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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: XXIII. AUNT MARCH SETTLES THE QUESTION. [Illustration: Popping in her head now and then] Like bees swarming after their queen, mother and daughters hovered about Mr. March the next day, neglecting everything to look at, wait upon, and listen to the new invalid, who was in a fair way to be killed by kindness. As he sat propped up in a big chair by Beth's sofa, with the other three close by, and Hannah popping in her head now and then, "to peek at the dear man," nothing seemed needed to complete their happiness. But something _was_ needed, and the elder ones felt it, though none confessed the fact. Mr. and Mrs. March looked at one another with an anxious expression, as their eyes followed Meg. Jo had sudden fits of sobriety, and was seen to shake her fist at Mr. Brooke's umbrella, which had been left in the hall; Meg was absent-minded, shy, and silent, started when the bell rang, and colored when John's name was mentioned; Amy said "Every one seemed waiting for something, and couldn't settle down, which was queer, since father was safe at home," and Beth innocently wondered why their neighbors didn't run over as usual. [Illustration: "He sat in the big chair by Beth's sofa with the other three close by."--Page 277.] Laurie went by in the afternoon, and, seeing Meg at the window, seemed suddenly possessed with a melodramatic fit, for he fell down upon one knee in the snow, beat his breast, tore his hair, and clasped his hands imploringly, as if begging some boon; and when Meg told him to behave himself and go away, he wrung imaginary tears out of his handkerchief, and staggered round the corner as if in utter despair. "What does the goose mean?" said Meg, laughing, and trying to look unconscious. "He's showing you how your John will go on by and by. Touching, isn't it?" answered Jo scornfully. "Don't say _my John_, it isn't proper or true;" but Meg's voice lingered over the words as if they sounded pleasant to her. "Please don't plague me, Jo; I've told you I don't care _much_ about him, and there isn't to be anything said, but we are all to be friendly, and go on as before." "We can't, for something _has_ been said, and Laurie's mischief has spoilt you for me. I see it, and so does mother; you are not like your old self a bit, and seem ever so far away from me. I don't mean to plague you, and will bear it like a man, but I do wish it was all settled. I hate to wait; so if you mean ever to do it, make haste and have it over quickly," said Jo pettishly. "_I_ can't say or do anything till he speaks, and he won't, because father said I was too young," began Meg, bending over her work, with a queer little smile, which suggested that she did not quite agree with her father on that point. "If he did speak, you wouldn't know what to say, but would cry or blush, or let him have his own way, instead of giving a good, decided, No." "I'm not so silly and weak as you think. I know just what I should say, for I've planned it all, so I needn't be taken unawares; there's no knowing what may happen, and I wished to be prepared." Jo couldn't help smiling at the important air which Meg had unconsciously assumed, and which was as becoming as the pretty color varying in her cheeks. "Would you mind telling me what you'd say?" asked Jo more respectfully. "Not at all; you are sixteen now, quite old enough to be my confidant, and my experience will be useful to you by and by, perhaps, in your own affairs of this sort." "Don't mean to have any; it's fun to watch other people philander, but I should feel like a fool doing it myself," said Jo, looking alarmed at the thought. "I think not, if you liked any one very much, and he liked you." Meg spoke as if to herself, and glanced out at the lane, where she had often seen lovers walking together in the summer twilight. "I thought you were going to tell your speech to that man," said Jo, rudely shortening her sister's little reverie. "Oh, I should merely say, quite calmly and decidedly, 'Thank you, Mr. Brooke, you are very kind, but I agree with father that I am too young to enter into any engagement at present; so please say no more, but let us be friends as we were.'" "Hum! that's stiff and cool enough. I don't believe you'll ever say it, and I know he won't be satisfied if you do. If he goes on like the rejected lovers in books, you'll give in, rather than hurt his feelings." "No, I won't. I shall tell him I've made up my mind, and shall walk out of the room with dignity." Meg rose as she spoke, and was just going to rehearse the dignified exit, when a step in the hall made her fly into her seat, and begin to sew as if her life depended on finishing that particular seam in a given time. Jo smothered a laugh at the sudden change, and, when some one gave a modest tap, opened the door with a grim aspect, which was anything but hospitable. "Good afternoon. I came to get my umbrella,--that is, to see how your father finds himself to-day," said Mr. Brooke, getting a trifle confused as his eye went from one tell-tale face to the other. "It's very well, he's in the rack, I'll get him, and tell it you are here," and having jumbled her father and the umbrella well together in her reply, Jo slipped out of the room to give Meg a chance to make her speech and air her dignity. But the instant she vanished, Meg began to sidle towards the door, murmuring,-- "Mother will like to see you. Pray sit down, I'll call her." "Don't go; are you afraid of me, Margaret?" and Mr. Brooke looked so hurt that Meg thought she must have done something very rude. She blushed up to the little curls on her forehead, for he had never called her Margaret before, and she was surprised to find how natural and sweet it seemed to hear him say it. Anxious to appear friendly and at her ease, she put out her hand with a confiding gesture, and said gratefully,-- "How can I be afraid when you have been so kind to father? I only wish I could thank you for it." [Illustration: Shall I tell you how?] "Shall I tell you how?" asked Mr. Brooke, holding the small hand fast in both his own, and looking down at Meg with so much love in the brown eyes, that her heart began to flutter, and she both longed to run away and to stop and listen. "Oh no, please don't--I'd rather not," she said, trying to withdraw her hand, and looking frightened in spite of her denial. "I won't trouble you, I only want to know if you care for me a little, Meg. I love you so much, dear," added Mr. Brooke tenderly. This was the moment for the calm, proper speech, but Meg didn't make it; she forgot every word of it, hung her head, and answered, "I don't know," so softly, that John had to stoop down to catch the foolish little reply. He seemed to think it was worth the trouble, for he smiled to himself as if quite satisfied, pressed the plump hand gratefully, and said, in his most persuasive tone, "Will you try and find out? I want to know _so_ much; for I can't go to work with any heart until I learn whether I am to have my reward in the end or not." "I'm too young," faltered Meg, wondering why she was so fluttered, yet rather enjoying it. "I'll wait; and in the meantime, you could be learning to like me. Would it be a very hard lesson, dear?" "Not if I chose to learn it, but--" "Please choose to learn, Meg. I love to teach, and this is easier than German," broke in John, getting possession of the other hand, so that she had no way of hiding her face, as he bent to look into it. His tone was properly beseeching; but, stealing a shy look at him, Meg saw that his eyes were merry as well as tender, and that he wore the satisfied smile of one who had no doubt of his success. This nettled her; Annie Moffat's foolish lessons in coquetry came into her mind, and the love of power, which sleeps in the bosoms of the best of little women, woke up all of a sudden and took possession of her. She felt excited and strange, and, not knowing what else to do, followed a capricious impulse, and, withdrawing her hands, said petulantly, "I _don't_ choose. Please go away and let me be!" Poor Mr. Brooke looked as if his lovely castle in the air was tumbling about his ears, for he had never seen Meg in such a mood before, and it rather bewildered him. "Do you really mean that?" he asked anxiously, following her as she walked away. "Yes, I do; I don't want to be worried about such things. Father says I needn't; it's too soon and I'd rather not." "Mayn't I hope you'll change your mind by and by? I'll wait, and say nothing till you have had more time. Don't play with me, Meg. I didn't think that of you." "Don't think of me at all. I'd rather you wouldn't," said Meg, taking a naughty satisfaction in trying her lover's patience and her own power. He was grave and pale now, and looked decidedly more like the novel heroes whom she admired; but he neither slapped his forehead nor tramped about the room, as they did; he just stood looking at her so wistfully, so tenderly, that she found her heart relenting in spite of her. What would have happened next I cannot say, if Aunt March had not come hobbling in at this interesting minute. The old lady couldn't resist her longing to see her nephew; for she had met Laurie as she took her airing, and, hearing of Mr. March's arrival, drove straight out to see him. The family were all busy in the back part of the house, and she had made her way quietly in, hoping to surprise them. She did surprise two of them so much that Meg started as if she had seen a ghost, and Mr. Brooke vanished into the study. "Bless me, what's all this?" cried the old lady, with a rap of her cane, as she glanced from the pale young gentleman to the scarlet young lady. [Illustration: Bless me, what's all this?] "It's father's friend. I'm _so_ surprised to see you!" stammered Meg, feeling that she was in for a lecture now. "That's evident," returned Aunt March, sitting down. "But what is father's friend saying to make you look like a peony? There's mischief going on, and I insist upon knowing what it is," with another rap. "We were merely talking. Mr. Brooke came for his umbrella," began Meg, wishing that Mr. Brooke and the umbrella were safely out of the house. "Brooke? That boy's tutor? Ah! I understand now. I know all about it. Jo blundered into a wrong message in one of your father's letters, and I made her tell me. You haven't gone and accepted him, child?" cried Aunt March, looking scandalized. "Hush! he'll hear. Sha'n't I call mother?" said Meg, much troubled. "Not yet. I've something to say to you, and I must free my mind at once. Tell me, do you mean to marry this Cook? If you do, not one penny of my money ever goes to you. Remember that, and be a sensible girl," said the old lady impressively. Now Aunt March possessed in perfection the art of rousing the spirit of opposition in the gentlest people, and enjoyed doing it. The best of us have a spice of perversity in us, especially when we are young and in love. If Aunt March had begged Meg to accept John Brooke, she would probably have declared she couldn't think of it; but as she was peremptorily ordered _not_ to like him, she immediately made up her mind that she would. Inclination as well as perversity made the decision easy, and, being already much excited, Meg opposed the old lady with unusual spirit. "I shall marry whom I please, Aunt March, and you can leave your money to any one you like," she said, nodding her head with a resolute air. "Highty tighty! Is that the way you take my advice, miss? You'll be sorry for it, by and by, when you've tried love in a cottage, and found it a failure." "It can't be a worse one than some people find in big houses," retorted Meg. Aunt March put on her glasses and took a look at the girl, for she did not know her in this new mood. Meg hardly knew herself, she felt so brave and independent,--so glad to defend John, and assert her right to love him, if she liked. Aunt March saw that she had begun wrong, and, after a little pause, made a fresh start, saying, as mildly as she could, "Now, Meg, my dear, be reasonable, and take my advice. I mean it kindly, and don't want you to spoil your whole life by making a mistake at the beginning. You ought to marry well, and help your family; it's your duty to make a rich match, and it ought to be impressed upon you." "Father and mother don't think so; they like John, though he _is_ poor." "Your parents, my dear, have no more worldly wisdom than two babies." "I'm glad of it," cried Meg stoutly. Aunt March took no notice, but went on with her lecture. "This Rook is poor, and hasn't got any rich relations, has he?" "No; but he has many warm friends." "You can't live on friends; try it, and see how cool they'll grow. He hasn't any business, has he?" "Not yet; Mr. Laurence is going to help him." "That won't last long. James Laurence is a crotchety old fellow, and not to be depended on. So you intend to marry a man without money, position, or business, and go on working harder than you do now, when you might be comfortable all your days by minding me and doing better? I thought you had more sense, Meg." "I couldn't do better if I waited half my life! John is good and wise; he's got heaps of talent; he's willing to work, and sure to get on, he's so energetic and brave. Every one likes and respects him, and I'm proud to think he cares for me, though I'm so poor and young and silly," said Meg, looking prettier than ever in her earnestness. "He knows _you_ have got rich relations, child; that's the secret of his liking, I suspect." "Aunt March, how dare you say such a thing? John is above such meanness, and I won't listen to you a minute if you talk so," cried Meg indignantly, forgetting everything but the injustice of the old lady's suspicions. "My John wouldn't marry for money, anymore than I would. We are willing to work, and we mean to wait. I'm not afraid of being poor, for I've been happy so far, and I know I shall be with him, because he loves me, and I--" Meg stopped there, remembering all of a sudden that she hadn't made up her mind; that she had told "her John" to go away, and that he might be overhearing her inconsistent remarks. Aunt March was very angry, for she had set her heart on having her pretty niece make a fine match, and something in the girl's happy young face made the lonely old woman feel both sad and sour. "Well, I wash my hands of the whole affair! You are a wilful child, and you've lost more than you know by this piece of folly. No, I won't stop; I'm disappointed in you, and haven't spirits to see your father now. Don't expect anything from me when you are married; your Mr. Book's friends must take care of you. I'm done with you forever." And, slamming the door in Meg's face, Aunt March drove off in high dudgeon. She seemed to take all the girl's courage with her; for, when left alone, Meg stood a moment, undecided whether to laugh or cry. Before she could make up her mind, she was taken possession of by Mr. Brooke, who said, all in one breath, "I couldn't help hearing, Meg. Thank you for defending me, and Aunt March for proving that you _do_ care for me a little bit." "I didn't know how much, till she abused you," began Meg. "And I needn't go away, but may stay and be happy, may I, dear?" Here was another fine chance to make the crushing speech and the stately exit, but Meg never thought of doing either, and disgraced herself forever in Jo's eyes by meekly whispering, "Yes, John," and hiding her face on Mr. Brooke's waistcoat. Fifteen minutes after Aunt March's departure, Jo came softly down stairs, paused an instant at the parlor door, and, hearing no sound within, nodded and smiled, with a satisfied expression, saying to herself, "She has sent him away as we planned, and that affair is settled. I'll go and hear the fun, and have a good laugh over it." But poor Jo never got her laugh, for she was transfixed upon the threshold by a spectacle which held her there, staring with her mouth nearly as wide open as her eyes. Going in to exult over a fallen enemy, and to praise a strong-minded sister for the banishment of an objectionable lover, it certainly _was_ a shock to behold the aforesaid enemy serenely sitting on the sofa, with the strong-minded sister enthroned upon his knee, and wearing an expression of the most abject submission. Jo gave a sort of gasp, as if a cold shower-bath had suddenly fallen upon her,--for such an unexpected turning of the tables actually took her breath away. At the odd sound, the lovers turned and saw her. Meg jumped up, looking both proud and shy; but "that man," as Jo called him, actually laughed, and said coolly, as he kissed the astonished new-comer, "Sister Jo, congratulate us!" That was adding insult to injury,--it was altogether too much,--and, making some wild demonstration with her hands, Jo vanished without a word. Rushing upstairs, she startled the invalids by exclaiming tragically, as she burst into the room, "Oh, _do_ somebody go down quick; John Brooke is acting dreadfully, and Meg likes it!" Mr. and Mrs. March left the room with speed; and, casting herself upon the bed, Jo cried and scolded tempestuously as she told the awful news to Beth and Amy. The little girls, however, considered it a most agreeable and interesting event, and Jo got little comfort from them; so she went up to her refuge in the garret, and confided her troubles to the rats. Nobody ever knew what went on in the parlor that afternoon; but a great deal of talking was done, and quiet Mr. Brooke astonished his friends by the eloquence and spirit with which he pleaded his suit, told his plans, and persuaded them to arrange everything just as he wanted it. The tea-bell rang before he had finished describing the paradise which he meant to earn for Meg, and he proudly took her in to supper, both looking so happy that Jo hadn't the heart to be jealous or dismal. Amy was very much impressed by John's devotion and Meg's dignity. Beth beamed at them from a distance, while Mr. and Mrs. March surveyed the young couple with such tender satisfaction that it was perfectly evident Aunt March was right in calling them as "unworldly as a pair of babies." No one ate much, but every one looked very happy, and the old room seemed to brighten up amazingly when the first romance of the family began there. "You can't say nothing pleasant ever happens now, can you, Meg?" said Amy, trying to decide how she would group the lovers in the sketch she was planning to take. "No, I'm sure I can't. How much has happened since I said that! It seems a year ago," answered Meg, who was in a blissful dream, lifted far above such common things as bread and butter. "The joys come close upon the sorrows this time, and I rather think the changes have begun," said Mrs. March. "In most families there comes, now and then, a year full of events; this has been such an one, but it ends well, after all." "Hope the next will end better," muttered Jo, who found it very hard to see Meg absorbed in a stranger before her face; for Jo loved a few persons very dearly, and dreaded to have their affection lost or lessened in any way. "I hope the third year from this _will_ end better; I mean it shall, if I live to work out my plans," said Mr. Brooke, smiling at Meg, as if everything had become possible to him now. "Doesn't it seem very long to wait?" asked Amy, who was in a hurry for the wedding. "I've got so much to learn before I shall be ready, it seems a short time to me," answered Meg, with a sweet gravity in her face, never seen there before. "You have only to wait; _I_ am to do the work," said John, beginning his labors by picking up Meg's napkin, with an expression which caused Jo to shake her head, and then say to herself, with an air of relief, as the front door banged, "Here comes Laurie. Now we shall have a little sensible conversation." But Jo was mistaken; for Laurie came prancing in, overflowing with spirits, bearing a great bridal-looking bouquet for "Mrs. John Brooke," and evidently laboring under the delusion that the whole affair had been brought about by his excellent management. [Illustration: For Mrs. John Brooke] "I knew Brooke would have it all his own way, he always does; for when he makes up his mind to accomplish anything, it's done, though the sky falls," said Laurie, when he had presented his offering and his congratulations. "Much obliged for that recommendation. I take it as a good omen for the future, and invite you to my wedding on the spot," answered Mr. Brooke, who felt at peace with all mankind, even his mischievous pupil. "I'll come if I'm at the ends of the earth; for the sight of Jo's face alone, on that occasion, would be worth a long journey. You don't look festive, ma'am; what's the matter?" asked Laurie, following her into a corner of the parlor, whither all had adjourned to greet Mr. Laurence. "I don't approve of the match, but I've made up my mind to bear it, and shall not say a word against it," said Jo solemnly. "You can't know how hard it is for me to give up Meg," she continued, with a little quiver in her voice. "You don't give her up. You only go halves," said Laurie consolingly. "It never can be the same again. I've lost my dearest friend," sighed Jo. "You've got me, anyhow. I'm not good for much, I know; but I'll stand by you, Jo, all the days of my life; upon my word I will!" and Laurie meant what he said. "I know you will, and I'm ever so much obliged; you are always a great comfort to me, Teddy," returned Jo, gratefully shaking hands. "Well, now, don't be dismal, there's a good fellow. It's all right, you see. Meg is happy; Brooke will fly round and get settled immediately; grandpa will attend to him, and it will be very jolly to see Meg in her own little house. We'll have capital times after she is gone, for I shall be through college before long, and then we'll go abroad, or some nice trip or other. Wouldn't that console you?" "I rather think it would; but there's no knowing what may happen in three years," said Jo thoughtfully. "That's true. Don't you wish you could take a look forward, and see where we shall all be then? I do," returned Laurie. "I think not, for I might see something sad; and every one looks so happy now, I don't believe they could be much improved," and Jo's eyes went slowly round the room, brightening as they looked, for the prospect was a pleasant one. Father and mother sat together, quietly re-living the first chapter of the romance which for them began some twenty years ago. Amy was drawing the lovers, who sat apart in a beautiful world of their own, the light of which touched their faces with a grace the little artist could not copy. Beth lay on her sofa, talking cheerily with her old friend, who held her little hand as if he felt that it possessed the power to lead him along the peaceful way she walked. Jo lounged in her favorite low seat, with the grave, quiet look which best became her; and Laurie, leaning on the back of her chair, his chin on a level with her curly head, smiled with his friendliest aspect, and nodded at her in the long glass which reflected them both. * * * * * So grouped, the curtain falls upon Meg, Jo, Beth, and Amy. Whether it ever rises again, depends upon the reception given to the first act of the domestic drama called "LITTLE WOMEN." [Illustration: Home of the Little Women] The Second Part Übersetzung: [Illustration: Die Taubenschlag] Könnt ihr eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Die March-Mädchen, ihre Mutter und Hannah kümmern sich um Mr. March, der nach Hause zurückgekehrt ist, worüber sie sehr aufgeregt sind. Doch alle scheinen auf etwas anderes zu warten. Am Nachmittag kommt Laurie vorbei. Als er Meg sieht, geht er vor ihr auf ein Knie und gibt vor, von Liebeswahn befallen zu sein, indem er sich auf die Brust schlägt und sich die Haare ausreißt. Meg versteht nicht, was er meint, aber Jo erklärt, dass er gerade das Verhalten von John Brooke imitieren würde - wenn er ihr bald einen Heiratsantrag machen würde! Meg erzählt Jo, dass ihr John Brooke egal ist ... ziemlich. Jo sagt, dass die ganze Familie sehen kann, dass sie verliebt sind; sie ist von der ganzen Sache angewidert. Meg sagt zu Jo, dass sie aufhören solle, davon zu reden; sie könne sowieso nichts tun, da der Mann den Antrag machen müsse. Immerhin sind wir im 19. Jahrhundert. Jo fragt Meg, wie sie reagieren würde, wenn John Brooke sie fragen würde, ob sie ihn heiraten möchte. Meg sagt, dass sie ablehnen würde, da sie zu jung sei, um sich zu verloben. Jo ist sehr erfreut darüber und lässt Meg versprechen, John abzulehnen. Gerade in diesem Moment taucht John Brooke auf, um seinen Regenschirm abzuholen, denn er hat ihn versehentlich im Haus der Marches vergessen. Die beiden Schwestern sehen verblüfft und schuldbewusst aus, als er hereinkommt. Er wird verwirrt und fragt nach Mr. March. Jo geht hinaus, damit Meg John alleine ablehnen kann. Meg bittet John, sich hinzusetzen und sagt, dass ihre Mutter ihn sehen möchte. John fragt Meg, ob sie Angst vor ihm habe. Sie sagt, dass sie keine Angst haben könne, da er ihrem Vater gegenüber so freundlich war. Sie gibt John ihre Hand und sagt, dass sie wünschte, sie könnte ihm dafür danken. John hält Megs Hand fest und erzählt ihr, dass er einen großartigen Weg kennt, wie sie seine Freundlichkeit erwidern kann. Meg wird verwirrt und verlegen. John fragt, ob sie etwas für ihn empfindet. Anstatt die Rede zu halten, die sie mit Jo besprochen hatte, sagt Meg, dass sie es nicht weiß. John umwirbt Meg und sagt ihr, wie sehr er für sie empfindet. Sie sagt, dass sie zu jung sei und John sagt, dass er bereit ist zu warten. Während sie reden, schaut Meg auf und sieht John's Ausdruck. Er wirkt sehr zuversichtlich und Meg ist etwas beleidigt von seinem Selbstbewusstsein. Sie beginnt sich kokett zu verhalten und sagt ihm, dass er gehen und sie in Ruhe lassen soll. John ist überrascht und verletzt und fragt, ob sie es wirklich ernst meint. Sie sagt, dass sie es tut. John bittet Meg, nicht mit ihm zu spielen, und sagt, dass er bereit ist zu warten, während sie ihre Gefühle sortiert, notfalls eine lange Zeit. Sie sagt ihm, nicht an sie zu denken. John und Meg stehen dort und schauen sich einen Moment lang an. Meg beginnt sich schlecht zu fühlen wegen ihrer Behandlung von John. Plötzlich kommt Tante March herein und überrascht sie. John Brooke geht taktvoll in das nächste Zimmer, während Tante March wissen will, was hier vorgeht. Meg sagt Tante March, dass der Besucher John Brooke sei, ein Freund ihres Vaters. Tante March erkennt den Namen; sie weiß, dass John Brooke Lauries Tutor ist und an Meg interessiert ist. Tante March sagt Meg, dass sie sie enterben wird, wenn sie John Brooke heiratet. Meg ist beleidigt und sagt Tante March, dass sie denjenigen heiraten wird, den sie möchte. Tante March sagt Meg, dass es ihre Pflicht sei, einen reichen Mann zu heiraten und ihrer Familie zu helfen. Tante March deutet auch an, dass John Brooke wahrscheinlich deshalb Meg heiraten möchte, weil er gehört hat, dass Tante March reich ist und glaubt, dass Meg als älteste Nichte ein Vermögen erben könnte. Jetzt ist Meg wirklich beleidigt und sagt Tante March, dass weder sie noch John wegen des Geldes heiraten würden. Sie sagt, dass sie keine Angst haben, hart zu arbeiten und dass sie warten und eine lange Verlobungszeit haben wollen. Meg lässt sich hinreißen und beschreibt, wie großartig John Brooke ist, wie hart er arbeitet, wie klug er ist und wie wahrscheinlich es ist, dass er Erfolg haben wird. Offenbar mag sie ihn ziemlich! Tante March ist wütend und sagt, dass sie sich aus der Angelegenheit zurückzieht. Sie sagt Meg, dass sie nichts von ihr erben wird, und stürmt hinaus. John kommt wieder in den Raum. Er erzählt Meg, dass er nicht anders konnte, als mitzuhören, was sie gesagt hat, und dass er sehr erfreut ist, herauszufinden, dass sie Gefühle für ihn hat. Meg sagt, dass sie nicht wusste, wie sehr sie ihn mochte, bis Tante March anfing, ihn zu beleidigen. Ein wenig später ist es ruhig im Raum. Jo, die davon ausgeht, dass John, nachdem er von Meg abgelehnt wurde, gegangen ist, kommt herein, um mit ihrer Schwester zu schadenfroh zu sein. Doch was sie sieht, ist Meg, die auf Johns Knie sitzt! John bittet Jo, ihnen zu gratulieren. Jo rennt aus dem Raum und erzählt ihren Eltern, dass John sich "entsetzlich" verhalten hat. Herr und Frau March gehen nach unten, um herauszufinden, was passiert ist. Sie haben ein privates Gespräch mit John und Meg im Salon, in dem John sie davon überzeugt, dass er verantwortungsvolle Pläne hat, um ein Zuhause für sich und Meg zu schaffen. John bleibt da und trinkt Tee mit der Familie. Alle sind aufgeregt, außer Jo. Während des Essens spricht die Familie darüber, wie viel in diesem Jahr geschehen ist. John sagt, dass er und Meg drei Jahre lang arbeiten und warten werden, bevor sie heiraten. Nun ja, er wird die meiste Arbeit machen und sie wird die meiste Zeit warten, aber man versteht den Gedanken. Laurie kommt mit einem großen Blumenstrauß für Meg herein und beglückwünscht das Paar. Jo nimmt an, dass Laurie, wie sie selbst, unromantisch über die ganze Sache denken wird, aber Laurie ist tatsächlich sehr aufgeregt und sagt, dass er wusste, dass John Meg überzeugen würde. Der alte Mr. Laurence kommt herein und die Familie begrüßt ihn. Laurie fragt Jo, warum sie betrübt aussieht. Sie sagt, dass sie mit der Heirat nicht glücklich ist, aber sie versucht höflich zu sein. Sie hat das Gefühl, ihren besten Freund verloren zu haben. Laurie sagt Jo, dass er immer für sie da sein wird. Sie sagt, dass es tröstlich sei. Laurie fragt sich, wo sie alle in drei Jahren sein werden. Als das Kapitel endet, versammelt sich die gesamte erweiterte Familie. Herr und Frau March erinnern sich an ihre Vergangenheit. Amy zeichnet John und Meg, die zusammen sitzen. Beth liegt auf dem Sofa und spricht mit dem alten Mr. Laurence. Jo sitzt und spricht mit Laurie, der sich an die Rückenlehne ihres Stuhls lehnt. Es ist purer häuslicher Glückseligkeit!

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: The same. De Guiche. DE GUICHE: It smells good here. A CADET (humming): Lo! Lo-lo! DE GUICHE (looking at him): What is the matter?--You are very red. THE CADET: The matter?--Nothing!--'Tis my blood--boiling at the thought of the coming battle! ANOTHER: Poum, poum--poum. . . DE GUICHE (turning round): What's that? THE CADET (slightly drunk): Nothing!. . .'Tis a song!--a little. . . DE GUICHE: You are merry, my friend! THE CADET: The approach of danger is intoxicating! DE GUICHE (calling Carbon de Castel-Jaloux, to give him an order): Captain! I. . . (He stops short on seeing him): Plague take me! but you look bravely, too! CARBON (crimson in the face, hiding a bottle behind his back, with an evasive movement): Oh!. . . DE GUICHE: I have one cannon left, and have had it carried there-- (he points behind the scenes): --in that corner. . .Your men can use it in case of need. A CADET (reeling slightly): Charming attention! ANOTHER (with a gracious smile): Kind solicitude! DE GUICHE: How? they are all gone crazy? (Drily): As you are not used to cannon, beware of the recoil. FIRST CADET: Pooh! DE GUICHE (furious, going up to him): But. . . THE CADET: Gascon cannons never recoil! DE GUICHE (taking him by the arm and shaking him): You are tipsy!--but what with? THE CADET (grandiloquently): --With the smell of powder! DE GUICHE (shrugging his shoulders and pushing him away, then going quickly to Roxane): Briefly, Madame, what decision do you deign to take? ROXANE: I stay here. DE GUICHE: You must fly! ROXANE: No! I will stay. DE GUICHE: Since things are thus, give me a musket, one of you! CARBON: Wherefore? DE GUICHE: Because I too--mean to remain. CYRANO: At last! This is true valor, Sir! FIRST CADET: Then you are Gascon after all, spite of your lace collar? ROXANE: What is all this? DE GUICHE: I leave no woman in peril. SECOND CADET (to the first): Hark you! Think you not we might give him something to eat? (All the viands reappear as if by magic.) DE GUICHE (whose eyes sparkle): Victuals! THE THIRD CADET: Yes, you'll see them coming from under every coat! DE GUICHE (controlling himself, haughtily): Do you think I will eat your leavings? CYRANO (saluting him): You make progress. DE GUICHE (proudly, with a light touch of accent on the word 'breaking'): I will fight without br-r-eaking my fast! FIRST CADET (with wild delight): Br-r-r-eaking! He has got the accent! DE GUICHE (laughing): I? THE CADET: 'Tis a Gascon! (All begin to dance.) CARBON DE CASTEL-JALOUX (who had disappeared behind the rampart, reappearing on the ridge): I have drawn my pikemen up in line. They are a resolute troop. (He points to a row of pikes, the tops of which are seen over the ridge.) DE GUICHE (bowing to Roxane): Will you accept my hand, and accompany me while I review them? (She takes it, and they go up toward the rampart. All uncover and follow them.) CHRISTIAN (going to Cyrano, eagerly): Tell me quickly! (As Roxane appears on the ridge, the tops of the lances disappear, lowered for the salute, and a shout is raised. She bows.) THE PIKEMEN (outside): Vivat! CHRISTIAN: What is this secret? CYRANO: If Roxane should. . . CHRISTIAN: Should?. . . CYRANO: Speak of the letters?. . . CHRISTIAN: Yes, I know!. . . CYRANO: Do not spoil all by seeming surprised. . . CHRISTIAN: At what? CYRANO: I must explain to you!. . .Oh! 'tis no great matter--I but thought of it to- day on seeing her. You have. . . CHRISTIAN: Tell quickly! CYRANO: You have. . .written to her oftener than you think. . . CHRISTIAN: How so? CYRANO: Thus, 'faith! I had taken it in hand to express your flame for you!. . .At times I wrote without saying, 'I am writing!' CHRISTIAN: Ah!. . . CYRANO: 'Tis simple enough! CHRISTIAN: But how did you contrive, since we have been cut off, thus. . .to?. . . CYRANO: . . .Oh! before dawn. . .I was able to get through. . . CHRISTIAN (folding his arms): That was simple, too? And how oft, pray you, have I written?. . .Twice in the week?. . .Three times?. . .Four?. . . CYRANO: More often still. CHRISTIAN: What! Every day? CYRANO: Yes, every day,--twice. CHRISTIAN (violently): And that became so mad a joy for you, that you braved death. . . CYRANO (seeing Roxane returning): Hush! Not before her! (He goes hurriedly into his tent.) Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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De Guiche verkündet, dass er auch kämpfen wird, wenn Roxane für die Schlacht bleibt. Die Männer sind der Meinung, dass er doch ein Gascon sein muss, und bieten ihm etwas zu essen an. Er lehnt dankend ab, und sie sind noch beeindruckter. Cyrano sagt Christian, dass er Roxane öfter geschrieben hat, als Christian dachte - tatsächlich jeden Tag. Christian vermutet wieder Cyrano's Geheimnis, aber Roxane unterbricht.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten 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 French Church, properly the Church of Sainte-Agnes, stood upon a hill. The high, narrow, red-brick building, with its tall steeple and steep roof, could be seen for miles across the wheatfields, though the little town of Sainte-Agnes was completely hidden away at the foot of the hill. The church looked powerful and triumphant there on its eminence, so high above the rest of the landscape, with miles of warm color lying at its feet, and by its position and setting it reminded one of some of the churches built long ago in the wheat-lands of middle France. Late one June afternoon Alexandra Bergson was driving along one of the many roads that led through the rich French farming country to the big church. The sunlight was shining directly in her face, and there was a blaze of light all about the red church on the hill. Beside Alexandra lounged a strikingly exotic figure in a tall Mexican hat, a silk sash, and a black velvet jacket sewn with silver buttons. Emil had returned only the night before, and his sister was so proud of him that she decided at once to take him up to the church supper, and to make him wear the Mexican costume he had brought home in his trunk. "All the girls who have stands are going to wear fancy costumes," she argued, "and some of the boys. Marie is going to tell fortunes, and she sent to Omaha for a Bohemian dress her father brought back from a visit to the old country. If you wear those clothes, they will all be pleased. And you must take your guitar. Everybody ought to do what they can to help along, and we have never done much. We are not a talented family." The supper was to be at six o'clock, in the basement of the church, and afterward there would be a fair, with charades and an auction. Alexandra had set out from home early, leaving the house to Signa and Nelse Jensen, who were to be married next week. Signa had shyly asked to have the wedding put off until Emil came home. Alexandra was well satisfied with her brother. As they drove through the rolling French country toward the westering sun and the stalwart church, she was thinking of that time long ago when she and Emil drove back from the river valley to the still unconquered Divide. Yes, she told herself, it had been worth while; both Emil and the country had become what she had hoped. Out of her father's children there was one who was fit to cope with the world, who had not been tied to the plow, and who had a personality apart from the soil. And that, she reflected, was what she had worked for. She felt well satisfied with her life. When they reached the church, a score of teams were hitched in front of the basement doors that opened from the hillside upon the sanded terrace, where the boys wrestled and had jumping-matches. Amedee Chevalier, a proud father of one week, rushed out and embraced Emil. Amedee was an only son,--hence he was a very rich young man,--but he meant to have twenty children himself, like his uncle Xavier. "Oh, Emil," he cried, hugging his old friend rapturously, "why ain't you been up to see my boy? You come to-morrow, sure? Emil, you wanna get a boy right off! It's the greatest thing ever! No, no, no! Angel not sick at all. Everything just fine. That boy he come into this world laughin', and he been laughin' ever since. You come an' see!" He pounded Emil's ribs to emphasize each announcement. Emil caught his arms. "Stop, Amedee. You're knocking the wind out of me. I brought him cups and spoons and blankets and moccasins enough for an orphan asylum. I'm awful glad it's a boy, sure enough!" The young men crowded round Emil to admire his costume and to tell him in a breath everything that had happened since he went away. Emil had more friends up here in the French country than down on Norway Creek. The French and Bohemian boys were spirited and jolly, liked variety, and were as much predisposed to favor anything new as the Scandinavian boys were to reject it. The Norwegian and Swedish lads were much more self-centred, apt to be egotistical and jealous. They were cautious and reserved with Emil because he had been away to college, and were prepared to take him down if he should try to put on airs with them. The French boys liked a bit of swagger, and they were always delighted to hear about anything new: new clothes, new games, new songs, new dances. Now they carried Emil off to show him the club room they had just fitted up over the post-office, down in the village. They ran down the hill in a drove, all laughing and chattering at once, some in French, some in English. Alexandra went into the cool, whitewashed basement where the women were setting the tables. Marie was standing on a chair, building a little tent of shawls where she was to tell fortunes. She sprang down and ran toward Alexandra, stopping short and looking at her in disappointment. Alexandra nodded to her encouragingly. "Oh, he will be here, Marie. The boys have taken him off to show him something. You won't know him. He is a man now, sure enough. I have no boy left. He smokes terrible-smelling Mexican cigarettes and talks Spanish. How pretty you look, child. Where did you get those beautiful earrings?" "They belonged to father's mother. He always promised them to me. He sent them with the dress and said I could keep them." Marie wore a short red skirt of stoutly woven cloth, a white bodice and kirtle, a yellow silk turban wound low over her brown curls, and long coral pendants in her ears. Her ears had been pierced against a piece of cork by her great-aunt when she was seven years old. In those germless days she had worn bits of broom-straw, plucked from the common sweeping-broom, in the lobes until the holes were healed and ready for little gold rings. When Emil came back from the village, he lingered outside on the terrace with the boys. Marie could hear him talking and strumming on his guitar while Raoul Marcel sang falsetto. She was vexed with him for staying out there. It made her very nervous to hear him and not to see him; for, certainly, she told herself, she was not going out to look for him. When the supper bell rang and the boys came trooping in to get seats at the first table, she forgot all about her annoyance and ran to greet the tallest of the crowd, in his conspicuous attire. She didn't mind showing her embarrassment at all. She blushed and laughed excitedly as she gave Emil her hand, and looked delightedly at the black velvet coat that brought out his fair skin and fine blond head. Marie was incapable of being lukewarm about anything that pleased her. She simply did not know how to give a half-hearted response. When she was delighted, she was as likely as not to stand on her tip-toes and clap her hands. If people laughed at her, she laughed with them. "Do the men wear clothes like that every day, in the street?" She caught Emil by his sleeve and turned him about. "Oh, I wish I lived where people wore things like that! Are the buttons real silver? Put on the hat, please. What a heavy thing! How do you ever wear it? Why don't you tell us about the bull-fights?" She wanted to wring all his experiences from him at once, without waiting a moment. Emil smiled tolerantly and stood looking down at her with his old, brooding gaze, while the French girls fluttered about him in their white dresses and ribbons, and Alexandra watched the scene with pride. Several of the French girls, Marie knew, were hoping that Emil would take them to supper, and she was relieved when he took only his sister. Marie caught Frank's arm and dragged him to the same table, managing to get seats opposite the Bergsons, so that she could hear what they were talking about. Alexandra made Emil tell Mrs. Xavier Chevalier, the mother of the twenty, about how he had seen a famous matador killed in the bull-ring. Marie listened to every word, only taking her eyes from Emil to watch Frank's plate and keep it filled. When Emil finished his account,--bloody enough to satisfy Mrs. Xavier and to make her feel thankful that she was not a matador,--Marie broke out with a volley of questions. How did the women dress when they went to bull-fights? Did they wear mantillas? Did they never wear hats? After supper the young people played charades for the amusement of their elders, who sat gossiping between their guesses. All the shops in Sainte-Agnes were closed at eight o'clock that night, so that the merchants and their clerks could attend the fair. The auction was the liveliest part of the entertainment, for the French boys always lost their heads when they began to bid, satisfied that their extravagance was in a good cause. After all the pincushions and sofa pillows and embroidered slippers were sold, Emil precipitated a panic by taking out one of his turquoise shirt studs, which every one had been admiring, and handing it to the auctioneer. All the French girls clamored for it, and their sweethearts bid against each other recklessly. Marie wanted it, too, and she kept making signals to Frank, which he took a sour pleasure in disregarding. He didn't see the use of making a fuss over a fellow just because he was dressed like a clown. When the turquoise went to Malvina Sauvage, the French banker's daughter, Marie shrugged her shoulders and betook herself to her little tent of shawls, where she began to shuffle her cards by the light of a tallow candle, calling out, "Fortunes, fortunes!" The young priest, Father Duchesne, went first to have his fortune read. Marie took his long white hand, looked at it, and then began to run off her cards. "I see a long journey across water for you, Father. You will go to a town all cut up by water; built on islands, it seems to be, with rivers and green fields all about. And you will visit an old lady with a white cap and gold hoops in her ears, and you will be very happy there." "Mais, oui," said the priest, with a melancholy smile. "C'est L'Isle-Adam, chez ma mere. Vous etes tres savante, ma fille." He patted her yellow turban, calling, "Venez donc, mes garcons! Il y a ici une veritable clairvoyante!" Marie was clever at fortune-telling, indulging in a light irony that amused the crowd. She told old Brunot, the miser, that he would lose all his money, marry a girl of sixteen, and live happily on a crust. Sholte, the fat Russian boy, who lived for his stomach, was to be disappointed in love, grow thin, and shoot himself from despondency. Amedee was to have twenty children, and nineteen of them were to be girls. Amedee slapped Frank on the back and asked him why he didn't see what the fortune-teller would promise him. But Frank shook off his friendly hand and grunted, "She tell my fortune long ago; bad enough!" Then he withdrew to a corner and sat glowering at his wife. Frank's case was all the more painful because he had no one in particular to fix his jealousy upon. Sometimes he could have thanked the man who would bring him evidence against his wife. He had discharged a good farm-boy, Jan Smirka, because he thought Marie was fond of him; but she had not seemed to miss Jan when he was gone, and she had been just as kind to the next boy. The farm-hands would always do anything for Marie; Frank couldn't find one so surly that he would not make an effort to please her. At the bottom of his heart Frank knew well enough that if he could once give up his grudge, his wife would come back to him. But he could never in the world do that. The grudge was fundamental. Perhaps he could not have given it up if he had tried. Perhaps he got more satisfaction out of feeling himself abused than he would have got out of being loved. If he could once have made Marie thoroughly unhappy, he might have relented and raised her from the dust. But she had never humbled herself. In the first days of their love she had been his slave; she had admired him abandonedly. But the moment he began to bully her and to be unjust, she began to draw away; at first in tearful amazement, then in quiet, unspoken disgust. The distance between them had widened and hardened. It no longer contracted and brought them suddenly together. The spark of her life went somewhere else, and he was always watching to surprise it. He knew that somewhere she must get a feeling to live upon, for she was not a woman who could live without loving. He wanted to prove to himself the wrong he felt. What did she hide in her heart? Where did it go? Even Frank had his churlish delicacies; he never reminded her of how much she had once loved him. For that Marie was grateful to him. While Marie was chattering to the French boys, Amedee called Emil to the back of the room and whispered to him that they were going to play a joke on the girls. At eleven o'clock, Amedee was to go up to the switchboard in the vestibule and turn off the electric lights, and every boy would have a chance to kiss his sweetheart before Father Duchesne could find his way up the stairs to turn the current on again. The only difficulty was the candle in Marie's tent; perhaps, as Emil had no sweetheart, he would oblige the boys by blowing out the candle. Emil said he would undertake to do that. At five minutes to eleven he sauntered up to Marie's booth, and the French boys dispersed to find their girls. He leaned over the card-table and gave himself up to looking at her. "Do you think you could tell my fortune?" he murmured. It was the first word he had had alone with her for almost a year. "My luck hasn't changed any. It's just the same." Marie had often wondered whether there was anyone else who could look his thoughts to you as Emil could. To-night, when she met his steady, powerful eyes, it was impossible not to feel the sweetness of the dream he was dreaming; it reached her before she could shut it out, and hid itself in her heart. She began to shuffle her cards furiously. "I'm angry with you, Emil," she broke out with petulance. "Why did you give them that lovely blue stone to sell? You might have known Frank wouldn't buy it for me, and I wanted it awfully!" Emil laughed shortly. "People who want such little things surely ought to have them," he said dryly. He thrust his hand into the pocket of his velvet trousers and brought out a handful of uncut turquoises, as big as marbles. Leaning over the table he dropped them into her lap. "There, will those do? Be careful, don't let any one see them. Now, I suppose you want me to go away and let you play with them?" Marie was gazing in rapture at the soft blue color of the stones. "Oh, Emil! Is everything down there beautiful like these? How could you ever come away?" At that instant Amedee laid hands on the switchboard. There was a shiver and a giggle, and every one looked toward the red blur that Marie's candle made in the dark. Immediately that, too, was gone. Little shrieks and currents of soft laughter ran up and down the dark hall. Marie started up,--directly into Emil's arms. In the same instant she felt his lips. The veil that had hung uncertainly between them for so long was dissolved. Before she knew what she was doing, she had committed herself to that kiss that was at once a boy's and a man's, as timid as it was tender; so like Emil and so unlike any one else in the world. Not until it was over did she realize what it meant. And Emil, who had so often imagined the shock of this first kiss, was surprised at its gentleness and naturalness. It was like a sigh which they had breathed together; almost sorrowful, as if each were afraid of wakening something in the other. When the lights came on again, everybody was laughing and shouting, and all the French girls were rosy and shining with mirth. Only Marie, in her little tent of shawls, was pale and quiet. Under her yellow turban the red coral pendants swung against white cheeks. Frank was still staring at her, but he seemed to see nothing. Years ago, he himself had had the power to take the blood from her cheeks like that. Perhaps he did not remember--perhaps he had never noticed! Emil was already at the other end of the hall, walking about with the shoulder-motion he had acquired among the Mexicans, studying the floor with his intent, deep-set eyes. Marie began to take down and fold her shawls. She did not glance up again. The young people drifted to the other end of the hall where the guitar was sounding. In a moment she heard Emil and Raoul singing:-- "Across the Rio Grand-e There lies a sunny land-e, My bright-eyed Mexico!" Alexandra Bergson came up to the card booth. "Let me help you, Marie. You look tired." She placed her hand on Marie's arm and felt her shiver. Marie stiffened under that kind, calm hand. Alexandra drew back, perplexed and hurt. There was about Alexandra something of the impervious calm of the fatalist, always disconcerting to very young people, who cannot feel that the heart lives at all unless it is still at the mercy of storms; unless its strings can scream to the touch of pain. Signa's wedding supper was over. The guests, and the tiresome little Norwegian preacher who had performed the marriage ceremony, were saying good-night. Old Ivar was hitching the horses to the wagon to take the wedding presents and the bride and groom up to their new home, on Alexandra's north quarter. When Ivar drove up to the gate, Emil and Marie Shabata began to carry out the presents, and Alexandra went into her bedroom to bid Signa good-bye and to give her a few words of good counsel. She was surprised to find that the bride had changed her slippers for heavy shoes and was pinning up her skirts. At that moment Nelse appeared at the gate with the two milk cows that Alexandra had given Signa for a wedding present. Alexandra began to laugh. "Why, Signa, you and Nelse are to ride home. I'll send Ivar over with the cows in the morning." Signa hesitated and looked perplexed. When her husband called her, she pinned her hat on resolutely. "I ta-ank I better do yust like he say," she murmured in confusion. Alexandra and Marie accompanied Signa to the gate and saw the party set off, old Ivar driving ahead in the wagon and the bride and groom following on foot, each leading a cow. Emil burst into a laugh before they were out of hearing. "Those two will get on," said Alexandra as they turned back to the house. "They are not going to take any chances. They will feel safer with those cows in their own stable. Marie, I am going to send for an old woman next. As soon as I get the girls broken in, I marry them off." "I've no patience with Signa, marrying that grumpy fellow!" Marie declared. "I wanted her to marry that nice Smirka boy who worked for us last winter. I think she liked him, too." "Yes, I think she did," Alexandra assented, "but I suppose she was too much afraid of Nelse to marry any one else. Now that I think of it, most of my girls have married men they were afraid of. I believe there is a good deal of the cow in most Swedish girls. You high-strung Bohemian can't understand us. We're a terribly practical people, and I guess we think a cross man makes a good manager." Marie shrugged her shoulders and turned to pin up a lock of hair that had fallen on her neck. Somehow Alexandra had irritated her of late. Everybody irritated her. She was tired of everybody. "I'm going home alone, Emil, so you needn't get your hat," she said as she wound her scarf quickly about her head. "Good-night, Alexandra," she called back in a strained voice, running down the gravel walk. Emil followed with long strides until he overtook her. Then she began to walk slowly. It was a night of warm wind and faint starlight, and the fireflies were glimmering over the wheat. "Marie," said Emil after they had walked for a while, "I wonder if you know how unhappy I am?" Marie did not answer him. Her head, in its white scarf, drooped forward a little. Emil kicked a clod from the path and went on:-- "I wonder whether you are really shallow-hearted, like you seem? Sometimes I think one boy does just as well as another for you. It never seems to make much difference whether it is me or Raoul Marcel or Jan Smirka. Are you really like that?" "Perhaps I am. What do you want me to do? Sit round and cry all day? When I've cried until I can't cry any more, then--then I must do something else." "Are you sorry for me?" he persisted. "No, I'm not. If I were big and free like you, I wouldn't let anything make me unhappy. As old Napoleon Brunot said at the fair, I wouldn't go lovering after no woman. I'd take the first train and go off and have all the fun there is." "I tried that, but it didn't do any good. Everything reminded me. The nicer the place was, the more I wanted you." They had come to the stile and Emil pointed to it persuasively. "Sit down a moment, I want to ask you something." Marie sat down on the top step and Emil drew nearer. "Would you tell me something that's none of my business if you thought it would help me out? Well, then, tell me, PLEASE tell me, why you ran away with Frank Shabata!" Marie drew back. "Because I was in love with him," she said firmly. "Really?" he asked incredulously. "Yes, indeed. Very much in love with him. I think I was the one who suggested our running away. From the first it was more my fault than his." Emil turned away his face. "And now," Marie went on, "I've got to remember that. Frank is just the same now as he was then, only then I would see him as I wanted him to be. I would have my own way. And now I pay for it." "You don't do all the paying." "That's it. When one makes a mistake, there's no telling where it will stop. But you can go away; you can leave all this behind you." "Not everything. I can't leave you behind. Will you go away with me, Marie?" Marie started up and stepped across the stile. "Emil! How wickedly you talk! I am not that kind of a girl, and you know it. But what am I going to do if you keep tormenting me like this!" she added plaintively. "Marie, I won't bother you any more if you will tell me just one thing. Stop a minute and look at me. No, nobody can see us. Everybody's asleep. That was only a firefly. Marie, STOP and tell me!" Emil overtook her and catching her by the shoulders shook her gently, as if he were trying to awaken a sleepwalker. Marie hid her face on his arm. "Don't ask me anything more. I don't know anything except how miserable I am. And I thought it would be all right when you came back. Oh, Emil," she clutched his sleeve and began to cry, "what am I to do if you don't go away? I can't go, and one of us must. Can't you see?" Emil stood looking down at her, holding his shoulders stiff and stiffening the arm to which she clung. Her white dress looked gray in the darkness. She seemed like a troubled spirit, like some shadow out of the earth, clinging to him and entreating him to give her peace. Behind her the fireflies were weaving in and out over the wheat. He put his hand on her bent head. "On my honor, Marie, if you will say you love me, I will go away." She lifted her face to his. "How could I help it? Didn't you know?" Emil was the one who trembled, through all his frame. After he left Marie at her gate, he wandered about the fields all night, till morning put out the fireflies and the stars. One evening, a week after Signa's wedding, Emil was kneeling before a box in the sitting-room, packing his books. From time to time he rose and wandered about the house, picking up stray volumes and bringing them listlessly back to his box. He was packing without enthusiasm. He was not very sanguine about his future. Alexandra sat sewing by the table. She had helped him pack his trunk in the afternoon. As Emil came and went by her chair with his books, he thought to himself that it had not been so hard to leave his sister since he first went away to school. He was going directly to Omaha, to read law in the office of a Swedish lawyer until October, when he would enter the law school at Ann Arbor. They had planned that Alexandra was to come to Michigan--a long journey for her--at Christmas time, and spend several weeks with him. Nevertheless, he felt that this leave-taking would be more final than his earlier ones had been; that it meant a definite break with his old home and the beginning of something new--he did not know what. His ideas about the future would not crystallize; the more he tried to think about it, the vaguer his conception of it became. But one thing was clear, he told himself; it was high time that he made good to Alexandra, and that ought to be incentive enough to begin with. As he went about gathering up his books he felt as if he were uprooting things. At last he threw himself down on the old slat lounge where he had slept when he was little, and lay looking up at the familiar cracks in the ceiling. "Tired, Emil?" his sister asked. "Lazy," he murmured, turning on his side and looking at her. He studied Alexandra's face for a long time in the lamplight. It had never occurred to him that his sister was a handsome woman until Marie Shabata had told him so. Indeed, he had never thought of her as being a woman at all, only a sister. As he studied her bent head, he looked up at the picture of John Bergson above the lamp. "No," he thought to himself, "she didn't get it there. I suppose I am more like that." "Alexandra," he said suddenly, "that old walnut secretary you use for a desk was father's, wasn't it?" Alexandra went on stitching. "Yes. It was one of the first things he bought for the old log house. It was a great extravagance in those days. But he wrote a great many letters back to the old country. He had many friends there, and they wrote to him up to the time he died. No one ever blamed him for grandfather's disgrace. I can see him now, sitting there on Sundays, in his white shirt, writing pages and pages, so carefully. He wrote a fine, regular hand, almost like engraving. Yours is something like his, when you take pains." "Grandfather was really crooked, was he?" "He married an unscrupulous woman, and then--then I'm afraid he was really crooked. When we first came here father used to have dreams about making a great fortune and going back to Sweden to pay back to the poor sailors the money grandfather had lost." Emil stirred on the lounge. "I say, that would have been worth while, wouldn't it? Father wasn't a bit like Lou or Oscar, was he? I can't remember much about him before he got sick." "Oh, not at all!" Alexandra dropped her sewing on her knee. "He had better opportunities; not to make money, but to make something of himself. He was a quiet man, but he was very intelligent. You would have been proud of him, Emil." Alexandra felt that he would like to know there had been a man of his kin whom he could admire. She knew that Emil was ashamed of Lou and Oscar, because they were bigoted and self-satisfied. He never said much about them, but she could feel his disgust. His brothers had shown their disapproval of him ever since he first went away to school. The only thing that would have satisfied them would have been his failure at the University. As it was, they resented every change in his speech, in his dress, in his point of view; though the latter they had to conjecture, for Emil avoided talking to them about any but family matters. All his interests they treated as affectations. Alexandra took up her sewing again. "I can remember father when he was quite a young man. He belonged to some kind of a musical society, a male chorus, in Stockholm. I can remember going with mother to hear them sing. There must have been a hundred of them, and they all wore long black coats and white neckties. I was used to seeing father in a blue coat, a sort of jacket, and when I recognized him on the platform, I was very proud. Do you remember that Swedish song he taught you, about the ship boy?" "Yes. I used to sing it to the Mexicans. They like anything different." Emil paused. "Father had a hard fight here, didn't he?" he added thoughtfully. "Yes, and he died in a dark time. Still, he had hope. He believed in the land." "And in you, I guess," Emil said to himself. There was another period of silence; that warm, friendly silence, full of perfect understanding, in which Emil and Alexandra had spent many of their happiest half-hours. At last Emil said abruptly, "Lou and Oscar would be better off if they were poor, wouldn't they?" Alexandra smiled. "Maybe. But their children wouldn't. I have great hopes of Milly." Emil shivered. "I don't know. Seems to me it gets worse as it goes on. The worst of the Swedes is that they're never willing to find out how much they don't know. It was like that at the University. Always so pleased with themselves! There's no getting behind that conceited Swedish grin. The Bohemians and Germans were so different." "Come, Emil, don't go back on your own people. Father wasn't conceited, Uncle Otto wasn't. Even Lou and Oscar weren't when they were boys." Emil looked incredulous, but he did not dispute the point. He turned on his back and lay still for a long time, his hands locked under his head, looking up at the ceiling. Alexandra knew that he was thinking of many things. She felt no anxiety about Emil. She had always believed in him, as she had believed in the land. He had been more like himself since he got back from Mexico; seemed glad to be at home, and talked to her as he used to do. She had no doubt that his wandering fit was over, and that he would soon be settled in life. "Alexandra," said Emil suddenly, "do you remember the wild duck we saw down on the river that time?" His sister looked up. "I often think of her. It always seems to me she's there still, just like we saw her." "I know. It's queer what things one remembers and what things one forgets." Emil yawned and sat up. "Well, it's time to turn in." He rose, and going over to Alexandra stooped down and kissed her lightly on the cheek. "Good-night, sister. I think you did pretty well by us." Emil took up his lamp and went upstairs. Alexandra sat finishing his new nightshirt, that must go in the top tray of his trunk. The next morning Angelique, Amedee's wife, was in the kitchen baking pies, assisted by old Mrs. Chevalier. Between the mixing-board and the stove stood the old cradle that had been Amedee's, and in it was his black-eyed son. As Angelique, flushed and excited, with flour on her hands, stopped to smile at the baby, Emil Bergson rode up to the kitchen door on his mare and dismounted. "'Medee is out in the field, Emil," Angelique called as she ran across the kitchen to the oven. "He begins to cut his wheat to-day; the first wheat ready to cut anywhere about here. He bought a new header, you know, because all the wheat's so short this year. I hope he can rent it to the neighbors, it cost so much. He and his cousins bought a steam thresher on shares. You ought to go out and see that header work. I watched it an hour this morning, busy as I am with all the men to feed. He has a lot of hands, but he's the only one that knows how to drive the header or how to run the engine, so he has to be everywhere at once. He's sick, too, and ought to be in his bed." Emil bent over Hector Baptiste, trying to make him blink his round, bead-like black eyes. "Sick? What's the matter with your daddy, kid? Been making him walk the floor with you?" Angelique sniffed. "Not much! We don't have that kind of babies. It was his father that kept Baptiste awake. All night I had to be getting up and making mustard plasters to put on his stomach. He had an awful colic. He said he felt better this morning, but I don't think he ought to be out in the field, overheating himself." Angelique did not speak with much anxiety, not because she was indifferent, but because she felt so secure in their good fortune. Only good things could happen to a rich, energetic, handsome young man like Amedee, with a new baby in the cradle and a new header in the field. Emil stroked the black fuzz on Baptiste's head. "I say, Angelique, one of 'Medee's grandmothers, 'way back, must have been a squaw. This kid looks exactly like the Indian babies." Angelique made a face at him, but old Mrs. Chevalier had been touched on a sore point, and she let out such a stream of fiery PATOIS that Emil fled from the kitchen and mounted his mare. Opening the pasture gate from the saddle, Emil rode across the field to the clearing where the thresher stood, driven by a stationary engine and fed from the header boxes. As Amedee was not on the engine, Emil rode on to the wheatfield, where he recognized, on the header, the slight, wiry figure of his friend, coatless, his white shirt puffed out by the wind, his straw hat stuck jauntily on the side of his head. The six big work-horses that drew, or rather pushed, the header, went abreast at a rapid walk, and as they were still green at the work they required a good deal of management on Amedee's part; especially when they turned the corners, where they divided, three and three, and then swung round into line again with a movement that looked as complicated as a wheel of artillery. Emil felt a new thrill of admiration for his friend, and with it the old pang of envy at the way in which Amedee could do with his might what his hand found to do, and feel that, whatever it was, it was the most important thing in the world. "I'll have to bring Alexandra up to see this thing work," Emil thought; "it's splendid!" When he saw Emil, Amedee waved to him and called to one of his twenty cousins to take the reins. Stepping off the header without stopping it, he ran up to Emil who had dismounted. "Come along," he called. "I have to go over to the engine for a minute. I gotta green man running it, and I gotta to keep an eye on him." Emil thought the lad was unnaturally flushed and more excited than even the cares of managing a big farm at a critical time warranted. As they passed behind a last year's stack, Amedee clutched at his right side and sank down for a moment on the straw. "Ouch! I got an awful pain in me, Emil. Something's the matter with my insides, for sure." Emil felt his fiery cheek. "You ought to go straight to bed, 'Medee, and telephone for the doctor; that's what you ought to do." Amedee staggered up with a gesture of despair. "How can I? I got no time to be sick. Three thousand dollars' worth of new machinery to manage, and the wheat so ripe it will begin to shatter next week. My wheat's short, but it's gotta grand full berries. What's he slowing down for? We haven't got header boxes enough to feed the thresher, I guess." Amedee started hot-foot across the stubble, leaning a little to the right as he ran, and waved to the engineer not to stop the engine. Emil saw that this was no time to talk about his own affairs. He mounted his mare and rode on to Sainte-Agnes, to bid his friends there good-bye. He went first to see Raoul Marcel, and found him innocently practising the "Gloria" for the big confirmation service on Sunday while he polished the mirrors of his father's saloon. As Emil rode homewards at three o'clock in the afternoon, he saw Amedee staggering out of the wheatfield, supported by two of his cousins. Emil stopped and helped them put the boy to bed. When Frank Shabata came in from work at five o'clock that evening, old Moses Marcel, Raoul's father, telephoned him that Amedee had had a seizure in the wheatfield, and that Doctor Paradis was going to operate on him as soon as the Hanover doctor got there to help. Frank dropped a word of this at the table, bolted his supper, and rode off to Sainte-Agnes, where there would be sympathetic discussion of Amedee's case at Marcel's saloon. As soon as Frank was gone, Marie telephoned Alexandra. It was a comfort to hear her friend's voice. Yes, Alexandra knew what there was to be known about Amedee. Emil had been there when they carried him out of the field, and had stayed with him until the doctors operated for appendicitis at five o'clock. They were afraid it was too late to do much good; it should have been done three days ago. Amedee was in a very bad way. Emil had just come home, worn out and sick himself. She had given him some brandy and put him to bed. Marie hung up the receiver. Poor Amedee's illness had taken on a new meaning to her, now that she knew Emil had been with him. And it might so easily have been the other way--Emil who was ill and Amedee who was sad! Marie looked about the dusky sitting-room. She had seldom felt so utterly lonely. If Emil was asleep, there was not even a chance of his coming; and she could not go to Alexandra for sympathy. She meant to tell Alexandra everything, as soon as Emil went away. Then whatever was left between them would be honest. But she could not stay in the house this evening. Where should she go? She walked slowly down through the orchard, where the evening air was heavy with the smell of wild cotton. The fresh, salty scent of the wild roses had given way before this more powerful perfume of midsummer. Wherever those ashes-of-rose balls hung on their milky stalks, the air about them was saturated with their breath. The sky was still red in the west and the evening star hung directly over the Bergsons' wind-mill. Marie crossed the fence at the wheatfield corner, and walked slowly along the path that led to Alexandra's. She could not help feeling hurt that Emil had not come to tell her about Amedee. It seemed to her most unnatural that he should not have come. If she were in trouble, certainly he was the one person in the world she would want to see. Perhaps he wished her to understand that for her he was as good as gone already. Marie stole slowly, flutteringly, along the path, like a white night-moth out of the fields. The years seemed to stretch before her like the land; spring, summer, autumn, winter, spring; always the same patient fields, the patient little trees, the patient lives; always the same yearning, the same pulling at the chain--until the instinct to live had torn itself and bled and weakened for the last time, until the chain secured a dead woman, who might cautiously be released. Marie walked on, her face lifted toward the remote, inaccessible evening star. When she reached the stile she sat down and waited. How terrible it was to love people when you could not really share their lives! Yes, in so far as she was concerned, Emil was already gone. They couldn't meet any more. There was nothing for them to say. They had spent the last penny of their small change; there was nothing left but gold. The day of love-tokens was past. They had now only their hearts to give each other. And Emil being gone, what was her life to be like? In some ways, it would be easier. She would not, at least, live in perpetual fear. If Emil were once away and settled at work, she would not have the feeling that she was spoiling his life. With the memory he left her, she could be as rash as she chose. Nobody could be the worse for it but herself; and that, surely, did not matter. Her own case was clear. When a girl had loved one man, and then loved another while that man was still alive, everybody knew what to think of her. What happened to her was of little consequence, so long as she did not drag other people down with her. Emil once away, she could let everything else go and live a new life of perfect love. Marie left the stile reluctantly. She had, after all, thought he might come. And how glad she ought to be, she told herself, that he was asleep. She left the path and went across the pasture. The moon was almost full. An owl was hooting somewhere in the fields. She had scarcely thought about where she was going when the pond glittered before her, where Emil had shot the ducks. She stopped and looked at it. Yes, there would be a dirty way out of life, if one chose to take it. But she did not want to die. She wanted to live and dream--a hundred years, forever! As long as this sweetness welled up in her heart, as long as her breast could hold this treasure of pain! She felt as the pond must feel when it held the moon like that; when it encircled and swelled with that image of gold. In the morning, when Emil came down-stairs, Alexandra met him in the sitting-room and put her hands on his shoulders. "Emil, I went to your room as soon as it was light, but you were sleeping so sound I hated to wake you. There was nothing you could do, so I let you sleep. They telephoned from Sainte-Agnes that Amedee died at three o'clock this morning." The Church has always held that life is for the living. On Saturday, while half the village of Sainte-Agnes was mourning for Amedee and preparing the funeral black for his burial on Monday, the other half was busy with white dresses and white veils for the great confirmation service to-morrow, when the bishop was to confirm a class of one hundred boys and girls. Father Duchesne divided his time between the living and the dead. All day Saturday the church was a scene of bustling activity, a little hushed by the thought of Amedee. The choir were busy rehearsing a mass of Rossini, which they had studied and practised for this occasion. The women were trimming the altar, the boys and girls were bringing flowers. On Sunday morning the bishop was to drive overland to Sainte-Agnes from Hanover, and Emil Bergson had been asked to take the place of one of Amedee's cousins in the cavalcade of forty French boys who were to ride across country to meet the bishop's carriage. At six o'clock on Sunday morning the boys met at the church. As they stood holding their horses by the bridle, they talked in low tones of their dead comrade. They kept repeating that Amedee had always been a good boy, glancing toward the red brick church which had played so large a part in Amedee's life, had been the scene of his most serious moments and of his happiest hours. He had played and wrestled and sung and courted under its shadow. Only three weeks ago he had proudly carried his baby there to be christened. They could not doubt that that invisible arm was still about Amedee; that through the church on earth he had passed to the church triumphant, the goal of the hopes and faith of so many hundred years. When the word was given to mount, the young men rode at a walk out of the village; but once out among the wheatfields in the morning sun, their horses and their own youth got the better of them. A wave of zeal and fiery enthusiasm swept over them. They longed for a Jerusalem to deliver. The thud of their galloping hoofs interrupted many a country breakfast and brought many a woman and child to the door of the farmhouses as they passed. Five miles east of Sainte-Agnes they met the bishop in his open carriage, attended by two priests. Like one man the boys swung off their hats in a broad salute, and bowed their heads as the handsome old man lifted his two fingers in the episcopal blessing. The horsemen closed about the carriage like a guard, and whenever a restless horse broke from control and shot down the road ahead of the body, the bishop laughed and rubbed his plump hands together. "What fine boys!" he said to his priests. "The Church still has her cavalry." As the troop swept past the graveyard half a mile east of the town,--the first frame church of the parish had stood there,--old Pierre Seguin was already out with his pick and spade, digging Amedee's grave. He knelt and uncovered as the bishop passed. The boys with one accord looked away from old Pierre to the red church on the hill, with the gold cross flaming on its steeple. Mass was at eleven. While the church was filling, Emil Bergson waited outside, watching the wagons and buggies drive up the hill. After the bell began to ring, he saw Frank Shabata ride up on horseback and tie his horse to the hitch-bar. Marie, then, was not coming. Emil turned and went into the church. Amedee's was the only empty pew, and he sat down in it. Some of Amedee's cousins were there, dressed in black and weeping. When all the pews were full, the old men and boys packed the open space at the back of the church, kneeling on the floor. There was scarcely a family in town that was not represented in the confirmation class, by a cousin, at least. The new communicants, with their clear, reverent faces, were beautiful to look upon as they entered in a body and took the front benches reserved for them. Even before the Mass began, the air was charged with feeling. The choir had never sung so well and Raoul Marcel, in the "Gloria," drew even the bishop's eyes to the organ loft. For the offertory he sang Gounod's "Ave Maria,"--always spoken of in Sainte-Agnes as "the Ave Maria." Emil began to torture himself with questions about Marie. Was she ill? Had she quarreled with her husband? Was she too unhappy to find comfort even here? Had she, perhaps, thought that he would come to her? Was she waiting for him? Overtaxed by excitement and sorrow as he was, the rapture of the service took hold upon his body and mind. As he listened to Raoul, he seemed to emerge from the conflicting emotions which had been whirling him about and sucking him under. He felt as if a clear light broke upon his mind, and with it a conviction that good was, after all, stronger than evil, and that good was possible to men. He seemed to discover that there was a kind of rapture in which he could love forever without faltering and without sin. He looked across the heads of the people at Frank Shabata with calmness. That rapture was for those who could feel it; for people who could not, it was non-existent. He coveted nothing that was Frank Shabata's. The spirit he had met in music was his own. Frank Shabata had never found it; would never find it if he lived beside it a thousand years; would have destroyed it if he had found it, as Herod slew the innocents, as Rome slew the martyrs. SAN--CTA MARI-I-I-A, wailed Raoul from the organ loft; O--RA PRO NO-O-BIS! And it did not occur to Emil that any one had ever reasoned thus before, that music had ever before given a man this equivocal revelation. The confirmation service followed the Mass. When it was over, the congregation thronged about the newly confirmed. The girls, and even the boys, were kissed and embraced and wept over. All the aunts and grandmothers wept with joy. The housewives had much ado to tear themselves away from the general rejoicing and hurry back to their kitchens. The country parishioners were staying in town for dinner, and nearly every house in Sainte-Agnes entertained visitors that day. Father Duchesne, the bishop, and the visiting priests dined with Fabien Sauvage, the banker. Emil and Frank Shabata were both guests of old Moise Marcel. After dinner Frank and old Moise retired to the rear room of the saloon to play California Jack and drink their cognac, and Emil went over to the banker's with Raoul, who had been asked to sing for the bishop. At three o'clock, Emil felt that he could stand it no longer. He slipped out under cover of "The Holy City," followed by Malvina's wistful eye, and went to the stable for his mare. He was at that height of excitement from which everything is foreshortened, from which life seems short and simple, death very near, and the soul seems to soar like an eagle. As he rode past the graveyard he looked at the brown hole in the earth where Amedee was to lie, and felt no horror. That, too, was beautiful, that simple doorway into forgetfulness. The heart, when it is too much alive, aches for that brown earth, and ecstasy has no fear of death. It is the old and the poor and the maimed who shrink from that brown hole; its wooers are found among the young, the passionate, the gallant-hearted. It was not until he had passed the graveyard that Emil realized where he was going. It was the hour for saying good-bye. It might be the last time that he would see her alone, and today he could leave her without rancor, without bitterness. Everywhere the grain stood ripe and the hot afternoon was full of the smell of the ripe wheat, like the smell of bread baking in an oven. The breath of the wheat and the sweet clover passed him like pleasant things in a dream. He could feel nothing but the sense of diminishing distance. It seemed to him that his mare was flying, or running on wheels, like a railway train. The sunlight, flashing on the window-glass of the big red barns, drove him wild with joy. He was like an arrow shot from the bow. His life poured itself out along the road before him as he rode to the Shabata farm. When Emil alighted at the Shabatas' gate, his horse was in a lather. He tied her in the stable and hurried to the house. It was empty. She might be at Mrs. Hiller's or with Alexandra. But anything that reminded him of her would be enough, the orchard, the mulberry tree... When he reached the orchard the sun was hanging low over the wheatfield. Long fingers of light reached through the apple branches as through a net; the orchard was riddled and shot with gold; light was the reality, the trees were merely interferences that reflected and refracted light. Emil went softly down between the cherry trees toward the wheatfield. When he came to the corner, he stopped short and put his hand over his mouth. Marie was lying on her side under the white mulberry tree, her face half hidden in the grass, her eyes closed, her hands lying limply where they had happened to fall. She had lived a day of her new life of perfect love, and it had left her like this. Her breast rose and fell faintly, as if she were asleep. Emil threw himself down beside her and took her in his arms. The blood came back to her cheeks, her amber eyes opened slowly, and in them Emil saw his own face and the orchard and the sun. "I was dreaming this," she whispered, hiding her face against him, "don't take my dream away!" When Frank Shabata got home that night, he found Emil's mare in his stable. Such an impertinence amazed him. Like everybody else, Frank had had an exciting day. Since noon he had been drinking too much, and he was in a bad temper. He talked bitterly to himself while he put his own horse away, and as he went up the path and saw that the house was dark he felt an added sense of injury. He approached quietly and listened on the doorstep. Hearing nothing, he opened the kitchen door and went softly from one room to another. Then he went through the house again, upstairs and down, with no better result. He sat down on the bottom step of the box stairway and tried to get his wits together. In that unnatural quiet there was no sound but his own heavy breathing. Suddenly an owl began to hoot out in the fields. Frank lifted his head. An idea flashed into his mind, and his sense of injury and outrage grew. He went into his bedroom and took his murderous 405 Winchester from the closet. When Frank took up his gun and walked out of the house, he had not the faintest purpose of doing anything with it. He did not believe that he had any real grievance. But it gratified him to feel like a desperate man. He had got into the habit of seeing himself always in desperate straits. His unhappy temperament was like a cage; he could never get out of it; and he felt that other people, his wife in particular, must have put him there. It had never more than dimly occurred to Frank that he made his own unhappiness. Though he took up his gun with dark projects in his mind, he would have been paralyzed with fright had he known that there was the slightest probability of his ever carrying any of them out. Frank went slowly down to the orchard gate, stopped and stood for a moment lost in thought. He retraced his steps and looked through the barn and the hayloft. Then he went out to the road, where he took the foot-path along the outside of the orchard hedge. The hedge was twice as tall as Frank himself, and so dense that one could see through it only by peering closely between the leaves. He could see the empty path a long way in the moonlight. His mind traveled ahead to the stile, which he always thought of as haunted by Emil Bergson. But why had he left his horse? At the wheatfield corner, where the orchard hedge ended and the path led across the pasture to the Bergsons', Frank stopped. In the warm, breathless night air he heard a murmuring sound, perfectly inarticulate, as low as the sound of water coming from a spring, where there is no fall, and where there are no stones to fret it. Frank strained his ears. It ceased. He held his breath and began to tremble. Resting the butt of his gun on the ground, he parted the mulberry leaves softly with his fingers and peered through the hedge at the dark figures on the grass, in the shadow of the mulberry tree. It seemed to him that they must feel his eyes, that they must hear him breathing. But they did not. Frank, who had always wanted to see things blacker than they were, for once wanted to believe less than he saw. The woman lying in the shadow might so easily be one of the Bergsons' farm-girls.... Again the murmur, like water welling out of the ground. This time he heard it more distinctly, and his blood was quicker than his brain. He began to act, just as a man who falls into the fire begins to act. The gun sprang to his shoulder, he sighted mechanically and fired three times without stopping, stopped without knowing why. Either he shut his eyes or he had vertigo. He did not see anything while he was firing. He thought he heard a cry simultaneous with the second report, but he was not sure. He peered again through the hedge, at the two dark figures under the tree. They had fallen a little apart from each other, and were perfectly still--No, not quite; in a white patch of light, where the moon shone through the branches, a man's hand was plucking spasmodically at the grass. Suddenly the woman stirred and uttered a cry, then another, and another. She was living! She was dragging herself toward the hedge! Frank dropped his gun and ran back along the path, shaking, stumbling, gasping. He had never imagined such horror. The cries followed him. They grew fainter and thicker, as if she were choking. He dropped on his knees beside the hedge and crouched like a rabbit, listening; fainter, fainter; a sound like a whine; again--a moan--another--silence. Frank scrambled to his feet and ran on, groaning and praying. From habit he went toward the house, where he was used to being soothed when he had worked himself into a frenzy, but at the sight of the black, open door, he started back. He knew that he had murdered somebody, that a woman was bleeding and moaning in the orchard, but he had not realized before that it was his wife. The gate stared him in the face. He threw his hands over his head. Which way to turn? He lifted his tormented face and looked at the sky. "Holy Mother of God, not to suffer! She was a good girl--not to suffer!" Frank had been wont to see himself in dramatic situations; but now, when he stood by the windmill, in the bright space between the barn and the house, facing his own black doorway, he did not see himself at all. He stood like the hare when the dogs are approaching from all sides. And he ran like a hare, back and forth about that moonlit space, before he could make up his mind to go into the dark stable for a horse. The thought of going into a doorway was terrible to him. He caught Emil's horse by the bit and led it out. He could not have buckled a bridle on his own. After two or three attempts, he lifted himself into the saddle and started for Hanover. If he could catch the one o'clock train, he had money enough to get as far as Omaha. While he was thinking dully of this in some less sensitized part of his brain, his acuter faculties were going over and over the cries he had heard in the orchard. Terror was the only thing that kept him from going back to her, terror that she might still be she, that she might still be suffering. A woman, mutilated and bleeding in his orchard--it was because it was a woman that he was so afraid. It was inconceivable that he should have hurt a woman. He would rather be eaten by wild beasts than see her move on the ground as she had moved in the orchard. Why had she been so careless? She knew he was like a crazy man when he was angry. She had more than once taken that gun away from him and held it, when he was angry with other people. Once it had gone off while they were struggling over it. She was never afraid. But, when she knew him, why hadn't she been more careful? Didn't she have all summer before her to love Emil Bergson in, without taking such chances? Probably she had met the Smirka boy, too, down there in the orchard. He didn't care. She could have met all the men on the Divide there, and welcome, if only she hadn't brought this horror on him. There was a wrench in Frank's mind. He did not honestly believe that of her. He knew that he was doing her wrong. He stopped his horse to admit this to himself the more directly, to think it out the more clearly. He knew that he was to blame. For three years he had been trying to break her spirit. She had a way of making the best of things that seemed to him a sentimental affectation. He wanted his wife to resent that he was wasting his best years among these stupid and unappreciative people; but she had seemed to find the people quite good enough. If he ever got rich he meant to buy her pretty clothes and take her to California in a Pullman car, and treat her like a lady; but in the mean time he wanted her to feel that life was as ugly and as unjust as he felt it. He had tried to make her life ugly. He had refused to share any of the little pleasures she was so plucky about making for herself. She could be gay about the least thing in the world; but she must be gay! When she first came to him, her faith in him, her adoration--Frank struck the mare with his fist. Why had Marie made him do this thing; why had she brought this upon him? He was overwhelmed by sickening misfortune. All at once he heard her cries again--he had forgotten for a moment. "Maria," he sobbed aloud, "Maria!" When Frank was halfway to Hanover, the motion of his horse brought on a violent attack of nausea. After it had passed, he rode on again, but he could think of nothing except his physical weakness and his desire to be comforted by his wife. He wanted to get into his own bed. Had his wife been at home, he would have turned and gone back to her meekly enough. When old Ivar climbed down from his loft at four o'clock the next morning, he came upon Emil's mare, jaded and lather-stained, her bridle broken, chewing the scattered tufts of hay outside the stable door. The old man was thrown into a fright at once. He put the mare in her stall, threw her a measure of oats, and then set out as fast as his bow-legs could carry him on the path to the nearest neighbor. "Something is wrong with that boy. Some misfortune has come upon us. He would never have used her so, in his right senses. It is not his way to abuse his mare," the old man kept muttering, as he scuttled through the short, wet pasture grass on his bare feet. While Ivar was hurrying across the fields, the first long rays of the sun were reaching down between the orchard boughs to those two dew-drenched figures. The story of what had happened was written plainly on the orchard grass, and on the white mulberries that had fallen in the night and were covered with dark stain. For Emil the chapter had been short. He was shot in the heart, and had rolled over on his back and died. His face was turned up to the sky and his brows were drawn in a frown, as if he had realized that something had befallen him. But for Marie Shabata it had not been so easy. One ball had torn through her right lung, another had shattered the carotid artery. She must have started up and gone toward the hedge, leaving a trail of blood. There she had fallen and bled. From that spot there was another trail, heavier than the first, where she must have dragged herself back to Emil's body. Once there, she seemed not to have struggled any more. She had lifted her head to her lover's breast, taken his hand in both her own, and bled quietly to death. She was lying on her right side in an easy and natural position, her cheek on Emil's shoulder. On her face there was a look of ineffable content. Her lips were parted a little; her eyes were lightly closed, as if in a day-dream or a light slumber. After she lay down there, she seemed not to have moved an eyelash. The hand she held was covered with dark stains, where she had kissed it. But the stained, slippery grass, the darkened mulberries, told only half the story. Above Marie and Emil, two white butterflies from Frank's alfalfa-field were fluttering in and out among the interlacing shadows; diving and soaring, now close together, now far apart; and in the long grass by the fence the last wild roses of the year opened their pink hearts to die. When Ivar reached the path by the hedge, he saw Shabata's rifle lying in the way. He turned and peered through the branches, falling upon his knees as if his legs had been mowed from under him. "Merciful God!" he groaned. Alexandra, too, had risen early that morning, because of her anxiety about Emil. She was in Emil's room upstairs when, from the window, she saw Ivar coming along the path that led from the Shabatas'. He was running like a spent man, tottering and lurching from side to side. Ivar never drank, and Alexandra thought at once that one of his spells had come upon him, and that he must be in a very bad way indeed. She ran downstairs and hurried out to meet him, to hide his infirmity from the eyes of her household. The old man fell in the road at her feet and caught her hand, over which he bowed his shaggy head. "Mistress, mistress," he sobbed, "it has fallen! Sin and death for the young ones! God have mercy upon us!" PART V. Alexandra Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben stehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Der Höhepunkt des Romans, "Die weiße Maulbeerbaum," beginnt an einem Juni-Nachmittag mit Emil Bergsons Rückkehr von einem einjährigen Aufenthalt in Mexiko-Stadt. Er begleitet seine Schwester Alexandra zu einem Abendessen und einer Messe in der örtlichen katholischen Kirche. Marie Shabata ist auch dort. Die beiden entdecken, dass ihre Liebe im Laufe des Jahres nur gewachsen ist und küssen sich während eines passenden Stromausfalls zum ersten Mal. Nach der Hochzeit von Signa, Alexandras Magd, und Nelse Jensen, begleitet Emil Marie zurück zu ihrer Farm und sie sprechen endlich offen über ihre Liebe. Marie erkennt jedoch, dass sie nicht mit ihm weglaufen kann; Emil fasst den Entschluss, das Divide bald zu verlassen. Knapp über eine Woche später reitet Emil zu dem Bauernhof seines besten Freundes Amedee Chevalier, dem wohlhabenden und glücklichen Vater eines kleinen Jungen. Amedee bricht auf dem Feld zusammen und es stellt sich heraus, dass er einen geplatzten Blinddarm hat. Die Operation kommt zu spät und Amedee stirbt. Marie Shabata betrachtet es als Zeichen, dass Emil nicht gekommen ist, um ihr von Amedee zu erzählen, dass er sie losgelassen hat. Von bittersüßer Emotion überwältigt in der mondlichten Schönheit der Prärie beschließt Marie, eine neue, ekstatische Freiheit zu umarmen: "ein neues Leben perfekter Liebe." Am nächsten Samstag soll der örtliche katholische Bischof hundert Kinder firmen. Emil nimmt an der Kirchenzeremonie teil, die Freude wird jedoch durch die Trauer über Amedees Tod gedämpft. Überwältigt von Emotionen und dem Kirchenchor erlebt Emil eine Ekstase, die ihn ein lebendiges Bewusstsein für das Leben gibt und die Ängste vor dem Tod überwindet. Immer noch in dieser Ekstase geht er, um sich von Marie zu verabschieden. Er findet sie in ihrem Obstgarten liegend, immer noch in ihrer eigenen Trance, und legt sich zu ihr. Als Frank Shabata Emils Pferd im Stall sieht, kommt er mit seiner Waffe in den Obstgarten. Schockiert darüber, dass seine Eifersucht gerechtfertigt ist, reagiert Frank mechanisch und schießt blind durch die Büsche auf die beiden Liebenden. Entsetzt über seine Tat, besteigt Frank Emils Pferd und reitet wild davon ins Land. Am nächsten Morgen findet Ivar Emils Pferd, das zum Stall zurückgekehrt ist. In Sorge um Emil sucht Ivar nach ihm und findet ihn und Marie Shabata tot in ihrem Obstgarten. Entsetzt rennt Ivar zu Alexandra, um es ihr zu berichten.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten 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 journeys he made to see her, Leon had often dined at the chemist's, and he felt obliged from politeness to invite him in turn. "With pleasure!" Monsieur Homais replied; "besides, I must invigorate my mind, for I am getting rusty here. We'll go to the theatre, to the restaurant; we'll make a night of it." "Oh, my dear!" tenderly murmured Madame Homais, alarmed at the vague perils he was preparing to brave. "Well, what? Do you think I'm not sufficiently ruining my health living here amid the continual emanations of the pharmacy? But there! that is the way with women! They are jealous of science, and then are opposed to our taking the most legitimate distractions. No matter! Count upon me. One of these days I shall turn up at Rouen, and we'll go the pace together." The druggist would formerly have taken good care not to use such an expression, but he was cultivating a gay Parisian style, which he thought in the best taste; and, like his neighbour, Madame Bovary, he questioned the clerk curiously about the customs of the capital; he even talked slang to dazzle the bourgeois, saying bender, crummy, dandy, macaroni, the cheese, cut my stick and "I'll hook it," for "I am going." So one Thursday Emma was surprised to meet Monsieur Homais in the kitchen of the "Lion d'Or," wearing a traveller's costume, that is to say, wrapped in an old cloak which no one knew he had, while he carried a valise in one hand and the foot-warmer of his establishment in the other. He had confided his intentions to no one, for fear of causing the public anxiety by his absence. The idea of seeing again the place where his youth had been spent no doubt excited him, for during the whole journey he never ceased talking, and as soon as he had arrived, he jumped quickly out of the diligence to go in search of Leon. In vain the clerk tried to get rid of him. Monsieur Homais dragged him off to the large Cafe de la Normandie, which he entered majestically, not raising his hat, thinking it very provincial to uncover in any public place. Emma waited for Leon three quarters of an hour. At last she ran to his office; and, lost in all sorts of conjectures, accusing him of indifference, and reproaching herself for her weakness, she spent the afternoon, her face pressed against the window-panes. At two o'clock they were still at a table opposite each other. The large room was emptying; the stove-pipe, in the shape of a palm-tree, spread its gilt leaves over the white ceiling, and near them, outside the window, in the bright sunshine, a little fountain gurgled in a white basin, where; in the midst of watercress and asparagus, three torpid lobsters stretched across to some quails that lay heaped up in a pile on their sides. Homais was enjoying himself. Although he was even more intoxicated with the luxury than the rich fare, the Pommard wine all the same rather excited his faculties; and when the omelette au rhum* appeared, he began propounding immoral theories about women. What seduced him above all else was chic. He admired an elegant toilette in a well-furnished apartment, and as to bodily qualities, he didn't dislike a young girl. * In rum. Leon watched the clock in despair. The druggist went on drinking, eating, and talking. "You must be very lonely," he said suddenly, "here at Rouen. To be sure your lady-love doesn't live far away." And the other blushed-- "Come now, be frank. Can you deny that at Yonville--" The young man stammered something. "At Madame Bovary's, you're not making love to--" "To whom?" "The servant!" He was not joking; but vanity getting the better of all prudence, Leon, in spite of himself protested. Besides, he only liked dark women. "I approve of that," said the chemist; "they have more passion." And whispering into his friend's ear, he pointed out the symptoms by which one could find out if a woman had passion. He even launched into an ethnographic digression: the German was vapourish, the French woman licentious, the Italian passionate. "And negresses?" asked the clerk. "They are an artistic taste!" said Homais. "Waiter! two cups of coffee!" "Are we going?" at last asked Leon impatiently. "Ja!" But before leaving he wanted to see the proprietor of the establishment and made him a few compliments. Then the young man, to be alone, alleged he had some business engagement. "Ah! I will escort you," said Homais. And all the while he was walking through the streets with him he talked of his wife, his children; of their future, and of his business; told him in what a decayed condition it had formerly been, and to what a degree of perfection he had raised it. Arrived in front of the Hotel de Boulogne, Leon left him abruptly, ran up the stairs, and found his mistress in great excitement. At mention of the chemist she flew into a passion. He, however, piled up good reasons; it wasn't his fault; didn't she know Homais--did she believe that he would prefer his company? But she turned away; he drew her back, and, sinking on his knees, clasped her waist with his arms in a languorous pose, full of concupiscence and supplication. She was standing up, her large flashing eyes looked at him seriously, almost terribly. Then tears obscured them, her red eyelids were lowered, she gave him her hands, and Leon was pressing them to his lips when a servant appeared to tell the gentleman that he was wanted. "You will come back?" she said. "Yes." "But when?" "Immediately." "It's a trick," said the chemist, when he saw Leon. "I wanted to interrupt this visit, that seemed to me to annoy you. Let's go and have a glass of garus at Bridoux'." Leon vowed that he must get back to his office. Then the druggist joked him about quill-drivers and the law. "Leave Cujas and Barthole alone a bit. Who the devil prevents you? Be a man! Let's go to Bridoux'. You'll see his dog. It's very interesting." And as the clerk still insisted-- "I'll go with you. I'll read a paper while I wait for you, or turn over the leaves of a 'Code.'" Leon, bewildered by Emma's anger, Monsieur Homais' chatter, and, perhaps, by the heaviness of the luncheon, was undecided, and, as it were, fascinated by the chemist, who kept repeating-- "Let's go to Bridoux'. It's just by here, in the Rue Malpalu." Then, through cowardice, through stupidity, through that indefinable feeling that drags us into the most distasteful acts, he allowed himself to be led off to Bridoux', whom they found in his small yard, superintending three workmen, who panted as they turned the large wheel of a machine for making seltzer-water. Homais gave them some good advice. He embraced Bridoux; they took some garus. Twenty times Leon tried to escape, but the other seized him by the arm saying-- "Presently! I'm coming! We'll go to the 'Fanal de Rouen' to see the fellows there. I'll introduce you to Thornassin." At last he managed to get rid of him, and rushed straight to the hotel. Emma was no longer there. She had just gone in a fit of anger. She detested him now. This failing to keep their rendezvous seemed to her an insult, and she tried to rake up other reasons to separate herself from him. He was incapable of heroism, weak, banal, more spiritless than a woman, avaricious too, and cowardly. Then, growing calmer, she at length discovered that she had, no doubt, calumniated him. But the disparaging of those we love always alienates us from them to some extent. We must not touch our idols; the gilt sticks to our fingers. They gradually came to talking more frequently of matters outside their love, and in the letters that Emma wrote him she spoke of flowers, verses, the moon and the stars, naive resources of a waning passion striving to keep itself alive by all external aids. She was constantly promising herself a profound felicity on her next journey. Then she confessed to herself that she felt nothing extraordinary. This disappointment quickly gave way to a new hope, and Emma returned to him more inflamed, more eager than ever. She undressed brutally, tearing off the thin laces of her corset that nestled around her hips like a gliding snake. She went on tiptoe, barefooted, to see once more that the door was closed, then, pale, serious, and, without speaking, with one movement, she threw herself upon his breast with a long shudder. Yet there was upon that brow covered with cold drops, on those quivering lips, in those wild eyes, in the strain of those arms, something vague and dreary that seemed to Leon to glide between them subtly as if to separate them. He did not dare to question her; but, seeing her so skilled, she must have passed, he thought, through every experience of suffering and of pleasure. What had once charmed now frightened him a little. Besides, he rebelled against his absorption, daily more marked, by her personality. He begrudged Emma this constant victory. He even strove not to love her; then, when he heard the creaking of her boots, he turned coward, like drunkards at the sight of strong drinks. She did not fail, in truth, to lavish all sorts of attentions upon him, from the delicacies of food to the coquettries of dress and languishing looks. She brought roses to her breast from Yonville, which she threw into his face; was anxious about his health, gave him advice as to his conduct; and, in order the more surely to keep her hold on him, hoping perhaps that heaven would take her part, she tied a medal of the Virgin round his neck. She inquired like a virtuous mother about his companions. She said to him-- "Don't see them; don't go out; think only of ourselves; love me!" She would have liked to be able to watch over his life; and the idea occurred to her of having him followed in the streets. Near the hotel there was always a kind of loafer who accosted travellers, and who would not refuse. But her pride revolted at this. "Bah! so much the worse. Let him deceive me! What does it matter to me? As If I cared for him!" One day, when they had parted early and she was returning alone along the boulevard, she saw the walls of her convent; then she sat down on a form in the shade of the elm-trees. How calm that time had been! How she longed for the ineffable sentiments of love that she had tried to figure to herself out of books! The first month of her marriage, her rides in the wood, the viscount that waltzed, and Lagardy singing, all repassed before her eyes. And Leon suddenly appeared to her as far off as the others. "Yet I love him," she said to herself. No matter! She was not happy--she never had been. Whence came this insufficiency in life--this instantaneous turning to decay of everything on which she leant? But if there were somewhere a being strong and beautiful, a valiant nature, full at once of exaltation and refinement, a poet's heart in an angel's form, a lyre with sounding chords ringing out elegiac epithalamia to heaven, why, perchance, should she not find him? Ah! how impossible! Besides, nothing was worth the trouble of seeking it; everything was a lie. Every smile hid a yawn of boredom, every joy a curse, all pleasure satiety, and the sweetest kisses left upon your lips only the unattainable desire for a greater delight. A metallic clang droned through the air, and four strokes were heard from the convent-clock. Four o'clock! And it seemed to her that she had been there on that form an eternity. But an infinity of passions may be contained in a minute, like a crowd in a small space. Emma lived all absorbed in hers, and troubled no more about money matters than an archduchess. Once, however, a wretched-looking man, rubicund and bald, came to her house, saying he had been sent by Monsieur Vincart of Rouen. He took out the pins that held together the side-pockets of his long green overcoat, stuck them into his sleeve, and politely handed her a paper. It was a bill for seven hundred francs, signed by her, and which Lheureux, in spite of all his professions, had paid away to Vincart. She sent her servant for him. He could not come. Then the stranger, who had remained standing, casting right and left curious glances, that his thick, fair eyebrows hid, asked with a naive air-- "What answer am I to take Monsieur Vincart?" "Oh," said Emma, "tell him that I haven't it. I will send next week; he must wait; yes, till next week." And the fellow went without another word. But the next day at twelve o'clock she received a summons, and the sight of the stamped paper, on which appeared several times in large letters, "Maitre Hareng, bailiff at Buchy," so frightened her that she rushed in hot haste to the linendraper's. She found him in his shop, doing up a parcel. "Your obedient!" he said; "I am at your service." But Lheureux, all the same, went on with his work, helped by a young girl of about thirteen, somewhat hunch-backed, who was at once his clerk and his servant. Then, his clogs clattering on the shop-boards, he went up in front of Madame Bovary to the first door, and introduced her into a narrow closet, where, in a large bureau in sapon-wood, lay some ledgers, protected by a horizontal padlocked iron bar. Against the wall, under some remnants of calico, one glimpsed a safe, but of such dimensions that it must contain something besides bills and money. Monsieur Lheureux, in fact, went in for pawnbroking, and it was there that he had put Madame Bovary's gold chain, together with the earrings of poor old Tellier, who, at last forced to sell out, had bought a meagre store of grocery at Quincampoix, where he was dying of catarrh amongst his candles, that were less yellow than his face. Lheureux sat down in a large cane arm-chair, saying: "What news?" "See!" And she showed him the paper. "Well how can I help it?" Then she grew angry, reminding him of the promise he had given not to pay away her bills. He acknowledged it. "But I was pressed myself; the knife was at my own throat." "And what will happen now?" she went on. "Oh, it's very simple; a judgment and then a distraint--that's about it!" Emma kept down a desire to strike him, and asked gently if there was no way of quieting Monsieur Vincart. "I dare say! Quiet Vincart! You don't know him; he's more ferocious than an Arab!" Still Monsieur Lheureux must interfere. "Well, listen. It seems to me so far I've been very good to you." And opening one of his ledgers, "See," he said. Then running up the page with his finger, "Let's see! let's see! August 3d, two hundred francs; June 17th, a hundred and fifty; March 23d, forty-six. In April--" He stopped, as if afraid of making some mistake. "Not to speak of the bills signed by Monsieur Bovary, one for seven hundred francs, and another for three hundred. As to your little installments, with the interest, why, there's no end to 'em; one gets quite muddled over 'em. I'll have nothing more to do with it." She wept; she even called him "her good Monsieur Lheureux." But he always fell back upon "that rascal Vincart." Besides, he hadn't a brass farthing; no one was paying him now-a-days; they were eating his coat off his back; a poor shopkeeper like him couldn't advance money. Emma was silent, and Monsieur Lheureux, who was biting the feathers of a quill, no doubt became uneasy at her silence, for he went on-- "Unless one of these days I have something coming in, I might--" "Besides," said she, "as soon as the balance of Barneville--" "What!" And on hearing that Langlois had not yet paid he seemed much surprised. Then in a honied voice-- "And we agree, you say?" "Oh! to anything you like." On this he closed his eyes to reflect, wrote down a few figures, and declaring it would be very difficult for him, that the affair was shady, and that he was being bled, he wrote out four bills for two hundred and fifty francs each, to fall due month by month. "Provided that Vincart will listen to me! However, it's settled. I don't play the fool; I'm straight enough." Next he carelessly showed her several new goods, not one of which, however, was in his opinion worthy of madame. "When I think that there's a dress at threepence-halfpenny a yard, and warranted fast colours! And yet they actually swallow it! Of course you understand one doesn't tell them what it really is!" He hoped by this confession of dishonesty to others to quite convince her of his probity to her. Then he called her back to show her three yards of guipure that he had lately picked up "at a sale." "Isn't it lovely?" said Lheureux. "It is very much used now for the backs of arm-chairs. It's quite the rage." And, more ready than a juggler, he wrapped up the guipure in some blue paper and put it in Emma's hands. "But at least let me know--" "Yes, another time," he replied, turning on his heel. That same evening she urged Bovary to write to his mother, to ask her to send as quickly as possible the whole of the balance due from the father's estate. The mother-in-law replied that she had nothing more, the winding up was over, and there was due to them besides Barneville an income of six hundred francs, that she would pay them punctually. Then Madame Bovary sent in accounts to two or three patients, and she made large use of this method, which was very successful. She was always careful to add a postscript: "Do not mention this to my husband; you know how proud he is. Excuse me. Yours obediently." There were some complaints; she intercepted them. To get money she began selling her old gloves, her old hats, the old odds and ends, and she bargained rapaciously, her peasant blood standing her in good stead. Then on her journey to town she picked up nick-nacks secondhand, that, in default of anyone else, Monsieur Lheureux would certainly take off her hands. She bought ostrich feathers, Chinese porcelain, and trunks; she borrowed from Felicite, from Madame Lefrancois, from the landlady at the Croix-Rouge, from everybody, no matter where. With the money she at last received from Barneville she paid two bills; the other fifteen hundred francs fell due. She renewed the bills, and thus it was continually. Sometimes, it is true, she tried to make a calculation, but she discovered things so exorbitant that she could not believe them possible. Then she recommenced, soon got confused, gave it all up, and thought no more about it. The house was very dreary now. Tradesmen were seen leaving it with angry faces. Handkerchiefs were lying about on the stoves, and little Berthe, to the great scandal of Madame Homais, wore stockings with holes in them. If Charles timidly ventured a remark, she answered roughly that it wasn't her fault. What was the meaning of all these fits of temper? He explained everything through her old nervous illness, and reproaching himself with having taken her infirmities for faults, accused himself of egotism, and longed to go and take her in his arms. "Ah, no!" he said to himself; "I should worry her." And he did not stir. After dinner he walked about alone in the garden; he took little Berthe on his knees, and unfolding his medical journal, tried to teach her to read. But the child, who never had any lessons, soon looked up with large, sad eyes and began to cry. Then he comforted her; went to fetch water in her can to make rivers on the sand path, or broke off branches from the privet hedges to plant trees in the beds. This did not spoil the garden much, all choked now with long weeds. They owed Lestiboudois for so many days. Then the child grew cold and asked for her mother. "Call the servant," said Charles. "You know, dearie, that mamma does not like to be disturbed." Autumn was setting in, and the leaves were already falling, as they did two years ago when she was ill. Where would it all end? And he walked up and down, his hands behind his back. Madame was in her room, which no one entered. She stayed there all day long, torpid, half dressed, and from time to time burning Turkish pastilles which she had bought at Rouen in an Algerian's shop. In order not to have at night this sleeping man stretched at her side, by dint of manoeuvring, she at last succeeded in banishing him to the second floor, while she read till morning extravagant books, full of pictures of orgies and thrilling situations. Often, seized with fear, she cried out, and Charles hurried to her. "Oh, go away!" she would say. Or at other times, consumed more ardently than ever by that inner flame to which adultery added fuel, panting, tremulous, all desire, she threw open her window, breathed in the cold air, shook loose in the wind her masses of hair, too heavy, and, gazing upon the stars, longed for some princely love. She thought of him, of Leon. She would then have given anything for a single one of those meetings that surfeited her. These were her gala days. She wanted them to be sumptuous, and when he alone could not pay the expenses, she made up the deficit liberally, which happened pretty well every time. He tried to make her understand that they would be quite as comfortable somewhere else, in a smaller hotel, but she always found some objection. One day she drew six small silver-gilt spoons from her bag (they were old Roualt's wedding present), begging him to pawn them at once for her, and Leon obeyed, though the proceeding annoyed him. He was afraid of compromising himself. Then, on, reflection, he began to think his mistress's ways were growing odd, and that they were perhaps not wrong in wishing to separate him from her. In fact someone had sent his mother a long anonymous letter to warn her that he was "ruining himself with a married woman," and the good lady at once conjuring up the eternal bugbear of families, the vague pernicious creature, the siren, the monster, who dwells fantastically in depths of love, wrote to Lawyer Dubocage, his employer, who behaved perfectly in the affair. He kept him for three quarters of an hour trying to open his eyes, to warn him of the abyss into which he was falling. Such an intrigue would damage him later on, when he set up for himself. He implored him to break with her, and, if he would not make this sacrifice in his own interest, to do it at least for his, Dubocage's sake. At last Leon swore he would not see Emma again, and he reproached himself with not having kept his word, considering all the worry and lectures this woman might still draw down upon him, without reckoning the jokes made by his companions as they sat round the stove in the morning. Besides, he was soon to be head clerk; it was time to settle down. So he gave up his flute, exalted sentiments, and poetry; for every bourgeois in the flush of his youth, were it but for a day, a moment, has believed himself capable of immense passions, of lofty enterprises. The most mediocre libertine has dreamed of sultanas; every notary bears within him the debris of a poet. He was bored now when Emma suddenly began to sob on his breast, and his heart, like the people who can only stand a certain amount of music, dozed to the sound of a love whose delicacies he no longer noted. They knew one another too well for any of those surprises of possession that increase its joys a hundred-fold. She was as sick of him as he was weary of her. Emma found again in adultery all the platitudes of marriage. But how to get rid of him? Then, though she might feel humiliated at the baseness of such enjoyment, she clung to it from habit or from corruption, and each day she hungered after them the more, exhausting all felicity in wishing for too much of it. She accused Leon of her baffled hopes, as if he had betrayed her; and she even longed for some catastrophe that would bring about their separation, since she had not the courage to make up her mind to it herself. She none the less went on writing him love letters, in virtue of the notion that a woman must write to her lover. But whilst she wrote it was another man she saw, a phantom fashioned out of her most ardent memories, of her finest reading, her strongest lusts, and at last he became so real, so tangible, that she palpitated wondering, without, however, the power to imagine him clearly, so lost was he, like a god, beneath the abundance of his attributes. He dwelt in that azure land where silk ladders hang from balconies under the breath of flowers, in the light of the moon. She felt him near her; he was coming, and would carry her right away in a kiss. Then she fell back exhausted, for these transports of vague love wearied her more than great debauchery. She now felt constant ache all over her. Often she even received summonses, stamped paper that she barely looked at. She would have liked not to be alive, or to be always asleep. On Mid-Lent she did not return to Yonville, but in the evening went to a masked ball. She wore velvet breeches, red stockings, a club wig, and three-cornered hat cocked on one side. She danced all night to the wild tones of the trombones; people gathered round her, and in the morning she found herself on the steps of the theatre together with five or six masks, debardeuses* and sailors, Leon's comrades, who were talking about having supper. * People dressed as longshoremen. The neighbouring cafes were full. They caught sight of one on the harbour, a very indifferent restaurant, whose proprietor showed them to a little room on the fourth floor. The men were whispering in a corner, no doubt consorting about expenses. There were a clerk, two medical students, and a shopman--what company for her! As to the women, Emma soon perceived from the tone of their voices that they must almost belong to the lowest class. Then she was frightened, pushed back her chair, and cast down her eyes. The others began to eat; she ate nothing. Her head was on fire, her eyes smarted, and her skin was ice-cold. In her head she seemed to feel the floor of the ball-room rebounding again beneath the rhythmical pulsation of the thousands of dancing feet. And now the smell of the punch, the smoke of the cigars, made her giddy. She fainted, and they carried her to the window. Day was breaking, and a great stain of purple colour broadened out in the pale horizon over the St. Catherine hills. The livid river was shivering in the wind; there was no one on the bridges; the street lamps were going out. She revived, and began thinking of Berthe asleep yonder in the servant's room. Then a cart filled with long strips of iron passed by, and made a deafening metallic vibration against the walls of the houses. She slipped away suddenly, threw off her costume, told Leon she must get back, and at last was alone at the Hotel de Boulogne. Everything, even herself, was now unbearable to her. She wished that, taking wing like a bird, she could fly somewhere, far away to regions of purity, and there grow young again. She went out, crossed the Boulevard, the Place Cauchoise, and the Faubourg, as far as an open street that overlooked some gardens. She walked rapidly; the fresh air calming her; and, little by little, the faces of the crowd, the masks, the quadrilles, the lights, the supper, those women, all disappeared like mists fading away. Then, reaching the "Croix-Rouge," she threw herself on the bed in her little room on the second floor, where there were pictures of the "Tour de Nesle." At four o'clock Hivert awoke her. When she got home, Felicite showed her behind the clock a grey paper. She read-- "In virtue of the seizure in execution of a judgment." What judgment? As a matter of fact, the evening before another paper had been brought that she had not yet seen, and she was stunned by these words-- "By order of the king, law, and justice, to Madame Bovary." Then, skipping several lines, she read, "Within twenty-four hours, without fail--" But what? "To pay the sum of eight thousand francs." And there was even at the bottom, "She will be constrained thereto by every form of law, and notably by a writ of distraint on her furniture and effects." What was to be done? In twenty-four hours--tomorrow. Lheureux, she thought, wanted to frighten her again; for she saw through all his devices, the object of his kindnesses. What reassured her was the very magnitude of the sum. However, by dint of buying and not paying, of borrowing, signing bills, and renewing these bills that grew at each new falling-in, she had ended by preparing a capital for Monsieur Lheureux which he was impatiently awaiting for his speculations. She presented herself at his place with an offhand air. "You know what has happened to me? No doubt it's a joke!" "How so?" He turned away slowly, and, folding his arms, said to her-- "My good lady, did you think I should go on to all eternity being your purveyor and banker, for the love of God? Now be just. I must get back what I've laid out. Now be just." She cried out against the debt. "Ah! so much the worse. The court has admitted it. There's a judgment. It's been notified to you. Besides, it isn't my fault. It's Vincart's." "Could you not--?" "Oh, nothing whatever." "But still, now talk it over." And she began beating about the bush; she had known nothing about it; it was a surprise. "Whose fault is that?" said Lheureux, bowing ironically. "While I'm slaving like a nigger, you go gallivanting about." "Ah! no lecturing." "It never does any harm," he replied. She turned coward; she implored him; she even pressed her pretty white and slender hand against the shopkeeper's knee. "There, that'll do! Anyone'd think you wanted to seduce me!" "You are a wretch!" she cried. "Oh, oh! go it! go it!" "I will show you up. I shall tell my husband." "All right! I too. I'll show your husband something." And Lheureux drew from his strong box the receipt for eighteen hundred francs that she had given him when Vincart had discounted the bills. "Do you think," he added, "that he'll not understand your little theft, the poor dear man?" She collapsed, more overcome than if felled by the blow of a pole-axe. He was walking up and down from the window to the bureau, repeating all the while-- "Ah! I'll show him! I'll show him!" Then he approached her, and in a soft voice said-- "It isn't pleasant, I know; but, after all, no bones are broken, and, since that is the only way that is left for you paying back my money--" "But where am I to get any?" said Emma, wringing her hands. "Bah! when one has friends like you!" And he looked at her in so keen, so terrible a fashion, that she shuddered to her very heart. "I promise you," she said, "to sign--" "I've enough of your signatures." "I will sell something." "Get along!" he said, shrugging his shoulders; "you've not got anything." And he called through the peep-hole that looked down into the shop-- "Annette, don't forget the three coupons of No. 14." The servant appeared. Emma understood, and asked how much money would be wanted to put a stop to the proceedings. "It is too late." "But if I brought you several thousand francs--a quarter of the sum--a third--perhaps the whole?" "No; it's no use!" And he pushed her gently towards the staircase. "I implore you, Monsieur Lheureux, just a few days more!" She was sobbing. "There! tears now!" "You are driving me to despair!" "What do I care?" said he, shutting the door. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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Aus Höflichkeit lädt Lon Monsieur Homais nach Rouen ein, und der Apotheker entscheidet sich, einige der Glorien seiner Jugend wiederzuerleben. Emma und Lon sind beide überrascht, als Monsieur Homais eines Tages Emma nach Rouen begleitet und sofort den Angestellten zum Essen mitnimmt. Emma ist verärgert und ungeduldig und verbringt den Nachmittag damit, in ihrem Hotelzimmer zu warten. Lon erträgt ein langes Essen mit dem Apotheker, der dann darauf besteht, ihn auf seinen Geschäftsbesuchen zu begleiten. Lon schafft es, ein paar Minuten im Hotel zu stehlen, wo Emma, hysterisch vom Warten, seine Lage nicht zu schätzen weiß. Homais besteht darauf, dass Lon ihn in ein weiteres Café begleitet. Schließlich kann Lon ins Hotel zurückkehren, findet aber heraus, dass Emma in Wut abgereist ist. In den kommenden Wochen versucht sie, einige ihrer ursprünglichen Leidenschaften für ihn zurückzugewinnen, indem sie sich zu Extremen drängt. Lon wiederum hat etwas Angst vor ihr und fängt an, sie zu verachten. Dennoch ist er von ihrer Schönheit und ihrer Aufmerksamkeit fasziniert. Eines Tages, nachdem sie das Hotel verlassen hat, sieht sie die Mauern ihres alten Klosters und setzt sich auf eine nahe gelegene Bank, um über ihre kindliche Begeisterung und ihre gegenwärtigen Gefühle nachzudenken. Sie stellt fest, dass sie völlig ihren Leidenschaften ergeben ist. Eines Tages kommt ein Vertreter von Monsieur Vinart, dem Bankier von Rouen, mit einem sofort fälligen Betrag von 500 Francs an. Emma schickt ihn mit dem Versprechen, nächste Woche zu zahlen, wieder weg. Am nächsten Tag erhält sie jedoch einen offiziellen Protest wegen Nichtzahlung. Sie besucht Lheureux in seinem Büro und er erklärt, dass er gezwungen war, den Betrag an den Bankier abzutreten und dass Vinart nicht besänftigt werden kann. Sie ist wütend. Er wäscht seine Hände in puncto der ganzen Sache und gibt dem Bankier die Schuld. Sie fleht ihn an, aber vergeblich. Schließlich stimmt er zu, ihr vier 250-Franken-Scheine auf den Rest des Häuschens im Voraus zu geben. Bevor sie geht, verkauft er ihr auf Kredit einige feine Stoffe. Bald stellt sie fest, dass das Erbe nichts anderes als das Häuschen und 600 Francs im Jahr ist. Sie schickt Zahlungsaufforderungen an Charles' Patienten und verkauft ihre Sachen in Rouen. Zusätzlich leiht sie sich von jedem Geld. Sie unterschreibt weitere Schuldscheine. Der Haushalt gerät in Unordnung und Emma wird defensiv, wenn Charles nach ihren finanziellen Schwierigkeiten fragt. Der Herbst kommt und sie ist abwechselnd niedergeschlagen und von Leidenschaft für Lon verzehrt. Sie verbannen Charles, damit er auf dem Dachboden schläft, während sie wach bleibt und schmuddelige Romane liest. Lon, alarmiert von der Veränderung seiner Geliebten, fragt sich, ob er es beenden sollte. Er steht kurz vor seiner Beförderung zum Oberkellner und beschließt, seine romantischen Ideale aufzugeben und vernünftig zu handeln. Er ist gelangweilt von ihr und sie von ihm, aber sie kann ihn nicht aufgeben. Sie wird von einem idealen Glück gequält, einem idealen Mann, den sie nicht fassen kann, und sie wird von zahllosen offiziellen Schuldscheinen gequält, die weiterhin eintreffen. In der Nacht der Mitte der Fastenzeit begleitet sie Lon und seine Freunde zu einem Kostümball und ist anschließend in einem Café angewidert von der Gesellschaft, die sie umgibt. Sie schwankt in Ohnmacht und kommt wieder zu sich, als sie an ihre Tochter denkt. Als sie nach Hause zurückkehrt, zeigt ihr Flicit ein kürzlich eingetroffenes Dokument, das besagt, dass sie am nächsten Tag 8.000 Francs zahlen muss, oder sonst eine öffentliche Beschlagnahme ihres gesamten Eigentums droht. Lheureux weigert sich zu helfen. Sie legt ihre Hand auf sein Knie, aber sie gibt vor beleidigt zu sein, als er sie fragt, ob sie versucht, ihn zu verführen. Er sagt ihr wissend, dass sie viele Freunde hat und dass sie das Geld von ihnen beschaffen sollte.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: When Mr. St. John went, it was beginning to snow; the whirling storm continued all night. The next day a keen wind brought fresh and blinding falls; by twilight the valley was drifted up and almost impassable. I had closed my shutter, laid a mat to the door to prevent the snow from blowing in under it, trimmed my fire, and after sitting nearly an hour on the hearth listening to the muffled fury of the tempest, I lit a candle, took down "Marmion," and beginning-- "Day set on Norham's castled steep, And Tweed's fair river broad and deep, And Cheviot's mountains lone; The massive towers, the donjon keep, The flanking walls that round them sweep, In yellow lustre shone"-- I soon forgot storm in music. I heard a noise: the wind, I thought, shook the door. No; it was St. John Rivers, who, lifting the latch, came in out of the frozen hurricane--the howling darkness--and stood before me: the cloak that covered his tall figure all white as a glacier. I was almost in consternation, so little had I expected any guest from the blocked-up vale that night. "Any ill news?" I demanded. "Has anything happened?" "No. How very easily alarmed you are!" he answered, removing his cloak and hanging it up against the door, towards which he again coolly pushed the mat which his entrance had deranged. He stamped the snow from his boots. "I shall sully the purity of your floor," said he, "but you must excuse me for once." Then he approached the fire. "I have had hard work to get here, I assure you," he observed, as he warmed his hands over the flame. "One drift took me up to the waist; happily the snow is quite soft yet." "But why are you come?" I could not forbear saying. "Rather an inhospitable question to put to a visitor; but since you ask it, I answer simply to have a little talk with you; I got tired of my mute books and empty rooms. Besides, since yesterday I have experienced the excitement of a person to whom a tale has been half-told, and who is impatient to hear the sequel." He sat down. I recalled his singular conduct of yesterday, and really I began to fear his wits were touched. If he were insane, however, his was a very cool and collected insanity: I had never seen that handsome-featured face of his look more like chiselled marble than it did just now, as he put aside his snow-wet hair from his forehead and let the firelight shine free on his pale brow and cheek as pale, where it grieved me to discover the hollow trace of care or sorrow now so plainly graved. I waited, expecting he would say something I could at least comprehend; but his hand was now at his chin, his finger on his lip: he was thinking. It struck me that his hand looked wasted like his face. A perhaps uncalled-for gush of pity came over my heart: I was moved to say-- "I wish Diana or Mary would come and live with you: it is too bad that you should be quite alone; and you are recklessly rash about your own health." "Not at all," said he: "I care for myself when necessary. I am well now. What do you see amiss in me?" This was said with a careless, abstracted indifference, which showed that my solicitude was, at least in his opinion, wholly superfluous. I was silenced. He still slowly moved his finger over his upper lip, and still his eye dwelt dreamily on the glowing grate; thinking it urgent to say something, I asked him presently if he felt any cold draught from the door, which was behind him. "No, no!" he responded shortly and somewhat testily. "Well," I reflected, "if you won't talk, you may be still; I'll let you alone now, and return to my book." So I snuffed the candle and resumed the perusal of "Marmion." He soon stirred; my eye was instantly drawn to his movements; he only took out a morocco pocket-book, thence produced a letter, which he read in silence, folded it, put it back, relapsed into meditation. It was vain to try to read with such an inscrutable fixture before me; nor could I, in impatience, consent to be dumb; he might rebuff me if he liked, but talk I would. "Have you heard from Diana and Mary lately?" "Not since the letter I showed you a week ago." "There has not been any change made about your own arrangements? You will not be summoned to leave England sooner than you expected?" "I fear not, indeed: such chance is too good to befall me." Baffled so far, I changed my ground. I bethought myself to talk about the school and my scholars. "Mary Garrett's mother is better, and Mary came back to the school this morning, and I shall have four new girls next week from the Foundry Close--they would have come to-day but for the snow." "Indeed!" "Mr. Oliver pays for two." "Does he?" "He means to give the whole school a treat at Christmas." "I know." "Was it your suggestion?" "No." "Whose, then?" "His daughter's, I think." "It is like her: she is so good-natured." "Yes." Again came the blank of a pause: the clock struck eight strokes. It aroused him; he uncrossed his legs, sat erect, turned to me. "Leave your book a moment, and come a little nearer the fire," he said. Wondering, and of my wonder finding no end, I complied. "Half-an-hour ago," he pursued, "I spoke of my impatience to hear the sequel of a tale: on reflection, I find the matter will be better managed by my assuming the narrator's part, and converting you into a listener. Before commencing, it is but fair to warn you that the story will sound somewhat hackneyed in your ears; but stale details often regain a degree of freshness when they pass through new lips. For the rest, whether trite or novel, it is short. "Twenty years ago, a poor curate--never mind his name at this moment--fell in love with a rich man's daughter; she fell in love with him, and married him, against the advice of all her friends, who consequently disowned her immediately after the wedding. Before two years passed, the rash pair were both dead, and laid quietly side by side under one slab. (I have seen their grave; it formed part of the pavement of a huge churchyard surrounding the grim, soot-black old cathedral of an overgrown manufacturing town in ---shire.) They left a daughter, which, at its very birth, Charity received in her lap--cold as that of the snow-drift I almost stuck fast in to-night. Charity carried the friendless thing to the house of its rich maternal relations; it was reared by an aunt-in- law, called (I come to names now) Mrs. Reed of Gateshead. You start--did you hear a noise? I daresay it is only a rat scrambling along the rafters of the adjoining schoolroom: it was a barn before I had it repaired and altered, and barns are generally haunted by rats.--To proceed. Mrs. Reed kept the orphan ten years: whether it was happy or not with her, I cannot say, never having been told; but at the end of that time she transferred it to a place you know--being no other than Lowood School, where you so long resided yourself. It seems her career there was very honourable: from a pupil, she became a teacher, like yourself--really it strikes me there are parallel points in her history and yours--she left it to be a governess: there, again, your fates were analogous; she undertook the education of the ward of a certain Mr. Rochester." "Mr. Rivers!" I interrupted. "I can guess your feelings," he said, "but restrain them for a while: I have nearly finished; hear me to the end. Of Mr. Rochester's character I know nothing, but the one fact that he professed to offer honourable marriage to this young girl, and that at the very altar she discovered he had a wife yet alive, though a lunatic. What his subsequent conduct and proposals were is a matter of pure conjecture; but when an event transpired which rendered inquiry after the governess necessary, it was discovered she was gone--no one could tell when, where, or how. She had left Thornfield Hall in the night; every research after her course had been vain: the country had been scoured far and wide; no vestige of information could be gathered respecting her. Yet that she should be found is become a matter of serious urgency: advertisements have been put in all the papers; I myself have received a letter from one Mr. Briggs, a solicitor, communicating the details I have just imparted. Is it not an odd tale?" "Just tell me this," said I, "and since you know so much, you surely can tell it me--what of Mr. Rochester? How and where is he? What is he doing? Is he well?" "I am ignorant of all concerning Mr. Rochester: the letter never mentions him but to narrate the fraudulent and illegal attempt I have adverted to. You should rather ask the name of the governess--the nature of the event which requires her appearance." "Did no one go to Thornfield Hall, then? Did no one see Mr. Rochester?" "I suppose not." "But they wrote to him?" "Of course." "And what did he say? Who has his letters?" "Mr. Briggs intimates that the answer to his application was not from Mr. Rochester, but from a lady: it is signed 'Alice Fairfax.'" I felt cold and dismayed: my worst fears then were probably true: he had in all probability left England and rushed in reckless desperation to some former haunt on the Continent. And what opiate for his severe sufferings--what object for his strong passions--had he sought there? I dared not answer the question. Oh, my poor master--once almost my husband--whom I had often called "my dear Edward!" "He must have been a bad man," observed Mr. Rivers. "You don't know him--don't pronounce an opinion upon him," I said, with warmth. "Very well," he answered quietly: "and indeed my head is otherwise occupied than with him: I have my tale to finish. Since you won't ask the governess's name, I must tell it of my own accord. Stay! I have it here--it is always more satisfactory to see important points written down, fairly committed to black and white." And the pocket-book was again deliberately produced, opened, sought through; from one of its compartments was extracted a shabby slip of paper, hastily torn off: I recognised in its texture and its stains of ultra-marine, and lake, and vermillion, the ravished margin of the portrait-cover. He got up, held it close to my eyes: and I read, traced in Indian ink, in my own handwriting, the words "JANE EYRE"--the work doubtless of some moment of abstraction. "Briggs wrote to me of a Jane Eyre:" he said, "the advertisements demanded a Jane Eyre: I knew a Jane Elliott.--I confess I had my suspicions, but it was only yesterday afternoon they were at once resolved into certainty. You own the name and renounce the _alias_?" "Yes--yes; but where is Mr. Briggs? He perhaps knows more of Mr. Rochester than you do." "Briggs is in London. I should doubt his knowing anything at all about Mr. Rochester; it is not in Mr. Rochester he is interested. Meantime, you forget essential points in pursuing trifles: you do not inquire why Mr. Briggs sought after you--what he wanted with you." "Well, what did he want?" "Merely to tell you that your uncle, Mr. Eyre of Madeira, is dead; that he has left you all his property, and that you are now rich--merely that--nothing more." "I!--rich?" "Yes, you, rich--quite an heiress." Silence succeeded. "You must prove your identity of course," resumed St. John presently: "a step which will offer no difficulties; you can then enter on immediate possession. Your fortune is vested in the English funds; Briggs has the will and the necessary documents." Here was a new card turned up! It is a fine thing, reader, to be lifted in a moment from indigence to wealth--a very fine thing; but not a matter one can comprehend, or consequently enjoy, all at once. And then there are other chances in life far more thrilling and rapture-giving: _this_ is solid, an affair of the actual world, nothing ideal about it: all its associations are solid and sober, and its manifestations are the same. One does not jump, and spring, and shout hurrah! at hearing one has got a fortune; one begins to consider responsibilities, and to ponder business; on a base of steady satisfaction rise certain grave cares, and we contain ourselves, and brood over our bliss with a solemn brow. Besides, the words Legacy, Bequest, go side by side with the words, Death, Funeral. My uncle I had heard was dead--my only relative; ever since being made aware of his existence, I had cherished the hope of one day seeing him: now, I never should. And then this money came only to me: not to me and a rejoicing family, but to my isolated self. It was a grand boon doubtless; and independence would be glorious--yes, I felt that--that thought swelled my heart. "You unbend your forehead at last," said Mr. Rivers. "I thought Medusa had looked at you, and that you were turning to stone. Perhaps now you will ask how much you are worth?" "How much am I worth?" "Oh, a trifle! Nothing of course to speak of--twenty thousand pounds, I think they say--but what is that?" "Twenty thousand pounds?" Here was a new stunner--I had been calculating on four or five thousand. This news actually took my breath for a moment: Mr. St. John, whom I had never heard laugh before, laughed now. "Well," said he, "if you had committed a murder, and I had told you your crime was discovered, you could scarcely look more aghast." "It is a large sum--don't you think there is a mistake?" "No mistake at all." "Perhaps you have read the figures wrong--it may be two thousand!" "It is written in letters, not figures,--twenty thousand." I again felt rather like an individual of but average gastronomical powers sitting down to feast alone at a table spread with provisions for a hundred. Mr. Rivers rose now and put his cloak on. "If it were not such a very wild night," he said, "I would send Hannah down to keep you company: you look too desperately miserable to be left alone. But Hannah, poor woman! could not stride the drifts so well as I: her legs are not quite so long: so I must e'en leave you to your sorrows. Good-night." He was lifting the latch: a sudden thought occurred to me. "Stop one minute!" I cried. "Well?" "It puzzles me to know why Mr. Briggs wrote to you about me; or how he knew you, or could fancy that you, living in such an out-of-the-way place, had the power to aid in my discovery." "Oh! I am a clergyman," he said; "and the clergy are often appealed to about odd matters." Again the latch rattled. "No; that does not satisfy me!" I exclaimed: and indeed there was something in the hasty and unexplanatory reply which, instead of allaying, piqued my curiosity more than ever. "It is a very strange piece of business," I added; "I must know more about it." "Another time." "No; to-night!--to-night!" and as he turned from the door, I placed myself between it and him. He looked rather embarrassed. "You certainly shall not go till you have told me all," I said. "I would rather not just now." "You shall!--you must!" "I would rather Diana or Mary informed you." Of course these objections wrought my eagerness to a climax: gratified it must be, and that without delay; and I told him so. "But I apprised you that I was a hard man," said he, "difficult to persuade." "And I am a hard woman,--impossible to put off." {And I am a hard woman,--impossible to put off: p369.jpg} "And then," he pursued, "I am cold: no fervour infects me." "Whereas I am hot, and fire dissolves ice. The blaze there has thawed all the snow from your cloak; by the same token, it has streamed on to my floor, and made it like a trampled street. As you hope ever to be forgiven, Mr. Rivers, the high crime and misdemeanour of spoiling a sanded kitchen, tell me what I wish to know." "Well, then," he said, "I yield; if not to your earnestness, to your perseverance: as stone is worn by continual dropping. Besides, you must know some day,--as well now as later. Your name is Jane Eyre?" "Of course: that was all settled before." "You are not, perhaps, aware that I am your namesake?--that I was christened St. John Eyre Rivers?" "No, indeed! I remember now seeing the letter E. comprised in your initials written in books you have at different times lent me; but I never asked for what name it stood. But what then? Surely--" I stopped: I could not trust myself to entertain, much less to express, the thought that rushed upon me--that embodied itself,--that, in a second, stood out a strong, solid probability. Circumstances knit themselves, fitted themselves, shot into order: the chain that had been lying hitherto a formless lump of links was drawn out straight,--every ring was perfect, the connection complete. I knew, by instinct, how the matter stood, before St. John had said another word; but I cannot expect the reader to have the same intuitive perception, so I must repeat his explanation. "My mother's name was Eyre; she had two brothers; one a clergyman, who married Miss Jane Reed, of Gateshead; the other, John Eyre, Esq., merchant, late of Funchal, Madeira. Mr. Briggs, being Mr. Eyre's solicitor, wrote to us last August to inform us of our uncle's death, and to say that he had left his property to his brother the clergyman's orphan daughter, overlooking us, in consequence of a quarrel, never forgiven, between him and my father. He wrote again a few weeks since, to intimate that the heiress was lost, and asking if we knew anything of her. A name casually written on a slip of paper has enabled me to find her out. You know the rest." Again he was going, but I set my back against the door. "Do let me speak," I said; "let me have one moment to draw breath and reflect." I paused--he stood before me, hat in hand, looking composed enough. I resumed-- "Your mother was my father's sister?" "Yes." "My aunt, consequently?" He bowed. "My uncle John was your uncle John? You, Diana, and Mary are his sister's children, as I am his brother's child?" "Undeniably." "You three, then, are my cousins; half our blood on each side flows from the same source?" "We are cousins; yes." I surveyed him. It seemed I had found a brother: one I could be proud of,--one I could love; and two sisters, whose qualities were such, that, when I knew them but as mere strangers, they had inspired me with genuine affection and admiration. The two girls, on whom, kneeling down on the wet ground, and looking through the low, latticed window of Moor House kitchen, I had gazed with so bitter a mixture of interest and despair, were my near kinswomen; and the young and stately gentleman who had found me almost dying at his threshold was my blood relation. Glorious discovery to a lonely wretch! This was wealth indeed!--wealth to the heart!--a mine of pure, genial affections. This was a blessing, bright, vivid, and exhilarating;--not like the ponderous gift of gold: rich and welcome enough in its way, but sobering from its weight. I now clapped my hands in sudden joy--my pulse bounded, my veins thrilled. "Oh, I am glad!--I am glad!" I exclaimed. St. John smiled. "Did I not say you neglected essential points to pursue trifles?" he asked. "You were serious when I told you you had got a fortune; and now, for a matter of no moment, you are excited." "What can you mean? It may be of no moment to you; you have sisters and don't care for a cousin; but I had nobody; and now three relations,--or two, if you don't choose to be counted,--are born into my world full-grown. I say again, I am glad!" I walked fast through the room: I stopped, half suffocated with the thoughts that rose faster than I could receive, comprehend, settle them:--thoughts of what might, could, would, and should be, and that ere long. I looked at the blank wall: it seemed a sky thick with ascending stars,--every one lit me to a purpose or delight. Those who had saved my life, whom, till this hour, I had loved barrenly, I could now benefit. They were under a yoke,--I could free them: they were scattered,--I could reunite them: the independence, the affluence which was mine, might be theirs too. Were we not four? Twenty thousand pounds shared equally would be five thousand each, justice--enough and to spare: justice would be done,--mutual happiness secured. Now the wealth did not weigh on me: now it was not a mere bequest of coin,--it was a legacy of life, hope, enjoyment. How I looked while these ideas were taking my spirit by storm, I cannot tell; but I perceived soon that Mr. Rivers had placed a chair behind me, and was gently attempting to make me sit down on it. He also advised me to be composed; I scorned the insinuation of helplessness and distraction, shook off his hand, and began to walk about again. "Write to Diana and Mary to-morrow," I said, "and tell them to come home directly. Diana said they would both consider themselves rich with a thousand pounds, so with five thousand they will do very well." "Tell me where I can get you a glass of water," said St. John; "you must really make an effort to tranquillise your feelings." "Nonsense! and what sort of an effect will the bequest have on you? Will it keep you in England, induce you to marry Miss Oliver, and settle down like an ordinary mortal?" "You wander: your head becomes confused. I have been too abrupt in communicating the news; it has excited you beyond your strength." "Mr. Rivers! you quite put me out of patience: I am rational enough; it is you who misunderstand, or rather who affect to misunderstand." "Perhaps, if you explained yourself a little more fully, I should comprehend better." "Explain! What is there to explain? You cannot fail to see that twenty thousand pounds, the sum in question, divided equally between the nephew and three nieces of our uncle, will give five thousand to each? What I want is, that you should write to your sisters and tell them of the fortune that has accrued to them." "To you, you mean." "I have intimated my view of the case: I am incapable of taking any other. I am not brutally selfish, blindly unjust, or fiendishly ungrateful. Besides, I am resolved I will have a home and connections. I like Moor House, and I will live at Moor House; I like Diana and Mary, and I will attach myself for life to Diana and Mary. It would please and benefit me to have five thousand pounds; it would torment and oppress me to have twenty thousand; which, moreover, could never be mine in justice, though it might in law. I abandon to you, then, what is absolutely superfluous to me. Let there be no opposition, and no discussion about it; let us agree amongst each other, and decide the point at once." "This is acting on first impulses; you must take days to consider such a matter, ere your word can be regarded as valid." "Oh! if all you doubt is my sincerity, I am easy: you see the justice of the case?" "I _do_ see a certain justice; but it is contrary to all custom. Besides, the entire fortune is your right: my uncle gained it by his own efforts; he was free to leave it to whom he would: he left it to you. After all, justice permits you to keep it: you may, with a clear conscience, consider it absolutely your own." "With me," said I, "it is fully as much a matter of feeling as of conscience: I must indulge my feelings; I so seldom have had an opportunity of doing so. Were you to argue, object, and annoy me for a year, I could not forego the delicious pleasure of which I have caught a glimpse--that of repaying, in part, a mighty obligation, and winning to myself lifelong friends." "You think so now," rejoined St. John, "because you do not know what it is to possess, nor consequently to enjoy wealth: you cannot form a notion of the importance twenty thousand pounds would give you; of the place it would enable you to take in society; of the prospects it would open to you: you cannot--" "And you," I interrupted, "cannot at all imagine the craving I have for fraternal and sisterly love. I never had a home, I never had brothers or sisters; I must and will have them now: you are not reluctant to admit me and own me, are you?" "Jane, I will be your brother--my sisters will be your sisters--without stipulating for this sacrifice of your just rights." "Brother? Yes; at the distance of a thousand leagues! Sisters? Yes; slaving amongst strangers! I, wealthy--gorged with gold I never earned and do not merit! You, penniless! Famous equality and fraternisation! Close union! Intimate attachment!" "But, Jane, your aspirations after family ties and domestic happiness may be realised otherwise than by the means you contemplate: you may marry." "Nonsense, again! Marry! I don't want to marry, and never shall marry." "That is saying too much: such hazardous affirmations are a proof of the excitement under which you labour." "It is not saying too much: I know what I feel, and how averse are my inclinations to the bare thought of marriage. No one would take me for love; and I will not be regarded in the light of a mere money speculation. And I do not want a stranger--unsympathising, alien, different from me; I want my kindred: those with whom I have full fellow- feeling. Say again you will be my brother: when you uttered the words I was satisfied, happy; repeat them, if you can, repeat them sincerely." "I think I can. I know I have always loved my own sisters; and I know on what my affection for them is grounded,--respect for their worth and admiration of their talents. You too have principle and mind: your tastes and habits resemble Diana's and Mary's; your presence is always agreeable to me; in your conversation I have already for some time found a salutary solace. I feel I can easily and naturally make room in my heart for you, as my third and youngest sister." "Thank you: that contents me for to-night. Now you had better go; for if you stay longer, you will perhaps irritate me afresh by some mistrustful scruple." "And the school, Miss Eyre? It must now be shut up, I suppose?" "No. I will retain my post of mistress till you get a substitute." He smiled approbation: we shook hands, and he took leave. I need not narrate in detail the further struggles I had, and arguments I used, to get matters regarding the legacy settled as I wished. My task was a very hard one; but, as I was absolutely resolved--as my cousins saw at length that my mind was really and immutably fixed on making a just division of the property--as they must in their own hearts have felt the equity of the intention; and must, besides, have been innately conscious that in my place they would have done precisely what I wished to do--they yielded at length so far as to consent to put the affair to arbitration. The judges chosen were Mr. Oliver and an able lawyer: both coincided in my opinion: I carried my point. The instruments of transfer were drawn out: St. John, Diana, Mary, and I, each became possessed of a competency. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Während draußen ein Schneesturm tobt, sitzt Jane und liest "Marmion". Plötzlich hört sie ein Geräusch an der Tür: es ist St. John. Nach einer langen Verzögerung erzählt er Jane ihre eigene Geschichte und endet damit, dass es für ihn eine ernsthafte Dringlichkeit geworden ist, Jane Eyre zu finden. St. John erklärt, dass er ihre wahre Identität durch das Papier entdeckt hat, das er aus ihrem Kunstbedarf gerissen hat, auf dem der Name Jane Eyre eingraviert war. Der Grund, warum alle nach Jane gesucht haben, ist, dass ihr Onkel, Mr. Eyre aus Madeira, gestorben ist und ihr sein gesamtes Vermögen hinterlassen hat, sodass sie jetzt reich ist. Jane ist erstaunt zu erfahren, dass sie zwanzigtausend Pfund geerbt hat und wünscht sich, sie hätte eine Familie, mit der sie es teilen könnte. Während sich St. John darauf vorbereitet zu gehen, fragt Jane, warum Herr Briggs, Eyres Anwalt, ihm einen Brief geschickt hat, in dem er nach Janes Aufenthaltsort fragt. St. John vervollständigt die Geschichte: sein vollständiger Name ist St. John Eyre Rivers, also sind die Rivers Janes Cousins. Jane fühlt, dass sie einen Bruder und zwei Schwestern gefunden hat, die sie lieben und bewundern kann; Verwandte sind ihrer Meinung nach wahrer Reichtum, "Reichtum des Herzens". Jetzt hat sie die Möglichkeit, denen, die ihr das Leben gerettet haben, Gutes zu tun. Sie entscheidet sich, ihr Erbe mit ihnen zu teilen, es in vier Teile aufzuteilen und jedem fünftausend Pfund zu geben. Auf diese Weise wird Gerechtigkeit walten und Jane wird ein Zuhause und eine Familie haben. St. John erinnert sie daran, welchen hohen Platz sie in der Gesellschaft mit zwanzigtausend Pfund einnehmen könnte, aber Jane besteht darauf, dass sie lieber Liebe hätte.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: Mr. Elton must now be left to himself. It was no longer in Emma's power to superintend his happiness or quicken his measures. The coming of her sister's family was so very near at hand, that first in anticipation, and then in reality, it became henceforth her prime object of interest; and during the ten days of their stay at Hartfield it was not to be expected--she did not herself expect--that any thing beyond occasional, fortuitous assistance could be afforded by her to the lovers. They might advance rapidly if they would, however; they must advance somehow or other whether they would or no. She hardly wished to have more leisure for them. There are people, who the more you do for them, the less they will do for themselves. Mr. and Mrs. John Knightley, from having been longer than usual absent from Surry, were exciting of course rather more than the usual interest. Till this year, every long vacation since their marriage had been divided between Hartfield and Donwell Abbey; but all the holidays of this autumn had been given to sea-bathing for the children, and it was therefore many months since they had been seen in a regular way by their Surry connexions, or seen at all by Mr. Woodhouse, who could not be induced to get so far as London, even for poor Isabella's sake; and who consequently was now most nervously and apprehensively happy in forestalling this too short visit. He thought much of the evils of the journey for her, and not a little of the fatigues of his own horses and coachman who were to bring some of the party the last half of the way; but his alarms were needless; the sixteen miles being happily accomplished, and Mr. and Mrs. John Knightley, their five children, and a competent number of nursery-maids, all reaching Hartfield in safety. The bustle and joy of such an arrival, the many to be talked to, welcomed, encouraged, and variously dispersed and disposed of, produced a noise and confusion which his nerves could not have borne under any other cause, nor have endured much longer even for this; but the ways of Hartfield and the feelings of her father were so respected by Mrs. John Knightley, that in spite of maternal solicitude for the immediate enjoyment of her little ones, and for their having instantly all the liberty and attendance, all the eating and drinking, and sleeping and playing, which they could possibly wish for, without the smallest delay, the children were never allowed to be long a disturbance to him, either in themselves or in any restless attendance on them. Mrs. John Knightley was a pretty, elegant little woman, of gentle, quiet manners, and a disposition remarkably amiable and affectionate; wrapt up in her family; a devoted wife, a doating mother, and so tenderly attached to her father and sister that, but for these higher ties, a warmer love might have seemed impossible. She could never see a fault in any of them. She was not a woman of strong understanding or any quickness; and with this resemblance of her father, she inherited also much of his constitution; was delicate in her own health, over-careful of that of her children, had many fears and many nerves, and was as fond of her own Mr. Wingfield in town as her father could be of Mr. Perry. They were alike too, in a general benevolence of temper, and a strong habit of regard for every old acquaintance. Mr. John Knightley was a tall, gentleman-like, and very clever man; rising in his profession, domestic, and respectable in his private character; but with reserved manners which prevented his being generally pleasing; and capable of being sometimes out of humour. He was not an ill-tempered man, not so often unreasonably cross as to deserve such a reproach; but his temper was not his great perfection; and, indeed, with such a worshipping wife, it was hardly possible that any natural defects in it should not be increased. The extreme sweetness of her temper must hurt his. He had all the clearness and quickness of mind which she wanted, and he could sometimes act an ungracious, or say a severe thing. He was not a great favourite with his fair sister-in-law. Nothing wrong in him escaped her. She was quick in feeling the little injuries to Isabella, which Isabella never felt herself. Perhaps she might have passed over more had his manners been flattering to Isabella's sister, but they were only those of a calmly kind brother and friend, without praise and without blindness; but hardly any degree of personal compliment could have made her regardless of that greatest fault of all in her eyes which he sometimes fell into, the want of respectful forbearance towards her father. There he had not always the patience that could have been wished. Mr. Woodhouse's peculiarities and fidgetiness were sometimes provoking him to a rational remonstrance or sharp retort equally ill-bestowed. It did not often happen; for Mr. John Knightley had really a great regard for his father-in-law, and generally a strong sense of what was due to him; but it was too often for Emma's charity, especially as there was all the pain of apprehension frequently to be endured, though the offence came not. The beginning, however, of every visit displayed none but the properest feelings, and this being of necessity so short might be hoped to pass away in unsullied cordiality. They had not been long seated and composed when Mr. Woodhouse, with a melancholy shake of the head and a sigh, called his daughter's attention to the sad change at Hartfield since she had been there last. "Ah, my dear," said he, "poor Miss Taylor--It is a grievous business." "Oh yes, sir," cried she with ready sympathy, "how you must miss her! And dear Emma, too!--What a dreadful loss to you both!--I have been so grieved for you.--I could not imagine how you could possibly do without her.--It is a sad change indeed.--But I hope she is pretty well, sir." "Pretty well, my dear--I hope--pretty well.--I do not know but that the place agrees with her tolerably." Mr. John Knightley here asked Emma quietly whether there were any doubts of the air of Randalls. "Oh! no--none in the least. I never saw Mrs. Weston better in my life--never looking so well. Papa is only speaking his own regret." "Very much to the honour of both," was the handsome reply. "And do you see her, sir, tolerably often?" asked Isabella in the plaintive tone which just suited her father. Mr. Woodhouse hesitated.--"Not near so often, my dear, as I could wish." "Oh! papa, we have missed seeing them but one entire day since they married. Either in the morning or evening of every day, excepting one, have we seen either Mr. Weston or Mrs. Weston, and generally both, either at Randalls or here--and as you may suppose, Isabella, most frequently here. They are very, very kind in their visits. Mr. Weston is really as kind as herself. Papa, if you speak in that melancholy way, you will be giving Isabella a false idea of us all. Every body must be aware that Miss Taylor must be missed, but every body ought also to be assured that Mr. and Mrs. Weston do really prevent our missing her by any means to the extent we ourselves anticipated--which is the exact truth." "Just as it should be," said Mr. John Knightley, "and just as I hoped it was from your letters. Her wish of shewing you attention could not be doubted, and his being a disengaged and social man makes it all easy. I have been always telling you, my love, that I had no idea of the change being so very material to Hartfield as you apprehended; and now you have Emma's account, I hope you will be satisfied." "Why, to be sure," said Mr. Woodhouse--"yes, certainly--I cannot deny that Mrs. Weston, poor Mrs. Weston, does come and see us pretty often--but then--she is always obliged to go away again." "It would be very hard upon Mr. Weston if she did not, papa.--You quite forget poor Mr. Weston." "I think, indeed," said John Knightley pleasantly, "that Mr. Weston has some little claim. You and I, Emma, will venture to take the part of the poor husband. I, being a husband, and you not being a wife, the claims of the man may very likely strike us with equal force. As for Isabella, she has been married long enough to see the convenience of putting all the Mr. Westons aside as much as she can." "Me, my love," cried his wife, hearing and understanding only in part.-- "Are you talking about me?--I am sure nobody ought to be, or can be, a greater advocate for matrimony than I am; and if it had not been for the misery of her leaving Hartfield, I should never have thought of Miss Taylor but as the most fortunate woman in the world; and as to slighting Mr. Weston, that excellent Mr. Weston, I think there is nothing he does not deserve. I believe he is one of the very best-tempered men that ever existed. Excepting yourself and your brother, I do not know his equal for temper. I shall never forget his flying Henry's kite for him that very windy day last Easter--and ever since his particular kindness last September twelvemonth in writing that note, at twelve o'clock at night, on purpose to assure me that there was no scarlet fever at Cobham, I have been convinced there could not be a more feeling heart nor a better man in existence.--If any body can deserve him, it must be Miss Taylor." "Where is the young man?" said John Knightley. "Has he been here on this occasion--or has he not?" "He has not been here yet," replied Emma. "There was a strong expectation of his coming soon after the marriage, but it ended in nothing; and I have not heard him mentioned lately." "But you should tell them of the letter, my dear," said her father. "He wrote a letter to poor Mrs. Weston, to congratulate her, and a very proper, handsome letter it was. She shewed it to me. I thought it very well done of him indeed. Whether it was his own idea you know, one cannot tell. He is but young, and his uncle, perhaps--" "My dear papa, he is three-and-twenty. You forget how time passes." "Three-and-twenty!--is he indeed?--Well, I could not have thought it--and he was but two years old when he lost his poor mother! Well, time does fly indeed!--and my memory is very bad. However, it was an exceeding good, pretty letter, and gave Mr. and Mrs. Weston a great deal of pleasure. I remember it was written from Weymouth, and dated Sept. 28th--and began, 'My dear Madam,' but I forget how it went on; and it was signed 'F. C. Weston Churchill.'--I remember that perfectly." "How very pleasing and proper of him!" cried the good-hearted Mrs. John Knightley. "I have no doubt of his being a most amiable young man. But how sad it is that he should not live at home with his father! There is something so shocking in a child's being taken away from his parents and natural home! I never could comprehend how Mr. Weston could part with him. To give up one's child! I really never could think well of any body who proposed such a thing to any body else." "Nobody ever did think well of the Churchills, I fancy," observed Mr. John Knightley coolly. "But you need not imagine Mr. Weston to have felt what you would feel in giving up Henry or John. Mr. Weston is rather an easy, cheerful-tempered man, than a man of strong feelings; he takes things as he finds them, and makes enjoyment of them somehow or other, depending, I suspect, much more upon what is called society for his comforts, that is, upon the power of eating and drinking, and playing whist with his neighbours five times a week, than upon family affection, or any thing that home affords." Emma could not like what bordered on a reflection on Mr. Weston, and had half a mind to take it up; but she struggled, and let it pass. She would keep the peace if possible; and there was something honourable and valuable in the strong domestic habits, the all-sufficiency of home to himself, whence resulted her brother's disposition to look down on the common rate of social intercourse, and those to whom it was important.--It had a high claim to forbearance. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Emma muss Mr. Elton und seine Angelegenheiten eine Weile lang sich selbst überlassen, da der Besuch ihrer Schwester, ihres Ehemanns, ihrer fünf Kinder und ihrer Kindermädchen bevorsteht. Isabella ist eine liebenswürdige, gutmütige Frau, und John Knightley ist manchmal schlecht gelaunt, was Emma nicht mag, da es bedeutet, dass er manchmal nicht geduldig mit den Eigenheiten von Emmas Vater umgeht. Alle sind glücklich, wenn sie ankommen. Sie sprechen über die Hochzeit von Miss Taylor, und John fragt, ob Westons Sohn schon gekommen ist. Emma muss ihm sagen, nein, aber dass er einen netten Brief geschickt 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: At three in the morning the chief Sussex detective, obeying the urgent call from Sergeant Wilson of Birlstone, arrived from headquarters in a light dog-cart behind a breathless trotter. By the five-forty train in the morning he had sent his message to Scotland Yard, and he was at the Birlstone station at twelve o'clock to welcome us. White Mason was a quiet, comfortable-looking person in a loose tweed suit, with a clean-shaved, ruddy face, a stoutish body, and powerful bandy legs adorned with gaiters, looking like a small farmer, a retired gamekeeper, or anything upon earth except a very favourable specimen of the provincial criminal officer. "A real downright snorter, Mr. MacDonald!" he kept repeating. "We'll have the pressmen down like flies when they understand it. I'm hoping we will get our work done before they get poking their noses into it and messing up all the trails. There has been nothing like this that I can remember. There are some bits that will come home to you, Mr. Holmes, or I am mistaken. And you also, Dr. Watson; for the medicos will have a word to say before we finish. Your room is at the Westville Arms. There's no other place; but I hear that it is clean and good. The man will carry your bags. This way, gentlemen, if you please." He was a very bustling and genial person, this Sussex detective. In ten minutes we had all found our quarters. In ten more we were seated in the parlour of the inn and being treated to a rapid sketch of those events which have been outlined in the previous chapter. MacDonald made an occasional note; while Holmes sat absorbed, with the expression of surprised and reverent admiration with which the botanist surveys the rare and precious bloom. "Remarkable!" he said, when the story was unfolded, "most remarkable! I can hardly recall any case where the features have been more peculiar." "I thought you would say so, Mr. Holmes," said White Mason in great delight. "We're well up with the times in Sussex. I've told you now how matters were, up to the time when I took over from Sergeant Wilson between three and four this morning. My word! I made the old mare go! But I need not have been in such a hurry, as it turned out; for there was nothing immediate that I could do. Sergeant Wilson had all the facts. I checked them and considered them and maybe added a few of my own." "What were they?" asked Holmes eagerly. "Well, I first had the hammer examined. There was Dr. Wood there to help me. We found no signs of violence upon it. I was hoping that if Mr. Douglas defended himself with the hammer, he might have left his mark upon the murderer before he dropped it on the mat. But there was no stain." "That, of course, proves nothing at all," remarked Inspector MacDonald. "There has been many a hammer murder and no trace on the hammer." "Quite so. It doesn't prove it wasn't used. But there might have been stains, and that would have helped us. As a matter of fact there were none. Then I examined the gun. They were buckshot cartridges, and, as Sergeant Wilson pointed out, the triggers were wired together so that, if you pulled on the hinder one, both barrels were discharged. Whoever fixed that up had made up his mind that he was going to take no chances of missing his man. The sawed gun was not more than two foot long--one could carry it easily under one's coat. There was no complete maker's name; but the printed letters P-E-N were on the fluting between the barrels, and the rest of the name had been cut off by the saw." "A big P with a flourish above it, E and N smaller?" asked Holmes. "Exactly." "Pennsylvania Small Arms Company--well-known American firm," said Holmes. White Mason gazed at my friend as the little village practitioner looks at the Harley Street specialist who by a word can solve the difficulties that perplex him. "That is very helpful, Mr. Holmes. No doubt you are right. Wonderful! Wonderful! Do you carry the names of all the gun makers in the world in your memory?" Holmes dismissed the subject with a wave. "No doubt it is an American shotgun," White Mason continued. "I seem to have read that a sawed-off shotgun is a weapon used in some parts of America. Apart from the name upon the barrel, the idea had occurred to me. There is some evidence then, that this man who entered the house and killed its master was an American." MacDonald shook his head. "Man, you are surely travelling overfast," said he. "I have heard no evidence yet that any stranger was ever in the house at all." "The open window, the blood on the sill, the queer card, the marks of boots in the corner, the gun!" "Nothing there that could not have been arranged. Mr. Douglas was an American, or had lived long in America. So had Mr. Barker. You don't need to import an American from outside in order to account for American doings." "Ames, the butler--" "What about him? Is he reliable?" "Ten years with Sir Charles Chandos--as solid as a rock. He has been with Douglas ever since he took the Manor House five years ago. He has never seen a gun of this sort in the house." "The gun was made to conceal. That's why the barrels were sawed. It would fit into any box. How could he swear there was no such gun in the house?" "Well, anyhow, he had never seen one." MacDonald shook his obstinate Scotch head. "I'm not convinced yet that there was ever anyone in the house," said he. "I'm asking you to conseedar" (his accent became more Aberdonian as he lost himself in his argument) "I'm asking you to conseedar what it involves if you suppose that this gun was ever brought into the house, and that all these strange things were done by a person from outside. Oh, man, it's just inconceivable! It's clean against common sense! I put it to you, Mr. Holmes, judging it by what we have heard." "Well, state your case, Mr. Mac," said Holmes in his most judicial style. "The man is not a burglar, supposing that he ever existed. The ring business and the card point to premeditated murder for some private reason. Very good. Here is a man who slips into a house with the deliberate intention of committing murder. He knows, if he knows anything, that he will have a deeficulty in making his escape, as the house is surrounded with water. What weapon would he choose? You would say the most silent in the world. Then he could hope when the deed was done to slip quickly from the window, to wade the moat, and to get away at his leisure. That's understandable. But is it understandable that he should go out of his way to bring with him the most noisy weapon he could select, knowing well that it will fetch every human being in the house to the spot as quick as they can run, and that it is all odds that he will be seen before he can get across the moat? Is that credible, Mr. Holmes?" "Well, you put the case strongly," my friend replied thoughtfully. "It certainly needs a good deal of justification. May I ask, Mr. White Mason, whether you examined the farther side of the moat at once to see if there were any signs of the man having climbed out from the water?" "There were no signs, Mr. Holmes. But it is a stone ledge, and one could hardly expect them." "No tracks or marks?" "None." "Ha! Would there be any objection, Mr. White Mason, to our going down to the house at once? There may possibly be some small point which might be suggestive." "I was going to propose it, Mr. Holmes; but I thought it well to put you in touch with all the facts before we go. I suppose if anything should strike you--" White Mason looked doubtfully at the amateur. "I have worked with Mr. Holmes before," said Inspector MacDonald. "He plays the game." "My own idea of the game, at any rate," said Holmes, with a smile. "I go into a case to help the ends of justice and the work of the police. If I have ever separated myself from the official force, it is because they have first separated themselves from me. I have no wish ever to score at their expense. At the same time, Mr. White Mason, I claim the right to work in my own way and give my results at my own time--complete rather than in stages." "I am sure we are honoured by your presence and to show you all we know," said White Mason cordially. "Come along, Dr. Watson, and when the time comes we'll all hope for a place in your book." We walked down the quaint village street with a row of pollarded elms on each side of it. Just beyond were two ancient stone pillars, weather-stained and lichen-blotched, bearing upon their summits a shapeless something which had once been the rampant lion of Capus of Birlstone. A short walk along the winding drive with such sward and oaks around it as one only sees in rural England, then a sudden turn, and the long, low Jacobean house of dingy, liver-coloured brick lay before us, with an old-fashioned garden of cut yews on each side of it. As we approached it, there was the wooden drawbridge and the beautiful broad moat as still and luminous as quicksilver in the cold, winter sunshine. Three centuries had flowed past the old Manor House, centuries of births and of homecomings, of country dances and of the meetings of fox hunters. Strange that now in its old age this dark business should have cast its shadow upon the venerable walls! And yet those strange, peaked roofs and quaint, overhung gables were a fitting covering to grim and terrible intrigue. As I looked at the deep-set windows and the long sweep of the dull-coloured, water-lapped front, I felt that no more fitting scene could be set for such a tragedy. "That's the window," said White Mason, "that one on the immediate right of the drawbridge. It's open just as it was found last night." "It looks rather narrow for a man to pass." "Well, it wasn't a fat man, anyhow. We don't need your deductions, Mr. Holmes, to tell us that. But you or I could squeeze through all right." Holmes walked to the edge of the moat and looked across. Then he examined the stone ledge and the grass border beyond it. "I've had a good look, Mr. Holmes," said White Mason. "There is nothing there, no sign that anyone has landed--but why should he leave any sign?" "Exactly. Why should he? Is the water always turbid?" "Generally about this colour. The stream brings down the clay." "How deep is it?" "About two feet at each side and three in the middle." "So we can put aside all idea of the man having been drowned in crossing." "No, a child could not be drowned in it." We walked across the drawbridge, and were admitted by a quaint, gnarled, dried-up person, who was the butler, Ames. The poor old fellow was white and quivering from the shock. The village sergeant, a tall, formal, melancholy man, still held his vigil in the room of Fate. The doctor had departed. "Anything fresh, Sergeant Wilson?" asked White Mason. "No, sir." "Then you can go home. You've had enough. We can send for you if we want you. The butler had better wait outside. Tell him to warn Mr. Cecil Barker, Mrs. Douglas, and the housekeeper that we may want a word with them presently. Now, gentlemen, perhaps you will allow me to give you the views I have formed first, and then you will be able to arrive at your own." He impressed me, this country specialist. He had a solid grip of fact and a cool, clear, common-sense brain, which should take him some way in his profession. Holmes listened to him intently, with no sign of that impatience which the official exponent too often produced. "Is it suicide, or is it murder--that's our first question, gentlemen, is it not? If it were suicide, then we have to believe that this man began by taking off his wedding ring and concealing it; that he then came down here in his dressing gown, trampled mud into a corner behind the curtain in order to give the idea someone had waited for him, opened the window, put blood on the--" "We can surely dismiss that," said MacDonald. "So I think. Suicide is out of the question. Then a murder has been done. What we have to determine is, whether it was done by someone outside or inside the house." "Well, let's hear the argument." "There are considerable difficulties both ways, and yet one or the other it must be. We will suppose first that some person or persons inside the house did the crime. They got this man down here at a time when everything was still and yet no one was asleep. They then did the deed with the queerest and noisiest weapon in the world so as to tell everyone what had happened--a weapon that was never seen in the house before. That does not seem a very likely start, does it?" "No, it does not." "Well, then, everyone is agreed that after the alarm was given only a minute at the most had passed before the whole household--not Mr. Cecil Barker alone, though he claims to have been the first, but Ames and all of them were on the spot. Do you tell me that in that time the guilty person managed to make footmarks in the corner, open the window, mark the sill with blood, take the wedding ring off the dead man's finger, and all the rest of it? It's impossible!" "You put it very clearly," said Holmes. "I am inclined to agree with you." "Well, then, we are driven back to the theory that it was done by someone from outside. We are still faced with some big difficulties; but anyhow they have ceased to be impossibilities. The man got into the house between four-thirty and six; that is to say, between dusk and the time when the bridge was raised. There had been some visitors, and the door was open; so there was nothing to prevent him. He may have been a common burglar, or he may have had some private grudge against Mr. Douglas. Since Mr. Douglas has spent most of his life in America, and this shotgun seems to be an American weapon, it would seem that the private grudge is the more likely theory. He slipped into this room because it was the first he came to, and he hid behind the curtain. There he remained until past eleven at night. At that time Mr. Douglas entered the room. It was a short interview, if there were any interview at all; for Mrs. Douglas declares that her husband had not left her more than a few minutes when she heard the shot." "The candle shows that," said Holmes. "Exactly. The candle, which was a new one, is not burned more than half an inch. He must have placed it on the table before he was attacked; otherwise, of course, it would have fallen when he fell. This shows that he was not attacked the instant that he entered the room. When Mr. Barker arrived the candle was lit and the lamp was out." "That's all clear enough." "Well, now, we can reconstruct things on those lines. Mr. Douglas enters the room. He puts down the candle. A man appears from behind the curtain. He is armed with this gun. He demands the wedding ring--Heaven only knows why, but so it must have been. Mr. Douglas gave it up. Then either in cold blood or in the course of a struggle--Douglas may have gripped the hammer that was found upon the mat--he shot Douglas in this horrible way. He dropped his gun and also it would seem this queer card--V.V. 341, whatever that may mean--and he made his escape through the window and across the moat at the very moment when Cecil Barker was discovering the crime. How's that, Mr. Holmes?" "Very interesting, but just a little unconvincing." "Man, it would be absolute nonsense if it wasn't that anything else is even worse!" cried MacDonald. "Somebody killed the man, and whoever it was I could clearly prove to you that he should have done it some other way. What does he mean by allowing his retreat to be cut off like that? What does he mean by using a shotgun when silence was his one chance of escape? Come, Mr. Holmes, it's up to you to give us a lead, since you say Mr. White Mason's theory is unconvincing." Holmes had sat intently observant during this long discussion, missing no word that was said, with his keen eyes darting to right and to left, and his forehead wrinkled with speculation. "I should like a few more facts before I get so far as a theory, Mr. Mac," said he, kneeling down beside the body. "Dear me! these injuries are really appalling. Can we have the butler in for a moment?... Ames, I understand that you have often seen this very unusual mark--a branded triangle inside a circle--upon Mr. Douglas's forearm?" "Frequently, sir." "You never heard any speculation as to what it meant?" "No, sir." "It must have caused great pain when it was inflicted. It is undoubtedly a burn. Now, I observe, Ames, that there is a small piece of plaster at the angle of Mr. Douglas's jaw. Did you observe that in life?" "Yes, sir, he cut himself in shaving yesterday morning." "Did you ever know him to cut himself in shaving before?" "Not for a very long time, sir." "Suggestive!" said Holmes. "It may, of course, be a mere coincidence, or it may point to some nervousness which would indicate that he had reason to apprehend danger. Had you noticed anything unusual in his conduct, yesterday, Ames?" "It struck me that he was a little restless and excited, sir." "Ha! The attack may not have been entirely unexpected. We do seem to make a little progress, do we not? Perhaps you would rather do the questioning, Mr. Mac?" "No, Mr. Holmes, it's in better hands than mine." "Well, then, we will pass to this card--V.V. 341. It is rough cardboard. Have you any of the sort in the house?" "I don't think so." Holmes walked across to the desk and dabbed a little ink from each bottle on to the blotting paper. "It was not printed in this room," he said; "this is black ink and the other purplish. It was done by a thick pen, and these are fine. No, it was done elsewhere, I should say. Can you make anything of the inscription, Ames?" "No, sir, nothing." "What do you think, Mr. Mac?" "It gives me the impression of a secret society of some sort; the same with his badge upon the forearm." "That's my idea, too," said White Mason. "Well, we can adopt it as a working hypothesis and then see how far our difficulties disappear. An agent from such a society makes his way into the house, waits for Mr. Douglas, blows his head nearly off with this weapon, and escapes by wading the moat, after leaving a card beside the dead man, which will, when mentioned in the papers, tell other members of the society that vengeance has been done. That all hangs together. But why this gun, of all weapons?" "Exactly." "And why the missing ring?" "Quite so." "And why no arrest? It's past two now. I take it for granted that since dawn every constable within forty miles has been looking out for a wet stranger?" "That is so, Mr. Holmes." "Well, unless he has a burrow close by or a change of clothes ready, they can hardly miss him. And yet they HAVE missed him up to now!" Holmes had gone to the window and was examining with his lens the blood mark on the sill. "It is clearly the tread of a shoe. It is remarkably broad; a splay-foot, one would say. Curious, because, so far as one can trace any footmark in this mud-stained corner, one would say it was a more shapely sole. However, they are certainly very indistinct. What's this under the side table?" "Mr. Douglas's dumb-bells," said Ames. "Dumb-bell--there's only one. Where's the other?" "I don't know, Mr. Holmes. There may have been only one. I have not noticed them for months." "One dumb-bell--" Holmes said seriously; but his remarks were interrupted by a sharp knock at the door. A tall, sunburned, capable-looking, clean-shaved man looked in at us. I had no difficulty in guessing that it was the Cecil Barker of whom I had heard. His masterful eyes travelled quickly with a questioning glance from face to face. "Sorry to interrupt your consultation," said he, "but you should hear the latest news." "An arrest?" "No such luck. But they've found his bicycle. The fellow left his bicycle behind him. Come and have a look. It is within a hundred yards of the hall door." We found three or four grooms and idlers standing in the drive inspecting a bicycle which had been drawn out from a clump of evergreens in which it had been concealed. It was a well used Rudge-Whitworth, splashed as from a considerable journey. There was a saddlebag with spanner and oilcan, but no clue as to the owner. "It would be a grand help to the police," said the inspector, "if these things were numbered and registered. But we must be thankful for what we've got. If we can't find where he went to, at least we are likely to get where he came from. But what in the name of all that is wonderful made the fellow leave it behind? And how in the world has he got away without it? We don't seem to get a gleam of light in the case, Mr. Holmes." "Don't we?" my friend answered thoughtfully. "I wonder!" 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Watson nimmt den Erzählstrang der Gegenwart auf. White Mason ist ein freundlicher, ruhiger, aber fähiger Mann. Er trifft Holmes, Watson und MacDonald in Birlstone und hilft allen sich einzurichten, während er die ganze Zeit über den Fall spricht. Er erklärt Holmes, wie er den Hammer überprüft hat, der in der Nähe des Körpers gefunden wurde, sowie die Pistole, auf der die Initialen P, E und N standen. Holmes informiert sie, dass es sich um eine amerikanische Waffe handelt, die von der Pennsylvania Small Arms Company produziert wurde; diese Kenntnis überrascht und erfreut Mason. Die Gruppe diskutiert die Möglichkeit, ob ein Außenstehender im Haus war oder ob der Mord inszeniert wurde. MacDonald bringt seine Interpretation vor. Er nimmt an, dass der Mord vorsätzlich war, fragt sich aber, warum der Mörder eine so laute Waffe wählen würde. Holmes fragt nach Anzeichen dafür, dass jemand über den Burggraben geklettert ist, aber es gab keine. Die Männer gehen auf das Manor House zu und Watson überlegt, dass die Szene wie für eine Tragödie gemacht ist. Als sie dem Haus näher kommen, weist Mason auf das Fenster hin und informiert Holmes darüber, wie flach der Burggraben ist: an der tiefsten Stelle drei Fuß. Ames lässt die Gruppe ins Haus. Das Gespräch kehrt zum Mord zurück. Selbstmord wird ausgeschlossen, aber das Problem der lauten Waffe bleibt bestehen. Es scheint unwahrscheinlich, dass die Person den schlammigen Fußabdruck gemacht, das Fenster geöffnet, die Fensterbank markiert, den Ring abgenommen und das Haus verlassen hat, bevor Cecil Douglas entdeckt hat. Sicherlich ist jemand früher an diesem Tag hereingekommen, hat sich versteckt und dann Douglas getötet, wobei er eine abgesägte Schrotflinte benutzte, weil der Mord persönlich war. Douglas kam wahrscheinlich herein, legte die Kerze ab, kämpfte, griff nach dem Hammer und wurde dann erschossen. Der Mann hinterließ die Karte und entkam über den Burggraben. Holmes hört zu; obwohl die Männer nach seiner Meinung fragen, lehnt er ab, bis er mehr Fakten hat. Er bittet um Ames und befragt ihn. Er erkundigt sich nach der Marke, und Ames sagt, er habe sie schon einmal gesehen. Ames sagt auch, dass Douglas am letzten Tag, an dem er ihn gesehen hat, etwas nervöser war als gewöhnlich. Nach dieser Befragung wendet sich Holmes der Karte zu, die MacDonald zufolge einer geheimen Gesellschaft zu gehören scheint; er betrachtet auch die Seltsamkeit des Eherings und die Tatsache, dass bisher noch niemand verhaftet wurde. Es klopft, und Cecil Barker unterbricht und sagt, sie haben das Fahrrad des Mörders in einem Büschel Tannen nicht weit entfernt gefunden.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: My sense of how he received this suffered for a minute from something that I can describe only as a fierce split of my attention--a stroke that at first, as I sprang straight up, reduced me to the mere blind movement of getting hold of him, drawing him close, and, while I just fell for support against the nearest piece of furniture, instinctively keeping him with his back to the window. The appearance was full upon us that I had already had to deal with here: Peter Quint had come into view like a sentinel before a prison. The next thing I saw was that, from outside, he had reached the window, and then I knew that, close to the glass and glaring in through it, he offered once more to the room his white face of damnation. It represents but grossly what took place within me at the sight to say that on the second my decision was made; yet I believe that no woman so overwhelmed ever in so short a time recovered her grasp of the ACT. It came to me in the very horror of the immediate presence that the act would be, seeing and facing what I saw and faced, to keep the boy himself unaware. The inspiration--I can call it by no other name--was that I felt how voluntarily, how transcendently, I MIGHT. It was like fighting with a demon for a human soul, and when I had fairly so appraised it I saw how the human soul--held out, in the tremor of my hands, at arm's length--had a perfect dew of sweat on a lovely childish forehead. The face that was close to mine was as white as the face against the glass, and out of it presently came a sound, not low nor weak, but as if from much further away, that I drank like a waft of fragrance. "Yes--I took it." At this, with a moan of joy, I enfolded, I drew him close; and while I held him to my breast, where I could feel in the sudden fever of his little body the tremendous pulse of his little heart, I kept my eyes on the thing at the window and saw it move and shift its posture. I have likened it to a sentinel, but its slow wheel, for a moment, was rather the prowl of a baffled beast. My present quickened courage, however, was such that, not too much to let it through, I had to shade, as it were, my flame. Meanwhile the glare of the face was again at the window, the scoundrel fixed as if to watch and wait. It was the very confidence that I might now defy him, as well as the positive certitude, by this time, of the child's unconsciousness, that made me go on. "What did you take it for?" "To see what you said about me." "You opened the letter?" "I opened it." My eyes were now, as I held him off a little again, on Miles's own face, in which the collapse of mockery showed me how complete was the ravage of uneasiness. What was prodigious was that at last, by my success, his sense was sealed and his communication stopped: he knew that he was in presence, but knew not of what, and knew still less that I also was and that I did know. And what did this strain of trouble matter when my eyes went back to the window only to see that the air was clear again and--by my personal triumph--the influence quenched? There was nothing there. I felt that the cause was mine and that I should surely get ALL. "And you found nothing!"--I let my elation out. He gave the most mournful, thoughtful little headshake. "Nothing." "Nothing, nothing!" I almost shouted in my joy. "Nothing, nothing," he sadly repeated. I kissed his forehead; it was drenched. "So what have you done with it?" "I've burned it." "Burned it?" It was now or never. "Is that what you did at school?" Oh, what this brought up! "At school?" "Did you take letters?--or other things?" "Other things?" He appeared now to be thinking of something far off and that reached him only through the pressure of his anxiety. Yet it did reach him. "Did I STEAL?" I felt myself redden to the roots of my hair as well as wonder if it were more strange to put to a gentleman such a question or to see him take it with allowances that gave the very distance of his fall in the world. "Was it for that you mightn't go back?" The only thing he felt was rather a dreary little surprise. "Did you know I mightn't go back?" "I know everything." He gave me at this the longest and strangest look. "Everything?" "Everything. Therefore DID you--?" But I couldn't say it again. Miles could, very simply. "No. I didn't steal." My face must have shown him I believed him utterly; yet my hands--but it was for pure tenderness--shook him as if to ask him why, if it was all for nothing, he had condemned me to months of torment. "What then did you do?" He looked in vague pain all round the top of the room and drew his breath, two or three times over, as if with difficulty. He might have been standing at the bottom of the sea and raising his eyes to some faint green twilight. "Well--I said things." "Only that?" "They thought it was enough!" "To turn you out for?" Never, truly, had a person "turned out" shown so little to explain it as this little person! He appeared to weigh my question, but in a manner quite detached and almost helpless. "Well, I suppose I oughtn't." "But to whom did you say them?" He evidently tried to remember, but it dropped--he had lost it. "I don't know!" He almost smiled at me in the desolation of his surrender, which was indeed practically, by this time, so complete that I ought to have left it there. But I was infatuated--I was blind with victory, though even then the very effect that was to have brought him so much nearer was already that of added separation. "Was it to everyone?" I asked. "No; it was only to--" But he gave a sick little headshake. "I don't remember their names." "Were they then so many?" "No--only a few. Those I liked." Those he liked? I seemed to float not into clearness, but into a darker obscure, and within a minute there had come to me out of my very pity the appalling alarm of his being perhaps innocent. It was for the instant confounding and bottomless, for if he WERE innocent, what then on earth was _I_? Paralyzed, while it lasted, by the mere brush of the question, I let him go a little, so that, with a deep-drawn sigh, he turned away from me again; which, as he faced toward the clear window, I suffered, feeling that I had nothing now there to keep him from. "And did they repeat what you said?" I went on after a moment. He was soon at some distance from me, still breathing hard and again with the air, though now without anger for it, of being confined against his will. Once more, as he had done before, he looked up at the dim day as if, of what had hitherto sustained him, nothing was left but an unspeakable anxiety. "Oh, yes," he nevertheless replied--"they must have repeated them. To those THEY liked," he added. There was, somehow, less of it than I had expected; but I turned it over. "And these things came round--?" "To the masters? Oh, yes!" he answered very simply. "But I didn't know they'd tell." "The masters? They didn't--they've never told. That's why I ask you." He turned to me again his little beautiful fevered face. "Yes, it was too bad." "Too bad?" "What I suppose I sometimes said. To write home." I can't name the exquisite pathos of the contradiction given to such a speech by such a speaker; I only know that the next instant I heard myself throw off with homely force: "Stuff and nonsense!" But the next after that I must have sounded stern enough. "What WERE these things?" My sternness was all for his judge, his executioner; yet it made him avert himself again, and that movement made ME, with a single bound and an irrepressible cry, spring straight upon him. For there again, against the glass, as if to blight his confession and stay his answer, was the hideous author of our woe--the white face of damnation. I felt a sick swim at the drop of my victory and all the return of my battle, so that the wildness of my veritable leap only served as a great betrayal. I saw him, from the midst of my act, meet it with a divination, and on the perception that even now he only guessed, and that the window was still to his own eyes free, I let the impulse flame up to convert the climax of his dismay into the very proof of his liberation. "No more, no more, no more!" I shrieked, as I tried to press him against me, to my visitant. "Is she HERE?" Miles panted as he caught with his sealed eyes the direction of my words. Then as his strange "she" staggered me and, with a gasp, I echoed it, "Miss Jessel, Miss Jessel!" he with a sudden fury gave me back. I seized, stupefied, his supposition--some sequel to what we had done to Flora, but this made me only want to show him that it was better still than that. "It's not Miss Jessel! But it's at the window--straight before us. It's THERE--the coward horror, there for the last time!" At this, after a second in which his head made the movement of a baffled dog's on a scent and then gave a frantic little shake for air and light, he was at me in a white rage, bewildered, glaring vainly over the place and missing wholly, though it now, to my sense, filled the room like the taste of poison, the wide, overwhelming presence. "It's HE?" I was so determined to have all my proof that I flashed into ice to challenge him. "Whom do you mean by 'he'?" "Peter Quint--you devil!" His face gave again, round the room, its convulsed supplication. "WHERE?" They are in my ears still, his supreme surrender of the name and his tribute to my devotion. "What does he matter now, my own?--what will he EVER matter? _I_ have you," I launched at the beast, "but he has lost you forever!" Then, for the demonstration of my work, "There, THERE!" I said to Miles. But he had already jerked straight round, stared, glared again, and seen but the quiet day. With the stroke of the loss I was so proud of he uttered the cry of a creature hurled over an abyss, and the grasp with which I recovered him might have been that of catching him in his fall. I caught him, yes, I held him--it may be imagined with what a passion; but at the end of a minute I began to feel what it truly was that I held. We were alone with the quiet day, and his little heart, dispossessed, had stopped. Können Sie eine geeignete Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Mitten in diesem Gespräch wird die Gouvernante plötzlich abgelenkt, als Peter Quint durch das Fenster hereinschaut. Sie springt auf und zieht Miles näher an sich heran, mit dem Rücken zum Fenster. Miles gesteht, dass er den Brief genommen hat. Stöhnend vor Freude umarmt die Gouvernante ihn und bemerkt die Schnelligkeit seines Pulses. Miles sagt, dass er wissen wollte, was der Brief über ihn sagte, aber feststellte, dass darin nichts stand und ihn verbrannte. Die Gouvernante fragt, ob er Briefe in der Schule gestohlen habe. Überrascht fragt Miles, ob sie gewusst habe, dass er nicht zur Schule zurückkehren könne. Die Gouvernante behauptet, alles zu wissen. Miles leugnet den Vorwurf und sagt, dass er "Dinge gesagt" habe, zu Jungen, die ihm gefallen haben. Die Gouvernante drängt auf eine Antwort. Miles verschiebt sich und sie stürzt sich auf ihn und drückt ihn an sich. Miles fragt, ob "sie" hier ist. Die Gouvernante sagt, der "feige Schrecken" sei hier. Miles sucht in Richtung des Blicks der Gouvernante und nennt Peter Quint unter Tränen einen "Teufel" und fragt, wo er sei. Die Gouvernante schreit den Geist an und zeigt auf ihn. Miles' Herz bleibt stehen.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: SCENE III. The same. A street. [Enter Cinna, the poet.] CINNA. I dreamt to-night that I did feast with Caesar, And things unluckily charge my fantasy: I have no will to wander forth of doors, Yet something leads me forth. [Enter Citizens.] FIRST CITIZEN. What is your name? SECOND CITIZEN. Whither are you going? THIRD CITIZEN. Where do you dwell? FOURTH CITIZEN. Are you a married man or a bachelor? SECOND CITIZEN. Answer every man directly. FIRST CITIZEN. Ay, and briefly. FOURTH CITIZEN. Ay, and wisely. THIRD CITIZEN. Ay, and truly; you were best. CINNA. What is my name? Whither am I going? Where do I dwell? Am I a married man or a bachelor? Then, to answer every man directly and briefly, wisely and truly. Wisely I say I am a bachelor. SECOND CITIZEN. That's as much as to say they are fools that marry; you'll bear me a bang for that, I fear. Proceed; directly. CINNA. Directly, I am going to Caesar's funeral. FIRST CITIZEN. As a friend, or an enemy? CINNA. As a friend. SECOND CITIZEN. That matter is answered directly. FOURTH CITIZEN. For your dwelling,--briefly. CINNA. Briefly, I dwell by the Capitol. THIRD CITIZEN. Your name, sir, truly. CINNA. Truly, my name is Cinna. FIRST CITIZEN. Tear him to pieces! he's a conspirator. CINNA. I am Cinna the poet, I am Cinna the poet. FOURTH CITIZEN. Tear him for his bad verses, tear him for his bad verses. CINNA. I am not Cinna the conspirator. FOURTH CITIZEN. It is no matter, his name's Cinna; pluck but his name out of his heart, and turn him going. THIRD CITIZEN. Tear him, tear him! Come; brands, ho! firebrands. To Brutus', to Cassius'; burn all. Some to Decius' house, and some to Casca's, some to Ligarius': away, go! [Exeunt.] Können Sie eine passende Zusammenfassung der oben stehenden Absätze verfassen?

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Der Dichter Cinna, der gerade die Straßen entlanggeht, gerät in die Hände des Mobs. Nachdem sie ihm ein paar Fragen gestellt haben, verwechseln sie ihn mit Cinna dem Verschwörer. Er versucht zu erklären, dass sie den Falschen haben, aber der Mob kennt kein Erbarmen. Sie beschließen, ihn trotzdem in Stücke zu reißen wegen seiner schlechten Gedichte. Während sie ihn von der Bühne schleifen, nennen sie die Namen der Verschwörer, deren Häuser sie plündern und anzünden 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: 4 THE SHOULDER OF ATHOS, THE BALDRIC OF PORTHOS AND THE HANDKERCHIEF OF ARAMIS D'Artagnan, in a state of fury, crossed the antechamber at three bounds, and was darting toward the stairs, which he reckoned upon descending four at a time, when, in his heedless course, he ran head foremost against a Musketeer who was coming out of one of M. de Treville's private rooms, and striking his shoulder violently, made him utter a cry, or rather a howl. "Excuse me," said d'Artagnan, endeavoring to resume his course, "excuse me, but I am in a hurry." Scarcely had he descended the first stair, when a hand of iron seized him by the belt and stopped him. "You are in a hurry?" said the Musketeer, as pale as a sheet. "Under that pretense you run against me! You say, 'Excuse me,' and you believe that is sufficient? Not at all, my young man. Do you fancy because you have heard Monsieur de Treville speak to us a little cavalierly today that other people are to treat us as he speaks to us? Undeceive yourself, comrade, you are not Monsieur de Treville." "My faith!" replied d'Artagnan, recognizing Athos, who, after the dressing performed by the doctor, was returning to his own apartment. "I did not do it intentionally, and not doing it intentionally, I said 'Excuse me.' It appears to me that this is quite enough. I repeat to you, however, and this time on my word of honor--I think perhaps too often--that I am in haste, great haste. Leave your hold, then, I beg of you, and let me go where my business calls me." "Monsieur," said Athos, letting him go, "you are not polite; it is easy to perceive that you come from a distance." D'Artagnan had already strode down three or four stairs, but at Athos's last remark he stopped short. "MORBLEU, monsieur!" said he, "however far I may come, it is not you who can give me a lesson in good manners, I warn you." "Perhaps," said Athos. "Ah! If I were not in such haste, and if I were not running after someone," said d'Artagnan. "Monsieur Man-in-a-hurry, you can find me without running--ME, you understand?" "And where, I pray you?" "Near the Carmes-Deschaux." "At what hour?" "About noon." "About noon? That will do; I will be there." "Endeavor not to make me wait; for at quarter past twelve I will cut off your ears as you run." "Good!" cried d'Artagnan, "I will be there ten minutes before twelve." And he set off running as if the devil possessed him, hoping that he might yet find the stranger, whose slow pace could not have carried him far. But at the street gate, Porthos was talking with the soldier on guard. Between the two talkers there was just enough room for a man to pass. D'Artagnan thought it would suffice for him, and he sprang forward like a dart between them. But d'Artagnan had reckoned without the wind. As he was about to pass, the wind blew out Porthos's long cloak, and d'Artagnan rushed straight into the middle of it. Without doubt, Porthos had reasons for not abandoning this part of his vestments, for instead of quitting his hold on the flap in his hand, he pulled it toward him, so that d'Artagnan rolled himself up in the velvet by a movement of rotation explained by the persistency of Porthos. D'Artagnan, hearing the Musketeer swear, wished to escape from the cloak, which blinded him, and sought to find his way from under the folds of it. He was particularly anxious to avoid marring the freshness of the magnificent baldric we are acquainted with; but on timidly opening his eyes, he found himself with his nose fixed between the two shoulders of Porthos--that is to say, exactly upon the baldric. Alas, like most things in this world which have nothing in their favor but appearances, the baldric was glittering with gold in the front, but was nothing but simple buff behind. Vainglorious as he was, Porthos could not afford to have a baldric wholly of gold, but had at least half. One could comprehend the necessity of the cold and the urgency of the cloak. "Bless me!" cried Porthos, making strong efforts to disembarrass himself of d'Artagnan, who was wriggling about his back; "you must be mad to run against people in this manner." "Excuse me," said d'Artagnan, reappearing under the shoulder of the giant, "but I am in such haste--I was running after someone and--" "And do you always forget your eyes when you run?" asked Porthos. "No," replied d'Artagnan, piqued, "and thanks to my eyes, I can see what other people cannot see." Whether Porthos understood him or did not understand him, giving way to his anger, "Monsieur," said he, "you stand a chance of getting chastised if you rub Musketeers in this fashion." "Chastised, Monsieur!" said d'Artagnan, "the expression is strong." "It is one that becomes a man accustomed to look his enemies in the face." "Ah, PARDIEU! I know full well that you don't turn your back to yours." And the young man, delighted with his joke, went away laughing loudly. Porthos foamed with rage, and made a movement to rush after d'Artagnan. "Presently, presently," cried the latter, "when you haven't your cloak on." "At one o'clock, then, behind the Luxembourg." "Very well, at one o'clock, then," replied d'Artagnan, turning the angle of the street. But neither in the street he had passed through, nor in the one which his eager glance pervaded, could he see anyone; however slowly the stranger had walked, he was gone on his way, or perhaps had entered some house. D'Artagnan inquired of everyone he met with, went down to the ferry, came up again by the Rue de Seine, and the Red Cross; but nothing, absolutely nothing! This chase was, however, advantageous to him in one sense, for in proportion as the perspiration broke from his forehead, his heart began to cool. He began to reflect upon the events that had passed; they were numerous and inauspicious. It was scarcely eleven o'clock in the morning, and yet this morning had already brought him into disgrace with M. de Treville, who could not fail to think the manner in which d'Artagnan had left him a little cavalier. Besides this, he had drawn upon himself two good duels with two men, each capable of killing three d'Artagnans--with two Musketeers, in short, with two of those beings whom he esteemed so greatly that he placed them in his mind and heart above all other men. The outlook was sad. Sure of being killed by Athos, it may easily be understood that the young man was not very uneasy about Porthos. As hope, however, is the last thing extinguished in the heart of man, he finished by hoping that he might survive, even though with terrible wounds, in both these duels; and in case of surviving, he made the following reprehensions upon his own conduct: "What a madcap I was, and what a stupid fellow I am! That brave and unfortunate Athos was wounded on that very shoulder against which I must run head foremost, like a ram. The only thing that astonishes me is that he did not strike me dead at once. He had good cause to do so; the pain I gave him must have been atrocious. As to Porthos--oh, as to Porthos, faith, that's a droll affair!" And in spite of himself, the young man began to laugh aloud, looking round carefully, however, to see that his solitary laugh, without a cause in the eyes of passers-by, offended no one. "As to Porthos, that is certainly droll; but I am not the less a giddy fool. Are people to be run against without warning? No! And have I any right to go and peep under their cloaks to see what is not there? He would have pardoned me, he would certainly have pardoned me, if I had not said anything to him about that cursed baldric--in ambiguous words, it is true, but rather drolly ambiguous. Ah, cursed Gascon that I am, I get from one hobble into another. Friend d'Artagnan," continued he, speaking to himself with all the amenity that he thought due himself, "if you escape, of which there is not much chance, I would advise you to practice perfect politeness for the future. You must henceforth be admired and quoted as a model of it. To be obliging and polite does not necessarily make a man a coward. Look at Aramis, now; Aramis is mildness and grace personified. Well, did anybody ever dream of calling Aramis a coward? No, certainly not, and from this moment I will endeavor to model myself after him. Ah! That's strange! Here he is!" D'Artagnan, walking and soliloquizing, had arrived within a few steps of the hotel d'Arguillon and in front of that hotel perceived Aramis, chatting gaily with three gentlemen; but as he had not forgotten that it was in presence of this young man that M. de Treville had been so angry in the morning, and as a witness of the rebuke the Musketeers had received was not likely to be at all agreeable, he pretended not to see him. D'Artagnan, on the contrary, quite full of his plans of conciliation and courtesy, approached the young men with a profound bow, accompanied by a most gracious smile. All four, besides, immediately broke off their conversation. D'Artagnan was not so dull as not to perceive that he was one too many; but he was not sufficiently broken into the fashions of the gay world to know how to extricate himself gallantly from a false position, like that of a man who begins to mingle with people he is scarcely acquainted with and in a conversation that does not concern him. He was seeking in his mind, then, for the least awkward means of retreat, when he remarked that Aramis had let his handkerchief fall, and by mistake, no doubt, had placed his foot upon it. This appeared to be a favorable opportunity to repair his intrusion. He stooped, and with the most gracious air he could assume, drew the handkerchief from under the foot of the Musketeer in spite of the efforts the latter made to detain it, and holding it out to him, said, "I believe, monsieur, that this is a handkerchief you would be sorry to lose?" The handkerchief was indeed richly embroidered, and had a coronet and arms at one of its corners. Aramis blushed excessively, and snatched rather than took the handkerchief from the hand of the Gascon. "Ah, ah!" cried one of the Guards, "will you persist in saying, most discreet Aramis, that you are not on good terms with Madame de Bois-Tracy, when that gracious lady has the kindness to lend you one of her handkerchiefs?" Aramis darted at d'Artagnan one of those looks which inform a man that he has acquired a mortal enemy. Then, resuming his mild air, "You are deceived, gentlemen," said he, "this handkerchief is not mine, and I cannot fancy why Monsieur has taken it into his head to offer it to me rather than to one of you; and as a proof of what I say, here is mine in my pocket." So saying, he pulled out his own handkerchief, likewise a very elegant handkerchief, and of fine cambric--though cambric was dear at the period--but a handkerchief without embroidery and without arms, only ornamented with a single cipher, that of its proprietor. This time d'Artagnan was not hasty. He perceived his mistake; but the friends of Aramis were not at all convinced by his denial, and one of them addressed the young Musketeer with affected seriousness. "If it were as you pretend it is," said he, "I should be forced, my dear Aramis, to reclaim it myself; for, as you very well know, Bois-Tracy is an intimate friend of mine, and I cannot allow the property of his wife to be sported as a trophy." "You make the demand badly," replied Aramis; "and while acknowledging the justice of your reclamation, I refuse it on account of the form." "The fact is," hazarded d'Artagnan, timidly, "I did not see the handkerchief fall from the pocket of Monsieur Aramis. He had his foot upon it, that is all; and I thought from having his foot upon it the handkerchief was his." "And you were deceived, my dear sir," replied Aramis, coldly, very little sensible to the reparation. Then turning toward that one of the guards who had declared himself the friend of Bois-Tracy, "Besides," continued he, "I have reflected, my dear intimate of Bois-Tracy, that I am not less tenderly his friend than you can possibly be; so that decidedly this handkerchief is as likely to have fallen from your pocket as mine." "No, upon my honor!" cried his Majesty's Guardsman. "You are about to swear upon your honor and I upon my word, and then it will be pretty evident that one of us will have lied. Now, here, Montaran, we will do better than that--let each take a half." "Of the handkerchief?" "Yes." "Perfectly just," cried the other two Guardsmen, "the judgment of King Solomon! Aramis, you certainly are full of wisdom!" The young men burst into a laugh, and as may be supposed, the affair had no other sequel. In a moment or two the conversation ceased, and the three Guardsmen and the Musketeer, after having cordially shaken hands, separated, the Guardsmen going one way and Aramis another. "Now is my time to make peace with this gallant man," said d'Artagnan to himself, having stood on one side during the whole of the latter part of the conversation; and with this good feeling drawing near to Aramis, who was departing without paying any attention to him, "Monsieur," said he, "you will excuse me, I hope." "Ah, monsieur," interrupted Aramis, "permit me to observe to you that you have not acted in this affair as a gallant man ought." "What, monsieur!" cried d'Artagnan, "and do you suppose--" "I suppose, monsieur, that you are not a fool, and that you knew very well, although coming from Gascony, that people do not tread upon handkerchiefs without a reason. What the devil! Paris is not paved with cambric!" "Monsieur, you act wrongly in endeavoring to mortify me," said d'Artagnan, in whom the natural quarrelsome spirit began to speak more loudly than his pacific resolutions. "I am from Gascony, it is true; and since you know it, there is no occasion to tell you that Gascons are not very patient, so that when they have begged to be excused once, were it even for a folly, they are convinced that they have done already at least as much again as they ought to have done." "Monsieur, what I say to you about the matter," said Aramis, "is not for the sake of seeking a quarrel. Thank God, I am not a bravo! And being a Musketeer but for a time, I only fight when I am forced to do so, and always with great repugnance; but this time the affair is serious, for here is a lady compromised by you." "By US, you mean!" cried d'Artagnan. "Why did you so maladroitly restore me the handkerchief?" "Why did you so awkwardly let it fall?" "I have said, monsieur, and I repeat, that the handkerchief did not fall from my pocket." "And thereby you have lied twice, monsieur, for I saw it fall." "Ah, you take it with that tone, do you, Master Gascon? Well, I will teach you how to behave yourself." "And I will send you back to your Mass book, Master Abbe. Draw, if you please, and instantly--" "Not so, if you please, my good friend--not here, at least. Do you not perceive that we are opposite the Hotel d'Arguillon, which is full of the cardinal's creatures? How do I know that this is not his Eminence who has honored you with the commission to procure my head? Now, I entertain a ridiculous partiality for my head, it seems to suit my shoulders so correctly. I wish to kill you, be at rest as to that, but to kill you quietly in a snug, remote place, where you will not be able to boast of your death to anybody." "I agree, monsieur; but do not be too confident. Take your handkerchief; whether it belongs to you or another, you may perhaps stand in need of it." "Monsieur is a Gascon?" asked Aramis. "Yes. Monsieur does not postpone an interview through prudence?" "Prudence, monsieur, is a virtue sufficiently useless to Musketeers, I know, but indispensable to churchmen; and as I am only a Musketeer provisionally, I hold it good to be prudent. At two o'clock I shall have the honor of expecting you at the hotel of Monsieur de Treville. There I will indicate to you the best place and time." The two young men bowed and separated, Aramis ascending the street which led to the Luxembourg, while d'Artagnan, perceiving the appointed hour was approaching, took the road to the Carmes-Deschaux, saying to himself, "Decidedly I can't draw back; but at least, if I am killed, I shall be killed by a Musketeer." Können Sie eine passende Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze formulieren?

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D'Artagnan stürmt aus Trevilles Zimmer und eilt zur Treppe. In seiner Eile stößt er an einem Musketier vorbei, entschuldigt sich schnell und rennt weiter. Der Musketier wird beleidigt und sagt, dass die Entschuldigung nicht ausreicht. D'Artagnan betrachtet den Mann genauer und erkennt Athos. Die beiden streiten sich etwas. Da sie beide hitzköpfige junge Männer sind, beschließen sie, es auf die einzige Weise zu klären, die zählt - mit einem Kampf. Sie einigen sich auf zwölf Uhr. D'Artagnan rennt weiter, um seiner Beute nachzujagen. Leider spricht Porthos gerade mit einem Soldaten am Stadttor. D'Artagnan versucht, an ihm vorbeizuschlüpfen und gerät dabei in Porthos' Mantel. Als er die Augen öffnet, befindet er sich hinter Porthos. Unter dem Mantel kann er sehen, dass das prächtige Gold der Koppel nicht bis nach hinten reicht. D'Artagnan versucht, sich zu entschuldigen; Porthos will wissen, ob D'Artagnan immer seine Augen vergisst, wenn er es eilig hat. Der junge Gascon sagt schlagfertig, dass er Augen hat, um zu sehen, was andere nicht können. Porthos wird wütend. Offensichtlich möchte er das Geheimnis seiner einseitigen Koppel schützen. Sie beschließen, um ein Uhr zu kämpfen. D'Artagnan rennt weiter herum, findet seinen Mann aber nicht. Er verlangsamt sein Tempo und sein Kopf beginnt abzukühlen. Es ist erst elf Uhr und er sieht bereits wie ein Haufen Mist vor Treville aus und hat zwei verschiedene Musketiere herausgefordert. Ein exzellenter Start. Melancholisch denkt er über seine Überlebenschancen bei einem Duell mit Athos nach und beginnt dann über Porthos' Täuschung zu lachen. Er beschließt, sich am Verhalten von Aramis zu orientieren, der immer höflich ist. Dann entdeckt er Aramis. Aramis spricht mit drei Gardisten vor dem Hotel d'Arguillon. Aramis beachtet D'Artagnan nicht. Warum sollte er den Typen anerkennen, der ihn heute Morgen von Treville herunterputzen sah? D'Artagnan ist voller Freude, seinen neuen Vorbild zu sehen, verbeugt sich und lächelt Aramis an. Die Gruppe hört auf zu reden und starrt D'Artagnan an. Unbehaglich. D'Artagnan versucht verzweifelt, eine Möglichkeit zu finden, aus der Situation herauszukommen, als er ein Taschentuch unter Aramis' Fuß entdeckt. Er hebt es auf und bietet es dem Musketier an. Aramis errötet. Einer der Gardisten weist darauf hin, dass das Monogramm das Taschentuch als Eigentum einer gewissen Madame de Bois-Tracy kennzeichnet. Wir riechen eine Affäre! Aramis wirft D'Artagnan einen Blick zu, der Eis gefrieren lassen würde, und sagt dann den Gardisten, dass er absolut keine Ahnung hat, wo das Taschentuch herkommt. Sicher. Die Gardisten sind nicht überzeugt. Einer von ihnen bietet an, das Taschentuch der Dame zurückzugeben, da er mit dem Ehemann der Dame gut befreundet ist. D'Artagnan unterbricht das Gespräch, um zu sagen, dass das Taschentuch möglicherweise doch nicht Aramis gehört. Aramis schlägt vor, das Taschentuch in zwei Hälften zu teilen. Die Gardisten verabschieden sich einvernehmlich von Aramis. D'Artagnan entschuldigt sich für sein Verhalten, sobald die Gardisten außer Hörweite sind. Aramis macht D'Artagnan Vorwürfe, weil er ein Idiot ist. Aramis versucht, einem Kampf aus dem Weg zu gehen, weist D'Artagnan jedoch darauf hin, dass seine Handlungen eine Dame in Gefahr gebracht haben. Die beiden streiten sich. Es geht ungefähr so: "Warum hast du mir das Taschentuch gegeben?" "Warum hast du es fallen lassen?" "Habe ich nicht!" "Alter, ich habe gesehen, wie es gefallen ist." Die beiden beschließen, die Angelegenheit um zwei Uhr zu klären. Nachdem er erfolgreich drei Duelltermine gemacht hat, macht sich D'Artagnan auf den Weg, den ersten einzuhalten. Er überlegt, dass er zumindest von einem Musketier getötet wird.

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

An diesem Nachmittag macht Jim zum ersten Mal eine Fahrt auf seinem Pony. Otto hilft ihm dabei. Sobald er gelernt hat, wie man reitet, fährt er zweimal pro Woche zum Postamt, damit die Männer nicht mehr die Reise machen müssen. Er trägt auch Nachrichten für die Familie, um Otto Zeit zu sparen. Erzähler-Jim erinnert sich liebevoll an seinen ersten Herbst in Nebraska. Früher tollte er über die Prärie. Die Straßen sind von Sonnenblumen gesäumt, und Otto erzählt Jim, dass die Mormonen diese Samen gepflanzt haben, um den Weg für zukünftige Reisende zu markieren. Aber Botaniker sagen, dass diese Geschichte nicht wahr ist. Jim sucht gerne nach Bäumen, da es im Land so wenige gibt. Er geht auch gerne zum Präriehundedorf und beobachtet die fliegenden Eulen. Antonia geht oft mit ihm dorthin. Sie spekulieren, wie die Hunde an Wasser kommen. Antonia ist ein sehr meinungsstarkes Mädchen. Jeden Tag geht sie zu Jim, um Englischunterricht von ihm zu bekommen. Frau Shimerda mag das nicht, aber sie weiß, dass jemand in der Familie die Landessprache sprechen sollte. Nach der Unterrichtsstunde gehen Jim und Antonia hinter dem Garten Melonen essen. Die Shimerdas mögen Obst, weil sie während der Überfahrt keinen hatten. Antonia hilft Jim's Großmutter oft in der Küche, damit sie etwas über Kochen und Hausarbeit lernen kann. Frau Shimerda war früher eine gute Hausfrau, aber in diesem neuen Land ist es schwer für sie. Sie macht schlecht schmeckendes Brot für ihre Familie und lässt die Rückstände in der Pfanne gären, um als Hefe für den nächsten Teig zu dienen. In ihren ersten Monaten in Nebraska gehen die Shimerdas nicht in die Stadt, weil Peter sie überzeugt hat, dass die Stadt ihnen das Geld nehmen würde. Sie mögen Peter nicht, aber sie müssen ihn in der Nähe behalten, weil er der einzige ist, der für sie übersetzen kann. Sie wissen nicht, wie sie ihn loswerden 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: On reaching the inn, Madame Bovary was surprised not to see the diligence. Hivert, who had waited for her fifty-three minutes, had at last started. Yet nothing forced her to go; but she had given her word that she would return that same evening. Moreover, Charles expected her, and in her heart she felt already that cowardly docility that is for some women at once the chastisement and atonement of adultery. She packed her box quickly, paid her bill, took a cab in the yard, hurrying on the driver, urging him on, every moment inquiring about the time and the miles traversed. He succeeded in catching up the "Hirondelle" as it neared the first houses of Quincampoix. Hardly was she seated in her corner than she closed her eyes, and opened them at the foot of the hill, when from afar she recognised Felicite, who was on the lookout in front of the farrier's shop. Hivert pulled in his horses and, the servant, climbing up to the window, said mysteriously-- "Madame, you must go at once to Monsieur Homais. It's for something important." The village was silent as usual. At the corner of the streets were small pink heaps that smoked in the air, for this was the time for jam-making, and everyone at Yonville prepared his supply on the same day. But in front of the chemist's shop one might admire a far larger heap, and that surpassed the others with the superiority that a laboratory must have over ordinary stores, a general need over individual fancy. She went in. The large arm-chair was upset, and even the "Fanal de Rouen" lay on the ground, outspread between two pestles. She pushed open the lobby door, and in the middle of the kitchen, amid brown jars full of picked currants, of powdered sugar and lump sugar, of the scales on the table, and of the pans on the fire, she saw all the Homais, small and large, with aprons reaching to their chins, and with forks in their hands. Justin was standing up with bowed head, and the chemist was screaming-- "Who told you to go and fetch it in the Capharnaum." "What is it? What is the matter?" "What is it?" replied the druggist. "We are making preserves; they are simmering; but they were about to boil over, because there is too much juice, and I ordered another pan. Then he, from indolence, from laziness, went and took, hanging on its nail in my laboratory, the key of the Capharnaum." It was thus the druggist called a small room under the leads, full of the utensils and the goods of his trade. He often spent long hours there alone, labelling, decanting, and doing up again; and he looked upon it not as a simple store, but as a veritable sanctuary, whence there afterwards issued, elaborated by his hands, all sorts of pills, boluses, infusions, lotions, and potions, that would bear far and wide his celebrity. No one in the world set foot there, and he respected it so, that he swept it himself. Finally, if the pharmacy, open to all comers, was the spot where he displayed his pride, the Capharnaum was the refuge where, egoistically concentrating himself, Homais delighted in the exercise of his predilections, so that Justin's thoughtlessness seemed to him a monstrous piece of irreverence, and, redder than the currants, he repeated-- "Yes, from the Capharnaum! The key that locks up the acids and caustic alkalies! To go and get a spare pan! a pan with a lid! and that I shall perhaps never use! Everything is of importance in the delicate operations of our art! But, devil take it! one must make distinctions, and not employ for almost domestic purposes that which is meant for pharmaceutical! It is as if one were to carve a fowl with a scalpel; as if a magistrate--" "Now be calm," said Madame Homais. And Athalie, pulling at his coat, cried "Papa! papa!" "No, let me alone," went on the druggist "let me alone, hang it! My word! One might as well set up for a grocer. That's it! go it! respect nothing! break, smash, let loose the leeches, burn the mallow-paste, pickle the gherkins in the window jars, tear up the bandages!" "I thought you had--" said Emma. "Presently! Do you know to what you exposed yourself? Didn't you see anything in the corner, on the left, on the third shelf? Speak, answer, articulate something." "I--don't--know," stammered the young fellow. "Ah! you don't know! Well, then, I do know! You saw a bottle of blue glass, sealed with yellow wax, that contains a white powder, on which I have even written 'Dangerous!' And do you know what is in it? Arsenic! And you go and touch it! You take a pan that was next to it!" "Next to it!" cried Madame Homais, clasping her hands. "Arsenic! You might have poisoned us all." And the children began howling as if they already had frightful pains in their entrails. "Or poison a patient!" continued the druggist. "Do you want to see me in the prisoner's dock with criminals, in a court of justice? To see me dragged to the scaffold? Don't you know what care I take in managing things, although I am so thoroughly used to it? Often I am horrified myself when I think of my responsibility; for the Government persecutes us, and the absurd legislation that rules us is a veritable Damocles' sword over our heads." Emma no longer dreamed of asking what they wanted her for, and the druggist went on in breathless phrases-- "That is your return for all the kindness we have shown you! That is how you recompense me for the really paternal care that I lavish on you! For without me where would you be? What would you be doing? Who provides you with food, education, clothes, and all the means of figuring one day with honour in the ranks of society? But you must pull hard at the oar if you're to do that, and get, as, people say, callosities upon your hands. Fabricando fit faber, age quod agis.*" * The worker lives by working, do what he will. He was so exasperated he quoted Latin. He would have quoted Chinese or Greenlandish had he known those two languages, for he was in one of those crises in which the whole soul shows indistinctly what it contains, like the ocean, which, in the storm, opens itself from the seaweeds on its shores down to the sands of its abysses. And he went on-- "I am beginning to repent terribly of having taken you up! I should certainly have done better to have left you to rot in your poverty and the dirt in which you were born. Oh, you'll never be fit for anything but to herd animals with horns! You have no aptitude for science! You hardly know how to stick on a label! And there you are, dwelling with me snug as a parson, living in clover, taking your ease!" But Emma, turning to Madame Homais, "I was told to come here--" "Oh, dear me!" interrupted the good woman, with a sad air, "how am I to tell you? It is a misfortune!" She could not finish, the druggist was thundering--"Empty it! Clean it! Take it back! Be quick!" And seizing Justin by the collar of his blouse, he shook a book out of his pocket. The lad stooped, but Homais was the quicker, and, having picked up the volume, contemplated it with staring eyes and open mouth. "CONJUGAL--LOVE!" he said, slowly separating the two words. "Ah! very good! very good! very pretty! And illustrations! Oh, this is too much!" Madame Homais came forward. "No, do not touch it!" The children wanted to look at the pictures. "Leave the room," he said imperiously; and they went out. First he walked up and down with the open volume in his hand, rolling his eyes, choking, tumid, apoplectic. Then he came straight to his pupil, and, planting himself in front of him with crossed arms-- "Have you every vice, then, little wretch? Take care! you are on a downward path. Did not you reflect that this infamous book might fall in the hands of my children, kindle a spark in their minds, tarnish the purity of Athalie, corrupt Napoleon. He is already formed like a man. Are you quite sure, anyhow, that they have not read it? Can you certify to me--" "But really, sir," said Emma, "you wished to tell me--" "Ah, yes! madame. Your father-in-law is dead." In fact, Monsieur Bovary senior had expired the evening before suddenly from an attack of apoplexy as he got up from table, and by way of greater precaution, on account of Emma's sensibility, Charles had begged Homais to break the horrible news to her gradually. Homais had thought over his speech; he had rounded, polished it, made it rhythmical; it was a masterpiece of prudence and transitions, of subtle turns and delicacy; but anger had got the better of rhetoric. Emma, giving up all chance of hearing any details, left the pharmacy; for Monsieur Homais had taken up the thread of his vituperations. However, he was growing calmer, and was now grumbling in a paternal tone whilst he fanned himself with his skull-cap. "It is not that I entirely disapprove of the work. Its author was a doctor! There are certain scientific points in it that it is not ill a man should know, and I would even venture to say that a man must know. But later--later! At any rate, not till you are man yourself and your temperament is formed." When Emma knocked at the door. Charles, who was waiting for her, came forward with open arms and said to her with tears in his voice-- "Ah! my dear!" And he bent over her gently to kiss her. But at the contact of his lips the memory of the other seized her, and she passed her hand over her face shuddering. But she made answer, "Yes, I know, I know!" He showed her the letter in which his mother told the event without any sentimental hypocrisy. She only regretted her husband had not received the consolations of religion, as he had died at Daudeville, in the street, at the door of a cafe after a patriotic dinner with some ex-officers. Emma gave him back the letter; then at dinner, for appearance's sake, she affected a certain repugnance. But as he urged her to try, she resolutely began eating, while Charles opposite her sat motionless in a dejected attitude. Now and then he raised his head and gave her a long look full of distress. Once he sighed, "I should have liked to see him again!" She was silent. At last, understanding that she must say something, "How old was your father?" she asked. "Fifty-eight." "Ah!" And that was all. A quarter of an hour after he added, "My poor mother! what will become of her now?" She made a gesture that signified she did not know. Seeing her so taciturn, Charles imagined her much affected, and forced himself to say nothing, not to reawaken this sorrow which moved him. And, shaking off his own-- "Did you enjoy yourself yesterday?" he asked. "Yes." When the cloth was removed, Bovary did not rise, nor did Emma; and as she looked at him, the monotony of the spectacle drove little by little all pity from her heart. He seemed to her paltry, weak, a cipher--in a word, a poor thing in every way. How to get rid of him? What an interminable evening! Something stupefying like the fumes of opium seized her. They heard in the passage the sharp noise of a wooden leg on the boards. It was Hippolyte bringing back Emma's luggage. In order to put it down he described painfully a quarter of a circle with his stump. "He doesn't even remember any more about it," she thought, looking at the poor devil, whose coarse red hair was wet with perspiration. Bovary was searching at the bottom of his purse for a centime, and without appearing to understand all there was of humiliation for him in the mere presence of this man, who stood there like a personified reproach to his incurable incapacity. "Hallo! you've a pretty bouquet," he said, noticing Leon's violets on the chimney. "Yes," she replied indifferently; "it's a bouquet I bought just now from a beggar." Charles picked up the flowers, and freshening his eyes, red with tears, against them, smelt them delicately. She took them quickly from his hand and put them in a glass of water. The next day Madame Bovary senior arrived. She and her son wept much. Emma, on the pretext of giving orders, disappeared. The following day they had a talk over the mourning. They went and sat down with their workboxes by the waterside under the arbour. Charles was thinking of his father, and was surprised to feel so much affection for this man, whom till then he had thought he cared little about. Madame Bovary senior was thinking of her husband. The worst days of the past seemed enviable to her. All was forgotten beneath the instinctive regret of such a long habit, and from time to time whilst she sewed, a big tear rolled along her nose and hung suspended there a moment. Emma was thinking that it was scarcely forty-eight hours since they had been together, far from the world, all in a frenzy of joy, and not having eyes enough to gaze upon each other. She tried to recall the slightest details of that past day. But the presence of her husband and mother-in-law worried her. She would have liked to hear nothing, to see nothing, so as not to disturb the meditation on her love, that, do what she would, became lost in external sensations. She was unpicking the lining of a dress, and the strips were scattered around her. Madame Bovary senior was plying her scissor without looking up, and Charles, in his list slippers and his old brown surtout that he used as a dressing-gown, sat with both hands in his pockets, and did not speak either; near them Berthe, in a little white pinafore, was raking sand in the walks with her spade. Suddenly she saw Monsieur Lheureux, the linendraper, come in through the gate. He came to offer his services "under the sad circumstances." Emma answered that she thought she could do without. The shopkeeper was not to be beaten. "I beg your pardon," he said, "but I should like to have a private talk with you." Then in a low voice, "It's about that affair--you know." Charles crimsoned to his ears. "Oh, yes! certainly." And in his confusion, turning to his wife, "Couldn't you, my darling?" She seemed to understand him, for she rose; and Charles said to his mother, "It is nothing particular. No doubt, some household trifle." He did not want her to know the story of the bill, fearing her reproaches. As soon as they were alone, Monsieur Lheureux in sufficiently clear terms began to congratulate Emma on the inheritance, then to talk of indifferent matters, of the espaliers, of the harvest, and of his own health, which was always so-so, always having ups and downs. In fact, he had to work devilish hard, although he didn't make enough, in spite of all people said, to find butter for his bread. Emma let him talk on. She had bored herself so prodigiously the last two days. "And so you're quite well again?" he went on. "Ma foi! I saw your husband in a sad state. He's a good fellow, though we did have a little misunderstanding." She asked what misunderstanding, for Charles had said nothing of the dispute about the goods supplied to her. "Why, you know well enough," cried Lheureux. "It was about your little fancies--the travelling trunks." He had drawn his hat over his eyes, and, with his hands behind his back, smiling and whistling, he looked straight at her in an unbearable manner. Did he suspect anything? She was lost in all kinds of apprehensions. At last, however, he went on-- "We made it up, all the same, and I've come again to propose another arrangement." This was to renew the bill Bovary had signed. The doctor, of course, would do as he pleased; he was not to trouble himself, especially just now, when he would have a lot of worry. "And he would do better to give it over to someone else--to you, for example. With a power of attorney it could be easily managed, and then we (you and I) would have our little business transactions together." She did not understand. He was silent. Then, passing to his trade, Lheureux declared that madame must require something. He would send her a black barege, twelve yards, just enough to make a gown. "The one you've on is good enough for the house, but you want another for calls. I saw that the very moment that I came in. I've the eye of an American!" He did not send the stuff; he brought it. Then he came again to measure it; he came again on other pretexts, always trying to make himself agreeable, useful, "enfeoffing himself," as Homais would have said, and always dropping some hint to Emma about the power of attorney. He never mentioned the bill; she did not think of it. Charles, at the beginning of her convalescence, had certainly said something about it to her, but so many emotions had passed through her head that she no longer remembered it. Besides, she took care not to talk of any money questions. Madame Bovary seemed surprised at this, and attributed the change in her ways to the religious sentiments she had contracted during her illness. But as soon as she was gone, Emma greatly astounded Bovary by her practical good sense. It would be necessary to make inquiries, to look into mortgages, and see if there were any occasion for a sale by auction or a liquidation. She quoted technical terms casually, pronounced the grand words of order, the future, foresight, and constantly exaggerated the difficulties of settling his father's affairs so much, that at last one day she showed him the rough draft of a power of attorney to manage and administer his business, arrange all loans, sign and endorse all bills, pay all sums, etc. She had profited by Lheureux's lessons. Charles naively asked her where this paper came from. "Monsieur Guillaumin"; and with the utmost coolness she added, "I don't trust him overmuch. Notaries have such a bad reputation. Perhaps we ought to consult--we only know--no one." "Unless Leon--" replied Charles, who was reflecting. But it was difficult to explain matters by letter. Then she offered to make the journey, but he thanked her. She insisted. It was quite a contest of mutual consideration. At last she cried with affected waywardness-- "No, I will go!" "How good you are!" he said, kissing her forehead. The next morning she set out in the "Hirondelle" to go to Rouen to consult Monsieur Leon, and she stayed there three days. They were three full, exquisite days--a true honeymoon. They were at the Hotel-de-Boulogne, on the harbour; and they lived there, with drawn blinds and closed doors, with flowers on the floor, and iced syrups were brought them early in the morning. Towards evening they took a covered boat and went to dine on one of the islands. It was the time when one hears by the side of the dockyard the caulking-mallets sounding against the hull of vessels. The smoke of the tar rose up between the trees; there were large fatty drops on the water, undulating in the purple colour of the sun, like floating plaques of Florentine bronze. They rowed down in the midst of moored boats, whose long oblique cables grazed lightly against the bottom of the boat. The din of the town gradually grew distant; the rolling of carriages, the tumult of voices, the yelping of dogs on the decks of vessels. She took off her bonnet, and they landed on their island. They sat down in the low-ceilinged room of a tavern, at whose door hung black nets. They ate fried smelts, cream and cherries. They lay down upon the grass; they kissed behind the poplars; and they would fain, like two Robinsons, have lived for ever in this little place, which seemed to them in their beatitude the most magnificent on earth. It was not the first time that they had seen trees, a blue sky, meadows; that they had heard the water flowing and the wind blowing in the leaves; but, no doubt, they had never admired all this, as if Nature had not existed before, or had only begun to be beautiful since the gratification of their desires. At night they returned. The boat glided along the shores of the islands. They sat at the bottom, both hidden by the shade, in silence. The square oars rang in the iron thwarts, and, in the stillness, seemed to mark time, like the beating of a metronome, while at the stern the rudder that trailed behind never ceased its gentle splash against the water. Once the moon rose; they did not fail to make fine phrases, finding the orb melancholy and full of poetry. She even began to sing-- "One night, do you remember, we were sailing," etc. Her musical but weak voice died away along the waves, and the winds carried off the trills that Leon heard pass like the flapping of wings about him. She was opposite him, leaning against the partition of the shallop, through one of whose raised blinds the moon streamed in. Her black dress, whose drapery spread out like a fan, made her seem more slender, taller. Her head was raised, her hands clasped, her eyes turned towards heaven. At times the shadow of the willows hid her completely; then she reappeared suddenly, like a vision in the moonlight. Leon, on the floor by her side, found under his hand a ribbon of scarlet silk. The boatman looked at it, and at last said-- "Perhaps it belongs to the party I took out the other day. A lot of jolly folk, gentlemen and ladies, with cakes, champagne, cornets--everything in style! There was one especially, a tall handsome man with small moustaches, who was that funny! And they all kept saying, 'Now tell us something, Adolphe--Dolpe,' I think." She shivered. "You are in pain?" asked Leon, coming closer to her. "Oh, it's nothing! No doubt, it is only the night air." "And who doesn't want for women, either," softly added the sailor, thinking he was paying the stranger a compliment. Then, spitting on his hands, he took the oars again. Yet they had to part. The adieux were sad. He was to send his letters to Mere Rollet, and she gave him such precise instructions about a double envelope that he admired greatly her amorous astuteness. "So you can assure me it is all right?" she said with her last kiss. "Yes, certainly." "But why," he thought afterwards as he came back through the streets alone, "is she so very anxious to get this power of attorney?" Leon soon put on an air of superiority before his comrades, avoided their company, and completely neglected his work. He waited for her letters; he re-read them; he wrote to her. He called her to mind with all the strength of his desires and of his memories. Instead of lessening with absence, this longing to see her again grew, so that at last on Saturday morning he escaped from his office. When, from the summit of the hill, he saw in the valley below the church-spire with its tin flag swinging in the wind, he felt that delight mingled with triumphant vanity and egoistic tenderness that millionaires must experience when they come back to their native village. He went rambling round her house. A light was burning in the kitchen. He watched for her shadow behind the curtains, but nothing appeared. Mere Lefrancois, when she saw him, uttered many exclamations. She thought he "had grown and was thinner," while Artemise, on the contrary, thought him stouter and darker. He dined in the little room as of yore, but alone, without the tax-gatherer; for Binet, tired of waiting for the "Hirondelle," had definitely put forward his meal one hour, and now he dined punctually at five, and yet he declared usually the rickety old concern "was late." Leon, however, made up his mind, and knocked at the doctor's door. Madame was in her room, and did not come down for a quarter of an hour. The doctor seemed delighted to see him, but he never stirred out that evening, nor all the next day. He saw her alone in the evening, very late, behind the garden in the lane; in the lane, as she had the other one! It was a stormy night, and they talked under an umbrella by lightning flashes. Their separation was becoming intolerable. "I would rather die!" said Emma. She was writhing in his arms, weeping. "Adieu! adieu! When shall I see you again?" They came back again to embrace once more, and it was then that she promised him to find soon, by no matter what means, a regular opportunity for seeing one another in freedom at least once a week. Emma never doubted she should be able to do this. Besides, she was full of hope. Some money was coming to her. On the strength of it she bought a pair of yellow curtains with large stripes for her room, whose cheapness Monsieur Lheureux had commended; she dreamed of getting a carpet, and Lheureux, declaring that it wasn't "drinking the sea," politely undertook to supply her with one. She could no longer do without his services. Twenty times a day she sent for him, and he at once put by his business without a murmur. People could not understand either why Mere Rollet breakfasted with her every day, and even paid her private visits. It was about this time, that is to say, the beginning of winter, that she seemed seized with great musical fervour. One evening when Charles was listening to her, she began the same piece four times over, each time with much vexation, while he, not noticing any difference, cried-- "Bravo! very goodl You are wrong to stop. Go on!" "Oh, no; it is execrable! My fingers are quite rusty." The next day he begged her to play him something again. "Very well; to please you!" And Charles confessed she had gone off a little. She played wrong notes and blundered; then, stopping short-- "Ah! it is no use. I ought to take some lessons; but--" She bit her lips and added, "Twenty francs a lesson, that's too dear!" "Yes, so it is--rather," said Charles, giggling stupidly. "But it seems to me that one might be able to do it for less; for there are artists of no reputation, and who are often better than the celebrities." "Find them!" said Emma. The next day when he came home he looked at her shyly, and at last could no longer keep back the words. "How obstinate you are sometimes! I went to Barfucheres to-day. Well, Madame Liegard assured me that her three young ladies who are at La Misericorde have lessons at fifty sous apiece, and that from an excellent mistress!" She shrugged her shoulders and did not open her piano again. But when she passed by it (if Bovary were there), she sighed-- "Ah! my poor piano!" And when anyone came to see her, she did not fail to inform them she had given up music, and could not begin again now for important reasons. Then people commiserated her-- "What a pity! she had so much talent!" They even spoke to Bovary about it. They put him to shame, and especially the chemist. "You are wrong. One should never let any of the faculties of nature lie fallow. Besides, just think, my good friend, that by inducing madame to study; you are economising on the subsequent musical education of your child. For my own part, I think that mothers ought themselves to instruct their children. That is an idea of Rousseau's, still rather new perhaps, but that will end by triumphing, I am certain of it, like mothers nursing their own children and vaccination." So Charles returned once more to this question of the piano. Emma replied bitterly that it would be better to sell it. This poor piano, that had given her vanity so much satisfaction--to see it go was to Bovary like the indefinable suicide of a part of herself. "If you liked," he said, "a lesson from time to time, that wouldn't after all be very ruinous." "But lessons," she replied, "are only of use when followed up." And thus it was she set about obtaining her husband's permission to go to town once a week to see her lover. At the end of a month she was even considered to have made considerable progress. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Bei ihrer Rückkehr nach Yonville erfuhr Emma, dass Bovarys Vater gestorben war. Charles war sehr aufgewühlt, vor allem weil er den Mann lange nicht gesehen hatte. Emma empfand keinen Kummer, zeigte aber die üblichen sympathischen Gesten, die ihr Ehemann falsch verstand und sehr schätzte. Nach einer Weile zog Frau Bovary bei ihnen ein. Emma war höflich und aufmerksam, doch sie ärgerte sich, weil die Notwendigkeit, den Trauernden gegenüber freundlich zu sein, sie von ihren Gedanken an Leon ablenkte. Um diese Zeit herum tauchte Lheureux wieder auf und präsentierte Emma ihre unbezahlten Rechnungen. Es gelang ihm auch, ihr teurere Waren zu verkaufen. Als Emma sich Sorgen machte, wie sie alles bezahlen soll, schlug er vor, dass sie von Bovary eine Vollmacht bekommt. Auf diese Weise, sagte er, müsse sie ihren Ehemann nicht mit "unwichtigen" finanziellen Angelegenheiten belästigen und könne eine praktische Methode finden, um ihre Schulden zu begleichen. Emma überzeugte Bovary ohne allzu große Schwierigkeiten von der Weisheit dieses Plans, da er keine Ahnung von der wahren Höhe ihrer Schulden hatte. Emma überredete ihn sogar, statt zum örtlichen Anwalt, Leon für die Erstellung der Unterlagen zu engagieren, und Bovary vereinbarte bereitwillig, sie alleine nach Rouen zu schicken, um sich um diese Angelegenheit zu kümmern. Emma verbrachte die nächsten drei Tage in Rouen mit Leon. Er mietete ein teures Hotelzimmer für die Gelegenheit, und diese kurze Zeit war wie eine Hochzeitsreise für sie. Sie gingen in einige der besten Restaurants und Unterhaltungsorte und verbrachten die meiste Zeit mit Liebesabenteuern und romantischer Liebeswerbung. Leon war völlig in seine Affäre mit Emma verstrickt; er vernachlässigte seine Arbeit und sah seine Freunde kaum noch. Der Empfang ihrer Briefe wurde zu einem großen Ereignis in seinem Leben, und er besuchte sogar Yonville, entweder heimlich oder unter verschiedenen falschen Vorwänden, um sie zu sehen. Emma verstrickte sich währenddessen immer tiefer in finanzielle Verpflichtungen gegenüber Lheureux. Um Leon öfter zu sehen, zeigte sie wieder Interesse am Klavierspiel und überredete Bovary schließlich, ihr wöchentliche Unterrichtsstunden bei einem Lehrer in Rouen zu ermöglichen.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: A passing remark is all that needs be given to the ignorant blunder of supposing that those who stand up for utility as the test of right and wrong, use the term in that restricted and merely colloquial sense in which utility is opposed to pleasure. An apology is due to the philosophical opponents of utilitarianism, for even the momentary appearance of confounding them with any one capable of so absurd a misconception; which is the more extraordinary, inasmuch as the contrary accusation, of referring everything to pleasure, and that too in its grossest form, is another of the common charges against utilitarianism: and, as has been pointedly remarked by an able writer, the same sort of persons, and often the very same persons, denounce the theory "as impracticably dry when the word utility precedes the word pleasure, and as too practicably voluptuous when the word pleasure precedes the word utility." Those who know anything about the matter are aware that every writer, from Epicurus to Bentham, who maintained the theory of utility, meant by it, not something to be contradistinguished from pleasure, but pleasure itself, together with exemption from pain; and instead of opposing the useful to the agreeable or the ornamental, have always declared that the useful means these, among other things. Yet the common herd, including the herd of writers, not only in newspapers and periodicals, but in books of weight and pretension, are perpetually falling into this shallow mistake. Having caught up the word utilitarian, while knowing nothing whatever about it but its sound, they habitually express by it the rejection, or the neglect, of pleasure in some of its forms; of beauty, of ornament, or of amusement. Nor is the term thus ignorantly misapplied solely in disparagement, but occasionally in compliment; as though it implied superiority to frivolity and the mere pleasures of the moment. And this perverted use is the only one in which the word is popularly known, and the one from which the new generation are acquiring their sole notion of its meaning. Those who introduced the word, but who had for many years discontinued it as a distinctive appellation, may well feel themselves called upon to resume it, if by doing so they can hope to contribute anything towards rescuing it from this utter degradation.[A] The creed which accepts as the foundation of morals, Utility, or the Greatest Happiness Principle, holds that actions are right in proportion as they tend to promote happiness, wrong as they tend to produce the reverse of happiness. By happiness is intended pleasure, and the absence of pain; by unhappiness, pain, and the privation of pleasure. To give a clear view of the moral standard set up by the theory, much more requires to be said; in particular, what things it includes in the ideas of pain and pleasure; and to what extent this is left an open question. But these supplementary explanations do not affect the theory of life on which this theory of morality is grounded--namely, that pleasure, and freedom from pain, are the only things desirable as ends; and that all desirable things (which are as numerous in the utilitarian as in any other scheme) are desirable either for the pleasure inherent in themselves, or as means to the promotion of pleasure and the prevention of pain. Now, such a theory of life excites in many minds, and among them in some of the most estimable in feeling and purpose, inveterate dislike. To suppose that life has (as they express it) no higher end than pleasure--no better and nobler object of desire and pursuit--they designate as utterly mean and grovelling; as a doctrine worthy only of swine, to whom the followers of Epicurus were, at a very early period, contemptuously likened; and modern holders of the doctrine are occasionally made the subject of equally polite comparisons by its German, French, and English assailants. When thus attacked, the Epicureans have always answered, that it is not they, but their accusers, who represent human nature in a degrading light; since the accusation supposes human beings to be capable of no pleasures except those of which swine are capable. If this supposition were true, the charge could not be gainsaid, but would then be no longer an imputation; for if the sources of pleasure were precisely the same to human beings and to swine, the rule of life which is good enough for the one would be good enough for the other. The comparison of the Epicurean life to that of beasts is felt as degrading, precisely because a beast's pleasures do not satisfy a human being's conceptions of happiness. Human beings have faculties more elevated than the animal appetites, and when once made conscious of them, do not regard anything as happiness which does not include their gratification. I do not, indeed, consider the Epicureans to have been by any means faultless in drawing out their scheme of consequences from the utilitarian principle. To do this in any sufficient manner, many Stoic, as well as Christian elements require to be included. But there is no known Epicurean theory of life which does not assign to the pleasures of the intellect; of the feelings and imagination, and of the moral sentiments, a much higher value as pleasures than to those of mere sensation. It must be admitted, however, that utilitarian writers in general have placed the superiority of mental over bodily pleasures chiefly in the greater permanency, safety, uncostliness, &c., of the former--that is, in their circumstantial advantages rather than in their intrinsic nature. And on all these points utilitarians have fully proved their case; but they might have taken the other, and, as it may be called, higher ground, with entire consistency. It is quite compatible with the principle of utility to recognise the fact, that some _kinds_ of pleasure are more desirable and more valuable than others. It would be absurd that while, in estimating all other things, quality is considered as well as quantity, the estimation of pleasures should be supposed to depend on quantity alone. If I am asked, what I mean by difference of quality in pleasures, or what makes one pleasure more valuable than another, merely as a pleasure, except its being greater in amount, there is but one possible answer. Of two pleasures, if there be one to which all or almost all who have experience of both give a decided preference, irrespective of any feeling of moral obligation to prefer it, that is the more desirable pleasure. If one of the two is, by those who are competently acquainted with both, placed so far above the other that they prefer it, even though knowing it to be attended with a greater amount of discontent, and would not resign it for any quantity of the other pleasure which their nature is capable of, we are justified in ascribing to the preferred enjoyment a superiority in quality, so far outweighing quantity as to render it, in comparison, of small account. Now it is an unquestionable fact that those who are equally acquainted with, and equally capable of appreciating and enjoying, both, do give a most marked preference to the manner of existence which employs their higher faculties. Few human creatures would consent to be changed into any of the lower animals, for a promise of the fullest allowance of a beast's pleasures; no intelligent human being would consent to be a fool, no instructed person would be an ignoramus, no person of feeling and conscience would be selfish and base, even though they should be persuaded that the fool, the dunce, or the rascal is better satisfied with his lot than they are with theirs. They would not resign what they possess more than he, for the most complete satisfaction of all the desires which they have in common with him. If they ever fancy they would, it is only in cases of unhappiness so extreme, that to escape from it they would exchange their lot for almost any other, however undesirable in their own eyes. A being of higher faculties requires more to make him happy, is capable probably of more acute suffering, and is certainly accessible to it at more points, than one of an inferior type; but in spite of these liabilities, he can never really wish to sink into what he feels to be a lower grade of existence. We may give what explanation we please of this unwillingness; we may attribute it to pride, a name which is given indiscriminately to some of the most and to some of the least estimable feelings of which mankind are capable; we may refer it to the love of liberty and personal independence, an appeal to which was with the Stoics one of the most effective means for the inculcation of it; to the love of power, or to the love of excitement, both of which do really enter into and contribute to it: but its most appropriate appellation is a sense of dignity, which all human beings possess in one form or other, and in some, though by no means in exact, proportion to their higher faculties, and which is so essential a part of the happiness of those in whom it is strong, that nothing which conflicts with it could be, otherwise than momentarily, an object of desire to them. Whoever supposes that this preference takes place at a sacrifice of happiness-that the superior being, in anything like equal circumstances, is not happier than the inferior-confounds the two very different ideas, of happiness, and content. It is indisputable that the being whose capacities of enjoyment are low, has the greatest chance of having them fully satisfied; and a highly-endowed being will always feel that any happiness which he can look for, as the world is constituted, is imperfect. But he can learn to bear its imperfections, if they are at all bearable; and they will not make him envy the being who is indeed unconscious of the imperfections, but only because he feels not at all the good which those imperfections qualify. It is better to be a human being dissatisfied than a pig satisfied; better to be Socrates dissatisfied than a fool satisfied. And if the fool, or the pig, is of a different opinion, it is because they only know their own side of the question. The other party to the comparison knows both sides. It may be objected, that many who are capable of the higher pleasures, occasionally, under the influence of temptation, postpone them to the lower. But this is quite compatible with a full appreciation of the intrinsic superiority of the higher. Men often, from infirmity of character, make their election for the nearer good, though they know it to be the less valuable; and this no less when the choice is between two bodily pleasures, than when it is between bodily and mental. They pursue sensual indulgences to the injury of health, though perfectly aware that health is the greater good. It may be further objected, that many who begin with youthful enthusiasm for everything noble, as they advance in years sink into indolence and selfishness. But I do not believe that those who undergo this very common change, voluntarily choose the lower description of pleasures in preference to the higher. I believe that before they devote themselves exclusively to the one, they have already become incapable of the other. Capacity for the nobler feelings is in most natures a very tender plant, easily killed, not only by hostile influences, but by mere want of sustenance; and in the majority of young persons it speedily dies away if the occupations to which their position in life has devoted them, and the society into which it has thrown them, are not favourable to keeping that higher capacity in exercise. Men lose their high aspirations as they lose their intellectual tastes, because they have not time or opportunity for indulging them; and they addict themselves to inferior pleasures, not because they deliberately prefer them, but because they are either the only ones to which they have access, or the only ones which they are any longer capable of enjoying. It may be questioned whether any one who has remained equally susceptible to both classes of pleasures, ever knowingly and calmly preferred the lower; though many, in all ages, have broken down in an ineffectual attempt to combine both. From this verdict of the only competent judges, I apprehend there can be no appeal. On a question which is the best worth having of two pleasures, or which of two modes of existence is the most grateful to the feelings, apart from its moral attributes and from its consequences, the judgment of those who are qualified by knowledge of both, or, if they differ, that of the majority among them, must be admitted as final. And there needs be the less hesitation to accept this judgment respecting the quality of pleasures, since there is no other tribunal to be referred to even on the question of quantity. What means are there of determining which is the acutest of two pains, or the intensest of two pleasurable sensations, except the general suffrage of those who are familiar with both? Neither pains nor pleasures are homogeneous, and pain is always heterogeneous with pleasure. What is there to decide whether a particular pleasure is worth purchasing at the cost of a particular pain, except the feelings and judgment of the experienced? When, therefore, those feelings and judgment declare the pleasures derived from the higher faculties to be preferable _in kind_, apart from the question of intensity, to those of which the animal nature, disjoined from the higher faculties, is susceptible, they are entitled on this subject to the same regard. I have dwelt on this point, as being a necessary part of a perfectly just conception of Utility or Happiness, considered as the directive rule of human conduct. But it is by no means an indispensable condition to the acceptance of the utilitarian standard; for that standard is not the agent's own greatest happiness, but the greatest amount of happiness altogether; and if it may possibly be doubted whether a noble character is always the happier for its nobleness, there can be no doubt that it makes other people happier, and that the world in general is immensely a gainer by it. Utilitarianism, therefore, could only attain its end by the general cultivation of nobleness of character, even if each individual were only benefited by the nobleness of others, and his own, so far as happiness is concerned, were a sheer deduction from the benefit. But the bare enunciation of such an absurdity as this last, renders refutation superfluous. According to the Greatest Happiness Principle, as above explained, the ultimate end, with reference to and for the sake of which all other things are desirable (whether we are considering our own good or that of other people), is an existence exempt as far as possible from pain, and as rich as possible in enjoyments, both in point of quantity and quality; the test of quality, and the rule for measuring it against quantity, being the preference felt by those who, in their opportunities of experience, to which must be added their habits of self-consciousness and self-observation, are best furnished with the means of comparison. This, being, according to the utilitarian opinion, the end of human action, is necessarily also the standard of morality; which may accordingly be defined, the rules and precepts for human conduct, by the observance of which an existence such as has been described might be, to the greatest extent possible, secured to all mankind; and not to them only, but, so far as the nature of things admits, to the whole sentient creation. Against this doctrine, however, arises another class of objectors, who say that happiness, in any form, cannot be the rational purpose of human life and action; because, in the first place, it is unattainable: and they contemptuously ask, What right hast thou to be happy? a question which Mr. Carlyle clenches by the addition, What right, a short time ago, hadst thou even _to be_? Next, they say, that men can do _without_ happiness; that all noble human beings have felt this, and could not have become noble but by learning the lesson of Entsagen, or renunciation; which lesson, thoroughly learnt and submitted to, they affirm to be the beginning and necessary condition of all virtue. The first of these objections would go to the root of the matter were it well founded; for if no happiness is to be had at all by human beings, the attainment of it cannot be the end of morality, or of any rational conduct. Though, even in that case, something might still be said for the utilitarian theory; since utility includes not solely the pursuit of happiness, but the prevention or mitigation of unhappiness; and if the former aim be chimerical, there will be all the greater scope and more imperative need for the latter, so long at least as mankind think fit to live, and do not take refuge in the simultaneous act of suicide recommended under certain conditions by Novalis. When, however, it is thus positively asserted to be impossible that human life should be happy, the assertion, if not something like a verbal quibble, is at least an exaggeration. If by happiness be meant a continuity of highly pleasurable excitement, it is evident enough that this is impossible. A state of exalted pleasure lasts only moments, or in some cases, and with some intermissions, hours or days, and is the occasional brilliant flash of enjoyment, not its permanent and steady flame. Of this the philosophers who have taught that happiness is the end of life were as fully aware as those who taunt them. The happiness which they meant was not a life of rapture, but moments of such, in an existence made up of few and transitory pains, many and various pleasures, with a decided predominance of the active over the passive, and having as the foundation of the whole, not to expect more from life than it is capable of bestowing. A life thus composed, to those who have been fortunate enough to obtain it, has always appeared worthy of the name of happiness. And such an existence is even now the lot of many, during some considerable portion of their lives. The present wretched education, and wretched social arrangements, are the only real hindrance to its being attainable by almost all. The objectors perhaps may doubt whether human beings, if taught to consider happiness as the end of life, would be satisfied with such a moderate share of it. But great numbers of mankind have been satisfied with much less. The main constituents of a satisfied life appear to be two, either of which by itself is often found sufficient for the purpose: tranquillity, and excitement. With much tranquillity, many find that they can be content with very little pleasure: with much excitement, many can reconcile themselves to a considerable quantity of pain. There is assuredly no inherent impossibility in enabling even the mass of mankind to unite both; since the two are so far from being incompatible that they are in natural alliance, the prolongation of either being a preparation for, and exciting a wish for, the other. It is only those in whom indolence amounts to a vice, that do not desire excitement after an interval of repose; it is only those in whom the need of excitement is a disease, that feel the tranquillity which follows excitement dull and insipid, instead of pleasurable in direct proportion to the excitement which preceded it. When people who are tolerably fortunate in their outward lot do not find in life sufficient enjoyment to make it valuable to them, the cause generally is, caring for nobody but themselves. To those who have neither public nor private affections, the excitements of life are much curtailed, and in any case dwindle in value as the time approaches when all selfish interests must be terminated by death: while those who leave after them objects of personal affection, and especially those who have also cultivated a fellow-feeling with the collective interests of mankind, retain as lively an interest in life on the eve of death as in the vigour of youth and health. Next to selfishness, the principal cause which makes life unsatisfactory, is want of mental cultivation. A cultivated mind--I do not mean that of a philosopher, but any mind to which the fountains of knowledge have been opened, and which has been taught, in any tolerable degree, to exercise its faculties--finds sources of inexhaustible interest in all that surrounds it; in the objects of nature, the achievements of art, the imaginations of poetry, the incidents of history, the ways of mankind past and present, and their prospects in the future. It is possible, indeed, to become indifferent to all this, and that too without having exhausted a thousandth part of it; but only when one has had from the beginning no moral or human interest in these things, and has sought in them only the gratification of curiosity. Now there is absolutely no reason in the nature of things why an amount of mental culture sufficient to give an intelligent interest in these objects of contemplation, should not be the inheritance of every one born in a civilized country. As little is there an inherent necessity that any human being should be a selfish egotist, devoid of every feeling or care but those which centre in his own miserable individuality. Something far superior to this is sufficiently common even now, to give ample earnest of what the human species may be made. Genuine private affections, and a sincere interest in the public good, are possible, though in unequal degrees, to every rightly brought-up human being. In a world in which there is so much to interest, so much to enjoy, and so much also to correct and improve, every one who has this moderate amount of moral and intellectual requisites is capable of an existence which may be called enviable; and unless such a person, through bad laws, or subjection to the will of others, is denied the liberty to use the sources of happiness within his reach, he will not fail to find this enviable existence, if he escape the positive evils of life, the great sources of physical and mental suffering--such as indigence, disease, and the unkindness, worthlessness, or premature loss of objects of affection. The main stress of the problem lies, therefore, in the contest with these calamities, from which it is a rare good fortune entirely to escape; which, as things now are, cannot be obviated, and often cannot be in any material degree mitigated. Yet no one whose opinion deserves a moment's consideration can doubt that most of the great positive evils of the world are in themselves removable, and will, if human affairs continue to improve, be in the end reduced within narrow limits. Poverty, in any sense implying suffering, may be completely extinguished by the wisdom of society, combined with the good sense and providence of individuals. Even that most intractable of enemies, disease, may be indefinitely reduced in dimensions by good physical and moral education, and proper control of noxious influences; while the progress of science holds out a promise for the future of still more direct conquests over this detestable foe. And every advance in that direction relieves us from some, not only of the chances which cut short our own lives, but, what concerns us still more, which deprive us of those in whom our happiness is wrapt up. As for vicissitudes of fortune, and other disappointments connected with worldly circumstances, these are principally the effect either of gross imprudence, of ill-regulated desires, or of bad or imperfect social institutions. All the grand sources, in short, of human suffering are in a great degree, many of them almost entirely, conquerable by human care and effort; and though their removal is grievously slow--though a long succession of generations will perish in the breach before the conquest is completed, and this world becomes all that, if will and knowledge were not wanting, it might easily be made--yet every mind sufficiently intelligent and generous to bear a part, however small and unconspicuous, in the endeavour, will draw a noble enjoyment from the contest itself, which he would not for any bribe in the form of selfish indulgence consent to be without. And this leads to the true estimation of what is said by the objectors concerning the possibility, and the obligation, of learning to do without happiness. Unquestionably it is possible to do without happiness; it is done involuntarily by nineteen-twentieths of mankind, even in those parts of our present world which are least deep in barbarism; and it often has to be done voluntarily by the hero or the martyr, for the sake of something which he prizes more than his individual happiness. But this something, what is it, unless the happiness of others, or some of the requisites of happiness? It is noble to be capable of resigning entirely one's own portion of happiness, or chances of it: but, after all, this self-sacrifice must be for some end; it is not its own end; and if we are told that its end is not happiness, but virtue, which is better than happiness, I ask, would the sacrifice be made if the hero or martyr did not believe that it would earn for others immunity from similar sacrifices? Would it be made, if he thought that his renunciation of happiness for himself would produce no fruit for any of his fellow creatures, but to make their lot like his, and place them also in the condition of persons who have renounced happiness? All honour to those who can abnegate for themselves the personal enjoyment of life, when by such renunciation they contribute worthily to increase the amount of happiness in the world; but he who does it, or professes to do it, for any other purpose, is no more deserving of admiration than the ascetic mounted on his pillar. He may be an inspiriting proof of what men _can_ do, but assuredly not an example of what they _should_. Though it is only in a very imperfect state of the world's arrangements that any one can best serve the happiness of others by the absolute sacrifice of his own, yet so long as the world is in that imperfect state, I fully acknowledge that the readiness to make such a sacrifice is the highest virtue which can be found in man. I will add, that in this condition of the world, paradoxical as the assertion may be, the conscious ability to do without happiness gives the best prospect of realizing such happiness as is attainable. For nothing except that consciousness can raise a person above the chances of life, by making him feel that, let fate and fortune do their worst, they have not power to subdue him: which, once felt, frees him from excess of anxiety concerning the evils of life, and enables him, like many a Stoic in the worst times of the Roman Empire, to cultivate in tranquillity the sources of satisfaction accessible to him, without concerning himself about the uncertainty of their duration, any more than about their inevitable end. Meanwhile, let utilitarians never cease to claim the morality of self-devotion as a possession which belongs by as good a right to them, as either to the Stoic or to the Transcendentalist. The utilitarian morality does recognise in human beings the power of sacrificing their own greatest good for the good of others. It only refuses to admit that the sacrifice is itself a good. A sacrifice which does not increase, or tend to increase, the sum total of happiness, it considers as wasted. The only self-renunciation which it applauds, is devotion to the happiness, or to some of the means of happiness, of others; either of mankind collectively, or of individuals within the limits imposed by the collective interests of mankind. I must again repeat, what the assailants of utilitarianism seldom have the justice to acknowledge, that the happiness which forms the utilitarian standard of what is right in conduct, is not the agent's own happiness, but that of all concerned. As between his own happiness and that of others, utilitarianism requires him to be as strictly impartial as a disinterested and benevolent spectator. In the golden rule of Jesus of Nazareth, we read the complete spirit of the ethics of utility. To do as one would be done by, and to love one's neighbour as oneself, constitute the ideal perfection of utilitarian morality. As the means of making the nearest approach to this ideal, utility would enjoin, first, that laws and social arrangements should place the happiness, or (as speaking practically it may be called) the interest, of every individual, as nearly as possible in harmony with the interest of the whole; and secondly, that education and opinion, which have so vast a power over human character, should so use that power as to establish in the mind of every individual an indissoluble association between his own happiness and the good of the whole; especially between his own happiness and the practice of such modes of conduct, negative and positive, as regard for the universal happiness prescribes: so that not only he may be unable to conceive the possibility of happiness to himself, consistently with conduct opposed to the general good, but also that a direct impulse to promote the general good may be in every individual one of the habitual motives of action, and the sentiments connected therewith may fill a large and prominent place in every human being's sentient existence. If the impugners of the utilitarian morality represented it to their own minds in this its true character, I know not what recommendation possessed by any other morality they could possibly affirm to be wanting to it: what more beautiful or more exalted developments of human nature any other ethical system can be supposed to foster, or what springs of action, not accessible to the utilitarian, such systems rely on for giving effect to their mandates. The objectors to utilitarianism cannot always be charged with representing it in a discreditable light. On the contrary, those among them who entertain anything like a just idea of its disinterested character, sometimes find fault with its standard as being too high for humanity. They say it is exacting too much to require that people shall always act from the inducement of promoting the general interests of society. But this is to mistake the very meaning of a standard of morals, and to confound the rule of action with the motive of it. It is the business of ethics to tell us what are our duties, or by what test we may know them; but no system of ethics requires that the sole motive of all we do shall be a feeling of duty; on the contrary, ninety-nine hundredths of all our actions are done from other motives, and rightly so done, if the rule of duty does not condemn them. It is the more unjust to utilitarianism that this particular misapprehension should be made a ground of objection to it, inasmuch as utilitarian moralists have gone beyond almost all others in affirming that the motive has nothing to do with the morality of the action, though much with the worth of the agent. He who saves a fellow creature from drowning does what is morally right, whether his motive be duty, or the hope of being paid for his trouble: he who betrays the friend that trusts him, is guilty of a crime, even if his object be to serve another friend to whom he is under greater obligations.[B] But to speak only of actions done from the motive of duty, and in direct obedience to principle: it is a misapprehension of the utilitarian mode of thought, to conceive it as implying that people should fix their minds upon so wide a generality as the world, or society at large. The great majority of good actions are intended, not for the benefit of the world, but for that of individuals, of which the good of the world is made up; and the thoughts of the most virtuous man need not on these occasions travel beyond the particular persons concerned, except so far as is necessary to assure himself that in benefiting them he is not violating the rights--that is, the legitimate and authorized expectations--of any one else. The multiplication of happiness is, according to the utilitarian ethics, the object of virtue: the occasions on which any person (except one in a thousand) has it in his power to do this on an extended scale, in other words, to be a public benefactor, are but exceptional; and on these occasions alone is he called on to consider public utility; in every other case, private utility, the interest or happiness of some few persons, is all he has to attend to. Those alone the influence of whose actions extends to society in general, need concern themselves habitually about so large an object. In the case of abstinences indeed--of things which people forbear to do, from moral considerations, though the consequences in the particular case might be beneficial--it would be unworthy of an intelligent agent not to be consciously aware that the action is of a class which, if practised generally, would be generally injurious, and that this is the ground of the obligation to abstain from it. The amount of regard for the public interest implied in this recognition, is no greater than is demanded by every system of morals; for they all enjoin to abstain from whatever is manifestly pernicious to society. The same considerations dispose of another reproach against the doctrine of utility, founded on a still grosser misconception of the purpose of a standard of morality, and of the very meaning of the words right and wrong. It is often affirmed that utilitarianism renders men cold and unsympathizing; that it chills their moral feelings towards individuals; that it makes them regard only the dry and hard consideration of the consequences of actions, not taking into their moral estimate the qualities from which those actions emanate. If the assertion means that they do not allow their judgment respecting the rightness or wrongness of an action to be influenced by their opinion of the qualities of the person who does it, this is a complaint not against utilitarianism, but against having any standard of morality at all; for certainly no known ethical standard decides an action to be good or bad because it is done by a good or a bad man, still less because done by an amiable, a brave, or a benevolent man or the contrary. These considerations are relevant, not to the estimation of actions, but of persons; and there is nothing in the utilitarian theory inconsistent with the fact that there are other things which interest us in persons besides the rightness and wrongness of their actions. The Stoics, indeed, with the paradoxical misuse of language which was part of their system, and by which they strove to raise themselves above all concern about anything but virtue, were fond of saying that he who has that has everything; that he, and only he, is rich, is beautiful, is a king. But no claim of this description is made for the virtuous man by the utilitarian doctrine. Utilitarians are quite aware that there are other desirable possessions and qualities besides virtue, and are perfectly willing to allow to all of them their full worth. They are also aware that a right action does not necessarily indicate a virtuous character, and that actions which are blameable often proceed from qualities entitled to praise. When this is apparent in any particular case, it modifies their estimation, not certainly of the act, but of the agent. I grant that they are, notwithstanding, of opinion, that in the long run the best proof of a good character is good actions; and resolutely refuse to consider any mental disposition as good, of which the predominant tendency is to produce bad conduct. This makes them unpopular with many people; but it is an unpopularity which they must share with every one who regards the distinction between right and wrong in a serious light; and the reproach is not one which a conscientious utilitarian need be anxious to repel. If no more be meant by the objection than that many utilitarians look on the morality of actions, as measured by the utilitarian standard, with too exclusive a regard, and do not lay sufficient stress upon the other beauties of character which go towards making a human being loveable or admirable, this may be admitted. Utilitarians who have cultivated their moral feelings, but not their sympathies nor their artistic perceptions, do fall into this mistake; and so do all other moralists under the same conditions. What can be said in excuse for other moralists is equally available for them, namely, that if there is to be any error, it is better that it should be on that side. As a matter of fact, we may affirm that among utilitarians as among adherents of other systems, there is every imaginable degree of rigidity and of laxity in the application of their standard: some are even puritanically rigorous, while others are as indulgent as can possibly be desired by sinner or by sentimentalist. But on the whole, a doctrine which brings prominently forward the interest that mankind have in the repression and prevention of conduct which violates the moral law, is likely to be inferior to no other in turning the sanctions of opinion against such violations. It is true, the question, What does violate the moral law? is one on which those who recognise different standards of morality are likely now and then to differ. But difference of opinion on moral questions was not first introduced into the world by utilitarianism, while that doctrine does supply, if not always an easy, at all events a tangible and intelligible mode of deciding such differences. * * * * * It may not be superfluous to notice a few more of the common misapprehensions of utilitarian ethics, even those which are so obvious and gross that it might appear impossible for any person of candour and intelligence to fall into them: since persons, even of considerable mental endowments, often give themselves so little trouble to understand the bearings of any opinion against which they entertain a prejudice, and men are in general so little conscious of this voluntary ignorance as a defect, that the vulgarest misunderstandings of ethical doctrines are continually met with in the deliberate writings of persons of the greatest pretensions both to high principle and to philosophy. We not uncommonly hear the doctrine of utility inveighed against as a _godless_ doctrine. If it be necessary to say anything at all against so mere an assumption, we may say that the question depends upon what idea we have formed of the moral character of the Deity. If it be a true belief that God desires, above all things, the happiness of his creatures, and that this was his purpose in their creation, utility is not only not a godless doctrine, but more profoundly religious than any other. If it be meant that utilitarianism does not recognise the revealed will of God as the supreme law of morals, I answer, that an utilitarian who believes in the perfect goodness and wisdom of God, necessarily believes that whatever God has thought fit to reveal on the subject of morals, must fulfil the requirements of utility in a supreme degree. But others besides utilitarians have been of opinion that the Christian revelation was intended, and is fitted, to inform the hearts and minds of mankind with a spirit which should enable them to find for themselves what is right, and incline them to do it when found, rather than to tell them, except in a very general way, what it is: and that we need a doctrine of ethics, carefully followed out, to _interpret_ to us the will of God. Whether this opinion is correct or not, it is superfluous here to discuss; since whatever aid religion, either natural or revealed, can afford to ethical investigation, is as open to the utilitarian moralist as to any other. He can use it as the testimony of God to the usefulness or hurtfulness of any given course of action, by as good a right as others can use it for the indication of a transcendental law, having no connexion with usefulness or with happiness. Again, Utility is often summarily stigmatized as an immoral doctrine by giving it the name of Expediency, and taking advantage of the popular use of that term to contrast it with Principle. But the Expedient, in the sense in which it is opposed to the Right, generally means that which is expedient for the particular interest of the agent himself: as when a minister sacrifices the interest of his country to keep himself in place. When it means anything better than this, it means that which is expedient for some immediate object, some temporary purpose, but which violates a rule whose observance is expedient in a much higher degree. The Expedient, in this sense, instead of being the same thing with the useful, is a branch of the hurtful. Thus, it would often be expedient, for the purpose of getting over some momentary embarrassment, or attaining some object immediately useful to ourselves or others, to tell a lie. But inasmuch as the cultivation in ourselves of a sensitive feeling on the subject of veracity, is one of the most useful, and the enfeeblement of that feeling one of the most hurtful, things to which our conduct can be instrumental; and inasmuch as any, even unintentional, deviation from truth, does that much towards weakening the trustworthiness of human assertion, which is not only the principal support of all present social well-being, but the insufficiency of which does more than any one thing that can be named to keep back civilisation, virtue, everything on which human happiness on the largest scale depends; we feel that the violation, for a present advantage, of a rule of such transcendent expediency, is not expedient, and that he who, for the sake of a convenience to himself or to some other individual, does what depends on him to deprive mankind of the good, and inflict upon them the evil, involved in the greater or less reliance which they can place in each other's word, acts the part of one of their worst enemies. Yet that even this rule, sacred as it is, admits of possible exceptions, is acknowledged by all moralists; the chief of which is when the withholding of some fact (as of information from a male-factor, or of bad news from a person dangerously ill) would preserve some one (especially a person other than oneself) from great and unmerited evil, and when the withholding can only be effected by denial. But in order that the exception may not extend itself beyond the need, and may have the least possible effect in weakening reliance on veracity, it ought to be recognized, and, if possible, its limits defined; and if the principle of utility is good for anything, it must be good for weighing these conflicting utilities against one another, and marking out the region within which one or the other preponderates. Again, defenders of utility often find themselves called upon to reply to such objections as this--that there is not time, previous to action, for calculating and weighing the effects of any line of conduct on the general happiness. This is exactly as if any one were to say that it is impossible to guide our conduct by Christianity, because there is not time, on every occasion on which anything has to be done, to read through the Old and New Testaments. The answer to the objection is, that there has been ample time, namely, the whole past duration of the human species. During all that time mankind have been learning by experience the tendencies of actions; on which experience all the prudence, as well as all the morality of life, is dependent. People talk as if the commencement of this course of experience had hitherto been put off, and as if, at the moment when some man feels tempted to meddle with the property or life of another, he had to begin considering for the first time whether murder and theft are injurious to human happiness. Even then I do not think that he would find the question very puzzling; but, at all events, the matter is now done to his hand. It is truly a whimsical supposition, that if mankind were agreed in considering utility to be the test of morality, they would remain without any agreement as to what is useful, and would take no measures for having their notions on the subject taught to the young, and enforced by law and opinion. There is no difficulty in proving any ethical standard whatever to work ill, if we suppose universal idiocy to be conjoined with it, but on any hypothesis short of that, mankind must by this time have acquired positive beliefs as to the effects of some actions on their happiness; and the beliefs which have thus come down are the rules of morality for the multitude, and for the philosopher until he has succeeded in finding better. That philosophers might easily do this, even now, on many subjects; that the received code of ethics is by no means of divine right; and that mankind have still much to learn as to the effects of actions on the general happiness, I admit, or rather, earnestly maintain. The corollaries from the principle of utility, like the precepts of every practical art, admit of indefinite improvement, and, in a progressive state of the human mind, their improvement is perpetually going on. But to consider the rules of morality as improvable, is one thing; to pass over the intermediate generalizations entirely, and endeavour to test each individual action directly by the first principle, is another. It is a strange notion that the acknowledgment of a first principle is inconsistent with the admission of secondary ones. To inform a traveller respecting the place of his ultimate destination, is not to forbid the use of landmarks and direction-posts on the way. The proposition that happiness is the end and aim of morality, does not mean that no road ought to be laid down to that goal, or that persons going thither should not be advised to take one direction rather than another. Men really ought to leave off talking a kind of nonsense on this subject, which they would neither talk nor listen to on other matters of practical concernment. Nobody argues that the art of navigation is not founded on astronomy, because sailors cannot wait to calculate the Nautical Almanack. Being rational creatures, they go to sea with it ready calculated; and all rational creatures go out upon the sea of life with their minds made up on the common questions of right and wrong, as well as on many of the far more difficult questions of wise and foolish. And this, as long as foresight is a human quality, it is to be presumed they will continue to do. Whatever we adopt as the fundamental principle of morality, we require subordinate principles to apply it by: the impossibility of doing without them, being common to all systems, can afford no argument against any one in particular: but gravely to argue as if no such secondary principles could be had, and as if mankind had remained till now, and always must remain, without drawing any general conclusions from the experience of human life, is as high a pitch, I think, as absurdity has ever reached in philosophical controversy. The remainder of the stock arguments against utilitarianism mostly consist in laying to its charge the common infirmities of human nature, and the general difficulties which embarrass conscientious persons in shaping their course through life. We are told that an utilitarian will be apt to make his own particular case an exception to moral rules, and, when under temptation, will see an utility in the breach of a rule, greater than he will see in its observance. But is utility the only creed which is able to furnish us with excuses for evil doing, and means of cheating our own conscience? They are afforded in abundance by all doctrines which recognise as a fact in morals the existence of conflicting considerations; which all doctrines do, that have been believed by sane persons. It is not the fault of any creed, but of the complicated nature of human affairs, that rules of conduct cannot be so framed as to require no exceptions, and that hardly any kind of action can safely be laid down as either always obligatory or always condemnable. There is no ethical creed which does not temper the rigidity of its laws, by giving a certain latitude, under the moral responsibility of the agent, for accommodation to peculiarities of circumstances; and under every creed, at the opening thus made, self-deception and dishonest casuistry get in. There exists no moral system under which there do not arise unequivocal cases of conflicting obligation. These are the real difficulties, the knotty points both in the theory of ethics, and in the conscientious guidance of personal conduct. They are overcome practically with greater or with less success according to the intellect and virtue of the individual; but it can hardly be pretended that any one will be the less qualified for dealing with them, from possessing an ultimate standard to which conflicting rights and duties can be referred. If utility is the ultimate source of moral obligations, utility may be invoked to decide between them when their demands are incompatible. Though the application of the standard may be difficult, it is better than none at all: while in other systems, the moral laws all claiming independent authority, there is no common umpire entitled to interfere between them; their claims to precedence one over another rest on little better than sophistry, and unless determined, as they generally are, by the unacknowledged influence of considerations of utility, afford a free scope for the action of personal desires and partialities. We must remember that only in these cases of conflict between secondary principles is it requisite that first principles should be appealed to. There is no case of moral obligation in which some secondary principle is not involved; and if only one, there can seldom be any real doubt which one it is, in the mind of any person by whom the principle itself is recognized. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote A: The author of this essay has reason for believing himself to be the first person who brought the word utilitarian into use. He did not invent it, but adopted it from a passing expression in Mr. Galt's _Annals of the Parish_. After using it as a designation for several years, he and others abandoned it from a growing dislike to anything resembling a badge or watchword of sectarian distinction. But as a name for one single opinion, not a set of opinions--to denote the recognition of utility as a standard, not any particular way of applying it--the term supplies a want in the language, and offers, in many cases, a convenient mode of avoiding tiresome circumlocution.] [Footnote B: An opponent, whose intellectual and moral fairness it is a pleasure to acknowledge (the Rev. J. Llewellyn Davis), has objected to this passage, saying, "Surely the rightness or wrongness of saving a man from drowning does depend very much upon the motive with which it is done. Suppose that a tyrant, when his enemy jumped into the sea to escape from him, saved him from drowning simply in order that he might inflict upon him more exquisite tortures, would it tend to clearness to speak of that rescue as 'a morally right action?' Or suppose again, according to one of the stock illustrations of ethical inquiries, that a man betrayed a trust received from a friend, because the discharge of it would fatally injure that friend himself or some one belonging to him, would utilitarianism compel one to call the betrayal 'a crime' as much as if it had been done from the meanest motive?" I submit, that he who saves another from drowning in order to kill him by torture afterwards, does not differ only in motive from him who does the same thing from duty or benevolence; the act itself is different. The rescue of the man is, in the case supposed, only the necessary first step of an act far more atrocious than leaving him to drown would have been. Had Mr. Davis said, "The rightness or wrongness of saving a man from drowning does depend very much"--not upon the motive, but--"upon the _intention_" no utilitarian would have differed from him. Mr. Davis, by an oversight too common not to be quite venial, has in this case confounded the very different ideas of Motive and Intention. There is no point which utilitarian thinkers (and Bentham pre-eminently) have taken more pains to illustrate than this. The morality of the action depends entirely upon the intention--that is, upon what the agent _wills to do_. But the motive, that is, the feeling which makes him will so to do, when it makes no difference in the act, makes none in the morality: though it makes a great difference in our moral estimation of the agent, especially if it indicates a good or a bad habitual _disposition_--a bent of character from which useful, or from which hurtful actions are likely to arise.] Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze verfassen?

