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Mayflower GmbH 25

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). 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: Zweiter Akt. Erste Szene. Flourish. Der kranke König tritt auf, die Königin, der Marquis Dorset, Riuers, Hastings, Catesby, Buckingham, Wooduill. König. Warum so: Jetzt habe ich einen guten Tag Arbeit geleistet. Ihr Peers, setzt diese vereinte Liga fort: Ich erwarte jeden Tag eine Botschaft Von meinem Erlöser, um mich von hier zu erlösen. Und um meine Seele mehr zu beruhigen, werde ich in den Himmel aufsteigen, Da ich meine Freunde auf der Erde versöhnt habe. Dorset und Riuers, reicht euch die Hände, Heuchelt keinen Hass, schwört eure Liebe. Riu. Bei Gott, meine Seele ist von Neid gereinigt Und mit meiner Hand versiegle ich meine wahre Herzliebe. Hast. So gedeihe ich, wie ich wahrhaftig schwöre dasselbe zu tun. König. Vorsicht, dass ihr nicht vor eurem König schäkert, Sonst wird derjenige, der der oberste König der Könige ist, Eure verborgene Falschheit verwirren und Entscheidet, dass einer von euch das Ende des anderen ist. Hast. So gedeihe ich, wie ich perfekte Liebe schwöre. Ri. Und ich, wie ich Hastings mit meinem Herzen liebe, König. Madame, Sie sind nicht von dieser Ausnahme befreit: Auch du, Sohn Dorset, Buckingham auch du nicht; Ihr seid gegeneinander rebellisch gewesen. Frau, liebe Lord Hastings, lasst ihn eure Hand küssen, Und was auch immer ihr tut, tut es aufrichtig. Qu. Da ist er, Hastings, ich werde nie mehr daran denken An unseren früheren Hass, so gedeihe ich und meiner. König. Dorset, umarme ihn: Hastings, liebe Lord Marquesse. Dor. Dieser Austausch der Liebe, ich protestiere hiermit, Auf meiner Seite wird unverletzlich sein. Hast. Und so schwöre ich. König. Nun, fürstlicher Buckingham, versiegelt diese Liga Mit deinen Umarmungen für die Verbündeten meiner Frau, Und mach mich glücklich in eurer Einheit. Buc. Wann immer Buckingham seinen Hass umwandelt Auf deine Gnade, aber mit aller pflichtbewussten Liebe, Hege er dich und deine, Gott bestrafe mich Mit Hass in denen, von denen ich am meisten Liebe erwarte, Wenn ich einen Freund am meisten brauche, Und am sichersten, dass er ein Freund ist, Tief, hohl, verräterisch und voller List, Sei er für mich: Das bitte ich vom Himmel, Wenn ich kalt in der Liebe zu dir oder deinen bin. Umarmung König. Ein angenehmes Elixier, fürstlicher Buckingham, Ist das dein Eid an mein krankes Herz: Jetzt fehlt nur noch unser Bruder Gloster hier, Um den gesegneten Abschluss dieses Friedens zu erreichen. Buc. Und zur rechten Zeit, Hier kommen Sir Richard Ratcliffe und der Herzog. Ratcliffe und Gloster treten auf. Rich. Guten Morgen, mein souveräner König & Königin Und fürstliche Peers, eine glückliche Tageszeit König. In der Tat glücklich, wie wir den Tag verbracht haben: Gloster, wir haben Taten der Wohltätigkeit vollbracht, Den Frieden der Feindschaft, die Liebe des Hasses gemacht, Zwischen diesen aufgebrachten unwürdigen Peers. Rich. Eine gesegnete Arbeit, mein allerhöchster Herr: Unter diesem fürstlichen Haufen, wenn hier irgendjemand Durch falsche Informationen oder falsche Vermutungen Mich für einen Feind hält: Wenn ich Unwillentlich oder in meinem Zorn Irgendwas begangen habe, das nur schwer zu tragen ist, Gegen jemanden in diesem Raum, bitte ich, Mich mit seinem freundlichen Frieden zu versöhnen: Es ist Tod für mich, Feindschaft zu haben: Ich hasse es und verlange die Liebe aller guten Männer, Zuerst, Madame, bitte ich euch um wahren Frieden, Den ich mit meiner pflichtbewussten Dienstbarkeit erwerben werde. Von dir, meinem edlen Vetter Buckingham, Wenn jemals irgendein Groll zwischen uns geherrscht hat. Von euch und euch, Lord Riuers und von Dorset, Die ohne Grund auf mich herabgeschaut haben: Von dir, Lord Woodville und von dir, Lord Scales, Herzöge, Grafen, Lords, Gentlemen, eigentlich von allen. Ich kenne keinen lebenden Engländer, Mit dem meine Seele auch nur einen Funken Zwietracht hat, Mehr als das Baby, das heute Nacht geboren wird: Ich danke meinem Gott für meine Demut Qu. Dieser Tag soll von nun an ein Feiertag sein: Ich wünschte, all Streitigkeiten wären gut beigelegt. Mein souveräner Herr, ich bitte euch inständig Unseren Bruder Clarence in eure Gnade aufzunehmen. Rich. Warum, Madame, habe ich für diese Liebe angeboten, So verspottet zu werden in dieser königlichen Anwesenheit? Wer weiß nicht, dass der sanfte Herzog tot ist? Sie erschrecken alle. Ihr tut ihm Unrecht, seinen Leichnam zu verhöhnen König. Wer weiß nicht, dass er tot ist? Wer weiß, dass er lebt? Qu. Allsehendes Himmelreich, was für eine Welt ist das? Buc. Sehe ich so blass aus, Lord Dorset, wie die anderen? Dor. Ja, mein guter Lord, und kein Mann in der Anwesenheit Aber seine Röte hat seine Wangen verlassen König. Ist Clarence tot? Der Befehl wurde aufgehoben Rich. Aber er (der arme Mann) starb aufgrund eures ersten Befehls, Und ein geflügelter Merkur trug ihn fort: Einige langsame Krüppel haben den Gegenauftrag gebracht, Der zu spät kam, um ihn bestatten zu sehen. Gott gebe, dass nicht jemand weniger adlig und weniger loyal, Näher an blutigen Gedanken und nicht am Blut, Schlimmeres als der unglückliche Clarence verdient, Und doch ohne Verdacht davonkommt. Earl of Derby tritt auf. Der. Ein Gnadengesuch, mein Souverän, für meine geleisteten Dienste König. Ich bitte um Ruhe, meine Seele ist voller Kummer Der. Ich werde nicht aufstehen, es sei denn, eure Hoheit hört mich an König. Dann sag auf einmal, was wünschst du dir Der. Das Lösegeld, Souverän, für das Leben meines Dieners, Der heute einen aufrührerischen Gentleman erschlagen hat, Der kürzlich dem Herzog von Norfolk gedient hat König. Habe ich eine Zunge, um über den Tod meines Bruders zu urteilen? Und soll diese Zunge einem Sklaven Vergebung gewähren? Mein Bruder hat niemanden getötet, sein Fehler war ein Gedanke, Und dennoch war seine Strafe bitterer Tod. Wer hat für ihn bei mir angeklagt? Wer (in meinem Zorn) Kniete vor mir hin und bat mich um Rat? Wer sprach von Brüderlichkeit? Wer sprach von Liebe? Wer erzählte mir, wie die arme Seele Den mächtigen Warwick verlassen hat und für mich gekämpft hat? Wer erzählte mir auf dem Schlachtfeld bei Tewkesbury, Als Oxford mich zu Boden hatte, hat er mich gerettet: Und sagte lieber Bruder, lebe und sei ein König? Wer erzählte mir, als wir beide im Feld lagen, Fast erfroren, wie er mich einwickelte Sogar in seiner Kleidung, und er gab sich selbst (Ganz dünn und nackt) der kalten Nacht ausgesetzt? All das hat mein Gedächtnis, brutaler Zorn, Sündhaft ausgerissen, und keiner von euch Hat so viel Anstand gehabt, es mir ins Gedächtnis zu rufen. Aber wenn eure Fuhrleute oder eure wart Junge. Warum schaust du uns an und schüttelst den Kopf, Und nennst uns Waisen, Elende, Verstoßene, Wenn unser edler Vater am Leben ist? Dut. Meine lieben Cousinen, ihr irrt euch beide, Ich beklage die Krankheit des Königs, Als ob ich ihn verlieren würde und nicht euren Vaters Tod: Es wäre verlorener Kummer, um einen zu trauern, der verloren ist. Junge. Dann schließt du, (meine großmütige Dame), er ist tot: Der König, mein Onkel, ist dafür verantwortlich. Gott wird es rächen, den ich mit dringenden Gebeten für dieses Ziel um Hilfe bitten werde. Daugh. Und ich werde es auch tun. Dut. Frieden, Kinder, Frieden, der König liebt euch gut. Unfähige und oberflächliche Unschuldige, Ihr könnt nicht erraten, wer den Tod eures Vaters verursacht hat. Junge. Großmutter, das können wir: Denn mein guter Onkel Gloucester Hat mir erzählt, der König sei von der Königin provoziert worden, Er habe Anklagen erfunden, um ihn einzusperren; Und als mein Onkel mir das erzählte, weinte er, Mitleidete mit mir und küsste liebevoll meine Wange: Er sagte mir, dass ich mich auf ihn verlassen solle, wie auf meinen Vater, Und er würde mich lieben wie ein Kind. Dut. Ach! dass die Täuschung eine so sanfte Gestalt annehmen sollte, Und mit einer tugendhaften Maske tiefes Laster verbergen. Er ist mein Sohn, ja, und darin liegt meine Schande, Doch nicht aus meinen Brüsten hat er diese Täuschung gezogen. Junge. Glauben Sie, dass mein Onkel vorgespielt hat, Großmutter? Dut. Ja, Junge. Junge. Das kann ich nicht glauben. Hör, was ist das für ein Lärm? Die Königin betritt den Raum, mit zerzausten Haaren, Riuers & Dorset folgen ihr. Qu. Ach! wer hindert mich zu weinen und zu trauern? Mein Schicksal zu schimpfen und mich selbst zu quälen. Ich werde mich mit schwarzer Verzweiflung gegen meine Seele vereinen, Und meinem Selbst ein Feind werden. Dut. Was bedeutet diese Szene der groben Ungeduld? Qu. Ein Akt der tragischen Gewalttat zu inszenieren. Edward, mein Herr, dein Sohn, unser König, ist tot. Warum wachsen die Zweige, wenn die Wurzel fehlt? Warum welken nicht die Blätter, die ihren Saft vermissen? Wenn du leben willst, klage: wenn du sterben willst, sei kurz, Damit unsere flügge Seelen den König einfangen können, Oder wie gehorsame Untertanen ihm folgen, In sein neues Königreich der Nacht, das sich nie ändert. Dut. Ah, so viel Interesse habe ich an deinem Kummer, Wie ich einen Anspruch auf deinen edlen Ehemann hatte: Ich habe den Tod eines würdigen Ehemannes beweint, Und mit dem Betrachten seiner Bilder gelebt: Aber jetzt sind zwei Spiegel seines fürstlichen Aussehens, Durch bösartigen Tod in Stücke zerbrochen, Und ich habe nur einen falschen Spiegel als Trost, Der mir Kummer bereitet, wenn ich meine Schande darin sehe. Du bist eine Witwe: trotzdem bist du eine Mutter, Und hast den Trost deiner Kinder übrig, Aber der Tod hat meinen Mann aus meinen Armen gerissen, Und zwei Krücken aus meinen schwachen Händen gezogen, Clarence und Edward. Oh, welche Ursache habe ich, (dein Kummer ist nur ein kleiner Teil meines Schmerzes), Dein Elend zu überwinden und deine Schreie zu ertränken. Junge. Ach Tante! Du hast nicht um den Tod unseres Vaters geweint: Wie können wir dir mit unseren blutsverwandten Tränen helfen? Daugh. Unsere elternlose Not blieb ungeweint, Dein Witwenleid soll ebenso ungeweint bleiben. Qu. Gib mir keine Hilfe in der Klage, Ich bin nicht unfruchtbar, um Beschwerden hervorzubringen: Alle Quellen leiten ihre Ströme in meine Augen, So dass ich, vom Wassermond geleitet, Reichlich Tränen aussenden kann, um die Welt zu ertränken. Oh, für meinen Ehemann, für meinen lieben Herrn Edward. Chil. Oh, für unseren Vater, für unseren lieben Herrn Clarence. Dut. Ach, für beide, für meinen Edward und Clarence. Qu. Welche Zuflucht hatte ich außer Edward, und er ist gegangen? Chil. Welche Zuflucht hatten wir außer Clarence? und er ist gegangen. Dut. Welche Zuflucht hatte ich außer ihnen? und sie sind gegangen. Qu. Eine Witwe hatte noch nie einen so teuren Verlust. Chil. Waisen hatten noch nie einen so teuren Verlust. Dut. Eine Mutter hatte noch nie einen so teuren Verlust. Ach, ich bin die Mutter dieser Schmerzen, Ihre Leiden sind aufgeteilt, meiner ist allgemein. Sie weint um einen Edward und ich auch: Ich weine um einen Clarence, sie tun es nicht. Diese Kinder weinen um Clarence, sie tun es nicht. Ach, ihr drei, dreifach gequält von mir: Vereint eure Tränen, ich bin euer Leidenspfleger, Und ich werde es mit Klagen verwöhnen. Dor. Trost, liebe Mutter, Gott ist sehr unzufrieden, Weil du undankbar mit seiner Tat umgehst. In weltlichen Dingen wird es als undankbar bezeichnet, Mit dummem Widerwillen eine Schuld zurückzuzahlen, Die mit großzügiger Hand freundlich geliehen wurde: Umso mehr sollte dem Himmel gegenüber so entgegengesetzt sein, Denn er verlangt die königliche Schuld, die er dir geliehen hat. Riuers. Madame, denken Sie wie eine besorgte Mutter An den jungen Prinzen, Ihren Sohn: rufen Sie ihn sofort an, Lassen Sie ihn krönen, in ihm lebt Ihr Trost. Ertränken Sie verzweifelte Trauer im toten Grab Edwards, Und pflanzen Sie Ihre Freuden in Edwards lebenden Thron. Richard, Buckingham, Derby, Hastings und Ratcliffe betreten den Raum. Rich. Schwester, habt Mut, wir alle haben Grund, Das Verbleichen unseres strahlenden Sterns zu beklagen: Aber niemand kann uns helfen, indem er um unsere Schmerzen trauert. Madame, meine Mutter, ich bitte um Verzeihung, Ich sah Ihre Anmut nicht. Demütig auf meinen Knien Bitte ich um Ihren Segen. Dut. Gott segne dich und lege Sanftmut in dein Herz, Liebe, Wohltätigkeit, Gehorsam und wahre Pflicht. Rich. Amen, und lass mich als ein guter alter Mann sterben, Das ist das Ende eines Muttersegen. Ich wundere mich, dass Ihre Gnade es weggelassen hat. Buc. Ihr bewölkten Prinzen und schmerzbetroffenen Peers, Die ihr diese schwere gemeinsame Bürde des Jammers tragt, Erhebt einander den Geist mit Liebe: Obwohl wir unsere Ernte dieses Königs verloren haben, Wir sollen die Ernte seines Sohnes ernten. Der gebrochene Groll eurer aufgeblähten Feindseligkeiten, Die erst kürzlich zersplittert waren, müssen sanft bewahrt, gefördert und bewahrt werden. Es scheint mir gut, mit einer kleinen Begleitung Sofort von Ludlow aus den jungen Prinzen nach London zu bringen, Damit er als unser König gekrönt wird. Riuers. Warum mit einer kleinen Begleitung, Mein Lord von Buckingham? Buc. Nun, mein Herr, damit durch eine Vielzahl Die frisch geheilte Wunde des Hasses nicht erneut aufbrechen sollte, Szene 4. Es treten auf der Erzbischof, der junge York, die Königin und die Herzogin. Erzb. Letzte Nacht habe ich gehört, dass sie in Stony Stratford übernachtet haben, und heute Nacht ruhen sie in Northampton aus. Morgen oder übermorgen werden sie hier sein. Herz. Ich sehne mich von ganzem Herzen danach, den Prinzen zu sehen. Ich hoffe, er ist seit dem letzten Mal, als ich ihn sah, stark gewachsen. Kön. Aber ich höre Nein, sie sagen, mein Sohn von York habe ihn fast in seiner Größe überholt. York. Ja, Mutter, aber ich möchte es nicht so haben. Herz. Warum, mein guter Vetter, es ist gut zu wachsen. York. Großmutter, eines Nachts, als wir beim Abendessen saßen, sprach mein Onkel Rivers darüber, wie ich wuchs, mehr als mein Bruder. Ja, sagte mein Onkel Gloucester, kleine Kräuter haben Anmut, große Unkraut wachsen schnell. Und seitdem denke ich, ich möchte nicht so schnell wachsen, denn süße Blumen sind langsam, und Unkraut eilt. Herz. Wahrlich, wahrlich, dieses Sprichwort galt nicht für ihn, der dasselbe zu dir sagte. Er war das elendste Geschöpf, als er jung war, so lange am Wachsen und so gemächlich, dass, wenn seine Regel wahr wäre, er anmutig sein sollte. York. Und das ist er sicher, meine gnädige Frau. Herz. Ich hoffe, dass er es ist, aber dennoch zweifle ich als Mutter. York. Jetzt, bei meiner Treue, wenn ich mich richtig erinnern könnte, könnte ich meinem Onkel ein spöttisches Wort gesagt haben, um seine Größe zu berühren, näher als er meine berührte. Herz. Wie, mein junger York, ich bitte dich, lass mich es hören. York. Verheiratet, sie sagen, mein Onkel wuchs so schnell, dass er mit zwei Stunden alten Kruste knabbern konnte, Es war volle zwei Jahre bevor ich einen Zahn bekommen konnte. Großmutter, das hätte ein beißender Scherz sein müssen. Herz. Ich bitte dich, hübscher York, wer hat dir das erzählt? York. Großmutter, seine Amme. Herz. Seine Amme? Aber sie war tot, bevor du geboren wurdest. York. Wenn sie es nicht war, kann ich nicht sagen, wer es mir erzählt hat. Kön. Ein verwegenes Kind: los, du bist zu schlau. Herz. Gnädige Frau, sei nicht böse mit dem Kind. Kön. Kannkrüge haben Ohren. Ein Bote tritt auf. Erzb. Da kommt ein Bote. Welche Nachrichten? Bote. Solche Nachrichten, mein Herr, die mich betrüben, zu berichten. Kön. Wie geht es dem Prinzen? Bote. Gut, gnädige Frau, und gesund. Herz. Was sind deine Nachrichten? Bote. Lord Rivers und Lord Grey sind nach Pomfret geschickt worden, und mit ihnen Sir Thomas Vaughan, Gefangene. Herz. Wer hat sie verhaftet? Bote. Die mächtigen Herzöge, Gloucester und Buckingham. Erzb. Wegen welcher Straftat? Bote. Der ganze Grund, den ich kenne, habe ich mitgeteilt: Warum oder wofür die Adligen verhaftet wurden, ist mir völlig unbekannt, mein gnädiger Herr. Kön. Weh mir! Ich sehe den Ruin meines Hauses: Der Tiger hat das sanfte Reh ergriffen, verhöhnende Tyrannei beginnt auf dem unschuldigen und furchtlosen Thron zu wüten: Willkommen Zerstörung, Blut und Massaker, ich sehe (wie auf einer Karte) das Ende von allem. Herz. Verfluchte und unruhige Tage des Streits, wie viele von euch haben meine Augen gesehen? Mein Mann hat sein Leben verloren, um die Krone zu bekommen, und meine Söhne wurden hin und her geworfen, um mich zu erfreuen und zu weinen, ihr Gewinn und Verlust. Und als sie sich niedergelassen hatten und die häuslichen Streitigkeiten vorbei waren, wurden sie selbst zu den Eroberern, die Krieg gegeneinander führen, Bruder gegen Bruder; Blut gegen Blut, Selbst gegen Selbst: O unsinnige und wahnsinnige Gewalt, beende deinen verfluchten Groll, oder lass mich sterben, um nicht mehr auf die Erde zu schauen. Kön. Komm, komm mein Junge, wir werden in die Zuflucht gehen. Madam, Lebewohl. Herz. Wartet, ich werde mit euch gehen. Kön. Ihr habt keinen Grund. Erzb. Meine gnädige Dame, geht, und tragt dorthin euren Schatz und euren Besitztum, was mich betrifft, ich werde eurer Gnade entsagen das Siegel, das ich halte, und so mag es mir ergehen, wie sehr ich Sie und alles, was Ihnen gehört, achte. Geh, ich werde Sie zur Zuflucht geleiten. Abgang. