth, prince, our Lord the King, by reason of his having, on divers occasions, and by divers means and ways, assisted Lewis, the French King, in his wars against our said serene, illustrious, excellent, and so forth; that was to say, by coming and going, between the dominions of our said serene, illustrious, excellent, and so forth, and those of the said French Lewis, and wickedly, falsely, traitorously, and otherwise evil-adverbiously, revealing to the said French Lewis what forces our said serene, illustrious, excellent, and so forth, had in preparation to send to Canada and North America. This much, Jerry, with his head becoming more and more spiky as the law terms bristled it, made out with huge satisfaction, and so arrived circuitously at the understanding that the aforesaid, and over and over again aforesaid, Charles Darnay, stood there before him upon his trial; that the jury were swearing in; and that Mr. Attorney-General was making ready to speak. The accused, who was (and who knew he was) being mentally hanged, beheaded, and quartered, by everybody there, neither flinched from the situation, nor assumed any theatrical air in it. He was quiet and attentive; watched the opening proceedings with a grave interest; and stood with his hands resting on the slab of wood before him, so composedly, that they had not displaced a leaf of the herbs with which it was strewn. The court was all bestrewn with herbs and sprinkled with vinegar, as a precaution against gaol air and gaol fever. Over the prisoner's head there was a mirror, to throw the light down upon him. Crowds of the wicked and the wretched had been reflected in it, and had passed from its surface and this earth's together. Haunted in a most ghastly manner that abominable place would have been, if the glass could ever have rendered back its reflections, as the ocean is one day to give up its dead. Some passing thought of the infamy and disgrace for which it had been reserved, may have struck the prisoner's mind. Be that as it may, a change in his position making him conscious of a bar of light across his face, he looked up; and when he saw the glass his face flushed, and his right hand pushed the herbs away. It happened, that the action turned his face to that side of the court which was on his left. About on a level with his eyes, there sat, in that corner of the Judge's bench, two persons upon whom his look immediately rested; so immediately, and so much to the changing of his aspect, that all the eyes that were turned upon him, turned to them. The spectators saw in the two figures, a young lady of little more than twenty, and a gentleman who was evidently her father; a man of a very remarkable appearance in respect of the absolute whiteness of his hair, and a certain indescribable intensity of face: not of an active kind, but pondering and self-communing. When this expression was upon him, he looked as if he were old; but when it was stirred and broken up--as it was now, in a moment, on his speaking to his daughter--he became a handsome man, not past the prime of life. His daughter had one of her hands drawn through his arm, as she sat by him, and the other pressed upon it. She had drawn close to him, in her dread of the scene, and in her pity for the prisoner. Her forehead had been strikingly expressive of an engrossing terror and compassion that saw nothing but the peril of the accused. This had been so very noticeable, so very powerfully and naturally shown, that starers who had had no pity for him were touched by her; and the whisper went about, "Who are they?" Jerry, the messenger, who had made his own observations, in his own manner, and who had been sucking the rust off his fingers in his absorption, stretched his neck to hear who they were. The crowd about him had pressed and passed the inquiry on to the nearest attendant, and from him it had been more slowly pressed and passed back; at last it got to Jerry: "Witnesses." "For which side?" "Against." "Against what side?" "The prisoner's." The Judge, whose eyes had gone in the general direction, recalled them, leaned back in his seat, and looked steadily at the man whose life was in his hand, as Mr. Attorney-General rose to spin the rope, grind the axe, and hammer the nails into the scaffold. Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Es sind nun fünf Jahre vergangen, seit Mr. Lorry Dr. Manette und seine Tochter nach England gebracht hat. Jerry Cruncher arbeitet als Portier und Bote für die Bank Tellson's. Bevor er zur Arbeit geht, streitet er sich mit seiner Frau über ihr ständiges Beten. Er hält es für abergläubisch und schlecht für seine Arbeit. Er nimmt seinen üblichen Platz vor der Bank ein und wird bald aufgerufen, eine Nachricht zu überbringen. Bei ihm ist auch sein Sohn, der ebenfalls Jerry heißt. Der junge Jerry wundert sich über die Quelle des Rostes, der immer an den Fingern seines Vaters ist. Er soll zur Old Bailey gehen, dem obersten Gericht in London und für ganz England. Derzeit läuft dort ein Prozess gegen Charles Darnay, der des Verrats angeklagt ist. Als er bei der Old Bailey ankommt, übergibt er die Nachricht dem Türhüter, um sie an Mr. Lorry zu überbringen. Der Gerichtssaal ist überfüllt und erwartet ein schuldiges Urteil, das sofort vollstreckt wird. Es ist ein grausames Urteil, öffentlich gevierteilt zu werden. Lucie und Dr. Manette sind anwesend, da sie Zeugen gegen Darnay sind. Lucie zeigt Mitleid mit Darnay und einige Zuschauer im Gericht haben Mitleid mit ihm.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). 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: V. The Jackal Those were drinking days, and most men drank hard. So very great is the improvement Time has brought about in such habits, that a moderate statement of the quantity of wine and punch which one man would swallow in the course of a night, without any detriment to his reputation as a perfect gentleman, would seem, in these days, a ridiculous exaggeration. The learned profession of the law was certainly not behind any other learned profession in its Bacchanalian propensities; neither was Mr. Stryver, already fast shouldering his way to a large and lucrative practice, behind his compeers in this particular, any more than in the drier parts of the legal race. A favourite at the Old Bailey, and eke at the Sessions, Mr. Stryver had begun cautiously to hew away the lower staves of the ladder on which he mounted. Sessions and Old Bailey had now to summon their favourite, specially, to their longing arms; and shouldering itself towards the visage of the Lord Chief Justice in the Court of King's Bench, the florid countenance of Mr. Stryver might be daily seen, bursting out of the bed of wigs, like a great sunflower pushing its way at the sun from among a rank garden-full of flaring companions. It had once been noted at the Bar, that while Mr. Stryver was a glib man, and an unscrupulous, and a ready, and a bold, he had not that faculty of extracting the essence from a heap of statements, which is among the most striking and necessary of the advocate's accomplishments. But, a remarkable improvement came upon him as to this. The more business he got, the greater his power seemed to grow of getting at its pith and marrow; and however late at night he sat carousing with Sydney Carton, he always had his points at his fingers' ends in the morning. Sydney Carton, idlest and most unpromising of men, was Stryver's great ally. What the two drank together, between Hilary Term and Michaelmas, might have floated a king's ship. Stryver never had a case in hand, anywhere, but Carton was there, with his hands in his pockets, staring at the ceiling of the court; they went the same Circuit, and even there they prolonged their usual orgies late into the night, and Carton was rumoured to be seen at broad day, going home stealthily and unsteadily to his lodgings, like a dissipated cat. At last, it began to get about, among such as were interested in the matter, that although Sydney Carton would never be a lion, he was an amazingly good jackal, and that he rendered suit and service to Stryver in that humble capacity. "Ten o'clock, sir," said the man at the tavern, whom he had charged to wake him--"ten o'clock, sir." "_What's_ the matter?" "Ten o'clock, sir." "What do you mean? Ten o'clock at night?" "Yes, sir. Your honour told me to call you." "Oh! I remember. Very well, very well." After a few dull efforts to get to sleep again, which the man dexterously combated by stirring the fire continuously for five minutes, he got up, tossed his hat on, and walked out. He turned into the Temple, and, having revived himself by twice pacing the pavements of King's Bench-walk and Paper-buildings, turned into the Stryver chambers. The Stryver clerk, who never assisted at these conferences, had gone home, and the Stryver principal opened the door. He had his slippers on, and a loose bed-gown, and his throat was bare for his greater ease. He had that rather wild, strained, seared marking about the eyes, which may be observed in all free livers of his class, from the portrait of Jeffries downward, and which can be traced, under various disguises of Art, through the portraits of every Drinking Age. "You are a little late, Memory," said Stryver. "About the usual time; it may be a quarter of an hour later." They went into a dingy room lined with books and littered with papers, where there was a blazing fire. A kettle steamed upon the hob, and in the midst of the wreck of papers a table shone, with plenty of wine upon it, and brandy, and rum, and sugar, and lemons. "You have had your bottle, I perceive, Sydney." "Two to-night, I think. I have been dining with the day's client; or seeing him dine--it's all one!" "That was a rare point, Sydney, that you brought to bear upon the identification. How did you come by it? When did it strike you?" "I thought he was rather a handsome fellow, and I thought I should have been much the same sort of fellow, if I had had any luck." Mr. Stryver laughed till he shook his precocious paunch. "You and your luck, Sydney! Get to work, get to work." Sullenly enough, the jackal loosened his dress, went into an adjoining room, and came back with a large jug of cold water, a basin, and a towel or two. Steeping the towels in the water, and partially wringing them out, he folded them on his head in a manner hideous to behold, sat down at the table, and said, "Now I am ready!" "Not much boiling down to be done to-night, Memory," said Mr. Stryver, gaily, as he looked among his papers. "How much?" "Only two sets of them." "Give me the worst first." "There they are, Sydney. Fire away!" The lion then composed himself on his back on a sofa on one side of the drinking-table, while the jackal sat at his own paper-bestrewn table proper, on the other side of it, with the bottles and glasses ready to his hand. Both resorted to the drinking-table without stint, but each in a different way; the lion for the most part reclining with his hands in his waistband, looking at the fire, or occasionally flirting with some lighter document; the jackal, with knitted brows and intent face, so deep in his task, that his eyes did not even follow the hand he stretched out for his glass--which often groped about, for a minute or more, before it found the glass for his lips. Two or three times, the matter in hand became so knotty, that the jackal found it imperative on him to get up, and steep his towels anew. From these pilgrimages to the jug and basin, he returned with such eccentricities of damp headgear as no words can describe; which were made the more ludicrous by his anxious gravity. At length the jackal had got together a compact repast for the lion, and proceeded to offer it to him. The lion took it with care and caution, made his selections from it, and his remarks upon it, and the jackal assisted both. When the repast was fully discussed, the lion put his hands in his waistband again, and lay down to meditate. The jackal then invigorated himself with a bumper for his throttle, and a fresh application to his head, and applied himself to the collection of a second meal; this was administered to the lion in the same manner, and was not disposed of until the clocks struck three in the morning. "And now we have done, Sydney, fill a bumper of punch," said Mr. Stryver. The jackal removed the towels from his head, which had been steaming again, shook himself, yawned, shivered, and complied. "You were very sound, Sydney, in the matter of those crown witnesses to-day. Every question told." "I always am sound; am I not?" "I don't gainsay it. What has roughened your temper? Put some punch to it and smooth it again." With a deprecatory grunt, the jackal again complied. "The old Sydney Carton of old Shrewsbury School," said Stryver, nodding his head over him as he reviewed him in the present and the past, "the old seesaw Sydney. Up one minute and down the next; now in spirits and now in despondency!" "Ah!" returned the other, sighing: "yes! The same Sydney, with the same luck. Even then, I did exercises for other boys, and seldom did my own." "And why not?" "God knows. It was my way, I suppose." He sat, with his hands in his pockets and his legs stretched out before him, looking at the fire. "Carton," said his friend, squaring himself at him with a bullying air, as if the fire-grate had been the furnace in which sustained endeavour was forged, and the one delicate thing to be done for the old Sydney Carton of old Shrewsbury School was to shoulder him into it, "your way is, and always was, a lame way. You summon no energy and purpose. Look at me." "Oh, botheration!" returned Sydney, with a lighter and more good-humoured laugh, "don't _you_ be moral!" "How have I done what I have done?" said Stryver; "how do I do what I do?" "Partly through paying me to help you, I suppose. But it's not worth your while to apostrophise me, or the air, about it; what you want to do, you do. You were always in the front rank, and I was always behind." "I had to get into the front rank; I was not born there, was I?" "I was not present at the ceremony; but my opinion is you were," said Carton. At this, he laughed again, and they both laughed. "Before Shrewsbury, and at Shrewsbury, and ever since Shrewsbury," pursued Carton, "you have fallen into your rank, and I have fallen into mine. Even when we were fellow-students in the Student-Quarter of Paris, picking up French, and French law, and other French crumbs that we didn't get much good of, you were always somewhere, and I was always nowhere." "And whose fault was that?" "Upon my soul, I am not sure that it was not yours. You were always driving and riving and shouldering and passing, to that restless degree that I had no chance for my life but in rust and repose. It's a gloomy thing, however, to talk about one's own past, with the day breaking. Turn me in some other direction before I go." "Well then! Pledge me to the pretty witness," said Stryver, holding up his glass. "Are you turned in a pleasant direction?" Apparently not, for he became gloomy again. "Pretty witness," he muttered, looking down into his glass. "I have had enough of witnesses to-day and to-night; who's your pretty witness?" "The picturesque doctor's daughter, Miss Manette." "_She_ pretty?" "Is she not?" "No." "Why, man alive, she was the admiration of the whole Court!" "Rot the admiration of the whole Court! Who made the Old Bailey a judge of beauty? She was a golden-haired doll!" "Do you know, Sydney," said Mr. Stryver, looking at him with sharp eyes, and slowly drawing a hand across his florid face: "do you know, I rather thought, at the time, that you sympathised with the golden-haired doll, and were quick to see what happened to the golden-haired doll?" "Quick to see what happened! If a girl, doll or no doll, swoons within a yard or two of a man's nose, he can see it without a perspective-glass. I pledge you, but I deny the beauty. And now I'll have no more drink; I'll get to bed." When his host followed him out on the staircase with a candle, to light him down the stairs, the day was coldly looking in through its grimy windows. When he got out of the house, the air was cold and sad, the dull sky overcast, the river dark and dim, the whole scene like a lifeless desert. And wreaths of dust were spinning round and round before the morning blast, as if the desert-sand had risen far away, and the first spray of it in its advance had begun to overwhelm the city. Waste forces within him, and a desert all around, this man stood still on his way across a silent terrace, and saw for a moment, lying in the wilderness before him, a mirage of honourable ambition, self-denial, and perseverance. In the fair city of this vision, there were airy galleries from which the loves and graces looked upon him, gardens in which the fruits of life hung ripening, waters of Hope that sparkled in his sight. A moment, and it was gone. Climbing to a high chamber in a well of houses, he threw himself down in his clothes on a neglected bed, and its pillow was wet with wasted tears. Sadly, sadly, the sun rose; it rose upon no sadder sight than the man of good abilities and good emotions, incapable of their directed exercise, incapable of his own help and his own happiness, sensible of the blight on him, and resigning himself to let it eat him away. Könnten 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.

Mr. Stryvers Praxis als Barrister hat rapide zugenommen, wahrscheinlich teilweise aufgrund seiner lauten Stimme und seinem aufdringlichen Verhalten. Man betrachtet ihn als intelligenten Anwalt, der das Wesentliche aus jeder Information herausfiltern kann. Er wird auch als kühn und skrupellos betrachtet, vielleicht ist das der Grund, warum er mit Mr. Carton befreundet ist. Die beiden trinken oft bis spät in die Nacht zusammen; Stryver trinkt zum Vergnügen, während Carton aus Frust trinkt. Es wird gemunkelt, dass Mr. Carton oft im Morgengrauen heimlich und schwankend nach Hause geht. Carton, der am faulsten und erfolglosesten von allen Männern ist, begleitet Mr. Stryver bei jedem Fall, den er vor Gericht verhandelt. Wie bei Darnays Prozess sitzt Carton schweigend im Gerichtssaal mit den Händen in den Taschen und den Blick zum Himmel gerichtet. Obwohl Sydney Carton nicht aggressiv ist, ist er äußerst klug und hilft Stryver bei der Planung seiner Verteidigung. Manchmal bringt er etwas in den Prozess ein, wie zum Beispiel als er während Darnays Prozess das Stück Papier auf Stryver wirft. Es war Cartons Schlauheit, die Darnay vor der Todesstrafe gerettet hat. Mr. Carton, der in der Taverne schläft, wird um zehn Uhr wie gewünscht von einem Mann geweckt. Er steht auf, setzt seinen Hut auf und macht sich auf den Weg in die Kanzlei von Mr. Stryver. Sie gehen in einen schäbigen Raum, der mit Büchern ausgekleidet und mit Papieren übersät ist. Ein Wasserkessel dampft auf dem Feuer, und auf dem Tisch steht eine große Auswahl an Wein, Brandy, Rum, Zucker und Zitronen. Während ihres Treffens wird offensichtlich, dass obwohl Mr. Stryver sich das gesamte Lob für Darnays Freispruch holt, es tatsächlich Mr. Carton war, der seine Verteidigung geplant hat. Mr. Stryver schlägt einen Toast auf Miss Manette vor, die er für schön hält; Mr. Carton nennt sie eine goldhaarige Puppe. Als Carton schließlich ins Bett geht, ist er betrunken und tränenreich und weiß, wie unfähig er ist, sich um sich selbst oder seine Interessen zu kümmern.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Kapitel: Das unmittelbare Ergebnis war nichts. Ergebnisse solcher Dinge brauchen meist lange, um zu wachsen. Der Morgen bringt eine Veränderung im Gefühl. Die vorhandene Bedingung bittet immer für sich selbst. Nur in seltsamen Momenten bekommen wir einen Einblick in das Elend der Dinge. Das Herz versteht, wenn es mit Kontrasten konfrontiert wird. Nimmt man sie weg, lässt der Schmerz nach. Carrie führte danach noch weitere sechs Monate oder länger ein ähnliches Leben. Sie sah Ames nicht mehr. Er besuchte einmal die Vances, aber davon erfuhr sie nur durch die junge Frau. Dann ging er in den Westen, und es gab ein allmähliches Nachlassen der persönlichen Anziehungskraft, die existiert hatte. Der mentale Effekt der Sache war jedoch nicht verschwunden und würde es auch nie ganz tun. Sie hatte ein Ideal, um Männer zu vergleichen - insbesondere Männer, die ihr nahestehen. Während all dieser Zeit - einem Zeitraum von fast drei Jahren - befand sich Hurstwood auf einem geraden Weg. Es gab keinen offensichtlichen Abstieg und auch keinen deutlichen Aufstieg, zumindest soweit es ein oberflächlicher Beobachter hätte sehen können. Psychologisch gesehen gab es jedoch eine Veränderung, die deutlich genug war, um die Zukunft sehr deutlich anzudeuten. Dies betraf lediglich den Stillstand, den seine Karriere erfahren hatte, als er Chicago verließ. Das Glück oder materielle Fortschritte eines Menschen gleichen sehr seinem körperlichen Wachstum. Entweder man wird stärker, gesünder, weiser, wie ein Jugendlicher, der zum Mann heranwächst, oder man wird schwächer, älter, mental weniger scharfsinnig, wie ein Mann, der dem Alter nahe kommt. Es gibt keine anderen Zustände. Häufig gibt es eine Zeit zwischen dem Ende des Jugendlichenwachstums und dem Beginn der Tendenz zum Verfall bei einem Mann mittleren Alters, in der die beiden Prozesse nahezu perfekt ausbalanciert sind und kaum etwas in irgendeine Richtung passiert. Wenn jedoch ausreichend Zeit vergeht, neigt das Gleichgewicht dazu, sich in Richtung Verfall zu neigen. Langsam zuerst, dann mit einer bescheidenen Schwungkraft, und schließlich befindet sich der Prozess des Verfalls im vollen Gange. Genauso verhält es sich häufig mit dem Vermögen eines Menschen. Wenn der Prozess des Gewinnens nie aufgehalten wird, wenn das Gleichgewicht nie erreicht wird, wird es keinen Zusammenbruch geben. Reiche Männer werden in diesen Tagen oft vor der Zerstörung ihres Vermögens durch ihre Fähigkeit gerettet, jüngere Köpfe anzuheuern. Diese jüngeren Köpfe betrachten die Interessen des Vermögens als ihre eigenen und sorgen so für seinen stetigen und direkten Fortschritt. Wenn jedem Individuum die alleinige Verantwortung für seine eigenen Interessen überlassen wäre und ihm genügend Zeit gegeben würde, um sehr alt zu werden, würde sein Vermögen zusammen mit seiner Kraft und seinem Willen vergehen. Er und seine würden völlig aufgelöst und in alle Winde zerstreut werden. Aber sehen Sie jetzt, worin sich die Parallelen ändern. Ein Vermögen, wie ein Mensch, ist ein Organismus, der andere Geister und andere Kräfte an sich bindet, die nicht im Gründer inhärent sind. Neben den jungen Köpfen, die durch Gehälter angelockt werden, verbündet es sich mit jungen Kräften, die für seine Existenz sorgen, selbst wenn die Stärke und Weisheit des Gründers nachlassen. Es kann durch das Wachstum einer Gemeinschaft oder eines Staates erhalten bleiben. Es kann darin involviert sein, etwas zu schaffen, für das eine wachsende Nachfrage besteht. Dadurch wird es von der besonderen Sorge des Gründers abgekoppelt. Nun braucht es nicht mehr so sehr Voraussicht wie Anleitung. Der Mann nimmt ab, das Bedürfnis bleibt bestehen oder wächst, und das Vermögen, in die Hände geraten, geht weiter. Daher erkennen manche Männer nie den Wendepunkt ihrer Fähigkeiten. Nur in Ausnahmefällen wird ihnen klar, dass ihnen ein Vermögen oder ein Zustand des Erfolgs entrissen wird und dass sie nicht mehr in der Lage sind, wie früher zu handeln. Hurstwood, der unter neuen Bedingungen festsaß, konnte sehen, dass er nicht mehr jung war. Wenn er es nicht tat, lag es allein daran, dass sein Zustand so gut ausgewogen war, dass ein absoluter Wechsel zum Schlechten nicht zu erkennen war. Da er nicht darauf trainiert war, zu argumentieren oder sich selbst zu hinterfragen, konnte er die Veränderung, die in seinem Geist und damit auch in seinem Körper vor sich ging, nicht analysieren, aber er spürte die Schwermut davon. Der ständige Vergleich zwischen seinem früheren Zustand und seinem neuen zeigte eine Verschlechterung, die einen ständigen Zustand der Niedergeschlagenheit oder zumindest der Depression verursachte. Nun wurde experimentell nachgewiesen, dass ein ständig gedämpfter Geisteszustand bestimmte Giftstoffe im Blut erzeugt, die Katastasen genannt werden, während tugendhafte Gefühle von Freude und Vergnügen hilfreiche Chemikalien namens Anastasen erzeugen. Die durch Reue erzeugten Gifte greifen das System an und führen letztendlich zu einer deutlichen körperlichen Verschlechterung. Hurstwood war ihnen ausgesetzt. Mit der Zeit wirkte sich das auf seine Stimmung aus. Sein Blick hatte nicht mehr diese lebendige, suchende Schlauheit, die ihn auf der Adams Street ausgezeichnet hatte. Sein Schritt war nicht mehr so scharf und fest. Er dachte nach, dachte nach, dachte nach. Die neuen Freunde, die er gewonnen hatte, waren keine Prominenten. Sie gehörten einer billigeren, etwas sinnlicheren und rustikaleren Art an. In dieser Gesellschaft konnte er nicht annähernd so viel Freude haben wie bei den feinen Besuchern des Resorts in Chicago. Er blieb allein mit seinen Gedanken zurück. Langsam, überaus langsam ließ sein Verlangen nach, diese Menschen zu begrüßen, zu gewinnen und sich mit ihnen wohlzufühlen, die das Warren Street Resort besuchten. Immer langsamer wurde ihm die Bedeutung der Welt bewusst, die er verlassen hatte. Wenn er drin war, schien es nicht so wunderbar zu sein. Es schien sehr einfach für jeden, dorthin zu gelangen, genügend Kleidung und Geld zu haben, aber jetzt, da er draußen war, wie weit weg es schien. Er fing an, es wie eine Stadt mit einer Mauer darum zu sehen. Männer standen an den Toren. Man konnte nicht eintreten. Diejenigen drinnen interessierten sich nicht dafür, wer draußen war. Sie hatten so viel Spaß drinnen, dass alle draußen vergessen wurden, und er war draußen. Jeden Tag konnte er in den Abendzeitungen von den Vorgängen in dieser ummauerten Stadt lesen. In den Nachrichten über Passagiere nach Europa las er die Namen prominenter Besucher seines alten Resorts. In der Theaterkolumne erschienen von Zeit zu Zeit Ankündigungen über die neuesten Erfolge von Männern, die er gekannt hatte. Er wusste, dass sie ihre alten Vergnügungen hatten. Pullmans brachten sie landein und -aus, Zeitungen begrüßten sie mit interessanten Erwähnungen, die eleganten Eingangshallen der Hotels und das Leuchten der polierten Speisesäle hielten sie fest innerhalb der befestigten Stadt. Männer, mit denen er verkehrt hatte, Männer, mit denen er angestoßen hatte - reiche Männer, und er war vergessen! Wer war Mr. Wheeler? Was war das Warren Street Resort? Bah! Wenn man denkt, dass solche Gedanken einem so gewöhnlichen Geist nicht kommen - dass solche Gefühle eine höhere geistige Entwicklung erfordern - würde ich für ihre Betrachtung darauf hinweisen, dass es die höhere geistige Entwicklung ist, die solche Gedanken abschafft. Es ist die höhere geistige Entwicklung, die Philosophie verleiht und die Schicksalsergebenheit, die sich weigert, solche Dinge zu bedenken - die sich weigert, durch ihre Betrachtung leiden zu Hurstwood's Stimmung über den geringfügigen Rückgang der Gewinne und das Fortgehen der Vances kamen zusammen. So hatte Carrie Einsamkeit und die Stimmung ihres Mannes gleichzeitig zu ertragen. Es war eine schmerzliche Sache. Sie wurde unruhig und unzufrieden, nicht gerade, wie sie dachte, mit Hurstwood, sondern mit dem Leben. Was war das? Ein sehr langweiliger Kreislauf. Was hatte sie? Nichts außer dieser engen, kleinen Wohnung. Die Vances konnten reisen, sie konnten die Dinge tun, die es wert waren, getan zu werden, und hier war sie. Wofür war sie überhaupt gemacht? Weitere Gedanken folgten, und dann Tränen - Tränen schienen gerechtfertigt und die einzige Erleichterung auf der Welt. Für eine weitere Zeit dauerte dieser Zustand an, die beiden führten ein eher monotonens Leben, und dann gab es eine leichte Verschlechterung. Eines Abends, nachdem Hurstwood darüber nachgedacht hatte, wie er Carries Wunsch nach Kleidung etwas einschränken und den allgemeinen Druck auf seine Fähigkeit, dafür zu sorgen, mildern könnte, sagte er: "Ich glaube nicht, dass ich viel mit Shaughnessy erreichen kann." "Was ist los?" fragte Carrie. "Oh, er ist ein langsamer, gieriger 'mick'! Er wird nichts tun, um den Ort zu verbessern, und er wird ohne Verbesserungen niemals rentabel sein." "Kannst du ihn nicht überzeugen?" sagte Carrie. "Nein, ich habe es versucht. Das Einzige, was ich sehe, um mich zu verbessern, ist, einen eigenen Ort zu bekommen." "Warum tust du es nicht?" sagte Carrie. "Nun, alles, was ich habe, ist im Moment gebunden. Wenn ich die Chance hätte, etwas zu sparen, denke ich, dass ich einen Ort eröffnen könnte, der uns genug Geld bringt." "Können wir nicht sparen?" sagte Carrie. "Wir könnten es versuchen", schlug er vor. "Ich habe darüber nachgedacht, dass wir uns für ein Jahr eine kleinere Wohnung in der Innenstadt suchen und sparsam leben könnten. Dann hätten wir genug Geld, mit dem du leben möchtest." "Es würde mir richtig passen", sagte Carrie, die sich trotzdem schlecht fühlte, dass es soweit gekommen war. Von einer kleineren Wohnung zu sprechen klang nach Armut. "Es gibt viele schöne kleine Wohnungen in der Nähe der Sixth Avenue unterhalb der Vierzehnten Straße. Wir könnten eine davon bekommen." "Ich werde sie mir anschauen, wenn du meinst", sagte Carrie. "Ich glaube, ich könnte mich innerhalb eines Jahres von diesem Kerl trennen", sagte Hurstwood. "Aus dieser Vereinbarung wird auf die jetzige Weise nichts werden." "Ich werde mich umsehen", sagte Carrie, und bemerkte, dass die vorgeschlagene Veränderung für ihn eine ernste Sache zu sein schien. Das Ergebnis davon war, dass die Veränderung schließlich vollzogen wurde; nicht ohne große Trübsal auf Carries Seite. Es beeinflusste sie ernsthafter als alles, was bisher passiert war. Sie begann Hurstwood nun vollkommen als einen Mann zu betrachten und nicht mehr als Liebhaber oder Ehemann. Sie fühlte sich ihm als Ehefrau vollkommen verpflichtet und dass ihr Schicksal mit seiner verbunden war, was immer es sein mochte; aber sie begann zu erkennen, dass er düster und schweigsam war, kein junger, starker und lebhafter Mann. Er sah jetzt ein wenig alt aus in ihren Augen um die Augen und den Mund, und es gab andere Dinge, die ihn in ihrer Einschätzung in die richtige Kategorie einordneten. Sie begann zu fühlen, dass sie einen Fehler gemacht hatte. Nebenbei begann sie sich auch daran zu erinnern, dass er sie praktisch gezwungen hatte, mit ihm zu fliehen. Die neue Wohnung befand sich in der Thirteenth Street, einen halben Block westlich der Sixth Avenue, und hatte nur vier Zimmer. Die neue Nachbarschaft gefiel Carrie nicht so gut. Hier gab es keine Bäume, keinen Blick nach Westen auf den Fluss. Die Straße war dicht bebaut. Es gab zwölf Familien hier, durchaus respektabel, aber nichts wie die Vances. Reichere Leute brauchten mehr Platz. Da sie in dieser kleinen Wohnung alleine gelassen wurde, verzichtete Carrie auf ein Dienstmädchen. Sie machte es sich charmant genug, konnte sich jedoch nicht daran erfreuen. Hurstwood war nicht innerlich erfreut darüber, dass sie ihren Lebensstandard ändern mussten, aber er argumentierte, dass er nichts tun konnte. Er musste das Beste daraus machen und es dabei belassen. Er versuchte Carrie zu zeigen, dass es keinen Grund zur finanziellen Sorge gab, sondern nur Glückwünsche über die Gelegenheit, die er am Ende des Jahres haben würde, indem er sie öfter ins Theater mitnehmen und ihr eine großzügige Tischdecke bieten könnte. Das war nur vorübergehend. Er befand sich in der Stimmung, hauptsächlich alleine sein und seinen Gedanken nachhängen zu wollen. Die Krankheit des Grübelns begann, ihn als ihr Opfer zu fordern. Nur die Zeitungen und seine eigenen Gedanken waren es wert. Die Freude an der Liebe war wieder entglitten. Es war ein Fall von Leben, jetzt, das Beste daraus zu machen, was man aus einer sehr gewöhnlichen Lebenssituation machen konnte. Der Abstieg hat nur wenige Zwischenstopps und ebenso wenige ebene Stellen. Der Zustand seines Geistes, der durch seine Situation herbeigeführt wurde, führte dazu, dass der Riss zwischen ihm und seinem Partner größer wurde. Schließlich begann jener individuelle zu wünschen, dass Hurstwood nicht mehr dabei wäre. Es kam jedoch so, dass ein Immobiliengeschäft des Besitzers des Landes die Dinge noch effektiver arrangierte als Feindschaft es hätte erträumen können. "Hast du das gesehen?" sagte Shaughnessy eines Morgens zu Hurstwood und zeigte auf die Immobilienkolumne in einer Ausgabe des "Herald", die er hatte. "Nein, was ist da?", sagte Hurstwood und schaute auf die Nachrichten. "Der Mann, dem dieses Grundstück gehört, hat es verkauft." "Sag bloß?" sagte Hurstwood. Er schaute hin, und da stand es. Mr. August Viele hat gestern den Verkauf des Grundstücks, 25 x 75 Fuß, an der Ecke von Warren und Hudson Streets, an J. F. Slawson für die Summe von 57.000 Dollar registriert. "Unser Mietvertrag läuft wann aus?" fragte Hurstwood nachdenklich. "Nächstes Februar, oder?" "Stimmt", sagte Shaughnessy. "Es steht nicht da, was der neue Mann damit machen will", bemerkte Hurstwood und schaute zurück auf das Papier. "Ich nehme an, wir werden es bald genug erfahren", sagte Shaughnessy. Und tatsächlich entwickelte es sich so. Mr. Slawson besaß das angrenzende Grundstück und wollte dort ein modernes Bürogebäude errichten. Das jetzige sollte abgerissen werden. Es würde wahrscheinlich anderthalb Jahre dauern, um das andere fertigzustellen. All diese Dinge entwickelten sich allmählich, und Hurstwood begann darüber nachzusinnen, was wohl mit der Kneipe passieren würde. Eines Tages sprach er darüber mit seinem Partner. "Glaubst du, es wäre sinnvoll, woanders in der Nachbarschaft wieder zu eröffnen?" "Wozu wäre das gut?" sagte Shaughnessy. "Wir kriegen hier nirgendwo anders eine Ecke." "Es würde sich wohl auch sonst nirgendwo lohnen, oder?" "Ich würde es nicht versuchen", sagte der andere. Der bevorstehende Wechsel nahm für Hurstwood nun eine äußerst ernste Bedeutung an. Die Auflösung bedeutete den Verlust seiner tausend Dollar, und er konnte in der verbleibenden Zeit keine weiteren tausend Dollar einsparen. Er verstand, dass Shaugh "Glaubst du, du könntest etwas anderes bekommen?" wagte sie vorsichtig zu fragen. Hurstwood überlegte eine Weile. Es war aus mit dem Bluffen über Geld und Investitionen. Sie konnte jetzt sehen, dass er "pleite" war. "Ich weiß nicht", sagte er feierlich, "ich kann es versuchen." Könnten Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben genannten 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.

Sechs Monate sind vergangen. Carrie hat Ames nie wieder gesehen, aber "sie hatte ein Ideal, um Männer zu vergleichen - besonders Männer, die ihr nahe stehen". Hurstwoods finanzielle Situation ist in Ordnung, aber nicht großartig, und seine reduzierten Umstände belasten seine Stimmung und er wird depressiv. Dann geht das Geschäft in der Kneipe zurück. Er erzählt Carrie, was los ist, und sie ist nicht glücklich. Außerdem erfährt sie, dass die Vances im Urlaub sind - sie findet das unfair und weint. Hurstwood erzählt Carrie von weiteren Geschäftsproblemen: Sein Partner Shaughnessy will keine Updates in der Kneipe machen, und Hurstwood glaubt, dass der Laden ohne etwas Aufpolieren niemals profitabel sein wird. Er erzählt ihr, dass er darüber nachdenkt, Geld zu sparen und sein eigenes Geschäft zu eröffnen, und schlägt vor, dass sie in eine kleinere Wohnung ziehen, um mehr Geld zu sparen. Sie ist nicht glücklich über die Aussicht, in einer noch kleineren Wohnung zu leben, aber sie stimmt zu. Sie ziehen in ihre neue winzige Wohnung, und kurz darauf erzählt Hurstwoods Geschäftspartner ihm, dass der Eigentümer des Grundstücks, auf dem ihr Geschäft steht, es verkauft hat... das bedeutet, dass sie ausziehen müssen, sobald ihr Mietvertrag abgelaufen ist. Hurstwood fragt seinen Partner, ob sie einen anderen Laden in der Nachbarschaft eröffnen sollen, aber sein Partner will nicht. Er erkennt, dass er nicht nur seinen Job verloren hat, sondern auch die tausend Dollar, die er in den Laden investiert hat. Hurstwood versucht, eine andere Geschäftsmöglichkeit zu finden, hat aber nicht viel Glück. Er erzählt Carrie, was los ist, und sie sieht, dass er pleite ist.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Kapitel: An einem Abend während ihres Rückkehrs spielte Carrie in New York und war gerade dabei, die letzten Handgriffe an ihrem Outfit vor dem Verlassen für die Nacht zu machen, als sie ein Geräusch in der Nähe der Bühnentür hörte. Sie erkannte eine vertraute Stimme. "Schon gut, ich möchte Miss Madenda sehen." "Sie müssen Ihre Visitenkarte abgeben." "Ach, komm schon! Hier." Eine halbe Dollar-Münze wurde überreicht und nun ertönte ein Klopfen an ihrer Umkleidekabinentür. Carrie öffnete sie. "Nun, nun!" sagte Drouet. "Ich schwöre! Na, wie geht es dir? Ich wusste sofort, dass du es bist, als ich dich gesehen habe." Carrie wich einen Schritt zurück und erwartete eine sehr unangenehme Unterhaltung. "Gedenkst du nicht, mir die Hand zu geben? Nun gut, du bist ein Schicker! Alles klar, gib mir die Hand." Carrie streckte die Hand aus und lächelte, wenn auch nur wegen der überschwänglichen guten Laune des Mannes. Obwohl er älter war, hatte er sich nur wenig verändert. Die gleichen feinen Kleider, der gleiche kräftige Körper, das gleiche rosige Gesicht. "Der Kerl an der Tür wollte mich nicht hereinlassen, bis ich ihm bezahlt habe. Ich wusste sofort, dass du es bist. Sag mal, du hast eine großartige Show. Du machst deinen Teil großartig. Das wusste ich. Ich bin heute Abend zufällig vorbeigekommen und dachte, ich schaue für ein paar Minuten rein. Ich habe deinen Namen im Programm gesehen, aber ich konnte mich nicht daran erinnern, bis du auf die Bühne gekommen bist. Dann ist es mir plötzlich wie ein Blitz eingeschlagen. Sag mal, du hättest mich umhauen können. Das ist derselbe Name, den du in Chicago benutzt hast, oder?" "Ja", antwortete Carrie mild, überwältigt von der Zuversicht des Mannes. "Ich wusste es, als ich dich gesehen habe. Na, wie geht es dir sonst so?" "Oh, sehr gut", sagte Carrie, in ihrer Umkleidekabine verweilend. Sie war etwas benommen von dem Angriff. "Wie geht es dir?" "Ich? Oh, gut. Ich bin jetzt hier." "Ist das so?", sagte Carrie. "Ja. Ich bin von hier aus sechs Monate lang hier. Ich leite hier eine Filiale." "Wie schön!" "Nun, wann bist du überhaupt auf die Bühne gegangen?", erkundigte sich Drouet. "Vor etwa drei Jahren", sagte Carrie. "Das sagst du!" sagte Drouet. "Nun, das ist das Erste, was ich davon höre. Ich wusste es aber, nicht wahr? Ich habe immer gesagt, dass du Schauspielern könntest, nicht wahr?" Carrie lächelte. "Ja, hast du", sagte sie. "Nun, du siehst großartig aus", sagte er. "Ich habe noch nie jemanden so gut werden sehen. Du bist größer geworden, nicht wahr?" "Ich? Oh, ein bisschen, vielleicht." Er betrachtete ihr Kleid, dann ihr Haar, wo ein schicklicher Hut schief saß, dann ihre Augen, die sie ständig mied. Offensichtlich erwartete er, ihre alte Freundschaft sofort und ohne Änderungen wieder aufleben zu lassen. "Nun", sagte er und sah, wie sie ihre Geldbörse, ihr Taschentuch und ähnliches zusammenraffte, um sich auf den Weg zu machen, "ich möchte, dass du heute Abend mit mir zu Abend isst. Bitte, kommst du? Ich habe hier einen Freund." "Oh, das geht nicht", sagte Carrie. "Nicht heute Abend. Ich habe morgen früh eine Verabredung." "Ach, lass die Verabredung sausen. Komm schon. Ich kann ihn loswerden. Ich möchte gerne mit dir reden." "Nein, nein", sagte Carrie. "Ich kann nicht. Du darfst mich nicht mehr fragen. Ich habe keinen Appetit auf ein spätes Abendessen." "Nun, komm trotzdem und lass uns reden." "Nicht heute Abend", sagte sie und schüttelte den Kopf. "Wir können ein anderes Mal reden." Als Folge davon bemerkte sie, wie ein Schatten des Nachdenkens über sein Gesicht huschte, als ob ihm langsam bewusst wurde, dass die Dinge sich geändert hatten. Gutmütigkeit diktierte ihm etwas Besseres für jemanden, der sie immer mochte. "Komm morgen ins Hotel", sagte sie, um ihr Versehen ein wenig zu bereuen. "Komm zum Abendessen mit mir." "In Ordnung", sagte Drouet und wurde lebhafter. "Wo wohnst du?" "Im Waldorf", antwortete sie und nannte das damals gerade erst errichtete modische Hotel. "Um wie viel Uhr?" "Nun, komm um drei", sagte Carrie freundlich. Am nächsten Tag rief Drouet an, aber Carrie erinnerte sich nicht mit besonders großer Freude an ihre Verabredung. Beim Anblick von ihm, so gutaussehend wie immer, nach seiner Art und sehr freundlich eingestellt, wurden ihre Bedenken, ob das Abendessen unangenehm sein würde, jedoch weggefegt. Er sprach wie gewohnt redegewandt. "Die lassen hier viele Schönredner ran, nicht wahr?", war sein erster Kommentar. "Ja, das tun sie", sagte Carrie. Als angenehmer Egoist erzählte er sofort ausführlich von seiner eigenen Karriere. "Ich werde bald mein eigenes Geschäft haben", bemerkte er an einer Stelle. "Ich kann Rückendeckung für zwei Hunderttausend Dollar bekommen." Carrie hörte ihm sehr wohlwollend zu. "Sag mal", sagte er plötzlich, "wo ist Hurstwood jetzt?" Carrie errötete ein wenig. "Er ist hier in New York, glaube ich", sagte sie. "Ich habe ihn schon seit einiger Zeit nicht mehr gesehen." Drouet grübelte einen Moment. Bis jetzt war er sich nicht sicher gewesen, ob der Ex-Manager nicht doch eine einflussreiche Figur im Hintergrund war. Er stellte sich vor, dass er das nicht war, aber diese Sicherheit beruhigte ihn. Es musste sein, dass Carrie ihn losgeworden war - wie es sich gehörte, dachte er. "Ein Mann macht immer einen Fehler, wenn er so etwas tut", bemerkte er. "Was?" sagte Carrie, unwissend, was kommen sollte. "Oh, du weißt schon", und Drouet winkte ihr mit der Hand seine Unkenntnis zu. "Nein, weiß ich nicht", antwortete Carrie. "Was meinst du?" "War das Ereignis in Chicago, als er wegging." "Ich weiß nicht, wovon du redest", sagte Carrie. Könnte es sein, dass er so barsch auf den Flucht ihres Hurstwood ansprach? "Oho!" sagte Drouet ungläubig. "Du wusstest also nicht, dass er zehntausend Dollar mitgenommen hat, als er ging?" "Was!" sagte Carrie. "Du meinst, er hat Geld gestohlen?" "Nun", sagte Drouet, von ihrem Tonfall verwirrt, "das wusstest du doch, oder?" "Why, no," sagte Carrie. "Of course I didn't." "Well, that's funny," said Drouet. "He did, you know. It was in all the papers." "How much did you say he took?" said Carrie. "Ten thousand dollars. I heard he sent most of it back afterwards, though." Carrie looked vacantly at the richly carpeted floor. A new light was shining upon all the years since her enforced flight. She remembered now a hundred things that indicated as much. She also imagined that he took it on her account. Instead of hatred springing up there was a kind of sorrow generated. Poor fellow! What a thing to have had hanging over his head all the time. At dinner Drouet, warmed up by eating and drinking and softened in mood, fancied he was winning Carrie to her old-time good-natured regard for him. He began to imagine it would not be so difficult to enter into her life again, high as she was. Ah, what a prize! he thought. How beautiful, how elegant, how famous! In her theatrical and Waldorf setting, Carrie was to him the all desirable. "Do you remember how nervous you were that In der nächsten Nacht traf sie ihn auf dem Weg zum Theater von Angesicht zu Angesicht. Er wartete dort, ausgezehrter als je zuvor, entschlossen, sie zu sehen, selbst wenn er jemanden schicken musste, um Bescheid zu geben. Zuerst erkannte sie die ungepflegte, schlurfende Gestalt nicht. Er erschreckte sie, indem er sich so nah an sie heranwagte, wie ein scheinbar hungriger Fremder. "Carrie", flüsterte er halblaut, "kann ich ein paar Worte mit dir sprechen?" Sie wandte sich um und erkannte ihn sofort. Falls je irgendwelche Gefühle in ihrem Herzen gegen ihn gelauert hatten, hatten sie sie jetzt verlassen. Trotzdem erinnerte sie sich daran, was Drouet über sein gestohlenes Geld gesagt hatte. "Warum, George", sagte sie, "was ist denn mit dir los?" "Mir war schlecht", antwortete er, "ich bin gerade aus dem Krankenhaus raus. Um Gottes willen, gibst du mir ein bisschen Geld?" "Natürlich", sagte Carrie und versuchte, ihre Fassung zu wahren, während ihre Lippe zitterte. "Aber was ist denn überhaupt mit dir?" Sie öffnete ihre Geldbörse und zog alle Geldscheine heraus - einen Fünfer und zwei Zweier. "Mir war schlecht, habe ich dir gesagt", sagte er gereizt und schien ihre übertriebene Mitleid fast zu verabscheuen. Es war für ihn schwierig, es von so einer Quelle anzunehmen. "Hier", sagte sie, "das ist alles, was ich bei mir habe." "Alles klar", antwortete er leise, "ich gebe es dir irgendwann zurück." Carrie sah ihn an, während Passanten sie anstarrten. Sie fühlte den Druck der Öffentlichkeit. Das empfand auch Hurstwood. "Warum sagst du mir nicht, was mit dir los ist?", fragte sie verwirrt. "Wo wohnst du?" "Oh, ich habe ein Zimmer in der Bowery", antwortete er, "es hat keinen Sinn, es dir hier zu erklären. Mir geht es jetzt gut." Er schien ihre freundlichen Nachfragen irgendwie abzulehnen, so gut hatte das Schicksal es mit ihr gemeint. "Geh besser rein", sagte er. "Ich danke dir vielmals, aber ich werde dich nicht weiter stören." Sie versuchte zu antworten, aber er wandte sich ab und schlurfte in Richtung Osten davon. Tagelang lastete diese Erscheinung schwer auf ihrer Seele, bevor sie allmählich verschwand. Drouet rief wieder an, aber jetzt wurde er nicht einmal von ihr gesehen. Seine Aufmerksamkeiten schienen unangebracht zu sein. "Ich bin nicht da", antwortete sie dem Jungen. So eigenartig war ihre einsame, zurückgezogene Stimmung, dass sie zu einer interessanten Figur in der öffentlichen Wahrnehmung wurde - sie war so still und zurückhaltend. Kurz darauf beschloss das Management, die Show nach London zu verlegen. Eine zweite Sommersaison schien hier keine guten Aussichten zu bieten. "Wie wäre es, wenn wir versuchen, London zu erobern?", fragte ihr Manager eines Nachmittags. "Es könnte auch genau andersherum sein", sagte Carrie. "Ich denke, wir fahren im Juni", antwortete er. In der Eile des Aufbruchs gerieten Hurstwood und Drouet in Vergessenheit. Beide mussten entdecken, dass sie fort war. Letzterer rief einmal an und war über die Neuigkeit empört. Dann stand er in der Lobby und kaute an den Enden seines Schnurrbarts. Schließlich gelangte er zu dem Schluss - die alten Tage waren für immer vorbei. "Sie bedeutet gar nicht so viel", sagte er, aber in seinem Innersten glaubte er das nicht. Hurstwood irrte auf seltsame Weise durch einen langen Sommer und Herbst. Eine kleine Beschäftigung als Hausmeister in einem Tanzsaal half ihm einen Monat lang. Betteln, manchmal Hunger leiden, manchmal im Park schlafen - all das hielt ihn über die Runden. Auch die verschiedenen wohltätigen Einrichtungen halfen ihm, von denen er, im verzweifelten Suchen nach Nahrung, zufällig einige fand. Gegen Ende des Winters kehrte Carrie zurück und trat am Broadway in einem neuen Stück auf, aber er wusste nichts davon. Wochenlang irrte er durch die Stadt und bettelte, während das Werbeschild, das ihre Verpflichtung ankündigte, jeden Abend auf der belebten Straße der Vergnügungen erstrahlte. Drouet sah es, wagte es jedoch nicht zu betreten. Ungefähr zu dieser Zeit kehrte Ames nach New York zurück. Er hatte im Westen ein wenig Erfolg gehabt und eröffnete nun ein Labor in der Wooster Street. Natürlich traf er auf Carrie durch Mrs. Vance, fand jedoch nichts zwischen ihnen. Er glaubte, sie sei immer noch mit Hurstwood zusammen, bis er eines Tages anders informiert wurde. Ohne die Umstände damals zu kennen, gab er vor, es nicht zu verstehen, und enthielt sich jeglichen Kommentars. Mit Mrs. Vance sah er sich das neue Stück an und äußerte sich entsprechend. "Sie sollte nicht in der Komödie sein", sagte er. "Ich denke, sie könnte Besseres tun." Eines Nachmittags trafen sie sich zufällig bei den Vances und begannen ein sehr freundliches Gespräch. Sie konnte kaum erklären, warum das einstige starke Interesse an ihm nicht mehr in ihr war. Zweifellos lag es daran, dass er damals etwas verkörperte, was sie nicht hatte, aber das verstand sie nicht. Der Erfolg hatte ihr das vorübergehende Gefühl gegeben, dass sie nun viel von dem hatte, was er befürworten würde. Tatsächlich bedeutete ihr kleiner Zeitungsruhm ihm überhaupt nichts. Er dachte, sie hätte es viel besser machen können. "Du bist doch nicht doch in die Komödiendramatik gegangen?", sagte er und erinnerte sich an ihr Interesse an dieser Form der Kunst. "Nein", antwortete sie, "noch nicht." Er sah sie auf eine so merkwürdige Weise an, dass sie erkannte, dass sie versagt hatte. Es bewegte sie zu der Aussage: "Aber das möchte ich." "Ich würde denken, dass du es tun würdest", sagte er. "Du hast die Art von Wesen, die sich in der Komödendramatik gut machen würde." Es überraschte sie, dass er von Wesen sprach. War sie also so deutlich in seinen Gedanken? "Warum?", fragte sie. "Nun", sagte er, "ich würde sagen, du hast eine eher mitfühlende Natur." Carrie lächelte und errötete leicht. Er war so unschuldig offen mit ihr, dass sie sich ihm freundlich näherte. Der alte Ruf des Ideals klang. "Ich weiß es nicht", antwortete sie, erfreut, jedoch ohne es verbergen zu können. "Ich habe dein Stück gesehen", bemerkte er. "Es ist sehr gut." "Ich freue mich, dass es dir gefallen hat." "Echt gut", sagte er, "für eine Komödie." Das war alles, was zu der Zeit gesagt wurde, wegen einer Unterbrechung, aber später trafen sie sich wieder. Als sie mit einem anderen Gast aufstand, saß er in einer Ecke nach dem Abendessen und starrte den Boden an. "Hast du heute Abend niemanden bei dir?", sagte sie. "Ich habe der Musik zugehört." "Ich bin gleich zurück", sagte ihr Begleiter, der den Erfinder völlig ignorierte. Nun sah er auf, als sie vor ihm stand und er saß. "Ist das keine rührende Melodie?", fragte er und lauschte. "Oh ja, sehr", antwortete sie und hörte sie nun auch, nachdem ihre Aufmerksamkeit darauf gelenkt wurde. "Setz dich", fügte er hinzu und bot ihr den Stuhl neben sich an. Sie lauschten einige Minuten schweigend, berührt von demselben Gefühl, nur dass es bei ihr das Herz erreichte. Musik begeisterte sie immer noch wie in alten Zeiten. "Ich weiß nicht, was es mit Musik auf sich hat", begann sie zu sagen, von den unerklärlichen Sehnsüchten bewegt, die in ihr aufstiegen. "A Dann bemerkte ich, dass das dein natürlicher Blick war, und heute Abend habe ich es wieder gesehen. Es gibt auch einen Schatten um deine Augen, der deinem Gesicht viel Charakter verleiht. Es liegt an ihrer Tiefe, denke ich." Carrie schaute ihm direkt ins Gesicht, vollkommen aufgewühlt. "Du bist dir wahrscheinlich nicht bewusst", fügte er hinzu. Sie schaute weg, froh darüber, dass er so sprach, sehnte sich danach, diesem Gefühl gerecht zu werden, das sich in ihrem Gesicht widerspiegelte. Es öffnete die Tür zu einem neuen Verlangen. Sie hatte Grund, darüber nachzudenken, bis sie sich wieder trafen - mehrere Wochen oder länger. Es zeigte ihr, dass sie sich vom alten Ideal entfernte, das sie in den Umkleideräumen der Avery-Bühne erfüllt hatte und danach noch lange Zeit. Warum hatte sie es verloren? "Ich weiß, warum du erfolgreich sein könntest", sagte er ein anderes Mal, "wenn du eine dramatischere Rolle hättest. Ich habe es mir überlegt ----" "Was ist es?", fragte Carrie. "Nun", sagte er, wie jemand, der über ein Rätsel erfreut ist, "der Ausdruck in deinem Gesicht ist einer, der in verschiedenen Dingen zum Ausdruck kommt. Du bekommst dasselbe bei einem pathetischen Lied oder einem Bild, das dich tief berührt. Es ist etwas, das die Welt gerne sieht, weil es ein natürlicher Ausdruck ihres Sehnens ist." Carrie starrte ohne genau zu verstehen, was er meinte. "Die Welt strebt immer danach, sich auszudrücken", fuhr er fort. "Die meisten Menschen sind nicht in der Lage, ihre Gefühle zum Ausdruck zu bringen. Sie sind auf andere angewiesen. Dafür ist das Genie da. Ein Mann drückt ihre Wünsche in Musik aus, ein anderer in Dichtung, ein anderer in einem Theaterstück. Manchmal macht es die Natur in einem Gesicht - sie macht das Gesicht zum Repräsentanten aller Sehnsüchte. Das ist bei dir passiert." Er schaute sie mit so viel Bedeutung in den Augen an, dass sie es verstand. Zumindest bekam sie die Idee, dass ihr Blick etwas war, das das Sehnen der Welt repräsentierte. Sie nahm es als etwas Ehrenhaftes auf, bis er hinzufügte: "Das legt eine Verpflichtung auf dich. Es stellt sich heraus, dass du diese Eigenschaft hast. Es ist keine Leistung von dir - das meine ich, du hättest es auch nicht haben können. Du hast nichts dafür bezahlt, es zu bekommen. Aber jetzt, da du es hast, musst du etwas damit tun." "Was?" fragte Carrie. "Ich würde sagen, wende dich dem dramatischen Bereich zu. Du hast so viel Mitgefühl und so eine melodische Stimme. Mache sie für andere wertvoll. Das wird deine Kräfte erhalten." Carrie verstand dies nicht. Alles andere zeigte ihr, dass ihr Komödienerfolg wenig oder nichts bedeutete. "Was meinst du damit?", fragte sie. "Nun, genau das. Du hast diese Eigenschaft in deinen Augen und deinem Mund und in deiner Natur. Du kannst sie verlieren, weißt du. Wenn du dich davon abwendest und nur noch dich selbst zufriedenstellst, wird sie schnell verschwinden. Der Blick wird aus deinen Augen verschwinden. Dein Mund wird sich verändern. Deine schauspielerischen Fähigkeiten werden verschwinden. Du magst denken, dass sie das nicht tun werden, aber das werden sie. Das übernimmt die Natur." Er war so daran interessiert, alle guten Dinge voranzubringen, dass er manchmal enthusiastisch wurde und sich in diesen Predigten ergoss. Etwas an Carrie sprach ihn an. Er wollte sie aufwühlen. "Ich weiß", sagte sie abwesend und fühlte sich leicht schuldig wegen ihrer Vernachlässigung. "Wenn ich du wäre", sagte er, "würde ich mich verändern." Die Wirkung davon war wie das Aufwühlen hilfloser Gewässer. Carrie grübelte Tage lang darüber in ihrem Schaukelstuhl. "Ich glaube, ich werde nicht mehr so lange in der Komödie bleiben", bemerkte sie schließlich zu Lola. "Oh, warum nicht?", sagte diese. "Ich glaube", sagte sie, "ich kann es in einem ernsthaften Stück besser machen." "Woher kommt diese Idee?" "Oh, nichts", antwortete sie, "ich habe schon immer so gedacht." Dennoch tat sie nichts und betrübte sich. Es war ein weiter Weg zu diesem besseren Ding - oder schien so - und sie fand Trost in ihrer Inaktivität und Sehnsucht. 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.