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Im ersten Teil von Kapitel II geht Mill auf die wichtigsten Argumente gegen den Utilitarismus ein. Dabei schärft er die Nuancen seiner eigenen Form des Utilitarismus heraus, sodass dieses Kapitel sowohl als Verteidigung des bestehenden Utilitarismus als auch als Abkehr von seinen früheren Anhängern interpretiert werden kann. Mill widmet zunächst einen Abschnitt der Beantwortung eines Einwands gegen den Utilitarismus, der seiner Ansicht nach aus schlichter Unkenntnis entsteht: dem Argument, dass Nützlichkeit in irgendeiner Weise ein von Vergnügen losgelöstes Konzept sei. Mill sieht dies lediglich als Mangel an Bildung seitens der Gegner, da Nützlichkeit genau als Kalkül des Vergnügens und nichts anderes konzipiert ist. Er vermutet, dass das Missverständnis darauf beruhen könnte, dass Menschen einfach nur das Wort "Nützlichkeit" hören und intuitiv vom Klang her ableiten, dass es etwas Kaltes ist und sich Pleasure-Fragen widersetzt. Dies veranlasst Mill, das zentrale Prinzip der utilitaristischen Philosophie klar darzulegen, das er als das Prinzip des größten Glücks bezeichnet. Dieses Prinzip definiert den moralischen Gehalt von Handlungen im Verhältnis zu ihrer Tendenz, Vergnügen zu fördern und Schmerz zu mildern oder umgekehrt. Eine Handlung, die Vergnügen frustriert oder Schmerz verursacht, ist moralisch falsch, und eine Handlung, die Vergnügen fördert oder Schmerz mildert, ist moralisch richtig. An dieser Stelle bezieht sich Mill auf die älteren hedonistischen Philosophien, die mit Epikur in Verbindung gebracht werden, und betrachtet den Vorwurf, sie pervertierten die menschliche Natur, indem sie diese ausschließlich auf das Streben nach Vergnügen reduzierten. Mill argumentiert, dass diese Kritik auf der fehlerhaften Annahme beruht, dass Menschen nur fähig sind, Freuden zu erleben, die nicht größer sind als die Freuden, die Tiere erleben. Wenn der volle Umfang menschlichen Vergnügens umfasst wird, erscheint das Prinzip des größten Glücks nach Mill selbstverständlich. Dennoch glaubt Mill, dass ein weiteres Problem durch die fehlgeleitete Kritik am Epikureismus aufgeworfen wird: die Tatsache, dass sich Freuden nur nach Grad und Dauer unterscheiden. Dieses Problem lässt sich nicht durch die bloße Betrachtung der vollen Bandbreite menschlichen Vergnügens lösen, denn Menschen befänden sich dann immer noch in der gleichen Klasse wie niedere Tiere; sie könnten ihre Freuden lediglich intensiver oder länger empfinden. Dies ist ein Problem, das Mill zugibt und das sich in den utilitaristischen Philosophien, die vor ihm kamen - insbesondere bei Jeremy Bentham - deutlich zeigt. Um dieses Problem zu lösen, bricht Mill mit der bisherigen utilitaristischen Philosophie und argumentiert, dass es grundsätzlich unterschiedliche Arten von Vergnügen gibt. Laut Mills Darstellung sind tierische Vergnügen geringer als intellektuelle Menschenvergnügen, was eine qualitativen Unterschied schafft, der Menschen und Tiere moralisch voneinander trennt. Indem er das tut, mildert Mill die Sorge, dass der Utilitarismus den Menschen die Tugend ihrer Vernunft raubt. Es gibt zwei Hauptbewegungen, die Mill in seiner Schlussfolgerung über die verschiedenen Arten von Vergnügen macht, die bemerkenswert sind. Erstens legt er dar, dass der relative Wert verschiedener Vergnügen durch den Konsens von Menschen bestimmt wird, die alle in Betracht kommenden Vergnügen erlebt haben. Er sagt dann, dass Menschen, die sowohl tierische als auch intellektuelle Vergnügen erlebt haben, unabhängig von Dauer oder Intensität fast einhellig die letzteren bevorzugen, und dass wir deshalb Grund haben zu glauben, dass sie eine völlig andere Art von Vergnügen darstellen.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten 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 want now to tell you, gentlemen, whether you care to hear it or not, why I could not even become an insect. I tell you solemnly, that I have many times tried to become an insect. But I was not equal even to that. I swear, gentlemen, that to be too conscious is an illness--a real thorough-going illness. For man's everyday needs, it would have been quite enough to have the ordinary human consciousness, that is, half or a quarter of the amount which falls to the lot of a cultivated man of our unhappy nineteenth century, especially one who has the fatal ill-luck to inhabit Petersburg, the most theoretical and intentional town on the whole terrestrial globe. (There are intentional and unintentional towns.) It would have been quite enough, for instance, to have the consciousness by which all so-called direct persons and men of action live. I bet you think I am writing all this from affectation, to be witty at the expense of men of action; and what is more, that from ill-bred affectation, I am clanking a sword like my officer. But, gentlemen, whoever can pride himself on his diseases and even swagger over them? Though, after all, everyone does do that; people do pride themselves on their diseases, and I do, may be, more than anyone. We will not dispute it; my contention was absurd. But yet I am firmly persuaded that a great deal of consciousness, every sort of consciousness, in fact, is a disease. I stick to that. Let us leave that, too, for a minute. Tell me this: why does it happen that at the very, yes, at the very moments when I am most capable of feeling every refinement of all that is "sublime and beautiful," as they used to say at one time, it would, as though of design, happen to me not only to feel but to do such ugly things, such that ... Well, in short, actions that all, perhaps, commit; but which, as though purposely, occurred to me at the very time when I was most conscious that they ought not to be committed. The more conscious I was of goodness and of all that was "sublime and beautiful," the more deeply I sank into my mire and the more ready I was to sink in it altogether. But the chief point was that all this was, as it were, not accidental in me, but as though it were bound to be so. It was as though it were my most normal condition, and not in the least disease or depravity, so that at last all desire in me to struggle against this depravity passed. It ended by my almost believing (perhaps actually believing) that this was perhaps my normal condition. But at first, in the beginning, what agonies I endured in that struggle! I did not believe it was the same with other people, and all my life I hid this fact about myself as a secret. I was ashamed (even now, perhaps, I am ashamed): I got to the point of feeling a sort of secret abnormal, despicable enjoyment in returning home to my corner on some disgusting Petersburg night, acutely conscious that that day I had committed a loathsome action again, that what was done could never be undone, and secretly, inwardly gnawing, gnawing at myself for it, tearing and consuming myself till at last the bitterness turned into a sort of shameful accursed sweetness, and at last--into positive real enjoyment! Yes, into enjoyment, into enjoyment! I insist upon that. I have spoken of this because I keep wanting to know for a fact whether other people feel such enjoyment? I will explain; the enjoyment was just from the too intense consciousness of one's own degradation; it was from feeling oneself that one had reached the last barrier, that it was horrible, but that it could not be otherwise; that there was no escape for you; that you never could become a different man; that even if time and faith were still left you to change into something different you would most likely not wish to change; or if you did wish to, even then you would do nothing; because perhaps in reality there was nothing for you to change into. And the worst of it was, and the root of it all, that it was all in accord with the normal fundamental laws of over-acute consciousness, and with the inertia that was the direct result of those laws, and that consequently one was not only unable to change but could do absolutely nothing. Thus it would follow, as the result of acute consciousness, that one is not to blame in being a scoundrel; as though that were any consolation to the scoundrel once he has come to realise that he actually is a scoundrel. But enough.... Ech, I have talked a lot of nonsense, but what have I explained? How is enjoyment in this to be explained? But I will explain it. I will get to the bottom of it! That is why I have taken up my pen.... I, for instance, have a great deal of AMOUR PROPRE. I am as suspicious and prone to take offence as a humpback or a dwarf. But upon my word I sometimes have had moments when if I had happened to be slapped in the face I should, perhaps, have been positively glad of it. I say, in earnest, that I should probably have been able to discover even in that a peculiar sort of enjoyment--the enjoyment, of course, of despair; but in despair there are the most intense enjoyments, especially when one is very acutely conscious of the hopelessness of one's position. And when one is slapped in the face--why then the consciousness of being rubbed into a pulp would positively overwhelm one. The worst of it is, look at it which way one will, it still turns out that I was always the most to blame in everything. And what is most humiliating of all, to blame for no fault of my own but, so to say, through the laws of nature. In the first place, to blame because I am cleverer than any of the people surrounding me. (I have always considered myself cleverer than any of the people surrounding me, and sometimes, would you believe it, have been positively ashamed of it. At any rate, I have all my life, as it were, turned my eyes away and never could look people straight in the face.) To blame, finally, because even if I had had magnanimity, I should only have had more suffering from the sense of its uselessness. I should certainly have never been able to do anything from being magnanimous--neither to forgive, for my assailant would perhaps have slapped me from the laws of nature, and one cannot forgive the laws of nature; nor to forget, for even if it were owing to the laws of nature, it is insulting all the same. Finally, even if I had wanted to be anything but magnanimous, had desired on the contrary to revenge myself on my assailant, I could not have revenged myself on any one for anything because I should certainly never have made up my mind to do anything, even if I had been able to. Why should I not have made up my mind? About that in particular I want to say a few words. Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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In diesem Kapitel erfahren wir, dass die Krankheit des UM mehr ist als nur physisch: Er behauptet, dass er an einer psychischen Krankheit leidet - er hat zu viel Bewusstsein. Er gibt zu, dass er Tag für Tag nach Hause eilt, um sich in seiner "Ecke" zu verstecken, nur um sich selbst zu quälen und an sich zu "nagen", indem er die Handlungen überdenkt, die er an diesem Tag unternommen hat. Gleichzeitig findet er jedoch eine Art Vergnügen in der Demütigung und sogar Verzweiflung, die durch dieses "überaus scharfe Bewusstsein" verursacht wird.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: MORE EDUCATION With twenty-five dollars in his hand, Henry felt like a millionaire as he edged through the crowd to the gate. "That's the boy," he heard many a person say when he was forced to hold his silver cup in view out of harm's way. When Dr. McAllister drove into his yard he found a boy washing the concrete drives as calmly as if nothing had happened. He chuckled quietly, for he had stopped at the Fair Grounds for a few minutes himself, and held a little conversation with the score-keeper. When Henry faithfully repeated the list of winners, however, he said nothing about it. "What are you going to do with the prize?" queried Dr. McAllister. "Put it in the savings bank, I guess," replied Henry. "Have you an account?" asked his friend. "No, but Jess says it's high time we started one." "Good for Jess," said the doctor absently. "I remember an old uncle of mine who put two hundred dollars in the savings bank and forgot all about it. He left it in there till he died, and it came to me. It amounted to sixteen hundred dollars." "Whew!" said Henry. "He left it alone for over forty years, you see," explained Dr. McAllister. When Henry arrived at his little home in the woods with the twenty-five dollars (for he never thought of putting it in the bank before Jess saw it), he found a delicious lunch waiting for him. Jess had boiled the little vegetables in clear water, and the moment they were done she had drained off the water in a remarkable drainer, and heaped them on the biggest dish with melted butter on top. His family almost forgot to eat while Henry recounted the details of the exciting race. And when he showed them the silver cup and the money they actually did stop eating, hungry as they were. "I said my name was Henry James," repeated Henry. "That's all right. So it is," affirmed Jess. "It's clever, too. You can use that name for your bank book." "So I can!" said Henry, delighted. "I'll put it in the bank this very afternoon. And by the way, I brought something for dinner tonight." Jess looked in the bag. There were a dozen smooth, brown potatoes. "I know how to cook those," said Jess, nodding her head wisely. "You just wait!" "Can't wait, hardly," Henry called back as he went to work. When he had gone, Benny frolicked around noisily with the dog. "Benny," Jess exclaimed suddenly, as she hung her dish towels up to dry, "it's high time you learned to read." "No school _now_," said Benny hopefully. "No, but I can teach you. If I only had a primer!" "Let's make one," suggested Violet, shaking her hair back. "We have saved all the wrapping paper off the bundles, you know." Jess was staring off into space, as she always did when she had a bright idea. "Violet," she cried at last, "remember those chips? We could whittle out letters like type--make each letter backwards, you know." "And stamp them on paper!" finished Violet. "There would be only twenty-six in all. It wouldn't be awfully hard," said Jess. "We wouldn't bother with capitals." "What could we use for ink?" Violet wondered, wrinkling her forehead. "Blackberry juice!" cried Jess. The two girls clapped their hands. "Won't Henry be surprised when he finds that Benny can read?" Now from this conversation Benny gathered that this type-business would take his sisters quite a while to prepare. So he was not much worried about his part of the work. In fact, he sorted out chips very cheerfully and watched his teachers with interest as they dug carefully around the letters with the two knives. "We'll teach him two words to begin with," said Jess. "Then we won't have to make the whole alphabet at once. Let's begin to teach him _see_." "That's easy," agreed Violet. "And then we won't have to make but two letters, _s_ and _e_." "And the other word will be _me_," cried Jess. "So only three pieces of type in all, Violet." Jess cut the wiggly _s_, because she had the better knife, while Violet struggled with the _e_. Then Jess cut a wonderful _m_ while Violet sewed the primer down the back, and gathered a cupful of blackberries. As she sat by, crushing the juice from the berries with a stick, Jess planned the ink pad. "We'll have to use a small piece of the wash-cloth, I'm afraid," she said at last. But finally they were obliged to cut off only the uneven bits of cloth which hung around the edges. These they used for stuffing for the pad, and covered them with a pocket which Violet carefully ripped from her apron. When this was sewed firmly into place, and put into a small saucer, Jess poured on the purple juice. Even Benny came up on his hands and knees to watch her stamp the first _s_. It came out beautifully on the first page of the primer, purple and clean-cut. The _e_ was almost as good, and as for the _m_, Jess' hand shook with pure pride as she stamped it evenly on the page. At last the two words were completed. In fact, they were done long before Benny had the slightest idea his sisters were ready for him. He came willingly enough for his first lesson, but he could not tell the two words apart. "Don't you see, Benny?" Jess explained patiently. "This one with the wiggly _s_ says _see_?" But Benny did not "see." "I'll tell you, Jess," said Violet at last. "Let's print each word again on a separate card. That's the way they do at school. And then let him point to _see_." The girls did this, using squares of stiff brown paper. Then they called Benny. Very carefully, Jess explained again which word said _see_, hissing like a huge snake to show him how the _s_ sounded. Then she mixed the cards and said encouragingly, "Now, Benny, point to _s-s-s-ee_." Benny did not move. He sat with his finger on his lip. But the children were nearly petrified with astonishment to see Watch cock his head on one side and gravely put his paw on the center of the word! Now, this was only an accident. Watch did not really know one of the words from the other. But Benny thought he did. And was he going to let a dog get ahead of him? Not Benny! In less time than it takes to tell it, Benny had learned both words perfectly. "Good old Watch," said Jess. "It isn't really hard at all," said Benny. "Is it, Watch?" During all this experiment Jess had not forgotten her dinner. When you are living outdoors all the time you do not forget things like that. In fact both girls had learned to tell the time very accurately by the sun. Jess started up a beautiful little fire of cones. As they turned into red-hot ashes and began to topple over one by one into the glowing pile, Jess laughed delightedly. She had already scrubbed the smooth potatoes and dried them carefully. She now poked them one by one into the glowing ashes with a stick from a birch tree. Whenever a potato lit up dangerously she gave it a poke into a new position. And when Henry found her, she was just rolling the charred balls out onto the flat stones. "Burned 'em up?" queried Henry. "Burned, nothing!" cried Jess energetically. "You just wait!" "Can't wait, hardly," replied Henry smiling. "You said that a long time ago," said Benny. "Well, isn't it true?" demanded Henry, rolling his brother over on the pine needles. "Come," said Violet breathlessly, forgetting to ring the bell. "Hold them with leaves," directed Jess, "because they're terribly hot. Knock them on the side and scoop them out with a spoon and put butter on top." The children did as the little cook requested, sprinkled on a little salt from the salt shaker, and took a taste. "Ah!" said Henry. "It's good," said Benny blissfully. It was about the most successful meal of all, in fact. When the children in later years recalled their different feasts, they always came back to the baked potatoes roasted in the ashes of the pine cones. Henry said it was because they were poked with a black-birch stick. Benny said it was because Jess nearly burned them up. Jess herself said maybe it was the remarkable salt shaker which had to stand on its head always, because there was no floor to it. Nach dem Abendessen waren die Kinder immer noch nicht zu schläfrig, um Henry das neue Schulbuch zu zeigen und Benny seine erste Lektion im Lesen zu präsentieren. Henry war von der Idee sehr angetan und blieb auf, bis es fast dunkel war, um die restlichen Buchstaben des Alphabets herauszumeißeln. Wenn Sie jemals daran interessiert sind, dieses interessante Schulbuch zu sehen, das schließlich zehn Seiten umfasste, könnten Sie diese treue Kopie der ersten Seite betrachten, für deren Fertigstellung vier Tage benötigt wurden: [Abbildung: Seite 1 Sehen mich Sieh mich O O Sieh mich Komm Komm zu mir Komm, um mich zu sehen Katze Ratte ] Henry bestand immer darauf, dass der Schwanz der Ratte zu lang war, aber Jess sagte, dass sein Messer wohl beim Herstellen des "a" abgerutscht sein muss, also waren sie letztendlich quitt. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Die Tage vergehen. Die Kinder finden immer noch Müllschätze, und Henry arbeitet weiterhin für Dr. Moore. Sehr aufregende Neuigkeiten: Henry kauft Benny neue Socken. Die Mädchen machen Benny einen Stoffbären aus seinen alten Socken. Benny möchte, dass sein Bär einen langen Schwanz hat, obwohl Bären keinen langen Schwanz haben. Wie auch immer, Benny - tu, was du tun willst. Der Bär ist fertig und Benny nennt ihn Strümpfe, weil das das altmodische Wort für Socken ist. Jessie schneidet Benny die Haare, also beschließt Benny, auch Watch dem Hund die Haare zu schneiden. Das geht nicht gut. Als er Jessie und Violet Watch's Haarschnitt zeigt, lachen sie und lachen. Watch nimmt es wirklich gut auf. Violet lacht so sehr, dass sie weint - aber dann weint sie weiter und hört nicht auf. Es stellt sich heraus, dass sie nicht hysterisch ist, sondern krank. Jessie bringt Violet in den Eisenbahnwagen und legt sie ins Bett. Ihre Stirn ist sehr heiß. Henry kommt nach Hause und er und Jessie besprechen, Violet ins Krankenhaus zu bringen. Das Problem ist, dass sie befürchten, dass es ihren Großvater auf ihre Spur führt. Violet zittert am ganzen Körper, also bedeckt Jessie sie mit Kiefernnadeln. Dafür bekommt sie Punkte. Henry entscheidet, dass Violet Dr. Moore sehen sollte, also rennt er in die Stadt. Dr. Moore fährt ohne zu fragen zurück zum Eisenbahnwagen und findet ihn sofort. Seltsam, oder? Dr. Moore beschließt, Violet mit nach Hause zu nehmen. Dort angekommen, bringt er sie ins Bett, und Mrs. Moore und die Köchin kümmern sich um sie. Keine Sorge - die anderen Kinder werden auch bei Dr. Moore bleiben. Violet ist so krank, dass Dr. Moore die ganze Nacht bei ihr wacht. Am Morgen kommt ein Mann, um Dr. Moore zu sehen. Er murmelt etwas von 5.000 Dollar, also können wir vermuten, dass er Mr. Alden ist. Während der Mann auf den Arzt wartet, unterhält Benny ihn. Benny erzählt dem Mann auch, dass seine Schwester Violet krank ist. Benny und Mr. Alden verstehen sich wirklich gut. Benny fragt Mr. Alden, ob er einen Hund hat, aber Mr. Aldens Hund ist tot. Schade. Oh, hier ist Watch der Hund, sehr lebendig. Hallo, Watch. Dr. Moore kommt herein und schickt Benny zum Spielen weg. Der Arzt erzählt Mr. Alden, dass Benny sein Enkel ist, und Mr. Alden scheint aufgeregt, aber verwirrt zu sein. Jetzt erzählt Dr. Moore Mr. Alden von Henry. Mr. Alden ist begeistert, weil er sich an Henry vom Sporttag erinnert.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten 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 thirtieth of July was come, and it was one of those half-dozen warm days which sometimes occur in the middle of a rainy English summer. No rain had fallen for the last three or four days, and the weather was perfect for that time of the year: there was less dust than usual on the dark-green hedge-rows and on the wild camomile that starred the roadside, yet the grass was dry enough for the little children to roll on it, and there was no cloud but a long dash of light, downy ripple, high, high up in the far-off blue sky. Perfect weather for an outdoor July merry-making, yet surely not the best time of year to be born in. Nature seems to make a hot pause just then: all the loveliest flowers are gone; the sweet time of early growth and vague hopes is past; and yet the time of harvest and ingathering is not come, and we tremble at the possible storms that may ruin the precious fruit in the moment of its ripeness. The woods are all one dark monotonous green; the waggon-loads of hay no longer creep along the lanes, scattering their sweet-smelling fragments on the blackberry branches; the pastures are often a little tanned, yet the corn has not got its last splendour of red and gold; the lambs and calves have lost all traces of their innocent frisky prettiness, and have become stupid young sheep and cows. But it is a time of leisure on the farm--that pause between hay-and corn-harvest, and so the farmers and labourers in Hayslope and Broxton thought the captain did well to come of age just then, when they could give their undivided minds to the flavour of the great cask of ale which had been brewed the autumn after "the heir" was born, and was to be tapped on his twenty-first birthday. The air had been merry with the ringing of church-bells very early this morning, and every one had made haste to get through the needful work before twelve, when it would be time to think of getting ready to go to the Chase. The midday sun was streaming into Hetty's bedchamber, and there was no blind to temper the heat with which it fell on her head as she looked at herself in the old specked glass. Still, that was the only glass she had in which she could see her neck and arms, for the small hanging glass she had fetched out of the next room--the room that had been Dinah's--would show her nothing below her little chin; and that beautiful bit of neck where the roundness of her cheek melted into another roundness shadowed by dark delicate curls. And to-day she thought more than usual about her neck and arms; for at the dance this evening she was not to wear any neckerchief, and she had been busy yesterday with her spotted pink-and-white frock, that she might make the sleeves either long or short at will. She was dressed now just as she was to be in the evening, with a tucker made of "real" lace, which her aunt had lent her for this unparalleled occasion, but with no ornaments besides; she had even taken out her small round ear-rings which she wore every day. But there was something more to be done, apparently, before she put on her neckerchief and long sleeves, which she was to wear in the day-time, for now she unlocked the drawer that held her private treasures. It is more than a month since we saw her unlock that drawer before, and now it holds new treasures, so much more precious than the old ones that these are thrust into the corner. Hetty would not care to put the large coloured glass ear-rings into her ears now; for see! she has got a beautiful pair of gold and pearls and garnet, lying snugly in a pretty little box lined with white satin. Oh, the delight of taking out that little box and looking at the ear-rings! Do not reason about it, my philosphical reader, and say that Hetty, being very pretty, must have known that it did not signify whether she had on any ornaments or not; and that, moreover, to look at ear-rings which she could not possibly wear out of her bedroom could hardly be a satisfaction, the essence of vanity being a reference to the impressions produced on others; you will never understand women's natures if you are so excessively rational. Try rather to divest yourself of all your rational prejudices, as much as if you were studying the psychology of a canary bird, and only watch the movements of this pretty round creature as she turns her head on one side with an unconscious smile at the ear-rings nestled in the little box. Ah, you think, it is for the sake of the person who has given them to her, and her thoughts are gone back now to the moment when they were put into her hands. No; else why should she have cared to have ear-rings rather than anything else? And I know that she had longed for ear-rings from among all the ornaments she could imagine. "Little, little ears!" Arthur had said, pretending to pinch them one evening, as Hetty sat beside him on the grass without her hat. "I wish I had some pretty ear-rings!" she said in a moment, almost before she knew what she was saying--the wish lay so close to her lips, it WOULD flutter past them at the slightest breath. And the next day--it was only last week--Arthur had ridden over to Rosseter on purpose to buy them. That little wish so naively uttered seemed to him the prettiest bit of childishness; he had never heard anything like it before; and he had wrapped the box up in a great many covers, that he might see Hetty unwrapping it with growing curiosity, till at last her eyes flashed back their new delight into his. No, she was not thinking most of the giver when she smiled at the ear-rings, for now she is taking them out of the box, not to press them to her lips, but to fasten them in her ears--only for one moment, to see how pretty they look, as she peeps at them in the glass against the wall, with first one position of the head and then another, like a listening bird. It is impossible to be wise on the subject of ear-rings as one looks at her; what should those delicate pearls and crystals be made for, if not for such ears? One cannot even find fault with the tiny round hole which they leave when they are taken out; perhaps water-nixies, and such lovely things without souls, have these little round holes in their ears by nature, ready to hang jewels in. And Hetty must be one of them: it is too painful to think that she is a woman, with a woman's destiny before her--a woman spinning in young ignorance a light web of folly and vain hopes which may one day close round her and press upon her, a rancorous poisoned garment, changing all at once her fluttering, trivial butterfly sensations into a life of deep human anguish. But she cannot keep in the ear-rings long, else she may make her uncle and aunt wait. She puts them quickly into the box again and shuts them up. Some day she will be able to wear any ear-rings she likes, and already she lives in an invisible world of brilliant costumes, shimmering gauze, soft satin, and velvet, such as the lady's maid at the Chase has shown her in Miss Lydia's wardrobe. She feels the bracelets on her arms, and treads on a soft carpet in front of a tall mirror. But she has one thing in the drawer which she can venture to wear to-day, because she can hang it on the chain of dark-brown berries which she has been used to wear on grand days, with a tiny flat scent-bottle at the end of it tucked inside her frock; and she must put on her brown berries--her neck would look so unfinished without it. Hetty was not quite as fond of the locket as of the ear-rings, though it was a handsome large locket, with enamelled flowers at the back and a beautiful gold border round the glass, which showed a light-brown slightly waving lock, forming a background for two little dark rings. She must keep it under her clothes, and no one would see it. But Hetty had another passion, only a little less strong than her love of finery, and that other passion made her like to wear the locket even hidden in her bosom. She would always have worn it, if she had dared to encounter her aunt's questions about a ribbon round her neck. So now she slipped it on along her chain of dark-brown berries, and snapped the chain round her neck. It was not a very long chain, only allowing the locket to hang a little way below the edge of her frock. And now she had nothing to do but to put on her long sleeves, her new white gauze neckerchief, and her straw hat trimmed with white to-day instead of the pink, which had become rather faded under the July sun. That hat made the drop of bitterness in Hetty's cup to-day, for it was not quite new--everybody would see that it was a little tanned against the white ribbon--and Mary Burge, she felt sure, would have a new hat or bonnet on. She looked for consolation at her fine white cotton stockings: they really were very nice indeed, and she had given almost all her spare money for them. Hetty's dream of the future could not make her insensible to triumph in the present. To be sure, Captain Donnithorne loved her so that he would never care about looking at other people, but then those other people didn't know how he loved her, and she was not satisfied to appear shabby and insignificant in their eyes even for a short space. The whole party was assembled in the house-place when Hetty went down, all of course in their Sunday clothes; and the bells had been ringing so this morning in honour of the captain's twenty-first birthday, and the work had all been got done so early, that Marty and Tommy were not quite easy in their minds until their mother had assured them that going to church was not part of the day's festivities. Mr. Poyser had once suggested that the house should be shut up and left to take care of itself; "for," said he, "there's no danger of anybody's breaking in--everybody'll be at the Chase, thieves an' all. If we lock th' house up, all the men can go: it's a day they wonna see twice i' their lives." But Mrs. Poyser answered with great decision: "I never left the house to take care of itself since I was a missis, and I never will. There's been ill-looking tramps enoo' about the place this last week, to carry off every ham an' every spoon we'n got; and they all collogue together, them tramps, as it's a mercy they hanna come and poisoned the dogs and murdered us all in our beds afore we knowed, some Friday night when we'n got the money in th' house to pay the men. And it's like enough the tramps know where we're going as well as we do oursens; for if Old Harry wants any work done, you may be sure he'll find the means." "Nonsense about murdering us in our beds," said Mr. Poyser; "I've got a gun i' our room, hanna I? and thee'st got ears as 'ud find it out if a mouse was gnawing the bacon. Howiver, if thee wouldstna be easy, Alick can stay at home i' the forepart o' the day, and Tim can come back tow'rds five o'clock, and let Alick have his turn. They may let Growler loose if anybody offers to do mischief, and there's Alick's dog too, ready enough to set his tooth in a tramp if Alick gives him a wink." Mrs. Poyser accepted this compromise, but thought it advisable to bar and bolt to the utmost; and now, at the last moment before starting, Nancy, the dairy-maid, was closing the shutters of the house-place, although the window, lying under the immediate observation of Alick and the dogs, might have been supposed the least likely to be selected for a burglarious attempt. The covered cart, without springs, was standing ready to carry the whole family except the men-servants. Mr. Poyser and the grandfather sat on the seat in front, and within there was room for all the women and children; the fuller the cart the better, because then the jolting would not hurt so much, and Nancy's broad person and thick arms were an excellent cushion to be pitched on. But Mr. Poyser drove at no more than a walking pace, that there might be as little risk of jolting as possible on this warm day, and there was time to exchange greetings and remarks with the foot-passengers who were going the same way, specking the paths between the green meadows and the golden cornfields with bits of movable bright colour--a scarlet waistcoat to match the poppies that nodded a little too thickly among the corn, or a dark-blue neckerchief with ends flaunting across a brand-new white smock-frock. All Broxton and all Hayslope were to be at the Chase, and make merry there in honour of "th' heir"; and the old men and women, who had never been so far down this side of the hill for the last twenty years, were being brought from Broxton and Hayslope in one of the farmer's waggons, at Mr. Irwine's suggestion. The church-bells had struck up again now--a last tune, before the ringers came down the hill to have their share in the festival; and before the bells had finished, other music was heard approaching, so that even Old Brown, the sober horse that was drawing Mr. Poyser's cart, began to prick up his ears. It was the band of the Benefit Club, which had mustered in all its glory--that is to say, in bright-blue scarfs and blue favours, and carrying its banner with the motto, "Let brotherly love continue," encircling a picture of a stone-pit. The carts, of course, were not to enter the Chase. Every one must get down at the lodges, and the vehicles must be sent back. "Why, the Chase is like a fair a'ready," said Mrs. Poyser, as she got down from the cart, and saw the groups scattered under the great oaks, and the boys running about in the hot sunshine to survey the tall poles surmounted by the fluttering garments that were to be the prize of the successful climbers. "I should ha' thought there wasna so many people i' the two parishes. Mercy on us! How hot it is out o' the shade! Come here, Totty, else your little face 'ull be burnt to a scratchin'! They might ha' cooked the dinners i' that open space an' saved the fires. I shall go to Mrs. Best's room an' sit down." "Stop a bit, stop a bit," said Mr. Poyser. "There's th' waggin coming wi' th' old folks in't; it'll be such a sight as wonna come o'er again, to see 'em get down an' walk along all together. You remember some on 'em i' their prime, eh, Father?" "Aye, aye," said old Martin, walking slowly under the shade of the lodge porch, from which he could see the aged party descend. "I remember Jacob Taft walking fifty mile after the Scotch raybels, when they turned back from Stoniton." He felt himself quite a youngster, with a long life before him, as he saw the Hayslope patriarch, old Feyther Taft, descend from the waggon and walk towards him, in his brown nightcap, and leaning on his two sticks. "Well, Mester Taft," shouted old Martin, at the utmost stretch of his voice--for though he knew the old man was stone deaf, he could not omit the propriety of a greeting--"you're hearty yet. You can enjoy yoursen to-day, for-all you're ninety an' better." "Your sarvant, mesters, your sarvant," said Feyther Taft in a treble tone, perceiving that he was in company. The aged group, under care of sons or daughters, themselves worn and grey, passed on along the least-winding carriage-road towards the house, where a special table was prepared for them; while the Poyser party wisely struck across the grass under the shade of the great trees, but not out of view of the house-front, with its sloping lawn and flower-beds, or of the pretty striped marquee at the edge of the lawn, standing at right angles with two larger marquees on each side of the open green space where the games were to be played. The house would have been nothing but a plain square mansion of Queen Anne's time, but for the remnant of an old abbey to which it was united at one end, in much the same way as one may sometimes see a new farmhouse rising high and prim at the end of older and lower farm-offices. The fine old remnant stood a little backward and under the shadow of tall beeches, but the sun was now on the taller and more advanced front, the blinds were all down, and the house seemed asleep in the hot midday. It made Hetty quite sad to look at it: Arthur must be somewhere in the back rooms, with the grand company, where he could not possibly know that she was come, and she should not see him for a long, long while--not till after dinner, when they said he was to come up and make a speech. But Hetty was wrong in part of her conjecture. No grand company was come except the Irwines, for whom the carriage had been sent early, and Arthur was at that moment not in a back room, but walking with the rector into the broad stone cloisters of the old abbey, where the long tables were laid for all the cottage tenants and the farm-servants. A very handsome young Briton he looked to-day, in high spirits and a bright-blue frock-coat, the highest mode--his arm no longer in a sling. So open-looking and candid, too; but candid people have their secrets, and secrets leave no lines in young faces. "Upon my word," he said, as they entered the cool cloisters, "I think the cottagers have the best of it: these cloisters make a delightful dining-room on a hot day. That was capital advice of yours, Irwine, about the dinners--to let them be as orderly and comfortable as possible, and only for the tenants: especially as I had only a limited sum after all; for though my grandfather talked of a carte blanche, he couldn't make up his mind to trust me, when it came to the point." "Never mind, you'll give more pleasure in this quiet way," said Mr. Irwine. "In this sort of thing people are constantly confounding liberality with riot and disorder. It sounds very grand to say that so many sheep and oxen were roasted whole, and everybody ate who liked to come; but in the end it generally happens that no one has had an enjoyable meal. If the people get a good dinner and a moderate quantity of ale in the middle of the day, they'll be able to enjoy the games as the day cools. You can't hinder some of them from getting too much towards evening, but drunkenness and darkness go better together than drunkenness and daylight." "Well, I hope there won't be much of it. I've kept the Treddleston people away by having a feast for them in the town; and I've got Casson and Adam Bede and some other good fellows to look to the giving out of ale in the booths, and to take care things don't go too far. Come, let us go up above now and see the dinner-tables for the large tenants." They went up the stone staircase leading simply to the long gallery above the cloisters, a gallery where all the dusty worthless old pictures had been banished for the last three generations--mouldy portraits of Queen Elizabeth and her ladies, General Monk with his eye knocked out, Daniel very much in the dark among the lions, and Julius Caesar on horseback, with a high nose and laurel crown, holding his Commentaries in his hand. "What a capital thing it is that they saved this piece of the old abbey!" said Arthur. "If I'm ever master here, I shall do up the gallery in first-rate style. We've got no room in the house a third as large as this. That second table is for the farmers' wives and children: Mrs. Best said it would be more comfortable for the mothers and children to be by themselves. I was determined to have the children, and make a regular family thing of it. I shall be 'the old squire' to those little lads and lasses some day, and they'll tell their children what a much finer young fellow I was than my own son. There's a table for the women and children below as well. But you will see them all--you will come up with me after dinner, I hope?" "Yes, to be sure," said Mr. Irwine. "I wouldn't miss your maiden speech to the tenantry." "And there will be something else you'll like to hear," said Arthur. "Let us go into the library and I'll tell you all about it while my grandfather is in the drawing-room with the ladies. Something that will surprise you," he continued, as they sat down. "My grandfather has come round after all." "What, about Adam?" "Yes; I should have ridden over to tell you about it, only I was so busy. You know I told you I had quite given up arguing the matter with him--I thought it was hopeless--but yesterday morning he asked me to come in here to him before I went out, and astonished me by saying that he had decided on all the new arrangements he should make in consequence of old Satchell being obliged to lay by work, and that he intended to employ Adam in superintending the woods at a salary of a guinea a-week, and the use of a pony to be kept here. I believe the secret of it is, he saw from the first it would be a profitable plan, but he had some particular dislike of Adam to get over--and besides, the fact that I propose a thing is generally a reason with him for rejecting it. There's the most curious contradiction in my grandfather: I know he means to leave me all the money he has saved, and he is likely enough to have cut off poor Aunt Lydia, who has been a slave to him all her life, with only five hundred a-year, for the sake of giving me all the more; and yet I sometimes think he positively hates me because I'm his heir. I believe if I were to break my neck, he would feel it the greatest misfortune that could befall him, and yet it seems a pleasure to him to make my life a series of petty annoyances." "Ah, my boy, it is not only woman's love that is [two greek words omitted] as old AEschylus calls it. There's plenty of 'unloving love' in the world of a masculine kind. But tell me about Adam. Has he accepted the post? I don't see that it can be much more profitable than his present work, though, to be sure, it will leave him a good deal of time on his own hands. "Well, I felt some doubt about it when I spoke to him and he seemed to hesitate at first. His objection was that he thought he should not be able to satisfy my grandfather. But I begged him as a personal favour to me not to let any reason prevent him from accepting the place, if he really liked the employment and would not be giving up anything that was more profitable to him. And he assured me he should like it of all things--it would be a great step forward for him in business, and it would enable him to do what he had long wished to do, to give up working for Burge. He says he shall have plenty of time to superintend a little business of his own, which he and Seth will carry on, and will perhaps be able to enlarge by degrees. So he has agreed at last, and I have arranged that he shall dine with the large tenants to-day; and I mean to announce the appointment to them, and ask them to drink Adam's health. It's a little drama I've got up in honour of my friend Adam. He's a fine fellow, and I like the opportunity of letting people know that I think so." "A drama in which friend Arthur piques himself on having a pretty part to play," said Mr. Irwine, smiling. But when he saw Arthur colour, he went on relentingly, "My part, you know, is always that of the old fogy who sees nothing to admire in the young folks. I don't like to admit that I'm proud of my pupil when he does graceful things. But I must play the amiable old gentleman for once, and second your toast in honour of Adam. Has your grandfather yielded on the other point too, and agreed to have a respectable man as steward?" "Oh no," said Arthur, rising from his chair with an air of impatience and walking along the room with his hands in his pockets. "He's got some project or other about letting the Chase Farm and bargaining for a supply of milk and butter for the house. But I ask no questions about it--it makes me too angry. I believe he means to do all the business himself, and have nothing in the shape of a steward. It's amazing what energy he has, though." "Well, we'll go to the ladies now," said Mr. Irwine, rising too. "I want to tell my mother what a splendid throne you've prepared for her under the marquee." "Yes, and we must be going to luncheon too," said Arthur. "It must be two o'clock, for there is the gong beginning to sound for the tenants' dinners." WHEN Adam heard that he was to dine upstairs with the large tenants, he felt rather uncomfortable at the idea of being exalted in this way above his mother and Seth, who were to dine in the cloisters below. But Mr. Mills, the butler, assured him that Captain Donnithorne had given particular orders about it, and would be very angry if Adam was not there. Adam nodded and went up to Seth, who was standing a few yards off. "Seth, lad," he said, "the captain has sent to say I'm to dine upstairs--he wishes it particular, Mr. Mills says, so I suppose it 'ud be behaving ill for me not to go. But I don't like sitting up above thee and mother, as if I was better than my own flesh and blood. Thee't not take it unkind, I hope?" "Nay, nay, lad," said Seth, "thy honour's our honour; and if thee get'st respect, thee'st won it by thy own deserts. The further I see thee above me, the better, so long as thee feel'st like a brother to me. It's because o' thy being appointed over the woods, and it's nothing but what's right. That's a place o' trust, and thee't above a common workman now." "Aye," said Adam, "but nobody knows a word about it yet. I haven't given notice to Mr. Burge about leaving him, and I don't like to tell anybody else about it before he knows, for he'll be a good bit hurt, I doubt. People 'ull be wondering to see me there, and they'll like enough be guessing the reason and asking questions, for there's been so much talk up and down about my having the place, this last three weeks." "Well, thee canst say thee wast ordered to come without being told the reason. That's the truth. And mother 'ull be fine and joyful about it. Let's go and tell her." Adam was not the only guest invited to come upstairs on other grounds than the amount he contributed to the rent-roll. There were other people in the two parishes who derived dignity from their functions rather than from their pocket, and of these Bartle Massey was one. His lame walk was rather slower than usual on this warm day, so Adam lingered behind when the bell rang for dinner, that he might walk up with his old friend; for he was a little too shy to join the Poyser party on this public occasion. Opportunities of getting to Hetty's side would be sure to turn up in the course of the day, and Adam contented himself with that for he disliked any risk of being "joked" about Hetty--the big, outspoken, fearless man was very shy and diffident as to his love-making. "Well, Mester Massey," said Adam, as Bartle came up "I'm going to dine upstairs with you to-day: the captain's sent me orders." "Ah!" said Bartle, pausing, with one hand on his back. "Then there's something in the wind--there's something in the wind. Have you heard anything about what the old squire means to do?" "Why, yes," said Adam; "I'll tell you what I know, because I believe you can keep a still tongue in your head if you like, and I hope you'll not let drop a word till it's common talk, for I've particular reasons against its being known." "Trust to me, my boy, trust to me. I've got no wife to worm it out of me and then run out and cackle it in everybody's hearing. If you trust a man, let him be a bachelor--let him be a bachelor." "Well, then, it was so far settled yesterday that I'm to take the management o' the woods. The captain sent for me t' offer it me, when I was seeing to the poles and things here and I've agreed to't. But if anybody asks any questions upstairs, just you take no notice, and turn the talk to something else, and I'll be obliged to you. Now, let us go on, for we're pretty nigh the last, I think." "I know what to do, never fear," said Bartle, moving on. "The news will be good sauce to my dinner. Aye, aye, my boy, you'll get on. I'll back you for an eye at measuring and a head-piece for figures, against any man in this county and you've had good teaching--you've had good teaching." When they got upstairs, the question which Arthur had left unsettled, as to who was to be president, and who vice, was still under discussion, so that Adam's entrance passed without remark. "It stands to sense," Mr. Casson was saying, "as old Mr. Poyser, as is th' oldest man i' the room, should sit at top o' the table. I wasn't butler fifteen year without learning the rights and the wrongs about dinner." "Nay, nay," said old Martin, "I'n gi'en up to my son; I'm no tenant now: let my son take my place. Th' ould foulks ha' had their turn: they mun make way for the young uns." "I should ha' thought the biggest tenant had the best right, more nor th' oldest," said Luke Britton, who was not fond of the critical Mr. Poyser; "there's Mester Holdsworth has more land nor anybody else on th' estate." "Well," said Mr. Poyser, "suppose we say the man wi' the foulest land shall sit at top; then whoever gets th' honour, there'll be no envying on him." "Eh, here's Mester Massey," said Mr. Craig, who, being a neutral in the dispute, had no interest but in conciliation; "the schoolmaster ought to be able to tell you what's right. Who's to sit at top o' the table, Mr. Massey?" "Why, the broadest man," said Bartle; "and then he won't take up other folks' room; and the next broadest must sit at bottom." This happy mode of settling the dispute produced much laughter--a smaller joke would have sufficed for that Mr. Casson, however, did not feel it compatible with his dignity and superior knowledge to join in the laugh, until it turned out that he was fixed on as the second broadest man. Martin Poyser the younger, as the broadest, was to be president, and Mr. Casson, as next broadest, was to be vice. Owing to this arrangement, Adam, being, of course, at the bottom of the table, fell under the immediate observation of Mr. Casson, who, too much occupied with the question of precedence, had not hitherto noticed his entrance. Mr. Casson, we have seen, considered Adam "rather lifted up and peppery-like": he thought the gentry made more fuss about this young carpenter than was necessary; they made no fuss about Mr. Casson, although he had been an excellent butler for fifteen years. "Well, Mr. Bede, you're one o' them as mounts hup'ards apace," he said, when Adam sat down. "You've niver dined here before, as I remember." "No, Mr. Casson," said Adam, in his strong voice, that could be heard along the table; "I've never dined here before, but I come by Captain Donnithorne's wish, and I hope it's not disagreeable to anybody here." "Nay, nay," said several voices at once, "we're glad ye're come. Who's got anything to say again' it?" "And ye'll sing us 'Over the hills and far away,' after dinner, wonna ye?" said Mr. Chowne. "That's a song I'm uncommon fond on." "Peeh!" said Mr. Craig; "it's not to be named by side o' the Scotch tunes. I've never cared about singing myself; I've had something better to do. A man that's got the names and the natur o' plants in's head isna likely to keep a hollow place t' hold tunes in. But a second cousin o' mine, a drovier, was a rare hand at remembering the Scotch tunes. He'd got nothing else to think on." "The Scotch tunes!" said Bartle Massey, contemptuously; "I've heard enough o' the Scotch tunes to last me while I live. They're fit for nothing but to frighten the birds with--that's to say, the English birds, for the Scotch birds may sing Scotch for what I know. Give the lads a bagpipe instead of a rattle, and I'll answer for it the corn 'll be safe." "Yes, there's folks as find a pleasure in undervallying what they know but little about," said Mr. Craig. "Why, the Scotch tunes are just like a scolding, nagging woman," Bartle went on, without deigning to notice Mr. Craig's remark. "They go on with the same thing over and over again, and never come to a reasonable end. Anybody 'ud think the Scotch tunes had always been asking a question of somebody as deaf as old Taft, and had never got an answer yet." Adam minded the less about sitting by Mr. Casson, because this position enabled him to see Hetty, who was not far off him at the next table. Hetty, however, had not even noticed his presence yet, for she was giving angry attention to Totty, who insisted on drawing up her feet on to the bench in antique fashion, and thereby threatened to make dusty marks on Hetty's pink-and-white frock. No sooner were the little fat legs pushed down than up they came again, for Totty's eyes were too busy in staring at the large dishes to see where the plum pudding was for her to retain any consciousness of her legs. Hetty got quite out of patience, and at last, with a frown and pout, and gathering tears, she said, "Oh dear, Aunt, I wish you'd speak to Totty; she keeps putting her legs up so, and messing my frock." "What's the matter wi' the child? She can niver please you," said the mother. "Let her come by the side o' me, then. I can put up wi' her." Adam was looking at Hetty, and saw the frown, and pout, and the dark eyes seeming to grow larger with pettish half-gathered tears. Quiet Mary Burge, who sat near enough to see that Hetty was cross and that Adam's eyes were fixed on her, thought that so sensible a man as Adam must be reflecting on the small value of beauty in a woman whose temper was bad. Mary was a good girl, not given to indulge in evil feelings, but she said to herself, that, since Hetty had a bad temper, it was better Adam should know it. And it was quite true that if Hetty had been plain, she would have looked very ugly and unamiable at that moment, and no one's moral judgment upon her would have been in the least beguiled. But really there was something quite charming in her pettishness: it looked so much more like innocent distress than ill humour; and the severe Adam felt no movement of disapprobation; he only felt a sort of amused pity, as if he had seen a kitten setting up its back, or a little bird with its feathers ruffled. He could not gather what was vexing her, but it was impossible to him to feel otherwise than that she was the prettiest thing in the world, and that if he could have his way, nothing should ever vex her any more. And presently, when Totty was gone, she caught his eye, and her face broke into one of its brightest smiles, as she nodded to him. It was a bit of flirtation--she knew Mary Burge was looking at them. But the smile was like wine to Adam. WHEN the dinner was over, and the first draughts from the great cask of birthday ale were brought up, room was made for the broad Mr. Poyser at the side of the table, and two chairs were placed at the head. It had been settled very definitely what Mr. Poyser was to do when the young squire should appear, and for the last five minutes he had been in a state of abstraction, with his eyes fixed on the dark picture opposite, and his hands busy with the loose cash and other articles in his breeches pockets. When the young squire entered, with Mr. Irwine by his side, every one stood up, and this moment of homage was very agreeable to Arthur. He liked to feel his own importance, and besides that, he cared a great deal for the good-will of these people: he was fond of thinking that they had a hearty, special regard for him. The pleasure he felt was in his face as he said, "My grandfather and I hope all our friends here have enjoyed their dinner, and find my birthday ale good. Mr. Irwine and I are come to taste it with you, and I am sure we shall all like anything the better that the rector shares with us." All eyes were now turned on Mr. Poyser, who, with his hands still busy in his pockets, began with the deliberateness of a slow-striking clock. "Captain, my neighbours have put it upo' me to speak for 'em to-day, for where folks think pretty much alike, one spokesman's as good as a score. And though we've mayhappen got contrairy ways o' thinking about a many things--one man lays down his land one way an' another another--an' I'll not take it upon me to speak to no man's farming, but my own--this I'll say, as we're all o' one mind about our young squire. We've pretty nigh all on us known you when you war a little un, an' we've niver known anything on you but what was good an' honorable. You speak fair an' y' act fair, an' we're joyful when we look forrard to your being our landlord, for we b'lieve you mean to do right by everybody, an' 'ull make no man's bread bitter to him if you can help it. That's what I mean, an' that's what we all mean; and when a man's said what he means, he'd better stop, for th' ale 'ull be none the better for stannin'. An' I'll not say how we like th' ale yet, for we couldna well taste it till we'd drunk your health in it; but the dinner was good, an' if there's anybody hasna enjoyed it, it must be the fault of his own inside. An' as for the rector's company, it's well known as that's welcome t' all the parish wherever he may be; an' I hope, an' we all hope, as he'll live to see us old folks, an' our children grown to men an' women an' Your Honour a family man. I've no more to say as concerns the present time, an' so we'll drink our young squire's health--three times three." Hereupon a glorious shouting, a rapping, a jingling, a clattering, and a shouting, with plentiful da capo, pleasanter than a strain of sublimest music in the ears that receive such a tribute for the first time. Arthur had felt a twinge of conscience during Mr. Poyser's speech, but it was too feeble to nullify the pleasure he felt in being praised. Did he not deserve what was said of him on the whole? If there was something in his conduct that Poyser wouldn't have liked if he had known it, why, no man's conduct will bear too close an inspection; and Poyser was not likely to know it; and, after all, what had he done? Gone a little too far, perhaps, in flirtation, but another man in his place would have acted much worse; and no harm would come--no harm should come, for the next time he was alone with Hetty, he would explain to her that she must not think seriously of him or of what had passed. It was necessary to Arthur, you perceive, to be satisfied with himself. Uncomfortable thoughts must be got rid of by good intentions for the future, which can be formed so rapidly that he had time to be uncomfortable and to become easy again before Mr. Poyser's slow speech was finished, and when it was time for him to speak he was quite light-hearted. "I thank you all, my good friends and neighbours," Arthur said, "for the good opinion of me, and the kind feelings towards me which Mr. Poyser has been expressing on your behalf and on his own, and it will always be my heartiest wish to deserve them. In the course of things we may expect that, if I live, I shall one day or other be your landlord; indeed, it is on the ground of that expectation that my grandfather has wished me to celebrate this day and to come among you now; and I look forward to this position, not merely as one of power and pleasure for myself, but as a means of benefiting my neighbours. It hardly becomes so young a man as I am to talk much about farming to you, who are most of you so much older, and are men of experience; still, I have interested myself a good deal in such matters, and learned as much about them as my opportunities have allowed; and when the course of events shall place the estate in my hands, it will be my first desire to afford my tenants all the encouragement a landlord can give them, in improving their land and trying to bring about a better practice of husbandry. It will be my wish to be looked on by all my deserving tenants as their best friend, and nothing would make me so happy as to be able to respect every man on the estate, and to be respected by him in return. It is not my place at present to enter into particulars; I only meet your good hopes concerning me by telling you that my own hopes correspond to them--that what you expect from me I desire to fulfil; and I am quite of Mr. Poyser's opinion, that when a man has said what he means, he had better stop. But the pleasure I feel in having my own health drunk by you would not be perfect if we did not drink the health of my grandfather, who has filled the place of both parents to me. I will say no more, until you have joined me in drinking his health on a day when he has wished me to appear among you as the future representative of his name and family." Perhaps there was no one present except Mr. Irwine who thoroughly understood and approved Arthur's graceful mode of proposing his grandfather's health. The farmers thought the young squire knew well enough that they hated the old squire, and Mrs. Poyser said, "he'd better not ha' stirred a kettle o' sour broth." The bucolic mind does not readily apprehend the refinements of good taste. But the toast could not be rejected and when it had been drunk, Arthur said, "I thank you, both for my grandfather and myself; and now there is one more thing I wish to tell you, that you may share my pleasure about it, as I hope and believe you will. I think there can be no man here who has not a respect, and some of you, I am sure, have a very high regard, for my friend Adam Bede. It is well known to every one in this neighbourhood that there is no man whose word can be more depended on than his; that whatever he undertakes to do, he does well, and is as careful for the interests of those who employ him as for his own. I'm proud to say that I was very fond of Adam when I was a little boy, and I have never lost my old feeling for him--I think that shows that I know a good fellow when I find him. It has long been my wish that he should have the management of the woods on the estate, which happen to be very valuable, not only because I think so highly of his character, but because he has the knowledge and the skill which fit him for the place. And I am happy to tell you that it is my grandfather's wish too, and it is now settled that Adam shall manage the woods--a change which I am sure will be very much for the advantage of the estate; and I hope you will by and by join me in drinking his health, and in wishing him all the prosperity in life that he deserves. But there is a still older friend of mine than Adam Bede present, and I need not tell you that it is Mr. Irwine. I'm sure you will agree with me that we must drink no other person's health until we have drunk his. I know you have all reason to love him, but no one of his parishioners has so much reason as I. Come, charge your glasses, and let us drink to our excellent rector--three times three!" This toast was drunk with all the enthusiasm that was wanting to the last, and it certainly was the most picturesque moment in the scene when Mr. Irwine got up to speak, and all the faces in the room were turned towards him. The superior refinement of his face was much more striking than that of Arthur's when seen in comparison with the people round them. Arthur's was a much commoner British face, and the splendour of his new-fashioned clothes was more akin to the young farmer's taste in costume than Mr. Irwine's powder and the well-brushed but well-worn black, which seemed to be his chosen suit for great occasions; for he had the mysterious secret of never wearing a new-looking coat. "This is not the first time, by a great many," he said, "that I have had to thank my parishioners for giving me tokens of their goodwill, but neighbourly kindness is among those things that are the more precious the older they get. Indeed, our pleasant meeting to-day is a proof that when what is good comes of age and is likely to live, there is reason for rejoicing, and the relation between us as clergyman and parishioners came of age two years ago, for it is three-and-twenty years since I first came among you, and I see some tall fine-looking young men here, as well as some blooming young women, that were far from looking as pleasantly at me when I christened them as I am happy to see them looking now. But I'm sure you will not wonder when I say that among all those young men, the one in whom I have the strongest interest is my friend Mr. Arthur Donnithorne, for whom you have just expressed your regard. I had the pleasure of being his tutor for several years, and have naturally had opportunities of knowing him intimately which cannot have occurred to any one else who is present; and I have some pride as well as pleasure in assuring you that I share your high hopes concerning him, and your confidence in his possession of those qualities which will make him an excellent landlord when the time shall come for him to take that important position among you. We feel alike on most matters on which a man who is getting towards fifty can feel in common with a young man of one-and-twenty, and he has just been expressing a feeling which I share very heartily, and I would not willingly omit the opportunity of saying so. That feeling is his value and respect for Adam Bede. People in a high station are of course more thought of and talked about and have their virtues more praised, than those whose lives are passed in humble everyday work; but every sensible man knows how necessary that humble everyday work is, and how important it is to us that it should be done well. And I agree with my friend Mr. Arthur Donnithorne in feeling that when a man whose duty lies in that sort of work shows a character which would make him an example in any station, his merit should be acknowledged. He is one of those to whom honour is due, and his friends should delight to honour him. I know Adam Bede well--I know what he is as a workman, and what he has been as a son and brother--and I am saying the simplest truth when I say that I respect him as much as I respect any man living. But I am not speaking to you about a stranger; some of you are his intimate friends, and I believe there is not one here who does not know enough of him to join heartily in drinking his health." As Mr. Irwine paused, Arthur jumped up and, filling his glass, said, "A bumper to Adam Bede, and may he live to have sons as faithful and clever as himself!" No hearer, not even Bartle Massey, was so delighted with this toast as Mr. Poyser. "Tough work" as his first speech had been, he would have started up to make another if he had not known the extreme irregularity of such a course. As it was, he found an outlet for his feeling in drinking his ale unusually fast, and setting down his glass with a swing of his arm and a determined rap. If Jonathan Burge and a few others felt less comfortable on the occasion, they tried their best to look contented, and so the toast was drunk with a goodwill apparently unanimous. Adam was rather paler than usual when he got up to thank his friends. He was a good deal moved by this public tribute--very naturally, for he was in the presence of all his little world, and it was uniting to do him honour. But he felt no shyness about speaking, not being troubled with small vanity or lack of words; he looked neither awkward nor embarrassed, but stood in his usual firm upright attitude, with his head thrown a little backward and his hands perfectly still, in that rough dignity which is peculiar to intelligent, honest, well-built workmen, who are never wondering what is their business in the world. "I'm quite taken by surprise," he said. "I didn't expect anything o' this sort, for it's a good deal more than my wages. But I've the more reason to be grateful to you, Captain, and to you, Mr. Irwine, and to all my friends here, who've drunk my health and wished me well. It 'ud be nonsense for me to be saying, I don't at all deserve th' opinion you have of me; that 'ud be poor thanks to you, to say that you've known me all these years and yet haven't sense enough to find out a great deal o' the truth about me. You think, if I undertake to do a bit o' work, I'll do it well, be my pay big or little--and that's true. I'd be ashamed to stand before you here if it wasna true. But it seems to me that's a man's plain duty, and nothing to be conceited about, and it's pretty clear to me as I've never done more than my duty; for let us do what we will, it's only making use o' the sperrit and the powers that ha' been given to us. And so this kindness o' yours, I'm sure, is no debt you owe me, but a free gift, and as such I accept it and am thankful. And as to this new employment I've taken in hand, I'll only say that I took it at Captain Donnithorne's desire, and that I'll try to fulfil his expectations. I'd wish for no better lot than to work under him, and to know that while I was getting my own bread I was taking care of his int'rests. For I believe he's one o those gentlemen as wishes to do the right thing, and to leave the world a bit better than he found it, which it's my belief every man may do, whether he's gentle or simple, whether he sets a good bit o' work going and finds the money, or whether he does the work with his own hands. There's no occasion for me to say any more about what I feel towards him: I hope to show it through the rest o' my life in my actions." There were various opinions about Adam's speech: some of the women whispered that he didn't show himself thankful enough, and seemed to speak as proud as could be; but most of the men were of opinion that nobody could speak more straightfor'ard, and that Adam was as fine a chap as need to be. While such observations were being buzzed about, mingled with wonderings as to what the old squire meant to do for a bailiff, and whether he was going to have a steward, the two gentlemen had risen, and were walking round to the table where the wives and children sat. There was none of the strong ale here, of course, but wine and dessert--sparkling gooseberry for the young ones, and some good sherry for the mothers. Mrs. Poyser was at the head of this table, and Totty was now seated in her lap, bending her small nose deep down into a wine-glass in search of the nuts floating there. "How do you do, Mrs. Poyser?" said Arthur. "Weren't you pleased to hear your husband make such a good speech to-day?" "Oh, sir, the men are mostly so tongue-tied--you're forced partly to guess what they mean, as you do wi' the dumb creaturs." "What! you think you could have made it better for him?" said Mr. Irwine, laughing. "Well, sir, when I want to say anything, I can mostly find words to say it in, thank God. Not as I'm a-finding faut wi' my husband, for if he's a man o' few words, what he says he'll stand to." "I'm sure I never saw a prettier party than this," Arthur said, looking round at the apple-cheeked children. "My aunt and the Miss Irwines will come up and see you presently. They were afraid of the noise of the toasts, but it would be a shame for them not to see you at table." He walked on, speaking to the mothers and patting the children, while Mr. Irwine satisfied himself with standing still and nodding at a distance, that no one's attention might be disturbed from the young squire, the hero of the day. Arthur did not venture to stop near Hetty, but merely bowed to her as he passed along the opposite side. The foolish child felt her heart swelling with discontent; for what woman was ever satisfied with apparent neglect, even when she knows it to be the mask of love? Hetty thought this was going to be the most miserable day she had had for a long while, a moment of chill daylight and reality came across her dream: Arthur, who had seemed so near to her only a few hours before, was separated from her, as the hero of a great procession is separated from a small outsider in the crowd. THE great dance was not to begin until eight o'clock, but for any lads and lasses who liked to dance on the shady grass before then, there was music always at hand--for was not the band of the Benefit Club capable of playing excellent jigs, reels, and hornpipes? And, besides this, there was a grand band hired from Rosseter, who, with their wonderful wind-instruments and puffed-out cheeks, were themselves a delightful show to the small boys and girls. To say nothing of Joshua Rann's fiddle, which, by an act of generous forethought, he had provided himself with, in case any one should be of sufficiently pure taste to prefer dancing to a solo on that instrument. Meantime, when the sun had moved off the great open space in front of the house, the games began. There were, of course, well-soaped poles to be climbed by the boys and youths, races to be run by the old women, races to be run in sacks, heavy weights to be lifted by the strong men, and a long list of challenges to such ambitious attempts as that of walking as many yards possible on one leg--feats in which it was generally remarked that Wiry Ben, being "the lissom'st, springest fellow i' the country," was sure to be pre-eminent. To crown all, there was to be a donkey-race--that sublimest of all races, conducted on the grand socialistic idea of everybody encouraging everybody else's donkey, and the sorriest donkey winning. And soon after four o'clock, splendid old Mrs. Irwine, in her damask satin and jewels and black lace, was led out by Arthur, followed by the whole family party, to her raised seat under the striped marquee, where she was to give out the prizes to the victors. Staid, formal Miss Lydia had requested to resign that queenly office to the royal old lady, and Arthur was pleased with this opportunity of gratifying his godmother's taste for stateliness. Old Mr. Donnithorne, the delicately clean, finely scented, withered old man, led out Miss Irwine, with his air of punctilious, acid politeness; Mr. Gawaine brought Miss Lydia, looking neutral and stiff in an elegant peach-blossom silk; and Mr. Irwine came last with his pale sister Anne. No other friend of the family, besides Mr. Gawaine, was invited to-day; there was to be a grand dinner for the neighbouring gentry on the morrow, but to-day all the forces were required for the entertainment of the tenants. There was a sunk fence in front of the marquee, dividing the lawn from the park, but a temporary bridge had been made for the passage of the victors, and the groups of people standing, or seated here and there on benches, stretched on each side of the open space from the white marquees up to the sunk fence. "Upon my word it's a pretty sight," said the old lady, in her deep voice, when she was seated, and looked round on the bright scene with its dark-green background; "and it's the last fete-day I'm likely to see, unless you make haste and get married, Arthur. But take care you get a charming bride, else I would rather die without seeing her." "You're so terribly fastidious, Godmother," said Arthur, "I'm afraid I should never satisfy you with my choice." "Well, I won't forgive you if she's not handsome. I can't be put off with amiability, which is always the excuse people are making for the existence of plain people. And she must not be silly; that will never do, because you'll want managing, and a silly woman can't manage you. Who is that tall young man, Dauphin, with the mild face? There, standing without his hat, and taking such care of that tall old woman by the side of him--his mother, of course. I like to see that." "What, don't you know him, Mother?" said Mr. Irwine. "That is Seth Bede, Adam's brother--a Methodist, but a very good fellow. Poor Seth has looked rather down-hearted of late; I thought it was because of his father's dying in that sad way, but Joshua Rann tells me he wanted to marry that sweet little Methodist preacher who was here about a month ago, and I suppose she refused him." "Ah, I remember hearing about her. But there are no end of people here that I don't know, for they're grown up and altered so since I used to go about." "What excellent sight you have!" said old Mr. Donnithorne, who was holding a double glass up to his eyes, "to see the expression of that young man's face so far off. His face is nothing but a pale blurred spot to me. But I fancy I have the advantage of you when we come to look close. I can read small print without spectacles." "Ah, my dear sir, you began with being very near-sighted, and those near-sighted eyes always wear the best. I want very strong spectacles to read with, but then I think my eyes get better and better for things at a distance. I suppose if I could live another fifty years, I should be blind to everything that wasn't out of other people's sight, like a man who stands in a well and sees nothing but the stars." "See," said Arthur, "the old women are ready to set out on their race now. Which do you bet on, Gawaine?" "The long-legged one, unless they're going to have several heats, and then the little wiry one may win." "There are the Poysers, Mother, not far off on the right hand," said Miss Irwine. "Mrs. Poyser is looking at you. Do take notice of her." "To be sure I will," said the old lady, giving a gracious bow to Mrs. Poyser. "A woman who sends me such excellent cream-cheese is not to be neglected. Bless me! What a fat child that is she is holding on her knee! But who is that pretty girl with dark eyes?" "That is Hetty Sorrel," said Miss Lydia Donnithorne, "Martin Poyser's niece--a very likely young person, and well-looking too. My maid has taught her fine needlework, and she has mended some lace of mine very respectably indeed--very respectably." "Why, she has lived with the Poysers six or seven years, Mother; you must have seen her," said Miss Irwine. "No, I've never seen her, child--at least not as she is now," said Mrs. Irwine, continuing to look at Hetty. "Well-looking, indeed! She's a perfect beauty! I've never seen anything so pretty since my young days. What a pity such beauty as that should be thrown away among the farmers, when it's wanted so terribly among the good families without fortune! I daresay, now, she'll marry a man who would have thought her just as pretty if she had had round eyes and red hair." Arthur dared not turn his eyes towards Hetty while Mrs. Irwine was speaking of her. He feigned not to hear, and to be occupied with something on the opposite side. But he saw her plainly enough without looking; saw her in heightened beauty, because he heard her beauty praised--for other men's opinion, you know, was like a native climate to Arthur's feelings: it was the air on which they thrived the best, and grew strong. Yes! She was enough to turn any man's head: any man in his place would have done and felt the same. And to give her up after all, as he was determined to do, would be an act that he should always look back upon with pride. "No, Mother," and Mr. Irwine, replying to her last words; "I can't agree with you there. The common people are not quite so stupid as you imagine. The commonest man, who has his ounce of sense and feeling, is conscious of the difference between a lovely, delicate woman and a coarse one. Even a dog feels a difference in their presence. The man may be no better able than the dog to explain the influence the more refined beauty has on him, but he feels it." "Bless me, Dauphin, what does an old bachelor like you know about it?" "Oh, that is one of the matters in which old bachelors are wiser than married men, because they have time for more general contemplation. Your fine critic of woman must never shackle his judgment by calling one woman his own. But, as an example of what I was saying, that pretty Methodist preacher I mentioned just now told me that she had preached to the roughest miners and had never been treated with anything but the utmost respect and kindness by them. The reason is--though she doesn't know it--that there's so much tenderness, refinement, and purity about her. Such a woman as that brings with her 'airs from heaven' that the coarsest fellow is not insensible to." "Here's a delicate bit of womanhood, or girlhood, coming to receive a prize, I suppose," said Mr. Gawaine. "She must be one of the racers in the sacks, who had set off before we came." The "bit of womanhood" was our old acquaintance Bessy Cranage, otherwise Chad's Bess, whose large red cheeks and blowsy person had undergone an exaggeration of colour, which, if she had happened to be a heavenly body, would have made her sublime. Bessy, I am sorry to say, had taken to her ear-rings again since Dinah's departure, and was otherwise decked out in such small finery as she could muster. Any one who could have looked into poor Bessy's heart would have seen a striking resemblance between her little hopes and anxieties and Hetty's. The advantage, perhaps, would have been on Bessy's side in the matter of feeling. But then, you see, they were so very different outside! You would have been inclined to box Bessy's ears, and you would have longed to kiss Hetty. Bessy had been tempted to run the arduous race, partly from mere hedonish gaiety, partly because of the prize. Some one had said there were to be cloaks and other nice clothes for prizes, and she approached the marquee, fanning herself with her handkerchief, but with exultation sparkling in her round eyes. "Here is the prize for the first sack-race," said Miss Lydia, taking a large parcel from the table where the prizes were laid and giving it to Mrs. Irwine before Bessy came up, "an excellent grogram gown and a piece of flannel." "You didn't think the winner was to be so young, I suppose, Aunt?" said Arthur. "Couldn't you find something else for this girl, and save that grim-looking gown for one of the older women?" "I have bought nothing but what is useful and substantial," said Miss Lydia, adjusting her own lace; "I should not think of encouraging a love of finery in young women of that class. I have a scarlet cloak, but that is for the old woman who wins." This speech of Miss Lydia's produced rather a mocking expression in Mrs. Irwine's face as she looked at Arthur, while Bessy came up and dropped a series of curtsies. "This is Bessy Cranage, mother," said Mr. Irwine, kindly, "Chad Cranage's daughter. You remember Chad Cranage, the blacksmith?" "Yes, to be sure," said Mrs. Irwine. "Well, Bessy, here is your prize--excellent warm things for winter. I'm sure you have had hard work to win them this warm day." Bessy's lip fell as she saw the ugly, heavy gown--which felt so hot and disagreeable too, on this July day, and was such a great ugly thing to carry. She dropped her curtsies again, without looking up, and with a growing tremulousness about the corners of her mouth, and then turned away. "Poor girl," said Arthur; "I think she's disappointed. I wish it had been something more to her taste." "She's a bold-looking young person," observed Miss Lydia. "Not at all one I should like to encourage." Arthur silently resolved that he would make Bessy a present of money before the day was over, that she might buy something more to her mind; but she, not aware of the consolation in store for her, turned out of the open space, where she was visible from the marquee, and throwing down the odious bundle under a tree, began to cry--very much tittered at the while by the small boys. In this situation she was descried by her discreet matronly cousin, who lost no time in coming up, having just given the baby into her husband's charge. "What's the matter wi' ye?" said Bess the matron, taking up the bundle and examining it. "Ye'n sweltered yoursen, I reckon, running that fool's race. An' here, they'n gi'en you lots o' good grogram and flannel, as should ha' been gi'en by good rights to them as had the sense to keep away from such foolery. Ye might spare me a bit o' this grogram to make clothes for the lad--ye war ne'er ill-natured, Bess; I ne'er said that on ye." "Ye may take it all, for what I care," said Bess the maiden, with a pettish movement, beginning to wipe away her tears and recover herself. "Well, I could do wi't, if so be ye want to get rid on't," said the disinterested cousin, walking quickly away with the bundle, lest Chad's Bess should change her mind. But that bonny-cheeked lass was blessed with an elasticity of spirits that secured her from any rankling grief; and by the time the grand climax of the donkey-race came on, her disappointment was entirely lost in the delightful excitement of attempting to stimulate the last donkey by hisses, while the boys applied the argument of sticks. But the strength of the donkey mind lies in adopting a course inversely as the arguments urged, which, well considered, requires as great a mental force as the direct sequence; and the present donkey proved the first-rate order of his intelligence by coming to a dead standstill just when the blows were thickest. Great was the shouting of the crowd, radiant the grinning of Bill Downes the stone-sawyer and the fortunate rider of this superior beast, which stood calm and stiff-legged in the midst of its triumph. Arthur himself had provided the prizes for the men, and Bill was made happy with a splendid pocket-knife, supplied with blades and gimlets enough to make a man at home on a desert island. He had hardly returned from the marquee with the prize in his hand, when it began to be understood that Wiry Ben proposed to amuse the company, before the gentry went to dinner, with an impromptu and gratuitous performance--namely, a hornpipe, the main idea of which was doubtless borrowed; but this was to be developed by the dancer in so peculiar and complex a manner that no one could deny him the praise of originality. Wiry Ben's pride in his dancing--an accomplishment productive of great effect at the yearly Wake--had needed only slightly elevating by an extra quantity of good ale to convince him that the gentry would be very much struck with his performance of his hornpipe; and he had been decidedly encouraged in this idea by Joshua Rann, who observed that it was nothing but right to do something to please the young squire, in return for what he had done for them. You will be the less surprised at this opinion in so grave a personage when you learn that Ben had requested Mr. Rann to accompany him on the fiddle, and Joshua felt quite sure that though there might not be much in the dancing, the music would make up for it. Adam Bede, who was present in one of the large marquees, where the plan was being discussed, told Ben he had better not make a fool of himself--a remark which at once fixed Ben's determination: he was not going to let anything alone because Adam Bede turned up his nose at it. "What's this, what's this?" said old Mr. Donnithorne. "Is it something you've arranged, Arthur? Here's the clerk coming with his fiddle, and a smart fellow with a nosegay in his button-hole." "No," said Arthur; "I know nothing about it. By Jove, he's going to dance! It's one of the carpenters--I forget his name at this moment." "It's Ben Cranage--Wiry Ben, they call him," said Mr. Irwine; "rather a loose fish, I think. Anne, my dear, I see that fiddle-scraping is too much for you: you're getting tired. Let me take you in now, that you may rest till dinner." Miss Anne rose assentingly, and the good brother took her away, while Joshua's preliminary scrapings burst into the "White Cockade," from which he intended to pass to a variety of tunes, by a series of transitions which his good ear really taught him to execute with some skill. It would have been an exasperating fact to him, if he had known it, that the general attention was too thoroughly absorbed by Ben's dancing for any one to give much heed to the music. Have you ever seen a real English rustic perform a solo dance? Perhaps you have only seen a ballet rustic, smiling like a merry countryman in crockery, with graceful turns of the haunch and insinuating movements of the head. That is as much like the real thing as the "Bird Waltz" is like the song of birds. Wiry Ben never smiled: he looked as serious as a dancing monkey--as serious as if he had been an experimental philosopher ascertaining in his own person the amount of shaking and the varieties of angularity that could be given to the human limbs. To make amends for the abundant laughter in the striped marquee, Arthur clapped his hands continually and cried "Bravo!" But Ben had one admirer whose eyes followed his movements with a fervid gravity that equalled his own. It was Martin Poyser, who was seated on a bench, with Tommy between his legs. "What dost think o' that?" he said to his wife. "He goes as pat to the music as if he was made o' clockwork. I used to be a pretty good un at dancing myself when I was lighter, but I could niver ha' hit it just to th' hair like that." "It's little matter what his limbs are, to my thinking," re-turned Mrs. Poyser. "He's empty enough i' the upper story, or he'd niver come jigging an' stamping i' that way, like a mad grasshopper, for the gentry to look at him. They're fit to die wi' laughing, I can see." "Well, well, so much the better, it amuses 'em," said Mr. Poyser, who did not easily take an irritable view of things. "But they're going away now, t' have their dinner, I reckon. Well move about a bit, shall we, and see what Adam Bede's doing. He's got to look after the drinking and things: I doubt he hasna had much fun." 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." "Nay, nay," said Mr. Poyser, who was in his merriest mood, and felt that he had had a great day, "a bit o' pleasuring's good for thee sometimes. An' thee danc'st as well as any of 'em, for I'll back thee against all the wives i' the parish for a light foot an' ankle. An' it was a great honour for the young squire to ask thee first--I reckon it was because I sat at th' head o' the table an' made the speech. An' Hetty too--she never had such a partner before--a fine young gentleman in reg'mentals. It'll serve you to talk on, Hetty, when you're an old woman--how you danced wi' th' young squire the day he come o' age." Book Four 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.

Etwa ein Monat vergeht, und Arthurs einundzwanzigster Geburtstag beginnt klar und warm. Alle Pächter des Anwesens bereiten sich auf einen Tag der Feierlichkeiten vor: Der Erbe ist volljährig geworden. Auf dem Hall Farm kleidet sich Hetty für die Party. Wir erfahren, dass sie von Arthur einige Perlen- und Granatohrringe erhalten hat und dass sie denkt, dass Arthur sie liebt. Die ganze Familie macht sich auf den Weg zum Chase, wo die Pächter aus dem gesamten Anwesen zusammenkommen. Arthur geht mit Mr. Irwine umher und betrachtet die Szene mit offensichtlicher Zufriedenheit; er ist der Held des Tages. Er erwähnt einige seiner Pläne, um sich auf dem Anwesen beliebt zu machen, wenn er dessen Besitzer wird, und fügt hinzu, dass er es geschafft hat, seinen Großvater zu überreden, Adam als Meister der Chase-Wälder anzustellen. Adam hat die Position akzeptiert und Arthur soll die Nachricht heute bekanntgeben. Mr. Irwine neckt Arthur darüber, dass er die Situation so gestellt hat, dass er sich selbst positiv von anderen abhebt, und Arthur errötet und gesteht die Anschuldigung stillschweigend ein. Adam wurde gebeten, mit den "hohen Pächtern" zu essen, anstatt mit den Dorfarbeitern, und er geht mit Bartle Massey hoch. Dort wird er herzlich empfangen und es findet ein freundliches Geplänkel statt. Hetty sitzt am nächsten Tisch und lächelt ihn an, ein Lächeln, das für sie nur eine Flirterei ist, aber für Adam ein Zeichen der Gunst. In Kapitel 24 kommen Arthur und Mr. Irwine, die alle Gäste besuchen, herein, und es werden einige spontane Reden und Toasts gehalten. Arthur fühlt sich unbehaglich dabei, das Lob anzunehmen, wegen seiner heimlichen Affäre mit Hetty, aber er unterdrückt sein Schuldgefühl schnell. Er verkündet Adams Ernennung zum Meister der Wälder und Adam hält eine Dankesrede, in der er seine Dankbarkeit und Entschlossenheit ausdrückt, den Job verantwortungsbewusst zu übernehmen. Kapitel 25 beschreibt die Spiele am Nachmittag. Die Gentry, aus deren Perspektive das Kapitel größtenteils geschrieben ist, kommentieren die verschiedenen Gäste und verteilen Preise an die Gewinner der verschiedenen Veranstaltungen. Wir erfahren, dass Arthur Hetty aufgeben will. Auf dem Ball in dieser Nacht werden die romantischen Verwicklungen zwischen Adam, Hetty und Arthur immer verworrener. Arthur behandelt Hetty anfangs kühl, was sie erschreckt. Adam geht, um Hetty um einen Tanz zu bitten, und während sie reden, fällt ihr versehentlich ein Medaillon, das sie heimlich trägt, auf den Boden. Es ist klar ein Liebeszeichen, das zwei ineinander verschlungene Haarlocken enthält. Adam ist geschockt, dass Hetty so etwas besitzen würde, und er verlässt den Tanz in dem Glauben, dass sie in einen anderen Mann verliebt sein muss. Aber er überzeugt sich bald, dass dies nicht der Fall sein kann, und vergisst die Sache. Inzwischen hat Arthur einen Termin vereinbart, um Hetty in zwei Tagen im Wald zu treffen; er hat sich definitiv vorgenommen, die Romanze zu beenden.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). 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: Mr. Bennet war einer der Ersten, die bei Mr. Bingley vorstellig wurden. Er hatte immer beabsichtigt, ihn zu besuchen, obwohl er seiner Frau bis zuletzt versicherte, dass er nicht gehen würde. Bis zum Abend nach dem Besuch hatte sie keine Kenntnis davon. Es wurde dann auf folgende Weise enthüllt. Als er seine zweite Tochter damit beschäftigt sah, einen Hut zu verzieren, wandte er sich plötzlich an sie und sagte: "Ich hoffe, Mr. Bingley wird es mögen, Lizzy." "Wir sind nicht in der Lage zu wissen, was Mr. Bingley mag", sagte ihre Mutter beleidigt, "weil wir nicht zu Besuch sind." "Aber du vergisst, Mama", sagte Elizabeth, "dass wir ihn auf 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 Nichten. Sie ist eine egoistische, heuchlerische Frau, und ich habe keine Meinung von ihr." "Ich auch nicht", sagte Mr. Bennet, "und ich bin froh zu erfahren, dass du dich nicht darauf verlässt, dass sie dir dient." Mrs. Bennet fand es unter ihrer Würde, zu antworten, konnte sich aber nicht zurückhalten und begann, eine ihrer Töchter anzuschimpfen. "Hör auf so zu husten, Kitty, um Himmels willen! Hab ein wenig Mitgefühl mit meinen Nerven. Du zerreißt sie." "Kitty kann nicht auf ihre Husten achten", sagte ihr Vater, "sie timed sie schlecht." "Ich huste nicht zum Spaß", antwortete Kitty missmutig. "Wann ist dein nächster Ball, Lizzy?" "Übermorgen in zwei Wochen." "Ja, das ist es", rief ihre Mutter, "und Mrs. Long kommt erst am Tag zuvor zurück; also wird es unmöglich sein, dass sie ihn vorstellt, denn sie wird ihn selbst nicht kennen." "Dann, meine Liebe, kannst du den Vorteil deiner Freundin haben und Mr. Bingley ihr vorstellen." "Unmöglich, Mr. Bennet, unmöglich, wenn ich ihn selbst nicht kenne. Wie kannst du so nervig sein?" "Ich ehre deine Umsicht. Eine Bekanntschaft von zwei Wochen ist sicherlich sehr wenig. Man kann nach zwei Wochen nicht wirklich wissen, was für ein Mann jemand ist. Aber wenn wir es nicht wagen, wird es jemand anders tun; und letztendlich müssen sich Mrs. Long und ihre Nichten ihrem Schicksal stellen; und daher, da sie es als eine freundliche Geste betrachten wird, wenn du die Aufgabe ablehnst, werde ich sie selbst übernehmen." Die Mädchen starrten ihren Vater an. Mrs. Bennet sagte nur: "Unsinn, Unsinn!" "Was kann die Bedeutung dieser emphatischen Ausrufung sein?", rief er aus. "Hältst du die Formen der Vorstellung und den Wert, der darauf gelegt wird, für Unsinn? Da kann ich dir nicht ganz zustimmen. Was sagst du dazu, Mary? Denn du bist eine junge Dame von tiefer Reflexion, ich weiß es, du liest große Bücher und machst Auszüge." Mary wollte etwas sehr Sinnvolles sagen, wusste aber nicht wie. "Während Mary ihre Gedanken ordnet", fuhr er fort, "kehren wir zu Mr. Bingley zurück." "Ich bin Mr. Bingley überdrüssig", rief seine Frau. "Das tut mir leid, das zu hören; aber warum hast du es mir nicht früher gesagt? Wenn ich das heute Morgen gewusst hätte, hätte ich ihn sicherlich nicht besucht. Das ist sehr unglücklich; aber da ich den Besuch bereits gemacht habe, können wir uns der Bekanntschaft jetzt nicht entziehen." Das Erstaunen der Damen war genau das, was er sich gewünscht hatte; das von Mrs. Bennet übertraf vielleicht die der anderen; obwohl sie, als der erste Jubel vorüber war, erklärte, dass es das war, was sie die ganze Zeit erwartet hatte. "Wie gut von dir, mein lieber Mr. Bennet! Aber ich wusste, dass ich dich schließlich davon überzeugen würde. Ich war sicher, dass du deine Töchter zu sehr liebst, um eine solche Bekanntschaft zu vernachlässigen. Nun, wie erfreut ich bin! Und es ist auch so ein guter Witz, dass du heute Morgen gegangen bist und bis jetzt kein Wort darüber gesagt hast." "Jetzt darfst du so viel husten, wie du willst, Kitty", sagte Mr. Bennet; und als er sprach, verließ er den Raum, ermüdet von den Begeisterungsausbrüchen seiner Frau. "Ihr habt einen ausgezeichneten Vater, Mädels", sagte sie, als die Tür geschlossen war. "Ich weiß nicht, wie ihr ihm jemals für seine Freundlichkeit wiedergutmachen werdet; oder mir auch nicht. In unserem Alter ist es nicht so angenehm, sage ich euch, jeden Tag neue Bekanntschaften zu machen; aber eurer willen würden wir alles tun. Lydia, meine Liebe, obwohl du die jüngste bist, bin ich sicher, dass Mr. Bingley mit dir auf dem nächsten Ball tanzt." "Oh!", sagte Lydia trotzig, "ich habe keine Angst; denn obwohl ich die jüngste bin, bin ich die Größte." Der Rest des Abends wurde damit verbracht, zu mutmaßen, wie bald er den Besuch von Mr. Bennet erwidern würde und zu bestimmen, wann sie ihn zum Essen einladen sollten. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze verfassen?

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Elizabeth, sowie drei ihrer vier Schwestern, Kitty, Mary und Lydia werden kurz in Kapitel zwei vorgestellt. Während in Kapitel eins Mr. Bennet seine Frau neckt und sagt, dass er Bingley nicht besuchen wird, sobald er ankommt, erfahren wir in Kapitel zwei, dass "Mr. Bennet einer der ersten war, der bei Mr. Bingley wartete. Der Rest des Abends wird damit verbracht, zu spekulieren, wie bald Mr. Bennet den Besuch erwidern wird, und zu bestimmen, wann sie ihn zum Abendessen einladen 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: XIII. The Fellow of No Delicacy If Sydney Carton ever shone anywhere, he certainly never shone in the house of Doctor Manette. He had been there often, during a whole year, and had always been the same moody and morose lounger there. When he cared to talk, he talked well; but, the cloud of caring for nothing, which overshadowed him with such a fatal darkness, was very rarely pierced by the light within him. And yet he did care something for the streets that environed that house, and for the senseless stones that made their pavements. Many a night he vaguely and unhappily wandered there, when wine had brought no transitory gladness to him; many a dreary daybreak revealed his solitary figure lingering there, and still lingering there when the first beams of the sun brought into strong relief, removed beauties of architecture in spires of churches and lofty buildings, as perhaps the quiet time brought some sense of better things, else forgotten and unattainable, into his mind. Of late, the neglected bed in the Temple Court had known him more scantily than ever; and often when he had thrown himself upon it no longer than a few minutes, he had got up again, and haunted that neighbourhood. On a day in August, when Mr. Stryver (after notifying to his jackal that "he had thought better of that marrying matter") had carried his delicacy into Devonshire, and when the sight and scent of flowers in the City streets had some waifs of goodness in them for the worst, of health for the sickliest, and of youth for the oldest, Sydney's feet still trod those stones. From being irresolute and purposeless, his feet became animated by an intention, and, in the working out of that intention, they took him to the Doctor's door. He was shown up-stairs, and found Lucie at her work, alone. She had never been quite at her ease with him, and received him with some little embarrassment as he seated himself near her table. But, looking up at his face in the interchange of the first few common-places, she observed a change in it. "I fear you are not well, Mr. Carton!" "No. But the life I lead, Miss Manette, is not conducive to health. What is to be expected of, or by, such profligates?" "Is it not--forgive me; I have begun the question on my lips--a pity to live no better life?" "God knows it is a shame!" "Then why not change it?" Looking gently at him again, she was surprised and saddened to see that there were tears in his eyes. There were tears in his voice too, as he answered: "It is too late for that. I shall never be better than I am. I shall sink lower, and be worse." He leaned an elbow on her table, and covered his eyes with his hand. The table trembled in the silence that followed. She had never seen him softened, and was much distressed. He knew her to be so, without looking at her, and said: "Pray forgive me, Miss Manette. I break down before the knowledge of what I want to say to you. Will you hear me?" "If it will do you any good, Mr. Carton, if it would make you happier, it would make me very glad!" "God bless you for your sweet compassion!" He unshaded his face after a little while, and spoke steadily. "Don't be afraid to hear me. Don't shrink from anything I say. I am like one who died young. All my life might have been." "No, Mr. Carton. I am sure that the best part of it might still be; I am sure that you might be much, much worthier of yourself." "Say of you, Miss Manette, and although I know better--although in the mystery of my own wretched heart I know better--I shall never forget it!" She was pale and trembling. He came to her relief with a fixed despair of himself which made the interview unlike any other that could have been holden. "If it had been possible, Miss Manette, that you could have returned the love of the man you see before yourself--flung away, wasted, drunken, poor creature of misuse as you know him to be--he would have been conscious this day and hour, in spite of his happiness, that he would bring you to misery, bring you to sorrow and repentance, blight you, disgrace you, pull you down with him. I know very well that you can have no tenderness for me; I ask for none; I am even thankful that it cannot be." "Without it, can I not save you, Mr. Carton? Can I not recall you--forgive me again!--to a better course? Can I in no way repay your confidence? I know this is a confidence," she modestly said, after a little hesitation, and in earnest tears, "I know you would say this to no one else. Can I turn it to no good account for yourself, Mr. Carton?" He shook his head. "To none. No, Miss Manette, to none. If you will hear me through a very little more, all you can ever do for me is done. I wish you to know that you have been the last dream of my soul. In my degradation I have not been so degraded but that the sight of you with your father, and of this home made such a home by you, has stirred old shadows that I thought had died out of me. Since I knew you, I have been troubled by a remorse that I thought would never reproach me again, and have heard whispers from old voices impelling me upward, that I thought were silent for ever. I have had unformed ideas of striving afresh, beginning anew, shaking off sloth and sensuality, and fighting out the abandoned fight. A dream, all a dream, that ends in nothing, and leaves the sleeper where he lay down, but I wish you to know that you inspired it." "Will nothing of it remain? O Mr. Carton, think again! Try again!" "No, Miss Manette; all through it, I have known myself to be quite undeserving. And yet I have had the weakness, and have still the weakness, to wish you to know with what a sudden mastery you kindled me, heap of ashes that I am, into fire--a fire, however, inseparable in its nature from myself, quickening nothing, lighting nothing, doing no service, idly burning away." "Since it is my misfortune, Mr. Carton, to have made you more unhappy than you were before you knew me--" "Don't say that, Miss Manette, for you would have reclaimed me, if anything could. You will not be the cause of my becoming worse." "Since the state of your mind that you describe, is, at all events, attributable to some influence of mine--this is what I mean, if I can make it plain--can I use no influence to serve you? Have I no power for good, with you, at all?" "The utmost good that I am capable of now, Miss Manette, I have come here to realise. Let me carry through the rest of my misdirected life, the remembrance that I opened my heart to you, last of all the world; and that there was something left in me at this time which you could deplore and pity." "Which I entreated you to believe, again and again, most fervently, with all my heart, was capable of better things, Mr. Carton!" "Entreat me to believe it no more, Miss Manette. I have proved myself, and I know better. I distress you; I draw fast to an end. Will you let me believe, when I recall this day, that the last confidence of my life was reposed in your pure and innocent breast, and that it lies there alone, and will be shared by no one?" "If that will be a consolation to you, yes." "Not even by the dearest one ever to be known to you?" "Mr. Carton," she answered, after an agitated pause, "the secret is yours, not mine; and I promise to respect it." "Thank you. And again, God bless you." He put her hand to his lips, and moved towards the door. "Be under no apprehension, Miss Manette, of my ever resuming this conversation by so much as a passing word. I will never refer to it again. If I were dead, that could not be surer than it is henceforth. In the hour of my death, I shall hold sacred the one good remembrance--and shall thank and bless you for it--that my last avowal of myself was made to you, and that my name, and faults, and miseries were gently carried in your heart. May it otherwise be light and happy!" He was so unlike what he had ever shown himself to be, and it was so sad to think how much he had thrown away, and how much he every day kept down and perverted, that Lucie Manette wept mournfully for him as he stood looking back at her. "Be comforted!" he said, "I am not worth such feeling, Miss Manette. An hour or two hence, and the low companions and low habits that I scorn but yield to, will render me less worth such tears as those, than any wretch who creeps along the streets. Be comforted! But, within myself, I shall always be, towards you, what I am now, though outwardly I shall be what you have heretofore seen me. The last supplication but one I make to you, is, that you will believe this of me." "I will, Mr. Carton." "My last supplication of all, is this; and with it, I will relieve you of a visitor with whom I well know you have nothing in unison, and between whom and you there is an impassable space. It is useless to say it, I know, but it rises out of my soul. For you, and for any dear to you, I would do anything. If my career were of that better kind that there was any opportunity or capacity of sacrifice in it, I would embrace any sacrifice for you and for those dear to you. Try to hold me in your mind, at some quiet times, as ardent and sincere in this one thing. The time will come, the time will not be long in coming, when new ties will be formed about you--ties that will bind you yet more tenderly and strongly to the home you so adorn--the dearest ties that will ever grace and gladden you. O Miss Manette, when the little picture of a happy father's face looks up in yours, when you see your own bright beauty springing up anew at your feet, think now and then that there is a man who would give his life, to keep a life you love beside you!" He said, "Farewell!" said a last "God bless you!" and left her. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Der um keinerlei Vernunft besorgte Herr Carton hatte sich nie gut ausgedrückt oder sich angenehm gemacht, wenn er im Hause der Manettes war, aber er pflegte nachts durch ihre Straße zu wandern und von Lucie zu träumen. Eines Tages besucht er sie und sie fragt ihn, was los ist. Er behauptet, dass er an seinen lasterhaften Wegen nicht mehr zu helfen sei, aber er sagt, dass ihm seine Vertrautheit mit der Familienkulisse der Manettes den Wunsch gegeben hat, wieder ein guter Mensch zu sein. Lucie versucht, ihn davon zu überzeugen, dass dies möglich ist, aber Carton erklärt, dass es nur ein Traum sei, allerdings ein glücklicher. Er möchte lediglich sein Herz für sie öffnen und möchte, dass sie sich daran erinnert, dass er das getan hat. Bevor er geht, verspricht er, alles für sie oder für jeden, der ihr nahesteht, zu tun.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Kapitel: AKT V. SZENE I. Dunsinane. Ein Raum im Schloss. [Ein Arzt und eine wartende Dame treten ein.] ARZT. Ich habe zwei Nächte mit Ihnen gewacht, aber ich kann in Ihrem Bericht keine Wahrheit erkennen. Wann hat sie zuletzt gelaufen? DAME. Seit Seine Majestät auf das Feld gegangen ist, habe ich sie aus dem Bett steigen sehen, ihr Nachthemd überziehen, ihren Schrank öffnen, Papier herausholen, es falten, darauf schreiben, es danach versiegeln und wieder ins Bett zurückkehren; und das alles während sie fest schläft. ARZT. Eine große Unruhe in der Natur, gleichzeitig den Vorteil des Schlafes zu bekommen und die Auswirkungen der Wachsamkeit zu erzielen. Bei dieser schlafenden Unruhe, abgesehen von ihrem Umhergehen und anderen tatsächlichen Handlungen, was haben Sie jemals von ihr gehört? DAME. Das, mein Herr, werde ich nach ihr nicht berichten. ARZT. Sie können es mir gegenüber tun; und es ist am besten, dass Sie es tun. DAME. Weder Ihnen noch irgendjemand anderem; da ich keinen Zeugen habe, der meine Aussage bestätigt. Schauen Sie, hier kommt sie! [Enter Lady Macbeth, mit einer Kerze.] Das ist genau ihr Aussehen; und, bei meinem Leben, sie schläft fest. Beobachten Sie sie; stehen Sie nah. ARZT. Wie kam sie zu diesem Licht? DAME. Nun, es stand bei ihr: Sie hat immer Licht bei sich; es ist ihr Befehl. ARZT. Sie sehen, ihre Augen sind offen. DAME. Ja, aber ihr Verstand ist geschlossen. ARZT. Was macht sie jetzt? Schauen Sie, wie sie sich die Hände reibt. DAME. Das ist eine gewohnte Handlung für sie, so ihre Hände zu waschen. Ich habe sie schon eine Viertelstunde lang so gesehen. LADY MACBETH. Und hier ist ein Fleck. ARZT. Hören Sie, sie spricht: Ich werde aufschreiben, was von ihr kommt, um meine Erinnerung umso stärker zu befriedigen. LADY MACBETH. Fort, verdammter Fleck! Fort, sage ich! Eins, zwei, warum, dann ist es Zeit, es zu tun. Die Hölle ist düster. Pfui, mein Herr, pfui! Ein Soldat und ängstlich? Warum sollten wir Angst haben, wenn niemand unsere Macht zur Rechenschaft ziehen kann? Doch wer hätte gedacht, dass der alte Mann so viel Blut in sich hat? ARZT. Haben Sie das bemerkt? LADY MACBETH. Der Thane von Fife hatte eine Frau; wo ist sie jetzt? Werden diese Hände jemals sauber sein? Nicht mehr davon, mein Herr, nicht mehr davon; Sie vermasseln alles mit diesem Aufschrecken. ARZT. Nun, nun; Sie wissen, was Sie nicht wissen sollten. DAME. Sie hat gesagt, was sie nicht sagen sollte, dessen bin ich mir sicher; der Himmel weiß, was sie noch gewusst hat. LADY MACBETH. Hier ist immer noch der Geruch von Blut: Alle Parfüms Arabiens werden diese kleine Hand nicht versüßen können. Oh, oh, oh! ARZT. Welch ein Seufzen ist das! Das Herz ist schwer beladen. DAME. Ich möchte kein solches Herz in meiner Brust haben, um der Würde des gesamten Körpers willen. ARZT. Nun gut, nun gut, nun gut-- DAME. Beten wir, dass es so ist, mein Herr. ARZT. Diese Krankheit übersteigt meine Fähigkeiten: obwohl ich von jenen gehört habe, die im Schlaf gewandelt sind und heilig in ihren Betten gestorben sind. LADY MACBETH. Waschen Sie Ihre Hände, ziehen Sie Ihr Nachthemd an, schauen Sie nicht so blass aus: Ich sage Ihnen noch einmal, Banquo ist begraben; er kann nicht aus seinem Grab kommen. ARZT. Ganz recht? LADY MACBETH. Ins Bett, ins Bett; es wird an das Tor geklopft: kommt, kommt, kommt, gebt mir eure Hand: was getan ist, kann nicht rückgängig gemacht werden: ins Bett, ins Bett, ins Bett. [Geht ab.] ARZT. Wird sie jetzt ins Bett gehen? DAME. Direkt. ARZT. Schlechte Gerüchte machen die Runde: unnatürliche Taten bringen unnatürliche Probleme hervor: befallene Geister werden ihre Geheimnisse in ihr taubes Kopfkissen entlassen. Sie benötigt eher den göttlichen Beistand als den Arzt.-- Gott, Gott, vergib uns allen!--Kümmert euch um sie; Entfernt von ihr alle Mittel, die sie stören könnten, Und behaltet sie im Auge:--so, gute Nacht: Sie hat meinen Verstand erschüttert und meine Sicht verwirrt: Ich denke, aber ich wage nicht zu sprechen. DAME. Gute Nacht, guter Doktor. [Abgang.] Kannst du eine geeignete Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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In Macbeths Schloss spricht eine Hofdame mit einem Arzt über Lady Macbeths seltsames schlafwandelndes Verhalten. Während die beiden reden, beobachten sie plötzlich Lady Macbeth beim Schlafwandeln. Sie reibt energisch ihre Hände, als ob sie versucht, eine Art Fleck abzuwaschen. Lady Macbeth seufzt, weint und murmelt über den Thane of Fife und Banquo. Der Arzt und die Hofdame sind schockiert - Lady Macbeth hat unabsichtlich die Quelle ihres Leidens offenbart. Noch einmal schlafwandelt Lady Macbeth und hat Albträume, weil Macbeth "den Schlaf ermordet" 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: III. A Disappointment Mr. Attorney-General had to inform the jury, that the prisoner before them, though young in years, was old in the treasonable practices which claimed the forfeit of his life. That this correspondence with the public enemy was not a correspondence of to-day, or of yesterday, or even of last year, or of the year before. That, it was certain the prisoner had, for longer than that, been in the habit of passing and repassing between France and England, on secret business of which he could give no honest account. That, if it were in the nature of traitorous ways to thrive (which happily it never was), the real wickedness and guilt of his business might have remained undiscovered. That Providence, however, had put it into the heart of a person who was beyond fear and beyond reproach, to ferret out the nature of the prisoner's schemes, and, struck with horror, to disclose them to his Majesty's Chief Secretary of State and most honourable Privy Council. That, this patriot would be produced before them. That, his position and attitude were, on the whole, sublime. That, he had been the prisoner's friend, but, at once in an auspicious and an evil hour detecting his infamy, had resolved to immolate the traitor he could no longer cherish in his bosom, on the sacred altar of his country. That, if statues were decreed in Britain, as in ancient Greece and Rome, to public benefactors, this shining citizen would assuredly have had one. That, as they were not so decreed, he probably would not have one. That, Virtue, as had been observed by the poets (in many passages which he well knew the jury would have, word for word, at the tips of their tongues; whereat the jury's countenances displayed a guilty consciousness that they knew nothing about the passages), was in a manner contagious; more especially the bright virtue known as patriotism, or love of country. That, the lofty example of this immaculate and unimpeachable witness for the Crown, to refer to whom however unworthily was an honour, had communicated itself to the prisoner's servant, and had engendered in him a holy determination to examine his master's table-drawers and pockets, and secrete his papers. That, he (Mr. Attorney-General) was prepared to hear some disparagement attempted of this admirable servant; but that, in a general way, he preferred him to his (Mr. Attorney-General's) brothers and sisters, and honoured him more than his (Mr. Attorney-General's) father and mother. That, he called with confidence on the jury to come and do likewise. That, the evidence of these two witnesses, coupled with the documents of their discovering that would be produced, would show the prisoner to have been furnished with lists of his Majesty's forces, and of their disposition and preparation, both by sea and land, and would leave no doubt that he had habitually conveyed such information to a hostile power. That, these lists could not be proved to be in the prisoner's handwriting; but that it was all the same; that, indeed, it was rather the better for the prosecution, as showing the prisoner to be artful in his precautions. That, the proof would go back five years, and would show the prisoner already engaged in these pernicious missions, within a few weeks before the date of the very first action fought between the British troops and the Americans. That, for these reasons, the jury, being a loyal jury (as he knew they were), and being a responsible jury (as _they_ knew they were), must positively find the prisoner Guilty, and make an end of him, whether they liked it or not. That, they never could lay their heads upon their pillows; that, they never could tolerate the idea of their wives laying their heads upon their pillows; that, they never could endure the notion of their children laying their heads upon their pillows; in short, that there never more could be, for them or theirs, any laying of heads upon pillows at all, unless the prisoner's head was taken off. That head Mr. Attorney-General concluded by demanding of them, in the name of everything he could think of with a round turn in it, and on the faith of his solemn asseveration that he already considered the prisoner as good as dead and gone. When the Attorney-General ceased, a buzz arose in the court as if a cloud of great blue-flies were swarming about the prisoner, in anticipation of what he was soon to become. When toned down again, the unimpeachable patriot appeared in the witness-box. Mr. Solicitor-General then, following his leader's lead, examined the patriot: John Barsad, gentleman, by name. The story of his pure soul was exactly what Mr. Attorney-General had described it to be--perhaps, if it had a fault, a little too exactly. Having released his noble bosom of its burden, he would have modestly withdrawn himself, but that the wigged gentleman with the papers before him, sitting not far from Mr. Lorry, begged to ask him a few questions. The wigged gentleman sitting opposite, still looking at the ceiling of the court. Had he ever been a spy himself? No, he scorned the base insinuation. What did he live upon? His property. Where was his property? He didn't precisely remember where it was. What was it? No business of anybody's. Had he inherited it? Yes, he had. From whom? Distant relation. Very distant? Rather. Ever been in prison? Certainly not. Never in a debtors' prison? Didn't see what that had to do with it. Never in a debtors' prison?--Come, once again. Never? Yes. How many times? Two or three times. Not five or six? Perhaps. Of what profession? Gentleman. Ever been kicked? Might have been. Frequently? No. Ever kicked downstairs? Decidedly not; once received a kick on the top of a staircase, and fell downstairs of his own accord. Kicked on that occasion for cheating at dice? Something to that effect was said by the intoxicated liar who committed the assault, but it was not true. Swear it was not true? Positively. Ever live by cheating at play? Never. Ever live by play? Not more than other gentlemen do. Ever borrow money of the prisoner? Yes. Ever pay him? No. Was not this intimacy with the prisoner, in reality a very slight one, forced upon the prisoner in coaches, inns, and packets? No. Sure he saw the prisoner with these lists? Certain. Knew no more about the lists? No. Had not procured them himself, for instance? No. Expect to get anything by this evidence? No. Not in regular government pay and employment, to lay traps? Oh dear no. Or to do anything? Oh dear no. Swear that? Over and over again. No motives but motives of sheer patriotism? None whatever. The virtuous servant, Roger Cly, swore his way through the case at a great rate. He had taken service with the prisoner, in good faith and simplicity, four years ago. He had asked the prisoner, aboard the Calais packet, if he wanted a handy fellow, and the prisoner had engaged him. He had not asked the prisoner to take the handy fellow as an act of charity--never thought of such a thing. He began to have suspicions of the prisoner, and to keep an eye upon him, soon afterwards. In arranging his clothes, while travelling, he had seen similar lists to these in the prisoner's pockets, over and over again. He had taken these lists from the drawer of the prisoner's desk. He had not put them there first. He had seen the prisoner show these identical lists to French gentlemen at Calais, and similar lists to French gentlemen, both at Calais and Boulogne. He loved his country, and couldn't bear it, and had given information. He had never been suspected of stealing a silver tea-pot; he had been maligned respecting a mustard-pot, but it turned out to be only a plated one. He had known the last witness seven or eight years; that was merely a coincidence. He didn't call it a particularly curious coincidence; most coincidences were curious. Neither did he call it a curious coincidence that true patriotism was _his_ only motive too. He was a true Briton, and hoped there were many like him. The blue-flies buzzed again, and Mr. Attorney-General called Mr. Jarvis Lorry. "Mr. Jarvis Lorry, are you a clerk in Tellson's bank?" "I am." "On a certain Friday night in November one thousand seven hundred and seventy-five, did business occasion you to travel between London and Dover by the mail?" "It did." "Were there any other passengers in the mail?" "Two." "Did they alight on the road in the course of the night?" "They did." "Mr. Lorry, look upon the prisoner. Was he one of those two passengers?" "I cannot undertake to say that he was." "Does he resemble either of these two passengers?" "Both were so wrapped up, and the night was so dark, and we were all so reserved, that I cannot undertake to say even that." "Mr. Lorry, look again upon the prisoner. Supposing him wrapped up as those two passengers were, is there anything in his bulk and stature to render it unlikely that he was one of them?" "No." "You will not swear, Mr. Lorry, that he was not one of them?" "No." "So at least you say he may have been one of them?" "Yes. Except that I remember them both to have been--like myself--timorous of highwaymen, and the prisoner has not a timorous air." "Did you ever see a counterfeit of timidity, Mr. Lorry?" "I certainly have seen that." "Mr. Lorry, look once more upon the prisoner. Have you seen him, to your certain knowledge, before?" "I have." "When?" "I was returning from France a few days afterwards, and, at Calais, the prisoner came on board the packet-ship in which I returned, and made the voyage with me." "At what hour did he come on board?" "At a little after midnight." "In the dead of the night. Was he the only passenger who came on board at that untimely hour?" "He happened to be the only one." "Never mind about 'happening,' Mr. Lorry. He was the only passenger who came on board in the dead of the night?" "He was." "Were you travelling alone, Mr. Lorry, or with any companion?" "With two companions. A gentleman and lady. They are here." "They are here. Had you any conversation with the prisoner?" "Hardly any. The weather was stormy, and the passage long and rough, and I lay on a sofa, almost from shore to shore." "Miss Manette!" The young lady, to whom all eyes had been turned before, and were now turned again, stood up where she had sat. Her father rose with her, and kept her hand drawn through his arm. "Miss Manette, look upon the prisoner." To be confronted with such pity, and such earnest youth and beauty, was far more trying to the accused than to be confronted with all the crowd. Standing, as it were, apart with her on the edge of his grave, not all the staring curiosity that looked on, could, for the moment, nerve him to remain quite still. His hurried right hand parcelled out the herbs before him into imaginary beds of flowers in a garden; and his efforts to control and steady his breathing shook the lips from which the colour rushed to his heart. The buzz of the great flies was loud again. "Miss Manette, have you seen the prisoner before?" "Yes, sir." "Where?" "On board of the packet-ship just now referred to, sir, and on the same occasion." "You are the young lady just now referred to?" "O! most unhappily, I am!" The plaintive tone of her compassion merged into the less musical voice of the Judge, as he said something fiercely: "Answer the questions put to you, and make no remark upon them." "Miss Manette, had you any conversation with the prisoner on that passage across the Channel?" "Yes, sir." "Recall it." In the midst of a profound stillness, she faintly began: "When the gentleman came on board--" "Do you mean the prisoner?" inquired the Judge, knitting his brows. "Yes, my Lord." "Then say the prisoner." "When the prisoner came on board, he noticed that my father," turning her eyes lovingly to him as he stood beside her, "was much fatigued and in a very weak state of health. My father was so reduced that I was afraid to take him out of the air, and I had made a bed for him on the deck near the cabin steps, and I sat on the deck at his side to take care of him. There were no other passengers that night, but we four. The prisoner was so good as to beg permission to advise me how I could shelter my father from the wind and weather, better than I had done. I had not known how to do it well, not understanding how the wind would set when we were out of the harbour. He did it for me. He expressed great gentleness and kindness for my father's state, and I am sure he felt it. That was the manner of our beginning to speak together." "Let me interrupt you for a moment. Had he come on board alone?" "No." "How many were with him?" "Two French gentlemen." "Had they conferred together?" "They had conferred together until the last moment, when it was necessary for the French gentlemen to be landed in their boat." "Had any papers been handed about among them, similar to these lists?" "Some papers had been handed about among them, but I don't know what papers." "Like these in shape and size?" "Possibly, but indeed I don't know, although they stood whispering very near to me: because they stood at the top of the cabin steps to have the light of the lamp that was hanging there; it was a dull lamp, and they spoke very low, and I did not hear what they said, and saw only that they looked at papers." "Now, to the prisoner's conversation, Miss Manette." "The prisoner was as open in his confidence with me--which arose out of my helpless situation--as he was kind, and good, and useful to my father. I hope," bursting into tears, "I may not repay him by doing him harm to-day." Buzzing from the blue-flies. "Miss Manette, if the prisoner does not perfectly understand that you give the evidence which it is your duty to give--which you must give--and which you cannot escape from giving--with great unwillingness, he is the only person present in that condition. Please to go on." "He told me that he was travelling on business of a delicate and difficult nature, which might get people into trouble, and that he was therefore travelling under an assumed name. He said that this business had, within a few days, taken him to France, and might, at intervals, take him backwards and forwards between France and England for a long time to come." "Did he say anything about America, Miss Manette? Be particular." "He tried to explain to me how that quarrel had arisen, and he said that, so far as he could judge, it was a wrong and foolish one on England's part. He added, in a jesting way, that perhaps George Washington might gain almost as great a name in history as George the Third. But there was no harm in his way of saying this: it was said laughingly, and to beguile the time." Any strongly marked expression of face on the part of a chief actor in a scene of great interest to whom many eyes are directed, will be unconsciously imitated by the spectators. Her forehead was painfully anxious and intent as she gave this evidence, and, in the pauses when she stopped for the Judge to write it down, watched its effect upon the counsel for and against. Among the lookers-on there was the same expression in all quarters of the court; insomuch, that a great majority of the foreheads there, might have been mirrors reflecting the witness, when the Judge looked up from his notes to glare at that tremendous heresy about George Washington. Mr. Attorney-General now signified to my Lord, that he deemed it necessary, as a matter of precaution and form, to call the young lady's father, Doctor Manette. Who was called accordingly. "Doctor Manette, look upon the prisoner. Have you ever seen him before?" "Once. When he called at my lodgings in London. Some three years, or three years and a half ago." "Can you identify him as your fellow-passenger on board the packet, or speak to his conversation with your daughter?" "Sir, I can do neither." "Is there any particular and special reason for your being unable to do either?" He answered, in a low voice, "There is." "Has it been your misfortune to undergo a long imprisonment, without trial, or even accusation, in your native country, Doctor Manette?" He answered, in a tone that went to every heart, "A long imprisonment." "Were you newly released on the occasion in question?" "They tell me so." "Have you no remembrance of the occasion?" "None. My mind is a blank, from some time--I cannot even say what time--when I employed myself, in my captivity, in making shoes, to the time when I found myself living in London with my dear daughter here. She had become familiar to me, when a gracious God restored my faculties; but, I am quite unable even to say how she had become familiar. I have no remembrance of the process." Mr. Attorney-General sat down, and the father and daughter sat down together. A singular circumstance then arose in the case. The object in hand being to show that the prisoner went down, with some fellow-plotter untracked, in the Dover mail on that Friday night in November five years ago, and got out of the mail in the night, as a blind, at a place where he did not remain, but from which he travelled back some dozen miles or more, to a garrison and dockyard, and there collected information; a witness was called to identify him as having been at the precise time required, in the coffee-room of an hotel in that garrison-and-dockyard town, waiting for another person. The prisoner's counsel was cross-examining this witness with no result, except that he had never seen the prisoner on any other occasion, when the wigged gentleman who had all this time been looking at the ceiling of the court, wrote a word or two on a little piece of paper, screwed it up, and tossed it to him. Opening this piece of paper in the next pause, the counsel looked with great attention and curiosity at the prisoner. "You say again you are quite sure that it was the prisoner?" The witness was quite sure. "Did you ever see anybody very like the prisoner?" Not so like (the witness said) as that he could be mistaken. "Look well upon that gentleman, my learned friend there," pointing to him who had tossed the paper over, "and then look well upon the prisoner. How say you? Are they very like each other?" Allowing for my learned friend's appearance being careless and slovenly if not debauched, they were sufficiently like each other to surprise, not only the witness, but everybody present, when they were thus brought into comparison. My Lord being prayed to bid my learned friend lay aside his wig, and giving no very gracious consent, the likeness became much more remarkable. My Lord inquired of Mr. Stryver (the prisoner's counsel), whether they were next to try Mr. Carton (name of my learned friend) for treason? But, Mr. Stryver replied to my Lord, no; but he would ask the witness to tell him whether what happened once, might happen twice; whether he would have been so confident if he had seen this illustration of his rashness sooner, whether he would be so confident, having seen it; and more. The upshot of which, was, to smash this witness like a crockery vessel, and shiver his part of the case to useless lumber. Mr. Cruncher had by this time taken quite a lunch of rust off his fingers in his following of the evidence. He had now to attend while Mr. Stryver fitted the prisoner's case on the jury, like a compact suit of clothes; showing them how the patriot, Barsad, was a hired spy and traitor, an unblushing trafficker in blood, and one of the greatest scoundrels upon earth since accursed Judas--which he certainly did look rather like. How the virtuous servant, Cly, was his friend and partner, and was worthy to be; how the watchful eyes of those forgers and false swearers had rested on the prisoner as a victim, because some family affairs in France, he being of French extraction, did require his making those passages across the Channel--though what those affairs were, a consideration for others who were near and dear to him, forbade him, even for his life, to disclose. How the evidence that had been warped and wrested from the young lady, whose anguish in giving it they had witnessed, came to nothing, involving the mere little innocent gallantries and politenesses likely to pass between any young gentleman and young lady so thrown together;--with the exception of that reference to George Washington, which was altogether too extravagant and impossible to be regarded in any other light than as a monstrous joke. How it would be a weakness in the government to break down in this attempt to practise for popularity on the lowest national antipathies and fears, and therefore Mr. Attorney-General had made the most of it; how, nevertheless, it rested upon nothing, save that vile and infamous character of evidence too often disfiguring such cases, and of which the State Trials of this country were full. But, there my Lord interposed (with as grave a face as if it had not been true), saying that he could not sit upon that Bench and suffer those allusions. Mr. Stryver then called his few witnesses, and Mr. Cruncher had next to attend while Mr. Attorney-General turned the whole suit of clothes Mr. Stryver had fitted on the jury, inside out; showing how Barsad and Cly were even a hundred times better than he had thought them, and the prisoner a hundred times worse. Lastly, came my Lord himself, turning the suit of clothes, now inside out, now outside in, but on the whole decidedly trimming and shaping them into grave-clothes for the prisoner. And now, the jury turned to consider, and the great flies swarmed again. Mr. Carton, who had so long sat looking at the ceiling of the court, changed neither his place nor his attitude, even in this excitement. While his teamed friend, Mr. Stryver, massing his papers before him, whispered with those who sat near, and from time to time glanced anxiously at the jury; while all the spectators moved more or less, and grouped themselves anew; while even my Lord himself arose from his seat, and slowly paced up and down his platform, not unattended by a suspicion in the minds of the audience that his state was feverish; this one man sat leaning back, with his torn gown half off him, his untidy wig put on just as it had happened to light on his head after its removal, his hands in his pockets, and his eyes on the ceiling as they had been all day. Something especially reckless in his demeanour, not only gave him a disreputable look, but so diminished the strong resemblance he undoubtedly bore to the prisoner (which his momentary earnestness, when they were compared together, had strengthened), that many of the lookers-on, taking note of him now, said to one another they would hardly have thought the two were so alike. Mr. Cruncher made the observation to his next neighbour, and added, "I'd hold half a guinea that _he_ don't get no law-work to do. Don't look like the sort of one to get any, do he?" Yet, this Mr. Carton took in more of the details of the scene than he appeared to take in; for now, when Miss Manette's head dropped upon her father's breast, he was the first to see it, and to say audibly: "Officer! look to that young lady. Help the gentleman to take her out. Don't you see she will fall!" There was much commiseration for her as she was removed, and much sympathy with her father. It had evidently been a great distress to him, to have the days of his imprisonment recalled. He had shown strong internal agitation when he was questioned, and that pondering or brooding look which made him old, had been upon him, like a heavy cloud, ever since. As he passed out, the jury, who had turned back and paused a moment, spoke, through their foreman. They were not agreed, and wished to retire. My Lord (perhaps with George Washington on his mind) showed some surprise that they were not agreed, but signified his pleasure that they should retire under watch and ward, and retired himself. The trial had lasted all day, and the lamps in the court were now being lighted. It began to be rumoured that the jury would be out a long while. The spectators dropped off to get refreshment, and the prisoner withdrew to the back of the dock, and sat down. Mr. Lorry, who had gone out when the young lady and her father went out, now reappeared, and beckoned to Jerry: who, in the slackened interest, could easily get near him. "Jerry, if you wish to take something to eat, you can. But, keep in the way. You will be sure to hear when the jury come in. Don't be a moment behind them, for I want you to take the verdict back to the bank. You are the quickest messenger I know, and will get to Temple Bar long before I can." Jerry had just enough forehead to knuckle, and he knuckled it in acknowledgment of this communication and a shilling. Mr. Carton came up at the moment, and touched Mr. Lorry on the arm. "How is the young lady?" "She is greatly distressed; but her father is comforting her, and she feels the better for being out of court." "I'll tell the prisoner so. It won't do for a respectable bank gentleman like you, to be seen speaking to him publicly, you know." Mr. Lorry reddened as if he were conscious of having debated the point in his mind, and Mr. Carton made his way to the outside of the bar. The way out of court lay in that direction, and Jerry followed him, all eyes, ears, and spikes. "Mr. Darnay!" The prisoner came forward directly. "You will naturally be anxious to hear of the witness, Miss Manette. She will do very well. You have seen the worst of her agitation." "I am deeply sorry to have been the cause of it. Could you tell her so for me, with my fervent acknowledgments?" "Yes, I could. I will, if you ask it." Mr. Carton's manner was so careless as to be almost insolent. He stood, half turned from the prisoner, lounging with his elbow against the bar. "I do ask it. Accept my cordial thanks." "What," said Carton, still only half turned towards him, "do you expect, Mr. Darnay?" "The worst." "It's the wisest thing to expect, and the likeliest. But I think their withdrawing is in your favour." Loitering on the way out of court not being allowed, Jerry heard no more: but left them--so like each other in feature, so unlike each other in manner--standing side by side, both reflected in the glass above them. An hour and a half limped heavily away in the thief-and-rascal crowded passages below, even though assisted off with mutton pies and ale. The hoarse messenger, uncomfortably seated on a form after taking that refection, had dropped into a doze, when a loud murmur and a rapid tide of people setting up the stairs that led to the court, carried him along with them. "Jerry! Jerry!" Mr. Lorry was already calling at the door when he got there. "Here, sir! It's a fight to get back again. Here I am, sir!" Mr. Lorry handed him a paper through the throng. "Quick! Have you got it?" "Yes, sir." Hastily written on the paper was the word "ACQUITTED." "If you had sent the message, 'Recalled to Life,' again," muttered Jerry, as he turned, "I should have known what you meant, this time." He had no opportunity of saying, or so much as thinking, anything else, until he was clear of the Old Bailey; for, the crowd came pouring out with a vehemence that nearly took him off his legs, and a loud buzz swept into the street as if the baffled blue-flies were dispersing in search of other carrion. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Eine Enttäuschung Der Generalstaatsanwalt führt den Fall und fordert die Geschworenen auf, Darnay für schuldig zu befinden, englische Geheimnisse in die Hände der Franzosen gegeben zu haben. Der Generalstaatsanwalt befragt John Barsad, dessen Aussage den Fall des Generalstaatsanwalts unterstützt. Die Kreuzverhöre trüben jedoch Barsads reines und rechtschaffenes Charakterbild. Es wird offenbart, dass er schon einmal im Schuldgefängnis war und in Schlägereien aufgrund von Glücksspiel verwickelt war. Die Anklage ruft ihren nächsten Zeugen, Roger Cly, auf den Plan, den auch der Verteidiger, Herr Stryver, als zweifelhaften und unzuverlässigen Zeugen entlarvt. Dann wird Herr Lorry gerufen, und die Anklage fragt ihn, ob er vor fünf Jahren mit dem Angeklagten in einem Dover Postkutschen gesessen hat. Lorry behauptet, dass seine Mitreisenden so eingemummelt waren, dass ihre Identität verborgen blieb. Die Ankläger stellen dann ähnliche Fragen an Lucie, die junge Frau, die Darnay früher bemerkt hatte. Sie gibt zu, den Gefangenen auf dem Schiff zurück nach England getroffen zu haben. Als sie jedoch erzählt, wie er ihr geholfen hat, sich um ihren kranken Vater zu kümmern, scheint sie dem Fall zu helfen. Aber dann wendet sie das Gericht unbeabsichtigt gegen Darnay, indem sie seine Äußerung berichtet, dass der Ruhm von George Washington eines Tages dem von George III. ebenbürtig sein könnte. Dr. Manette wird ebenfalls aufgerufen, aber er behauptet, sich aufgrund seiner Krankheit an nichts von der Reise erinnern zu können. Herr Stryver führt gerade ein Kreuzverhör mit einem anderen Zeugen "ohne Ergebnis" durch, als sein respektloser junger Kollege Sydney Carton ihm eine Notiz zusteckt. Stryver beginnt über den Inhalt der Notiz zu streiten, was die Aufmerksamkeit des Gerichts auf die unheimliche Ähnlichkeit von Carton mit dem Gefangenen lenkt. Die unbestreitbare Ähnlichkeit vereitelt die Möglichkeit des Gerichts, Darnay über jeden vernünftigen Zweifel als Spion zu identifizieren. Die Geschworenen ziehen sich zur Beratung zurück und kehren schließlich mit einem Freispruch für Darnay 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: One morning, about ten days after Mrs. Churchill's decease, Emma was called downstairs to Mr. Weston, who "could not stay five minutes, and wanted particularly to speak with her."--He met her at the parlour-door, and hardly asking her how she did, in the natural key of his voice, sunk it immediately, to say, unheard by her father, "Can you come to Randalls at any time this morning?--Do, if it be possible. Mrs. Weston wants to see you. She must see you." "Is she unwell?" "No, no, not at all--only a little agitated. She would have ordered the carriage, and come to you, but she must see you _alone_, and that you know--(nodding towards her father)--Humph!--Can you come?" "Certainly. This moment, if you please. It is impossible to refuse what you ask in such a way. But what can be the matter?--Is she really not ill?" "Depend upon me--but ask no more questions. You will know it all in time. The most unaccountable business! But hush, hush!" To guess what all this meant, was impossible even for Emma. Something really important seemed announced by his looks; but, as her friend was well, she endeavoured not to be uneasy, and settling it with her father, that she would take her walk now, she and Mr. Weston were soon out of the house together and on their way at a quick pace for Randalls. "Now,"--said Emma, when they were fairly beyond the sweep gates,--"now Mr. Weston, do let me know what has happened." "No, no,"--he gravely replied.--"Don't ask me. I promised my wife to leave it all to her. She will break it to you better than I can. Do not be impatient, Emma; it will all come out too soon." "Break it to me," cried Emma, standing still with terror.--"Good God!--Mr. Weston, tell me at once.--Something has happened in Brunswick Square. I know it has. Tell me, I charge you tell me this moment what it is." "No, indeed you are mistaken."-- "Mr. Weston do not trifle with me.--Consider how many of my dearest friends are now in Brunswick Square. Which of them is it?--I charge you by all that is sacred, not to attempt concealment." "Upon my word, Emma."-- "Your word!--why not your honour!--why not say upon your honour, that it has nothing to do with any of them? Good Heavens!--What can be to be _broke_ to me, that does not relate to one of that family?" "Upon my honour," said he very seriously, "it does not. It is not in the smallest degree connected with any human being of the name of Knightley." Emma's courage returned, and she walked on. "I was wrong," he continued, "in talking of its being _broke_ to you. I should not have used the expression. In fact, it does not concern you--it concerns only myself,--that is, we hope.--Humph!--In short, my dear Emma, there is no occasion to be so uneasy about it. I don't say that it is not a disagreeable business--but things might be much worse.--If we walk fast, we shall soon be at Randalls." Emma found that she must wait; and now it required little effort. She asked no more questions therefore, merely employed her own fancy, and that soon pointed out to her the probability of its being some money concern--something just come to light, of a disagreeable nature in the circumstances of the family,--something which the late event at Richmond had brought forward. Her fancy was very active. Half a dozen natural children, perhaps--and poor Frank cut off!--This, though very undesirable, would be no matter of agony to her. It inspired little more than an animating curiosity. "Who is that gentleman on horseback?" said she, as they proceeded--speaking more to assist Mr. Weston in keeping his secret, than with any other view. "I do not know.--One of the Otways.--Not Frank;--it is not Frank, I assure you. You will not see him. He is half way to Windsor by this time." "Has your son been with you, then?" "Oh! yes--did not you know?--Well, well, never mind." For a moment he was silent; and then added, in a tone much more guarded and demure, "Yes, Frank came over this morning, just to ask us how we did." They hurried on, and were speedily at Randalls.--"Well, my dear," said he, as they entered the room--"I have brought her, and now I hope you will soon be better. I shall leave you together. There is no use in delay. I shall not be far off, if you want me."--And Emma distinctly heard him add, in a lower tone, before he quitted the room,--"I have been as good as my word. She has not the least idea." Mrs. Weston was looking so ill, and had an air of so much perturbation, that Emma's uneasiness increased; and the moment they were alone, she eagerly said, "What is it my dear friend? Something of a very unpleasant nature, I find, has occurred;--do let me know directly what it is. I have been walking all this way in complete suspense. We both abhor suspense. Do not let mine continue longer. It will do you good to speak of your distress, whatever it may be." "Have you indeed no idea?" said Mrs. Weston in a trembling voice. "Cannot you, my dear Emma--cannot you form a guess as to what you are to hear?" "So far as that it relates to Mr. Frank Churchill, I do guess." "You are right. It does relate to him, and I will tell you directly;" (resuming her work, and seeming resolved against looking up.) "He has been here this very morning, on a most extraordinary errand. It is impossible to express our surprize. He came to speak to his father on a subject,--to announce an attachment--" She stopped to breathe. Emma thought first of herself, and then of Harriet. "More than an attachment, indeed," resumed Mrs. Weston; "an engagement--a positive engagement.--What will you say, Emma--what will any body say, when it is known that Frank Churchill and Miss Fairfax are engaged;--nay, that they have been long engaged!" Emma even jumped with surprize;--and, horror-struck, exclaimed, "Jane Fairfax!--Good God! You are not serious? You do not mean it?" "You may well be amazed," returned Mrs. Weston, still averting her eyes, and talking on with eagerness, that Emma might have time to recover-- "You may well be amazed. But it is even so. There has been a solemn engagement between them ever since October--formed at Weymouth, and kept a secret from every body. Not a creature knowing it but themselves--neither the Campbells, nor her family, nor his.--It is so wonderful, that though perfectly convinced of the fact, it is yet almost incredible to myself. I can hardly believe it.--I thought I knew him." Emma scarcely heard what was said.--Her mind was divided between two ideas--her own former conversations with him about Miss Fairfax; and poor Harriet;--and for some time she could only exclaim, and require confirmation, repeated confirmation. "Well," said she at last, trying to recover herself; "this is a circumstance which I must think of at least half a day, before I can at all comprehend it. What!--engaged to her all the winter--before either of them came to Highbury?" "Engaged since October,--secretly engaged.--It has hurt me, Emma, very much. It has hurt his father equally. _Some_ _part_ of his conduct we cannot excuse." Emma pondered a moment, and then replied, "I will not pretend _not_ to understand you; and to give you all the relief in my power, be assured that no such effect has followed his attentions to me, as you are apprehensive of." Mrs. Weston looked up, afraid to believe; but Emma's countenance was as steady as her words. "That you may have less difficulty in believing this boast, of my present perfect indifference," she continued, "I will farther tell you, that there was a period in the early part of our acquaintance, when I did like him, when I was very much disposed to be attached to him--nay, was attached--and how it came to cease, is perhaps the wonder. Fortunately, however, it did cease. I have really for some time past, for at least these three months, cared nothing about him. You may believe me, Mrs. Weston. This is the simple truth." Mrs. Weston kissed her with tears of joy; and when she could find utterance, assured her, that this protestation had done her more good than any thing else in the world could do. "Mr. Weston will be almost as much relieved as myself," said she. "On this point we have been wretched. It was our darling wish that you might be attached to each other--and we were persuaded that it was so.-- Imagine what we have been feeling on your account." "I have escaped; and that I should escape, may be a matter of grateful wonder to you and myself. But this does not acquit _him_, Mrs. Weston; and I must say, that I think him greatly to blame. What right had he to come among us with affection and faith engaged, and with manners so _very_ disengaged? What right had he to endeavour to please, as he certainly did--to distinguish any one young woman with persevering attention, as he certainly did--while he really belonged to another?--How could he tell what mischief he might be doing?--How could he tell that he might not be making me in love with him?--very wrong, very wrong indeed." "From something that he said, my dear Emma, I rather imagine--" "And how could _she_ bear such behaviour! Composure with a witness! to look on, while repeated attentions were offering to another woman, before her face, and not resent it.--That is a degree of placidity, which I can neither comprehend nor respect." "There were misunderstandings between them, Emma; he said so expressly. He had not time to enter into much explanation. He was here only a quarter of an hour, and in a state of agitation which did not allow the full use even of the time he could stay--but that there had been misunderstandings he decidedly said. The present crisis, indeed, seemed to be brought on by them; and those misunderstandings might very possibly arise from the impropriety of his conduct." "Impropriety! Oh! Mrs. Weston--it is too calm a censure. Much, much beyond impropriety!--It has sunk him, I cannot say how it has sunk him in my opinion. So unlike what a man should be!--None of that upright integrity, that strict adherence to truth and principle, that disdain of trick and littleness, which a man should display in every transaction of his life." "Nay, dear Emma, now I must take his part; for though he has been wrong in this instance, I have known him long enough to answer for his having many, very many, good qualities; and--" "Good God!" cried Emma, not attending to her.--"Mrs. Smallridge, too! Jane actually on the point of going as governess! What could he mean by such horrible indelicacy? To suffer her to engage herself--to suffer her even to think of such a measure!" "He knew nothing about it, Emma. On this article I can fully acquit him. It was a private resolution of hers, not communicated to him--or at least not communicated in a way to carry conviction.--Till yesterday, I know he said he was in the dark as to her plans. They burst on him, I do not know how, but by some letter or message--and it was the discovery of what she was doing, of this very project of hers, which determined him to come forward at once, own it all to his uncle, throw himself on his kindness, and, in short, put an end to the miserable state of concealment that had been carrying on so long." Emma began to listen better. "I am to hear from him soon," continued Mrs. Weston. "He told me at parting, that he should soon write; and he spoke in a manner which seemed to promise me many particulars that could not be given now. Let us wait, therefore, for this letter. It may bring many extenuations. It may make many things intelligible and excusable which now are not to be understood. Don't let us be severe, don't let us be in a hurry to condemn him. Let us have patience. I must love him; and now that I am satisfied on one point, the one material point, I am sincerely anxious for its all turning out well, and ready to hope that it may. They must both have suffered a great deal under such a system of secresy and concealment." "_His_ sufferings," replied Emma dryly, "do not appear to have done him much harm. Well, and how did Mr. Churchill take it?" "Most favourably for his nephew--gave his consent with scarcely a difficulty. Conceive what the events of a week have done in that family! While poor Mrs. Churchill lived, I suppose there could not have been a hope, a chance, a possibility;--but scarcely are her remains at rest in the family vault, than her husband is persuaded to act exactly opposite to what she would have required. What a blessing it is, when undue influence does not survive the grave!--He gave his consent with very little persuasion." "Ah!" thought Emma, "he would have done as much for Harriet." "This was settled last night, and Frank was off with the light this morning. He stopped at Highbury, at the Bates's, I fancy, some time--and then came on hither; but was in such a hurry to get back to his uncle, to whom he is just now more necessary than ever, that, as I tell you, he could stay with us but a quarter of an hour.--He was very much agitated--very much, indeed--to a degree that made him appear quite a different creature from any thing I had ever seen him before.--In addition to all the rest, there had been the shock of finding her so very unwell, which he had had no previous suspicion of--and there was every appearance of his having been feeling a great deal." "And do you really believe the affair to have been carrying on with such perfect secresy?--The Campbells, the Dixons, did none of them know of the engagement?" Emma could not speak the name of Dixon without a little blush. "None; not one. He positively said that it had been known to no being in the world but their two selves." "Well," said Emma, "I suppose we shall gradually grow reconciled to the idea, and I wish them very happy. But I shall always think it a very abominable sort of proceeding. What has it been but a system of hypocrisy and deceit,--espionage, and treachery?--To come among us with professions of openness and simplicity; and such a league in secret to judge us all!--Here have we been, the whole winter and spring, completely duped, fancying ourselves all on an equal footing of truth and honour, with two people in the midst of us who may have been carrying round, comparing and sitting in judgment on sentiments and words that were never meant for both to hear.--They must take the consequence, if they have heard each other spoken of in a way not perfectly agreeable!" "I am quite easy on that head," replied Mrs. Weston. "I am very sure that I never said any thing of either to the other, which both might not have heard." "You are in luck.--Your only blunder was confined to my ear, when you imagined a certain friend of ours in love with the lady." "True. But as I have always had a thoroughly good opinion of Miss Fairfax, I never could, under any blunder, have spoken ill of her; and as to speaking ill of him, there I must have been safe." At this moment Mr. Weston appeared at a little distance from the window, evidently on the watch. His wife gave him a look which invited him in; and, while he was coming round, added, "Now, dearest Emma, let me intreat you to say and look every thing that may set his heart at ease, and incline him to be satisfied with the match. Let us make the best of it--and, indeed, almost every thing may be fairly said in her favour. It is not a connexion to gratify; but if Mr. Churchill does not feel that, why should we? and it may be a very fortunate circumstance for him, for Frank, I mean, that he should have attached himself to a girl of such steadiness of character and good judgment as I have always given her credit for--and still am disposed to give her credit for, in spite of this one great deviation from the strict rule of right. And how much may be said in her situation for even that error!" "Much, indeed!" cried Emma feelingly. "If a woman can ever be excused for thinking only of herself, it is in a situation like Jane Fairfax's.--Of such, one may almost say, that 'the world is not their's, nor the world's law.'" She met Mr. Weston on his entrance, with a smiling countenance, exclaiming, Ein sehr hübscher Trick, den du mir da gespielt hast, auf mein Wort! Das war wohl eine List, um meine Neugier zu erregen und mein Talent zum Raten zu testen. Aber du hast mich wirklich erschreckt. Ich dachte, du hättest mindestens die Hälfte deines Vermögens verloren. Und hier stellt sich heraus, dass es eher ein Grund zur Gratulation ist – ich gratuliere Ihnen, Mr. Weston, von ganzem Herzen, zur Aussicht, eine der schönsten und talentiertesten jungen Frauen Englands als Ihre Tochter zu haben." Ein kurzer Blick zwischen ihm und seiner Frau überzeugte ihn davon, dass alles so in Ordnung war, wie es diese Aussage verkündete; und die positive Wirkung auf seine Stimmung war sofort spürbar. Seine Haltung und Stimme erlangten ihre gewohnte Lebhaftigkeit zurück: Er schüttelte ihr herzlich und dankbar die Hand und begann das Thema auf eine Art und Weise anzugehen, die zeigte, dass ihm jetzt nur noch Zeit und Überredung fehlten, um die Verlobung nicht als etwas Schlimmes anzusehen. Seine Freunde brachten nur das vor, was Leichtsinn rechtfertigen oder Bedenken lindern könnte; und als sie alles zusammen besprochen hatten und er es noch einmal mit Emma auf dem Rückweg nach Hartfield besprochen hatte, hatte er sich vollkommen versöhnt und war fast der Meinung, dass es das Beste war, was Frank hätte tun können. Können Sie eine geeignete Zusammenfassung der oben stehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Etwa zehn Tage nach dem Tod von Mrs. Churchill kommt Mr. Weston nach Hartfield, um Emma zu bitten, mit ihm nach Hause zu kommen, da Mrs. Weston sie sehen möchte. Er wirkt sehr ernst und Emma ist besorgt, dass etwas Schreckliches passiert ist. Als sie dort ankommt, erzählt ihr Mrs. Weston, dass Frank gerade da gewesen sei und ihnen erzählt habe, dass er und Jane verlobt seien und das schon seit Oktober. Emma ist schockiert und versucht sich an alles zu erinnern, was sie Frank über Jane erzählt hat. Beide sind disillusioniert darüber, wie Frank mit Jane verlobt gewesen sein konnte, bevor einer von ihnen nach Hartfield gekommen ist, und dass sie es so lange verheimlicht haben. Mrs. Weston befürchtet, dass Emma getäuscht worden sein könnte, und Emma versichert ihr, dass sie nicht in ihn verliebt ist. Sie fährt fort zu sagen, dass das ihn aber nicht entschuldigen sollte, da er offensichtlich versucht habe, es so aussehen zu lassen, als sei sie das Objekt seiner Zuneigung, und sie hätte dabei sehr verletzt werden können. Emma versteht auch nicht, wie Jane seine Aufmerksamkeit zu ihr hinnehmen und nichts sagen konnte, und Mrs. Weston sagt, dass Frank gesagt habe, dass es Missverständnisse zwischen ihnen gab. Das Paar konnte nicht heiraten, solange Mrs. Churchill lebte, da sie der Verbindung nicht zustimmen würde. Sobald sie gestorben war und Frank von Janes Plänen, eine Stelle anzunehmen, gehört hatte, überredete er Mr. Churchill, der Verbindung zuzustimmen, und kam schnell zu seinem Vater, um die Zustimmung einzuholen. Emma ist ziemlich aufgebracht, dass sie die ganze Zeit über getäuscht wurden. Mr. und Mrs. Weston sind sehr erleichtert, dass Emma keine Schmerzen aufgrund der Ehe haben wird, da sie ziemlich besorgt waren und sich eine Verbindung zwischen ihnen gewünscht hatten.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: Mr Shepherd, a civil, cautious lawyer, who, whatever might be his hold or his views on Sir Walter, would rather have the disagreeable prompted by anybody else, excused himself from offering the slightest hint, and only begged leave to recommend an implicit reference to the excellent judgement of Lady Russell, from whose known good sense he fully expected to have just such resolute measures advised as he meant to see finally adopted. Lady Russell was most anxiously zealous on the subject, and gave it much serious consideration. She was a woman rather of sound than of quick abilities, whose difficulties in coming to any decision in this instance were great, from the opposition of two leading principles. She was of strict integrity herself, with a delicate sense of honour; but she was as desirous of saving Sir Walter's feelings, as solicitous for the credit of the family, as aristocratic in her ideas of what was due to them, as anybody of sense and honesty could well be. She was a benevolent, charitable, good woman, and capable of strong attachments, most correct in her conduct, strict in her notions of decorum, and with manners that were held a standard of good-breeding. She had a cultivated mind, and was, generally speaking, rational and consistent; but she had prejudices on the side of ancestry; she had a value for rank and consequence, which blinded her a little to the faults of those who possessed them. Herself the widow of only a knight, she gave the dignity of a baronet all its due; and Sir Walter, independent of his claims as an old acquaintance, an attentive neighbour, an obliging landlord, the husband of her very dear friend, the father of Anne and her sisters, was, as being Sir Walter, in her apprehension, entitled to a great deal of compassion and consideration under his present difficulties. They must retrench; that did not admit of a doubt. But she was very anxious to have it done with the least possible pain to him and Elizabeth. She drew up plans of economy, she made exact calculations, and she did what nobody else thought of doing: she consulted Anne, who never seemed considered by the others as having any interest in the question. She consulted, and in a degree was influenced by her in marking out the scheme of retrenchment which was at last submitted to Sir Walter. Every emendation of Anne's had been on the side of honesty against importance. She wanted more vigorous measures, a more complete reformation, a quicker release from debt, a much higher tone of indifference for everything but justice and equity. "If we can persuade your father to all this," said Lady Russell, looking over her paper, "much may be done. If he will adopt these regulations, in seven years he will be clear; and I hope we may be able to convince him and Elizabeth, that Kellynch Hall has a respectability in itself which cannot be affected by these reductions; and that the true dignity of Sir Walter Elliot will be very far from lessened in the eyes of sensible people, by acting like a man of principle. What will he be doing, in fact, but what very many of our first families have done, or ought to do? There will be nothing singular in his case; and it is singularity which often makes the worst part of our suffering, as it always does of our conduct. I have great hope of prevailing. We must be serious and decided; for after all, the person who has contracted debts must pay them; and though a great deal is due to the feelings of the gentleman, and the head of a house, like your father, there is still more due to the character of an honest man." This was the principle on which Anne wanted her father to be proceeding, his friends to be urging him. She considered it as an act of indispensable duty to clear away the claims of creditors with all the expedition which the most comprehensive retrenchments could secure, and saw no dignity in anything short of it. She wanted it to be prescribed, and felt as a duty. She rated Lady Russell's influence highly; and as to the severe degree of self-denial which her own conscience prompted, she believed there might be little more difficulty in persuading them to a complete, than to half a reformation. Her knowledge of her father and Elizabeth inclined her to think that the sacrifice of one pair of horses would be hardly less painful than of both, and so on, through the whole list of Lady Russell's too gentle reductions. How Anne's more rigid requisitions might have been taken is of little consequence. Lady Russell's had no success at all: could not be put up with, were not to be borne. "What! every comfort of life knocked off! Journeys, London, servants, horses, table--contractions and restrictions every where! To live no longer with the decencies even of a private gentleman! No, he would sooner quit Kellynch Hall at once, than remain in it on such disgraceful terms." "Quit Kellynch Hall." The hint was immediately taken up by Mr Shepherd, whose interest was involved in the reality of Sir Walter's retrenching, and who was perfectly persuaded that nothing would be done without a change of abode. "Since the idea had been started in the very quarter which ought to dictate, he had no scruple," he said, "in confessing his judgement to be entirely on that side. It did not appear to him that Sir Walter could materially alter his style of living in a house which had such a character of hospitality and ancient dignity to support. In any other place Sir Walter might judge for himself; and would be looked up to, as regulating the modes of life in whatever way he might choose to model his household." Sir Walter would quit Kellynch Hall; and after a very few days more of doubt and indecision, the great question of whither he should go was settled, and the first outline of this important change made out. There had been three alternatives, London, Bath, or another house in the country. All Anne's wishes had been for the latter. A small house in their own neighbourhood, where they might still have Lady Russell's society, still be near Mary, and still have the pleasure of sometimes seeing the lawns and groves of Kellynch, was the object of her ambition. But the usual fate of Anne attended her, in having something very opposite from her inclination fixed on. She disliked Bath, and did not think it agreed with her; and Bath was to be her home. Sir Walter had at first thought more of London; but Mr Shepherd felt that he could not be trusted in London, and had been skilful enough to dissuade him from it, and make Bath preferred. It was a much safer place for a gentleman in his predicament: he might there be important at comparatively little expense. Two material advantages of Bath over London had of course been given all their weight: its more convenient distance from Kellynch, only fifty miles, and Lady Russell's spending some part of every winter there; and to the very great satisfaction of Lady Russell, whose first views on the projected change had been for Bath, Sir Walter and Elizabeth were induced to believe that they should lose neither consequence nor enjoyment by settling there. Lady Russell felt obliged to oppose her dear Anne's known wishes. It would be too much to expect Sir Walter to descend into a small house in his own neighbourhood. Anne herself would have found the mortifications of it more than she foresaw, and to Sir Walter's feelings they must have been dreadful. And with regard to Anne's dislike of Bath, she considered it as a prejudice and mistake arising, first, from the circumstance of her having been three years at school there, after her mother's death; and secondly, from her happening to be not in perfectly good spirits the only winter which she had afterwards spent there with herself. Lady Russell was fond of Bath, in short, and disposed to think it must suit them all; and as to her young friend's health, by passing all the warm months with her at Kellynch Lodge, every danger would be avoided; and it was in fact, a change which must do both health and spirits good. Anne had been too little from home, too little seen. Her spirits were not high. A larger society would improve them. She wanted her to be more known. The undesirableness of any other house in the same neighbourhood for Sir Walter was certainly much strengthened by one part, and a very material part of the scheme, which had been happily engrafted on the beginning. He was not only to quit his home, but to see it in the hands of others; a trial of fortitude, which stronger heads than Sir Walter's have found too much. Kellynch Hall was to be let. This, however, was a profound secret, not to be breathed beyond their own circle. Sir Walter could not have borne the degradation of being known to design letting his house. Mr Shepherd had once mentioned the word "advertise," but never dared approach it again. Sir Walter spurned the idea of its being offered in any manner; forbad the slightest hint being dropped of his having such an intention; and it was only on the supposition of his being spontaneously solicited by some most unexceptionable applicant, on his own terms, and as a great favour, that he would let it at all. How quick come the reasons for approving what we like! Lady Russell had another excellent one at hand, for being extremely glad that Sir Walter and his family were to remove from the country. Elizabeth had been lately forming an intimacy, which she wished to see interrupted. It was with the daughter of Mr Shepherd, who had returned, after an unprosperous marriage, to her father's house, with the additional burden of two children. She was a clever young woman, who understood the art of pleasing--the art of pleasing, at least, at Kellynch Hall; and who had made herself so acceptable to Miss Elliot, as to have been already staying there more than once, in spite of all that Lady Russell, who thought it a friendship quite out of place, could hint of caution and reserve. Lady Russell, indeed, had scarcely any influence with Elizabeth, and seemed to love her, rather because she would love her, than because Elizabeth deserved it. She had never received from her more than outward attention, nothing beyond the observances of complaisance; had never succeeded in any point which she wanted to carry, against previous inclination. She had been repeatedly very earnest in trying to get Anne included in the visit to London, sensibly open to all the injustice and all the discredit of the selfish arrangements which shut her out, and on many lesser occasions had endeavoured to give Elizabeth the advantage of her own better judgement and experience; but always in vain: Elizabeth would go her own way; and never had she pursued it in more decided opposition to Lady Russell than in this selection of Mrs Clay; turning from the society of so deserving a sister, to bestow her affection and confidence on one who ought to have been nothing to her but the object of distant civility. From situation, Mrs Clay was, in Lady Russell's estimate, a very unequal, and in her character she believed a very dangerous companion; and a removal that would leave Mrs Clay behind, and bring a choice of more suitable intimates within Miss Elliot's reach, was therefore an object of first-rate importance. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Lady Russell und Anne erstellen einen neuen Haushaltsplan für die Familie Elliot, aber Sir Walter und Elizabeth können sich ein einfaches Leben nicht vorstellen. Sir Walter selbst schlägt unwissentlich die Lösung vor: Kellynch Hall zu verlassen und günstiger zu leben. Anne möchte in der Nachbarschaft bleiben und hasst die Stadt Bath, also beschließt Sir Walter natürlich, die Nachbarschaft zu verlassen und sich in...warte...Bath niederzulassen! Zumindest ist Lady Russell zufrieden. Lady Russell hat auch eine versteckte Motivation: Elizabeth ist mit einer gewissen Frau Clay gut befreundet geworden, und Lady Russell möchte das Paar auseinanderbringen, bevor sie beste Freundinnen 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. Bei meinem morgendlichen Gang hinunter fand ich meine Tante so tief in Nachdenken versunken am Frühstückstisch, ihren Ellbogen auf dem Tablett, dass der Inhalt der Teekanne übergeschwappt war und das ganze Tischtuch unter Wasser gesetzt hatte, als mein Erscheinen ihre Gedanken vertrieb. Ich war sicher, dass ich Gegenstand ihrer Überlegungen gewesen war und war mehr denn je darauf bedacht, ihre Absichten mir gegenüber zu erfahren. Doch wagte ich nicht, meine Besorgnis auszudrücken, aus Angst, ihr Anstoß zu geben. Meine Augen, jedoch nicht so sehr unter Kontrolle wie meine Zunge, wurden während des Frühstücks oft von meiner Tante angezogen. Ich konnte nie für einige Momente zu ihr rüberschauen, ohne dass sie mich in einer merkwürdigen nachdenklichen Weise ansah, als wäre ich weit entfernt, anstatt auf der anderen Seite des kleinen runden Tisches zu sitzen. Als sie ihr Frühstück beendet hatte, lehnte sich meine Tante sehr bedächtig in ihrem Stuhl zurück, runzelte die Stirn, legte ihre Arme verschränkt und betrachtete mich in aller Ruhe, mit solch einer aufmerksamen Festigkeit, dass ich von Verlegenheit überwältigt wurde. Da ich mein eigenes Frühstück noch nicht beendet hatte, versuchte ich, meine Verwirrung zu verbergen, indem ich weiter aß. Aber mein Messer fiel über meine Gabel, meine Gabel stolperte über mein Messer, ich schnitt Brocken von Speck in erstaunliche Höhen in die Luft, anstatt sie zum eigenen Verzehr zu schneiden, und ich verhaspelte mich mit meinem Tee, der hartnäckig den falschen Weg anstatt den richtigen nahm, bis ich schließlich aufgab und unter meiner Tante genauer Betrachtung rot wurde. "Hallo!" sagte meine Tante nach langer Zeit. Ich schaute auf und traf ihren scharfen, strahlenden Blick respektvoll. "Ich habe ihm geschrieben", sagte meine Tante. "Ihm -?" "Deinem Schwiegervater", sagte meine Tante. "Ich habe ihm einen Brief geschickt, um den er sich kümmern soll, oder er und ich werden uns streiten, das kann ich ihm sagen!" "Weiß er, wo ich bin, Tante?", fragte ich besorgt. "Das habe ich ihm gesagt", sagte meine Tante und nickte. "Werde ich ihm übergeben?", stammelte ich. "Ich weiß es nicht", sagte meine Tante. "Wir werden sehen." "Oh, ich kann mir nicht vorstellen, was ich tun soll", rief ich aus, "wenn ich zurück zu Mr. Murdstone gehen muss!" "Ich weiß nichts darüber", sagte meine Tante und schüttelte den Kopf. "Ich kann nichts dazu sagen, sicher bin ich mir nicht. Wir werden sehen." Meine Stimmung sank unter diesen Worten und ich wurde sehr niedergeschlagen und schwer ums Herz. Meine Tante, ohne viel Aufmerksamkeit auf mich zu legen, legte sich eine grobe Schürze mit Lätzchen an, die sie aus dem Schrank holte, spülte die Teetassen mit ihren eigenen Händen ab, und als alles wieder gewaschen und auf das Tablett gestellt war und das Tischtuch zusammengefaltet und obenauf gelegt war, läutete sie Janet, um es abzuräumen. Dann kehrte sie mit einem kleinen Besen die Krümel zusammen (zog zuerst Handschuhe an), bis auf dem Teppich kein mikroskopischer Fleck mehr zu sehen war. Anschließend staubte sie das Zimmer ab und brachte es in eine so haarfeine Ordnung, dass ich überwältigt war. Als all diese Aufgaben zu ihrer Zufriedenheit erledigt waren, nahm sie die Handschuhe und die Schürze ab, faltete sie zusammen, legte sie in die bestimmte Ecke des Schrankes, aus der sie hergenommen wurden, holte ihre Nähkiste auf ihren eigenen Tisch am offenen Fenster, setzte sich mit dem grünen Fächer zwischen sich und dem Licht hin und begann zu arbeiten. "Ich wünschte, du würdest nach oben gehen", sagte meine Tante, während sie ihre Nadel fädelte, "und Mr. Dick meine Grüße ausrichten. Ich würde gerne wissen, wie er mit seinem Gedenkbuch vorankommt." Ich erhob mich bereitwillig, um diesen Auftrag auszuführen. "Ich nehme an", sagte meine Tante und betrachtete mich so aufmerksam wie bei der Ansicht der Nadel beim Einfädeln, "du hältst Mr. Dick für einen kurzen Namen, oder?" "Ich dachte, es sei gestern eher ein kurzer Name", gestand ich. "Du sollst nicht meinen, er hat keinen längeren Namen, wenn er ihn nutzen möchte", sagte meine Tante mit einer würdevolleren Haltung. "Babley - Mr. Richard Babley - das ist der richtige Name des Herrn." Ich wollte vorschlagen, mit einem bescheidenen Bewusstsein meiner Jugend und der Vertraulichkeit, die ich bereits begangen hatte, dass ich ihm besser den vollen Nutzen dieses Namens geben sollte, als meine Tante weiter sprach: "Aber nenn ihn bloß nicht so, was auch immer du tust. Er kann seinen Namen nicht ertragen. Das ist eine Eigenart von ihm. Zwar weiß ich nicht, dass es eine große Eigenart ist, denn er wurde genug von denen, die diesen Namen tragen, schlecht behandelt, dass er eine tödliche Abneigung dagegen hat, Gott sei Dank. Hier ist er Mr. Dick und überall sonst - wenn er jemals irgendwohin gegangen ist, was er nicht tut. Also pass auf, mein Kind, nenn ihn nichts ANDERES als Mr. Dick." Ich versprach, mich daran zu halten, und ging mit meiner Nachricht nach oben, während ich darüber nachdachte, dass, wenn Mr. Dick so lange an seinem Gedenkbuch gearbeitet hatte, wie ich ihn beim Herunterkommen durch die offene Tür gesehen hatte, er wahrscheinlich sehr gut vorankam. Ich fand ihn immer noch eifrig damit beschäftigt, mit einem langen Stift zu schreiben, und beinahe den Kopf auf das Papier gelegt. Er war so darauf konzentriert, dass ich genügend Zeit hatte, den großen Drachen aus Papier in der Ecke zu betrachten, das Durcheinander von Manuskriptbündeln, die Anzahl der Stifte und vor allem die Menge an Tinte (die er in halbgallonenweise von dutzenden hatte), bevor er bemerkte, dass ich anwesend war. "Ha! Phoebus!" sagte Mr. Dick und legte seinen Stift nieder. "Wie läuft die Welt? Weißt du was,", fügte er in leiserem Ton hinzu, "ich würde nicht wollen, dass es erwähnt wird, aber es ist eine -" hier winkte er mich heran und hielt seine Lippen nah an mein Ohr - "es ist eine verrückte Welt. Verrückt wie Bedlam, Junge!" sagte Mr. Dick und nahm mit einer runden Schachtel auf dem Tisch eine Prise Schnupftabak und lachte herzhaft. Ohne mir ein Urteil zu erlauben, überbrachte ich meine Botschaft. "Nun", sagte Mr. Dick als Antwort, "richte ihr meine Grüße aus, und ich - glaube, ich habe angefangen. Ich denke, ich habe einen Anfang gemacht", sagte Mr. Dick, fuhr sich mit der Hand durch sein graues Haar und warf seinem Manuskript alles andere als einen zuversichtlichen Blick zu. "Du warst in der Schule?" "Ja, Sir", antwortete ich, "für kurze Zeit." "Weißt du noch das Datum", sagte Mr. Dick und sah mich ernsthaft an und nahm seinen Stift auf, um es festzuhalten, "an dem König Karl der Erste enthauptet wurde?" Ich sagte, ich glaubte, dass es im Jahre sechzehnhundertneunundvierzig geschah. "Nun", erwiderte Mr. Dick und kratzte sich mit dem Stift am Ohr, und schaute zweifelnd zu mir. "So sagen die Bücher, aber ich sehe nicht, wie das sein kann. Denn wenn das so "Na, mein Kind", sagte meine Tante, als ich die Treppe hinunterging. "Und wie geht es Mr. Dick heute Morgen?" Ich informierte sie, dass er seine Grüße ausrichtete und sich sehr gut entwickelte. "Was hältst du von ihm?" fragte meine Tante. Ich hatte eine vage Idee, die Frage zu umgehen, indem ich antwortete, dass ich ihn für einen sehr netten Herrn hielt, aber meine Tante ließ sich nicht abwimmeln. Sie legte ihre Arbeit in den Schoß und sagte, ihre Hände darauf gefaltet: "Komm schon! Deine Schwester Betsey Trotwood hätte mir sofort gesagt, was sie von irgendjemandem hält. Sei so ähnlich wie deine Schwester wie möglich und sprich dich aus!" "Ist er - ist Mr. Dick - ich frage, weil ich es nicht weiß, Tante - ist er verrückt?" stotterte ich, denn ich befand mich auf gefährlichem Boden. "Kein bisschen", sagte meine Tante. "Oh, wirklich!" erwiderte ich leise. "Wenn es etwas auf der Welt gibt", sagte meine Tante mit großer Entschlossenheit und Kraft, "was Mr. Dick nicht ist, dann ist es das." Ich hatte nichts Besseres anzubieten als ein weiteres zögerliches "Oh, wirklich!" "Man hat ihn für verrückt erklärt", sagte meine Tante. "Es macht mir egoistisches Vergnügen, das zu sagen, denn sonst hätte ich nicht von seiner Gesellschaft und seinen Ratschlägen in den letzten zehn Jahren und mehr profitiert - eigentlich seit deine Schwester Betsey Trotwood mich enttäuscht hat." "So lange schon?" sagte ich. "Und nette Leute waren das, die die Frechheit hatten, ihn für verrückt zu erklären", fuhr meine Tante fort. "Mr. Dick ist eine Art entfernte Verwandtschaft von mir - wie, ist egal, da muss ich nicht drauf eingehen. Wenn es nicht nach mir gegangen wäre, hätte sein eigener Bruder ihn für immer weggeschlossen. Das ist alles." Ich fürchte, es war heuchlerisch von mir, aber da meine Tante so stark auf dem Thema beharrte, versuchte ich zu wirken, als ob es mich stark interessierte. "Ein stolzer Narr!", sagte meine Tante. "Weil sein Bruder ein wenig exzentrisch war - obwohl er bei weitem nicht so exzentrisch ist wie viele andere Leute -, mochte er es nicht, ihn in seinem Haus sichtbar zu haben, und schickte ihn weg in eine private Anstalt: obwohl er von ihrem verstorbenen Vater seinem besonderen Schutz anvertraut worden war, der ihn fast für natürlich hielt. Und ein weiser Mann muss er gewesen sein, um das zu denken! Selbst verrückt, ohne Zweifel." Wieder einmal versuchte ich, so überzeugt wie meine Tante zu wirken. "Also bin ich eingesprungen", sagte meine Tante, "und habe ihm ein Angebot gemacht. Ich sagte: 'Dein Bruder ist bei Verstand - viel mehr als du es bist oder jemals sein wirst, hoffe ich. Lass ihm sein kleines Einkommen und komm bei mir wohnen. Ich habe keine Angst vor ihm, ich bin nicht stolz, ich bin bereit, mich um ihn zu kümmern, und werde ihn nicht schlecht behandeln wie manche Leute (neben den Anstaltsleuten) es getan haben.' Nach viel Gezänk", sagte meine Tante, "habe ich ihn bekommen; und er ist seitdem hier. Er ist das freundlichste und folgsamste Wesen überhaupt; und was Ratschläge angeht - aber niemand weiß, wie sein Verstand funktioniert, außer mir." Meine Tante strich ihr Kleid glatt und schüttelte den Kopf, als ob sie damit den ganzen Welt Trotz entgegenbrachte. "Er hatte eine liebende Schwester", sagte meine Tante, "eine gute Person und sehr nett zu ihm. Aber sie hat das getan, was sie alle tun - sie hat geheiratet. Und ER hat das getan, was sie alle tun - er hat sie unglücklich gemacht. Das hatte solch einen Einfluss auf den Verstand von Mr. Dick (das ist hoffentlich keine Verrücktheit!), dass es ihn zusammen mit seiner Angst vor seinem Bruder und seinem Gefühl von dessen Bosheit in ein Fieber stürzte. Das war bevor er zu mir kam, aber die Erinnerung daran bedrückt ihn auch jetzt noch. Hat er dir etwas über König Karl den Ersten erzählt, Kind?" "Ja, Tante." "Ah!" sagte meine Tante, rieb sich die Nase, als wäre sie etwas verärgert. "Das ist seine bildhafte Art, es auszudrücken. Er verbindet seine Krankheit natürlich mit großer Unruhe und Aufregung, und das ist die Figur oder das Gleichnis oder wie auch immer es genannt wird, das er wählt. Und warum sollte er das nicht tun, wenn er es für angemessen hält!" Ich sagte: "Natürlich, Tante." "Es ist keine geschäftsmäßige Art zu sprechen", sagte meine Tante, "und auch keine weltliche Art. Das ist mir bewusst, und deshalb bestehe ich darauf, dass kein Wort darüber in seinem Gedenkbuch steht." "Schreibt er ein Gedenkbuch über seine eigene Geschichte, Tante?" "Ja, mein Kind", sagte meine Tante und rieb sich noch einmal die Nase. "Er verfasst ein Gedenkbuch für den Lordkanzler oder den Lord Jemand oder jemanden, jedenfalls einen dieser Leute, die dafür bezahlt werden, ein Gedenkbuch zu bekommen. Ich nehme an, dass es eines Tages darin stehen wird. Bisher war er nicht in der Lage, es zu verfassen, ohne diese Art des Ausdrucks einzuführen. Aber das macht nichts; es hält ihn beschäftigt." Tatsächlich fand ich später heraus, dass Mr. Dick seit über zehn Jahren versuchte, König Karl den Ersten aus dem Gedenkbuch fernzuhalten; aber er hatte es ständig hineingeschafft und war immer noch dort. "Ich sage es noch einmal", sagte meine Tante, "niemand außer mir weiß, wie der Verstand dieses Mannes tickt; und er ist das folgsamste und freundlichste Wesen, das es gibt. Wenn er manchmal einen Drachen steigen lassen möchte, na und! Franklin hat früher Drachen steigen lassen. Er war ein Quäker oder so etwas, wenn ich mich nicht irre. Und ein Quäker, der einen Drachen steigen lässt, ist ein viel lächerlicheres Bild als irgendjemand sonst." Wenn ich angenommen hätte, dass meine Tante mir diese Einzelheiten besonders für mein Wohl erzählt hatte und als Vertrauensbeweis gegenüber mir, hätte ich mich sehr geehrt gefühlt und auch günstigste Schlüsse aus solch einer Bewertung meiner Person ziehen können. Aber ich konnte kaum übersehen, dass sie sich hauptsächlich deswegen darüber ausführte, weil die Frage in ihrem eigenen Kopf aufgekommen war und nur wenig Bezug zu mir hatte, obwohl sie sich in meiner Abwesenheit an mich gewandt hatte. Gleichzeitig muss ich jedoch sagen, dass die Großzügigkeit ihres Einsatzes für den armen harmlosen Mr. Dick nicht nur meine jugendliche Brust mit der Hoffnung auf persönliche Vorteile erfüllte, sondern sie auch uneigennützig wärmte. Ich glaube, ich begann zu erkennen, dass meine Tante trotz ihrer vielen Eigenheiten und seltsamen Launen etwas hatte, das es wert war, geachtet und vertraut zu werden. Obwohl sie an diesem Tag genauso scharf war wie am Tag zuvor und genauso oft rein und raus bei den Eseln war und in einen gewaltigen Zustand der Empörung geriet, als ein junger Mann, der vorbeiging, Janet am Fenster anstarrte (was eines der ernsthaftesten Vergehen gegen die Würde meiner Tante war), schien sie mir mehr Respekt abzuringen, wenn auch weniger Angst einzujagen. Die Angst, die ich in der Zwischenzeit durchmachte, bevor eine "Verschwinde!" rief meine Tante aus und schüttelte den Kopf und die Faust gegen das Fenster. "Du hast dort nichts zu suchen. Wie wagst du es, dich dort einzumischen? Verschwinde! Du unverschämte Person!" Meine Tante war so verärgert über die Gleichgültigkeit, mit der Miss Murdstone sich umsah, dass ich wirklich glaube, sie war bewegungslos und konnte im Moment nicht wie sonst üblich hinauseilen. Ich nutzte die Gelegenheit, um ihr mitzuteilen, wer es war; und dass der Herr, der sich dem Übeltäter jetzt näherte (da der Weg sehr steil war und er zurückgeblieben war), Mr. Murdstone selbst war. "Ich kümmere mich nicht darum, wer es ist!" rief meine Tante immer noch den Kopf schüttelnd und gestikulierend, alles andere als willkommen vom Erkerfenster aus. "Ich lasse mich nicht stören. Ich werde es nicht zulassen. Geh weg! Janet, drehe ihn herum. Führe ihn weg!" Und ich sah, von hinten meine Tante aus, ein hastiges Gefecht, bei dem der Esel sich allen widersetzte, mit allen vier Beinen, die in verschiedene Richtungen gestellt waren, während Janet versuchte, ihn am Zügel zu drehen, Mr. Murdstone versuchte, ihn weiterzuführen und Miss Murdstone mit einem Sonnenschirm auf Janet schlug und mehrere Jungen, die gekommen waren, um den Kampf zu beobachten, kräftig jubelten. Aber meine Tante entdeckte plötzlich unter ihnen den jugendlichen Übeltäter, der der Hüter des Esels war und einer der hartnäckigsten Missetäter gegenüber ihr, obwohl er kaum in seinen Teenagern war, und stürzte sich auf ihn, schnappte ihn, zog ihn mit seiner Jacke über dem Kopf und schleifte ihn mit den Fersen auf dem Boden in den Garten und rief Janet auf, die Polizisten und Richter zu holen, damit er festgenommen, vor Gericht gestellt und vor Ort hingerichtet werden könne. Sie hielt ihn dort in Schach. Dieser Teil des Geschehens dauerte jedoch nicht lange; denn der junge Schlingel, der geschickt in verschiedenen Täuschungen und Ausweichmanövern war, von denen meine Tante keine Ahnung hatte, verschwand bald jauchzend und hinterließ einige tiefe Abdrücke seiner genagelten Stiefel in den Blumenbeeten und nahm seinen Esel triumphierend mit sich. Miss Murdstone war während des letzten Teils des Kampfes abgestiegen und wartete nun mit ihrem Bruder unten auf den Stufen, bis meine Tante Zeit hatte, sie zu empfangen. Meine Tante, etwas aufgebracht durch den Kampf, ging mit großer Würde an ihnen vorbei ins Haus und beachtete ihre Anwesenheit nicht, bis sie von Janet angekündigt wurden. "Soll ich gehen, Tante?" fragte ich zitternd. "Nein, Sir", sagte meine Tante. "Auf keinen Fall!" Damit drückte sie mich in eine Ecke in ihrer Nähe und umstellte mich mit einem Stuhl, als ob es ein Gefängnis oder eine Gerichtsbarriere wäre. In dieser Position verharrte ich während des gesamten Gesprächs und von dort aus sah ich nun Mr. und Miss Murdstone den Raum betreten. "Oh!" sagte meine Tante, "Ich war mir anfangs nicht bewusst, gegen wen ich Einwände habe. Aber ich lasse es niemandem durchgehen, über diesen Rasen zu reiten. Ich mache keine Ausnahmen. Ich lasse es niemandem tun." "Ihr Regelwerk ist für Fremde eher ungeschickt, würde ich sagen", sagte Miss Murdstone. "Ist das so?" sagte meine Tante. Mr. Murdstone schien Angst vor einer erneuten Auseinandersetzung zu haben und intervenierte: "Miss Trotwood!" "Ich bitte um Entschuldigung", beobachtete meine Tante mit einem scharfen Blick. "Sie sind der Herr Murdstone, der die Witwe meines verstorbenen Neffen David Copperfield von Blunderstone Rookery geheiratet hat! Warum Rookery, weiß ich jedoch nicht!" "Ich bin", sagte Mr. Murdstone. "Ich bin soweit mit dem übereingekommen, was Miss Trotwood geäußert hat", bemerkte Miss Murdstone, "dass ich unsere verstorbene Clara in allen wesentlichen Belangen nur als ein Kind betrachte." "Es ist ein Trost für Sie und mich, Ma'am", sagte meine Tante, "die älter werden und nicht durch unsere persönlichen Anziehungskräfte unglücklich gemacht werden, dass niemand dasselbe über uns sagen kann." "Zweifellos!" erwiderte Miss Murdstone, aber ich dachte nicht mit einem sehr bereiten oder freundlichen Zustimmung. "Und es hätte sicherlich besser und glücklicher für meinen Bruder sein können, wenn er nie eine solche Ehe eingegangen wäre. Das war immer schon meine Meinung." "Ich zweifle nicht daran", sagte meine Tante. "Janet", klingelte sie, "richten Sie meine Grüße an Mr. Dick aus und bitten Sie ihn herunterzukommen." Solange er nicht kam, saß meine Tante kerzengerade und steif da, finster auf die Wand starrend. Als er kam, vollzog meine Tante die Einführung. "Herr Dick. Ein alter und vertrauter Freund. Auf dessen Urteil", sagte meine Tante mit Nachdruck, als Ermahnung an Mr. Dick, der auf seiner Fingerspitze kaute und ziemlich dumm aussah, "ich mich verlasse." Herr Dick nahm auf diesen Hinweis hin seinen Finger aus dem Mund und stand unter der Gruppe mit einem ernsten und aufmerksamen Gesichtsausdruck. Meine Tante nickte Mr. Murdstone zu, der fortfuhr: "Miss Trotwood: Nach Erhalt Ihres Briefes habe ich es für gerechter gehalten, sowohl mir selbst gegenüber als auch vielleicht Ihnen gegenüber respektvoller zu handeln..." "Dankeschön", sagte meine Tante und sah ihn immer noch scharf an. "Sie müssen mich nicht beachten." "...indem ich persönlich antworte, wie unpraktisch die Reise auch sein mochte, anstatt es schriftlich zu tun. Dieser unglückliche Junge, der von seinen Freunden und seiner Arbeit weggelaufen ist..." "Und dessen Erscheinung", unterbrach ihn seine Schwester und lenkte die allgemeine Aufmerksamkeit auf mich und meine undefinierbare Kostümierung, "absolut skandalös und beschämend ist." "Jane Murdstone", sagte ihr Bruder, "haben Sie die Güte, mich nicht zu unterbrechen. Dieser unglückliche Junge, Miss Trotwood, war der Anlass für viele familiäre Probleme und Unruhen; sowohl während des Lebens meiner verstorbenen lieben Frau als auch danach. Er hat einen mürrischen, rebellischen Geist, einen gewalttätigen Charakter und eine widerspenstige, unkontrollierbare Veranlagung. Sowohl meine Schwester als auch ich haben versucht, seine Fehler zu korrigieren, aber erfolglos. Und ich habe gespürt - wir beide haben es gespürt, möchte ich sagen; meine Schwester ist vollständig in meinem Vertrauen - dass es richtig ist, dass Sie diese ernsthafte und besonnene Zusicherung aus unserem eigenen Mund erhalten." "Es dürfte kaum notwendig sein, irgendetwas zu bestätigen, was mein Bruder erläutert hat", sagte Miss Murdstone, "aber ich möchte darauf hinweisen, dass ich glaube, dass dieser Junge der schlimmste Junge auf der Welt ist." "Stark!" sagte meine Tante knapp. "Aber keineswegs zu stark für die Tatsachen", erwiderte Miss Murdstone. "Ha!" sagte meine Tante. "Nun, Herr?" "Ich habe meine eigenen Ansichten", fuhr Mr. Murdstone fort, dessen Gesicht umso finsterer wurde, je genauer er und meine Tante einander betrachteten, was sie sehr genau taten, "über die beste Art, ihn zu erziehen; sie beruhen zum Teil auf meinem Wissen über ihn und zum Und es gab keine Beilegung des kleinen Anwesens - des Hauses und des Gartens - dem Rookery ohne irgendwelche in ihm befindlichen Rooks - für ihren Jungen? 'Es war bedingungslos von ihrem ersten Ehemann an sie überlassen worden', begann Mr. Murdstone, als meine Tante ihn mit größter Erbitterung und Ungeduld unterbrach. 'Mein lieber Gott, Mann, es besteht kein Grund, das zu sagen. Bedingungslos an sie überlassen! Ich sehe David Copperfield nicht gerade in irgendeiner Bedingung oder Art oder Weise vorausplanen, obwohl es ihm unverblümt ins Gesicht starrte! Natürlich wurde es bedingungslos an sie überlassen. Aber als sie wieder heiratete - als sie diesen katastrophalsten Schritt unternahm, dich zu heiraten, um es kurz zu machen', sagte meine Tante, 'sehr offen gesagt - hat niemand zu der Zeit ein Wort für den Jungen eingelegt?' 'Meine verstorbene Frau liebte ihren zweiten Ehemann, Ma'am', sagte Mr. Murdstone, 'und vertraute ihm bedingungslos.' 'Ihre verstorbene Frau, Sir, war ein sehr weltfremdes, sehr unglückliches, sehr unglückliches Baby', erwiderte meine Tante und schüttelte den Kopf über ihn. 'Das ist es, was sie war. Und nun, was haben Sie als Nächstes zu sagen?' 'Nur das, Miss Trotwood', antwortete er. 'Ich bin hier, um David zurückzunehmen - ihn bedingungslos zurückzunehmen, ihn so zu verfügen, wie ich es für richtig halte, und mit ihm so umzugehen, wie ich es für richtig halte. Ich bin nicht hier, um irgendwelche Versprechen zu machen oder irgendwelche Zusagen zu geben. Sie haben möglicherweise die Idee, Miss Trotwood, ihn bei seiner Flucht und seinen Beschwerden an Sie zu unterstützen. Ihre Art und Weise, die mir nicht dazu gedacht zu sein scheint, ist mich zu besänftigen, lässt mich denken, dass es möglich ist. Jetzt muss ich Sie warnen, wenn Sie ihn einmal unterstützen, unterstützen Sie ihn für immer und ewig; wenn Sie sich zwischen ihn und mich stellen, müssen Sie sich jetzt, Miss Trotwood, für immer einmischen. Ich kann nicht herumspielen oder mich herumtreiben lassen. Ich bin hier, zum ersten und letzten Mal, um ihn wegzunehmen. Ist er bereit zu gehen? Wenn er es nicht ist - und Sie sagen mir, dass er es nicht ist; aus welchem Grund auch immer; es ist mir gleichgültig, was - meine Türen sind von nun an gegen ihn geschlossen, und Ihre, nehme ich an, stehen ihm offen.' Meine Tante hatte dieser Ansprache mit größter Aufmerksamkeit zugehört und saß dabei aufrecht da, die Hände gefaltet auf einem Knie, und betrachtete den Redner grimmig. Als er geendet hatte, drehte sie ihre Augen so, dass sie Miss Murdstone befehlen konnte, ohne ihre Haltung zu stören, und sagte: 'Na, Ma'am, haben SIE etwas zu bemerken?' 'In der Tat, Miss Trotwood', sagte Miss Murdstone, 'alles, was ich sagen konnte, wurde bereits von meinem Bruder ausgesprochen, und alles, was ich für wahr halte, wurde bereits von ihm klar dargelegt. Ich habe nichts hinzuzufügen, außer meinem Dank für Ihre Höflichkeit. Für Ihre sehr große Höflichkeit bin ich sicher', sagte Miss Murdstone mit einer Ironie, die ebenso wenig Einfluss auf meine Tante hatte wie auf die Kanone, an der ich in Chatham geschlafen hatte. 'Und was sagt der Junge?', sagte meine Tante. 'Bist du bereit zu gehen, David?' Ich antwortete mit Nein und bat sie inständig, mich nicht gehen zu lassen. Ich sagte, dass weder Herr noch Fräulein Murdstone mich jemals gemocht oder jemals nett zu mir gewesen waren. Dass sie meine Mutter unglücklich über mich gemacht hätten, die mich immer sehr geliebt hat, und dass ich es gut wusste und dass Peggotty es wusste. Ich sagte, dass ich mieser gewesen bin, als jemand es glauben könnte, der nur wusste, wie jung ich war. Und ich bat meine Tante inständig und betete - ich vergesse jetzt in welchen Worten, aber ich erinnere mich daran, dass sie mich damals sehr berührten - mich im Interesse meines Vaters zu unterstützen und zu schützen. 'Mr. Dick', sagte meine Tante, 'was soll ich mit diesem Kind tun?' Mr. Dick überlegte, zögerte, wurde aufgehellt und sagte wieder: 'Lass ihn sofort für einen Anzug vermessen.' 'Mr. Dick', sagte meine Tante triumphierend, 'geben Sie mir Ihre Hand, denn Ihr gesunder Menschenverstand ist unbezahlbar.' Nachdem sie ihn herzlich geschüttelt hatte, zog sie mich zu sich und sagte zu Mr. Murdstone: 'Sie können gehen, wann Sie wollen. Ich werde mein Glück mit dem Jungen versuchen. Wenn er wirklich so ist, wie Sie sagen, kann ich dann nicht genauso viel für ihn tun, wie Sie es getan haben. Aber ich glaube kein Wort davon.' 'Miss Trotwood', erwiderte Mr. Murdstone und zuckte mit den Schultern, als er aufstand, 'wenn Sie ein Gentleman wären-' 'Bah! Unsinn und Blödsinn!', sagte meine Tante. 'Reden Sie nicht mit mir!' 'Wie exquisit höflich!', rief Miss Murdstone aus, als sie aufstand. 'Überwältigend, wirklich!' 'Glauben Sie, ich weiß nicht', sagte meine Tante und wandte der Schwester ein taubes Ohr zu und fuhr fort, sich an den Bruder zu wenden und ihm mit unendlichem Ausdruck den Kopf zu schütteln, 'welche Art von Leben Sie dieses arme, unglückliche, in die Irre geführte Baby geführt haben müssen? Glauben Sie, ich weiß nicht, was für ein trauriger Tag es für das weiche kleine Wesen war, als Sie das erste Mal in ihren Weg kamen - kokettiert und große Augen gemacht haben, wie wenn Sie nicht einmal buh! zu einer Gans sagen könnten!' 'Ich habe noch nie etwas so Elegantes gehört!', sagte Miss Murdstone. 'Glauben Sie nicht, dass ich Sie nicht verstehen kann, genauso gut wie wenn ich Sie gesehen hätte', fuhr meine Tante fort, 'jetzt, da ich Sie SEHE und höre - was, ich sage es Ihnen offen, alles andere als ein Vergnügen für mich ist? Oh ja, segne uns! Wer ist so geschmeidig und seidig wie Mr. Murdstone zu Anfang! Das arme, unerleuchtete Unschuldslamm hatte noch nie so einen Mann gesehen. Er war voller Süße. Er verehrte sie. Er war zärtlich in ihren Jungen verliebt! Er sollte ein anderer Vater für ihn sein, und sie sollten alle zusammen in einem Rosengarten leben, nicht wahr? Ugh! Machen Sie sich vom Acker!', sagte meine Tante. 'Ich habe noch nie so eine Person in meinem Leben gehört!' rief Miss Murdstone aus. 'Und als Sie sich der armen kleinen Närrin sicher waren', sagte meine Tante, 'Gott möge mir vergeben, dass ich sie so nenne, und sie dorthin gegangen ist, wo Sie nicht so schnell hingehen wollen - weil Sie ihr und den Ihrigen nicht genug Unrecht getan hatten, mussten Sie anfangen, sie zu formen, nicht wahr? Sie anfangen, sie wie einen armen Käfigvogel zu dressieren und dabei ihr vergiftetes Leben zu verzehren und ihr beizubringen, IHRE Noten zu singen?' 'Das hier ist entweder Wahnsinn oder Rausch', sagte Miss Murdstone und war völlig außer sich, dass es ihr nicht gelang, den Redefluss meiner Tante auf sich selbst zu lenken. 'Mein Verdacht ist, dass es Rausch ist.' Miss Betsey beachtete die Unterbrechung überhaupt nicht und wandte sich weiterhin an Mr. Murdstone, als ob es so etwas nicht gegeben hätte. 'Mr. Murdstone', sagte sie und zeigte mit dem Finger auf ihn, 'Sie waren ein Tyrann gegenüber dem einfachen Kind, und Sie haben ihr das Herz gebrochen. Sie war "Guten Tag, Herr," sagte meine Tante, "und auf Wiedersehen! Guten Tag auch an Sie, meine Dame", sagte meine Tante plötzlich zu seiner Schwester gewandt. "Lassen Sie mich sehen, wie Sie wieder auf meinem Rasen einen Esel reiten, und ganz sicher werde ich Ihnen den Hut herunterwerfen und darauf herumtrampeln!" Es würde einen Maler erfordern, und keinen gewöhnlichen Maler, um das Gesicht meiner Tante zu zeigen, als sie diesen unerwarteten Satz von sich gab, und das Gesicht von Miss Murdstone, als sie es hörte. Aber die Art der Rede war so feurig wie der Inhalt, dass Miss Murdstone ohne ein Wort zur Antwort diskret ihren Arm durch den ihres Bruders steckte und stolz aus der Hütte ging; meine Tante blieb am Fenster zurück und sah ihnen nach; bereit, ohne Zweifel ihre Drohung sofort umzusetzen, falls der Esel wieder auftauchen würde. Da jedoch kein Versuch zur Herausforderung unternommen wurde, entspannte sich ihr Gesicht allmählich und wurde so angenehm, dass ich den Mut hatte, sie zu küssen und zu danken; und das tat ich mit großer Herzlichkeit und mit beiden Armen um ihren Hals geschlungen. Dann schüttelte ich Mr. Dicks Hand, der mir viele Male die Hand schüttelte, und begrüßte dieses glückliche Ende der Ereignisse mit wiederholten Ausbrüchen des Lachens. "Sie werden sich als Vormund neben mir um dieses Kind kümmern, Mr. Dick", sagte meine Tante. "Ich werde begeistert sein", sagte Mr. Dick, "der Vormund von Davids Sohn zu sein." "Sehr gut", erwiderte meine Tante, "das ist geklärt. Ich habe überlegt, wissen Sie, Mr. Dick, dass ich ihn Trotwood nennen könnte?" "Natürlich, natürlich. Nennen Sie ihn ruhig Trotwood," sagte Mr. Dick. "Davids Sohn Trotwood." "Trotwood Copperfield meinen Sie", erwiderte meine Tante. "Ja, natürlich. Ja. Trotwood Copperfield", sagte Mr. Dick ein wenig verlegen. Meine Tante war von der Idee so angetan, dass einige fertige Kleider, die an diesem Nachmittag für mich gekauft wurden, mit ihrer eigenen Handschrift und unverwischbarer Markierungstinte als "Trotwood Copperfield" gekennzeichnet waren, bevor ich sie anzog; und es wurde vereinbart, dass alle anderen Kleider, die für mich gemacht werden sollten (eine komplette Ausstattung wurde an diesem Nachmittag bestellt), auf die gleiche Weise markiert werden sollten. So begann ich mein neues Leben, mit einem neuen Namen und allem Neuen um mich herum. Jetzt, da der Zustand der Ungewissheit vorbei war, fühlte ich mich viele Tage lang wie im Traum. Ich dachte nie daran, dass ich ein eigenartiges Paar Vormunde hatte, meine Tante und Mr. Dick. Ich dachte nie konkret über irgendetwas über mich nach. Die beiden klarsten Dinge in meinem Kopf waren, dass eine Entfernung auf das alte Blunderstone-Leben gekommen war - das schien in der Ferne zu liegen wie in einem unermesslichen Abstand; und dass ein Vorhang für immer über mein Leben bei Murdstone und Grinby's gefallen war. Niemand hat diesen Vorhang je wieder aufgezogen. Ich habe ihn auch nur für einen Moment, selbst in dieser Erzählung, mit einer zögernden Hand angehoben und ihn frohlockend fallen gelassen. Die Erinnerung an dieses Leben ist für mich mit so viel Schmerz, so viel geistigem Leid und fehlender Hoffnung belastet, dass ich niemals den Mut hatte, auch nur zu untersuchen, wie lange ich dazu verurteilt war, es zu führen. Ob es ein Jahr, mehr oder weniger dauerte, weiß ich nicht. Ich weiß nur, dass es war und nicht mehr ist; und dass ich es niedergeschrieben habe, und das ist mein letztes Wort dazu. Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Am nächsten Morgen verrät mir meine Tante (Miss Betsey) , dass sie Mr. Murdstone geschrieben hat, um ihm mitzuteilen, wo ich bin. Sie hat Mr. Murdstone eingeladen, um über mein Schicksal zu sprechen. Miss Betsey schickt mich nach oben, um den Fortschritt von Mr. Dicks Gedenkschrift zu überprüfen, einer Autobiografie, die er zu schreiben versucht. Aber Mr. Dick fängt immer wieder von vorne an, weil er jedes Mal, wenn er im Text über König Karl I. nachdenkt, glaubt, von dessen Dämonen besessen zu sein. Mr. Dick hat einen riesigen Drachen, den er eines Tages mit mir fliegen lassen will. Ich kehre zu Miss Betsey zurück und erzähle ihr, dass Mr. Dick sie grüßt. Miss Betsey enthüllt, dass sie Mr. Dick aufgenommen hat, als sein Bruder ihn in eine Anstalt stecken wollte. Mr. und Miss Murdstone kommen auf Eseln angereist, und Miss Betsey stürmt heraus, um die Esel von ihrem Rasen zu jagen. Die Murdstones benehmen sich unhöflich gegenüber mir während ihres Besuchs, und Miss Betsey schimpft mit ihnen und zwingt sie zum gehen. Mr. Murdstone warnt sie, dass wenn ich nicht sofort mit ihm komme, ich nie wieder zurückkommen werde. Miss Betsey fragt mich, was ich tun möchte, und ich sage, dass ich bei ihr bleiben möchte. Es wird beschlossen, dass ich das tun werde, und Miss Betsey gibt mir den Namen Trotwood Copperfield.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: The same. De Guiche. DE GUICHE: It smells good here. A CADET (humming): Lo! Lo-lo! DE GUICHE (looking at him): What is the matter?--You are very red. THE CADET: The matter?--Nothing!--'Tis my blood--boiling at the thought of the coming battle! ANOTHER: Poum, poum--poum. . . DE GUICHE (turning round): What's that? THE CADET (slightly drunk): Nothing!. . .'Tis a song!--a little. . . DE GUICHE: You are merry, my friend! THE CADET: The approach of danger is intoxicating! DE GUICHE (calling Carbon de Castel-Jaloux, to give him an order): Captain! I. . . (He stops short on seeing him): Plague take me! but you look bravely, too! CARBON (crimson in the face, hiding a bottle behind his back, with an evasive movement): Oh!. . . DE GUICHE: I have one cannon left, and have had it carried there-- (he points behind the scenes): --in that corner. . .Your men can use it in case of need. A CADET (reeling slightly): Charming attention! ANOTHER (with a gracious smile): Kind solicitude! DE GUICHE: How? they are all gone crazy? (Drily): As you are not used to cannon, beware of the recoil. FIRST CADET: Pooh! DE GUICHE (furious, going up to him): But. . . THE CADET: Gascon cannons never recoil! DE GUICHE (taking him by the arm and shaking him): You are tipsy!--but what with? THE CADET (grandiloquently): --With the smell of powder! DE GUICHE (shrugging his shoulders and pushing him away, then going quickly to Roxane): Briefly, Madame, what decision do you deign to take? ROXANE: I stay here. DE GUICHE: You must fly! ROXANE: No! I will stay. DE GUICHE: Since things are thus, give me a musket, one of you! CARBON: Wherefore? DE GUICHE: Because I too--mean to remain. CYRANO: At last! This is true valor, Sir! FIRST CADET: Then you are Gascon after all, spite of your lace collar? ROXANE: What is all this? DE GUICHE: I leave no woman in peril. SECOND CADET (to the first): Hark you! Think you not we might give him something to eat? (All the viands reappear as if by magic.) DE GUICHE (whose eyes sparkle): Victuals! THE THIRD CADET: Yes, you'll see them coming from under every coat! DE GUICHE (controlling himself, haughtily): Do you think I will eat your leavings? CYRANO (saluting him): You make progress. DE GUICHE (proudly, with a light touch of accent on the word 'breaking'): I will fight without br-r-eaking my fast! FIRST CADET (with wild delight): Br-r-r-eaking! He has got the accent! DE GUICHE (laughing): I? THE CADET: 'Tis a Gascon! (All begin to dance.) CARBON DE CASTEL-JALOUX (who had disappeared behind the rampart, reappearing on the ridge): I have drawn my pikemen up in line. They are a resolute troop. (He points to a row of pikes, the tops of which are seen over the ridge.) DE GUICHE (bowing to Roxane): Will you accept my hand, and accompany me while I review them? (She takes it, and they go up toward the rampart. All uncover and follow them.) CHRISTIAN (going to Cyrano, eagerly): Tell me quickly! (As Roxane appears on the ridge, the tops of the lances disappear, lowered for the salute, and a shout is raised. She bows.) THE PIKEMEN (outside): Vivat! CHRISTIAN: What is this secret? CYRANO: If Roxane should. . . CHRISTIAN: Should?. . . CYRANO: Speak of the letters?. . . CHRISTIAN: Yes, I know!. . . CYRANO: Do not spoil all by seeming surprised. . . CHRISTIAN: At what? CYRANO: I must explain to you!. . .Oh! 'tis no great matter--I but thought of it to- day on seeing her. You have. . . CHRISTIAN: Tell quickly! CYRANO: You have. . .written to her oftener than you think. . . CHRISTIAN: How so? CYRANO: Thus, 'faith! I had taken it in hand to express your flame for you!. . .At times I wrote without saying, 'I am writing!' CHRISTIAN: Ah!. . . CYRANO: 'Tis simple enough! CHRISTIAN: But how did you contrive, since we have been cut off, thus. . .to?. . . CYRANO: . . .Oh! before dawn. . .I was able to get through. . . CHRISTIAN (folding his arms): That was simple, too? And how oft, pray you, have I written?. . .Twice in the week?. . .Three times?. . .Four?. . . CYRANO: More often still. CHRISTIAN: What! Every day? CYRANO: Yes, every day,--twice. CHRISTIAN (violently): And that became so mad a joy for you, that you braved death. . . CYRANO (seeing Roxane returning): Hush! Not before her! (He goes hurriedly into his tent.) Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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De Guiche kehrt zurück und bittet Roxane erneut, zu gehen. Als sie sich weigert, beschließt er, auch zu bleiben und zu kämpfen. Die Männer sind beeindruckt von seinem Mut und fragen sich, ob de Guiche auch ein Gascon ist, und bieten ihm etwas zu essen an. Er lehnt es ab, ihre Reste zu essen, und verrät einen Hauch von einem Gascon-Akzent, was sie umso sicherer macht, dass er einer von ihnen ist. Cyrano nimmt Christian beiseite und gesteht, dass er Roxane mehr Briefe geschickt hat, als Christian dachte. Er schrieb ihr jeden Tag, manchmal sogar zweimal am Tag. Christian erkennt, dass Cyrano bei jedem Brief sein Leben riskieren musste, indem er feindliche Linien überquerte. Er ahnt Cyrano's Geheimnis, aber wieder werden sie von Roxane unterbrochen. Cyrano verschwindet in ein Zelt.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten 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. _Milan. Ante-room in the DUKE'S palace._ _Enter DUKE, THURIO, and PROTEUS._ _Duke._ Sir Thurio, give us leave, I pray, awhile; We have some secrets to confer about. [_Exit Thu._ Now, tell me, Proteus, what's your will with me? _Pro._ My gracious lord, that which I would discover The law of friendship bids me to conceal; 5 But when I call to mind your gracious favours Done to me, undeserving as I am, My duty pricks me on to utter that Which else no worldly good should draw from me. Know, worthy prince, Sir Valentine, my friend, 10 This night intends to steal away your daughter: Myself am one made privy to the plot. I know you have determined to bestow her On Thurio, whom your gentle daughter hates; And should she thus be stol'n away from you, 15 It would be much vexation to your age. Thus, for my duty's sake, I rather chose To cross my friend in his intended drift Than, by concealing it, heap on your head A pack of sorrows, which would press you down, 20 Being unprevented, to your timeless grave. _Duke._ Proteus, I thank thee for thine honest care; Which to requite, command me while I live. This love of theirs myself have often seen, Haply when they have judged me fast asleep; 25 And oftentimes have purposed to forbid Sir Valentine her company and my court: But, fearing lest my jealous aim might err, And so, unworthily disgrace the man, A rashness that I ever yet have shunn'd, 30 I gave him gentle looks; thereby to find That which thyself hast now disclosed to me. And, that thou mayst perceive my fear of this, Knowing that tender youth is soon suggested, I nightly lodge her in an upper tower, 35 The key whereof myself have ever kept; And thence she cannot be convey'd away. _Pro._ Know, noble lord, they have devised a mean How he her chamber-window will ascend, And with a corded ladder fetch her down; 40 For which the youthful lover now is gone, And this way comes he with it presently; Where, if it please you, you may intercept him. But, good my Lord, do it so cunningly That my discovery be not aimed at; 45 For, love of you, not hate unto my friend, Hath made me publisher of this pretence. _Duke._ Upon mine honour, he shall never know That I had any light from thee of this. _Pro._ Adieu, my Lord; Sir Valentine is coming. [_Exit._ 50 _Enter VALENTINE._ _Duke._ Sir Valentine, whither away so fast? _Val._ Please it your grace, there is a messenger That stays to bear my letters to my friends, And I am going to deliver them. _Duke._ Be they of much import? 55 _Val._ The tenour of them doth but signify My health and happy being at your court. _Duke._ Nay then, no matter; stay with me awhile; I am to break with thee of some affairs That touch me near, wherein thou must be secret. 60 'Tis not unknown to thee that I have sought To match my friend Sir Thurio to my daughter. _Val._ I know it well, my Lord; and, sure, the match Were rich and honourable; besides, the gentleman Is full of virtue, bounty, worth and qualities 65 Beseeming such a wife as your fair daughter: Cannot your Grace win her to fancy him? _Duke._ No, trust me; she is peevish, sullen, froward, Proud, disobedient, stubborn, lacking duty; Neither regarding that she is my child, 70 Nor fearing me as if I were her father: And, may I say to thee, this pride of hers, Upon advice, hath drawn my love from her; And, where I thought the remnant of mine age Should have been cherish'd by her child-like duty, 75 I now am full resolved to take a wife, And turn her out to who will take her in: Then let her beauty be her wedding-dower; For me and my possessions she esteems not. _Val._ What would your Grace have me to do in this? 80 _Duke._ There is a lady in Verona here Whom I affect; but she is nice and coy, And nought esteems my aged eloquence: Now, therefore, would I have thee to my tutor,-- For long agone I have forgot to court; 85 Besides, the fashion of the time is changed,-- How and which way I may bestow myself, To be regarded in her sun-bright eye. _Val._ Win her with gifts, if she respect not words: Dumb jewels often in their silent kind 90 More than quick words do move a woman's mind. _Duke._ But she did scorn a present that I sent her. _Val._ A woman sometimes scorns what best contents her. Send her another; never give her o'er; For scorn at first makes afterlove the more. 95 If she do frown, 'tis not in hate of you, But rather to beget more love in you: If she do chide, 'tis not to have you gone; For why, the fools are mad, if left alone. Take no repulse, whatever she doth say; 100 For 'get you gone,' she doth not mean 'away!' Flatter and praise, commend, extol their graces; Though ne'er so black, say they have angels' faces. That man that hath a tongue, I say, is no man, If with his tongue he cannot win a woman. 105 _Duke._ But she I mean is promised by her friends Unto a youthful gentleman of worth; And kept severely from resort of men, That no man hath access by day to her. _Val._ Why, then, I would resort to her by night. 110 _Duke._ Ay, but the doors be lock'd, and keys kept safe, That no man hath recourse to her by night. _Val._ What lets but one may enter at her window? _Duke._ Her chamber is aloft, far from the ground, And built so shelving, that one cannot climb it 115 Without apparent hazard of his life. _Val._ Why, then, a ladder, quaintly made of cords, To cast up, with a pair of anchoring hooks, Would serve to scale another Hero's tower, So bold Leander would adventure it. 120 _Duke._ Now, as thou art a gentleman of blood, Advise me where I may have such a ladder. _Val._ When would you use it? pray, sir, tell me that. _Duke._ This very night; for Love is like a child, That longs for every thing that he can come by. 125 _Val._ By seven o'clock I'll get you such a ladder. _Duke._ But, hark thee; I will go to her alone: How shall I best convey the ladder thither? _Val._ It will be light, my lord, that you may bear it Under a cloak that is of any length. 130 _Duke._ A cloak as long as thine will serve the turn? _Val._ Ay, my good lord. _Duke._ Then let me see thy cloak: I'll get me one of such another length. _Val._ Why, any cloak will serve the turn, my lord. _Duke._ How shall I fashion me to wear a cloak? 135 I pray thee, let me feel thy cloak upon me. What letter is this same? What's here? 'To Silvia'! And here an engine fit for my proceeding. I'll be so bold to break the seal for once. [_Reads._ 'My thoughts do harbour with my Silvia nightly; 140 And slaves they are to me, that send them flying: O, could their master come and go as lightly, Himself would lodge where senseless they are lying! My herald thoughts in thy pure bosom rest them; While I, their king, that thither them importune, 145 Do curse the grace that with such grace hath bless'd them, Because myself do want my servants' fortune: I curse myself, for they are sent by me, That they should harbour where their lord would be. What's here? 150 'Silvia, this night I will enfranchise thee.' 'Tis so; and here's the ladder for the purpose. Why, Phaethon,--for thou art Merops' son,-- Wilt thou aspire to guide the heavenly car, And with thy daring folly burn the world? 155 Wilt thou reach stars, because they shine on thee? Go, base intruder! overweening slave! Bestow thy fawning smiles on equal mates; And think my patience, more than thy desert, Is privilege for thy departure hence: 160 Thank me for this more than for all the favours, Which all too much I have bestow'd on thee. But if thou linger in my territories Longer than swiftest expedition Will give thee time to leave our royal court, 165 By heaven! my wrath shall far exceed the love I ever bore my daughter or thyself. Be gone! I will not hear thy vain excuse; But, as thou lovest thy life, make speed from hence. [_Exit._ _Val._ And why not death rather than living torment? 170 To die is to be banish'd from myself; And Silvia is myself: banish'd from her, Is self from self: a deadly banishment! What light is light, if Silvia be not seen? What joy is joy, if Silvia be not by? 175 Unless it be to think that she is by, And feed upon the shadow of perfection. Except I be by Silvia in the night, There is no music in the nightingale; Unless I look on Silvia in the day, 180 There is no day for me to look upon: She is my essence; and I leave to be, If I be not by her fair influence Foster'd, illumined, cherish'd, kept alive. I fly not death, to fly his deadly doom: 185 Tarry I here, I but attend on death: But, fly I hence, I fly away from life. _Enter PROTEUS and LAUNCE._ _Pro._ Run, boy, run, run, and seek him out. _Launce._ Soho, soho! _Pro._ What seest thou? 190 _Launce._ Him we go to find: there's not a hair on's head but 'tis a Valentine. _Pro._ Valentine? _Val._ No. _Pro._ Who then? his spirit? 195 _Val._ Neither. _Pro._ What then? _Val._ Nothing. _Launce._ Can nothing speak? Master, shall I strike? _Pro._ Who wouldst thou strike? 200 _Launce._ Nothing. _Pro._ Villain, forbear. _Launce._ Why, sir, I'll strike nothing: I pray you,-- _Pro._ Sirrah, I say, forbear. Friend Valentine, a word. _Val._ My ears are stopt, and cannot hear good news, 205 So much of bad already hath possess'd them. _Pro._ Then in dumb silence will I bury mine, For they are harsh, untuneable, and bad. _Val._ Is Silvia dead? _Pro._ No, Valentine. 210 _Val._ No Valentine, indeed, for sacred Silvia. Hath she forsworn me? _Pro._ No, Valentine. _Val._ No Valentine, if Silvia have forsworn me. What is your news? 215 _Launce._ Sir, there is a proclamation that you are vanished. _Pro._ That thou art banished--O, that's the news!-- From hence, from Silvia, and from me thy friend. _Val._ O, I have fed upon this woe already, And now excess of it will make me surfeit. 220 Doth Silvia know that I am banished? _Pro._ Ay, ay; and she hath offer'd to the doom-- Which, unreversed, stands in effectual force-- A sea of melting pearl, which some call tears: Those at her father's churlish feet she tender'd; 225 With them, upon her knees, her humble self; Wringing her hands, whose whiteness so became them As if but now they waxed pale for woe: But neither bended knees, pure hands held up, Sad sighs, deep groans, nor silver-shedding tears, 230 Could penetrate her uncompassionate sire; But Valentine, if he be ta'en, must die. Besides, her intercession chafed him so, When she for thy repeal was suppliant, That to close prison he commanded her, 235 With many bitter threats of biding there. _Val._ No more; unless the next word that thou speak'st Have some malignant power upon my life: If so, I pray thee, breathe it in mine ear, As ending anthem of my endless dolour. 240 _Pro._ Cease to lament for that thou canst not help, And study help for that which thou lament'st. Time is the nurse and breeder of all good. Here if thou stay, thou canst not see thy love; Besides, thy staying will abridge thy life. 245 Hope is a lover's staff; walk hence with that, And manage it against despairing thoughts. Thy letters may be here, though thou art hence; Which, being writ to me, shall be deliver'd Even in the milk-white bosom of thy love. 250 The time now serves not to expostulate: Come, I'll convey thee through the city-gate; And, ere I part with thee, confer at large Of all that may concern thy love-affairs. As thou lovest Silvia, though not for thyself, 255 Regard thy danger, and along with me! _Val._ I pray thee, Launce, an if thou seest my boy, Bid him make haste, and meet me at the North-gate. _Pro._ Go, sirrah, find him out. Come, Valentine. _Val._ O my dear Silvia! Hapless Valentine! 260 [_Exeunt Val. and Pro._ _Launce._ I am but a fool, look you; and yet I have the wit to think my master is a kind of a knave: but that's all one, if he be but one knave. He lives not now that knows me to be in love; yet I am in love; but a team of horse shall not pluck that from me; nor who 'tis I love; and yet 265 'tis a woman; but what woman, I will not tell myself; and yet 'tis a milkmaid; yet 'tis not a maid, for she hath had gossips; yet 'tis a maid, for she is her master's maid, and serves for wages. She hath more qualities than a water-spaniel,-- which is much in a bare Christian. 270 [_Pulling out a paper._] Here is the cate-log of her condition. 'Imprimis: She can fetch and carry.' Why, a horse can do no more: nay, a horse cannot fetch, but only carry; therefore is she better than a jade. 'Item: She can milk;' look you, a sweet virtue in a maid with clean hands. 275 _Enter SPEED._ _Speed._ How now, Signior Launce! what news with your mastership? _Launce._ With my master's ship? why, it is at sea. _Speed._ Well, your old vice still; mistake the word. What news, then, in your paper? 280 _Launce._ The blackest news that ever thou heardest. _Speed._ Why, man, how black? _Launce._ Why, as black as ink. _Speed._ Let me read them. _Launce._ Fie on thee, jolt-head! thou canst not read. 285 _Speed._ Thou liest; I can. _Launce._ I will try thee. Tell me this: who begot thee? _Speed._ Marry, the son of my grandfather. _Launce._ O illiterate loiterer! it was the son of thy grandmother: this proves that thou canst not read. 290 _Speed._ Come, fool, come; try me in thy paper. _Launce._ There; and Saint Nicholas be thy speed! _Speed_ [_reads_]. 'Imprimis: She can milk.' _Launce._ Ay, that she can. _Speed._ 'Item: She brews good ale.' 295 _Launce._ And thereof comes the proverb: 'Blessing of your heart, you brew good ale.' _Speed._ 'Item: She can sew.' _Launce._ That's as much as to say, Can she so? _Speed._ 'Item: She can knit.' 300 _Launce._ What need a man care for a stock with a wench, when she can knit him a stock? _Speed._ 'Item: She can wash and scour.' _Launce._ A special virtue; for then she need not be washed and scoured. 305 _Speed._ 'Item: She can spin.' _Launce._ Then may I set the world on wheels, when she can spin for her living. _Speed._ 'Item: She hath many nameless virtues.' _Launce._ That's as much as to say, bastard virtues; 310 that, indeed, know not their fathers, and therefore have no names. _Speed._ 'Here follow her vices.' _Launce._ Close at the heels of her virtues. _Speed._ 'Item: She is not to be kissed fasting, in respect 315 of her breath.' _Launce._ Well, that fault may be mended with a breakfast. Read on. _Speed._ 'Item: She hath a sweet mouth.' _Launce._ That makes amends for her sour breath. 320 _Speed._ 'Item: She doth talk in her sleep.' _Launce._ It's no matter for that, so she sleep not in her talk. _Speed._ 'Item: She is slow in words.' _Launce._ O villain, that set this down among her vices! 325 To be slow in words is a woman's only virtue: I pray thee, out with't, and place it for her chief virtue. _Speed._ 'Item: She is proud.' _Launce._ Out with that too; it was Eve's legacy, and cannot be ta'en from her. 330 _Speed._ 'Item: She hath no teeth.' _Launce._ I care not for that neither, because I love crusts. _Speed._ 'Item: She is curst.' _Launce._ Well, the best is, she hath no teeth to bite. 335 _Speed._ 'Item: She will often praise her liquor.' _Launce._ If her liquor be good, she shall: if she will not, I will; for good things should be praised. _Speed._ 'Item: She is too liberal.' _Launce._ Of her tongue she cannot, for that's writ down 340 she is slow of; of her purse she shall not, for that I'll keep shut: now, of another thing she may, and that cannot I help. Well, proceed. _Speed._ 'Item: She hath more hair than wit, and more faults than hairs, and more wealth than faults.' 345 _Launce._ Stop there; I'll have her: she was mine, and not mine, twice or thrice in that last article. Rehearse that once more. _Speed._ 'Item: She hath more hair than wit,'-- _Launce._ More hair than wit? It may be; I'll prove it. 350 The cover of the salt hides the salt, and therefore it is more than the salt; the hair that covers the wit is more than the wit, for the greater hides the less. What's next? _Speed._ 'And more faults than hairs,'-- _Launce._ That's monstrous: O, that that were out! 355 _Speed._ 'And more wealth than faults.' _Launce._ Why, that word makes the faults gracious. Well, I'll have her: and if it be a match, as nothing is impossible,-- _Speed._ What then? 360 _Launce._ Why, then will I tell thee--that thy master stays for thee at the North-gate? _Speed._ For me? _Launce._ For thee! ay, who art thou? he hath stayed for a better man than thee. 365 _Speed._ And must I go to him? _Launce._ Thou must run to him, for thou hast stayed so long, that going will scarce serve the turn. _Speed._ Why didst not tell me sooner? pox of your love-letters! [_Exit._ 370 _Launce._ Now will he be swinged for reading my letter,--an unmannerly slave, that will thrust himself into secrets! I'll after, to rejoice in the boy's correction. [_Exit._ Notes: III, 1. Ante-room] Capell. 2: [Exit Thu.] Rowe. 7: _as_] F1 F3 F4. _as as_ F2. 21: _Being_] _If_ Pope. _unprevented_] F1 F2. _unprepared_ F3 F4. 32: _hast_] _hath_ Pope. 33: _that_] F1. om. F2 F3 F4. 50: [Exit] Rowe. Enter Valentine.] om. F1. [Enter. F2 F3 F4. 51: SCENE II. Pope. _whither_] F2. _whether_ F1 (and elsewhere). 56: _tenour_] _tenure_ Ff. 72: _may I_] _I may_ Hanmer. 78: _dower_] _dowre_ Ff. _dowry_ Hanmer. 81: _in Verona_] Ff. _sir, in Milan_ Pope. _in Milano_ Collier MS. _of Verona_ Halliwell. See note (VII). 83: _nought_] F2 F3 F4. _naught_ F1. 89: _respect_] F1 F2 F3. _respects_ F4. 92: _that I sent her_] _that I sent, sir_ Steevens conj. 93: _contents_] _content_ Mason conj. 98: _'tis_] F1 F3 F4. _'its_ F2. 99: _For why, the_] _For why the_ Dyce. 105: _with_] F1 F3 F4. _this_ F2. 139: [Reads] Rowe. 149: _would be_] F2 F3 F4. _should be_ F1. 151: _I will_] F1 F2 F3. _will I_ F4. 154: _car_] _cat_ F3 F4. 169: [Exit] F2. 170: SCENE III. Pope. Enter PRO. and LAUNCE] F2. 189: _Soho, soho!_] _So-hough, Soa hough--_ F1. 200: _Who_] F1. _Whom_ F2 F3 F4. 204: _Sirrah_] om. Pope. 216: _vanished_] _vanish'd_ Pope. 217: _banished--O that's_] _banish'd: oh, that's_ Ff. _banish'd--O, that is_ Pope. _banished--_ Val. _Oh, that's the news!_ Pro. _From hence, ... _ Edd. conj. 260: [Exeunt Val. and Pro.] Exeunt. F2. 261: SCENE VI. Pope, by misprint for IV. 263: _one knave_] _one kind of knave_ Hanmer. _one kind_ Warburton. _one in love_ Staunton conj. 270: [Pulling out a paper] Rowe. 271: _cate-log_] _cat-log_ Pope. _condition_] F1 F2 F3. _conditions_ F4. 274: _milk;' look you,_] _milk, look you;_' Capell. 276: Enter Speed] F2. 278: _master's ship_] Theobald. _Mastership_ Ff. 293, 294: om. Farmer conj. 293: _Imprimis_] _Item_ Halliwell. 304: _need not be_] F1. _need not to be_ F2 F3 F4. 313: _follow_] F1. _followes_ F2. _follows_ F3 F4. 315: _kissed_] Rowe. om. Ff. 322: _sleep_] _slip_ Collier MS. 325: _O ... this_] _O villaine, that set this_ F1. _O villainy, that set_ F2 F3. _Oh villain! that set_ F4. _O villainy that set this_ Malone. 342: _cannot I_] _I cannot_ Steevens. 344: _hair_] F1. _hairs_ F2 F3 F4. 347: _that last_] F1. (in some copies only, according to Malone.) _that_ F2 F3 F4. 350: _It may be; I'll prove it_] Theobald. _It may be I'll prove it_ Ff. 369: _of_] F1 F2. om. F3 F4. 370: [Exit] Capell. 373: [Exit.] Capell. [Exeunt. Ff. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oberen Absätze schreiben?

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Nachdem Proteus Valentine gegenüber dem Herzog verraten hat, versichert sich der Herzog vollständig, dass seine Tochter tatsächlich plant, mit dem Veroneser Gentleman durchzubrennen, anstatt den wohlhabenden Händler Thurio zu heiraten. Er stellt eine List gegenüber Valentine an, indem er vorgibt, selbst in eine Frau verliebt zu sein und um Rat bittet, wie er am besten ihr Wohlwollen gewinnen kann. Valentine fällt auf den Trick herein und versichert dem Herzog: "Ein Mann, der eine Zunge hat, ist kein Mann, wenn er mit seiner Zunge keine Frau erobern kann." Um Silvias Vater zu beeindrucken, erklärt Valentine fröhlich, wie man eine Seilleiter am besten versteckt, wenn man sich dem Turm nähert, in dem seine Geliebte "gefangen" ist. Der Herzog öffnet Valentines Mantel und entdeckt einen Liebesbrief an Silvia und "eine Vorrichtung, die gut für mein Vorhaben ist". Das Ergebnis ist eine sofortige Verbannung für den leichtgläubigen Valentine, der lamentsiert: "Und warum nicht der Tod anstelle von lebendiger Qual? Zu sterben bedeutet, von mir selbst verbannt zu sein; und Silvia ist mein Ich." Proteus trifft ein und gibt "tröstende" Worte von sich. Er schlägt vor, dass Valentine die Verbannung akzeptiert und sich mit Briefen an Silvia zufrieden gibt, die Proteus verspricht, zu überbringen: "Deine Briefe können hier sein, auch wenn du fort bist; und wenn sie an mich geschrieben sind, werde ich sie sogar in der milchweißen Brust deiner Liebe zustellen." Um die Szene zu beenden, lässt Shakespeare Speed und Launce über die Vorzüge von Launces Geliebter diskutieren, die auf einem Blatt Papier aufgelistet sind, das er bei sich trägt.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: Margaret had no intention of letting things slide, and the evening before she left Swanage she gave her sister a thorough scolding. She censured her, not for disapproving of the engagement, but for throwing over her disapproval a veil of mystery. Helen was equally frank. "Yes," she said, with the air of one looking inwards, "there is a mystery. I can't help it. It's not my fault. It's the way life has been made." Helen in those days was over-interested in the subconscious self. She exaggerated the Punch and Judy aspect of life, and spoke of mankind as puppets, whom an invisible showman twitches into love and war. Margaret pointed out that if she dwelt on this she, too, would eliminate the personal. Helen was silent for a minute, and then burst into a queer speech, which cleared the air. "Go on and marry him. I think you're splendid; and if any one can pull it off, you will." Margaret denied that there was anything to "pull off," but she continued: "Yes, there is, and I wasn't up to it with Paul. I can do only what's easy. I can only entice and be enticed. I can't, and won't, attempt difficult relations. If I marry, it will either be a man who's strong enough to boss me or whom I'm strong enough to boss. So I shan't ever marry, for there aren't such men. And Heaven help any one whom I do marry, for I shall certainly run away from him before you can say 'Jack Robinson.' There! Because I'm uneducated. But you, you're different; you're a heroine." "Oh, Helen! Am I? Will it be as dreadful for poor Henry as all that?" "You mean to keep proportion, and that's heroic, it's Greek, and I don't see why it shouldn't succeed with you. Go on and fight with him and help him. Don't ask me for help, or even for sympathy. Henceforward I'm going my own way. I mean to be thorough, because thoroughness is easy. I mean to dislike your husband, and to tell him so. I mean to make no concessions to Tibby. If Tibby wants to live with me, he must lump me. I mean to love you more than ever. Yes, I do. You and I have built up something real, because it is purely spiritual. There's no veil of mystery over us. Unreality and mystery begin as soon as one touches the body. The popular view is, as usual, exactly the wrong one. Our bothers are over tangible things--money, husbands, house-hunting. But Heaven will work of itself." Margaret was grateful for this expression of affection, and answered, "Perhaps." All vistas close in the unseen--no one doubts it--but Helen closed them rather too quickly for her taste. At every turn of speech one was confronted with reality and the absolute. Perhaps Margaret grew too old for metaphysics, perhaps Henry was weaning her from them, but she felt that there was something a little unbalanced in the mind that so readily shreds the visible. The business man who assumes that this life is everything, and the mystic who asserts that it is nothing, fail, on this side and on that, to hit the truth. "Yes, I see, dear; it's about half-way between," Aunt Juley had hazarded in earlier years. No; truth, being alive, was not half-way between anything. It was only to be found by continuous excursions into either realm, and though proportion is the final secret, to espouse it at the outset is to insure sterility. Helen, agreeing here, disagreeing there, would have talked till midnight, but Margaret, with her packing to do, focussed the conversation on Henry. She might abuse Henry behind his back, but please would she always be civil to him in company? "I definitely dislike him, but I'll do what I can," promised Helen. "Do what you can with my friends in return." This conversation made Margaret easier. Their inner life was so safe that they could bargain over externals in a way that would have been incredible to Aunt Juley, and impossible for Tibby or Charles. There are moments when the inner life actually "pays," when years of self-scrutiny, conducted for no ulterior motive, are suddenly of practical use. Such moments are still rare in the West; that they come at all promises a fairer future. Margaret, though unable to understand her sister, was assured against estrangement, and returned to London with a more peaceful mind. The following morning, at eleven o'clock, she presented herself at the offices of the Imperial and West African Rubber Company. She was glad to go there, for Henry had implied his business rather than described it, and the formlessness and vagueness that one associates with Africa itself had hitherto brooded over the main sources of his wealth. Not that a visit to the office cleared things up. There was just the ordinary surface scum of ledgers and polished counters and brass bars that began and stopped for no possible reason, of electric-light globes blossoming in triplets, of little rabbit-hutches faced with glass or wire, of little rabbits. And even when she penetrated to the inner depths, she found only the ordinary table and Turkey carpet, and though the map over the fireplace did depict a helping of West Africa, it was a very ordinary map. Another map hung opposite, on which the whole continent appeared, looking like a whale marked out for a blubber, and by its side was a door, shut, but Henry's voice came through it, dictating a "strong" letter. She might have been at the Porphyrion, or Dempster's Bank, or her own wine-merchant's. Everything seems just alike in these days. But perhaps she was seeing the Imperial side of the company rather than its West African, and Imperialism always had been one of her difficulties. "One minute!" called Mr. Wilcox on receiving her name. He touched a bell, the effect of which was to produce Charles. Charles had written his father an adequate letter--more adequate than Evie's, through which a girlish indignation throbbed. And he greeted his future stepmother with propriety. "I hope that my wife--how do you do?--will give you a decent lunch," was his opening. "I left instructions, but we live in a rough-and-ready way. She expects you back to tea, too, after you have had a look at Howards End. I wonder what you'll think of the place. I wouldn't touch it with tongs myself. Do sit down! It's a measly little place." "I shall enjoy seeing it," said Margaret, feeling, for the first time, shy. "You'll see it at its worst, for Bryce decamped abroad last Monday without even arranging for a charwoman to clear up after him. I never saw such a disgraceful mess. It's unbelievable. He wasn't in the house a month." "I've more than a little bone to pick with Bryce," called Henry from the inner chamber. "Why did he go so suddenly?" "Invalid type; couldn't sleep." "Poor fellow!" "Poor fiddlesticks!" said Mr. Wilcox, joining them. "He had the impudence to put up notice-boards without as much as saying with your leave or by your leave. Charles flung them down." "Yes, I flung them down," said Charles modestly. "I've sent a telegram after him, and a pretty sharp one, too. He, and he in person, is responsible for the upkeep of that house for the next three years." "The keys are at the farm; we wouldn't have the keys." "Quite right." "Dolly would have taken them, but I was in, fortunately." "What's Mr. Bryce like?" asked Margaret. But nobody cared. Mr. Bryce was the tenant, who had no right to sublet; to have defined him further was a waste of time. On his misdeeds they descanted profusely, until the girl who had been typing the strong letter game out with it. Mr. Wilcox added his signature. "Now we'll be off," said he. A motor-drive, a form of felicity detested by Margaret, awaited her. Charles saw them in, civil to the last, and in a moment the offices of the Imperial and West African Rubber Company faded away. But it was not an impressive drive. Perhaps the weather was to blame, being grey and banked high with weary clouds. Perhaps Hertfordshire is scarcely intended for motorists. Did not a gentleman once motor so quickly through Westmoreland that he missed it? and if Westmoreland can be missed, it will fare ill with a county whose delicate structure particularly needs the attentive eye. Hertfordshire is England at its quietest, with little emphasis of river and hill; it is England meditative. If Drayton were with us again to write a new edition of his incomparable poem, he would sing the nymphs of Hertfordshire as indeterminate of feature, with hair obfuscated by the London smoke. Their eyes would be sad, and averted from their fate towards the Northern flats, their leader not Isis or Sabrina, but the slowly flowing Lea. No glory of raiment would be theirs, no urgency of dance; but they would be real nymphs. The chauffeur could not travel as quickly as he had hoped, for the Great North Road was full of Easter traffic. But he went quite quick enough for Margaret, a poor-spirited creature, who had chickens and children on the brain. "They're all right," said Mr. Wilcox. "They'll learn--like the swallows and the telegraph-wires." "Yes, but, while they're learning--" "The motor's come to stay," he answered. "One must get about. There's a pretty church--oh, you aren't sharp enough. Well, look out, if the road worries you--right outward at the scenery." She looked at the scenery. It heaved and merged like porridge. Presently it congealed. They had arrived. Charles's house on the left; on the right the swelling forms of the Six Hills. Their appearance in such a neighbourhood surprised her. They interrupted the stream of residences that was thickening up towards Hilton. Beyond them she saw meadows and a wood, and beneath them she settled that soldiers of the best kind lay buried. She hated war and liked soldiers--it was one of her amiable inconsistencies. But here was Dolly, dressed up to the nines, standing at the door to greet them, and here were the first drops of the rain. They ran in gaily, and after a long wait in the drawing-room, sat down to the rough-and-ready lunch, every dish of which concealed or exuded cream. Mr. Bryce was the chief topic of conversation. Dolly described his visit with the key, while her father-in-law gave satisfaction by chaffing her and contradicting all she said. It was evidently the custom to laugh at Dolly. He chaffed Margaret too, and Margaret roused from a grave meditation was pleased and chaffed him back. Dolly seemed surprised and eyed her curiously. After lunch the two children came down. Margaret disliked babies, but hit it off better with the two-year-old, and sent Dolly into fits of laughter by talking sense to him. "Kiss them now, and come away," said Mr. Wilcox. She came, but refused to kiss them; it was such hard luck on the little things, she said, and though Dolly proffered Chorly-worly and Porgly-woggles in turn, she was obdurate. By this time it was raining steadily. The car came round with the hood up, and again she lost all sense of space. In a few minutes they stopped, and Crane opened the door of the car. "What's happened?" asked Margaret. "What do you suppose?" said Henry. A little porch was close up against her face. "Are we there already?" "We are." "Well, I never! In years ago it seemed so far away." Smiling, but somehow disillusioned, she jumped out, and her impetus carried her to the front-door. She was about to open it, when Henry said: "That's no good; it's locked. Who's got the key?" As he had himself forgotten to call for the key at the farm, no one replied. He also wanted to know who had left the front gate open, since a cow had strayed in from the road, and was spoiling the croquet lawn. Then he said rather crossly: "Margaret, you wait in the dry. I'll go down for the key. It isn't a hundred yards." "Mayn't I come too?" "No; I shall be back before I'm gone." Then the car turned away, and it was as if a curtain had risen. For the second time that day she saw the appearance of the earth. There were the greengage-trees that Helen had once described, there the tennis lawn, there the hedge that would be glorious with dog-roses in June, but the vision now was of black and palest green. Down by the dell-hole more vivid colours were awakening, and Lent lilies stood sentinel on its margin, or advanced in battalions over the grass. Tulips were a tray of jewels. She could not see the wych-elm tree, but a branch of the celebrated vine, studded with velvet knobs had covered the perch. She was struck by the fertility of the soil; she had seldom been in a garden where the flowers looked so well, and even the weeds she was idly plucking out of the porch were intensely green. Why had poor Mr. Bryce fled from all this beauty? For she had already decided that the place was beautiful. "Naughty cow! Go away!" cried Margaret to the cow, but without indignation. Harder came the rain, pouring out of a windless sky, and spattering up from the notice-boards of the house-agents, which lay in a row on the lawn where Charles had hurled them. She must have interviewed Charles in another world--where one did have interviews. How Helen would revel in such a notion! Charles dead, all people dead, nothing alive but houses and gardens. The obvious dead, the intangible alive, and no connection at all between them! Margaret smiled. Would that her own fancies were as clear-cut! Would that she could deal as high-handedly with the world! Smiling and sighing, she laid her hand upon the door. It opened. The house was not locked up at all. She hesitated. Ought she to wait for Henry? He felt strongly about property, and might prefer to show her over himself. On the other hand, he had told her to keep in the dry, and the porch was beginning to drip. So she went in, and the draught from inside slammed the door behind. Desolation greeted her. Dirty finger-prints were on the hall-windows, flue and rubbish on its unwashed boards. The civilisation of luggage had been here for a month, and then decamped. Dining-room and drawing-room--right and left--were guessed only by their wallpapers. They were just rooms where one could shelter from the rain. Across the ceiling of each ran a great beam. The dining-room and hall revealed theirs openly, but the drawing-room's was match-boarded--because the facts of life must be concealed from ladies? Drawing-room, dining-room, and hall--how petty the names sounded! Here were simply three rooms where children could play and friends shelter from the rain. Yes, and they were beautiful. Then she opened one of the doors opposite--there were two--and exchanged wall-papers for whitewash. It was the servants' part, though she scarcely realised that: just rooms again, where friends might shelter. The garden at the back was full of flowering cherries and plums. Farther on were hints of the meadow and a black cliff of pines. Yes, the meadow was beautiful. Penned in by the desolate weather, she recaptured the sense of space which the motor had tried to rob from her. She remembered again that ten square miles are not ten times as wonderful as one square mile, that a thousand square miles are not practically the same as heaven. The phantom of bigness, which London encourages, was laid for ever when she paced from the hall at Howards End to its kitchen and heard the rain run this way and that where the watershed of the roof divided it. Now Helen came to her mind, scrutinising half Wessex from the ridge of the Purbeck Downs, and saying: "You will have to lose something." She was not so sure. For instance she would double her kingdom by opening the door that concealed the stairs. Now she thought of the map of Africa; of empires; of her father; of the two supreme nations, streams of whose life warmed her blood, but, mingling, had cooled her brain. She paced back into the hall, and as she did so the house reverberated. "Is that you, Henry?" she called. There was no answer, but the house reverberated again. "Henry, have you got in?" But it was the heart of the house beating, faintly at first, then loudly, martially. It dominated the rain. It is the starved imagination, not the well-nourished, that is afraid. Margaret flung open the door to the stairs. A noise as of drums seemed to deafen her. A woman, an old woman, was descending, with figure erect, with face impassive, with lips that parted and said dryly: "Oh! Well, I took you for Ruth Wilcox." Margaret stammered: "I--Mrs. Wilcox--I?" "In fancy, of course--in fancy. You had her way of walking. Good-day." And the old woman passed out into the rain. "It gave her quite a turn," said Mr. Wilcox, when retailing the incident to Dolly at tea-time. "None of you girls have any nerves, really. Of course, a word from me put it all right, but silly old Miss Avery--she frightened you, didn't she, Margaret? There you stood clutching a bunch of weeds. She might have said something, instead of coming down the stairs with that alarming bonnet on. I passed her as I came in. Enough to make the car shy. I believe Miss Avery goes in for being a character; some old maids do." He lit a cigarette. "It is their last resource. Heaven knows what she was doing in the place; but that's Bryce's business, not mine." "I wasn't as foolish as you suggest," said Margaret "She only startled me, for the house had been silent so long." "Did you take her for a spook?" asked Dolly, for whom "spooks"' and "going to church" summarised the unseen. "Not exactly." "She really did frighten you," said Henry, who was far from discouraging timidity in females. "Poor Margaret! And very naturally. Uneducated classes are so stupid." "Is Miss Avery uneducated classes?" Margaret asked, and found herself looking at the decoration scheme of Dolly's drawing-room. "She's just one of the crew at the farm. People like that always assume things. She assumed you'd know who she was. She left all the Howards End keys in the front lobby, and assumed that you'd seen them as you came in, that you'd lock up the house when you'd done, and would bring them on down to her. And there was her niece hunting for them down at the farm. Lack of education makes people very casual. Hilton was full of women like Miss Avery once." "I shouldn't have disliked it, perhaps." "Or Miss Avery giving me a wedding present," said Dolly. Which was illogical but interesting. Through Dolly, Margaret was destined to learn a good deal. "But Charles said I must try not to mind, because she had known his grandmother." "As usual, you've got the story wrong, my good Dorothea." "I meant great-grandmother--the one who left Mrs. Wilcox the house. Weren't both of them and Miss Avery friends when Howards End, too, was a farm?" Her father-in-law blew out a shaft of smoke. His attitude to his dead wife was curious. He would allude to her, and hear her discussed, but never mentioned her by name. Nor was he interested in the dim, bucolic past. Dolly was--for the following reason. "Then hadn't Mrs. Wilcox a brother--or was it an uncle? Anyhow, he popped the question, and Miss Avery, she said `No.' Just imagine, if she'd said 'Yes,' she would have been Charles's aunt. (Oh, I say, that's rather good! 'Charlie's Aunt'! I must chaff him about that this evening.) And the man went out and was killed. Yes, I 'm certain I've got it right now. Tom Howard--he was the last of them." "I believe so," said Mr. Wilcox negligently. "I say! Howards End--Howards Ended!" Dolly. "I'm rather on the spot this evening, eh?" "I wish you'd ask whether Crane's ended." "Oh, Mr. Wilcox, how can you?" "Because, if he has had enough tea, we ought to go--Dolly's a good little woman," he continued, "but a little of her goes a long way. I couldn't live near her if you paid me." Margaret smiled. Though presenting a firm front to outsiders, no Wilcox could live near, or near the possessions of, any other Wilcox. They had the colonial spirit, and were always making for some spot where the white man might carry his burden unobserved. Of course, Howards End was impossible, so long as the younger couple were established in Hilton. His objections to the house were plain as daylight now. Crane had had enough tea, and was sent to the garage, where their car had been trickling muddy water over Charles's. The downpour had surely penetrated the Six Hills by now, bringing news of our restless civilisation. "Curious mounds," said Henry, "but in with you now; another time." He had to be up in London by seven--if possible, by six-thirty. Once more she lost the sense of space; once more trees, houses, people, animals, hills, merged and heaved into one dirtiness, and she was at Wickham Place. Her evening was pleasant. The sense of flux which had haunted her all the year disappeared for a time. She forgot the luggage and the motor-cars, and the hurrying men who know so much and connect so little. She recaptured the sense of space, which is the basis of all earthly beauty, and, starting from Howards End, she attempted to realise England. She failed--visions do not come when we try, though they may come through trying. But an unexpected love of the island awoke in her, connecting on this side with the joys of the flesh, on that with the inconceivable. Helen and her father had known this love, poor Leonard Bast was groping after it, but it had been hidden from Margaret till this afternoon. It had certainly come through the house and old Miss Avery. Through them: the notion of "through" persisted; her mind trembled towards a conclusion which only the unwise have put into words. Then, veering back into warmth, it dwelt on ruddy bricks, flowering plum-trees, and all the tangible joys of spring. Henry, after allaying her agitation, had taken her over his property, and had explained to her the use and dimensions of the various rooms. He had sketched the history of the little estate. "It is so unlucky," ran the monologue, "that money wasn't put into it about fifty years ago. Then it had four--five--times the land--thirty acres at least. One could have made something out of it then--a small park, or at all events shrubberies, and rebuilt the house farther away from the road. What's the good of taking it in hand now? Nothing but the meadow left, and even that was heavily mortgaged when I first had to do with things--yes, and the house too. Oh, it was no joke." She saw two women as he spoke, one old, the other young, watching their inheritance melt away. She saw them greet him as a deliverer. "Mismanagement did it--besides, the days for small farms are over. It doesn't pay--except with intensive cultivation. Small holdings, back to the land--ah! philanthropic bunkum. Take it as a rule that nothing pays on a small scale. Most of the land you see (they were standing at an upper window, the only one which faced west) belongs to the people at the Park--they made their pile over copper--good chaps. Avery's Farm, Sishe's--what they call the Common, where you see that ruined oak--one after the other fell in, and so did this, as near as is no matter." But Henry had saved it; without fine feelings or deep insight, but he had saved it, and she loved him for the deed. "When I had more control I did what I could--sold off the two and a half animals, and the mangy pony, and the superannuated tools; pulled down the outhouses; drained; thinned out I don't know how many guelder-roses and elder-trees; and inside the house I turned the old kitchen into a hall, and made a kitchen behind where the dairy was. Garage and so on came later. But one could still tell it's been an old farm. And yet it isn't the place that would fetch one of your artistic crew." No, it wasn't; and if he did not quite understand it, the artistic crew would still less; it was English, and the wych-elm that she saw from the window was an English tree. No report had prepared her for its peculiar glory. It was neither warrior, nor lover, nor god; in none of these roles do the English excel. It was a comrade bending over the house, strength and adventure in its roots, but in its utmost fingers tenderness, and the girth, that a dozen men could not have spanned, became in the end evanescent, till pale bud clusters seemed to float in the air. It was a comrade. House and tree transcended any similes of sex. Margaret thought of them now, and was to think of them through many a windy night and London day, but to compare either to man, to woman, always dwarfed the vision. Yet they kept within limits of the human. Their message was not of eternity, but of hope on this side of the grave. As she stood in the one, gazing at the other, truer relationship had gleamed. Another touch, and the account of her day is finished. They entered the garden for a minute, and to Mr. Wilcox's surprise she was right. Teeth, pigs' teeth, could be seen in the bark of the wych-elm tree--just the white tips of them showing. "Extraordinary!" he cried. "Who told you?" "I heard of it one winter in London," was her answer, for she, too, avoided mentioning Mrs. Wilcox by name. Evie heard of her father's engagement when she was in for a tennis tournament, and her play went simply to pot. That she should marry and leave him had seemed natural enough; that he, left alone, should do the same was deceitful; and now Charles and Dolly said that it was all her fault. "But I never dreamt of such a thing," she grumbled. "Dad took me to call now and then, and made me ask her to Simpson's. Well, I'm altogether off dad." It was also an insult to their mother's memory; there they were agreed, and Evie had the idea of returning Mrs. Wilcox's lace and jewellery "as a protest." Against what it would protest she was not clear; but being only eighteen, the idea of renunciation appealed to her, the more as she did not care for jewellery or lace. Dolly then suggested that she and Uncle Percy should pretend to break off their engagement, and then perhaps Mr. Wilcox would quarrel with Miss Schlegel, and break off his; or Paul might be cabled for. But at this point Charles told them not to talk nonsense. So Evie settled to marry as soon as possible; it was no good hanging about with these Schlegels eyeing her. The date of her wedding was consequently put forward from September to August, and in the intoxication of presents she recovered much of her good-humour. Margaret found that she was expected to figure at this function, and to figure largely; it would be such an opportunity, said Henry, for her to get to know his set. Sir James Bidder would be there, and all the Cahills and the Fussells, and his sister-in-law, Mrs. Warrington Wilcox, had fortunately got back from her tour round the world. Henry she loved, but his set promised to be another matter. He had not the knack of surrounding himself with nice people--indeed, for a man of ability and virtue his choice had been singularly unfortunate; he had no guiding principle beyond a certain preference for mediocrity; he was content to settle one of the greatest things in life haphazard, and so, while his investments went right, his friends generally went wrong. She would be told, "Oh, So-and-so's a good sort--a thundering good sort," and find, on meeting him, that he was a brute or a bore. If Henry had shown real affection, she would have understood, for affection explains everything. But he seemed without sentiment. The "thundering good sort" might at any moment become "a fellow for whom I never did have much use, and have less now," and be shaken off cheerily into oblivion. Margaret had done the same as a schoolgirl. Now she never forgot any one for whom she had once cared; she connected, though the connection might be bitter, and she hoped that some day Henry would do the same. Evie was not to be married from Ducie Street. She had a fancy for something rural, and, besides, no one would be in London then, so she left her boxes for a few weeks at Oniton Grange, and her banns were duly published in the parish church, and for a couple of days the little town, dreaming between the ruddy hills, was roused by the clang of our civilisation, and drew up by the roadside to let the motors pass. Oniton had been a discovery of Mr. Wilcox's--a discovery of which he was not altogether proud. It was up towards the Welsh border, and so difficult of access that he had concluded it must be something special. A ruined castle stood in the grounds. But having got there, what was one to do? The shooting was bad, the fishing indifferent, and womenfolk reported the scenery as nothing much. The place turned out to be in the wrong part of Shropshire, and though he never ran down his own property to others, he was only waiting to get it off his hands, and then to let fly. Evie's marriage was its last appearance in public. As soon as a tenant was found, it became a house for which he never had had much use, and had less now, and, like Howards End, faded into Limbo. But on Margaret Oniton was destined to make a lasting impression. She regarded it as her future home, and was anxious to start straight with the clergy, etc., and, if possible, to see something of the local life. It was a market-town--as tiny a one as England possesses--and had for ages served that lonely valley, and guarded our marches against the Celt. In spite of the occasion, in spite of the numbing hilarity that greeted her as soon as she got into the reserved saloon at Paddington, her senses were awake and watching, and though Oniton was to prove one of her innumerable false starts, she never forgot it, or the things that happened there. The London party only numbered eight--the Fussells, father and son, two Anglo-Indian ladies named Mrs. Plynlimmon and Lady Edser, Mrs. Warrington Wilcox and her daughter, and, lastly, the little girl, very smart and quiet, who figures at so many weddings, and who kept a watchful eye on Margaret, the bride-elect. Dolly was absent--a domestic event detained her at Hilton; Paul had cabled a humorous message; Charles was to meet them with a trio of motors at Shrewsbury; Helen had refused her invitation; Tibby had never answered his. The management was excellent, as was to be expected with anything that Henry undertook; one was conscious of his sensible and generous brain in the background. They were his guests as soon as they reached the train; a special label for their luggage; a courier; a special lunch; they had only to look pleasant and, where possible, pretty. Margaret thought with dismay of her own nuptials--presumably under the management of Tibby. "Mr. Theobald Schlegel and Miss Helen Schlegel request the pleasure of Mrs. Plynlimmon's company on the occasion of the marriage of their sister Margaret." The formula was incredible, but it must soon be printed and sent, and though Wickham Place need not compete with Oniton, it must feed its guests properly, and provide them with sufficient chairs. Her wedding would either be ramshackly or bourgeois--she hoped the latter. Such an affair as the present, staged with a deftness that was almost beautiful, lay beyond her powers and those of her friends. The low rich purr of a Great Western express is not the worst background for conversation, and the journey passed pleasantly enough. Nothing could have exceeded the kindness of the two men. They raised windows for some ladies, and lowered them for others, they rang the bell for the servant, they identified the colleges as the train slipped past Oxford, they caught books or bag-purses in the act of tumbling on to the floor. Yet there was nothing finicking about their politeness--it had the public-school touch, and, though sedulous, was virile. More battles than Waterloo have been won on our playing-fields, and Margaret bowed to a charm of which she did not wholly approve, and said nothing when the Oxford colleges were identified wrongly. "Male and female created He them"; the journey to Shrewsbury confirmed this questionable statement, and the long glass saloon, that moved so easily and felt so comfortable, became a forcing-house for the idea of sex. At Shrewsbury came fresh air. Margaret was all for sight-seeing, and while the others were finishing their tea at the Raven, she annexed a motor and hurried over the astonishing city. Her chauffeur was not the faithful Crane, but an Italian, who dearly loved making her late. Charles, watch in hand, though with a level brow, was standing in front of the hotel when they returned. It was perfectly all right, he told her; she was by no means the last. And then he dived into the coffee-room, and she heard him say, "For God's sake, hurry the women up; we shall never be off," and Albert Fussell reply, "Not I; I've done my share," and Colonel Fussell opine that the ladies were getting themselves up to kill. Presently Myra (Mrs. Warrington's daughter) appeared, and as she was his cousin, Charles blew her up a little; she had been changing her smart travelling hat for a smart motor hat. Then Mrs. Warrington herself, leading the quiet child; the two Anglo-Indian ladies were always last. Maids, courier, heavy luggage, had already gone on by a branch-line to a station nearer Oniton, but there were five hat-boxes and four dressing-bags to be packed, and five dust-cloaks to be put on, and to be put off at the last moment, because Charles declared them not necessary. The men presided over everything with unfailing good-humour. By half-past five the party was ready, and went out of Shrewsbury by the Welsh Bridge. Shropshire had not the reticence of Hertfordshire. Though robbed of half its magic by swift movement, it still conveyed the sense of hills. They were nearing the buttresses that force the Severn eastward and make it an English stream, and the sun, sinking over the Sentinels of Wales, was straight in their eyes. Having picked up another guest, they turned southward, avoiding the greater mountains, but conscious of an occasional summit, rounded and mild, whose colouring differed in quality from that of the lower earth, and whose contours altered more slowly. Quiet mysteries were in progress behind those tossing horizons: the West, as ever, was retreating with some secret which may not be worth the discovery, but which no practical man will ever discover. They spoke of Tariff Reform. Mrs. Warrington was just back from the Colonies. Like many other critics of Empire, her mouth had been stopped with food, and she could only exclaim at the hospitality with which she had been received, and warn the Mother Country against trifling with young Titans. "They threaten to cut the painter," she cried, "and where shall we be then? Miss Schlegel, you'll undertake to keep Henry sound about Tariff Reform? It is our last hope." Margaret playfully confessed herself on the other side, and they began to quote from their respective handbooks while the motor carried them deep into the hills. Curious these were rather than impressive, for their outlines lacked beauty, and the pink fields on their summits suggested the handkerchiefs of a giant spread out to dry. An occasional outcrop of rock, an occasional wood, an occasional "forest," treeless and brown, all hinted at wildness to follow, but the main colour was an agricultural green. The air grew cooler; they had surmounted the last gradient, and Oniton lay below them with its church, its radiating houses, its castle, its river-girt peninsula. Close to the castle was a grey mansion unintellectual but kindly, stretching with its grounds across the peninsula's neck--the sort of mansion that was built all over England in the beginning of the last century, while architecture was still an expression of the national character. That was the Grange, remarked Albert, over his shoulder, and then he jammed the brake on, and the motor slowed down and stopped. "I'm sorry," said he, turning round. "Do you mind getting out--by the door on the right. Steady on." "What's happened?" asked Mrs. Warrington. Then the car behind them drew up, and the voice of Charles was heard saying: "Get the women out at once." There was a concourse of males, and Margaret and her companions were hustled out and received into the second car. What had happened? As it started off again, the door of a cottage opened, and a girl screamed wildly at them. "What is it?" the ladies cried. Charles drove them a hundred yards without speaking. Then he said: "It's all right. Your car just touched a dog." "But stop!" cried Margaret, horrified. "It didn't hurt him." "Didn't really hurt him?" asked Myra. "No." "Do PLEASE stop!" said Margaret, leaning forward. She was standing up in the car, the other occupants holding her knees to steady her. "I want to go back, please." Charles took no notice. "We've left Mr. Fussell behind," said another; "and Angelo, and Crane." "Yes, but no woman." "I expect a little of "--Mrs. Warrington scratched her palm--"will be more to the point than one of us!" "The insurance company see to that," remarked Charles, "and Albert will do the talking." "I want to go back, though, I say!" repeated Margaret, getting angry. Charles took no notice. The motor, loaded with refugees, continued to travel very slowly down the hill. "The men are there," chorused the others. "They will see to it." "The men CAN'T see to it. Oh, this is ridiculous! Charles, I ask you to stop." "Stopping's no good," drawled Charles. "Isn't it?" said Margaret, and jumped straight out of the car. She fell on her knees, cut her gloves, shook her hat over her ear. Cries of alarm followed her. "You've hurt yourself," exclaimed Charles, jumping after her. "Of course I've hurt myself!" she retorted. "May I ask what--" "There's nothing to ask," said Margaret. "Your hand's bleeding." "I know." "I'm in for a frightful row from the pater." "You should have thought of that sooner, Charles." Charles had never been in such a position before. It was a woman in revolt who was hobbling away from him--and the sight was too strange to leave any room for anger. He recovered himself when the others caught them up: their sort he understood. He commanded them to go back. Albert Fussell was seen walking towards them. "It's all right!" he called. "It was a cat." "There!" exclaimed Charles triumphantly. "It's only a rotten cat." "Got room in your car for a little un? I cut as soon as I saw it wasn't a dog; the chauffeurs are tackling the girl." But Margaret walked forward steadily. Why should the chauffeurs tackle the girl? Ladies sheltering behind men, men sheltering behind servants--the whole system's wrong, and she must challenge it. "Miss Schlegel! 'Pon my word, you've hurt your hand." "I'm just going to see," said Margaret. "Don't you wait, Mr. Fussell." The second motor came round the corner. "It is all right, madam," said Crane in his turn. He had taken to calling her madam. "What's all right? The cat?" "Yes, madam. The girl will receive compensation for it." "She was a very ruda girla," said Angelo from the third motor thoughtfully. "Wouldn't you have been rude?" The Italian spread out his hands, implying that he had not thought of rudeness, but would produce it if it pleased her. The situation became absurd. The gentlemen were again buzzing round Miss Schlegel with offers of assistance, and Lady Edser began to bind up her hand. She yielded, apologising slightly, and was led back to the car, and soon the landscape resumed its motion, the lonely cottage disappeared, the castle swelled on its cushion of turf, and they had arrived. No doubt she had disgraced herself. But she felt their whole journey from London had been unreal. They had no part with the earth and its emotions. They were dust, and a stink, and cosmopolitan chatter, and the girl whose cat had been killed had lived more deeply than they. "Oh, Henry," she exclaimed, "I have been so naughty," for she had decided to take up this line. "We ran over a cat. Charles told me not to jump out, but I would, and look!" She held out her bandaged hand. "Your poor Meg went such a flop." Mr. Wilcox looked bewildered. In evening dress, he was standing to welcome his guests in the hall. "Thinking it was a dog." added Mrs. Warrington. "Ah, a dog's a companion!" said Colonel Fussell "A dog'll remember you." "Have you hurt yourself, Margaret?" "Not to speak about; and it's my left hand." "Well, hurry up and change." She obeyed, as did the others. Mr. Wilcox then turned to his son. "Now, Charles, what's happened?" Charles was absolutely honest. He described what he believed to have happened. Albert had flattened out a cat, and Miss Schlegel had lost her nerve, as any woman might. She had been got safely into the other car, but when it was in motion had leapt out again, in spite of all that they could say. After walking a little on the road, she had calmed down and had said that she was sorry. His father accepted this explanation, and neither knew that Margaret had artfully prepared the way for it. It fitted in too well with their view of feminine nature. In the smoking-room, after dinner, the Colonel put forward the view that Miss Schlegel had jumped it out of devilry. Well he remembered as a young man, in the harbour of Gibraltar once, how a girl--a handsome girl, too--had jumped overboard for a bet. He could see her now, and all the lads overboard after her. But Charles and Mr. Wilcox agreed it was much more probably nerves in Miss Schlegel's case. Charles was depressed. That woman had a tongue. She would bring worse disgrace on his father before she had done with them. He strolled out on to the castle mound to think the matter over. The evening was exquisite. On three sides of him a little river whispered, full of messages from the West; above his head the ruins made patterns against the sky. He carefully reviewed their dealings with this family, until he fitted Helen, and Margaret, and Aunt Juley into an orderly conspiracy. Paternity had made him suspicious. He had two children to look after, and more coming, and day by day they seemed less likely to grow up rich men. "It is all very well," he reflected, "the pater's saying that he will be just to all, but one can't be just indefinitely. Money isn't elastic. What's to happen if Evie has a family? And, come to that, so may the pater. There'll not be enough to go round, for there's none coming in, either through Dolly or Percy. It's damnable!" He looked enviously at the Grange, whose windows poured light and laughter. First and last, this wedding would cost a pretty penny. Two ladies were strolling up and down the garden terrace, and as the syllables "Imperialism" were wafted to his ears, he guessed that one of them was his aunt. She might have helped him, if she too had not had a family to provide for. "Every one for himself," he repeated--a maxim which had cheered him in the past, but which rang grimly enough among the ruins of Oniton. He lacked his father's ability in business, and so had an ever higher regard for money; unless he could inherit plenty, he feared to leave his children poor. As he sat thinking, one of the ladies left the terrace and walked into the meadow; he recognised her as Margaret by the white bandage that gleamed on her arm, and put out his cigar, lest the gleam should betray him. She climbed up the mound in zigzags, and at times stooped down, as if she was stroking the turf. It sounds absolutely incredible, but for a moment Charles thought that she was in love with him, and had come out to tempt him. Charles believed in temptresses, who are indeed the strong man's necessary complement, and having no sense of humour, he could not purge himself of the thought by a smile. Margaret, who was engaged to his father, and his sister's wedding-guest, kept on her way without noticing him, and he admitted that he had wronged her on this point. But what was she doing? Why was she stumbling about amongst the rubble and catching her dress in brambles and burrs? As she edged round the keep, she must have got to windward and smelt his cigar-smoke, for she exclaimed, "Hullo! Who's that?" Charles made no answer. "Saxon or Celt?" she continued, laughing in the darkness. "But it doesn't matter. Whichever you are, you will have to listen to me. I love this place. I love Shropshire. I hate London. I am glad that this will be my home. Ah, dear"--she was now moving back towards the house--"what a comfort to have arrived!" "That woman means mischief," thought Charles, and compressed his lips. In a few minutes he followed her indoors, as the ground was getting damp. Mists were rising from the river, and presently it became invisible, though it whispered more loudly. There had been a heavy downpour in the Welsh hills. Next morning a fine mist covered the peninsula. The weather promised well, and the outline of the castle mound grew clearer each moment that Margaret watched it. Presently she saw the keep, and the sun painted the rubble gold, and charged the white sky with blue. The shadow of the house gathered itself together, and fell over the garden. A cat looked up at her window and mewed. Lastly the river appeared, still holding the mists between its banks and its overhanging alders, and only visible as far as a hill, which cut off its upper reaches. Margaret was fascinated by Oniton. She had said that she loved it, but it was rather its romantic tension that held her. The rounded Druids of whom she had caught glimpses in her drive, the rivers hurrying down from them to England, the carelessly modelled masses of the lower hills, thrilled her with poetry. The house was insignificant, but the prospect from it would be an eternal joy, and she thought of all the friends she would have to stop in it, and of the conversion of Henry himself to a rural life. Society, too, promised favourably. The rector of the parish had dined with them last night, and she found that he was a friend of her father's, and so knew what to find in her. She liked him. He would introduce her to the town. While, on her other side, Sir James Bidder sat, repeating that she only had to give the word, and he would whip up the county families for twenty miles round. Whether Sir James, who was Garden Seeds, had promised what he could perform, she doubted, but so long as Henry mistook them for the county families when they did call, she was content. Charles Wilcox and Albert Fussell now crossed the lawn. They were going for a morning dip, and a servant followed them with their bathing-suits. She had meant to take a stroll herself before breakfast, but saw that the day was still sacred to men, and amused herself by watching their contretemps. In the first place the key of the bathing-shed could not be found. Charles stood by the riverside with folded hands, tragical, while the servant shouted, and was misunderstood by another servant in the garden. Then came a difficulty about a springboard, and soon three people were running backwards and forwards over the meadow, with orders and counter orders and recriminations and apologies. If Margaret wanted to jump from a motor-car, she jumped; if Tibby thought paddling would benefit his ankles, he paddled; if a clerk desired adventure, he took a walk in the dark. But these athletes seemed paralysed. They could not bathe without their appliances, though the morning sun was calling and the last mists were rising from the dimpling stream. Had they found the life of the body after all? Could not the men whom they despised as milksops beat them, even on their own ground? She thought of the bathing arrangements as they should be in her day--no worrying of servants, no appliances, beyond good sense. Her reflections were disturbed by the quiet child, who had come out to speak to the cat, but was now watching her watch the men. She called, "Good-morning, dear," a little sharply. Her voice spread consternation. Charles looked round, and though completely attired in indigo blue, vanished into the shed, and was seen no more. "Miss Wilcox is up--" the child whispered, and then became unintelligible. "What is that?" it sounded like, "--cut-yoke--sack-back--" "I can't hear." "--On the bed--tissue-paper--" Gathering that the wedding-dress was on view, and that a visit would be seemly, she went to Evie's room. All was hilarity here. Evie, in a petticoat, was dancing with one of the Anglo-Indian ladies, while the other was adoring yards of white satin. They screamed, they laughed, they sang, and the dog barked. Margaret screamed a little too, but without conviction. She could not feel that a wedding was so funny. Perhaps something was missing in her equipment. Evie gasped: "Dolly is a rotter not to be here! Oh, we would rag just then!" Then Margaret went down to breakfast. Henry was already installed; he ate slowly and spoke little, and was, in Margaret's eyes, the only member of their party who dodged emotion successfully. She could not suppose him indifferent either to the loss of his daughter or to the presence of his future wife. Yet he dwelt intact, only issuing orders occasionally--orders that promoted the comfort of his guests. He inquired after her hand; he set her to pour out the coffee and Mrs. Warrington to pour out the tea. When Evie came down there was a moment's awkwardness, and both ladies rose to vacate their places. "Burton," called Henry, "serve tea and coffee from the sideboard!" It wasn't genuine tact, but it was tact, of a sort--the sort that is as useful as the genuine, and saves even more situations at Board meetings. Henry treated a marriage like a funeral, item by item, never raising his eyes to the whole, and "Death, where is thy sting? Love, where is thy victory?" one would exclaim at the close. After breakfast Margaret claimed a few words with him. It was always best to approach him formally. She asked for the interview, because he was going on to shoot grouse to-morrow, and she was returning to Helen in town. "Certainly, dear," said he. "Of course, I have the time. What do you want?" "Nothing." "I was afraid something had gone wrong." "No; I have nothing to say, but you may talk." Glancing at his watch, he talked of the nasty curve at the lych-gate. She heard him with interest. Her surface could always respond to his without contempt, though all her deeper being might be yearning to help him. She had abandoned any plan of action. Love is the best, and the more she let herself love him, the more chance was there that he would set his soul in order. Such a moment as this, when they sat under fair weather by the walks of their future home, was so sweet to her that its sweetness would surely pierce to him. Each lift of his eyes, each parting of the thatched lip from the clean-shaven, must prelude the tenderness that kills the Monk and the Beast at a single blow. Disappointed a hundred times, she still hoped. She loved him with too clear a vision to fear his cloudiness. Whether he droned trivialities, as to-day, or sprang kisses on her in the twilight, she could pardon him, she could respond. "If there is this nasty curve," she suggested, "couldn't we walk to the church? Not, of course, you and Evie; but the rest of us might very well go on first, and that would mean fewer carriages." "One can't have ladies walking through the Market Square. The Fussells wouldn't like it; they were awfully particular at Charles's wedding. My--she--our party was anxious to walk, and certainly the church was just round the corner, and I shouldn't have minded; but the Colonel made a great point of it." "You men shouldn't be so chivalrous," said Margaret thoughtfully. "Why not?" She knew why not, but said that she did not know. He then announced that, unless she had anything special to say, he must visit the wine-cellar, and they went off together in search of Burton. Though clumsy and a little inconvenient, Oniton was a genuine country-house. They clattered down flagged passages, looking into room after room, and scaring unknown maids from the performance of obscure duties. The wedding-breakfast must be in readiness when they come back from church, and tea would be served in the garden. The sight of so many agitated and serious people made Margaret smile, but she reflected that they were paid to be serious, and enjoyed being agitated. Here were the lower wheels of the machine that was tossing Evie up into nuptial glory. A little boy blocked their way with pig-pails. His mind could not grasp their greatness, and he said: "By your leave; let me pass, please." Henry asked him where Burton was. But the servants were so new that they did not know one another's names. In the still-room sat the band, who had stipulated for champagne as part of their fee, and who were already drinking beer. Scents of Araby came from the kitchen, mingled with cries. Margaret knew what had happened there, for it happened at Wickham Place. One of the wedding dishes had boiled over, and the cook was throwing cedar-shavings to hide the smell. At last they came upon the butler. Henry gave him the keys, and handed Margaret down the cellar-stairs. Two doors were unlocked. She, who kept all her wine at the bottom of the linen-cupboard, was astonished at the sight. "We shall never get through it!" she cried, and the two men were suddenly drawn into brotherhood, and exchanged smiles. She felt as if she had again jumped out of the car while it was moving. Certainly Oniton would take some digesting. It would be no small business to remain herself, and yet to assimilate such an establishment. She must remain herself, for his sake as well as her own, since a shadowy wife degrades the husband whom she accompanies; and she must assimilate for reasons of common honesty, since she had no right to marry a man and make him uncomfortable. Her only ally was the power of Home. The loss of Wickham Place had taught her more than its possession. Howards End had repeated the lesson. She was determined to create new sanctities among these hills. After visiting the wine-cellar, she dressed, and then came the wedding, which seemed a small affair when compared with the preparations for it. Everything went like one o'clock. Mr. Cahill materialised out of space, and was waiting for his bride at the church door. No one dropped the ring or mispronounced the responses, or trod on Evie's train, or cried. In a few minutes the clergymen performed their duty, the register was signed, and they were back in their carriages, negotiating the dangerous curve by the lych-gate. Margaret was convinced that they had not been married at all, and that the Norman church had been intent all the time on other business. There were more documents to sign at the house, and the breakfast to eat, and then a few more people dropped in for the garden party. There had been a great many refusals, and after all it was not a very big affair--not as big as Margaret's would be. She noted the dishes and the strips of red carpet, that outwardly she might give Henry what was proper. But inwardly she hoped for something better than this blend of Sunday church and fox-hunting. If only some one had been upset! But this wedding had gone off so particularly well--"quite like a durbar" in the opinion of Lady Edser, and she thoroughly agreed with her. So the wasted day lumbered forward, the bride and bridegroom drove off, yelling with laughter, and for the second time the sun retreated towards the hills of Wales. Henry, who was more tired than he owned, came up to her in the castle meadow, and, in tones of unusual softness, said that he was pleased. Everything had gone off so well. She felt that he was praising her, too, and blushed; certainly she had done all she could with his intractable friends, and had made a special point of kotowing to the men. They were breaking camp this evening; only the Warringtons and quiet child would stay the night, and the others were already moving towards the house to finish their packing. "I think it did go off well," she agreed. "Since I had to jump out of the motor, I'm thankful I lighted on my left hand. I am so very glad about it, Henry dear; I only hope that the guests at ours may be half as comfortable. You must all remember that we have no practical person among us, except my aunt, and she is not used to entertainments on a large scale." "I know," he said gravely. "Under the circumstances, it would be better to put everything into the hands of Harrods or Whiteley's, or even to go to some hotel." "You desire a hotel?" "Yes, because--well, I mustn't interfere with you. No doubt you want to be married from your old home." "My old home's falling into pieces, Henry. I only want my new. Isn't it a perfect evening--" "The Alexandrina isn't bad--" "The Alexandrina," she echoed, more occupied with the threads of smoke that were issuing from their chimneys, and ruling the sunlit slopes with parallels of grey. "It's off Curzon Street." "Is it? Let's be married from off Curzon Street." Then she turned westward, to gaze at the swirling gold. Just where the river rounded the hill the sun caught it. Fairyland must lie above the bend, and its precious liquid was pouring towards them past Charles's bathing-shed. She gazed so long that her eyes were dazzled, and when they moved back to the house, she could not recognise the faces of people who were coming out of it. A parlour-maid was preceding them. "Who are those people?" she asked. "They're callers!" exclaimed Henry. "It's too late for callers." "Perhaps they're town people who want to see the wedding presents." "I'm not at home yet to townees." "Well, hide among the ruins, and if I can stop them, I will." He thanked her. Margaret went forward, smiling socially. She supposed that these were unpunctual guests, who would have to be content with vicarious civility, since Evie and Charles were gone, Henry tired, and the others in their rooms. She assumed the airs of a hostess; not for long. For one of the group was Helen--Helen in her oldest clothes, and dominated by that tense, wounding excitement that had made her a terror in their nursery days. "What is it?" she called. "Oh, what's wrong? Is Tibby ill?" Helen spoke to her two companions, who fell back. Then she bore forward furiously. "They're starving!" she shouted. "I found them starving!" "Who? Why have you come?" "The Basts." "Oh, Helen!" moaned Margaret. "Whatever have you done now?" "He has lost his place. He has been turned out of his bank. Yes, he's done for. We upper classes have ruined him, and I suppose you'll tell me it's the battle of life. Starving. His wife is ill. Starving. She fainted in the train." "Helen, are you mad?" "Perhaps. Yes. If you like, I'm mad. But I've brought them. I'll stand injustice no longer. I'll show up the wretchedness that lies under this luxury, this talk of impersonal forces, this cant about God doing what we're too slack to do ourselves." "Have you actually brought two starving people from London to Shropshire, Helen?" Helen was checked. She had not thought of this, and her hysteria abated. "There was a restaurant car on the train," she said. "Don't be absurd. They aren't starving, and you know it. Now, begin from the beginning. I won't have such theatrical nonsense. How dare you! Yes, how dare you!" she repeated, as anger filled her, "bursting in to Evie's wedding in this heartless way. My goodness! but you've a perverted notion of philanthropy. Look"--she indicated the house--"servants, people out of the windows. They think it's some vulgar scandal, and I must explain, 'Oh no, it's only my sister screaming, and only two hangers-on of ours, whom she has brought here for no conceivable reason.'" "Kindly take back that word 'hangers-on,'" said Helen, ominously calm. "Very well," conceded Margaret, who for all her wrath was determined to avoid a real quarrel. "I, too, am sorry about them, but it beats me why you've brought them here, or why you're here yourself." "It's our last chance of seeing Mr. Wilcox." Margaret moved towards the house at this. She was determined not to worry Henry. "He's going to Scotland. I know he is. I insist on seeing him." "Yes, to-morrow." "I knew it was our last chance." "How do you do, Mr. Bast?" said Margaret, trying to control her voice. "This is an odd business. What view do you take of it?" "There is Mrs. Bast, too," prompted Helen. Jacky also shook hands. She, like her husband, was shy, and, furthermore, ill, and furthermore, so bestially stupid that she could not grasp what was happening. She only knew that the lady had swept down like a whirlwind last night, had paid the rent, redeemed the furniture, provided them with a dinner and a breakfast, and ordered them to meet her at Paddington next morning. Leonard had feebly protested, and when the morning came, had suggested that they shouldn't go. But she, half mesmerised, had obeyed. The lady had told them to, and they must, and their bed-sitting-room had accordingly changed into Paddington, and Paddington into a railway carriage, that shook, and grew hot, and grew cold, and vanished entirely, and reappeared amid torrents of expensive scent. "You have fainted," said the lady in an awe-struck voice. "Perhaps the air will do you good." And perhaps it had, for here she was, feeling rather better among a lot of flowers. "I'm sure I don't want to intrude," began Leonard, in answer to Margaret's question. "But you have been so kind to me in the past in warning me about the Porphyrion that I wondered--why, I wondered whether--" "Whether we could get him back into the Porphyrion again," supplied Helen. "Meg, this has been a cheerful business. A bright evening's work that was on Chelsea Embankment." Margaret shook her head and returned to Mr. Bast. "I don't understand. You left the Porphyrion because we suggested it was a bad concern, didn't you?" "That's right." "And went into a bank instead?" "I told you all that," said Helen; "and they reduced their staff after he had been in a month, and now he's penniless, and I consider that we and our informant are directly to blame." "I hate all this," Leonard muttered. "I hope you do, Mr. Bast. But it's no good mincing matters. You have done yourself no good by coming here. If you intend to confront Mr. Wilcox, and to call him to account for a chance remark, you will make a very great mistake." "I brought them. I did it all," cried Helen. "I can only advise you to go at once. My sister has put you in a false position, and it is kindest to tell you so. It's too late to get to town, but you'll find a comfortable hotel in Oniton, where Mrs. Bast can rest, and I hope you'll be my guests there." "That isn't what I want, Miss Schlegel," said Leonard. "You're very kind, and no doubt it's a false position, but you make me miserable. I seem no good at all." "It's work he wants," interpreted Helen. "Can't you see?" Then he said: "Jacky, let's go. We're more bother than we're worth. We're costing these ladies pounds and pounds already to get work for us, and they never will. There's nothing we're good enough to do." "We would like to find you work," said Margaret rather conventionally. "We want to--I, like my sister. You're only down in your luck. Go to the hotel, have a good night's rest, and some day you shall pay me back the bill, if you prefer it." But Leonard was near the abyss, and at such moments men see clearly. "You don't know what you're talking about," he said. "I shall never get work now. If rich people fail at one profession, they can try another. Not I. I had my groove, and I've got out of it. I could do one particular branch of insurance in one particular office well enough to command a salary, but that's all. Poetry's nothing, Miss Schlegel. One's thoughts about this and that are nothing. Your money, too, is nothing, if you'll understand me. I mean if a man over twenty once loses his own particular job, it's all over with him. I have seen it happen to others. Their friends gave them money for a little, but in the end they fall over the edge. It's no good. It's the whole world pulling. There always will be rich and poor." He ceased. "Won't you have something to eat?" said Margaret. "I don't know what to do. It isn't my house, and though Mr. Wilcox would have been glad to see you at any other time--as I say, I don't know what to do, but I undertake to do what I can for you. Helen, offer them something. Do try a sandwich, Mrs. Bast." They moved to a long table behind which a servant was still standing. Iced cakes, sandwiches innumerable, coffee, claret-cup, champagne, remained almost intact; their overfed guests could do no more. Leonard refused. Jacky thought she could manage a little. Margaret left them whispering together, and had a few more words with Helen. She said: "Helen, I like Mr. Bast. I agree that he's worth helping. I agree that we are directly responsible." "No, indirectly. Via Mr. Wilcox." "Let me tell you once for all that if you take up that attitude, I'll do nothing. No doubt you're right logically, and are entitled to say a great many scathing things about Henry. Only, I won't have it. So choose." Helen looked at the sunset. "If you promise to take them quietly to the George I will speak to Henry about them--in my own way, mind; there is to be none of this absurd screaming about justice. I have no use for justice. If it was only a question of money, we could do it ourselves. But he wants work, and that we can't give him, but possibly Henry can." "It's his duty to," grumbled Helen. "Nor am I concerned with duty. I'm concerned with the characters of various people whom we know, and how, things being as they are, things may be made a little better. Mr. Wilcox hates being asked favours; all business men do. But I am going to ask him, at the risk of a rebuff, because I want to make things a little better." "Very well. I promise. You take it very calmly." "Take them off to the George, then, and I'll try. Poor creatures! but they look tired." As they parted, she added: "I haven't nearly done with you, though, Helen. You have been most self-indulgent. I can't get over it. You have less restraint rather than more as you grow older. Think it over and alter yourself, or we shan't have happy lives." She rejoined Henry. Fortunately he had been sitting down: these physical matters were important. "Was it townees?" he asked, greeting her with a pleasant smile. "You'll never believe me," said Margaret, sitting down beside him. "It's all right now, but it was my sister." "Helen here?" he cried, preparing to rise. "But she refused the invitation. I thought hated weddings." "Don't get up. She has not come to the wedding. I've bundled her off to the George." Inherently hospitable, he protested. "No; she has two of her proteges with her and must keep with them." "Let 'em all come." "My dear Henry, did you see them?" "I did catch sight of a brown bunch of a woman, certainly." "The brown bunch was Helen, but did you catch sight of a sea-green and salmon bunch?" "What! are they out bean-feasting?" "No; business. They wanted to see me, and later on I want to talk to you about them." She was ashamed of her own diplomacy. In dealing with a Wilcox, how tempting it was to lapse from comradeship, and to give him the kind of woman that he desired! Henry took the hint at once, and said: "Why later on? Tell me now. No time like the present." "Shall I?" "If it isn't a long story." "Oh, not five minutes; but there's a sting at the end of it, for I want you to find the man some work in your office." "What are his qualifications?" "I don't know. He's a clerk." "How old?" "Twenty-five, perhaps." "What's his name?" "Bast," said Margaret, and was about to remind him that they had met at Wickham Place, but stopped herself. It had not been a successful meeting. "Where was he before?" "Dempster's Bank." "Why did he leave?" he asked, still remembering nothing. "They reduced their staff." "All right; I'll see him." It was the reward of her tact and devotion through the day. Now she understood why some women prefer influence to rights. Mrs. Plynlimmon, when condemning suffragettes, had said: "The woman who can't influence her husband to vote the way she wants ought to be ashamed of herself." Margaret had winced, but she was influencing Henry now, and though pleased at her little victory, she knew that she had won it by the methods of the harem. "I should be glad if you took him," she said, "but I don't know whether he's qualified." "I'll do what I can. But, Margaret, this mustn't be taken as a precedent." "No, of course--of course--" "I can't fit in your proteges every day. Business would suffer." "I can promise you he's the last. He--he's rather a special case." "Proteges always are." She let it stand at that. He rose with a little extra touch of complacency, and held out his hand to help her up. How wide the gulf between Henry as he was and Henry as Helen thought he ought to be! And she herself--hovering as usual between the two, now accepting men as they are, now yearning with her sister for Truth. Love and Truth--their warfare seems eternal perhaps the whole visible world rests on it, and if they were one, life itself, like the spirits when Prospero was reconciled to his brother, might vanish into air, into thin air. "Your protege has made us late," said he. "The Fussells--will just be starting." On the whole she sided with men as they are. Henry would save the Basts as he had saved Howards End, while Helen and her friends were discussing the ethics of salvation. His was a slap-dash method, but the world has been built slap-dash, and the beauty of mountain and river and sunset may be but the varnish with which the unskilled artificer hides his joins. Oniton, like herself, was imperfect. Its apple-trees were stunted, its castle ruinous. It, too, had suffered in the border warfare between the Anglo-Saxon and the Celt, between things as they are and as they ought to be. Once more the west was retreating, once again the orderly stars were dotting the eastern sky. There is certainly no rest for us on the earth. But there is happiness, and as Margaret descended the mound on her lover's arm, she felt that she was having her share. To her annoyance, Mrs. Bast was still in the garden; the husband and Helen had left her there to finish her meal while they went to engage rooms. Margaret found this woman repellent. She had felt, when shaking her hand, an overpowering shame. She remembered the motive of her call at Wickham Place, and smelt again odours from the abyss--odours the more disturbing because they were involuntary. For there was no malice in Jacky. There she sat, a piece of cake in one hand, an empty champagne glass in the other, doing no harm to anybody. "She's overtired," Margaret whispered. "She's something else," said Henry. "This won't do. I can't have her in my garden in this state." "Is she--" Margaret hesitated to add "drunk." Now that she was going to marry him, he had grown particular. He discountenanced risque conversations now. Henry went up to the woman. She raised her face, which gleamed in the twilight like a puff-ball. "Madam, you will be more comfortable at the hotel," he said sharply. Jacky replied: "If it isn't Hen!" "Ne crois pas que le mari lui ressemble," apologised Margaret. "Il est tout a fait different." "Henry!" she repeated, quite distinctly. Mr. Wilcox was much annoyed. "I congratulate you on your proteges," he remarked. "Hen, don't go. You do love me, dear, don't you?" "Bless us, what a person!" sighed Margaret, gathering up her skirts. Jacky pointed with her cake. "You're a nice boy, you are." She yawned. "There now, I love you." "Henry, I am awfully sorry." "And pray why?" he asked, and looked at her so sternly that she feared he was ill. He seemed more scandalised than the facts demanded. "To have brought this down on you." "Pray don't apologise." The voice continued. "Why does she call you 'Hen'?" said Margaret innocently. "Has she ever seen you before?" "Seen Hen before!" said Jacky. "Who hasn't seen Hen? He's serving you like me, my boys! You wait--Still we love 'em." "Are you now satisfied?" Henry asked. Margaret began to grow frightened. "I don't know what it is all about," she said. "Let's come in." But he thought she was acting. He thought he was trapped. He saw his whole life crumbling. "Don't you indeed?" he said bitingly. "I do. Allow me to congratulate you on the success of your plan." "This is Helen's plan, not mine." "I now understand your interest in the Basts. Very well thought out. I am amused at your caution, Margaret. You are quite right--it was necessary. I am a man, and have lived a man's past. I have the honour to release you from your engagement." Still she could not understand. She knew of life's seamy side as a theory; she could not grasp it as a fact. More words from Jacky were necessary--words unequivocal, undenied. "So that--" burst from her, and she went indoors. She stopped herself from saying more. "So what?" asked Colonel Fussell, who was getting ready to start in the hall. "We were saying--Henry and I were just having the fiercest argument, my point being--" Seizing his fur coat from a footman, she offered to help him on. He protested, and there was a playful little scene. "No, let me do that," said Henry, following. "Thanks so much! You see--he has forgiven me!" The Colonel said gallantly: "I don't expect there's much to forgive." He got into the car. The ladies followed him after an interval. Maids, courier, and heavier luggage had been sent on earlier by the branch-line. Still chattering, still thanking their host and patronising their future hostess, the guests were borne away. Then Margaret continued: "So that woman has been your mistress?" "You put it with your usual delicacy," he replied. "When, please?" "Why?" "When, please?" "Ten years ago." She left him without a word. For it was not her tragedy; it was Mrs. Wilcox's. Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Margaret und Helen diskutieren über Margarets Verlobung mit Henry; Helen gesteht, dass sie ihn nicht mag, verspricht aber, versuchen zu wollen, höflich zu ihm zu sein. Margaret reist mit Henry nach Hilton, wo sie mit Charles und Dolly zu Abend essen und dann einen Ausflug nach Howards End machen. Als sie ankommen, realisieren sie, dass sie den Schlüssel vergessen haben, und Margaret bleibt alleine auf der Veranda im starken Regen, während Henry zurückgeht, um ihn zu holen. Sie versucht die Tür und entdeckt, dass sie nicht abgeschlossen ist; es ist das erste Mal, dass sie jemals bei Howards End ist, und als sie durch das leere Haus schaut, denkt sie, dass es, wie die riesige Esche im Garten, wie England ist. Es ist so englisch, dass weder Henry noch ihre künstlerischen Freunde es verstehen würden. Als sie die Treppe betritt, wird sie von einer alten Frau überrascht, die die Treppe hinunterkommt: Es ist Miss Avery, eine örtliche Jungfer, die sagt, dass Margaret sie erschreckt hat. Sie dachte, Margaret sei der Geist von Mrs. Wilcox. Evie ist verärgert und ein wenig trotzig über die Verlobung ihres Vaters und bringt ihre eigene Hochzeit im August vor. Margaret reist mit Henry und einigen Wilcox Familienfreunden nach Oniton, wo die Wilcoxes vor kurzem ein altes Anwesen gemietet haben. Eine Zugfahrt wird von einer Autofahrt gefolgt; plötzlich bleibt Margaret's Auto stehen, und die Männer entladen alle Frauen und zwingen sie in das zweite Auto. Margaret verlangt zu wissen, was passiert, und erfährt, dass ihr Auto einen Hund angefahren hat. Margaret verlangt, ausgelassen zu werden, damit sie zum Unfallort zurückkehren kann, aber Charles weigert sich abwertend anzuhalten - es ist nichts, was eine Frau sehen sollte, sagt er. Wütend springt Margaret aus dem Auto und verletzt dabei ihre linke Hand. Als sie sich dem Unfallort nähert, erfährt sie, dass das Auto keinen Hund, sondern eine Katze getroffen hat. Sie fühlt sich albern und entschuldigt sich dafür, aus dem Auto gesprungen zu sein, und sagt Henry, dass sie albern gewesen sei und weiß, dass er ihr Verhalten auf weibliche Nervosität zurückführen wird. Nach der unvergesslichen Hochzeit von Evie werden Braut und Bräutigam zur Hochzeitsreise weggefahren und Margaret und Henry kehren zum Anwesen in Oniton zurück. Hier finden sie ein Trio von jämmerlich aussehenden Menschen auf der Veranda; Henry denkt, sie müssen Stadtbewohner sein, und Margaret verspricht, dafür zu sorgen, dass sie gehen. Als sie sich nähert, ist sie schockiert zu sehen, dass Helen von Leonard und Jacky Bast begleitet wird. Helen behauptet empört, dass Leonard seinen Job in der Bank verloren hat und mittellos ist; sie sagt, es sei alles ihre Schuld, weil sie ihm geraten haben, die Porphyrion zu verlassen. Margaret ist verärgert darüber, dass Helen die Basts aufs Land gebracht hat, stimmt aber zu, mit Henry über die Möglichkeit zu sprechen, Leonard einen Job zu geben. Sie fragt ihn indirekt danach, und er stimmt zu, mit Leonard zu sprechen. Als er sich nähert, nennt die betrunkene Jacky ihn "Hen" und fragt, ob er sie liebt. Margaret ist peinlich berührt, aber Henry scheint übermäßig gedemütigt und unbeholfen zu sein; er sagt wütend zu Margaret, dass ihr Plan funktioniert hat und dass sie von ihrer Verlobung befreit ist. Verwirrt drängt Margaret auf eine Erklärung und erfährt, dass Jacky vor 10 Jahren Henris Geliebte war. Henry glaubt, Margaret habe die Basts nach Oniton gebracht, um sein Geheimnis aufzudecken. Aber Margaret interessiert sich nicht für Henrys Demütigung und Verdächtigung. Das ist nicht ihr Drama, denkt sie, sondern das von Mrs. Wilcox.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten 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 FOURTH. The same rooms at the TESMANS'. It is evening. The drawing- room is in darkness. The back room is light by the hanging lamp over the table. The curtains over the glass door are drawn close. HEDDA, dressed in black, walks to and fro in the dark room. Then she goes into the back room and disappears for a moment to the left. She is heard to strike a few chords on the piano. Presently she comes in sight again, and returns to the drawing-room. BERTA enters from the right, through the inner room, with a lighted lamp, which she places on the table in front of the corner settee in the drawing-room. Her eyes are red with weeping, and she has black ribbons in her cap. She goes quietly and circumspectly out to the right. HEDDA goes up to the glass door, lifts the curtain a little aside, and looks out into the darkness. Shortly afterwards, MISS TESMAN, in mourning, with a bonnet and veil on, comes in from the hall. HEDDA goes towards her and holds out her hand. MISS TESMAN. Yes, Hedda, here I am, in mourning and forlorn; for now my poor sister has at last found peace. HEDDA. I have heard the news already, as you see. Tesman sent me a card. MISS TESMAN. Yes, he promised me he would. But nevertheless I thought that to Hedda--here in the house of life--I ought myself to bring the tidings of death. HEDDA. That was very kind of you. MISS TESMAN. Ah, Rina ought not to have left us just now. This is not the time for Hedda's house to be a house of mourning. HEDDA. [Changing the subject.] She died quite peacefully, did she not, Miss Tesman? MISS TESMAN. Oh, her end was so calm, so beautiful. And then she had the unspeakable happiness of seeing George once more--and bidding him good-bye.--Has he not come home yet? HEDDA. No. He wrote that he might be detained. But won't you sit down? MISS TESMAN. No thank you, my dear, dear Hedda. I should like to, but I have so much to do. I must prepare my dear one for her rest as well as I can. She shall go to her grave looking her best. HEDDA. Can I not help you in any way? MISS TESMAN. Oh, you must not think of it! Hedda Tesman must have no hand in such mournful work. Nor let her thought dwell on it either--not at this time. HEDDA. One is not always mistress of one's thoughts-- MISS TESMAN. [Continuing.] Ah yes, it is the way of the world. At home we shall be sewing a shroud; and here there will soon be sewing too, I suppose--but of another sort, thank God! GEORGE TESMAN enters by the hall door. HEDDA. Ah, you have come at last! TESMAN. You here, Aunt Julia? With Hedda? Fancy that! MISS TESMAN. I was just going, my dear boy. Well, have you done all you promised? TESMAN. No; I'm really afraid I have forgotten half of it. I must come to you again to-morrow. To-day my brain is all in a whirl. I can't keep my thoughts together. MISS TESMAN. Why, my dear George, you mustn't take it in this way. TESMAN. Mustn't--? How do you mean? MISS TESMAN. Even in your sorrow you must rejoice, as I do--rejoice that she is at rest. TESMAN. Oh yes, yes--you are thinking of Aunt Rina. HEDDA. You will feel lonely now, Miss Tesman. MISS TESMAN. Just at first, yes. But that will not last very long, I hope. I daresay I shall soon find an occupant for Rina's little room. TESMAN. Indeed? Who do you think will take it? Eh? MISS TESMAN. Oh, there's always some poor invalid or other in want of nursing, unfortunately. HEDDA. Would you really take such a burden upon you again? MISS TESMAN. A burden! Heaven forgive you, child--it has been no burden to me. HEDDA. But suppose you had a total stranger on your hands-- MISS TESMAN. Oh, one soon makes friends with sick folk; and it's such an absolute necessity for me to have some one to live for. Well, heaven be praised, there may soon be something in this house, too, to keep an old aunt busy. HEDDA. Oh, don't trouble about anything here. TESMAN. Yes, just fancy what a nice time we three might have together, if--? HEDDA. If--? TESMAN. [Uneasily.] Oh nothing. It will all come right. Let us hope so--eh? MISS TESMAN. Well well, I daresay you two want to talk to each other. [Smiling.] And perhaps Hedda may have something to tell you too, George. Good-bye! I must go home to Rina. [Turning at the door.] How strange it is to think that now Rina is with me and with my poor brother as well! TESMAN. Yes, fancy that, Aunt Julia! Eh? [MISS TESMAN goes out by the hall door. HEDDA. [Follows TESMAN coldly and searchingly with her eyes.] I almost believe your Aunt Rina's death affects you more than it does your Aunt Julia. TESMAN. Oh, it's not that alone. It's Eilert I am so terribly uneasy about. HEDDA. [Quickly.] Is there anything new about him? TESMAN. I looked in at his rooms this afternoon, intending to tell him the manuscript was in safe keeping. HEDDA. Well, did you find him? TESMAN. No. He wasn't at home. But afterwards I met Mrs. Elvsted, and she told me that he had been here early this morning. HEDDA. Yes, directly after you had gone. TESMAN. And he said that he had torn his manuscript to pieces--eh? HEDDA. Yes, so he declared. TESMAN. Why, good heavens, he must have been completely out of his mind! And I suppose you thought it best not to give it back to him, Hedda? HEDDA. No, he did not get it. TESMAN. But of course you told him that we had it? HEDDA. No. [Quickly.] Did you tell Mrs. Elvsted? TESMAN. No; I thought I had better not. But you ought to have told him. Fancy, if, in desperation, he should go and do himself some injury! Let me have the manuscript, Hedda! I will take it to him at once. Where is it? HEDDA. [Cold and immovable, leaning on the arm-chair.] I have not got it. TESMAN. Have not got it? What in the world do you mean? HEDDA. I have burnt it--every line of it. TESMAN. [With a violent movement of terror.] Burnt! Burnt Eilert's manuscript! HEDDA. Don't scream so. The servant might hear you. TESMAN. Burnt! Why, good God--! No, no, no! It's impossible! HEDDA. It is so, nevertheless. TESMAN. Do you know what you have done, Hedda? It's unlawful appropriation of lost property. Fancy that! Just ask Judge Brack, and he'll tell you what it is. HEDDA. I advise you not to speak of it--either to Judge Brack or to anyone else. TESMAN. But how could you do anything so unheard-of? What put it into your head? What possessed you? Answer me that--eh? HEDDA. [Suppressing an almost imperceptible smile.] I did it for your sake, George. TESMAN. For my sake! HEDDA. This morning, when you told me about what he had read to you-- TESMAN. Yes yes--what then? HEDDA. You acknowledged that you envied him his work. TESMAN. Oh, of course I didn't mean that literally. HEDDA. No matter--I could not bear the idea that any one should throw you into the shade. TESMAN. [In an outburst of mingled doubt and joy.] Hedda! Oh, is this true? But--but--I never knew you show your love like that before. Fancy that! HEDDA. Well, I may as well tell you that--just at this time-- [Impatiently breaking off.] No, no; you can ask Aunt Julia. She well tell you, fast enough. TESMAN. Oh, I almost think I understand you, Hedda! [Clasps his hands together.] Great heavens! do you really mean it! Eh? HEDDA. Don't shout so. The servant might hear. TESMAN. [Laughing in irrepressible glee.] The servant! Why, how absurd you are, Hedda. It's only my old Berta! Why, I'll tell Berta myself. HEDDA. [Clenching her hands together in desperation.] Oh, it is killing me, --it is killing me, all this! TESMAN. What is, Hedda? Eh? HEDDA. [Coldly, controlling herself.] All this--absurdity--George. TESMAN. Absurdity! Do you see anything absurd in my being overjoyed at the news! But after all--perhaps I had better not say anything to Berta. HEDDA. Oh--why not that too? TESMAN. No, no, not yet! But I must certainly tell Aunt Julia. And then that you have begun to call me George too! Fancy that! Oh, Aunt Julia will be so happy--so happy! HEDDA. When she hears that I have burnt Eilert Lovborg's manuscript--for your sake? TESMAN. No, by-the-bye--that affair of the manuscript--of course nobody must know about that. But that you love me so much,(13) Hedda--Aunt Julia must really share my joy in that! I wonder, now, whether this sort of thing is usual in young wives? Eh? HEDDA. I think you had better ask Aunt Julia that question too. TESMAN. I will indeed, some time or other. [Looks uneasy and downcast again.] And yet the manuscript--the manuscript! Good God! it is terrible to think what will become of poor Eilert now. MRS. ELVSTED, dressed as in the first Act, with hat and cloak, enters by the hall door. MRS. ELVSTED. [Greets them hurriedly, and says in evident agitation.] Oh, dear Hedda, forgive my coming again. HEDDA. What is the matter with you, Thea? TESMAN. Something about Eilert Lovborg again--eh? MRS. ELVSTED. Yes! I am dreadfully afraid some misfortune has happened to him. HEDDA. [Seized her arm.] Ah,--do you think so? TESMAN. Why, good Lord--what makes you think that, Mrs. Elvsted? MRS. ELVSTED. I heard them talking of him at my boarding-house--just as I came in. Oh, the most incredible rumours are afloat about him to-day. TESMAN. Yes, fancy, so I heard too! And I can bear witness that he went straight home to bed last night. Fancy that! HEDDA. Well, what did they say at the boarding-house? MRS. ELVSTED. Oh, I couldn't make out anything clearly. Either they knew nothing definite, or else--. They stopped talking when the saw me; and I did not dare to ask. TESMAN. [Moving about uneasily.] We must hope--we must hope that you misunderstood them, Mrs. Elvsted. MRS. ELVSTED. No, no; I am sure it was of him they were talking. And I heard something about the hospital or-- TESMAN. The hospital? HEDDA. No--surely that cannot be! MRS. ELVSTED. Oh, I was in such mortal terror! I went to his lodgings and asked for him there. HEDDA. You could make up your mind to that, Thea! MRS. ELVSTED. What else could I do? I really could bear the suspense no longer. TESMAN. But you didn't find him either--eh? MRS. ELVSTED. No. And the people knew nothing about him. He hadn't been home since yesterday afternoon, they said. TESMAN. Yesterday! Fancy, how could they say that? MRS. ELVSTED. Oh, I am sure something terrible must have happened to him. TESMAN. Hedda dear--how would it be if I were to go and make inquiries--? HEDDA. No, no--don't you mix yourself up in this affair. JUDGE BRACK, with his hat in his hand, enters by the hall door, which BERTA opens, and closes behind him. He looks grave and bows in silence. TESMAN. Oh, is that you, my dear Judge? Eh? BRACK. Yes. It was imperative I should see you this evening. TESMAN. I can see you have heard the news about Aunt Rina? BRACK. Yes, that among other things. TESMAN. Isn't it sad--eh? BRACK. Well, my dear Tesman, that depends on how you look at it. TESMAN. [Looks doubtfully at him.] Has anything else happened? BRACK. Yes. HEDDA. [In suspense.] Anything sad, Judge Brack? BRACK. That, too, depends on how you look at it, Mrs. Tesman. MRS. ELVSTED. [Unable to restrain her anxiety.] Oh! it is something about Eilert Lovborg! BRACK. [With a glance at her.] What makes you think that, Madam? Perhaps you have already heard something--? MRS. ELVSTED. [In confusion.] No, nothing at all, but-- TESMAN. Oh, for heaven's sake, tell us! BRACK. [Shrugging his shoulders.] Well, I regret to say Eilert Lovborg has been taken to the hospital. He is lying at the point of death. MRS. ELVSTED. [Shrieks.] Oh God! oh God--! TESMAN. To the hospital! And at the point of death! HEDDA. [Involuntarily.] So soon then-- MRS. ELVSTED. [Wailing.] And we parted in anger, Hedda! HEDDA. [Whispers.] Thea--Thea--be careful! MRS. ELVSTED. [Not heeding her.] I must go to him! I must see him alive! BRACK. It is useless, Madam. No one will be admitted. MRS. ELVSTED. Oh, at least tell me what has happened to him? What is it? TESMAN. You don't mean to say that he has himself-- Eh? HEDDA. Yes, I am sure he has. BRACK. [Keeping his eyes fixed upon her.] Unfortunately you have guessed quite correctly, Mrs. Tesman. MRS. ELVSTED. Oh, how horrible! TESMAN. Himself, then! Fancy that! HEDDA. Shot himself! BRACK. Rightly guessed again, Mrs. Tesman. MRS. ELVSTED. [With an effort at self-control.] When did it happen, Mr. Brack? BRACK. This afternoon--between three and four. TESMAN. But, good Lord, where did he do it? Eh? BRACK. [With some hesitation.] Where? Well--I suppose at his lodgings. MRS. ELVSTED. No, that cannot be; for I was there between six and seven. BRACK. Well then, somewhere else. I don't know exactly. I only know that he was found--. He had shot himself--in the breast. MRS. ELVSTED. Oh, how terrible! That he should die like that! HEDDA. [To BRACK.] Was it in the breast? BRACK. Yes--as I told you. HEDDA. Not in the temple? BRACK. In the breast, Mrs. Tesman. HEDDA. Well, well--the breast is a good place, too. BRACK. How do you mean, Mrs. Tesman? HEDDA. [Evasively.] Oh, nothing--nothing. TESMAN. And the wound is dangerous, you say--eh? BRACK. Absolutely mortal. The end has probably come by this time. MRS. ELVSTED. Yes, yes, I feel it. The end! The end! Oh, Hedda--! TESMAN. But tell me, how have you learnt all this? BRACK. [Curtly.] Through one of the police. A man I had some business with. HEDDA. [In a clear voice.] At last a deed worth doing! TESMAN. [Terrified.] Good heavens, Hedda! what are you saying? HEDDA. I say there is beauty in this. BRACK. H'm, Mrs. Tesman-- MRS. ELVSTED. Oh, Hedda, how can you talk of beauty in such an act! HEDDA. Eilert Lovborg has himself made up his account with life. He has had the courage to do--the one right thing. MRS. ELVSTED. No, you must never think that was how it happened! It must have been in delirium that he did it. TESMAN. In despair! HEDDA. That he did not. I am certain of that. MRS. ELVSTED. Yes, yes! In delirium! Just as when he tore up our manuscript. BRACK. [Starting.] The manuscript? Has he torn that up? MRS. ELVSTED. Yes, last night. TESMAN. [Whispers softly.] Oh, Hedda, we shall never get over this. BRACK. H'm, very extraordinary. TESMAN. [Moving about the room.] To think of Eilert going out of the world in this way! And not leaving behind him the book that would have immortalised his name-- MRS. ELVSTED. Oh, if only it could be put together again! TESMAN. Yes, if it only could! I don't know what I would not give-- MRS. ELVSTED. Perhaps it can, Mr. Tesman. TESMAN. What do you mean? MRS. ELVSTED. [Searches in the pocket of her dress.] Look here. I have kept all the loose notes he used to dictate from. HEDDA. [A step forward.] Ah--! TESMAN. You have kept them, Mrs. Elvsted! Eh? MRS. ELVSTED. Yes, I have them here. I put them in my pocket when I left home. Here they still are-- TESMAN. Oh, do let me see them! MRS. ELVSTED. [Hands him a bundle of papers.] But they are in such disorder--all mixed up. TESMAN. Fancy, if we could make something out of them, after all! Perhaps if we two put our heads together-- MRS. ELVSTED. Oh yes, at least let us try-- TESMAN. We will manage it! We must! I will dedicate my life to this task. HEDDA. You, George? Your life? TESMAN. Yes, or rather all the time I can spare. My own collections must wait in the meantime. Hedda--you understand, eh? I owe this to Eilert's memory. HEDDA. Perhaps. TESMAN. And so, my dear Mrs. Elvsted, we will give our whole minds to it. There is no use in brooding over what can't be undone--eh? We must try to control our grief as much as possible, and-- MRS. ELVSTED. Yes, yes, Mr. Tesman, I will do the best I can. TESMAN. Well then, come here. I can't rest until we have looked through the notes. Where shall we sit? Here? No, in there, in the back room. Excuse me, my dear Judge. Come with me, Mrs. Elvsted. MRS. ELVSTED. Oh, if only it were possible! [TESMAN and MRS. ELVSTED go into the back room. She takes off her hat and cloak. They both sit at the table under the hanging lamp, and are soon deep in an eager examination of the papers. HEDDA crosses to the stove and sits in the arm- chair. Presently BRACK goes up to her. HEDDA. [In a low voice.] Oh, what a sense of freedom it gives one, this act of Eilert Lovborg's. BRACK. Freedom, Mrs. Hedda? Well, of course, it is a release for him-- HEDDA. I mean for me. It gives me a sense of freedom to know that a deed of deliberate courage is still possible in this world,--a deed of spontaneous beauty. BRACK. [Smiling.] H'm--my dear Mrs. Hedda-- HEDDA. Oh, I know what you are going to say. For you are a kind of specialist too, like--you know! BRACK. [Looking hard at her.] Eilert Lovborg was more to you than perhaps you are willing to admit to yourself. Am I wrong? HEDDA. I don't answer such questions. I only know that Eilert Lovborg has had the courage to live his life after his own fashion. And then--the last great act, with its beauty! Ah! that he should have the will and the strength to turn away from the banquet of life--so early. BRACK. I am sorry, Mrs. Hedda,--but I fear I must dispel an amiable illusion. HEDDA. Illusion? BRACK. Which could not have lasted long in any case. HEDDA. What do you mean? BRACK. Eilert Lovborg did not shoot himself--voluntarily. HEDDA. Not voluntarily? BRACK. No. The thing did not happen exactly as I told it. HEDDA. [In suspense.] Have you concealed something? What is it? BRACK. For poor Mrs. Elvsted's sake I idealised the facts a little. HEDDA. What are the facts? BRACK. First, that he is already dead. HEDDA. At the hospital? BRACK. Yes--without regaining consciousness. HEDDA. What more have you concealed? BRACK. This--the event did not happen at his lodgings. HEDDA. Oh, that can make no difference. BRACK. Perhaps it may. For I must tell you--Eilert Lovborg was found shot in--in Mademoiselle Diana's boudoir. HEDDA. [Makes a motion as if to rise, but sinks back again.] That is impossible, Judge Brack! He cannot have been there again to-day. BRACK. He was there this afternoon. He went there, he said, to demand the return of something which they had taken from him. Talked wildly about a lost child-- HEDDA. Ah--so that is why-- BRACK. I thought probably he meant his manuscript; but now I hear he destroyed that himself. So I suppose it must have been his pocket-book. HEDDA. Yes, no doubt. And there--there he was found? BRACK. Yes, there. With a pistol in his breast-pocket, discharged. The ball had lodged in a vital part. HEDDA. In the breast--yes? BRACK. No--in the bowels. HEDDA. [Looks up at him with an expression of loathing.] That too! Oh, what curse is it that makes everything I touch turn ludicrous and mean? BRACK. There is one point more, Mrs. Hedda--another disagreeable feature in the affair. HEDDA. And what is that? BRACK. The pistol he carried-- HEDDA. [Breathless.] Well? What of it? BRACK. He must have stolen it. HEDDA. [Leaps up.] Stolen it! That is not true! He did not steal it! BRACK. No other explanation is possible. He must have stolen it--. Hush! TESMAN and MRS. ELVSTED have risen from the table in the back- room, and come into the drawing-room. TESMAN. [With the papers in both his hands.] Hedda, dear, it is almost impossible to see under that lamp. Think of that! HEDDA. Yes, I am thinking. TESMAN. Would you mind our sitting at you writing-table--eh? HEDDA. If you like. [Quickly.] No, wait! Let me clear it first! TESMAN. Oh, you needn't trouble, Hedda. There is plenty of room. HEDDA. No no, let me clear it, I say! I will take these things in and put them on the piano. There! [She has drawn out an object, covered with sheet music, from under the bookcase, places several other pieces of music upon it, and carries the whole into the inner room, to the left. TESMAN lays the scraps of paper on the writing-table, and moves the lamp there from the corner table. He and Mrs. Elvsted sit down and proceed with their work. HEDDA returns. HEDDA. [Behind Mrs. Elvsted's chair, gently ruffling her hair.] Well, my sweet Thea,--how goes it with Eilert Lovborg's monument? MRS. ELVSTED. [Looks dispiritedly up at her.] Oh, it will be terribly hard to put in order. TESMAN. We must manage it. I am determined. And arranging other people's papers is just the work for me. [HEDDA goes over to the stove, and seats herself on one of the footstools. BRACK stands over her, leaning on the arm-chair. HEDDA. [Whispers.] What did you say about the pistol? BRACK. [Softly.] That he must have stolen it. HEDDA. Why stolen it? BRACK. Because every other explanation ought to be impossible, Mrs. Hedda. HEDDA. Indeed? BRACK. [Glances at her.] Of course Eilert Lovborg was here this morning. Was he not? HEDDA. Yes. BRACK. Were you alone with him? HEDDA. Part of the time. BRACK. Did you not leave the room whilst he was here? HEDDA. No. BRACK. Try to recollect. Were you not out of the room a moment? HEDDA. Yes, perhaps just a moment--out in the hall. BRACK. And where was you pistol-case during that time? HEDDA. I had it locked up in-- BRACK. Well, Mrs. Hedda? HEDDA. The case stood there on the writing-table. BRACK. Have you looked since, to see whether both the pistols are there? HEDDA. No. BRACK. Well, you need not. I saw the pistol found in Lovborg's pocket, and I knew it at once as the one I had seen yesterday--and before, too. HEDDA. Have you it with you? BRACK. No; the police have it. HEDDA. What will the police do with it? BRACK. Search till they find the owner. HEDDA. Do you think they will succeed? BRACK. [Bends over her and whispers.] No, Hedda Gabler--not so long as I say nothing. HEDDA. [Looks frightened at him.] And if you do not say nothing,--what then? BRACK. [Shrugs his shoulders.] There is always the possibility that the pistol was stolen. HEDDA. [Firmly.] Death rather than that. BRACK. [Smiling.] People say such things--but they don't do them. HEDDA. [Without replying.] And supposing the pistol was not stolen, and the owner is discovered? What then? BRACK. Well, Hedda--then comes the scandal! HEDDA. The scandal! BRACK. Yes, the scandal--of which you are so mortally afraid. You will, of course, be brought before the court--both you and Mademoiselle Diana. She will have to explain how the thing happened--whether it was an accidental shot or murder. Did the pistol go off as he was trying to take it out of his pocket, to threaten her with? Or did she tear the pistol out of his hand, shoot him, and push it back into his pocket? That would be quite like her; for she is an able-bodied young person, this same Mademoiselle Diana. HEDDA. But _I_ have nothing to do with all this repulsive business. BRACK. No. But you will have to answer the question: Why did you give Eilert the pistol? And what conclusions will people draw from the fact that you did give it to him? HEDDA. [Lets her head sink.] That is true. I did not think of that. BRACK. Well, fortunately, there is no danger, so long as I say nothing. HEDDA. [Looks up at him.] So I am in your power, Judge Brack. You have me at your beck and call, from this time forward. BRACK. [Whispers softly.] Dearest Hedda--believe me--I shall not abuse my advantage. HEDDA. I am in your power none the less. Subject to your will and your demands. A slave, a slave then! [Rises impetuously.] No, I cannot endure the thought of that! Never! BRACK. [Looks half-mockingly at her.] People generally get used to the inevitable. HEDDA. [Returns his look.] Yes, perhaps. [She crosses to the writing-table. Suppressing an involuntary smile, she imitates TESMAN'S intonations.] Well? Are you getting on, George? Eh? TESMAN. Heaven knows, dear. In any case it will be the work of months. HEDDA. [As before.] Fancy that! [Passes her hands softly through Mrs. Elvsted's hair.] Doesn't it seem strange to you, Thea? Here are you sitting with Tesman--just as you used to sit with Eilert Lovborg? MRS. ELVSTED. Ah, if I could only inspire your husband in the same way! HEDDA. Oh, that will come too--in time. TESMAN. Yes, do you know, Hedda--I really think I begin to feel something of the sort. But won't you go and sit with Brack again? HEDDA. Is there nothing I can do to help you two? TESMAN. No, nothing in the world. [Turning his head.] I trust to you to keep Hedda company, my dear Brack. BRACK. [With a glance at HEDDA.] With the very greatest of pleasure. HEDDA. Thanks. But I am tired this evening. I will go in and lie down a little on the sofa. TESMAN. Yes, do dear--eh? [HEDDA goes into the back room and draws the curtains. A short pause. Suddenly she is heard playing a wild dance on the piano. MRS. ELVSTED. [Starts from her chair.] Oh--what is that? TESMAN. [Runs to the doorway.] Why, my dearest Hedda--don't play dance-music to-night! Just think of Aunt Rina! And of Eilert too! HEDDA. [Puts her head out between the curtains.] And of Aunt Julia. And of all the rest of them.--After this, I will be quiet. [Closes the curtains again.] TESMAN. [At the writing-table.] It's not good for her to see us at this distressing work. I'll tell you what, Mrs. Elvsted,--you shall take the empty room at Aunt Julia's, and then I will come over in the evenings, and we can sit and work there--eh? HEDDA. [In the inner room.] I hear what you are saying, Tesman. But how am _I_ to get through the evenings out here? TESMAN. [Turning over the papers.] Oh, I daresay Judge Brack will be so kind as to look in now and then, even though I am out. BRACK. [In the arm-chair, calls out gaily.] Every blessed evening, with all the pleasure in life, Mrs. Tesman! We shall get on capitally together, we two! HEDDA. [Speaking loud and clear.] Yes, don't you flatter yourself we will, Judge Brack? Now that you are the one cock in the basket-- [A shot is heard within. TESMAN, MRS. ELVSTED, and BRACK leap to their feet. TESMAN. Oh, now she is playing with those pistols again. [He throws back the curtains and runs in, followed by MRS. ELVSTED. HEDDA lies stretched on the sofa, lifeless. Confusion and cries. BERTA enters in alarm from the right. TESMAN. [Shrieks to BRACK.] Shot herself! Shot herself in the temple! Fancy that! BRACK. [Half-fainting in the arm-chair.] Good God!--people don't do such things. THE END FOOTNOTES. (1)Pronounce _Reena_. (2)In the original "Statsradinde Falks villa"--showing that it had belonged to the widow of a cabinet minister. (3)_Du_ equals thou: Tesman means, "If you could persuade yourself to _tutoyer_ her." (4)See previous note. (5)Pronounce _Tora_ and _Taya_. (6)Mrs. Elvsted here uses the formal pronoun _De_, whereupon Hedda rebukes her. In her next speech Mrs. Elvsted says _du_. (7)"Bagveje" means both "back ways" and "underhand courses." (8)As this form of address is contrary to English usage, and as the note of familiarity would be lacking in "Mrs. Tesman," Brack may, in stage representation, say "Miss Hedda," thus ignoring her marriage and reverting to the form of address no doubt customary between them of old. (9)He uses the familiar _du_. (10)From this point onward Lovborg use the formal _De_. (11)In this speech he once more says _du_. Hedda addresses him throughout as _De_. (12)"Enest hane i kurven"--a proverbial saying. (13)Literally, "That you burn for me." Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze verfassen?