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben stehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Erste Szene König Edward tritt ein, gefolgt von den meisten Mitgliedern des Hofes, die zuvor in seine Gemächer gegangen waren. Er inszeniert sorgfältig eine Szene der Freundschaft, nachdem er ihnen befohlen hat, sich gegenseitig zu vergeben. Seine Anweisungen an jeden Mann sagen ihnen genau, wie er sich verhalten möchte, einschließlich wessen Hand zu schütteln oder wessen Hand die Königin küssen soll. Richard tritt in diese Farce ein und wird angewiesen, seinen Hass auf die Königin und ihre Familie zu vergessen. Dies tut er, aber als die Königin ihn bittet, Clarence zurück an den Hof zu bringen, zerstört er sofort die gesamte Szene. Richard antwortet: "Wer weiß nicht, dass der sanfte Herzog tot ist?", woraufhin alle anderen Schauspieler schockiert sind. König Edward hält eine kurze Rede, in der er bedauert, dass sein Bruder Clarence auf seinen Befehl hin getötet wurde. Er erinnert sich an die vielen Male, in denen Clarence sein Leben gerettet oder ihm geholfen hat, den Thron zu erklimmen. König Edward verlässt dann die Szene. Richard fragt Buckingham, ob er bemerkt hat, wie schuldig die Verwandten der Königin aussahen, als die Nachricht von Clarences Tod verkündet wurde. Zweite Szene, Zweiter Akt Die alte Herzogin von York, die Mutter von König Edward, Clarence und Richard, tritt mit den beiden Kindern von Clarence ein. Sie trauert um den Tod von Clarence, aber nur der Kinder wegen gibt sie vor, wegen Edwards schlechter Gesundheit betrübt zu sein. Doch nach einigen Momenten tritt Königin Elizabeth mit zerzaustem Haar ein und verkündet, dass auch König Edward gestorben ist. Die Herzogin von York bemerkt, dass sie nur noch Richard hat, über den sie sagt: "Und ich habe nur einen falschen Trost". Die Kinder teilen der Königin mit, dass sie nicht um ihren Vater trauern werden, da sie auch nicht um König Edward getrauert hat. Die Herzogin sagt ihnen allen, dass sie ihr Leiden akzeptiert und für sie trauern wird. Richard tritt ein und überzeugt sie, nach Ludlow zu reisen, wo sich der junge Prinz Edward aufhält. Sie alle stimmen zu, dass es sicherer für sie alle ist, dorthin zu gehen, bevor sie die Bühne verlassen. Buckingham sagt Richard, dass er mit ihnen gehen soll, damit niemand denkt, dass er plane, den Thron zu ergreifen. Dritte Szene, Zweiter Akt Einige Bürger diskutieren die Tatsache, dass König Edward gestorben ist. Sie fürchten einen Kampf um den Thron, wobei einer von ihnen bemerkt: "Weh dem Land, das von einem Kind regiert wird." Ihre Angst ist, dass Richard oder die Söhne und Brüder der Königin versuchen werden, den jungen Monarchen zu stürzen. Vierte Szene, Zweiter Akt Königin Elizabeth, die Herzogin von York, der Lordkardinal und der junge Herzog von York diskutieren die Geschichten von Richards Kindheit. Shakespeare spielt auf einen Mythos an, dass er mit Zähnen geboren wurde. Dorset betritt den Raum mit schlechten Nachrichten. Er erzählt ihnen, dass Buckingham und Richard Lord Rivers und Lord Gray gefangen genommen haben. Die Königin hat Angst um ihre Familie, die sie deutlich sieht, wie sie ausgelöscht wird, wenn Richard seinen Willen bekommt. Sie beschließt, in die Zuflucht, also in eine Kirche, zu gehen, mit dem jungen Herzog von York, damit sie Schutz haben. Die Zuflucht gilt zunächst für vierzig Tage.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). 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: Georgy wird zum Gentleman gemacht Georgy Osborne hatte sich nun endgültig im Herrenhaus seines Großvaters in der Russell Square etabliert, bewohnte das Zimmer seines Vaters im Haus und war der designierte Erbe all des dortigen Glanzes. Das gute Aussehen, das galante Auftreten und das gentlemanhafte Erscheinungsbild des Jungen gewannen das Herz des Großvaters. Mr. Osborne war genauso stolz auf ihn wie einst auf den älteren George. Das Kind erhielt viel mehr Luxus und Nachsicht als sein Vater. In den letzten Jahren hatte Osbornes Handel starken Aufschwung genommen. Sein Wohlstand und seine Bedeutung in der Stadt waren sehr gewachsen. Er war damals froh genug gewesen, den älteren George auf eine gute Privatschule zu schicken. Ein Kommissionsoffizier für seinen Sohn war für ihn eine Quelle des Stolzes, denn für den kleinen George und seine zukünftigen Aussichten hatte der alte Mann viel höhere Erwartungen. Mr. Osborne wiederholte ständig, dass er aus dem kleinen Jungen einen Gentleman machen würde. In seiner Vorstellung sah er ihn als Studenten, Parlamentsmitglied oder vielleicht sogar als Baronet. Der alte Mann dachte, er würde zufrieden sterben können, wenn er seinen Enkel auf einem guten Weg zu solchen Ehren sehen könnte. Er wollte nur einen Spitzenabsolventen, um ihn zu erziehen - keine Quacksalber und Möchtegerns. Mehrere Jahre zuvor pflegte er wütend gegen alle Pfarrer, Gelehrten und ähnliche Leute zu hetzen und erklärte, dass sie allesamt Schwindler und Scharlatane seien, die nichts anderes könnten, als Latein und Griechisch zu büffeln. Sie seien eingebildete Schnösel, die vorgäben, auf britische Kaufleute und Gentlemen hinabzublicken, die jeder von ihnen locker aufkaufen könnte. Jetzt trauerte er auf sehr feierliche Weise darüber, dass seine eigene Bildung vernachlässigt worden war, und wies Georgy immer wieder in prächtigen Reden auf die Notwendigkeit und Vorzüglichkeit klassischer Bildung hin. Wenn sie beim Abendessen zusammenkamen, pflegte der Großvater den Jungen zu fragen, was er tagsüber gelesen habe, und interessierte sich sehr für den Bericht, den der Junge über sein eigenes Studium gab, wobei er vorgab, George beim Sprechen darüber zu verstehen. Dabei machte er viele Fehler und zeigte seine Unwissenheit ein ums andere Mal. Das erhöhte nicht den Respekt, den das Kind für seinen älteren Verwandten hatte. Ein schnell denkendes Gehirn und eine bessere Bildung anderswo zeigten dem Jungen sehr schnell, dass sein Großvater ein Dummkopf war, und er begann entsprechend, ihm Befehle zu erteilen und auf ihn herabzuschauen. Denn durch seine vorherige, wenn auch bescheidene, Erziehung war Georgy zu einer viel besseren Gentlemen herangewachsen als es alle Pläne seines Großvaters hätten machen können. Er war von einer gütigen, schwachen und zärtlichen Frau erzogen worden, die außer ihm keinen Stolz auf irgendetwas hatte. Ihr Herz war so rein und ihr Auftreten so demütig und bescheiden, dass sie nichts anderes als eine wahre Lady sein konnte. Sie beschäftigte sich mit freundlichen Aufgaben und ruhigen Pflichten; auch wenn sie nie brillante Dinge sagte, sprach oder unliebsame Gedanken hegte. Einfach und ehrlich, liebevoll und rein – wie sollte unsere arme kleine Amelia auch etwas anderes als eine wirkliche Dame sein! Der junge Georgy herrschte über diese weiche und nachgiebige Natur und im Vergleich zu ihrer Einfachheit und Feinfühligkeit war die plumpe Aufgeblasenheit des dummen alten Mannes, mit dem er als Nächstes in Kontakt kam, noch deutlicher zu erkennen. Wenn er ein Prinz königlicher Abstammung gewesen wäre, hätte man ihn nicht besser darauf vorbereiten können, gut von sich selbst zu denken. Während seine Mutter zu Hause nach ihm sehnte und ich glaube, dass sie jede Stunde des Tages und in den meisten Stunden der traurigen, einsamen Nächte an ihn dachte, hatte dieser junge Herr eine Vielzahl von Vergnügungen und Trostmaßnahmen, die es ihm leicht machten, über die Trennung von Amelia hinwegzukommen. Kleine Jungen, die weinen, wenn sie zur Schule gehen, weinen, weil sie an einen sehr ungemütlichen Ort gehen. Nur wenige weinen aus schierer Zuneigung. Wenn man bedenkt, dass die Augen Ihrer Kindheit beim Anblick eines Lebkuchens trocken wurden und dass ein Pflaumenkuchen dem Kummer über die Trennung von Ihrer Mama und Ihren Schwestern eine Entschädigung war - oh, mein Freund und Bruder, dann sollten Sie sich nicht allzu sicher über Ihre eigenen feinen Gefühle sein. Nun gut, Master George Osborne hatte jeden Komfort und Luxus, den sich ein reicher und großzügiger alter Großvater vorstellen konnte. Dem Kutscher wurde angewiesen, für ihn das schönste Pony zu kaufen, das man für Geld bekommen konnte, und darauf wurde George beigebracht, zu reiten. Zuerst in einer Reitschule, wo er zufriedenstellend ohne Steigbügel geritten war und über die Sprungstange gesprungen war; anschließend wurde er durch die New Road in den Regent's Park und dann in den Hyde Park geführt, wo er mit Coachman Martin in vollem Ornat ritt. Der alte Osborne, der heute in der Stadt gelassener war und seine Angelegenheiten seinen jüngeren Partnern überließ, ritt oft gemeinsam mit Miss O. in dieselbe modische Richtung. Als der kleine Georgy im dandyhaften Stil angeritten kam, mit gesenkten Absätzen, stieß der Großvater seine Tante an und sagte: "Schau, Miss O!". Und er lachte, und sein Gesicht rötete sich vor Freude, als er aus dem Fenster auf den Jungen zeigte, während der Kutscher den Wagen grüßte und der Bedienstete Meister George grüßte. Hier warfen auch seine Tante, Mrs. Frederick Bullock (der Wagen dieser Dame konnte man täglich im Ring sehen, mit Emblemen oder gravierter Pracht auf den Tafeln und der Ausstattung und drei blassgesichtigen kleinen Bullocks, die aus den Fenstern starrten), Frau Frederick Bullock also warf sie dem kleinen Emporkömmling grimmige Blicke des bittersten Hasses zu, wenn er mit Hand am Gürtel und Hut schief auf einem Ohr stolz vorbei ritt. Obwohl er kaum elf Jahre alt war, trug Master George Strumpfbänder und die schönsten kleinen Stiefel wie ein Mann. Er hatte vergoldete Sporen, eine Peitsche mit goldener Spitze und die saubersten kleinen Handschuhe aus bestem Kidleder, die Lamb's Conduit Street zu bieten hatte. Seine Mutter hatte ihm ein paar Halstücher gegeben und ihm sorgfältig gesäumt einige kleine Hemden gemacht; aber als ihr Eli die Witwe besuchen kam, wurden sie durch viel feinere Wäsche ersetzt. Er hatte kleine juwelenbesetzte Knöpfe an seinen Hemden aus Rasen. Ihre bescheidenen Geschenke wurden beiseite gelegt - ich glaube, Miss Osborne hatte sie dem Kutscherjungen gegeben. Amelia versuchte zu denken, dass sie über die Veränderung erfreut war. Tatsächlich war sie glücklich und entzückt, den Jungen so schön aussehen zu sehen. Sie hatte ein kleines schwarzes Profilbild von ihm für einen Shilling anfertigen lassen und dies neben einem anderen Porträt über ihrem Bett aufgehängt. Eines Tages kam der Junge wie gewohnt zu seinem Besuch angaloppiert, ritt die kleine Straße in Brompton hinunter und brachte wie immer alle Bewohner an den Fenstern zusammen, um seinen Glanz zu bewundern. Mit großer Begeisterung und einem triumphierenden Gesicht zog er eine Schatulle aus seinem Mantel - es war ein schickes weiß In seinem neuen Zuhause herrschte Meister George wie ein Herrscher. Beim Abendessen lud er die Damen ein, mit größter Gelassenheit Wein zu trinken und trank sein Champagner auf eine Art und Weise aus, die seinen alten Großvater entzückte. "Schau ihn dir an", sagte der alte Mann, stupste seinen Nachbarn an und hatte ein glückseliges, purpurrotes Gesicht. "Hast du jemals einen solchen Kerl gesehen? Herr, Herr! Er wird als nächstes einen Kabinettkoffer bestellen und Rasiermesser zum Rasieren; da bin ich verflucht, wenn er das nicht tut." Die Streiche des Jungen erfreuten jedoch Mr. Osbornes Freunde nicht so sehr wie den alten Herrn. Es bereitete Mr. Justice Coffin kein Vergnügen, wie Georgy sich in Gespräche einmischte und seine Geschichten ruinierte. Colonel Fogey war nicht daran interessiert, den kleinen Jungen halb betrunken zu sehen. Mrs. Sergeant Toffys Frau empfand keine besondere Dankbarkeit, als er mit einer Drehung seines Ellenbogens ein Glas Portwein über ihr gelbes Satinkleid kippte und über das Missgeschick lachte. Sie war auch nicht erfreut, obwohl Mr. Osborne sehr erfreut war, als Georgy ihren dritten Jungen verprügelte (ein junger Herr, der ein Jahr älter als Georgy war und zufällig in den Ferien von Dr. Tickleus in Ealing School nach Hause kam) in der Russell Square. Georges Großvater gab dem Jungen für diese Leistung zwei Souveräne und versprach ihm weitere Belohnungen für jeden Jungen über seiner eigenen Größe und im gleichen Alter, den er in ähnlicher Weise verprügelt. Es ist schwer zu sagen, was der alte Mann in diesen Kämpfen Gutes sah; er hatte eine vage Vorstellung, dass Streitigkeiten Jungen widerstandsfähig machten und dass Tyrannei eine nützliche Fähigkeit war, die sie lernen sollten. Englische Jugendliche wurden seit jeher so erzogen, und wir haben hunderttausende von Verteidigern und Bewunderern von Ungerechtigkeit, Elend und Brutalität, die unter Kindern begangen werden. Im Rausch des Lobes und des Sieges über Master Toffy wollte George natürlich seine Eroberungen weiterverfolgen. Eines Tages, als er in sehr dandyhafter neuer Kleidung in der Nähe von St. Pancras posierte und ein junger Bäckerjunge sarkastische Bemerkungen über sein Aussehen machte, zog der jugendliche Patrizier mit großem Elan seine Dandyjacke aus und übergab sie seinem Begleiter (Master Todd, aus der Great Coram Street in Russell Square, Sohn des Juniorpartners des Hauses Osborne and Co.), George versuchte, den kleinen Bäckerjungen zu verprügeln. Doch die Kriegschancen waren dieses Mal nicht günstig und der kleine Bäckerjunge verprügelte Georgy, der mit einem traurigen blauen Auge nach Hause kam und dessen schöner Hemdkragen mit dem aus seiner eigenen kleinen Nase gezogenen Klarwein befleckt war. Er erzählte seinem Großvater, er habe sich mit einem Riesen in einem Kampf befunden und erschreckte seine arme Mutter in Brompton mit langen und keineswegs authentischen Berichten von der Schlacht. Dieser junge Todd aus der Coram Street in Russell Square war ein großer Freund und Bewunderer von Master George. Beide hatten einen Faible für das Malen von Theaterszenen, für härchte Bonbons und Himbeerkuchen, für Schlittschuhlaufen und Skaten im Regent's Park und in der Serpentine, wenn das Wetter es zuließ, und für den Theaterbesuch, wohin sie oft auf Anweisung von Mr. Osbornes von Rowson, Meister Georges bestelltem Bediensteten, begleitet wurden, mit dem sie sehr bequem im Parkett saßen. In Begleitung dieses Gentleman besuchten sie alle Haupttheater der Hauptstadt, kannten die Namen aller Schauspieler von Drury Lane bis Sadler's Wells und führten in der Tat viele der Stücke für die Familie Todd und deren jugendliche Freunde mit den bekannten Figuren von West auf ihrem Kartontheater auf. Der Fußmann Rowson, der ein großzügiges Gemüt hatte, behandelte seinen jungen Herrn nicht selten, wenn er genug Geld hatte, nach dem Theater mit Austern und einem Glas Rum-Shrub als Schlummertrunk. Wir können ziemlich sicher sein, dass Herr Rowson seinerseits von der Großzügigkeit und Dankbarkeit seines jungen Herrn für die Vergnügungen, zu denen er ihn eingeführt hatte, profitierte. Ein berühmter Schneider aus dem West End der Stadt - Mr. Osborne wollte nichts von den Pfuschern aus der City oder Holborn, sagte er, für den Jungen (obwohl ein Stadtschneider für IHN gut genug war) - wurde bestellt, um George's Erscheinung zu verschönern, und man sagte ihm, er solle keine Kosten scheuen. Also gab sich Mr. Woolsey von der Conduit Street Mühe und schickte dem Jungen fantasievolle Hosen, fantasievolle Westen und genug fantasievolle Jacken, um eine Schule kleiner Dandys auszustatten. Georgy hatte kleine weiße Westen für Abendpartys, und kleine, ausgeschnittene Samtwesten für Abendessen, und einen teuren, lieben kleinen Morgenmantel im Schal-Look, ganz wie ein kleiner Herr. Er kleidete sich jeden Tag zum Abendessen "wie ein richtiger Londoner Dandy", wie sein Großvater bemerkte. Einer der Diener war ihm speziell zu Diensten, half ihm bei der Toilette, beantwortete seinen Ruf und brachte ihm immer seine Briefe auf einem Silbertablett. Georgy saß nach dem Frühstück jeden Tag in dem Sessel im Esszimmer und las die Morning Post, ganz wie ein Erwachsener. "Wie er flucht und schwört", riefen die Diener, begeistert von seiner Vorreife. Diejenigen, die sich an den Captain, seinen Vater, erinnerten, erklärten, Master George sei sein Vater, durch und durch. Er belebte das Haus durch seine Aktivität, seine Anmaßung, sein Schimpfen und seine gute Natur. Georgs Ausbildung wurde einem benachbarten Gelehrten und Privatlehrer anvertraut, der "junge Adlige und Gentlemen für die Universitäten, den Senat und die akademischen