Carrie ist in ihrer Garderobe, als sie "eine vertraute Stimme" hört. Nein, es ist nicht Hurstwood. Es ist eine Erinnerung aus ihrer Vergangenheit: Drouet. Er schaut vorbei, um Carrie zu ihrem Erfolg zu gratulieren und lädt sie ein, mit ihm und seinem Freund auszugehen. Sie lehnt ab, lädt ihn aber zum Abendessen am nächsten Abend in ihre neue Bleibe ein: das Waldorf, ein sehr schickes und berühmtes Hotel in New York City. Drouet und Carrie treffen sich zum Mittagessen. Als Drouet nach Hurstwood fragt, sagt Carrie nur, dass sie denkt, er sei immer noch in New York. Drouet erzählt ihr von Hurstwoods Diebstahl des Geldes in Chicago, und sie ist schockiert. Die Nachricht macht sie tatsächlich traurig für Hurstwood. Drouet flirtet ein wenig mit Carrie, um ihre Beziehung wieder anzufachen, aber sie lässt sich nicht darauf ein und geht. Am nächsten Abend rennt Carrie auf dem Weg ins Theater Hurstwood über den Weg, der in der Nähe auf sie wartet. Sie erkennt ihn kaum, weil er so schlecht aussieht, und als er um Geld bittet, gibt sie es ihm sofort. Sie fragt, was mit ihm los ist, und er sagt, dass er krank war und in einem Zimmer in der Bowery lebt. Dann geht er. Carrie zieht sich zurück. Die Show, in der sie die Hauptrolle spielt, wird nach London verlegt, und es sieht so aus, als würde sie nach England aufbrechen - Cheerio. Monate vergehen, in denen Hurstwood weiterhin obdachlos ist und Carrie aus London nach New York zurückkehrt, um in einem neuen Broadway-Stück aufzutreten. Und Ames ist zurück, und er und Mrs. Vance gehen, um Carrie in einem Stück zu sehen. Aber Carrie ist nicht mehr romantisch an Ames interessiert. Seine Meinung scheint sie jedoch immer noch ziemlich zu beeinflussen, und er sagt ihr, dass sie besser Comedy-Dramen als Komödien machen sollte, weil sie besser für dieses Genre geeignet ist. Carrie erzählt Lola - Überraschung, Überraschung -, dass sie anfangen möchte, Drama zu machen.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). 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: Such being the reasons which make it imperative that human beings should be free to form opinions, and to express their opinions without reserve; and such the baneful consequences to the intellectual, and through that to the moral nature of man, unless this liberty is either conceded, or asserted in spite of prohibition; let us next examine whether the same reasons do not require that men should be free to act upon their opinions--to carry these out in their lives, without hindrance, either physical or moral, from their fellow-men, so long as it is at their own risk and peril. This last proviso is of course indispensable. No one pretends that actions should be as free as opinions. On the contrary, even opinions lose their immunity, when the circumstances in which they are expressed are such as to constitute their expression a positive instigation to some mischievous act. An opinion that corn-dealers are starvers of the poor, or that private property is robbery, ought to be unmolested when simply circulated through the press, but may justly incur punishment when delivered orally to an excited mob assembled before the house of a corn-dealer, or when handed about among the same mob in the form of a placard. Acts, of whatever kind, which, without justifiable cause, do harm to others, may be, and in the more important cases absolutely require to be, controlled by the unfavourable sentiments, and, when needful, by the active interference of mankind. The liberty of the individual must be thus far limited; he must not make himself a nuisance to other people. But if he refrains from molesting others in what concerns them, and merely acts according to his own inclination and judgment in things which concern himself, the same reasons which show that opinion should be free, prove also that he should be allowed, without molestation, to carry his opinions into practice at his own cost. That mankind are not infallible; that their truths, for the most part, are only half-truths; that unity of opinion, unless resulting from the fullest and freest comparison of opposite opinions, is not desirable, and diversity not an evil, but a good, until mankind are much more capable than at present of recognising all sides of the truth, are principles applicable to men's modes of action, not less than to their opinions. As it is useful that while mankind are imperfect there should be different opinions, so is it that there should be different experiments of living; that free scope should be given to varieties of character, short of injury to others; and that the worth of different modes of life should be proved practically, when any one thinks fit to try them. It is desirable, in short, that in things which do not primarily concern others, individuality should assert itself. Where, not the person's own character, but the traditions or customs of other people are the rule of conduct, there is wanting one of the principal ingredients of human happiness, and quite the chief ingredient of individual and social progress. In maintaining this principle, the greatest difficulty to be encountered does not lie in the appreciation of means towards an acknowledged end, but in the indifference of persons in general to the end itself. If it were felt that the free development of individuality is one of the leading essentials of well-being; that it is not only a co-ordinate element with all that is designated by the terms civilisation, instruction, education, culture, but is itself a necessary part and condition of all those things; there would be no danger that liberty should be under-valued, and the adjustment of the boundaries between it and social control would present no extraordinary difficulty. But the evil is, that individual spontaneity is hardly recognised by the common modes of thinking, as having any intrinsic worth, or deserving any regard on its own account. The majority, being satisfied with the ways of mankind as they now are (for it is they who make them what they are), cannot comprehend why those ways should not be good enough for everybody; and what is more, spontaneity forms no part of the ideal of the majority of moral and social reformers, but is rather looked on with jealousy, as a troublesome and perhaps rebellious obstruction to the general acceptance of what these reformers, in their own judgment, think would be best for mankind. Few persons, out of Germany, even comprehend the meaning of the doctrine which Wilhelm von Humboldt, so eminent both as a _savant_ and as a politician, made the text of a treatise--that "the end of man, or that which is prescribed by the eternal or immutable dictates of reason, and not suggested by vague and transient desires, is the highest and most harmonious development of his powers to a complete and consistent whole;" that, therefore, the object "towards which every human being must ceaselessly direct his efforts, and on which especially those who design to influence their fellow-men must ever keep their eyes, is the individuality of power and development;" that for this there are two requisites, "freedom, and a variety of situations;" and that from the union of these arise "individual vigour and manifold diversity," which combine themselves in "originality."[11] Little, however, as people are accustomed to a doctrine like that of Von Humboldt, and surprising as it may be to them to find so high a value attached to individuality, the question, one must nevertheless think, can only be one of degree. No one's idea of excellence in conduct is that people should do absolutely nothing but copy one another. No one would assert that people ought not to put into their mode of life, and into the conduct of their concerns, any impress whatever of their own judgment, or of their own individual character. On the other hand, it would be absurd to pretend that people ought to live as if nothing whatever had been known in the world before they came into it; as if experience had as yet done nothing towards showing that one mode of existence, or of conduct, is preferable to another. Nobody denies that people should be so taught and trained in youth, as to know and benefit by the ascertained results of human experience. But it is the privilege and proper condition of a human being, arrived at the maturity of his faculties, to use and interpret experience in his own way. It is for him to find out what part of recorded experience is properly applicable to his own circumstances and character. The traditions and customs of other people are, to a certain extent, evidence of what their experience has taught _them_; presumptive evidence, and as such, have a claim to his deference: but, in the first place, their experience may be too narrow; or they may not have interpreted it rightly. Secondly, their interpretation of experience may be correct, but unsuitable to him. Customs are made for customary circumstances, and customary characters: and his circumstances or his character may be uncustomary. Thirdly, though the customs be both good as customs, and suitable to him, yet to conform to custom, merely _as_ custom, does not educate or develop in him any of the qualities which are the distinctive endowment of a human being. The human faculties of perception, judgment, discriminative feeling, mental activity, and even moral preference, are exercised only in making a choice. He who does anything because it is the custom, makes no choice. He gains no practice either in discerning or in desiring what is best. The mental and moral, like the muscular powers, are improved only by being used. The faculties are called into no exercise by doing a thing merely because others do it, no more than by believing a thing only because others believe it. If the grounds of an opinion are not conclusive to the person's own reason, his reason cannot be strengthened, but is likely to be weakened by his adopting it: and if the inducements to an act are not such as are consentaneous to his own feelings and character (where affection, or the rights of others, are not concerned), it is so much done towards rendering his feelings and character inert and torpid, instead of active and energetic. He who lets the world, or his own portion of it, choose his plan of life for him, has no need of any other faculty than the ape-like one of imitation. He who chooses his plan for himself, employs all his faculties. He must use observation to see, reasoning and judgment to foresee, activity to gather materials for decision, discrimination to decide, and when he has decided, firmness and self-control to hold to his deliberate decision. And these qualities he requires and exercises exactly in proportion as the part of his conduct which he determines according to his own judgment and feelings is a large one. It is possible that he might be guided in some good path, and kept out of harm's way, without any of these things. But what will be his comparative worth as a human being? It really is of importance, not only what men do, but also what manner of men they are that do it. Among the works of man, which human life is rightly employed in perfecting and beautifying, the first in importance surely is man himself. Supposing it were possible to get houses built, corn grown, battles fought, causes tried, and even churches erected and prayers said, by machinery--by automatons in human form--it would be a considerable loss to exchange for these automatons even the men and women who at present inhabit the more civilised parts of the world, and who assuredly are but starved specimens of what nature can and will produce. Human nature is not a machine to be built after a model, and set to do exactly the work prescribed for it, but a tree, which requires to grow and develop itself on all sides, according to the tendency of the inward forces which make it a living thing. It will probably be conceded that it is desirable people should exercise their understandings, and that an intelligent following of custom, or even occasionally an intelligent deviation from custom, is better than a blind and simply mechanical adhesion to it. To a certain extent it is admitted, that our understanding should be our own: but there is not the same willingness to admit that our desires and impulses should be our own likewise; or that to possess impulses of our own, and of any strength, is anything but a peril and a snare. Yet desires and impulses are as much a part of a perfect human being, as beliefs and restraints: and strong impulses are only perilous when not properly balanced; when one set of aims and inclinations is developed into strength, while others, which ought to co-exist with them, remain weak and inactive. It is not because men's desires are strong that they act ill; it is because their consciences are weak. There is no natural connection between strong impulses and a weak conscience. The natural connection is the other way. To say that one person's desires and feelings are stronger and more various than those of another, is merely to say that he has more of the raw material of human nature, and is therefore capable, perhaps of more evil, but certainly of more good. Strong impulses are but another name for energy. Energy may be turned to bad uses; but more good may always be made of an energetic nature, than of an indolent and impassive one. Those who have most natural feeling, are always those whose cultivated feelings may be made the strongest. The same strong susceptibilities which make the personal impulses vivid and powerful, are also the source from whence are generated the most passionate love of virtue, and the sternest self-control. It is through the cultivation of these, that society both does its duty and protects its interests: not by rejecting the stuff of which heroes are made, because it knows not how to make them. A person whose desires and impulses are his own--are the expression of his own nature, as it has been developed and modified by his own culture--is said to have a character. One whose desires and impulses are not his own, has no character, no more than a steam-engine has a character. If, in addition to being his own, his impulses are strong, and are under the government of a strong will, he has an energetic character. Whoever thinks that individuality of desires and impulses should not be encouraged to unfold itself, must maintain that society has no need of strong natures--is not the better for containing many persons who have much character--and that a high general average of energy is not desirable. In some early states of society, these forces might be, and were, too much ahead of the power which society then possessed of disciplining and controlling them. There has been a time when the element of spontaneity and individuality was in excess, and the social principle had a hard struggle with it. The difficulty then was, to induce men of strong bodies or minds to pay obedience to any rules which required them to control their impulses. To overcome this difficulty, law and discipline, like the Popes struggling against the Emperors, asserted a power over the whole man, claiming to control all his life in order to control his character--which society had not found any other sufficient means of binding. But society has now fairly got the better of individuality; and the danger which threatens human nature is not the excess, but the deficiency, of personal impulses and preferences. Things are vastly changed, since the passions of those who were strong by station or by personal endowment were in a state of habitual rebellion against laws and ordinances, and required to be rigorously chained up to enable the persons within their reach to enjoy any particle of security. In our times, from the highest class of society down to the lowest, every one lives as under the eye of a hostile and dreaded censorship. Not only in what concerns others, but in what concerns only themselves, the individual, or the family, do not ask themselves--what do I prefer? or, what would suit my character and disposition? or, what would allow the best and highest in me to have fair-play, and enable it to grow and thrive? They ask themselves, what is suitable to my position? what is usually done by persons of my station and pecuniary circumstances? or (worse still) what is usually done by persons of a station and circumstances superior to mine? I do not mean that they choose what is customary, in preference to what suits their own inclination. It does not occur to them to have any inclination, except for what is customary. Thus the mind itself is bowed to the yoke: even in what people do for pleasure, conformity is the first thing thought of; they live in crowds; they exercise choice only among things commonly done: peculiarity of taste, eccentricity of conduct, are shunned equally with crimes: until by dint of not following their own nature, they have no nature to follow: their human capacities are withered and starved: they become incapable of any strong wishes or native pleasures, and are generally without either opinions or feelings of home growth, or properly their own. Now is this, or is it not, the desirable condition of human nature? It is so, on the Calvinistic theory. According to that, the one great offence of man is Self-will. All the good of which humanity is capable, is comprised in Obedience. You have no choice; thus you must do, and no otherwise: "whatever is not a duty, is a sin." Human nature being radically corrupt, there is no redemption for any one until human nature is killed within him. To one holding this theory of life, crushing out any of the human faculties, capacities, and susceptibilities, is no evil: man needs no capacity, but that of surrendering himself to the will of God: and if he uses any of his faculties for any other purpose but to do that supposed will more effectually, he is better without them. That is the theory of Calvinism; and it is held, in a mitigated form, by many who do not consider themselves Calvinists; the mitigation consisting in giving a less ascetic interpretation to the alleged will of God; asserting it to be his will that mankind should gratify some of their inclinations; of course not in the manner they themselves prefer, but in the way of obedience, that is, in a way prescribed to them by authority; and, therefore, by the necessary conditions of the case, the same for all. In some such insidious form there is at present a strong tendency to this narrow theory of life, and to the pinched and hidebound type of human character which it patronises. Many persons, no doubt, sincerely think that human beings thus cramped and dwarfed, are as their Maker designed them to be; just as many have thought that trees are a much finer thing when clipped into pollards, or cut out into figures of animals, than as nature made them. But if it be any part of religion to believe that man was made by a good being, it is more consistent with that faith to believe, that this Being gave all human faculties that they might be cultivated and unfolded, not rooted out and consumed, and that he takes delight in every nearer approach made by his creatures to the ideal conception embodied in them, every increase in any of their capabilities of comprehension, of action, or of enjoyment. There is a different type of human excellence from the Calvinistic; a conception of humanity as having its nature bestowed on it for other purposes than merely to be abnegated. "Pagan self-assertion" is one of the elements of human worth, as well as "Christian self-denial."[12] There is a Greek ideal of self-development, which the Platonic and Christian ideal of self-government blends with, but does not supersede. It may be better to be a John Knox than an Alcibiades, but it is better to be a Pericles than either; nor would a Pericles, if we had one in these days, be without anything good which belonged to John Knox. It is not by wearing down into uniformity all that is individual in themselves, but by cultivating it and calling it forth, within the limits imposed by the rights and interests of others, that human beings become a noble and beautiful object of contemplation; and as the works partake the character of those who do them, by the same process human life also becomes rich, diversified, and animating, furnishing more abundant aliment to high thoughts and elevating feelings, and strengthening the tie which binds every individual to the race, by making the race infinitely better worth belonging to. In proportion to the development of his individuality, each person becomes more valuable to himself, and is therefore capable of being more valuable to others. There is a greater fulness of life about his own existence, and when there is more life in the units there is more in the mass which is composed of them. As much compression as is necessary to prevent the stronger specimens of human nature from encroaching on the rights of others, cannot be dispensed with; but for this there is ample compensation even in the point of view of human development. The means of development which the individual loses by being prevented from gratifying his inclinations to the injury of others, are chiefly obtained at the expense of the development of other people. And even to himself there is a full equivalent in the better development of the social part of his nature, rendered possible by the restraint put upon the selfish part. To be held to rigid rules of justice for the sake of others, develops the feelings and capacities which have the good of others for their object. But to be restrained in things not affecting their good, by their mere displeasure, develops nothing valuable, except such force of character as may unfold itself in resisting the restraint. If acquiesced in, it dulls and blunts the whole nature. To give any fair-play to the nature of each, it is essential that different persons should be allowed to lead different lives. In proportion as this latitude has been exercised in any age, has that age been noteworthy to posterity. Even despotism does not produce its worst effects, so long as Individuality exists under it; and whatever crushes individuality is despotism, by whatever name it may be called, and whether it professes to be enforcing the will of God or the injunctions of men. Having said that Individuality is the same thing with development, and that it is only the cultivation of individuality which produces, or can produce, well-developed human beings, I might here close the argument: for what more or better can be said of any condition of human affairs, than that it brings human beings themselves nearer to the best thing they can be? or what worse can be said of any obstruction to good, than that it prevents this? Doubtless, however, these considerations will not suffice to convince those who most need convincing; and it is necessary further to show, that these developed human beings are of some use to the undeveloped--to point out to those who do not desire liberty, and would not avail themselves of it, that they may be in some intelligible manner rewarded for allowing other people to make use of it without hindrance. In the first place, then, I would suggest that they might possibly learn something from them. It will not be denied by anybody, that originality is a valuable element in human affairs. There is always need of persons not only to discover new truths, and point out when what were once truths are true no longer, but also to commence new practices, and set the example of more enlightened conduct, and better taste and sense in human life. This cannot well be gainsaid by anybody who does not believe that the world has already attained perfection in all its ways and practices. It is true that this benefit is not capable of being rendered by everybody alike: there are but few persons, in comparison with the whole of mankind, whose experiments, if adopted by others, would be likely to be any improvement on established practice. But these few are the salt of the earth; without them, human life would become a stagnant pool. Not only is it they who introduce good things which did not before exist; it is they who keep the life in those which already existed. If there were nothing new to be done, would human intellect cease to be necessary? Would it be a reason why those who do the old things should forget why they are done, and do them like cattle, not like human beings? There is only too great a tendency in the best beliefs and practices to degenerate into the mechanical; and unless there were a succession of persons whose ever-recurring originality prevents the grounds of those beliefs and practices from becoming merely traditional, such dead matter would not resist the smallest shock from anything really alive, and there would be no reason why civilisation should not die out, as in the Byzantine Empire. Persons of genius, it is true, are, and are always likely to be, a small minority; but in order to have them, it is necessary to preserve the soil in which they grow. Genius can only breathe freely in an _atmosphere_ of freedom. Persons of genius are, _ex vi termini_, _more_ individual than any other people--less capable, consequently, of fitting themselves, without hurtful compression, into any of the small number of moulds which society provides in order to save its members the trouble of forming their own character. If from timidity they consent to be forced into one of these moulds, and to let all that part of themselves which cannot expand under the pressure remain unexpanded, society will be little the better for their genius. If they are of a strong character, and break their fetters, they become a mark for the society which has not succeeded in reducing them to commonplace, to point at with solemn warning as "wild," "erratic," and the like; much as if one should complain of the Niagara river for not flowing smoothly between its banks like a Dutch canal. I insist thus emphatically on the importance of genius, and the necessity of allowing it to unfold itself freely both in thought and in practice, being well aware that no one will deny the position in theory, but knowing also that almost every one, in reality, is totally indifferent to it. People think genius a fine thing if it enables a man to write an exciting poem, or paint a picture. But in its true sense, that of originality in thought and action, though no one says that it is not a thing to be admired, nearly all, at heart, think that they can do very well without it. Unhappily this is too natural to be wondered at. Originality is the one thing which unoriginal minds cannot feel the use of. They cannot see what it is to do for them: how should they? If they could see what it would do for them, it would not be originality. The first service which originality has to render them, is that of opening their eyes: which being once fully done, they would have a chance of being themselves original. Meanwhile, recollecting that nothing was ever yet done which some one was not the first to do, and that all good things which exist are the fruits of originality, let them be modest enough to believe that there is something still left for it to accomplish, and assure themselves that they are more in need of originality, the less they are conscious of the want. In sober truth, whatever homage may be professed, or even paid, to real or supposed mental superiority, the general tendency of things throughout the world is to render mediocrity the ascendant power among mankind. In ancient history, in the middle ages, and in a diminishing degree through the long transition from feudality to the present time, the individual was a power in himself; and if he had either great talents or a high social position, he was a considerable power. At present individuals are lost in the crowd. In politics it is almost a triviality to say that public opinion now rules the world. The only power deserving the name is that of masses, and of governments while they make themselves the organ of the tendencies and instincts of masses. This is as true in the moral and social relations of private life as in public transactions. Those whose opinions go by the name of public opinion, are not always the same sort of public: in America they are the whole white population; in England, chiefly the middle class. But they are always a mass, that is to say, collective mediocrity. And what is a still greater novelty, the mass do not now take their opinions from dignitaries in Church or State, from ostensible leaders, or from books. Their thinking is done for them by men much like themselves, addressing them or speaking in their name, on the spur of the moment, through the newspapers. I am not complaining of all this. I do not assert that anything better is compatible, as a general rule, with the present low state of the human mind. But that does not hinder the government of mediocrity from being mediocre government. No government by a democracy or a numerous aristocracy, either in its political acts or in the opinions, qualities, and tone of mind which it fosters, ever did or could rise above mediocrity, except in so far as the sovereign Many have let themselves be guided (which in their best times they always have done) by the counsels and influence of a more highly gifted and instructed One or Few. The initiation of all wise or noble things, comes and must come from individuals; generally at first from some one individual. The honour and glory of the average man is that he is capable of following that initiative; that he can respond internally to wise and noble things, and be led to them with his eyes open. I am not countenancing the sort of "hero-worship" which applauds the strong man of genius for forcibly seizing on the government of the world and making it do his bidding in spite of itself. All he can claim is, freedom to point out the way. The power of compelling others into it, is not only inconsistent with the freedom and development of all the rest, but corrupting to the strong man himself. It does seem, however, that when the opinions of masses of merely average men are everywhere become or becoming the dominant power, the counterpoise and corrective to that tendency would be, the more and more pronounced individuality of those who stand on the higher eminences of thought. It is in these circumstances most especially, that exceptional individuals, instead of being deterred, should be encouraged in acting differently from the mass. In other times there was no advantage in their doing so, unless they acted not only differently, but better. In this age the mere example of nonconformity, the mere refusal to bend the knee to custom, is itself a service. Precisely because the tyranny of opinion is such as to make eccentricity a reproach, it is desirable, in order to break through that tyranny, that people should be eccentric. Eccentricity has always abounded when and where strength of character has abounded; and the amount of eccentricity in a society has generally been proportional to the amount of genius, mental vigour, and moral courage which it contained. That so few now dare to be eccentric, marks the chief danger of the time. I have said that it is important to give the freest scope possible to uncustomary things, in order that it may in time appear which of these are fit to be converted into customs. But independence of action, and disregard of custom are not solely deserving of encouragement for the chance they afford that better modes of action, and customs more worthy of general adoption, may be struck out; nor is it only persons of decided mental superiority who have a just claim to carry on their lives in their own way. There is no reason that all human existences should be constructed on some one, or some small number of patterns. If a person possesses any tolerable amount of common-sense and experience, his own mode of laying out his existence is the best, not because it is the best in itself, but because it is his own mode. Human beings are not like sheep; and even sheep are not undistinguishably alike. A man cannot get a coat or a pair of boots to fit him, unless they are either made to his measure, or he has a whole warehouseful to choose from: and is it easier to fit him with a life than with a coat, or are human beings more like one another in their whole physical and spiritual conformation than in the shape of their feet? If it were only that people have diversities of taste, that is reason enough for not attempting to shape them all after one model. But different persons also require different conditions for their spiritual development; and can no more exist healthily in the same moral, than all the variety of plants can in the same physical, atmosphere and climate. The same things which are helps to one person towards the cultivation of his higher nature, are hindrances to another. The same mode of life is a healthy excitement to one, keeping all his faculties of action and enjoyment in their best order, while to another it is a distracting burthen, which suspends or crushes all internal life. Such are the differences among human beings in their sources of pleasure, their susceptibilities of pain, and the operation on them of different physical and moral agencies, that unless there is a corresponding diversity in their modes of life, they neither obtain their fair share of happiness, nor grow up to the mental, moral, and aesthetic stature of which their nature is capable. Why then should tolerance, as far as the public sentiment is concerned, extend only to tastes and modes of life which extort acquiescence by the multitude of their adherents? Nowhere (except in some monastic institutions) is diversity of taste entirely unrecognised; a person may, without blame, either like or dislike rowing, or smoking, or music, or athletic exercises, or chess, or cards, or study, because both those who like each of these things, and those who dislike them, are too numerous to be put down. But the man, and still more the woman, who can be accused either of doing "what nobody does," or of not doing "what everybody does," is the subject of as much depreciatory remark as if he or she had committed some grave moral delinquency. Persons require to possess a title, or some other badge of rank, or of the consideration of people of rank, to be able to indulge somewhat in the luxury of doing as they like without detriment to their estimation. To indulge somewhat, I repeat: for whoever allow themselves much of that indulgence, incur the risk of something worse than disparaging speeches--they are in peril of a commission _de lunatico_, and of having their property taken from them and given to their relations.[13] There is one characteristic of the present direction of public opinion, peculiarly calculated to make it intolerant of any marked demonstration of individuality. The general average of mankind are not only moderate in intellect, but also moderate in inclinations: they have no tastes or wishes strong enough to incline them to do anything unusual, and they consequently do not understand those who have, and class all such with the wild and intemperate whom they are accustomed to look down upon. Now, in addition to this fact which is general, we have only to suppose that a strong movement has set in towards the improvement of morals, and it is evident what we have to expect. In these days such a movement has set in; much has actually been effected in the way of increased regularity of conduct, and discouragement of excesses; and there is a philanthropic spirit abroad, for the exercise of which there is no more inviting field than the moral and prudential improvement of our fellow-creatures. These tendencies of the times cause the public to be more disposed than at most former periods to prescribe general rules of conduct, and endeavour to make every one conform to the approved standard. And that standard, express or tacit, is to desire nothing strongly. Its ideal of character is to be without any marked character; to maim by compression, like a Chinese lady's foot, every part of human nature which stands out prominently, and tends to make the person markedly dissimilar in outline to commonplace humanity. As is usually the case with ideals which exclude one-half of what is desirable, the present standard of approbation produces only an inferior imitation of the other half. Instead of great energies guided by vigorous reason, and strong feelings strongly controlled by a conscientious will, its result is weak feelings and weak energies, which therefore can be kept in outward conformity to rule without any strength either of will or of reason. Already energetic characters on any large scale are becoming merely traditional. There is now scarcely any outlet for energy in this country except business. The energy expended in that may still be regarded as considerable. What little is left from that employment, is expended on some hobby; which may be a useful, even a philanthropic hobby, but is always some one thing, and generally a thing of small dimensions. The greatness of England is now all collective: individually small, we only appear capable of anything great by our habit of combining; and with this our moral and religious philanthropists are perfectly contented. But it was men of another stamp than this that made England what it has been; and men of another stamp will be needed to prevent its decline. The despotism of custom is everywhere the standing hindrance to human advancement, being in unceasing antagonism to that disposition to aim at something better than customary, which is called, according to circumstances, the spirit of liberty, or that of progress or improvement. The spirit of improvement is not always a spirit of liberty, for it may aim at forcing improvements on an unwilling people; and the spirit of liberty, in so far as it resists such attempts, may ally itself locally and temporarily with the opponents of improvement; but the only unfailing and permanent source of improvement is liberty, since by it there are as many possible independent centres of improvement as there are individuals. The progressive principle, however, in either shape, whether as the love of liberty or of improvement, is antagonistic to the sway of Custom, involving at least emancipation from that yoke; and the contest between the two constitutes the chief interest of the history of mankind. The greater part of the world has, properly speaking, no history, because the despotism of Custom is complete. This is the case over the whole East. Custom is there, in all things, the final appeal; justice and right mean conformity to custom; the argument of custom no one, unless some tyrant intoxicated with power, thinks of resisting. And we see the result. Those nations must once have had originality; they did not start out of the ground populous, lettered, and versed in many of the arts of life; they made themselves all this, and were then the greatest and most powerful nations in the world. What are they now? The subjects or dependants of tribes whose forefathers wandered in the forests when theirs had magnificent palaces and gorgeous temples, but over whom custom exercised only a divided rule with liberty and progress. A people, it appears, may be progressive for a certain length of time, and then stop: when does it stop? When it ceases to possess individuality. If a similar change should befall the nations of Europe, it will not be in exactly the same shape: the despotism of custom with which these nations are threatened is not precisely stationariness. It proscribes singularity, but it does not preclude change, provided all change together. We have discarded the fixed costumes of our forefathers; every one must still dress like other people, but the fashion may change once or twice a year. We thus take care that when there is change, it shall be for change's sake, and not from any idea of beauty or convenience; for the same idea of beauty or convenience would not strike all the world at the same moment, and be simultaneously thrown aside by all at another moment. But we are progressive as well as changeable: we continually make new inventions in mechanical things, and keep them until they are again superseded by better; we are eager for improvement in politics, in education, even in morals, though in this last our idea of improvement chiefly consists in persuading or forcing other people to be as good as ourselves. It is not progress that we object to; on the contrary, we flatter ourselves that we are the most progressive people who ever lived. It is individuality that we war against: we should think we had done wonders if we had made ourselves all alike; forgetting that the unlikeness of one person to another is generally the first thing which draws the attention of either to the imperfection of his own type, and the superiority of another, or the possibility, by combining the advantages of both, of producing something better than either. We have a warning example in China--a nation of much talent, and, in some respects, even wisdom, owing to the rare good fortune of having been provided at an early period with a particularly good set of customs, the work, in some measure, of men to whom even the most enlightened European must accord, under certain limitations, the title of sages and philosophers. They are remarkable, too, in the excellence of their apparatus for impressing, as far as possible, the best wisdom they possess upon every mind in the community, and securing that those who have appropriated most of it shall occupy the posts of honour and power. Surely the people who did this have discovered the secret of human progressiveness, and must have kept themselves steadily at the head of the movement of the world. On the contrary, they have become stationary--have remained so for thousands of years; and if they are ever to be farther improved, it must be by foreigners. They have succeeded beyond all hope in what English philanthropists are so industriously working at--in making a people all alike, all governing their thoughts and conduct by the same maxims and rules; and these are the fruits. The modern _regime_ of public opinion is, in an unorganised form, what the Chinese educational and political systems are in an organised; and unless individuality shall be able successfully to assert itself against this yoke, Europe, notwithstanding its noble antecedents and its professed Christianity, will tend to become another China. What is it that has hitherto preserved Europe from this lot? What has made the European family of nations an improving, instead of a stationary portion of mankind? Not any superior excellence in them, which, when it exists, exists as the effect, not as the cause; but their remarkable diversity of character and culture. Individuals, classes, nations, have been extremely unlike one another: they have struck out a great variety of paths, each leading to something valuable; and although at every period those who travelled in different paths have been intolerant of one another, and each would have thought it an excellent thing if all the rest could have been compelled to travel his road, their attempts to thwart each other's development have rarely had any permanent success, and each has in time endured to receive the good which the others have offered. Europe is, in my judgment, wholly indebted to this plurality of paths for its progressive and many-sided development. But it already begins to possess this benefit in a considerably less degree. It is decidedly advancing towards the Chinese ideal of making all people alike. M. de Tocqueville, in his last important work, remarks how much more the Frenchmen of the present day resemble one another, than did those even of the last generation. The same remark might be made of Englishmen in a far greater degree. In a passage already quoted from Wilhelm von Humboldt, he points out two things as necessary conditions of human development, because necessary to render people unlike one another; namely, freedom, and variety of situations. The second of these two conditions is in this country every day diminishing. The circumstances which surround different classes and individuals, and shape their characters, are daily becoming more assimilated. Formerly, different ranks, different neighbourhoods, different trades and professions, lived in what might be called different worlds; at present, to a great degree in the same. Comparatively speaking, they now read the same things, listen to the same things, see the same things, go to the same places, have their hopes and fears directed to the same objects, have the same rights and liberties, and the same means of asserting them. Great as are the differences of position which remain, they are nothing to those which have ceased. And the assimilation is still proceeding. All the political changes of the age promote it, since they all tend to raise the low and to lower the high. Every extension of education promotes it, because education brings people under common influences, and gives them access to the general stock of facts and sentiments. Improvements in the means of communication promote it, by bringing the inhabitants of distant places into personal contact, and keeping up a rapid flow of changes of residence between one place and another. The increase of commerce and manufactures promotes it, by diffusing more widely the advantages of easy circumstances, and opening all objects of ambition, even the highest, to general competition, whereby the desire of rising becomes no longer the character of a particular class, but of all classes. A more powerful agency than even all these, in bringing about a general similarity among mankind, is the complete establishment, in this and other free countries, of the ascendency of public opinion in the State. As the various social eminences which enabled persons entrenched on them to disregard the opinion of the multitude, gradually become levelled; as the very idea of resisting the will of the public, when it is positively known that they have a will, disappears more and more from the minds of practical politicians; there ceases to be any social support for non-conformity--any substantive power in society, which, itself opposed to the ascendency of numbers, is interested in taking under its protection opinions and tendencies at variance with those of the public. The combination of all these causes forms so great a mass of influences hostile to Individuality, that it is not easy to see how it can stand its ground. It will do so with increasing difficulty, unless the intelligent part of the public can be made to feel its value--to see that it is good there should be differences, even though not for the better, even though, as it may appear to them, some should be for the worse. If the claims of Individuality are ever to be asserted, the time is now, while much is still wanting to complete the enforced assimilation. It is only in the earlier stages that any stand can be successfully made against the encroachment. The demand that all other people shall resemble ourselves, grows by what it feeds on. If resistance waits till life is reduced _nearly_ to one uniform type, all deviations from that type will come to be considered impious, immoral, even monstrous and contrary to nature. Mankind speedily become unable to conceive diversity, when they have been for some time unaccustomed to see it. FOOTNOTES: [11] _The Sphere and Duties of Government_, from the German of Baron Wilhelm von Humboldt, pp. 11-13. [12] Sterling's _Essays_. [13] There is something both contemptible and frightful in the sort of evidence on which, of late years, any person can be judicially declared unfit for the management of his affairs; and after his death, his disposal of his property can be set aside, if there is enough of it to pay the expenses of litigation--which are charged on the property itself. All the minute details of his daily life are pried into, and whatever is found which, seen through the medium of the perceiving and describing faculties of the lowest of the low, bears an appearance unlike absolute commonplace, is laid before the jury as evidence of insanity, and often with success; the jurors being little, if at all, less vulgar and ignorant than the witnesses; while the judges, with that extraordinary want of knowledge of human nature and life which continually astonishes us in English lawyers, often help to mislead them. These trials speak volumes as to the state of feeling and opinion among the vulgar with regard to human liberty. So far from setting any value on individuality--so far from respecting the rights of each individual to act, in things indifferent, as seems good to his own judgment and inclinations, judges and juries cannot even conceive that a person in a state of sanity can desire such freedom. In former days, when it was proposed to burn atheists, charitable people used to suggest putting them in a madhouse instead: it would be nothing surprising nowadays were we to see this done, and the doers applauding themselves, because, instead of persecuting for religion, they had adopted so humane and Christian a mode of treating these unfortunates, not without a silent satisfaction at their having thereby obtained their deserts. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Über Individualität als eines der Elemente des Wohlbefindens Mill beginnt dieses Kapitel damit, Einschränkungen der persönlichen Freiheit anzubringen, die er bisher vorgeschlagen hat. Er bekennt seinen Glauben an Autonomie, außer wenn eine Person durch ihre Handlungen andere in Gefahr bringt; er erklärt, dass "niemand behauptet, dass Handlungen so frei sein sollten wie Meinungen." Er denkt, dass persönliche Freiheit durch den Mangel an Respekt gefährdet ist, den die Gesellschaft der individuellen Autonomie einräumt - die Mehrheit sieht oft keinen Grund, warum nicht jeder zufrieden mit seinen Entscheidungen sein sollte. Mill behauptet, dass die Menschheit nicht geschaffen wurde, um sich einfach aneinander anzupassen, denn wenn das der Fall wäre, wäre die einzige Fähigkeit, die Menschen bräuchten, die Kunst der Nachahmung. Mill spricht auch über die Bedeutung, dass eine Person ihre eigenen Wünsche und Impulse hat. Starke Impulse produzieren Energie, den Treibstoff für Veränderung und Aktivität, sowohl Gutes als auch Schlechtes. Mill ist anderer Meinung als die calvinistische Theorie, dass Menschen nur durch Kompromisse gut sein können und dass "alles, was keine Pflicht ist, eine Sünde ist". Im Calvinismus ist es am besten, Individualität und das Böse der menschlichen Natur zu eliminieren, denn die einzige notwendige Handlung des Menschen besteht darin, sich Gott hinzugeben. Mill denkt, dass dieser einschränkende Blick auf die Menschheit dem inneren Guten des Menschen und der Wahrscheinlichkeit, dass Gott den Menschen mit Potential erschaffen hat, nicht gerecht wird, in der Annahme, dass er es verwenden würde. In extremeren Worten stellt Mill fest, dass jeder Wille, religiös oder nicht, der Individualität unterdrückt, tyrannisch ist. Mill spricht über die Bedeutung von originalem Denken und Spontaneität in der menschlichen Gesellschaft. Originelle Denker können nach Wahrheiten suchen, sie entdecken und weiterverbreiten, die sonst nicht gefunden würden. Geniale Köpfe sind in der Regel einzigartige Mitglieder der Gesellschaft, deren Intelligenz und Gedanken nicht in das übliche Formbild der Gesellschaft passen. Mill glaubt, dass Exzentrik eng mit Charakter, Genie und Moral verbunden ist und befürchtet, dass sie in der Gesellschaft zunehmend fehlt, indem er feststellt, dass "Spontaneität keinen Teil des Ideals der Mehrheit der moralischen und sozialen Reformisten darstellt". Menschen sind von Natur aus unterschiedlich und sollten diese Unterschiede erkunden dürfen, so Mill. Menschen gedeihen und scheitern unter denselben Umständen - das Gleichmachen aller Menschen ist nach Mill ein Nachteil für ihre einzigartigen Eigenschaften. Er glaubt, dass die Gesellschaft im Allgemeinen spontanes Handeln nicht genug Achtung schenkt. Allerdings denkt er nicht, dass Individualität um jeden Preis erreicht werden sollte, Individuen sollten ihren Eigennutz mäßigen, damit die kompetenteren Menschen in der Gesellschaft die weniger kompetenten nicht niedertrampeln. Mill glaubt, dass selbst wenn Menschen sich nicht an diese Theorie von Freiheit und Spontaneität halten, sie trotzdem etwas aus der Exposition gegenüber der Umgebung lernen werden, die ein solches Verhalten unterstützt. Außerdem wird eine effektivere Regierung entwickelter Bürger aus einer Gesellschaft resultieren, die neue Ideen zirkulieren lässt und die Ansichten der Mehrheit herausfordert. Mill argumentiert, dass diese Art der Entwicklung eine glücklichere Gesellschaft hervorbringen wird, in der Menschen ihren Wünschen folgen dürfen, anstatt sich mit den schwachen Leidenschaften der Mehrheit zufrieden geben zu müssen. Mill glaubt, dass unterdrückte Impulse dazu führen, dass starke Leidenschaften in weniger konstruktive Dinge umgeleitet werden. Schließlich glaubt Mill, dass die ganze Gesellschaft von einer Betonung der Individualität profitieren würde, denn sie würde verhindern, dass die Gesellschaft in einen gefährlichen Status quo gerät.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). 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 XXIV I ALL that midsummer month Carol was sensitive to Kennicott. She recalled a hundred grotesqueries: her comic dismay at his having chewed tobacco, the evening when she had tried to read poetry to him; matters which had seemed to vanish with no trace or sequence. Always she repeated that he had been heroically patient in his desire to join the army. She made much of her consoling affection for him in little things. She liked the homeliness of his tinkering about the house; his strength and handiness as he tightened the hinges of a shutter; his boyishness when he ran to her to be comforted because he had found rust in the barrel of his pump-gun. But at the highest he was to her another Hugh, without the glamor of Hugh's unknown future. There was, late in June, a day of heat-lightning. Because of the work imposed by the absence of the other doctors the Kennicotts had not moved to the lake cottage but remained in town, dusty and irritable. In the afternoon, when she went to Oleson & McGuire's (formerly Dahl & Oleson's), Carol was vexed by the assumption of the youthful clerk, recently come from the farm, that he had to be neighborly and rude. He was no more brusquely familiar than a dozen other clerks of the town, but her nerves were heat-scorched. When she asked for codfish, for supper, he grunted, "What d'you want that darned old dry stuff for?" "I like it!" "Punk! Guess the doc can afford something better than that. Try some of the new wienies we got in. Swell. The Haydocks use 'em." She exploded. "My dear young man, it is not your duty to instruct me in housekeeping, and it doesn't particularly concern me what the Haydocks condescend to approve!" He was hurt. He hastily wrapped up the leprous fragment of fish; he gaped as she trailed out. She lamented, "I shouldn't have spoken so. He didn't mean anything. He doesn't know when he is being rude." Her repentance was not proof against Uncle Whittier when she stopped in at his grocery for salt and a package of safety matches. Uncle Whittier, in a shirt collarless and soaked with sweat in a brown streak down his back, was whining at a clerk, "Come on now, get a hustle on and lug that pound cake up to Mis' Cass's. Some folks in this town think a storekeeper ain't got nothing to do but chase out 'phone-orders. . . . Hello, Carrie. That dress you got on looks kind of low in the neck to me. May be decent and modest--I suppose I'm old-fashioned--but I never thought much of showing the whole town a woman's bust! Hee, hee, hee! . . . Afternoon, Mrs. Hicks. Sage? Just out of it. Lemme sell you some other spices. Heh?" Uncle Whittier was nasally indignant "CERTAINLY! Got PLENTY other spices jus' good as sage for any purp'se whatever! What's the matter with--well, with allspice?" When Mrs. Hicks had gone, he raged, "Some folks don't know what they want!" "Sweating sanctimonious bully--my husband's uncle!" thought Carol. She crept into Dave Dyer's. Dave held up his arms with, "Don't shoot! I surrender!" She smiled, but it occurred to her that for nearly five years Dave had kept up this game of pretending that she threatened his life. As she went dragging through the prickly-hot street she reflected that a citizen of Gopher Prairie does not have jests--he has a jest. Every cold morning for five winters Lyman Cass had remarked, "Fair to middlin' chilly--get worse before it gets better." Fifty times had Ezra Stowbody informed the public that Carol had once asked, "Shall I indorse this check on the back?" Fifty times had Sam Clark called to her, "Where'd you steal that hat?" Fifty times had the mention of Barney Cahoon, the town drayman, like a nickel in a slot produced from Kennicott the apocryphal story of Barney's directing a minister, "Come down to the depot and get your case of religious books--they're leaking!" She came home by the unvarying route. She knew every house-front, every street-crossing, every billboard, every tree, every dog. She knew every blackened banana-skin and empty cigarette-box in the gutters. She knew every greeting. When Jim Howland stopped and gaped at her there was no possibility that he was about to confide anything but his grudging, "Well, haryuh t'day?" All her future life, this same red-labeled bread-crate in front of the bakery, this same thimble-shaped crack in the sidewalk a quarter of a block beyond Stowbody's granite hitching-post---- She silently handed her purchases to the silent Oscarina. She sat on the porch, rocking, fanning, twitchy with Hugh's whining. Kennicott came home, grumbled, "What the devil is the kid yapping about?" "I guess you can stand it ten minutes if I can stand it all day!" He came to supper in his shirt sleeves, his vest partly open, revealing discolored suspenders. "Why don't you put on your nice Palm Beach suit, and take off that hideous vest?" she complained. "Too much trouble. Too hot to go up-stairs." She realized that for perhaps a year she had not definitely looked at her husband. She regarded his table-manners. He violently chased fragments of fish about his plate with a knife and licked the knife after gobbling them. She was slightly sick. She asserted, "I'm ridiculous. What do these things matter! Don't be so simple!" But she knew that to her they did matter, these solecisms and mixed tenses of the table. She realized that they found little to say; that, incredibly, they were like the talked-out couples whom she had pitied at restaurants. Bresnahan would have spouted in a lively, exciting, unreliable manner. She realized that Kennicott's clothes were seldom pressed. His coat was wrinkled; his trousers would flap at the knees when he arose. His shoes were unblacked, and they were of an elderly shapelessness. He refused to wear soft hats; cleaved to a hard derby, as a symbol of virility and prosperity; and sometimes he forgot to take it off in the house. She peeped at his cuffs. They were frayed in prickles of starched linen. She had turned them once; she clipped them every week; but when she had begged him to throw the shirt away, last Sunday morning at the crisis of the weekly bath, he had uneasily protested, "Oh, it'll wear quite a while yet." He was shaved (by himself or more socially by Del Snafflin) only three times a week. This morning had not been one of the three times. Yet he was vain of his new turn-down collars and sleek ties; he often spoke of the "sloppy dressing" of Dr. McGanum; and he laughed at old men who wore detachable cuffs or Gladstone collars. Carol did not care much for the creamed codfish that evening. She noted that his nails were jagged and ill-shaped from his habit of cutting them with a pocket-knife and despising a nail-file as effeminate and urban. That they were invariably clean, that his were the scoured fingers of the surgeon, made his stubborn untidiness the more jarring. They were wise hands, kind hands, but they were not the hands of love. She remembered him in the days of courtship. He had tried to please her, then, had touched her by sheepishly wearing a colored band on his straw hat. Was it possible that those days of fumbling for each other were gone so completely? He had read books, to impress her; had said (she recalled it ironically) that she was to point out his every fault; had insisted once, as they sat in the secret place beneath the walls of Fort Snelling---- She shut the door on her thoughts. That was sacred ground. But it WAS a shame that---- She nervously pushed away her cake and stewed apricots. After supper, when they had been driven in from the porch by mosquitos, when Kennicott had for the two-hundredth time in five years commented, "We must have a new screen on the porch--lets all the bugs in," they sat reading, and she noted, and detested herself for noting, and noted again his habitual awkwardness. He slumped down in one chair, his legs up on another, and he explored the recesses of his left ear with the end of his little finger--she could hear the faint smack--he kept it up--he kept it up---- He blurted, "Oh. Forgot tell you. Some of the fellows coming in to play poker this evening. Suppose we could have some crackers and cheese and beer?" She nodded. "He might have mentioned it before. Oh well, it's his house." The poker-party straggled in: Sam Clark, Jack Elder, Dave Dyer, Jim Howland. To her they mechanically said, "'Devenin'," but to Kennicott, in a heroic male manner, "Well, well, shall we start playing? Got a hunch I'm going to lick somebody real bad." No one suggested that she join them. She told herself that it was her own fault, because she was not more friendly; but she remembered that they never asked Mrs. Sam Clark to play. Bresnahan would have asked her. She sat in the living-room, glancing across the hall at the men as they humped over the dining table. They were in shirt sleeves; smoking, chewing, spitting incessantly; lowering their voices for a moment so that she did not hear what they said and afterward giggling hoarsely; using over and over the canonical phrases: "Three to dole," "I raise you a finif," "Come on now, ante up; what do you think this is, a pink tea?" The cigar-smoke was acrid and pervasive. The firmness with which the men mouthed their cigars made the lower part of their faces expressionless, heavy, unappealing. They were like politicians cynically dividing appointments. How could they understand her world? Did that faint and delicate world exist? Was she a fool? She doubted her world, doubted herself, and was sick in the acid, smoke-stained air. She slipped back into brooding upon the habituality of the house. Kennicott was as fixed in routine as an isolated old man. At first he had amorously deceived himself into liking her experiments with food--the one medium in which she could express imagination--but now he wanted only his round of favorite dishes: steak, roast beef, boiled pig's-feet, oatmeal, baked apples. Because at some more flexible period he had advanced from oranges to grape-fruit he considered himself an epicure. During their first autumn she had smiled over his affection for his hunting-coat, but now that the leather had come unstitched in dribbles of pale yellow thread, and tatters of canvas, smeared with dirt of the fields and grease from gun-cleaning, hung in a border of rags, she hated the thing. Wasn't her whole life like that hunting-coat? She knew every nick and brown spot on each piece of the set of china purchased by Kennicott's mother in 1895--discreet china with a pattern of washed-out forget-me-nots, rimmed with blurred gold: the gravy-boat, in a saucer which did not match, the solemn and evangelical covered vegetable-dishes, the two platters. Twenty times had Kennicott sighed over the fact that Bea had broken the other platter--the medium-sized one. The kitchen. Damp black iron sink, damp whitey-yellow drain-board with shreds of discolored wood which from long scrubbing were as soft as cotton thread, warped table, alarm clock, stove bravely blackened by Oscarina but an abomination in its loose doors and broken drafts and oven that never would keep an even heat. Carol had done her best by the kitchen: painted it white, put up curtains, replaced a six-year-old calendar by a color print. She had hoped for tiling, and a kerosene range for summer cooking, but Kennicott always postponed these expenses. She was better acquainted with the utensils in the kitchen than with Vida Sherwin or Guy Pollock. The can-opener, whose soft gray metal handle was twisted from some ancient effort to pry open a window, was more pertinent to her than all the cathedrals in Europe; and more significant than the future of Asia was the never-settled weekly question as to whether the small kitchen knife with the unpainted handle or the second-best buckhorn carving-knife was better for cutting up cold chicken for Sunday supper. II She was ignored by the males till midnight. Her husband called, "Suppose we could have some eats, Carrie?" As she passed through the dining-room the men smiled on her, belly-smiles. None of them noticed her while she was serving the crackers and cheese and sardines and beer. They were determining the exact psychology of Dave Dyer in standing pat, two hours before. When they were gone she said to Kennicott, "Your friends have the manners of a barroom. They expect me to wait on them like a servant. They're not so much interested in me as they would be in a waiter, because they don't have to tip me. Unfortunately! Well, good night." So rarely did she nag in this petty, hot-weather fashion that he was astonished rather than angry. "Hey! Wait! What's the idea? I must say I don't get you. The boys----Barroom? Why, Perce Bresnahan was saying there isn't a finer bunch of royal good fellows anywhere than just the crowd that were here tonight!" They stood in the lower hall. He was too shocked to go on with his duties of locking the front door and winding his watch and the clock. "Bresnahan! I'm sick of him!" She meant nothing in particular. "Why, Carrie, he's one of the biggest men in the country! Boston just eats out of his hand!" "I wonder if it does? How do we know but that in Boston, among well-bred people, he may be regarded as an absolute lout? The way he calls women 'Sister,' and the way----" "Now look here! That'll do! Of course I know you don't mean it--you're simply hot and tired, and trying to work off your peeve on me. But just the same, I won't stand your jumping on Perce. You----It's just like your attitude toward the war--so darn afraid that America will become militaristic----" "But you are the pure patriot!" "By God, I am!" "Yes, I heard you talking to Sam Clark tonight about ways of avoiding the income tax!" He had recovered enough to lock the door; he clumped up-stairs ahead of her, growling, "You don't know what you're talking about. I'm perfectly willing to pay my full tax--fact, I'm in favor of the income tax--even though I do think it's a penalty on frugality and enterprise--fact, it's an unjust, darn-fool tax. But just the same, I'll pay it. Only, I'm not idiot enough to pay more than the government makes me pay, and Sam and I were just figuring out whether all automobile expenses oughn't to be exemptions. I'll take a lot off you, Carrie, but I don't propose for one second to stand your saying I'm not patriotic. You know mighty well and good that I've tried to get away and join the army. And at the beginning of the whole fracas I said--I've said right along--that we ought to have entered the war the minute Germany invaded Belgium. You don't get me at all. You can't appreciate a man's work. You're abnormal. You've fussed so much with these fool novels and books and all this highbrow junk----You like to argue!" It ended, a quarter of an hour later, in his calling her a "neurotic" before he turned away and pretended to sleep. For the first time they had failed to make peace. "There are two races of people, only two, and they live side by side. His calls mine 'neurotic'; mine calls his 'stupid.' We'll never understand each other, never; and it's madness for us to debate--to lie together in a hot bed in a creepy room--enemies, yoked." III It clarified in her the longing for a place of her own. "While it's so hot, I think I'll sleep in the spare room," she said next day. "Not a bad idea." He was cheerful and kindly. The room was filled with a lumbering double bed and a cheap pine bureau. She stored the bed in the attic; replaced it by a cot which, with a denim cover, made a couch by day; put in a dressing-table, a rocker transformed by a cretonne cover; had Miles Bjornstam build book-shelves. Kennicott slowly understood that she meant to keep up her seclusion. In his queries, "Changing the whole room?" "Putting your books in there?" she caught his dismay. But it was so easy, once her door was closed, to shut out his worry. That hurt her--the ease of forgetting him. Aunt Bessie Smail sleuthed out this anarchy. She yammered, "Why, Carrie, you ain't going to sleep all alone by yourself? I don't believe in that. Married folks should have the same room, of course! Don't go getting silly notions. No telling what a thing like that might lead to. Suppose I up and told your Uncle Whit that I wanted a room of my own!" Carol spoke of recipes for corn-pudding. But from Mrs. Dr. Westlake she drew encouragement. She had made an afternoon call on Mrs. Westlake. She was for the first time invited up-stairs, and found the suave old woman sewing in a white and mahogany room with a small bed. "Oh, do you have your own royal apartments, and the doctor his?" Carol hinted. "Indeed I do! The doctor says it's bad enough to have to stand my temper at meals. Do----" Mrs. Westlake looked at her sharply. "Why, don't you do the same thing?" "I've been thinking about it." Carol laughed in an embarrassed way. "Then you wouldn't regard me as a complete hussy if I wanted to be by myself now and then?" "Why, child, every woman ought to get off by herself and turn over her thoughts--about children, and God, and how bad her complexion is, and the way men don't really understand her, and how much work she finds to do in the house, and how much patience it takes to endure some things in a man's love." "Yes!" Carol said it in a gasp, her hands twisted together. She wanted to confess not only her hatred for the Aunt Bessies but her covert irritation toward those she best loved: her alienation from Kennicott, her disappointment in Guy Pollock, her uneasiness in the presence of Vida. She had enough self-control to confine herself to, "Yes. Men! The dear blundering souls, we do have to get off and laugh at them." "Of course we do. Not that you have to laugh at Dr. Kennicott so much, but MY man, heavens, now there's a rare old bird! Reading story-books when he ought to be tending to business! 