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Später am Abend kommt Tante Julia ins Haus, um die Nachricht vom Tod von Tante Rina "im Haus des Lebens" zu überbringen. Sie erzählt Hedda, dass sie beschlossen hat, einen armen Invaliden zu finden, der Pflege braucht, um sich selbst zu beschäftigen. Tesman kehrt zurück und obwohl er sehr von dem Tod seiner Tante betroffen ist, ist er mehr um Lovborg besorgt. Frau Elvsted hat ihm von Lovborgs Besuch am Morgen und der Geschichte vom Zerreißen seines Manuskripts erzählt. Er hat ihr nicht gesagt, dass er es gefunden und Hedda zur "Aufbewahrung" gegeben hat. Nun bittet er Hedda, es ihm zu geben, damit er es zurückgeben kann, und ist ziemlich schockiert, als sie ihm mitteilt, dass sie es zerstört hat. Sie sagt ihm, dass sie es getan hat, weil er neidisch auf Lovborg war und dies ihre Art war, ihre Liebe zu zeigen. Sie verkündet auch, dass sie ein Kind erwartet. Tesman, sehr glücklich über die Nachricht, stimmt der Verschwörung zu und schweigt über das Manuskript. Frau Elvsted kommt mit der Nachricht, dass unglaubliche Gerüchte über Lovborg im Umlauf sind. Zu diesem Zeitpunkt kommt auch Brack an und verkündet, dass Lovborg im Krankenhaus liegt und dem Tod nahe ist. Frau Elvsted ist verzweifelt vor Sorge und möchte ihn sofort sehen, aber Brack bringt sie davon ab. Er erzählt ihnen, dass er sich heute Nachmittag in die Brust geschossen hat und dass er im Sterben liegt. Überraschenderweise betont Hedda, dass es Schönheit in seiner Tat gibt. Frau Elvsted und Tesman glauben, dass er sich aus Verzweiflung über das Manuskript erschossen hat. Tesman bedauert Lovborgs Tat, weil das Manuskript seinen Namen unsterblich gemacht hätte. Frau Elvsted durchsucht ihre Manteltaschen und stellt fest, dass sie all seine Notizen aus dem Buch bei sich hat. Tesman wird aufgeregt und sagt, dass sie das Buch wieder zusammenfügen müssen. Fast sofort setzen sich die beiden an diese monumentale Aufgabe. In der Zwischenzeit bleibt Hedda allein mit Brack und verharrt im Bild von Lovborgs Tod, der für sie edel und romantisch war. Brack enthüllt jedoch die wahre Geschichte hinter der von ihm erfundenen Geschichte. Er hatte die Fakten nur ein wenig für Frau Elvsted idealisiert, aber in Wirklichkeit war Lovborg bereits tot, erschossen im Bauchnabelzimmer von Fräulein Diana mit Heddas Pistole. Hedda ist bestürzt über die Nachricht, wie schändlich Lovborg gestorben ist. Sie verzweifelt an ihrer eigenen Rolle in seinem Tod und bemerkt, dass alles, was sie berührt, "lächerlich und gemein" ist. Brack reagiert nicht darauf, sondern lässt durchblicken, dass sie verhindern muss, dass ein Skandal entsteht, und behaupten muss, dass Lovborg die Pistole gestohlen hat, als er sie früher am Tag besuchte. Die Polizei würde die Pistole nicht auf sie zurückführen können, solange er nichts sagt. Wenn der Eigentümer ermittelt wird, müsste Hedda vor Gericht gezogen werden. Brack versichert ihr erneut, dass keine solche Gefahr besteht, solange er schweigt. Hedda erkennt, dass sie jetzt in seiner Gewalt ist, dass er "der einzige Hahn im Korb" ist. Sie sagt ihm, dass sie sich ihm niemals unterwerfen wird, auch wenn Brack ihr versichert, dass "Menschen sich im Allgemeinen an das Unvermeidliche gewöhnen". Hedda geht zu Frau Elvsted und berührt ihr schönes Haar, sagt, dass sie mit ihrem Ehemann sitzt, so wie sie es einst mit Eilert getan hat. Tesman bemerkt, dass Thea sich als Inspiration erweist. Die beiden sind so vertieft in ihre Arbeit, dass Tesman seine geliebte Hedda vergisst. Sie planen, sich bei Tante Julia zu treffen, wo Thea ein Zimmer mieten wird. Als Hedda klagend fragt, was sie tun soll, bittet Tesman Brack, ihr Gesellschaft zu leisten, und Brack ist nur zu glücklich und bereit dazu. Sie wollen auch ihren Schreibtisch benutzen, und während Hedda ihn für sie aufräumt, nimmt sie die Pistole weg und stellt sie auf das Klavier im Nebenzimmer. Als Hedda erkennt, dass sie vollkommen in Bracks Gewalt ist und dass sie sogar von Thea als Tesmans Interessensquelle verdrängt wurde, geht sie in den Hinterzimmer, zieht den Vorhang zu und spielt ein populäres Tanzstück auf dem Klavier. Die Musik endet und ein Schuss ertönt abseits der Bühne. Tesman, Brack und Thea entdecken Hedda leblos auf dem Sofa, mit einem Schuss in die Schläfe.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: Cyrano, Le Bret. Then actors, actresses, Cuigy, Brissaille, Ligniere, the porter, the violinists. CYRANO (falling into Le Bret's arms): A rendezvous. . .from her!. . . LE BRET: You're sad no more! CYRANO: Ah! Let the world go burn! She knows I live! LE BRET: Now you'll be calm, I hope? CYRANO (beside himself for joy): Calm? I now calm? I'll be frenetic, frantic,--raving mad! Oh, for an army to attack!--a host! I've ten hearts in my breast; a score of arms; No dwarfs to cleave in twain!. . . (Wildly): No! Giants now! (For a few moments the shadows of the actors have been moving on the stage, whispers are heard--the rehearsal is beginning. The violinists are in their places.) A VOICE FROM THE STAGE: Hollo there! Silence! We rehearse! CYRANO (laughing): We go! (He moves away. By the big door enter Cuigy, Brissaille, and some officers, holding up Ligniere, who is drunk.) CUIGY: Cyrano! CYRANO: Well, what now? CUIGY: A lusty thrush They're bringing you! CYRANO (recognizing him): Ligniere!. . .What has chanced? CUIGY: He seeks you! BRISSAILLE: He dare not go home! CYRANO: Why not? LIGNIERE (in a husky voice, showing him a crumpled letter): This letter warns me. . .that a hundred men. . . Revenge that threatens me. . .that song, you know-- At the Porte de Nesle. To get to my own house I must pass there. . .I dare not!. . .Give me leave To sleep to-night beneath your roof! Allow. . . CYRANO: A hundred men? You'll sleep in your own bed! LIGNIERE (frightened): But-- CYRANO (in a terrible voice, showing him the lighted lantern held by the porter, who is listening curiously): Take the lantern. (Ligniere seizes it): Let us start! I swear That I will make your bed to-night myself! (To the officers): Follow; some stay behind, as witnesses! CUIGY: A hundred!. . . CYRANO: Less, to-night--would be too few! (The actors and actresses, in their costumes, have come down from the stage, and are listening.) LE BRET: But why embroil yourself? CYRANO: Le Bret who scolds! LE BRET: That worthless drunkard!-- CYRANO (slapping Ligniere on the shoulder): Wherefore? For this cause;-- This wine-barrel, this cask of Burgundy, Did, on a day, an action full of grace; As he was leaving church, he saw his love Take holy water--he, who is affeared At water's taste, ran quickly to the stoup, And drank it all, to the last drop!. . . AN ACTRESS: Indeed, that was a graceful thing! CYRANO: Ay, was it not? THE ACTRESS (to the others): But why a hundred men 'gainst one poor rhymer? CYRANO: March! (To the officers): Gentlemen, when you shall see me charge, Bear me no succor, none, whate'er the odds! ANOTHER ACTRESS (jumping from the stage): Oh! I shall come and see! CYRANO: Come, then! ANOTHER (jumping down--to an old actor): And you?. . . CYRANO: Come all--the Doctor, Isabel, Leander, Come, for you shall add, in a motley swarm, The farce Italian to this Spanish drama! ALL THE WOMEN (dancing for joy): Bravo!--a mantle, quick!--my hood! JODELET: Come on! CYRANO: Play us a march, gentlemen of the band! (The violinists join the procession, which is forming. They take the footlights, and divide them for torches): Brave officers! next, women in costume, And, twenty paces on-- (He takes his place): I all alone, Beneath the plume that Glory lends, herself, To deck my beaver--proud as Scipio!. . . --You hear me?--I forbid you succor me!-- One, two three! Porter, open wide the doors! (The porter opens the doors; a view of old Paris in the moonlight is seen): Ah!. . .Paris wrapped in night! half nebulous: The moonlight streams o'er the blue-shadowed roofs; A lovely frame for this wild battle-scene; Beneath the vapor's floating scarves, the Seine Trembles, mysterious, like a magic mirror, And, shortly, you shall see what you shall see! ALL: To the Porte de Nesle! CYRANO (standing on the threshold): Ay, to the Porte de Nesle! (Turning to the actress): Did you not ask, young lady, for what cause Against this rhymer fivescore men were sent? (He draws his sword; then, calmly): 'Twas that they knew him for a friend of mine! (He goes out. Ligniere staggers first after him, then the actresses on the officers' arms--the actors. The procession starts to the sound of the violins and in the faint light of the candles.) Curtain. Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Als diese Szene beginnt, befindet sich Cyrano in einem Zustand frenetischer Begeisterung, weil Roxane seine Existenz anerkannt hat. Er möchte ihr seinen Wert beweisen, indem er seinen Mut zeigt. Zwei Herren, Cuigy und Brissaille, betreten mit dem betrunkenen Ligniere den Raum, der erklärt, dass hundert Männer darauf warten, ihn anzugreifen. Cyrano bietet an, ihn zu schützen, indem er ihn mit einer Truppe von Offizieren begleitet. Er erklärt jedoch, dass er die Angreifer alleine und ohne Hilfe finden werde. Als sie sich für den Aufbruch vorbereiten, schließen sich mehrere andere der Gruppe an und möchten sehen, was an der Porte de Nesle passiert. Als sie aufbrechen, führt Cyrano stolz die Gruppe an. Er hält inne, um zu sagen, dass es nötig war, hundert Männer zu schicken, um Ligniere zu töten, weil jeder weiß, dass er ein Freund von ihm ist, was darauf hindeutet, dass jeder Cyrano fürchtet.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: Arouse the tiger of Hyrcanian deserts, Strive with the half-starved lion for his prey; Lesser the risk, than rouse the slumbering fire Of wild Fanaticism. --Anonymus Our tale now returns to Isaac of York.--Mounted upon a mule, the gift of the Outlaw, with two tall yeomen to act as his guard and guides, the Jew had set out for the Preceptory of Templestowe, for the purpose of negotiating his daughter's redemption. The Preceptory was but a day's journey from the demolished castle of Torquilstone, and the Jew had hoped to reach it before nightfall; accordingly, having dismissed his guides at the verge of the forest, and rewarded them with a piece of silver, he began to press on with such speed as his weariness permitted him to exert. But his strength failed him totally ere he had reached within four miles of the Temple-Court; racking pains shot along his back and through his limbs, and the excessive anguish which he felt at heart being now augmented by bodily suffering, he was rendered altogether incapable of proceeding farther than a small market-town, were dwelt a Jewish Rabbi of his tribe, eminent in the medical profession, and to whom Isaac was well known. Nathan Ben Israel received his suffering countryman with that kindness which the law prescribed, and which the Jews practised to each other. He insisted on his betaking himself to repose, and used such remedies as were then in most repute to check the progress of the fever, which terror, fatigue, ill usage, and sorrow, had brought upon the poor old Jew. On the morrow, when Isaac proposed to arise and pursue his journey, Nathan remonstrated against his purpose, both as his host and as his physician. It might cost him, he said, his life. But Isaac replied, that more than life and death depended upon his going that morning to Templestowe. "To Templestowe!" said his host with surprise again felt his pulse, and then muttered to himself, "His fever is abated, yet seems his mind somewhat alienated and disturbed." "And why not to Templestowe?" answered his patient. "I grant thee, Nathan, that it is a dwelling of those to whom the despised Children of the Promise are a stumbling-block and an abomination; yet thou knowest that pressing affairs of traffic sometimes carry us among these bloodthirsty Nazarene soldiers, and that we visit the Preceptories of the Templars, as well as the Commanderies of the Knights Hospitallers, as they are called." [48] "I know it well," said Nathan; "but wottest thou that Lucas de Beaumanoir, the chief of their Order, and whom they term Grand Master, is now himself at Templestowe?" "I know it not," said Isaac; "our last letters from our brethren at Paris advised us that he was at that city, beseeching Philip for aid against the Sultan Saladine." "He hath since come to England, unexpected by his brethren," said Ben Israel; "and he cometh among them with a strong and outstretched arm to correct and to punish. His countenance is kindled in anger against those who have departed from the vow which they have made, and great is the fear of those sons of Belial. Thou must have heard of his name?" "It is well known unto me," said Isaac; "the Gentiles deliver this Lucas Beaumanoir as a man zealous to slaying for every point of the Nazarene law; and our brethren have termed him a fierce destroyer of the Saracens, and a cruel tyrant to the Children of the Promise." "And truly have they termed him," said Nathan the physician. "Other Templars may be moved from the purpose of their heart by pleasure, or bribed by promise of gold and silver; but Beaumanoir is of a different stamp--hating sensuality, despising treasure, and pressing forward to that which they call the crown of martyrdom--The God of Jacob speedily send it unto him, and unto them all! Specially hath this proud man extended his glove over the children of Judah, as holy David over Edom, holding the murder of a Jew to be an offering of as sweet savour as the death of a Saracen. Impious and false things has he said even of the virtues of our medicines, as if they were the devices of Satan--The Lord rebuke him!" "Nevertheless," said Isaac, "I must present myself at Templestowe, though he hath made his face like unto a fiery furnace seven times heated." He then explained to Nathan the pressing cause of his journey. The Rabbi listened with interest, and testified his sympathy after the fashion of his people, rending his clothes, and saying, "Ah, my daughter!--ah, my daughter!--Alas! for the beauty of Zion!--Alas! for the captivity of Israel!" "Thou seest," said Isaac, "how it stands with me, and that I may not tarry. Peradventure, the presence of this Lucas Beaumanoir, being the chief man over them, may turn Brian de Bois-Guilbert from the ill which he doth meditate, and that he may deliver to me my beloved daughter Rebecca." "Go thou," said Nathan Ben Israel, "and be wise, for wisdom availed Daniel in the den of lions into which he was cast; and may it go well with thee, even as thine heart wisheth. Yet, if thou canst, keep thee from the presence of the Grand Master, for to do foul scorn to our people is his morning and evening delight. It may be if thou couldst speak with Bois-Guilbert in private, thou shalt the better prevail with him; for men say that these accursed Nazarenes are not of one mind in the Preceptory--May their counsels be confounded and brought to shame! But do thou, brother, return to me as if it were to the house of thy father, and bring me word how it has sped with thee; and well do I hope thou wilt bring with thee Rebecca, even the scholar of the wise Miriam, whose cures the Gentiles slandered as if they had been wrought by necromancy." Isaac accordingly bade his friend farewell, and about an hour's riding brought him before the Preceptory of Templestowe. This establishment of the Templars was seated amidst fair meadows and pastures, which the devotion of the former Preceptor had bestowed upon their Order. It was strong and well fortified, a point never neglected by these knights, and which the disordered state of England rendered peculiarly necessary. Two halberdiers, clad in black, guarded the drawbridge, and others, in the same sad livery, glided to and fro upon the walls with a funereal pace, resembling spectres more than soldiers. The inferior officers of the Order were thus dressed, ever since their use of white garments, similar to those of the knights and esquires, had given rise to a combination of certain false brethren in the mountains of Palestine, terming themselves Templars, and bringing great dishonour on the Order. A knight was now and then seen to cross the court in his long white cloak, his head depressed on his breast, and his arms folded. They passed each other, if they chanced to meet, with a slow, solemn, and mute greeting; for such was the rule of their Order, quoting thereupon the holy texts, "In many words thou shalt not avoid sin," and "Life and death are in the power of the tongue." In a word, the stern ascetic rigour of the Temple discipline, which had been so long exchanged for prodigal and licentious indulgence, seemed at once to have revived at Templestowe under the severe eye of Lucas Beaumanoir. Isaac paused at the gate, to consider how he might seek entrance in the manner most likely to bespeak favour; for he was well aware, that to his unhappy race the reviving fanaticism of the Order was not less dangerous than their unprincipled licentiousness; and that his religion would be the object of hate and persecution in the one case, as his wealth would have exposed him in the other to the extortions of unrelenting oppression. Meantime Lucas Beaumanoir walked in a small garden belonging to the Preceptory, included within the precincts of its exterior fortification, and held sad and confidential communication with a brother of his Order, who had come in his company from Palestine. The Grand Master was a man advanced in age, as was testified by his long grey beard, and the shaggy grey eyebrows overhanging eyes, of which, however, years had been unable to quench the fire. A formidable warrior, his thin and severe features retained the soldier's fierceness of expression; an ascetic bigot, they were no less marked by the emaciation of abstinence, and the spiritual pride of the self-satisfied devotee. Yet with these severer traits of physiognomy, there was mixed somewhat striking and noble, arising, doubtless, from the great part which his high office called upon him to act among monarchs and princes, and from the habitual exercise of supreme authority over the valiant and high-born knights, who were united by the rules of the Order. His stature was tall, and his gait, undepressed by age and toil, was erect and stately. His white mantle was shaped with severe regularity, according to the rule of Saint Bernard himself, being composed of what was then called Burrel cloth, exactly fitted to the size of the wearer, and bearing on the left shoulder the octangular cross peculiar to the Order, formed of red cloth. No vair or ermine decked this garment; but in respect of his age, the Grand Master, as permitted by the rules, wore his doublet lined and trimmed with the softest lambskin, dressed with the wool outwards, which was the nearest approach he could regularly make to the use of fur, then the greatest luxury of dress. In his hand he bore that singular "abacus", or staff of office, with which Templars are usually represented, having at the upper end a round plate, on which was engraved the cross of the Order, inscribed within a circle or orle, as heralds term it. His companion, who attended on this great personage, had nearly the same dress in all respects, but his extreme deference towards his Superior showed that no other equality subsisted between them. The Preceptor, for such he was in rank, walked not in a line with the Grand Master, but just so far behind that Beaumanoir could speak to him without turning round his head. "Conrade," said the Grand Master, "dear companion of my battles and my toils, to thy faithful bosom alone I can confide my sorrows. To thee alone can I tell how oft, since I came to this kingdom, I have desired to be dissolved and to be with the just. Not one object in England hath met mine eye which it could rest upon with pleasure, save the tombs of our brethren, beneath the massive roof of our Temple Church in yonder proud capital. O, valiant Robert de Ros! did I exclaim internally, as I gazed upon these good soldiers of the cross, where they lie sculptured on their sepulchres,--O, worthy William de Mareschal! open your marble cells, and take to your repose a weary brother, who would rather strive with a hundred thousand pagans than witness the decay of our Holy Order!" "It is but true," answered Conrade Mont-Fitchet; "it is but too true; and the irregularities of our brethren in England are even more gross than those in France." "Because they are more wealthy," answered the Grand Master. "Bear with me, brother, although I should something vaunt myself. Thou knowest the life I have led, keeping each point of my Order, striving with devils embodied and disembodied, striking down the roaring lion, who goeth about seeking whom he may devour, like a good knight and devout priest, wheresoever I met with him--even as blessed Saint Bernard hath prescribed to us in the forty-fifth capital of our rule, 'Ut Leo semper feriatur'. [49] "But by the Holy Temple! the zeal which hath devoured my substance and my life, yea, the very nerves and marrow of my bones; by that very Holy Temple I swear to thee, that save thyself and some few that still retain the ancient severity of our Order, I look upon no brethren whom I can bring my soul to embrace under that holy name. What say our statutes, and how do our brethren observe them? They should wear no vain or worldly ornament, no crest upon their helmet, no gold upon stirrup or bridle-bit; yet who now go pranked out so proudly and so gaily as the poor soldiers of the Temple? They are forbidden by our statutes to take one bird by means of another, to shoot beasts with bow or arblast, to halloo to a hunting-horn, or to spur the horse after game. But now, at hunting and hawking, and each idle sport of wood and river, who so prompt as the Templars in all these fond vanities? They are forbidden to read, save what their Superior permitted, or listen to what is read, save such holy things as may be recited aloud during the hours of refaction; but lo! their ears are at the command of idle minstrels, and their eyes study empty romaunts. They were commanded to extirpate magic and heresy. Lo! they are charged with studying the accursed cabalistical secrets of the Jews, and the magic of the Paynim Saracens. Simpleness of diet was prescribed to them, roots, pottage, gruels, eating flesh but thrice a-week, because the accustomed feeding on flesh is a dishonourable corruption of the body; and behold, their tables groan under delicate fare! Their drink was to be water, and now, to drink like a Templar, is the boast of each jolly boon companion! This very garden, filled as it is with curious herbs and trees sent from the Eastern climes, better becomes the harem of an unbelieving Emir, than the plot which Christian Monks should devote to raise their homely pot-herbs.--And O, Conrade! well it were that the relaxation of discipline stopped even here!--Well thou knowest that we were forbidden to receive those devout women, who at the beginning were associated as sisters of our Order, because, saith the forty-sixth chapter, the Ancient Enemy hath, by female society, withdrawn many from the right path to paradise. Nay, in the last capital, being, as it were, the cope-stone which our blessed founder placed on the pure and undefiled doctrine which he had enjoined, we are prohibited from offering, even to our sisters and our mothers, the kiss of affection--'ut omnium mulierum fugiantur oscula'.--I shame to speak--I shame to think--of the corruptions which have rushed in upon us even like a flood. The souls of our pure founders, the spirits of Hugh de Payen and Godfrey de Saint Omer, and of the blessed Seven who first joined in dedicating their lives to the service of the Temple, are disturbed even in the enjoyment of paradise itself. I have seen them, Conrade, in the visions of the night--their sainted eyes shed tears for the sins and follies of their brethren, and for the foul and shameful luxury in which they wallow. Beaumanoir, they say, thou slumberest--awake! There is a stain in the fabric of the Temple, deep and foul as that left by the streaks of leprosy on the walls of the infected houses of old. [50] "The soldiers of the Cross, who should shun the glance of a woman as the eye of a basilisk, live in open sin, not with the females of their own race only, but with the daughters of the accursed heathen, and more accursed Jew. Beaumanoir, thou sleepest; up, and avenge our cause!--Slay the sinners, male and female!--Take to thee the brand of Phineas!--The vision fled, Conrade, but as I awaked I could still hear the clank of their mail, and see the waving of their white mantles.--And I will do according to their word, I WILL purify the fabric of the Temple! and the unclean stones in which the plague is, I will remove and cast out of the building." "Yet bethink thee, reverend father," said Mont-Fitchet, "the stain hath become engrained by time and consuetude; let thy reformation be cautious, as it is just and wise." "No, Mont-Fitchet," answered the stern old man--"it must be sharp and sudden--the Order is on the crisis of its fate. The sobriety, self-devotion, and piety of our predecessors, made us powerful friends--our presumption, our wealth, our luxury, have raised up against us mighty enemies.--We must cast away these riches, which are a temptation to princes--we must lay down that presumption, which is an offence to them--we must reform that license of manners, which is a scandal to the whole Christian world! Or--mark my words--the Order of the Temple will be utterly demolished--and the Place thereof shall no more be known among the nations." "Now may God avert such a calamity!" said the Preceptor. "Amen," said the Grand Master, with solemnity, "but we must deserve his aid. I tell thee, Conrade, that neither the powers in Heaven, nor the powers on earth, will longer endure the wickedness of this generation--My intelligence is sure--the ground on which our fabric is reared is already undermined, and each addition we make to the structure of our greatness will only sink it the sooner in the abyss. We must retrace our steps, and show ourselves the faithful Champions of the Cross, sacrificing to our calling, not alone our blood and our lives--not alone our lusts and our vices--but our ease, our comforts, and our natural affections, and act as men convinced that many a pleasure which may be lawful to others, is forbidden to the vowed soldier of the Temple." At this moment a squire, clothed in a threadbare vestment, (for the aspirants after this holy Order wore during their noviciate the cast-off garments of the knights,) entered the garden, and, bowing profoundly before the Grand Master, stood silent, awaiting his permission ere he presumed to tell his errand. "Is it not more seemly," said the Grand Master, "to see this Damian, clothed in the garments of Christian humility, thus appear with reverend silence before his Superior, than but two days since, when the fond fool was decked in a painted coat, and jangling as pert and as proud as any popinjay?--Speak, Damian, we permit thee--What is thine errand?" "A Jew stands without the gate, noble and reverend father," said the Squire, "who prays to speak with brother Brian de Bois-Guilbert." "Thou wert right to give me knowledge of it," said the Grand Master; "in our presence a Preceptor is but as a common compeer of our Order, who may not walk according to his own will, but to that of his Master--even according to the text, 'In the hearing of the ear he hath obeyed me.'--It imports us especially to know of this Bois-Guilbert's proceedings," said he, turning to his companion. "Report speaks him brave and valiant," said Conrade. "And truly is he so spoken of," said the Grand Master; "in our valour only we are not degenerated from our predecessors, the heroes of the Cross. But brother Brian came into our Order a moody and disappointed man, stirred, I doubt me, to take our vows and to renounce the world, not in sincerity of soul, but as one whom some touch of light discontent had driven into penitence. Since then, he hath become an active and earnest agitator, a murmurer, and a machinator, and a leader amongst those who impugn our authority; not considering that the rule is given to the Master even by the symbol of the staff and the rod--the staff to support the infirmities of the weak--the rod to correct the faults of delinquents.--Damian," he continued, "lead the Jew to our presence." The squire departed with a profound reverence, and in a few minutes returned, marshalling in Isaac of York. No naked slave, ushered into the presence of some mighty prince, could approach his judgment-seat with more profound reverence and terror than that with which the Jew drew near to the presence of the Grand Master. When he had approached within the distance of three yards, Beaumanoir made a sign with his staff that he should come no farther. The Jew kneeled down on the earth which he kissed in token of reverence; then rising, stood before the Templars, his hands folded on his bosom, his head bowed on his breast, in all the submission of Oriental slavery. "Damian," said the Grand Master, "retire, and have a guard ready to await our sudden call; and suffer no one to enter the garden until we shall leave it."--The squire bowed and retreated.--"Jew," continued the haughty old man, "mark me. It suits not our condition to hold with thee long communication, nor do we waste words or time upon any one. Wherefore be brief in thy answers to what questions I shall ask thee, and let thy words be of truth; for if thy tongue doubles with me, I will have it torn from thy misbelieving jaws." The Jew was about to reply, but the Grand Master went on. "Peace, unbeliever!--not a word in our presence, save in answer to our questions.--What is thy business with our brother Brian de Bois-Guilbert?" Isaac gasped with terror and uncertainty. To tell his tale might be interpreted into scandalizing the Order; yet, unless he told it, what hope could he have of achieving his daughter's deliverance? Beaumanoir saw his mortal apprehension, and condescended to give him some assurance. "Fear nothing," he said, "for thy wretched person, Jew, so thou dealest uprightly in this matter. I demand again to know from thee thy business with Brian de Bois-Guilbert?" "I am bearer of a letter," stammered out the Jew, "so please your reverend valour, to that good knight, from Prior Aymer of the Abbey of Jorvaulx." "Said I not these were evil times, Conrade?" said the Master. "A Cistertian Prior sends a letter to a soldier of the Temple, and can find no more fitting messenger than an unbelieving Jew.--Give me the letter." The Jew, with trembling hands, undid the folds of his Armenian cap, in which he had deposited the Prior's tablets for the greater security, and was about to approach, with hand extended and body crouched, to place it within the reach of his grim interrogator. "Back, dog!" said the Grand Master; "I touch not misbelievers, save with the sword.--Conrade, take thou the letter from the Jew, and give it to me." Beaumanoir, being thus possessed of the tablets, inspected the outside carefully, and then proceeded to undo the packthread which secured its folds. "Reverend father," said Conrade, interposing, though with much deference, "wilt thou break the seal?" "And will I not?" said Beaumanoir, with a frown. "Is it not written in the forty-second capital, 'De Lectione Literarum' that a Templar shall not receive a letter, no not from his father, without communicating the same to the Grand Master, and reading it in his presence?" He then perused the letter in haste, with an expression of surprise and horror; read it over again more slowly; then holding it out to Conrade with one hand, and slightly striking it with the other, exclaimed--"Here is goodly stuff for one Christian man to write to another, and both members, and no inconsiderable members, of religious professions! When," said he solemnly, and looking upward, "wilt thou come with thy fanners to purge the thrashing-floor?" Mont-Fitchet took the letter from his Superior, and was about to peruse it. "Read it aloud, Conrade," said the Grand Master,--"and do thou" (to Isaac) "attend to the purport of it, for we will question thee concerning it." Conrade read the letter, which was in these words: "Aymer, by divine grace, Prior of the Cistertian house of Saint Mary's of Jorvaulx, to Sir Brian de Bois-Guilbert, a Knight of the holy Order of the Temple, wisheth health, with the bounties of King Bacchus and of my Lady Venus. Touching our present condition, dear Brother, we are a captive in the hands of certain lawless and godless men, who have not feared to detain our person, and put us to ransom; whereby we have also learned of Front-de-Boeuf's misfortune, and that thou hast escaped with that fair Jewish sorceress, whose black eyes have bewitched thee. We are heartily rejoiced of thy safety; nevertheless, we pray thee to be on thy guard in the matter of this second Witch of Endor; for we are privately assured that your Great Master, who careth not a bean for cherry cheeks and black eyes, comes from Normandy to diminish your mirth, and amend your misdoings. Wherefore we pray you heartily to beware, and to be found watching, even as the Holy Text hath it, 'Invenientur vigilantes'. And the wealthy Jew her father, Isaac of York, having prayed of me letters in his behalf, I gave him these, earnestly advising, and in a sort entreating, that you do hold the damsel to ransom, seeing he will pay you from his bags as much as may find fifty damsels upon safer terms, whereof I trust to have my part when we make merry together, as true brothers, not forgetting the wine-cup. For what saith the text, 'Vinum laetificat cor hominis'; and again, 'Rex delectabitur pulchritudine tua'. "Till which merry meeting, we wish you farewell. Given from this den of thieves, about the hour of matins, "Aymer Pr. S. M. Jorvolciencis. "'Postscriptum.' Truly your golden chain hath not long abidden with me, and will now sustain, around the neck of an outlaw deer-stealer, the whistle wherewith he calleth on his hounds." "What sayest thou to this, Conrade?" said the Grand Master--"Den of thieves! and a fit residence is a den of thieves for such a Prior. No wonder that the hand of God is upon us, and that in the Holy Land we lose place by place, foot by foot, before the infidels, when we have such churchmen as this Aymer.--And what meaneth he, I trow, by this second Witch of Endor?" said he to his confident, something apart. Conrade was better acquainted (perhaps by practice) with the jargon of gallantry, than was his Superior; and he expounded the passage which embarrassed the Grand Master, to be a sort of language used by worldly men towards those whom they loved 'par amours'; but the explanation did not satisfy the bigoted Beaumanoir. "There is more in it than thou dost guess, Conrade; thy simplicity is no match for this deep abyss of wickedness. This Rebecca of York was a pupil of that Miriam of whom thou hast heard. Thou shalt hear the Jew own it even now." Then turning to Isaac, he said aloud, "Thy daughter, then, is prisoner with Brian de Bois-Guilbert?" "Ay, reverend valorous sir," stammered poor Isaac, "and whatsoever ransom a poor man may pay for her deliverance---" "Peace!" said the Grand Master. "This thy daughter hath practised the art of healing, hath she not?" "Ay, gracious sir," answered the Jew, with more confidence; "and knight and yeoman, squire and vassal, may bless the goodly gift which Heaven hath assigned to her. Many a one can testify that she hath recovered them by her art, when every other human aid hath proved vain; but the blessing of the God of Jacob was upon her." Beaumanoir turned to Mont-Fitchet with a grim smile. "See, brother," he said, "the deceptions of the devouring Enemy! Behold the baits with which he fishes for souls, giving a poor space of earthly life in exchange for eternal happiness hereafter. Well said our blessed rule, 'Semper percutiatur leo vorans'.--Up on the lion! Down with the destroyer!" said he, shaking aloft his mystic abacus, as if in defiance of the powers of darkness--"Thy daughter worketh the cures, I doubt not," thus he went on to address the Jew, "by words and sighs, and periapts, and other cabalistical mysteries." "Nay, reverend and brave Knight," answered Isaac, "but in chief measure by a balsam of marvellous virtue." "Where had she that secret?" said Beaumanoir. "It was delivered to her," answered Isaac, reluctantly, "by Miriam, a sage matron of our tribe." "Ah, false Jew!" said the Grand Master; "was it not from that same witch Miriam, the abomination of whose enchantments have been heard of throughout every Christian land?" exclaimed the Grand Master, crossing himself. "Her body was burnt at a stake, and her ashes were scattered to the four winds; and so be it with me and mine Order, if I do not as much to her pupil, and more also! I will teach her to throw spell and incantation over the soldiers of the blessed Temple.--There, Damian, spurn this Jew from the gate--shoot him dead if he oppose or turn again. With his daughter we will deal as the Christian law and our own high office warrant." Poor Isaac was hurried off accordingly, and expelled from the preceptory; all his entreaties, and even his offers, unheard and disregarded. He could do not better than return to the house of the Rabbi, and endeavour, through his means, to learn how his daughter was to be disposed of. He had hitherto feared for her honour, he was now to tremble for her life. Meanwhile, the Grand Master ordered to his presence the Preceptor of Templestowe. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Eine weitere "anonyme" Beitrag von Sir Walter Scott selbst, das Epigraph dieses Kapitels handelt von den Gefahren des Fanatismus. Scott erinnert uns daran, dass es wirklich gefährlich ist, sich mit Menschen anzulegen, die leidenschaftlich einer Sache verschrieben sind. Nun gehen wir zurück zu Isaac. Isaac kommt am Haus des Rabbi Nathan Ben Israel an, der sich für den Abend um ihn kümmert. Am nächsten Tag macht sich Isaac auf den Weg, um Bois-Guilbert in der Templer-Gemeinschaft in Templestowe zu finden. Der Rabbi warnt Isaac davor, dass Lucas Beaumanoir, der Anführer der Templer, dort sein soll. Beaumanoir hasst Juden und ist ein grausamer Tyrann. Aber Isaac hat keine Wahl. Er erzählt Nathan von Rebeccas Entführung. Nathan rät Isaac, nur mit Bois-Guilbert zu sprechen und Beaumanoir wenn möglich zu meiden. Wir springen in den Garten der Templer-Gemeinschaft, wo Lucas Beaumanoir spazieren geht. Er ist ein alter Mann, aber immer noch sehr stark. Er ist offensichtlich ein wilder Fanatiker, voreingenommen und grausam. Aber er ist auch der Disziplin und der Ehre seines Ordens verpflichtet. Beaumanoir erzählt seinem Freund Conrade, dass er besorgt über den Niedergang der Templer ist. Beaumanoir ist angewidert von dem schlechten Verhalten der Templer in England; warum, sie sind sogar schlimmer als die in Frankreich! Er stellt sich vor, wie enttäuscht die frühen Templer wohl wären, wenn sie sehen könnten, was aus ihrem Orden geworden ist. Conrade rät Beaumanoir, nicht über das Ziel hinauszuschießen. Aber Beaumanoir will die Templer schnell und vollständig reformieren. Erstens muss der Orden all sein Geld weggeben. Während Beaumanoir seine Vorsätze macht, kündigt ein Diener Isaacs Ankunft an. Der Diener teilt Beaumanoir mit, dass Isaac hier ist, um Bois-Guilbert zu treffen. Beaumanoir hat den Verdacht, dass Bois-Guilbert kein ehrlicher Templer ist. Er will wissen, was dessen Geschäft mit Isaac ist. Isaac kniet vor Beaumanoir in völliger Furcht. Beaumanoir fragt, worum es in Isaacs Geschäft mit Bois-Guilbert geht. Isaac zeigt seinen Brief von Prior Aymer an Bois-Guilbert. In dem Brief sagt Prior Aymer, dass er in den Händen von Gesetzlosen ist. Er schlägt vor, dass Bois-Guilbert Rebecca als Lösegeld nehmen soll, da sie eine Menge Geld von Isaac bekommen können. Prior Aymer warnt Bois-Guilbert auch davor, das Mädchen zu behalten, weil der Anführer seines Ordens aus der Normandie kommt, um die englischen Templer zu überprüfen. Er schließt mit der Aufforderung, dass sie zusammen etwas trinken sollten. Dieser Brief macht Beaumanoir wütend. Er kommt sofort zu dem Schluss, dass Rebecca eine Hexe ist, die Bois-Guilbert verzaubert hat. Als Isaac sagt, dass Rebecca von einer weisen Frau namens Miriam in Medizin ausgebildet wurde, schreit Beaumanoir, dass Miriam wegen Hexerei verbrannt wurde. Beaumanoir wirft Isaac aus Templestowe hinaus und beginnt mit den Vorbereitungen, Rebecca wegen Zauberei anzuklagen.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten 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 but a shallow haste which concludeth insincerity from what outsiders call inconsistency--putting a dead mechanism of "ifs" and "therefores" for the living myriad of hidden suckers whereby the belief and the conduct are wrought into mutual sustainment. Mr. Bulstrode, when he was hoping to acquire a new interest in Lowick, had naturally had an especial wish that the new clergyman should be one whom he thoroughly approved; and he believed it to be a chastisement and admonition directed to his own shortcomings and those of the nation at large, that just about the time when he came in possession of the deeds which made him the proprietor of Stone Court, Mr. Farebrother "read himself" into the quaint little church and preached his first sermon to the congregation of farmers, laborers, and village artisans. It was not that Mr. Bulstrode intended to frequent Lowick Church or to reside at Stone Court for a good while to come: he had bought the excellent farm and fine homestead simply as a retreat which he might gradually enlarge as to the land and beautify as to the dwelling, until it should be conducive to the divine glory that he should enter on it as a residence, partially withdrawing from his present exertions in the administration of business, and throwing more conspicuously on the side of Gospel truth the weight of local landed proprietorship, which Providence might increase by unforeseen occasions of purchase. A strong leading in this direction seemed to have been given in the surprising facility of getting Stone Court, when every one had expected that Mr. Rigg Featherstone would have clung to it as the Garden of Eden. That was what poor old Peter himself had expected; having often, in imagination, looked up through the sods above him, and, unobstructed by perspective, seen his frog-faced legatee enjoying the fine old place to the perpetual surprise and disappointment of other survivors. But how little we know what would make paradise for our neighbors! We judge from our own desires, and our neighbors themselves are not always open enough even to throw out a hint of theirs. The cool and judicious Joshua Rigg had not allowed his parent to perceive that Stone Court was anything less than the chief good in his estimation, and he had certainly wished to call it his own. But as Warren Hastings looked at gold and thought of buying Daylesford, so Joshua Rigg looked at Stone Court and thought of buying gold. He had a very distinct and intense vision of his chief good, the vigorous greed which he had inherited having taken a special form by dint of circumstance: and his chief good was to be a moneychanger. From his earliest employment as an errand-boy in a seaport, he had looked through the windows of the moneychangers as other boys look through the windows of the pastry-cooks; the fascination had wrought itself gradually into a deep special passion; he meant, when he had property, to do many things, one of them being to marry a genteel young person; but these were all accidents and joys that imagination could dispense with. The one joy after which his soul thirsted was to have a money-changer's shop on a much-frequented quay, to have locks all round him of which he held the keys, and to look sublimely cool as he handled the breeding coins of all nations, while helpless Cupidity looked at him enviously from the other side of an iron lattice. The strength of that passion had been a power enabling him to master all the knowledge necessary to gratify it. And when others were thinking that he had settled at Stone Court for life, Joshua himself was thinking that the moment now was not far off when he should settle on the North Quay with the best appointments in safes and locks. Enough. We are concerned with looking at Joshua Rigg's sale of his land from Mr. Bulstrode's point of view, and he interpreted it as a cheering dispensation conveying perhaps a sanction to a purpose which he had for some time entertained without external encouragement; he interpreted it thus, but not too confidently, offering up his thanksgiving in guarded phraseology. His doubts did not arise from the possible relations of the event to Joshua Rigg's destiny, which belonged to the unmapped regions not taken under the providential government, except perhaps in an imperfect colonial way; but they arose from reflecting that this dispensation too might be a chastisement for himself, as Mr. Farebrother's induction to the living clearly was. This was not what Mr. Bulstrode said to any man for the sake of deceiving him: it was what he said to himself--it was as genuinely his mode of explaining events as any theory of yours may be, if you happen to disagree with him. For the egoism which enters into our theories does not affect their sincerity; rather, the more our egoism is satisfied, the more robust is our belief. However, whether for sanction or for chastisement, Mr. Bulstrode, hardly fifteen months after the death of Peter Featherstone, had become the proprietor of Stone Court, and what Peter would say "if he were worthy to know," had become an inexhaustible and consolatory subject of conversation to his disappointed relatives. The tables were now turned on that dear brother departed, and to contemplate the frustration of his cunning by the superior cunning of things in general was a cud of delight to Solomon. Mrs. Waule had a melancholy triumph in the proof that it did not answer to make false Featherstones and cut off the genuine; and Sister Martha receiving the news in the Chalky Flats said, "Dear, dear! then the Almighty could have been none so pleased with the almshouses after all." Affectionate Mrs. Bulstrode was particularly glad of the advantage which her husband's health was likely to get from the purchase of Stone Court. Few days passed without his riding thither and looking over some part of the farm with the bailiff, and the evenings were delicious in that quiet spot, when the new hay-ricks lately set up were sending forth odors to mingle with the breath of the rich old garden. One evening, while the sun was still above the horizon and burning in golden lamps among the great walnut boughs, Mr. Bulstrode was pausing on horseback outside the front gate waiting for Caleb Garth, who had met him by appointment to give an opinion on a question of stable drainage, and was now advising the bailiff in the rick-yard. Mr. Bulstrode was conscious of being in a good spiritual frame and more than usually serene, under the influence of his innocent recreation. He was doctrinally convinced that there was a total absence of merit in himself; but that doctrinal conviction may be held without pain when the sense of demerit does not take a distinct shape in memory and revive the tingling of shame or the pang of remorse. Nay, it may be held with intense satisfaction when the depth of our sinning is but a measure for the depth of forgiveness, and a clenching proof that we are peculiar instruments of the divine intention. The memory has as many moods as the temper, and shifts its scenery like a diorama. At this moment Mr. Bulstrode felt as if the sunshine were all one with that of far-off evenings when he was a very young man and used to go out preaching beyond Highbury. And he would willingly have had that service of exhortation in prospect now. The texts were there still, and so was his own facility in expounding them. His brief reverie was interrupted by the return of Caleb Garth, who also was on horseback, and was just shaking his bridle before starting, when he exclaimed-- "Bless my heart! what's this fellow in black coming along the lane? He's like one of those men one sees about after the races." Mr. Bulstrode turned his horse and looked along the lane, but made no reply. The comer was our slight acquaintance Mr. Raffles, whose appearance presented no other change than such as was due to a suit of black and a crape hat-band. He was within three yards of the horseman now, and they could see the flash of recognition in his face as he whirled his stick upward, looking all the while at Mr. Bulstrode, and at last exclaiming:-- "By Jove, Nick, it's you! I couldn't be mistaken, though the five-and-twenty years have played old Boguy with us both! How are you, eh? you didn't expect to see _me_ here. Come, shake us by the hand." To say that Mr. Raffles' manner was rather excited would be only one mode of saying that it was evening. Caleb Garth could see that there was a moment of struggle and hesitation in Mr. Bulstrode, but it ended in his putting out his hand coldly to Raffles and saying-- "I did not indeed expect to see you in this remote country place." "Well, it belongs to a stepson of mine," said Raffles, adjusting himself in a swaggering attitude. "I came to see him here before. I'm not so surprised at seeing you, old fellow, because I picked up a letter--what you may call a providential thing. It's uncommonly fortunate I met you, though; for I don't care about seeing my stepson: he's not affectionate, and his poor mother's gone now. To tell the truth, I came out of love to you, Nick: I came to get your address, for--look here!" Raffles drew a crumpled paper from his pocket. Almost any other man than Caleb Garth might have been tempted to linger on the spot for the sake of hearing all he could about a man whose acquaintance with Bulstrode seemed to imply passages in the banker's life so unlike anything that was known of him in Middlemarch that they must have the nature of a secret to pique curiosity. But Caleb was peculiar: certain human tendencies which are commonly strong were almost absent from his mind; and one of these was curiosity about personal affairs. Especially if there was anything discreditable to be found out concerning another man, Caleb preferred not to know it; and if he had to tell anybody under him that his evil doings were discovered, he was more embarrassed than the culprit. He now spurred his horse, and saying, "I wish you good evening, Mr. Bulstrode; I must be getting home," set off at a trot. "You didn't put your full address to this letter," Raffles continued. "That was not like the first-rate man of business you used to be. 'The Shrubs,'--they may be anywhere: you live near at hand, eh?--have cut the London concern altogether--perhaps turned country squire--have a rural mansion to invite me to. Lord, how many years it is ago! The old lady must have been dead a pretty long while--gone to glory without the pain of knowing how poor her daughter was, eh? But, by Jove! you're very pale and pasty, Nick. Come, if you're going home, I'll walk by your side." Mr. Bulstrode's usual paleness had in fact taken an almost deathly hue. Five minutes before, the expanse of his life had been submerged in its evening sunshine which shone backward to its remembered morning: sin seemed to be a question of doctrine and inward penitence, humiliation an exercise of the closet, the bearing of his deeds a matter of private vision adjusted solely by spiritual relations and conceptions of the divine purposes. And now, as if by some hideous magic, this loud red figure had risen before him in unmanageable solidity--an incorporate past which had not entered into his imagination of chastisements. But Mr. Bulstrode's thought was busy, and he was not a man to act or speak rashly. "I was going home," he said, "but I can defer my ride a little. And you can, if you please, rest here." "Thank you," said Raffles, making a grimace. "I don't care now about seeing my stepson. I'd rather go home with you." "Your stepson, if Mr. Rigg Featherstone was he, is here no longer. I am master here now." Raffles opened wide eyes, and gave a long whistle of surprise, before he said, "Well then, I've no objection. I've had enough walking from the coach-road. I never was much of a walker, or rider either. What I like is a smart vehicle and a spirited cob. I was always a little heavy in the saddle. What a pleasant surprise it must be to you to see me, old fellow!" he continued, as they turned towards the house. "You don't say so; but you never took your luck heartily--you were always thinking of improving the occasion--you'd such a gift for improving your luck." Mr. Raffles seemed greatly to enjoy his own wit, and swung his leg in a swaggering manner which was rather too much for his companion's judicious patience. "If I remember rightly," Mr. Bulstrode observed, with chill anger, "our acquaintance many years ago had not the sort of intimacy which you are now assuming, Mr. Raffles. Any services you desire of me will be the more readily rendered if you will avoid a tone of familiarity which did not lie in our former intercourse, and can hardly be warranted by more than twenty years of separation." "You don't like being called Nick? Why, I always called you Nick in my heart, and though lost to sight, to memory dear. By Jove! my feelings have ripened for you like fine old cognac. I hope you've got some in the house now. Josh filled my flask well the last time." Mr. Bulstrode had not yet fully learned that even the desire for cognac was not stronger in Raffles than the desire to torment, and that a hint of annoyance always served him as a fresh cue. But it was at least clear that further objection was useless, and Mr. Bulstrode, in giving orders to the housekeeper for the accommodation of the guest, had a resolute air of quietude. There was the comfort of thinking that this housekeeper had been in the service of Rigg also, and might accept the idea that Mr. Bulstrode entertained Raffles merely as a friend of her former master. When there was food and drink spread before his visitor in the wainscoted parlor, and no witness in the room, Mr. Bulstrode said-- "Your habits and mine are so different, Mr. Raffles, that we can hardly enjoy each other's society. The wisest plan for both of us will therefore be to part as soon as possible. Since you say that you wished to meet me, you probably considered that you had some business to transact with me. But under the circumstances I will invite you to remain here for the night, and I will myself ride over here early to-morrow morning--before breakfast, in fact, when I can receive any Communication you have to make to me." "With all my heart," said Raffles; "this is a comfortable place--a little dull for a continuance; but I can put up with it for a night, with this good liquor and the prospect of seeing you again in the morning. You're a much better host than my stepson was; but Josh owed me a bit of a grudge for marrying his mother; and between you and me there was never anything but kindness." Mr. Bulstrode, hoping that the peculiar mixture of joviality and sneering in Raffles' manner was a good deal the effect of drink, had determined to wait till he was quite sober before he spent more words upon him. But he rode home with a terribly lucid vision of the difficulty there would be in arranging any result that could be permanently counted on with this man. It was inevitable that he should wish to get rid of John Raffles, though his reappearance could not be regarded as lying outside the divine plan. The spirit of evil might have sent him to threaten Mr. Bulstrode's subversion as an instrument of good; but the threat must have been permitted, and was a chastisement of a new kind. It was an hour of anguish for him very different from the hours in which his struggle had been securely private, and which had ended with a sense that his secret misdeeds were pardoned and his services accepted. Those misdeeds even when committed--had they not been half sanctified by the singleness of his desire to devote himself and all he possessed to the furtherance of the divine scheme? And was he after all to become a mere stone of stumbling and a rock of offence? For who would understand the work within him? Who would not, when there was the pretext of casting disgrace upon him, confound his whole life and the truths he had espoused, in one heap of obloquy? In his closest meditations the life-long habit of Mr. Bulstrode's mind clad his most egoistic terrors in doctrinal references to superhuman ends. But even while we are talking and meditating about the earth's orbit and the solar system, what we feel and adjust our movements to is the stable earth and the changing day. And now within all the automatic succession of theoretic phrases--distinct and inmost as the shiver and the ache of oncoming fever when we are discussing abstract pain, was the forecast of disgrace in the presence of his neighbors and of his own wife. For the pain, as well as the public estimate of disgrace, depends on the amount of previous profession. To men who only aim at escaping felony, nothing short of the prisoner's dock is disgrace. But Mr. Bulstrode had aimed at being an eminent Christian. It was not more than half-past seven in the morning when he again reached Stone Court. The fine old place never looked more like a delightful home than at that moment; the great white lilies were in flower, the nasturtiums, their pretty leaves all silvered with dew, were running away over the low stone wall; the very noises all around had a heart of peace within them. But everything was spoiled for the owner as he walked on the gravel in front and awaited the descent of Mr. Raffles, with whom he was condemned to breakfast. It was not long before they were seated together in the wainscoted parlor over their tea and toast, which was as much as Raffles cared to take at that early hour. The difference between his morning and evening self was not so great as his companion had imagined that it might be; the delight in tormenting was perhaps even the stronger because his spirits were rather less highly pitched. Certainly his manners seemed more disagreeable by the morning light. "As I have little time to spare, Mr. Raffles," said the banker, who could hardly do more than sip his tea and break his toast without eating it, "I shall be obliged if you will mention at once the ground on which you wished to meet with me. I presume that you have a home elsewhere and will be glad to return to it." "Why, if a man has got any heart, doesn't he want to see an old friend, Nick?--I must call you Nick--we always did call you young Nick when we knew you meant to marry the old widow. Some said you had a handsome family likeness to old Nick, but that was your mother's fault, calling you Nicholas. Aren't you glad to see me again? I expected an invite to stay with you at some pretty place. My own establishment is broken up now my wife's dead. I've no particular attachment to any spot; I would as soon settle hereabout as anywhere." "May I ask why you returned from America? I considered that the strong wish you expressed to go there, when an adequate sum was furnished, was tantamount to an engagement that you would remain there for life." "Never knew that a wish to go to a place was the same thing as a wish to stay. But I did stay a matter of ten years; it didn't suit me to stay any longer. And I'm not going again, Nick." Here Mr. Raffles winked slowly as he looked at Mr. Bulstrode. "Do you wish to be settled in any business? What is your calling now?" "Thank you, my calling is to enjoy myself as much as I can. I don't care about working any more. If I did anything it would be a little travelling in the tobacco line--or something of that sort, which takes a man into agreeable company. But not without an independence to fall back upon. That's what I want: I'm not so strong as I was, Nick, though I've got more color than you. I want an independence." "That could be supplied to you, if you would engage to keep at a distance," said Mr. Bulstrode, perhaps with a little too much eagerness in his undertone. "That must be as it suits my convenience," said Raffles coolly. "I see no reason why I shouldn't make a few acquaintances hereabout. I'm not ashamed of myself as company for anybody. I dropped my portmanteau at the turnpike when I got down--change of linen--genuine--honor bright--more than fronts and wristbands; and with this suit of mourning, straps and everything, I should do you credit among the nobs here." Mr. Raffles had pushed away his chair and looked down at himself, particularly at his straps. His chief intention was to annoy Bulstrode, but he really thought that his appearance now would produce a good effect, and that he was not only handsome and witty, but clad in a mourning style which implied solid connections. "If you intend to rely on me in any way, Mr. Raffles," said Bulstrode, after a moment's pause, "you will expect to meet my wishes." "Ah, to be sure," said Raffles, with a mocking cordiality. "Didn't I always do it? Lord, you made a pretty thing out of me, and I got but little. I've often thought since, I might have done better by telling the old woman that I'd found her daughter and her grandchild: it would have suited my feelings better; I've got a soft place in my heart. But you've buried the old lady by this time, I suppose--it's all one to her now. And you've got your fortune out of that profitable business which had such a blessing on it. You've taken to being a nob, buying land, being a country bashaw. Still in the Dissenting line, eh? Still godly? Or taken to the Church as more genteel?" This time Mr. Raffles' slow wink and slight protrusion of his tongue was worse than a nightmare, because it held the certitude that it was not a nightmare, but a waking misery. Mr. Bulstrode felt a shuddering nausea, and did not speak, but was considering diligently whether he should not leave Raffles to do as he would, and simply defy him as a slanderer. The man would soon show himself disreputable enough to make people disbelieve him. "But not when he tells any ugly-looking truth about _you_," said discerning consciousness. And again: it seemed no wrong to keep Raffles at a distance, but Mr. Bulstrode shrank from the direct falsehood of denying true statements. It was one thing to look back on forgiven sins, nay, to explain questionable conformity to lax customs, and another to enter deliberately on the necessity of falsehood. But since Bulstrode did not speak, Raffles ran on, by way of using time to the utmost. "I've not had such fine luck as you, by Jove! Things went confoundedly with me in New York; those Yankees are cool hands, and a man of gentlemanly feelings has no chance with them. I married when I came back--a nice woman in the tobacco trade--very fond of me--but the trade was restricted, as we say. She had been settled there a good many years by a friend; but there was a son too much in the case. Josh and I never hit it off. However, I made the most of the position, and I've always taken my glass in good company. It's been all on the square with me; I'm as open as the day. You won't take it ill of me that I didn't look you up before. I've got a complaint that makes me a little dilatory. I thought you were trading and praying away in London still, and didn't find you there. But you see I was sent to you, Nick--perhaps for a blessing to both of us." Mr. Raffles ended with a jocose snuffle: no man felt his intellect more superior to religious cant. And if the cunning which calculates on the meanest feelings in men could be called intellect, he had his share, for under the blurting rallying tone with which he spoke to Bulstrode, there was an evident selection of statements, as if they had been so many moves at chess. Meanwhile Bulstrode had determined on his move, and he said, with gathered resolution-- "You will do well to reflect, Mr. Raffles, that it is possible for a man to overreach himself in the effort to secure undue advantage. Although I am not in any way bound to you, I am willing to supply you with a regular annuity--in quarterly payments--so long as you fulfil a promise to remain at a distance from this neighborhood. It is in your power to choose. If you insist on remaining here, even for a short time, you will get nothing from me. I shall decline to know you." "Ha, ha!" said Raffles, with an affected explosion, "that reminds me of a droll dog of a thief who declined to know the constable." "Your allusions are lost on me sir," said Bulstrode, with white heat; "the law has no hold on me either through your agency or any other." "You can't understand a joke, my good fellow. I only meant that I should never decline to know you. But let us be serious. Your quarterly payment won't quite suit me. I like my freedom." Here Raffles rose and stalked once or twice up and down the room, swinging his leg, and assuming an air of masterly meditation. At last he stopped opposite Bulstrode, and said, "I'll tell you what! Give us a couple of hundreds--come, that's modest--and I'll go away--honor bright!--pick up my portmanteau and go away. But I shall not give up my Liberty for a dirty annuity. I shall come and go where I like. Perhaps it may suit me to stay away, and correspond with a friend; perhaps not. Have you the money with you?" "No, I have one hundred," said Bulstrode, feeling the immediate riddance too great a relief to be rejected on the ground of future uncertainties. "I will forward you the other if you will mention an address." "No, I'll wait here till you bring it," said Raffles. "I'll take a stroll and have a snack, and you'll be back by that time." Mr. Bulstrode's sickly body, shattered by the agitations he had gone through since the last evening, made him feel abjectly in the power of this loud invulnerable man. At that moment he snatched at a temporary repose to be won on any terms. He was rising to do what Raffles suggested, when the latter said, lifting up his finger as if with a sudden recollection-- "I did have another look after Sarah again, though I didn't tell you; I'd a tender conscience about that pretty young woman. I didn't find her, but I found out her husband's name, and I made a note of it. But hang it, I lost my pocketbook. However, if I heard it, I should know it again. I've got my faculties as if I was in my prime, but names wear out, by Jove! Sometimes I'm no better than a confounded tax-paper before the names are filled in. However, if I hear of her and her family, you shall know, Nick. You'd like to do something for her, now she's your step-daughter." "Doubtless," said Mr. Bulstrode, with the usual steady look of his light-gray eyes; "though that might reduce my power of assisting you." As he walked out of the room, Raffles winked slowly at his back, and then turned towards the window to watch the banker riding away--virtually at his command. His lips first curled with a smile and then opened with a short triumphant laugh. "But what the deuce was the name?" he presently said, half aloud, scratching his head, and wrinkling his brows horizontally. He had not really cared or thought about this point of forgetfulness until it occurred to him in his invention of annoyances for Bulstrode. "It began with L; it was almost all l's I fancy," he went on, with a sense that he was getting hold of the slippery name. But the hold was too slight, and he soon got tired of this mental chase; for few men were more impatient of private occupation or more in need of making themselves continually heard than Mr. Raffles. He preferred using his time in pleasant conversation with the bailiff and the housekeeper, from whom he gathered as much as he wanted to know about Mr. Bulstrode's position in Middlemarch. After all, however, there was a dull space of time which needed relieving with bread and cheese and ale, and when he was seated alone with these resources in the wainscoted parlor, he suddenly slapped his knee, and exclaimed, "Ladislaw!" That action of memory which he had tried to set going, and had abandoned in despair, had suddenly completed itself without conscious effort--a common experience, agreeable as a completed sneeze, even if the name remembered is of no value. Raffles immediately took out his pocket-book, and wrote down the name, not because he expected to use it, but merely for the sake of not being at a loss if he ever did happen to want it. He was not going to tell Bulstrode: there was no actual good in telling, and to a mind like that of Mr. Raffles there is always probable good in a secret. He was satisfied with his present success, and by three o'clock that day he had taken up his portmanteau at the turnpike and mounted the coach, relieving Mr. Bulstrode's eyes of an ugly black spot on the landscape at Stone Court, but not relieving him of the dread that the black spot might reappear and become inseparable even from the vision of his hearth. BOOK VI. THE WIDOW AND THE WIFE. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben stehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Joshua Rigg Featherstone hat das Anwesen Stone Court an Herrn Bulstrode verkauft. Bulstrode hat Caleb Garth eingestellt, um das Anwesen für ihn zu verwalten, und die beiden reden über Geschäfte. Caleb steht kurz davor zu gehen, als Herr Raffles die Straße entlangkommt und nach seinem Stiefsohn Rigg sucht. Als er Bulstrode sieht, nennt er ihn "Nick" und benimmt sich, als wären sie alte Freunde. Caleb Garth ist neugierig. Immerhin ist Bulstrode eine einflussreiche, wenn auch nicht universell beliebte, Person in Middlemarch und niemand weiß dort viel darüber, woher er kam, bevor er dorthin zog und vor vielen Jahren Mr. Vincys Schwester heiratete. Aber Caleb ist auch diskret und überlässt es Bulstrode, sich selbst um Raffles zu kümmern, anstatt dazubleiben und abzuhorchen. Nachdem Garth gegangen ist, spricht Raffles immer wieder davon, wie lange es her ist, und fragt, ob Bulstrode "die Londoner Angelegenheit aufgegeben" hat, und überlegt, dass "die alte Dame ziemlich lange tot gewesen sein muss, ohne den Schmerz zu haben, zu wissen, wie arm ihre Tochter war." Bulstrode antwortet nicht, und Eliot klärt das Geheimnis nicht auf, wie Raffles Bulstrode kennt. Bulstrode erzählt Raffles, dass er Stone Court gekauft hat und dass Joshua Rigg Featherstone weggezogen ist. Er stimmt zu, dass Raffles über Nacht in Stone Court bleiben darf, obwohl er selbst die Nacht im Haus der Stadt verbringen wird. Er sagt Raffles, er werde am nächsten Morgen zurückkommen, um zu besprechen, worum es Raffles ging. Auf dem Weg zurück nach Middlemarch sorgt sich Bulstrode darüber, was Raffles wohl wollen könnte. Es kann nichts Gutes sein und er erinnert sich an die schlechten Dinge, die er in der Vergangenheit getan hat. Am nächsten Morgen trifft Bulstrode Raffles in Stone Court. Raffles gibt vor, zu seinem "alten Freund" nach Middlemarch gekommen zu sein, aber es ist klar, dass er wegen Geld da ist. Seine Frau ist gestorben, also hat er keine Bindungen, die ihn irgendwo festhalten, und er sagt, er überlege, sich in Middlemarch niederzulassen. Genau das möchte Bulstrode nicht, also bietet er ihm Geld an, um wegzubleiben. Raffles erwähnt wieder die "alte Dame", die Bulstrode geheiratet hatte, und sagt, dass er "ihre Tochter und ihr Enkelkind" gefunden habe. Bulstrode mag es nicht, dass seine erste Frau erwähnt wird, und wechselt das Thema. Aber Raffles lässt nicht zu, dass das Thema gewechselt wird, und sagt, dass die Tochter ein hübsches Mädchen war, namens Sarah... irgendetwas. Er kann sich nicht an den Namen ihres Mannes erinnern, aber er fing mit einem "L" an. Später erinnert er sich: Sarahs Nachname war "Ladislaw". Der Stammbaum ist hier kompliziert, also nehmen wir uns einen Moment Zeit, um es zu erklären: Erinnern Sie sich daran, dass Will Ladislaw in Buch 4, Kapitel 37, Dorothea von seiner Familie erzählt hat. Seine Mutter, sagte er, sei aus ihrer Familie weggelaufen, aber habe niemandem erzählt, warum. Nun, anscheinend ist sie die besagte Sarah Ladislaw. Ihre Mutter hatte entweder vor oder nach ihrem Verschwinden Bulstrode geheiratet, und Raffles weiß davon. Aber er verrät niemandem den Namen; er mag es, Geheimnisse zu haben, weil er sie benutzen kann, um Bulstrode dazu zu bringen, ihn zu bezahlen, damit er schweigt. Raffles stimmt zu, für die Summe von zweihundert Pfund wegzugehen.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: Often when Charles was out she took from the cupboard, between the folds of the linen where she had left it, the green silk cigar case. She looked at it, opened it, and even smelt the odour of the lining--a mixture of verbena and tobacco. Whose was it? The Viscount's? Perhaps it was a present from his mistress. It had been embroidered on some rosewood frame, a pretty little thing, hidden from all eyes, that had occupied many hours, and over which had fallen the soft curls of the pensive worker. A breath of love had passed over the stitches on the canvas; each prick of the needle had fixed there a hope or a memory, and all those interwoven threads of silk were but the continuity of the same silent passion. And then one morning the Viscount had taken it away with him. Of what had they spoken when it lay upon the wide-mantelled chimneys between flower-vases and Pompadour clocks? She was at Tostes; he was at Paris now, far away! What was this Paris like? What a vague name! She repeated it in a low voice, for the mere pleasure of it; it rang in her ears like a great cathedral bell; it shone before her eyes, even on the labels of her pomade-pots. At night, when the carriers passed under her windows in their carts singing the "Marjolaine," she awoke, and listened to the noise of the iron-bound wheels, which, as they gained the country road, was soon deadened by the soil. "They will be there to-morrow!" she said to herself. And she followed them in thought up and down the hills, traversing villages, gliding along the highroads by the light of the stars. At the end of some indefinite distance there was always a confused spot, into which her dream died. She bought a plan of Paris, and with the tip of her finger on the map she walked about the capital. She went up the boulevards, stopping at every turning, between the lines of the streets, in front of the white squares that represented the houses. At last she would close the lids of her weary eyes, and see in the darkness the gas jets flaring in the wind and the steps of carriages lowered with much noise before the peristyles of theatres. She took in "La Corbeille," a lady's journal, and the "Sylphe des Salons." She devoured, without skipping a word, all the accounts of first nights, races, and soirees, took interest in the debut of a singer, in the opening of a new shop. She knew the latest fashions, the addresses of the best tailors, the days of the Bois and the Opera. In Eugene Sue she studied descriptions of furniture; she read Balzac and George Sand, seeking in them imaginary satisfaction for her own desires. Even at table she had her book by her, and turned over the pages while Charles ate and talked to her. The memory of the Viscount always returned as she read. Between him and the imaginary personages she made comparisons. But the circle of which he was the centre gradually widened round him, and the aureole that he bore, fading from his form, broadened out beyond, lighting up her other dreams. Paris, more vague than the ocean, glimmered before Emma's eyes in an atmosphere of vermilion. The many lives that stirred amid this tumult were, however, divided into parts, classed as distinct pictures. Emma perceived only two or three that hid from her all the rest, and in themselves represented all humanity. The world of ambassadors moved over polished floors in drawing rooms lined with mirrors, round oval tables covered with velvet and gold-fringed cloths. There were dresses with trains, deep mysteries, anguish hidden beneath smiles. Then came the society of the duchesses; all were pale; all got up at four o'clock; the women, poor angels, wore English point on their petticoats; and the men, unappreciated geniuses under a frivolous outward seeming, rode horses to death at pleasure parties, spent the summer season at Baden, and towards the forties married heiresses. In the private rooms of restaurants, where one sups after midnight by the light of wax candles, laughed the motley crowd of men of letters and actresses. They were prodigal as kings, full of ideal, ambitious, fantastic frenzy. This was an existence outside that of all others, between heaven and earth, in the midst of storms, having something of the sublime. For the rest of the world it was lost, with no particular place and as if non-existent. The nearer things were, moreover, the more her thoughts turned away from them. All her immediate surroundings, the wearisome country, the middle-class imbeciles, the mediocrity of existence, seemed to her exceptional, a peculiar chance that had caught hold of her, while beyond stretched, as far as eye could see, an immense land of joys and passions. She confused in her desire the sensualities of luxury with the delights of the heart, elegance of manners with delicacy of sentiment. Did not love, like Indian plants, need a special soil, a particular temperature? Signs by moonlight, long embraces, tears flowing over yielded hands, all the fevers of the flesh and the languors of tenderness could not be separated from the balconies of great castles full of indolence, from boudoirs with silken curtains and thick carpets, well-filled flower-stands, a bed on a raised dias, nor from the flashing of precious stones and the shoulder-knots of liveries. The lad from the posting house who came to groom the mare every morning passed through the passage with his heavy wooden shoes; there were holes in his blouse; his feet were bare in list slippers. And this was the groom in knee-britches with whom she had to be content! His work done, he did not come back again all day, for Charles on his return put up his horse himself, unsaddled him and put on the halter, while the servant-girl brought a bundle of straw and threw it as best she could into the manger. To replace Nastasie (who left Tostes shedding torrents of tears) Emma took into her service a young girl of fourteen, an orphan with a sweet face. She forbade her wearing cotton caps, taught her to address her in the third person, to bring a glass of water on a plate, to knock before coming into a room, to iron, starch, and to dress her--wanted to make a lady's-maid of her. The new servant obeyed without a murmur, so as not to be sent away; and as madame usually left the key in the sideboard, Felicite every evening took a small supply of sugar that she ate alone in her bed after she had said her prayers. Sometimes in the afternoon she went to chat with the postilions. Madame was in her room upstairs. She wore an open dressing gown that showed between the shawl facings of her bodice a pleated chamisette with three gold buttons. Her belt was a corded girdle with great tassels, and her small garnet coloured slippers had a large knot of ribbon that fell over her instep. She had bought herself a blotting book, writing case, pen-holder, and envelopes, although she had no one to write to; she dusted her what-not, looked at herself in the glass, picked up a book, and then, dreaming between the lines, let it drop on her knees. She longed to travel or to go back to her convent. She wished at the same time to die and to live in Paris. Charles in snow and rain trotted across country. He ate omelettes on farmhouse tables, poked his arm into damp beds, received the tepid spurt of blood-lettings in his face, listened to death-rattles, examined basins, turned over a good deal of dirty linen; but every evening he found a blazing fire, his dinner ready, easy-chairs, and a well-dressed woman, charming with an odour of freshness, though no one could say whence the perfume came, or if it were not her skin that made odorous her chemise. She charmed him by numerous attentions; now it was some new way of arranging paper sconces for the candles, a flounce that she altered on her gown, or an extraordinary name for some very simple dish that the servant had spoilt, but that Charles swallowed with pleasure to the last mouthful. At Rouen she saw some ladies who wore a bunch of charms on the watch-chains; she bought some charms. She wanted for her mantelpiece two large blue glass vases, and some time after an ivory necessaire with a silver-gilt thimble. The less Charles understood these refinements the more they seduced him. They added something to the pleasure of the senses and to the comfort of his fireside. It was like a golden dust sanding all along the narrow path of his life. He was well, looked well; his reputation was firmly established. The country-folk loved him because he was not proud. He petted the children, never went to the public house, and, moreover, his morals inspired confidence. He was specially successful with catarrhs and chest complaints. Being much afraid of killing his patients, Charles, in fact only prescribed sedatives, from time to time and emetic, a footbath, or leeches. It was not that he was afraid of surgery; he bled people copiously like horses, and for the taking out of teeth he had the "devil's own wrist." Finally, to keep up with the times, he took in "La Ruche Medicale," a new journal whose prospectus had been sent him. He read it a little after dinner, but in about five minutes the warmth of the room added to the effect of his dinner sent him to sleep; and he sat there, his chin on his two hands and his hair spreading like a mane to the foot of the lamp. Emma looked at him and shrugged her shoulders. Why, at least, was not her husband one of those men of taciturn passions who work at their books all night, and at last, when about sixty, the age of rheumatism sets in, wear a string of orders on their ill-fitting black coat? She could have wished this name of Bovary, which was hers, had been illustrious, to see it displayed at the booksellers', repeated in the newspapers, known to all France. But Charles had no ambition. An Yvetot doctor whom he had lately met in consultation had somewhat humiliated him at the very bedside of the patient, before the assembled relatives. When, in the evening, Charles told her this anecdote, Emma inveighed loudly against his colleague. Charles was much touched. He kissed her forehead with a tear in his eyes. But she was angered with shame; she felt a wild desire to strike him; she went to open the window in the passage and breathed in the fresh air to calm herself. "What a man! What a man!" she said in a low voice, biting her lips. Besides, she was becoming more irritated with him. As he grew older his manner grew heavier; at dessert he cut the corks of the empty bottles; after eating he cleaned his teeth with his tongue; in taking soup he made a gurgling noise with every spoonful; and, as he was getting fatter, the puffed-out cheeks seemed to push the eyes, always small, up to the temples. Sometimes Emma tucked the red borders of his under-vest unto his waistcoat, rearranged his cravat, and threw away the dirty gloves he was going to put on; and this was not, as he fancied, for himself; it was for herself, by a diffusion of egotism, of nervous irritation. Sometimes, too, she told him of what she had read, such as a passage in a novel, of a new play, or an anecdote of the "upper ten" that she had seen in a feuilleton; for, after all, Charles was something, an ever-open ear, and ever-ready approbation. She confided many a thing to her greyhound. She would have done so to the logs in the fireplace or to the pendulum of the clock. At the bottom of her heart, however, she was waiting for something to happen. Like shipwrecked sailors, she turned despairing eyes upon the solitude of her life, seeking afar off some white sail in the mists of the horizon. She did not know what this chance would be, what wind would bring it her, towards what shore it would drive her, if it would be a shallop or a three-decker, laden with anguish or full of bliss to the portholes. But each morning, as she awoke, she hoped it would come that day; she listened to every sound, sprang up with a start, wondered that it did not come; then at sunset, always more saddened, she longed for the morrow. Spring came round. With the first warm weather, when the pear trees began to blossom, she suffered from dyspnoea. From the beginning of July she counted how many weeks there were to October, thinking that perhaps the Marquis d'Andervilliers would give another ball at Vaubyessard. But all September passed without letters or visits. After the ennui of this disappointment her heart once more remained empty, and then the same series of days recommenced. So now they would thus follow one another, always the same, immovable, and bringing nothing. Other lives, however flat, had at least the chance of some event. One adventure sometimes brought with it infinite consequences and the scene changed. But nothing happened to her; God had willed it so! The future was a dark corridor, with its door at the end shut fast. She gave up music. What was the good of playing? Who would hear her? Since she could never, in a velvet gown with short sleeves, striking with her light fingers the ivory keys of an Erard at a concert, feel the murmur of ecstasy envelop her like a breeze, it was not worth while boring herself with practicing. Her drawing cardboard and her embroidery she left in the cupboard. What was the good? What was the good? Sewing irritated her. "I have read everything," she said to herself. And she sat there making the tongs red-hot, or looked at the rain falling. How sad she was on Sundays when vespers sounded! She listened with dull attention to each stroke of the cracked bell. A cat slowly walking over some roof put up his back in the pale rays of the sun. The wind on the highroad blew up clouds of dust. Afar off a dog sometimes howled; and the bell, keeping time, continued its monotonous ringing that died away over the fields. But the people came out from church. The women in waxed clogs, the peasants in new blouses, the little bare-headed children skipping along in front of them, all were going home. And till nightfall, five or six men, always the same, stayed playing at corks in front of the large door of the inn. The winter was severe. The windows every morning were covered with rime, and the light shining through them, dim as through ground-glass, sometimes did not change the whole day long. At four o'clock the lamp had to be lighted. On fine days she went down into the garden. The dew had left on the cabbages a silver lace with long transparent threads spreading from one to the other. No birds were to be heard; everything seemed asleep, the espalier covered with straw, and the vine, like a great sick serpent under the coping of the wall, along which, on drawing near, one saw the many-footed woodlice crawling. Under the spruce by the hedgerow, the curie in the three-cornered hat reading his breviary had lost his right foot, and the very plaster, scaling off with the frost, had left white scabs on his face. Then she went up again, shut her door, put on coals, and fainting with the heat of the hearth, felt her boredom weigh more heavily than ever. She would have liked to go down and talk to the servant, but a sense of shame restrained her. Every day at the same time the schoolmaster in a black skullcap opened the shutters of his house, and the rural policeman, wearing his sabre over his blouse, passed by. Night and morning the post-horses, three by three, crossed the street to water at the pond. From time to time the bell of a public house door rang, and when it was windy one could hear the little brass basins that served as signs for the hairdresser's shop creaking on their two rods. This shop had as decoration an old engraving of a fashion-plate stuck against a windowpane and the wax bust of a woman with yellow hair. He, too, the hairdresser, lamented his wasted calling, his hopeless future, and dreaming of some shop in a big town--at Rouen, for example, overlooking the harbour, near the theatre--he walked up and down all day from the mairie to the church, sombre and waiting for customers. When Madame Bovary looked up, she always saw him there, like a sentinel on duty, with his skullcap over his ears and his vest of lasting. Sometimes in the afternoon outside the window of her room, the head of a man appeared, a swarthy head with black whiskers, smiling slowly, with a broad, gentle smile that showed his white teeth. A waltz immediately began and on the organ, in a little drawing room, dancers the size of a finger, women in pink turbans, Tyrolians in jackets, monkeys in frock coats, gentlemen in knee-breeches, turned and turned between the sofas, the consoles, multiplied in the bits of looking glass held together at their corners by a piece of gold paper. The man turned his handle, looking to the right and left, and up at the windows. Now and again, while he shot out a long squirt of brown saliva against the milestone, with his knee raised his instrument, whose hard straps tired his shoulder; and now, doleful and drawling, or gay and hurried, the music escaped from the box, droning through a curtain of pink taffeta under a brass claw in arabesque. They were airs played in other places at the theatres, sung in drawing rooms, danced to at night under lighted lustres, echoes of the world that reached even to Emma. Endless sarabands ran through her head, and, like an Indian dancing girl on the flowers of a carpet, her thoughts leapt with the notes, swung from dream to dream, from sadness to sadness. When the man had caught some coppers in his cap, he drew down an old cover of blue cloth, hitched his organ on to his back, and went off with a heavy tread. She watched him going. But it was above all the meal-times that were unbearable to her, in this small room on the ground floor, with its smoking stove, its creaking door, the walls that sweated, the damp flags; all the bitterness in life seemed served up on her plate, and with smoke of the boiled beef there rose from her secret soul whiffs of sickliness. Charles was a slow eater; she played with a few nuts, or, leaning on her elbow, amused herself with drawing lines along the oilcloth table cover with the point of her knife. She now let everything in her household take care of itself, and Madame Bovary senior, when she came to spend part of Lent at Tostes, was much surprised at the change. She who was formerly so careful, so dainty, now passed whole days without dressing, wore grey cotton stockings, and burnt tallow candles. She kept saying they must be economical since they were not rich, adding that she was very contented, very happy, that Tostes pleased her very much, with other speeches that closed the mouth of her mother-in-law. Besides, Emma no longer seemed inclined to follow her advice; once even, Madame Bovary having thought fit to maintain that mistresses ought to keep an eye on the religion of their servants, she had answered with so angry a look and so cold a smile that the good woman did not interfere again. Emma was growing difficult, capricious. She ordered dishes for herself, then she did not touch them; one day drank only pure milk, the next cups of tea by the dozen. Often she persisted in not going out, then, stifling, threw open the windows and put on light dresses. After she had well scolded her servant she gave her presents or sent her out to see neighbours, just as she sometimes threw beggars all the silver in her purse, although she was by no means tender-hearted or easily accessible to the feelings of others, like most country-bred people, who always retain in their souls something of the horny hardness of the paternal hands. Towards the end of February old Rouault, in memory of his cure, himself brought his son-in-law a superb turkey, and stayed three days at Tostes. Charles being with his patients, Emma kept him company. He smoked in the room, spat on the firedogs, talked farming, calves, cows, poultry, and municipal council, so that when he left she closed the door on him with a feeling of satisfaction that surprised even herself. Moreover she no longer concealed her contempt for anything or anybody, and at times she set herself to express singular opinions, finding fault with that which others approved, and approving things perverse and immoral, all of which made her husband open his eyes widely. Would this misery last for ever? Would she never issue from it? Yet she was as good as all the women who were living happily. She had seen duchesses at Vaubyessard with clumsier waists and commoner ways, and she execrated the injustice of God. She leant her head against the walls to weep; she envied lives of stir; longed for masked balls, for violent pleasures, with all the wildness that she did not know, but that these must surely yield. She grew pale and suffered from palpitations of the heart. Charles prescribed valerian and camphor baths. Everything that was tried only seemed to irritate her the more. On certain days she chatted with feverish rapidity, and this over-excitement was suddenly followed by a state of torpor, in which she remained without speaking, without moving. What then revived her was pouring a bottle of eau-de-cologne over her arms. As she was constantly complaining about Tostes, Charles fancied that her illness was no doubt due to some local cause, and fixing on this idea, began to think seriously of setting up elsewhere. From that moment she drank vinegar, contracted a sharp little cough, and completely lost her appetite. It cost Charles much to give up Tostes after living there four years and "when he was beginning to get on there." Yet if it must be! He took her to Rouen to see his old master. It was a nervous complaint: change of air was needed. After looking about him on this side and on that, Charles learnt that in the Neufchatel arrondissement there was a considerable market town called Yonville-l'Abbaye, whose doctor, a Polish refugee, had decamped a week before. Then he wrote to the chemist of the place to ask the number of the population, the distance from the nearest doctor, what his predecessor had made a year, and so forth; and the answer being satisfactory, he made up his mind to move towards the spring, if Emma's health did not improve. One day when, in view of her departure, she was tidying a drawer, something pricked her finger. It was a wire of her wedding bouquet. The orange blossoms were yellow with dust and the silver bordered satin ribbons frayed at the edges. She threw it into the fire. It flared up more quickly than dry straw. Then it was, like a red bush in the cinders, slowly devoured. She watched it burn. The little pasteboard berries burst, the wire twisted, the gold lace melted; and the shriveled paper corollas, fluttering like black butterflies at the back of the stove, at last flew up the chimney. When they left Tostes at the month of March, Madame Bovary was pregnant. Part II Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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

Das Leben nach dem Ball in La Vaubyessard drückt Emma nieder, und sie verbringt noch mehr Zeit mit wilden Vorstellungen, um der langweiligen und bedrückenden Realität ihres Lebens zu entfliehen. Sie hält an der Zigarrenhülle fest, als Andenken an diese denkwürdige Nacht, und spinnt eine fantastische Geschichte um die Hülle, die sie vorgibt, dem Vicomte zu gehören. Sie lässt ihre Fantasie auch nach Paris und anderen modischen Orten schweifen. Sie liest Zeitschriften, um über die neuesten Modeerscheinungen auf dem Laufenden zu bleiben, und stellt sich vor, sie zu tragen. Durch ihre Traumwelt stellt sich Emma die Welt so vor, wie sie es gerne hätte, und sie ist immer voll von Botschaftern, Herzoginnen und privaten Räumen in Restaurants. Emma nimmt ein vierzehnjähriges Mädchen namens Felicite als Magd auf und bildet sie in der Haushaltsführung aus. Obwohl diese Aufgabe zeitaufwendig ist und sie trotz ihrer vielen anderen Ablenkungen erdrückt, kann sich Emma nicht konzentrieren. Sie denkt, dass alles eine Verbesserung gegenüber Tostes wäre, und sehnt sich danach, zu reisen oder ins Kloster zurückzukehren oder in Paris zu leben oder zu sterben. Charles dagegen hat Erfolg in seiner kleinen Arztpraxis. Er hat sich auch daran gewöhnt, abends nach Hause zu kommen, "wo ein prasselndes Feuer und ein wartendes Abendessen, ein bequemer Stuhl und eine ordentliche, attraktive Ehefrau" auf ihn warten. Er könnte nicht glücklicher sein. Emma wünscht sich jedoch immer noch, dass er raffinierter wäre. "Sie hätte gerne, dass dieser Name Bovary, der ihr gehört, berühmt wäre... Aber Charles hatte keine Ambitionen." Mit der Zeit wird Charles für Emma sogar noch irritierender. Sie kann es nicht ertragen, dass er einschläft, wenn er versucht zu lesen. Sie ärgert sich, dass er nie mit ihr spricht. Tatsächlich bemerkt Emma, dass sie ihrem Windhund mehr anvertraut als ihrem Ehemann. Sie ist auch deprimiert über das Winterwetter und scheint alle ihre Lust am Leben zu verlieren. Sie vernachlässigt ihr Klavier, ihre Zeichnungen und ihre Handarbeit, und sie hat fast alles gelesen, was in Tostes verfügbar ist. Emma wird launisch. Sie ist schwer zufrieden zu stellen, und ihr Verhalten wird unvorhersehbar. "Manchmal äußerte sie merkwürdige Meinungen, kritisierte das, was allgemein gutgeheißen wurde, und lobte das, was verdreht oder unmoralisch war, was ihren Ehemann mit großen Augen anstarren ließ." Sie hatte auch keine Kontrolle über ihre Emotionen. In einem Moment ist sie "Feuer und Schwefel", im nächsten Moment ist sie "Sanftheit und Licht". Ein Besuch ihres Vaters verbessert ihren Zustand nicht, und es gibt immer noch Spannungen mit ihrer Schwiegermutter, besonders wenn diese Emma Ratschläge geben will. Emma versinkt immer tiefer in Depressionen, und keines von Charles' Medikamenten hilft ihr. Charles macht Emmas Verhalten auf Tostes zurück, denn sie hat sich immer über den Ort beschwert. Er erwägt, anderswo eine Praxis zu eröffnen und sucht nach passenden Gelegenheiten. Er hört von einer Marktgemeinde im Distrikt Neufchatel, namens Yonville-L'Abbaye, wo ein Arzt gebraucht wird. Die Bovarys beginnen, ihre Sachen zu packen, um Tostes zu verlassen. Beim Packen stößt Emma auf ihren Brautstrauß. Eine der Drähte, die die Blüten zusammenhalten, sticht sie. Sie reagiert stark und wirft den Strauß sofort ins Feuer. Dann beobachtet sie, wie er zu Asche verbrennt; die Asche entspricht ihrer Stimmung. Ein kurzer, aber wichtiger Satz wird am Ende des Kapitels gemacht: "Als sie im März Tostes verließen, war Madame Bovary schwanger".

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Kapitel: MARILLA legte ihre Strickarbeit auf ihren Schoß und lehnte sich in ihrem Stuhl zurück. Ihre Augen waren müde und sie dachte vage daran, dass sie beim nächsten Mal, wenn sie in die Stadt ging, ihre Brille ändern lassen müsse, denn ihre Augen waren in letzter Zeit sehr oft müde geworden. Es war fast dunkel, denn die volle Novemberdämmerung war um Green Gables herum gefallen und das einzige Licht in der Küche kam von den tanzen den roten Flammen im Ofen. Anne saß wie ein Türke auf dem Fußteppich und starrte in das freudige Glühen, in dem der Sonnenschein von hundert Sommern aus dem Ahornholz destilliert wurde. Sie hatte gelesen, aber ihr Buch war auf den Boden gerutscht, und jetzt träumte sie mit einem Lächeln auf den Lippen. Glitzernde Burgen in Spanien formten sich aus den Nebeln und Regenbögen ihrer lebhaften Fantasie; wunderbare und fesselnde Abenteuer passierten in ihrer Wolkenwelt—Abenteuer, die immer triumphierend endeten und sie nie in Schwierigkeiten brachten, wie die des wirklichen Lebens. Marilla betrachtete sie mit einer Zärtlichkeit, die sich niemals in einem klareren Licht als dieser weichen Mischung von Feuerschein und Schatten hätte offenbaren dürfen. Die Lektion einer Liebe, die sich leicht in gesprochenem Wort und offenem Blick zeigen sollte, konnte Marilla nie lernen. Aber sie hatte gelernt, dieses schlanke, grauäugige Mädchen mit einer Zuneigung zu lieben, die umso tiefer und stärker war, je weniger sie sich zeigte. Ihre Liebe machte sie befürchten, zu nachsichtig zu sein. Sie hatte ein unbehagliches Gefühl, dass es fast sündhaft war, sein Herz so intensiv an ein menschliches Wesen wie Anne zu hängen, und vielleicht vollbrachte sie dafür eine Art unbewusste Buße, indem sie strenger und kritischer war, als wenn das Mädchen ihr nicht so lieb gewesen wäre. Sicherlich hatte Anne selbst keine Ahnung, wie Marilla sie liebte. Manchmal dachte sie sehnsüchtig daran, dass Marilla sehr schwer zufriedenzustellen war und eindeutig an Sympathie und Verständnis mangelte. Aber sie verwarf den Gedanken immer tadelnd und erinnerte sich daran, was sie Marilla schuldete. "Anne", sagte Marilla abrupt, "Miss Stacy war heute Nachmittag hier, als du mit Diana unterwegs warst." Anne kam mit einem Ruck und einem Seufzer aus ihrer anderen Welt zurück. "Ist sie das? Oh, es tut mir so leid, dass ich nicht da war. Warum hast du mich nicht gerufen, Marilla? Diana und ich waren nur im Spukwald. Es ist herrlich im Wald jetzt. Alle kleinen Holzdinge—die Farn- und die Satinblätter und die Preiselbeeren—haben geschlafen, so wie jemand sie unter einer Decke aus Blättern verstaut hätte, bis der Frühling kommt. Ich glaube, es war eine kleine graue Fee mit einem Regenbogenschal, die in der letzten Mondnacht dahingeschlichen kam und das getan hat. Diana wollte davon nicht viel sagen, obwohl. Diana hat nie das Ausschelten ihrer Mutter vergessen, weil sie sich einbildet, dass es Gespenster im Spukwald gebe. Es hatte einen sehr schlechten Einfluss auf Dianas Vorstellungskraft. Es hat sie ruiniert. Mrs. Lynde sagt, Myrtle Bell sei ein ruiniertes Wesen. Ich habe Ruby Gillis gefragt, warum Myrtle ruiniert ist und Ruby meinte, sie habe geraten, dass es daran liegt, dass ihr junger Mann sie sitzengelassen hat. Ruby Gillis denkt nur an junge Männer und je älter sie wird, desto schlimmer wird es. Junge Männer sind allesamt gut, wenn sie an ihrem Platz sind, aber man sollte sie nicht in alles hereinziehen, oder? Diana und ich denken ernsthaft darüber nach, uns gegenseitig zu versprechen, dass wir nie heiraten, sondern nette alte Jungfern sein und für immer zusammenleben. Diana hat sich aber noch nicht ganz entschieden, weil sie denkt, es wäre nobler, einen wilden, draufgängerischen, bösen jungen Mann zu heiraten und ihn zu reformieren. Diana und ich reden jetzt viel über ernste Dinge, weißt du. Wir fühlen uns so viel älter als wir es früher waren, dass es unangebracht ist, über kindliche Angelegenheiten zu sprechen. Es ist so eine feierliche Sache, fast vierzehn zu sein, Marilla. Miss Stacy hat uns letzte Woche alle Mädchen, die im Teenageralter sind, mit zum Bach genommen und mit uns darüber gesprochen. Sie sagte, wir könnten nicht vorsichtig genug sein, welche Gewohnheiten wir uns aneignen und welche Ideale wir in unserer Teenager-Zeit entwickeln, denn bis wir zwanzig sind, würden unsere Charaktere geformt sein und das Fundament für unser ganzes zukünftiges Leben gelegt sein. Und sie sagte, wenn das Fundament wackelig sei, könnten wir darauf nie etwas wirklich Wertvolles aufbauen. Diana und ich haben auf dem Heimweg von der Schule darüber gesprochen. Wir waren extrem feierlich gestimmt, Marilla. Und wir haben beschlossen, dass wir sehr, sehr vorsichtig sein und anständige Gewohnheiten entwickeln und so viel wie möglich lernen wollen, damit unsere Charaktere bis wir zwanzig sind richtig geformt sind. Es ist absolut entsetzlich, daran zu denken, zwanzig zu sein, Marilla. Es klingt so fürchterlich alt und erwachsen. Aber warum war Miss Stacy heute Nachmittag hier?" "Das ist es, was ich dir erzählen möchte, Anne, wenn du mir überhaupt eine Chance gibst, auch ein Wort zu sagen. Sie hat über dich gesprochen." "Über mich?" Anne sah ziemlich erschrocken aus. Dann wurde sie rot und rief: "Oh, ich weiß, was sie gesagt hat. Ich hatte vor, es dir zu erzählen, Marilla, ehrlich gesagt hatte ich das, aber ich habe es vergessen. Miss Stacy hat mich gestern Nachmittag in der Schule erwischt, als ich Ben Hur gelesen habe, anstatt Kanadische Geschichte zu lernen. Jane Andrews hat es mir geliehen. Ich habe es zur Mittagszeit gelesen und war gerade bei der Wagenrennen-Szene, als die Schule losging. Ich wollte unbedingt wissen, wie es ausging—Ich war mir sicher, dass Ben Hur gewinnen würde, weil es nicht poetische Gerechtigkeit gewesen wäre, wenn er nicht gewonnen hätte—also habe ich die Geschichte auf meinen Schreibtisch geklappt und dann habe ich Ben Hur zwischen den Schreibtisch und mein Knie gesteckt. Es sah einfach so aus, als ob ich Kanadische Geschichte lernen würde, während ich die ganze Zeit in Ben Hur schwelgte. Ich war so daran interessiert, dass ich erst bemerkte, dass Miss Stacy den Gang hinunter kam, als ich unvermittelt aufblickte und sie betrachtete, so vorwurfsvoll. Ich kann dir nicht sagen, wie beschämt ich mich gefühlt habe, Marilla, besonders als ich Josie Pye kichern hörte. Miss Stacy hat mir Ben Hur weggenommen, aber sie hat kein Wort gesagt. Sie hat mich in der Pause behalten und mit mir geredet. Sie sagte, ich habe in zweierlei Hinsicht sehr falsch gehandelt. Erstens habe ich die Zeit verschwendet, die ich für meine Studien hätte verwenden sollen, und zweitens habe ich meine Lehrerin getäuscht und versucht, es so aussehen zu lassen, als ob ich eine Geschichte lese, während es eigentlich ein Buch war. Ich hatte nie bis zu diesem Moment erkannt, Marilla, dass das, was ich tat, betrügerisch war. Ich war schockiert. Ich habe bitterlich geweint und Miss Stacy gebeten, mir zu vergeben und dass ich so etwas nie wieder tun würde. Ich habe sogar angeboten, Ben Hur eine ganze Woche lang nicht einmal anzusehen, nicht Nun, Miss Stacy möchte eine Klasse für ihre fortgeschrittenen Schüler organisieren, die beabsichtigen, für die Aufnahmeprüfung an der Queen's zu studieren. Sie plant, ihnen nach der Schule zusätzlichen Unterricht zu geben. Und sie kam, um Matthew und mich zu fragen, ob wir möchten, dass du daran teilnimmst. Was denkst du selbst darüber, Anne? Möchtest du zur Queen's gehen und Lehrerin werden?" "Oh, Marilla!" Anne kniete sich auf und legte ihre Hände zusammen. "Das ist der Traum meines Lebens gewesen - zumindest in den letzten sechs Monaten, seit Ruby und Jane angefangen haben, über das Studium für die Aufnahmeprüfung zu sprechen. Aber ich habe nichts gesagt, weil ich dachte, es wäre völlig nutzlos. Ich würde gerne Lehrerin werden. Aber wird das nicht furchtbar teuer sein? Mr. Andrews sagt, dass es ihn 150 Dollar gekostet hat, Prissy durchzubringen, und Prissy war kein Dummkopf in Geometrie." "Ich denke, du brauchst dir darüber keine Sorgen zu machen. Als Matthew und ich dich zu uns genommen haben, haben wir beschlossen, dass wir unser Bestes für dich tun und dir eine gute Ausbildung ermöglichen wollen. Ich glaube daran, dass ein Mädchen darauf vorbereitet sein sollte, ihr eigenes Geld zu verdienen, ob sie es jemals muss oder nicht. Du wirst immer ein Zuhause bei Green Gables haben, solange Matthew und ich hier sind, aber niemand weiß, was in dieser unsicheren Welt passieren wird, und es ist besser, vorbereitet zu sein. Also kannst du dich der Queen's-Klasse anschließen, wenn du möchtest, Anne." "Oh, Marilla, danke." Anne warf ihre Arme um Marillas Taille und schaute ehrlich in ihr Gesicht. "Ich bin Ihnen und Matthew so dankbar. Und ich werde so hart lernen, wie ich kann, und mein Bestes geben, um eine Ehre für Sie zu sein. Ich warne Sie, nicht zu viel von meiner Geometrie zu erwarten, aber ich denke, in allem anderen kann ich mithalten, wenn ich hart arbeite." "Ich denke, du wirst gut genug zurechtkommen. Miss Stacy sagt, dass du klug und fleißig bist." Marilla hätte Anne um nichts in der Welt erzählt, was Miss Stacy über sie gesagt hatte; das wäre Verwöhnen von Eitelkeit gewesen. "Du musst dich auch nicht übermäßig mit deinen Büchern quälen. Es besteht keine Eile. Du wirst erst in anderthalb Jahren bereit sein, die Aufnahmeprüfung zu machen. Aber es ist gut, rechtzeitig anzufangen und gründlich vorbereitet zu sein, sagt Miss Stacy." "Ich werde mich jetzt noch mehr für mein Studium interessieren", sagte Anne glücklich, "weil ich einen Lebenszweck habe. Herr Allan sagt, jeder sollte einen Lebenszweck haben und ihm treu folgen. Aber er sagt auch, dass wir uns zuerst vergewissern müssen, dass es ein würdiger Zweck ist. Ich würde es als würdigen Zweck bezeichnen, Lehrerin wie Miss Stacy werden zu wollen, findest du nicht, Marilla? Ich denke, es ist ein sehr nobler Beruf." Die Queen's-Klasse wurde rechtzeitig organisiert. Gilbert Blythe, Anne Shirley, Ruby Gillis, Jane Andrews, Josie Pye, Charlie Sloane und Moody Spurgeon MacPherson traten ihr bei. Diana Barry allerdings nicht, denn ihre Eltern beabsichtigten nicht, sie auf die Queen's zu schicken. Das schien Anne nichts weniger als eine Katastrophe zu sein. Seit der Nacht, als Minnie May Krupp hatte, hatten sie und Diana in nichts getrennt. An dem Abend, als die Queen's-Klasse zum ersten Mal nach der Schule für den zusätzlichen Unterricht blieb und Anne Diana langsam mit den anderen gehen sah, allein den Birch Path und Violet Vale entlang, konnte sie sich gerade noch zurückhalten und nicht impulsiv ihrer Freundin nachlaufen. Ein Kloß bildete sich in ihrem Hals, und sie versteckte hastig die Tränen in ihren Augen hinter den Seiten ihrer erhobenen Latein-Grammatik. Um nichts in der Welt hätte Anne gewollt, dass Gilbert Blythe oder Josie Pye diese Tränen sehen. "Aber ach, Marilla, ich hatte wirklich das Gefühl, den Bitterkeit des Todes gekostet zu haben, wie es Mr. Allan in seiner Predigt letzten Sonntag sagte, als ich Diana alleine gehen sah", sagte sie traurig an jenem Abend. "Ich dachte, wie wunderbar es gewesen wäre, wenn Diana auch für die Aufnahmeprüfung studiert hätte. Aber wir können nicht alles perfekt haben in dieser unvollkommenen Welt, wie Mrs. Lynde sagt. Mrs. Lynde ist manchmal nicht gerade eine tröstliche Person, aber es gibt keinen Zweifel, dass sie viele sehr wahre Dinge sagt. Und ich denke, die Queen's-Klasse wird äußerst interessant sein. Jane und Ruby wollen nur Lehrer werden. Das ist ihre größte Ambition. Ruby sagt, sie will nur zwei Jahre lang unterrichten, nachdem sie fertig ist, und dann will sie heiraten. Jane sagt, sie will ihr ganzes Leben dem Unterrichten widmen und nie, niemals heiraten, weil man fürs Unterrichten ein Gehalt bekommt, aber ein Ehemann zahlt dir nichts und mault, wenn du einen Anteil am Eier- und Buttergeld verlangst. Ich vermute, Jane spricht aus trauriger Erfahrung, denn Mrs. Lynde sagt, ihr Vater sei ein alter Querkopf und gemeiner als zweites Absahnen. Josie Pye sagt, dass sie nur aus Bildungsgründen ans College geht, weil sie nicht ihr eigenes Geld verdienen muss; sie sagt, dass es natürlich bei Waisen, die von der Wohltätigkeit leben, anders ist - die müssen sich mühen. Moody Spurgeon will Pfarrer werden. Mrs. Lynde sagt, dass er mit einem Namen wie dem seinen nichts anderes sein könnte. Ich hoffe, es ist nicht böse von mir, Marilla, aber der Gedanke an Moody Spurgeon als Pfarrer bringt mich wirklich zum Lachen. Er sieht so komisch aus mit seinem fetten Gesicht, den kleinen blauen Augen und den abstehenden Ohren wie Klappen. Aber vielleicht wird er intellektueller aussehen, wenn er erwachsen ist. Charlie Sloane sagt, er will in die Politik gehen und Mitglied des Parlaments werden, aber Mrs. Lynde sagt, er wird dabei nie Erfolg haben, weil die Sloanes alles ehrliche Leute sind und nur Schurken es heute in der Politik schaffen." "Was wird Gilbert Blythe werden?", fragte Marilla und sah, dass Anne ihren Caesar öffnete. "Ich weiß zufällig nicht, was Gilbert Blythes Lebensziel ist - wenn er überhaupt eins hat", sagte Anne schnippisch. Jetzt herrschte eine offene Rivalität zwischen Gilbert und Anne. Zuvor war die Rivalität eher einseitig gewesen, aber jetzt gab es keinen Zweifel mehr daran, dass Gilbert genauso entschlossen war, der Erste in der Klasse zu sein wie Anne. Er war ein Gegner, der es mit ihr aufnehmen konnte. Die anderen Mitglieder der Klasse erkannten ihre Überlegenheit stillschweigend an und dachten nicht im Traum daran, mit ihnen zu konkurrieren. Seit dem Tag am Teich, als sie seine Bitte um Vergebung abgelehnt hatte, hatte Gilbert, abgesehen von der erwähnten entschlossenen Rivalität, keinerlei Wahrnehmung mehr von Anne Shirley gezeigt. Er sprach und scherzte mit den anderen Mädchen, tauschte Bücher und Rätsel mit ihnen aus, besprach Lektionen und Pläne, ging manchmal mit einer von ihnen von der Gebetsversammlung oder dem Debattierclub nach Hause. Aber Anne Shirley ignorierte er einfach, und Anne fand heraus, dass es nicht angenehm ist, ignoriert zu werden. Vergeblich sagte sie sich mit einem Ruck ihres Kopfes, dass es ihr egal sei. Tief in ihrem eigensinnigen, weiblichen Herzen wusste sie, dass es sie kümmerte, und dass sie, wenn sie diese Chance am See des leuchtenden Wassers noch einmal hätte, ganz anders antworten würde. Plötzlich, wie es schien, und zu ihrem geheimen Bedauern, stellte sie fest Die Studien wurden ein klein wenig langweilig; die Klasse der Königin, die in der Schule zurückgelassen wurde, während die anderen sich in grünen Alleen und laubigen Wäldern und Wiesenwegen verstreuten, schaute sehnsüchtig aus den Fenstern und stellte fest, dass die lateinischen Verben und französischen Aufgaben irgendwie den Pep und das Feuer verloren hatten, die sie in den knackigen Wintermonaten hatten. Sogar Anne und Gilbert hinkten hinterher und wurden gleichgültiger. Lehrer und Schüler waren gleichermaßen froh, als das Schuljahr zu Ende war und die fröhlichen Ferientage rosafarben vor ihnen lagen. "Aber ihr habt in diesem vergangenen Jahr gute Arbeit geleistet", sagte Miss Stacy am letzten Abend zu ihnen, "und ihr verdient einen guten, fröhlichen Urlaub. Habt die beste Zeit, die ihr in der Welt draußen haben könnt, und legt euch einen guten Vorrat an Gesundheit, Vitalität und Ambition zurecht, um euch durch das nächste Jahr zu bringen. Es wird der Höhepunkt sein, wisst ihr - das letzte Jahr vor dem Eingang." "Kommst du nächstes Jahr wieder, Miss Stacy?" fragte Josie Pye. Josie Pye zögerte nie, Fragen zu stellen; in diesem Fall waren der Rest der Klasse ihr dankbar; keiner von ihnen hätte es gewagt, Miss Stacy danach zu fragen, aber alle wollten es, denn es waren beunruhigende Gerüchte durch die Schule gelaufen, dass Miss Stacy im nächsten Jahr nicht wiederkommen würde - dass ihr eine Stelle in der Grundschule ihres eigenen Bezirks angeboten worden war und sie angenommen hatte. Die Königinnenklasse hörte atemlos auf ihre Antwort. "Ja, ich denke schon", sagte Miss Stacy. "Ich habe daran gedacht, an einer anderen Schule zu unterrichten, aber ich habe mich entschieden, nach Avonlea zurückzukehren. Um die Wahrheit zu sagen, bin ich so sehr an meinen Schülern hier interessiert geworden, dass ich festgestellt habe, dass ich sie nicht verlassen konnte. Also werde ich bleiben und euch durch das Schuljahr begleiten." "Hurra!" sagte Moody Spurgeon. Moody Spurgeon war noch nie zuvor so von seinen Gefühlen mitgerissen worden, und er errötete unangenehm, jedes Mal wenn er eine Woche lang daran dachte. "Oh, ich bin so froh", sagte Anne mit strahlenden Augen. "Liebe Stacy, es wäre absolut furchtbar, wenn du nicht wiederkommen würdest. Ich glaube, ich könnte gar nicht erst weiterlernen, wenn eine andere Lehrerin hierher käme." Als Anne an diesem Abend nach Hause kam, stapelte sie alle ihre Schulbücher in einer alten Truhe auf dem Dachboden, verschloss sie und warf den Schlüssel in die Wolldecken-Kiste. "Ich werde in den Ferien kein Schulbuch anschauen", sagte sie zu Marilla. "Ich habe das ganze Semester über so hart wie möglich gelernt und über diese Geometrie nachgegrübelt, bis ich jede Behauptung im ersten Buch auswendig konnte, selbst wenn die Buchstaben verändert waren. Ich bin einfach müde von allem Vernünftigen und lasse jetzt meine Fantasie im Sommer wild laufen. Oh, keine Sorge, Marilla, ich lasse sie nur in vernünftigen Grenzen wild laufen. Aber ich möchte diesen Sommer wirklich eine gute und fröhliche Zeit haben, denn vielleicht ist es der letzte Sommer, in dem ich noch ein kleines Mädchen bin. Mrs. Lynde sagt, dass wenn ich mich im nächsten Jahr so schnell entwickle, wie ich es dieses Jahr getan habe, ich längere Röcke tragen muss. Sie sagt, dass meine Beine und Augen stark gewachsen sind. Und wenn ich längere Röcke trage, werde ich mich verpflichtet fühlen, ihnen gerecht zu werden und sehr würdevoll zu sein. Dann darf ich wohl nicht einmal mehr an Feen glauben, fürchte ich; also werde ich diesen Sommer mit meinem ganzen Herzen an sie glauben. Ich glaube, wir werden einen sehr fröhlichen Urlaub haben. Ruby Gillis will bald eine Geburtstagsfeier haben, und dann gibt es das Sonntagsschulpicknick und das Missionskonzert nächsten Monat. Und Mr. Barry sagt, dass wir an einem Abend Diana und ich ins White Sands Hotel gehen und dort zu Abend essen werden. Sie essen dort abends, weißt du. Jane Andrews war letzten Sommer einmal dort, und sie sagt, es war ein atemberaubender Anblick, die elektrischen Lichter und die Blumen und all die Damen in so schönen Kleidern. Jane sagt, es war ihr erster Einblick in die High Society und sie wird es an ihrem Sterbetag nie vergessen." Am nächsten Nachmittag kam Mrs. Lynde hoch, um herauszufinden, warum Marilla nicht bei der Hilfeversammlung am Donnerstag gewesen war. Wenn Marilla nicht bei der Hilfeversammlung war, wussten die Leute, dass etwas nicht in Ordnung war in Green Gables. "Matthew hatte am Donnerstag einen Herzstillstand", erklärte Marilla, "und ich wollte ihn nicht allein lassen. Oh ja, ihm geht es jetzt wieder gut, aber er hat öfter solche Anfälle als früher, und ich mache mir Sorgen um ihn. Der Arzt sagt, er muss aufpassen, sich nicht aufzuregen. Das ist leicht genug, denn Matthew sucht nirgendwo nach Aufregung und hat das nie getan, aber er darf auch keine sehr schwere Arbeit verrichten, und du könntest Matthew genauso gut sagen, dass er nicht atmen soll wie dass er nicht arbeiten soll. Komm und zieh deine Sachen aus, Rachel. Du bleibst zum Tee, oder?" "Nun, da du so darauf drängst, könnte ich genauso gut bleiben," sagte Mrs. Rachel, die absolut nicht vorhatte, etwas anderes zu tun. Mrs. Rachel und Marilla saßen gemütlich im Salon, während Anne den Tee machte und heiße Kekse zubereitete, die leicht und weiß genug waren, um selbst Mrs. Rachels Kritik zu überstanden. "Ich muss sagen, Anne hat sich zu einem klugen Mädchen entwickelt", gab Mrs. Rachel zu, als Marilla sie bei Sonnenuntergang bis ans Ende der Straße begleitete. "Sie muss dir eine große Hilfe sein." "Ja, das stimmt", sagte Marilla, "und sie ist jetzt wirklich zuverlässig und verlässlich. Ich hatte früher Angst, dass sie nie über ihre zerstreute Art hinwegkommen würde, aber das hat sie, und ich würde mich nicht mehr scheuen, ihr irgendetwas anzuvertrauen." "Ich hätte nie gedacht, dass sie sich vor drei Jahren, als ich zum ersten Mal hier war, so gut entwickeln würde", sagte Mrs. Rachel. "Bei allem was recht ist, werde ich diese Wutausbrüche von ihr niemals vergessen! Als ich damals nach Hause ging, habe ich zu Thomas gesagt, 'Markiere meine Worte, Thomas, Marilla Cuthbert wird diesen Schritt, den sie getan hat, bereuen.' Aber ich habe mich geirrt und freue mich wirklich darüber. Ich gehöre nicht zu den Leuten, Marilla, die niemals zugeben können, dass sie einen Fehler gemacht haben. Nein, das war nie meine Art, Gott sei Dank. Ich habe einen Fehler darin gemacht, Anne zu beurteilen, aber das ist kein Wunder, denn ein merkwürdigeres, unerwarteteres Hexenkind wie sie, hat es in dieser Welt nie gegeben, das ist sicher. Man konnte sie nicht einfach so wie andere Kinder berechnen. Es ist nichts weniger als wunderbar, wie sie sich in diesen drei Jahren verbessert hat, besonders was ihr Aussehen betrifft. Sie ist zu einem wirklich hübschen Mädchen geworden, obwohl ich persönlich diesen blassen, großäugigen Stil nicht besonders mag. Ich mag mehr Schwung und Farbe, so wie Diana Barry oder Ruby Gillis. Ruby Gillis sieht wirklich beeindruckend aus. Aber irgendwie - ich weiß nicht wie es ist, aber wenn Anne und sie zusammen sind, obwohl sie nicht halb so hübsch ist, bringt sie sie dazu, gewöhnlich und übertrieben auszusehen - so ähnlich wie diese weißen Frühjahrsnelken, die sie Narzissen nennt, neben den großen, roten Pfingstrosen, das ist es." Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben stehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Eines Abends kommt Anne nach Hause zu einer sehr erschöpften Marilla. Marilla hat sich in letzter Zeit nicht gut gefühlt und denkt, dass sie ihre Brille ändern lassen muss. Marilla erzählt Anne, dass Miss Stacy Green Gables besucht hat, aber nicht weiter mit ihrer Geschichte kommt. Zuerst wird Anne abgelenkt und spricht über das Erwachsenwerden und dann denkt Anne, dass sie Ärger bekommt, weil sie Ben-Hur während des Unterrichts gelesen hat, und erzählt Marilla die ganze Geschichte. Schließlich lässt sie Marilla sprechen. Marilla erzählt ihr, dass Miss Stacy will, dass Anne Teil einer Klasse von elitären Schülern ist, die nach dem Unterricht bleiben, um sich auf die Queen's vorzubereiten. Anne ist begeistert. Sie dachte nicht, dass sie gehen könnte wegen der Kosten, aber Marilla und Matthew haben Geld für ihre Bildung zurückgelegt. Das einzige Problem? Dianas Eltern lassen sie nicht zur Queen's gehen. Also muss Anne ohne Diana lernen. Haben wir erwähnt, dass Gilbert in der Klasse ist? Annes Lieblingsfeind. Er hat Anne ignoriert, seit sie ihn am Fluss abgewiesen hat. Anne bereut übrigens, was sie gesagt hat, würde es aber nie zugeben. Das Lernen ist im Frühling schwer, aber endlich beginnen die Sommerferien. Marilla verpasst eine Versammlung der Damenvereinigung, was für sie eine große Sache ist. Als Mrs. Lynde vorbeikommt, um herauszufinden, was los ist, erzählt Marilla ihr, dass Matthew schlechte Herz "Anfälle" hat. Das klingt nicht gut. Er soll Aufregungen vermeiden. Anne serviert Marilla und Rachel Tee und Kekse. Sie sprechen darüber, wie gut Anne jetzt kochen kann und wie hilfreich sie für Marilla geworden ist. Ein ziemlicher Unterschied vom Anfang 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: 06 Liberty I was quite happy in my new place, and if there was one thing that I missed it must not be thought I was discontented; all who had to do with me were good and I had a light airy stable and the best of food. What more could I want? Why, liberty! For three years and a half of my life I had had all the liberty I could wish for; but now, week after week, month after month, and no doubt year after year, I must stand up in a stable night and day except when I am wanted, and then I must be just as steady and quiet as any old horse who has worked twenty years. Straps here and straps there, a bit in my mouth, and blinkers over my eyes. Now, I am not complaining, for I know it must be so. I only mean to say that for a young horse full of strength and spirits, who has been used to some large field or plain where he can fling up his head and toss up his tail and gallop away at full speed, then round and back again with a snort to his companions--I say it is hard never to have a bit more liberty to do as you like. Sometimes, when I have had less exercise than usual, I have felt so full of life and spring that when John has taken me out to exercise I really could not keep quiet; do what I would, it seemed as if I must jump, or dance, or prance, and many a good shake I know I must have given him, especially at the first; but he was always good and patient. "Steady, steady, my boy," he would say; "wait a bit, and we will have a good swing, and soon get the tickle out of your feet." Then as soon as we were out of the village, he would give me a few miles at a spanking trot, and then bring me back as fresh as before, only clear of the fidgets, as he called them. Spirited horses, when not enough exercised, are often called skittish, when it is only play; and some grooms will punish them, but our John did not; he knew it was only high spirits. Still, he had his own ways of making me understand by the tone of his voice or the touch of the rein. If he was very serious and quite determined, I always knew it by his voice, and that had more power with me than anything else, for I was very fond of him. I ought to say that sometimes we had our liberty for a few hours; this used to be on fine Sundays in the summer-time. The carriage never went out on Sundays, because the church was not far off. It was a great treat to us to be turned out into the home paddock or the old orchard; the grass was so cool and soft to our feet, the air so sweet, and the freedom to do as we liked was so pleasant--to gallop, to lie down, and roll over on our backs, or to nibble the sweet grass. Then it was a very good time for talking, as we stood together under the shade of the large chestnut tree. 07 Ginger One day when Ginger and I were standing alone in the shade, we had a great deal of talk; she wanted to know all about my bringing up and breaking in, and I told her. "Well," said she, "if I had had your bringing up I might have had as good a temper as you, but now I don't believe I ever shall." "Why not?" I said. "Because it has been all so different with me," she replied. "I never had any one, horse or man, that was kind to me, or that I cared to please, for in the first place I was taken from my mother as soon as I was weaned, and put with a lot of other young colts; none of them cared for me, and I cared for none of them. There was no kind master like yours to look after me, and talk to me, and bring me nice things to eat. The man that had the care of us never gave me a kind word in my life. I do not mean that he ill-used me, but he did not care for us one bit further than to see that we had plenty to eat, and shelter in the winter. A footpath ran through our field, and very often the great boys passing through would fling stones to make us gallop. I was never hit, but one fine young colt was badly cut in the face, and I should think it would be a scar for life. We did not care for them, but of course it made us more wild, and we settled it in our minds that boys were our enemies. We had very good fun in the free meadows, galloping up and down and chasing each other round and round the field; then standing still under the shade of the trees. But when it came to breaking in, that was a bad time for me; several men came to catch me, and when at last they closed me in at one corner of the field, one caught me by the forelock, another caught me by the nose and held it so tight I could hardly draw my breath; then another took my under jaw in his hard hand and wrenched my mouth open, and so by force they got on the halter and the bar into my mouth; then one dragged me along by the halter, another flogging behind, and this was the first experience I had of men's kindness; it was all force. They did not give me a chance to know what they wanted. I was high bred and had a great deal of spirit, and was very wild, no doubt, and gave them, I dare say, plenty of trouble, but then it was dreadful to be shut up in a stall day after day instead of having my liberty, and I fretted and pined and wanted to get loose. You know yourself it's bad enough when you have a kind master and plenty of coaxing, but there was nothing of that sort for me. "There was one--the old master, Mr. Ryder--who, I think, could soon have brought me round, and could have done anything with me; but he had given up all the hard part of the trade to his son and to another experienced man, and he only came at times to oversee. His son was a strong, tall, bold man; they called him Samson, and he used to boast that he had never found a horse that could throw him. There was no gentleness in him, as there was in his father, but only hardness, a hard voice, a hard eye, a hard hand; and I felt from the first that what he wanted was to wear all the spirit out of me, and just make me into a quiet, humble, obedient piece of horseflesh. 'Horseflesh'! Yes, that is all that he thought about," and Ginger stamped her foot as if the very thought of him made her angry. Then she went on: "If I did not do exactly what he wanted he would get put out, and make me run round with that long rein in the training field till he had tired me out. I think he drank a good deal, and I am quite sure that the oftener he drank the worse it was for me. One day he had worked me hard in every way he could, and when I lay down I was tired, and miserable, and angry; it all seemed so hard. The next morning he came for me early, and ran me round again for a long time. I had scarcely had an hour's rest, when he came again for me with a saddle and bridle and a new kind of bit. I could never quite tell how it came about; he had only just mounted me on the training ground, when something I did put him out of temper, and he chucked me hard with the rein. The new bit was very painful, and I reared up suddenly, which angered him still more, and he began to flog me. I felt my whole spirit set against him, and I began to kick, and plunge, and rear as I had never done before, and we had a regular fight; for a long time he stuck to the saddle and punished me cruelly with his whip and spurs, but my blood was thoroughly up, and I cared for nothing he could do if only I could get him off. At last after a terrible struggle I threw him off backward. I heard him fall heavily on the turf, and without looking behind me, I galloped off to the other end of the field; there I turned round and saw my persecutor slowly rising from the ground and going into the stable. I stood under an oak tree and watched, but no one came to catch me. The time went on, and the sun was very hot; the flies swarmed round me and settled on my bleeding flanks where the spurs had dug in. I felt hungry, for I had not eaten since the early morning, but there was not enough grass in that meadow for a goose to live on. I wanted to lie down and rest, but with the saddle strapped tightly on there was no comfort, and there was not a drop of water to drink. The afternoon wore on, and the sun got low. I saw the other colts led in, and I knew they were having a good feed. "At last, just as the sun went down, I saw the old master come out with a sieve in his hand. He was a very fine old gentleman with quite white hair, but his voice was what I should know him by among a thousand. It was not high, nor yet low, but full, and clear, and kind, and when he gave orders it was so steady and decided that every one knew, both horses and men, that he expected to be obeyed. He came quietly along, now and then shaking the oats about that he had in the sieve, and speaking cheerfully and gently to me: 'Come along, lassie, come along, lassie; come along, come along.' I stood still and let him come up; he held the oats to me, and I began to eat without fear; his voice took all my fear away. He stood by, patting and stroking me while I was eating, and seeing the clots of blood on my side he seemed very vexed. 'Poor lassie! it was a bad business, a bad business;' then he quietly took the rein and led me to the stable; just at the door stood Samson. I laid my ears back and snapped at him. 'Stand back,' said the master, 'and keep out of her way; you've done a bad day's work for this filly.' He growled out something about a vicious brute. 'Hark ye,' said the father, 'a bad-tempered man will never make a good-tempered horse. You've not learned your trade yet, Samson.' Then he led me into my box, took off the saddle and bridle with his own hands, and tied me up; then he called for a pail of warm water and a sponge, took off his coat, and while the stable-man held the pail, he sponged my sides a good while, so tenderly that I was sure he knew how sore and bruised they were. 'Whoa! my pretty one,' he said, 'stand still, stand still.' His very voice did me good, and the bathing was very comfortable. The skin was so broken at the corners of my mouth that I could not eat the hay, the stalks hurt me. He looked closely at it, shook his head, and told the man to fetch a good bran mash and put some meal into it. How good that mash was! and so soft and healing to my mouth. He stood by all the time I was eating, stroking me and talking to the man. 'If a high-mettled creature like this,' said he, 'can't be broken by fair means, she will never be good for anything.' "After that he often came to see me, and when my mouth was healed the other breaker, Job, they called him, went on training me; he was steady and thoughtful, and I soon learned what he wanted." 08 Ginger's Story Continued The next time that Ginger and I were together in the paddock she told me about her first place. "After my breaking in," she said, "I was bought by a dealer to match another chestnut horse. For some weeks he drove us together, and then we were sold to a fashionable gentleman, and were sent up to London. I had been driven with a check-rein by the dealer, and I hated it worse than anything else; but in this place we were reined far tighter, the coachman and his master thinking we looked more stylish so. We were often driven about in the park and other fashionable places. You who never had a check-rein on don't know what it is, but I can tell you it is dreadful. "I like to toss my head about and hold it as high as any horse; but fancy now yourself, if you tossed your head up high and were obliged to hold it there, and that for hours together, not able to move it at all, except with a jerk still higher, your neck aching till you did not know how to bear it. Besides that, to have two bits instead of one--and mine was a sharp one, it hurt my tongue and my jaw, and the blood from my tongue colored the froth that kept flying from my lips as I chafed and fretted at the bits and rein. It was worst when we had to stand by the hour waiting for our mistress at some grand party or entertainment, and if I fretted or stamped with impatience the whip was laid on. It was enough to drive one mad." "Did not your master take any thought for you?" I said. "No," said she, "he only cared to have a stylish turnout, as they call it; I think he knew very little about horses; he left that to his coachman, who told him I had an irritable temper! that I had not been well broken to the check-rein, but I should soon get used to it; but he was not the man to do it, for when I was in the stable, miserable and angry, instead of being smoothed and quieted by kindness, I got only a surly word or a blow. If he had been civil I would have tried to bear it. I was willing to work, and ready to work hard too; but to be tormented for nothing but their fancies angered me. What right had they to make me suffer like that? Besides the soreness in my mouth, and the pain in my neck, it always made my windpipe feel bad, and if I had stopped there long I know it would have spoiled my breathing; but I grew more and more restless and irritable, I could not help it; and I began to snap and kick when any one came to harness me; for this the groom beat me, and one day, as they had just buckled us into the carriage, and were straining my head up with that rein, I began to plunge and kick with all my might. I soon broke a lot of harness, and kicked myself clear; so that was an end of that place. "After this I was sent to Tattersall's to be sold; of course I could not be warranted free from vice, so nothing was said about that. My handsome appearance and good paces soon brought a gentleman to bid for me, and I was bought by another dealer; he tried me in all kinds of ways and with different bits, and he soon found out what I could not bear. At last he drove me quite without a check-rein, and then sold me as a perfectly quiet horse to a gentleman in the country; he was a good master, and I was getting on very well, but his old groom left him and a new one came. This man was as hard-tempered and hard-handed as Samson; he always spoke in a rough, impatient voice, and if I did not move in the stall the moment he wanted me, he would hit me above the hocks with his stable broom or the fork, whichever he might have in his hand. Everything he did was rough, and I began to hate him; he wanted to make me afraid of him, but I was too high-mettled for that, and one day when he had aggravated me more than usual I bit him, which of course put him in a great rage, and he began to hit me about the head with a riding whip. After that he never dared to come into my stall again; either my heels or my teeth were ready for him, and he knew it. I was quite quiet with my master, but of course he listened to what the man said, and so I was sold again. "The same dealer heard of me, and said he thought he knew one place where I should do well. ''Twas a pity,' he said, 'that such a fine horse should go to the bad, for want of a real good chance,' and the end of it was that I came here not long before you did; but I had then made up my mind that men were my natural enemies and that I must defend myself. Of course it is very different here, but who knows how long it will last? I wish I could think about things as you do; but I can't, after all I have gone through." "Well," I said, "I think it would be a real shame if you were to bite or kick John or James." "I don't mean to," she said, "while they are good to me. I did bite James once pretty sharp, but John said, 'Try her with kindness,' and instead of punishing me as I expected, James came to me with his arm bound up, and brought me a bran mash and stroked me; and I have never snapped at him since, and I won't either." I was sorry for Ginger, but of course I knew very little then, and I thought most likely she made the worst of it; however, I found that as the weeks went on she grew much more gentle and cheerful, and had lost the watchful, defiant look that she used to turn on any strange person who came near her; and one day James said, "I do believe that mare is getting fond of me, she quite whinnied after me this morning when I had been rubbing her forehead." "Ay, ay, Jim, 'tis 'the Birtwick balls'," said John, "she'll be as good as Black Beauty by and by; kindness is all the physic she wants, poor thing!" Master noticed the change, too, and one day when he got out of the carriage and came to speak to us, as he often did, he stroked her beautiful neck. "Well, my pretty one, well, how do things go with you now? You are a good bit happier than when you came to us, I think." She put her nose up to him in a friendly, trustful way, while he rubbed it gently. "We shall make a cure of her, John," he said. "Yes, sir, she's wonderfully improved; she's not the same creature that she was; it's 'the Birtwick balls', sir," said John, laughing. This was a little joke of John's; he used to say that a regular course of "the Birtwick horseballs" would cure almost any vicious horse; these balls, he said, were made up of patience and gentleness, firmness and petting, one pound of each to be mixed up with half a pint of common sense, and given to the horse every day. 09 Merrylegs Mr. Blomefield, the vicar, had a large family of boys and girls; sometimes they used to come and play with Miss Jessie and Flora. One of the girls was as old as Miss Jessie; two of the boys were older, and there were several little ones. When they came there was plenty of work for Merrylegs, for nothing pleased them so much as getting on him by turns and riding him all about the orchard and the home paddock, and this they would do by the hour together. One afternoon he had been out with them a long time, and when James brought him in and put on his halter he said: "There, you rogue, mind how you behave yourself, or we shall get into trouble." "What have you been doing, Merrylegs?" I asked. "Oh!" said he, tossing his little head, "I have only been giving those young people a lesson; they did not know when they had had enough, nor when I had had enough, so I just pitched them off backward; that was the only thing they could understand." "What!" said I, "you threw the children off? I thought you did know better than that! Did you throw Miss Jessie or Miss Flora?" He looked very much offended, and said: "Of course not; I would not do such a thing for the best oats that ever came into the stable; why, I am as careful of our young ladies as the master could be, and as for the little ones it is I who teach them to ride. When they seem frightened or a little unsteady on my back I go as smooth and as quiet as old pussy when she is after a bird; and when they are all right I go on again faster, you see, just to use them to it; so don't you trouble yourself preaching to me; I am the best friend and the best riding-master those children have. It is not them, it is the boys; boys," said he, shaking his mane, "are quite different; they must be broken in as we were broken in when we were colts, and just be taught what's what. The other children had ridden me about for nearly two hours, and then the boys thought it was their turn, and so it was, and I was quite agreeable. They rode me by turns, and I galloped them about, up and down the fields and all about the orchard, for a good hour. They had each cut a great hazel stick for a riding-whip, and laid it on a little too hard; but I took it in good part, till at last I thought we had had enough, so I stopped two or three times by way of a hint. Boys, you see, think a horse or pony is like a steam-engine or a thrashing-machine, and can go on as long and as fast as they please; they never think that a pony can get tired, or have any feelings; so as the one who was whipping me could not understand I just rose up on my hind legs and let him slip off behind--that was all. He mounted me again, and I did the same. Then the other boy got up, and as soon as he began to use his stick I laid him on the grass, and so on, till they were able to understand--that was all. They are not bad boys; they don't wish to be cruel. I like them very well; but you see I had to give them a lesson. When they brought me to James and told him I think he was very angry to see such big sticks. He said they were only fit for drovers or gypsies, and not for young gentlemen." "If I had been you," said Ginger, "I would have given those boys a good kick, and that would have given them a lesson." "No doubt you would," said Merrylegs; "but then I am not quite such a fool (begging your pardon) as to anger our master or make James ashamed of me. Besides, those children are under my charge when they are riding; I tell you they are intrusted to me. Why, only the other day I heard our master say to Mrs. Blomefield, 'My dear madam, you need not be anxious about the children; my old Merrylegs will take as much care of them as you or I could; I assure you I would not sell that pony for any money, he is so perfectly good-tempered and trustworthy;' and do you think I am such an ungrateful brute as to forget all the kind treatment I have had here for five years, and all the trust they place in me, and turn vicious because a couple of ignorant boys used me badly? No, no! you never had a good place where they were kind to you, and so you don't know, and I'm sorry for you; but I can tell you good places make good horses. I wouldn't vex our people for anything; I love them, I do," said Merrylegs, and he gave a low "ho, ho, ho!" through his nose, as he used to do in the morning when he heard James' footstep at the door. "Besides," he went on, "if I took to kicking where should I be? Why, sold off in a jiffy, and no character, and I might find myself slaved about under a butcher's boy, or worked to death at some seaside place where no one cared for me, except to find out how fast I could go, or be flogged along in some cart with three or four great men in it going out for a Sunday spree, as I have often seen in the place I lived in before I came here; no," said he, shaking his head, "I hope I shall never come to that." 10 A Talk in the Orchard Ginger and I were not of the regular tall carriage horse breed, we had more of the racing blood in us. We stood about fifteen and a half hands high; we were therefore just as good for riding as we were for driving, and our master used to say that he disliked either horse or man that could do but one thing; and as he did not want to show off in London parks, he preferred a more active and useful kind of horse. As for us, our greatest pleasure was when we were saddled for a riding party; the master on Ginger, the mistress on me, and the young ladies on Sir Oliver and Merrylegs. It was so cheerful to be trotting and cantering all together that it always put us in high spirits. I had the best of it, for I always carried the mistress; her weight was little, her voice was sweet, and her hand was so light on the rein that I was guided almost without feeling it. Oh! if people knew what a comfort to horses a light hand is, and how it keeps a good mouth and a good temper, they surely would not chuck, and drag, and pull at the rein as they often do. Our mouths are so tender that where they have not been spoiled or hardened with bad or ignorant treatment, they feel the slightest movement of the driver's hand, and we know in an instant what is required of us. My mouth has never been spoiled, and I believe that was why the mistress preferred me to Ginger, although her paces were certainly quite as good. She used often to envy me, and said it was all the fault of breaking in, and the gag bit in London, that her mouth was not so perfect as mine; and then old Sir Oliver would say, "There, there! don't vex yourself; you have the greatest honor; a mare that can carry a tall man of our master's weight, with all your spring and sprightly action, does not need to hold her head down because she does not carry the lady; we horses must take things as they come, and always be contented and willing so long as we are kindly used." I had often wondered how it was that Sir Oliver had such a very short tail; it really was only six or seven inches long, with a tassel of hair hanging from it; and on one of our holidays in the orchard I ventured to ask him by what accident it was that he had lost his tail. "Accident!" he snorted with a fierce look, "it was no accident! it was a cruel, shameful, cold-blooded act! When I was young I was taken to a place where these cruel things were done; I was tied up, and made fast so that I could not stir, and then they came and cut off my long and beautiful tail, through the flesh and through the bone, and took it away. "How dreadful!" I exclaimed. "Dreadful, ah! it was dreadful; but it was not only the pain, though that was terrible and lasted a long time; it was not only the indignity of having my best ornament taken from me, though that was bad; but it was this, how could I ever brush the flies off my sides and my hind legs any more? You who have tails just whisk the flies off without thinking about it, and you can't tell what a torment it is to have them settle upon you and sting and sting, and have nothing in the world to lash them off with. I tell you it is a lifelong wrong, and a lifelong loss; but thank heaven, they don't do it now." "What did they do it for then?" said Ginger. "For fashion!" said the old horse with a stamp of his foot; "for fashion! if you know what that means; there was not a well-bred young horse in my time that had not his tail docked in that shameful way, just as if the good God that made us did not know what we wanted and what looked best." "I suppose it is fashion that makes them strap our heads up with those horrid bits that I was tortured with in London," said Ginger. "Of course it is," said he; "to my mind, fashion is one of the wickedest things in the world. Now look, for instance, at the way they serve dogs, cutting off their tails to make them look plucky, and shearing up their pretty little ears to a point to make them both look sharp, forsooth. I had a dear friend once, a brown terrier; 'Skye' they called her. She was so fond of me that she never would sleep out of my stall; she made her bed under the manger, and there she had a litter of five as pretty little puppies as need be; none were drowned, for they were a valuable kind, and how pleased she was with them! and when they got their eyes open and crawled about, it was a real pretty sight; but one day the man came and took them all away; I thought he might be afraid I should tread upon them. But it was not so; in the evening poor Skye brought them back again, one by one in her mouth; not the happy little things that they were, but bleeding and crying pitifully; they had all had a piece of their tails cut off, and the soft flap of their pretty little ears was cut quite off. How their mother licked them, and how troubled she was, poor thing! I never forgot it. They healed in time, and they forgot the pain, but the nice soft flap, that of course was intended to protect the delicate part of their ears from dust and injury, was gone forever. Why don't they cut their own children's ears into points to make them look sharp? Why don't they cut the end off their noses to make them look plucky? One would be just as sensible as the other. What right have they to torment and disfigure God's creatures?" Sir Oliver, though he was so gentle, was a fiery old fellow, and what he said was all so new to me, and so dreadful, that I found a bitter feeling toward men rise up in my mind that I never had before. Of course Ginger was very much excited; she flung up her head with flashing eyes and distended nostrils, declaring that men were both brutes and blockheads. "Who talks about blockheads?" said Merrylegs, who just came up from the old apple-tree, where he had been rubbing himself against the low branch. "Who talks about blockheads? I believe that is a bad word." "Bad words were made for bad things," said Ginger, and she told him what Sir Oliver had said. "It is all true," said Merrylegs sadly, "and I've seen that about the dogs over and over again where I lived first; but we won't talk about it here. You know that master, and John and James are always good to us, and talking against men in such a place as this doesn't seem fair or grateful, and you know there are good masters and good grooms beside ours, though of course ours are the best." This wise speech of good little Merrylegs, which we knew was quite true, cooled us all down, especially Sir Oliver, who was dearly fond of his master; and to turn the subject I said, "Can any one tell me the use of blinkers?" "No!" said Sir Oliver shortly, "because they are no use." "They are supposed," said Justice, the roan cob, in his calm way, "to prevent horses from shying and starting, and getting so frightened as to cause accidents." "Then what is the reason they do not put them on riding horses; especially on ladies' horses?" said I. "There is no reason at all," said he quietly, "except the fashion; they say that a horse would be so frightened to see the wheels of his own cart or carriage coming behind him that he would be sure to run away, although of course when he is ridden he sees them all about him if the streets are crowded. I admit they do sometimes come too close to be pleasant, but we don't run away; we are used to it, and understand it, and if we never had blinkers put on we should never want them; we should see what was there, and know what was what, and be much less frightened than by only seeing bits of things that we can't understand. Of course there may be some nervous horses who have been hurt or frightened when they were young, who may be the better for them; but as I never was nervous, I can't judge." "I consider," said Sir Oliver, "that blinkers are dangerous things in the night; we horses can see much better in the dark than men can, and many an accident would never have happened if horses might have had the full use of their eyes. Some years ago, I remember, there was a hearse with two horses returning one dark night, and just by Farmer Sparrow's house, where the pond is close to the road, the wheels went too near the edge, and the hearse was overturned into the water; both the horses were drowned, and the driver hardly escaped. Of course after this accident a stout white rail was put up that might be easily seen, but if those horses had not been partly blinded, they would of themselves have kept further from the edge, and no accident would have happened. When our master's carriage was overturned, before you came here, it was said that if the lamp on the left side had not gone out, John would have seen the great hole that the road-makers had left; and so he might, but if old Colin had not had blinkers on he would have seen it, lamp or no lamp, for he was far too knowing an old horse to run into danger. As it was, he was very much hurt, the carriage was broken, and how John escaped nobody knew." "I should say," said Ginger, curling her nostril, "that these men, who are so wise, had better give orders that in the future all foals should be born with their eyes set just in the middle of their foreheads, instead of on the side; they always think they can improve upon nature and mend what God has made." Things were getting rather sore again, when Merrylegs held up his knowing little face and said, "I'll tell you a secret: I believe John does not approve of blinkers; I heard him talking with master about it one day. The master said that 'if horses had been used to them, it might be dangerous in some cases to leave them off'; and John said he thought it would be a good thing if all colts were broken in without blinkers, as was the case in some foreign countries. So let us cheer up, and have a run to the other end of the orchard; I believe the wind has blown down some apples, and we might just as well eat them as the slugs." Merrylegs could not be resisted, so we broke off our long conversation, and got up our spirits by munching some very sweet apples which lay scattered on the grass. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben stehenden Absätze verfassen?

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Inmitten all des Komforts und Vergnügens in Birtwick gibt es eine Sache, die Black Beauty vermisst: seine Freiheit. Er erklärt, dass es einen Pferd wirklich aufregen könnte, immer warten und einem Menschen dienen zu müssen - selbst einem freundlichen Herrn wie dem Seinen - zu jeder Tageszeit, Woche für Woche, Jahr für Jahr. Dies war im Gegensatz zu seinen frühen Jahren, als er im Hain seines Besitzers tun konnte, was er wollte. Nun bekam er einige Stunden pro Woche wieder einen Hauch von Freiheit; ihr Herr ließ die Pferde los und sie galoppierten und rollten herum, knabberten am Gras und standen um den Kastanienbaum herum und unterhielten sich. Bei einer solchen Gelegenheit hört Black Beauty von Ginger ihre Geschichte. Sie wurde von Anfang an grob behandelt. Ihre Besitzer nahmen sie von ihrer Mutter weg und warfen sie unter eine Gruppe unfreundlicher Füchse. So wuchs sie auf und als es Zeit für ihre Einarbeitung war, legten die Männer ihre Hände grob auf sie. Ginger, die natürlichen Stolz besaß, reagierte mit körperlichem Widerstand, trat aus und kämpfte. Das machte die Dinge nur schlimmer und ihre Einarbeitung war für sie sehr schwer. Sie beschreibt einen Reiter - Samson -, der kalt und hart war und sie immer bis zur Erschöpfung trieb und oft betrunken nach Hause kam. Einmal trieb er sie nachts zur Erschöpfung, dann am nächsten Morgen und dann wieder am Nachmittag. Zu diesem Zeitpunkt war Ginger so müde, dass sie einfach nicht mehr mitarbeitete und ihn schließlich abwarf. Er reagierte, indem er sie auspeitschte und in der Sonne liegen ließ. Schließlich kam Samsons Vater heraus, um sich um Ginger zu kümmern, und gleichzeitig beschuldigte er Samson wegen seiner Wut und sagte ihm, dass Wut des Herrn niemals Gutes vom Pferd bewirken wird. Er wurde schließlich entlassen und ein anderer Mann - Job - übernahm ihr Training. Im Gegensatz zu Samson war er nachdenklich und ruhig. Kurz nach diesem Treffen standen Ginger und Black Beauty wieder nebeneinander und sie erzählte ihm mehr von ihrer Geschichte. Sie wurde von einem Besitzer zum nächsten verkauft und schließlich landete sie in den Händen eines gleichgültigen Gentleman. Der Kutscher zwang sie, eine Kandare zu tragen, die ihren Kopf ständig hochhielt, unnatürlich höher als normal, und zwang den Kopf, in dieser Position zu bleiben. Die Unbeweglichkeit ihres Kopfes erschwerte die Arbeit sehr, da es sowohl enorme Schmerzen verursachte als auch verhinderte, dass sie sich umschaute. Als Black Beauty fragte, ob ihr Herr kein Mitgefühl für sie hatte, antwortete sie, dass es ihrem Herrn nur um Stil und Mode ging. Trotz all dem, erklärt Ginger, wäre sie bereit, ihrem Herrn zu dienen, wenn er ihr anstatt so wütend auf sie zu sein, freundliche Ermutigung geben würde. Ihre Geschichte setzt sich fort und sie erklärt, wie sie auf diese Weise von Besitzer zu Besitzer gelangt ist. Schließlich landete sie bei Squire Gordon und obwohl sie die Freundlichkeit von John und James zu schätzen wusste, konnte sie sich manchmal trotzdem aufregen. Bald jedoch, während Black Beauty ihre freundliche Behandlung beobachtet, bemerkt er, dass Ginger liebevoller und ruhiger wurde. Ab diesem Zeitpunkt bittet er sie um Rat und verbringt Zeit in Gesprächen mit ihr. Diejenigen, die Ginger kannten, staunten über ihre Veränderung: Wie konnte sich ein so bösartiges, hartes Tier in ein angenehmes, gehorsames Pferd verwandeln? Was Merrylegs betrifft, so ist er in der Regel gutmütig, aber eines Tages, nach dem Besuch des Pfarrers und seiner Kinder, bringt James Merrylegs herein und schimpft mit ihm. Als Black Beauty fragte, was er getan hat, erklärt er, dass er gerade zwei der Kinder des Pfarrers von seinem Rücken geworfen hat. Nicht die Töchter - erklärt er hastig - sondern die beiden Jungen, die ihn bis an die Grenzen seiner Energie gedrängt und mit einem Stock geschlagen haben. Als die Jungen immer wieder versuchten, aufzusitzen, warf er sie immer wieder ab, um ihnen zu zeigen, dass er kein Spielzeug für sie ist. Merrylegs weist darauf hin, dass es keine bösen Jungen waren, sie wussten es einfach nicht besser, also hat er sie belehrt, indem er sie abgeworfen hat. Bald genug fühlte sich Black Beauty mit Ginger und Merrylegs und ihren freundlichen Herren zu Hause. Er erwähnt, wie er die Tage liebte, an denen die ganze Familie zu einem Ausritt aufbrach; er trug normalerweise die Herrin, die eine wunderbar leichte Hand und einen sanften Reitstil hatte. Black Beauty erklärt die Vorzüglichkeit einer leichten Hand und erwähnt, dass der Mund eines Pferdes sehr empfindlich ist und Leute mit harten Händen - die immer in diese und jene Richtung ziehen und würgen - ein Pferd wirklich schmerzen und aufregen können, was das Pferd ungehorsam macht. Das wäre sowohl für den Herrn als auch für das Pferd besser, erklärt er. Bei einer dieser Reitgelegenheiten fragt Black Beauty Sir Oliver, warum sein Schwanz so kurz ist. Das alte Pferd antwortet, dass ihm, als er jünger war, sein Schwanz - nur Fleisch und Knochen - zum Zwecke von Stil und Mode abgeschnitten wurde. Wie Sir Oliver erklärt, war der Prozess nicht nur extrem schmerzhaft, sondern er verlor auch die Fähigkeit, Fliegen wegzuschlagen, und muss nun die ständige Belästigung durch diese Insekten ertragen. Nicht nur Pferde werden dieser Modifikation unterzogen. Auch Hundeohren werden abgeschnitten, um einen schlankeren Look zu erzielen. Mode - sagen sie unter sich -, ist die Ursache für so viel Schmerz bei den Tieren des Menschen. Der Mensch denkt, er könne die Schöpfung Gottes verbessern, erklärt Sir Oliver, aber sie erkennen nicht ihren schwerwiegenden Fehler. Warum schneiden sie nicht die Ohren ihrer eigenen Kinder ab, fragen die Pferde, um sie auch besser aussehen zu lassen? Das nächste Thema in dieser hitzigen Unterhaltung sind Scheuklappen, die die Augen eines Pferdes bedecken und von Kutschern benutzt werden, wenn sie in der Stadt reiten. Diese Scheuklappen sollen das Pferd daran hindern, zu scheuen oder in Angst zu geraten, tatsächlich jedoch schränken die Scheuklappen das Pferd ein - es fast blindmachend - und hindern es daran, auf natürliche Weise zu reiten. Wenn den Pferden erlaubt würde, wie sie es natürlich tun, könnten sie vielen gefährlichen Situationen entkommen, die sonst zu Unfällen und Verletzungen führen würden. Die Pferde setzen ihre Unterhaltung fort, wütend auf diejenigen fernabgelegenen Verbrecher, die solche Misshandlungen aufrechterhalten, aber glücklich und zufrieden mit ihrem derzeitigen freundlichen Herrn.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: DEPARTURE Young George Willard got out of bed at four in the morning. It was April and the young tree leaves were just coming out of their buds. The trees along the residence streets in Winesburg are maple and the seeds are winged. When the wind blows they whirl crazily about, filling the air and making a carpet underfoot. George came downstairs into the hotel office carrying a brown leather bag. His trunk was packed for departure. Since two o'clock he had been awake thinking of the journey he was about to take and wondering what he would find at the end of his journey. The boy who slept in the hotel office lay on a cot by the door. His mouth was open and he snored lustily. George crept past the cot and went out into the silent deserted main street. The east was pink with the dawn and long streaks of light climbed into the sky where a few stars still shone. Beyond the last house on Trunion Pike in Winesburg there is a great stretch of open fields. The fields are owned by farmers who live in town and drive homeward at evening along Trunion Pike in light creaking wagons. In the fields are planted berries and small fruits. In the late afternoon in the hot summers when the road and the fields are covered with dust, a smoky haze lies over the great flat basin of land. To look across it is like looking out across the sea. In the spring when the land is green the effect is somewhat different. The land becomes a wide green billiard table on which tiny human insects toil up and down. All through his boyhood and young manhood George Willard had been in the habit of walking on Trunion Pike. He had been in the midst of the great open place on winter nights when it was covered with snow and only the moon looked down at him; he had been there in the fall when bleak winds blew and on summer evenings when the air vibrated with the song of insects. On the April morning he wanted to go there again, to walk again in the silence. He did walk to where the road dipped down by a little stream two miles from town and then turned and walked silently back again. When he got to Main Street clerks were sweeping the sidewalks before the stores. "Hey, you George. How does it feel to be going away?" they asked. The westbound train leaves Winesburg at seven forty-five in the morning. Tom Little is conductor. His train runs from Cleveland to where it connects with a great trunk line railroad with terminals in Chicago and New York. Tom has what in railroad circles is called an "easy run." Every evening he returns to his family. In the fall and spring he spends his Sundays fishing in Lake Erie. He has a round red face and small blue eyes. He knows the people in the towns along his railroad better than a city man knows the people who live in his apartment building. George came down the little incline from the New Willard House at seven o'clock. Tom Willard carried his bag. The son had become taller than the father. On the station platform everyone shook the young man's hand. More than a dozen people waited about. Then they talked of their own affairs. Even Will Henderson, who was lazy and often slept until nine, had got out of bed. George was embarrassed. Gertrude Wilmot, a tall thin woman of fifty who worked in the Winesburg post office, came along the station platform. She had never before paid any attention to George. Now she stopped and put out her hand. In two words she voiced what everyone felt. "Good luck," she said sharply and then turning went on her way. When the train came into the station George felt relieved. He scampered hurriedly aboard. Helen White came running along Main Street hoping to have a parting word with him, but he had found a seat and did not see her. When the train started Tom Little punched his ticket, grinned and, although he knew George well and knew on what adventure he was just setting out, made no comment. Tom had seen a thousand George Willards go out of their towns to the city. It was a commonplace enough incident with him. In the smoking car there was a man who had just invited Tom to go on a fishing trip to Sandusky Bay. He wanted to accept the invitation and talk over details. George glanced up and down the car to be sure no one was looking, then took out his pocket-book and counted his money. His mind was occupied with a desire not to appear green. Almost the last words his father had said to him concerned the matter of his behavior when he got to the city. "Be a sharp one," Tom Willard had said. "Keep your eyes on your money. Be awake. That's the ticket. Don't let anyone think you're a greenhorn." After George counted his money he looked out of the window and was surprised to see that the train was still in Winesburg. The young man, going out of his town to meet the adventure of life, began to think but he did not think of anything very big or dramatic. Things like his mother's death, his departure from Winesburg, the uncertainty of his future life in the city, the serious and larger aspects of his life did not come into his mind. He thought of little things--Turk Smollet wheeling boards through the main street of his town in the morning, a tall woman, beautifully gowned, who had once stayed overnight at his father's hotel, Butch Wheeler the lamp lighter of Winesburg hurrying through the streets on a summer evening and holding a torch in his hand, Helen White standing by a window in the Winesburg post office and putting a stamp on an envelope. The young man's mind was carried away by his growing passion for dreams. One looking at him would not have thought him particularly sharp. With the recollection of little things occupying his mind he closed his eyes and leaned back in the car seat. He stayed that way for a long time and when he aroused himself and again looked out of the car window the town of Winesburg had disappeared and his life there had become but a background on which to paint the dreams of his manhood. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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George Willard verlässt Winesburg, um sein Glück in der Großstadt zu versuchen. Einige Leute verabschieden sich von ihm am Bahnhof, aber Helen White kommt zu spät, um ihm Lebewohl zu sagen. Während er auf den Zug wartet, der den Bahnhof verlässt, denkt er an belanglose Dinge. Der Schaffner, der schon viele junge Männer auf diese Reise hat aufbrechen sehen, sagt nichts zu George über die Bedeutung dieses 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: Be Mowbray's sins so heavy in his bosom, That they may break his foaming courser's back, And throw the rider headlong in the lists, A caitiff recreant! --Richard II Our scene now returns to the exterior of the Castle, or Preceptory, of Templestowe, about the hour when the bloody die was to be cast for the life or death of Rebecca. It was a scene of bustle and life, as if the whole vicinity had poured forth its inhabitants to a village wake, or rural feast. But the earnest desire to look on blood and death, is not peculiar to those dark ages; though in the gladiatorial exercise of single combat and general tourney, they were habituated to the bloody spectacle of brave men falling by each other's hands. Even in our own days, when morals are better understood, an execution, a bruising match, a riot, or a meeting of radical reformers, collects, at considerable hazard to themselves, immense crowds of spectators, otherwise little interested, except to see how matters are to be conducted, or whether the heroes of the day are, in the heroic language of insurgent tailors, flints or dunghills. The eyes, therefore, of a very considerable multitude, were bent on the gate of the Preceptory of Templestowe, with the purpose of witnessing the procession; while still greater numbers had already surrounded the tiltyard belonging to that establishment. This enclosure was formed on a piece of level ground adjoining to the Preceptory, which had been levelled with care, for the exercise of military and chivalrous sports. It occupied the brow of a soft and gentle eminence, was carefully palisaded around, and, as the Templars willingly invited spectators to be witnesses of their skill in feats of chivalry, was amply supplied with galleries and benches for their use. On the present occasion, a throne was erected for the Grand Master at the east end, surrounded with seats of distinction for the Preceptors and Knights of the Order. Over these floated the sacred standard, called "Le Beau-seant", which was the ensign, as its name was the battle-cry, of the Templars. At the opposite end of the lists was a pile of faggots, so arranged around a stake, deeply fixed in the ground, as to leave a space for the victim whom they were destined to consume, to enter within the fatal circle, in order to be chained to the stake by the fetters which hung ready for that purpose. Beside this deadly apparatus stood four black slaves, whose colour and African features, then so little known in England, appalled the multitude, who gazed on them as on demons employed about their own diabolical exercises. These men stirred not, excepting now and then, under the direction of one who seemed their chief, to shift and replace the ready fuel. They looked not on the multitude. In fact, they seemed insensible of their presence, and of every thing save the discharge of their own horrible duty. And when, in speech with each other, they expanded their blubber lips, and showed their white fangs, as if they grinned at the thoughts of the expected tragedy, the startled commons could scarcely help believing that they were actually the familiar spirits with whom the witch had communed, and who, her time being out, stood ready to assist in her dreadful punishment. They whispered to each other, and communicated all the feats which Satan had performed during that busy and unhappy period, not failing, of course, to give the devil rather more than his due. "Have you not heard, Father Dennet," quoth one boor to another advanced in years, "that the devil has carried away bodily the great Saxon Thane, Athelstane of Coningsburgh?" "Ay, but he brought him back though, by the blessing of God and Saint Dunstan." "How's that?" said a brisk young fellow, dressed in a green cassock embroidered with gold, and having at his heels a stout lad bearing a harp upon his back, which betrayed his vocation. The Minstrel seemed of no vulgar rank; for, besides the splendour of his gaily braidered doublet, he wore around his neck a silver chain, by which hung the "wrest", or key, with which he tuned his harp. On his right arm was a silver plate, which, instead of bearing, as usual, the cognizance or badge of the baron to whose family he belonged, had barely the word SHERWOOD engraved upon it.--"How mean you by that?" said the gay Minstrel, mingling in the conversation of the peasants; "I came to seek one subject for my rhyme, and, by'r Lady, I were glad to find two." "It is well avouched," said the elder peasant, "that after Athelstane of Coningsburgh had been dead four weeks--" "That is impossible," said the Minstrel; "I saw him in life at the Passage of Arms at Ashby-de-la-Zouche." "Dead, however, he was, or else translated," said the younger peasant; "for I heard the Monks of Saint Edmund's singing the death's hymn for him; and, moreover, there was a rich death-meal and dole at the Castle of Coningsburgh, as right was; and thither had I gone, but for Mabel Parkins, who--" "Ay, dead was Athelstane," said the old man, shaking his head, "and the more pity it was, for the old Saxon blood--" "But, your story, my masters--your story," said the Minstrel, somewhat impatiently. "Ay, ay--construe us the story," said a burly Friar, who stood beside them, leaning on a pole that exhibited an appearance between a pilgrim's staff and a quarter-staff, and probably acted as either when occasion served,--"Your story," said the stalwart churchman; "burn not daylight about it--we have short time to spare." "An please your reverence," said Dennet, "a drunken priest came to visit the Sacristan at Saint Edmund's---" "It does not please my reverence," answered the churchman, "that there should be such an animal as a drunken priest, or, if there were, that a layman should so speak him. Be mannerly, my friend, and conclude the holy man only wrapt in meditation, which makes the head dizzy and foot unsteady, as if the stomach were filled with new wine--I have felt it myself." "Well, then," answered Father Dennet, "a holy brother came to visit the Sacristan at Saint Edmund's--a sort of hedge-priest is the visitor, and kills half the deer that are stolen in the forest, who loves the tinkling of a pint-pot better than the sacring-bell, and deems a flitch of bacon worth ten of his breviary; for the rest, a good fellow and a merry, who will flourish a quarter-staff, draw a bow, and dance a Cheshire round, with e'er a man in Yorkshire." "That last part of thy speech, Dennet," said the Minstrel, "has saved thee a rib or twain." "Tush, man, I fear him not," said Dennet; "I am somewhat old and stiff, but when I fought for the bell and ram at Doncaster--" "But the story--the story, my friend," again said the Minstrel. "Why, the tale is but this--Athelstane of Coningsburgh was buried at Saint Edmund's." "That's a lie, and a loud one," said the Friar, "for I saw him borne to his own Castle of Coningsburgh." "Nay, then, e'en tell the story yourself, my masters," said Dennet, turning sulky at these repeated contradictions; and it was with some difficulty that the boor could be prevailed on, by the request of his comrade and the Minstrel, to renew his tale.--"These two 'sober' friars," said he at length, "since this reverend man will needs have them such, had continued drinking good ale, and wine, and what not, for the best part for a summer's day, when they were aroused by a deep groan, and a clanking of chains, and the figure of the deceased Athelstane entered the apartment, saying, 'Ye evil shep-herds!--'" "It is false," said the Friar, hastily, "he never spoke a word." "So ho! Friar Tuck," said the Minstrel, drawing him apart from the rustics; "we have started a new hare, I find." "I tell thee, Allan-a-Dale," said the Hermit, "I saw Athelstane of Coningsburgh as much as bodily eyes ever saw a living man. He had his shroud on, and all about him smelt of the sepulchre--A butt of sack will not wash it out of my memory." "Pshaw!" answered the Minstrel; "thou dost but jest with me!" "Never believe me," said the Friar, "an I fetched not a knock at him with my quarter-staff that would have felled an ox, and it glided through his body as it might through a pillar of smoke!" "By Saint Hubert," said the Minstrel, "but it is a wondrous tale, and fit to be put in metre to the ancient tune, 'Sorrow came to the old Friar.'" "Laugh, if ye list," said Friar Tuck; "but an ye catch me singing on such a theme, may the next ghost or devil carry me off with him headlong! No, no--I instantly formed the purpose of assisting at some good work, such as the burning of a witch, a judicial combat, or the like matter of godly service, and therefore am I here." As they thus conversed, the heavy bell of the church of Saint Michael of Templestowe, a venerable building, situated in a hamlet at some distance from the Preceptory, broke short their argument. One by one the sullen sounds fell successively on the ear, leaving but sufficient space for each to die away in distant echo, ere the air was again filled by repetition of the iron knell. These sounds, the signal of the approaching ceremony, chilled with awe the hearts of the assembled multitude, whose eyes were now turned to the Preceptory, expecting the approach of the Grand Master, the champion, and the criminal. At length the drawbridge fell, the gates opened, and a knight, bearing the great standard of the Order, sallied from the castle, preceded by six trumpets, and followed by the Knights Preceptors, two and two, the Grand Master coming last, mounted on a stately horse, whose furniture was of the simplest kind. Behind him came Brian de Bois-Guilbert, armed cap-a-pie in bright armour, but without his lance, shield, and sword, which were borne by his two esquires behind him. His face, though partly hidden by a long plume which floated down from his barrel-cap, bore a strong and mingled expression of passion, in which pride seemed to contend with irresolution. He looked ghastly pale, as if he had not slept for several nights, yet reined his pawing war-horse with the habitual ease and grace proper to the best lance of the Order of the Temple. His general appearance was grand and commanding; but, looking at him with attention, men read that in his dark features, from which they willingly withdrew their eyes. On either side rode Conrade of Mont-Fitchet, and Albert de Malvoisin, who acted as godfathers to the champion. They were in their robes of peace, the white dress of the Order. Behind them followed other Companions of the Temple, with a long train of esquires and pages clad in black, aspirants to the honour of being one day Knights of the Order. After these neophytes came a guard of warders on foot, in the same sable livery, amidst whose partisans might be seen the pale form of the accused, moving with a slow but undismayed step towards the scene of her fate. She was stript of all her ornaments, lest perchance there should be among them some of those amulets which Satan was supposed to bestow upon his victims, to deprive them of the power of confession even when under the torture. A coarse white dress, of the simplest form, had been substituted for her Oriental garments; yet there was such an exquisite mixture of courage and resignation in her look, that even in this garb, and with no other ornament than her long black tresses, each eye wept that looked upon her, and the most hardened bigot regretted the fate that had converted a creature so goodly into a vessel of wrath, and a waged slave of the devil. A crowd of inferior personages belonging to the Preceptory followed the victim, all moving with the utmost order, with arms folded, and looks bent upon the ground. This slow procession moved up the gentle eminence, on the summit of which was the tiltyard, and, entering the lists, marched once around them from right to left, and when they had completed the circle, made a halt. There was then a momentary bustle, while the Grand Master and all his attendants, excepting the champion and his godfathers, dismounted from their horses, which were immediately removed out of the lists by the esquires, who were in attendance for that purpose. The unfortunate Rebecca was conducted to the black chair placed near the pile. On her first glance at the terrible spot where preparations were making for a death alike dismaying to the mind and painful to the body, she was observed to shudder and shut her eyes, praying internally doubtless, for her lips moved though no speech was heard. In the space of a minute she opened her eyes, looked fixedly on the pile as if to familiarize her mind with the object, and then slowly and naturally turned away her head. Meanwhile, the Grand Master had assumed his seat; and when the chivalry of his order was placed around and behind him, each in his due rank, a loud and long flourish of the trumpets announced that the Court were seated for judgment. Malvoisin, then, acting as godfather of the champion, stepped forward, and laid the glove of the Jewess, which was the pledge of battle, at the feet of the Grand Master. "Valorous Lord, and reverend Father," said he, "here standeth the good Knight, Brian de Bois-Guilbert, Knight Preceptor of the Order of the Temple, who, by accepting the pledge of battle which I now lay at your reverence's feet, hath become bound to do his devoir in combat this day, to maintain that this Jewish maiden, by name Rebecca, hath justly deserved the doom passed upon her in a Chapter of this most Holy Order of the Temple of Zion, condemning her to die as a sorceress;--here, I say, he standeth, such battle to do, knightly and honourable, if such be your noble and sanctified pleasure." "Hath he made oath," said the Grand Master, "that his quarrel is just and honourable? Bring forward the Crucifix and the 'Te igitur'." "Sir, and most reverend father," answered Malvoisin, readily, "our brother here present hath already sworn to the truth of his accusation in the hand of the good Knight Conrade de Mont-Fitchet; and otherwise he ought not to be sworn, seeing that his adversary is an unbeliever, and may take no oath." This explanation was satisfactory, to Albert's great joy; for the wily knight had foreseen the great difficulty, or rather impossibility, of prevailing upon Brian de Bois-Guilbert to take such an oath before the assembly, and had invented this excuse to escape the necessity of his doing so. The Grand Master, having allowed the apology of Albert Malvoisin, commanded the herald to stand forth and do his devoir. The trumpets then again flourished, and a herald, stepping forward, proclaimed aloud,--"Oyez, oyez, oyez.--Here standeth the good Knight, Sir Brian de Bois-Guilbert, ready to do battle with any knight of free blood, who will sustain the quarrel allowed and allotted to the Jewess Rebecca, to try by champion, in respect of lawful essoine of her own body; and to such champion the reverend and valorous Grand Master here present allows a fair field, and equal partition of sun and wind, and whatever else appertains to a fair combat." The trumpets again sounded, and there was a dead pause of many minutes. "No champion appears for the appellant," said the Grand Master. "Go, herald, and ask her whether she expects any one to do battle for her in this her cause." The herald went to the chair in which Rebecca was seated, and Bois-Guilbert suddenly turning his horse's head toward that end of the lists, in spite of hints on either side from Malvoisin and Mont-Fitchet, was by the side of Rebecca's chair as soon as the herald. "Is this regular, and according to the law of combat?" said Malvoisin, looking to the Grand Master. "Albert de Malvoisin, it is," answered Beaumanoir; "for in this appeal to the judgment of God, we may not prohibit parties from having that communication with each other, which may best tend to bring forth the truth of the quarrel." In the meantime, the herald spoke to Rebecca in these terms:--"Damsel, the Honourable and Reverend the Grand Master demands of thee, if thou art prepared with a champion to do battle this day in thy behalf, or if thou dost yield thee as one justly condemned to a deserved doom?" "Say to the Grand Master," replied Rebecca, "that I maintain my innocence, and do not yield me as justly condemned, lest I become guilty of mine own blood. Say to him, that I challenge such delay as his forms will permit, to see if God, whose opportunity is in man's extremity, will raise me up a deliverer; and when such uttermost space is passed, may His holy will be done!" The herald retired to carry this answer to the Grand Master. "God forbid," said Lucas Beaumanoir, "that Jew or Pagan should impeach us of injustice!--Until the shadows be cast from the west to the eastward, will we wait to see if a champion shall appear for this unfortunate woman. When the day is so far passed, let her prepare for death." The herald communicated the words of the Grand Master to Rebecca, who bowed her head submissively, folded her arms, and, looking up towards heaven, seemed to expect that aid from above which she could scarce promise herself from man. During this awful pause, the voice of Bois-Guilbert broke upon her ear--it was but a whisper, yet it startled her more than the summons of the herald had appeared to do. "Rebecca," said the Templar, "dost thou hear me?" "I have no portion in thee, cruel, hard-hearted man," said the unfortunate maiden. "Ay, but dost thou understand my words?" said the Templar; "for the sound of my voice is frightful in mine own ears. I scarce know on what ground we stand, or for what purpose they have brought us hither.--This listed space--that chair--these faggots--I know their purpose, and yet it appears to me like something unreal--the fearful picture of a vision, which appals my sense with hideous fantasies, but convinces not my reason." "My mind and senses keep touch and time," answered Rebecca, "and tell me alike that these faggots are destined to consume my earthly body, and open a painful but a brief passage to a better world." "Dreams, Rebecca,--dreams," answered the Templar; "idle visions, rejected by the wisdom of your own wiser Sadducees. Hear me, Rebecca," he said, proceeding with animation; "a better chance hast thou for life and liberty than yonder knaves and dotard dream of. Mount thee behind me on my steed--on Zamor, the gallant horse that never failed his rider. I won him in single fight from the Soldan of Trebizond--mount, I say, behind me--in one short hour is pursuit and enquiry far behind--a new world of pleasure opens to thee--to me a new career of fame. Let them speak the doom which I despise, and erase the name of Bois-Guilbert from their list of monastic slaves! I will wash out with blood whatever blot they may dare to cast on my scutcheon." "Tempter," said Rebecca, "begone!--Not in this last extremity canst thou move me one hair's-breadth from my resting place--surrounded as I am by foes, I hold thee as my worst and most deadly enemy--avoid thee, in the name of God!" Albert Malvoisin, alarmed and impatient at the duration of their conference, now advanced to interrupt it. "Hath the maiden acknowledged her guilt?" he demanded of Bois-Guilbert; "or is she resolute in her denial?" "She is indeed resolute," said Bois-Guilbert. "Then," said Malvoisin, "must thou, noble brother, resume thy place to attend the issue--The shades are changing on the circle of the dial--Come, brave Bois-Guilbert--come, thou hope of our holy Order, and soon to be its head." As he spoke in this soothing tone, he laid his hand on the knight's bridle, as if to lead him back to his station. "False villain! what meanest thou by thy hand on my rein?" said Sir Brian, angrily. And shaking off his companion's grasp, he rode back to the upper end of the lists. "There is yet spirit in him," said Malvoisin apart to Mont-Fitchet, "were it well directed--but, like the Greek fire, it burns whatever approaches it." The Judges had now been two hours in the lists, awaiting in vain the appearance of a champion. "And reason good," said Friar Tuck, "seeing she is a Jewess--and yet, by mine Order, it is hard that so young and beautiful a creature should perish without one blow being struck in her behalf! Were she ten times a witch, provided she were but the least bit of a Christian, my quarter-staff should ring noon on the steel cap of yonder fierce Templar, ere he carried the matter off thus." It was, however, the general belief that no one could or would appear for a Jewess, accused of sorcery; and the knights, instigated by Malvoisin, whispered to each other, that it was time to declare the pledge of Rebecca forfeited. At this instant a knight, urging his horse to speed, appeared on the plain advancing towards the lists. A hundred voices exclaimed, "A champion! a champion!" And despite the prepossessions and prejudices of the multitude, they shouted unanimously as the knight rode into the tiltyard. The second glance, however, served to destroy the hope that his timely arrival had excited. His horse, urged for many miles to its utmost speed, appeared to reel from fatigue, and the rider, however undauntedly he presented himself in the lists, either from weakness, weariness, or both, seemed scarce able to support himself in the saddle. To the summons of the herald, who demanded his rank, his name, and purpose, the stranger knight answered readily and boldly, "I am a good knight and noble, come hither to sustain with lance and sword the just and lawful quarrel of this damsel, Rebecca, daughter of Isaac of York; to uphold the doom pronounced against her to be false and truthless, and to defy Sir Brian de Bois-Guilbert, as a traitor, murderer, and liar; as I will prove in this field with my body against his, by the aid of God, of Our Lady, and of Monseigneur Saint George, the good knight." "The stranger must first show," said Malvoisin, "that he is good knight, and of honourable lineage. The Temple sendeth not forth her champions against nameless men." "My name," said the Knight, raising his helmet, "is better known, my lineage more pure, Malvoisin, than thine own. I am Wilfred of Ivanhoe." "I will not fight with thee at present," said the Templar, in a changed and hollow voice. "Get thy wounds healed, purvey thee a better horse, and it may be I will hold it worth my while to scourge out of thee this boyish spirit of bravado." "Ha! proud Templar," said Ivanhoe, "hast thou forgotten that twice didst thou fall before this lance? Remember the lists at Acre--remember the Passage of Arms at Ashby--remember thy proud vaunt in the halls of Rotherwood, and the gage of your gold chain against my reliquary, that thou wouldst do battle with Wilfred of Ivanhoe, and recover the honour thou hadst lost! By that reliquary and the holy relic it contains, I will proclaim thee, Templar, a coward in every court in Europe--in every Preceptory of thine Order--unless thou do battle without farther delay." Bois-Guilbert turned his countenance irresolutely towards Rebecca, and then exclaimed, looking fiercely at Ivanhoe, "Dog of a Saxon! take thy lance, and prepare for the death thou hast drawn upon thee!" "Does the Grand Master allow me the combat?" said Ivanhoe. "I may not deny what thou hast challenged," said the Grand Master, "provided the maiden accepts thee as her champion. Yet I would thou wert in better plight to do battle. An enemy of our Order hast thou ever been, yet would I have thee honourably met with." "Thus--thus as I am, and not otherwise," said Ivanhoe; "it is the judgment of God--to his keeping I commend myself.--Rebecca," said he, riding up to the fatal chair, "dost thou accept of me for thy champion?" "I do," she said--"I do," fluttered by an emotion which the fear of death had been unable to produce, "I do accept thee as the champion whom Heaven hath sent me. Yet, no--no--thy wounds are uncured--Meet not that proud man--why shouldst thou perish also?" But Ivanhoe was already at his post, and had closed his visor, and assumed his lance. Bois-Guilbert did the same; and his esquire remarked, as he clasped his visor, that his face, which had, notwithstanding the variety of emotions by which he had been agitated, continued during the whole morning of an ashy paleness, was now become suddenly very much flushed. The herald, then, seeing each champion in his place, uplifted his voice, repeating thrice--"Faites vos devoirs, preux chevaliers!" After the third cry, he withdrew to one side of the lists, and again proclaimed, that none, on peril of instant death, should dare, by word, cry, or action, to interfere with or disturb this fair field of combat. The Grand Master, who held in his hand the gage of battle, Rebecca's glove, now threw it into the lists, and pronounced the fatal signal words, "Laissez aller". The trumpets sounded, and the knights charged each other in full career. The wearied horse of Ivanhoe, and its no less exhausted rider, went down, as all had expected, before the well-aimed lance and vigorous steed of the Templar. This issue of the combat all had foreseen; but although the spear of Ivanhoe did but, in comparison, touch the shield of Bois-Guilbert, that champion, to the astonishment of all who beheld it reeled in his saddle, lost his stirrups, and fell in the lists. Ivanhoe, extricating himself from his fallen horse, was soon on foot, hastening to mend his fortune with his sword; but his antagonist arose not. Wilfred, placing his foot on his breast, and the sword's point to his throat, commanded him to yield him, or die on the spot. Bois-Guilbert returned no answer. "Slay him not, Sir Knight," cried the Grand Master, "unshriven and unabsolved--kill not body and soul! We allow him vanquished." He descended into the lists, and commanded them to unhelm the conquered champion. His eyes were closed--the dark red flush was still on his brow. As they looked on him in astonishment, the eyes opened--but they were fixed and glazed. The flush passed from his brow, and gave way to the pallid hue of death. Unscathed by the lance of his enemy, he had died a victim to the violence of his own contending passions. "This is indeed the judgment of God," said the Grand Master, looking upwards--"'Fiat voluntas tua!'" So! now 'tis ended, like an old wife's story. Webster When the first moments of surprise were over, Wilfred of Ivanhoe demanded of the Grand Master, as judge of the field, if he had manfully and rightfully done his duty in the combat? "Manfully and rightfully hath it been done," said the Grand Master. "I pronounce the maiden free and guiltless--The arms and the body of the deceased knight are at the will of the victor." "I will not despoil him of his weapons," said the Knight of Ivanhoe, "nor condemn his corpse to shame--he hath fought for Christendom--God's arm, no human hand, hath this day struck him down. But let his obsequies be private, as becomes those of a man who died in an unjust quarrel.--And for the maiden--" He was interrupted by a clattering of horses' feet, advancing in such numbers, and so rapidly, as to shake the ground before them; and the Black Knight galloped into the lists. He was followed by a numerous band of men-at-arms, and several knights in complete armour. "I am too late," he said, looking around him. "I had doomed Bois-Guilbert for mine own property.--Ivanhoe, was this well, to take on thee such a venture, and thou scarce able to keep thy saddle?" "Heaven, my Liege," answered Ivanhoe, "hath taken this proud man for its victim. He was not to be honoured in dying as your will had designed." "Peace be with him," said Richard, looking steadfastly on the corpse, "if it may be so--he was a gallant knight, and has died in his steel harness full knightly. But we must waste no time--Bohun, do thine office!" A Knight stepped forward from the King's attendants, and, laying his hand on the shoulder of Albert de Malvoisin, said, "I arrest thee of High Treason." The Grand Master had hitherto stood astonished at the appearance of so many warriors.--He now spoke. "Who dares to arrest a Knight of the Temple of Zion, within the girth of his own Preceptory, and in the presence of the Grand Master? and by whose authority is this bold outrage offered?" "I make the arrest," replied the Knight--"I, Henry Bohun, Earl of Essex, Lord High Constable of England." "And he arrests Malvoisin," said the King, raising his visor, "by the order of Richard Plantagenet, here present.--Conrade Mont-Fitchet, it is well for thee thou art born no subject of mine.--But for thee, Malvoisin, thou diest with thy brother Philip, ere the world be a week older." "I will resist thy doom," said the Grand Master. "Proud Templar," said the King, "thou canst not--look up, and behold the Royal Standard of England floats over thy towers instead of thy Temple banner!--Be wise, Beaumanoir, and make no bootless opposition--Thy hand is in the lion's mouth." "I will appeal to Rome against thee," said the Grand Master, "for usurpation on the immunities and privileges of our Order." "Be it so," said the King; "but for thine own sake tax me not with usurpation now. Dissolve thy Chapter, and depart with thy followers to thy next Preceptory, (if thou canst find one), which has not been made the scene of treasonable conspiracy against the King of England--Or, if thou wilt, remain, to share our hospitality, and behold our justice." "To be a guest in the house where I should command?" said the Templar; "never!--Chaplains, raise the Psalm, 'Quare fremuerunt Gentes?'--Knights, squires, and followers of the Holy Temple, prepare to follow the banner of 'Beau-seant!'" The Grand Master spoke with a dignity which confronted even that of England's king himself, and inspired courage into his surprised and dismayed followers. They gathered around him like the sheep around the watch-dog, when they hear the baying of the wolf. But they evinced not the timidity of the scared flock--there were dark brows of defiance, and looks which menaced the hostility they dared not to proffer in words. They drew together in a dark line of spears, from which the white cloaks of the knights were visible among the dusky garments of their retainers, like the lighter-coloured edges of a sable cloud. The multitude, who had raised a clamorous shout of reprobation, paused and gazed in silence on the formidable and experienced body to which they had unwarily bade defiance, and shrunk back from their front. The Earl of Essex, when he beheld them pause in their assembled force, dashed the rowels into his charger's sides, and galloped backwards and forwards to array his followers, in opposition to a band so formidable. Richard alone, as if he loved the danger his presence had provoked, rode slowly along the front of the Templars, calling aloud, "What, sirs! Among so many gallant knights, will none dare splinter a spear with Richard?--Sirs of the Temple! your ladies are but sun-burned, if they are not worth the shiver of a broken lance?" "The Brethren of the Temple," said the Grand Master, riding forward in advance of their body, "fight not on such idle and profane quarrel--and not with thee, Richard of England, shall a Templar cross lance in my presence. The Pope and Princes of Europe shall judge our quarrel, and whether a Christian prince has done well in bucklering the cause which thou hast to-day adopted. If unassailed, we depart assailing no one. To thine honour we refer the armour and household goods of the Order which we leave behind us, and on thy conscience we lay the scandal and offence thou hast this day given to Christendom." With these words, and without waiting a reply, the Grand Master gave the signal of departure. Their trumpets sounded a wild march, of an Oriental character, which formed the usual signal for the Templars to advance. They changed their array from a line to a column of march, and moved off as slowly as their horses could step, as if to show it was only the will of their Grand Master, and no fear of the opposing and superior force, which compelled them to withdraw. "By the splendour of Our Lady's brow!" said King Richard, "it is pity of their lives that these Templars are not so trusty as they are disciplined and valiant." The multitude, like a timid cur which waits to bark till the object of its challenge has turned his back, raised a feeble shout as the rear of the squadron left the ground. During the tumult which attended the retreat of the Templars, Rebecca saw and heard nothing--she was locked in the arms of her aged father, giddy, and almost senseless, with the rapid change of circumstances around her. But one word from Isaac at length recalled her scattered feelings. "Let us go," he said, "my dear daughter, my recovered treasure--let us go to throw ourselves at the feet of the good youth." "Not so," said Rebecca, "O no--no--no--I must not at this moment dare to speak to him--Alas! I should say more than--No, my father, let us instantly leave this evil place." "But, my daughter," said Isaac, "to leave him who hath come forth like a strong man with his spear and shield, holding his life as nothing, so he might redeem thy captivity; and thou, too, the daughter of a people strange unto him and his--this is service to be thankfully acknowledged." "It is--it is--most thankfully--most devoutly acknowledged," said Rebecca--"it shall be still more so--but not now--for the sake of thy beloved Rachel, father, grant my request--not now!" "Nay, but," said Isaac, insisting, "they will deem us more thankless than mere dogs!" "But thou seest, my dear father, that King Richard is in presence, and that---" "True, my best--my wisest Rebecca!--Let us hence--let us hence!--Money he will lack, for he has just returned from Palestine, and, as they say, from prison--and pretext for exacting it, should he need any, may arise out of my simple traffic with his brother John. Away, away, let us hence!" And hurrying his daughter in his turn, he conducted her from the lists, and by means of conveyance which he had provided, transported her safely to the house of the Rabbi Nathan. The Jewess, whose fortunes had formed the principal interest of the day, having now retired unobserved, the attention of the populace was transferred to the Black Knight. They now filled the air with "Long life to Richard with the Lion's Heart, and down with the usurping Templars!" "Notwithstanding all this lip-loyalty," said Ivanhoe to the Earl of Essex, "it was well the King took the precaution to bring thee with him, noble Earl, and so many of thy trusty followers." The Earl smiled and shook his head. "Gallant Ivanhoe," said Essex, "dost thou know our Master so well, and yet suspect him of taking so wise a precaution! I was drawing towards York having heard that Prince John was making head there, when I met King Richard, like a true knight-errant, galloping hither to achieve in his own person this adventure of the Templar and the Jewess, with his own single arm. I accompanied him with my band, almost maugre his consent." "And what news from York, brave Earl?" said Ivanhoe; "will the rebels bide us there?" "No more than December's snow will bide July's sun," said the Earl; "they are dispersing; and who should come posting to bring us the news, but John himself!" "The traitor! the ungrateful insolent traitor!" said Ivanhoe; "did not Richard order him into confinement?" "O! he received him," answered the Earl, "as if they had met after a hunting party; and, pointing to me and our men-at-arms, said, 'Thou seest, brother, I have some angry men with me--thou wert best go to our mother, carry her my duteous affection, and abide with her until men's minds are pacified.'" "And this was all he said?" enquired Ivanhoe; "would not any one say that this Prince invites men to treason by his clemency?" "Just," replied the Earl, "as the man may be said to invite death, who undertakes to fight a combat, having a dangerous wound unhealed." "I forgive thee the jest, Lord Earl," said Ivanhoe; "but, remember, I hazarded but my own life--Richard, the welfare of his kingdom." "Those," replied Essex, "who are specially careless of their own welfare, are seldom remarkably attentive to that of others--But let us haste to the castle, for Richard meditates punishing some of the subordinate members of the conspiracy, though he has pardoned their principal." From the judicial investigations which followed on this occasion, and which are given at length in the Wardour Manuscript, it appears that Maurice de Bracy escaped beyond seas, and went into the service of Philip of France; while Philip de Malvoisin, and his brother Albert, the Preceptor of Templestowe, were executed, although Waldemar Fitzurse, the soul of the conspiracy, escaped with banishment; and Prince John, for whose behoof it was undertaken, was not even censured by his good-natured brother. No one, however, pitied the fate of the two Malvoisins, who only suffered the death which they had both well deserved, by many acts of falsehood, cruelty, and oppression. Briefly after the judicial combat, Cedric the Saxon was summoned to the court of Richard, which, for the purpose of quieting the counties that had been disturbed by the ambition of his brother, was then held at York. Cedric tushed and pshawed more than once at the message--but he refused not obedience. In fact, the return of Richard had quenched every hope that he had entertained of restoring a Saxon dynasty in England; for, whatever head the Saxons might have made in the event of a civil war, it was plain that nothing could be done under the undisputed dominion of Richard, popular as he was by his personal good qualities and military fame, although his administration was wilfully careless, now too indulgent, and now allied to despotism. But, moreover, it could not escape even Cedric's reluctant observation, that his project for an absolute union among the Saxons, by the marriage of Rowena and Athelstane, was now completely at an end, by the mutual dissent of both parties concerned. This was, indeed, an event which, in his ardour for the Saxon cause, he could not have anticipated, and even when the disinclination of both was broadly and plainly manifested, he could scarce bring himself to believe that two Saxons of royal descent should scruple, on personal grounds, at an alliance so necessary for the public weal of the nation. But it was not the less certain: Rowena had always expressed her repugnance to Athelstane, and now Athelstane was no less plain and positive in proclaiming his resolution never to pursue his addresses to the Lady Rowena. Even the natural obstinacy of Cedric sunk beneath these obstacles, where he, remaining on the point of junction, had the task of dragging a reluctant pair up to it, one with each hand. He made, however, a last vigorous attack on Athelstane, and he found that resuscitated sprout of Saxon royalty engaged, like country squires of our own day, in a furious war with the clergy. It seems that, after all his deadly menaces against the Abbot of Saint Edmund's, Athelstane's spirit of revenge, what between the natural indolent kindness of his own disposition, what through the prayers of his mother Edith, attached, like most ladies, (of the period,) to the clerical order, had terminated in his keeping the Abbot and his monks in the dungeons of Coningsburgh for three days on a meagre diet. For this atrocity the Abbot menaced him with excommunication, and made out a dreadful list of complaints in the bowels and stomach, suffered by himself and his monks, in consequence of the tyrannical and unjust imprisonment they had sustained. With this controversy, and with the means he had adopted to counteract this clerical persecution, Cedric found the mind of his friend Athelstane so fully occupied, that it had no room for another idea. And when Rowena's name was mentioned the noble Athelstane prayed leave to quaff a full goblet to her health, and that she might soon be the bride of his kinsman Wilfred. It was a desperate case therefore. There was obviously no more to be made of Athelstane; or, as Wamba expressed it, in a phrase which has descended from Saxon times to ours, he was a cock that would not fight. There remained betwixt Cedric and the determination which the lovers desired to come to, only two obstacles--his own obstinacy, and his dislike of the Norman dynasty. The former feeling gradually gave way before the endearments of his ward, and the pride which he could not help nourishing in the fame of his son. Besides, he was not insensible to the honour of allying his own line to that of Alfred, when the superior claims of the descendant of Edward the Confessor were abandoned for ever. Cedric's aversion to the Norman race of kings was also much undermined,--first, by consideration of the impossibility of ridding England of the new dynasty, a feeling which goes far to create loyalty in the subject to the king "de facto"; and, secondly, by the personal attention of King Richard, who delighted in the blunt humour of Cedric, and, to use the language of the Wardour Manuscript, so dealt with the noble Saxon, that, ere he had been a guest at court for seven days, he had given his consent to the marriage of his ward Rowena and his son Wilfred of Ivanhoe. The nuptials of our hero, thus formally approved by his father, were celebrated in the most august of temples, the noble Minster of York. The King himself attended, and from the countenance which he afforded on this and other occasions to the distressed and hitherto degraded Saxons, gave them a safer and more certain prospect of attaining their just rights, than they could reasonably hope from the precarious chance of a civil war. The Church gave her full solemnities, graced with all the splendour which she of Rome knows how to apply with such brilliant effect. Gurth, gallantly apparelled, attended as esquire upon his young master whom he had served so faithfully, and the magnanimous Wamba, decorated with a new cap and a most gorgeous set of silver bells. Sharers of Wilfred's dangers and adversity, they remained, as they had a right to expect, the partakers of his more prosperous career. But besides this domestic retinue, these distinguished nuptials were celebrated by the attendance of the high-born Normans, as well as Saxons, joined with the universal jubilee of the lower orders, that marked the marriage of two individuals as a pledge of the future peace and harmony betwixt two races, which, since that period, have been so completely mingled, that the distinction has become wholly invisible. Cedric lived to see this union approximate towards its completion; for as the two nations mixed in society and formed intermarriages with each other, the Normans abated their scorn, and the Saxons were refined from their rusticity. But it was not until the reign of Edward the Third that the mixed language, now termed English, was spoken at the court of London, and that the hostile distinction of Norman and Saxon seems entirely to have disappeared. It was upon the second morning after this happy bridal, that the Lady Rowena was made acquainted by her handmaid Elgitha, that a damsel desired admission to her presence, and solicited that their parley might be without witness. Rowena wondered, hesitated, became curious, and ended by commanding the damsel to be admitted, and her attendants to withdraw. She entered--a noble and commanding figure, the long white veil, in which she was shrouded, overshadowing rather than concealing the elegance and majesty of her shape. Her demeanour was that of respect, unmingled by the least shade either of fear, or of a wish to propitiate favour. Rowena was ever ready to acknowledge the claims, and attend to the feelings, of others. She arose, and would have conducted her lovely visitor to a seat; but the stranger looked at Elgitha, and again intimated a wish to discourse with the Lady Rowena alone. Elgitha had no sooner retired with unwilling steps, than, to the surprise of the Lady of Ivanhoe, her fair visitant kneeled on one knee, pressed her hands to her forehead, and bending her head to the ground, in spite of Rowena's resistance, kissed the embroidered hem of her tunic. "What means this, lady?" said the surprised bride; "or why do you offer to me a deference so unusual?" "Because to you, Lady of Ivanhoe," said Rebecca, rising up and resuming the usual quiet dignity of her manner, "I may lawfully, and without rebuke, pay the debt of gratitude which I owe to Wilfred of Ivanhoe. I am--forgive the boldness which has offered to you the homage of my country--I am the unhappy Jewess, for whom your husband hazarded his life against such fearful odds in the tiltyard of Templestowe." "Damsel," said Rowena, "Wilfred of Ivanhoe on that day rendered back but in slight measure your unceasing charity towards him in his wounds and misfortunes. Speak, is there aught remains in which he or I can serve thee?" "Nothing," said Rebecca, calmly, "unless you will transmit to him my grateful farewell." "You leave England then?" said Rowena, scarce recovering the surprise of this extraordinary visit. "I leave it, lady, ere this moon again changes. My father had a brother high in favour with Mohammed Boabdil, King of Grenada--thither we go, secure of peace and protection, for the payment of such ransom as the Moslem exact from our people." "And are you not then as well protected in England?" said Rowena. "My husband has favour with the King--the King himself is just and generous." "Lady," said Rebecca, "I doubt it not--but the people of England are a fierce race, quarrelling ever with their neighbours or among themselves, and ready to plunge the sword into the bowels of each other. Such is no safe abode for the children of my people. Ephraim is an heartless dove--Issachar an over-laboured drudge, which stoops between two burdens. Not in a land of war and blood, surrounded by hostile neighbours, and distracted by internal factions, can Israel hope to rest during her wanderings." "But you, maiden," said Rowena--"you surely can have nothing to fear. She who nursed the sick-bed of Ivanhoe," she continued, rising with enthusiasm--"she can have nothing to fear in England, where Saxon and Norman will contend who shall most do her honour." "Thy speech is fair, lady," said Rebecca, "and thy purpose fairer; but it may not be--there is a gulf betwixt us. Our breeding, our faith, alike forbid either to pass over it. Farewell--yet, ere I go indulge me one request. The bridal-veil hangs over thy face; deign to raise it, and let me see the features of which fame speaks so highly." "They are scarce worthy of being looked upon," said Rowena; "but, expecting the same from my visitant, I remove the veil." She took it off accordingly; and, partly from the consciousness of beauty, partly from bashfulness, she blushed so intensely, that cheek, brow, neck, and bosom, were suffused with crimson. Rebecca blushed also, but it was a momentary feeling; and, mastered by higher emotions, past slowly from her features like the crimson cloud, which changes colour when the sun sinks beneath the horizon. "Lady," she said, "the countenance you have deigned to show me will long dwell in my remembrance. There reigns in it gentleness and goodness; and if a tinge of the world's pride or vanities may mix with an expression so lovely, how should we chide that which is of earth for bearing some colour of its original? Long, long will I remember your features, and bless God that I leave my noble deliverer united with--" She stopped short--her eyes filled with tears. She hastily wiped them, and answered to the anxious enquiries of Rowena--"I am well, lady--well. But my heart swells when I think of Torquilstone and the lists of Templestowe.--Farewell. One, the most trifling part of my duty, remains undischarged. Accept this casket--startle not at its contents." Rowena opened the small silver-chased casket, and perceived a carcanet, or neck lace, with ear-jewels, of diamonds, which were obviously of immense value. "It is impossible," she said, tendering back the casket. "I dare not accept a gift of such consequence." "Yet keep it, lady," returned Rebecca.--"You have power, rank, command, influence; we have wealth, the source both of our strength and weakness; the value of these toys, ten times multiplied, would not influence half so much as your slightest wish. To you, therefore, the gift is of little value,--and to me, what I part with is of much less. Let me not think you deem so wretchedly ill of my nation as your commons believe. Think ye that I prize these sparkling fragments of stone above my liberty? or that my father values them in comparison to the honour of his only child? Accept them, lady--to me they are valueless. I will never wear jewels more." "You are then unhappy!" said Rowena, struck with the manner in which Rebecca uttered the last words. "O, remain with us--the counsel of holy men will wean you from your erring law, and I will be a sister to you." "No, lady," answered Rebecca, the same calm melancholy reigning in her soft voice and beautiful features--"that--may not be. I may not change the faith of my fathers like a garment unsuited to the climate in which I seek to dwell, and unhappy, lady, I will not be. He, to whom I dedicate my future life, will be my comforter, if I do His will." "Have you then convents, to one of which you mean to retire?" asked Rowena. "No, lady," said the Jewess; "but among our people, since the time of Abraham downwards, have been women who have devoted their thoughts to Heaven, and their actions to works of kindness to men, tending the sick, feeding the hungry, and relieving the distressed. Among these will Rebecca be numbered. Say this to thy lord, should he chance to enquire after the fate of her whose life he saved." There was an involuntary tremour on Rebecca's voice, and a tenderness of accent, which perhaps betrayed more than she would willingly have expressed. She hastened to bid Rowena adieu. "Farewell," she said. "May He, who made both Jew and Christian, shower down on you his choicest blessings! The bark that waits us hence will be under weigh ere we can reach the port." She glided from the apartment, leaving Rowena surprised as if a vision had passed before her. The fair Saxon related the singular conference to her husband, on whose mind it made a deep impression. He lived long and happily with Rowena, for they were attached to each other by the bonds of early affection, and they loved each other the more, from the recollection of the obstacles which had impeded their union. Yet it would be enquiring too curiously to ask, whether the recollection of Rebecca's beauty and magnanimity did not recur to his mind more frequently than the fair descendant of Alfred might altogether have approved. Ivanhoe distinguished himself in the service of Richard, and was graced with farther marks of the royal favour. He might have risen still higher, but for the premature death of the heroic Coeur-de-Lion, before the Castle of Chaluz, near Limoges. With the life of a generous, but rash and romantic monarch, perished all the projects which his ambition and his generosity had formed; to whom may be applied, with a slight alteration, the lines composed by Johnson for Charles of Sweden-- His fate was destined to a foreign strand, A petty fortress and an "humble" hand; He left the name at which the world grew pale, To point a moral, or adorn a TALE. NOTE TO CHAPTER I. Note A.--The Ranger or the Forest, that cuts the foreclaws off our dogs. A most sensible grievance of those aggrieved times were the Forest Laws. These oppressive enactments were the produce of the Norman Conquest, for the Saxon laws of the chase were mild and humane; while those of William, enthusiastically attached to the exercise and its rights, were to the last degree tyrannical. The formation of the New Forest, bears evidence to his passion for hunting, where he reduced many a happy village to the condition of that one commemorated by my friend, Mr William Stewart Rose: "Amongst the ruins of the church The midnight raven found a perch, A melancholy place; The ruthless Conqueror cast down, Woe worth the deed, that little town, To lengthen out his chase." The disabling dogs, which might be necessary for keeping flocks and herds, from running at the deer, was called "lawing", and was in general use. The Charter of the Forest designed to lessen those evils, declares that inquisition, or view, for lawing dogs, shall be made every third year, and shall be then done by the view and testimony of lawful men, not otherwise; and they whose dogs shall be then found unlawed, shall give three shillings for mercy, and for the future no man's ox shall be taken for lawing. Such lawing also shall be done by the assize commonly used, and which is, that three claws shall be cut off without the ball of the right foot. See on this subject the Historical Essay on the Magna Charta of King John, (a most beautiful volume), by Richard Thomson. NOTE TO CHAPTER II. Note B.--Negro Slaves. The severe accuracy of some critics has objected to the complexion of the slaves of Brian de Bois-Guilbert, as being totally out of costume and propriety. I remember the same objection being made to a set of sable functionaries, whom my friend, Mat Lewis, introduced as the guards and mischief-doing satellites of the wicked Baron, in his Castle Spectre. Mat treated the objection with great contempt, and averred in reply, that he made the slaves black in order to obtain a striking effect of contrast, and that, could he have derived a similar advantage from making his heroine blue, blue she should have been. I do not pretend to plead the immunities of my order so highly as this; but neither will I allow that the author of a modern antique romance is obliged to confine himself to the introduction of those manners only which can be proved to have absolutely existed in the times he is depicting, so that he restrain himself to such as are plausible and natural, and contain no obvious anachronism. In this point of view, what can be more natural, than that the Templars, who, we know, copied closely the luxuries of the Asiatic warriors with whom they fought, should use the service of the enslaved Africans, whom the fate of war transferred to new masters? I am sure, if there are no precise proofs of their having done so, there is nothing, on the other hand, that can entitle us positively to conclude that they never did. Besides, there is an instance in romance. John of Rampayne, an excellent juggler and minstrel, undertook to effect the escape of one Audulf de Bracy, by presenting himself in disguise at the court of the king, where he was confined. For this purpose, "he stained his hair and his whole body entirely as black as jet, so that nothing was white but his teeth," and succeeded in imposing himself on the king, as an Ethiopian minstrel. He effected, by stratagem, the escape of the prisoner. Negroes, therefore, must have been known in England in the dark ages. [60] NOTE TO CHAPTER XVII. Note C.--Minstrelsy. The realm of France, it is well known, was divided betwixt the Norman and Teutonic race, who spoke the language in which the word Yes is pronounced as "oui", and the inhabitants of the southern regions, whose speech bearing some affinity to the Italian, pronounced the same word "oc". The poets of the former race were called "Minstrels", and their poems "Lays": those of the latter were termed "Troubadours", and their compositions called "sirventes", and other names. Richard, a professed admirer of the joyous science in all its branches, could imitate either the minstrel or troubadour. It is less likely that he should have been able to compose or sing an English ballad; yet so much do we wish to assimilate Him of the Lion Heart to the band of warriors whom he led, that the anachronism, if there be one may readily be forgiven. NOTE TO CHAPTER XXI. Note D.--Battle of Stamford. A great topographical blunder occurred here in former editions. The bloody battle alluded to in the text, fought and won by King Harold, over his brother the rebellious Tosti, and an auxiliary force of Danes or Norsemen, was said, in the text, and a corresponding note, to have taken place at Stamford, in Leicestershire, and upon the river Welland. This is a mistake, into which the author has been led by trusting to his memory, and so confounding two places of the same name. The Stamford, Strangford, or Staneford, at which the battle really was fought, is a ford upon the river Derwent, at the distance of about seven miles from York, and situated in that large and opulent county. A long wooden bridge over the Derwent, the site of which, with one remaining buttress, is still shown to the curious traveller, was furiously contested. One Norwegian long defended it by his single arm, and was at length pierced with a spear thrust through the planks of the bridge from a boat beneath. The neighbourhood of Stamford, on the Derwent, contains some memorials of the battle. Horseshoes, swords, and the heads of halberds, or bills, are often found there; one place is called the "Danes' well," another the "Battle flats." From a tradition that the weapon with which the Norwegian champion was slain, resembled a pear, or, as others say, that the trough or boat in which the soldier floated under the bridge to strike the blow, had such a shape, the country people usually begin a great market, which is held at Stamford, with an entertainment called the Pear-pie feast, which after all may be a corruption of the Spear-pie feast. For more particulars, Drake's History of York may be referred to. The author's mistake was pointed out to him, in the most obliging manner, by Robert Belt, Esq. of Bossal House. The battle was fought in Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Viele Menschen versammeln sich in Templestowe für den Kampf, der das Schicksal von Rebecca entscheiden soll. Unter ihnen sind Allan-a-Dale und Friar Tuck, die die Legende diskutieren, die sich schnell um Athelstane entwickelt. Brian de Bois-Guilbert, der unwillige Champion des Ordens gegen Rebecca, appelliert noch einmal an sie, mit ihm fortzureiten. Mit ihrem üblichen Verachtung lehnt sie ab. Gerade als es scheint, dass kein Champion erscheinen wird, um Rebecca zu verteidigen, reitet Ivanhoe in die Arena. Er und sein Pferd sind erschöpft von der harten Reise und beim ersten Scharmützel wird Ivanhoe abgeworfen. Doch der Templer stürzt ebenfalls zu Boden und stirbt "als Opfer der Gewalt seiner eigenen widersprüchlichen Leidenschaften". Rowena und Wilfred von Ivanhoe sind verheiratet und Rebecca zahlt Rowena einen letzten Besuch, um ihr für ihre Rettung zu danken. Sie und ihr Vater verlassen England, um in Granada zu 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: WE knew that things were hard for our Bohemian neighbors, but the two girls were light-hearted and never complained. They were always ready to forget their troubles at home, and to run away with me over the prairie, scaring rabbits or starting up flocks of quail. I remember Antonia's excitement when she came into our kitchen one afternoon and announced: "My papa find friends up north, with Russian mans. Last night he take me for see, and I can understand very much talk. Nice mans, Mrs. Burden. One is fat and all the time laugh. Everybody laugh. The first time I see my papa laugh in this kawn-tree. Oh, very nice!" I asked her if she meant the two Russians who lived up by the big dog-town. I had often been tempted to go to see them when I was riding in that direction, but one of them was a wild-looking fellow and I was a little afraid of him. Russia seemed to me more remote than any other country--farther away than China, almost as far as the North Pole. Of all the strange, uprooted people among the first settlers, those two men were the strangest and the most aloof. Their last names were unpronounceable, so they were called Pavel and Peter. They went about making signs to people, and until the Shimerdas came they had no friends. Krajiek could understand them a little, but he had cheated them in a trade, so they avoided him. Pavel, the tall one, was said to be an anarchist; since he had no means of imparting his opinions, probably his wild gesticulations and his generally excited and rebellious manner gave rise to this supposition. He must once have been a very strong man, but now his great frame, with big, knotty joints, had a wasted look, and the skin was drawn tight over his high cheek-bones. His breathing was hoarse, and he always had a cough. Peter, his companion, was a very different sort of fellow; short, bow-legged, and as fat as butter. He always seemed pleased when he met people on the road, smiled and took off his cap to every one, men as well as women. At a distance, on his wagon, he looked like an old man; his hair and beard were of such a pale flaxen color that they seemed white in the sun. They were as thick and curly as carded wool. His rosy face, with its snub nose, set in this fleece, was like a melon among its leaves. He was usually called "Curly Peter," or "Rooshian Peter." The two Russians made good farmhands, and in summer they worked out together. I had heard our neighbors laughing when they told how Peter always had to go home at night to milk his cow. Other bachelor homesteaders used canned milk, to save trouble. Sometimes Peter came to church at the sod schoolhouse. It was there I first saw him, sitting on a low bench by the door, his plush cap in his hands, his bare feet tucked apologetically under the seat. After Mr. Shimerda discovered the Russians, he went to see them almost every evening, and sometimes took Antonia with him. She said they came from a part of Russia where the language was not very different from Bohemian, and if I wanted to go to their place, she could talk to them for me. One afternoon, before the heavy frosts began, we rode up there together on my pony. The Russians had a neat log house built on a grassy slope, with a windlass well beside the door. As we rode up the draw we skirted a big melon patch, and a garden where squashes and yellow cucumbers lay about on the sod. We found Peter out behind his kitchen, bending over a washtub. He was working so hard that he did not hear us coming. His whole body moved up and down as he rubbed, and he was a funny sight from the rear, with his shaggy head and bandy legs. When he straightened himself up to greet us, drops of perspiration were rolling from his thick nose down on to his curly beard. Peter dried his hands and seemed glad to leave his washing. He took us down to see his chickens, and his cow that was grazing on the hillside. He told Antonia that in his country only rich people had cows, but here any man could have one who would take care of her. The milk was good for Pavel, who was often sick, and he could make butter by beating sour cream with a wooden spoon. Peter was very fond of his cow. He patted her flanks and talked to her in Russian while he pulled up her lariat pin and set it in a new place. After he had shown us his garden, Peter trundled a load of watermelons up the hill in his wheelbarrow. Pavel was not at home. He was off somewhere helping to dig a well. The house I thought very comfortable for two men who were "batching." Besides the kitchen, there was a living-room, with a wide double bed built against the wall, properly made up with blue gingham sheets and pillows. There was a little storeroom, too, with a window, where they kept guns and saddles and tools, and old coats and boots. That day the floor was covered with garden things, drying for winter; corn and beans and fat yellow cucumbers. There were no screens or window-blinds in the house, and all the doors and windows stood wide open, letting in flies and sunshine alike. Peter put the melons in a row on the oilcloth-covered table and stood over them, brandishing a butcher knife. Before the blade got fairly into them, they split of their own ripeness, with a delicious sound. He gave us knives, but no plates, and the top of the table was soon swimming with juice and seeds. I had never seen any one eat so many melons as Peter ate. He assured us that they were good for one--better than medicine; in his country people lived on them at this time of year. He was very hospitable and jolly. Once, while he was looking at Antonia, he sighed and told us that if he had stayed at home in Russia perhaps by this time he would have had a pretty daughter of his own to cook and keep house for him. He said he had left his country because of a "great trouble." When we got up to go, Peter looked about in perplexity for something that would entertain us. He ran into the storeroom and brought out a gaudily painted harmonica, sat down on a bench, and spreading his fat legs apart began to play like a whole band. The tunes were either very lively or very doleful, and he sang words to some of them. Before we left, Peter put ripe cucumbers into a sack for Mrs. Shimerda and gave us a lard-pail full of milk to cook them in. I had never heard of cooking cucumbers, but Antonia assured me they were very good. We had to walk the pony all the way home to keep from spilling the milk. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Obwohl sich die Shimerdas nur schwer an ihr neues Zuhause gewöhnen können, beschweren sich die beiden jungen Mädchen nie und sind immer glücklich. Eines Tages erzählt Antonia Jim, dass ihr Vater zwei russische Männer kennengelernt habe, Peter und Pavel, die einen Dialekt sprechen, der dem der Shimerdas ähnlich ist. Pavel ist groß, dünn und wirkt verbraucht; er gestikuliert aufgeregt, sodass die Leute denken, er sei ein Anarchist. Peter ist klein, ist rundlich, angenehm und sehr freundlich. Die beiden Männer leben zusammen und arbeiten als Landarbeiter. Herr Shimerda besucht die Russen fast jeden Tag, manchmal zusammen mit Antonia, und eines Tages nimmt er Jim mit. Peter ist gerade dabei, Wäsche zu waschen, und er zeigt ihnen seine Kuh, die er sehr mag. Pavel ist nicht zuhause, und ihr Haus ist sehr ordentlich und aufgeräumt. Peter gibt ihnen frische Melonen, von denen sie eine Menge unordentlich auf dem Tisch essen. Als er Antonia ansieht, seufzt er, weil er sich wünscht, er hätte Russland nicht verlassen müssen, wo er eine Tochter wie sie haben könnte. Bevor Jim und die Shimerdas gehen, spielt Peter ihnen noch Harmonika und gibt ihnen Gurken und Milch.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: Enter the Duke of Norfolke at one doore. At the other, the Duke of Buckingham, and the Lord Aburgauenny. Buckingham. Good morrow, and well met. How haue ye done Since last we saw in France? Norf. I thanke your Grace: Healthfull, and euer since a fresh Admirer Of what I saw there Buck. An vntimely Ague Staid me a Prisoner in my Chamber, when Those Sunnes of Glory, those two Lights of Men Met in the vale of Andren Nor. 'Twixt Guynes and Arde, I was then present, saw them salute on Horsebacke, Beheld them when they lighted, how they clung In their Embracement, as they grew together, Which had they, What foure Thron'd ones could haue weigh'd Such a compounded one? Buck. All the whole time I was my Chambers Prisoner Nor. Then you lost The view of earthly glory: Men might say Till this time Pompe was single, but now married To one aboue it selfe. Each following day Became the next dayes master, till the last Made former Wonders, it's. To day the French, All Clinquant all in Gold, like Heathen Gods Shone downe the English; and to morrow, they Made Britaine, India: Euery man that stood, Shew'd like a Mine. Their Dwarfish Pages were As Cherubins, all gilt: the Madams too, Not vs'd to toyle, did almost sweat to beare The Pride vpon them, that their very labour Was to them, as a Painting. Now this Maske Was cry'de incompareable; and th' ensuing night Made it a Foole, and Begger. The two Kings Equall in lustre, were now best, now worst As presence did present them: Him in eye, Still him in praise, and being present both, 'Twas said they saw but one, and no Discerner Durst wagge his Tongue in censure, when these Sunnes (For so they phrase 'em) by their Heralds challeng'd The Noble Spirits to Armes, they did performe Beyond thoughts Compasse, that former fabulous Storie Being now seene, possible enough, got credit That Beuis was beleeu'd Buc. Oh you go farre Nor. As I belong to worship, and affect In Honor, Honesty, the tract of eu'ry thing, Would by a good Discourser loose some life, Which Actions selfe, was tongue too Buc. All was Royall, To the disposing of it nought rebell'd, Order gaue each thing view. The Office did Distinctly his full Function: who did guide, I meane who set the Body, and the Limbes Of this great Sport together? Nor. As you guesse: One certes, that promises no Element In such a businesse Buc. I pray you who, my Lord? Nor. All this was ordred by the good Discretion Of the right Reuerend Cardinall of Yorke Buc. The diuell speed him: No mans Pye is freed From his Ambitious finger. What had he To do in these fierce Vanities? I wonder, That such a Keech can with his very bulke Take vp the Rayes o'th' beneficiall Sun, And keepe it from the Earth Nor. Surely Sir, There's in him stuffe, that put's him to these ends: For being not propt by Auncestry, whose grace Chalkes Successors their way; nor call'd vpon For high feats done to'th' Crowne; neither Allied To eminent Assistants; but Spider-like Out of his Selfe-drawing Web. O giues vs note, The force of his owne merit makes his way A guift that heauen giues for him, which buyes A place next to the King Abur. I cannot tell What Heauen hath giuen him: let some Grauer eye Pierce into that, but I can see his Pride Peepe through each part of him: whence ha's he that, If not from Hell? The Diuell is a Niggard, Or ha's giuen all before, and he begins A new Hell in himselfe Buc. Why the Diuell, Vpon this French going out, tooke he vpon him (Without the priuity o'th' King) t' appoint Who should attend on him? He makes vp the File Of all the Gentry; for the most part such To whom as great a Charge, as little Honor He meant to lay vpon: and his owne Letter The Honourable Boord of Councell, out Must fetch him in, he Papers Abur. I do know Kinsmen of mine, three at the least, that haue By this, so sicken'd their Estates, that neuer They shall abound as formerly Buc. O many Haue broke their backes with laying Mannors on 'em For this great Iourney. What did this vanity But minister communication of A most poore issue Nor. Greeuingly I thinke, The Peace betweene the French and vs, not valewes The Cost that did conclude it Buc. Euery man, After the hideous storme that follow'd, was A thing Inspir'd, and not consulting, broke Into a generall Prophesie; That this Tempest Dashing the Garment of this Peace, aboaded The sodaine breach on't Nor. Which is budded out, For France hath flaw'd the League, and hath attach'd Our Merchants goods at Burdeux Abur. Is it therefore Th' Ambassador is silenc'd? Nor. Marry is't Abur. A proper Title of a Peace, and purchas'd At a superfluous rate Buc. Why all this Businesse Our Reuerend Cardinall carried Nor. Like it your Grace, The State takes notice of the priuate difference Betwixt you, and the Cardinall. I aduise you (And take it from a heart, that wishes towards you Honor, and plenteous safety) that you reade The Cardinals Malice, and his Potency Together; To consider further, that What his high Hatred would effect, wants not A Minister in his Power. You know his Nature, That he's Reuengefull; and I know, his Sword Hath a sharpe edge: It's long, and't may be saide It reaches farre, and where 'twill not extend, Thither he darts it. Bosome vp my counsell, You'l finde it wholesome. Loe, where comes that Rock That I aduice your shunning. Enter Cardinall Wolsey, the Purse borne before him, certaine of the Guard, and two Secretaries with Papers: The Cardinall in his passage, fixeth his eye on Buckingham, and Buckingham on him, both full of disdaine. Car. The Duke of Buckinghams Surueyor? Ha? Where's his Examination? Secr. Heere so please you Car. Is he in person, ready? Secr. I, please your Grace Car. Well, we shall then know more, & Buckingham Shall lessen this bigge looke. Exeunt. Cardinall, and his Traine. Buc. This Butchers Curre is venom'd-mouth'd, and I Haue not the power to muzzle him, therefore best Not wake him in his slumber. A Beggers booke, Out-worths a Nobles blood Nor. What are you chaff'd? Aske God for Temp'rance, that's th' appliance onely Which your disease requires Buc. I read in's looks Matter against me, and his eye reuil'd Me as his abiect obiect, at this instant He bores me with some tricke; He's gone to'th' King: Ile follow, and out-stare him Nor. Stay my Lord, And let your Reason with your Choller question What 'tis you go about: to climbe steepe hilles Requires slow pace at first. Anger is like A full hot Horse, who being allow'd his way Selfe-mettle tyres him: Not a man in England Can aduise me like you: Be to your selfe, As you would to your Friend Buc. Ile to the King, And from a mouth of Honor, quite cry downe This Ipswich fellowes insolence; or proclaime, There's difference in no persons Norf. Be aduis'd; Heat not a Furnace for your foe so hot That it do sindge your selfe. We may out-runne By violent swiftnesse that which we run at; And lose by ouer-running: know you not, The fire that mounts the liquor til't run ore, In seeming to augment it, wasts it: be aduis'd; I say againe there is no English Soule More stronger to direct you then your selfe; If with the sap of reason you would quench, Or but allay the fire of passion Buck. Sir, I am thankfull to you, and Ile goe along By your prescription: but this top-proud fellow, Whom from the flow of gall I name not, but From sincere motions, by Intelligence, And proofes as cleere as Founts in Iuly, when Wee see each graine of grauell; I doe know To be corrupt and treasonous Norf. Say not treasonous Buck. To th' King Ile say't, & make my vouch as strong As shore of Rocke: attend. This holy Foxe, Or Wolfe, or both (for he is equall rau'nous As he is subtile, and as prone to mischiefe, As able to perform't) his minde, and place Infecting one another, yea reciprocally, Only to shew his pompe, as well in France, As here at home, suggests the King our Master To this last costly Treaty: Th' enteruiew, That swallowed so much treasure, and like a glasse Did breake ith' wrenching Norf. Faith, and so it did Buck. Pray giue me fauour Sir: This cunning Cardinall The Articles o'th' Combination drew As himselfe pleas'd; and they were ratified As he cride thus let be, to as much end, As giue a Crutch to th' dead. But our Count-Cardinall Has done this, and tis well: for worthy Wolsey (Who cannot erre) he did it. Now this followes, (Which as I take it, is a kinde of Puppie To th' old dam Treason) Charles the Emperour, Vnder pretence to see the Queene his Aunt, (For twas indeed his colour, but he came To whisper Wolsey) here makes visitation, His feares were that the Interview betwixt England and France, might through their amity Breed him some preiudice; for from this League, Peep'd harmes that menac'd him. Priuily Deales with our Cardinal, and as I troa Which I doe well; for I am sure the Emperour Paid ere he promis'd, whereby his Suit was granted Ere it was ask'd. But when the way was made And pau'd with gold: the Emperor thus desir'd, That he would please to alter the Kings course, And breake the foresaid peace. Let the King know (As soone he shall by me) that thus the Cardinall Does buy and sell his Honour as he pleases, And for his owne aduantage Norf. I am sorry To heare this of him; and could wish he were Somthing mistaken in't Buck. No, not a sillable: I doe pronounce him in that very shape He shall appeare in proofe. Enter Brandon, a Sergeant at Armes before him, and two or three of the Guard. Brandon. Your Office Sergeant: execute it Sergeant. Sir, My Lord the Duke of Buckingham, and Earle Of Hertford, Stafford and Northampton, I Arrest thee of High Treason, in the name Of our most Soueraigne King Buck. Lo you my Lord, The net has falne vpon me, I shall perish Vnder deuice, and practise Bran. I am sorry, To see you tane from liberty, to looke on The busines present. Tis his Highnes pleasure You shall to th' Tower Buck. It will helpe me nothing To plead mine Innocence; for that dye is on me Which makes my whit'st part, black. The will of Heau'n Be done in this and all things: I obey. O my Lord Aburgany: Fare you well Bran. Nay, he must beare you company. The King Is pleas'd you shall to th' Tower, till you know How he determines further Abur. As the Duke said, The will of Heauen be done, and the Kings pleasure By me obey'd Bran. Here is a warrant from The King, t' attach Lord Mountacute, and the Bodies Of the Dukes Confessor, Iohn de la Car, One Gilbert Pecke, his Councellour Buck. So, so; These are the limbs o'th' Plot: no more I hope Bra. A Monke o'th' Chartreux Buck. O Michaell Hopkins? Bra. He Buck. My Surueyor is falce: The oregreat Cardinall Hath shew'd him gold; my life is spand already: I am the shadow of poore Buckingham, Whose Figure euen this instant Clowd puts on, By Darkning my cleere Sunne. My Lords farewell. Exe. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Das Stück beginnt in einem Raum am Hofe von König Heinrich VIII. in London. Der Herzog von Norfolk trifft auf den Herzog von Buckingham und Lord Abergavenny. Buckingham fragt Norfolk, wie es ihm seit ihrem letzten Treffen in Frankreich ergangen ist. Norfolk antwortet, dass es ihm gut geht und er immer noch bewundert, was er dort gesehen hat. Sie hatten den König zu einer großartigen Präsentation von Reichtum und militärischer Stärke Englands und Frankreichs begleitet, die auf einem Feld in Frankreich stattfand. Norfolk beschreibt die beeindruckende Szene Buckingham, der aufgrund einer Krankheit alles verpasst hatte. Buckingham fragt, wer die Veranstaltung organisiert hat, und Norfolk sagt, dass es Kardinal Wolsey, der Hauptberater des Königs, war. Buckingham äußert seinen Verachtung und Missfallen für Wolsey als ehrgeizigen, einmischenden Eigenbrötler und verurteilt die Veranstaltung in Frankreich als "Eitelkeiten". Norfolk ist versöhnlicher und weist darauf hin, dass es Wolsey an vorbildlichen Vorfahren und erfahrenen Mitarbeitern mangelt; er ist ein Selfmade-Mann und kann sich nur auf seine eigenen Ressourcen verlassen. Abergavenny stimmt Buckinghams Verurteilung von Wolsey zu und kritisiert seinen Stolz, der "aus der Hölle" stamme. Buckingham fügt hinzu, dass sich Wolsey bei der Entscheidung, wer nach Frankreich gehen sollte, nicht um die Erlaubnis des Königs gekümmert habe. Wolsey ließ die Adligen für die Veranstaltung bezahlen, doch denjenigen, die am meisten zahlten, wurde am wenigsten Ehre zuteil. Abergavenny bestätigt, dass mehrere seiner Verwandten die Veranstaltung durch den Verkauf eines Teils ihrer Güter finanziert haben, die sich nie erholen würden. Buckingham sagt, dass die Veranstaltung nur zu einer massiven Geldverschwendung und inhaltslosem Gerede geführt habe. Norfolk ist einverstanden, dass der Frieden zwischen England und Frankreich einen solchen Preis nicht rechtfertigt. Außerdem hat Frankreich das Abkommen gebrochen, indem es Waren britischer Händler in Bordeaux beschlagnahmt hat. Doch er warnt Buckingham davor, vorsichtig zu sein, da Wolsey ein mächtiger und rachsüchtiger Mann ist. Sie werden unterbrochen von der Ankunft von Wolsey mit seinen Wachen und Sekretären. Wolsey und Buckingham starren sich an. Wolsey fragt einen Sekretär, ob Buckinghams früherer Aufseher, der gekommen ist, um gegen ihn auszusagen, angekommen ist. Der Sekretär sagt ja, und Wolsey verlässt mit seiner Gefolgschaft den Raum. Buckingham fürchtet, dass Wolsey gegen ihn intrigiert. Er glaubt, dass er auf dem Weg zum König ist, um ihm Ärger zu bereiten, und beschließt, ihm zu folgen. Aber Norfolk warnt Buckingham davor und rät ihm, sich zu beruhigen und zurückzuhalten. Buckingham befolgt seinen Rat, obwohl er behauptet, Beweise dafür zu haben, dass Wolsey korrupt und verräterisch ist. Norfolk ist schockiert über die Anschuldigung des Verrats, aber Buckingham besteht darauf, dass er dies dem König sagen und Beweise vorlegen wird. Buckingham zählt Wolseys Fehler auf: Er ist gierig, hinterlistig und veranlagt zum Unheil; er hat die französische Veranstaltung nur organisiert, um seinen hohen Status in Frankreich und England zur Schau zu stellen, und er hat den vom König vereinbarten Frankreich-England-Vertrag zu seinen eigenen Zwecken entworfen. Er hat sich auch heimlich mit Charles V., dem Neffen von Königin Katharina, dem römisch-deutschen Kaiser und König von Spanien, getroffen, hinter dem Rücken von König Heinrich. Charles war besorgt über die Aussicht, dass England eine Allianz mit Frankreich eingeht, da dies die Interessen Spaniens bedrohen würde. Wolsey, so Buckingham, kauft und verkauft die Ehre des Königs zu seinem eigenen Vorteil. In diesem Moment kommt Brandon, der Amtmann der Wachen, mit der Garde herein und verhaftet Buckingham im Namen des Königs wegen Hochverrats. Buckingham ist sicher, dass Wolsey dies eingefädelt hat. Er verabschiedet sich von Abergavenny, doch Brandon sagt, er sei gekommen, um ihn ebenfalls festzunehmen, zusammen mit anderen Freunden. Buckingham sagt, dass Wolsey den Aufseher bestochen haben muss, um ihn zu belasten. Als die Gefangenen in den Tower von London gebracht werden, glaubt Buckingham, dass sein Leben vorbei 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: Sir Walter, seine beiden Töchter und Mrs. Clay waren die Ersten ihrer Gruppe, die abends in den Räumen eintrafen; und da sie auf Lady Dalrymple warten mussten, stellten sie sich neben einem der Kamine im Oktogonraum auf. Kaum hatten sie sich dort niedergelassen, als die Tür erneut geöffnet wurde und Captain Wentworth alleine hereintrat. Anne war ihm am nächsten und ging noch einen Schritt auf ihn zu, woraufhin sie sofort sprach. Er bereitete sich gerade darauf vor, zu nicken und weiterzugehen, doch ihr sanftes "Wie geht es Ihnen?" brachte ihn aus der geraden Linie heraus, um sich in ihrer Nähe hinzustellen und Rückfragen zu stellen, trotz des imposanten Vaters und der Schwester im Hintergrund. Dass sie sich im Hintergrund befanden, gab Anne Unterstützung; sie kannte ihren Ausdruck nicht und fühlte sich allem gewachsen, was sie für richtig hielt. Während sie sprachen, fing Anne ein Flüstern zwischen ihrem Vater und Elizabeth auf. Sie konnte es nicht unterscheiden, musste aber raten, worum es ging. Als Captain Wentworth einen distanzierten Gruß machte, verstand sie, dass ihr Vater so klug gewesen war, ihm diese einfache Bekanntschaftsanerkennung zu geben, und sie hatte gerade noch rechtzeitig einen flüchtigen Knicks von Elizabeth selbst gesehen. Das war zwar spät, zögerlich und unhöflich, aber immerhin besser als nichts, und ihre Stimmung verbesserte sich. Nachdem sie jedoch über das Wetter, Bath und das Konzert gesprochen hatten, flachte das Gespräch ab, und es wurde so wenig gesagt, dass sie jeden Moment damit rechnete, dass er gehen würde, doch das tat er nicht. Er schien keine Eile zu haben, sie zu verlassen, und bald darauf, mit neuen Kräften, einem kleinen Lächeln, einem kleinen Glühen, sagte er: "Ich habe Sie seit unserem Tag in Lyme kaum gesehen. Ich fürchte, Sie müssen unter dem Schock gelitten haben, und umso mehr, da er Sie zu der Zeit nicht überwältigt hat." Sie versicherte ihm, dass dem nicht so war. "Es war eine schreckliche Stunde", sagte er, "ein schrecklicher Tag!" und strich sich über die Augen, als ob die Erinnerung immer noch zu schmerzhaft wäre, aber im nächsten Moment, halb wieder lächelnd, fügte er hinzu: "Der Tag hat jedoch einige Auswirkungen gehabt; er hatte einige Folgen, die man durchaus als das genaue Gegenteil von schrecklich betrachten kann. Als Sie darauf kamen, dass Benwick die richtige Person sei, um einen Chirurgen zu holen, konnten Sie keine Ahnung davon haben, dass er letztendlich einer derjenigen sein würde, die am meisten mit ihrer Genesung zu tun haben." "Ich konnte es sicherlich nicht ahnen. Aber es scheint - ich hoffe, es wird eine sehr glückliche Verbindung sein. Auf beiden Seiten gibt es gute Grundsätze und ein gutes Wesen." "Ja", sagte er und sah nicht gerade nach vorne, "aber da endet die Ähnlichkeit. Mit ganzem Herzen wünsche ich ihnen Glück und freue mich über jede Umstand, der dafür spricht. Sie haben keine Schwierigkeiten zu Hause zu bewältigen, keinen Widerstand, keine Launen, keine Verzögerungen. Die Musgroves benehmen sich ehrenhaft und nett, sie sind nur besorgt, dass ihre Tochter sich wohlfühlt. Das spricht sehr, sehr für ihr Glück. Mehr als vielleicht -" Er unterbrach sich. Eine plötzliche Erinnerung schien zurückzukehren und ihm einen Vorgeschmack jenes Gefühls zu geben, das Annes Wangen erröten ließ und ihre Augen auf den Boden richtete. Nachdem er sich jedoch geräuspert hatte, fuhr er fort: "Ich gestehe, dass ich denke, dass es eine Ungleichheit gibt, eine zu große Ungleichheit, und zwar in einem Punkt, der nicht weniger wichtig ist als der Geist. Ich halte Louisa Musgrove für ein sehr liebenswertes, sanftmütiges Mädchen und keineswegs verständnislos, aber Benwick ist etwas mehr. Er ist ein cleverer Mann, ein belesener Mann; und ich gestehe, dass es mich überrascht, dass er sich ihr angeschlossen hat. Wenn es eine Folge von Dankbarkeit gewesen wäre, wenn er sie lieben gelernt hätte, weil er glaubte, dass sie ihn bevorzugt, wäre es etwas anderes gewesen. Aber ich habe keinen Grund zu der Annahme. Es scheint im Gegenteil ein völlig spontanes, ungelehrtes Gefühl von seiner Seite aus gewesen zu sein, und das überrascht mich. Ein Mann wie er, in seiner Situation! Mit einem durchstoßenen, verwundeten, fast gebrochenen Herzen! Fanny Harville war ein sehr bemerkenswertes Wesen, und seine Verbundenheit mit ihr war in der Tat eine Verbundenheit. Ein Mann erholt sich nicht von einer solchen Hingabe des Herzens an eine solche Frau. Er sollte es nicht; er tut es nicht." Obwohl er sich bewusst war, dass sein Freund wieder gesund war oder aus anderen Bewusstseinsgründen, ging er nicht weiter darauf ein. Anne, die trotz der aufgeregten Stimme, in der der zweite Teil gesprochen wurde, und trotz all des Trubels im Raum, dem fast ununterbrochenen Zuschlagen der Tür und dem ununterbrochenen Geräusch von Personen, die hindurchgingen, jedes Wort verstanden hatte, war betroffen, erfreut, verwirrt und begann sehr schnell zu atmen und tausend Dinge gleichzeitig zu fühlen. Es war unmöglich für sie, ein solches Thema anzusprechen, und doch, nach einer Pause, fühlte sie die Notwendigkeit zu sprechen und hatte nicht den geringsten Wunsch nach einer vollständigen Veränderung. Sie wich nur so weit ab, um zu sagen: "Sie waren eine Weile in Lyme, glaube ich?" "Circa zwei Wochen. Ich konnte es nicht verlassen, bis es Louisa wieder besser ging. Ich war zu sehr in die Schäden verwickelt, um so schnell zur Ruhe zu kommen. Es war meine Schuld, nur meine Schuld. Sie wäre nicht sturköpfig gewesen, wenn ich nicht schwach gewesen wäre. Die Gegend um Lyme herum ist sehr schön. Ich bin viel gelaufen und geritten, und je mehr ich sah, desto mehr fand ich bewundernswertes." "Ich würde mir Lyme sehr gerne wieder ansehen", sagte Anne. "Wirklich? Ich hätte nicht gedacht, dass du in Lyme irgendetwas finden könntest, das solch ein Gefühl hervorruft. Der Schrecken und die Not, in die du verwickelt warst, die Anspannung des Geistes, die Erschöpfung der Seele! Ich hätte gedacht, deine letzten Eindrücke von Lyme müssten ein starker Ekel gewesen sein." "Die letzten Stunden waren sicherlich sehr schmerzhaft", antwortete Anne, "aber wenn der Schmerz vorbei ist, wird die Erinnerung daran oft zur Freude. Man liebt einen Ort nicht weniger, weil man in ihm gelitten hat, es sei denn, es war allgegenwärtiges Leid, nichts als Leid, was bei Lyme keineswegs der Fall war. Wir waren nur während der letzten zwei Stunden in Angst und Not, und zuvor gab es viel Freude. So viel Neuheit und Schönheit! Ich bin so wenig gereist, dass jeder neue Ort für mich interessant wäre, aber in Lyme gibt es echte Schönheit; und kurz gesagt" (mit einer schwachen Errötung bei einigen Erinnerungen), "sind meine Eindrücke von dem Ort insgesamt sehr angenehm." Kaum hatte sie geendet, öffnete sich die Eingangstür erneut, und die gesamte Gruppe erschien, auf die sie gewartet hatten. "Lady Dalrymple, Lady Dalrymple", erklang es freudig. Mit aller Aufregung, die mit eleganter Ungeduld vereinbar war, traten Sir Walter und seine beiden Damen vor, um sie zu begrüßen. Lady Dalrymple und Miss Carteret, begleitet von Mr Elliot und Colonel Wallis, die zufällig fast im selben Moment ankamen, betraten den Raum Elizabeth und Anne Elliot waren sehr, sehr glücklich, als sie hereinkamen. Elizabeth, Arm in Arm mit Miss Carteret und den breiten Rücken der verwitweten Viscountess Dalrymple vor sich, hatte nichts zu wünschen übrig, was nicht in ihrer Reichweite zu sein schien. Und Anne - aber es wäre eine Beleidigung für die Natur von Annes Glückseligkeit, einen Vergleich zu ziehen; die Ursache ihres Glücks war selbstsüchtige Eitelkeit, die Ursache von Annes Glück war großzügige Zuneigung. Anne sah nichts und dachte nicht an die Helligkeit des Raumes. Ihr Glück kam von innen. Ihre Augen leuchteten, ihre Wangen glühten; aber sie wusste nichts davon. Sie dachte nur an die letzte halbe Stunde und als sie zu ihren Plätzen gingen, nahm ihr Geist eine rasche Wiederholung davon. Seine Wahl der Themen, seine Ausdrücke und noch mehr seine Art und sein Blick waren so, wie sie es nur auf eine Art sehen konnte. Seine Meinung von Louisa Musgroves Unterlegenheit, eine Meinung, die er anscheinend geben wollte, sein Staunen über Captain Benwick, seine Gefühle für eine erste, starke Zuneigung; angefangene Sätze, die er nicht beenden konnte, seine halb abgewandten Augen und mehr als halb ausdrucksvoller Blick, all das erklärte, dass sein Herz zu ihr zurückkehrte, dass Wut, Ärger und Vermeidung nicht mehr bestanden; und dass sie nicht nur von Freundschaft und Zuneigung, sondern auch von der Zärtlichkeit der Vergangenheit abgelöst wurden. Ja, ein Teil der Zärtlichkeit der Vergangenheit. Sie konnte die Veränderung nicht als weniger bedeutsam betrachten. Er musste sie lieben. Diese Gedanken, zusammen mit ihren begleitenden Visionen, beschäftigten und beunruhigten sie zu sehr, um ihr irgendwelche Beobachtungsfähigkeiten zu lassen. Sie ging durch den Raum, ohne einen Blick auf ihn zu erhaschen, ohne auch nur zu versuchen, ihn zu erkennen. Als ihre Plätze festgelegt waren und sie ordnungsgemäß angeordnet waren, sah sie sich um, ob er sich zufällig im gleichen Teil des Raumes aufhalten sollte, aber das tat er nicht; ihr Blick konnte ihn nicht erreichen, und das Konzert begann gerade, so dass sie sich für eine Weile in bescheidenem Glück zufrieden geben musste. Die Gruppe wurde auf zwei benachbarten Bänken aufgeteilt und platziert: Anne war unter denen auf der vorderen und Mr Elliot hatte es dank der Hilfe seines Freundes Colonel Wallis geschafft, sich neben sie zu setzen. Miss Elliot, umgeben von ihren Cousinen und das Hauptobjekt von Colonel Wallis' Galanterie, war ganz zufrieden. Annes Geist befand sich in einem äußerst günstigen Zustand für die Unterhaltung des Abends; es war genau die richtige Ablenkung: Sie hatte Gefühle für das Zarte, Geist für das Fröhliche, Aufmerksamkeit für das Wissenschaftliche und Geduld für das Ermüdende; und sie hatte noch nie ein Konzert besser gemocht, zumindest während des ersten Aktes. Gegen Ende, in der Pause nach einem italienischen Lied, erklärte sie Mr Elliot die Worte des Liedes. Sie hatten ein Konzertprogramm zwischen sich. "Das", sagte sie, "ist etwa der Sinn oder besser gesagt die Bedeutung der Worte, denn sicherlich darf man nicht über den Sinn eines italienischen Liebesliedes sprechen, aber es ist so ungefähr die Bedeutung, wie ich sie geben kann, denn ich gebe nicht vor, die Sprache zu verstehen. Ich bin eine sehr schlechte Italienisch-Schülerin." "Ja, ja, das sehe ich. Ich sehe, dass Sie nichts davon verstehen. Sie haben nur genug Kenntnis der Sprache, um diese umgekehrten, verschobenen, verkürzten italienischen Verse bei klaren, verständlichen, eleganten englischen Sätzen zu übersetzen. Sie müssen nichts mehr über Ihre Unkenntnis sagen. Hier ist der vollständige Beweis." "Ich werde mich solch freundlicher Höflichkeit nicht widersetzen, aber ich wäre traurig, von einem echten Fachmann geprüft zu werden." "Ich hatte das Vergnügen, so lange in der Camden Place zu verkehren", antwortete er, "ohne Miss Anne Elliot zu kennen; und ich betrachte sie als jemanden, der zu bescheiden für die Welt im Allgemeinen ist, um sich der Hälfte ihrer Fähigkeiten bewusst zu sein, und zu hoch gebildet, damit Bescheidenheit in irgendeiner anderen Frau natürlich ist." "Schämen Sie sich! Schämen Sie sich! Das ist zu viel Schmeichelei. Ich vergesse, was als nächstes kommen soll", wandte sie sich dem Programm zu. "Vielleicht", sagte Mr Elliot leise, "bin ich schon länger mit Ihrem Charakter vertraut, als Sie denken." "Wirklich? Wie soll das sein? Sie können damit vertraut gewesen sein, seit ich nach Bath gekommen bin, es sei denn, Sie hätten vorher von mir in meiner eigenen Familie gehört." "Ich kannte Sie schon lange vor Ihrem Kommen nach Bath. Ich hatte von denen, die Sie gut kannten, von Ihnen gehört. Ich bin Ihnen charakterlich seit vielen Jahren vertraut. Ihre Person, Ihre Wesensart, Fähigkeiten, Art; alles war mir präsent." Mr Elliot wurde nicht enttäuscht von dem Interesse, das er hoffte zu wecken. Niemand kann dem Charme eines solchen Geheimnisses widerstehen. Von namenlosen Leuten vor langer Zeit zu einem neu gewonnenen Bekannten beschrieben zu werden, ist unwiderstehlich. Und Anne war voller Neugier. Sie wunderte sich und befragte ihn eifrig, aber vergeblich. Er freute sich darüber, gefragt zu werden, aber er wollte es nicht sagen. "Nein, nein, vielleicht irgendwann, aber nicht jetzt. Er würde jetzt keine Namen nennen; aber, versicherte er ihr, das sei tatsächlich passiert. Vor vielen Jahren hatte er eine solche Beschreibung von Miss Anne Elliot erhalten, die ihn von ihrem Wert am meisten überzeugt hatte und das stärkste Verlangen geweckt hatte, sie kennenzulernen." Anne konnte sich niemanden vorstellen, der so wahrscheinlich vor vielen Jahren wohlwollend von ihr gesprochen hätte wie Mr. Wentworth von Monkford, Captain Wentworths Bruder. Er könnte in der Gesellschaft von Mr. Elliot gewesen sein, aber sie hatte nicht den Mut, die Frage zu stellen. "Der Name Anne Elliot", sagte er, "hat für mich schon lange einen interessanten Klang. Sehr lange hat er einen Zauber über meine Fantasie ausgeübt, und wenn ich es wagen dürfte, würde ich mir wünschen, dass der Name niemals ändert." So glaubte sie, waren seine Worte; aber kaum hatte sie den Klang gehört, da wurde ihre Aufmerksamkeit von anderen Geräuschen unmittelbar hinter ihr gefesselt, die alles andere als nebensächlich machten. Ihr Vater und Lady Dalrymple sprachen. "Gut aussehender Mann", sagte Sir Walter, "ein sehr gut aussehender Mann." "Ein sehr attraktiver junger Mann in der Tat!" sagte Lady Dalrymple. "Mehr Luft, als man es oft in Bath sieht. Irländer, nehme ich an." "Nein, ich kenne seinen Namen. Ich habe ihn grüßen sehen. Wentworth; Captain Wentworth von der Marine. Seine Schwester hat meinen Mieter in Somersetshire geheiratet, den Croft, der Kellynch mietet." Bevor Sir Walter diesen Punkt erreicht hatte, hatten Annes Augen die richtige Richtung erfasst und Captain Wentworth, der unter einer Gruppe von Männern ein wenig entfernt stand, erkannt. Als ihr Blick auf ihn fiel, schien es, als würde er seinen Blick von ihr abwenden. Es hatte den Anschein. Es schien, als wäre sie einen Moment zu spät gekommen; und solange sie es wagte, hinzusehen, sah er nicht wieder hin; aber die Vorstellung begann von neuem und sie musste den Anschein erwecken, als ob sie ihre Aufmerksamkeit wieder dem Orchester widmete und geradeaus blickte. Als sie einen weiteren Blick hätte werfen können, war er weggegangen. Er hätte nicht näher zu ihr kommen können, wenn er Bei der erneuten Ansiedlung gab es nun viele Veränderungen, deren Ergebnis für sie günstig war. Colonel Wallis lehnte es ab, sich wieder hinzusetzen, und Mr. Elliot wurde von Elizabeth und Miss Carteret in einer so überzeugenden Art und Weise eingeladen, dass er es nicht ablehnen konnte, zwischen ihnen Platz zu nehmen. Durch weitere Umsiedlungen und ein wenig eigenes Taktieren gelang es Anne, sich deutlich näher ans Ende der Bank zu setzen als zuvor, viel näher an einem Passanten. Das konnte sie nicht tun, ohne sich mit Miss Larolles zu vergleichen, der unnachahmlichen Miss Larolles; aber dennoch tat sie es und nicht mit viel glücklicherem Effekt; obwohl sie durch das, was wie ein Erfolg in Form einer frühen Abdankung ihrer nächsten Nachbarn aussah, sich am Ende der Bank befand, bevor das Konzert endete. So sah ihre Situation aus, mit einem freien Platz in der Nähe, als Captain Wentworth wieder in Sicht war. Sie sah ihn nicht weit weg. Er sah sie auch; dennoch wirkte er ernst und unschlüssig und kam nur sehr langsam und zögernd nahe genug, um mit ihr zu sprechen. Sie spürte, dass etwas nicht stimmte. Die Veränderung war unverkennbar. Der Unterschied zwischen seinem aktuellen Auftreten und dem, was es im Octagon Room gewesen war, war auffallend groß. Warum war das so? Sie dachte an ihren Vater, an Lady Russell. Gab es unangenehme Blicke? Er begann damit, ernsthaft über das Konzert zu sprechen, mehr wie Captain Wentworth von Uppercross; gestand, enttäuscht zu sein, hatte Singen erwartet; und kurz gesagt, musste er gestehen, dass er nicht traurig sein würde, wenn es vorbei wäre. Anne antwortete und verteidigte die Vorstellung so gut und doch so angemessen auf seine Gefühle eingehend, dass sich sein Gesichtsausdruck verbesserte und er sogar fast mit einem Lächeln antwortete. Sie sprachen noch ein paar Minuten weiter; die Verbesserung blieb bestehen; er schaute sogar auf die Bank hinunter, als ob er dort einen guten Platz sah; in diesem Moment berührte sie jedoch eine Berührung auf ihrer Schulter und zwang Anne, sich umzudrehen. Es war von Mr. Elliot. Er bat um Entschuldigung, aber sie müsse um Hilfe gebeten werden, um Italienisch erneut zu erklären. Miss Carteret wollte unbedingt eine allgemeine Vorstellung davon haben, was als Nächstes gesungen werden sollte. Anne konnte nicht ablehnen; aber nie zuvor hatte sie der Höflichkeit mit so leidendem Geist geopfert. Ein paar Minuten, so wenige wie möglich, vergingen unvermeidlich; und als sie wieder ihre eigene Herrin war, als sie sich umdrehen und schauen konnte, wie sie es zuvor getan hatte, wurde sie von Captain Wentworth in einem reservierten und doch gehetzten Abschied angesprochen. "Er muss ihr gute Nacht wünschen; er ging; er würde so schnell wie möglich nach Hause kommen." "Ist dieses Lied es nicht wert, zu bleiben?" sagte Anne plötzlich von einer Idee getroffen, die sie noch mehr dazu ermunterte, ermutigend zu sein. "Nein!" antwortete er nachdrücklich, "es gibt nichts, wofür es sich lohnt zu bleiben"; und er war sofort weg. Eifersucht auf Mr. Elliot! Das war das einzige verständliche Motiv. Captain Wentworth eifersüchtig auf ihre Zuneigung! Hätte sie es vor einer Woche glauben können; vor drei Stunden! Für einen Moment war die Befriedigung exquisit. Aber ach! Es folgten sehr unterschiedliche Gedanken. Wie sollte solche Eifersucht beruhigt werden? Wie sollte die Wahrheit ihn erreichen? Wie sollte er jemals in all den besonderen Nachteilen ihrer jeweiligen Situationen von ihren wahren Gefühlen erfahren? Es war eine Qual, an die Aufmerksamkeiten von Mr. Elliot zu denken. Ihr Übel war unermesslich. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben stehenden Absätze verfassen?