Berufe vorbereitete: dessen System die entwürdigenden körperlichen Züchtigungen, die noch an den alten Bildungsstätten praktiziert wurden, nicht umfasste und in dessen Familie die Schüler die Eleganz der verfeinerten Gesellschaft und das Vertrauen und die Zuneigung eines Zuhauses finden würden." So versuchten der Ehrwürdige Lawrence Veal von der Hart Street in Bloomsbury, und seine Frau, Mrs. Veal, Schüler zu gewinnen. Durch diese Werbung und eifrige Vermarktung gelang es dem Hauskaplan und seiner Frau in der Regel, ein oder zwei Schüler bei sich zu haben - die einen hohen Preis zahlten und in außerordentlich komfortablen Quartieren zu sein schienen. Es gab einen großen Westindier, den niemand besuchte, mit mahagonifarbenem Teint, wolligem Haar und einem äußerst schicken Aussehen; da war ein weiterer klotziger Junge von dreiundzwanzig, dessen Bildung vernachlässigt worden war und den Mr. und Mrs. Veal in die feine Gesellschaft einführen sollten; es gab zwei Söhne von Oberst Bangles vom Dienst der Ostindien-Kompanie: diese vier saßen zum Essen an Mrs. Veals vornehmen Tisch, als Georgy in ihrer Einrichtung vorgestellt wurde. Georgy gehörte, wie ein Dutzend anderer Schüler, nur zu den Tagsschülern. Er kam morgens unter der Obhut seines Freundes Mr. Rowson an und wenn es schön war, ritt er am Nachmittag auf seinem Pony davon, gefolgt vom Stallburschen. Der Reichtum seines Großvaters wurde in der Schule als gewaltig berichtet. Daher würde er zu George in der Schule sagen: "Ich habe bei meiner Rückkehr nach Hause nach einer genussvollen wissenschaftlichen Unterhaltung mit meinem ausgezeichneten Freund Dr. Bulders - ein wahrer Archäologe, meine Herren, ein wahrer Archäologe - festgestellt, dass die Fenster des angesehenen Herrenhauses Ihres verehrten Großvaters in der Russell Square beleuchtet waren, als ob sie für festliche Anlässe gedacht wären. Habe ich recht mit meiner Vermutung, dass Mr. Osborne gestern Abend eine Gesellschaft ausgewählter Geister um seinen üppig gedeckten Tisch bewirtet hat?" Der kleine Georgy, der ziemlich humorvoll war und Mr. Veal gerne direkt imitierte, antwortete, dass Mr. V. mit seiner Vermutung vollkommen richtig lag. "Dann hatten diese Freunde, die die Ehre hatten, Mr. Osbornes Gastfreundschaft zu genießen, meine Herren, sicher keinen Grund zur Klage über ihr Mahl. Auch mir wurde diese Ehre bereits mehr als einmal zuteil. (Übrigens, Master Osborne, du warst heute Morgen etwas spät dran und in dieser Hinsicht bereits mehrfach säumig.) Ich persönlich, sage ich, meine Herren, so bescheiden ich auch bin, wurde für durchaus würdig befunden, Mr. Osbornes elegante Gastfreundschaft zu teilen. Und obwohl ich mit den Großen und Adligen dieser Welt gespeist habe - denn ich nehme an, dass ich meinen ausgezeichneten Freund und Gönner, den hochwohlgeborenen George Earl of Bareacres, dazu zählen darf - versichere ich Ihnen, dass der Tisch des britischen Kaufmanns genauso reichhaltig gedeckt war und sein Empfang genauso erfreulich und edel. Mr. Bluck, bitte fahren Sie fort, falls Sie so freundlich wären, mit jener Passage aus Eutropis fortzufahren, die durch das späte Eintreffen von Master Osborne unterbrochen wurde." Dieser bedeutende Mann übernahm für einige Zeit Georgys Erziehung. Amelia war von seinen Phrasen verwirrt, hielt ihn jedoch für ein Wunderkind des Lernens. Die arme Witwe freundete sich mit Mrs. Veal an, aus eigenen Gründen. Sie war gerne im Haus und sah dort George zur Schule gehen. Sie freute sich, zu Mrs. Veals Konversationen eingeladen zu werden, die einmal im Monat stattfanden (wie Ihnen auf rosa Karten mit der Aufschrift AOHNH [_Anmerkung des Transkribierenden: Der Name der griechischen Göttin Athene; das "O" stellt ein großes Theta dar_] mitgeteilt wurde) und bei denen der Professor seine Schüler und deren Freunde zu schwachem Tee und wissenschaftlichen Unterhaltungen begrüßte. Die arme kleine Amelia verpasste keine dieser Veranstaltungen und fand sie herrlich, solange George an ihrer Seite saß. Und sie würde bei jedem Wetter von Brompton aus dorthin gehen und Mrs. Veal mit tränenreicher Dankbarkeit für den schönen Abend umarmen, den sie verbracht hatte, bevor sich die Gesellschaft zurückzog und George mit Mr. Rowson, seinem Begleiter, davonging. Arme Mrs. Osborne legte dann ihre Mäntel und Schals an und machte sich bereit, nach Hause zu gehen. Was Georgy unter diesem wertvollen Meister der hundert Wissenschaften lernte, war anhand der wöchentlichen Berichte, die der Junge seinem Großvater mitbrachte, bemerkenswert. Auf einem Tisch waren die Namen von zwanzig oder mehr erwünschten Wissensgebieten aufgeführt, und der Fortschritt des Schülers in jedem Bereich wurde vom Professor bewertet. In Griechisch wurde Georgy als aristos, in Latein als optimus, in Französisch als sehr gut und so weiter beurteilt, und am Ende des Jahres bekam jeder Preise für alles. Selbst Mr. Swartz, der wollhaarige junge Herr und Halbbruder der ehrenwerten Mrs. Mac Mull, und Mr. Bluck, der vernachlässigte junge Schüler von dreiundzwanzig aus dem landwirtschaftlichen Bezirk, und der vorher erwähnte faule Bengel Master Todd erhielten kleine achtzehn-Penny-Bücher mit "Athene" darauf graviert und eine pompöse lateinische Inschrift des Professors für seine jungen Freunde. Die Familie von Meister Todd gehörte zum Gefolge des Hauses Osborne. Der alte Herr hatte Todd vom Schreiber zu einem Juniorpartner in seinem Unternehmen befördert. Mr. Osborne war der Patenonkel des jungen Meister Todd (der später im Leben auf seinen Karten Mr. Osborne Todd schrieb und ein Mann von entschiedener Mode wurde), während Miss Osborne Miss Maria Todd zur Taufe begleitet hatte und ihrer Protegé jedes Jahr ein Gebetbuch, eine Sammlung von Traktaten, einen Band sehr niedriger Kirchendichtung oder ein ähnliches Andenken an ihre Güte geschenkt hatte. Miss O. fuhr gelegentlich mit den Todds herum, und wenn sie krank waren, brachte ihr Fußmann in großem Plüschhosen und Weste Gelees und Delikatessen aus der Russell Square nach Coram Street. Coram Street bebte und schaute tatsächlich zu Russell Square auf, und Mrs. Todd, die eine geschickte Hand darin hatte, Papierrandverzierungen für Keulen zu schneiden und aus Steckrüben und Karotten Blumen, Enten usw. zu machen, ging sogar zum "Square", wie man es nannte, und half bei den Vorbereitungen für ein großes Essen mit, ohne überhaupt daran zu denken, selbst an der Tafel Platz zu nehmen. Falls ein Gast in letzter Minute ausfiel, wurde Todd zum Essen eingeladen. Mrs. Todd und Maria kamen abends rüber, schlüpften mit einem abgedämpften Klopfen ins Wohnzimmer und waren zur Stelle, als Miss Osborne und die Damen unter ihrem Schutz das Zimmer betraten - bereit, Duette zu singen und zu singen, bis die Herren hochkamen. Arme Maria Todd; arme junge Dame! Wie sie diese Duette und Sonaten in der Straße üben und spielen musste, bevor sie öffentlich im Square auftraten! So schien es vom Schicksal bestimmt zu sein, dass Georgy über jeden, mit dem er in Kontakt kam, herrschte und dass Freunde, Verwandte und Bedienstete alle vor dem kleinen Kerl niederknieten. Man muss zugeben, dass er sich dieser Vereinbarung sehr willig anschloss. Das tun die meisten Menschen. Und Georgy spielte gerne die Rolle des Herrschers und hatte vielleicht eine natürliche Veranlagung dazu. In der Russell Square hatte jeder Angst vor Mr. Osborne, und Mr. Osborne hatte Angst vor Georgy. Die kühnen Manieren des Jungen, sein schlagfertiges Gerede über Bücher und Lernen, seine Ähnlichkeit mit seinem Vater (unversöhnt gestorben in Yonder-Brüssel) beeindruckten den alten Herrn und gaben dem jungen Jungen die Oberhand. Der alte Mann erschrak, wenn er ein ererbtes Merkmal oder einen unbewusst von dem kleinen Jungen verwendeten Tonfall bemerkte und dachte, Georgys Vater stünde wieder vor ihm. Er versuchte, durch Nachsicht gegenüber dem Enkel die Härte gegenüber dem älteren George auszugleichen. Die Leute waren überrascht, wie sanft er mit dem Jungen umging. Er brummte und fluchte wie gewohnt über Miss Osborne und lächelte, wenn George erst spät zum Frühstück kam. Miss Osborne, Georgys Tante, war eine verblichene alte Jungfer, gebrochen durch mehr als vierzig Jahre Düsternis und groben Umgang. Für einen jungen Mann mit Geist war es einfach, sie zu beherrschen. Und wann immer George etwas von ihr haben wollte, von den Marmeladengläsern in ihren Schränken bis zu den gesprungenen und ausgetrockneten alten Farben in ihrer Malkiste (der alten Malkiste, die sie hatte, als sie Schülerin von Mr. Smee war und noch fast jung und blühend war), nahm Georgy Besitz von dem Objekt seines Verlangens, und wenn er es einmal hatte, beachtete er seine T Die Krankheit dieser alten Dame war die Beschäftigung und vielleicht auch der Schutz für Amelia. Was wissen Männer schon über das Martyrium der Frauen? Wir würden verrückt werden, müssten wir nur den hundertsten Teil dieser täglichen Schmerzen ertragen, die von vielen Frauen geduldig ertragen werden. Endlose Sklaverei ohne Belohnung; ständige Freundlichkeit und Güte, die auf ständige Grausamkeit stoßen; Liebe, Arbeit, Geduld, Wachsamkeit, ohne auch nur ein freundliches Wort zur Kenntnis zu nehmen; wie viele von ihnen müssen dies alles still ertragen und mit fröhlichen Gesichtern nach außen gehen, als ob sie nichts fühlen würden. Zärtliche Sklaven, wie sie sind, müssen sie notwendigerweise Heuchler und schwach sein. Amelia's Mutter hatte von ihrem Stuhl aus ins Bett gewechselt, in dem sie nie gelegen hatte und aus dem Mrs. Osborne selbst nie abwesend war, außer wenn sie zu George lief. Die alte Dame gönnte ihr sogar diese seltenen Besuche; sie, die einmal eine freundliche, lächelnde, gutmütige Mutter gewesen war, in den Tagen ihres Wohlstands, aber die Armut und die Gebrechlichkeit hatten sie gebrochen. Ihre Krankheit oder Entfremdung hatte keine Auswirkungen auf Amelia. Sie ermöglichten ihr vielmehr, die andere Katastrophe zu ertragen, unter der sie litt, und von deren Gedanken sie durch die unaufhörlichen Anrufe der Kranken abgelenkt wurde. Amelia ertrug ihre Härte ganz sanft; glättete das unruhige Kissen; war immer bereit mit einer sanften Antwort auf die wachsame, quengelnde Stimme; besänftigte die Leidende mit Worten der Hoffnung, die ihr frommes, einfaches Herz am besten fühlen und aussprechen konnte, und schloss die Augen, die einst so zärtlich auf sie geschaut hatten. Dann widmete sie ihre ganze Zeit und Zärtlichkeit dem Trost und der Begleitung des betroffenen alten Vaters, der durch den Schlag, der ihn getroffen hatte, betäubt war und völlig allein in der Welt stand. Seine Frau, sein Ansehen, sein Vermögen, alles, was er am meisten geliebt hatte, war von ihm fortgegangen. Es gab nur Amelia, die den wankenden, gebrochenen alten Mann stützen und mit ihren sanften Armen unterstützen konnte. Wir werden die Geschichte nicht schreiben: sie wäre zu trostlos und langweilig. Ich kann "Vanity Fair" schon vorher gähnen sehen. Eines Tages, als die jungen Herren im Studierzimmer des Herrn Pfarrers Veal versammelt waren und der Hauskaplan des hochadligen Earl von Bareacres wie üblich dahinschwadronierte, fuhr ein eleganter Wagen mit der Statue der Athene geschmückt vor und zwei Herren stiegen aus. Die jungen Herren Bangles stürzten zum Fenster mit einer vagen Vorstellung, dass ihr Vater aus Bombay angekommen sein könnte. Der große, schmächtige Gelehrte von dreiundzwanzig, der heimlich über einen Abschnitt aus Eutropius weinte, drückte seine vernachlässigte Nase gegen das Glas und sah auf den Wagen, als der Laquais de place von der Kutsche sprang und die Personen aussteigen ließ. "Es ist einer dicker und einer dünner", sagte Mr. Bluck, als es an der Tür laut pochte. Jeder war interessiert, angefangen beim Hauskaplan selbst, der hoffte, die Väter zukünftiger Schüler zu sehen, bis hin zu Master Georgy, der froh über jeden Vorwand war, sein Buch wegzulegen. Der Junge in der abgetragenen Livree mit den verblassten Kupferknöpfen, der sich immer in den engen Mantel zwängte, um die Tür zu öffnen, kam ins Studierzimmer und sagte: "Zwei Herren möchten Master Osborne sprechen." Der Professor hatte am Morgen eine belanglose Auseinandersetzung mit diesem jungen Herrn gehabt, die auf eine Meinungsverschiedenheit über Knallfrösche während der Schulzeit zurückzuführen war; aber sein Gesicht nahm wieder den gewohnten Ausdruck freundlicher Höflichkeit an, als er sagte: "Master Osborne, ich erlaube Ihnen voll und ganz, Ihre Wagenfreunde zu besuchen - denen ich bitte, Ihnen meine und Mrs. Veals respektvolle Grüße zu übermitteln." Georgy ging ins Empfangszimmer und sah zwei Fremde, die er mit erhobenem Kopf und seiner üblichen stolzen Art ansah. Der eine war dick mit Schnurrbart, der andere war dünn und lang, in einem blauen Frock-Coat, mit einem braunen Gesicht und grauem Haar. "Mein Gott, wie er ähnlich ist!" sagte der lange Herr überrascht. "Kannst du erraten, wer wir sind, George?" Dem Jungen schoss das Blut ins Gesicht, wie es normalerweise geschah, wenn er bewegt war, und seine Augen leuchteten auf. "Den anderen kenne ich nicht", sagte er, "aber ich glaube, Sie müssen Major Dobbin sein." Tatsächlich war es unser alter Freund. Seine Stimme bebte vor Freude, als er den Jungen begrüßte und beide Hände der anderen ergriff und den Jungen zu sich heranzog. "Deine Mutter hat mit dir über mich gesprochen, oder?" sagte er. "Das hat sie", antwortete Georgy, "hunderte Male und immer wieder." Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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George Jr. lebt bei Mr. Osborne, der beschlossen hat, dass Geld keine Rolle spielt, wenn es um seinen Enkel geht. Mr. Osbornes Hoffnungen und Träume sind es, aus George Jr. einen adligen Herrn zu machen. George Jr. hat Kleidung, ein schönes Pony, seinen eigenen Diener und eine Reihe privater Tutoren. Während er von diesen Tutoren lernt, erkennt er, wie ungebildet sein Großvater eigentlich ist und fängt an, auf ihn herabzuschauen. Er hat bereits viel Übung darin, andere herumzukommandieren, dank der Art und Weise, wie Amelia ihn erzogen hat. Eines Tages kauft er ein Porträt von sich selbst als Geschenk für seine Mutter. Sie ist wochenlang glücklich über diese Zurschaustellung von Zuneigung. Zu Hause benimmt sich George Jr. wie ein kleiner Erwachsener. Er trägt erwachsene Kleidung, sitzt beim Abendessen am Tisch der Erwachsenen und trinkt seinen Champagner. Mr. Osborne findet das köstlich, obwohl seine alten Freundinnen nicht wirklich begeistert sind, wenn der kleine George Jr. während des Abendessens unhöflich ist. Mr. Osborne ermutigt George Jr. auch, sich mit anderen kleinen Jungen anzulegen, besonders mit solchen, die größer und älter sind als er. Es ist nicht wirklich klar, warum, aber es ist wahrscheinlich eine Übung zur Charakterbildung. George Jr.s Kammerdiener führt ihn und seine Freunde zu Theaterstücken und danach zum Abendessen aus. Schließlich ist George alt genug für die Schule und wird in Mr. Veals Akademie eingeschrieben. Mr. Veal richtet sich an wohlhabende Kunden und verwendet im Gegensatz zu den meisten Schulen keine körperliche Bestrafung. Er ist pompös und snobistisch und stolz auf die langen Wörter, die er verwendet. Er ist beeindruckt von Mr. Osbornes Geld und behandelt George Jr. entsprechend. Der Grund für Osbornes Verhalten gegenüber George Jr. wird schließlich offenbart, aber es ist nicht wirklich schockierend. George Jr. sieht seinem Vater sehr ähnlich, und für Mr. Osborne ist dies eine Art Aussöhnung mit dem verstorbenen George. George Jr. fängt an, auf seinen anderen Großvater, Mr. Sedley, herabzuschauen. Mr. Osborne redet ständig schlecht über Mr. Sedley und bezeichnet ihn als Bankrotteur und Betrüger, und George Jr. kann nicht anders, als genauso über ihn zu denken. Inzwischen stirbt Mrs. Sedley. Amelia hat sich um sie gekümmert, was ihr zumindest geholfen hat, sich von George Jr. abzulenken. Der Tod seiner Frau lässt Mr. Sedley noch mehr zusammenbrechen. Eines Tages klopft es an der Tür von Mr. Veals Schule und Besucher werden für Mr. Osborne angekündigt. Es sind ein großer, dünner Mann und ein dicker Mann. Wer könnte es sein? Du hast es erraten – Major Dobbin und Jos! George Jr. erkennt Dobbin aus den Geschichten seiner Mutter über ihn.