'Marcus Westlake,' I say to him, 'you're a romantic old fool.' And does he get angry? He does not! He chuckles and says, 'Yes, my beloved, folks do say that married people grow to resemble each other!' Drat him!" Mrs. Westlake laughed comfortably. After such a disclosure what could Carol do but return the courtesy by remarking that as for Kennicott, he wasn't romantic enough--the darling. Before she left she had babbled to Mrs. Westlake her dislike for Aunt Bessie, the fact that Kennicott's income was now more than five thousand a year, her view of the reason why Vida had married Raymie (which included some thoroughly insincere praise of Raymie's "kind heart"), her opinion of the library-board, just what Kennicott had said about Mrs. Carthal's diabetes, and what Kennicott thought of the several surgeons in the Cities. She went home soothed by confession, inspirited by finding a new friend. IV The tragicomedy of the "domestic situation." Oscarina went back home to help on the farm, and Carol had a succession of maids, with gaps between. The lack of servants was becoming one of the most cramping problems of the prairie town. Increasingly the farmers' daughters rebelled against village dullness, and against the unchanged attitude of the Juanitas toward "hired girls." They went off to city kitchens, or to city shops and factories, that they might be free and even human after hours. The Jolly Seventeen were delighted at Carol's desertion by the loyal Oscarina. They reminded her that she had said, "I don't have any trouble with maids; see how Oscarina stays on." Between incumbencies of Finn maids from the North Woods, Germans from the prairies, occasional Swedes and Norwegians and Icelanders, Carol did her own work--and endured Aunt Bessie's skittering in to tell her how to dampen a broom for fluffy dust, how to sugar doughnuts, how to stuff a goose. Carol was deft, and won shy praise from Kennicott, but as her shoulder blades began to sting, she wondered how many millions of women had lied to themselves during the death-rimmed years through which they had pretended to enjoy the puerile methods persisting in housework. She doubted the convenience and, as a natural sequent, the sanctity of the monogamous and separate home which she had regarded as the basis of all decent life. She considered her doubts vicious. She refused to remember how many of the women of the Jolly Seventeen nagged their husbands and were nagged by them. She energetically did not whine to Kennicott. But her eyes ached; she was not the girl in breeches and a flannel shirt who had cooked over a camp-fire in the Colorado mountains five years ago. Her ambition was to get to bed at nine; her strongest emotion was resentment over rising at half-past six to care for Hugh. The back of her neck ached as she got out of bed. She was cynical about the joys of a simple laborious life. She understood why workmen and workmen's wives are not grateful to their kind employers. At mid-morning, when she was momentarily free from the ache in her neck and back, she was glad of the reality of work. The hours were living and nimble. But she had no desire to read the eloquent little newspaper essays in praise of labor which are daily written by the white-browed journalistic prophets. She felt independent and (though she hid it) a bit surly. In cleaning the house she pondered upon the maid's-room. It was a slant-roofed, small-windowed hole above the kitchen, oppressive in summer, frigid in winter. She saw that while she had been considering herself an unusually good mistress, she had been permitting her friends Bea and Oscarina to live in a sty. She complained to Kennicott. "What's the matter with it?" he growled, as they stood on the perilous stairs dodging up from the kitchen. She commented upon the sloping roof of unplastered boards stained in brown rings by the rain, the uneven floor, the cot and its tumbled discouraged-looking quilts, the broken rocker, the distorting mirror. "Maybe it ain't any Hotel Radisson parlor, but still, it's so much better than anything these hired girls are accustomed to at home that they think it's fine. Seems foolish to spend money when they wouldn't appreciate it." But that night he drawled, with the casualness of a man who wishes to be surprising and delightful, "Carrie, don't know but what we might begin to think about building a new house, one of these days. How'd you like that?" "W-why----" "I'm getting to the point now where I feel we can afford one--and a corker! I'll show this burg something like a real house! We'll put one over on Sam and Harry! Make folks sit up an' take notice!" "Yes," she said. He did not go on. Daily he returned to the subject of the new house, but as to time and mode he was indefinite. At first she believed. She babbled of a low stone house with lattice windows and tulip-beds, of colonial brick, of a white frame cottage with green shutters and dormer windows. To her enthusiasms he answered, "Well, ye-es, might be worth thinking about. Remember where I put my pipe?" When she pressed him he fidgeted, "I don't know; seems to me those kind of houses you speak of have been overdone." It proved that what he wanted was a house exactly like Sam Clark's, which was exactly like every third new house in every town in the country: a square, yellow stolidity with immaculate clapboards, a broad screened porch, tidy grass-plots, and concrete walks; a house resembling the mind of a merchant who votes the party ticket straight and goes to church once a month and owns a good car. He admitted, "Well, yes, maybe it isn't so darn artistic but----Matter of fact, though, I don't want a place just like Sam's. Maybe I would cut off that fool tower he's got, and I think probably it would look better painted a nice cream color. That yellow on Sam's house is too kind of flashy. Then there's another kind of house that's mighty nice and substantial-looking, with shingles, in a nice brown stain, instead of clapboards--seen some in Minneapolis. You're way off your base when you say I only like one kind of house!" Uncle Whittier and Aunt Bessie came in one evening when Carol was sleepily advocating a rose-garden cottage. "You've had a lot of experience with housekeeping, aunty, and don't you think," Kennicott appealed, "that it would be sensible to have a nice square house, and pay more attention to getting a crackajack furnace than to all this architecture and doodads?" Aunt Bessie worked her lips as though they were an elastic band. "Why of course! I know how it is with young folks like you, Carrie; you want towers and bay-windows and pianos and heaven knows what all, but the thing to get is closets and a good furnace and a handy place to hang out the washing, and the rest don't matter." Uncle Whittier dribbled a little, put his face near to Carol's, and sputtered, "Course it don't! What d'you care what folks think about the outside of your house? It's the inside you're living in. None of my business, but I must say you young folks that'd rather have cakes than potatoes get me riled." She reached her room before she became savage. Below, dreadfully near, she could hear the broom-swish of Aunt Bessie's voice, and the mop-pounding of Uncle Whittier's grumble. She had a reasonless dread that they would intrude on her, then a fear that she would yield to Gopher Prairie's conception of duty toward an Aunt Bessie and go down-stairs to be "nice." She felt the demand for standardized behavior coming in waves from all the citizens who sat in their sitting-rooms watching her with respectable eyes, waiting, demanding, unyielding. She snarled, "Oh, all right, I'll go!" She powdered her nose, straightened her collar, and coldly marched down-stairs. The three elders ignored her. They had advanced from the new house to agreeable general fussing. Aunt Bessie was saying, in a tone like the munching of dry toast: "I do think Mr. Stowbody ought to have had the rain-pipe fixed at our store right away. I went to see him on Tuesday morning before ten, no, it was couple minutes after ten, but anyway, it was long before noon--I know because I went right from the bank to the meat market to get some steak--my! I think it's outrageous, the prices Oleson & McGuire charge for their meat, and it isn't as if they gave you a good cut either but just any old thing, and I had time to get it, and I stopped in at Mrs. Bogart's to ask about her rheumatism----" Carol was watching Uncle Whittier. She knew from his taut expression that he was not listening to Aunt Bessie but herding his own thoughts, and that he would interrupt her bluntly. He did: "Will, where c'n I get an extra pair of pants for this coat and vest? D' want to pay too much." "Well, guess Nat Hicks could make you up a pair. But if I were you, I'd drop into Ike Rifkin's--his prices are lower than the Bon Ton's." "Humph. Got the new stove in your office yet?" "No, been looking at some at Sam Clark's but----" "Well, y' ought get 't in. Don't do to put off getting a stove all summer, and then have it come cold on you in the fall." Carol smiled upon them ingratiatingly. "Do you dears mind if I slip up to bed? I'm rather tired--cleaned the upstairs today." She retreated. She was certain that they were discussing her, and foully forgiving her. She lay awake till she heard the distant creak of a bed which indicated that Kennicott had retired. Then she felt safe. It was Kennicott who brought up the matter of the Smails at breakfast. With no visible connection he said, "Uncle Whit is kind of clumsy, but just the same, he's a pretty wise old coot. He's certainly making good with the store." Carol smiled, and Kennicott was pleased that she had come to her senses. "As Whit says, after all the first thing is to have the inside of a house right, and darn the people on the outside looking in!" It seemed settled that the house was to be a sound example of the Sam Clark school. Kennicott made much of erecting it entirely for her and the baby. He spoke of closets for her frocks, and "a comfy sewing-room." But when he drew on a leaf from an old account-book (he was a paper-saver and a string-picker) the plans for the garage, he gave much more attention to a cement floor and a work-bench and a gasoline-tank than he had to sewing-rooms. She sat back and was afraid. In the present rookery there were odd things--a step up from the hall to the dining-room, a picturesqueness in the shed and bedraggled lilac bush. But the new place would be smooth, standardized, fixed. It was probable, now that Kennicott was past forty, and settled, that this would be the last venture he would ever make in building. So long as she stayed in this ark, she would always have a possibility of change, but once she was in the new house, there she would sit for all the rest of her life--there she would die. Desperately she wanted to put it off, against the chance of miracles. While Kennicott was chattering about a patent swing-door for the garage she saw the swing-doors of a prison. She never voluntarily returned to the project. Aggrieved, Kennicott stopped drawing plans, and in ten days the new house was forgotten. V Every year since their marriage Carol had longed for a trip through the East. Every year Kennicott had talked of attending the American Medical Association convention, "and then afterwards we could do the East up brown. I know New York clean through--spent pretty near a week there--but I would like to see New England and all these historic places and have some sea-food." He talked of it from February to May, and in May he invariably decided that coming confinement-cases or land-deals would prevent his "getting away from home-base for very long THIS year--and no sense going till we can do it right." The weariness of dish-washing had increased her desire to go. She pictured herself looking at Emerson's manse, bathing in a surf of jade and ivory, wearing a trottoir and a summer fur, meeting an aristocratic Stranger. In the spring Kennicott had pathetically volunteered, "S'pose you'd like to get in a good long tour this summer, but with Gould and Mac away and so many patients depending on me, don't see how I can make it. By golly, I feel like a tightwad though, not taking you." Through all this restless July after she had tasted Bresnahan's disturbing flavor of travel and gaiety, she wanted to go, but she said nothing. They spoke of and postponed a trip to the Twin Cities. When she suggested, as though it were a tremendous joke, "I think baby and I might up and leave you, and run off to Cape Cod by ourselves!" his only reaction was "Golly, don't know but what you may almost have to do that, if we don't get in a trip next year." Toward the end of July he proposed, "Say, the Beavers are holding a convention in Joralemon, street fair and everything. We might go down tomorrow. And I'd like to see Dr. Calibree about some business. Put in the whole day. Might help some to make up for our trip. Fine fellow, Dr. Calibree." Joralemon was a prairie town of the size of Gopher Prairie. Their motor was out of order, and there was no passenger-train at an early hour. They went down by freight-train, after the weighty and conversational business of leaving Hugh with Aunt Bessie. Carol was exultant over this irregular jaunting. It was the first unusual thing, except the glance of Bresnahan, that had happened since the weaning of Hugh. They rode in the caboose, the small red cupola-topped car jerked along at the end of the train. It was a roving shanty, the cabin of a land schooner, with black oilcloth seats along the side, and for desk, a pine board to be let down on hinges. Kennicott played seven-up with the conductor and two brakemen. Carol liked the blue silk kerchiefs about the brakemen's throats; she liked their welcome to her, and their air of friendly independence. Since there were no sweating passengers crammed in beside her, she reveled in the train's slowness. She was part of these lakes and tawny wheat-fields. She liked the smell of hot earth and clean grease; and the leisurely chug-a-chug, chug-a-chug of the trucks was a song of contentment in the sun. She pretended that she was going to the Rockies. When they reached Joralemon she was radiant with holiday-making. Her eagerness began to lessen the moment they stopped at a red frame station exactly like the one they had just left at Gopher Prairie, and Kennicott yawned, "Right on time. Just in time for dinner at the Calibrees'. I 'phoned the doctor from G. P. that we'd be here. 'We'll catch the freight that gets in before twelve,' I told him. He said he'd meet us at the depot and take us right up to the house for dinner. Calibree is a good man, and you'll find his wife is a mighty brainy little woman, bright as a dollar. By golly, there he is." Dr. Calibree was a squat, clean-shaven, conscientious-looking man of forty. He was curiously like his own brown-painted motor car, with eye-glasses for windshield. "Want you to meet my wife, doctor--Carrie, make you 'quainted with Dr. Calibree," said Kennicott. Calibree bowed quietly and shook her hand, but before he had finished shaking it he was concentrating upon Kennicott with, "Nice to see you, doctor. Say, don't let me forget to ask you about what you did in that exopthalmic goiter case--that Bohemian woman at Wahkeenyan." The two men, on the front seat of the car, chanted goiters and ignored her. She did not know it. She was trying to feed her illusion of adventure by staring at unfamiliar houses . . . drab cottages, artificial stone bungalows, square painty stolidities with immaculate clapboards and broad screened porches and tidy grass-plots. Calibree handed her over to his wife, a thick woman who called her "dearie," and asked if she was hot and, visibly searching for conversation, produced, "Let's see, you and the doctor have a Little One, haven't you?" At dinner Mrs. Calibree served the corned beef and cabbage and looked steamy, looked like the steamy leaves of cabbage. The men were oblivious of their wives as they gave the social passwords of Main Street, the orthodox opinions on weather, crops, and motor cars, then flung away restraint and gyrated in the debauch of shop-talk. Stroking his chin, drawling in the ecstasy of being erudite, Kennicott inquired, "Say, doctor, what success have you had with thyroid for treatment of pains in the legs before child-birth?" Carol did not resent their assumption that she was too ignorant to be admitted to masculine mysteries. She was used to it. But the cabbage and Mrs. Calibree's monotonous "I don't know what we're coming to with all this difficulty getting hired girls" were gumming her eyes with drowsiness. She sought to clear them by appealing to Calibree, in a manner of exaggerated liveliness, "Doctor, have the medical societies in Minnesota ever advocated legislation for help to nursing mothers?" Calibree slowly revolved toward her. "Uh--I've never--uh--never looked into it. I don't believe much in getting mixed up in politics." He turned squarely from her and, peering earnestly at Kennicott, resumed, "Doctor, what's been your experience with unilateral pyelonephritis? Buckburn of Baltimore advocates decapsulation and nephrotomy, but seems to me----" Not till after two did they rise. In the lee of the stonily mature trio Carol proceeded to the street fair which added mundane gaiety to the annual rites of the United and Fraternal Order of Beavers. Beavers, human Beavers, were everywhere: thirty-second degree Beavers in gray sack suits and decent derbies, more flippant Beavers in crash summer coats and straw hats, rustic Beavers in shirt sleeves and frayed suspenders; but whatever his caste-symbols, every Beaver was distinguished by an enormous shrimp-colored ribbon lettered in silver, "Sir Knight and Brother, U. F. O. B., Annual State Convention." On the motherly shirtwaist of each of their wives was a badge "Sir Knight's Lady." The Duluth delegation had brought their famous Beaver amateur band, in Zouave costumes of green velvet jacket, blue trousers, and scarlet fez. The strange thing was that beneath their scarlet pride the Zouaves' faces remained those of American business-men, pink, smooth, eye-glassed; and as they stood playing in a circle, at the corner of Main Street and Second, as they tootled on fifes or with swelling cheeks blew into cornets, their eyes remained as owlish as though they were sitting at desks under the sign "This Is My Busy Day." Carol had supposed that the Beavers were average citizens organized for the purposes of getting cheap life-insurance and playing poker at the lodge-rooms every second Wednesday, but she saw a large poster which proclaimed: BEAVERS U. F. O. B. The greatest influence for good citizenship in the country. The jolliest aggregation of red-blooded, open-handed, hustle-em-up good fellows in the world. Joralemon welcomes you to her hospitable city. Kennicott read the poster and to Calibree admired, "Strong lodge, the Beavers. Never joined. Don't know but what I will." Calibree adumbrated, "They're a good bunch. Good strong lodge. See that fellow there that's playing the snare drum? He's the smartest wholesale grocer in Duluth, they say. Guess it would be worth joining. Oh say, are you doing much insurance examining?" They went on to the street fair. Lining one block of Main Street were the "attractions"--two hot-dog stands, a lemonade and pop-corn stand, a merry-go-round, and booths in which balls might be thrown at rag dolls, if one wished to throw balls at rag dolls. The dignified delegates were shy of the booths, but country boys with brickred necks and pale-blue ties and bright-yellow shoes, who had brought sweethearts into town in somewhat dusty and listed Fords, were wolfing sandwiches, drinking strawberry pop out of bottles, and riding the revolving crimson and gold horses. They shrieked and giggled; peanut-roasters whistled; the merry-go-round pounded out monotonous music; the barkers bawled, "Here's your chance--here's your chance--come on here, boy--come on here--give that girl a good time--give her a swell time--here's your chance to win a genuwine gold watch for five cents, half a dime, the twentieth part of a dollah!" The prairie sun jabbed the unshaded street with shafts that were like poisonous thorns the tinny cornices above the brick stores were glaring; the dull breeze scattered dust on sweaty Beavers who crawled along in tight scorching new shoes, up two blocks and back, up two blocks and back, wondering what to do next, working at having a good time. Carol's head ached as she trailed behind the unsmiling Calibrees along the block of booths. She chirruped at Kennicott, "Let's be wild! Let's ride on the merry-go-round and grab a gold ring!" Kennicott considered it, and mumbled to Calibree, "Think you folks would like to stop and try a ride on the merry-go-round?" Calibree considered it, and mumbled to his wife, "Think you'd like to stop and try a ride on the merry-go-round?" Frau Calibree lächelte in ausgewaschener Weise und seufzte: "Oh nein, ich glaube nicht, dass es mich großartig interessiert, aber ihr könnt es ruhig versuchen." Calibree sagte zu Kennicott: "Nein, ich glaube nicht, dass es uns sehr interessiert, aber ihr könnt es ruhig versuchen." Kennicott fasste den gesamten Fall gegen Wildheit zusammen: "Lass es uns ein anderes Mal versuchen, Carrie." Sie gab auf. Sie schaute auf die Stadt. Sie sah, dass sie beim Abenteuer von Main Street, Gopher Prairie, nach Main Street, Joralemon, sich nicht bewegt hatte. Es gab dieselben zweistöckigen Ziegelgeschäfte mit Schildern über den Markisen; denselben einstöckigen hölzernen Hutladen; dieselben feuerfesten Garagen; dieselbe Prärie am offenen Ende der breiten Straße; dieselben Menschen, die sich fragten, ob die Leichtigkeit, einen Hotdog-Sandwich zu essen, ihre Tabus brechen würde. Sie erreichten Gopher Prairie um neun Uhr abends. "Du siehst ein bisschen heiß aus", sagte Kennicott. "Ja." "Joralemon ist eine unternehmungslustige Stadt, findest du nicht?" Sie brach ab. "Nein! Ich finde es ist ein Aschehaufen." "Warum, Carrie!" Er machte sich eine Woche lang Sorgen darüber. Während er energisch die Bacon-Stückchen auf seinem Teller zerdrückte, spähte er zu ihr hinüber. Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Carol wird immer kritischer gegenüber Kennicott - besonders nach Bresnahans Besuch. Sie stellt fest, dass er sich nicht sehr gut kleidet. Sie beobachtet seine Manieren. Ihr wird bewusst, dass er sehr kindisch ist und dass sie ihn so führen muss wie Hugh. Er ist sehr unansehnlich und sehr zuverlässig. Obwohl die Tage sehr heiß sind, können sie nicht zur Seehütte fahren, weil die anderen Ärzte weg sind. Die unerträgliche Hitze macht jeden sehr gereizt. Sie schnappt nach dem Angestellten, der Vorschläge macht. Sie ärgert sich über Onkel Whittiers Kommentare und lacht nicht über Dave Dyers clowneske Tricks. Sie hört müde auf Sams Kommentare über ihren Hut und Kennicotts Geschichte über den Pastor. Sie schnappt Kennicott an, als er wissen will, warum Hugh weint. Sie findet ihn schlampig gekleidet und seine Tischmanieren sehr ungehobelt. Er hat sich drei Tage lang nicht rasiert und seine Nägel sind schlecht geformt. Sie erinnert sich daran, wie er versucht hat, sie während ihrer Freier- oder Kennenlernzeit zu beeindrucken. Er informiert sie beiläufig darüber, dass seine Freunde vorbeikommen, um Poker zu spielen, und er würde gerne Snacks für sie bekommen. Sam Clark, Dave Dyer, Jack Elder und Howland kommen zum Spielen. Sie schließen Carol nicht einmal in ihre Unterhaltung ein. Sie ärgert sich darüber, dass sie als selbstverständlich betrachtet wird. Nachdem sie weg sind, sagt sie Kennicott, dass seine Freunde Manieren haben, die eher in eine Bar als zu ihnen passen. Kennicott protestiert, dass selbst Bresnahan sie für die besten Leute gehalten habe. Sie erwidert, dass sie es satt hat, von Bresnahan zu hören. Kennicott sagt ihr, dass sie befürchtete, dass Amerika militaristisch werden würde. Sie verspottet seinen Patriotismus, weil sie ihn gehört hat, wie er darüber sprach, wie man Steuern vermeiden kann. Kennicott fühlt sich verletzt, dass sie seinen Patriotismus anzweifelt. Er merkt an, dass er seine Steuern gerne zahlt, aber nicht mehr bezahlen will, als er muss. Er nennt sie eine Neurotikerin. Sie schaffen es nicht, ihren Streit beizulegen. Sie beschließt, ein eigenes Zimmer zu haben, und Kennicott sagt, dass es keine schlechte Idee wäre. Sie räumt ein Ersatzzimmer auf und richtet es mit einem Feldbett, einem Schminktisch und einem Bücherregal ein. Kennicott fühlt sich unglücklich über Carols Entscheidung und Carol fühlt sich traurig, dass sie vergessen könnte, Kennicott nur durch das Schließen der Tür. Tante Bessie erzählt ihr, dass verheiratete Leute zusammen schlafen sollten. Aber Mrs. Westlake erzählt ihr, dass Ehefrauen ihren eigenen Raum brauchen und Carol glücklich über ihre Entscheidung ist. Mrs. Westlake erzählt ihr, dass sie ihrem Mann gesagt hat, dass er ein romantischer Narr sei. Carol bemerkt, dass Kennicott nicht romantisch genug ist. Sie erzählt Mrs. Westlake auch ihre Meinung über Vida und Tante Bessie. Oscarina verlässt die Kennicotts, um auf die Farm zurückzugehen. Dienstmädchen kommen und gehen, und Carol ist meistens gezwungen, die meiste Arbeit selbst zu erledigen. Carol muss sich den Sticheleien der Mitglieder der Jolly Seventeen aussetzen. Tante Bessie gibt ihr ständig Anweisungen zum Hausputz, und Carol fühlt sich erschöpft. Sie geht während des Saubermachens des Hauses ins Zimmer der Dienstmädchen. Sie findet es beschämend. Es befindet sich über der Küche und ist schlecht belüftet. Die Heizung ist schlecht, und die Einrichtung ist sehr heruntergekommen. Sie schämt sich, dass sie Bea und Oscarina erlaubt hat, in einer solchen Bruchbude zu leben. Kennicott behauptet, dass es viel besser war als die Häuser, in denen sie auf ihren eigenen Farmen lebten. Kennicott beschließt, dass sie ihr neues Haus bauen sollen. Carol ist entsetzt zu erfahren, dass sein Traumhaus wie Sams Haus aussieht. Als sie Vorschläge macht, lacht er sie aus. Er lädt Uncle Whittiers und Tante Bessies Kommentare über Carols Vorschläge ein. Die genervte Carol marschiert in ihr Zimmer. Sie bereut ihre Unhöflichkeit und kehrt nach einer Weile zurück. Sie beobachtet, wie Uncle Whittier Tante Bessie unterbricht, um mit Kennicott zu sprechen, entschuldigt sich und zieht sich in ihr Schlafzimmer zurück. Sie befürchtet, dass, wenn Kennicott das Haus nach seinem Plan bauen würde, ihr einziges letztes Refugium, der Traum von einem schönen Haus, ihr genommen würde. Sie sehnt sich nach einem Urlaub. Aber Kennicott kann wegen seiner Arbeit nicht weg. Im Juli bietet er ihr jedoch an, sie mit nach Joralemon, einer Nachbarstadt auf der Prärie, zu nehmen. Er hat dort einige Arbeit mit Dr. Calibre, und die Biber veranstalten dort zusammen mit einer Straßenmesse eine Convention. Sie lassen Hugh bei Tante Bessie und fahren mit einem Güterzug. Carol genießt die Zugfahrt. Joralemon entpuppt sich als ein weiteres Gopher Prairie, und Dr. Calibre ignoriert sie völlig. Mrs. Calibre ist keine sehr fröhliche Gesellschaft. Sie muss sich sogar eine Fahrt auf dem Karussell verwehren. Sie kehren am selben Abend nach Hause zurück. Kennicott nennt Joralemon eine unternehmungslustige Stadt, und Carol nennt sie einen Ameisenhaufen.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). 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 addition to what has been already said of Catherine Morland's personal and mental endowments, when about to be launched into all the difficulties and dangers of a six weeks' residence in Bath, it may be stated, for the reader's more certain information, lest the following pages should otherwise fail of giving any idea of what her character is meant to be, that her heart was affectionate; her disposition cheerful and open, without conceit or affectation of any kind--her manners just removed from the awkwardness and shyness of a girl; her person pleasing, and, when in good looks, pretty--and her mind about as ignorant and uninformed as the female mind at seventeen usually is. When the hour of departure drew near, the maternal anxiety of Mrs. Morland will be naturally supposed to be most severe. A thousand alarming presentiments of evil to her beloved Catherine from this terrific separation must oppress her heart with sadness, and drown her in tears for the last day or two of their being together; and advice of the most important and applicable nature must of course flow from her wise lips in their parting conference in her closet. Cautions against the violence of such noblemen and baronets as delight in forcing young ladies away to some remote farm-house, must, at such a moment, relieve the fulness of her heart. Who would not think so? But Mrs. Morland knew so little of lords and baronets, that she entertained no notion of their general mischievousness, and was wholly unsuspicious of danger to her daughter from their machinations. Her cautions were confined to the following points. "I beg, Catherine, you will always wrap yourself up very warm about the throat, when you come from the rooms at night; and I wish you would try to keep some account of the money you spend; I will give you this little book on purpose." Sally, or rather Sarah (for what young lady of common gentility will reach the age of sixteen without altering her name as far as she can?), must from situation be at this time the intimate friend and confidante of her sister. It is remarkable, however, that she neither insisted on Catherine's writing by every post, nor exacted her promise of transmitting the character of every new acquaintance, nor a detail of every interesting conversation that Bath might produce. Everything indeed relative to this important journey was done, on the part of the Morlands, with a degree of moderation and composure, which seemed rather consistent with the common feelings of common life, than with the refined susceptibilities, the tender emotions which the first separation of a heroine from her family ought always to excite. Her father, instead of giving her an unlimited order on his banker, or even putting an hundred pounds bank-bill into her hands, gave her only ten guineas, and promised her more when she wanted it. Under these unpromising auspices, the parting took place, and the journey began. It was performed with suitable quietness and uneventful safety. Neither robbers nor tempests befriended them, nor one lucky overturn to introduce them to the hero. Nothing more alarming occurred than a fear, on Mrs. Allen's side, of having once left her clogs behind her at an inn, and that fortunately proved to be groundless. They arrived at Bath. Catherine was all eager delight--her eyes were here, there, everywhere, as they approached its fine and striking environs, and afterwards drove through those streets which conducted them to the hotel. She was come to be happy, and she felt happy already. They were soon settled in comfortable lodgings in Pulteney Street. It is now expedient to give some description of Mrs. Allen, that the reader may be able to judge in what manner her actions will hereafter tend to promote the general distress of the work, and how she will, probably, contribute to reduce poor Catherine to all the desperate wretchedness of which a last volume is capable--whether by her imprudence, vulgarity, or jealousy--whether by intercepting her letters, ruining her character, or turning her out of doors. Mrs. Allen was one of that numerous class of females, whose society can raise no other emotion than surprise at there being any men in the world who could like them well enough to marry them. She had neither beauty, genius, accomplishment, nor manner. The air of a gentlewoman, a great deal of quiet, inactive good temper, and a trifling turn of mind were all that could account for her being the choice of a sensible, intelligent man like Mr. Allen. In one respect she was admirably fitted to introduce a young lady into public, being as fond of going everywhere and seeing everything herself as any young lady could be. Dress was her passion. She had a most harmless delight in being fine; and our heroine's entree into life could not take place till after three or four days had been spent in learning what was mostly worn, and her chaperone was provided with a dress of the newest fashion. Catherine too made some purchases herself, and when all these matters were arranged, the important evening came which was to usher her into the Upper Rooms. Her hair was cut and dressed by the best hand, her clothes put on with care, and both Mrs. Allen and her maid declared she looked quite as she should do. With such encouragement, Catherine hoped at least to pass uncensured through the crowd. As for admiration, it was always very welcome when it came, but she did not depend on it. Mrs. Allen was so long in dressing that they did not enter the ballroom till late. The season was full, the room crowded, and the two ladies squeezed in as well as they could. As for Mr. Allen, he repaired directly to the card-room, and left them to enjoy a mob by themselves. With more care for the safety of her new gown than for the comfort of her protegee, Mrs. Allen made her way through the throng of men by the door, as swiftly as the necessary caution would allow; Catherine, however, kept close at her side, and linked her arm too firmly within her friend's to be torn asunder by any common effort of a struggling assembly. But to her utter amazement she found that to proceed along the room was by no means the way to disengage themselves from the crowd; it seemed rather to increase as they went on, whereas she had imagined that when once fairly within the door, they should easily find seats and be able to watch the dances with perfect convenience. But this was far from being the case, and though by unwearied diligence they gained even the top of the room, their situation was just the same; they saw nothing of the dancers but the high feathers of some of the ladies. Still they moved on--something better was yet in view; and by a continued exertion of strength and ingenuity they found themselves at last in the passage behind the highest bench. Here there was something less of crowd than below; and hence Miss Morland had a comprehensive view of all the company beneath her, and of all the dangers of her late passage through them. It was a splendid sight, and she began, for the first time that evening, to feel herself at a ball: she longed to dance, but she had not an acquaintance in the room. Mrs. Allen did all that she could do in such a case by saying very placidly, every now and then, "I wish you could dance, my dear--I wish you could get a partner." For some time her young friend felt obliged to her for these wishes; but they were repeated so often, and proved so totally ineffectual, that Catherine grew tired at last, and would thank her no more. They were not long able, however, to enjoy the repose of the eminence they had so laboriously gained. Everybody was shortly in motion for tea, and they must squeeze out like the rest. Catherine began to feel something of disappointment--she was tired of being continually pressed against by people, the generality of whose faces possessed nothing to interest, and with all of whom she was so wholly unacquainted that she could not relieve the irksomeness of imprisonment by the exchange of a syllable with any of her fellow captives; and when at last arrived in the tea-room, she felt yet more the awkwardness of having no party to join, no acquaintance to claim, no gentleman to assist them. They saw nothing of Mr. Allen; and after looking about them in vain for a more eligible situation, were obliged to sit down at the end of a table, at which a large party were already placed, without having anything to do there, or anybody to speak to, except each other. Mrs. Allen congratulated herself, as soon as they were seated, on having preserved her gown from injury. "It would have been very shocking to have it torn," said she, "would not it? It is such a delicate muslin. For my part I have not seen anything I like so well in the whole room, I assure you." "How uncomfortable it is," whispered Catherine, "not to have a single acquaintance here!" "Yes, my dear," replied Mrs. Allen, with perfect serenity, "it is very uncomfortable indeed." "What shall we do? The gentlemen and ladies at this table look as if they wondered why we came here--we seem forcing ourselves into their party." "Aye, so we do. That is very disagreeable. I wish we had a large acquaintance here." "I wish we had any--it would be somebody to go to." "Very true, my dear; and if we knew anybody we would join them directly. The Skinners were here last year--I wish they were here now." "Had not we better go away as it is? Here are no tea-things for us, you see." "No more there are, indeed. How very provoking! But I think we had better sit still, for one gets so tumbled in such a crowd! How is my head, my dear? Somebody gave me a push that has hurt it, I am afraid." "No, indeed, it looks very nice. But, dear Mrs. Allen, are you sure there is nobody you know in all this multitude of people? I think you must know somebody." "I don't, upon my word--I wish I did. I wish I had a large acquaintance here with all my heart, and then I should get you a partner. I should be so glad to have you dance. There goes a strange-looking woman! What an odd gown she has got on! How old-fashioned it is! Look at the back." After some time they received an offer of tea from one of their neighbours; it was thankfully accepted, and this introduced a light conversation with the gentleman who offered it, which was the only time that anybody spoke to them during the evening, till they were discovered and joined by Mr. Allen when the dance was over. "Well, Miss Morland," said he, directly, "I hope you have had an agreeable ball." "Very agreeable indeed," she replied, vainly endeavouring to hide a great yawn. "I wish she had been able to dance," said his wife; "I wish we could have got a partner for her. I have been saying how glad I should be if the Skinners were here this winter instead of last; or if the Parrys had come, as they talked of once, she might have danced with George Parry. I am so sorry she has not had a partner!" "We shall do better another evening I hope," was Mr. Allen's consolation. The company began to disperse when the dancing was over--enough to leave space for the remainder to walk about in some comfort; and now was the time for a heroine, who had not yet played a very distinguished part in the events of the evening, to be noticed and admired. Every five minutes, by removing some of the crowd, gave greater openings for her charms. She was now seen by many young men who had not been near her before. Not one, however, started with rapturous wonder on beholding her, no whisper of eager inquiry ran round the room, nor was she once called a divinity by anybody. Yet Catherine was in very good looks, and had the company only seen her three years before, they would now have thought her exceedingly handsome. She was looked at, however, and with some admiration; for, in her own hearing, two gentlemen pronounced her to be a pretty girl. Such words had their due effect; she immediately thought the evening pleasanter than she had found it before--her humble vanity was contented--she felt more obliged to the two young men for this simple praise than a true-quality heroine would have been for fifteen sonnets in celebration of her charms, and went to her chair in good humour with everybody, and perfectly satisfied with her share of public attention. Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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Kapitel II beginnt, als Catherine sich auf ihre Abreise nach Bath mit den Allens vorbereitet. Obwohl Catherine jung und unerfahren ist, zeigt ihre Mutter Mrs. Morland wenig Besorgnis über die Reise, und ihre einzige Ermahnung an ihre Tochter ist, warm zu bleiben. Die Reise nach Bath verläuft ereignislos, aber Catherine ist voller "begeisterter Freude" über die Aussicht, sechs Wochen in der "feinen und beeindruckenden Umgebung" der Kurstadt zu verbringen. Austen beschreibt Catherines Gastgeberin Mrs. Allen als eine unauffällige und belanglose Frau, deren einzige Leidenschaft darin besteht, sich für formelle Bälle herauszuputzen. Ein paar Nächte nach der Ankunft in Bath nehmen Catherine und die Allens an einem der öffentlichen Bälle in den Upper Rooms, einem beliebten gesellschaftlichen Treffpunkt, teil. Catherine und Mrs. Allen drängeln sich durch die Menge und finden sich schließlich über den Tänzern stehend wieder. Catherine wünscht sich, tanzen zu können, aber sie kennt keinen der Herren, die auf dem Ball anwesend sind, und Mrs. Allens mitfühlende Anerkennung ihres Wunsches nach einem Tanzpartner beginnt sie zu nerven. Der Rest des Abends ist ebenso enttäuschend, bis Catherine den Ball verlässt und zwei junge Männer bemerkt, die sagen, dass sie ein "hübsches Mädchen" sei. Nachdem sie den Kommentar belauscht hat, denkt Catherine, dass sie "vollkommen zufrieden mit ihrem Anteil an öffentlicher Aufmerksamkeit" ist.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: SCENE III. A hall in the castle. Enter Othello, Desdemona, Cassio, and Attendants. OTHELLO. Good Michael, look you to the guard tonight. Let's teach ourselves that honorable stop, Not to outsport discretion. CASSIO. Iago hath direction what to do; But notwithstanding with my personal eye Will I look to't. OTHELLO. Iago is most honest. Michael, good night. Tomorrow with your earliest Let me have speech with you. Come, my dear love, The purchase made, the fruits are to ensue; That profit's yet to come 'tween me and you. Good night. Exeunt Othello, Desdemona, and Attendants. Enter Iago. CASSIO. Welcome, Iago; we must to the watch. IAGO. Not this hour, lieutenant; 'tis not yet ten o' the clock. Our general cast us thus early for the love of his Desdemona; who let us not therefore blame. He hath not yet made wanton the night with her, and she is sport for Jove. CASSIO. She's a most exquisite lady. IAGO. And, I'll warrant her, full of game. CASSIO. Indeed she's a most fresh and delicate creature. IAGO. What an eye she has! Methinks it sounds a parley to provocation. CASSIO. An inviting eye; and yet methinks right modest. IAGO. And when she speaks, is it not an alarum to love? CASSIO. She is indeed perfection. IAGO. Well, happiness to their sheets! Come, lieutenant, I have a stope of wine, and here without are a brace of Cyprus gallants that would fain have a measure to the health of black Othello. CASSIO. Not tonight, good Iago. I have very poor and unhappy brains for drinking. I could well wish courtesy would invent some other custom of entertainment. IAGO. O, they are our friends! But one cup; I'll drink for you. CASSIO. I have drunk but one cup tonight, and that was craftily qualified too, and behold what innovation it makes here. I am unfortunate in the infirmity, and dare not task my weakness with any more. IAGO. What, man! 'Tis a night of revels, the gallants desire it. CASSIO. Where are they? IAGO. Here at the door; I pray you, call them in. CASSIO. I'll do't, but it dislikes me. Exit. IAGO. If I can fasten but one cup upon him, With that which he hath drunk tonight already, He'll be as full of quarrel and offense As my young mistress' dog. Now my sick fool Roderigo, Whom love hath turn'd almost the wrong side out, To Desdemona hath tonight caroused Potations pottle-deep; and he's to watch. Three lads of Cyprus, noble swelling spirits, That hold their honors in a wary distance, The very elements of this warlike isle, Have I tonight fluster'd with flowing cups, And they watch too. Now, 'mongst this flock of drunkards, Am I to put our Cassio in some action That may offend the isle. But here they come. If consequence do but approve my dream, My boat sails freely, both with wind and stream. Re-enter Cassio; with him Montano and Gentlemen; Servants following with wine. CASSIO. 'Fore God, they have given me a rouse already. MONTANO. Good faith, a little one; not past a pint, as I am a soldier. IAGO. Some wine, ho! [Sings.] "And let me the canakin clink, clink; And let me the canakin clink. A soldier's a man; O, man's life's but a span; Why then let a soldier drink." Some wine, boys! CASSIO. 'Fore God, an excellent song. IAGO. I learned it in England, where indeed they are most potent in potting. Your Dane, your German, and your swag-bellied Hollander-- Drink, ho!--are nothing to your English. CASSIO. Is your Englishman so expert in his drinking? IAGO. Why, he drinks you with facility your Dane dead drunk; he sweats not to overthrow your Almain; he gives your Hollander a vomit ere the next pottle can be filled. CASSIO. To the health of our general! MONTANO. I am for it, lieutenant, and I'll do you justice. IAGO. O sweet England! [Sings.] "King Stephen was and--a worthy peer, His breeches cost him but a crown; He held them sixpence all too dear, With that he call'd the tailor lown. "He was a wight of high renown, And thou art but of low degree. 'Tis pride that pulls the country down; Then take thine auld cloak about thee." Some wine, ho! CASSIO. Why, this is a more exquisite song than the other. IAGO. Will you hear't again? CASSIO. No, for I hold him to be unworthy of his place that does those things. Well, God's above all, and there be souls must be saved, and there be souls must not be saved. IAGO. It's true, good lieutenant. CASSIO. For mine own part--no offense to the general, nor any man of quality--I hope to be saved. IAGO. And so do I too, lieutenant. CASSIO. Ay, but, by your leave, not before me; the lieutenant is to be saved before the ancient. Let's have no more of this; let's to our affairs. God forgive us our sins! Gentlemen, let's look to our business. Do not think, gentlemen, I am drunk: this is my ancient, this is my right hand, and this is my left. I am not drunk now; I can stand well enough, and I speak well enough. ALL. Excellent well. CASSIO. Why, very well then; you must not think then that I am drunk. Exit. MONTANO. To the platform, masters; come, let's set the watch. IAGO. You see this fellow that is gone before; He is a soldier fit to stand by Caesar And give direction. And do but see his vice; 'Tis to his virtue a just equinox, The one as long as the other. 'Tis pity of him. I fear the trust Othello puts him in On some odd time of his infirmity Will shake this island. MONTANO. But is he often thus? IAGO. 'Tis evermore the prologue to his sleep. He'll watch the horologe a double set, If drink rock not his cradle. MONTANO. It were well The general were put in mind of it. Perhaps he sees it not, or his good nature Prizes the virtue that appears in Cassio And looks not on his evils. Is not this true? Enter Roderigo. IAGO. [Aside to him.] How now, Roderigo! I pray you, after the lieutenant; go. Exit Roderigo. MONTANO. And 'tis great pity that the noble Moor Should hazard such a place as his own second With one of an ingraft infirmity. It were an honest action to say So to the Moor. IAGO. Not I, for this fair island. I do love Cassio well, and would do much To cure him of this evil--But, hark! What noise? A cry within, "Help, help!" Re-enter Cassio, driving in Roderigo. CASSIO. 'Zounds! You rogue! You rascal! MONTANO. What's the matter, lieutenant? CASSIO. A knave teach me my duty! But I'll beat the knave into a twiggen bottle. RODERIGO. Beat me! CASSIO. Dost thou prate, rogue? Strikes Roderigo. MONTANO. Nay, good lieutenant; I pray you, sir, hold your hand. CASSIO. Let me go, sir, or I'll knock you o'er the mazzard. MONTANO. Come, come, you're drunk. CASSIO. Drunk? They fight. IAGO. [Aside to Roderigo.] Away, I say; go out and cry a mutiny. Exit Roderigo. Nay, good lieutenant! God's will, gentlemen! Help, ho!--Lieutenant--sir--Montano--sir-- Help, masters!--Here's a goodly watch indeed! A bell rings. Who's that that rings the bell?--Diablo, ho! The town will rise. God's will, lieutenant, hold! You will be shamed forever. Re-enter Othello and Attendants. OTHELLO. What is the matter here? MONTANO. 'Zounds, I bleed still; I am hurt to the death. Faints. OTHELLO. Hold, for your lives! IAGO. Hold, ho! Lieutenant--sir--Montano--gentlemen-- Have you forgot all place of sense and duty? Hold! the general speaks to you! Hold, hold, for shame! OTHELLO. Why, how now, ho! from whence ariseth this? Are we turn'd Turks, and to ourselves do that Which heaven hath forbid the Ottomites? For Christian shame, put by this barbarous brawl. He that stirs next to carve for his own rage Holds his soul light; he dies upon his motion. Silence that dreadful bell; it frights the isle From her propriety. What is the matter, masters? Honest Iago, that look'st dead with grieving, Speak: who began this? On thy love, I charge thee. IAGO. I do not know. Friends all but now, even now, In quarter, and in terms like bride and groom Devesting them for bed; and then, but now (As if some planet had unwitted men), Swords out, and tilting one at other's breast, In opposition bloody. I cannot speak Any beginning to this peevish odds; And would in action glorious I had lost Those legs that brought me to a part of it! OTHELLO. How comes it, Michael, you are thus forgot? CASSIO. I pray you, pardon me; I cannot speak. OTHELLO. Worthy Montano, you were wont be civil; The gravity and stillness of your youth The world hath noted, and your name is great In mouths of wisest censure. What's the matter, That you unlace your reputation thus, And spend your rich opinion for the name Of a night-brawler? Give me answer to it. MONTANO. Worthy Othello, I am hurt to danger. Your officer, Iago, can inform you-- While I spare speech, which something now offends me-- Of all that I do know. Nor know I aught By me that's said or done amiss this night, Unless self-charity be sometimes a vice, And to defend ourselves it be a sin When violence assails us. OTHELLO. Now, by heaven, My blood begins my safer guides to rule, And passion, having my best judgement collied, Assays to lead the way. If I once stir, Or do but lift this arm, the best of you Shall sink in my rebuke. Give me to know How this foul rout began, who set it on, And he that is approved in this offense, Though he had twinn'd with me, both at a birth, Shall lose me. What! in a town of war, Yet wild, the people's hearts brimful of fear, To manage private and domestic quarrel, In night, and on the court and guard of safety! 'Tis monstrous. Iago, who began't? MONTANO. If partially affined, or leagued in office, Thou dost deliver more or less than truth, Thou art no soldier. IAGO. Touch me not so near: I had rather have this tongue cut from my mouth Than it should do offense to Michael Cassio; Yet, I persuade myself, to speak the truth Shall nothing wrong him. Thus it is, general. Montano and myself being in speech, There comes a fellow crying out for help, And Cassio following him with determined sword, To execute upon him. Sir, this gentleman Steps in to Cassio and entreats his pause. Myself the crying fellow did pursue, Lest by his clamor--as it so fell out-- The town might fall in fright. He, swift of foot, Outran my purpose; and I return'd the rather For that I heard the clink and fall of swords, And Cassio high in oath, which till tonight I ne'er might say before. When I came back-- For this was brief--I found them close together, At blow and thrust, even as again they were When you yourself did part them. More of this matter cannot I report. But men are men; the best sometimes forget. Though Cassio did some little wrong to him, As men in rage strike those that wish them best, Yet surely Cassio, I believe, received From him that fled some strange indignity, Which patience could not pass. OTHELLO. I know, Iago, Thy honesty and love doth mince this matter, Making it light to Cassio. Cassio, I love thee, But never more be officer of mine. Re-enter Desdemona, attended. Look, if my gentle love be not raised up! I'll make thee an example. DESDEMONA. What's the matter? OTHELLO. All's well now, sweeting; come away to bed. Sir, for your hurts, myself will be your surgeon. Lead him off. Exit Montano, attended. Iago, look with care about the town, And silence those whom this vile brawl distracted. Come, Desdemona, 'tis the soldiers' life. To have their balmy slumbers waked with strife. Exeunt all but Iago and Cassio. IAGO. What, are you hurt, lieutenant? CASSIO. Ay, past all surgery. IAGO. Marry, heaven forbid! CASSIO. Reputation, reputation, reputation! O, I have lost my reputation! I have lost the immortal part of myself, and what remains is bestial. My reputation, Iago, my reputation! IAGO. As I am an honest man, I thought you had received some bodily wound; there is more sense in that than in reputation. Reputation is an idle and most false imposition; oft got without merit and lost without deserving. You have lost no reputation at all, unless you repute yourself such a loser. What, man! there are ways to recover the general again. You are but now cast in his mood, a punishment more in policy than in malice; even so as one would beat his offenseless dog to affright an imperious lion. Sue to him again, and he's yours. CASSIO. I will rather sue to be despised than to deceive so good a commander with so slight, so drunken, and so indiscreet an officer. Drunk? and speak parrot? and squabble? swagger? swear? and discourse fustian with one's own shadow? O thou invisible spirit of wine, if thou hast no name to be known by, let us call thee devil! IAGO. What was he that you followed with your sword? What had he done to you? CASSIO. I know not. IAGO. Is't possible? CASSIO. I remember a mass of things, but nothing distinctly; a quarrel, but nothing wherefore. O God, that men should put an enemy in their mouths to steal away their brains! that we should, with joy, pleasance, revel, and applause, transform ourselves into beasts! IAGO. Why, but you are now well enough. How came you thus recovered? CASSIO. It hath pleased the devil drunkenness to give place to the devil wrath: one unperfectness shows me another, to make me frankly despise myself. IAGO. Come, you are too severe a moraler. As the time, the place, and the condition of this country stands, I could heartily wish this had not befallen; but since it is as it is, mend it for your own good. CASSIO. I will ask him for my place again; he shall tell me I am a drunkard! Had I as many mouths as Hydra, such an answer would stop them all. To be now a sensible man, by and by a fool, and presently a beast! O strange! Every inordinate cup is unblest, and the ingredient is a devil. IAGO. Come, come, good wine is a good familiar creature, if it be well used. Exclaim no more against it. And, good lieutenant, I think you think I love you. CASSIO. I have well approved it, sir. I drunk! IAGO. You or any man living may be drunk at some time, man. I'll tell you what you shall do. Our general's wife is now the general. I may say so in this respect, for that he hath devoted and given up himself to the contemplation, mark, and denotement of her parts and graces. Confess yourself freely to her; importune her help to put you in your place again. She is of so free, so kind, so apt, so blessed a disposition, she holds it a vice in her goodness not to do more than she is requested. This broken joint between you and her husband entreat her to splinter; and, my fortunes against any lay worth naming, this crack of your love shall grow stronger than it was before. CASSIO. You advise me well. IAGO. I protest, in the sincerity of love and honest kindness. CASSIO. I think it freely; and betimes in the morning I will beseech the virtuous Desdemona to undertake for me. I am desperate of my fortunes if they check me here. IAGO. You are in the right. Good night, lieutenant, I must to the watch. CASSIO. Good night, honest Iago. Exit. IAGO. And what's he then that says I play the villain? When this advice is free I give and honest, Probal to thinking, and indeed the course To win the Moor again? For 'tis most easy The inclining Desdemona to subdue In any honest suit. She's framed as fruitful As the free elements. And then for her To win the Moor, were't to renounce his baptism, All seals and symbols of redeemed sin, His soul is so enfetter'd to her love, That she may make, unmake, do what she list, Even as her appetite shall play the god With his weak function. How am I then a villain To counsel Cassio to this parallel course, Directly to his good? Divinity of hell! When devils will the blackest sins put on, They do suggest at first with heavenly shows, As I do now. For whiles this honest fool Plies Desdemona to repair his fortune, And she for him pleads strongly to the Moor, I'll pour this pestilence into his ear, That she repeals him for her body's lust; And by how much she strives to do him good, She shall undo her credit with the Moor. So will I turn her virtue into pitch, And out of her own goodness make the net That shall enmesh them all. Enter Roderigo. How now, Roderigo! RODERIGO. I do follow here in the chase, not like a hound that hunts, but one that fills up the cry. My money is almost spent; I have been tonight exceedingly well cudgeled; and I think the issue will be, I shall have so much experience for my pains; and so, with no money at all and a little more wit, return again to Venice. IAGO. How poor are they that have not patience! What wound did ever heal but by degrees? Thou know'st we work by wit and not by witchcraft, And wit depends on dilatory time. Does't not go well? Cassio hath beaten thee, And thou by that small hurt hast cashier'd Cassio. Though other things grow fair against the sun, Yet fruits that blossom first will first be ripe. Content thyself awhile. By the mass, 'tis morning; Pleasure and action make the hours seem short. Retire thee; go where thou art billeted. Away, I say. Thou shalt know more hereafter. Nay, get thee gone. [Exit Roderigo.] Two things are to be done: My wife must move for Cassio to her mistress-- I'll set her on; Myself the while to draw the Moor apart, And bring him jump when he may Cassio find Soliciting his wife. Ay, that's the way; Dull not device by coldness and delay. Exit. Könnten Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Cassio, der während der Zeit des Feierns und Trinkens den Nachtwachtdienst befehligt, erhält seine Anweisungen von Othello, der die Soldaten anweist, maßvoll zu trinken und den Frieden zu wahren. Cassio und Iago, sein Stellvertreter, werden dafür sorgen. Dann ziehen sich Othello und Desdemona ins Bett zurück, die erste Nacht, die sie seit ihrer Hochzeit zusammen verbringen werden. Alleine fällt Iago anzügliche Bemerkungen über Desdemona gegenüber Cassio, doch Cassio wehrt sie ab; dann lädt Iago ihn zum Trinken ein. Cassio lehnt ab, aber Iago drängelt und drängt, bis Cassio schließlich nachgibt. Iago hetzt Roderigo zu einem Kampf mit Cassio auf; andere schließen sich an und Iago schickt Roderigo, um die Alarmglocke zu läuten, Othello aufzuwecken und ihn sowie seine bewaffneten Männer an den Ort zu bringen. Othello verlangt zu wissen, wer den Kampf begonnen hat, und Iago gibt widerwillig Cassio die Schuld. Othello entlässt Cassio sofort von seinem Posten. Dann kehren er und Desdemona ins Bett zurück. Iago rät Cassio, Desdemona zu bitten, sich bei ihrem Ehemann für ihn einzusetzen. Cassio stimmt zu und Iago nutzt seine Frau Emilia, um ein privates Treffen zwischen Cassio und Desdemona zu arrangieren.