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Sir Walter, Elizabeth, Mrs. Clay und Anne sind beim Konzert und warten auf die modisch zu spät kommenden Dalrymples. Als Captain Wentworth herein kommt, fängt Anne an, mit ihm zu reden, obwohl sie spürt, dass ihr Vater und ihre Schwester ihr böse Blicke zuwerfen. Schließlich lassen sie etwas nach und verbeugen sich ganz leicht vor dem Captain. Nach der üblichen Smalltalk-Unterhaltung über das Wetter und die Stadt wendet sich das Gespräch nach Lyme und Anne und Wentworth sprechen über die seltsame Wendung der Ereignisse, die dazu geführt haben, dass Louisa und Benwick zusammengekommen sind. Wentworth sagt, dass das Paar zumindest nicht mit nervigen Eltern umgehen müsse, bevor Annes Röte ihm zeigt, dass er nicht gerade taktvoll ist. Wentworth sagt weiterhin, dass Louisa ganz nett sei, aber ihr nicht intellektuell genug für Benwick scheint und er überrascht ist, dass sein Freund sich für sie entschieden hat, besonders nachdem es so schien, als ob er nach dem Tod seiner vorherigen Verlobten Fanny Harville so sehr getroffen gewesen sei. Vom Persönlichen zum Abstrakten übergehend sagt er: "Ein Mann erholt sich nicht von einer solchen Hingabe des Herzens an eine solche Frau. Er sollte es nicht; er tut es nicht." Dann schweigt er, vielleicht denkt er dabei an die Erfahrung einer anderen Person als Captain Benwick. Anne greift das Gespräch wieder auf und lenkt es allgemein auf Lyme und sagt, dass sie die Stadt gerne nochmal besuchen würde. Wentworth gibt sich die Schuld an Louisas unbedachtem Sprung und ist überrascht, dass Anne den Ort früheres Trauma erneut besuchen möchte. Anne sagt, dass der schlechte Teil nur am Ende war und dass Erinnerungen selbst negative Erfahrungen in positive umwandeln können. Die Dalrymples und Mr. Elliot kommen an und nehmen Anne mit sich, weg von Wentworth. Als sie nach ihm Ausschau hält, hat er sich in der Menschenmenge verloren. Anne denkt, es ist besser so, da sie Zeit braucht, um über das Gespräch nachzudenken. Sobald Lady Russell eintrifft, gehen sie zu ihren Plätzen, und versuchen, so viel Aufmerksamkeit wie möglich auf sich zu ziehen. Anne nimmt kaum wahr, was um sie herum passiert, sie ist viel mehr mit den glücklichen Gedanken in ihrem Kopf beschäftigt: Sie geht Wentworths Worte und Taten durch und erkennt, dass er sie immer noch liebt. Auch mit solchen inneren Ablenkungen gelingt es ihr, das Konzert zu genießen und die italienische Aufführung für Mr. Elliot ins Englische zu übersetzen, der ihr Intelligenz und Bescheidenheit schmeichelt. Mr. Elliot lässt eine Andeutung fallen, dass er schon viel vor ihrem Treffen in Bath über Anne gehört hat, und Anne ist neugierig, wer ihm Geschichten über sie erzählt haben könnte. Er sagt, dass er schon lange von dem Namen Anne Elliot verzaubert sei und deutet auf die Hoffnung hin, dass sich der Name nie ändern werde. Anne ist von diesem Gespräch abgelenkt, als Lady Dalrymple und Sir Walter Captain Wentworth entdecken und über sein gutes Aussehen sprechen. Anne versucht, Blickkontakt mit Wentworth herzustellen, spürt aber, dass er bewusst ihren Blick meidet, und schafft es nicht, ihm einen Blick zuzuwerfen, bevor die Show wieder beginnt und sie ihre Aufmerksamkeit wieder auf die Bühne richten muss. Sie hält dennoch Ausschau nach ihm und wünscht sich, dass Mr. Elliot sie in Ruhe lassen würde. In der Pause hofft sie, dass er sie finden wird, jetzt wo die Hälfte ihrer Gruppe Snacks holen gegangen ist, aber er taucht nicht auf. Die Pause ist vorbei und sie setzen sich wieder hin. Anne hat es geschafft, heimlich einen Sitzplatz näher am Gang zu bekommen, um besser nach Wentworth Ausschau halten zu können. Ihre Position verbessert sich noch weiter, als die Leute am Ende der Reihe frühzeitig gehen und einen einladend leeren Platz neben Anne hinterlassen. Sie entdeckt endlich Captain Wentworth, aber seine Art ist kälter als zuvor. Sie sprechen über das Konzert und Anne schafft es, ihn wieder etwas aufzutauen, aber gerade als Wentworth sich hinsetzen möchte, mischt sich Mr. Elliot ein und bittet Anne, noch mehr Italienisch zu übersetzen. Als Anne endlich frei ist, spricht Wentworth nur noch von Abschied. Anne versucht, ihn zum Bleiben zu überreden, aber er geht leicht gereizt davon. Anne erkennt, was los ist - er ist eifersüchtig auf Mr. Elliot! Während Anne über diesen weiteren Beweis glücklich ist, dass er sich um sie kümmert, ist sie auch besorgt darüber, wie sie ihm zeigen kann, dass sie ihn immer noch will und sich kein bisschen für Mr. Elliot interessiert.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten 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 VI I think it is the weakness of mine eyes, That shapes this monstrous apparition. It comes upon me! JULIUS CAESAR Daylight dispelled from Emily's mind the glooms of superstition, but not those of apprehension. The Count Morano was the first image, that occurred to her waking thoughts, and then came a train of anticipated evils, which she could neither conquer, nor avoid. She rose, and, to relieve her mind from the busy ideas, that tormented it, compelled herself to notice external objects. From her casement she looked out upon the wild grandeur of the scene, closed nearly on all sides by alpine steeps, whose tops, peeping over each other, faded from the eye in misty hues, while the promontories below were dark with woods, that swept down to their base, and stretched along the narrow vallies. The rich pomp of these woods was particularly delightful to Emily; and she viewed with astonishment the fortifications of the castle spreading along a vast extent of rock, and now partly in decay, the grandeur of the ramparts below, and the towers and battlements and various features of the fabric above. From these her sight wandered over the cliffs and woods into the valley, along which foamed a broad and rapid stream, seen falling among the crags of an opposite mountain, now flashing in the sun-beams, and now shadowed by over-arching pines, till it was entirely concealed by their thick foliage. Again it burst from beneath this darkness in one broad sheet of foam, and fell thundering into the vale. Nearer, towards the west, opened the mountain-vista, which Emily had viewed with such sublime emotion, on her approach to the castle: a thin dusky vapour, that rose from the valley, overspread its features with a sweet obscurity. As this ascended and caught the sun-beams, it kindled into a crimson tint, and touched with exquisite beauty the woods and cliffs, over which it passed to the summit of the mountains; then, as the veil drew up, it was delightful to watch the gleaming objects, that progressively disclosed themselves in the valley--the green turf--dark woods--little rocky recesses--a few peasants' huts--the foaming stream--a herd of cattle, and various images of pastoral beauty. Then, the pine-forests brightened, and then the broad breast of the mountains, till, at length, the mist settled round their summit, touching them with a ruddy glow. The features of the vista now appeared distinctly, and the broad deep shadows, that fell from the lower cliffs, gave strong effect to the streaming splendour above; while the mountains, gradually sinking in the perspective, appeared to shelve into the Adriatic sea, for such Emily imagined to be the gleam of blueish light, that terminated the view. Thus she endeavoured to amuse her fancy, and was not unsuccessful. The breezy freshness of the morning, too, revived her. She raised her thoughts in prayer, which she felt always most disposed to do, when viewing the sublimity of nature, and her mind recovered its strength. When she turned from the casement, her eyes glanced upon the door she had so carefully guarded, on the preceding night, and she now determined to examine whither it led; but, on advancing to remove the chairs, she perceived, that they were already moved a little way. Her surprise cannot be easily imagined, when, in the next minute, she perceived that the door was fastened.--She felt, as if she had seen an apparition. The door of the corridor was locked as she had left it, but this door, which could be secured only on the outside, must have been bolted, during the night. She became seriously uneasy at the thought of sleeping again in a chamber, thus liable to intrusion, so remote, too, as it was from the family, and she determined to mention the circumstance to Madame Montoni, and to request a change. After some perplexity she found her way into the great hall, and to the room, which she had left, on the preceding night, where breakfast was spread, and her aunt was alone, for Montoni had been walking over the environs of the castle, examining the condition of its fortifications, and talking for some time with Carlo. Emily observed that her aunt had been weeping, and her heart softened towards her, with an affection, that shewed itself in her manner, rather than in words, while she carefully avoided the appearance of having noticed, that she was unhappy. She seized the opportunity of Montoni's absence to mention the circumstance of the door, to request that she might be allowed another apartment, and to enquire again, concerning the occasion of their sudden journey. On the first subject her aunt referred her to Montoni, positively refusing to interfere in the affair; on the last, she professed utter ignorance. Emily, then, with a wish of making her aunt more reconciled to her situation, praised the grandeur of the castle and the surrounding scenery, and endeavoured to soften every unpleasing circumstance attending it. But, though misfortune had somewhat conquered the asperities of Madame Montoni's temper, and, by increasing her cares for herself, had taught her to feel in some degree for others, the capricious love of rule, which nature had planted and habit had nourished in her heart, was not subdued. She could not now deny herself the gratification of tyrannizing over the innocent and helpless Emily, by attempting to ridicule the taste she could not feel. Her satirical discourse was, however, interrupted by the entrance of Montoni, and her countenance immediately assumed a mingled expression of fear and resentment, while he seated himself at the breakfast-table, as if unconscious of there being any person but himself in the room. Emily, as she observed him in silence, saw, that his countenance was darker and sterner than usual. 'O could I know,' said she to herself, 'what passes in that mind; could I know the thoughts, that are known there, I should no longer be condemned to this torturing suspense!' Their breakfast passed in silence, till Emily ventured to request, that another apartment might be allotted to her, and related the circumstance which made her wish it. 'I have no time to attend to these idle whims,' said Montoni, 'that chamber was prepared for you, and you must rest contented with it. It is not probable, that any person would take the trouble of going to that remote stair-case, for the purpose of fastening a door. If it was not fastened, when you entered the chamber, the wind, perhaps, shook the door and made the bolts slide. But I know not why I should undertake to account for so trifling an occurrence.' This explanation was by no means satisfactory to Emily, who had observed, that the bolts were rusted, and consequently could not be thus easily moved; but she forbore to say so, and repeated her request. 'If you will not release yourself from the slavery of these fears,' said Montoni, sternly, 'at least forbear to torment others by the mention of them. Conquer such whims, and endeavour to strengthen your mind. No existence is more contemptible than that, which is embittered by fear.' As he said this, his eye glanced upon Madame Montoni, who coloured highly, but was still silent. Emily, wounded and disappointed, thought her fears were, in this instance, too reasonable to deserve ridicule; but, perceiving, that, however they might oppress her, she must endure them, she tried to withdraw her attention from the subject. Carlo soon after entered with some fruit: 'Your excellenza is tired after your long ramble,' said he, as he set the fruit upon the table; 'but you have more to see after breakfast. There is a place in the vaulted passage leading to--' Montoni frowned upon him, and waved his hand for him to leave the room. Carlo stopped, looked down, and then added, as he advanced to the breakfast-table, and took up the basket of fruit, 'I made bold, your excellenza, to bring some cherries, here, for my honoured lady and my young mistress. Will your ladyship taste them, madam?' said Carlo, presenting the basket, 'they are very fine ones, though I gathered them myself, and from an old tree, that catches all the south sun; they are as big as plums, your ladyship.' 'Very well, old Carlo,' said Madame Montoni; 'I am obliged to you.' 'And the young Signora, too, she may like some of them,' rejoined Carlo, turning with the basket to Emily, 'it will do me good to see her eat some.' 'Thank you, Carlo,' said Emily, taking some cherries, and smiling kindly. 'Come, come,' said Montoni, impatiently, 'enough of this. Leave the room, but be in waiting. I shall want you presently.' Carlo obeyed, and Montoni, soon after, went out to examine further into the state of the castle; while Emily remained with her aunt, patiently enduring her ill humour, and endeavouring, with much sweetness, to soothe her affliction, instead of resenting its effect. When Madame Montoni retired to her dressing-room, Emily endeavoured to amuse herself by a view of the castle. Through a folding door she passed from the great hall to the ramparts, which extended along the brow of the precipice, round three sides of the edifice; the fourth was guarded by the high walls of the courts, and by the gateway, through which she had passed, on the preceding evening. The grandeur of the broad ramparts, and the changing scenery they overlooked, excited her high admiration; for the extent of the terraces allowed the features of the country to be seen in such various points of view, that they appeared to form new landscapes. She often paused to examine the gothic magnificence of Udolpho, its proud irregularity, its lofty towers and battlements, its high-arched casements, and its slender watch-towers, perched upon the corners of turrets. Then she would lean on the wall of the terrace, and, shuddering, measure with her eye the precipice below, till the dark summits of the woods arrested it. Wherever she turned, appeared mountain-tops, forests of pine and narrow glens, opening among the Apennines and retiring from the sight into inaccessible regions. While she thus leaned, Montoni, followed by two men, appeared, ascending a winding path, cut in the rock below. He stopped upon a cliff, and, pointing to the ramparts, turned to his followers, and talked with much eagerness of gesticulation.--Emily perceived, that one of these men was Carlo; the other was in the dress of a peasant, and he alone seemed to be receiving the directions of Montoni. She withdrew from the walls, and pursued her walk, till she heard at a distance the sound of carriage wheels, and then the loud bell of the portal, when it instantly occurred to her, that Count Morano was arrived. As she hastily passed the folding doors from the terrace, towards her own apartment, several persons entered the hall by an opposite door. She saw them at the extremities of the arcades, and immediately retreated; but the agitation of her spirits, and the extent and duskiness of the hall, had prevented her from distinguishing the persons of the strangers. Her fears, however, had but one object, and they had called up that object to her fancy:--she believed that she had seen Count Morano. When she thought that they had passed the hall, she ventured again to the door, and proceeded, unobserved, to her room, where she remained, agitated with apprehensions, and listening to every distant sound. At length, hearing voices on the rampart, she hastened to her window, and observed Montoni, with Signor Cavigni, walking below, conversing earnestly, and often stopping and turning towards each other, at which time their discourse seemed to be uncommonly interesting. Of the several persons who had appeared in the hall, here was Cavigni alone: but Emily's alarm was soon after heightened by the steps of some one in the corridor, who, she apprehended, brought a message from the Count. In the next moment, Annette appeared. 'Ah! ma'amselle,' said she, 'here is the Signor Cavigni arrived! I am sure I rejoiced to see a christian person in this place; and then he is so good natured too, he always takes so much notice of me!--And here is also Signor Verezzi, and who do you think besides, ma'amselle?' 'I cannot guess, Annette; tell me quickly.' 'Nay, ma'am, do guess once.' 'Well, then,' said Emily, with assumed composure, 'it is--Count Morano, I suppose.' 'Holy Virgin!' cried Annette, 'are you ill, ma'amselle? you are going to faint! let me get some water.' Emily sunk into a chair. 'Stay, Annette,' said she, feebly, 'do not leave me--I shall soon be better; open the casement.--The Count, you say--he is come, then?' 'Who, I!--the Count! No, ma'amselle, I did not say so.' 'He is NOT come then?' said Emily eagerly. 'No, ma'amselle.' 'You are sure of it?' 'Lord bless me!' said Annette, 'you recover very suddenly, ma'am! why, I thought you was dying, just now.' 'But the Count--you are sure, is not come?' 'O yes, quite sure of that, ma'amselle. Why, I was looking out through the grate in the north turret, when the carriages drove into the court-yard, and I never expected to see such a goodly sight in this dismal old castle! but here are masters and servants, too, enough to make the place ring again. O! I was ready to leap through the rusty old bars for joy!--O! who would ever have thought of seeing a christian face in this huge dreary house? I could have kissed the very horses that brought them.' 'Well, Annette, well, I am better now.' 'Yes, ma'amselle, I see you are. O! all the servants will lead merry lives here, now; we shall have singing and dancing in the little hall, for the Signor cannot hear us there--and droll stories--Ludovico's come, ma'am; yes, there is Ludovico come with them! You remember Ludovico, ma'am--a tall, handsome young man--Signor Cavigni's lacquey--who always wears his cloak with such a grace, thrown round his left arm, and his hat set on so smartly, all on one side, and--' 'No,' said Emily, who was wearied by her loquacity. 'What, ma'amselle, don't you remember Ludovico--who rowed the Cavaliero's gondola, at the last regatta, and won the prize? And who used to sing such sweet verses about Orlandos and about the Black-a-moors, too; and Charly--Charly--magne, yes, that was the name, all under my lattice, in the west portico, on the moon-light nights at Venice? O! I have listened to him!'--- 'I fear, to thy peril, my good Annette,' said Emily; 'for it seems his verses have stolen thy heart. But let me advise you; if it is so, keep the secret; never let him know it.' 'Ah--ma'amselle!--how can one keep such a secret as that?' 'Well, Annette, I am now so much better, that you may leave me.' 'O, but, ma'amselle, I forgot to ask--how did you sleep in this dreary old chamber last night?'--'As well as usual.'--'Did you hear no noises?'--'None.'--'Nor see anything?'--'Nothing.'--'Well, that is surprising!'--'Not in the least: and now tell me, why you ask these questions.' 'O, ma'amselle! I would not tell you for the world, nor all I have heard about this chamber, either; it would frighten you so.' 'If that is all, you have frightened me already, and may therefore tell me what you know, without hurting your conscience.' 'O Lord! they say the room is haunted, and has been so these many years.' 'It is by a ghost, then, who can draw bolts,' said Emily, endeavouring to laugh away her apprehensions; 'for I left the door open, last night, and found it fastened this morning.' Annette turned pale, and said not a word. 'Do you know whether any of the servants fastened this door in the morning, before I rose?' 'No, ma'am, that I will be bound they did not; but I don't know: shall I go and ask, ma'amselle?' said Annette, moving hastily towards the corridor. 'Stay, Annette, I have another question to ask; tell me what you have heard concerning this room, and whither that stair-case leads.' 'I will go and ask it all directly, ma'am; besides, I am sure my lady wants me. I cannot stay now, indeed, ma'am.' She hurried from the room, without waiting Emily's reply, whose heart, lightened by the certainty, that Morano was not arrived, allowed her to smile at the superstitious terror, which had seized on Annette; for, though she sometimes felt its influence herself, she could smile at it, when apparent in other persons. Montoni having refused Emily another chamber, she determined to bear with patience the evil she could not remove, and, in order to make the room as comfortable as possible, unpacked her books, her sweet delight in happier days, and her soothing resource in the hours of moderate sorrow: but there were hours when even these failed of their effect; when the genius, the taste, the enthusiasm of the sublimest writers were felt no longer. Her little library being arranged on a high chest, part of the furniture of the room, she took out her drawing utensils, and was tranquil enough to be pleased with the thought of sketching the sublime scenes, beheld from her windows; but she suddenly checked this pleasure, remembering how often she had soothed herself by the intention of obtaining amusement of this kind, and had been prevented by some new circumstance of misfortune. 'How can I suffer myself to be deluded by hope,' said she, 'and, because Count Morano is not yet arrived, feel a momentary happiness? Alas! what is it to me, whether he is here to-day, or to-morrow, if he comes at all?--and that he will come--it were weakness to doubt.' To withdraw her thoughts, however, from the subject of her misfortunes, she attempted to read, but her attention wandered from the page, and, at length, she threw aside the book, and determined to explore the adjoining chambers of the castle. Her imagination was pleased with the view of ancient grandeur, and an emotion of melancholy awe awakened all its powers, as she walked through rooms, obscure and desolate, where no footsteps had passed probably for many years, and remembered the strange history of the former possessor of the edifice. This brought to her recollection the veiled picture, which had attracted her curiosity, on the preceding night, and she resolved to examine it. As she passed through the chambers, that led to this, she found herself somewhat agitated; its connection with the late lady of the castle, and the conversation of Annette, together with the circumstance of the veil, throwing a mystery over the subject, that excited a faint degree of terror. But a terror of this nature, as it occupies and expands the mind, and elevates it to high expectation, is purely sublime, and leads us, by a kind of fascination, to seek even the object, from which we appear to shrink. Emily passed on with faltering steps, and having paused a moment at the door, before she attempted to open it, she then hastily entered the chamber, and went towards the picture, which appeared to be enclosed in a frame of uncommon size, that hung in a dark part of the room. She paused again, and then, with a timid hand, lifted the veil; but instantly let it fall--perceiving that what it had concealed was no picture, and, before she could leave the chamber, she dropped senseless on the floor. When she recovered her recollection, the remembrance of what she had seen had nearly deprived her of it a second time. She had scarcely strength to remove from the room, and regain her own; and, when arrived there, wanted courage to remain alone. Horror occupied her mind, and excluded, for a time, all sense of past, and dread of future misfortune: she seated herself near the casement, because from thence she heard voices, though distant, on the terrace, and might see people pass, and these, trifling as they were, were reviving circumstances. When her spirits had recovered their tone, she considered, whether she should mention what she had seen to Madame Montoni, and various and important motives urged her to do so, among which the least was the hope of the relief, which an overburdened mind finds in speaking of the subject of its interest. But she was aware of the terrible consequences, which such a communication might lead to; and, dreading the indiscretion of her aunt, at length, endeavoured to arm herself with resolution to observe a profound silence, on the subject. Montoni and Verezzi soon after passed under the casement, speaking cheerfully, and their voices revived her. Presently the Signors Bertolini and Cavigni joined the party on the terrace, and Emily, supposing that Madame Montoni was then alone, went to seek her; for the solitude of her chamber, and its proximity to that where she had received so severe a shock, again affected her spirit. She found her aunt in her dressing-room, preparing for dinner. Emily's pale and affrighted countenance alarmed even Madame Montoni; but she had sufficient strength of mind to be silent on the subject, that still made her shudder, and which was ready to burst from her lips. In her aunt's apartment she remained, till they both descended to dinner. There she met the gentlemen lately arrived, who had a kind of busy seriousness in their looks, which was somewhat unusual with them, while their thoughts seemed too much occupied by some deep interest, to suffer them to bestow much attention either on Emily, or Madame Montoni. They spoke little, and Montoni less. Emily, as she now looked on him, shuddered. The horror of the chamber rushed on her mind. Several times the colour faded from her cheeks, and she feared, that illness would betray her emotions, and compel her to leave the room; but the strength of her resolution remedied the weakness of her frame; she obliged herself to converse, and even tried to look cheerful. Montoni evidently laboured under some vexation, such as would probably have agitated a weaker mind, or a more susceptible heart, but which appeared, from the sternness of his countenance, only to bend up his faculties to energy and fortitude. It was a comfortless and silent meal. The gloom of the castle seemed to have spread its contagion even over the gay countenance of Cavigni, and with this gloom was mingled a fierceness, such as she had seldom seen him indicate. Count Morano was not named, and what conversation there was, turned chiefly upon the wars, which at that time agitated the Italian states, the strength of the Venetian armies, and the characters of their generals. After dinner, when the servants had withdrawn, Emily learned, that the cavalier, who had drawn upon himself the vengeance of Orsino, had since died of his wounds, and that strict search was still making for his murderer. The intelligence seemed to disturb Montoni, who mused, and then enquired, where Orsino had concealed himself. His guests, who all, except Cavigni, were ignorant, that Montoni had himself assisted him to escape from Venice, replied, that he had fled in the night with such precipitation and secrecy, that his most intimate companions knew not whither. Montoni blamed himself for having asked the question, for a second thought convinced him, that a man of Orsino's suspicious temper was not likely to trust any of the persons present with the knowledge of his asylum. He considered himself, however, as entitled to his utmost confidence, and did not doubt, that he should soon hear of him. Emily retired with Madame Montoni, soon after the cloth was withdrawn, and left the cavaliers to their secret councils, but not before the significant frowns of Montoni had warned his wife to depart, who passed from the hall to the ramparts, and walked, for some time, in silence, which Emily did not interrupt, for her mind was also occupied by interests of its own. It required all her resolution, to forbear communicating to Madame Montoni the terrible subject, which still thrilled her every nerve with horror; and sometimes she was on the point of doing so, merely to obtain the relief of a moment; but she knew how wholly she was in the power of Montoni, and, considering, that the indiscretion of her aunt might prove fatal to them both, she compelled herself to endure a present and an inferior evil, rather than to tempt a future and a heavier one. A strange kind of presentiment frequently, on this day, occurred to her;--it seemed as if her fate rested here, and was by some invisible means connected with this castle. 'Let me not accelerate it,' said she to herself: 'for whatever I may be reserved, let me, at least, avoid self-reproach.' As she looked on the massy walls of the edifice, her melancholy spirits represented it to be her prison; and she started as at a new suggestion, when she considered how far distant she was from her native country, from her little peaceful home, and from her only friend--how remote was her hope of happiness, how feeble the expectation of again seeing him! Yet the idea of Valancourt, and her confidence in his faithful love, had hitherto been her only solace, and she struggled hard to retain them. A few tears of agony started to her eyes, which she turned aside to conceal. While she afterwards leaned on the wall of the rampart, some peasants, at a little distance, were seen examining a breach, before which lay a heap of stones, as if to repair it, and a rusty old cannon, that appeared to have fallen from its station above. Madame Montoni stopped to speak to the men, and enquired what they were going to do. 'To repair the fortifications, your ladyship,' said one of them; a labour which she was somewhat surprised, that Montoni should think necessary, particularly since he had never spoken of the castle, as of a place, at which he meant to reside for any considerable time; but she passed on towards a lofty arch, that led from the south to the east rampart, and which adjoined the castle, on one side, while, on the other, it supported a small watch-tower, that entirely commanded the deep valley below. As she approached this arch, she saw, beyond it, winding along the woody descent of a distant mountain, a long troop of horse and foot, whom she knew to be soldiers, only by the glitter of their pikes and other arms, for the distance did not allow her to discover the colour of their liveries. As she gazed, the vanguard issued from the woods into the valley, but the train still continued to pour over the remote summit of the mountain, in endless succession; while, in the front, the military uniform became distinguishable, and the commanders, riding first, and seeming, by their gestures, to direct the march of those that followed, at length, approached very near to the castle. Such a spectacle, in these solitary regions, both surprised and alarmed Madame Montoni, and she hastened towards some peasants, who were employed in raising bastions before the south rampart, where the rock was less abrupt than elsewhere. These men could give no satisfactory answers to her enquiries, but, being roused by them, gazed in stupid astonishment upon the long cavalcade. Madame Montoni, then thinking it necessary to communicate further the object of her alarm, sent Emily to say, that she wished to speak to Montoni; an errand her niece did not approve, for she dreaded his frowns, which she knew this message would provoke; but she obeyed in silence. As she drew near the apartment, in which he sat with his guests, she heard them in earnest and loud dispute, and she paused a moment, trembling at the displeasure, which her sudden interruption would occasion. In the next, their voices sunk all together; she then ventured to open the door, and, while Montoni turned hastily and looked at her, without speaking, she delivered her message. 'Tell Madam Montoni I am engaged,' said he. Emily then thought it proper to mention the subject of her alarm. Montoni and his companions rose instantly and went to the windows, but, these not affording them a view of the troops, they at length proceeded to the ramparts, where Cavigni conjectured it to be a legion of condottieri, on their march towards Modena. One part of the cavalcade now extended along the valley, and another wound among the mountains towards the north, while some troops still lingered on the woody precipices, where the first had appeared, so that the great length of the procession seemed to include an whole army. While Montoni and his family watched its progress, they heard the sound of trumpets and the clash of cymbals in the vale, and then others, answering from the heights. Emily listened with emotion to the shrill blast, that woke the echoes of the mountains, and Montoni explained the signals, with which he appeared to be well acquainted, and which meant nothing hostile. The uniforms of the troops, and the kind of arms they bore, confirmed to him the conjecture of Cavigni, and he had the satisfaction to see them pass by, without even stopping to gaze upon his castle. He did not, however, leave the rampart, till the bases of the mountains had shut them from his view, and the last murmur of the trumpet floated away on the wind. Cavigni and Verezzi were inspirited by this spectacle, which seemed to have roused all the fire of their temper; Montoni turned into the castle in thoughtful silence. Emily's mind had not yet sufficiently recovered from its late shock, to endure the loneliness of her chamber, and she remained upon the ramparts; for Madame Montoni had not invited her to her dressing-room, whither she had gone evidently in low spirits, and Emily, from her late experience, had lost all wish to explore the gloomy and mysterious recesses of the castle. The ramparts, therefore, were almost her only retreat, and here she lingered, till the gray haze of evening was again spread over the scene. The cavaliers supped by themselves, and Madame Montoni remained in her apartment, whither Emily went, before she retired to her own. She found her aunt weeping, and in much agitation. The tenderness of Emily was naturally so soothing, that it seldom failed to give comfort to the drooping heart: but Madame Montoni's was torn, and the softest accents of Emily's voice were lost upon it. With her usual delicacy, she did not appear to observe her aunt's distress, but it gave an involuntary gentleness to her manners, and an air of solicitude to her countenance, which Madame Montoni was vexed to perceive, who seemed to feel the pity of her niece to be an insult to her pride, and dismissed her as soon as she properly could. Emily did not venture to mention again the reluctance she felt to her gloomy chamber, but she requested that Annette might be permitted to remain with her till she retired to rest; and the request was somewhat reluctantly granted. Annette, however, was now with the servants, and Emily withdrew alone. With light and hasty steps she passed through the long galleries, while the feeble glimmer of the lamp she carried only shewed the gloom around her, and the passing air threatened to extinguish it. The lonely silence, that reigned in this part of the castle, awed her; now and then, indeed, she heard a faint peal of laughter rise from a remote part of the edifice, where the servants were assembled, but it was soon lost, and a kind of breathless stillness remained. As she passed the suite of rooms which she had visited in the morning, her eyes glanced fearfully on the door, and she almost fancied she heard murmuring sounds within, but she paused not a moment to enquire. Having reached her own apartment, where no blazing wood on the hearth dissipated the gloom, she sat down with a book, to enliven her attention, till Annette should come, and a fire could be kindled. She continued to read till her light was nearly expired, but Annette did not appear, and the solitude and obscurity of her chamber again affected her spirits, the more, because of its nearness to the scene of horror, that she had witnessed in the morning. Gloomy and fantastic images came to her mind. She looked fearfully towards the door of the stair-case, and then, examining whether it was still fastened, found that it was so. Unable to conquer the uneasiness she felt at the prospect of sleeping again in this remote and insecure apartment, which some person seemed to have entered during the preceding night, her impatience to see Annette, whom she had bidden to enquire concerning this circumstance, became extremely painful. She wished also to question her, as to the object, which had excited so much horror in her own mind, and which Annette on the preceding evening had appeared to be in part acquainted with, though her words were very remote from the truth, and it appeared plainly to Emily, that the girl had been purposely misled by a false report: above all she was surprised, that the door of the chamber, which contained it, should be left unguarded. Such an instance of negligence almost surpassed belief. But her light was now expiring; the faint flashes it threw upon the walls called up all the terrors of fancy, and she rose to find her way to the habitable part of the castle, before it was quite extinguished. As she opened the chamber door, she heard remote voices, and, soon after, saw a light issue upon the further end of the corridor, which Annette and another servant approached. 'I am glad you are come,' said Emily: 'what has detained you so long? Pray light me a fire immediately.' 'My lady wanted me, ma'amselle,' replied Annette in some confusion; 'I will go and get the wood.' 'No,' said Caterina, 'that is my business,' and left the room instantly, while Annette would have followed; but, being called back, she began to talk very loud, and laugh, and seemed afraid to trust a pause of silence. Caterina soon returned with the wood, and then, when the cheerful blaze once more animated the room, and this servant had withdrawn, Emily asked Annette, whether she had made the enquiry she bade her. 'Yes, ma'amselle,' said Annette, 'but not a soul knows any thing about the matter: and old Carlo--I watched him well, for they say he knows strange things--old Carlo looked so as I don't know how to tell, and he asked me again and again, if I was sure the door was ever unfastened. Lord, says I--am I sure I am alive? And as for me, ma'am, I am all astounded, as one may say, and would no more sleep in this chamber, than I would on the great cannon at the end of the east rampart.' 'And what objection have you to that cannon, more than to any of the rest?' said Emily smiling: 'the best would be rather a hard bed.' 'Yes, ma'amselle, any of them would be hard enough for that matter; but they do say, that something has been seen in the dead of night, standing beside the great cannon, as if to guard it.' 'Well! my good Annette, the people who tell such stories, are happy in having you for an auditor, for I perceive you believe them all.' 'Dear ma'amselle! I will shew you the very cannon; you can see it from these windows!' 'Well,' said Emily, 'but that does not prove, that an apparition guards it.' 'What! not if I shew you the very cannon! Dear ma'am, you will believe nothing.' 'Nothing probably upon this subject, but what I see,' said Emily.--'Well, ma'am, but you shall see it, if you will only step this way to the casement.'--Emily could not forbear laughing, and Annette looked surprised. Perceiving her extreme aptitude to credit the marvellous, Emily forbore to mention the subject she had intended, lest it should overcome her with idle terrors, and she began to speak on a lively topic--the regattas of Venice. 'Aye, ma'amselle, those rowing matches,' said Annette, 'and the fine moon-light nights, are all, that are worth seeing in Venice. To be sure the moon is brighter than any I ever saw; and then to hear such sweet music, too, as Ludovico has often and often sung under the lattice by the west portico! Ma'amselle, it was Ludovico, that told me about that picture, which you wanted so to look at last night, and---' 'What picture?' said Emily, wishing Annette to explain herself. 'O! that terrible picture with the black veil over it.' 'You never saw it, then?' said Emily. 'Who, I!--No, ma'amselle, I never did. But this morning,' continued Annette, lowering her voice, and looking round the room, 'this morning, as it was broad daylight, do you know, ma'am, I took a strange fancy to see it, as I had heard such odd hints about it, and I got as far as the door, and should have opened it, if it had not been locked!' Emily, endeavouring to conceal the emotion this circumstance occasioned, enquired at what hour she went to the chamber, and found, that it was soon after herself had been there. She also asked further questions, and the answers convinced her, that Annette, and probably her informer, were ignorant of the terrible truth, though in Annette's account something very like the truth, now and then, mingled with the falsehood. Emily now began to fear, that her visit to the chamber had been observed, since the door had been closed, so immediately after her departure; and dreaded lest this should draw upon her the vengeance of Montoni. Her anxiety, also, was excited to know whence, and for what purpose, the delusive report, which had been imposed upon Annette, had originated, since Montoni could only have wished for silence and secrecy; but she felt, that the subject was too terrible for this lonely hour, and she compelled herself to leave it, to converse with Annette, whose chat, simple as it was, she preferred to the stillness of total solitude. Thus they sat, till near midnight, but not without many hints from Annette, that she wished to go. The embers were now nearly burnt out; and Emily heard, at a distance, the thundering sound of the hall doors, as they were shut for the night. She, therefore, prepared for rest, but was still unwilling that Annette should leave her. At this instant, the great bell of the portal sounded. They listened in fearful expectation, when, after a long pause of silence, it sounded again. Soon after, they heard the noise of carriage wheels in the court-yard. Emily sunk almost lifeless in her chair; 'It is the Count,' said she. 'What, at this time of night, ma'am!' said Annette: 'no, my dear lady. But, for that matter, it is a strange time of night for any body to come!' 'Nay, pr'ythee, good Annette, stay not talking,' said Emily in a voice of agony--'Go, pr'ythee, go, and see who it is.' Annette left the room, and carried with her the light, leaving Emily in darkness, which a few moments before would have terrified her in this room, but was now scarcely observed by her. She listened and waited, in breathless expectation, and heard distant noises, but Annette did not return. Her patience, at length, exhausted, she tried to find her way to the corridor, but it was long before she could touch the door of the chamber, and, when she had opened it, the total darkness without made her fear to proceed. Voices were now heard, and Emily even thought she distinguished those of Count Morano, and Montoni. Soon after, she heard steps approaching, and then a ray of light streamed through the darkness, and Annette appeared, whom Emily went to meet. 'Yes, ma'amselle,' said she, 'you was right, it is the Count sure enough.' 'It is he!' exclaimed Emily, lifting her eyes towards heaven and supporting herself by Annette's arm. 'Good Lord! my dear lady, don't be in such a FLUSTER, and look so pale, we shall soon hear more.' 'We shall, indeed!' said Emily, moving as fast as she was able towards her apartment. 'I am not well; give me air.' Annette opened a casement, and brought water. The faintness soon left Emily, but she desired Annette would not go till she heard from Montoni. 'Dear ma'amselle! he surely will not disturb you at this time of night; why he must think you are asleep.' 'Stay with me till I am so, then,' said Emily, who felt temporary relief from this suggestion, which appeared probable enough, though her fears had prevented its occurring to her. Annette, with secret reluctance, consented to stay, and Emily was now composed enough to ask her some questions; among others, whether she had seen the Count. 'Yes, ma'am, I saw him alight, for I went from hence to the grate in the north turret, that overlooks the inner court-yard, you know. There I saw the Count's carriage, and the Count in it, waiting at the great door,--for the porter was just gone to bed--with several men on horseback all by the light of the torches they carried.' Emily was compelled to smile. 'When the door was opened, the Count said something, that I could not make out, and then got out, and another gentleman with him. I thought, to be sure, the Signor was gone to bed, and I hastened away to my lady's dressing-room, to see what I could hear. But in the way I met Ludovico, and he told me that the Signor was up, counselling with his master and the other Signors, in the room at the end of the north gallery; and Ludovico held up his finger, and laid it on his lips, as much as to say--There is more going on, than you think of, Annette, but you must hold your tongue. And so I did hold my tongue, ma'amselle, and came away to tell you directly.' Emily enquired who the cavalier was, that accompanied the Count, and how Montoni received them; but Annette could not inform her. 'Ludovico,' she added, 'had just been to call Signor Montoni's valet, that he might tell him they were arrived, when I met him.' Emily sat musing, for some time, and then her anxiety was so much increased, that she desired Annette would go to the servants' hall, where it was possible she might hear something of the Count's intention, respecting his stay at the castle. 'Yes, ma'am,' said Annette with readiness; 'but how am I to find the way, if I leave the lamp with you?' Emily said she would light her, and they immediately quitted the chamber. When they had reached the top of the great stair-case, Emily recollected, that she might be seen by the Count, and, to avoid the great hall, Annette conducted her through some private passages to a back stair-case, which led directly to that of the servants. As she returned towards her chamber, Emily began to fear, that she might again lose herself in the intricacies of the castle, and again be shocked by some mysterious spectacle; and, though she was already perplexed by the numerous turnings, she feared to open one of the many doors that offered. While she stepped thoughtfully along, she fancied, that she heard a low moaning at no great distance, and, having paused a moment, she heard it again and distinctly. Several doors appeared on the right hand of the passage. She advanced, and listened. When she came to the second, she heard a voice, apparently in complaint, within, to which she continued to listen, afraid to open the door, and unwilling to leave it. Convulsive sobs followed, and then the piercing accents of an agonizing spirit burst forth. Emily stood appalled, and looked through the gloom, that surrounded her, in fearful expectation. The lamentations continued. Pity now began to subdue terror; it was possible she might administer comfort to the sufferer, at least, by expressing sympathy, and she laid her hand on the door. While she hesitated she thought she knew this voice, disguised as it was by tones of grief. Having, therefore, set down the lamp in the passage, she gently opened the door, within which all was dark, except that from an inner apartment a partial light appeared; and she stepped softly on. Before she reached it, the appearance of Madame Montoni, leaning on her dressing-table, weeping, and with a handkerchief held to her eyes, struck her, and she paused. Some person was seated in a chair by the fire, but who it was she could not distinguish. He spoke, now and then, in a low voice, that did not allow Emily to hear what was uttered, but she thought, that Madame Montoni, at those times, wept the more, who was too much occupied by her own distress, to observe Emily, while the latter, though anxious to know what occasioned this, and who was the person admitted at so late an hour to her aunt's dressing-room, forbore to add to her sufferings by surprising her, or to take advantage of her situation, by listening to a private discourse. She, therefore, stepped softly back, and, after some further difficulty, found the way to her own chamber, where nearer interests, at length, excluded the surprise and concern she had felt, respecting Madame Montoni. Annette, however, returned without satisfactory intelligence, for the servants, among whom she had been, were either entirely ignorant, or affected to be so, concerning the Count's intended stay at the castle. They could talk only of the steep and broken road they had just passed, and of the numerous dangers they had escaped and express wonder how their lord could choose to encounter all these, in the darkness of night; for they scarcely allowed, that the torches had served for any other purpose but that of shewing the dreariness of the mountains. Annette, finding she could gain no information, left them, making noisy petitions, for more wood on the fire and more supper on the table. 'And now, ma'amselle,' added she, 'I am so sleepy!--I am sure, if you was so sleepy, you would not desire me to sit up with you.' Emily, indeed, began to think it was cruel to wish it; she had also waited so long, without receiving a summons from Montoni, that it appeared he did not mean to disturb her, at this late hour, and she determined to dismiss Annette. But, when she again looked round her gloomy chamber, and recollected certain circumstances, fear seized her spirits, and she hesitated. 'And yet it were cruel of me to ask you to stay, till I am asleep, Annette,' said she, 'for I fear it will be very long before I forget myself in sleep.' 'I dare say it will be very long, ma'amselle,' said Annette. 'But, before you go,' rejoined Emily, 'let me ask you--Had Signor Montoni left Count Morano, when you quitted the hall?' 'O no, ma'am, they were alone together.' 'Have you been in my aunt's dressing-room, since you left me?' 'No, ma'amselle, I called at the door as I passed, but it was fastened; so I thought my lady was gone to bed.' 'Who, then, was with your lady just now?' said Emily, forgetting, in surprise, her usual prudence. 'Nobody, I believe, ma'am,' replied Annette, 'nobody has been with her, I believe, since I left you.' Emily took no further notice of the subject, and, after some struggle with imaginary fears, her good nature prevailed over them so far, that she dismissed Annette for the night. She then sat, musing upon her own circumstances and those of Madame Montoni, till her eye rested on the miniature picture, which she had found, after her father's death, among the papers he had enjoined her to destroy. It was open upon the table, before her, among some loose drawings, having, with them, been taken out of a little box by Emily, some hours before. The sight of it called up many interesting reflections, but the melancholy sweetness of the countenance soothed the emotions, which these had occasioned. It was the same style of countenance as that of her late father, and, while she gazed on it with fondness on this account, she even fancied a resemblance in the features. But this tranquillity was suddenly interrupted, when she recollected the words in the manuscript, that had been found with this picture, and which had formerly occasioned her so much doubt and horror. At length, she roused herself from the deep reverie, into which this remembrance had thrown her; but, when she rose to undress, the silence and solitude, to which she was left, at this midnight hour, for not even a distant sound was now heard, conspired with the impression the subject she had been considering had given to her mind, to appall her. Annette's hints, too, concerning this chamber, simple as they were, had not failed to affect her, since they followed a circumstance of peculiar horror, which she herself had witnessed, and since the scene of this was a chamber nearly adjoining her own. The door of the stair-case was, perhaps, a subject of more reasonable alarm, and she now began to apprehend, such was the aptitude of her fears, that this stair-case had some private communication with the apartment, which she shuddered even to remember. Determined not to undress, she lay down to sleep in her clothes, with her late father's dog, the faithful MANCHON, at the foot of the bed, whom she considered as a kind of guard. Thus circumstanced, she tried to banish reflection, but her busy fancy would still hover over the subjects of her interest, and she heard the clock of the castle strike two, before she closed her eyes. From the disturbed slumber, into which she then sunk, she was soon awakened by a noise, which seemed to arise within her chamber; but the silence, that prevailed, as she fearfully listened, inclined her to believe, that she had been alarmed by such sounds as sometimes occur in dreams, and she laid her head again upon the pillow. A return of the noise again disturbed her; it seemed to come from that part of the room, which communicated with the private stair-case, and she instantly remembered the odd circumstance of the door having been fastened, during the preceding night, by some unknown hand. Her late alarming suspicion, concerning its communication, also occurred to her. Her heart became faint with terror. Half raising herself from the bed, and gently drawing aside the curtain, she looked towards the door of the stair-case, but the lamp, that burnt on the hearth, spread so feeble a light through the apartment, that the remote parts of it were lost in shadow. The noise, however, which, she was convinced, came from the door, continued. It seemed like that made by the undrawing of rusty bolts, and often ceased, and was then renewed more gently, as if the hand, that occasioned it, was restrained by a fear of discovery. While Emily kept her eyes fixed on the spot, she saw the door move, and then slowly open, and perceived something enter the room, but the extreme duskiness prevented her distinguishing what it was. Almost fainting with terror, she had yet sufficient command over herself, to check the shriek, that was escaping from her lips, and, letting the curtain drop from her hand, continued to observe in silence the motions of the mysterious form she saw. It seemed to glide along the remote obscurity of the apartment, then paused, and, as it approached the hearth, she perceived, in the stronger light, what appeared to be a human figure. Certain remembrances now struck upon her heart, and almost subdued the feeble remains of her spirits; she continued, however, to watch the figure, which remained for some time motionless, but then, advancing slowly towards the bed, stood silently at the feet, where the curtains, being a little open, allowed her still to see it; terror, however, had now deprived her of the power of discrimination, as well as of that of utterance. Having continued there a moment, the form retreated towards the hearth, when it took the lamp, held it up, surveyed the chamber, for a few moments, and then again advanced towards the bed. The light at that instant awakening the dog, that had slept at Emily's feet, he barked loudly, and, jumping to the floor, flew at the stranger, who struck the animal smartly with a sheathed sword, and, springing towards the bed, Emily discovered--Count Morano! She gazed at him for a moment in speechless affright, while he, throwing himself on his knee at the bed-side, besought her to fear nothing, and, having thrown down his sword, would have taken her hand, when the faculties, that terror had suspended, suddenly returned, and she sprung from the bed, in the dress, which surely a kind of prophetic apprehension had prevented her, on this night, from throwing aside. Morano rose, followed her to the door, through which he had entered, and caught her hand, as she reached the top of the stair-case, but not before she had discovered, by the gleam of a lamp, another man half-way down the steps. She now screamed in despair, and, believing herself given up by Montoni, saw, indeed, no possibility of escape. The Count, who still held her hand, led her back into the chamber. 'Why all this terror?' said he, in a tremulous voice. 'Hear me, Emily: I come not to alarm you; no, by Heaven! I love you too well--too well for my own peace.' Emily looked at him for a moment, in fearful doubt. 'Then leave me, sir,' said she, 'leave me instantly.' 'Hear me, Emily,' resumed Morano, 'hear me! I love, and am in despair--yes--in despair. How can I gaze upon you, and know, that it is, perhaps, for the last time, without suffering all the phrensy of despair? But it shall not be so; you shall be mine, in spite of Montoni and all his villany.' 'In spite of Montoni!' cried Emily eagerly: 'what is it I hear?' 'You hear, that Montoni is a villain,' exclaimed Morano with vehemence,--'a villain who would have sold you to my love!--Who---' 'And is he less, who would have bought me?' said Emily, fixing on the Count an eye of calm contempt. 'Leave the room, sir, instantly,' she continued in a voice, trembling between joy and fear, 'or I will alarm the family, and you may receive that from Signor Montoni's vengeance, which I have vainly supplicated from his pity.' But Emily knew, that she was beyond the hearing of those, who might protect her. 'You can never hope any thing from his pity,' said Morano, 'he has used me infamously, and my vengeance shall pursue him. And for you, Emily, for you, he has new plans more profitable than the last, no doubt.' The gleam of hope, which the Count's former speech had revived, was now nearly extinguished by the latter; and, while Emily's countenance betrayed the emotions of her mind, he endeavoured to take advantage of the discovery. 'I lose time,' said he: 'I came not to exclaim against Montoni; I came to solicit, to plead--to Emily; to tell her all I suffer, to entreat her to save me from despair, and herself from destruction. Emily! the schemes of Montoni are insearchable, but, I warn you, they are terrible; he has no principle, when interest, or ambition leads. Can I love you, and abandon you to his power? Fly, then, fly from this gloomy prison, with a lover, who adores you! I have bribed a servant of the castle to open the gates, and, before tomorrow's dawn, you shall be far on the way to Venice.' Emily, overcome by the sudden shock she had received, at the moment, too, when she had begun to hope for better days, now thought she saw destruction surround her on every side. Unable to reply, and almost to think, she threw herself into a chair, pale and breathless. That Montoni had formerly sold her to Morano, was very probable; that he had now withdrawn his consent to the marriage, was evident from the Count's present conduct; and it was nearly certain, that a scheme of stronger interest only could have induced the selfish Montoni to forego a plan, which he had hitherto so strenuously pursued. These reflections made her tremble at the hints, which Morano had just given, which she no longer hesitated to believe; and, while she shrunk from the new scenes of misery and oppression, that might await her in the castle of Udolpho, she was compelled to observe, that almost her only means of escaping them was by submitting herself to the protection of this man, with whom evils more certain and not less terrible appeared,--evils, upon which she could not endure to pause for an instant. Her silence, though it was that of agony, encouraged the hopes of Morano, who watched her countenance with impatience, took again the resisting hand she had withdrawn, and, as he pressed it to his heart, again conjured her to determine immediately. 'Every moment we lose, will make our departure more dangerous,' said he: 'these few moments lost may enable Montoni to overtake us.' 'I beseech you, sir, be silent,' said Emily faintly: 'I am indeed very wretched, and wretched I must remain. Leave me--I command you, leave me to my fate.' 'Never!' cried the Count vehemently: 'let me perish first! But forgive my violence! the thought of losing you is madness. You cannot be ignorant of Montoni's character, you may be ignorant of his schemes--nay, you must be so, or you would not hesitate between my love and his power.' 'Nor do I hesitate,' said Emily. 'Let us go, then,' said Morano, eagerly kissing her hand, and rising, 'my carriage waits, below the castle walls.' 'You mistake me, sir,' said Emily. 'Allow me to thank you for the interest you express in my welfare, and to decide by my own choice. I shall remain under the protection of Signor Montoni.' 'Under his protection!' exclaimed Morano, proudly, 'his PROTECTION! Emily, why will you suffer yourself to be thus deluded? I have already told you what you have to expect from his PROTECTION.' 'And pardon me, sir, if, in this instance, I doubt mere assertion, and, to be convinced, require something approaching to proof.' 'I have now neither the time, or the means of adducing proof,' replied the Count. 'Nor have I, sir, the inclination to listen to it, if you had.' 'But you trifle with my patience and my distress,' continued Morano. 'Is a marriage with a man, who adores you, so very terrible in your eyes, that you would prefer to it all the misery, to which Montoni may condemn you in this remote prison? Some wretch must have stolen those affections, which ought to be mine, or you would not thus obstinately persist in refusing an offer, that would place you beyond the reach of oppression.' Morano walked about the room, with quick steps, and a disturbed air. 'This discourse, Count Morano, sufficiently proves, that my affections ought not to be yours,' said Emily, mildly, 'and this conduct, that I should not be placed beyond the reach of oppression, so long as I remained in your power. If you wish me to believe otherwise, cease to oppress me any longer by your presence. If you refuse this, you will compel me to expose you to the resentment of Signor Montoni.' 'Yes, let him come,' cried Morano furiously, 'and brave MY resentment! Let him dare to face once more the man he has so courageously injured; danger shall teach him morality, and vengeance justice--let him come, and receive my sword in his heart!' The vehemence, with which this was uttered, gave Emily new cause of alarm, who arose from her chair, but her trembling frame refused to support her, and she resumed her seat;--the words died on her lips, and, when she looked wistfully towards the door of the corridor, which was locked, she considered it was impossible for her to leave the apartment, before Morano would be apprised of, and able to counteract, her intention. Without observing her agitation, he continued to pace the room in the utmost perturbation of spirits. His darkened countenance expressed all the rage of jealousy and revenge; and a person, who had seen his features under the smile of ineffable tenderness, which he so lately assumed, would now scarcely have believed them to be the same. 'Count Morano,' said Emily, at length recovering her voice, 'calm, I entreat you, these transports, and listen to reason, if you will not to pity. You have equally misplaced your love, and your hatred.--I never could have returned the affection, with which you honour me, and certainly have never encouraged it; neither has Signor Montoni injured you, for you must have known, that he had no right to dispose of my hand, had he even possessed the power to do so. Leave, then, leave the castle, while you may with safety. Spare yourself the dreadful consequences of an unjust revenge, and the remorse of having prolonged to me these moments of suffering.' 'Is it for mine, or for Montoni's safety, that you are thus alarmed?' said Morano, coldly, and turning towards her with a look of acrimony. 'For both,' replied Emily, in a trembling voice. 'Unjust revenge!' cried the Count, resuming the abrupt tones of passion. 'Who, that looks upon that face, can imagine a punishment adequate to the injury he would have done me? Yes, I will leave the castle; but it shall not be alone. I have trifled too long. Since my prayers and my sufferings cannot prevail, force shall. I have people in waiting, who shall convey you to my carriage. Your voice will bring no succour; it cannot be heard from this remote part of the castle; submit, therefore, in silence, to go with me.' This was an unnecessary injunction, at present; for Emily was too certain, that her call would avail her nothing; and terror had so entirely disordered her thoughts, that she knew not how to plead to Morano, but sat, mute and trembling, in her chair, till he advanced to lift her from it, when she suddenly raised herself, and, with a repulsive gesture, and a countenance of forced serenity, said, 'Count Morano! I am now in your power; but you will observe, that this is not the conduct which can win the esteem you appear so solicitous to obtain, and that you are preparing for yourself a load of remorse, in the miseries of a friendless orphan, which can never leave you. Do you believe your heart to be, indeed, so hardened, that you can look without emotion on the suffering, to which you would condemn me?'--- Emily was interrupted by the growling of the dog, who now came again from the bed, and Morano looked towards the door of the stair-case, where no person appearing, he called aloud, 'Cesario!' 'Emily,' said the Count, 'why will you reduce me to adopt this conduct? How much more willingly would I persuade, than compel you to become my wife! but, by Heaven! I will not leave you to be sold by Montoni. Yet a thought glances across my mind, that brings madness with it. I know not how to name it. It is preposterous--it cannot be.--Yet you tremble--you grow pale! It is! it is so;--you--you--love Montoni!' cried Morano, grasping Emily's wrist, and stamping his foot on the floor. An involuntary air of surprise appeared on her countenance. 'If you have indeed believed so,' said she, 'believe so still.' 'That look, those words confirm it,' exclaimed Morano, furiously. 'No, no, no, Montoni had a richer prize in view, than gold. But he shall not live to triumph over me!--This very instant---' He was interrupted by the loud barking of the dog. 'Stay, Count Morano,' said Emily, terrified by his words, and by the fury expressed in his eyes, 'I will save you from this error.--Of all men, Signor Montoni is not your rival; though, if I find all other means of saving myself vain, I will try whether my voice may not arouse his servants to my succour.' 'Assertion,' replied Morano, 'at such a moment, is not to be depended upon. How could I suffer myself to doubt, even for an instant, that he could see you, and not love?--But my first care shall be to convey you from the castle. Cesario! ho,--Cesario!' A man now appeared at the door of the stair-case, and other steps were heard ascending. Emily uttered a loud shriek, as Morano hurried her across the chamber, and, at the same moment, she heard a noise at the door, that opened upon the corridor. The Count paused an instant, as if his mind was suspended between love and the desire of vengeance; and, in that instant, the door gave way, and Montoni, followed by the old steward and several other persons, burst into the room. 'Draw!' cried Montoni to the Count, who did not pause for a second bidding, but, giving Emily into the hands of the people, that appeared from the stair-case, turned fiercely round. 'This in thine heart, villain!' said he, as he made a thrust at Montoni with his sword, who parried the blow, and aimed another, while some of the persons, who had followed him into the room, endeavoured to part the combatants, and others rescued Emily from the hands of Morano's servants. 'Was it for this, Count Morano,' said Montoni, in a cool sarcastic tone of voice, 'that I received you under my roof, and permitted you, though my declared enemy, to remain under it for the night? Was it, that you might repay my hospitality with the treachery of a fiend, and rob me of my niece?' 'Who talks of treachery?' said Morano, in a tone of unrestrained vehemence. 'Let him that does, shew an unblushing face of innocence. Montoni, you are a villain! If there is treachery in this affair, look to yourself as the author of it. IF--do I say? I--whom you have wronged with unexampled baseness, whom you have injured almost beyond redress! But why do I use words?--Come on, coward, and receive justice at my hands!' 'Coward!' cried Montoni, bursting from the people who held him, and rushing on the Count, when they both retreated into the corridor, where the fight continued so desperately, that none of the spectators dared approach them, Montoni swearing, that the first who interfered, should fall by his sword. Jealousy and revenge lent all their fury to Morano, while the superior skill and the temperance of Montoni enabled him to wound his adversary, whom his servants now attempted to seize, but he would not be restrained, and, regardless of his wound, continued to fight. He seemed to be insensible both of pain and loss of blood, and alive only to the energy of his passions. Montoni, on the contrary, persevered in the combat, with a fierce, yet wary, valour; he received the point of Morano's sword on his arm, but, almost in the same instant, severely wounded and disarmed him. The Count then fell back into the arms of his servant, while Montoni held his sword over him, and bade him ask his life. Morano, sinking under the anguish of his wound, had scarcely replied by a gesture, and by a few words, feebly articulated, that he would not--when he fainted; and Montoni was then going to have plunged the sword into his breast, as he lay senseless, but his arm was arrested by Cavigni. To the interruption he yielded without much difficulty, but his complexion changed almost to blackness, as he looked upon his fallen adversary, and ordered, that he should be carried instantly from the castle. In the mean time, Emily, who had been with-held from leaving the chamber during the affray, now came forward into the corridor, and pleaded a cause of common humanity, with the feelings of the warmest benevolence, when she entreated Montoni to allow Morano the assistance in the castle, which his situation required. But Montoni, who had seldom listened to pity, now seemed rapacious of vengeance, and, with a monster's cruelty, again ordered his defeated enemy to be taken from the castle, in his present state, though there were only the woods, or a solitary neighbouring cottage, to shelter him from the night. The Count's servants having declared, that they would not move him till he revived, Montoni's stood inactive, Cavigni remonstrating, and Emily, superior to Montoni's menaces, giving water to Morano, and directing the attendants to bind up his wound. At length, Montoni had leisure to feel pain from his own hurt, and he withdrew to examine it. The Count, meanwhile, having slowly recovered, the first object he saw, on raising his eyes, was Emily, bending over him with a countenance strongly expressive of solicitude. He surveyed her with a look of anguish. 'I have deserved this,' said he, 'but not from Montoni. It is from you, Emily, that I have deserved punishment, yet I receive only pity!' He paused, for he had spoken with difficulty. After a moment, he proceeded. 'I must resign you, but not to Montoni. Forgive me the sufferings I have already occasioned you! But for THAT villain--his infamy shall not go unpunished. Carry me from this place,' said he to his servants. 'I am in no condition to travel: you must, therefore, take me to the nearest cottage, for I will not pass the night under his roof, although I may expire on the way from it.' Cesario proposed to go out, and enquire for a cottage, that might receive his master, before he attempted to remove him: but Morano was impatient to be gone; the anguish of his mind seemed to be even greater than that of his wound, and he rejected, with disdain, the offer of Cavigni to entreat Montoni, that he might be suffered to pass the night in the castle. Cesario was now going to call up the carriage to the great gate, but the Count forbade him. 'I cannot bear the motion of a carriage,' said he: 'call some others of my people, that they may assist in bearing me in their arms.' At length, however, Morano submitted to reason, and consented, that Cesario should first prepare some cottage to receive him. Emily, now that he had recovered his senses, was about to withdraw from the corridor, when a message from Montoni commanded her to do so, and also that the Count, if he was not already gone, should quit the castle immediately. Indignation flashed from Morano's eyes, and flushed his cheeks. 'Tell Montoni,' said he, 'that I shall go when it suits my own convenience; that I quit the castle, he dares to call his, as I would the nest of a serpent, and that this is not the last he shall hear from me. Tell him, I will not leave ANOTHER murder on his conscience, if I can help it.' 'Count Morano! do you know what you say?' said Cavigni. 'Yes, Signor, I know well what I say, and he will understand well what I mean. His conscience will assist his understanding, on this occasion.' 'Count Morano,' said Verezzi, who had hitherto silently observed him, 'dare again to insult my friend, and I will plunge this sword in your body.' 'It would be an action worthy the friend of a villain!' said Morano, as the strong impulse of his indignation enabled him to raise himself from the arms of his servants; but the energy was momentary, and he sunk back, exhausted by the effort. Montoni's people, meanwhile, held Verezzi, who seemed inclined, even in this instant, to execute his threat; and Cavigni, who was not so depraved as to abet the cowardly malignity of Verezzi, endeavoured to withdraw him from the corridor; and Emily, whom a compassionate interest had thus long detained, was now quitting it in new terror, when the supplicating voice of Morano arrested her, and, by a feeble gesture, he beckoned her to draw nearer. She advanced with timid steps, but the fainting languor of his countenance again awakened her pity, and overcame her terror. 'I am going from hence for ever,' said he: 'perhaps, I shall never see you again. I would carry with me your forgiveness, Emily; nay more--I would also carry your good wishes.' 'You have my forgiveness, then,' said Emily, 'and my sincere wishes for your recovery.' 'And only for my recovery?' said Morano, with a sigh. 'For your general welfare,' added Emily. 'Perhaps I ought to be contented with this,' he resumed; 'I certainly have not deserved more; but I would ask you, Emily, sometimes to think of me, and, forgetting my offence, to remember only the passion which occasioned it. I would ask, alas! impossibilities: I would ask you to love me! At this moment, when I am about to part with you, and that, perhaps, for ever, I am scarcely myself. Emily--may you never know the torture of a passion like mine! What do I say? O, that, for me, you might be sensible of such a passion!' Emily looked impatient to be gone. 'I entreat you, Count, to consult your own safety,' said she, 'and linger here no longer. I tremble for the consequences of Signor Verezzi's passion, and of Montoni's resentment, should he learn that you are still here.' Morano's face was overspread with a momentary crimson, his eyes sparkled, but he seemed endeavouring to conquer his emotion, and replied in a calm voice, 'Since you are interested for my safety, I will regard it, and be gone. But, before I go, let me again hear you say, that you wish me well,' said he, fixing on her an earnest and mournful look. Emily repeated her assurances. He took her hand, which she scarcely attempted to withdraw, and put it to his lips. 'Farewell, Count Morano!' said Emily; and she turned to go, when a second message arrived from Montoni, and she again conjured Morano, as he valued his life, to quit the castle immediately. He regarded her in silence, with a look of fixed despair. But she had no time to enforce her compassionate entreaties, and, not daring to disobey the second command of Montoni, she left the corridor, to attend him. He was in the cedar parlour, that adjoined the great hall, laid upon a couch, and suffering a degree of anguish from his wound, which few persons could have disguised, as he did. His countenance, which was stern, but calm, expressed the dark passion of revenge, but no symptom of pain; bodily pain, indeed, he had always despised, and had yielded only to the strong and terrible energies of the soul. He was attended by old Carlo and by Signor Bertolini, but Madame Montoni was not with him. Emily trembled, as she approached and received his severe rebuke, for not having obeyed his first summons; and perceived, also, that he attributed her stay in the corridor to a motive, that had not even occurred to her artless mind. 'This is an instance of female caprice,' said he, 'which I ought to have foreseen. Count Morano, whose suit you obstinately rejected, so long as it was countenanced by me, you favour, it seems, since you find I have dismissed him.' Emily looked astonished. 'I do not comprehend you, sir,' said she: 'You certainly do not mean to imply, that the design of the Count to visit the double-chamber, was founded upon any approbation of mine.' 'To that I reply nothing,' said Montoni; 'but it must certainly be a more than common interest, that made you plead so warmly in his cause, and that could detain you thus long in his presence, contrary to my express order--in the presence of a man, whom you have hitherto, on all occasions, most scrupulously shunned!' 'I fear, sir, it was a more than common interest, that detained me,' said Emily calmly; 'for of late I have been inclined to think, that of compassion is an uncommon one. But how could I, could YOU, sir, witness Count Morano's deplorable condition, and not wish to relieve it?' 'You add hypocrisy to caprice,' said Montoni, frowning, 'and an attempt at satire, to both; but, before you undertake to regulate the morals of other persons, you should learn and practise the virtues, which are indispensable to a woman--sincerity, uniformity of conduct and obedience.' Emily, who had always endeavoured to regulate her conduct by the nicest laws, and whose mind was finely sensible, not only of what is just in morals, but of whatever is beautiful in the female character, was shocked by these words; yet, in the next moment, her heart swelled with the consciousness of having deserved praise, instead of censure, and she was proudly silent. Montoni, acquainted with the delicacy of her mind, knew how keenly she would feel his rebuke; but he was a stranger to the luxury of conscious worth, and, therefore, did not foresee the energy of that sentiment, which now repelled his satire. Turning to a servant who had lately entered the room, he asked whether Morano had quitted the castle. The man answered, that his servants were then removing him, on a couch, to a neighbouring cottage. Montoni seemed somewhat appeased, on hearing this; and, when Ludovico appeared, a few moments after, and said, that Morano was gone, he told Emily she might retire to her apartment. She withdrew willingly from his presence; but the thought of passing the remainder of the night in a chamber, which the door from the stair-case made liable to the intrusion of any person, now alarmed her more than ever, and she determined to call at Madame Montoni's room, and request, that Annette might be permitted to be with her. On reaching the great gallery, she heard voices seemingly in dispute, and, her spirits now apt to take alarm, she paused, but soon distinguished some words of Cavigni and Verezzi, and went towards them, in the hope of conciliating their difference. They were alone. Verezzi's face was still flushed with rage; and, as the first object of it was now removed from him, he appeared willing to transfer his resentment to Cavigni, who seemed to be expostulating, rather than disputing, with him. Verezzi was protesting, that he would instantly inform Montoni of the insult, which Morano had thrown out against him, and above all, that, wherein he had accused him of murder. 'There is no answering,' said Cavigni, 'for the words of a man in a passion; little serious regard ought to be paid to them. If you persist in your resolution, the consequences may be fatal to both. We have now more serious interests to pursue, than those of a petty revenge.' Emily joined her entreaties to Cavigni's arguments, and they, at length, prevailed so far, as that Verezzi consented to retire, without seeing Montoni. On calling at her aunt's apartment, she found it fastened. In a few minutes, however, it was opened by Madame Montoni herself. It may be remembered, that it was by a door leading into the bedroom from a back passage, that Emily had secretly entered a few hours preceding. She now conjectured, by the calmness of Madame Montoni's air, that she was not apprised of the accident, which had befallen her husband, and was beginning to inform her of it, in the tenderest manner she could, when her aunt interrupted her, by saying, she was acquainted with the whole affair. Emily knew indeed, that she had little reason to love Montoni, but could scarcely have believed her capable of such perfect apathy, as she now discovered towards him; having obtained permission, however, for Annette to sleep in her chamber, she went thither immediately. A track of blood appeared along the corridor, leading to it; and on the spot, where the Count and Montoni had fought, the whole floor was stained. Emily shuddered, and leaned on Annette, as she passed. When she reached her apartment, she instantly determined, since the door of the stair-case had been left open, and that Annette was now with her, to explore whither it led,--a circumstance now materially connected with her own safety. Annette accordingly, half curious and half afraid, proposed to descend the stairs; but, on approaching the door, they perceived, that it was already fastened without, and their care was then directed to the securing it on the inside also, by placing against it as much of the heavy furniture of the room, as they could lift. Emily then retired to bed, and Annette continued on a chair by the hearth, where some feeble embers remained. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Emily wacht voller Naturbegeisterung auf. Sie schaut aus dem Fenster, als ob sie das Königreich betrachtet: Schaut euch die Bäume an! Und die Klippen! Dann erhascht sie einen Blick auf die geheime Tür zu ihrem Zimmer. Oopsie, jemand hat sie definitiv in der Nacht abgeschlossen. Das kann nur bedeuten, dass sich jemand nur wenige Meter von ihrem Schlafplatz entfernt herumgeschlichen hat. Em versucht, Montoni auf die gruselige Tür anzusprechen, aber er verbietet ihr, das Zimmer zu wechseln. Scheint er der verständnisvolle Typ zu sein? Als sich Em in ihre Kammer zurückzieht, erzählt Annette ihr von der Ankunft von Cavigni und Verezzi, den zwielichtigen Freunden von Montoni aus der Heimat. Aber Annette ist ziemlich aufgeregt, dass Montoni einen gutaussehenden Diener namens Ludovico mitgebracht hat. Annette schaut immer auf die positive Seite. Emily hat Schwierigkeiten, einfach in ihrem Zimmer abzuhängen, weil sie sich nicht wirklich sicher fühlt. Also macht sie einen kleinen Spaziergang durch das Schloss und stößt zufällig auf das geheimnisvolle verhüllte Bild... aber sie kann sich nicht dazu bringen, es anzuschauen. Nach dem Abendessen sehen Em und ihre Tante Montoni eine Gruppe von Soldaten in der Nähe von Udolpho marschieren. Warum sind sie dort? Und warum zum Teufel marschieren sie an einem derart einsamen Ort? Montoni erzählt Emily von den zufälligen Soldaten: Es sind Kondottieri. Huh? Mit anderen Worten, diese Jungs sind Söldner. Als ob Em nicht schon genug zu befürchten hätte, als sie die vorbeimarschierenden Soldaten sieht, erhascht sie einen Blick auf Graf Morano in den Schlosshallen. Richtig, ihr ehemaliger Verlobter ist zurückgekommen, um seine Braut abzuholen. Em ist nun besorgter als je zuvor wegen der geheimen Tür zu ihrem Zimmer. Und es stellt sich heraus, dass sie Grund dazu hat, denn... Kurz nachdem sie ins Bett geht, taucht Morano über den geheimen Durchgang bei ihr auf. Em ist nicht dumm: Obwohl Montoni ihr keine Einzelheiten gibt, vermutet sie, dass er wahrscheinlich nicht will, dass sie Morano heiratet. Außerdem hat Morano einen verrückten Plan, der beinhaltet, Em zu entführen und sie sofort zu heiraten. Narrensicher, oder? Falsch, denn Montoni platzt ins Zimmer, bevor Morano seinen Plan in die Tat umsetzen kann. Es ist Zeit für ein Duell. Montoni wird ziemlich schwer am Arm verletzt, aber er besiegt Morano trotzdem. Er ist kein Inigo Montoya, aber er wird es tun. Morano wird aus Udolpho vertrieben, aber nicht bevor er seine unsterbliche Liebe zu Em erklärt. Hartnäckig ist er allemal. In der Zwischenzeit ist Montoni nicht gerade glücklich. Er glaubt, dass Em den ganzen Besuch von Graf Morano arrangiert hat. Als Em schließlich in ihr Schlafzimmer zurückkehrt, beschließt sie, den geheimen Durchgang zu erforschen. Leider hat jemand ihn abgeschlossen. Handlung vereitelt. Nach einem unglaublich furchterregenden Abend geht Em mit der treuen Annette an ihrer Seite 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. Chapter: 'Where's Oliver?' said the Jew, rising with a menacing look. 'Where's the boy?' The young thieves eyed their preceptor as if they were alarmed at his violence; and looked uneasily at each other. But they made no reply. 'What's become of the boy?' said the Jew, seizing the Dodger tightly by the collar, and threatening him with horrid imprecations. 'Speak out, or I'll throttle you!' Mr. Fagin looked so very much in earnest, that Charley Bates, who deemed it prudent in all cases to be on the safe side, and who conceived it by no means improbable that it might be his turn to be throttled second, dropped upon his knees, and raised a loud, well-sustained, and continuous roar--something between a mad bull and a speaking trumpet. 'Will you speak?' thundered the Jew: shaking the Dodger so much that his keeping in the big coat at all, seemed perfectly miraculous. 'Why, the traps have got him, and that's all about it,' said the Dodger, sullenly. 'Come, let go o' me, will you!' And, swinging himself, at one jerk, clean out of the big coat, which he left in the Jew's hands, the Dodger snatched up the toasting fork, and made a pass at the merry old gentleman's waistcoat; which, if it had taken effect, would have let a little more merriment out than could have been easily replaced. The Jew stepped back in this emergency, with more agility than could have been anticipated in a man of his apparent decrepitude; and, seizing up the pot, prepared to hurl it at his assailant's head. But Charley Bates, at this moment, calling his attention by a perfectly terrific howl, he suddenly altered its destination, and flung it full at that young gentleman. 'Why, what the blazes is in the wind now!' growled a deep voice. 'Who pitched that 'ere at me? It's well it's the beer, and not the pot, as hit me, or I'd have settled somebody. I might have know'd, as nobody but an infernal, rich, plundering, thundering old Jew could afford to throw away any drink but water--and not that, unless he done the River Company every quarter. Wot's it all about, Fagin? D--me, if my neck-handkercher an't lined with beer! Come in, you sneaking warmint; wot are you stopping outside for, as if you was ashamed of your master! Come in!' The man who growled out these words, was a stoutly-built fellow of about five-and-thirty, in a black velveteen coat, very soiled drab breeches, lace-up half boots, and grey cotton stockings which inclosed a bulky pair of legs, with large swelling calves;--the kind of legs, which in such costume, always look in an unfinished and incomplete state without a set of fetters to garnish them. He had a brown hat on his head, and a dirty belcher handkerchief round his neck: with the long frayed ends of which he smeared the beer from his face as he spoke. He disclosed, when he had done so, a broad heavy countenance with a beard of three days' growth, and two scowling eyes; one of which displayed various parti-coloured symptoms of having been recently damaged by a blow. 'Come in, d'ye hear?' growled this engaging ruffian. A white shaggy dog, with his face scratched and torn in twenty different places, skulked into the room. 'Why didn't you come in afore?' said the man. 'You're getting too proud to own me afore company, are you? Lie down!' This command was accompanied with a kick, which sent the animal to the other end of the room. He appeared well used to it, however; for he coiled himself up in a corner very quietly, without uttering a sound, and winking his very ill-looking eyes twenty times in a minute, appeared to occupy himself in taking a survey of the apartment. 'What are you up to? Ill-treating the boys, you covetous, avaricious, in-sa-ti-a-ble old fence?' said the man, seating himself deliberately. 'I wonder they don't murder you! I would if I was them. If I'd been your 'prentice, I'd have done it long ago, and--no, I couldn't have sold you afterwards, for you're fit for nothing but keeping as a curiousity of ugliness in a glass bottle, and I suppose they don't blow glass bottles large enough.' 'Hush! hush! Mr. Sikes,' said the Jew, trembling; 'don't speak so loud!' 'None of your mistering,' replied the ruffian; 'you always mean mischief when you come that. You know my name: out with it! I shan't disgrace it when the time comes.' 'Well, well, then--Bill Sikes,' said the Jew, with abject humility. 'You seem out of humour, Bill.' 'Perhaps I am,' replied Sikes; 'I should think you was rather out of sorts too, unless you mean as little harm when you throw pewter pots about, as you do when you blab and--' 'Are you mad?' said the Jew, catching the man by the sleeve, and pointing towards the boys. Mr. Sikes contented himself with tying an imaginary knot under his left ear, and jerking his head over on the right shoulder; a piece of dumb show which the Jew appeared to understand perfectly. He then, in cant terms, with which his whole conversation was plentifully besprinkled, but which would be quite unintelligible if they were recorded here, demanded a glass of liquor. 'And mind you don't poison it,' said Mr. Sikes, laying his hat upon the table. This was said in jest; but if the speaker could have seen the evil leer with which the Jew bit his pale lip as he turned round to the cupboard, he might have thought the caution not wholly unnecessary, or the wish (at all events) to improve upon the distiller's ingenuity not very far from the old gentleman's merry heart. After swallowing two of three glasses of spirits, Mr. Sikes condescended to take some notice of the young gentlemen; which gracious act led to a conversation, in which the cause and manner of Oliver's capture were circumstantially detailed, with such alterations and improvements on the truth, as to the Dodger appeared most advisable under the circumstances. 'I'm afraid,' said the Jew, 'that he may say something which will get us into trouble.' 'That's very likely,' returned Sikes with a malicious grin. 'You're blowed upon, Fagin.' 'And I'm afraid, you see,' added the Jew, speaking as if he had not noticed the interruption; and regarding the other closely as he did so,--'I'm afraid that, if the game was up with us, it might be up with a good many more, and that it would come out rather worse for you than it would for me, my dear.' The man started, and turned round upon the Jew. But the old gentleman's shoulders were shrugged up to his ears; and his eyes were vacantly staring on the opposite wall. There was a long pause. Every member of the respectable coterie appeared plunged in his own reflections; not excepting the dog, who by a certain malicious licking of his lips seemed to be meditating an attack upon the legs of the first gentleman or lady he might encounter in the streets when he went out. 'Somebody must find out wot's been done at the office,' said Mr. Sikes in a much lower tone than he had taken since he came in. The Jew nodded assent. 'If he hasn't peached, and is committed, there's no fear till he comes out again,' said Mr. Sikes, 'and then he must be taken care on. You must get hold of him somehow.' Again the Jew nodded. The prudence of this line of action, indeed, was obvious; but, unfortunately, there was one very strong objection to its being adopted. This was, that the Dodger, and Charley Bates, and Fagin, and Mr. William Sikes, happened, one and all, to entertain a violent and deeply-rooted antipathy to going near a police-office on any ground or pretext whatever. How long they might have sat and looked at each other, in a state of uncertainty not the most pleasant of its kind, it is difficult to guess. It is not necessary to make any guesses on the subject, however; for the sudden entrance of the two young ladies whom Oliver had seen on a former occasion, caused the conversation to flow afresh. 'The very thing!' said the Jew. 'Bet will go; won't you, my dear?' 'Wheres?' inquired the young lady. 'Only just up to the office, my dear,' said the Jew coaxingly. It is due to the young lady to say that she did not positively affirm that she would not, but that she merely expressed an emphatic and earnest desire to be 'blessed' if she would; a polite and delicate evasion of the request, which shows the young lady to have been possessed of that natural good breeding which cannot bear to inflict upon a fellow-creature, the pain of a direct and pointed refusal. The Jew's countenance fell. He turned from this young lady, who was gaily, not to say gorgeously attired, in a red gown, green boots, and yellow curl-papers, to the other female. 'Nancy, my dear,' said the Jew in a soothing manner, 'what do YOU say?' 'That it won't do; so it's no use a-trying it on, Fagin,' replied Nancy. 'What do you mean by that?' said Mr. Sikes, looking up in a surly manner. 'What I say, Bill,' replied the lady collectedly. 'Why, you're just the very person for it,' reasoned Mr. Sikes: 'nobody about here knows anything of you.' 'And as I don't want 'em to, neither,' replied Nancy in the same composed manner, 'it's rather more no than yes with me, Bill.' 'She'll go, Fagin,' said Sikes. 'No, she won't, Fagin,' said Nancy. 'Yes, she will, Fagin,' said Sikes. And Mr. Sikes was right. By dint of alternate threats, promises, and bribes, the lady in question was ultimately prevailed upon to undertake the commission. She was not, indeed, withheld by the same considerations as her agreeable friend; for, having recently removed into the neighborhood of Field Lane from the remote but genteel suburb of Ratcliffe, she was not under the same apprehension of being recognised by any of her numerous acquaintances. Accordingly, with a clean white apron tied over her gown, and her curl-papers tucked up under a straw bonnet,--both articles of dress being provided from the Jew's inexhaustible stock,--Miss Nancy prepared to issue forth on her errand. 'Stop a minute, my dear,' said the Jew, producing, a little covered basket. 'Carry that in one hand. It looks more respectable, my dear.' 'Give her a door-key to carry in her t'other one, Fagin,' said Sikes; 'it looks real and genivine like.' 'Yes, yes, my dear, so it does,' said the Jew, hanging a large street-door key on the forefinger of the young lady's right hand. 'There; very good! Very good indeed, my dear!' said the Jew, rubbing his hands. 'Oh, my brother! My poor, dear, sweet, innocent little brother!' exclaimed Nancy, bursting into tears, and wringing the little basket and the street-door key in an agony of distress. 'What has become of him! Where have they taken him to! Oh, do have pity, and tell me what's been done with the dear boy, gentlemen; do, gentlemen, if you please, gentlemen!' Having uttered those words in a most lamentable and heart-broken tone: to the immeasurable delight of her hearers: Miss Nancy paused, winked to the company, nodded smilingly round, and disappeared. 'Ah, she's a clever girl, my dears,' said the Jew, turning round to his young friends, and shaking his head gravely, as if in mute admonition to them to follow the bright example they had just beheld. 'She's a honour to her sex,' said Mr. Sikes, filling his glass, and smiting the table with his enormous fist. 'Here's her health, and wishing they was all like her!' While these, and many other encomiums, were being passed on the accomplished Nancy, that young lady made the best of her way to the police-office; whither, notwithstanding a little natural timidity consequent upon walking through the streets alone and unprotected, she arrived in perfect safety shortly afterwards. Entering by the back way, she tapped softly with the key at one of the cell-doors, and listened. There was no sound within: so she coughed and listened again. Still there was no reply: so she spoke. 'Nolly, dear?' murmured Nancy in a gentle voice; 'Nolly?' There was nobody inside but a miserable shoeless criminal, who had been taken up for playing the flute, and who, the offence against society having been clearly proved, had been very properly committed by Mr. Fang to the House of Correction for one month; with the appropriate and amusing remark that since he had so much breath to spare, it would be more wholesomely expended on the treadmill than in a musical instrument. He made no answer: being occupied mentally bewailing the loss of the flute, which had been confiscated for the use of the county: so Nancy passed on to the next cell, and knocked there. 'Well!' cried a faint and feeble voice. 'Is there a little boy here?' inquired Nancy, with a preliminary sob. 'No,' replied the voice; 'God forbid.' This was a vagrant of sixty-five, who was going to prison for _not_ playing the flute; or, in other words, for begging in the streets, and doing nothing for his livelihood. In the next cell was another man, who was going to the same prison for hawking tin saucepans without license; thereby doing something for his living, in defiance of the Stamp-office. But, as neither of these criminals answered to the name of Oliver, or knew anything about him, Nancy made straight up to the bluff officer in the striped waistcoat; and with the most piteous wailings and lamentations, rendered more piteous by a prompt and efficient use of the street-door key and the little basket, demanded her own dear brother. 'I haven't got him, my dear,' said the old man. 'Where is he?' screamed Nancy, in a distracted manner. 'Why, the gentleman's got him,' replied the officer. 'What gentleman! Oh, gracious heavens! What gentleman?' exclaimed Nancy. In reply to this incoherent questioning, the old man informed the deeply affected sister that Oliver had been taken ill in the office, and discharged in consequence of a witness having proved the robbery to have been committed by another boy, not in custody; and that the prosecutor had carried him away, in an insensible condition, to his own residence: of and concerning which, all the informant knew was, that it was somewhere in Pentonville, he having heard that word mentioned in the directions to the coachman. In a dreadful state of doubt and uncertainty, the agonised young woman staggered to the gate, and then, exchanging her faltering walk for a swift run, returned by the most devious and complicated route she could think of, to the domicile of the Jew. Mr. Bill Sikes no sooner heard the account of the expedition delivered, than he very hastily called up the white dog, and, putting on his hat, expeditiously departed: without devoting any time to the formality of wishing the company good-morning. 'We must know where he is, my dears; he must be found,' said the Jew greatly excited. 'Charley, do nothing but skulk about, till you bring home some news of him! Nancy, my dear, I must have him found. I trust to you, my dear,--to you and the Artful for everything! Stay, stay,' added the Jew, unlocking a drawer with a shaking hand; 'there's money, my dears. I shall shut up this shop to-night. You'll know where to find me! Don't stop here a minute. Not an instant, my dears!' With these words, he pushed them from the room: and carefully double-locking and barring the door behind them, drew from its place of concealment the box which he had unintentionally disclosed to Oliver. Then, he hastily proceeded to dispose the watches and jewellery beneath his clothing. A rap at the door startled him in this occupation. 'Who's there?' he cried in a shrill tone. 'Me!' replied the voice of the Dodger, through the key-hole. 'What now?' cried the Jew impatiently. 'Is he to be kidnapped to the other ken, Nancy says?' inquired the Dodger. 'Yes,' replied the Jew, 'wherever she lays hands on him. Find him, find him out, that's all. I shall know what to do next; never fear.' Der Junge murmelte eine intelligente Antwort und eilte die Treppe hinunter zu seinen Gefährten. "Bis jetzt hat er noch nicht geplaudert", sagte der Jude, während er seine Beschäftigung fortsetzte. "Wenn er vorhat, uns bei seinen neuen Freunden zu verraten, können wir ihm noch den Mund stopfen." Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Fagin schreit die Jungen an, bis sie ihm die Geschichte von Oliver erzählen, der erwischt wurde. Das bringt Fagin noch mehr in Rage und er fängt an, auf die Jungen einzuschlagen. Diese revanchieren sich ihrerseits und gerade als ein voller Kampf auszubrechen droht, kommt Mr. Sikes mit seinem großen weißen Hund herein. Der Jude hört dann auf, die Kinder zu schlagen, und versucht, ihn zu begrüßen. Sie setzen sich mit einem Getränk hin und besprechen die Lage von Oliver. Sie beschließen, dass jemand ins Gefängnis gehen muss, um herauszufinden, was mit ihm passiert ist. Nancy und Betty kamen erneut herüber und schließlich drohen und bestechen sie Nancy, zum Polizeirevier zu gehen und herauszufinden, was mit Oliver passiert ist. Als sie ankommt, erfährt sie, dass sie Oliver freigelassen haben, und sie eilt zurück, um es Fagin und Mr. Sikes zu erzählen. Sie beschließen, ihn so schnell wie möglich zu finden und zu entführen, damit er ihre Geheimnisse nicht preisgibt.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: 1 THE THREE PRESENTS OF D'ARTAGNAN THE ELDER On the first Monday of the month of April, 1625, the market town of Meung, in which the author of ROMANCE OF THE ROSE was born, appeared to be in as perfect a state of revolution as if the Huguenots had just made a second La Rochelle of it. Many citizens, seeing the women flying toward the High Street, leaving their children crying at the open doors, hastened to don the cuirass, and supporting their somewhat uncertain courage with a musket or a partisan, directed their steps toward the hostelry of the Jolly Miller, before which was gathered, increasing every minute, a compact group, vociferous and full of curiosity. In those times panics were common, and few days passed without some city or other registering in its archives an event of this kind. There were nobles, who made war against each other; there was the king, who made war against the cardinal; there was Spain, which made war against the king. Then, in addition to these concealed or public, secret or open wars, there were robbers, mendicants, Huguenots, wolves, and scoundrels, who made war upon everybody. The citizens always took up arms readily against thieves, wolves or scoundrels, often against nobles or Huguenots, sometimes against the king, but never against the cardinal or Spain. It resulted, then, from this habit that on the said first Monday of April, 1625, the citizens, on hearing the clamor, and seeing neither the red-and-yellow standard nor the livery of the Duc de Richelieu, rushed toward the hostel of the Jolly Miller. When arrived there, the cause of the hubbub was apparent to all. A young man--we can sketch his portrait at a dash. Imagine to yourself a Don Quixote of eighteen; a Don Quixote without his corselet, without his coat of mail, without his cuisses; a Don Quixote clothed in a woolen doublet, the blue color of which had faded into a nameless shade between lees of wine and a heavenly azure; face long and brown; high cheek bones, a sign of sagacity; the maxillary muscles enormously developed, an infallible sign by which a Gascon may always be detected, even without his cap--and our young man wore a cap set off with a sort of feather; the eye open and intelligent; the nose hooked, but finely chiseled. Too big for a youth, too small for a grown man, an experienced eye might have taken him for a farmer's son upon a journey had it not been for the long sword which, dangling from a leather baldric, hit against the calves of its owner as he walked, and against the rough side of his steed when he was on horseback. For our young man had a steed which was the observed of all observers. It was a Bearn pony, from twelve to fourteen years old, yellow in his hide, without a hair in his tail, but not without windgalls on his legs, which, though going with his head lower than his knees, rendering a martingale quite unnecessary, contrived nevertheless to perform his eight leagues a day. Unfortunately, the qualities of this horse were so well concealed under his strange-colored hide and his unaccountable gait, that at a time when everybody was a connoisseur in horseflesh, the appearance of the aforesaid pony at Meung--which place he had entered about a quarter of an hour before, by the gate of Beaugency--produced an unfavorable feeling, which extended to his rider. And this feeling had been more painfully perceived by young d'Artagnan--for so was the Don Quixote of this second Rosinante named--from his not being able to conceal from himself the ridiculous appearance that such a steed gave him, good horseman as he was. He had sighed deeply, therefore, when accepting the gift of the pony from M. d'Artagnan the elder. He was not ignorant that such a beast was worth at least twenty livres; and the words which had accompanied the present were above all price. "My son," said the old Gascon gentleman, in that pure Bearn PATOIS of which Henry IV could never rid himself, "this horse was born in the house of your father about thirteen years ago, and has remained in it ever since, which ought to make you love it. Never sell it; allow it to die tranquilly and honorably of old age, and if you make a campaign with it, take as much care of it as you would of an old servant. At court, provided you have ever the honor to go there," continued M. d'Artagnan the elder, "--an honor to which, remember, your ancient nobility gives you the right--sustain worthily your name of gentleman, which has been worthily borne by your ancestors for five hundred years, both for your own sake and the sake of those who belong to you. By the latter I mean your relatives and friends. Endure nothing from anyone except Monsieur the Cardinal and the king. It is by his courage, please observe, by his courage alone, that a gentleman can make his way nowadays. Whoever hesitates for a second perhaps allows the bait to escape which during that exact second fortune held out to him. You are young. You ought to be brave for two reasons: the first is that you are a Gascon, and the second is that you are my son. Never fear quarrels, but seek adventures. I have taught you how to handle a sword; you have thews of iron, a wrist of steel. Fight on all occasions. Fight the more for duels being forbidden, since consequently there is twice as much courage in fighting. I have nothing to give you, my son, but fifteen crowns, my horse, and the counsels you have just heard. Your mother will add to them a recipe for a certain balsam, which she had from a Bohemian and which has the miraculous virtue of curing all wounds that do not reach the heart. Take advantage of all, and live happily and long. I have but one word to add, and that is to propose an example to you--not mine, for I myself have never appeared at court, and have only taken part in religious wars as a volunteer; I speak of Monsieur de Treville, who was formerly my neighbor, and who had the honor to be, as a child, the play-fellow of our king, Louis XIII, whom God preserve! Sometimes their play degenerated into battles, and in these battles the king was not always the stronger. The blows which he received increased greatly his esteem and friendship for Monsieur de Treville. Afterward, Monsieur de Treville fought with others: in his first journey to Paris, five times; from the death of the late king till the young one came of age, without reckoning wars and sieges, seven times; and from that date up to the present day, a hundred times, perhaps! So that in spite of edicts, ordinances, and decrees, there he is, captain of the Musketeers; that is to say, chief of a legion of Caesars, whom the king holds in great esteem and whom the cardinal dreads--he who dreads nothing, as it is said. Still further, Monsieur de Treville gains ten thousand crowns a year; he is therefore a great noble. He began as you begin. Go to him with this letter, and make him your model in order that you may do as he has done." Upon which M. d'Artagnan the elder girded his own sword round his son, kissed him tenderly on both cheeks, and gave him his benediction. On leaving the paternal chamber, the young man found his mother, who was waiting for him with the famous recipe of which the counsels we have just repeated would necessitate frequent employment. The adieux were on this side longer and more tender than they had been on the other--not that M. d'Artagnan did not love his son, who was his only offspring, but M. d'Artagnan was a man, and he would have considered it unworthy of a man to give way to his feelings; whereas Mme. d'Artagnan was a woman, and still more, a mother. She wept abundantly; and--let us speak it to the praise of M. d'Artagnan the younger--notwithstanding the efforts he made to remain firm, as a future Musketeer ought, nature prevailed, and he shed many tears, of which he succeeded with great difficulty in concealing the half. The same day the young man set forward on his journey, furnished with the three paternal gifts, which consisted, as we have said, of fifteen crowns, the horse, and the letter for M. de Treville--the counsels being thrown into the bargain. With such a VADE MECUM d'Artagnan was morally and physically an exact copy of the hero of Cervantes, to whom we so happily compared him when our duty of an historian placed us under the necessity of sketching his portrait. Don Quixote took windmills for giants, and sheep for armies; d'Artagnan took every smile for an insult, and every look as a provocation--whence it resulted that from Tarbes to Meung his fist was constantly doubled, or his hand on the hilt of his sword; and yet the fist did not descend upon any jaw, nor did the sword issue from its scabbard. It was not that the sight of the wretched pony did not excite numerous smiles on the countenances of passers-by; but as against the side of this pony rattled a sword of respectable length, and as over this sword gleamed an eye rather ferocious than haughty, these passers-by repressed their hilarity, or if hilarity prevailed over prudence, they endeavored to laugh only on one side, like the masks of the ancients. D'Artagnan, then, remained majestic and intact in his susceptibility, till he came to this unlucky city of Meung. But there, as he was alighting from his horse at the gate of the Jolly Miller, without anyone--host, waiter, or hostler--coming to hold his stirrup or take his horse, d'Artagnan spied, though an open window on the ground floor, a gentleman, well-made and of good carriage, although of rather a stern countenance, talking with two persons who appeared to listen to him with respect. D'Artagnan fancied quite naturally, according to his custom, that he must be the object of their conversation, and listened. This time d'Artagnan was only in part mistaken; he himself was not in question, but his horse was. The gentleman appeared to be enumerating all his qualities to his auditors; and, as I have said, the auditors seeming to have great deference for the narrator, they every moment burst into fits of laughter. Now, as a half-smile was sufficient to awaken the irascibility of the young man, the effect produced upon him by this vociferous mirth may be easily imagined. Nevertheless, d'Artagnan was desirous of examining the appearance of this impertinent personage who ridiculed him. He fixed his haughty eye upon the stranger, and perceived a man of from forty to forty-five years of age, with black and piercing eyes, pale complexion, a strongly marked nose, and a black and well-shaped mustache. He was dressed in a doublet and hose of a violet color, with aiguillettes of the same color, without any other ornaments than the customary slashes, through which the shirt appeared. This doublet and hose, though new, were creased, like traveling clothes for a long time packed in a portmanteau. D'Artagnan made all these remarks with the rapidity of a most minute observer, and doubtless from an instinctive feeling that this stranger was destined to have a great influence over his future life. Now, as at the moment in which d'Artagnan fixed his eyes upon the gentleman in the violet doublet, the gentleman made one of his most knowing and profound remarks respecting the Bearnese pony, his two auditors laughed even louder than before, and he himself, though contrary to his custom, allowed a pale smile (if I may be allowed to use such an expression) to stray over his countenance. This time there could be no doubt; d'Artagnan was really insulted. Full, then, of this conviction, he pulled his cap down over his eyes, and endeavoring to copy some of the court airs he had picked up in Gascony among young traveling nobles, he advanced with one hand on the hilt of his sword and the other resting on his hip. Unfortunately, as he advanced, his anger increased at every step; and instead of the proper and lofty speech he had prepared as a prelude to his challenge, he found nothing at the tip of his tongue but a gross personality, which he accompanied with a furious gesture. "I say, sir, you sir, who are hiding yourself behind that shutter--yes, you, sir, tell me what you are laughing at, and we will laugh together!" The gentleman raised his eyes slowly from the nag to his cavalier, as if he required some time to ascertain whether it could be to him that such strange reproaches were addressed; then, when he could not possibly entertain any doubt of the matter, his eyebrows slightly bent, and with an accent of irony and insolence impossible to be described, he replied to d'Artagnan, "I was not speaking to you, sir." "But I am speaking to you!" replied the young man, additionally exasperated with this mixture of insolence and good manners, of politeness and scorn. The stranger looked at him again with a slight smile, and retiring from the window, came out of the hostelry with a slow step, and placed himself before the horse, within two paces of d'Artagnan. His quiet manner and the ironical expression of his countenance redoubled the mirth of the persons with whom he had been talking, and who still remained at the window. D'Artagnan, seeing him approach, drew his sword a foot out of the scabbard. "This horse is decidedly, or rather has been in his youth, a buttercup," resumed the stranger, continuing the remarks he had begun, and addressing himself to his auditors at the window, without paying the least attention to the exasperation of d'Artagnan, who, however, placed himself between him and them. "It is a color very well known in botany, but till the present time very rare among horses." "There are people who laugh at the horse that would not dare to laugh at the master," cried the young emulator of the furious Treville. "I do not often laugh, sir," replied the stranger, "as you may perceive by the expression of my countenance; but nevertheless I retain the privilege of laughing when I please." "And I," cried d'Artagnan, "will allow no man to laugh when it displeases me!" "Indeed, sir," continued the stranger, more calm than ever; "well, that is perfectly right!" and turning on his heel, was about to re-enter the hostelry by the front gate, beneath which d'Artagnan on arriving had observed a saddled horse. But, d'Artagnan was not of a character to allow a man to escape him thus who had the insolence to ridicule him. He drew his sword entirely from the scabbard, and followed him, crying, "Turn, turn, Master Joker, lest I strike you behind!" "Strike me!" said the other, turning on his heels, and surveying the young man with as much astonishment as contempt. "Why, my good fellow, you must be mad!" Then, in a suppressed tone, as if speaking to himself, "This is annoying," continued he. "What a godsend this would be for his Majesty, who is seeking everywhere for brave fellows to recruit for his Musketeers!" He had scarcely finished, when d'Artagnan made such a furious lunge at him that if he had not sprung nimbly backward, it is probable he would have jested for the last time. The stranger, then perceiving that the matter went beyond raillery, drew his sword, saluted his adversary, and seriously placed himself on guard. But at the same moment, his two auditors, accompanied by the host, fell upon d'Artagnan with sticks, shovels and tongs. This caused so rapid and complete a diversion from the attack that d'Artagnan's adversary, while the latter turned round to face this shower of blows, sheathed his sword with the same precision, and instead of an actor, which he had nearly been, became a spectator of the fight--a part in which he acquitted himself with his usual impassiveness, muttering, nevertheless, "A plague upon these Gascons! Replace him on his orange horse, and let him begone!" "Not before I have killed you, poltroon!" cried d'Artagnan, making the best face possible, and never retreating one step before his three assailants, who continued to shower blows upon him. "Another gasconade!" murmured the gentleman. "By my honor, these Gascons are incorrigible! Keep up the dance, then, since he will have it so. When he is tired, he will perhaps tell us that he has had enough of it." But the stranger knew not the headstrong personage he had to do with; d'Artagnan was not the man ever to cry for quarter. The fight was therefore prolonged for some seconds; but at length d'Artagnan dropped his sword, which was broken in two pieces by the blow of a stick. Another blow full upon his forehead at the same moment brought him to the ground, covered with blood and almost fainting. It was at this moment that people came flocking to the scene of action from all sides. The host, fearful of consequences, with the help of his servants carried the wounded man into the kitchen, where some trifling attentions were bestowed upon him. As to the gentleman, he resumed his place at the window, and surveyed the crowd with a certain impatience, evidently annoyed by their remaining undispersed. "Well, how is it with this madman?" exclaimed he, turning round as the noise of the door announced the entrance of the host, who came in to inquire if he was unhurt. "Your excellency is safe and sound?" asked the host. "Oh, yes! Perfectly safe and sound, my good host; and I wish to know what has become of our young man." "He is better," said the host, "he fainted quite away." "Indeed!" said the gentleman. "But before he fainted, he collected all his strength to challenge you, and to defy you while challenging you." "Why, this fellow must be the devil in person!" cried the stranger. "Oh, no, your Excellency, he is not the devil," replied the host, with a grin of contempt; "for during his fainting we rummaged his valise and found nothing but a clean shirt and eleven crowns--which however, did not prevent his saying, as he was fainting, that if such a thing had happened in Paris, you should have cause to repent of it at a later period." "Then," said the stranger coolly, "he must be some prince in disguise." "I have told you this, good sir," resumed the host, "in order that you may be on your guard." "Did he name no one in his passion?" "Yes; he struck his pocket and said, 'We shall see what Monsieur de Treville will think of this insult offered to his protege.'" "Monsieur de Treville?" said the stranger, becoming attentive, "he put his hand upon his pocket while pronouncing the name of Monsieur de Treville? Now, my dear host, while your young man was insensible, you did not fail, I am quite sure, to ascertain what that pocket contained. What was there in it?" "A letter addressed to Monsieur de Treville, captain of the Musketeers." "Indeed!" "Exactly as I have the honor to tell your Excellency." The host, who was not endowed with great perspicacity, did not observe the expression which his words had given to the physiognomy of the stranger. The latter rose from the front of the window, upon the sill of which he had leaned with his elbow, and knitted his brow like a man disquieted. "The devil!" murmured he, between his teeth. "Can Treville have set this Gascon upon me? He is very young; but a sword thrust is a sword thrust, whatever be the age of him who gives it, and a youth is less to be suspected than an older man," and the stranger fell into a reverie which lasted some minutes. "A weak obstacle is sometimes sufficient to overthrow a great design. "Host," said he, "could you not contrive to get rid of this frantic boy for me? In conscience, I cannot kill him; and yet," added he, with a coldly menacing expression, "he annoys me. Where is he?" "In my wife's chamber, on the first flight, where they are dressing his wounds." "His things and his bag are with him? Has he taken off his doublet?" "On the contrary, everything is in the kitchen. But if he annoys you, this young fool--" "To be sure he does. He causes a disturbance in your hostelry, which respectable people cannot put up with. Go; make out my bill and notify my servant." "What, monsieur, will you leave us so soon?" "You know that very well, as I gave my order to saddle my horse. Have they not obeyed me?" "It is done; as your Excellency may have observed, your horse is in the great gateway, ready saddled for your departure." "That is well; do as I have directed you, then." "What the devil!" said the host to himself. "Can he be afraid of this boy?" But an imperious glance from the stranger stopped him short; he bowed humbly and retired. "It is not necessary for Milady* to be seen by this fellow," continued the stranger. "She will soon pass; she is already late. I had better get on horseback, and go and meet her. I should like, however, to know what this letter addressed to Treville contains." _*We are well aware that this term, milady, is only properly used when followed by a family name. But we find it thus in the manuscript, and we do not choose to take upon ourselves to alter it._ And the stranger, muttering to himself, directed his steps toward the kitchen. In the meantime, the host, who entertained no doubt that it was the presence of the young man that drove the stranger from his hostelry, re-ascended to his wife's chamber, and found d'Artagnan just recovering his senses. Giving him to understand that the police would deal with him pretty severely for having sought a quarrel with a great lord--for in the opinion of the host the stranger could be nothing less than a great lord--he insisted that notwithstanding his weakness d'Artagnan should get up and depart as quickly as possible. D'Artagnan, half stupefied, without his doublet, and with his head bound up in a linen cloth, arose then, and urged by the host, began to descend the stairs; but on arriving at the kitchen, the first thing he saw was his antagonist talking calmly at the step of a heavy carriage, drawn by two large Norman horses. His interlocutor, whose head appeared through the carriage window, was a woman of from twenty to two-and-twenty years. We have already observed with what rapidity d'Artagnan seized the expression of a countenance. He perceived then, at a glance, that this woman was young and beautiful; and her style of beauty struck him more forcibly from its being totally different from that of the southern countries in which d'Artagnan had hitherto resided. She was pale and fair, with long curls falling in profusion over her shoulders, had large, blue, languishing eyes, rosy lips, and hands of alabaster. She was talking with great animation with the stranger. "His Eminence, then, orders me--" said the lady. "To return instantly to England, and to inform him as soon as the duke leaves London." "And as to my other instructions?" asked the fair traveler. "They are contained in this box, which you will not open until you are on the other side of the Channel." "Very well; and you--what will you do?" "I--I return to Paris." "What, without chastising this insolent boy?" asked the lady. The stranger was about to reply; but at the moment he opened his mouth, d'Artagnan, who had heard all, precipitated himself over the threshold of the door. "This insolent boy chastises others," cried he; "and I hope that this time he whom he ought to chastise will not escape him as before." "Will not escape him?" replied the stranger, knitting his brow. "No; before a woman you would dare not fly, I presume?" "Remember," said Milady, seeing the stranger lay his hand on his sword, "the least delay may ruin everything." "You are right," cried the gentleman; "begone then, on your part, and I will depart as quickly on mine." And bowing to the lady, he sprang into his saddle, while her coachman applied his whip vigorously to his horses. The two interlocutors thus separated, taking opposite directions, at full gallop. "Pay him, booby!" cried the stranger to his servant, without checking the speed of his horse; and the man, after throwing two or three silver pieces at the foot of mine host, galloped after his master. "Base coward! false gentleman!" cried d'Artagnan, springing forward, in his turn, after the servant. But his wound had rendered him too weak to support such an exertion. Scarcely had he gone ten steps when his ears began to tingle, a faintness seized him, a cloud of blood passed over his eyes, and he fell in the middle of the street, crying still, "Coward! coward! coward!" "He is a coward, indeed," grumbled the host, drawing near to d'Artagnan, and endeavoring by this little flattery to make up matters with the young man, as the heron of the fable did with the snail he had despised the evening before. "Yes, a base coward," murmured d'Artagnan; "but she--she was very beautiful." "What she?" demanded the host. "Milady," faltered d'Artagnan, and fainted a second time. "Ah, it's all one," said the host; "I have lost two customers, but this one remains, of whom I am pretty certain for some days to come. There will be eleven crowns gained." It is to be remembered that eleven crowns was just the sum that remained in d'Artagnan's purse. The host had reckoned upon eleven days of confinement at a crown a day, but he had reckoned without his guest. On the following morning at five o'clock d'Artagnan arose, and descending to the kitchen without help, asked, among other ingredients the list of which has not come down to us, for some oil, some wine, and some rosemary, and with his mother's recipe in his hand composed a balsam, with which he anointed his numerous wounds, replacing his bandages himself, and positively refusing the assistance of any doctor, d'Artagnan walked about that same evening, and was almost cured by the morrow. But when the time came to pay for his rosemary, this oil, and the wine, the only expense the master had incurred, as he had preserved a strict abstinence--while on the contrary, the yellow horse, by the account of the hostler at least, had eaten three times as much as a horse of his size could reasonably be supposed to have done--d'Artagnan found nothing in his pocket but his little old velvet purse with the eleven crowns it contained; for as to the letter addressed to M. de Treville, it had disappeared. The young man commenced his search for the letter with the greatest patience, turning out his pockets of all kinds over and over again, rummaging and rerummaging in his valise, and opening and reopening his purse; but when he found that he had come to the conviction that the letter was not to be found, he flew, for the third time, into such a rage as was near costing him a fresh consumption of wine, oil, and rosemary--for upon seeing this hot-headed youth become exasperated and threaten to destroy everything in the establishment if his letter were not found, the host seized a spit, his wife a broom handle, and the servants the same sticks they had used the day before. "My letter of recommendation!" cried d'Artagnan, "my letter of recommendation! or, the holy blood, I will spit you all like ortolans!" Unfortunately, there was one circumstance which created a powerful obstacle to the accomplishment of this threat; which was, as we have related, that his sword had been in his first conflict broken in two, and which he had entirely forgotten. Hence, it resulted when d'Artagnan proceeded to draw his sword in earnest, he found himself purely and simply armed with a stump of a sword about eight or ten inches in length, which the host had carefully placed in the scabbard. As to the rest of the blade, the master had slyly put that on one side to make himself a larding pin. But this deception would probably not have stopped our fiery young man if the host had not reflected that the reclamation which his guest made was perfectly just. "But, after all," said he, lowering the point of his spit, "where is this letter?" "Yes, where is this letter?" cried d'Artagnan. "In the first place, I warn you that that letter is for Monsieur de Treville, and it must be found, or if it is not found, he will know how to find it." His threat completed the intimidation of the host. After the king and the cardinal, M. de Treville was the man whose name was perhaps most frequently repeated by the military, and even by citizens. There was, to be sure, Father Joseph, but his name was never pronounced but with a subdued voice, such was the terror inspired by his Gray Eminence, as the cardinal's familiar was called. Throwing down his spit, and ordering his wife to do the same with her broom handle, and the servants with their sticks, he set the first example of commencing an earnest search for the lost letter. "Does the letter contain anything valuable?" demanded the host, after a few minutes of useless investigation. "Zounds! I think it does indeed!" cried the Gascon, who reckoned upon this letter for making his way at court. "It contained my fortune!" "Bills upon Spain?" asked the disturbed host. "Bills upon his Majesty's private treasury," answered d'Artagnan, who, reckoning upon entering into the king's service in consequence of this recommendation, believed he could make this somewhat hazardous reply without telling of a falsehood. "The devil!" cried the host, at his wit's end. "But it's of no importance," continued d'Artagnan, with natural assurance; "it's of no importance. The money is nothing; that letter was everything. I would rather have lost a thousand pistoles than have lost it." He would not have risked more if he had said twenty thousand; but a certain juvenile modesty restrained him. A ray of light all at once broke upon the mind of the host as he was giving himself to the devil upon finding nothing. "That letter is not lost!" cried he. "What!" cried d'Artagnan. "No, it has been stolen from you." "Stolen? By whom?" "By the gentleman who was here yesterday. He came down into the kitchen, where your doublet was. He remained there some time alone. I would lay a wager he has stolen it." "Do you think so?" answered d'Artagnan, but little convinced, as he knew better than anyone else how entirely personal the value of this letter was, and saw nothing in it likely to tempt cupidity. The fact was that none of his servants, none of the travelers present, could have gained anything by being possessed of this paper. "Do you say," resumed d'Artagnan, "that you suspect that impertinent gentleman?" "I tell you I am sure of it," continued the host. "When I informed him that your lordship was the protege of Monsieur de Treville, and that you even had a letter for that illustrious gentleman, he appeared to be very much disturbed, and asked me where that letter was, and immediately came down into the kitchen, where he knew your doublet was." "Then that's my thief," replied d'Artagnan. "I will complain to Monsieur de Treville, and Monsieur de Treville will complain to the king." He then drew two crowns majestically from his purse and gave them to the host, who accompanied him, cap in hand, to the gate, and remounted his yellow horse, which bore him without any further accident to the gate of St. Antoine at Paris, where his owner sold him for three crowns, which was a very good price, considering that d'Artagnan had ridden him hard during the last stage. Thus the dealer to whom d'Artagnan sold him for the nine livres did not conceal from the young man that he only gave that enormous sum for him on the account of the originality of his color. Thus d'Artagnan entered Paris on foot, carrying his little packet under his arm, and walked about till he found an apartment to be let on terms suited to the scantiness of his means. This chamber was a sort of garret, situated in the Rue des Fossoyeurs, near the Luxembourg. As soon as the earnest money was paid, d'Artagnan took possession of his lodging, and passed the remainder of the day in sewing onto his doublet and hose some ornamental braiding which his mother had taken off an almost-new doublet of the elder M. d'Artagnan, and which she had given her son secretly. Next he went to the Quai de Feraille to have a new blade put to his sword, and then returned toward the Louvre, inquiring of the first Musketeer he met for the situation of the hotel of M. de Treville, which proved to be in the Rue du Vieux-Colombier; that is to say, in the immediate vicinity of the chamber hired by d'Artagnan--a circumstance which appeared to furnish a happy augury for the success of his journey. After this, satisfied with the way in which he had conducted himself at Meung, without remorse for the past, confident in the present, and full of hope for the future, he retired to bed and slept the sleep of the brave. Dieser Schlaf, so provinziell er auch war, brachte ihn bis neun Uhr morgens; zu dieser Stunde stand er auf, um sich zur Residenz von M. de Treville, der dritten Persönlichkeit im Königreich, in der väterlichen Einschätzung zu begeben. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Im Jahr 1625, in Gascony, einer Provinz in Frankreich, verabschiedet sich ein junger Mann namens d'Artagnan von seinem Vater, um nach Paris zu reisen, wo er den angesehenen Monsieur de Treville aufsuchen wird, den Kapitän der Musketiere des Königs und einen Jugendfreund von d'Artagnans Vater. D'Artagnans Vater hat nur drei Geschenke, die er seinem Sohn geben kann: fünfzehn Écus in Geld, ein lächerlich aussehendes, etwa dreizehn Jahre altes Pferd und einen Empfehlungsbrief an Monsieur de Treville. Wenn es d'Artagnan gelingt, Treville davon zu überzeugen, ihn zum Musketier zu machen, glaubt er, dass er sein Glück gemacht hat, denn die Musketiere sind eine privilegierte Gruppe von Schwertkämpfern, die vom König hoch geschätzt werden. Nach einem sentimentalen Abschied von seiner Mutter begibt sich d'Artagnan auf seine Reise nach Paris. Er kommt in der Marktgemeinde Meung an, wo er einen unbekannten Adligen sieht, der er glaubt, dass er über ihn lacht, oder zumindest über sein Pferd. D'Artagnans impulsive Temperament veranlasst ihn, den Adligen zu beleidigen und einen Streit mit ihm anzufangen. D'Artagnan ist jedoch in der Unterzahl, und bald darauf wird er bewusstlos in die Kneipe getragen. Nachdem er vom Wirt erfahren hat, dass d'Artagnan einen Brief an den mächtigen Monsieur de Treville hat, stiehlt der Adlige ihn aus d'Artagnans Wams. Als d'Artagnan wieder zu sich kommt, geht er hinunter, um zu sehen, wie der Adlige mit jemandem spricht, den er als "Milady" anspricht. Später entdeckt d'Artagnan, dass sein Empfehlungsschreiben an Treville fehlt, und nachdem er den Wirt und seine Bediensteten bedroht hat, erfährt er, dass der mysteriöse Adlige seine Sachen durchsucht und offensichtlich den wertvollen Empfehlungsbrief gestohlen hat. D'Artagnan macht sich auf den Weg und als er in Paris ankommt, mietet er sich ein Zimmer, das er in der Nähe des Hauses von Monsieur de Treville entdeckt.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: But the privations, or rather the hardships, of Lowood lessened. Spring drew on: she was indeed already come; the frosts of winter had ceased; its snows were melted, its cutting winds ameliorated. My wretched feet, flayed and swollen to lameness by the sharp air of January, began to heal and subside under the gentler breathings of April; the nights and mornings no longer by their Canadian temperature froze the very blood in our veins; we could now endure the play-hour passed in the garden: sometimes on a sunny day it began even to be pleasant and genial, and a greenness grew over those brown beds, which, freshening daily, suggested the thought that Hope traversed them at night, and left each morning brighter traces of her steps. Flowers peeped out amongst the leaves; snow-drops, crocuses, purple auriculas, and golden-eyed pansies. On Thursday afternoons (half-holidays) we now took walks, and found still sweeter flowers opening by the wayside, under the hedges. I discovered, too, that a great pleasure, an enjoyment which the horizon only bounded, lay all outside the high and spike-guarded walls of our garden: this pleasure consisted in prospect of noble summits girdling a great hill-hollow, rich in verdure and shadow; in a bright beck, full of dark stones and sparkling eddies. How different had this scene looked when I viewed it laid out beneath the iron sky of winter, stiffened in frost, shrouded with snow!--when mists as chill as death wandered to the impulse of east winds along those purple peaks, and rolled down "ing" and holm till they blended with the frozen fog of the beck! That beck itself was then a torrent, turbid and curbless: it tore asunder the wood, and sent a raving sound through the air, often thickened with wild rain or whirling sleet; and for the forest on its banks, _that_ showed only ranks of skeletons. April advanced to May: a bright serene May it was; days of blue sky, placid sunshine, and soft western or southern gales filled up its duration. And now vegetation matured with vigour; Lowood shook loose its tresses; it became all green, all flowery; its great elm, ash, and oak skeletons were restored to majestic life; woodland plants sprang up profusely in its recesses; unnumbered varieties of moss filled its hollows, and it made a strange ground-sunshine out of the wealth of its wild primrose plants: I have seen their pale gold gleam in overshadowed spots like scatterings of the sweetest lustre. All this I enjoyed often and fully, free, unwatched, and almost alone: for this unwonted liberty and pleasure there was a cause, to which it now becomes my task to advert. Have I not described a pleasant site for a dwelling, when I speak of it as bosomed in hill and wood, and rising from the verge of a stream? Assuredly, pleasant enough: but whether healthy or not is another question. That forest-dell, where Lowood lay, was the cradle of fog and fog-bred pestilence; which, quickening with the quickening spring, crept into the Orphan Asylum, breathed typhus through its crowded schoolroom and dormitory, and, ere May arrived, transformed the seminary into an hospital. Semi-starvation and neglected colds had predisposed most of the pupils to receive infection: forty-five out of the eighty girls lay ill at one time. Classes were broken up, rules relaxed. The few who continued well were allowed almost unlimited license; because the medical attendant insisted on the necessity of frequent exercise to keep them in health: and had it been otherwise, no one had leisure to watch or restrain them. Miss Temple's whole attention was absorbed by the patients: she lived in the sick-room, never quitting it except to snatch a few hours' rest at night. The teachers were fully occupied with packing up and making other necessary preparations for the departure of those girls who were fortunate enough to have friends and relations able and willing to remove them from the seat of contagion. Many, already smitten, went home only to die: some died at the school, and were buried quietly and quickly, the nature of the malady forbidding delay. While disease had thus become an inhabitant of Lowood, and death its frequent visitor; while there was gloom and fear within its walls; while its rooms and passages steamed with hospital smells, the drug and the pastille striving vainly to overcome the effluvia of mortality, that bright May shone unclouded over the bold hills and beautiful woodland out of doors. Its garden, too, glowed with flowers: hollyhocks had sprung up tall as trees, lilies had opened, tulips and roses were in bloom; the borders of the little beds were gay with pink thrift and crimson double daisies; the sweetbriars gave out, morning and evening, their scent of spice and apples; and these fragrant treasures were all useless for most of the inmates of Lowood, except to furnish now and then a handful of herbs and blossoms to put in a coffin. But I, and the rest who continued well, enjoyed fully the beauties of the scene and season; they let us ramble in the wood, like gipsies, from morning till night; we did what we liked, went where we liked: we lived better too. Mr. Brocklehurst and his family never came near Lowood now: household matters were not scrutinised into; the cross housekeeper was gone, driven away by the fear of infection; her successor, who had been matron at the Lowton Dispensary, unused to the ways of her new abode, provided with comparative liberality. Besides, there were fewer to feed; the sick could eat little; our breakfast-basins were better filled; when there was no time to prepare a regular dinner, which often happened, she would give us a large piece of cold pie, or a thick slice of bread and cheese, and this we carried away with us to the wood, where we each chose the spot we liked best, and dined sumptuously. My favourite seat was a smooth and broad stone, rising white and dry from the very middle of the beck, and only to be got at by wading through the water; a feat I accomplished barefoot. The stone was just broad enough to accommodate, comfortably, another girl and me, at that time my chosen comrade--one Mary Ann Wilson; a shrewd, observant personage, whose society I took pleasure in, partly because she was witty and original, and partly because she had a manner which set me at my ease. Some years older than I, she knew more of the world, and could tell me many things I liked to hear: with her my curiosity found gratification: to my faults also she gave ample indulgence, never imposing curb or rein on anything I said. She had a turn for narrative, I for analysis; she liked to inform, I to question; so we got on swimmingly together, deriving much entertainment, if not much improvement, from our mutual intercourse. And where, meantime, was Helen Burns? Why did I not spend these sweet days of liberty with her? Had I forgotten her? or was I so worthless as to have grown tired of her pure society? Surely the Mary Ann Wilson I have mentioned was inferior to my first acquaintance: she could only tell me amusing stories, and reciprocate any racy and pungent gossip I chose to indulge in; while, if I have spoken truth of Helen, she was qualified to give those who enjoyed the privilege of her converse a taste of far higher things. True, reader; and I knew and felt this: and though I am a defective being, with many faults and few redeeming points, yet I never tired of Helen Burns; nor ever ceased to cherish for her a sentiment of attachment, as strong, tender, and respectful as any that ever animated my heart. How could it be otherwise, when Helen, at all times and under all circumstances, evinced for me a quiet and faithful friendship, which ill-humour never soured, nor irritation never troubled? But Helen was ill at present: for some weeks she had been removed from my sight to I knew not what room upstairs. She was not, I was told, in the hospital portion of the house with the fever patients; for her complaint was consumption, not typhus: and by consumption I, in my ignorance, understood something mild, which time and care would be sure to alleviate. I was confirmed in this idea by the fact of her once or twice coming downstairs on very warm sunny afternoons, and being taken by Miss Temple into the garden; but, on these occasions, I was not allowed to go and speak to her; I only saw her from the schoolroom window, and then not distinctly; for she was much wrapped up, and sat at a distance under the verandah. One evening, in the beginning of June, I had stayed out very late with Mary Ann in the wood; we had, as usual, separated ourselves from the others, and had wandered far; so far that we lost our way, and had to ask it at a lonely cottage, where a man and woman lived, who looked after a herd of half-wild swine that fed on the mast in the wood. When we got back, it was after moonrise: a pony, which we knew to be the surgeon's, was standing at the garden door. Mary Ann remarked that she supposed some one must be very ill, as Mr. Bates had been sent for at that time of the evening. She went into the house; I stayed behind a few minutes to plant in my garden a handful of roots I had dug up in the forest, and which I feared would wither if I left them till the morning. This done, I lingered yet a little longer: the flowers smelt so sweet as the dew fell; it was such a pleasant evening, so serene, so warm; the still glowing west promised so fairly another fine day on the morrow; the moon rose with such majesty in the grave east. I was noting these things and enjoying them as a child might, when it entered my mind as it had never done before:-- "How sad to be lying now on a sick bed, and to be in danger of dying! This world is pleasant--it would be dreary to be called from it, and to have to go who knows where?" And then my mind made its first earnest effort to comprehend what had been infused into it concerning heaven and hell; and for the first time it recoiled, baffled; and for the first time glancing behind, on each side, and before it, it saw all round an unfathomed gulf: it felt the one point where it stood--the present; all the rest was formless cloud and vacant depth; and it shuddered at the thought of tottering, and plunging amid that chaos. While pondering this new idea, I heard the front door open; Mr. Bates came out, and with him was a nurse. After she had seen him mount his horse and depart, she was about to close the door, but I ran up to her. "How is Helen Burns?" "Very poorly," was the answer. "Is it her Mr. Bates has been to see?" "Yes." "And what does he say about her?" "He says she'll not be here long." This phrase, uttered in my hearing yesterday, would have only conveyed the notion that she was about to be removed to Northumberland, to her own home. I should not have suspected that it meant she was dying; but I knew instantly now! It opened clear on my comprehension that Helen Burns was numbering her last days in this world, and that she was going to be taken to the region of spirits, if such region there were. I experienced a shock of horror, then a strong thrill of grief, then a desire--a necessity to see her; and I asked in what room she lay. "She is in Miss Temple's room," said the nurse. "May I go up and speak to her?" "Oh no, child! It is not likely; and now it is time for you to come in; you'll catch the fever if you stop out when the dew is falling." The nurse closed the front door; I went in by the side entrance which led to the schoolroom: I was just in time; it was nine o'clock, and Miss Miller was calling the pupils to go to bed. It might be two hours later, probably near eleven, when I--not having been able to fall asleep, and deeming, from the perfect silence of the dormitory, that my companions were all wrapt in profound repose--rose softly, put on my frock over my night-dress, and, without shoes, crept from the apartment, and set off in quest of Miss Temple's room. It was quite at the other end of the house; but I knew my way; and the light of the unclouded summer moon, entering here and there at passage windows, enabled me to find it without difficulty. An odour of camphor and burnt vinegar warned me when I came near the fever room: and I passed its door quickly, fearful lest the nurse who sat up all night should hear me. I dreaded being discovered and sent back; for I _must_ see Helen,--I must embrace her before she died,--I must give her one last kiss, exchange with her one last word. Having descended a staircase, traversed a portion of the house below, and succeeded in opening and shutting, without noise, two doors, I reached another flight of steps; these I mounted, and then just opposite to me was Miss Temple's room. A light shone through the keyhole and from under the door; a profound stillness pervaded the vicinity. Coming near, I found the door slightly ajar; probably to admit some fresh air into the close abode of sickness. Indisposed to hesitate, and full of impatient impulses--soul and senses quivering with keen throes--I put it back and looked in. My eye sought Helen, and feared to find death. Close by Miss Temple's bed, and half covered with its white curtains, there stood a little crib. I saw the outline of a form under the clothes, but the face was hid by the hangings: the nurse I had spoken to in the garden sat in an easy-chair asleep; an unsnuffed candle burnt dimly on the table. Miss Temple was not to be seen: I knew afterwards that she had been called to a delirious patient in the fever-room. I advanced; then paused by the crib side: my hand was on the curtain, but I preferred speaking before I withdrew it. I still recoiled at the dread of seeing a corpse. "Helen!" I whispered softly, "are you awake?" She stirred herself, put back the curtain, and I saw her face, pale, wasted, but quite composed: she looked so little changed that my fear was instantly dissipated. "Can it be you, Jane?" she asked, in her own gentle voice. "Oh!" I thought, "she is not going to die; they are mistaken: she could not speak and look so calmly if she were." I got on to her crib and kissed her: her forehead was cold, and her cheek both cold and thin, and so were her hand and wrist; but she smiled as of old. "Why are you come here, Jane? It is past eleven o'clock: I heard it strike some minutes since." "I came to see you, Helen: I heard you were very ill, and I could not sleep till I had spoken to you." "You came to bid me good-bye, then: you are just in time probably." "Are you going somewhere, Helen? Are you going home?" "Yes; to my long home--my last home." "No, no, Helen!" I stopped, distressed. While I tried to devour my tears, a fit of coughing seized Helen; it did not, however, wake the nurse; when it was over, she lay some minutes exhausted; then she whispered-- "Jane, your little feet are bare; lie down and cover yourself with my quilt." I did so: she put her arm over me, and I nestled close to her. After a long silence, she resumed, still whispering-- "I am very happy, Jane; and when you hear that I am dead, you must be sure and not grieve: there is nothing to grieve about. We all must die one day, and the illness which is removing me is not painful; it is gentle and gradual: my mind is at rest. I leave no one to regret me much: I have only a father; and he is lately married, and will not miss me. By dying young, I shall escape great sufferings. I had not qualities or talents to make my way very well in the world: I should have been continually at fault." "But where are you going to, Helen? Can you see? Do you know?" "I believe; I have faith: I am going to God." "Where is God? What is God?" "My Maker and yours, who will never destroy what He created. I rely implicitly on His power, and confide wholly in His goodness: I count the hours till that eventful one arrives which shall restore me to Him, reveal Him to me." "You are sure, then, Helen, that there is such a place as heaven, and that our souls can get to it when we die?" "I am sure there is a future state; I believe God is good; I can resign my immortal part to Him without any misgiving. God is my father; God is my friend: I love Him; I believe He loves me." "And shall I see you again, Helen, when I die?" "You will come to the same region of happiness: be received by the same mighty, universal Parent, no doubt, dear Jane." Again I questioned, but this time only in thought. "Where is that region? Does it exist?" And I clasped my arms closer round Helen; she seemed dearer to me than ever; I felt as if I could not let her go; I lay with my face hidden on her neck. Presently she said, in the sweetest tone-- "How comfortable I am! That last fit of coughing has tired me a little; I feel as if I could sleep: but don't leave me, Jane; I like to have you near me." "I'll stay with you, _dear_ Helen: no one shall take me away." "Are you warm, darling?" "Yes." "Good-night, Jane." "Good-night, Helen." She kissed me, and I her, and we both soon slumbered. When I awoke it was day: an unusual movement roused me; I looked up; I was in somebody's arms; the nurse held me; she was carrying me through the passage back to the dormitory. I was not reprimanded for leaving my bed; people had something else to think about; no explanation was afforded then to my many questions; but a day or two afterwards I learned that Miss Temple, on returning to her own room at dawn, had found me laid in the little crib; my face against Helen Burns's shoulder, my arms round her neck. I was asleep, and Helen was--dead. Her grave is in Brocklebridge churchyard: for fifteen years after her death it was only covered by a grassy mound; but now a grey marble tablet marks the spot, inscribed with her name, and the word "Resurgam." Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Der Frühling kommt nach Lowood und die Entbehrungen werden weniger. Mit dem neuen Wachstum kommt Hoffnung. Jane entdeckt die Schönheit der natürlichen Welt um Lowood herum, eine Schönheit, die durch den Frost des Winters verdeckt war. Aber in diesem Vergnügen liegt auch Schmerz. Die Waldsenke, die die Schule nährt, das "niedrige Holz", bringt auch eine von Feuchtigkeit gezüchtete Seuche mit sich - Typhus. In Kombination mit halbem Verhungern und vernachlässigten Erkältungen verursacht die Feuchtigkeit, dass 45 der 80 Schüler an dieser gefährlichen Krankheit erkranken. Die wenigen, die gesund sind, einschließlich Jane, dürfen ohne Aufsicht draußen spielen. Jane bemerkt den Kontrast zwischen dem Tod in der Schule und der Schönheit des Mays vor ihren Türen. Während Jane die Schönheit der Natur mit ihrer neuen Freundin Mary Ann Wilson genießt, stirbt Helen Burns langsam, nicht an Typhus, sondern an Schwindsucht. Jane erkennt nicht die Ernsthaftigkeit dieser Krankheit, bis sie von der Krankenschwester erfährt, dass Helen bald sterben wird. Jane fühlt, dass sie Helen ein letztes Mal umarmen muss, bevor sie stirbt, und schleicht sich in Miss Temples Zimmer, wo Helen während ihrer Krankheit gewesen ist. Während des letzten Gesprächs der beiden Freundinnen besteht Helen darauf, glücklich zu sein, weil sie großes Leiden entgeht, indem sie jung stirbt. Helen stirbt in Janes Armen, während die beiden Mädchen schlafen. Fünfzehn Jahre später markiert Jane Helens Grab mit einer grauen Marmortafel mit der Aufschrift "Resurgam".

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: Monsieur Leon, while studying law, had gone pretty often to the dancing-rooms, where he was even a great success amongst the grisettes, who thought he had a distinguished air. He was the best-mannered of the students; he wore his hair neither too long nor too short, didn't spend all his quarter's money on the first day of the month, and kept on good terms with his professors. As for excesses, he had always abstained from them, as much from cowardice as from refinement. Often when he stayed in his room to read, or else when sitting of an evening under the lime-trees of the Luxembourg, he let his Code fall to the ground, and the memory of Emma came back to him. But gradually this feeling grew weaker, and other desires gathered over it, although it still persisted through them all. For Leon did not lose all hope; there was for him, as it were, a vague promise floating in the future, like a golden fruit suspended from some fantastic tree. Then, seeing her again after three years of absence his passion reawakened. He must, he thought, at last make up his mind to possess her. Moreover, his timidity had worn off by contact with his gay companions, and he returned to the provinces despising everyone who had not with varnished shoes trodden the asphalt of the boulevards. By the side of a Parisienne in her laces, in the drawing-room of some illustrious physician, a person driving his carriage and wearing many orders, the poor clerk would no doubt have trembled like a child; but here, at Rouen, on the harbour, with the wife of this small doctor he felt at his ease, sure beforehand he would shine. Self-possession depends on its environment. We don't speak on the first floor as on the fourth; and the wealthy woman seems to have, about her, to guard her virtue, all her banknotes, like a cuirass in the lining of her corset. On leaving the Bovarys the night before, Leon had followed them through the streets at a distance; then having seen them stop at the "Croix-Rouge," he turned on his heel, and spent the night meditating a plan. So the next day about five o'clock he walked into the kitchen of the inn, with a choking sensation in his throat, pale cheeks, and that resolution of cowards that stops at nothing. "The gentleman isn't in," answered a servant. This seemed to him a good omen. He went upstairs. She was not disturbed at his approach; on the contrary, she apologised for having neglected to tell him where they were staying. "Oh, I divined it!" said Leon. He pretended he had been guided towards her by chance, by, instinct. She began to smile; and at once, to repair his folly, Leon told her that he had spent his morning in looking for her in all the hotels in the town one after the other. "So you have made up your mind to stay?" he added. "Yes," she said, "and I am wrong. One ought not to accustom oneself to impossible pleasures when there are a thousand demands upon one." "Oh, I can imagine!" "Ah! no; for you, you are a man!" But men too had had their trials, and the conversation went off into certain philosophical reflections. Emma expatiated much on the misery of earthly affections, and the eternal isolation in which the heart remains entombed. To show off, or from a naive imitation of this melancholy which called forth his, the young man declared that he had been awfully bored during the whole course of his studies. The law irritated him, other vocations attracted him, and his mother never ceased worrying him in every one of her letters. As they talked they explained more and more fully the motives of their sadness, working themselves up in their progressive confidence. But they sometimes stopped short of the complete exposition of their thought, and then sought to invent a phrase that might express it all the same. She did not confess her passion for another; he did not say that he had forgotten her. Perhaps he no longer remembered his suppers with girls after masked balls; and no doubt she did not recollect the rendezvous of old when she ran across the fields in the morning to her lover's house. The noises of the town hardly reached them, and the room seemed small, as if on purpose to hem in their solitude more closely. Emma, in a dimity dressing-gown, leant her head against the back of the old arm-chair; the yellow wall-paper formed, as it were, a golden background behind her, and her bare head was mirrored in the glass with the white parting in the middle, and the tip of her ears peeping out from the folds of her hair. "But pardon me!" she said. "It is wrong of me. I weary you with my eternal complaints." "No, never, never!" "If you knew," she went on, raising to the ceiling her beautiful eyes, in which a tear was trembling, "all that I had dreamed!" "And I! Oh, I too have suffered! Often I went out; I went away. I dragged myself along the quays, seeking distraction amid the din of the crowd without being able to banish the heaviness that weighed upon me. In an engraver's shop on the boulevard there is an Italian print of one of the Muses. She is draped in a tunic, and she is looking at the moon, with forget-me-nots in her flowing hair. Something drove me there continually; I stayed there hours together." Then in a trembling voice, "She resembled you a little." Madame Bovary turned away her head that he might not see the irrepressible smile she felt rising to her lips. "Often," he went on, "I wrote you letters that I tore up." She did not answer. He continued-- "I sometimes fancied that some chance would bring you. I thought I recognised you at street-corners, and I ran after all the carriages through whose windows I saw a shawl fluttering, a veil like yours." She seemed resolved to let him go on speaking without interruption. Crossing her arms and bending down her face, she looked at the rosettes on her slippers, and at intervals made little movements inside the satin of them with her toes. At last she sighed. "But the most wretched thing, is it not--is to drag out, as I do, a useless existence. If our pains were only of some use to someone, we should find consolation in the thought of the sacrifice." He started off in praise of virtue, duty, and silent immolation, having himself an incredible longing for self-sacrifice that he could not satisfy. "I should much like," she said, "to be a nurse at a hospital." "Alas! men have none of these holy missions, and I see nowhere any calling--unless perhaps that of a doctor." With a slight shrug of her shoulders, Emma interrupted him to speak of her illness, which had almost killed her. What a pity! She should not be suffering now! Leon at once envied the calm of the tomb, and one evening he had even made his will, asking to be buried in that beautiful rug with velvet stripes he had received from her. For this was how they would have wished to be, each setting up an ideal to which they were now adapting their past life. Besides, speech is a rolling-mill that always thins out the sentiment. But at this invention of the rug she asked, "But why?" "Why?" He hesitated. "Because I loved you so!" And congratulating himself at having surmounted the difficulty, Leon watched her face out of the corner of his eyes. It was like the sky when a gust of wind drives the clouds across. The mass of sad thoughts that darkened them seemed to be lifted from her blue eyes; her whole face shone. He waited. At last she replied-- "I always suspected it." Then they went over all the trifling events of that far-off existence, whose joys and sorrows they had just summed up in one word. They recalled the arbour with clematis, the dresses she had worn, the furniture of her room, the whole of her house. "And our poor cactuses, where are they?" "The cold killed them this winter." "Ah! how I have thought of them, do you know? I often saw them again as of yore, when on the summer mornings the sun beat down upon your blinds, and I saw your two bare arms passing out amongst the flowers." "Poor friend!" she said, holding out her hand to him. Leon swiftly pressed his lips to it. Then, when he had taken a deep breath-- "At that time you were to me I know not what incomprehensible force that took captive my life. Once, for instance, I went to see you; but you, no doubt, do not remember it." "I do," she said; "go on." "You were downstairs in the ante-room, ready to go out, standing on the last stair; you were wearing a bonnet with small blue flowers; and without any invitation from you, in spite of myself, I went with you. Every moment, however, I grew more and more conscious of my folly, and I went on walking by you, not daring to follow you completely, and unwilling to leave you. When you went into a shop, I waited in the street, and I watched you through the window taking off your gloves and counting the change on the counter. Then you rang at Madame Tuvache's; you were let in, and I stood like an idiot in front of the great heavy door that had closed after you." Madame Bovary, as she listened to him, wondered that she was so old. All these things reappearing before her seemed to widen out her life; it was like some sentimental immensity to which she returned; and from time to time she said in a low voice, her eyes half closed-- "Yes, it is true--true--true!" They heard eight strike on the different clocks of the Beauvoisine quarter, which is full of schools, churches, and large empty hotels. They no longer spoke, but they felt as they looked upon each other a buzzing in their heads, as if something sonorous had escaped from the fixed eyes of each of them. They were hand in hand now, and the past, the future, reminiscences and dreams, all were confounded in the sweetness of this ecstasy. Night was darkening over the walls, on which still shone, half hidden in the shade, the coarse colours of four bills representing four scenes from the "Tour de Nesle," with a motto in Spanish and French at the bottom. Through the sash-window a patch of dark sky was seen between the pointed roofs. She rose to light two wax-candles on the drawers, then she sat down again. "Well!" said Leon. "Well!" she replied. He was thinking how to resume the interrupted conversation, when she said to him-- "How is it that no one until now has ever expressed such sentiments to me?" The clerk said that ideal natures were difficult to understand. He from the first moment had loved her, and he despaired when he thought of the happiness that would have been theirs, if thanks to fortune, meeting her earlier, they had been indissolubly bound to one another. "I have sometimes thought of it," she went on. "What a dream!" murmured Leon. And fingering gently the blue binding of her long white sash, he added, "And who prevents us from beginning now?" "No, my friend," she replied; "I am too old; you are too young. Forget me! Others will love you; you will love them." "Not as you!" he cried. "What a child you are! Come, let us be sensible. I wish it." She showed him the impossibility of their love, and that they must remain, as formerly, on the simple terms of a fraternal friendship. Was she speaking thus seriously? No doubt Emma did not herself know, quite absorbed as she was by the charm of the seduction, and the necessity of defending herself from it; and contemplating the young man with a moved look, she gently repulsed the timid caresses that his trembling hands attempted. "Ah! forgive me!" he cried, drawing back. Emma was seized with a vague fear at this shyness, more dangerous to her than the boldness of Rodolphe when he advanced to her open-armed. No man had ever seemed to her so beautiful. An exquisite candour emanated from his being. He lowered his long fine eyelashes, that curled upwards. His cheek, with the soft skin reddened, she thought, with desire of her person, and Emma felt an invincible longing to press her lips to it. Then, leaning towards the clock as if to see the time-- "Ah! how late it is!" she said; "how we do chatter!" He understood the hint and took up his hat. "It has even made me forget the theatre. And poor Bovary has left me here especially for that. Monsieur Lormeaux, of the Rue Grand-Pont, was to take me and his wife." And the opportunity was lost, as she was to leave the next day. "Really!" said Leon. "Yes." "But I must see you again," he went on. "I wanted to tell you--" "What?" "Something--important--serious. Oh, no! Besides, you will not go; it is impossible. If you should--listen to me. Then you have not understood me; you have not guessed--" "Yet you speak plainly," said Emma. "Ah! you can jest. Enough! enough! Oh, for pity's sake, let me see you once--only once!" "Well--" She stopped; then, as if thinking better of it, "Oh, not here!" "Where you will." "Will you--" She seemed to reflect; then abruptly, "To-morrow at eleven o'clock in the cathedral." "I shall be there," he cried, seizing her hands, which she disengaged. And as they were both standing up, he behind her, and Emma with her head bent, he stooped over her and pressed long kisses on her neck. "You are mad! Ah! you are mad!" she said, with sounding little laughs, while the kisses multiplied. Then bending his head over her shoulder, he seemed to beg the consent of her eyes. They fell upon him full of an icy dignity. Leon stepped back to go out. He stopped on the threshold; then he whispered with a trembling voice, "Tomorrow!" She answered with a nod, and disappeared like a bird into the next room. In the evening Emma wrote the clerk an interminable letter, in which she cancelled the rendezvous; all was over; they must not, for the sake of their happiness, meet again. But when the letter was finished, as she did not know Leon's address, she was puzzled. "I'll give it to him myself," she said; "he will come." The next morning, at the open window, and humming on his balcony, Leon himself varnished his pumps with several coatings. He put on white trousers, fine socks, a green coat, emptied all the scent he had into his handkerchief, then having had his hair curled, he uncurled it again, in order to give it a more natural elegance. "It is still too early," he thought, looking at the hairdresser's cuckoo-clock, that pointed to the hour of nine. He read an old fashion journal, went out, smoked a cigar, walked up three streets, thought it was time, and went slowly towards the porch of Notre Dame. It was a beautiful summer morning. Silver plate sparkled in the jeweller's windows, and the light falling obliquely on the cathedral made mirrors of the corners of the grey stones; a flock of birds fluttered in the grey sky round the trefoil bell-turrets; the square, resounding with cries, was fragrant with the flowers that bordered its pavement, roses, jasmines, pinks, narcissi, and tube-roses, unevenly spaced out between moist grasses, catmint, and chickweed for the birds; the fountains gurgled in the centre, and under large umbrellas, amidst melons, piled up in heaps, flower-women, bare-headed, were twisting paper round bunches of violets. The young man took one. It was the first time that he had bought flowers for a woman, and his breast, as he smelt them, swelled with pride, as if this homage that he meant for another had recoiled upon himself. But he was afraid of being seen; he resolutely entered the church. The beadle, who was just then standing on the threshold in the middle of the left doorway, under the "Dancing Marianne," with feather cap, and rapier dangling against his calves, came in, more majestic than a cardinal, and as shining as a saint on a holy pyx. He came towards Leon, and, with that smile of wheedling benignity assumed by ecclesiastics when they question children-- "The gentleman, no doubt, does not belong to these parts? The gentleman would like to see the curiosities of the church?" "No!" said the other. And he first went round the lower aisles. Then he went out to look at the Place. Emma was not coming yet. He went up again to the choir. The nave was reflected in the full fonts with the beginning of the arches and some portions of the glass windows. But the reflections of the paintings, broken by the marble rim, were continued farther on upon the flag-stones, like a many-coloured carpet. The broad daylight from without streamed into the church in three enormous rays from the three opened portals. From time to time at the upper end a sacristan passed, making the oblique genuflexion of devout persons in a hurry. The crystal lustres hung motionless. In the choir a silver lamp was burning, and from the side chapels and dark places of the church sometimes rose sounds like sighs, with the clang of a closing grating, its echo reverberating under the lofty vault. Leon with solemn steps walked along by the walls. Life had never seemed so good to him. She would come directly, charming, agitated, looking back at the glances that followed her, and with her flounced dress, her gold eyeglass, her thin shoes, with all sorts of elegant trifles that he had never enjoyed, and with the ineffable seduction of yielding virtue. The church like a huge boudoir spread around her; the arches bent down to gather in the shade the confession of her love; the windows shone resplendent to illumine her face, and the censers would burn that she might appear like an angel amid the fumes of the sweet-smelling odours. But she did not come. He sat down on a chair, and his eyes fell upon a blue stained window representing boatmen carrying baskets. He looked at it long, attentively, and he counted the scales of the fishes and the button-holes of the doublets, while his thoughts wandered off towards Emma. The beadle, standing aloof, was inwardly angry at this individual who took the liberty of admiring the cathedral by himself. He seemed to him to be conducting himself in a monstrous fashion, to be robbing him in a sort, and almost committing sacrilege. But a rustle of silk on the flags, the tip of a bonnet, a lined cloak--it was she! Leon rose and ran to meet her. Emma was pale. She walked fast. "Read!" she said, holding out a paper to him. "Oh, no!" And she abruptly withdrew her hand to enter the chapel of the Virgin, where, kneeling on a chair, she began to pray. The young man was irritated at this bigot fancy; then he nevertheless experienced a certain charm in seeing her, in the middle of a rendezvous, thus lost in her devotions, like an Andalusian marchioness; then he grew bored, for she seemed never coming to an end. Emma prayed, or rather strove to pray, hoping that some sudden resolution might descend to her from heaven; and to draw down divine aid she filled full her eyes with the splendours of the tabernacle. She breathed in the perfumes of the full-blown flowers in the large vases, and listened to the stillness of the church, that only heightened the tumult of her heart. She rose, and they were about to leave, when the beadle came forward, hurriedly saying-- "Madame, no doubt, does not belong to these parts? Madame would like to see the curiosities of the church?" "Oh, no!" cried the clerk. "Why not?" said she. For she clung with her expiring virtue to the Virgin, the sculptures, the tombs--anything. Then, in order to proceed "by rule," the beadle conducted them right to the entrance near the square, where, pointing out with his cane a large circle of block-stones without inscription or carving-- "This," he said majestically, "is the circumference of the beautiful bell of Ambroise. It weighed forty thousand pounds. There was not its equal in all Europe. The workman who cast it died of the joy--" "Let us go on," said Leon. The old fellow started off again; then, having got back to the chapel of the Virgin, he stretched forth his arm with an all-embracing gesture of demonstration, and, prouder than a country squire showing you his espaliers, went on-- "This simple stone covers Pierre de Breze, lord of Varenne and of Brissac, grand marshal of Poitou, and governor of Normandy, who died at the battle of Montlhery on the 16th of July, 1465." Leon bit his lips, fuming. "And on the right, this gentleman all encased in iron, on the prancing horse, is his grandson, Louis de Breze, lord of Breval and of Montchauvet, Count de Maulevrier, Baron de Mauny, chamberlain to the king, Knight of the Order, and also governor of Normandy; died on the 23rd of July, 1531--a Sunday, as the inscription specifies; and below, this figure, about to descend into the tomb, portrays the same person. It is not possible, is it, to see a more perfect representation of annihilation?" Madame Bovary put up her eyeglasses. Leon, motionless, looked at her, no longer even attempting to speak a single word, to make a gesture, so discouraged was he at this two-fold obstinacy of gossip and indifference. The everlasting guide went on-- "Near him, this kneeling woman who weeps is his spouse, Diane de Poitiers, Countess de Breze, Duchess de Valentinois, born in 1499, died in 1566, and to the left, the one with the child is the Holy Virgin. Now turn to this side; here are the tombs of the Ambroise. They were both cardinals and archbishops of Rouen. That one was minister under Louis thousand gold crowns for the poor." And without stopping, still talking, he pushed them into a chapel full of balustrades, some put away, and disclosed a kind of block that certainly might once have been an ill-made statue. "Truly," he said with a groan, "it adorned the tomb of Richard Coeur de Lion, King of England and Duke of Normandy. It was the Calvinists, sir, who reduced it to this condition. They had buried it for spite in the earth, under the episcopal seat of Monsignor. See! this is the door by which Monsignor passes to his house. Let us pass on quickly to see the gargoyle windows." But Leon hastily took some silver from his pocket and seized Emma's arm. The beadle stood dumfounded, not able to understand this untimely munificence when there were still so many things for the stranger to see. So calling him back, he cried-- "Sir! sir! The steeple! the steeple!" "No, thank you!" said Leon. "You are wrong, sir! It is four hundred and forty feet high, nine less than the great pyramid of Egypt. It is all cast; it--" Leon was fleeing, for it seemed to him that his love, that for nearly two hours now had become petrified in the church like the stones, would vanish like a vapour through that sort of truncated funnel, of oblong cage, of open chimney that rises so grotesquely from the cathedral like the extravagant attempt of some fantastic brazier. "But where are we going?" she said. Making no answer, he walked on with a rapid step; and Madame Bovary was already, dipping her finger in the holy water when behind them they heard a panting breath interrupted by the regular sound of a cane. Leon turned back. "Sir!" "What is it?" And he recognised the beadle, holding under his arms and balancing against his stomach some twenty large sewn volumes. They were works "which treated of the cathedral." "Idiot!" growled Leon, rushing out of the church. A lad was playing about the close. "Go and get me a cab!" The child bounded off like a ball by the Rue Quatre-Vents; then they were alone a few minutes, face to face, and a little embarrassed. "Ah! Leon! Really--I don't know--if I ought," she whispered. Then with a more serious air, "Do you know, it is very improper--" "How so?" replied the clerk. "It is done at Paris." And that, as an irresistible argument, decided her. Still the cab did not come. Leon was afraid she might go back into the church. At last the cab appeared. "At all events, go out by the north porch," cried the beadle, who was left alone on the threshold, "so as to see the Resurrection, the Last Judgment, Paradise, King David, and the Condemned in Hell-flames." "Where to, sir?" asked the coachman. "Where you like," said Leon, forcing Emma into the cab. And the lumbering machine set out. It went down the Rue Grand-Pont, crossed the Place des Arts, the Quai Napoleon, the Pont Neuf, and stopped short before the statue of Pierre Corneille. "Go on," cried a voice that came from within. The cab went on again, and as soon as it reached the Carrefour Lafayette, set off down-hill, and entered the station at a gallop. "No, straight on!" cried the same voice. The cab came out by the gate, and soon having reached the Cours, trotted quietly beneath the elm-trees. The coachman wiped his brow, put his leather hat between his knees, and drove his carriage beyond the side alley by the meadow to the margin of the waters. It went along by the river, along the towing-path paved with sharp pebbles, and for a long while in the direction of Oyssel, beyond the isles. But suddenly it turned with a dash across Quatremares, Sotteville, La Grande-Chaussee, the Rue d'Elbeuf, and made its third halt in front of the Jardin des Plantes. "Get on, will you?" cried the voice more furiously. And at once resuming its course, it passed by Saint-Sever, by the Quai'des Curandiers, the Quai aux Meules, once more over the bridge, by the Place du Champ de Mars, and behind the hospital gardens, where old men in black coats were walking in the sun along the terrace all green with ivy. It went up the Boulevard Bouvreuil, along the Boulevard Cauchoise, then the whole of Mont-Riboudet to the Deville hills. It came back; and then, without any fixed plan or direction, wandered about at hazard. The cab was seen at Saint-Pol, at Lescure, at Mont Gargan, at La Rougue-Marc and Place du Gaillardbois; in the Rue Maladrerie, Rue Dinanderie, before Saint-Romain, Saint-Vivien, Saint-Maclou, Saint-Nicaise--in front of the Customs, at the "Vieille Tour," the "Trois Pipes," and the Monumental Cemetery. From time to time the coachman, on his box cast despairing eyes at the public-houses. He could not understand what furious desire for locomotion urged these individuals never to wish to stop. He tried to now and then, and at once exclamations of anger burst forth behind him. Then he lashed his perspiring jades afresh, but indifferent to their jolting, running up against things here and there, not caring if he did, demoralised, and almost weeping with thirst, fatigue, and depression. And on the harbour, in the midst of the drays and casks, and in the streets, at the corners, the good folk opened large wonder-stricken eyes at this sight, so extraordinary in the provinces, a cab with blinds drawn, and which appeared thus constantly shut more closely than a tomb, and tossing about like a vessel. Once in the middle of the day, in the open country, just as the sun beat most fiercely against the old plated lanterns, a bared hand passed beneath the small blinds of yellow canvas, and threw out some scraps of paper that scattered in the wind, and farther off lighted like white butterflies on a field of red clover all in bloom. At about six o'clock the carriage stopped in a back street of the Beauvoisine Quarter, and a woman got out, who walked with her veil down, and without turning her head. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Während seiner Zeit an der Rechtsschule in Paris war Leon ein vorbildlicher Student. Obwohl er ruhig und respektvoll geblieben ist, hat er jedoch eine neue Lebensweise erfahren. Und nun, da er nach Rouen zurückgekehrt ist, hat er viele der Manieren und die Raffinesse, die er in Paris gelernt hat, mitgebracht. Er kleidete und benahm sich im Pariser Stil und fühlte sich besonders selbstbewusst in Rouen, wo er sich als ein Kultivierter unter den einheimischen Provinzler sah. Anfangs hatte er oft an Emma in Paris gedacht, aber nach und nach verschwamm sie zu einer vagen Erinnerung. Nun wurden seine alten Gefühle für sie wiedererweckt. Am nächsten Tag besuchte er Emma in ihrem Hotel, während Bovary unterwegs war. Sie waren beide erfreut über diese Gelegenheit, sich privat zu sehen, und führten stundenlang ein lebhaftes Gespräch. Ihre frühere Intimität wurde erneuert, obwohl beide einige persönliche Details ihrer jüngsten Erlebnisse zurückhielten. Emma und Leon erinnerten sich an ihren traurigen Abschied in Yonville und die gemeinsam verbrachte Zeit dort und besprachen mit neuer Offenheit ihre gegenseitige Zuneigung. Bevor er ging, küsste Leon Emma und sie vereinbarten ein geheimes Treffen in der Kathedrale am nächsten Tag. Am Morgen kam Leon pünktlich zum vereinbarten Treffpunkt. Emma war spät dran und versuchte zunächst, ihn zu meiden, da sie hoffte, sich nicht erneut in ihn zu verlieben. Sie versuchte zu beten, aber ihre Gedanken waren woanders. Dann nahm sie gerne eine Einladung des Mesners der Kirche an, um sich die verschiedenen Teile der Kathedrale anzusehen. Leon ertrug die Besichtigung so lange wie möglich und zog Emma dann von der Kirche weg und in eine von ihm bestellte Kutsche. Der Kutscher konnte nicht verstehen, warum zwei Menschen bei so einem schönen Tag mit allen Vorhängen zugezogen ziellos durch die Landschaft fahren wollten. Jedes Mal, wenn er anhalten wollte, wurde er von Leon streng zurechtgewiesen. Sie waren so lange zusammen in der Kutsche, dass Emma den Hirondelle verpasste, der sie nach Yonville zurückbringen sollte. Sie musste sich ein besonderes Taxi nehmen, um den Hirondelle noch rechtzeitig vor Yonville zu erwischen.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: ACT II (THE SAME SCENE--_The Christmas Tree is in the corner by the piano, stripped of its ornaments and with burnt-down candle-ends on its dishevelled branches._ NORA'S _cloak and hat are lying on the sofa. She is alone in the room, walking about uneasily. She stops by the sofa and takes up her cloak._) _Nora_ (_drops the cloak_). Someone is coming now! (_Goes to the door and listens._) No--it is no one. Of course, no one will come today, Christmas Day--nor tomorrow either. But, perhaps--(_opens the door and looks out_.) No, nothing in the letter-box; it is quite empty. (_Comes forward._) What rubbish! of course he can't be in earnest about it. Such a thing couldn't happen; it is impossible--I have three little children. (_Enter the_ NURSE _from the room on the left, carrying a big cardboard box._) _Nurse_. At last I have found the box with the fancy dress. _Nora_. Thanks; put it on the table. _Nurse_ (_doing so_). But it is very much in want of mending. _Nora_. I should like to tear it into a hundred thousand pieces. _Nurse_. What an idea! It can easily be put in order--just a little patience. _Nora_. Yes, I will go and get Mrs. Linde to come and help me with it. _Nurse_. What, out again? In this horrible weather? You will catch cold, ma'am, and make yourself ill. _Nora_. Well, worse than that might happen. How are the children? _Nurse_. The poor little souls are playing with their Christmas presents, but-- _Nora_. Do they ask much for me? _Nurse_. You see, they are so accustomed to have their mamma with them. _Nora_. Yes, but, nurse, I shall not be able to be so much with them now as I was before. _Nurse_. Oh well, young children easily get accustomed to anything. _Nora_. Do you think so? Do you think they would forget their mother if she went away altogether? _Nurse_. Good heavens!--went away altogether? _Nora_. Nurse, I want you to tell me something I have often wondered about--how could you have the heart to put your own child out among strangers? _Nurse_. I was obliged to, if I wanted to be little Nora's nurse. _Nora_. Yes, but how could you be willing to do it? _Nurse_. What, when I was going to get such a good place by it? A poor girl who has got into trouble should be glad to. Besides, that wicked man didn't do a single thing for me. _Nora_. But I suppose your daughter has quite forgotten you. _Nurse_. No, indeed she hasn't. She wrote to me when she was confirmed, and when she was married. _Nora_ (_putting her arms round her neck_). Dear old Anne, you were a good mother to me when I was little. _Nurse_. Little Nora, poor dear, had no other mother but me. _Nora_. And if my little ones had no other mother, I am sure you would--What nonsense I am talking! (_Opens the box._) Go in to them. Now I must--. You will see tomorrow how charming I shall look. _Nurse_. I am sure there will be no one at the ball so charming as you, ma'am. (_Goes into the room on the left._) _Nora_ (_begins to unpack the box, but soon pushes it away from her_). If only I dared go out. If only no one would come. If only I could be sure nothing would happen here in the meantime. Stuff and nonsense! No one will come. Only I mustn't think about it. I will brush my muff. What lovely, lovely gloves! Out of my thoughts, out of my thoughts! One, two, three, four, five, six--(_Screams._) Ah! there is someone coming--. (_Makes a movement towards the door, but stands irresolute_.) (_Enter_ MRS. LINDE _from the hall, where she has taken off her cloak and hat_.) _Nora_. Oh, it's you, Christine. There is no one else out there, is there? How good of you to come! _Mrs. Linde_. I heard you were up asking for me. _Nora_. Yes, I was passing by. As a matter of fact, it is something you could help me with. Let us sit down here on the sofa. Look here. Tomorrow evening there is to be a fancy-dress ball at the Stenborgs', who live above us; and Torvald wants me to go as a Neapolitan fisher-girl, and dance the Tarantella that I learnt at Capri. _Mrs. Linde_. I see; you are going to keep up the character. _Nora_. Yes, Torvald wants me to. Look, here is the dress; Torvald had it made for me there, but now it is all so torn, and I haven't any idea-- _Mrs. Linde_. We will easily put that right. It is only some of the trimming come unsewn here and there. Needle and thread? Now then, that's all we want. _Nora_. It _is_ nice of you. _Mrs. Linde_ (_sewing_). So you are going to be dressed up tomorrow, Nora. I will tell you what--I shall come in for a moment and see you in your fine feathers. But I have completely forgotten to thank you for a delightful evening yesterday. _Nora_ (_gets up, and crosses the stage_). Well I don't think yesterday was as pleasant as usual. You ought to have come to town a little earlier, Christine. Certainly Torvald does understand how to make a house dainty and attractive. _Mrs. Linde_. And so do you, it seems to me; you are not your father's daughter for nothing. But tell me, is Doctor Rank always as depressed as he was yesterday? _Nora_. No; yesterday it was very noticeable. I must tell you that he suffers from a _very_ dangerous disease. He has consumption of the spine, poor creature. His father was a horrible man who committed all sorts of excesses; and that is why his son was sickly from childhood, do you understand? _Mrs. Linde_ (_dropping her sewing_). But, my dearest Nora, how do you know anything about such things? _Nora_ (_walking about_). Pooh! When you have three children, you get visits now and then from--from married women, who know something of medical matters, and they talk about one thing and another. _Mrs. Linde_ (_goes on sewing. A short silence_). Does Doctor Rank come here every day? _Nora_. Every day regularly. He is Torvald's most intimate friend, and a great friend of mine too. He is just like one of the family. _Mrs. Linde_. But tell me this--is he perfectly sincere? I mean, isn't he the kind of a man that is very anxious to make himself agreeable? _Nora_. Not in the least. What makes you think that? _Mrs. Linde_. When you introduced him to me yesterday, he declared he had often heard my name mentioned in this house; but afterwards I noticed that your husband hadn't the slightest idea who I was. So how could Doctor Rank--? _Nora_. That is quite right, Christine. Torvald is so absurdly fond of me that he wants me absolutely to himself, as he says. At first he used to seem almost jealous if I mentioned any of the dear folk at home, so naturally I gave up doing so. But I often talk about such things with Doctor Rank, because he likes hearing about them. _Mrs. Linde_. Listen to me, Nora. You are still very like a child in many ways, and I am older than you in many ways and have a little more experience. Let me tell you this--you ought to make an end of it with Doctor Rank. _Nora_. What ought I to make an end of? _Mrs. Linde_. Of two things, I think. Yesterday you talked some nonsense about a rich admirer who was to leave you money-- _Nora_. An admirer who doesn't exist, unfortunately! But what then? _Mrs. Linde_. Is Doctor Rank a man of means? _Nora_. Yes, he is. _Mrs. Linde_. And has no one to provide for? _Nora_. No, no one; but-- _Mrs. Linde_. And comes here every day? _Nora_. Yes, I told you so. _Mrs. Linde_. But how can this well-bred man be so tactless? _Nora_. I don't understand you at all. _Helmer_. I am going to dismiss Krogstad immediately. _Helmer_ (_looking among his papers)_. Settle it. (_Enter_ MAID.) Look here; take this letter and go downstairs with it at once. Find a messenger and tell him to deliver it, and be quick. The address is on it, and here is the money. _Maid_. Very well, sir. (_Exit with the letter_.) _Helmer_ (_putting his papers together_). Now, then, little Miss Obstinate. _Nora_ (_breathlessly_). Torvald--what was that letter? _Helmer_. Krogstad's dismissal. _Nora_. Call her back, Torvald! There is still time. Oh Torvald, call her back! Do it for my sake--for your own sake, for the children's sake! Do you hear me, Torvald? Call her back! You don't know what that letter can bring upon us. _Helmer_. It's too late. _Nora_. Yes, it's too late. _Helmer_. My dear Nora, I can forgive the anxiety you are in, although really it is an insult to me. It is, indeed. Isn't it an insult to think that I should be afraid of a starving quill-driver's vengeance? But I forgive you, nevertheless, because it is such eloquent witness to your great love for me. (_Takes her in his arms.)_ And that is as it should be, my own darling Nora. Come what will, you may be sure I shall have both courage and strength if they be needed. You will see I am man enough to take everything upon myself. _Nora_ (_in a horror-stricken voice_). What do you mean by that? _Helmer_. Everything I say-- _Nora_ (_recovering herself_). You will never have to do that. _Helmer_. That's right. Well, we will share it, Nora, as man and wife should. That is how it shall be. (_Caressing her_.) Are you content now? There! There!--not these frightened dove's eyes! The whole thing is only the wildest fancy!--Now, you must go and play through the Tarantella and practice with your tambourine. I shall go into the inner office and shut the door, and I shall hear nothing; you can make as much noise as you please. (_Turns back at the door.)_ And when Rank comes, tell him where he will find me. (_Nods to her, takes his papers and goes into his room, and shuts the door after him_.) _Nora_ (_bewildered with anxiety, stands as if rooted to the spot, and whispers_). He was capable of doing it. He will do it. He will do it in spite of everything.--No, not that! Never, never! Anything rather than that! Oh, for some help, some way out of it. (_The door-bell rings_.) Doctor Rank! Anything rather than that--anything, whatever it is! (_She puts her hands over her face, pulls herself together, goes to the door and opens it. _RANK_ is standing without, hanging up his coat. During the following dialogue it begins to grow dark_.) _Nora_. Good-day, Doctor Rank. I knew your ring. But you mustn't go into Torvald now; I think he is busy with something. _Rank_. And you? _Nora_ (_brings him in and shuts the door after him_). Oh, you know very well I always have time for you. _Rank_. Thank you. I shall make use of as much of it as I can. _Nora_. What do you mean by that? As much of it as you can. _Rank_. Well, does that alarm you? _Nora_. It was such a strange way of putting it. Is anything likely to happen? _Rank_. Nothing but what I have long been prepared for. But I certainly didn't expect it to happen so soon. _Nora_ (_gripping him by the arm_). What have you found out? Doctor Rank, you must tell me. _Rank_ (_sitting down by the stove_). It is all up with me. And it can't be helped. _Nora_ (_with a sigh of relief_). Is it about yourself? _Rank_. Who else? It is no use lying to one's self. I am the most wretched of all my patients, Mrs. Helmer. Lately I have been taking stock of my internal economy. Bankrupt! Probably within a month I shall lie rotting in the church-yard. _Nora_. What an ugly thing to say! _Rank_. The thing itself is cursedly ugly, and the worst of it is that I shall have to face so much more that is ugly before that. I shall only make one more examination of myself; when I have done that, I shall know pretty certainly when it will be that the horrors of dissolution will begin. There is something I want to tell you. Helmer's refined nature gives him an unconquerable disgust of everything that is ugly; I won't have him in my sick-room. _Nora_. Oh, but, Doctor Rank-- _Rank_. I won't have him there. Not on any account. I bar my door to him. As soon as I am quite certain that the worst has come, I shall send you my card with a black cross on it, and then you will know that the loathsome end has begun. _Nora_. You are quite absurd to-day. And I wanted you so much to be in a really good humour. _Rank_. With death stalking beside me?--To have to pay this penalty for another man's sin! Is there any justice in that? And in every single family, in one way or another, some such inexorable retribution is being exacted-- _Nora_ (_putting her hands over her ears_). Rubbish! Do talk of something cheerful. _Rank_. Oh, it's a mere laughing matter, the whole thing. My poor innocent spine has to suffer for my father's youthful amusements. _Nora_ (_sitting at the table on the left_). I suppose you mean that he was too partial to asparagus and pate de foie gras, don't you? _Rank_. Yes, and to truffles. _Nora_. Truffles, yes. And oysters too, I suppose? _Rank_. Oysters, of course, that goes without saying. _Nora_. And heaps of port and champagne. It is sad that all these nice things should take their revenge on our bones. _Rank_. Especially that they should revenge themselves on the unlucky bones of those who have not had the satisfaction of enjoying them. _Nora_. Yes, that's the saddest part of it all. _Rank_ (_with a searching look at her_). Hm!-- _Nora_ (_after a short pause_). Why did you smile? _Rand_. No, it was you that laughed. _Nora_. No, it was you that smiled, Doctor Rank! _Rank_ (_rising_). You are a greater rascal than I thought. _Nora_. I am in a silly mood today. _Rank_. So it seems. _Nora_ (_putting her hands on his shoulders_). Dear, dear Doctor Rank, death mustn't take you away from Torvald and me. _Rank_. It is a loss you would easily recover from. Those who are gone are soon forgotten. _Nora_ (_looking at him anxiously_). Do you believe that? _Rank_. People form new ties, and then-- _Nora_. Who will form new ties? _Rank_. Both you and Helmer, when I am gone. You yourself are already on the high road to it, I think. What did that Mrs. Linde want here last night? _Nora_. Oho!--you don't mean to say you are jealous of poor Christine? _Rank_. Yes, I am. She will be my successor in this house. When I am done for, this woman will-- _Nora_. Hush! don't speak so loud. She is in that room. _Rank_. To-day again. There, you see. _Nora_. She has only come to sew my dress for me. Bless my soul, how unreasonable you are! (_Sits down on the sofa_.) Be nice now, Doctor Rank, and to-morrow you will see how beautifully I shall dance, and you can imagine I am doing it all for you--and for Torvald too, of course. (_Takes various things out of the box._) Doctor Rank, come and sit down here, and I will show you something. _Rank_ (_sitting down_). What is it? _Nora_. Just look at those. _Rank_. Silk stockings. _Nora_. Flesh-coloured. Aren't they lovely? It is so dark here now, but to-morrow--. No, no, no! you must only look at the feet. Oh, well, you may have leave to look at the legs too. _Rank_. Hm!-- _Nora_. Why are you looking so critical? Don't you think they will fit me? _Rank_. I have no means of forming an opinion about that. _Nora_ (_looks at him for a moment_). For shame! (_Hits him lightly on the ear with the stockings_.) That's to punish you. (_Folds them up again_.) _Rank_. And what other nice things am I to be allowed to see? _Nora_. Not a single thing more, for being so naughty. (_She looks among the things, humming to herself_.) _Rank_ (_after a short silence_). When I am sitting here, talking to you as intimately as this, I cannot imagine for a moment what would have become of me if I had never come into this house. _Nora_ (_smiling_). I believe you do feel thoroughly at home with us. _Rank_ (_in a lower voice, looking straight in front of him_). And to be obliged to leave it all-- _Nora_. Nonsense, you are not going to leave it. _Rank_ (_as before_). And not be able to leave behind one the slightest token of one's gratitude, scarcely even a fleeting regret--nothing but an empty place which the first comer can fill as well as any other. _Nora_. And if I asked you now for a--? No! _Rank_. For what? _Nora_. For a big proof of your friendship-- _Rank_. Yes, yes. _Nora_. I mean a tremendously big favour-- _Rank_. Would you really make me so happy for once? _Nora_. Ah, but you don't know what it is yet. _Rank_. No--but tell me. _Nora_. I really can't, Doctor Rank. It is something out of all reason; it means advice, and help, and a favour-- _Rank_. The bigger a thing it is the better. I can't conceive what it is you mean. Do tell me. Haven't I your confidence? _Nora_. More than anyone else. I know you are my truest and best friend, and so I will tell you what it is. Well, Doctor Rank, it is something you must help me to prevent. You know how devotedly, how inexpressibly deeply Torvald loves me; he would never for a moment hesitate to give his life for me. _Rank_ (_leaning toward her_). Nora--do you think he is the only one--? _Nora_ (_with a slight start_). The only one--? _Rank_. The only one who would gladly give his life for your sake. _Nora_ (_sadly_). Is that it? _Rank_. I was determined you should know it before I went away, and there will never be a better opportunity than this. Now you know it, Nora. And now you know, too, that you can trust me as you would trust no one else. _Nora_ (_rises deliberately and quietly_). Let me pass. _Rank_ (_makes room for her to pass him, but sits still_). Nora! _Nora_ (_at the hall door_). Helen, bring in the lamp. (_Goes over to the stove_.) Dear Doctor Rank, that was really horrid of you. _Rank_. To have loved you as much as anyone else does? Was that horrid? _Nora_. No, but to go and tell me so. There was really no need-- _Rank_. What do you mean? Did you know--? (MAID _enters with lamp, puts it down on the table, and goes out_.) Nora--Mrs. Helmer--tell me, had you any idea of this? _Nora_. Oh, how do I know whether I had or whether I hadn't. I really can't tell you--To think you could be so clumsy, Doctor Rank! We were getting on so nicely. _Bank_. Well, at all events you know now that you can command me, body and soul. So won't you speak out? _Nora_ (_looking at him_). After what happened? _Rank_. I beg you to let me know what it is. _Nora_. I can't tell you anything now. _Rank_. Yes, yes. You mustn't punish me in that way. Let me have permission to do for you whatever a man may do. _Nora_. You can do nothing for me now. Besides, I really don't need any help at all. You will find that the whole thing is merely fancy on my part. It really is so--of course it is! (_Sits down in the rocking-chair, and looks at him with a smile_.) You are a nice sort of man, Doctor Rank!--don't you feel ashamed of yourself, now the lamp has come? _Rank_. Not a bit. But perhaps I had better go--forever? _Nora_. No, indeed, you shall not. Of course you must come here just as before. You know very well Torvald can't do without you. _Rank_. Yes, but you? _Nora_. Oh, I am always tremendously pleased when you come. _Rank_. It is just that, that put me on the wrong track. You are a riddle to me. I have often thought that you would almost as soon be in my company as in Helmer's. _Nora_. Yes--you see there are some people one loves best, and others whom one would almost always rather have as companions. _Rank_. Yes, there is something in that. _Nora_. When I was at home, of course I loved papa best. But I always thought it tremendous fun if I could steal down into the maids' room, because they never moralized at all, and talked to each other about such entertaining things. _Rank_. I see--it is their place I have taken. _Nora_ (_jumping-up and going to him_). Oh, dear, nice Doctor Rank, I never meant that at all. But surely you can understand that being with Torvald is a little like being with papa--(_Enter_ MAID _from the hall_.) _Maid_. If you please, ma'am. (_Whispers and hands her a card_.) _Nora_ (_glancing at the card_). Oh! (_Puts it in her pocket_.) _Rank_. Is there anything wrong? _Nora_. No, no, not in the least. It is only something--It is my new dress-- _Rank_. What? Your dress is lying there. _Nora_. Oh, yes, that one; but this is another. I ordered it. Torvald mustn't know about it-- _Rank_. Oho! Then that was the great secret. _Nora_. Of course. Just go in to him; he is sitting in the inner room. Keep him as long as-- _Rank_. Make your mind easy; I won't let him escape. (_Goes into_ HELMER'S _room_.) _Nora_ (_to the_ MAID). And he is standing waiting in the kitchen? _Maid_. Yes; he came up the back stairs. _Nora_. But didn't you tell him no one was in? _Maid_. Yes, but it was no good. _Nora_. He won't go away? _Maid_. No; he says he won't until he has seen you, ma'am. _Nora_. Well, let him come in--but quietly. Helen, you mustn't say anything about it to any one. It is a surprise for my husband. _Maid_. Yes, ma'am, I quite understand. (_Exit_.) _Nora_. This dreadful thing is going to happen. It will happen in spite of me! No, no, no, it can't happen--it shan't happen! (_She bolts the door of_ HELMER'S _room. The_ MAID _opens the hall door for_ KROGSTAD _and shuts it after him. He is wearing a fur coat, high boots and a fur cap_.) _Nora_ (_advancing towards him_). Speak low--my husband is at home. _Krogstad_. No matter about that. _Nora_. What do you want of me? _Krogstad_. An explanation of something. _Nora_. Make haste then. What is it? _Krogstad_. You know, I suppose, that I have got my dismissal. _Nora_. I couldn't prevent it, Mr. Krogstad. I fought as hard as I could on your side, but it was no good. _Krogstad_. Does your husband love you so little, then? He knows what I can expose you to, and yet he ventures-- _Nora_. How can you suppose that he has any knowledge of the sort? _Krogstad_. I didn't suppose so at all. It would not be the least like our dear Torvald Helmer to show so much courage-- _Nora_. Mr. Krogstad, a little respect for my husband, please. _Krogstad_. Certainly--all the respect he deserves. But since you have kept the matter so carefully to yourself, I make bold to suppose that you have a little clearer idea than you had yesterday, of what it actually is that you have done? _Nora_. More than you could ever teach me. _Krogstad_. Yes, such a bad lawyer as I am. _Nora_. What is it you want of me? _Krogstad_. Only to see how you were, Mrs. Helmer. I have been thinking about you all day long. A mere cashier--a quill-driver, a--well, a man like me--even he has a little of what is called feeling, you know. _Nora_. Show it, then; think of my little children. _Krogstad_. Have you and your husband thought of mine? But never mind about that. I only wanted to tell you that you need not take this matter too seriously. In the first place there will be no accusation made on my part. _Nora_. No, of course not; I was sure of that. _Krogstad_. The whole thing can be arranged amicably; there is no reason why anyone should know anything about it. It will remain a secret between us three. _Nora_. My husband must never get to know anything about it. _Krogstad_. How will you be able to prevent it? Am I to understand that you can pay the balance that is owing? _Nora_. No, not just at present. _Krogstad_. Or perhaps that you have some expedient for raising the money soon? _Nora_. No expedient that I mean to make use of. _Krogstad_. Well, in any case, it would have been of no use to you now. If you stood there with ever so much money in your hand, I would never part with your bond. _Nora_. Tell me what purpose you mean to put it to. _Krogstad_. I shall only preserve it--keep it in my possession. No one who is not concerned in the matter shall have the slightest hint of it. So that if the thought of it has driven you to any desperate resolution-- _Nora_. It has. _Krogstad_. If you had it in your mind to run away from your home-- _Nora_. I had. _Krogstad_. Or even something worse-- _Nora_. How could you know that? _Krogstad_. Give up the idea. _Nora_. How did you know I had thought of _that?_ _Krogstad_. Most of us think of that at first. I did, too--but I hadn't the courage. _Nora_ (_faintly_). No more had I. _Krogstad_ (_in a tone of relief)_. No, that's it, isn't it--you hadn't the courage either? _Nora_. No, I haven't--I haven't. _Krogstad_. Besides, it would have been a great piece of folly. Once the first storm at home is over--. I have a letter for your husband in my pocket. _Nora_. Telling him everything? _Krogstad_. In as lenient a manner as I possibly could. _Nora_ (_quickly)_. He mustn't get the letter. Tear it up. I will find some means of getting money. _Krogstad_. Excuse me, Mrs. Helmer, but I think I told you just how-- _Nora_. I am not speaking of what I owe you. Tell me what sum you are asking my husband for, and I will get the money. _Krogstad_. I am not asking your husband for a penny. _Nora_. What do you want, then? _Krogstad_. I will tell you. I want to rehabilitate myself, Mrs. Helmer; I want to get on; and in that your husband must help me. For the last year and a half I have not had a hand in anything dishonourable, and all that time I have been struggling in most restricted circumstances. I was content to work my way up step by step. Now I am turned out, and I am not going to be satisfied with merely being taken into favour again. I want to get on, I tell you. I want to get into the Bank again, in a higher position. Your husband must make a place for me-- _Nora_. That he will never do! _Krogstad_. He will; I know him; he dare not protest. And as soon as I am in there again with him, then you will see! Within a year I shall be the manager's right hand. It will be Nils Krogstad and not Torvald Helmer who manages the Bank. _Nora_. That's a thing you will never see! _Krogstad_. Do you mean that you will--? _Nora_. I have courage enough for it now. _Krogstad_. Oh, you can't frighten me. A fine, spoilt lady like you-- _Nora_. You will see, you will see. _Krogstad_. Under the ice, perhaps? Down into the cold, coal-black water? And then, in the spring, to float up to the surface, all horrible and unrecognizable, with your hair fallen out-- _Nora_. You can't frighten me. _Krogstad_. Nor you me. People don't do such things, Mrs. Helmer. Besides, what use would it be? I should have him completely in my power all the same. _Nora_. Afterwards? When I am no longer-- _Krogstad_. Have you forgot that it is I who have the keeping of your reputation? (_Nora stands speechlessly looking at him.)_ Well, now, I have warned you. Do not do anything foolish. When Helmer has had my letter, I shall expect a message from him. And be sure you remember that it is your husband himself who has forced me into such ways as this again. I will never forgive him for that. Good-bye, Mrs. Helmer. (_Exit through the hall.)_ _Nora_ (_goes to the hall door, opens it slightly and listens_). He is going. He is not putting the letter in the box. Oh, no, no, that's impossible! (_Opens the door by degrees._) What is that? He is standing outside. He is not going downstairs. Is he hesitating? Can he--? (_A letter drops into the box; then_ KROGSTAD'S _footsteps are heard, till they die away as he goes downstairs._ NORA _utters a stifled cry, and runs across the room to the table by the sofa. A short pause_.) _Nora_. In the letter-box. (_Steals across to the hall-door_.) There it lies--Torvald, Torvald, there is no hope for us now! (MRS. LINDE _comes in from the room on the left, carrying the dress_.) _Mrs. Linde_. There, I can't see anything more to mend now. Would you like to try it on--? _Nora_ (_in a hoarse whisper_). Christine, come here. _Mrs. Linde_ (_throwing the dress down on the sofa_). What is the matter with you? You look so agitated! _Nora_. Come here. Do you see that letter? There, look--you can see it through the glass in the letter-box. _Mrs. Linde_. Yes, I see it. _Nora_. That letter is from Krogstad. _Mrs. Linde_. Nora--it was Krogstad who lent you the money! _Nora_. Yes, and now Torvald will know all about it. _Mrs. Linde_. Believe me, Nora, that's the best thing for both of you. _Nora_. You don't know all. I forged a name. _Mrs. Linde_. Good heavens--! _Nora_. I only want to say this to you, Christine--you must be my witness. _Mrs. Linde_. Your witness! What do you mean? What am I to--? _Nora_. If I should go out of my mind--and it might easily happen-- _Mrs. Linde_. Nora! _Nora_. Or if anything else should happen to me--anything, for instance, that might prevent my being here-- _Mrs. Linde_. Nora! Nora! you are quite out of your mind. _Nora_. And if it should happen that there were someone who wanted to take all the responsibility, all the blame, you understand-- _Mrs. Linde_. Yes, yes--but how can you suppose--? _Nora_. Then you must be my witness, that it is not true, Christine. I am not out of my mind at all; I am in my right senses now, and I tell you no one else has known anything about it; I and I alone, did the whole thing. Remember that. _Mrs. Linde_. I will, indeed. But I don't understand all this. _Nora_. How should you understand it? A wonderful thing is going to happen. _Mrs. Linde_. A wonderful thing? _Nora_. Yes, a wonderful thing!--But it is so terrible, Christine; it _mustn't_ happen, not for all the world. _Mrs. Linde_. I will go at once and see Krogstad. _Nora_. Don't go to him; he will do you some harm. _Mrs. Linde_. There was a time when he would gladly do anything for my sake. _Nora_. He? _Mrs. Linde_. Where does he live? _Nora_. How should I know--? Yes (_feeling in her pocket_) here is his card. But the letter, the letter--! _Helmer_ (_calls from his room, knocking at the door_). Nora. _Nora_ (_cries out anxiously_). Oh, what's that? What do you want? _Helmer_. Don't be so frightened. We are not coming in; you have locked the door. Are you trying on your dress? _Nora_. Yes, that's it. I look so nice, Torvald. _Mrs. Linde_ (_who has read the card_) I see he lives at the corner here. _Nora_. Yes, but it's no use. It is hopeless. The letter is lying there in the box. _Mrs. Linde_. And your husband keeps the key? _Nora_. Yes, always. _Mrs. Linde_. Krogstad must ask for his letter back unread, he must find some pretence-- _Nora_. But it is just at this time that Torvald generally-- _Mrs. Linde_. You must delay him. Go in to him in the meantime. I will come back as soon as I can. (_She goes out hurriedly through the hall door_.) _Nora_ (_goes to_ HELMER'S _door, opens it and peeps in_). Torvald! _Helmer_ (_from the inner room_). Well? May I venture at last to come into my own room again? Come along, Rank, now you will see--(_ Halting in the doorway_.) But what is this? _Nora_. What is what, dear? _Helmer_. Rank led me to expect a splendid transformation. _Rank_ (_in the doorway_). I understood so, but evidently I was mistaken. _Nora_. Yes, nobody is to have the chance of admiring me in my dress until to-morrow. _Helmer_. But, my dear Nora, you look so worn out. Have you been practising too much? _Nora_. No, I have not practised at all. _Helmer_. But you will need to-- _Nora_. Yes, indeed I shall, Torvald. But I can't get on a bit without you to help me; I have absolutely forgotten the whole thing. _Helmer_. Oh, we will soon work it up again. _Nora_. Yes, help me, Torvald. Promise that you will! I am so nervous about it--all the people--. You must give yourself up to me entirely this evening. Not the tiniest bit of business--you mustn't even take a pen in your hand. Will you promise, Torvald dear? _Helmer_. I promise. This evening I will be wholly and absolutely at your service, you helpless little mortal. Ah, by the way, first of all I will just--(_Goes toward the hall-door_.) _Nora_. What are you going to do there? _Helmer_. Only see if any letters have come. _Nora_. No, no! don't do that, Torvald! _Helmer_. Why not? _Nora_. Torvald, please don't. There is nothing there. _Helmer_. Well, let me look. (_Turns to go to the letter-box._ NORA, _at the piano, plays the first bars of the Tarantella_. HELMER _stops in the doorway_.) Aha! _Nora_. I can't dance to-morrow if I don't practise with you. _Helmer_ (_going up to her_). Are you really so afraid of it, dear? _Nora_. Yes, so dreadfully afraid of it. Let me practise at once; there is time now, before we go to dinner. Sit down and play for me, Torvald dear; criticise me, and correct me as you play. _Helmer_. With great pleasure, if you wish me to. (_Sits down at the piano_.) _Nora_ (_takes out of the box a tambourine and a long variegated shawl. She hastily drapes the shawl round her. Then she springs to the front of the stage and calls out_). Now play for me! I am going to dance! (HELMER _plays and_ NORA _dances_. RANK _stands by the piano behind_ HELMER, _and looks on_.) _Helmer_ (_as he plays_). Slower, slower! _Nora_. I can't do it any other way. _Helmer_. Not so violently, Nora! _Nora_. This is the way. _Helmer_ (_stops playing_). No, no--that is not a bit right. _Nora_ (_laughing and swinging the tambourine_). Didn't I tell you so? _Rank_. Let me play for her. _Helmer_ (_getting up_). Yes, do. I can correct her better then. (RANK _sits down at the piano and plays. Nora dances more and more wildly_. HELMER _has taken up a position beside the stove, and during her dance gives her frequent instructions. She does not seem to hear him; her hair comes down and falls over her shoulders; she pays no attention to it, but goes on dancing. Enter_ MRS. LINDE.) _Mrs. Linde_ (_standing as if spell-bound in the doorway_). Oh!-- _Nora_ (_as she dances_). Such fun, Christine! _Helmer_. My dear darling Nora, you are dancing as if your life depended on it. _Nora_. So it does. _Helmer_. Stop, Rank; this is sheer madness. Stop, I tell you. (RANK _stops playing, and,_ NORA _suddenly stands still_. HELMER _goes up to her._) I could never have believed it. You have forgotten everything I taught you. _Nora_ (_throwing away the tambourine_). There, you see. _Helmer_. You will want a lot of coaching. _Nora_. Yes, you see how much I need it. You must coach me up to the last minute. Promise me that, Torvald! _Helmer_. You can depend on me. _Nora_. You must not think of anything but me, either to-day or to-morrow; you mustn't open a single letter--not even open the letter-box-- _Helmer_. Ah, you are still afraid of that fellow---- _Nora_. Yes, indeed I am. _Helmer_. Nora, I can tell from your looks that there is a letter from him lying there. _Nora_. I don't know; I think there is; but you must not read anything of that kind now. Nothing horrid must come between us till this is all over. _Rank_ (_whispers to_ HELMER). You mustn't contradict her. _Helmer_ (_taking her in his arms_). The child shall have her way. But to-morrow night, after you have danced-- _Nora_. Then you will be free. (_The_ MAID _appears in the doorway to the right_.) _Maid_. Dinner is served, ma'am. _Nora_. We will have champagne, Helen. _Maid_. Very good, ma'am. _Helmer_. Hullo!--are we going to have a banquet? (_Exit._) _Nora_. Yes, a champagne banquet till the small hours. (_Calls out_.) And a few macaroons, Helen--lots, just for once! _Helmer_. Come, come, don't be so wild and nervous. Be my own little skylark, as you used. _Nora_. Yes, dear, I will. But go in now and you too, Doctor Rank. Christine, you must, help me to do up my hair. _Rank_ (_whispers to_ HELMER _as they go out_). I suppose there is nothing--she is not expecting anything? _Helmer_. Far from it, my dear fellow; it is simply nothing more than this childish nervousness I was telling you of. (_They go into the right-hand room_.) _Nora_. Well! _Mrs. Linde_. Gone out of town. _Nora_. I could tell from your face. _Mrs. Linde_. He is coming home tomorrow evening. I wrote a note for him. _Nora_. You should have let it alone; you must prevent nothing. After all, it is splendid to be waiting for a wonderful thing to happen. _Mrs. Linde_: Worauf wartest du? _Nora_: Oh, du würdest es nicht verstehen. Geh zu ihnen. Ich komme gleich nach. (_Frau Linde geht ins Esszimmer_. Nora steht für eine Weile still, als ob sie sich sammeln würde. Dann schaut sie auf ihre Uhr.) Fünf Uhr. Sieben Stunden bis Mitternacht; und dann vierundzwanzig Stunden bis zur nächsten Mitternacht. Dann wird die Tarantella vorbei sein. Vierundzwanzig und sieben? Einunddreißig Stunden zu leben. _Helmer_ (_aus der Türöffnung rechts_). Wo ist mein kleiner Lercherl? _Nora_ (_geht auf ihn zu und breitet die Arme aus_). Hier bin ich! Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben stehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Es ist Weihnachtstag. Der Weihnachtsbaum ist von Schmuck befreit und die Kerzen sind ausgebrannt. Nora ist besorgt, dass ein Brief von Krogstad ankommen könnte, der ihr Geheimnis gegenüber Torvald enthüllt. Die Krankenschwester kommt herein, trägt eine Kiste mit Kostümen. Nora erkundigt sich nach den Kindern. Es ist klar, dass sie bewusst weniger Zeit mit ihnen verbracht hat. Sie fragt die Krankenschwester, ob sie ihre Mutter vergessen würden, wenn sie wegging. Sie fragt auch, wie es die Krankenschwester geschafft hat, ihr eigenes Kind weg zu schicken, um von anderen betreut zu werden. Die Krankenschwester antwortet, dass sie keine Wahl hatte: Ihr Baby war unehelich, der Vater hat nicht geholfen und sie wäre nicht in der Lage gewesen, ihren jetzigen Job anzunehmen, wenn sie ein Kind hätte betreuen müssen. Frau Linde kommt an und repariert ein neapolitanisches Fischerkleid, das Torvald möchte, dass Nora es zu einer Party in der Wohnung im Obergeschoss am nächsten Abend trägt. Sie wird die Tarantella tanzen. Nora erzählt Frau Linde, dass Dr. Rank an Wirbelsäulentuberkulose leidet und dass er die Krankheit von seinem ausschweifenden Vater geerbt hat. Es wird angedeutet, dass der Vater Syphilis, eine Geschlechtskrankheit, hatte. Frau Linde äußert Bedenken wegen Dr. Ranks täglichen Besuchen. Sie glaubt, dass er übermäßig an Nora hängt und dass er derjenige ist, der ihr das Geld geliehen hat. Nora weist ihren Verdacht über die Herkunft des Geldes zurück. Nora hört Torvald zurückkehren und drängt schnell Frau Linde ins nächste Zimmer, mit der Begründung, dass er es nicht ertragen könne, beim Schneidern zuzusehen. Noch einmal bittet sie Torvald, Krogstad nicht zu entlassen. Sie behauptet, dass sie befürchtet, dass er Torvald verleumden wird. Torvald antwortet, dass sie dabei an ihren Vater denkt, der ähnlich verleumdet wurde. Aber Torvald besteht darauf, dass er im Gegensatz zu ihrem Vater einen über jeden Verdacht erhabenen Ruf hat. Er hat bekannt gemacht, dass er Krogstad entlässt, und darf nicht den Eindruck erwecken, dass er seine Meinung aufgrund der Überredung seiner Frau ändert. Sein letzter Grund, Krogstad zu entlassen, ist, dass er zwar seine "moralischen Mängel" übersehen könnte, aber befürchtet, dass er ihn in der Öffentlichkeit peinlich berühren könnte, indem er ihn zu vertraulich behandelt. Nora ist schockiert über den Engstirnigkeit ihres Mannes. Verletzt von ihrem Urteil über ihn, entscheidet Torvald, die Angelegenheit zu klären, und schickt Krogstad einen Entlassungsbrief mit seinem endgültigen Gehalt. Nora, in Panik, bittet ihn, den Brief zurückzurufen, aber er weigert sich und versichert ihr, dass er alle aufkommenden Probleme selbst übernehmen werde. Er schlägt vor, dass sie ihre Tarantella-Tanzübung macht. Dr. Rank kommt und offenbart Nora, dass er erwartet, innerhalb eines Monats zu sterben. Er möchte Torvald nicht in seinem Krankenzimmer haben, wird Nora aber eine Karte mit einem schwarzen Kreuz darauf schicken, wenn sein Tod bevorsteht. Nora flirtet mit Dr. Rank, zeigt ihm ihre Seidenstrümpfe. Sie spielt mit dem Gedanken, ihn um das Geld zu bitten, um Krogstad abzuzahlen, aber er enthüllt, dass er sie liebt, und sie entscheidet, dass sie ihn jetzt nicht fragen kann. Die Magd kommt mit Krogstads Visitenkarte herein. Nora erfindet eine Geschichte für Dr. Rank, dass ein neues Kleid geliefert wird, und bittet ihn, Torvald zu beschäftigen, da er es nicht sehen darf. Dr. Rank geht und Krogstad tritt mit einem Brief für Torvald ein und erzählt ihm von dem Kredit an Nora und ihrer Fälschung der Unterschrift ihres Vaters. Er sagt Nora, dass er nicht beabsichtigt, sie öffentlich anzuklagen, sondern Torvald zu erpressen. Er wird ihre Schuld zeigen, anstatt sie zurückzugeben, wenn der Kredit beglichen ist, wie es üblich ist. Er ist nicht zufrieden damit, wieder seinen alten Job zu bekommen, er möchte befördert werden. Er wirft den Brief in den verglasten Briefkasten, zu dem nur Torvald den Schlüssel hat. Frau Linde tritt ein. Nora zeigt ihr in panischer Angst den Brief. Frau Linde erkennt, dass Krogstad Nora das Geld geliehen hat. Nora erwartet immer noch, dass Torvald die alleinige Verantwortung auf sich nimmt, wie er versprochen hat, aber sie möchte, dass Frau Linde weiß, dass sie allein dafür verantwortlich ist. Frau Linde glaubt, dass es am besten ist, wenn Torvald die Wahrheit erfährt. Aber Nora besteht darauf, dass er es nicht herausfinden darf. Frau Linde geht, um mit Krogstad zu sprechen. Nora ist verzweifelt darum bemüht, Torvald daran zu hindern, den Brief zu lesen. Sie lenkt ihn ab, indem sie darauf besteht, dass er Klavier spielt, während sie die Tarantella übt. Sie tanzt immer wilder und er versucht, sie zu bremsen. Dr. Rank übernimmt das Klavier, während Torvald ihr Anweisungen gibt, die sie ignoriert. Sie bittet Torvald, sich nur auf sie zu konzentrieren und keinen Brief zu öffnen, bis nach der Party. Er stimmt zu. Frau Linde teilt Nora mit, dass Krogstad die Stadt bis zum nächsten Abend verlassen hat und sie ihm eine Notiz hinterlassen hat. Allein gelassen begreift Nora, dass sie nur eineinhalbunddreißig Stunden zu leben hat. Torvald tritt ein und fragt nach seinem "kleinen Lerchen", und sie eilt in seine Arme.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten 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.--A large room looking upon a garden door in the left-hand wall, and two in the right. In the middle of the room, a round table with chairs set about it, and books, magazines and newspapers upon it. In the foreground on the left, a window, by which is a small sofa with a work-table in front of it. At the back the room opens into a conservatory rather smaller than the room. From the right-hand side of this, a door leads to the garden. Through the large panes of glass that form the outer wall of the conservatory, a gloomy fjord landscape can be discerned, half-obscured by steady rain. ENGSTRAND is standing close to the garden door. His left leg is slightly deformed, and he wears a boot with a clump of wood under the sole. REGINA, with an empty garden-syringe in her hand, is trying to prevent his coming in.) Regina (below her breath). What is it you want? Stay where you are. The rain is dripping off you. Engstrand. God's good rain, my girl. Regina. The Devil's own rain, that's what it is! Engstrand. Lord, how you talk, Regina. (Takes a few limping steps forward.) What I wanted to tell you was this-- Regina. Don't clump about like that, stupid! The young master is lying asleep upstairs. Engstrand. Asleep still? In the middle of the day? Regina. Well, it's no business of yours. Engstrand. I was out on a spree last night-- Regina. I don't doubt it. Engstrand. Yes, we are poor weak mortals, my girl-- Regina. We are indeed. Engstrand. --and the temptations of the world are manifold, you know--but, for all that, here I was at my work at half-past five this morning. Regina. Yes, yes, but make yourself scarce now. I am not going to stand here as if I had a rendezvous with you. Engstrand. As if you had a what? Regina. I am not going to have anyone find you here; so now you know, and you can go. Engstrand (coming a few steps nearer). Not a bit of it! Not before we have had a little chat. This afternoon I shall have finished my job down at the school house, and I shall be off home to town by tonight's boat. Regina (mutters). Pleasant journey to you! Engstrand. Thanks, my girl. Tomorrow is the opening of the Orphanage, and I expect there will be a fine kick-up here and plenty of good strong drink, don't you know. And no one shall say of Jacob Engstrand that he can't hold off when temptation comes in his way. Regina. Oho! Engstrand. Yes, because there will be a lot of fine folk here tomorrow. Parson Manders is expected from town, too. Regina: What's more, he's coming today. Engstrand. There you are! And I'm going to be precious careful he doesn't have anything to say against me, do you see? Regina. Oh, that's your game, is it? Engstrand. What do you mean? Regina (with a significant look at him). What is it you want to humbug Mr. Manders out of this time? Engstrand. Sh! Sh! Are you crazy? Do you suppose I would want to humbug Mr. Manders? No, no--Mr. Manders has always been too kind a friend for me to do that. But what I wanted to talk to you about, was my going back home tonight. Regina. The sooner you go, the better I shall be pleased. Engstrand. Yes, only I want to take you with me, Regina. Regina (open-mouthed). You want to take me--? What did you say? Engstrand. I want to take you home with me, I said. Regina (contemptuously). You will never get me home with you. Engstrand. Ah, we shall see about that. Regina. Yes, you can be quite certain we shall see about that. I, who have been brought up by a lady like Mrs. Alving?--I, who have been treated almost as if I were her own child?--do you suppose I am going home with you?--to such a house as yours? Not likely! Engstrand. What the devil do you mean? Are you setting yourself up against your father, you hussy? Regina (mutters, without looking at him). You have often told me I was none of yours. Engstrand. Bah!--why do you want to pay any attention to that? Regina. Haven't you many and many a time abused me and called me a --? For shame? Engstrand. I'll swear I never used such an ugly word. Regina. Oh, it doesn't matter what word you used. Engstrand. Besides, that was only when I was a bit fuddled...hm! Temptations are manifold in this world, Regina. Regina. Ugh! Engstrand. And it was when your mother was in a nasty temper. I had to find some way of getting my knife into her, my girl. She was always so precious gentile. (Mimicking her.) "Let go, Jacob! Let me be! Please to remember that I was three years with the Alvings at Rosenvold, and they were people who went to Court!" (Laughs.) Bless my soul, she never could forget that Captain Alving got a Court appointment while she was in service here. Regina. Poor mother--you worried her into her grave pretty soon. Engstrand (shrugging his shoulders). Of course, of course; I have got to take the blame for everything. Regina (beneath her breath, as she turns away). Ugh--that leg, too! Engstrand. What are you saying, my girl? Regina. Pied de mouton. Engstrand. Is that English? Regina. Yes. Engstrand. You have had a good education out here, and no mistake; and it may stand you in good stead now, Regina. Regina (after a short silence). And what was it you wanted me to come to town for? Engstrand. Need you ask why a father wants his only child? Ain't I a poor lonely widower? Regina. Oh, don't come to me with that tale. Why do you want me to go? Engstrand. Well, I must tell you I am thinking of taking up a new line now. Regina (whistles). You have tried that so often--but it has always proved a fool's errand. Engstrand. Ah, but this time you will just see, Regina! Strike me dead if-- Regina (stamping her foot). Stop swearing! Engstrand. Sh! Sh!--you're quite right, my girl, quite right! What I wanted to say was only this, that I have put by a tidy penny out of what I have made by working at this new Orphanage up here. Regina. Have you? All the better for you. Engstrand. What is there for a man to spend his money on, out here in the country? Regina. Well, what then? Engstrand. Well, you see, I thought of putting the money into something that would pay. I thought of some kind of an eating-house for seafaring folk-- Regina. Heavens! Engstrand. Oh, a high-class eating-house, of course--not a pigsty for common sailors. Damn it, no; it would be a place ships' captains and first mates would come to; really good sort of people, you know. Regina. And what should I--? Engstrand. You would help there: But only to make show, you know. You wouldn't find it hard work, I can promise you, my girl. You should do exactly as you liked. Regina. Oh, yes, quite so! Engstrand. But we must have some women in the house; that is as clear as daylight. Because in the evening we must make the place a little attractive--some singing and dancing, and that sort of thing. Remember they are seafolk--wayfarers on the waters of life! (Coming nearer to her.) Now don't be a fool and stand in your own way, Regina. What good are you going to do here? Will this education, that your mistress has paid for, be of any use? You are to look after the children in the new Home, I hear. Is that the sort of work for you? Are you so frightfully anxious to go and wear out your health and strength for the sake of these dirty brats? Regina. No, if things were to go as I want them to, then--. Well, it may happen; who knows? It may happen! Engstrand. What may happen? Regina. Never you mind. Is it much that you have put by, up here? Engstrand. Taking it all round, I should say about forty or fifty pounds. Regina. That's not so bad. Engstrand. It's enough to make a start with, my girl. Regina. Don't you mean to give me any of the money? Engstrand. No, I'm hanged if I do. Regina. Don't you mean to send me as much as a dress-length of stuff, just for once? Engstrand. Come and live in the town with me and you shall have plenty of dresses. Regina: Pooh!--I can get that much for myself, if I have a mind to. Engstrand. But it's far better to have a father's guiding hand, Regina. Just now I can get a nice house in Little Harbour Street. They don't want much money down for it--and we could make it like a sort of seamen's home, don't you know. Regina. But I have no intention of living with you! I'll have nothing whatever to do with you: So now, be off! Engstrand. You wouldn't be living with me long, my girl. No such luck--not if you knew how to play your cards. Such a fine wench as you have grown this last year or two... Regina. Well--? Engstrand. It wouldn't be very long before some first mate came along--or perhaps a captain. Regina. I don't mean to marry a man of that sort. Sailors have no savoir-vivre. Engstrand. What haven't they got? Regina. I know what sailors are, I tell you. They aren't the sort of people to marry. Engstrand. Well, don't bother about marrying them. You can make it pay just as well. (More confidentially.) That fellow--the Englishman--the one with the yacht--he gave seventy pounds, he did; and she wasn't a bit prettier than you. Regina (advancing towards him). Get out! Engstrand (stepping back). Here! here!--you're not going to hit me, I suppose? Regina. Yes! If you talk like that of mother, I will hit you. Get out, I tell. You! (Pushes him up to the garden door.) And don't bang the doors. Young Mr. Alving-- Engstrand. Is asleep--I know. It's funny how anxious you are about young Mr. Alving. (In a lower tone.) Oho! is it possible that it is he that--? Regina. Get out, and be quick about it! Your wits are wandering, my good man. No, don't go that way; Mr. Manders is just coming along. Be off down the kitchen stairs. Engstrand (moving towards the right). Yes, yes--all right. But have a bit of a chat with him that's coming along. He's the chap to tell you what a child owes to its father. For I am your father, anyway, you know, I can prove it by the Register. (He goes out through the farther door which REGINA has opened. She shuts it after him, looks hastily at herself in the mirror, fans herself with her handkerchief and sets her collar straight; then busies herself with the flowers. MANDERS enters the conservatory through the garden door. He wears an overcoat, carries an umbrella, and has a small travelling-bag slung over his shoulder on a strap.) Manders. Good morning, Miss Engstrand. Regina (turning round with a look of pleased surprise), Oh, Mr. Manders, good morning. The boat is in, then? Manders. Just in. (Comes into the room.) It is most tiresome, this rain every day. Regina (following him in). It's a splendid rain for the farmers, Mr. Manders. Manders. Yes, you are quite right. We townfolk think so little about that. (Begins to take off his overcoat.) Regina. Oh, let me help you. That's it. Why, how wet it is! I will hang it up in the hall. Give me your umbrella, too; I will leave it open, so that it will dry. (She goes out with the things by the farther door on the right. MANDERS lays his bag and his hat down on a chair. REGINA re-enters.) Manders. Ah, it's very pleasant to get indoors. Well, is everything going on well here? Regina. Yes, thanks. Manders. Properly busy, though, I expect, getting ready for tomorrow? Regina. Oh, yes, there is plenty to do. Manders. And Mrs. Alving is at home, I hope? Regina. Yes, she is. She has just gone upstairs to take the young master his chocolate. Manders. Tell me--I heard down at the pier that Oswald had come back. Regina. Yes, he came the day before yesterday. We didn't expect him until today. Manders. Strong and well, I hope? Regina. Yes, thank you, well enough. But dreadfully tired after his journey. He came straight from Paris without a stop--I mean, he came all the way without breaking his journey. I fancy he is having a sleep now, so we must talk a little bit more quietly, if you don't mind. Manders. All right, we will be very quiet. Regina (while she moves an armchair up to the table), Please sit down, Mr. Manders, and make yourself at home. (He sits down; she puts a footstool under his feet.) There! Is that comfortable? Manders. Thank you, thank you. That is most comfortable; (Looks at her.) I'll tell you what, Miss Engstrand, I certainly think you have grown since I saw you last. Regina. Do you think so? Mrs. Alving says, too--that I have developed. Manders. Developed? Well, perhaps a little--just suitably. (A short pause.) Regina. Shall I tell Mrs. Alving you are here? Manders. Thanks, there is no hurry, my dear child. Now tell me, Regina my dear, how has your father been getting on here? Regina. Thank you, Mr. Manders, he is getting on pretty well. Manders. He came to see me the last time he was in town. Regina. Did he? He is always so glad when he can have a chat with you. Manders. And I suppose you have seen him pretty regularly every day? Regina. I? Oh, yes, I do--whenever I have time, that is to say. Manders. Your father has not a very strong character, Miss Engstrand. He sadly needs a guiding hand. Regina. Yes, I can quite believe that. Manders. He needs someone with him that he can cling to, someone whose judgment he can rely on. He acknowledged that freely himself, the last time he came up to see me. Regina. Yes, he has said something of the same sort to me. But I don't know whether Mrs. Alving could do without me--most of all just now, when we have the new Orphanage to see about. And I should be dreadfully unwilling to leave Mrs. Alving, too; she has always been so good to me. Manders. But a daughter's duty, my good child--. Naturally we should have to get your mistress' consent first. Regina. Still I don't know whether it would be quite the thing, at my age, to keep house for a single man. Manders. What! My dear Miss Engstrand, it is your own father we are speaking of! Regina. Yes, I dare say, but still--. Now, if it were in a good house and with a real gentleman-- Manders. But, my dear Regina! Regina. --one whom I could feel an affection for, and really feel in the position of a daughter to... Manders. Come, come--my dear good child-- Regina. I should like very much to live in town. Out here it is terribly lonely; and you know yourself, Mr. Manders, what it is to be alone in the world. And, though I say it, I really am both capable and willing. Don't you know any place that would be suitable for me, Mr. Manders? Manders. I? No, indeed I don't. Regina. But, dear Mr. Manders--at any rate don't forget me, in case-- Manders (getting up). No, I won't forget you, Miss Engstrand. Regina. Because, if I-- Manders. Perhaps you will be so kind as to let Mrs. Alving know I am here? Regina. I will fetch her at once, Mr. Manders. (Goes out to the left. MANDERS walks up and down the room once or twice, stands for a moment at the farther end of the room with his hands behind his back and looks out into the garden. Then he comes back to the table, takes up a book and looks at the title page, gives a start, and looks at some of the others.) Manders. Hm!--Really! (MRS. ALVING comes in by the door on the left. She is followed by REGINA, who goes out again at once through the nearer door on the right.) Mrs. Alving (holding out her hand). I am very glad to see you, Mr. Manders. Manders. How do you do, Mrs. Alving. Here I am, as I promised. Mrs. Alving. Always punctual! Manders. Indeed, I was hard put to it to get away. What with vestry meetings and committees. Mrs. Alving. It was all the kinder of you to come in such good time; we can settle our business before dinner. But where is your luggage? Manders (quickly). My things are down at the village shop. I am going to sleep there tonight. Mrs. Alving (repressing a smile). Can't I really persuade you to stay the night here this time? Manders. No, no; many thanks all the same; I will put up there, as usual. It is so handy for getting on board the boat again. Mrs. Alving. Of course, you shall do as you please. But it seems to me quite another thing, now we are two old people-- Manders. Ha! ha! You will have your joke! And it's natural you should be in high spirits today--first of all there is the great event tomorrow, and also you have got Oswald home. Mrs. Alving. Yes, am I not a lucky woman! It is more than two years since he was home last, and he has promised to stay the whole winter with me. Manders, Has he, really? That is very nice and filial of him; because there must be many more attractions in his life in Rome or in Paris, I should think. Mrs. Alving. Yes, but he has his mother here, you see. Bless the dear boy, he has got a corner in his heart for his mother still. Manders. Oh, it would be very sad if absence and preoccupation with such a thing as Art were to dull the natural affections. Mrs. Alving. It would, indeed. But there is no fear of that with him, I am glad to say. I am quite curious to see if you recognise him again. He will be down directly; he is just lying down for a little on the sofa upstairs. But do sit down, my dear friend. Manders. Thank you. You are sure I am not disturbing you? Mrs. Alving. Of course not. (She sits down at the table.) Manders. Good. Then I will show you--. (He goes to the chair where his bag is lying and takes a packet of papers from it; then sits down at the opposite side of the table and looks for a clear space to put the papers down.) Now first of all, here is--(breaks off). Tell me, Mrs. Alving, what are these books doing here? Mrs. Alving. These books? I am reading them, Manders. Do you read this sort of thing? Mrs. Alving. Certainly I do. Manders. Do you feel any the better or the happier for reading books of this kind? Mrs. Alving. I think it makes me, as it were, more self-reliant. Manders. That is remarkable. But why? Mrs. Alving. Well, they give me an explanation or a confirmation of lots of different ideas that have come into my own mind. But what surprises me, Mr. Manders, is that, properly speaking, there is nothing at all new in these books. There is nothing more in them than what most people think and believe. The only thing is, that most people either take no account of it or won't admit it to themselves. Manders. But, good heavens, do you seriously think that most people--? Mrs. Alving. Yes, indeed, I do. Manders. But not here in the country at any rate? Not here amongst people like ourselves? Mrs. Alving. Yes, amongst people like ourselves too. Manders. Well, really, I must say--! Mrs. Alving. But what is the particular objection that you have to these books? Manders. What objection? You surely don't suppose that I take any particular interest in such productions? Mrs. Alving. In fact, you don't know anything about what you are denouncing? Manders. I have read quite enough about these books to disapprove of them: Mrs. Alving. Yes, but your own opinion-- Manders. My dear Mrs. Alving, there are many occasions in life when one has to rely on the opinion of others. That is the way in this world, and it is quite right that it should be so. What would become of society, otherwise? Mrs. Alving. Well, you may be right. Manders. Apart from that, naturally I don't deny that literature of this kind may have a considerable attraction. And I cannot blame you, either, for wishing to make yourself acquainted with the intellectual tendencies which I am told are at work in the wider world in which you have allowed your son to wander for so long but-- Mrs. Alving. But--? Manders (lowering his voice). But one doesn't talk about it, Mrs. Alving. One certainly is not called upon to account to everyone for what one reads or thinks in the privacy of one's own room. Mrs. Alving. Certainly not. I quite agree with you. Manders. Just think of the consideration you owe to this Orphanage, which you decided to build at a time when your thoughts on such subjects were very different from what they are now--as far as I am able to judge. Mrs. Alving. Yes, I freely admit that. But it was about the Orphanage... Manders. It was about the Orphanage we were going to talk; quite so. Well--walk warily, dear Mrs. Alving! And now let us turn to the business in hand. (Opens an envelope and takes out some papers.) You see these? Mrs. Alving. The deeds? Manders. Yes, the whole lot--and everything in order; I can tell you it has been no easy matter to get them in time. I had positively to put pressure on the authorities; they are almost painfully conscientious when it is a question of settling property. But here they are at last. (Turns over the papers.) Here is the deed of conveyance of that part of the Rosenvold estate known as the Solvik property, together with the buildings newly erected thereon--the school, the masters' houses and the chapel. And here is the legal sanction for the statutes of the institution. Here, you see--(reads) "Statutes for the Captain Alving Orphanage." Mrs. Alving (after a long look at the papers). That seems all in order. Manders. I thought "Captain" was the better title to use, rather than your husband's Court title of "Chamberlain." "Captain" seems less ostentatious. Mrs. Alving. Yes, yes; just as you think best. Manders. And here is the certificate for the investment of the capital in the bank, the interest being earmarked for the current expenses of the Orphanage. Mrs. Alving. Many thanks; but I think it will be most convenient if you will kindly take charge of them. Manders. With pleasure. I think it will be best to leave the money in the bank for the present. The interest is not very high, it is true; four per cent at six months' call; later on, if we can find some good mortgage--of course it must be a first mortgage and on unexceptionable security--we can consider the matter further. Mrs. Alving. Yes, yes, my dear Mr. Manders, you know best about all that. Manders. I will keep my eye on it, anyway. But there is one thing in connection with it that I have often meant to ask you about. Mrs. Alving. What is that? Manders. Shall we insure the buildings, or not? Mrs. Alving. Of course we must insure them. Manders. Ah, but wait a moment, dear lady. Let us look into the matter a little more closely. Mrs. Alving. Everything of mine is insured--the house and its contents, my livestock--everything. Manders. Naturally. They are your own property. I do exactly the same, of course. But this, you see, is quite a different case. The Orphanage is, so to speak, dedicated to higher uses. Mrs. Alving. Certainly, but-- Manders. As far as I am personally concerned, I can conscientiously say that I don't see the smallest objection to our insuring ourselves against all risks. Mrs. Alving. That is exactly what I think. Manders. But what about the opinion of the people hereabouts? Mrs. Alving. Their opinion--? Manders. Is there any considerable body of opinion here--opinion of some account, I mean--that might take exception to it? Mrs. Alving. What, exactly, do you mean by opinion of some account? Manders. Well, I was thinking particularly of persons of such independent and influential position that one could hardly refuse to attach weight to their opinion. Mrs. Alving. There are a certain number of such people here, who might perhaps take exception to it if we-- Manders. That's just it, you see. In town there are lots of them. All my fellow-clergymen's congregations, for instance! It would be so extremely easy for them to interpret it as meaning that neither you nor I had a proper reliance on Divine protection. Mrs. Alving. But as far as you are concerned, my dear friend, you have at all events the consciousness that-- Manders. Yes I know I know; my own mind is quite easy about it, it is true. But we should not be able to prevent a wrong and injurious interpretation of our action. And that sort of thing, moreover, might very easily end in exercising a hampering influence on the work of the Orphanage. Mrs. Alving. Oh, well, if that is likely to be the effect of it-- Manders. Nor can I entirely overlook the difficult--indeed, I may say, painful--position I might possibly be placed in. In the best circles in town the matter of this Orphanage is attracting a great deal of attention. Indeed the Orphanage is to some extent built for the benefit of the town too, and it is to be hoped that it may result in the lowering of our poor-rate by a considerable amount. But as I have been your adviser in the matter and have taken charge of the business side of it, I should be afraid that it would be I that spiteful persons would attack first of all. Mrs. Alving. Yes, you ought not to expose yourself to that. Manders. Not to mention the attacks that would undoubtedly be made upon me in certain newspapers and reviews. Mrs. Alving. Say no more about it, dear Mr. Manders; that quite decides it. Manders. Then you don't wish it to be insured? Mrs. Alving. No, we will give up the idea. Manders (leaning back in his chair). But suppose, now, that some accident happened?--one can never tell--would you be prepared to make good the damage? Mrs. Alving. No; I tell you quite plainly I would not do so under any circumstances. Manders. Still, you know, Mrs. Alving--after all, it is a serious responsibility that we are taking upon ourselves. Mrs. Alving. But do you think we can do otherwise? Manders. No, that's just it. We really can't do otherwise. We ought not to expose ourselves to a mistaken judgment; and we have no right to do anything that will scandalise the community. Mrs. Alving. You ought not to, as a clergyman, at any rate. Manders. And, what is more, I certainly think that we may count upon our enterprise being attended by good fortune--indeed, that it will be under a special protection. Mrs. Alving. Let us hope so, Mr. Manders. Manders. Then we will leave it alone? Mrs. Alving. Certainly. Manders. Very good. As you wish. (Makes a note.) No insurance, then. Mrs. Alving. It's a funny thing that you should just have happened to speak about that today-- Manders. I have often meant to ask you about it. Mrs. Alving. --because yesterday we very nearly had a fire up there. Manders. Do you mean it! Mrs. Alving. Oh, as a matter of fact it was nothing of any consequence. Some shavings in the carpenter's shop caught fire. Manders. Where Engstrand works? Mrs. Alving. Yes. They say he is often so careless with matches. Manders. He has so many things on his mind, poor fellow--so many anxieties. Heaven be thanked, I am told he is really making an effort to live a blameless life. Mrs. Alving. Really? Who told you so? Manders. He assured me himself that it is so. He's good workman, too. Mrs. Alving. Oh, yes, when he is sober. Manders. Ah, that sad weakness of his! But the pain in his poor leg often drives him to it, he tells me. The last time he was in town, I was really quite touched by him. He came to my house and thanked me so gratefully for getting him work here, where he could have the chance of being with Regina. Mrs. Alving. He doesn't see very much of her. Manders. But he assured me that he saw her every day. Mrs. Alving. Oh well, perhaps he does. Manders. He feels so strongly that he needs someone who can keep a hold on him when temptations assail him. That is the most winning thing about Jacob Engstrand; he comes to one like a helpless child and accuses himself and confesses his frailty. The last time he came and had a talk with me... Suppose now, Mrs. Alving, that it were really a necessity of his existence to have Regina at home with him again-- Mrs. Alving (standing up suddenly). Regina! Manders. --you ought not to set yourself against him. Mrs. Alving. Indeed, I set myself very definitely against that. And, besides, you know Regina is to have a post in the Orphanage. Manders. But consider, after all he is her father-- Mrs. Alving. I know best what sort of a father he has been to her. No, she shall never go to him with my consent. Manders (getting up). My dear lady, don't judge so hastily. It is very sad how you misjudge poor Engstrand. One would really think you were afraid... Mrs. Alving (more calmly). That is not the question. I have taken Regina into my charge, and in my charge she remains. (Listens.) Hush, dear Mr. Manders, don't say any more about it. (Her face brightens with pleasure.) Listen! Oswald is coming downstairs. We will only think about him now. (OSWALD ALVING, in a light overcoat, hat in hand and smoking a big meerschaum pipe, comes in by the door on the left.) Oswald (standing in the doorway). Oh, I beg your pardon, I thought you were in the office. (Comes in.) Good morning, Mr. Manders. Manders (staring at him). Well! It's most extraordinary. Mrs. Alving. Yes, what do you think of him, Mr. Manders? Manders. I-I-no, can it possibly be--? Oswald. Yes, it really is the prodigal son, Mr. Manders. Manders. Oh, my dear young friend-- Oswald. Well, the son came home, then. Mrs. Alving. Oswald is thinking of the time when you were so opposed to the idea of his being a painter. Manders. We are only fallible, and many steps seem to us hazardous at first, that afterwards--(grasps his hand). Welcome, welcome! Really, my dear Oswald--may I still call you Oswald? Oswald. What else would you think of calling me? Manders. Thank you. What I mean, my dear Oswald, is that you must not imagine that I have any unqualified disapproval of the artist's life. I admit that there are many who, even in that career, can keep the inner man free from harm. Oswald. Let us hope so. Mrs. Alving (beaming with pleasure). I know one who has kept both the inner and the outer man free from harm. Just take a look at him, Mr. Manders. Oswald (walks across the room). Yes, yes, mother dear, of course. Manders. Undoubtedly--no one can deny it. And I hear you have begun to make a name for yourself. I have often seen mention of you in the papers--and extremely favourable mention, too. Although, I must admit, lately I have not seen your name so often. Oswald (going towards the conservatory). I haven't done so much painting just lately. Mrs. Alving. An artist must take a rest sometimes, like other people. Manders. Of course, of course. At those times the artist is preparing and strengthening himself for a greater effort. Oswald. Yes. Mother, will dinner soon be ready? Mrs. Alving. In half an hour. He has a fine appetite, thank goodness. Manders. And a liking for tobacco too. Oswald. I found father's pipe in the room upstairs, and-- Manders. Ah, that is what it was! Mrs. Alving. What? Manders. When Oswald came in at that door with the pipe in his mouth, I thought for the moment it was his father in the flesh. Oswald. Really? Mrs. Alving. How can you say so! Oswald takes after me. Manders. Yes, but there is an expression about the corners of his mouth--something about the lips--that reminds me so exactly of Mr. Alving--especially when he smokes. Mrs. Alving. I don't think so at all. To my mind, Oswald has much more of a clergyman's mouth. Menders. Well, yes--a good many of my colleagues in the church have a similar expression. Mrs. Alving. But put your pipe down, my dear boy. I don't allow any smoking in here. Oswald (puts down his pipe). All right, I only wanted to try it, because I smoked it once when I was a child. Mrs. Alving. You? Oswald. Yes; it was when I was quite a little chap. And I can remember going upstairs to father's room one evening when he was in very good spirits. Mrs. Alving. Oh, you can't remember anything about those days. Oswald. Yes, I remember plainly that he took me on his knee and let me smoke his pipe. "Smoke, my boy," he said, "have a good smoke, boy!" And I smoked as hard as I could, until I felt I was turning quite pale and the perspiration was standing in great drops on my forehead. Then he laughed--such a hearty laugh. Manders. It was an extremely odd thing to do. Mrs. Alving. Dear Mr. Manders, Oswald only dreamt it. Oswald. No indeed, mother, it was no dream. Because--don't you remember--you came into the room and carried me off to the nursery, where I was sick, and I saw that you were crying. Did father often play such tricks? Manders. In his young days he was full of fun-- Oswald. And, for all that, he did so much with his life--so much that was good and useful, I mean--short as his life was. Manders. Yes, my dear Oswald Alving, you have inherited the name of a man who undoubtedly was both energetic and worthy. Let us hope it will be a spur to your energies. Oswald. It ought to be, certainly. Manders. In any case it was nice of you to come home for the day that is to honour his memory. Oswald. I could do no less for my father. Mrs. Alving. And to let me keep him so long here--that's the nicest part of what he has done. Manders. Yes, I hear you are going to spend the winter at home. Oswald. I am here for an indefinite time, Mr. Manders.--Oh, it's good to be at home again! Mrs. Alving (beaming). Yes, isn't it? Manders (looking sympathetically at him). You went out into the world very young, my dear Oswald. Oswald. I did. Sometimes I wonder if I wasn't too young. Mrs. Alving. Not a bit of it. It is the best thing for an active boy, and especially for an only child. It's a pity when they are kept at home with their parents and get spoiled. Manders. That is a very debatable question, Mrs. Alving. A child's own home is, and always must be, his proper place. Oswald. There I agree entirely with Mr. Manders. Manders. Take the case of your own son. Oh yes, we can talk about it before him. What has the result been in his case? He is six or seven and twenty, and has never yet had the opportunity of learning what a well-regulated home means. Oswald. Excuse me, Mr. Manders, you are quite wrong there. Manders. Indeed? I imagined that your life abroad had practically been spent entirely in artistic circles. Oswald. So it has. Manders. And chiefly amongst the younger artists. Oswald. Certainly. Manders. But I imagined that those gentry, as a rule, had not the means necessary for family life and the support of a home. Oswald. There are a considerable number of them who have not the means to marry, Mr. Manders. Manders. That is exactly my point. Oswald. But they can have a home of their own, all the same; a good many of them have. And they are very well-regulated and very comfortable homes, too. (MRS. ALVING, who has listened to him attentively, nods assent, but says nothing.) Manders. Oh, but I am not talking of bachelor establishments. By a home I mean family life--the life a man lives with his wife and children. Oswald. Exactly, or with his children and his children's mother. Manders (starts and clasps his hands). Good heavens! Oswald. What is the matter? Manders. Lives with-with-his children's mother. Oswald. Well, would you rather he should repudiate his children's mother? Manders. Then what you are speaking of are those unprincipled conditions known as irregular unions! Oswald. I have never noticed anything particularly unprincipled about these people's lives. Manders. But do you mean to say that it is possible for a man of any sort of bringing up, and a young woman, to reconcile themselves to such a way of living--and to make no secret of it, either! Oswald. What else are they to do? A poor artist, and a poor girl--it costs a good deal to get married. What else are they to do? Manders. What are they to do? Well, Mr. Alving, I will tell you what they ought to do. They ought to keep away from each other from the very beginning--that is what they ought to do! Oswald. That advice wouldn't have much effect upon hot-blooded young folk who are in love. Mrs. Alving. No, indeed it wouldn't. Manders (persistently). And to think that the authorities tolerate such things! That they are allowed to go on, openly! (Turns to MRS. ALVING.) Had I so little reason, then, to be sadly concerned about your son? In circles where open immorality is rampant--where, one may say, it is honoured-- Oswald. Let me tell you this, Mr. Manders. I have been a constant Sunday guest at one or two of these "irregular" households. Manders. On Sunday, too! Oswald. Yes, that is the day of leisure. But never have I heard one objectionable word there, still less have I ever seen anything that could be called immoral. No; but do you know when and where I have met with immorality in artists' circles? Manders. No, thank heaven, I don't! Oswald. Well, then, I shall have the pleasure of telling you. I have met with it when someone or other of your model husbands and fathers have come out there to have a bit of a look round on their own account, and have done the artists the honour of looking them up in their humble quarters. Then we had a chance of learning something, I can tell you. These gentlemen were able to instruct us about places and things that we had never so much as dreamt of. Manders. What? Do you want me to believe that honourable men when they get away from home will-- Oswald. Have you never, when these same honourable men come home again, heard them deliver themselves on the subject of the prevalence of immorality abroad? Manders. Yes, of course, but-- Mrs. Alving. I have heard them, too. Oswald. Well, you can take their word for it, unhesitatingly. Some of them are experts in the matter. (Putting his hands to his head.) To think that the glorious freedom of the beautiful life over there should be so besmirched! Mrs. Alving. You mustn't get too heated, Oswald; you gain nothing by that. Oswald. No, you are quite right, mother. Besides, it isn't good for me. It's because I am so infernally tired, you know. I will go out and take a turn before dinner. I beg your pardon, Mr. Manders. It is impossible for you to realise the feeling; but it takes me that way (Goes out by the farther door on the right.) Mrs. Alving. My poor boy! Manders. You may well say so. This is what it has brought him to! (MRS. ALVING looks at him, but does not speak.) He called himself the prodigal son. It's only too true, alas--only too true! (MRS. ALVING looks steadily at him.) And what do you say to all this? Mrs. Alving. I say that Oswald was right in every single word he said. Manders. Right? Right? To hold such principles as that? Mrs. Alving. In my loneliness here I have come to just the same opinions as he, Mr. Manders. But I have never presumed to venture upon such topics in conversation. Now there is no need; my boy shall speak for me. Manders. You deserve the deepest pity, Mrs. Alving. It is my duty to say an earnest word to you. It is no longer your businessman and adviser, no longer your old friend and your dead husband's old friend, that stands before you now. It is your priest that stands before you, just as he did once at the most critical moment of your life. Mrs. Alving. And what is it that my priest has to say to me? Manders. First of all I must stir your memory. The moment is well chosen. Tomorrow is the tenth anniversary of your husband's death; tomorrow the memorial to the departed will be unveiled; tomorrow I shall speak to the whole assembly that will be met together, But today I want to speak to you alone. Mrs. Alving, Very well, Mr. Manders, speak! Manders. Have you forgotten that after barely a year of married life you were standing at the very edge of a precipice?--that you forsook your house and home? that you ran away from your husband--yes, Mrs. Alving, ran away, ran away-=and refused to return to him in spite of his requests and entreaties? Mrs. Alving. Have you forgotten how unspeakably unhappy I was during that first year? Manders. To crave for happiness in this world is simply to be possessed by a spirit of revolt. What right have we to happiness? No! we must do our duty, Mrs. Alving. And your duty was to cleave to the man you had chosen and to whom you were bound by a sacred bond. Mrs. Alving. You know quite well what sort of a life my husband was living at that time--what excesses he was guilty of. Menders. I know only too well what rumour used to say of him; and I should be the last person to approve of his conduct as a young man, supposing that rumour spoke the truth. But it is not a wife's part to be her husband's judge. You should have considered it your bounden duty humbly to have borne the cross that a higher will had laid upon you. But, instead of that, you rebelliously cast off your cross, you deserted the man whose stumbling footsteps you should have supported, you did what was bound to imperil your good name and reputation, and came very near to imperilling the reputation of others into the bargain. Mrs. Alving. Of others? Of one other, you mean. Manders. It was the height of imprudence, your seeking refuge with me. Mrs. Alving. With our priest? With our intimate friend? Manders. All the more on that account; you should thank God that I possessed the necessary strength of mind--that I was able to turn you from your outrageous intention, and that it was vouchsafed to me to succeed in leading you back into the path of duty, and back to your lawful husband. Mrs. Alving. Yes, Mr. Manders, that certainly was your doing. Manders. I was but the humble instrument of a higher power. And is it not true that my having been able to bring you again under the yoke of duty and obedience sowed the seeds of a rich blessing on all the rest of your life? Did things not turn out as I foretold to you? Did not your husband turn from straying in the wrong path, as a man should? Did he not, after that, live a life of love and good report with you all his days? Did he not become a benefactor to the neighbourhood? Did he not so raise you up to his level, so that by degree you became his fellow-worker in all his undertakings--and a noble fellow-worker, too. I know, Mrs. Alving; that praise I will give you. But now I come to the second serious false step in your life. Mrs. Alving. What do you mean? Manders, Just as once you forsook your duty as a wife, so, since then, you have forsaken your duty as a mother. Mrs. Alving. Oh--! Manders. You have been overmastered all your life by a disastrous spirit of willfulness. All your impulses have led you towards what is undisciplined and lawless. You have never been willing to submit to any restraint. Anything in life that has seemed irksome to you, you have thrown aside recklessly and unscrupulously, as if it were a burden that you were free to rid yourself of if you would. It did not please you to be a wife any longer, and so you left your husband. Your duties as a mother were irksome to you, so you sent your child away among strangers. Mrs. Alving. Yes, that is true; I did that. Menders. And that is why you have become a stranger to him. Mrs. Alving. No, no, I am not that! Manders. You are; you must be. And what sort of a son is it that you have got back? Think over it seriously, Mrs. Alving. You erred grievously in your husband's case--you acknowledge as much, by erecting this memorial to him. Now you are bound to acknowledge how much you have erred in your son's case; possibly there may still be time to reclaim him from the path of wickedness. Turn over a new leaf, and set yourself to reform what there may still be that is capable of reformation in him. Because (with uplifted forefinger) in very truth, Mrs. Alving, you are a guilty mother!--That is what I have thought it my duty to say to you. (A short silence.) Mrs. Alving (speaking slowly and with self-control). You have had your say, Mr. Manders, and tomorrow you will be making a public speech in memory of my husband. I shall not speak tomorrow. But now I wish to speak to you for a little, just as you have been speaking to me. Manders. By all means; no doubt you wish to bring forward some excuses for your behaviour. Mrs. Alving. No. I only want to tell you something-- Manders. Well? Mrs. Alving. In all that you said just now about me and my husband, and about our life together after you had, as you put it, led me back into the path of duty--there was nothing that you knew at first hand. From that moment you never again set foot in our house--you, who had been our daily companion before that. Manders. Remember that you and your husband moved out of town immediately afterwards. Mrs. Alving. Yes, and you never once came out here to see us in my husband's lifetime. It was only the business in connection with the Orphanage that obliged you to come and see me. Manders (in a low and uncertain voice). Helen--if that is a reproach, I can only beg you to consider-- Mrs. Alving. --the respect you owed by your calling?--yes. All the more as I was a wife who had tried to run away from her husband. One can never be too careful to have nothing to do with such reckless women. Manders. My dear--Mrs. Alving, you are exaggerating dreadfully. Mrs. Alving. Yes, yes,--very well. What I mean is this, that when you condemn my conduct as a wife you have nothing more to go upon than ordinary public opinion. Manders. I admit it. What then? Mrs. Alving. Well now, Mr. Manders, now I am going to tell you the truth. I had sworn to myself that you should know it one day--you, and you only! Manders. And what may the truth be? Mrs. Alving. The truth is this, that my husband died just as great a profligate as he had been all his life. Manders (feeling for a chair). What are you saying? Mrs. Alving. After nineteen years of married life, just as profligate--in his desires at all events--as he was before you married us. Manders. And can you talk of his youthful indiscretions--his irregularities--his excesses, if you like--as a profligate life! Mrs. Alving. That was what the doctor who attended him called it. Manders. I don't understand what you mean. Mrs. Alving. It is not necessary that you should. Manders. It makes my brain reel. To think that your marriage--all the years of wedded life you spent with your husband--were nothing but a hidden abyss of misery. Mrs. Alving. That and nothing else. Now you know. Manders. This--this bewilders me. I can't understand it! I can't grasp it! How in the world was it possible? How could such a state of things remain concealed? Mrs. Alving. That was just what I had to fight for incessantly, day after day. When Oswald was born, I thought I saw a slight improvement. But it didn't last long. And after that I had to fight doubly hard--fight a desperate fight so that no one should know what sort of a man my child's father was. You know quite well what an attractive manner he had; it seemed as if people could believe nothing but good of him. He was one of those men whose mode of life seems to have no effect upon their reputations. But at last, Mr. Manders--you must hear this too--at last something happened more abominable than everything else. Manders. More abominable than what you have told me! Mrs. Alving. I had borne with it all, though I knew only too well what he indulged in in secret, when he was out of the house. But when it came to the point of the scandal coming within our four walls-- Manders. Can you mean it! Here? Mrs. Alving. Yes, here, in our own home. It was in there (pointing to the nearer door on the right) in the dining-room that I got the first hint of it. I had something to do in there and the door was standing ajar. I heard our maid come up from the garden with water for the flowers in the conservatory. Manders. Well--? Mrs. Alving. Shortly afterwards I heard my husband come in too. I heard him say something to her in a low voice. And then I heard--(with a short laugh)--oh, it rings in my ears still, with its mixture of what was heartbreaking and what was so ridiculous--I heard my own servant whisper: "Let me go, Mr. Alving! Let me be!" Manders. What unseemly levity on his part! But surely nothing more than levity, Mrs. Alving, believe me. Mrs. Alving. I soon knew what to believe. My husband had his will of the girl--and that intimacy had consequences, Mr. Manders. Manders (as if turned to stone). And all that in this house! In this house! Mrs. Alving. I have suffered a good deal in this house. To keep him at home in the evening--and at night--I have had to play the part of boon companion in his secret drinking-bouts in his room up there. I have had to sit there alone with him, have had to hobnob and drink with him, have had to listen to his ribald senseless talk, have had to fight with brute force to get him to bed-- Manders (trembling). And you were able to endure all this! Mrs. Alving. I had my little boy, and endured it for his sake. But when the crowning insult came--when my own servant--then I made up my mind that there should be an end of it. I took the upper hand in the house, absolutely--both with him and all the others. I had a weapon to use against him, you see; he didn't dare to speak. It was then that Oswald was sent away. He was about seven then, and was beginning to notice things and ask questions as children will. I could endure all that, my friend. It seemed to me that the child would be poisoned if he breathed the air of this polluted house. That was why I sent him away. And now you understand, too, why he never set foot here as long as his father was alive. No one knows what it meant to me. Manders. You have indeed had a pitiable experience. Mrs. Alving. I could never have gone through with it, if I had not had my work. Indeed, I can boast that I have worked. All the increase in the value of the property, all the improvements, all the useful arrangements that my husband got the honour and glory of--do you suppose that he troubled himself about any of them? He, who used to lie the whole day on the sofa reading old official lists! No, you may as well know that too. It was I that kept him up to the mark when he had his lucid intervals; it was I that had to bear the whole burden of it when he began his excesses again or took to whining about his miserable condition. Manders. And this is the man you are building a memorial to! Mrs. Alving. There you see the power of an uneasy conscience. Manders. An uneasy conscience? What do you mean? Mrs. Alving. I had always before me the fear that it was impossible that the truth should not come out and be believed. That is why the Orphanage is to exist, to silence all rumours and clear away all doubt. Manders. You certainly have not fallen short of the mark in that, Mrs. Alving. Mrs. Alving. I had another very good reason. I did not wish Oswald, my own son, to inherit a penny that belonged to his father. Manders. Then it is with Mr. Alving's property. Mrs. Alving. Yes. The sums of money that, year after year, I have given towards this Orphanage, make up the amount of property--I have reckoned it carefully--which in the old days made Lieutenant Alving a catch. Manders. I understand. Mrs. Alving. That was my purchase money. I don't wish it to pass into Oswald's hands. My son shall have everything from me, I am determined. (OSWALD comes in by the farther door on the right. He has left his hat and coat outside.) Mrs. Alving. Back again, my own dear boy? Oswald. Yes, what can one do outside in this everlasting rain? I hear dinner is nearly ready. That's good! (REGINA comes in front the dining-room, carrying a parcel.) Regina. This parcel has come for you, ma'am. (Gives it to her.) Mrs. Alving (glancing at MANDERS). The ode to be sung tomorrow, I expect. Manders. Hm--! Regina. And dinner is ready. Mrs. Alving. Good. We will come in a moment. I will just--(begins to open the parcel). Regina (to OSWALD). Will you drink white or red wine, sir? Oswald. Both, Miss Engstrand. Regina. Bien--very good, Mr. Alving. (Goes into the dining-room.) Oswald. I may as well help you to uncork it--. (Follows her into the dining-room, leaving the door ajar after him.) Mrs. Alving. Yes, I thought so. Here is the ode, Mr Manders. Manders (clasping his hands). How shall I ever have the courage tomorrow to speak the address that-- Mrs. Alving. Oh, you will get through it. Manders (in a low voice, fearing to be heard in the dining room). Yes, we must raise no suspicions. Mrs. Alving (quietly but firmly). No; and then this long dreadful comedy will be at an end. After tomorrow, I shall feel as if my dead husband had never lived in this house. There will be no one else here then but my boy and his mother. (From the dining-room is heard the noise of a chair falling; then REGINA'S voice is heard in a loud whisper: Oswald! Are you mad? Let me go!) Mrs. Alving (starting in horror). Oh--! (She stares wildly at the half-open door. OSWALD is heard coughing and humming, then the sound of a bottle being uncorked.) Manders (in an agitated manner). What's the matter? What is it, Mrs. Alving? Mrs. Alving (hoarsely). Ghosts. The couple in the conservatory--over again. Manders. What are you saying! Regina--? Is SHE--! Mrs. Alving. Yes, Come. Not a word--! (Grips MANDERS by the arm and walks unsteadily with him into the dining-room.) Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Regina Engstrand, ein junges Mädchen in Diensten von Frau Alving, erscheint im Garten. Sie versucht zu verhindern, dass ihr Vater Jacob Engstrand herein kommt. Der Regen lässt den alten Mann noch ungepflegter aussehen als gewöhnlich und Regina macht deutlich, dass sie sich für seine Grobheit und sein vulgäres Auftreten schämt. Engstrand ist gekommen, um Regina zu bitten, bei ihm zu leben und für ihn in seinem geplanten "Seemannsheim" zu arbeiten. Er sagt, er habe genug Geld gespart, um dieses Unterfangen zu beginnen, nachdem er als Zimmermann an dem neuen Waisenhaus gearbeitet hat. Nun da sie zu einer "solchen feinen Dirne" herangewachsen ist, wäre sie eine wertvolle Bereicherung. Er deutet klar an, dass dieses Seemannsheim ein Bordell der gehobenen Klasse sein wird. Regina sagt, dass sie eigene Pläne für die Zukunft hat, besonders seit Oswald Alving gerade von seinem Studium in Paris zurückgekehrt ist. Pastor Manders tritt ein, nachdem Engstrand gegangen ist. Er spricht mit Regina über ihren Vater. Da Engstrand eine starke Einflussnahme benötigt, um ihn vom Trinken abzuhalten, schlägt Manders vor, dass Regina, aus familiärer Pflicht, zu ihm zurückkehrt, um "die führende Hand" in seinem Leben zu sein. Regina sagt, sie würde lieber einen Platz in der Stadt als Gouvernante suchen. Während das Mädchen geht, um Frau Alving zu holen, liest Manders einige Bücher auf dem Tisch. Als er den Titel eines Buches liest, erschrickt er und wirft mit zunehmender Missbilligung einen Blick auf die anderen Bücher. Herzlich und liebevoll begrüßt Frau Alving ihn, als sie hereinkommt. Höflich fragt Manders nach Oswald und fragt dann, wer diese Bücher liest. Schockiert festzustellen, dass sie ihre eigenen sind, fragt er sich, wie solches Lesen zu ihrem Selbstvertrauen beitragen könne, wie sie es ausdrückt, oder wie es ihre eigenen Eindrücke bestätigen könne. Was ist an den Büchern anstößig, fragt sie. "Ich habe genug über sie gelesen, um sie abzulehnen", antwortet er. "Aber Ihre eigene Meinung - " fährt sie fort. Er spricht wie zu einem Kind: "Meine liebe Frau Alving, es gibt viele Gelegenheiten im Leben, in denen man sich auf die Meinungen anderer verlassen muss. Das ist die Art der Welt und es ist völlig richtig, dass es so sein sollte. Was würde sonst aus der Gesellschaft werden?" Jetzt möchte er ihr gemeinsames Geschäft besprechen - das Alving-Waisenhaus -, das von Frau Alving zu Ehren ihres verstorbenen Mannes gebaut wurde. Obwohl sie alle Vereinbarungen Manders überlassen hat, will er fragen, ob sie die Gebäude versichern sollten. Auf ihr promptes "natürlich" erhebt er Einwände, da das Waisenhaus "höheren Zwecken" gewidmet ist. Er weist darauf hin, dass seine Kollegen Geistliche und ihre Gemeinden die Versicherung als Zeichen dafür interpretieren könnten, "dass weder Sie noch ich auf göttlichen Schutz vertrauen". Als Beraterin von Frau Alving selbst würde er der erste Angriff von "böswilligen Personen" sein, die ihn öffentlich verleumden würden. Sie versichert ihm, dass sie unter diesen Bedingungen keine Versicherung für die Gebäude wünscht. Beim Thema Versicherung erwähnt Frau Alving, dass das Gebäude gestern beinahe in Brand geraten wäre, weil einige brennende Späne in der Schreinerwerkstatt waren. Sie sagt, sie habe gehört, dass Engstrand oft unachtsam mit Streichhölzern umgeht. Manders entschuldigt sich, weil der "arme Kerl" so viele Ängste hat. "Gott sei Dank," sagt er, "man sagt mir, dass er wirklich eine Anstrengung unternimmt, ein untadeliges Leben zu führen. Er hat es mir selbst versichert." Manders denkt, es wäre das Beste für Engstrand, wenn Regina zu ihm zurückkehrt, aber das definitive "Nein!" von Frau Alving steht fest. Oswald erscheint und ähnelt seinem verstorbenen Vater so sehr, dass es Manders erschreckt; Frau Alving besteht schnell darauf, dass ihr Sohn nach ihr kommt. Während ihres Gesprächs schockiert Oswald den Pastor, indem er die Treue und Schönheit des Familienlebens bei den unehelichen Ehen seiner Malerkollegen in Paris beschreibt. Manders, der überhaupt nichts von Künstlern hält, stottert empört über solche Kreise "in denen offene Unmoral grassiert". Er kann nicht verstehen, wie "die Behörden solche Dinge tolerieren" können und ist noch mehr bestürzt, als Frau Alving später erklärt, dass Oswald "in jedem einzelnen Wort recht hatte". In ihrer Einsamkeit fährt sie fort: sie ist zu denselben Schlüssen gelangt wie ihr Sohn, dass die verheirateten Männer von gutem gesellschaftlichen Stand zu den größten Akten der Unmoral fähig sind. Jetzt ist es seine Pflicht zu sprechen, aber nicht nur als Freund, sagt Manders, "es ist Ihr Priester, der vor Ihnen steht, wie er es einst in dem kritischsten Moment Ihres Lebens getan hat." Er erinnert sie daran, wie sie nach dem ersten Ehejahr zu ihm kam und sich weigerte, zu ihrem Ehemann zurückzukehren. Sie erinnert ihn leise daran, dass das erste Jahr "unsagbar unglücklich" war. Nach Glück zu verlangen sei einfach "im Besitz eines Geistes der Rebellion" zu sein, antwortet er. Durch die Ehe sei sie an einen "heiligen Bund" gebunden, und ihre Pflicht sei es, an dem Mann festzuhalten, den sie gewählt habe; auch wenn ein Ehemann lasterhaft sei, müsse die Pflicht der Ehefrau sein, das Kreuz zu tragen, das ihr "ein höherer Wille" auferlegt habe, fährt Manders fort. Es sei unklug gewesen, dass sie damals Zuflucht bei ihm gesucht habe, und er sei stolz darauf, die Charakterstärke gehabt zu haben, sie "auf den Pfad der Pflicht" und zu ihrem Ehemann zurückzuführen. Da sie ihrer ehelichen Pflicht nicht nachgekommen sei, habe sie auch ihre Pflicht als Mutter vernachlässigt, fuhr Manders fort. Weil sie Oswald sein ganzes Leben lang in Internate geschickt habe, anstatt ihn zu Hause zu erziehen, sei das Kind zu einem ausgesprochenen Liederlichen geworden. "In aller Wahrheit, Frau Alving, Sie sind eine schuldige Mutter!" ermahnt Manders. Diese Schlussfolgerungen seien ungerecht, antwortet Frau Alving, denn Manders wisse nichts von ihrem Leben ab diesem Moment. Er müsse jetzt wissen, "dass mein Mann genauso lasterhaft gestorben ist, wie er es zeitlebens war." Tatsächlich erzählt sie ihm, dass eine Krankheit, die er sich durch sein lebenslanges Treiben zugezogen hat, zu seinem Tod geführt hat. Manders tastet nach einem Stuhl. Zu denken, dass all die Jahre ihres Ehelebens nichts als "ein verborgener Abgrund des Elends" waren, lässt seinen Kopf wirbeln. Sie sagt, dass das skandalöse Verhalten ihres Mannes hier in diesem Haus spürbar war, denn sie war Zeugin von Alv

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten 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 Volscian camp before Rome Enter MENENIUS to the WATCH on guard FIRST WATCH. Stay. Whence are you? SECOND WATCH. Stand, and go back. MENENIUS. You guard like men, 'tis well; but, by your leave, I am an officer of state and come To speak with Coriolanus. FIRST WATCH. From whence? MENENIUS. From Rome. FIRST WATCH. You may not pass; you must return. Our general Will no more hear from thence. SECOND WATCH. You'll see your Rome embrac'd with fire before You'll speak with Coriolanus. MENENIUS. Good my friends, If you have heard your general talk of Rome And of his friends there, it is lots to blanks My name hath touch'd your ears: it is Menenius. FIRST WATCH. Be it so; go back. The virtue of your name Is not here passable. MENENIUS. I tell thee, fellow, Thy general is my lover. I have been The book of his good acts whence men have read His fame unparallel'd haply amplified; For I have ever verified my friends- Of whom he's chief- with all the size that verity Would without lapsing suffer. Nay, sometimes, Like to a bowl upon a subtle ground, I have tumbled past the throw, and in his praise Have almost stamp'd the leasing; therefore, fellow, I must have leave to pass. FIRST WATCH. Faith, sir, if you had told as many lies in his behalf as you have uttered words in your own, you should not pass here; no, though it were as virtuous to lie as to live chastely. Therefore go back. MENENIUS. Prithee, fellow, remember my name is Menenius, always factionary on the party of your general. SECOND WATCH. Howsoever you have been his liar, as you say you have, I am one that, telling true under him, must say you cannot pass. Therefore go back. MENENIUS. Has he din'd, canst thou tell? For I would not speak with him till after dinner. FIRST WATCH. You are a Roman, are you? MENENIUS. I am as thy general is. FIRST WATCH. Then you should hate Rome, as he does. Can you, when you have push'd out your gates the very defender of them, and in a violent popular ignorance given your enemy your shield, think to front his revenges with the easy groans of old women, the virginal palms of your daughters, or with the palsied intercession of such a decay'd dotant as you seem to be? Can you think to blow out the intended fire your city is ready to flame in with such weak breath as this? No, you are deceiv'd; therefore back to Rome and prepare for your execution. You are condemn'd; our general has sworn you out of reprieve and pardon. MENENIUS. Sirrah, if thy captain knew I were here, he would use me with estimation. FIRST WATCH. Come, my captain knows you not. MENENIUS. I mean thy general. FIRST WATCH. My general cares not for you. Back, I say; go, lest I let forth your half pint of blood. Back- that's the utmost of your having. Back. MENENIUS. Nay, but fellow, fellow- Enter CORIOLANUS with AUFIDIUS CORIOLANUS. What's the matter? MENENIUS. Now, you companion, I'll say an errand for you; you shall know now that I am in estimation; you shall perceive that a Jack guardant cannot office me from my son Coriolanus. Guess but by my entertainment with him if thou stand'st not i' th' state of hanging, or of some death more long in spectatorship and crueller in suffering; behold now presently, and swoon for what's to come upon thee. The glorious gods sit in hourly synod about thy particular prosperity, and love thee no worse than thy old father Menenius does! O my son! my son! thou art preparing fire for us; look thee, here's water to quench it. I was hardly moved to come to thee; but being assured none but myself could move thee, I have been blown out of your gates with sighs, and conjure thee to pardon Rome and thy petitionary countrymen. The good gods assuage thy wrath, and turn the dregs of it upon this varlet here; this, who, like a block, hath denied my access to thee. CORIOLANUS. Away! MENENIUS. How! away! CORIOLANUS. Wife, mother, child, I know not. My affairs Are servanted to others. Though I owe My revenge properly, my remission lies In Volscian breasts. That we have been familiar, Ingrate forgetfulness shall poison rather Than pity note how much. Therefore be gone. Mine ears against your suits are stronger than Your gates against my force. Yet, for I lov'd thee, Take this along; I writ it for thy sake [Gives a letter] And would have sent it. Another word, Menenius, I will not hear thee speak. This man, Aufidius, Was my belov'd in Rome; yet thou behold'st. AUFIDIUS. You keep a constant temper. Exeunt CORIOLANUS and Aufidius FIRST WATCH. Now, sir, is your name Menenius? SECOND WATCH. 'Tis a spell, you see, of much power! You know the way home again. FIRST WATCH. Do you hear how we are shent for keeping your greatness back? SECOND WATCH. What cause, do you think, I have to swoon? MENENIUS. I neither care for th' world nor your general; for such things as you, I can scarce think there's any, y'are so slight. He that hath a will to die by himself fears it not from another. Let your general do his worst. For you, be that you are, long; and your misery increase with your age! I say to you, as I was said to: Away! Exit FIRST WATCH. A noble fellow, I warrant him. SECOND WATCH. The worthy fellow is our general; he's the rock, the oak not to be wind-shaken. Exeunt SCENE III. The tent of CORIOLANUS Enter CORIOLANUS, AUFIDIUS, and others CORIOLANUS. We will before the walls of Rome to-morrow Set down our host. My partner in this action, You must report to th' Volscian lords how plainly I have borne this business. AUFIDIUS. Only their ends You have respected; stopp'd your ears against The general suit of Rome; never admitted A private whisper- no, not with such friends That thought them sure of you. CORIOLANUS. This last old man, Whom with crack'd heart I have sent to Rome, Lov'd me above the measure of a father; Nay, godded me indeed. Their latest refuge Was to send him; for whose old love I have- Though I show'd sourly to him- once more offer'd The first conditions, which they did refuse And cannot now accept. To grace him only, That thought he could do more, a very little I have yielded to; fresh embassies and suits, Nor from the state nor private friends, hereafter Will I lend ear to. [Shout within] Ha! what shout is this? Shall I be tempted to infringe my vow In the same time 'tis made? I will not. Enter, in mourning habits, VIRGILIA, VOLUMNIA, VALERIA, YOUNG MARCIUS, with attendants My wife comes foremost, then the honour'd mould Wherein this trunk was fram'd, and in her hand The grandchild to her blood. But out, affection! All bond and privilege of nature, break! Let it be virtuous to be obstinate. What is that curtsy worth? or those doves' eyes, Which can make gods forsworn? I melt, and am not Of stronger earth than others. My mother bows, As if Olympus to a molehill should In supplication nod; and my young boy Hath an aspect of intercession which Great nature cries 'Deny not.' Let the Volsces Plough Rome and harrow Italy; I'll never Be such a gosling to obey instinct, but stand As if a man were author of himself And knew no other kin. VIRGILIA. My lord and husband! CORIOLANUS. These eyes are not the same I wore in Rome. VIRGILIA. The sorrow that delivers us thus chang'd Makes you think so. CORIOLANUS. Like a dull actor now I have forgot my part and I am out, Even to a full disgrace. Best of my flesh, Forgive my tyranny; but do not say, For that, 'Forgive our Romans.' O, a kiss Long as my exile, sweet as my revenge! Now, by the jealous queen of heaven, that kiss I carried from thee, dear, and my true lip Hath virgin'd it e'er since. You gods! I prate, And the most noble mother of the world Leave unsaluted. Sink, my knee, i' th' earth; [Kneels] Of thy deep duty more impression show Than that of common sons. VOLUMNIA. O, stand up blest! Whilst with no softer cushion than the flint I kneel before thee, and unproperly Show duty, as mistaken all this while Between the child and parent. [Kneels] CORIOLANUS. What's this? Your knees to me, to your corrected son? Then let the pebbles on the hungry beach Fillip the stars; then let the mutinous winds Strike the proud cedars 'gainst the fiery sun, Murd'ring impossibility, to make What cannot be slight work. VOLUMNIA. Thou art my warrior; I holp to frame thee. Do you know this lady? CORIOLANUS. The noble sister of Publicola, The moon of Rome, chaste as the icicle That's curdied by the frost from purest snow, And hangs on Dian's temple- dear Valeria! VOLUMNIA. This is a poor epitome of yours, Which by th' interpretation of full time May show like all yourself. CORIOLANUS. The god of soldiers, With the consent of supreme Jove, inform Thy thoughts with nobleness, that thou mayst prove To shame unvulnerable, and stick i' th' wars Like a great sea-mark, standing every flaw, And saving those that eye thee! VOLUMNIA. Your knee, sirrah. CORIOLANUS. That's my brave boy. VOLUMNIA. Even he, your wife, this lady, and myself, Are suitors to you. CORIOLANUS. I beseech you, peace! Or, if you'd ask, remember this before: The thing I have forsworn to grant may never Be held by you denials. Do not bid me Dismiss my soldiers, or capitulate Again with Rome's mechanics. Tell me not Wherein I seem unnatural; desire not T'allay my rages and revenges with Your colder reasons. VOLUMNIA. O, no more, no more! You have said you will not grant us any thing- For we have nothing else to ask but that Which you deny already; yet we will ask, That, if you fail in our request, the blame May hang upon your hardness; therefore hear us. CORIOLANUS. Aufidius, and you Volsces, mark; for we'll Hear nought from Rome in private. Your request? VOLUMNIA. Should we be silent and not speak, our raiment And state of bodies would bewray what life We have led since thy exile. Think with thyself How more unfortunate than all living women Are we come hither; since that thy sight, which should Make our eyes flow with joy, hearts dance with comforts, Constrains them weep and shake with fear and sorrow, Making the mother, wife, and child, to see The son, the husband, and the father, tearing His country's bowels out. And to poor we Thine enmity's most capital: thou bar'st us Our prayers to the gods, which is a comfort That all but we enjoy. For how can we, Alas, how can we for our country pray, Whereto we are bound, together with thy victory, Whereto we are bound? Alack, or we must lose The country, our dear nurse, or else thy person, Our comfort in the country. We must find An evident calamity, though we had Our wish, which side should win; for either thou Must as a foreign recreant be led With manacles through our streets, or else Triumphantly tread on thy country's ruin, And bear the palm for having bravely shed Thy wife and children's blood. For myself, son, I purpose not to wait on fortune till These wars determine; if I can not persuade thee Rather to show a noble grace to both parts Than seek the end of one, thou shalt no sooner March to assault thy country than to tread- Trust to't, thou shalt not- on thy mother's womb That brought thee to this world. VIRGILIA. Ay, and mine, That brought you forth this boy to keep your name Living to time. BOY. 'A shall not tread on me! I'll run away till I am bigger, but then I'll fight. CORIOLANUS. Not of a woman's tenderness to be Requires nor child nor woman's face to see. I have sat too long. [Rising] VOLUMNIA. Nay, go not from us thus. If it were so that our request did tend To save the Romans, thereby to destroy The Volsces whom you serve, you might condemn us As poisonous of your honour. No, our suit Is that you reconcile them: while the Volsces May say 'This mercy we have show'd,' the Romans 'This we receiv'd,' and each in either side Give the all-hail to thee, and cry 'Be blest For making up this peace!' Thou know'st, great son, The end of war's uncertain; but this certain, That, if thou conquer Rome, the benefit Which thou shalt thereby reap is such a name Whose repetition will be dogg'd with curses; Whose chronicle thus writ: 'The man was noble, But with his last attempt he wip'd it out, Destroy'd his country, and his name remains To th' ensuing age abhorr'd.' Speak to me, son. Thou hast affected the fine strains of honour, To imitate the graces of the gods, To tear with thunder the wide cheeks o' th' air, And yet to charge thy sulphur with a bolt That should but rive an oak. Why dost not speak? Think'st thou it honourable for a noble man Still to remember wrongs? Daughter, speak you: He cares not for your weeping. Speak thou, boy; Perhaps thy childishness will move him more Than can our reasons. There's no man in the world More bound to's mother, yet here he lets me prate Like one i' th' stocks. Thou hast never in thy life Show'd thy dear mother any courtesy, When she, poor hen, fond of no second brood, Has cluck'd thee to the wars, and safely home Loaden with honour. Say my request's unjust, And spurn me back; but if it be not so, Thou art not honest, and the gods will plague thee, That thou restrain'st from me the duty which To a mother's part belongs. He turns away. Down, ladies; let us shame him with our knees. To his surname Coriolanus 'longs more pride Than pity to our prayers. Down. An end; This is the last. So we will home to Rome, And die among our neighbours. Nay, behold's! This boy, that cannot tell what he would have But kneels and holds up hands for fellowship, Does reason our petition with more strength Than thou hast to deny't. Come, let us go. This fellow had a Volscian to his mother; His wife is in Corioli, and his child Like him by chance. Yet give us our dispatch. I am hush'd until our city be afire, And then I'll speak a little. [He holds her by the hand, silent] CORIOLANUS. O mother, mother! What have you done? Behold, the heavens do ope, The gods look down, and this unnatural scene They laugh at. O my mother, mother! O! You have won a happy victory to Rome; But for your son- believe it, O, believe it!- Most dangerously you have with him prevail'd, If not most mortal to him. But let it come. Aufidius, though I cannot make true wars, I'll frame convenient peace. Now, good Aufidius, Were you in my stead, would you have heard A mother less, or granted less, Aufidius? AUFIDIUS. I was mov'd withal. CORIOLANUS. I dare be sworn you were! And, sir, it is no little thing to make Mine eyes to sweat compassion. But, good sir, What peace you'll make, advise me. For my part, I'll not to Rome, I'll back with you; and pray you Stand to me in this cause. O mother! wife! AUFIDIUS. [Aside] I am glad thou hast set thy mercy and thy honour At difference in thee. Out of that I'll work Myself a former fortune. CORIOLANUS. [To the ladies] Ay, by and by; But we will drink together; and you shall bear A better witness back than words, which we, On like conditions, will have counter-seal'd. Come, enter with us. Ladies, you deserve To have a temple built you. All the swords In Italy, and her confederate arms, Could not have made this peace. Exeunt SCENE IV. Rome. A public place Enter MENENIUS and SICINIUS MENENIUS. See you yond coign o' th' Capitol, yond cornerstone? SICINIUS. Why, what of that? MENENIUS. If it be possible for you to displace it with your little finger, there is some hope the ladies of Rome, especially his mother, may prevail with him. But I say there is no hope in't; our throats are sentenc'd, and stay upon execution. SICINIUS. Is't possible that so short a time can alter the condition of a man? MENENIUS. There is differency between a grub and a butterfly; yet your butterfly was a grub. This Marcius is grown from man to dragon; he has wings, he's more than a creeping thing. SICINIUS. He lov'd his mother dearly. MENENIUS. So did he me; and he no more remembers his mother now than an eight-year-old horse. The tartness of his face sours ripe grapes; when he walks, he moves like an engine and the ground shrinks before his treading. He is able to pierce a corslet with his eye, talks like a knell, and his hum is a battery. He sits in his state as a thing made for Alexander. What he bids be done is finish'd with his bidding. He wants nothing of a god but eternity, and a heaven to throne in. SICINIUS. Yes- mercy, if you report him truly. MENENIUS. I paint him in the character. Mark what mercy his mother shall bring from him. There is no more mercy in him than there is milk in a male tiger; that shall our poor city find. And all this is 'long of you. SICINIUS. The gods be good unto us! MENENIUS. No, in such a case the gods will not be good unto us. When we banish'd him we respected not them; and, he returning to break our necks, they respect not us. Enter a MESSENGER MESSENGER. Sir, if you'd save your life, fly to your house. The plebeians have got your fellow tribune And hale him up and down; all swearing if The Roman ladies bring not comfort home They'll give him death by inches. Enter another MESSENGER SICINIUS. What's the news? SECOND MESSENGER. Good news, good news! The ladies have prevail'd, The Volscians are dislodg'd, and Marcius gone. A merrier day did never yet greet Rome, No, not th' expulsion of the Tarquins. SICINIUS. Friend, Art thou certain this is true? Is't most certain? SECOND MESSENGER. As certain as I know the sun is fire. Where have you lurk'd, that you make doubt of it? Ne'er through an arch so hurried the blown tide As the recomforted through th' gates. Why, hark you! [Trumpets, hautboys, drums beat, all together] The trumpets, sackbuts, psalteries, and fifes, Tabors and cymbals, and the shouting Romans, Make the sun dance. Hark you! [A shout within] MENENIUS. This is good news. I will go meet the ladies. This Volumnia Is worth of consuls, senators, patricians, A city full; of tribunes such as you, A sea and land full. You have pray'd well to-day: This morning for ten thousand of your throats I'd not have given a doit. Hark, how they joy! [Sound still with the shouts] SICINIUS. First, the gods bless you for your tidings; next, Accept my thankfulness. SECOND MESSENGER. Sir, we have all Great cause to give great thanks. SICINIUS. They are near the city? MESSENGER. Almost at point to enter. SICINIUS. We'll meet them, And help the joy. Exeunt SCENE V. Rome. A street near the gate Enter two SENATORS With VOLUMNIA, VIRGILIA, VALERIA, passing over the stage, 'With other LORDS FIRST SENATOR. Behold our patroness, the life of Rome! Call all your tribes together, praise the gods, And make triumphant fires; strew flowers before them. Unshout the noise that banish'd Marcius, Repeal him with the welcome of his mother; ALL. Welcome, ladies, welcome! [A flourish with drums and trumpets. Exeunt] SCENE VI. Corioli. A public place Enter TULLUS AUFIDIUS with attendents AUFIDIUS. Go tell the lords o' th' city I am here; Deliver them this paper; having read it, Bid them repair to th' market-place, where I, Even in theirs and in the commons' ears, Will vouch the truth of it. Him I accuse The city ports by this hath enter'd and Intends t' appear before the people, hoping To purge himself with words. Dispatch. Exeunt attendants Enter three or four CONSPIRATORS of AUFIDIUS' faction Most welcome! FIRST CONSPIRATOR. How is it with our general? AUFIDIUS. Even so As with a man by his own alms empoison'd, And with his charity slain. SECOND CONSPIRATOR. Most noble sir, If you do hold the same intent wherein You wish'd us parties, we'll deliver you Of your great danger. AUFIDIUS. Sir, I cannot tell; We must proceed as we do find the people. THIRD CONSPIRATOR. The people will remain uncertain whilst 'Twixt you there's difference; but the fall of either Makes the survivor heir of all. AUFIDIUS. I know it; And my pretext to strike at him admits A good construction. I rais'd him, and I pawn'd Mine honour for his truth; who being so heighten'd, He watered his new plants with dews of flattery, Seducing so my friends; and to this end He bow'd his nature, never known before But to be rough, unswayable, and free. THIRD CONSPIRATOR. Sir, his stoutness When he did stand for consul, which he lost By lack of stooping- AUFIDIUS. That I would have spoken of. Being banish'd for't, he came unto my hearth, Presented to my knife his throat. I took him; Made him joint-servant with me; gave him way In all his own desires; nay, let him choose Out of my files, his projects to accomplish, My best and freshest men; serv'd his designments In mine own person; holp to reap the fame Which he did end all his, and took some pride To do myself this wrong. Till, at the last, I seem'd his follower, not partner; and He wag'd me with his countenance as if I had been mercenary. FIRST CONSPIRATOR. So he did, my lord. The army marvell'd at it; and, in the last, When he had carried Rome and that we look'd For no less spoil than glory- AUFIDIUS. There was it; For which my sinews shall be stretch'd upon him. At a few drops of women's rheum, which are As cheap as lies, he sold the blood and labour Of our great action; therefore shall he die, And I'll renew me in his fall. But, hark! [Drums and trumpets sound, with great shouts of the people] FIRST CONSPIRATOR. Your native town you enter'd like a post, And had no welcomes home; but he returns Splitting the air with noise. SECOND CONSPIRATOR. And patient fools, Whose children he hath slain, their base throats tear With giving him glory. THIRD CONSPIRATOR. Therefore, at your vantage, Ere he express himself or move the people With what he would say, let him feel your sword, Which we will second. When he lies along, After your way his tale pronounc'd shall bury His reasons with his body. AUFIDIUS. Say no more: Here come the lords. Enter the LORDS of the city LORDS. You are most welcome home. AUFIDIUS. I have not deserv'd it. But, worthy lords, have you with heed perused What I have written to you? LORDS. We have. FIRST LORD. And grieve to hear't. What faults he made before the last, I think Might have found easy fines; but there to end Where he was to begin, and give away The benefit of our levies, answering us With our own charge, making a treaty where There was a yielding- this admits no excuse. AUFIDIUS. He approaches; you shall hear him. Enter CORIOLANUS, marching with drum and colours; the commoners being with him CORIOLANUS. Hail, lords! I am return'd your soldier; No more infected with my country's love Than when I parted hence, but still subsisting Under your great command. You are to know That prosperously I have attempted, and With bloody passage led your wars even to The gates of Rome. Our spoils we have brought home Doth more than counterpoise a full third part The charges of the action. We have made peace With no less honour to the Antiates Than shame to th' Romans; and we here deliver, Subscrib'd by th' consuls and patricians, Together with the seal o' th' Senate, what We have compounded on. AUFIDIUS. Read it not, noble lords; But tell the traitor in the highest degree He hath abus'd your powers. CORIOLANUS. Traitor! How now? AUFIDIUS. Ay, traitor, Marcius. CORIOLANUS. Marcius! AUFIDIUS. Ay, Marcius, Caius Marcius! Dost thou think I'll grace thee with that robbery, thy stol'n name Coriolanus, in Corioli? You lords and heads o' th' state, perfidiously He has betray'd your business and given up, For certain drops of salt, your city Rome- I say your city- to his wife and mother; Breaking his oath and resolution like A twist of rotten silk; never admitting Counsel o' th' war; but at his nurse's tears He whin'd and roar'd away your victory, That pages blush'd at him, and men of heart Look'd wond'ring each at others. CORIOLANUS. Hear'st thou, Mars? AUFIDIUS. Name not the god, thou boy of tears- CORIOLANUS. Ha! AUFIDIUS. -no more. CORIOLANUS. Measureless liar, thou hast made my heart Too great for what contains it. 'Boy'! O slave! Pardon me, lords, 'tis the first time that ever I was forc'd to scold. Your judgments, my grave lords, Must give this cur the lie; and his own notion- Who wears my stripes impress'd upon him, that Must bear my beating to his grave- shall join To thrust the lie unto him. FIRST LORD. Peace, both, and hear me speak. CORIOLANUS. Cut me to pieces, Volsces; men and lads, Stain all your edges on me. 'Boy'! False hound! If you have writ your annals true, 'tis there That, like an eagle in a dove-cote, I Flutter'd your Volscians in Corioli. Alone I did it. 'Boy'! AUFIDIUS. Why, noble lords, Will you be put in mind of his blind fortune, Which was your shame, by this unholy braggart, Fore your own eyes and ears? CONSPIRATORS. Let him die for't. ALL THE PEOPLE. Tear him to pieces. Do it presently. He kill'd my son. My daughter. He kill'd my cousin Marcus. He kill'd my father. SECOND LORD. Peace, ho! No outrage- peace! The man is noble, and his fame folds in This orb o' th' earth. His last offences to us Shall have judicious hearing. Stand, Aufidius, And trouble not the peace. CORIOLANUS. O that I had him, With six Aufidiuses, or more- his tribe, To use my lawful sword! AUFIDIUS. Insolent villain! CONSPIRATORS. Kill, kill, kill, kill, kill him! [The CONSPIRATORS draw and kill CORIOLANUS,who falls. AUFIDIUS stands on him] LORDS. Hold, hold, hold, hold! AUFIDIUS. My noble masters, hear me speak. FIRST LORD. O Tullus! SECOND LORD. Thou hast done a deed whereat valour will weep. THIRD LORD. Tread not upon him. Masters all, be quiet; Put up your swords. AUFIDIUS. My lords, when you shall know- as in this rage, Provok'd by him, you cannot- the great danger Which this man's life did owe you, you'll rejoice That he is thus cut off. Please it your honours To call me to your Senate, I'll deliver Myself your loyal servant, or endure Your heaviest censure. FIRST LORD. Bear from hence his body, And mourn you for him. Let him be regarded As the most noble corse that ever herald Did follow to his um. SECOND LORD. His own impatience Takes from Aufidius a great part of blame. Let's make the best of it. AUFIDIUS. My rage is gone, And I am struck with sorrow. Take him up. Help, three o' th' chiefest soldiers; I'll be one. Beat thou the drum, that it speak mournfully; Trail your steel pikes. Though in this city he Hath widowed and unchilded many a one, Which to this hour bewail the injury, Yet he shall have a noble memory. Assist. Exeunt, bearing the body of CORIOLANUS [A dead march sounded] THE END Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Im Volscischen Lager wird Menenius von den Wachposten gestoppt, die sich weigern, ihn ihre Generäle sehen zu lassen. Schließlich kommen Coriolanus und Tullus Aufidius heraus, aber Menenius' Bitten verhallen ungehört und er wird fortgeschickt, nachdem er sich über das Spott der Wachen hinweg gesetzt hat. Als er weg ist, bemerkt Aufidius, dass er von Coriolanus' Standhaftigkeit beeindruckt ist, die Bitten seiner ältesten Freunde zu ignorieren. Der verbannte Soldat antwortet, dass er von nun an keine weiteren Botschaften aus Rom mehr akzeptieren wird. In diesem Moment wird jedoch ein Ruf erhoben, und Virgilia, Volumnia, Valeria und Young Martius, Coriolanus' Sohn, kommen aus Rom. Coriolanus schwört, sein Herz gegen sie zu verhärten, erlaubt ihnen aber, sich ihm zu nähern, und seine Mutter kniet vor ihm nieder und bittet ihn, Frieden zu schließen. Sie sagt ihm, dass sie ihm den Weg nach Rom versperren wird: "Du wirst nicht früher / In Marsch setzen, um dein Land anzugreifen, als dass du... auf den Mutterleib trittst, der dich in diese Welt gebracht hat." Inzwischen verspricht sein Sohn, dass er, wenn er älter ist, gegen seinen Vater kämpfen wird. Coriolanus, gerührt, will gehen, aber seine Mutter hält ihn auf und bittet ihn erneut, einen ehrenhaften Frieden zu schließen, der sowohl Römern als auch Volskern gleichermaßen zugute kommt, anstatt seine Heimatstadt zu zerstören. Als er nicht antwortet, macht sie sich bereit, nach Rom zurückzukehren und "unter unseren Nachbarn zu sterben." Aber Coriolanus ist umgestimmt; er verspricht, sofort Frieden zu schließen. Als er das sieht, sagt Aufidius dem Publikum, dass er jetzt die Möglichkeit hat, den römischen General zu eliminieren. In Rom erzählt ein resignierter Menenius, der nicht weiß, was gerade passiert ist, Sicinius, dass alles verloren ist und dass die Tribunen ihre Stadt mit ihrer Torheit verurteilt haben. Gerade dann trifft ein Bote ein, mit der Nachricht, dass die Frauen ihre Mission erfolgreich abgeschlossen haben und Rom gerettet ist. Die Römer brechen in Jubel aus und heißen Volumnia als Retterin ihrer Stadt willkommen. In der volscischen Stadt Antium bereiten Aufidius und eine Gruppe von Verschwörern sich darauf vor, den zurückkehrenden Coriolanus loszuwerden, der vom Volk der Stadt als Held willkommen geheißen wird. Als der General ankommt und von den Senatoren von Antium begrüßt wird, verurteilt ihn Aufidius und beschuldigt ihn, die volscische Armee verraten zu haben, indem er den römischen Frauen nachgegeben und Rom nicht erobert hat. Wie zu erwarten, verliert Coriolanus die Beherrschung und verflucht Aufidius, dessen Verschwörer nun das Volk gegen den Römer aufhetzen und sie daran erinnern, wie er einst römische Armeen gegen sie führte. Während Aufidius auf ihn schreit und die Senatoren zu intervenieren versuchen, erstechen die Verschwörer Coriolanus und er fällt tot um. Der Senat verkündet, dass er ein großer und edler Mann war, und ordnet ein Heldengrab an. Nun reuevoll, schließt sich Aufidius seinen Männern an und trägt den Körper durch die Stadt.