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: The Vances, who had been back in the city ever since Christmas, had not forgotten Carrie; but they, or rather Mrs. Vance, had never called on her, for the very simple reason that Carrie had never sent her address. True to her nature, she corresponded with Mrs. Vance as long as she still lived in Seventy-eighth Street, but when she was compelled to move into Thirteenth, her fear that the latter would take it as an indication of reduced circumstances caused her to study some way of avoiding the necessity of giving her address. Not finding any convenient method, she sorrowfully resigned the privilege of writing to her friend entirely. The latter wondered at this strange silence, thought Carrie must have left the city, and in the end gave her up as lost. So she was thoroughly surprised to encounter her in Fourteenth Street, where she had gone shopping. Carrie was there for the same purpose. "Why, Mrs. Wheeler," said Mrs. Vance, looking Carrie over in a glance, "where have you been? Why haven't you been to see me? I've been wondering all this time what had become of you. Really, I----" "I'm so glad to see you," said Carrie, pleased and yet nonplussed. Of all times, this was the worst to encounter Mrs. Vance. "Why, I'm living down town here. I've been intending to come and see you. Where are you living now?" "In Fifty-eighth Street," said Mrs. Vance, "just off Seventh Avenue--218. Why don't you come and see me?" "I will," said Carrie. "Really, I've been wanting to come. I know I ought to. It's a shame. But you know----" "What's your number?" said Mrs. Vance. "Thirteenth Street," said Carrie, reluctantly. "112 West." "Oh," said Mrs. Vance, "that's right near here, isn't it?" "Yes," said Carrie. "You must come down and see me some time." "Well, you're a fine one," said Mrs. Vance, laughing, the while noting that Carrie's appearance had modified somewhat. "The address, too," she added to herself. "They must be hard up." Still she liked Carrie well enough to take her in tow. "Come with me in here a minute," she exclaimed, turning into a store. When Carrie returned home, there was Hurstwood, reading as usual. He seemed to take his condition with the utmost nonchalance. His beard was at least four days old. "Oh," thought Carrie, "if she were to come here and see him?" She shook her head in absolute misery. It looked as if her situation was becoming unbearable. Driven to desperation, she asked at dinner: "Did you ever hear any more from that wholesale house?" "No," he said. "They don't want an inexperienced man." Carrie dropped the subject, feeling unable to say more. "I met Mrs. Vance this afternoon," she said, after a time. "Did, eh?" he answered. "They're back in New York now," Carrie went on. "She did look so nice." "Well, she can afford it as long as he puts up for it," returned Hurstwood. "He's got a soft job." Hurstwood was looking into the paper. He could not see the look of infinite weariness and discontent Carrie gave him. "She said she thought she'd call here some day." "She's been long getting round to it, hasn't she?" said Hurstwood, with a kind of sarcasm. The woman didn't appeal to him from her spending side. "Oh, I don't know," said Carrie, angered by the man's attitude. "Perhaps I didn't want her to come." "She's too gay," said Hurstwood, significantly. "No one can keep up with her pace unless they've got a lot of money." "Mr. Vance doesn't seem to find it very hard." "He may not now," answered Hurstwood, doggedly, well understanding the inference; "but his life isn't done yet. You can't tell what'll happen. He may get down like anybody else." There was something quite knavish in the man's attitude. His eye seemed to be cocked with a twinkle upon the fortunate, expecting their defeat. His own state seemed a thing apart--not considered. This thing was the remains of his old-time cocksureness and independence. Sitting in his flat, and reading of the doings of other people, sometimes this independent, undefeated mood came upon him. Forgetting the weariness of the streets and the degradation of search, he would sometimes prick up his ears. It was as if he said: "I can do something. I'm not down yet. There's a lot of things coming to me if I want to go after them." It was in this mood that he would occasionally dress up, go for a shave, and, putting on his gloves, sally forth quite actively. Not with any definite aim. It was more a barometric condition. He felt just right for being outside and doing something. On such occasions, his money went also. He knew of several poker rooms down town. A few acquaintances he had in downtown resorts and about the City Hall. It was a change to see them and exchange a few friendly commonplaces. He had once been accustomed to hold a pretty fair hand at poker. Many a friendly game had netted him a hundred dollars or more at the time when that sum was merely sauce to the dish of the game--not the all in all. Now, he thought of playing. "I might win a couple of hundred. I'm not out of practice." It is but fair to say that this thought had occurred to him several times before he acted upon it. The poker room which he first invaded was over a saloon in West Street, near one of the ferries. He had been there before. Several games were going. These he watched for a time and noticed that the pots were quite large for the ante involved. "Deal me a hand," he said at the beginning of a new shuffle. He pulled up a chair and studied his cards. Those playing made that quiet study of him which is so unapparent, and yet invariably so searching. Poor fortune was with him at first. He received a mixed collection without progression or pairs. The pot was opened. "I pass," he said. On the strength of this, he was content to lose his ante. The deals did fairly by him in the long run, causing him to come away with a few dollars to the good. The next afternoon he was back again, seeking amusement and profit. This time he followed up three of a kind to his doom. There was a better hand across the table, held by a pugnacious Irish youth, who was a political hanger-on of the Tammany district in which they were located. Hurstwood was surprised at the persistence of this individual, whose bets came with a sang-froid which, if a bluff, was excellent art. Hurstwood began to doubt, but kept, or thought to keep, at least, the cool demeanour with which, in olden times, he deceived those psychic students of the gaming table, who seem to read thoughts and moods, rather than exterior evidences, however subtle. He could not down the cowardly thought that this man had something better and would stay to the end, drawing his last dollar into the pot, should he choose to go so far. Still, he hoped to win much--his hand was excellent. Why not raise it five more? "I raise you three," said the youth. "Make it five," said Hurstwood, pushing out his chips. "Come again," said the youth, pushing out a small pile of reds. "Let me have some more chips," said Hurstwood to the keeper in charge, taking out a bill. A cynical grin lit up the face of his youthful opponent. When the chips were laid out, Hurstwood met the raise. "Five again," said the youth. Hurstwood's brow was wet. He was deep in now--very deep for him. Sixty dollars of his good money was up. He was ordinarily no coward, but the thought of losing so much weakened him. Finally he gave way. He would not trust to this fine hand any longer. "I call," he said. "A full house!" said the youth, spreading out his cards. Hurstwood's hand dropped. "I thought I had you," he said, weakly. The youth raked in his chips, and Hurstwood came away, not without first stopping to count his remaining cash on the stair. "Three hundred and forty dollars," he said. With this loss and ordinary expenses, so much had already gone. Back in the flat, he decided he would play no more. Remembering Mrs. Vance's promise to call, Carrie made one other mild protest. It was concerning Hurstwood's appearance. This very day, coming home, he changed his clothes to the old togs he sat around in. "What makes you always put on those old clothes?" asked Carrie. "What's the use wearing my good ones around here?" he asked. "Well, I should think you'd feel better." Then she added: "Some one might call." "Who?" he said. "Well, Mrs. Vance," said Carrie. "She needn't see me," he answered, sullenly. This lack of pride and interest made Carrie almost hate him. "Oh," she thought, "there he sits. 'She needn't see me.' I should think he would be ashamed of himself." The real bitterness of this thing was added when Mrs. Vance did call. It was on one of her shopping rounds. Making her way up the commonplace hall, she knocked at Carrie's door. To her subsequent and agonising distress, Carrie was out. Hurstwood opened the door, half-thinking that the knock was Carrie's. For once, he was taken honestly aback. The lost voice of youth and pride spoke in him. "Why," he said, actually stammering, "how do you do?" "How do you do?" said Mrs. Vance, who could scarcely believe her eyes. His great confusion she instantly perceived. He did not know whether to invite her in or not. "Is your wife at home?" she inquired. "No," he said, "Carrie's out; but won't you step in? She'll be back shortly." "No-o," said Mrs. Vance, realising the change of it all. "I'm really very much in a hurry. I thought I'd just run up and look in, but I couldn't stay. Just tell your wife she must come and see me." "I will," said Hurstwood, standing back, and feeling intense relief at her going. He was so ashamed that he folded his hands weakly, as he sat in the chair afterwards, and thought. Carrie, coming in from another direction, thought she saw Mrs. Vance going away. She strained her eyes, but could not make sure. "Was anybody here just now?" she asked of Hurstwood. "Yes," he said guiltily; "Mrs. Vance." "Did she see you?" she asked, expressing her full despair. This cut Hurstwood like a whip, and made him sullen. "If she had eyes, she did. I opened the door." "Oh," said Carrie, closing one hand tightly out of sheer nervousness. "What did she have to say?" "Nothing," he answered. "She couldn't stay." "And you looking like that!" said Carrie, throwing aside a long reserve. "What of it?" he said, angering. "I didn't know she was coming, did I?" "You knew she might," said Carrie. "I told you she said she was coming. I've asked you a dozen times to wear your other clothes. Oh, I think this is just terrible." "Oh, let up," he answered. "What difference does it make? You couldn't associate with her, anyway. They've got too much money. "Who said I wanted to?" said Carrie, fiercely. "Well, you act like it, rowing around over my looks. You'd think I'd committed----" Carrie interrupted: "It's true," she said. "I couldn't if I wanted to, but whose fault is it? You're very free to sit and talk about who I could associate with. Why don't you get out and look for work?" This was a thunderbolt in camp. "What's it to you?" he said, rising, almost fiercely. "I pay the rent, don't I? I furnish the----" "Yes, you pay the rent," said Carrie. "You talk as if there was nothing else in the world but a flat to sit around in. You haven't done a thing for three months except sit around and interfere here. I'd like to know what you married me for?" "I didn't marry you," he said, in a snarling tone. "I'd like to know what you did, then, in Montreal?" she answered. "Well, I didn't marry you," he answered. "You can get that out of your head. You talk as though you didn't know." Carrie looked at him a moment, her eyes distending. She had believed it was all legal and binding enough. "What did you lie to me for, then?" she asked, fiercely. "What did you force me to run away with you for?" Her voice became almost a sob. "Force!" he said, with curled lip. "A lot of forcing I did." "Oh!" said Carrie, breaking under the strain, and turning. "Oh, oh!" and she hurried into the front room. Hurstwood was now hot and waked up. It was a great shaking up for him, both mental and moral. He wiped his brow as he looked around, and then went for his clothes and dressed. Not a sound came from Carrie; she ceased sobbing when she heard him dressing. She thought, at first, with the faintest alarm, of being left without money--not of losing him, though he might be going away permanently. She heard him open the top of the wardrobe and take out his hat. Then the dining-room door closed, and she knew he had gone. After a few moments of silence, she stood up, dry-eyed, and looked out the window. Hurstwood was just strolling up the street, from the flat, toward Sixth Avenue. The latter made progress along Thirteenth and across Fourteenth Street to Union Square. "Look for work!" he said to himself. "Look for work! She tells me to get out and look for work." He tried to shield himself from his own mental accusation, which told him that she was right. "What a cursed thing that Mrs. Vance's call was, anyhow," he thought. "Stood right there, and looked me over. I know what she was thinking." He remembered the few times he had seen her in Seventy-eight Street. She was always a swell-looker, and he had tried to put on the air of being worthy of such as she, in front of her. Now, to think she had caught him looking this way. He wrinkled his forehead in his distress. "The devil!" he said a dozen times in an hour. It was a quarter after four when he left the house. Carrie was in tears. There would be no dinner that night. "What the deuce," he said, swaggering mentally to hide his own shame from himself. "I'm not so bad. I'm not down yet." He looked around the square, and seeing the several large hotels, decided to go to one for dinner. He would get his papers and make himself comfortable there. He ascended into the fine parlour of the Morton House, then one of the best New York hotels, and, finding a cushioned seat, read. It did not trouble him much that his decreasing sum of money did not allow of such extravagance. Like the morphine fiend, he was becoming addicted to his ease. Anything to relieve his mental distress, to satisfy his craving for comfort. He must do it. No thoughts for the morrow--he could not stand to think of it any more than he could of any other calamity. Like the certainty of death, he tried to shut the certainty of soon being without a dollar completely out of his mind, and he came very near doing it. Well-dressed guests moving to and fro over the thick carpets carried him back to the old days. A young lady, a guest of the house, playing a piano in an alcove pleased him. He sat there reading. His dinner cost him $1.50. By eight o'clock he was through, and then, seeing guests leaving and the crowd of pleasure-seekers thickening outside wondered where he should go. Not home. Carrie would be up. No, he would not go back there this evening. He would stay out and knock around as a man who was independent--not broke--well might. He bought a cigar, and went outside on the corner where other individuals were lounging--brokers, racing people, thespians--his own flesh and blood. As he stood there, he thought of the old evenings in Chicago, and how he used to dispose of them. Many's the game he had had. This took him to poker. "I didn't do that thing right the other day," he thought, referring to his loss of sixty dollars. "I shouldn't have weakened. I could have bluffed that fellow down. I wasn't in form, that's what ailed me." Then he studied the possibilities of the game as it had been played, and began to figure how he might have won, in several instances, by bluffing a little harder. "I'm old enough to play poker and do something with it. I'll try my hand to-night." Visions of a big stake floated before him. Supposing he did win a couple of hundred, wouldn't he be in it? Lots of sports he knew made their living at this game, and a good living, too. "They always had as much as I had," he thought. So off he went to a poker room in the neighbourhood, feeling much as he had in the old days. In this period of self-forgetfulness, aroused first by the shock of argument and perfected by a dinner in the hotel, with cocktails and cigars, he was as nearly like the old Hurstwood as he would ever be again. It was not the old Hurstwood--only a man arguing with a divided conscience and lured by a phantom. This poker room was much like the other one, only it was a back room in a better drinking resort. Hurstwood watched a while, and then, seeing an interesting game, joined in. As before, it went easy for a while, he winning a few times and cheering up, losing a few pots and growing more interested and determined on that account. At last the fascinating game took a strong hold on him. He enjoyed its risks and ventured, on a trifling hand, to bluff the company and secure a fair stake. To his self-satisfaction intense and strong, he did it. In the height of this feeling he began to think his luck was with him. No one else had done so well. Now came another moderate hand, and again he tried to open the jack-pot on it. There were others there who were almost reading his heart, so close was their observation. "I have three of a kind," said one of the players to himself. "I'll just stay with that fellow to the finish." The result was that bidding began. "I raise you ten." "Good." "Ten more." "Good." "Ten again." "Right