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). 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: Trumpets, Sennet, and Cornets. Enter two Vergers, with short siluer wands; next them two Scribes in the habite of Doctors; after them, the Bishop of Canterbury alone; after him, the Bishops of Lincolne, Ely, Rochester, and S[aint]. Asaph: Next them, with some small distance, followes a Gentleman bearing the Purse, with the great Seale, and a Cardinals Hat: Then two Priests, bearing each a Siluer Crosse: Then a Gentleman Vsher bareheaded, accompanyed with a Sergeant at Armes, bearing a Siluer Mace: Then two Gentlemen bearing two great Siluer Pillers: After them, side by side, the two Cardinals, two Noblemen, with the Sword and Mace. The King takes place vnder the Cloth of State. The two Cardinalls sit vnder him as Iudges. The Queene takes place some distance from the King. The Bishops place themselues on each side the Court in manner of a Consistory: Below them the Scribes. The Lords sit next the Bishops. The rest of the Attendants stand in conuenient order about the Stage. Car. Whil'st our Commission from Rome is read, Let silence be commanded King. What's the need? It hath already publiquely bene read, And on all sides th' Authority allow'd, You may then spare that time Car. Bee't so, proceed Scri. Say, Henry K[ing]. of England, come into the Court Crier. Henry King of England, &c King. Heere Scribe. Say, Katherine Queene of England, Come into the Court Crier. Katherine Queene of England, &c. The Queene makes no answer, rises out of her Chaire, goes about the Court, comes to the King, and kneeles at his Feete. Then speakes. Sir, I desire you do me Right and Iustice, And to bestow your pitty on me; for I am a most poore Woman, and a Stranger, Borne out of your Dominions: hauing heere No Iudge indifferent, nor no more assurance Of equall Friendship and Proceeding. Alas Sir: In what haue I offended you? What cause Hath my behauiour giuen to your displeasure, That thus you should proceede to put me off, And take your good Grace from me? Heauen witnesse, I haue bene to you, a true and humble Wife, At all times to your will conformable: Euer in feare to kindle your Dislike, Yea, subiect to your Countenance: Glad, or sorry, As I saw it inclin'd? When was the houre I euer contradicted your Desire? Or made it not mine too? Or which of your Friends Haue I not stroue to loue, although I knew He were mine Enemy? What Friend of mine, That had to him deriu'd your Anger, did I Continue in my Liking? Nay, gaue notice He was from thence discharg'd? Sir, call to minde, That I haue beene your Wife, in this Obedience, Vpward of twenty years, and haue bene blest With many Children by you. If in the course And processe of this time, you can report, And proue it too, against mine Honor, aught; My bond to Wedlocke, or my Loue and Dutie Against your Sacred Person; in Gods name Turne me away: and let the fowl'st Contempt Shut doore vpon me, and so giue me vp To the sharp'st kinde of Iustice. Please you, Sir, The King your Father, was reputed for A Prince most Prudent; of an excellent And vnmatch'd Wit, and Iudgement. Ferdinand My Father, King of Spaine, was reckon'd one The wisest Prince, that there had reign'd, by many A yeare before. It is not to be question'd, That they had gather'd a wise Councell to them Of euery Realme, that did debate this Businesse, Who deem'd our Marriage lawful. Wherefore I humbly Beseech you Sir, to spare me, till I may Be by my Friends in Spaine, aduis'd; whose Counsaile I will implore. If not, i'th' name of God Your pleasure be fulfill'd Wol. You haue heere Lady, (And of your choice) these Reuerend Fathers, men Of singular Integrity, and Learning; Yea, the elect o'th' Land, who are assembled To pleade your Cause. It shall be therefore bootlesse, That longer you desire the Court, as well For your owne quiet, as to rectifie What is vnsetled in the King Camp. His Grace Hath spoken well, and iustly: Therefore Madam, It's fit this Royall Session do proceed, And that (without delay) their Arguments Be now produc'd, and heard Qu. Lord Cardinall, to you I speake Wol. Your pleasure, Madam Qu. Sir, I am about to weepe; but thinking that We are a Queene (or long haue dream'd so) certaine The daughter of a King, my drops of teares, Ile turne to sparkes of fire Wol. Be patient yet Qu. I will, when you are humble; Nay before, Or God will punish me. I do beleeue (Induc'd by potent Circumstances) that You are mine Enemy, and make my Challenge, You shall not be my Iudge. For it is you Haue blowne this Coale, betwixt my Lord, and me; (Which Gods dew quench) therefore, I say againe, I vtterly abhorre; yea, from my Soule Refuse you for my Iudge, whom yet once more I hold my most malicious Foe, and thinke not At all a Friend to truth Wol. I do professe You speake not like your selfe: who euer yet Haue stood to Charity, and displayd th' effects Of disposition gentle, and of wisedome, Ore-topping womans powre. Madam, you do me wrong I haue no Spleene against you, nor iniustice For you, or any: how farre I haue proceeded, Or how farre further (Shall) is warranted By a Commission from the Consistorie, Yea, the whole Consistorie of Rome. You charge me, That I haue blowne this Coale: I do deny it, The King is present: If it be knowne to him, That I gainsay my Deed, how may he wound, And worthily my Falsehood, yea, as much As you haue done my Truth. If he know That I am free of your Report, he knowes I am not of your wrong. Therefore in him It lies to cure me, and the Cure is to Remoue these Thoughts from you. The which before His Highnesse shall speake in, I do beseech You (gracious Madam) to vnthinke your speaking, And to say so no more Queen. My Lord, My Lord, I am a simple woman, much too weake T' oppose your cunning. Y'are meek, & humble-mouth'd You signe your Place, and Calling, in full seeming, With Meekenesse and Humilitie: but your Heart Is cramm'd with Arrogancie, Spleene, and Pride. You haue by Fortune, and his Highnesse fauors, Gone slightly o're lowe steppes, and now are mounted Where Powres are your Retainers, and your words (Domestickes to you) serue your will, as't please Your selfe pronounce their Office. I must tell you, You tender more your persons Honor, then Your high profession Spirituall. That agen I do refuse you for my Iudge, and heere Before you all, Appeale vnto the Pope, To bring my whole Cause 'fore his Holinesse, And to be iudg'd by him. She Curtsies to the King, and offers to depart. Camp. The Queene is obstinate, Stubborne to Iustice, apt to accuse it, and Disdainfull to be tride by't; tis not well. Shee's going away Kin. Call her againe Crier. Katherine. Q[ueene]. of England, come into the Court Gent.Vsh. Madam, you are cald backe Que. What need you note it? pray you keep your way, When you are cald returne. Now the Lord helpe, They vexe me past my patience, pray you passe on; I will not tarry: no, nor euer more Vpon this businesse my appearance make, In any of their Courts. Exit Queene, and her Attendants. Kin. Goe thy wayes Kate, That man i'th' world, who shall report he ha's A better Wife, let him in naught be trusted, For speaking false in that; thou art alone (If thy rare qualities, sweet gentlenesse, Thy meeknesse Saint-like, Wife-like Gouernment, Obeying in commanding, and thy parts Soueraigne and Pious els, could speake thee out) The Queene of earthly Queenes: Shee's Noble borne; And like her true Nobility, she ha's Carried her selfe towards me Wol. Most gracious Sir, In humblest manner I require your Highnes, That it shall please you to declare in hearing Of all these eares (for where I am rob'd and bound, There must I be vnloos'd, although not there At once, and fully satisfide) whether euer I Did broach this busines to your Highnes, or Laid any scruple in your way, which might Induce you to the question on't: or euer Haue to you, but with thankes to God for such A Royall Lady, spake one, the least word that might Be to the preiudice of her present State, Or touch of her good Person? Kin. My Lord Cardinall, I doe excuse you; yea, vpon mine Honour, I free you from't: You are not to be taught That you haue many enemies, that know not Why they are so; but like to Village Curres, Barke when their fellowes doe. By some of these The Queene is put in anger; y'are excus'd: But will you be more iustifi'de? You euer Haue wish'd the sleeping of this busines, neuer desir'd It to be stir'd; but oft haue hindred, oft The passages made toward it; on my Honour, I speake my good Lord Cardnall, to this point; And thus farre cleare him. Now, what mou'd me too't, I will be bold with time and your attention: Then marke th' inducement. Thus it came; giue heede too't: My Conscience first receiu'd a tendernes, Scruple, and pricke, on certaine Speeches vtter'd By th' Bishop of Bayon, then French Embassador, Who had beene hither sent on the debating And Marriage 'twixt the Duke of Orleance, and Our Daughter Mary: I'th' Progresse of this busines, Ere a determinate resolution, hee (I meane the Bishop) did require a respite, Wherein he might the King his Lord aduertise, Whether our Daughter were legitimate, Respecting this our Marriage with the Dowager, Sometimes our Brothers Wife. This respite shooke The bosome of my Conscience, enter'd me; Yea, with a spitting power, and made to tremble The region of my Breast, which forc'd such way, That many maz'd considerings, did throng And prest in with this Caution. First, me thought I stood not in the smile of Heauen, who had Commanded Nature, that my Ladies wombe If it conceiu'd a male-child by me, should Doe no more Offices of life too't; then The Graue does to th' dead: For her Male Issue, Or di'de where they were made, or shortly after This world had ayr'd them. Hence I tooke a thought, This was a Iudgement on me, that my Kingdome (Well worthy the best Heyre o'th' World) should not Be gladded in't by me. Then followes, that I weigh'd the danger which my Realmes stood in By this my Issues faile, and that gaue to me Many a groaning throw: thus hulling in The wild Sea of my Conscience, I did steere Toward this remedy, whereupon we are Now present heere together: that's to say, I meant to rectifie my Conscience, which I then did feele full sicke, and yet not well, By all the Reuerend Fathers of the Land, And Doctors learn'd. First I began in priuate, With you my Lord of Lincolne; you remember How vnder my oppression I did reeke When I first mou'd you B.Lin. Very well my Liedge Kin. I haue spoke long, be pleas'd your selfe to say How farre you satisfide me Lin. So please your Highnes, The question did at first so stagger me, Bearing a State of mighty moment in't, And consequence of dread, that I committed The daringst Counsaile which I had to doubt, And did entreate your Highnes to this course, Which you are running heere Kin. I then mou'd you, My Lord of Canterbury, and got your leaue To make this present Summons vnsolicited. I left no Reuerend Person in this Court; But by particular consent proceeded Vnder your hands and Seales; therefore goe on, For no dislike i'th' world against the person Of the good Queene; but the sharpe thorny points Of my alleadged reasons, driues this forward: Proue but our Marriage lawfull, by my Life And Kingly Dignity, we are contented To weare our mortall State to come, with her, (Katherine our Queene) before the primest Creature That's Parragon'd o'th' World Camp. So please your Highnes, The Queene being absent, 'tis a needfull fitnesse, That we adiourne this Court till further day; Meane while, must be an earnest motion Made to the Queene to call backe her Appeale She intends vnto his Holinesse Kin. I may perceiue These Cardinals trifle with me: I abhorre This dilatory sloth, and trickes of Rome. My learn'd and welbeloued Seruant Cranmer, Prethee returne, with thy approch: I know, My comfort comes along: breake vp the Court; I say, set on. Exeunt., in manner as they enter'd. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Der König, die Königin und die Geistlichen, die über die Scheidung entscheiden werden, versammeln sich alle im Saal von 2Black-Friars. Bevor die Verhandlungen beginnen, unterbricht Katherine und wendet sich direkt an den König um Gerechtigkeit zu verlangen. Sie war eine untadelige Ehefrau und bittet den König, seinen Wunsch nach Scheidung zu erklären. Sie endet damit, eine Vertagung der Verhandlung zu verlangen, bis sie sich mit ihren Freunden in Spanien beraten kann. Wolsey weist darauf hin, dass sie in England gut vertreten ist. Sie beschuldigt ihn, für die Kluft zwischen ihr und dem König verantwortlich zu sein. Sie weigert sich, Wolsey als Richter in den Verfahren zu akzeptieren, geht hinaus und sagt, dass sie möchte, dass der Papst über die Angelegenheit entscheidet. Der König ruft sie zurück, aber sie weigert sich zurückzukehren und fügt hinzu, dass sie nie wieder vor Gericht in dieser Angelegenheit erscheinen wird. Der König entlässt Wolsey von den Anschuldigungen, die die Königin gegen ihn erhoben hat. Kardinal Campeius sagt, dass das Gericht vertagt werden sollte, da die Königin nicht anwesend ist. Dies wird getan, aber der König vermutet, dass die Kardinäle nicht vollständig auf seiner Seite stehen. Er wartet gespannt auf die Rückkehr von Cranmer, auf dessen uneingeschränkte Hilfe und Unterstützung er zählen kann.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Kapitel: SZENE II. Dasselbe. Das Schlachtfeld. [Alarm. Brutus und Messala treten auf.] BRUTUS. Reite, reite, Messala, reite und gib diese Befehle an die Legionen auf der anderen Seite: Lass sie sofort angreifen; denn ich merke, dass Octavius' Flügel sich kalt verhält, und ein plötzlicher Angriff wirft sie nieder. Reite, reite, Messala: Lass sie alle herunterkommen. [Abgang.] Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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Während des frühen Verlaufs der Schlacht von Philippi schickt Brutus Messala mit einer Nachricht, in der er Cassius drängt, die feindlichen Streitkräfte sofort anzugreifen. Brutus glaubt, dass die Truppen unter Octavius, die sich vor ihm positioniert haben, derzeit unbeschwingt und anfällig für einen Angriff 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: The sun had set, and the streets were dim in the dusty twilight, when the figure so long unused to them hurried on its way. In the immediate neighbourhood of the old house it attracted little attention, for there were only a few straggling people to notice it; but, ascending from the river by the crooked ways that led to London Bridge, and passing into the great main road, it became surrounded by astonishment. Resolute and wild of look, rapid of foot and yet weak and uncertain, conspicuously dressed in its black garments and with its hurried head-covering, gaunt and of an unearthly paleness, it pressed forward, taking no more heed of the throng than a sleep-walker. More remarkable by being so removed from the crowd it was among than if it had been lifted on a pedestal to be seen, the figure attracted all eyes. Saunterers pricked up their attention to observe it; busy people, crossing it, slackened their pace and turned their heads; companions pausing and standing aside, whispered one another to look at this spectral woman who was coming by; and the sweep of the figure as it passed seemed to create a vortex, drawing the most idle and most curious after it. Made giddy by the turbulent irruption of this multitude of staring faces into her cell of years, by the confusing sensation of being in the air, and the yet more confusing sensation of being afoot, by the unexpected changes in half-remembered objects, and the want of likeness between the controllable pictures her imagination had often drawn of the life from which she was secluded and the overwhelming rush of the reality, she held her way as if she were environed by distracting thoughts, rather than by external humanity and observation. But, having crossed the bridge and gone some distance straight onward, she remembered that she must ask for a direction; and it was only then, when she stopped and turned to look about her for a promising place of inquiry, that she found herself surrounded by an eager glare of faces. 'Why are you encircling me?' she asked, trembling. None of those who were nearest answered; but from the outer ring there arose a shrill cry of ''Cause you're mad!' 'I am sure as sane as any one here. I want to find the Marshalsea prison.' The shrill outer circle again retorted, 'Then that 'ud show you was mad if nothing else did, 'cause it's right opposite!' A short, mild, quiet-looking young man made his way through to her, as a whooping ensued on this reply, and said: 'Was it the Marshalsea you wanted? I'm going on duty there. Come across with me.' She laid her hand upon his arm, and he took her over the way; the crowd, rather injured by the near prospect of losing her, pressing before and behind and on either side, and recommending an adjournment to Bedlam. After a momentary whirl in the outer court-yard, the prison-door opened, and shut upon them. In the Lodge, which seemed by contrast with the outer noise a place of refuge and peace, a yellow lamp was already striving with the prison shadows. 'Why, John!' said the turnkey who admitted them. 'What is it?' 'Nothing, father; only this lady not knowing her way, and being badgered by the boys. Who did you want, ma'am?' 'Miss Dorrit. Is she here?' The young man became more interested. 'Yes, she is here. What might your name be?' 'Mrs Clennam.' 'Mr Clennam's mother?' asked the young man. She pressed her lips together, and hesitated. 'Yes. She had better be told it is his mother.' 'You see,' said the young man,'the Marshal's family living in the country at present, the Marshal has given Miss Dorrit one of the rooms in his house to use when she likes. Don't you think you had better come up there, and let me bring Miss Dorrit?' She signified her assent, and he unlocked a door and conducted her up a side staircase into a dwelling-house above. He showed her into a darkening room, and left her. The room looked down into the darkening prison-yard, with its inmates strolling here and there, leaning out of windows communing as much apart as they could with friends who were going away, and generally wearing out their imprisonment as they best might that summer evening. The air was heavy and hot; the closeness of the place, oppressive; and from without there arose a rush of free sounds, like the jarring memory of such things in a headache and heartache. She stood at the window, bewildered, looking down into this prison as it were out of her own different prison, when a soft word or two of surprise made her start, and Little Dorrit stood before her. 'Is it possible, Mrs Clennam, that you are so happily recovered as--' Little Dorrit stopped, for there was neither happiness nor health in the face that turned to her. 'This is not recovery; it is not strength; I don't know what it is.' With an agitated wave of her hand, she put all that aside. 'You have a packet left with you which you were to give to Arthur, if it was not reclaimed before this place closed to-night.' 'Yes.' 'I reclaim it.' Little Dorrit took it from her bosom, and gave it into her hand, which remained stretched out after receiving it. 'Have you any idea of its contents?' Frightened by her being there with that new power Of Movement in her, which, as she said herself, was not strength, and which was unreal to look upon, as though a picture or statue had been animated, Little Dorrit answered 'No.' 'Read them.' Little Dorrit took the packet from the still outstretched hand, and broke the seal. Mrs Clennam then gave her the inner packet that was addressed to herself, and held the other. The shadow of the wall and of the prison buildings, which made the room sombre at noon, made it too dark to read there, with the dusk deepening apace, save in the window. In the window, where a little of the bright summer evening sky could shine upon her, Little Dorrit stood, and read. After a broken exclamation or so of wonder and of terror, she read in silence. When she had finished, she looked round, and her old mistress bowed herself before her. 'You know, now, what I have done.' 'I think so. I am afraid so; though my mind is so hurried, and so sorry, and has so much to pity that it has not been able to follow all I have read,' said Little Dorrit tremulously. 'I will restore to you what I have withheld from you. Forgive me. Can you forgive me?' 'I can, and Heaven knows I do! Do not kiss my dress and kneel to me; you are too old to kneel to me; I forgive you freely without that.' 'I have more yet to ask.' 'Not in that posture,' said Little Dorrit. 'It is unnatural to see your grey hair lower than mine. Pray rise; let me help you.' With that she raised her up, and stood rather shrinking from her, but looking at her earnestly. 'The great petition that I make to you (there is another which grows out of it), the great supplication that I address to your merciful and gentle heart, is, that you will not disclose this to Arthur until I am dead. If you think, when you have had time for consideration, that it can do him any good to know it while I am yet alive, then tell him. But you will not think that; and in such case, will you promise me to spare me until I am dead?' 'I am so sorry, and what I have read has so confused my thoughts,' returned Little Dorrit, 'that I can scarcely give you a steady answer. If I should be quite sure that to be acquainted with it will do Mr Clennam no good--' 'I know you are attached to him, and will make him the first consideration. It is right that he should be the first consideration. I ask that. But, having regarded him, and still finding that you may spare me for the little time I shall remain on earth, will you do it?' 'I will.' 'GOD bless you!' She stood in the shadow so that she was only a veiled form to Little Dorrit in the light; but the sound of her voice, in saying those three grateful words, was at once fervent and broken--broken by emotion as unfamiliar to her frozen eyes as action to her frozen limbs. 'You will wonder, perhaps,' she said in a stronger tone, 'that I can better bear to be known to you whom I have wronged, than to the son of my enemy who wronged me.--For she did wrong me! She not only sinned grievously against the Lord, but she wronged me. What Arthur's father was to me, she made him. From our marriage day I was his dread, and that she made me. I was the scourge of both, and that is referable to her. You love Arthur (I can see the blush upon your face; may it be the dawn of happier days to both of you!), and you will have thought already that he is as merciful and kind as you, and why do I not trust myself to him as soon as to you. Have you not thought so?' 'No thought,' said Little Dorrit, 'can be quite a stranger to my heart, that springs out of the knowledge that Mr Clennam is always to be relied upon for being kind and generous and good.' 'I do not doubt it. Yet Arthur is, of the whole world, the one person from whom I would conceal this, while I am in it. I kept over him as a child, in the days of his first remembrance, my restraining and correcting hand. I was stern with him, knowing that the transgressions of the parents are visited on their offspring, and that there was an angry mark upon him at his birth. I have sat with him and his father, seeing the weakness of his father yearning to unbend to him; and forcing it back, that the child might work out his release in bondage and hardship. I have seen him, with his mother's face, looking up at me in awe from his little books, and trying to soften me with his mother's ways that hardened me.' The shrinking of her auditress stopped her for a moment in her flow of words, delivered in a retrospective gloomy voice. 'For his good. Not for the satisfaction of my injury. What was I, and what was the worth of that, before the curse of Heaven! I have seen that child grow up; not to be pious in a chosen way (his mother's influence lay too heavy on him for that), but still to be just and upright, and to be submissive to me. He never loved me, as I once half-hoped he might--so frail we are, and so do the corrupt affections of the flesh war with our trusts and tasks; but he always respected me and ordered himself dutifully to me. He does to this hour. With an empty place in his heart that he has never known the meaning of, he has turned away from me and gone his separate road; but even that he has done considerately and with deference. These have been his relations towards me. Yours have been of a much slighter kind, spread over a much shorter time. When you have sat at your needle in my room, you have been in fear of me, but you have supposed me to have been doing you a kindness; you are better informed now, and know me to have done you an injury. Your misconstruction and misunderstanding of the cause in which, and the motives with which, I have worked out this work, is lighter to endure than his would be. I would not, for any worldly recompense I can imagine, have him in a moment, however blindly, throw me down from the station I have held before him all his life, and change me altogether into something he would cast out of his respect, and think detected and exposed. Let him do it, if it must be done, when I am not here to see it. Let me never feel, while I am still alive, that I die before his face, and utterly perish away from him, like one consumed by lightning and swallowed by an earthquake.' Her pride was very strong in her, the pain of it and of her old passions was very sharp with her, when she thus expressed herself. Not less so, when she added: 'Even now, I see _you_ shrink from me, as if I had been cruel.' Little Dorrit could not gainsay it. She tried not to show it, but she recoiled with dread from the state of mind that had burnt so fiercely and lasted so long. It presented itself to her, with no sophistry upon it, in its own plain nature. 'I have done,' said Mrs Clennam,'what it was given to me to do. I have set myself against evil; not against good. I have been an instrument of severity against sin. Have not mere sinners like myself been commissioned to lay it low in all time?' 'In all time?' repeated Little Dorrit. 'Even if my own wrong had prevailed with me, and my own vengeance had moved me, could I have found no justification? None in the old days when the innocent perished with the guilty, a thousand to one? When the wrath of the hater of the unrighteous was not slaked even in blood, and yet found favour?' 'O, Mrs Clennam, Mrs Clennam,' said Little Dorrit, 'angry feelings and unforgiving deeds are no comfort and no guide to you and me. My life has been passed in this poor prison, and my teaching has been very defective; but let me implore you to remember later and better days. Be guided only by the healer of the sick, the raiser of the dead, the friend of all who were afflicted and forlorn, the patient Master who shed tears of compassion for our infirmities. We cannot but be right if we put all the rest away, and do everything in remembrance of Him. There is no vengeance and no infliction of suffering in His life, I am sure. There can be no confusion in following Him, and seeking for no other footsteps, I am certain.' In the softened light of the window, looking from the scene of her early trials to the shining sky, she was not in stronger opposition to the black figure in the shade than the life and doctrine on which she rested were to that figure's history. It bent its head low again, and said not a word. It remained thus, until the first warning bell began to ring. 'Hark!' cried Mrs Clennam starting, 'I said I had another petition. It is one that does not admit of delay. The man who brought you this packet and possesses these proofs, is now waiting at my house to be bought off. I can keep this from Arthur, only by buying him off. He asks a large sum; more than I can get together to pay him without having time. He refuses to make any abatement, because his threat is, that if he fails with me, he will come to you. Will you return with me and show him that you already know it? Will you return with me and try to prevail with him? Will you come and help me with him? Do not refuse what I ask in Arthur's name, though I dare not ask it for Arthur's sake!' Little Dorrit yielded willingly. She glided away into the prison for a few moments, returned, and said she was ready to go. They went out by another staircase, avoiding the lodge; and coming into the front court-yard, now all quiet and deserted, gained the street. It was one of those summer evenings when there is no greater darkness than a long twilight. The vista of street and bridge was plain to see, and the sky was serene and beautiful. People stood and sat at their doors, playing with children and enjoying the evening; numbers were walking for air; the worry of the day had almost worried itself out, and few but themselves were hurried. As they crossed the bridge, the clear steeples of the many churches looked as if they had advanced out of the murk that usually enshrouded them, and come much nearer. The smoke that rose into the sky had lost its dingy hue and taken a brightness upon it. The beauties of the sunset had not faded from the long light films of cloud that lay at peace in the horizon. From a radiant centre, over the whole length and breadth of the tranquil firmament, great shoots of light streamed among the early stars, like signs of the blessed later covenant of peace and hope that changed the crown of thorns into a glory. Less remarkable, now that she was not alone and it was darker, Mrs Clennam hurried on at Little Dorrit's side, unmolested. They left the great thoroughfare at the turning by which she had entered it, and wound their way down among the silent, empty, cross-streets. Their feet were at the gateway, when there was a sudden noise like thunder. 'What was that! Let us make haste in,' cried Mrs Clennam. They were in the gateway. Little Dorrit, with a piercing cry, held her back. In one swift instant the old house was before them, with the man lying smoking in the window; another thundering sound, and it heaved, surged outward, opened asunder in fifty places, collapsed, and fell. Deafened by the noise, stifled, choked, and blinded by the dust, they hid their faces and stood rooted to the spot. The dust storm, driving between them and the placid sky, parted for a moment and showed them the stars. As they looked up, wildly crying for help, the great pile of chimneys, which was then alone left standing like a tower in a whirlwind, rocked, broke, and hailed itself down upon the heap of ruin, as if every tumbling fragment were intent on burying the crushed wretch deeper. So blackened by the flying particles of rubbish as to be unrecognisable, they ran back from the gateway into the street, crying and shrieking. There, Mrs Clennam dropped upon the stones; and she never from that hour moved so much as a finger again, or had the power to speak one word. For upwards of three years she reclined in a wheeled chair, looking attentively at those about her and appearing to understand what they said; but the rigid silence she had so long held was evermore enforced upon her, and except that she could move her eyes and faintly express a negative and affirmative with her head, she lived and died a statue. Affery had been looking for them at the prison, and had caught sight of them at a distance on the bridge. She came up to receive her old mistress in her arms, to help to carry her into a neighbouring house, and to be faithful to her. The mystery of the noises was out now; Affery, like greater people, had always been right in her facts, and always wrong in the theories she deduced from them. When the storm of dust had cleared away and the summer night was calm again, numbers of people choked up every avenue of access, and parties of diggers were formed to relieve one another in digging among the ruins. There had been a hundred people in the house at the time of its fall, there had been fifty, there had been fifteen, there had been two. Rumour finally settled the number at two; the foreigner and Mr Flintwinch. The diggers dug all through the short night by flaring pipes of gas, and on a level with the early sun, and deeper and deeper below it as it rose into its zenith, and aslant of it as it declined, and on a level with it again as it departed. Sturdy digging, and shovelling, and carrying away, in carts, barrows, and baskets, went on without intermission, by night and by day; but it was night for the second time when they found the dirty heap of rubbish that had been the foreigner before his head had been shivered to atoms, like so much glass, by the great beam that lay upon him, crushing him. Still, they had not come upon Flintwinch yet; so the sturdy digging and shovelling and carrying away went on without intermission by night and by day. It got about that the old house had had famous cellarage (which indeed was true), and that Flintwinch had been in a cellar at the moment, or had had time to escape into one, and that he was safe under its strong arch, and even that he had been heard to cry, in hollow, subterranean, suffocated notes, 'Here I am!' At the opposite extremity of the town it was even known that the excavators had been able to open a communication with him through a pipe, and that he had received both soup and brandy by that channel, and that he had said with admirable fortitude that he was All right, my lads, with the exception of his collar-bone. But the digging and shovelling and carrying away went on without intermission, until the ruins were all dug out, and the cellars opened to the light; and still no Flintwinch, living or dead, all right or all wrong, had been turned up by pick or spade. It began then to be perceived that Flintwinch had not been there at the time of the fall; and it began then to be perceived that he had been rather busy elsewhere, converting securities into as much money as could be got for them on the shortest notice, and turning to his own exclusive account his authority to act for the Firm. Affery, remembering that the clever one had said he would explain himself further in four-and-twenty hours' time, determined for her part that his taking himself off within that period with all he could get, was the final satisfactory sum and substance of his promised explanation; but she held her peace, devoutly thankful to be quit of him. As it seemed reasonable to conclude that a man who had never been buried could not be unburied, the diggers gave him up when their task was done, and did not dig down for him into the depths of the earth. This was taken in ill part by a great many people, who persisted in believing that Flintwinch was lying somewhere among the London geological formation. Nor was their belief much shaken by repeated intelligence which came over in course of time, that an old man who wore the tie of his neckcloth under one ear, and who was very well known to be an Englishman, consorted with the Dutchmen on the quaint banks of the canals of the Hague and in the drinking-shops of Amsterdam, under the style and designation of Mynheer von Flyntevynge. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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Frau Clennam macht sich auf den Weg zum Marshalsea, verirrt sich jedoch und wird beschimpft. John Chivery rettet sie, bringt sie ins Gefängnis und holt Little Dorrit. Amy ist sprachlos, als sie sieht, dass Frau Clennam aus ihrem Rollstuhl heraus ist. Sie gratuliert... aber Frau Clennam ist nicht in Stimmung. Frau Clennam bittet Amy, das Paket zu lesen, das Blandois ihr gegeben hat. Danach geht Amy ein wenig angewidert und ängstlich auf Abstand zu Frau Clennam. Frau Clennam tut es leid, aber sie ist auch von Stolz erfüllt. Sie bittet Amy, Arthur nichts davon zu erzählen, bis nach dem Tod von Frau Clennam, weil sie es nicht ertragen kann, ihn von sich abwenden zu sehen. Sie weiß, dass er sie nie geliebt hat - und wirklich, warum sollte er das auch tun, wenn sie nie nett oder freundlich oder liebevoll war? - aber er respektiert sie und sie kann es nicht ertragen, das zu verlieren. Amy stimmt zu. Frau Clennam erzählt Amy mehr von ihrer verrückten Gott-beauftragte-mir-Sünden-zu-bestrafen Geschichte. Amy glaubt ihr nicht und versucht, ihre christliche Theologie zu korrigieren, da Frau Clennam viel Gnade und Vergebung außer Acht lässt. Schließlich bittet Frau Clennam Amy, mit ihr zurück ins Haus zu kommen, um Blandois zu zeigen, dass sie die Geschichte bereits kennt und so Frau Clennam etwas Zeit zu verschaffen, um an das Geld zu kommen. Sie gehen dorthin und kurz bevor sie das Haus erreichen, hören sie einen sehr lauten donnernden Lärm. Das Haus stürzt in einen Schutthaufen! Blandois, den sie im Fenster sitzend rauchend gesehen haben, wird im Trümmerhaufen zerquetscht! Es stellt sich heraus, dass Affery recht hatte mit den verrückten Geräuschen im Haus! Frau Clennam bricht zusammen und ist für den Rest ihres Lebens katatonisch und gelähmt. Eine Weile lang denken sie, dass auch Flintwinch dort drin war, aber nach langem Graben kann niemand seine Leiche finden. Und dann stellt sich heraus, dass er, während das alles passierte, seine Position als Partner bei Clennam & Co. nutzte, um alle Vermögenswerte der Firma zu liquidieren und nach Amsterdam zu gehen.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). 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 HIS wife was up when he came in. "Did you have a good time?" she sniffed. "I did not. I had a rotten time! Anything else I got to explain?" "George, how can you speak like--Oh, I don't know what's come over you!" "Good Lord, there's nothing come over me! Why do you look for trouble all the time?" He was warning himself, "Careful! Stop being so disagreeable. Course she feels it, being left alone here all evening." But he forgot his warning as she went on: "Why do you go out and see all sorts of strange people? I suppose you'll say you've been to another committee-meeting this evening!" "Nope. I've been calling on a woman. We sat by the fire and kidded each other and had a whale of a good time, if you want to know!" "Well--From the way you say it, I suppose it's my fault you went there! I probably sent you!" "You did!" "Well, upon my word--" "You hate 'strange people' as you call 'em. If you had your way, I'd be as much of an old stick-in-the-mud as Howard Littlefield. You never want to have anybody with any git to 'em at the house; you want a bunch of old stiffs that sit around and gas about the weather. You're doing your level best to make me old. Well, let me tell you, I'm not going to have--" Overwhelmed she bent to his unprecedented tirade, and in answer she mourned: "Oh, dearest, I don't think that's true. I don't mean to make you old, I know. Perhaps you're partly right. Perhaps I am slow about getting acquainted with new people. But when you think of all the dear good times we have, and the supper-parties and the movies and all--" With true masculine wiles he not only convinced himself that she had injured him but, by the loudness of his voice and the brutality of his attack, he convinced her also, and presently he had her apologizing for his having spent the evening with Tanis. He went up to bed well pleased, not only the master but the martyr of the household. For a distasteful moment after he had lain down he wondered if he had been altogether just. "Ought to be ashamed, bullying her. Maybe there is her side to things. Maybe she hasn't had such a bloomin' hectic time herself. But I don't care! Good for her to get waked up a little. And I'm going to keep free. Of her and Tanis and the fellows at the club and everybody. I'm going to run my own life!" II In this mood he was particularly objectionable at the Boosters' Club lunch next day. They were addressed by a congressman who had just returned from an exhaustive three-months study of the finances, ethnology, political systems, linguistic divisions, mineral resources, and agriculture of Germany, France, Great Britain, Italy, Austria, Czechoslovakia, Jugoslavia, and Bulgaria. He told them all about those subjects, together with three funny stories about European misconceptions of America and some spirited words on the necessity of keeping ignorant foreigners out of America. "Say, that was a mighty informative talk. Real he-stuff," said Sidney Finkelstein. But the disaffected Babbitt grumbled, "Four-flusher! Bunch of hot air! And what's the matter with the immigrants? Gosh, they aren't all ignorant, and I got a hunch we're all descended from immigrants ourselves." "Oh, you make me tired!" said Mr. Finkelstein. Babbitt was aware that Dr. A. I. Dilling was sternly listening from across the table. Dr. Dilling was one of the most important men in the Boosters'. He was not a physician but a surgeon, a more romantic and sounding occupation. He was an intense large man with a boiling of black hair and a thick black mustache. The newspapers often chronicled his operations; he was professor of surgery in the State University; he went to dinner at the very best houses on Royal Ridge; and he was said to be worth several hundred thousand dollars. It was dismaying to Babbitt to have such a person glower at him. He hastily praised the congressman's wit, to Sidney Finkelstein, but for Dr. Dilling's benefit. III That afternoon three men shouldered into Babbitt's office with the air of a Vigilante committee in frontier days. They were large, resolute, big-jawed men, and they were all high lords in the land of Zenith--Dr. Dilling the surgeon, Charles McKelvey the contractor, and, most dismaying of all, the white-bearded Colonel Rutherford Snow, owner of the Advocate-Times. In their whelming presence Babbitt felt small and insignificant. "Well, well, great pleasure, have chairs, what c'n I do for you?" he babbled. They neither sat nor offered observations on the weather. "Babbitt," said Colonel Snow, "we've come from the Good Citizens' League. We've decided we want you to join. Vergil Gunch says you don't care to, but I think we can show you a new light. The League is going to combine with the Chamber of Commerce in a campaign for the Open Shop, so it's time for you to put your name down." In his embarrassment Babbitt could not recall his reasons for not wishing to join the League, if indeed he had ever definitely known them, but he was passionately certain that he did not wish to join, and at the thought of their forcing him he felt a stirring of anger against even these princes of commerce. "Sorry, Colonel, have to think it over a little," he mumbled. McKelvey snarled, "That means you're not going to join, George?" Something black and unfamiliar and ferocious spoke from Babbitt: "Now, you look here, Charley! I'm damned if I'm going to be bullied into joining anything, not even by you plutes!" "We're not bullying anybody," Dr. Dilling began, but Colonel Snow thrust him aside with, "Certainly we are! We don't mind a little bullying, if it's necessary. Babbitt, the G.C.L. has been talking about you a good deal. You're supposed to be a sensible, clean, responsible man; you always have been; but here lately, for God knows what reason, I hear from all sorts of sources that you're running around with a loose crowd, and what's a whole lot worse, you've actually been advocating and supporting some of the most dangerous elements in town, like this fellow Doane." "Colonel, that strikes me as my private business." "Possibly, but we want to have an understanding. You've stood in, you and your father-in-law, with some of the most substantial and forward-looking interests in town, like my friends of the Street Traction Company, and my papers have given you a lot of boosts. Well, you can't expect the decent citizens to go on aiding you if you intend to side with precisely the people who are trying to undermine us." Babbitt was frightened, but he had an agonized instinct that if he yielded in this he would yield in everything. He protested: "You're exaggerating, Colonel. I believe in being broad-minded and liberal, but, of course, I'm just as much agin the cranks and blatherskites and labor unions and so on as you are. But fact is, I belong to so many organizations now that I can't do 'em justice, and I want to think it over before I decide about coming into the G.C.L." Colonel Snow condescended, "Oh, no, I'm not exaggerating! Why the doctor here heard you cussing out and defaming one of the finest types of Republican congressmen, just this noon! And you have entirely the wrong idea about 'thinking over joining.' We're not begging you to join the G.C.L.--we're permitting you to join. I'm not sure, my boy, but what if you put it off it'll be too late. I'm not sure we'll want you then. Better think quick--better think quick!" The three Vigilantes, formidable in their righteousness, stared at him in a taut silence. Babbitt waited through. He thought nothing at all, he merely waited, while in his echoing head buzzed, "I don't want to join--I don't want to join--I don't want to." "All right. Sorry for you!" said Colonel Snow, and the three men abruptly turned their beefy backs. IV As Babbitt went out to his car that evening he saw Vergil Gunch coming down the block. He raised his hand in salutation, but Gunch ignored it and crossed the street. He was certain that Gunch had seen him. He drove home in sharp discomfort. His wife attacked at once: "Georgie dear, Muriel Frink was in this afternoon, and she says that Chum says the committee of this Good Citizens' League especially asked you to join and you wouldn't. Don't you think it would be better? You know all the nicest people belong, and the League stands for--" "I know what the League stands for! It stands for the suppression of free speech and free thought and everything else! I don't propose to be bullied and rushed into joining anything, and it isn't a question of whether it's a good league or a bad league or what the hell kind of a league it is; it's just a question of my refusing to be told I got to--" "But dear, if you don't join, people might criticize you." "Let 'em criticize!" "But I mean NICE people!" "Rats, I--Matter of fact, this whole League is just a fad. It's like all these other organizations that start off with such a rush and let on they're going to change the whole works, and pretty soon they peter out and everybody forgets all about 'em!" "But if it's THE fad now, don't you think you--" "No, I don't! Oh, Myra, please quit nagging me about it. I'm sick of hearing about the confounded G.C.L. I almost wish I'd joined it when Verg first came around, and got it over. And maybe I'd 've come in to-day if the committee hadn't tried to bullyrag me, but, by God, as long as I'm a free-born independent American cit--" "Now, George, you're talking exactly like the German furnace-man." "Oh, I am, am I! Then, I won't talk at all!" He longed, that evening, to see Tanis Judique, to be strengthened by her sympathy. When all the family were up-stairs he got as far as telephoning to her apartment-house, but he was agitated about it and when the janitor answered he blurted, "Nev' mind--I'll call later," and hung up the receiver. V If Babbitt had not been certain about Vergil Gunch's avoiding him, there could be little doubt about William Washington Eathorne, next morning. When Babbitt was driving down to the office he overtook Eathorne's car, with the great banker sitting in anemic solemnity behind his chauffeur. Babbitt waved and cried, "Mornin'!" Eathorne looked at him deliberately, hesitated, and gave him a nod more contemptuous than a direct cut. Babbitt's partner and father-in-law came in at ten: "George, what's this I hear about some song and dance you gave Colonel Snow about not wanting to join the G.C.L.? What the dickens you trying to do? Wreck the firm? You don't suppose these Big Guns will stand your bucking them and springing all this 'liberal' poppycock you been getting off lately, do you?" "Oh, rats, Henry T., you been reading bum fiction. There ain't any such a thing as these plots to keep folks from being liberal. This is a free country. A man can do anything he wants to." "Course th' ain't any plots. Who said they was? Only if folks get an idea you're scatter-brained and unstable, you don't suppose they'll want to do business with you, do you? One little rumor about your being a crank would do more to ruin this business than all the plots and stuff that these fool story-writers could think up in a month of Sundays." That afternoon, when the old reliable Conrad Lyte, the merry miser, Conrad Lyte, appeared, and Babbitt suggested his buying a parcel of land in the new residential section of Dorchester, Lyte said hastily, too hastily, "No, no, don't want to go into anything new just now." A week later Babbitt learned, through Henry Thompson, that the officials of the Street Traction Company were planning another real-estate coup, and that Sanders, Torrey and Wing, not the Babbitt-Thompson Company, were to handle it for them. "I figure that Jake Offutt is kind of leery about the way folks are talking about you. Of course Jake is a rock-ribbed old die-hard, and he probably advised the Traction fellows to get some other broker. George, you got to do something!" trembled Thompson. And, in a rush, Babbitt agreed. All nonsense the way people misjudged him, but still--He determined to join the Good Citizens' League the next time he was asked, and in furious resignation he waited. He wasn't asked. They ignored him. He did not have the courage to go to the League and beg in, and he took refuge in a shaky boast that he had "gotten away with bucking the whole city. Nobody could dictate to him how he was going to think and act!" He was jarred as by nothing else when the paragon of stenographers, Miss McGoun, suddenly left him, though her reasons were excellent--she needed a rest, her sister was sick, she might not do any more work for six months. He was uncomfortable with her successor, Miss Havstad. What Miss Havstad's given name was, no one in the office ever knew. It seemed improbable that she had a given name, a lover, a powder-puff, or a digestion. She was so impersonal, this slight, pale, industrious Swede, that it was vulgar to think of her as going to an ordinary home to eat hash. She was a perfectly oiled and enameled machine, and she ought, each evening, to have been dusted off and shut in her desk beside her too-slim, too-frail pencil points. She took dictation swiftly, her typing was perfect, but Babbitt became jumpy when he tried to work with her. She made him feel puffy, and at his best-beloved daily jokes she looked gently inquiring. He longed for Miss McGoun's return, and thought of writing to her. Then he heard that Miss McGoun had, a week after leaving him, gone over to his dangerous competitors, Sanders, Torrey and Wing. He was not merely annoyed; he was frightened. "Why did she quit, then?" he worried. "Did she have a hunch my business is going on the rocks? And it was Sanders got the Street Traction deal. Rats--sinking ship!" Gray fear loomed always by him now. He watched Fritz Weilinger, the young salesman, and wondered if he too would leave. Daily he fancied slights. He noted that he was not asked to speak at the annual Chamber of Commerce dinner. When Orville Jones gave a large poker party and he was not invited, he was certain that he had been snubbed. He was afraid to go to lunch at the Athletic Club, and afraid not to go. He believed that he was spied on; that when he left the table they whispered about him. Everywhere he heard the rustling whispers: in the offices of clients, in the bank when he made a deposit, in his own office, in his own home. Interminably he wondered what They were saying of him. All day long in imaginary conversations he caught them marveling, "Babbitt? Why, say, he's a regular anarchist! You got to admire the fellow for his nerve, the way he turned liberal and, by golly, just absolutely runs his life to suit himself, but say, he's dangerous, that's what he is, and he's got to be shown up." He was so twitchy that when he rounded a corner and chanced on two acquaintances talking--whispering--his heart leaped, and he stalked by like an embarrassed schoolboy. When he saw his neighbors Howard Littlefield and Orville Jones together, he peered at them, went indoors to escape their spying, and was miserably certain that they had been whispering--plotting--whispering. Through all his fear ran defiance. He felt stubborn. Sometimes he decided that he had been a very devil of a fellow, as bold as Seneca Doane; sometimes he planned to call on Doane and tell him what a revolutionist he was, and never got beyond the planning. But just as often, when he heard the soft whispers enveloping him he wailed, "Good Lord, what have I done? Just played with the Bunch, and called down Clarence Drum about being such a high-and-mighty sodger. Never catch ME criticizing people and trying to make them accept MY ideas!" He could not stand the strain. Before long he admitted that he would like to flee back to the security of conformity, provided there was a decent and creditable way to return. But, stubbornly, he would not be forced back; he would not, he swore, "eat dirt." Only in spirited engagements with his wife did these turbulent fears rise to the surface. She complained that he seemed nervous, that she couldn't understand why he did not want to "drop in at the Littlefields'" for the evening. He tried, but he could not express to her the nebulous facts of his rebellion and punishment. And, with Paul and Tanis lost, he had no one to whom he could talk. "Good Lord, Tinka is the only real friend I have, these days," he sighed, and he clung to the child, played floor-games with her all evening. He considered going to see Paul in prison, but, though he had a pale curt note from him every week, he thought of Paul as dead. It was Tanis for whom he was longing. "I thought I was so smart and independent, cutting Tanis out, and I need her, Lord how I need her!" he raged. "Myra simply can't understand. All she sees in life is getting along by being just like other folks. But Tanis, she'd tell me I was all right." Then he broke, and one evening, late, he did run to Tanis. He had not dared to hope for it, but she was in, and alone. Only she wasn't Tanis. She was a courteous, brow-lifting, ice-armored woman who looked like Tanis. She said, "Yes, George, what is it?" in even and uninterested tones, and he crept away, whipped. His first comfort was from Ted and Eunice Littlefield. They danced in one evening when Ted was home from the university, and Ted chuckled, "What's this I hear from Euny, dad? She says her dad says you raised Cain by boosting old Seneca Doane. Hot dog! Give 'em fits! Stir 'em up! This old burg is asleep!" Eunice plumped down on Babbitt's lap, kissed him, nestled her bobbed hair against his chin, and crowed; "I think you're lots nicer than Howard. Why is it," confidentially, "that Howard is such an old grouch? The man has a good heart, and honestly, he's awfully bright, but he never will learn to step on the gas, after all the training I've given him. Don't you think we could do something with him, dearest?" "Why, Eunice, that isn't a nice way to speak of your papa," Babbitt observed, in the best Floral Heights manner, but he was happy for the first time in weeks. He pictured himself as the veteran liberal strengthened by the loyalty of the young generation. They went out to rifle the ice-box. Babbitt gloated, "If your mother caught us at this, we'd certainly get our come-uppance!" and Eunice became maternal, scrambled a terrifying number of eggs for them, kissed Babbitt on the ear, and in the voice of a brooding abbess marveled, "It beats the devil why feminists like me still go on nursing these men!" Thus stimulated, Babbitt was reckless when he encountered Sheldon Smeeth, educational director of the Y.M.C.A. and choir-leader of the Chatham Road Church. With one of his damp hands Smeeth imprisoned Babbitt's thick paw while he chanted, "Brother Babbitt, we haven't seen you at church very often lately. I know you're busy with a multitude of details, but you mustn't forget your dear friends at the old church home." Babbitt shook off the affectionate clasp--Sheldy liked to hold hands for a long time--and snarled, "Well, I guess you fellows can run the show without me. Sorry, Smeeth; got to beat it. G'day." But afterward he winced, "If that white worm had the nerve to try to drag me back to the Old Church Home, then the holy outfit must have been doing a lot of talking about me, too." He heard them whispering--whispering--Dr. John Jennison Drew, Cholmondeley Frink, even William Washington Eathorne. The independence seeped out of him and he walked the streets alone, afraid of men's cynical eyes and the incessant hiss of whispering. Können Sie eine geeignete Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Zurück zuhause, gesteht George Myra, als sie ihn mit seinem Aufenthaltsort konfrontiert, dass er bei einer anderen Frau war. Doch er macht Myra für seine Untreue verantwortlich. Er manipuliert sie dazu, diese Ansicht zu teilen. Am nächsten Tag bei den Unterstützern des Clubs kritisiert George einen konservativen Kongressabgeordneten in Anwesenheit von Dr. Dilling, einem Chirurgen, der als einer der wichtigsten Männer im Club gilt. Daraufhin kommt es am Nachmittag zu einem Besuch von Dr. Dilling, Charles McKelvey und Colonel Rutherford, drei äußerst mächtigen Männern in Zenith, in Georges Büro. Sie laden George ein, dem Guten-Bürger-Bund beizutreten, und als George antwortet, dass er "darüber nachdenken muss", werden sie bedrohlich. Sie erpressen ihn und nutzen seine jüngste Ungezogenheit als Druckmittel. Sie warnen ihn, dass sein Geschäft nicht mehr gedeihen wird, wenn er nicht beitritt, doch George weigert sich, sich einschüchtern zu lassen. Zu Hause beschwert sich Myra, dass er hätte beitreten sollen. George vermisst Tanis und fühlt sich plötzlich von ehemaligen Kollegen ignoriert. Er verliert Geschäfte. Miss McGoun verlässt Babbitt-Thompson Realty und wechselt zur Konkurrenzfirma. George ist voller Angst, Paranoia und hartnäckiger Trotz. Obwohl "er gerne zur Sicherheit der Konformität fliehen würde, will er nicht gezwungen werden, zurückzugehen". Um Tanis' Mitgefühl zu suchen, erscheint er eines Nachts an ihrer Tür, aber sie reagiert kühl und er zieht sich geschlagen zurück.