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

Rosamond ist niedergeschlagen und zutiefst unzufrieden. Sie schreibt Lydgates Grübelei einfach als "unzumutbar" ab. Sie hat sich ihm gegenüber feindselig eingestellt, da er die Hauptquelle ihres Unglücks ist. Ladislaws Abreise und die Zurückweisung von Lydgates Onkel tragen allesamt zu ihrer Frustration bei. Aber sie weiß immer noch nichts von seiner Schande. Sie entscheidet sich für eine kleine Feier, um die Schwermut zu vertreiben. Zu ihrer Überraschung lehnen alle Gäste die Einladung ab. Als sie es herausfindet, ist Lydgate wütend, aber er weigert sich immer noch, es zu erklären. Rosamond geht zu ihren Eltern und erfährt die ganze Geschichte, sie ist demoralisiert. Sie wünscht sich, sie könnte ins Haus ihres Vaters zurückkehren. Sie schweigt vor allen. Dies überzeugt ihre Eltern von ihrem Mut, während Lydgate die Entfremdung stärker spürt. Ob er unschuldig ist oder nicht, interessiert sie nicht; es zählt nur die Schande. Sie unterstreicht den Punkt, dass sie die Stadt verlassen und in die Stadt ziehen sollten. Das einzige hoffnungsvolle Ereignis für sie ist, dass Ladislaw Middlemarch besuchen wird.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Kapitel: Als wir im Berkeley Hotel ankamen, fand van Helsing ein Telegramm auf ihn wartend:-- "Komme mit dem Zug. Jonathan in Whitby. Wichtige Nachrichten.--MINA HARKER." Der Professor war begeistert. "Ah, diese wunderbare Madame Mina", sagte er, "Perle unter den Frauen! Sie ist angekommen, doch ich kann nicht bleiben. Sie muss zu deinem Haus, Freund John. Du musst sie am Bahnhof abholen. Telegraphiere ihr während der Fahrt, damit sie vorbereitet ist." Als die Nachricht abgeschickt wurde, trank er eine Tasse Tee; dabei erzählte er mir von einem Tagebuch, das Jonathan Harker während seiner Zeit im Ausland geführt hat, und überreichte mir eine Schreibmaschinenkopie davon, sowie auch von dem Tagebuch von Mrs. Harker in Whitby. "Nimm diese", sagte er, "und studiere sie gut. Wenn ich zurückgekehrt bin, wirst du all die Fakten beherrschen, und dann können wir besser mit unserer Aufklärungsarbeit beginnen. Bewahre sie gut auf, denn darin liegt ein großer Schatz. Du wirst all deinen Glauben brauchen, sogar du, der solch eine Erfahrung wie die von heute gemacht hat. Was hier erzählt wird", er legte seine Hand schwer und ernst auf das Paket Papiere als er sprach, "könnte der Anfang vom Ende für dich und mich und viele andere sein; oder es könnte das Todesgeläut für die Untoten, die auf der Erde wandeln, bedeuten. Lese alles, bitte, mit einem offenen Geist; und wenn du etwas zur Geschichte beitragen kannst, die hier erzählt wird, tue es, denn es ist von großer Bedeutung. Du hast Tagebuch über all diese seltsamen Dinge geführt, nicht wahr? Ja! Dann werden wir sie alle gemeinsam durchgehen, wenn wir uns treffen." Dann machte er sich fertig für seine Abreise und fuhr kurze Zeit später zum Liverpool Street Bahnhof. Ich machte mich auf den Weg nach Paddington, wo ich etwa fünfzehn Minuten vor der Ankunft des Zugs ankam. Die Menge löste sich auf, nach dem hektischen Muster, das auf Ankunftsplattformen üblich ist; und ich begann mich unruhig zu fühlen, falls ich meine Gastgeberin verpassen sollte, als ein hübsches, zierliches Mädchen auf mich zukam und, nach einem schnellen Blick, sagte: "Dr. Seward, nicht wahr?" "Und du bist Mrs. Harker!" antwortete ich sofort; woraufhin sie mir die Hand entgegenstreckte. "Ich habe dich anhand der Beschreibung unserer armen lieben Lucy erkannt, aber...." Sie stockte plötzlich und eine schnelle Röte überzog ihr Gesicht. Die Röte, die mir auf die Wangen stieg, beruhigte uns beide irgendwie, denn sie war die stumme Antwort auf ihre eigene. Ich nahm ihr Gepäck entgegen, das eine Schreibmaschine enthielt, und wir machten uns mit der U-Bahn auf den Weg nach Fenchurch Street, nachdem ich meiner Haushälterin eine Nachricht geschickt hatte, damit sie sofort ein Arbeitszimmer und ein Schlafzimmer für Mrs. Harker vorbereiten konnte. Nach angemessener Zeit kamen wir an. Sie wusste natürlich, dass der Ort eine Irrenanstalt war, aber ich konnte sehen, dass sie nicht in der Lage war, ein Schaudern zu unterdrücken, als wir eintraten. Sie sagte mir, dass sie, falls sie dürfte, bald in mein Arbeitszimmer kommen würde, da sie viel zu sagen hätte. Also bin ich hier dabei, meinen Eintrag in mein Phono-Tagebuch zu beenden, während ich auf sie warte. Bis jetzt hatte ich noch nicht die Möglichkeit, die Papiere anzuschauen, die van Helsing mir gelassen hat, obwohl sie vor mir aufgeschlagen liegen. Ich muss sie für etwas begeistern, damit ich die Gelegenheit habe, sie zu lesen. Sie weiß nicht, wie kostbar die Zeit ist, oder welche Aufgabe wir vor uns haben. Ich muss darauf achten, sie nicht zu erschrecken. Hier ist sie! _Mina Harkers Tagebuch._ _29. September._--Nachdem ich mich zurechtgemacht hatte, ging ich in Dr. Sewards Arbeitszimmer. An der Tür hielt ich einen Moment inne, weil ich dachte, ich hörte ihn mit jemandem sprechen. Da er mich jedoch gedrängt hatte, mich zu beeilen, klopfte ich an die Tür und als er rief: "Herein", trat ich ein. Zu meiner großen Überraschung war niemand bei ihm. Er war ganz allein, und auf dem Tisch gegenüber von ihm stand etwas, das ich sofort anhand der Beschreibung als einen Phonographen erkannte. Ich hatte noch nie einen gesehen und war sehr daran interessiert. "Ich hoffe, ich habe dich nicht warten lassen", sagte ich. "Aber ich habe an der Tür gewartet, weil ich dich sprechen hörte und dachte, dass jemand bei dir ist." "Oh", antwortete er mit einem Lächeln, "ich habe gerade mein Tagebuch eingegeben." "Dein Tagebuch?" fragte ich überrascht. "Ja", antwortete er. "Ich halte es darin fest." Als er sprach, legte er seine Hand auf den Phonographen. Ich war ganz aufgeregt und platzte heraus:-- "Das übertrifft selbst die Stenographie! Kann ich es etwas sagen hören?" "Natürlich", antwortete er bereitwillig und stand auf, um es einsatzbereit zu machen. Dann hielt er inne und ein besorgter Blick breitete sich auf seinem Gesicht aus. "Die Sache ist die", begann er unbeholfen, "ich halte nur mein Tagebuch darin fest; und da es gänzlich - fast gänzlich - von meinen Fällen handelt, könnte es unangenehm sein - das heißt, ich meine...." Er hielt inne und ich versuchte, ihm aus der Verlegenheit zu helfen:-- "Du hast dabei geholfen, liebe Lucy bis zum Ende zu betreuen. Lass mich hören, wie sie starb; für alles, was ich über sie weiß, wäre ich sehr dankbar. Sie war mir sehr, sehr lieb." Zu meiner Überraschung antwortete er mit einem entsetzten Blick in seinem Gesicht:-- "Dir von ihrem Tod erzählen? Nicht um alles in der Welt!" "Warum nicht?" fragte ich, denn ein ernstes, schreckliches Gefühl überkam mich. Wieder hielt er inne, und ich konnte sehen, dass er versuchte, eine Ausrede zu erfinden. Schließlich stotterte er:-- "Weißt du, ich weiß nicht, wie ich einen bestimmten Teil des Tagebuchs heraussuchen kann." Während er sprach, dämmerte ihm eine Idee, und er sagte mit unbewusster Einfachheit, in einer anderen Stimme und mit der Naivität eines Kindes: "Das ist ganz richtig, bei meiner Ehre. Ich ehrlicher Indianer!" Ich konnte nicht anders als lächeln, woraufhin er eine Grimasse zog. "Da hab ich mich verraten!" sagte er. "Aber weißt du, obwohl ich das Tagebuch schon seit Monaten führe, ist es mir nie in den Sinn gekommen, wie ich einen bestimmten Teil darin finden werde, wenn ich etwas nachsehen will?" Inzwischen hatte ich mich entschieden, dass das Tagebuch eines Arztes, der Lucy behandelt hatte, vielleicht etwas zum Wissen über dieses schreckliche Wesen beitragen könnte, und ich sagte kühn:-- "Dann, Dr. Seward, sollten Sie mich besser eine Abschrift für Sie auf meiner Schreibmaschine machen lassen." Bei diesen Worten wurde er bleich wie der Tod und sagte:-- "Nein! Nein! Nein! Um nichts in der Welt würde ich Sie diese schreckliche Geschichte erfahren lassen!" Dann war es schrecklich; meine Intuition hatte recht! Für einen Moment dachte ich nach, und während meine Augen den Raum absuchten, unbewusst auf der Suche nach etwas oder einer Gelegenheit, die mir helfen könnte, fielen sie auf große Stapel Schreibmaschinentext auf dem Tisch. Seine Augen bemerkten den Blick in meinen Augen und folgten, ohne dass er darüber nachdachte, dessen Richtung. Als sie das Paket sahen, verstand er, was ich meinte. "Du kennst mich nicht", sagte ich. "Wenn du diese Papiere gelesen hast - mein eigenes Tagebuch und das meines Mannes, das ich abgetippt habe - wirst du mich besser kennenlernen. Ich habe nicht gezögert _29. September._--Ich war so vertieft in das wundervolle Tagebuch von Jonathan Harker und das seiner Frau, dass ich die Zeit ohne nachzudenken verstreichen ließ. Mrs. Harker war noch nicht unten, als die Dienstmagd das Abendessen ankündigte, also sagte ich: "Vielleicht ist sie müde, lasst das Essen eine Stunde warten", und ich machte mit meiner Arbeit weiter. Gerade als ich mit dem Tagebuch von Mrs. Harker fertig war, kam sie herein. Sie sah süß aus, aber sehr traurig, und ihre Augen waren gerötet vom Weinen. Das bewegte mich auf seltsame Weise. In letzter Zeit hatte ich Grund zu Tränen, Gott weiß! aber die Erleichterung blieb mir verwehrt; und jetzt ging mir der Anblick dieser süßen Augen, aufgehellt von frischen Tränen, direkt ins Herz. Also sagte ich so sanft wie möglich:-- "Ich fürchte sehr, ich habe dich verletzt." "Oh nein, nicht verletzt", antwortete sie, "aber dein Schmerz hat mich mehr berührt, als ich sagen kann. Das ist eine wunderbare Maschine, aber sie ist grausam wahr. Sie hat mir in ihren Tönen die Qual deines Herzens mitgeteilt. Es war wie eine Seele, die zu allmächtigem Gott schreit. Niemand darf sie jemals wieder sprechen hören! Sieh her, ich habe versucht nützlich zu sein. Ich habe die Worte auf meiner Schreibmaschine abgetippt, und niemand anders muss nun mehr deinen Herzschlag hören, wie ich es tat." "Niemand muss es jemals wissen, wird es jemals wissen", sagte ich leise. Sie legte ihre Hand auf meine und sagte sehr ernst:-- "Aber sie müssen es wissen!" "Müssen! Aber warum?", fragte ich. "Weil es Teil der schrecklichen Geschichte ist, Teil von Lucy's Tod und allem, was dazu geführt hat; weil wir in dem Kampf, den wir vor uns haben, um die Erde von diesem schrecklichen Monster zu befreien, all das Wissen und all die Hilfe brauchen, die wir bekommen können. Ich glaube, die Zylinder, die du mir gegeben hast, enthielten mehr, als du beabsichtigt hast, dass ich es erfahre; aber ich kann sehen, dass in deiner Aufzeichnung viele Hinweise auf dieses dunkle Mysterium sind. Wirst du mich helfen lassen? Ich weiß alles bis zu einem gewissen Punkt; und ich sehe schon jetzt, obwohl dein Tagebuch mich nur bis zum 7. September geführt hat, wie sehr Lucy bedrängt war und wie ihr furchtbares Schicksal sich entwickelte. Jonathan und ich haben Tag und Nacht gearbeitet, seit Professor Van Helsing bei uns war. Er ist nach Whitby gegangen, um mehr Informationen zu holen, und er wird morgen hier sein, um uns zu helfen. Wir dürfen keine Geheimnisse voreinander haben; wenn wir zusammenarbeiten und absolutem Vertrauen, werden wir sicherlich stärker sein, als wenn einige von uns im Dunkeln bleiben würden." Sie sah mich so flehend an und zeigte gleichzeitig so viel Mut und Entschlossenheit in ihrem Auftreten, dass ich sofort ihrem Wunsch nachgab. "Du sollst", sagte ich, "in dieser Angelegenheit tun, was du möchtest. Gott verzeihe mir, wenn ich Unrecht tue! Es gibt noch schreckliche Dinge zu lernen; aber wenn du bisher auf dem Weg zu Lucys Tod gereist bist, wirst du, glaube ich, nicht zufrieden sein, im Dunkeln zu bleiben. Nein, das Ende - das nackte Ende - wird dir vielleicht einen Hauch von Frieden geben. Komm, es ist Zeit für das Abendessen. Wir müssen uns gegenseitig stark halten für das, was vor uns liegt; wir haben eine grausame und schreckliche Aufgabe. Wenn du gegessen hast, wirst du den Rest erfahren, und ich werde alle Fragen beantworten, die du hast - wenn es etwas gibt, was du nicht verstehst, obwohl es für uns, die dabei waren, offensichtlich war." _Das Tagebuch von Mina Harker._ _29. September._--Nach dem Abendessen kam ich mit Dr. Seward in sein Arbeitszimmer. Er brachte den Phonographen von meinem Zimmer mit und ich nahm meine Schreibmaschine. Er platzierte mich in einem bequemen Stuhl und stellte den Phonographen so auf, dass ich ihn berühren konnte, ohne aufzustehen, und zeigte mir, wie ich ihn anhalten konnte, falls ich eine Pause machen wollte. Dann nahm er bedachtsam einen Stuhl mit dem Rücken zu mir, damit ich so frei wie möglich sein konnte, und begann zu lesen. Ich setzte die gespaltenen Metallstücke an meine Ohren und hörte zu. Als die schreckliche Geschichte von Lucys Tod und - und allem, was danach folgte, vorbei war, saß ich matt in meinem Stuhl. Zum Glück habe ich keine Anfälligkeit zum Ohnmachtsgefühl. Als Dr. Seward mich sah, sprang er mit einem entsetzten Ausruf auf und nahm hastig eine Flasche Cognac aus einem Schrank und gab mir etwas, das mich in wenigen Minuten etwas wiederherstellte. Mein Gehirn war völlig durcheinander, und nur dass durch all die Vielzahl der Schrecken hindurch das heilige Licht scheint, dass meine liebe, liebe Lucy endlich in Frieden ist, glaube ich, dass ich es ohne eine Szene ausgehalten hätte. Es ist alles so wild und mysteriös und seltsam, dass ich, wenn ich nicht von Jonathans Erfahrungen in Transsilvanien gewusst hätte, es nicht hätte glauben können. So wie es war, wusste ich nicht, was ich glauben sollte, und lenkte meine Aufmerksamkeit daher auf etwas anderes. Ich nahm die Abdeckung von meiner Schreibmaschine und sagte zu Dr. Seward:-- "Lass mich das jetzt alles aufschreiben. Wir müssen bereit sein, wenn Dr. Van Helsing kommt. Ich habe Jonathan ein Telegramm geschickt, dass er hierherkommen soll, wenn er in London von Whitby ankommt. In dieser Angelegenheit sind Daten alles, und ich denke, wenn wir all unser Material bereithalten und alles chronologisch ordnen, haben wir viel getan. Du sagst mir, dass Lord Godalming und Mr. Morris auch kommen. Lass uns in der Lage sein, ihm Bescheid zu sagen, wenn sie kommen." Er stellte den Phonographen auf langsames Tempo ein, und ich begann ab dem Anfang der siebten Walze zu schreiben. Ich benutzte Durchschlagpapier und machte so drei Kopien des Tagebuchs, genauso wie bei den anderen. Es war spät, als ich fertig war, aber Dr. Seward ging seiner Arbeit nach, indem er seine Runde bei den Patienten machte; als er fertig war, kam er zurück und setzte sich in meine Nähe, um zu lesen, so dass ich mich nicht zu einsam fühlte, während ich arbeitete. Wie gut und aufmerksam er ist; die Welt scheint voller guter Menschen zu sein - selbst wenn es Monster darin gibt. Bevor ich ihn verließ, erinnerte ich mich daran, was Jonathan in sein Tagebuch über die Unruhe des Professors beim Lesen einer Abendzeitung am Bahnhof in Exeter geschrieben hatte; also, da Dr. Seward seine Zeitungen aufbewahrt, habe ich mir die Ausgaben des "Westminster Gazette" und des "Pall Mall Gazette" ausgeliehen und sie mit in mein Zimmer genommen. Ich erinnere mich, wie sehr uns "The Dailygraph" und "The Whitby Gazette" geholfen haben, die schrecklichen Ereignisse in Whitby zu verstehen, als Graf Dracula gelandet ist, also werde ich jetzt die Abendausgaben seitdem durchsehen und vielleicht ein neues Licht bekommen. Ich bin nicht müde, und die Arbeit wird mir helfen, ruhig zu bleiben. _Dr. Sewards Tagebuch._ _30. September._--Mr. Harker kam um neun Uhr an. Er hatte gerade vor seiner Abreise die Telegramme seiner Frau erhalten. Er ist außergewöhnlich clever, wenn man von seinem Aussehen ausgehen kann, und voller Energie. Wenn dieses Tagebuch wahr ist - und gemessen an meinen eigenen wundervollen Erfahrungen muss es das sein - dann ist er Ich fand Renfield ruhig in seinem Zimmer sitzend, die Hände gefaltet, freundlich lächelnd. Im Moment schien er genauso geistesgesund wie jeder andere, den ich je gesehen habe. Ich setzte mich und sprach mit ihm über viele Themen, die er natürlich behandelte. Dann sprach er von sich aus über die Heimkehr, ein Thema, von dem er meines Wissens nach während seines Aufenthalts hier nie gesprochen hat. Tatsächlich sprach er ziemlich zuversichtlich davon, seine Entlassung sofort zu bekommen. Ich glaube, wenn ich nicht mit Harker geplaudert und die Briefe und Daten seiner Ausbrüche gelesen hätte, wäre ich bereit gewesen, für ihn zu unterschreiben, nach einer kurzen Zeit der Beobachtung. So wie es ist, bin ich dunkel misstrauisch. Alle diese Ausbrüche waren irgendwie mit der Nähe des Grafen verbunden. Was bedeutet dann dieser absolute Inhalt? Könnte es sein, dass sein Instinkt in Bezug auf den ultimativen Triumph des Vampirs zufrieden ist? Moment mal; selbst ist er zoophag und in seinen wilden Wahnvorstellungen vor der Kapellentür des verlassenen Hauses sprach er immer von "Meister". Das scheint alles unsere Idee zu bestätigen. Nach einer Weile tritt ich jedoch zurück. Mein Freund ist im Moment ein wenig zu geistig gesund, als dass es sicher wäre, ihn mit zu tiefen Fragen zu durchbohren. Er könnte anfangen zu denken, und dann -! Also bin ich gegangen. Ich misstraue diesen ruhigen Stimmungen von ihm; deshalb habe ich dem Pfleger einen Hinweis gegeben, genau auf ihn zu achten und für den Bedarfsfall ein Zwangsjacke bereitzuhalten. _Jonathan Harkers Tagebuch._ _29. September, im Zug nach London._ - Als ich Mr. Billingtons höfliche Nachricht erhielt, dass er mir jede ihm zur Verfügung stehende Information geben würde, dachte ich, es sei am besten, nach Whitby zu fahren und vor Ort die erforderlichen Nachforschungen anzustellen. Mein Ziel war es nun, diese schreckliche Fracht des Grafen bis zu ihrem Bestimmungsort in London zu verfolgen. Später könnten wir damit umgehen. Billington junior, ein netter Junge, traf mich am Bahnhof und brachte mich zum Haus seines Vaters, wo sie beschlossen hatten, dass ich die Nacht bleiben müsse. Sie waren gastfreundlich, mit echter yorkshireischer Gastfreundschaft: Geben Sie einem Gast alles und lassen Sie ihn frei tun, was er möchte. Alle wussten, dass ich beschäftigt war und mein Aufenthalt kurz sein würde, und Mr. Billington hatte in seinem Büro alle Papiere betreffend Kistenlieferung bereit. Es erschreckte mich fast, wieder einen der Briefe zu sehen, die ich auf dem Tisch des Grafen gesehen hatte, bevor ich von seinen teuflischen Plänen wusste. Alles war sorgfältig durchdacht und systematisch und präzise erledigt worden. Er schien auf jedes Hindernis vorbereitet gewesen zu sein, das zufällig seinen Absichten in den Weg gestellt werden könnte. Um einen Amerikanismus zu verwenden, hatte er "keine Risiken eingegangen", und die absolute Genauigkeit, mit der seine Anweisungen ausgeführt wurden, war einfach das logische Ergebnis seiner Sorgfalt. Ich sah die Rechnung und notierte sie: "Fünfzig Kisten mit gewöhnlicher Erde für experimentelle Zwecke." Auch eine Kopie des Briefes an Carter Paterson und deren Antwort; von beiden erhielt ich Kopien. Das war alle Information, die mir Mr. Billington geben konnte, also ging ich zum Hafen und sprach mit den Küstenwachen, den Zollbeamten und dem Hafenmeister. Sie alle hatten etwas zu sagen über den seltsamen Eintritt des Schiffes, der bereits seinen Platz in der lokalen Tradition einnimmt; aber niemand konnte der einfachen Beschreibung "Fünfzig Kisten mit gewöhnlicher Erde" etwas hinzufügen. Dann sprach ich mit dem Bahnhofsvorsteher, der mich freundlicherweise mit den Männern in Verbindung brachte, die die Kisten tatsächlich erhalten hatten. Ihr Zähler stimmte genau mit der Liste überein, und sie hatten nichts hinzuzufügen, außer dass die Kisten "sehr schwer und tödlich" waren und dass es eine trockene Arbeit war, sie zu verladen. Einer von ihnen fügte hinzu, dass es bedauerlich sei, dass es keinen Herrn "wie Sie, Sir", gab, der ihre Bemühungen in flüssiger Form zu schätzen wusste; ein anderer fügte hinzu, dass der Durst, der damals entstand, so groß war, dass selbst die vergangene Zeit ihn nicht vollständig besänftigt hatte. Selbstverständlich habe ich darauf geachtet, bevor ich ging, diese Quelle der Beleidigung für immer und angemessen zu tilgen. _30. September._ - Der Bahnhofsvorsteher war so freundlich, mir eine Empfehlung an seinen alten Begleiter den Bahnhofsvorsteher von King's Cross zu geben, sodass ich, als ich am Morgen dort ankam, ihn nach der Ankunft der Kisten fragen konnte. Auch er brachte mich sofort mit den zuständigen Beamten in Verbindung, und ich sah, dass ihr Zähler mit der ursprünglichen Rechnung übereinstimmte. Die Möglichkeiten, einen übermäßigen Durst zu erlangen, waren hier begrenzt; sie wurden jedoch zu einem edlen Zweck genutzt, und ich war erneut gezwungen, mich nachträglich mit dem Ergebnis zu beschäftigen. Von dort ging ich zum zentralen Büro von Carter Paterson, wo ich auf äußerst höfliche Weise empfangen wurde. Sie schauten in ihrem Tages- und Schreibbuch nach der Transaktion und telefonierten sofort in ihr Büro in King's Cross für weitere Einzelheiten. Aus gutem Grund warteten die Männer, die das Team übernahmen, auf Arbeit, und der Beamte schickte sie sofort dorthin und schickte auch durch einen von ihnen den Frachtbrief und alle Papiere, die mit der Lieferung der Kisten nach Carfax verbunden waren. Hier stellte ich erneut fest, dass der Zähler genau übereinstimmte; die Träger konnten die Knappheit der schriftlichen Worte durch ein paar Details ergänzen. Diese waren, wie ich bald feststellte, fast ausschließlich mit der staubigen Natur der Arbeit und dem daraus resultierenden Durst der Arbeiter verbunden. Als ich durch die Währung des Reiches die Gelegenheit bot, dieses nützliche Übel zu einem späteren Zeitpunkt zu lindern, bemerkte einer der Männer: - "Dieses Haus, Sir, ist das eigenartigste, in dem ich je war. Verdammt! aber es sah seit hundert Jahren nicht berührt aus. Da war so viel Staub in dem Raum, dass man ohne Beschädigung der Knochen darauf hätte schlafen können; und der Ort war so vernachlässigt, dass man Jerusalem darin riechen konnte. Aber die alte Kapelle - das war der Höhepunkt, das war es! Mein Kamerad und ich dachten, wir könnten nicht schnell genug rauskommen. Herr, ich würde nicht weniger als ein Pfund pro Moment verlangen, um dort nach Einbruch der Dunkelheit zu bleiben." Nachdem ich in dem Haus gewesen war, konnte ich ihm gut glauben; aber wenn er wüsste, was ich weiß, würde er, denke ich, seine Bedingungen erhöhen. Eines bin ich jetzt sicher: _alle_ Kisten, die von Varna in der _Demeter_ nach Whitby kamen, wurden sicher in der alten Kapelle in Carfax deponiert. Es sollten fünfzig von ihnen dort sein, es sei denn, es wurden seitdem welche entfernt - wie ich gemäß Dr. Sewards Tagebuch befürchte. Ich werde versuchen, den Fuhrmann zu treffen, der die Kisten aus Carfax wegbrachte, als Renfield sie angriff. Indem wir dieser Spur nachgehen, können wir viel lernen. * * * * * _Später._ - Mina und ich haben den ganzen Tag gearbeitet und alle Papiere in Ordnung gebracht. _Mina Harkers Tagebuch_ _30. September._ - Ich bin so froh, dass ich mich kaum noch zusammenhalten kann. Es ist, nehme ich an, die Reaktion auf die umherschwebende Angst, die ich hatte: dass diese schreckliche Angelegenheit und die Wiedereröffnung seiner alten Wunde sich nachteilig auf Jonathan auswirken könnten. Ich sah ihn "Später." - Lord Godalming und Mr. Morris kamen früher an als erwartet. Dr. Seward war geschäftlich unterwegs und hatte Jonathan mitgenommen, deshalb musste ich sie sehen. Es war für mich ein schmerzhaftes Treffen, denn es weckte all die Hoffnungen der armen lieben Lucy von vor wenigen Monaten. Natürlich hatten sie Lucy über mich sprechen hören, und es schien, dass auch Dr. Van Helsing fleißig davon erzählt hatte, wie Mr. Morris es ausdrückte. Arme Kerle, keiner von ihnen weiß, dass ich von all den Vorschlägen, die sie Lucy gemacht haben, Bescheid weiß. Sie wussten nicht so recht, was sie sagen oder tun sollten, da sie nichts von meinem Wissen wussten. Also blieb uns nur, über neutrale Themen zu sprechen. Dennoch habe ich die Angelegenheit überdacht und bin zu dem Schluss gekommen, dass das Beste, was ich tun könnte, wäre, sie auf den neuesten Stand zu bringen. Aus Dr. Sewards Tagebuch wusste ich, dass sie bei Lucys Tod - ihrem wahren Tod - dabei waren und dass ich keine Geheimnisse vor der Zeit verraten musste. Also erzählte ich ihnen, so gut ich konnte, dass ich alle Papiere und Tagebücher gelesen und dass mein Mann und ich sie mit der Schreibmaschine gerade in Ordnung gebracht hatten. Ich gab ihnen jeweils eine Kopie zum Lesen in der Bibliothek. Als Lord Godalming seines bekam und es durchblätterte - es ergibt einen ziemlich hohen Stapel - sagte er: "Haben Sie das alles geschrieben, Frau Harker?" Ich nickte, und er fuhr fort: "Ich verstehe den Zusammenhang nicht ganz; aber Sie alle sind so gut und freundlich und haben so eifrig und energisch gearbeitet, dass alles, was ich tun kann, Ihre Ideen blindlings zu akzeptieren und Ihnen zu helfen, versuchen werde. Ich habe bereits eine Lektion in der Akzeptanz von Tatsachen erhalten, die einen Mann bis zur letzten Stunde seines Lebens demütig machen sollte. Außerdem weiß ich, dass Sie meine arme Lucy geliebt haben..." Hier wandte er sich ab und bedeckte sein Gesicht mit den Händen. Ich konnte die Tränen in seiner Stimme hören. Mr. Morris legte mit instinktiver Delikatesse für einen Moment eine Hand auf seine Schulter und ging dann ruhig aus dem Raum. Ich denke, es gibt etwas im Wesen der Frau, das es einem Mann erlaubt, vor ihr zusammenzubrechen und seine Gefühle auf der zarten oder emotionalen Seite auszudrücken, ohne dies als herabsetzend für seine Männlichkeit zu empfinden; denn als Lord Godalming allein bei mir war, setzte er sich auf das Sofa und brach völlig zusammen und offen. Ich setzte mich neben ihn und nahm seine Hand. Ich hoffe, er hielt es nicht für aufdringlich von mir, und wenn er jemals darüber nachdenkt, wird er nie einen solchen Gedanken haben. Da verkehre ich ihn zu Unrecht; ich _weiß_, dass er es nie tun wird - er ist ein zu wahrer Gentleman. Ich sagte zu ihm, weil ich sehen konnte, dass sein Herz brach: "Ich liebte die liebe Lucy, und ich weiß, was sie Ihnen bedeutet hat und was Sie ihr bedeutet haben. Sie und ich waren wie Schwestern; und jetzt, da sie fort ist, werden Sie mir nicht erlauben, Ihnen in Ihrer Not wie eine Schwester zu sein? Ich weiß, welche Sorgen Sie hatten, auch wenn ich ihre Tiefe nicht ermessen kann. Wenn Sympathie und Mitleid Ihnen in Ihrer Not helfen können, lassen Sie mich Ihnen doch ein wenig dienen - um Lucys willen." In einem Augenblick wurde der arme Kerl von Kummer überwältigt. Es schien mir, als würde all das, was er in letzter Zeit schweigend ertrug, auf einmal einen Ausweg finden. Er wurde ganz hysterisch und schlug seine offenen Hände in einem wahren Schmerzgewitter aufeinander. Er stand auf und setzte sich wieder hin, und die Tränen strömten über seine Wangen. Ich empfand ein unendliches Mitleid mit ihm und öffnete unbedacht meine Arme. Mit einem Schluchzen legte er seinen Kopf auf meine Schulter und weinte wie ein müdes Kind, während er vor Erregung zitterte. Wir Frauen haben so etwas Mütterliches in uns, das uns über kleinere Dinge erhebt, wenn der Muttergeist beschworen wird; Ich fühlte, wie der Kopf dieses großen, betrübten Mannes auf mir ruhte, als wäre es der eines Babys, das eines Tages auf meinem Schoß liegen könnte, und strich ihm über das Haar, als wäre er mein eigenes Kind. Ich dachte zu der Zeit nie darüber nach, wie seltsam das alles war. Nach einer Weile ließ sein Schluchzen nach, und er erhob sich mit einer Entschuldigung, obwohl er seine Emotionen nicht verbarg. Er erzählte mir, dass er in den vergangenen Tagen und Nächten - müden Tagen und schlaflosen Nächten - nicht in der Lage gewesen sei, mit jemandem zu sprechen, wie es ein Mann in seiner Trauerzeit tun muss. Es gab keine Frau, die ihm Mitgefühl entgegenbringen konnte, oder mit der er, aufgrund der schrecklichen Umstände, in denen seine Trauer eingebettet war, frei sprechen konnte. "Jetzt weiß ich, wie sehr ich gelitten habe", sagte er, als er seine Augen abtrocknete, "aber ich weiß immer noch nicht - und kein anderer kann je wissen - wie viel Ihre süße Sympathie mir heute bedeutet hat. Mit der Zeit werde ich es besser verstehen; und glauben Sie mir, obwohl ich jetzt nicht undankbar bin, wird meine Dankbarkeit mit meinem Verständnis wachsen. Sie werden mich doch wie einen Bruder annehmen, für all unsere Leben - um Lucys willen?" "Um Lucys willen", sagte ich, als wir uns die Hände reichten. "Ja, und um deinetwillen", fügte er hinzu, "denn wenn die Anerkennung und Dankbarkeit eines Mannes jemals etwas wert ist, dann haben Sie meine heute gewonnen. Wenn die Zukunft Ihnen jemals eine Zeit bringen sollte, in der Sie die Hilfe eines Mannes brauchen, glauben Sie mir, Sie werden nicht vergeblich rufen. Gott sei Dank, dass eine solche Zeit nie über Sie kommen möge und den Sonnenschein Ihres Lebens trübt; aber wenn es jemals dazu kommen sollte, versprechen Sie mir, dass Sie es mich wissen lassen." Er war so ernsthaft, und sein Kummer war so frisch, dass ich das Gefühl hatte, dass es ihm Trost spenden würde, also sagte ich: "Ich verspreche es." Als ich den Flur entlang kam, sah ich Mr. Morris aus dem Fenster schauen. Er drehte sich um, als er meine Schritte hörte. "Wie geht es Art?" fragte er. Dann bemerkte er meine geröteten Augen und fuhr fort: "Ah, ich sehe, Sie haben ihn getröstet. Armer alter Kerl! Er braucht es. Niemand außer einer Frau kann einem Mann helfen, wenn sein Herz in Not ist; und er hatte niemanden, der ihn tröstet." Er ertrug sein eigenes Leid so tapfer, dass mein Herz für ihn blutete. Ich sah das Manuskript in seiner Hand und wusste, dass er, wenn er es liest, erkennen würde, wie viel ich weiß. Also sagte ich zu ihm: "Ich wünschte, ich könnte alle trösten, die unter Herzenskummer leiden. Erlauben Sie mir Ihr Freund zu sein, und kommen Sie zu mir, wenn Sie Trost brauchen? Sie werden später verstehen, warum ich so spreche." Er sah, dass ich es ernst meinte und beugte sich hinunter, nahm meine Hand und hob sie an seine Lippen, um sie zu küssen. Es schien eine dürftige Trostgabe für eine so tapfere und selbstlose Seele zu sein, und ich beugte mich impulsiv über ihn und küsste ihn. Die Tränen stiegen ihm in die Augen, und sein Hals schnürte sich kurzzeitig zusammen; er sagte ganz ruhig: "Kleines Mädchen, Sie werden diese gut gemeinte Freundlichkeit niemals bedauern, solange Sie leben!" Dann ging er in das Arbeitszimmer zu seinem Freund. "Kleines Mädchen!" - genau die Worte, die er zu Lucy gesagt hatte, und oh, wie sehr er sich als Freund erwiesen hat! _30. September._ - Ich kam um fünf Uhr nach Hause und stellte fest, dass Godalming und Morris nicht nur angekommen waren, sondern bereits die Abschrift der verschiedenen Tagebücher und Briefe studiert Sie geht durch das Haus und möchte jeden darin sehen", antwortete ich. "Oh, sehr gut", sagte er: "Lassen Sie sie ruhig hereinkommen; aber warten Sie bitte einen Moment, bis ich den Ort aufräume." Seine Methode des Aufräumens war eigenartig: Er verschluckte einfach alle Fliegen und Spinnen in den Behältern, bevor ich ihn stoppen konnte. Es war offensichtlich, dass er befürchtete oder eifersüchtig auf jede Einmischung war. Als er seine ekelhafte Aufgabe beendet hatte, sagte er fröhlich: "Lassen Sie die Dame hereinkommen" und setzte sich mit gesenktem Kopf auf den Bettrand, aber mit geöffneten Augenlidern, damit er sie sehen konnte, als sie eintrat. Für einen Moment dachte ich, er könnte mörderische Absichten haben; ich erinnerte mich daran, wie ruhig er war, kurz bevor er mich in meinem eigenen Büro angegriffen hatte, und ich achtete darauf, mich so zu positionieren, dass ich ihn sofort ergreifen konnte, falls er versuchte, auf sie loszugehen. Sie betrat den Raum mit einer einfachen Anmut, die den Respekt jedes Verrückten sofort erzwingen würde, denn Leichtigkeit ist eine der Eigenschaften, die geisteskranke Menschen am meisten respektieren. Sie ging lächelnd zu ihm hinüber und reichte ihm die Hand. "Guten Abend, Herr Renfield", sagte sie. "Sie sehen, ich kenne Sie, denn Dr. Seward hat mir von Ihnen erzählt." Er antwortete nicht sofort, sondern betrachtete sie aufmerksam mit einem strengen Stirnrunzeln im Gesicht. Dieser Blick wich einem des Staunens, das dann in Zweifel überging; dann, zu meiner großen Verwunderung, sagte er:-- "Sie sind nicht das Mädchen, das der Arzt heiraten wollte, oder? Das können Sie nicht sein, denn sie ist tot." Frau Harker lächelte süß, als sie antwortete:-- "Oh nein! Ich habe einen eigenen Ehemann, mit dem ich verheiratet war, bevor ich Dr. Seward überhaupt getroffen habe. Ich bin Mrs. Harker." "Was machen Sie dann hier?" "Mein Mann und ich besuchen Dr. Seward." "Dann bleiben Sie nicht." "Aber warum nicht?" Ich dachte, dass diese Art von Gespräch für Frau Harker genauso unangenehm sein könnte wie für mich, also schloss ich mich ein:-- "Wie wussten Sie, dass ich jemanden heiraten wollte?" Seine Antwort war einfach verächtlich und kam in einer Pause, in der er seinen Blick wechselte, von Frau Harker zu mir und dann sofort wieder zurück:-- "Was für eine dumme Frage!" "Ich sehe das überhaupt nicht so, Herr Renfield", verteidigte mich Frau Harker sofort. Er antwortete ihr genauso höflich und respektvoll, wie er mich verachtet hatte:-- "Sicher werden Sie verstehen, Frau Harker, dass alles, was unseren Gastgeber betrifft, von Interesse für unsere kleine Gemeinschaft ist, wenn ein Mann so geliebt und geehrt wird wie er. Dr. Seward wird nicht nur von seiner Familie und seinen Freunden geliebt, sondern sogar von seinen Patienten, von denen einige kaum geistig im Gleichgewicht sind und geneigt sind, Ursache und Wirkung zu verdrehen. Da ich selbst Insasse einer Irrenanstalt war, kann ich nicht anders, als festzustellen, dass einige der Insassen zu sophistischen Tendenzen neigen, die Fehler des _non causa_ und _ignoratio elenchi_ beinhalten." Ich öffnete meine Augen bei dieser neuen Entwicklung. Hier war mein eigener verrückter Patient - der ausgeprägteste seiner Art, dem ich je begegnet war - und er sprach von elementarer Philosophie und das mit der Art eines gebildeten Herrn. Ich frage mich, ob Frau Harkers Anwesenheit einen bestimmten Akkord in seinem Gedächtnis berührt hatte. Wenn diese neue Phase spontan war oder in irgendeiner Weise auf ihre unbewusste Einflussnahme zurückzuführen war, musste sie über eine seltene Gabe oder Fähigkeit verfügen. Wir sprachen noch eine Weile weiter, und da er scheinbar ganz vernünftig war, wagte sie, mich fragend anzusehen, als sie begann, ihn auf sein Lieblingsthema zu lenken. Ich war wieder erstaunt, denn er beschäftigte sich mit der Frage mit der Unparteilichkeit vollendeter Vernunft; er nahm sich sogar selbst als Beispiel, wenn er bestimmte Dinge erwähnte. "Nun, ich selbst bin ein Beispiel für einen Mann mit einer seltsamen Überzeugung. Es war kein Wunder, dass sich meine Freunde Sorgen machten und darauf bestanden, mich unter Kontrolle zu bringen. Ich bildete mir ein, dass das Leben eine positive und ewige Entität sei und dass man durch das Verzehren einer Vielzahl lebendiger Wesen, egal wie niedrig sie in der Schöpfungshierarchie stehen mögen, das Leben unbegrenzt verlängern könnte. Manchmal war ich von dieser Überzeugung so überzeugt, dass ich tatsächlich versuchte, menschliches Leben zu nehmen. Der Arzt hier wird mir bestätigen, dass ich eines Tages versucht habe, ihn zu töten, um meine Lebenskraft zu stärken, indem ich sein Leben durch sein Blut mit meinem eigenen Körper assimilierte - und ich verließ mich natürlich auf den biblischen Satz 'Denn das Blut ist das Leben'. Obwohl der Verkäufer eines bestimmten Allheilmittels die Truismus bis zur Verachtung vulgarisiert hat. Ist das nicht wahr, Doktor?" Ich nickte zustimmend, denn ich war so erstaunt, dass ich kaum wusste, was ich denken oder sagen sollte; es war schwer vorstellbar, dass ich ihn vor nicht einmal fünf Minuten Spinnen und Fliegen hatte essen sehen. Als ich auf die Uhr sah, sah ich, dass ich zum Bahnhof gehen musste, um Van Helsing zu treffen, also sagte ich zu Frau Harker, dass es Zeit sei zu gehen. Sie kam sofort, nachdem sie Mr. Renfield freundlich gesagt hatte: "Auf Wiedersehen, und ich hoffe, ich sehe Sie oft unter angenehmeren Umständen wieder", worauf er, zu meiner Verblüffung, antwortete:-- "Auf Wiedersehen, meine Liebe. Ich bete zu Gott, dass ich Ihr süßes Gesicht nie wieder sehen werde. Möge er Sie segnen und bewahren!" Als ich zum Bahnhof fuhr, ließ ich die Jungen hinter mir. Arme Art schien fröhlicher zu sein als seit Lucys erster Krankheit, und Quincey ist wieder ganz der Alte, wie er seit langer Zeit nicht mehr war. Van Helsing stieg mit der ungeduldigen Gewandtheit eines Jungen aus dem Wagen. Er sah mich sofort und stürmte auf mich zu, indem er sagte: "Ah, mein Freund John, wie geht es? Gut? So! Ich war beschäftigt, denn ich komme hierher, wenn es sein muss, um zu bleiben. Alle Angelegenheiten sind mit mir geklärt, und ich habe viel zu erzählen. Madame Mina ist bei Ihnen? Ja. Und ihr so feiner Ehemann? Und Arthur und mein Freund Quincey, sind sie auch bei Ihnen? Gut!" Als ich zum Haus fuhr, erzählte ich ihm, was passiert war und wie mein eigenes Tagebuch durch Mrs. Harkers Vorschlag von Nutzen gewesen war; darauf unterbrach mich der Professor: "Ah, diese wunderbare Madame Mina! Sie hat das Denkvermögen eines Mannes - ein Denkvermögen, das ein Mann haben sollte, wenn er überaus begabt wäre - und das Herz einer Frau. Der gute Gott hat sie zu einem bestimmten Zweck geschaffen, glauben Sie mir, als er diese so gute Kombination schuf. Freund John, bisher hat diese Frau uns geholfen, glauben Sie mir; nach heute Abend darf sie nichts mehr mit dieser schrecklichen Angelegenheit zu tun haben. Es ist nicht gut, dass sie ein so großes Risiko eingeht. Wir Männer sind entschlossen - sind wir nicht verpflichtet? - dieses Dr. Van Helsing, würden Sie dies bitte lesen und mir sagen, ob es hineingehen muss. Es ist meine Aufzeichnung von heute. Auch ich habe erkannt, dass es notwendig ist, im Moment alles, auch Kleinigkeiten, aufzuschreiben. Aber abgesehen von Persönlichem enthält dies wenig. Muss es hinein? Der Professor las es ernsthaft durch und gab es zurück mit den Worten: "Es muss nicht hinein, wenn du es nicht möchtest, aber ich bete dafür, dass es das tut. Es kann dazu führen, dass dein Mann dich noch mehr liebt und uns alle, deine Freunde, mehr ehrt, sowie mehr Wertschätzung und Liebe zeigt." Sie nahm es zurück und lächelte verlegen und strahlend. Und so sind bis jetzt alle unsere Aufzeichnungen vollständig und in Ordnung. Der Professor nahm eine Kopie mit, um sie nach dem Abendessen und vor unserem Treffen, das um neun Uhr festgesetzt ist, zu studieren. Der Rest von uns hat bereits alles gelesen. Wenn wir uns im Studierzimmer treffen, werden wir alle über die Fakten informiert sein und unseren Schlachtplan gegen diesen schrecklichen und mysteriösen Feind festlegen. _Mina Harkers Tagebuch._ _30. September._ Als wir uns in Dr. Sewards Studierzimmer zwei Stunden nach dem um sechs Uhr stattgefundenen Abendessen trafen, bildeten wir unbewusst eine Art Gremium. Professor Van Helsing nahm den Vorsitz am Tisch ein, zu dem Dr. Seward ihn beim Betreten des Raumes winkte. Er bat mich, mich neben ihn auf seiner rechten Seite hinzusetzen und als Sekretärin zu fungieren; Jonathan setzte sich neben mich. Uns gegenüber saßen Lord Godalming, Dr. Seward und Mr. Morris - Lord Godalming neben dem Professor und Dr. Seward in der Mitte. Der Professor sagte: "Ich nehme an, dass wir alle mit den Tatsachen vertraut sind, die in diesen Papieren stehen." Wir bekundeten alle Zustimmung und er fuhr fort: "Dann wäre es, denke ich, gut, wenn ich euch etwas über die Art des Feindes erzähle, mit dem wir es zu tun haben. Anschließend werde ich euch etwas aus der Geschichte dieses Mannes erzählen, was für mich ermittelt wurde. Dann können wir besprechen, wie wir handeln sollen und unsere Maßnahmen ergreifen. "Es gibt solche Wesen wie Vampire; einige von uns haben Beweise dafür, dass sie existieren. Selbst wenn wir nicht den Beweis unserer eigenen unglücklichen Erfahrung hätten, liefern die Lehren und Aufzeichnungen der Vergangenheit genügend Beweise für vernünftige Menschen. Ich gebe zu, dass ich anfangs skeptisch war. Hätte ich mich nicht jahrelang darauf trainiert, einen offenen Geist zu bewahren, hätte ich nicht geglaubt, bis mir diese Tatsache ins Ohr dröhnte. 'Seht! Seht! Ich beweise es; ich beweise es.' O weh! Hätte ich damals gewusst, was ich jetzt weiß - nein, selbst wenn ich ihn nur geahnt hätte - dann hätte ein so kostbares Leben vielen von uns, die sie liebten, erspart bleiben können. Aber das ist Vergangenheit; und wir müssen so arbeiten, dass andere arme Seelen nicht umkommen, solange wir sie retten können. Die _Nosferatu_ sterben nicht wie die Biene, wenn sie einmal gestochen hat. Er wird nur stärker; und wenn er stärker ist, hat er noch mehr Kraft, Böses zu tun. Dieser Vampir, der unter uns ist, ist allein an Körperkraft so stark wie zwanzig Männer; er ist klüger als Sterbliche, denn seine Klugheit ist das Ergebnis von Jahrhunderten. Er hat immer noch die Hilfe der Nekromantie, die, wie seine Etymologie nahelegt, die Totenbefragung ist, und alle Toten, die er erreichen kann, stehen ihm zur Verfügung. Er ist Tier und mehr als ein Tier; er ist der Teufel selbst in seiner Unempfindlichkeit, und sein Herz fehlt. Er kann innerhalb gewisser Grenzen nach Belieben erscheinen, wann und wo immer er will, und in jeder ihm möglichen Form. Er kann die Elemente nach seinem Willen beherrschen, den Sturm, den Nebel, den Donner; er kann über alle kleineren Dinge herrschen: die Ratte, die Eule und die Fledermaus - den Motten, den Fuchs und den Wolf; er kann wachsen und kleiner werden; und er kann sich manchmal unsichtbar machen und unbekannt kommen. Wie sollen wir dann unseren Angriff beginnen, um ihn zu vernichten? Wie finden wir seinen Aufenthaltsort, und wenn wir ihn gefunden haben, wie können wir ihn zerstören? Meine Freunde, das ist sehr viel; es ist eine schreckliche Aufgabe, die wir übernehmen, und es kann Folgen haben, die sogar die Mutigsten erschaudern lassen. Denn wenn wir in diesem Kampf scheitern, wird er sicherlich gewinnen; und wo enden wir dann? Das Leben ist nichts; ich kümmere mich nicht darum. Aber hier zu scheitern bedeutet nicht nur Leben oder Tod. Es bedeutet, wie er zu werden; von nun an werden wir wie er schmutzige Wesen der Nacht sein, ohne Herz oder Gewissen, die auf den Körpern und Seelen derer, die wir am meisten lieben, jagen. Für uns sind die Tore des Himmels für immer verschlossen; denn wer wird sie uns wieder öffnen? Für alle Zeiten werden wir von allen verabscheut; ein Flecken auf dem Angesicht von Gottes Sonnenschein; ein Pfeil in der Seite dessen, der für den Menschen gestorben ist. Aber wir stehen hier unserer Pflicht gegenüber; und in einem solchen Fall dürfen wir uns nicht zurückziehen? Ich persönlich sage nein; aber dann bin ich alt, und das Leben mit seinem Sonnenschein, seinen schönen Orten, seinem Vogelgesang, seiner Musik und seiner Liebe liegt weit hinter mir. Ihr anderen seid jung. Einige haben bereits Leid erfahren; aber es gibt noch schöne Tage, die auf euch warten. Was sagt ihr dazu?" Während er sprach, nahm Jonathan meine Hand. Ich fürchtete so sehr, dass die erschreckende Natur unserer Gefahr ihn überwältigen würde, als ich seine Hand ausstrecken sah, aber für mich bedeutete es viel, seine Berührung zu spüren - so stark, so selbstsicher, so entschlossen. Die Hand eines tapferen Mannes kann für sich selbst sprechen; sie braucht nicht einmal die Liebe einer Frau, um ihre Musik zu hören. Als der Professor geendet hatte zu sprechen, blickte mein Mann mir in die Augen, und ich ihm in seine; es war nicht notwendig, dass wir uns aussprachen. "Ich spreche für Mina und mich", sagte er. "Ich bin dabei, Professor", sagte Mr. Quincey Morris wie gewöhnlich lakonisch. "Ich bin dabei", sagte Lord Godalming, "wegen Lucy, wenn aus keinem anderen Grund." Dr. Seward nickte einfach. Der Professor stand auf und legte nach dem Ablegen seines goldenen Kruzifixes auf dem Tisch seine Hand auf beiden Seiten aus. Ich nahm seine rechte Hand und Lord Godalming seine linke; Jonathan hielt meine rechte Hand mit seiner linken und streckte sie zu Mr. Morris rüber. So wurde unser feierlicher Pakt geschlossen. Mein Herz war eiskalt, aber es kam mir nicht einmal in den Sinn, zurückzuweichen. Wir nahmen unsere Plätze wieder ein, und Dr. Van Helsing fuhr mit einer gewissen Fröhlichkeit fort, die zeigte, dass die ernsthafte Arbeit begonnen hatte. Es sollte ebenso ernsthaft und geschäftsmäßig behandelt werden wie jede andere Lebensangelegenheit: "Nun, ihr wisst, womit wir es zu tun haben; aber auch wir sind nicht ohne Kraft. Wir haben auf unserer Seite die Macht der Zusammenarbeit - eine Macht, die den Vampiren verwehrt ist; wir haben Quellen der Wissenschaft; wir sind frei zu handeln und zu denken; und die Stunden des Tages und der Nacht gehören gleichermaßen uns. Tatsächlich sind wir, soweit unsere Kräfte reichen, unbegrenzt und frei, sie zu nutzen. Wir haben Hingabe für eine Sache und ein Ziel, das nicht egoistisch ist. Das sind sehr wichtige Dinge. "Nun lasst uns sehen, wie weit die allgemeinen Kräfte, die sich uns entgegenstellen, beschränkt sind, und wie der Einzelne das nicht ist. Kurz gesagt, betrachten wir die Begrenzungen der Vampire im Allgemeinen und dieses hier im Besonderen. Alles, worauf wir uns stützen können, sind Traditionen und Aberglauben. Diese scheinen anfangs nicht viel zu bedeuten, wenn es um Leben und Tod geht - ja sogar um mehr als nur Leben oder Tod. Dennoch müssen wir zufrieden sein; erstens, weil wir es sein müssen - keine andere Möglichkeit steht uns zur Verfügung - und zweitens, weil diese Dinge - Tradition und Aberglaube - letztendlich alles sind. Glaubt man nicht, dass der Glaube an Vampire - wenn auch nicht für uns, leider! - auf ihnen beruht? Vor einem Jahr, wer von uns hätte eine solche Möglichkeit inmitten unseres wissenschaftlichen, skeptischen und sachlichen neunzehnten Jahrhunderts erhalten? Wir haben sogar einen Glauben abgelehnt, den wir mit eigenen Augen als gerechtfertigt erachteten. Akzeptieren wir also vorerst, dass der Vampir, und der Glaube an seine Grenzen und seine Heilung, momentan auf derselben Grundlage beruhen. Denn, lassen Sie mich Ihnen sagen, er ist überall bekannt, wo Menschen waren. Im alten Griechenland, im alten Rom; er blüht in ganz Deutschland, in Frankreich, in Indien, sogar in der Tschernosem; und in China, so fern von uns in jeder Hinsicht, ist er sogar dort, und die Menschen fürchten ihn noch heute. Er ist den Spuren des Berserkers, des Isländers, des vom Teufel gezeugten Hunnen, des Slawen, des Sachsen, des Magyaren gefolgt. Bisher wissen wir also alles, was wir beachten können; und lassen Sie mich Ihnen sagen, dass vieles von dem Glauben durch das gerechtfertigt wird, was wir in unserer so unglücklichen Erfahrung gesehen haben. Der Vampir lebt weiter und kann nicht durch einfaches Verstreichen der Zeit sterben; er kann gedeihen, indem er sich vom Blut der Lebenden ernährt. Noch mehr, wir haben unter uns gesehen, dass er sogar jünger werden kann; dass seine lebenswichtigen Fähigkeiten an Stärke gewinnen und sich zu erneuern scheinen, wenn seine spezielle Nahrung reichlich vorhanden ist. Aber er kann ohne diese Diät nicht gedeihen; er isst nicht wie andere. Selbst Freund Jonathan, der wochenlang mit ihm zusammenlebte, hat ihn nie essen sehen, niemals! Er wirft keinen Schatten; er spiegelt sich im Spiegel nicht, wie Jonathan wiederholt bemerkt hat. Er hat die Kraft von vielen in seinen Händen - Jonathan konnte dies bezeugen, als er die Tür gegen die Wölfe zuschlug und als er ihm auch beim Umsteigen half. Er kann sich in einen Wolf verwandeln, wie wir aus der Ankunft des Schiffes in Whitby erfahren haben, als er den Hund zerriss; er kann eine Fledermaus sein, wie Madam Mina ihn am Fenster in Whitby gesehen hat, und wie Freund John ihn aus diesem so nahen Haus fliegen sah, und wie mein Freund Quincey ihn am Fenster von Miss Lucy sah. Er kann in einem von ihm erzeugten Nebel kommen - das hat uns jener edle Schiffskapitän bewiesen; aber soweit wir wissen, ist die Entfernung, die er mit diesem Nebel machen kann, begrenzt, und er kann es nur um sich herum erzeugen. Er kommt auf den Strahlen des Mondscheins als elementarer Staub, wie Jonathan auch diese Schwestern im Schloss von Dracula sah. Er kann so klein werden - wir haben Miss Lucy selbst gesehen, bevor sie ruhte, wie sie durch einen hauchdünnen Spalt an der Tür des Grabs entkam. Wenn er einmal seinen Weg gefunden hat, kann er aus allem herauskommen oder in alles hineingehen, egal wie eng es gebunden oder sogar mit Feuer verschweißt ist. Er kann im Dunkeln sehen - keine kleine Kraft in einer Welt, die zur Hälfte vom Licht abgeschirmt ist. Aber hören Sie mich weiter an. Er kann all diese Dinge tun, und doch ist er nicht frei. Nein, er ist sogar gefangen wie ein Sklave auf einer Galeere, wie ein Verrückter in seiner Zelle. Er kann nicht dorthin gehen, wo er will; er, der nicht von naturgeboren ist, muss dennoch einigen Naturgesetzen gehorchen - warum, wissen wir nicht. Er darf nicht gleich überall eintreten, es sei denn, es gibt jemanden im Haushalt, der ihn dazu auffordert; danach kann er kommen wie er will. Seine Macht endet, wie die aller bösen Dinge, wenn der Tag anbricht. Nur zu bestimmten Zeiten kann er begrenzte Freiheit haben. Wenn er nicht am Ort ist, an den er gebunden ist, kann er sich nur zu Mittag oder zum genauen Sonnenaufgang oder Sonnenuntergang verwandeln. Das sind die Dinge, die uns gesagt werden, und in dieser Aufzeichnung haben wir einen Beweis durch Schlussfolgerung. Daher können wir, solange er sein Erdheim, sein Sargheim, sein Höllenheim, den entweihten Ort hat, wie wir es gesehen haben, ihn in seinem Sarg festhalten und zerstören, wenn wir tun, was wir wissen. Aber er ist schlau. Ich habe meinen Freund Arminius von der Universität Buda-Pesth gebeten, seine Aufzeichnungen anzufertigen; und von all den Mitteln, die es gibt, erzählt er mir, was er erfahren hat. Er muss tatsächlich jener Voivode Dracula gewesen sein, der seinen Namen über den großen Fluss an der türkischen Grenze hinweg gegen die Türken gewonnen hat. Wenn das so ist, war er kein gewöhnlicher Mensch; denn zu dieser Zeit, und für Jahrhunderte danach, wurde er als der klügste und raffinierteste, aber auch der tapferste der Söhne des 'Landes jenseits des Waldes' bezeichnet. Dieses mächtige Gehirn und dieser eiserne Wille begleiteten ihn bis zum Grab und stehen uns jetzt sogar gegenüber. Die Draculas waren, sagt Arminius, eine große und noble Familie, obwohl es gelegentlich Nachkommen gab, die von ihren Zeitgenossen als solche angesehen wurden, die Geschäfte mit dem Bösen gemacht haben. Sie lernten seine Geheimnisse in der Scholomance, in den Bergen über Hermannstadt, wo der Teufel den zehnten Schüler als seinen Tribut beansprucht. In den Dokumenten finden sich Worte wie 'stregoica' - Hexe, 'ordog' und 'pokol' - Satan und Hölle; und in einer Handschrift wird dieser Dracula selbst als 'wampyr' bezeichnet, was wir alle nur zu gut verstehen. Aus diesem einen sind große Männer und gute Frauen hervorgegangen, und ihre Gräber heiligen die Erde, in der allein diese Abscheulichkeit wohnen kann. Denn es ist nicht das geringste seiner Schrecken, dass dieses böse Wesen in allem Guten tief verwurzelt ist; auf einem Boden, der frei von heiligen Erinnerungen ist, kann es nicht ruhen." Während sie sprachen, starrte Mr. Morris unverwandt auf das Fenster und stand jetzt ruhig auf und verließ den Raum. Es gab eine kleine Pause, und dann fuhr der Professor fort: "Und nun müssen wir festlegen, was wir tun. Wir haben hier viele Daten, und wir müssen unsere Kampagne planen. Wir wissen durch Jonathans Ermittlungen, dass von der Burg bis nach Whitby fünfzig Erdkisten gekommen sind, die alle in Carfax abgeliefert wurden; außerdem wissen wir, dass zumindest einige dieser Kisten entfernt wurden. Mir scheint, dass unser erster Schritt sein sollte, herauszufinden, ob alle anderen noch im Haus hinter dieser Mauer, die wir heute sehen, sind, oder ob noch weitere entfernt wurden. Wenn letzteres der Fall ist, müssen wir zurückverfolgen...". Hier wurden wir auf sehr erschreckende Weise unterbrochen. Draußen vor dem Haus hörten wir den Klang eines Pistolenschusses; das Fensterglas wurde von "Hast du es getroffen?", fragte Dr. Van Helsing. "Ich weiß es nicht; ich glaube nicht, denn es ist in den Wald geflogen." Ohne weitere Worte nahm er Platz und der Professor begann seine Aussage fortzusetzen: "Wir müssen jedem dieser Kästen nachgehen und wenn wir bereit sind, müssen wir dieses Monster, entweder einfangen oder töten in seiner Höhle; oder wir müssen sozusagen die Erde sterilisieren, damit er darin keine Sicherheit mehr suchen kann. Am Ende könnten wir ihn in seiner menschlichen Gestalt zwischen Mittag und Sonnenuntergang finden und mit ihm kämpfen, wenn er am schwächsten ist. "Und jetzt, Frau Mina, ist diese Nacht das Ende, bis alles gut ist. Du bist uns zu kostbar, um solch ein Risiko einzugehen. Wenn wir uns heute Nacht trennen, musst du nicht weiter fragen. Wir werden dir alles zur richtigen Zeit erzählen. Wir sind Männer und können ertragen; aber du musst unser Stern und unsere Hoffnung sein, und wir werden umso freier handeln, wenn du nicht in Gefahr bist, wie wir." Alle Männer, sogar Jonathan, schienen erleichtert zu sein; mir schien es jedoch nicht gut, dass sie Gefahr braven und möglicherweise ihre Sicherheit verringerten - Stärke ist die beste Sicherheit - wegen meiner Vorsicht; aber sie hatten ihre Meinung bereits festgelegt und obwohl es mir schwer fiel, das zu akzeptieren, konnte ich nichts sagen, außer ihre ritterliche Fürsorge für mich anzunehmen. Mr. Morris nahm die Diskussion wieder auf: "Da keine Zeit zu verlieren ist, schlage ich vor, dass wir uns sein Haus jetzt gleich ansehen. Zeit ist alles für ihn; und schnelles Handeln unsererseits könnte ein weiteres Opfer retten." Ich muss zugeben, dass mein Mut schwand, als der Zeitpunkt für die Aktion so nah kam, aber ich sagte nichts, denn ich fürchtete noch mehr, dass sie mich als Belastung für ihre Arbeit betrachten oder mich sogar ganz aus ihren Beratungen ausschließen könnten. Sie sind nun zu Carfax gegangen, mit Mitteln, um ins Haus zu kommen. Gleich einem Mann haben sie mir gesagt, ins Bett zu gehen und zu schlafen; als ob eine Frau schlafen könnte, wenn diejenigen, die sie liebt, in Gefahr sind! Ich werde mich hinlegen und vorgeben zu schlafen, damit Jonathan nicht zusätzliche Sorge um mich hat, wenn er zurückkehrt. _Dr. Sewards Tagebuch._ _1. Oktober, 4 Uhr morgens._ - Kurz bevor wir das Haus verlassen wollten, wurde mir eine dringende Nachricht von Renfield gebracht, ob ich ihn sofort sehen würde, da er etwas von äußerster Wichtigkeit mit mir besprechen müsse. Ich sagte dem Boten, dass ich mich um seine Angelegenheit kümmern würde, sobald ich Zeit hätte; ich war gerade beschäftigt. Der Betreuer fügte hinzu: "Er scheint sehr dringend zu sein, Sir. Ich habe ihn noch nie so ungeduldig gesehen. Ich weiß nicht, ob, wenn Sie ihn nicht bald sehen, er einen seiner heftigen Anfälle haben wird." Ich wusste, dass der Mann das nicht ohne Grund gesagt hätte, also sagte ich: "In Ordnung, ich werde jetzt gehen"; und ich bat die anderen, noch ein paar Minuten auf mich zu warten, da ich zu meinem "Patienten" gehen musste. "Nimm mich mit, Freund John", sagte der Professor. "Sein Fall in deinem Tagebuch interessiert mich sehr und hatte auch hier und da Auswirkungen auf _unseren_ Fall. Ich würde ihn sehr gerne sehen, besonders wenn sein Geist gestört ist." "Darf ich auch kommen?", fragte Lord Godalming. "Ich auch?", sagte Quincey Morris. "Darf ich kommen?", sagte Harker. Ich nickte und wir gingen alle zusammen den Gang hinunter. Wir fanden ihn in einem Zustand großer Erregung, aber viel vernünftiger in seiner Sprache und seinem Verhalten, als ich ihn jemals gesehen hatte. Es gab eine ungewöhnliche Selbsterkenntnis, die anders war als alles, was ich je bei einem Verrückten erlebt hatte; und er nahm an, dass seine Gründe bei anderen vollkommen geistig gesunden Menschen wirksam wären. Wir alle vier gingen in den Raum, aber keiner der anderen sagte zunächst etwas. Sein Wunsch war es, dass ich ihn sofort aus dem Irrenhaus entlasse und nach Hause schicke. Dies unterstützte er mit Argumenten über seine vollständige Genesung und führte seine eigene geistige Gesundheit an. "Ich bitte um das Urteil Ihrer Freunde", sagte er, "vielleicht nehmen sie es auf sich, über meinen Fall zu urteilen. Übrigens haben Sie mich nicht vorgestellt." Ich war so überrascht, dass mir der Seltsamkeit, einen Geisteskranken in einem Irrenhaus vorzustellen, im Moment nicht auffiel; und außerdem lag eine gewisse Würde in der Art des Mannes, so sehr von der Gleichheit geprägt, dass ich sofort die Vorstellung machte: "Lord Godalming, Professor Van Helsing, Herr Quincey Morris aus Texas, Herr Renfield." Er schüttelte jedem von ihnen die Hand und sagte nacheinander: "Lord Godalming, ich hatte die Ehre, Ihren Vater bei den Wahlen in Windham zu unterstützen; es betrübt mich zu hören, dass er nicht mehr lebt, da er ein von allen geliebter und geehrter Mann war; und in seiner Jugend, so habe ich gehört, war er der Erfinder eines beliebten Rum-Punsch, der an Derby-Nacht viel Anklang fand. Mr. Morris, Sie sollten stolz auf Ihren großartigen Staat sein. Seine Aufnahme in die Union war ein Präzedenzfall, der in Zukunft weitreichende Auswirkungen haben könnte, wenn der Nord- und der Südpol sich mit den Sternen und Streifen verbünden. Die Macht des Vertrags kann sich noch als gewaltiger Motor für Vergrößerung erweisen, wenn die Monroe-Doktrin ihren wahren Platz als politische Fabel einnimmt. Was soll ein Mann über sein Vergnügen sagen, Van Helsing zu treffen? Sir, ich entschuldige mich nicht dafür, alle Formen konventioneller Anrede abzulegen. Wenn ein Einzelner die Therapie revolutioniert hat durch seine Entdeckung der kontinuierlichen Evolution von Gehirnsubstanz, sind konventionelle Formen unangemessen, da sie ihn auf eine Klasse beschränken würden. Sie, meine Herren, die durch Nationalität, Abstammung oder durch den Besitz natürlicher Begabungen dazu geeignet sind, Ihren jeweiligen Platz in der sich bewegenden Welt einzunehmen, nehme ich als Zeugen, dass ich zumindest so geistig gesund bin wie die Mehrheit der Männer, die vollständig ihre Freiheit besitzen. Und ich bin sicher, dass Sie, Dr. Seward, Humanist und medizinischer Jurist sowie Wissenschaftler, es als moralische Pflicht ansehen werden, mich als eine Person unter außergewöhnlichen Umständen zu behandeln." Er legte diesen letzten Appell mit einer höflichen Überzeugung vor, die nicht ohne ihren eigenen Charme war. Ich glaube, wir waren alle verblüfft. Ich selbst war trotz meines Wissens über den Charakter und die Geschichte des Mannes überzeugt, dass sein Verstand wiederhergestellt worden war; und ich fühlte einen starken Impuls, ihm zu sagen, dass ich mit seiner geistigen Gesundheit zufrieden war und mich am nächsten Morgen um die notwendigen Formalitäten für seine Freilassung kümmern würde. Es schien mir jedoch besser zu warten, bevor ich eine so gravierende Aussage mache, denn ich kannte die plötzlichen Veränderungen, denen dieser bestimmte Patient ausgesetzt war. Also begnügte ich mich damit, eine allgemeine Aussage zu machen, dass er mir sehr schnell besser zu werden schien; dass ich am nächsten Morgen ein längeres Gespräch mit ihm haben würde und dann sehen würde, was ich tun könnte, um seinen Wünschen nachzukommen. Das genügte ihm überhaupt nicht, denn er sagte schnell: "Aber ich fürchte, Dr. Seward, dass Sie meinen Wunsch kaum verstehen. Ich möchte sofort gehen - hier - jetzt - in dieser Stunde - in diesem Moment, wenn ich darf. Die Zeit drängt und in unserer stillschweigenden Vereinbarung mit dem alten Sensenmann ist sie von wesentlicher Bedeutung. Ich bin sicher, es ist nur notwendig, einem so bewundernswerten Praktiker wie Dr. Seward einen so einfachen, aber so bedeutsamen Wunsch vorzulegen, um seine Erfüllung sicherzustellen." Er schaute mich scharf an und als er in meinem Gesicht die Ablehnung sah, wandte er sich an die anderen und untersuchte sie genau. Da er keine ausreichende Antwort erhielt, fuhr er fort: "Ist es möglich, dass ich mich in meiner Annahme getäuscht habe?" "Ja", sagte ich offen, aber gleichzeitig, wie ich fand, brutal. Es folgte eine beträ Dann nehme ich an, dass ich meine Bitte nur ändern muss. Lassen Sie mich um diese Zugeständnis-Pardon, Privileg, wie Sie möchten-bitten. Ich bin bereit, in einem solchen Fall zu flehen, nicht aus persönlichen Gründen, sondern zum Wohl anderer. Ich bin nicht befugt, Ihnen all meine Gründe zu nennen; aber Sie können es mir glauben, sie sind gute, vernünftige und uneigennützige Gründe, die aus dem höchsten Pflichtgefühl kommen. Könnten Sie, Herr, in mein Herz sehen, würden Sie die vollste Zustimmung zu den Gefühlen, die mich antreiben, finden. Sogar mehr noch, Sie würden mich zu den besten und treuesten Ihrer Freunde zählen." Wieder schaute er uns alle scharf an. Ich hatte eine wachsende Überzeugung, dass diese plötzliche Änderung seiner gesamten intellektuellen Methode nur eine weitere Form oder Phase seines Wahnsinns war, und beschloss daher, ihn noch ein wenig weiterreden zu lassen, da ich aus Erfahrung wusste, dass er sich am Ende, wie alle Wahnsinnigen, selbst verraten würde. Van Helsing starrte ihn mit äußerster Intensität an, seine buschigen Augenbrauen trafen sich fast mit der gebannten Konzentration seines Blickes. Er sagte zu Renfield in einem Ton, der mich zu der Zeit nicht überraschte, aber erst später, als ich darüber nachdachte - denn es war, als ob er einen Gleichgestellten ansprach: "Können Sie uns nicht offen den wirklichen Grund nennen, warum Sie heute Abend frei sein möchten? Ich garantiere Ihnen, dass, wenn Sie sogar mich zufriedenstellen - einen Fremden, ohne Vorurteile und mit der Gewohnheit, eine offene Meinung zu haben - Dr. Seward Ihnen auf eigenes Risiko und in eigener Verantwortung das gewünschte Privileg gewähren wird." Traurig schüttelte er den Kopf und hatte einen Ausdruck tiefster Bedauern auf seinem Gesicht. Der Professor fuhr fort: "Komm, Herr, überdenken Sie Ihre Entscheidung. Sie beanspruchen das höchste Maß an Vernunft, da Sie versuchen, uns von Ihrer vollkommenen Vernünftigkeit zu überzeugen. Sie tun dies, dessen geistige Gesundheit wir anzweifeln müssen, da Sie noch nicht von medizinischer Behandlung wegen dieses Defekts freigelassen wurden. Wenn Sie uns nicht bei unserer Bemühung unterstützen, den klügsten Weg zu wählen, wie können wir dann die Aufgabe erfüllen, die Sie uns selbst auferlegt haben? Seien Sie weise und helfen Sie uns; und wenn wir können, werden wir Ihnen dabei helfen, Ihren Wunsch zu erfüllen." Er schüttelte weiterhin den Kopf, als er sagte: "Dr. Van Helsing, ich habe nichts zu sagen. Ihr Argument ist vollkommen, und wenn ich frei sprechen könnte, würde ich keinen Moment zögern; aber ich bin nicht mein eigener Herr in dieser Sache. Ich kann Sie nur bitten, mir zu vertrauen. Wenn ich abgewiesen werde, liegt die Verantwortung nicht bei mir." Ich dachte, es sei jetzt an der Zeit, die Szene zu beenden, die zu komisch ernst wurde, also ging ich einfach zur Tür und sagte: "Kommt, meine Freunde, wir haben Arbeit zu tun. Gute Nacht." Als ich mich der Tür näherte, veränderte sich der Patient plötzlich. Er näherte sich mir so schnell, dass ich für einen Moment befürchtete, er würde einen weiteren Mordversuch unternehmen. Meine Befürchtungen waren jedoch unbegründet, denn er hielt seine beiden Hände flehentlich hoch und appellierte auf bewegende Weise. Als er sah, dass sein überschwänglicher Emotionsausbruch uns wieder näher brachte, wurde er noch demonstrativer. Ich warf einen Blick auf Van Helsing und sah meine Überzeugung in seinen Augen widergespiegelt, also blieb ich etwas fest in meiner Art, wenn auch nicht strenger, und bedeutete ihm, dass seine Bemühungen vergeblich waren. Ich hatte zuvor etwas von der gleichen ständig wachsenden Aufregung bei ihm gesehen, als er eine Bitte äußern wollte, über die er viel nachgedacht hatte, wie zum Beispiel als er eine Katze haben wollte, und ich war bereit zu sehen, wie er in dieselbe resignierte Einwilligung wie damals verfallen würde. Meine Erwartungen wurden nicht erfüllt, denn als er merkte, dass sein Appell nicht erfolgreich sein würde, geriet er in einen regelrechten Zustand der Verzweiflung. Er warf sich auf die Knie, hielt seine Hände hoch und rang sie in flehendem Flehen und ergoss sich in einen Strom der Bitten, während die Tränen über seine Wangen rollten und sein ganzes Gesicht und sein Körper den tiefsten Gefühlen Ausdruck verliehen: "Bitte, Dr. Seward, ich flehe Sie an, lassen Sie mich sofort aus diesem Haus. Schicken Sie mich fort, wie auch immer und wohin auch immer. Schicken Sie Wärter mit mir mit Peitschen und Ketten; lassen Sie mich mit einem Zwangsjacke, gefesselt und fußgefesselt, sogar ins Gefängnis gehen; aber lassen Sie mich hier raus. Sie wissen nicht, was Sie tun, indem Sie mich hier behalten. Ich spreche aus der Tiefe meines Herzens - meiner Seele. Sie wissen nicht, wem Sie Unrecht tun, oder wie; und ich darf es nicht sagen. Wehe mir! Ich darf es nicht sagen. Bei allem, was Ihnen heilig ist - bei allem, was Ihnen teuer ist - bei Ihrer verlorenen Liebe - bei Ihrer lebenden Hoffnung - zum Wohl des Allmächtigen, lassen Sie mich hier raus und retten Sie meine Seele vor der Schuld! Können Sie mich nicht hören, Mann? Können Sie nicht verstehen? Werden Sie nie lernen? Wissen Sie nicht, dass ich jetzt vernünftig und ernsthaft bin; dass ich kein Verrückter in einem Wahn bin, sondern ein geistig gesunder Mann, der für seine Seele kämpft? Oh, hören Sie mich! Hören Sie mich! Lassen Sie mich gehen! Lassen Sie mich gehen! Lassen Sie mich gehen!" Ich dachte, je länger das dauert, desto wilder würde er werden und einen Anfall provozieren, also nahm ich seine Hand und richtete ihn auf. "Komm", sagte ich streng, "kein weiteres davon; wir haben bereits genug gehabt. Geh in dein Bett und benimm dich diskreter." Er hielt plötzlich inne und sah mich mehrere Augenblicke lang intensiv an. Dann stand er ohne ein Wort auf und setzte sich auf die Bettkante. Der Zusammenbruch kam, wie schon zuvor, genau wie erwartet. Als ich den Raum als Letzter unserer Gruppe verließ, sagte er in einer ruhigen, höflichen Stimme zu mir: "Ich hoffe, Dr. Seward, Sie werden sich später daran erinnern, dass ich heute Abend mein Bestes gegeben habe, Sie zu überzeugen." Freund John, hab keine Angst. Wir versuchen, unsere Pflicht in einem sehr traurigen und schrecklichen Fall zu erfüllen; wir können nur tun, was wir für das Beste halten. Was haben wir schon zu hoffen, außer dem Mitleid des guten Gottes?" Lord Godalming war für ein paar Minuten verschwunden, kehrte aber nun zurück. Dabei hielt er eine kleine silberne Pfeife hoch und bemerkte: "Dort drinnen könnte es vor Ratten wimmeln, und falls dem so ist, habe ich ein Gegenmittel zur Hand." Nachdem wir die Mauer passiert hatten, gingen wir den Weg zum Haus, wobei wir darauf achteten, uns im Schatten der Bäume auf dem Rasen zu halten, wenn das Mondlicht schien. Als wir den Vorraum erreichten, öffnete der Professor seine Tasche und nahm viele Dinge heraus, die er auf den Stufen ablegte und in vier kleine Gruppen aufteilte, offensichtlich eine für jeden von uns. Dann sprach er: "Meine Freunde, wir begeben uns in eine schreckliche Gefahr und brauchen Waffen aller Art. Unser Feind ist nicht nur geistiger Natur. Bedenkt, dass er die Kraft von zwanzig Männern hat und dass unsere Hälse oder Luftröhren von gewöhnlicher Art sind und daher zerbrechlich oder zerdrückbar - seins sind es nicht. Ein stärkerer Mann oder eine Gruppe von Männern, die insgesamt stärker sind als er, können ihn manchmal festhalten, aber sie können ihn nicht verletzen, wie er uns verletzen kann. Wir müssen uns also vor seiner Berührung schützen. Halte dies nah an deinem Herzen" - während er sprach, hob er ein kleines silbernes Kreuz auf und hielt es mir entgegen, da ich am nächsten bei ihm stand - "lege diese Blumen um deinen Hals" - hier reichte er mir einen Kranz aus welken Knoblauchblüten - "für andere irdische Feinde, diese Pistole und dieses Messer; und für Hilfe in allem, diese kleinen elektrischen Lampen, die du an deiner Brust befestigen kannst; und schließlich und vor allem zuletzt dies, das wir nicht nutzlos entweihen dürfen." Dabei handelte es sich um eine Portion geweihte Hostie, die er in einen Briefumschlag steckte und mir übergab. Auch die anderen waren entsprechend ausgerüstet. "Nun", sagte er, "Freund John, wo sind die Dietriche? Wenn wir die Tür öffnen können, müssen wir das Haus nicht durch das Fenster zerstören, wie zuvor bei Miss Lucys." Dr. Seward probierte ein oder zwei Dietriche aus, und seine handwerkliche Geschicklichkeit als Chirurg kam ihm dabei zugute. Schließlich fand er einen passenden, nachdem er ein wenig hin und her gespielt hatte, gab das Schloss nach und mit einem rostigen Klirren wurde der Riegel zurückgeschoben. Wir drückten gegen die Tür, die rostigen Scharniere quietschten und sie öffnete sich langsam. Es war beängstigend ähnlich dem Bild, das mir in Dr. Sewards Tagebuch von der Öffnung von Miss Westenras Grab vermittelt worden war; ich nehme an, dass derselbe Gedanke auch die anderen traf, denn sie zuckten einstimmig zurück. Der Professor war der erste, der sich vorwärts bewegte und trat durch die offene Tür. "_In manus tuas, Domine!_" sagte er und bekreuzigte sich, als er die Schwelle überschritt. Wir schlossen die Tür hinter uns, um bei dem Anzünden unserer Lampen möglicherweise keine Aufmerksamkeit von der Straße zu erregen. Der Professor überprüfte das Schloss vorsichtig, damit wir es von innen öffnen könnten, wenn wir es eilig hätten, das Gebäude zu verlassen. Dann zündeten wir alle unsere Lampen an und machten uns auf die Suche. Das Licht der winzigen Lampen fiel in seltsamen Formen, da sich die Strahlen kreuzten oder die Undurchsichtigkeit unserer Körper große Schatten warf. Ich konnte mein Leben lang nicht dieses Gefühl loswerden, dass da noch jemand bei uns war. Wahrscheinlich war es die Erinnerung an diese schreckliche Erfahrung in Transsylvanien, die mir durch die düstere Umgebung so eindringlich vor Augen geführt wurde. Ich glaube, dieses Gefühl war uns allen gemeinsam, denn ich bemerkte, dass die anderen bei jedem Geräusch und jedem neuen Schatten über ihre Schultern blickten, genauso wie ich es tat. Der gesamte Ort war mit Staub bedeckt. Der Boden schien zentimeterdick zu sein, außer an Stellen, wo kürzlich Fußabdrücke zu sehen waren, bei genauer Betrachtung mit meiner Lampe konnte ich die Risse im Staub erkennen, die von den Hufnägeln stammten. Die Wände waren mit Staub bedeckt und flauschig, und in den Ecken befanden sich Spinnweben, auf denen sich der Staub angesammelt hatte, so dass sie teilweise wie alte zerrissene Lumpen aussahen, weil das Gewicht sie teilweise heruntergerissen hatte. Auf einem Tisch im Flur befand sich ein großer Schlüsselbund mit einem vergilbten Beschriftungsschildchen an jedem Schlüssel. Sie waren schon mehrmals benutzt worden, denn auf dem Tisch waren mehrere ähnliche Spuren im Staub zu sehen, ähnlich der, die sichtbar wurde, als der Professor sie aufhob. Er wandte sich an mich und sagte: "Du kennst diesen Ort, Jonathan. Du hast Karten davon angefertigt und du kennst ihn zumindest besser als wir. Wo ist der Weg zur Kapelle?" Ich hatte eine Vorstellung von der Richtung, obwohl ich bei meinem früheren Besuch keinen Zutritt dazu bekommen hatte. Also führte ich den Weg an und fand mich nach einigen falschen Abzweigungen gegenüber einer niedrigen, gewölbten Eichentür mit Eisenbändern wieder. "Hier ist es", sagte der Professor und richtete seine Lampe auf eine kleine Hauskarte, die aus meiner Korrespondenzkopie zum Kauf stammte. Mit ein wenig Mühe fanden wir den passenden Schlüssel am Bund und öffneten die Tür. Wir waren auf Unannehmlichkeiten vorbereitet, denn als wir die Tür öffneten, schien ein schwacher, übler Geruch durch die Spalten zu entweichen, aber keiner von uns hatte je so einen Geruch erwartet. Keiner der anderen hatte den Grafen überhaupt aus der Nähe getroffen, und als ich ihn gesehen hatte, befand er sich entweder in der Fastenzeit seines Daseins in seinen Räumen oder, wenn er frisches Blut getrunken hatte, in einem Ruinengebäude, das offenstand; aber hier war der Raum klein und eng, und die lange Nichtbenutzung hatte die Luft stickig und abgestanden gemacht. Es lag ein erdiger Geruch in der Luft, wie von trockenem Sumpfgas, das in der widerlicheren Luftwucht aufzusteigen schien. Aber was den Geruch selbst betrifft, wie soll ich ihn beschreiben? Es war nicht nur so, dass er aus allen üblen Seiten der Sterblichkeit bestand und den beißenden, stechenden Geruch von Blut hatte, es schien auch, als hätte die Verderbnis selbst sich selbst verdorben. Pfui! Es ekelt mich, daran zu denken. Jeder Atemzug, den dieses Monster ausstieß, schien sich an diesem Ort festgehalten zu haben und seine Abscheulichkeit noch verstärkt zu haben. Unter normalen Umständen hätte ein solcher Gestank unser Vorhaben beendet, aber dies war kein gewöhnlicher Fall, und der hohe und schreckliche Zweck, für den wir uns engagierten, gab uns eine Stärke, die über rein physische Überlegungen hinausging. Nach dem unbewussten Zurückzucken nach dem ersten ekelhaften Hauch machten wir uns alle an die Arbeit, als wäre dieser widerliche Ort ein Rosengarten. Wir untersuchten den Ort genau, wobei der Professor sagte, als wir begannen: "Das Erste ist zu sehen, wie viele der Kisten übrig sind; dann müssen wir jede Ecke und jeden Winkel untersuchen und sehen, ob wir nicht irgendwelche Hinweise finden können, was mit dem Rest geschehen ist." Ein Blick reichte aus, um zu zeigen, wie viele übrig geblieben waren, denn die großen Holztruhen waren sperrig, und man konnte sie nicht übersehen. Es waren nur neunundzwanzig von den fünfzig übrig! Einmal erschreck Für einen Moment standen wir alle entsetzt da, außer Lord Godalming, der scheinbar auf solch einen Notfall vorbereitet war. Er eilte zur großen eisernen Eichentür, von der Dr. Seward draußen berichtet hatte und die ich selbst gesehen hatte, und drehte den Schlüssel im Schloss, zog die riesigen Bolzen zurück und öffnete die Tür. Dann nahm er seine kleine silberne Pfeife aus der Tasche und blies einen leisen, schrillen Ruf. Es wurde von hinten bei Dr. Sewards Haus vom Bellen der Hunde erwidert und nach etwa einer Minute kamen drei Terrier um die Ecke des Hauses gestürmt. Unbewusst waren wir alle zur Tür gegangen und während wir uns bewegten, bemerkte ich, dass der Staub stark aufgewirbelt worden war: die Kisten, die herausgenommen worden waren, waren auf diesem Weg gebracht worden. Aber selbst in der vergangenen Minute hatte sich die Anzahl der Ratten stark vermehrt. Sie schienen sich alle auf einmal zu vermehren, bis das Lampenlicht, das auf ihre sich bewegenden dunklen Körper und glitzernden, bösartigen Augen fiel, den Ort wie eine mit Glühwürmchen besetzte Erdwand aussehen ließ. Die Hunde stürmten voran, aber an der Schwelle blieben sie plötzlich stehen, knurrten und begannen dann gleichzeitig ihre Nasen hochzurichten und auf äußerst jammervolle Art zu heulen. Die Ratten vermehrten sich in Tausenden und wir machten uns davon. Lord Godalming nahm einen der Hunde hoch und legte ihn auf den Boden. Sobald seine Pfoten den Boden berührten, schien er seinen Mut wiederzufinden und stürzte sich auf seine natürlichen Feinde. Sie flohen so schnell vor ihm, dass bevor er einem Dutzend den Garaus machen konnte, die anderen Hunde, die in ähnlicher Weise hochgehoben worden waren, nur wenig Beute hatten, bevor die gesamte Masse verschwunden war. Mit ihrem Verschwinden schien es, als sei eine böse Präsenz verschwunden, denn die Hunde darteten herum und bellten fröhlich, während sie plötzlich auf ihre besiegen Feinde sprangen, sie herumwirbelten und mit bösartigen Schütteln in die Luft warfen. Uns schien allen der Geist zu steigen. Ob es das Reinigen der tödlichen Atmosphäre durch das Öffnen der Kapellentür war oder die Erleichterung, die wir empfanden, als wir uns im Freien befanden, weiß ich nicht; aber ohne Zweifel schien der Schatten der Angst von uns abzufallen wie ein Gewand und der Anlass unseres Kommens verlor etwas von seiner düsteren Bedeutung, obwohl wir keine Kompromisse in unserer Entschlossenheit machten. Wir verschlossen die Außentür und verriegelten und versperrten sie und nahmen die Hunde mit uns, um das Haus zu durchsuchen. Wir fanden nur Staub in außergewöhnlichen Mengen und alles war unberührt, abgesehen von meinen eigenen Fußspuren bei meinem ersten Besuch. Die Hunde zeigten nie Anzeichen von Unruhe und sogar als wir zur Kapelle zurückkehrten, tollten sie herum, als hätten sie in einem Sommerwald Hasen gejagt. Als wir aus dem Vorderbereich herauskamen, wurde es im Osten langsam hell. Dr. Van Helsing hatte den Schlüssel zur Haustür vom Bund genommen und die Tür auf herkömmliche Weise abgeschlossen, den Schlüssel in die Tasche gesteckt, als er fertig war. "Bis jetzt", sagte er, "war unsere Nacht äußerst erfolgreich. Uns ist kein Schaden widerfahren, wie ich befürchtet hatte, und dennoch haben wir herausgefunden, wie viele Kisten fehlen. Am meisten freut mich jedoch, dass dieser, unser erster - und vielleicht unser schwierigster und gefährlichster - Schritt unternommen wurde, ohne dass unsere bezaubernde Frau Mina dadurch betroffen oder ihre wachen oder schlafenden Gedanken mit Anblicken und Geräuschen und Gerüchen des Schreckens gequält wurden, die sie niemals vergessen könnte. Eine Lektion haben wir auch gelernt, wenn es erlaubt ist, _a particulari_ zu argumentieren: dass die Tiere, die dem Befehl des Grafen unterstehen, selbst nicht seinem spirituellen Einfluss unterliegen; denn seht, diese Ratten, die seiner Einladung folgten, genau wie von der Spitze seines Schlosses aus, wo er die Wölfe zu eurer Abreise und zum Jammern der armen Mutter gerufen hat, obwohl sie zu ihm kommen, rennen sie wie wild vor den kleinen Hunden meines Freundes Arthur davon. Vor uns liegen andere Angelegenheiten, andere Gefahren, andere Ängste; und dieses Monster hat seine Macht über die tierische Welt nicht nur dieser Nacht eingesetzt. Sei es, dass er anderswohin gegangen ist. Gut! Es hat uns die Möglichkeit gegeben, in gewisser Hinsicht in diesem Schachspiel 'Schach' zu rufen, das wir um die Seelen der Menschen spielen. Und jetzt lasst uns nach Hause gehen. Der Tag bricht an und wir haben Grund, mit unserer ersten Nachtarbeit zufrieden zu sein. Es ist möglich, dass uns viele weitere Nächte und Tage bevorstehen, möglicherweise voller Gefahren; aber wir dürfen nicht ablassen und vor keiner Gefahr zurückschrecken." Das Haus war still, als wir zurückkamen, abgesehen von einem armen Wesen, das in einer der entfernten Abteilungen schrie, und einem leisen, stöhnenden Geräusch aus Renfields Zimmer. Der arme Kerl quälte sich zweifellos auf die Weise Irre, wie sie es tun, mit unnötigen Gedanken an Schmerz. Ich schlich leise in unser eigenes Zimmer und fand Mina schlafend, ihr Atem war so leise, dass ich mein Ohr hinhalten musste, um ihn zu hören. Sie sieht blasser aus als sonst. Ich hoffe, das Treffen heute Abend hat sie nicht aus der Bahn geworfen. Ich bin wirklich froh, dass sie von unserer zukünftigen Arbeit und sogar von unseren Beratungen ausgeschlossen wird. Es ist für eine Frau zu viel Belastung zum Tragen. Anfangs dachte ich nicht so, aber jetzt weiß ich es besser. Deshalb bin ich froh, dass es so entschieden ist. Es mag Dinge geben, die sie erschrecken würden, wenn sie sie hören würde; aber sie vor ihr zu verbergen, wäre schlimmer als ihr alles zu erzählen, wenn sie erst einmal den Verdacht hätte, dass etwas verborgen bleibt. Von nun an wird unsere Arbeit für sie wie ein verschlossenes Buch sein, bis zumindest so lange, bis wir ihr sagen können, dass alles abgeschlossen ist und die Erde von einem Monster der Unterwelt befreit ist. Es wird wohl schwierig sein, nach solch einem Vertrauen wie unserem das Schweigen zu bewahren; aber ich muss entschlossen sein und werde morgen über die Ereignisse von heute Nacht schweigen und mich weigern, über irgendetwas zu sprechen, was geschehen ist. Ich ruhe mich auf dem Sofa aus, um sie nicht zu stören.      _1. Oktober, später._ - Ich nehme an, es war natürlich, dass wir alle zu lange geschlafen haben, denn der Tag war sehr anstrengend und die Nacht hatte überhaupt keine Erholung. Selbst Mina muss ihre Erschöpfung gespürt haben, denn obwohl ich bis die Sonne hochgestiegen war geschlafen habe, war ich vor ihr wach und musst sie zwei- oder dreimal rufen, bevor sie erwachte. Tatsächlich schlief sie so fest, dass sie mich für einige Sekunden nicht erkannte, sondern mich mit einer Art leerem Schrecken ansah, wie man aussieht, wenn man aus einem bösen Traum herausgerissen wird. Sie klagte ein wenig über Müdigkeit und ich ließ sie bis später am Tag ruhen. Wir wissen jetzt, dass einundzwanzig Kisten entfernt wurden, und wenn es sein kann, dass bei einigen dieser Entfernungen mehrere genommen wurden, könnten wir sie alle verfolgen können. Das wird natürlich unsere Arbeit ungemein vereinfachen und je eher die Angelegenheit erledigt ist, desto besser. Heute werde ich Thomas Snelling aufsuchen.   _Dr. Sewards Tagebuch._ _1. Oktober_ - Es war gegen Mittag, als ich vom Professor geweckt wurde, der in mein Zimmer kam. Er wirkte fröhlicher und heiterer als gewöhnlich, und es ist offens "Entschuldigen Sie," sagte ich, "aber die Antwort ist hier." Ich legte meine Hand auf den getippten Text. "Als unser gesunder und gelehrter Geistesgestörter diese Aussage machte, wie er _früher_ das Leben konsumierte, war sein Mund tatsächlich von Fliegen und Spinnen übelriechend, die er kurz zuvor gegessen hatte, bevor Mrs. Harker den Raum betrat." Van Helsing lächelte ebenfalls. "Gut!" sagte er. "Deine Erinnerung ist wahr, Freund John. Ich hätte mich daran erinnern sollen. Und doch ist es gerade diese Verdrehung von Gedanken und Erinnerungen, die geistige Erkrankungen zu einem so faszinierenden Studium machen. Vielleicht werde ich durch den Unsinn dieses Verrückten mehr Wissen erlangen, als ich es durch die Lehre des Weisesten tun würde. Wer weiß?" Ich setzte meine Arbeit fort und war bald damit fertig. Es schien, als wäre die Zeit sehr kurz gewesen, aber Van Helsing war zurück im Studierzimmer. "Störe ich?" fragte er höflich, während er an der Tür stand. "Überhaupt nicht", antwortete ich. "Komm rein. Meine Arbeit ist beendet und ich bin frei. Falls du möchtest, kann ich jetzt mit dir gehen." "Es ist nicht nötig; Ich habe ihn gesehen!" "Nun?" "Ich fürchte, er schätzt mich nicht besonders. Unser Gespräch war kurz. Als ich sein Zimmer betrat, saß er auf einem Hocker in der Mitte, mit den Ellenbogen auf den Knien, und sein Gesicht war ein Bild des schmollenden Unzufriedenheit. Ich sprach ihn so fröhlich an, wie ich konnte, und mit so viel Respekt, wie ich annehmen konnte. Er antwortete überhaupt nicht. 'Kennen Sie mich nicht?' fragte ich. Seine Antwort war alles andere als beruhigend: 'Ich kenne dich gut genug; du bist der alte Dummkopf Van Helsing. Ich wünschte, du würdest dich mit deinen idiotischen Gehirntheorien irgendwohin verziehen. Verdammte, dickköpfige Holländer!' Mehr würde er nicht sagen, sondern saß in seiner unerbittlichen Schmollerei da, so ungerührt von mir, als ob ich überhaupt nicht im Raum gewesen wäre. So ging für dieses Mal meine Chance auf viel Lernen von diesem so klugen Verrückten verloren; daher werde ich, wenn ich darf, gehen und mich mit ein paar glücklichen Worten mit dieser süßen Seele Madam Mina erfreuen. Freund John, es erfreut mich unsagbar, dass sie nicht mehr Schmerzen haben wird, nicht mehr von unseren schrecklichen Dingen belästigt werden wird. Obwohl uns ihre Hilfe sehr fehlen wird, ist es besser so." "Ich stimme dir von ganzem Herzen zu," antwortete ich ernsthaft, denn ich wollte nicht, dass er in dieser Angelegenheit nachlässt. "Mrs. Harker ist besser nicht mehr darin verwickelt. Die Dinge sind schon schlimm genug für uns, für uns Männer der Welt, und die schon viele brenzlige Situationen erlebt haben; aber es ist kein Ort für eine Frau, und wenn sie weiterhin mit der Angelegenheit zu tun gehabt hätte, hätte es sie letztendlich zerstört." Also ist Van Helsing gegangen, um sich mit Mrs. Harker und Harker zu beraten; Quincey und Art sind alle dabei, den Spuren zu den Erdbestattungskisten nachzugehen. Ich werde meine Arbeit beenden und wir werden uns heute Abend treffen. _Mina Harkers Tagebuch._ _1. Oktober._-- Es ist seltsam, heute so im Dunkeln gelassen zu werden, nachdem Jonathan mir so viele Jahre lang sein volles Vertrauen geschenkt hat. Er vermeidet offensichtlich bestimmte Angelegenheiten, und das sind gerade die wichtigsten von allen. Heute Morgen schlief ich spät nach den Anstrengungen von gestern, und obwohl auch Jonathan spät dran war, war er doch früher wach. Er sprach mit mir, bevor er ging, noch nie so süß und zärtlich, aber er erwähnte kein Wort von dem, was bei dem Besuch im Schloss des Grafen passiert war. Und doch muss er gewusst haben, wie schrecklich besorgt ich war. Armer lieber Kerl! Ich nehme an, es muss ihn noch mehr belastet haben als mich. Sie alle waren sich einig, dass es am besten war, mich nicht weiter in diese schreckliche Arbeit zu ziehen, und ich stimmte zu. Aber zu denken, dass er mir etwas vorenthält! Und jetzt weine ich wie ein dummer Narr, wenn ich _weiß_, dass es von der großen Liebe meines Mannes und den guten, guten Wünschen dieser anderen starken Männer kommt. Das hat mir gut getan. Nun, eines Tages wird Jonathan mir alles erzählen; und für den Fall, dass er auch nur einen Moment lang denken sollte, dass ich ihm etwas verschwiegen habe, führe ich mein Tagebuch weiterhin wie gewohnt. Wenn er auch nur einen Funken Misstrauen in mein Vertrauen hegte, werde ich es ihm zeigen, mit jedem Gedanken meines Herzens niedergeschrieben, damit er sie mit seinen lieben Augen lesen kann. Ich fühle mich heute seltsam traurig und niedergeschlagen. Ich vermute, es ist die Reaktion auf die schreckliche Aufregung. Letzte Nacht ging ich ins Bett, als die Männer gegangen waren, einfach weil sie es mir gesagt hatten. Ich fühlte keine Müdigkeit und war voller ängstlicher Sorge. Ich dachte immer wieder über alles nach, was seit Jonathans Besuch bei mir in London geschehen war, und es scheint alles wie eine schreckliche Tragödie zu sein, mit dem Schicksal, das unbarmherzig auf ein bestimmtes Ende zusteuert. Alles, was man tut, scheint, egal wie richtig es sein mag, genau das herbeizuführen, was am meisten zu bedauern ist. Wenn ich nicht nach Whitby gefahren wäre, wäre arme liebe Lucy vielleicht noch bei uns. Sie hatte erst angefangen, den Friedhof zu besuchen, als ich kam, und wenn sie nicht tagsüber mit mir dort gewesen wäre, hätte sie nicht im Schlaf dorthin gelaufen; und wenn sie nicht nachts dorthin gegangen und eingeschlafen wäre, hätte dieses Monster sie nicht so zerstören können, wie er es getan hat. Oh, warum bin ich überhaupt nach Whitby gegangen? Jetzt weine ich schon wieder! Ich frage mich, was heute mit mir los ist. Ich muss es vor Jonathan verbergen, denn wenn er wüsste, dass ich an einem Morgen zweimal geweint hätte - ich, die niemals um meinetwillen geweint hat und von der er niemals Tränen verursacht hat -, dann würde der arme Kerl vor Kummer vergehen. Ich werde ein mutiges Gesicht aufsetzen, und selbst wenn ich weinerlich bin, wird er es niemals sehen. Ich nehme an, es ist eine der Lektionen, die wir armen Frauen lernen müssen.... Ich erinnere mich nicht genau daran, wie ich gestern Abend eingeschlafen bin. Ich erinnere mich daran, dass ich plötzlich das Bellen der Hunde hörte und merkwürdige Geräusche, ähnlich einem Gebet im sehr stürmischen Ausmaß, aus Mr. Renfields Zimmer, das irgendwo unter diesem liegt. Und dann war es überall still, so still, dass es mich erschreckte, und ich stand auf und schaute aus dem Fenster. Alles war dunkel und still, die schwarzen Schatten, die das Mondlicht warf, schienen voll von einem stillen Geheimnis für sich zu sein. Nichts schien sich zu regen, sondern alles schien düster und wie erstarrt wie Tod oder Schicksal; sodass ein dünner Streifen weißer Nebel, der langsam über das Gras in Richtung des Hauses kroch, schien eine eigene Wahrnehmung und Lebendigkeit zu haben. Ich denke, dass der Abschweifung meiner Gedanken mir gut getan haben muss, denn als ich zurück ins Bett ging, spürte ich eine Lethargie, die mich überkam. Ich lag eine Weile wach, konnte aber nicht ganz schlafen, also stand ich auf und schaute wieder aus dem Fenster. Der Nebel breitete sich aus und war jetzt ganz nah am Haus, sodass ich ihn dick an der Wand liegen sehen konnte, als ob er sich an den Fenstern hochschleichen würde. Der arme Mann war lauter als je zuvor, und obwohl ich nicht ein Wort verstehen konnte, konnte ich irgendwie in seinen Tönen eine leidenschaftliche Bitte seinerseits erkennen. Dann gab es den Klang eines Kampfes, und ich wusste, dass das Personal mit ihm zu tun hatte. Ich hatte solche Angst, dass ich mich ins Bett schlich und die Decken über meinen Kopf zog und mir die Ohren zuhielt. Ich war dann kein bisschen müde, zumindest dachte ich das; aber Ich dachte, ich sei eingeschlafen und wartete auf Jonathan, der zurückkommen sollte. Ich war sehr besorgt um ihn und konnte nichts tun; meine Füße, Hände und mein Gehirn waren schwer, so dass nichts in gewohntem Tempo vorankommen konnte. Und so schlief ich unruhig und dachte nach. Dann wurde mir langsam bewusst, dass die Luft schwer, feucht und kalt war. Ich schlug die Bettdecken von meinem Gesicht zurück und stellte überrascht fest, dass alles um mich herum düster war. Das Gaslicht, das ich für Jonathan angezündet, aber heruntergedreht hatte, schien nur wie ein winziger roter Funke durch den Nebel, der offensichtlich dicker geworden war und in den Raum strömte. Dann fiel mir ein, dass ich das Fenster geschlossen hatte, bevor ich ins Bett gegangen war. Ich hätte rausgehen können, um das zu überprüfen, aber eine bleierne Schläfrigkeit schien meine Gliedmaßen und sogar meinen Willen zu fesseln. Ich blieb ruhig liegen und ertrug es; das war alles. Ich schloss meine Augen, konnte aber immer noch durch meine Augenlider sehen. (Es ist erstaunlich, welche Tricks unsere Träume uns spielen und wie bequem wir uns etwas vorstellen können.) Der Nebel wurde immer dicker und jetzt konnte ich sehen, wie er hereinströmte, denn ich konnte sehen, wie er wie Rauch – oder mit der weißen Energie von kochendem Wasser – nicht durch das Fenster, sondern durch die Fugen der Tür hereinströmte. Er wurde immer dicker und schien sich zu einer Art Wolkensäule im Raum zu konzentrieren, durch deren Spitze ich das Licht des Gases wie ein rotes Auge sehen konnte. Gedanken wirbelten durch mein Gehirn, genauso wie die wolkige Säule jetzt im Raum wirbelte, und durch all das kamen die biblischen Worte "eine Wolkensäule am Tage und ein Feuerschein bei Nacht". War es tatsächlich eine solche spirituelle Führung, die in meinem Schlaf zu mir kam? Aber die Säule bestand aus sowohl der tag- als auch der nachtführenden Energie, denn das Feuer war im roten Auge, das bei diesem Gedanken eine neue Faszination für mich bekam; bis, als ich hinschaute, das Feuer sich teilte und durch den Nebel hindurch auf mich zu leuchten schien wie zwei rote Augen, wie Lucy mir von ihrer momentanen geistigen Verwirrung erzählte, als das sterbende Sonnenlicht die Fenster von St. Mary's Church auf den Klippen traf. Plötzlich überkam mich der Horror, dass es so gewesen sein musste, wie Jonathan diese schrecklichen Frauen durch den wirbelnden Nebel im Mondlicht hatte Gestalt annehmen sehen, und in meinem Traum muss ich in Ohnmacht gefallen sein, denn alles wurde zu schwarzer Dunkelheit. Die letzte bewusste Anstrengung, die die Vorstellungskraft machte, war mir ein leichenblasses Gesicht zu zeigen, das aus dem Nebel über mir gebeugt war. Ich muss auf solche Träume aufpassen, denn sie würden die Vernunft jmds. ins Wanken bringen, wenn es zu viele von ihnen gäbe. Ich würde Dr. Van Helsing oder Dr. Seward bitten, mir etwas zu verschreiben, damit ich schlafen kann, nur fürchte ich, dass ich sie damit beunruhigen könnte. Ein solcher Traum zu dieser Zeit würde sich in ihre Sorgen um mich einweben. Heute Nacht werde ich hart daran arbeiten, natürlich zu schlafen. Wenn mir das nicht gelingt, werde ich morgen Abend versuchen, dass sie mir eine Dosis Chloral geben; das kann mir dieses eine Mal nicht schaden und wird mir eine gute Nachtruhe ermöglichen. Die letzte Nacht hat mich noch mehr ermüdet als wenn ich überhaupt nicht geschlafen hätte. 2. Oktober, 22 Uhr. Letzte Nacht habe ich geschlafen, aber nicht geträumt. Ich muss tief geschlafen haben, denn Jonathan hat mich nicht aufgeweckt, als er zu Bett kam; aber der Schlaf hat mich nicht erfrischt, denn heute fühle ich mich furchtbar schwach und niedergeschlagen. Gestern habe ich den ganzen Tag versucht zu lesen oder mich hinzulegen und ein wenig zu dösen. Am Nachmittag fragte mich Mr. Renfield, ob er mich treffen dürfe. Armer Mann, er war sehr sanft und als ich ging, küsste er meine Hand und wünschte mir Gottes Segen. Es hat mich irgendwie sehr berührt; ich weine, wenn ich an ihn denke. Das ist eine neue Schwäche, auf die ich achten muss. Jonathan wäre unglücklich, wenn er wüsste, dass ich geweint habe. Er und die anderen waren bis zum Abendessen unterwegs und kamen alle müde rein. Ich versuchte, sie aufzumuntern, und ich denke, dass mir die Anstrengung gut getan hat, denn ich habe vergessen, wie müde ich war. Nach dem Abendessen schickten sie mich ins Bett und gingen alle zusammen zum Rauchen, wie sie sagten, aber ich wusste, dass sie einander von dem erzählen wollten, was jedem von ihnen tagsüber widerfahren war; ich konnte an Jonathans Verhalten sehen, dass er etwas Wichtiges mitzuteilen hatte. Ich war nicht so schläfrig wie ich hätte sein sollen; deshalb bat ich Dr. Seward, mir eine kleine Droge zu geben, da ich die Nacht zuvor nicht gut geschlafen hatte. Er machte mir sehr freundlich ein Schlafmittel und gab es mir, indem er mir sagte, dass es mir nicht schaden würde, da es sehr mild war... Ich habe es genommen und warte auf den Schlaf, der sich immer noch fernhält. Ich hoffe, dass ich keinen Fehler gemacht habe, denn während sich der Schlaf mit mir anfreunden zu beginnt, kommt eine neue Angst: dass ich töricht gewesen sein könnte, mich so der Möglichkeit zu berauben, aufzuwachen. Ich könnte es brauchen. Hier kommt der Schlaf. Gute Nacht. 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.

Der Tagebucheintrag von Dr. Seward setzt zu einem späteren Zeitpunkt ein, und er schildert uns das erste Treffen mit Mina Harker. Mina, so berichtet er, wird mit Seward in seine Anstalt reisen, wo sie als Gast bleiben wird. In ihrem Tagebuch beschreibt Mina das Gespräch, das sie mit Seward über Lucys Tod geführt hat. Mina stimmt zu, Sewards Tagebuch abzutippen, das bisher auf einem Phonographen aufbewahrt wurde. Seward ist entsetzt darüber, dass Mina die wahre Natur von Lucys Tod entdecken könnte, aber Mina überzeugt Seward durch ihre Hartnäckigkeit, ihr die Phonographenrollen anzuhören. Später sind sowohl Seward als auch Mina bestürzt über die Geschichten, die sie in den Tagebüchern des jeweils anderen lesen. Am nächsten Tag kommt Jonathan an, und Seward drückt seine Bewunderung für Jonathans Mut aus. Zum ersten Mal wird Seward klar, dass Graf Dracula möglicherweise nebenan im Carfax-Anwesen ist. Seward schließt sein Tagebuch mit der Bemerkung, dass Renfield seit mehreren Tagen ruhig ist. Seward vermutet, dass Renfields Ausbruch durch die Nähe von Dracula verursacht wurde. Jonathan Harker erfährt bei seiner Reise nach Whitby, dass die "fünfzig Kisten gewöhnlicher Erde", die auf Draculas Schiff angekommen sind, zur alten Kapelle am Carfax geschickt wurden. Während Jonathan annimmt, dass alle fünfzig Kisten immer noch am Carfax sind, erfahren wir später, dass Graf Dracula sie an verschiedene Orte in und um London geschickt hat. Mina freut sich und fühlt sich inspiriert von der entschlossenen, energiegeladenen Energie, die sie jetzt bei Jonathan sieht; er scheint jetzt von seiner Krankheit geheilt zu sein, voller "Leben, Hoffnung und Entschlossenheit". Später am 30. treffen Arthur Holmwood - jetzt Lord Godalming genannt - und Quincey Morris ein. Lord Godalming ist immer noch körperlich mit den Todesfällen seines Vaters, Mrs. Westenra und Lucy geschüttelt. Er kann sich nicht länger zurückhalten und bricht zusammen und weint wie ein Baby an Minas Brust. In Kapitel 18 stellt Dr. Seward fest, dass Mina Harker Renfield sehen möchte. Er bringt sie in Renfields Zimmer, und Renfield bittet sie seltsamerweise, zu warten, bis er Ordnung geschaffen hat. "Seine Art Ordnung zu schaffen, war eigenartig. Er verspeiste einfach alle Fliegen und Spinnen in den Kisten..." Renfield ist äußerst höflich zu Mina und scheint auf ihre Anfragen in vernünftiger Weise zu reagieren. Van Helsing trifft ein und ist erfreut festzustellen, dass alle Aufzeichnungen - Tagebücher, Journale usw. - in Ordnung sind und dass alle, die den Grafen kennen, nun mit den Fakten des Falls konfrontiert werden sollen. Mina Harker erinnert sich in ihrem Tagebuch an viele Einzelheiten, die über Vampire bekannt sind, ein Thema, von dem sie bisher keine Ahnung hatte. Van Helsing zieht viele Schlussfolgerungen über die Nosferatu: Sie sterben nicht; sie können so stark sein wie zwanzig Männer; sie können die Elemente - Stürme, Nebel, Donner usw. - beherrschen; sie können die Ratte, die Eule, die Fledermaus, den Wolf, den Fuchs und den Hund befehligen; sie können sich vergrößern oder klein werden lassen, wie sie wollen; sie können manchmal verschwinden und "unbekannt werden" und in verschiedenen Formen erscheinen. Das Problem, mit dem der Gegner des Vampirs erfolgreich umgehen muss, besteht darin, wie man all diese Hindernisse erfolgreich bewältigen kann. Sie alle schließen einen Pakt, um zusammenzuarbeiten, um herauszufinden, wie "die uns gegenübergestellten allgemeinen Kräfte kontrolliert werden können und die Grenzen des Vampirs zu betrachten". Van Helsing weist darauf hin, dass der Vampir in allen Ländern der Welt bekannt ist. Aus den Informationen der Welt über Vampire ist bekannt, dass: der Vampir nicht aufgrund des Verstreichens der Zeit sterben kann; der Vampir gedeiht vom Blut der Menschen; der Vampir wird nach dem Bluttrinken jünger; seine körperliche Stärke und seine vitale Fähigkeiten werden durch Blut erfrischt; er kann ohne Blut nicht überleben; er kann längere Zeit ohne Nahrung auskommen; er wirft keinen Schatten; er hat keine Reflexion im Spiegel; er hat die Stärke vieler; er kann wilde Wolfsrudel kontrollieren und selbst zu einem Wolf werden; der Vampir kann sich in eine Fledermaus verwandeln; er kann in einem Nebel erscheinen, den er selbst erzeugen kann; der Vampir kann auf Mondlichtstrahlen als elementarer Staub reisen; er kann so klein und durchsichtig werden, dass er durch die winzigsten Spalten hindurchpasst; und er kann im Dunkeln perfekt sehen. Seine Einschränkungen sind folgende: er kann ein Haus nicht betreten, es sei denn, er wird zuerst gerufen; seine Macht hört bei Tageslicht auf; in welcher Form er sich auch befindet, wenn das Tageslicht kommt, wird er in dieser Form bleiben, bis die Sonne untergeht; der Vampir muss immer zur ungeweihten Erde seines Sarges zurückkehren, was seine Stärke wiederherstellt; Knoblauch ist für einen Vampir abscheulich; das Kreuz, heiliges Wasser und heilige Hostien sind Anatheme; er wird inaktiv, wenn eine wilde Rose über ihm platziert wird; und der Tod tritt ein, wenn ein hölzerner Pflock durch das Herz getrieben wird, der Kopf abgeschnitten wird und Knoblauch in den Mund gestopft wird. Als Van Helsing seinen Vortrag beendet, verlässt Quincey Morris den Raum, und ein Schuss ist draußen zu hören. Morris erklärt, dass er eine Fledermaus gesehen und auf sie geschossen hat. Am 1. Oktober, früh am Morgen, notiert Dr. Seward, dass er, als sie gerade dabei waren, die Anstalt zu verlassen, eine dringende Nachricht von Renfield erhalten hat. Die anderen bitten, an dem Treffen mit Renfield teilnehmen zu dürfen, und sie sind erstaunt über die Brillanz und Klarheit von Renfields Bitte, sofort freigelassen zu werden. Seine gelehrte Logik und seine perfekte Artikulation sind die eines völlig gesunden Menschen. Sein Wunsch wird abgelehnt. In Kapitel 19 hält Jonathan Harker in seinem Tagebuch fest, dass Seward glaubt, dass Renfields unberechenbares Verhalten direkt von der unmittelbaren Nähe des Grafen Dracula beeinflusst wird. Später, als sie gerade dabei sind, Draculas Residenz Carfax zu betreten, verteilt Van Helsing Gegenstände, die jeden von ihnen vor dem Vampir schützen werden. Das Haus, stellen sie fest, ist muffig, staubig und übelriechend. Sie suchen sofort die Kapelle auf und stellen zu ihrem Entsetzen fest, dass sie nur noch neunundzwanzig der originalen fünfzig Kisten Erde finden können. Plötzlich ist die Kapelle von einer Menge Ratten gefüllt. Gegen Mittag hält Seward fest, dass Van Helsing von Renfield tief fasziniert ist. Am selben Tag fühlt sich Mina seltsam, weil sie nicht in Jonathans Vertrauen einbezogen wird, da sie keine Ahnung hat, was gestern Abend passiert ist, aber sie erinnert sich daran, dass sie kurz vor dem Einschlafen ungewöhnliche Geräusche und Geräusche außerhalb ihres Fensters gehört hat und sich in der Gewalt einer seltsamen Lethargie befand. Sie dachte, sie hätte einen armen Mann "mit einer leidenschaftlichen Bitte seinerseits" gesehen, der hineinwollte. Sie zog ihre Kleider an, aber sie muss eingeschlafen oder in eine Trance gefallen sein, begleitet von seltsamen Träumen. Als sie aufwachte, bemerkte sie, dass das Fenster ihres Schlafzimmers offen war, und sie war sicher, dass sie es geschlossen hatte, bevor sie einschlief. Die Dinge verwirrten sich in ihrem Kopf, aber sie erinnert sich daran, dass sie zwei rote Augen gesehen hat, die sie extrem alarmierten. Am zweiten Oktober notiert sie, dass sie geschlafen hat, aber an diesem Tag sehr schwach war und nach einem Opium gefragt hat, um ihr beim Schlafen zu helfen. Das Kapitel endet, als Mina die Müdigkeit spürt, die über sie kommt.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten 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 street [Enter PORTIA and NERISSA.] PORTIA. Inquire the Jew's house out, give him this deed, And let him sign it; we'll away tonight, And be a day before our husbands home. This deed will be well welcome to Lorenzo. [Enter GRATIANO.] GRATIANO. Fair sir, you are well o'erta'en. My Lord Bassanio, upon more advice, Hath sent you here this ring, and doth entreat Your company at dinner. PORTIA. That cannot be: His ring I do accept most thankfully; And so, I pray you, tell him: furthermore, I pray you show my youth old Shylock's house. GRATIANO. That will I do. NERISSA. Sir, I would speak with you. [Aside to PORTIA.] I'll see if I can get my husband's ring, Which I did make him swear to keep for ever. PORTIA.[To NERISSA] Thou Mayst, I warrant. We shall have old swearing That they did give the rings away to men; But we'll outface them, and outswear them too. Away! make haste: thou know'st where I will tarry. NERISSA. Come, good sir, will you show me to this house? [Exeunt.] 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.

Noch immer in Venedig nach dem Prozess hält Portia auf einer Straße an und weist Nerissa an, Shylocks Haus zu finden und ihn dazu zu bringen, die Urkunde zu unterschreiben, in der er alles, was er besitzt, Lorenzo und Jessica vererbt. Dann werden sie morgen wieder zu Hause sein. Gratiano kommt zu ihnen auf und überreicht Portia den Ring von Bassanio, der ihr auch eine Einladung zum Abendessen schickt. Portia nimmt den Ring an, lehnt aber die Einladung zum Abendessen ab. Sie bittet Gratiano jedoch, Nerissa den Weg zu "dem alten Haus von Shylock" zu zeigen. Nerissa flüstert Portia beiseite, dass sie auf dem Weg versuchen wird, den Ring zu bekommen, den sie an ihrem Hochzeitstag ihrem Ehemann gegeben hat, einen Ring, den sie ihn "schwören ließ, dass er ihn für immer behalten würde". Portia ist begeistert von dem Plan ihrer Freundin. Sie ist sicher, dass Nerissa erfolgreich sein wird, und dann werden sie beide eine vergnügte Zeit haben, wenn ihre Ehemänner versuchen zu erklären, wie und warum sie ihre Eheringe an andere Männer weitergegeben haben.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Kapitel: Sir Walter hatte ein sehr schönes Haus in Camden Place genommen, eine erhabene, würdevolle Lage, wie es sich für einen angesehenen Mann gehört; und sowohl er als auch Elizabeth waren dort zufrieden untergebracht. Anne betrat es mit einem schweren Herzen und ahnte eine monatelange Gefangenschaft voraus. Sie sagte sich besorgt: "Oh, wann werde ich euch wieder verlassen?" Allerdings tat ihr die unerwartete Herzlichkeit im Empfang gut. Ihr Vater und ihre Schwester waren froh, sie zu sehen und zeigten ihr, aus Höflichkeit, das Haus und die Möbel, und sie wurden freundlich empfangen. Dass sie beim gemeinsamen Abendessen den vierten Platz einnahm, wurde als Vorteil angesehen. Mrs Clay war sehr angenehm und lächelte viel, aber ihre Freundlichkeit und ihre Lächeln waren unausweichlich. Anne hatte immer gespürt, dass sie bei ihrer Ankunft das tun würde, was angemessen war, aber die Freundlichkeit der anderen kam unerwartet. Sie waren offensichtlich bester Laune, und bald sollte sie den Gründen dafür lauschen. Sie hatten kein Interesse daran, ihr zuzuhören. Nachdem sie sich ein paar Komplimente gemacht hatten, dass sie in ihrer alten Nachbarschaft zutiefst bedauert wurden, für die Anne keine Worte fand, hatten sie nur noch ein paar schwache Fragen zu stellen, bevor das Gespräch ganz auf sie überging. Uppercross erregte kein Interesse, Kellynch nur wenig: Es ging nur um Bath. Sie hatten das Vergnügen, ihr versichern zu können, dass Bath in jeder Hinsicht ihre Erwartungen übertroffen habe. Ihr Haus war zweifellos das beste in Camden Place; ihre Salons hatten viele unbestreitbare Vorteile gegenüber den anderen, von denen sie gehört oder gehört hatten, und die Überlegenheit zeigte sich auch im Stil der Einrichtung und dem Geschmack der Möbel. Sie waren äußerst begehrt als Bekanntschaften. Jeder wollte sie besuchen. Sie hatten sich von vielen Vorstellungen zurückgezogen und bekamen regelmäßig Karten von Leuten zugeschickt, von denen sie nichts wussten. Hier waren Quellen der Freude. Konnte Anne sich wundern, dass ihr Vater und ihre Schwester glücklich waren? Sie mochte nicht überrascht sein, aber sie musste seufzen, dass ihr Vater keine Entwürdigung in seinem Wandel fühlte, nichts bedauerte an den Pflichten und der Würde eines ortsansässigen Landbesitzers und so viel Stolz in den Kleinigkeiten einer Stadt fand. Sie musste seufzen und lächeln und auch staunen, als Elizabeth die Flügeltüren öffnete und mit Begeisterung von einem Salon in den anderen ging und sich über den Raum brüstete; über die Möglichkeit, dass diese Frau, die Herrin von Kellynch Hall gewesen war, Stolz auf den Raum zwischen zwei Wänden empfand, vielleicht dreißig Fuß voneinander entfernt. Aber das war nicht alles, was sie glücklich machte. Sie hatten auch Mr. Elliot. Anne hatte viel über Mr. Elliot zu hören. Sie hatten ihm nicht nur vergeben, sondern waren auch begeistert von ihm. Er war seit etwa zwei Wochen in Bath gewesen (er hatte im November Bath durchquert, auf dem Weg nach London, als ihn die Nachricht erreichte, dass Sir Walter sich dort niedergelassen hatte). Infolgedessen hatte er zwar nur vierundzwanzig Stunden in der Stadt verbracht, konnte sich aber jetzt seit zwei Wochen in Bath aufhalten. Sein erstes Ziel bei der Ankunft war es gewesen, seine Visitenkarte in Camden Place zu hinterlassen. Daraufhin hatte er große Anstrengungen unternommen, um sich zu treffen und, wenn sie sich trafen, seine aufrichtige Entschuldigung für die Vergangenheit anzubieten. Er war äußerst darauf bedacht, wieder als Verwandter empfangen zu werden, sodass ihr früheres gutes Verhältnis vollständig wiederhergestellt wurde. Sie hatten nichts an ihm auszusetzen. Er hatte alle Anzeichen von Vernachlässigung auf seiner Seite erklärt. Es hatte ausschließlich in Missverständnissen gelegen. Er hatte nie beabsichtigt, sich abzusetzen; er hatte befürchtet, dass man ihn abgewiesen hatte, wusste aber nicht warum, und hatte aus Rücksicht geschwiegen. Als er einen Hinweis darauf bekam, respektlos oder nachlässig über die Familie und ihre Auszeichnungen gesprochen zu haben, war er völlig empört. Er, der immer stolz darauf gewesen war, ein Elliot zu sein, und dessen Überlegungen zur Verwandtschaft nur zu streng für den unfeudalen Ton der heutigen Zeit waren. Er war zwar erstaunt, aber sein Charakter und sein allgemeines Verhalten widerlegten es. Er konnte sich auf all jene berufen, die ihn kannten; und zweifellos waren die Mühen, die er beim ersten Versöhnungsversuch auf sich nahm, um wieder auf die Stufe eines Verwandten und Erbprätendenten gestellt zu werden, ein starkes Indiz für seine Ansichten zu diesem Thema. Auch die Umstände seiner Ehe ließen sich weitgehend entschuldigen. Darüber wollte er selbst nicht sprechen, aber ein sehr enger Freund von ihm, ein Colonel Wallis, ein hoch angesehener Mann und perfekter Gentleman (und ein nicht unattraktiver Mann, setzte Sir Walter hinzu), der in Marlborough Buildings in sehr gutem Stil lebte und aufgrund eines ausdrücklichen Wunsches von ihm durch Mr. Elliot zu ihrer Bekanntschaft zugelassen worden war, hatte ein oder zwei Dinge über die Ehe erwähnt, welche die Diskreditierung erheblich minderten. Colonel Wallis kannte Mr. Elliot schon lange und kannte auch seine Frau gut. Er kannte die ganze Geschichte. Sicherlich gehörte sie nicht zu einer angesehenen Familie, war aber gut erzogen, gebildet, vermögend und sehr verliebt in ihren Freund. Darin lag der Reiz. Sie hatte ihn gesucht. Ohne diese Anziehungskraft hätte nicht all ihr Geld Elliot verlocken können, und Sir Walter war darüber hinaus überzeugt, dass sie eine sehr schöne Frau gewesen sei. Hier gab es viel, um die Angelegenheit abzumildern. Eine sehr schöne Frau mit einem großen Vermögen, die in ihn verliebt war! Sir Walter schien dies als vollständige Entschuldigung anzuerkennen. Elizabeth konnte die Umstände nicht ganz so günstig sehen, aber sie betrachtete es als große Erleichterung. Mr. Elliot kam wiederholt zu Besuch, hatte einmal mit ihnen zu Abend gegessen und war offensichtlich erfreut über die Ehre, eingeladen worden zu sein, da sie im Allgemeinen keine Abendessen gaben. Er schien in der Tat über jeden Beweis von familiärer Beachtung erfreut zu sein und seine ganze Zufriedenheit darin zu finden, in Camden Place auf vertrautem Fuß zu sein. Anne hörte zu, ohne es ganz zu verstehen. Sie wusste, dass den Äußerungen der Sprechenden große Zugeständnisse gemacht werden mussten. Sie hörte alles mit Übertreibungen. Alles, was sich extravagant oder unvernünftig anhörte, könnte seinen Ursprung nur in der Wortwahl der Erzähler haben. Dennoch hatte sie das Gefühl, dass mehr dahintersteckte, als auf den ersten Blick zu erkennen war, wenn Mr. Elliot, nach so vielen Jahren, danach strebte, von ihnen gut aufgenommen zu werden. Aus weltlicher Sicht hatte er nichts davon, mit Sir Walter auf gutem Fuß zu stehen; nichts zu riskieren in einem Zustand der Feindschaft. Wahrscheinlich war er bereits der reichere von beiden, und das Anwesen Kellynch würde ihm genauso gehören wie der Titel. Ein vernünftiger Mann, und er hatte auch wie ein sehr vernünftiger Mann ausgesehen. Warum sollte es für ihn von Bedeutung sein? Sie konnte nur eine Lösung anbieten: Es war vielleicht wegen Elizabeth. Es könnte wirklich eine frühere Zuneigung gegeben haben Mr. Elliot und seine Freunde in den Marlborough Buildings waren das ganze Abendgespräch. "Colonel Wallis war so ungeduldig, sie kennenzulernen! Und Mr. Elliot war so daran interessiert, dass er es tut!" Und es gab eine Mrs. Wallis, bisher nur von ihnen durch Beschreibung bekannt, da sie in täglicher Erwartung ihrer Entbindung stand; aber Mr. Elliot sprach von ihr als "eine sehr charmante Frau, durchaus würdig, in Camden Place bekannt zu sein", und sobald sie wieder gesund sei, würden sie bekannt gemacht werden. Sir Walter dachte viel an Mrs. Wallis; man sagte, sie sei eine ausgesprochen hübsche Frau, wunderschön. "Er sehnte sich danach, sie zu sehen. Er hoffte, dass sie einige Wiedergutmachung für die vielen sehr gewöhnlichen Gesichter leisten könnte, die er ständig auf der Straße passierte. Das Schlimmste an Bath war die Anzahl seiner gewöhnlichen Frauen. Damit will er nicht sagen, dass es keine hübschen Frauen gab, aber die Anzahl der gewöhnlichen war außer Verhältnis. Er hatte oft beobachtet, wie er ging, dass einem schönen Gesicht dreißig oder fünfunddreißig hässliche folgten; und einmal, als er in einem Laden in der Bond Street stand, hatte er siebenundachtzig Frauen hintereinander vorbeigehen sehen, ohne dass darunter ein erträgliches Gesicht war. Es war sicherlich ein frostiger Morgen gewesen, ein scharfer Frost, dem kaum eine Frau von tausend standhalten konnte. Aber dennoch gab es in Bath eine furchtbare Menge an hässlichen Frauen; und was die Männer betrifft! Sie waren unendlich schlimmer. Solche Vogelscheuchen, wie die Straßen voll davon waren! Es war offensichtlich, wie wenig die Frauen den Anblick von etwas Erträglichem gewohnt waren, an der Wirkung, die ein Mann von anständigem Aussehen hervorrief. Er war noch nie mit Colonel Wallis (der eine stattliche militärische Figur war, wenn auch sandhaarig) Arm in Arm gegangen, ohne dass jedes weibliche Auge auf ihn gerichtet war; jedes weibliche Auge war sicher auf Colonel Wallis gerichtet." Bescheidener Sir Walter! Es gelang ihm jedoch nicht zu entkommen. Seine Tochter und Mrs. Clay deuteten an, dass Col. Wallis' Begleitung eine ebenso gute Figur wie Col. Wallis haben könnte, und sicherlich nicht sandhaarig war. "Wie sieht Mary aus?", sagte Sir Walter, in bester Laune. "Das letzte Mal, als ich sie sah, hatte sie eine rote Nase, aber ich hoffe, dass dies nicht jeden Tag passiert." "Oh, nein, das muss ganz zufällig gewesen sein. Im Allgemeinen war sie seit Michaelmas in sehr guter Gesundheit und sehr gutem Aussehen." "Wenn ich dachte, es würde sie nicht verleiten, bei scharfem Wind hinauszugehen und grob zu werden, würde ich ihr einen neuen Hut und eine Pelisse schicken." Anne überlegte, ob sie wagen sollte, vorzuschlagen, dass ein Kleid oder ein Hut einer solchen Nutzung nicht ausgesetzt wäre, als ein Klopfen an der Tür alles unterbrach. "Ein Klopfen an der Tür! Und so spät! Es war zehn Uhr. Könnte es Mr. Elliot sein? Sie wussten, dass er im Lansdown Crescent zum Abendessen war. Es war möglich, dass er auf dem Heimweg anhielt, um zu fragen, wie es ihnen ging. Sie konnten an niemand anderen denken. Mrs. Clay war fest davon überzeugt, dass es Mr. Elliots Klopfen war." Mrs. Clay hatte recht. Mit aller Pracht, die ein Butler und ein Page bieten konnten, wurde Mr. Elliot in den Raum geleitet. Es war derselbe Mann, mit keinem Unterschied außer seiner Kleidung. Anne trat ein wenig zurück, während die anderen seine Komplimente erhielten und ihre Schwester seine Entschuldigungen für den Besuch zu so ungewöhnlicher Stunde entgegennahm, aber "er konnte nicht in der Nähe sein, ohne wissen zu wollen, dass weder sie noch ihre Freundin sich am Vortag erkältet hatten", usw. usw.; alles war so höflich gemacht und so höflich aufgenommen wie möglich, aber ihr Teil musste dann folgen. Sir Walter sprach von seiner jüngsten Tochter: "Mr. Elliot müsse ihm erlauben, ihn seiner jüngsten Tochter vorzustellen" (es war nicht nötig, Mary zu erwähnen); und Anne, lächelnd und errötend, zeigte Mr. Elliot sehr passend die hübschen Gesichtszüge, die er keineswegs vergessen hatte, und sah sofort mit Amüsement seinen kleinen Überraschungsanfall, dass er sich überhaupt nicht bewusst war, wer sie war. Er sah völlig erstaunt aus, aber nicht mehr erstaunt als erfreut; seine Augen leuchteten! Und mit größter Bereitwilligkeit begrüßte er die Beziehung, spielte auf die Vergangenheit an und bat darum, bereits als Bekannter aufgenommen zu werden. Er war genauso gutaussehend wie in Lyme, sein Gesichtsausdruck verbesserte sich beim Sprechen und seine Manieren waren so genau das, was sie sein sollten, so höflich, so leicht, so besonders angenehm, dass sie sie in ihrer Exzellenz nur mit den Manieren einer Person vergleichen konnte. Sie waren nicht die gleichen, aber sie waren vielleicht genauso gut. Er setzte sich zu ihnen und trug sehr zur Verbesserung ihrer Unterhaltung bei. Es gab keinen Zweifel daran, dass er ein vernünftiger Mann war. Zehn Minuten reichten aus, um das zu bestätigen. Sein Ton, seine Ausdrucksweise, seine Wahl des Themas, sein Wissen, wo er aufhören sollte; das waren alles Merkmale eines vernünftigen, scharfsinnigen Geistes. Sobald er konnte, begann er mit ihr über Lyme zu sprechen, wollte Meinungen über den Ort vergleichen, aber besonders über die Tatsache sprechen, dass sie zur gleichen Zeit im selben Gasthaus Gäste waren; um seine eigene Route anzugeben, etwas über ihre zu erfahren und zu bedauern, dass er eine solche Gelegenheit verpasst hatte, ihr seine Aufwartung zu machen. Sie gab ihm einen kurzen Bericht über ihre Gruppe und ihre Geschäfte in Lyme. Sein Bedauern wuchs, als er zuhörte. Er hatte seinen ganzen einsamen Abend in dem Nebenzimmer verbracht; hatte Stimmen gehört, ständiges Gelächter; dachte, sie müssten eine sehr angenehme Gruppe von Menschen sein, sehnte sich danach, bei ihnen zu sein, aber sicherlich ohne die geringste Vermutung, dass er das Recht hätte, sich ihnen vorzustellen. Wenn er doch nur gefragt hätte, wer die Gäste waren! Der Name Musgrove hätte ihm genug gesagt. "Nun, das würde ihm dazu dienen, ihn von einer absurden Angewohnheit abzubringen, in einem Gasthaus niemals eine Frage zu stellen, die er angenommen hatte, als er noch ein junger Mann war, weil es sehr unfein sei, neugierig zu sein." Aber er durfte seine Gedanken nicht nur an Anne richten: Er wusste es; er verbreitete sich bald wieder unter den anderen und nur gelegentlich konnte er nach Lyme zurückkehren. Seine Anfragen führten jedoch schließlich zu einem Bericht über die Szene, in der sie dort kurz nach seinem Verlassen des Ortes verwickelt gewesen war. Mit Bezug auf "einen Unfall" wollte er alles hören. Als er fragte, begannen auch Sir Walter und Elizabeth zu fragen, aber der Unterschied in ihrer Art, es zu tun, konnte nicht unbemerkt bleiben. Sie konnte Mr. Elliot nur mit Lady Russell vergleichen, im Wunsch, wirklich zu verstehen, was passiert war, und im Maß der Sorge, was sie bei dem Zeugen davon erlitten haben musste. Er blieb eine Stunde bei ihnen. Die elegante kleine Uhr auf dem Kaminsims hatte "elf mit ihrem silbernen Klang" geschlagen, und der Nachtwächter begann in der Ferne zu hören zu sein, als Mr. Elliot oder einer von ihnen zu spüren schien, dass er schon lange dort gewesen war. Anne hätte nicht gedacht, dass ihr erster Abend in Camden Place so gut verlaufen könnte! Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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Jetzt in Bath angekommen, findet Anne ihren Vater und ihre Schwester glücklich in einem Haus in der Camden Place vor. Obwohl es ihr sehr deprimierend ist, dort zu sein, findet sie den Empfang ihrer Familie ungewöhnlich herzlich. Sie sind aufgeregt, ihr alle neuen Möbel und Räume des Hauses zu zeigen, haben aber keine Lust, Annes Geschichten zuzuhören. Sir Walter und Elizabeth sind ganz zufrieden mit den Vergnügungen und Annehmlichkeiten, die Bath ihnen bietet, und Anne ist traurig, dass ihre Familie so herabgesunken ist und es nicht einmal bemerkt. Sie erzählen Anne, wie glücklich sie sind, ihre Bekanntschaft mit Mr. Elliot erneuert zu haben. Er hat sie oft in der Camden Place besucht. Sie haben ihm die Entfremdung und seine Wahl, seine erste Frau zu heiraten, die zwar reich, aber nicht von guter Herkunft war, vergeben. Mr. Elliot ist jetzt in Trauer, seine Frau ist erst vor sechs Monaten gestorben. Anne kann nicht anders, als skeptisch zu sein, was die Gründe für den plötzlichen Respekt ihres Cousins seiner Familie gegenüber nach so langer Trennung angeht. Sie vermutet, dass er vielleicht an einer Heirat mit Elizabeth interessiert sein könnte. Das Gespräch mit Sir Walter und Elizabeth dreht sich um das Thema Aussehen. Sir Walter verkündet seine Überzeugung, dass Bath mit unattraktiven Frauen gefüllt ist. Er erkundigt sich nach Marys Aussehen. Mr. Elliot kommt zu Besuch und findet Anne sehr attraktiv. Er erkennt sie von ihrem kurzen Treffen in Lyme und ist sehr erfreut, dass sie tatsächlich seine Cousine ist. Er setzt sich zu ihnen und scheint sehr interessiert an Anne zu sein und versucht mehrmals mit ihr zu sprechen. Anne findet, dass er gepflegt, gut erzogen und vernünftig ist. Nach einer Stunde erhebt er sich, um zu gehen. Anne findet, dass ihr erster Abend in Bath viel besser verlaufen ist, als sie gehofft hätte.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: IV. The Preparation When the mail got successfully to Dover, in the course of the forenoon, the head drawer at the Royal George Hotel opened the coach-door as his custom was. He did it with some flourish of ceremony, for a mail journey from London in winter was an achievement to congratulate an adventurous traveller upon. By that time, there was only one adventurous traveller left be congratulated: for the two others had been set down at their respective roadside destinations. The mildewy inside of the coach, with its damp and dirty straw, its disagreeable smell, and its obscurity, was rather like a larger dog-kennel. Mr. Lorry, the passenger, shaking himself out of it in chains of straw, a tangle of shaggy wrapper, flapping hat, and muddy legs, was rather like a larger sort of dog. "There will be a packet to Calais, tomorrow, drawer?" "Yes, sir, if the weather holds and the wind sets tolerable fair. The tide will serve pretty nicely at about two in the afternoon, sir. Bed, sir?" "I shall not go to bed till night; but I want a bedroom, and a barber." "And then breakfast, sir? Yes, sir. That way, sir, if you please. Show Concord! Gentleman's valise and hot water to Concord. Pull off gentleman's boots in Concord. (You will find a fine sea-coal fire, sir.) Fetch barber to Concord. Stir about there, now, for Concord!" The Concord bed-chamber being always assigned to a passenger by the mail, and passengers by the mail being always heavily wrapped up from head to foot, the room had the odd interest for the establishment of the Royal George, that although but one kind of man was seen to go into it, all kinds and varieties of men came out of it. Consequently, another drawer, and two porters, and several maids and the landlady, were all loitering by accident at various points of the road between the Concord and the coffee-room, when a gentleman of sixty, formally dressed in a brown suit of clothes, pretty well worn, but very well kept, with large square cuffs and large flaps to the pockets, passed along on his way to his breakfast. The coffee-room had no other occupant, that forenoon, than the gentleman in brown. His breakfast-table was drawn before the fire, and as he sat, with its light shining on him, waiting for the meal, he sat so still, that he might have been sitting for his portrait. Very orderly and methodical he looked, with a hand on each knee, and a loud watch ticking a sonorous sermon under his flapped waist-coat, as though it pitted its gravity and longevity against the levity and evanescence of the brisk fire. He had a good leg, and was a little vain of it, for his brown stockings fitted sleek and close, and were of a fine texture; his shoes and buckles, too, though plain, were trim. He wore an odd little sleek crisp flaxen wig, setting very close to his head: which wig, it is to be presumed, was made of hair, but which looked far more as though it were spun from filaments of silk or glass. His linen, though not of a fineness in accordance with his stockings, was as white as the tops of the waves that broke upon the neighbouring beach, or the specks of sail that glinted in the sunlight far at sea. A face habitually suppressed and quieted, was still lighted up under the quaint wig by a pair of moist bright eyes that it must have cost their owner, in years gone by, some pains to drill to the composed and reserved expression of Tellson's Bank. He had a healthy colour in his cheeks, and his face, though lined, bore few traces of anxiety. But, perhaps the confidential bachelor clerks in Tellson's Bank were principally occupied with the cares of other people; and perhaps second-hand cares, like second-hand clothes, come easily off and on. Completing his resemblance to a man who was sitting for his portrait, Mr. Lorry dropped off to sleep. The arrival of his breakfast roused him, and he said to the drawer, as he moved his chair to it: "I wish accommodation prepared for a young lady who may come here at any time to-day. She may ask for Mr. Jarvis Lorry, or she may only ask for a gentleman from Tellson's Bank. Please to let me know." "Yes, sir. Tellson's Bank in London, sir?" "Yes." "Yes, sir. We have oftentimes the honour to entertain your gentlemen in their travelling backwards and forwards betwixt London and Paris, sir. A vast deal of travelling, sir, in Tellson and Company's House." "Yes. We are quite a French House, as well as an English one." "Yes, sir. Not much in the habit of such travelling yourself, I think, sir?" "Not of late years. It is fifteen years since we--since I--came last from France." "Indeed, sir? That was before my time here, sir. Before our people's time here, sir. The George was in other hands at that time, sir." "I believe so." "But I would hold a pretty wager, sir, that a House like Tellson and Company was flourishing, a matter of fifty, not to speak of fifteen years ago?" "You might treble that, and say a hundred and fifty, yet not be far from the truth." "Indeed, sir!" Rounding his mouth and both his eyes, as he stepped backward from the table, the waiter shifted his napkin from his right arm to his left, dropped into a comfortable attitude, and stood surveying the guest while he ate and drank, as from an observatory or watchtower. According to the immemorial usage of waiters in all ages. When Mr. Lorry had finished his breakfast, he went out for a stroll on the beach. The little narrow, crooked town of Dover hid itself away from the beach, and ran its head into the chalk cliffs, like a marine ostrich. The beach was a desert of heaps of sea and stones tumbling wildly about, and the sea did what it liked, and what it liked was destruction. It thundered at the town, and thundered at the cliffs, and brought the coast down, madly. The air among the houses was of so strong a piscatory flavour that one might have supposed sick fish went up to be dipped in it, as sick people went down to be dipped in the sea. A little fishing was done in the port, and a quantity of strolling about by night, and looking seaward: particularly at those times when the tide made, and was near flood. Small tradesmen, who did no business whatever, sometimes unaccountably realised large fortunes, and it was remarkable that nobody in the neighbourhood could endure a lamplighter. As the day declined into the afternoon, and the air, which had been at intervals clear enough to allow the French coast to be seen, became again charged with mist and vapour, Mr. Lorry's thoughts seemed to cloud too. When it was dark, and he sat before the coffee-room fire, awaiting his dinner as he had awaited his breakfast, his mind was busily digging, digging, digging, in the live red coals. A bottle of good claret after dinner does a digger in the red coals no harm, otherwise than as it has a tendency to throw him out of work. Mr. Lorry had been idle a long time, and had just poured out his last glassful of wine with as complete an appearance of satisfaction as is ever to be found in an elderly gentleman of a fresh complexion who has got to the end of a bottle, when a rattling of wheels came up the narrow street, and rumbled into the inn-yard. He set down his glass untouched. "This is Mam'selle!" said he. In a very few minutes the waiter came in to announce that Miss Manette had arrived from London, and would be happy to see the gentleman from Tellson's. "So soon?" Miss Manette had taken some refreshment on the road, and required none then, and was extremely anxious to see the gentleman from Tellson's immediately, if it suited his pleasure and convenience. The gentleman from Tellson's had nothing left for it but to empty his glass with an air of stolid desperation, settle his odd little flaxen wig at the ears, and follow the waiter to Miss Manette's apartment. It was a large, dark room, furnished in a funereal manner with black horsehair, and loaded with heavy dark tables. These had been oiled and oiled, until the two tall candles on the table in the middle of the room were gloomily reflected on every leaf; as if _they_ were buried, in deep graves of black mahogany, and no light to speak of could be expected from them until they were dug out. The obscurity was so difficult to penetrate that Mr. Lorry, picking his way over the well-worn Turkey carpet, supposed Miss Manette to be, for the moment, in some adjacent room, until, having got past the two tall candles, he saw standing to receive him by the table between them and the fire, a young lady of not more than seventeen, in a riding-cloak, and still holding her straw travelling-hat by its ribbon in her hand. As his eyes rested on a short, slight, pretty figure, a quantity of golden hair, a pair of blue eyes that met his own with an inquiring look, and a forehead with a singular capacity (remembering how young and smooth it was), of rifting and knitting itself into an expression that was not quite one of perplexity, or wonder, or alarm, or merely of a bright fixed attention, though it included all the four expressions--as his eyes rested on these things, a sudden vivid likeness passed before him, of a child whom he had held in his arms on the passage across that very Channel, one cold time, when the hail drifted heavily and the sea ran high. The likeness passed away, like a breath along the surface of the gaunt pier-glass behind her, on the frame of which, a hospital procession of negro cupids, several headless and all cripples, were offering black baskets of Dead Sea fruit to black divinities of the feminine gender--and he made his formal bow to Miss Manette. "Pray take a seat, sir." In a very clear and pleasant young voice; a little foreign in its accent, but a very little indeed. "I kiss your hand, miss," said Mr. Lorry, with the manners of an earlier date, as he made his formal bow again, and took his seat. "I received a letter from the Bank, sir, yesterday, informing me that some intelligence--or discovery--" "The word is not material, miss; either word will do." "--respecting the small property of my poor father, whom I never saw--so long dead--" Mr. Lorry moved in his chair, and cast a troubled look towards the hospital procession of negro cupids. As if _they_ had any help for anybody in their absurd baskets! "--rendered it necessary that I should go to Paris, there to communicate with a gentleman of the Bank, so good as to be despatched to Paris for the purpose." "Myself." "As I was prepared to hear, sir." She curtseyed to him (young ladies made curtseys in those days), with a pretty desire to convey to him that she felt how much older and wiser he was than she. He made her another bow. "I replied to the Bank, sir, that as it was considered necessary, by those who know, and who are so kind as to advise me, that I should go to France, and that as I am an orphan and have no friend who could go with me, I should esteem it highly if I might be permitted to place myself, during the journey, under that worthy gentleman's protection. The gentleman had left London, but I think a messenger was sent after him to beg the favour of his waiting for me here." "I was happy," said Mr. Lorry, "to be entrusted with the charge. I shall be more happy to execute it." "Sir, I thank you indeed. I thank you very gratefully. It was told me by the Bank that the gentleman would explain to me the details of the business, and that I must prepare myself to find them of a surprising nature. I have done my best to prepare myself, and I naturally have a strong and eager interest to know what they are." "Naturally," said Mr. Lorry. "Yes--I--" After a pause, he added, again settling the crisp flaxen wig at the ears, "It is very difficult to begin." He did not begin, but, in his indecision, met her glance. The young forehead lifted itself into that singular expression--but it was pretty and characteristic, besides being singular--and she raised her hand, as if with an involuntary action she caught at, or stayed some passing shadow. "Are you quite a stranger to me, sir?" "Am I not?" Mr. Lorry opened his hands, and extended them outwards with an argumentative smile. Between the eyebrows and just over the little feminine nose, the line of which was as delicate and fine as it was possible to be, the expression deepened itself as she took her seat thoughtfully in the chair by which she had hitherto remained standing. He watched her as she mused, and the moment she raised her eyes again, went on: "In your adopted country, I presume, I cannot do better than address you as a young English lady, Miss Manette?" "If you please, sir." "Miss Manette, I am a man of business. I have a business charge to acquit myself of. In your reception of it, don't heed me any more than if I was a speaking machine--truly, I am not much else. I will, with your leave, relate to you, miss, the story of one of our customers." "Story!" He seemed wilfully to mistake the word she had repeated, when he added, in a hurry, "Yes, customers; in the banking business we usually call our connection our customers. He was a French gentleman; a scientific gentleman; a man of great acquirements--a Doctor." "Not of Beauvais?" "Why, yes, of Beauvais. Like Monsieur Manette, your father, the gentleman was of Beauvais. Like Monsieur Manette, your father, the gentleman was of repute in Paris. I had the honour of knowing him there. Our relations were business relations, but confidential. I was at that time in our French House, and had been--oh! twenty years." "At that time--I may ask, at what time, sir?" "I speak, miss, of twenty years ago. He married--an English lady--and I was one of the trustees. His affairs, like the affairs of many other French gentlemen and French families, were entirely in Tellson's hands. In a similar way I am, or I have been, trustee of one kind or other for scores of our customers. These are mere business relations, miss; there is no friendship in them, no particular interest, nothing like sentiment. I have passed from one to another, in the course of my business life, just as I pass from one of our customers to another in the course of my business day; in short, I have no feelings; I am a mere machine. To go on--" "But this is my father's story, sir; and I begin to think"--the curiously roughened forehead was very intent upon him--"that when I was left an orphan through my mother's surviving my father only two years, it was you who brought me to England. I am almost sure it was you." Mr. Lorry took the hesitating little hand that confidingly advanced to take his, and he put it with some ceremony to his lips. He then conducted the young lady straightway to her chair again, and, holding the chair-back with his left hand, and using his right by turns to rub his chin, pull his wig at the ears, or point what he said, stood looking down into her face while she sat looking up into his. "Miss Manette, it _was_ I. And you will see how truly I spoke of myself just now, in saying I had no feelings, and that all the relations I hold with my fellow-creatures are mere business relations, when you reflect that I have never seen you since. No; you have been the ward of Tellson's House since, and I have been busy with the other business of Tellson's House since. Feelings! I have no time for them, no chance of them. I pass my whole life, miss, in turning an immense pecuniary Mangle." After this odd description of his daily routine of employment, Mr. Lorry flattened his flaxen wig upon his head with both hands (which was most unnecessary, for nothing could be flatter than its shining surface was before), and resumed his former attitude. "So far, miss (as you have remarked), this is the story of your regretted father. Now comes the difference. If your father had not died when he did--Don't be frightened! How you start!" She did, indeed, start. And she caught his wrist with both her hands. "Pray," said Mr. Lorry, in a soothing tone, bringing his left hand from the back of the chair to lay it on the supplicatory fingers that clasped him in so violent a tremble: "pray control your agitation--a matter of business. As I was saying--" Her look so discomposed him that he stopped, wandered, and began anew: "As I was saying; if Monsieur Manette had not died; if he had suddenly and silently disappeared; if he had been spirited away; if it had not been difficult to guess to what dreadful place, though no art could trace him; if he had an enemy in some compatriot who could exercise a privilege that I in my own time have known the boldest people afraid to speak of in a whisper, across the water there; for instance, the privilege of filling up blank forms for the consignment of any one to the oblivion of a prison for any length of time; if his wife had implored the king, the queen, the court, the clergy, for any tidings of him, and all quite in vain;--then the history of your father would have been the history of this unfortunate gentleman, the Doctor of Beauvais." "I entreat you to tell me more, sir." "I will. I am going to. You can bear it?" "I can bear anything but the uncertainty you leave me in at this moment." "You speak collectedly, and you--_are_ collected. That's good!" (Though his manner was less satisfied than his words.) "A matter of business. Regard it as a matter of business--business that must be done. Now if this doctor's wife, though a lady of great courage and spirit, had suffered so intensely from this cause before her little child was born--" "The little child was a daughter, sir." "A daughter. A-a-matter of business--don't be distressed. Miss, if the poor lady had suffered so intensely before her little child was born, that she came to the determination of sparing the poor child the inheritance of any part of the agony she had known the pains of, by rearing her in the belief that her father was dead--No, don't kneel! In Heaven's name why should you kneel to me!" "For the truth. O dear, good, compassionate sir, for the truth!" "A--a matter of business. You confuse me, and how can I transact business if I am confused? Let us be clear-headed. If you could kindly mention now, for instance, what nine times ninepence are, or how many shillings in twenty guineas, it would be so encouraging. I should be so much more at my ease about your state of mind." Without directly answering to this appeal, she sat so still when he had very gently raised her, and the hands that had not ceased to clasp his wrists were so much more steady than they had been, that she communicated some reassurance to Mr. Jarvis Lorry. "That's right, that's right. Courage! Business! You have business before you; useful business. Miss Manette, your mother took this course with you. And when she died--I believe broken-hearted--having never slackened her unavailing search for your father, she left you, at two years old, to grow to be blooming, beautiful, and happy, without the dark cloud upon you of living in uncertainty whether your father soon wore his heart out in prison, or wasted there through many lingering years." As he said the words he looked down, with an admiring pity, on the flowing golden hair; as if he pictured to himself that it might have been already tinged with grey. "You know that your parents had no great possession, and that what they had was secured to your mother and to you. There has been no new discovery, of money, or of any other property; but--" He felt his wrist held closer, and he stopped. The expression in the forehead, which had so particularly attracted his notice, and which was now immovable, had deepened into one of pain and horror. "But he has been--been found. He is alive. Greatly changed, it is too probable; almost a wreck, it is possible; though we will hope the best. Still, alive. Your father has been taken to the house of an old servant in Paris, and we are going there: I, to identify him if I can: you, to restore him to life, love, duty, rest, comfort." A shiver ran through her frame, and from it through his. She said, in a low, distinct, awe-stricken voice, as if she were saying it in a dream, "I am going to see his Ghost! It will be his Ghost--not him!" Mr. Lorry quietly chafed the hands that held his arm. "There, there, there! See now, see now! The best and the worst are known to you, now. You are well on your way to the poor wronged gentleman, and, with a fair sea voyage, and a fair land journey, you will be soon at his dear side." She repeated in the same tone, sunk to a whisper, "I have been free, I have been happy, yet his Ghost has never haunted me!" "Only one thing more," said Mr. Lorry, laying stress upon it as a wholesome means of enforcing her attention: "he has been found under another name; his own, long forgotten or long concealed. It would be worse than useless now to inquire which; worse than useless to seek to know whether he has been for years overlooked, or always designedly held prisoner. It would be worse than useless now to make any inquiries, because it would be dangerous. Better not to mention the subject, anywhere or in any way, and to remove him--for a while at all events--out of France. Even I, safe as an Englishman, and even Tellson's, important as they are to French credit, avoid all naming of the matter. I carry about me, not a scrap of writing openly referring to it. This is a secret service altogether. My credentials, entries, and memoranda, are all comprehended in the one line, 'Recalled to Life;' which may mean anything. But what is the matter! She doesn't notice a word! Miss Manette!" Perfectly still and silent, and not even fallen back in her chair, she sat under his hand, utterly insensible; with her eyes open and fixed upon him, and with that last expression looking as if it were carved or branded into her forehead. So close was her hold upon his arm, that he feared to detach himself lest he should hurt her; therefore he called out loudly for assistance without moving. A wild-looking woman, whom even in his agitation, Mr. Lorry observed to be all of a red colour, and to have red hair, and to be dressed in some extraordinary tight-fitting fashion, and to have on her head a most wonderful bonnet like a Grenadier wooden measure, and good measure too, or a great Stilton cheese, came running into the room in advance of the inn servants, and soon settled the question of his detachment from the poor young lady, by laying a brawny hand upon his chest, and sending him flying back against the nearest wall. ("I really think this must be a man!" was Mr. Lorry's breathless reflection, simultaneously with his coming against the wall.) "Why, look at you all!" bawled this figure, addressing the inn servants. "Why don't you go and fetch things, instead of standing there staring at me? I am not so much to look at, am I? Why don't you go and fetch things? I'll let you know, if you don't bring smelling-salts, cold water, and vinegar, quick, I will." There was an immediate dispersal for these restoratives, and she softly laid the patient on a sofa, and tended her with great skill and gentleness: calling her "my precious!" and "my bird!" and spreading her golden hair aside over her shoulders with great pride and care. "And you in brown!" she said, indignantly turning to Mr. Lorry; "couldn't you tell her what you had to tell her, without frightening her to death? Look at her, with her pretty pale face and her cold hands. Do you call _that_ being a Banker?" Mr. Lorry was so exceedingly disconcerted by a question so hard to answer, that he could only look on, at a distance, with much feebler sympathy and humility, while the strong woman, having banished the inn servants under the mysterious penalty of "letting them know" something not mentioned if they stayed there, staring, recovered her charge by a regular series of gradations, and coaxed her to lay her drooping head upon her shoulder. "I hope she will do well now," said Mr. Lorry. "No thanks to you in brown, if she does. My darling pretty!" "I hope," said Mr. Lorry, after another pause of feeble sympathy and humility, "that you accompany Miss Manette to France?" "A likely thing, too!" replied the strong woman. "If it was ever intended that I should go across salt water, do you suppose Providence would have cast my lot in an island?" This being another question hard to answer, Mr. Jarvis Lorry withdrew to consider it. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze verfassen?

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Herr Lorry kommt in Dover an und checkt in einem Hotel ein, wo er duscht und sich umzieht. An der Rezeption hinterlässt er Anweisungen, dass Unterkünfte für eine bestimmte junge Frau vorbereitet werden sollen, die jederzeit eintreffen soll; außerdem bittet er darum, über ihre Ankunft informiert zu werden. Während er im Café auf das Abendessen wartet, verkündet der Kellner, dass Miss Manette aus London angekommen ist und ihn unbedingt sehen möchte. Herr Lorry macht sich sofort auf den Weg, um sie zu finden. Lucie Manette erzählt Lorry, dass ihr mitgeteilt wurde, dass er sie nach Paris begleiten soll, um eine Angelegenheit bezüglich des Eigentums ihres verstorbenen Vaters zu regeln. Herr Lorry bestätigt, dass er sie nach Paris begleiten wird, und erzählt ihr dann, dass ihr Vater am Leben ist und erst kürzlich nach einer achtzehnjährigen Gefangenschaft freigelassen wurde. Der Plan besteht darin, Dr. Manette heimlich nach Hause zu bringen. Als Lucie erfährt, dass ihr Vater, den sie nie gekannt hat, am Leben ist, ist sie so geschockt, dass sie buchstäblich in Ohnmacht fällt. Die Krankenschwester Miss Pross stürmt in den Raum, schimpft mit Herrn Lorry und kümmert sich um Lucie, um sie wieder zu Bewusstsein zu bringen.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. KAPITEL II. EINE BESCHREIBUNG DER BAUERNTOCHTER. DER AUTOR WIRD ZU EINEM MARKTSTADT GEBRACHT UND DANN IN DIE METROPOLE. EINZELHEITEN DIESESES AUSFLUGS. Meine Herrin hatte eine neunjährige Tochter, ein für ihr Alter sehr kluges Kind, sehr geschickt mit der Nadel und geschickt im Umgang mit ihrem Baby. Ihre Mutter und sie hatten geplant, mir für die Nacht die Wiege des Babys einzurichten. Die Wiege wurde in ein kleines Schubladenschrank gestellt und die Schublade wurde aus Angst vor den Ratten auf ein Hängeregal gestellt. Das war mein Bett während meiner Zeit bei diesen Leuten, obwohl es allmählich bequemer wurde, als ich begann, ihre Sprache zu lernen und meine Bedürfnisse bekannt zu machen. Sie machte mir sieben Hemden und etwas anderes Leinen aus feinem Stoff, den man bekommen konnte, der allerdings gröber war als Sackleinen; und sie wusch diese ständig mit ihren eigenen Händen für mich. Sie war auch meine Lehrerin, um mir die Sprache beizubringen. Wenn ich auf etwas zeigte, sagte sie mir den Namen davon in ihrer eigenen Sprache, so dass ich in wenigen Tagen nach allem verlangen konnte, wonach mir der Sinn stand. Sie war sehr nett und war nicht größer als vierzig Fuß, was für ihr Alter klein war. Sie gab mir den Namen Grildrig, den die Familie übernahm und später das ganze Königreich. Das Wort bedeutet das, was die Lateiner als _nanunculus_ bezeichnen, die Italiener als _homunceletino_ und die Engländer als _Männchen_. Ihr habe ich vor allem mein Überleben in diesem Land zu verdanken. Wir haben uns nie getrennt, solange ich dort war; ich nannte sie meine Glumdalclitch oder kleine Pflegerin; und ich wäre einer großen Undankbarkeit schuldig, wenn ich diese ehrenvolle Erwähnung ihrer Fürsorge und Zuneigung zu mir auslassen würde, die ich von ganzem Herzen wünsche, dass ich sie entsprechend belohnen könnte, wie sie es verdient. Es wurde nun in der Nachbarschaft bekannt und darüber gesprochen, dass mein Herr ein seltsames Tier auf dem Feld gefunden hatte, etwa von der Größe eines _Splacnuck_, aber in jeder Hinsicht genau wie eine menschliche Kreatur geformt; das es auch in all seinen Handlungen nachahmte, schien in einer eigenen kleinen Sprache zu sprechen, bereits mehrere Wörter aus ihrer Sprache gelernt hatte, sich auf zwei Beinen aufrichtete, zahm und sanftmütig war, wenn man es rief, alles tat, was ihm gesagt wurde, die schönsten Gliedmaßen der Welt hatte und eine Hautfarbe, die heller war als die einer dreijährigen Adelstochter. Ein anderer Bauer, der gleich in der Nähe lebte und ein enger Freund meines Herrn war, kam zu Besuch, um die Wahrheit dieser Geschichte zu ergründen. Ich wurde sofort präsentiert und auf einen Tisch gestellt, wo ich ging, wie mir befohlen wurde, zog meinen Degen und steckte ihn wieder ein, verbeugte mich vor dem Gast meines Herrn, fragte ihn in seiner eigenen Sprache, wie es ihm ging, und sagte ihm _er sei willkommen_, genau wie es mir meine kleine Pflegerin beigebracht hatte. Dieser Mann, der alt und schwachsichtig war, setzte seine Brille auf, um mich besser zu betrachten, wobei ich nicht anders konnte, als herzlich darüber zu lachen, denn seine Augen erschienen wie der volle Mond, der in ein Zimmer mit zwei Fenstern scheint. Unsere Leute, die den Grund meines Gelächters entdeckten, lachten mit mir mit, worüber sich der alte Mann dumm genug ärgerte und in Verlegenheit brachte. Er hatte den Ruf eines großen Geizhalses und zu meinem Unglück verdiente er ihn sich redlich durch den verfluchten Rat, den er meinem Herrn gab, mich als Attraktion auf einem Markttag in der nächstgelegenen Stadt zu präsentieren, die eine halbe Stunde zu reiten war, ungefähr zweiundzwanzig Meilen von unserem Haus entfernt. Ich vermutete, dass dort Unheil im Gange war, als ich bemerkte, dass mein Herr und sein Freund lang zusammen flüsterten und manchmal auf mich zeigten; und meine Ängste ließen mich glauben, dass ich einige ihrer Worte belauscht und verstanden hätte. (Illustration: "ICH NANNTTE SIE MEINE GLUMDALCLITCH.") Aber am nächsten Morgen erzählte mir Glumdalclitch, meine kleine Pflegerin, die ganze Geschichte, die sie klugerweise von ihrer Mutter erfahren hatte. Das arme Mädchen legte mich auf ihren Schoß und weinte aus Scham und Kummer. Sie befürchtete, dass mir etwas Schlimmes von rüpelhaften gewöhnlichen Leuten geschehen könnte, die mich möglicherweise zu Tode quetschten oder mir ein Glied brachen, indem sie mich in die Hände nahmen. Sie hatte auch beobachtet, wie bescheiden ich in meiner Natur war, wie sorgfältig ich auf meine Ehre achtete und welche Schande es für mich wäre, für Geld als öffentliche Attraktion den niedrigsten Menschen ausgesetzt zu sein. Sie sagte, ihre Mama und ihr Papa hätten versprochen, dass Grildrig ihr gehören solle, aber nun fand sie heraus, dass sie es ebenso machen wollten wie im letzten Jahr, als sie behaupteten, ihr ein Lamm zu schenken und es dann, sobald es fett war, einem Metzger verkauften. Ich selbst kann wahrheitsgemäß bestätigen, dass ich weniger besorgt war als meine Pflegerin. Ich hatte eine starke Hoffnung, die mich nicht verließ, dass ich eines Tages meine Freiheit wiedererlangen würde; in Bezug auf die Schande, als Monster herumgetragen zu werden, betrachtete ich mich als einen völligen Fremden im Land, und dass mir ein solches Unglück nie als Vorwurf gemacht werden könnte, wenn ich jemals nach England zurückkehren sollte; da der König von Großbritannien selbst in meiner Situation dasselbe Leid erlitten hätte. Mein Herr, entsprechend dem Rat seines Freundes, brachte mich an einem Markttag in einer Kiste in die nächstgelegene Stadt und nahm seine kleine Tochter, meine Pflegerin, auf einem Sattelkissen hinter sich. Die Kiste war von allen Seiten geschlossen, mit einer kleinen Tür, durch die ich ein- und aussteigen konnte, und ein paar Löchern, die Luft hereinließen. Das Mädchen war so sorgfältig, das Kissen des Babybetts hineinzulegen, damit ich mich darauflegen konnte. Ich wurde jedoch bei dieser Reise furchtbar geschüttelt und durcheinander gebracht, obwohl sie nur eine halbe Stunde dauerte. Das Pferd machte bei jedem Schritt etwa vierzig Fuß und trabte so hoch, dass die Aufregung dem Auf- und Absteigen eines Schiffes in einem großen Sturm gleichkam, aber viel häufiger; unsere Reise war etwas weiter als von London bis nach St. Alban's. Mein Herr stieg in einer Herberge ab, in der er sich gerne aufhielt, und nachdem er eine Weile mit dem Wirt beraten und einige notwendige Vorbereitungen getroffen hatte, heuerte er den _grultrud_, oder Rufer, an, die Stadt davon in Kenntnis zu setzen, dass in der Taverne zum Grünen Adler ein seltsames Wesen zu sehen sei, nicht so groß wie ein _Splacnuck_ (ein Tier in diesem Land, sehr schön geformt, etwa sechs Fuß lang) und in jeder Körperpartie einem menschlichen Wesen ähnlich sei, mehrere Worte sprechen könne und hundert amüsante Tricks vollführen könne. Ich wurde auf einen Tisch in den größten Raum der Taverne gestellt, der etwa dreihundert Fuß groß sein mochte. Meine kleine Pflegerin stand auf einem niedrigen Hocker ganz nah am Tisch, um sich um mich zu kümmern und mir Anweisungen zu geben, was ich tun sollte. Mein Herr ließ aus Platzmangel immer nur dreißig Leute auf einmal herein, um mich zu sehen. Ich Mein Herr gab öffentlich bekannt, dass er mich am nächsten Marktag erneut vorführen würde, und in der Zwischenzeit bereitete er ein bequemeres Fahrzeug für mich vor, was auch dringend nötig war. Denn ich war so müde von meiner ersten Reise und davon, stundenlang Gesellschaft zu unterhalten, dass ich kaum auf meinen Beinen stehen konnte oder ein Wort herausbrachte. Es dauerte mindestens drei Tage, bis ich mich wieder erholt hatte. Und damit ich zuhause keine Ruhe hatte, kamen alle benachbarten Gentlemen aus einem Umkreis von hundert Meilen, nachdem sie von meinem Ruhm gehört hatten, um mich im Haus meines Herrn zu sehen. Es waren nicht weniger als dreißig Personen mit ihren Ehefrauen und Kindern (denn die Gegend war sehr bevölkert); und mein Herr verlangte den Preis für ein volles Zimmer, immer wenn er mich zu einer einzigen Familie zuhause präsentierte, so dass ich wochenlang kaum Ruhe hatte (außer am Mittwoch, ihrem Sabbat), obwohl ich nicht in die Stadt gebracht wurde. Mein Herr, der erkannte, wie profitabel ich sein konnte, beschloss mich in die bedeutendsten Städte des Königreichs zu bringen. Er sorgte also für alle nötigen Dinge für eine lange Reise und regelte seine Angelegenheiten zuhause. Er verabschiedete sich von seiner Frau und am siebzehnten August 1703, etwa zwei Monate nach meiner Ankunft, brachen wir auf in Richtung der Metropole, die in der Mitte des Reiches lag und etwa dreitausend Meilen von unserem Haus entfernt war. Meister Krawuttke ließ seine Tochter Glumdalclitch hinter sich reiten. Sie nahm mich in einer Box auf ihrem Schoß mit, die um ihre Taille gebunden war. Das Mädchen hatte sie von allen Seiten mit dem weichsten Stoff, den sie bekommen konnte, ausgekleidet und unten gut abgesteppt, mit dem Bett ihres Babys ausgestattet, mir Wäsche und andere Notwendigkeiten bereitgestellt und alles so bequem wie möglich gemacht. Wir hatten nur einen Jungen des Hauses als Begleitung, der hinter uns mit dem Gepäck ritt. Das Ziel meines Herrn war es, mich in allen Städten auf dem Weg zu zeigen und für 50 oder 100 Meilen von der Straße abzukommen, um in einem Dorf oder im Haus einer edlen Person auf Kunden zu hoffen. Wir fuhren nicht mehr als sieben oder achtzig Meilen am Tag, um Glumdalclitch zu schonen, die angab, vom Trab des Pferdes müde zu sein. Sie holte mich oft auf meinen eigenen Wunsch aus meiner Box, um mir Luft zu geben und mir das Land zu zeigen, aber immer hielt sie mich fest an einer Leine. Wir überquerten fünf oder sechs Flüsse, viele davon breiter und tiefer als der Nil oder der Ganges; und kaum ein kleiner Fluss war so klein wie die Themse an der London Bridge. Wir waren zehn Wochen unterwegs und ich wurde in achtzehn großen Städten gezeigt, abgesehen von vielen Dörfern und Privatfamilien. Am sechsundzwanzigsten Oktober kamen wir in der Metropole an, die in ihrer Sprache _Lorbrulgrud_ oder Stolz des Universums genannt wurde. Mein Herr mietete eine Unterkunft in der Hauptstraße der Stadt, nicht weit vom königlichen Palast entfernt, und hängte in bekannter Form Plakate aus, die eine genaue Beschreibung meiner Person und meiner Eigenschaften enthielten. Er mietete einen großen Raum von dreihundert bis vierhundert Fuß Breite. Er stellte einen Tisch mit sechzig Fuß Durchmesser bereit, auf dem ich meine Rolle spielen sollte, und umzäunte ihn drei Fuß von der Kante und so hoch, um zu verhindern, dass ich herunterfalle. Ich wurde zehnmal am Tag gezeigt, zum Staunen und zur Zufriedenheit aller Menschen. Ich konnte jetzt die Sprache einigermaßen gut sprechen und verstand jedes Wort, das zu mir gesprochen wurde, perfekt. Außerdem hatte ich ihr Alphabet gelernt und konnte hier und da einen Satz erklären; denn Glumdalclitch war während unserer Reise meine Lehrerin gewesen, als wir zuhause und in den freien Stunden waren. Sie trug ein kleines Buch in ihrer Tasche, nicht viel größer als ein Atlas von Sanson; es war ein gewöhnlicher Leitfaden für den Gebrauch junger Mädchen, der eine kurze Beschreibung ihrer Religion gab; daraus brachte sie mir meine Buchstaben bei und übersetzte die Worte. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Gullivers Geliebte hat eine 9-jährige Tochter, die gut nähen kann und im Allgemeinen sehr clever ist. Sie macht Gulliver einige Kleider und beginnt damit, ihm die Brobdingnagische Sprache beizubringen. Gulliver nennt dieses Mädchen "Glumdalclitch", seine kleine Krankenschwester, und sie nennt ihn "Grildrig". Gerüchte verbreiten sich in der ganzen Gegend, dass der Bauer, Gullivers Herr, eine seltsame kleine Kreatur gefunden hat, die menschliche Wesen perfekt imitiert. Einer der Nachbarn des Herrn kommt vorbei und schlägt vor, dass er einen riesigen Gewinn erzielen könnte, indem er Gulliver auf dem örtlichen Markt gegen eine Gebühr zeigt. Am nächsten Marktag folgt Gullivers Herr diesem Rat und fängt an, Werbung zu machen, dass die Leute kommen und seinen winzigen Menschen sehen können. Gulliver zeigt Kunststücke und wiederholt sprachliche Phrasen, die er in der Brobdingnagischen Sprache kennt, zur Unterhaltung des lokalen Publikums. Nach einem langen Tag dieser Vorstellungen verspricht Gullivers Herr, ihn am nächsten Marktag zurückzubringen. Gulliver ist so profitabel, dass sein Herr beschließt, ihn auf eine Tour durch die Städte des Königreichs mitzunehmen. Gulliver reist unter der Obhut von Glumdalclitch. Sie weiß, wie sehr es Gulliver ermüdet, auf Märkten wie diesem ausgestellt zu werden, daher beschwert sich Glumdalclitch oft bei ihrem Vater über ihre eigene Erschöpfung, um ihn dazu zu bringen, langsam zu reisen. Nach zehn Wochen Reise und achtzehn verschiedenen großen Städten kommen Gullivers Herr, Glumdalclitch und Gulliver selbst in der zentralen Stadt Lorbrulgrud an. Gullivers Herr mietet ein großes Zimmer und richtet eine Bühne für Gullivers Vorstellungen ein.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). 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. Kent betritt die Bühne, gefolgt von Gloucester. Gloucester: Hier ist es besser als an der frischen Luft, nimm es dankbar an. Ich werde das Vergnügen durch das Hinzufügen ergänzen, so gut ich kann. Ich werde nicht lange von dir weg sein. Gloucester geht ab. Kent: Sein Wille hat seinem Verstand nachgegeben, er konnte seiner Ungeduld nicht widerstehen. Die Götter mögen deine Freundlichkeit belohnen. Lear, Edgar und der Narr betreten die Bühne. Edgar: Frateretto 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: Bitte, Onkel, sag mir, ob ein Verrückter ein Gentleman oder ein Bauer ist. Lear: Ein König, ein König. Narr: Nein, er ist ein Bauer, der einen Gentleman als Sohn hat. Denn er ist ein verrückter Bauer, der seinen Sohn als Gentleman vor sich sieht. Lear: Damit tausend rote, brennende Spieße auf sie zukommen und sie durchbohren. Edgar: Dein Verstand sei gesegnet. Kent: Oh, Mitleid, mein Herr, wo ist jetzt die Geduld, die du so oft behauptet hast zu haben? Edgar: Meine Tränen nehmen immer mehr Partei für ihn, sie ruinieren mein Spiel. Lear: Die kleinen Hunde auch, Trey, Blanch und Sweet-heart. Schau, sie bellen mich an. Edgar: Tom wird seinen Kopf nach ihnen werfen. Verschwinde, ihr Köter, egal ob euer Mund schwarz oder weiß ist, ein Zahn, der vergiftet, wenn er beißt. Mastiff, Windhund, Mischling, grimmig, Jagdhund oder Spaniel, Brache oder Jäger, Bobtail oder wedelgeschwänzt, Tom wird ihn weinen und jammern lassen. Wenn ich so meinen Kopf werfe, springen die Hunde über die Luke und sind alle verschwunden. Tu, de, de, de: Sese: Komm, marschieren wir zu Festen und Jahrmärkten und Marktplätzen. Armer Tom, dein Horn ist trocken. Lear: Dann sollen sie Regan seziert haben. Seht, was bei ihrem Herzen gedeiht. Gibt es eine Ursache in der Natur, die diese hartgesottenen Herzen entstehen lässt? Sie, Sir, ich habe Sie angestellt, einer von meinen Hundert zu sein. Nur gefällt mir die Art Ihrer Kleidung nicht. Sie werden sagen, sie sind persisch, aber lasst sie geändert werden. Gloucester tritt auf. Kent: Nun gut, mein Herr, leg dich hier hin und ruh dich aus. Lear: Macht keinen Lärm, macht keinen Lärm, zieht die Vorhänge zu. So, so, wir werden frühstücken am Morgen. Narr: Und ich werde mittags ins Bett gehen. Gloucester: Komm her, Freund. Wo ist der König, mein Herr? Kent: Hier, Sir, aber belästigen Sie ihn nicht, er ist ohne Verstand. Gloucester: Gut, mein Freund, bitte nimm ihn in deine Arme. Ich habe einen Mordplan gegen ihn belauscht. Eine Trage steht bereit, lege ihn darauf und fahre zum Freund nach Dover, wo du sowohl willkommen als auch geschützt wirst. Nimm deinen Herrn auf, wenn du eine halbe Stunde zögerst, ist sein Leben, sowie das derer, die versuchen, ihn zu verteidigen, in großer Gefahr. Nimm ihn auf, nimm ihn auf, und folge mir. Ich werde dir schnell Führung geben. Komm, komm, los geht's. Sie gehen ab. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Gloucester macht sich auf den Weg, um Essen zu finden, während der König und seine Gefolgsleute in einem Bauernhaus neben dem Schloss bleiben. Der Narr und Edgar nehmen an Lears simuliertem Prozess gegen Regan und Goneril teil. Gloucester betritt den Raum und enthüllt, dass er von einem Komplott gegen den König erfahren hat. Die Gruppe bereitet sich darauf vor, Lear nach Dover zu bringen, wo Freunde ihm zur Hilfe kommen können.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: CHAPTER XXXIII. WHICH MAY PASS FOR WHATEVER IT MAY PROVE TO BE WORTH. But ere be given the rather grave story of Charlemont, a reply must in civility be made to a certain voice which methinks I hear, that, in view of past chapters, and more particularly the last, where certain antics appear, exclaims: How unreal all this is! Who did ever dress or act like your cosmopolitan? And who, it might be returned, did ever dress or act like harlequin? Strange, that in a work of amusement, this severe fidelity to real life should be exacted by any one, who, by taking up such a work, sufficiently shows that he is not unwilling to drop real life, and turn, for a time, to something different. Yes, it is, indeed, strange that any one should clamor for the thing he is weary of; that any one, who, for any cause, finds real life dull, should yet demand of him who is to divert his attention from it, that he should be true to that dullness. There is another class, and with this class we side, who sit down to a work of amusement tolerantly as they sit at a play, and with much the same expectations and feelings. They look that fancy shall evoke scenes different from those of the same old crowd round the custom-house counter, and same old dishes on the boardinghouse table, with characters unlike those of the same old acquaintances they meet in the same old way every day in the same old street. And as, in real life, the proprieties will not allow people to act out themselves with that unreserve permitted to the stage; so, in books of fiction, they look not only for more entertainment, but, at bottom, even for more reality, than real life itself can show. Thus, though they want novelty, they want nature, too; but nature unfettered, exhilarated, in effect transformed. In this way of thinking, the people in a fiction, like the people in a play, must dress as nobody exactly dresses, talk as nobody exactly talks, act as nobody exactly acts. It is with fiction as with religion: it should present another world, and yet one to which we feel the tie. If, then, something is to be pardoned to well-meant endeavor, surely a little is to be allowed to that writer who, in all his scenes, does but seek to minister to what, as he understands it, is the implied wish of the more indulgent lovers of entertainment, before whom harlequin can never appear in a coat too parti-colored, or cut capers too fantastic. One word more. Though every one knows how bootless it is to be in all cases vindicating one's self, never mind how convinced one may be that he is never in the wrong; yet, so precious to man is the approbation of his kind, that to rest, though but under an imaginary censure applied to but a work of imagination, is no easy thing. The mention of this weakness will explain why such readers as may think they perceive something harmonious between the boisterous hilarity of the cosmopolitan with the bristling cynic, and his restrained good-nature with the boon-companion, are now referred to that chapter where some similar apparent inconsistency in another character is, on general principles, modestly endeavored to-be apologized for. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Der Erzähler unterbricht mit einem weiteren Meta-Kapitel und gibt uns einige seiner Gedanken im Real-Talk-Stil. Seht mal, Leute - ihr könnt nicht die ganze Zeit Realismus haben, okay? Hört einfach auf zu kritisieren und genießt Fiktion so, wie ihr ein Theaterstück genießen würdet. Und wenn ihr denkt, dass Frank ein inkonsequenter Charakter ist, weil er so lebhaft war, als er mit Pitch sprach, aber super vorsichtig ist, wenn er mit Charlie spricht, dann haltet einfach die Klappe und lest nochmal, was ich vorher über Inkonsistenz bei Charakteren gesagt habe. Das ist alles. Danke.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. DE GUICHE (perplexed): Six methods? Impossible! CYRANO (proudly): Impossible? Not for Cyrano de Bergerac! DE GUICHE (walks away, shaking his head): Madman! CYRANO (watching De Guiche leave, mutters to himself): Ah, the fool cannot fathom my genius! (Holding his head high, he walks off, triumphant in his own imaginary achievements) DE GUICHE: Here are six excellent expedients! Which of the six chose you? CYRANO: Why, none!--a seventh! DE GUICHE: Astonishing! What was it? CYRANO: I'll recount. DE GUICHE: This wild eccentric becomes interesting! CYRANO (making a noise like the waves, with weird gestures): Houuh! Houuh! DE GUICHE: Well. CYRANO: You have guessed? DE GUICHE: Not I! CYRANO: The tide! I' th' witching hour when the moon woos the wave, I laid me, fresh from a sea-bath, on the shore-- And, failing not to put head foremost--for The hair holds the sea-water in its mesh-- I rose in air, straight! straight! like angel's flight, And mounted, mounted, gently, effortless,. . . When lo! a sudden shock! Then. . . DE GUICHE (overcome by curiosity, sitting down on the bench): Then? CYRANO: Oh! then. . . (Suddenly returning to his natural voice): The quarter's gone--I'll hinder you no more: The marriage-vows are made. DE GUICHE (springing up): What? Am I mad? That voice? (The house-door opens. Lackeys appear carrying lighted candelabra. Light. Cyrano gracefully uncovers): That nose--Cyrano? CYRANO (bowing): Cyrano. While we were chatting, they have plighted troth. DE GUICHE: Who? (He turns round. Tableau. Behind the lackeys appear Roxane and Christian, holding each other by the hand. The friar follows them, smiling. Ragueneau also holds a candlestick. The duenna closes the rear, bewildered, having made a hasty toilet): Heavens! Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Der Mönch erscheint wieder und hat entdeckt, dass Roxane hier lebt. Er bringt Roxane einen Brief von de Guiche. In dem Brief sagt de Guiche, dass er nicht in den Krieg gezogen ist, sondern sich in einem nahen Kloster versteckt hat. Er beabsichtigt, Roxane heute Abend zu besuchen. Roxane gibt vor, den Brief laut vorzulesen und sagt, dass de Guiche will, dass Christian Roxane sofort heiratet und der Mönch die Zeremonie durchführt. Der Mönch zögert, aber als Roxane vorgibt, ein Postskriptum zu entdecken, das eine große Spende an das Kloster verspricht, stimmt er zu, sie zu verheiraten. Der Mönch, Christian und Roxane gehen ins Haus zur Zeremonie. Roxane bittet Cyrano, de Guiche draußen zu halten und mit ihm zu reden, um zu verhindern, dass er die Hochzeit stört.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: Anne and Henrietta, finding themselves the earliest of the party the next morning, agreed to stroll down to the sea before breakfast. They went to the sands, to watch the flowing of the tide, which a fine south-easterly breeze was bringing in with all the grandeur which so flat a shore admitted. They praised the morning; gloried in the sea; sympathized in the delight of the fresh-feeling breeze--and were silent; till Henrietta suddenly began again with-- "Oh! yes,--I am quite convinced that, with very few exceptions, the sea-air always does good. There can be no doubt of its having been of the greatest service to Dr Shirley, after his illness, last spring twelve-month. He declares himself, that coming to Lyme for a month, did him more good than all the medicine he took; and, that being by the sea, always makes him feel young again. Now, I cannot help thinking it a pity that he does not live entirely by the sea. I do think he had better leave Uppercross entirely, and fix at Lyme. Do not you, Anne? Do not you agree with me, that it is the best thing he could do, both for himself and Mrs Shirley? She has cousins here, you know, and many acquaintance, which would make it cheerful for her, and I am sure she would be glad to get to a place where she could have medical attendance at hand, in case of his having another seizure. Indeed I think it quite melancholy to have such excellent people as Dr and Mrs Shirley, who have been doing good all their lives, wearing out their last days in a place like Uppercross, where, excepting our family, they seem shut out from all the world. I wish his friends would propose it to him. I really think they ought. And, as to procuring a dispensation, there could be no difficulty at his time of life, and with his character. My only doubt is, whether anything could persuade him to leave his parish. He is so very strict and scrupulous in his notions; over-scrupulous I must say. Do not you think, Anne, it is being over-scrupulous? Do not you think it is quite a mistaken point of conscience, when a clergyman sacrifices his health for the sake of duties, which may be just as well performed by another person? And at Lyme too, only seventeen miles off, he would be near enough to hear, if people thought there was anything to complain of." Anne smiled more than once to herself during this speech, and entered into the subject, as ready to do good by entering into the feelings of a young lady as of a young man, though here it was good of a lower standard, for what could be offered but general acquiescence? She said all that was reasonable and proper on the business; felt the claims of Dr Shirley to repose as she ought; saw how very desirable it was that he should have some active, respectable young man, as a resident curate, and was even courteous enough to hint at the advantage of such resident curate's being married. "I wish," said Henrietta, very well pleased with her companion, "I wish Lady Russell lived at Uppercross, and were intimate with Dr Shirley. I have always heard of Lady Russell as a woman of the greatest influence with everybody! I always look upon her as able to persuade a person to anything! I am afraid of her, as I have told you before, quite afraid of her, because she is so very clever; but I respect her amazingly, and wish we had such a neighbour at Uppercross." Anne was amused by Henrietta's manner of being grateful, and amused also that the course of events and the new interests of Henrietta's views should have placed her friend at all in favour with any of the Musgrove family; she had only time, however, for a general answer, and a wish that such another woman were at Uppercross, before all subjects suddenly ceased, on seeing Louisa and Captain Wentworth coming towards them. They came also for a stroll till breakfast was likely to be ready; but Louisa recollecting, immediately afterwards that she had something to procure at a shop, invited them all to go back with her into the town. They were all at her disposal. When they came to the steps, leading upwards from the beach, a gentleman, at the same moment preparing to come down, politely drew back, and stopped to give them way. They ascended and passed him; and as they passed, Anne's face caught his eye, and he looked at her with a degree of earnest admiration, which she could not be insensible of. She was looking remarkably well; her very regular, very pretty features, having the bloom and freshness of youth restored by the fine wind which had been blowing on her complexion, and by the animation of eye which it had also produced. It was evident that the gentleman, (completely a gentleman in manner) admired her exceedingly. Captain Wentworth looked round at her instantly in a way which shewed his noticing of it. He gave her a momentary glance, a glance of brightness, which seemed to say, "That man is struck with you, and even I, at this moment, see something like Anne Elliot again." After attending Louisa through her business, and loitering about a little longer, they returned to the inn; and Anne, in passing afterwards quickly from her own chamber to their dining-room, had nearly run against the very same gentleman, as he came out of an adjoining apartment. She had before conjectured him to be a stranger like themselves, and determined that a well-looking groom, who was strolling about near the two inns as they came back, should be his servant. Both master and man being in mourning assisted the idea. It was now proved that he belonged to the same inn as themselves; and this second meeting, short as it was, also proved again by the gentleman's looks, that he thought hers very lovely, and by the readiness and propriety of his apologies, that he was a man of exceedingly good manners. He seemed about thirty, and though not handsome, had an agreeable person. Anne felt that she should like to know who he was. They had nearly done breakfast, when the sound of a carriage, (almost the first they had heard since entering Lyme) drew half the party to the window. It was a gentleman's carriage, a curricle, but only coming round from the stable-yard to the front door; somebody must be going away. It was driven by a servant in mourning. The word curricle made Charles Musgrove jump up that he might compare it with his own; the servant in mourning roused Anne's curiosity, and the whole six were collected to look, by the time the owner of the curricle was to be seen issuing from the door amidst the bows and civilities of the household, and taking his seat, to drive off. "Ah!" cried Captain Wentworth, instantly, and with half a glance at Anne, "it is the very man we passed." The Miss Musgroves agreed to it; and having all kindly watched him as far up the hill as they could, they returned to the breakfast table. The waiter came into the room soon afterwards. "Pray," said Captain Wentworth, immediately, "can you tell us the name of the gentleman who is just gone away?" "Yes, Sir, a Mr Elliot, a gentleman of large fortune, came in last night from Sidmouth. Dare say you heard the carriage, sir, while you were at dinner; and going on now for Crewkherne, in his way to Bath and London." "Elliot!" Many had looked on each other, and many had repeated the name, before all this had been got through, even by the smart rapidity of a waiter. "Bless me!" cried Mary; "it must be our cousin; it must be our Mr Elliot, it must, indeed! Charles, Anne, must not it? In mourning, you see, just as our Mr Elliot must be. How very extraordinary! In the very same inn with us! Anne, must not it be our Mr Elliot? my father's next heir? Pray sir," turning to the waiter, "did not you hear, did not his servant say whether he belonged to the Kellynch family?" "No, ma'am, he did not mention no particular family; but he said his master was a very rich gentleman, and would be a baronight some day." "There! you see!" cried Mary in an ecstasy, "just as I said! Heir to Sir Walter Elliot! I was sure that would come out, if it was so. Depend upon it, that is a circumstance which his servants take care to publish, wherever he goes. But, Anne, only conceive how extraordinary! I wish I had looked at him more. I wish we had been aware in time, who it was, that he might have been introduced to us. What a pity that we should not have been introduced to each other! Do you think he had the Elliot countenance? I hardly looked at him, I was looking at the horses; but I think he had something of the Elliot countenance, I wonder the arms did not strike me! Oh! the great-coat was hanging over the panel, and hid the arms, so it did; otherwise, I am sure, I should have observed them, and the livery too; if the servant had not been in mourning, one should have known him by the livery." "Putting all these very extraordinary circumstances together," said Captain Wentworth, "we must consider it to be the arrangement of Providence, that you should not be introduced to your cousin." When she could command Mary's attention, Anne quietly tried to convince her that their father and Mr Elliot had not, for many years, been on such terms as to make the power of attempting an introduction at all desirable. At the same time, however, it was a secret gratification to herself to have seen her cousin, and to know that the future owner of Kellynch was undoubtedly a gentleman, and had an air of good sense. She would not, upon any account, mention her having met with him the second time; luckily Mary did not much attend to their having passed close by him in their earlier walk, but she would have felt quite ill-used by Anne's having actually run against him in the passage, and received his very polite excuses, while she had never been near him at all; no, that cousinly little interview must remain a perfect secret. "Of course," said Mary, "you will mention our seeing Mr Elliot, the next time you write to Bath. I think my father certainly ought to hear of it; do mention all about him." Anne avoided a direct reply, but it was just the circumstance which she considered as not merely unnecessary to be communicated, but as what ought to be suppressed. The offence which had been given her father, many years back, she knew; Elizabeth's particular share in it she suspected; and that Mr Elliot's idea always produced irritation in both was beyond a doubt. Mary never wrote to Bath herself; all the toil of keeping up a slow and unsatisfactory correspondence with Elizabeth fell on Anne. Breakfast had not been long over, when they were joined by Captain and Mrs Harville and Captain Benwick; with whom they had appointed to take their last walk about Lyme. They ought to be setting off for Uppercross by one, and in the meanwhile were to be all together, and out of doors as long as they could. Anne found Captain Benwick getting near her, as soon as they were all fairly in the street. Their conversation the preceding evening did not disincline him to seek her again; and they walked together some time, talking as before of Mr Scott and Lord Byron, and still as unable as before, and as unable as any other two readers, to think exactly alike of the merits of either, till something occasioned an almost general change amongst their party, and instead of Captain Benwick, she had Captain Harville by her side. "Miss Elliot," said he, speaking rather low, "you have done a good deed in making that poor fellow talk so much. I wish he could have such company oftener. It is bad for him, I know, to be shut up as he is; but what can we do? We cannot part." "No," said Anne, "that I can easily believe to be impossible; but in time, perhaps--we know what time does in every case of affliction, and you must remember, Captain Harville, that your friend may yet be called a young mourner--only last summer, I understand." "Ay, true enough," (with a deep sigh) "only June." "And not known to him, perhaps, so soon." "Not till the first week of August, when he came home from the Cape, just made into the Grappler. I was at Plymouth dreading to hear of him; he sent in letters, but the Grappler was under orders for Portsmouth. There the news must follow him, but who was to tell it? not I. I would as soon have been run up to the yard-arm. Nobody could do it, but that good fellow" (pointing to Captain Wentworth.) "The Laconia had come into Plymouth the week before; no danger of her being sent to sea again. He stood his chance for the rest; wrote up for leave of absence, but without waiting the return, travelled night and day till he got to Portsmouth, rowed off to the Grappler that instant, and never left the poor fellow for a week. That's what he did, and nobody else could have saved poor James. You may think, Miss Elliot, whether he is dear to us!" Anne did think on the question with perfect decision, and said as much in reply as her own feeling could accomplish, or as his seemed able to bear, for he was too much affected to renew the subject, and when he spoke again, it was of something totally different. Mrs Harville's giving it as her opinion that her husband would have quite walking enough by the time he reached home, determined the direction of all the party in what was to be their last walk; they would accompany them to their door, and then return and set off themselves. By all their calculations there was just time for this; but as they drew near the Cobb, there was such a general wish to walk along it once more, all were so inclined, and Louisa soon grew so determined, that the difference of a quarter of an hour, it was found, would be no difference at all; so with all the kind leave-taking, and all the kind interchange of invitations and promises which may be imagined, they parted from Captain and Mrs Harville at their own door, and still accompanied by Captain Benwick, who seemed to cling to them to the last, proceeded to make the proper adieus to the Cobb. Anne found Captain Benwick again drawing near her. Lord Byron's "dark blue seas" could not fail of being brought forward by their present view, and she gladly gave him all her attention as long as attention was possible. It was soon drawn, perforce another way. There was too much wind to make the high part of the new Cobb pleasant for the ladies, and they agreed to get down the steps to the lower, and all were contented to pass quietly and carefully down the steep flight, excepting Louisa; she must be jumped down them by Captain Wentworth. In all their walks, he had had to jump her from the stiles; the sensation was delightful to her. The hardness of the pavement for her feet, made him less willing upon the present occasion; he did it, however. She was safely down, and instantly, to show her enjoyment, ran up the steps to be jumped down again. He advised her against it, thought the jar too great; but no, he reasoned and talked in vain, she smiled and said, "I am determined I will:" he put out his hands; she was too precipitate by half a second, she fell on the pavement on the Lower Cobb, and was taken up lifeless! There was no wound, no blood, no visible bruise; but her eyes were closed, she breathed not, her face was like death. The horror of the moment to all who stood around! Captain Wentworth, who had caught her up, knelt with her in his arms, looking on her with a face as pallid as her own, in an agony of silence. "She is dead! she is dead!" screamed Mary, catching hold of her husband, and contributing with his own horror to make him immoveable; and in another moment, Henrietta, sinking under the conviction, lost her senses too, and would have fallen on the steps, but for Captain Benwick and Anne, who caught and supported her between them. "Is there no one to help me?" were the first words which burst from Captain Wentworth, in a tone of despair, and as if all his own strength were gone. "Go to him, go to him," cried Anne, "for heaven's sake go to him. I can support her myself. Leave me, and go to him. Rub her hands, rub her temples; here are salts; take them, take them." Captain Benwick obeyed, and Charles at the same moment, disengaging himself from his wife, they were both with him; and Louisa was raised up and supported more firmly between them, and everything was done that Anne had prompted, but in vain; while Captain Wentworth, staggering against the wall for his support, exclaimed in the bitterest agony-- "Oh God! her father and mother!" "A surgeon!" said Anne. He caught the word; it seemed to rouse him at once, and saying only-- "True, true, a surgeon this instant," was darting away, when Anne eagerly suggested-- "Captain Benwick, would not it be better for Captain Benwick? He knows where a surgeon is to be found." Every one capable of thinking felt the advantage of the idea, and in a moment (it was all done in rapid moments) Captain Benwick had resigned the poor corpse-like figure entirely to the brother's care, and was off for the town with the utmost rapidity. As to the wretched party left behind, it could scarcely be said which of the three, who were completely rational, was suffering most: Captain Wentworth, Anne, or Charles, who, really a very affectionate brother, hung over Louisa with sobs of grief, and could only turn his eyes from one sister, to see the other in a state as insensible, or to witness the hysterical agitations of his wife, calling on him for help which he could not give. Anne, attending with all the strength and zeal, and thought, which instinct supplied, to Henrietta, still tried, at intervals, to suggest comfort to the others, tried to quiet Mary, to animate Charles, to assuage the feelings of Captain Wentworth. Both seemed to look to her for directions. "Anne, Anne," cried Charles, "What is to be done next? What, in heaven's name, is to be done next?" Captain Wentworth's eyes were also turned towards her. "Had not she better be carried to the inn? Yes, I am sure: carry her gently to the inn." "Yes, yes, to the inn," repeated Captain Wentworth, comparatively collected, and eager to be doing something. "I will carry her myself. Musgrove, take care of the others." By this time the report of the accident had spread among the workmen and boatmen about the Cobb, and many were collected near them, to be useful if wanted, at any rate, to enjoy the sight of a dead young lady, nay, two dead young ladies, for it proved twice as fine as the first report. To some of the best-looking of these good people Henrietta was consigned, for, though partially revived, she was quite helpless; and in this manner, Anne walking by her side, and Charles attending to his wife, they set forward, treading back with feelings unutterable, the ground, which so lately, so very lately, and so light of heart, they had passed along. They were not off the Cobb, before the Harvilles met them. Captain Benwick had been seen flying by their house, with a countenance which showed something to be wrong; and they had set off immediately, informed and directed as they passed, towards the spot. Shocked as Captain Harville was, he brought senses and nerves that could be instantly useful; and a look between him and his wife decided what was to be done. She must be taken to their house; all must go to their house; and await the surgeon's arrival there. They would not listen to scruples: he was obeyed; they were all beneath his roof; and while Louisa, under Mrs Harville's direction, was conveyed up stairs, and given possession of her own bed, assistance, cordials, restoratives were supplied by her husband to all who needed them. Louisa had once opened her eyes, but soon closed them again, without apparent consciousness. This had been a proof of life, however, of service to her sister; and Henrietta, though perfectly incapable of being in the same room with Louisa, was kept, by the agitation of hope and fear, from a return of her own insensibility. Mary, too, was growing calmer. The surgeon was with them almost before it had seemed possible. They were sick with horror, while he examined; but he was not hopeless. The head had received a severe contusion, but he had seen greater injuries recovered from: he was by no means hopeless; he spoke cheerfully. That he did not regard it as a desperate case, that he did not say a few hours must end it, was at first felt, beyond the hope of most; and the ecstasy of such a reprieve, the rejoicing, deep and silent, after a few fervent ejaculations of gratitude to Heaven had been offered, may be conceived. The tone, the look, with which "Thank God!" was uttered by Captain Wentworth, Anne was sure could never be forgotten by her; nor the sight of him afterwards, as he sat near a table, leaning over it with folded arms and face concealed, as if overpowered by the various feelings of his soul, and trying by prayer and reflection to calm them. Louisa's limbs had escaped. There was no injury but to the head. It now became necessary for the party to consider what was best to be done, as to their general situation. They were now able to speak to each other and consult. That Louisa must remain where she was, however distressing to her friends to be involving the Harvilles in such trouble, did not admit a doubt. Her removal was impossible. The Harvilles silenced all scruples; and, as much as they could, all gratitude. They had looked forward and arranged everything before the others began to reflect. Captain Benwick must give up his room to them, and get another bed elsewhere; and the whole was settled. They were only concerned that the house could accommodate no more; and yet perhaps, by "putting the children away in the maid's room, or swinging a cot somewhere," they could hardly bear to think of not finding room for two or three besides, supposing they might wish to stay; though, with regard to any attendance on Miss Musgrove, there need not be the least uneasiness in leaving her to Mrs Harville's care entirely. Mrs Harville was a very experienced nurse, and her nursery-maid, who had lived with her long, and gone about with her everywhere, was just such another. Between these two, she could want no possible attendance by day or night. And all this was said with a truth and sincerity of feeling irresistible. Charles, Henrietta, and Captain Wentworth were the three in consultation, and for a little while it was only an interchange of perplexity and terror. "Uppercross, the necessity of some one's going to Uppercross; the news to be conveyed; how it could be broken to Mr and Mrs Musgrove; the lateness of the morning; an hour already gone since they ought to have been off; the impossibility of being in tolerable time." At first, they were capable of nothing more to the purpose than such exclamations; but, after a while, Captain Wentworth, exerting himself, said-- "We must be decided, and without the loss of another minute. Every minute is valuable. Some one must resolve on being off for Uppercross instantly. Musgrove, either you or I must go." Charles agreed, but declared his resolution of not going away. He would be as little incumbrance as possible to Captain and Mrs Harville; but as to leaving his sister in such a state, he neither ought, nor would. So far it was decided; and Henrietta at first declared the same. She, however, was soon persuaded to think differently. The usefulness of her staying! She who had not been able to remain in Louisa's room, or to look at her, without sufferings which made her worse than helpless! She was forced to acknowledge that she could do no good, yet was still unwilling to be away, till, touched by the thought of her father and mother, she gave it up; she consented, she was anxious to be at home. The plan had reached this point, when Anne, coming quietly down from Louisa's room, could not but hear what followed, for the parlour door was open. "Then it is settled, Musgrove," cried Captain Wentworth, "that you stay, and that I take care of your sister home. But as to the rest, as to the others, if one stays to assist Mrs Harville, I think it need be only one. Mrs Charles Musgrove will, of course, wish to get back to her children; but if Anne will stay, no one so proper, so capable as Anne." She paused a moment to recover from the emotion of hearing herself so spoken of. The other two warmly agreed with what he said, and she then appeared. "You will stay, I am sure; you will stay and nurse her;" cried he, turning to her and speaking with a glow, and yet a gentleness, which seemed almost restoring the past. She coloured deeply, and he recollected himself and moved away. She expressed herself most willing, ready, happy to remain. "It was what she had been thinking of, and wishing to be allowed to do. A bed on the floor in Louisa's room would be sufficient for her, if Mrs Harville would but think so." One thing more, and all seemed arranged. Though it was rather desirable that Mr and Mrs Musgrove should be previously alarmed by some share of delay; yet the time required by the Uppercross horses to take them back, would be a dreadful extension of suspense; and Captain Wentworth proposed, and Charles Musgrove agreed, that it would be much better for him to take a chaise from the inn, and leave Mr Musgrove's carriage and horses to be sent home the next morning early, when there would be the farther advantage of sending an account of Louisa's night. Captain Wentworth now hurried off to get everything ready on his part, and to be soon followed by the two ladies. When the plan was made known to Mary, however, there was an end of all peace in it. She was so wretched and so vehement, complained so much of injustice in being expected to go away instead of Anne; Anne, who was nothing to Louisa, while she was her sister, and had the best right to stay in Henrietta's stead! Why was not she to be as useful as Anne? And to go home without Charles, too, without her husband! No, it was too unkind. And in short, she said more than her husband could long withstand, and as none of the others could oppose when he gave way, there was no help for it; the change of Mary for Anne was inevitable. Anne had never submitted more reluctantly to the jealous and ill-judging claims of Mary; but so it must be, and they set off for the town, Charles taking care of his sister, and Captain Benwick attending to her. She gave a moment's recollection, as they hurried along, to the little circumstances which the same spots had witnessed earlier in the morning. There she had listened to Henrietta's schemes for Dr Shirley's leaving Uppercross; farther on, she had first seen Mr Elliot; a moment seemed all that could now be given to any one but Louisa, or those who were wrapt up in her welfare. Captain Benwick was most considerately attentive to her; and, united as they all seemed by the distress of the day, she felt an increasing degree of good-will towards him, and a pleasure even in thinking that it might, perhaps, be the occasion of continuing their acquaintance. Captain Wentworth was on the watch for them, and a chaise and four in waiting, stationed for their convenience in the lowest part of the street; but his evident surprise and vexation at the substitution of one sister for the other, the change in his countenance, the astonishment, the expressions begun and suppressed, with which Charles was listened to, made but a mortifying reception of Anne; or must at least convince her that she was valued only as she could be useful to Louisa. She endeavoured to be composed, and to be just. Without emulating the feelings of an Emma towards her Henry, she would have attended on Louisa with a zeal above the common claims of regard, for his sake; and she hoped he would not long be so unjust as to suppose she would shrink unnecessarily from the office of a friend. In the meanwhile she was in the carriage. He had handed them both in, and placed himself between them; and in this manner, under these circumstances, full of astonishment and emotion to Anne, she quitted Lyme. How the long stage would pass; how it was to affect their manners; what was to be their sort of intercourse, she could not foresee. It was all quite natural, however. He was devoted to Henrietta; always turning towards her; and when he spoke at all, always with the view of supporting her hopes and raising her spirits. In general, his voice and manner were studiously calm. To spare Henrietta from agitation seemed the governing principle. Once only, when she had been grieving over the last ill-judged, ill-fated walk to the Cobb, bitterly lamenting that it ever had been thought of, he burst forth, as if wholly overcome-- "Don't talk of it, don't talk of it," he cried. "Oh God! that I had not given way to her at the fatal moment! Had I done as I ought! But so eager and so resolute! Dear, sweet Louisa!" Anne wondered whether it ever occurred to him now, to question the justness of his own previous opinion as to the universal felicity and advantage of firmness of character; and whether it might not strike him that, like all other qualities of the mind, it should have its proportions and limits. She thought it could scarcely escape him to feel that a persuadable temper might sometimes be as much in favour of happiness as a very resolute character. They got on fast. Anne was astonished to recognise the same hills and the same objects so soon. Their actual speed, heightened by some dread of the conclusion, made the road appear but half as long as on the day before. It was growing quite dusk, however, before they were in the neighbourhood of Uppercross, and there had been total silence among them for some time, Henrietta leaning back in the corner, with a shawl over her face, giving the hope of her having cried herself to sleep; when, as they were going up their last hill, Anne found herself all at once addressed by Captain Wentworth. In a low, cautious voice, he said:-- "I have been considering what we had best do. She must not appear at first. She could not stand it. I have been thinking whether you had not better remain in the carriage with her, while I go in and break it to Mr and Mrs Musgrove. Do you think this is a good plan?" She did: he was satisfied, and said no more. But the remembrance of the appeal remained a pleasure to her, as a proof of friendship, and of deference for her judgement, a great pleasure; and when it became a sort of parting proof, its value did not lessen. When the distressing communication at Uppercross was over, and he had seen the father and mother quite as composed as could be hoped, and the daughter all the better for being with them, he announced his intention of returning in the same carriage to Lyme; and when the horses were baited, he was off. (End of volume one.) Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Anne und Henrietta stehen früh auf und machen einen Spaziergang am Strand; Henrietta befindet sich in dieser Phase der Beziehung, in der sie nur über ihren Freund reden kann. Louisa und Captain Wentworth schließen sich ihnen an und dann gehen sie in die Stadt, um einzukaufen. Unterwegs treffen sie auf einen fremden Mann, der Anne total ignorieren lässt; dadurch wird Captain Wentworth bewusst, dass Anne wieder mehr wie früher aussieht. Zurück im Hotel trifft Anne den Fremden wieder und bemerkt sowohl, dass er "außerordentlich gute Manieren" hat als auch, dass er in Trauer ist. Beim Frühstück bemerken sie, dass der Mann mit seinem Wagen weiterfährt, und Captain Wentworth fragt den Kellner, wer der Fremde war. Es stellt sich heraus, sein Name ist Mr. Elliot. Mary nimmt sofort an, dass es ihr Cousin, Mr. William Elliot ist, der derzeit um seine Frau trauert. Mary beklagt, dass sie keine Gelegenheit hatte, sich vorzustellen, während Anne versucht, sie sanft davon zu überzeugen, dass Sir Walter wegen des Familienstreits eher die gegenseitige Vermeidung bevorzugen würde. Für sich selbst freut sich Anne, dass der zukünftige Bewohner von Kellynch anscheinend gute Manieren und Verstand hat. Die Harvilles und Captain Benwick schließen sich der Musgrove-Gruppe für ihren letzten Spaziergang in Lyme an. Captain Benwick schließt sich erneut Anne an, um ihre emo-poetische Diskussion des vorherigen Abends fortzusetzen. Die Gruppe wird neu zusammengestellt und Anne befindet sich mit Captain Harville, der über Benwicks traurige Vergangenheit und Wentworths vorbildliche Freundschaft spricht. Sie setzen die Harvilles an ihrem Haus ab und setzen ihren Spaziergang auf dem Cobb fort, einer Art Pier auf zwei Ebenen. Anne hört den letzten Teil von draußen an der Tür und ist wieder einmal aufgeregt. Wentworth bittet Anne direkt, Louisa zu ihrer Krankenschwester zu machen, und Anne stimmt sofort zu. Alles läuft gut, bis Mary Mary Quite Contrary von diesem Plan Wind bekommt und darauf besteht, dass sie bleiben soll und Anne gehen soll. Die anderen sind machtlos gegenüber ihrer Unzufriedenheit, also ist es Anne, die mit Wentworth und Henrietta nach Uppercross aufbricht. Wentworth ignoriert Anne größtenteils während der Reise, obwohl seine wenigen Worte an sie darauf hindeuten, dass er sich ein wenig schuldig fühlt, die Tragödie nicht verhindert zu haben. Anne unterlässt es, "Ich habe es dir gesagt" zu sagen, hofft aber insgeheim, dass Wentworth seine Vorliebe für entschlossene Charaktere überdenkt. Als sie in Uppercross ankommen, fragt Wentworth Anne nach ihrer Meinung zu seinem Plan: dass er zuerst hereinkommt, um die Nachricht zu überbringen. Anne stimmt diesem Vorschlag zu und freut sich, dass er ihre Meinung genug schätzt, um sie danach zu fragen. Nach der Ankündigung bleiben Anne und Henrietta in Uppercross, während Wentworth nach Lyme zurückkehrt.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: SCENE II. A bedchamber in the castle. Desdemona in bed asleep; a light burning. Enter Othello. OTHELLO. It is the cause, it is the cause, my soul. Let me not name it to you, you chaste stars! It is the cause. Yet I'll not shed her blood, Nor scar that whiter skin of hers than snow And smooth as monumental alabaster. Yet she must die, else she'll betray more men. Put out the light, and then put out the light. If I quench thee, thou flaming minister, I can again thy former light restore, Should I repent me; but once put out thy light, Thou cunning'st pattern of excelling nature, I know not where is that Promethean heat That can thy light relume. When I have pluck'd the rose, I cannot give it vital growth again, It must needs wither; I'll smell it on the tree. Kisses her. O, balmy breath, that dost almost persuade Justice to break her sword! One more, one more; Be thus when thou art dead, and I will kill thee, And love thee after. One more, and this the last; So sweet was ne'er so fatal. I must weep, But they are cruel tears; this sorrow's heavenly, It strikes where it doth love. She wakes. DESDEMONA. Who's there? Othello? OTHELLO. Ay, Desdemona. DESDEMONA. Will you come to bed, my lord? OTHELLO. Have you pray'd tonight, Desdemona? DESDEMONA. Ay, my lord. OTHELLO. If you bethink yourself of any crime Unreconciled as yet to heaven and grace, Solicit for it straight. DESDEMONA. Alas, my lord, what may you mean by that? OTHELLO. Well, do it, and be brief; I will walk by. I would not kill thy unprepared spirit. No, heaven forfend! I would not kill thy soul. DESDEMONA. Talk you of killing? OTHELLO. Ay, I do. DESDEMONA. Then heaven have mercy on me! OTHELLO. Amen, with all my heart! DESDEMONA. If you say so, I hope you will not kill me. OTHELLO. Hum! DESDEMONA. And yet I fear you, for you are fatal then When your eyes roll so. Why I should fear I know not, Since guiltiness I know not; but yet I feel I fear. OTHELLO. Think on thy sins. DESDEMONA. They are loves I bear to you. OTHELLO. Ay, and for that thou diest. DESDEMONA. That death's unnatural that kills for loving. Alas, why gnaw you so your nether lip? Some bloody passion shakes your very frame. These are portents; but yet I hope, I hope, They do not point on me. OTHELLO. Peace, and be still! DESDEMONA. I will so. What's the matter? OTHELLO. That handkerchief which I so loved and gave thee Thou gavest to Cassio. DESDEMONA. No, by my life and soul! Send for the man, and ask him. OTHELLO. Sweet soul, take heed, Take heed of perjury; thou are on thy deathbed. DESDEMONA. Ay, but not yet to die. OTHELLO. Yes, presently: Therefore confess thee freely of thy sin, For to deny each article with oath Cannot remove nor choke the strong conception That I do groan withal. Thou art to die. DESDEMONA. Then Lord have mercy on me! OTHELLO. I say, amen. DESDEMONA. And have you mercy too! I never did Offend you in my life; never loved Cassio But with such general warranty of heaven As I might love. I never gave him token. OTHELLO. By heaven, I saw my handkerchief in 's hand. O perjured woman! Thou dost stone my heart, And makest me call what I intend to do A murther, which I thought a sacrifice. I saw the handkerchief. DESDEMONA. He found it then; I never gave it him. Send for him hither; Let him confess a truth. OTHELLO. He hath confess'd. DESDEMONA. What, my lord? OTHELLO. That he hath used thee. DESDEMONA. How? unlawfully? OTHELLO. Ay. DESDEMONA. He will not say so. OTHELLO. No, his mouth is stopp'd; Honest Iago hath ta'en order for't. DESDEMONA. O, my fear interprets! What, is he dead? OTHELLO. Had all his hairs been lives, my great revenge Had stomach for them all. DESDEMONA. Alas, he is betray'd, and I undone! OTHELLO. Out, strumpet! Weep'st thou for him to my face? DESDEMONA. O, banish me, my lord, but kill me not! OTHELLO. Down, strumpet! DESDEMONA. Kill me tomorrow; let me live tonight! OTHELLO. Nay, if you strive-- DESDEMONA. But half an hour! OTHELLO. Being done, there is no pause. DESDEMONA. But while I say one prayer! OTHELLO. It is too late. He stifles her. EMILIA. [Within.] My lord, my lord! What, ho! my lord, my lord! OTHELLO. What noise is this? Not dead? not yet quite dead? I that am cruel am yet merciful; I would not have thee linger in thy pain. So, so. EMILIA. [Within.] What, ho! my lord, my lord! OTHELLO. Who's there? EMILIA. [Within.] O, good my lord, I would speak a word with you! OTHELLO. Yes, 'tis Emilia. By and by. She's dead. 'Tis like she comes to speak of Cassio's death. The noise was here. Ha! no more moving? Still as the grave. Shall she come in? were't good? I think she stirs again. No. What's best to do? If she come in, she'll sure speak to my wife. My wife! My wife! What wife? I have no wife. O, insupportable! O heavy hour! Methinks it should be now a huge eclipse Of sun and moon, and that the affrighted globe Should yawn at alteration. EMILIA. [Within.] I do beseech you That I may speak with you, O, good my lord! OTHELLO. I had forgot thee. O, come in, Emilia. Soft, by and by. Let me the curtains draw. Where art thou? Unlocks the door. Enter Emilia. What's the matter with thee now? EMILIA. O, my good lord, yonder's foul murthers done! OTHELLO. What, now? EMILIA. But now, my lord. OTHELLO. It is the very error of the moon; She comes more nearer earth than she was wont And makes men mad. EMILIA. Cassio, my lord, hath kill'd a young Venetian Call'd Roderigo. OTHELLO. Roderigo kill'd? And Cassio kill'd? EMILIA. No, Cassio is not kill'd. OTHELLO. Not Cassio kill'd! Then murther's out of tune, And sweet revenge grows harsh. DESDEMONA. O, falsely, falsely murther'd! EMILIA. Alas, what cry is that? OTHELLO. That? what? EMILIA. Out, and alas! That was my lady's voice. Help! help, ho! help! O lady, speak again! Sweet Desdemona! O sweet mistress, speak! DESDEMONA. A guiltless death I die. EMILIA. O, who hath done this deed? DESDEMONA. Nobody; I myself. Farewell; Commend me to my kind lord. O, farewell! Dies. OTHELLO. Why, how should she be murther'd? EMILIA. Alas, who knows? OTHELLO. You heard her say herself, it was not I. EMILIA. She said so; I must needs report the truth. OTHELLO. She's like a liar gone to burning hell; 'Twas I that kill'd her. EMILIA. O, the more angel she, And you the blacker devil! OTHELLO. She turn'd to folly, and she was a whore. EMILIA. Thou dost belie her, and thou art a devil. OTHELLO. She was false as water. EMILIA. Thou art rash as fire, to say That she was false. O, she was heavenly true! OTHELLO. Cassio did top her; ask thy husband else. O, I were damn'd beneath all depth in hell, But that I did proceed upon just grounds To this extremity. Thy husband knew it all. EMILIA. My husband? OTHELLO. Thy husband. EMILIA. That she was false to wedlock? OTHELLO. Ay, with Cassio. Nay, had she been true, If heaven would make me such another world Of one entire and perfect chrysolite, I'ld not have sold her for it. EMILIA. My husband? OTHELLO. Ay, 'twas he that told me first. An honest man he is, and hates the slime That sticks on filthy deeds. EMILIA. My husband? OTHELLO. What needs this iteration, woman? I say thy husband. EMILIA. O mistress, villainy hath made mocks with love! My husband say that she was false! OTHELLO. He, woman; I say thy husband. Dost understand the word? My friend, thy husband, honest, honest Iago. EMILIA. If he say so, may his pernicious soul Rot half a grain a day! He lies to the heart. She was too fond of her most filthy bargain. OTHELLO. Ha! EMILIA. Do thy worst; This deed of thine is no more worthy heaven Than thou wast worthy her. OTHELLO. Peace, you were best. EMILIA. Thou hast not half that power to do me harm As I have to be hurt. O gull! O dolt! As ignorant as dirt! Thou hast done a deed-- I care not for thy sword; I'll make thee known, Though I lost twenty lives. Help! help, ho! help! The Moor hath kill'd my mistress! Murther, murther! Enter Montano, Gratiano, Iago, and others. MONTANO. What is the matter? How now, general? EMILIA. O, are you come, Iago? You have done well, That men must lay their murthers on your neck. GRATIANO. What is the matter? EMILIA. Disprove this villain, if thou be'st a man. He says thou told'st him that his wife was false; I know thou didst not, thou'rt not such a villain. Speak, for my heart is full. IAGO. I told him what I thought, and told no more Than what he found himself was apt and true. EMILIA. But did you ever tell him she was false? IAGO. I did. EMILIA. You told a lie, an odious, damned lie; Upon my soul, a lie, a wicked lie! She false with Cassio? Did you say with Cassio? IAGO. With Cassio, mistress. Go to, charm your tongue. EMILIA. I will not charm my tongue; I am bound to speak. My mistress here lies murther'd in her bed-- ALL. O heavens forfend! EMILIA. And your reports have set the murther on. OTHELLO. Nay, stare not, masters; it is true indeed. GRATIANO. 'Tis a strange truth. MONTANO. O monstrous act! EMILIA. Villainy, villainy, villainy! I think upon't, I think, I smell't, O villainy! I thought so then. I'll kill myself for grief. O villainy, villainy! IAGO. What, are you mad? I charge you, get you home. EMILIA. Good gentlemen, let me have leave to speak; 'Tis proper I obey him, but not now. Perchance, Iago, I will ne'er go home. OTHELLO. O! O! O! Falls on the bed. EMILIA. Nay, lay thee down and roar; For thou hast kill'd the sweetest innocent That e'er did lift up eye. OTHELLO. [Rises.] O, she was foul! I scarce did know you, uncle; there lies your niece, Whose breath indeed these hands have newly stopp'd. I know this act shows horrible and grim. GRATIANO. Poor Desdemon! I am glad thy father's dead. Thy match was mortal to him, and pure grief Shore his old thread in twain; did he live now, This sight would make him do a desperate turn, Yea, curse his better angel from his side, And fall to reprobation. OTHELLO. 'Tis pitiful, but yet Iago knows That she with Cassio hath the act of shame A thousand times committed. Cassio confess'd it, And she did gratify his amorous works With that recognizance and pledge of love Which I first gave her. I saw it in his hand, It was a handkerchief, an antique token My father gave my mother. EMILIA. O heaven! O heavenly powers! IAGO. 'Zounds! Hold your peace. EMILIA. 'Twill out, 'twill. I peace? No, I will speak as liberal as the north; Let heaven and men and devils, let them all, All, all, cry shame against me, yet I'll speak. IAGO. Be wise, and get you home. EMILIA. I will not. Iago offers to stab Emilia. GRATIANO. Fie! Your sword upon a woman? EMILIA. O thou dull Moor! That handkerchief thou speak'st of I found by fortune and did give my husband, For often with a solemn earnestness, More than indeed belong'd to such a trifle, He begg'd of me to steal it. IAGO. Villainous whore! EMILIA. She give it Cassio? No, alas, I found it, And I did give't my husband. IAGO. Filth, thou liest! EMILIA. By heaven, I do not, I do not, gentlemen. O murtherous coxcomb! What should such a fool Do with so good a wife? OTHELLO. Are there not stones in heaven But what serve for thunder? Precious villain! He runs at Iago, but Montano disarms him. Iago stabs Emilia. GRATIANO. The woman falls; sure, he hath kill'd his wife. EMILIA. Ay, ay! O, lay me by my mistress' side. Exit Iago. GRATIANO. He's gone, but his wife's kill'd. MONTANO. 'Tis a notorious villain. Take you this weapon, Which I have here recover'd from the Moor. Come, guard the door without; let him not pass, But kill him rather. I'll after that same villain, For 'tis a damned slave. Exeunt all but Othello and Emilia. OTHELLO. I am not valiant neither, But every puny whipster gets my sword. But why should honor outlive honesty? Let it go all. EMILIA. What did thy song bode, lady? Hark, canst thou hear me? I will play the swan, And die in music. [Sings.] "Willow, willow, willow." Moor, she was chaste; she loved thee, cruel Moor; So come my soul to bliss, as I speak true; So speaking as I think, I die, I die. Dies. OTHELLO. I have another weapon in this chamber; It is a sword of Spain, the ice-brook's temper-- O, here it is. Uncle, I must come forth. GRATIANO. [Within.] If thou attempt it, it will cost thee dear. Thou hast no weapon, and perforce must suffer. OTHELLO. Look in upon me then, and speak with me, Or, naked as I am, I will assault thee. Re-enter Gratiano. GRATIANO. What is the matter? OTHELLO. Behold, I have a weapon; A better never did itself sustain Upon a soldier's thigh. I have seen the day That with this little arm and this good sword I have made my way through more impediments Than twenty times your stop. But, O vain boast! Who can control his fate? 'Tis not so now. Be not afraid, though you do see me weapon'd; Here is my journey's end, here is my butt And very sea-mark of my utmost sail. Do you go back dismay'd? 'Tis a lost fear. Man but a rush against Othello's breast, And he retires. Where should Othello go? Now, how dost thou look now? O ill-starr'd wench! Pale as thy smock! When we shall meet at compt, This look of thine will hurl my soul from heaven, And fiends will snatch at it. Cold, cold, my girl? Even like thy chastity. O cursed, cursed slave! Whip me, ye devils, From the possession of this heavenly sight! Blow me about in winds! Roast me in sulphur! Wash me in steep-down gulfs of liquid fire! O Desdemon! dead, Desdemon! dead! O! O! O! Enter Lodovico, Montano, Cassio carried in a chair, and Officers with Iago, prisoner. LODOVICO. Where is this rash and most unfortunate man? OTHELLO. That's he that was Othello. Here I am. LODOVICO. Where is that viper? Bring the villain forth. OTHELLO. I look down towards his feet; but that's a fable. If that thou be'st a devil, I cannot kill thee. Wounds Iago. LODOVICO. Wrench his sword from him. IAGO. I bleed, sir, but not kill'd. OTHELLO. I am not sorry neither. I'ld have thee live, For, in my sense, 'tis happiness to die. LODOVICO. O thou Othello, that wert once so good, Fall'n in the practice of a damned slave, What shall be said to thee? OTHELLO. Why, anything; An honorable murtherer, if you will, For nought did I in hate, but all in honor. LODOVICO. This wretch hath part confess'd his villainy. Did you and he consent in Cassio's death? OTHELLO. Ay. CASSIO. Dear general, I never gave you cause. OTHELLO. I do believe it, and I ask your pardon. Will you, I pray, demand that demi-devil Why he hath thus ensnared my soul and body? IAGO. Demand me nothing; what you know, you know. From this time forth I never will speak word. LODOVICO. What, not to pray? GRATIANO. Torments will ope your lips. OTHELLO. Well, thou dost best. LODOVICO. Sir, you shall understand what hath befall'n, Which, as I think, you know not. Here is a letter Found in the pocket of the slain Roderigo, And here another. The one of them imports The death of Cassio to be undertook By Roderigo. OTHELLO. O villain! CASSIO. Most heathenish and most gross! LODOVICO. Now here's another discontented paper, Found in his pocket too; and this, it seems, Roderigo meant to have sent this damned villain; But that, belike, Iago in the interim Came in and satisfied him. OTHELLO. O the pernicious caitiff! How came you, Cassio, by that handkerchief That was my wife's? CASSIO. I found it in my chamber; And he himself confess'd but even now That there he dropp'd it for a special purpose Which wrought to his desire. OTHELLO. O fool! fool! fool! CASSIO. There is besides in Roderigo's letter, How he upbraids Iago, that he made him Brave me upon the watch, whereon it came That I was cast. And even but now he spake After long seeming dead, Iago hurt him, Iago set him on. LODOVICO. You must forsake this room, and go with us. Your power and your command is taken off, And Cassio rules in Cyprus. For this slave, If there be any cunning cruelty That can torment him much and hold him long, It shall be his. You shall close prisoner rest, Till that the nature of your fault be known To the Venetian state. Come, bring away. OTHELLO. Soft you; a word or two before you go. I have done the state some service, and they know't. No more of that. I pray you, in your letters, When you shall these unlucky deeds relate, Speak of me as I am; nothing extenuate, Nor set down aught in malice. Then must you speak Of one that loved not wisely but too well; Of one not easily jealous, but, being wrought, Perplex'd in the extreme; of one whose hand, Like the base Indian, threw a pearl away Richer than all his tribe; of one whose subdued eyes, Albeit unused to the melting mood, Drop tears as fast as the Arabian trees Their medicinal gum. Set you down this; And say besides, that in Aleppo once, Where a malignant and a turban'd Turk Beat a Venetian and traduced the state, I took by the throat the circumcised dog And smote him, thus. Stabs himself. LODOVICO. O bloody period! GRATIANO. All that's spoke is marr'd. OTHELLO. I kiss'd thee ere I kill'd thee. No way but this, Killing myself, to die upon a kiss. Falls on the bed, and dies. CASSIO. This did I fear, but thought he had no weapon; For he was great of heart. LODOVICO. [To Iago.] O Spartan dog, More fell than anguish, hunger, or the sea! Look on the tragic loading of this bed; This is thy work. The object poisons sight; Let it be hid. Gratiano, keep the house, And seize upon the fortunes of the Moor, For they succeed on you. To you, Lord Governor, Remains the censure of this hellish villain, The time, the place, the torture. O, enforce it! Myself will straight aboard, and to the state This heavy act with heavy heart relate. Exeunt. THE END Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Desdemona liegt schlafend im Bett, als Othello hereintritt; äußerlich ruhig und entschlossen, zu tun, was er tun muss. Desdemona wacht auf und bittet ihn, ins Bett zu kommen, aber er bittet sie sofort zu beten, um alles zu bereuen, was sie bereuen muss, und er wird warten, während sie betet, denn er will ihre Seele nicht töten. Plötzlich bemerkt Desdemona, dass Othello vorhat, sie zu töten. Sie hat Angst, obwohl sie weiß, dass sie nicht schuldig ist. Wissend, dass sie ihn nicht von ihrer Treue überzeugen kann, weint Desdemona und fleht ihn an, sie zu verbannen anstatt sie zu töten oder ihr noch ein wenig mehr Zeit zu geben, aber er erstickt ihren Appell, vermutlich mit einem Kissen. Als Emilia an die Tür klopft, zieht Othello den Bettvorhang zu und versteckt das Bett, und öffnet die Tür, um die Nachrichten zu hören. Aber was Emilia berichtet, ist nicht das, was Othello erwartet hat. Sie sagt, dass Cassio Roderigo getötet hat. Dann ist Desdemonas Stimme aus dem Bett zu hören, die "falsch ermordet" sagt, und Emilia ruft um Hilfe. Desdemona sagt, dass sie unschuldig ist, leugnet, dass jemand sie getötet hat, und stirbt. Emilia und Othello stehen einander gegenüber. Emilia sieht sich als Zeugin und wird sagen, was sie gesehen hat, und Othello erklärt, dass er Desdemona wegen ihrer Untreue getötet hat. Emilia besteht darauf, dass Desdemona treu war; Othello antwortet, dass Cassio bei ihr war und Iago darüber Bescheid wusste. Jetzt hat Emilia die entscheidende Idee. Sie sagt immer wieder "mein Mann", während Othello sein Herz ausschüttet über Gerechtigkeit, wie sehr er sie geliebt hat und wie ehrlich Iago ist. Emilia verflucht Iago, nennt ihn einen Lügner und ruft zur Wachsamkeit gegenüber Mord auf, um alle aufzuwecken. Montano, Gratiano, Iago und andere stürmen ins Schlafzimmer, wo Emilia schreit, und sie fordert Iago auf, sich zu verteidigen, ihm eine letzte Chance zu geben, sich in ihrem Ansehen zu rehabilitieren. Iago behauptet, Desdemona sei tatsächlich untreu mit Cassio gewesen, aber Emilia weiß, dass dies nicht stimmt. Sie erzählt, wie sie das Taschentuch gefunden hat, das ihr Mann sie gebeten hatte, zu stehlen, und es ihm gab. Iago ersticht Emilia und rennt davon. Im Sterben erzählt Emilia Othello, dass Desdemona ihn liebte. Othello erkennt zu spät, dass er getäuscht und manipuliert wurde. Iago wird gefasst und zurückgebracht. Othello und Cassio fordern ihn auf, zu erklären, warum er es getan hat, aber Iago weigert sich und sagt, er werde nie wieder sprechen. Othello, der seine Welt zerfallen sieht, bittet die Männer, sich deutlich an ihn zu erinnern, an seine guten und schlechten Seiten, als "einer, der nicht klug, sondern zu gut geliebt hat". Dann ersticht er sich selbst, fällt aufs Bett und stirbt. Lodovico übernimmt die Führung, übergibt Othellos Haus und Besitztümer an Gratiano, seinen nächsten Verwandten durch Heirat. Cassio wird Befehlshaber sein und die Befugnis haben, Iago zu verurteilen, und Lodovico wird mit der traurigen Nachricht nach Venedig zurückkehren.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten 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 1. SCENE I. Rome. Before the Capitol Flourish. Enter the TRIBUNES and SENATORS aloft; and then enter below SATURNINUS and his followers at one door, and BASSIANUS and his followers at the other, with drums and trumpets SATURNINUS. Noble patricians, patrons of my right, Defend the justice of my cause with arms; And, countrymen, my loving followers, Plead my successive title with your swords. I am his first born son that was the last That wore the imperial diadem of Rome; Then let my father's honours live in me, Nor wrong mine age with this indignity. BASSIANUS. Romans, friends, followers, favourers of my right, If ever Bassianus, Caesar's son, Were gracious in the eyes of royal Rome, Keep then this passage to the Capitol; And suffer not dishonour to approach The imperial seat, to virtue consecrate, To justice, continence, and nobility; But let desert in pure election shine; And, Romans, fight for freedom in your choice. Enter MARCUS ANDRONICUS aloft, with the crown MARCUS. Princes, that strive by factions and by friends Ambitiously for rule and empery, Know that the people of Rome, for whom we stand A special party, have by common voice In election for the Roman empery Chosen Andronicus, surnamed Pius For many good and great deserts to Rome. A nobler man, a braver warrior, Lives not this day within the city walls. He by the Senate is accited home, From weary wars against the barbarous Goths, That with his sons, a terror to our foes, Hath yok'd a nation strong, train'd up in arms. Ten years are spent since first he undertook This cause of Rome, and chastised with arms Our enemies' pride; five times he hath return'd Bleeding to Rome, bearing his valiant sons In coffins from the field; and at this day To the monument of that Andronici Done sacrifice of expiation, And slain the noblest prisoner of the Goths. And now at last, laden with honour's spoils, Returns the good Andronicus to Rome, Renowned Titus, flourishing in arms. Let us entreat, by honour of his name Whom worthily you would have now succeed, And in the Capitol and Senate's right, Whom you pretend to honour and adore, That you withdraw you and abate your strength, Dismiss your followers, and, as suitors should, Plead your deserts in peace and humbleness. SATURNINUS. How fair the Tribune speaks to calm my thoughts. BASSIANUS. Marcus Andronicus, so I do affy In thy uprightness and integrity, And so I love and honour thee and thine, Thy noble brother Titus and his sons, And her to whom my thoughts are humbled all, Gracious Lavinia, Rome's rich ornament, That I will here dismiss my loving friends, And to my fortunes and the people's favour Commit my cause in balance to be weigh'd. Exeunt the soldiers of BASSIANUS SATURNINUS. Friends, that have been thus forward in my right, I thank you all and here dismiss you all, And to the love and favour of my country Commit myself, my person, and the cause. Exeunt the soldiers of SATURNINUS Rome, be as just and gracious unto me As I am confident and kind to thee. Open the gates and let me in. BASSIANUS. Tribunes, and me, a poor competitor. [Flourish. They go up into the Senate House] Enter a CAPTAIN CAPTAIN. Romans, make way. The good Andronicus, Patron of virtue, Rome's best champion, Successful in the battles that he fights, With honour and with fortune is return'd From where he circumscribed with his sword And brought to yoke the enemies of Rome. Sound drums and trumpets, and then enter MARTIUS and MUTIUS, two of TITUS' sons; and then two men bearing a coffin covered with black; then LUCIUS and QUINTUS, two other sons; then TITUS ANDRONICUS; and then TAMORA the Queen of Goths, with her three sons, ALARBUS, DEMETRIUS, and CHIRON, with AARON the Moor, and others, as many as can be. Then set down the coffin and TITUS speaks TITUS. Hail, Rome, victorious in thy mourning weeds! Lo, as the bark that hath discharg'd her fraught Returns with precious lading to the bay From whence at first she weigh'd her anchorage, Cometh Andronicus, bound with laurel boughs, To re-salute his country with his tears, Tears of true joy for his return to Rome. Thou great defender of this Capitol, Stand gracious to the rites that we intend! Romans, of five and twenty valiant sons, Half of the number that King Priam had, Behold the poor remains, alive and dead! These that survive let Rome reward with love; These that I bring unto their latest home, With burial amongst their ancestors. Here Goths have given me leave to sheathe my sword. Titus, unkind, and careless of thine own, Why suffer'st thou thy sons, unburied yet, To hover on the dreadful shore of Styx? Make way to lay them by their brethren. [They open the tomb] There greet in silence, as the dead are wont, And sleep in peace, slain in your country's wars. O sacred receptacle of my joys, Sweet cell of virtue and nobility, How many sons hast thou of mine in store That thou wilt never render to me more! LUCIUS. Give us the proudest prisoner of the Goths, That we may hew his limbs, and on a pile Ad manes fratrum sacrifice his flesh Before this earthy prison of their bones, That so the shadows be not unappeas'd, Nor we disturb'd with prodigies on earth. TITUS. I give him you- the noblest that survives, The eldest son of this distressed queen. TAMORA. Stay, Roman brethen! Gracious conqueror, Victorious Titus, rue the tears I shed, A mother's tears in passion for her son; And if thy sons were ever dear to thee, O, think my son to be as dear to me! Sufficeth not that we are brought to Rome To beautify thy triumphs, and return Captive to thee and to thy Roman yoke; But must my sons be slaughtered in the streets For valiant doings in their country's cause? O, if to fight for king and commonweal Were piety in thine, it is in these. Andronicus, stain not thy tomb with blood. Wilt thou draw near the nature of the gods? Draw near them then in being merciful. Sweet mercy is nobility's true badge. Thrice-noble Titus, spare my first-born son. TITUS. Patient yourself, madam, and pardon me. These are their brethren, whom your Goths beheld Alive and dead; and for their brethren slain Religiously they ask a sacrifice. To this your son is mark'd, and die he must T' appease their groaning shadows that are gone. LUCIUS. Away with him, and make a fire straight; And with our swords, upon a pile of wood, Let's hew his limbs till they be clean consum'd. Exeunt TITUS' SONS, with ALARBUS TAMORA. O cruel, irreligious piety! CHIRON. Was never Scythia half so barbarous! DEMETRIUS. Oppose not Scythia to ambitious Rome. Alarbus goes to rest, and we survive To tremble under Titus' threat'ning look. Then, madam, stand resolv'd, but hope withal The self-same gods that arm'd the Queen of Troy With opportunity of sharp revenge Upon the Thracian tyrant in his tent May favour Tamora, the Queen of Goths- When Goths were Goths and Tamora was queen- To quit the bloody wrongs upon her foes. Re-enter LUCIUS, QUINTUS, MARTIUS, and MUTIUS, the sons of ANDRONICUS, with their swords bloody LUCIUS. See, lord and father, how we have perform'd Our Roman rites: Alarbus' limbs are lopp'd, And entrails feed the sacrificing fire, Whose smoke like incense doth perfume the sky. Remaineth nought but to inter our brethren, And with loud 'larums welcome them to Rome. TITUS. Let it be so, and let Andronicus Make this his latest farewell to their souls. [Sound trumpets and lay the coffin in the tomb] In peace and honour rest you here, my sons; Rome's readiest champions, repose you here in rest, Secure from worldly chances and mishaps! Here lurks no treason, here no envy swells, Here grow no damned grudges, here are no storms, No noise, but silence and eternal sleep. In peace and honour rest you here, my sons! Enter LAVINIA LAVINIA. In peace and honour live Lord Titus long; My noble lord and father, live in fame! Lo, at this tomb my tributary tears I render for my brethren's obsequies; And at thy feet I kneel, with tears of joy Shed on this earth for thy return to Rome. O, bless me here with thy victorious hand, Whose fortunes Rome's best citizens applaud! TITUS. Kind Rome, that hast thus lovingly reserv'd The cordial of mine age to glad my heart! Lavinia, live; outlive thy father's days, And fame's eternal date, for virtue's praise! Enter, above, MARCUS ANDRONICUS and TRIBUNES; re-enter SATURNINUS, BASSIANUS, and attendants MARCUS. Long live Lord Titus, my beloved brother, Gracious triumpher in the eyes of Rome! TITUS. Thanks, gentle Tribune, noble brother Marcus. MARCUS. And welcome, nephews, from successful wars, You that survive and you that sleep in fame. Fair lords, your fortunes are alike in all That in your country's service drew your swords; But safer triumph is this funeral pomp That hath aspir'd to Solon's happiness And triumphs over chance in honour's bed. Titus Andronicus, the people of Rome, Whose friend in justice thou hast ever been, Send thee by me, their Tribune and their trust, This palliament of white and spotless hue; And name thee in election for the empire With these our late-deceased Emperor's sons: Be candidatus then, and put it on, And help to set a head on headless Rome. TITUS. A better head her glorious body fits Than his that shakes for age and feebleness. What, should I don this robe and trouble you? Be chosen with proclamations to-day, To-morrow yield up rule, resign my life, And set abroach new business for you all? Rome, I have been thy soldier forty years, And led my country's strength successfully, And buried one and twenty valiant sons, Knighted in field, slain manfully in arms, In right and service of their noble country. Give me a staff of honour for mine age, But not a sceptre to control the world. Upright he held it, lords, that held it last. MARCUS. Titus, thou shalt obtain and ask the empery. SATURNINUS. Proud and ambitious Tribune, canst thou tell? TITUS. Patience, Prince Saturninus. SATURNINUS. Romans, do me right. Patricians, draw your swords, and sheathe them not Till Saturninus be Rome's Emperor. Andronicus, would thou were shipp'd to hell Rather than rob me of the people's hearts! LUCIUS. Proud Saturnine, interrupter of the good That noble-minded Titus means to thee! TITUS. Content thee, Prince; I will restore to thee The people's hearts, and wean them from themselves. BASSIANUS. Andronicus, I do not flatter thee, But honour thee, and will do till I die. My faction if thou strengthen with thy friends, I will most thankful be; and thanks to men Of noble minds is honourable meed. TITUS. People of Rome, and people's Tribunes here, I ask your voices and your suffrages: Will ye bestow them friendly on Andronicus? TRIBUNES. To gratify the good Andronicus, And gratulate his safe return to Rome, The people will accept whom he admits. TITUS. Tribunes, I thank you; and this suit I make, That you create our Emperor's eldest son, Lord Saturnine; whose virtues will, I hope, Reflect on Rome as Titan's rays on earth, And ripen justice in this commonweal. Then, if you will elect by my advice, Crown him, and say 'Long live our Emperor!' MARCUS. With voices and applause of every sort, Patricians and plebeians, we create Lord Saturninus Rome's great Emperor; And say 'Long live our Emperor Saturnine!' [A long flourish till they come down] SATURNINUS. Titus Andronicus, for thy favours done To us in our election this day I give thee thanks in part of thy deserts, And will with deeds requite thy gentleness; And for an onset, Titus, to advance Thy name and honourable family, Lavinia will I make my empress, Rome's royal mistress, mistress of my heart, And in the sacred Pantheon her espouse. Tell me, Andronicus, doth this motion please thee? TITUS. It doth, my worthy lord, and in this match I hold me highly honoured of your Grace, And here in sight of Rome, to Saturnine, King and commander of our commonweal, The wide world's Emperor, do I consecrate My sword, my chariot, and my prisoners, Presents well worthy Rome's imperious lord; Receive them then, the tribute that I owe, Mine honour's ensigns humbled at thy feet. SATURNINUS. Thanks, noble Titus, father of my life. How proud I am of thee and of thy gifts Rome shall record; and when I do forget The least of these unspeakable deserts, Romans, forget your fealty to me. TITUS. [To TAMORA] Now, madam, are you prisoner to an emperor; To him that for your honour and your state Will use you nobly and your followers. SATURNINUS. [Aside] A goodly lady, trust me; of the hue That I would choose, were I to choose anew.- Clear up, fair Queen, that cloudy countenance; Though chance of war hath wrought this change of cheer, Thou com'st not to be made a scorn in Rome- Princely shall be thy usage every way. Rest on my word, and let not discontent Daunt all your hopes. Madam, he comforts you Can make you greater than the Queen of Goths. Lavinia, you are not displeas'd with this? LAVINIA. Not I, my lord, sith true nobility Warrants these words in princely courtesy. SATURNINUS. Thanks, sweet Lavinia. Romans, let us go. Ransomless here we set our prisoners free. Proclaim our honours, lords, with trump and drum. [Flourish] BASSIANUS. Lord Titus, by your leave, this maid is mine. [Seizing LAVINIA] TITUS. How, sir! Are you in earnest then, my lord? BASSIANUS. Ay, noble Titus, and resolv'd withal To do myself this reason and this right. MARCUS. Suum cuique is our Roman justice: This prince in justice seizeth but his own. LUCIUS. And that he will and shall, if Lucius live. TITUS. Traitors, avaunt! Where is the Emperor's guard? Treason, my lord- Lavinia is surpris'd! SATURNINUS. Surpris'd! By whom? BASSIANUS. By him that justly may Bear his betroth'd from all the world away. Exeunt BASSIANUS and MARCUS with LAVINIA MUTIUS. Brothers, help to convey her hence away, And with my sword I'll keep this door safe. Exeunt LUCIUS, QUINTUS, and MARTIUS TITUS. Follow, my lord, and I'll soon bring her back. MUTIUS. My lord, you pass not here. TITUS. What, villain boy! Bar'st me my way in Rome? MUTIUS. Help, Lucius, help! TITUS kills him. During the fray, exeunt SATURNINUS, TAMORA, DEMETRIUS, CHIRON, and AARON Re-enter Lucius LUCIUS. My lord, you are unjust, and more than so: In wrongful quarrel you have slain your son. TITUS. Nor thou nor he are any sons of mine; My sons would never so dishonour me. Re-enter aloft the EMPEROR with TAMORA and her two Sons, and AARON the Moor Traitor, restore Lavinia to the Emperor. LUCIUS. Dead, if you will; but not to be his wife, That is another's lawful promis'd love. Exit SATURNINUS. No, Titus, no; the Emperor needs her not, Nor her, nor thee, nor any of thy stock. I'll trust by leisure him that mocks me once; Thee never, nor thy traitorous haughty sons, Confederates all thus to dishonour me. Was there none else in Rome to make a stale But Saturnine? Full well, Andronicus, Agree these deeds with that proud brag of thine That saidst I begg'd the empire at thy hands. TITUS. O monstrous! What reproachful words are these? SATURNINUS. But go thy ways; go, give that changing piece To him that flourish'd for her with his sword. A valiant son-in-law thou shalt enjoy; One fit to bandy with thy lawless sons, To ruffle in the commonwealth of Rome. TITUS. These words are razors to my wounded heart. SATURNINUS. And therefore, lovely Tamora, Queen of Goths, That, like the stately Phoebe 'mongst her nymphs, Dost overshine the gallant'st dames of Rome, If thou be pleas'd with this my sudden choice, Behold, I choose thee, Tamora, for my bride And will create thee Empress of Rome. Speak, Queen of Goths, dost thou applaud my choice? And here I swear by all the Roman gods- Sith priest and holy water are so near, And tapers burn so bright, and everything In readiness for Hymenaeus stand- I will not re-salute the streets of Rome, Or climb my palace, till from forth this place I lead espous'd my bride along with me. TAMORA. And here in sight of heaven to Rome I swear, If Saturnine advance the Queen of Goths, She will a handmaid be to his desires, A loving nurse, a mother to his youth. SATURNINUS. Ascend, fair Queen, Pantheon. Lords, accompany Your noble Emperor and his lovely bride, Sent by the heavens for Prince Saturnine, Whose wisdom hath her fortune conquered; There shall we consummate our spousal rites. Exeunt all but TITUS TITUS. I am not bid to wait upon this bride. TITUS, when wert thou wont to walk alone, Dishonoured thus, and challenged of wrongs? Re-enter MARCUS, and TITUS' SONS, LUCIUS, QUINTUS, and MARTIUS MARCUS. O Titus, see, O, see what thou hast done! In a bad quarrel slain a virtuous son. TITUS. No, foolish Tribune, no; no son of mine- Nor thou, nor these, confederates in the deed That hath dishonoured all our family; Unworthy brother and unworthy sons! LUCIUS. But let us give him burial, as becomes; Give Mutius burial with our bretheren. TITUS. Traitors, away! He rests not in this tomb. This monument five hundred years hath stood, Which I have sumptuously re-edified; Here none but soldiers and Rome's servitors Repose in fame; none basely slain in brawls. Bury him where you can, he comes not here. MARCUS. My lord, this is impiety in you. My nephew Mutius' deeds do plead for him; He must be buried with his bretheren. QUINTUS & MARTIUS. And shall, or him we will accompany. TITUS. 'And shall!' What villain was it spake that word? QUINTUS. He that would vouch it in any place but here. TITUS. What, would you bury him in my despite? MARCUS. No, noble Titus, but entreat of thee To pardon Mutius and to bury him. TITUS. Marcus, even thou hast struck upon my crest, And with these boys mine honour thou hast wounded. My foes I do repute you every one; So trouble me no more, but get you gone. MARTIUS. He is not with himself; let us withdraw. QUINTUS. Not I, till Mutius' bones be buried. [The BROTHER and the SONS kneel] MARCUS. Brother, for in that name doth nature plead- QUINTUS. Father, and in that name doth nature speak- TITUS. Speak thou no more, if all the rest will speed. MARCUS. Renowned Titus, more than half my soul- LUCIUS. Dear father, soul and substance of us all- MARCUS. Suffer thy brother Marcus to inter His noble nephew here in virtue's nest, That died in honour and Lavinia's cause. Thou art a Roman- be not barbarous. The Greeks upon advice did bury Ajax, That slew himself; and wise Laertes' son Did graciously plead for his funerals. Let not young Mutius, then, that was thy joy, Be barr'd his entrance here. TITUS. Rise, Marcus, rise; The dismal'st day is this that e'er I saw, To be dishonoured by my sons in Rome! Well, bury him, and bury me the next. [They put MUTIUS in the tomb] LUCIUS. There lie thy bones, sweet Mutius, with thy friends, Till we with trophies do adorn thy tomb. ALL. [Kneeling] No man shed tears for noble Mutius; He lives in fame that died in virtue's cause. MARCUS. My lord- to step out of these dreary dumps- How comes it that the subtle Queen of Goths Is of a sudden thus advanc'd in Rome? TITUS. I know not, Marcus, but I know it is- Whether by device or no, the heavens can tell. Is she not, then, beholding to the man That brought her for this high good turn so far? MARCUS. Yes, and will nobly him remunerate. Flourish. Re-enter the EMPEROR, TAMORA and her two SONS, with the MOOR, at one door; at the other door, BASSIANUS and LAVINIA, with others SATURNINUS. So, Bassianus, you have play'd your prize: God give you joy, sir, of your gallant bride! BASSIANUS. And you of yours, my lord! I say no more, Nor wish no less; and so I take my leave. SATURNINUS. Traitor, if Rome have law or we have power, Thou and thy faction shall repent this rape. BASSIANUS. Rape, call you it, my lord, to seize my own, My true betrothed love, and now my wife? But let the laws of Rome determine all; Meanwhile am I possess'd of that is mine. SATURNINUS. 'Tis good, sir. You are very short with us; But if we live we'll be as sharp with you. BASSIANUS. My lord, what I have done, as best I may, Answer I must, and shall do with my life. Only thus much I give your Grace to know: By all the duties that I owe to Rome, This noble gentleman, Lord Titus here, Is in opinion and in honour wrong'd, That, in the rescue of Lavinia, With his own hand did slay his youngest son, In zeal to you, and highly mov'd to wrath To be controll'd in that he frankly gave. Receive him then to favour, Saturnine, That hath express'd himself in all his deeds A father and a friend to thee and Rome. TITUS. Prince Bassianus, leave to plead my deeds. 'Tis thou and those that have dishonoured me. Rome and the righteous heavens be my judge How I have lov'd and honoured Saturnine! TAMORA. My worthy lord, if ever Tamora Were gracious in those princely eyes of thine, Then hear me speak indifferently for all; And at my suit, sweet, pardon what is past. SATURNINUS. What, madam! be dishonoured openly, And basely put it up without revenge? TAMORA. Not so, my lord; the gods of Rome forfend I should be author to dishonour you! But on mine honour dare I undertake For good Lord Titus' innocence in all, Whose fury not dissembled speaks his griefs. Then at my suit look graciously on him; Lose not so noble a friend on vain suppose, Nor with sour looks afflict his gentle heart. [Aside to SATURNINUS] My lord, be rul'd by me, be won at last; Dissemble all your griefs and discontents. You are but newly planted in your throne; Lest, then, the people, and patricians too, Upon a just survey take Titus' part, And so supplant you for ingratitude, Which Rome reputes to be a heinous sin, Yield at entreats, and then let me alone: I'll find a day to massacre them all, And raze their faction and their family, The cruel father and his traitorous sons, To whom I sued for my dear son's life; And make them know what 'tis to let a queen Kneel in the streets and beg for grace in vain.- Come, come, sweet Emperor; come, Andronicus. Take up this good old man, and cheer the heart That dies in tempest of thy angry frown. SATURNINUS. Rise, Titus, rise; my Empress hath prevail'd. TITUS. I thank your Majesty and her, my lord; These words, these looks, infuse new life in me. TAMORA. Titus, I am incorporate in Rome, A Roman now adopted happily, And must advise the Emperor for his good. This day all quarrels die, Andronicus; And let it be mine honour, good my lord, That I have reconcil'd your friends and you. For you, Prince Bassianus, I have pass'd My word and promise to the Emperor That you will be more mild and tractable. And fear not, lords- and you, Lavinia. By my advice, all humbled on your knees, You shall ask pardon of his Majesty. LUCIUS. We do, and vow to heaven and to his Highness That what we did was mildly as we might, Tend'ring our sister's honour and our own. MARCUS. That on mine honour here do I protest. SATURNINUS. Away, and talk not; trouble us no more. TAMORA. Nay, nay, sweet Emperor, we must all be friends. The Tribune and his nephews kneel for grace. I will not be denied. Sweet heart, look back. SATURNINUS. Marcus, for thy sake, and thy brother's here, And at my lovely Tamora's entreats, I do remit these young men's heinous faults. Stand up. Lavinia, though you left me like a churl, I found a friend; and sure as death I swore I would not part a bachelor from the priest. Come, if the Emperor's court can feast two brides, You are my guest, Lavinia, and your friends. This day shall be a love-day, Tamora. TITUS. To-morrow, and it please your Majesty To hunt the panther and the hart with me, With horn and hound we'll give your Grace bonjour. SATURNINUS. Be it so, Titus, and gramercy too. Exeunt. Sound trumpets Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Saturninus und Bassianus werben beide um Unterstützung für ihren Anspruch auf den Thron von Rom. Mit klingenden Trommeln und Trompeten haben sich Tribunen und Senatoren versammelt, um den Namen des neuen Kaisers von Rom bekannt zu geben. Das Volk von Rom wählt Titus Andronicus zu seinem neuen Kaiser. Titus und seine Söhne sind gerade von einem zehnjährigen Feldzug gegen die Goten zurückgekehrt. Die Königin der Goten, Tamora, und ihre Söhne sind Gefangene der Römer. Lucius fordert, dass ein Gotte geopfert werden soll, um die Seele der toten Söhne von Titus zu besänftigen. Alarbus, Tamoras Sohn, wird für das Opfer ausgewählt. Tamora appelliert an Titus, ihren Sohn zu schonen, aber Titus weigert sich, auf sie zu hören. Tamoras Sohn wird daher von Lucius mit Titus' Zustimmung geopfert. Titus lehnt die Position des Kaisers ab und sagt, dass er zu alt sei, und überrascht alle, als er Saturninus zum Kaiser wählt. Obwohl Saturninus anbietet, Lavinia zu heiraten, ist er offensichtlich beeindruckt von der Schönheit Tamoras. Dies veranlasst Bassianus, Lavinia für sich zu beanspruchen. Unterstützt von Marcus und den Söhnen von Titus, läuft er mit ihr davon. Titus, empört über diesen Verrat, tötet seinen jüngsten Sohn Mutius. Saturninus, verärgert über das, was er als einen Angriff auf seinen Stolz sieht, lehnt Titus und alle seine Verwandten ab und beschließt, Tamora zu heiraten. Auf Bitten seiner Verwandten stimmt Titus widerwillig zu, Mutius im Familiengrab zu bestatten. Titus bittet Saturninus um Vergebung, und dieser, von Tamora unterrichtet, gibt vor, allen Beteiligten zu vergeben, und schließt eine falsche Freundschaft mit Titus. Tamora verspricht Saturninus, dass sie Titus zusammen mit seiner ganzen Familie zerstören wird. Titus lädt Saturninus und seine Hochzeitsgesellschaft ein, am nächsten Tag mit ihnen zur Jagd zu gehen. Saturninus nimmt die Einladung an.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: Another Love-Scene Early in the following April, nearly a year after that dubious parting you have just witnessed, you may, if you like, again see Maggie entering the Red Deeps through the group of Scotch firs. But it is early afternoon and not evening, and the edge of sharpness in the spring air makes her draw her large shawl close about her and trip along rather quickly; though she looks round, as usual, that she may take in the sight of her beloved trees. There is a more eager, inquiring look in her eyes than there was last June, and a smile is hovering about her lips, as if some playful speech were awaiting the right hearer. The hearer was not long in appearing. "Take back your _Corinne_," said Maggie, drawing a book from under her shawl. "You were right in telling me she would do me no good; but you were wrong in thinking I should wish to be like her." "Wouldn't you really like to be a tenth Muse, then, Maggie?" said Philip looking up in her face as we look at a first parting in the clouds that promises us a bright heaven once more. "Not at all," said Maggie, laughing. "The Muses were uncomfortable goddesses, I think,--obliged always to carry rolls and musical instruments about with them. If I carried a harp in this climate, you know, I must have a green baize cover for it; and I should be sure to leave it behind me by mistake." "You agree with me in not liking Corinne, then?" "I didn't finish the book," said Maggie. "As soon as I came to the blond-haired young lady reading in the park, I shut it up, and determined to read no further. I foresaw that that light-complexioned girl would win away all the love from Corinne and make her miserable. I'm determined to read no more books where the blond-haired women carry away all the happiness. I should begin to have a prejudice against them. If you could give me some story, now, where the dark woman triumphs, it would restore the balance. I want to avenge Rebecca and Flora MacIvor and Minna, and all the rest of the dark unhappy ones. Since you are my tutor, you ought to preserve my mind from prejudices; you are always arguing against prejudices." "Well, perhaps you will avenge the dark women in your own person, and carry away all the love from your cousin Lucy. She is sure to have some handsome young man of St. Ogg's at her feet now; and you have only to shine upon him--your fair little cousin will be quite quenched in your beams." "Philip, that is not pretty of you, to apply my nonsense to anything real," said Maggie, looking hurt. "As if I, with my old gowns and want of all accomplishments, could be a rival of dear little Lucy,--who knows and does all sorts of charming things, and is ten times prettier than I am,--even if I were odious and base enough to wish to be her rival. Besides, I never go to aunt Deane's when any one is there; it is only because dear Lucy is good, and loves me, that she comes to see me, and will have me go to see her sometimes." "Maggie," said Philip, with surprise, "it is not like you to take playfulness literally. You must have been in St. Ogg's this morning, and brought away a slight infection of dulness." "Well," said Maggie, smiling, "if you meant that for a joke, it was a poor one; but I thought it was a very good reproof. I thought you wanted to remind me that I am vain, and wish every one to admire me most. But it isn't for that that I'm jealous for the dark women,--not because I'm dark myself; it's because I always care the most about the unhappy people. If the blond girl were forsaken, I should like _her_ best. I always take the side of the rejected lover in the stories." "Then you would never have the heart to reject one yourself, should you, Maggie?" said Philip, flushing a little. "I don't know," said Maggie, hesitatingly. Then with a bright smile, "I think perhaps I could if he were very conceited; and yet, if he got extremely humiliated afterward, I should relent." "I've often wondered, Maggie," Philip said, with some effort, "whether you wouldn't really be more likely to love a man that other women were not likely to love." "That would depend on what they didn't like him for," said Maggie, laughing. "He might be very disagreeable. He might look at me through an eye-glass stuck in his eye, making a hideous face, as young Torry does. I should think other women are not fond of that; but I never felt any pity for young Torry. I've never any pity for conceited people, because I think they carry their comfort about with them." "But suppose, Maggie,--suppose it was a man who was not conceited, who felt he had nothing to be conceited about; who had been marked from childhood for a peculiar kind of suffering, and to whom you were the day-star of his life; who loved you, worshipped you, so entirely that he felt it happiness enough for him if you would let him see you at rare moments----" Philip paused with a pang of dread lest his confession should cut short this very happiness,--a pang of the same dread that had kept his love mute through long months. A rush of self-consciousness told him that he was besotted to have said all this. Maggie's manner this morning had been as unconstrained and indifferent as ever. But she was not looking indifferent now. Struck with the unusual emotion in Philip's tone, she had turned quickly to look at him; and as he went on speaking, a great change came over her face,--a flush and slight spasm of the features, such as we see in people who hear some news that will require them to readjust their conceptions of the past. She was quite silent, and walking on toward the trunk of a fallen tree, she sat down, as if she had no strength to spare for her muscles. She was trembling. "Maggie," said Philip, getting more and more alarmed in every fresh moment of silence, "I was a fool to say it; forget that I've said it. I shall be contented if things can be as they were." The distress with which he spoke urged Maggie to say something. "I am so surprised, Philip; I had not thought of it." And the effort to say this brought the tears down too. "Has it made you hate me, Maggie?" said Philip, impetuously. "Do you think I'm a presumptuous fool?" "Oh, Philip!" said Maggie, "how can you think I have such feelings? As if I were not grateful for _any_ love. But--but I had never thought of your being my lover. It seemed so far off--like a dream--only like one of the stories one imagines--that I should ever have a lover." "Then can you bear to think of me as your lover, Maggie?" said Philip, seating himself by her, and taking her hand, in the elation of a sudden hope. "_Do_ you love me?" Maggie turned rather pale; this direct question seemed not easy to answer. But her eyes met Philip's, which were in this moment liquid and beautiful with beseeching love. She spoke with hesitation, yet with sweet, simple, girlish tenderness. "I think I could hardly love any one better; there is nothing but what I love you for." She paused a little while, and then added: "But it will be better for us not to say any more about it, won't it, dear Philip? You know we couldn't even be friends, if our friendship were discovered. I have never felt that I was right in giving way about seeing you, though it has been so precious to me in some ways; and now the fear comes upon me strongly again, that it will lead to evil." "But no evil has come, Maggie; and if you had been guided by that fear before, you would only have lived through another dreary, benumbing year, instead of reviving into your real self." Maggie shook her head. "It has been very sweet, I know,--all the talking together, and the books, and the feeling that I had the walk to look forward to, when I could tell you the thoughts that had come into my head while I was away from you. But it has made me restless; it has made me think a great deal about the world; and I have impatient thoughts again,--I get weary of my home; and then it cuts me to the heart afterward, that I should ever have felt weary of my father and mother. I think what you call being benumbed was better--better for me--for then my selfish desires were benumbed." Philip had risen again, and was walking backward and forward impatiently. "No, Maggie, you have wrong ideas of self-conquest, as I've often told you. What you call self-conquest--binding and deafening yourself to all but one train of impressions--is only the culture of monomania in a nature like yours." He had spoken with some irritation, but now he sat down by her again and took her hand. "Don't think of the past now, Maggie; think only of our love. If you can really cling to me with all your heart, every obstacle will be overcome in time; we need only wait. I can live on hope. Look at me, Maggie; tell me again it is possible for you to love me. Don't look away from me to that cloven tree; it is a bad omen." She turned her large dark glance upon him with a sad smile. "Come, Maggie, say one kind word, or else you were better to me at Lorton. You asked me if I should like you to kiss me,--don't you remember?--and you promised to kiss me when you met me again. You never kept the promise." The recollection of that childish time came as a sweet relief to Maggie. It made the present moment less strange to her. She kissed him almost as simply and quietly as she had done when she was twelve years old. Philip's eyes flashed with delight, but his next words were words of discontent. "You don't seem happy enough, Maggie; you are forcing yourself to say you love me, out of pity." "No, Philip," said Maggie, shaking her head, in her old childish way; "I'm telling you the truth. It is all new and strange to me; but I don't think I could love any one better than I love you. I should like always to live with you--to make you happy. I have always been happy when I have been with you. There is only one thing I will not do for your sake; I will never do anything to wound my father. You must never ask that from me." "No, Maggie, I will ask nothing; I will bear everything; I'll wait another year only for a kiss, if you will only give me the first place in your heart." "No," said Maggie, smiling, "I won't make you wait so long as that." But then, looking serious again, she added, as she rose from her seat,-- "But what would your own father say, Philip? Oh, it is quite impossible we can ever be more than friends,--brother and sister in secret, as we have been. Let us give up thinking of everything else." "No, Maggie, I can't give you up,--unless you are deceiving me; unless you really only care for me as if I were your brother. Tell me the truth." "Indeed I do, Philip. What happiness have I ever had so great as being with you,--since I was a little girl,--the days Tom was good to me? And your mind is a sort of world to me; you can tell me all I want to know. I think I should never be tired of being with you." They were walking hand in hand, looking at each other; Maggie, indeed, was hurrying along, for she felt it time to be gone. But the sense that their parting was near made her more anxious lest she should have unintentionally left some painful impression on Philip's mind. It was one of those dangerous moments when speech is at once sincere and deceptive; when feeling, rising high above its average depth, leaves floodmarks which are never reached again. They stopped to part among the Scotch firs. "Then my life will be filled with hope, Maggie, and I shall be happier than other men, in spite of all? We _do_ belong to each other--for always--whether we are apart or together?" "Yes, Philip; I should like never to part; I should like to make your life very happy." "I am waiting for something else. I wonder whether it will come." Maggie smiled, with glistening tears, and then stooped her tall head to kiss the pale face that was full of pleading, timid love,--like a woman's. She had a moment of real happiness then,--a moment of belief that, if there were sacrifice in this love, it was all the richer and more satisfying. She turned away and hurried home, feeling that in the hour since she had trodden this road before, a new era had begun for her. The tissue of vague dreams must now get narrower and narrower, and all the threads of thought and emotion be gradually absorbed in the woof of her actual daily life. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben stehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Es ist fast April, fast ein Jahr später. Maggie gibt Philip in den Roten Tiefen ein Buch zurück. Sie erzählt ihm, dass sie das Buch nicht mochte, weil die hellhaarige Heldin wieder all die Liebe von der dunklen Frau weggenommen hat. Sie sagt, sie will alle "dunklen unglücklichen" Menschen rächen. Philip sagt ihr, dass sie das vielleicht tun wird, indem sie all die Liebe von ihrer Cousine Lucy wegnimmt, die "sicher einen hübschen jungen Mann aus St. Ogg's zu Füßen haben wird". Maggie mag es nicht, wenn ihr Unsinn auf etwas Reales angewendet wird, und sie würde nie Lucys Konkurrentin sein. Sie sagt, dass sie nicht eifersüchtig auf sich selbst ist, sondern auf "unglückliche Menschen", und sie steht immer auf der Seite des "abgelehnten Liebhabers". Philip fragt sie, ob sie selbst einen ablehnen würde, und als sie spielerisch sagt, dass sie das vielleicht tun würde, wenn er eingebildet wäre, bittet er sie, anzunehmen, dass es jemand wäre, "der nichts hätte, worüber er eingebildet sein könnte", der sie liebte und glücklich wäre, sie in seltenen Momenten zu sehen. Maggie, sich bewusst, dass er seine Liebe erklärt, wird still. Philip bittet sie, das, was er gesagt hat, zu vergessen, aber sie sagt, dass sie zwar nie an ihn als Liebhaber gedacht hat, ihn aber liebt. Allerdings bittet sie darum, dass nicht mehr darüber gesprochen wird, damit es nicht "zu Schaden führt". Er sagt ihr, ihre Liebe könne jedes Hindernis überwinden, und er erinnert sie an ihr Versprechen von damals, ihn zu küssen. Sie tut es jetzt; aber Philip ist immer noch nicht zufrieden, denn Maggie scheint unglücklich zu sein. Sie erinnert ihn daran, dass sie ihrem Vater nie Schaden zufügen kann und dass sie nie mehr als Freunde sein können. Als sie sich trennen, fürchtet sie, dass sie Philip unabsichtlich verletzt hat. Sie sagt ihm, dass sie "nie auseinandergehen möchte, in einem dieser gefährlichen Momente, in denen Sprache gleichzeitig aufrichtig und trügerisch ist", wenn das Gefühl auf einem Höhepunkt ist, der nicht wieder erreicht wird.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: Krumerweg was indeed a crooked way. It formed a dozen elbows and ragged half-circles as it slunk off from the Adlergasse. Streets have character even as humans, and the Krumerweg reminded one of a person who was afraid of being followed. The shadow of the towering bergs lay upon it, and the few stars that peered down through the narrow crevice of rambling gables were small, as if the brilliant planets had neither time nor inclination to watch over such a place. And yet there lived in the Krumerweg many a kind and loyal heart, stricken with poverty. In old times the street had had an evil name, now it possessed only a pitiful one. It was half after nine when Gretchen and the vintner picked their way over cobbles pitted here and there with mud-holes. They were arm in arm, and they laughed when they stumbled, laughed lightly, as youth always laughs when in love. "Only a little farther," said Gretchen, for the vintner had never before passed over this way. "Long as it is and crooked, Heaven knows it is short enough!" He encircled her with his arms and kissed her. "I love you! I love you!" he said. Gretchen was penetrated with rapture, for her ears, sharp with love and the eternal doubting of man, knew that falsehood could not lurk in such music. This handsome boy loved her. Buffeted as she had been, she could separate the false from the true. Come never so deep a sorrow, there would always be this--he loved her. Her bosom swelled, her heart throbbed, and she breathed in ecstasy the sweet chill air that rushed through the broken street. "After the vintage," she said, giving his arm a pressure. For this handsome fellow was to be her husband when the vines were pruned and freshened against the coming winter. "Aye, after the vintage," he echoed; but there was tragedy in his heart as deep and profound as his love. "My grandmother--I call her that for I haven't any grandmother--is old and seldom leaves the house. I promised that after work to-night I'd bring my man home and let her see how handsome he is. She is always saying that we need a man about; and yet, I can do a man's work as well as the next one. I love you, too, Leo!" She pulled his hand to her lips and quickly kissed it, frightened but unashamed. "Gretchen, Gretchen!" She stopped. "What is it?" keenly. "There was pain in your voice." "The thought of how I love you hurts me. There is nothing else, nothing, neither riches nor crowns, nothing but you, Gretchen. How long ago was it I met you first?" "Two weeks." "Two weeks? Is it not years? Have I not always known and loved you?" "And I! What an empty heart and head were mine till that wonderful day! You were tired and dusty and footsore; you had walked some twenty odd miles; yet you helped me with the geese. There were almost tears in your eyes, but I knew that your heart was a man's when you smiled at me." She stopped again and turned him round to her. "And you love me like this?" "Whatever betide, _Lieberherz_, whatever befall." And he embraced her with a fierce tenderness, and so strong was he in the moment that Gretchen gave a cry. He kissed her, not on the lips, but on the fine white forehead, reverently. They proceeded, Gretchen subdued and the vintner silent, until they came to the end of their journey at number forty in the Krumerweg. It was a house of hanging gables, almost as old as the town itself, solid and grim and taciturn. There are some houses which talk like gossips, noisy, obtrusive and provocative. Number forty was like an old warrior, gone to his chair by the fireside, who listens to the small-talk of his neighbors saturninely. What was it all about? Had he not seen battles and storms, revolutions and bloodshed? The prattle of children was preferable. Gretchen's grandmother, Fraeu Schwarz, owned the house; it was all that barricaded her from poverty's wolves, and, what with sundry taxes and repairs and tenants who paid infrequently, it was little enough. Whatever luxuries entered at number forty were procured by Gretchen herself. At present the two stories were occupied; the second by a malter and his brood of children, the third by a woman who was partially bedridden. The lower or ground floor of four rooms she reserved for herself. As a matter of fact the forward room, with its huge middle-age fireplace and the great square of beamed and plastered walls and stone flooring, was sizable for all domestic purposes. Gretchen's pallet stood in a small alcove and the old woman's bed by the left of the fire. Gretchen opened the door, which was unlocked. There was no light in the hall. She pressed her lover in her arms, kissed him lightly, and pushed him into the living-room. A log smoldered dimly on the irons. Gretchen ran forward, turned over the log, lighted two candles, then kissed the old woman seated in the one comfortable chair. The others were simply three-legged stools. There was little else in the room, save a poor reproduction of the Virgin Mary. "Here I am, grandmother!" "And who is here with you?" sharply but not unkindly. "My man!" cried Gretchen gaily, her eyes bright as the candle flames. "Bring him near me." Gretchen gathered up two stools and placed them on either side of her grandmother and motioned to the vintner to sit down. He did so, easily and without visible embarrassment, even though the black eyes plunged a glance into his. Her hair was white and thin, her nose aquiline, her lips fallen in, a cobweb of wrinkles round her eyes, down her cheeks, under her chin. But her sight was undimmed. "Where are you from? You are not a Dreiberger." "From the north, grandmother," forcing a smile to his lips. The reply rather gratified her. "Your name." "Leopold Dietrich, a vintner by trade." "You speak like a Hanoverian or a Prussian." "I have passed some time in both countries. I have wandered about a good deal." "Give me your hand." The vintner looked surprised for a moment. Gretchen approved. So he gave the old woman his left hand. The grandmother smoothed it out upon her own and bent her shrewd eyes. Silence. Gretchen could hear the malter stirring above; the log cracked and burst into flame. A frown began to gather on the vintner's brow and a sweat in his palm. "I see many strange things here," said the palmist, in a brooding tone. "And what do you see?" asked Gretchen eagerly. "I see very little of vineyards. I see riches, pomp; I see vast armies moving against each other; there is the smell of powder and fire; devastation. I do not see you, young man, among those who tramp with guns on their shoulders. You ride; there is gold on your arms. You will become great; but I do not understand. I do not understand," closing her eyes for a moment. The vintner sat upright, his chin truculent, his arm tense. "War!" he murmured. Gretchen's heart sank; there was joy in his voice. "Go on, grandmother," she whispered. "Shall I live?" asked the vintner, whose belief in prescience till this hour had been of a negative quality. "There is nothing here save death in old age, vintner." Her gnarled hand seized his in a vise. "Do you mean well by my girl?" "Grandmother!" Gretchen remonstrated. "Silence!" The vintner withdrew his hand slowly. "Is this the hand of a liar and a cheat? Is it the hand of a dishonest man?" "There is no dishonesty there; but there are lines I do not understand. Oh, I can not see everything; it is like seeing people in a mist. They pass instantly and disappear. But I repeat, do you mean well by my girl?" "Before God and His angels I love her; before all mankind I would gladly declare it. Gretchen shall never come to harm at these hands. I swear it." "I believe you." The old woman's form relaxed its tenseness. "Thanks, grandmother," said Gretchen. "Now, read what my hand says." The old woman took the hand. She loved Gretchen. "I read that you are gentle and brave and cheerful, that you have a loyal heart and a pure mind. I read that you are in love and that some day you will be happy." A smile went over her face, a kind of winter sunset. "You are not looking at my hand at all, grandmother," said Gretchen in reproach. "I do not need, my child. Your life is written in your face." The grandmother spoke again to the vintner. "So you will take her away from me?" "Will it be necessary?" he returned quietly. "Have you any objection to my becoming your foster grandchild, such as Gretchen is?" The old woman made no answer. She closed her eyes and did not open them. Gretchen motioned that this was a sign that the interview was ended. But as he rose to his feet there was a sound outside. A carriage had stopped. Some one opened the door and began to climb the stairs. The noise ceased only when the visitor reached the top landing. Then all became still again. "There is something strange going on up there," said Gretchen in a whisper. "In what way?" asked the vintner in like undertones. "Three times a veiled lady has called at night, three times a man muffled up so one could not see his face." "Let us not question our twenty-crowns rent, Gretchen," interrupted the grandmother, waking. "So long as no one is disturbed, so long as the police are not brought to our door, it is not our affair. Leopold, Gretchen, give me your hands." She placed them one upon the other, then spread out her hands above their heads. "The Holy Mother bring happiness and good luck to you, Gretchen." "And to me?" said the youth. "I could not wish you better luck than to give you Gretchen. Now, leave me." The vintner picked up his hat and Gretchen led him to the street. He hurried away, giving no glance at the closed carriage, the sleepy driver, the weary horse. Neither did he heed the man dressed as a carter who, when he saw the vintner, turned and followed. Finally, when the vintner veered into the Adlergasse, he stopped, his hands clenched, his teeth hard upon each other. He even leaned against the wall of a house, his face for the moment hidden in his arm. "Wretch that I am! Damnable wretch! Krumerweg, Krumerweg! Crooked way, indeed!" He flung down his arm passionately. "There will be a God up yonder," looking at the stars. "He will see into my heart and know that it is not bad, only young. Oh, Gretchen!" "Gretchen?" The carter stepped into a shadow and waited. * * * * * Carmichael did not enjoy the opera that night. He had missed the first acts, and the last was gruesome, and the royal box was vacant. Outside he sat down on one of the benches near the fountains in the Platz. His prolific imagination took the boundaries. Ah! That morning's ride, down the southern path of the mountains, the black squirrels in the branches, the red fox in the bushes, the clear spring, and the drink out of the tin cup which hung there for the thirsty! How prettily she had wrapped a leaf over the rusted edge of the cup! The leaf lay in his pocket. He had kissed a dozen times the spot where her lips had pressed it. Blind fool! Deeper and deeper; he knew that he never could go back to that safe ledge of the heart-free. Time could not change his heart, not if given the thousand years of the wandering Jew. Bah! He would walk round the fountain and cool his crazy pulse. He was Irish, Irish to the core. Would any one, save an Irishman, give way, day after day, to those insane maunderings? His mood was savage; he was at odds with the world, and most of all, with himself. If only some one would come along and shoulder him rudely! He laughed ruefully. He was in a fine mood to make an ass of himself. He left the bench and strolled round the fountain, his cane behind his back, his chin in his collar. He had made the circle several times, then he blundered into some one. The fighting mood was gone now, the walk having calmed him. He murmured a short apology for his clumsiness and started on, without even looking at the animated obstacle. "Just a moment, my studious friend." "Wallenstein? I didn't see you." Carmichael halted. "That was evident," replied the colonel jestingly. "Heavens! Have you really cares of state, that you walk five times round this fountain, bump into me, and start to go on without so much as a how-do-you-do?" "I'm absent-minded," Carmichael admitted. "Not always, my friend." "No, not always. You have some other meaning?" "That is possible. Now, I do not believe that it was absent-mindedness which made you step in between me and that pretty goose-girl, the other night." "Ah!" Carmichael was all alertness. "It was not, I believe?" "It was coldly premeditated," said Carmichael, folding his arms over his cane which he still held behind his back. His attitude and voice were pleasant. "It was not friendly." "Not to you, perhaps. But that happens to be an innocent girl, Colonel. You're no Herod. There was nothing selfish in my act. You really annoyed her." "Pretense; they always begin that way." "I confess I know little about that kind of hunting, but I'm sure you've started the wrong quarry this time." "You are positive that you were disinterested?" "Come, come, Colonel, this sounds like the beginning of a quarrel; and a quarrel should never come into life between you and me. I taught you draw-poker; you ought to be grateful for that, and to accept my word regarding my disinterestedness." "I do not wish any quarrel, my Captain; but that girl's face has fascinated me. I propose to see her as often as I like." "I have no objection to offer; but I told Gretchen that if any one, no matter who, ever offers her disrespect, to report the matter to me at the consulate." "That is meddling." "Call it what you like, my Colonel." "Well, in case she is what you consider insulted, what will you do?" a challenge in his tones. "Report the matter to the police." Wallenstein laughed. "And if the girl finds no redress there," tranquilly, "to the chancellor." "You would go so far?" "Even further," unruffled. "It looks as though you had drawn your saber," with irony. "Oh, I can draw it, Colonel, and when I do I guarantee you'll find no rust on it. Come," and Carmichael held out his hand amicably, "Gretchen is already in love with one of her kind. Let the child be in peace. What! Is not the new ballerina enough conquest? They are all talking about it." "Good night, Herr Carmichael!" The colonel, ignoring the friendly hand, saluted stiffly, wheeled abruptly, and left Carmichael staring rather stupidly at his empty hand. "Well, I'm hanged! All right," with a tilt of the shoulders. "One enemy more or less doesn't matter. I'm not afraid of anything save this fool heart of mine. If he says an ill word to Gretchen, and I hear of it, I'll cane the blackguard, for that's what he is at bottom. Well, I was looking for trouble, and here it is, sure enough." He saw a carriage coming along. He recognized the white horse as it passed the lamps. He stood still for a space, undecided. Then he sped rapidly toward the side gates of the royal gardens. The vehicle stopped there. But this time no woman came out. Carmichael would have recognized that lank form anywhere. It was the chancellor. Well, what of it? Couldn't the chancellor go out in a common hack if he wanted to? But who was the lady in the veil? "I've an idea!" As soon as the chancellor disappeared, Carmichael hailed the coachman. "Drive me through the gardens." "It is too late, Herr." "Well, drive me up and down the Strasse while I finish this cigar." "Two crowns." "Three, if your horse behaves well." "He's as gentle as a lamb, Herr." "And doubtless will be served as one before long. Can't you throw back the top?" "In one minute!" Five crowns and three made eight crowns; not a bad business these dull times. Carmichael lolled in the worn cushions, wondering whether or not to question his man. But it was so unusual for a person of such particular habits as the chancellor to ride in an ordinary carriage. Carmichael slid over to the forward seat and touched the jehu on the back. "Where did you take the chancellor to-night?" he asked. "_Du lieber Gott!_ Was that his excellency? He said he was the chief steward." "So he is, my friend. I was only jesting. Where did you take him?" "I took him to the Krumerweg. He was there half an hour. Number forty." "Where did you take the veiled lady?" The coachman drew in suddenly and apprehensively. "Herr, are you from the police?" "Thousand thunders, no! It was by accident that I stood near the gate when she got out. Who was she?" "That is better. They both told me that they were giving charity. I did not see the lady's face, but she went into number forty, the same as the steward. You won't forget the extra crown, Herr?" "No; I'll make it five. Turn back and leave me at the Grand Hotel." Then he muttered: "Krumerweg, crooked way, number forty. If I see this old side-paddler stopping at the palace steps again, I'll take a look at number forty myself." On the return to the hotel the station omnibus had arrived with a solitary guest. A steamer trunk and a couple of bags were being trundled in by the porter, while the concierge was helping a short, stocky man to the ground. He hurried into the hotel, signed the police slips, and asked for his room. He seemed to be afraid of the dark. He was gone when Carmichael went into the office. "Your Excellency," said the concierge, rubbing his hands and smiling after the manner of concierges born in Switzerland, "a compatriot of yours arrived this evening." "What name?" indifferently. Compatriots were always asking impossible things of Carmichael, introductions to the grand duke, invitations to balls, and so forth, and swearing to have him recalled if he refused to perform these offices. The concierge picked up the slips which were to be forwarded to the police. "He is Hans Grumbach, of New York." "An adopted compatriot, it would seem. He'll probably be over to the consulate to-morrow to have his passports looked into. Good night." So Hans Grumbach passed out of his mind; but for all that, fortune and opportunity were about to knock on Carmichael's door. For there was a great place in history ready for Hans Grumbach. 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.