you are." It got to where Hurstwood had seventy-five dollars up. The other man really became serious. Perhaps this individual (Hurstwood) really did have a stiff hand. "I call," he said. Hurstwood showed his hand. He was done. The bitter fact that he had lost seventy-five dollars made him desperate. "Let's have another pot," he said, grimly. "All right," said the man. Some of the other players quit, but observant loungers took their places. Time passed, and it came to twelve o'clock. Hurstwood held on, neither winning nor losing much. Then he grew weary, and on a last hand lost twenty more. He was sick at heart. At a quarter after one in the morning he came out of the place. The chill, bare streets seemed a mockery of his state. He walked slowly west, little thinking of his row with Carrie. He ascended the stairs and went into his room as if there had been no trouble. It was his loss that occupied his mind. Sitting down on the bedside he counted his money. There was now but a hundred and ninety dollars and some change. He put it up and began to undress. "I wonder what's getting into me, anyhow?" he said. In the morning Carrie scarcely spoke and he felt as if he must go out again. He had treated her badly, but he could not afford to make up. Now desperation seized him, and for a day or two, going out thus, he lived like a gentleman--or what he conceived to be a gentleman--which took money. For his escapades he was soon poorer in mind and body, to say nothing of his purse, which had lost thirty by the process. Then he came down to cold, bitter sense again. "The rent man comes to-day," said Carrie, greeting him thus indifferently three mornings later. "He does?" "Yes; this is the second," answered Carrie. Hurstwood frowned. Then in despair he got out his purse. "It seems an awful lot to pay for rent," he said. He was nearing his last hundred dollars. It would be useless to explain how in due time the last fifty dollars was in sight. The seven hundred, by his process of handling, had only carried them into June. Before the final hundred mark was reached he began to indicate that a calamity was approaching. "I don't know," he said one day, taking a trivial expenditure for meat as a text, "it seems to take an awful lot for us to live." "It doesn't seem to me," said Carrie, "that we spend very much." "My money is nearly gone," he said, "and I hardly know where it's gone to." "All that seven hundred dollars?" asked Carrie. "All but a hundred." He looked so disconsolate that it scared her. She began to see that she herself had been drifting. She had felt it all the time. "Well, George," she exclaimed, "why don't you get out and look for something? You could find something." "I have looked," he said. "You can t make people give you a place." She gazed weakly at him and said: "Well, what do you think you will do? A hundred dollars won't last long." "I don't know," he said. "I can't do any more than look." Carrie became frightened over this announcement. She thought desperately upon the subject. Frequently she had considered the stage as a door through which she might enter that gilded state which she had so much craved. Now, as in Chicago, it came as a last resource in distress. Something must be done if he did not get work soon. Perhaps she would have to go out and battle again alone. She began to wonder how one would go about getting a place. Her experience in Chicago proved that she had not tried the right way. There must be people who would listen to and try you--men who would give you an opportunity. They were talking at the breakfast table, a morning or two later, when she brought up the dramatic subject by saying that she saw that Sarah Bernhardt was coming to this country. Hurstwood had seen it, too. "How do people get on the stage, George?" she finally asked, innocently. "I don't know," he said. "There must be dramatic agents." Carrie was sipping coffee, and did not look up. "Regular people who get you a place?" "Yes, I think so," he answered. Suddenly the air with which she asked attracted his attention. "You're not still thinking about being an actress, are you?" he asked. "No," she answered, "I was just wondering." Without being clear, there was something in the thought which he objected to. He did not believe any more, after three years of observation, that Carrie would ever do anything great in that line. She seemed too simple, too yielding. His idea of the art was that it involved something more pompous. If she tried to get on the stage she would fall into the hands of some cheap manager and become like the rest of them. He had a good idea of what he meant by THEM. Carrie was pretty. She would get along all right, but where would he be? "I'd get that idea out of my head, if I were you. It's a lot more difficult than you think." Carrie felt this to contain, in some way, an aspersion upon her ability. "You said I did real well in Chicago," she rejoined. "You did," he answered, seeing that he was arousing opposition, "but Chicago isn't New York, by a big jump." Carrie did not answer this at all. It hurt her. "The stage," he went on, "is all right if you can be one of the big guns, but there's nothing to the rest of it. It takes a long while to get up." "Oh, I don't know," said Carrie, slightly aroused. In a flash, he thought he foresaw the result of this thing. Now, when the worst of his situation was approaching, she would get on the stage in some cheap way and forsake him. Strangely, he had not conceived well of her mental ability. That was because he did not understand the nature of emotional greatness. He had never learned that a person might be emotionally--instead of intellectually--great. Avery Hall was too far away for him to look back and sharply remember. He had lived with this woman too long. "Well, I do," he answered. "If I were you I wouldn't think of it. It's not much of a profession for a woman." "It's better than going hungry," said Carrie. "If you don't want me to do that, why don't you get work yourself?" There was no answer ready for this. He had got used to the suggestion. "Oh, let up," he answered. The result of this was that she secretly resolved to try. It didn't matter about him. She was not going to be dragged into poverty and something worse to suit him. She could act. She could get something and then work up. What would he say then? She pictured herself already appearing in some fine performance on Broadway; of going every evening to her dressing-room and making up. Then she would come out at eleven o'clock and see the carriages ranged about, waiting for the people. It did not matter whether she was the star or not. If she were only once in, getting a decent salary, wearing the kind of clothes she liked, having the money to do with, going here and there as she pleased, how delightful it would all be. Her mind ran over this picture all the day long. Hurstwood's dreary state made its beauty become more and more vivid. Curiously this idea soon took hold of Hurstwood. His vanishing sum suggested that he would need sustenance. Why could not Carrie assist him a little until he could get something? He came in one day with something of this idea in his mind. "I met John B. Drake to-day," he said. "He's going to open a hotel here in the fall. He says that he can make a place for me then." "Who is he?" asked Carrie. "He's the man that runs the Grand Pacific in Chicago." "Oh," said Carrie. "I'd get about fourteen hundred a year out of that." "That would be good, wouldn't it?" she said, sympathetically. "If I can only get over this summer," he added, "I think I'll be all right. I'm hearing from some of my friends again." Carrie swallowed this story in all its pristine beauty. She sincerely wished he could get through the summer. He looked so hopeless. "How much money have you left?" "Only fifty dollars." "Oh, mercy," she exclaimed, "what will we do? It's only twenty days until the rent will be due again." Hurstwood rested his head on his hands and looked blankly at the floor. "Maybe you could get something in the stage line?" he blandly suggested. "Maybe I could," said Carrie, glad that some one approved of the idea. "I'll lay my hand to whatever I can get," he said, now that he saw her brighten up. "I can get something." She cleaned up the things one morning after he had gone, dressed as neatly as her wardrobe permitted, and set out for Broadway. She did not know that thoroughfare very well. To her it was a wonderful conglomeration of everything great and mighty. The theatres were there--these agencies must be somewhere about. She decided to stop in at the Madison Square Theatre and ask how to find the theatrical agents. This seemed the sensible way. Accordingly, when she reached that theatre she applied to the clerk at the box office. "Eh?" he said, looking out. "Dramatic agents? I don't know. You'll find them in the 'Clipper,' though. They all advertise in that." "Is that a paper?" said Carrie. "Yes," said the clerk, marvelling at such ignorance of a common fact. "You can get it at the news-stands," he added politely, seeing how pretty the inquirer was. Carrie proceeded to get the "Clipper," and tried to find the agents by looking over it as she stood beside the stand. This could not be done so easily. Thirteenth Street was a number of blocks off, but she went back, carrying the precious paper and regretting the waste of time. Hurstwood was already there, sitting in his place. "Where were you?" he asked. "I've been trying to find some dramatic agents." He felt a little diffident about asking concerning her success. The paper she began to scan attracted his attention. "What have you got there?" he asked. "The 'Clipper.' The man said I'd find their addresses in here." "Have you been all the way over to Broadway to find that out? I could have told you." "Why didn't you?" she asked, without looking up. "You never asked me," he returned. She went hunting aimlessly through the crowded columns. Her mind was distracted by this man's indifference. The difficulty of the situation she was facing was only added to by all he did. Self-commiseration brewed in her heart. Tears trembled along her eyelids but did not fall. Hurstwood noticed something. "Let me look." To recover herself she went into the front room while he searched. Presently she returned. He had a pencil, and was writing upon an envelope. "Here're three," he said. Carrie took it and found that one was Mrs. Bermudez, another Marcus Jenks, a third Percy Weil. She paused only a moment, and then moved toward the door. "I might as well go right away," she said, without looking back. Hurstwood saw her depart with some faint stirrings of shame, which were the expression of a manhood rapidly becoming stultified. He sat a while, and then it became too much. He got up and put on his hat. "I guess I'll go out," he said to himself, and went, strolling nowhere in particular, but feeling somehow that he must go. Carrie's first call was upon Mrs. Bermudez, whose address was quite the nearest. It was an old-fashioned residence turned into offices. Mrs. Bermudez's offices consisted of what formerly had been a back chamber and a hall bedroom, marked "Private." As Carrie entered she noticed several persons lounging about--men, who said nothing and did nothing. While she was waiting to be noticed, the door of the hall bedroom opened and from it issued two very mannish-looking women, very tightly dressed, and wearing white collars and cuffs. After them came a portly lady of about forty-five, light-haired, sharp-eyed, and evidently good-natured. At least she was smiling. "Now, don't forget about that," said one of the mannish women. "I won't," said the portly woman. "Let's see," she added, "where are you the first week in February?" "Pittsburg," said the woman. "I'll write you there." "All right," said the other, and the two passed out. Instantly the portly lady's face became exceedingly sober and shrewd. She turned about and fixed on Carrie a very searching eye. "Well," she said, "young woman, what can I do for you?" "Are you Mrs. Bermudez?" "Yes." "Well," said Carrie, hesitating how to begin, "do you get places for persons upon the stage?" "Yes." "Could you get me one?" "Have you ever had any experience?" "A very little," said Carrie. "Whom did you play with?" "Oh, with no one," said Carrie. "It was just a show gotten----" "Oh, I see," said the woman, interrupting her. "No, I don't know of anything now." Carrie's countenance fell. "You want to get some New York experience," concluded the affable Mrs. Bermudez. "We'll take your name, though." Carrie stood looking while the lady retired to her office. "What is your address?" inquired a young lady behind the counter, taking up the curtailed conversation. "Mrs. George Wheeler," said Carrie, moving over to where she was writing. The woman wrote her address in full and then allowed her to depart at her leisure. She encountered a very similar experience in the office of Mr. Jenks, only he varied it by saying at the close: "If you could play at some local house, or had a programme with your name on it, I might do something." In the third place the individual asked: "What sort of work do you want to do?" "What do you mean?" said Carrie. "Well, do you want to get in a comedy or on the vaudeville or in the chorus?" "Oh, I'd like to get a part in a play," said Carrie. "Well," said the man, "it'll cost you something to do that." "How much?" said Carrie, who, ridiculous as it may seem, had not thought of this before. "Well, that's for you to say," he answered shrewdly. Carrie looked at him curiously. She hardly knew how to continue the inquiry. "Could you get me a part if I paid?" "If we didn't you'd get your money back." "Oh," she said. The agent saw he was dealing with an inexperienced soul, and continued accordingly. "You'd want to deposit fifty dollars, anyway. No agent would trouble about you for less than that." Carrie saw a light. "Thank you," she said. "I'll think about it." She started to go, and then bethought herself. "How soon would I get a place?" she asked. "Well, that's hard to say," said the man. "You might get one in a week, or it might be a month. You'd get the first thing that we thought you could do." "I see," said Carrie, and then, half-smiling to be agreeable, she walked out. The agent studied a moment, and then said to himself: "It's funny how anxious these women are to get on the stage." Carrie found ample food for reflection in the fifty-dollar proposition. "Maybe they'd take my money and not give me anything," she thought. She had some jewelry--a diamond ring and pin and several other pieces. She could get fifty dollars for those if she went to a pawnbroker. Hurstwood was home before her. He had not thought she would be so long seeking. "Well?" he said, not venturing to ask what news. "I didn't find out anything to-day," said Carrie, taking off her gloves. "They all want money to get you a place." "How much?" asked Hurstwood. "Fifty dollars." "They don't want anything, do they?" "Oh, they're like everybody else. You can't tell whether they'd ever get you anything after you did pay them." "Well, I wouldn't put up fifty on that basis," said Hurstwood, as if he were deciding, money in hand. "I don't know," said Carrie. "I think I'll try some of the managers." Hurstwood heard this, dead to the horror of it. He rocked a little to and fro, and chewed at his finger. It seemed all very natural in such extreme states. He would do better later on. When Carrie renewed her search, as she did the next day, going to the Casino, she found that in the opera chorus, as in other fields, employment is difficult to secure. Girls who can stand in a line and look pretty are as numerous as labourers who can swing a pick. She found there was no discrimination between one and the other of applicants, save as regards a conventional standard of prettiness and form. Their own opinion or knowledge of their ability went for nothing. "Where shall I find Mr. Gray?" she asked of a sulky doorman at the stage entrance of the Casino. "You can't see him now; he's busy." "Do you know when I can see him?" "Got an appointment with him?" "No." "Well, you'll have to call at his office." "Oh, dear!" exclaimed Carrie. "Where is his office?" He gave her the number. She knew there was no need of calling there now. He would not be in. Nothing remained but to employ the intermediate hours in search. The dismal story of ventures in other places is quickly told. Mr. Daly saw no one save by appointment. Carrie waited an hour in a dingy office, quite in spite of obstacles, to learn this fact of the placid, indifferent Mr. Dorney. "You will have to write and ask him to see you." So she went away. At the Empire Theatre she