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: CHAPTER XXVIII IT WAS at a supper of the Jolly Seventeen in August that Carol heard of "Elizabeth," from Mrs. Dave Dyer. Carol was fond of Maud Dyer, because she had been particularly agreeable lately; had obviously repented of the nervous distaste which she had once shown. Maud patted her hand when they met, and asked about Hugh. Kennicott said that he was "kind of sorry for the girl, some ways; she's too darn emotional, but still, Dave is sort of mean to her." He was polite to poor Maud when they all went down to the cottages for a swim. Carol was proud of that sympathy in him, and now she took pains to sit with their new friend. Mrs. Dyer was bubbling, "Oh, have you folks heard about this young fellow that's just come to town that the boys call 'Elizabeth'? He's working in Nat Hicks's tailor shop. I bet he doesn't make eighteen a week, but my! isn't he the perfect lady though! He talks so refined, and oh, the lugs he puts on--belted coat, and pique collar with a gold pin, and socks to match his necktie, and honest--you won't believe this, but I got it straight--this fellow, you know he's staying at Mrs. Gurrey's punk old boarding-house, and they say he asked Mrs. Gurrey if he ought to put on a dress-suit for supper! Imagine! Can you beat that? And him nothing but a Swede tailor--Erik Valborg his name is. But he used to be in a tailor shop in Minneapolis (they do say he's a smart needle-pusher, at that) and he tries to let on that he's a regular city fellow. They say he tries to make people think he's a poet--carries books around and pretends to read 'em. Myrtle Cass says she met him at a dance, and he was mooning around all over the place, and he asked her did she like flowers and poetry and music and everything; he spieled like he was a regular United States Senator; and Myrtle--she's a devil, that girl, ha! ha!--she kidded him along, and got him going, and honest, what d'you think he said? He said he didn't find any intellectual companionship in this town. Can you BEAT it? Imagine! And him a Swede tailor! My! And they say he's the most awful mollycoddle--looks just like a girl. The boys call him 'Elizabeth,' and they stop him and ask about the books he lets on to have read, and he goes and tells them, and they take it all in and jolly him terribly, and he never gets onto the fact they're kidding him. Oh, I think it's just TOO funny!" The Jolly Seventeen laughed, and Carol laughed with them. Mrs. Jack Elder added that this Erik Valborg had confided to Mrs. Gurrey that he would "love to design clothes for women." Imagine! Mrs. Harvey Dillon had had a glimpse of him, but honestly, she'd thought he was awfully handsome. This was instantly controverted by Mrs. B. J. Gougerling, wife of the banker. Mrs. Gougerling had had, she reported, a good look at this Valborg fellow. She and B. J. had been motoring, and passed "Elizabeth" out by McGruder's Bridge. He was wearing the awfullest clothes, with the waist pinched in like a girl's. He was sitting on a rock doing nothing, but when he heard the Gougerling car coming he snatched a book out of his pocket, and as they went by he pretended to be reading it, to show off. And he wasn't really good-looking--just kind of soft, as B. J. had pointed out. When the husbands came they joined in the expose. "My name is Elizabeth. I'm the celebrated musical tailor. The skirts fall for me by the thou. Do I get some more veal loaf?" merrily shrieked Dave Dyer. He had some admirable stories about the tricks the town youngsters had played on Valborg. They had dropped a decaying perch into his pocket. They had pinned on his back a sign, "I'm the prize boob, kick me." Glad of any laughter, Carol joined the frolic, and surprised them by crying, "Dave, I do think you're the dearest thing since you got your hair cut!" That was an excellent sally. Everybody applauded. Kennicott looked proud. She decided that sometime she really must go out of her way to pass Hicks's shop and see this freak. II She was at Sunday morning service at the Baptist Church, in a solemn row with her husband, Hugh, Uncle Whittier, Aunt Bessie. Despite Aunt Bessie's nagging the Kennicotts rarely attended church. The doctor asserted, "Sure, religion is a fine influence--got to have it to keep the lower classes in order--fact, it's the only thing that appeals to a lot of those fellows and makes 'em respect the rights of property. And I guess this theology is O.K.; lot of wise old coots figured it all out, and they knew more about it than we do." He believed in the Christian religion, and never thought about it, he believed in the church, and seldom went near it; he was shocked by Carol's lack of faith, and wasn't quite sure what was the nature of the faith that she lacked. Carol herself was an uneasy and dodging agnostic. When she ventured to Sunday School and heard the teachers droning that the genealogy of Shamsherai was a valuable ethical problem for children to think about; when she experimented with Wednesday prayer-meeting and listened to store-keeping elders giving their unvarying weekly testimony in primitive erotic symbols and such gory Chaldean phrases as "washed in the blood of the lamb" and "a vengeful God"; when Mrs. Bogart boasted that through his boyhood she had made Cy confess nightly upon the basis of the Ten Commandments; then Carol was dismayed to find the Christian religion, in America, in the twentieth century, as abnormal as Zoroastrianism--without the splendor. But when she went to church suppers and felt the friendliness, saw the gaiety with which the sisters served cold ham and scalloped potatoes; when Mrs. Champ Perry cried to her, on an afternoon call, "My dear, if you just knew how happy it makes you to come into abiding grace," then Carol found the humanness behind the sanguinary and alien theology. Always she perceived that the churches--Methodist, Baptist, Congregational, Catholic, all of them--which had seemed so unimportant to the judge's home in her childhood, so isolated from the city struggle in St. Paul, were still, in Gopher Prairie, the strongest of the forces compelling respectability. This August Sunday she had been tempted by the announcement that the Reverend Edmund Zitterel would preach on the topic "America, Face Your Problems!" With the great war, workmen in every nation showing a desire to control industries, Russia hinting a leftward revolution against Kerensky, woman suffrage coming, there seemed to be plenty of problems for the Reverend Mr. Zitterel to call on America to face. Carol gathered her family and trotted off behind Uncle Whittier. The congregation faced the heat with informality. Men with highly plastered hair, so painfully shaved that their faces looked sore, removed their coats, sighed, and unbuttoned two buttons of their uncreased Sunday vests. Large-bosomed, white-bloused, hot-necked, spectacled matrons--the Mothers in Israel, pioneers and friends of Mrs. Champ Perry--waved their palm-leaf fans in a steady rhythm. Abashed boys slunk into the rear pews and giggled, while milky little girls, up front with their mothers, self-consciously kept from turning around. The church was half barn and half Gopher Prairie parlor. The streaky brown wallpaper was broken in its dismal sweep only by framed texts, "Come unto Me" and "The Lord is My Shepherd," by a list of hymns, and by a crimson and green diagram, staggeringly drawn upon hemp-colored paper, indicating the alarming ease with which a young man may descend from Palaces of Pleasure and the House of Pride to Eternal Damnation. But the varnished oak pews and the new red carpet and the three large chairs on the platform, behind the bare reading-stand, were all of a rocking-chair comfort. Carol was civic and neighborly and commendable today. She beamed and bowed. She trolled out with the others the hymn: How pleasant 'tis on Sabbath morn To gather in the church And there I'll have no carnal thoughts, Nor sin shall me besmirch. With a rustle of starched linen skirts and stiff shirt-fronts, the congregation sat down, and gave heed to the Reverend Mr. Zitterel. The priest was a thin, swart, intense young man with a bang. He wore a black sack suit and a lilac tie. He smote the enormous Bible on the reading-stand, vociferated, "Come, let us reason together," delivered a prayer informing Almighty God of the news of the past week, and began to reason. It proved that the only problems which America had to face were Mormonism and Prohibition: "Don't let any of these self-conceited fellows that are always trying to stir up trouble deceive you with the belief that there's anything to all these smart-aleck movements to let the unions and the Farmers' Nonpartisan League kill all our initiative and enterprise by fixing wages and prices. There isn't any movement that amounts to a whoop without it's got a moral background. And let me tell you that while folks are fussing about what they call 'economics' and 'socialism' and 'science' and a lot of things that are nothing in the world but a disguise for atheism, the Old Satan is busy spreading his secret net and tentacles out there in Utah, under his guise of Joe Smith or Brigham Young or whoever their leaders happen to be today, it doesn't make any difference, and they're making game of the Old Bible that has led this American people through its manifold trials and tribulations to its firm position as the fulfilment of the prophecies and the recognized leader of all nations. 'Sit thou on my right hand till I make thine enemies the footstool of my feet,' said the Lord of Hosts, Acts II, the thirty-fourth verse--and let me tell you right now, you got to get up a good deal earlier in the morning than you get up even when you're going fishing, if you want to be smarter than the Lord, who has shown us the straight and narrow way, and he that passeth therefrom is in eternal peril and, to return to this vital and terrible subject of Mormonism--and as I say, it is terrible to realize how little attention is given to this evil right here in our midst and on our very doorstep, as it were--it's a shame and a disgrace that the Congress of these United States spends all its time talking about inconsequential financial matters that ought to be left to the Treasury Department, as I understand it, instead of arising in their might and passing a law that any one admitting he is a Mormon shall simply be deported and as it were kicked out of this free country in which we haven't got any room for polygamy and the tyrannies of Satan. "And, to digress for a moment, especially as there are more of them in this state than there are Mormons, though you never can tell what will happen with this vain generation of young girls, that think more about wearing silk stockings than about minding their mothers and learning to bake a good loaf of bread, and many of them listening to these sneaking Mormon missionaries--and I actually heard one of them talking right out on a street-corner in Duluth, a few years ago, and the officers of the law not protesting--but still, as they are a smaller but more immediate problem, let me stop for just a moment to pay my respects to these Seventh-Day Adventists. Not that they are immoral, I don't mean, but when a body of men go on insisting that Saturday is the Sabbath, after Christ himself has clearly indicated the new dispensation, then I think the legislature ought to step in----" At this point Carol awoke. She got through three more minutes by studying the face of a girl in the pew across: a sensitive unhappy girl whose longing poured out with intimidating self-revelation as she worshiped Mr. Zitterel. Carol wondered who the girl was. She had seen her at church suppers. She considered how many of the three thousand people in the town she did not know; to how many of them the Thanatopsis and the Jolly Seventeen were icy social peaks; how many of them might be toiling through boredom thicker than her own--with greater courage. She examined her nails. She read two hymns. She got some satisfaction out of rubbing an itching knuckle. She pillowed on her shoulder the head of the baby who, after killing time in the same manner as his mother, was so fortunate as to fall asleep. She read the introduction, title-page, and acknowledgment of copyrights, in the hymnal. She tried to evolve a philosophy which would explain why Kennicott could never tie his scarf so that it would reach the top of the gap in his turn-down collar. There were no other diversions to be found in the pew. She glanced back at the congregation. She thought that it would be amiable to bow to Mrs. Champ Perry. Her slow turning head stopped, galvanized. Across the aisle, two rows back, was a strange young man who shone among the cud-chewing citizens like a visitant from the sun-amber curls, low forehead, fine nose, chin smooth but not raw from Sabbath shaving. His lips startled her. The lips of men in Gopher Prairie are flat in the face, straight and grudging. The stranger's mouth was arched, the upper lip short. He wore a brown jersey coat, a delft-blue bow, a white silk shirt, white flannel trousers. He suggested the ocean beach, a tennis court, anything but the sun-blistered utility of Main Street. A visitor from Minneapolis, here for business? No. He wasn't a business man. He was a poet. Keats was in his face, and Shelley, and Arthur Upson, whom she had once seen in Minneapolis. He was at once too sensitive and too sophisticated to touch business as she knew it in Gopher Prairie. With restrained amusement he was analyzing the noisy Mr. Zitterel. Carol was ashamed to have this spy from the Great World hear the pastor's maundering. She felt responsible for the town. She resented his gaping at their private rites. She flushed, turned away. But she continued to feel his presence. How could she meet him? She must! For an hour of talk. He was all that she was hungry for. She could not let him get away without a word--and she would have to. She pictured, and ridiculed, herself as walking up to him and remarking, "I am sick with the Village Virus. Will you please tell me what people are saying and playing in New York?" She pictured, and groaned over, the expression of Kennicott if she should say, "Why wouldn't it be reasonable for you, my soul, to ask that complete stranger in the brown jersey coat to come to supper tonight?" She brooded, not looking back. She warned herself that she was probably exaggerating; that no young man could have all these exalted qualities. Wasn't he too obviously smart, too glossy-new? Like a movie actor. Probably he was a traveling salesman who sang tenor and fancied himself in imitations of Newport clothes and spoke of "the swellest business proposition that ever came down the pike." In a panic she peered at him. No! This was no hustling salesman, this boy with the curving Grecian lips and the serious eyes. She rose after the service, carefully taking Kennicott's arm and smiling at him in a mute assertion that she was devoted to him no matter what happened. She followed the Mystery's soft brown jersey shoulders out of the church. Fatty Hicks, the shrill and puffy son of Nat, flapped his hand at the beautiful stranger and jeered, "How's the kid? All dolled up like a plush horse today, ain't we!" Carol was exceeding sick. Her herald from the outside was Erik Valborg, "Elizabeth." Apprentice tailor! Gasoline and hot goose! Mending dirty jackets! Respectfully holding a tape-measure about a paunch! And yet, she insisted, this boy was also himself. III They had Sunday dinner with the Smails, in a dining-room which centered about a fruit and flower piece and a crayon-enlargement of Uncle Whittier. Carol did not heed Aunt Bessie's fussing in regard to Mrs. Robert B. Schminke's bead necklace and Whittier's error in putting on the striped pants, day like this. She did not taste the shreds of roast pork. She said vacuously: "Uh--Will, I wonder if that young man in the white flannel trousers, at church this morning, was this Valborg person that they're all talking about?" "Yump. That's him. Wasn't that the darndest get-up he had on!" Kennicott scratched at a white smear on his hard gray sleeve. "It wasn't so bad. I wonder where he comes from? He seems to have lived in cities a good deal. Is he from the East?" "Kennicott," she replied, and left the shop without looking back. He had risen and, despite the farcicality of Dr. Will Kennicott's bulgy trousers draped over his arm, he had the grace of a cat. "Kennicott." "Kennicott. Oh! Oh say, you're Mrs. Dr. Kennicott then, aren't you?" "Yes." She stood at the door. Now that she had carried out her preposterous impulse to see what he was like, she was cold, she was as ready to detect familiarities as the virtuous Miss Ella Stowbody. "I've heard about you. Myrtle Cass was saying you got up a dramatic club and gave a dandy play. I've always wished I had a chance to belong to a Little Theater, and give some European plays, or whimsical like Barrie, or a pageant." He pronounced it "pagent"; he rhymed "pag" with "rag." Carol nodded in the manner of a lady being kind to a tradesman, and one of her selves sneered, "Our Erik is indeed a lost John Keats." He was appealing, "Do you suppose it would be possible to get up another dramatic club this coming fall?" "Well, it might be worth thinking of." She came out of her several conflicting poses, and said sincerely, "There's a new teacher, Miss Mullins, who might have some talent. That would make three of us for a nucleus. If we could scrape up half a dozen we might give a real play with a small cast. Have you had any experience?" "Just a bum club that some of us got up in Minneapolis when I was working there. We had one good man, an interior decorator--maybe he was kind of sis and effeminate, but he really was an artist, and we gave one dandy play. But I----Of course I've always had to work hard, and study by myself, and I'm probably sloppy, and I'd love it if I had training in rehearsing--I mean, the crankier the director was, the better I'd like it. If you didn't want to use me as an actor, I'd love to design the costumes. I'm crazy about fabrics--textures and colors and designs." She knew that he was trying to keep her from going, trying to indicate that he was something more than a person to whom one brought trousers for pressing. He besought: "Some day I hope I can get away from this fool repairing, when I have the money saved up. I want to go East and work for some big dressmaker, and study art drawing, and become a high-class designer. Or do you think that's a kind of fiddlin' ambition for a fellow? I was brought up on a farm. And then monkeyin' round with silks! I don't know. What do you think? Myrtle Cass says you're awfully educated." "I am. Awfully. Tell me: Have the boys made fun of your ambition?" She was seventy years old, and sexless, and more advisory than Vida Sherwin. "Well, they have, at that. They've jollied me a good deal, here and Minneapolis both. They say dressmaking is ladies' work. (But I was willing to get drafted for the war! I tried to get in. But they rejected me. But I did try! ) I thought some of working up in a gents' furnishings store, and I had a chance to travel on the road for a clothing house, but somehow--I hate this tailoring, but I can't seem to get enthusiastic about salesmanship. I keep thinking about a room in gray oatmeal paper with prints in very narrow gold frames--or would it be better in white enamel paneling?--but anyway, it looks out on Fifth Avenue, and I'm designing a sumptuous----" He made it "sump-too-ous"--"robe of linden green chiffon over cloth of gold! You know--tileul. It's elegant. . . . What do you think?" "Why not? What do you care for the opinion of city rowdies, or a lot of farm boys? But you mustn't, you really mustn't, let casual strangers like me have a chance to judge you." "Well----You aren't a stranger, one way. Myrtle Cass--Miss Cass, should say--she's spoken about you so often. I wanted to call on you--and the doctor--but I didn't quite have the nerve. One evening I walked past your house, but you and your husband were talking on the porch, and you looked so chummy and happy I didn't dare butt in." Maternally, "I think it's extremely nice of you to want to be trained in--in enunciation by a stage-director. Perhaps I could help you. I'm a thoroughly sound and uninspired schoolma'am by instinct; quite hopelessly mature." "Oh, you aren't EITHER!" She was not very successful at accepting his fervor with the air of amused woman of the world, but she sounded reasonably impersonal: "Thank you. Shall we see if we really can get up a new dramatic club? I'll tell you: Come to the house this evening, about eight. I'll ask Miss Mullins to come over, and we'll talk about it." VI "He has absolutely no sense of humor. Less than Will. But hasn't he-----What is a 'sense of humor'? Isn't the thing he lacks the back-slapping jocosity that passes for humor here? Anyway----Poor lamb, coaxing me to stay and play with him! Poor lonely lamb! If he could be free from Nat Hickses, from people who say 'dandy' and 'bum,' would he develop? "I wonder if Whitman didn't use Brooklyn back-street slang, as a boy? "No. Not Whitman. He's Keats--sensitive to silken things. 'Innumerable of stains and splendid dyes as are the tiger-moth's deep-damask'd wings.' Keats, here! A bewildered spirit fallen on Main Street. And Main Street laughs till it aches, giggles till the spirit doubts his own self and tries to give up the use of wings for the correct uses of a 'gents' furnishings store.' Gopher Prairie with its celebrated eleven miles of cement walk. . . . I wonder how much of the cement is made out of the tombstones of John Keatses?" VII Kennicott was cordial to Fern Mullins, teased her, told her he was a "great hand for running off with pretty school-teachers," and promised that if the school-board should object to her dancing, he would "bat 'em one over the head and tell 'em how lucky they were to get a girl with some go to her, for once." But to Erik Valborg he was not cordial. He shook hands loosely, and said, "H' are yuh." Nat Hicks was socially acceptable; he had been here for years, and owned his shop; but this person was merely Nat's workman, and the town's principle of perfect democracy was not meant to be applied indiscriminately. The conference on a dramatic club theoretically included Kennicott, but he sat back, patting yawns, conscious of Fern's ankles, smiling amiably on the children at their sport. Fern wanted to tell her grievances; Carol was sulky every time she thought of "The Girl from Kankakee"; it was Erik who made suggestions. He had read with astounding breadth, and astounding lack of judgment. His voice was sensitive to liquids, but he overused the word "glorious." He mispronounced a tenth of the words he had from books, but he knew it. He was insistent, but he was shy. When he demanded, "I'd like to stage 'Suppressed Desires,' by Cook and Miss Glaspell," Carol ceased to be patronizing. He was not the yearner: he was the artist, sure of his vision. "I'd make it simple. Use a big window at the back, with a cyclorama of a blue that would simply hit you in the eye, and just one tree-branch, to suggest a park below. Put the breakfast table on a dais. Let the colors be kind of arty and tea-roomy--orange chairs, and orange and blue table, and blue Japanese breakfast set, and some place, one big flat smear of black--bang! Oh. Another play I wish we could do is Tennyson Jesse's 'The Black Mask.' I've never seen it but----Glorious ending, where this woman looks at the man with his face all blown away, and she just gives one horrible scream." "Good God, is that your idea of a glorious ending?" bayed Kennicott. "That sounds fierce! I do love artistic things, but not the horrible ones," moaned Fern Mullins. Erik was bewildered; glanced at Carol. She nodded loyally. At the end of the conference they had decided nothing. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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

Carol empfindet Maud als sehr freundlich. Sie ist stolz auf Kennicotts Mitgefühl, als er ihr sagt, dass es ihm leid tut für Maud, weil Dave sehr unhöflich zu ihr ist. Sie erfährt auch von Maud, dass Nat Hicks einen neuen Assistenten hat, der so weiblich aussieht, dass er Elizabeth genannt wird. Er kleidet sich in einen Mantel und eine Krawatte und spricht auf sehr raffinierte Weise, verdient aber kaum achtzehn Dollar die Woche. Die Damen lachen über ihn und auch die Männer machen sich über ihn lustig. Die Jungen necken ihn, indem sie ihm einen verrottenden Barsch in die Tasche stecken. Carol geht in die Kirche, weil das Thema des Tages von Mr. Zitterel lautet: Amerika - Stelle dich deinen Problemen. Er verurteilt den Mormonismus und setzt sich für das Verbot aus. Carol, die erwartet hatte, über Probleme wie den Ersten Weltkrieg und die Russische Revolution aufgeklärt zu werden, ist enttäuscht. Als sie sich umsieht, um sich abzulenken, entdeckt sie einen Fremden, der den Prediger amüsiert betrachtet. Er sieht aus wie ein Dichter. Aber Carol missfällt es, dass ein Fremder die Menschen ihrer Stadt amüsant findet. Sie möchte mit ihm sprechen. Sie ist enttäuscht, als sie erfährt, dass der Fremde Erik Valborg, genannt Elizabeth, ist. Carol erfährt, dass Valborg ein Schwede ist und der Sohn eines Landwirts. Er hat in Minneapolis Schneider gelernt. Er hat viele Bücher auf eigene Faust gelesen. Onkel Whittier meint, er sollte im Krieg sein. Kennicott teilt ihnen mit, dass er sich beworben hatte, aber disqualifiziert wurde. Fern Mullins, die neue Englisch-, Französisch- und Gymnastiklehrerin, fällt Carol ebenfalls auf. Sie scheint einsam zu sein, also geht Carol zu ihr, um mit ihr zu reden. Sie ist zweiundzwanzig und sieht hübsch und auch etwas gewagt aus. Wie Carol liebt sie auch die großen Städte und fühlt sich in Gopher Prairie gefangen. Sie liebt Dramatik, Tanzen und Basketball. Sie erzählt Carol, dass sie sehr wohl wusste, dass sie als schlechter Einfluss angesehen würde, wenn sie etwas von dem tun würde, was sie mochte. Sie informiert Carol, dass sie kündigen und Gopher Prairie verlassen würde, wenn sie einen Job in der Stadt bekäme. Carol erzählt ihr, dass sie sich genauso fühlt. Sie haben so viel zu besprechen, dass Kennicott herauskommen muss, um Carol ins Bett zu rufen. Carol ist sehr glücklich, eine gute Freundin gefunden zu haben. Carol trifft Valborg oft und schilt sich selbst für ihr Verlangen, mit ihm zu sprechen. An einem Freitag bringt sie Kennicotts Hose in den Laden, um sie bügeln zu lassen. Als sie ihren Namen nennt, sagt er ihr, dass er sie treffen und mit ihr sprechen wollte. Er hatte von ihrem Theaterstück gehört und erzählt ihr, dass sein Wunsch sei, in einem Stück zu spielen. Carol stellt fest, dass er viele Worte falsch aussprach. Er erzählt ihr, dass er hart arbeiten musste und dass er ein Autodidakt sei. Er glaubt, dass er mit einem guten Regisseur eine gute Leistung erbringen könnte. Carol sagt ihm, dass sie Fern konsultieren und sehen wird, ob sie ein weiteres Theaterstück präsentieren könnten. Erik hat auch den Wunsch, in den Osten zu gehen und Modedesigner zu werden. Er weiß, dass viele Leute Modedesign als Frauenarbeit betrachten und über seinen Wunsch lustig gemacht haben. Er informiert Carol, dass er keine Freude an der Schneiderei hatte und kein Verkäufer sein wollte. Er fragt Carol nach ihrer Meinung, was er tun sollte. Sie sagt ihm, dass sie als Fremde kein Recht hat, ihm Ratschläge zu geben. Er sagt ihr, dass sie ihm keine Fremde ist, weil er viel von ihr gehört hat. Sie lädt ihn ein, um acht Uhr zu ihr nach Hause zu kommen, um über die Wiederbelebung des Schauspielclubs zu diskutieren. Carol ist voller Mitgefühl für Erik. Sie findet, dass er keinen Sinn für Humor hat, obwohl er wie John Keats aussieht. Kennicott spricht sehr jovial mit Fern, ist aber distanziert zu Eric. Er nimmt nicht an ihrer Diskussion teil, sondern sitzt freundlich dabei und beobachtet sie. Fern verliert sich in Selbstmitleid. Carol ist beleidigt, jedes Mal wenn das Mädchen aus Kankakee erwähnt wird. Erik macht einige Vorschläge. Er möchte "Unterdrückte Wünsche" inszenieren. Er schlägt sogar das Bühnenbild vor. Er schlägt auch "Die schwarze Maske" vor, die seiner Meinung nach ein glorreiches Ende hat. Er beschreibt die Frau in der Geschichte, wie sie das Gesicht des Mannes mit der schwarzen Maske betrachtet. Sein Gesicht wird weggeblasen und sie schreit. Dabei lacht Kennicott und Fern stöhnt und Erik sieht verwirrt aus. Sie trennen sich, ohne etwas zu entscheiden.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). 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: Lancelot and Elaine Elaine the fair, Elaine the loveable, Elaine, the lily maid of Astolat, High in her chamber up a tower to the east Guarded the sacred shield of Lancelot; Which first she placed where the morning's earliest ray Might strike it, and awake her with the gleam; Then fearing rust or soilure fashioned for it A case of silk, and braided thereupon All the devices blazoned on the shield In their own tinct, and added, of her wit, A border fantasy of branch and flower, And yellow-throated nestling in the nest. Nor rested thus content, but day by day, Leaving her household and good father, climbed That eastern tower, and entering barred her door, Stript off the case, and read the naked shield, Now guessed a hidden meaning in his arms, Now made a pretty history to herself Of every dint a sword had beaten in it, And every scratch a lance had made upon it, Conjecturing when and where: this cut is fresh; That ten years back; this dealt him at Caerlyle; That at Caerleon; this at Camelot: And ah God's mercy, what a stroke was there! And here a thrust that might have killed, but God Broke the strong lance, and rolled his enemy down, And saved him: so she lived in fantasy. How came the lily maid by that good shield Of Lancelot, she that knew not even his name? He left it with her, when he rode to tilt For the great diamond in the diamond jousts, Which Arthur had ordained, and by that name Had named them, since a diamond was the prize. For Arthur, long before they crowned him King, Roving the trackless realms of Lyonnesse, Had found a glen, gray boulder and black tarn. A horror lived about the tarn, and clave Like its own mists to all the mountain side: For here two brothers, one a king, had met And fought together; but their names were lost; And each had slain his brother at a blow; And down they fell and made the glen abhorred: And there they lay till all their bones were bleached, And lichened into colour with the crags: And he, that once was king, had on a crown Of diamonds, one in front, and four aside. And Arthur came, and labouring up the pass, All in a misty moonshine, unawares Had trodden that crowned skeleton, and the skull Brake from the nape, and from the skull the crown Rolled into light, and turning on its rims Fled like a glittering rivulet to the tarn: And down the shingly scaur he plunged, and caught, And set it on his head, and in his heart Heard murmurs, 'Lo, thou likewise shalt be King.' Thereafter, when a King, he had the gems Plucked from the crown, and showed them to his knights, Saying, 'These jewels, whereupon I chanced Divinely, are the kingdom's, not the King's-- For public use: henceforward let there be, Once every year, a joust for one of these: For so by nine years' proof we needs must learn Which is our mightiest, and ourselves shall grow In use of arms and manhood, till we drive The heathen, who, some say, shall rule the land Hereafter, which God hinder.' Thus he spoke: And eight years past, eight jousts had been, and still Had Lancelot won the diamond of the year, With purpose to present them to the Queen, When all were won; but meaning all at once To snare her royal fancy with a boon Worth half her realm, had never spoken word. Now for the central diamond and the last And largest, Arthur, holding then his court Hard on the river nigh the place which now Is this world's hugest, let proclaim a joust At Camelot, and when the time drew nigh Spake (for she had been sick) to Guinevere, 'Are you so sick, my Queen, you cannot move To these fair jousts?' 'Yea, lord,' she said, 'ye know it.' 'Then will ye miss,' he answered, 'the great deeds Of Lancelot, and his prowess in the lists, A sight ye love to look on.' And the Queen Lifted her eyes, and they dwelt languidly On Lancelot, where he stood beside the King. He thinking that he read her meaning there, 'Stay with me, I am sick; my love is more Than many diamonds,' yielded; and a heart Love-loyal to the least wish of the Queen (However much he yearned to make complete The tale of diamonds for his destined boon) Urged him to speak against the truth, and say, 'Sir King, mine ancient wound is hardly whole, And lets me from the saddle;' and the King Glanced first at him, then her, and went his way. No sooner gone than suddenly she began: 'To blame, my lord Sir Lancelot, much to blame! Why go ye not to these fair jousts? the knights Are half of them our enemies, and the crowd Will murmur, "Lo the shameless ones, who take Their pastime now the trustful King is gone!"' Then Lancelot vext at having lied in vain: 'Are ye so wise? ye were not once so wise, My Queen, that summer, when ye loved me first. Then of the crowd ye took no more account Than of the myriad cricket of the mead, When its own voice clings to each blade of grass, And every voice is nothing. As to knights, Them surely can I silence with all ease. But now my loyal worship is allowed Of all men: many a bard, without offence, Has linked our names together in his lay, Lancelot, the flower of bravery, Guinevere, The pearl of beauty: and our knights at feast Have pledged us in this union, while the King Would listen smiling. How then? is there more? Has Arthur spoken aught? or would yourself, Now weary of my service and devoir, Henceforth be truer to your faultless lord?' She broke into a little scornful laugh: 'Arthur, my lord, Arthur, the faultless King, That passionate perfection, my good lord-- But who can gaze upon the Sun in heaven? He never spake word of reproach to me, He never had a glimpse of mine untruth, He cares not for me: only here today There gleamed a vague suspicion in his eyes: Some meddling rogue has tampered with him--else Rapt in this fancy of his Table Round, And swearing men to vows impossible, To make them like himself: but, friend, to me He is all fault who hath no fault at all: For who loves me must have a touch of earth; The low sun makes the colour: I am yours, Not Arthur's, as ye know, save by the bond. And therefore hear my words: go to the jousts: The tiny-trumpeting gnat can break our dream When sweetest; and the vermin voices here May buzz so loud--we scorn them, but they sting.' Then answered Lancelot, the chief of knights: 'And with what face, after my pretext made, Shall I appear, O Queen, at Camelot, I Before a King who honours his own word, As if it were his God's?' 'Yea,' said the Queen, 'A moral child without the craft to rule, Else had he not lost me: but listen to me, If I must find you wit: we hear it said That men go down before your spear at a touch, But knowing you are Lancelot; your great name, This conquers: hide it therefore; go unknown: Win! by this kiss you will: and our true King Will then allow your pretext, O my knight, As all for glory; for to speak him true, Ye know right well, how meek soe'er he seem, No keener hunter after glory breathes. He loves it in his knights more than himself: They prove to him his work: win and return.' Then got Sir Lancelot suddenly to horse, Wroth at himself. Not willing to be known, He left the barren-beaten thoroughfare, Chose the green path that showed the rarer foot, And there among the solitary downs, Full often lost in fancy, lost his way; Till as he traced a faintly-shadowed track, That all in loops and links among the dales Ran to the Castle of Astolat, he saw Fired from the west, far on a hill, the towers. Thither he made, and blew the gateway horn. Then came an old, dumb, myriad-wrinkled man, Who let him into lodging and disarmed. And Lancelot marvelled at the wordless man; And issuing found the Lord of Astolat With two strong sons, Sir Torre and Sir Lavaine, Moving to meet him in the castle court; And close behind them stept the lily maid Elaine, his daughter: mother of the house There was not: some light jest among them rose With laughter dying down as the great knight Approached them: then the Lord of Astolat: 'Whence comes thou, my guest, and by what name Livest thou between the lips? for by thy state And presence I might guess thee chief of those, After the King, who eat in Arthur's halls. Him have I seen: the rest, his Table Round, Known as they are, to me they are unknown.' Then answered Sir Lancelot, the chief of knights: 'Known am I, and of Arthur's hall, and known, What I by mere mischance have brought, my shield. But since I go to joust as one unknown At Camelot for the diamond, ask me not, Hereafter ye shall know me--and the shield-- I pray you lend me one, if such you have, Blank, or at least with some device not mine.' Then said the Lord of Astolat, 'Here is Torre's: Hurt in his first tilt was my son, Sir Torre. And so, God wot, his shield is blank enough. His ye can have.' Then added plain Sir Torre, 'Yea, since I cannot use it, ye may have it.' Here laughed the father saying, 'Fie, Sir Churl, Is that answer for a noble knight? Allow him! but Lavaine, my younger here, He is so full of lustihood, he will ride, Joust for it, and win, and bring it in an hour, And set it in this damsel's golden hair, To make her thrice as wilful as before.' 'Nay, father, nay good father, shame me not Before this noble knight,' said young Lavaine, 'For nothing. Surely I but played on Torre: He seemed so sullen, vext he could not go: A jest, no more! for, knight, the maiden dreamt That some one put this diamond in her hand, And that it was too slippery to be held, And slipt and fell into some pool or stream, The castle-well, belike; and then I said That if I went and if I fought and won it (But all was jest and joke among ourselves) Then must she keep it safelier. All was jest. But, father, give me leave, an if he will, To ride to Camelot with this noble knight: Win shall I not, but do my best to win: Young as I am, yet would I do my best.' 'So will ye grace me,' answered Lancelot, Smiling a moment, 'with your fellowship O'er these waste downs whereon I lost myself, Then were I glad of you as guide and friend: And you shall win this diamond,--as I hear It is a fair large diamond,--if ye may, And yield it to this maiden, if ye will.' 'A fair large diamond,' added plain Sir Torre, 'Such be for queens, and not for simple maids.' Then she, who held her eyes upon the ground, Elaine, and heard her name so tost about, Flushed slightly at the slight disparagement Before the stranger knight, who, looking at her, Full courtly, yet not falsely, thus returned: 'If what is fair be but for what is fair, And only queens are to be counted so, Rash were my judgment then, who deem this maid Might wear as fair a jewel as is on earth, Not violating the bond of like to like.' He spoke and ceased: the lily maid Elaine, Won by the mellow voice before she looked, Lifted her eyes, and read his lineaments. The great and guilty love he bare the Queen, In battle with the love he bare his lord, Had marred his face, and marked it ere his time. Another sinning on such heights with one, The flower of all the west and all the world, Had been the sleeker for it: but in him His mood was often like a fiend, and rose And drove him into wastes and solitudes For agony, who was yet a living soul. Marred as he was, he seemed the goodliest man That ever among ladies ate in hall, And noblest, when she lifted up her eyes. However marred, of more than twice her years, Seamed with an ancient swordcut on the cheek, And bruised and bronzed, she lifted up her eyes And loved him, with that love which was her doom. Then the great knight, the darling of the court, Loved of the loveliest, into that rude hall Stept with all grace, and not with half disdain Hid under grace, as in a smaller time, But kindly man moving among his kind: Whom they with meats and vintage of their best And talk and minstrel melody entertained. And much they asked of court and Table Round, And ever well and readily answered he: But Lancelot, when they glanced at Guinevere, Suddenly speaking of the wordless man, Heard from the Baron that, ten years before, The heathen caught and reft him of his tongue. 'He learnt and warned me of their fierce design Against my house, and him they caught and maimed; But I, my sons, and little daughter fled From bonds or death, and dwelt among the woods By the great river in a boatman's hut. Dull days were those, till our good Arthur broke The Pagan yet once more on Badon hill.' 'O there, great lord, doubtless,' Lavaine said, rapt By all the sweet and sudden passion of youth Toward greatness in its elder, 'you have fought. O tell us--for we live apart--you know Of Arthur's glorious wars.' And Lancelot spoke And answered him at full, as having been With Arthur in the fight which all day long Rang by the white mouth of the violent Glem; And in the four loud battles by the shore Of Duglas; that on Bassa; then the war That thundered in and out the gloomy skirts Of Celidon the forest; and again By castle Gurnion, where the glorious King Had on his cuirass worn our Lady's Head, Carved of one emerald centered in a sun Of silver rays, that lightened as he breathed; And at Caerleon had he helped his lord, When the strong neighings of the wild white Horse Set every gilded parapet shuddering; And up in Agned-Cathregonion too, And down the waste sand-shores of Trath Treroit, Where many a heathen fell; 'and on the mount Of Badon I myself beheld the King Charge at the head of all his Table Round, And all his legions crying Christ and him, And break them; and I saw him, after, stand High on a heap of slain, from spur to plume Red as the rising sun with heathen blood, And seeing me, with a great voice he cried, "They are broken, they are broken!" for the King, However mild he seems at home, nor cares For triumph in our mimic wars, the jousts-- For if his own knight cast him down, he laughs Saying, his knights are better men than he-- Yet in this heathen war the fire of God Fills him: I never saw his like: there lives No greater leader.' While he uttered this, Low to her own heart said the lily maid, 'Save your own great self, fair lord;' and when he fell From talk of war to traits of pleasantry-- Being mirthful he, but in a stately kind-- She still took note that when the living smile Died from his lips, across him came a cloud Of melancholy severe, from which again, Whenever in her hovering to and fro The lily maid had striven to make him cheer, There brake a sudden-beaming tenderness Of manners and of nature: and she thought That all was nature, all, perchance, for her. And all night long his face before her lived, As when a painter, poring on a face, Divinely through all hindrance finds the man Behind it, and so paints him that his face, The shape and colour of a mind and life, Lives for his children, ever at its best And fullest; so the face before her lived, Dark-splendid, speaking in the silence, full Of noble things, and held her from her sleep. Till rathe she rose, half-cheated in the thought She needs must bid farewell to sweet Lavaine. First in fear, step after step, she stole Down the long tower-stairs, hesitating: Anon, she heard Sir Lancelot cry in the court, 'This shield, my friend, where is it?' and Lavaine Past inward, as she came from out the tower. There to his proud horse Lancelot turned, and smoothed The glossy shoulder, humming to himself. Half-envious of the flattering hand, she drew Nearer and stood. He looked, and more amazed Than if seven men had set upon him, saw The maiden standing in the dewy light. He had not dreamed she was so beautiful. Then came on him a sort of sacred fear, For silent, though he greeted her, she stood Rapt on his face as if it were a God's. Suddenly flashed on her a wild desire, That he should wear her favour at the tilt. She braved a riotous heart in asking for it. 'Fair lord, whose name I know not--noble it is, I well believe, the noblest--will you wear My favour at this tourney?' 'Nay,' said he, 'Fair lady, since I never yet have worn Favour of any lady in the lists. Such is my wont, as those, who know me, know.' 'Yea, so,' she answered; 'then in wearing mine Needs must be lesser likelihood, noble lord, That those who know should know you.' And he turned Her counsel up and down within his mind, And found it true, and answered, 'True, my child. Well, I will wear it: fetch it out to me: What is it?' and she told him 'A red sleeve Broidered with pearls,' and brought it: then he bound Her token on his helmet, with a smile Saying, 'I never yet have done so much For any maiden living,' and the blood Sprang to her face and filled her with delight; But left her all the paler, when Lavaine Returning brought the yet-unblazoned shield, His brother's; which he gave to Lancelot, Who parted with his own to fair Elaine: 'Do me this grace, my child, to have my shield In keeping till I come.' 'A grace to me,' She answered, 'twice today. I am your squire!' Whereat Lavaine said, laughing, 'Lily maid, For fear our people call you lily maid In earnest, let me bring your colour back; Once, twice, and thrice: now get you hence to bed:' So kissed her, and Sir Lancelot his own hand, And thus they moved away: she stayed a minute, Then made a sudden step to the gate, and there-- Her bright hair blown about the serious face Yet rosy-kindled with her brother's kiss-- Paused by the gateway, standing near the shield In silence, while she watched their arms far-off Sparkle, until they dipt below the downs. Then to her tower she climbed, and took the shield, There kept it, and so lived in fantasy. Meanwhile the new companions past away Far o'er the long backs of the bushless downs, To where Sir Lancelot knew there lived a knight Not far from Camelot, now for forty years A hermit, who had prayed, laboured and prayed, And ever labouring had scooped himself In the white rock a chapel and a hall On massive columns, like a shorecliff cave, And cells and chambers: all were fair and dry; The green light from the meadows underneath Struck up and lived along the milky roofs; And in the meadows tremulous aspen-trees And poplars made a noise of falling showers. And thither wending there that night they bode. But when the next day broke from underground, And shot red fire and shadows through the cave, They rose, heard mass, broke fast, and rode away: Then Lancelot saying, 'Hear, but hold my name Hidden, you ride with Lancelot of the Lake,' Abashed young Lavaine, whose instant reverence, Dearer to true young hearts than their own praise, But left him leave to stammer, 'Is it indeed?' And after muttering 'The great Lancelot, At last he got his breath and answered, 'One, One have I seen--that other, our liege lord, The dread Pendragon, Britain's King of kings, Of whom the people talk mysteriously, He will be there--then were I stricken blind That minute, I might say that I had seen.' So spake Lavaine, and when they reached the lists By Camelot in the meadow, let his eyes Run through the peopled gallery which half round Lay like a rainbow fallen upon the grass, Until they found the clear-faced King, who sat Robed in red samite, easily to be known, Since to his crown the golden dragon clung, And down his robe the dragon writhed in gold, And from the carven-work behind him crept Two dragons gilded, sloping down to make Arms for his chair, while all the rest of them Through knots and loops and folds innumerable Fled ever through the woodwork, till they found The new design wherein they lost themselves, Yet with all ease, so tender was the work: And, in the costly canopy o'er him set, Blazed the last diamond of the nameless king. Then Lancelot answered young Lavaine and said, 'Me you call great: mine is the firmer seat, The truer lance: but there is many a youth Now crescent, who will come to all I am And overcome it; and in me there dwells No greatness, save it be some far-off touch Of greatness to know well I am not great: There is the man.' And Lavaine gaped upon him As on a thing miraculous, and anon The trumpets blew; and then did either side, They that assailed, and they that held the lists, Set lance in rest, strike spur, suddenly move, Meet in the midst, and there so furiously Shock, that a man far-off might well perceive, If any man that day were left afield, The hard earth shake, and a low thunder of arms. And Lancelot bode a little, till he saw Which were the weaker; then he hurled into it Against the stronger: little need to speak Of Lancelot in his glory! King, duke, earl, Count, baron--whom he smote, he overthrew. But in the field were Lancelot's kith and kin, Ranged with the Table Round that held the lists, Strong men, and wrathful that a stranger knight Should do and almost overdo the deeds Of Lancelot; and one said to the other, 'Lo! What is he? I do not mean the force alone-- The grace and versatility of the man! Is it not Lancelot?' 'When has Lancelot worn Favour of any lady in the lists? Not such his wont, as we, that know him, know.' 'How then? who then?' a fury seized them all, A fiery family passion for the name Of Lancelot, and a glory one with theirs. They couched their spears and pricked their steeds, and thus, Their plumes driven backward by the wind they made In moving, all together down upon him Bare, as a wild wave in the wide North-sea, Green-glimmering toward the summit, bears, with all Its stormy crests that smoke against the skies, Down on a bark, and overbears the bark, And him that helms it, so they overbore Sir Lancelot and his charger, and a spear Down-glancing lamed the charger, and a spear Pricked sharply his own cuirass, and the head Pierced through his side, and there snapt, and remained. Then Sir Lavaine did well and worshipfully; He bore a knight of old repute to the earth, And brought his horse to Lancelot where he lay. He up the side, sweating with agony, got, But thought to do while he might yet endure, And being lustily holpen by the rest, His party,--though it seemed half-miracle To those he fought with,--drave his kith and kin, And all the Table Round that held the lists, Back to the barrier; then the trumpets blew Proclaiming his the prize, who wore the sleeve Of scarlet, and the pearls; and all the knights, His party, cried 'Advance and take thy prize The diamond;' but he answered, 'Diamond me No diamonds! for God's love, a little air! Prize me no prizes, for my prize is death! Hence will I, and I charge you, follow me not.' He spoke, and vanished suddenly from the field With young Lavaine into the poplar grove. There from his charger down he slid, and sat, Gasping to Sir Lavaine, 'Draw the lance-head:' 'Ah my sweet lord Sir Lancelot,' said Lavaine, 'I dread me, if I draw it, you will die.' But he, 'I die already with it: draw-- Draw,'--and Lavaine drew, and Sir Lancelot gave A marvellous great shriek and ghastly groan, And half his blood burst forth, and down he sank For the pure pain, and wholly swooned away. Then came the hermit out and bare him in, There stanched his wound; and there, in daily doubt Whether to live or die, for many a week Hid from the wide world's rumour by the grove Of poplars with their noise of falling showers, And ever-tremulous aspen-trees, he lay. But on that day when Lancelot fled the lists, His party, knights of utmost North and West, Lords of waste marches, kings of desolate isles, Came round their great Pendragon, saying to him, 'Lo, Sire, our knight, through whom we won the day, Hath gone sore wounded, and hath left his prize Untaken, crying that his prize is death.' 'Heaven hinder,' said the King, 'that such an one, So great a knight as we have seen today-- He seemed to me another Lancelot-- Yea, twenty times I thought him Lancelot-- He must not pass uncared for. Wherefore, rise, O Gawain, and ride forth and find the knight. Wounded and wearied needs must he be near. I charge you that you get at once to horse. And, knights and kings, there breathes not one of you Will deem this prize of ours is rashly given: His prowess was too wondrous. We will do him No customary honour: since the knight Came not to us, of us to claim the prize, Ourselves will send it after. Rise and take This diamond, and deliver it, and return, And bring us where he is, and how he fares, And cease not from your quest until ye find.' So saying, from the carven flower above, To which it made a restless heart, he took, And gave, the diamond: then from where he sat At Arthur's right, with smiling face arose, With smiling face and frowning heart, a Prince In the mid might and flourish of his May, Gawain, surnamed The Courteous, fair and strong, And after Lancelot, Tristram, and Geraint And Gareth, a good knight, but therewithal Sir Modred's brother, and the child of Lot, Nor often loyal to his word, and now Wroth that the King's command to sally forth In quest of whom he knew not, made him leave The banquet, and concourse of knights and kings. So all in wrath he got to horse and went; While Arthur to the banquet, dark in mood, Past, thinking 'Is it Lancelot who hath come Despite the wound he spake of, all for gain Of glory, and hath added wound to wound, And ridden away to die?' So feared the King, And, after two days' tarriance there, returned. Then when he saw the Queen, embracing asked, 'Love, are you yet so sick?' 'Nay, lord,' she said. 'And where is Lancelot?' Then the Queen amazed, 'Was he not with you? won he not your prize?' 'Nay, but one like him.' 'Why that like was he.' And when the King demanded how she knew, Said, 'Lord, no sooner had ye parted from us, Than Lancelot told me of a common talk That men went down before his spear at a touch, But knowing he was Lancelot; his great name Conquered; and therefore would he hide his name From all men, even the King, and to this end Had made a pretext of a hindering wound, That he might joust unknown of all, and learn If his old prowess were in aught decayed; And added, "Our true Arthur, when he learns, Will well allow me pretext, as for gain Of purer glory."' Then replied the King: 'Far lovelier in our Lancelot had it been, In lieu of idly dallying with the truth, To have trusted me as he hath trusted thee. Surely his King and most familiar friend Might well have kept his secret. True, indeed, Albeit I know my knights fantastical, So fine a fear in our large Lancelot Must needs have moved my laughter: now remains But little cause for laughter: his own kin-- Ill news, my Queen, for all who love him, this!-- His kith and kin, not knowing, set upon him; So that he went sore wounded from the field: Yet good news too: for goodly hopes are mine That Lancelot is no more a lonely heart. He wore, against his wont, upon his helm A sleeve of scarlet, broidered with great pearls, Some gentle maiden's gift.' 'Yea, lord,' she said, 'Thy hopes are mine,' and saying that, she choked, And sharply turned about to hide her face, Past to her chamber, and there flung herself Down on the great King's couch, and writhed upon it, And clenched her fingers till they bit the palm, And shrieked out 'Traitor' to the unhearing wall, Then flashed into wild tears, and rose again, And moved about her palace, proud and pale. Gawain the while through all the region round Rode with his diamond, wearied of the quest, Touched at all points, except the poplar grove, And came at last, though late, to Astolat: Whom glittering in enamelled arms the maid Glanced at, and cried, 'What news from Camelot, lord? What of the knight with the red sleeve?' 'He won.' 'I knew it,' she said. 'But parted from the jousts Hurt in the side,' whereat she caught her breath; Through her own side she felt the sharp lance go; Thereon she smote her hand: wellnigh she swooned: And, while he gazed wonderingly at her, came The Lord of Astolat out, to whom the Prince Reported who he was, and on what quest Sent, that he bore the prize and could not find The victor, but had ridden a random round To seek him, and had wearied of the search. To whom the Lord of Astolat, 'Bide with us, And ride no more at random, noble Prince! Here was the knight, and here he left a shield; This will he send or come for: furthermore Our son is with him; we shall hear anon, Needs must hear.' To this the courteous Prince Accorded with his wonted courtesy, Courtesy with a touch of traitor in it, And stayed; and cast his eyes on fair Elaine: Where could be found face daintier? then her shape From forehead down to foot, perfect--again From foot to forehead exquisitely turned: 'Well--if I bide, lo! this wild flower for me!' And oft they met among the garden yews, And there he set himself to play upon her With sallying wit, free flashes from a height Above her, graces of the court, and songs, Sighs, and slow smiles, and golden eloquence And amorous adulation, till the maid Rebelled against it, saying to him, 'Prince, O loyal nephew of our noble King, Why ask you not to see the shield he left, Whence you might learn his name? Why slight your King, And lose the quest he sent you on, and prove No surer than our falcon yesterday, Who lost the hern we slipt her at, and went To all the winds?' 'Nay, by mine head,' said he, 'I lose it, as we lose the lark in heaven, O damsel, in the light of your blue eyes; But an ye will it let me see the shield.' And when the shield was brought, and Gawain saw Sir Lancelot's azure lions, crowned with gold, Ramp in the field, he smote his thigh, and mocked: 'Right was the King! our Lancelot! that true man!' 'And right was I,' she answered merrily, 'I, Who dreamed my knight the greatest knight of all.' 'And if I dreamed,' said Gawain, 'that you love This greatest knight, your pardon! lo, ye know it! Speak therefore: shall I waste myself in vain?' Full simple was her answer, 'What know I? My brethren have been all my fellowship; And I, when often they have talked of love, Wished it had been my mother, for they talked, Meseemed, of what they knew not; so myself-- I know not if I know what true love is, But if I know, then, if I love not him, I know there is none other I can love.' 'Yea, by God's death,' said he, 'ye love him well, But would not, knew ye what all others know, And whom he loves.' 'So be it,' cried Elaine, And lifted her fair face and moved away: But he pursued her, calling, 'Stay a little! One golden minute's grace! he wore your sleeve: Would he break faith with one I may not name? Must our true man change like a leaf at last? Nay--like enow: why then, far be it from me To cross our mighty Lancelot in his loves! And, damsel, for I deem you know full well Where your great knight is hidden, let me leave My quest with you; the diamond also: here! For if you love, it will be sweet to give it; And if he love, it will be sweet to have it From your own hand; and whether he love or not, A diamond is a diamond. Fare you well A thousand times!--a thousand times farewell! Yet, if he love, and his love hold, we two May meet at court hereafter: there, I think, So ye will learn the courtesies of the court, We two shall know each other.' Then he gave, And slightly kissed the hand to which he gave, The diamond, and all wearied of the quest Leapt on his horse, and carolling as he went A true-love ballad, lightly rode away. Thence to the court he past; there told the King What the King knew, 'Sir Lancelot is the knight.' And added, 'Sire, my liege, so much I learnt; But failed to find him, though I rode all round The region: but I lighted on the maid Whose sleeve he wore; she loves him; and to her, Deeming our courtesy is the truest law, I gave the diamond: she will render it; For by mine head she knows his hiding-place.' The seldom-frowning King frowned, and replied, 'Too courteous truly! ye shall go no more On quest of mine, seeing that ye forget Obedience is the courtesy due to kings.' He spake and parted. Wroth, but all in awe, For twenty strokes of the blood, without a word, Lingered that other, staring after him; Then shook his hair, strode off, and buzzed abroad About the maid of Astolat, and her love. All ears were pricked at once, all tongues were loosed: 'The maid of Astolat loves Sir Lancelot, Sir Lancelot loves the maid of Astolat.' Some read the King's face, some the Queen's, and all Had marvel what the maid might be, but most Predoomed her as unworthy. One old dame Came suddenly on the Queen with the sharp news. She, that had heard the noise of it before, But sorrowing Lancelot should have stooped so low, Marred her friend's aim with pale tranquillity. So ran the tale like fire about the court, Fire in dry stubble a nine-days' wonder flared: Till even the knights at banquet twice or thrice Forgot to drink to Lancelot and the Queen, And pledging Lancelot and the lily maid Smiled at each other, while the Queen, who sat With lips severely placid, felt the knot Climb in her throat, and with her feet unseen Crushed the wild passion out against the floor Beneath the banquet, where all the meats became As wormwood, and she hated all who pledged. But far away the maid in Astolat, Her guiltless rival, she that ever kept The one-day-seen Sir Lancelot in her heart, Crept to her father, while he mused alone, Sat on his knee, stroked his gray face and said, 'Father, you call me wilful, and the fault Is yours who let me have my will, and now, Sweet father, will you let me lose my wits?' 'Nay,' said he, 'surely.' 'Wherefore, let me hence,' She answered, 'and find out our dear Lavaine.' 'Ye will not lose your wits for dear Lavaine: Bide,' answered he: 'we needs must hear anon Of him, and of that other.' 'Ay,' she said, 'And of that other, for I needs must hence And find that other, wheresoe'er he be, And with mine own hand give his diamond to him, Lest I be found as faithless in the quest As yon proud Prince who left the quest to me. Sweet father, I behold him in my dreams Gaunt as it were the skeleton of himself, Death-pale, for lack of gentle maiden's aid. The gentler-born the maiden, the more bound, My father, to be sweet and serviceable To noble knights in sickness, as ye know When these have worn their tokens: let me hence I pray you.' Then her father nodding said, 'Ay, ay, the diamond: wit ye well, my child, Right fain were I to learn this knight were whole, Being our greatest: yea, and you must give it-- And sure I think this fruit is hung too high For any mouth to gape for save a queen's-- Nay, I mean nothing: so then, get you gone, Being so very wilful you must go.' Lightly, her suit allowed, she slipt away, And while she made her ready for her ride, Her father's latest word hummed in her ear, 'Being so very wilful you must go,' And changed itself and echoed in her heart, 'Being so very wilful you must die.' But she was happy enough and shook it off, As we shake off the bee that buzzes at us; And in her heart she answered it and said, 'What matter, so I help him back to life?' Then far away with good Sir Torre for guide Rode o'er the long backs of the bushless downs To Camelot, and before the city-gates Came on her brother with a happy face Making a roan horse caper and curvet For pleasure all about a field of flowers: Whom when she saw, 'Lavaine,' she cried, 'Lavaine, How fares my lord Sir Lancelot?' He amazed, 'Torre and Elaine! why here? Sir Lancelot! How know ye my lord's name is Lancelot?' But when the maid had told him all her tale, Then turned Sir Torre, and being in his moods Left them, and under the strange-statued gate, Where Arthur's wars were rendered mystically, Past up the still rich city to his kin, His own far blood, which dwelt at Camelot; And her, Lavaine across the poplar grove Led to the caves: there first she saw the casque Of Lancelot on the wall: her scarlet sleeve, Though carved and cut, and half the pearls away, Streamed from it still; and in her heart she laughed, Because he had not loosed it from his helm, But meant once more perchance to tourney in it. And when they gained the cell wherein he slept, His battle-writhen arms and mighty hands Lay naked on the wolfskin, and a dream Of dragging down his enemy made them move. Then she that saw him lying unsleek, unshorn, Gaunt as it were the skeleton of himself, Uttered a little tender dolorous cry. The sound not wonted in a place so still Woke the sick knight, and while he rolled his eyes Yet blank from sleep, she started to him, saying, 'Your prize the diamond sent you by the King:' His eyes glistened: she fancied 'Is it for me?' And when the maid had told him all the tale Of King and Prince, the diamond sent, the quest Assigned to her not worthy of it, she knelt Full lowly by the corners of his bed, And laid the diamond in his open hand. Her face was near, and as we kiss the child That does the task assigned, he kissed her face. At once she slipt like water to the floor. 