Ani reitet weiter, ist aber unsicher, ob sie überhaupt in gerader Richtung vorankommt - für sie sieht der ganze Wald gleich aus und sie reitet auf einem Pferd, das sie nicht so gut kennt. Später wacht sie auf und überall liegen Tannennadeln, sie ist unsicher, wo sie ist und was passiert ist. Ihr wird bewusst, dass Falada nicht bei ihr ist und sehnt sich nach ihm. Sie wünscht sich auch etwas zu essen - sie hungert und hat noch nie eine Mahlzeit verpasst. Verloren und allein macht sie sich zu Fuß auf den Weg, obwohl sie nicht sicher ist, in welche Richtung sie gehen soll. Ani beschließt, dem Wasserstrom zu folgen, den sie sieht, und dann sieht sie Eulen und Schwäne, also beschließt sie, sie nach dem Weg zu fragen. Schließlich gelangt sie zu einem Haus, auf dessen Hof Äpfel, Orangen und Karotten wachsen. Eine Frau namens Gilsa erscheint aus dem Haus und fragt Ani, wer sie ist und warum sie hier ist - aber bevor Ani überhaupt antworten kann, fällt sie vor Durst und Hunger direkt auf der Türschwelle in Ohnmacht. Finn, Gilsas Sohn, trägt Ani ins Haus und lässt sie eine Weile ausruhen, bevor die Frau sie erneut fragt, in welches Unglück sie geraten ist. Ani ist sich nicht wirklich sicher, wie sie antworten soll. Wie sagt man jemandem, dass man eigentlich eine Prinzessin ist und dass dein Volk dich im Wald verraten hat? Ani fängt klein an und fragt, ob sie mit Finn auf den Markt gehen kann, wo er Sachen verkauft, die seine Mutter anbaut und herstellt - es hört sich an wie ein großer Bauernmarkt, wo Leute aus dem Wald hingehen und Sachen an die Bayerischen Leute verkaufen. Gilsa stimmt zu, dass Ani dort für die nächsten acht Tage bleiben kann, bis zur Marktwoche, und Ani versucht, keine Last zu sein, obwohl sie nicht wirklich weiß, wie sie irgendetwas machen soll, da sie ihr ganzes Leben lang eine Prinzessin mit Dienern war. Eines Nachts bemerkt Ani, dass die Hühner alle nervös sind und herausfindet, dass sie sich gegenseitig sagen, dass eine Ratte unter dem Boden ist - und tatsächlich, als Ani es Gilsa erzählt, finden sie eine Ratte genau dort. Gilsa ist sich nicht wirklich sicher, wie Ani von dem Nagetier wusste, aber sie ist dennoch erstaunt. In der Nacht vor dem Markt hilft Ani Finn und Gilsa dabei, alle Pullover einzupacken, die Gilsa gemacht hat, und ihre Sachen zu packen. Gilsa sagt ihr, dass Sprache in allem steckt - jeder von uns spricht ab und zu mit einem Vogel, einer Ziege und einem Hund.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Kapitel: Es war vereinbart worden, dass die beiden jungen Damen unter Ralphs Begleitung nach London fahren sollten, obwohl Frau Touchett wenig Gefallen an dem Plan fand. Es war genau die Art von Plan, sagte sie, die Miss Stackpole sicher vorschlagen würde. Sie fragte, ob die Korrespondentin des Interviewers die Gruppe in ihrem Lieblingspensionat unterbringen würde. "Mir ist egal, wo sie uns unterbringt, solange es Lokalkolorit gibt", sagte Isabel. "Dafür gehen wir nach London." "Ich nehme an, nachdem ein Mädchen einem englischen Lord eine Absage erteilt hat, kann sie alles tun", erwiderte ihre Tante. "Danach muss man sich nicht mit Kleinigkeiten aufhalten." "Hättest du gewollt, dass ich Lord Warburton heirate?", fragte Isabel. "Natürlich hätte ich das." "Ich dachte, du magst die Engländer so wenig." "Das tue ich auch. Aber umso mehr Grund, sich ihrer zu bedienen." "Ist das deine Vorstellung von Ehe?" Isabel wagte zu bemerken, dass ihre Tante anscheinend Mr. Touchett sehr wenig in Anspruch genommen hatte. "Dein Onkel ist kein englischer Adliger", sagte Mrs. Touchett, "obwohl ich wahrscheinlich auch dann meinen Wohnsitz in Florenz genommen hätte." "Glaubst du, Lord Warburton könnte mich verbessern?" fragte das Mädchen etwas lebhaft. "Ich meine nicht, dass ich zu gut bin, um mich zu verbessern. Ich meine, dass ich Lord Warburton nicht genug liebe, um ihn zu heiraten." "Dann hast du richtig gehandelt, ihn abzulehnen", sagte Mrs. Touchett mit ihrer kleinsten, sparsamsten Stimme. "Nur, das nächste großartige Angebot, das du bekommst, hoffe ich, dass du deinen Ansprüchen gerecht wirst." "Wir sollten lieber abwarten, bis das Angebot kommt, bevor wir darüber sprechen. Ich hoffe sehr, dass ich vorerst keine Angebote mehr bekomme. Sie bringen mich völlig durcheinander." "Du wirst wahrscheinlich keine Schwierigkeiten mehr damit haben, wenn du dauerhaft die Boheme-Lifestyle annimmst. Aber ich habe Ralph versprochen, nicht zu kritisieren." "Ich werde alles tun, was Ralph für richtig hält", erwiderte Isabel. "Ich habe grenzenloses Vertrauen in Ralph." "Seine Mutter ist dir sehr dankbar!", lachte diese Dame trocken. "Es scheint mir tatsächlich so, als sollte sie das fühlen!" antwortete Isabel unübertrefflich. Ralph hatte ihr versichert, dass es keine Anstandsverletzung wäre, wenn sie zu dritt die Sehenswürdigkeiten der Hauptstadt besuchten. Doch Frau Touchett hatte eine andere Meinung. Wie viele Damen ihres Landes, die lange in Europa gelebt hatten, hatte sie ihr ursprüngliches Feingefühl zu solchen Fragen vollständig verloren und war in ihrer ablehnenden Reaktion, an sich nicht bedauerlich, gegen die Freiheit junger Menschen jenseits des Meeres in übertriebenen Skrupeln versunken. Ralph begleitete ihre Besucher in die Stadt und brachte sie in einer ruhigen Herberge in einer Straße, die rechtwinklig zu Piccadilly verlief, unter. Seine erste Idee war gewesen, sie in das Haus seines Vaters in Winchester Square mitzunehmen, einem großen, langweiligen Herrenhaus, das zu dieser Jahreszeit in Stille und braunem Holz eingehüllt war. Aber er besann sich darauf, dass in dem Haus niemand war, der ihnen ihr Essen zubereiten konnte, da der Koch sich in Gardencourt befand, und so wurde das Pratt's Hotel ihr vorübergehender Aufenthaltsort. Ralph fand Quartier in Winchester Square und hatte dort ein "Kämmerchen", das er sehr mochte. Er nutzte die Einrichtungen des Pratt's Hotel reichlich, begann seinen Tag mit einem frühen Besuch bei seinen Mitreisenden, bei dem Mr. Pratt persönlich in einem großen wölbenden weißen Weste ihre Tellerdeckel entfernte. Ralph kam, wie er sagte, nach dem Frühstück, und die kleine Gesellschaft erstellte einen Plan für den Tag. Da London im September ein Gesicht zeigt, das abgesehen von einigen Schmieren vergangenen Services, von einer großen Leere geprägt ist, war der junge Mann, der gelegentlich einen entschuldigenden Ton anschlug, gezwungen, seine Begleiterin, zur großen Erheiterung von Miss Stackpole, daran zu erinnern, dass dort niemand war. "Ich nehme an, du meinst, der Adel ist abwesend", antwortete Henrietta. "Aber ich denke, du könntest keinen besseren Beweis dafür haben, dass es sie überhaupt nicht stören würde, wenn sie ganz abwesend wären. Mir scheint, der Ort ist so voll wie er nur sein kann. Hier ist natürlich niemand außer drei oder vier Millionen Menschen. Wie nennt man sie - die Unterschicht? Sie sind nur die Bevölkerung von London, und das ist nicht wichtig." Ralph erklärte, dass für ihn der Adel keine Lücke hinterließ, die Miss Stackpole nicht füllte, und dass es nirgendwo sonst einen zufriedeneren Mann gab. Damit sprach er die Wahrheit, denn die abgestandenen Septembertage in der riesigen, halbleeren Stadt hatten einen Zauber, der wie ein farbiger Edelstein in ein staubiges Tuch gehüllt war. Als er abends in das leere Haus in Winchester Square zurückkehrte, nachdem er eine Reihe von Stunden mit seinen vergleichsweise leidenschaftlichen Freunden verbracht hatte, schlenderte er in das große, düstere Esszimmer, wo die Kerze, die er vom Konsolentisch in der Halle nahm, nachdem er sich eingelassen hatte, die einzige Beleuchtung bildete. Der Platz war ruhig, das Haus war ruhig; als er eines der Fenster des Esszimmers öffnete, um frische Luft hereinzulassen, hörte er das langsame Knarren der Stiefel eines einsamen Polizisten. Sein eigener Schritt klang in dem leeren Raum laut und sonor; einige der Teppiche waren angehoben, und wann immer er sich bewegte, weckte er einen melancholischen Nachhall. Er setzte sich in einen der Sessel; der große, dunkle Esstisch funkelte hier und da im schwachen Kerzenlicht; die Bilder an der Wand, alle sehr braun, wirkten vage und zusammenhanglos. Es war eine gespenstische Präsenz von längst verdauten Abendessen, von Tischgesprächen, die ihre Aktualität verloren hatten. Dieser hauch des Übernatürlichen hatte vielleicht etwas damit zu tun, dass seine Phantasie abhob und er länger in seinem Stuhl sitzen blieb, als er eigentlich im Bett hätte sein sollen; nichts tun, nicht einmal die Abendzeitung lesen. Ich sage, er tat nichts, und ich halte an dieser Aussage fest, obwohl er in diesen Momenten an Isabel dachte. An Isabel zu denken konnte für ihn nur eine müßige Beschäftigung sein, die zu nichts führte und nur wenig für irgendjemanden nutzte. Seine Cousine schien ihm noch nicht so bezaubernd wie während dieser Tage, die sie damit verbrachten, auf touristische Weise die Tiefen und Untiefen der Hauptstadt zu erkunden. Isabel war voller Voraussetzungen, Schlussfolgerungen und Emotionen; wenn sie in der Suche nach Lokalkolorit gekommen war, fand sie es überall. Sie stellte mehr Fragen, als er beantworten konnte, und stellte tapfere Theorien über historische Ursachen und soziale Auswirkungen auf, die er weder akzeptieren noch widerlegen konnte. Die Gruppe besuchte mehrmals das British Museum und das hellere Kunstmuseum, das einem eintönigen Vorort so viel antike Vielfalt zurückgibt. Sie verbrachten einen Morgen in der Abtei und unternahmen eine Fahrt mit einem Penny-Dampfer zum Tower. Sie betrachteten Bilder sowohl in öffentlichen als auch in privaten Sammlungen und saßen verschiedene Male unter den großen Bäumen im Kensington Gardens. Henrietta erwies sich als unzerstörbare Besichtigungsreisende und als nachsichtigere Richterin, als Ralph zu hoffen gewagt hatte. Sie hatte zwar viele Enttäuschungen, und London litt insgesamt unter ihrer lebhaften Erinnerung an die Stärken des amerikanischen Stadtbildes; aber sie machte das Beste aus seinen düsteren Würden und seufzte nur gelegentlich und äußerte ein unbestimmtes "Na ja!", das nicht weiter führte und sich in Erinnerungen verlor. Die Wahrheit war, dass sie, wie sie selbst sagte, nicht in ihrem Element war. "Ich habe kein Mitgefühl mit unbelebten Objekten", bemerkte sie zu Isabel in der National Gallery; und sie litt weiterhin unter der Magerkeit des Einblicks, den sie bisher in das innere Leben hatte. Lands "Where are your prominent Männer, where are your intellektuellen Männer und Frauen?", fragte sie Ralph und stand mitten auf dem Trafalgar Square, als hätte sie angenommen, dass dies ein Ort sei, an dem sie einige von ihnen natürlich treffen würde. "Das da oben auf der Säule ist einer von ihnen, sagst du - Lord Nelson. War er auch ein Lord? War er nicht schon hoch genug, dass sie ihn hundert Fuß in die Luft stecken mussten? Das ist die Vergangenheit - ich kümmere mich nicht um die Vergangenheit; ich möchte einige der führenden Geister der Gegenwart sehen. Ich sage nicht der Zukunft, denn ich glaube nicht viel an eure Zukunft." Arme Ralph hatte wenige führende Geister unter seinen Bekannten und genoss selten das Vergnügen, einen Prominenten anzusprechen; ein Zustand, der für Miss Stackpole auf einen bedauerlichen Mangel an Unternehmungsgeist hinwies. "Wenn ich auf der anderen Seite wäre, würde ich klopfen", sagte sie, "und dem Herrn, wer immer er sein mag, sagen, dass ich viel über ihn gehört habe und gekommen bin, um es selbst zu sehen. Aber ich schließe aus dem, was du sagst, dass dies hier nicht üblich ist. Ihr habt anscheinend viele sinnlose Bräuche, aber nichts, was weiterhilft. Wir sind definitiv weiter. Ich glaube, ich muss die gesellschaftliche Seite ganz aufgeben"; und Henrietta, obwohl sie mit ihrem Reiseführer und ihrem Stift umherging und einen Brief an den Interviewer über den Tower schrieb (in dem sie die Hinrichtung von Lady Jane Grey beschrieb), hatte ein trauriges Gefühl, ihrer Aufgabe nicht gerecht zu werden. Der Vorfall, der Isabels Abreise aus Gardencourt vorausging, hinterließ eine schmerzliche Spur in Isabels Gedankenwelt: Als sie wieder das kalte Hauchen der Überraschung ihrer letzten Verehrer in ihrem Gesicht spürte, konnte sie ihren Kopf nur verhüllen, bis die Luft sich klärte. Sie hätte nicht weniger tun können als das, was sie tat; das war sicherlich wahr. Aber ihre Notwendigkeit war dennoch so gewandt wie eine körperliche Handlung in einer angespannten Haltung, und sie verspürte kein Verlangen, dafür Anerkennung zu bekommen. Trotz dieses unvollkommenen Stolzes empfand sie jedoch ein Gefühl der Freiheit, das an sich süß war und das, als sie durch die große Stadt mit ihren ungleichartigen Begleitern wanderte, gelegentlich in seltsamen Ausdrücken aufglühte. Als sie in den Kensington Gardens spazierte, hielt sie die Kinder (hauptsächlich aus ärmeren Verhältnissen), die sie auf dem Rasen spielen sah, an; sie fragte sie nach ihren Namen, gab ihnen einen Sechspence und küsste sie, wenn sie hübsch waren. Ralph bemerkte diese eigentümlichen Wohltätigkeiten; er bemerkte alles, was sie tat. Eines Nachmittags lud er seine Begleiter zu Tee in den Winchester Square ein, damit sie die Zeit verbringen konnten, und er ließ das Haus so weit wie möglich für ihren Besuch herrichten. Es gab einen weiteren Gast, der sie begrüßte, ein liebenswürdiger Junggeselle, ein alter Freund von Ralphs, der zufällig in der Stadt war und für den der prompte Kontakt mit Miss Stackpole anscheinend weder Schwierigkeit noch Furcht bereitete. Mr. Bantling, ein stämmiger, glatter, lächelnder Mann von vierzig Jahren, wunderbar gekleidet, allgemein informiert und wirr erheitert, lachte übertrieben über alles, was Henrietta sagte, gab ihr mehrere Tassen Tee, inspizierte in ihrer Gesellschaft den Schnickschnack, von dem Ralph eine beträchtliche Sammlung hatte, und nachdem der Gastgeber vorgeschlagen hatte, dass sie in den Platz gehen und so tun sollten, als sei es ein Fest auf dem Lande, ging er mehrere Male mit ihr um die begrenzte Anlage und reagierte in ihrer Konversation immer wieder lebhaft - wie mit einer positiven Leidenschaft für die Argumentation - auf ihre Bemerkungen zum inneren Leben. "Ach, ich verstehe; ich kann mir vorstellen, dass es sehr ruhig in Gardencourt war. Natürlich ist da nicht viel los, wenn so viel Krankheit im Umlauf ist. Touchett geht es sehr schlecht, wissen Sie; die Ärzte haben ihm sogar verboten, überhaupt in England zu sein, und er ist nur zurückgekommen, um sich um seinen Vater zu kümmern. Dem alten Herrn geht es, glaube ich, in jeder Hinsicht schlecht. Man nennt es Gicht, aber nach meinem Wissen hat er eine so ausgeprägte organische Krankheit, dass er eines Tages ganz schnell gehen wird. Natürlich macht so etwas ein furchtbar langweiliges Haus; ich frage mich, warum sie Leute einladen, wenn sie so wenig für sie tun können. Dann habe ich gehört, dass Mr. Touchett ständig mit seiner Frau streitet; sie lebt von ihrem Ehemann getrennt, wissen Sie, in dieser außergewöhnlichen amerikanischen Weise von Ihnen. Wenn Sie ein Haus suchen, in dem immer etwas los ist, empfehle ich Ihnen, zu meiner Schwester, Lady Pensil, in Bedfordshire zu fahren. Ich werde ihr morgen schreiben und ich bin sicher, sie wird delighted sein, Sie einzuladen. Ich weiß genau, was Sie wollen - Sie wollen ein Haus, das Theateraufführungen und Picknicks und so etwas veranstaltet. Meine Schwester ist genau so eine Frau; sie organisiert immer irgendetwas und sie freut sich immer über Leute, die ihr dabei helfen. Ich bin sicher, sie wird Ihnen umgehend antworten und Sie einladen: Sie ist wahnsinnig gerne mit bedeutenden Menschen und Schriftstellern zusammen. Sie schreibt selbst, wissen Sie; aber ich habe nicht alles gelesen, was sie geschrieben hat. Es ist normalerweise Poesie, und ich stehe nicht so auf Poesie - es sei denn, es ist Byron. Ich denke, Sie in Amerika halten viel von Byron", fuhr Mr. Bantling fort und erweiterte sich in der anregenden Atmosphäre von Miss Stackpoles Aufmerksamkeit, brachte seine Sätze prompt vor und wechselte das Thema geschickt. Trotzdem hatte er das Konzept, das Henrietta so bezauberte, dass sie zu Lady Pensil nach Bedfordshire fahren sollte, immer im Blick. "Ich verstehe, was Sie wollen; Sie wollen etwas echten englischen Sport erleben. Die Touchetts sind überhaupt nicht englisch, wissen Sie; sie haben ihre eigenen Gewohnheiten, ihre eigene Sprache, ihr eigenes Essen - sogar eine seltsame Religion, glaube ich. Dem alten Herrn gilt die Jagd als Sünde, habe ich gehört. Sie sollten rechtzeitig zu den Theatervorstellungen zu meiner Schwester hinunter gehen, und ich bin sicher, sie wird Ihnen eine Rolle geben. Ich bin mir sicher, Sie spielen gut; ich weiß, Sie sind sehr clever. Meine Schwester ist vierzig Jahre alt und hat sieben Kinder, aber sie wird die Hauptrolle spielen. So schlicht sie ist, schminkt sie sich schrecklich gut - das muss ich sagen. Natürlich müssen Sie nicht spielen, wenn Sie nicht wollen." Auf diese Weise äußerte sich Mr. Bantling, während sie über das Gras im Winchester Square schlenderten, das, obwohl es von Ruß überzogen war, dazu einlud, länger zu verweilen. Henrietta fand ihren blühenden, leicht klingenden Junggesellen, der für weibliche Vorzüge empfänglich war und eine großartige Auswahl an Vorschlägen hatte, sehr angenehm und schätzte die Gelegenheit, die er ihr bot. "Ich weiß nicht, aber ich würde vielleicht gehen, wenn Ihre Schwester mich einladen würde. Ich denke, es wäre meine Pflicht. Wie heißt sie?" "Pensil. Das ist ein seltsamer Name, aber er ist nicht schlecht." "Ich denke, ein Name ist so gut wie ein anderer. Aber was ist ihr Rang?" "Oh, sie ist die Ehefrau eines Barons; eine prakt "Es besteht überhaupt kein Bedarf für dich, alleine zu gehen", warf Herr Bantling vergnügt ein. "Es würde mich sehr freuen, mit dir zu gehen." "Ich meinte nur, dass du zu spät zum Abendessen kommen würdest", erwiderte Ralph. "Diese armen Damen könnten leicht glauben, dass wir dich am Ende nicht entbehren wollen." "Du solltest dir besser ein Fiaker nehmen, Henrietta", sagte Isabel. "Ich besorge dir einen Fiaker, wenn du mir vertraust", fuhr Herr Bantling fort. "Wir könnten ein Stück laufen, bis wir einen treffen." "Ich sehe keinen Grund, ihm nicht zu vertrauen, du schon?", fragte Henrietta Isabel. "Ich sehe nicht, was Herr Bantling dir antun könnte", antwortete Isabel gefällig, "aber wenn du möchtest, können wir mit dir gehen, bis du dein Taxi findest." "Schon gut, wir gehen schon allein. Los, Herr Bantling, und achten Sie darauf, dass Sie mir ein gutes besorgen." Herr Bantling versprach, sein Bestes zu tun, und die beiden machten sich auf den Weg und ließen das Mädchen und ihren Cousin allein auf dem Platz zurück, über dem sich jetzt eine klare Septemberdämmerung zusammenzog. Es war völlig ruhig; das weite Quadrat der düsteren Häuser zeigte in keinem der Fenster Lichter, wo die Fensterläden und Jalousien geschlossen waren; die Bürgersteige waren eine leere Fläche, abgesehen von zwei kleinen Kindern aus einer benachbarten Armensiedlung, die, von Anzeichen außergewöhnlicher Animation im Inneren angezogen, ihre Gesichter zwischen die rostigen Schienen des Geheges steckten, war das lebendigste Objekt im Blickfeld der große rote Eckpfosten im Südosten. "Henrietta wird ihn bitten, in das Taxi zu steigen und mit ihr nach Jermyn Street zu fahren", bemerkte Ralph. Er sprach immer von Miss Stackpole als Henrietta. "Sehr wahrscheinlich", sagte seine Begleiterin. "Oder vielmehr, nein, wird sie nicht", fuhr er fort. "Aber Bantling wird um Erlaubnis bitten, einzusteigen." "Wahrscheinlich schon. Ich bin froh, dass sie so gute Freunde sind." "Sie hat eine Eroberung gemacht. Er hält sie für eine brillante Frau. Es könnte noch weit gehen", sagte Ralph. Isabel schwieg kurz. "Ich halte Henrietta für eine sehr brillante Frau, aber ich glaube nicht, dass es weit gehen wird. Sie würden einander nie wirklich kennen. Er hat nicht die geringste Ahnung, wer sie wirklich ist, und sie hat kein gerechtes Verständnis für Herrn Bantling." "Es gibt keine gewöhnlichere Basis für Vereinigung als ein gegenseitiges Missverständnis. Aber es sollte nicht so schwierig sein, Bob Bantling zu verstehen", fügte Ralph hinzu. "Er ist ein sehr einfacher Organismus." "Ja, aber Henrietta ist noch einfacher. Und, sag mal, was soll ich tun?", fragte Isabel und schaute um sich in das verbleichende Licht, in dem das begrenzte Landschaftsgarten in dem Platz eine große und wirkungsvolle Erscheinung annahm. "Ich glaube nicht, dass du vorschlagen willst, dass du und ich, zu unserer Unterhaltung, mit einem Fiaker durch London fahren sollen." "Es gibt keinen Grund, warum wir hier bleiben sollten - wenn es dir nichts ausmacht. Es ist sehr warm; es wird noch eine halbe Stunde dunkel sein; und wenn du es erlaubst, werde ich mir eine Zigarette anzünden." "Du darfst tun, was du willst", sagte Isabel, "wenn du mich bis sieben Uhr unterhältst. Ich schlage vor, zu dieser Uhrzeit zurückzugehen und an einer einfachen und einsamen Mahlzeit teilzunehmen - zwei pochierte Eier und einen Muffin - im Pratt's Hotel." "Darf ich dann mit dir essen?" fragte Ralph. "Nein, du wirst in deinem Club essen." Sie waren wieder zu ihren Stühlen in der Mitte des Platzes zurückgekehrt, und Ralph hatte seine Zigarette angezündet. Es würde ihm äußerst viel Freude bereiten, persönlich bei dem bescheidenen kleinen Fest anwesend zu sein, das sie skizziert hatte; aber zur Not mochte er auch das Verbotene. Für den Moment jedoch gefiel es ihm sehr, allein mit ihr im dichten Dämmerlicht, im Zentrum der bevölkerten Stadt zu sein; es ließ sie scheinen, von ihm abhängig zu sein und in seiner Macht zu stehen. Diese Macht konnte er nur vage ausüben; die beste Ausübung war, ihre Entscheidungen gehorsam anzunehmen, was bereits eine gewisse Emotion mit sich brachte. "Warum lässt du mich nicht mit dir essen?" fragte er nach einer Pause. "Weil es mir nicht gefällt." "Ich nehme an, du hast genug von mir." "In einer Stunde wirst du das tun. Du siehst, ich habe die Gabe der Vorahnung." "Oh, ich werde in der Zwischenzeit entzückend sein", sagte Ralph. Aber er sagte nichts mehr, und da sie keine Antwort gab, saßen sie einige Zeit in einer Stille, die seinem Versprechen der Unterhaltung zu widersprechen schien. Es schien ihm, als sei sie nachdenklich, und er fragte sich, worüber sie nachdachte; es gab zwei oder drei sehr mögliche Themen. Schließlich sprach er wieder. "Führt dein Einwand gegen meine Gesellschaft an diesem Abend dazu, dass du einen anderen Besucher erwartest?" Sie drehte den Kopf und warf einen Blick mit ihren klaren, hellen Augen. "Einen anderen Besucher? Welchen Besucher sollte ich haben?" Er hatte keinen Vorschlag zu machen, was seine Frage lächerlich und brutal erscheinen ließ. "Du hast viele Freunde, die ich nicht kenne. Du hast eine ganze Vergangenheit, aus der ich absichtlich ausgeschlossen wurde." "Du warst für meine Zukunft reserviert. Du musst bedenken, dass meine Vergangenheit dort drüben jenseits des Wassers ist. Hier in London gibt es nichts davon." "Gut, dann ist deine Zukunft neben dir. Eine großartige Sache, deine Zukunft so griffbereit zu haben." Und Ralph zündete sich eine weitere Zigarette an und überlegte, dass Isabel wahrscheinlich meinte, dass sie Nachrichten erhalten hatte, dass Herr Caspar Goodwood nach Paris gereist war. Nachdem er seine Zigarette angezündet hatte, paffte er eine Weile darauf und dann fuhr er fort. "Ich habe gerade versprochen, sehr amüsant zu sein; aber du siehst, ich erfülle das nicht, und tatsächlich ist eine beträchtliche Kühnheit, sich vorzunehmen, jemanden wie dich zu unterhalten. Was kümmern meine schwachen Versuche dich? Du hast große Ideen - du hast einen hohen Maßstab in solchen Dingen. Ich sollte zumindest einen Musikverein oder eine Truppe Gaukler mitbringen." "Einen Gaukler reicht, und du machst das sehr gut. Bitte fahre fort, und in weiteren zehn Minuten beginne ich zu lachen." "Ich versichere dir, ich meine es sehr ernst", sagte Ralph. "Du verlangst wirklich viel." "Ich weiß nicht, was du meinst. Ich verlange nichts." "Du nimmst nichts an", sagte Ralph. Sie errötete, und nun schien es ihr plötzlich, dass sie seine Bedeutung ahnte. Aber warum sollte er mit ihr über solche Dinge sprechen? Er zögerte ein wenig und dann fuhr er fort: "Es gibt etwas, das ich dir sehr gerne sagen möchte. Es ist eine Frage, die ich stellen möchte. Es scheint mir, dass ich das Recht habe, sie zu stellen, weil ich ein gewisses Interesse an der Antwort habe." "Frage, was du willst", antwortete Isabel sanft, "und ich werde versuchen, dich zufriedenzustellen." "Nun, ich hoffe, es macht dir nichts aus, wenn ich sage, dass Warburton mir von etwas erzählt hat, das zwischen euch beiden passiert ist." Isabel unterdrückte einen Schreck; sie saß da und starrte auf ihren aufgeschlagenen Fächer. "Sehr gut, ich nehme an, es war natürlich, dass er es dir erzählt hat." "Er Natürlich meinst du damit, dass ich mich in Dinge einmische, die mich nichts angehen. Aber warum sollte ich nicht mit dir über diese Angelegenheit sprechen, ohne dich zu nerven oder mich selbst zu blamieren? Was bringt es mir, dein Cousin zu sein, wenn ich nicht ein paar Privilegien haben kann? Was bringt es mir, dich anzubeten, ohne Hoffnung auf Belohnung, wenn ich nicht ein paar Ausgleichsmöglichkeiten haben kann? Was bringt es mir, krank und behindert zu sein und auf die bloße Zuschauerrolle im Spiel des Lebens beschränkt zu sein, wenn ich die Show wirklich nicht sehen kann, obwohl ich so viel für meine Eintrittskarte bezahlt habe? Sag mir das", fuhr Ralph fort, während sie ihm mit erhöhter Aufmerksamkeit zuhörte. "Was hattest du im Sinn, als du Lord Warburton abgelehnt hast?" "Was hatte ich im Sinn?" "Was war die Logik - die Sicht auf deine Situation -, die eine so bemerkenswerte Handlung diktiert hat?" "Ich wollte ihn nicht heiraten - wenn das Logik ist." "Nein, das ist keine Logik - und das wusste ich schon vorher. Es ist eigentlich nichts, weißt du. Was hast du dir selbst gesagt? Du hast sicher mehr gesagt als das." Isabel überlegte einen Moment und antwortete dann mit einer eigenen Frage. "Warum nennst du es eine bemerkenswerte Handlung? Das ist auch das, was deine Mutter denkt." "Warburton ist so ein grundsolider Kerl; als Mann betrachtet habe ich fast keine Fehler an ihm ausmachen können. Und dann ist er hier das Maß aller Dinge. Er hat immense Besitztümer, und seine Frau würde als überlegenes Wesen angesehen werden. Er vereint die inneren und äußeren Vorteile." Isabel beobachtete ihren Cousin, um zu sehen, wie weit er gehen würde. "Ich habe ihn abgelehnt, weil er damals zu perfekt war. Ich selbst bin nicht perfekt, und er ist zu gut für mich. Außerdem würde mich seine Perfektion ärgern." "Das ist eher einfallsreich als aufrichtig", sagte Ralph. "In Wirklichkeit denkst du, dass nichts auf der Welt zu perfekt für dich ist." "Glaubst du, ich bin so gut?" "Nein, aber du bist dennoch anspruchsvoll, und das ohne die Entschuldigung, dich für gut zu halten. Neunzehn von zwanzig Frauen, selbst von den anspruchsvollsten, wären mit Warburton zurechtgekommen. Vielleicht weißt du nicht, wie sehr er verfolgt wurde." "Ich möchte es nicht wissen. Aber es scheint mir", sagte Isabel, "dass du bei einem unserer vorherigen Gespräche merkwürdige Dinge über ihn erwähnt hast." Ralph rauchte nachdenklich. "Ich hoffe, dass das, was ich damals gesagt habe, keinen Einfluss auf dich hatte; es waren keine Fehler, von denen ich sprach: es waren einfach Eigenheiten seiner Position. Wenn ich gewusst hätte, dass er dich heiraten wollte, hätte ich nicht darauf hingewiesen. Ich glaube, ich habe gesagt, dass er in Bezug auf diese Position eher ein Skeptiker war. Es wäre in deiner Macht gestanden, ihn zum Gläubigen zu machen." "Ich glaube nicht. Ich verstehe die Angelegenheit nicht, und ich bin mir keiner solchen Mission bewusst. Du bist offensichtlich enttäuscht", fügte Isabel hinzu und sah ihren Cousin mit trauriger Sanftheit an. "Du hättest dich über eine solche Heirat gefreut." "Ganz und gar nicht. Ich habe absolut keinen Wunsch in dieser Angelegenheit. Ich beanspruche nicht, dir Ratschläge zu geben, und ich begnüge mich damit, dich zu beobachten - mit größtem Interesse." Sie seufzte bewusst. "Ich wünschte, ich wäre für mich selbst so interessant wie für dich!" "Darin bist du wieder nicht aufrichtig; du bist für dich selbst äußerst interessant. Weißt du aber", sagte Ralph, "dass ich, wenn du Lord Warburton wirklich deine endgültige Antwort gegeben hast, ziemlich froh bin, dass sie war, wie sie war. Ich meine damit nicht, dass ich froh für dich bin und natürlich noch weniger für ihn. Ich freue mich für mich selbst." "Überlegst du, mir einen Heiratsantrag zu machen?" "Auf keinen Fall. Aus dem Blickwinkel, von dem ich spreche, wäre das fatal; ich würde die Gans töten, die mich mit dem Material für meine unnachahmlichen Omelettes versorgt. Ich benutze dieses Tier als Symbol meiner wahnsinnigen Illusionen. Was ich meine ist, dass ich das Gefühl haben werde zu sehen, was eine junge Dame tut, die Lord Warburton nicht heiraten will." "Darauf hoffen deine Mutter und du auch", sagte Isabel. "Ah, es wird viele Zuschauer geben! Wir werden den Rest deiner Laufbahn verfolgen. Ich werde nicht alles sehen, aber wahrscheinlich die interessantesten Jahre. Natürlich könntest du mit unserem Freund immer noch eine Laufbahn haben - eine sehr anständige, ja sogar eine sehr brillante. Aber relativ gesehen wäre sie etwas banal. Sie wäre bereits festgelegt; sie wäre ohne Überraschung. Du weißt, dass ich das Unerwartete sehr mag, und jetzt, wo du das Spiel in deinen Händen hast, hoffe ich, dass du uns ein großes Beispiel davon geben wirst." "Ich verstehe dich nicht ganz", sagte Isabel, "aber gut genug, um sagen zu können, dass du von mir großartige Beispiele erwartest, ich werde dich enttäuschen." "Du würdest das nur tun, indem du dich selbst enttäuschst, und das wird schwer für dich sein!" Darauf antwortete sie nicht direkt; es steckte genug Wahrheit darin, die bedacht werden sollte. Schließlich sagte sie abrupt: "Ich sehe nicht, was daran schlimm ist, wenn ich nicht gebunden sein möchte. Ich möchte das Leben nicht mit einer Heirat beginnen. Es gibt andere Dinge, die eine Frau tun kann." "Es gibt nichts, was sie so gut kann. Aber du bist natürlich so vielseitig." "Wenn man zweifach ist, reicht das", sagte Isabel. "Du bist der bezauberndste aller Polygone!" brach ihr Begleiter aus. Bei einem Blick von ihrer Begleiterin wurde er jedoch ernst und fuhr fort: "Du möchtest das Leben sehen - koste es, was es wolle, wie die jungen Männer sagen." "Ich glaube nicht, dass ich es so sehen möchte, wie die jungen Männer es sehen wollen. Aber ich möchte mich umschauen." "Du willst den Kelch der Erfahrung leeren." "Nein, ich möchte den Kelch der Erfahrung nicht berühren. Es ist ein vergiftetes Getränk! Ich möchte nur selbst sehen." "Du willst sehen, aber nicht fühlen", bemerkte Ralph. "Ich glaube nicht, dass man, wenn man ein empfindendes Wesen ist, diese Unterscheidung treffen kann. Ich bin Henrietta sehr ähnlich. Als ich sie neulich fragte, ob sie heiraten möchte, antwortete sie: 'Erst wenn ich Europa gesehen habe!' Ich möchte auch erst heiraten, wenn ich Europa gesehen habe." "Offensichtlich erwartest du, dass ein gekröntes Haupt von dir beeindruckt sein wird." "Nein, das wäre schlimmer als Lord Warburton zu heiraten. Aber es wird sehr dunkel", fuhr Isabel fort, "und ich muss nach Hause gehen." Sie erhob sich von ihrem Platz, aber Ralph blieb sitzen und sah sie an. Als er dort blieb, blieb sie stehen, und sie tauschten einen Blick aus, der auf beiden Seiten, aber besonders bei Ralph, Aussagen enthielt, die zu vage für Worte waren. "Du hast meine Frage beantwortet", sagte er schließlich. "Du hast mir gesagt, was ich wissen wollte. Ich danke dir sehr." "Mir scheint, ich habe dir sehr wenig gesagt." "Du hast mir das Wichtige gesagt: dass die Welt dich interessiert und dass du dich hineinstürzen willst." Ihre silbernen Augen leuchteten einen Moment im Dunkeln. "Das habe ich nie gesagt." "Ich glaube, du hast es gemeint. Leugne es nicht ab. Es ist so wunderbar!" "Ich weiß nicht, worauf du hinauswillst, denn ich bin alles andere als ein abenteuerlustiger Geist. Frauen sind nicht wie Männer." Ralph stand langsam auf und sie gingen zusammen zum Tor des Platzes. "Nein", sagte er; "Frauen rühmen sich selten ihres Muts. Männer tun es mit einer gewissen Häufigkeit." "Männer haben etwas, auf das sie stolz sein können!" "Auch Frauen haben es. Du hast sehr viel davon." "Genug, um mit dem Taxi nach Pratt Sie hatte kein verstecktes Motiv, als sie sich wünschte, dass er sie nicht nach Hause bringt; es war ihr einfach eingefallen, dass sie in den letzten Tagen eine unverhältnismäßig große Menge seiner Zeit in Anspruch genommen hatte, und der unabhängige Geist des amerikanischen Mädchens, den der übermäßige Helfereifer in eine Haltung drängt, die sie letztendlich als "bemüht" empfindet, hatte sie dazu gebracht, dass sie für diese paar Stunden sich selbst genügte. Außerdem sehnte sie sich nach Momenten der Einsamkeit, die seit ihrer Ankunft in England nur spärlich erfüllt worden waren. Es war ein Luxus, den sie immer zu Hause hatte und den sie bewusst vermisste. An diesem Abend ereignete sich jedoch ein Vorfall, der – wenn es einen Kritiker gegeben hätte, der es bemerkt hätte – die Theorie, dass der Wunsch, für sich allein zu sein, sie veranlasst hatte, auf die Begleitung ihres Cousins zu verzichten, in Frage gestellt hätte. Als sie gegen neun Uhr im gedämpften Licht des Pratt's Hotels saß und versuchte, sich mit Hilfe von zwei hohen Kerzen in einem Buch zu verlieren, das sie von Gardencourt mitgebracht hatte, gelang es ihr nur, andere Worte zu lesen als die gedruckten auf der Seite – Worte, die Ralph ihr an diesem Nachmittag gesagt hatte. Plötzlich wurde der gut in Pelz gehüllte Fingerknöchel des Kellners auf die Tür gelegt, die sich wenig später seiner Zurschaustellung öffnete, wie ein glorreiches Trophäe, die Visitenkarte eines Besuchers. Als dieses Andenken ihren festen Blick auf den Namen von Mr. Caspar Goodwood richtete, ließ sie den Mann vor sich stehen, ohne ihre Wünsche zu bekunden. "Soll ich den Herrn hereinlassen, gnädige Frau?" fragte er mit einer leicht ermutigenden Betonung. Isabel zögerte immer noch und während sie zögerte, schaute sie in den Spiegel. "Er kann hereinkommen", sagte sie schließlich und wartete auf ihn, während sie weniger ihr Haar strich als ihren Geist stärkte. Caspar Goodwood schüttelte ihr entsprechend im nächsten Moment die Hand, sagte aber nichts, bis der Diener den Raum verlassen hatte. "Warum hast du nicht auf meinen Brief geantwortet?", fragte er dann in einem schnellen, vollen und leicht bestimmenden Tonfall – dem Tonfall eines Mannes, dessen Fragen gewöhnlich auf den Punkt zielen und der große Beharrlichkeit zeigen kann. Sie antwortete mit einer bereiten Frage: "Wie wusstest du, dass ich hier bin?" "Miss Stackpole hat es mir mitgeteilt", sagte Caspar Goodwood. "Sie hat mir geschrieben, dass du wahrscheinlich heute Abend alleine zu Hause sein würdest und bereit wärst, mich zu sehen." "Wo hat sie dich gesehen – um dir das zu sagen?" "Sie hat mich nicht gesehen; sie hat mir geschrieben." Isabel schwieg; keiner hatte Platz genommen; sie standen da mit einer Haltung des Trotzes oder zumindest des Widerstreits. "Henrietta hat mir nie gesagt, dass sie dir schreiben würde", sagte sie schließlich. "Das ist nicht nett von ihr." "Ist es dir so unangenehm, mich zu sehen?" fragte der junge Mann. "Ich habe es nicht erwartet. Solche Überraschungen mag ich nicht." "Aber du wusstest, dass ich in der Stadt bin; es war natürlich, dass wir uns treffen würden." "Nennst du das ein Treffen? Ich hatte gehofft, dich nicht zu sehen. In einer so großen Stadt wie London schien das sehr möglich." "Es war offenbar abstoßend für dich, mir selbst zu schreiben", fuhr ihr Besucher fort. Isabel antwortete nicht; das Gefühl von Henrietta Stackpoles Verrat, wie sie es kurzzeitig genannt hatte, war stark in ihr. "Henrietta ist sicher kein Muster aller Feinheiten!" rief sie mit Bitterkeit aus. "Das war eine große Freiheit, die sie sich genommen hat." "Ich bin wohl selbst kein Vorbild - weder für diese Tugenden noch für andere. Der Fehler liegt so sehr bei mir wie bei ihr." Als Isabel ihn anschaute, schien es ihr, dass sein Kiefer noch nie so markant gewesen war. Das hätte ihr missfallen können, aber sie nahm einen anderen Weg. "Nein, es ist nicht so sehr dein Fehler wie ihrer. Was du getan hast, war unvermeidlich, nehme ich an." "In der Tat war es das!" rief Caspar Goodwood mit einem freiwilligen Lachen aus. "Und jetzt, da ich gekommen bin, darf ich zumindest bleiben?" "Du kannst dich sicher setzen." Sie ging wieder in ihren Stuhl zurück, während ihr Besucher den ersten Platz einnahm, der sich anbot, in der Art eines Mannes, der sich daran gewöhnt hatte, dieser Art von Gefälligkeiten wenig Beachtung zu schenken. "Ich habe jeden Tag gehofft, eine Antwort auf meinen Brief zu bekommen. Du hättest mir ein paar Zeilen schreiben können." "Es war nicht die Mühe des Schreibens, die mich davon abgehalten hat; ich hätte dir genauso leicht vier Seiten schreiben können wie eine. Aber mein Schweigen war Absicht", sagte Isabel. "Ich dachte, es sei das Beste." Er saß da und starrte sie an, während sie sprach; dann senkte er den Blick und heftete ihn an einen Punkt auf dem Teppich, als würde er eine große Anstrengung unternehmen, nichts zu sagen, außer dem, was er sollte. Er war ein starker Mann im Unrecht und er war klug genug, zu erkennen, dass eine kompromisslose Darstellung seiner Stärke nur die Falschheit seiner Position hervorheben würde. Isabel war durchaus dazu fähig, irgendeinen Vorteil in ihrer Position gegenüber einer Person dieses Kalibers zu genießen, und obwohl sie wenig darauf bedacht war, es ihm ins Gesicht zu sagen, konnte sie es genießen, sagen zu können "Du weißt, dass du mir nicht selbst schreiben dürftest!" und es mit einem Triumph in der Stimme zu sagen. Caspar Goodwood richtete seine Augen wieder auf ihre eigenen; sie schienen durch das Visier eines Helms zu leuchten. Er hatte einen starken Gerechtigkeitssinn und war jederzeit bereit, über seine Rechte zu debattieren – über all das hinaus. "Du hast gesagt, dass du hofftest, nie wieder etwas von mir zu hören; das weiß ich. Aber ich habe eine solche Regel nie akzeptiert. Ich habe dich davor gewarnt, dass du sehr bald von mir hören würdest." "Ich habe nicht gesagt, dass ich hoffe, NIE wieder etwas von dir zu hören", sagte Isabel. "Nicht für fünf Jahre dann; für zehn Jahre; zwanzig Jahre. Das ist dasselbe." "Siehst du das so? Mir scheint, da gibt es einen großen Unterschied. Ich kann mir vorstellen, dass wir nach zehn Jahren eine sehr angenehme Korrespondenz haben könnten. Ich werde meinen Briefstil gereift haben." Sie sah weg, während sie diese Worte sprach, wissend, dass sie von so viel weniger Ernsthaftigkeit waren als das Gesicht ihres Zuhörers. Ihre Augen kehrten ihm jedoch schließlich zurück, gerade als er sehr unpassend sagte: "Genießt du deinen Besuch bei deinem Onkel?" "Sehr, sehr gerne." Sie setzte ab, brach aber dann aus. "Welchen Nutzen erwartest du dir davon, darauf zu bestehen?" "Den Vorteil, dich nicht zu verlieren." "Du hast kein Recht zu sagen, dass etwas, was nicht dir gehört, verloren geht. Und selbst aus deiner eigenen Sicht solltest du wissen, wann du einen allein lassen sollst." "Ich verabscheue dich sehr", sagte Caspar Goodwood düster, nicht um Mitleid für einen Mann zu provozieren, der sich dieses verheerenden Faktums bewusst war, sondern um es deutlich vor sich selbst darzustellen, damit er versuchen könnte, danach zu handeln. "Ja, du erfreust mich überhaupt nicht, du passt überhaupt nicht, in keiner Weise, im Moment, und das Schlimmste ist, "Für was wurde eine solche Anstrengung unternommen?" Und dann, während sie zögerte, "Ich bin zu nichts fähig, was dich betrifft", fuhr er fort, "außer dich unglaublich zu lieben. Wenn man stark ist, liebt man nur umso stärker." "Da ist schon etwas dran." Und unsere junge Dame spürte die Kraft davon tatsächlich - fühlte, wie sie inmitten von Wahrheit und Poesie abgeworfen wurde, als praktisch einen Köder für ihre Phantasie. Aber sie kam schnell wieder zur Vernunft. "Denk an mich oder nicht, wie du es für das Beste hältst; lass mich einfach in Ruhe." "Bis wann?" "Nun, für ein Jahr oder zwei." "Was meinst du damit? Zwischen einem und zwei Jahren liegt ein gewaltiger Unterschied." "Nennen wir es zwei", sagte Isabel mit einer studierten Wirkung von Eifer. "Und was gewinne ich damit?" fragte ihr Freund ohne Anzeichen von Zögern. "Du würdest mir damit einen großen Gefallen tun." "Und was wäre mein Lohn?" "Brauchst du eine Belohnung für eine großzügige Tat?" "Ja, wenn es mit einer großen Opferbereitschaft verbunden ist." "Es gibt keine Großzügigkeit ohne Opfer. Männer verstehen solche Dinge nicht. Wenn du das Opfer bringst, wirst du all meine Bewunderung haben." "Ich interessiere mich keinen Cent für deine Bewunderung - nicht einen Strohhalm, ohne dass dafür etwas zu sehen ist. Wann wirst du mich heiraten? Das ist die einzige Frage." "Nie - wenn du weiterhin dafür sorgst, dass ich mich nur so fühle, wie ich mich im Moment fühle." "Was gewinne ich dann damit, nicht zu versuchen, dich anders fühlen zu lassen?" "Du wirst genauso viel gewinnen wie durch das Quälen, bis ich sterbe!" Caspar Goodwood senkte erneut seinen Blick und starrte eine Weile in die Krone seines Huts. Ein tiefes Erröten breitete sich in seinem Gesicht aus; sie konnte sehen, dass ihre Schärfe endlich durchgedrungen war. Das hatte für sie sofort einen Wert - klassisch, romantisch, erlösend, was wusste sie? - "der starke Mann in Schmerzen" war eine der Kategorien des menschlichen Eindrucks, wie wenig Charme er auch in einem konkreten Fall ausüben mochte. "Warum bringst du mich dazu, dir solche Dinge zu sagen?" rief sie mit zitternder Stimme aus. "Ich möchte nur sanft sein - gründlich freundlich sein. Es ist nicht angenehm für mich, wenn Leute sich um mich kümmern und ich sie trotzdem davon überzeugen muss, dass es nicht stimmt. Ich denke, andere sollten auch nachsichtig sein; wir müssen alle für uns selbst entscheiden. Ich weiß, dass du nachsichtig bist, so weit du kannst; du hast gute Gründe für das, was du tust. Aber ich möchte wirklich nicht heiraten oder überhaupt darüber sprechen. Ich werde es wahrscheinlich niemals tun - nein, niemals. Ich habe das vollkommen Recht, so zu fühlen, und es ist kein Akt der Güte, eine Frau so sehr zu bedrängen, sie gegen ihren Willen zu drängen. Wenn ich dir Schmerzen zufüge, kann ich nur sagen, dass es nicht meine Schuld ist. Ich kann dich nicht einfach heiraten, um dich zufriedenzustellen. Ich werde nicht sagen, dass ich für immer dein Freund bleiben werde, weil es, wenn Frauen das in solchen Situationen sagen, glaube ich, als eine Art Spott angesehen wird. Aber probiere es eines Tages mit mir." Während dieser Rede hatte Caspar Goodwood seine Augen auf den Namen seines Hutmachers gerichtet gehalten und es dauerte eine Weile, nachdem sie aufgehört hatte zu sprechen, bis er sie anhob. Als er das tat, warf der Anblick von Isabels rosiger, begeisterter Hingabe ihm einige Verwirrung in den Versuch, ihre Worte zu analysieren. "Ich werde nach Hause gehen - ich werde morgen gehen - ich werde dich in Ruhe lassen", brachte er schließlich heraus. "Nur", sagte er schwer, "es fällt mir schwer, dich aus den Augen zu verlieren!" "Fürchte dich nicht. Ich werde keinen Schaden anrichten." "Du wirst jemand anderen heiraten, da bin ich sicher", erklärte Caspar Goodwood. Denkst du, das ist eine großzügige Behauptung?" "Warum nicht? Viele Männer werden es versuchen." "Ich habe dir gerade gesagt, dass ich nicht heiraten möchte und dass ich es höchstwahrscheinlich nie tun werde." "Ich weiß, und ich mag dein 'höchstwahrscheinlich'! Ich glaube nicht an das, was du sagst." "Vielen Dank. Beschuldigst du mich des Lügens, um dich loszuwerden? Du sagst sehr feine Dinge." "Warum sollte ich das nicht sagen? Du hast mir kein Versprechen gegeben." "Nein, das wäre ja noch schöner!" "Vielleicht glaubst du sogar, dass du sicher bist - es nicht wünschen zu wollen. Aber das bist du nicht", fuhr der junge Mann fort, als würde er sich auf das Schlimmste vorbereiten. "Sehr gut. Dann nehmen wir an, ich bin nicht sicher. Habe es, wie du möchtest." "Ich weiß jedoch nicht, ob es mich davon abhalten würde, dich im Auge zu behalten." "Glaubst du das wirklich nicht? Ich habe immer noch sehr viel Angst vor dir. Glaubst du, ich lasse mich so leicht zufriedenstellen?" fragte sie plötzlich und änderte ihren Ton. "Nein, das glaube ich nicht; ich werde versuchen, mich damit zu trösten. Aber es gibt sicherlich eine bestimmte Anzahl von sehr faszinierenden Männern auf der Welt, und wenn es nur einen gäbe, wäre es genug. Der faszinierendste von allen wird direkt auf dich zugehen. Du wirst sicher niemanden nehmen, der nicht faszinierend ist." "Wenn du mit faszinierend brilliant intelligent meinst", sagte Isabel, "und ich kann mir nicht vorstellen, was du sonst meinst, brauche ich nicht die Hilfe eines intelligenten Mannes, um mir beizubringen, wie man lebt. Das kann ich selbst herausfinden." "Finde heraus, wie man alleine lebt? Ich wünsche mir, dass du mir das beibringst, wenn du es getan hast!" Sie sah ihn einen Moment an; dann mit einem schnellen Lächeln: "Oh, du solltest heiraten!" sagte sie. Man könnte ihm verzeihen, wenn ihm für einen Augenblick diese Äußerung wie die Hölle vorkam, und es ist nicht überliefert, dass ihr Motiv für diesen Schuss besonders klar gewesen war. Er sollte jedoch nicht so herumstolzieren, mager und hungrig - das empfand sie sicher für ihn. "Gott verzeih dir!" murmelte er zwischen den Zähnen, als er sich abwandte. Ihr Akzent hatte sie leicht ins Unrecht gesetzt, und nach einem Moment verspürte sie das Bedürfnis, das wieder auszugleichen. Der einfachste Weg, dies zu tun, war, ihn dorthin zu stellen, wo sie gewesen war. "Du gibst mir sehr wenig Gerechtigkeit - nachdem ich dir gerade erzählt habe, was ich dir gerade erzählt habe. Es tut mir leid, dass ich es dir erzählt habe - da es dir so wenig wichtig ist." "Ah", rief der junge Mann, "wenn du dabei an MICH gedacht hast!" Und dann unterbrach er sich mit der Befürchtung, dass sie ein so glücklicher Gedanke widersprechen könnte. "Ich habe ein bisschen an dich gedacht", sagte Isabel. "Etwas? Ich verstehe nicht. Wenn die Kenntnis dessen, was ich für dich empfinde, überhaupt Gewicht gehabt hätte, ist es erbärmlich, es als 'etwas' zu bezeichnen." Isabel schüttelte den Kopf, als würde sie einen Fehler überspielen wollen. "Ich habe einen sehr freundlichen, edlen Herrn abgelehnt. Sei froh darüber." "Dann danke ich dir", sagte Caspar Goodwood ernsthaft. "Ich danke dir sehr." "Und jetzt solltest du lieber nach Hause gehen." "Darf ich dich nicht wiedersehen?" fragte er. "Ich denke, es ist besser nicht. Du wirst bestimmt davon sprechen und du siehst, es führt zu nichts." "Ich verspreche dir, kein Wort zu sagen, das dich stören würde." Isabel überlegte und antwortete dann: "Ich kehre in ein oder zwei Tagen zu meinem Onkel zurück und ich kann dir nicht vorschlagen, dorthin zu kommen. Das wäre zu inkonsistent." Caspar Goodwood überlegte auf seiner Seite. "Du solltest mir auch gerecht sein. Ich habe vor mehr als einer Woche eine Einladung von deinem Onkel erhalten und abgelehnt." Sie zeigte Überraschung. "Von wem kam deine Einladung?" "Von Herrn Ralph Touchett, von dem ich annehme, dass er dein Cousin ist. Ich habe sie abgelehnt, weil ich nicht deine Erlaubnis hatte, sie anzunehmen. Der Vorschlag, dass Herr Touchett mich einladen sollte, schien von Miss Stackpole gekommen zu sein." "Das ist definitiv nie von mir gekommen. Henrietta geht wirklich zu weit", fügte Isabel hinzu. "Sei nicht zu hart zu ihr - das betrifft mich." "Nein, wenn du abgelehnt hast, hast du absolut recht gehandelt und ich danke dir dafür." Und sie schauerte leicht vor Entsetzen bei dem Gedanken, dass Lord Warburton und Herr Goodwood sich in Gardencourt hätten treffen können: Das wäre so unangenehm für Lord Warburton gewesen. "Wohin gehst du, wenn du deinen Onkel verlässt?", fragte ihr Begleiter. "Ich gehe mit meiner Tante ins Ausland - nach Florenz und andere Orte." Die Gelassenheit dieser Ankündigung traf das Herz des jungen Mannes wie ein Schlag; er schien sie in Kreisen verwirbelt zu sehen, von denen er unerbittlich ausgeschlossen war. Dennoch machte er schnell mit seinen Fragen weiter. "Wann kommst du zurück nach Amerika?" "Vielleicht für eine lange Zeit nicht. Ich bin hier sehr glücklich." "Willst du dein Land aufgeben?" "Sei nicht kindisch!" "Nun, du wirst wirklich nicht mehr in meinen Augen sein!" sagte Caspar Goodwood. "Ich weiß es nicht", antwortete sie eher großartig. "Die Welt - mit all diesen Orten, die so angeordnet und so nah beieinander liegen - erscheint einem als ziemlich klein." "Das ist eindeutig zu groß für MICH!" rief Caspar mit einer Einfachheit aus, die unser junges Mädchen berührt haben könnte, wenn ihre Miene nicht gegen Zugeständnisse gewesen wäre. Diese Haltung war Teil eines Systems, einer Theorie, die sie kürzlich übernommen hatte, und um gründlich zu sein, sagte sie nach einem Moment: "Glaub mir nicht unhöflich, wenn ich sage, genau das - nicht in deinem Blickfeld zu sein - mag ich. Wenn du am selben Ort wärst, würde ich das Gefühl haben, du würdest mich beobachten, und das mag ich nicht - ich schätze meine Freiheit zu sehr. Wenn es etwas auf der Welt gibt, das ich mag", fuhr sie mit einer leichten Rückkehr zur Größe fort, "dann ist es meine persönliche Unabhängigkeit." Aber was auch immer an Überlegenem in dieser Rede sein mochte, beeindruckte Caspar Goodwoods Bewunderung; da war nichts, worüber er sich in ihrer großen Haltung ärgerte. Er hatte nie angenommen, dass sie keine Flügel und kein Bedürfnis nach schönen freien Bewegungen hatte - mit seinen eigenen langen Armen und Schritten fürchtete er sich vor keiner Kraft in ihr. Isabels Worte, wenn sie ihn schockieren sollten, verfehlten ihr Ziel und ließen ihn nur mit dem Gefühl lächeln, dass hier gemeinsamer Boden war. "Wer würde weniger deiner Unabhängigkeit einschränken wollen als ich? Was könnte mir mehr Freude bereiten, als dich vollkommen unabhängig zu sehen - alles zu tun, was du möchtest? Es ist, um dich unabhängig zu machen, dass ich dich heiraten möchte." "Das ist ein schönes Sophisma", sagte das Mädchen mit einem noch schöneren Lächeln. "Eine unverheiratete Frau - ein Mädchen in deinem Alter - ist nicht unabhängig. Es gibt alle möglichen Dinge, die sie nicht tun kann. Sie wird bei jedem Schritt behindert." "So sieht sie die Frage", antwortete Isabel mit viel Elan. "Ich bin nicht in meiner Jugend - ich kann tun, was ich will - ich gehöre vollkommen zur unabhängigen Klasse. Ich habe weder Vater noch Mutter; ich bin arm und habe einen ernsten Charakter; ich bin nicht hübsch. Deshalb bin ich nicht verpflichtet, ängstlich und konventionell zu sein; ich kann mir solche Luxusgegenstände nicht leisten. Außerdem versuche ich, Dinge selbst zu beurteilen; falsch zu urteilen, finde ich ehrenhafter als überhaupt nicht zu urteilen. Ich möchte nicht nur ein Schaf in der Herde sein; ich möchte mein Schicksal wählen und etwas über menschliche Angelegenheiten wissen, über das andere denken, dass es mit Anstand zu erzählen sei." Sie pausierte einen Moment, aber nicht lange genug für ihren Begleiter, um zu antworten. Er schien offensichtlich kurz davor zu sein, es zu tun, als sie fortfuhr: "Lass mich das zu dir sagen, Herr Goodwood. Du bist so freundlich, Angst vor meiner Heirat zu haben. Wenn du ein Gerücht über mich hören solltest, dass ich dabei bin zu heiraten - es wird solche Dinge über Mädchen gesagt - denke daran, was ich dir über meine Liebe zur Freiheit erzählt habe und wage es zu bezweifeln." Es lag etwas leidenschaftlich Bestimmtes in dem Ton, in dem sie ihm diesen Rat gab, und er sah ein strahlendes Aufrichtigkeit in ihren Augen, die ihm half, ihr zu glauben. Alles in allem fühlte er sich beruhigt, und man hätte es an seiner Art sehen können, mit der er ganz eifrig sagte: "Du möchtest einfach nur zwei Jahre lang reisen? Ich bin absolut bereit, zwei Jahre zu warten, und du kannst in der Zwischenzeit tun, was du willst. Wenn das alles ist, was du willst, sage es bitte. Ich möchte nicht, dass du konventionell bist; halte ich dich für konventionell? Möchtest du deinen Geist erweitern? Dein Geist ist gut genug für mich; aber wenn es dich interessiert, eine Weile umherzuziehen und verschiedene Länder zu sehen, werde ich mich freuen, dich auf jede erdenkliche Weise zu unterstützen, die in meiner Macht steht." "Du bist sehr großzügig; das ist mir nichts Neues. Die beste Art, mir zu helfen, wird sein, so viele hundert Meilen Meer zwischen uns zu bringen wie möglich." "Man würde denken, du würdest eine Abscheulichkeit begehen!", sagte Caspar Goodwood. "Vielleicht tue ich das. Ich möchte sogar frei sein, das zu tun, wenn es mir in den Sinn kommt." "Nun gut", sagte er langsam, "ich werde jetzt gehen." Und er streckte seine Hand aus und versuchte, zufrieden und zuversichtlich auszusehen. Isabels Vertrauen in ihn war jedoch größer als das, was er für sie empfinden konnte. Nicht dass er glaubte, dass sie zu einer Abscheulichkeit fähig war; aber egal wie sehr er es drehte und wendete, es war etwas Bedrohliches daran, wie sie ihre Option offenhielt. Als sie seine Hand nahm, verspürte sie großen Respekt für ihn; sie wusste, wie sehr er um sie besorgt war, und sie hielt ihn für großmütig. Sie standen einen Moment so, schauten sich an, vereint durch einen Handgriff, der auf ihrer Seite nicht nur passiv war. "Das ist gut", sagte sie sehr freundlich und fast zärtlich. "Du wirst nichts verlieren, wenn du ein vernünftiger Mann bist." "Aber ich komme wieder, egal wo du bist, in zwei Jahren", antwortete er mit charakteristischer Schroffheit. Wir haben gesehen, dass unsere junge Dame inkonsequent war, und plötzlich änderte sie ihre Meinung. "Ah, denke daran, ich Sie betete nicht; sie bebte - bebte am ganzen Körper. Vibration war leicht für sie, war in der Tat zu konstant bei ihr, und sie fand sich jetzt vor sich hin summend wie eine getroffene Harfe. Sie wollte nur die Decke auflegen, sich wieder in braunen Stoff hüllen, aber sie wollte ihre Aufregung bekämpfen, und die Haltung der Hingabe, die sie eine Zeit lang beibehielt, schien ihr zu helfen, still zu sein. Sie freute sich intensiv darüber, dass Caspar Goodwood gegangen war. Es gab etwas in dem Wiederloswerden von ihm, das wie die Bezahlung für einen abgestempelten Schuldschein war, der ihr zu lange auf dem Herzen lag. Als sie diese Erleichterung spürte, senkte sie den Kopf etwas tiefer; das Gefühl pochte in ihrem Herzen; es war Teil ihrer Emotion, aber etwas, wofür sie sich schämte - es war profan und am falschen Ort. Erst nach etwa zehn Minuten stand sie von den Knien auf, und selbst als sie ins Wohnzimmer zurückkehrte, hatte ihr Zittern nicht ganz nachgelassen. Es hatte tatsächlich zwei Ursachen: Ein Teil davon war durch ihre lange Diskussion mit Herrn Goodwood zu erklären, aber der Rest könnte einfach das Vergnügen gewesen sein, das sie am Ausüben ihrer Macht fand. Sie setzte sich wieder in den gleichen Stuhl und nahm ihr Buch zur Hand, aber ohne es tatsächlich aufzuschlagen. Sie lehnte sich zurück und machte dabei dieses leise, sanfte, aufragende Murmeln, mit dem sie oft auf Vorfälle reagierte, von denen die positiven Seiten nicht offensichtlich waren, und gab sich der Genugtuung hin, innerhalb von zwei Wochen zwei leidenschaftlichen Verehrern abgesagt zu haben. Diese Liebe zur Freiheit, von der sie Caspar Goodwood so eine kühne Skizze gegeben hatte, war bislang fast ausschließlich theoretisch; sie hatte sich nicht im großen Stil ausleben können. Aber es schien ihr, als hätte sie etwas getan; sie hatte von der Freude gekostet, wenn auch nicht des Kampfes, so doch des Sieges; sie hatte getan, was ihrem Plan am treuesten war. Im Glanz dieses Bewusstseins erschien ihr die Vorstellung von Mr. Goodwood, wie er traurig durch die schmuddelige Stadt nach Hause ging, mit einer gewissen vorwurfsvollen Kraft; so dass sie in demselben Moment, als die Tür des Zimmers geöffnet wurde, aufstand und eine Befürchtung hatte, dass er zurückgekommen war. 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 besondere Durchdringungskraft. Sie ging ohne Begrüßung direkt auf ihre Freundin zu, die sie empfing, ohne sie anzusprechen. Isabels Begeisterung darüber, Caspar Goodwood nach Amerika zurückgeschickt zu haben, setzte voraus, dass sie in gewisser Weise froh war, dass er sie besucht hatte, aber gleichzeitig erinnerte sie sich nur zu gut daran, dass Henrietta kein Recht hatte, ihr eine Falle zu stellen. "War er hier, Liebes?" fragte diese letztere sehnsüchtig. Isabel wandte sich ab und antwortete einige Augenblicke lang nichts. "Du hast dich sehr falsch verhalten", erklärte sie schließlich. "Ich habe das Beste getan. Ich hoffe nur, du hast es genauso gut gemacht." "Du bist nicht die Richterin. Ich kann dir nicht vertrauen", sagte Isabel. Diese Erklärung war nicht schmeichelhaft, aber Henrietta war viel zu selbstlos, um die darin enthaltene Anschuldigung zu beachten; sie kümmerte sich nur um das, was sie in Bezug auf ihre Freundin bedeutete. "Isabel Archer", stellte sie mit gleicher Plötzlichkeit und Feierlichkeit fest, "wenn du einen dieser Leute heiratest, werde ich nie wieder mit dir sprechen!" "Ehe du so schreckliche Drohungen aussprichst, solltest du lieber warten, bis ich gefragt werde", antwortete Isabel. Da sie Miss Stackpole kein Wort über Lord Warburtons Avancen gesagt hatte, hatte sie jetzt keinerlei Impuls, sich Henrietta zu rechtfertigen, indem sie ihr erzählte, dass sie diesen Adligen abgelehnt hatte. "Oh, du wirst schnell gefragt werden, sobald du auf dem Kontinent bist. Annie Climber wurde dreimal in Italien gefragt - arme kleine schlichte Annie." "Nun, wenn Annie Climber nicht erobert wurde, warum sollte ich es dann werden?" "Ich glaube nicht, dass Annie gedrängt wurde; aber du wirst es sein." "Das ist überzeugend", sagte Isabel ohne Alarm. "Ich schmeichle dir nicht, Isabel, ich sage dir die Wahrheit!" rief ihre Freundin aus. "Ich hoffe, du willst mir nicht erzählen, dass du Herrn Goodwood keine Hoffnung gemacht hast." "Ich sehe nicht, warum ich dir irgendetwas erzählen sollte; wie ich dir gerade gesagt habe, kann ich dir nicht vertrauen. Aber da du so sehr an Herrn Goodwood interessiert bist, werde ich dir nicht verheimlichen, dass er sofort nach Amerika zurückkehrt." "Du willst mir nicht sagen, dass du ihn fortgeschickt hast?" schrie Henrietta fast. "Ich habe ihn gebeten, mich in Ruhe zu lassen; und ich bitte dich dasselbe, Henrietta." Miss Stackpole blitzte für einen Moment mit Bestürzung auf und ging dann zum Spiegel über dem Kaminsims und nahm ihren Hut ab. "Ich hoffe, du hast dein Abendessen genossen", fuhr Isabel fort. Aber ihre Begleiterin ließ sich nicht von oberflächlichen Vorschlägen ablenken. "Weißt du, wohin du treibst, Isabel Archer?" "Jetzt gehe ich zu Bett", sagte Isabel beharrlich oberflächlich. "Weißt du, wohin du treibst?" fragte Henrietta weiter und hielt ihren Hut empfindlich in die Höhe. "Nein, ich habe nicht die geringste Ahnung, und ich finde es sehr angenehm, es nicht zu wissen. Eine schnelle Kutsche, an einem dunklen Nachtabend, mit vier Pferden, die über Straßen rattern, die man nicht sehen kann - das ist mein Glücksgefühl." "Herr Goodwood hat Ihnen sicherlich nicht beigebracht, solche Dinge zu sagen - wie die Heldin eines unmoralischen Romans", sagte Miss Stackpole. "Du treibst auf einen großen Fehler zu." Isabel war von der Einmischung ihrer Freundin verärgert, aber sie versuchte immer noch, zu überlegen, welche Wahrheit diese Erklärung repräsentieren könnte. Ihr fiel nichts ein, was sie davon ablenken würde, zu sagen: "Du musst sehr viel Zuneigung für mich haben, Henrietta, um so zu aggressiv zu sein." "Ich liebe dich intensiv, Isabel", sagte Miss Stackpole mit Gefühl. "Nun, wenn du mich so intensiv liebst, dann lass mich ebenso intensiv in Ruhe. Das habe ich von Herrn Goodwood verlangt, und das muss ich auch von dir verlangen." "Pass auf, dass du nicht zu sehr in Ruhe gelassen wirst." Das hat Herr Goodwood auch zu mir gesagt. Ich habe ihm gesagt, dass ich die Risiken auf mich nehmen muss." "Du bist ein Risikofreudiger - du lässt es mich schaudern!" rief Henrietta. "Wann kehrt Herr Goodwood nach Amerika zurück?" "Ich weiß es nicht - er hat es mir nicht erzählt." "Vielleicht hast du nicht danach gefragt", sagte Henrietta mit einem protestierenden Unterton. "Ich habe ihm zu wenig Zufriedenheit gegeben, um Fragen an ihn stellen zu dürfen." Diese Aussage schien Miss Stackpole einen Moment lang so zu sein, dass sie sich jedem Kommentar zu widersetzen schien; aber schließlich rief sie aus: "Nun, Isabel, wenn ich dich nicht kennen würde, könnte ich denken, dass du herzlos bist!" "Sei vorsichtig", sagte Isabel, "du verdirbst mich." "Ich fürchte, das habe ich bereits getan "Ich habe beschlossen, zuerst den großartigen Arzt Sir Matthew Hope aufzusuchen", sagte Ralph. "Durch großes Glück ist er in der Stadt. Er wird mich um halb eins treffen, und ich werde sicherstellen, dass er nach Gardencourt kommt - was er bereitwillig tun wird, da er meinen Vater bereits mehrmals sowohl dort als auch in London gesehen hat. Es gibt einen Zug um 14.45 Uhr, den ich nehmen werde; und du wirst mit mir zurückkommen oder noch ein paar Tage hier bleiben, ganz wie du möchtest." "Ich werde bestimmt mit dir kommen", antwortete Isabel. "Ich glaube nicht, dass ich meinem Onkel irgendwie nützlich sein kann, aber wenn er krank ist, möchte ich in seiner Nähe sein." "Ich glaube, du magst ihn", sagte Ralph mit einem gewissen schüchternen Vergnügen in seinem Gesicht. "Du schätzt ihn, was die ganze Welt nicht getan hat. Die Qualität ist zu edel." "Ich verehre ihn regelrecht", sagte Isabel nach einem Moment. "Das ist sehr gut. Nach seinem Sohn ist er dein größter Bewunderer." Sie freute sich über diese Zusicherung, seufzte jedoch insgeheim erleichtert darüber, dass Herr Touchett einer dieser Bewunderer war, der nicht vorschlagen durfte, sie zu heiraten. Das war jedoch nicht das, was sie sagte; sie fuhr fort, Ralph darüber zu informieren, dass es andere Gründe gab, warum sie nicht in London bleiben wollte. Sie war es leid und wollte es verlassen; außerdem würde Henrietta wegfahren - sie würde in Bedfordshire bleiben. "In Bedfordshire?" "Bei Lady Pensil, der Schwester von Mr. Bantling, der für eine Einladung gesorgt hat." Ralph machte sich Sorgen, brach jedoch bei dieser Aussage in Gelächter aus. Plötzlich kehrte jedoch seine Ernsthaftigkeit zurück. "Bantling ist ein mutiger Mann. Aber was ist, wenn die Einladung unterwegs verloren geht?" "Ich dachte, die britische Post sei makellos." "Selbst dem guten Homer passieren manchmal Fehler", sagte Ralph. "Wie auch immer", fuhr er fröhlicher fort, "der gute Bantling nie, und was auch immer passiert, er wird auf Henrietta aufpassen." Ralph ging zu seinem Termin mit Sir Matthew Hope, und Isabel traf ihre Vorbereitungen, um das Pratt's Hotel zu verlassen. Die Gefahr ihres Onkels berührte sie zutiefst, und während sie vor ihrem geöffneten Koffer stand und sich unschlüssig umschaute, welche Dinge sie hineinlegen sollte, stiegen ihr plötzlich Tränen in die Augen. Aus diesem Grund war sie, als Ralph um zwei Uhr zurückkam, um sie zum Bahnhof zu bringen, noch nicht fertig. Er fand jedoch Miss Stackpole im Wohnzimmer, wo sie gerade von ihrem Mittagessen aufgestanden war, und diese Dame drückte sofort ihr Bedauern über die Erkrankung seines Vaters aus. "Er ist ein großartiger alter Mann", sagte sie. "Er ist bis zum Schluss treu geblieben. Wenn es wirklich das Ende ist - bitte verzeihen Sie den Hinweis darauf, aber Sie müssen oft an die Möglichkeit gedacht haben -, dann bedauere ich, dass ich nicht in Gardencourt sein werde." "Sie werden sich in Bedfordshire viel besser amüsieren." "Ich werde mich zu einer solchen Zeit nicht amüsieren", sagte Henrietta mit viel Anstand. Aber sie fügte sofort hinzu: "Ich möchte die abschließende Szene feiern." "Mein Vater könnte noch lange leben", sagte Ralph einfach. Dann wandte er sich fröhlicheren Themen zu und fragte Miss Stackpole nach ihrer eigenen Zukunft. Nun, da Ralph Probleme hatte, sprach sie ihn in einem gönnerhafteren Ton an und bedankte sich bei ihm dafür, dass er sie mit Mr. Bantling bekannt gemacht hatte. "Er hat mir genau die Dinge erzählt, die ich wissen möchte", sagte sie. "Alle Gesellschaftsthemen und alles über die königliche Familie. Ich kann nicht behaupten, dass das, was er mir über die königliche Familie erzählt, ihnen viel Ehre macht, aber er sagt, das ist nur meine eigene Art, es zu sehen. Nun, alles, was ich möchte, ist, dass er mir die Fakten gibt; ich kann sie schnell genug zusammenfügen, wenn ich sie erst einmal habe." Und sie fügte hinzu, dass Mr. Bantling so nett war, ihr zu versprechen, sie an diesem Nachmittag mitzunehmen. "Wohin will er dich bringen?" wagte Ralph zu fragen. "Zum Buckingham Palace. Er wird mir das zeigen, damit ich eine Vorstellung davon bekomme, wie sie dort leben." "Ah", sagte Ralph, "wir lassen dich in guten Händen zurück. Das Erste, was wir hören werden, ist, dass du zu Windsor Castle eingeladen wurdest." "Wenn sie mich fragen, werde ich bestimmt hingehen. Wenn ich erst einmal angefangen habe, habe ich keine Angst. Aber trotzdem", fügte Henrietta einen Moment später hinzu, "bin ich nicht zufrieden; ich habe keine Ruhe wegen Isabel." "Was ist ihr jüngstes Vergehen?" "Nun, ich habe es Ihnen schon einmal erzählt, und ich denke, es ist kein Schaden, wenn ich weitermache. Mr. Goodwood war gestern Abend hier." Ralph öffnete die Augen; er errötete sogar ein wenig - sein Erröten zeigte eine etwas akute Emotion an. Er erinnerte sich daran, dass Isabel, als sie sich in Winchester Square von ihm trennte, seinen Vorschlag, dass ihr Motiv dafür die Erwartung eines Besuchers im Pratt's Hotel war, zurückgewiesen hatte, und es war ein neuer Stich für ihn, sie des Vorgetäuschten verdächtigen zu müssen. Andererseits dachte er schnell, was ging es ihn an, ob sie ein Treffen mit einem Liebhaber arrangiert hatte? War es nicht stets in jedem Zeitalter als anmutig angesehen worden, dass junge Damen solche Treffen geheim hielten? Ralph gab Miss Stackpole eine diplomatische Antwort. "Ich hätte gedacht, dass dich das, angesichts deiner Ansichten, die du mir neulich mitgeteilt hast, vollkommen zufriedenstellen würde." "Dass er sie besuchen kommt? Das ist gut, soweit es geht. Es war ein kleines Komplott von mir; ich habe ihm mitgeteilt, dass wir in London sind, und als es vereinbart wurde, dass ich den Abend auswärts verbringen würde, habe ich ihm ein Wort geschickt - das Wort, das wir gerade 'weise' aussprechen. Ich hoffte, er würde sie alleine antreffen; ich werde nicht behaupten, dass ich nicht gehofft habe, dass Sie außer Haus sein würden. Er kam, um sie zu sehen, aber er hätte genauso gut fernbleiben können." "Ist Isabel grausam gewesen?" - und Ralphs Gesicht erhellte sich vor Erleichterung darüber, 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 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 würdest du es fühlen. 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 soll. Wenn ich nicht glauben würde, dass Isabel einlenken wird", fügte Miss Stackpole hinzu - "tja, dann würde ich selbst aufgeben. Ich meine, ich würde SIE aufgeben!" Es war Ralph aufgefallen, dass das Abschiednehmen von Isabels Freund unter den gegebenen Umständen leicht unangenehm sein könnte, und er ging vor seiner Cousine zur Tür des Hotels, die ihm mit einer Spur von unzufriedenem Protest, wie er dachte, in den Augen folgte. Die beiden legten den Weg nach Gardencourt nahezu schweigend zurück, und der Diener, der sie am Bahnhof empfing, hatte keine besseren Nachrichten über Mr. Touchett, worüber sich Ralph erneut freute, dass Sir Matthew Hope versprochen hatte, mit dem fünf Uhr Zug herunterzukommen und die Nacht zu verbringen. Frau Touchett war, wie Ralph erfuhr, seit ihrer Rückkehr ständig beim alten Herrn und befand sich in dem Moment sogar bei ihm; und diese Tatsache ließ Ralph zu dem Schluss kommen, dass das, was seine Mutter wollte, nur eine einfache Gelegenheit war. Die feineren Naturen waren diejenigen, die in den größeren Zeiten strahlten. Isabel ging in ihr eigenes Zimmer und bemerkte im ganzen Haus die spürbare Stille, die einer Krise vorausgeht. Nach einer Stunde kam sie jedoch auf der Suche nach ihrer Tante die Treppe hinunter, denn sie wollte etwas über Mr. Touchett fragen. Sie ging in die Bibliothek, aber Frau Touchett war nicht da, und da das Wetter, das zuvor feucht und kühl gewesen war, jetzt völlig verdorben war, war es unwahrscheinlich, dass sie ihren üblichen Spaziergang im Garten gemacht hatte. Isabel wollte gerade klingeln, um eine Frage an ihr Zimmer zu schicken, als dieser Zweck schnell einem unerwarteten Klang wich - dem Klang leiser Musik, die scheinbar aus dem Salon kam. Sie wusste, dass ihre Tante nie das Klavier berührte, und der Musiker war daher wahrscheinlich Ralph, der für sein eigenes Vergnügen spielte. Dass er sich zu dieser Zeit dieser Beschäftigung zugewandt hatte, deutete anscheinend darauf hin, dass seine Sorge um seinen Vater nachgelassen hatte. Das Mädchen machte sich also fast mit wiederhergestellter Fröhlichkeit auf den Weg zur Quelle der Harmonie. Das Wohnzimmer in Gardencourt war ein Raum von großer Weite, und da das Klavier am Ende des Raumes 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 Fremde erkannte, obwohl sie ihr den Rücken zukehrte. Diesen Rücken - einen ausladenden und gut gekleideten - betrachtete Isabel einige Augenblicke lang überrascht. Die Dame war natürlich eine Besucherin, die während ihrer Abwesenheit angekommen war und von keinem der Diener - darunter dem ihrer Tante - erwähnt worden war, mit denen sie seit ihrer Rückkehr gesprochen hatte. Isabel hatte jedoch bereits gelernt, mit welcher Zurückhaltung die Aufnahme von Bestellungen einhergehen kann, und sie war sich besonders bewusst, von der Magd ihrer Tante ziemlich kühl behandelt worden zu sein, durch deren Hände sie vielleicht ein wenig zu misstrauisch und mit einem Effekt von Schmuck, der umso glänzender war, hindurchgeglitten war. Die Ankunft eines Gastes selbst war alles andere als 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, wurde ihr bewusst, dass die Dame am Klavier bemerkenswert gut spielte. Sie spielte etwas von Schubert - Isabel wusste nicht was, erkannte aber Schubert - und sie berührte das Klavier mit einer ihr eigenen Gewandtheit. Es zeigte Geschicklichkeit, es zeigte Gefühl; Isabel setzte sich lautlos auf den nächstgelegenen Stuhl und wartete, bis das Stück zu Ende war. Als es vorbei war, verspürte sie einen starken Wunsch, der Spielerin zu danken, und stand auf, um dies zu tun, während sich die Fremde gleichzeitig schnell umdrehte, als wäre sie gerade erst ihrer Anwesenheit gewahr geworden. "Das ist sehr schön, und Ihr Spiel macht es noch schöner", sagte Isabel mit all dem jugendlichen Glanz, mit dem sie normalerweise eine wahrhaftige Begeisterung äußerte. "Du denkst also, ich habe Mr. Touchett nicht gestört?" Die Musikerin antwortete genauso süß wie dieses Kompliment es verdiente. "Das Haus ist so groß und sein Zimmer ist so weit entfernt, dass ich dachte, ich könnte es wagen, besonders da ich nur ganz, ganz leicht gespielt habe." "Sie ist eine Französin", sagte Isabel zu sich selbst; "sie sagt das, als ob sie Französin wäre." Und diese Vermutung machte die Besucherin für unsere spekulative Heldin interessanter. "Ich hoffe, es geht meinem Onkel gut", fügte Isabel hinzu. "Ich denke, dass es ihn wirklich aufheitern würde, solch schöne Musik zu hören." Die Dame lächelte und unterschied fein. "Ich fürchte, es gibt Momente im Leben, in denen Schubert uns nicht anspricht. Wir müssen jedoch zugeben, dass das unsere schlimmsten sind." "Ich fühle mich nicht in diesem Zustand", sagte Isabel. "Im Gegenteil, ich wäre so froh, wenn Sie noch etwas spielen würden." "Wenn es dir Freude bereitet - sehr gerne." Und diese entgegenkommende Person nahm wieder ihren Platz ein und spielte ein paar Akkorde, während Isabel sich näher an das Instrument setzte. Plötzlich hielt die Neuankömmling mit den Händen auf den Tasten inne, drehte sich halb um und sah über ihre Schulter. Sie war vierzig Jahre alt und nicht hübsch, obwohl ihr Ausdruck bezauberte. "Verzeihen 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 ihre interessierten Blicke über ihre Schulter. "Das ist sehr gut; wir sind Landsleute." Und dann begann sie erneut zu spielen. "Ah, dann ist sie doch keine Französin", murmelte Isabel; und da die gegenteilige Annahme sie romantisch gemacht hatte, hätte es den Anschein haben können, dass diese Offenbarung einen Abfall markiert hätte. Aber das war nicht der Fall; noch seltener als Französin zu sein, schien es auf solch interessante Weise Amerikanerin zu sein. Die Dame spielte auf die gleiche Weise wie zuvor, leise und feierlich, und während sie spielte, wurden die Schatten im Raum tiefer. Die Abenddämmerung des Herbstes setzte ein, und von ihrem Platz aus konnte Isabel den Regen sehen, der nun ernsthaft zu fallen begann, und wie der Wind die großen Bäume schüttelte. Schließlich, als die Musik aufgehört hatte, stand ihre Begleiterin auf, kam mit einem Lächeln näher und sagte, bevor Isabel Zeit hatte, ihr erneut zu danken: "Ich bin sehr froh, dass du zurückgekommen bist; ich habe viel über dich gehört." Isabel fand sie eine sehr attraktive Person, sprach jedoch trotzdem mit einer gewissen Abruptheit als Reaktion auf diese Aussage. "Von wem hast du von mir gehört?" Die Fremde zögerte einen Moment und antwortete dann: "Von deinem Onkel. Ich bin seit drei Tagen hier, und am ersten Tag hat er mich kommen und ihn in seinem Zimmer besuchen lassen. Seitdem hat er ununterbrochen von dir gesprochen." "Da Sie mich nicht kannten, muss das Sie ziemlich gelangweilt haben." "Es hat mich dazu gebracht, dich kennenlernen zu wollen. Umso mehr, als seitdem - da deine Tante so viel mit Mr. Touchett beschäftigt ist - ich ganz alleine war und meines eigenen Gesellschaftslebens ziem "Sie ist zu sehr von Geheimnissen fasziniert", sagte Mrs. Touchett. "Das ist ihr großes Manko." "Ah", rief Madame Merle aus, "ich habe große Fehler, aber ich denke nicht, dass das einer von ihnen ist; es ist sicher nicht der größte. Ich bin im Brooklyn-Marinehafen geboren. Mein Vater war ein hoher Offizier in der United States Navy und hatte damals eine verantwortungsvolle Position in dieser Einrichtung. Ich sollte vielleicht das Meer lieben, aber ich hasse es. Deshalb kehre ich nicht nach Amerika zurück. Ich liebe das Land; das Wichtige ist, etwas zu lieben." Isabel, als eine objektive Beobachterin, war nicht beeindruckt von der Art und Weise, wie Mrs. Touchett die Besucherin beschrieben hatte. Diese hatte ein ausdrucksstarkes, mitteilendes und reaktionsfreudiges Gesicht, das keineswegs eine heimliche Disposition nahelegte, wie Isabel meinte. Es war ein Gesicht, das von einer Naturfülle und schnellen und freien Bewegungen zeugte und obwohl es keine regelmäßige Schönheit besaß, äußerst charmant und anziehend war. Madame Merle war eine große, blonde, wohlgeformte Frau; alles an ihr war rund und üppig, aber ohne die Anhäufungen, die auf Schwere hindeuten. Ihre Gesichtszüge waren kräftig, aber in perfektem Verhältnis und Einklang, und ihr Hautbild hatte eine gesunde Klarheit. Ihre grauen Augen waren klein, aber voller Licht und unfähig zur Dummheit – nach Meinung einiger Menschen sogar unfähig zu Tränen; sie hatte einen großzügigen, vollen Mund, der sich beim Lächeln auf die linke Seite hinaufzog, was die meisten Leute sehr eigen, einige sehr gekünstelt und ein paar wenige sehr anmutig fanden. Isabel neigte dazu, sie in die letzte Kategorie einzureihen. Madame Merle hatte dickes, blondes Haar, das auf "klassische" Weise frisiert war, und Isabel schätzte, dass sie wie eine Büste aussah – eine Juno oder eine Niobe; und große weiße Hände von perfekter Form, einer Form, die so perfekt war, dass ihre Besitzerin sie, im Gegensatz zu modeschmuckbesessenen Ringen, unverziert ließ. Wie wir bereits gesehen haben, hatte Isabel sie zuerst für eine Französin gehalten; aber nach genauerer Beobachtung hätte man sie wohl als Deutsche einstufen können – eine Deutsche von hohem Stand, vielleicht eine Österreicherin, eine Baronin, eine Gräfin, eine Prinzessin. Man hätte sicherlich nie vermutet, dass sie im Brooklyn auf die Welt gekommen war – obwohl man zweifellos keine überzeugenden Argumente für die These hätte liefern können, dass das Ansehen, das sie in so hohem Maße auszeichnete, mit einer solchen Herkunft unvereinbar wäre. Es war wahr, dass das Wappenschild der Nation unmittelbar über ihrer Wiege gehangen hatte, und der frische Wind der Sterne und Streifen hätte einen Einfluss auf die Haltung haben können, die sie damals gegenüber dem Leben eingenommen hatte. Und doch hatte sie offensichtlich nichts von der flatternden, flatterhaften Qualität eines Stückchens Wimpel im Wind; ihre Art drückte die Ruhe und das Vertrauen aus, die von einer großen Erfahrung herrühren. Erfahrung hatte jedoch ihre Jugend nicht erstickt; sie hatte sie einfach nur mitfühlend und anpassungsfähig gemacht. Kurz gesagt handelte es sich um eine Frau mit starken Impulsen, die in bemerkenswerter Ordnung gehalten wurden. Diese Kombination erschien Isabel als ideal. Das Mädchen machte sich diese Gedanken, während die drei Damen beim Tee saßen, aber diese Zeremonie wurde bald durch die Ankunft des großen Londoner Arztes unterbrochen, der sofort ins Wohnzimmer geleitet 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 Aussicht, mehr von dieser interessanten Frau zu sehen, milderte Isabels Gefühl der Traurigkeit, das sich nun über Gardencourt legte. Als sie vor dem Abendessen ins Wohnzimmer kam, fand sie den Raum leer, aber nach kurzer Zeit kam Ralph an. Seine Sorge um seinen Vater hatte nachgelassen; Sir Matthew Hope's Einschätzung seines Zustands war weniger pessimistisch als seine eigene gewesen. Der Arzt empfahl, dass der Pfleger in den nächsten drei oder vier Stunden allein bei dem alten Mann bleiben solle, so dass Ralph, seine Mutter und der große Arzt gemeinsam zu Abend essen konnten. Mrs. Touchett und Sir Matthew kamen; Madame Merle war die Letzte. Bevor sie kam, sprach Isabel mit Ralph, der vor dem Kamin stand. "Sag mal, wer ist diese Madame Merle?" "Die klügste Frau, die ich kenne, ganz zu schweigen von dir", sagte Ralph. "Ich fand sie wirklich sehr nett." "Ich war mir sicher, dass du sie sehr nett 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 war. Niemand hat sie eingeladen. Sie ist eine Freundin meiner Mutter, und kurz nachdem du und ich in die Stadt gefahren waren, bekam meine Mutter eine Notiz von ihr. Sie war nach England gekommen (normalerweise lebt sie im Ausland, obwohl sie eine gute Zeit hier verbracht hat), und bat um Erlaubnis, für ein paar Tage herunterzukommen. Sie ist eine Frau, die solche Vorschläge voller Vertrauen machen kann; sie ist überall willkommen. Und bei meiner Mutter gab es keine Frage des Zögerns; sie ist die einzige Person auf der Welt, die meine Mutter sehr bewundert. Wenn sie nicht sie wäre (was sie letztendlich viel lieber ist), würde sie gerne Madame Merle sein. Das wäre in der Tat eine große Veränderung." "Nun, sie ist wirklich charmant", sagte Isabel. "Und sie spielt wunderschön." "Sie macht alles wunderbar. Sie ist vollkommen." Isabel betrachtete ihren Cousin einen Moment lang. "Du magst sie nicht." "Im Gegenteil, ich war einmal in sie verliebt." "Und sie hatte kein Interesse an dir, und deshalb magst du sie nicht." "Wie können wir über solche Dinge sprechen? Monsieur Merle lebte damals." "Ist er jetzt tot?" "So sagt sie." "Glaubst du ihr nicht?" "Doch, denn die Aussage stimmt mit der Wahrscheinlichkeit überein. Der Ehemann von Madame Merle würde wahrscheinlich verstorben sein." Isabel starrte ihren Cousin erneut an. "Ich weiß nicht, was du meinst. Du meinst etwas – das du nicht meinst. Was war Monsieur Merle?" "Der Ehemann von Madame." "Du bist sehr widerlich. Hat sie Kinder?" "Kein kleinstes Kind – zum Glück." "Zum Glück?" "Ich meine, zum Glück für das Kind. Sie würde es sicherlich verderben." Isabel war anscheinend kurz davor, ihrem Cousin zum dritten Mal zu versichern, dass er widerlich sei; aber die Diskussion wurde durch die Ankunft der Dame, um die es ging, unterbrochen. Sie kam schnell herein und entschuldigte sich dafür, dass sie zu spät war, während sie ein Armband befestigte. Sie war in dunkelblauem Satin gekleidet, das ein weißes Dekolleté freilegte, das vergeblich von einer merkwürdigen silbernen Halskette bedeckt wurde. Ralph bot ihr seinen Arm an und gab sich absichtlich übertrieben wachsam als Mann, der nicht mehr verliebt ist. Selbst wenn er noch in dieser Verfassung gewesen wäre, hatte Ralph jedoch andere Dinge im Kopf. Der große Arzt verbrachte die Nacht in Gardencourt und kehrte am nächsten Tag nach London zurück, nach weiteren Konsultationen mit Mr. Touchet "Es wird keine Notwendigkeit geben, es zu leugnen, wenn du es nicht sagst", antwortete der alte Mann. "Warum sollten wir uns gerade am Ende hinlenken? Wir haben nie gelogen. Irgendwann muss ich sterben und es ist besser, krank zu sterben als gesund. Ich bin sehr krank - so krank wie ich jemals sein werde. Ich hoffe, du willst beweisen, dass es noch schlimmer wird als das hier? Das wäre zu schade. Du willst 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 alleine für die Pflege verantwortlich, nachdem er gerade Mrs. Touchett abgelöst hatte, die seit dem Abendessen aufmerksam gewesen war. Der Raum war nur vom flackernden Feuer beleuchtet, das in letzter Zeit notwendig geworden war, und Ralphs großer Schatten wurde über Wand und Decke geworfen, mit einer ständig wechselnden, aber immer grotesken Silhouette. "Wer ist das bei mir - ist es mein Sohn?" fragte der alte Mann. "Ja, es ist dein Sohn, Papa." "Und ist da niemand anders?" "Niemand sonst." Mr. Touchett schwieg eine Weile; und dann fuhr er fort: "Ich möchte ein wenig reden." "Wird es dich nicht anstrengen?" wandte Ralph ein. "Es spielt keine Rolle, wenn es so ist. Ich werde lange ruhen. Ich möchte über DICH reden." Ralph hatte sich dem Bett genähert; er saß vorgebeugt, mit seiner Hand auf der seines Vaters. "Du solltest ein lebhafteres Thema wählen." "Du warst immer lebhaft; ich war stolz auf deine Lebhaftigkeit. Ich würde mich sehr freuen, wenn du etwas unternehmen würdest." "Wenn du uns verlässt", sagte Ralph, "werde ich nichts tun außer dich vermissen." "Das ist genau das, was ich nicht will; es ist das, worüber ich reden möchte. Du musst ein neues Interesse finden." "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 betrachtete seinen Sohn; sein Gesicht war das Gesicht eines Sterbenden, aber seine Augen waren die Augen von Daniel Touchett. Es schien, als würde er Ralphs Interessen abwägen. "Natürlich hast du deine Mutter", sagte er schließlich. "Du wirst dich um sie kümmern." "Meine Mutter wird immer auf sich selbst aufpassen", erwiderte Ralph. "Nun", sagte sein Vater, "vielleicht wird sie, wenn sie älter wird, ein wenig Hilfe brauchen." "Ich werde das nicht sehen. Sie wird mich überleben." "Sehr wahrscheinlich wird sie das; aber das ist kein Grund--!" Herr Touchett ließ seinen Satz in einem hilflosen, aber nicht ganz quengelnden Seufzer verklingen und schwieg wieder. "Sorg dich nicht um uns", sagte sein Sohn, "meine Mutter und ich kommen gut miteinander aus, weißt du." "Ihr kommt gut miteinander aus, indem ihr euch immer voneinander fernhaltet; das ist nicht natürlich." "Wenn du uns verlässt, werden wir uns wahrscheinlich öfter sehen." "Nun", bemerkte der alte Mann mit abschweifender Unlogik, "man kann nicht sagen, dass mein Tod einen großen Unterschied im Leben deiner Mutter machen wird." "Es wird wahrscheinlich mehr ausmachen, als du denkst." "Nun, sie wird mehr Geld haben", sagte Mr. Touchett. "Ich habe ihr eine ordentliche Mitgift hinterlassen, als ob sie eine gute Ehefrau gewesen wäre." "Sie war eine, Papa, nach ihrer eigenen Theorie. Sie hat dir nie Kummer bereitet." "Einige Kummer sind angenehm", murmelte Mr. Touchett. "Die, die du mir bereitet hast zum Beispiel. Aber deine Mutter war weniger - weniger - wie soll ich es nennen? weniger aus der Bahn seit ich krank bin. Ich nehme an, sie weiß, dass ich es bemerkt habe." "Ich werde ihr das auf jeden Fall sagen; ich bin so froh, dass du es erwähnst." "Es wird für sie keinen Unterschied machen; sie tut es nicht, um mir einen Gefallen zu tun. Sie tut es, um - um -" Und er lag eine Weile da und versuchte zu überlegen, warum sie es tut. "Sie tut es, weil es ihr passt. Aber darum geht es nicht", fügte er hinzu. "Es geht um dich. Du wirst sehr gut versorgt sein." "Ja", sagte Ralph, "das weiß ich. Aber ich hoffe, du hast unsere Unterhaltung vor einem Jahr nicht vergessen - als ich dir genau gesagt habe, wie viel Geld ich brauchen würde und dich gebeten habe, den Rest sinnvoll zu nutzen." "Ja, ja, ich erinnere mich. Ich habe ein neues Testament gemacht - in ein paar Tagen. Ich nehme an, das war das erste Mal, dass so etwas passiert ist - ein junger Mann, der versucht, ein Testament gegen sich erstellen zu lassen." "Es ist nicht gegen mich", sagte Ralph. "Es wäre gegen mich, eine große Menge Geld zu verwalten. Es ist unmöglich für einen Mann in meinem Gesundheitszustand, viel Geld auszugeben, und genug ist so gut wie ein Festmahl." "Nun, du wirst genug haben - und noch etwas übrig. Es wird mehr als genug für einen sein - es wird genug für zwei geben." Das ist zu viel," sagte Ralph. "Ah, sag 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 seit langem Mr. Touchetts einfallsreichste Art, die positiveren Seiten von Ralphs möglichem Fortbestehen aufzuzeigen. Ralph hatte es normalerweise witzelnd behandelt: aber die gegenwärtigen Umstände verboten das Witzeleien. Er fiel einfach in seinen Stuhl zurück und erwiderte den flehenden Blick seines Vaters. "Wenn ich, mit einer Frau, die nicht sehr lieb zu mir war, ein sehr glückliches Leben hatte", sagte der alte Mann und trieb seine Einfallsreichtum noch weiter, "welch ein Leben könntest du dann haben, wenn du jemanden heiraten würdest, der anders ist als Mrs. Touchett. Es gibt mehr, die anders als sie sind, als solche, die ihr ähneln." Ralph sagte immer noch nichts und nach einer Pause fuhr sein Vater leise fort: "Was hältst du von deiner Cousine?" Daraufhin erschrak Ralph, traf die Frage mit einem gezwungenen Lächeln. "Verstehe ich dich richtig, dass du vorschlägst, dass ich Isabel heiraten soll?" "Nun, im Endeffekt kommt es darauf hinaus. Magst du Isabel?" "Ja, sehr", antwortete Ralph. Und Ralph stand von seinem Stuhl auf und schlenderte zum Feuer. Er stand einen Moment davor und beugte sich dann hinunter und rührte mechanisch darin herum. "Ich mag Isabel sehr", wiederholte er. "Nun", sagte sein Vater, "ich weiß, dass sie dich mag. Sie hat mir gesagt, wie sehr sie dich mag." "Hat sie bemerkt, 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 zu dir sein. Ich habe viel darüber nachgedacht." "Ich auch", sagte Ralph und kehrte wieder zum Bett zurück. "Ich habe keine Bedenken, das dir zu sagen." "Dann bist du in sie verliebt? Ich denke, du könntest es sein. Es ist, als wäre sie extra gekommen." "Nein, ich bin nicht in sie verliebt; aber ich wäre es, wenn - wenn bestimmte Dinge anders wären." "Ah, Dinge sind immer anders als sie sein könnten", sagte der alte Mann. "Wenn du darauf wartest, dass sie sich ändern, wirst du nie etwas tun. Ich weiß nicht, ob du es weißt", fuhr er fort. "Lieber Papa, das wird dich nur ermüden", sagte Ralph, der über die Hartnäckigkeit seines Vaters staunte und darüber, dass er die Stärke hatte, darauf zu bestehen. "Und was passiert dann mit uns allen?" "Was wird mit dir passieren, wenn ich nicht für dich sorge? Du wirst nichts mit der Bank zu tun haben und du wirst mich nicht haben, der sich um dich kümmert. Du sagst, du hast so viele Interessen; aber ich kann sie nicht nachvollziehen." Ralph lehnte sich mit verschränkten Armen in seinem Stuhl zurück; seine Augen waren einige Zeit in Meditation versunken. Schließlich mit dem Ausdruck eines Mannes, der sich mutig sammelt, sagte er: "Ich interessiere mich sehr für meine Cousine, aber nicht in der Art von Interesse, die du wünschst. Ich werde nicht mehr viele Jahre leben; aber ich hoffe, dass ich lange genug leben werde, um zu sehen, was sie mit sich selbst anfängt. 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 ein bisschen Wind in ihre Segel bringen." "Was meinst du damit?" "Ich möchte ihr die Möglichkeit geben, einige der Dinge zu tun, die sie möchte. Sie möchte zum Beispiel die Welt sehen. Ich möchte ihr Geld in die Hand geben." "Ach, das freut mich, dass du daran gedacht hast", sagte der alte Mann. "Aber ich habe auch daran gedacht. Ich habe ihr ein Erbe hinterlassen - fünftausend Pfund." "Das ist großartig; das ist sehr nett von dir. Aber ich möchte noch etwas mehr tun." Etwwas von der verborgenen Schärfe, mit der es Daniel Touchett zur Gewohnheit seines Lebens geworden war, einem finanziellen Vorschlag zuzuhören, verweilte noch in dem Gesicht, in dem der Kranke den Geschäftsmann nicht getilgt hatte. "Ich werde es gerne in Betracht ziehen", sagte er leise. "Isabel ist arm. Meine Mutter hat mir erzählt, dass sie nur ein paar hundert Dollar im Jahr hat. Ich möchte, dass sie reich ist." "Was meinst du mit reich?" "Ich nenne Menschen reich, wenn sie in der Lage sind, den Anforderungen ihrer Vorstellungskraft gerecht zu werden. Isabel hat viel Vorstellungskraft." "Du hast auch viel Vorstellungskraft, mein Sohn", sagte Mr. Touchett und hörte sehr aufmerksam, aber etwas verwirrt zu. "Du sagst mir, dass ich genug Geld für uns beide haben werde. Was ich möchte, ist, dass du mir freundlicherweise meinen Überfluss abnimmst und Isabel gibst. Teile mein Erbe in zwei gleiche Hälften und gib ihr die zweite." "Damit sie damit machen kann, was sie will?" "Absolut, was sie will." "Und ohne Gegenleistung?" "Was für eine Gegenleistung könnte es geben?" "Die, die ich bereits erwähnt habe." "Dass sie heiratet - irgendjemanden? Genau das möchte ich mit meinem Vorschlag verhindern. Wenn sie ein einfaches Einkommen hat, wird sie nie aus finanzieller Not heiraten müssen. Das möchte ich listig verhindern. 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 mich darum bittest. Das Geld wird dir gehören und du kannst es ihr leicht selbst geben." Ralph starrte offen. "Ach, lieber Vater, ich kann Isabel kein Geld anbieten!" Der alte Mann stöhnte. "Sag mir nicht, dass du nicht in sie verliebt bist! Willst du, dass ich dafür Anerkennung erhalte?" "Ganz genau. Ich möchte einfach nur, dass es ein Absatz in deinem Testament ist, ohne die geringste Bezugnahme auf mich." "Möchtest du, dass ich ein neues Testament mache?" "Ein paar Worte genügen; du kannst dich darum kümmern, wenn du das nächste Mal ein wenig lebhaft bist." "Dann musst du Mr. Hilary telegrafieren. Ich werde nichts ohne meinen Anwalt tun." "Du wirst Mr. Hilary morgen sehen." "Er wird denken, dass wir uns gestritten haben, du und ich", sagte der alte Mann. "Ganz bestimmt; ich möchte, dass er das denkt", sagte Ralph lächelnd. "Und um die Idee umzusetzen, möchte ich ankündigen, dass ich sehr scharf sein werde, ziemlich unschön und seltsam zu dir." Der Humor darin schien seinen Vater zu berühren, der eine Weile regungslos lag und es aufnahm. "Ich werde alles tun, was du möchtest", sagte Mr. Touchett schließlich, "aber ich bin mir nicht sicher, ob es richtig ist. Du sagst, du möchtest Wind in ihre Segel bringen; aber hast du keine Angst, dass du zu viel hineinlegst?" "Ich würde sie gerne mit Rückenwind sehen!" antwortete Ralph. "Du redest, als wäre es nur zur Belustigung für dich." "Das ist es auch, zu einem großen Teil." "Nun, ich verstehe es nicht", sagte Mr. Touchett mit einem Seufzen. "Junge Männer sind sehr verschieden von dem, was ich damals 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 sie davon abhalten wird, aus Geldgründen zu heiraten. Denkst du, dass sie ein Mädchen ist, das so etwas tut?" "Keineswegs. Aber sie hat weniger Geld als je zuvor. Ihr Vater hat ihr damals alles gegeben, weil er sein Kapital ausgegeben hat. Sie hat nichts als die Krümel von dem Fest, von dem sie leben kann, und sie weiß wirklich nicht, wie mager sie sind - sie muss es noch lernen. Meine Mutter hat mir alles erzählt. Isabel wird es lernen, wenn sie wirklich auf sich allein gestellt ist, und es wäre sehr schmerzhaft für mich, daran zu denken, dass sie sich bewusst wird, dass sie viele Bedürfnisse hat, die sie nicht erfüllen kann." "Ich habe ihr fünftausend Pfund hinterlassen. Damit kann sie viele Bedürfnisse befriedigen." "Ja, das kann sie in der Tat. Aber sie würde es wahrscheinlich in zwei oder drei Jahren ausgeben." "Denkst du, dass sie verschwenderisch wäre?" "Mit Sicherheit", sagte Ralph und lächelte gelassen. Die Schärfe von Mr. Touchetts hatte sich in Verwirrung verwandelt, und seine Verwirrung ging nun in Bewunderung über. "Nun, du hast es ausgearbeitet!" wiederholte er. "Aber ich sehe nicht, welchen Nutzen du daraus ziehen wirst." Ralph lehnte sich über das Kopfkissen seines Vaters und glättete es sanft; ihm war bewusst, dass ihr Gespräch zu lange gedauert hatte. "Ich werde genau den Nutzen daraus ziehen, den ich vorhin erwähnt habe. Denjenigen, den ich Isabel ermöglichen wollte - den der Erfüllung meiner Vorstellungskraft. Es ist jedoch skandalös, wie ich dich ausgenutzt habe!" Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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Die drei Reisebegleiter, Ralph, Henrietta und Isabel, wagen sich gemeinsam nach London. Ralph bleibt in seinem eigenen Haus in Winchester Square, während die anderen im Pratt's Hotel übernachten. Ralph findet sich allein wieder und denkt an Isabel. Er betrachtet dies als "ausgeprägte Verfolgung", die zu nichts führen wird. Er bemerkt, dass sie "voll von Voraussetzungen, Schlussfolgerungen, Emotionen... mehr Fragen gestellt hat, als er beantworten konnte, und mutige Theorien entwickelt hat". Ralph führt die beiden Frauen durch London. Isabel verspürt einen seltsamen Schmerz aufgrund ihrer Erfahrung mit Lord Warburton in Gardencourt. Sie betrachtet ihr eigenes Handeln als notwendig, stellt jedoch fest, wie ungeschickt sie gehandelt hat. Dennoch empfindet sie einen seltsamen Stolz in der Angelegenheit, ein "Gefühl der Freiheit", das sie genießt. Ralph stellt den Frauen Mr. Bantling vor, einen seiner Bekannten. Er ist ein fröhlicher, stämmiger Mann um die 40, der die Gesellschaft von Henrietta sehr genießt. Er empfiehlt ihr, bei seiner Schwester, Lady Pensil, zu bleiben, wenn sie ein weniger langweiliges Haus als Gardencourt erleben möchte. Herr Bantling begleitet Henrietta zurück zum Hotel, als sie alleine zu einer anderen Verabredung zurückkehren muss. Henrietta versteht nicht, warum sie Begleitung braucht, und fragt sich, warum es unangemessen sein sollte, alleine zu gehen. Dennoch begleitet Herr Bantling sie. Als die beiden zusammen losgehen, spekuliert Ralph, dass das Paar möglicherweise weit gehen wird, während Isabel glaubt, dass die beiden sich gegenseitig nicht verstehen. Ralph sagt: "Es gibt keine üblichere Grundlage für eine Vereinigung als ein gegenseitiges Missverständnis". Isabel erklärt, dass sie gerne ins Hotel zurückkehren und alleine zu Abend essen möchte. Ralph schlägt vor, dass sie alleine essen möchte, weil sie tatsächlich einen Besucher erwartet, der vage auf ihre Vergangenheit anspielt. Isabel erklärt, dass es von ihrer Vergangenheit in England nichts gibt. Ralph sagt Isabel, dass er von Warburton den Antrag erfahren hat. Er sagt ihr jedoch, dass er nicht mit ihr darüber streiten möchte, sondern nur ihre Gefühle zu dem Thema erfahren möchte. Er betrachtet es als bemerkenswerte Tat, Warburton abgelehnt zu haben, da er sowohl die äußeren als auch die inneren Vorteile einer Ehe vereint. Isabel schlägt vor, dass Ralph wollte, dass sie Warburton heiratet, worauf er antwortet, dass er lediglich großes Interesse daran hat, sie zu beobachten. "Ich werde das erregende Gefühl haben, zu sehen, was eine junge Dame tut, die Lord Warburton nicht heiraten wird", sagt er ihr. Er freut sich, sie etwas Unerwartetes tun zu sehen. Isabel sagt ihm: "Ich möchte mein Leben nicht mit Heiraten beginnen. Es gibt noch andere Dinge, die eine Frau tun kann". Ralph behauptet, dass sie den "Becher der Erfahrung leeren" möchte. Sie leugnet dies. "Ich möchte nur selbst sehen", sagt sie. Er behauptet, mit ihren Antworten zufrieden zu sein, und kommt zu dem Schluss, dass sie sich in eine Welt stürzen möchte, die sie interessiert. Sie leugnet dies. "Ich weiß nicht, was du versuchst, mir anzudrehen", beschwert sie sich. Isabel kehrt ins Hotel zurück. Sie hat kein verborgenes Motiv, alleine dorthin zu gehen. Caspar Goodwood kommt jedoch unerwartet zu Besuch in ihr Hotel, nachdem er durch Henrietta Stackpole erfahren hat, wo sie sich aufhält. Isabel teilt ihm mit, dass ihr Schweigen auf seinen Brief "eine Absicht" war. Isabel ist nicht sehr nett zu ihm und sagt ihm, dass er einfach nicht ins Leben passt. Isabel bittet ihn, sie zumindest für zwei Jahre aus seinem Gedächtnis zu verbannen, und dann werden sie zumindest wieder auf guten Fuß miteinander sein. Caspar fragt, was er davon haben wird, und sie antwortet, dass sie nichts versprechen kann. Caspar prophezeit, dass sie jemand anderen heiraten wird. Isabel behauptet, dass sie keine Hilfe von einem intelligenten Mann braucht, der ihr beibringt, wie man lebt. Isabel lässt ihn wissen, dass sie bereits einen reichen und angesehenen Mann abgelehnt hat. Isabel erklärt, dass ihre Unabhängigkeit das ist, was sie am meisten schätzt, und Caspar behauptet, dass er ihr am wenigsten davon nehmen würde, er würde ihr lediglich Mittel geben, um diese Unabhängigkeit auszuüben. Isabel sagt ihm, dass sie ihr Schicksal selbst wählen möchte. Caspar ruft aus: "Man könnte denken, du würdest eine Gräueltat begehen!" Isabel sagt, dass sie das sehr gut könnte, aber zumindest wäre sie frei, dies zu tun. Caspar geht und verspricht, in zwei Jahren zurückzukehren. Isabel geht in die Knie und versteckt ihr Gesicht in den Armen, als er geht. Isabel ist aufgewühlt, als Caspar Goodwood geht, und sie ist sehr erleichtert, als er fort ist. Sie erkennt, dass ihre Liebe zur Freiheit immer noch sehr theoretisch und nicht aktiv gelebt ist, aber sie fühlt, dass sie zumindest endlich etwas getan hat. Henrietta kehrt ins Hotel zurück und ist verärgert, dass Isabel Caspar fortgeschickt hat. Henrietta fragt, ob Isabel wisse, wohin sie geht, worauf Isabel antwortet: "Ich finde es sehr angenehm, es nicht zu wissen. Ein schneller Kutschen, in einer dunklen Nacht, die mit vier Pferden über Straßen fegt, die man nicht sehen kann - das ist meine Vorstellung von Glück." Henrietta erwidert, dass sie wie eine Heldin eines "unmoralischen Romans" klingt. Henrietta und Mr. Bantling gehen nach Bedfordshire, um Lady Pensil zu besuchen, während Isabel und Ralph nach Gardencourt zurückkehren. Mr. Touchetts Gesundheit hat sich verschlechtert. Als Isabel nach Hause kommt, hört sie jemanden Klavier spielen. Isabel sieht eine Dame, die gut gekleidet ist und Schubert bemerkenswert gut spielt. Isabel lobt die Dame am Klavier für ihr Spiel. Mrs. Touchett kommt zur Teestunde. Die Frau stellt sich als Madame Merle vor, eine alte Freundin von Mrs. Touchett. Sie ist tatsächlich Amerikanerin aus Brooklyn, aber Isabel hatte fälschlicherweise gedacht, dass sie Französin sei. Madame Merle wird als intelligente Frau mit grauen Augen und sehr anmutig beschrieben. Sie wirkt wie eine erfahrene Frau, die auch einfühlsam ist. Isabel bewundert sie sehr. Isabel fragt Ralph nach Madame Merle, und er erklärt, dass sie die cleverste Frau ist, die er kennt. Er gibt zu, dass er früher in sie verliebt war, als Monsieur Merle noch lebte. Ralph berichtet, dass sie keine Kinder hat. In der Zwischenzeit ist Mr. Touchett sehr krank. Er sagt Ralph, dass er sterbe und bittet ihn, sich um seine Mutter zu kümmern. Mr. Touchett fragt Ralph, ob er daran gedacht hat, Isabel zu heiraten, und Ralph lächelt bei dem Gedanken. Ralph glaubt jedoch, dass er überhaupt nicht heiraten sollte, da er sich in einem fortgeschrittenen Stadium einer Lungenerkrankung befindet. Er behauptet auch, dass er nicht in Isabel verliebt ist. Er interessiert sich lediglich dafür, was sie mit sich selbst anfangen wird. Er gibt jedoch zu, dass er ihr gerne "etwas Rückenwind geben" würde. Ralph schlägt seinem Vater vor, Isabel die Hälfte seines Vermögens zu vererben. Mr. Touchett äußert Bedenken hinsichtlich der Richtigkeit dieser Handlung. "Du sagst, Isabel will frei sein, und dass ihr Reichtum sie daran hindern wird, aus Geldgründen zu heiraten. Denkst du, dass sie ein Mädchen ist, das das tun würde?" fragt Mr. Touchett Ralph. Ralph erkennt, dass Isabel sehr wenig Interesse an Geld hat, aber sie erkennt noch nicht, wie arm sie ist. Mr. Touchett findet die Handlung unmoralisch, da sie alles für eine Person zu einfach macht. Ralph glaubt, dass es auf die Person ankommt und er noble Impulse erleichtern wird. Schließlich äußert Mr. Touchett seine Befürchtung, dass Isabel den Fortune Hunt charakter ist. Ralph gibt zu, dass es ein Risiko sein könnte, aber dass es ein kleines Risiko 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: Scaena Tertia. Tritt auf mit Trommel und Fahnen, Bullingbrooke, Yorke, Northumberland, Begleiter. Bull. So erfahren wir durch diese Nachricht, Die Waliser sind zerstreut, und Salisbury Ist gegangen, um den König zu treffen, der kürzlich gelandet ist Mit ein paar privaten Freunden, an dieser Küste. North. Die Nachricht ist sehr gut und erfreulich, mein Herr, Richard, nicht weit von hier, hat sich versteckt. York. Es würde Lord Northumberland angemessen sein, König Richard zu sagen: Ach, der traurige Tag, Wenn so ein heiliger König seinen Kopf verstecken muss. North. Euer Gnaden irren sich: nur um es kurz zu machen, Habe ich seinen Titel weggelassen. York. Es war eine Zeit, Wärest du mit ihm so kurz gewesen, hätte er Auch so kurz mit dir gewesen, um dich zu verkürzen, Indem er dir den Kopf abnahm, die gesamte Länge deines Kopfes. Bull. Täusche dich nicht (Onkel) weiter als du solltest. York. Täuscht dich nicht (guter Cousin) weiter als du solltest. Damit du nicht die Himmel bist über deinem Kopf. Bull. Ich weiß es (Onkel) und stelle mich nicht gegen ihren Willen. Aber wer kommt hier? Betritt Percie. Willkommen Harry: Was, wird diese Burg nicht ergeben? Per. Die Burg ist königlich besetzt, mein Herr, Gegen deinen Eintritt. Bull. Königlich? Warum, es enthält keinen König? Per. Ja (mein Herr), Es enthält einen König: König Richard liegt Innerhalb der Grenzen dieser Kalk- und Steine, Und mit ihm der Lord Aumerle, Lord Salisbury, Sir Stephen Scroope, außerdem ein Geistlicher Von heiliger Würdigung; den ich nicht identifizieren kann. North. Oh, es ist wohl der Bischof von Carlisle. Bull. Edler Herr, Gehe zu den rauben Rippen dieser alten Burg, Durch Bronzetrompete blase dem Gehör In seinen zerstörten Ohren und teile ihm mit: Heinrich Bullingbrooke küsst demütig König Richards Hand und bezeugt Treue und wahren Glauben an seine königliche Person: hierher komme Sogar vor seine Füße, um meine Waffen und Macht niederzulegen, Unter der Bedingung, dass meine Verbannung aufgehoben wird Und Landbesitztümer wiederhergestellt werden, frei gewährt: Wenn nicht, werde ich die Vorteile meiner Macht nutzen Und den Staub des Sommers mit Blutregen besprenkeln, Regen aus den Wunden geschlachteter Engländer; Wie weit entfernt von dem Geist von Bullingbrooke Es ist, dass solch ein rotes Unwetter Die frisch-grüne Decke des schönen Landes von König Richard tränkt, Meine demütige Pflicht wird sanft zeigen. Gehe und verkünde so viel, während wir hier marschieren Auf dem grasbewachsenen Teppich dieser Ebene: Lass uns marschieren ohne den Lärm drohender Trommeln, Damit von den zerlumpten Mauern dieser Burg Unsere fairen Abmachungen gut betrachtet werden können. Mir scheint es angemessen, dass König Richard und ich uns treffen Mit nicht weniger Schrecken als die Elemente Aus Feuer und Wasser, wenn ihr donnernder Rauch Die bewölkten Wangen des Himmels zerreißt: Er sei das Feuer, ich werde das nachgebende Wasser sein; Der Zorn sei sein, während ich auf die Erde Meine Gewässer schicke, nicht auf ihn. Marschiert weiter und beachtet, wie König Richard aussieht. Gespräch draußen und Antwort drinnen: dann Fanfare. Betritt auf den Mauern, Richard, Carlisle, Aumerle, Scroop, Salisbury. Seht, seht, König Richard erscheint selbst Wie die errötende unzufriedene Sonne, Aus dem feurigen Tor des Ostens, Wenn er die neidischen Wolken wahrnimmt Um seinen Glanz zu verdunkeln und die Spur Seines leuchtenden Übergangs zum Abendrot zu beflecken. York. Und doch sieht er aus wie ein König: sieh sein Auge (So hell wie der Adler) leuchtet hervor Mit beherrschender Majestät: Ach, Ach, ach, ach, ach, ach, für das Unglück, Dass irgendein Schaden einem so schönen Schein zugefügt werden sollte. Rich. Wir sind erstaunt und haben uns so lange aufgestellt Um das furchterregende Knien deiner Knie zu beobachten, Weil wir uns selbst für deinen rechtmäßigen König hielten: Und wenn wir es sind, wie können deine Gelenke wagen, Ihre ehrenvolle Pflicht gegenüber unserer Gegenwart zu vergessen? Wenn wir es nicht sind, zeige uns die Hand Gottes, Die uns von unserer Verwaltung entlassen hat, Denn wir wissen gut, dass keine Hand aus Blut und Knochen Den heiligen Griff unserer Macht ergreifen kann, Wenn er nicht profaniert, stiehlt oder sich aneignet. Und auch wenn du denkst, dass alle, wie du getan hast, Ihre Seelen zerrissen haben, indem sie sich von uns abwandten, Und wir leer sind und unserer Freunde beraubt: Doch weiß, mein Meister, der allmächtige Gott, Versammelt in seinen Wolken, zu unseren Gunsten Heere der Pestilenz, und sie werden zuschlagen Deine noch ungeborenen Kinder und unzeugende, Die ihre Vasallenhände gegen meinen Kopf erheben, Und drohen meiner kostbaren Krone mit der Herrlichkeit. Sag Bullingbrooke, denn dort scheint er zu sein, Dass jeder Schritt, den er auf meinem Land macht, Gefährlicher Hochverrat ist: Er ist gekommen Das purpurne Testament des blutigen Krieges zu eröffnen; Aber bevor die Krone, nach der er strebt, in Frieden lebt, Werden zehntausend blutige Kronen von Mutter Söhnen Das schönste Gesicht Englands schlecht aussehen lassen, Die Farbe des bleichen Friedens in scharlachrote Empörung verwandeln Und das Gras der Hirten mit treuem englischem Blut tränken. North. Der Himmel verwehre, unser Herr der König Soll mit zivilen und unzivilen Waffen Überfallen werden: Dein dreimal edler Cousin, Harry Bullingbrooke, küsst demütig deine Hand Und bei dem ehrenwerten Grab schwört er, Das auf den Knochen deiner königlichen Großväter steht, Und bei den Königreichen beider deiner Blutslinien, (Stromverlauf, der aus einem gnädigen Haupt entspringt) Und bei der begraben Hand des kriegerischen Gaunt, Und bei dem Wert und der Ehre seiner selbst, Die alles umfassen, was geschworen oder gesagt werden kann, Hat er keinen weiteren Zweck, hierher zu kommen, Als für seine königlichen Erbrechte zu bitten Sofortige Freilassung, auf den Knien: Einmal gewährt auf seiner königlichen Seite, Wird er sein blinkendes Wappen dem Rost überlassen, Seine gesattelten Rosse den Stallungen und sein Herz Dem treuen Dienst deiner Majestät: Dies schwört er, als Prinz ist er gerecht, Und als Gentleman glaube ich ihm. Rich. Northumberland, sag so: Der König kehrt zurück, Sein edler Cousin ist hierher herzlich willkommen, Und alle seine fairen Forderungen Werden ohne Widerspruch erfüllt werden: Mit aller Gnade, die dir zur Verfügung steht, Sprich höfliche Grüße an sein mildes Gehör. Wir erniedrigen uns selbst (Cousin), nicht wahr, Indem wir so armselig aussehen und so freundlich sprechen? Sollen wir Northumberland zurückrufen und Die Herausforderung an den Verräter schicken und so sterben? Aum. Nein, mein guter Herr, lasst uns mit sanften Worten kämpfen, Bis die Zeit Freunde bringt und Freunde ihre hilfreichen Schwerter. Rich. Oh Gott, oh Gott, dass jemals diese meine Zunge, Die das Urteil des furchterregenden Verbannung Über jenen stolzen Mann fällte, dies rückgängig machen würde Mit wahrhaftigen Worten: Oh dass ich so groß wäre Wie mein Leid, oder kleiner als mein Name, Oder dass ich vergessen könnte, was ich gewesen bin, Oder nicht dar Rich. Was muss der König nun tun? Muss er sich unterwerfen? Der König wird es tun: Muss er abgesetzt werden? Der König wird zufrieden sein: Muss er den Titel des Königs verlieren? Oh Gottes Willen, lass ihn gehen. Ich werde meine Juwelen für ein Rosenkranzset geben, Meinen prächtigen Palast für eine Einsiedelei, Meine schicke Kleidung für das Gewand eines Almosenempfängers, Meine verzierten Kelche für ein Holzgefäß, Mein Zepter für den Stab eines Pilgers, Meine Untertanen für ein Paar geschnitzter Heiligenfiguren, Und mein großes Königreich für ein kleines Grab, Ein winziges Grab, ein unbekanntes Grab. Oder ich werde auf der Autobahn des Königs begraben sein, Auf einem gewöhnlichen Weg, wo die Füße der Untertanen ständig auf den Kopf ihres Herrschers treten können: Denn auf mein Herz treten sie jetzt, solange ich lebe; Und einst begraben, warum nicht auf meinem Kopf? Aumerle, du weinst (mein mitfühlender Cousin) Wir werden mit verachteten Tränen schlechtes Wetter machen: Unsere Seufzer und sie werden das Sommerkorn lagern Und eine Hungersnot in diesem abtrünnigen Land verursachen. Oder wollen wir mit unseren Leiden spielen, Und eine hübsche Übereinstimmung herstellen, indem wir Tränen vergießen? So: sie immer noch an einer Stelle tropfen lassen, Bis sie uns ein Paar Gräber geätzt haben, In der Erde: und darin liegen zwei Vettern, Graben ihre Gräber mit weinenden Augen? Wäre das nicht schlimm, gut sein? Nun, nun, ich sehe Ich rede nur Unsinn, und ihr macht euch über mich lustig. Hochmöglicher Prinz, mein Herr Northumberland, Was sagt König Bullingbroke? Wird seine Majestät Richard erlauben zu leben, bis Richard stirbt? Ihr knickt ein, und Bullingbroke sagt ich North. Mein Herr, unten im Vorhof wartet er, um mit Ihnen zu sprechen, wenn es Ihnen gefällt, hinunterzukommen Rich. Hinunter, hinunter komme ich, wie glänzender Phaeton, Ohne die Kontrolle über ungezähmte Rosse. Im Vorhof? Vorhof, wo Könige sich herablassen, um den Ruf von Verrätern zu hören und ihnen Gnade zu gewähren. Im Vorhof nach unten kommen: unten Hof, unten König, denn Nachteulen schreien, wo aufsteigende Lerchen singen sollten. Bull. Was sagt seine Majestät? North. Trauer und Kummer im Herzen lassen ihn töricht sprechen, wie ein wahnsinniger Mann: Aber er ist gekommen. Bull. Steht alle abseits, und zeigt ehrerbietige Pflicht gegen seine Majestät. Mein gnädiger Herr Rich. Lieber Vetter, du erniedrigst dein fürstliches Knie, um die niederträchtige Erde stolz zu machen durch das Küssen. Es wäre mir lieber, mein Herz könnte deine Liebe spüren, als dass mein unzufriedenes Auge deine Höflichkeit sieht. Auf, Vetter, auf, dein Herz ist aufgestiegen, das weiß ich, mindestens so hoch, obwohl dein Knie niedrig ist. Bull. Mein gnädiger Herr, ich komme nur für mich selbst. Rich. Dein eigenes ist dein eigenes, und ich bin dein, und alles. Bull. So sei es fern von mir, mein allgeehrter Herr, wie sehr meine wahre Dienstbarkeit deine Liebe verdienen wird. Rich. Nun, du hast es verdient. Sie verdienen es wahrlich zu haben, die den stärksten und sichersten Weg kennen, um zu bekommen. Onkel, gib mir deine Hand; nein, trockne deine Augen, Tränen zeigen ihre Liebe, aber sie fehlen die Heilmittel. Vetter, ich bin zu jung, um dein Vater zu sein, obwohl du alt genug bist, um mein Erbe zu sein. Was du haben willst, werde ich geben, und willig dazu, denn wir müssen tun, was die Gewalt von uns verlangt. Auf nach London; Cousin, ist es so? Bull. Ja, mein gnädiger Herr. Rich. Dann darf ich nicht Nein sagen. Können Sie eine passende Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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Bolingbroke, Northumberland und York stehen außerhalb des Flint Castle und sprechen über die Neuigkeiten, dass König Richard nach England zurückgekehrt ist. Northumberland bezeichnet König Richard als "Richard", ohne seinen Titel zu nennen. York sagt ihm, es wäre respektvoller, ihn als König Richard zu bezeichnen. Northumberland sagt "mein Fehler" und erklärt, dass er nur Zeit sparen wollte. York sagt, dass es eine Zeit gab, in der diese Art von Zeitersparnis sein Leben gekostet hätte. Bolingbroke sagt York, er solle sich keine Sorgen machen; es war ein unschuldiger Fehler und bedeutet nichts. York warnt Bolingbroke, nicht sein Glück herauszufordern. Henry Percy kommt herein und verkündet, dass sich das Schloss nicht ergeben wird. Es stellt sich heraus, dass König Richard drinnen ist, mit Aumerle, Salisbury, Scrope und einem Geistlichen. Bolingbroke sagt Northumberland, er solle zum Schloss gehen und dem König eine Botschaft überbringen. Es klingt in etwa so: "Hey Richard, ich bin zurück in England und hoffe, wir können uns auf einen Kaffee treffen. Ich möchte mit dir über die Aufhebung meines Verbannung und die Rückgabe aller Ländereien sprechen, die du mir gestohlen hast, als mein Vater starb. Ich werde sogar auf die Knie gehen und deinen Ring küssen, solange du friedlich aus dem Schloss kommst. Wenn nicht, habe ich hier eine große Armee dabei und ich habe keine Angst, sie einzusetzen. Dein Freund, Henry Bolingbroke, Herzog von Lancaster." Northumberland hat nichts dagegen, Henrys schmutzige Arbeit zu erledigen. Er geht, um die Botschaft zu überbringen. König Richard tritt heraus und stellt sich mit Carlisle, Scrope und Salisbury auf die Mauern des Schlosses. Bolingbroke schaut nach oben und sagt, Richard sieht genauso aus wie die "Sonne", kurz bevor sie von einer Wolkenansammlung verdeckt wird. Richard schreit Northumberland an, dass er nicht vor ihm niederkniet. Solange er nicht zeigen kann, dass die Hand Gottes ihn vom Thron entlassen hat, ist er immer noch König, und kein anderer Mann kann das Zepter halten, ohne ein Dieb oder Usurpator zu sein. Mit voller Wut teilt Richard Northumberland mit, dass Gott "Heerscharen der Pestilenz" in seinem Namen versammelt, die seine Kinder und Enkelkinder für diese Beleidigung der Krone bestrafen werden. Er sagt Northumberland, er solle Bolingbroke mitteilen, dass jeder Schritt, den er macht, ein Verrat ist, und dass seine Ankunft ein Akt des Krieges ist. Northumberland kniet nieder und sagt, dass Bolingbroke auf dem Grab seines Vaters und Großvaters schwört, dass er nur gekommen ist, um sein Land zurückzugewinnen und sein Exil zu beenden - er versucht definitiv nicht, Richards Krone zu stehlen. König Richard stimmt sofort diesen Bedingungen zu, aber macht deutlich, dass er nicht glücklich darüber ist. Northumberland kehrt mit der Botschaft des Königs zu Henry zurück. Inzwischen sagt Richard: "Oh Gott, oh Gott" und wünscht sich, er hätte Bolingbroke nie verbannt. Dann fängt Richard an, über sich selbst in der dritten Person zu sprechen und sagt, dass er sein "großes Königreich für ein kleines Grab" aufgeben sollte. Richard stellt sich vor, auf der "Königsstraße" begraben zu werden, wo Selbstmörder begraben wurden und auf der die gewöhnlichen Leute jeden Tag gehen. Northumberland kehrt zu Richard zurück und Richard fragt sarkastisch: "Was sagt König Bolingbroke?" Offensichtlich möchte Bolingbroke mit Richard von Angesicht zu Angesicht sprechen. Richard geht hinunter, um ihn zu treffen, und denkt darüber nach, wie auch er in der Welt absteigt: ein König, der den Anweisungen eines Verräters gehorcht. Sie treffen sich. Bolingbroke kniet nieder, und Richard sagt ihm, er solle aufstehen und aufhören vorzugeben, dass er nicht hier ist, um den Thron zu übernehmen. Bolingbroke wiederholt, dass er nur das bekommen will, was ihm gehört. Richard sagt, Bolingbroke könne alles haben, was er will. Immerhin hat Bolingbroke eine riesige Armee und genug Macht, um sich zu nehmen, was er will. Bolingbroke gibt vor, dass er nichts nehmen wird, was Richard ihm nicht freiwillig gibt. Richard wendet sich seinem Onkel York zu, der weint, und bittet ihn, seine Augen zu trocknen, da Tränen nichts nützen. Er sagt Bolingbroke, dass er zwar nicht sein Vater ist, aber dennoch sein Erbe ist, und er wird ihm gerne geben, was er will. Sie machen sich auf den Weg nach London.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten 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. hall in the Castle. Enter Hamlet and three of the Players. Ham. Speak the speech, I pray you, as I pronounc'd it to you, trippingly on the tongue. But if you mouth it, as many of our players do, I had as live the town crier spoke my lines. Nor do not saw the air too much with your hand, thus, but use all gently; for in the very torrent, tempest, and (as I may say) whirlwind of your passion, you must acquire and beget a temperance that may give it smoothness. O, it offends me to the soul to hear a robustious periwig-pated fellow tear a passion to tatters, to very rags, to split the cars of the groundlings, who (for the most part) are capable of nothing but inexplicable dumb shows and noise. I would have such a fellow whipp'd for o'erdoing Termagant. It out-herods Herod. Pray you avoid it. Player. I warrant your honour. Ham. Be not too tame neither; but let your own discretion be your tutor. Suit the action to the word, the word to the action; with this special observance, that you o'erstep not the modesty of nature: for anything so overdone is from the purpose of playing, whose end, both at the first and now, was and is, to hold, as 'twere, the mirror up to nature; to show Virtue her own feature, scorn her own image, and the very age and body of the time his form and pressure. Now this overdone, or come tardy off, though it make the unskilful laugh, cannot but make the judicious grieve; the censure of the which one must in your allowance o'erweigh a whole theatre of others. O, there be players that I have seen play, and heard others praise, and that highly (not to speak it profanely), that, neither having the accent of Christians, nor the gait of Christian, pagan, nor man, have so strutted and bellowed that I have thought some of Nature's journeymen had made men, and not made them well, they imitated humanity so abominably. Player. I hope we have reform'd that indifferently with us, sir. Ham. O, reform it altogether! And let those that play your clowns speak no more than is set down for them. For there be of them that will themselves laugh, to set on some quantity of barren spectators to laugh too, though in the mean time some necessary question of the play be then to be considered. That's villanous and shows a most pitiful ambition in the fool that uses it. Go make you ready. Exeunt Players. Enter Polonius, Rosencrantz, and Guildenstern. How now, my lord? Will the King hear this piece of work? Pol. And the Queen too, and that presently. Ham. Bid the players make haste, [Exit Polonius.] Will you two help to hasten them? Both. We will, my lord. Exeunt they two. Ham. What, ho, Horatio! Enter Horatio. Hor. Here, sweet lord, at your service. Ham. Horatio, thou art e'en as just a man As e'er my conversation cop'd withal. Hor. O, my dear lord! Ham. Nay, do not think I flatter; For what advancement may I hope from thee, That no revenue hast but thy good spirits To feed and clothe thee? Why should the poor be flatter'd? No, let the candied tongue lick absurd pomp, And crook the pregnant hinges of the knee Where thrift may follow fawning. Dost thou hear? Since my dear soul was mistress of her choice And could of men distinguish, her election Hath seal'd thee for herself. For thou hast been As one, in suff'ring all, that suffers nothing; A man that Fortune's buffets and rewards Hast ta'en with equal thanks; and blest are those Whose blood and judgment are so well commingled That they are not a pipe for Fortune's finger To sound what stop she please. Give me that man That is not passion's slave, and I will wear him In my heart's core, ay, in my heart of heart, As I do thee. Something too much of this I There is a play to-night before the King. One scene of it comes near the circumstance, Which I have told thee, of my father's death. I prithee, when thou seest that act afoot, Even with the very comment of thy soul Observe my uncle. If his occulted guilt Do not itself unkennel in one speech, It is a damned ghost that we have seen, And my imaginations are as foul As Vulcan's stithy. Give him heedful note; For I mine eyes will rivet to his face, And after we will both our judgments join In censure of his seeming. Hor. Well, my lord. If he steal aught the whilst this play is playing, And scape detecting, I will pay the theft. Sound a flourish. [Enter Trumpets and Kettledrums. Danish march. [Enter King, Queen, Polonius, Ophelia, Rosencrantz, Guildenstern, and other Lords attendant, with the Guard carrying torches. Ham. They are coming to the play. I must be idle. Get you a place. King. How fares our cousin Hamlet? Ham. Excellent, i' faith; of the chameleon's dish. I eat the air, promise-cramm'd. You cannot feed capons so. King. I have nothing with this answer, Hamlet. These words are not mine. Ham. No, nor mine now. [To Polonius] My lord, you play'd once i' th' university, you say? Pol. That did I, my lord, and was accounted a good actor. Ham. What did you enact? Pol. I did enact Julius Caesar; I was kill'd i' th' Capitol; Brutus kill'd me. Ham. It was a brute part of him to kill so capital a calf there. Be the players ready. Ros. Ay, my lord. They stay upon your patience. Queen. Come hither, my dear Hamlet, sit by me. Ham. No, good mother. Here's metal more attractive. Pol. [to the King] O, ho! do you mark that? Ham. Lady, shall I lie in your lap? [Sits down at Ophelia's feet.] Oph. No, my lord. Ham. I mean, my head upon your lap? Oph. Ay, my lord. Ham. Do you think I meant country matters? Oph. I think nothing, my lord. Ham. That's a fair thought to lie between maids' legs. Oph. What is, my lord? Ham. Nothing. Oph. You are merry, my lord. Ham. Who, I? Oph. Ay, my lord. Ham. O God, your only jig-maker! What should a man do but be merry? For look you how cheerfully my mother looks, and my father died within 's two hours. Oph. Nay 'tis twice two months, my lord. Ham. So long? Nay then, let the devil wear black, for I'll have a suit of sables. O heavens! die two months ago, and not forgotten yet? Then there's hope a great man's memory may outlive his life half a year. But, by'r Lady, he must build churches then; or else shall he suffer not thinking on, with the hobby-horse, whose epitaph is 'For O, for O, the hobby-horse is forgot!' Hautboys play. The dumb show enters. Enter a King and a Queen very lovingly; the Queen embracing him and he her. She kneels, and makes show of protestation unto him. He takes her up, and declines his head upon her neck. He lays him down upon a bank of flowers. She, seeing him asleep, leaves him. Anon comes in a fellow, takes off his crown, kisses it, pours poison in the sleeper's ears, and leaves him. The Queen returns, finds the King dead, and makes passionate action. The Poisoner with some three or four Mutes, comes in again, seem to condole with her. The dead body is carried away. The Poisoner wooes the Queen with gifts; she seems harsh and unwilling awhile, but in the end accepts his love. Exeunt. Oph. What means this, my lord? Ham. Marry, this is miching malhecho; it means mischief. Oph. Belike this show imports the argument of the play. Enter Prologue. Ham. We shall know by this fellow. The players cannot keep counsel; they'll tell all. Oph. Will he tell us what this show meant? Ham. Ay, or any show that you'll show him. Be not you asham'd to show, he'll not shame to tell you what it means. Oph. You are naught, you are naught! I'll mark the play. Pro. For us, and for our tragedy, Here stooping to your clemency, We beg your hearing patiently. [Exit.] Ham. Is this a prologue, or the posy of a ring? Oph. 'Tis brief, my lord. Ham. As woman's love. Enter [two Players as] King and Queen. King. Full thirty times hath Phoebus' cart gone round Neptune's salt wash and Tellus' orbed ground, And thirty dozen moons with borrowed sheen About the world have times twelve thirties been, Since love our hearts, and Hymen did our hands, Unite comutual in most sacred bands. Queen. So many journeys may the sun and moon Make us again count o'er ere love be done! But woe is me! you are so sick of late, So far from cheer and from your former state. That I distrust you. Yet, though I distrust, Discomfort you, my lord, it nothing must; For women's fear and love holds quantity, In neither aught, or in extremity. Now what my love is, proof hath made you know; And as my love is siz'd, my fear is so. Where love is great, the littlest doubts are fear; Where little fears grow great, great love grows there. King. Faith, I must leave thee, love, and shortly too; My operant powers their functions leave to do. And thou shalt live in this fair world behind, Honour'd, belov'd, and haply one as kind For husband shalt thou- Queen. O, confound the rest! Such love must needs be treason in my breast. When second husband let me be accurst! None wed the second but who killed the first. Ham. [aside] Wormwood, wormwood! Queen. The instances that second marriage move Are base respects of thrift, but none of love. A second time I kill my husband dead When second husband kisses me in bed. King. I do believe you think what now you speak; But what we do determine oft we break. Purpose is but the slave to memory, Of violent birth, but poor validity; Which now, like fruit unripe, sticks on the tree, But fall unshaken when they mellow be. Most necessary 'tis that we forget To pay ourselves what to ourselves is debt. What to ourselves in passion we propose, The passion ending, doth the purpose lose. The violence of either grief or joy Their own enactures with themselves destroy. Where joy most revels, grief doth most lament; Grief joys, joy grieves, on slender accident. This world is not for aye, nor 'tis not strange That even our loves should with our fortunes change; For 'tis a question left us yet to prove, Whether love lead fortune, or else fortune love. The great man down, you mark his favourite flies, The poor advanc'd makes friends of enemies; And hitherto doth love on fortune tend, For who not needs shall never lack a friend, And who in want a hollow friend doth try, Directly seasons him his enemy. But, orderly to end where I begun, Our wills and fates do so contrary run That our devices still are overthrown; Our thoughts are ours, their ends none of our own. So think thou wilt no second husband wed; But die thy thoughts when thy first lord is dead. Queen. Nor earth to me give food, nor heaven light, Sport and repose lock from me day and night, To desperation turn my trust and hope, An anchor's cheer in prison be my scope, Each opposite that blanks the face of joy Meet what I would have well, and it destroy, Both here and hence pursue me lasting strife, If, once a widow, ever I be wife! Ham. If she should break it now! King. 'Tis deeply sworn. Sweet, leave me here awhile. My spirits grow dull, and fain I would beguile The tedious day with sleep. Queen. Sleep rock thy brain, [He] sleeps. And never come mischance between us twain! Exit. Ham. Madam, how like you this play? Queen. The lady doth protest too much, methinks. Ham. O, but she'll keep her word. King. Have you heard the argument? Is there no offence in't? Ham. No, no! They do but jest, poison in jest; no offence i' th' world. King. What do you call the play? Ham. 'The Mousetrap.' Marry, how? Tropically. This play is the image of a murther done in Vienna. Gonzago is the duke's name; his wife, Baptista. You shall see anon. 'Tis a knavish piece of work; but what o' that? Your Majesty, and we that have free souls, it touches us not. Let the gall'd jade winch; our withers are unwrung. Enter Lucianus. This is one Lucianus, nephew to the King. Oph. You are as good as a chorus, my lord. Ham. I could interpret between you and your love, if I could see the puppets dallying. Oph. You are keen, my lord, you are keen. Ham. It would cost you a groaning to take off my edge. Oph. Still better, and worse. Ham. So you must take your husbands.- Begin, murtherer. Pox, leave thy damnable faces, and begin! Come, the croaking raven doth bellow for revenge. Luc. Thoughts black, hands apt, drugs fit, and time agreeing; Confederate season, else no creature seeing; Thou mixture rank, of midnight weeds collected, With Hecate's ban thrice blasted, thrice infected, Thy natural magic and dire property On wholesome life usurp immediately. Pours the poison in his ears. Ham. He poisons him i' th' garden for's estate. His name's Gonzago. The story is extant, and written in very choice Italian. You shall see anon how the murtherer gets the love of Gonzago's wife. Oph. The King rises. Ham. What, frighted with false fire? Queen. How fares my lord? Pol. Give o'er the play. King. Give me some light! Away! All. Lights, lights, lights! Exeunt all but Hamlet and Horatio. Ham. Why, let the strucken deer go weep, The hart ungalled play; For some must watch, while some must sleep: Thus runs the world away. Would not this, sir, and a forest of feathers- if the rest of my fortunes turn Turk with me-with two Provincial roses on my raz'd shoes, get me a fellowship in a cry of players, sir? Hor. Half a share. Ham. A whole one I! For thou dost know, O Damon dear, This realm dismantled was Of Jove himself; and now reigns here A very, very- pajock. Hor. You might have rhym'd. Ham. O good Horatio, I'll take the ghost's word for a thousand pound! Didst perceive? Hor. Very well, my lord. Ham. Upon the talk of the poisoning? Hor. I did very well note him. Ham. Aha! Come, some music! Come, the recorders! For if the King like not the comedy, Why then, belike he likes it not, perdy. Come, some music! Enter Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. Guil. Good my lord, vouchsafe me a word with you. Ham. Sir, a whole history. Guil. The King, sir- Ham. Ay, sir, what of him? Guil. Is in his retirement, marvellous distemper'd. Ham. With drink, sir? Guil. No, my lord; rather with choler. Ham. Your wisdom should show itself more richer to signify this to the doctor; for me to put him to his purgation would perhaps plunge him into far more choler. Guil. Good my lord, put your discourse into some frame, and start not so wildly from my affair. Ham. I am tame, sir; pronounce. Guil. The Queen, your mother, in most great affliction of spirit hath sent me to you. Ham. You are welcome. Guil. Nay, good my lord, this courtesy is not of the right breed. If it shall please you to make me a wholesome answer, I will do your mother's commandment; if not, your pardon and my return shall be the end of my business. Ham. Sir, I cannot. Guil. What, my lord? Ham. Make you a wholesome answer; my wit's diseas'd. But, sir, such answer as I can make, you shall command; or rather, as you say, my mother. Therefore no more, but to the matter! My mother, you say- Ros. Then thus she says: your behaviour hath struck her into amazement and admiration. Ham. O wonderful son, that can so stonish a mother! But is there no sequel at the heels of this mother's admiration? Impart. Ros. She desires to speak with you in her closet ere you go to bed. Ham. We shall obey, were she ten times our mother. Have you any further trade with us? Ros. My lord, you once did love me. Ham. And do still, by these pickers and stealers! Ros. Good my lord, what is your cause of distemper? You do surely bar the door upon your own liberty, if you deny your griefs to your friend. Ham. Sir, I lack advancement. Ros. How can that be, when you have the voice of the King himself for your succession in Denmark? Ham. Ay, sir, but 'while the grass grows'- the proverb is something musty. Enter the Players with recorders. O, the recorders! Let me see one. To withdraw with you- why do you go about to recover the wind of me, as if you would drive me into a toil? Guil. O my lord, if my duty be too bold, my love is too unmannerly. Ham. I do not well understand that. Will you play upon this pipe? Guil. My lord, I cannot. Ham. I pray you. Guil. Believe me, I cannot. Ham. I do beseech you. Guil. I know, no touch of it, my lord. Ham. It is as easy as lying. Govern these ventages with your fingers and thumbs, give it breath with your mouth, and it will discourse most eloquent music. Look you, these are the stops. Guil. But these cannot I command to any utt'rance of harmony. I have not the skill. Ham. Why, look you now, how unworthy a thing you make of me! You would play upon me; you would seem to know my stops; you would pluck out the heart of my mystery; you would sound me from my lowest note to the top of my compass; and there is much music, excellent voice, in this little organ, yet cannot you make it speak. 'Sblood, do you think I am easier to be play'd on than a pipe? Call me what instrument you will, though you can fret me, you cannot play upon me. Enter Polonius. God bless you, sir! Pol. My lord, the Queen would speak with you, and presently. Ham. Do you see yonder cloud that's almost in shape of a camel? Pol. By th' mass, and 'tis like a camel indeed. Ham. Methinks it is like a weasel. Pol. It is back'd like a weasel. Ham. Or like a whale. Pol. Very like a whale. Ham. Then will I come to my mother by-and-by.- They fool me to the top of my bent.- I will come by-and-by. Pol. I will say so. Exit. Ham. 'By-and-by' is easily said.- Leave me, friends. [Exeunt all but Hamlet.] 'Tis now the very witching time of night, When churchyards yawn, and hell itself breathes out Contagion to this world. Now could I drink hot blood And do such bitter business as the day Would quake to look on. Soft! now to my mother! O heart, lose not thy nature; let not ever The soul of Nero enter this firm bosom. Let me be cruel, not unnatural; I will speak daggers to her, but use none. My tongue and soul in this be hypocrites- How in my words somever she be shent, To give them seals never, my soul, consent! Exit. Könntest du eine passende Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Hamlet gibt den Schauspielern Anweisungen, wie sie die von ihm hinzugefügten Zeilen in "Der Mord an Gonzago" spielen sollen. Als er fertig ist, entlässt er sie. Polonius tritt zusammen mit Rosencrantz und Guildenstern ein und teilt Hamlet mit, dass der König und die Königin das Stück sehen werden. Horatio trifft als nächstes ein und er und Hamlet führen ein privates Gespräch. Hamlet offenbart seinen Plan, das Gewissen von Claudius zu testen, indem er erklärt, dass das Stück einen Vorfall enthalten wird, der dem Tod seines Vaters ähnelt. Er bittet Horatio, Claudius' Gesicht während des Stücks genau auf Anzeichen von Schuld zu beobachten, insbesondere wenn Hamlets hinzugefügte Zeilen präsentiert werden. Wenn Claudius nicht zuckt, wird bewiesen sein, dass Hamlet "einen verfluchten Geist" gesehen hat und nicht den wohlwollenden Geist des verstorbenen Königs Hamlet. Horatio versichert seinem Freund, dass er Claudius' Reaktionen genau beobachten wird. Der König und die Königin betreten den Raum in Begleitung von Polonius, Ophelia, Rosencrantz, Guildenstern und anderen Herrschern und Hofleuten. Es folgt ein kurzer Austausch zwischen Hamlet und Polonius, bei dem der Prinz, immer noch wahnsinnig vortäuschend, erneut den Lordkämmerer verspottet. Hamlet lehnt dann das Angebot seiner Mutter ab, neben ihr zu sitzen, und nimmt stattdessen seinen Platz zu Ophelias Füßen ein. Eine Pantomime geht dem Stück voraus und zeigt einen König und eine Königin, die tief ineinander verliebt sind. Die Königin erklärt ihre ewige Liebe zu ihrem Ehemann und erklärt, dass sie niemals wieder heiraten würde, wenn ihrem Ehemann etwas zustoßen sollte. Als der Schauspielerkönig auf einer Blumenbank einschläft, geht die Königin weg. Ein Mann tritt auf, nimmt die Krone des Königs und küsst sie. Dann gießt er Gift ins Ohr des schlafenden Königs und geht. Als die Königin zurückkehrt, findet sie ihren Ehemann tot vor und inszeniert eine große Show der Trauer. Als der Mörder zurückkehrt, zögert die Königin nicht lange, bevor sie seine Avancen akzeptiert. Ophelia kann die Pantomime nicht verstehen und bittet Hamlet, es zu erklären. Hamlet sagt ihr, dass die stumme Pantomime das Publikum auf das Thema des Stücks vorbereiten soll. Im eigentlichen Drama drücken der König und die Königin ihre Zuneigung zueinander aus. Die Königin versichert dem König, dass sie im Falle seines Todes eine Witwe bleibt und behauptet, dass zweite Ehen nie aus Liebe, sondern nur aus profanem materiellen Gewinn geschlossen werden. Der König ist erfreut über die Aufrichtigkeit seiner Frau und schläft bald ein. Während des folgenden Zwischenspiels fragt Hamlet seine Mutter, ob ihr das Stück gefällt. Gertrude antwortet, dass die Schauspielerin, die die Rolle der Königin spielt, "zu viel" über ihre Gelübde protestiert. Claudius fragt Hamlet dann, ob es in der Handlung des Stücks eine Beleidigung gibt. Hamlet antwortet, dass das Stück im Geiste des Scherzes ist und keine Beleidigung darstellt. Er erklärt weiter, dass das Stück "Die Mausefalle" heißt und die Geschichte eines Mordes in Wien darstellt. Der Herzog heißt Gonzago und seine Frau heißt Baptisa. Er versichert Claudius, dass das, was auf der Bühne geschieht, die Zuschauer in keiner Weise beeinflusst. Als ein neuer Charakter auf der Bühne erscheint, erklärt Hamlet aufgeregt Ophelia, dass dies Lucianus ist, der Neffe von Gonzago. Lucianus gießt dann Gift in die Ohren des schlafenden Königs. An diesem Punkt erklärt Hamlet allen Anwesenden, dass das Stück eine Dramatisierung des tatsächlichen Mordes an Herzog Gonzago ist und dass der Mörder bald genug die Liebe von Gonzagos Frau gewinnen wird. Claudius steht erschrocken auf und Polonius ordnet an, dass das Stück abgebrochen wird. Hamlet ist jetzt überzeugt, dass Claudius schuldig am Mord an seinem Vater ist, und erklärt, dass er "das Wort des Geistes für tausend Pfund" nimmt. Auch Horatio behauptet, dass Claudius sein schuldiges Gewissen durch plötzliche Stimmungsschwankungen offenbart hat. Hamlet feiert den Erfolg seines Plans, indem er einige Musiker auffordert zu spielen. An diesem Punkt kommen Rosencrantz und Guildenstern, um Hamlet mitzuteilen, dass der König sehr wütend und aufgebracht ist und dass die Königin ihren Sohn in ihrem Zimmer sehen möchte. Hamlet stimmt dem Wunsch seiner Mutter zu. Als Rosencrantz und Guildenstern weiterhin nach dem Grund für Hamlets seltsames Verhalten suchen, ist Hamlet empört. Er fordert Guildenstern auf, auf einer Flöte zu spielen, und als dieser protestiert, dass er nicht die Fähigkeit habe, das Instrument zu spielen, tadelt Hamlet beide Männer. Er kritisiert sie dafür, dass sie glauben, sie könnten auf ihm herumspielen und "das Herz des Geheimnisses herausreißen", während sie nicht in der Lage sind, ein einfaches Musikinstrument zu spielen. Polonius tritt ein, um die Bitte zu wiederholen, dass Hamlet seine Mutter in ihrem Zimmer treffen soll. Darauf antwortet Hamlet erneut mit Spott auf den alten Kämmerer, sagt ihm aber, dass er seine Mutter bald sehen wird. Als Polonius, Rosencrantz, Guildenstern, Horatio und die Schauspieler gehen, bleibt Hamlet wieder allein zurück. In einem Monolog enthüllt Hamlet seine Absicht, jetzt Rache an Claudius zu nehmen. Er erklärt, dass die Mitternachtsstunde eine geeignete Zeit für seine entscheidenden Taten ist. Nun endlich mit der Wahrheit bewaffnet, gibt Hamlet zu, dass seine Leidenschaft aufs höchste geweckt ist, aber er beruhigt sich, bevor er seine Mutter trifft. Aufgrund der Bitte seines Vaters muss er sich davor hüten, etwas Unrechtes gegen sie zu tun; er erinnert sich selbst daran, "lass mich grausam sein, aber nicht unnatürlich".

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

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Victor wird des Mordes beschuldigt und der Fall wird durch Indizienbeweise unterstützt. Die Zeugen, ein Mann, sein Sohn und Schwager, waren angeln. Sie waren an einem Bach gelandet und der Hauptzeuge stolperte über die Leiche eines Mannes. Sie versuchten alles, um sein Leben wiederherzustellen, aber scheiterten. Die Leiche hatte offensichtlich Fingerabdrücke an seinem Hals. Diese Informationen erinnern Victor an Williams Tod. Der Hauptzeuge gibt zusätzliche Informationen und sagt, dass er in der betreffenden Nacht einen einzelnen Mann in einem Boot gesehen hat. Die Leute schließen daraus, dass Victor versucht hat, den Tatort zu verlassen, aber der Wind sein Boot zurück an Land gelenkt hat. Victor wird aufgefordert, die Leiche zu identifizieren, und er ist schockiert, als er feststellt, dass es sich um Henrys Leiche handelt. Er bekommt Krämpfe und verbringt über zwei Monate im Bett. In der Zwischenzeit hat Mr. Kirwin, der Richter, Victors Familie kontaktiert und sein Vater kommt, um ihn zu sehen. Dank Mr. Kirwins Bemühungen bleibt Victor strafrechtliche Verfolgung erspart und darf nach Hause zurückkehren. Sie segeln auf einem Schiff in Richtung Havre-de-Grace. Victor versucht zu schlafen, hat aber einen Alptraum. Er nimmt nun jede Nacht Laudanum ein, um sich ausruhen zu können.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: The next day it seemed to her indeed at the bottom--down too far, in shuddering plunges, even to leave her a sense, on the Channel boat, of the height at which Sir Claude remained and which had never in every way been so great as when, much in the wet, though in the angle of a screen of canvas, he sociably sat with his stepdaughter's head in his lap and that of Mrs. Beale's housemaid fairly pillowed on his breast. Maisie was surprised to learn as they drew into port that they had had a lovely passage; but this emotion, at Boulogne, was speedily quenched in others, above all in the great ecstasy of a larger impression of life. She was "abroad" and she gave herself up to it, responded to it, in the bright air, before the pink houses, among the bare-legged fishwives and the red-legged soldiers, with the instant certitude of a vocation. Her vocation was to see the world and to thrill with enjoyment of the picture; she had grown older in five minutes and had by the time they reached the hotel recognised in the institutions and manners of France a multitude of affinities and messages. Literally in the course of an hour she found her initiation; a consciousness much quickened by the superior part that, as soon as they had gobbled down a French breakfast--which was indeed a high note in the concert--she observed herself to play to Susan Ash. Sir Claude, who had already bumped against people he knew and who, as he said, had business and letters, sent them out together for a walk, a walk in which the child was avenged, so far as poetic justice required, not only for the loud giggles that in their London trudges used to break from her attendant, but for all the years of her tendency to produce socially that impression of an excess of the queer something which had seemed to waver so widely between innocence and guilt. On the spot, at Boulogne, though there might have been excess there was at least no wavering; she recognised, she understood, she adored and took possession; feeling herself attuned to everything and laying her hand, right and left, on what had simply been waiting for her. She explained to Susan, she laughed at Susan, she towered over Susan; and it was somehow Susan's stupidity, of which she had never yet been so sure, and Susan's bewilderment and ignorance and antagonism, that gave the liveliest rebound to her immediate perceptions and adoptions. The place and the people were all a picture together, a picture that, when they went down to the wide sands, shimmered, in a thousand tints, with the pretty organisation of the _plage_, with the gaiety of spectators and bathers, with that of the language and the weather, and above all with that of our young lady's unprecedented situation. For it appeared to her that no one since the beginning of time could have had such an adventure or, in an hour, so much experience; as a sequel to which she only needed, in order to feel with conscious wonder how the past was changed, to hear Susan, inscrutably aggravated, express a preference for the Edgware Road. The past was so changed and the circle it had formed already so overstepped that on that very afternoon, in the course of another walk, she found herself enquiring of Sir Claude--without a single scruple--if he were prepared as yet to name the moment at which they should start for Paris. His answer, it must be said, gave her the least little chill. "Oh Paris, my dear child--I don't quite know about Paris!" This required to be met, but it was much less to challenge him than for the rich joy of her first discussion of the details of a tour that, after looking at him a minute, she replied: "Well, isn't that the REAL thing, the thing that when one does come abroad--?" He had turned grave again, and she merely threw that out: it was a way of doing justice to the seriousness of their life. She couldn't moreover be so much older since yesterday without reflecting that if by this time she probed a little he would recognise that she had done enough for mere patience. There was in fact something in his eyes that suddenly, to her own, made her discretion shabby. Before she could remedy this he had answered her last question, answered it in the way that, of all ways, she had least expected. "The thing it doesn't do not to do? Certainly Paris is charming. But, my dear fellow, Paris eats your head off. I mean it's so beastly expensive." That note gave her a pang--it suddenly let in a harder light. Were they poor then, that is was HE poor, really poor beyond the pleasantry of apollinaris and cold beef? They had walked to the end of the long jetty that enclosed the harbour and were looking out at the dangers they had escaped, the grey horizon that was England, the tumbled surface of the sea and the brown smacks that bobbed upon it. Why had he chosen an embarrassed time to make this foreign dash? unless indeed it was just the dash economic, of which she had often heard and on which, after another look at the grey horizon and the bobbing boats, she was ready to turn round with elation. She replied to him quite in his own manner: "I see, I see." She smiled up at him. "Our affairs are involved." "That's it." He returned her smile. "Mine are not quite so bad as yours; for yours are really, my dear man, in a state I can't see through at all. But mine will do--for a mess." She thought this over. "But isn't France cheaper than England?" England, over there in the thickening gloom, looked just then remarkably dear. "I dare say; some parts." "Then can't we live in those parts?" There was something that for an instant, in satisfaction of this, he had the air of being about to say and yet not saying. What he presently said was: "This very place is one of them." "Then we shall live here?" He didn't treat it quite so definitely as she liked. "Since we've come to save money!" This made her press him more. "How long shall we stay?" "Oh three or four days." It took her breath away. "You can save money in that time?" He burst out laughing, starting to walk again and taking her under his arm. He confessed to her on the way that she too had put a finger on the weakest of all his weaknesses, the fact, of which he was perfectly aware, that he probably might have lived within his means if he had never done anything for thrift. "It's the happy thoughts that do it," he said; "there's nothing so ruinous as putting in a cheap week." Maisie heard afresh among the pleasant sounds of the closing day that steel click of Ida's change of mind. She thought of the ten-pound note it would have been delightful at this juncture to produce for her companion's encouragement. But the idea was dissipated by his saying irrelevantly, in presence of the next thing they stopped to admire: "We shall stay till she arrives." She turned upon him. "Mrs. Beale?" "Mrs. Wix. I've had a wire," he went on. "She has seen your mother." "Seen mamma?" Maisie stared. "Where in the world?" "Apparently in London. They've been together." For an instant this looked ominous--a fear came into her eyes. "Then she hasn't gone?" "Your mother?--to South Africa? I give it up, dear boy," Sir Claude said; and she seemed literally to see him give it up as he stood there and with a kind of absent gaze--absent, that is, from HER affairs--followed the fine stride and shining limbs of a young fishwife who had just waded out of the sea with her basketful of shrimps. His thought came back to her sooner than his eyes. "But I dare say it's all right. She wouldn't come if it wasn't, poor old thing: she knows rather well what she's about." This was so reassuring that Maisie, after turning it over, could make it fit into her dream. "Well, what IS she about?" He finally stopped looking at the fishwife--he met his companion's enquiry. "Oh you know!" There was something in the way he said it that made, between them, more of an equality than she had yet imagined; but it had also more the effect of raising her up than of letting him down, and what it did with her was shown by the sound of her assent. "Yes--I know!" What she knew, what she COULD know is by this time no secret to us: it grew and grew at any rate, the rest of that day, in the air of what he took for granted. It was better he should do that than attempt to test her knowledge; but there at the worst was the gist of the matter: it was open between them at last that their great change, as, speaking as if it had already lasted weeks, Maisie called it, was somehow built up round Mrs. Wix. Before she went to bed that night she knew further that Sir Claude, since, as HE called it, they had been on the rush, had received more telegrams than one. But they separated again without speaking of Mrs. Beale. Oh what a crossing for the straighteners and the old brown dress--which latter appurtenance the child saw thriftily revived for the possible disasters of travel! The wind got up in the night and from her little room at the inn Maisie could hear the noise of the sea. The next day it was raining and everything different: this was the case even with Susan Ash, who positively crowed over the bad weather, partly, it seemed, for relish of the time their visitor would have in the boat, and partly to point the moral of the folly of coming to such holes. In the wet, with Sir Claude, Maisie went to the Folkestone packet, on the arrival of which, with many signs of the fray, he made her wait under an umbrella by the quay; whence almost ere the vessel touched, he was to be descried, in quest of their friend, wriggling--that had been his word--through the invalids massed upon the deck. It was long till he reappeared--it was not indeed till every one had landed; when he presented the object of his benevolence in a light that Maisie scarce knew whether to suppose the depth of prostration or the flush of triumph. The lady on his arm, still bent beneath her late ordeal, was muffled in such draperies as had never before offered so much support to so much woe. At the hotel, an hour later, this ambiguity dropped: assisting Mrs. Wix in private to refresh and reinvest herself, Maisie heard from her in detail how little she could have achieved if Sir Claude hadn't put it in her power. It was a phrase that in her room she repeated in connexions indescribable: he had put it in her power to have "changes," as she said, of the most intimate order, adapted to climates and occasions so various as to foreshadow in themselves the stages of a vast itinerary. Cheap weeks would of course be in their place after so much money spent on a governess; sums not grudged, however, by this lady's pupil, even on her feeling her own appearance give rise, through the straighteners, to an attention perceptibly mystified. Sir Claude in truth had had less time to devote to it than to Mrs. Wix's; and moreover she would rather be in her own shoes than in her friend's creaking new ones in the event of an encounter with Mrs. Beale. Maisie was too lost in the idea of Mrs. Beale's judgement of so much newness to pass any judgement herself. Besides, after much luncheon and many endearments, the question took quite another turn, to say nothing of the pleasure of the child's quick view that there were other eyes than Susan Ash's to open to what she could show. She couldn't show much, alas, till it stopped raining, which it declined to do that day; but this had only the effect of leaving more time for Mrs. Wix's own demonstration. It came as they sat in the little white and gold salon which Maisie thought the loveliest place she had ever seen except perhaps the apartment of the Countess; it came while the hard summer storm lashed the windows and blew in such a chill that Sir Claude, with his hands in his pockets and cigarettes in his teeth, fidgeting, frowning, looking out and turning back, ended by causing a smoky little fire to be made in the dressy little chimney. It came in spite of something that could only be named his air of wishing to put it off; an air that had served him--oh as all his airs served him!--to the extent of his having for a couple of hours confined the conversation to gratuitous jokes and generalities, kept it on the level of the little empty coffee-cups and _petits verres_ (Mrs. Wix had two of each!) that struck Maisie, through the fumes of the French fire and the English tobacco, as a token more than ever that they were launched. She felt now, in close quarters and as clearly as if Mrs. Wix had told her, that what this lady had come over for was not merely to be chaffed and to hear her pupil chaffed; not even to hear Sir Claude, who knew French in perfection, imitate the strange sounds emitted by the English folk at the hotel. It was perhaps half an effect of her present renovations, as if her clothes had been somebody's else: she had at any rate never produced such an impression of high colour, of a redness associated in Maisie's mind at THAT pitch either with measles or with "habits." Her heart was not at all in the gossip about Boulogne; and if her complexion was partly the result of the dejeuner and the _petits verres_ it was also the brave signal of what she was there to say. Maisie knew when this did come how anxiously it had been awaited by the youngest member of the party. "Her ladyship packed me off--she almost put me into the cab!" That was what Mrs. Wix at last brought out. Können Sie eine passende Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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Maisie, Sir Claude und Susan Ash überqueren zusammen den Ärmelkanal und kommen in Boulogne, Frankreich an. Maisie fragt Sir Claude, ob sie weiter nach Paris reisen werden, aber Sir Claude sagt nein, und erklärt, dass Paris zu teuer ist. Maisie ist zunächst enttäuscht, aber dann merkt sie, dass sie Boulogne liebt, wegen all der neuen Dinge, die es dort zu sehen und zu tun gibt. Sir Claude sagt, dass bald auch Mrs. Wix sich ihnen anschließen wird. Arme Mrs. Wix kommt mitten in einem Regenschauer an, nach einer harten Überfahrt über den Ärmelkanal.

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

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Die Verhandlungen zwischen den Emersons und Sir Harry laufen gut und ihr Einzug ist geplant. Alle sind zufrieden, außer Miss Alan, Miss Alan und Lucy - die alten Damen machen die junge dafür verantwortlich, dass ihre Pläne gescheitert sind. Mr. Beebe ist besonders erfreut und besteht darauf, dass Freddy die Emersons besuchen soll, sobald sie eingezogen sind. Lucy fürchtet die Ankunft der Emersons, obwohl sie versucht, sich selbst davon zu überzeugen, dass alles gut sein wird, jetzt wo sie verlobt ist. Glücklicherweise kommt ein Besuch bei Cecils Mutter auf. Sie entkommt dem Eintreffen der Emersons, indem sie mit Cecil nach London fährt. In der Zwischenzeit tritt Charlotte wieder in das Bild. Wir erfahren, dass die Cousinen keine gute Zeit hatten, nachdem sie Florenz verlassen hatten. Charlottes ärgerliche "Selbstlosigkeit" wurde schließlich zu viel für Lucy und infolgedessen haben die beiden seit ihrem Ausflug nicht mehr miteinander kommuniziert. In London erhält Lucy jedoch einen Brief von Charlotte. Darin informiert Charlotte Lucy, dass sie von Miss Lavish gehört hat, dass die Emersons dort herumhängen. Sie ist besorgt darüber, was passieren könnte, und möchte, dass Lucy reinen Tisch mit ihrer Mutter und ihrem Bruder macht und sich weigert, die Emersons zu sehen. Lucy ist von diesem Vorschlag verärgert und antwortet mit einem beeindruckend kühlen Brief. Los Lucy! Charlotte hat jedoch erfolgreich die Samen der Unbehaglichkeit gepflanzt und Lucy wird in den nächsten Tagen von Nervosität geplagt. Sie fragt sich, ob sie Cecil von ihrem Kuss mit George Emerson erzählen sollte, kann sich jedoch nicht dazu durchringen, etwas zu tun. Cecil versucht unterdessen, Lucy in die "echte" Gesellschaft einzuführen. Lucy sieht, dass sie durch die Zugehörigkeit zur Londoner Clique der Vyses von allen, die sie liebt, entfremdet wird. Bei einer Party von Mrs. Vyse wird Lucy aufgefordert, Klavier zu spielen. Sie spielt etwas Schumann tragisch und ergreifend - aber weigert sich, Beethoven zu spielen. Nachdem alle gegangen sind, haben Mrs. Vyse und Cecil einen unheimlichen kleinen Moment der Mutter-Sohn-Bindung, wenn man es so nennen möchte. Mrs. Vyse, die eine nette Dame ist, die völlig von der High Society gehirngewaschen wurde, sagt unheimlicherweise zu Cecil, er solle Lucy "zu uns machen". Nun, vielleicht haben wir bei Shmoop ein oder zwei zu viele B-Movies gesehen, aber in unserer gemeinsamen Erinnerung werden die Worte "mach sie zu uns" normalerweise von wildem, manischem Gelächter und Blutsaugen und/oder Gehirnfressen begleitet. Nur so zur Info. Es folgt eine typisch schnöselige Unterhaltung der Familie Vyse; Mrs. V. bemerkt, wie Lucy bereits ihren "Honeychurch-Makel" loswird, was für uns vielleicht ihre "Individualität und mangelnde Elitärkeit" bedeuten würde. Cecil schwärmt von Lucys Stil und sinnt darüber nach, ob Londoner Bildungen vielleicht nicht das sind, was sie zu sein scheinen, dann erinnert er sich, dass er selbst eine hatte. Er rudert schnell zurück. Mrs. Vyse wiederholt ihr unheilvolles Gebot und geht ins Bett. Ein Schrei in der Nacht - oh nein! Cecil saugt Lucys Blut, um sie in seine unsterbliche Vampirbraut zu verwandeln! Nur ein Scherz. Es gibt einen Schrei in der Nacht und es ist Lucy, aber hier wird niemand zum Vampir gemacht. Sie erwacht aus einem Alptraum und Mrs. Vyse kommt, um sie zu trösten. Wir haben das Gefühl, dass es Miss Honeychurch nicht gut 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: My school-days! The silent gliding on of my existence--the unseen, unfelt progress of my life--from childhood up to youth! Let me think, as I look back upon that flowing water, now a dry channel overgrown with leaves, whether there are any marks along its course, by which I can remember how it ran. A moment, and I occupy my place in the Cathedral, where we all went together, every Sunday morning, assembling first at school for that purpose. The earthy smell, the sunless air, the sensation of the world being shut out, the resounding of the organ through the black and white arched galleries and aisles, are wings that take me back, and hold me hovering above those days, in a half-sleeping and half-waking dream. I am not the last boy in the school. I have risen in a few months, over several heads. But the first boy seems to me a mighty creature, dwelling afar off, whose giddy height is unattainable. Agnes says 'No,' but I say 'Yes,' and tell her that she little thinks what stores of knowledge have been mastered by the wonderful Being, at whose place she thinks I, even I, weak aspirant, may arrive in time. He is not my private friend and public patron, as Steerforth was, but I hold him in a reverential respect. I chiefly wonder what he'll be, when he leaves Doctor Strong's, and what mankind will do to maintain any place against him. But who is this that breaks upon me? This is Miss Shepherd, whom I love. Miss Shepherd is a boarder at the Misses Nettingalls' establishment. I adore Miss Shepherd. She is a little girl, in a spencer, with a round face and curly flaxen hair. The Misses Nettingalls' young ladies come to the Cathedral too. I cannot look upon my book, for I must look upon Miss Shepherd. When the choristers chaunt, I hear Miss Shepherd. In the service I mentally insert Miss Shepherd's name--I put her in among the Royal Family. At home, in my own room, I am sometimes moved to cry out, 'Oh, Miss Shepherd!' in a transport of love. For some time, I am doubtful of Miss Shepherd's feelings, but, at length, Fate being propitious, we meet at the dancing-school. I have Miss Shepherd for my partner. I touch Miss Shepherd's glove, and feel a thrill go up the right arm of my jacket, and come out at my hair. I say nothing to Miss Shepherd, but we understand each other. Miss Shepherd and myself live but to be united. Why do I secretly give Miss Shepherd twelve Brazil nuts for a present, I wonder? They are not expressive of affection, they are difficult to pack into a parcel of any regular shape, they are hard to crack, even in room doors, and they are oily when cracked; yet I feel that they are appropriate to Miss Shepherd. Soft, seedy biscuits, also, I bestow upon Miss Shepherd; and oranges innumerable. Once, I kiss Miss Shepherd in the cloak-room. Ecstasy! What are my agony and indignation next day, when I hear a flying rumour that the Misses Nettingall have stood Miss Shepherd in the stocks for turning in her toes! Miss Shepherd being the one pervading theme and vision of my life, how do I ever come to break with her? I can't conceive. And yet a coolness grows between Miss Shepherd and myself. Whispers reach me of Miss Shepherd having said she wished I wouldn't stare so, and having avowed a preference for Master Jones--for Jones! a boy of no merit whatever! The gulf between me and Miss Shepherd widens. At last, one day, I meet the Misses Nettingalls' establishment out walking. Miss Shepherd makes a face as she goes by, and laughs to her companion. All is over. The devotion of a life--it seems a life, it is all the same--is at an end; Miss Shepherd comes out of the morning service, and the Royal Family know her no more. I am higher in the school, and no one breaks my peace. I am not at all polite, now, to the Misses Nettingalls' young ladies, and shouldn't dote on any of them, if they were twice as many and twenty times as beautiful. I think the dancing-school a tiresome affair, and wonder why the girls can't dance by themselves and leave us alone. I am growing great in Latin verses, and neglect the laces of my boots. Doctor Strong refers to me in public as a promising young scholar. Mr. Dick is wild with joy, and my aunt remits me a guinea by the next post. The shade of a young butcher rises, like the apparition of an armed head in Macbeth. Who is this young butcher? He is the terror of the youth of Canterbury. There is a vague belief abroad, that the beef suet with which he anoints his hair gives him unnatural strength, and that he is a match for a man. He is a broad-faced, bull-necked, young butcher, with rough red cheeks, an ill-conditioned mind, and an injurious tongue. His main use of this tongue, is, to disparage Doctor Strong's young gentlemen. He says, publicly, that if they want anything he'll give it 'em. He names individuals among them (myself included), whom he could undertake to settle with one hand, and the other tied behind him. He waylays the smaller boys to punch their unprotected heads, and calls challenges after me in the open streets. For these sufficient reasons I resolve to fight the butcher. It is a summer evening, down in a green hollow, at the corner of a wall. I meet the butcher by appointment. I am attended by a select body of our boys; the butcher, by two other butchers, a young publican, and a sweep. The preliminaries are adjusted, and the butcher and myself stand face to face. In a moment the butcher lights ten thousand candles out of my left eyebrow. In another moment, I don't know where the wall is, or where I am, or where anybody is. I hardly know which is myself and which the butcher, we are always in such a tangle and tussle, knocking about upon the trodden grass. Sometimes I see the butcher, bloody but confident; sometimes I see nothing, and sit gasping on my second's knee; sometimes I go in at the butcher madly, and cut my knuckles open against his face, without appearing to discompose him at all. At last I awake, very queer about the head, as from a giddy sleep, and see the butcher walking off, congratulated by the two other butchers and the sweep and publican, and putting on his coat as he goes; from which I augur, justly, that the victory is his. I am taken home in a sad plight, and I have beef-steaks put to my eyes, and am rubbed with vinegar and brandy, and find a great puffy place bursting out on my upper lip, which swells immoderately. For three or four days I remain at home, a very ill-looking subject, with a green shade over my eyes; and I should be very dull, but that Agnes is a sister to me, and condoles with me, and reads to me, and makes the time light and happy. Agnes has my confidence completely, always; I tell her all about the butcher, and the wrongs he has heaped upon me; she thinks I couldn't have done otherwise than fight the butcher, while she shrinks and trembles at my having fought him. Time has stolen on unobserved, for Adams is not the head-boy in the days that are come now, nor has he been this many and many a day. Adams has left the school so long, that when he comes back, on a visit to Doctor Strong, there are not many there, besides myself, who know him. Adams is going to be called to the bar almost directly, and is to be an advocate, and to wear a wig. I am surprised to find him a meeker man than I had thought, and less imposing in appearance. He has not staggered the world yet, either; for it goes on (as well as I can make out) pretty much the same as if he had never joined it. A blank, through which the warriors of poetry and history march on in stately hosts that seem to have no end--and what comes next! I am the head-boy, now! I look down on the line of boys below me, with a condescending interest in such of them as bring to my mind the boy I was myself, when I first came there. That little fellow seems to be no part of me; I remember him as something left behind upon the road of life--as something I have passed, rather than have actually been--and almost think of him as of someone else. And the little girl I saw on that first day at Mr. Wickfield's, where is she? Gone also. In her stead, the perfect likeness of the picture, a child likeness no more, moves about the house; and Agnes--my sweet sister, as I call her in my thoughts, my counsellor and friend, the better angel of the lives of all who come within her calm, good, self-denying influence--is quite a woman. What other changes have come upon me, besides the changes in my growth and looks, and in the knowledge I have garnered all this while? I wear a gold watch and chain, a ring upon my little finger, and a long-tailed coat; and I use a great deal of bear's grease--which, taken in conjunction with the ring, looks bad. Am I in love again? I am. I worship the eldest Miss Larkins. The eldest Miss Larkins is not a little girl. She is a tall, dark, black-eyed, fine figure of a woman. The eldest Miss Larkins is not a chicken; for the youngest Miss Larkins is not that, and the eldest must be three or four years older. Perhaps the eldest Miss Larkins may be about thirty. My passion for her is beyond all bounds. The eldest Miss Larkins knows officers. It is an awful thing to bear. I see them speaking to her in the street. I see them cross the way to meet her, when her bonnet (she has a bright taste in bonnets) is seen coming down the pavement, accompanied by her sister's bonnet. She laughs and talks, and seems to like it. I spend a good deal of my own spare time in walking up and down to meet her. If I can bow to her once in the day (I know her to bow to, knowing Mr. Larkins), I am happier. I deserve a bow now and then. The raging agonies I suffer on the night of the Race Ball, where I know the eldest Miss Larkins will be dancing with the military, ought to have some compensation, if there be even-handed justice in the world. My passion takes away my appetite, and makes me wear my newest silk neckerchief continually. I have no relief but in putting on my best clothes, and having my boots cleaned over and over again. I seem, then, to be worthier of the eldest Miss Larkins. Everything that belongs to her, or is connected with her, is precious to me. Mr. Larkins (a gruff old gentleman with a double chin, and one of his eyes immovable in his head) is fraught with interest to me. When I can't meet his daughter, I go where I am likely to meet him. To say 'How do you do, Mr. Larkins? Are the young ladies and all the family quite well?' seems so pointed, that I blush. I think continually about my age. Say I am seventeen, and say that seventeen is young for the eldest Miss Larkins, what of that? Besides, I shall be one-and-twenty in no time almost. I regularly take walks outside Mr. Larkins's house in the evening, though it cuts me to the heart to see the officers go in, or to hear them up in the drawing-room, where the eldest Miss Larkins plays the harp. I even walk, on two or three occasions, in a sickly, spoony manner, round and round the house after the family are gone to bed, wondering which is the eldest Miss Larkins's chamber (and pitching, I dare say now, on Mr. Larkins's instead); wishing that a fire would burst out; that the assembled crowd would stand appalled; that I, dashing through them with a ladder, might rear it against her window, save her in my arms, go back for something she had left behind, and perish in the flames. For I am generally disinterested in my love, and think I could be content to make a figure before Miss Larkins, and expire. Generally, but not always. Sometimes brighter visions rise before me. When I dress (the occupation of two hours), for a great ball given at the Larkins's (the anticipation of three weeks), I indulge my fancy with pleasing images. I picture myself taking courage to make a declaration to Miss Larkins. I picture Miss Larkins sinking her head upon my shoulder, and saying, 'Oh, Mr. Copperfield, can I believe my ears!' I picture Mr. Larkins waiting on me next morning, and saying, 'My dear Copperfield, my daughter has told me all. Youth is no objection. Here are twenty thousand pounds. Be happy!' I picture my aunt relenting, and blessing us; and Mr. Dick and Doctor Strong being present at the marriage ceremony. I am a sensible fellow, I believe--I believe, on looking back, I mean--and modest I am sure; but all this goes on notwithstanding. I repair to the enchanted house, where there are lights, chattering, music, flowers, officers (I am sorry to see), and the eldest Miss Larkins, a blaze of beauty. She is dressed in blue, with blue flowers in her hair--forget-me-nots--as if SHE had any need to wear forget-me-nots. It is the first really grown-up party that I have ever been invited to, and I am a little uncomfortable; for I appear not to belong to anybody, and nobody appears to have anything to say to me, except Mr. Larkins, who asks me how my schoolfellows are, which he needn't do, as I have not come there to be insulted. But after I have stood in the doorway for some time, and feasted my eyes upon the goddess of my heart, she approaches me--she, the eldest Miss Larkins!--and asks me pleasantly, if I dance? I stammer, with a bow, 'With you, Miss Larkins.' 'With no one else?' inquires Miss Larkins. 'I should have no pleasure in dancing with anyone else.' Miss Larkins laughs and blushes (or I think she blushes), and says, 'Next time but one, I shall be very glad.' The time arrives. 'It is a waltz, I think,' Miss Larkins doubtfully observes, when I present myself. 'Do you waltz? If not, Captain Bailey--' But I do waltz (pretty well, too, as it happens), and I take Miss Larkins out. I take her sternly from the side of Captain Bailey. He is wretched, I have no doubt; but he is nothing to me. I have been wretched, too. I waltz with the eldest Miss Larkins! I don't know where, among whom, or how long. I only know that I swim about in space, with a blue angel, in a state of blissful delirium, until I find myself alone with her in a little room, resting on a sofa. She admires a flower (pink camellia japonica, price half-a-crown), in my button-hole. I give it her, and say: 'I ask an inestimable price for it, Miss Larkins.' 'Indeed! What is that?' returns Miss Larkins. 'A flower of yours, that I may treasure it as a miser does gold.' 'You're a bold boy,' says Miss Larkins. 'There.' She gives it me, not displeased; and I put it to my lips, and then into my breast. Miss Larkins, laughing, draws her hand through my arm, and says, 'Now take me back to Captain Bailey.' I am lost in the recollection of this delicious interview, and the waltz, when she comes to me again, with a plain elderly gentleman who has been playing whist all night, upon her arm, and says: 'Oh! here is my bold friend! Mr. Chestle wants to know you, Mr. Copperfield.' I feel at once that he is a friend of the family, and am much gratified. 'I admire your taste, sir,' says Mr. Chestle. 'It does you credit. I suppose you don't take much interest in hops; but I am a pretty large grower myself; and if you ever like to come over to our neighbourhood--neighbourhood of Ashford--and take a run about our place,--we shall be glad for you to stop as long as you like.' I thank Mr. Chestle warmly, and shake hands. I think I am in a happy dream. I waltz with the eldest Miss Larkins once again. She says I waltz so well! I go home in a state of unspeakable bliss, and waltz in imagination, all night long, with my arm round the blue waist of my dear divinity. For some days afterwards, I am lost in rapturous reflections; but I neither see her in the street, nor when I call. I am imperfectly consoled for this disappointment by the sacred pledge, the perished flower. "Trotwood," sagt Agnes eines Tages nach dem Mittagessen. "Wen glaubst du, wird morgen heiraten? Jemand, den du bewunderst." "Nicht du, nehme ich an, Agnes?" "Nicht mich!" sagt sie und hebt ihr fröhliches Gesicht von der Musik, die sie kopiert. "Hörst du ihn, Papa? Die ältere Miss Larkins." "Den Captain Bailey?" Rufe ich mit letzter Kraft. "Nein, keinen Captain. Den Mr. Chestle, einen Hopfenanbauer." Ich bin für etwa eine Woche oder zwei furchtbar niedergeschlagen. Ich nehme meinen Ring ab, ich trage meine schlechteste Kleidung, ich benutze kein Bärendefett und ich beklage oft die verwelkte Blume der verstorbenen Miss Larkins. Inzwischen aber müde von dieser Art Leben geworden und durch neue Provokationen von dem Fleischer ermutigt, werfe ich die Blume weg, gehe mit dem Fleischer aus und besiege ihn glorreich. Das ist, zusammen mit der Wiederaufnahme meines Rings und des Bärendefetts in Maßen, die letzten markanten Ereignisse, die ich jetzt in meinem Fortschritt in Richtung siebzehn erkennen kann. 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.

David blickt auf seine Schulzeit zurück. David ist nicht der am wenigsten erfolgreiche Junge in der Schule, aber er hat noch einen langen Weg vor sich, um der Erste zu sein. Adams ist nicht so überlegen wie Steerforth, aber David fragt sich immer noch, was aus ihm wird, wenn er die Schule verlässt - er ist sich sicher, dass Adam erstaunlich sein wird. David ist in Miss Shepherd verknallt, die in einer von den Misses Nettingalls geführten Schule wohnt. Die Schüler der Misses Nettingalls gehen in die gleiche Kirche wie die Schüler von Doctor Strong. Zum Glück gehen auch David und Miss Shepherd in die gleiche Tanzschule. David schenkt Miss Shepherd kleine Geschenke: Paranüsse, Kekse und Orangen. Langsam entfernen sie sich jedoch voneinander: David hört, dass Miss Shepherd sich wünscht, dass David nicht so viel starrt. Schlimmer noch, Miss Shepherd ist in Jones verknallt, einen seiner Mitschüler. Eines Tages läuft David zufällig an den Mädchen der Misses Nettingalls vorbei und sieht, wie Miss Shepherd ihm ein Gesicht macht und dann mit ihren Freunden lacht. Er hat genug von ihr. David wird älter und entscheidet, dass er zu gut für die jungen Damen der Misses Nettingalls ist. Er ist zu gut für sie und für die Tanzschule. Doctor Strong nennt David ein vielversprechendes Schüler, und Mr. Dick und Miss Betsey sind beide sehr stolz auf ihn. Ein junger Metzger in der Stadt droht, die Jungen von Doctor Strong zu verprügeln, weil sie denken, dass sie so großartig sind. Tatsächlich stoppt er ein paar der jüngeren Jungen und schlägt sie. Dieser Metzger fordert David direkt heraus, und so beschließt David, gegen ihn anzutreten. Der Metzger besiegt David völlig und er muss ein paar Tage zu Hause bleiben, um sich zu erholen. Agnes pflegt David. Sie ist einverstanden, dass David keine andere Wahl hatte, als gegen den Metzger zu kämpfen. Adams macht seinen Abschluss an der Schule und wird Anwalt. David hält Adams nicht mehr für so großartig: Plötzlich scheint er sehr demütig und gar nicht prächtig. Jetzt ist David Schulsprecher! Er fühlt sich wie meilenweit von dem kleinen Jungen entfernt, der er war, als er zum ersten Mal in Doctor Strongs Schule kam. Und auch Agnes ist erwachsen geworden: Sie ist wie eine ruhige, süße Schwester für David. David verliebt sich wieder, diesmal in die älteste Miss Larkins. Miss Larkins ist eine große Frau von etwa dreißig Jahren und David ist Hals über Kopf in sie verliebt. David plant, auf einen Ball zu gehen, von dem er weiß, dass Miss Larkins auch daran teilnehmen wird. Wenn er nicht bei Miss Larkins sein kann, versucht er, die Aufmerksamkeit ihres Vaters, Mr. Larkin, auf sich zu ziehen. David sorgt sich, dass er mit 17 vielleicht zu jung für Miss Larkins ist. Aber na und! Bald wird er 21! Fantasien schießen David in den Kopf, wie Miss Betsey ihm ihren Segen geben wird, Miss Larkins zu heiraten, und ihm ein Vermögen von 20.000 Pfund anbietet. Leider bemerkt er im wirklichen Leben auch, dass Miss Larkins bei den Offizieren der Armee in der Stadt sehr beliebt ist: Er fängt an, sich Sorgen zu machen, dass sie ihn nicht einmal bemerken wird. Also schafft es David schließlich zum Ball und fragt Miss Larkins zum Tanzen. David sagt Miss Larkins, dass er nicht mit jemand anderem tanzen möchte. Sie tanzen zusammen und David ist erfreut, dass er Miss Larkins den Armen von Captain Bailey entrissen hat. David bittet Miss Larkins um eine Blume, die er dann küsst und an seine Brust steckt. Miss Larkins sagt David, dass er sehr dreist ist, und bittet dann, von Captain Bailey begleitet zu werden. Miss Larkins geht später mit einem einfachen, etwas älteren Gentleman auf David zu. Sie stellt David Mr. Chestle vor, der im Hopfenhandel tätig ist. David denkt, dass Mr. Chestle irgendein Freund der Familie sein muss und ist sehr stolz auf die Vorstellung. Er ist absolut begeistert von dieser Aufmerksamkeit von Miss Larkins. Das ändert sich allerdings einige Wochen später, als Agnes ihm beim Abendessen mitteilt, dass Miss Larkins gerade geheiratet hat. Captain Bailey? Nope, Mr. Chestle. David ist unglücklich, hört auf, seine besten Kleider zu tragen und wirft die Blume von Miss Larkins weg. Müde von der ganzen Dating-Szene fordert David den Metzger zu einem erneuten Kampf heraus und besiegt ihn. Es geht ihm etwas besser. Und das ist Davids Aufstieg bis zum Alter von 17!

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). 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 vollständige Ignoranz von Hurstwood gegenüber seinem eigenen Zuhause trat mit dem Wachstum seiner Zuneigung zu Carrie ein. Seine Handlungen in Bezug auf seine Familie waren von oberflächlicher Art. Er saß beim Frühstück mit seiner Frau und seinen Kindern, vertieft in seine eigenen Fantasien, die weit über ihre Interessen hinausreichten. Er las seine Zeitung, die durch die Oberflächlichkeit der diskutierten Themen durch seinen Sohn und seine Tochter noch interessanter wurde. Zwischen ihm und seiner Frau floss ein Fluss der Gleichgültigkeit. Jetzt, da Carrie da war, war er auf dem besten Weg, wieder glücklich zu sein. Es war eine Freude, abends in die Innenstadt zu gehen. Wenn er an den kurzen Tagen spazieren ging, hatten die Straßenlaternen ein fröhliches Funkeln. Er begann das fast vergessene Gefühl zu erleben, das die Füße eines Liebhabers beschleunigt. Wenn er seine feine Kleidung ansah, sah er sie mit ihren Augen - und ihre Augen waren jung. Wenn er im Rausch solcher Gefühle die Stimme seiner Frau hörte, wenn die hartnäckigen Forderungen der Ehe ihn aus Träumen in eine stagnierende Routine zurückholten, wie das kratzte. Er wusste dann, dass dies eine Kette war, die seine Füße fesselte. "George", sagte Mrs. Hurstwood mit dem Tonfall, der in seinem Kopf längst mit Forderungen in Verbindung gebracht wurde, "wir möchten, dass du uns eine Jahreskarte für die Rennen besorgst." "Willst du zu allen gehen?", sagte er mit ansteigender Betonung. "Ja", antwortete sie. Die genannten Rennen sollten bald im Washington Park auf der Südseite eröffnen und galten für diejenigen, die keine religiöse Redlichkeit und Konservatismus vorgaben, als gesellschaftliche Angelegenheiten von einiger Bedeutung. Mrs. Hurstwood hatte noch nie zuvor nach einer ganzen Jahreskarte gefragt, aber in diesem Jahr hatten bestimmte Überlegungen sie dazu bewogen, eine Loge zu besorgen. Zum einen hatten ihre Nachbarn, ein gewisser Herr und Frau Ramsey, die im Kohlegeschäft Geld gemacht hatten, dies getan. Zum anderen hatte ihr Lieblingsarzt, Dr. Beale, ein Herr, der sich für Pferde und Wetten interessierte, mit ihr über seine Absicht gesprochen, einen zweijährigen Derby-Sieger zu züchten. Außerdem wollte sie Jessica zur Schau stellen, die an Reife und Schönheit gewann und die sie gerne an einen vermögenden Mann verheiraten wollte. Ihr eigener Wunsch, an solchen Veranstaltungen teilzunehmen und sich unter ihren Bekannten und der breiten Masse zur Schau zu stellen, war ebenso anregend wie alles andere. Hurstwood überlegte einige Augenblicke lang über den Vorschlag, ohne zu antworten. Sie waren im Wohnzimmer im zweiten Stock und warteten auf das Abendessen. Es war der Abend seines Treffens mit Carrie und Drouet, um "The Covenant" zu sehen, was ihn dazu gebracht hatte, nach Hause zu kommen, um einige Änderungen an seiner Kleidung vorzunehmen. "Reicht es nicht, wenn wir separate Tickets kaufen?", fragte er zögernd und vermied es, etwas Grobes zu sagen. "Nein", antwortete sie ungeduldig. "Nun gut", sagte er beleidigt über ihre Art, "du brauchst dich nicht darüber aufzuregen. Ich frage dich nur." "Ich rege mich nicht auf", schnappte sie. "Ich bitte dich nur um eine Jahreskarte." "Und ich sage dir", erwiderte er und fixierte sie mit klarem, festem Blick, "dass es nicht leicht ist, eine zu bekommen. Ich bin mir nicht sicher, ob der Manager mir eine gibt." Die ganze Zeit über hatte er an seinen Beziehungen zu den Rennbahn-Magnaten gedacht. "Dann kaufen wir sie eben", rief sie schroff. "Du redest leicht", sagte er. "Eine Familien-Jahreskarte kostet hundertfünfzig Dollar." "Ich werde nicht mit dir streiten", antwortete sie entschlossen. "Ich möchte die Karte und das ist alles." Sie war aufgestanden und ging wütend aus dem Zimmer. "Gut, dann besorg sie dir", sagte er grimmig, wenn auch in gemäßigtem Ton. Wie üblich fehlte an diesem Abend ein Platz am Tisch. Am nächsten Morgen hatte er sich deutlich abgekühlt und später wurde die Eintrittskarte ordnungsgemäß erworben, obwohl dies die Angelegenheit nicht bereinigte. Es störte ihn nicht, seiner Familie einen guten Teil von dem abzugeben, was er verdiente, aber er mochte es nicht, gegen seinen Willen für etwas sorgen zu müssen. "Weißt du, Mutti", sagte Jessica an einem anderen Tag, "die Spencers machen sich bereit, wegzugehen." "Nein. Wohin wohl?" "Nach Europa", sagte Jessica. "Ich habe Georgine gestern getroffen und sie hat es mir erzählt. Sie gibt damit nur noch mehr an." "Hat sie gesagt, wann?" "Montag, glaube ich. Sie werden wieder eine Ankündigung in den Zeitungen haben - sie haben das immer." "Macht nichts", tröstete Mrs. Hurstwood, "wir werden eines Tages auch gehen." Hurstwood bewegte seine Augen langsam über die Zeitung, sagte aber nichts. "'Wir segeln von New York nach Liverpool'", rief Jessica und ahmte ihre Bekannte nach. "'Erwarten, den Großteil des "Sommers" in Frankreich zu verbringen', törichte Sache. Als ob es etwas Besonderes wäre, nach Europa zu gehen." "Dann muss es wohl so sein, wenn du sie so sehr beneidest", warf Hurstwood ein. Es ärgerte ihn, die Gefühle, die seine Tochter zeigte, zu sehen. "Mach dir darüber keine Sorgen, mein Liebes", sagte Mrs. Hurstwood. "Hat George abgefah.. Hast du den Rest verstanden? Carrie war wirklich liebenswert, wenn jemals Jugend und Anmut dazu bestimmt sind, diese Anerkennung von Leben in ihrer Blüte zu erhalten. Erfahrung hatte ihr noch nicht diese Frische des Geistes genommen, die den Reiz des Körpers ausmacht. Ihre sanften Augen enthielten in ihrem flüssigen Glanz keinen Hinweis auf die Kenntnis von Enttäuschungen. Sie war auf gewisse Weise von Zweifeln und Sehnsucht beunruhigt worden, doch diese hatten keinen tieferen Eindruck hinterlassen als in einem gewissen offenen Blick und in der Rede. Der Mund hatte manchmal, beim Sprechen und in Ruhe, den Ausdruck derjenigen, die kurz vor den Tränen stehen. Es war nicht so, dass Trauer immer präsent war. Die Aussprache bestimmter Silben verlieh ihren Lippen diese Besonderheit der Formgebung - eine Formgebung, so eindringlich und bewegend wie das Pathos selbst. Es lag nichts Aufdringliches in ihrer Art. Das Leben hatte ihr keine Herrschaft beigebracht - die hochnäsige Anmut anderer Frauen. Ihr Wunsch nach Anerkennung war nicht stark genug, um sie dazu zu veranlassen, danach zu verlangen. Selbst jetzt fehlte es ihr an Selbstsicherheit, aber das bereits Erlebte hatte in ihr etwas zurückgelassen, das sie etwas weniger als zurückhaltend sein ließ. Sie wollte Vergnügen, sie wollte Stellung, und doch war sie verwirrt darüber, was diese Dinge sein könnten. Jede Stunde warfen die Unwägbarkeiten menschlicher Angelegenheiten einen neuen Glanz auf etwas und machten es damit für sie zum Ersehnten - zum allem. Eine andere Verschiebung des Kaleidoskops und etwas anderes war das Schöne, das Perfekte geworden. In ihrem spirituellen Bereich war sie ebenfalls reich an Gefühlen, wie es eine solche Natur auch sein könnte. Kummer überkam sie bei manchem Anblick - ein unkritisch aufsteigender Schmerz für die Schwachen und Hilflosen. Sie wurde ständig von dem Anblick der blassen, verlausten Männer gequält, die in einer Art jämmerlicher geistiger Betäubung an ihr vorbeischlurften. Die schlecht gekleideten Mädchen, die abends an ihrem Fenster vorbeihasteten und sich nach Hause beeilten, von einem der Läden der westlichen Seite kommend, bemitleidete sie aus tiefstem Herzen. Sie würde dastehen und auf ihre Lippen beißen, wenn sie vorbeigingen, mit dem Kopf schütteln und sich fragen. Sie hatten so wenig, dachte sie. Es war so traurig, zerlumpt und arm zu sein. Der Hang zu verblassten Kleidern schmerzte ihre Augen. "Und sie müssen so hart arbeiten!" war ihr einziger Kommentar. Manchmal sah sie Männer auf der Straße arbeiten - Iren mit Spitzhacken, Kohlenarbeiter mit schweren Lasten zum Schaufeln, Amerikaner, die mit irgendeiner körperlichen Arbeit beschäftigt waren - und sie berührten ihre Fantasie. Die Mühsal, jetzt da sie davon befreit war, schien ihr noch eine trostlosere Sache zu sein als damals, als sie selbst Teil davon war. Sie sah sie wie durch den Nebel der Fantasie - ein blasses, düsteres Halbdunkel, das die Essenz des poetischen Gefühls war. Ihr alter Vater, in seinem mit Mehlstaub bedecktem Mülleranzug, kehrte manchmal in ihrer Erinnerung zu ihr zurück, heraufbeschworen von einem Gesicht in einem Fenster. Ein Schuhmacher, der an seinem Leisten hämmerte, ein Sprengmeister, der durch ein schmales Fenster in einem Kelleröhren Zimmer, in dem Eisen geschmolzen wurde, zu sehen war, ein Bankarbeiter, der hoch oben in einem Fenster zu sehen war, seinen Mantel abgelegt, die Ärmel hochgekrempelt; sie versetzten sie in Gedanken zurück in die Einzelheiten der Mühle. Sie hatte traurige Gedanken darüber, wenn auch selten ausgesprochen. Ihre Sympathien lagen immer bei dieser Unterwelt der Arbeit, aus der sie erst kürzlich aufgestiegen war und die sie am besten verstand. Hurstwood wusste es nicht, aber er hatte es mit jemandem zu tun, dessen Gefühle genauso zart und empfindlich waren wie er. Er wusste es nicht, aber das war es schließlich, was ihn an ihr anzog. Er versuchte nie, die Natur seiner Zuneigung zu analysieren. Es genügte, dass Zärtlichkeit in ihrem Blick war, Schwäche in ihrer Art, Freundlichkeit und Hoffnung in ihren Gedanken. Er näherte sich dieser Lilie, die ihre wächserne Schönheit und ihren Duft aus einer Tiefe unter Wasser gesaugt hatte, die er noch nie durchdrungen hatte, und aus Schlamm und Schimmel, den er nicht verstehen konnte. Er näherte sich, weil sie wächsern und frisch war. Es erleichterte ihm seine Gefühle. Es machte den Morgen wertvoll. Auf materielle Weise hatte sie sich beträchtlich verbessert. Ihre Ungeschicklichkeit war fast verschwunden, und nur eine skurrile Überbleibsel war zurückgeblieben, das ebenso angenehm war wie vollkommene Anmut. Ihre kleinen Schuhe passten jetzt gut und hatten hohe Absätze. Sie hatte viel über Spitzen und diese kleinen Halsstücke gelernt, die das Aussehen einer Frau so sehr verbessern. Ihre Form hatte sich gefüllt, bis sie bewundernswert füllig und wohlgeformt war. Hurstwood schrieb ihr eines Morgens und bat sie, ihn im Jefferson Park, der Monroe Street zu treffen. Er hielt es nicht für ratsam, noch einmal anzurufen, auch wenn Drouet zu Hause war. Am nächsten Nachmittag war er um eins in dem hübschen kleinen Park und hatte eine rustikale Bank unter dem grünen Laub eines Fliederbusches gefunden, der einen der Wege säumte. Es war zu der Jahreszeit, in der der volle Frühling noch nicht ganz verblasst war. An einem kleinen Teich in der Nähe segelten einige sauber gekleidete Kinder mit weißen Segelbooten. Im Schatten einer grünen Pagode ruhte ein uniformierter Polizist mit überkreuzten Armen und seinem Schlagstock in seinem Gürtel. Ein alter Gärtner war auf dem Rasen und schaute nach einigen Büschen mit einer Gartenschere. Hoch oben war der saubere blaue Himmel des neuen Sommers, und in der Dicke der glänzenden grünen Blätter der Bäume hüpften und zwitscherten die geschäftigen Spatzen. Hurstwood hatte an diesem Morgen mit viel Ärger sein eigenes Haus verlassen. In seinem Laden hatte er Zeit verschwendet, da es nichts zu schreiben gab. Er war in dieses Gebiet gekommen, mit der Leichtigkeit des Herzens, die charakteristisch ist für diejenigen, die sich von Müdigkeit verabschieden. Jetzt, im Schatten dieses kühlen, grünen Busches, schaute er sich mit der Fantasie eines Liebhabers um. Er hörte die Wagen auf den benachbarten Straßen laut vorbeirollen, aber sie waren weit entfernt und surrten nur in seinem Ohr. Das Summen der umgebenden Stadt war leise, das Klirren einer gelegentlichen Glocke klang wie Musik. Er schaute und träumte einen neuen Genuss-Traum, der seinen festen aktuellen Zustand überhaupt nicht betraf. Gedanklich kehrte er zu dem alten Hurstwood zurück, der weder verheiratet war noch in einer festen Position für das Leben war. Er erinnerte sich an die leichte Stimmung, mit der er einst den Mädchen nachschaute - wie er mit ihnen tanzte, sie nach Hause begleitete, über ihren Toren hing. Er wünschte sich fast, dass er wieder dort wäre - hier in dieser angenehmen Szene fühlte es sich an, als wäre er völlig frei. Um zwei Uhr kam Carrie über den Weg auf ihn zu, rosig und sauber. Sie hatte gerade erst einen Matrosenhut für "Es ist eine große Stadt, Liebste", antwortete Hurstwood. "Es wäre so gut wie in einen anderen Teil des Landes zu ziehen, wenn wir auf die Südseite ziehen würden." Er hatte sich diese Gegend als Ziel gesetzt. "Egal", sagte Carrie, "ich würde nicht heiraten wollen, solange er hier ist. Ich würde nicht weglaufen wollen." Der Vorschlag zu heiraten traf Hurstwood plötzlich. Er sah deutlich, dass dies ihre Idee war - er spürte, dass sie nicht so leicht darüber hinwegkommen würde. Für einen Moment hellte Bigamie den Horizont seiner schattenhaften Gedanken auf. Er fragte sich verzweifelt, wie alles enden würde. Er konnte nicht sehen, dass er in irgendeiner Hinsicht Fortschritte machte, außer was ihr Betreffen betraf. Wenn er sie jetzt ansah, fand er sie schön. Welch ein Glück es war, dass sie ihn liebte, auch wenn es verstrickt war! Sie wurde in seinen Augen wertvoller wegen ihres Widerstands. Sie war etwas, wofür es sich lohnte zu kämpfen, und das war alles. Wie anders als die Frauen, die bereitwillig nachgaben! Er verbannte den Gedanken an sie aus seinem Kopf. "Und du weißt nicht, wann er weggehen wird?", fragte Hurstwood ruhig. Sie schüttelte den Kopf. Er seufzte. "Du bist eine entschlossene kleine Frau, oder?", sagte er nach ein paar Momenten und blickte ihr in die Augen. Bei diesem Satz durchströmte sie eine Welle der Gefühle. Es war Stolz, was sich wie Bewunderung anfühlte - Zuneigung für den Mann, der so fühlen konnte, wenn es um sie ging. "Nein", sagte sie kokett, "aber was kann ich tun?" Er faltete wieder seine Hände und blickte über den Rasen auf die Straße. "Ich wünschte", sagte er pathetisch, "du würdest zu mir kommen. Ich mag es nicht, so von dir getrennt zu sein. Was bringt es, zu warten? Bist du glücklicher?" "Glücklicher!", rief sie leise aus, "du weißt es doch besser." "Hier sind wir also", fuhr er im selben Ton fort, "und vergeuden unsere Tage. Wenn du nicht glücklich bist, glaubst du, dass ich es bin? Ich sitze die meiste Zeit hier und schreibe dir. Ich sage dir mal etwas, Carrie", rief er aus und legte in seiner Stimme plötzlich einen starken Ausdruck und fixierte sie mit seinen Augen, "ich kann nicht ohne dich leben, und das ist alles, was es dazu zu sagen gibt. Und jetzt", schloss er mit der Handfläche einer seiner weißen Hände in einer Art hilflosen Ausdruck, "was soll ich tun?" Dieses Aufbürden der Verantwortung auf sie sprach Carrie an. Der Anschein der Last ohne das Gewicht rührte ihr Herz an. "Kannst du noch ein wenig warten?", sagte sie zärtlich. "Ich werde versuchen herauszufinden, wann er geht." "Was bringt das?", fragte er und hielt die gleiche gefühlvolle Anspannung aufrecht. "Nun, vielleicht könnten wir vereinbaren, irgendwohin zu gehen." Sie sah wirklich nichts klarer als zuvor, aber sie befand sich in jenem Gemütszustand, wo eine Frau aus Sympathie nachgibt. Hurstwood verstand es nicht. Er fragte sich, wie man sie überreden könnte - welche Überzeugung sie dazu bringen würde, Drouet zu verlassen. Er fing an sich zu fragen, wie weit ihre Zuneigung für ihn sie tragen würde. Er dachte an eine Frage, die sie dazu bringen würde, die Wahrheit zu sagen. Schließlich stieß er auf eine dieser problematischen Fragen, die oft unsere eigenen Wünsche verbergen, während sie uns dazu bringen, die Schwierigkeiten zu verstehen, die andere uns bereiten, und so für uns einen Weg entdecken. Es hatte keinerlei Zusammenhang mit irgendetwas, was er beabsichtigt hatte, und wurde ohne einen Moment ernsthaften Nachdenkens aus dem Stegreif gesprochen. "Carrie", sagte er und blickte in ihr Gesicht, einen ernsten Ausdruck annehmend, den er nicht empfand, "nehmen wir einmal an, ich käme nächste Woche zu dir, oder diese Woche, um genau zu sein - heute Abend say - und würde dir sagen, dass ich weg müsste - dass ich keine Minute länger bleiben könnte und nicht mehr zurückkommen werde - würdest du mit mir kommen?" Seine Geliebte betrachtete ihn mit liebevollem Blick, ihre Antwort bereit, noch bevor die Worte seinen Mund verlassen hatten. "Ja", sagte sie. "Würdest du nicht warten wollen um zu diskutieren oder zu arrangieren?" "Nicht, wenn du nicht warten könntest." Er lächelte, als er sah, dass sie ihn ernst nahm, und er dachte, was für eine Chance sich ihm für einen möglichen Ausflug von ein oder zwei Wochen bieten würde. Er hatte den Gedanken, ihr zu sagen, dass er scherzte, um ihre süße Ernsthaftigkeit abzuschütteln, aber die Wirkung war zu herrlich. Er ließ es so stehen. "Stellen wir uns vor, wir hätten hier keine Zeit zu heiraten", fügte er hinzu, während ihm eine Nachdenklichkeit überkam. "Wenn wir uns direkt am Ende der Reise heiraten würden, wäre das in Ordnung." "Das meinte ich", sagte er. "Ja." Der Morgen schien ihm nun besonders hell zu sein. Er fragte sich, was ihm wohl einen solchen Gedanken eingab. So unmöglich es auch war, er konnte nicht anders, als über dessen Cleverness zu lächeln. Es zeigte, wie sehr sie ihn liebte. In seinem Kopf gab es keinen Zweifel mehr, und er würde einen Weg finden, um sie zu gewinnen. "Nun", sagte er scherzhaft, "irgendeinen dieser Abende werde ich kommen und dich abholen", und dann lachte er. "Ich bliebe aber nicht bei dir, wenn du mich nicht heiraten würdest", fügte Carrie nachdenklich hinzu. "Das will ich auch nicht", sagte er zärtlich und nahm ihre Hand. Sie war überaus glücklich, jetzt wo sie es verstand. Sie liebte ihn umso mehr, weil er dachte, er würde sie so retten. Was ihn betraf, der Heiratskontext war nicht in seinem Kopf. Er dachte daran, dass mit so viel Zuneigung kein Hindernis für sein zukünftiges Glück bestehen könnte. "Lass uns spazieren gehen", sagte er fröhlich und stand auf, um den schönen Park zu betrachten. "In Ordnung", sagte Carrie. Sie gingen an dem jungen Iren vorbei, der sie neidisch beobachtete. "'Tis ein hübsches Paar", bemerkte er für sich. "Sie müssen reich sein." 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.

Wir erfahren, dass Hurstwood so in seine Affäre mit Carrie vertieft ist, dass er weitgehend alles zu Hause ignoriert. Jeden Morgen gibt er vor, mit Mrs. Hurstwood und den Kindern zu frühstücken, aber er vertieft sich hauptsächlich in die Zeitung, um nicht mit ihnen sprechen zu müssen. Wir springen zurück zu einer Szene im Haus der Hurstwoods, die am Abend von Hurstwoods letztem Theaterbesuch mit Drouet und Carrie stattfand. Kurz bevor er zum Theater geht, sagt ihm Mrs. Hurstwood, dass sie von ihm Saisonkarten für die Pferderennen haben will. Sie hat noch nie nach Saisonkarten gefragt, aber ihre reichen Freunde haben sie und sie will Jessica zur Schau stellen, um einen reichen Ehemann für sie zu finden. Hurstwood sagt ihr, dass sie schwer zu bekommen sind und wahnsinnig teuer sind, aber sie schmollt und er gibt nach. Er bleibt nicht zum Abendessen. Wir kehren in die Gegenwart zurück, als Hurstwood mit seiner Familie frühstückt. Er ist genervt, weil Jessica immer wieder deutlich macht, dass sie wie ihre reichen Freunde im Sommer nach Europa will. Er ist weiterhin verärgert, dass George Jr. in eine andere Stadt zu einem Tennisspiel gegangen ist und ihm nichts gesagt hat. Er fühlt sich von seinen Kindern ausgeschlossen. Hurstwood macht sich wieder gute Laune, indem er an Carrie denkt. Er überlegt, dass Carrie keine Ahnung hat, dass er verheiratet ist, und er hofft, dass sie es nicht herausfindet. Sie sind zu ernsthaften Brieffreunden geworden und schreiben seit der Theaternacht miteinander. Hurstwood schreibt ihr einen Brief und bittet sie, sich mit ihm im Park zu treffen. Sie treffen sich und nachdem sie einige Höflichkeiten ausgetauscht haben, kommt Hurstwood schnell zur Sache: Er will, dass sie Drouet verlässt und mit ihm geht. Sie fragt ihn, wohin sie gehen würden, und er fragt sie, wohin sie gehen möchte. Sie möchte nicht in Chicago bleiben, weil Drouet dort ist, aber Hurstwood müsste seinen Job aufgeben, wenn sie gehen, also versucht er, sie davon zu überzeugen, dass Chicago groß genug für sie alle ist. Und dann sagt sie etwas Überraschendes: "Solange 's hier ist, möchte ich nicht heiraten", sagt sie zu ihm. Hurstwood gerät zuerst in Panik, als das Wort Bigamie wie ein Neonzeichen in seinem Kopf aufleuchtet, aber er kann nicht anders, als glücklich zu sein, dass sie so stark für ihn empfindet. Hurstwood hat eine geniale Idee: Er wird Carrie einem kleinen Test unterziehen. Er fragt sie, was sie tun würde, wenn er zu ihr käme und ihr sagen würde, dass er gehen müsse und nicht zurückkomme. Würde sie mit ihm gehen? Klar, die Antwort ist ja. Er drängt weiter und fragt, ob sie immer noch gehen würde, wenn sie nicht sofort heiraten könnten. Sie sagt, das wäre in Ordnung, solange sie "sofort heiraten, wenn wir am Ziel angekommen sind". Er gibt vor, dass es ein Scherz ist, sagt ihr, er werde sie eines Abends abholen, und sie bekräftigt, dass sie nur bei ihm bleiben wird, wenn er sie heiratet. Sie schlendern glücklich gemeinsam durch den Park.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten 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 now hasten to the more moving part of my story. I shall relate events that impressed me with feelings which, from what I was, have made me what I am. "Spring advanced rapidly; the weather became fine, and the skies cloudless. It surprised me, that what before was desert and gloomy should now bloom with the most beautiful flowers and verdure. My senses were gratified and refreshed by a thousand scents of delight, and a thousand sights of beauty. "It was on one of these days, when my cottagers periodically rested from labour--the old man played on his guitar, and the children listened to him--I observed that the countenance of Felix was melancholy beyond expression: he sighed frequently; and once his father paused in his music, and I conjectured by his manner that he inquired the cause of his son's sorrow. Felix replied in a cheerful accent, and the old man was recommencing his music, when some one tapped at the door. "It was a lady on horseback, accompanied by a countryman as a guide. The lady was dressed in a dark suit, and covered with a thick black veil. Agatha asked a question; to which the stranger only replied by pronouncing, in a sweet accent, the name of Felix. Her voice was musical, but unlike that of either of my friends. On hearing this word, Felix came up hastily to the lady; who, when she saw him, threw up her veil, and I beheld a countenance of angelic beauty and expression. Her hair of a shining raven black, and curiously braided; her eyes were dark, but gentle, although animated; her features of a regular proportion, and her complexion wondrously fair, each cheek tinged with a lovely pink. "Felix seemed ravished with delight when he saw her, every trait of sorrow vanished from his face, and it instantly expressed a degree of ecstatic joy, of which I could hardly have believed it capable; his eyes sparkled, as his cheek flushed with pleasure; and at that moment I thought him as beautiful as the stranger. She appeared affected by different feelings; wiping a few tears from her lovely eyes, she held out her hand to Felix, who kissed it rapturously, and called her, as well as I could distinguish, his sweet Arabian. She did not appear to understand him, but smiled. He assisted her to dismount, and, dismissing her guide, conducted her into the cottage. Some conversation took place between him and his father; and the young stranger knelt at the old man's feet, and would have kissed his hand, but he raised her, and embraced her affectionately. "I soon perceived, that although the stranger uttered articulate sounds, and appeared to have a language of her own, she was neither understood by, or herself understood, the cottagers. They made many signs which I did not comprehend; but I saw that her presence diffused gladness through the cottage, dispelling their sorrow as the sun dissipates the morning mists. Felix seemed peculiarly happy, and with smiles of delight welcomed his Arabian. Agatha, the ever-gentle Agatha, kissed the hands of the lovely stranger; and, pointing to her brother, made signs which appeared to me to mean that he had been sorrowful until she came. Some hours passed thus, while they, by their countenances, expressed joy, the cause of which I did not comprehend. Presently I found, by the frequent recurrence of one sound which the stranger repeated after them, that she was endeavouring to learn their language; and the idea instantly occurred to me, that I should make use of the same instructions to the same end. The stranger learned about twenty words at the first lesson, most of them indeed were those which I had before understood, but I profited by the others. "As night came on, Agatha and the Arabian retired early. When they separated, Felix kissed the hand of the stranger, and said, 'Good night, sweet Safie.' He sat up much longer, conversing with his father; and, by the frequent repetition of her name, I conjectured that their lovely guest was the subject of their conversation. I ardently desired to understand them, and bent every faculty towards that purpose, but found it utterly impossible. "The next morning Felix went out to his work; and, after the usual occupations of Agatha were finished, the Arabian sat at the feet of the old man, and, taking his guitar, played some airs so entrancingly beautiful, that they at once drew tears of sorrow and delight from my eyes. She sang, and her voice flowed in a rich cadence, swelling or dying away, like a nightingale of the woods. "When she had finished, she gave the guitar to Agatha, who at first declined it. She played a simple air, and her voice accompanied it in sweet accents, but unlike the wondrous strain of the stranger. The old man appeared enraptured, and said some words, which Agatha endeavoured to explain to Safie, and by which he appeared to wish to express that she bestowed on him the greatest delight by her music. "The days now passed as peaceably as before, with the sole alteration, that joy had taken place of sadness in the countenances of my friends. Safie was always gay and happy; she and I improved rapidly in the knowledge of language, so that in two months I began to comprehend most of the words uttered by my protectors. "In the meanwhile also the black ground was covered with herbage, and the green banks interspersed with innumerable flowers, sweet to the scent and the eyes, stars of pale radiance among the moonlight woods; the sun became warmer, the nights clear and balmy; and my nocturnal rambles were an extreme pleasure to me, although they were considerably shortened by the late setting and early rising of the sun; for I never ventured abroad during daylight, fearful of meeting with the same treatment as I had formerly endured in the first village which I entered. "My days were spent in close attention, that I might more speedily master the language; and I may boast that I improved more rapidly than the Arabian, who understood very little, and conversed in broken accents, whilst I comprehended and could imitate almost every word that was spoken. "While I improved in speech, I also learned the science of letters, as it was taught to the stranger; and this opened before me a wide field for wonder and delight. "The book from which Felix instructed Safie was Volney's _Ruins of Empires_. I should not have understood the purport of this book, had not Felix, in reading it, given very minute explanations. He had chosen this work, he said, because the declamatory style was framed in imitation of the eastern authors. Through this work I obtained a cursory knowledge of history, and a view of the several empires at present existing in the world; it gave me an insight into the manners, governments, and religions of the different nations of the earth. I heard of the slothful Asiatics; of the stupendous genius and mental activity of the Grecians; of the wars and wonderful virtue of the early Romans--of their subsequent degeneration--of the decline of that mighty empire; of chivalry, Christianity, and kings. I heard of the discovery of the American hemisphere, and wept with Safie over the hapless fate of its original inhabitants. "These wonderful narrations inspired me with strange feelings. Was man, indeed, at once so powerful, so virtuous, and magnificent, yet so vicious and base? He appeared at one time a mere scion of the evil principle, and at another as all that can be conceived of noble and godlike. To be a great and virtuous man appeared the highest honour that can befall a sensitive being; to be base and vicious, as many on record have been, appeared the lowest degradation, a condition more abject than that of the blind mole or harmless worm. For a long time I could not conceive how one man could go forth to murder his fellow, or even why there were laws and governments; but when I heard details of vice and bloodshed, my wonder ceased, and I turned away with disgust and loathing. "Every conversation of the cottagers now opened new wonders to me. While I listened to the instructions which Felix bestowed upon the Arabian, the strange system of human society was explained to me. I heard of the division of property, of immense wealth and squalid poverty; of rank, descent, and noble blood. "The words induced me to turn towards myself. I learned that the possessions most esteemed by your fellow-creatures were, high and unsullied descent united with riches. A man might be respected with only one of these acquisitions; but without either he was considered, except in very rare instances, as a vagabond and a slave, doomed to waste his powers for the profit of the chosen few. And what was I? Of my creation and creator I was absolutely ignorant; but I knew that I possessed no money, no friends, no kind of property. I was, besides, endowed with a figure hideously deformed and loathsome; I was not even of the same nature as man. I was more agile than they, and could subsist upon coarser diet; I bore the extremes of heat and cold with less injury to my frame; my stature far exceeded their's. When I looked around, I saw and heard of none like me. Was I then a monster, a blot upon the earth, from which all men fled, and whom all men disowned? "I cannot describe to you the agony that these reflections inflicted upon me; I tried to dispel them, but sorrow only increased with knowledge. Oh, that I had for ever remained in my native wood, nor known or felt beyond the sensations of hunger, thirst, and heat! "Of what a strange nature is knowledge! It clings to the mind, when it has once seized on it, like a lichen on the rock. I wished sometimes to shake off all thought and feeling; but I learned that there was but one means to overcome the sensation of pain, and that was death--a state which I feared yet did not understand. I admired virtue and good feelings, and loved the gentle manners and amiable qualities of my cottagers; but I was shut out from intercourse with them, except through means which I obtained by stealth, when I was unseen and unknown, and which rather increased than satisfied the desire I had of becoming one among my fellows. The gentle words of Agatha, and the animated smiles of the charming Arabian, were not for me. The mild exhortations of the old man, and the lively conversation of the loved Felix, were not for me. Miserable, unhappy wretch! "Other lessons were impressed upon me even more deeply. I heard of the difference of sexes; of the birth and growth of children; how the father doated on the smiles of the infant, and the lively sallies of the older child; how all the life and cares of the mother were wrapt up in the precious charge; how the mind of youth expanded and gained knowledge; of brother, sister, and all the various relationships which bind one human being to another in mutual bonds. "But where were my friends and relations? No father had watched my infant days, no mother had blessed me with smiles and caresses; or if they had, all my past life was now a blot, a blind vacancy in which I distinguished nothing. From my earliest remembrance I had been as I then was in height and proportion. I had never yet seen a being resembling me, or who claimed any intercourse with me. What was I? The question again recurred, to be answered only with groans. "I will soon explain to what these feelings tended; but allow me now to return to the cottagers, whose story excited in me such various feelings of indignation, delight, and wonder, but which all terminated in additional love and reverence for my protectors (for so I loved, in an innocent, half painful self-deceit, to call them)." Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Das Monster erzählt, wie Felix sich wieder mit seiner verlorenen Liebe Safie, einer Frau türkischer Abstammung, vereint. Felix hatte Safies Vater in Frankreich vor dem Tod gerettet und sie in den Schutz eines Nonnenklosters gebracht. Sie kommt gerade noch halbwegs lese- und schreibkundig in Deutschland an. Felix ist überglücklich, sie wiederzusehen. Safie bemüht sich ernsthaft darum, die Sprache der De Laceys zu lernen, was auch dem Monster beim Erlernen einer Sprache zugutekommt. Während es die Gespräche im Haus belauscht, erhält das Monster eine kurze, aber unvergessliche Lektion in der europäischen Geschichte. Zufrieden an seinem Versteck nennt es die Familie De Lacey seine "Beschützer".

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: Enter Anne Bullen, and an old Lady. An. Not for that neither; here's the pang that pinches. His Highnesse, hauing liu'd so long with her, and she So good a Lady, that no Tongue could euer Pronounce dishonour of her; by my life, She neuer knew harme-doing: Oh, now after So many courses of the Sun enthroaned, Still growing in a Maiesty and pompe, the which To leaue, a thousand fold more bitter, then 'Tis sweet at first t' acquire. After this Processe. To giue her the auaunt, it is a pitty Would moue a Monster Old La. Hearts of most hard temper Melt and lament for her An. Oh Gods will, much better She ne're had knowne pompe; though't be temporall, Yet if that quarrell. Fortune, do diuorce It from the bearer, 'tis a sufferance, panging As soule and bodies seuering Old L. Alas poore Lady, Shee's a stranger now againe An. So much the more Must pitty drop vpon her; verily I sweare, tis better to be lowly borne, And range with humble liuers in Content, Then to be perk'd vp in a glistring griefe, And weare a golden sorrow Old L. Our content Is our best hauing Anne. By my troth, and Maidenhead, I would not be a Queene Old.L. Beshrew me, I would, And venture Maidenhead for't, and so would you For all this spice of your Hipocrisie: You that haue so faire parts of Woman on you, Haue (too) a Womans heart, which euer yet Affected Eminence, Wealth, Soueraignty; Which, to say sooth, are Blessings; and which guifts (Sauing your mincing) the capacity Of your soft Chiuerell Conscience, would receiue, If you might please to stretch it Anne. Nay, good troth Old L. Yes troth, & troth; you would not be a Queen? Anne. No, not for all the riches vnder Heauen Old.L. Tis strange; a threepence bow'd would hire me Old as I am, to Queene it: but I pray you, What thinke you of a Dutchesse? Haue you limbs To beare that load of Title? An. No in truth Old.L. Then you are weakly made; plucke off a little, I would not be a young Count in your way, For more then blushing comes to: If your backe Cannot vouchsafe this burthen, tis too weake Euer to get a Boy An. How you doe talke; I sweare againe, I would not be a Queene, For all the world Old.L. In faith, for little England You'ld venture an emballing: I my selfe Would for Carnaruanshire, although there long'd No more to th' Crowne but that: Lo, who comes here? Enter Lord Chamberlaine. L.Cham. Good morrow Ladies; what wer't worth to know The secret of your conference? An. My good Lord, Not your demand; it values not your asking: Our Mistris Sorrowes we were pittying Cham. It was a gentle businesse, and becomming The action of good women, there is hope All will be well An. Now I pray God, Amen Cham. You beare a gentle minde, & heau'nly blessings Follow such Creatures. That you may, faire Lady Perceiue I speake sincerely, and high notes Tane of your many vertues; the Kings Maiesty Commends his good opinion of you, to you; and Doe's purpose honour to you no lesse flowing, Then Marchionesse of Pembrooke; to which Title, A Thousand pound a yeare, Annuall support, Out of his Grace, he addes An. I doe not know What kinde of my obedience, I should tender; More then my All, is Nothing: Nor my Prayers Are not words duely hallowed; nor my Wishes More worth, then empty vanities: yet Prayers & Wishes Are all I can returne. 'Beseech your Lordship, Vouchsafe to speake my thankes, and my obedience, As from a blushing Handmaid, to his Highnesse; Whose health and Royalty I pray for Cham. Lady; I shall not faile t' approue the faire conceit The King hath of you. I haue perus'd her well, Beauty and Honour in her are so mingled, That they haue caught the King: and who knowes yet But from this Lady, may proceed a Iemme, To lighten all this Ile. I'le to the King, And say I spoke with you. Exit Lord Chamberlaine. An. My honour'd Lord Old.L. Why this it is: See, see, I haue beene begging sixteene yeares in Court (Am yet a Courtier beggerly) nor could Come pat betwixt too early, and too late For any suit of pounds: and you, (oh fate) A very fresh Fish heere; fye, fye, fye vpon This compel'd fortune: haue your mouth fild vp, Before you open it An. This is strange to me Old L. How tasts it? Is it bitter? Forty pence, no: There was a Lady once (tis an old Story) That would not be a Queene, that would she not For all the mud in Egypt; haue you heard it? An. Come you are pleasant Old.L. With your Theame, I could O're-mount the Larke: The Marchionesse of Pembrooke? A thousand pounds a yeare, for pure respect? No other obligation? by my Life, That promises mo thousands: Honours traine Is longer then his fore-skirt; by this time I know your backe will beare a Dutchesse. Say, Are you not stronger then you were? An. Good Lady, Make your selfe mirth with your particular fancy, And leaue me out on't. Would I had no being If this salute my blood a iot; it faints me To thinke what followes. The Queene is comfortlesse, and wee forgetfull In our long absence: pray doe not deliuer, What heere y'haue heard to her Old L. What doe you thinke me - Exeunt. Können Sie eine geeignete Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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In dieser Szene sieht man Anne Bullen im Gespräch mit einer älteren Dame. Sie diskutieren über die bevorstehende Scheidung der Königin. Anne sagt, dass ein Leben in bescheidener Zufriedenheit einer mit hohem Status, aber von Kummer befleckten Existenz vorzuziehen ist. Anne erklärt, dass sie niemals wählen würde, Königin zu sein. Die ältere Dame ist nicht überzeugt, sie glaubt, dass Anne, wie jede andere Frau auch, froh wäre, jegliche Ehren anzunehmen, die ihr verliehen werden. Lord Chamberlain kommt mit der Nachricht, dass der König Anne zur "Margräfin von Pembroke" gemacht hat, mit einem jährlichen Stipendium von tausend Pfund. Anne drückt dem König ihre Dankbarkeit für seine Großzügigkeit aus. In einer anderen Szene offenbart Chamberlain, dass er Anne gutheißt und hofft, dass sie Großbritannien einen Erben schenken wird, wenn sie Königin wird. Chamberlain verabschiedet sich und kurz darauf gehen die beiden Frauen ebenfalls, um die Königin in ihrer Stunde der Not zu trösten.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Kapitel: Betrete ZEIT, den CHOR ZEIT. Ich, der einige erfreut, alle versuche, sowohl Freude als auch Schrecken Von Gutem und Bösem, das Fehler macht und aufdeckt, Nehme jetzt im Namen der Zeit auf mich, Meine Flügel zu benutzen. Mache mir das nicht zum Verbrechen, Wegen mir oder meiner schnellen Passage, dass ich gleite Über sechzehn Jahre und das unerprobte Wachstum hinterlasse In dieser weiten Lücke, denn es ist in meiner Macht, Das Gesetz zu stürzen und in einer einzigen, selbstgeborenen Stunde Brauch und Übermaß zu säen. Lasst mich weitergehen Der, der ich bin, bevor die älteste Ordnung war Oder was jetzt empfangen wird. Ich zeuge für Die Zeiten, die sie mitgebracht haben; das werde ich auch tun Für das Neueste, das jetzt herrscht, und machen alt Den Glanz dieses Moments, wie meine Erzählung Jetzt scheint. Mit Ihrer Erlaubnis Drehe ich meine Uhr um und lasse meine Szene so wachsen, Als ob Sie dazwischen geschlafen hätten. Leontes, der geht- Die Auswirkungen seiner lächerlichen Eifersucht, die ihn so traurig macht, Dass er sich selbst einschließt – stellt euch vor, Werte Zuschauer, dass ich jetzt möglicherweise Im schönen Böhmen bin; und denkt daran, Ich habe einen Sohn des Königs erwähnt, namens Florizel, Den ich euch jetzt nenne; und mit solcher Geschwindigkeit Um von Perdita zu sprechen, die nun in Anmut gewachsen ist Gleich mit Staunen. Was danach geschieht, Kann ich nicht prophezeien; aber lasst die Nachrichten der Zeit Bekannt sein, wenn sie gebracht werden. Die Tochter eines Schäfers, Und was ihr folgt, ist das Thema der Zeit. Das gestattet, Wenn ihr je zuvor schlechter Zeit verbracht habt; Wenn noch nie, dann sagt Zeit persönlich, Dass er eindringlich wünscht, dass ihr es niemals tut. Abgang Können Sie eine passende Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Ein Chor, der die Zeit symbolisiert, gibt bekannt, dass sechzehn Jahre vergangen sind. In diesen Jahren hat Leontes seine Eifersucht durch Zurückgezogenheit ersetzt, während Florizel und Perdita in Böhmen aufgewachsen und gereift 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: Before a new day, in my room, had fully broken, my eyes opened to Mrs. Grose, who had come to my bedside with worse news. Flora was so markedly feverish that an illness was perhaps at hand; she had passed a night of extreme unrest, a night agitated above all by fears that had for their subject not in the least her former, but wholly her present, governess. It was not against the possible re-entrance of Miss Jessel on the scene that she protested--it was conspicuously and passionately against mine. I was promptly on my feet of course, and with an immense deal to ask; the more that my friend had discernibly now girded her loins to meet me once more. This I felt as soon as I had put to her the question of her sense of the child's sincerity as against my own. "She persists in denying to you that she saw, or has ever seen, anything?" My visitor's trouble, truly, was great. "Ah, miss, it isn't a matter on which I can push her! Yet it isn't either, I must say, as if I much needed to. It has made her, every inch of her, quite old." "Oh, I see her perfectly from here. She resents, for all the world like some high little personage, the imputation on her truthfulness and, as it were, her respectability. 'Miss Jessel indeed--SHE!' Ah, she's 'respectable,' the chit! The impression she gave me there yesterday was, I assure you, the very strangest of all; it was quite beyond any of the others. I DID put my foot in it! She'll never speak to me again." Hideous and obscure as it all was, it held Mrs. Grose briefly silent; then she granted my point with a frankness which, I made sure, had more behind it. "I think indeed, miss, she never will. She do have a grand manner about it!" "And that manner"--I summed it up--"is practically what's the matter with her now!" Oh, that manner, I could see in my visitor's face, and not a little else besides! "She asks me every three minutes if I think you're coming in." "I see--I see." I, too, on my side, had so much more than worked it out. "Has she said to you since yesterday--except to repudiate her familiarity with anything so dreadful--a single other word about Miss Jessel?" "Not one, miss. And of course you know," my friend added, "I took it from her, by the lake, that, just then and there at least, there WAS nobody." "Rather! and, naturally, you take it from her still." "I don't contradict her. What else can I do?" "Nothing in the world! You've the cleverest little person to deal with. They've made them--their two friends, I mean--still cleverer even than nature did; for it was wondrous material to play on! Flora has now her grievance, and she'll work it to the end." "Yes, miss; but to WHAT end?" "Why, that of dealing with me to her uncle. She'll make me out to him the lowest creature--!" I winced at the fair show of the scene in Mrs. Grose's face; she looked for a minute as if she sharply saw them together. "And him who thinks so well of you!" "He has an odd way--it comes over me now," I laughed,"--of proving it! But that doesn't matter. What Flora wants, of course, is to get rid of me." My companion bravely concurred. "Never again to so much as look at you." "So that what you've come to me now for," I asked, "is to speed me on my way?" Before she had time to reply, however, I had her in check. "I've a better idea--the result of my reflections. My going WOULD seem the right thing, and on Sunday I was terribly near it. Yet that won't do. It's YOU who must go. You must take Flora." My visitor, at this, did speculate. "But where in the world--?" "Away from here. Away from THEM. Away, even most of all, now, from me. Straight to her uncle." "Only to tell on you--?" "No, not 'only'! To leave me, in addition, with my remedy." She was still vague. "And what IS your remedy?" "Your loyalty, to begin with. And then Miles's." She looked at me hard. "Do you think he--?" "Won't, if he has the chance, turn on me? Yes, I venture still to think it. At all events, I want to try. Get off with his sister as soon as possible and leave me with him alone." I was amazed, myself, at the spirit I had still in reserve, and therefore perhaps a trifle the more disconcerted at the way in which, in spite of this fine example of it, she hesitated. "There's one thing, of course," I went on: "they mustn't, before she goes, see each other for three seconds." Then it came over me that, in spite of Flora's presumable sequestration from the instant of her return from the pool, it might already be too late. "Do you mean," I anxiously asked, "that they HAVE met?" At this she quite flushed. "Ah, miss, I'm not such a fool as that! If I've been obliged to leave her three or four times, it has been each time with one of the maids, and at present, though she's alone, she's locked in safe. And yet--and yet!" There were too many things. "And yet what?" "Well, are you so sure of the little gentleman?" "I'm not sure of anything but YOU. But I have, since last evening, a new hope. I think he wants to give me an opening. I do believe that--poor little exquisite wretch!--he wants to speak. Last evening, in the firelight and the silence, he sat with me for two hours as if it were just coming." Mrs. Grose looked hard, through the window, at the gray, gathering day. "And did it come?" "No, though I waited and waited, I confess it didn't, and it was without a breach of the silence or so much as a faint allusion to his sister's condition and absence that we at last kissed for good night. All the same," I continued, "I can't, if her uncle sees her, consent to his seeing her brother without my having given the boy--and most of all because things have got so bad--a little more time." My friend appeared on this ground more reluctant than I could quite understand. "What do you mean by more time?" "Well, a day or two--really to bring it out. He'll then be on MY side--of which you see the importance. If nothing comes, I shall only fail, and you will, at the worst, have helped me by doing, on your arrival in town, whatever you may have found possible." So I put it before her, but she continued for a little so inscrutably embarrassed that I came again to her aid. "Unless, indeed," I wound up, "you really want NOT to go." I could see it, in her face, at last clear itself; she put out her hand to me as a pledge. "I'll go--I'll go. I'll go this morning." I wanted to be very just. "If you SHOULD wish still to wait, I would engage she shouldn't see me." "No, no: it's the place itself. She must leave it." She held me a moment with heavy eyes, then brought out the rest. "Your idea's the right one. I myself, miss--" "Well?" "I can't stay." The look she gave me with it made me jump at possibilities. "You mean that, since yesterday, you HAVE seen--?" She shook her head with dignity. "I've HEARD--!" "Heard?" "From that child--horrors! There!" she sighed with tragic relief. "On my honor, miss, she says things--!" But at this evocation she broke down; she dropped, with a sudden sob, upon my sofa and, as I had seen her do before, gave way to all the grief of it. It was quite in another manner that I, for my part, let myself go. "Oh, thank God!" She sprang up again at this, drying her eyes with a groan. "'Thank God'?" "It so justifies me!" "It does that, miss!" I couldn't have desired more emphasis, but I just hesitated. "She's so horrible?" I saw my colleague scarce knew how to put it. "Really shocking." "And about me?" "About you, miss--since you must have it. It's beyond everything, for a young lady; and I can't think wherever she must have picked up--" "The appalling language she applied to me? I can, then!" I broke in with a laugh that was doubtless significant enough. It only, in truth, left my friend still more grave. "Well, perhaps I ought to also--since I've heard some of it before! Yet I can't bear it," the poor woman went on while, with the same movement, she glanced, on my dressing table, at the face of my watch. "But I must go back." I kept her, however. "Ah, if you can't bear it--!" "How can I stop with her, you mean? Why, just FOR that: to get her away. Far from this," she pursued, "far from THEM-" "She may be different? She may be free?" I seized her almost with joy. "Then, in spite of yesterday, you BELIEVE--" "In such doings?" Her simple description of them required, in the light of her expression, to be carried no further, and she gave me the whole thing as she had never done. "I believe." Yes, it was a joy, and we were still shoulder to shoulder: if I might continue sure of that I should care but little what else happened. My support in the presence of disaster would be the same as it had been in my early need of confidence, and if my friend would answer for my honesty, I would answer for all the rest. On the point of taking leave of her, nonetheless, I was to some extent embarrassed. "There's one thing, of course--it occurs to me--to remember. My letter, giving the alarm, will have reached town before you." I now perceived still more how she had been beating about the bush and how weary at last it had made her. "Your letter won't have got there. Your letter never went." "What then became of it?" "Goodness knows! Master Miles--" "Do you mean HE took it?" I gasped. She hung fire, but she overcame her reluctance. "I mean that I saw yesterday, when I came back with Miss Flora, that it wasn't where you had put it. Later in the evening I had the chance to question Luke, and he declared that he had neither noticed nor touched it." We could only exchange, on this, one of our deeper mutual soundings, and it was Mrs. Grose who first brought up the plumb with an almost elated "You see!" "Yes, I see that if Miles took it instead he probably will have read it and destroyed it." "And don't you see anything else?" I faced her a moment with a sad smile. "It strikes me that by this time your eyes are open even wider than mine." They proved to be so indeed, but she could still blush, almost, to show it. "I make out now what he must have done at school." And she gave, in her simple sharpness, an almost droll disillusioned nod. "He stole!" I turned it over--I tried to be more judicial. "Well--perhaps." She looked as if she found me unexpectedly calm. "He stole LETTERS!" She couldn't know my reasons for a calmness after all pretty shallow; so I showed them off as I might. "I hope then it was to more purpose than in this case! The note, at any rate, that I put on the table yesterday," I pursued, "will have given him so scant an advantage--for it contained only the bare demand for an interview--that he is already much ashamed of having gone so far for so little, and that what he had on his mind last evening was precisely the need of confession." I seemed to myself, for the instant, to have mastered it, to see it all. "Leave us, leave us"--I was already, at the door, hurrying her off. "I'll get it out of him. He'll meet me--he'll confess. If he confesses, he's saved. And if he's saved--" "Then YOU are?" The dear woman kissed me on this, and I took her farewell. "I'll save you without him!" she cried as she went. Yet it was when she had got off--and I missed her on the spot--that the great pinch really came. If I had counted on what it would give me to find myself alone with Miles, I speedily perceived, at least, that it would give me a measure. No hour of my stay in fact was so assailed with apprehensions as that of my coming down to learn that the carriage containing Mrs. Grose and my younger pupil had already rolled out of the gates. Now I WAS, I said to myself, face to face with the elements, and for much of the rest of the day, while I fought my weakness, I could consider that I had been supremely rash. It was a tighter place still than I had yet turned round in; all the more that, for the first time, I could see in the aspect of others a confused reflection of the crisis. What had happened naturally caused them all to stare; there was too little of the explained, throw out whatever we might, in the suddenness of my colleague's act. The maids and the men looked blank; the effect of which on my nerves was an aggravation until I saw the necessity of making it a positive aid. It was precisely, in short, by just clutching the helm that I avoided total wreck; and I dare say that, to bear up at all, I became, that morning, very grand and very dry. I welcomed the consciousness that I was charged with much to do, and I caused it to be known as well that, left thus to myself, I was quite remarkably firm. I wandered with that manner, for the next hour or two, all over the place and looked, I have no doubt, as if I were ready for any onset. So, for the benefit of whom it might concern, I paraded with a sick heart. The person it appeared least to concern proved to be, till dinner, little Miles himself. My perambulations had given me, meanwhile, no glimpse of him, but they had tended to make more public the change taking place in our relation as a consequence of his having at the piano, the day before, kept me, in Flora's interest, so beguiled and befooled. The stamp of publicity had of course been fully given by her confinement and departure, and the change itself was now ushered in by our nonobservance of the regular custom of the schoolroom. He had already disappeared when, on my way down, I pushed open his door, and I learned below that he had breakfasted--in the presence of a couple of the maids--with Mrs. Grose and his sister. He had then gone out, as he said, for a stroll; than which nothing, I reflected, could better have expressed his frank view of the abrupt transformation of my office. What he would not permit this office to consist of was yet to be settled: there was a queer relief, at all events--I mean for myself in especial--in the renouncement of one pretension. If so much had sprung to the surface, I scarce put it too strongly in saying that what had perhaps sprung highest was the absurdity of our prolonging the fiction that I had anything more to teach him. It sufficiently stuck out that, by tacit little tricks in which even more than myself he carried out the care for my dignity, I had had to appeal to him to let me off straining to meet him on the ground of his true capacity. He had at any rate his freedom now; I was never to touch it again; as I had amply shown, moreover, when, on his joining me in the schoolroom the previous night, I had uttered, on the subject of the interval just concluded, neither challenge nor hint. I had too much, from this moment, my other ideas. Yet when he at last arrived, the difficulty of applying them, the accumulations of my problem, were brought straight home to me by the beautiful little presence on which what had occurred had as yet, for the eye, dropped neither stain nor shadow. To mark, for the house, the high state I cultivated I decreed that my meals with the boy should be served, as we called it, downstairs; so that I had been awaiting him in the ponderous pomp of the room outside of the window of which I had had from Mrs. Grose, that first scared Sunday, my flash of something it would scarce have done to call light. Here at present I felt afresh--for I had felt it again and again--how my equilibrium depended on the success of my rigid will, the will to shut my eyes as tight as possible to the truth that what I had to deal with was, revoltingly, against nature. I could only get on at all by taking "nature" into my confidence and my account, by treating my monstrous ordeal as a push in a direction unusual, of course, and unpleasant, but demanding, after all, for a fair front, only another turn of the screw of ordinary human virtue. No attempt, nonetheless, could well require more tact than just this attempt to supply, one's self, ALL the nature. How could I put even a little of that article into a suppression of reference to what had occurred? How, on the other hand, could I make reference without a new plunge into the hideous obscure? Well, a sort of answer, after a time, had come to me, and it was so far confirmed as that I was met, incontestably, by the quickened vision of what was rare in my little companion. It was indeed as if he had found even now--as he had so often found at lessons--still some other delicate way to ease me off. Wasn't there light in the fact which, as we shared our solitude, broke out with a specious glitter it had never yet quite worn?--the fact that (opportunity aiding, precious opportunity which had now come) it would be preposterous, with a child so endowed, to forego the help one might wrest from absolute intelligence? What had his intelligence been given him for but to save him? Mightn't one, to reach his mind, risk the stretch of an angular arm over his character? It was as if, when we were face to face in the dining room, he had literally shown me the way. The roast mutton was on the table, and I had dispensed with attendance. Miles, before he sat down, stood a moment with his hands in his pockets and looked at the joint, on which he seemed on the point of passing some humorous judgment. But what he presently produced was: "I say, my dear, is she really very awfully ill?" "Little Flora? Not so bad but that she'll presently be better. London will set her up. Bly had ceased to agree with her. Come here and take your mutton." He alertly obeyed me, carried the plate carefully to his seat, and, when he was established, went on. "Did Bly disagree with her so terribly suddenly?" "Not so suddenly as you might think. One had seen it coming on." "Then why didn't you get her off before?" "Before what?" "Before she became too ill to travel." I found myself prompt. "She's NOT too ill to travel: she only might have become so if she had stayed. This was just the moment to seize. The journey will dissipate the influence"--oh, I was grand!--"and carry it off." "I see, I see"--Miles, for that matter, was grand, too. He settled to his repast with the charming little "table manner" that, from the day of his arrival, had relieved me of all grossness of admonition. Whatever he had been driven from school for, it was not for ugly feeding. He was irreproachable, as always, today; but he was unmistakably more conscious. He was discernibly trying to take for granted more things than he found, without assistance, quite easy; and he dropped into peaceful silence while he felt his situation. Our meal was of the briefest--mine a vain pretense, and I had the things immediately removed. While this was done Miles stood again with his hands in his little pockets and his back to me--stood and looked out of the wide window through which, that other day, I had seen what pulled me up. We continued silent while the maid was with us--as silent, it whimsically occurred to me, as some young couple who, on their wedding journey, at the inn, feel shy in the presence of the waiter. He turned round only when the waiter had left us. "Well--so we're alone!" Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Früh am nächsten Morgen kommt Mrs. Grose ins Zimmer der Gouvernante und teilt ihr mit, dass die kleine Flora "auffallend fieberhaft" sei und möglicherweise erkranken könnte. Flora fürchtet sich vor der Gouvernante und bittet darum, sie nicht sehen zu müssen. Die Gouvernante fragt, ob Flora immer noch behauptet, nichts gesehen zu haben. Sie glaubt, dass diese Wesen das Kind so klug gemacht haben, dass jetzt Flora zu ihrem Onkel gehen und der Gouvernante sagen kann, dass sie das niederste Geschöpf ist. Die Gouvernante ist der Meinung, dass es am besten wäre, wenn Mrs. Grose das Kind aus der Gegend wegzubringen würde, und dadurch könnte es gerettet werden. Dann wird sich die junge Frau darum kümmern, den kleinen Miles zu retten. Die Gouvernante fragt sich plötzlich, ob Mrs. Grose etwas gesehen hat, das sie glauben lässt. Die Haushälterin erzählt ihr, dass sie nichts gesehen, aber viel gehört hat. Die kleine Flora hat schreckliche Ausdrücke und schlimme Worte benutzt, die sie nur von einer sehr bösen Quelle gelernt haben kann. Daraufhin meint die Gouvernante, dass sich ihre Vermutung, Flora hätte solche Worte von der verdorbenen Miss Jessel gelernt, gerechtfertigt fühlt. Auf die direkte Frage der Gouvernante, ob Mrs. Grose jetzt an die Geister glaubt, gibt die Haushälterin zu, dass sie dies tut. Es wird dann vereinbart, dass Mrs. Grose die kleine Flora nach London bringen wird. Sie wird gewarnt, dass der Herr etwas wissen wird, weil er den Brief der Gouvernante bekommt. Mrs. Grose erzählt der Gouvernante dann, dass der Brief verschwunden ist. Beide nehmen an, dass Miles ihn gestohlen hat und dass dies die Straftat ist, die zu seiner Vertreibung geführt hat. Die Gouvernante hofft, dass der Junge, wenn er allein mit ihr ist, gestehen und gerettet werden wird. Am nächsten Tag kann Miles nicht verstehen, wie seine Schwester plötzlich krank geworden ist. Aber er scheint zu akzeptieren, dass sie weggeschickt wurde, um nicht schlimmer zu werden aufgrund des schlechten Einflusses in Bly.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). 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 1, Szene 1. Richard, Herzog von Gloucester, betritt die Bühne, alleine. Nun ist der Winter unseres Unbehagens, Durch diesen Sohn von York in einen glorreichen Sommer verwandelt: Und alle Wolken, die sich über unserem Haus zusammengebraut haben, Sind im tiefen Schoß des Ozeans begraben. Nun sind unsere Stirnen mit siegreichen Kränzen geschmückt, Unsere gequetschten Arme als Denkmäler aufgehängt; Unser strenger Krieg hat seine runzlige Stirn geglättet: Und nun tanzt er, anstatt auf gepanzerten Pferden zu reiten, Um die Seelen ängstlicher Gegner zu erschrecken, Lebhaft in einem Damenraum, Zum sinnlichen Vergnügen einer Laute. Aber ich, der nicht für lustige Streiche gemacht ist, Noch gemacht, um einen verliebten Spiegel anzubeten: Ich, der rauh geprägt bin und die Majestät der Liebe vermisse, Um vor einer wollüstigen, tänzelnden Nymphe aufzumarschieren: Ich, dessen Schönheit beschnitten ist, Von der betrügerischen Natur betrogen, um meine Merkmale zu verändern, Verunstaltet, unvollendet, vor meiner Zeit in diese atmende Welt geschickt, Kaum zur Hälfte gemacht, Und so lahm und unfashionabel, Dass Hunde mir bellen, während ich an ihnen vorbeihumpel. Warum ich (in dieser schwachen, friedlichen Zeit) Keine Freude habe, die Zeit zu vertreiben, Außer um meinen Schatten in der Sonne zu sehen, Und über meine eigene Verunstaltung zu kommentieren. Und deshalb, da ich kein Liebhaber sein kann, Um diese schönen, wohlgesprochenen Tage zu bewirten, Ich habe beschlossen, ein Schurke zu sein Und die nutzlosen Freuden dieser Tage zu hassen. Ich habe Pläne geschmiedet, gefährliche Einleitungen, Durch trunkene Prophezeiungen, Schmähschriften und Träume, Um meinen Bruder Clarence und den König In tödlichen Hass gegeneinander zu hetzen: Und wenn König Edward so wahr und gerecht ist, Wie ich tückisch, falsch und verräterisch bin, Dann sollte Clarence heimlich eingekerkert sein: Aufgrund einer Prophezeiung, die besagt, dass G, Der Mörder der Erben Edwards sein soll. Tauche, Gedanken, in meine Seele hinab, hier kommt Clarence. Clarence tritt ein, begleitet von Brakenbury, bewacht. Bruder, guten Tag. Was bedeutet diese bewaffnete Garde, Die Eure Gnaden begleitet? Cla. Seine Majestät kümmert sich um meine persönliche Sicherheit Und hat diese Eskorte bestimmt, um mich zum Turm zu bringen. Rich. Aus welchem Grund? Cla. Weil mein Name George ist. Rich. Ach, mein Herr, dieser Fehler ist keiner von Euch: Er sollte dafür Eure Taufpaten bestrafen. Oh, wahrscheinlich hat seine Majestät die Absicht, Euch im Turm neugeboren zu machen. Aber was ist los, Clarence, darf ich es erfahren? Cla. Ja Richard, wenn ich es weiß, aber ich schwöre Bis jetzt weiß ich es nicht: Aber so wie ich hören kann, Lauscht er Prophezeiungen und Träumen, Und aus dem Alphabet zieht er den Buchstaben G: Und sagt, ein Zauberer habe ihm gesagt, dass durch G, Seine Erben ihres Erbes beraubt werden sollen. Und da mein Name George mit G beginnt, Folgt er in seinen Gedanken, dass ich es bin. Diese (wie ich höre) und ähnliche Spielereien Haben seine Hoheit dazu gebracht, mich jetzt einzusperren. Rich. Das ist es, wenn Männer von Frauen regiert werden: Es ist nicht der König, der Euch in den Turm schickt, Meine Lady Grey, seine Frau, Clarence, sie ist es, Die ihn zu dieser harten Härte verführt. War es nicht sie und dieser angesehene Mann, Anthony Woodville, ihr Bruder dort, Die ihn Lord Hastings in den Turm schicken ließen? Von wo er an diesem Tag befreit ist? Wir sind nicht sicher, Clarence, wir sind nicht sicher. Cla. Beim Himmel, ich glaube, es gibt keinen sicheren Mann, Außer den Verwandten der Königin und den nachtaktiven Herolds, Die zwischen dem König und Mistress Shore herumschleichen. Habt Ihr nicht gehört, wie ein demütiger Bittsteller Herr Hastings war, für ihre Freilassung? Rich. In demütiger Klage vor ihrer Göttlichkeit Erlangte mein Lordkämmerer seine Freiheit. Ich sage Euch, ich denke, es ist unser Weg, Wenn wir uns bei dem König in Gunst halten wollen, Ihre Leute zu sein und ihre Livree zu tragen. Die eifersüchtige, abgenutzte Witwe und sie selbst, Seitdem unser Bruder sie zu Gentlewomen gemacht hat, Sind mächtige Klatschtanten in unserer Monarchie. Bra. Ich bitte Eure Gnaden um Verzeihung, Seine Majestät hat streng befohlen, Dass niemand ein privates Gespräch führen darf (Unabhängig von seinem Rang) mit Eurem Bruder. Rich. Ganz recht, und wenn es Euch gefällt, Brakenbury, Dann könnt Ihr alles hören, was wir sagen: Wir sprechen keinen Verrat, Mann; Wir sagen, der König Ist weise und tugendhaft, und seine edle Königin Ist gut in Jahren, schön und nicht eifersüchtig. Wir sagen, dass Shores Frau einen hübschen Fuß hat, Eine Kirschenlippe, ein hübsches Auge, eine sehr angenehme Zunge: Und dass die Verwandtschaft der Königin edle Leute sind. Was sagt Ihr, Herr? Könnt Ihr das alles verleugnen? Bra. Bei diesem, mein Herr, habe ich nichts damit zu tun. Rich. Nichts mit Mistress Shore zu tun? Ich sage Dir, Geselle, wer nichts mit ihr zu tun hat (Außer einem), sollte es lieber heimlich alleine tun. Bra. Welchem, mein Herr? Rich. Ihrem Mann, Schurke! Willst du mich verraten? Bra. Ich bitte Eure Gnaden, Vergebt mir und unterlasst Eure Unterredung mit dem edlen Herzog. Cla. Wir kennen Euren Befehl, Brakenbury, und werden gehorchen. Rich. Wir sind die Untertanen der Königin und müssen gehorchen. Bruder, lebe wohl. Ich werde zum König gehen, Und was immer Ihr von mir verlangt, Sei es, König Edwards Witwe Schwester zu nennen, Ich werde es tun, um Euch zu befreien. In der Zwischenzeit, diese tiefe Schande als Bruder Berührt mich tiefer, als Ihr es Euch vorstellen könnt. Cla. Ich weiß, es gefällt uns beiden nicht gut. Rich. Nun gut, Eure Gefangenschaft wird nicht lange dauern, Ich werde Euch befreien oder mich für Euch einsetzen: In der Zwischenzeit habt Geduld. Cla. Ich muss notgedrungen geduldig sein. Leb wohl. Clarence geht ab. Rich. Geh den Weg, von dem du nie zurückkehren wirst: Einfacher, einfacher Clarence, ich liebe dich so sehr, Dass ich bald deine Seele dem Himmel senden werde, Wenn der Himmel das Geschenk von uns annehmen will. Aber wer kommt denn hier? Der gerade befreite Hastings? Lord Hastings betritt die Bühne. Hast. Guten Tag, mein gnädiger Herr. Rich. Gleichfalls, mein guter Herr Kammerherr: Willkommen in dieser offenen Luft, Wie habt Ihr Euren Gefängnisaufenthalt überstanden? Hast. Mit Geduld, edler Herr, wie es Gefangenen gebührt: Aber ich werde leben, mein Herr, um denen zu danken, Die für meine Gefangenschaft verantwortlich waren. Rich. Kein Zweifel, kein Zweifel, und das wird auch Clarence tun, Denn diejenigen, die Eure Feinde waren, sind auch die seinen, Und sie haben so viel Einfluss auf ihn genommen wie auf Euch. Hast. Mehr Leid, dass die Adler eingesperrt sein sollten, Während Krähen und Geier frei spielen. Rich. Gibt es Neuigkeiten von außen? Hast. Keine schlechten Neuigkeiten, die dem zu Hause gleichkommen: Der König ist krank, schwach und melancholisch, Und seine Ärzte fürchten ihn sehr. Rich. Jetzt, beim heiligen Johannes, sind das wirklich schlechte Neuigkeiten. Oh, er hat sich lange schlecht ernährt, Und hat seinen königlichen Körper über Er kann nicht leben, hoffe ich, und darf nicht sterben, bis George mit Postpferden in den Himmel geschickt wird. Ich werde seinen Hass gegen Clarence noch stärker antreiben, mit Lügen, die gut mit schwerwiegenden Argumenten geschmiedet sind. Und wenn ich nicht in meiner tiefen Absicht versage, hat Clarence keinen weiteren Tag zu leben: Wenn dies geschehen ist, nehme Gott König Edward mit seiner Gnade auf und überlasse mir die Welt zum Kämpfen. Denn dann werde ich die jüngste Tochter von Warwick heiraten. Was macht es schon, dass ich ihren Ehemann und ihren Vater getötet habe, der schnellste Weg, um das Mädchen zu entschädigen, ist, ihr Ehemann und Vater zu werden: Das werde ich tun, jedoch nicht so sehr aus Liebe, sondern aus einem geheimen, näheren Ziel, indem ich sie heirate, was ich erreichen muss. Aber ich laufe meinen Pferden voraus zum Markt: Clarence atmet noch, Edward lebt und regiert noch, wenn sie gegangen sind, werde ich meine Gewinne zählen. Exit Szene 2 Das Gefolge von Heinrich dem Sechsten tritt mit Hellebarden ein, um es zu bewachen, Lady Anne ist die Trauernde. Anne. Setzt nieder, setzt nieder eure ehrenvolle Last, wenn Ehre in einer Leichenbahre verborgen sein kann; Während ich kurzzeitig das unzeitige Sterben des tugendhaften Lancaster beklage. Arme, eiskalte Gestalt eines heiligen Königs, blasses Asche des Hauses Lancaster; Du blutloses Überbleibsel dieses königlichen Blutes, sei es rechtens, dass ich deinen Geist anrufe, um die Lamentationen der armen Anne zu hören, Frau von Edward, von deinem ermordeten Sohn, erstochen von derselben Hand, die diese Wunden zugefügt hat. Sieh, in diesen Fenstern, die dein Leben hinauslassen, gieße ich den hilflosen Balsam meiner armen Augen. Oh verflucht sei die Hand, die diese Löcher gemacht hat: Verfluchtes Herz, das das Herz hatte, es zu tun: Verfluchtes Blut, das dieses Blut von hier ließ: Möge dieser gehasste Elende ein noch schrecklicheres Schicksal ereilen, der uns durch deinen Tod unglücklich macht, als ich Wölfe, Spinnen, Kröten oder irgendetwas kriechendes Giftiges kann wünschen. Wenn er je ein Kind haben sollte, lasst es missgebildet sein, unheilvoll und vorzeitig ans Licht gebracht, dessen hässlicher und unnatürlicher Anblick die hoffnungsvolle Mutter beim Anblick erschreckt und das Erbe von seiner Unglück seligkeit sein soll. Wenn er je eine Frau haben sollte, soll sie elender werden durch seinen Tod, als ich es bin durch meinen jungen Herrn und dich. Komm jetzt mit deiner heiligen Last nach Chertsey, genommen von St. Pauls, um dort beigesetzt zu werden. Und wenn du müde von diesem Gewicht bist, ruhe dich aus, während ich König Heinrichs Leichnam beklage. Richard, Herzog von Gloucester, tritt auf. Rich. Haltet ihr, die den Sarg tragt, inne und setzt ihn ab. An. Welcher schwarze Zauberer beschwört diesen Teufel, um gottesfürchtige wohltätige Taten zu stoppen? Rich. Schurken, setzt den Sarg ab, oder bei S[aint]. Paul, mache ich einen Sarg aus dem, der nicht gehorcht. Gen. Mein Herr, bleib zurück und lasse den Sarg passieren. Rich. Ungehobelter Hund, stehst du, wenn ich befehle: Erhebe deine Hellebarde höher als meine Brust, sonst werde ich bei S[aint]. Paul dich zu meinen Füßen treffen und dich Obdachloser für deine Kühnheit mit Füßen treten. Anne. Was zitterst du? Habt ihr alle Angst? Ach, ich gebe euch keine Schuld, denn ihr seid Sterbliche, und sterbliche Augen können den Teufel nicht ertragen. Fort mit dir, fürchterlicher Diener der Hölle; Du hattest nur Macht über seinen sterblichen Körper, seine Seele kannst du nicht haben: Also geh weg. Rich. Süße Heilige, aus Mitgefühl sei nicht so verflucht. An. Hässlicher Teufel, Um Gottes willen geh weg und störe uns nicht, denn du hast diese glückliche Erde zu deiner Hölle gemacht: Sie mit Flüchen, Schreien und tiefen Klagen erfüllt: Wenn du Freude daran hast, deine abscheulichen Taten zu sehen, sieh dieses Muster deiner Schlächtereien. Oh Gentlemen, seht, seht die Wunden des toten Heinrichs, öffnen ihre erstarrten Münder und bluten von Neuem. Erröte, erröte, du Klumpen abscheulicher Verformung: Denn deine Gegenwart lässt dieses Blut aus kalten und leeren Adern strömen, wo kein Blut wohnt. Deine unnatürlichen und unmenschlichen Taten verursachen diese äußerst unmenschliche Flut. Oh Gott! Der du dieses Blut gemacht hast, räche seinen Tod: Oh Erde! Die du dieses Blut trinkst, räche seinen Tod. Entweder soll der Himmel ihn mit Blitzschlag töten: Oder die Erde soll sich weit öffnen und ihn verschlingen, so wie du dieses gute Königsblut schluckst, das sein höllengebietender Arm gemetzelt hat. Rich. Lady, du kennst keine Regeln der Nächstenliebe, wenn sie Gutes für Schlechtes gibt, Segen für Flüche. An. Schurke, du kennst weder Gottes noch des Menschen Gesetz, kein Tier ist so wild, dass es nicht ein wenig Mitgefühl kennt. Rich. Aber ich kenne keines, und deshalb bin ich kein Tier. An. Oh, wie wunderbar, wenn Teufel die Wahrheit sagen! Rich. Noch wunderbarer, wenn Engel so wütend sind: Erlaube (göttliche Vollkommenheit einer Frau) Bei diesen angeblichen Verbrechen, mir die Erlaubnis zu geben, mich unter bestimmten Umständen zu entschuldigen. An. Erlaube (ausgestrahlte Bosheit eines Menschen) Bei diesen bekannten Übeln, mir die Erlaubnis zu geben, mich unter Umständen zu verfluchen, um deinen verdammten Selbst zu verfluchen. Rich. Schöner als die Zunge dich nennen kann, erlaube mir, etwas geduldige Freizeit, um mich zu entschuldigen. An. Hässlicher als das Herz dich denkt, du kannst keine gültige Entschuldigung machen, außer dich aufzuhängen. Rich. Durch solche Verzweiflung würde ich mich selbst anklagen. An. Und durch Verzweiflung wirst du entschuldigt stehen, wenn du würdige Rache an dir selbst übst, der du auf andere unwürdige Weise geschlachtet hast. Rich. Sag, dass ich sie nicht getötet habe. An. Dann sag, sie seien nicht getötet worden: Aber tot sind sie, und vom Teufel zum Sklaven gemacht. Rich. Ich habe deinen Ehemann nicht getötet. An. Warum, dann ist er am Leben. Rich. Nein, er ist tot und von Edwards Händen erschlagen. An. In deinem widerlichen Hals lügst du, Königin Margaret sah dein mörderisches Schwert in seinem Blut rauchen: das du einst gegen ihre Brust gerichtet hast, aber deine Brüder haben die Spitze abgelenkt. Rich. Ich wurde von ihrer verleumder An. Wäre ich doch gefährlich zu dir. Rich. Das ist ein streit sehr unnatürlich, Sich an ihm zu rächen, der dich liebt. An. Es ist ein gerechter und vernünftiger streit, Sich an dem zu rächen, der meinen Ehemann getötet hat. Rich. Er, der die Dame deines Ehemannes beraubte, Tat es, um dir einen besseren Ehemann zu verschaffen. An. Sein besserer existiert nicht auf dieser Erde. Rich. Er lebt, der dich besser liebt, als er es konnte. An. Nenne ihn. Rich. Plantagenet. An. Das war er. Rich. Der selbe Name, aber von besserer Natur. An. Wo ist er? Rich. Hier: Spuckt ihn an. Warum spuckst du mich an? An. Wäre es doch tödliches Gift, deinetwegen. Rich. Niemals kam Gift von so süßem Ort. An. Niemals hing Gift an einem hässlicheren Krötenfrosch. Aus meinem Blickfeld, du vergiftest meine Augen. Rich. Deine Augen, süße Lady, haben meine vergiftet. An. Wären sie doch Basilisken, um dich zu töten. Rich. Ich wünschte, sie wären es, damit ich auf einmal sterben könnte: Denn jetzt töten sie mich mit einem lebendigen Tod. Diese Augen von dir, haben aus meinen salzige Tränen gezogen; Sie haben ihre Blicke mit einer Fülle kindlicher Tränen beschämt: Diese Augen, die niemals reumütige Tränen vergossen haben, Nein, als mein Vater York und Edward weinten, Um das erbarmungswürdige Klagen zu hören, das Rutland ausstieß, Als der schwarzgesichtige Clifford sein Schwert gegen ihn schwang. Auch nicht, als dein kriegerischer Vater wie ein Kind Die traurige Geschichte vom Tod meines Vaters erzählte, Und zwanzig Mal innehielt, um zu schluchzen und zu weinen: Dass alle, die dabei standen, ihre Wangen benetzt hatten Wie Bäume mit Regen bespritzt. In dieser traurigen Zeit Verspotteten meine männlichen Augen eine demütige Träne: Und was diese Trauer damals nicht vertreiben konnte, Hat deine Schönheit getan und sie mit Tränen blind gemacht. Ich bat nie um Freunde oder Feinde: Meine Zunge konnte nie süße schmeichelnde Worte lernen. Aber jetzt, da deine Schönheit mir vorgeschlagen ist, Bittet mein stolzes Herz und gibt meine Zunge den Anreiz zu sprechen. Sie blickt verächtlich auf ihn. Lehre deine Lippen nicht so zu verachten; denn sie wurden gemacht, um zu küssen, Lady, nicht für solche Geringschätzung. Wenn dein rachsüchtiges Herz nicht vergeben kann, Hier, ich leihe dir dieses spitze Schwert, Wenn du es bitte in diese nackte Brust stecken möchtest, Und die Seele entlässt, die dich verehrt, So lege ich es dem tödlichen Schlag offen dar Und flehe demütig um den Tod auf meinen Knien. Er legt seine Brust offen, sie versucht es mit seinem Schwert. Nun zögere nicht: Denn ich habe König Heinrich getötet, Aber es war deine Schönheit, die mich dazu antrieb. Nun, vollziehe es: Es war ich, der den jungen Edward erstach, Aber es war dein himmlisches Gesicht, das mich dazu brachte. Sie fallen das Schwert. Nimm das Schwert wieder auf oder nimm mich auf. An. Steh auf, Heuchlerin, obwohl ich deinen Tod wünsche, Ich werde nicht deine Henkerin sein. Rich. Dann befiehl mir, mich selbst zu töten, und ich werde es tun. An. Das habe ich bereits. Rich. Das war in deinem Zorn: Sag es erneut, und selbst mit diesem Wort, Diese Hand, die für deine Liebe deinen Geliebten tötete, Wird für deine Liebe einen viel wahreren Geliebten töten, Du wirst an beiden ihren Toden Mitschuld tragen. An. Wäre ich doch sicher, was dein Herz denkt. Rich. Es ist an meiner Zunge dargestellt. An. Ich fürchte, beide sind falsch. Rich. Dann war noch nie ein Mensch ehrlich. An. Nun gut, stecke dein Schwert weg. Rich. Sag dann, mein Frieden ist gemacht. An. Das wirst du später erfahren. Rich. Aber darf ich in Hoffnung leben? An. Ich hoffe, dass alle Menschen so leben. Erlaube, diesen Ring zu tragen. Rich. Sieh, wie mein Ring deinen Finger umschließt, So umschließt dein Brustkorb mein armes Herz: Trage beide, denn beide gehören dir. Und wenn dein armer ergebener Diener Aber eine Gunst von deiner gnädigen Hand erbitten darf, Bestätigst du sein Glück für immer. An. Was ist es? Rich. Dass es dir gefällt, diese traurigen Pläne aufzugeben, Für denjenigen, der den größten Grund hat zu trauern, Und sofort zu Crosbie House zu gehen: Wo (nachdem ich diesen edlen König feierlich beerdigt habe Im Kloster Chertsey und sein Grab mit meinen reuigen Tränen benetze) Will ich dich mit aller notwendigen Pflicht empfangen, Aus verschiedenen unbekannten Gründen, flehe ich dich an, Gewähre mir diese Bitte. An. Von ganzem Herzen gerne, es erfüllt mich sehr, Dich so penitent zu sehen. Tressel und Barkley, begleitet mich. Rich. Bedeute mir Lebewohl. An. Du verdienst mehr als das: Aber da du mir beigebracht hast, wie ich dich schmeicheln soll, Stelle dir vor, ich hätte bereits Lebewohl gesagt. Zwei gehen mit Anne weg. Gent. Richtung Chertsey, edler Herr? Rich. Nein, zu den White Friars, wartet dort auf mich. Abgänge. Der. Möge Gott Eure Majestät erfreuen, wie es bisher gewesen ist. Qu. Die Gräfin Richmond, gut mein Herr von Derby. Ich kann Ihrem guten Gebet kaum zustimmen. Trotzdem, Derby, obwohl sie Ihre Frau ist, Und mich nicht liebt, seien Sie versichert, guter Herr, Ich hasse Sie nicht wegen ihrer stolzen Arroganz. Der. Ich bitte Sie, glauben Sie entweder nicht Den neidischen Verleumdungen ihrer falschen Ankläger: Oder wenn sie auf wahrem Bericht angeklagt wird, Ertragen Sie ihre Schwäche, die meiner Meinung nach Von eigenwilliger Krankheit und nicht von begründetem Hass herrührt. Qu. Haben Sie den König heute gesehen, mein Herr von Derby? Der. Aber jetzt sind der Herzog von Buckingham und ich Gerade von einem Besuch bei seiner Majestät zurückgekehrt. Qu. Wie stehen die Chancen auf seine Besserung, meine Herren? Buc. Madam, gute Hoffnung, Seine Gnade spricht fröhlich. Qu. Gott gewähre ihm Gesundheit, haben Sie mit ihm gesprochen? Buc. Ja, Madam, er möchte Versöhnung stiften Zwischen dem Herzog von Gloucester und Ihren Brüdern, Und zwischen ihnen und meinem Lord Chamberlaine, Und sie zu seiner königlichen Anwesenheit einladen. Qu. Möge alles gut werden, aber das wird niemals sein, Ich fürchte, unser Glück ist auf dem Höhepunkt angekommen. Richard tritt auf. Rich. Sie behandeln mich schlecht, und ich werde es nicht dulden, Wer beschwert sich beim König, Dass ich (oh Herr) streng bin und sie nicht liebe? Bei heiligen Paulus, sie lieben Seine Gnade nur oberflächlich, Wenn sie seine Ohren mit solchen uneinigen Gerüchten füllen. Weil ich nicht schmeicheln und freundlich aussehen kann, In Leute Gesichter lächele, glatt, täusche und schmeichle, Mache französische Gesten und albernes Verbeugen, Werde ich als bösartiger Feind angesehen. Kann ein ehrlicher Mann nicht leben und keinen Schaden denken, Aber seine einfache Wahrheit muss so missbraucht werden, Mit seidigen, hinterlistigen, schleimigen Burschen? Grey. An wen in dieser Anwesenheit spricht Eure Gnade? Rich. An dich, der weder Ehrlichkeit noch Anstand hat: Wann habe ich dir Unrecht getan? Wann dir Schaden zugefügt? Oder dir? oder dir? oder irgendeinem von eurer Gedankenrichtung? Ein Fluch über euch alle. Seine königliche Hoheit (Den Gott besser schützt, als ihr es wünschen würdet) Kann kaum einen Augenblick Ruhe finden, Aber ihr müsst ihn mit verleumderischen Klagen belästigen. Qu. Bruder von Gloucester, ihr versteht die Sache falsch: Der König aufgrund seiner königlichen Natur, (Und nicht provoziert von irgendeinem anderen Bittsteller) Zielt (wahrscheinlich) auf euren inneren Hass ab, Der sich in eurem äußeren Handeln zeigt, Gegen meine Kinder, Brüder und mich selbst, Lässt ihn daher aufsuchen, um die Gründe zu erfahren. Rich. Ich kann es nicht sagen, die Welt ist so schlecht geworden, Dass Zaunkönige reiche Beute machen, wo Adler nicht landen würden. Da jetzt jeder dahergelaufene Kerl ein Gentleman ist, Gibt es viele edle Menschen, die zu Dummköpfen gemacht wurden. Qu. Komm, komm, wir kennen deine Absichten, Bruder Gloucester, Du beneidest meinen Aufstieg und meine Freunde: Gott gewähre, dass wir niemals auf dich angewiesen sind. Rich. In der Zwischenzeit hoffe ich, dass ich dich brauche. Unser Bruder ist aufgrund deiner Machenschaften im Gefängnis, Ich bin selbst in Ungnade gefallen und der Adel Wird verachtet, während große Beförderungen Täglich an solche gegeben werden, Die vor kaum zwei Tagen noch keinen Pfifferling wert waren. Qu. Bei dem, der mich zu dieser umsichtigen Höhe erhoben hat, Von dem zufriedenen Glück, das ich genossen habe, Habe ich nie Seine Majestät dazu verleitet, Gegen den Herzog von Clarence vorzugehen, sondern Habe mich immer als eifriger Fürsprecher für ihn eingesetzt. Mein Herr, Sie tun mir eine schändliche Beleidigung, Mich mit diesen niederträchtigen Vermutungen in Verbindung zu bringen. Rich. Du kannst leugnen, dass du nicht der Grund warst, Für die kürzliche Inhaftierung meines Lords Hastings. Riu. Sie kann, mein Herr, denn - Rich. Sie kann, Lord Rivers, wer weiß das nicht? Sie kann noch viel mehr tun, als das leugnen: Sie kann Ihnen zu vielen ehrenhaften Beförderungen verhelfen, Und dann ihre unterstützende Hand darin leugnen, Und diese Ehren auf Ihren hohen Verdienst legen. Was kann sie nicht tun, sie kann es, in der Tat kann sie es Riu. Was kann sie tun? Ric. Was kann sie tun? Sie kann einen König heiraten, Einen Junggesellen und einen hübschen Jüngling noch dazu, Gewiss, Ihre Großmutter hatte eine schlechtere Partie gemacht. Qu. Mein Herr von Gloucester, ich habe Ihre nachdrücklichen Vorhaltungen zu lange ertragen, Und Ihre bitteren Spötteleien: Beim Himmel, ich werde Seine Majestät bekannt machen Mit den groben Beleidigungen, die ich oft ertragen habe. Ich wäre lieber eine Landmagd Als eine große Königin, unter der Bedingung, So gequält, verachtet und angefeindet zu werden, Es macht mir wenig Freude, Königin Englands zu sein. Königin Margaret tritt auf. Mar. Und verflucht sei diese geringe Freude, zu der ich habe, Deine Ehre, dein Stand und dein Sitz gebühren mir. Rich. Was? Drohst du mir damit, es dem König zu erzählen? Ich werde es vor dem König bekräftigen: Ich wage es, ins Gefängnis geschickt zu werden. Es ist Zeit zu sprechen, Mein Schmerz ist völlig vergessen. Margaret. Hör auf, Teufel, Ich erinnere mich nur zu gut daran: Du hast meinen Mann Heinrich im Tower getötet, Und Edward, meinen armen Sohn, in Tewkesbury. Rich. Bevor du Königin wurdest, Ich oder dein Ehemann König: Ich war ein Lasttier in seinen großen Angelegenheiten: Ein Unkrautvernichter seiner stolzen Gegner, Ein großzügiger Belohner seiner Freunde, Um sein Blut zu Royalisieren, gab ich meines aus. Margaret. Und viel besseres Blut Als seins oder deins. Rich. In all dieser Zeit hast du und dein Ehemann Grey Partei ergriffen für das Haus Lancaster; Und Riuers, das hast du auch getan: War nicht dein Ehemann, In Margarets Schlacht bei Saint Albans, getötet? Lasst mich euch daran erinnern, wenn ihr es vergessen habt, Was ihr vor all dem gewesen seid, und was ihr seid: Zusammen mit dem, was ich war und was ich bin. Q.M. Ein mörderischer Schurke und das bist du immer noch. Rich. Armer Clarence hat seinen Vater Warwick verlassen, Ja, und sich selbst verleugnet (wofür Jesus verzeihe). Q.M. Wofür Gott Rache walten lässt. Rich. Um für Edwards Seite um die Krone zu kämpfen, Und als Lohn dafür wurde der arme Lord weggesperrt: O, dass mein Herz wie Edwards ein Flintstein wäre, Oder dass Edwards weich und mitleidig wäre wie meines; Ich bin zu kindisch und töricht für diese Welt. Q.M. Auf in die Rich. Der Fluch, den mein edler Vater dir auferlegt hat, Als du seine kriegerische Stirn mit Papier kröntest, Und mit deinem Spott Ströme aus seinen Augen hervorlocktest, Und dann, um sie zu trocknen, dem Herzog ein Tuch gabst, Getränkt in dem makellosen Blut des hübschen Rutland: Seine Flüche, aus der Bitterkeit der Seele, Die er gegen dich verkündete, sind alle auf dich gefallen. Und Gott, nicht wir, hat deine blutige Tat bestraft. Qu. So gerecht ist Gott, die Unschuldigen zu rächen. Hast. Oh, es war die abscheulichste Tat, dieses Kind zu töten, Und die gnadenloseste, die je gehört wurde. Riu. Tyrannen selbst weinten, als es berichtet wurde. Dors. Kein Mensch prophezeite Rache dafür. Buck. Northumberland, damals anwesend, weinte als er es sah. Q.M. Was? Habt ihr euch vorher gestritten, bevor ich kam, Bereit euch gegenseitig an die Kehle zu springen, Und jetzt richtet ihr euren ganzen Hass gegen mich? Hat Yorks furchterregender Fluch so viel Macht bei Gott gehabt, Dass Henris Tod, der Tod meines geliebten Edwards, Der Verlust ihrer Königreiche, mein betrübtes Exil, All das nur für dieses dumme Gör büßen soll? Können Flüche die Wolken durchdringen und in den Himmel gelangen? Also macht Platz, trübe Wolken, für meine schnellen Flüche. Wenn auch nicht durch Krieg, sterbe euer König an Überessen, So wie unser durch Mord, um ihn zu einem König zu machen. Edward, dein Sohn, der jetzt Prinz von Wales ist, Möge Edward, unser Sohn, der Prinz von Wales war, In seiner Jugend durch eine ähnlich gewaltsame Art sterben. Du, eine Königin, für mich, die eine Königin war, Überlebe deine Herrlichkeit, wie ich mein unglückliches Selbst: Lebe lange, um den Tod deiner Kinder zu beweinen, Und um einen anderen zu sehen, wie ich dich jetzt sehe, Geschmückt mit deinen Rechten, während du meine gestohlen hast. Verweile nicht in deinen glücklichen Tagen, bevor du stirbst, Und nach vielen langen Stunden des Kummers, Sterbe weder als Mutter, Ehefrau noch als Englands Königin. Rivers und Dorset, ihr wart Zeugen, Und so warst du, Lord Hastings, als mein Sohn Mit blutigen Dolchen erstochen wurde: Gott, ich bitte ihn, Dass keiner von euch sein natürliches Alter erreicht, Sondern durch einen unvorhergesehenen Unfall abgehetzt wird. Rich. Habe deinen Zauber beendet, du gehässige, verdorrte Hexe. Q.M. Und lass mich aus? Warte, Hund, du wirst mich hören. Wenn der Himmel eine schlimmere Plage bereithält, Die schlimmer ist als das, was ich dir wünschen kann, Oh, lass sie warten, bis deine Sünden reif sind, Und lass dann ihren Zorn auf dich niederprasseln, Du, der Unruhestifter des armen Friedens in der Welt. Der Wurm des Gewissens nage immer an deiner Seele, Deine Freunde verdächtigen dich als Verräter, solange du lebst, Und du bezeichnest die schlimmsten Verräter als deine liebsten Freunde: Kein Schlaf schließe dieses tödliche Auge von dir, Es sei denn, es ist, während ein qualvollem Traum Dich mit einer Hölle von hässlichen Teufeln erschreckt. Du, gekennzeichneter, abgebrochener Widerling, Du, der bei deiner Geburt versiegelt wurdest Der Sklave der Natur und der Sohn der Hölle: Du Verleumder, du verabscheutes Produkt des Leibes deiner schweren Mutter, Du verhasstes Geschöpf der Lenden deines Vaters, Du Schandfleck der Ehre, du verabscheutes- Rich. Margaret. Q.M. Richard. Rich. Ha! Q.M. Ich habe dich nicht gerufen. Rich. Dann entschuldige ich mich: Ich dachte, Dass du mich all diese bitteren Namen genannt hast. Q.M. Das habe ich wohl, aber ich habe keine Antwort erwartet. Oh, lass mich den Schlusspunkt unter meinen Fluch setzen. Rich. Das habe ich bereits getan und endet mit Margaret. Qu. So hast du deinen Fluch gegen dich selbst gerichtet. Q.M. Arme bemalte Königin, nutzloses Aufblühen meines Glücks, Warum streust du Zucker auf diese gefangene Spinne, Der tödliche Netz dich gefangen hält? Narr, Narr, du schärfst ein Messer, um dich selbst zu töten: Der Tag wird kommen, an dem du dir wünschen wirst, Dass ich dir helfe, diesen giftigen Buckelkröten zu verfluchen. Hast. Falschprophezeiende Frau, beende deinen wahnsinnigen Fluch, Bevor du uns schaden zufügst, bewegst du unseren Geduldsfaden. Q.M. Schande über euch, ihr habt meine Scham hervorgerufen. Ri. Wäret ihr gut bedient, würdet ihr eure Pflicht lernen. Q.M. Um mir gut zu dienen, sollten alle mir meine Pflicht erweisen, Lehrt mich, Königin zu sein und ihr meine Untergebenen: Oh, dient mir gut und lehrt euch selbst diese Pflicht. Dors. Streitet nicht mit ihr, sie ist verrückt. Q.M. Ruhe, Master Marquesse, du bist unverschämt, Dein nagelneues Zeichen der Ehre ist kaum gültig. Oh, wäre deine junge Adelsschaft in der Lage, Zu beurteilen, wie es ist, es zu verlieren und unglücklich zu sein. Diejenigen, die hoch stehen, haben viele Anfeindungen zu ertragen, Und wenn sie fallen, zerbrechen sie in Stücke. Rich. Gute Ratschläge, wirklich, lerne es, lerne es, Marquesse. Dors. Es betrifft dich genauso wenig wie mich, mein Lord. Rich. Ja, und viel mehr: Aber ich wurde so hoch geboren, Unser Nest ist in der Spitze der Zeder gebaut, Und spiel mit dem Wind und verhöhnen die Sonne. Mar. Und verdunkeln die Sonne: Ach, ach, Zeugen mein Sohn, der jetzt im Schatten des Todes ist, Dessen strahlende Strahlen dein wolkiger Zorn In ewiger Dunkelheit eingehüllt hat. Euer Nest ist in unserem Nest gebaut: Oh Gott, der du es siehst, erlaube es nicht, Denn wie es mit Blut gewonnen wurde, sollte es verloren gehen. Buc. Ruhe, schäme dich, wenn nicht aus Barmherzigkeit. Mar. Dränge weder Barmherzigkeit noch Scham auf mich, Unbarmherzig hast du mit mir gehandelt, Und beschämend sind meine Hoffnungen (durch dich) geschlachtet. Meine Barmherzigkeit wird zu Wut, Leben zu Schande, Und in dieser Schande lebt immer noch die Wut meiner Sorgen. Buc. Habt genug, habt genug. Mar. Oh königlicher Buckingham, ich werde deine Hand küssen, Als Zeichen des Bündnisses und der Freundschaft mit dir: Möge dir Glück widerfahren, dir und deinem edlen Haus: Deine Kleidung ist nicht befleckt mit unserem Blut: Und auch du bist nicht im Rahmen meines Fluchs. Buc. Und niemand hier: Denn Flüche passieren niemals Die Lippen derer, die sie in der Luft aussprechen. Mar. Ich glaube nicht, dass sie nicht in den Himmel aufsteigen, Und dort Gottes sanften Schlaffried Gehen ab. Alle außer Gloster. Rich. Ich tue Unrecht und fange den Streit an. Die geheimen Böse Taten, die ich in Gang gesetzt habe, lege ich anderen zur schweren Last. Clarence, den ich tatsächlich in die Dunkelheit gestoßen habe, betrodre ich viele einfache Dummköpfe, nämlich Derby, Hastings, Buckingham, und erzähle ihnen, es sei die Königin und ihre Verbündeten, die den König gegen meinen Bruder, den Herzog, aufhetzen. Jetzt glauben sie es und schärfen mich an, Rivers, Dorset und Grey zu rächen. Aber dann seufze ich und mit einem Stück Schrift, sage ihnen, dass Gott uns befiehlt, Gutes für Böses zu tun: Und so verkleide ich meine nackte Boshaftigkeit mit merkwürdigen alten Enden, gestohlen aus der heiligen Schrift, und scheine ein Heiliger zu sein, wenn ich am meisten den Teufel spiele. Treten Sie zwei Mörder ein. Aber halt, hier kommen meine Henker, Wie geht es euch, meine wagemutigen, entschlossenen Freunde, Geht ihr jetzt, um diese Sache zu erledigen? V. Wir sind es, mein Lord, und wir kommen, um den Befehl zu erhalten, damit wir eingelassen werden, wo er ist. Rich. Gut daran gedacht, ich habe es hier bei mir: Wenn ihr fertig seid, geht nach Crosby Place; Aber seid schnell bei der Ausführung, und unerbittlich, hört ihn nicht anbetteln; Denn Clarence spricht gut und kann vielleicht eure Herzen erweichen, wenn ihr ihn beachtet. V. Pah, pah, mein Lord, wir werden nicht umherreden, Redende sind keine guten Handlungen, seid versichert: Wir gehen, um unsere Hände zu benutzen und nicht unsere Zungen. Rich. Eure Augen lassen Mühlsteine fallen, wenn die Augen der Narren Tränen vergießen: Ich mag euch Kerle, geht jetzt eurer Aufgabe nach. Geht, geht, vollstreckt es. V. Wir werden es tun, mein edler Lord. Akt IV, Szene 4. Treten Sie Clarence und der Wärter ein. K. Warum sieht Eure Gnaden so bedrückt aus heute? C. Oh, ich habe eine elende Nacht hinter mir, so voller furchterregender Träume, hässlicher Anblicke, dass ich als gläubiger Christ kein weiteres solches Erlebnis haben möchte, selbst wenn ich damit eine Welt voller glücklicher Tage kaufen könnte: So voller schrecklicher Angst war die Zeit. W. Was war dein Traum, mein Lord, ich bitte dich, sag mir. C. Mir kam vor, ich sei aus dem Turm entkommen und sei nach Burgund übergesetzt worden, und in meiner Begleitung mein Bruder Gloucester, der mich aus meiner Kabine lockte, um auf dem Oberdeck zu spazieren: Dort schauten wir nach England und riefen unzählige Male die schwere Zeit in Erinnerung, die uns in den Kriegen von York und Lancaster begegnet war. Während wir auf dem schwankenden Boden des Oberdecks gingen, schien Gloucester zu stolpern und mich beim Sturz (den ich dachte, ihn abzufangen) über Bord zu stoßen, in die sprudelnden Fluten des Meeres. Oh Herr, mir kam vor, wie schmerzhaft es war zu ertrinken, welch schrecklicher Lärm von Wasser in meinen Ohren, welche furchtbaren Anblicke vom hässlichen Tod in meinen Augen. Mir kam vor, ich sah tausend furchtbare Wracks: tausend Männer, die von Fischen abgenagt wurden: Goldkeile, große Anker, Haufen von Perlen, unschätzbare Steine, unbezahlbare Juwelen, alles verstreut am Meeresgrund, einige in Totenschädeln, und in den Löchern wo einst Augen wohnten, krochen (hinter den Augen verhöhnend) funkelnde Edelsteine, die den schlammigen Meeresboden anlockten, und die verstreuten Knochen der Toten verspotteten. W. Hattest du solche Muße in der Todeszeit, um diese Geheimnisse der Tiefe zu betrachten? C. Mir kam vor, ich hätte es getan, und oft habe ich mich bemüht, um das Geheimnis zu enthüllen: aber immer wieder hat mich die neidische Flut in meiner Seele gestoppt und sie nicht freigelassen, um die leere, weite, umherziehende Luft zu finden. Sie hat es in meinem keuchenden Körper erstickt, der fast geplatzt wäre, um es ins Meer hinauszulassen. W. Bist du nicht in diesem schmerzhaften Kummer aufgewacht? C. Nein, nein, mein Traum dauerte auch nach dem Leben. Oh dann begann der Sturm in meiner Seele. Ich durchquerte (mir schien) die melancholische Flut mit dem bitteren Fährmann, von dem die Dichter sprechen, in das Reich der ewigen Nacht. Der Erste, der dort meine fremde Seele begrüßte, war mein großer Schwiegervater, der berühmte Warwick, der laut sprach: Welche Geißel für Meineide kann dieses dunkle Königreich dem falschen Clarence bieten? Und dann verschwand er. Dann kam vorbei, ein Schatten wie ein Engel, mit hellem Haar, in Blut getränkt, und er schrie laut auf: Clarence ist gekommen, der falsche, flüchtige, mein Eidbrecher, der mich auf dem Schlachtfeld bei Tewkesbury erstochen hat: Furies, ergreift ihn, bringt ihn zu Qualen. Damit umringte mich eine Legion schmutziger Teufel, und jaulte mir in die Ohren solch schreckliche Schreie, dass ich vor dem Lärm (bebend) aufwachte und für eine Zeit danach kaum glauben konnte, dass ich in der Hölle war, so schrecklich war der Eindruck meines Traumes. W. Kein Wunder, mein Lord, dass es dich erschreckt hat. Ich habe (glaube ich) Angst, es von dir zu hören. C. Ah, Wärter, Wärter, ich habe diese Dinge getan (die jetzt als Beweis gegen meine Seele dienen), um Edwards willen, und sieh, wie er mich vergilt. Oh Gott! Wenn meine tiefen Gebete dich nicht besänftigen können, aber du wirst an meinen Vergehen Rache üben, dann übe deinen Zorn allein an mir aus: Oh, verschone meine unschuldige Frau und meine armen Kinder. Wärter, ich bitte dich, setz dich eine Weile zu mir, meine Seele ist schwer und ich möchte gern schlafen. W. Das werde ich tun, mein Lord, Gott gebe dir gute Erholung. Treten Sie Brakenbury, den Leutnant, ein. B. Kummer bricht die Jahreszeiten und die ruhigen Stunden, macht aus der Nacht den Morgen und die Mittagszeit die Nacht: Fürstentümer haben nur ihre Titel für ihre Herrlichkeiten, eine äußere Ehre für einen inneren Mühsal, und für unfühlbare Vorstellungen empfinden sie oft eine Welt voller rastloser Sorgen: So dass zwischen ihren Titeln und dem niedrigen Namen nur der äußere Ruhm, aber nichts unterscheidet. Betretet zwei Mörder. 1.Mö. He, wer ist hier? B. Was willst du, Genosse? Und wie bist du hierher gekommen? 2.Mö. Ich möchte mit Clarence sprechen, und ich bin hierher auf meinen Beinen gekommen. B. So kurz? 1. Es ist besser, Sir, als langatmig zu sein: Lasst ihn unsere Erlaubnis sehen, und sprecht nicht weiter. liest B. Mir ist befohlen, den edlen Herz 2 Oh, in der Börse des Herzogs von Gloucester Wenn er seine Börse öffnet, um uns unsere Belohnung zu geben, flieht dein Gewissen 2 Es spielt keine Rolle, lass es gehen: Es gibt wenige oder keine, die es beachten werden 1 Was ist, wenn es wieder zu dir kommt? 2 Ich werde mich nicht damit befassen, es macht einen Mann feige: Ein Mann kann nicht stehlen, ohne dass es ihn anklagt: Ein Mann kann nicht schwören, ohne dass es ihn ermahnt: Ein Mann kann nicht mit der Frau seines Nachbarn schlafen, ohne dass es ihn entlarvt. Es ist ein schamhaftes Geist, das sich in einer Männerbrust erhebt: Es stellt einem Mann viele Hindernisse. Es hat mich einmal gezwungen, eine Goldbörse, die ich zufällig gefunden hatte, zurückzugeben: Es verarmt jeden Mann, der es besitzt: Es ist aus Städten und Städten verbannt worden, weil es eine gefährliche Sache ist, und jeder Mann, der gut leben will, bemüht sich, sich selbst zu vertrauen und ohne es zu leben 1 Es ist sogar jetzt an meinem Ellbogen und überredet mich, den Herzog nicht zu töten 2 Nimm den Teufel in deinen Verstand und glaube ihm nicht: Er möchte sich bei dir einschleichen, nur um dich seufzen zu lassen 1 Ich bin stark, er kann mich nicht überreden 2 Du sprichst wie ein großer Mann, der deinen Ruf respektiert. Komm, wollen wir an die Arbeit gehen? 1 Nimm ihn mit dem Griff deines Schwertes auf den Kopf und wirf ihn dann in den Malmesey-Butt im nächsten Raum 2 Oh, ausgezeichnete Idee; und mache eine Suppe aus ihm 1 Warte, er wacht auf 2 Schlage zu 1 Nein, wir werden mit ihm diskutieren Claudius. Wo bist du, der Hüter? Gib mir einen Becher Wein 2 Sie werden genug Wein haben, mein Herr, gleich Claudius. Im Namen Gottes, wer bist du? 1 Ein Mann, wie du Claudius. Aber nicht so königlich wie ich bin. 1 Und nicht so loyal wie wir sind Claudius. Deine Stimme ist Donner, aber dein Aussehen ist demütig 1 Meine Stimme ist jetzt die des Königs, mein Aussehen gehört mir Claudius. Wie dunkel und tödlich sprichst du? Deine Augen drohen mir: Warum siehst du so blass aus? Wer hat dich hierher geschickt? Warum kommst du? 2 Zu, zu, zu- Claudius. Um mich zu ermorden? Beide: Ja, ja Claudius. Eure Herzen können kaum sagen, Und deshalb könnt ihr nicht die Herzen haben, es zu tun. Wie habe ich meine Freunde beleidigt? 1 Ihr habt uns nicht beleidigt, sondern den König Claudius. Ich werde mich mit ihm wieder versöhnen 2 Nie, mein Herr, bereite dich also auf den Tod vor Claudius. Bist du inmitten einer Welt von Männern hervorgekommen Um den Unschuldigen zu töten? Was ist mein Vergehen? Wo ist der Beweis, der mich anklagt? Welches legitime Geschworenengericht hat sein Urteil gefällt? Vor welchem bittersüßen Richter Verhängte das bittere Urteil über Clarence's Tod, Bevor ich nach geltendem Recht verurteilt werde? Mich mit dem Tod zu bedrohen ist äußerst gesetzwidrig. Ich fordere dich auf, wie du auf irgendein Gutes hoffst, Dass du gehst und deine Hände nicht an mich legst: Die Tat, die du unternehmen wirst, ist verdammt 1 Was wir tun werden, werden wir auf Befehl tun 2 Und wer befohlen hat, ist unser König Claudius. Fehlgeleitete Vasallen, der große König der Könige Hat in der Tafel seines Gesetzes geboten, Du sollst nicht töten. Werdet ihr dann Sein Edikt verachten und einen Menschen erfüllen? Hüte dich: Denn er hält Rache in seiner Hand, Um auf die Köpfe derer zu werfen, die sein Gesetz brechen 2 Und dieselbe Rache schleudert er auf dich, Für falsche Eidbrüche und auch für Mord: Aber du hast das Sakrament empfangen, um zu kämpfen Im Streit des Hauses Lancaster 1 Und wie ein Verräter gegen den Namen Gottes, Hast du das Gelübde gebrochen und mit deinem treulosen Schwert, Die Eingeweide deines souveränen Sohnes aufgerissen 2 Den du geschworen hast zu hegen und zu verteidigen 1 Wie kannst du Gottes furchtbares Gesetz an uns appellieren, Wenn du es in solchem ​​Maße gebrochen hast? Claudius. Ach! Um wessen willen habe ich diese böse Tat getan? Für Edward, für meinen Bruder, um seines Willens. Er schickt dich nicht, um mich dafür zu töten: Denn in dieser Sünde ist er so tief wie ich. Wenn Gott die Tat rächen will, Oh, weißt du noch nicht, dass er es öffentlich tut, Nimm nicht den Streit von seinem mächtigen Arm: Er braucht keinen indirekten oder gesetzwidrigen Kurs Um diejenigen abzuschneiden, die ihn beleidigt haben 1 Wer hat dich dann zu einem blutigen Diener gemacht, Als der glänzende aufstrebende tapfere Plantagenet, Dieser königliche Neuling, von dir erschlagen wurde? Claudius. Die Liebe meines Bruders, der Teufel und meine Wut 1 Die Liebe deines Bruders, unsere Pflicht und deine Fehler, Zwingen uns jetzt, dich zu schächten Claudius. Wenn du meinen Bruder liebst, hasse mich nicht: Ich bin sein Bruder, und ich liebe ihn sehr. Wenn du für Lohn angeheuert wurdest, geh zurück, Und ich werde dich zu meinem Bruder Gloucester schicken: Wer wird dich besser für mein Leben belohnen, Als Edward für die Nachricht von meinem Tod wird? 2 Du wirst getäuscht, Dein Bruder Gloucester hasst dich Claudius. Oh nein, er liebt mich und hält mich teuer: Geh du zu ihm von mir 1 Also werden wir Claudius. Sag ihm, als unser Fürstlicher Vater York, Segnete er seine drei Söhne mit seinem siegreichen Arm, Dachte er kaum an diese geteilte Freundschaft: Sage Gloucester, er soll daran denken, und er wird weinen 1 Wie Mahlsteine, wie er uns beibrachte zu weinen Claudius. Oh, verleumde ihn nicht, denn er ist freundlich 1 Richtig, wie Schnee in der Ernte: Komm schon, du betrügst dich selbst, Es ist er, der uns hierher geschickt hat, um dich zu zerstören Claudius. Es kann nicht sein, denn er beweinte mein Schicksal, Und umarmte mich und schwor unter Tränen, Dass er sich um meine Befreiung bemühen würde 1 Das tut er auch, wenn er dich befreit Von der Knechtschaft dieser Erde zu den Freuden des Himmels 2 Schließe Frieden mit Gott, denn du musst sterben, mein Herr Claudius. Habt ihr diese heilige Empfindung in euren Seelen, Mich zu beraten, meinen Frieden mit Gott zu schließen, Und seid ihr doch gegenüber euren eigenen Seelen so blind, Dass ihr gegen Gott kämpfen wollt, indem ihr mich ermordet? Oh, meine Herren, denkt nach: Diejenigen, die euch dazu anstiften, Diese Tat zu tun, werden euch für die Tat hassen 2 Was sollen wir tun? Claudius. Seid nachsichtig und rettet eure Seelen: Welcher von euch, wenn ihr ein Prinzensohn seid, Wie ich jetzt von Freiheit gefangen gehalten werde, Wenn zwei solche Mörder wie ihr zu euch kämen, Würdet ihr nicht um dein Leben bitten, wie ihr betteln würdet Wäret ihr in meiner Not 1 Nachsicht? Nein: Das 1.Mur. Würde ich auch nicht: Geh du feiger Feigling. Nun, ich werde den Körper in einem Versteck verstecken, Bis der Herzog Befehl für seine Beerdigung gibt: Und wenn ich meine Belohnung habe, werde ich gehen, Denn das wird herauskommen, und dann darf ich nicht bleiben. 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Willkommen auf den Straßen von London, wo Richard, Herzog von Gloucester, eine berühmte Soliloquy hält. Richard verkündet, dass der Bürgerkrieg vorbei ist und sein großer Bruder, König Edward IV, auf dem englischen Thron sitzt. Da der Krieg dem Frieden Platz gemacht hat, feiert jeder in London, indem er feiert und sich vergnügt. Richard ist damit nicht glücklich. Er behauptet, dass er nicht für Friedenszeiten geeignet ist, weil er zu früh geboren wurde und ein "missgestalteter" Buckliger ist, der bei den Damen kein Glück hat. Wissenshappen: Der historische Richard III. war tatsächlich kein Buckliger. Dies war nur eines von vielen schlimmen Gerüchten, die von Historikern verbreitet wurden, um ihn schlecht aussehen zu lassen, während sie König Heinrich VII. gut darstellen wollten. Gehe zu "Symbolik, Bildsprache, Allegorie" und lies über den "Tudor-Mythos", um mehr darüber zu erfahren. Richard teilt uns mit, dass in ganz England eine Prophezeiung im Umlauf ist: Anscheinend wird jemand, dessen Name mit dem Buchstaben "G" verbunden ist, die Erben von König Edward IV. ermorden. Richard hofft, dass König Edward denkt, dass das "G" für ihren Bruder, *G*eorge, den Herzog von Clarence, steht. Wer zeigt sich in diesem Moment als George, umgeben von Wachen, die ihn ins Tower of London bringen? Richard gibt vor, schockiert und entsetzt zu sein, und sagt so etwas wie "Hey Clarence, warum wirst du ins Gefängnis gebracht?" Clarence erklärt, dass König Edward ihn verdächtigt, gegen seine Kinder zu planen, weil sein Vorname mit einem "G" beginnt. Richard denkt: "Verdammt, das ist schrecklich." Er erklärt dann, dass dies alles die Schuld von "Lady Gray" ist, weil sie Clarence hasst und ihn bei ihrem Ehemann, dem König, schlecht macht. Richard behauptet, dass Lady Gray/Königin Elizabeth und ihr nichtsnutziger Bruder auch hinter der kürzlichen Inhaftierung von Lord Hastings steckten. Glücklicherweise kommt Hastings heute aus dem Gefängnis. Aber solange die Königin den König manipuliert, ist niemand sicher. Tatsächlich, sagt Richard, ist der einzige Grund, warum Hastings aus dem Gefängnis kommt, dass er sehr gut mit der Mätresse des Königs, Jane Shore, befreundet ist. Laut Richard hat Jane Shore den König total in der Hand, also sollten sich vielleicht alle bei ihr einschleimen, wenn sie in seinen guten Gnaden bleiben wollen. Richards Geschwätz wird von Clarence's Wache, Brackenbury, unterbrochen, der Clarence gerne bald ins Gefängnis bringen würde. Brackenbury weist darauf hin, dass er nur seinen Job machen will. Bevor Clarence in den Tower gebracht wird, verspricht Richard sein Bestes zu tun, um ihm zu helfen, und sagt, dass er entsetzt darüber ist, wie sein Bruder Clarence behandelt. Sobald Clarence weg ist, erzählt Richard uns, dass er seinen Bruder so sehr liebt, dass er ihm eine Reise ins Himmel bezahlen möchte - und wer will nicht in den Himmel? Richards Gedanken als böses Genie werden durch Hastings unterbrochen, den Mann, der gerade aus dem Gefängnis entlassen wurde. Hastings sagt, dass König Edward krank ist - praktisch auf dem Sterbebett. Hastings geht, um den kranken König zu sehen, und Richard verspricht später zu folgen. Richard schmiedet weiterhin seine bösen Pläne. Er wird König Edward besuchen, aber nur, um ihn in seinem Hass auf Clarence zu bestärken. Richard hofft, dass der König Clarence hinrichten lässt und dann bald darauf stirbt, was Richard dem Thron noch näher bringen würde. Um seinem Plan eine neue Ebene hinzuzufügen, sagt Richard, dass er Lady Anne Neville heiraten möchte, obwohl er erst kürzlich ihren Ehemann und ihren Schwiegervater getötet hat. Richard denkt es wird Spaß machen, mit einer trauernden Witwe Spielchen zu spielen, und weist darauf hin, dass die Heirat mit Anne auch ein strategischer Zug für ihn ist, da sie aus einer bedeutenden Familie stammt und Verbindungen zum verstorbenen König hat. Trotzdem ruft er noch nicht den Hochzeitsplaner an, da er zuerst den Tod seiner Brüder inszenieren muss.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: The last pages to which the chronicler of these lives would ask the reader's attention are concerned with the scene in and out of Jude's bedroom when leafy summer came round again. His face was now so thin that his old friends would hardly have known him. It was afternoon, and Arabella was at the looking-glass curling her hair, which operation she performed by heating an umbrella-stay in the flame of a candle she had lighted, and using it upon the flowing lock. When she had finished this, practised a dimple, and put on her things, she cast her eyes round upon Jude. He seemed to be sleeping, though his position was an elevated one, his malady preventing him lying down. Arabella, hatted, gloved, and ready, sat down and waited, as if expecting some one to come and take her place as nurse. Certain sounds from without revealed that the town was in festivity, though little of the festival, whatever it might have been, could be seen here. Bells began to ring, and the notes came into the room through the open window, and travelled round Jude's head in a hum. They made her restless, and at last she said to herself: "Why ever doesn't Father come?" She looked again at Jude, critically gauged his ebbing life, as she had done so many times during the late months, and glancing at his watch, which was hung up by way of timepiece, rose impatiently. Still he slept, and coming to a resolution she slipped from the room, closed the door noiselessly, and descended the stairs. The house was empty. The attraction which moved Arabella to go abroad had evidently drawn away the other inmates long before. It was a warm, cloudless, enticing day. She shut the front door, and hastened round into Chief Street, and when near the theatre could hear the notes of the organ, a rehearsal for a coming concert being in progress. She entered under the archway of Oldgate College, where men were putting up awnings round the quadrangle for a ball in the hall that evening. People who had come up from the country for the day were picnicking on the grass, and Arabella walked along the gravel paths and under the aged limes. But finding this place rather dull she returned to the streets, and watched the carriages drawing up for the concert, numerous Dons and their wives, and undergraduates with gay female companions, crowding up likewise. When the doors were closed, and the concert began, she moved on. The powerful notes of that concert rolled forth through the swinging yellow blinds of the open windows, over the housetops, and into the still air of the lanes. They reached so far as to the room in which Jude lay; and it was about this time that his cough began again and awakened him. As soon as he could speak he murmured, his eyes still closed: "A little water, please." Nothing but the deserted room received his appeal, and he coughed to exhaustion again--saying still more feebly: "Water--some water--Sue--Arabella!" The room remained still as before. Presently he gasped again: "Throat--water--Sue--darling--drop of water--please--oh please!" No water came, and the organ notes, faint as a bee's hum, rolled in as before. While he remained, his face changing, shouts and hurrahs came from somewhere in the direction of the river. "Ah--yes! The Remembrance games," he murmured. "And I here. And Sue defiled!" The hurrahs were repeated, drowning the faint organ notes. Jude's face changed more: he whispered slowly, his parched lips scarcely moving: _"Let the day perish wherein I was born, and the night in which it was said, There is a man-child conceived."_ ("Hurrah!") _"Let that day be darkness; let not God regard it from above, neither let the light shine upon it. Lo, let that night be solitary, let no joyful voice come therein."_ ("Hurrah!") _"Why died I not from the womb? Why did I not give up the ghost when I came out of the belly? ... For now should I have lain still and been quiet. I should have slept: then had I been at rest!"_ ("Hurrah!") _"There the prisoners rest together; they hear not the voice of the oppressor... The small and the great are there; and the servant is free from his master. Wherefore is light given to him that is in misery, and life unto the bitter in soul?"_ Meanwhile Arabella, in her journey to discover what was going on, took a short cut down a narrow street and through an obscure nook into the quad of Cardinal. It was full of bustle, and brilliant in the sunlight with flowers and other preparations for a ball here also. A carpenter nodded to her, one who had formerly been a fellow-workman of Jude's. A corridor was in course of erection from the entrance to the hall staircase, of gay red and buff bunting. Waggon-loads of boxes containing bright plants in full bloom were being placed about, and the great staircase was covered with red cloth. She nodded to one workman and another, and ascended to the hall on the strength of their acquaintance, where they were putting down a new floor and decorating for the dance. The cathedral bell close at hand was sounding for five o'clock service. "I should not mind having a spin there with a fellow's arm round my waist," she said to one of the men. "But Lord, I must be getting home again--there's a lot to do. No dancing for me!" When she reached home she was met at the door by Stagg, and one or two other of Jude's fellow stoneworkers. "We are just going down to the river," said the former, "to see the boat-bumping. But we've called round on our way to ask how your husband is." "He's sleeping nicely, thank you," said Arabella. "That's right. Well now, can't you give yourself half an hour's relaxation, Mrs. Fawley, and come along with us? 'Twould do you good." "I should like to go," said she. "I've never seen the boat-racing, and I hear it is good fun." "Come along!" "How I WISH I could!" She looked longingly down the street. "Wait a minute, then. I'll just run up and see how he is now. Father is with him, I believe; so I can most likely come." They waited, and she entered. Downstairs the inmates were absent as before, having, in fact, gone in a body to the river where the procession of boats was to pass. When she reached the bedroom she found that her father had not even now come. "Why couldn't he have been here!" she said impatiently. "He wants to see the boats himself--that's what it is!" However, on looking round to the bed she brightened, for she saw that Jude was apparently sleeping, though he was not in the usual half-elevated posture necessitated by his cough. He had slipped down, and lay flat. A second glance caused her to start, and she went to the bed. His face was quite white, and gradually becoming rigid. She touched his fingers; they were cold, though his body was still warm. She listened at his chest. All was still within. The bumping of near thirty years had ceased. After her first appalled sense of what had happened, the faint notes of a military or other brass band from the river reached her ears; and in a provoked tone she exclaimed, "To think he should die just now! Why did he die just now!" Then meditating another moment or two she went to the door, softly closed it as before, and again descended the stairs. "Here she is!" said one of the workmen. "We wondered if you were coming after all. Come along; we must be quick to get a good place... Well, how is he? Sleeping well still? Of course, we don't want to drag 'ee away if--" "Oh yes--sleeping quite sound. He won't wake yet," she said hurriedly. They went with the crowd down Cardinal Street, where they presently reached the bridge, and the gay barges burst upon their view. Thence they passed by a narrow slit down to the riverside path--now dusty, hot, and thronged. Almost as soon as they had arrived the grand procession of boats began; the oars smacking with a loud kiss on the face of the stream, as they were lowered from the perpendicular. "Oh, I say--how jolly! I'm glad I've come," said Arabella. "And--it can't hurt my husband--my being away." On the opposite side of the river, on the crowded barges, were gorgeous nosegays of feminine beauty, fashionably arrayed in green, pink, blue, and white. The blue flag of the boat club denoted the centre of interest, beneath which a band in red uniform gave out the notes she had already heard in the death-chamber. Collegians of all sorts, in canoes with ladies, watching keenly for "our" boat, darted up and down. While she regarded the lively scene somebody touched Arabella in the ribs, and looking round she saw Vilbert. "That philtre is operating, you know!" he said with a leer. "Shame on 'ee to wreck a heart so!" "I shan't talk of love to-day." "Why not? It is a general holiday." She did not reply. Vilbert's arm stole round her waist, which act could be performed unobserved in the crowd. An arch expression overspread Arabella's face at the feel of the arm, but she kept her eyes on the river as if she did not know of the embrace. The crowd surged, pushing Arabella and her friends sometimes nearly into the river, and she would have laughed heartily at the horse-play that succeeded, if the imprint on her mind's eye of a pale, statuesque countenance she had lately gazed upon had not sobered her a little. The fun on the water reached the acme of excitement; there were immersions, there were shouts: the race was lost and won, the pink and blue and yellow ladies retired from the barges, and the people who had watched began to move. "Well--it's been awfully good," cried Arabella. "But I think I must get back to my poor man. Father is there, so far as I know; but I had better get back." "What's your hurry?" "Well, I must go... Dear, dear, this is awkward!" At the narrow gangway where the people ascended from the riverside path to the bridge the crowd was literally jammed into one hot mass--Arabella and Vilbert with the rest; and here they remained motionless, Arabella exclaiming, "Dear, dear!" more and more impatiently; for it had just occurred to her mind that if Jude were discovered to have died alone an inquest might be deemed necessary. "What a fidget you are, my love," said the physician, who, being pressed close against her by the throng, had no need of personal effort for contact. "Just as well have patience: there's no getting away yet!" It was nearly ten minutes before the wedged multitude moved sufficiently to let them pass through. As soon as she got up into the street Arabella hastened on, forbidding the physician to accompany her further that day. She did not go straight to her house; but to the abode of a woman who performed the last necessary offices for the poorer dead; where she knocked. "My husband has just gone, poor soul," she said. "Can you come and lay him out?" Arabella waited a few minutes; and the two women went along, elbowing their way through the stream of fashionable people pouring out of Cardinal meadow, and being nearly knocked down by the carriages. "I must call at the sexton's about the bell, too," said Arabella. "It is just round here, isn't it? I'll meet you at my door." By ten o'clock that night Jude was lying on the bedstead at his lodging covered with a sheet, and straight as an arrow. Through the partly opened window the joyous throb of a waltz entered from the ball-room at Cardinal. Two days later, when the sky was equally cloudless, and the air equally still, two persons stood beside Jude's open coffin in the same little bedroom. On one side was Arabella, on the other the Widow Edlin. They were both looking at Jude's face, the worn old eyelids of Mrs. Edlin being red. "How beautiful he is!" said she. "Yes. He's a 'andsome corpse," said Arabella. The window was still open to ventilate the room, and it being about noontide the clear air was motionless and quiet without. From a distance came voices; and an apparent noise of persons stamping. "What's that?" murmured the old woman. "Oh, that's the Doctors in the theatre, conferring Honorary degrees on the Duke of Hamptonshire and a lot more illustrious gents of that sort. It's Remembrance Week, you know. The cheers come from the young men." "Aye; young and strong-lunged! Not like our poor boy here." An occasional word, as from some one making a speech, floated from the open windows of the theatre across to this quiet corner, at which there seemed to be a smile of some sort upon the marble features of Jude; while the old, superseded, Delphin editions of Virgil and Horace, and the dog-eared Greek Testament on the neighbouring shelf, and the few other volumes of the sort that he had not parted with, roughened with stone-dust where he had been in the habit of catching them up for a few minutes between his labours, seemed to pale to a sickly cast at the sounds. The bells struck out joyously; and their reverberations travelled round the bed-room. Arabella's eyes removed from Jude to Mrs. Edlin. "D'ye think she will come?" she asked. "I could not say. She swore not to see him again." "How is she looking?" "Tired and miserable, poor heart. Years and years older than when you saw her last. Quite a staid, worn woman now. 'Tis the man--she can't stomach un, even now!" "If Jude had been alive to see her, he would hardly have cared for her any more, perhaps." "That's what we don't know... Didn't he ever ask you to send for her, since he came to see her in that strange way?" "No. Quite the contrary. I offered to send, and he said I was not to let her know how ill he was." "Did he forgive her?" "Not as I know." "Well--poor little thing, 'tis to be believed she's found forgiveness somewhere! She said she had found peace! "She may swear that on her knees to the holy cross upon her necklace till she's hoarse, but it won't be true!" said Arabella. "She's never found peace since she left his arms, and never will again till she's as he is now!" 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.