found a hive of peculiarly listless and indifferent individuals. Everything ornately upholstered, everything carefully finished, everything remarkably reserved. At the Lyceum she entered one of those secluded, under-stairway closets, berugged and bepaneled, which causes one to feel the greatness of all positions of authority. Here was reserve itself done into a box-office clerk, a doorman, and an assistant, glorying in their fine positions. "Ah, be very humble now--very humble indeed. Tell us what it is you require. Tell it quickly, nervously, and without a vestige of self-respect. If no trouble to us in any way, we may see what we can do." This was the atmosphere of the Lyceum--the attitude, for that matter, of every managerial office in the city. These little proprietors of businesses are lords indeed on their own ground. Carrie came away wearily, somewhat more abashed for her pains. Hurstwood heard the details of the weary and unavailing search that evening. "I didn't get to see any one," said Carrie. "I just walked, and walked, and waited around." Hurstwood only looked at her. "I suppose you have to have some friends before you can get in," she added, disconsolately. Hurstwood saw the difficulty of this thing, and yet it did not seem so terrible. Carrie was tired and dispirited, but now she could rest. Viewing the world from his rocking-chair, its bitterness did not seem to approach so rapidly. To-morrow was another day. To-morrow came, and the next, and the next. Carrie saw the manager at the Casino once. "Come around," he said, "the first of next week. I may make some changes then." He was a large and corpulent individual, surfeited with good clothes and good eating, who judged women as another would horseflesh. Carrie was pretty and graceful. She might be put in even if she did not have any experience. One of the proprietors had suggested that the chorus was a little weak on looks. The first of next week was some days off yet. The first of the month was drawing near. Carrie began to worry as she had never worried before. "Do you really look for anything when you go out?" she asked Hurstwood one morning as a climax to some painful thoughts of her own. "Of course I do," he said pettishly, troubling only a little over the disgrace of the insinuation. "I'd take anything," she said, "for the present. It will soon be the first of the month again." She looked the picture of despair. Hurstwood quit reading his paper and changed his clothes. "He would look for something," he thought. "He would go and see if some brewery couldn't get him in somewhere. Yes, he would take a position as bartender, if he could get it." It was the same sort of pilgrimage he had made before. One or two slight rebuffs, and the bravado disappeared. "No use," he thought. "I might as well go on back home." Now that his money was so low, he began to observe his clothes and feel that even his best ones were beginning to look commonplace. This was a bitter thought. Carrie came in after he did. "I went to see some of the variety managers," she said, aimlessly. "You have to have an act. They don't want anybody that hasn't." "I saw some of the brewery people to-day," said Hurstwood. "One man told me he'd try to make a place for me in two or three weeks." In the face of so much distress on Carrie's part, he had to make some showing, and it was thus he did so. It was lassitude's apology to energy. Monday Carrie went again to the Casino. "Did I tell you to come around to day?" said the manager, looking her over as she stood before him. "You said the first of the week," said Carrie, greatly abashed. "Ever had any experience?" he asked again, almost severely. Carrie owned to ignorance. He looked her over again as he stirred among some papers. He was secretly pleased with this pretty, disturbed-looking young woman. "Come around to the theatre to-morrow morning." Carrie's heart bounded to her throat. "I will," she said with difficulty. She could see he wanted her, and turned to go. "Would he really put her to work? Oh, blessed fortune, could it be?" Already the hard rumble of the city through the open windows became pleasant. A sharp voice answered her mental interrogation, driving away all immediate fears on that score. "Be sure you're there promptly," the manager said roughly. "You'll be dropped if you're not." Carrie hastened away. She did not quarrel now with Hurstwood's idleness. She had a place--she had a place! This sang in her ears. In her delight she was almost anxious to tell Hurstwood. But, as she walked homeward, and her survey of the facts of the case became larger, she began to think of the anomaly of her finding work in several weeks and his lounging in idleness for a number of months. "Why don't he get something?" she openly said to herself. "If I can he surely ought to. It wasn't very hard for me." She forgot her youth and her beauty. The handicap of age she did not, in her enthusiasm, perceive. Thus, ever, the voice of success. Still, she could not keep her secret. She tried to be calm and indifferent, but it was a palpable sham. "Well?" he said, seeing her relieved face. "I have a place." "You have?" he said, breathing a better breath. "Yes." "What sort of a place is it?" he asked, feeling in his veins as if now he might get something good also. "In the chorus," she answered. "Is it the Casino show you told me about?" "Yes," she answered. "I begin rehearsing to-morrow." There was more explanation volunteered by Carrie, because she was happy. At last Hurstwood said: "Do you know how much you'll get?" "No, I didn't want to ask," said Carrie. "I guess they pay twelve or fourteen dollars a week." "About that, I guess," said Hurstwood. There was a good dinner in the flat that evening, owing to the mere lifting of the terrible strain. Hurstwood went out for a shave, and returned with a fair-sized sirloin steak. "Now, to-morrow," he thought, "I'll look around myself," and with renewed hope he lifted his eyes from the ground. On the morrow Carrie reported promptly and was given a place in the line. She saw a large, empty, shadowy play-house, still redolent of the perfumes and blazonry of the night, and notable for its rich, oriental appearance. The wonder of it awed and delighted her. Blessed be its wondrous reality. How hard she would try to be worthy of it. It was above the common mass, above idleness, above want, above insignificance. People came to it in finery and carriages to see. It was ever a centre of light and mirth. And here she was of it. Oh, if she could only remain, how happy would be her days! "What is your name?" said the manager, who was conducting the drill. "Madenda," she replied, instantly mindful of the name Drouet had selected in Chicago. "Carrie Madenda." "Well, now, Miss Madenda," he said, very affably, as Carrie thought, "you go over there." Then he called to a young woman who was already of the company: "Miss Clark, you pair with Miss Madenda." This young lady stepped forward, so that Carrie saw where to go, and the rehearsal began. Carrie soon found that while this drilling had some slight resemblance to the rehearsals as conducted at Avery Hall, the attitude of the manager was much more pronounced. She had marvelled at the insistence and superior airs of Mr. Millice, but the individual conducting here had the same insistence, coupled with almost brutal roughness. As the drilling proceeded, he seemed to wax exceedingly wroth over trifles, and to increase his lung power in proportion. It was very evident that he had a great contempt for any assumption of dignity or innocence on the part of these young women. "Clark," he would call--meaning, of course, Miss Clark--"why don't you catch step there?" "By fours, right! Right, I said, right! For heaven's sake, get on to yourself! Right!" and in saying this he would lift the last sounds into a vehement roar. "Maitland! Maitland!" he called once. A nervous, comely-dressed little girl stepped out. Carrie trembled for her out of the fulness of her own sympathies and fear. "Yes, sir," said Miss Maitland. "Is there anything the matter with your ears?" "No, sir." "Do you know what 'column left' means?" "Yes, sir." "Well, what are you stumbling around the right for? Want to break up the line?" "I was just" "Never mind what you were just. Keep your ears open." Carrie pitied, and trembled for her turn. Yet another suffered the pain of personal rebuke. "Hold on a minute," cried the manager, throwing up his hands, as if in despair. His demeanour was fierce. "Elvers," he shouted, "what have you got in your mouth?" "Nothing," said Miss Elvers, while some smiled and stood nervously by. "Well, are you talking?" "No, sir." "Well, keep your mouth still then. Now, all together again." At last Carrie's turn came. It was because of her extreme anxiety to do all that was required that brought on the trouble. She heard some one called. "Mason," said the voice. "Miss Mason." She looked around to see who it could be. A girl behind shoved her a little, but she did not understand. "You, you!" said the manager. "Can't you hear?" "Oh," said Carrie, collapsing, and blushing fiercely. "Isn't your name Mason?" asked the manager. "No, sir," said Carrie, "it's Madenda." "Well, what's the matter with your feet? Can't you dance?" "Yes, sir," said Carrie, who had long since learned this art. "Why don't you do it then? Don't go shuffling along as if you were dead. I've got to have people with life in them." Carrie's cheek burned with a crimson heat. Her lips trembled a little. "Yes, sir," she said. It was this constant urging, coupled with irascibility and energy, for three long hours. Carrie came away worn enough in body, but too excited in mind to notice it. She meant to go home and practise her evolutions as prescribed. She would not err in any way, if she could help it. When she reached the flat Hurstwood was not there. For a wonder he was out looking for work, as she supposed. She took only a mouthful to eat and then practised on, sustained by visions of freedom from financial distress--"The sound of glory ringing in her ears." When Hurstwood returned he was not so elated as when he went away, and now she was obliged to drop practice and get dinner. Here was an early irritation. She would have her work and this. Was she going to act and keep house? "I'll not do it," she said, "after I get started. He can take his meals out." Each day thereafter brought its cares. She found it was not such a wonderful thing to be in the chorus, and she also learned that her salary would be twelve dollars a week. After a few days she had her first sight of those high and mighties--the leading ladies and gentlemen. She saw that they were privileged and deferred to. She was nothing--absolutely nothing at all. At home was Hurstwood, daily giving her cause for thought. He seemed to get nothing to do, and yet he made bold to inquire how she was getting along. The regularity with which he did this smacked of some one who was waiting to live upon her labour. Now that she had a visible means of support, this irritated her. He seemed to be depending upon her little twelve dollars. "How are you getting along?" he would blandly inquire. "Oh, all right," she would reply. "Find it easy?" "It will be all right when I get used to it." His paper would then engross his thoughts. "I got some lard," he would add, as an afterthought. "I thought maybe you might want to make some biscuit." The calm suggestion of the man astonished her a little, especially in the light of recent developments. Her dawning independence gave her more courage to observe, and she felt as if she wanted to say things. Still she could not talk to him as she had to Drouet. There was something in the man's manner of which she had always stood in awe. He seemed to have some invisible strength in reserve. One day, after her first week's rehearsal, what she expected came openly to the surface. "We'll have to be rather saving," he said, laying down some meat he had purchased. "You won't get any money for a week or so yet." "No," said Carrie, who was stirring a pan at the stove. "I've only got the rent and thirteen dollars more," he added. "That's it," she said to herself. "I'm to use my money now." Instantly she remembered that she had hoped to buy a few things for herself. She needed clothes. Her hat was not nice. "What will twelve dollars do towards keeping up this flat?" she thought. "I can't do it. Why doesn't he get something to do?" The important night of the first real performance came. She did not suggest to Hurstwood that he come and see. He did not think of going. It would only be money wasted. She had such a small part. The advertisements were already in the papers; the posters upon the bill-boards. The leading lady and many members were cited. Carrie was nothing. As in Chicago, she was seized with stage fright as the very first entrance of the ballet approached, but later she recovered. The apparent and painful insignificance of the part took fear away from her. She felt that she was so obscure it did not matter. Fortunately, she did not have to wear tights. A group of twelve were assigned pretty golden-hued skirts which came only to a line about an inch above the knee. Carrie happened to be one of the twelve. In standing about the stage, marching, and occasionally lifting up her voice in the general chorus, she had a chance to observe the audience and to see the inauguration of a great hit. There was plenty of applause, but she could not help noting how poorly some of the women of alleged ability did. "I could do better than that," Carrie ventured to herself, in several instances. To do her justice, she was right. After it was over she dressed quickly, and as the manager had scolded some others and passed her, she imagined she must have proved satisfactory. She wanted to get out quickly, because she knew but few, and the stars were gossiping. Outside were carriages and some correct youths in attractive clothing, waiting. Carrie saw that she was scanned closely. The flutter of an eyelash would have brought her a companion. That she did not give. One experienced youth volunteered, anyhow. "Not going home alone, are you?" he said. Carrie merely hastened her steps and took the Sixth Avenue car. Her head was so full of the wonder of it that she had time for nothing else. "Did you hear any more from the brewery?" she asked at the end of the week, hoping by the question to stir him on to action. "No," he answered, "they're not quite ready yet. I think something will come of that, though." She said nothing more then, objecting to giving up her own money, and yet feeling that such would have to be the case. Hurstwood felt the crisis, and artfully decided to appeal to Carrie. He had long since realised how good-natured she was, how much she would stand. There was some little shame in him at the thought of doing so, but he justified himself with the thought that he really would get something. Rent day gave him his opportunity. "Well," he said, as he counted it out, "that's about the last of my money. I'll have to get something pretty soon." Carrie looked at him askance, half-suspicious of an appeal. "If I could only hold out a little longer I think I could get something. Drake is sure to open a hotel here in September." "Is he?" said Carrie, thinking of the short month that still remained until that time. "Would you mind helping me out until then?" he said appealingly. "I think I'll be all right after that time." "No," said Carrie, feeling sadly handicapped by fate. "We can get along if we economise. I'll pay you back all right." "Oh, I'll help you," said Carrie, feeling quite hardhearted at thus forcing him to humbly appeal, and yet her desire for the benefit of her earnings wrung a faint protest from her. "Why don't you take anything, George, temporarily?" she said. "What difference does it make? Maybe, after a while, you'll get something better." "I will take anything," he said, relieved, and wincing under reproof. "I'd just as leave dig on the streets. Nobody knows me here." "Oh, you needn't do that," said Carrie, hurt by the pity of it. "But there must be other things." "I'll get something!" he said, assuming determination. Then he went back to his paper. What Hurstwood got as the result of this determination was more self-assurance that each particular day was not the day. At the same time, Carrie passed through thirty days of mental distress. Her need of clothes--to say nothing of her desire for ornaments--grew rapidly as the fact developed that for all her work she was not to have them. The sympathy she felt for Hurstwood, at the time he asked her to tide him over, vanished with these newer urgings of decency. He was not always renewing his