'Alas,' he said, 'your ride hath wearied you. Rest must you have.' 'No rest for me,' she said; 'Nay, for near you, fair lord, I am at rest.' What might she mean by that? his large black eyes, Yet larger through his leanness, dwelt upon her, Till all her heart's sad secret blazed itself In the heart's colours on her simple face; And Lancelot looked and was perplext in mind, And being weak in body said no more; But did not love the colour; woman's love, Save one, he not regarded, and so turned Sighing, and feigned a sleep until he slept. Then rose Elaine and glided through the fields, And past beneath the weirdly-sculptured gates Far up the dim rich city to her kin; There bode the night: but woke with dawn, and past Down through the dim rich city to the fields, Thence to the cave: so day by day she past In either twilight ghost-like to and fro Gliding, and every day she tended him, And likewise many a night: and Lancelot Would, though he called his wound a little hurt Whereof he should be quickly whole, at times Brain-feverous in his heat and agony, seem Uncourteous, even he: but the meek maid Sweetly forbore him ever, being to him Meeker than any child to a rough nurse, Milder than any mother to a sick child, And never woman yet, since man's first fall, Did kindlier unto man, but her deep love Upbore her; till the hermit, skilled in all The simples and the science of that time, Told him that her fine care had saved his life. And the sick man forgot her simple blush, Would call her friend and sister, sweet Elaine, Would listen for her coming and regret Her parting step, and held her tenderly, And loved her with all love except the love Of man and woman when they love their best, Closest and sweetest, and had died the death In any knightly fashion for her sake. And peradventure had he seen her first She might have made this and that other world Another world for the sick man; but now The shackles of an old love straitened him, His honour rooted in dishonour stood, And faith unfaithful kept him falsely true. Yet the great knight in his mid-sickness made Full many a holy vow and pure resolve. These, as but born of sickness, could not live: For when the blood ran lustier in him again, Full often the bright image of one face, Making a treacherous quiet in his heart, Dispersed his resolution like a cloud. Then if the maiden, while that ghostly grace Beamed on his fancy, spoke, he answered not, Or short and coldly, and she knew right well What the rough sickness meant, but what this meant She knew not, and the sorrow dimmed her sight, And drave her ere her time across the fields Far into the rich city, where alone She murmured, 'Vain, in vain: it cannot be. He will not love me: how then? must I die?' Then as a little helpless innocent bird, That has but one plain passage of few notes, Will sing the simple passage o'er and o'er For all an April morning, till the ear Wearies to hear it, so the simple maid Went half the night repeating, 'Must I die?' And now to right she turned, and now to left, And found no ease in turning or in rest; And 'Him or death,' she muttered, 'death or him,' Again and like a burthen, 'Him or death.' But when Sir Lancelot's deadly hurt was whole, To Astolat returning rode the three. There morn by morn, arraying her sweet self In that wherein she deemed she looked her best, She came before Sir Lancelot, for she thought 'If I be loved, these are my festal robes, If not, the victim's flowers before he fall.' And Lancelot ever prest upon the maid That she should ask some goodly gift of him For her own self or hers; 'and do not shun To speak the wish most near to your true heart; Such service have ye done me, that I make My will of yours, and Prince and Lord am I In mine own land, and what I will I can.' Then like a ghost she lifted up her face, But like a ghost without the power to speak. And Lancelot saw that she withheld her wish, And bode among them yet a little space Till he should learn it; and one morn it chanced He found her in among the garden yews, And said, 'Delay no longer, speak your wish, Seeing I go today:' then out she brake: 'Going? and we shall never see you more. And I must die for want of one bold word.' 'Speak: that I live to hear,' he said, 'is yours.' Then suddenly and passionately she spoke: 'I have gone mad. I love you: let me die.' 'Ah, sister,' answered Lancelot, 'what is this?' And innocently extending her white arms, 'Your love,' she said, 'your love--to be your wife.' And Lancelot answered, 'Had I chosen to wed, I had been wedded earlier, sweet Elaine: But now there never will be wife of mine.' 'No, no,' she cried, 'I care not to be wife, But to be with you still, to see your face, To serve you, and to follow you through the world.' And Lancelot answered, 'Nay, the world, the world, All ear and eye, with such a stupid heart To interpret ear and eye, and such a tongue To blare its own interpretation--nay, Full ill then should I quit your brother's love, And your good father's kindness.' And she said, 'Not to be with you, not to see your face-- Alas for me then, my good days are done.' 'Nay, noble maid,' he answered, 'ten times nay! This is not love: but love's first flash in youth, Most common: yea, I know it of mine own self: And you yourself will smile at your own self Hereafter, when you yield your flower of life To one more fitly yours, not thrice your age: And then will I, for true you are and sweet Beyond mine old belief in womanhood, More specially should your good knight be poor, Endow you with broad land and territory Even to the half my realm beyond the seas, So that would make you happy: furthermore, Even to the death, as though ye were my blood, In all your quarrels will I be your knight. This I will do, dear damsel, for your sake, And more than this I cannot.' While he spoke She neither blushed nor shook, but deathly-pale Stood grasping what was nearest, then replied: 'Of all this will I nothing;' and so fell, And thus they bore her swooning to her tower. Then spake, to whom through those black walls of yew Their talk had pierced, her father: 'Ay, a flash, I fear me, that will strike my blossom dead. Too courteous are ye, fair Lord Lancelot. I pray you, use some rough discourtesy To blunt or break her passion.' Lancelot said, 'That were against me: what I can I will;' And there that day remained, and toward even Sent for his shield: full meekly rose the maid, Stript off the case, and gave the naked shield; Then, when she heard his horse upon the stones, Unclasping flung the casement back, and looked Down on his helm, from which her sleeve had gone. And Lancelot knew the little clinking sound; And she by tact of love was well aware That Lancelot knew that she was looking at him. And yet he glanced not up, nor waved his hand, Nor bad farewell, but sadly rode away. This was the one discourtesy that he used. So in her tower alone the maiden sat: His very shield was gone; only the case, Her own poor work, her empty labour, left. But still she heard him, still his picture formed And grew between her and the pictured wall. Then came her father, saying in low tones, 'Have comfort,' whom she greeted quietly. Then came her brethren saying, 'Peace to thee, Sweet sister,' whom she answered with all calm. But when they left her to herself again, Death, like a friend's voice from a distant field Approaching through the darkness, called; the owls Wailing had power upon her, and she mixt Her fancies with the sallow-rifted glooms Of evening, and the moanings of the wind. And in those days she made a little song, And called her song 'The Song of Love and Death,' And sang it: sweetly could she make and sing. 'Sweet is true love though given in vain, in vain; And sweet is death who puts an end to pain: I know not which is sweeter, no, not I. 'Love, art thou sweet? then bitter death must be: Love, thou art bitter; sweet is death to me. O Love, if death be sweeter, let me die. 'Sweet love, that seems not made to fade away, Sweet death, that seems to make us loveless clay, I know not which is sweeter, no, not I. 'I fain would follow love, if that could be; I needs must follow death, who calls for me; Call and I follow, I follow! let me die.' High with the last line scaled her voice, and this, All in a fiery dawning wild with wind That shook her tower, the brothers heard, and thought With shuddering, 'Hark the Phantom of the house That ever shrieks before a death,' and called The father, and all three in hurry and fear Ran to her, and lo! the blood-red light of dawn Flared on her face, she shrilling, 'Let me die!' As when we dwell upon a word we know, Repeating, till the word we know so well Becomes a wonder, and we know not why, So dwelt the father on her face, and thought 'Is this Elaine?' till back the maiden fell, Then gave a languid hand to each, and lay, Speaking a still good-morrow with her eyes. At last she said, 'Sweet brothers, yesternight I seemed a curious little maid again, As happy as when we dwelt among the woods, And when ye used to take me with the flood Up the great river in the boatman's boat. Only ye would not pass beyond the cape That has the poplar on it: there ye fixt Your limit, oft returning with the tide. And yet I cried because ye would not pass Beyond it, and far up the shining flood Until we found the palace of the King. And yet ye would not; but this night I dreamed That I was all alone upon the flood, And then I said, "Now shall I have my will:" And there I woke, but still the wish remained. So let me hence that I may pass at last Beyond the poplar and far up the flood, Until I find the palace of the King. There will I enter in among them all, And no man there will dare to mock at me; But there the fine Gawain will wonder at me, And there the great Sir Lancelot muse at me; Gawain, who bad a thousand farewells to me, Lancelot, who coldly went, nor bad me one: And there the King will know me and my love, And there the Queen herself will pity me, And all the gentle court will welcome me, And after my long voyage I shall rest!' 'Peace,' said her father, 'O my child, ye seem Light-headed, for what force is yours to go So far, being sick? and wherefore would ye look On this proud fellow again, who scorns us all?' Then the rough Torre began to heave and move, And bluster into stormy sobs and say, 'I never loved him: an I meet with him, I care not howsoever great he be, Then will I strike at him and strike him down, Give me good fortune, I will strike him dead, For this discomfort he hath done the house.' To whom the gentle sister made reply, 'Fret not yourself, dear brother, nor be wroth, Seeing it is no more Sir Lancelot's fault Not to love me, than it is mine to love Him of all men who seems to me the highest.' 'Highest?' the father answered, echoing 'highest?' (He meant to break the passion in her) 'nay, Daughter, I know not what you call the highest; But this I know, for all the people know it, He loves the Queen, and in an open shame: And she returns his love in open shame; If this be high, what is it to be low?' Then spake the lily maid of Astolat: 'Sweet father, all too faint and sick am I For anger: these are slanders: never yet Was noble man but made ignoble talk. He makes no friend who never made a foe. But now it is my glory to have loved One peerless, without stain: so let me pass, My father, howsoe'er I seem to you, Not all unhappy, having loved God's best And greatest, though my love had no return: Yet, seeing you desire your child to live, Thanks, but you work against your own desire; For if I could believe the things you say I should but die the sooner; wherefore cease, Sweet father, and bid call the ghostly man Hither, and let me shrive me clean, and die.' So when the ghostly man had come and gone, She with a face, bright as for sin forgiven, Besought Lavaine to write as she devised A letter, word for word; and when he asked 'Is it for Lancelot, is it for my dear lord? Then will I bear it gladly;' she replied, 'For Lancelot and the Queen and all the world, But I myself must bear it.' Then he wrote The letter she devised; which being writ And folded, 'O sweet father, tender and true, Deny me not,' she said--'ye never yet Denied my fancies--this, however strange, My latest: lay the letter in my hand A little ere I die, and close the hand Upon it; I shall guard it even in death. And when the heat is gone from out my heart, Then take the little bed on which I died For Lancelot's love, and deck it like the Queen's For richness, and me also like the Queen In all I have of rich, and lay me on it. And let there be prepared a chariot-bier To take me to the river, and a barge Be ready on the river, clothed in black. I go in state to court, to meet the Queen. There surely I shall speak for mine own self, And none of you can speak for me so well. And therefore let our dumb old man alone Go with me, he can steer and row, and he Will guide me to that palace, to the doors.' She ceased: her father promised; whereupon She grew so cheerful that they deemed her death Was rather in the fantasy than the blood. But ten slow mornings past, and on the eleventh Her father laid the letter in her hand, And closed the hand upon it, and she died. So that day there was dole in Astolat. But when the next sun brake from underground, Then, those two brethren slowly with bent brows Accompanying, the sad chariot-bier Past like a shadow through the field, that shone Full-summer, to that stream whereon the barge, Palled all its length in blackest samite, lay. There sat the lifelong creature of the house, Loyal, the dumb old servitor, on deck, Winking his eyes, and twisted all his face. So those two brethren from the chariot took And on the black decks laid her in her bed, Set in her hand a lily, o'er her hung The silken case with braided blazonings, And kissed her quiet brows, and saying to her 'Sister, farewell for ever,' and again 'Farewell, sweet sister,' parted all in tears. Then rose the dumb old servitor, and the dead, Oared by the dumb, went upward with the flood-- In her right hand the lily, in her left The letter--all her bright hair streaming down-- And all the coverlid was cloth of gold Drawn to her waist, and she herself in white All but her face, and that clear-featured face Was lovely, for she did not seem as dead, But fast asleep, and lay as though she smiled. That day Sir Lancelot at the palace craved Audience of Guinevere, to give at last, The price of half a realm, his costly gift, Hard-won and hardly won with bruise and blow, With deaths of others, and almost his own, The nine-years-fought-for diamonds: for he saw One of her house, and sent him to the Queen Bearing his wish, whereto the Queen agreed With such and so unmoved a majesty She might have seemed her statue, but that he, Low-drooping till he wellnigh kissed her feet For loyal awe, saw with a sidelong eye The shadow of some piece of pointed lace, In the Queen's shadow, vibrate on the walls, And parted, laughing in his courtly heart. All in an oriel on the summer side, Vine-clad, of Arthur's palace toward the stream, They met, and Lancelot kneeling uttered, 'Queen, Lady, my liege, in whom I have my joy, Take, what I had not won except for you, These jewels, and make me happy, making them An armlet for the roundest arm on earth, Or necklace for a neck to which the swan's Is tawnier than her cygnet's: these are words: Your beauty is your beauty, and I sin In speaking, yet O grant my worship of it Words, as we grant grief tears. Such sin in words Perchance, we both can pardon: but, my Queen, I hear of rumours flying through your court. Our bond, as not the bond of man and wife, Should have in it an absoluter trust To make up that defect: let rumours be: When did not rumours fly? these, as I trust That you trust me in your own nobleness, I may not well believe that you believe.' While thus he spoke, half turned away, the Queen Brake from the vast oriel-embowering vine Leaf after leaf, and tore, and cast them off, Till all the place whereon she stood was green; Then, when he ceased, in one cold passive hand Received at once and laid aside the gems There on a table near her, and replied: 'It may be, I am quicker of belief Than you believe me, Lancelot of the Lake. Our bond is not the bond of man and wife. This good is in it, whatsoe'er of ill, It can be broken easier. I for you This many a year have done despite and wrong To one whom ever in my heart of hearts I did acknowledge nobler. What are these? Diamonds for me! they had been thrice their worth Being your gift, had you not lost your own. To loyal hearts the value of all gifts Must vary as the giver's. Not for me! For her! for your new fancy. Only this Grant me, I pray you: have your joys apart. I doubt not that however changed, you keep So much of what is graceful: and myself Would shun to break those bounds of courtesy In which as Arthur's Queen I move and rule: So cannot speak my mind. An end to this! A strange one! yet I take it with Amen. So pray you, add my diamonds to her pearls; Deck her with these; tell her, she shines me down: An armlet for an arm to which the Queen's Is haggard, or a necklace for a neck O as much fairer--as a faith once fair Was richer than these diamonds--hers not mine-- Nay, by the mother of our Lord himself, Or hers or mine, mine now to work my will-- She shall not have them.' Saying which she seized, And, through the casement standing wide for heat, Flung them, and down they flashed, and smote the stream. Then from the smitten surface flashed, as it were, Diamonds to meet them, and they past away. Then while Sir Lancelot leant, in half disdain At love, life, all things, on the window ledge, Close underneath his eyes, and right across Where these had fallen, slowly past the barge. Whereon the lily maid of Astolat Lay smiling, like a star in blackest night. But the wild Queen, who saw not, burst away To weep and wail in secret; and the barge, On to the palace-doorway sliding, paused. There two stood armed, and kept the door; to whom, All up the marble stair, tier over tier, Were added mouths that gaped, and eyes that asked 'What is it?' but that oarsman's haggard face, As hard and still as is the face that men Shape to their fancy's eye from broken rocks On some cliff-side, appalled them, and they said 'He is enchanted, cannot speak--and she, Look how she sleeps--the Fairy Queen, so fair! Yea, but how pale! what are they? flesh and blood? Or come to take the King to Fairyland? For some do hold our Arthur cannot die, But that he passes into Fairyland.' While thus they babbled of the King, the King Came girt with knights: then turned the tongueless man From the half-face to the full eye, and rose And pointed to the damsel, and the doors. So Arthur bad the meek Sir Percivale And pure Sir Galahad to uplift the maid; And reverently they bore her into hall. Then came the fine Gawain and wondered at her, And Lancelot later came and mused at her, And last the Queen herself, and pitied her: But Arthur spied the letter in her hand, Stoopt, took, brake seal, and read it; this was all: 'Most noble lord, Sir Lancelot of the Lake, I, sometime called the maid of Astolat, Come, for you left me taking no farewell, Hither, to take my last farewell of you. I loved you, and my love had no return, And therefore my true love has been my death. And therefore to our Lady Guinevere, And to all other ladies, I make moan: Pray for my soul, and yield me burial. Pray for my soul thou too, Sir Lancelot, As thou art a knight peerless.' Thus he read; And ever in the reading, lords and dames Wept, looking often from his face who read To hers which lay so silent, and at times, So touched were they, half-thinking that her lips, Who had devised the letter, moved again. Then freely spoke Sir Lancelot to them all: 'My lord liege Arthur, and all ye that hear, Know that for this most gentle maiden's death Right heavy am I; for good she was and true, But loved me with a love beyond all love In women, whomsoever I have known. Yet to be loved makes not to love again; Not at my years, however it hold in youth. I swear by truth and knighthood that I gave No cause, not willingly, for such a love: To this I call my friends in testimony, Her brethren, and her father, who himself Besought me to be plain and blunt, and use, To break her passion, some discourtesy Against my nature: what I could, I did. I left her and I bad her no farewell; Though, had I dreamt the damsel would have died, I might have put my wits to some rough use, And helped her from herself.' Then said the Queen (Sea was her wrath, yet working after storm) 'Ye might at least have done her so much grace, Fair lord, as would have helped her from her death.' He raised his head, their eyes met and hers fell, He adding, 'Queen, she would not be content Save that I wedded her, which could not be. Then might she follow me through the world, she asked; It could not be. I told her that her love Was but the flash of youth, would darken down To rise hereafter in a stiller flame Toward one more worthy of her--then would I, More specially were he, she wedded, poor, Estate them with large land and territory In mine own realm beyond the narrow seas, To keep them in all joyance: more than this I could not; this she would not, and she died.' He pausing, Arthur answered, 'O my knight, It will be to thy worship, as my knight, And mine, as head of all our Table Round, To see that she be buried worshipfully.' So toward that shrine which then in all the realm Was richest, Arthur leading, slowly went The marshalled Order of their Table Round, And Lancelot sad beyond his wont, to see The maiden buried, not as one unknown, Nor meanly, but with gorgeous obsequies, And mass, and rolling music, like a queen. And when the knights had laid her comely head Low in the dust of half-forgotten kings, Then Arthur spake among them, 'Let her tomb Be costly, and her image thereupon, And let the shield of Lancelot at her feet Be carven, and her lily in her hand. And let the story of her dolorous voyage For all true hearts be blazoned on her tomb In letters gold and azure!' which was wrought Thereafter; but when now the lords and dames And people, from the high door streaming, brake Disorderly, as homeward each, the Queen, Who marked Sir Lancelot where he moved apart, Drew near, and sighed in passing, 'Lancelot, Forgive me; mine was jealousy in love.' He answered with his eyes upon the ground, 'That is love's curse; pass on, my Queen, forgiven.' But Arthur, who beheld his cloudy brows, Approached him, and with full affection said, 'Lancelot, my Lancelot, thou in whom I have Most joy and most affiance, for I know What thou hast been in battle by my side, And many a time have watched thee at the tilt Strike down the lusty and long practised knight, And let the younger and unskilled go by To win his honour and to make his name, And loved thy courtesies and thee, a man Made to be loved; but now I would to God, Seeing the homeless trouble in thine eyes, Thou couldst have loved this maiden, shaped, it seems, By God for thee alone, and from her face, If one may judge the living by the dead, Delicately pure and marvellously fair, Who might have brought thee, now a lonely man Wifeless and heirless, noble issue, sons Born to the glory of thine name and fame, My knight, the great Sir Lancelot of the Lake.' Then answered Lancelot, 'Fair she was, my King, Pure, as you ever wish your knights to be. To doubt her fairness were to want an eye, To doubt her pureness were to want a heart-- Yea, to be loved, if what is worthy love Could bind him, but free love will not be bound.' 'Free love, so bound, were freest,' said the King. 'Let love be free; free love is for the best: And, after heaven, on our dull side of death, What should be best, if not so pure a love Clothed in so pure a loveliness? yet thee She failed to bind, though being, as I think, Unbound as yet, and gentle, as I know.' And Lancelot answered nothing, but he went, And at the inrunning of a little brook Sat by the river in a cove, and watched The high reed wave, and lifted up his eyes And saw the barge that brought her moving down, Far-off, a blot upon the stream, and said Low in himself, 'Ah simple heart and sweet, Ye loved me, damsel, surely with a love Far tenderer than my Queen's. Pray for thy soul? Ay, that will I. Farewell too--now at last-- Farewell, fair lily. "Jealousy in love?" Not rather dead love's harsh heir, jealous pride? Queen, if I grant the jealousy as of love, May not your crescent fear for name and fame Speak, as it waxes, of a love that wanes? Why did the King dwell on my name to me? Mine own name shames me, seeming a reproach, Lancelot, whom the Lady of the Lake Caught from his mother's arms--the wondrous one Who passes through the vision of the night-- She chanted snatches of mysterious hymns Heard on the winding waters, eve and morn She kissed me saying, "Thou art fair, my child, As a king's son," and often in her arms She bare me, pacing on the dusky mere. Would she had drowned me in it, where'er it be! For what am I? what profits me my name Of greatest knight? I fought for it, and have it: Pleasure to have it, none; to lose it, pain; Now grown a part of me: but what use in it? To make men worse by making my sin known? Or sin seem less, the sinner seeming great? Alas for Arthur's greatest knight, a man Not after Arthur's heart! I needs must break These bonds that so defame me: not without She wills it: would I, if she willed it? nay, Who knows? but if I would not, then may God, I pray him, send a sudden Angel down To seize me by the hair and bear me far, And fling me deep in that forgotten mere, Among the tumbled fragments of the hills.' So groaned Sir Lancelot in remorseful pain, Not knowing he should die a holy man. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Elaine, die gerechte und liebenswerte, auch bekannt als die Lilienjungfrau von Astolat, sitzt allein in ihrer Kammer hoch in einem Turm und wacht über den Schild von Sir Lancelot. Sie widmet all ihre Energie darauf, diesen Schild vor Rost oder anderen Schäden zu schützen und hat dafür eine aufwändig bestickte Seidenhülle angefertigt. Sie ist so oft bei dem Schild, dass sie jede Kratzer und Delle darin kennt und die Geschichten dahinter weiß. In ihren Fantasien erlebt sie die aufregenden Schlachten und Turniere wieder, an die sie erinnern. Wie kommt es, dass diese unschuldige Jungfrau Lancelots Schild hat, vor allem, wo sie seinen Namen einmal nicht einmal kannte? Vor einiger Zeit wurde der Schild ihr anvertraut von seinem Besitzer, als er sich aufmachte, um an einem großen Turnier teilzunehmen, bei dem der König einen wertvollen Diamanten dem Sieger überreichen sollte. Schon lange vor seiner Krönung hatte Arthur neun wertvolle Juwelen in Besitz genommen, die er oft stolz bei Hofe präsentierte. Jedes Jahr sponserte er ein Turnier, bei dem eines dieser Juwelen dem Gewinner überreicht wurde. In diesem, dem neunten Jahr, blieb nur noch der größte Diamant übrig. Bei jedem der vorherigen Wettbewerbe hatte Lancelot den Preis gewonnen. Er hatte die Juwelen gespart und insgeheim geplant, sie der Königin als Geschenk anzubieten, nachdem er die ganze Serie beisammen hatte. Nun war wieder Zeit für das Turnier und der Hof begab sich von London nach Camelot für das große Ereignis. Guinevere hatte sich kürzlich von einer schweren Krankheit erholt und bat um Erlaubnis, zurückzubleiben. Nachdem er von Guineveres Verbleib in London erfahren hatte, ging Lancelot zum König und erlangte mit der Behauptung, eine seiner alten Wunden bereite ihm wieder Beschwerden, die Erlaubnis, in London zu bleiben. Nachdem die anderen weg waren, begann Guinevere bei Lancelot zu meckern, was er getan hatte, und wies darauf hin, dass er lediglich zusätzliches Material für diejenigen geliefert habe, die sich daran ergötzten, sie zu verleumden. Beide Ruf würden darunter leiden, sagte sie, und das ohne guten Grund. Lancelot war verärgert über ihre Reaktion, einerseits wegen der Enttäuschung und andererseits, weil er es ablehnte, umsonst gelogen zu haben. Er erkundigte sich, ob der König Verdacht geschöpft habe in Bezug auf ihre Beziehung und fragte spöttisch, ob sie nun von ihm genug hätte und ihren Mann bevorzuge. Guinevere lachte verächtlich und sagte: "Arthur, mein Herr, Arthur, der fehlerlose König, diese leidenschaftliche Perfektion, mein lieber Herr – Aber wer kann schon die Sonne am Himmel anblicken? Er hat nie ein Wort der Vorwürfe gegen mich gerichtet, er hatte nie einen Blick auf meine Unwahrheit, er kümmert sich nicht um mich. Nur heute glomm ein vages Misstrauen in seinen Augen zu mir ... Er ist ganz und gar fehlerhaft, obwohl er keinen Fehler hat. Denn wer mich liebt, muss etwas Erdiges haben; die tiefe Sonne gibt die Farben. Ich gehöre dir, nicht Arthur, wie du weißt, außer für das Versprechen." Die Königin schlug vor, dass Lancelot am Turnier teilnehmen solle, um schädliches Gerede zu vermeiden. Er machte sich Sorgen um die Ausrede, die er machen würde, aber sie plante, dass er an den Turnieren teilnehmen sollte, während er in Verkleidung war. Dann könnte er sagen, dass der Plan im Voraus ausgearbeitet worden wäre, um zu beweisen, dass er noch immer all seine Ritterlichkeit besaß und nicht nur von seinem Ruf lebte. Arthur, so prophezeite sie, würde von dieser Geschichte begeistert sein. Lancelot machte sich auf den Weg zum Turnier, ritt allein und hielt auf dem Weg am Schloss Astolat an. Dort wurde er vom Herrn des Ortes, seinen Söhnen Sir Torre und Sir Lavaine und seiner schönen Tochter Elaine bewirtet. Er identifizierte sich nicht, aber es war für sie leicht festzustellen, dass er ein großer Ritter und aus dem königlichen Hof war. Die schüchterne und unschuldige junge Elaine fühlte sich natürlich zu dem gutaussehenden, edlen und erfahrenen Ritter hingezogen. Lancelot näherte sich ihr nicht, aber wegen seiner ritterlichen Natur war er freundlich und aufmerksam zu ihr. Elaines Naivität ließ sie das missverstehen. Sie saß fasziniert da, als er von Hof und Schlachten erzählte, und schon bald hatte sie sich in ihn verliebt. Am nächsten Morgen lieh Lancelot sich einen alten Schild und ließ seinen eigenen in Elaines Obhut, um seine Verkleidung zu vollenden. Sie bat ihn, ihr Liebespfand auf seinem Helm zu tragen, und obwohl er zuvor keiner Frau auf diese Weise Ehre erwiesen hatte, stimmte er zu, als sie darauf hinwies, dass es auch zu seiner Verkleidung beitragen würde. Lancelot machte sich in Begleitung von Sir Lavaine auf den Weg nach Camelot. Unterwegs erzählte er seinem Gefährten seine wahre Identität. In der Zwischenzeit blieb Elaine in Astolat und wachte über den Schild und träumte von dem Mann, den sie liebte. Bei dem Turnier erkannte niemand Lancelot und alle waren überrascht vom erstaunlichen Erfolg dieses unbekannten Ritters. Lancelots Freunde und Verwandten waren jedoch verärgert über die Vermessenheit dieses Fremden, der versuchte, den Ruf ihres Helden zu übertreffen, und griffen ihn an. Er war zahlenmäßig unterlegen und schwer verwundet. Trotz seiner Verletzung war er immer noch der offensichtliche Gewinner und wurde eingeladen, den Preis anzunehmen, aber Lancelot rief: "Gebt mir keinen Diamanten! Um Gottes willen, nur ein bisschen Luft! Schenkt mir keinen Preis, denn mein Preis ist der Tod!" Er bat sie, ihm nicht zu folgen, und floh vom Feld, begleitet von Lavaine. Die beiden Ritter suchten Zuflucht bei einem ihnen bekannten Eremiten und versuchten, den Blutfluss aus der Wunde zu stoppen. Inzwischen beauftragt Arthur Sir Gawain, dem unbekannten Ritter zu folgen und ihn zu finden, um ihm den Diamanten zu überreichen. Gegen seinen Willen, da er das angenehme Leben am Hof bevorzugte, machte sich Gawain auf die Mission. Später erfuhr die Königin von den Ereignissen bei dem Turnier. Sie erzählte Arthur, dass der mysteriöse Ritter wirklich Lancelot gewesen sei. Als Guinevere erfuhr, dass Lancelot ein Liebespfand in seinem Helm getragen hatte, war sie schockiert und aufgebracht. Sie versuchte, ihre Bestürzung über diese Nachricht zu verbergen, wurde aber bald sehr missmutig und litt unter scharfen Eifersuchts- und Verdachtsanfällen. Etwa an diesem Punkt in der Geschichte sitzt Elaine einsam in ihrem Turm und bewacht den Schild. Im Verlauf seiner Mission kommt Sir Gawain schließlich nach Astolat. Im Gespräch mit Elaine erfährt er von dem Schild und erkennt schnell, dass es Lancelot gehört. Trotz der ausdrücklichen Anweisungen von Arthur lässt Gawain den Diamanten bei Elaine und schließt daraus, dass Lancelot nach wie vor für seinen Schild zurückkommen muss. Er kehrt eifrig nach Camelot zurück, wo er vom König dafür getadelt wird, dass er seine Anweisungen nicht vollständig befolgt 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: WHILE the autumn color was growing pale on the grass and cornfields, things went badly with our friends the Russians. Peter told his troubles to Mr. Shimerda: he was unable to meet a note which fell due on the first of November; had to pay an exorbitant bonus on renewing it, and to give a mortgage on his pigs and horses and even his milk cow. His creditor was Wick Cutter, the merciless Black Hawk money-lender, a man of evil name throughout the county, of whom I shall have more to say later. Peter could give no very clear account of his transactions with Cutter. He only knew that he had first borrowed two hundred dollars, then another hundred, then fifty--that each time a bonus was added to the principal, and the debt grew faster than any crop he planted. Now everything was plastered with mortgages. Soon after Peter renewed his note, Pavel strained himself lifting timbers for a new barn, and fell over among the shavings with such a gush of blood from the lungs that his fellow-workmen thought he would die on the spot. They hauled him home and put him into his bed, and there he lay, very ill indeed. Misfortune seemed to settle like an evil bird on the roof of the log house, and to flap its wings there, warning human beings away. The Russians had such bad luck that people were afraid of them and liked to put them out of mind. One afternoon Antonia and her father came over to our house to get buttermilk, and lingered, as they usually did, until the sun was low. Just as they were leaving, Russian Peter drove up. Pavel was very bad, he said, and wanted to talk to Mr. Shimerda and his daughter; he had come to fetch them. When Antonia and her father got into the wagon, I entreated grandmother to let me go with them: I would gladly go without my supper, I would sleep in the Shimerdas' barn and run home in the morning. My plan must have seemed very foolish to her, but she was often large-minded about humoring the desires of other people. She asked Peter to wait a moment, and when she came back from the kitchen she brought a bag of sandwiches and doughnuts for us. Mr. Shimerda and Peter were on the front seat; Antonia and I sat in the straw behind and ate our lunch as we bumped along. After the sun sank, a cold wind sprang up and moaned over the prairie. If this turn in the weather had come sooner, I should not have got away. We burrowed down in the straw and curled up close together, watching the angry red die out of the west and the stars begin to shine in the clear, windy sky. Peter kept sighing and groaning. Tony whispered to me that he was afraid Pavel would never get well. We lay still and did not talk. Up there the stars grew magnificently bright. Though we had come from such different parts of the world, in both of us there was some dusky superstition that those shining groups have their influence upon what is and what is not to be. Perhaps Russian Peter, come from farther away than any of us, had brought from his land, too, some such belief. The little house on the hillside was so much the color of the night that we could not see it as we came up the draw. The ruddy windows guided us--the light from the kitchen stove, for there was no lamp burning. We entered softly. The man in the wide bed seemed to be asleep. Tony and I sat down on the bench by the wall and leaned our arms on the table in front of us. The firelight flickered on the hewn logs that supported the thatch overhead. Pavel made a rasping sound when he breathed, and he kept moaning. We waited. The wind shook the doors and windows impatiently, then swept on again, singing through the big spaces. Each gust, as it bore down, rattled the panes, and swelled off like the others. They made me think of defeated armies, retreating; or of ghosts who were trying desperately to get in for shelter, and then went moaning on. Presently, in one of those sobbing intervals between the blasts, the coyotes tuned up with their whining howl; one, two, three, then all together--to tell us that winter was coming. This sound brought an answer from the bed,--a long complaining cry,--as if Pavel were having bad dreams or were waking to some old misery. Peter listened, but did not stir. He was sitting on the floor by the kitchen stove. The coyotes broke out again; yap, yap, yap--then the high whine. Pavel called for something and struggled up on his elbow. "He is scared of the wolves," Antonia whispered to me. "In his country there are very many, and they eat men and women." We slid closer together along the bench. I could not take my eyes off the man in the bed. His shirt was hanging open, and his emaciated chest, covered with yellow bristle, rose and fell horribly. He began to cough. Peter shuffled to his feet, caught up the tea-kettle and mixed him some hot water and whiskey. The sharp smell of spirits went through the room. Pavel snatched the cup and drank, then made Peter give him the bottle and slipped it under his pillow, grinning disagreeably, as if he had outwitted some one. His eyes followed Peter about the room with a contemptuous, unfriendly expression. It seemed to me that he despised him for being so simple and docile. Presently Pavel began to talk to Mr. Shimerda, scarcely above a whisper. He was telling a long story, and as he went on, Antonia took my hand under the table and held it tight. She leaned forward and strained her ears to hear him. He grew more and more excited, and kept pointing all around his bed, as if there were things there and he wanted Mr. Shimerda to see them. "It's wolves, Jimmy," Antonia whispered. "It's awful, what he says!" The sick man raged and shook his fist. He seemed to be cursing people who had wronged him. Mr. Shimerda caught him by the shoulders, but could hardly hold him in bed. At last he was shut off by a coughing fit which fairly choked him. He pulled a cloth from under his pillow and held it to his mouth. Quickly it was covered with bright red spots--I thought I had never seen any blood so bright. When he lay down and turned his face to the wall, all the rage had gone out of him. He lay patiently fighting for breath, like a child with croup. Antonia's father uncovered one of his long bony legs and rubbed it rhythmically. From our bench we could see what a hollow case his body was. His spine and shoulder-blades stood out like the bones under the hide of a dead steer left in the fields. That sharp backbone must have hurt him when he lay on it. Gradually, relief came to all of us. Whatever it was, the worst was over. Mr. Shimerda signed to us that Pavel was asleep. Without a word Peter got up and lit his lantern. He was going out to get his team to drive us home. Mr. Shimerda went with him. We sat and watched the long bowed back under the blue sheet, scarcely daring to breathe. On the way home, when we were lying in the straw, under the jolting and rattling Antonia told me as much of the story as she could. What she did not tell me then, she told later; we talked of nothing else for days afterward. When Pavel and Peter were young men, living at home in Russia, they were asked to be groomsmen for a friend who was to marry the belle of another village. It was in the dead of winter and the groom's party went over to the wedding in sledges. Peter and Pavel drove in the groom's sledge, and six sledges followed with all his relatives and friends. After the ceremony at the church, the party went to a dinner given by the parents of the bride. The dinner lasted all afternoon; then it became a supper and continued far into the night. There was much dancing and drinking. At midnight the parents of the bride said good-bye to her and blessed her. The groom took her up in his arms and carried her out to his sledge and tucked her under the blankets. He sprang in beside her, and Pavel and Peter (our Pavel and Peter!) took the front seat. Pavel drove. The party set out with singing and the jingle of sleigh-bells, the groom's sledge going first. All the drivers were more or less the worse for merry-making, and the groom was absorbed in his bride. The wolves were bad that winter, and every one knew it, yet when they heard the first wolf-cry, the drivers were not much alarmed. They had too much good food and drink inside them. The first howls were taken up and echoed and with quickening repetitions. The wolves were coming together. There was no moon, but the starlight was clear on the snow. A black drove came up over the hill behind the wedding party. The wolves ran like streaks of shadow; they looked no bigger than dogs, but there were hundreds of them. Something happened to the hindmost sledge: the driver lost control,--he was probably very drunk,--the horses left the road, the sledge was caught in a clump of trees, and overturned. The occupants rolled out over the snow, and the fleetest of the wolves sprang upon them. The shrieks that followed made everybody sober. The drivers stood up and lashed their horses. The groom had the best team and his sledge was lightest--all the others carried from six to a dozen people. Another driver lost control. The screams of the horses were more terrible to hear than the cries of the men and women. Nothing seemed to check the wolves. It was hard to tell what was happening in the rear; the people who were falling behind shrieked as piteously as those who were already lost. The little bride hid her face on the groom's shoulder and sobbed. Pavel sat still and watched his horses. The road was clear and white, and the groom's three blacks went like the wind. It was only necessary to be calm and to guide them carefully. At length, as they breasted a long hill, Peter rose cautiously and looked back. "There are only three sledges left," he whispered. "And the wolves?" Pavel asked. "Enough! Enough for all of us." Pavel reached the brow of the hill, but only two sledges followed him down the other side. In that moment on the hilltop, they saw behind them a whirling black group on the snow. Presently the groom screamed. He saw his father's sledge overturned, with his mother and sisters. He sprang up as if he meant to jump, but the girl shrieked and held him back. It was even then too late. The black ground-shadows were already crowding over the heap in the road, and one horse ran out across the fields, his harness hanging to him, wolves at his heels. But the groom's movement had given Pavel an idea. They were within a few miles of their village now. The only sledge left out of six was not very far behind them, and Pavel's middle horse was failing. Beside a frozen pond something happened to the other sledge; Peter saw it plainly. Three big wolves got abreast of the horses, and the horses went crazy. They tried to jump over each other, got tangled up in the harness, and overturned the sledge. When the shrieking behind them died away, Pavel realized that he was alone upon the familiar road. "They still come?" he asked Peter. "Yes." "How many?" "Twenty, thirty--enough." Now his middle horse was being almost dragged by the other two. Pavel gave Peter the reins and stepped carefully into the back of the sledge. He called to the groom that they must lighten--and pointed to the bride. The young man cursed him and held her tighter. Pavel tried to drag her away. In the struggle, the groom rose. Pavel knocked him over the side of the sledge and threw the girl after him. He said he never remembered exactly how he did it, or what happened afterward. Peter, crouching in the front seat, saw nothing. The first thing either of them noticed was a new sound that broke into the clear air, louder than they had ever heard it before--the bell of the monastery of their own village, ringing for early prayers. Pavel and Peter drove into the village alone, and they had been alone ever since. They were run out of their village. Pavel's own mother would not look at him. They went away to strange towns, but when people learned where they came from, they were always asked if they knew the two men who had fed the bride to the wolves. Wherever they went, the story followed them. It took them five years to save money enough to come to America. They worked in Chicago, Des Moines, Fort Wayne, but they were always unfortunate. When Pavel's health grew so bad, they decided to try farming. Pavel died a few days after he unburdened his mind to Mr. Shimerda, and was buried in the Norwegian graveyard. Peter sold off everything, and left the country--went to be cook in a railway construction camp where gangs of Russians were employed. At his sale we bought Peter's wheelbarrow and some of his harness. During the auction he went about with his head down, and never lifted his eyes. He seemed not to care about anything. The Black Hawk money-lender who held mortgages on Peter's live-stock was there, and he bought in the sale notes at about fifty cents on the dollar. Every one said Peter kissed the cow before she was led away by her new owner. I did not see him do it, but this I know: after all his furniture and his cook-stove and pots and pans had been hauled off by the purchasers, when his house was stripped and bare, he sat down on the floor with his clasp-knife and ate all the melons that he had put away for winter. When Mr. Shimerda and Krajiek drove up in their wagon to take Peter to the train, they found him with a dripping beard, surrounded by heaps of melon rinds. The loss of his two friends had a depressing effect upon old Mr. Shimerda. When he was out hunting, he used to go into the empty log house and sit there, brooding. This cabin was his hermitage until the winter snows penned him in his cave. For Antonia and me, the story of the wedding party was never at an end. We did not tell Pavel's secret to any one, but guarded it jealously--as if the wolves of the Ukraine had gathered that night long ago, and the wedding party been sacrificed, to give us a painful and peculiar pleasure. At night, before I went to sleep, I often found myself in a sledge drawn by three horses, dashing through a country that looked something like Nebraska and something like Virginia. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben beschriebenen Absätze schreiben?

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Als der Herbst zu Ende kommt, bekommen die Russen einige Schwierigkeiten. Peter sagt Mr. Shimerda, dass er alles verpfänden musste, um eine Rechnung bei Wick Cutter zu bezahlen, einem schrecklichen Geldverleiher, der in der Stadt lebt und den Peter bei den Zinssätzen ausgenutzt hat. Dann hat sich Pavel bei der Arbeit verletzt und liegt nun im Bett. Jeder sagt, dass die Russen vom Pech verfolgt sind. Eines Tages kommen Antonia und ihr Vater zu den Burdens, um etwas Buttermilch zu holen. Bevor sie gehen, fährt der Russe Peter vor. Er sagt, dass Pavel sehr krank ist und Mr. Shimerda und Antonia sehen möchte. Die Großmutter lässt Jim auch mitgehen und gibt ihm Sandwiches und Donuts mit. Antonia und Jim fahren gemeinsam auf der Rückseite des Wagens und drängen sich zum Wärmen zusammen. Peter stöhnt, dass Pavel sterben könnte. Jim schaut zu den Sternen hoch und fragt sich, welchen Einfluss sie auf irdische Ereignisse haben. Als sie ankommen, scheint Pavel zu schlafen. Sein Atem ist mühsam. Es ist sehr windig draußen und Jim kann Kojoten hören. Pavel schreit, als hätte er einen Alptraum. Antonia erzählt Jim, dass Pavel Angst vor Wölfen hat, weil sie in seinem Land Menschen fressen. Jim kann nicht aufhören, das grässliche Bild von Pavel anzuschauen. Peter mischt dem Kranken Wasser und Whiskey. Pavel trinkt es. Schließlich erzählt Pavel Mr. Shimerda eine lange Geschichte auf Russisch, die Jim nicht verstehen kann. Antonia hört zu und hält die ganze Zeit Jims Hand. Sie erzählt Jim, dass es eine Geschichte über Wölfe ist. Pavel wird immer aufgeregter, als er sie erzählt. Er hustet Blut und schläft dann ein. Peter fährt die Gäste nach Hause. Auf dem Rückweg wiederholt Antonia die Geschichte für Jim. Als Peter und Pavel junge Männer in Russland waren, waren sie Trauzeugen für einen Freund, der heiratete. Nach der Hochzeit mussten alle mit einem Schlitten zur After-Party fahren. Nach der Party mussten alle mit dem Schlitten nach Hause fahren; inzwischen war es spät in der Nacht. Es war Winter und überall waren Wölfe. Auf dem Heimweg wurden alle Schlitten von einer riesigen Wolfsmeute angegriffen. Peter und Pavel fuhren den Schlitten mit dem Bräutigam und der Braut und versuchten, den Bräutigam dazu zu bringen, die Braut über Bord zu werfen, um ihr Gewicht zu verringern und den Wölfen zu entkommen. Als der Bräutigam ablehnte, warfen sie sowohl ihn als auch die Braut über Bord, um ihr eigenes Leben zu retten. Peter und Pavel waren die einzigen Überlebenden, aber danach waren sie in ihrer Stadt Ausgestoßene und so verließen sie das Land und kamen nach Amerika. Ende der Geschichte. Pavel stirbt mehrere Tage später. Peter beerdigt ihn, verkauft all ihre Sachen und geht als Koch arbeiten. Die Burdens kaufen einige der Sachen, die er versteigert. Peter sieht die ganze Zeit über depimiert aus. Angeblich hat er vor dem Verkauf seine Kuh geküsst, aber Jim weiß nicht, ob das wahr ist oder nicht. Bevor Peter geht, isst er die Melonen, die er für den Winter aufgehoben hatte. Danach wird Herr Shimerda sehr depressiv, jetzt da seine beiden Freunde weg sind. Er geht oft in das leere Blockhaus und sitzt dort alleine. Jim und Antonia erzählen die Geschichte von den Wölfen niemandem weiter; sie empfinden eine seltsame Freude dabei. Jim träumt oft, dass er in einem von Pferden gezogenen Schlitten fährt, genau wie in der Geschichte.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). 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 addition to what has been already said of Catherine Morland's personal and mental endowments, when about to be launched into all the difficulties and dangers of a six weeks' residence in Bath, it may be stated, for the reader's more certain information, lest the following pages should otherwise fail of giving any idea of what her character is meant to be, that her heart was affectionate; her disposition cheerful and open, without conceit or affectation of any kind--her manners just removed from the awkwardness and shyness of a girl; her person pleasing, and, when in good looks, pretty--and her mind about as ignorant and uninformed as the female mind at seventeen usually is. When the hour of departure drew near, the maternal anxiety of Mrs. Morland will be naturally supposed to be most severe. A thousand alarming presentiments of evil to her beloved Catherine from this terrific separation must oppress her heart with sadness, and drown her in tears for the last day or two of their being together; and advice of the most important and applicable nature must of course flow from her wise lips in their parting conference in her closet. Cautions against the violence of such noblemen and baronets as delight in forcing young ladies away to some remote farm-house, must, at such a moment, relieve the fulness of her heart. Who would not think so? But Mrs. Morland knew so little of lords and baronets, that she entertained no notion of their general mischievousness, and was wholly unsuspicious of danger to her daughter from their machinations. Her cautions were confined to the following points. "I beg, Catherine, you will always wrap yourself up very warm about the throat, when you come from the rooms at night; and I wish you would try to keep some account of the money you spend; I will give you this little book on purpose." Sally, or rather Sarah (for what young lady of common gentility will reach the age of sixteen without altering her name as far as she can?), must from situation be at this time the intimate friend and confidante of her sister. It is remarkable, however, that she neither insisted on Catherine's writing by every post, nor exacted her promise of transmitting the character of every new acquaintance, nor a detail of every interesting conversation that Bath might produce. Everything indeed relative to this important journey was done, on the part of the Morlands, with a degree of moderation and composure, which seemed rather consistent with the common feelings of common life, than with the refined susceptibilities, the tender emotions which the first separation of a heroine from her family ought always to excite. Her father, instead of giving her an unlimited order on his banker, or even putting an hundred pounds bank-bill into her hands, gave her only ten guineas, and promised her more when she wanted it. Under these unpromising auspices, the parting took place, and the journey began. It was performed with suitable quietness and uneventful safety. Neither robbers nor tempests befriended them, nor one lucky overturn to introduce them to the hero. Nothing more alarming occurred than a fear, on Mrs. Allen's side, of having once left her clogs behind her at an inn, and that fortunately proved to be groundless. They arrived at Bath. Catherine was all eager delight--her eyes were here, there, everywhere, as they approached its fine and striking environs, and afterwards drove through those streets which conducted them to the hotel. She was come to be happy, and she felt happy already. They were soon settled in comfortable lodgings in Pulteney Street. It is now expedient to give some description of Mrs. Allen, that the reader may be able to judge in what manner her actions will hereafter tend to promote the general distress of the work, and how she will, probably, contribute to reduce poor Catherine to all the desperate wretchedness of which a last volume is capable--whether by her imprudence, vulgarity, or jealousy--whether by intercepting her letters, ruining her character, or turning her out of doors. Mrs. Allen was one of that numerous class of females, whose society can raise no other emotion than surprise at there being any men in the world who could like them well enough to marry them. She had neither beauty, genius, accomplishment, nor manner. The air of a gentlewoman, a great deal of quiet, inactive good temper, and a trifling turn of mind were all that could account for her being the choice of a sensible, intelligent man like Mr. Allen. In one respect she was admirably fitted to introduce a young lady into public, being as fond of going everywhere and seeing everything herself as any young lady could be. Dress was her passion. She had a most harmless delight in being fine; and our heroine's entree into life could not take place till after three or four days had been spent in learning what was mostly worn, and her chaperone was provided with a dress of the newest fashion. Catherine too made some purchases herself, and when all these matters were arranged, the important evening came which was to usher her into the Upper Rooms. Her hair was cut and dressed by the best hand, her clothes put on with care, and both Mrs. Allen and her maid declared she looked quite as she should do. With such encouragement, Catherine hoped at least to pass uncensured through the crowd. As for admiration, it was always very welcome when it came, but she did not depend on it. Mrs. Allen was so long in dressing that they did not enter the ballroom till late. The season was full, the room crowded, and the two ladies squeezed in as well as they could. As for Mr. Allen, he repaired directly to the card-room, and left them to enjoy a mob by themselves. With more care for the safety of her new gown than for the comfort of her protegee, Mrs. Allen made her way through the throng of men by the door, as swiftly as the necessary caution would allow; Catherine, however, kept close at her side, and linked her arm too firmly within her friend's to be torn asunder by any common effort of a struggling assembly. But to her utter amazement she found that to proceed along the room was by no means the way to disengage themselves from the crowd; it seemed rather to increase as they went on, whereas she had imagined that when once fairly within the door, they should easily find seats and be able to watch the dances with perfect convenience. But this was far from being the case, and though by unwearied diligence they gained even the top of the room, their situation was just the same; they saw nothing of the dancers but the high feathers of some of the ladies. Still they moved on--something better was yet in view; and by a continued exertion of strength and ingenuity they found themselves at last in the passage behind the highest bench. Here there was something less of crowd than below; and hence Miss Morland had a comprehensive view of all the company beneath her, and of all the dangers of her late passage through them. It was a splendid sight, and she began, for the first time that evening, to feel herself at a ball: she longed to dance, but she had not an acquaintance in the room. Mrs. Allen did all that she could do in such a case by saying very placidly, every now and then, "I wish you could dance, my dear--I wish you could get a partner." For some time her young friend felt obliged to her for these wishes; but they were repeated so often, and proved so totally ineffectual, that Catherine grew tired at last, and would thank her no more. They were not long able, however, to enjoy the repose of the eminence they had so laboriously gained. Everybody was shortly in motion for tea, and they must squeeze out like the rest. Catherine began to feel something of disappointment--she was tired of being continually pressed against by people, the generality of whose faces possessed nothing to interest, and with all of whom she was so wholly unacquainted that she could not relieve the irksomeness of imprisonment by the exchange of a syllable with any of her fellow captives; and when at last arrived in the tea-room, she felt yet more the awkwardness of having no party to join, no acquaintance to claim, no gentleman to assist them. They saw nothing of Mr. Allen; and after looking about them in vain for a more eligible situation, were obliged to sit down at the end of a table, at which a large party were already placed, without having anything to do there, or anybody to speak to, except each other. Mrs. Allen congratulated herself, as soon as they were seated, on having preserved her gown from injury. "It would have been very shocking to have it torn," said she, "would not it? It is such a delicate muslin. For my part I have not seen anything I like so well in the whole room, I assure you." "How uncomfortable it is," whispered Catherine, "not to have a single acquaintance here!" "Yes, my dear," replied Mrs. Allen, with perfect serenity, "it is very uncomfortable indeed." "What shall we do? The gentlemen and ladies at this table look as if they wondered why we came here--we seem forcing ourselves into their party." "Aye, so we do. That is very disagreeable. I wish we had a large acquaintance here." "I wish we had any--it would be somebody to go to." "Very true, my dear; and if we knew anybody we would join them directly. The Skinners were here last year--I wish they were here now." "Had not we better go away as it is? Here are no tea-things for us, you see." "No more there are, indeed. How very provoking! But I think we had better sit still, for one gets so tumbled in such a crowd! How is my head, my dear? Somebody gave me a push that has hurt it, I am afraid." "No, indeed, it looks very nice. But, dear Mrs. Allen, are you sure there is nobody you know in all this multitude of people? I think you must know somebody." "I don't, upon my word--I wish I did. I wish I had a large acquaintance here with all my heart, and then I should get you a partner. I should be so glad to have you dance. There goes a strange-looking woman! What an odd gown she has got on! How old-fashioned it is! Look at the back." After some time they received an offer of tea from one of their neighbours; it was thankfully accepted, and this introduced a light conversation with the gentleman who offered it, which was the only time that anybody spoke to them during the evening, till they were discovered and joined by Mr. Allen when the dance was over. "Well, Miss Morland," said he, directly, "I hope you have had an agreeable ball." "Very agreeable indeed," she replied, vainly endeavouring to hide a great yawn. "I wish she had been able to dance," said his wife; "I wish we could have got a partner for her. I have been saying how glad I should be if the Skinners were here this winter instead of last; or if the Parrys had come, as they talked of once, she might have danced with George Parry. I am so sorry she has not had a partner!" "We shall do better another evening I hope," was Mr. Allen's consolation. The company began to disperse when the dancing was over--enough to leave space for the remainder to walk about in some comfort; and now was the time for a heroine, who had not yet played a very distinguished part in the events of the evening, to be noticed and admired. Every five minutes, by removing some of the crowd, gave greater openings for her charms. She was now seen by many young men who had not been near her before. Not one, however, started with rapturous wonder on beholding her, no whisper of eager inquiry ran round the room, nor was she once called a divinity by anybody. Yet Catherine was in very good looks, and had the company only seen her three years before, they would now have thought her exceedingly handsome. She was looked at, however, and with some admiration; for, in her own hearing, two gentlemen pronounced her to be a pretty girl. Such words had their due effect; she immediately thought the evening pleasanter than she had found it before--her humble vanity was contented--she felt more obliged to the two young men for this simple praise than a true-quality heroine would have been for fifteen sonnets in celebration of her charms, and went to her chair in good humour with everybody, and perfectly satisfied with her share of public attention. 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.