Am Totengedenktag verlässt Arabella ungeduldig Jude, der noch schlafend und allein im Bett liegt. Als er aufwacht, bittet er um Wasser, erkennt den Feiertag und rezitiert einige Verse aus dem Buch Hiob. Später unterbricht Arabella kurz die Feierlichkeiten, um nach Jude zu sehen, und entdeckt dabei, dass er tot ist. Sie schließt sich wieder der Feier an und trifft schließlich auf den Arzt Vilbert. Letztendlich lässt sie ihn zurück, um sich um die Bestattungsarrangements für Jude zu kümmern. Zwei Tage später stehen nur Arabella und Mrs. Edlin neben Judes Sarg, während draußen die Geräusche des Feiertags zu hören sind. Mrs. Edlin weiß nicht, ob Sue zur Beerdigung kommen wird, behauptet jedoch, dass Sue Frieden gefunden habe. Arabella sagt, dass Jude nicht wollte, dass man Sue holt und dass er ihr nicht vergeben habe. Sie ist der Ansicht, dass Sue niemals Frieden finden wird, solange sie nicht, wie Jude, tot 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: "Say, goddess, what ensued, when Raphael, The affable archangel . . . Eve The story heard attentive, and was filled With admiration, and deep muse, to hear Of things so high and strange." --Paradise Lost, B. vii. If it had really occurred to Mr. Casaubon to think of Miss Brooke as a suitable wife for him, the reasons that might induce her to accept him were already planted in her mind, and by the evening of the next day the reasons had budded and bloomed. For they had had a long conversation in the morning, while Celia, who did not like the company of Mr. Casaubon's moles and sallowness, had escaped to the vicarage to play with the curate's ill-shod but merry children. Dorothea by this time had looked deep into the ungauged reservoir of Mr. Casaubon's mind, seeing reflected there in vague labyrinthine extension every quality she herself brought; had opened much of her own experience to him, and had understood from him the scope of his great work, also of attractively labyrinthine extent. For he had been as instructive as Milton's "affable archangel;" and with something of the archangelic manner he told her how he had undertaken to show (what indeed had been attempted before, but not with that thoroughness, justice of comparison, and effectiveness of arrangement at which Mr. Casaubon aimed) that all the mythical systems or erratic mythical fragments in the world were corruptions of a tradition originally revealed. Having once mastered the true position and taken a firm footing there, the vast field of mythical constructions became intelligible, nay, luminous with the reflected light of correspondences. But to gather in this great harvest of truth was no light or speedy work. His notes already made a formidable range of volumes, but the crowning task would be to condense these voluminous still-accumulating results and bring them, like the earlier vintage of Hippocratic books, to fit a little shelf. In explaining this to Dorothea, Mr. Casaubon expressed himself nearly as he would have done to a fellow-student, for he had not two styles of talking at command: it is true that when he used a Greek or Latin phrase he always gave the English with scrupulous care, but he would probably have done this in any case. A learned provincial clergyman is accustomed to think of his acquaintances as of "lords, knyghtes, and other noble and worthi men, that conne Latyn but lytille." Dorothea was altogether captivated by the wide embrace of this conception. Here was something beyond the shallows of ladies' school literature: here was a living Bossuet, whose work would reconcile complete knowledge with devoted piety; here was a modern Augustine who united the glories of doctor and saint. The sanctity seemed no less clearly marked than the learning, for when Dorothea was impelled to open her mind on certain themes which she could speak of to no one whom she had before seen at Tipton, especially on the secondary importance of ecclesiastical forms and articles of belief compared with that spiritual religion, that submergence of self in communion with Divine perfection which seemed to her to be expressed in the best Christian books of widely distant ages, she found in Mr. Casaubon a listener who understood her at once, who could assure her of his own agreement with that view when duly tempered with wise conformity, and could mention historical examples before unknown to her. "He thinks with me," said Dorothea to herself, "or rather, he thinks a whole world of which my thought is but a poor twopenny mirror. And his feelings too, his whole experience--what a lake compared with my little pool!" Miss Brooke argued from words and dispositions not less unhesitatingly than other young ladies of her age. Signs are small measurable things, but interpretations are illimitable, and in girls of sweet, ardent nature, every sign is apt to conjure up wonder, hope, belief, vast as a sky, and colored by a diffused thimbleful of matter in the shape of knowledge. They are not always too grossly deceived; for Sinbad himself may have fallen by good-luck on a true description, and wrong reasoning sometimes lands poor mortals in right conclusions: starting a long way off the true point, and proceeding by loops and zigzags, we now and then arrive just where we ought to be. Because Miss Brooke was hasty in her trust, it is not therefore clear that Mr. Casaubon was unworthy of it. He stayed a little longer than he had intended, on a slight pressure of invitation from Mr. Brooke, who offered no bait except his own documents on machine-breaking and rick-burning. Mr. Casaubon was called into the library to look at these in a heap, while his host picked up first one and then the other to read aloud from in a skipping and uncertain way, passing from one unfinished passage to another with a "Yes, now, but here!" and finally pushing them all aside to open the journal of his youthful Continental travels. "Look here--here is all about Greece. Rhamnus, the ruins of Rhamnus--you are a great Grecian, now. I don't know whether you have given much study to the topography. I spent no end of time in making out these things--Helicon, now. Here, now!--'We started the next morning for Parnassus, the double-peaked Parnassus.' All this volume is about Greece, you know," Mr. Brooke wound up, rubbing his thumb transversely along the edges of the leaves as he held the book forward. Mr. Casaubon made a dignified though somewhat sad audience; bowed in the right place, and avoided looking at anything documentary as far as possible, without showing disregard or impatience; mindful that this desultoriness was associated with the institutions of the country, and that the man who took him on this severe mental scamper was not only an amiable host, but a landholder and custos rotulorum. Was his endurance aided also by the reflection that Mr. Brooke was the uncle of Dorothea? Certainly he seemed more and more bent on making her talk to him, on drawing her out, as Celia remarked to herself; and in looking at her his face was often lit up by a smile like pale wintry sunshine. Before he left the next morning, while taking a pleasant walk with Miss Brooke along the gravelled terrace, he had mentioned to her that he felt the disadvantage of loneliness, the need of that cheerful companionship with which the presence of youth can lighten or vary the serious toils of maturity. And he delivered this statement with as much careful precision as if he had been a diplomatic envoy whose words would be attended with results. Indeed, Mr. Casaubon was not used to expect that he should have to repeat or revise his communications of a practical or personal kind. The inclinations which he had deliberately stated on the 2d of October he would think it enough to refer to by the mention of that date; judging by the standard of his own memory, which was a volume where a vide supra could serve instead of repetitions, and not the ordinary long-used blotting-book which only tells of forgotten writing. But in this case Mr. Casaubon's confidence was not likely to be falsified, for Dorothea heard and retained what he said with the eager interest of a fresh young nature to which every variety in experience is an epoch. It was three o'clock in the beautiful breezy autumn day when Mr. Casaubon drove off to his Rectory at Lowick, only five miles from Tipton; and Dorothea, who had on her bonnet and shawl, hurried along the shrubbery and across the park that she might wander through the bordering wood with no other visible companionship than that of Monk, the Great St. Bernard dog, who always took care of the young ladies in their walks. There had risen before her the girl's vision of a possible future for herself to which she looked forward with trembling hope, and she wanted to wander on in that visionary future without interruption. She walked briskly in the brisk air, the color rose in her cheeks, and her straw bonnet (which our contemporaries might look at with conjectural curiosity as at an obsolete form of basket) fell a little backward. She would perhaps be hardly characterized enough if it were omitted that she wore her brown hair flatly braided and coiled behind so as to expose the outline of her head in a daring manner at a time when public feeling required the meagreness of nature to be dissimulated by tall barricades of frizzed curls and bows, never surpassed by any great race except the Feejeean. This was a trait of Miss Brooke's asceticism. But there was nothing of an ascetic's expression in her bright full eyes, as she looked before her, not consciously seeing, but absorbing into the intensity of her mood, the solemn glory of the afternoon with its long swathes of light between the far-off rows of limes, whose shadows touched each other. All people, young or old (that is, all people in those ante-reform times), would have thought her an interesting object if they had referred the glow in her eyes and cheeks to the newly awakened ordinary images of young love: the illusions of Chloe about Strephon have been sufficiently consecrated in poetry, as the pathetic loveliness of all spontaneous trust ought to be. Miss Pippin adoring young Pumpkin, and dreaming along endless vistas of unwearying companionship, was a little drama which never tired our fathers and mothers, and had been put into all costumes. Let but Pumpkin have a figure which would sustain the disadvantages of the shortwaisted swallow-tail, and everybody felt it not only natural but necessary to the perfection of womanhood, that a sweet girl should be at once convinced of his virtue, his exceptional ability, and above all, his perfect sincerity. But perhaps no persons then living--certainly none in the neighborhood of Tipton--would have had a sympathetic understanding for the dreams of a girl whose notions about marriage took their color entirely from an exalted enthusiasm about the ends of life, an enthusiasm which was lit chiefly by its own fire, and included neither the niceties of the trousseau, the pattern of plate, nor even the honors and sweet joys of the blooming matron. It had now entered Dorothea's mind that Mr. Casaubon might wish to make her his wife, and the idea that he would do so touched her with a sort of reverential gratitude. How good of him--nay, it would be almost as if a winged messenger had suddenly stood beside her path and held out his hand towards her! For a long while she had been oppressed by the indefiniteness which hung in her mind, like a thick summer haze, over all her desire to make her life greatly effective. What could she do, what ought she to do?--she, hardly more than a budding woman, but yet with an active conscience and a great mental need, not to be satisfied by a girlish instruction comparable to the nibblings and judgments of a discursive mouse. With some endowment of stupidity and conceit, she might have thought that a Christian young lady of fortune should find her ideal of life in village charities, patronage of the humbler clergy, the perusal of "Female Scripture Characters," unfolding the private experience of Sara under the Old Dispensation, and Dorcas under the New, and the care of her soul over her embroidery in her own boudoir--with a background of prospective marriage to a man who, if less strict than herself, as being involved in affairs religiously inexplicable, might be prayed for and seasonably exhorted. From such contentment poor Dorothea was shut out. The intensity of her religious disposition, the coercion it exercised over her life, was but one aspect of a nature altogether ardent, theoretic, and intellectually consequent: and with such a nature struggling in the bands of a narrow teaching, hemmed in by a social life which seemed nothing but a labyrinth of petty courses, a walled-in maze of small paths that led no whither, the outcome was sure to strike others as at once exaggeration and inconsistency. The thing which seemed to her best, she wanted to justify by the completest knowledge; and not to live in a pretended admission of rules which were never acted on. Into this soul-hunger as yet all her youthful passion was poured; the union which attracted her was one that would deliver her from her girlish subjection to her own ignorance, and give her the freedom of voluntary submission to a guide who would take her along the grandest path. "I should learn everything then," she said to herself, still walking quickly along the bridle road through the wood. "It would be my duty to study that I might help him the better in his great works. There would be nothing trivial about our lives. Every-day things with us would mean the greatest things. It would be like marrying Pascal. I should learn to see the truth by the same light as great men have seen it by. And then I should know what to do, when I got older: I should see how it was possible to lead a grand life here--now--in England. I don't feel sure about doing good in any way now: everything seems like going on a mission to a people whose language I don't know;--unless it were building good cottages--there can be no doubt about that. Oh, I hope I should be able to get the people well housed in Lowick! I will draw plenty of plans while I have time." Dorothea checked herself suddenly with self-rebuke for the presumptuous way in which she was reckoning on uncertain events, but she was spared any inward effort to change the direction of her thoughts by the appearance of a cantering horseman round a turning of the road. The well-groomed chestnut horse and two beautiful setters could leave no doubt that the rider was Sir James Chettam. He discerned Dorothea, jumped off his horse at once, and, having delivered it to his groom, advanced towards her with something white on his arm, at which the two setters were barking in an excited manner. "How delightful to meet you, Miss Brooke," he said, raising his hat and showing his sleekly waving blond hair. "It has hastened the pleasure I was looking forward to." Miss Brooke was annoyed at the interruption. This amiable baronet, really a suitable husband for Celia, exaggerated the necessity of making himself agreeable to the elder sister. Even a prospective brother-in-law may be an oppression if he will always be presupposing too good an understanding with you, and agreeing with you even when you contradict him. The thought that he had made the mistake of paying his addresses to herself could not take shape: all her mental activity was used up in persuasions of another kind. But he was positively obtrusive at this moment, and his dimpled hands were quite disagreeable. Her roused temper made her color deeply, as she returned his greeting with some haughtiness. Sir James interpreted the heightened color in the way most gratifying to himself, and thought he never saw Miss Brooke looking so handsome. "I have brought a little petitioner," he said, "or rather, I have brought him to see if he will be approved before his petition is offered." He showed the white object under his arm, which was a tiny Maltese puppy, one of nature's most naive toys. "It is painful to me to see these creatures that are bred merely as pets," said Dorothea, whose opinion was forming itself that very moment (as opinions will) under the heat of irritation. "Oh, why?" said Sir James, as they walked forward. "I believe all the petting that is given them does not make them happy. They are too helpless: their lives are too frail. A weasel or a mouse that gets its own living is more interesting. I like to think that the animals about us have souls something like our own, and either carry on their own little affairs or can be companions to us, like Monk here. Those creatures are parasitic." "I am so glad I know that you do not like them," said good Sir James. "I should never keep them for myself, but ladies usually are fond of these Maltese dogs. Here, John, take this dog, will you?" The objectionable puppy, whose nose and eyes were equally black and expressive, was thus got rid of, since Miss Brooke decided that it had better not have been born. But she felt it necessary to explain. "You must not judge of Celia's feeling from mine. I think she likes these small pets. She had a tiny terrier once, which she was very fond of. It made me unhappy, because I was afraid of treading on it. I am rather short-sighted." "You have your own opinion about everything, Miss Brooke, and it is always a good opinion." What answer was possible to such stupid complimenting? "Do you know, I envy you that," Sir James said, as they continued walking at the rather brisk pace set by Dorothea. "I don't quite understand what you mean." "Your power of forming an opinion. I can form an opinion of persons. I know when I like people. But about other matters, do you know, I have often a difficulty in deciding. One hears very sensible things said on opposite sides." "Or that seem sensible. Perhaps we don't always discriminate between sense and nonsense." Dorothea felt that she was rather rude. "Exactly," said Sir James. "But you seem to have the power of discrimination." "On the contrary, I am often unable to decide. But that is from ignorance. The right conclusion is there all the same, though I am unable to see it." "I think there are few who would see it more readily. Do you know, Lovegood was telling me yesterday that you had the best notion in the world of a plan for cottages--quite wonderful for a young lady, he thought. You had a real _genus_, to use his expression. He said you wanted Mr. Brooke to build a new set of cottages, but he seemed to think it hardly probable that your uncle would consent. Do you know, that is one of the things I wish to do--I mean, on my own estate. I should be so glad to carry out that plan of yours, if you would let me see it. Of course, it is sinking money; that is why people object to it. Laborers can never pay rent to make it answer. But, after all, it is worth doing." "Worth doing! yes, indeed," said Dorothea, energetically, forgetting her previous small vexations. "I think we deserve to be beaten out of our beautiful houses with a scourge of small cords--all of us who let tenants live in such sties as we see round us. Life in cottages might be happier than ours, if they were real houses fit for human beings from whom we expect duties and affections." "Will you show me your plan?" "Yes, certainly. I dare say it is very faulty. But I have been examining all the plans for cottages in Loudon's book, and picked out what seem the best things. Oh what a happiness it would be to set the pattern about here! I think instead of Lazarus at the gate, we should put the pigsty cottages outside the park-gate." Dorothea was in the best temper now. Sir James, as brother in-law, building model cottages on his estate, and then, perhaps, others being built at Lowick, and more and more elsewhere in imitation--it would be as if the spirit of Oberlin had passed over the parishes to make the life of poverty beautiful! Sir James saw all the plans, and took one away to consult upon with Lovegood. He also took away a complacent sense that he was making great progress in Miss Brooke's good opinion. The Maltese puppy was not offered to Celia; an omission which Dorothea afterwards thought of with surprise; but she blamed herself for it. She had been engrossing Sir James. After all, it was a relief that there was no puppy to tread upon. Celia was present while the plans were being examined, and observed Sir James's illusion. "He thinks that Dodo cares about him, and she only cares about her plans. Yet I am not certain that she would refuse him if she thought he would let her manage everything and carry out all her notions. And how very uncomfortable Sir James would be! I cannot bear notions." It was Celia's private luxury to indulge in this dislike. She dared not confess it to her sister in any direct statement, for that would be laying herself open to a demonstration that she was somehow or other at war with all goodness. But on safe opportunities, she had an indirect mode of making her negative wisdom tell upon Dorothea, and calling her down from her rhapsodic mood by reminding her that people were staring, not listening. Celia was not impulsive: what she had to say could wait, and came from her always with the same quiet staccato evenness. When people talked with energy and emphasis she watched their faces and features merely. She never could understand how well-bred persons consented to sing and open their mouths in the ridiculous manner requisite for that vocal exercise. It was not many days before Mr. Casaubon paid a morning visit, on which he was invited again for the following week to dine and stay the night. Thus Dorothea had three more conversations with him, and was convinced that her first impressions had been just. He was all she had at first imagined him to be: almost everything he had said seemed like a specimen from a mine, or the inscription on the door of a museum which might open on the treasures of past ages; and this trust in his mental wealth was all the deeper and more effective on her inclination because it was now obvious that his visits were made for her sake. This accomplished man condescended to think of a young girl, and take the pains to talk to her, not with absurd compliment, but with an appeal to her understanding, and sometimes with instructive correction. What delightful companionship! Mr. Casaubon seemed even unconscious that trivialities existed, and never handed round that small-talk of heavy men which is as acceptable as stale bride-cake brought forth with an odor of cupboard. He talked of what he was interested in, or else he was silent and bowed with sad civility. To Dorothea this was adorable genuineness, and religious abstinence from that artificiality which uses up the soul in the efforts of pretence. For she looked as reverently at Mr. Casaubon's religious elevation above herself as she did at his intellect and learning. He assented to her expressions of devout feeling, and usually with an appropriate quotation; he allowed himself to say that he had gone through some spiritual conflicts in his youth; in short, Dorothea saw that here she might reckon on understanding, sympathy, and guidance. On one--only one--of her favorite themes she was disappointed. Mr. Casaubon apparently did not care about building cottages, and diverted the talk to the extremely narrow accommodation which was to be had in the dwellings of the ancient Egyptians, as if to check a too high standard. After he was gone, Dorothea dwelt with some agitation on this indifference of his; and her mind was much exercised with arguments drawn from the varying conditions of climate which modify human needs, and from the admitted wickedness of pagan despots. Should she not urge these arguments on Mr. Casaubon when he came again? But further reflection told her that she was presumptuous in demanding his attention to such a subject; he would not disapprove of her occupying herself with it in leisure moments, as other women expected to occupy themselves with their dress and embroidery--would not forbid it when--Dorothea felt rather ashamed as she detected herself in these speculations. But her uncle had been invited to go to Lowick to stay a couple of days: was it reasonable to suppose that Mr. Casaubon delighted in Mr. Brooke's society for its own sake, either with or without documents? Meanwhile that little disappointment made her delight the more in Sir James Chettam's readiness to set on foot the desired improvements. He came much oftener than Mr. Casaubon, and Dorothea ceased to find him disagreeable since he showed himself so entirely in earnest; for he had already entered with much practical ability into Lovegood's estimates, and was charmingly docile. She proposed to build a couple of cottages, and transfer two families from their old cabins, which could then be pulled down, so that new ones could be built on the old sites. Sir James said "Exactly," and she bore the word remarkably well. Gewiss könnten diese Männer, die so wenige spontane Ideen hatten, unter guter weiblicher Führung sehr nützliche Mitglieder der Gesellschaft sein, wenn sie das Glück hätten, ihre Schwägerinnen auszuwählen! Es ist schwer zu sagen, ob sie absichtlich blind für die Möglichkeit war, dass eine andere Art von Wahl in Bezug auf sie in Frage stand. Aber ihr Leben war gerade voller Hoffnung und Tatendrang: Sie dachte nicht nur an ihre Pläne, sondern holte auch gelehrte Bücher aus der Bibliothek und las viele Dinge hastig (damit sie etwas weniger unwissend mit Herrn Casaubon sprechen konnte). Gleichzeitig wurde sie mit gewissenhaften Fragen konfrontiert, ob sie nicht diese armen Handlungen übermäßig hochschätzte und sie mit jener Selbstzufriedenheit betrachtete, die das letzte Verhängnis der Unwissenheit und Torheit war. Kannst du eine geeignete Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Dorothea bewundert weiterhin Casaubon, insbesondere seine umfangreichen Studien und sein Wissen. Sie versteht, dass Casaubon sie ein wenig schätzt und fühlt sich geehrt, trotz Casaubons völliger Unfähigkeit, Emotionen zu zeigen. Sie ist blind für die Tatsache, dass er sie heiraten will, um seine eigenen Bedürfnisse zu erfüllen, und dass er ihre Naivität bei dieser Entscheidung ausnutzt. Casaubon versucht tatsächlich, Rücksicht auf sie zu nehmen in dem, worüber er mit ihr spricht und wie er sie betrachtet. Dennoch zeigt Dorotheas Unfähigkeit, Casaubon als etwas anderes als einen Wissens- und Gutmenschen zu sehen und Sir James als lästig anzusehen, der nützlich ist für die Umsetzung ihrer Pläne, wie ihre Sturheit sie daran hindert, Menschen richtig zu beurteilen und wichtige Entscheidungen zu treffen.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). 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. Betretender Bastard. Bast. Du Natur bist meine Göttin, nach deinem Gesetz bin ich gebunden, warum sollte ich Mich der Plage der Gewohnheit aussetzen und es zulassen, dass die Neugierde der Nationen mich beraubt? Weil ich etwa zwölf oder vierzehn Monde hinter einem Bruder zurückbleibe? Warum Bastard? Warum niedrig? Wenn meine körperlichen Maße genauso gut zusammengesetzt sind, mein Geist genauso großzügig ist und meine Gestalt genauso ehrlich, wie die eines ehrenhaften Fräuleins? Warum bezeichnen sie uns als niederträchtig? Als Niederträchtigen Bastard? Niederträchtig, niederträchtig? Wer im sexuell erregten Zustand der Natur mehr Kondition und leidenschaftliche Anziehungskraft hat, als jemand in einem langweiligen und müden Bett zur Erschaffung eines ganzen Stammes von Narren beiträgt, die zwischen Schlaf und Wachsein gezeugt werden? Nun denn, rechtmäßiger Edgar, ich verlange dein Land, die Liebe unseres Vaters gehört dem Bastard Edmond genauso wie dem Rechtmäßigen: feines Wort: Rechtmäßig. Nun, mein Rechtmäßiger, wenn dieser Brief Erfolg hat und meine Erfindung gedeiht, wird der niederträchtige Edmond dem Rechtmäßigen Rechenschaft ablegen: Ich wachse, ich gedeihe. Nun, Götter, erhebt euch für Bastarde. Betretender Gloucester. Glo. Kent so verbannt? Und Frankreich erzürnt? Und der König ist heute Nacht weg? Er hat seine Macht eingeschränkt und seine finanzielle Unterstützung eingestellt? Das alles passierte spontan? Edmond, was gibt es Neues? Bast. Zu Diensten, Euer Lordschaft, nichts Glo. Warum suchst du so dringlich, den Brief in deiner Tasche zu verstecken? Bast. Ich weiß nichts, mein Lord Glo. Nicht? Was hattest du da für ein Papier in der Hand? Bast. Nichts, mein Lord Glo. Nein? Und wozu dann diese hastige Versteckspielerei um es in deiner Tasche zu verstauen? Notwendig hat sich doch nichts zu verstecken. Lass sehen: Komm her, wenn es nichts ist, brauche ich keine Brille Bast. Ich bitte um Verzeihung, Sir, es ist ein Brief von meinem Bruder, den ich noch nicht ganz gelesen habe; und soweit ich gelesen habe, finde ich es nicht angemessen, dass Sie ihn lesen Glo. Gib mir den Brief, Sir Bast. Ich würde beleidigen, ob ich ihn behalte oder gebe: Der Inhalt, wie ich ihn teilweise verstehe, ist zu kritisieren Glo. Lass sehen, lass sehen Bast. Ich hoffe, zur Rechtfertigung meines Bruders, dass er den Brief nur als Versuch oder Probe meiner Tugend geschrieben hat Glo. liest. Diese Verhaltensweise und das Ehrgefühl gegenüber dem Alter machen die Welt für die Besten unserer Zeit bitter: sie hält unser Glück von uns fern, bis wir es in unserem Alter nicht mehr schätzen können. Ich beginne, eine nutzlose und dumme Knechtschaft in der Unterdrückung der alten Tyrannei zu finden, die nicht herrscht, weil sie Macht hat, sondern weil sie erlaubt wird. Komm zu mir, damit ich mehr darüber sprechen kann. Wenn unser Vater schlafen würde, bis ich ihn wecke, würdest du für immer die Hälfte seines Einkommens genießen und der Geliebte deines Bruders sein. Edgar. Hmm? Eine Verschwörung? Schlafen bis ich ihn wecke, du solltest die Hälfte seines Einkommens genießen: Mein Sohn Edgar, konnte er das geschrieben haben? Ein Herz und Gehirn, um es zu ersinnen? Seit wann weißt du davon? Wer hat es gebracht? Bast. Es wurde mir nicht gebracht, mein Lord; das ist das Verfängliche daran. Ich habe es geworfen gefunden durch das Fenster meines Kämmerchens Glo. Du erkennst die Handschrift als die deines Bruders? Bast. Wenn der Inhalt gut wäre, mein Lord, könnte ich schwören, dass es seine Handschrift ist: Aber in Anbetracht dessen würde ich gerne glauben, dass es nicht so ist Glo. Es ist seine Bast. Es ist seine Handschrift, mein Lord: aber ich hoffe, dass sein Herz nicht in dem Inhalt enthalten ist Glo. Hat er dich zuvor schon auf diese Angelegenheit angesprochen? Bast. Niemals, mein Lord. Aber ich habe ihn oft darüber reden hören, dass es passend sei, dass Söhne im vollendeten Alter und Väter im Rückgang der Jahre, der Vater zum Vormund des Sohnes und der Sohn das Einkommen verwalten sollte Glo. Oh Schurke, Schurke: Seine eigene Meinung in dem Brief. Verabscheuungswürdiger Schurke, unnatürlicher, verabscheuungswürdiger, tierischer Schurke; schlimmer als tierisch: Geh, Bursche, such ihn: Ich werde ihn festnehmen. Abscheulicher Schurke, wo ist er? Bast. Ich weiß es nicht, mein G[L]ord. Wenn Ihnen wohl daran liegt, Ihren Zorn gegen meinen Bruder auszusetzen, bis Sie bessere Beweise für seine Absichten haben, dann sollten Sie einen gewissenhaften Weg einschlagen: wo, wenn Sie gewaltsam gegen ihn vorgehen, indem Sie seine Absichten missverstehen, würde das eine große Lücke in Ihre eigene Ehre reißen und das Gehorchen seines Herzens zerstören. Ich traue mein Leben dafür, dass er dies geschrieben hat, um meine Bewunderung für Ihre Ehre zu spüren, und nicht aus irgendeiner anderen Absicht von Gefahr Glo. Glaubst du das? Bast. Wenn Sie es für angemessen halten, werde ich Sie dahin bringen, wo Sie uns über dieses Thema sprechen hören können, und mit einem bestimmten Hörversprechen Ihre Zufriedenheit haben, und zwar ohne weitere Verzögerung, als diesen Abend Glo. Er kann kein solches Ungeheuer sein. Edmond, finde ihn und bringe ihn zu mir, ich bitte dich: plane die Angelegenheit nach deinem eigenen Genie. Ich würde lieber meine Stellung aufgeben, um eine angemessene Entscheidung zu treffen Bast. Ich werde ihn suchen, Sir, sofort: erledigen Sie den Rest, wie es mir möglich ist, und ich werde Ihnen Bericht erstatten Glo. Diese jüngsten Sonnen- und Mondfinsternisse verheißen uns nichts Gutes: obwohl die Weisheit der Natur es so erklären kann, und so, findet sich die Natur gepeitscht von den Folgen. Die Liebe erkalte, die Freundschaft nehme ab, Brüder spalten sich. In Städten gibt es Aufruhr, auf dem Land gibt es Zwietracht, in Palästen Verrat; und die Bindung zwischen Vater und Sohn zerbricht. Dieser Schurke von mir erfüllt die Vorhersage; Sohn gegen Vater, der König tritt von der Bahn der Natur ab, Vater gegen Kind. Wir haben die besten Zeiten erlebt. Intrigen, Hohlheit, Verrat und alle zerstörerischen Unruhen folgen uns unruhig bis ins Grab. Finde diesen Schurken, Edmond, du wirst nichts verlieren, tu es sorgfältig: und der edle und aufrichtige Kent verbannt; seine Vergehen, Ehrlichkeit. Es ist seltsam. Abgang Bast. Das ist die ausgezeichnete Possenreißere Bast. Habt ihr euch in guten Begriffen getrennt? Habt ihr bei ihm weder durch Worte noch durch Züge Unmut verspürt? Edg. Ganz und gar nicht. Bast. Denk nach, worin du ihn beleidigt haben könntest: Und auf meine Bitte hin halte dich von seiner Gegenwart fern, bis etwas Zeit vergangen ist, um den Zorn in ihm etwas zu mildern, der in diesem Augenblick so in ihm wütet, dass er kaum durch das Unglück deiner Person gelindert würde. Edg. Jemand hat mir Unrecht getan. Edm. Das ist meine Befürchtung. Ich bitte dich, habe etwas Geduld, bis die Wut in ihm abklingt. Und wie ich sage, zieh dich mit mir in meine Unterkunft zurück, von wo aus ich dich passend bringen werde, um meinen Herrn sprechen zu hören. Bitte geh, hier ist mein Schlüssel: Wenn du dich draußen bewegst, gehe bewaffnet. Edg. Bewaffnet, Bruder? Edm. Bruder, ich rate dir das Beste, ich bin kein ehrlicher Mann, wenn es irgendwelche gute Absichten gegen dich gibt. Ich habe dir gesagt, was ich gesehen und gehört habe, aber schwach. Nichts gleicht dem Bild und der Schrecklichkeit davon, bitte geh weg. Edg. Werde ich bald von dir hören? Betritt. Edm. In dieser Angelegenheit diene ich dir: Ein leichtgläubiger Vater und ein edler Bruder, Der so weit davon entfernt ist, Schaden anzurichten, Dass er niemanden verdächtigt: Auf dessen törichter Ehrlichkeit Meine Machenschaften leicht aufsitzen: Ich verstehe die Angelegenheit. Wenn ich auch keine Ansprüche aufgrund meiner Abstammung habe, möchte ich doch durch Witz Besitztümer haben, Alles mit mir passt zusammen, das ich ordentlich gestalten kann. Betritt. Kannst du eine geeignete Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Du, Natur, bist meine Göttin; an dein Gesetz sind meine Dienste gebunden. Nun, Götter, steht auf für Bastarde. Edmund tritt ein und hält einen Monolog, in dem er seine Unzufriedenheit mit der Einstellung der Gesellschaft gegenüber Bastarden ausdrückt. Er empfindet einen bitteren Groll gegenüber seinem legitimen Halbbruder Edgar, der das Anwesen ihres Vaters erben wird. Er beschließt, Edgar loszuwerden und sich die Privilegien anzueignen, die ihm die Gesellschaft verwehrt hat. Edmund beginnt seine Kampagne, Edgar unglaubwürdig zu machen, indem er einen Brief fälscht, in dem Edgar vorgibt, den Tod ihres Vaters Gloucester zu planen. Edmund gibt vor, diesen Brief vor seinem Vater zu verbergen, und so verlangt Gloucester natürlich, ihn zu lesen. Edmund antwortet seinem Vater mit sorgfältigen Lügen, so dass Gloucester schließlich glaubt, dass sein legitimer Sohn Edgar darauf aus ist, ihn zu ermorden, um sein Erbe an Gloucesters Reichtum und Ländereien zu beschleunigen. Später, als Edmund mit Edgar spricht, sagt er ihm, dass Gloucester sehr wütend auf ihn ist und dass Edgar ihm so weit wie möglich aus dem Weg gehen und jederzeit ein Schwert bei sich tragen sollte. So arrangiert Edmund die Umstände sorgfältig, sodass Gloucester sicher sein wird, dass Edgar versucht, ihn zu ermorden.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten 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--A Chamber in an old-fashioned House. Enter MRS. HARDCASTLE and MR. HARDCASTLE. MRS. HARDCASTLE. I vow, Mr. Hardcastle, you're very particular. Is there a creature in the whole country but ourselves, that does not take a trip to town now and then, to rub off the rust a little? There's the two Miss Hoggs, and our neighbour Mrs. Grigsby, go to take a month's polishing every winter. HARDCASTLE. Ay, and bring back vanity and affectation to last them the whole year. I wonder why London cannot keep its own fools at home! In my time, the follies of the town crept slowly among us, but now they travel faster than a stage-coach. Its fopperies come down not only as inside passengers, but in the very basket. MRS. HARDCASTLE. Ay, your times were fine times indeed; you have been telling us of them for many a long year. Here we live in an old rumbling mansion, that looks for all the world like an inn, but that we never see company. Our best visitors are old Mrs. Oddfish, the curate's wife, and little Cripplegate, the lame dancing-master; and all our entertainment your old stories of Prince Eugene and the Duke of Marlborough. I hate such old-fashioned trumpery. HARDCASTLE. And I love it. I love everything that's old: old friends, old times, old manners, old books, old wine; and I believe, Dorothy (taking her hand), you'll own I have been pretty fond of an old wife. MRS. HARDCASTLE. Lord, Mr. Hardcastle, you're for ever at your Dorothys and your old wifes. You may be a Darby, but I'll be no Joan, I promise you. I'm not so old as you'd make me, by more than one good year. Add twenty to twenty, and make money of that. HARDCASTLE. Let me see; twenty added to twenty makes just fifty and seven. MRS. HARDCASTLE. It's false, Mr. Hardcastle; I was but twenty when I was brought to bed of Tony, that I had by Mr. Lumpkin, my first husband; and he's not come to years of discretion yet. HARDCASTLE. Nor ever will, I dare answer for him. Ay, you have taught him finely. MRS. HARDCASTLE. No matter. Tony Lumpkin has a good fortune. My son is not to live by his learning. I don't think a boy wants much learning to spend fifteen hundred a year. HARDCASTLE. Learning, quotha! a mere composition of tricks and mischief. MRS. HARDCASTLE. Humour, my dear; nothing but humour. Come, Mr. Hardcastle, you must allow the boy a little humour. HARDCASTLE. I'd sooner allow him a horse-pond. If burning the footmen's shoes, frightening the maids, and worrying the kittens be humour, he has it. It was but yesterday he fastened my wig to the back of my chair, and when I went to make a bow, I popt my bald head in Mrs. Frizzle's face. MRS. HARDCASTLE. And am I to blame? The poor boy was always too sickly to do any good. A school would be his death. When he comes to be a little stronger, who knows what a year or two's Latin may do for him? HARDCASTLE. Latin for him! A cat and fiddle. No, no; the alehouse and the stable are the only schools he'll ever go to. MRS. HARDCASTLE. Well, we must not snub the poor boy now, for I believe we shan't have him long among us. Anybody that looks in his face may see he's consumptive. HARDCASTLE. Ay, if growing too fat be one of the symptoms. MRS. HARDCASTLE. He coughs sometimes. HARDCASTLE. Yes, when his liquor goes the wrong way. MRS. HARDCASTLE. I'm actually afraid of his lungs. HARDCASTLE. And truly so am I; for he sometimes whoops like a speaking trumpet--(Tony hallooing behind the scenes)--O, there he goes--a very consumptive figure, truly. Enter TONY, crossing the stage. MRS. HARDCASTLE. Tony, where are you going, my charmer? Won't you give papa and I a little of your company, lovee? TONY. I'm in haste, mother; I cannot stay. MRS. HARDCASTLE. You shan't venture out this raw evening, my dear; you look most shockingly. TONY. I can't stay, I tell you. The Three Pigeons expects me down every moment. There's some fun going forward. HARDCASTLE. Ay; the alehouse, the old place: I thought so. MRS. HARDCASTLE. A low, paltry set of fellows. TONY. Not so low, neither. There's Dick Muggins the exciseman, Jack Slang the horse doctor, Little Aminadab that grinds the music box, and Tom Twist that spins the pewter platter. MRS. HARDCASTLE. Pray, my dear, disappoint them for one night at least. TONY. As for disappointing them, I should not so much mind; but I can't abide to disappoint myself. MRS. HARDCASTLE. (detaining him.) You shan't go. TONY. I will, I tell you. MRS. HARDCASTLE. I say you shan't. TONY. We'll see which is strongest, you or I. [Exit, hauling her out.] HARDCASTLE. (solus.) Ay, there goes a pair that only spoil each other. But is not the whole age in a combination to drive sense and discretion out of doors? There's my pretty darling Kate! the fashions of the times have almost infected her too. By living a year or two in town, she is as fond of gauze and French frippery as the best of them. Enter MISS HARDCASTLE. HARDCASTLE. Blessings on my pretty innocence! drest out as usual, my Kate. Goodness! What a quantity of superfluous silk hast thou got about thee, girl! I could never teach the fools of this age, that the indigent world could be clothed out of the trimmings of the vain. MISS HARDCASTLE. You know our agreement, sir. You allow me the morning to receive and pay visits, and to dress in my own manner; and in the evening I put on my housewife's dress to please you. HARDCASTLE. Well, remember, I insist on the terms of our agreement; and, by the bye, I believe I shall have occasion to try your obedience this very evening. MISS HARDCASTLE. I protest, sir, I don't comprehend your meaning. HARDCASTLE. Then to be plain with you, Kate, I expect the young gentleman I have chosen to be your husband from town this very day. I have his father's letter, in which he informs me his son is set out, and that he intends to follow himself shortly after. MISS HARDCASTLE. Indeed! I wish I had known something of this before. Bless me, how shall I behave? It's a thousand to one I shan't like him; our meeting will be so formal, and so like a thing of business, that I shall find no room for friendship or esteem. HARDCASTLE. Depend upon it, child, I'll never control your choice; but Mr. Marlow, whom I have pitched upon, is the son of my old friend, Sir Charles Marlow, of whom you have heard me talk so often. The young gentleman has been bred a scholar, and is designed for an employment in the service of his country. I am told he's a man of an excellent understanding. MISS HARDCASTLE. Is he? HARDCASTLE. Very generous. MISS HARDCASTLE. I believe I shall like him. HARDCASTLE. Young and brave. MISS HARDCASTLE. I'm sure I shall like him. HARDCASTLE. And very handsome. MISS HARDCASTLE. My dear papa, say no more, (kissing his hand), he's mine; I'll have him. HARDCASTLE. And, to crown all, Kate, he's one of the most bashful and reserved young fellows in all the world. MISS HARDCASTLE. Eh! you have frozen me to death again. That word RESERVED has undone all the rest of his accomplishments. A reserved lover, it is said, always makes a suspicious husband. HARDCASTLE. On the contrary, modesty seldom resides in a breast that is not enriched with nobler virtues. It was the very feature in his character that first struck me. MISS HARDCASTLE. He must have more striking features to catch me, I promise you. However, if he be so young, so handsome, and so everything as you mention, I believe he'll do still. I think I'll have him. HARDCASTLE. Ay, Kate, but there is still an obstacle. It's more than an even wager he may not have you. MISS HARDCASTLE. My dear papa, why will you mortify one so?--Well, if he refuses, instead of breaking my heart at his indifference, I'll only break my glass for its flattery, set my cap to some newer fashion, and look out for some less difficult admirer. HARDCASTLE. Bravely resolved! In the mean time I'll go prepare the servants for his reception: as we seldom see company, they want as much training as a company of recruits the first day's muster. [Exit.] MISS HARDCASTLE. (Alone). Lud, this news of papa's puts me all in a flutter. Young, handsome: these he put last; but I put them foremost. Sensible, good-natured; I like all that. But then reserved and sheepish; that's much against him. Yet can't he be cured of his timidity, by being taught to be proud of his wife? Yes, and can't I--But I vow I'm disposing of the husband before I have secured the lover. Enter MISS NEVILLE. MISS HARDCASTLE. I'm glad you're come, Neville, my dear. Tell me, Constance, how do I look this evening? Is there anything whimsical about me? Is it one of my well-looking days, child? Am I in face to-day? MISS NEVILLE. Perfectly, my dear. Yet now I look again--bless me!--sure no accident has happened among the canary birds or the gold fishes. Has your brother or the cat been meddling? or has the last novel been too moving? MISS HARDCASTLE. No; nothing of all this. I have been threatened--I can scarce get it out--I have been threatened with a lover. MISS NEVILLE. And his name-- MISS HARDCASTLE. Is Marlow. MISS NEVILLE. Indeed! MISS HARDCASTLE. The son of Sir Charles Marlow. MISS NEVILLE. As I live, the most intimate friend of Mr. Hastings, my admirer. They are never asunder. I believe you must have seen him when we lived in town. MISS HARDCASTLE. Never. MISS NEVILLE. He's a very singular character, I assure you. Among women of reputation and virtue he is the modestest man alive; but his acquaintance give him a very different character among creatures of another stamp: you understand me. MISS HARDCASTLE. An odd character indeed. I shall never be able to manage him. What shall I do? Pshaw, think no more of him, but trust to occurrences for success. But how goes on your own affair, my dear? has my mother been courting you for my brother Tony as usual? MISS NEVILLE. I have just come from one of our agreeable tete-a-tetes. She has been saying a hundred tender things, and setting off her pretty monster as the very pink of perfection. MISS HARDCASTLE. And her partiality is such, that she actually thinks him so. A fortune like yours is no small temptation. Besides, as she has the sole management of it, I'm not surprised to see her unwilling to let it go out of the family. MISS NEVILLE. A fortune like mine, which chiefly consists in jewels, is no such mighty temptation. But at any rate, if my dear Hastings be but constant, I make no doubt to be too hard for her at last. However, I let her suppose that I am in love with her son; and she never once dreams that my affections are fixed upon another. MISS HARDCASTLE. My good brother holds out stoutly. I could almost love him for hating you so. MISS NEVILLE. It is a good-natured creature at bottom, and I'm sure would wish to see me married to anybody but himself. But my aunt's bell rings for our afternoon's walk round the improvements. Allons! Courage is necessary, as our affairs are critical. MISS HARDCASTLE. "Would it were bed-time, and all were well." [Exeunt.] SCENE--An Alehouse Room. Several shabby Fellows with punch and tobacco. TONY at the head of the table, a little higher than the rest, a mallet in his hand. OMNES. Hurrea! hurrea! hurrea! bravo! FIRST FELLOW Now, gentlemen, silence for a song. The 'squire is going to knock himself down for a song. OMNES. Ay, a song, a song! TONY. Then I'll sing you, gentlemen, a song I made upon this alehouse, the Three Pigeons. SONG. Let schoolmasters puzzle their brain With grammar, and nonsense, and learning, Good liquor, I stoutly maintain, Gives GENUS a better discerning. Let them brag of their heathenish gods, Their Lethes, their Styxes, and Stygians, Their Quis, and their Quaes, and their Quods, They're all but a parcel of Pigeons. Toroddle, toroddle, toroll. When methodist preachers come down, A-preaching that drinking is sinful, I'll wager the rascals a crown, They always preach best with a skinful. But when you come down with your pence, For a slice of their scurvy religion, I'll leave it to all men of sense, But you, my good friend, are the Pigeon. Toroddle, toroddle, toroll. Then come, put the jorum about, And let us be merry and clever, Our hearts and our liquors are stout, Here's the Three Jolly Pigeons for ever. Let some cry up woodcock or hare, Your bustards, your ducks, and your widgeons; But of all the GAY birds in the air, Here's a health to the Three Jolly Pigeons. Toroddle, toroddle, toroll. OMNES. Bravo, bravo! FIRST FELLOW. The 'squire has got spunk in him. SECOND FELLOW. I loves to hear him sing, bekeays he never gives us nothing that's low. THIRD FELLOW. O damn anything that's low, I cannot bear it. FOURTH FELLOW. The genteel thing is the genteel thing any time: if so be that a gentleman bees in a concatenation accordingly. THIRD FELLOW. I likes the maxum of it, Master Muggins. What, though I am obligated to dance a bear, a man may be a gentleman for all that. May this be my poison, if my bear ever dances but to the very genteelest of tunes; "Water Parted," or "The minuet in Ariadne." SECOND FELLOW. What a pity it is the 'squire is not come to his own. It would be well for all the publicans within ten miles round of him. TONY. Ecod, and so it would, Master Slang. I'd then show what it was to keep choice of company. SECOND FELLOW. O he takes after his own father for that. To be sure old 'Squire Lumpkin was the finest gentleman I ever set my eyes on. For winding the straight horn, or beating a thicket for a hare, or a wench, he never had his fellow. It was a saying in the place, that he kept the best horses, dogs, and girls, in the whole county. TONY. Ecod, and when I'm of age, I'll be no bastard, I promise you. I have been thinking of Bet Bouncer and the miller's grey mare to begin with. But come, my boys, drink about and be merry, for you pay no reckoning. Well, Stingo, what's the matter? Enter Landlord. LANDLORD. There be two gentlemen in a post-chaise at the door. They have lost their way upo' the forest; and they are talking something about Mr. Hardcastle. TONY. As sure as can be, one of them must be the gentleman that's coming down to court my sister. Do they seem to be Londoners? LANDLORD. I believe they may. They look woundily like Frenchmen. TONY. Then desire them to step this way, and I'll set them right in a twinkling. (Exit Landlord.) Gentlemen, as they mayn't be good enough company for you, step down for a moment, and I'll be with you in the squeezing of a lemon. [Exeunt mob.] TONY. (solus). Father-in-law has been calling me whelp and hound this half year. Now, if I pleased, I could be so revenged upon the old grumbletonian. But then I'm afraid--afraid of what? I shall soon be worth fifteen hundred a year, and let him frighten me out of THAT if he can. Enter Landlord, conducting MARLOW and HASTINGS. MARLOW. What a tedious uncomfortable day have we had of it! We were told it was but forty miles across the country, and we have come above threescore. HASTINGS. And all, Marlow, from that unaccountable reserve of yours, that would not let us inquire more frequently on the way. MARLOW. I own, Hastings, I am unwilling to lay myself under an obligation to every one I meet, and often stand the chance of an unmannerly answer. HASTINGS. At present, however, we are not likely to receive any answer. TONY. No offence, gentlemen. But I'm told you have been inquiring for one Mr. Hardcastle in these parts. Do you know what part of the country you are in? HASTINGS. Not in the least, sir, but should thank you for information. TONY. Nor the way you came? HASTINGS. No, sir: but if you can inform us---- TONY. Why, gentlemen, if you know neither the road you are going, nor where you are, nor the road you came, the first thing I have to inform you is, that--you have lost your way. MARLOW. We wanted no ghost to tell us that. TONY. Pray, gentlemen, may I be so bold so as to ask the place from whence you came? MARLOW. That's not necessary towards directing us where we are to go. TONY. No offence; but question for question is all fair, you know. Pray, gentlemen, is not this same Hardcastle a cross-grained, old-fashioned, whimsical fellow, with an ugly face, a daughter, and a pretty son? HASTINGS. We have not seen the gentleman; but he has the family you mention. TONY. The daughter, a tall, trapesing, trolloping, talkative maypole; the son, a pretty, well-bred, agreeable youth, that everybody is fond of. MARLOW. Our information differs in this. The daughter is said to be well-bred and beautiful; the son an awkward booby, reared up and spoiled at his mother's apron-string. TONY. He-he-hem!--Then, gentlemen, all I have to tell you is, that you won't reach Mr. Hardcastle's house this night, I believe. HASTINGS. Unfortunate! TONY. It's a damn'd long, dark, boggy, dirty, dangerous way. Stingo, tell the gentlemen the way to Mr. Hardcastle's! (Winking upon the Landlord.) Mr. Hardcastle's, of Quagmire Marsh, you understand me. LANDLORD. Master Hardcastle's! Lock-a-daisy, my masters, you're come a deadly deal wrong! When you came to the bottom of the hill, you should have crossed down Squash Lane. MARLOW. Cross down Squash Lane! LANDLORD. Then you were to keep straight forward, till you came to four roads. MARLOW. Come to where four roads meet? TONY. Ay; but you must be sure to take only one of them. MARLOW. O, sir, you're facetious. TONY. Then keeping to the right, you are to go sideways till you come upon Crackskull Common: there you must look sharp for the track of the wheel, and go forward till you come to farmer Murrain's barn. Coming to the farmer's barn, you are to turn to the right, and then to the left, and then to the right about again, till you find out the old mill-- MARLOW. Zounds, man! we could as soon find out the longitude! HASTINGS. What's to be done, Marlow? MARLOW. This house promises but a poor reception; though perhaps the landlord can accommodate us. LANDLORD. Alack, master, we have but one spare bed in the whole house. TONY. And to my knowledge, that's taken up by three lodgers already. (After a pause, in which the rest seem disconcerted.) I have hit it. Don't you think, Stingo, our landlady could accommodate the gentlemen by the fire-side, with----three chairs and a bolster? HASTINGS. I hate sleeping by the fire-side. MARLOW. And I detest your three chairs and a bolster. TONY. You do, do you? then, let me see--what if you go on a mile further, to the Buck's Head; the old Buck's Head on the hill, one of the best inns in the whole county? HASTINGS. O ho! so we have escaped an adventure for this night, however. LANDLORD. (apart to TONY). Sure, you ben't sending them to your father's as an inn, be you? TONY. Mum, you fool you. Let THEM find that out. (To them.) You have only to keep on straight forward, till you come to a large old house by the road side. You'll see a pair of large horns over the door. That's the sign. Drive up the yard, and call stoutly about you. HASTINGS. Sir, we are obliged to you. The servants can't miss the way? TONY. No, no: but I tell you, though, the landlord is rich, and going to leave off business; so he wants to be thought a gentleman, saving your presence, he! he! he! He'll be for giving you his company; and, ecod, if you mind him, he'll persuade you that his mother was an alderman, and his aunt a justice of peace. LANDLORD. A troublesome old blade, to be sure; but a keeps as good wines and beds as any in the whole country. MARLOW. Well, if he supplies us with these, we shall want no farther connexion. We are to turn to the right, did you say? TONY. No, no; straight forward. I'll just step myself, and show you a piece of the way. (To the Landlord.) Mum! LANDLORD. Ah, bless your heart, for a sweet, pleasant--damn'd mischievous son of a whore. [Exeunt.] Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Das Stück beginnt an seinem Hauptort, einer Kammer im "altmodischen" Landhaus von Mr. Hardcastle. Mr. und Mrs. Hardcastle betreten den Raum mitten in einem angenehmen Streitgespräch. Mrs. Hardcastle ist verärgert über die Weigerung ihres Mannes, nach London zu reisen, während er behauptet, kein Interesse an der "Eitelkeit und Affektiertheit" der Stadt zu haben. Er ist sogar von den aufgesetzten Londoner Trends müde, die ihren Weg in seine abgeschiedene Landgemeinde finden. Mrs. Hardcastle verspottet ihn für seine Liebe zu altmodischen Trends, so sehr, dass er sein Haus so hält, dass es "genau wie eine Herberge aussieht." Sie machen Witze über ihr Alter, das sie herunterspielen möchte, und sprechen über ihren Sohn aus erster Ehe, Tony Lumpkin. Mr. Hardcastle findet seine schelmischen Wege ärgerlich und beklagt, wie der Junge zu sehr dazu neigt, Streiche zu spielen. Andererseits verteidigt ihn Mrs. Hardcastle und sagt, dass er keine Bildung braucht, da er nur für das Ausgeben seines beträchtlichen Vermögens planen muss, und sie bittet ihren Mann, in Bezug auf Tony nachsichtiger zu sein. Sie sind sich beide einig, dass er zu sehr dem Trinken und Scherzen zugeneigt ist, aber Mrs. Hardcastle glaubt, dass er schwach und mitleidbedürftig ist. Tony geht vorbei und erzählt ihnen, dass er in die Three Pigeons, ein örtliches Gasthaus, geht. Beide Erwachsene bitten ihn, sich nicht mit solch "niedriger" Gesellschaft abzugeben, aber er verteidigt die Lebhaftigkeit seiner Kneipenbegleiter als "nicht so niedrig". Mrs. Hardcastle verbietet ihm zu gehen, aber er beharrt darauf, dass er den stärkeren Willen hat und sie hinauszieht. Allein beschreibt Mr. Hardcastle sie als "ein Paar, das sich nur gegenseitig verdirbt". Er gibt teilweise den modernen Modetrends die Schuld daran, dass sie in ihr Leben eingesickert sind, und befürchtet, dass sogar seine eigene Tochter Kate von diesen Moden infiziert wurde, weil sie einige Jahre in London gelebt hat. Kate betritt gekleidet in einem aufwendigen Gewand den Raum, was ihr Vater problematisch findet. Kate erinnert ihn daran, dass sie eine Vereinbarung haben: Morgens kleidet sie sich so, wie sie möchte, um Freunde willkommen zu heißen, abends jedoch schlicht, um seinen Geschmack zu gefallen. Herr Hardcastle gibt ihr dann eine Nachricht: Er hat Mr. Marlow, den Sohn von Hardcastles altem Freund Charles Marlow, für diesen Abend in ihr Haus eingeladen, um um Kate zu werben. Hardcastle hat Marlow als Ehemann für sie ausgewählt, aber sie ist sofort besorgt, dass ihr Treffen übermäßig formell und langweilig sein wird. Herr Hardcastle betrachtet dies als eine Tugend und besteht darauf, dass Marlow, obwohl großzügig, tapfer und gutaussehend, vor allem als reserviert bekannt ist. Er geht, um die Bediensteten vorzubereiten, und Kate bedauert, dass sie ihr Leben mit einem langweiligen Mann verbringen muss. Sie fragt sich, ob sie einen Weg finden kann, auch in einer solchen Ehe glücklich zu sein oder ob sie ihn ändern kann, aber sie hält sich davon ab, zu weit vorauszudenken. Constance Neville betritt den Raum und Kate erzählt ihr von den Neuigkeiten über Marlow. Constance ist eine Cousine von Kate, eine Nichte von Mr. Hardcastle, die verwaist ist und jetzt unter dem Schutz von Mrs. Hardcastle bei den Hardcastles lebt. Constance enthüllt, dass sie Marlows Ruf kennt, da Marlow mit Mr. Hastings, ihrem Verehrer und dem Mann, den sie heiraten möchte, befreundet ist. Constance erzählt, wie Marlow für übermäßige Formalität bei Frauen von Ruf und Tugend bekannt ist, dass er aber bei gewöhnlichen Frauen eine "ganz andere Persönlichkeit" hat. Kate findet diese Beschreibung merkwürdig, und sie diskutieren dann, wie Mrs. Hardcastle unbedingt möchte, dass Constance ihren Sohn Tony heiratet, um Constances kleines Vermögen in der Familie zu behalten. Constance hasst Tony sehr, möchte aber Mrs. Hardcastle nicht offenbaren, dass sie in Mr. Hastings verliebt ist, und so befindet sie sich in einer schwierigen Lage. Ihre einzige kleine Trost ist, dass Tony sie gleichermaßen hasst. Szene zwei Beachten Sie, dass die Szene nicht explizit als "Szene zwei" bezeichnet wird, sondern durch den Ortswechsel markiert ist. Der Ort ändert sich in den Raum in den Three Pigeons, wo Tony sich mit mehreren anderen betrunkenen Männern anfreundet. Sie ermuntern alle Tony, ein Lied zu singen, und er singt davon, wie Alkohol das beste Lernen ermöglicht, während herkömmliches Schulwissen Unwissenheit sein kann. Das Lied berührt auch die Heuchelei der höflichen Männer, die Alkohol genauso mögen wie jeder andere. Das Lied ist ein großer Erfolg bei den Betrunkenen, die untereinander darüber sprechen, wie wunderbar es ist, Lieder zu hören, die nicht "niedrig" sind. Sie erinnern sich auch selbst an Tonys Vater, der "der feinste Gentleman" war, wie er das Leben feierte. Der Wirt bringt die Nachricht, dass zwei Gentlemen angekommen sind und sich auf dem Weg zum Haus von Mr. Hardcastle verlaufen haben. Tony vermutet schnell, dass es sich um Marlow und Hastings handeln muss, und da Tony immer noch verärgert über Hardcastles Beleidigungen ist, beschließt er, einen Streich mit seinem Stiefvater zu spielen. Er wird sie überzeugen, dass Hardcastles Haus in Wirklichkeit eine Herberge ist, und so werden sie sich dort nicht als gastfreundliche Gäste, sondern als berechtigte Kunden vorstellen. Er lässt die Männer zu sich bringen. Marlow und Hastings sind aufgrund eines langen Reisetages schlecht gelaunt, Hastings noch mehr, weil Marlows Zurückhaltung ihn daran gehindert hat, nach dem Weg zu fragen. Tony gibt ihnen unsinnige Anweisungen zu Hardcastles Haus, die den Ort sehr weit entfernt erscheinen lassen. Tony verhört sie, und sie erzählen, wie sie von Hardcastles gut erzogener Tochter und seinem schelmischen, verwöhnten Sohn gehört haben. Tony argumentiert, dass ihre Informationen vertauscht sind, dass der Sohn sehr geliebt wird und die Tochter eine "geschwätzige Maibaum" ist. Die Männer bitten den Wirt, ob sie bleiben dürfen, aber auf Tonys Anweisung hin sagt er ihnen, dass kein Platz frei ist, und so schlägt Tony vor, dass sie zu einer nahegelegenen Herberge gehen, die er kennt. Er gibt ihnen dann Wegbeschreibungen zu Hardcastles Haus und warnt sie davor, dass der Wirt sich wichtig nimmt und erwartet, als Gentleman und nicht als Diener behandelt zu werden. Sie bedanken sich und machen sich auf den Weg zu Hardcastles Haus, und so ist die Bühne für die kommische Szene bereitet.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten 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 seems to be an indolent propensity in man to make prescription always take place of reason, and to place every duty on an arbitrary foundation. The rights of kings are deduced in a direct line from the King of kings; and that of parents from our first parent. Why do we thus go back for principles that should always rest on the same base, and have the same weight to-day that they had a thousand years ago--and not a jot more? If parents discharge their duty they have a strong hold and sacred claim on the gratitude of their children; but few parents are willing to receive the respectful affection of their offspring on such terms. They demand blind obedience, because they do not merit a reasonable service: and to render these demands of weakness and ignorance more binding, a mysterious sanctity is spread round the most arbitrary principle; for what other name can be given to the blind duty of obeying vicious or weak beings, merely because they obeyed a powerful instinct? The simple definition of the reciprocal duty, which naturally subsists between parent and child, may be given in a few words: The parent who pays proper attention to helpless infancy has a right to require the same attention when the feebleness of age comes upon him. But to subjugate a rational being to the mere will of another, after he is of age to answer to society for his own conduct, is a most cruel and undue stretch of power; and perhaps as injurious to morality, as those religious systems which do not allow right and wrong to have any existence, but in the Divine will. I never knew a parent who had paid more than common attention to his children, disregarded (Dr. Johnson makes the same observation.); on the contrary, the early habit of relying almost implicitly on the opinion of a respected parent is not easily shaken, even when matured reason convinces the child that his father is not the wisest man in the world. This weakness, for a weakness it is, though the epithet AMIABLE may be tacked to it, a reasonable man must steel himself against; for the absurd duty, too often inculcated, of obeying a parent only on account of his being a parent, shackles the mind, and prepares it for a slavish submission to any power but reason. I distinguish between the natural and accidental duty due to parents. The parent who sedulously endeavours to form the heart and enlarge the understanding of his child, has given that dignity to the discharge of a duty, common to the whole animal world, that only reason can give. This is the parental affection of humanity, and leaves instinctive natural affection far behind. Such a parent acquires all the rights of the most sacred friendship, and his advice, even when his child is advanced in life, demands serious consideration. With respect to marriage, though after one and twenty a parent seems to have no right to withhold his consent on any account; yet twenty years of solicitude call for a return, and the son ought, at least, to promise not to marry for two or three years, should the object of his choice not entirely meet with the approbation of his first friend. But, respect for parents is, generally speaking, a much more debasing principle; it is only a selfish respect for property. The father who is blindly obeyed, is obeyed from sheer weakness, or from motives that degrade the human character. A great proportion of the misery that wanders, in hideous forms around the world, is allowed to rise from the negligence of parents; and still these are the people who are most tenacious of what they term a natural right, though it be subversive of the birth right of man, the right of acting according to the direction of his own reason. I have already very frequently had occasion to observe, that vicious or indolent people are always eager to profit by enforcing arbitrary privileges; and generally in the same proportion as they neglect the discharge of the duties which alone render the privileges reasonable. This is at the bottom, a dictate of common sense, or the instinct of self-defence, peculiar to ignorant weakness; resembling that instinct, which makes a fish muddy the water it swims in to elude its enemy, instead of boldly facing it in the clear stream. >From the clear stream of argument, indeed, the supporters of prescription, of every denomination, fly: and taking refuge in the darkness, which, in the language of sublime poetry, has been supposed to surround the throne of Omnipotence, they dare to demand that implicit respect which is only due to His unsearchable ways. But, let me not be thought presumptuous, the darkness which hides our God from us, only respects speculative truths-- it never obscures moral ones, they shine clearly, for God is light, and never, by the constitution of our nature, requires the discharge of a duty, the reasonableness of which does not beam on us when we open our eyes. The indolent parent of high rank may, it is true, extort a show of respect from his child, and females on the continent are particularly subject to the views of their families, who never think of consulting their inclination, or providing for the comfort of the poor victims of their pride. The consequence is notorious; these dutiful daughters become adulteresses, and neglect the education of their children, from whom they, in their turn, exact the same kind of obedience. Females, it is true, in all countries, are too much under the dominion of their parents; and few parents think of addressing their children in the following manner, though it is in this reasonable way that Heaven seems to command the whole human race. It is your interest to obey me till you can judge for yourself; and the Almighty Father of all has implanted an affection in me to serve as a guard to you whilst your reason is unfolding; but when your mind arrives at maturity, you must only obey me, or rather respect my opinions, so far as they coincide with the light that is breaking in on your own mind. A slavish bondage to parents cramps every faculty of the mind; and Mr. Locke very judiciously observes, that "if the mind be curbed and humbled too much in children; if their spirits be abased and broken much by too strict an hand over them; they lose all their vigour and industry." This strict hand may, in some degree, account for the weakness of women; for girls, from various causes, are more kept down by their parents, in every sense of the word, than boys. The duty expected from them is, like all the duties arbitrarily imposed on women, more from a sense of propriety, more out of respect for decorum, than reason; and thus taught slavishly to submit to their parents, they are prepared for the slavery of marriage. I may be told that a number of women are not slaves in the marriage state. True, but they then become tyrants; for it is not rational freedom, but a lawless kind of power, resembling the authority exercised by the favourites of absolute monarchs, which they obtain by debasing means. I do not, likewise, dream of insinuating that either boys or girls are always slaves, I only insist, that when they are obliged to submit to authority blindly, their faculties are weakened, and their tempers rendered imperious or abject. I also lament, that parents, indolently availing themselves of a supposed privilege, damp the first faint glimmering of reason rendering at the same time the duty, which they are so anxious to enforce, an empty name; because they will not let it rest on the only basis on which a duty can rest securely: for, unless it be founded on knowledge, it cannot gain sufficient strength to resist the squalls of passion, or the silent sapping of self-love. But it is not the parents who have given the surest proof of their affection for their children, (or, to speak more properly, who by fulfilling their duty, have allowed a natural parental affection to take root in their hearts, the child of exercised sympathy and reason, and not the over-weening offspring of selfish pride,) who most vehemently insist on their children submitting to their will, merely because it is their will. On the contrary, the parent who sets a good example, patiently lets that example work; and it seldom fails to produce its natural effect--filial respect. Children cannot be taught too early to submit to reason, the true definition of that necessity, which Rousseau insisted on, without defining it; for to submit to reason, is to submit to the nature of things, and to that God who formed them so, to promote our real interest. Why should the minds of children be warped as they just begin to expand, only to favour the indolence of parents, who insist on a privilege without being willing to pay the price fixed by nature? I have before had occasion to observe, that a right always includes a duty, and I think it may, likewise fairly be inferred, that they forfeit the right, who do not fulfil the duty. It is easier, I grant, to command than reason; but it does not follow from hence, that children cannot comprehend the reason why they are made to do certain things habitually; for, from a steady adherence to a few simple principles of conduct flows that salutary power, which a judicious parent gradually gains over a child's mind. And this power becomes strong indeed, if tempered by an even display of affection brought home to the child's heart. For, I believe, as a general rule, it must be allowed, that the affection which we inspire always resembles that we cultivate; so that natural affections, which have been supposed almost distinct from reason, may be found more nearly connected with judgment than is commonly allowed. Nay, as another proof of the necessity of cultivating the female understanding, it is but just to observe, that the affections seem to have a kind of animal capriciousness when they merely reside in the heart. It is the irregular exercise of parental authority that first injures the mind, and to these irregularities girls are more subject than boys. The will of those who never allow their will to be disputed, unless they happen to be in a good humour, when they relax proportionally, is almost always unreasonable. To elude this arbitrary authority, girls very early learn the lessons which they afterwards practise on their husbands; for I have frequently seen a little sharp-faced miss rule a whole family, excepting that now and then mamma's anger will burst out of some accidental cloud-- either her hair was ill-dressed,* or she had lost more money at cards, the night before, than she was willing to own to her husband; or some such moral cause of anger. (*Footnote. I myself heard a little girl once say to a servant, "My mamma has been scolding me finely this morning, because her hair was not dressed to please her." Though this remark was pert, it was just. And what respect could a girl acquire for such a parent, without doing violence to reason?) After observing sallies of this kind, I have been led into a melancholy train of reflection respecting females, concluding that when their first affection must lead them astray, or make their duties clash till they rest on mere whims and customs, little can be expected from them as they advance in life. How, indeed, can an instructor remedy this evil? for to teach them virtue on any solid principle is to teach them to despise their parents. Children cannot, ought not to be taught to make allowance for the faults of their parents, because every such allowance weakens the force of reason in their minds, and makes them still more indulgent to their own. It is one of the most sublime virtues of maturity that leads us to be severe with respect to ourselves, and forbearing to others; but children should only be taught the simple virtues, for if they begin too early to make allowance for human passions and manners, they wear off the fine edge of the criterion by which they should regulate their own, and become unjust in the same proportion as they grow indulgent. The affections of children, and weak people, are always selfish; they love others, because others love them, and not on account of their virtues. Yet, till esteem and love are blended together in the first affection, and reason made the foundation of the first duty, morality will stumble at the threshold. But, till society is very differently constituted, parents, I fear, will still insist on being obeyed, because they will be obeyed, and constantly endeavour to settle that power on a Divine right, which will not bear the investigation of reason. Kannst du eine geeignete Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Aus irgendeinem Grund sagt Wollstonecraft, dass die Menschheit dazu neigt, faul zu sein, wenn es ums Denken geht. Niemand mag es, irgendwelche Entscheidungen rechtfertigen zu müssen. Sie wollen einfach nach Gewohnheit, Tradition und Autorität handeln, damit sie nicht zu viel über irgendetwas nachdenken müssen. Viele Eltern sind nicht bereit, den Respekt ihrer Kinder zu verdienen. Sie verlangen ihn und das schafft ein Modell tyrannischer Autorität, das das Denken eines Kindes für sein ganzes Leben vergiftet. Wollstonecraft gibt schlechten Eltern die Schuld für vieles Schlechte, das in der Welt existiert. Sie denkt, dass junge Mädchen noch mehr unter der Tyrannei ihrer Eltern leiden als Jungen. Aber in einer guten Welt würden Eltern ruhig mit ihren Kindern zusammensitzen und ihnen erklären, warum sie den Ratschlägen der Eltern folgen sollten, bis sie die Fähigkeit haben, selbst urteilen zu können. Jeder weiß, dass es einfacher ist, einen Befehl zu geben, als eine begründete Argumentation für etwas abzugeben. Aber andererseits ist es auch einfacher, Pizza als Brokkoli zu essen. Aber letzteres ist langfristig viel besser für dich. Befehle zu geben lehrt die Menschen auch die schreckliche Gewohnheit, nach Laune zu regieren. Mit anderen Worten, Eltern neigen eher dazu, Kinder basierend auf ihrer Stimmung zu bestrafen, anstatt strafen zu verteilen, die rational und angemessen sind. Wollstonecraft erzürnt viele ihrer Leser, wenn sie sagt, dass Kinder lernen sollten, die Schwächen und Unsicherheiten ihrer Eltern zu erkennen und anzuerkennen. Erst wenn Kinder und Eltern miteinander als rationale Wesen sprechen können, Liebe und Achtung verbindend, werden zukünftige Gesellschaften von besseren Menschen erfüllt 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: ISRAEL HANDS The wind, serving us to a desire, now hauled into the west. We could run so much easier from the northeast corner of the island to the mouth of the North Inlet. Only, as we had no power to anchor, and dared not beach her until the tide had flowed a good deal farther, time hung on our hands. The coxswain told me how to lay the ship to; after a good many trials I succeeded, and we both sat in silence over another meal. "Cap'n," said he, at length, with that same uncomfortable smile, "here's my old shipmate, O'Brien; s'pose you was to heave him overboard. I ain't partic'lar, as a rule, and I don't take no blame for settling his hash; but I don't reckon him ornamental, now, do you?" "I'm not strong enough, and I don't like the job; and there he lies, for me," said I. "This here's an unlucky ship--the _Hispaniola_, Jim," he went on, blinking. "There's a power of men been killed in this _Hispaniola_--a sight o' poor seamen dead and gone since you and me took ship to Bristol. I never seen such dirty luck, not I. There was this here O'Brien, now--he's dead, ain't he? Well, now, I'm no scholar, and you're a lad as can read and figure; and, to put it straight, do you take it as a dead man is dead for good, or do he come alive again?" "You can kill the body, Mr. Hands, but not the spirit; you must know that already," I replied. "O'Brien, there, is in another world, and may be watching us." "Ah!" says he. "Well, that's unfort'nate--appears as if killing parties was a waste of time. Howsomever, sperrits don't reckon for much, by what I've seen. I'll chance it with the sperrits, Jim. And now you've spoke up free, and I'll take it kind if you'd step down into that there cabin and get me a--well, a--shiver my timbers! I can't hit the name on't. Well, you get me a bottle of wine, Jim--this here brandy's too strong for my head." Now the coxswain's hesitation seemed to be unnatural; and as for the notion of his preferring wine to brandy, I entirely disbelieved it. The whole story was a pretext. He wanted me to leave the deck--so much was plain, but with what purpose I could in no way imagine. His eyes never met mine; they kept wandering to and fro, up and down, now with a look to the sky, now with a flitting glance upon the dead O'Brien. All the time he kept smiling and putting his tongue out in the most guilty, embarrassed manner, so that a child could have told that he was bent on some deception. I was prompt with my answer, however, for I saw where my advantage lay, and that with a fellow so densely stupid I could easily conceal my suspicions to the end. "Some wine?" I said. "Far better. Will you have white or red?" "Well, I reckon it's about the blessed same to me, shipmate," he replied; "so it's strong, and plenty of it, what's the odds?" "All right," I answered. "I'll bring you port, Mr. Hands. But I'll have to dig for it." With that I scuttled down the companion with all the noise I could, slipped off my shoes, ran quietly along the sparred gallery, mounted the forecastle ladder and popped my head out of the fore companion. I knew he would not expect to see me there, yet I took every precaution possible, and certainly the worst of my suspicions proved too true. He had risen from his position to his hands and knees, and though his leg obviously hurt him pretty sharply when he moved--for I could hear him stifle a groan--yet it was at a good, rattling rate that he trailed himself across the deck. In half a minute he had reached the port scuppers, and picked out of a coil of rope a long knife, or rather a short dirk, discolored to the hilt with blood. He looked upon it for a moment, thrusting forth his under jaw, tried the point upon his hand, and then hastily concealing it in the bosom of his jacket, trundled back again into his old place against the bulwark. This was all that I required to know. Israel could move about; he was now armed, and if he had been at so much trouble to get rid of me, it was plain that I was meant to be the victim. What he would do afterward--whether he would try to crawl right across the island from North Inlet to the camp among the swamps, or whether he would fire Long Tom, trusting that his own comrades might come first to help him, was, of course, more than I could say. Yet I felt sure that I could trust him in one point, since in that our interests jumped together, and that was in the disposition of the schooner. We both desired to have her stranded safe enough, in a sheltered place, and so that when the time came, she could be got off again with as little labor and danger as might be; and until that was done I considered that my life would certainly be spared. While I was thus turning the business over in my mind I had not been idle with my body. I had stolen back to the cabin, slipped once more into my shoes and laid my hand at random on a bottle of wine, and now with this for an excuse, I made my reappearance on the deck. Hands lay as I had left him, all fallen together in a bundle, and with his eyelids lowered as though he were too weak to bear the light. He looked up, however, at my coming, knocked the neck off the bottle like a man who had done the same thing often, and took a good swig, with his favorite toast of "Here's luck!" Then he lay quiet for a little, and then, pulling out a stick of tobacco, begged me to cut him a quid. "Cut me a junk o' that," says he, "for I haven't no knife, and hardly strength enough, so be as I had. Ah, Jim, Jim, I reckon I've missed stays! Cut me a quid as'll likely be the last, lad; for I'm for my long home, and no mistake." "Well," said I, "I'll cut you some tobacco, but if I was you and thought myself so badly, I would go to my prayers, like a Christian man." "Why?" said he. "Now you tell me why." "Why?" I cried. "You were asking me just now about the dead. You've broken your trust; you've lived in sin and lies and blood; there's a man you killed lying at your feet this moment; and you ask me why! For God's mercy, Mr. Hands, that's why." I spoke with a little heat, thinking of the bloody dirk he had hidden in his pocket, and designed, in his ill thoughts, to end me with. He, for his part, took a great draught of the wine and spoke with the most unusual solemnity. "For thirty year," he said, "I've sailed the seas and seen good and bad, better and worse, fair weather and foul, provisions running out, knives going, and what not. Well, now I tell you, I never seen good come o' goodness yet. Him as strikes first is my fancy; dead men don't bite; them's my views--amen, so be it. And now, you look here," he added, suddenly changing his tone, "we've had about enough of this foolery. The tide's made good enough by now. You just take my orders, Cap'n Hawkins, and we'll sail slap in and be done with it." All told, we had scarce two miles to run, but the navigation was delicate, the entrance to this northern anchorage was not only narrow and shoal, but lay east and west, so that the schooner must be nicely handled to be got in. I think I was a good, prompt subaltern, and I am very sure that Hands was an excellent pilot; for we went about and about, and dodged in, shaving the banks, with a certainty and a neatness that were a pleasure to behold. Scarcely had we passed the head before the land closed around us. The shores of North Inlet were as thickly wooded as those of the southern anchorage, but the space was longer and narrower, and more like, what in truth it was, the estuary of a river. Right before us, at the southern end, we saw the wreck of a ship in the last stages of dilapidation. It had been a great vessel of three masts, but had lain so long exposed to the injuries of the weather that it was hung about with great webs of dripping seaweed, and on the deck of it shore bushes had taken root, and now flourished thick with flowers. It was a sad sight, but it showed us that the anchorage was calm. "Now," said Hands, "look there; there's a pet bit for to beach a ship in. Fine flat sand, never a catspaw, trees all around of it, and flowers a-blowing like a garding on that old ship." "And, once beached," I inquired, "how shall we get her off again?" "Why, so," he replied; "you take a line ashore there on the other side at low water; take a turn about one o' them big pines; bring it back, take a turn around the capstan and lie-to for the tide. Come high water, all hands take a pull upon the line, and off she comes as sweet as natur'. And now, boy, you stand by. We're near the bit now, and she's too much way on her. Starboard a little--so--steady--starboard--larboard a little--steady--steady!" So he issued his commands, which I breathlessly obeyed; till, all of a sudden, he cried: "Now, my hearty, luff!" And I put the helm hard up, and the _Hispaniola_ swung round rapidly and ran stem on for the low wooded shore. The excitement of these last maneuvers had somewhat interfered with the watch I had kept hitherto, sharply enough, upon the coxswain. Even then I was still so much interested, waiting for the ship to touch, that I had quite forgot the peril that hung over my head, and stood craning over the starboard bulwarks and watching the ripples spreading wide before the bows. I might have fallen without a struggle for my life, had not a sudden disquietude seized upon me and made me turn my head. Perhaps I had heard a creak or seen his shadow moving with the tail of my eye; perhaps it was an instinct like a cat's; but, sure enough, when I looked round, there was Hands, already halfway toward me, with the dirk in his right hand. We must both have cried out aloud when our eyes met, but while mine was the shrill cry of terror, his was a roar of fury like a charging bull's. At the same instant he threw himself forward and I leaped sideways toward the bows. As I did so I let go of the tiller, which sprung sharp to leeward; and I think this saved my life, for it struck Hands across the chest, and stopped him, for the moment, dead. Before he could recover I was safe out of the corner where he had me trapped, with all the deck to dodge about. Just forward of the mainmast I stopped, drew a pistol from my pocket, took a cool aim, though he had already turned and was once more coming directly after me, and drew the trigger. The hammer fell, but there followed neither flash nor sound; the priming was useless with sea water. I cursed myself for my neglect. Why had not I, long before, reprimed and reloaded my only weapons? Then I should not have been as now, a mere fleeing sheep before this butcher. Wounded as he was, it was wonderful how fast he could move, his grizzled hair tumbling over his face and his face itself as red as a red ensign with his haste and fury. I had no time to try my other pistol, nor, indeed, much inclination, for I was sure it would be useless. One thing I saw plainly: I must not simply retreat before him, or he would speedily hold me boxed into the bows, as a moment since he had so nearly boxed me in the stern. Once so caught, and nine or ten inches of the blood-stained dirk would be my last experience on this side of eternity. I placed my palms against the mainmast, which was of a goodish bigness, and waited, every nerve upon the stretch. Seeing that I meant to dodge he also paused, and a moment or two passed in feints on his part and corresponding movements upon mine. It was such a game as I had often played at home about the rocks of Black Hill Cove; but never before, you may be sure, with such a wildly beating heart as now. Still, as I say it, it was a boy's game, and I thought I could hold my own at it against an elderly seaman with a wounded thigh. Indeed, my courage had begun to rise so high that I allowed myself a few darting thoughts on what would be the end of the affair; and while I saw certainly that I could spin it out for long, I saw no hope of any ultimate escape. Well, while things stood thus, suddenly the _Hispaniola_ struck, staggered, ground for an instant in the sand, and then, swift as a blow, canted over to the port side, till the deck stood at an angle of forty-five degrees, and about a puncheon of water splashed into the scupper holes, and lay in a pool between the deck and bulwark. We were both of us capsized in a second, and both of us rolled, almost together, into the scuppers, the dead Red-cap, with his arms still spread out, tumbling stiffly after us. So near were we, indeed, that my head came against the coxswain's foot with a crack that made my teeth rattle. Blow and all, I was the first afoot again, for Hands had got involved with the dead body. The sudden canting of the ship had made the deck no place for running on; I had to find some new way of escape, and that upon the instant, for my foe was almost touching me. Quick as thought, I sprang into the mizzen shrouds, rattled up hand over hand, and did not draw a breath till I was seated on the crosstrees. [Illustration: _Quick as thought, I sprang into the mizzen shrouds_ (Page 193)] I had been saved by being prompt; the dirk had struck not half a foot below me as I pursued my upward flight; and there stood Israel Hands with his mouth open and his face upturned to mine, a perfect statue of surprise and disappointment. Now that I had a moment to myself, I lost no time in changing the priming of my pistol, and then, having one ready for service, and to make assurance doubly sure, I proceeded to draw the load of the other, and recharge it afresh from the beginning. My new employment struck Hands all of a heap; he began to see the dice going against him, and after an obvious hesitation, he also hauled himself heavily into the shrouds, and, with the dirk in his teeth, began slowly and painfully to mount. It cost him no end of time and groans to haul his wounded leg behind him; and I had quietly finished my arrangements before he was much more than a third of the way up. Then, with a pistol in either hand, I addressed him: "One more step, Mr. Hands," said I, "and I'll blow your brains out! Dead men don't bite, you know," I added, with a chuckle. He stopped instantly. I could see by the workings of his face that he was trying to think, and the process was so slow and laborious that, in my new-found security, I laughed aloud. At last, with a swallow or two, he spoke, his face still wearing the same expression of extreme perplexity. In order to speak he had to take the dagger from his mouth, but, in all else, he remained unmoved. "Jim," says he, "I reckon we're fouled, you and me, and we'll have to sign articles. I'd have had you but for that there lurch; but I don't have no luck, not I; and I reckon I'll have to strike, which comes hard, you see, for a master mariner to a ship's younker like you, Jim." Ich hing an seinen Worten und lächelte, so eingebildet wie ein Hahn auf einem Spaziergang, als plötzlich seine rechte Hand über seine Schulter zurückschoss. Etwas zischte wie ein Pfeil durch die Luft; Ich spürte einen Schlag und dann einen scharfen Schmerz, und plötzlich war meine Schulter am Mast festgepinnt. In dem schrecklichen Schmerz und der Überraschung des Moments - ich kann kaum sagen, dass es aus meinem eigenen Willen geschah, und ich bin sicher, es geschah ohne bewusstes Ziel - gingen beide meine Pistolen los und entglitten mir aus den Händen. Sie fielen nicht allein; mit einem erstickten Schrei ließ der Steuermann seine Griff um die Wanten los und tauchte kopfüber ins Wasser. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze verfassen?

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Die Hispaniola erreicht das nördliche Ende der Insel. Da sie keinen Anker haben, müssen sie warten, bis die Flut etwas abläuft, um das Schiff an Land zu bringen. Also hängt Jim mit Israel Hands ab. Israel möchte, dass Jim O'Briens Leiche über Bord wirft, weil es Unglück bringt, eine Leiche an Bord zu haben, aber Jim ist nicht stark genug. Israel will, dass Jim unter Deck geht, um eine Flasche Wein zu holen - er behauptet, der Brandy sei zu stark für ihn geworden. Jim fängt an, misstrauisch zu werden, warum Israel ihn von Deck haben will, aber er beschließt, mitzuspielen. Er sagt, er werde zurückgehen, aber er müsse lange nach dem Wein suchen. Jim macht viel Lärm, als er unter Deck geht, schleicht sich dann zurück, um Israel Hands zu beobachten. Obwohl er verletzt ist, steht Israel auf und schafft es, ein Messer zu finden, das in einer Seilschlinge versteckt ist. Jim erkennt, dass er sich bewegen kann und nun bewaffnet ist. Jim ist sich sicher, dass Israel Hands ihn umbringen will. Aber bevor das passiert, wollen er und Hands dasselbe: Sie wollen das Schiff an einem geschützten Ort an Land bringen, damit es sicher ist. Jim glaubt, dass Israel Hands ihn nicht töten wird, solange die Hispaniola an Land ist. Jim schlüpft zurück in die Kabine, schnappt sich eine Flasche Wein und bringt sie zu Israel Hands. Israel gibt vor, sich nicht bewegt zu haben. Er benimmt sich auch so, als wäre er im Sterben. Jim sagt ihm, er solle beten. Israel Hands antwortet, dass er 30 Jahre auf See war und nie etwas Gutes einem guten Mann hat passieren sehen. Hands sagt Jim dann, er solle seinen Anweisungen genau folgen, damit sie zur Nordmündung gelangen können. Jim wird so sehr in diese letzte Steuerung hineingezogen, dass er vergisst, Hands zu beobachten. Es ist nur der Instinkt, der ihn umkehren lässt, als Hands gerade ein Messer auf ihn zieht. Jim springt zur Seite und lässt den Steuerhebel los, der Hands plötzlich in die Brust trifft. Jim nutzt diesen Moment, um nach einer seiner Pistolen zu greifen. Er drückt ab, aber es passiert nichts - die Pistole ist mit Meerwasser durchnässt und nicht verwendbar. Hands springt erneut nach Jim, und die beiden fangen an, hin und her auszuweichen. Plötzlich läuft die Hispaniola auf Grund und kippt schräg. Sowohl Israel Hands als auch Jim rollen direkt über das Deck. Jim erholt sich schnell und klettert an die Spitze des Mastes. Dort lädt er seine Pistolen nach, während Hands mit seinem Messer im Mund die Takelage hochklettert. Jim warnt Hands, dass er, wenn er weiterklettert, ihm den Kopf wegschießen wird. Hands sagt, er und Jim müssten sich einigen - doch während er das sagt, fliegt etwas durch die Luft und heftet Jims Schulter am Mast fest. Es ist das Messer: Hands hat es auf ihn geworfen. Als das Messer Jim trifft, feuert er seine beiden Pistolen ab. Die Kugeln treffen Hands, der tot ins Meer fällt.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten 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._ SCENE II. OLIVIA'S _Garden_. _Enter_ SIR TOBY, _with_ SIR ANDREW, _in a great fright_. _Sir To._ Why, man, he's a very devil;-- _Sir And._ Oh! _Sir To._ I have not seen such a virago. I had a pass with him,--rapier, scabbard, and all,--and he gives me the stuck-in,---- _Sir And._ Oh! _Sir To._ With such a mortal motion, that it is inevitable: they say, he has been fencer to the Sophy. _Sir And._ Plague on't, I'll not meddle with him. _Sir To._ Ay, but he will not now be pacified: Fabian can scarce hold him yonder. _Sir And._ Plague on't; an I thought he had been valiant, and so cunning in fence, I'd have seen him damn'd ere I had challenged him. Let him let the matter slip, and I'll give him my horse, grey Capilet. _Sir To._ I'll make the motion: Stand here, make a good show on't.--[_Aside._] Marry, I'll ride your horse as well as I ride you. _Enter_ FABIAN _and_ VIOLA. I have his horse [_To_ FABIAN.] to take up the quarrel; I have persuaded him, the youth's a devil. _Fab._ [_To_ SIR TOBY.] He is as horribly conceited of him; and pants, as if a bear were at his heels. _Sir To._ [_To_ VIOLA.] There's no remedy, sir; he will fight with you for his oath sake: marry, he hath better bethought him of his quarrel, and he finds that now scarce to be worth talking of: therefore draw, for the supportance of his vow; he protests, he will not hurt you. _Vio._ [_Draws her Sword._] Pray heaven defend me!--[_Aside._] A little thing would make me tell them how much I lack of a man. _Fab._ [_To_ VIOLA.] Give ground, if you see him furious. _Sir To._ Come, Sir Andrew, there's no remedy; the gentleman will, for his honour's sake, have one bout with you: he cannot by the duello avoid it: but he has promised me, as he is a gentleman and a soldier, he will not hurt you. Come on; to 't. _Sir And._ [_Draws._] Pray heaven, he keep his oath! _Vio._ I do assure you, 'tis against my will. [_They fight._--SIR TOBY _and_ FABIAN _urge on_ SIR ANDREW _and_ VIOLA. _Enter_ ANTONIO, _who runs between_ SIR ANDREW _and_ VIOLA. _Ant._ Put up your sword;--If this young gentleman Have done offence, I take the fault on me; If you offend him, I for him defy you. _Sir To._ You, sir? Why, what are you? _Ant._ [_Draws._] One, sir, that for his love dares yet do more Than you have heard him brag to you he will. _Sir To._ [_Draws._] Nay, if you be an undertaker, I am for you. [SIR TOBY _and_ ANTONIO _fight_.] [SIR ANDREW _hides himself behind the Trees_.--VIOLA _retires a little_.] _Fab._ [_Parts them._] O good Sir Toby, hold; here come the officers. _Sir To._ [_To_ ANTONIO.] I'll be with you anon. [ANTONIO _shows great alarm_--SIR TOBY _sheathes his sword_.]--Sir knight,--Sir Andrew,-- _Sir And._ Here I am. _Sir To._ What, man!--Come on. [_Brings_ SIR ANDREW _forward_.] _Vio._ [_Advances._] 'Pray, sir, [_To_ SIR ANDREW.] put up your sword, if you please. _Sir And._ Marry, will I, sir;--and, for that I promised you, I'll be as good as my word: He will bear you easily, and reins well. _Enter two Officers of Justice._ _1 Off._ This is the man; do thy office. _2 Off._ Antonio, I arrest thee at the suit Of Duke Orsino. _Ant._ You do mistake me, sir. _1 Off._ No, sir, no jot; I know your favour well.-- Take him away; he knows, I know him well. _Ant._ I must obey.--This comes with seeking you; But there's no remedy. Now my necessity Makes me to ask you for my purse: It grieves me Much more, for what I cannot do for you, Than what befalls myself. You stand amazed; But be of comfort. _1 Off._ Come, sir, away. _Ant._ I must entreat of you some of that money. _Vio._ What money, sir? For the fair kindness you have showed me here, And, part, being prompted by your present trouble, Out of my lean and low ability I'll lend you something: my having is not much; I'll make division of my present with you; Hold, there is half my coffer. _Ant._ Will you deny me now? Is't possible, that my deserts to you Can lack persuasion? Do not tempt my misery; Lest that it make me so unsound a man, As to upbraid you with those kindnesses That I have done for you. _Vio._ I know of none; Nor know I you by voice, or any feature. _Ant._ O heavens themselves! _1 Off._ Come, sir, I pray you, go. _Ant._ Let me speak a little. This youth that you see here, I snatch'd one half out of the jaws of death; And to his image, which, methought, did promise Most venerable worth, did I devotion. But, O, how vile an idol proves this god!-- Thou hast, Sebastian, done good feature shame.-- In nature there's no blemish, but the mind; None can be call'd deform'd, but the unkind: Virtue is beauty; but the beauteous-evil Are empty trunks, o'erflourish'd by the devil. [_Exeunt_ ANTONIO _and Officers_. _Sir To._ Come hither, knight; come hither, Fabian. [_They retire together._ _Vio._ He named Sebastian; I my brother know Yet living in my glass; even such, and so, In favour was my brother; and he went Still in this fashion, colour, ornament; For him I imitate: O, if it prove, Tempests are kind, and salt waves fresh in love! [_Exit_ VIOLA. [_They advance._] _Sir To._ A very dishonest paltry boy, and more a coward than a hare; his dishonesty appears, in leaving his friend here in necessity, and denying him; and for his cowardship, ask Fabian. _Fab._ A coward, a most devout coward, religious in it. _Sir And._ 'Slid, I'll after him again, and beat him. _Sir To._ Do, cuff him soundly;--but never draw thy sword. _Sir And._ An I do not!-- [_Exeunt._ SCENE III. _The Street before_ OLIVIA'S _House_. _Enter_ SEBASTIAN _and_ CLOWN. _Clo._ Will you make me believe, that I am not sent for you? _Seb._ Go to, go to, thou art a foolish fellow; Let me be clear of thee. _Clo._ Well held out, i' faith! No, I do not know you; nor I am not sent to you by my lady, to bid you come speak with her; nor your name is not Cesario; nor this is not my nose neither:--Nothing, that is so, is so. _Seb._ I pr'ythee, vent thy folly somewhere else;--Thou know'st not me. _Clo._ Vent my folly! He has heard that word of some great man, and now applies it to a fool.--I pr'ythee, tell me what I shall vent to my lady; Shall I vent to her, that thou art coming? _Seb._ I pr'ythee, foolish Greek, depart from me; There's money for thee; if you tarry longer, I shall give worse payment. _Clo._ By my troth, thou hast an open hand:--These wise men, that give fools money, get themselves a good report after fourteen years' purchase. _Enter_ SIR ANDREW. _Sir And._ Now, sir, have I met you again? There's for you. [_Striking_ SEBASTIAN. _Seb._ [_Draws his sword._] Why, there's for thee, and there, and there:--Are all the people mad? [_Beating_ SIR ANDREW. _Enter_ SIR TOBY _and_ FABIAN. _Sir To._ Hold, sir, or I'll throw your dagger o'er the house. _Clo._ This will I tell my lady straight--I would not be in some of your coats for two-pence. [_Exit_ CLOWN. _Sir To._ Come on, sir; hold. [_Holding_ SEBASTIAN. _Sir And._ Nay, let him alone. I'll go another way to work with him; I'll have an action of battery against him, if there be any law in Illyria: though I struck him first, yet it's no matter for that. _Seb._ Let go thy hand. _Sir To._ Come, sir, I will not let you go. Come, my young soldier, put up your iron: you are well flesh'd; come on. _Seb._ [_Disengages himself._] I will be free from thee. --What would'st thou now? If thou darest tempt me further, draw thy sword. _Sir To._ What, what?--[_Draws._]--Nay, then I must have an ounce or two of this malapert blood from you. [_They fight._ _Enter_ OLIVIA, _and two Servants_. _Fab._ Hold, good Sir Toby, hold:--my lady here! [_Exit_ FABIAN. _Oli._ Hold, Toby; on thy life, I charge thee, hold. _Sir To._ Madam? _Oli._ Will it be ever thus? Ungracious wretch, Fit for the mountains, and the barbarous caves, Where manners ne'er were preach'd! out of my sight! Be not offended, dear Cesario:---- Rudesby, be gone!-- _Sir To._ Come along, knight. [_Exit_ SIR TOBY. _Oli._ And you, sir, follow him. _Sir And._ Oh, oh!--Sir Toby,-- [_Exit_ SIR ANDREW. _Oli._ I pr'ythee, gentle friend, Let thy fair wisdom, not thy passion, sway In this uncivil and unjust extent Against thy peace. Go with me to my house; And hear thou there how many fruitless pranks This ruffian hath botch'd up, that thou thereby May'st smile at this: thou shalt not choose but go; Do not deny. _Seb._ What relish is in this? how runs the stream? Or I am mad, or else this is a dream:-- Let fancy still my sense in Lethe steep; If it be thus to dream, still let me sleep! _Oli._ Nay, come, I pr'ythee: 'Would thou'dst be ruled by me! _Seb._ Madam, I will. _Oli._ O, say so, and so be! [_Exeunt._ SCENE IV. _A Gallery in_ OLIVIA'S _House_. _Enter_ MARIA, _with a black Gown and Hood, and_ CLOWN. _Mar._ Nay, I pr'ythee, put on this gown and hood; make him believe, thou art Sir Topas the curate; do it quickly: I'll call Sir Toby the whilst. [_Exit_ MARIA. _Clo._ Well, I'll put it on, and I will dissemble myself in't; and I would I were the first that ever dissembled in such a gown. _Enter_ SIR TOBY _and_ MARIA. _Sir To._ Jove bless thee, master parson. _Clo._ _Bonos dies_, Sir Toby: for as the old hermit of Prague, that never saw pen and ink, very wittily said to a niece of King Gorboduc, _That, that is, is_; so I, being master parson, am master parson: For what is that, but that? and is, but is? _Sir To._ To him, Sir Topas. _Clo._ [_Opens the door of an inner Room_] What, hoa, I say,--Peace in this prison! _Sir To._ The knave counterfeits well; a good knave. _Mal._ [_In the inner Room._] Who calls there? _Clo._ Sir Topas, the curate, who comes to visit Malvolio the lunatic. _Mal._ Sir Topas, Sir Topas, good Sir Topas, go to my lady. _Clo._ Out, hyperbolical fiend! how vexest thou this man? talkest thou nothing but of ladies? _Sir To._ Well said, master parson. _Mal._ Sir Topas, never was man thus wrong'd; good Sir Topas, do not think I am mad; they have bound me, hand and foot, and laid me here in hideous darkness. _Clo._ Say'st thou, that house is dark? _Mal._ As hell, Sir Topas. _Clo._ Madman, thou errest: I say, there is no darkness, but ignorance; in which thou art more puzzled, than the Egyptians in their fog. _Mal._ I say this house is as dark as ignorance, though ignorance were as dark as hell; and I say, there was never man thus abused: I am no more mad than you are; make the trial of it in any constant question. _Clo._ What is the opinion of Pythagoras concerning wild-fowl? _Mal._ That the soul of our grandam might haply inhabit a bird. _Clo._ What thinkest thou of his opinion? _Mal._ I think nobly of the soul, and no way approve his opinion. _Clo._ Fare thee well: Remain thou still in darkness: thou shalt hold the opinion of Pythagoras, ere I will allow of thy wits; and fear to kill a woodcock, lest thou dispossess the soul of thy grandam. Fare thee well. _Mal._ Sir Topas, Sir Topas,-- _Sir To._ My most exquisite Sir Topas,-- _Clo._ Nay, I am for all waters. [_Takes off the gown and hood, and gives them to_ MARIA.] _Mar._ Thou might'st have done this without thy hood and gown; he sees thee not. _Sir To._ To him in thine own voice, and bring us word how thou find'st him: Come by and by to my chamber. [_Exeunt_ SIR TOBY _and_ MARIA. _Clo._ [_Sings._] _Hey Robin, jolly Robin, Tell me how thy lady does._ _Mal._ Fool,--fool,--good fool,-- _Clo._ Who calls, ha? _Mal._ As ever thou wilt deserve well at my hand, help me to a candle, and pen, ink, and paper; as I am a gentleman, I will live to be thankful to thee for't. _Clo._ Master Malvolio! _Mal_. Ay, good fool. _Clo._ Alas, sir, how fell you besides your five wits? _Mal._ Fool, there was never man so notoriously abused: I am as well in my wits, fool, as thou art. _Clo._ But as well! then you are mad, indeed, if you be no better in your wits than a fool. _Mal._ Good fool, some ink, paper, and light, and convey what I will set down to my lady; it shall advantage thee more than ever the bearing of letter did. _Clo._ I will help you to't. But tell me true, are you not mad, indeed? or do you but counterfeit? _Mal._ Believe me, I am not: I tell thee true. _Clo._ Nay, I'll ne'er believe a madman, till I see his brains. I will fetch you light, and paper, and ink. _Mal._ Fool, I'll requite it in the highest degree. I pr'ythee, be gone. _Clo._ [_Shuts the door of the inner Room, and sings._] _I am gone, sir, And anon, sir, I'll be with you again, &c._ [_Exit._ SCENE V. OLIVIA'S _Garden_. _Enter_ SEBASTIAN. _Seb._ This is the air; that is the glorious sun; This pearl she gave me, I do feel't, and see't: And though 'tis wonder that enwraps me thus, Yet 'tis not madness. Where's Antonio then? I could not find him at the Elephant; His counsel now might do me golden service: For though my soul disputes well with my sense, That this may be some error, but no madness, Yet doth this accident and flood of fortune So far exceed all instance, all discourse, That I am ready to distrust mine eyes, And wrangle with my reason, that persuades me To any other trust, but that I am mad, Or else the lady's mad.--But here she comes. _Enter_ OLIVIA, _and a_ FRIAR. _Oli._ Blame not this haste of mine:--If you mean well, Now go with me, and with this holy man, Into the chantry by: there, before him, And underneath that consecrated roof, Plight me the full assurance of your faith; That my most jealous and too doubtful soul May live at peace: He shall conceal it, Whiles you are willing it shall come to note; What time we will our celebration keep According to my birth.--What do you say? _Seb._ I'll follow this good man, and go with you; And, having sworn truth, ever will be true. _Oli._ Then lead the way, good father: [_Exit_ FRIAR. And heavens so shine, That they may fairly note this act of mine! [_Exeunt._ Können Sie eine passende Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Feste geht auf Sebastian zu und denkt, dass Sebastian 'Cesario' sei; als Sebastian ihm sagt, dass er ihn nicht kennt, noch Olivia, von der Feste ihm sagt, er solle sie treffen, wird Feste ziemlich aufgebracht und beschuldigt Sebastian der "Seltsamkeit". Dann kommt Sir Andrew und schlägt Sebastian wütend, als wäre er Cesario; Sir Toby und Sebastian geraten beinahe in ein Duell, als Olivia sie findet und ihnen befiehlt, aufzuhören. Olivia entlässt Sir Toby und fragt Sebastian "würdest du dich von mir führen lassen", da er seiner Schwester sehr ähnlich sieht und sie denkt, er sei Cesario. Sebastian beschließt, mitzumachen, von Olivias Schönheit beeindruckt, und denkt, es sei alles ein angenehmer Traum, aus dem er hofft, nicht aufzuwachen. Szene 2: Maria und Feste verschwören sich, Feste als Sir Topaz, den Pastor, vorzustellen, während Malvolio außer Sichtweite ist. Feste versucht, Malvolio davon zu überzeugen, dass er verrückt ist, aber Malvolio besteht weiterhin darauf, dass er es nicht ist und dass er zu Unrecht eingesperrt wurde. Feste konfrontiert Malvolio dann als er selbst und quält ihn weiter; er inszeniert ein Gespräch mit sich selbst als Feste und Sir Topaz, und Malvolio bittet um Papier und Tinte, um Olivia eine Nachricht zu schicken. Feste verspricht, diese Dinge zu besorgen und geht mit einem Lied. Szene 3: Sebastian überlegt mit sich selbst, ob er verrückt ist oder ob es Lady Olivia ist; aber er erkennt, dass es nicht sie sein kann, da sie in der Lage ist, einen großen Haushalt zu führen, und daher geistig gesund und zusammenhängend sein muss. Olivia bittet ihn, mit ihr zum Pfarrer zu kommen und sie zu heiraten; Sebastian sagt, obwohl er sie nicht kennt und nicht genau versteht, was vor sich geht, dass er sie heiraten wird und geht 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. Chapter: CHAPTER III Such are those thick and gloomy shadows damp, Oft seen in charnel-vaults and sepulchres, Lingering, and sitting, by a new-made grave. MILTON On the following day, Montoni sent a second excuse to Emily, who was surprised at the circumstance. 'This is very strange!' said she to herself. 'His conscience tells him the purport of my visit, and he defers it, to avoid an explanation.' She now almost resolved to throw herself in his way, but terror checked the intention, and this day passed, as the preceding one, with Emily, except that a degree of awful expectation, concerning the approaching night, now somewhat disturbed the dreadful calmness that had pervaded her mind. Towards evening, the second part of the band, which had made the first excursion among the mountains, returned to the castle, where, as they entered the courts, Emily, in her remote chamber, heard their loud shouts and strains of exultation, like the orgies of furies over some horrid sacrifice. She even feared they were about to commit some barbarous deed; a conjecture from which, however, Annette soon relieved her, by telling, that the people were only exulting over the plunder they had brought with them. This circumstance still further confirmed her in the belief, that Montoni had really commenced to be a captain of banditti, and meant to retrieve his broken fortunes by the plunder of travellers! Indeed, when she considered all the circumstances of his situation--in an armed, and almost inaccessible castle, retired far among the recesses of wild and solitary mountains, along whose distant skirts were scattered towns, and cities, whither wealthy travellers were continually passing--this appeared to be the situation of all others most suited for the success of schemes of rapine, and she yielded to the strange thought, that Montoni was become a captain of robbers. His character also, unprincipled, dauntless, cruel and enterprising, seemed to fit him for the situation. Delighting in the tumult and in the struggles of life, he was equally a stranger to pity and to fear; his very courage was a sort of animal ferocity; not the noble impulse of a principle, such as inspirits the mind against the oppressor, in the cause of the oppressed; but a constitutional hardiness of nerve, that cannot feel, and that, therefore, cannot fear. Emily's supposition, however natural, was in part erroneous, for she was a stranger to the state of this country and to the circumstances, under which its frequent wars were partly conducted. The revenues of the many states of Italy being, at that time, insufficient to the support of standing armies, even during the short periods, which the turbulent habits both of the governments and the people permitted to pass in peace, an order of men arose not known in our age, and but faintly described in the history of their own. Of the soldiers, disbanded at the end of every war, few returned to the safe, but unprofitable occupations, then usual in peace. Sometimes they passed into other countries, and mingled with armies, which still kept the field. Sometimes they formed themselves into bands of robbers, and occupied remote fortresses, where their desperate character, the weakness of the governments which they offended, and the certainty, that they could be recalled to the armies, when their presence should be again wanted, prevented them from being much pursued by the civil power; and, sometimes, they attached themselves to the fortunes of a popular chief, by whom they were led into the service of any state, which could settle with him the price of their valour. From this latter practice arose their name--CONDOTTIERI; a term formidable all over Italy, for a period, which concluded in the earlier part of the seventeenth century, but of which it is not so easy to ascertain the commencement. Contests between the smaller states were then, for the most part, affairs of enterprize alone, and the probabilities of success were estimated, not from the skill, but from the personal courage of the general, and the soldiers. The ability, which was necessary to the conduct of tedious operations, was little valued. It was enough to know how a party might be led towards their enemies, with the greatest secrecy, or conducted from them in the compactest order. The officer was to precipitate himself into a situation, where, but for his example, the soldiers might not have ventured; and, as the opposed parties knew little of each other's strength, the event of the day was frequently determined by the boldness of the first movements. In such services the condottieri were eminent, and in these, where plunder always followed success, their characters acquired a mixture of intrepidity and profligacy, which awed even those whom they served. When they were not thus engaged, their chief had usually his own fortress, in which, or in its neighbourhood, they enjoyed an irksome rest; and, though their wants were, at one time, partly supplied from the property of the inhabitants, the lavish distribution of their plunder at others, prevented them from being obnoxious; and the peasants of such districts gradually shared the character of their warlike visitors. The neighbouring governments sometimes professed, but seldom endeavoured, to suppress these military communities; both because it was difficult to do so, and because a disguised protection of them ensured, for the service of their wars, a body of men, who could not otherwise be so cheaply maintained, or so perfectly qualified. The commanders sometimes even relied so far upon this policy of the several powers, as to frequent their capitals; and Montoni, having met them in the gaming parties of Venice and Padua, conceived a desire to emulate their characters, before his ruined fortunes tempted him to adopt their practices. It was for the arrangement of his present plan of life, that the midnight councils were held at his mansion in Venice, and at which Orsino and some other members of the present community then assisted with suggestions, which they had since executed with the wreck of their fortunes. On the return of night, Emily resumed her station at the casement. There was now a moon; and, as it rose over the tufted woods, its yellow light served to shew the lonely terrace and the surrounding objects, more distinctly, than the twilight of the stars had done, and promised Emily to assist her observations, should the mysterious form return. On this subject, she again wavered in conjecture, and hesitated whether to speak to the figure, to which a strong and almost irresistible interest urged her; but terror, at intervals, made her reluctant to do so. 'If this is a person who has designs upon the castle,' said she, 'my curiosity may prove fatal to me; yet the mysterious music, and the lamentations I heard, must surely have proceeded from him: if so, he cannot be an enemy.' She then thought of her unfortunate aunt, and, shuddering with grief and horror, the suggestions of imagination seized her mind with all the force of truth, and she believed, that the form she had seen was supernatural. She trembled, breathed with difficulty, an icy coldness touched her cheeks, and her fears for a while overcame her judgment. Her resolution now forsook her, and she determined, if the figure should appear, not to speak to it. Thus the time passed, as she sat at her casement, awed by expectation, and by the gloom and stillness of midnight; for she saw obscurely in the moon-light only the mountains and woods, a cluster of towers, that formed the west angle of the castle, and the terrace below; and heard no sound, except, now and then, the lonely watch-word, passed by the centinels on duty, and afterwards the steps of the men who came to relieve guard, and whom she knew at a distance on the rampart by their pikes, that glittered in the moonbeam, and then, by the few short words, in which they hailed their fellows of the night. Emily retired within her chamber, while they passed the casement. When she returned to it, all was again quiet. It was now very late, she was wearied with watching, and began to doubt the reality of what she had seen on the preceding night; but she still lingered at the window, for her mind was too perturbed to admit of sleep. The moon shone with a clear lustre, that afforded her a complete view of the terrace; but she saw only a solitary centinel, pacing at one end of it; and, at length, tired with expectation, she withdrew to seek rest. Such, however, was the impression, left on her mind by the music, and the complaining she had formerly heard, as well as by the figure, which she fancied she had seen, that she determined to repeat the watch, on the following night. Montoni, on the next day, took no notice of Emily's appointed visit, but she, more anxious than before to see him, sent Annette to enquire, at what hour he would admit her. He mentioned eleven o'clock, and Emily was punctual to the moment; at which she called up all her fortitude to support the shock of his presence and the dreadful recollections it enforced. He was with several of his officers, in the cedar room; on observing whom she paused; and her agitation increased, while he continued to converse with them, apparently not observing her, till some of his officers, turning round, saw Emily, and uttered an exclamation. She was hastily retiring, when Montoni's voice arrested her, and, in a faultering accent, she said,--'I would speak with you, Signor Montoni, if you are at leisure.' 'These are my friends,' he replied, 'whatever you would say, they may hear.' Emily, without replying, turned from the rude gaze of the chevaliers, and Montoni then followed her to the hall, whence he led her to a small room, of which he shut the door with violence. As she looked on his dark countenance, she again thought she saw the murderer of her aunt; and her mind was so convulsed with horror, that she had not power to recall thought enough to explain the purport of her visit; and to trust herself with the mention of Madame Montoni was more than she dared. Montoni at length impatiently enquired what she had to say? 'I have no time for trifling,' he added, 'my moments are important.' Emily then told him, that she wished to return to France, and came to beg, that he would permit her to do so.--But when he looked surprised, and enquired for the motive of the request, she hesitated, became paler than before, trembled, and had nearly sunk at his feet. He observed her emotion, with apparent indifference, and interrupted the silence by telling her, he must be gone. Emily, however, recalled her spirits sufficiently to enable her to repeat her request. And, when Montoni absolutely refused it, her slumbering mind was roused. 'I can no longer remain here with propriety, sir,' said she, 'and I may be allowed to ask, by what right you detain me.' 'It is my will that you remain here,' said Montoni, laying his hand on the door to go; 'let that suffice you.' Emily, considering that she had no appeal from this will, forbore to dispute his right, and made a feeble effort to persuade him to be just. 'While my aunt lived, sir,' said she, in a tremulous voice, 'my residence here was not improper; but now, that she is no more, I may surely be permitted to depart. My stay cannot benefit you, sir, and will only distress me.' 'Who told you, that Madame Montoni was dead?' said Montoni, with an inquisitive eye. Emily hesitated, for nobody had told her so, and she did not dare to avow the having seen that spectacle in the portal-chamber, which had compelled her to the belief. 'Who told you so?' he repeated, more sternly. 'Alas! I know it too well,' replied Emily: 'spare me on this terrible subject!' She sat down on a bench to support herself. 'If you wish to see her,' said Montoni, 'you may; she lies in the east turret.' He now left the room, without awaiting her reply, and returned to the cedar chamber, where such of the chevaliers as had not before seen Emily, began to rally him, on the discovery they had made; but Montoni did not appear disposed to bear this mirth, and they changed the subject. Having talked with the subtle Orsino, on the plan of an excursion, which he meditated for a future day, his friend advised, that they should lie in wait for the enemy, which Verezzi impetuously opposed, reproached Orsino with want of spirit, and swore, that, if Montoni would let him lead on fifty men, he would conquer all that should oppose him. Orsino smiled contemptuously; Montoni smiled too, but he also listened. Verezzi then proceeded with vehement declamation and assertion, till he was stopped by an argument of Orsino, which he knew not how to answer better than by invective. His fierce spirit detested the cunning caution of Orsino, whom he constantly opposed, and whose inveterate, though silent, hatred he had long ago incurred. And Montoni was a calm observer of both, whose different qualifications he knew, and how to bend their opposite character to the perfection of his own designs. But Verezzi, in the heat of opposition, now did not scruple to accuse Orsino of cowardice, at which the countenance of the latter, while he made no reply, was overspread with a livid paleness; and Montoni, who watched his lurking eye, saw him put his hand hastily into his bosom. But Verezzi, whose face, glowing with crimson, formed a striking contrast to the complexion of Orsino, remarked not the action, and continued boldly declaiming against cowards to Cavigni, who was slily laughing at his vehemence, and at the silent mortification of Orsino, when the latter, retiring a few steps behind, drew forth a stilletto to stab his adversary in the back. Montoni arrested his half-extended arm, and, with a significant look, made him return the poinard into his bosom, unseen by all except himself; for most of the party were disputing at a distant window, on the situation of a dell where they meant to form an ambuscade. When Verezzi had turned round, the deadly hatred, expressed on the features of his opponent, raising, for the first time, a suspicion of his intention, he laid his hand on his sword, and then, seeming to recollect himself, strode up to Montoni. 'Signor,' said he, with a significant look at Orsino, 'we are not a band of assassins; if you have business for brave men employ me on this expedition: you shall have the last drop of my blood; if you have only work for cowards--keep him,' pointing to Orsino, 'and let me quit Udolpho.' Orsino, still more incensed, again drew forth his stilletto, and rushed towards Verezzi, who, at the same instant, advanced with his sword, when Montoni and the rest of the party interfered and separated them. 'This is the conduct of a boy,' said Montoni to Verezzi, 'not of a man: be more moderate in your speech.' 'Moderation is the virtue of cowards,' retorted Verezzi; 'they are moderate in every thing--but in fear.' 'I accept your words,' said Montoni, turning upon him with a fierce and haughty look, and drawing his sword out of the scabbard. 'With all my heart,' cried Verezzi, 'though I did not mean them for you.' He directed a pass at Montoni; and, while they fought, the villain Orsino made another attempt to stab Verezzi, and was again prevented. The combatants were, at length, separated; and, after a very long and violent dispute, reconciled. Montoni then left the room with Orsino, whom he detained in private consultation for a considerable time. Emily, meanwhile, stunned by the last words of Montoni, forgot, for the moment, his declaration, that she should continue in the castle, while she thought of her unfortunate aunt, who, he had said, was laid in the east turret. In suffering the remains of his wife to lie thus long unburied, there appeared a degree of brutality more shocking than she had suspected even Montoni could practise. After a long struggle, she determined to accept his permission to visit the turret, and to take a last look of her ill-fated aunt: with which design she returned to her chamber, and, while she waited for Annette to accompany her, endeavoured to acquire fortitude sufficient to support her through the approaching scene; for, though she trembled to encounter it, she knew that to remember the performance of this last act of duty would hereafter afford her consoling satisfaction. Annette came, and Emily mentioned her purpose, from which the former endeavoured to dissuade her, though without effect, and Annette was, with much difficulty, prevailed upon to accompany her to the turret; but no consideration could make her promise to enter the chamber of death. They now left the corridor, and, having reached the foot of the stair-case, which Emily had formerly ascended, Annette declared she would go no further, and Emily proceeded alone. When she saw the track of blood, which she had before observed, her spirits fainted, and, being compelled to rest on the stairs, she almost determined to proceed no further. The pause of a few moments restored her resolution, and she went on. As she drew near the landing-place, upon which the upper chamber opened, she remembered, that the door was formerly fastened, and apprehended, that it might still be so. In this expectation, however, she was mistaken; for the door opened at once, into a dusky and silent chamber, round which she fearfully looked, and then slowly advanced, when a hollow voice spoke. Emily, who was unable to speak, or to move from the spot, uttered no sound of terror. The voice spoke again; and, then, thinking that it resembled that of Madame Montoni, Emily's spirits were instantly roused; she rushed towards a bed, that stood in a remote part of the room, and drew aside the curtains. Within, appeared a pale and emaciated face. She started back, then again advanced, shuddered as she took up the skeleton hand, that lay stretched upon the quilt; then let it drop, and then viewed the face with a long, unsettled gaze. It was that of Madame Montoni, though so changed by illness, that the resemblance of what it had been, could scarcely be traced in what it now appeared. She was still alive, and, raising her heavy eyes, she turned them on her niece. 'Where have you been so long?' said she, in the same tone, 'I thought you had forsaken me.' 'Do you indeed live,' said Emily, at length, 'or is this but a terrible apparition?' she received no answer, and again she snatched up the hand. 'This is substance,' she exclaimed, 'but it is cold--cold as marble!' She let it fall. 'O, if you really live, speak!' said Emily, in a voice of desperation, 'that I may not lose my senses--say you know me!' 'I do live,' replied Madame Montoni, 'but--I feel that I am about to die.' Emily clasped the hand she held, more eagerly, and groaned. They were both silent for some moments. Then Emily endeavoured to soothe her, and enquired what had reduced her to this present deplorable state. Montoni, when he removed her to the turret under the improbable suspicion of having attempted his life, had ordered the men employed on the occasion, to observe a strict secrecy concerning her. To this he was influenced by a double motive. He meant to debar her from the comfort of Emily's visits, and to secure an opportunity of privately dispatching her, should any new circumstances occur to confirm the present suggestions of his suspecting mind. His consciousness of the hatred he deserved it was natural enough should at first led him to attribute to her the attempt that had been made upon his life; and, though there was no other reason to believe that she was concerned in that atrocious design, his suspicions remained; he continued to confine her in the turret, under a strict guard; and, without pity or remorse, had suffered her to lie, forlorn and neglected, under a raging fever, till it had reduced her to the present state. The track of blood, which Emily had seen on the stairs, had flowed from the unbound wound of one of the men employed to carry Madame Montoni, and which he had received in the late affray. At night these men, having contented themselves with securing the door of their prisoner's room, had retired from guard; and then it was, that Emily, at the time of her first enquiry, had found the turret so silent and deserted. When she had attempted to open the door of the chamber, her aunt was sleeping, and this occasioned the silence, which had contributed to delude her into a belief, that she was no more; yet had her terror permitted her to persevere longer in the call, she would probably have awakened Madame Montoni, and have been spared much suffering. The spectacle in the portal-chamber, which afterwards confirmed Emily's horrible suspicion, was the corpse of a man, who had fallen in the affray, and the same which had been borne into the servants' hall, where she took refuge from the tumult. This man had lingered under his wounds for some days; and, soon after his death, his body had been removed on the couch, on which he died, for interment in the vault beneath the chapel, through which Emily and Barnardine had passed to the chamber. Emily, after asking Madame Montoni a thousand questions concerning herself, left her, and sought Montoni; for the more solemn interest she felt for her aunt, made her now regardless of the resentment her remonstrances might draw upon herself, and of the improbability of his granting what she meant to entreat. 'Madame Montoni is now dying, sir,' said Emily, as soon as she saw him--'Your resentment, surely will not pursue her to the last moment! Suffer her to be removed from that forlorn room to her own apartment, and to have necessary comforts administered.' 'Of what service will that be, if she is dying?' said Montoni, with apparent indifference. 'The service, at leave, of saving you, sir, from a few of those pangs of conscience you must suffer, when you shall be in the same situation,' said Emily, with imprudent indignation, of which Montoni soon made her sensible, by commanding her to quit his presence. Then, forgetting her resentment, and impressed only by compassion for the piteous state of her aunt, dying without succour, she submitted to humble herself to Montoni, and to adopt every persuasive means, that might induce him to relent towards his wife. For a considerable time he was proof against all she said, and all she looked; but at length the divinity of pity, beaming in Emily's eyes, seemed to touch his heart. He turned away, ashamed of his better feelings, half sullen and half relenting; but finally consented, that his wife should be removed to her own apartment, and that Emily should attend her. Dreading equally, that this relief might arrive too late, and that Montoni might retract his concession, Emily scarcely staid to thank him for it, but, assisted by Annette, she quickly prepared Madame Montoni's bed, and they carried her a cordial, that might enable her feeble frame to sustain the fatigue of a removal. Madame was scarcely arrived in her own apartment, when an order was given by her husband, that she should remain in the turret; but Emily, thankful that she had made such dispatch, hastened to inform him of it, as well as that a second removal would instantly prove fatal, and he suffered his wife to continue where she was. During this day, Emily never left Madame Montoni, except to prepare such little nourishing things as she judged necessary to sustain her, and which Madame Montoni received with quiet acquiescence, though she seemed sensible that they could not save her from approaching dissolution, and scarcely appeared to wish for life. Emily meanwhile watched over her with the most tender solicitude, no longer seeing her imperious aunt in the poor object before her, but the sister of her late beloved father, in a situation that called for all her compassion and kindness. When night came, she determined to sit up with her aunt, but this the latter positively forbade, commanding her to retire to rest, and Annette alone to remain in her chamber. Rest was, indeed, necessary to Emily, whose spirits and frame were equally wearied by the occurrences and exertions of the day; but she would not leave Madame Montoni, till after the turn of midnight, a period then thought so critical by the physicians. Soon after twelve, having enjoined Annette to be wakeful, and to call her, should any change appear for the worse, Emily sorrowfully bade Madame Montoni good night, and withdrew to her chamber. Her spirits were more than usually depressed by the piteous condition of her aunt, whose recovery she scarcely dared to expect. To her own misfortunes she saw no period, inclosed as she was, in a remote castle, beyond the reach of any friends, had she possessed such, and beyond the pity even of strangers; while she knew herself to be in the power of a man capable of any action, which his interest, or his ambition, might suggest. Occupied by melancholy reflections and by anticipations as sad, she did not retire immediately to rest, but leaned thoughtfully on her open casement. The scene before her of woods and mountains, reposing in the moon-light, formed a regretted contrast with the state of her mind; but the lonely murmur of these woods, and the view of this sleeping landscape, gradually soothed her emotions and softened her to tears. She continued to weep, for some time, lost to every thing, but to a gentle sense of her misfortunes. When she, at length, took the handkerchief from her eyes, she perceived, before her, on the terrace below, the figure she had formerly observed, which stood fixed and silent, immediately opposite to her casement. On perceiving it, she started back, and terror for some time overcame curiosity;--at length, she returned to the casement, and still the figure was before it, which she now compelled herself to observe, but was utterly unable to speak, as she had formerly intended. The moon shone with a clear light, and it was, perhaps, the agitation of her mind, that prevented her distinguishing, with any degree of accuracy, the form before her. It was still stationary, and she began to doubt, whether it was really animated. Her scattered thoughts were now so far returned as to remind her, that her light exposed her to dangerous observation, and she was stepping back to remove it, when she perceived the figure move, and then wave what seemed to be its arm, as if to beckon her; and, while she gazed, fixed in fear, it repeated the action. She now attempted to speak, but the words died on her lips, and she went from the casement to remove her light; as she was doing which, she heard, from without, a faint groan. Listening, but not daring to return, she presently heard it repeated. 'Good God!--what can this mean!' said she. Again she listened, but the sound came no more; and, after a long interval of silence, she recovered courage enough to go to the casement, when she again saw the same appearance! It beckoned again, and again uttered a low sound. 'That groan was surely human!' said she. 'I WILL speak.' 'Who is it,' cried Emily in a faint voice, 'that wanders at this late hour?' The figure raised its head but suddenly started away, and glided down the terrace. She watched it, for a long while, passing swiftly in the moon-light, but heard no footstep, till a sentinel from the other extremity of the rampart walked slowly along. The man stopped under her window, and, looking up, called her by name. She was retiring precipitately, but, a second summons inducing her to reply, the soldier then respectfully asked if she had seen any thing pass. On her answering, that she had; he said no more, but walked away down the terrace, Emily following him with her eyes, till he was lost in the distance. But, as he was on guard, she knew he could not go beyond the rampart, and, therefore, resolved to await his return. Soon after, his voice was heard, at a distance, calling loudly; and then a voice still more distant answered, and, in the next moment, the watch-word was given, and passed along the terrace. As the soldiers moved hastily under the casement, she called to enquire what had happened, but they passed without regarding her. Emily's thoughts returning to the figure she had seen, 'It cannot be a person, who has designs upon the castle,' said she; 'such an one would conduct himself very differently. He would not venture where sentinels were on watch, nor fix himself opposite to a window, where he perceived he must be observed; much less would he beckon, or utter a sound of complaint. Yet it cannot be a prisoner, for how could he obtain the opportunity to wander thus?' If she had been subject to vanity, she might have supposed this figure to be some inhabitant of the castle, who wandered under her casement in the hope of seeing her, and of being allowed to declare his admiration; but this opinion never occurred to Emily, and, if it had, she would have dismissed it as improbable, on considering, that, when the opportunity of speaking had occurred, it had been suffered to pass in silence; and that, even at the moment in which she had spoken, the form had abruptly quitted the place. While she mused, two sentinels walked up the rampart in earnest conversation, of which she caught a few words, and learned from these, that one of their comrades had fallen down senseless. Soon after, three other soldiers appeared slowly advancing from the bottom of the terrace, but she heard only a low voice, that came at intervals. As they drew near, she perceived this to be the voice of him, who walked in the middle, apparently supported by his comrades; and she again called to them, enquiring what had happened. At the sound of her voice, they stopped, and looked up, while she repeated her question, and was told, that Roberto, their fellow of the watch, had been seized with a fit, and that his cry, as he fell, had caused a false alarm. 'Is he subject to fits?' said Emily. 'Yes, Signora,' replied Roberto; 'but if I had not, what I saw was enough to have frightened the Pope himself.' 'What was it?' enquired Emily, trembling. 'I cannot tell what it was, lady, or what I saw, or how it vanished,' replied the soldier, who seemed to shudder at the recollection. 'Was it the person, whom you followed down the rampart, that has occasioned you this alarm?' said Emily, endeavouring to conceal her own. 'Person!' exclaimed the man,--'it was the devil, and this is not the first time I have seen him!' 'Nor will it be the last,' observed one of his comrades, laughing. 'No, no, I warrant not,' said another. 'Well,' rejoined Roberto, 'you may be as merry now, as you please; you was none so jocose the other night, Sebastian, when you was on watch with Launcelot.' 'Launcelot need not talk of that,' replied Sebastian, 'let him remember how he stood trembling, and unable to give the WORD, till the man was gone, If the man had not come so silently upon us, I would have seized him, and soon made him tell who he was.' 'What man?' enquired Emily. 'It was no man, lady,' said Launcelot, who stood by, 'but the devil himself, as my comrade says. What man, who does not live in the castle, could get within the walls at midnight? Why, I might just as well pretend to march to Venice, and get among all the Senators, when they are counselling; and I warrant I should have more chance of getting out again alive, than any fellow, that we should catch within the gates after dark. So I think I have proved plainly enough, that this can be nobody that lives out of the castle; and now I will prove, that it can be nobody that lives in the castle--for, if he did--why should he be afraid to be seen? So after this, I hope nobody will pretend to tell me it was anybody. No, I say again, by holy Pope! it was the devil, and Sebastian, there, knows this is not the first time we have seen him.' 'When did you see the figure, then, before?' said Emily half smiling, who, though she thought the conversation somewhat too much, felt an interest, which would not permit her to conclude it. 'About a week ago, lady,' said Sebastian, taking up the story. 'And where?' 'On the rampart, lady, higher up.' 'Did you pursue it, that it fled?' 'No, Signora. Launcelot and I were on watch together, and every thing was so still, you might have heard a mouse stir, when, suddenly, Launcelot says--Sebastian! do you see nothing? I turned my head a little to the left, as it might be--thus. No, says I. Hush! said Launcelot,--look yonder--just by the last cannon on the rampart! I looked, and then thought I did see something move; but there being no light, but what the stars gave, I could not be certain. We stood quite silent, to watch it, and presently saw something pass along the castle wall just opposite to us!' 'Why did you not seize it, then?' cried a soldier, who had scarcely spoken till now. 'Aye, why did you not seize it?' said Roberto. 'You should have been there to have done that,' replied Sebastian. 'You would have been bold enough to have taken it by the throat, though it had been the devil himself; we could not take such a liberty, perhaps, because we are not so well acquainted with him, as you are. But, as I was saying, it stole by us so quickly, that we had not time to get rid of our surprise, before it was gone. Then, we knew it was in vain to follow. We kept constant watch all that night, but we saw it no more. Next morning, we told some of our comrades, who were on duty on other parts of the ramparts, what we had seen; but they had seen nothing, and laughed at us, and it was not till to-night, that the same figure walked again.' 'Where did you lose it, friend?' said Emily to Roberto. 'When I left you, lady,' replied the man, 'you might see me go down the rampart, but it was not till I reached the east terrace, that I saw any thing. Then, the moon shining bright, I saw something like a shadow flitting before me, as it were, at some distance. I stopped, when I turned the corner of the east tower, where I had seen this figure not a moment before,--but it was gone! As I stood, looking through the old arch, which leads to the east rampart, and where I am sure it had passed, I heard, all of a sudden, such a sound!--it was not like a groan, or a cry, or a shout, or any thing I ever heard in my life. I heard it only once, and that was enough for me; for I know nothing that happened after, till I found my comrades, here, about me.' 'Come,' said Sebastian, 'let us go to our posts--the moon is setting. Good night, lady!' 'Aye, let us go,' rejoined Roberto. 'Good night, lady.' 'Good night; the holy mother guard you!' said Emily, as she closed her casement and retired to reflect upon the strange circumstance that had just occurred, connecting which with what had happened on former nights, she endeavoured to derive from the whole something more positive, than conjecture. But her imagination was inflamed, while her judgment was not enlightened, and the terrors of superstition again pervaded her mind. Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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Am nächsten Tag zögert Montoni erneut, Em zu treffen. Überraschung, Überraschung. Em hört eine Gruppe Männer, die zum Schloss zurückkehren und prahlen, wie viel Beute sie aus einem benachbarten Schloss mitgebracht haben. Irgendwie ahnt sie, dass das nicht gut ausgehen wird. Immer sehr schnell dabei, voreilige Schlüsse zu ziehen, nimmt Em an, dass Montoni ein Anführer von Räubern ist. Der Erzähler berichtet uns, dass sie damit gar nicht so falsch liegt. Ein kurzer historischer Kontext des Erzählers: Da Italien nicht genug Geld hatte, um seine Armeen zu unterstützen, begannen einige ehemalige Soldaten mit Raubüberfällen. Einige von ihnen wurden sogar Gesetzlose und übernahmen Festungen, wo sie ihr unrechtmäßig erworbenes Geld verstecken konnten. Diese Leute wurden die Condittieri genannt. Wie dem auch sei, Em lauscht nachts erneut nach der seltsamen Musik. Doch leider hat sie kein Glück. Schließlich hat Em ein Treffen mit Montoni. Er ist mit mehreren seiner Offiziere zusammen und will sie nicht wegschicken. Em möchte das Schloss verlassen, aber Montoni verbietet es ihr. Em lässt es jedoch durchsickern, dass sie glaubt, Madame M. sei tot. Montoni erzählt Em, dass ihre Tante am Leben ist, wenn auch nicht ganz gesund. Er erlaubt ihr, sie im Ostturm zu besuchen. In der Zwischenzeit herrscht eine angespannte Stimmung zwischen Montoni und seinen Offizieren. Verezzi will Orsino schnell loswerden. Die beiden geraten nach Ems Verlassen des Raumes in einen Streit. Em besucht Madame M., die in Wirklichkeit nicht tot ist, aber dem Tod nahe ist. Erinnerst du dich an den Körper, den Em gesehen hat? Ja, es war jemand, der während des Kampfes im Schloss ums Leben kam. Also versucht Em, Montoni davon zu überzeugen, ihre kranke Tante aus dem Ostturm zu verlegen. Sie hat Glück und schafft es, und kümmert sich dann um ihre geliebte Tante. In derselben Nacht sieht Em erneut die menschliche Gestalt. Sie ist nicht verrückt, denn auch die Wachmänner des Schlosses sehen eine seltsame Figur herumwandern.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: Mr. Weston was a native of Highbury, and born of a respectable family, which for the last two or three generations had been rising into gentility and property. He had received a good education, but, on succeeding early in life to a small independence, had become indisposed for any of the more homely pursuits in which his brothers were engaged, and had satisfied an active, cheerful mind and social temper by entering into the militia of his county, then embodied. Captain Weston was a general favourite; and when the chances of his military life had introduced him to Miss Churchill, of a great Yorkshire family, and Miss Churchill fell in love with him, nobody was surprized, except her brother and his wife, who had never seen him, and who were full of pride and importance, which the connexion would offend. Miss Churchill, however, being of age, and with the full command of her fortune--though her fortune bore no proportion to the family-estate--was not to be dissuaded from the marriage, and it took place, to the infinite mortification of Mr. and Mrs. Churchill, who threw her off with due decorum. It was an unsuitable connexion, and did not produce much happiness. Mrs. Weston ought to have found more in it, for she had a husband whose warm heart and sweet temper made him think every thing due to her in return for the great goodness of being in love with him; but though she had one sort of spirit, she had not the best. She had resolution enough to pursue her own will in spite of her brother, but not enough to refrain from unreasonable regrets at that brother's unreasonable anger, nor from missing the luxuries of her former home. They lived beyond their income, but still it was nothing in comparison of Enscombe: she did not cease to love her husband, but she wanted at once to be the wife of Captain Weston, and Miss Churchill of Enscombe. Captain Weston, who had been considered, especially by the Churchills, as making such an amazing match, was proved to have much the worst of the bargain; for when his wife died, after a three years' marriage, he was rather a poorer man than at first, and with a child to maintain. From the expense of the child, however, he was soon relieved. The boy had, with the additional softening claim of a lingering illness of his mother's, been the means of a sort of reconciliation; and Mr. and Mrs. Churchill, having no children of their own, nor any other young creature of equal kindred to care for, offered to take the whole charge of the little Frank soon after her decease. Some scruples and some reluctance the widower-father may be supposed to have felt; but as they were overcome by other considerations, the child was given up to the care and the wealth of the Churchills, and he had only his own comfort to seek, and his own situation to improve as he could. A complete change of life became desirable. He quitted the militia and engaged in trade, having brothers already established in a good way in London, which afforded him a favourable opening. It was a concern which brought just employment enough. He had still a small house in Highbury, where most of his leisure days were spent; and between useful occupation and the pleasures of society, the next eighteen or twenty years of his life passed cheerfully away. He had, by that time, realised an easy competence--enough to secure the purchase of a little estate adjoining Highbury, which he had always longed for--enough to marry a woman as portionless even as Miss Taylor, and to live according to the wishes of his own friendly and social disposition. It was now some time since Miss Taylor had begun to influence his schemes; but as it was not the tyrannic influence of youth on youth, it had not shaken his determination of never settling till he could purchase Randalls, and the sale of Randalls was long looked forward to; but he had gone steadily on, with these objects in view, till they were accomplished. He had made his fortune, bought his house, and obtained his wife; and was beginning a new period of existence, with every probability of greater happiness than in any yet passed through. He had never been an unhappy man; his own temper had secured him from that, even in his first marriage; but his second must shew him how delightful a well-judging and truly amiable woman could be, and must give him the pleasantest proof of its being a great deal better to choose than to be chosen, to excite gratitude than to feel it. He had only himself to please in his choice: his fortune was his own; for as to Frank, it was more than being tacitly brought up as his uncle's heir, it had become so avowed an adoption as to have him assume the name of Churchill on coming of age. It was most unlikely, therefore, that he should ever want his father's assistance. His father had no apprehension of it. The aunt was a capricious woman, and governed her husband entirely; but it was not in Mr. Weston's nature to imagine that any caprice could be strong enough to affect one so dear, and, as he believed, so deservedly dear. He saw his son every year in London, and was proud of him; and his fond report of him as a very fine young man had made Highbury feel a sort of pride in him too. He was looked on as sufficiently belonging to the place to make his merits and prospects a kind of common concern. Mr. Frank Churchill was one of the boasts of Highbury, and a lively curiosity to see him prevailed, though the compliment was so little returned that he had never been there in his life. His coming to visit his father had been often talked of but never achieved. Now, upon his father's marriage, it was very generally proposed, as a most proper attention, that the visit should take place. There was not a dissentient voice on the subject, either when Mrs. Perry drank tea with Mrs. and Miss Bates, or when Mrs. and Miss Bates returned the visit. Now was the time for Mr. Frank Churchill to come among them; and the hope strengthened when it was understood that he had written to his new mother on the occasion. For a few days, every morning visit in Highbury included some mention of the handsome letter Mrs. Weston had received. "I suppose you have heard of the handsome letter Mr. Frank Churchill has written to Mrs. Weston? I understand it was a very handsome letter, indeed. Mr. Woodhouse told me of it. Mr. Woodhouse saw the letter, and he says he never saw such a handsome letter in his life." It was, indeed, a highly prized letter. Mrs. Weston had, of course, formed a very favourable idea of the young man; and such a pleasing attention was an irresistible proof of his great good sense, and a most welcome addition to every source and every expression of congratulation which her marriage had already secured. She felt herself a most fortunate woman; and she had lived long enough to know how fortunate she might well be thought, where the only regret was for a partial separation from friends whose friendship for her had never cooled, and who could ill bear to part with her. She knew that at times she must be missed; and could not think, without pain, of Emma's losing a single pleasure, or suffering an hour's ennui, from the want of her companionableness: but dear Emma was of no feeble character; she was more equal to her situation than most girls would have been, and had sense, and energy, and spirits that might be hoped would bear her well and happily through its little difficulties and privations. And then there was such comfort in the very easy distance of Randalls from Hartfield, so convenient for even solitary female walking, and in Mr. Weston's disposition and circumstances, which would make the approaching season no hindrance to their spending half the evenings in the week together. Her situation was altogether the subject of hours of gratitude to Mrs. Weston, and of moments only of regret; and her satisfaction--her more than satisfaction--her cheerful enjoyment, was so just and so apparent, that Emma, well as she knew her father, was sometimes taken by surprize at his being still able to pity 'poor Miss Taylor,' when they left her at Randalls in the centre of every domestic comfort, or saw her go away in the evening attended by her pleasant husband to a carriage of her own. But never did she go without Mr. Woodhouse's giving a gentle sigh, and saying, "Ah, poor Miss Taylor! She would be very glad to stay." There was no recovering Miss Taylor--nor much likelihood of ceasing to pity her; but a few weeks brought some alleviation to Mr. Woodhouse. The compliments of his neighbours were over; he was no longer teased by being wished joy of so sorrowful an event; and the wedding-cake, which had been a great distress to him, was all eat up. His own stomach could bear nothing rich, and he could never believe other people to be different from himself. What was unwholesome to him he regarded as unfit for any body; and he had, therefore, earnestly tried to dissuade them from having any wedding-cake at all, and when that proved vain, as earnestly tried to prevent any body's eating it. He had been at the pains of consulting Mr. Perry, the apothecary, on the subject. Mr. Perry was an intelligent, gentlemanlike man, whose frequent visits were one of the comforts of Mr. Woodhouse's life; and upon being applied to, he could not but acknowledge (though it seemed rather against the bias of inclination) that wedding-cake might certainly disagree with many--perhaps with most people, unless taken moderately. With such an opinion, in confirmation of his own, Mr. Woodhouse hoped to influence every visitor of the newly married pair; but still the cake was eaten; and there was no rest for his benevolent nerves till it was all gone. There was a strange rumour in Highbury of all the little Perrys being seen with a slice of Mrs. Weston's wedding-cake in their hands: but Mr. Woodhouse would never believe it. Kannst du eine geeignete Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Frank Churchill ist der dreiundzwanzigjährige Sohn von Mr. Weston aus seiner ersten Ehe. Als seine Mutter starb, als er noch ein kleines Kind war, erlaubte Mr. Weston dem Jungen, von seinem kinderlosen Bruder, Mr. Churchill, adoptiert zu werden. Mr. Churchill ist der wohlhabende Besitzer des Enscombe-Anwesens in Yorkshire. Mr. Weston nahm seine Familiengeschäfte in London wieder auf. Er blieb eng mit seinem Sohn in Kontakt, den er jedes Jahr in London traf. Da Mr. Weston seine frühen Tage in Highbury verbracht hatte, beschloss er, sich dort wieder niederzulassen. Er kaufte Randalls, ein kleines Anwesen außerhalb der Stadt, und heiratete Miss Taylor. Mr. Weston erwartete, dass sein Sohn Frank bald Highbury besuchen und seine neue Frau kennenlernen würde. Anstatt zu besuchen, schreibt Frank einen Brief an die neue Mrs. Weston. Obwohl der Brief freundlich und mit gutem Verstand gefüllt ist, fühlt sich Mrs. Weston ein wenig verletzt über Frank's Unfähigkeit, sie zu besuchen. Mr. Woodhouse tut weiterhin Mrs. Weston wegen ihrer Ehe leid, und die Menschen in der Gesellschaft von Highbury reden weiterhin über die Hochzeit und essen den übrig gebliebenen Hochzeitskuchen. Der vorsichtige Mr. Woodhouse konsultiert Dr. Perry über den Kuchen und rät dann den Stadtbewohnern, aus gesundheitlichen Gründen kein altes Essen zu essen.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten 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. Enter HOLOFERNES, SIR NATHANIEL, and DULL. NATHANIEL. Very reverent sport, truly; and done in the testimony of a good conscience. HOLOFERNES. The deer was, as you know, sanguis, in blood; ripe as the pomewater, who now hangeth like a jewel in the ear of caelo, the sky, the welkin, the heaven; and anon falleth like a crab on the face of terra, the soil, the land, the earth. NATHANIEL. Truly, Master Holofernes, the epithets are sweetly varied, like a scholar at the least: but, sir, I assure ye it was a buck of the first head. HOLOFERNES. Sir Nathaniel, haud credo. DULL. Twas not a haud credo; 'twas a pricket. HOLOFERNES. Most barbarous intimation! yet a kind of insinuation, as it were, in via, in way, of explication; facere, as it were, replication, or rather, ostentare, to show, as it were, his inclination,--after his undressed, unpolished, uneducated, unpruned, untrained, or rather, unlettered, or ratherest, unconfirmed fashion,--to insert again my haud credo for a deer. DULL. I sthe deer was not a haud credo; 'twas a pricket. HOLOFERNES. Twice sod simplicity, bis coctus! O! thou monster Ignorance, how deformed dost thou look! NATHANIEL. Sir, he hath never fed of the dainties that are bred of a book; he hath not eat paper, as it were; he hath not drunk ink: his intellect is not replenished; he is only an animal, only sensible in the duller parts: And such barren plants are set before us that we thankful should be, Which we of taste and feeling are, for those parts that do fructify in us more than he; For as it would ill become me to be vain, indiscreet, or a fool, So, were there a patch set on learning, to see him in a school. But, omne bene, say I; being of an old Father's mind: Many can brook the weather that love not the wind. DULL. You two are book-men: can you tell me by your wit, What was a month old at Cain's birth, that's not five weeks old as yet? HOLOFERNES. Dictynna, goodman Dull; Dictynna, goodman Dull. DULL. What is Dictynna? NATHANIEL. A title to Phoebe, to Luna, to the moon. HOLOFERNES. The moon was a month old when Adam was no more, And raught not to five weeks when he came to five-score. The allusion holds in the exchange. DULL. 'Tis true, indeed; the collusion holds in the exchange. HOLOFERNES. God comfort thy capacity! I say, the allusion holds in the exchange. DULL. And I say the pollusion holds in the exchange, for the moon is never but a month old; and I say beside that 'twas a pricket that the Princess killed. HOLOFERNES. Sir Nathaniel, will you hear an extemporal epitaph on the death of the deer? And, to humour the ignorant, I have call'd the deer the Princess killed, a pricket. NATHANIEL. Perge, good Master Holofernes, perge; so it shall please you to abrogate scurrility. HOLOFERNES. I will something affect the letter; for it argues facility. The preyful Princess pierc'd and prick'd a pretty pleasing pricket; Some say a sore; but not a sore till now made sore with shooting. The dogs did yell; put L to sore, then sorel jumps from thicket- Or pricket sore, or else sorel; the people fall a-hooting. If sore be sore, then L to sore makes fifty sores one sorel! Of one sore I an hundred make, by adding but one more L. NATHANIEL. A rare talent! DULL. [Aside] If a talent be a claw, look how he claws him with a talent. HOLOFERNES. This is a gift that I have, simple, simple; a foolish extravagant spirit, full of forms, figures, shapes, objects, ideas, apprehensions, motions, revolutions: these are begot in the ventricle of memory, nourished in the womb of pia mater, and delivered upon the mellowing of occasion. But the gift is good in those in whom it is acute, and I am thankful for it. NATHANIEL. Sir, I praise the Lord for you, and so may my parishioners; for their sons are well tutored by you, and their daughters profit very greatly under you: you are a good member of the commonwealth. HOLOFERNES. Mehercle! if their sons be ingenious, they shall want no instruction; if their daughters be capable, I will put it to them; but, vir sapit qui pauca loquitur. A soul feminine saluteth us. [Enter JAQUENETTA and COSTARD.] JAQUENETTA. God give you good morrow, Master parson. HOLOFERNES. Master parson, quasi pers-on. And if one should be pierced, which is the one? COSTARD. Marry, Master schoolmaster, he that is likest to a hogshead. HOLOFERNES. Piercing a hogshead! A good lustre or conceit in a turf of earth; fire enough for a flint, pearl enough for a swine; 'tis pretty; it is well. JAQUENETTA. Good Master parson [Giving a letter to NATHANIEL.], be so good as read me this letter: it was given me by Costard, and sent me from Don Armado: I beseech you read it. HOLOFERNES. 'Fauste, precor gelida quando pecus omne sub umbra Ruminat,' and so forth. Ah! good old Mantuan. I may speak of thee as the traveller doth of Venice: --Venetia, Venetia, Chi non ti vede, non ti pretia. Old Mantuan! old Mantuan! Who understandeth thee not, loves thee not. Ut, re, sol, la, mi, fa. Under pardon, sir, what are the contents? or rather as Horace says in his-- What, my soul, verses? NATHANIEL. Ay, sir, and very learned. HOLOFERNES. Let me hear a staff, a stanze, a verse; lege, domine. NATHANIEL. If love make me forsworn, how shall I swear to love? Ah! never faith could hold, if not to beauty vow'd; Though to myself forsworn, to thee I'll faithful prove; Those thoughts to me were oaks, to thee like osiers bowed. Study his bias leaves, and makes his book thine eyes, Where all those pleasures live that art would comprehend: If knowledge be the mark, to know thee shall suffice. Well learned is that tongue that well can thee commend; All ignorant that soul that sees thee without wonder; Which is to me some praise that I thy parts admire. Thy eye Jove's lightning bears, thy voice his dreadful thunder, Which, not to anger bent, is music and sweet fire. Celestial as thou art, O! pardon love this wrong, That sings heaven's praise with such an earthly tongue. HOLOFERNES. You find not the apostrophas, and so miss the accent: let me supervise the canzonet. Here are only numbers ratified; but, for the elegancy, facility, and golden cadence of poesy, caret. Ovidius Naso was the man: and why, indeed, Naso but for smelling out the odoriferous flowers of fancy, the jerks of invention? Imitari is nothing: so doth the hound his master, the ape his keeper, the 'tired horse his rider. But, damosella virgin, was this directed to you? JAQUENETTA. Ay, sir; from one Monsieur Berowne, one of the strange queen's lords. HOLOFERNES. I will overglance the superscript: 'To the snow-white hand of the most beauteous Lady Rosaline.' I will look again on the intellect of the letter, for the nomination of the party writing to the person written unto: 'Your Ladyship's in all desired employment, Berowne.'--Sir Nathaniel, this Berowne is one of the votaries with the king; and here he hath framed a letter to a sequent of the stranger queen's, which, accidentally, or by the way of progression, hath miscarried. Trip and go, my sweet; deliver this paper into the royal hand of the king; it may concern much. Stay not thy compliment; I forgive thy duty. Adieu. JAQUENETTA. Good Costard, go with me. Sir, God save your life! COSTARD. Have with thee, my girl. [Exeunt COSTARD and JAQUENETTA.] NATHANIEL. Sir, you have done this in the fear of God, very religiously; and, as a certain Father saith-- HOLOFERNES. Sir, tell not me of the Father; I do fear colourable colours. But to return to the verses: did they please you, Sir Nathaniel? NATHANIEL. Marvellous well for the pen. HOLOFERNES. I do dine to-day at the father's of a certain pupil of mine; where, if, before repast, it shall please you to gratify the table with a grace, I will, on my privilege I have with the parents of the foresaid child or pupil, undertake your ben venuto; where I will prove those verses to be very unlearned, neither savouring of poetry, wit, nor invention. I beseech your society. NATHANIEL. And thank you too; for society,--saith the text,--is the happiness of life. HOLOFERNES. And certes, the text most infallibly concludes it. [To DULL] Sir, I do invite you too; you shall not say me nay: pauca verba. Away! the gentles are at their game, and we will to our recreation. [Exeunt.] Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Diese Szene führt zwei neue Charaktere ein - Holofernes, der ein pedantischer Lehrer ist, und Sir Nathaniel, der ein Kaplan ist und von dem gelehrt wirkenden Wissen von Holofernes sehr beeindruckt ist. Diese beiden, zusammen mit dem Polizisten Dull, sind in eine völlig sinnlose Debatte über das Alter des vom Prinzessin getöteten Hirsches verwickelt. Mit Aufschneiderei holt Holofernes jedes übertriebene Wort und jede Phrase aus dem Thema heraus, um gebildet und belehrt zu klingen. Das Gespräch wird fast slapstickhaft fortgesetzt, da die anderen Charaktere einander völlig missverstehen. Jaquenetta tritt mit Costard ein, der immer noch den Brief bei sich trägt, der für Rosaline bestimmt war. Sie grüßt den Kaplan und bittet ihn, ihr den Brief vorzulesen, in dem sie denkt, er sei von Armado. Der Brief enthält stattdessen Biron's gnädiges Gedicht an Rosaline. Holofernes versucht intelligent zu klingen, während er das Gedicht zerlegt und kritisiert und sagt, dass es wenig literarischen Wert hat. Dann versucht er, seine eigene blendende und gebildete Verwendung von Sprache zu zeigen, die viel weniger anmutig klingt als das Gedicht, das er kritisiert hat. Schließlich rät er Jaquenetta, den Brief mit zum König zu nehmen, um den Fehler des fehlgeleiteten Briefes von Biron zu erklären. Als Jaquenetta und Costard gehen, lädt Holofernes Nathaniel ein, bei ihm zu Abend zu essen, in dem Haus seines Schülers, wo er verspricht, die schlechte Konstruktion der Verse zu zeigen, die er für "sehr unkundig" hält. Dann improvisiert er selbst, verwendet extrem übertriebene Alliteration. Nathaniel nimmt die Einladung freudig an und nennt Holofernes "ein seltenes Talent".

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Kapitel: Meine liebste Lucy-- "Ich weiß, du wirst besorgt sein, alles zu hören, was seit unserer Trennung am Bahnhof in Whitby passiert ist. Nun, meine Liebe, ich bin gut in Hull angekommen und habe das Boot nach Hamburg genommen und dann den Zug hierher. Ich kann mich kaum an etwas von der Reise erinnern, außer dass ich wusste, dass ich zu Jonathan komme und dass ich, da ich etwas pflegen müsste, lieber so viel Schlaf wie möglich bekommen sollte... Ich fand meinen Liebsten, oh, so dünn und blass und schwach aussehend. Alle Entschlossenheit ist aus seinen lieben Augen verschwunden, und diese ruhige Würde, von der ich dir erzählt habe, ist verflogen. Er ist nur ein Wrack seiner selbst, und er erinnert sich nicht an alles, was ihm seit langer Zeit passiert ist. Zumindest möchte er, dass ich das glaube, und ich werde niemals danach fragen. Er hat einen schrecklichen Schock erlitten, und ich fürchte, es könnte sein armes Gehirn belasten, wenn er versuchen würde, sich daran zu erinnern. Schwester Agatha, die ein gutes Wesen und eine geborene Krankenschwester ist, erzählt mir, dass er von schrecklichen Dingen geredet hat, während er nicht bei Sinnen war. Ich wollte, dass sie mir sagt, worum es ging; aber sie wollte sich nur bekreuzigen und sagen, dass die Verwirrungen der Kranken Gottes Geheimnisse seien und dass, wenn eine Krankenschwester durch ihre Berufung davon hören sollte, sie ihr Vertrauen respektieren müsse. Sie ist eine süße, gute Seele, und am nächsten Tag, als sie sah, dass ich besorgt war, sprach sie das Thema erneut an und fügte hinzu: 'Ich kann dir so viel sagen, meine Liebe: Es ging nicht um etwas, was er selbst falsch gemacht hat; und du, als seine zukünftige Frau, musst dir keine Sorgen machen. Er hat dich nicht vergessen oder was er dir schuldet. Seine Angst galt großen und furchterregenden Dingen, über die kein Sterblicher sprechen kann.' Ich glaube wirklich, dass die liebe Seele dachte, dass ich eifersüchtig sein könnte, falls mein armer Liebster sich in ein anderes Mädchen verliebt hätte. Die Vorstellung, dass _ich_ eifersüchtig auf Jonathan bin! Und doch, meine Liebe, lass mich flüstern, ich fühlte einen Freudenschauer durch mich hindurch gehen, als ich _wusste_, dass keine andere Frau der Grund für Ärger war. Jetzt sitze ich an seinem Bett, wo ich sein Gesicht im Schlaf sehen kann. Er wacht auf!... "Als er aufwachte, bat er mich um seinen Mantel, da er etwas aus der Tasche holen wollte; ich fragte Schwester Agatha, und sie brachte all seine Sachen. Ich sah, dass sein Notizbuch darunter war und wollte ihn fragen, ob ich hineinschauen dürfte - denn ich wusste dann, dass ich vielleicht einen Anhaltspunkt für seine Probleme finden könnte - aber ich nehme an, er muss meinen Wunsch in meinen Augen gesehen haben, denn er schickte mich zum Fenster und sagte, er wollte einen Moment ganz alleine sein. Dann rief er mich zurück, und als ich kam, hatte er seine Hand über dem Notizbuch und sagte zu mir sehr feierlich:-- "'Wilhelmina' - ich wusste dann, dass er todernst war, denn seitdem er mich gefragt hat, ob ich ihn heiraten will, hat er mich nie wieder mit diesem Namen angerufen - 'du weißt, Liebes, wie ich über das Vertrauen zwischen Ehemann und Ehefrau denke: Es sollte keine Geheimnisse, keine Verheimlichungen geben. Ich habe einen großen Schock erlitten, und wenn ich versuche, daran zu denken, dreht sich mein Kopf, und ich weiß nicht, ob alles wirklich war oder der Traum eines Verrückten. Du weißt, dass ich Gehirnfieber hatte, und das bedeutet verrückt sein. Das Geheimnis ist hier, und ich will es nicht wissen. Ich will hier mein Leben mit unserer Hochzeit weiterführen.' Denn, meine Liebe, wir hatten beschlossen, uns zu heiraten, sobald die Formalitäten abgeschlossen sind. 'Bist du bereit, Wilhelmina, meine Unwissenheit zu teilen? Hier ist das Buch. Nimm es und behalte es, lies es, wenn du willst, aber lass mich nie davon wissen, es sei denn, es kommt eine feierliche Pflicht auf mich zu, zu den bitteren Stunden zurückzukehren, sei es im Schlaf oder in der Wachheit, bei Verstand oder im Irrsinn, die hier aufgezeichnet sind.' Erschöpft ließ er sich zurücksinken, und ich legte das Buch unter sein Kissen und küsste ihn. Ich habe Schwester Agatha gebeten, die Oberin zu bitten, unsere Hochzeit heute Nachmittag stattfinden zu lassen, und warte auf ihre Antwort.... * * * * * "Sie kam und sagte mir, dass der Kaplan der englischen Missionskirche geholt wurde. Wir sollen in einer Stunde oder so bald wie möglich, nachdem Jonathan aufwacht, heiraten.... * * * * * "Lucy, die Zeit ist gekommen und vorübergegangen. Ich fühle mich sehr feierlich, aber sehr, sehr glücklich. Jonathan wachte kurz nach der Stunde auf, und alles war bereit, und er saß aufrecht im Bett, mit Kissen gestützt. Er antwortete fest und entschieden mit 'Ja, ich will'. Ich konnte kaum sprechen; mein Herz war so voll, dass selbst diese Worte mich zu ersticken schienen. Die lieben Schwestern waren so freundlich. So wahr mir Gott helfe, ich werde sie niemals, niemals vergessen, noch die ernsten und süßen Verantwortlichkeiten, die ich auf mich genommen habe. Ich muss dir von meinem Hochzeitsgeschenk erzählen. Als der Kaplan und die Schwestern mich allein gelassen hatten mit meinem Mann - oh, Lucy, es ist das erste Mal, dass ich die Worte 'mein Mann' schreibe - als der Kaplan und die Schwestern mich allein gelassen hatten mit meinem Mann, nahm ich das Buch unter seinem Kissen hervor, wickelte es in weißes Papier ein und band es mit einem kleinen Stück blassblauer Schleife zusammen, die um meinen Hals war, und versiegelte es über der Schleife mit Siegelwachs und als Siegel verwendete ich meinen Ehering. Dann küsste ich es und zeigte es meinem Mann und sagte ihm, dass ich es so aufbewahren würde und es für uns für immer ein äußeres und sichtbares Zeichen sein würde, dass wir einander vertrauten; dass ich es niemals öffnen würde, es sei denn, es wäre um seines eigenen lieben Wohls oder um einer ernsten Pflicht willen. Dann nahm er meine Hand in seine, und oh, Lucy, es war das erste Mal, dass er die Hand _seiner Frau_ nahm, und sagte, dass es das Liebste auf der ganzen weiten Welt sei und dass er alles Vergangene wieder durchleben würde, um es zu gewinnen, wenn es sein müsste. Der arme, liebe Mann meinte, er wollte einen Teil der Vergangenheit sagen, aber er kann noch nicht an Zeit denken, und es wird mich nicht wundern, wenn er nicht nur den Monat, sondern auch das Jahr durcheinanderbringt. "Nun, meine Liebe, was konnte ich sagen? Ich konnte ihm nur sagen, dass ich die glücklichste Frau in der ganzen weiten Welt sei und dass ich ihm nichts anderes geben könne als mich selbst, mein Leben und mein Vertrauen, und dass damit meine Liebe und Pflicht für alle Tage meines Lebens einhergehen. Und, meine Liebe, als er mich küsste und mich mit seinen schwachen Händen an sich zog, war es wie ein sehr feierlicher Pakt zwischen uns... "Lucy, liebe Freundin, weißt du, warum ich dir das alles erzähle? Es ist nicht nur, weil es Dr. Sewards Tagebuch. 20. August: Der Fall Renfields wird immer interessanter. Er hat sich jetzt so weit beruhigt, dass es Zeiten der Pause von seinen Anfällen gibt. In der ersten Woche nach seinem Angriff war er ständig gewalttätig. Dann wurde er eine Nacht lang ruhig, genau als der Mond aufging, und fing an zu sich selbst zu murmeln: "Jetzt kann ich warten; jetzt kann ich warten." Der Pfleger kam, um es mir mitzuteilen, also lief ich sofort hinunter, um ihn anzuschauen. Er war immer noch in der Zwangsjacke und im gepolsterten Raum, aber der gerötete Blick war aus seinem Gesicht verschwunden und seine Augen hatten etwas von ihrer alten bittenden - könnte man fast sagen, "kriechenden" - Weichheit. Ich war zufrieden mit seinem aktuellen Zustand und wies an, dass er erleichtert werden sollte. Die Pfleger zögerten, führten aber schließlich meine Wünsche ohne Protest aus. Es war seltsam, dass der Patient genug Humor hatte, um ihr Misstrauen zu sehen. Er kam zu mir und flüsterte, während er heimlich zu ihnen hinüberschaute: "Sie denken, ich könnte Ihnen etwas antun! Stellen Sie sich vor, _ich_ Ihnen etwas antun! Narren!" Es war irgendwie beruhigend für meine Gefühle, mich selbst in dem Geist dieses armen Verrückten von den anderen abgesondert zu finden, aber trotzdem verstehe ich seinen Gedanken nicht. Soll ich es so verstehen, dass ich irgendetwas mit ihm gemeinsam habe, so dass wir gewissermaßen zusammenstehen sollen? Oder hat er von mir einen derart gewaltigen Nutzen, dass mein Wohlergehen für ihn notwendig ist? Das muss ich später herausfinden. Heute Abend wird er nicht sprechen. Nicht einmal das Angebot eines Kätzchens oder einer ausgewachsenen Katze kann ihn verlocken. Er wird nur sagen: "Ich interessiere mich nicht für Katzen. Ich habe jetzt mehr zu bedenken und warten kann ich auch." Nach einer Weile verließ ich ihn. Der Pfleger erzählte mir, dass er ruhig war, bis kurz vor der Morgendämmerung, und dass er dann unruhig wurde und schließlich gewalttätig, bis er schließlich in einen Paroxysmus fiel, der ihn so erschöpfte, dass er in eine Art Koma verfiel. ... Drei Nächte hintereinander geschah dasselbe - tagsüber gewalttätig und dann von Sonnenuntergang bis Sonnenaufgang ruhig. Ich wünschte, ich könnte einen Hinweis auf die Ursache bekommen. Es scheint fast so, als ob irgendein Einfluss kommt und geht. Gute Idee! Heute Abend werden wir kluge Gedanken gegen verrückte stellen. Er ist schon einmal ohne unsere Hilfe entkommen; heute Nacht wird er mit unserer Hilfe entkommen. Wir werden ihm eine Chance geben und die Männer bereithalten, falls sie gebraucht werden.... 23. August: "Das Unerwartete passiert immer." Wie gut Disraeli das Leben kannte. Unser Vogel wollte, als er den Käfig offen fand, nicht fliegen, also waren all unsere raffinierten Vorbereitungen umsonst. Auf jeden Fall haben wir eine Sache bewiesen: dass die Phasen der Ruhezeit eine angemessene Zeit dauern. In Zukunft werden wir seine Fesseln für ein paar Stunden am Tag lösen können. Ich habe den Nachtpfleger angewiesen, ihn einfach im gepolsterten Raum einzuschließen, sobald er ruhig ist, bis eine Stunde vor Sonnenaufgang. Der arme Körper der Seele wird die Erleichterung genießen, auch wenn sein Verstand es nicht zu schätzen weiß. Hör mal! Wieder das Unerwartete! Ich werde gerufen; der Patient ist wieder entkommen. Später: Ein weiteres nächtliches Abenteuer. Renfield hat geschickt gewartet, bis der Pfleger dabei war, den Raum zu inspizieren. Dann ist er an ihm vorbeigelaufen und den Flur hinuntergeflogen. Ich habe den Pflegern gesagt, dass sie ihm folgen sollen. Wieder ist er auf das Grundstück des verlassenen Hauses gegangen und wir haben ihn an derselben Stelle gefunden, an der er sich gegen die Tür der alten Kapelle drückte. Als er mich sah, wurde er wütend, und wenn die Pfleger ihn nicht rechtzeitig ergriffen hätten, hätte er versucht, mich zu töten. Während wir ihn festhielten, geschah etwas Seltsames. Er verdoppelte plötzlich seine Anstrengungen und wurde dann genauso plötzlich ruhig. Ich schaute instinktiv herum, konnte aber nichts sehen. Dann fing ich den Blick des Patienten auf und folgte ihm, aber ich konnte nichts ausmachen, als er in den von Mondlicht beleuchteten Himmel schaute, außer einer großen Fledermaus, die ihren lautlosen und geisterhaften Weg gen Westen flatterte. Fledermäuse flattern normalerweise herum, aber diese schien geradewegs weiterzufliegen, als würde sie wissen, wohin sie gehen soll oder hätte eigene Absichten. Der Patient wurde mit jeder Sekunde ruhiger und sagte schließlich: "Sie brauchen mich nicht anzubinden; ich werde ruhig gehen!" Ohne Probleme kamen wir zurück ins Haus. Ich spüre, dass es etwas Unheilvolles an seiner Ruhe gibt, und werde diese Nacht nicht vergessen.... Lucy Westenra's Tagebuch. Hillingham, 24. August: Ich muss Mina nachahmen und Dinge aufschreiben. Dann können wir lange reden, wenn wir uns treffen. Ich frage mich, wann das sein wird. Ich wünschte, sie wäre wieder bei mir, denn ich fühle mich so unglücklich. Letzte Nacht schien ich wieder zu träumen, genauso wie in Whitby. Vielleicht liegt es am Klimawechsel oder daran, wieder zu Hause zu sein. Es ist alles dunkel und schrecklich für mich, denn ich kann mich an nichts erinnern; aber ich habe eine vage Angst und fühle mich so schwach und erschöpft. Als Arthur zum Mittagessen kam, sah er ganz betrübt aus, als er mich sah, und ich hatte nicht den Mut, fröhlich zu sein. Ich frage mich, ob ich heute Nacht in Mutters Zimmer schlafen könnte. Ich werde eine Ausrede finden und es versuchen. 25. August: Wieder eine schlechte Nacht. Mutter schien meinen Vorschlag nicht anzunehmen. Sie selbst scheint nicht allzu gut zu sein und fürchtet zweifellos, mich zu besorgen. Ich habe versucht wach zu bleiben und es eine Weile geschafft; aber als die Uhr zwölf schlug, weckte sie mich aus einem Dämmerschlaf, also muss ich eingeschlafen sein. Es gab ein Kratzen oder Flattern am Fenster, aber es störte mich nicht, und da ich mich an nichts mehr erinnere, nehme ich an, dass ich dann eingeschlafen sein muss. Mehr schlechte Träume. Ich wünschte, ich könnte mich an sie erinnern. Heute Morgen bin ich furchtbar schwach. Mein Gesicht ist leichenhaft blass und mein Hals schmerzt. Es muss etwas mit meinen Lungen nicht stimmen, denn ich scheine nie genug Luft zu bekommen. Ich werde versuchen, fröhlich zu sein, wenn Arthur kommt, sonst wird er unglücklich sein, mich so zu sehen. Brief von Arthur Holmwood an Dr. Seward. "Albemarle Hotel, 31. August. Lieber Jack, ich möchte dich um einen Gefallen bitten. Lucy ist krank; sie hat keine spezielle Krankheit, aber sie sieht schrecklich aus und wird jeden Tag schlechter. Ich habe sie gefragt, ob es einen Grund gibt; ich traue mich nicht, ihre Mutter zu fragen, denn ihre Mutter im gegenwärtigen Zustand ihrer Gesundheit wegen ihrer Tochter zu beunruhigen wäre fatal. Mrs. Westenra hat mir anvertraut, dass ihr Schicksal besiegelt ist - Herzkrankheit - obwohl arme Lucy es noch nicht weiß. Ich bin sicher, dass etwas auf dem Herzen meiner geliebten Lucy lastet. Es macht mich fast wahnsinnig, wenn ich an sie denke; sie anzusehen verursacht mir einen Stich. Ich habe ihr gesagt, dass ich dich bitten werde, sie zu sehen, und obwohl sie anfangs gezögert hat - ich weiß warum, alter Freund - hat sie schließlich zugestimmt. Es wird eine schmerzhafte Aufgabe für dich sein, das weiß ich, alter Freund, aber es "Was there anything in particular you wanted to tell me about Miss Westenra's condition, Dr. Seward? I must admit I am quite curious, as she is a dear friend of mine." I answered him as promptly and accurately as I could, and he nodded in approval. "Thank you, my friend. Your report is quite thorough, and I appreciate your honesty. It seems that Miss Westenra's health is not in immediate danger, but there are some concerning symptoms that I would like to investigate further. I believe the root of her issues may be psychological rather than physical. She mentioned difficulty breathing and lethargic sleep with frightening dreams, which could be indicators of an underlying mental disturbance. As a child, she had a history of sleepwalking, and although the habit seems to have stopped recently, it's worth considering in our analysis. I have taken the liberty of writing to Professor Van Helsing, a highly respected expert in obscure diseases, and I have requested his assistance. I have also informed him of your relationship with Miss Westenra and your willingness to cover any expenses. I hope you understand, my dear friend, that my intention is solely to aid Miss Westenra in any way possible. Professor Van Helsing is known for his extensive knowledge and open-mindedness, and I trust him implicitly in this matter. He will be joining us shortly. In the meantime, I plan to meet with Miss Westenra again tomorrow to discuss her condition further. I will ensure that it is a convenient time for her, so as not to alarm her mother excessively. I will keep you updated with any new developments. Wishing you all the best." - Dr. John Seward, M.D. "Meine liebe junge Miss, ich habe das so große Vergnügen, weil Sie so sehr geliebt werden. Das ist viel, meine Liebe, waren jemals Dinge vorhanden, die ich nicht sehe. Sie sagten mir, dass Sie niedergeschlagen sind und eine grässlich blasse Haut haben. Zu ihnen sage ich: 'Pouf!' Und er schnippte mit den Fingern nach mir und fuhr fort: 'Aber du und ich werden ihnen zeigen, wie falsch sie liegen. Wie kann er' - und er zeigte mit demselben Blick und der gleichen Geste auf mich, wie damals, als er mich an jenem bestimmten Anlass seiner Klasse vorstellte oder genauer gesagt danach - 'etwas über junge Damen wissen? Er hat seine Damen, mit denen er spielt und sie zurück ins Glück und zu denen, die sie lieben, bringt. Das ist viel zu tun und, oh, es gibt Belohnungen, wenn wir solches Glück verleihen können. Aber die jungen Damen! Er hat keine Frau oder Tochter, und die Jungen erzählen sich nicht gegenseitig, sondern den Alten wie mir, die so viele Traurigkeiten und die Ursachen dafür kennen. Also, meine Liebe, werden wir ihn in den Garten schicken, um eine Zigarette zu rauchen, während du und ich ein kleines Gespräch unter uns haben.' Ich nahm den Hinweis an und schlenderte umher, und bald darauf kam der Professor zum Fenster und rief mich herein. Er sah ernst aus, aber sagte: 'Ich habe eine gründliche Untersuchung gemacht, aber es gibt keine funktionale Ursache. Ich stimme Ihnen zu, dass viel Blut verloren wurde; es war so, ist es aber nicht mehr. Aber die Bedingungen, in denen sie sich befindet, sind in keiner Weise anämisch. Ich habe sie gebeten, mir ihre Zofe zu schicken, damit ich nur eine oder zwei Fragen stellen kann, damit ich nichts verpassen kann. Ich weiß gut, was sie sagen wird. Und doch gibt es einen Grund; es gibt immer einen Grund für alles. Ich muss nach Hause zurückgehen und nachdenken. Sie müssen mir jeden Tag das Telegramm schicken; und wenn es einen Grund gibt, werde ich wieder kommen. Die Krankheit - denn nicht ganz gesund zu sein ist eine Krankheit - interessiert mich, und das süße junge Liebchen interessiert mich auch. Sie bezaubert mich, und für sie, wenn nicht für dich oder die Krankheit, komme ich.' "Wie ich dir gesagt habe, würde er kein Wort mehr sagen, selbst als wir alleine waren. Und so, Art, weißt du jetzt alles, was ich weiß. Ich werde wachsam bleiben. Ich hoffe, dein armer Vater erholt sich. Es muss schrecklich für dich sein, mein lieber alter Freund, in solch eine Position zwischen zwei Menschen gebracht zu werden, die dir beide so lieb sind. Ich kenne deine Vorstellung von der Pflicht gegenüber deinem Vater, und du hast Recht, daran festzuhalten; aber wenn es nötig ist, werde ich dir sagen, dass du sofort zu Lucy kommen sollst. Sei also nicht unnötig besorgt, es sei denn, du hörst von mir." _Dr. Sewards Tagebuch._ _4. September._ - Der zooephage Patient hält noch immer unser Interesse aufrecht. Er hatte nur einen Ausbruch, und das war gestern zu einer ungewöhnlichen Zeit. Kurz vor dem Mittagsschlag wurde er unruhig. Der Pfleger kannte die Symptome und rief sofort Hilfe herbei. Glücklicherweise kamen die Männer im Laufschritt und waren gerade rechtzeitig da, denn beim Mittagsschlag wurde er so gewalttätig, dass sie all ihre Kraft brauchten, um ihn festzuhalten. Nach ungefähr fünf Minuten wurde er jedoch immer ruhiger und versank schließlich in einer Art Melancholie, in der er bis jetzt verharrt. Der Pfleger berichtete mir, dass seine Schreie während des Anfalls wirklich erschreckend waren; als ich ankam, hatte ich alle Hände voll zu tun, mich um einige der anderen Patienten zu kümmern, die durch ihn verängstigt waren. Tatsächlich kann ich den Effekt gut nachvollziehen, denn die Geräusche haben sogar mich gestört, obwohl ich einige Entfernung entfernt war. Es ist jetzt nach der Abendessenszeit der Anstalt, und bisher sitzt mein Patient in einer Ecke und grübelt mit einem dumpfen, mürrischen, elenden Ausdruck in seinem Gesicht, der eher etwas indiziert als direkt zeigt. Ich kann es nicht ganz verstehen. * * * * * _Später._ - Wieder eine Veränderung bei meinem Patienten. Um fünf Uhr schaute ich bei ihm vorbei und fand ihn scheinbar so glücklich und zufrieden wie früher. Er fing Fliegen und fraß sie, und hielt seine Fangaktionen durch Nägelspuren auf dem Türabsatz zwischen den Polsterrillen fest. Als er mich sah, kam er zu mir und entschuldigte sich für sein schlechtes Benehmen und bat mich in einer sehr demütigen, unterwürfigen Art und Weise, wieder zu seinem eigenen Zimmer geführt zu werden und sein Notizbuch zurückzubekommen. Ich dachte, es sei besser, ihn zu beruhigen: Also ist er wieder in seinem Zimmer mit geöffnetem Fenster. Er hat den Zucker seines Tees auf dem Fensterbrett verteilt und erntet eine ganze Menge Fliegen ein. Er isst sie jetzt nicht, sondern steckt sie wie früher in eine Schachtel und untersucht bereits die Ecken seines Zimmers, um eine Spinne zu finden. Ich versuchte, ihn über die letzten Tage zu befragen, denn jeder Anhaltspunkt für seine Gedanken wäre mir eine immense Hilfe; aber er wollte nicht aufstehen. Für einen Augenblick sah er sehr traurig aus und sagte mit einer Art ferner Stimme, als ob er es eher zu sich selbst als zu mir sagen würde: "Alles vorbei! Alles vorbei! Er hat mich im Stich gelassen. Keine Hoffnung für mich, es sei denn, ich tue es selbst!" Dann wandte er sich plötzlich mit entschlossenem Blick an mich und sagte: "Doktor, werden Sie bitte sehr gut zu mir sein und lassen Sie mich noch ein wenig Zucker haben? Ich glaube, es würde mir guttun." "Und die Fliegen?" fragte ich. "Ja! Die Fliegen mögen es auch, und ich mag die Fliegen; deshalb mag ich es." Und es gibt Leute, die so wenig wissen und denken, dass Verrückte nicht argumentieren. Ich besorgte ihm eine doppelte Portion und ließ ihn als einen glücklichen Mann zurück, der, wie ich vermute, in der Welt ist. Ich wünschte, ich könnte seinen Geist ergründen. * * * * * _Mitternacht._ - Eine weitere Veränderung bei ihm. Ich war bei Miss Westenra, die ich viel besser fand, und war gerade zurückgekehrt und stand an unserem Tor und betrachtete den Sonnenuntergang, als ich ihn wieder schreien hörte. Da sein Zimmer auf dieser Seite des Hauses liegt, konnte ich es besser hören als am Morgen. Es war ein Schock für mich, mich von der wunderbaren, rauchigen Schönheit eines Sonnenuntergangs über London abzuwenden, mit ihren düsteren Lichtern und tintenschwarzen Schatten und all den wunderbaren Farben, die sich auf trüben Wolken ebenso wie auf trübem Wasser zeigen, und mir all die grimmige Strenge meines eigenen kalten Steinbaus mit seinem Reichtum an atmender Qual bewusst zu werden, und mein eigenes verlassenes Herz, all das ertragen zu müssen. Ich erreichte ihn gerade, als die Sonne unterging, und von seinem Fenster aus sah ich die rote Scheibe sinken. Als sie sank, wurde er immer ruhiger und wurde genau in dem Moment, als sie unterging, von den Händen, die ihn festhielten, zu einer leblosen Masse auf den Boden geschleudert. Es ist jedoch wunderbar, welche intellektuelle Erholungskraft Wahnsinnige haben, denn innerhalb weniger Minuten stand er ganz ruhig auf und sah sich um. Ich winkte den Pflegern zu, ihn nicht festzuhalten, denn ich wollte sehen, was er tun würde. Er ging direkt ans Fenster und kehrte die Zuckerkörner heraus; dann nahm er seine Fliegenbox und leerte sie draußen aus und warf die Box weg; dann schloss er Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Entnommen aus Briefen zwischen Mina Harker und Lucy Westenra, datiert vom 24. August und 30. August; den Tagebucheinträgen von Dr. Seward vom 20. August und 23. August; den Tagebucheinträgen von Lucy Westenra vom 24. August und 25. August; Briefen und Telegrammen zwischen Arthur Holmwood und Dr. Seward, datiert vom 31. August, 1. September und 2. September; einem Brief von Abraham Van Helsing an Dr. Seward, datiert vom 2. September; einem Brief von Dr. Seward an Arthur Holmwood, datiert vom 3. September; dem Tagebucheintrag von Dr. Seward vom 4. September; Telegrammen von Dr. Seward an Abraham Van Helsing, datiert vom 4. September, 5. September und 6. September. Mina schreibt an Lucy und erzählt ihr, dass Jonathan sich fast nichts von dem erinnern kann, was ihm in Transsilvanien passiert ist. Er glaubt, dass sein Tagebuch das Geheimnis der Entstehung seines Gehirnfiebers enthält, aber er hat Angst, es zu lesen. Er gibt Mina das Tagebuch, erlaubt ihr, es zu lesen, bittet sie jedoch, ihm nie zu sagen, was dort geschrieben steht. Jonathan und Mina entscheiden sich, sofort zu heiraten. Mina wickelt Jonathans Tagebuch ein, bindet es mit einer Schnur und versiegelt den Knoten mit Wachs, mit dem Entschluss, das Buch nie zu lesen, es sei denn, es ist aus Jonathans Interesse oder wegen einer "strengen Pflicht". Lucy schickt einen Brief, in dem sie Mina gratuliert und ihr mitteilt, dass Arthur sich ihr in Whitby angeschlossen hat. In Dr. Sewards Tagebuch erfahren wir mehr über Renfield. Eingesperrt murmelt er immer wieder "Ich kann warten". Er entkommt erneut und wird erneut an der Tür der Kapelle von Carfax gefunden. Als die Bediensteten versuchen, den wütenden Wahnsinnigen zu bändigen, wird Renfield plötzlich ruhig bei dem Anblick einer riesigen Fledermaus, die über den Himmel fliegt. Lucy beginnt, ihr eigenes Tagebuch zu führen. Sie ist zurück aus Whitby, aber ihre Gesundheit verschlechtert sich weiterhin. Nachts wird ihr Schlaf durch das Geräusch von etwas, das an ihrem Fenster kratzt, gestört. Ihr Hals schmerzt furchtbar. Arthur schreibt an Dr. Seward und bittet ihn, Lucy zu besuchen. Ihre Gesundheit verschlechtert sich, und Arthur ist besorgt. Obwohl er sich um seine Verlobte sorgt, wird er plötzlich an die Seite seines Vaters gerufen, der sehr krank ist. Dr. Seward geht zu Lucy und berichtet Arthur, dass er keine Ursache für ihre Krankheit finden kann. Dr. Seward schreibt einen Brief an seinen alten Mentor Abraham Van Helsing, einen brillanten Arzt mit umfassendem Wissen über obskure Krankheiten. Van Helsing macht einen kurzen Besuch und kann jedoch die Ursache von Lucys Krankheit nicht genau bestimmen, ist aber von ihren Symptomen sichtlich beunruhigt. Er sagt Dr. Seward, ihn über jede Veränderung von Lucys Zustand zu informieren. Renfield fängt wieder Fliegen und isst sie, indem er Zucker als Köder benutzt. Aber dann hat er plötzlich eine Sinnesänderung und erklärt, dass er seine alten eigentümlichen Verhaltensweisen leid ist. Am 4. und 5. September sendet Dr. Seward Telegramme, in denen er sagt, dass Lucys Zustand sich verbessert. Am 6. September sendet er ein dringendes Telegramm und berichtet von einer schrecklichen Veränderung. Er bittet Van Helsing, sofort 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. Chapter: ACT IV. Scene I. Elsinore. A room in the Castle. Enter King and Queen, with Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. King. There's matter in these sighs. These profound heaves You must translate; 'tis fit we understand them. Where is your son? Queen. Bestow this place on us a little while. [Exeunt Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.] Ah, mine own lord, what have I seen to-night! King. What, Gertrude? How does Hamlet? Queen. Mad as the sea and wind when both contend Which is the mightier. In his lawless fit Behind the arras hearing something stir, Whips out his rapier, cries 'A rat, a rat!' And in this brainish apprehension kills The unseen good old man. King. O heavy deed! It had been so with us, had we been there. His liberty is full of threats to all- To you yourself, to us, to every one. Alas, how shall this bloody deed be answer'd? It will be laid to us, whose providence Should have kept short, restrain'd, and out of haunt This mad young man. But so much was our love We would not understand what was most fit, But, like the owner of a foul disease, To keep it from divulging, let it feed Even on the pith of life. Where is he gone? Queen. To draw apart the body he hath kill'd; O'er whom his very madness, like some ore Among a mineral of metals base, Shows itself pure. He weeps for what is done. King. O Gertrude, come away! The sun no sooner shall the mountains touch But we will ship him hence; and this vile deed We must with all our majesty and skill Both countenance and excuse. Ho, Guildenstern! Enter Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. Friends both, go join you with some further aid. Hamlet in madness hath Polonius slain, And from his mother's closet hath he dragg'd him. Go seek him out; speak fair, and bring the body Into the chapel. I pray you haste in this. Exeunt [Rosencrantz and Guildenstern]. Come, Gertrude, we'll call up our wisest friends And let them know both what we mean to do And what's untimely done. [So haply slander-] Whose whisper o'er the world's diameter, As level as the cannon to his blank, Transports his poisoned shot- may miss our name And hit the woundless air.- O, come away! My soul is full of discord and dismay. Exeunt. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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Gertrude berichtet Claudius von Polonius' Tod. Sie erzählt ihm, dass Hamlet reumütig über seine Tat ist und Claudius schickt Rosencrantz und Guildenstern, um Hamlet und die Leiche zu holen. Er und Gertrude planen, Hamlet wegen seines Wahnsinns zu verzeihen und ihn dann wegzuschicken.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: The month of courtship had wasted: its very last hours were being numbered. There was no putting off the day that advanced--the bridal day; and all preparations for its arrival were complete. _I_, at least, had nothing more to do: there were my trunks, packed, locked, corded, ranged in a row along the wall of my little chamber; to-morrow, at this time, they would be far on their road to London: and so should I (D.V.),--or rather, not I, but one Jane Rochester, a person whom as yet I knew not. The cards of address alone remained to nail on: they lay, four little squares, in the drawer. Mr. Rochester had himself written the direction, "Mrs. Rochester, --- Hotel, London," on each: I could not persuade myself to affix them, or to have them affixed. Mrs. Rochester! She did not exist: she would not be born till to-morrow, some time after eight o'clock a.m.; and I would wait to be assured she had come into the world alive before I assigned to her all that property. It was enough that in yonder closet, opposite my dressing-table, garments said to be hers had already displaced my black stuff Lowood frock and straw bonnet: for not to me appertained that suit of wedding raiment; the pearl-coloured robe, the vapoury veil pendent from the usurped portmanteau. I shut the closet to conceal the strange, wraith-like apparel it contained; which, at this evening hour--nine o'clock--gave out certainly a most ghostly shimmer through the shadow of my apartment. "I will leave you by yourself, white dream," I said. "I am feverish: I hear the wind blowing: I will go out of doors and feel it." It was not only the hurry of preparation that made me feverish; not only the anticipation of the great change--the new life which was to commence to-morrow: both these circumstances had their share, doubtless, in producing that restless, excited mood which hurried me forth at this late hour into the darkening grounds: but a third cause influenced my mind more than they. I had at heart a strange and anxious thought. Something had happened which I could not comprehend; no one knew of or had seen the event but myself: it had taken place the preceding night. Mr. Rochester that night was absent from home; nor was he yet returned: business had called him to a small estate of two or three farms he possessed thirty miles off--business it was requisite he should settle in person, previous to his meditated departure from England. I waited now his return; eager to disburthen my mind, and to seek of him the solution of the enigma that perplexed me. Stay till he comes, reader; and, when I disclose my secret to him, you shall share the confidence. I sought the orchard, driven to its shelter by the wind, which all day had blown strong and full from the south, without, however, bringing a speck of rain. Instead of subsiding as night drew on, it seemed to augment its rush and deepen its roar: the trees blew steadfastly one way, never writhing round, and scarcely tossing back their boughs once in an hour; so continuous was the strain bending their branchy heads northward--the clouds drifted from pole to pole, fast following, mass on mass: no glimpse of blue sky had been visible that July day. It was not without a certain wild pleasure I ran before the wind, delivering my trouble of mind to the measureless air-torrent thundering through space. Descending the laurel walk, I faced the wreck of the chestnut-tree; it stood up black and riven: the trunk, split down the centre, gasped ghastly. The cloven halves were not broken from each other, for the firm base and strong roots kept them unsundered below; though community of vitality was destroyed--the sap could flow no more: their great boughs on each side were dead, and next winter's tempests would be sure to fell one or both to earth: as yet, however, they might be said to form one tree--a ruin, but an entire ruin. "You did right to hold fast to each other," I said: as if the monster- splinters were living things, and could hear me. "I think, scathed as you look, and charred and scorched, there must be a little sense of life in you yet, rising out of that adhesion at the faithful, honest roots: you will never have green leaves more--never more see birds making nests and singing idyls in your boughs; the time of pleasure and love is over with you: but you are not desolate: each of you has a comrade to sympathise with him in his decay." As I looked up at them, the moon appeared momentarily in that part of the sky which filled their fissure; her disk was blood-red and half overcast; she seemed to throw on me one bewildered, dreary glance, and buried herself again instantly in the deep drift of cloud. The wind fell, for a second, round Thornfield; but far away over wood and water, poured a wild, melancholy wail: it was sad to listen to, and I ran off again. Here and there I strayed through the orchard, gathered up the apples with which the grass round the tree roots was thickly strewn; then I employed myself in dividing the ripe from the unripe; I carried them into the house and put them away in the store-room. Then I repaired to the library to ascertain whether the fire was lit, for, though summer, I knew on such a gloomy evening Mr. Rochester would like to see a cheerful hearth when he came in: yes, the fire had been kindled some time, and burnt well. I placed his arm-chair by the chimney-corner: I wheeled the table near it: I let down the curtain, and had the candles brought in ready for lighting. More restless than ever, when I had completed these arrangements I could not sit still, nor even remain in the house: a little time-piece in the room and the old clock in the hall simultaneously struck ten. "How late it grows!" I said. "I will run down to the gates: it is moonlight at intervals; I can see a good way on the road. He may be coming now, and to meet him will save some minutes of suspense." The wind roared high in the great trees which embowered the gates; but the road as far as I could see, to the right hand and the left, was all still and solitary: save for the shadows of clouds crossing it at intervals as the moon looked out, it was but a long pale line, unvaried by one moving speck. A puerile tear dimmed my eye while I looked--a tear of disappointment and impatience; ashamed of it, I wiped it away. I lingered; the moon shut herself wholly within her chamber, and drew close her curtain of dense cloud: the night grew dark; rain came driving fast on the gale. "I wish he would come! I wish he would come!" I exclaimed, seized with hypochondriac foreboding. I had expected his arrival before tea; now it was dark: what could keep him? Had an accident happened? The event of last night again recurred to me. I interpreted it as a warning of disaster. I feared my hopes were too bright to be realised; and I had enjoyed so much bliss lately that I imagined my fortune had passed its meridian, and must now decline. "Well, I cannot return to the house," I thought; "I cannot sit by the fireside, while he is abroad in inclement weather: better tire my limbs than strain my heart; I will go forward and meet him." I set out; I walked fast, but not far: ere I had measured a quarter of a mile, I heard the tramp of hoofs; a horseman came on, full gallop; a dog ran by his side. Away with evil presentiment! It was he: here he was, mounted on Mesrour, followed by Pilot. He saw me; for the moon had opened a blue field in the sky, and rode in it watery bright: he took his hat off, and waved it round his head. I now ran to meet him. "There!" he exclaimed, as he stretched out his hand and bent from the saddle: "You can't do without me, that is evident. Step on my boot-toe; give me both hands: mount!" I obeyed: joy made me agile: I sprang up before him. A hearty kissing I got for a welcome, and some boastful triumph, which I swallowed as well as I could. He checked himself in his exultation to demand, "But is there anything the matter, Janet, that you come to meet me at such an hour? Is there anything wrong?" "No, but I thought you would never come. I could not bear to wait in the house for you, especially with this rain and wind." "Rain and wind, indeed! Yes, you are dripping like a mermaid; pull my cloak round you: but I think you are feverish, Jane: both your cheek and hand are burning hot. I ask again, is there anything the matter?" "Nothing now; I am neither afraid nor unhappy." "Then you have been both?" "Rather: but I'll tell you all about it by-and-bye, sir; and I daresay you will only laugh at me for my pains." "I'll laugh at you heartily when to-morrow is past; till then I dare not: my prize is not certain. This is you, who have been as slippery as an eel this last month, and as thorny as a briar-rose? I could not lay a finger anywhere but I was pricked; and now I seem to have gathered up a stray lamb in my arms. You wandered out of the fold to seek your shepherd, did you, Jane?" "I wanted you: but don't boast. Here we are at Thornfield: now let me get down." He landed me on the pavement. As John took his horse, and he followed me into the hall, he told me to make haste and put something dry on, and then return to him in the library; and he stopped me, as I made for the staircase, to extort a promise that I would not be long: nor was I long; in five minutes I rejoined him. I found him at supper. "Take a seat and bear me company, Jane: please God, it is the last meal but one you will eat at Thornfield Hall for a long time." I sat down near him, but told him I could not eat. "Is it because you have the prospect of a journey before you, Jane? Is it the thoughts of going to London that takes away your appetite?" "I cannot see my prospects clearly to-night, sir; and I hardly know what thoughts I have in my head. Everything in life seems unreal." "Except me: I am substantial enough--touch me." "You, sir, are the most phantom-like of all: you are a mere dream." He held out his hand, laughing. "Is that a dream?" said he, placing it close to my eyes. He had a rounded, muscular, and vigorous hand, as well as a long, strong arm. "Yes; though I touch it, it is a dream," said I, as I put it down from before my face. "Sir, have you finished supper?" "Yes, Jane." I rang the bell and ordered away the tray. When we were again alone, I stirred the fire, and then took a low seat at my master's knee. "It is near midnight," I said. "Yes: but remember, Jane, you promised to wake with me the night before my wedding." "I did; and I will keep my promise, for an hour or two at least: I have no wish to go to bed." "Are all your arrangements complete?" "All, sir." "And on my part likewise," he returned, "I have settled everything; and we shall leave Thornfield to-morrow, within half-an-hour after our return from church." "Very well, sir." "With what an extraordinary smile you uttered that word--'very well,' Jane! What a bright spot of colour you have on each cheek! and how strangely your eyes glitter! Are you well?" "I believe I am." "Believe! What is the matter? Tell me what you feel." "I could not, sir: no words could tell you what I feel. I wish this present hour would never end: who knows with what fate the next may come charged?" "This is hypochondria, Jane. You have been over-excited, or over-fatigued." "Do you, sir, feel calm and happy?" "Calm?--no: but happy--to the heart's core." I looked up at him to read the signs of bliss in his face: it was ardent and flushed. "Give me your confidence, Jane," he said: "relieve your mind of any weight that oppresses it, by imparting it to me. What do you fear?--that I shall not prove a good husband?" "It is the idea farthest from my thoughts." "Are you apprehensive of the new sphere you are about to enter?--of the new life into which you are passing?" "No." "You puzzle me, Jane: your look and tone of sorrowful audacity perplex and pain me. I want an explanation." "Then, sir, listen. You were from home last night?" "I was: I know that; and you hinted a while ago at something which had happened in my absence:--nothing, probably, of consequence; but, in short, it has disturbed you. Let me hear it. Mrs. Fairfax has said something, perhaps? or you have overheard the servants talk?--your sensitive self-respect has been wounded?" "No, sir." It struck twelve--I waited till the time-piece had concluded its silver chime, and the clock its hoarse, vibrating stroke, and then I proceeded. "All day yesterday I was very busy, and very happy in my ceaseless bustle; for I am not, as you seem to think, troubled by any haunting fears about the new sphere, et cetera: I think it a glorious thing to have the hope of living with you, because I love you. No, sir, don't caress me now--let me talk undisturbed. Yesterday I trusted well in Providence, and believed that events were working together for your good and mine: it was a fine day, if you recollect--the calmness of the air and sky forbade apprehensions respecting your safety or comfort on your journey. I walked a little while on the pavement after tea, thinking of you; and I beheld you in imagination so near me, I scarcely missed your actual presence. I thought of the life that lay before me--_your_ life, sir--an existence more expansive and stirring than my own: as much more so as the depths of the sea to which the brook runs are than the shallows of its own strait channel. I wondered why moralists call this world a dreary wilderness: for me it blossomed like a rose. Just at sunset, the air turned cold and the sky cloudy: I went in, Sophie called me upstairs to look at my wedding-dress, which they had just brought; and under it in the box I found your present--the veil which, in your princely extravagance, you sent for from London: resolved, I suppose, since I would not have jewels, to cheat me into accepting something as costly. I smiled as I unfolded it, and devised how I would tease you about your aristocratic tastes, and your efforts to masque your plebeian bride in the attributes of a peeress. I thought how I would carry down to you the square of unembroidered blond I had myself prepared as a covering for my low-born head, and ask if that was not good enough for a woman who could bring her husband neither fortune, beauty, nor connections. I saw plainly how you would look; and heard your impetuous republican answers, and your haughty disavowal of any necessity on your part to augment your wealth, or elevate your standing, by marrying either a purse or a coronet." "How well you read me, you witch!" interposed Mr. Rochester: "but what did you find in the veil besides its embroidery? Did you find poison, or a dagger, that you look so mournful now?" "Niemand war bei mir, als ich wieder zu mir kam." "No one, sir, but the broad day. I rose, bathed my head and face in water, drank a long draught; felt that though enfeebled I was not ill, and determined that to none but you would I impart this vision. Now, sir, tell me who and what that woman was?" "The creature of an over-stimulated brain; that is certain. I must be careful of you, my treasure: nerves like yours were not made for rough handling." "Sir, depend on it, my nerves were not in fault; the thing was real: the transaction actually took place." "And your previous dreams, were they real too? Is Thornfield Hall a ruin? Am I severed from you by insuperable obstacles? Am I leaving you without a tear--without a kiss--without a word?" "Not yet." "Am I about to do it? Why, the day is already commenced which is to bind us indissolubly; and when we are once united, there shall be no recurrence of these mental terrors: I guarantee that." "Mental terrors, sir! I wish I could believe them to be only such: I wish it more now than ever; since even you cannot explain to me the mystery of that awful visitant." "And since I cannot do it, Jane, it must have been unreal." "But, sir, when I said so to myself on rising this morning, and when I looked round the room to gather courage and comfort from the cheerful aspect of each familiar object in full daylight, there--on the carpet--I saw what gave the distinct lie to my hypothesis,--the veil, torn from top to bottom in two halves!" I felt Mr. Rochester start and shudder; he hastily flung his arms round me. "Thank God!" he exclaimed, "that if anything malignant did come near you last night, it was only the veil that was harmed. Oh, to think what might have happened!" He drew his breath short, and strained me so close to him, I could scarcely pant. After some minutes' silence, he continued, cheerily-- "Now, Janet, I'll explain to you all about it. It was half dream, half reality. A woman did, I doubt not, enter your room: and that woman was--must have been--Grace Poole. You call her a strange being yourself: from all you know, you have reason so to call her--what did she do to me? what to Mason? In a state between sleeping and waking, you noticed her entrance and her actions; but feverish, almost delirious as you were, you ascribed to her a goblin appearance different from her own: the long dishevelled hair, the swelled black face, the exaggerated stature, were figments of imagination; results of nightmare: the spiteful tearing of the veil was real: and it is like her. I see you would ask why I keep such a woman in my house: when we have been married a year and a day, I will tell you; but not now. Are you satisfied, Jane? Do you accept my solution of the mystery?" I reflected, and in truth it appeared to me the only possible one: satisfied I was not, but to please him I endeavoured to appear so--relieved, I certainly did feel; so I answered him with a contented smile. And now, as it was long past one, I prepared to leave him. "Does not Sophie sleep with Adele in the nursery?" he asked, as I lit my candle. "Yes, sir." "And there is room enough in Adele's little bed for you. You must share it with her to-night, Jane: it is no wonder that the incident you have related should make you nervous, and I would rather you did not sleep alone: promise me to go to the nursery." "I shall be very glad to do so, sir." "And fasten the door securely on the inside. Wake Sophie when you go upstairs, under pretence of requesting her to rouse you in good time to- morrow; for you must be dressed and have finished breakfast before eight. And now, no more sombre thoughts: chase dull care away, Janet. Don't you hear to what soft whispers the wind has fallen? and there is no more beating of rain against the window-panes: look here" (he lifted up the curtain)--"it is a lovely night!" It was. Half heaven was pure and stainless: the clouds, now trooping before the wind, which had shifted to the west, were filing off eastward in long, silvered columns. The moon shone peacefully. "Well," said Mr. Rochester, gazing inquiringly into my eyes, "how is my Janet now?" "The night is serene, sir; and so am I." "And you will not dream of separation and sorrow to-night; but of happy love and blissful union." This prediction was but half fulfilled: I did not indeed dream of sorrow, but as little did I dream of joy; for I never slept at all. With little Adele in my arms, I watched the slumber of childhood--so tranquil, so passionless, so innocent--and waited for the coming day: all my life was awake and astir in my frame: and as soon as the sun rose I rose too. I remember Adele clung to me as I left her: I remember I kissed her as I loosened her little hands from my neck; and I cried over her with strange emotion, and quitted her because I feared my sobs would break her still sound repose. She seemed the emblem of my past life; and here I was now to array myself to meet, the dread, but adored, type of my unknown future day. Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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In der Nacht vor der Hochzeit fühlt sich Jane ängstlich, da Mr. Rochester noch immer auf seinen Erledigungen unterwegs ist. Als die Zeit seiner vermeintlichen Rückkehr weit überschritten ist, läuft sie hinaus in den Wind und Regen, um ihn zu treffen. Sie trifft ihn an, wie er nach Hause reitet, und er nimmt sie mit auf dem Pferderücken ins Haus. Sie essen zu Abend, und Jane erzählt Rochester, warum sie so besorgt ist. In der Nacht zuvor träumte sie, dass sie im Wind und Regen auf ein weinendes Baby aufpasste und Rochester jagte, der davon ritt. Jane erzählt dann von einem anderen Traum, in dem sie Thornfield Hall als trostlose Ruine sah. Sie erzählt ihm, dass sie beim Aufwachen aus diesem Traum eine Kerze in ihrem Zimmer gesehen und jemanden an ihrem Koffer gesehen hat, der ihre Kleidung betrachtete. Sie sagt, dass sie die Person nicht erkannt habe und dass es eine Frau mit einem verfärbten und wilden Gesicht war, die ihren Hochzeits-Schleier aufsetzte und dann abnahm und zerriss. Dann kam sie zu Jane und betrachtete sie genau, bevor sie den Raum verließ. Rochester sagt, dass er sicher ist, dass sie es sich nur eingebildet habe, aber sie sagt, dass sie am nächsten Morgen den zerrissenen Schleier gesehen habe. Er sagt, dass es ein Halbtraum gewesen sein muss, bei dem jemand, den sie kannte, in ihr Zimmer kam, aber dass sie den Teil über die Art des Wesens träumte. Dann bittet er sie, diese Nacht mit Adele im Kinderzimmer zu schlafen und angenehmere Träume zu haben. Jane jedoch schläft überhaupt nicht und steht früh am Morgen auf, um sich auf ihre Hochzeit 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: A splendid Midsummer shone over England: skies so pure, suns so radiant as were then seen in long succession, seldom favour even singly, our wave- girt land. It was as if a band of Italian days had come from the South, like a flock of glorious passenger birds, and lighted to rest them on the cliffs of Albion. The hay was all got in; the fields round Thornfield were green and shorn; the roads white and baked; the trees were in their dark prime; hedge and wood, full-leaved and deeply tinted, contrasted well with the sunny hue of the cleared meadows between. On Midsummer-eve, Adele, weary with gathering wild strawberries in Hay Lane half the day, had gone to bed with the sun. I watched her drop asleep, and when I left her, I sought the garden. It was now the sweetest hour of the twenty-four:--"Day its fervid fires had wasted," and dew fell cool on panting plain and scorched summit. Where the sun had gone down in simple state--pure of the pomp of clouds--spread a solemn purple, burning with the light of red jewel and furnace flame at one point, on one hill-peak, and extending high and wide, soft and still softer, over half heaven. The east had its own charm or fine deep blue, and its own modest gem, a casino and solitary star: soon it would boast the moon; but she was yet beneath the horizon. I walked a while on the pavement; but a subtle, well-known scent--that of a cigar--stole from some window; I saw the library casement open a handbreadth; I knew I might be watched thence; so I went apart into the orchard. No nook in the grounds more sheltered and more Eden-like; it was full of trees, it bloomed with flowers: a very high wall shut it out from the court, on one side; on the other, a beech avenue screened it from the lawn. At the bottom was a sunk fence; its sole separation from lonely fields: a winding walk, bordered with laurels and terminating in a giant horse-chestnut, circled at the base by a seat, led down to the fence. Here one could wander unseen. While such honey-dew fell, such silence reigned, such gloaming gathered, I felt as if I could haunt such shade for ever; but in threading the flower and fruit parterres at the upper part of the enclosure, enticed there by the light the now rising moon cast on this more open quarter, my step is stayed--not by sound, not by sight, but once more by a warning fragrance. Sweet-briar and southernwood, jasmine, pink, and rose have long been yielding their evening sacrifice of incense: this new scent is neither of shrub nor flower; it is--I know it well--it is Mr. Rochester's cigar. I look round and I listen. I see trees laden with ripening fruit. I hear a nightingale warbling in a wood half a mile off; no moving form is visible, no coming step audible; but that perfume increases: I must flee. I make for the wicket leading to the shrubbery, and I see Mr. Rochester entering. I step aside into the ivy recess; he will not stay long: he will soon return whence he came, and if I sit still he will never see me. But no--eventide is as pleasant to him as to me, and this antique garden as attractive; and he strolls on, now lifting the gooseberry-tree branches to look at the fruit, large as plums, with which they are laden; now taking a ripe cherry from the wall; now stooping towards a knot of flowers, either to inhale their fragrance or to admire the dew-beads on their petals. A great moth goes humming by me; it alights on a plant at Mr. Rochester's foot: he sees it, and bends to examine it. "Now, he has his back towards me," thought I, "and he is occupied too; perhaps, if I walk softly, I can slip away unnoticed." I trode on an edging of turf that the crackle of the pebbly gravel might not betray me: he was standing among the beds at a yard or two distant from where I had to pass; the moth apparently engaged him. "I shall get by very well," I meditated. As I crossed his shadow, thrown long over the garden by the moon, not yet risen high, he said quietly, without turning-- "Jane, come and look at this fellow." I had made no noise: he had not eyes behind--could his shadow feel? I started at first, and then I approached him. "Look at his wings," said he, "he reminds me rather of a West Indian insect; one does not often see so large and gay a night-rover in England; there! he is flown." The moth roamed away. I was sheepishly retreating also; but Mr. Rochester followed me, and when we reached the wicket, he said-- "Turn back: on so lovely a night it is a shame to sit in the house; and surely no one can wish to go to bed while sunset is thus at meeting with moonrise." It is one of my faults, that though my tongue is sometimes prompt enough at an answer, there are times when it sadly fails me in framing an excuse; and always the lapse occurs at some crisis, when a facile word or plausible pretext is specially wanted to get me out of painful embarrassment. I did not like to walk at this hour alone with Mr. Rochester in the shadowy orchard; but I could not find a reason to allege for leaving him. I followed with lagging step, and thoughts busily bent on discovering a means of extrication; but he himself looked so composed and so grave also, I became ashamed of feeling any confusion: the evil--if evil existent or prospective there was--seemed to lie with me only; his mind was unconscious and quiet. "Jane," he recommenced, as we entered the laurel walk, and slowly strayed down in the direction of the sunk fence and the horse-chestnut, "Thornfield is a pleasant place in summer, is it not?" "Yes, sir." "You must have become in some degree attached to the house,--you, who have an eye for natural beauties, and a good deal of the organ of Adhesiveness?" "I am attached to it, indeed." "And though I don't comprehend how it is, I perceive you have acquired a degree of regard for that foolish little child Adele, too; and even for simple dame Fairfax?" "Yes, sir; in different ways, I have an affection for both." "And would be sorry to part with them?" "Yes." "Pity!" he said, and sighed and paused. "It is always the way of events in this life," he continued presently: "no sooner have you got settled in a pleasant resting-place, than a voice calls out to you to rise and move on, for the hour of repose is expired." "Must I move on, sir?" I asked. "Must I leave Thornfield?" "I believe you must, Jane. I am sorry, Janet, but I believe indeed you must." This was a blow: but I did not let it prostrate me. "Well, sir, I shall be ready when the order to march comes." "It is come now--I must give it to-night." "Then you _are_ going to be married, sir?" "Ex-act-ly--pre-cise-ly: with your usual acuteness, you have hit the nail straight on the head." "Soon, sir?" "Very soon, my--that is, Miss Eyre: and you'll remember, Jane, the first time I, or Rumour, plainly intimated to you that it was my intention to put my old bachelor's neck into the sacred noose, to enter into the holy estate of matrimony--to take Miss Ingram to my bosom, in short (she's an extensive armful: but that's not to the point--one can't have too much of such a very excellent thing as my beautiful Blanche): well, as I was saying--listen to me, Jane! You're not turning your head to look after more moths, are you? That was only a lady-clock, child, 'flying away home.' I wish to remind you that it was you who first said to me, with that discretion I respect in you--with that foresight, prudence, and humility which befit your responsible and dependent position--that in case I married Miss Ingram, both you and little Adele had better trot forthwith. I pass over the sort of slur conveyed in this suggestion on the character of my beloved; indeed, when you are far away, Janet, I'll try to forget it: I shall notice only its wisdom; which is such that I have made it my law of action. Adele must go to school; and you, Miss Eyre, must get a new situation." "Yes, sir, I will advertise immediately: and meantime, I suppose--" I was going to say, "I suppose I may stay here, till I find another shelter to betake myself to:" but I stopped, feeling it would not do to risk a long sentence, for my voice was not quite under command. "In about a month I hope to be a bridegroom," continued Mr. Rochester; "and in the interim, I shall myself look out for employment and an asylum for you." "Thank you, sir; I am sorry to give--" "Oh, no need to apologise! I consider that when a dependent does her duty as well as you have done yours, she has a sort of claim upon her employer for any little assistance he can conveniently render her; indeed I have already, through my future mother-in-law, heard of a place that I think will suit: it is to undertake the education of the five daughters of Mrs. Dionysius O'Gall of Bitternutt Lodge, Connaught, Ireland. You'll like Ireland, I think: they're such warm-hearted people there, they say." "It is a long way off, sir." "No matter--a girl of your sense will not object to the voyage or the distance." "Not the voyage, but the distance: and then the sea is a barrier--" "From what, Jane?" "From England and from Thornfield: and--" "Well?" "From _you_, sir." I said this almost involuntarily, and, with as little sanction of free will, my tears gushed out. I did not cry so as to be heard, however; I avoided sobbing. The thought of Mrs. O'Gall and Bitternutt Lodge struck cold to my heart; and colder the thought of all the brine and foam, destined, as it seemed, to rush between me and the master at whose side I now walked, and coldest the remembrance of the wider ocean--wealth, caste, custom intervened between me and what I naturally and inevitably loved. "It is a long way," I again said. "It is, to be sure; and when you get to Bitternutt Lodge, Connaught, Ireland, I shall never see you again, Jane: that's morally certain. I never go over to Ireland, not having myself much of a fancy for the country. We have been good friends, Jane; have we not?" "Yes, sir." "And when friends are on the eve of separation, they like to spend the little time that remains to them close to each other. Come! we'll talk over the voyage and the parting quietly half-an-hour or so, while the stars enter into their shining life up in heaven yonder: here is the chestnut tree: here is the bench at its old roots. Come, we will sit there in peace to-night, though we should never more be destined to sit there together." He seated me and himself. "It is a long way to Ireland, Janet, and I am sorry to send my little friend on such weary travels: but if I can't do better, how is it to be helped? Are you anything akin to me, do you think, Jane?" I could risk no sort of answer by this time: my heart was still. "Because," he said, "I sometimes have a queer feeling with regard to you--especially when you are near me, as now: it is as if I had a string somewhere under my left ribs, tightly and inextricably knotted to a similar string situated in the corresponding quarter of your little frame. And if that boisterous Channel, and two hundred miles or so of land come broad between us, I am afraid that cord of communion will be snapt; and then I've a nervous notion I should take to bleeding inwardly. As for you,--you'd forget me." "That I _never_ should, sir: you know--" Impossible to proceed. "Jane, do you hear that nightingale singing in the wood? Listen!" In listening, I sobbed convulsively; for I could repress what I endured no longer; I was obliged to yield, and I was shaken from head to foot with acute distress. When I did speak, it was only to express an impetuous wish that I had never been born, or never come to Thornfield. "Because you are sorry to leave it?" The vehemence of emotion, stirred by grief and love within me, was claiming mastery, and struggling for full sway, and asserting a right to predominate, to overcome, to live, rise, and reign at last: yes,--and to speak. "I grieve to leave Thornfield: I love Thornfield:--I love it, because I have lived in it a full and delightful life,--momentarily at least. I have not been trampled on. I have not been petrified. I have not been buried with inferior minds, and excluded from every glimpse of communion with what is bright and energetic and high. I have talked, face to face, with what I reverence, with what I delight in,--with an original, a vigorous, an expanded mind. I have known you, Mr. Rochester; and it strikes me with terror and anguish to feel I absolutely must be torn from you for ever. I see the necessity of departure; and it is like looking on the necessity of death." "Where do you see the necessity?" he asked suddenly. "Where? You, sir, have placed it before me." "In what shape?" "In the shape of Miss Ingram; a noble and beautiful woman,--your bride." "My bride! What bride? I have no bride!" "But you will have." "Yes;--I will!--I will!" He set his teeth. "Then I must go:--you have said it yourself." "No: you must stay! I swear it--and the oath shall be kept." "I tell you I must go!" I retorted, roused to something like passion. "Do you think I can stay to become nothing to you? Do you think I am an automaton?--a machine without feelings? and can bear to have my morsel of bread snatched from my lips, and my drop of living water dashed from my cup? Do you think, because I am poor, obscure, plain, and little, I am soulless and heartless? You think wrong!--I have as much soul as you,--and full as much heart! And if God had gifted me with some beauty and much wealth, I should have made it as hard for you to leave me, as it is now for me to leave you. I am not talking to you now through the medium of custom, conventionalities, nor even of mortal flesh;--it is my spirit that addresses your spirit; just as if both had passed through the grave, and we stood at God's feet, equal,--as we are!" "As we are!" repeated Mr. Rochester--"so," he added, enclosing me in his arms. Gathering me to his breast, pressing his lips on my lips: "so, Jane!" "Yes, so, sir," I rejoined: "and yet not so; for you are a married man--or as good as a married man, and wed to one inferior to you--to one with whom you have no sympathy--whom I do not believe you truly love; for I have seen and heard you sneer at her. I would scorn such a union: therefore I am better than you--let me go!" "Where, Jane? To Ireland?" "Yes--to Ireland. I have spoken my mind, and can go anywhere now." "Jane, be still; don't struggle so, like a wild frantic bird that is rending its own plumage in its desperation." "I am no bird; and no net ensnares me; I am a free human being with an independent will, which I now exert to leave you." Another effort set me at liberty, and I stood erect before him. "And your will shall decide your destiny," he said: "I offer you my hand, my heart, and a share of all my possessions." "You play a farce, which I merely laugh at." "I ask you to pass through life at my side--to be my second self, and best earthly companion." "For that fate you have already made your choice, and must abide by it." "Jane, be still a few moments: you are over-excited: I will be still too." A waft of wind came sweeping down the laurel-walk, and trembled through the boughs of the chestnut: it wandered away--away--to an indefinite distance--it died. The nightingale's song was then the only voice of the hour: in listening to it, I again wept. Mr. Rochester sat quiet, looking at me gently and seriously. Some time passed before he spoke; he at last said-- "Come to my side, Jane, and let us explain and understand one another." "I will never again come to your side: I am torn away now, and cannot return." "But, Jane, I summon you as my wife: it is you only I intend to marry." I was silent: I thought he mocked me. "Come, Jane--come hither." "Your bride stands between us." He rose, and with a stride reached me. "My bride is here," he said, again drawing me to him, "because my equal is here, and my likeness. Jane, will you marry me?" Still I did not answer, and still I writhed myself from his grasp: for I was still incredulous. "Do you doubt me, Jane?" "Entirely." "You have no faith in me?" "Not a whit." "Am I a liar in your eyes?" he asked passionately. "Little sceptic, you _shall_ be convinced. What love have I for Miss Ingram? None: and that you know. What love has she for me? None: as I have taken pains to prove: I caused a rumour to reach her that my fortune was not a third of what was supposed, and after that I presented myself to see the result; it was coldness both from her and her mother. I would not--I could not--marry Miss Ingram. You--you strange, you almost unearthly thing!--I love as my own flesh. You--poor and obscure, and small and plain as you are--I entreat to accept me as a husband." "What, me!" I ejaculated, beginning in his earnestness--and especially in his incivility--to credit his sincerity: "me who have not a friend in the world but you--if you are my friend: not a shilling but what you have given me?" "You, Jane, I must have you for my own--entirely my own. Will you be mine? Say yes, quickly." "Mr. Rochester, let me look at your face: turn to the moonlight." "Why?" "Because I want to read your countenance--turn!" "There! you will find it scarcely more legible than a crumpled, scratched page. Read on: only make haste, for I suffer." His face was very much agitated and very much flushed, and there were strong workings in the features, and strange gleams in the eyes. "Oh, Jane, you torture me!" he exclaimed. "With that searching and yet faithful and generous look, you torture me!" "How can I do that? If you are true, and your offer real, my only feelings to you must be gratitude and devotion--they cannot torture." "Gratitude!" he ejaculated; and added wildly--"Jane accept me quickly. Say, Edward--give me my name--Edward--I will marry you." "Are you in earnest? Do you truly love me? Do you sincerely wish me to be your wife?" "I do; and if an oath is necessary to satisfy you, I swear it." "Then, sir, I will marry you." "Edward--my little wife!" "Dear Edward!" "Come to me--come to me entirely now," said he; and added, in his deepest tone, speaking in my ear as his cheek was laid on mine, "Make my happiness--I will make yours." "God pardon me!" he subjoined ere long; "and man meddle not with me: I have her, and will hold her." "There is no one to meddle, sir. I have no kindred to interfere." "No--that is the best of it," he said. And if I had loved him less I should have thought his accent and look of exultation savage; but, sitting by him, roused from the nightmare of parting--called to the paradise of union--I thought only of the bliss given me to drink in so abundant a flow. Again and again he said, "Are you happy, Jane?" And again and again I answered, "Yes." After which he murmured, "It will atone--it will atone. Have I not found her friendless, and cold, and comfortless? Will I not guard, and cherish, and solace her? Is there not love in my heart, and constancy in my resolves? It will expiate at God's tribunal. I know my Maker sanctions what I do. For the world's judgment--I wash my hands thereof. For man's opinion--I defy it." But what had befallen the night? The moon was not yet set, and we were all in shadow: I could scarcely see my master's face, near as I was. And what ailed the chestnut tree? it writhed and groaned; while wind roared in the laurel walk, and came sweeping over us. "We must go in," said Mr. Rochester: "the weather changes. I could have sat with thee till morning, Jane." "And so," thought I, "could I with you." I should have said so, perhaps, but a livid, vivid spark leapt out of a cloud at which I was looking, and there was a crack, a crash, and a close rattling peal; and I thought only of hiding my dazzled eyes against Mr. Rochester's shoulder. The rain rushed down. He hurried me up the walk, through the grounds, and into the house; but we were quite wet before we could pass the threshold. He was taking off my shawl in the hall, and shaking the water out of my loosened hair, when Mrs. Fairfax emerged from her room. I did not observe her at first, nor did Mr. Rochester. The lamp was lit. The clock was on the stroke of twelve. "Hasten to take off your wet things," said he; "and before you go, good- night--good-night, my darling!" He kissed me repeatedly. When I looked up, on leaving his arms, there stood the widow, pale, grave, and amazed. I only smiled at her, and ran upstairs. "Explanation will do for another time," thought I. Still, when I reached my chamber, I felt a pang at the idea she should even temporarily misconstrue what she had seen. But joy soon effaced every other feeling; and loud as the wind blew, near and deep as the thunder crashed, fierce and frequent as the lightning gleamed, cataract-like as the rain fell during a storm of two hours' duration, I experienced no fear and little awe. Mr. Rochester came thrice to my door in the course of it, to ask if I was safe and tranquil: and that was comfort, that was strength for anything. Before I left my bed in the morning, little Adele came running in to tell me that the great horse-chestnut at the bottom of the orchard had been struck by lightning in the night, and half of it split away. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Es ist Sommer auf Thornfield Hall. An einem Mittsommernachtsabend macht Jane einen Spaziergang im Obstgarten. Als sie Mr. Rochester sieht, versucht sie davonzuschleichen, aber er ruft sie auf, sich ihm anzuschließen. Auf lässige Weise informiert er sie darüber, dass er beschlossen hat, sehr bald Blanche zu heiraten. Er möchte ihren Vorschlag umsetzen und Adèle zur Schule schicken und sagt Jane, dass die Zeit gekommen ist, Thornfield zu verlassen. Mr. Rochester schlägt ihr eine Stelle in Irland vor, aber Jane ist untröstlich bei dem Gedanken, weit von Thornfield und Mr. Rochester entfernt zu sein. Durch ihre Tränen bringt sie ihm ihre Liebe zum Ausdruck. Nachdem er sie ein wenig geärgert hat, zieht Mr. Rochester sie an sich und erklärt seine Absicht, sie zu heiraten. Jane glaubt ihm zuerst nicht und stimmt dann schließlich zu, ihn zu heiraten. Plötzlich ändert sich das Wetter und wird stürmisch, was sie dazu zwingt, ins Haus zu eilen. Beim Verabschieden küsst Mr. Rochester Jane vor Mrs. Fairfax, die zu dieser Zeit aus ihrem Zimmer kommt. Später erzählt Adèle Jane, dass der Kastanienbaum, unter dem sie und Rochester saßen, vom Blitz getroffen wurde und "die Hälfte davon abgesplittert ist."

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: CHAPTER XXXVII I SHE found employment in the Bureau of War Risk Insurance. Though the armistice with Germany was signed a few weeks after her coming to Washington, the work of the bureau continued. She filed correspondence all day; then she dictated answers to letters of inquiry. It was an endurance of monotonous details, yet she asserted that she had found "real work." Disillusions she did have. She discovered that in the afternoon, office routine stretches to the grave. She discovered that an office is as full of cliques and scandals as a Gopher Prairie. She discovered that most of the women in the government bureaus lived unhealthfully, dining on snatches in their crammed apartments. But she also discovered that business women may have friendships and enmities as frankly as men and may revel in a bliss which no housewife attains--a free Sunday. It did not appear that the Great World needed her inspiration, but she felt that her letters, her contact with the anxieties of men and women all over the country, were a part of vast affairs, not confined to Main Street and a kitchen but linked with Paris, Bangkok, Madrid. She perceived that she could do office work without losing any of the putative feminine virtue of domesticity; that cooking and cleaning, when divested of the fussing of an Aunt Bessie, take but a tenth of the time which, in a Gopher Prairie, it is but decent to devote to them. Not to have to apologize for her thoughts to the Jolly Seventeen, not to have to report to Kennicott at the end of the day all that she had done or might do, was a relief which made up for the office weariness. She felt that she was no longer one-half of a marriage but the whole of a human being. II Washington gave her all the graciousness in which she had had faith: white columns seen across leafy parks, spacious avenues, twisty alleys. Daily she passed a dark square house with a hint of magnolias and a courtyard behind it, and a tall curtained second-story window through which a woman was always peering. The woman was mystery, romance, a story which told itself differently every day; now she was a murderess, now the neglected wife of an ambassador. It was mystery which Carol had most lacked in Gopher Prairie, where every house was open to view, where every person was but too easy to meet, where there were no secret gates opening upon moors over which one might walk by moss-deadened paths to strange high adventures in an ancient garden. As she flitted up Sixteenth Street after a Kreisler recital, given late in the afternoon for the government clerks, as the lamps kindled in spheres of soft fire, as the breeze flowed into the street, fresh as prairie winds and kindlier, as she glanced up the elm alley of Massachusetts Avenue, as she was rested by the integrity of the Scottish Rite Temple, she loved the city as she loved no one save Hugh. She encountered negro shanties turned into studios, with orange curtains and pots of mignonette; marble houses on New Hampshire Avenue, with butlers and limousines; and men who looked like fictional explorers and aviators. Her days were swift, and she knew that in her folly of running away she had found the courage to be wise. She had a dispiriting first month of hunting lodgings in the crowded city. She had to roost in a hall-room in a moldy mansion conducted by an indignant decayed gentlewoman, and leave Hugh to the care of a doubtful nurse. But later she made a home. III Her first acquaintances were the members of the Tincomb Methodist Church, a vast red-brick tabernacle. Vida Sherwin had given her a letter to an earnest woman with eye-glasses, plaid silk waist, and a belief in Bible Classes, who introduced her to the Pastor and the Nicer Members of Tincomb. Carol recognized in Washington as she had in California a transplanted and guarded Main Street. Two-thirds of the church-members had come from Gopher Prairies. The church was their society and their standard; they went to Sunday service, Sunday School, Christian Endeavor, missionary lectures, church suppers, precisely as they had at home; they agreed that ambassadors and flippant newspapermen and infidel scientists of the bureaus were equally wicked and to be avoided; and by cleaving to Tincomb Church they kept their ideals from all contamination. They welcomed Carol, asked about her husband, gave her advice regarding colic in babies, passed her the gingerbread and scalloped potatoes at church suppers, and in general made her very unhappy and lonely, so that she wondered if she might not enlist in the militant suffrage organization and be allowed to go to jail. Always she was to perceive in Washington (as doubtless she would have perceived in New York or London) a thick streak of Main Street. The cautious dullness of a Gopher Prairie appeared in boarding-houses where ladylike bureau-clerks gossiped to polite young army officers about the movies; a thousand Sam Clarks and a few Widow Bogarts were to be identified in the Sunday motor procession, in theater parties, and at the dinners of State Societies, to which the emigres from Texas or Michigan surged that they might confirm themselves in the faith that their several Gopher Prairies were notoriously "a whole lot peppier and chummier than this stuck-up East." But she found a Washington which did not cleave to Main Street. Guy Pollock wrote to a cousin, a temporary army captain, a confiding and buoyant lad who took Carol to tea-dances, and laughed, as she had always wanted some one to laugh, about nothing in particular. The captain introduced her to the secretary of a congressman, a cynical young widow with many acquaintances in the navy. Through her Carol met commanders and majors, newspapermen, chemists and geographers and fiscal experts from the bureaus, and a teacher who was a familiar of the militant suffrage headquarters. The teacher took her to headquarters. Carol never became a prominent suffragist. Indeed her only recognized position was as an able addresser of envelopes. But she was casually adopted by this family of friendly women who, when they were not being mobbed or arrested, took dancing lessons or went picnicking up the Chesapeake Canal or talked about the politics of the American Federation of Labor. With the congressman's secretary and the teacher Carol leased a small flat. Here she found home, her own place and her own people. She had, though it absorbed most of her salary, an excellent nurse for Hugh. She herself put him to bed and played with him on holidays. There were walks with him, there were motionless evenings of reading, but chiefly Washington was associated with people, scores of them, sitting about the flat, talking, talking, talking, not always wisely but always excitedly. It was not at all the "artist's studio" of which, because of its persistence in fiction, she had dreamed. Most of them were in offices all day, and thought more in card-catalogues or statistics than in mass and color. But they played, very simply, and they saw no reason why anything which exists cannot also be acknowledged. She was sometimes shocked quite as she had shocked Gopher Prairie by these girls with their cigarettes and elfish knowledge. When they were most eager about soviets or canoeing, she listened, longed to have some special learning which would distinguish her, and sighed that her adventure had come so late. Kennicott and Main Street had drained her self-reliance; the presence of Hugh made her feel temporary. Some day--oh, she'd have to take him back to open fields and the right to climb about hay-lofts. But the fact that she could never be eminent among these scoffing enthusiasts did not keep her from being proud of them, from defending them in imaginary conversations with Kennicott, who grunted (she could hear his voice), "They're simply a bunch of wild impractical theorists sittin' round chewing the rag," and "I haven't got the time to chase after a lot of these fool fads; I'm too busy putting aside a stake for our old age." Most of the men who came to the flat, whether they were army officers or radicals who hated the army, had the easy gentleness, the acceptance of women without embarrassed banter, for which she had longed in Gopher Prairie. Yet they seemed to be as efficient as the Sam Clarks. She concluded that it was because they were of secure reputation, not hemmed in by the fire of provincial jealousies. Kennicott had asserted that the villager's lack of courtesy is due to his poverty. "We're no millionaire dudes," he boasted. Yet these army and navy men, these bureau experts, and organizers of multitudinous leagues, were cheerful on three or four thousand a year, while Kennicott had, outside of his land speculations, six thousand or more, and Sam had eight. Nor could she upon inquiry learn that many of this reckless race died in the poorhouse. That institution is reserved for men like Kennicott who, after devoting fifty years to "putting aside a stake," incontinently invest the stake in spurious oil-stocks. IV She was encouraged to believe that she had not been abnormal in viewing Gopher Prairie as unduly tedious and slatternly. She found the same faith not only in girls escaped from domesticity but also in demure old ladies who, tragically deprived of esteemed husbands and huge old houses, yet managed to make a very comfortable thing of it by living in small flats and having time to read. But she also learned that by comparison Gopher Prairie was a model of daring color, clever planning, and frenzied intellectuality. From her teacher-housemate she had a sardonic description of a Middlewestern railroad-division town, of the same size as Gopher Prairie but devoid of lawns and trees, a town where the tracks sprawled along the cinder-scabbed Main Street, and the railroad shops, dripping soot from eaves and doorway, rolled out smoke in greasy coils. Other towns she came to know by anecdote: a prairie village where the wind blew all day long, and the mud was two feet thick in spring, and in summer the flying sand scarred new-painted houses and dust covered the few flowers set out in pots. New England mill-towns with the hands living in rows of cottages like blocks of lava. A rich farming-center in New Jersey, off the railroad, furiously pious, ruled by old men, unbelievably ignorant old men, sitting about the grocery talking of James G. Blaine. A Southern town, full of the magnolias and white columns which Carol had accepted as proof of romance, but hating the negroes, obsequious to the Old Families. A Western mining-settlement like a tumor. A booming semi-city with parks and clever architects, visited by famous pianists and unctuous lecturers, but irritable from a struggle between union labor and the manufacturers' association, so that in even the gayest of the new houses there was a ceaseless and intimidating heresy-hunt. V The chart which plots Carol's progress is not easy to read. The lines are broken and uncertain of direction; often instead of rising they sink in wavering scrawls; and the colors are watery blue and pink and the dim gray of rubbed pencil marks. A few lines are traceable. Unhappy women are given to protecting their sensitiveness by cynical gossip, by whining, by high-church and new-thought religions, or by a fog of vagueness. Carol had hidden in none of these refuges from reality, but she, who was tender and merry, had been made timorous by Gopher Prairie. Even her flight had been but the temporary courage of panic. The thing she gained in Washington was not information about office-systems and labor unions but renewed courage, that amiable contempt called poise. Her glimpse of tasks involving millions of people and a score of nations reduced Main Street from bloated importance to its actual pettiness. She could never again be quite so awed by the power with which she herself had endowed the Vidas and Blaussers and Bogarts. From her work and from her association with women who had organized suffrage associations in hostile cities, or had defended political prisoners, she caught something of an impersonal attitude; saw that she had been as touchily personal as Maud Dyer. And why, she began to ask, did she rage at individuals? Not individuals but institutions are the enemies, and they most afflict the disciples who the most generously serve them. They insinuate their tyranny under a hundred guises and pompous names, such as Polite Society, the Family, the Church, Sound Business, the Party, the Country, the Superior White Race; and the only defense against them, Carol beheld, is unembittered laughter. Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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Carol findet eine Anstellung im Bureau of War Risk Insurance in Washington. Es ist keine sehr erhebende Arbeit, aber sie spürt, dass ihr Kontakt mit den Ängsten von Männern und Frauen im ganzen Land ein Teil von großen Angelegenheiten ist. Sie stellt fest, dass sie die Büroarbeit und die Hausarbeit gleichzeitig erledigen kann. Außerdem merkt sie, dass die Hausarbeit ohne Störungen sehr wenig Zeit in Anspruch nimmt. Sie genießt es, sich die Gebäude in Washington anzusehen. Vidas Brief hilft ihr, Bekanntschaft mit den Mitgliedern der Tincomb Methodist Church zu machen. Sie findet, dass die Kirche eine weitere Main Street ist, mit dem Sonntagsschulunterricht, dem Sonntagsgottesdienst und den Kirchensuppen aus Kartoffelgratin und Lebkuchen. Sie geben Ratschläge, genauso wie es die Hausfrauen zu Hause getan haben. Carol erwägt, der militanten Frauenrechtsorganisation beizutreten und ins Gefängnis zu gehen. Guy Pollocks Cousin, der vorübergehend Hauptmann in der Armee ist, nimmt Carol mit zu Tee-Tänzen. Er stellt sie dem Sekretär eines Kongressabgeordneten vor. Durch sie lernt Carol Kommandeure, Journalisten, Finanzexperten und eine Lehrerin kennen, die die Leute im Hauptsitz der Frauenrechtsbewegung kennt. Durch sie erhält Carol die Aufgabe, Umschläge der Frauenrechtsbewegung zu adressieren, und die freundlichen Frauen schließen sie in ihre Gruppe ein. Manchmal werden sie angepöbelt und verhaftet. Sie nehmen auch Tanzstunden und gehen picknicken und diskutieren Politik, wenn sie frei sind. Durch ihre Freunde findet Carol ein Haus und eine gute Krankenschwester für Hugh. Sie geht mit ihm spazieren, spielt mit ihm und liest ihm vor. Sie kann sich mit Menschen umgeben, die viel reden. Sie findet die jungen Mädchen in Washington modischer und kenntnisreicher als sie selbst in ihrem Alter war. Sie bewundert die Männer, die sehr entspannt und selbstbewusst sind. Sie akzeptieren das Gesellschaft von Frauen natürlich, ohne die verlegenen Scherze, wie es die Männer in Gopher Prairie taten. Sie findet eine Gruppe von Damen, die wie sie denken und fühlen. Auch sie halten Städte wie Gopher Prairie für langweilig und verdienen in Washington ihren Lebensunterhalt. Sie finden sogar Zeit zum Lesen. Durch sie erfährt sie von vielen Präriestädten und erkennt, dass im Vergleich dazu Gopher Prairie bunter und intellektueller wirkt. Sie bekommt auch die Wahrnehmung, dass Gopher Prairie nicht so wichtig ist, wie es sich selbst vorgestellt hat, und dass sie es war, die den Vidas und den Bogarts die Macht verliehen hat, vor der sie so sehr Angst hatte. Sie erkennt, dass sie genauso persönlich war wie Maud Dyer. Sie versteht, dass ihr Kampf gegen Institutionen wie die Kirche und das Land war und dass sie sich verteidigen konnte, indem sie über sie lachte, ohne Verachtung für sie zu empfinden.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: On their arrival the station was lively with straw-hatted young men, welcoming young girls who bore a remarkable family likeness to their welcomers, and who were dressed up in the brightest and lightest of raiment. "The place seems gay," said Sue. "Why--it is Remembrance Day!--Jude--how sly of you--you came to-day on purpose!" "Yes," said Jude quietly, as he took charge of the small child, and told Arabella's boy to keep close to them, Sue attending to their own eldest. "I thought we might as well come to-day as on any other." "But I am afraid it will depress you!" she said, looking anxiously at him up and down. "Oh, I mustn't let it interfere with our business; and we have a good deal to do before we shall be settled here. The first thing is lodgings." Having left their luggage and his tools at the station they proceeded on foot up the familiar street, the holiday people all drifting in the same direction. Reaching the Fourways they were about to turn off to where accommodation was likely to be found when, looking at the clock and the hurrying crowd, Jude said: "Let us go and see the procession, and never mind the lodgings just now. We can get them afterwards." "Oughtn't we to get a house over our heads first?" she asked. But his soul seemed full of the anniversary, and together they went down Chief Street, their smallest child in Jude's arms, Sue leading her little girl, and Arabella's boy walking thoughtfully and silently beside them. Crowds of pretty sisters in airy costumes, and meekly ignorant parents who had known no college in their youth, were under convoy in the same direction by brothers and sons bearing the opinion written large on them that no properly qualified human beings had lived on earth till they came to grace it here and now. "My failure is reflected on me by every one of those young fellows," said Jude. "A lesson on presumption is awaiting me to-day!--Humiliation Day for me! ... If you, my dear darling, hadn't come to my rescue, I should have gone to the dogs with despair!" She saw from his face that he was getting into one of his tempestuous, self-harrowing moods. "It would have been better if we had gone at once about our own affairs, dear," she answered. "I am sure this sight will awaken old sorrows in you, and do no good!" "Well--we are near; we will see it now," said he. They turned in on the left by the church with the Italian porch, whose helical columns were heavily draped with creepers, and pursued the lane till there arose on Jude's sight the circular theatre with that well-known lantern above it, which stood in his mind as the sad symbol of his abandoned hopes, for it was from that outlook that he had finally surveyed the City of Colleges on the afternoon of his great meditation, which convinced him at last of the futility of his attempt to be a son of the university. To-day, in the open space stretching between this building and the nearest college, stood a crowd of expectant people. A passage was kept clear through their midst by two barriers of timber, extending from the door of the college to the door of the large building between it and the theatre. "Here is the place--they are just going to pass!" cried Jude in sudden excitement. And pushing his way to the front he took up a position close to the barrier, still hugging the youngest child in his arms, while Sue and the others kept immediately behind him. The crowd filled in at their back, and fell to talking, joking, and laughing as carriage after carriage drew up at the lower door of the college, and solemn stately figures in blood-red robes began to alight. The sky had grown overcast and livid, and thunder rumbled now and then. Father Time shuddered. "It do seem like the Judgment Day!" he whispered. "They are only learned Doctors," said Sue. While they waited big drops of rain fell on their heads and shoulders, and the delay grew tedious. Sue again wished not to stay. "They won't be long now," said Jude, without turning his head. But the procession did not come forth, and somebody in the crowd, to pass the time, looked at the facade of the nearest college, and said he wondered what was meant by the Latin inscription in its midst. Jude, who stood near the inquirer, explained it, and finding that the people all round him were listening with interest, went on to describe the carving of the frieze (which he had studied years before), and to criticize some details of masonry in other college fronts about the city. The idle crowd, including the two policemen at the doors, stared like the Lycaonians at Paul, for Jude was apt to get too enthusiastic over any subject in hand, and they seemed to wonder how the stranger should know more about the buildings of their town than they themselves did; till one of them said: "Why, I know that man; he used to work here years ago--Jude Fawley, that's his name! Don't you mind he used to be nicknamed Tutor of St. Slums, d'ye mind?--because he aimed at that line o' business? He's married, I suppose, then, and that's his child he's carrying. Taylor would know him, as he knows everybody." The speaker was a man named Jack Stagg, with whom Jude had formerly worked in repairing the college masonries; Tinker Taylor was seen to be standing near. Having his attention called the latter cried across the barriers to Jude: "You've honoured us by coming back again, my friend!" Jude nodded. "An' you don't seem to have done any great things for yourself by going away?" Jude assented to this also. "Except found more mouths to fill!" This came in a new voice, and Jude recognized its owner to be Uncle Joe, another mason whom he had known. Jude replied good-humouredly that he could not dispute it; and from remark to remark something like a general conversation arose between him and the crowd of idlers, during which Tinker Taylor asked Jude if he remembered the Apostles' Creed in Latin still, and the night of the challenge in the public house. "But Fortune didn't lie that way?" threw in Joe. "Yer powers wasn't enough to carry 'ee through?" "Don't answer them any more!" entreated Sue. "I don't think I like Christminster!" murmured little Time mournfully, as he stood submerged and invisible in the crowd. But finding himself the centre of curiosity, quizzing, and comment, Jude was not inclined to shrink from open declarations of what he had no great reason to be ashamed of; and in a little while was stimulated to say in a loud voice to the listening throng generally: "It is a difficult question, my friends, for any young man--that question I had to grapple with, and which thousands are weighing at the present moment in these uprising times--whether to follow uncritically the track he finds himself in, without considering his aptness for it, or to consider what his aptness or bent may be, and re-shape his course accordingly. I tried to do the latter, and I failed. But I don't admit that my failure proved my view to be a wrong one, or that my success would have made it a right one; though that's how we appraise such attempts nowadays--I mean, not by their essential soundness, but by their accidental outcomes. If I had ended by becoming like one of these gentlemen in red and black that we saw dropping in here by now, everybody would have said: 'See how wise that young man was, to follow the bent of his nature!' But having ended no better than I began they say: 'See what a fool that fellow was in following a freak of his fancy!' "However it was my poverty and not my will that consented to be beaten. It takes two or three generations to do what I tried to do in one; and my impulses--affections--vices perhaps they should be called--were too strong not to hamper a man without advantages; who should be as cold-blooded as a fish and as selfish as a pig to have a really good chance of being one of his country's worthies. You may ridicule me--I am quite willing that you should--I am a fit subject, no doubt. But I think if you knew what I have gone through these last few years you would rather pity me. And if they knew"--he nodded towards the college at which the dons were severally arriving--"it is just possible they would do the same." "He do look ill and worn-out, it is true!" said a woman. Sue's face grew more emotional; but though she stood close to Jude she was screened. "I may do some good before I am dead--be a sort of success as a frightful example of what not to do; and so illustrate a moral story," continued Jude, beginning to grow bitter, though he had opened serenely enough. "I was, perhaps, after all, a paltry victim to the spirit of mental and social restlessness that makes so many unhappy in these days!" "Don't tell them that!" whispered Sue with tears, at perceiving Jude's state of mind. "You weren't that. You struggled nobly to acquire knowledge, and only the meanest souls in the world would blame you!" Jude shifted the child into a more easy position on his arm, and concluded: "And what I appear, a sick and poor man, is not the worst of me. I am in a chaos of principles--groping in the dark--acting by instinct and not after example. Eight or nine years ago when I came here first, I had a neat stock of fixed opinions, but they dropped away one by one; and the further I get the less sure I am. I doubt if I have anything more for my present rule of life than following inclinations which do me and nobody else any harm, and actually give pleasure to those I love best. There, gentlemen, since you wanted to know how I was getting on, I have told you. Much good may it do you! I cannot explain further here. I perceive there is something wrong somewhere in our social formulas: what it is can only be discovered by men or women with greater insight than mine--if, indeed, they ever discover it--at least in our time. 'For who knoweth what is good for man in this life?--and who can tell a man what shall be after him under the sun?'" "Hear, hear," said the populace. "Well preached!" said Tinker Taylor. And privately to his neighbours: "Why, one of them jobbing pa'sons swarming about here, that takes the services when our head reverends want a holiday, wouldn't ha' discoursed such doctrine for less than a guinea down. Hey? I'll take my oath not one o' 'em would! And then he must have had it wrote down for 'n. And this only a working-man!" As a sort of objective commentary on Jude's remarks there drove up at this moment with a belated Doctor, robed and panting, a cab whose horse failed to stop at the exact point required for setting down the hirer, who jumped out and entered the door. The driver, alighting, began to kick the animal in the belly. "If that can be done," said Jude, "at college gates in the most religious and educational city in the world, what shall we say as to how far we've got?" "Order!" said one of the policemen, who had been engaged with a comrade in opening the large doors opposite the college. "Keep yer tongue quiet, my man, while the procession passes." The rain came on more heavily, and all who had umbrellas opened them. Jude was not one of these, and Sue only possessed a small one, half sunshade. She had grown pale, though Jude did not notice it then. "Let us go on, dear," she whispered, endeavouring to shelter him. "We haven't any lodgings yet, remember, and all our things are at the station; and you are by no means well yet. I am afraid this wet will hurt you!" "They are coming now. Just a moment, and I'll go!" said he. A peal of six bells struck out, human faces began to crowd the windows around, and the procession of heads of houses and new Doctors emerged, their red and black gowned forms passing across the field of Jude's vision like inaccessible planets across an object-glass. As they went their names were called by knowing informants, and when they reached the old round theatre of Wren a cheer rose high. "Let's go that way!" cried Jude, and though it now rained steadily he seemed not to know it, and took them round to the theatre. Here they stood upon the straw that was laid to drown the discordant noise of wheels, where the quaint and frost-eaten stone busts encircling the building looked with pallid grimness on the proceedings, and in particular at the bedraggled Jude, Sue, and their children, as at ludicrous persons who had no business there. "I wish I could get in!" he said to her fervidly. "Listen--I may catch a few words of the Latin speech by staying here; the windows are open." However, beyond the peals of the organ, and the shouts and hurrahs between each piece of oratory, Jude's standing in the wet did not bring much Latin to his intelligence more than, now and then, a sonorous word in _um_ or _ibus_. "Well--I'm an outsider to the end of my days!" he sighed after a while. "Now I'll go, my patient Sue. How good of you to wait in the rain all this time--to gratify my infatuation! I'll never care any more about the infernal cursed place, upon my soul I won't! But what made you tremble so when we were at the barrier? And how pale you are, Sue!" "I saw Richard amongst the people on the other side." "Ah--did you!" "He is evidently come up to Jerusalem to see the festival like the rest of us: and on that account is probably living not so very far away. He had the same hankering for the university that you had, in a milder form. I don't think he saw me, though he must have heard you speaking to the crowd. But he seemed not to notice." "Well--suppose he did. Your mind is free from worries about him now, my Sue?" "Yes, I suppose so. But I am weak. Although I know it is all right with our plans, I felt a curious dread of him; an awe, or terror, of conventions I don't believe in. It comes over me at times like a sort of creeping paralysis, and makes me so sad!" "You are getting tired, Sue. Oh--I forgot, darling! Yes, we'll go on at once." They started in quest of the lodging, and at last found something that seemed to promise well, in Mildew Lane--a spot which to Jude was irresistible--though to Sue it was not so fascinating--a narrow lane close to the back of a college, but having no communication with it. The little houses were darkened to gloom by the high collegiate buildings, within which life was so far removed from that of the people in the lane as if it had been on opposite sides of the globe; yet only a thickness of wall divided them. Two or three of the houses had notices of rooms to let, and the newcomers knocked at the door of one, which a woman opened. "Ah--listen!" said Jude suddenly, instead of addressing her. "What?" "Why the bells--what church can that be? The tones are familiar." Another peal of bells had begun to sound out at some distance off. "I don't know!" said the landlady tartly. "Did you knock to ask that?" "No; for lodgings," said Jude, coming to himself. The householder scrutinized Sue's figure a moment. "We haven't any to let," said she, shutting the door. Jude looked discomfited, and the boy distressed. "Now, Jude," said Sue, "let me try. You don't know the way." They found a second place hard by; but here the occupier, observing not only Sue, but the boy and the small children, said civilly, "I am sorry to say we don't let where there are children"; and also closed the door. The small child squared its mouth and cried silently, with an instinct that trouble loomed. The boy sighed. "I don't like Christminster!" he said. "Are the great old houses gaols?" "No; colleges," said Jude; "which perhaps you'll study in some day." "I'd rather not!" the boy rejoined. "Now we'll try again," said Sue. "I'll pull my cloak more round me... Leaving Kennetbridge for this place is like coming from Caiaphas to Pilate! ... How do I look now, dear?" "Nobody would notice it now," said Jude. There was one other house, and they tried a third time. The woman here was more amiable; but she had little room to spare, and could only agree to take in Sue and the children if her husband could go elsewhere. This arrangement they perforce adopted, in the stress from delaying their search till so late. They came to terms with her, though her price was rather high for their pockets. But they could not afford to be critical till Jude had time to get a more permanent abode; and in this house Sue took possession of a back room on the second floor with an inner closet-room for the children. Jude stayed and had a cup of tea; and was pleased to find that the window commanded the back of another of the colleges. Kissing all four he went to get a few necessaries and look for lodgings for himself. When he was gone the landlady came up to talk a little with Sue, and gather something of the circumstances of the family she had taken in. Sue had not the art of prevarication, and, after admitting several facts as to their late difficulties and wanderings, she was startled by the landlady saying suddenly: "Are you really a married woman?" Sue hesitated; and then impulsively told the woman that her husband and herself had each been unhappy in their first marriages, after which, terrified at the thought of a second irrevocable union, and lest the conditions of the contract should kill their love, yet wishing to be together, they had literally not found the courage to repeat it, though they had attempted it two or three times. Therefore, though in her own sense of the words she was a married woman, in the landlady's sense she was not. The housewife looked embarrassed, and went downstairs. Sue sat by the window in a reverie, watching the rain. Her quiet was broken by the noise of someone entering the house, and then the voices of a man and woman in conversation in the passage below. The landlady's husband had arrived, and she was explaining to him the incoming of the lodgers during his absence. His voice rose in sudden anger. "Now who wants such a woman here? and perhaps a confinement! ... Besides, didn't I say I wouldn't have children? The hall and stairs fresh painted, to be kicked about by them! You must have known all was not straight with 'em--coming like that. Taking in a family when I said a single man." The wife expostulated, but, as it seemed, the husband insisted on his point; for presently a tap came to Sue's door, and the woman appeared. "I am sorry to tell you, ma'am," she said, "that I can't let you have the room for the week after all. My husband objects; and therefore I must ask you to go. I don't mind your staying over to-night, as it is getting late in the afternoon; but I shall be glad if you can leave early in the morning." Though she knew that she was entitled to the lodging for a week, Sue did not wish to create a disturbance between the wife and husband, and she said she would leave as requested. When the landlady had gone Sue looked out of the window again. Finding that the rain had ceased she proposed to the boy that, after putting the little ones to bed, they should go out and search about for another place, and bespeak it for the morrow, so as not to be so hard-driven then as they had been that day. Therefore, instead of unpacking her boxes, which had just been sent on from the station by Jude, they sallied out into the damp though not unpleasant streets, Sue resolving not to disturb her husband with the news of her notice to quit while he was perhaps worried in obtaining a lodging for himself. In the company of the boy she wandered into this street and into that; but though she tried a dozen different houses she fared far worse alone than she had fared in Jude's company, and could get nobody to promise her a room for the following day. Every householder looked askance at such a woman and child inquiring for accommodation in the gloom. "I ought not to be born, ought I?" said the boy with misgiving. Thoroughly tired at last Sue returned to the place where she was not welcome, but where at least she had temporary shelter. In her absence Jude had left his address; but knowing how weak he still was she adhered to her determination not to disturb him till the next day. 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.