request, but this love of good appearance was. It insisted, and Carrie wished to satisfy it, wished more and more that Hurstwood was not in the way. Hurstwood reasoned, when he neared the last ten dollars, that he had better keep a little pocket change and not become wholly dependent for car-fare, shaves, and the like; so when this sum was still in his hand he announced himself as penniless. "I'm clear out," he said to Carrie one afternoon. "I paid for some coal this morning, and that took all but ten or fifteen cents." "I've got some money there in my purse." Hurstwood went to get it, starting for a can of tomatoes. Carrie scarcely noticed that this was the beginning of the new order. He took out fifteen cents and bought the can with it. Thereafter it was dribs and drabs of this sort, until one morning Carrie suddenly remembered that she would not be back until close to dinner time. "We're all out of flour," she said; "you'd better get some this afternoon. We haven't any meat, either. How would it do if we had liver and bacon?" "Suits me," said Hurstwood. "Better get a half or three-quarters of a pound of that." "Half 'll be enough," volunteered Hurstwood. She opened her purse and laid down a half dollar. He pretended not to notice it. Hurstwood bought the flour--which all grocers sold in 3 1/2-pound packages--for thirteen cents and paid fifteen cents for a half-pound of liver and bacon. He left the packages, together with the balance of twenty-two cents, upon the kitchen table, where Carrie found it. It did not escape her that the change was accurate. There was something sad in realising that, after all, all that he wanted of her was something to eat. She felt as if hard thoughts were unjust. Maybe he would get something yet. He had no vices. That very evening, however, on going into the theatre, one of the chorus girls passed her all newly arrayed in a pretty mottled tweed suit, which took Carrie's eye. The young woman wore a fine bunch of violets and seemed in high spirits. She smiled at Carrie good-naturedly as she passed, showing pretty, even teeth, and Carrie smiled back. "She can afford to dress well," thought Carrie, "and so could I, if I could only keep my money. I haven't a decent tie of any kind to wear." She put out her foot and looked at her shoe reflectively. "I'll get a pair of shoes Saturday, anyhow; I don't care what happens." One of the sweetest and most sympathetic little chorus girls in the company made friends with her because in Carrie she found nothing to frighten her away. She was a gay little Manon, unwitting of society's fierce conception of morality, but, nevertheless, good to her neighbour and charitable. Little license was allowed the chorus in the matter of conversation, but, nevertheless, some was indulged in. "It's warm to-night, isn't it?" said this girl, arrayed in pink fleshings and an imitation golden helmet. She also carried a shining shield. "Yes; it is," said Carrie, pleased that some one should talk to her. "I'm almost roasting," said the girl. Carrie looked into her pretty face, with its large blue eyes, and saw little beads of moisture. "There's more marching in this opera than ever I did before," added the girl. "Have you been in others?" asked Carrie, surprised at her experience. "Lots of them," said the girl; "haven't you?" "This is my first experience." "Oh, is it? I thought I saw you the time they ran 'The Queen's Mate' here." "No," said Carrie, shaking her head; "not me." This conversation was interrupted by the blare of the orchestra and the sputtering of the calcium lights in the wings as the line was called to form for a new entrance. No further opportunity for conversation occurred, but the next evening, when they were getting ready for the stage, this girl appeared anew at her side. "They say this show is going on the road next month." "Is it?" said Carrie. "Yes; do you think you'll go?" "I don't know; I guess so, if they'll take me." "Oh, they'll take you. I wouldn't go. They won't give you any more, and it will cost you everything you make to live. I never leave New York. There are too many shows going on here." "Can you always get in another show?" "I always have. There's one going on up at the Broadway this month. I'm going to try and get in that if this one really goes." Carrie heard this with aroused intelligence. Evidently it wasn't so very difficult to get on. Maybe she also could get a place if this show went away. "Do they all pay about the same?" she asked. "Yes. Sometimes you get a little more. This show doesn't pay very much." "I get twelve," said Carrie. "Do you?" said the girl. "They pay me fifteen, and you do more work than I do. I wouldn't stand it if I were you. They're just giving you less because they think you don't know. You ought to be making fifteen." "Well, I'm not," said Carrie. "Well, you'll get more at the next place if you want it," went on the girl, who admired Carrie very much. "You do fine, and the manager knows it." To say the truth, Carrie did unconsciously move about with an air pleasing and somewhat distinctive. It was due wholly to her natural manner and total lack of self-consciousness. "Do you suppose I could get more up at the Broadway?" "Of course you can," answered the girl. "You come with me when I go. I'll do the talking." Carrie heard this, flushing with thankfulness. She liked this little gaslight soldier. She seemed so experienced and self-reliant in her tinsel helmet and military accoutrements. "My future must be assured if I can always get work this way," thought Carrie. Still, in the morning, when her household duties would infringe upon her and Hurstwood sat there, a perfect load to contemplate, her fate seemed dismal and unrelieved. It did not take so very much to feed them under Hurstwood's close-measured buying, and there would possibly be enough for rent, but it left nothing else. Carrie bought the shoes and some other things, which complicated the rent problem very seriously. Suddenly, a week from the fatal day, Carrie realised that they were going to run short. "I don't believe," she exclaimed, looking into her purse at breakfast, "that I'll have enough to pay the rent." "How much have you?" inquired Hurstwood. "Well, I've got twenty-two dollars, but there's everything to be paid for this week yet, and if I use all I get Saturday to pay this, there won't be any left for next week. Do you think your hotel man will open his hotel this month?" "I think so," returned Hurstwood. "He said he would." After a while, Hurstwood said: "Don't worry about it. Maybe the grocer will wait. He can do that. We've traded there long enough to make him trust us for a week or two." "Do you think he will?" she asked. "I think so." On this account, Hurstwood, this very day, looked grocer Oeslogge clearly in the eye as he ordered a pound of coffee, and said: "Do you mind carrying my account until the end of every week?" "No, no, Mr. Wheeler," said Mr. Oeslogge. "Dat iss all right." Hurstwood, still tactful in distress, added nothing to this. It seemed an easy thing. He looked out of the door, and then gathered up his coffee when ready and came away. The game of a desperate man had begun. Rent was paid, and now came the grocer. Hurstwood managed by paying out of his own ten and collecting from Carrie at the end of the week. Then he delayed a day next time settling with the grocer, and so soon had his ten back, with Oeslogge getting his pay on this Thursday or Friday for last Saturday's bill. This entanglement made Carrie anxious for a change of some sort. Hurstwood did not seem to realise that she had a right to anything. He schemed to make what she earned cover all expenses, but seemed not to trouble over adding anything himself. "He talks about worrying," thought Carrie. "If he worried enough he couldn't sit there and wait for me. He'd get something to do. No man could go seven months without finding something if he tried." The sight of him always around in his untidy clothes and gloomy appearance drove Carrie to seek relief in other places. Twice a week there were matinees, and then Hurstwood ate a cold snack, which he prepared himself. Two other days there were rehearsals beginning at ten in the morning and lasting usually until one. Now, to this Carrie added a few visits to one or two chorus girls, including the blue-eyed soldier of the golden helmet. She did it because it was pleasant and a relief from dulness of the home over which her husband brooded. The blue-eyed soldier's name was Osborne--Lola Osborne. Her room was in Nineteenth Street near Fourth Avenue, a block now given up wholly to office buildings. Here she had a comfortable back room, looking over a collection of back yards in which grew a number of shade trees pleasant to see. "Isn't your home in New York?" she asked of Lola one day. "Yes; but I can't get along with my people. They always want me to do what they want. Do you live here?" "Yes," said Carrie. "With your family?" Carrie was ashamed to say that she was married. She had talked so much about getting more salary and confessed to so much anxiety about her future, that now, when the direct question of fact was waiting, she could not tell this girl. "With some relatives," she answered. Miss Osborne took it for granted that, like herself, Carrie's time was her own. She invariably asked her to stay, proposing little outings and other things of that sort until Carrie began neglecting her dinner hours. Hurstwood noticed it, but felt in no position to quarrel with her. Several times she came so late as scarcely to have an hour in which to patch up a meal and start for the theatre. "Do you rehearse in the afternoons?" Hurstwood once asked, concealing almost completely the cynical protest and regret which prompted it. "No; I was looking around for another place," said Carrie. As a matter of fact she was, but only in such a way as furnished the least straw of an excuse. Miss Osborne and she had gone to the office of the manager who was to produce the new opera at the Broadway and returned straight to the former's room, where they had been since three o'clock. Carrie felt this question to be an infringement on her liberty. She did not take into account how much liberty she was securing. Only the latest step, the newest freedom, must not be questioned. Hurstwood saw it all clearly enough. He was shrewd after his kind, and yet there was enough decency in the man to stop him from making any effectual protest. In his almost inexplicable apathy he was content to droop supinely while Carrie drifted out of his life, just as he was willing supinely to see opportunity pass beyond his control. He could not help clinging and protesting in a mild, irritating, and ineffectual way, however--a way that simply widened the breach by slow degrees. A further enlargement of this chasm between them came when the manager, looking between the wings upon the brightly lighted stage where the chorus was going through some of its glittering evolutions, said to the master of the ballet: "Who is that fourth girl there on the right--the one coming round at the end now?" "Oh," said the ballet-master, "that's Miss Madenda." "She's good looking. Why don't you let her head that line?" "I will," said the man. "Just do that. She'll look better there than the woman you've got." "All right. I will do that," said the master. The next evening Carrie was called out, much as if for an error. "You lead your company to night," said the master. "Yes, sir," said Carrie. "Put snap into it," he added. "We must have snap." "Yes, sir," replied Carrie. Astonished at this change, she thought that the heretofore leader must be ill; but when she saw her in the line, with a distinct expression of something unfavourable in her eye, she began to think that perhaps it was merit. She had a chic way of tossing her head to one side, and holding her arms as if for action--not listlessly. In front of the line this showed up even more effectually. "That girl knows how to carry herself," said the manager, another evening. He began to think that he should like to talk with her. If he hadn't made it a rule to have nothing to do with the members of the chorus, he would have approached her most unbendingly. "Put that girl at the head of the white column," he suggested to the man in charge of the ballet. This white column consisted of some twenty girls, all in snow-white flannel trimmed with silver and blue. Its leader was most stunningly arrayed in the same colours, elaborated, however, with epaulets and a belt of silver, with a short sword dangling at one side. Carrie was fitted for this costume, and a few days later appeared, proud of her new laurels. She was especially gratified to find that her salary was now eighteen instead of twelve. Hurstwood heard nothing about this. "I'll not give him the rest of my money," said Carrie. "I do enough. I am going to get me something to wear." As a matter of fact, during this second month she had been buying for herself as recklessly as she dared, regardless of the consequences. There were impending more complications rent day, and more extension of the credit system in the neighbourhood. Now, however, she proposed to do better by herself. Her first move was to buy a shirt waist, and in studying these she found how little her money would buy--how much, if she could only use all. She forgot that if she were alone she would have to pay for a room and board, and imagined that every cent of her eighteen could be spent for clothes and things that she liked. At last she picked upon something, which not only used up all her surplus above twelve, but invaded that sum. She knew she was going too far, but her feminine love of finery prevailed. The next day Hurstwood said: "We owe the grocer five dollars and forty cents this week." "Do we?" said Carrie, frowning a little. She looked in her purse to leave it. "I've only got eight dollars and twenty cents altogether." "We owe the milkman sixty cents," added Hurstwood. "Yes, and there's the coal man," said Carrie. Hurstwood said nothing. He had seen the new things she was buying; the way she was neglecting household duties; the readiness with which she was slipping out afternoons and staying. He felt that something was going to happen. All at once she spoke: "I don't know," she said; "I can't do it all. I don't earn enough." This was a direct challenge. Hurstwood had to take it up. He tried to be calm. "I don't want you to do it all," he said. "I only want a little help until I can get something to do." "Oh, yes," answered Carrie. "That's always the way. It takes more than I can earn to pay for things. I don't see what I'm going to do. "Well, I've tried to get something," he exclaimed. What do you want me to do?" "You couldn't have tried so very hard," said Carrie. "I got something." "Well, I did," he said, angered almost to harsh words. "You needn't throw up your success to me. All I asked was a little help until I could get something. I'm not down yet. I'll come up all right." He tried to speak steadily, but his voice trembled a little. Carrie's anger melted on the instant. She felt ashamed. "Well," she said, "here's the money," and emptied it out on the table. "I haven't got quite enough to pay it all. If they can wait until Saturday, though, I'll have some more." "You keep it," said Hurstwood sadly. "I only want enough to pay the grocer." She put it back, and proceeded to get dinner early and in good time. Her little bravado made her feel as if she ought to make amends. In a little while their old thoughts returned to both. "She's making more than she says," thought Hurstwood. "She says she's making twelve, but that wouldn't buy all those things. I don't care. Let her keep her money. I'll get something again one of these days. Then she can go to the deuce." He only said this in his anger, but it prefigured a possible course of action and attitude well enough. "I don't care," thought Carrie. "He ought to be told to get out and do something. It isn't right that I should support him." In these days Carrie was introduced to several youths, friends of Miss Osborne, who were of the kind most aptly described as gay and festive. They called once to get Miss Osborne for an afternoon drive. Carrie was with her at the time. "Come and go along," said Lola. "No, I can't," said Carrie. "Oh, yes, come and go. What have you got to do?" "I have to be home by five," said Carrie. "What for?" "Oh, dinner." "They'll take us to dinner," said Lola. "Oh, no," said Carrie. "I won't go. I can't." "Oh, do come. They're awful nice boys. We'll get you back in time. We're only going for a drive in Central Park." Carrie thought a while, and at last yielded. "Now, I must be back by half-past four," she