Das Kapitel beginnt mit der Erweiterung des Erzählers über Catherines Charakter: "Ihr Herz war liebevoll, ihre Gemütsstimmung heiter und offen, ohne Anmaßung oder Affektierung jeglicher Art. Ihr Äußeres war angenehm und ansprechend, und ihr Verstand ungefähr so unwissend und ungebildet wie der Verstand eines siebzehnjährigen Mädchens normalerweise ist. Catherine bereitet sich auf ihre Abreise nach Bath vor. Catherines Mutter ist entgegen der Konvention nicht übermäßig besorgt über die bevorstehende Abreise ihrer Tochter. Catherines Vater gibt ihr eine bescheidene Summe Geld mit. Als die Gruppe aufbricht, beschreibt der Erzähler Mrs. Allen und sagt, dass sie weder Schönheit, Genie, Können noch Manieren hat, aber eine ruhige, gutmütige Natur, die ihr geholfen hat, einen "vernünftigen, intelligenten Mann" wie Mr. Allen anzuziehen. Als die drei in Bath ankommen, besuchen sie einen Ball. Catherine bleibt in der Nähe von Mrs. Allen, die ständig über das Fehlen von Bekannten in Bath klagt. Mrs. Allen gibt sich Mühe, ihr Kleid zu schützen, während Catherine vergeblich hofft, zum Tanz aufgefordert zu werden. Mr. Allen verbringt die meiste Zeit im Kartensaal. Der Ball endet, ohne dass Catherine zum Tanz aufgefordert wurde, aber sie freut sich, zwei Männer sagen zu hören, dass sie hübsch ist, bevor sie geht.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). 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: There was no possibility of taking a walk that day. We had been wandering, indeed, in the leafless shrubbery an hour in the morning; but since dinner (Mrs. Reed, when there was no company, dined early) the cold winter wind had brought with it clouds so sombre, and a rain so penetrating, that further out-door exercise was now out of the question. I was glad of it: I never liked long walks, especially on chilly afternoons: dreadful to me was the coming home in the raw twilight, with nipped fingers and toes, and a heart saddened by the chidings of Bessie, the nurse, and humbled by the consciousness of my physical inferiority to Eliza, John, and Georgiana Reed. The said Eliza, John, and Georgiana were now clustered round their mama in the drawing-room: she lay reclined on a sofa by the fireside, and with her darlings about her (for the time neither quarrelling nor crying) looked perfectly happy. Me, she had dispensed from joining the group; saying, "She regretted to be under the necessity of keeping me at a distance; but that until she heard from Bessie, and could discover by her own observation, that I was endeavouring in good earnest to acquire a more sociable and childlike disposition, a more attractive and sprightly manner--something lighter, franker, more natural, as it were--she really must exclude me from privileges intended only for contented, happy, little children." "What does Bessie say I have done?" I asked. "Jane, I don't like cavillers or questioners; besides, there is something truly forbidding in a child taking up her elders in that manner. Be seated somewhere; and until you can speak pleasantly, remain silent." A breakfast-room adjoined the drawing-room, I slipped in there. It contained a bookcase: I soon possessed myself of a volume, taking care that it should be one stored with pictures. I mounted into the window- seat: gathering up my feet, I sat cross-legged, like a Turk; and, having drawn the red moreen curtain nearly close, I was shrined in double retirement. Folds of scarlet drapery shut in my view to the right hand; to the left were the clear panes of glass, protecting, but not separating me from the drear November day. At intervals, while turning over the leaves of my book, I studied the aspect of that winter afternoon. Afar, it offered a pale blank of mist and cloud; near a scene of wet lawn and storm-beat shrub, with ceaseless rain sweeping away wildly before a long and lamentable blast. I returned to my book--Bewick's History of British Birds: the letterpress thereof I cared little for, generally speaking; and yet there were certain introductory pages that, child as I was, I could not pass quite as a blank. They were those which treat of the haunts of sea-fowl; of "the solitary rocks and promontories" by them only inhabited; of the coast of Norway, studded with isles from its southern extremity, the Lindeness, or Naze, to the North Cape-- "Where the Northern Ocean, in vast whirls, Boils round the naked, melancholy isles Of farthest Thule; and the Atlantic surge Pours in among the stormy Hebrides." Nor could I pass unnoticed the suggestion of the bleak shores of Lapland, Siberia, Spitzbergen, Nova Zembla, Iceland, Greenland, with "the vast sweep of the Arctic Zone, and those forlorn regions of dreary space,--that reservoir of frost and snow, where firm fields of ice, the accumulation of centuries of winters, glazed in Alpine heights above heights, surround the pole, and concentre the multiplied rigours of extreme cold." Of these death-white realms I formed an idea of my own: shadowy, like all the half-comprehended notions that float dim through children's brains, but strangely impressive. The words in these introductory pages connected themselves with the succeeding vignettes, and gave significance to the rock standing up alone in a sea of billow and spray; to the broken boat stranded on a desolate coast; to the cold and ghastly moon glancing through bars of cloud at a wreck just sinking. I cannot tell what sentiment haunted the quite solitary churchyard, with its inscribed headstone; its gate, its two trees, its low horizon, girdled by a broken wall, and its newly-risen crescent, attesting the hour of eventide. The two ships becalmed on a torpid sea, I believed to be marine phantoms. The fiend pinning down the thief's pack behind him, I passed over quickly: it was an object of terror. So was the black horned thing seated aloof on a rock, surveying a distant crowd surrounding a gallows. Each picture told a story; mysterious often to my undeveloped understanding and imperfect feelings, yet ever profoundly interesting: as interesting as the tales Bessie sometimes narrated on winter evenings, when she chanced to be in good humour; and when, having brought her ironing-table to the nursery hearth, she allowed us to sit about it, and while she got up Mrs. Reed's lace frills, and crimped her nightcap borders, fed our eager attention with passages of love and adventure taken from old fairy tales and other ballads; or (as at a later period I discovered) from the pages of Pamela, and Henry, Earl of Moreland. With Bewick on my knee, I was then happy: happy at least in my way. I feared nothing but interruption, and that came too soon. The breakfast- room door opened. "Boh! Madam Mope!" cried the voice of John Reed; then he paused: he found the room apparently empty. "Where the dickens is she!" he continued. "Lizzy! Georgy! (calling to his sisters) Joan is not here: tell mama she is run out into the rain--bad animal!" "It is well I drew the curtain," thought I; and I wished fervently he might not discover my hiding-place: nor would John Reed have found it out himself; he was not quick either of vision or conception; but Eliza just put her head in at the door, and said at once-- "She is in the window-seat, to be sure, Jack." And I came out immediately, for I trembled at the idea of being dragged forth by the said Jack. "What do you want?" I asked, with awkward diffidence. "Say, 'What do you want, Master Reed?'" was the answer. "I want you to come here;" and seating himself in an arm-chair, he intimated by a gesture that I was to approach and stand before him. John Reed was a schoolboy of fourteen years old; four years older than I, for I was but ten: large and stout for his age, with a dingy and unwholesome skin; thick lineaments in a spacious visage, heavy limbs and large extremities. He gorged himself habitually at table, which made him bilious, and gave him a dim and bleared eye and flabby cheeks. He ought now to have been at school; but his mama had taken him home for a month or two, "on account of his delicate health." Mr. Miles, the master, affirmed that he would do very well if he had fewer cakes and sweetmeats sent him from home; but the mother's heart turned from an opinion so harsh, and inclined rather to the more refined idea that John's sallowness was owing to over-application and, perhaps, to pining after home. John had not much affection for his mother and sisters, and an antipathy to me. He bullied and punished me; not two or three times in the week, nor once or twice in the day, but continually: every nerve I had feared him, and every morsel of flesh in my bones shrank when he came near. There were moments when I was bewildered by the terror he inspired, because I had no appeal whatever against either his menaces or his inflictions; the servants did not like to offend their young master by taking my part against him, and Mrs. Reed was blind and deaf on the subject: she never saw him strike or heard him abuse me, though he did both now and then in her very presence, more frequently, however, behind her back. Habitually obedient to John, I came up to his chair: he spent some three minutes in thrusting out his tongue at me as far as he could without damaging the roots: I knew he would soon strike, and while dreading the blow, I mused on the disgusting and ugly appearance of him who would presently deal it. I wonder if he read that notion in my face; for, all at once, without speaking, he struck suddenly and strongly. I tottered, and on regaining my equilibrium retired back a step or two from his chair. "That is for your impudence in answering mama awhile since," said he, "and for your sneaking way of getting behind curtains, and for the look you had in your eyes two minutes since, you rat!" Accustomed to John Reed's abuse, I never had an idea of replying to it; my care was how to endure the blow which would certainly follow the insult. "What were you doing behind the curtain?" he asked. "I was reading." "Show the book." I returned to the window and fetched it thence. "You have no business to take our books; you are a dependent, mama says; you have no money; your father left you none; you ought to beg, and not to live here with gentlemen's children like us, and eat the same meals we do, and wear clothes at our mama's expense. Now, I'll teach you to rummage my bookshelves: for they _are_ mine; all the house belongs to me, or will do in a few years. Go and stand by the door, out of the way of the mirror and the windows." I did so, not at first aware what was his intention; but when I saw him lift and poise the book and stand in act to hurl it, I instinctively started aside with a cry of alarm: not soon enough, however; the volume was flung, it hit me, and I fell, striking my head against the door and cutting it. The cut bled, the pain was sharp: my terror had passed its climax; other feelings succeeded. "Wicked and cruel boy!" I said. "You are like a murderer--you are like a slave-driver--you are like the Roman emperors!" I had read Goldsmith's History of Rome, and had formed my opinion of Nero, Caligula, etc. Also I had drawn parallels in silence, which I never thought thus to have declared aloud. "What! what!" he cried. "Did she say that to me? Did you hear her, Eliza and Georgiana? Won't I tell mama? but first--" He ran headlong at me: I felt him grasp my hair and my shoulder: he had closed with a desperate thing. I really saw in him a tyrant, a murderer. I felt a drop or two of blood from my head trickle down my neck, and was sensible of somewhat pungent suffering: these sensations for the time predominated over fear, and I received him in frantic sort. I don't very well know what I did with my hands, but he called me "Rat! Rat!" and bellowed out aloud. Aid was near him: Eliza and Georgiana had run for Mrs. Reed, who was gone upstairs: she now came upon the scene, followed by Bessie and her maid Abbot. We were parted: I heard the words-- "Dear! dear! What a fury to fly at Master John!" "Did ever anybody see such a picture of passion!" Then Mrs. Reed subjoined-- "Take her away to the red-room, and lock her in there." Four hands were immediately laid upon me, and I was borne upstairs. Kannst du eine geeignete Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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Der Roman beginnt an einem trüben Novembernachmittag in Gateshead, dem Zuhause der wohlhabenden Familie Reed. Ein junges Mädchen namens Jane Eyre sitzt im Salon und liest Bewick's "Geschichte der britischen Vögel". Janes Tante, Mrs. Reed, hat ihrer Nichte verboten, mit ihren Cousinen Eliza, Georgiana und dem tyrannischen John zu spielen. John tadelt Jane dafür, dass sie eine niedere Waise ist, die nur wegen der Mildtätigkeit seiner Mutter bei den Reeds leben darf. John wirft dann ein Buch nach dem kleinen Mädchen und treibt sie an ihre Geduldsgrenze. Jane explodiert schließlich und die beiden Cousinen streiten sich. Mrs. Reed macht Jane für den Streit verantwortlich und schickt sie als Strafe in das "rote Zimmer" - den beängstigenden Raum, in dem ihr Onkel Reed gestorben ist.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: SCENE III. _A Hall in_ DUKE ORSINO'S _Palace_. _Enter_ DUKE, _and_ VIOLA. _Duke._ Come hither, boy:--If ever thou shalt love, In the sweet pangs of it, remember me: For, such as I am, all true lovers are.-- My life upon't, young though thou art, thine eye Hath stay'd upon some favour that it loves; Hath it not, boy? _Vio._ A little, by your favour. _Duke._ What kind of woman is't? _Vio._ Of your complexion. _Duke._ She is not worth thee then. What years, i' faith? _Vio._ About your years, my lord. _Duke._ Too old, by heaven.--Once more, Cesario, Get thee to yon same sovereign cruelty: Tell her, my love, more noble than the world, Prizes not quantity of dirty lands; The parts that fortune hath bestowed upon her, Tell her, I hold as giddily as fortune; But 'tis that miracle, and queen of gems, That nature pranks her in, attracts my soul. _Vio._ But, if she cannot love you, sir? _Duke._ I cannot be so answered. _Vio._ Sooth, but you must. Say, that some lady, as, perhaps, there is, Hath for your love as great a pang of heart As you have for Olivia: you cannot love her; You tell her so: Must she not then be answered? _Duke._ There is no woman's sides, Can bide the beating of so strong a passion As love doth give my heart:--make no compare Between that love a woman can bear me, And that I owe Olivia. _Vio._ Ay, but I know,-- _Duke._ What dost thou know? _Vio._ Too well what love women to men may owe: In faith, they are as true of heart as we. My father had a daughter loved a man, As it might be, perhaps, were I a woman, I should your lordship. _Duke._ And what's her history? _Vio._ A blank, my lord: She never told her love, But let concealment, like a worm i' the bud, Feed on her damask cheek: she pined in thought; And, with a green and yellow melancholy, She sat like patience on a monument, Smiling at grief. Was not this love, indeed? We men may say more, swear more: but, indeed, Our shows are more than will, for still we prove Much in our vows, but little in our love. _Duke._ But died thy sister of her love, my boy? _Vio._ I am all the daughters of my father's house, And all the brothers too.-- Sir, shall I to this lady? _Duke._ Ay, that's the theme. To her in haste; give her this jewel; say, My love can give no place, bide no denay. [_Exeunt._ Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze verfassen?

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Sir Toby und Sir Andrew bleiben spät auf, trinken in Olivias Haus. Feste tritt auf und Sir Andrew lobt den Narren für sein Singen. Beide Edelmänner ermutigen Feste, ein weiteres Lied zu singen. Während er singt, tritt Maria ein und warnt sie, leise zu sein, da Olivia ihren Verwalter Malvolio rufen wird und ihn auffordern wird, sie hinauszuwerfen. Aber der betrunken Sir Toby und Sir Andrew ignorieren sie fröhlich. Malvolio kommt in den Raum. Er kritisiert die Männer dafür, betrunken zu sein und laut zu singen. Er warnt Sir Toby, dass sein Verhalten unerträglich unhöflich ist und dass, obwohl Olivia bereit ist, ihn als Gast zu behalten, Sir Toby, wenn er sein Verhalten nicht ändert, gebeten wird zu gehen. Aber Sir Toby, zusammen mit Sir Andrew und Feste, antwortet mit Witzen und beleidigt Malvolio. Nach einer letzten Drohung, diesmal gegen Maria gerichtet, geht Malvolio und warnt sie alle, dass er Olivia über ihr Verhalten informieren wird. Sir Andrew schlägt vor, Malvolio zu einem Duell herauszufordern, aber Maria hat eine bessere Idee: ihm einen Streich zu spielen. Wie sie Sir Toby und Sir Andrew erklärt, ist Malvolio ein Puritaner, aber gleichzeitig ist sein größtes Manko sein enormes Ego: er glaubt, dass ihn jeder liebt. Maria wird diese Schwäche nutzen, um Rache an ihm zu nehmen, weil er ihnen den Spaß verdorben hat. Da Marias Handschrift fast identisch mit der von Olivia ist, plant Maria, herumliegende Briefe zu hinterlassen, die so aussehen, als stammten sie von Olivia und Malvolio glauben lassen, dass sie in ihn verliebt ist. Sir Toby und Sir Andrew sind erstaunt über Marias Klugheit und bewundern den Plan. Maria geht ins Bett und plant, am nächsten Tag mit ihrem Scherz zu beginnen. Sir Toby und Sir Andrew beschließen, dass es jetzt zu spät ist, um zu schlafen, und machen sich auf den Weg, mehr Wein aufzuwärmen.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: She was stoical the next day when Maitre Hareng, the bailiff, with two assistants, presented himself at her house to draw up the inventory for the distraint. They began with Bovary's consulting-room, and did not write down the phrenological head, which was considered an "instrument of his profession"; but in the kitchen they counted the plates; the saucepans, the chairs, the candlesticks, and in the bedroom all the nick-nacks on the whatnot. They examined her dresses, the linen, the dressing-room; and her whole existence to its most intimate details, was, like a corpse on whom a post-mortem is made, outspread before the eyes of these three men. Maitre Hareng, buttoned up in his thin black coat, wearing a white choker and very tight foot-straps, repeated from time to time--"Allow me, madame. You allow me?" Often he uttered exclamations. "Charming! very pretty." Then he began writing again, dipping his pen into the horn inkstand in his left hand. When they had done with the rooms they went up to the attic. She kept a desk there in which Rodolphe's letters were locked. It had to be opened. "Ah! a correspondence," said Maitre Hareng, with a discreet smile. "But allow me, for I must make sure the box contains nothing else." And he tipped up the papers lightly, as if to shake out napoleons. Then she grew angered to see this coarse hand, with fingers red and pulpy like slugs, touching these pages against which her heart had beaten. They went at last. Felicite came back. Emma had sent her out to watch for Bovary in order to keep him off, and they hurriedly installed the man in possession under the roof, where he swore he would remain. During the evening Charles seemed to her careworn. Emma watched him with a look of anguish, fancying she saw an accusation in every line of his face. Then, when her eyes wandered over the chimney-piece ornamented with Chinese screens, over the large curtains, the armchairs, all those things, in a word, that had, softened the bitterness of her life, remorse seized her or rather an immense regret, that, far from crushing, irritated her passion. Charles placidly poked the fire, both his feet on the fire-dogs. Once the man, no doubt bored in his hiding-place, made a slight noise. "Is anyone walking upstairs?" said Charles. "No," she replied; "it is a window that has been left open, and is rattling in the wind." The next day, Sunday, she went to Rouen to call on all the brokers whose names she knew. They were at their country-places or on journeys. She was not discouraged; and those whom she did manage to see she asked for money, declaring she must have some, and that she would pay it back. Some laughed in her face; all refused. At two o'clock she hurried to Leon, and knocked at the door. No one answered. At length he appeared. "What brings you here?" "Do I disturb you?" "No; but--" And he admitted that his landlord didn't like his having "women" there. "I must speak to you," she went on. Then he took down the key, but she stopped him. "No, no! Down there, in our home!" And they went to their room at the Hotel de Boulogne. On arriving she drank off a large glass of water. She was very pale. She said to him-- "Leon, you will do me a service?" And, shaking him by both hands that she grasped tightly, she added-- "Listen, I want eight thousand francs." "But you are mad!" "Not yet." And thereupon, telling him the story of the distraint, she explained her distress to him; for Charles knew nothing of it; her mother-in-law detested her; old Rouault could do nothing; but he, Leon, he would set about finding this indispensable sum. "How on earth can I?" "What a coward you are!" she cried. Then he said stupidly, "You are exaggerating the difficulty. Perhaps, with a thousand crowns or so the fellow could be stopped." All the greater reason to try and do something; it was impossible that they could not find three thousand francs. Besides, Leon, could be security instead of her. "Go, try, try! I will love you so!" He went out, and came back at the end of an hour, saying, with solemn face-- "I have been to three people with no success." Then they remained sitting face to face at the two chimney corners, motionless, in silence. Emma shrugged her shoulders as she stamped her feet. He heard her murmuring-- "If I were in your place _I_ should soon get some." "But where?" "At your office." And she looked at him. An infernal boldness looked out from her burning eyes, and their lids drew close together with a lascivious and encouraging look, so that the young man felt himself growing weak beneath the mute will of this woman who was urging him to a crime. Then he was afraid, and to avoid any explanation he smote his forehead, crying-- "Morel is to come back to-night; he will not refuse me, I hope" (this was one of his friends, the son of a very rich merchant); "and I will bring it you to-morrow," he added. Emma did not seem to welcome this hope with all the joy he had expected. Did she suspect the lie? He went on, blushing-- "However, if you don't see me by three o'clock do not wait for me, my darling. I must be off now; forgive me! Goodbye!" He pressed her hand, but it felt quite lifeless. Emma had no strength left for any sentiment. Four o'clock struck, and she rose to return to Yonville, mechanically obeying the force of old habits. The weather was fine. It was one of those March days, clear and sharp, when the sun shines in a perfectly white sky. The Rouen folk, in Sunday-clothes, were walking about with happy looks. She reached the Place du Parvis. People were coming out after vespers; the crowd flowed out through the three doors like a stream through the three arches of a bridge, and in the middle one, more motionless than a rock, stood the beadle. Then she remembered the day when, all anxious and full of hope, she had entered beneath this large nave, that had opened out before her, less profound than her love; and she walked on weeping beneath her veil, giddy, staggering, almost fainting. "Take care!" cried a voice issuing from the gate of a courtyard that was thrown open. She stopped to let pass a black horse, pawing the ground between the shafts of a tilbury, driven by a gentleman in sable furs. Who was it? She knew him. The carriage darted by and disappeared. Why, it was he--the Viscount. She turned away; the street was empty. She was so overwhelmed, so sad, that she had to lean against a wall to keep herself from falling. Then she thought she had been mistaken. Anyhow, she did not know. All within her and around her was abandoning her. She felt lost, sinking at random into indefinable abysses, and it was almost with joy that, on reaching the "Croix-Rouge," she saw the good Homais, who was watching a large box full of pharmaceutical stores being hoisted on to the "Hirondelle." In his hand he held tied in a silk handkerchief six cheminots for his wife. Madame Homais was very fond of these small, heavy turban-shaped loaves, that are eaten in Lent with salt butter; a last vestige of Gothic food that goes back, perhaps, to the time of the Crusades, and with which the robust Normans gorged themselves of yore, fancying they saw on the table, in the light of the yellow torches, between tankards of hippocras and huge boars' heads, the heads of Saracens to be devoured. The druggist's wife crunched them up as they had done--heroically, despite her wretched teeth. And so whenever Homais journeyed to town, he never failed to bring her home some that he bought at the great baker's in the Rue Massacre. "Charmed to see you," he said, offering Emma a hand to help her into the "Hirondelle." Then he hung up his cheminots to the cords of the netting, and remained bare-headed in an attitude pensive and Napoleonic. But when the blind man appeared as usual at the foot of the hill he exclaimed-- "I can't understand why the authorities tolerate such culpable industries. Such unfortunates should be locked up and forced to work. Progress, my word! creeps at a snail's pace. We are floundering about in mere barbarism." The blind man held out his hat, that flapped about at the door, as if it were a bag in the lining that had come unnailed. "This," said the chemist, "is a scrofulous affection." And though he knew the poor devil, he pretended to see him for the first time, murmured something about "cornea," "opaque cornea," "sclerotic," "facies," then asked him in a paternal tone-- "My friend, have you long had this terrible infirmity? Instead of getting drunk at the public, you'd do better to die yourself." He advised him to take good wine, good beer, and good joints. The blind man went on with his song; he seemed, moreover, almost idiotic. At last Monsieur Homais opened his purse-- "Now there's a sou; give me back two lairds, and don't forget my advice: you'll be the better for it." Hivert openly cast some doubt on the efficacy of it. But the druggist said that he would cure himself with an antiphlogistic pomade of his own composition, and he gave his address--"Monsieur Homais, near the market, pretty well known." "Now," said Hivert, "for all this trouble you'll give us your performance." The blind man sank down on his haunches, with his head thrown back, whilst he rolled his greenish eyes, lolled out his tongue, and rubbed his stomach with both hands as he uttered a kind of hollow yell like a famished dog. Emma, filled with disgust, threw him over her shoulder a five-franc piece. It was all her fortune. It seemed to her very fine thus to throw it away. The coach had gone on again when suddenly Monsieur Homais leant out through the window, crying-- "No farinaceous or milk food, wear wool next the skin, and expose the diseased parts to the smoke of juniper berries." The sight of the well-known objects that defiled before her eyes gradually diverted Emma from her present trouble. An intolerable fatigue overwhelmed her, and she reached her home stupefied, discouraged, almost asleep. "Come what may come!" she said to herself. "And then, who knows? Why, at any moment could not some extraordinary event occur? Lheureux even might die!" At nine o'clock in the morning she was awakened by the sound of voices in the Place. There was a crowd round the market reading a large bill fixed to one of the posts, and she saw Justin, who was climbing on to a stone and tearing down the bill. But at this moment the rural guard seized him by the collar. Monsieur Homais came out of his shop, and Mere Lefrangois, in the midst of the crowd, seemed to be perorating. "Madame! madame!" cried Felicite, running in, "it's abominable!" And the poor girl, deeply moved, handed her a yellow paper that she had just torn off the door. Emma read with a glance that all her furniture was for sale. Then they looked at one another silently. The servant and mistress had no secret one from the other. At last Felicite sighed-- "If I were you, madame, I should go to Monsieur Guillaumin." "Do you think--" And this question meant to say-- "You who know the house through the servant, has the master spoken sometimes of me?" "Yes, you'd do well to go there." She dressed, put on her black gown, and her hood with jet beads, and that she might not be seen (there was still a crowd on the Place), she took the path by the river, outside the village. She reached the notary's gate quite breathless. The sky was sombre, and a little snow was falling. At the sound of the bell, Theodore in a red waistcoat appeared on the steps; he came to open the door almost familiarly, as to an acquaintance, and showed her into the dining-room. A large porcelain stove crackled beneath a cactus that filled up the niche in the wall, and in black wood frames against the oak-stained paper hung Steuben's "Esmeralda" and Schopin's "Potiphar." The ready-laid table, the two silver chafing-dishes, the crystal door-knobs, the parquet and the furniture, all shone with a scrupulous, English cleanliness; the windows were ornamented at each corner with stained glass. "Now this," thought Emma, "is the dining-room I ought to have." The notary came in pressing his palm-leaf dressing-gown to his breast with his left arm, while with the other hand he raised and quickly put on again his brown velvet cap, pretentiously cocked on the right side, whence looked out the ends of three fair curls drawn from the back of the head, following the line of his bald skull. After he had offered her a seat he sat down to breakfast, apologising profusely for his rudeness. "I have come," she said, "to beg you, sir--" "What, madame? I am listening." And she began explaining her position to him. Monsieur Guillaumin knew it, being secretly associated with the linendraper, from whom he always got capital for the loans on mortgages that he was asked to make. So he knew (and better than she herself) the long story of the bills, small at first, bearing different names as endorsers, made out at long dates, and constantly renewed up to the day, when, gathering together all the protested bills, the shopkeeper had bidden his friend Vincart take in his own name all the necessary proceedings, not wishing to pass for a tiger with his fellow-citizens. She mingled her story with recriminations against Lheureux, to which the notary replied from time to time with some insignificant word. Eating his cutlet and drinking his tea, he buried his chin in his sky-blue cravat, into which were thrust two diamond pins, held together by a small gold chain; and he smiled a singular smile, in a sugary, ambiguous fashion. But noticing that her feet were damp, he said-- "Do get closer to the stove; put your feet up against the porcelain." She was afraid of dirtying it. The notary replied in a gallant tone-- "Beautiful things spoil nothing." Then she tried to move him, and, growing moved herself, she began telling him about the poorness of her home, her worries, her wants. He could understand that; an elegant woman! and, without leaving off eating, he had turned completely round towards her, so that his knee brushed against her boot, whose sole curled round as it smoked against the stove. But when she asked for a thousand sous, he closed his lips, and declared he was very sorry he had not had the management of her fortune before, for there were hundreds of ways very convenient, even for a lady, of turning her money to account. They might, either in the turf-peats of Grumesnil or building-ground at Havre, almost without risk, have ventured on some excellent speculations; and he let her consume herself with rage at the thought of the fabulous sums that she would certainly have made. "How was it," he went on, "that you didn't come to me?" "I hardly know," she said. "Why, hey? Did I frighten you so much? It is I, on the contrary, who ought to complain. We hardly know one another; yet I am very devoted to you. You do not doubt that, I hope?" He held out his hand, took hers, covered it with a greedy kiss, then held it on his knee; and he played delicately with her fingers whilst he murmured a thousand blandishments. His insipid voice murmured like a running brook; a light shone in his eyes through the glimmering of his spectacles, and his hand was advancing up Emma's sleeve to press her arm. She felt against her cheek his panting breath. This man oppressed her horribly. She sprang up and said to him-- "Sir, I am waiting." "For what?" said the notary, who suddenly became very pale. "This money." "But--" Then, yielding to the outburst of too powerful a desire, "Well, yes!" He dragged himself towards her on his knees, regardless of his dressing-gown. "For pity's sake, stay. I love you!" He seized her by her waist. Madame Bovary's face flushed purple. She recoiled with a terrible look, crying-- "You are taking a shameless advantage of my distress, sir! I am to be pitied--not to be sold." And she went out. The notary remained quite stupefied, his eyes fixed on his fine embroidered slippers. They were a love gift, and the sight of them at last consoled him. Besides, he reflected that such an adventure might have carried him too far. "What a wretch! what a scoundrel! what an infamy!" she said to herself, as she fled with nervous steps beneath the aspens of the path. The disappointment of her failure increased the indignation of her outraged modesty; it seemed to her that Providence pursued her implacably, and, strengthening herself in her pride, she had never felt so much esteem for herself nor so much contempt for others. A spirit of warfare transformed her. She would have liked to strike all men, to spit in their faces, to crush them, and she walked rapidly straight on, pale, quivering, maddened, searching the empty horizon with tear-dimmed eyes, and as it were rejoicing in the hate that was choking her. When she saw her house a numbness came over her. She could not go on; and yet she must. Besides, whither could she flee? Felicite was waiting for her at the door. "Well?" "No!" said Emma. And for a quarter of an hour the two of them went over the various persons in Yonville who might perhaps be inclined to help her. But each time that Felicite named someone Emma replied-- "Impossible! they will not!" "And the master'll soon be in." "I know that well enough. Leave me alone." She had tried everything; there was nothing more to be done now; and when Charles came in she would have to say to him-- "Go away! This carpet on which you are walking is no longer ours. In your own house you do not possess a chair, a pin, a straw, and it is I, poor man, who have ruined you." Then there would be a great sob; next he would weep abundantly, and at last, the surprise past, he would forgive her. "Yes," she murmured, grinding her teeth, "he will forgive me, he who would give a million if I would forgive him for having known me! Never! never!" This thought of Bovary's superiority to her exasperated her. Then, whether she confessed or did not confess, presently, immediately, to-morrow, he would know the catastrophe all the same; so she must wait for this horrible scene, and bear the weight of his magnanimity. The desire to return to Lheureux's seized her--what would be the use? To write to her father--it was too late; and perhaps, she began to repent now that she had not yielded to that other, when she heard the trot of a horse in the alley. It was he; he was opening the gate; he was whiter than the plaster wall. Rushing to the stairs, she ran out quickly to the square; and the wife of the mayor, who was talking to Lestiboudois in front of the church, saw her go in to the tax-collector's. She hurried off to tell Madame Caron, and the two ladies went up to the attic, and, hidden by some linen spread across props, stationed themselves comfortably for overlooking the whole of Binet's room. He was alone in his garret, busy imitating in wood one of those indescribable bits of ivory, composed of crescents, of spheres hollowed out one within the other, the whole as straight as an obelisk, and of no use whatever; and he was beginning on the last piece--he was nearing his goal. In the twilight of the workshop the white dust was flying from his tools like a shower of sparks under the hoofs of a galloping horse; the two wheels were turning, droning; Binet smiled, his chin lowered, his nostrils distended, and, in a word, seemed lost in one of those complete happinesses that, no doubt, belong only to commonplace occupations, which amuse the mind with facile difficulties, and satisfy by a realisation of that beyond which such minds have not a dream. "Ah! there she is!" exclaimed Madame Tuvache. But it was impossible because of the lathe to hear what she was saying. At last these ladies thought they made out the word "francs," and Madame Tuvache whispered in a low voice-- "She is begging him to give her time for paying her taxes." "Apparently!" replied the other. They saw her walking up and down, examining the napkin-rings, the candlesticks, the banister rails against the walls, while Binet stroked his beard with satisfaction. "Do you think she wants to order something of him?" said Madame Tuvache. "Why, he doesn't sell anything," objected her neighbour. The tax-collector seemed to be listening with wide-open eyes, as if he did not understand. She went on in a tender, suppliant manner. She came nearer to him, her breast heaving; they no longer spoke. "Is she making him advances?" said Madame Tuvache. Binet was scarlet to his very ears. She took hold of his hands. "Oh, it's too much!" And no doubt she was suggesting something abominable to him; for the tax-collector--yet he was brave, had fought at Bautzen and at Lutzen, had been through the French campaign, and had even been recommended for the cross--suddenly, as at the sight of a serpent, recoiled as far as he could from her, crying-- "Madame! what do you mean?" "Women like that ought to be whipped," said Madame Tuvache. "But where is she?" continued Madame Caron, for she had disappeared whilst they spoke; then catching sight of her going up the Grande Rue, and turning to the right as if making for the cemetery, they were lost in conjectures. "Nurse Rollet," she said on reaching the nurse's, "I am choking; unlace me!" She fell on the bed sobbing. Nurse Rollet covered her with a petticoat and remained standing by her side. Then, as she did not answer, the good woman withdrew, took her wheel and began spinning flax. "Oh, leave off!" she murmured, fancying she heard Binet's lathe. "What's bothering her?" said the nurse to herself. "Why has she come here?" She had rushed thither; impelled by a kind of horror that drove her from her home. Lying on her back, motionless, and with staring eyes, she saw things but vaguely, although she tried to with idiotic persistence. She looked at the scales on the walls, two brands smoking end to end, and a long spider crawling over her head in a rent in the beam. At last she began to collect her thoughts. She remembered--one day--Leon--Oh! how long ago that was--the sun was shining on the river, and the clematis were perfuming the air. Then, carried away as by a rushing torrent, she soon began to recall the day before. "What time is it?" she asked. Mere Rollet went out, raised the fingers of her right hand to that side of the sky that was brightest, and came back slowly, saying-- "Nearly three." "Ah! thanks, thanks!" For he would come; he would have found some money. But he would, perhaps, go down yonder, not guessing she was here, and she told the nurse to run to her house to fetch him. "Be quick!" "But, my dear lady, I'm going, I'm going!" She wondered now that she had not thought of him from the first. Yesterday he had given his word; he would not break it. And she already saw herself at Lheureux's spreading out her three bank-notes on his bureau. Then she would have to invent some story to explain matters to Bovary. What should it be? The nurse, however, was a long while gone. But, as there was no clock in the cot, Emma feared she was perhaps exaggerating the length of time. She began walking round the garden, step by step; she went into the path by the hedge, and returned quickly, hoping that the woman would have come back by another road. At last, weary of waiting, assailed by fears that she thrust from her, no longer conscious whether she had been here a century or a moment, she sat down in a corner, closed her eyes, and stopped her ears. The gate grated; she sprang up. Before she had spoken Mere Rollet said to her-- "There is no one at your house!" "What?" "Oh, no one! And the doctor is crying. He is calling for you; they're looking for you." Emma antwortete nichts. Sie keuchte, als sie ihre Augen umherschweifen ließ, während die Bäuerin, erschrocken über ihr Gesicht, instinktiv zurückwich und dachte, sie sei verrückt. Plötzlich schlug sie sich an die Stirn und stieß einen Schrei aus; denn der Gedanke an Rodolphe war wie ein Blitz in einer dunklen Nacht in ihre Seele eingedrungen. Er war so gut, so feinfühlig, so großzügig! Und außerdem, falls er zögern sollte, ihr diesen Gefallen zu tun, würde sie genau wissen, wie sie ihn dazu bringen könnte, ihre verlorene Liebe in einem einzigen Moment wieder aufleben zu lassen. Also machte sie sich auf den Weg nach La Huchette, ohne zu bemerken, dass sie sich beeilte, sich dem anzubieten, was sie vor kurzem noch so verärgert hatte, ohne sich im Geringsten ihrer Prostitution bewusst zu sein. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Am Morgen kamen die Vollstreckungsbeamten des Sheriffs und erstellten ein vollständiges Inventar der Haushaltsmöbel und Waren, aber Emma schaffte es, die ganze Zeit eine stoische Haltung zu bewahren, solange sie da waren. Sie ließen einen Wächter auf dem Gelände zurück, aber sie hielt ihn im Dachboden versteckt, wo Bovary ihn nicht sehen würde. An diesem Abend schien Bovary besorgt zu sein, und Emma fürchtete sich, dass er es wüsste, aber er sagte nichts. Sie war besonders verärgert darüber, dass sie die ganze Verantwortung in dieser Angelegenheit trug und dass Bovary unschuldig war. Während die Nacht verging, beschäftigte sie sich damit, Pläne zu schmieden, um das Geld aufzutreiben. Am nächsten Morgen fuhr Emma nach Rouen und besuchte mehrere Banker, aber sie alle lehnten es ab, ihr einen Kredit zu geben. Sie bat Leon um Hilfe, aber er protestierte, dass er niemals eine so große Summe aufbringen könne, und wurde wütend, als sie vorschlug, dass er das Geld von seinem Arbeitgeber stehlen solle. Schließlich versprach Leon, um sie zu beruhigen, dass er seine Freunde treffen würde und wenn er die benötigte Summe auftreiben könnte, würde er sie nach Yonville bringen. Am Montag war Emma entsetzt festzustellen, dass eine öffentliche Mitteilung über die Beschlagnahme und Versteigerung des Sheriffs auf dem Marktplatz angebracht worden war. Sie ging zu Guillaumin, dem Stadtrechtsanwalt. Er bot ihr Hilfe an, machte aber deutlich, dass er im Gegenzug Gefälligkeiten von ihr erwartete. Emma fühlte sich von seiner Dreistigkeit beleidigt, schrie, dass sie nicht käuflich sei, und verließ ihn wutentbrannt. Bovary war nicht zu Hause und wusste immer noch nicht, was passiert war. Inzwischen beobachtete die ganze Stadt erwartungsvoll, um zu sehen, was als Nächstes passieren würde. Emma fühlte sich schwach und ängstlich; sie hoffte immer noch, dass Leon mit dem Geld herbeireiten würde, hatte jedoch kein Vertrauen in diese Möglichkeit. Sie war verbittert und verängstigt. Plötzlich kam ihr eine Idee - Rodolphe - und sie machte sich auf den Weg zu seinem Anwesen. Sie plante, von seiner vermeintlichen Liebe zu ihr zu profitieren und von ihm das Geld zu bekommen. Es fiel ihr nie ein, dass das, was sie vorhatte, tatsächlich Prostitution war - genau das, was sie so wütend abgelehnt hatte, als Guillaumin den gleichen Vorschlag gemacht hatte.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: SCENE II. Rome. Before TITUS' house Enter TAMORA, and her two sons, DEMETRIUS and CHIRON, disguised TAMORA. Thus, in this strange and sad habiliment, I will encounter with Andronicus, And say I am Revenge, sent from below To join with him and right his heinous wrongs. Knock at his study, where they say he keeps To ruminate strange plots of dire revenge; Tell him Revenge is come to join with him, And work confusion on his enemies. They knock and TITUS opens his study door, above TITUS. Who doth molest my contemplation? Is it your trick to make me ope the door, That so my sad decrees may fly away And all my study be to no effect? You are deceiv'd; for what I mean to do See here in bloody lines I have set down; And what is written shall be executed. TAMORA. Titus, I am come to talk with thee. TITUS. No, not a word. How can I grace my talk, Wanting a hand to give it that accord? Thou hast the odds of me; therefore no more. TAMORA. If thou didst know me, thou wouldst talk with me. TITUS. I am not mad, I know thee well enough: Witness this wretched stump, witness these crimson lines; Witness these trenches made by grief and care; Witness the tiring day and heavy night; Witness all sorrow that I know thee well For our proud Empress, mighty Tamora. Is not thy coming for my other hand? TAMORA. Know thou, sad man, I am not Tamora: She is thy enemy and I thy friend. I am Revenge, sent from th' infernal kingdom To ease the gnawing vulture of thy mind By working wreakful vengeance on thy foes. Come down and welcome me to this world's light; Confer with me of murder and of death; There's not a hollow cave or lurking-place, No vast obscurity or misty vale, Where bloody murder or detested rape Can couch for fear but I will find them out; And in their ears tell them my dreadful name- Revenge, which makes the foul offender quake. TITUS. Art thou Revenge? and art thou sent to me To be a torment to mine enemies? TAMORA. I am; therefore come down and welcome me. TITUS. Do me some service ere I come to thee. Lo, by thy side where Rape and Murder stands; Now give some surance that thou art Revenge- Stab them, or tear them on thy chariot wheels; And then I'll come and be thy waggoner And whirl along with thee about the globes. Provide thee two proper palfreys, black as jet, To hale thy vengeful waggon swift away, And find out murderers in their guilty caves; And when thy car is loaden with their heads, I will dismount, and by thy waggon wheel Trot, like a servile footman, all day long, Even from Hyperion's rising in the east Until his very downfall in the sea. And day by day I'll do this heavy task, So thou destroy Rapine and Murder there. TAMORA. These are my ministers, and come with me. TITUS. Are they thy ministers? What are they call'd? TAMORA. Rape and Murder; therefore called so 'Cause they take vengeance of such kind of men. TITUS. Good Lord, how like the Empress' sons they are! And you the Empress! But we worldly men Have miserable, mad, mistaking eyes. O sweet Revenge, now do I come to thee; And, if one arm's embracement will content thee, I will embrace thee in it by and by. TAMORA. This closing with him fits his lunacy. Whate'er I forge to feed his brain-sick humours, Do you uphold and maintain in your speeches, For now he firmly takes me for Revenge; And, being credulous in this mad thought, I'll make him send for Lucius his son, And whilst I at a banquet hold him sure, I'll find some cunning practice out of hand To scatter and disperse the giddy Goths, Or, at the least, make them his enemies. See, here he comes, and I must ply my theme. Enter TITUS, below TITUS. Long have I been forlorn, and all for thee. Welcome, dread Fury, to my woeful house. Rapine and Murder, you are welcome too. How like the Empress and her sons you are! Well are you fitted, had you but a Moor. Could not all hell afford you such a devil? For well I wot the Empress never wags But in her company there is a Moor; And, would you represent our queen aright, It were convenient you had such a devil. But welcome as you are. What shall we do? TAMORA. What wouldst thou have us do, Andronicus? DEMETRIUS. Show me a murderer, I'll deal with him. CHIRON. Show me a villain that hath done a rape, And I am sent to be reveng'd on him. TAMORA. Show me a thousand that hath done thee wrong, And I will be revenged on them all. TITUS. Look round about the wicked streets of Rome, And when thou find'st a man that's like thyself, Good Murder, stab him; he's a murderer. Go thou with him, and when it is thy hap To find another that is like to thee, Good Rapine, stab him; he is a ravisher. Go thou with them; and in the Emperor's court There is a queen, attended by a Moor; Well shalt thou know her by thine own proportion, For up and down she doth resemble thee. I pray thee, do on them some violent death; They have been violent to me and mine. TAMORA. Well hast thou lesson'd us; this shall we do. But would it please thee, good Andronicus, To send for Lucius, thy thrice-valiant son, Who leads towards Rome a band of warlike Goths, And bid him come and banquet at thy house; When he is here, even at thy solemn feast, I will bring in the Empress and her sons, The Emperor himself, and all thy foes; And at thy mercy shall they stoop and kneel, And on them shalt thou ease thy angry heart. What says Andronicus to this device? TITUS. Marcus, my brother! 'Tis sad Titus calls. Enter MARCUS Go, gentle Marcus, to thy nephew Lucius; Thou shalt inquire him out among the Goths. Bid him repair to me, and bring with him Some of the chiefest princes of the Goths; Bid him encamp his soldiers where they are. Tell him the Emperor and the Empress too Feast at my house, and he shall feast with them. This do thou for my love; and so let him, As he regards his aged father's life. MARCUS. This will I do, and soon return again. Exit TAMORA. Now will I hence about thy business, And take my ministers along with me. TITUS. Nay, nay, let Rape and Murder stay with me, Or else I'll call my brother back again, And cleave to no revenge but Lucius. TAMORA. [Aside to her sons] What say you, boys? Will you abide with him, Whiles I go tell my lord the Emperor How I have govern'd our determin'd jest? Yield to his humour, smooth and speak him fair, And tarry with him till I turn again. TITUS. [Aside] I knew them all, though they suppos'd me mad, And will o'er reach them in their own devices, A pair of cursed hell-hounds and their dam. DEMETRIUS. Madam, depart at pleasure; leave us here. TAMORA. Farewell, Andronicus, Revenge now goes To lay a complot to betray thy foes. TITUS. I know thou dost; and, sweet Revenge, farewell. Exit TAMORA CHIRON. Tell us, old man, how shall we be employ'd? TITUS. Tut, I have work enough for you to do. Publius, come hither, Caius, and Valentine. Enter PUBLIUS, CAIUS, and VALENTINE PUBLIUS. What is your will? TITUS. Know you these two? PUBLIUS. The Empress' sons, I take them: Chiron, Demetrius. TITUS. Fie, Publius, fie! thou art too much deceiv'd. The one is Murder, and Rape is the other's name; And therefore bind them, gentle Publius- Caius and Valentine, lay hands on them. Oft have you heard me wish for such an hour, And now I find it; therefore bind them sure, And stop their mouths if they begin to cry. Exit [They lay hold on CHIRON and DEMETRIUS] CHIRON. Villains, forbear! we are the Empress' sons. PUBLIUS. And therefore do we what we are commanded. Stop close their mouths, let them not speak a word. Is he sure bound? Look that you bind them fast. Re-enter TITUS ANDRONICUS with a knife, and LAVINIA, with a basin TITUS. Come, come, Lavinia; look, thy foes are bound. Sirs, stop their mouths, let them not speak to me; But let them hear what fearful words I utter. O villains, Chiron and Demetrius! Here stands the spring whom you have stain'd with mud; This goodly summer with your winter mix'd. You kill'd her husband; and for that vile fault Two of her brothers were condemn'd to death, My hand cut off and made a merry jest; Both her sweet hands, her tongue, and that more dear Than hands or tongue, her spotless chastity, Inhuman traitors, you constrain'd and forc'd. What would you say, if I should let you speak? Villains, for shame you could not beg for grace. Hark, wretches! how I mean to martyr you. This one hand yet is left to cut your throats, Whiles that Lavinia 'tween her stumps doth hold The basin that receives your guilty blood. You know your mother means to feast with me, And calls herself Revenge, and thinks me mad. Hark, villains! I will grind your bones to dust, And with your blood and it I'll make a paste; And of the paste a coffin I will rear, And make two pasties of your shameful heads; And bid that strumpet, your unhallowed dam, Like to the earth, swallow her own increase. This is the feast that I have bid her to, And this the banquet she shall surfeit on; For worse than Philomel you us'd my daughter, And worse than Progne I will be reveng'd. And now prepare your throats. Lavinia, come, Receive the blood; and when that they are dead, Let me go grind their bones to powder small, And with this hateful liquor temper it; And in that paste let their vile heads be bak'd. Come, come, be every one officious To make this banquet, which I wish may prove More stern and bloody than the Centaurs' feast. [He cuts their throats] So. Now bring them in, for I will play the cook, And see them ready against their mother comes. Exeunt, bearing the dead bodies Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Tamora und ihre beiden Söhne kommen als Vergeltung, Vergewaltigung und Mord verkleidet, um Titus zu sehen. Sie sagen ihm, dass sie gekommen sind, um seine Unrecht zu rächen. Obwohl Titus sie erkennt, spielt er mit und lädt sie ins Haus ein. Während Titus sie für einige Zeit alleine lässt, offenbart Tamora ihren Söhnen ihren Plan, Lucius und die Goten zu einem Bankett im Haus des Titus einzuladen und dann ihre Allianz zu brechen. Als Titus zurückkehrt, schlägt Tamora ein Bankett vor, bei dem Lucius der Familie des Kaisers gegenübertritt und sich rächt. Tamora sagt Titus, dass sie gehen und den Kaiser und seine Familie einladen wird. Titus überzeugt sie, ihre Söhne zurückzulassen. Während Tamora weg ist, töten Titus und Lavinia beide Söhne und benutzen ihre Leichen, um ein Festmahl für Tamora vorzubereiten.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). 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 XXIII. The Good Witch Grants Dorothy's Wish. [Illustration] [Illustration: "_You must give me the Golden Cap._"] [Illustration] Before they went to see Glinda, however, they were taken to a room of the Castle, where Dorothy washed her face and combed her hair, and the Lion shook the dust out of his mane, and the Scarecrow patted himself into his best shape, and the Woodman polished his tin and oiled his joints. When they were all quite presentable they followed the soldier girl into a big room where the Witch Glinda sat upon a throne of rubies. She was both beautiful and young to their eyes. Her hair was a rich red in color and fell in flowing ringlets over her shoulders. Her dress was pure white; but her eyes were blue, and they looked kindly upon the little girl. "What can I do for you, my child?" she asked. Dorothy told the Witch all her story; how the cyclone had brought her to the Land of Oz, how she had found her companions, and of the wonderful adventures they had met with. "My greatest wish now," she added, "is to get back to Kansas, for Aunt Em will surely think something dreadful has happened to me, and that will make her put on mourning; and unless the crops are better this year than they were last I am sure Uncle Henry cannot afford it." Glinda leaned forward and kissed the sweet, upturned face of the loving little girl. "Bless your dear heart," she said, "I am sure I can tell you of a way to get back to Kansas." Then she added: "But, if I do, you must give me the Golden Cap." "Willingly!" exclaimed Dorothy; "indeed, it is of no use to me now, and when you have it you can command the Winged Monkeys three times." "And I think I shall need their service just those three times," answered Glinda, smiling. Dorothy then gave her the Golden Cap, and the Witch said to the Scarecrow, "What will you do when Dorothy has left us?" "I will return to the Emerald City," he replied, "for Oz has made me its ruler and the people like me. The only thing that worries me is how to cross the hill of the Hammer-Heads." "By means of the Golden Cap I shall command the Winged Monkeys to carry you to the gates of the Emerald City," said Glinda, "for it would be a shame to deprive the people of so wonderful a ruler." "Am I really wonderful?" asked the Scarecrow. "You are unusual," replied Glinda. Turning to the Tin Woodman, she asked: "What will become of you when Dorothy leaves this country?" He leaned on his axe and thought a moment. Then he said, "The Winkies were very kind to me, and wanted me to rule over them after the Wicked Witch died. I am fond of the Winkies, and if I could get back again to the country of the West I should like nothing better than to rule over them forever." "My second command to the Winged Monkeys," said Glinda, "will be that they carry you safely to the land of the Winkies. Your brains may not be so large to look at as those of the Scarecrow, but you are really brighter than he is--when you are well polished--and I am sure you will rule the Winkies wisely and well." Then the Witch looked at the big, shaggy Lion and asked, "When Dorothy has returned to her own home, what will become of you?" "Over the hill of the Hammer-Heads," he answered, "lies a grand old forest, and all the beasts that live there have made me their King. If I could only get back to this forest I would pass my life very happily there." "My third command to the Winged Monkeys," said Glinda, "shall be to carry you to your forest. Then, having used up the powers of the Golden Cap, I shall give it to the King of the Monkeys, that he and his band may thereafter be free for evermore." The Scarecrow and the Tin Woodman and the Lion now thanked the Good Witch earnestly for her kindness, and Dorothy exclaimed, [Illustration] "You are certainly as good as you are beautiful! But you have not yet told me how to get back to Kansas." "Your Silver Shoes will carry you over the desert," replied Glinda. "If you had known their power you could have gone back to your Aunt Em the very first day you came to this country." "But then I should not have had my wonderful brains!" cried the Scarecrow. "I might have passed my whole life in the farmer's cornfield." "And I should not have had my lovely heart," said the Tin Woodman. "I might have stood and rusted in the forest till the end of the world." "And I should have lived a coward forever," declared the Lion, "and no beast in all the forest would have had a good word to say to me." "This is all true," said Dorothy, "and I am glad I was of use to these good friends. But now that each of them has had what he most desired, and each is happy in having a kingdom to rule beside, I think I should like to go back to Kansas." "The Silver Shoes," said the Good Witch, "have wonderful powers. And one of the most curious things about them is that they can carry you to any place in the world in three steps, and each step will be made in the wink of an eye. All you have to do is to knock the heels together three times and command the shoes to carry you wherever you wish to go." "If that is so," said the child, joyfully, "I will ask them to carry me back to Kansas at once." She threw her arms around the Lion's neck and kissed him, patting his big head tenderly. Then she kissed the Tin Woodman, who was weeping in a way most dangerous to his joints. But she hugged the soft, stuffed body of the Scarecrow in her arms instead of kissing his painted face, and found she was crying herself at this sorrowful parting from her loving comrades. Glinda the Good stepped down from her ruby throne to give the little girl a good-bye kiss, and Dorothy thanked her for all the kindness she had shown to her friends and herself. Dorothy now took Toto up solemnly in her arms, and having said one last good-bye she clapped the heels of her shoes together three times, saying, "Take me home to Aunt Em!" * * * * * [Illustration] Instantly she was whirling through the air, so swiftly that all she could see or feel was the wind whistling past her ears. The Silver Shoes took but three steps, and then she stopped so suddenly that she rolled over upon the grass several times before she knew where she was. At length, however, she sat up and looked about her. "Good gracious!" she cried. For she was sitting on the broad Kansas prairie, and just before her was the new farm-house Uncle Henry built after the cyclone had carried away the old one. Uncle Henry was milking the cows in the barnyard, and Toto had jumped out of her arms and was running toward the barn, barking joyously. Dorothy stood up and found she was in her stocking-feet. For the Silver Shoes had fallen off in her flight through the air, and were lost forever in the desert. [Illustration] Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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