Über zwei Jahre sind vergangen. Jude und Sue führen ein unstetes Leben und halten an jedem Ort an, an dem Jude als Maurer Arbeit findet. Allerdings lehnt er jegliche kirchliche Arbeit ab. In der kleinen Stadt Kennetbridge kommen eines Tages Arabella und Anny an. Arabella ist nun verwitwet und trauert um ihren Ehemann. Sie ist nach Kennetbridge gekommen, um die Grundsteinlegung einer neuen Kapelle zu besichtigen. Sie behauptet, dass sie sich nun aus Trost der Religion zugewandt hat. Plötzlich entdeckt sie Sue und Kleiner Vater Zeit, wie sie Kuchen und Lebkuchen an einem Stand auf dem Jahrmarkt verkaufen. Sie befragt Sue und erfährt, dass Jude im vergangenen Winter sehr krank war und sie daher versucht haben, durch Backen ihren Lebensunterhalt zu verdienen. Sue hat mittlerweile zwei eigene Kinder und erwartet ein drittes. Die Kuchen, die Jude macht, haben die Form von Christminster-Hochschulen, mit Türmen und Spitzen und Fenstern mit Maßwerk, was darauf hindeutet, dass Jude immer noch eine Leidenschaft für Christminster hat.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Kapitel: Er kam herein und schrie Flüche, die schrecklich waren; und er erwischte mich dabei, seinen Sohn im Küchenschrank zu verstauen. Hareton war von einer gesunden Angst erfüllt, entweder auf die Zuneigung seines wilden Tieres zu treffen oder auf den Wahnsinn seines Zorns; denn bei dem einen bestand die Chance, zu Tode gedrückt und geküsst zu werden, und bei dem anderen in das Feuer geworfen oder gegen die Wand geschleudert zu werden; und das arme Ding blieb ruhig, egal wo ich es hinlegte. "Dort habe ich es endlich herausgefunden!" rief Hindley, zog mich am Nacken zurück wie einen Hund. "Beim Himmel und der Hölle, ihr habt zusammen geschworen, das Kind zu ermorden! Ich weiß jetzt, warum es immer aus dem Weg ist. Aber mit Satans Hilfe werde ich dir das Schnitzmesser Nelly einflößen lassen! Du brauchst nicht zu lachen; denn ich habe gerade eben Kenneth kopfüber im Sumpf des Schwarzen Pferdes gestopft; und zwei sind eins – und ich will einige von euch töten: Ich werde keine Ruhe haben, bis ich es tue!" "Aber ich mag das Schnitzmesser nicht, Mr. Hindley", antwortete ich. "Es hat rote Heringe geschnitten. Dann lasst mich lieber erschießen, wenn es Ihnen recht ist." "Du würdest lieber verdammt werden!" sagte er. "Und das wirst du auch. Kein Gesetz in England kann einen Mann davon abhalten, sein Haus ordentlich zu halten, und meines ist abscheulich! Mach den Mund auf." Er hielt das Messer in seiner Hand und schob die Spitze zwischen meine Zähne: Aber ich hatte nie viel Angst vor seinen Launen. Ich spuckte es aus und bestätigte, dass es abscheulich schmeckte – ich würde es auf keinen Fall nehmen. "Oh!" sagte er und ließ mich los. "Ich sehe, dass der abscheuliche kleine Schurke nicht Hareton ist: Ich bitte um Verzeihung, Nell. Wenn er es wäre, verdiente er das Häuten bei lebendigem Leibe, weil er nicht hergelaufen ist, um mich zu begrüßen, und weil er geschrien hat, als wäre ich ein Kobold. Unnatürlicher Bengel, komm her! Ich werde dir beibringen, wie du einen gutmütigen, getäuschten Vater hereinlegst. Nun, denkst du nicht, dass der Junge hübscher aussehen würde, wenn er kahl wäre? Es macht einen Hund wilder und ich liebe etwas Wildes – hol mir eine Schere – etwas Wildes und gepflegt! Außerdem ist es höllische Koketterie – teuflische Eitelkeit, unsere Ohren zu bewahren – wir sind schon genug Esel ohne sie. Ruhig, Kind, ruhig! Dann ist es mein Liebling! Sei still, trockne deine Augen – da hast du Freude; küsse mich. Was? Willst du nicht? Küsse mich, Hareton! Verdammt, küsse mich! Bei Gott, als ob ich ein solches Monster großziehen würde! So sicher wie ich lebe, werde ich dem Balg das Genick brechen." Der arme Hareton schrie und trat in seines Vaters Armen mit aller Kraft, und er erreichte sein Höhepunkt, als er ihn die Treppe hinauftrug und über das Treppengeländer hob. Ich schrie heraus, dass er das Kind zu Tode erschrecken würde und rannte, um es zu retten. Als ich sie erreichte, lehnte Hindley sich über das Geländer, um unten einen Lärm zu hören, und vergaß dabei fast, was er in seinen Händen hielt. "Wer ist das?" fragte er, als er jemanden hörte, die Treppe hinunterkommen. Auch ich lehnte mich vor, um Heathcliff, dessen Schritte ich erkannte, zu signalisieren, nicht weiter zu kommen; und in dem Moment, als mein Auge von Hareton abwich, sprang er plötzlich, befreite sich von dem nachlässigen Griff, der ihn hielt, und fiel. Es gab kaum Zeit, einen Schreckensmoment zu erleben, bevor wir sahen, dass das kleine Biest in Sicherheit war. Heathcliff kam gerade rechtzeitig darunter an; aus einem natürlichen Impuls hielt er seinen Abstieg an und setzte ihn auf seine Füße, um den Verursacher des Unfalls zu entdecken. Ein Geizhals, der ein glückliches Lotterieticket für fünf Schillinge abgegeben hat und am nächsten Tag feststellt, dass er dabei fünftausend Pfund verloren hat, hätte kein verblüffteres Gesicht machen können als er, als er die Gestalt von Mr. Earnshaw oben erblickte. Es drückte plainer als Worte es könnten, die größte Qual aus, sich selbst dabei geholfen zu haben, seine Rache zu vereiteln. Hätte es dunkel gewesen, hätte er vielleicht versucht, den Fehler zu korrigieren, indem er Haretons Schädel auf den Stufen zerschmettert hätte; aber wir waren Zeuge seiner Rettung, und ich war bald unten mit meiner kostbaren Aufgabe, die ich an mein Herz drückte. Hindley stieg langsamer hinab, nüchtern und beschämt. "Das ist deine Schuld, Ellen", sagte er. "Du hättest ihn aus dem Blickfeld halten sollen: Du hättest ihn mir wegnehmen sollen! Hat er sich irgendwo verletzt?" "Verletzt!" rief ich wütend aus. "Wenn er nicht tot ist, wird er ein Idiot sein! Oh! Ich frage mich, warum seine Mutter nicht aus ihrem Grab aufersteht, um zu sehen, wie du ihn behandeltst. Du bist schlimmer als ein Heide – behandelt deine eigene Fleisch und Blut auf diese Weise!" Er versuchte das Kind anzufassen, das sich, als es sich mit mir wiederfand, direkt von seinem Terror weinte. Bei dem ersten Finger, den sein Vater auf ihn legte, schrie er jedoch lauter als zuvor und kämpfte, als ob er einen Krampfanfall hätte. "Du sollst dich nicht einmischen!" fuhr ich fort. "Er hasst dich – sie alle hassen dich – das ist die Wahrheit! Eine glückliche Familie hast du; und ein hübscher Zustand, den du erreicht hast!" "Bald erreiche ich einen hübscheren, Nell", lachte der irregeleitete Mann und fasste seine Härte wieder. "Im Moment machen du und er dich fort. Und hör zu, Heathcliff! Verschwinde auch aus meiner Reichweite und meinem Gehör. Ich werde dich heute Nacht nicht töten; es sei denn, vielleicht setze ich das Haus in Brand: Aber das hängt davon ab, wie ich Lust habe." Beim Sprechen nahm er eine Flasche Branntwein vom Buffet und goss etwas in ein Glas. "Nicht doch!" flehte ich. "Mr. Hindley, lasst mich euch warnen. Habt Mitleid mit diesem unglücklichen Jungen, wenn euch nichts an euch selbst liegt!" "Jeder wird es besser für ihn tun als ich", antwortete er. "Hab Mitleid mit deiner eigenen Seele!" sagte ich und versuchte das Glas aus seiner Hand zu reißen. "Nein! Im Gegenteil, es wird mir große Freude bereiten, wenn es zur Verdammung geschickt wird und seinen Schöpfer bestraft", rief der Lästerer aus. "Hier ist seine herzliche Verdammung!" Er trank den Alkohol und befahl uns ungeduldig zu gehen; und beendete seinen Befehl mit einer Folge von abscheulichen Flüchen, die zu schlimm sind, um sie zu wiederzugeben oder sich zu erinnern. "Es ist schade, dass er sich nicht mit Alkohol umbringen kann", bemerkte Heathcliff, murmelnd ein Echo der Flüche, als die Tür geschlossen war. "Er tut sein Möglichstes; aber sein Körper trotzt ihm. Mr. Kenneth sagt, er würde seine Stute verwetten, dass er jeden Mann auf dieser Seite von Gimmerton über "Schade", stellte ich fest. "Du bist schwer zufriedenzustellen; so viele Freunde und so wenige Sorgen und du kannst dich nicht zufriedenstellen!" "Nelly, hältst du für mich ein Geheimnis?" fuhr sie fort, kniete neben mir nieder und hob ihre liebenswerten Augen zu meinem Gesicht, mit einem solchen Blick, der schlechte Laune vertreibt, selbst wenn man das Recht dazu hat. "Ist es es wert, ein Geheimnis zu bewahren?" erkundigte ich mich weniger zornig. "Ja, es bedrückt mich und ich muss es herauslassen! Ich möchte wissen, was ich tun soll. Heute hat mich Edgar Linton gefragt, ob ich ihn heiraten möchte und ich habe ihm geantwortet. Bevor ich dir sage, ob es eine Zustimmung oder eine Ablehnung war, sag mir, was es hätte sein sollen." "Wirklich, Miss Catherine, wie soll ich das wissen?" erwiderte ich. "Sicherlich, wenn man bedenkt, welche Vorstellung du heute Nachmittag vor ihm gegeben hast, könnte ich sagen, es wäre klug gewesen, ihn abzulehnen: da er dich danach gefragt hat, muss er entweder hoffnungslos dumm oder ein waghalsiger Narr sein." "Wenn du so sprichst, werde ich dir nichts mehr erzählen", antwortete sie gereizt und erhob sich mürrisch. "Ich habe ihn angenommen, Nelly. Sei schnell und sag mir, ob ich falsch lag!" "Du hast ihn angenommen! Dann bringt es doch nichts, über die Angelegenheit zu diskutieren? Du hast dein Wort gegeben und kannst nicht zurücktreten." "Aber sag mir, ob ich es hätte tun sollen - sag es!" rief sie in einem gereizten Ton, während sie ihre Hände aneinanderrieb und finster dreinblickte. "Bevor diese Frage angemessen beantwortet werden kann, müssen viele Dinge berücksichtigt werden", sagte ich bescheiden. "Zuallererst: Liebst du Mr. Edgar?" "Wer kann das verhindern? Natürlich tue ich es", antwortete sie. Dann stellte ich ihr folgende Kategorie von Fragen, was für ein Mädchen im Alter von zweiundzwanzig nicht unklug war. "Warum liebst du ihn, Miss Cathy?" "Unsinn, ich tue es - das ist ausreichend." "Keineswegs; du musst sagen, warum?" "Nun ja, weil er gutaussehend ist und angenehm in der Gesellschaft." "Schlecht!", war mein Kommentar. "Und weil er jung und fröhlich ist." "Schlecht, immer noch." "Und weil er mich liebt." "Gleichgültig, dass er dorthin gekommen ist." "Und er wird reich sein und ich werde gerne die bedeutendste Frau der Nachbarschaft sein und stolz darauf sein, einen solchen Ehemann zu haben." "Das ist das Schlimmste von allem. Und jetzt sag, wie du ihn liebst?" "Wie jeder liebt - du bist albern, Nelly." "Ganz und gar nicht - antworte." "Ich liebe den Boden unter seinen Füßen und die Luft über seinem Kopf und alles, was er berührt, und jedes Wort, das er sagt. Ich liebe all seine Blicke und all seine Handlungen und ihn ganz und gar. Da hast du es!" "Und warum?" "Nun; du machst dich darüber lustig: das ist äußerst bösartig! Es ist kein Witz für mich!" sagte die junge Dame, finster dreinblickend und ihr Gesicht zum Feuer gewandt. "Ich mache mich keineswegs lustig, Miss Catherine", antwortete ich. "Du liebst Mr. Edgar, weil er gutaussehend und jung und fröhlich und reich ist und dich liebt. Letzteres zählt jedoch nichts: Du würdest ihn auch ohne das lieben, wahrscheinlich; und mit diesen Eigenschaften würdest du es nicht tun, es sei denn, er hätte die vier vorherigen Anziehungskräfte." "Nein, natürlich nicht: Ich würde ihn nur bemitleiden - ihn vielleicht hassen, wenn er hässlich und ein Clown wäre." "Aber es gibt viele andere gutaussehende, reiche junge Männer auf der Welt: wahrscheinlich gutaussehender und reicher als er. Was hindert dich daran, sie zu lieben?" "Wenn es welche gibt, sind sie nicht in meinem Weg: Ich habe keinen wie Edgar gesehen." "Du magst einige sehen; und er wird nicht immer gutaussehend und jung sein und vielleicht auch nicht immer reich." "Jetzt ist er es; und ich habe nur mit der Gegenwart zu tun. Ich wünschte, du würdest vernünftig sprechen." "Nun, das klärt das: Wenn du nur mit der Gegenwart zu tun hast, heirate Mr. Linton." "Ich brauche deine Erlaubnis dafür nicht - ich werde ihn heiraten. Und du hast mir immer noch nicht gesagt, ob ich recht habe." "Ganz richtig; wenn Menschen nur für die Gegenwart heiraten dürfen. Und jetzt lasst uns hören, warum du unglücklich bist. Dein Bruder wird froh sein; die alte Dame und der alte Herr werden wohl nichts dagegen haben, denke ich; du wirst aus einem unordentlichen, ungemütlichen Zuhause in ein wohlhabendes, respektables ziehen; und du liebst Edgar und Edgar liebt dich. Alles scheint glatt und einfach: wo ist das Hindernis?" "Hier!" Und "hier!" antwortete Catherine, schlug mit einer Hand gegen ihre Stirn und mit der anderen gegen ihre Brust. "An dem Ort, wo die Seele lebt. In meiner Seele und in meinem Herzen bin ich überzeugt, dass ich falsch liege!" "Das ist sehr seltsam! Ich kann es nicht verstehen." "Das ist mein Geheimnis. Aber wenn du dich darüber nicht lustig machst, werde ich es dir erklären: Ich kann es nicht deutlich erklären, aber ich werde dir ein Gefühl geben, wie ich mich fühle." Sie setzte sich wieder neben mich: Ihr Gesichtsausdruck wurde trauriger und ernster und ihre verschränkten Hände zitterten. "Nelly, träumst du nie seltsame Träume?" sagte sie plötzlich, nach einigen Minuten des Nachdenkens. "Ja, ab und zu", antwortete ich. "Und ich auch. Ich habe in meinem Leben Träume geträumt, die mir immer geblieben sind und meine Ideen verändert haben: Sie sind durch und durch gegangen, wie Wein durch Wasser, und haben die Farbe meines Geistes verändert. Und das ist einer: Ich werde es erzählen - aber achte darauf, dass du keinen Teil davon belächelst." "Oh! Tu das nicht, Miss Catherine!" rief ich. "Wir sind schon düster genug, ohne Geister und Visionen heraufzubeschwören, um uns zu verwirren. Komm, sei fröhlich und sei wie du selbst! Schau dir den kleinen Hareton an! Er träumt nichts Düsteres. Wie süß er in seinem Schlaf lächelt!" "Ja; und wie süß sein Vater in seiner Einsamkeit flucht! Du erinnerst dich vermutlich an ihn, als er gerade so ein kleines Ding war: fast genauso jung und unschuldig. Aber Nelly, ich werde dich zwingen, zuzuhören: Es ist nicht lang, und ich habe heute Abend keine Kraft, fröhlich zu sein." "Ich will es nicht hören, ich will es nicht hören!" wiederholte ich hastig. Ich war abergläubisch in Bezug auf Träume damals, und bin es immer noch; und Catherine hatte eine ungewöhnliche Schwermut in ihrem Aussehen, die mich fürchtete ließ, etwas vorherzusehen und eine schreckliche Katastrophe vorauszusehen. Sie war verärgert, aber sie fuhr nicht fort. Offensichtlich wandte sie sich einem anderen Thema zu und begann nach kurzer Zeit erneut. "Wenn ich im Himmel wäre, Nelly, wäre ich extrem unglücklich." "Weil du nicht dazu geeignet bist, dorthin zu gehen", antwortete ich. "Alle Sünder wären unglücklich im Himmel." "Aber es ist nicht deswegen. Ich habe einmal geträumt, dass ich dort war." "Ich sage dir, dass ich deinen Träumen nicht lauschen werde, Miss Catherine! Ich gehe zu Bett "Joseph ist hier", antwortete ich und fing glücklicherweise das Rollen seiner Karrenräder auf der Straße auf. "Und Heathcliff wird mit ihm kommen. Ich bin mir nicht sicher, ob er nicht gerade jetzt an der Tür war." "Oh, er konnte mich an der Tür nicht belauschen!" sagte sie. "Gib mir Hareton, während du das Abendessen machst, und wenn es fertig ist, bitte mich, mit dir zu essen. Ich möchte mein unbehagliches Gewissen betrügen und überzeugt sein, dass Heathcliff keine Ahnung von diesen Dingen hat. Hat er nicht, oder? Er weiß nicht, was es bedeutet, verliebt zu sein!" "Ich sehe keinen Grund, warum er es nicht wissen sollte, genauso gut wie du", erwiderte ich. "Und wenn du seine Wahl bist, wird er das unglücklichste Wesen sein, das je geboren wurde! Sobald du Mrs. Linton wirst, verliert er Freund und Liebe und alles! Hast du darüber nachgedacht, wie du die Trennung ertragen wirst und wie er es ertragen wird, völlig verlassen auf der Welt zu sein? Denn, Miss Catherine--" "Er völlig verlassen! Wir getrennt!" rief sie empört aus. "Wer soll uns trennen, bitte? Sie werden das gleiche Schicksal wie Milo ereilen! Nicht solange ich lebe, Ellen: für kein sterbliches Wesen. Jeder Linton auf der Erde könnte zu nichts zerfließen, bevor ich zustimmen könnte, Heathcliff zu verlassen. Oh, das ist nicht das, was ich beabsichtige - das ist nicht das, was ich meine! Ich würde nicht Mrs. Linton sein, wenn ein solcher Preis verlangt würde! Er wird mir genauso viel bedeuten, wie er es sein ganzes Leben lang getan hat. Edgar muss seine Abneigung abschütteln und ihn zumindest tolerieren. Das wird er tun, wenn er meine wahren Gefühle für ihn erfährt. Nelly, ich sehe jetzt, dass du mich für ein egoistisches Biest hältst; aber ist es dir nie in den Sinn gekommen, dass wir bettelarm wären, wenn Heathcliff und ich heiraten würden? Wohingegen, wenn ich Linton heirate, kann ich Heathcliff helfen aufzusteigen und ihn aus der Macht meines Bruders hinausbringen." "Mit dem Geld deines Mannes, Miss Catherine?" fragte ich. "Du wirst feststellen, dass er nicht so nachgiebig ist, wie du annimmst; und obwohl ich kaum ein Richter bin, denke ich, dass das das schlechteste Motiv ist, das du bisher für die Frau von jungem Linton gegeben hast." "Das ist es nicht", erwiderte sie. "Es ist das Beste! Die anderen waren die Befriedigung meiner Launen und auch um Edgar zu befriedigen. Das hier ist für jemanden, der in seiner Person meine Gefühle für Edgar und mich versteht. Ich kann es nicht ausdrücken, aber sicherlich haben Sie und jeder eine Vorstellung davon, dass es eine Existenz von Ihnen jenseits von Ihnen gibt oder geben sollte. Was wäre der Sinn meiner Schöpfung, wenn ich hier völlig eingeschlossen wäre? Meine großen Leiden in dieser Welt waren Heathcliffs Leiden, und ich habe sie von Anfang an beobachtet und gespürt: mein großer Gedanke beim Leben ist er selbst. Wenn alles andere zugrunde geht und er bleibt, werde ich trotzdem weiter existieren. Und wenn alles andere bleibt und er vernichtet wird, wird sich das Universum in einen mächtigen Fremden verwandeln: Ich werde keinen Teil davon zu sein scheinen. Meine Liebe zu Linton ist wie das Laub in den Wäldern: die Zeit wird sie verändern, dessen bin ich mir sehr wohl bewusst, so wie der Winter die Bäume verändert. Meine Liebe zu Heathcliff ähnelt den ewigen Felsen darunter: eine Quelle wenig sichtbaren Vergnügens, aber notwendig. Nelly, ich bin Heathcliff! Er ist immer, immer in meinen Gedanken, nicht als Vergnügen, genauso wenig wie ich immer ein Vergnügen für mich bin, sondern als mein eigenes Wesen. Also sprich nicht noch einmal von unserer Trennung: sie ist undurchführbar; und-" Sie hielt inne und verbarg ihr Gesicht in den Falten meines Kleides, aber ich riss es gewaltsam weg. Ich hatte genug von ihrer Torheit! "Wenn ich irgendetwas Sinn in deinem Unsinn finden kann, Miss", sagte ich, "dann überzeugt es mich nur davon, dass du die Pflichten, die du durch die Heirat übernimmst, nicht kennst oder dass du ein böses, gewissenloses Mädchen bist. Aber belästige mich nicht mit weiteren Geheimnissen: Ich werde nicht versprechen, sie zu bewahren." "Wirst du das bewahren?" fragte sie eifrig. "Nein, ich werde es nicht versprechen", wiederholte ich. Sie wollte darauf bestehen, als Joseph's Eingang unser Gespräch beendete; und Catherine nahm ihren Platz in einer Ecke ein und kümmerte sich um Hareton, während ich das Abendessen zubereitete. Nachdem es gekocht war, begann mein Mitdiener und ich zu streiten, wer etwas zu Mr. Hindley bringen sollte; und wir einigten uns erst, als alles beinahe kalt war. Dann kamen wir zu dem Entschluss, dass wir ihn fragen lassen würden, falls er etwas wollte; denn wir fürchteten besonders, in seine Gegenwart zu treten, wenn er eine Weile allein gewesen war. "Und wie ist das jetzt nach dieser Stunde nichts vom Feld gekommen? Was macht er? Großer fauler Mensch!" verlangte der alte Mann und sah sich nach Heathcliff um. "Ich werde ihn rufen", antwortete ich. "Er ist in der Scheune, da bin ich mir sicher." Ich ging und rief, bekam aber keine Antwort. Bei meiner Rückkehr flüsterte ich Catherine zu, dass er sicherlich einen großen Teil von dem gehört hatte, was sie gesagt hatte, und erzählte, wie ich ihn die Küche verlassen sah, als sie sich über das Verhalten ihres Bruders ihm gegenüber beschwerte. Sie sprang in großer Angst auf, warf Hareton auf den Sitz und rannte selbst los, um nach ihrem Freund zu suchen; ohne sich die Zeit zu nehmen, darüber nachzudenken, warum sie so aufgeregt war oder wie ihre Worte ihn beeinflusst hätten. Sie war so lange abwesend, dass Joseph vorschlug, wir sollten nicht länger warten. Er vermutete schlau, dass sie sich fernhielten, um seinen langen Segen nicht hören zu müssen. Sie waren schon "schlimm genug für jegliche schlechte Manieren", behauptete er. Und zu ihren Gunsten fügte er dieser Nacht ein besonderes Gebet zu dem üblichen Viertelstündigen Gebet vor dem Essen hinzu und hätte gerne noch eines am Ende des Dankgebetes angehängt, wenn seine junge Herrin ihn nicht darauf unterbrochen hätte mit der hastigen Anweisung, die Straße hinunter zu rennen und, wo immer Heathcliff herumlungerte, ihn zu finden und ihn sofort zurückzubringen! "Ich möchte mit ihm sprechen, und ich _muss_, bevor ich nach oben gehe", sagte sie. "Und das Tor ist offen: Er ist irgendwo außerhalb der Reichweite meines Rufes, denn er hat nicht geantwortet, obwohl ich so laut wie möglich gerufen habe." Joseph widersprach anfangs; sie war jedoch zu ernsthaft, um Widerspruch zu ertragen, und schließlich setzte er seinen Hut auf und ging grummelnd hinaus. In der Zwischenzeit lief Catherine auf und ab und rief aus: "Ich frage mich, wo er ist - ich frage mich, wo er sein kann! Was habe ich gesagt, Nelly? Ich habe vergessen. War er verärgert über meine schlechte Laune am Nachmittag? Lieber! Sag mir, was ich gesagt habe, um ihn zu verletzen? Ich wünschte, er käme. Ich wünschte, er würde!" "Was für ein Lärm um nichts!" rief ich aus, obwohl ich selbst etwas unruhig war. "Was für eine Nichtigkeit versetzt dich in Angst! Es ist sicherlich kein großer Grund Es _war_ ein sehr dunkler Sommerabend: Die Wolken schienen gewillt zu sein, zu donnern, und ich sagte, wir sollten uns alle hinsetzen; der herannahende Regen würde sicherlich dafür sorgen, dass er ohne weitere Probleme nach Hause kommt. Jedoch ließ sich Catherine nicht zur Ruhe überreden. Sie lief hin und her, von der Tür zum Tor, in einem aufgewühlten Zustand, der keine Ruhe zuließ. Schließlich nahm sie eine feste Position an einer Seite der Mauer ein, in der Nähe der Straße: Dort blieb sie, unbeeindruckt von meinen Vorwürfen, dem grollenden Donner und den großen Tropfen, die um sie herum zu plätschern begannen. Sie blieb dort und rief in regelmäßigen Abständen, dann lauschte sie und schrie dann laut auf. Sie übertraf Hareton oder jedes andere Kind mit ihrem leidenschaftlichen Weinkrampf. Gegen Mitternacht, während wir immer noch aufblieben, kam der Sturm mit voller Wut über die Anhöhen. Es gab einen heftigen Wind, ebenso wie Donner, und entweder das eine oder das andere riss einen Baum an der Ecke des Gebäudes ab: Ein riesiger Ast fiel über das Dach und stieß einen Teil des Ost-Schornsteins herunter und ließ Steine und Ruß in das Küchenfeuer fallen. Wir dachten, ein Blitz wäre in unsere Mitte gefallen; und Joseph kniete nieder und flehte den Herrn an, sich an die Patriarchen Noah und Lot zu erinnern und wie in früheren Zeiten die Gerechten zu verschonen, obwohl er die Gottlosen schlug. Ich spürte irgendein Gefühl, dass dies auch ein Urteil über uns sein musste. Der Jona in meinem Kopf war Herr Earnshaw; und ich schüttelte am Türgriff seiner Höhle, um festzustellen, ob er noch am Leben war. Er antwortete deutlich genug in einer Art und Weise, die meinen Begleiter lautstärker als zuvor rufen ließ, dass ein deutlicher Unterschied zwischen Heiligen wie ihm und Sündern wie seinem Herrn gezogen werden könnte. Aber der Lärm war in zwanzig Minuten vorbei und ließ uns alle unversehrt zurück; außer Cathy, die völlig durchnässt war, weil sie sich hartnäckig weigerte, Schutz zu suchen, und ohne Hut und Schal stand, um so viel Wasser wie möglich mit ihrem Haar und ihrer Kleidung aufzufangen. Sie kam herein und legte sich auf die Sitzbank, völlig durchnässt, drehte ihr Gesicht zur Rückwand und legte ihre Hände davor. "Nun, Miss!" rief ich und berührte ihre Schulter, "Sie haben es doch nicht darauf angelegt, den Tod zu finden, oder? Wissen Sie, wie spät es ist? Halb eins. Komm, komm ins Bett! Es hat keinen Sinn mehr darauf zu warten, dass dieser dumme Junge kommt: Er ist nach Gimmerton gegangen und wird dort bleiben. Er vermutet, dass wir nicht mehr auf ihn warten würden bis zu dieser späten Stunde: zumindest vermutet er, dass nur Mr. Hindley wach sein würde, und er würde es vorziehen, dass der Hausherr die Tür nicht öffnet." "Nein, nein, er ist nicht in Gimmerton", sagte Joseph. "Ich würde nicht wundern, wenn er am Boden einer Moorgrube liegt. Diese Heimsuchung geschah nicht umsonst, und ich würde dich auffordern, Miss, aufzupassen - du könntest die nächste sein. Danke dem Himmel für alles! Alles arbeitet zusammen zum Guten für die Auserwählten, die aus dem Abfall ausgesucht sind! Du weißt, was die Schrift sagt." Und er begann mehrere Texte zu zitieren und verwies uns auf Kapitel und Verse, wo wir sie finden könnten. Ich, nachdem ich vergeblich das widerspenstige Mädchen gebeten hatte, aufzustehen und ihre nassen Sachen auszuziehen, ließ ihn predigen und sie zitternd zurück, und begab mich mit dem kleinen Hareton ins Bett, der so fest schlief, als ob alle um ihn herum schliefen. Ich hörte Joseph noch eine Weile lesen; dann hörte ich seine langsamen Schritte auf der Leiter, und dann schlief ich ein. Als ich etwas später als üblich hinunterkam, sah ich durch die Sonnenstrahlen, die durch die Ritzen der Fensterläden drangen, dass Miss Catherine immer noch in der Nähe des Kamins saß. Die Haustür stand ebenfalls offen; Licht drang durch die ungeöffneten Fenster; Hindley war herausgekommen und stand am Küchenherd, abgekämpft und schläfrig. "Was fehlt dir, Cathy?" fragte er, als ich eintrat. "Du siehst so düster aus wie ein ertrunkener Hund. Warum bist du so feucht und blass, Kind?" "Ich war nass", antwortete sie widerwillig, "und mir ist kalt, das ist alles." "Oh, sie ist ungezogen!" rief ich, da der Herr ziemlich nüchtern war. "Sie wurde gestern Abend von dem Regenschauer durchtränkt, und dort hat sie die ganze Nacht gesessen, und ich konnte sie nicht dazu überreden, sich zu bewegen." Mr. Earnshaw starrte uns überrascht an. "Die ganze Nacht", wiederholte er. "Was hielt sie wach? Nicht die Angst vor dem Donner, sicherlich? Das war vor Stunden vorbei." Keiner von uns wollte Heathcliffs Abwesenheit erwähnen, solange wir es verbergen konnten; daher antwortete ich, ich wüsste nicht, wie sie auf die Idee gekommen sei, wach zu bleiben, und sie sagte nichts. Der Morgen war frisch und kühl; ich öffnete den Fensterladen und bald füllte sich das Zimmer mit süßen Düften aus dem Garten. Aber Catherine rief gereizt zu mir: "Ellen, schließ das Fenster. Ich verhungere!" Und ihre Zähne klapperten, als sie sich enger an die fast erloschenen Glutnester schmiegte. "Sie ist krank", sagte Hindley und nahm ihr das Handgelenk; "ich vermute, deshalb wollte sie nicht ins Bett gehen. Verdammt! Ich möchte hier nicht mit noch mehr Krankheit belästigt werden. Was hat dich in den Regen getrieben?" „Wie immer, um den Bengeln nachzulaufen“, krächzte Joseph und nutzte eine Gelegenheit unserer Zögerns, um seine böse Zunge einzusetzen. „Wenn ich du wäre, Meister, hätte ich ihnen allen, den Sanften und den Einfachen, die Bretter vor die Stirn geschlagen! Nie ein Tag, an dem du weg bist, aber diese Linton-Katze kommt herangeschlichen; und Miss Nelly, sie ist ein hübsches Mädel! Sie sitzt wie eine Wache in der Küche und wartet auf dich; und wenn du durch eine Tür reingehst, ist er durch eine andere raus; und dann geht deine große Dame auf der anderen Seite zur Turteltaube! Hübsches Benehmen, sich um Mitternacht im Feld zu verstecken, mit diesem hässlichen, unheilvollen Gipsy, Heathcliff! Sie denken wohl, _ich_ bin blind; aber das bin ich nicht: nichts von dieser Art! Ich habe den jungen Linton kommen und gehen gesehen, und ich habe _dich_ (seine Rede an mich richtend) gesehen, du gutes Nichts, schmutzige Hexe! Schlupf rein und verzieh dich ins Haus, gerade als du das Hufgeklapper des Herrn gehört hast, als er die Straße heraufgaloppierte." "Schweig, Lauscher!" rief Catherine. "Keine Unverschämtheiten vor mir! Edgar Linton kam gestern zufällig, Hindley, und ich habe ihm gesagt, er solle verschwinden: Weil ich wusste, dass du ihn nicht treffen wolltest, wie du bist." "Du lügst, Cathy, zweifellos", antwortete ihr Bruder, "du bist ein verdammter Tölpel! Aber lass uns vorerst nicht von Linton sprechen: Sag mir, warst du nicht gestern Nacht bei Heathcliff? Sprich die Wahrheit jetzt. Du brauchst keine Angst zu haben, ihm zu schaden: Obwohl ich ihn nach wie vor hasse, hat er mir vor Kurzem einen Gefallen getan, der mein Gewissen empfindlich macht, ihn aus dem Weg zu räumen. Um dies zu verhindern, werde ich ihn noch heute Morgen vor die Tür setzen; und nachdem er weg ist, rade ich euch allen, schnell zu sein: Ich werde nur um so mehr Stimmung für euch haben." Hindley ergoss über sie einen Strom von spöttischen Beleidigungen und befahl ihr, sofort in ihr Zimmer zu gehen, sonst sollte sie umsonst weinen! Ich zwang sie, zu gehorchen; und ich werde nie vergessen, wie sie sich benahm, als wir ihr Zimmer erreichten: Es hat mich erschreckt. Ich dachte, sie würde verrückt werden, und ich bat Joseph, den Arzt zu rufen. Es stellte sich heraus, dass der Beginn von Delirium war: Mr. Kenneth erklärte, sobald er sie sah, dass sie sehr krank war; sie hatte Fieber. Er ließ sie bluten und sagte mir, dass sie von Wey- und Wasser-Grütze leben sollte und darauf achten müsse, sich nicht die Treppe hinunter oder aus dem Fenster zu werfen; dann ging er: denn er hatte genug zu tun in der Gemeinde, wo zwei oder drei Meilen die normale Entfernung zwischen den Häusern war. Ich kann nicht behaupten, dass ich eine sanfte Krankenschwester war, und Joseph und der Herr waren auch nicht besser, und obwohl unsere Patientin so mühsam und eigensinnig wie nur möglich war, hat sie es durchgestanden. Die alte Mrs. Linton besuchte uns mehrmals, um sicherzugehen, dass alles in Ordnung war, und sie schimpfte und befahl uns. Und als Catherine genesen war, bestand sie darauf, dass sie nach Thrushcross Grange gebracht wird: wofür wir sehr dankbar waren. Aber die arme Dame hatte Grund, ihre Freundlichkeit zu bereuen: Sie und ihr Mann haben sich beide mit dem Fieber angesteckt und sind innerhalb weniger Tage nacheinander gestorben. Unsere junge Dame kehrte zu uns zurück, frecher und leidenschaftlicher und hochmütiger als je zuvor. Heathcliff war seit dem Abend des Gewittersturms nicht mehr gesehen worden; und eines Tages hatte ich das Pech, als sie mich extrem provoziert hatte, ihr das Verschwinden anzulasten: wovon sie sehr wohl wusste, dass es nicht stimmte. Ab diesem Zeitpunkt hatten wir mehrere Monate lang keinerlei Kommunikation, außer dass ich sie wie eine einfache Dienerin behandelt habe. Auch Joseph wurde verbannt: Er sagte seine Meinung und hielt Vorträge, als ob sie ein kleines Mädchen wäre; und sie hielt sich für eine Frau und unsere Herrin und dachte, dass ihre kürzliche Krankheit sie berechtigt, mit Rücksicht behandelt zu werden. Dann hat der Arzt gesagt, dass sie nicht viel Widerspruch ertragen würde; sie sollte ihren eigenen Weg gehen; und es war in ihren Augen nichts weniger als Mord, wenn jemand es wagte, sich ihr zu widersetzen. Von Mr. Earnshaw und seinen Begleitern hielt sie sich fern; und nach den Anweisungen von Kenneth und ernsthaften Drohungen eines Anfalls, die oft mit ihren Wutausbrüchen einhergingen, erfüllte ihr Bruder ihr jeden Wunsch und vermied es, ihre hitzige Stimmung zu verschlimmern. Er war ihr gegenüber eher zu nachsichtig mit ihren Launen; nicht aus Zuneigung, sondern aus Stolz: Er wünschte sich innig, dass sie durch eine Verbindung mit den Lintons Ehre in die Familie brachte, und solange sie ihn in Ruhe ließ, durfte sie uns wie Sklaven behandeln, soweit es ihn kümmerte! Edgar Linton, wie viele vor und nach ihm, war besessen: und er glaubte, der glücklichste Mensch auf Erden zu sein, als er sie drei Jahre nach dem Tod seines Vaters zur Gimmerton Chapel führte. Ganz gegen meinen Wunsch wurde ich überredet, Wuthering Heights zu verlassen und sie hierhin zu begleiten. Der kleine Hareton war fast fünf Jahre alt, und ich hatte gerade angefangen, ihm das Alphabet beizubringen. Wir haben uns traurig verabschiedet; aber Catherines Tränen waren stärker als unsere. Als ich mich weigerte zu gehen und ihre Bitten mich nicht bewegten, ging sie weinend zu ihrem Ehemann und Bruder. Ersterer bot mir großzügige Gehälter an; letzterer befahl mir, meine Sachen zu packen: Er wollte keine Frauen im Haus haben, sagte er, jetzt wo es keine Herrin gab; und was Hareton betrifft, sollte sich der Pfarrer schon um ihn kümmern. Und so blieb mir nur eine Wahl: zu tun, was mir befohlen wurde. Ich sagte dem Herrn, dass er alle anständigen Leute losgeworden sei, um ein wenig schneller zu seinem Untergang zu eilen; ich küsste Hareton, sagte Auf Wiedersehen; und seitdem ist er ein Fremder: und es ist sehr seltsam zu denken, aber ich habe keinen Zweifel, dass er Ellen Dean vollkommen vergessen hat und dass er mehr als die ganze Welt für sie und sie für ihn gewesen ist! * * * * * An diesem Punkt der Geschichte der Haushälterin schweifte sie durch den Blick auf die Standuhr über dem Kamin ab und war erstaunt festzustellen, dass der Minutenzeiger halb zwei anzeigte. Sie wollte nicht länger bleiben: um ehrlich zu sein, hatte ich eher Lust, die Fortsetzung ihrer Erzählung aufzuschieben. Und jetzt, da sie sich zur Ruhe zurückgezogen hat und ich noch ein oder zwei Stunden nachgedacht habe, werde ich den Mut haben zu gehen, trotz der schmerzenden Trägheit meines Kopfes und meiner Glieder. Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Hindley kommt betrunken und gewalttätig nach Hause. Als Nelly Dean versucht, Hareton vor dem Zorn seines Vaters zu schützen, steckt Hindley ihr ein Messer in den Mund. Hindley lässt Hareton von der obersten Treppe fallen und Heathcliff fängt ihn auf. Obwohl er nichts mehr möchte, als Hindley zu ruinieren, rettet Heathcliff das Kind instinktiv. Ohne Dankbarkeit zu zeigen, setzt Hindley sein Trinken, seine Wutausbrüche und sein Toben fort. Nelly Dean tröstet das Baby Hareton in der Küche. Catherine kommt herein, um ein Gespräch alleine mit ihr zu führen. Keiner von beiden realisiert, dass Heathcliff das ganze Gespräch hören kann. Es stellt sich heraus, dass Edgar Catherine gebeten hat, ihn zu heiraten. Sie nennt die verschiedenen Gründe, warum sie ihn liebt, gibt jedoch zu, dass es sich nicht richtig anfühlt. Sie und Heathcliff sind aus demselben Stoff gemacht, aber Hindley hat Heathcliff so tief gebracht, dass es sie herabsetzen würde, Heathcliff zu heiraten, obwohl sie ihn liebt. Nelly erkennt, dass Heathcliff das Geständnis bis zu diesem Punkt belauscht hat. Er ist bereits gegangen. Catherine glaubt törichterweise, dass sie ihre Freundschaft mit Heathcliff aufrecht erhalten kann, nachdem sie Edgar geheiratet hat. Sie macht den entscheidenden Unterschied zwischen ihrer Liebe zu den beiden Männern deutlich: "Meine Liebe zu Linton ist wie das Laub in den Wäldern. Die Zeit wird sie verändern. Meine Liebe zu Heathcliff ähnelt den ewigen Felsen darunter. Nelly, ich bin Heathcliff - er ist immer, immer in meinem Kopf." Wären die Dinge etwas anders verlaufen, wenn Heathcliff dieses letzte Stück gehört hätte, oder? Nelly erzählt Catherine, dass Heathcliff einen Teil ihres Geständnisses gehört hat und dass er Wuthering Heights verlassen hat. Catherine wird hysterisch. Nun ist Catherine krank und Mr. Kenneth, der Dorfarzt, "erklärt sie für lebensbedrohlich krank". Catherine begibt sich zur Genesung nach Thrushcross Grange. Während sie dort ist, sterben sowohl Mr. als auch Mrs. Linton an Catherines Fieber. Drei Jahre vergehen und Catherine und Edgar heiraten. Nelly zieht mit dem Paar nach Thrushcross Grange, wo sie mit Isabella Linton leben werden. Hindley, Hareton und Joseph bleiben in Wuthering Heights. Heathcliff ist immer noch abwesend.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten 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 dwellers in Saville Row would have been surprised the next day, if they had been told that Phileas Fogg had returned home. His doors and windows were still closed, no appearance of change was visible. After leaving the station, Mr. Fogg gave Passepartout instructions to purchase some provisions, and quietly went to his domicile. He bore his misfortune with his habitual tranquillity. Ruined! And by the blundering of the detective! After having steadily traversed that long journey, overcome a hundred obstacles, braved many dangers, and still found time to do some good on his way, to fail near the goal by a sudden event which he could not have foreseen, and against which he was unarmed; it was terrible! But a few pounds were left of the large sum he had carried with him. There only remained of his fortune the twenty thousand pounds deposited at Barings, and this amount he owed to his friends of the Reform Club. So great had been the expense of his tour that, even had he won, it would not have enriched him; and it is probable that he had not sought to enrich himself, being a man who rather laid wagers for honour's sake than for the stake proposed. But this wager totally ruined him. Mr. Fogg's course, however, was fully decided upon; he knew what remained for him to do. A room in the house in Saville Row was set apart for Aouda, who was overwhelmed with grief at her protector's misfortune. From the words which Mr. Fogg dropped, she saw that he was meditating some serious project. Knowing that Englishmen governed by a fixed idea sometimes resort to the desperate expedient of suicide, Passepartout kept a narrow watch upon his master, though he carefully concealed the appearance of so doing. First of all, the worthy fellow had gone up to his room, and had extinguished the gas burner, which had been burning for eighty days. He had found in the letter-box a bill from the gas company, and he thought it more than time to put a stop to this expense, which he had been doomed to bear. The night passed. Mr. Fogg went to bed, but did he sleep? Aouda did not once close her eyes. Passepartout watched all night, like a faithful dog, at his master's door. Mr. Fogg called him in the morning, and told him to get Aouda's breakfast, and a cup of tea and a chop for himself. He desired Aouda to excuse him from breakfast and dinner, as his time would be absorbed all day in putting his affairs to rights. In the evening he would ask permission to have a few moment's conversation with the young lady. Passepartout, having received his orders, had nothing to do but obey them. He looked at his imperturbable master, and could scarcely bring his mind to leave him. His heart was full, and his conscience tortured by remorse; for he accused himself more bitterly than ever of being the cause of the irretrievable disaster. Yes! if he had warned Mr. Fogg, and had betrayed Fix's projects to him, his master would certainly not have given the detective passage to Liverpool, and then-- Passepartout could hold in no longer. "My master! Mr. Fogg!" he cried, "why do you not curse me? It was my fault that--" "I blame no one," returned Phileas Fogg, with perfect calmness. "Go!" Passepartout left the room, and went to find Aouda, to whom he delivered his master's message. "Madam," he added, "I can do nothing myself--nothing! I have no influence over my master; but you, perhaps--" "What influence could I have?" replied Aouda. "Mr. Fogg is influenced by no one. Has he ever understood that my gratitude to him is overflowing? Has he ever read my heart? My friend, he must not be left alone an instant! You say he is going to speak with me this evening?" "Yes, madam; probably to arrange for your protection and comfort in England." "We shall see," replied Aouda, becoming suddenly pensive. Throughout this day (Sunday) the house in Saville Row was as if uninhabited, and Phileas Fogg, for the first time since he had lived in that house, did not set out for his club when Westminster clock struck half-past eleven. Why should he present himself at the Reform? His friends no longer expected him there. As Phileas Fogg had not appeared in the saloon on the evening before (Saturday, the 21st of December, at a quarter before nine), he had lost his wager. It was not even necessary that he should go to his bankers for the twenty thousand pounds; for his antagonists already had his cheque in their hands, and they had only to fill it out and send it to the Barings to have the amount transferred to their credit. Mr. Fogg, therefore, had no reason for going out, and so he remained at home. He shut himself up in his room, and busied himself putting his affairs in order. Passepartout continually ascended and descended the stairs. The hours were long for him. He listened at his master's door, and looked through the keyhole, as if he had a perfect right so to do, and as if he feared that something terrible might happen at any moment. Sometimes he thought of Fix, but no longer in anger. Fix, like all the world, had been mistaken in Phileas Fogg, and had only done his duty in tracking and arresting him; while he, Passepartout. . . . This thought haunted him, and he never ceased cursing his miserable folly. Finding himself too wretched to remain alone, he knocked at Aouda's door, went into her room, seated himself, without speaking, in a corner, and looked ruefully at the young woman. Aouda was still pensive. About half-past seven in the evening Mr. Fogg sent to know if Aouda would receive him, and in a few moments he found himself alone with her. Phileas Fogg took a chair, and sat down near the fireplace, opposite Aouda. No emotion was visible on his face. Fogg returned was exactly the Fogg who had gone away; there was the same calm, the same impassibility. He sat several minutes without speaking; then, bending his eyes on Aouda, "Madam," said he, "will you pardon me for bringing you to England?" "I, Mr. Fogg!" replied Aouda, checking the pulsations of her heart. "Please let me finish," returned Mr. Fogg. "When I decided to bring you far away from the country which was so unsafe for you, I was rich, and counted on putting a portion of my fortune at your disposal; then your existence would have been free and happy. But now I am ruined." "I know it, Mr. Fogg," replied Aouda; "and I ask you in my turn, will you forgive me for having followed you, and--who knows?--for having, perhaps, delayed you, and thus contributed to your ruin?" "Madam, you could not remain in India, and your safety could only be assured by bringing you to such a distance that your persecutors could not take you." "So, Mr. Fogg," resumed Aouda, "not content with rescuing me from a terrible death, you thought yourself bound to secure my comfort in a foreign land?" "Yes, madam; but circumstances have been against me. Still, I beg to place the little I have left at your service." "But what will become of you, Mr. Fogg?" "As for me, madam," replied the gentleman, coldly, "I have need of nothing." "But how do you look upon the fate, sir, which awaits you?" "As I am in the habit of doing." "At least," said Aouda, "want should not overtake a man like you. Your friends--" "I have no friends, madam." "Your relatives--" "I have no longer any relatives." "I pity you, then, Mr. Fogg, for solitude is a sad thing, with no heart to which to confide your griefs. They say, though, that misery itself, shared by two sympathetic souls, may be borne with patience." "They say so, madam." "Mr. Fogg," said Aouda, rising and seizing his hand, "do you wish at once a kinswoman and friend? Will you have me for your wife?" Mr. Fogg, at this, rose in his turn. There was an unwonted light in his eyes, and a slight trembling of his lips. Aouda looked into his face. The sincerity, rectitude, firmness, and sweetness of this soft glance of a noble woman, who could dare all to save him to whom she owed all, at first astonished, then penetrated him. He shut his eyes for an instant, as if to avoid her look. When he opened them again, "I love you!" he said, simply. "Yes, by all that is holiest, I love you, and I am entirely yours!" "Ah!" cried Aouda, pressing his hand to her heart. Passepartout was summoned and appeared immediately. Mr. Fogg still held Aouda's hand in his own; Passepartout understood, and his big, round face became as radiant as the tropical sun at its zenith. Mr. Fogg asked him if it was not too late to notify the Reverend Samuel Wilson, of Marylebone parish, that evening. Passepartout smiled his most genial smile, and said, "Never too late." It was five minutes past eight. "Will it be for to-morrow, Monday?" "For to-morrow, Monday," said Mr. Fogg, turning to Aouda. "Yes; for to-morrow, Monday," she replied. Passepartout hurried off as fast as his legs could carry him. Können Sie ein geeignetes Resümee 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.

In dem Phileas Fogg seine Befehle nicht zweimal zum Passpartout wiederholen muss" Fogg geht nach Hause und schickt Passpartout zum Lebensmittelkauf. Er akzeptiert sein Schicksal mit "gewohnter Gelassenheit". Nach allem, was er durchgemacht hat, erkennt er, dass er an etwas gescheitert ist, "was er nicht hätte vorhersehen können". Das einzige Geld, das er noch hat, ist das, was er auf die Wette schuldet. Er ist ruiniert. Aouda ist voller Trauer um Fogg. Sie macht sich Sorgen, dass er an Suizid denken könnte, und Passpartout beschließt, ein Auge auf ihn zu haben. Am nächsten Tag sagt Fogg ihnen, dass er niemandem die Schuld gibt, als Passpartout sich selbst für das Scheitern verantwortlich macht. Fogg sagt, er werde am Abend mit Aouda sprechen, möchte aber den Tag allein verbringen. Dies ist ein Sonntag, und Fogg geht nicht in seinen Club. Er schließt sich ein und bringt seine Angelegenheiten in Ordnung. Um halb acht Uhr abends geht Fogg zu Aouda, um mit ihr zu sprechen. Er entschuldigt sich dafür, sie nach England gebracht zu haben. Ursprünglich hatte er vor, ihr Geld zu geben, und nun gibt er ihr das Wenige, was er hat, denn er braucht nichts. Er erwähnt, dass er keine Freunde hat, aber Aouda erklärt, sie sei nicht nur seine Freundin, sie schlägt vor, dass sie heiraten. Fogg ist sehr glücklich und erklärt, dass er sie liebt. Fogg sagt Passepartout, er solle den Reverend Samuel Wilson holen, um sie morgen, am Montag, zu trauen.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Kapitel: In dem der Leser der allerbesten Gesellschaft vorgestellt wird Schließlich sollte Beckys Freundlichkeit und Aufmerksamkeit gegenüber dem Oberhaupt der Familie ihres Mannes mit einer äußerst großen Belohnung treffen; eine Belohnung, die, obwohl sicherlich etwas substanzlos, die kleine Frau begehrte, mit größerer Gier als nach positiven Vorteilen. Wenn sie auch kein tugendhaftes Leben führen wollte, so wünschte sie zumindest einen Ruf der Tugendhaftigkeit zu genießen, und wir wissen, dass keine Dame der feinen Gesellschaft dieses erstrebenswerte Merkmal besitzen kann, bevor sie einen Schleppe und Federn angelegt und beim Hofe ihres Souveräns präsentiert worden ist. Nach diesem erhabenen Zusammentreffen treten sie als ehrbare Frauen daraus hervor. Der Lordkämmerer stellt ihnen ein Tugendzertifikat aus. Und wie zweifelhafte Waren oder Briefe durch einen Ofen in Quarantäne geschickt, mit aromatischem Essig besprenkelt und dann fürrein erklärt werden, besteht so manche Frau, deren Ruf sonst zweifelhaft wäre und eine Ansteckungsquelle darstellen würde, die heilsame Prüfung der königlichen Gegenwart und tritt daraus frei von jeglichem Makel hervor. Es mag zwar gut für Lady Bareacres, Lady Tufto, Mrs. Bute Crawley auf dem Land und andere Damen gewesen sein, die mit Mrs. Rawdon Crawley in Berührung gekommen waren, "Fie" zu rufen ob der Vorstellung der abscheulichen kleinen Abenteurerin vor dem Souverän und zu erklären, dass die liebe gute Königin Charlotte, wäre sie noch am Leben, niemals eine so äußerst ungebändigte Person in ihrem tugendhaften Empfangszimmer zugelassen hätte. Aber wenn wir bedenken, dass es der Erste Gentleman Europas war, vor dessen hohem Angesicht Mrs. Rawdon ihre Prüfung ablegte und gewissermaßen ihren Rufgrad erlangte, dann muss es doch flache Illoyalität sein, noch länger an ihrer Tugend zu zweifeln. Ich meinerseits sehe mit Liebe und Ehrfurcht auf dieses Große Geschichtscharakter zurück. Ach, welch eine hohe und edle Wertschätzung von "Frauenschaft" muss es in Vanity Fair gegeben haben, dass jene verehrte und erhabene Person, durch allgemeinen Beifall des verfeinerten und gebildeten Teils dieses Reiches dazu ermächtigt wurde, den Titel "Erster Edelmann seines Königreichs" zu tragen. Errinerst du dich noch, lieber M-- , oh Freund meiner Jugend, wie an einem beglückenden Abend vor fünfundzwanzig Jahren, während die "Heuchlerin" aufgeführt wurde, mit Elliston als Regisseur, Dowton und Liston als Darstellern, zwei Jungen der Slaughter-House Schule, in der sie unterrichtet waren, von ihren treuen Lehrherren erlaubt wurden, ins Theater Drury Lane zu gehen, wo eine Menge Menschenmengen versammelt waren, um den König zu begrüßen. DER KÖNIG? Da war er. Die Beefeater vor der erhabenen Loge; der Marquis von Steyne (Oberster Regalhüter) und andere hohe Staatsbeamte waren hinter dem Sessel angeordnet, auf dem er saß, ER saß dort - mit rosigem Gesicht, stattlicher Gestalt, mit Orden behängt und mit reichem, welligem Haar - wie sangen wir 'Gott schütze ihn!' Wie das Gebäude bebte und mit dieser großartigen Musik rief und schrie. Wie sie jubelten und weinten und Taschentücher schwenkten. Damen weinten; Mütter schlossen ihre Kinder in die Arme; manche wurden von Emotion überwältigt. Menschen wurden in der Arena erstickt, Schreie und Stöhnen drangen in der wühlenden und rufenden Masse auf, sein Volk, das bereit war, ja, fast bereit war, für ihn zu sterben. Ja, wir sahen ihn. Schicksal kann uns DAS nicht nehmen. Andere haben Napoleon gesehen. Einige wenige Menschen existieren noch, die Friedrich den Großen, Dr. Johnson, Marie Antoinette, etc. gesehen haben - laßt uns mit berechtigtem Stolz unseren Kindern sagen, dass wir Georg den Guten, den Großartigen, den Großen gesehen haben. Nun, es kam ein glücklicher Tag in Mrs. Rawdon Crawley's Leben, als dieser Engel endlich in das Paradies eines königlichen Hofes, das sie begehrte, aufgenommen wurde, wobei ihre Schwägerin als Patin fungierte. An dem bestimmten Tag fuhren Sir Pitt und seine Frau in ihrer prächtigen Familienkutsche (gerade neu gebaut und bereit für den Amtsantritt des Baronets als Hoher Sheriff seines Countys) zu dem kleinen Haus in der Curzon Street, zur Erheiterung von Raggles, der aus seinem Gemüsehandel zusehen konnte und vor dem Haus prächtige Federn und riesige Blumensträuße auf den Brüsten der neuen Livreejacken der Diener sah. Sir Pitt stieg in seiner funkelnden Uniform ab und ging in die Curzon Street, das Schwert zwischen den Beinen. Der kleine Rawdon stand mit dem Gesicht an den Fensterscheiben zum Salon, lächelte und nickte seiner Tante im Wagen innen zu; und bald darauf kam Sir Pitt wieder aus dem Haus und führte eine Dame mit prächtigen Federn, die in einen weißen Schal gewickelt war und eine prächtige Brokatrobe trug, vor. Sie stieg in das Fahrzeug ein, als wäre sie eine Prinzessin und ihr ganzes Leben lang daran gewöhnt, zum Hof zu gehen, und lächelte gnädig den Dienern an der Tür und Sir Pitt zu, der ihr in den Wagen folgte. Dann folgte Rawdon in seiner alten Uniform der Garde, die jämmerlich abgenutzt war und viel zu eng. Eigentlich sollte er dem Aufzug folgen und seinem Souverän in einem Taxi zu Diensten sein, aber seine gutmütige Schwägerin bestand darauf, dass sie als Familiengesellschaft auftreten sollten. Der Wagen war geräumig, die Damen nicht besonders groß, sie würden ihre Schleppen auf dem Schoss halten - schließlich fuhren die vier brüderlich zusammen und ihr Wagen reihte sich bald in den Zug königlicher Gefährte ein, der sich seinen Weg hinunter nach Piccadilly und St. James's Street machte, zum alten Backsteinpalast, wo der Stern von Braunschweig darauf wartete, seine Adligen und Gentlemen zu empfangen. Becky fühlte sich, als könnte sie die Menschen aus den Fenstern des Wagens segnen, so erhoben war ihr Geist, und so stark war ihr Gefühl für die würdige Position, die sie endlich im Leben erreicht hatte. Selbst unsere Becky hatte ihre Schwächen, und manchmal sieht man, wie Männer stolz auf Eigenschaften sind, die andere nur langsam erkennen: wie zum Beispiel Comus fest davon überzeugt ist, der größte tragische Schauspieler Englands zu sein; wie Brown, der berühmte Schriftsteller, sich wünscht, nicht als Genie, sondern als Mann von Mode angesehen zu werden; während Robinson, der große Anwalt, sich nicht im Geringsten um seinen Ruf im Gerichtssaal von Westminster kümmert, sondern sich für unübertroffen im Gelände und am Fünfbarren hält - so war es, und so wurde eine angesehene Frau zu sein und als solche angesehen zu werden, Beckys Ziel im Leben, und sie verhielt sich erstaunlich eifrig, bereit und erfolgreich gewandt. Wir haben gesagt, dass es Zeiten gab, in denen sie sich für eine feine Dame hielt und vergaß, dass kein Geld im Hauskästchen war - Gläubiger am Tor, Handwerker, die zu umschmeicheln und zu bezirzen waren - kein fester Boden zum Gehen, kurz gesagt. Und als sie im Wagen zum Hof fuhr, dem Familienwagen, nahm sie eine Haltung ein, die so großartig, selbstsicher, bedächtig und beeindruckend war, dass selbst Lady Jane lachen musste. Sie betrat die königlichen Gemächer mit einer Kopfbewegung, die einer Kaiserin angemessen gewesen wäre, und ich zweifle nicht daran, dass sie, wenn sie eine gewesen wäre, die Rolle perfekt ausgefüllt hätte. Wir sind berechtigt zu sagen, dass das Kostüm von Frau Rawdon Crawley bei ihrer Präsentation vor dem Herrscher von höchster Eleganz und Brillanz war. Einige Damen, die wir vielleicht gesehen haben - wir, die Sterne und Ordensbänder tragen und an den St. James's Versammlungen teilnehmen, oder wir, die mit schlammigen Stiefeln an der Pall Mall entlang schlendern und in die Kutschen schauen, wenn die Prominenten mit ihren Federn heranfahren - einige Damen der Mode, sage ich, haben wir vielleicht gesehen, ungefähr um zwei Uhr vormittags an einem Empfangstag, während die mit Borten besetzte Bande der Life Guards triumphale Märsche spielt und auf ihren prächtigen Stühlchen auf und ab reitet, ihre cremefarbenen Rösser, die zu dieser frühen Zeit des Tages keineswegs liebenswerte und anziehende Objekte sind. Eine füllige Gräfin von sechzig Jahren, ausgeschnitten, geschminkt, mit Rouge bis hinunter zu ihren herunterhängenden Augenlidern und funkelnden Diamanten in ihrer Perücke, ist ein gesundes und erbauliches, aber kein angenehmer Anblick. Sie hat den verblichenen Ausdruck einer Beleuchtung der St. James's Street, wie man sie an einem frühen Morgen sehen kann, wenn die Hälfte der Lampen ausgegangen ist und die anderen fahl blinken, als wollten sie wie Geister vor dem Morgengrauen verschwinden. Solche Reize, wie diejenigen, von denen wir einen flüchtigen Blick erhaschen, wenn die Kutsche ihrer Gnaden vorbeifährt, sollten nur nachts draußen erscheinen. Selbst wenn Cynthia manchmal in den jetzigen Wintermonaten am Nachmittag mit Phoebus, der ihr gegenüber am Himmel starrt, erschöpft aussieht, wie viel eher kann die alte Lady Castlemouldy ihr Haupt hoch halten, wenn die Sonne voll durch die Fenster des Wagens auf sie scheint und all die Spalten und Furchen zeigt, die die Zeit in ihr Gesicht gezeichnet hat! Nein, Empfangssäle sollten für November oder den ersten nebligen Tag angekündigt werden, oder die älteren Sultanas unserer Jahrmarkts der Eitelkeiten sollten in geschlossenen Sänften vorfahren, sich auf überdachten Wegen niederlassen und vor dem Herrscher unter dem Schutz des Lampenlichts verbeugen. Unsere geliebte Rebecca brauchte jedoch keine solche freundliche Aura, um ihre Schönheit zu unterstreichen. Ihre Haut konnte bisher jeden Sonnenschein vertragen, und ihr Kleid, obwohl es heute von jeder gegenwärtigen Dame des Jahrmarkts der Eitelkeiten als das dümmste und lächerlichste Kleidungsstück aller Zeiten betrachtet würde, war vor fünfundzwanzig Jahren in ihren Augen und denen des Publikums genauso schön wie das prächtigste Kostüm der berühmtesten Schönheit der heutigen Saison. Auch diese Wunderkreation der Modistin wird in zwanzig Jahren der Lächerlichkeit verfallen sein, zusammen mit allen früheren Eitelkeiten. Aber wir schweifen zu sehr ab. Mrs. Rawdons Kleid wurde am ereignisreichen Tag ihrer Präsentation als charmant bezeichnet. Selbst die liebe kleine Lady Jane musste diese Wirkung anerkennen, als sie ihre Verwandte betrachtete und traurig eingestehen musste, dass sie in Sachen Geschmack Mrs. Becky deutlich unterlegen war. Sie wusste nicht, wie viel Sorgfalt, Gedanken und Genie Mrs. Rawdon in das Kleid gesteckt hatte. Rebecca hatte einen so guten Geschmack wie jede Modistin in Europa und eine so geschickte Art, Dinge zu tun, wie Lady Jane kaum verstand. Letztere entdeckte schnell die Pracht des Brokats von Beckys Schleppe und den Glanz der Spitze an ihrem Kleid. Der Brokat war ein alter Rest, erklärte Becky, und die Spitze war ein großes Schnäppchen. Sie hatte sie seit hundert Jahren. "Meine liebe Mrs. Crawley, das muss ein kleines Vermögen gekostet haben", sagte Lady Jane und betrachtete ihre eigene Spitze, die bei weitem nicht so gut war, und prüfte dann die Qualität des antiken Brokats, der das Material von Mrs. Rawdons Hofkleid bildete. Sie hatte beinahe die Worte auf der Zunge, dass sie sich solche feine Kleidung nicht leisten konnte, unterdrückte diesen Gedanken aber mit Mühe, da er ihrer Verwandten gegenüber unhöflich gewesen wäre. Und doch, wenn Lady Jane alles gewusst hätte, glaube ich, dass selbst ihr freundlicher Charakter versagt hätte. Tatsache ist, dass Mrs. Rawdon, als sie Sir Pitts Haus in Ordnung brachte, die Spitze und den Brokat in alten Kleiderschränken fand, die den früheren Damen des Hauses gehörten, sie stillschweigend nach Hause brachte und sie ihrem eigenen kleinen Körper anpasste. Briggs sah sie mitnehmen, stellte keine Fragen, erzählte keine Geschichten; aber ich glaube, sie hatte mit ihr in dieser Angelegenheit vollstes Verständnis, und das hätten viele andere ehrliche Frauen auch gehabt. Und die Diamanten - "Wo zum Kuckuck hast du die Diamanten her, Becky?", sagte ihr Ehemann und bewunderte einige Schmuckstücke, die er noch nie zuvor gesehen hatte und die an ihren Ohren und in ihrem Nacken mit Strahlkraft und Prunk schimmerten. Becky errötete kurz und sah ihn einen Moment lang intensiv an. Pitt Crawley errötete auch ein wenig und schaute aus dem Fenster. Tatsache ist, dass er ihr nur einen sehr kleinen Teil der Diamanten gegeben hatte: eine hübsche Diamantenspange, mit der sie eine Perlenkette befestigte, die sie trug - und der Baronet hatte vergessen, seiner Frau von diesem Umstand zu erzählen. Becky schaute ihren Ehemann an und dann Sir Pitt mit einem triumphierenden Ausdruck, der so viel sagte wie "Soll ich dich verraten?" "Rate mal!", sagte sie zu ihrem Ehemann. "Nun, du alberner Mann", fuhr sie fort, "wo glaubst du, habe ich sie her? - alle außer der kleinen Spange, die mir vor langer Zeit ein lieber Freund von mir gegeben hat. Ich habe sie gemietet, natürlich. Ich habe sie bei Mr. Polonius in der Coventry Street gemietet. Du glaubst doch nicht ernsthaft, dass alle Diamanten, die bei Hofe getragen werden, den Trägerinnen gehören? Wie die wunderschönen Steine, die Lady Jane hat und die viel schöner sind als alle, die ich habe, bin ich mir sicher, dass die gehören." "Es sind Familienschätze", sagte Sir Pitt und wirkte wieder unbehaglich. Und in diesem familiären Gespräch rollte die Kutsche die Straße hinunter, bis ihre Insassen schließlich vor den Toren des Palastes entlassen wurden, wo der Herrscher in vollem Glanz und in aller Pracht saß. Die Diamanten, die Rawdons Bewunderung hervorgerufen hatten, kamen nie zu Mr. Polonius von der Coventry Street zurück, und dieser Herr beantragte auch nicht ihre Rückgabe. Stattdessen wurden sie in einem kleinen privaten Aufbewahrungsort in einem alten Schreibtisch verstaut, den Amelia Sedley ihr vor langer Zeit geschenkt hatte und von dem Becky eine Reihe nützlicher und vielleicht wertvoller Dinge aufbewahrte, von denen ihr Ehemann nichts wusste. Von manchen Ehemännern nichts oder wenig zu wissen, liegt in der Natur der Dinge. Dass sie verheimlichen, liegt in der Natur von wie vielen Frauen? Oh, Damen! Wie viele von euch haben heimliche Hutrechnungen? Wie viele von euch haben Kleider und Armbänder, die ihr nicht zeigen dürft, oder die ihr zitternd tragt? - zitternd und streichelnd mit Lächeln den Mann an eurer Seite, der den neuen Samtkleid von dem alten nicht unterscheidet oder das neue Armband vom letzten Jahr, oder eine Vorstellung davon hat, dass der heruntergekommene, gelb aussehende Spitzenchal 40 Guineen gekostet hat und Madame Bobinot jede Woche Dunning-Briefe für das Geld schreibt! So wusste Raw Nach diesem Treffen kann gesagt werden, dass Becky das loyalste Herz in ganz London hatte. Der Name ihres Königs war immer auf ihren Lippen, und sie verkündete, dass er der charmanteste Mann sei. Sie ging zu Colnaghi's und bestellte das feinste Gemälde von ihm, das die Kunst hervorgebracht und ihr Kredit ermöglichte. Sie wählte das berühmte Bild, auf dem der beste aller Monarchen in einem Frack mit Pelzkragen, Beinkleidern und Seidenstrümpfen auf einem Sofa sitzt und unter seiner lockigen braunen Perücke lächelt. Sie ließ ihn als Brosche malen und trug sie – tatsächlich unterhielt und belästigte sie ihre Bekannten mit ihrem ständigen Gerede über seine Liebenswürdigkeit und Schönheit. Wer weiß! Vielleicht dachte die kleine Frau, sie könnte die Rolle einer Maintenon oder einer Pompadour spielen. Aber der schönste Spaß nach ihrer Präsentation war es, sie keusch reden zu hören. Sie hatte ein paar weibliche Bekannte, die, es muss zugegeben werden, nicht den allerbesten Ruf in Vanity Fair hatten. Aber seit sie sozusagen eine ehrliche Frau geworden war, wollte Becky nicht mehr mit diesen zweifelhaften Personen abhängen. Sie ließ Lady Crackenbury links liegen, als diese ihr aus ihrer Opernloge zunickte, und ignorierte Mrs. Washington White im Ring. "Man muss, mein Lieber, zeigen, dass man jemand ist", sagte sie. "Man darf nicht mit fragwürdigen Leuten gesehen werden. Ich bemitleide Lady Crackenbury von Herzen, und Mrs. Washington White mag eine sehr gutmütige Person sein. Du kannst gerne mit ihnen zum Essen gehen, wenn dir dein Kartenspiel gefällt. Aber ich darf und will es nicht, und du wirst bitte Smith sagen, dass ich nicht zu Hause bin, wenn eine von ihnen anruft." Beckys Kleidungsdetails wurden in den Zeitungen erwähnt – Federn, Schleifen, herrliche Diamanten und alles andere. Lady Crackenbury las den Artikel mit Bitterkeit im Herzen und sprach mit ihren Anhängern über die Allüren, die sich diese Frau erlaubte. Mrs. Bute Crawley und ihre Töchter auf dem Land hatten eine Ausgabe des "Morning Post" aus der Stadt und gaben ihrer aufrichtigen Empörung freien Lauf. "Wenn du rötlich-braune Haare, grüne Augen und die Tochter einer französischen Seiltänzerin gewesen wärst", sagte Mrs. Bute zu ihrer ältesten Tochter (die im Gegenteil sehr dunkel, klein und stupsnasig war), "hättest du natürlich großartige Diamanten haben können und wärst vom König durch deine Cousine, Lady Jane, auf dem Hof vorgestellt worden. Aber du bist nur eine Dame, mein armes Kind. Du hast in deinen Adern nur etwas vom besten Blut Englands und gute Prinzipien und Frömmigkeit. Ich selbst, die Frau des jüngeren Bruders eines Baronet, hätte nie daran gedacht, zum Hof zu gehen – und andere Leute hätten es auch nicht getan, wenn die gute Queen Charlotte noch am Leben gewesen wäre." So tröstete sich die würdige Pfarrfrau, und ihre Töchter seufzten und verbrachten die ganze Nacht damit, das Adelsverzeichnis zu studieren. Ein paar Tage nach der berühmten Präsentation wurde der tugendhaften Becky eine weitere große Ehre zuteil. Der Wagen von Lady Steyne fuhr vor die Tür von Mr. Rawdon Crawley, und der Diener lieferte nicht, wie es zunächst schien, vorne am Haus ab, sondern überreichte nur einige Karten mit den Namen der Markgräfin von Steyne und der Gräfin von Gaunt. Hätten diese Stücke Karton schöne Bilder oder wären sie mit hundert Metern Spitze umwickelt gewesen, die doppelt so viel wert war wie die Anzahl der Guineen, Becky hätte sie nicht mit größerem Vergnügen betrachtet. Man kann sicher sein, dass sie einen prominenten Platz in der Porzellanschale auf dem Wohnzimmertisch einnahmen, in der Becky die Visitenkarten ihrer Besucher aufbewahrte. Herrje! Wie schnell diese arme Mrs. Washington White und Lady Crackenburys Karte – über die sich unser kleiner Freund vor einigen Monaten noch gefreut hatte und auf die sie einst ein wenig stolz war – wie schnell, sage ich, sanken diese armen vernachlässigten Zweien beim Anblick dieser grandiosen Hofkarten in der Kartei ganz nach unten. Steyne! Bareacres, Johnes of Helvellyn! und Caerylon of Camelot! Wir können sicher sein, dass Becky und Briggs diese erhabenen Namen im Adelsverzeichnis nachschlugen und den edlen Familien in allen Verästelungen des Stammbaums folgten. Ein paar Stunden später kam Lord Steyne zu Besuch, sah sich um, beobachtete alles, wie es seine Gewohnheit war, und fand die Visitenkarten seiner Damen schon schon aufgereiht wie die Trumpfkarten in Beckys Hand. Er grinste, wie dieser alte Zyniker es immer tat, bei jeder naiven Demonstration menschlicher Schwäche. Becky kam ihm bald darauf entgegen; wann immer das liebe Mädchen seinen Lordship erwartete, war ihre Toilette vorbereitet, ihre Haare perfekt frisiert, ihre Taschentücher, Schürzen, Schals, kleine Marokkoslipper und andere weibliche Spielereien angeordnet, und sie saß in einer kunstvollen und angenehmen Pose bereit, ihn zu empfangen – wenn sie natürlich überrascht wurde, musste sie in ihr Zimmer flüchten, um einen schnellen Überblick über die Angelegenheiten im Spiegel zu bekommen, und dann wieder herunterkommen, um den großen Peer zu bedienen. Sie fand ihn grinsend über der Schale stehen. Sie wurde entdeckt, und sie errötete ein wenig. "Danke, Monseigneur", sagte sie. "Sie sehen, Ihre Damen waren hier. Wie nett von Ihnen! Ich konnte nicht früher kommen – ich war in der Küche und habe einen Pudding gemacht." "Ich weiß, dass du da warst, ich habe dich gesehen, als ich vorfuhr", antwortete der alte Herr. "Sie sehen alles", erwiderte sie. "Einiges, aber das nicht, meine hübsche Lady", sagte er freundlich. "Du kleine Lügnerin! Ich habe dich oben im Zimmer gehört, ich habe keinen Zweifel daran, dass du dir ein wenig Rouge aufgetragen hast – du musst etwas deines Rouges meiner Lady Gaunt geben, deren Teint völlig lächerlich ist – und ich habe die Schlafzimmertür gehört, wie sie sich öffnete, und dann bist du heruntergekommen." "Ist es ein Verbrechen, mein Bestes zu geben, wenn Sie hier sind?", antwortete Mrs. Rawdon klagend und rieb sich die Wange mit ihrem Taschentuch, als ob sie zeigen wollte, dass dort kein Rouge war, sondern nur echte Röte und Bescheidenheit in ihrem Fall. Wer kann das schon sagen? Ich weiß, dass es etwas Rouge gibt, das nicht auf einem Taschentuch abgeht, und dass es welches gibt, das selbst Tränen nicht beeinträchtigen können. "Nun", sagte der alte Herr und drehte Beckys Karte in den Händen, "du willst unbedingt eine vornehme Dame werden. Du treibst mich in den Wahnsinn, um dich in die Gesellschaft einzuführen. Dort wirst du dich nicht behaupten können, du dummes kleines Ding. Du hast kein Geld." "Du wirst uns einen Platz besorgen", warf Becky ein, "so schnell wie möglich." "Du hast kein Geld, und du willst dich mit denen messen, die welches haben. Du armer kleiner Tongefäß, du willst mit den großen Kupferkesseln den Fluss hinunterschwimmen. Alle Frauen sind gleich. Jeder strebt nach dem, was es nicht wert ist, erreicht zu werden! Bei Gott! Ich habe gestern mit dem König zu Abend gegessen, und wir hatten Hammelhals und Rüben. Ein Kräuteressen ist oft besser als ein gemästeter Ochse. Du wirst zu Gaunt House gehen. Du lässt einem alten Mann keine Ruhe, bis du dorth "Ich gebe meinem Hund immer das Abendessen von meinem eigenen Teller", sagte Rebecca und lachte schelmisch. Nachdem sie eine Weile die Verlegenheit meines Lords genossen hatte, der Briggs hasste, weil sie sein Tête-à-Tête mit der Frau des fairen Colonels, Mrs. Rawdon, unterbrach, hatte Mrs. Rawdon schließlich Mitleid mit ihrem Bewunderer und rief Briggs herbei. Sie lobte das schöne Wetter und bat sie, mit dem Kind spazieren zu gehen. "Ich kann sie nicht wegschicken", sagte Becky nach einer Weile, in traurigem Ton. Ihre Augen füllten sich mit Tränen, als sie sprach, und sie wandte den Kopf ab. "Du schuldest ihr ihr Gehalt, nehme ich an", sagte der Lord. "Schlimmer als das", antwortete Becky, weiterhin ihre Augen senkend, "ich habe sie ruiniert." "Ruiniert? Warum wirfst du sie dann nicht hinaus?" fragte der Herr. "Männer tun das", antwortete Becky bitter. "Frauen sind nicht so böse wie du. Letztes Jahr, als wir auf unser letztes Pfund angewiesen waren, hat sie uns alles gegeben. Sie soll mich nie verlassen, bis wir selbst völlig ruiniert sind, was nicht mehr weit entfernt zu sein scheint, oder bis ich ihr den letzten Penny zurückzahlen kann." "Verdammt, wie viel ist es?" sagte der Lord fluchend. Und Becky, angesichts der Größe seines Vermögens, nannte nicht nur die Summe, die sie von Miss Briggs ausgeliehen hatte, sondern auch eine fast doppelt so hohe Summe. Das brachte Lord Steyne zu einer weiteren kurzen und energischen Wutäußerung, bei der Rebecca den Kopf noch mehr senkte und bitterlich weinte. "Ich konnte nicht anders. Es war meine einzige Chance. Ich darf es meinem Mann nicht erzählen. Er würde mich töten, wenn ich ihm sage, was ich getan habe. Ich habe es vor allen anderen geheim gehalten, außer dir - und du hast es mir abgezwungen. Ach, was soll ich tun, Lord Steyne? Ich bin sehr, sehr unglücklich!" Lord Steyne antwortete nur, indem er den Blues auf seinen Hut trommelte und an seinen Nägeln kaute. Schließlich setzte er seinen Hut auf und verließ wütend den Raum. Rebecca erhob sich nicht aus ihrer elenden Haltung, bis die Tür hinter ihm zugeschlagen war und sein Wagen davonraste. Dann stand sie mit dem eigenartigsten Ausdruck siegreicher Boshaftigkeit in ihren grünen Augen auf. Ein- oder zweimal brach sie in ein Lachen aus, als sie arbeitete. Sie setzte sich ans Klavier und spielte einen triumphalen Satz, der die Leute unter ihrem Fenster zum Anhalten brachte, um ihre brillante Musik zu hören. An diesem Abend kamen zwei Notizen von Gaunt House für die Kleine, eine enthielt eine Einladungskarte von Lord und Lady Steyne für ein Dinner bei Gaunt House nächsten Freitag, während die andere einen Zettel mit Lord Steynes Unterschrift und der Adresse von Messrs. Jones, Brown und Robinson, Lombard Street enthielt. Rawdon hörte Becky in der Nacht ein- oder zweimal lachen. Es war nur ihre Freude darüber, dass sie nach Gaunt House gehen würde und dort den Damen gegenüberstehen würde, sagte sie, was sie so amüsierte. Aber die Wahrheit war, dass sie mit vielen anderen Gedanken beschäftigt war. Sollte sie das alte Briggs bezahlen und sie verabschieden? Sollte sie Raggles überraschen, indem sie seine Rechnung beglich? Sie wälzte all diese Gedanken auf ihrem Kissen und am nächsten Tag, als Rawdon zu seinem morgendlichen Besuch im Club ging, fuhr Mrs. Crawley (in einem schlichten Kleid mit Schleier) mit einem Leihwagen in die Stadt. Sie wurde bei Messrs. Jones und Robinson's Bank abgesetzt und präsentierte dort einen Dokument an die zuständige Person am Schalter, die sie fragte, "wie sie es haben wollte?" Sie sagte sanft: "Ich möchte hundertfünfzig Pfund in kleinen Scheinen und den Rest in einem Schein haben." Dann hielt sie auf dem St. Paul's Churchyard an und kaufte das schönste schwarze Seidenkleid für Briggs, das Geld kaufen konnte. Damit, zusammen mit einem Kuss und den freundlichsten Worten, überreichte sie der einfachen alten Jungfer dieses Geschenk. Dann ging sie zu Mr. Raggles, erkundigte sich liebevoll nach seinen Kindern und zahlte ihm fünfzig Pfund als Anzahlung. Danach besuchte sie den Kutschenverleiher, bei dem sie ihre Kutschen gemietet hatte, und erfreute ihn mit einer ähnlichen Summe. "Und ich hoffe, dass dies eine Lektion für dich ist, Spavin", sagte sie, "und dass an dem nächsten Empfangstag mein Bruder, Sir Pitt, nicht in die Unannehmlichkeit gebracht wird, vier von uns mit seiner Kutsche zum Empfang Seiner Majestät mitzunehmen, weil meine eigene Kutsche nicht zur Verfügung steht." Es scheint, dass es am letzten Empfangstag eine Meinungsverschiedenheit gegeben hatte. Daher die Erniedrigung, der der Colonel nur knapp entgangen war, als er gezwungen war, in einer Mietkutsche vor seinen Souverän zu treten. Nachdem diese Vereinbarungen abgeschlossen waren, besuchte Becky das oben genannte Schreibtisch, den Amelia Sedley ihr vor Jahren geschenkt hatte und der eine Vielzahl nützlicher und wertvoller Dinge enthielt. In diesem privaten Museum legte sie den einen Schein ab, den ihr der Kassierer von Messrs. Jones und Robinson gegeben hatte. Können Sie eine passende Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Endlich, endlich wird sich all das Anstrengen und Arbeiten von Becky auszahlen. Sie ist bereit, ganz an die Spitze der sozialen Leiter - oder zumindest ihrer öffentlichen Seite - zu klettern. Endlich darf sie...warte darauf...dem König von England am Hofe vorgestellt werden! Juhu! Irgendwie. Also, worum geht es bei dieser Hofvorstellung überhaupt? Nun, stell es dir als eine Kombination aus dem Red Carpet der Oscars und einer persönlichen Audienz beim Papst vor. Die ganze Sache wird von Pitt und Lady Jane arrangiert, die Becky und Rawdon in der Familienkutsche mitnehmen, um sie vorzustellen. Becky belegt mühelos den ersten Platz der am besten gekleideten Liste, obwohl der Erzähler über die Tatsache scherzt, dass das, was sie gerade trägt, in zwanzig Jahren als völlig lächerlich angesehen wird. Lady Jane bemerkt, dass Beckys Kleid aus extrem teurem Stoff besteht, den sie sich wahrscheinlich selbst nicht leisten könnte. Becky winkt ab und behauptet, dass dies alles Kleinigkeiten sind, die sie schon ewig hat. In Wirklichkeit sind es jedoch Dinge, die sie im Londoner Anwesen der Crawleys gefunden - und gestohlen - hat, während sie die Restaurierung leitete. Außerdem hat sie fantastische Diamanten dabei. Rawdon fragt sich, woher sie stammen, und Pitt wird plötzlich sehr unbehaglich. Es stellt sich heraus, dass er ihr eines der kleinen Armbänder geschenkt hat, die sie trägt. Becky lacht und weicht auch dieser Frage aus und behauptet, dass sie die Diamanten alle gemietet habe. Am Hof trifft Becky auf Lord Steyne, der als Lord des Pulverschranks einen Hoftermin hat. Er sieht ihre Diamanten und weiß, woher sie wirklich stammen - von ihm. Der Erzähler sagt dann im Grunde, dass das, was am Hof passiert, auch am Hof bleibt, und dass er uns nicht erzählt, worüber Becky und der König gesprochen haben. Trotzdem wird Becky danach zum Superpatrioten. Oder zumindest wirklich und echt loyal gegenüber dem König. Okay, hauptsächlich nur eine sehr inspirierte Namensgeberin. Ein paar Tage später erhält Becky endlich Besuchskarten von Lady Steyne und ihrer Schwiegertochter, der Gräfin von Gaunt. Das bedeutet, dass diese beiden Frauen, die sich auf dem Gipfel des sozialen Berges befinden, ihre Existenz anerkennen. Becky ist wirklich begeistert. Lord Steyne kommt zu Besuch und erzählt ihr, dass sie nächste Woche zum Abendessen nach Gaunt House, seinem Anwesen, eingeladen wird. Da jubelt man doch endlich am coolen Tisch sitzen zu können. Wie üblich flirtet Becky mit ihm, bis Briggs hereinkommt und unterbricht. Steyne ist verärgert und fordert Becky flüsternd auf, Briggs loszuwerden. Becky schickt Briggs mit Rawdon Jr. fort und erzählt Lord Steyne, dass sie sie nicht loswerden könne, weil sie ihr eine Menge Geld schuldet - was wahr ist. Steyne fragt wie viel und Becky sagt ihm das Doppelte des tatsächlichen Betrags. Er flucht und geht dann. An diesem Abend erhält Becky eine Einladung zum Abendessen nach Gaunt House, zusammen mit einem Scheck über das Doppelte ihres Schuldenbetrags bei Briggs. Becky ist halb versucht, Briggs zurückzuzahlen, oder Raggles, ihrem Vermieter, oder einer beliebigen Anzahl an anderen Menschen, denen sie Geld schuldet. Es ist jedoch nur eine flüchtige Fantasie. Stattdessen gibt sie Raggles ein bisschen Geld, kauft Briggs ein neues Kleid und legt den Rest des Geldes in eine verschlossene Schublade ihres Schreibtisches, in der sie auch den Schmuck von Lord Steyne aufbewahrt.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: X. The Substance of the Shadow "I, Alexandre Manette, unfortunate physician, native of Beauvais, and afterwards resident in Paris, write this melancholy paper in my doleful cell in the Bastille, during the last month of the year, 1767. I write it at stolen intervals, under every difficulty. I design to secrete it in the wall of the chimney, where I have slowly and laboriously made a place of concealment for it. Some pitying hand may find it there, when I and my sorrows are dust. "These words are formed by the rusty iron point with which I write with difficulty in scrapings of soot and charcoal from the chimney, mixed with blood, in the last month of the tenth year of my captivity. Hope has quite departed from my breast. I know from terrible warnings I have noted in myself that my reason will not long remain unimpaired, but I solemnly declare that I am at this time in the possession of my right mind--that my memory is exact and circumstantial--and that I write the truth as I shall answer for these my last recorded words, whether they be ever read by men or not, at the Eternal Judgment-seat. "One cloudy moonlight night, in the third week of December (I think the twenty-second of the month) in the year 1757, I was walking on a retired part of the quay by the Seine for the refreshment of the frosty air, at an hour's distance from my place of residence in the Street of the School of Medicine, when a carriage came along behind me, driven very fast. As I stood aside to let that carriage pass, apprehensive that it might otherwise run me down, a head was put out at the window, and a voice called to the driver to stop. "The carriage stopped as soon as the driver could rein in his horses, and the same voice called to me by my name. I answered. The carriage was then so far in advance of me that two gentlemen had time to open the door and alight before I came up with it. "I observed that they were both wrapped in cloaks, and appeared to conceal themselves. As they stood side by side near the carriage door, I also observed that they both looked of about my own age, or rather younger, and that they were greatly alike, in stature, manner, voice, and (as far as I could see) face too. "'You are Doctor Manette?' said one. "I am." "'Doctor Manette, formerly of Beauvais,' said the other; 'the young physician, originally an expert surgeon, who within the last year or two has made a rising reputation in Paris?' "'Gentlemen,' I returned, 'I am that Doctor Manette of whom you speak so graciously.' "'We have been to your residence,' said the first, 'and not being so fortunate as to find you there, and being informed that you were probably walking in this direction, we followed, in the hope of overtaking you. Will you please to enter the carriage?' "The manner of both was imperious, and they both moved, as these words were spoken, so as to place me between themselves and the carriage door. They were armed. I was not. "'Gentlemen,' said I, 'pardon me; but I usually inquire who does me the honour to seek my assistance, and what is the nature of the case to which I am summoned.' "The reply to this was made by him who had spoken second. 'Doctor, your clients are people of condition. As to the nature of the case, our confidence in your skill assures us that you will ascertain it for yourself better than we can describe it. Enough. Will you please to enter the carriage?' "I could do nothing but comply, and I entered it in silence. They both entered after me--the last springing in, after putting up the steps. The carriage turned about, and drove on at its former speed. "I repeat this conversation exactly as it occurred. I have no doubt that it is, word for word, the same. I describe everything exactly as it took place, constraining my mind not to wander from the task. Where I make the broken marks that follow here, I leave off for the time, and put my paper in its hiding-place. ***** "The carriage left the streets behind, passed the North Barrier, and emerged upon the country road. At two-thirds of a league from the Barrier--I did not estimate the distance at that time, but afterwards when I traversed it--it struck out of the main avenue, and presently stopped at a solitary house, We all three alighted, and walked, by a damp soft footpath in a garden where a neglected fountain had overflowed, to the door of the house. It was not opened immediately, in answer to the ringing of the bell, and one of my two conductors struck the man who opened it, with his heavy riding glove, across the face. "There was nothing in this action to attract my particular attention, for I had seen common people struck more commonly than dogs. But, the other of the two, being angry likewise, struck the man in like manner with his arm; the look and bearing of the brothers were then so exactly alike, that I then first perceived them to be twin brothers. "From the time of our alighting at the outer gate (which we found locked, and which one of the brothers had opened to admit us, and had relocked), I had heard cries proceeding from an upper chamber. I was conducted to this chamber straight, the cries growing louder as we ascended the stairs, and I found a patient in a high fever of the brain, lying on a bed. "The patient was a woman of great beauty, and young; assuredly not much past twenty. Her hair was torn and ragged, and her arms were bound to her sides with sashes and handkerchiefs. I noticed that these bonds were all portions of a gentleman's dress. On one of them, which was a fringed scarf for a dress of ceremony, I saw the armorial bearings of a Noble, and the letter E. "I saw this, within the first minute of my contemplation of the patient; for, in her restless strivings she had turned over on her face on the edge of the bed, had drawn the end of the scarf into her mouth, and was in danger of suffocation. My first act was to put out my hand to relieve her breathing; and in moving the scarf aside, the embroidery in the corner caught my sight. "I turned her gently over, placed my hands upon her breast to calm her and keep her down, and looked into her face. Her eyes were dilated and wild, and she constantly uttered piercing shrieks, and repeated the words, 'My husband, my father, and my brother!' and then counted up to twelve, and said, 'Hush!' For an instant, and no more, she would pause to listen, and then the piercing shrieks would begin again, and she would repeat the cry, 'My husband, my father, and my brother!' and would count up to twelve, and say, 'Hush!' There was no variation in the order, or the manner. There was no cessation, but the regular moment's pause, in the utterance of these sounds. "'How long,' I asked, 'has this lasted?' "To distinguish the brothers, I will call them the elder and the younger; by the elder, I mean him who exercised the most authority. It was the elder who replied, 'Since about this hour last night.' "'She has a husband, a father, and a brother?' "'A brother.' "'I do not address her brother?' "He answered with great contempt, 'No.' "'She has some recent association with the number twelve?' "The younger brother impatiently rejoined, 'With twelve o'clock?' "'See, gentlemen,' said I, still keeping my hands upon her breast, 'how useless I am, as you have brought me! If I had known what I was coming to see, I could have come provided. As it is, time must be lost. There are no medicines to be obtained in this lonely place.' "The elder brother looked to the younger, who said haughtily, 'There is a case of medicines here;' and brought it from a closet, and put it on the table. ***** "I opened some of the bottles, smelt them, and put the stoppers to my lips. If I had wanted to use anything save narcotic medicines that were poisons in themselves, I would not have administered any of those. "'Do you doubt them?' asked the younger brother. "'You see, monsieur, I am going to use them,' I replied, and said no more. "I made the patient swallow, with great difficulty, and after many efforts, the dose that I desired to give. As I intended to repeat it after a while, and as it was necessary to watch its influence, I then sat down by the side of the bed. There was a timid and suppressed woman in attendance (wife of the man down-stairs), who had retreated into a corner. The house was damp and decayed, indifferently furnished--evidently, recently occupied and temporarily used. Some thick old hangings had been nailed up before the windows, to deaden the sound of the shrieks. They continued to be uttered in their regular succession, with the cry, 'My husband, my father, and my brother!' the counting up to twelve, and 'Hush!' The frenzy was so violent, that I had not unfastened the bandages restraining the arms; but, I had looked to them, to see that they were not painful. The only spark of encouragement in the case, was, that my hand upon the sufferer's breast had this much soothing influence, that for minutes at a time it tranquillised the figure. It had no effect upon the cries; no pendulum could be more regular. "For the reason that my hand had this effect (I assume), I had sat by the side of the bed for half an hour, with the two brothers looking on, before the elder said: "'There is another patient.' "I was startled, and asked, 'Is it a pressing case?' "'You had better see,' he carelessly answered; and took up a light. ***** "The other patient lay in a back room across a second staircase, which was a species of loft over a stable. There was a low plastered ceiling to a part of it; the rest was open, to the ridge of the tiled roof, and there were beams across. Hay and straw were stored in that portion of the place, fagots for firing, and a heap of apples in sand. I had to pass through that part, to get at the other. My memory is circumstantial and unshaken. I try it with these details, and I see them all, in this my cell in the Bastille, near the close of the tenth year of my captivity, as I saw them all that night. "On some hay on the ground, with a cushion thrown under his head, lay a handsome peasant boy--a boy of not more than seventeen at the most. He lay on his back, with his teeth set, his right hand clenched on his breast, and his glaring eyes looking straight upward. I could not see where his wound was, as I kneeled on one knee over him; but, I could see that he was dying of a wound from a sharp point. "'I am a doctor, my poor fellow,' said I. 'Let me examine it.' "'I do not want it examined,' he answered; 'let it be.' "It was under his hand, and I soothed him to let me move his hand away. The wound was a sword-thrust, received from twenty to twenty-four hours before, but no skill could have saved him if it had been looked to without delay. He was then dying fast. As I turned my eyes to the elder brother, I saw him looking down at this handsome boy whose life was ebbing out, as if he were a wounded bird, or hare, or rabbit; not at all as if he were a fellow-creature. "'How has this been done, monsieur?' said I. "'A crazed young common dog! A serf! Forced my brother to draw upon him, and has fallen by my brother's sword--like a gentleman.' "There was no touch of pity, sorrow, or kindred humanity, in this answer. The speaker seemed to acknowledge that it was inconvenient to have that different order of creature dying there, and that it would have been better if he had died in the usual obscure routine of his vermin kind. He was quite incapable of any compassionate feeling about the boy, or about his fate. "The boy's eyes had slowly moved to him as he had spoken, and they now slowly moved to me. "'Doctor, they are very proud, these Nobles; but we common dogs are proud too, sometimes. They plunder us, outrage us, beat us, kill us; but we have a little pride left, sometimes. She--have you seen her, Doctor?' "The shrieks and the cries were audible there, though subdued by the distance. He referred to them, as if she were lying in our presence. "I said, 'I have seen her.' "'She is my sister, Doctor. They have had their shameful rights, these Nobles, in the modesty and virtue of our sisters, many years, but we have had good girls among us. I know it, and have heard my father say so. She was a good girl. She was betrothed to a good young man, too: a tenant of his. We were all tenants of his--that man's who stands there. The other is his brother, the worst of a bad race.' "It was with the greatest difficulty that the boy gathered bodily force to speak; but, his spirit spoke with a dreadful emphasis. "'We were so robbed by that man who stands there, as all we common dogs are by those superior Beings--taxed by him without mercy, obliged to work for him without pay, obliged to grind our corn at his mill, obliged to feed scores of his tame birds on our wretched crops, and forbidden for our lives to keep a single tame bird of our own, pillaged and plundered to that degree that when we chanced to have a bit of meat, we ate it in fear, with the door barred and the shutters closed, that his people should not see it and take it from us--I say, we were so robbed, and hunted, and were made so poor, that our father told us it was a dreadful thing to bring a child into the world, and that what we should most pray for, was, that our women might be barren and our miserable race die out!' "I had never before seen the sense of being oppressed, bursting forth like a fire. I had supposed that it must be latent in the people somewhere; but, I had never seen it break out, until I saw it in the dying boy. "'Nevertheless, Doctor, my sister married. He was ailing at that time, poor fellow, and she married her lover, that she might tend and comfort him in our cottage--our dog-hut, as that man would call it. She had not been married many weeks, when that man's brother saw her and admired her, and asked that man to lend her to him--for what are husbands among us! He was willing enough, but my sister was good and virtuous, and hated his brother with a hatred as strong as mine. What did the two then, to persuade her husband to use his influence with her, to make her willing?' "The boy's eyes, which had been fixed on mine, slowly turned to the looker-on, and I saw in the two faces that all he said was true. The two opposing kinds of pride confronting one another, I can see, even in this Bastille; the gentleman's, all negligent indifference; the peasant's, all trodden-down sentiment, and passionate revenge. "'You know, Doctor, that it is among the Rights of these Nobles to harness us common dogs to carts, and drive us. They so harnessed him and drove him. You know that it is among their Rights to keep us in their grounds all night, quieting the frogs, in order that their noble sleep may not be disturbed. They kept him out in the unwholesome mists at night, and ordered him back into his harness in the day. But he was not persuaded. No! Taken out of harness one day at noon, to feed--if he could find food--he sobbed twelve times, once for every stroke of the bell, and died on her bosom.' "Nothing human could have held life in the boy but his determination to tell all his wrong. He forced back the gathering shadows of death, as he forced his clenched right hand to remain clenched, and to cover his wound. "'Then, with that man's permission and even with his aid, his brother took her away; in spite of what I know she must have told his brother--and what that is, will not be long unknown to you, Doctor, if it is now--his brother took her away--for his pleasure and diversion, for a little while. I saw her pass me on the road. When I took the tidings home, our father's heart burst; he never spoke one of the words that filled it. I took my young sister (for I have another) to a place beyond the reach of this man, and where, at least, she will never be _his_ vassal. Then, I tracked the brother here, and last night climbed in--a common dog, but sword in hand.--Where is the loft window? It was somewhere here?' "The room was darkening to his sight; the world was narrowing around him. I glanced about me, and saw that the hay and straw were trampled over the floor, as if there had been a struggle. "'She heard me, and ran in. I told her not to come near us till he was dead. He came in and first tossed me some pieces of money; then struck at me with a whip. But I, though a common dog, so struck at him as to make him draw. Let him break into as many pieces as he will, the sword that he stained with my common blood; he drew to defend himself--thrust at me with all his skill for his life.' "My glance had fallen, but a few moments before, on the fragments of a broken sword, lying among the hay. That weapon was a gentleman's. In another place, lay an old sword that seemed to have been a soldier's. "'Now, lift me up, Doctor; lift me up. Where is he?' "'He is not here,' I said, supporting the boy, and thinking that he referred to the brother. "'He! Proud as these nobles are, he is afraid to see me. Where is the man who was here? Turn my face to him.' "I did so, raising the boy's head against my knee. But, invested for the moment with extraordinary power, he raised himself completely: obliging me to rise too, or I could not have still supported him. "'Marquis,' said the boy, turned to him with his eyes opened wide, and his right hand raised, 'in the days when all these things are to be answered for, I summon you and yours, to the last of your bad race, to answer for them. I mark this cross of blood upon you, as a sign that I do it. In the days when all these things are to be answered for, I summon your brother, the worst of the bad race, to answer for them separately. I mark this cross of blood upon him, as a sign that I do it.' "Twice, he put his hand to the wound in his breast, and with his forefinger drew a cross in the air. He stood for an instant with the finger yet raised, and as it dropped, he dropped with it, and I laid him down dead. ***** "When I returned to the bedside of the young woman, I found her raving in precisely the same order of continuity. I knew that this might last for many hours, and that it would probably end in the silence of the grave. "I repeated the medicines I had given her, and I sat at the side of the bed until the night was far advanced. She never abated the piercing quality of her shrieks, never stumbled in the distinctness or the order of her words. They were always 'My husband, my father, and my brother! One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve. Hush!' "This lasted twenty-six hours from the time when I first saw her. I had come and gone twice, and was again sitting by her, when she began to falter. I did what little could be done to assist that opportunity, and by-and-bye she sank into a lethargy, and lay like the dead. "It was as if the wind and rain had lulled at last, after a long and fearful storm. I released her arms, and called the woman to assist me to compose her figure and the dress she had torn. It was then that I knew her condition to be that of one in whom the first expectations of being a mother have arisen; and it was then that I lost the little hope I had had of her. "'Is she dead?' asked the Marquis, whom I will still describe as the elder brother, coming booted into the room from his horse. "'Not dead,' said I; 'but like to die.' "'What strength there is in these common bodies!' he said, looking down at her with some curiosity. "'There is prodigious strength,' I answered him, 'in sorrow and despair.' "He first laughed at my words, and then frowned at them. He moved a chair with his foot near to mine, ordered the woman away, and said in a subdued voice, "'Doctor, finding my brother in this difficulty with these hinds, I recommended that your aid should be invited. Your reputation is high, and, as a young man with your fortune to make, you are probably mindful of your interest. The things that you see here, are things to be seen, and not spoken of.' "I listened to the patient's breathing, and avoided answering. "'Do you honour me with your attention, Doctor?' "'Monsieur,' said I, 'in my profession, the communications of patients are always received in confidence.' I was guarded in my answer, for I was troubled in my mind with what I had heard and seen. "Her breathing was so difficult to trace, that I carefully tried the pulse and the heart. There was life, and no more. Looking round as I resumed my seat, I found both the brothers intent upon me. ***** "I write with so much difficulty, the cold is so severe, I am so fearful of being detected and consigned to an underground cell and total darkness, that I must abridge this narrative. There is no confusion or failure in my memory; it can recall, and could detail, every word that was ever spoken between me and those brothers. "She lingered for a week. Towards the last, I could understand some few syllables that she said to me, by placing my ear close to her lips. She asked me where she was, and I told her; who I was, and I told her. It was in vain that I asked her for her family name. She faintly shook her head upon the pillow, and kept her secret, as the boy had done. "I had no opportunity of asking her any question, until I had told the brothers she was sinking fast, and could not live another day. Until then, though no one was ever presented to her consciousness save the woman and myself, one or other of them had always jealously sat behind the curtain at the head of the bed when I was there. But when it came to that, they seemed careless what communication I might hold with her; as if--the thought passed through my mind--I were dying too. "I always observed that their pride bitterly resented the younger brother's (as I call him) having crossed swords with a peasant, and that peasant a boy. The only consideration that appeared to affect the mind of either of them was the consideration that this was highly degrading to the family, and was ridiculous. As often as I caught the younger brother's eyes, their expression reminded me that he disliked me deeply, for knowing what I knew from the boy. He was smoother and more polite to me than the elder; but I saw this. I also saw that I was an incumbrance in the mind of the elder, too. "My patient died, two hours before midnight--at a time, by my watch, answering almost to the minute when I had first seen her. I was alone with her, when her forlorn young head drooped gently on one side, and all her earthly wrongs and sorrows ended. "The brothers were waiting in a room down-stairs, impatient to ride away. I had heard them, alone at the bedside, striking their boots with their riding-whips, and loitering up and down. "'At last she is dead?' said the elder, when I went in. "'She is dead,' said I. "'I congratulate you, my brother,' were his words as he turned round. "He had before offered me money, which I had postponed taking. He now gave me a rouleau of gold. I took it from his hand, but laid it on the table. I had considered the question, and had resolved to accept nothing. "'Pray excuse me,' said I. 'Under the circumstances, no.' "They exchanged looks, but bent their heads to me as I bent mine to them, and we parted without another word on either side. ***** "I am weary, weary, weary--worn down by misery. I cannot read what I have written with this gaunt hand. "Early in the morning, the rouleau of gold was left at my door in a little box, with my name on the outside. From the first, I had anxiously considered what I ought to do. I decided, that day, to write privately to the Minister, stating the nature of the two cases to which I had been summoned, and the place to which I had gone: in effect, stating all the circumstances. I knew what Court influence was, and what the immunities of the Nobles were, and I expected that the matter would never be heard of; but, I wished to relieve my own mind. I had kept the matter a profound secret, even from my wife; and this, too, I resolved to state in my letter. I had no apprehension whatever of my real danger; but I was conscious that there might be danger for others, if others were compromised by possessing the knowledge that I possessed. "I was much engaged that day, and could not complete my letter that night. I rose long before my usual time next morning to finish it. It was the last day of the year. The letter was lying before me just completed, when I was told that a lady waited, who wished to see me. ***** "I am growing more and more unequal to the task I have set myself. It is so cold, so dark, my senses are so benumbed, and the gloom upon me is so dreadful. "The lady was young, engaging, and handsome, but not marked for long life. She was in great agitation. She presented herself to me as the wife of the Marquis St. Evremonde. I connected the title by which the boy had addressed the elder brother, with the initial letter embroidered on the scarf, and had no difficulty in arriving at the conclusion that I had seen that nobleman very lately. "My memory is still accurate, but I cannot write the words of our conversation. I suspect that I am watched more closely than I was, and I know not at what times I may be watched. She had in part suspected, and in part discovered, the main facts of the cruel story, of her husband's share in it, and my being resorted to. She did not know that the girl was dead. Her hope had been, she said in great distress, to show her, in secret, a woman's sympathy. Her hope had been to avert the wrath of Heaven from a House that had long been hateful to the suffering many. "She had reasons for believing that there was a young sister living, and her greatest desire was, to help that sister. I could tell her nothing but that there was such a sister; beyond that, I knew nothing. Her inducement to come to me, relying on my confidence, had been the hope that I could tell her the name and place of abode. Whereas, to this wretched hour I am ignorant of both. ***** "These scraps of paper fail me. One was taken from me, with a warning, yesterday. I must finish my record to-day. "She was a good, compassionate lady, and not happy in her marriage. How could she be! The brother distrusted and disliked her, and his influence was all opposed to her; she stood in dread of him, and in dread of her husband too. When I handed her down to the door, there was a child, a pretty boy from two to three years old, in her carriage. "'For his sake, Doctor,' she said, pointing to him in tears, 'I would do all I can to make what poor amends I can. He will never prosper in his inheritance otherwise. I have a presentiment that if no other innocent atonement is made for this, it will one day be required of him. What I have left to call my own--it is little beyond the worth of a few jewels--I will make it the first charge of his life to bestow, with the compassion and lamenting of his dead mother, on this injured family, if the sister can be discovered.' "She kissed the boy, and said, caressing him, 'It is for thine own dear sake. Thou wilt be faithful, little Charles?' The child answered her bravely, 'Yes!' I kissed her hand, and she took him in her arms, and went away caressing him. I never saw her more. "As she had mentioned her husband's name in the faith that I knew it, I added no mention of it to my letter. I sealed my letter, and, not trusting it out of my own hands, delivered it myself that day. "That night, the last night of the year, towards nine o'clock, a man in a black dress rang at my gate, demanded to see me, and softly followed my servant, Ernest Defarge, a youth, up-stairs. When my servant came into the room where I sat with my wife--O my wife, beloved of my heart! My fair young English wife!--we saw the man, who was supposed to be at the gate, standing silent behind him. "An urgent case in the Rue St. Honore, he said. It would not detain me, he had a coach in waiting. "It brought me here, it brought me to my grave. When I was clear of the house, a black muffler was drawn tightly over my mouth from behind, and my arms were pinioned. The two brothers crossed the road from a dark corner, and identified me with a single gesture. The Marquis took from his pocket the letter I had written, showed it me, burnt it in the light of a lantern that was held, and extinguished the ashes with his foot. Not a word was spoken. I was brought here, I was brought to my living grave. "If it had pleased _God_ to put it in the hard heart of either of the brothers, in all these frightful years, to grant me any tidings of my dearest wife--so much as to let me know by a word whether alive or dead--I might have thought that He had not quite abandoned them. But, now I believe that the mark of the red cross is fatal to them, and that they have no part in His mercies. And them and their descendants, to the last of their race, I, Alexandre Manette, unhappy prisoner, do this last night of the year 1767, in my unbearable agony, denounce to the times when all these things shall be answered for. I denounce them to Heaven and to earth." A terrible sound arose when the reading of this document was done. A sound of craving and eagerness that had nothing articulate in it but blood. The narrative called up the most revengeful passions of the time, and there was not a head in the nation but must have dropped before it. Little need, in presence of that tribunal and that auditory, to show how the Defarges had not made the paper public, with the other captured Bastille memorials borne in procession, and had kept it, biding their time. Little need to show that this detested family name had long been anathematised by Saint Antoine, and was wrought into the fatal register. The man never trod ground whose virtues and services would have sustained him in that place that day, against such denunciation. And all the worse for the doomed man, that the denouncer was a well-known citizen, his own attached friend, the father of his wife. One of the frenzied aspirations of the populace was, for imitations of the questionable public virtues of antiquity, and for sacrifices and self-immolations on the people's altar. Therefore when the President said (else had his own head quivered on his shoulders), that the good physician of the Republic would deserve better still of the Republic by rooting out an obnoxious family of Aristocrats, and would doubtless feel a sacred glow and joy in making his daughter a widow and her child an orphan, there was wild excitement, patriotic fervour, not a touch of human sympathy. "Much influence around him, has that Doctor?" murmured Madame Defarge, smiling to The Vengeance. "Save him now, my Doctor, save him!" At every juryman's vote, there was a roar. Another and another. Roar and roar. Unanimously voted. At heart and by descent an Aristocrat, an enemy of the Republic, a notorious oppressor of the People. Back to the Conciergerie, and Death within four-and-twenty hours! 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Nun erfahren wir die Geschichte von Dr. Manettes Dokument, das in der Bastille gefunden wurde. Im Jahr 1757 wurde Dr. Manette von zwei Adligen in ein Landhaus außerhalb von Paris gerufen. Es handelte sich um Zwillinge. Ihm wurde gebeten, sich um eine delirierende junge Bäuerin und ihren sterbenden Bruder zu kümmern. Der Bruder erzählt dem Doktor, dass die Adligen die Frau vergewaltigt und den Tod ihres Ehemanns und Vaters verursacht hatten. Der Mann brachte seine jüngere Schwester in Sicherheit und kehrte dann zurück, um seine ältere Schwester vor den Zwillingsnoblemen zu retten. Einer der Zwillinge stach ihn nieder und als er starb, verfluchte er die Brüder und ihre Familie. Die Bäuerin starb kurz danach und der Doktor wurde angewiesen, über den Vorfall zu schweigen. Der Doktor beschloss, dem Gericht einen Brief über diese Ereignisse zu schreiben, in dem er enthüllte, dass die Namen der Brüder Evremonde waren. Die überlebende jüngere Schwester war Mme. Defarge. Der Doktor hatte den Brief persönlich überbracht, aber die Evremonde-Brüder hatten ihn gesehen und seine Entführung und Inhaftierung arrangiert. Nachdem das Dokument im Gerichtssaal verlesen worden war, forderten die Zuschauer Darnays Tod, der am nächsten Tag vollzogen werden sollte.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: ACT I. [16] BARABAS discovered in his counting-house, with heaps of gold before him. BARABAS. So that of thus much that return was made; And of the third part of the Persian ships There was the venture summ'd and satisfied. As for those Samnites, [17] and the men of Uz, That bought my Spanish oils and wines of Greece, Here have I purs'd their paltry silverlings. [18] Fie, what a trouble 'tis to count this trash! Well fare the Arabians, who so richly pay The things they traffic for with wedge of gold, Whereof a man may easily in a day Tell [19] that which may maintain him all his life. The needy groom, that never finger'd groat, Would make a miracle of thus much coin; But he whose steel-barr'd coffers are cramm'd full, And all his life-time hath been tired, Wearying his fingers' ends with telling it, Would in his age be loath to labour so, And for a pound to sweat himself to death. Give me the merchants of the Indian mines, That trade in metal of the purest mould; The wealthy Moor, that in the eastern rocks Without control can pick his riches up, And in his house heap pearl like pebble-stones, Receive them free, and sell them by the weight; Bags of fiery opals, sapphires, amethysts, Jacinths, hard topaz, grass-green emeralds, Beauteous rubies, sparkling diamonds, And seld-seen [20] costly stones of so great price, As one of them, indifferently rated, And of a carat of this quantity, May serve, in peril of calamity, To ransom great kings from captivity. This is the ware wherein consists my wealth; And thus methinks should men of judgment frame Their means of traffic from the vulgar trade, And, as their wealth increaseth, so inclose Infinite riches in a little room. But now how stands the wind? Into what corner peers my halcyon's bill? [21] Ha! to the east? yes. See how stand the vanes-- East and by south: why, then, I hope my ships I sent for Egypt and the bordering isles Are gotten up by Nilus' winding banks; Mine argosy from Alexandria, Loaden with spice and silks, now under sail, Are smoothly gliding down by Candy-shore To Malta, through our Mediterranean sea.-- But who comes here? Enter a MERCHANT. How now! MERCHANT. Barabas, thy ships are safe, Riding in Malta-road; and all the merchants With other merchandise are safe arriv'd, And have sent me to know whether yourself Will come and custom them. [22] BARABAS. The ships are safe thou say'st, and richly fraught? MERCHANT. They are. BARABAS. Why, then, go bid them come ashore, And bring with them their bills of entry: I hope our credit in the custom-house Will serve as well as I were present there. Go send 'em threescore camels, thirty mules, And twenty waggons, to bring up the ware. But art thou master in a ship of mine, And is thy credit not enough for that? MERCHANT. The very custom barely comes to more Than many merchants of the town are worth, And therefore far exceeds my credit, sir. BARABAS. Go tell 'em the Jew of Malta sent thee, man: Tush, who amongst 'em knows not Barabas? MERCHANT. I go. BARABAS. So, then, there's somewhat come.-- Sirrah, which of my ships art thou master of? MERCHANT. Of the Speranza, sir. BARABAS. And saw'st thou not Mine argosy at Alexandria? Thou couldst not come from Egypt, or by Caire, But at the entry there into the sea, Where Nilus pays his tribute to the main, Thou needs must sail by Alexandria. MERCHANT. I neither saw them, nor inquir'd of them: But this we heard some of our seamen say, They wonder'd how you durst with so much wealth Trust such a crazed vessel, and so far. BARABAS. Tush, they are wise! I know her and her strength. But [23] go, go thou thy ways, discharge thy ship, And bid my factor bring his loading in. [Exit MERCHANT.] And yet I wonder at this argosy. Enter a Second MERCHANT. SECOND MERCHANT. Thine argosy from Alexandria, Know, Barabas, doth ride in Malta-road, Laden with riches, and exceeding store Of Persian silks, of gold, and orient pearl. BARABAS. How chance you came not with those other ships That sail'd by Egypt? SECOND MERCHANT. Sir, we saw 'em not. BARABAS. Belike they coasted round by Candy-shore About their oils or other businesses. But 'twas ill done of you to come so far Without the aid or conduct of their ships. SECOND MERCHANT. Sir, we were wafted by a Spanish fleet, That never left us till within a league, That had the galleys of the Turk in chase. BARABAS. O, they were going up to Sicily. Well, go, And bid the merchants and my men despatch, And come ashore, and see the fraught [24] discharg'd. SECOND MERCHANT. I go. [Exit.] BARABAS. Thus trolls our fortune in by land and sea, And thus are we on every side enrich'd: These are the blessings promis'd to the Jews, And herein was old Abraham's happiness: What more may heaven do for earthly man Than thus to pour out plenty in their laps, Ripping the bowels of the earth for them, Making the sea[s] their servants, and the winds To drive their substance with successful blasts? Who hateth me but for my happiness? Or who is honour'd now but for his wealth? Rather had I, a Jew, be hated thus, Than pitied in a Christian poverty; For I can see no fruits in all their faith, But malice, falsehood, and excessive pride, Which methinks fits not their profession. Haply some hapless man hath conscience, And for his conscience lives in beggary. They say we are a scatter'd nation: I cannot tell; but we have scambled [25] up More wealth by far than those that brag of faith: There's Kirriah Jairim, the great Jew of Greece, Obed in Bairseth, Nones in Portugal, Myself in Malta, some in Italy, Many in France, and wealthy every one; Ay, wealthier far than any Christian. I must confess we come not to be kings: That's not our fault: alas, our number's few! And crowns come either by succession, Or urg'd by force; and nothing violent, Oft have I heard tell, can be permanent. Give us a peaceful rule; make Christians kings, That thirst so much for principality. I have no charge, nor many children, But one sole daughter, whom I hold as dear As Agamemnon did his Iphigen; And all I have is hers.--But who comes here? Enter three JEWS. [26] FIRST JEW. Tush, tell not me; 'twas done of policy. SECOND JEW. Come, therefore, let us go to Barabas; For he can counsel best in these affairs: And here he comes. BARABAS. Why, how now, countrymen! Why flock you thus to me in multitudes? What accident's betided to the Jews? FIRST JEW. A fleet of warlike galleys, Barabas, Are come from Turkey, and lie in our road: And they this day sit in the council-house To entertain them and their embassy. BARABAS. Why, let 'em come, so they come not to war; Or let 'em war, so we be conquerors.-- Nay, let 'em combat, conquer, and kill all, So they spare me, my daughter, and my wealth. [Aside.] FIRST JEW. Were it for confirmation of a league, They would not come in warlike manner thus. SECOND JEW. I fear their coming will afflict us all. BARABAS. Fond [27] men, what dream you of their multitudes? What need they treat of peace that are in league? The Turks and those of Malta are in league: Tut, tut, there is some other matter in't. FIRST JEW. Why, Barabas, they come for peace or war. BARABAS. Haply for neither, but to pass along, Towards Venice, by the Adriatic sea, With whom they have attempted many times, But never could effect their stratagem. THIRD JEW. And very wisely said; it may be so. SECOND JEW. But there's a meeting in the senate-house, And all the Jews in Malta must be there. BARABAS. Hum,--all the Jews in Malta must be there! Ay, like enough: why, then, let every man Provide him, and be there for fashion-sake. If any thing shall there concern our state, Assure yourselves I'll look--unto myself. [Aside.] [28] FIRST JEW. I know you will.--Well, brethren, let us go. SECOND JEW. Let's take our leaves.--Farewell, good Barabas. BARABAS. [29] Farewell, Zaareth; farewell, Temainte. [Exeunt JEWS.] And, Barabas, now search this secret out; Summon thy senses, call thy wits together: These silly men mistake the matter clean. Long to the Turk did Malta contribute; Which tribute all in policy, I fear, The Turk has [30] let increase to such a sum As all the wealth of Malta cannot pay; And now by that advantage thinks, belike, To seize upon the town; ay, that he seeks. Howe'er the world go, I'll make sure for one, And seek in time to intercept the worst, Warily guarding that which I ha' got: Ego mihimet sum semper proximus: [31] Why, let 'em enter, let 'em take the town. [Exit.] [32] Enter FERNEZE governor of Malta, KNIGHTS, and OFFICERS; met by CALYMATH, and BASSOES of the TURK. FERNEZE. Now, bassoes, [33] what demand you at our hands? FIRST BASSO. Know, knights of Malta, that we came from Rhodes, ]From Cyprus, Candy, and those other isles That lie betwixt the Mediterranean seas. FERNEZE. What's Cyprus, Candy, and those other isles To us or Malta? what at our hands demand ye? CALYMATH. The ten years' tribute that remains unpaid. FERNEZE. Alas, my lord, the sum is over-great! I hope your highness will consider us. CALYMATH. I wish, grave governor, [34] 'twere in my power To favour you; but 'tis my father's cause, Wherein I may not, nay, I dare not dally. FERNEZE. Then give us leave, great Selim Calymath. CALYMATH. Stand all aside, [35] and let the knights determine; And send to keep our galleys under sail, For happily [36] we shall not tarry here.-- Now, governor, how are you resolv'd? FERNEZE. Thus; since your hard conditions are such That you will needs have ten years' tribute past, We may have time to make collection Amongst the inhabitants of Malta for't. FIRST BASSO. That's more than is in our commission. CALYMATH. What, Callapine! a little courtesy: Let's know their time; perhaps it is not long; And 'tis more kingly to obtain by peace Than to enforce conditions by constraint.-- What respite ask you, governor? FERNEZE. But a month. CALYMATH. We grant a month; but see you keep your promise. Now launch our galleys back again to sea, Where we'll attend the respite you have ta'en, And for the money send our messenger. Farewell, great governor, and brave knights of Malta. FERNEZE. And all good fortune wait on Calymath! [Exeunt CALYMATH and BASSOES.] Go one and call those Jews of Malta hither: Were they not summon'd to appear to-day? FIRST OFFICER. They were, my lord; and here they come. Enter BARABAS and three JEWS. FIRST KNIGHT. Have you determin'd what to say to them? FERNEZE. Yes; give me leave:--and, Hebrews, now come near. ]From the Emperor of Turkey is arriv'd Great Selim Calymath, his highness' son, To levy of us ten years' tribute past: Now, then, here know that it concerneth us. BARABAS. Then, good my lord, to keep your quiet still, Your lordship shall do well to let them have it. FERNEZE. Soft, Barabas! there's more 'longs to't than so. To what this ten years' tribute will amount, That we have cast, but cannot compass it By reason of the wars, that robb'd our store; And therefore are we to request your aid. BARABAS. Alas, my lord, we are no soldiers! And what's our aid against so great a prince? FIRST KNIGHT. Tut, Jew, we know thou art no soldier: Thou art a merchant and a money'd man, And 'tis thy money, Barabas, we seek. BARABAS. How, my lord! my money! FERNEZE. Thine and the rest; For, to be short, amongst you't must be had. FIRST JEW. Alas, my lord, the most of us are poor! FERNEZE. Then let the rich increase your portions. BARABAS. Are strangers with your tribute to be tax'd? SECOND KNIGHT. Have strangers leave with us to get their wealth? Then let them with us contribute. BARABAS. How! equally? FERNEZE. No, Jew, like infidels; For through our sufferance of your hateful lives, Who stand accursed in the sight of heaven, These taxes and afflictions are befall'n, And therefore thus we are determined.-- Read there the articles of our decrees. OFFICER. [37] [reads] FIRST, THE TRIBUTE-MONEY OF THE TURKS SHALL ALL BE LEVIED AMONGST THE JEWS, AND EACH OF THEM TO PAY ONE HALF OF HIS ESTATE. BARABAS. How! half his estate!--I hope you mean not mine. [Aside.] FERNEZE. Read on. OFFICER. [reads] SECONDLY, HE THAT DENIES [38] TO PAY, SHALL STRAIGHT-BECOME A CHRISTIAN. BARABAS. How! a Christian!--Hum,--what's here to do? [Aside.] OFFICER. [reads] LASTLY, HE THAT DENIES THIS, SHALL ABSOLUTELY LOSE ALL HE HAS. THREE JEWS. O my lord, we will give half! BARABAS. O earth-mettled villains, and no Hebrews born! And will you basely thus submit yourselves To leave your goods to their arbitrement? FERNEZE. Why, Barabas, wilt thou be christened? BARABAS. No, governor, I will be no convertite. [39] FERNEZE. Then pay thy half. BARABAS. Why, know you what you did by this device? Half of my substance is a city's wealth. Governor, it was not got so easily; Nor will I part so slightly therewithal. FERNEZE. Sir, half is the penalty of our decree; Either pay that, or we will seize on all. BARABAS. Corpo di Dio! stay: you shall have half; Let me be us'd but as my brethren are. FERNEZE. No, Jew, thou hast denied the articles, And now it cannot be recall'd. [Exeunt OFFICERS, on a sign from FERNEZE] BARABAS. Will you, then, steal my goods? Is theft the ground of your religion? FERNEZE. No, Jew; we take particularly thine, To save the ruin of a multitude: And better one want for a common good, Than many perish for a private man: Yet, Barabas, we will not banish thee, But here in Malta, where thou gott'st thy wealth, Live still; and, if thou canst, get more. BARABAS. Christians, what or how can I multiply? Of naught is nothing made. FIRST KNIGHT. From naught at first thou cam'st to little wealth, ]From little unto more, from more to most: If your first curse fall heavy on thy head, And make thee poor and scorn'd of all the world, 'Tis not our fault, but thy inherent sin. BARABAS. What, bring you Scripture to confirm your wrongs? Preach me not out of my possessions. Some Jews are wicked, as all Christians are: But say the tribe that I descended of Were all in general cast away for sin, Shall I be tried by their transgression? The man that dealeth righteously shall live; And which of you can charge me otherwise? FERNEZE. Out, wretched Barabas! Sham'st thou not thus to justify thyself, As if we knew not thy profession? If thou rely upon thy righteousness, Be patient, and thy riches will increase. Excess of wealth is cause of covetousness; And covetousness, O, 'tis a monstrous sin! BARABAS. Ay, but theft is worse: tush! take not from me, then, For that is theft; and, if you rob me thus, I must be forc'd to steal, and compass more. FIRST KNIGHT. Grave governor, list not to his exclaims: Convert his mansion to a nunnery; His house will harbour many holy nuns. FERNEZE. It shall be so. Re-enter OFFICERS. Now, officers, have you done? FIRST OFFICER. Ay, my lord, we have seiz'd upon the goods And wares of Barabas, which, being valu'd, Amount to more than all the wealth in Malta: And of the other we have seized half. FERNEZE. Then we'll take [40] order for the residue. BARABAS. Well, then, my lord, say, are you satisfied? You have my goods, my money, and my wealth, My ships, my store, and all that I enjoy'd; And, having all, you can request no more, Unless your unrelenting flinty hearts Suppress all pity in your stony breasts, And now shall move you to bereave my life. FERNEZE. No, Barabas; to stain our hands with blood Is far from us and our profession. BARABAS. Why, I esteem the injury far less, To take the lives of miserable men Than be the causers of their misery. You have my wealth, the labour of my life, The comfort of mine age, my children's hope; And therefore ne'er distinguish of the wrong. FERNEZE. Content thee, Barabas; thou hast naught but right. BARABAS. Your extreme right does me exceeding wrong: But take it to you, i'the devil's name! FERNEZE. Come, let us in, and gather of these goods The money for this tribute of the Turk. FIRST KNIGHT. 'Tis necessary that be look'd unto; For, if we break our day, we break the league, And that will prove but simple policy. [Exeunt all except BARABAS and the three JEWS.] BARABAS. Ay, policy! that's their profession, And not simplicity, as they suggest.-- The plagues of Egypt, and the curse of heaven, Earth's barrenness, and all men's hatred, Inflict upon them, thou great Primus Motor! And here upon my knees, striking the earth, I ban their souls to everlasting pains, And extreme tortures of the fiery deep, That thus have dealt with me in my distress! FIRST JEW. O, yet be patient, gentle Barabas! BARABAS. O silly brethren, born to see this day, Why stand you thus unmov'd with my laments? Why weep you not to think upon my wrongs? Why pine not I, and die in this distress? FIRST JEW. Why, Barabas, as hardly can we brook The cruel handling of ourselves in this: Thou seest they have taken half our goods. BARABAS. Why did you yield to their extortion? You were a multitude, and I but one; And of me only have they taken all. FIRST JEW. Yet, brother Barabas, remember Job. BARABAS. What tell you me of Job? I wot his wealth Was written thus; he had seven thousand sheep, Three thousand camels, and two hundred yoke Of labouring oxen, and five hundred She-asses: but for every one of those, Had they been valu'd at indifferent rate, I had at home, and in mine argosy, And other ships that came from Egypt last, As much as would have bought his beasts and him, And yet have kept enough to live upon; So that not he, but I, may curse the day, Thy fatal birth-day, forlorn Barabas; And henceforth wish for an eternal night, That clouds of darkness may inclose my flesh, And hide these extreme sorrows from mine eyes; For only I have toil'd to inherit here The months of vanity, and loss of time, And painful nights, have been appointed me. SECOND JEW. Good Barabas, be patient. BARABAS. Ay, I pray, leave me in my patience. You, that Were ne'er possess'd of wealth, are pleas'd with want; But give him liberty at least to mourn, That in a field, amidst his enemies, Doth see his soldiers slain, himself disarm'd, And knows no means of his recovery: Ay, let me sorrow for this sudden chance; 'Tis in the trouble of my spirit I speak: Great injuries are not so soon forgot. FIRST JEW. Come, let us leave him; in his ireful mood Our words will but increase his ecstasy. [41] SECOND JEW. On, then: but, trust me, 'tis a misery To see a man in such affliction.-- Farewell, Barabas. BARABAS. Ay, fare you well. [Exeunt three JEWS.] [42] See the simplicity of these base slaves, Who, for the villains have no wit themselves, Think me to be a senseless lump of clay, That will with every water wash to dirt! No, Barabas is born to better chance, And fram'd of finer mould than common men, That measure naught but by the present time. A reaching thought will search his deepest wits, And cast with cunning for the time to come; For evils are apt to happen every day. Enter ABIGAIL. But whither wends my beauteous Abigail? O, what has made my lovely daughter sad? What, woman! moan not for a little loss; Thy father has enough in store for thee. ABIGAIL. Nor for myself, but aged Barabas, Father, for thee lamenteth Abigail: But I will learn to leave these fruitless tears; And, urg'd thereto with my afflictions, With fierce exclaims run to the senate-house, And in the senate reprehend them all, And rent their hearts with tearing of my hair, Till they reduce [43] the wrongs done to my father. BARABAS. No, Abigail; things past recovery Are hardly cur'd with exclamations: Be silent, daughter; sufferance breeds ease, And time may yield us an occasion, Which on the sudden cannot serve the turn. Besides, my girl, think me not all so fond [44] As negligently to forgo so much Without provision for thyself and me: Ten thousand portagues, [45] besides great pearls, Rich costly jewels, and stones infinite, Fearing the worst of this before it fell, I closely hid. ABIGAIL. Where, father? BARABAS. In my house, my girl. ABIGAIL. Then shall they ne'er be seen of Barabas; For they have seiz'd upon thy house and wares. BARABAS. But they will give me leave once more, I trow, To go into my house. ABIGAIL. That may they not; For there I left the governor placing nuns, Displacing me; and of thy house they mean To make a nunnery, where none but their own sect [46] Must enter in; men generally barr'd. BARABAS. My gold, my gold, and all my wealth is gone!-- You partial heavens, have I deserv'd this plague? What, will you thus oppose me, luckless stars, To make me desperate in my poverty? And, knowing me impatient in distress, Think me so mad as I will hang myself, That I may vanish o'er the earth in air, And leave no memory that e'er I was? No, I will live; nor loathe I this my life: And, since you leave me in the ocean thus To sink or swim, and put me to my shifts, I'll rouse my senses, and awake myself.-- Daughter, I have it: thou perceiv'st the plight Wherein these Christians have oppressed me: Be rul'd by me, for in extremity We ought to make bar of no policy. ABIGAIL. Father, whate'er it be, to injure them That have so manifestly wronged us, What will not Abigail attempt? BARABAS. Why, so. Then thus: thou told'st me they have turn'd my house Into a nunnery, and some nuns are there? ABIGAIL. I did. BARABAS. Then, Abigail, there must my girl Entreat the abbess to be entertain'd. ABIGAIL. How! as a nun? BARABAS. Ay, daughter; for religion Hides many mischiefs from suspicion. ABIGAIL. Ay, but, father, they will suspect me there. BARABAS. Let 'em suspect; but be thou so precise As they may think it done of holiness: Entreat 'em fair, and give them friendly speech, And seem to them as if thy sins were great, Till thou hast gotten to be entertain'd. ABIGAIL. Thus, father, shall I much dissemble. BARABAS. Tush! As good dissemble that thou never mean'st, As first mean truth and then dissemble it: A counterfeit profession is better Than unseen hypocrisy. ABIGAIL. Well, father, say I be entertain'd, What then shall follow? BARABAS. This shall follow then. There have I hid, close underneath the plank That runs along the upper-chamber floor, The gold and jewels which I kept for thee:-- But here they come: be cunning, Abigail. ABIGAIL. Then, father, go with me. BARABAS. No, Abigail, in this It is not necessary I be seen; For I will seem offended with thee for't: Be close, my girl, for this must fetch my gold. [They retire.] Enter FRIAR JACOMO, [47] FRIAR BARNARDINE, ABBESS, and a NUN. FRIAR JACOMO. Sisters, We now are almost at the new-made nunnery. ABBESS. [48] The better; for we love not to be seen: 'Tis thirty winters long since some of us Did stray so far amongst the multitude. FRIAR JACOMO. But, madam, this house And waters of this new-made nunnery Will much delight you. ABBESS. It may be so.--But who comes here? [ABIGAIL comes forward.] ABIGAIL. Grave abbess, and you happy virgins' guide, Pity the state of a distressed maid! ABBESS. What art thou, daughter? ABIGAIL. The hopeless daughter of a hapless Jew, The Jew of Malta, wretched Barabas, Sometimes [49] the owner of a goodly house, Which they have now turn'd to a nunnery. ABBESS. Well, daughter, say, what is thy suit with us? ABIGAIL. Fearing the afflictions which my father feels Proceed from sin or want of faith in us, I'd pass away my life in penitence, And be a novice in your nunnery, To make atonement for my labouring soul. FRIAR JACOMO. No doubt, brother, but this proceedeth of the spirit. FRIAR BARNARDINE. Ay, and of a moving spirit too, brother: but come, Let us entreat she may be entertain'd. ABBESS. Well, daughter, we admit you for a nun. ABIGAIL. First let me as a novice learn to frame My solitary life to your strait laws, And let me lodge where I was wont to lie: I do not doubt, by your divine precepts And mine own industry, but to profit much. BARABAS. As much, I hope, as all I hid is worth. [Aside.] ABBESS. Come, daughter, follow us. BARABAS. [coming forward] Why, how now, Abigail! What mak'st thou 'mongst these hateful Christians? FRIAR JACOMO. Hinder her not, thou man of little faith, For she has mortified herself. BARABAS. How! mortified! FRIAR JACOMO. And is admitted to the sisterhood. BARABAS. Child of perdition, and thy father's shame! What wilt thou do among these hateful fiends? I charge thee on my blessing that thou leave These devils and their damned heresy! ABIGAIL. Father, forgive me-- [50] BARABAS. Nay, back, Abigail, And think upon the jewels and the gold; The board is marked thus that covers it.-- [Aside to ABIGAIL in a whisper.] Away, accursed, from thy father's sight! FRIAR JACOMO. Barabas, although thou art in misbelief, And wilt not see thine own afflictions, Yet let thy daughter be no longer blind. BARABAS. Blind friar, I reck not thy persuasions,-- The board is marked thus [51] that covers it-- [Aside to ABIGAIL in a whisper.] For I had rather die than see her thus.-- Wilt thou forsake me too in my distress, Seduced daughter?--Go, forget not.-- [52] [Aside to her in a whisper.] Becomes it Jews to be so credulous?-- To-morrow early I'll be at the door.-- [Aside to her in a whisper.] No, come not at me; if thou wilt be damn'd, Forget me, see me not; and so, be gone!-- Farewell; remember to-morrow morning.-- [Aside to her in a whisper.] Out, out, thou wretch! [Exit, on one side, BARABAS. Exeunt, on the other side, FRIARS, ABBESS, NUN, and ABIGAIL: and, as they are going out,] Enter MATHIAS. MATHIAS. Who's this? fair Abigail, the rich Jew's daughter, Become a nun! her father's sudden fall Has humbled her, and brought her down to this: Tut, she were fitter for a tale of love, Than to be tired out with orisons; And better would she far become a bed, Embraced in a friendly lover's arms, Than rise at midnight to a solemn mass. Enter LODOWICK. LODOWICK. Why, how now, Don Mathias! in a dump? MATHIAS. Believe me, noble Lodowick, I have seen The strangest sight, in my opinion, That ever I beheld. LODOWICK. What was't, I prithee? MATHIAS. A fair young maid, scarce fourteen years of age, The sweetest flower in Cytherea's field, Cropt from the pleasures of the fruitful earth, And strangely metamorphos'd [to a] nun. LODOWICK. But say, what was she? MATHIAS. Why, the rich Jew's daughter. LODOWICK. What, Barabas, whose goods were lately seiz'd? Is she so fair? MATHIAS. And matchless beautiful, As, had you seen her, 'twould have mov'd your heart, Though countermin'd with walls of brass, to love, Or, at the least, to pity. LODOWICK. Wenn sie wirklich so schön ist, wie du sagst, wäre es die Zeit wert, sie zu besuchen: Was sagst du? Sollen wir? MATHIAS. Ich muss und werde, mein Herr; es gibt keine andere Lösung. LODOWICK. Und das werde ich auch tun, oder es wird schwer werden. Auf Wiedersehen, Mathias. MATHIAS. Auf Wiedersehen, Lodowick. [Beide gehen getrennte Wege.] Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Prolog Der Erzähler Machevill führt das Stück ein. Der angesehene Autor von Staatskunst sagt, dass obwohl jeder glaubt Machevill sei tot, seine Seele die Alpen überquert hat, um in England mit Freunden zu "tollen" - Schabernack treiben. Machevill erwähnt den Tod des Herzogs von Guise beiläufig, um darauf hinzuweisen, dass politische Überlegungen England erreicht haben, was im Widerspruch zu denen steht, die behaupten, dass das Land von solchen Angelegenheiten unberührt ist. Der Erzähler verachtet Religion als "kindisches Spielzeug" und verachtet Volksaberglauben. Er behauptet, dass diejenigen, die seinem Vorbild folgen, politischen Erfolg erlangen werden; nach Machevill ist "Macht" oder offenbare Stärke in einem Führer wichtiger als Kenntnisse über "Buchstaben". Während er sein Bild von böser Größenwahn malt, gibt Machevill plötzlich den eigentlichen Grund seiner Anwesenheit preis: die "Tragödie eines Juden" einzuführen. Der Erzähler sagt, dass dieser Mann Reichtum erlangt hat durch genaue Befolgung von Machevills empfohlenen Methoden. Er schließt mit der Hoffnung, dass sein Thema nicht schlecht behandelt wird, da der Jude ihm "wohlgesinnt" ist. Diese Szene stellt Barabas, den jüdischen Protagonisten des Stücks, vor. Die Handlung spielt in einem Kontor, das mit Bergen von Gold gefüllt ist; Barabas fängt an zu sprechen, als ob er mitten im Satz wäre. Wir erfahren, dass er ein maltesischer Händler ist, dessen Schiffe sicher aus dem Osten angekommen sind. Ein Händler bittet den Protagonisten, Zollgebühren für seine Waren zu zahlen und sagt, dass allein diese Kosten mehr wert sind als der Reichtum vieler Händler. Barabas entlässt ihn, nachdem er nach seinem "Argosy" oder Schiff gefragt hat, das ihm luxuriöse Güter aus dem Osten bringt. Ein anderer Händler tritt ein und erklärt, dass das Argosy wohlbehalten angekommen ist, nachdem es die anderen Schiffe aus den Augen verloren hatte, nachdem es auf die spanische Flotte traf, die von türkischen Galeeren verfolgt wurde. Barabas sagt dem Mann, er solle gehen und seine Waren an Land bringen. Der Protagonist hält dann eine Rede über sein großes Glück und seinen persönlichen Reichtum und entscheidet, dass er lieber reich und gehasst sein möchte als arm und bemitleidet. So lehnt Barabas traditionelle Vorstellungen von christlicher Nächstenliebe ab. Er verunglimpft das Christentum weiterhin, indem er darauf hinweist, dass diejenigen, die wirklich fromm sind, in Armut leben und dass er nichts in der Religion sieht außer "Bosheit, Falschheit und übertriebenem Stolz". Der Protagonist spricht über den Erfolg der jüdischen Menschen, obwohl sie eine "verstreute Nation" sind. Er stellt fest, dass er nur friedliche Herrschaft will, um Reichtum anzuhäufen, den er seiner einzigen Tochter hinterlassen kann. Drei Juden treten ein und suchen Barabas' Rat. Sie geben an, dass eine türkische Flotte ihre Seepassage blockiert und eine Botschaft an Land gegangen ist, um mit den maltesischen Herrschern zu sprechen. Barabas instruiert die Männer, sich keine Sorgen zu machen, und sagt, dass sie entweder die Türken besiegen werden, wenn sie Krieg führen, oder sie in Frieden ziehen lassen werden, wenn sie nicht zum Kampf gekommen sind. Allerdings sagt Barabas in einem Nebensatz, dass es ihm egal ist, was mit den anderen Maltesern oder sogar seinen Mitjuden geschieht, solange die Türken "mich, meine Tochter und meinen Reichtum verschonen". Barabas beruhigt die Männer damit, dass die Türkei und Malta Bündnispartner sind und dass die Beamten über eine andere Angelegenheit sprechen müssen - wie zum Beispiel die Invasion Venedigs. Die Männer informieren Barabas darüber, dass alle Juden zum "Senat" gehen müssen, um an einem Treffen teilzunehmen, worauf der wohlhabende Händler antwortet, dass er sich um ihre Interessen kümmern wird. Aber wieder in einem Nebensatz sagt Barabas, dass er nur seine eigenen Interessen schützen wird. Die Juden gehen und Barabas stellt in Gedanken die Hypothese auf, dass die Türken gekommen sind, um die Tribute von Malta zu erhöhen. Abschließend betont er, dass er die Fremden lieber einmarschieren lassen würde, als seinen Herrschern mit irgendeinem Geld 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: Es war nicht schwierig für mich, Peggottys Bitte nachzukommen und dort zu bleiben, wo ich war, bis die Überreste des armen Trägers ihre letzte Reise nach Blunderstone angetreten hatten. Sie hatte schon lange zuvor, aus ihren eigenen Ersparnissen, ein kleines Stück Land auf unserem alten Friedhof gekauft, in der Nähe des Grabes von "ihrem süßen Mädchen", wie sie meine Mutter immer nannte; und dort sollten sie ruhen. Ich war dankbar dafür, Peggotty Gesellschaft zu leisten und alles zu tun, was ich für sie tun konnte (das war jedoch wenigstens das Mindeste), dafür freue ich mich zu denken. Aber ich fürchte, ich hatte eine überlegene Zufriedenheit, von persönlicher und beruflicher Art, indem ich mich um Mr. Barkis' Testament kümmerte und seinen Inhalt auslegte. Ich kann mir das Verdienst zuschreiben, den Vorschlag gemacht zu haben, dass das Testament im Kasten gesucht werden sollte. Nach einiger Suche wurde es im Kasten gefunden, am Boden einer Pferdefuttertasche, in der (neben Heu) eine alte goldene Uhr mit Kette und Siegel entdeckt wurde, die Mr. Barkis an seinem Hochzeitstag getragen hatte und die nie zuvor oder danach gesehen worden war; ein silberner Tabakstopfer in Form eines Beins; eine Nachbildung einer Zitrone, gefüllt mit winzigen Tassen und Untertassen, von denen ich die Vermutung habe, dass Mr. Barkis sie gekauft haben muss, um sie mir zu schenken, als ich ein Kind war, und sich später nicht davon trennen konnte; siebenundachtzig Guineen und eine Hälfte in Guineen und halben Guineen; zweihundertzehn Pfund in perfekt sauberen Banknoten; bestimmte Belege für Bankaktien der Bank von England; ein alter Hufeisen, eine falsche Silbermünze, ein Stück Kampher und eine Austernschale. Aufgrund der Tatsache, dass der letztere Artikel stark poliert war und im Inneren prismatische Farben zeigte, schließe ich daraus, dass Mr. Barkis einige allgemeine Vorstellungen von Perlen hatte, die sich jedoch nie in etwas Bestimmtes auflösten. Jahre und Jahre lang hatte Mr. Barkis diese Kiste auf all seinen Reisen jeden Tag mit sich getragen. Damit sie nicht so auffiel, hatte er erfunden, dass sie "Mr. Blackboys" gehörte und "bei Barkis zu bleiben hatte, bis sie abgeholt wurde"; eine Fabel, die er auf dem Deckel kunstvoll niedergeschrieben hatte und die nun kaum noch lesbar war. Ich fand heraus, dass er all die Jahre über gut gehortet hatte. Sein Vermögen an Geld betrug fast dreitausend Pfund. Davon vermachte er Mr. Peggotty den Zinsen von eintausend Pfund lebenslang; nach seinem Tod sollte das Kapital gleichmäßig zwischen Peggotty, der kleinen Emily und mir oder dem Überlebenden von uns dreien aufgeteilt werden. Den Rest, über den er verfügte, vermachte er Peggotty; er hinterließ ihr das Residuum als Haupterbin und einzige Testamentsvollstreckerin seines letzten Willens und Testaments. Als ich dieses Dokument mit aller möglichen Zeremonie laut vorlas und seine Bestimmungen beliebig oft darlegte, fühlte ich mich wie ein Proktor. Ich begann zu denken, dass in den Abgeordnetenhäusern wohl mehr steckte, als ich angenommen hatte. Ich untersuchte das Testament mit größter Aufmerksamkeit, erklärte es in jeder Hinsicht für völlig formell, machte hier und da eine Bleistiftmarkierung im Rand und fand es ziemlich außergewöhnlich, dass ich so viel wusste. In dieser abstrusen Beschäftigung, in der ich für Peggotty eine Aufstellung all des Besitzes machte, den sie geerbt hatte, in der ich alle Angelegenheiten ordnungsgemäß regelte und in der ich ihre Schiedsrichterin und Ratsgeberin bei jedem Punkt war, zu unserer beider Freude, verbrachte ich die Woche vor der Beerdigung. In diesem Zeitraum habe ich Emily nicht gesehen, aber man sagte mir, dass sie in zwei Wochen still geheiratet werden sollte. Ich nahm nicht in meiner Rolle an der Beerdigung teil, wenn ich das so sagen darf. Ich meine, ich trug keinen schwarzen Anzug und keine Schleife, um die Vögel zu erschrecken, sondern ich ging frühmorgens nach Blunderstone und war auf dem Friedhof, als es kam, begleitet nur von Peggotty und ihrem Bruder. Der verrückte Herr schaute aus meinem kleinen Fenster heraus, das Baby von Mr. Chillip nickte mit seinem schweren Kopf und rollte seine hervorstehenden Augen zum Geistlichen über die Schulter der Kindermädchen hinweg, Mr. Omer keuchte in der Ferne, sonst war niemand dort, und es war sehr ruhig. Wir spazierten eine Stunde lang auf dem Friedhof, nachdem alles vorbei war, und rissen ein paar junge Blätter von dem Baum über dem Grab meiner Mutter ab. Hier überkommt mich ein Schrecken. Eine Wolke zieht sich über der entfernten Stadt zusammen, auf die ich meine einsamen Schritte zurückrichte. Ich fürchte mich davor, näher zu kommen. Ich kann es nicht ertragen, daran zu denken, was in dieser denkwürdigen Nacht geschehen ist; was wieder geschehen wird, wenn ich weitermache. Es ist nicht schlimmer, weil ich davon schreibe. Es wäre nicht besser, wenn ich meine abgeneigte Hand anhalten würde. Es ist passiert. Nichts kann es rückgängig machen; nichts kann es anders machen, als es war. Meine alte Krankenschwester sollte am nächsten Tag mit mir nach London gehen, um das Testament zu erledigen. Emily hielt sich an diesem Tag bei Mr. Omer auf. Wir sollten uns alle an diesem Abend im alten Bootshaus treffen. Ham würde Emily wie gewöhnlich mitbringen. Ich würde in aller Ruhe zurückgehen. Der Bruder und die Schwester würden wie zuvor zurückkehren und uns erwarten, wenn der Tag sich am Kaminfeuer neigte. Ich verabschiedete mich von ihnen am Pförtchen, wo der visionäre Strap mit Roderick Randoms Rucksack in früheren Zeiten geruht hatte. Und anstatt direkt zurückzugehen, ging ich ein Stück auf dem Weg nach Lowestoft. Dann drehte ich mich um und ging zurück in Richtung Yarmouth. Ich blieb stehen, um in einer anständigen Kneipe, etwa eine oder zwei Meilen von der Fähre, von der ich zuvor gesprochen habe, zu Mittag zu essen. Und so verging der Tag und es war Abend, als ich ankam. Zu dieser Zeit regnete es stark und es war eine stürmische Nacht, aber hinter den Wolken schien der Mond und es war nicht dunkel. Ich war bald in Sichtweite von Mr. Peggottys Haus und von dem Licht darin, das durch das Fenster schien. Ein wenig über den schweren Sand stolpernd, brachte ich mich zur Tür und ging hinein. Es sah sehr gemütlich aus. Mr. Peggotty hatte seine Abendpfeife geraucht und es gab Vorbereitungen für eine spätere Mahlzeit. Das Feuer war hell, der Aschenbecher war geleert, der Spind war bereit für die kleine Emily an ihrem alten Platz. In ihrem eigenen alten Platz saß Peggotty wieder und sah (abgesehen von ihrer Kleidung) aus, als wäre sie nie weg gewesen. Sie hatte sich schon wieder auf die Gesellschaft der Nähmaschine mit St. Paul auf dem Deckel, dem Maßband in der Hütte und dem Stück Wachskerze zurückgezogen; und da waren sie alle, als wären sie nie gestört worden. Mrs. Gummidge schien sich ein wenig zu ärgern, in ihrer alten Ecke zu sitzen; und sah daher auch ganz natürlich aus. "Du bist der Erste von allen, Mas'r Davy!" sagte Mr. Peggotty mit einem glücklichen Gesicht. "Behalt "Ja, ja, Dan'l!" sagte Mrs. Gummidge. "Ich bin keine Person, die mit jemandem zusammenlebt, der Geld übrig hat. Bei mir läuft alles zu gegensätzlich. Ich wäre lieber eine Last los." "Warum sollte ich es jemals ohne dich ausgeben?", sagte Mr. Peggotty mit einem ernsten Vorwurf. "Wovon redest du? Brauche ich dich jetzt nicht mehr als je zuvor?" "Ich wusste, dass ich nie gebraucht wurde!", rief Mrs. Gummidge, mit einem jämmerlichen Winseln. "Und jetzt sagt man es mir! Wie hätte ich erwarten können, gebraucht zu werden, wo ich so einsam und verdrießlich bin?" Mr. Peggotty schien sehr schockiert über sich selbst zu sein, weil er eine Rede gemacht hatte, die diese gefühllose Auslegung ermöglichte, konnte aber nicht antworten, da Peggotty an seinem Ärmel zog und den Kopf schüttelte. Nachdem er Mrs. Gummidge einige Momente lang in tiefer Geistesschmerzen angesehen hatte, warf er einen Blick auf die holländische Uhr, stand auf, schnupfte die Kerze und stellte sie ins Fenster. "So!", sagte Mr. Peggotty fröhlich. "Da sind wir, Missis Gummidge!" Mrs. Gummidge seufzte leicht. "Beleuchtet, wie immer! Sie fragen sich, wofür das gut ist, Sir! Nun, es ist für unser kleines Em'ly. Sehen Sie, der Weg ist nachts nicht besonders hell oder fröhlich. Und wenn ich hier zu der Stunde bin, in der sie nach Hause kommt, stelle ich das Licht ins Fenster. Das, sehen Sie", sagte Mr. Peggotty und beugte sich freudig über mich, "erfüllt zwei Zwecke. Sie sagt, sagt Em'ly, "Da ist das Zuhause!" sagt sie. Und auch, sagt Em'ly, "Mein Onkel ist dort!" Denn wenn ich nicht da bin, wird mir nie ein Licht gezeigt." "Du bist ein Baby!", sagte Peggotty; sehr liebevoll, wenn sie das dachte. "Ja", lachte Mr. Peggotty, "nicht auf den ersten Blick, aber zum - zum Überlegen, wissen Sie. Das ist mir egal, Gott segne Sie! Jetzt sage ich Ihnen. Wenn ich durch dieses hübsche Haus unserer Em'ly gehe, schaue ich - ich bin schockiert, sage ich Ihnen", sagte Mr. Peggotty mit plötzlicher Betonung. "Ich kann nicht mehr sagen - als ob die kleinsten Dinge ihr gehörten. Ich nehme sie auf und lege sie ab und berühre sie so behutsam, als wären sie unsere Em'ly. So ist es auch mit ihren kleinen Hüten und so. Ich könnte nie einen davon absichtlich misshandelt sehen - nicht für die ganze Welt. Das ist ein Baby für Sie, in Form eines großen Seeigels!" sagte Mr. Peggotty und erleichterte seinen Ernst mit einem Lachen. Peggotty und ich lachten beide, aber nicht so laut. "Meiner Meinung nach", sagte Mr. Peggotty mit einem freudigen Gesicht, nachdem er seine Beine noch etwas gerieben hatte, "habe ich das gemacht, weil ich so viel mit ihr gespielt habe und so getan habe, als wären wir Türken und Franzosen und Haie und jede Sorte Ausländer - Gott segne Sie, ja; und Löwen und Wale und ich weiß nicht was alles! - als sie noch nicht größer war als mein Knie. Ich bin so daran gewöhnt, wissen Sie. Warum, diese Kerze hier!" sagte Mr. Peggotty und hielt sie mir fröhlich entgegen. "Ich weiß ganz genau, dass ich dieses Licht dort hinstelle, genauso wie jetzt, wenn sie verheiratet ist und fortgeht. Ich weiß ganz genau, dass wenn ich hier nachts bin (und wo sollte ich sonst leben, Gott segne Ihre Kunst, egal welches Glück mir auch widerfährt!) und sie nicht hier ist oder ich nicht dort bin, stelle ich die Kerze ins Fenster und setze mich vor das Feuer und tue so, als ob ich auf sie warte, wie ich es jetzt tue. DAS ist ein Baby für Sie," sagte Mr. Peggotty mit einem weiteren Lachen, "in Form eines Seeigels! Warum, in diesem Augenblick, wenn ich das Licht funkeln sehe, sage ich mir: "Sie schaut es an! Em'ly kommt!" Da haben Sie ein Baby für Sie, in Form eines Seeigels! Französisch für alles, sagte Mr. Peggotty und hielt mit einem lauten Lachen inne. Es war nur Ham. Seit ich angekommen war, musste die Nacht noch nasser geworden sein, denn er trug einen großen Sou'wester-Hut, der tief ins Gesicht gezogen war. "Wo ist Em'ly?", sagte Mr. Peggotty. Ham machte eine Kopfbewegung, als ob sie draußen sei. Mr. Peggotty nahm das Licht vom Fenster, putzte es, stellte es auf den Tisch und rührte fleißig im Feuer, als Ham, der sich nicht bewegt hatte, sagte: "Mas'r Davy, kommst du mal raus und siehst, was Em'ly und ich dir zeigen möchten?" Wir gingen hinaus. Als ich an der Tür an ihm vorbeiging, sah ich zu meiner Verwunderung und Angst, dass er tödlich blass war. Er schob mich hastig an die frische Luft und schloss die Tür hinter uns. Nur uns beide. "Ham! Was ist los?" "Mas'r Davy!" Oh, wie schrecklich hat er geweint wegen seines gebrochenen Herzens! Ich war gelähmt vom Anblick solcher Trauer. Ich weiß nicht, was ich dachte oder was ich befürchtete. Ich konnte nur auf ihn schauen. "Hamm! Armer guter Kerl! Um Himmels willen, sag mir, was los ist!" "Meine Liebe, Mas'r Davy - der Stolz und die Hoffnung meiner Kunst - die, für die ich gestorben wäre und jetzt sterben würde - sie ist fort!" "Fort!" "Em'ly ist weggelaufen! Oh, Mas'r Davy, denke, WIE sie weggelaufen ist, wenn ich meinen guten und gnädigen Gott bitte, sie (die über alles Liebe) eher zu töten als sie zu Ruin und Schande kommen zu lassen!" Das Gesicht, das er zum bewölkten Himmel erhob, das Zittern seiner verschränkten Hände, die Qual seines Körpers, bleiben in meiner Erinnerung bis heute mit der einsamen Ödnis verbunden. Dort ist immer Nacht und er ist das einzige Objekt in der Szene. "Du bist ein Gelehrter", sagte er eilig, "und weißt, was richtig und am besten ist. Was soll ich drinnen sagen? Wie soll ich es ihm jemals beibringen, Mas'r Davy?" Ich sah, wie sich die Tür bewegte, und versuchte instinktiv, den Riegel an der Außenseite festzuhalten, um einen Moment Zeit zu gewinnen. Es war zu spät. Mr. Peggotty streckte sein Gesicht heraus und ich könnte die Veränderung, die daraufhin in ihm vorgegangen war, niemals vergessen, wenn ich fünfhundert Jahre leben würde. Ich erinnere mich an ein großes Wehklagen und Geschrei, und die Frauen, die ihn umringten, und wir alle standen im Raum; ich mit einem Stück Papier in der Hand, das mir Ham gegeben hatte; Mr. Peggotty, mit zerrissener Weste, wildem Haar, ganz weißem Gesicht und Lippen und Blut, das über seine Brust tropfte (es war aus seinem Mund gesprungen, glaube ich), sah mich unverwandt an. "Lies es, Sir", sagte er mit leiser, zitternder Stimme. "Langsam, bitte. Ich weiß nicht, ob ich es verstehen kann." Mitten in der Stille des Todes las ich also aus einem verschmierten Brief: "Wenn du, der du mich so viel mehr liebst, als ich je verdient habe, sogar als mein Geist unschuldig war, das hier siehst, werde ich weit weg sein." "Ich werde weit weg sein", wiederholte er langsam. "Stop! Em'ly weit weg. Gut!" "Wenn ich mein liebes Zuhause verlasse "- es wird nie zurückkommen, es sei denn, er bringt mir eine Dame mit. Diese werde ich viele Stunden nachts anstelle von mir vorfinden. Oh, wenn du wüsstest, wie mein Herz zerrissen ist. Wenn selbst du, den ich so sehr beleidigt habe, der mir nie vergeben kann, nur wüsste, was ich durchmache! Ich bin zu böse, um über mich selbst zu schreiben! Oh, sei getröstet in dem Gedanken, dass ich so schlecht bin. Oh, um Gottes willen, sag Onkel, dass ich ihn nie so sehr geliebt habe wie jetzt. Oh, erinnere dich nicht daran, wie liebevoll und freundlich ihr alle zu mir gewesen seid - erinnere dich nicht daran, dass wir einmal heiraten sollten - sondern versuche zu denken, als wäre ich gestorben, als ich klein war und irgendwo begraben wurde. Bete zum Himmel, von dem ich weggehe, hab Mitleid mit meinem Onkel! Sag ihm, dass ich ihn nie so sehr geliebt habe. Sei sein Trost. Liebe ein gutes Mädchen, das das ist, was ich einst für Onkel war, und sei dir treu und würdig und kenne keine Schande außer mir. Gott segne euch alle! Ich werde oft auf meinen Knien für alle beten. Wenn er mir keine Dame zurückbringt und ich nicht für mich selbst bete, werde ich für alle beten. Meine Abschiedsliebe an Onkel. Meine letzten Tränen und mein letzter Dank für Onkel!" Das war alles. Er stand noch lange da, nachdem ich aufgehört hatte zu lesen, und sah mich immer noch an. Schließlich wagte ich es, seine Hand zu nehmen und ihn zu bitten, sich so gut wie möglich unter Kontrolle zu bringen. Er antwortete: "Danke, Sir, danke!" ohne sich zu bewegen. Ham sprach zu ihm. Mr. Peggotty war so weit vernünftig, dass er ihm die Hand drückte, aber ansonsten blieb er im selben Zustand und niemand wagte es, ihn zu stören. Langsam bewegte er schließlich seine Augen von meinem Gesicht, als ob er aus einer Vision erwachen würde, und warf sie im Raum herum. Dann sagte er mit leiser Stimme: "Wer ist der Mann? Ich möchte seinen Namen wissen." Ham sah mich an und plötzlich spürte ich einen Schock, der mich zurückwarf. "Es gibt einen Verdächtigen", sagte Mr. Peggotty. "Wer ist es?" "Mas'r Davy!", flehte Ham. "Geh ein bisschen raus und lass mich ihm sagen, was ich ihm sagen muss. Du solltest es nicht hören, Sir." Ich spürte den Schock erneut. Ich sank in einen Stuhl und versuchte eine Antwort zu äußern, aber meine Zunge war gefesselt und mein Blick war schwach. "Ich möchte seinen Namen wissen!", hörte ich noch einmal sagen. "In letzter Zeit", stotterte Ham, "gab es hier gelegentlich einen Diener. Es gab auch einen Herrn. Beide gehörten zusammen." Mr. Peggotty stand wie zuvor da, schaute ihn aber nun an. "Der Diener", fuhr Ham fort, "wurde gestern Abend zusammen mit unserem armen Mädchen gesehen. Er hat sich hier versteckt, seit einer Woche oder länger. Man dachte, er sei gegangen, aber er hat sich versteckt. Bleib nicht, Mas'r Davy, bleib nicht!" Ich spürte Peggottys Arm um meinen Nacken, aber ich hätte mich nicht bewegen können, selbst wenn das Haus über mir zusammengebrochen wäre. "Ein fremder Wagen mit Pferden stand heute Morgen außerhalb der Stadt, fast bevor der Tag anbrach", fuhr Ham fort. "Der Diener ging hin und kam von dort und ging wieder hin. Als er wieder hin ging, war Em'ly in seiner Nähe. Der andere war drinnen. Er ist der Mann." "Um Himmels willen", sagte Mr. Peggotty, wich zurück und streckte seine Hand aus, als wollte er abwehren, wovor er sich fürchtete. "Sag mir nicht, dass sein Name Steerforth ist!" "Mas'r Davy!", rief Ham mit gebrochener Stimme, "es ist nicht deine Schuld - und ich bin weit davon entfernt, es dir anzulasten - aber sein Name ist Steerforth und er ist ein verdammter Schurke!" Mr. Peggotty schrie nicht, vergoss keine Tränen und rührte sich nicht mehr, bis er plötzlich wieder aufwachte und seinen groben Mantel von einem Haken in der Ecke herunterzog. "Gib mir damit eine Hand! Ich bin völlig erschlagen und kann es nicht tun", sagte er ungeduldig. "Gib mir das Hut!" Ham fragte, wohin er gehen würde. "Ich gehe, um meine Nichte zu suchen. Ich gehe, um meine Em'ly zu suchen. Ich gehe zuerst, um dieses Boot zu zerstören und zu versenken, in dem ich ihn ertränkt hätte, so wahr ich eine lebendige Seele bin, wenn ich je einen Gedanken gehabt hätte, was in ihm steckt! Als er vor mir saß", sagte er wild und streckte seine geballte rechte Hand aus, "als er vor mir saß, von Angesicht zu Angesicht, schlag mich tot, aber ich hätte ihn ertränkt und es für richtig gehalten! Ich gehe, um meine Nichte zu suchen." "Wohin?", rief Ham und stellte sich vor die Tür. "Egal wohin! Ich gehe, um meine Nichte in der Welt zu suchen. Ich gehe, um meine arme Nichte in ihrer Schande zu finden und sie zurückzubringen. Niemand hält mich auf! Ich sage dir, ich gehe, um meine Nichte zu suchen!" "Nein, nein!", rief Mrs. Gummidge und stellte sich zwischen sie und weinte. "Nein, nein, Dan'l, nicht so, wie du jetzt bist. Such sie in einer kleinen Weile, mein einsamer Dan'l, und das wird nur recht sein! Aber nicht so, wie du jetzt bist. Setz dich hin und vergib mir, dass ich dich jemals beunruhigt habe, Dan'l - was sind meine Launen im Vergleich dazu! - und lass uns ein Wort über diese Zeiten reden, als sie eine Waise war und Ham auch und als ich eine arme Witwe war und du mich aufgenommen hast. Das wird dein armes Herz erweichen, Dan'l", legte sie ihren Kopf auf seine Schulter, "und du wirst deinen Kummer besser ertragen; denn du kennst das Versprechen, Dan'l, 'Was du einem der Geringsten getan hast, hast du mir getan' - und das kann unter diesem Dach nie versagen, das so viele, viele Jahre unser Zufluchtsort war!" Er war jetzt völlig passiv und als ich hörte, wie er weinte, wich der Impuls, vor ihm auf die Knie zu fallen und um Vergebung für die Verwüstung zu bitten, die ich verursacht hatte, und Steerforth zu verfluchen, einem besseren Gefühl. Mein überladenes Herz fand die gleiche Erleichterung, und auch ich weinte. Dass, was in mir natürlich ist, ist auch in vielen anderen Männern natürlich, schlussfolgere ich, und deshalb habe ich keine Angst zu schreiben, dass ich Steerforth nie mehr geliebt habe, als als die Bindungen, die mich an ihn fesselten, zerbrachen. In der scharfen Not der Entdeckung seiner Unehrenhaftigkeit dachte ich mehr an alles, was in ihm glänzend war, ich wurde milder gegenüber allem, was in ihm gut war, ich würdigte die Eigenschaften, die ihn zu einem Mann von edlem Wesen und großem Namen hätten machen können, mehr als je zuvor in meiner Hingabe an ihn. So sehr ich auch meine unbewusste Rolle in seiner Verunreinigung eines ehrlichen Zuhauses spürte, glaubte ich, dass ich, wenn ich ihm gegenübergestanden hätte, keine Vorwürfe hätte aussprechen können. Ich hätte ihn immer noch so sehr geliebt - obwohl er mich nicht mehr faszinierte - ich hätte die Erinnerung an meine Zuneigung für ihn in so großer Z Es war am Strand, nah am Meer, dass ich sie fand. Es wäre einfach gewesen zu bemerken, dass sie die ganze Nacht nicht geschlafen hatten, selbst wenn Peggotty es mir nicht erzählt hätte, dass sie immer noch da saßen, als ich sie verließ und es schon taghell war. Sie sahen erschöpft aus und ich hatte das Gefühl, dass Mr. Peggottys Kopf in einer einzigen Nacht mehr gebeugt war als in all den Jahren, die ich ihn kannte. Aber sie waren beide so ernst und ruhig wie das Meer selbst, das unter einem dunklen Himmel lag, windstill - aber mit einer schweren Welle, als ob es in seiner Ruhe atmete - und am Horizont von einem Streifen silbrigen Lichts von der unsichtbaren Sonne berührt wurde. "Wir haben viel geredet, Sir", sagte Mr. Peggotty zu mir, als wir alle drei eine Weile schweigend gelaufen waren, "über das, was wir tun sollten und nicht tun sollten. Aber wir haben jetzt unseren Kurs gefunden." Ich warf zufällig einen Blick auf Ham, der damals auf das ferne Licht am Meer hinausblickte, und ein furchterregender Gedanke kam mir in den Sinn - nicht, dass sein Gesicht wütend war, denn das war es nicht; ich erinnere mich an nichts anderes als einen Ausdruck von strenger Entschlossenheit -, dass er Steerforth töten würde, wenn er ihm jemals begegnen würde. "Mein Auftrag hier, Sir", sagte Mr. Peggotty, "ist erfüllt. Ich werde gehen und sie suchen. Das ist mein Auftrag von nun an." Er schüttelte den Kopf, als ich ihn fragte, wo er sie suchen würde, und erkundigte sich, ob ich morgen nach London gehen würde. Ich sagte ihm, dass ich heute nicht gegangen war, aus Angst, die Chance zu verpassen, ihm behilflich zu sein, aber dass ich bereit sei zu gehen, wann immer er es wünschte. "Ich werde mit Ihnen gehen, Sir", fügte er hinzu, "wenn Sie einverstanden sind, morgen." Wir gingen wieder eine Weile schweigend. "Ham", fuhr er bald fort, "er wird seine derzeitige Arbeit fortsetzen und bei meiner Schwester leben. Das alte Boot da drüben-" "Wirst du das alte Boot verlassen, Mr. Peggotty?" unterbrach ich sanft. "Meine Position, Mas'r Davy", antwortete er, "existiert nicht mehr dort; und wenn je ein Boot untergegangen ist, seit es Finsternis auf dem Angesicht der Tiefe gab, dann ist dieses gesunken. Aber nein, Sir, nein; ich meine nicht, dass es verlassen werden sollte. Ganz im Gegenteil." Wir gingen wieder eine Weile, wie zuvor, bis er erklärte: "Mein Wunsch, Sir, ist es, dass es Tag und Nacht, im Winter und Sommer, so aussehen soll, wie es immer ausgesehen hat, seit sie es zum ersten Mal gesehen hat. Wenn sie jemals zurückkehren sollte, möchte ich nicht, dass der alte Ort sie abweist, verstehen Sie? Sondern dass er sie dazu verlockt, näher heranzukommen und vielleicht durch das alte Fenster wie ein Geist aus Wind und Regen auf den alten Sitz am Feuer zu schauen. Dann, vielleicht, Mas'r Davy, wenn sie nur Missis Gummidge dort sieht, könnte sie sich trauen, zitternd hineinzugehen und sich in ihr altes Bett zu legen und ihren müden Kopf dort ausruhen, wo es einst so fröhlich war." Ich konnte ihm nicht antworten, obwohl ich es versuchte. "Jede Nacht", sagte Mr. Peggotty, "genau zur Nachtzeit, muss die Kerze in ihrem alten Glas stehen, damit, wenn sie sie jemals sieht, sie zu sagen scheint: "Komm zurück, mein Kind, komm zurück!". Wenn es jemals an Ihrer Tante Tür klopft, Ham (besonders ein leises Klopfen), nach Einbruch der Dunkelheit, gehen Sie nicht dorthin. Lasst sie es sein - nicht du -, die mein verlorenes Kind sieht!" Er ging ein Stück vor uns und lief einige Minuten lang vor uns her. Während dieser Zeit warf ich wieder einen Blick auf Ham und bemerkte den gleichen Ausdruck in seinem Gesicht und seine Augen immer noch auf das ferne Licht gerichtet. Ich berührte seinen Arm. Zweimal rief ich ihn mit seinem Namen in dem Ton, in dem ich versucht hätte, einen Schläfer zu wecken, bevor er mich beachtete. Als ich schließlich fragte, worüber er so nachdachte, antwortete er: "Über das, was vor mir liegt, Mas'r Davy; und dort drüben." "Über das Leben, das noch vor Ihnen liegt, meinen Sie?" Er hatte verwirrt auf das Meer hinausgezeigt. "Ja, Mas'r Davy. Ich weiß nicht genau, wie es ist, aber von dort drüben schien es mir das Ende zu kommen", schaute er mich an, als ob er aufwachen würde, aber mit dem gleichen entschlossenen Gesicht. "Was für ein Ende?", fragte ich, von meiner früheren Angst ergriffen. "Ich weiß es nicht", sagte er nachdenklich, "ich erinnerte mich daran, dass der Anfang von allem hier stattfand - und dann kam das Ende. Aber es ist vorbei! Mas'r Davy", fügte er hinzu und antwortete, glaube ich, meinem Blick, "du brauchst keine Angst vor mir zu haben, aber ich bin verwirrt; ich scheine nichts mehr zu fühlen", was so viel bedeutete wie, dass er nicht er selbst war und völlig verwirrt. Mr. Peggotty hielt an, um uns aufholen zu lassen; wir taten dies und sagten nichts mehr. Die Erinnerung daran, in Verbindung mit meinem früheren Gedanken, verfolgte mich jedoch in regelmäßigen Abständen, bis das unerbittliche Ende zur vereinbarten Zeit kam. Unmerklich näherten wir uns dem alten Boot und stiegen ein. Mrs. Gummidge, die nicht länger in ihrer besonderen Ecke mopste, bereitete das Frühstück vor. Sie nahm Mr. Peggottys Hut und stellte seinen Platz für ihn auf und sprach so angenehm und leise, dass ich sie kaum erkannte. "Dan'l, mein guter Mann", sagte sie, "du musst essen und trinken und deine Kräfte erhalten, denn ohne sie wirst du nichts tun können. Versuch es, mein Lieber! Und wenn ich dich mit meinem Geschwätz störe", sie meinte ihr Gerede, "dann sag es mir, Dan'l, und ich werde es lassen." Als sie uns allen das Essen serviert hatte, zog sie sich ans Fenster zurück, wo sie sich eifrig damit beschäftigte, einige Hemden und andere Kleidungsstücke von Mr. Peggotty zu reparieren, ordentlich zu falten und in einer alten Ölhauttasche zu verpacken, wie sie von Seeleuten getragen wird. In der Zwischenzeit sprach sie weiterhin in derselben ruhigen Art: "Zu jeder Zeit, Dan'l", sagte Mrs. Gummidge, "werde ich hier sein und alles wird deinen Wünschen entsprechend aussehen. Ich bin eine schlechte Schülerin, aber manchmal werde ich dir schreiben, wenn du weg bist, und meine Briefe an Mas'r Davy schicken. Vielleicht wirst du auch manchmal an mich schreiben, Dan'l, und mir erzählen, wie du dich bei deinen einsamen Reisen fühlst." "Du wirst eine einsame Frau hier sein, fürchte ich", sagte Mr. Peggotty. "Nein, nein, Dan'l", antwortete sie, "so werde ich nicht sein. Denk nicht so. Ich werde genug zu tun haben, um dir ein Zuhause zu erhalten" (Mrs. Gummidge meinte ein Zuhause), "wenn du wieder kommst - um hier ein Zuhause für jeden zu halten, der vielleicht zurückkommt, Dan'l. Bei schönem Wetter werde ich draußen vor der Tür sitzen wie früher. Wenn jemand in der Nähe kommt, sollen sie die alte Witwe von weitem sehen können, treu zu ihnen." Keine weiteren Informationen über den Text. Was für eine Veränderung bei Mrs. Gummidge in kurzer Zeit! Sie war eine andere Frau. Sie war so hingebungsvoll, sie hatte so ein schnelles Verständnis dafür, was gut zu sagen wäre und was besser unausgesprochen bleiben sollte; sie war so vergesslich in Bezug auf sich selbst und so rücksichtsvoll gegenüber der Trauer um sie herum, dass ich sie beinahe verehrte. Die Arbeit, die sie an diesem Tag leistete! Es mussten viele Dinge vom Strand geholt und in der Scheune verstaut werden – wie Ruder, Netze, Segel, Tauwerk, Spieren, Hummerkörbe, Ballastsäcke und so weiter; und obwohl viele Unterstützung angeboten wurde – denn es gab keine helfenden Hände an dieser Küste, die nicht hart für Mr. Peggotty arbeiten und dafür gut bezahlt werden würden – bestand sie den ganzen Tag über darauf, Lasten zu schleppen, denen sie nicht gewachsen war, und unnötige Botengänge zu erledigen. Was ihre eigenen Missgeschicke anging, schien sie sich gar nicht mehr daran zu erinnern, jemals welche gehabt zu haben. Sie bewahrte eine gleich bleibende Fröhlichkeit mitten in ihrer Mitgefühlschaft, was der erstaunlichste Teil der Veränderung war, die mit ihr vorgegangen war. Es war ausgeschlossen, dass sie sich beklagte. Ich bemerkte nicht einmal, dass ihre Stimme zitterte oder dass ihr ein Tränchen über die Wange lief, den ganzen Tag über, bis zur Dämmerung; als sie und ich und Mr. Peggotty alleine waren und er erschöpft in einen tiefen Schlaf fiel, brach sie in ein halbunterdrücktes Schluchzen und Weinen aus und führte mich zur Tür, wo sie sagte: „Mögest du immer gesegnet sein, Meister Davy, sei ein Freund für ihn, armer Lieber!" Dann rannte sie sofort aus dem Haus, um sich das Gesicht zu waschen, damit sie ruhig neben ihm sitzen und bei der Arbeit gefunden werden konnte, wenn er aufwachte. Kurz gesagt, als ich abends ging, ließ ich sie als Stütze und Hilfe für Mr. Peggottys Kummer zurück, und ich konnte nicht genug über die Lektion nachdenken, die mir Mrs. Gummidge und die neue Erfahrung, die sie mir eröffnet hatte, vermittelten. Es war zwischen neun und zehn Uhr, als ich melancholisch durch die Stadt schlenderte und vor Mr. Omers Tür anhielt. Mr. Omer hatte es so zu Herzen genommen, sagte mir seine Tochter, dass er den ganzen Tag über sehr niedergeschlagen und krank gewesen war und ohne seine Pfeife ins Bett gegangen war. „Ein betrügerisches, schlechtgesinntes Mädchen", sagte Mrs. Joram. „Da war nie etwas Gutes an ihr!" „Sag das nicht", erwiderte ich. „Das denkst du nicht." „Doch, das tue ich!" rief Mrs. Joram ärgerlich. „Nein, nein", sagte ich. Mrs. Joram warf trotzig den Kopf zurück, während sie versuchte, sehr streng und unfreundlich zu wirken; aber sie konnte ihre sanftere Seite nicht unterdrücken und fing an zu weinen. Natürlich war ich noch jung, aber ich hielt umso mehr von ihr, dass sie so mitfühlend war, und bildete mir ein, dass es ihr als tugendhafte Ehefrau und Mutter sehr gut stand. „Was wird mit ihr passieren!" schluchzte Minnie. „Wo wird sie hingehen! Was wird aus ihr werden! Oh, wie konnte sie nur so grausam sein, sich selbst und ihm gegenüber!" Ich erinnerte mich an die Zeit, als Minnie noch ein junges und hübsches Mädchen war, und ich war froh, dass sie sich daran genauso rührend erinnerte. „Meine kleine Minnie", sagte Mrs. Joram, „ist erst vor Kurzem eingeschlafen. Sogar im Schlaf weint sie um Emily. Den ganzen Tag lang hat das kleine Minnie um sie geweint und mich immer wieder gefragt, ob Emily böse war? Was kann ich ihr sagen, wenn Emily dem kleinen Minnie gestern Nacht eine Schleife von ihrem eigenen Hals abgenommen und um den Hals des kleinen Mädchens gebunden hat und ihren Kopf daneben auf das Kissen gelegt hat, bis sie eingeschlafen war! Der Schleifen ist jetzt um den Hals meiner kleinen Minnie gebunden. Es sollte vielleicht nicht so sein, aber was kann ich tun? Emily ist sehr schlecht, aber sie haben sich geliebt. Und das Kind weiß von nichts!" Mrs. Joram war so unglücklich, dass ihr Ehemann herauskam, um sich um sie zu kümmern. Als ich sie alleine ließ und nach Hause zu Peggotty ging, war ich noch melancholischer als zuvor. Dieses gute Geschöpf - ich meine Peggotty - immer noch unermüdet von ihren letzten Sorgen und schlaflosen Nächten, war bei ihrem Bruder, wo sie bis zum Morgen bleiben wollte. Eine alte Frau, die in den letzten Wochen im Haus beschäftigt gewesen war, während Peggotty sich nicht darum kümmern konnte, war neben mir die einzige andere Bewohnerin des Hauses. Da ich ihre Dienste nicht brauchte, schickte ich sie ohne ihre Einwände ins Bett und setzte mich eine Weile vor das Küchenfeuer, um über all das nachzudenken. Ich verband es mit dem Sterbebett des verstorbenen Mr. Barkis und war mit der Flut auf dem Weg zu der Stelle, an der Ham am Morgen so seltsam ausgesehen hatte, als ich von meinen Gedanken durch einen Klopfen an der Tür zurückgerufen wurde. An der Tür war zwar ein Türklopfer, aber das war nicht das Geräusch. Das Klopfen kam von einer Hand, und zwar niedrig an der Tür, als ob es von einem Kind ausgeführt wurde. Es ließ mich so erschrecken, als ob es der Klopf eines Dieners für einen vornehmen Menschen gewesen wäre. Ich öffnete die Tür und sah zu meiner Verwunderung zuerst auf nichts anderes als einen großen Regenschirm, der anscheinend von selbst herumging. Aber bald entdeckte ich darunter Miss Mowcher. Ich war vielleicht nicht bereit, dem kleinen Wesen einen sehr freundlichen Empfang zu bereiten, wenn sie mir, nachdem sie den Regenschirm entfernt hatte, den sie mit größter Anstrengung nicht schließen konnte, nicht das „volatile" Gesicht gezeigt hätte, das bei unserem ersten und letzten Treffen so großen Eindruck auf mich gemacht hatte. Aber ihr Gesicht, als sie es zu mir hinaufdrehte, war so ernsthaft; und als ich sie von dem Regenschirm befreite (der für den irischen Riesen unpraktisch gewesen wäre), rang sie ihre Händchen auf so gequälte Weise, dass ich eher zu ihr hingeneigt war. „Miss Mowcher!", sagte ich, nachdem ich die leere Straße auf und ab geblickt hatte, ohne genau zu wissen, was ich noch erwartete, „wie kommst du hierher? Was ist los?" Sie wies mit ihrem kurzen rechten Arm darauf, dass ich den Regenschirm für sie schließen sollte, und ging eilig in die Küche. Als ich die Tür geschlossen hatte und, den Regenschirm in der Hand, ihr folgte, fand ich sie auf der Ecke des Kamins sitzend – es war ein niedriger eiserner Kamin mit zwei flachen Stäben oben, auf denen Teller standen – und schaukelte sich hin und her, während sie sich wie eine schmerzgeplagte Person die Hände auf die Kniee rieb. Total verängstigt, der einzige Empfänger dieses unzeitgemäßen Besuchs und die einzige Zeugin dieses bedeutsamen Verhaltens zu sein, rief ich erneut aus: „Bitte, sag mir, Miss Mowcher, was ist passiert! Bist du krank?" „Meine liebe junge Seele", erwiderte Miss Mowcher und legte ihre Hände, die eine auf die andere, auf ihr Herz. „Mir geht es schlecht, mir geht es sehr schlecht. Zu denken, dass es so weit gekommen ist, wenn ich es hätte wissen und vielleicht verhindern können, wenn ich nicht so leichtsinnig gewesen wäre!" Wieder ging ihre große Haube (die in Bezug auf die Figur sehr unverhältnismäßig war) hin und her, während sie sich hin und her schwankend vor- und zurückbewegte, während ein riesengroße Regenschirm im Takt an der Wand wippte. „Ich bin üb "Was kann ich tun?" antwortete die kleine Frau, stand auf und streckte die Arme aus, um sich zu zeigen. "Sieh! Was ich bin, war mein Vater; und meine Schwester ist es; und mein Bruder ist es. Ich habe für Schwester und Bruder all die Jahre hart gearbeitet, Mr. Copperfield, den ganzen Tag über. Ich muss leben. Ich tue niemandem etwas zuleide. Wenn es Leute gibt, so unbedacht oder so grausam, dass sie sich über mich lustig machen, was bleibt mir dann übrig, als mich selbst, sie und alles zum Narren zu machen? Wenn ich das tue, wessen Fehler ist das dann? Meiner?" Nein. Nicht Miss Mowchers, so viel war mir klar. "Wenn ich mich als empfindlicher Zwerg gegenüber deinem falschen Freund gezeigt hätte", fuhr die kleine Frau fort, schüttelte den Kopf und sah mich mit vorwurfsvollem Nachdruck an, "wie viel Hilfe oder Wohlwollen hättest du dann wohl von ihm bekommen? Wenn sich die kleine Mowcher (die, junger Herr, keinen Einfluss auf ihr eigenes Aussehen hatte) ihm oder ähnlichen Leuten wegen ihrer Missgeschicke zugewandt hätte, wann hätte man wohl ihre leise Stimme gehört? Die kleine Mowcher würde genauso sehr zum Leben gebraucht haben, selbst wenn sie die bitterste und dümmste aller Zwerge gewesen wäre; aber sie hätte es nicht geschafft. Nein. Sie hätte um ihr Brot und ihre Butter pfeifen können, bis sie an Luftmangel gestorben wäre." Miss Mowcher setzte sich wieder auf den Kamin und holte ihr Taschentuch heraus, um sich die Augen abzuwischen. "Sei dankbar für mich, wenn du ein gutes Herz hast, so wie ich denke", sagte sie, "dass ich, obwohl ich genau weiß, wer ich bin, fröhlich sein und alles ertragen kann. Ich bin wenigstens dankbar für mich selbst, dass ich meinen winzigen Weg durch die Welt finden kann, ohne von jemandem abhängig zu sein. Und dass ich im Gegenzug für all das, was mir in Torheit oder Eitelkeit zugespielt wird, mich selber mit Blasen zurückspielen kann. Wenn ich nicht über all das brüte, was ich gerne hätte, ist es besser für mich und nicht schlechter für irgendjemanden. Wenn ich für euch Riesen ein Spielzeug bin, dann seid sanft mit mir." Miss Mowcher steckte ihr Taschentuch wieder in die Tasche, sah mich dabei die ganze Zeit mit sehr ernstem Ausdruck an und fuhr fort: "Ich habe dich gerade auf der Straße gesehen. Ich konnte natürlich nicht so schnell wie du mit meinen kurzen Beinen und meinem kurzen Atem gehen, und ich konnte dich nicht einholen. Aber ich habe vermutet, wo du hinkommst, und bin dir gefolgt. Ich war heute schon einmal hier, aber die gute Frau war nicht zu Hause." "Kennst du sie?" fragte ich. "Ich kenne sie und weiß von ihr", antwortete sie, "von Omer und Joram. Ich war heute Morgen um sieben Uhr dort. Erinnerst du dich, was Steerforth damals zu mir über das arme Mädchen gesagt hat, als ich euch beide in der Kneipe gesehen habe?" Die große Haube auf Miss Mowchers Kopf und die noch größere Haube an der Wand begannen wieder hin und her zu schaukeln, als sie diese Frage stellte. Ich erinnerte mich sehr gut, worauf sie anspielte, da ich den Gedanken daran den ganzen Tag im Kopf gehabt hatte. Ich sagte es ihr. "Möge der Vater des ganzen Bösen ihn verdammen", sagte die kleine Frau und hob ihren Zeigefinger zwischen mich und ihre funkelnden Augen, "und noch zehnmal mehr diesen bösen Diener; aber ich habe geglaubt, dass es DU warst, der eine kindliche Leidenschaft für sie hatte!" "Ich?" wiederholte ich. "Kind, Kind! Im Namen des blinden Unheils", rief Miss Mowcher ungeduldig und wrang dabei ungeduldig die Hände, während sie wieder auf dem Kamin hin und her ging, "warum hast du sie dann so gelobt und rot angelaufen und verstört ausgesehen?" Ich konnte nicht leugnen, dass ich das getan hatte, wenn auch aus einem ganz anderen Grund als ihrer Vermutung. "Was wusste ich?", sagte Miss Mowcher, nahm erneut ihr Taschentuch heraus und stampfte jedes Mal, wenn sie es in kurzen Abständen mit beiden Händen auf ihre Augen drückte, einmal mit dem Fuß auf den Boden. "Er hat dich umgarnt und betrogen, das habe ich gesehen, und du warst weiches Wachs in seinen Händen, das habe ich auch gesehen. Hätte ich den Raum eine Minute lang verlassen, als sein Diener mir erzählte, dass 'Junge Unschuld' (so hat er dich genannt, und du kannst ihn 'Alter Schuldbewusstsein' nennen, solange du lebst) sich in sie verliebt hatte und sie schwindelig war und ihn mochte, aber sein Herr war entschlossen, dass ihr beiden nichts Schlimmes passieren sollte - mehr deinetwegen als ihretwegen - und das sei ihr Geschäft hier? Wie hätte ich ihn NICHT glauben sollen? Ich habe Steerforth gesehen, wie er dich mit seinem Lob von ihr besänftigt und dir gefallen hat! Du hast als Erster ihren Namen erwähnt. Du hast zugegeben, dass du früher von ihr begeistert warst. Du warst heiß und kalt, rot und weiß, alles auf einmal, als ich mit dir von ihr sprach. Was hätte ich denken - was habe ich denn gedacht - außer dass du in allem ein junger Lüstling bist, außer an Erfahrung, und in die Hände gefallen bist, die genug Erfahrung hatten und dich (wegen ihrer Fantasie) zu deinem eigenen Besten lenken konnten? Oh! oh! oh! Sie hatten Angst, dass ich die Wahrheit herausfinde", rief Miss Mowcher aus, sprang vom Kamin und trottete mit beiden kurzen Armen weinend durch die Küche, "weil ich ein scharfes kleines Ding bin - das muss ich auch sein, um überhaupt in dieser Welt zurechtzukommen! - und sie haben mich komplett getäuscht, und ich habe dem armen unglücklichen Mädchen einen Brief gegeben, von dem ich fest glaube, dass er der Anfang davon war, dass sie je mit Littimer gesprochen hat, der mit Absicht zurückgelassen wurde!" Ich war erstaunt über die Offenbarung all dieser Tücke und sah Miss Mowcher an, als sie in der Küche auf- und abging, bis ihr die Luft ausging: als sie sich wieder auf den Kamin setzte und sich mit dem Taschentuch das Gesicht abtrocknete, schüttelte sie lange den Kopf, ohne sich sonst zu bewegen und ohne zu sprechen. "Meine Landstraßen", fügte sie schließlich hinzu, "haben mich nach Norwich geführt, Mr. Copperfield, vorgestern Nacht. Was ich dort zufällig über ihren geheimen Verkehrsweg gefunden habe, ohne dich - das war seltsam - hat mich auf den Verdacht gebracht, dass etwas nicht stimmt. Ich bin gestern Abend in den Kutschen von London mitgefahren, als sie durch Norwich kam, und war heute Morgen hier. Oh, oh, oh! Zu spät!" Die arme kleine Mowcher wurde nach all ihrem Weinen und Ärgern so kalt, dass sie sich auf dem Kamin umdrehte, ihre armen kleinen nassen Füße zwischen die Asche stellte, um sie zu wärmen, und wie eine große Puppe ins Feuer starrte. Ich saß auf einem Stuhl auf der anderen Seite des Kamins, verloren in unglücklichen Gedanken, und schaute auch ins Feuer und manchmal zu ihr. "Ich muss gehen", sagte sie schließlich, als sie aufstand. "Es ist spät. Misstraust du mir nicht?" Als sie meinen scharfen Blick traf, der so scharf wie immer war, konnte ich auf diese kurze Herausforderung nicht ehrlich mit nein antworten. "Komm!" sagte sie und nahm mein Angebot, ihr über den Kamin zu helfen, an und sah mich sehnsüchtig an, "du weißt, du würdest mir nicht misstrauen, wenn ich eine vollständig gewachsene Frau wäre!" Ich spürte, dass viel Wahrheit darin steckte, und "Vertraue mir nicht mehr, aber vertraue mir nicht weniger, als du einer vollwertigen Frau vertrauen würdest", sagte das kleine Wesen und berührte mich appellierend am Handgelenk. "Falls du mich jemals wieder siehst und ich anders bin als jetzt und so bin, wie ich war, als du mich zum ersten Mal gesehen hast, dann achte darauf, in welcher Gesellschaft ich mich befinde. Denke daran, dass ich ein sehr hilfloses und wehrloses kleines Wesen bin. Stell dir vor, wie ich zu Hause mit meinem Bruder wie mir und meiner Schwester wie mir bin, wenn meine Arbeit erledigt ist. Vielleicht wirst du dann nicht allzu hart mit mir ins Gericht gehen oder überrascht sein, wenn ich betrübt und ernst sein kann. Gute Nacht!" Ich gab Miss Mowcher meine Hand und hatte eine ganz andere Meinung von ihr als zuvor. Ich öffnete die Tür, um sie hinauszulassen. Es war keine Kleinigkeit, den großen Regenschirm hochzukriegen und richtig auszubalancieren, aber schließlich gelang es mir erfolgreich und ich sah ihn durch den Regen die Straße hinunter hüpfen, ohne den geringsten Hinweis darauf, dass jemand darunter war, außer wenn ein stärkerer Regenguss als gewöhnlich von einem überladenen Wasserablauf ihn auf die Seite kippte und Miss Mowcher heftig dabei erwischt wurde, ihn wieder zu richten. Nachdem ich ein oder zwei Ausfälle zu ihrer Hilfe gemacht hatte, die jedoch vergeblich waren, da der Regenschirm wie ein riesiger Vogel immer wieder vor meinen Händen davonsprang, kam ich herein, ging ins Bett und schlief bis zum Morgen. Am Morgen schloss ich mich Mr. Peggotty und meiner alten Krankenschwester an und wir gingen früh zum Busbahnhof, wo Mrs. Gummidge und Ham darauf warteten, uns zu verabschieden. "Mas'r Davy", flüsterte Ham und zog mich zur Seite, während Mr. Peggotty seine Tasche unter dem Gepäck verstaut hatte, "sein Leben ist völlig ruiniert. Er weiß nicht, wohin er geht, er weiß nicht, was vor ihm liegt. Er begibt sich auf eine Reise, die, on and off, den Rest seines Lebens dauern wird, nehmen Sie mein Wort dafür, es sei denn, er findet, wonach er sucht. Ich bin sicher, Sie werden ihm ein Freund sein, Mas'r Davy?" "Vertrauen Sie mir, das werde ich", sagte ich und schüttelte Ham ernsthaft die Hand. "Danke. Danke, sehr freundlich, Sir. Noch etwas weiter. Sie wissen, dass ich gut beschäftigt bin, Mas'r Davy, und ich habe keine Möglichkeit mehr, mein Geld auszugeben. Geld ist für mich nur noch zum Leben da. Wenn Sie es für ihn ausgeben können, werde ich meine Arbeit besser machen. Aber was das betrifft, Sir", und er sprach sehr ruhig und sanft, "denken Sie nicht, dass ich immer arbeiten werde, wie ein Mann, und mein Bestes tun werde, so gut ich kann!" Ich sagte ihm, dass ich fest davon überzeugt sei; und ich deutete an, dass ich hoffte, die Zeit könnte kommen, in der er nicht mehr das einsame Leben führen müsse, das er nun natürlich in Betracht zog. "Nein, Sir", sagte er und schüttelte den Kopf, "das ist alles vorbei für mich, Sir. Niemand kann jemals den freien Platz füllen. Aber Sie werden sich daran erinnern, dass immer etwas für ihn auf die Seite gelegt wird?" Indem ich ihn daran erinnerte, dass Mr. Peggotty ein stabiles, wenn auch sicherlich sehr bescheidenes Einkommen aus dem Nachlass seines verstorbenen Schwagers bezog, versprach ich, dies zu tun. Dann nahmen wir Abschied voneinander. Ich konnte ihn auch jetzt nicht verlassen, ohne mit einem Stich im Herzen an seine bescheidene Tapferkeit und seine große Trauer zu denken. Was Mrs. Gummidge betrifft, so würde ich mich bemühen, zu beschreiben, wie sie die Straße entlang rannte, an der Seite des Busses, und dabei nichts sah als Mr. Peggotty auf dem Dach, durch die Tränen, die sie unterdrücken wollte, sich gegen die Menschen schleudernd, die ihr entgegenkamen, würde ich mich einer schwierigen Aufgabe stellen. Daher ist es besser, sie sitzend auf einer Bäckerstufe zurückzulassen, außer Atem, ohne noch eine Form in ihrem Hut zu haben, und einen ihrer Schuhe, der auf dem Bürgersteig in beträchtlicher Entfernung liegt. Als wir unser Ziel erreicht hatten, suchten wir zuerst eine kleine Unterkunft für Peggotty, in der ihr Bruder ein Bett haben könnte. Wir hatten das Glück, eine sehr saubere und günstige Option über einem Krämerladen zu finden, nur zwei Straßen von meinem entfernt. Nachdem wir dieses Domizil gefunden hatten, kaufte ich etwas kaltes Fleisch in einem Restaurant und nahm meine Mitreisenden mit nach Hause zum Tee; ein Vorgehen, das bedauerlicherweise nicht die Zustimmung von Mrs. Crupp fand, sondern im Gegenteil. Ich muss jedoch erklären, dass diese Dame sehr verärgert war, als Peggotty ihr Witwengewand hochsteckte, bevor sie zehn Minuten lang an dem Ort gewesen war, und anfing, mein Schlafzimmer abzustauben. Dies sah Mrs. Crupp als Frechheit an, und eine Frechheit, sagte sie, sei etwas, das sie niemals dulden würde. Mr. Peggotty hatte mir auf dem Weg nach London eine Mitteilung gemacht, auf die ich vorbereitet war. Es war die Absicht, zuerst Mrs. Steerforth aufzusuchen. Da ich mich verpflichtet fühlte, ihm dabei zu helfen und zwischen ihnen zu vermitteln, um die Gefühle der Mutter so weit wie möglich zu schonen, schrieb ich ihr noch in dieser Nacht. Ich versuchte so milde wie möglich zu erwähnen, was sein Unrecht war und welchen Anteil ich selbst daran hatte. Ich sagte, er sei ein Mann aus sehr einfachen Verhältnissen, aber von außerordentlich sanfter und rechtschaffener Natur; und ich wagte es, die Hoffnung zu äußern, dass sie nicht darauf verzichten würde, ihn in seiner schweren Not zu sehen. Ich nannte zwei Uhr nachmittags als die Stunde unseres Kommens und schickte den Brief selbst mit dem ersten Bus am Morgen los. Zur vereinbarten Zeit standen wir an der Tür - an der Tür jenes Hauses, wo ich erst vor wenigen Tagen so glücklich gewesen war; wo mein jugendliches Vertrauen und meine warmherzige Zuneigung freigiebig hingegangen waren; das mir von nun an verschlossen blieb; das nun eine Brache, eine Ruine war. Kein Littimer erschien. Das freundlichere Gesicht, das ihn bei meinem letzten Besuch ersetzt hatte, antwortete auf unseren Ruf und führte uns ins Wohnzimmer. Mrs. Steerforth saß dort. Rosa Dartle glitt, als wir eintraten, von einem anderen Teil des Raumes herbei und stellte sich hinter ihren Stuhl. Ich sah sofort in ihrem Gesicht, dass sie von ihm selbst erfahren hatte, was er getan hatte. Es war sehr bleich und zeigte die Spuren von tieferer Erregung als nur mein Brief allein, der durch die Zweifel, die ihre Zuneigung hervorgerufen hätte, geschwächt worden wäre, wahrscheinlich verursacht hätte. Ich dachte, sie ähnele ihm mehr als je zuvor, und ich spürte eher, als dass ich es sah, dass die Ähnlichkeit meinem Begleiter nicht entgangen war. Sie saß aufrecht in ihrem Sessel, mit einer vornehmen, unbeweglichen, gefühllosen Haltung, als ob nichts sie aus der Ruhe bringen könnte. Sie sah Mr. Peggotty sehr fest an, als er vor ihr stand, und er schaute genauso fest zurück. Rosa Dartles scharfsinniger Blick umfasste uns alle. Für einige Augenblicke wurde kein Wort gesprochen. Sie winkte Mr. Peggotty, sich zu setzen. Er sagte 'Hören Sie, gnädige Frau', er erwiderte langsam und leise. 'Sie wissen, was es heißt, sein Kind zu lieben. Das tue ich auch. Wenn sie hundertmal mein Kind wäre, könnte ich sie nicht mehr lieben. Sie wissen nicht, wie es ist, sein Kind zu verlieren. Das tue ich. Alle Reichtümer der Welt wären nichts für mich (wenn sie mir gehören würden), um sie zurückzukaufen! Aber retten Sie sie vor dieser Schande, und sie wird niemals von uns gedemütigt werden. Keiner von uns, mit denen sie aufgewachsen ist, keiner von uns, die mit ihr gelebt haben und sie als ihr Ein und Alles hatten, all diese Jahre, wird jemals wieder ihr hübsches Gesicht sehen. Wir werden es akzeptieren, sie sein zu lassen; wir werden es akzeptieren, an sie zu denken, weit weg, als wäre sie unter einer anderen Sonne und einem anderen Himmel; wir werden es akzeptieren, sie ihrem Ehemann zu überlassen - vielleicht ihren kleinen Kindern - und auf den Moment warten, in dem alle von uns gleicher Qualität vor unserem Gott sein werden!' Die kraftvolle Eloquenz, mit der er sprach, war nicht ohne Wirkung. Sie bewahrte immer noch ihre stolze Haltung, aber in ihrer Stimme war ein Hauch von Sanftheit, als sie antwortete: "Ich verteidige nichts. Ich erhebe keine Gegenbeschuldigungen. Aber es tut mir leid, wiederholen zu müssen, es ist unmöglich. Eine solche Ehe würde die Karriere meines Sohnes unwiederbringlich zerstören und seine Aussichten ruinieren. Nichts ist sicherer als die Tatsache, dass sie nie stattfinden kann und nie stattfinden wird. Wenn es eine andere Entschädigung gibt -" "Ich betrachte das Bildnis ihres Gesichts", unterbrach Herr Peggotty mit einem festen, aber leuchtenden Blick, "das mich in meinem Zuhause, an meinem Kamin und in meinem Boot angesehen hat - wo auch immer. Es lächelte und war freundlich, als es so falsch war, dass ich halb wahnsinnig werde, wenn ich daran denke. Wenn das Bildnis ihres Gesichts sich nicht in brennendes Feuer verwandelt, bei dem Gedanken, mir Geld für das Unglück und den Ruin meines Kindes anzubieten, dann ist es genauso schlimm. Als Dame wissen Sie vielleicht, dass es noch schlimmer ist." Plötzlich veränderte sie sich. Ein wütender Rotschimmer überzog ihr Gesicht, und sie sagte mit intoleranter Miene, ihre Armlehne fest mit den Händen umklammernd: "Was für eine Entschädigung können Sie mir bieten für diese Kluft, die zwischen meinem Sohn und mir entstanden ist? Was ist Ihre Liebe im Vergleich zu meiner? Was ist Ihre Trennung im Vergleich zu unserer?" Miss Dartle berührte sie sanft und beugte ihren Kopf, um zu flüstern, aber sie wollte kein Wort hören. "Nein, Rosa, kein Wort! Lassen Sie den Mann meinen Worten Gehör schenken! Mein Sohn, der das Ziel meines Lebens war, auf den jeder meiner Gedanken gerichtet war, den ich von Kindesbeinen an in jedem Wunsch befriedigt habe, von dem ich seit seiner Geburt an kein eigenes Dasein hatte - dass er sich plötzlich für ein armes Mädchen entscheidet und mich meidet! Um meines Vertrauens willen seine Mutter systematisch zu betrügen und mich für sie zu verlassen! Um diesem erbärmlichen Hirngespinst entgegenzutreten und es über die Pflicht, Liebe, Respekt und Dankbarkeit zu seiner Mutter zu stellen - Ansprüche, die jeder Tag und jede Stunde seines Lebens zu Bindungen hätten stärken müssen, gegen die nichts immun sein könnte! Ist das kein Schaden?" Wieder versuchte Rosa Dartle, sie zu beruhigen, wieder vergeblich. "Ich sage, Rosa, kein Wort! Wenn er alles auf das geringste Objekt setzen kann, kann ich alles auf einen größeren Zweck setzen. Lass ihn gehen, wohin er will, mit den Mitteln, die meine Liebe ihm gesichert hat! Glaubt er, mich durch lange Abwesenheit zu reduzieren? Er kennt seine Mutter sehr wenig, wenn er das glaubt. Lass ihn seinen Wahn jetzt aufgeben, und er ist willkommen zurück. Lass ihn sie jetzt nicht verstoßen, und er wird nie wieder in meiner Nähe sein, lebendig oder tot, solange ich meine Hand erheben kann, um dagegen zu protestieren, es sei denn, dass er sich von ihr für immer befreit hat, demütig zu mir kommt und um Vergebung bittet. Das ist mein Recht. Das ist die Anerkennung, die ICH VERANGE. Das ist die Trennung, die zwischen uns besteht! Und ist das", fügte sie hinzu und sah ihren Besucher mit der stolzen intoleranten Miene an, mit der sie begonnen hatte, "kein Schaden?" Während ich die Mutter hörte und sah, wie sie diese Worte aussprach, schien ich den Sohn zu hören und zu sehen, wie er ihnen trotzte. Alles, was ich jemals von ihm gesehen hatte, von seinem unerbittlichen, eigensinnigen Charakter, sah ich in ihr. Alles, was ich nun von seiner fehlgeleiteten Energie verstand, wurde auch ein Verständnis für ihren Charakter und eine Erkenntnis, dass sie in ihren stärksten Antrieben dasselbe war. Jetzt bemerkte sie mir gegenüber, laut, indem sie ihre frühere Zurückhaltung wieder annahm, dass es nutzlos sei, noch mehr zu hören oder zu sagen, und dass sie das Gespräch beenden wolle. Sie stand auf und verließ das Zimmer mit würdevollem Auftreten, als Herr Peggotty bedeutete, dass es nicht nötig sei. "Haben Sie keine Angst, dass ich Ihnen im Weg stehe. Ich habe nichts mehr zu sagen, gnädige Frau", bemerkte er, als er sich zur Tür bewegte. "Ich bin hierher gekommen, ohne Hoffnung, und ich gehe ohne Hoffnung. Ich habe getan, was ich für richtig hielt, aber ich habe niemals auf etwas Gutes gehofft, wenn ich hier stehe. Dieses Haus war zu böse für mich und meine Familie, um bei klarem Verstand zu sein und es zu erwarten." Damit verließen wir sie und ließen sie allein neben ihrem Sessel stehen, ein Bild von nobler Präsenz und einem schönen Gesicht. Auf dem Weg nach draußen mussten wir einen gepflasterten Saal überqueren, mit verglasten Seiten und einem Dach, an dem eine Weinrebe wuchs. Ihre Blätter und Ranken waren damals grün, und an diesem sonnigen Tag waren die Glasschiebetüren zum Garten geöffnet. Rosa Dartle, die auf lautlose Weise durch diesen Eingang kam, als wir ihnen nahe waren, wandte sich an mich: "Sie tun gut daran", sagte sie, "diesen Kerl hierherzubringen!" Solch eine Konzentration von Wut und Verachtung, die ihr Gesicht verdunkelte und aus ihren rabenschwarzen Augen funkelte, hätte ich nicht gedacht, dass sie auch nur in dieses Gesicht passte. Die von dem Hammer verursachte Narbe war, wie üblich in diesem aufgeregten Zustand ihre Züge, deutlich sichtbar. Als der pochende Schmerz, den ich zuvor gesehen hatte, wieder darin auftauchte, hob sie ihre Hand tatsächlich hoch und schlug darauf. "Das ist ein Kerl", sagte sie, "den du verteidigen und hierherbringen willst, oder nicht? Du bist ein wahrer Mann!" "Miss Dartle", erwiderte ich, "du bist sicherlich nicht so ungerecht, mich zu verurteilen!" "Warum bringst du diese beiden Verrückten auseinander?" erwiderte sie. "Weißt du nicht, dass sie beide verrückt sind vor eigenem Eigensinn und Stolz?" "Ist das mein Werk?" erwiderte ich. "Ist es dein Werk!" entgegnete sie. "Warum Als ich zu Mr. Peggotty stieß, ging er langsam und nachdenklich den Hügel hinunter. Er sagte mir sofort, als ich zu ihm aufschloss, dass er nun seine Absichten in London erfüllt habe und in dieser Nacht "seine Reisen antreten" wolle. Ich fragte ihn, wohin er gehen wolle? Er antwortete nur: "Ich gehe, Sir, um meine Nichte zu suchen." Wir gingen zurück zur kleinen Unterkunft über dem Lebensmittelgeschäft und dort hatte ich die Gelegenheit, Peggotty das zu wiederholen, was er mir gesagt hatte. Sie antwortete mir, dass er ihr dasselbe heute Morgen gesagt hatte. Sie wusste genauso wenig wie ich, wohin er ging, aber sie glaubte, er habe einen Plan im Kopf. Ich mochte es nicht, ihn unter solchen Umständen alleine zu lassen, und wir drei aßen zusammen einen Rindfleischpastete, für die Peggotty berühmt war, und die an diesem Tag einen seltsamen Geschmack von Tee, Kaffee, Butter, Speck, Käse, frischem Brot, Brennholz, Kerzen und Walnussketchup hatte, der ständig aus dem Laden aufstieg. Nach dem Essen saßen wir eine Stunde lang in der Nähe des Fensters und sprachen nicht viel; dann stand Mr. Peggotty auf, holte seine Öltuchtasche und seinen kräftigen Stock und legte sie auf den Tisch. Er nahm von dem bereitliegenden Geld seiner Schwester eine kleine Summe im Voraus für sein Erbe an; kaum genug, um ihn einen Monat lang zu versorgen, hätte ich gedacht. Er versprach, sich bei mir zu melden, wenn ihm etwas zustieße; und er hängte sich seine Tasche um, nahm seinen Hut und Stock und verabschiedete sich von uns beiden mit "Auf Wiedersehen!" 'Ein guter Segen begleite dich, liebe alte Frau', sagte er und umarmte Peggotty, 'und dich auch, Mas'r Davy!' sagte er und schüttelte mir die Hand. 'Ich gehe, um sie zu suchen, weit und breit. Wenn sie nach Hause kommen sollte, während ich fort bin – aber ach, das ist unwahrscheinlich! – oder wenn ich sie zurückbringen sollte, meine Absicht ist, dass sie und ich dort leben und sterben, wo niemand sie tadeln kann. Wenn mir ein Unglück widerfahren sollte, dann erinnert euch daran, dass die letzten Worte, die ich für sie hinterlassen habe, waren: "Meine unveränderte Liebe gehört meinem geliebten Kind und ich vergebe ihr!"' Er sagte dies feierlich, mit bloßem Kopf; dann setzte er seinen Hut auf, ging die Treppen hinunter und fort. Wir folgten ihm zur Tür. Es war ein warmer, staubiger Abend, gerade die Zeit, in der auf der großen Hauptstraße, von der dieser Weg abzweigte, eine vorübergehende Ruhe in dem ewigen Tritt der Füße auf dem Pflaster herrschte, und ein starkes rotes Sonnenlicht. Er bog alleine an der Ecke unserer schattigen Straße in ein Lichtermeer ein, in dem wir ihn aus den Augen verloren. Selten kam diese Stunde des Abends, selten wachte ich nachts auf, selten schaute ich zum Mond oder zu den Sternen oder beobachtete den fallenden Regen oder hörte den Wind, ohne an seine einsame Gestalt zu denken, wie er als armer Pilger schuftete, und die Worte in Erinnerung rief: 'Ich gehe, um sie zu suchen, weit und breit. Wenn mir ein Unglück widerfahren sollte, dann erinnert euch daran, dass die letzten Worte, die ich für sie hinterlassen habe, waren: "Meine unveränderte Liebe gehört meinem geliebten Kind, und ich vergebe ihr!"' Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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David wurde mit dem Testament des verstorbenen Herrn Barkis betraut und ist stolz auf seine Fähigkeit, das Dokument zu lesen und die Gegenstände auf angemessene Weise zu verteilen. David hat das Testament in der geheimnisvollen Schachtel gefunden, die Barkis all die Jahre überall hin mitgenommen hat. Neben dem Testament enthält die Schachtel "Miniaturtassen und -untertassen, ein Hufeisen, eine polierte Austernschale... und fast dreitausend Pfund." Sowohl Peggotty als auch Mr. Peggotty sind im Testament bedacht, ebenso wie David und Em'ly als minderjährige Erben. Nur Peggotty, Mr. Peggotty und David nehmen an der Beerdigung teil. Abends geht David zum Hausboot von Mr. Peggotty. Alle versuchen, Peggotty aufzuheitern, indem sie ihr sagen, dass sie ihre Pflicht dem Verstorbenen gegenüber erfüllt hat und der Verstorbene das wusste. Mr. Peggotty zündet die Kerze für Em'ly an und stellt sie ins Fenster. Er schwört, auch nachdem Em'ly verheiratet ist, weiterhin die Kerze ins Fenster zu stellen und "vorzugeben, dass ich auf sie warte, so wie ich es jetzt tue." Ham kommt zum Haus, aber ohne Em'ly. Er zieht David alleine aus dem Haus und weint, als er ihm erzählt, dass Em'ly mit ihrem Geliebten abgehauen ist. Die anderen erfahren ebenfalls von der Situation, und David liest ihnen einen Abschiedsbrief vor, den Em'ly für Ham hinterlassen hat. Mr. Peggotty fragt, wer der Mann ist, und Ham ruft aus: "Herr Davy, es ist nicht deine Schuld – und ich will dir das nicht anlasten –, aber sein Name ist Steerforth, und er ist ein verdammter Schurke." Mr. Peggotty verkündet: "Ich werde meine arme Nichte in ihrer Schande finden und zurückbringen. Niemand hält mich auf! Ich sage euch, ich werde meine Nichte suchen!" Frau Gummidge sammelt all ihren Mut, hört auf, sich selbst zu bemitleiden, und zeigt zum ersten Mal ein erwachsenes, energisches Interesse daran, die Angelegenheiten zu regeln, indem sie Mr. Peggotty davon überzeugt, nicht noch in derselben Nacht das Haus zu verlassen. David hört ihn weinen und sagt uns: "Ich weinte auch." Obwohl Steerforth mit Em'ly abgehauen ist, denkt David immer noch an all die positiven Dinge über ihn; er wählt es, an Steerforth als "einen geschätzten Freund, der gestorben ist" zu denken. Eines späten Abends wird David von dem unerwarteten Besuch von Miss Mowcher, die weinend und aufgeregt ist, unterbrochen. Sie enthüllt ihre Rolle in der Intrige. Sie wurde dazu verleitet, Kommunikation zwischen Em'ly und Steerforth über Littimer zu übermitteln. Jetzt, "in dem Verdacht, dass etwas nicht stimmt, ist sie aus London zurückgekehrt. Miss Mowcher glaubt, dass Em'ly und Steerforth ins Ausland geflohen sind, und schwört Rache. "Littimer sollte besser einen Bluthund im Rücken haben als die kleine Mowcher", so schwört sie. Am nächsten Morgen machen sich Mr. Peggotty, Peggotty und David auf den Weg nach London, wo sie beschließen, Mrs. Steerforth zu besuchen. Mrs. Steerforth ist von Em'lys Brief und ihrem Wunsch, eine 'Dame' zu werden, völlig ungerührt. Sie stellt unmissverständlich fest, dass eine Heirat ihres Sohnes mit Em'ly "unmöglich" ist. Wenn Steerforth ohne Em'ly zurückkommt, wird sie ihm verzeihen; ansonsten "soll er nie wieder in meine Nähe kommen". Mr. Peggotty nimmt etwas Geld von seiner Schwester mit, um seine Suche zu beginnen. "Wenn mir etwas zustoßen sollte, dann denk daran, dass das letzte Wort, das ich für sie hinterlassen habe, ist: 'Meine unveränderte Liebe ist bei meinem lieben Kind, und ich vergebe 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. Chapter: Alice was beginning to get very tired of sitting by her sister on the bank, and of having nothing to do: once or twice she had peeped into the book her sister was reading, but it had no pictures or conversations in it, 'and what is the use of a book,' thought Alice 'without pictures or conversations?' So she was considering in her own mind (as well as she could, for the hot day made her feel very sleepy and stupid), whether the pleasure of making a daisy-chain would be worth the trouble of getting up and picking the daisies, when suddenly a White Rabbit with pink eyes ran close by her. There was nothing so VERY remarkable in that; nor did Alice think it so VERY much out of the way to hear the Rabbit say to itself, 'Oh dear! Oh dear! I shall be late!' (when she thought it over afterwards, it occurred to her that she ought to have wondered at this, but at the time it all seemed quite natural); but when the Rabbit actually TOOK A WATCH OUT OF ITS WAISTCOAT-POCKET, and looked at it, and then hurried on, Alice started to her feet, for it flashed across her mind that she had never before seen a rabbit with either a waistcoat-pocket, or a watch to take out of it, and burning with curiosity, she ran across the field after it, and fortunately was just in time to see it pop down a large rabbit-hole under the hedge. In another moment down went Alice after it, never once considering how in the world she was to get out again. The rabbit-hole went straight on like a tunnel for some way, and then dipped suddenly down, so suddenly that Alice had not a moment to think about stopping herself before she found herself falling down a very deep well. Either the well was very deep, or she fell very slowly, for she had plenty of time as she went down to look about her and to wonder what was going to happen next. First, she tried to look down and make out what she was coming to, but it was too dark to see anything; then she looked at the sides of the well, and noticed that they were filled with cupboards and book-shelves; here and there she saw maps and pictures hung upon pegs. She took down a jar from one of the shelves as she passed; it was labelled 'ORANGE MARMALADE', but to her great disappointment it was empty: she did not like to drop the jar for fear of killing somebody, so managed to put it into one of the cupboards as she fell past it. 'Well!' thought Alice to herself, 'after such a fall as this, I shall think nothing of tumbling down stairs! How brave they'll all think me at home! Why, I wouldn't say anything about it, even if I fell off the top of the house!' (Which was very likely true.) Down, down, down. Would the fall NEVER come to an end! 'I wonder how many miles I've fallen by this time?' she said aloud. 'I must be getting somewhere near the centre of the earth. Let me see: that would be four thousand miles down, I think--' (for, you see, Alice had learnt several things of this sort in her lessons in the schoolroom, and though this was not a VERY good opportunity for showing off her knowledge, as there was no one to listen to her, still it was good practice to say it over) '--yes, that's about the right distance--but then I wonder what Latitude or Longitude I've got to?' (Alice had no idea what Latitude was, or Longitude either, but thought they were nice grand words to say.) Presently she began again. 'I wonder if I shall fall right THROUGH the earth! How funny it'll seem to come out among the people that walk with their heads downward! The Antipathies, I think--' (she was rather glad there WAS no one listening, this time, as it didn't sound at all the right word) '--but I shall have to ask them what the name of the country is, you know. Please, Ma'am, is this New Zealand or Australia?' (and she tried to curtsey as she spoke--fancy CURTSEYING as you're falling through the air! Do you think you could manage it?) 'And what an ignorant little girl she'll think me for asking! No, it'll never do to ask: perhaps I shall see it written up somewhere.' Down, down, down. There was nothing else to do, so Alice soon began talking again. 'Dinah'll miss me very much to-night, I should think!' (Dinah was the cat.) 'I hope they'll remember her saucer of milk at tea-time. Dinah my dear! I wish you were down here with me! There are no mice in the air, I'm afraid, but you might catch a bat, and that's very like a mouse, you know. But do cats eat bats, I wonder?' And here Alice began to get rather sleepy, and went on saying to herself, in a dreamy sort of way, 'Do cats eat bats? Do cats eat bats?' and sometimes, 'Do bats eat cats?' for, you see, as she couldn't answer either question, it didn't much matter which way she put it. She felt that she was dozing off, and had just begun to dream that she was walking hand in hand with Dinah, and saying to her very earnestly, 'Now, Dinah, tell me the truth: did you ever eat a bat?' when suddenly, thump! thump! down she came upon a heap of sticks and dry leaves, and the fall was over. Alice was not a bit hurt, and she jumped up on to her feet in a moment: she looked up, but it was all dark overhead; before her was another long passage, and the White Rabbit was still in sight, hurrying down it. There was not a moment to be lost: away went Alice like the wind, and was just in time to hear it say, as it turned a corner, 'Oh my ears and whiskers, how late it's getting!' She was close behind it when she turned the corner, but the Rabbit was no longer to be seen: she found herself in a long, low hall, which was lit up by a row of lamps hanging from the roof. There were doors all round the hall, but they were all locked; and when Alice had been all the way down one side and up the other, trying every door, she walked sadly down the middle, wondering how she was ever to get out again. Suddenly she came upon a little three-legged table, all made of solid glass; there was nothing on it except a tiny golden key, and Alice's first thought was that it might belong to one of the doors of the hall; but, alas! either the locks were too large, or the key was too small, but at any rate it would not open any of them. However, on the second time round, she came upon a low curtain she had not noticed before, and behind it was a little door about fifteen inches high: she tried the little golden key in the lock, and to her great delight it fitted! Alice opened the door and found that it led into a small passage, not much larger than a rat-hole: she knelt down and looked along the passage into the loveliest garden you ever saw. How she longed to get out of that dark hall, and wander about among those beds of bright flowers and those cool fountains, but she could not even get her head through the doorway; 'and even if my head would go through,' thought poor Alice, 'it would be of very little use without my shoulders. Oh, how I wish I could shut up like a telescope! I think I could, if I only knew how to begin.' For, you see, so many out-of-the-way things had happened lately, that Alice had begun to think that very few things indeed were really impossible. There seemed to be no use in waiting by the little door, so she went back to the table, half hoping she might find another key on it, or at any rate a book of rules for shutting people up like telescopes: this time she found a little bottle on it, ('which certainly was not here before,' said Alice,) and round the neck of the bottle was a paper label, with the words 'DRINK ME' beautifully printed on it in large letters. It was all very well to say 'Drink me,' but the wise little Alice was not going to do THAT in a hurry. 'No, I'll look first,' she said, 'and see whether it's marked "poison" or not'; for she had read several nice little histories about children who had got burnt, and eaten up by wild beasts and other unpleasant things, all because they WOULD not remember the simple rules their friends had taught them: such as, that a red-hot poker will burn you if you hold it too long; and that if you cut your finger VERY deeply with a knife, it usually bleeds; and she had never forgotten that, if you drink much from a bottle marked 'poison,' it is almost certain to disagree with you, sooner or later. However, this bottle was NOT marked 'poison,' so Alice ventured to taste it, and finding it very nice, (it had, in fact, a sort of mixed flavour of cherry-tart, custard, pine-apple, roast turkey, toffee, and hot buttered toast,) she very soon finished it off. 'What a curious feeling!' said Alice; 'I must be shutting up like a telescope.' And so it was indeed: she was now only ten inches high, and her face brightened up at the thought that she was now the right size for going through the little door into that lovely garden. First, however, she waited for a few minutes to see if she was going to shrink any further: she felt a little nervous about this; 'for it might end, you know,' said Alice to herself, 'in my going out altogether, like a candle. I wonder what I should be like then?' And she tried to fancy what the flame of a candle is like after the candle is blown out, for she could not remember ever having seen such a thing. After a while, finding that nothing more happened, she decided on going into the garden at once; but, alas for poor Alice! when she got to the door, she found she had forgotten the little golden key, and when she went back to the table for it, she found she could not possibly reach it: she could see it quite plainly through the glass, and she tried her best to climb up one of the legs of the table, but it was too slippery; and when she had tired herself out with trying, the poor little thing sat down and cried. 'Come, there's no use in crying like that!' said Alice to herself, rather sharply; 'I advise you to leave off this minute!' She generally gave herself very good advice, (though she very seldom followed it), and sometimes she scolded herself so severely as to bring tears into her eyes; and once she remembered trying to box her own ears for having cheated herself in a game of croquet she was playing against herself, for this curious child was very fond of pretending to be two people. 'But it's no use now,' thought poor Alice, 'to pretend to be two people! Why, there's hardly enough of me left to make ONE respectable person!' Soon her eye fell on a little glass box that was lying under the table: she opened it, and found in it a very small cake, on which the words 'EAT ME' were beautifully marked in currants. 'Well, I'll eat it,' said Alice, 'and if it makes me grow larger, I can reach the key; and if it makes me grow smaller, I can creep under the door; so either way I'll get into the garden, and I don't care which happens!' She ate a little bit, and said anxiously to herself, 'Which way? Which way?', holding her hand on the top of her head to feel which way it was growing, and she was quite surprised to find that she remained the same size: to be sure, this generally happens when one eats cake, but Alice had got so much into the way of expecting nothing but out-of-the-way things to happen, that it seemed quite dull and stupid for life to go on in the common way. So she set to work, and very soon finished off the cake. Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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"Alice's Adventures in Wonderland" beginnen als ein angenehmes Märchen. Alice und ihre Schwester lesen ein Buch, das weder Bilder noch Gespräche enthält. Alice findet das Lesen langweilig; sie sehnt sich nach lebendigeren und direkteren Formen von Erfahrungen. Ihre Langeweile und Angst führen dazu, dass sie sich von der "zivilisierten Freizeitbeschäftigung" des Lesens langweiliger Bücher zurückzieht und einschläft, um in die Welt der Träume einzutreten. Am Rande des halbwachen Bewusstseins sieht sie die Form eines weißen Kaninchens, das sich auf den Weg in einen Kaninchenbau macht. Sofort ist Alice neugierig und verfolgt ihn in den Bau. Der Grund für Alice's Verfolgung ist ihre brennende Neugierde; schließlich trägt das Kaninchen eine Weste, spricht mit sich selbst, geht aufrecht und hat eine Taschenuhr. Sein Bild ist also ungewöhnlich und lässt auf romantische und märchenhafte "Leute" schließen. Der Kaninchenbau funktioniert wie ein großer Wäscheschacht, und Alice "schwebt" seltsamerweise langsam hinunter. Bei ihrem Fall hat sie Fantasien im Zusammenhang mit dem Fehlen von Schwerkraft, dem Charakter des unendlichen Raums, der Form ihres Körpers, Masse und Geschwindigkeit. Ihre freien, phantasievollen Assoziationen im Tunnel stehen in lebhaftem Kontrast zu ihrer unschuldigen, nichtreflektierenden Neugierde, die sie dazu veranlasst hat, überhaupt in den Bau zu springen. Tatsächlich war ihr Sprung wahrscheinlich unbewusst. Nicht einmal zögerte sie aus Angst vor dem, was sie finden könnte, oder überlegte, wie sie wieder herauskommen könnte. Ihr Sprung war ein Sprung in Abenteuerlust, ein waghalsiger Spaß. Auf der anderen Seite behält Alice ihren Glauben an die Welt über der Erde bei. An den Wänden des Tunnels befinden sich Regale, und auf einem Regal findet sie ein Glas Orangenmarmelade. Dinge wie das Glas bestärken ihr Gefühl, dass es hier nicht "zu unterschiedlich" ist, also weigert sie sich zu akzeptieren, dass ihre Erfahrung des Schwebens in einen Kaninchenbau anders ist als vorherige, neugierige Abenteuer, die sie hatte. Das ist nur ein weiteres Abenteuer, und sie stellt sich vor, dass sie möglicherweise auf dem Weg zum Erdmittelpunkt ist und fragt sich, wie sie ihre Breiten- und Längengrade bestimmen kann. Beachten Sie, dass es ihr anscheinend egal ist, dass solche Begriffe unter der Erdoberfläche keine Anwendung finden. Dann überlegt Alice die Möglichkeit, kopfüber in Neuseeland oder Australien aufzutauchen; ihre Sorge ist fast eine Karikatur ihres kindlichen Glaubens an das Unmögliche. Seltsamerweise gibt es keine Anzeichen dafür, dass sie wirklich desorientiert ist; trotz des Fehlens von Beschleunigung und Schwerkraft scheint alles ihren Sinnen gemäß wahr zu sein. Selbst ihr "Gefühl von Anstand" funktioniert. Aus Furcht, jemanden unten zu verletzen, stellt sie das leere Marmeladenglas in ein unteres Regal zurück. Dann, bei einem imaginären Gespräch mit einer Frau, die sie auf der anderen Seite der Welt treffen könnte, schafft sie es, in der Luft einen Knicks zu machen. Doch schon beginnt sie, nostalgisch nach ihrem Leben in der bewussten, überirdischen Welt zu leiden. Die beängstigende Möglichkeit, in einem Traum gefangen zu sein, kommt ihr in den Sinn. Überirdisch hatte ihre Katze Dinah Appetit auf Fledermäuse, und Alice wird plötzlich vom Gedanken konfrontiert, dass Fledermäuse möglicherweise auch Katzen fressen könnten! Die uralt jede Ergänzungen von Essen oder Gefressenwerden stellt sich hier im Kontext einer fremden Welt, während Alice fällt, fällt ... Gott weiß wohin. Wonderland ist einer der spontansten "Orte" in diesem Roman. Und plötzlich ist Alice in Wonderland! Sie ist sicher am Boden ihres langen, langsamen Falls gelandet. Aber sofort hört sie das besorgte Klagen des weißen Kaninchens: "Oje, wie spät es schon geworden ist!" Alice verliert dann das Kaninchen aus den Augen in einer Halle, die mit Türen ausgekleidet ist. Keine von ihnen scheint jedoch die richtige Größe für ein junges Mädchen von Alice's Größe zu haben; sie sind "seltsame Türen". Sie scheinen eine düstere, düstere Atmosphäre auszustrahlen. Daher versucht Alice nicht, sie zu öffnen. Auf einem Glastisch jedoch findet sie einen winzigen goldenen Schlüssel, und dieser Schlüssel öffnet eine kleine, mit Vorhängen versehene Tür;aber der Eingang ist klein, mäusegroß, um genau zu sein, und Alice passt nicht einmal mit dem Kopf durch die Tür. Und die Tür führt zu einem wunderschön bunten, scheinbar "verzauberten Garten". Alice wünscht sich so sehr, dass sie ihre Größe verändern könnte und den Garten erkunden könnte. Ihr Wunsch, ihre Größe zu ändern, entspricht der Logik der Fantasie. Schon jetzt, wie der Erzähler feststellt, ". . . sind so viele unwahrscheinliche Dinge geschehen, dass Alice begonnen hat, zu denken, dass nur wenige Dinge wirklich unmöglich sind." Auf dem Glastisch findet Alice eine kleine Flasche. Sie scheint einfach magisch aufgetaucht zu sein. Das Etikett auf der Flasche lautet "TRINK MICH". Es widerspricht ihrer bisherigen, angemessen englischen Erziehung, seltsame Lebensmittel zu essen oder zu trinken, aber die Neugier ist stärker als das "richtige Verhalten". Also trinkt sie die Flüssigkeit und wird sofort kleiner; jetzt kann sie durch den Eingang zum Garten gehen! Aber sie hat vergessen, den Schlüssel herauszunehmen, bevor sie die Flüssigkeit trank, und nun ist sie zu einem winzigen Mädchen geschrumpft. Enttäuscht, dass sie den Schlüssel nicht erreichen kann, fängt Alice an zu weinen. Dann erfolgt eine merkwürdige Veränderung in ihrer Einstellung. Sie hält sich davon ab zu weinen, als ob ihr "selbstsüchtiges Ich" von ihrem "richtigen Ich" getrennt worden wäre und letzteres sie fürs Weinen tadeln würde. Wir hören fast die Stimme ihrer Mutter: Der Wunsch nach etwas im Moment ist kindisch; es ist "narzisstisch" - egoistisch. Es ist ungezogen, und kleine Mädchen sollten nicht egoistisch sein und Dinge sofort wollen. Daher hält Alice sich zurück und weint nicht. Plötzlich erscheint eine kleine Glastasche mit einem Kuchen darin. Auf dem Kuchen steht ein Schild: "ISS MICH." Alice isst den Kuchen, aber es gibt keine sofortigen Konsequenzen. Zu ihrem Kummer ist das Leben wieder langweilig; es scheint, als ob sie die oberirdische Welt überhaupt nicht verlassen hätte. Sie fühlt sich wie das gleiche frustrierte kleine Mädchen wie zuvor. Außer dass es jetzt noch ein zusätzliches Problem gibt. Als normale-sized Mädchen konnte sie den Durchgang nicht verlassen, und jetzt, da sie zu klein ist, hat sie keine Möglichkeit zu entkommen. Also sitzt sie dort, eine eingeschlossene Seele, gefangen im traumatischen Albtraum einer Gefängniszelle. Bereits hier beginnt die Logik in diesem verwirrenden, klaustrophobischen Zustand zusammenzubrechen. Das Leben beginnt übertrieben zu werden. Alice hat das Gefühl, ihrer geistigen Gesundheit nicht vertrauen zu können; die Neugierde scheint ihren Platz eingenommen zu haben. So haben hier in dieser Einleitung rationale Erwartungen Alice zu einer unlogischen und fantastischen Bestimmung geführt.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten 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, OENONE, PANOPE PANOPE Fain would I hide from you tidings so sad, But 'tis my duty, Madam, to reveal them. The hand of death has seized your peerless husband, And you are last to hear of this disaster. OENONE What say you, Panope? PANOPE The queen, deceived By a vain trust in Heav'n, begs safe return For Theseus, while Hippolytus his son Learns of his death from vessels that are now In port. PHAEDRA Ye gods! PANOPE Divided counsels sway The choice of Athens; some would have the prince, Your child, for master; others, disregarding The laws, dare to support the stranger's son. 'Tis even said that a presumptuous faction Would crown Aricia and the house of Pallas. I deem'd it right to warn you of this danger. Hippolytus already is prepared To start, and should he show himself at Athens, 'Tis to be fear'd the fickle crowd will all Follow his lead. OENONE Enough. The queen, who hears you, By no means will neglect this timely warning. SCENE V PHAEDRA, OENONE OENONE Dear lady, I had almost ceased to urge The wish that you should live, thinking to follow My mistress to the tomb, from which my voice Had fail'd to turn you; but this new misfortune Alters the aspect of affairs, and prompts Fresh measures. Madam, Theseus is no more, You must supply his place. He leaves a son, A slave, if you should die, but, if you live, A King. On whom has he to lean but you? No hand but yours will dry his tears. Then live For him, or else the tears of innocence Will move the gods, his ancestors, to wrath Against his mother. Live, your guilt is gone, No blame attaches to your passion now. The King's decease has freed you from the bonds That made the crime and horror of your love. Hippolytus no longer need be dreaded, Him you may see henceforth without reproach. It may be, that, convinced of your aversion, He means to head the rebels. Undeceive him, Soften his callous heart, and bend his pride. King of this fertile land, in Troezen here His portion lies; but as he knows, the laws Give to your son the ramparts that Minerva Built and protects. A common enemy Threatens you both, unite them to oppose Aricia. PHAEDRA To your counsel I consent. Yes, I will live, if life can be restored, If my affection for a son has pow'r To rouse my sinking heart at such a dangerous hour. Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der oben stehenden Absätze schreiben?

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

Ein Diener trifft mit überraschenden Nachrichten ein: Theseus ist tot. Hippolytus hat von dem Tod seines Vaters auf einem gerade im Hafen angekommenen Schiff erfahren, und Athen ist in Aufruhr. Ein neuer Herrscher muss gewählt werden: Manche unterstützen den rechtmäßigen Anspruch von Phaedras ältestem Sohn, andere bevorzugen Hippolytus, manche wollen sogar Aricia auf den Thron setzen. Angesichts dieser neuen Entwicklung ändert sich Oenones Sicht auf Phaedras Problem. Fast bereit, zuzustimmen, dass Phaedra sterben muss, weist sie nun darauf hin, dass ihre Königin leben muss, um ihren Sohn zu schützen. Darüber hinaus bringt Theseus' Tod sie in eine neue Position in Bezug auf Hippolytus. Ihre Liebe zu ihm mag unvorsichtig sein, aber sie ist nicht mehr inzestuös. Hippolytus hat ein Recht, Troezen zu erben, aber Athen gehört rechtens Phaedras Sohn. Phaedra muss ihren Stiefsohn aufsuchen und ihn überzeugen, ihren gerechten Anspruch zu unterstützen; tatsächlich könnte es wünschenswert sein, dass die beiden sich zusammenschließen, um Aricia zu bekämpfen. Zögernd stimmt Phaedra 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: Da kamen sie jedoch pünktlich an. Mrs. Spencer lebte in einem großen gelben Haus in der White Sands Cove und öffnete überrascht und freundlich die Tür. "Liebe, liebe, Sie sind die Leute, nach denen ich heute gesucht habe, ich bin aber wirklich froh, Sie zu sehen. Stellen Sie Ihr Pferd unter? Und wie geht es Ihnen, Anne?" "Mir geht es so gut wie erwartet, danke", sagte Anne ohne zu lächeln. Ein Verdruß schien über sie gekommen zu sein. "Ich denke, wir werden eine Weile bleiben, um das Pferd auszuruhen", sagte Marilla, "aber ich hatte Matthew versprochen, früh nach Hause zu kommen. Tatsächlich, Mrs. Spencer, es ist irgendwo ein seltsamer Fehler passiert und deshalb bin ich hergekommen. Wir haben Ihnen über Ihren Bruder Robert ausrichten lassen, dass wir einen Jungen aus dem Waisenhaus haben wollen. Wir haben ihm gesagt, dass wir einen Jungen wollen, der zehn oder elf Jahre alt ist." "Marilla Cuthbert, das kann ja nicht sein!", sagte Mrs. Spencer bestürzt. "Robert hatte mir von seiner Tochter Nancy ausrichten lassen, dass Sie ein Mädchen haben wollten, stimmt's Flora Jane?" Sie wandte sich an ihre Tochter, die zu den Stufen gekommen war. "Das hat sie auf jeden Fall gesagt, Miss Cuthbert", bestätigte Flora Jane ernsthaft. "Es tut mir furchtbar leid", sagte Mrs. Spencer. "Es ist wirklich schade, aber es war natürlich nicht meine Schuld, verstehen Sie, Miss Cuthbert. Ich habe mein Bestes getan und dachte, dass ich Ihren Anweisungen folge. Nancy geht manchmal echt eigenwillig vor. Ich musste sie schon oft tadeln wegen ihrer Unbedachtsamkeit." "Es war unsere eigene Schuld", sagte Marilla resigniert. "Wir hätten selbst zu Ihnen kommen sollen und nicht eine wichtige Nachricht mündlich überbringen lassen sollen. Jedenfalls ist der Fehler gemacht worden und wir müssen ihn jetzt ausbügeln. Können wir das Kind zurück ins Waisenhaus schicken? Ich nehme an, sie nehmen sie zurück, oder?" "Das nehme ich an", sagte Mrs. Spencer nachdenklich, "aber ich glaube nicht, dass es notwendig sein wird, sie zurückzuschicken. Mrs. Peter Blewett war gestern hier oben und sie hat zu mir gesagt, wie sehr sie sich wünscht, dass sie ein kleines Mädchen von mir bekommen hätte, um ihr zu helfen. Mrs. Peter hat eine große Familie, wissen Sie, und es ist schwer für sie, Hilfe zu bekommen. Anne wird genau das Richtige für Sie sein. Ich nenne es eindeutig Vorsehung." Marilla schien nicht so, als ob sie glaubte, dass die Vorsehung viel damit zu tun hatte. Hier war eine unerwartet gute Möglichkeit, dieses unerwünschte Waisenkind loszuwerden, und sie empfand nicht mal Dankbarkeit dafür. Sie kannte Mrs. Peter Blewett nur vom Sehen als eine kleine, schrullig aussehende Frau ohne ein Gramm überflüssiges Fleisch auf den Knochen. Aber sie hatte von ihr gehört. "Eine schreckliche Arbeiterin und Treiberin", sagte man über Mrs. Peter, und entlassene Dienstmädchen erzählten furchteinflößende Geschichten von ihrem Temperament und ihrer Geizigkeit und ihrer Familie aus frechen, streitsüchtigen Kindern. Marilla verspürte ein schlechtes Gewissen bei dem Gedanken, Anne ihren zarten Gnaden zu überlassen. "Nun, ich werde reingehen und die Angelegenheit besprechen", sagte sie. "Und wenn nicht gerade in diesem Moment Mrs. Peter den Weg entlangkommt!" rief Mrs. Spencer aus und führte ihre Gäste eilig durch den Flur ins Wohnzimmer, wo sie eine eisige Kälte empfing, als ob die Luft so lange durch dunkelgrüne, dicht geschlossene Vorhänge geleitet wurde, dass sie jegliche Wärme, die sie jemals besessen hatte, verloren hatte. "Das ist wirklich Glück, so können wir die Sache sofort klären. Nehmen Sie den Armsessel, Miss Cuthbert. Anne, setz dich hier auf den Ottomanen und wackel nicht. Lass mich eure Hüte nehmen. Flora Jane, geh raus und stell den Wasserkessel auf. Guten Tag, Mrs. Blewett. Wir haben gerade darüber gesprochen, wie glücklich es ist, dass Sie herkommen. Erlauben Sie mir, Ihnen die zwei Damen vorzustellen. Mrs. Blewett, Miss Cuthbert. Entschuldigen Sie mich nur für einen Moment. Ich habe vergessen, Flora Jane zu sagen, dass sie die Brötchen aus dem Ofen nehmen soll." Mrs. Spencer verschwand, nachdem sie die Vorhänge hochgezogen hatte. Anne saß stumm auf dem Ottomanen und hatte ihre Hände fest in ihrem Schoß verschränkt. Sie starrte Mrs. Blewett an wie von Zauberhand angezogen. Würde sie dieser scharfgesichtigen, scharfäugigen Frau anvertraut werden? Ein Kloß bildete sich in ihrer Kehle und ihre Augen tränenschmerzten. Sie begann befürchten, dass sie die Tränen nicht zurückhalten konnte, als Mrs. Spencer zurückkam, gerötet und strahlend, durchaus in der Lage, jede Schwierigkeit - körperlicher, geistiger oder spiritueller Natur - zu bedenken und aus dem Weg zu räumen. "Scheinbar gibt es ein Missverständnis bezüglich dieses kleinen Mädchens, Mrs. Blewett", sagte sie. "Ich war der Annahme, dass Mr. und Miss Cuthbert ein kleines Mädchen zur Adoption haben wollten. Mir wurde definitiv so gesagt. Aber es scheint, dass sie einen Jungen wollten. Wenn Sie immer noch derselben Meinung wie gestern sind, denke ich, dass sie genau das Richtige für Sie sein wird." Mrs. Blewett musterte Anne von Kopf bis Fuß. "Wie alt bist du und wie heißt du?", fragte sie. "Anne Shirley", stammelte das schüchterne Kind und wagte es nicht, irgendwelche Bedingungen in Bezug auf die Schreibweise zu stellen, "und ich bin elf Jahre alt." "Hm! Es sieht nicht so aus, als ob viel an dir dran ist. Aber du bist zäh. Ich weiß nicht, aber ich glaube, die zähen sind letztendlich die besten. Nun gut, wenn ich dich nehme, musst du ein gutes Mädchen sein, verstehst du - brav, klug und respektvoll. Ich erwarte, dass du deinen Unterhalt verdienst, da gibt es keinen Zweifel. Ja, ich nehme sie wohl doch von Ihnen, Miss Cuthbert. Das Baby ist fürchterlich trotzig und ich bin erschöpft davon, mich um ihn zu kümmern. Wenn Sie möchten, kann ich sie gleich mit nach Hause nehmen." Marilla sah Anne an und wurde gemildert beim Anblick des blassen Gesichts des Kindes mit seinem Ausdruck stummer Traurigkeit - dem Elend eines hilflosen kleinen Geschöpfes, das sich selbst wieder in die Falle befand, der es entkommen war. Marilla hatte das unangenehme Gefühl, dass, wenn sie dem Flehen dieses blickes widersprach, es sie bis an ihr Lebensende verfolgen würde. Außerdem mochte sie Mrs. Blewett nicht. Ein sensibles, "nervöses" Kind so einer Frau zu überlassen! Nein, sie konnte es nicht verantworten! "Nun, ich weiß nicht", sagte sie langsam. "Ich habe nicht gesagt, dass Matthew und ich absolut beschlossen hätten, dass wir sie nicht behalten werden. Tatsächlich kann ich sagen, dass Matthew geneigt ist, sie zu behalten. Ich bin nur hergekommen, um herauszufinden, wie der Fehler passiert ist. Ich denke, es wäre besser, wenn ich sie wieder mit nach Hause nehme und mit Matthew darüber spreche. Ich finde, ich sollte nichts entscheiden, ohne ihn zu Rate zu ziehen. Wenn wir uns dazu entschließen, sie nicht zu behalten, bringen oder schicken wir sie Ihnen morgen Abend vorbei. Wenn nicht, können Sie davon ausgehen, dass sie bei uns bleibt. Würde Ihnen das passen, Mrs. Blewett?" "Ich nehme an, es wird Als sie an diesem Abend wieder zurück nach Green Gables kamen, traf Matthew sie im Weg. Marilla hatte ihn von Weitem bemerkt, wie er dort herumstreunte, und ahnte seinen Grund. Sie war auf die Erleichterung vorbereitet, die sie in seinem Gesicht las, als er sah, dass sie Anne zumindest zurückgebracht hatte. Doch sie sagte ihm gegenüber nichts zu dem Vorfall, bis sie beide draußen im Hof hinter der Scheune waren und die Kühe melkten. Dann erzählte sie ihm kurz von Annes Geschichte und dem Ergebnis des Gesprächs mit Mrs. Spencer. "Ich würde die Blewett-Frau nicht mal meinem liebsten Hund geben", sagte Matthew ungewöhnlich energisch. "Ihr Stil behagt mir auch nicht gerade", gab Marilla zu, "aber entweder das oder wir behalten sie selbst, Matthew. Und da du sie anscheinend willst, nehme ich an, bin ich bereit - oder muss bereit sein. Ich habe über die Idee nachgedacht, bis ich mich irgendwie daran gewöhnt habe. Es scheint eine Art Pflicht zu sein. Ich habe noch nie ein Kind großgezogen, schon gar keine Mädchen, und vermutlich werde ich es total vermasseln. Aber ich werde mein Bestes geben. Soweit es mich betrifft, Matthew, darf sie bleiben." Matthews schüchternes Gesicht leuchtete vor Freude. "Also, ich habe erwartet, dass du es so siehst, Marilla", sagte er. "Sie ist so ein interessantes kleines Ding." "Wenn du sagen könntest, dass sie ein nützliches kleines Ding ist, wäre das angebrachter", entgegnete Marilla, "aber ich werde mich darum kümmern, dass sie dazu erzogen wird. Und hör mal, Matthew, du mischst dich nicht in meine Methoden ein. Eine alte Jungfer mag vielleicht nicht viel von der Erziehung eines Kindes verstehen, aber ich denke, sie weiß mehr als ein alter Junggeselle. Also überlasse es mir, sie zu managen. Wenn ich scheitere, kannst du immer noch deinen Senf dazugeben." "Na gut, Marilla, du kannst tun, was du für richtig hältst", sagte Matthew beruhigend. "Sei einfach so gut und freundlich zu ihr, wie du kannst, ohne sie zu verziehen. Ich glaube, sie ist eine von der Sorte, mit der man alles machen kann, wenn man es schafft, dass sie einen liebt." Marilla schnaubte, um ihre Verachtung für Matthews Meinung über alles Weibliche auszudrücken, und ging mit den Eimern zur Molkerei. "Ich werde ihr heute Abend nicht sagen, dass sie bleiben darf", überlegte sie, während sie die Milch in die Sahnebehälter abgoss. "Sie wäre so aufgeregt, dass sie kein Auge zumachen würde. Marilla Cuthbert, du steckst schön in der Klemme. Hast du jemals gedacht, dass du den Tag erleben würdest, an dem du ein Waisenmädchen adoptierst? Das ist schon erstaunlich genug, aber nicht so erstaunlich wie, dass Matthew dahintersteckt - er, der immer so eine furchtbare Angst vor kleinen Mädchen zu haben schien. Auf jeden Fall haben wir uns auf das Experiment eingelassen, und nur Gott allein weiß, was daraus wird." 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.

Als Marilla ihre Situation Mrs. Spencer erklärt, schlägt diese vor, Anne einer Frau namens Mrs. Blewett anzuvertrauen, die Hilfe bei der Betreuung ihrer Kinder braucht. Marilla ist sich jedoch nicht sicher. Mrs. Blewett hat den Ruf, gemein und geizig zu sein. Ihre ehemaligen Bediensteten haben Geschichten über ihren Jähzorn verbreitet. Kein gutes Zeichen. Zufälligerweise kommt Mrs. Blewett gerade für einen Besuch zum Haus. Als sie Anne vorgestellt wird, macht sie deutlich, dass sie Anne niemals als mehr als eine Dienerin betrachten würde. Außerdem äußert sie den gruseligen Kommentar, dass "drahtige" Mädchen am besten seien. Marilla sieht den Ausdruck in Annes Gesicht und erkennt, dass sie den Rest ihres Lebens von diesem Moment verfolgt werden wird, wenn sie nicht einschreitet. Sie behauptet, sie müsse die Situation mit Matthew besprechen und bringt Anne nach Hause. Anne ist dankbar und sagt, dass Mrs. Blewett wie ein Spanngriff aussah. Wie auch immer, Marilla reagiert, indem sie Anne eine Standpauke darüber hält, ihre Ältesten zu respektieren. Später am Abend informiert Marilla Matthew darüber. Matthew sagt, er würde keinen Hund, den er mag, Mrs. Blewett geben. Marilla teilt Matthew mit, dass sie einverstanden ist, dass Anne bleibt, aber sie bittet ihn, zu versprechen, sich nicht in ihre Erziehungsmethoden einzumischen, was für Matthew eigentlich ein Traum ist. Er kann Zeit mit Anne verbringen, ohne die schwierigen Dinge tun zu müssen. Marilla beschließt, Anne erst am nächsten Tag davon zu erzählen.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: When Ellis, after this rebuff, had disconsolately taken his leave, Clara, much elated at the righteous punishment she had inflicted upon the slanderer, ran upstairs to the nursery, and, snatching Dodie from Mammy Jane's arms, began dancing gayly with him round the room. "Look a-hyuh, honey," said Mammy Jane, "you better be keerful wid dat chile, an' don' drap 'im on de flo'. You might let him fall on his head an' break his neck. My, my! but you two does make a pretty pictur'! You'll be wantin' ole Jane ter come an' nuss yo' child'en some er dese days," she chuckled unctuously. Mammy Jane had been very much disturbed by the recent dangers through which little Dodie had passed; and his escape from strangulation, in the first place, and then from the knife had impressed her as little less than miraculous. She was not certain whether this result had been brought about by her manipulation of the buried charm, or by the prayers which had been offered for the child, but was inclined to believe that both had cooperated to avert the threatened calamity. The favorable outcome of this particular incident had not, however, altered the general situation. Prayers and charms, after all, were merely temporary things, which must be constantly renewed, and might be forgotten or overlooked; while the mole, on the contrary, neither faded nor went away. If its malign influence might for a time seem to disappear, it was merely lying dormant, like the germs of some deadly disease, awaiting its opportunity to strike at an unguarded spot. Clara and the baby were laughing in great glee, when a mockingbird, perched on the topmost bough of a small tree opposite the nursery window, burst suddenly into song, with many a trill and quaver. Clara, with the child in her arms, sprang to the open window. "Sister Olivia," she cried, turning her face toward Mrs. Carteret, who at that moment entered the room, "come and look at Dodie." The baby was listening intently to the music, meanwhile gurgling with delight, and reaching his chubby hands toward the source of this pleasing sound. It seemed as though the mockingbird were aware of his appreciative audience, for he ran through the songs of a dozen different birds, selecting, with the discrimination of a connoisseur and entire confidence in his own powers, those which were most difficult and most alluring. Mrs. Carteret approached the window, followed by Mammy Jane, who waddled over to join the admiring party. So absorbed were the three women in the baby and the bird that neither one of them observed a neat top buggy, drawn by a sleek sorrel pony, passing slowly along the street before the house. In the buggy was seated a lady, and beside her a little boy, dressed in a child's sailor suit and a straw hat. The lady, with a wistful expression, was looking toward the party grouped in the open window. Mrs. Carteret, chancing to lower her eyes for an instant, caught the other woman's look directed toward her and her child. With a glance of cold aversion she turned away from the window. Old Mammy Jane had observed this movement, and had divined the reason for it. She stood beside Clara, watching the retreating buggy. "Uhhuh!" she said to herself, "it's huh sister Janet! She ma'ied a doctuh, an' all dat, an' she lives in a big house, an' she's be'n roun' de worl' an de Lawd knows where e'se: but Mis' 'Livy don' like de sight er her, an' never will, ez long ez de sun rises an' sets. Dey ce't'nly does favor one anudder,--anybody mought 'low dey wuz twins, ef dey didn' know better. Well, well! Fo'ty yeahs ago who'd 'a' ever expected ter see a nigger gal ridin' in her own buggy? My, my! but I don' know,--I don' know! It don' look right, an' it ain' gwine ter las'!--you can't make me b'lieve!" Meantime Janet, stung by Mrs. Carteret's look,--the nearest approach she had ever made to a recognition of her sister's existence,--had turned away with hardening face. She had struck her pony sharply with the whip, much to the gentle creature's surprise, when the little boy, who was still looking back, caught his mother's sleeve and exclaimed excitedly:-- "Look, look, mamma! The baby,--the baby!" Janet turned instantly, and with a mother's instinct gave an involuntary cry of alarm. At the moment when Mrs. Carteret had turned away from the window, and while Mammy Jane was watching Janet, Clara had taken a step forward, and was leaning against the window-sill. The baby, convulsed with delight, had given a spasmodic spring and slipped from Clara's arms. Instinctively the young woman gripped the long skirt as it slipped through her hands, and held it tenaciously, though too frightened for an instant to do more. Mammy Jane, ashen with sudden dread, uttered an inarticulate scream, but retained self-possession enough to reach down and draw up the child, which hung dangerously suspended, head downward, over the brick pavement below. "Oh, Clara, Clara, how could you!" exclaimed Mrs. Carteret reproachfully; "you might have killed my child!" She had snatched the child from Jane's arms, and was holding him closely to her own breast. Struck by a sudden thought, she drew near the window and looked out. Twice within a few weeks her child had been in serious danger, and upon each occasion a member of the Miller family had been involved, for she had heard of Dr. Miller's presumption in trying to force himself where he must have known he would be unwelcome. Janet was just turning her head away as the buggy moved slowly off. Olivia felt a violent wave of antipathy sweep over her toward this baseborn sister who had thus thrust herself beneath her eyes. If she had not cast her brazen glance toward the window, she herself would not have turned away and lost sight of her child. To this shameless intrusion, linked with Clara's carelessness, had been due the catastrophe, so narrowly averted, which might have darkened her own life forever. She took to her bed for several days, and for a long time was cold toward Clara, and did not permit her to touch the child. Mammy Jane entertained a theory of her own about the accident, by which the blame was placed, in another way, exactly where Mrs. Carteret had laid it. Julia's daughter, Janet, had been looking intently toward the window just before little Dodie had sprung from Clara's arms. Might she not have cast the evil eye upon the baby, and sought thereby to draw him out of the window? One would not ordinarily expect so young a woman to possess such a power, but she might have acquired it, for this very purpose, from some more experienced person. By the same reasoning, the mockingbird might have been a familiar of the witch, and the two might have conspired to lure the infant to destruction. Whether this were so or not, the transaction at least wore a peculiar look. There was no use telling Mis' 'Livy about it, for she didn't believe, or pretended not to believe, in witchcraft and conjuration. But one could not be too careful. The child was certainly born to be exposed to great dangers,--the mole behind the left ear was an unfailing sign,--and no precaution should be omitted to counteract its baleful influence. While adjusting the baby's crib, a few days later, Mrs. Carteret found fastened under one of the slats a small bag of cotton cloth, about half an inch long and tied with a black thread, upon opening which she found a few small roots or fibres and a pinch of dried and crumpled herbs. It was a good-luck charm which Mammy Jane had placed there to ward off the threatened evil from the grandchild of her dear old mistress. Mrs. Carteret's first impulse was to throw the bag into the fire, but on second thoughts she let it remain. To remove it would give unnecessary pain to the old nurse. Of course these old negro superstitions were absurd,--but if the charm did no good, it at least would do no harm. Können Sie eine passende Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Nach ihrer Ablehnung von Ellis geht Clara nach oben und beginnt freudig mit der kleinen Dodie zu tanzen. Mammy Jane warnt sie streng, vorsichtig mit dem Kind zu sein. Mammy Jane ist immer noch sehr besorgt über den Maulwurf hinter dem Ohr des Kindes und das Unglück, das ein solches Mal verheißt. Sie schreibt ihren Glücksbringern und Gebeten zu, dass das Kind vor den bösen Geistern gerettet wurde, die ihn fast ersticken und unters Messer kommen ließen. Als Clara das Kind ablegt, fliegt ein Spottvogel ins Fenster und beginnt seine Lieder zu singen. Der Vogel erfreut das Kind und alle drei Frauen gehen zum Fenster, um den Vogel zu beobachten. Während sie zuschauen, fährt eine Kutsche mit Janet und ihrem Sohn vorbei, und Janet und Olivia Carteret wechseln einen kalten Blick. Mammy Jane ist empört und ruft: "Wer hätte vor vierzig Jahren je erwartet, dass ein Negermädchen in ihrer eigenen Kutsche fährt." In dem Moment, in dem Mrs. Carteret sich abwendet, verliert Clara versehentlich den Griff an dem Kind und es beginnt aus dem Fenster zu stürzen. Sie hält fest am Rock des Kindes und Mammy Jane hilft, das Kind zurückzuziehen, um knapp einem Sturz in den Tod zu entgehen. Olivia ist entsetzt und hat plötzlich den Gedanken, dass in den letzten Wochen jedes Mal, wenn ihr Kind in Gefahr war, ein Miller involviert war. Mammy Jane hat auch den Verdacht, dass Janet einen "bösen Blick" auf das Kind geworfen hat. Janet wiederum beginnt eine kalte Abneigung gegen ihre Halbschwester für ihre abweisende Haltung zu hegen.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: Actus Tertius. Flourish. Enter the Duke of Florence, the two Frenchmen, with a troope of Souldiers. Duke. So that from point to point, now haue you heard The fundamentall reasons of this warre, Whose great decision hath much blood let forth And more thirsts after 1.Lord. Holy seemes the quarrell Vpon your Graces part: blacke and fearefull On the opposer Duke. Therefore we meruaile much our Cosin France Would in so iust a businesse, shut his bosome Against our borrowing prayers French E. Good my Lord, The reasons of our state I cannot yeelde, But like a common and an outward man, That the great figure of a Counsaile frames, By selfe vnable motion, therefore dare not Say what I thinke of it, since I haue found My selfe in my incertaine grounds to faile As often as I guest Duke. Be it his pleasure Fren.G. But I am sure the yonger of our nature, That surfet on their ease, will day by day Come heere for Physicke Duke. Welcome shall they bee: And all the honors that can flye from vs, Shall on them settle: you know your places well, When better fall, for your auailes they fell, To morrow to'th the field. Flourish. Enter Countesse and Clowne. Count. It hath happen'd all, as I would haue had it, saue that he comes not along with her Clo. By my troth I take my young Lord to be a verie melancholly man Count. By what obseruance I pray you Clo. Why he will looke vppon his boote, and sing: mend the Ruffe and sing, aske questions and sing, picke his teeth, and sing: I know a man that had this tricke of melancholy hold a goodly Mannor for a song Lad. Let me see what he writes, and when he meanes to come Clow. I haue no minde to Isbell since I was at Court. Our old Lings, and our Isbels a'th Country, are nothing like your old Ling and your Isbels a'th Court: the brains of my Cupid's knock'd out, and I beginne to loue, as an old man loues money, with no stomacke Lad. What haue we heere? Clo. In that you haue there. Exit A Letter. I haue sent you a daughter-in-Law, shee hath recouered the King, and vndone me: I haue wedded her, not bedded her, and sworne to make the not eternall. You shall heare I am runne away, know it before the report come. If there bee bredth enough in the world, I will hold a long distance. My duty to you. Your vnfortunate sonne, Bertram. This is not well rash and vnbridled boy, To flye the fauours of so good a King, To plucke his indignation on thy head, By the misprising of a Maide too vertuous For the contempt of Empire. Enter Clowne. Clow. O Madam, yonder is heauie newes within betweene two souldiers, and my yong Ladie La. What is the matter Clo. Nay there is some comfort in the newes, some comfort, your sonne will not be kild so soone as I thoght he would La. Why should he be kill'd? Clo. So say I Madame, if he runne away, as I heare he does, the danger is in standing too't, that's the losse of men, though it be the getting of children. Heere they come will tell you more. For my part I onely heare your sonne was run away. Enter Hellen and two Gentlemen. French E. Saue you good Madam Hel. Madam, my Lord is gone, for euer gone French G. Do not say so La. Thinke vpon patience, pray you Gentlemen, I haue felt so many quirkes of ioy and greefe, That the first face of neither on the start Can woman me vntoo't. Where is my sonne I pray you? Fren.G. Madam he's gone to serue the Duke of Florence, We met him thitherward, for thence we came: And after some dispatch in hand at Court, Thither we bend againe Hel. Looke on his Letter Madam, here's my Pasport. When thou canst get the Ring vpon my finger, which neuer shall come off, and shew mee a childe begotten of thy bodie, that I am father too, then call me husband: but in such a (then) I write a Neuer. This is a dreadfull sentence La. Brought you this Letter Gentlemen? 1.G. I Madam, and for the Contents sake are sorrie for our paines Old La. I prethee Ladie haue a better cheere, If thou engrossest, all the greefes are thine, Thou robst me of a moity: He was my sonne, But I do wash his name out of my blood, And thou art all my childe. Towards Florence is he? Fren.G. I Madam La. And to be a souldier Fren.G. Such is his noble purpose, and beleeu't The Duke will lay vpon him all the honor That good conuenience claimes La. Returne you thither Fren.E. I Madam, with the swiftest wing of speed Hel. Till I haue no wife, I haue nothing in France, 'Tis bitter La. Finde you that there? Hel. I Madame Fren.E. 'Tis but the boldnesse of his hand haply, which his heart was not consenting too Lad. Nothing in France, vntill he haue no wife: There's nothing heere that is too good for him But onely she, and she deserues a Lord That twenty such rude boyes might tend vpon, And call her hourely Mistris. Who was with him? Fren.E. A seruant onely, and a Gentleman: which I haue sometime knowne La. Parolles was it not? Fren.E. I my good Ladie, hee La. A verie tainted fellow, and full of wickednesse, My sonne corrupts a well deriued nature With his inducement Fren.E. Indeed good Ladie the fellow has a deale of that, too much, which holds him much to haue La. Y'are welcome Gentlemen, I will intreate you when you see my sonne, to tell him that his sword can neuer winne the honor that he looses: more Ile intreate you written to beare along Fren.G. We serue you Madam in that and all your worthiest affaires La. Not so, but as we change our courtesies, Will you draw neere? Enter. Hel. Till I haue no wife I haue nothing in France. Nothing in France vntill he has no wife: Thou shalt haue none Rossillion, none in France, Then hast thou all againe: poore Lord, is't I That chase thee from thy Countrie, and expose Those tender limbes of thine, to the euent Of the none-sparing warre? And is it I, That driue thee from the sportiue Court, where thou Was't shot at with faire eyes, to be the marke Of smoakie Muskets? O you leaden messengers, That ride vpon the violent speede of fire, Fly with false ayme, moue the still-peering aire That sings with piercing, do not touch my Lord: Who euer shoots at him, I set him there. Who euer charges on his forward brest I am the Caitiffe that do hold him too't, And though I kill him not, I am the cause His death was so effected: Better 'twere I met the rauine Lyon when he roar'd With sharpe constraint of hunger: better 'twere, That all the miseries which nature owes Were mine at once. No come thou home Rossillion, Whence honor but of danger winnes a scarre, As oft it looses all. I will be gone: My being heere it is, that holds thee hence, Shall I stay heere to doo't? No, no, although The ayre of Paradise did fan the house, And Angels offic'd all: I will be gone, That pittifull rumour may report my flight To consolate thine eare. Come night, end day, For with the darke (poore theefe) Ile steale away. Enter. Flourish. Enter the Duke of Florence, Rossillion, drum and trumpets, soldiers, Parrolles. Duke. The Generall of our horse thou art, and we Great in our hope, lay our best loue and credence Vpon thy promising fortune Ber. Sir it is A charge too heauy for my strength, but yet Wee'l striue to beare it for your worthy sake, To th' extreme edge of hazard Duke. Then go thou forth, And fortune play vpon thy prosperous helme As thy auspicious mistris Ber. This very day Great Mars I put my selfe into thy file, Make me but like my thoughts, and I shall proue A louer of thy drumme, hater of loue. Exeunt. omnes Enter Countesse & Steward. La. Alas! and would you take the letter of her: Might you not know she would do, as she has done, By sending me a Letter. Reade it agen. Letter. I am S[aint]. Iaques Pilgrim, thither gone: Ambitious loue hath so in me offended, That bare-foot plod I the cold ground vpon With sainted vow my faults to haue amended Write, write, that from the bloodie course of warre, My deerest Master your deare sonne, may hie, Blesse him at home in peace. Whilst I from farre, His name with zealous feruour sanctifie: His taken labours bid him me forgiue: I his despightfull Iuno sent him forth, From Courtly friends, with Camping foes to liue, Where death and danger dogges the heeles of worth. He is too good and faire for death, and mee, Whom I my selfe embrace, to set him free. Ah what sharpe stings are in her mildest words? Rynaldo, you did neuer lacke aduice so much, As letting her passe so: had I spoke with her, I could haue well diuerted her intents, Which thus she hath preuented Ste. Pardon me Madam, If I had giuen you this at ouer-night, She might haue beene ore-tane: and yet she writes Pursuite would be but vaine La. What Angell shall Blesse this vnworthy husband, he cannot thriue, Vnlesse her prayers, whom heauen delights to heare And loues to grant, repreeue him from the wrath Of greatest Iustice. Write, write Rynaldo, To this vnworthy husband of his wife, Let euerie word waigh heauie of her worth, That he does waigh too light: my greatest greefe, Though little he do feele it, set downe sharpely. Dispatch the most conuenient messenger, When haply he shall heare that she is gone, He will returne, and hope I may that shee Hearing so much, will speede her foote againe, Led hither by pure loue: which of them both Is deerest to me, I haue no skill in sence To make distinction: prouide this Messenger: My heart is heauie, and mine age is weake, Greefe would haue teares, and sorrow bids me speake. Exeunt. A Tucket afarre off. Enter old Widdow of Florence, her daughter Violenta and Mariana, with other Citizens. Widdow. Nay come, For if they do approach the Citty, We shall loose all the sight Diana. They say, the French Count has done Most honourable seruice Wid. It is reported, That he has taken their great'st Commander, And that with his owne hand he slew The Dukes brother: we haue lost our labour, They are gone a contrarie way: harke, you may know by their Trumpets Maria. Come lets returne againe, And suffice our selues with the report of it. Well Diana, take heed of this French Earle, The honor of a Maide is her name, And no Legacie is so rich As honestie Widdow. I haue told my neighbour How you haue beene solicited by a Gentleman His Companion Maria. I know that knaue, hang him, one Parolles, a filthy Officer he is in those suggestions for the young Earle, beware of them Diana; their promises, entisements, oathes, tokens, and all these engines of lust, are not the things they go vnder: many a maide hath beene seduced by them, and the miserie is example, that so terrible shewes in the wracke of maiden-hood, cannot for all that disswade succession, but that they are limed with the twigges that threatens them. I hope I neede not to aduise you further, but I hope your owne grace will keepe you where you are, though there were no further danger knowne, but the modestie which is so lost Dia. You shall not neede to feare me. Enter Hellen. Wid. I hope so: looke here comes a pilgrim, I know she will lye at my house, thither they send one another, Ile question her. God saue you pilgrim, whether are bound? Hel. To S[aint]. Iaques la grand. Where do the Palmers lodge, I do beseech you? Wid. At the S[aint]. Francis heere beside the Port Hel. Is this the way? A march afarre. Wid. I marrie ist. Harke you, they come this way: If you will tarrie holy Pilgrime But till the troopes come by, I will conduct you where you shall be lodg'd, The rather for I thinke I know your hostesse As ample as my selfe Hel. Is it your selfe? Wid. If you shall please so Pilgrime Hel. I thanke you, and will stay vpon your leisure Wid. You came I thinke from France? Hel. I did so Wid. Heere you shall see a Countriman of yours That has done worthy seruice Hel. His name I pray you? Dia. The Count Rossillion: know you such a one? Hel. But by the eare that heares most nobly of him: His face I know not Dia. What somere he is He's brauely taken heere. He stole from France As 'tis reported: for the King had married him Against his liking. Thinke you it is so? Hel. I surely meere the truth, I know his Lady Dia. There is a Gentleman that serues the Count, Reports but coursely of her Hel. What's his name? Dia. Monsieur Parrolles Hel. Oh I beleeue with him, In argument of praise, or to the worth Of the great Count himselfe, she is too meane To haue her name repeated, all her deseruing Is a reserued honestie, and that I haue not heard examin'd Dian. Alas poore Ladie, 'Tis a hard bondage to become the wife Of a detesting Lord Wid. I write good creature, wheresoere she is, Her hart waighes sadly: this yong maid might do her A shrewd turne if she pleas'd Hel. How do you meane? May be the amorous Count solicites her In the vnlawfull purpose Wid. He does indeede, And brokes with all that can in such a suite Corrupt the tender honour of a Maide: But she is arm'd for him, and keepes her guard In honestest defence. Drumme and Colours. Enter Count Rossillion, Parrolles, and the whole Armie. Mar. The goddes forbid else Wid. So, now they come: That is Anthonio the Dukes eldest sonne, That Escalus Hel. Which is the Frenchman? Dia. Hee, That with the plume, 'tis a most gallant fellow, I would he lou'd his wife: if he were honester He were much goodlier. Is't not a handsom Gentleman Hel. I like him well Di. 'Tis pitty he is not honest: yonds that same knaue That leades him to these places: were I his Ladie, I would poison that vile Rascall Hel. Which is he? Dia. That Iacke-an-apes with scarfes. Why is hee melancholly? Hel. Perchance he's hurt i'th battaile Par. Loose our drum? Well Mar. He's shrewdly vext at something. Looke he has spyed vs Wid. Marrie hang you Mar. And your curtesie, for a ring-carrier. Enter. Wid. The troope is past: Come pilgrim, I wil bring you, Where you shall host: Of inioyn'd penitents There's foure or fiue, to great S[aint]. Iaques bound, Alreadie at my house Hel. I humbly thanke you: Please it this Matron, and this gentle Maide To eate with vs to night, the charge and thanking Shall be for me, and to requite you further, I will bestow some precepts of this Virgin, Worthy the note Both. Wee'l take your offer kindly. Exeunt. Enter Count Rossillion and the Frenchmen, as at first. Cap.E. Nay good my Lord put him too't: let him haue his way Cap.G. If your Lordshippe finde him not a Hilding, hold me no more in your respect Cap.E. On my life my Lord, a bubble Ber. Do you thinke I am so farre Deceiued in him Cap.E. Beleeue it my Lord, in mine owne direct knowledge, without any malice, but to speake of him as my kinsman, hee's a most notable Coward, an infinite and endlesse Lyar, an hourely promise-breaker, the owner of no one good qualitie, worthy your Lordships entertainment Cap.G. It were fit you knew him, least reposing too farre in his vertue which he hath not, he might at some great and trustie businesse, in a maine daunger, fayle you Ber. I would I knew in what particular action to try him Cap.G. None better then to let him fetch off his drumme, which you heare him so confidently vndertake to do C.E. I with a troop of Florentines wil sodainly surprize him; such I will haue whom I am sure he knowes not from the enemie: wee will binde and hoodwinke him so, that he shall suppose no other but that he is carried into the Leager of the aduersaries, when we bring him to our owne tents: be but your Lordship present at his examination, if he do not for the promise of his life, and in the highest compulsion of base feare, offer to betray you, and deliuer all the intelligence in his power against you, and that with the diuine forfeite of his soule vpon oath, neuer trust my iudgement in anie thing Cap.G. O for the loue of laughter, let him fetch his drumme, he sayes he has a stratagem for't: when your Lordship sees the bottome of this successe in't, and to what mettle this counterfeyt lump of ours will be melted if you giue him not Iohn drummes entertainement, your inclining cannot be remoued. Heere he comes. Enter Parrolles. Cap.E. O for the loue of laughter hinder not the honor of his designe, let him fetch off his drumme in any hand Ber. How now Monsieur? This drumme sticks sorely in your disposition Cap.G. A pox on't, let it go, 'tis but a drumme Par. But a drumme: Ist but a drumme? A drum so lost. There was excellent command, to charge in with our horse vpon our owne wings, and to rend our owne souldiers Cap.G. That was not to be blam'd in the command of the seruice: it was a disaster of warre that C�sar him selfe could not haue preuented, if he had beene there to command Ber. Well, wee cannot greatly condemne our successe: some dishonor wee had in the losse of that drum, but it is not to be recouered Par. It might haue beene recouered Ber. It might, but it is not now Par. It is to be recouered, but that the merit of seruice is sildome attributed to the true and exact performer, I would haue that drumme or another, or hic iacet Ber. Why if you haue a stomacke, too't Monsieur: if you thinke your mysterie in stratagem, can bring this instrument of honour againe into his natiue quarter, be magnanimious in the enterprize and go on, I wil grace the attempt for a worthy exploit: if you speede well in it, the Duke shall both speake of it, and extend to you what further becomes his greatnesse, euen to the vtmost syllable of your worthinesse Par. By the hand of a souldier I will vndertake it Ber. But you must not now slumber in it Par. Ile about it this euening, and I will presently pen downe my dilemma's, encourage my selfe in my certaintie, put my selfe into my mortall preparation: and by midnight looke to heare further from me Ber. May I bee bold to acquaint his grace you are gone about it Par. I know not what the successe wil be my Lord, but the attempt I vow Ber. I know th'art valiant, And to the possibility of thy souldiership, Will subscribe for thee: Farewell Par. I loue not many words. Exit Cap.E. No more then a fish loues water. Is not this a strange fellow my Lord, that so confidently seemes to vndertake this businesse, which he knowes is not to be done, damnes himselfe to do, & dares better be damnd then to doo't Cap.G. You do not know him my Lord as we doe, certaine it is that he will steale himselfe into a mans fauour, and for a weeke escape a great deale of discoueries, but when you finde him out, you haue him euer after Ber. Why do you thinke he will make no deede at all of this that so seriouslie hee dooes addresse himselfe vnto? Cap.E. None in the world, but returne with an inuention, and clap vpon you two or three probable lies: but we haue almost imbost him, you shall see his fall to night; for indeede he is not for your Lordshippes respect Cap.G. Weele make you some sport with the Foxe ere we case him. He was first smoak'd by the old Lord Lafew, when his disguise and he is parted, tell me what a sprat you shall finde him, which you shall see this verie night Cap.E. I must go looke my twigges, He shall be caught Ber. Your brother he shall go along with me Cap.G. As't please your Lordship, Ile leaue you Ber. Now wil I lead you to the house, and shew you The Lasse I spoke of Cap.E. But you say she's honest Ber. That's all the fault: I spoke with hir but once, And found her wondrous cold, but I sent to her By this same Coxcombe that we haue i'th winde Tokens and Letters, which she did resend, And this is all I haue done: She's a faire creature, Will you go see her? Cap.E. With all my heart my Lord. Exeunt. Enter Hellen, and Widdow. Hel. If you misdoubt me that I am not shee, I know not how I shall assure you further, But I shall loose the grounds I worke vpon Wid. Though my estate be falne, I was well borne, Nothing acquainted with these businesses, And would not put my reputation now In any staining act Hel. Nor would I wish you. First giue me trust, the Count he is my husband, And what to your sworne counsaile I haue spoken, Is so from word to word: and then you cannot By the good ayde that I of you shall borrow, Erre in bestowing it Wid. I should beleeue you, For you haue shew'd me that which well approues Y'are great in fortune Hel. Take this purse of Gold, And let me buy your friendly helpe thus farre, Which I will ouer-pay, and pay againe When I haue found it. The Count he woes your daughter, Layes downe his wanton siedge before her beautie, Resolue to carrie her: let her in fine consent As wee'l direct her how 'tis best to beare it: Now his important blood will naught denie, That shee'l demand: a ring the Countie weares, That downward hath succeeded in his house From sonne to sonne, some foure or fiue discents, Since the first father wore it. This Ring he holds In most rich choice: yet in his idle fire, To buy his will, it would not seeme too deere, How ere repented after Wid. Now I see the bottome of your purpose Hel. You see it lawfull then, it is no more, But that your daughter ere she seemes as wonne, Desires this Ring; appoints him an encounter; In fine, deliuers me to fill the time, Her selfe most chastly absent: after To marry her, Ile adde three thousand Crownes To what is past already Wid. I haue yeelded: Instruct my daughter how she shall perseuer, That time and place with this deceite so lawfull May proue coherent. Euery night he comes With Musickes of all sorts, and songs compos'd To her vnworthinesse: It nothing steeds vs To chide him from our eeues, for he persists As if his life lay on't Hel. Why then to night Let vs assay our plot, which if it speed, Is wicked meaning in a lawfull deede; And lawfull meaning in a lawfull act, Where both not sinne, and yet a sinfull fact. But let's about it. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben stehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Wir schauen beim Herzog von Florenz an seinem italienischen Hof vorbei. Der Herzog führt das florentinische Heer gegen Siena an und ist ein wenig verärgert darüber, dass der König von Frankreich sich geweigert hat, sich seinen Kriegsanstrengungen anzuschließen. Zwei französische Lords Dumaine melden sich zu Wort und sagen, dass sie glauben, dass ihr König seine Gründe hat, sich herauszuhalten. Der erste Lord Dumaine weist darauf hin, dass eine Gruppe junger französischer Adliger sich freiwillig zum Kampf gemeldet hat und schlägt vor, dass dies eine gute Möglichkeit für sie sei, Dampf abzulassen. Wir erfahren, dass alle am nächsten Tag in Richtung Schlachtfeld ziehen.