Die Gruppe hat die Möglichkeit, sich vor dem Treffen mit der Hexe frisch zu machen. Schließlich werden sie zum Thron geführt. Dorothy erklärt der Hexe alles, was bisher passiert ist, und erklärt, dass sie immer noch nach Kansas zurückkehren möchte. Glinda denkt, dass das kein Problem sein sollte - sie braucht nur die Goldene Kappe. Der Plan ist, dass Glinda die Kappe benutzen wird, um den Vogelscheuchen, den Blechmann und den Löwen zurück nach Oz, zu den Winkies und in den Wald zu schicken. Das sind jetzt ihre Zuhause. Was Dorothy betrifft, muss sie nur die silbernen Schuhe benutzen. Sie hatte die ganze Zeit die Kraft, nach Hause zurückzukehren; sie wusste es nur nicht. Ihre Freunde sind dankbar für die Reise, weil Dorothy ihnen geholfen hat, ihre Ziele zu erreichen. Aber jetzt ist Dorothy bereit, nach Hause zu gehen. Sie verabschiedet sich tränenreich von allen und bittet die Schuhe, sie nach Hause zu bringen. Jetzt merkt Dorothy, wie sie durch die Luft wirbelt. Sie macht drei Schritte und, knall! Sie ist zurück in Kansas. Dorothy sieht Onkel Henry und das neue Farmhaus, das er gebaut hat. Toto rennt bellend zum Stall. Dorothy steht auf, um ihm zu folgen, und stellt fest, dass sie nur noch ihre Strümpfe an den Füßen hat. Die silbernen Schuhe sind auf dem Weg abgefallen und für immer in der Wüste verloren.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: This voyage of eight hundred miles was a perilous venture on a craft of twenty tons, and at that season of the year. The Chinese seas are usually boisterous, subject to terrible gales of wind, and especially during the equinoxes; and it was now early November. It would clearly have been to the master's advantage to carry his passengers to Yokohama, since he was paid a certain sum per day; but he would have been rash to attempt such a voyage, and it was imprudent even to attempt to reach Shanghai. But John Bunsby believed in the Tankadere, which rode on the waves like a seagull; and perhaps he was not wrong. Late in the day they passed through the capricious channels of Hong Kong, and the Tankadere, impelled by favourable winds, conducted herself admirably. "I do not need, pilot," said Phileas Fogg, when they got into the open sea, "to advise you to use all possible speed." "Trust me, your honour. We are carrying all the sail the wind will let us. The poles would add nothing, and are only used when we are going into port." "It's your trade, not mine, pilot, and I confide in you." Phileas Fogg, with body erect and legs wide apart, standing like a sailor, gazed without staggering at the swelling waters. The young woman, who was seated aft, was profoundly affected as she looked out upon the ocean, darkening now with the twilight, on which she had ventured in so frail a vessel. Above her head rustled the white sails, which seemed like great white wings. The boat, carried forward by the wind, seemed to be flying in the air. Night came. The moon was entering her first quarter, and her insufficient light would soon die out in the mist on the horizon. Clouds were rising from the east, and already overcast a part of the heavens. The pilot had hung out his lights, which was very necessary in these seas crowded with vessels bound landward; for collisions are not uncommon occurrences, and, at the speed she was going, the least shock would shatter the gallant little craft. Fix, seated in the bow, gave himself up to meditation. He kept apart from his fellow-travellers, knowing Mr. Fogg's taciturn tastes; besides, he did not quite like to talk to the man whose favours he had accepted. He was thinking, too, of the future. It seemed certain that Fogg would not stop at Yokohama, but would at once take the boat for San Francisco; and the vast extent of America would ensure him impunity and safety. Fogg's plan appeared to him the simplest in the world. Instead of sailing directly from England to the United States, like a common villain, he had traversed three quarters of the globe, so as to gain the American continent more surely; and there, after throwing the police off his track, he would quietly enjoy himself with the fortune stolen from the bank. But, once in the United States, what should he, Fix, do? Should he abandon this man? No, a hundred times no! Until he had secured his extradition, he would not lose sight of him for an hour. It was his duty, and he would fulfil it to the end. At all events, there was one thing to be thankful for; Passepartout was not with his master; and it was above all important, after the confidences Fix had imparted to him, that the servant should never have speech with his master. Phileas Fogg was also thinking of Passepartout, who had so strangely disappeared. Looking at the matter from every point of view, it did not seem to him impossible that, by some mistake, the man might have embarked on the Carnatic at the last moment; and this was also Aouda's opinion, who regretted very much the loss of the worthy fellow to whom she owed so much. They might then find him at Yokohama; for, if the Carnatic was carrying him thither, it would be easy to ascertain if he had been on board. A brisk breeze arose about ten o'clock; but, though it might have been prudent to take in a reef, the pilot, after carefully examining the heavens, let the craft remain rigged as before. The Tankadere bore sail admirably, as she drew a great deal of water, and everything was prepared for high speed in case of a gale. Mr. Fogg and Aouda descended into the cabin at midnight, having been already preceded by Fix, who had lain down on one of the cots. The pilot and crew remained on deck all night. At sunrise the next day, which was 8th November, the boat had made more than one hundred miles. The log indicated a mean speed of between eight and nine miles. The Tankadere still carried all sail, and was accomplishing her greatest capacity of speed. If the wind held as it was, the chances would be in her favour. During the day she kept along the coast, where the currents were favourable; the coast, irregular in profile, and visible sometimes across the clearings, was at most five miles distant. The sea was less boisterous, since the wind came off land--a fortunate circumstance for the boat, which would suffer, owing to its small tonnage, by a heavy surge on the sea. The breeze subsided a little towards noon, and set in from the south-west. The pilot put up his poles, but took them down again within two hours, as the wind freshened up anew. Mr. Fogg and Aouda, happily unaffected by the roughness of the sea, ate with a good appetite, Fix being invited to share their repast, which he accepted with secret chagrin. To travel at this man's expense and live upon his provisions was not palatable to him. Still, he was obliged to eat, and so he ate. When the meal was over, he took Mr. Fogg apart, and said, "sir"--this "sir" scorched his lips, and he had to control himself to avoid collaring this "gentleman"--"sir, you have been very kind to give me a passage on this boat. But, though my means will not admit of my expending them as freely as you, I must ask to pay my share--" "Let us not speak of that, sir," replied Mr. Fogg. "But, if I insist--" "No, sir," repeated Mr. Fogg, in a tone which did not admit of a reply. "This enters into my general expenses." Fix, as he bowed, had a stifled feeling, and, going forward, where he ensconced himself, did not open his mouth for the rest of the day. Meanwhile they were progressing famously, and John Bunsby was in high hope. He several times assured Mr. Fogg that they would reach Shanghai in time; to which that gentleman responded that he counted upon it. The crew set to work in good earnest, inspired by the reward to be gained. There was not a sheet which was not tightened, not a sail which was not vigorously hoisted; not a lurch could be charged to the man at the helm. They worked as desperately as if they were contesting in a Royal yacht regatta. By evening, the log showed that two hundred and twenty miles had been accomplished from Hong Kong, and Mr. Fogg might hope that he would be able to reach Yokohama without recording any delay in his journal; in which case, the many misadventures which had overtaken him since he left London would not seriously affect his journey. The Tankadere entered the Straits of Fo-Kien, which separate the island of Formosa from the Chinese coast, in the small hours of the night, and crossed the Tropic of Cancer. The sea was very rough in the straits, full of eddies formed by the counter-currents, and the chopping waves broke her course, whilst it became very difficult to stand on deck. At daybreak the wind began to blow hard again, and the heavens seemed to predict a gale. The barometer announced a speedy change, the mercury rising and falling capriciously; the sea also, in the south-east, raised long surges which indicated a tempest. The sun had set the evening before in a red mist, in the midst of the phosphorescent scintillations of the ocean. John Bunsby long examined the threatening aspect of the heavens, muttering indistinctly between his teeth. At last he said in a low voice to Mr. Fogg, "Shall I speak out to your honour?" "Of course." "Well, we are going to have a squall." "Is the wind north or south?" asked Mr. Fogg quietly. "South. Look! a typhoon is coming up." "Glad it's a typhoon from the south, for it will carry us forward." "Oh, if you take it that way," said John Bunsby, "I've nothing more to say." John Bunsby's suspicions were confirmed. At a less advanced season of the year the typhoon, according to a famous meteorologist, would have passed away like a luminous cascade of electric flame; but in the winter equinox it was to be feared that it would burst upon them with great violence. The pilot took his precautions in advance. He reefed all sail, the pole-masts were dispensed with; all hands went forward to the bows. A single triangular sail, of strong canvas, was hoisted as a storm-jib, so as to hold the wind from behind. Then they waited. John Bunsby had requested his passengers to go below; but this imprisonment in so narrow a space, with little air, and the boat bouncing in the gale, was far from pleasant. Neither Mr. Fogg, Fix, nor Aouda consented to leave the deck. The storm of rain and wind descended upon them towards eight o'clock. With but its bit of sail, the Tankadere was lifted like a feather by a wind, an idea of whose violence can scarcely be given. To compare her speed to four times that of a locomotive going on full steam would be below the truth. The boat scudded thus northward during the whole day, borne on by monstrous waves, preserving always, fortunately, a speed equal to theirs. Twenty times she seemed almost to be submerged by these mountains of water which rose behind her; but the adroit management of the pilot saved her. The passengers were often bathed in spray, but they submitted to it philosophically. Fix cursed it, no doubt; but Aouda, with her eyes fastened upon her protector, whose coolness amazed her, showed herself worthy of him, and bravely weathered the storm. As for Phileas Fogg, it seemed just as if the typhoon were a part of his programme. Up to this time the Tankadere had always held her course to the north; but towards evening the wind, veering three quarters, bore down from the north-west. The boat, now lying in the trough of the waves, shook and rolled terribly; the sea struck her with fearful violence. At night the tempest increased in violence. John Bunsby saw the approach of darkness and the rising of the storm with dark misgivings. He thought awhile, and then asked his crew if it was not time to slacken speed. After a consultation he approached Mr. Fogg, and said, "I think, your honour, that we should do well to make for one of the ports on the coast." "I think so too." "Ah!" said the pilot. "But which one?" "I know of but one," returned Mr. Fogg tranquilly. "And that is--" "Shanghai." The pilot, at first, did not seem to comprehend; he could scarcely realise so much determination and tenacity. Then he cried, "Well--yes! Your honour is right. To Shanghai!" So the Tankadere kept steadily on her northward track. The night was really terrible; it would be a miracle if the craft did not founder. Twice it could have been all over with her if the crew had not been constantly on the watch. Aouda was exhausted, but did not utter a complaint. More than once Mr. Fogg rushed to protect her from the violence of the waves. Day reappeared. The tempest still raged with undiminished fury; but the wind now returned to the south-east. It was a favourable change, and the Tankadere again bounded forward on this mountainous sea, though the waves crossed each other, and imparted shocks and counter-shocks which would have crushed a craft less solidly built. From time to time the coast was visible through the broken mist, but no vessel was in sight. The Tankadere was alone upon the sea. There were some signs of a calm at noon, and these became more distinct as the sun descended toward the horizon. The tempest had been as brief as terrific. The passengers, thoroughly exhausted, could now eat a little, and take some repose. The night was comparatively quiet. Some of the sails were again hoisted, and the speed of the boat was very good. The next morning at dawn they espied the coast, and John Bunsby was able to assert that they were not one hundred miles from Shanghai. A hundred miles, and only one day to traverse them! That very evening Mr. Fogg was due at Shanghai, if he did not wish to miss the steamer to Yokohama. Had there been no storm, during which several hours were lost, they would be at this moment within thirty miles of their destination. The wind grew decidedly calmer, and happily the sea fell with it. All sails were now hoisted, and at noon the Tankadere was within forty-five miles of Shanghai. There remained yet six hours in which to accomplish that distance. All on board feared that it could not be done, and every one--Phileas Fogg, no doubt, excepted--felt his heart beat with impatience. The boat must keep up an average of nine miles an hour, and the wind was becoming calmer every moment! It was a capricious breeze, coming from the coast, and after it passed the sea became smooth. Still, the Tankadere was so light, and her fine sails caught the fickle zephyrs so well, that, with the aid of the currents John Bunsby found himself at six o'clock not more than ten miles from the mouth of Shanghai River. Shanghai itself is situated at least twelve miles up the stream. At seven they were still three miles from Shanghai. The pilot swore an angry oath; the reward of two hundred pounds was evidently on the point of escaping him. He looked at Mr. Fogg. Mr. Fogg was perfectly tranquil; and yet his whole fortune was at this moment at stake. At this moment, also, a long black funnel, crowned with wreaths of smoke, appeared on the edge of the waters. It was the American steamer, leaving for Yokohama at the appointed time. "Confound her!" cried John Bunsby, pushing back the rudder with a desperate jerk. "Signal her!" said Phileas Fogg quietly. A small brass cannon stood on the forward deck of the Tankadere, for making signals in the fogs. It was loaded to the muzzle; but just as the pilot was about to apply a red-hot coal to the touchhole, Mr. Fogg said, "Hoist your flag!" The flag was run up at half-mast, and, this being the signal of distress, it was hoped that the American steamer, perceiving it, would change her course a little, so as to succour the pilot-boat. "Fire!" said Mr. Fogg. And the booming of the little cannon resounded in the air. Können Sie eine geeignete Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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

In diesem Kapitel wird die Reise der Tankadere beschrieben. Fogg bittet John Bunsby, das Schiff so schnell wie möglich zu bewegen. Währenddessen machte sich Fix Sorgen über seinen nächsten Schritt. In der Nacht beginnt der Wind zu wehen und setzt sich am nächsten Tag fort. Aouda und Fogg sind nicht seekrank, aber es geht Fix nicht so gut. Das Schiff bewegt sich gut und Bunsby hofft, Shanghai rechtzeitig zu erreichen. Dann gerät das Schiff in einen Sturm und der Wind drückt das Schiff nach Norden. Aouda und Fogg stellen sich tapfer dem Sturm. Fogg insistiert, dass sie das Schiff nicht in den Hafen bringen, sondern sich Shanghai nähern sollen. Die Tankadere bleibt trotz des wütenden Sturms auf See. Als das Schiff kaum noch einen Tag übrig hat, sind sie noch immer eine Strecke von Shanghai entfernt. Jeder an Bord ist gespannt, ob sie rechtzeitig ankommen werden, um das nächste Schiff zu besteigen. Als sie drei Meilen von Shanghai entfernt sind, sehen sie den amerikanischen Liner, der zur vereinbarten Zeit abfährt. Fogg bittet Bunsby, dem Schiff Signale zu geben, und er senkt seine Flagge zur Halbmast. Sie hofften, dass der amerikanische Dampfer für einen Moment ihren Kurs ändern würde, um das Lotsenboot zu begleiten.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). 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 did not leave for Cambridge the next day, as he had said he would. He deferred his departure a whole week, and during that time he made me feel what severe punishment a good yet stern, a conscientious yet implacable man can inflict on one who has offended him. Without one overt act of hostility, one upbraiding word, he contrived to impress me momently with the conviction that I was put beyond the pale of his favour. Not that St. John harboured a spirit of unchristian vindictiveness--not that he would have injured a hair of my head, if it had been fully in his power to do so. Both by nature and principle, he was superior to the mean gratification of vengeance: he had forgiven me for saying I scorned him and his love, but he had not forgotten the words; and as long as he and I lived he never would forget them. I saw by his look, when he turned to me, that they were always written on the air between me and him; whenever I spoke, they sounded in my voice to his ear, and their echo toned every answer he gave me. He did not abstain from conversing with me: he even called me as usual each morning to join him at his desk; and I fear the corrupt man within him had a pleasure unimparted to, and unshared by, the pure Christian, in evincing with what skill he could, while acting and speaking apparently just as usual, extract from every deed and every phrase the spirit of interest and approval which had formerly communicated a certain austere charm to his language and manner. To me, he was in reality become no longer flesh, but marble; his eye was a cold, bright, blue gem; his tongue a speaking instrument--nothing more. All this was torture to me--refined, lingering torture. It kept up a slow fire of indignation and a trembling trouble of grief, which harassed and crushed me altogether. I felt how--if I were his wife, this good man, pure as the deep sunless source, could soon kill me, without drawing from my veins a single drop of blood, or receiving on his own crystal conscience the faintest stain of crime. Especially I felt this when I made any attempt to propitiate him. No ruth met my ruth. _He_ experienced no suffering from estrangement--no yearning after reconciliation; and though, more than once, my fast falling tears blistered the page over which we both bent, they produced no more effect on him than if his heart had been really a matter of stone or metal. To his sisters, meantime, he was somewhat kinder than usual: as if afraid that mere coldness would not sufficiently convince me how completely I was banished and banned, he added the force of contrast; and this I am sure he did not by force, but on principle. The night before he left home, happening to see him walking in the garden about sunset, and remembering, as I looked at him, that this man, alienated as he now was, had once saved my life, and that we were near relations, I was moved to make a last attempt to regain his friendship. I went out and approached him as he stood leaning over the little gate; I spoke to the point at once. "St. John, I am unhappy because you are still angry with me. Let us be friends." "I hope we are friends," was the unmoved reply; while he still watched the rising of the moon, which he had been contemplating as I approached. "No, St. John, we are not friends as we were. You know that." "Are we not? That is wrong. For my part, I wish you no ill and all good." "I believe you, St. John; for I am sure you are incapable of wishing any one ill; but, as I am your kinswoman, I should desire somewhat more of affection than that sort of general philanthropy you extend to mere strangers." "Of course," he said. "Your wish is reasonable, and I am far from regarding you as a stranger." This, spoken in a cool, tranquil tone, was mortifying and baffling enough. Had I attended to the suggestions of pride and ire, I should immediately have left him; but something worked within me more strongly than those feelings could. I deeply venerated my cousin's talent and principle. His friendship was of value to me: to lose it tried me severely. I would not so soon relinquish the attempt to reconquer it. "Must we part in this way, St. John? And when you go to India, will you leave me so, without a kinder word than you have yet spoken?" He now turned quite from the moon and faced me. "When I go to India, Jane, will I leave you! What! do you not go to India?" "You said I could not unless I married you." "And you will not marry me! You adhere to that resolution?" Reader, do you know, as I do, what terror those cold people can put into the ice of their questions? How much of the fall of the avalanche is in their anger? of the breaking up of the frozen sea in their displeasure? "No. St. John, I will not marry you. I adhere to my resolution." The avalanche had shaken and slid a little forward, but it did not yet crash down. "Once more, why this refusal?" he asked. "Formerly," I answered, "because you did not love me; now, I reply, because you almost hate me. If I were to marry you, you would kill me. You are killing me now." His lips and cheeks turned white--quite white. "_I should kill you_--_I am killing you_? Your words are such as ought not to be used: violent, unfeminine, and untrue. They betray an unfortunate state of mind: they merit severe reproof: they would seem inexcusable, but that it is the duty of man to forgive his fellow even until seventy-and-seven times." I had finished the business now. While earnestly wishing to erase from his mind the trace of my former offence, I had stamped on that tenacious surface another and far deeper impression, I had burnt it in. "Now you will indeed hate me," I said. "It is useless to attempt to conciliate you: I see I have made an eternal enemy of you." A fresh wrong did these words inflict: the worse, because they touched on the truth. That bloodless lip quivered to a temporary spasm. I knew the steely ire I had whetted. I was heart-wrung. "You utterly misinterpret my words," I said, at once seizing his hand: "I have no intention to grieve or pain you--indeed, I have not." Most bitterly he smiled--most decidedly he withdrew his hand from mine. "And now you recall your promise, and will not go to India at all, I presume?" said he, after a considerable pause. "Yes, I will, as your assistant," I answered. A very long silence succeeded. What struggle there was in him between Nature and Grace in this interval, I cannot tell: only singular gleams scintillated in his eyes, and strange shadows passed over his face. He spoke at last. "I before proved to you the absurdity of a single woman of your age proposing to accompany abroad a single man of mine. I proved it to you in such terms as, I should have thought, would have prevented your ever again alluding to the plan. That you have done so, I regret--for your sake." I interrupted him. Anything like a tangible reproach gave me courage at once. "Keep to common sense, St. John: you are verging on nonsense. You pretend to be shocked by what I have said. You are not really shocked: for, with your superior mind, you cannot be either so dull or so conceited as to misunderstand my meaning. I say again, I will be your curate, if you like, but never your wife." Again he turned lividly pale; but, as before, controlled his passion perfectly. He answered emphatically but calmly-- "A female curate, who is not my wife, would never suit me. With me, then, it seems, you cannot go: but if you are sincere in your offer, I will, while in town, speak to a married missionary, whose wife needs a coadjutor. Your own fortune will make you independent of the Society's aid; and thus you may still be spared the dishonour of breaking your promise and deserting the band you engaged to join." Now I never had, as the reader knows, either given any formal promise or entered into any engagement; and this language was all much too hard and much too despotic for the occasion. I replied-- "There is no dishonour, no breach of promise, no desertion in the case. I am not under the slightest obligation to go to India, especially with strangers. With you I would have ventured much, because I admire, confide in, and, as a sister, I love you; but I am convinced that, go when and with whom I would, I should not live long in that climate." "Ah! you are afraid of yourself," he said, curling his lip. "I am. God did not give me my life to throw away; and to do as you wish me would, I begin to think, be almost equivalent to committing suicide. Moreover, before I definitively resolve on quitting England, I will know for certain whether I cannot be of greater use by remaining in it than by leaving it." "What do you mean?" "It would be fruitless to attempt to explain; but there is a point on which I have long endured painful doubt, and I can go nowhere till by some means that doubt is removed." "I know where your heart turns and to what it clings. The interest you cherish is lawless and unconsecrated. Long since you ought to have crushed it: now you should blush to allude to it. You think of Mr. Rochester?" It was true. I confessed it by silence. "Are you going to seek Mr. Rochester?" "I must find out what is become of him." "It remains for me, then," he said, "to remember you in my prayers, and to entreat God for you, in all earnestness, that you may not indeed become a castaway. I had thought I recognised in you one of the chosen. But God sees not as man sees: _His_ will be done--" He opened the gate, passed through it, and strayed away down the glen. He was soon out of sight. On re-entering the parlour, I found Diana standing at the window, looking very thoughtful. Diana was a great deal taller than I: she put her hand on my shoulder, and, stooping, examined my face. "Jane," she said, "you are always agitated and pale now. I am sure there is something the matter. Tell me what business St. John and you have on hands. I have watched you this half hour from the window; you must forgive my being such a spy, but for a long time I have fancied I hardly know what. St. John is a strange being--" She paused--I did not speak: soon she resumed-- "That brother of mine cherishes peculiar views of some sort respecting you, I am sure: he has long distinguished you by a notice and interest he never showed to any one else--to what end? I wish he loved you--does he, Jane?" I put her cool hand to my hot forehead; "No, Die, not one whit." "Then why does he follow you so with his eyes, and get you so frequently alone with him, and keep you so continually at his side? Mary and I had both concluded he wished you to marry him." "He does--he has asked me to be his wife." Diana clapped her hands. "That is just what we hoped and thought! And you will marry him, Jane, won't you? And then he will stay in England." "Far from that, Diana; his sole idea in proposing to me is to procure a fitting fellow-labourer in his Indian toils." "What! He wishes you to go to India?" "Yes." "Madness!" she exclaimed. "You would not live three months there, I am certain. You never shall go: you have not consented, have you, Jane?" "I have refused to marry him--" "And have consequently displeased him?" she suggested. "Deeply: he will never forgive me, I fear: yet I offered to accompany him as his sister." "It was frantic folly to do so, Jane. Think of the task you undertook--one of incessant fatigue, where fatigue kills even the strong, and you are weak. St. John--you know him--would urge you to impossibilities: with him there would be no permission to rest during the hot hours; and unfortunately, I have noticed, whatever he exacts, you force yourself to perform. I am astonished you found courage to refuse his hand. You do not love him then, Jane?" "Not as a husband." "Yet he is a handsome fellow." "And I am so plain, you see, Die. We should never suit." "Plain! You? Not at all. You are much too pretty, as well as too good, to be grilled alive in Calcutta." And again she earnestly conjured me to give up all thoughts of going out with her brother. "I must indeed," I said; "for when just now I repeated the offer of serving him for a deacon, he expressed himself shocked at my want of decency. He seemed to think I had committed an impropriety in proposing to accompany him unmarried: as if I had not from the first hoped to find in him a brother, and habitually regarded him as such." "What makes you say he does not love you, Jane?" "You should hear himself on the subject. He has again and again explained that it is not himself, but his office he wishes to mate. He has told me I am formed for labour--not for love: which is true, no doubt. But, in my opinion, if I am not formed for love, it follows that I am not formed for marriage. Would it not be strange, Die, to be chained for life to a man who regarded one but as a useful tool?" "Insupportable--unnatural--out of the question!" "And then," I continued, "though I have only sisterly affection for him now, yet, if forced to be his wife, I can imagine the possibility of conceiving an inevitable, strange, torturing kind of love for him, because he is so talented; and there is often a certain heroic grandeur in his look, manner, and conversation. In that case, my lot would become unspeakably wretched. He would not want me to love him; and if I showed the feeling, he would make me sensible that it was a superfluity, unrequired by him, unbecoming in me. I know he would." "And yet St. John is a good man," said Diana. "He is a good and a great man; but he forgets, pitilessly, the feelings and claims of little people, in pursuing his own large views. It is better, therefore, for the insignificant to keep out of his way, lest, in his progress, he should trample them down. Here he comes! I will leave you, Diana." And I hastened upstairs as I saw him entering the garden. But I was forced to meet him again at supper. During that meal he appeared just as composed as usual. I had thought he would hardly speak to me, and I was certain he had given up the pursuit of his matrimonial scheme: the sequel showed I was mistaken on both points. He addressed me precisely in his ordinary manner, or what had, of late, been his ordinary manner--one scrupulously polite. No doubt he had invoked the help of the Holy Spirit to subdue the anger I had roused in him, and now believed he had forgiven me once more. For the evening reading before prayers, he selected the twenty-first chapter of Revelation. It was at all times pleasant to listen while from his lips fell the words of the Bible: never did his fine voice sound at once so sweet and full--never did his manner become so impressive in its noble simplicity, as when he delivered the oracles of God: and to-night that voice took a more solemn tone--that manner a more thrilling meaning--as he sat in the midst of his household circle (the May moon shining in through the uncurtained window, and rendering almost unnecessary the light of the candle on the table): as he sat there, bending over the great old Bible, and described from its page the vision of the new heaven and the new earth--told how God would come to dwell with men, how He would wipe away all tears from their eyes, and promised that there should be no more death, neither sorrow nor crying, nor any more pain, because the former things were passed away. The succeeding words thrilled me strangely as he spoke them: especially as I felt, by the slight, indescribable alteration in sound, that in uttering them, his eye had turned on me. "He that overcometh shall inherit all things; and I will be his God, and he shall be my son. But," was slowly, distinctly read, "the fearful, the unbelieving, &c., shall have their part in the lake which burneth with fire and brimstone, which is the second death." Henceforward, I knew what fate St. John feared for me. A calm, subdued triumph, blent with a longing earnestness, marked his enunciation of the last glorious verses of that chapter. The reader believed his name was already written in the Lamb's book of life, and he yearned after the hour which should admit him to the city to which the kings of the earth bring their glory and honour; which has no need of sun or moon to shine in it, because the glory of God lightens it, and the Lamb is the light thereof. In the prayer following the chapter, all his energy gathered--all his stern zeal woke: he was in deep earnest, wrestling with God, and resolved on a conquest. He supplicated strength for the weak-hearted; guidance for wanderers from the fold: a return, even at the eleventh hour, for those whom the temptations of the world and the flesh were luring from the narrow path. He asked, he urged, he claimed the boon of a brand snatched from the burning. Earnestness is ever deeply solemn: first, as I listened to that prayer, I wondered at his; then, when it continued and rose, I was touched by it, and at last awed. He felt the greatness and goodness of his purpose so sincerely: others who heard him plead for it, could not but feel it too. The prayer over, we took leave of him: he was to go at a very early hour in the morning. Diana and Mary having kissed him, left the room--in compliance, I think, with a whispered hint from him: I tendered my hand, and wished him a pleasant journey. "Thank you, Jane. As I said, I shall return from Cambridge in a fortnight: that space, then, is yet left you for reflection. If I listened to human pride, I should say no more to you of marriage with me; but I listen to my duty, and keep steadily in view my first aim--to do all things to the glory of God. My Master was long-suffering: so will I be. I cannot give you up to perdition as a vessel of wrath: repent--resolve, while there is yet time. Remember, we are bid to work while it is day--warned that 'the night cometh when no man shall work.' Remember the fate of Dives, who had his good things in this life. God give you strength to choose that better part which shall not be taken from you!" He laid his hand on my head as he uttered the last words. He had spoken earnestly, mildly: his look was not, indeed, that of a lover beholding his mistress, but it was that of a pastor recalling his wandering sheep--or better, of a guardian angel watching the soul for which he is responsible. All men of talent, whether they be men of feeling or not; whether they be zealots, or aspirants, or despots--provided only they be sincere--have their sublime moments, when they subdue and rule. I felt veneration for St. John--veneration so strong that its impetus thrust me at once to the point I had so long shunned. I was tempted to cease struggling with him--to rush down the torrent of his will into the gulf of his existence, and there lose my own. I was almost as hard beset by him now as I had been once before, in a different way, by another. I was a fool both times. To have yielded then would have been an error of principle; to have yielded now would have been an error of judgment. So I think at this hour, when I look back to the crisis through the quiet medium of time: I was unconscious of folly at the instant. I stood motionless under my hierophant's touch. My refusals were forgotten--my fears overcome--my wrestlings paralysed. The Impossible--_i.e._, my marriage with St. John--was fast becoming the Possible. All was changing utterly with a sudden sweep. Religion called--Angels beckoned--God commanded--life rolled together like a scroll--death's gates opening, showed eternity beyond: it seemed, that for safety and bliss there, all here might be sacrificed in a second. The dim room was full of visions. "Could you decide now?" asked the missionary. The inquiry was put in gentle tones: he drew me to him as gently. Oh, that gentleness! how far more potent is it than force! I could resist St. John's wrath: I grew pliant as a reed under his kindness. Yet I knew all the time, if I yielded now, I should not the less be made to repent, some day, of my former rebellion. His nature was not changed by one hour of solemn prayer: it was only elevated. "I could decide if I were but certain," I answered: "were I but convinced that it is God's will I should marry you, I could vow to marry you here and now--come afterwards what would!" "My prayers are heard!" ejaculated St. John. He pressed his hand firmer on my head, as if he claimed me: he surrounded me with his arm, _almost_ as if he loved me (I say _almost_--I knew the difference--for I had felt what it was to be loved; but, like him, I had now put love out of the question, and thought only of duty). I contended with my inward dimness of vision, before which clouds yet rolled. I sincerely, deeply, fervently longed to do what was right; and only that. "Show me, show me the path!" I entreated of Heaven. I was excited more than I had ever been; and whether what followed was the effect of excitement the reader shall judge. All the house was still; for I believe all, except St. John and myself, were now retired to rest. The one candle was dying out: the room was full of moonlight. My heart beat fast and thick: I heard its throb. Suddenly it stood still to an inexpressible feeling that thrilled it through, and passed at once to my head and extremities. The feeling was not like an electric shock, but it was quite as sharp, as strange, as startling: it acted on my senses as if their utmost activity hitherto had been but torpor, from which they were now summoned and forced to wake. They rose expectant: eye and ear waited while the flesh quivered on my bones. "What have you heard? What do you see?" asked St. John. I saw nothing, but I heard a voice somewhere cry-- "Jane! Jane! Jane!"--nothing more. "O God! what is it?" I gasped. I might have said, "Where is it?" for it did not seem in the room--nor in the house--nor in the garden; it did not come out of the air--nor from under the earth--nor from overhead. I had heard it--where, or whence, for ever impossible to know! And it was the voice of a human being--a known, loved, well-remembered voice--that of Edward Fairfax Rochester; and it spoke in pain and woe, wildly, eerily, urgently. "I am coming!" I cried. "Wait for me! Oh, I will come!" I flew to the door and looked into the passage: it was dark. I ran out into the garden: it was void. "Where are you?" I exclaimed. The hills beyond Marsh Glen sent the answer faintly back--"Where are you?" I listened. The wind sighed low in the firs: all was moorland loneliness and midnight hush. "Down superstition!" I commented, as that spectre rose up black by the black yew at the gate. "This is not thy deception, nor thy witchcraft: it is the work of nature. She was roused, and did--no miracle--but her best." I broke from St. John, who had followed, and would have detained me. It was _my_ time to assume ascendency. _My_ powers were in play and in force. I told him to forbear question or remark; I desired him to leave me: I must and would be alone. He obeyed at once. Where there is energy to command well enough, obedience never fails. I mounted to my chamber; locked myself in; fell on my knees; and prayed in my way--a different way to St. John's, but effective in its own fashion. I seemed to penetrate very near a Mighty Spirit; and my soul rushed out in gratitude at His feet. I rose from the thanksgiving--took a resolve--and lay down, unscared, enlightened--eager but for the daylight. The daylight came. I rose at dawn. I busied myself for an hour or two with arranging my things in my chamber, drawers, and wardrobe, in the order wherein I should wish to leave them during a brief absence. Meantime, I heard St. John quit his room. He stopped at my door: I feared he would knock--no, but a slip of paper was passed under the door. I took it up. It bore these words-- "You left me too suddenly last night. Had you stayed but a little longer, you would have laid your hand on the Christian's cross and the angel's crown. I shall expect your clear decision when I return this day fortnight. Meantime, watch and pray that you enter not into temptation: the spirit, I trust, is willing, but the flesh, I see, is weak. I shall pray for you hourly.--Yours, ST. JOHN." "My spirit," I answered mentally, "is willing to do what is right; and my flesh, I hope, is strong enough to accomplish the will of Heaven, when once that will is distinctly known to me. At any rate, it shall be strong enough to search--inquire--to grope an outlet from this cloud of doubt, and find the open day of certainty." It was the first of June; yet the morning was overcast and chilly: rain beat fast on my casement. I heard the front-door open, and St. John pass out. Looking through the window, I saw him traverse the garden. He took the way over the misty moors in the direction of Whitcross--there he would meet the coach. "In a few more hours I shall succeed you in that track, cousin," thought I: "I too have a coach to meet at Whitcross. I too have some to see and ask after in England, before I depart for ever." It wanted yet two hours of breakfast-time. I filled the interval in walking softly about my room, and pondering the visitation which had given my plans their present bent. I recalled that inward sensation I had experienced: for I could recall it, with all its unspeakable strangeness. I recalled the voice I had heard; again I questioned whence it came, as vainly as before: it seemed in _me_--not in the external world. I asked was it a mere nervous impression--a delusion? I could not conceive or believe: it was more like an inspiration. The wondrous shock of feeling had come like the earthquake which shook the foundations of Paul and Silas's prison; it had opened the doors of the soul's cell and loosed its bands--it had wakened it out of its sleep, whence it sprang trembling, listening, aghast; then vibrated thrice a cry on my startled ear, and in my quaking heart and through my spirit, which neither feared nor shook, but exulted as if in joy over the success of one effort it had been privileged to make, independent of the cumbrous body. "Ere many days," I said, as I terminated my musings, "I will know something of him whose voice seemed last night to summon me. Letters have proved of no avail--personal inquiry shall replace them." At breakfast I announced to Diana and Mary that I was going a journey, and should be absent at least four days. "Alone, Jane?" they asked. "Yes; it was to see or hear news of a friend about whom I had for some time been uneasy." They might have said, as I have no doubt they thought, that they had believed me to be without any friends save them: for, indeed, I had often said so; but, with their true natural delicacy, they abstained from comment, except that Diana asked me if I was sure I was well enough to travel. I looked very pale, she observed. I replied, that nothing ailed me save anxiety of mind, which I hoped soon to alleviate. It was easy to make my further arrangements; for I was troubled with no inquiries--no surmises. Having once explained to them that I could not now be explicit about my plans, they kindly and wisely acquiesced in the silence with which I pursued them, according to me the privilege of free action I should under similar circumstances have accorded them. I left Moor House at three o'clock p.m., and soon after four I stood at the foot of the sign-post of Whitcross, waiting the arrival of the coach which was to take me to distant Thornfield. Amidst the silence of those solitary roads and desert hills, I heard it approach from a great distance. It was the same vehicle whence, a year ago, I had alighted one summer evening on this very spot--how desolate, and hopeless, and objectless! It stopped as I beckoned. I entered--not now obliged to part with my whole fortune as the price of its accommodation. Once more on the road to Thornfield, I felt like the messenger-pigeon flying home. It was a journey of six-and-thirty hours. I had set out from Whitcross on a Tuesday afternoon, and early on the succeeding Thursday morning the coach stopped to water the horses at a wayside inn, situated in the midst of scenery whose green hedges and large fields and low pastoral hills (how mild of feature and verdant of hue compared with the stern North- Midland moors of Morton!) met my eye like the lineaments of a once familiar face. Yes, I knew the character of this landscape: I was sure we were near my bourne. "How far is Thornfield Hall from here?" I asked of the ostler. "Just two miles, ma'am, across the fields." "My journey is closed," I thought to myself. I got out of the coach, gave a box I had into the ostler's charge, to be kept till I called for it; paid my fare; satisfied the coachman, and was going: the brightening day gleamed on the sign of the inn, and I read in gilt letters, "The Rochester Arms." My heart leapt up: I was already on my master's very lands. It fell again: the thought struck it:-- "Your master himself may be beyond the British Channel, for aught you know: and then, if he is at Thornfield Hall, towards which you hasten, who besides him is there? His lunatic wife: and you have nothing to do with him: you dare not speak to him or seek his presence. You have lost your labour--you had better go no farther," urged the monitor. "Ask information of the people at the inn; they can give you all you seek: they can solve your doubts at once. Go up to that man, and inquire if Mr. Rochester be at home." The suggestion was sensible, and yet I could not force myself to act on it. I so dreaded a reply that would crush me with despair. To prolong doubt was to prolong hope. I might yet once more see the Hall under the ray of her star. There was the stile before me--the very fields through which I had hurried, blind, deaf, distracted with a revengeful fury tracking and scourging me, on the morning I fled from Thornfield: ere I well knew what course I had resolved to take, I was in the midst of them. How fast I walked! How I ran sometimes! How I looked forward to catch the first view of the well-known woods! With what feelings I welcomed single trees I knew, and familiar glimpses of meadow and hill between them! At last the woods rose; the rookery clustered dark; a loud cawing broke the morning stillness. Strange delight inspired me: on I hastened. Another field crossed--a lane threaded--and there were the courtyard walls--the back offices: the house itself, the rookery still hid. "My first view of it shall be in front," I determined, "where its bold battlements will strike the eye nobly at once, and where I can single out my master's very window: perhaps he will be standing at it--he rises early: perhaps he is now walking in the orchard, or on the pavement in front. Could I but see him!--but a moment! Surely, in that case, I should not be so mad as to run to him? I cannot tell--I am not certain. And if I did--what then? God bless him! What then? Who would be hurt by my once more tasting the life his glance can give me? I rave: perhaps at this moment he is watching the sun rise over the Pyrenees, or on the tideless sea of the south." I had coasted along the lower wall of the orchard--turned its angle: there was a gate just there, opening into the meadow, between two stone pillars crowned by stone balls. From behind one pillar I could peep round quietly at the full front of the mansion. I advanced my head with precaution, desirous to ascertain if any bedroom window-blinds were yet drawn up: battlements, windows, long front--all from this sheltered station were at my command. The crows sailing overhead perhaps watched me while I took this survey. I wonder what they thought. They must have considered I was very careful and timid at first, and that gradually I grew very bold and reckless. A peep, and then a long stare; and then a departure from my niche and a straying out into the meadow; and a sudden stop full in front of the great mansion, and a protracted, hardy gaze towards it. "What affectation of diffidence was this at first?" they might have demanded; "what stupid regardlessness now?" Hear an illustration, reader. A lover finds his mistress asleep on a mossy bank; he wishes to catch a glimpse of her fair face without waking her. He steals softly over the grass, careful to make no sound; he pauses--fancying she has stirred: he withdraws: not for worlds would he be seen. All is still: he again advances: he bends above her; a light veil rests on her features: he lifts it, bends lower; now his eyes anticipate the vision of beauty--warm, and blooming, and lovely, in rest. How hurried was their first glance! But how they fix! How he starts! How he suddenly and vehemently clasps in both arms the form he dared not, a moment since, touch with his finger! How he calls aloud a name, and drops his burden, and gazes on it wildly! He thus grasps and cries, and gazes, because he no longer fears to waken by any sound he can utter--by any movement he can make. He thought his love slept sweetly: he finds she is stone dead. I looked with timorous joy towards a stately house: I saw a blackened ruin. No need to cower behind a gate-post, indeed!--to peep up at chamber lattices, fearing life was astir behind them! No need to listen for doors opening--to fancy steps on the pavement or the gravel-walk! The lawn, the grounds were trodden and waste: the portal yawned void. The front was, as I had once seen it in a dream, but a well-like wall, very high and very fragile-looking, perforated with paneless windows: no roof, no battlements, no chimneys--all had crashed in. And there was the silence of death about it: the solitude of a lonesome wild. No wonder that letters addressed to people here had never received an answer: as well despatch epistles to a vault in a church aisle. The grim blackness of the stones told by what fate the Hall had fallen--by conflagration: but how kindled? What story belonged to this disaster? What loss, besides mortar and marble and wood-work had followed upon it? Had life been wrecked as well as property? If so, whose? Dreadful question: there was no one here to answer it--not even dumb sign, mute token. In wandering round the shattered walls and through the devastated interior, I gathered evidence that the calamity was not of late occurrence. Winter snows, I thought, had drifted through that void arch, winter rains beaten in at those hollow casements; for, amidst the drenched piles of rubbish, spring had cherished vegetation: grass and weed grew here and there between the stones and fallen rafters. And oh! where meantime was the hapless owner of this wreck? In what land? Under what auspices? My eye involuntarily wandered to the grey church tower near the gates, and I asked, "Is he with Damer de Rochester, sharing the shelter of his narrow marble house?" Some answer must be had to these questions. I could find it nowhere but at the inn, and thither, ere long, I returned. The host himself brought my breakfast into the parlour. I requested him to shut the door and sit down: I had some questions to ask him. But when he complied, I scarcely knew how to begin; such horror had I of the possible answers. And yet the spectacle of desolation I had just left prepared me in a measure for a tale of misery. The host was a respectable-looking, middle-aged man. "You know Thornfield Hall, of course?" I managed to say at last. "Yes, ma'am; I lived there once." "Did you?" Not in my time, I thought: you are a stranger to me. "I was the late Mr. Rochester's butler," he added. The late! I seem to have received, with full force, the blow I had been trying to evade. "The late!" I gasped. "Is he dead?" "I mean the present gentleman, Mr. Edward's father," he explained. I breathed again: my blood resumed its flow. Fully assured by these words that Mr. Edward--_my_ Mr. Rochester (God bless him, wherever he was!)--was at least alive: was, in short, "the present gentleman." Gladdening words! It seemed I could hear all that was to come--whatever the disclosures might be--with comparative tranquillity. Since he was not in the grave, I could bear, I thought, to learn that he was at the Antipodes. "Is Mr. Rochester living at Thornfield Hall now?" I asked, knowing, of course, what the answer would be, but yet desirous of deferring the direct question as to where he really was. "No, ma'am--oh, no! No one is living there. I suppose you are a stranger in these parts, or you would have heard what happened last autumn,--Thornfield Hall is quite a ruin: it was burnt down just about harvest-time. A dreadful calamity! such an immense quantity of valuable property destroyed: hardly any of the furniture could be saved. The fire broke out at dead of night, and before the engines arrived from Millcote, the building was one mass of flame. It was a terrible spectacle: I witnessed it myself." "At dead of night!" I muttered. Yes, that was ever the hour of fatality at Thornfield. "Was it known how it originated?" I demanded. "They guessed, ma'am: they guessed. Indeed, I should say it was ascertained beyond a doubt. You are not perhaps aware," he continued, edging his chair a little nearer the table, and speaking low, "that there was a lady--a--a lunatic, kept in the house?" "I have heard something of it." "She was kept in very close confinement, ma'am: people even for some years was not absolutely certain of her existence. No one saw her: they only knew by rumour that such a person was at the Hall; and who or what she was it was difficult to conjecture. They said Mr. Edward had brought her from abroad, and some believed she had been his mistress. But a queer thing happened a year since--a very queer thing." I feared now to hear my own story. I endeavoured to recall him to the main fact. "And this lady?" "This lady, ma'am," he answered, "turned out to be Mr. Rochester's wife! The discovery was brought about in the strangest way. There was a young lady, a governess at the Hall, that Mr. Rochester fell in--" "But the fire," I suggested. "I'm coming to that, ma'am--that Mr. Edward fell in love with. The servants say they never saw anybody so much in love as he was: he was after her continually. They used to watch him--servants will, you know, ma'am--and he set store on her past everything: for all, nobody but him thought her so very handsome. She was a little small thing, they say, almost like a child. I never saw her myself; but I've heard Leah, the house-maid, tell of her. Leah liked her well enough. Mr. Rochester was about forty, and this governess not twenty; and you see, when gentlemen of his age fall in love with girls, they are often like as if they were bewitched. Well, he would marry her." "You shall tell me this part of the story another time," I said; "but now I have a particular reason for wishing to hear all about the fire. Was it suspected that this lunatic, Mrs. Rochester, had any hand in it?" "You've hit it, ma'am: it's quite certain that it was her, and nobody but her, that set it going. She had a woman to take care of her called Mrs. Poole--an able woman in her line, and very trustworthy, but for one fault--a fault common to a deal of them nurses and matrons--she _kept a private bottle of gin by her_, and now and then took a drop over-much. It is excusable, for she had a hard life of it: but still it was dangerous; for when Mrs. Poole was fast asleep after the gin and water, the mad lady, who was as cunning as a witch, would take the keys out of her pocket, let herself out of her chamber, and go roaming about the house, doing any wild mischief that came into her head. They say she had nearly burnt her husband in his bed once: but I don't know about that. However, on this night, she set fire first to the hangings of the room next her own, and then she got down to a lower storey, and made her way to the chamber that had been the governess's--(she was like as if she knew somehow how matters had gone on, and had a spite at her)--and she kindled the bed there; but there was nobody sleeping in it, fortunately. The governess had run away two months before; and for all Mr. Rochester sought her as if she had been the most precious thing he had in the world, he never could hear a word of her; and he grew savage--quite savage on his disappointment: he never was a wild man, but he got dangerous after he lost her. He would be alone, too. He sent Mrs. Fairfax, the housekeeper, away to her friends at a distance; but he did it handsomely, for he settled an annuity on her for life: and she deserved it--she was a very good woman. Miss Adele, a ward he had, was put to school. He broke off acquaintance with all the gentry, and shut himself up like a hermit at the Hall." "What! did he not leave England?" "Leave England? Bless you, no! He would not cross the door-stones of the house, except at night, when he walked just like a ghost about the grounds and in the orchard as if he had lost his senses--which it is my opinion he had; for a more spirited, bolder, keener gentleman than he was before that midge of a governess crossed him, you never saw, ma'am. He was not a man given to wine, or cards, or racing, as some are, and he was not so very handsome; but he had a courage and a will of his own, if ever man had. I knew him from a boy, you see: and for my part, I have often wished that Miss Eyre had been sunk in the sea before she came to Thornfield Hall." "Then Mr. Rochester was at home when the fire broke out?" "Yes, indeed was he; and he went up to the attics when all was burning above and below, and got the servants out of their beds and helped them down himself, and went back to get his mad wife out of her cell. And then they called out to him that she was on the roof, where she was standing, waving her arms, above the battlements, and shouting out till they could hear her a mile off: I saw her and heard her with my own eyes. She was a big woman, and had long black hair: we could see it streaming against the flames as she stood. I witnessed, and several more witnessed, Mr. Rochester ascend through the sky-light on to the roof; we heard him call 'Bertha!' We saw him approach her; and then, ma'am, she yelled and gave a spring, and the next minute she lay smashed on the pavement." {The next minute she lay smashed on the pavement: p413.jpg} "Dead?" "Dead! Ay, dead as the stones on which her brains and blood were scattered." "Good God!" "You may well say so, ma'am: it was frightful!" He shuddered. "And afterwards?" I urged. "Well, ma'am, afterwards the house was burnt to the ground: there are only some bits of walls standing now." "Were any other lives lost?" "No--perhaps it would have been better if there had." "What do you mean?" "Poor Mr. Edward!" he ejaculated, "I little thought ever to have seen it! Some say it was a just judgment on him for keeping his first marriage secret, and wanting to take another wife while he had one living: but I pity him, for my part." "You said he was alive?" I exclaimed. "Yes, yes: he is alive; but many think he had better be dead." "Why? How?" My blood was again running cold. "Where is he?" I demanded. "Is he in England?" "Ay--ay--he's in England; he can't get out of England, I fancy--he's a fixture now." What agony was this! And the man seemed resolved to protract it. "He is stone-blind," he said at last. "Yes, he is stone-blind, is Mr. Edward." I had dreaded worse. I had dreaded he was mad. I summoned strength to ask what had caused this calamity. "It was all his own courage, and a body may say, his kindness, in a way, ma'am: he wouldn't leave the house till every one else was out before him. As he came down the great staircase at last, after Mrs. Rochester had flung herself from the battlements, there was a great crash--all fell. He was taken out from under the ruins, alive, but sadly hurt: a beam had fallen in such a way as to protect him partly; but one eye was knocked out, and one hand so crushed that Mr. Carter, the surgeon, had to amputate it directly. The other eye inflamed: he lost the sight of that also. He is now helpless, indeed--blind and a cripple." "Where is he? Where does he now live?" "At Ferndean, a manor-house on a farm he has, about thirty miles off: quite a desolate spot." "Who is with him?" "Old John and his wife: he would have none else. He is quite broken down, they say." "Have you any sort of conveyance?" "We have a chaise, ma'am, a very handsome chaise." "Let it be got ready instantly; and if your post-boy can drive me to Ferndean before dark this day, I'll pay both you and him twice the hire you usually demand." Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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St. John bleibt Jane gegenüber weiterhin kalt und gibt weiterhin Andeutungen bezüglich seines Heiratsantrags. Sie erklärt, dass sie keine lieblose Ehe eingehen könnte. Das würde ihren Geist töten. St. John versucht, Jane zu manipulieren - er erpresst sie fast, um ihrer Zustimmung zu seinem Antrag zu bekommen. Diana rät Jane, unter keinen Umständen nach Indien zu gehen, da ein Leben der Sklaverei in diesem Land sie zu einem frühen Tod führen würde. St. John hat viele gute Eigenschaften, aber er ist fehlgeleitet. Niemand kann leugnen, dass er seiner Gemeinde und seinen Mitmenschen treu ergeben ist. Er ist auch ein inspirierter Leser aus der Bibel, und bei den Abendgebeten liest er aus der Offenbarung, Kapitel 21: "Wer überwindet, wird alles erben; und ich werde sein Gott sein, und er wird mein Sohn sein. Aber die Feigen und Ungläubigen '' werden ihren Anteil haben am See, der mit Feuer und Schwefel brennt, der der zweite Tod ist." Jane hatte eine plötzliche "Offenbarung" darüber, wie ihr Leben mit St. John in Indien aussehen würde, und es entsetzte sie. Jane war allein mit St. John, als sie erschreckt wurde, und St. John fragte sie, was sie gehört habe. Sie antwortete: "Ich hörte eine Stimme irgendwo rufen, Jane, Jane, Jane. Es schien nicht im Raum, nicht im Haus, nicht im Garten zu sein; sie kam nicht aus der Luft, nicht von unter der Erde, '' es war die Stimme von Edward Fairfax Rochester." Jane rannte in den Garten. Sie sagte St. John, dass sie eine persönliche Aufgabe erledigen müsse, bevor sie darüber entscheiden könne, was sie mit ihrer Zukunft tun solle. Am nächsten Tag machte sich Jane auf den Weg nach Thornfield, nur um festzustellen, dass es eine schwarze Ruine war. Nun weiß sie, warum ihre Briefe unbeantwortet blieben. Der Gastwirt, der als alter Herr Rochester's Butler arbeitete, erzählt die Geschichte, wie Thornfield zerstört wurde. Young Rochester's verrückte Frau, Bertha, hatte ihr Zimmer und Janes Zimmer in Brand gesteckt. Rochester schaffte es, das Haus zu evakuieren, und ging dann zurück, um Bertha zu retten, die auf dem Dach war. Sie stürzte in den Tod. Er verlor ein Auge und seine linke Hand musste amputiert werden. Das andere Auge entzündete sich, und er ist völlig blind. Jetzt lebt er mit zwei alten Bediensteten in Ferndean. Jane mietet eine Kutsche und hofft, vor Einbruch der Dunkelheit dort anzukommen.