said. The information went in one ear of Lola and out the other. After Drouet and Hurstwood, there was the least touch of cynicism in her attitude toward young men--especially of the gay and frivolous sort. She felt a little older than they. Some of their pretty compliments seemed silly. Still, she was young in heart and body and youth appealed to her. "Oh, we'll be right back, Miss Madenda," said one of the chaps, bowing. "You wouldn't think we'd keep you over time, now, would you?" "Well, I don't know," said Carrie, smiling. They were off for a drive--she, looking about and noticing fine clothing, the young men voicing those silly pleasantries and weak quips which pass for humour in coy circles. Carrie saw the great park parade of carriages, beginning at the Fifty-ninth Street entrance and winding past the Museum of Art to the exit at One Hundred and Tenth Street and Seventh Avenue. Her eye was once more taken by the show of wealth--the elaborate costumes, elegant harnesses, spirited horses, and, above all, the beauty. Once more the plague of poverty galled her, but now she forgot in a measure her own troubles so far as to forget Hurstwood. He waited until four, five, and even six. It was getting dark when he got up out of his chair. "I guess she isn't coming home," he said, grimly. "That's the way," he thought. "She's getting a start now. I'm out of it." Carrie had really discovered her neglect, but only at a quarter after five, and the open carriage was now far up Seventh Avenue, near the Harlem River. "What time is it?" she inquired. "I must be getting back." "A quarter after five," said her companion, consulting an elegant, open-faced watch. "Oh, dear me!" exclaimed Carrie. Then she settled back with a sigh. "There's no use crying over spilt milk," she said. "It's too late." "Of course it is," said the youth, who saw visions of a fine dinner now, and such invigorating talk as would result in a reunion after the show. He was greatly taken with Carrie. "We'll drive down to Delmonico's now and have something there, won't we, Orrin?" "To be sure," replied Orrin, gaily. Carrie thought of Hurstwood. Never before had she neglected dinner without an excuse. They drove back, and at 6.15 sat down to dine. It was the Sherry incident over again, the remembrance of which came painfully back to Carrie. She remembered Mrs. Vance, who had never called again after Hurstwood's reception, and Ames. At this figure her mind halted. It was a strong, clean vision. He liked better books than she read, better people than she associated with. His ideals burned in her heart. "It's fine to be a good actress," came distinctly back. What sort of an actress was she? "What are you thinking about, Miss Madenda?" inquired her merry companion. "Come, now, let's see if I can guess." "Oh, no," said Carrie. "Don't try." She shook it off and ate. She forgot, in part, and was merry. When it came to the after-theatre proposition, however, she shook her head. "No," she said, "I can't. I have a previous engagement." "Oh, now, Miss Madenda," pleaded the youth. "No," said Carrie, "I can't. You've been so kind, but you'll have to excuse me." The youth looked exceedingly crestfallen. "Cheer up, old man," whispered his companion. "We'll go around, anyhow. She may change her mind." There was no after-theatre lark, however, so far as Carrie was concerned. She made her way homeward, thinking about her absence. Hurstwood was asleep, but roused up to look as she passed through to her own bed. "Is that you?" he said. "Yes," she answered. The next morning at breakfast she felt like apologising. "I couldn't get home last evening," she said. "Ah, Carrie," he answered, "what's the use saying that? I don't care. You needn't tell me that, though." "I couldn't," said Carrie, her colour rising. Then, seeing that he looked as if he said "I know," she exclaimed: "Oh, all right. I don't care." From now on, her indifference to the flat was even greater. There seemed no common ground on which they could talk to one another. She let herself be asked for expenses. It became so with him that he hated to do it. He preferred standing off the butcher and baker. He ran up a grocery bill of sixteen dollars with Oeslogge, laying in a supply of staple articles, so that they would not have to buy any of those things for some time to come. Then he changed his grocery. It was the same with the butcher and several others. Carrie never heard anything of this directly from him. He asked for such as he could expect, drifting farther and farther into a situation which could have but one ending. In this fashion, September went by. "Isn't Mr. Drake going to open his hotel?" Carrie asked several times. "Yes. He won't do it before October, though, now." Carrie became disgusted. "Such a man," she said to herself frequently. More and more she visited. She put most of her spare money in clothes, which, after all, was not an astonishing amount. At last the opera she was with announced its departure within four weeks. "Last two weeks of the Great Comic Opera success ---- The --------," etc., was upon all billboards and in the newspapers, before she acted. "I'm not going out on the road," said Miss Osborne. Carrie went with her to apply to another manager. "Ever had any experience?" was one of his questions. "I'm with the company at the Casino now." "Oh, you are?" he said. The end of this was another engagement at twenty per week. Carrie was delighted. She began to feel that she had a place in the world. People recognised ability. So changed was her state that the home atmosphere became intolerable. It was all poverty and trouble there, or seemed to be, because it was a load to bear. It became a place to keep away from. Still she slept there, and did a fair amount of work, keeping it in order. It was a sitting place for Hurstwood. He sat and rocked, rocked and read, enveloped in the gloom of his own fate. October went by, and November. It was the dead of winter almost before he knew it, and there he sat. Carrie was doing better, that he knew. Her clothes were improved now, even fine. He saw her coming and going, sometimes picturing to himself her rise. Little eating had thinned him somewhat. He had no appetite. His clothes, too, were a poor man's clothes. Talk about getting something had become even too threadbare and ridiculous for him. So he folded his hands and waited--for what, he could not anticipate. At last, however, troubles became too thick. The hounding of creditors, the indifference of Carrie, the silence of the flat, and presence of winter, all joined to produce a climax. It was effected by the arrival of Oeslogge, personally, when Carrie was there. "I call about my bill," said Mr. Oeslogge. Carrie was only faintly surprised. "How much is it?" she asked. "Sixteen dollars," he replied. "Oh, that much?" said Carrie. "Is this right?" she asked, turning to Hurstwood. "Yes," he said. "Well, I never heard anything about it." She looked as if she thought he had been contracting some needless expense. "Well, we had it all right," he answered. Then he went to the door. "I can't pay you anything on that to-day," he said, mildly. "Well, when can you?" said the grocer. "Not before Saturday, anyhow," said Hurstwood. "Huh!" returned the grocer. "This is fine. I must have that. I need the money." Carrie was standing farther back in the room, hearing it all. She was greatly distressed. It was so bad and commonplace. Hurstwood was annoyed also. "Well," he said, "there's no use talking about it now. If you'll come in Saturday, I'll pay you something on it." The grocery man went away. "How are we going to pay it?" asked Carrie, astonished by the bill. "I can't do it." "Well, you don't have to," he said. "He can't get what he can't get. He'll have to wait." "I don't see how we ran up such a bill as that," said Carrie. "Well, we ate it," said Hurstwood. "It's funny," she replied, still doubting. "What's the use of your standing there and talking like that, now?" he asked. "Do you think I've had it alone? You talk as if I'd taken something." "Well, it's too much, anyhow," said Carrie. "I oughtn't to be made to pay for it. I've got more than I can pay for now." "All right," replied Hurstwood, sitting down in silence. He was sick of the grind of this thing. Carrie went out and there he sat, determining to do something. There had been appearing in the papers about this time rumours and notices of an approaching strike on the trolley lines in Brooklyn. There was general dissatisfaction as to the hours of labour required and the wages paid. As usual--and for some inexplicable reason--the men chose the winter for the forcing of the hand of their employers and the settlement of their difficulties. Hurstwood had been reading of this thing, and wondering concerning the huge tie-up which would follow. A day or two before this trouble with Carrie, it came. On a cold afternoon, when everything was grey and it threatened to snow, the papers announced that the men had been called out on all the lines. Being so utterly idle, and his mind filled with the numerous predictions which had been made concerning the scarcity of labour this winter and the panicky state of the financial market, Hurstwood read this with interest. He noted the claims of the striking motormen and conductors, who said that they had been wont to receive two dollars a day in times past, but that for a year or more "trippers" had been introduced, which cut down their chance of livelihood one-half, and increased their hours of servitude from ten to twelve, and even fourteen. These "trippers" were men put on during the busy and rush hours, to take a car out for one trip. The compensation paid for such a trip was only twenty-five cents. When the rush or busy hours were over, they were laid off. Worst of all, no man might know when he was going to get a car. He must come to the barns in the morning and wait around in fair and foul weather until such time as he was needed. Two trips were an average reward for so much waiting--a little over three hours' work for fifty cents. The work of waiting was not counted. The men complained that this system was extending, and that the time was not far off when but a few out of 7,000 employees would have regular two-dollar-a-day work at all. They demanded that the system be abolished, and that ten hours be considered a day's work, barring unavoidable delays, with $2.25 pay. They demanded immediate acceptance of these terms, which the various trolley companies refused. Hurstwood at first sympathised with the demands of these men--indeed, it is a question whether he did not always sympathise with them to the end, belie him as his actions might. Reading nearly all the news, he was attracted first by the scare-heads with which the trouble was noted in the "World." He read it fully--the names of the seven companies involved, the number of men. "They're foolish to strike in this sort of weather," he thought to himself. "Let 'em win if they can, though." The next day there was even a larger notice of it. "Brooklynites Walk," said the "World." "Knights of Labour Tie up the Trolley Lines Across the Bridge." "About Seven Thousand Men Out." Hurstwood read this, formulating to himself his own idea of what would be the outcome. He was a great believer in the strength of corporations. "They can't win," he said, concerning the men. "They haven't any money. The police will protect the companies. They've got to. The public has to have its cars." He didn't sympathise with the corporations, but strength was with them. So was property and public utility. "Those fellows can't win," he thought. Among other things, he noticed a circular issued by one of the companies, which read: ATLANTIC AVENUE RAILROAD SPECIAL NOTICE The motormen and conductors and other employees of this company having abruptly left its service, an opportunity is now given to all loyal men who have struck against their will to be reinstated, providing they will make their applications by twelve o'clock noon on Wednesday, January 16th. Such men will be given employment (with guaranteed protection) in the order in which such applications are received, and runs and positions assigned them accordingly. Otherwise, they will be considered discharged, and every vacancy will be filled by a new man as soon as his services can be secured. (Signed) Benjamin Norton, President He also noted among the want ads. one which read: WANTED.--50 skilled motormen, accustomed to Westinghouse system, to run U.S. mail cars only, in the City of Brooklyn; protection guaranteed. He noted particularly in each the "protection guaranteed." It signified to him the unassailable power of the companies. "They've got the militia on their side," he thought. "There isn't anything those men can do." While this was still in his mind, the incident with Oeslogge and Carrie occurred. There had been a good deal to irritate him, but this seemed much the worst. Never before had she accused him of stealing--or very near that. She doubted the naturalness of so large a bill. And he had worked so hard to make expenses seem light. He had been "doing" butcher and baker in order not to call on her. He had eaten very little--almost nothing. "Damn it all!" he said. "I can get something. I'm not down yet." He thought that he really must do something now. It was too cheap to sit around after such an insinuation as this. Why, after a little, he would be standing anything. He got up and looked out the window into the chilly street. It came gradually into his mind, as he stood there, to go to Brooklyn. "Why not?" his mind said. "Any one can get work over there. You'll get two a day." "How about accidents?" said a voice. "You might get hurt." "Oh, there won't be much of that," he answered. "They've called out the police. Any one who wants to run a car will be protected all right." "You don't know how to run a car," rejoined the voice. "I won't apply as a motorman," he answered. "I can ring up fares all right." "They'll want motormen, mostly." "They'll take anybody; that I know." For several hours he argued pro and con with this mental counsellor, feeling no need to act at once in a matter so sure of profit. In the morning he put on his best clothes, which were poor enough, and began stirring about, putting some bread and meat into a page of a newspaper. Carrie watched him, interested in this new move. "Where are you going?" she asked. "Over to Brooklyn," he answered. Then, seeing her still inquisitive, he added: "I think I can get on over there." "On the trolley lines?" said Carrie, astonished. "Yes," he rejoined. "Aren't you afraid?" she asked. "What of?" he answered. "The police are protecting them." "The paper said four men were hurt yesterday." "Yes," he returned; "but you can't go by what the papers say. They'll run the cars all right." He looked rather determined now, in a desolate sort of way, and Carrie felt very sorry. Something of the old Hurstwood was here--the least shadow of what was once shrewd and pleasant strength. Outside, it was cloudy and blowing a few flakes of snow. "What a day to go over there," thought Carrie. Now he left before she did, which was a remarkable thing, and tramped eastward to Fourteenth Street and Sixth Avenue, where he took the car. He had read that scores of applicants were applying at the office of the Brooklyn City Railroad building and were being received. He made his way there by horse-car and ferry--a dark, silent man--to the offices in question. It was a long way, for no cars were running, and the day was cold; but he trudged along grimly. Once in Brooklyn, he could clearly see and feel that a strike was on. People showed it in their manner. Along the routes of certain tracks not a car was running. About certain corners and nearby saloons small groups of men were lounging. Several spring wagons passed him, equipped with plain wooden chairs, and labelled "Flatbush" or "Prospect Park. Fare, Ten Cents." He noticed cold and even gloomy faces. Labour was having its little war. When he came near the office in question, he saw a few men standing about, and some policemen. On the far corners were other men--whom he took to be strikers--watching. All the houses were small and wooden, the streets poorly paved. After New York, Brooklyn looked actually poor and hard-up. He made his way into the heart of the small group, eyed by policemen and the men already there. One of the officers addressed him. "What are you looking for?" "I want to see if I can get a place." "The offices are up those steps," said the bluecoat. His face was a very neutral thing to contemplate. In his heart of hearts, he sympathised with the strikers and hated this "scab." In his heart of hearts, also, he felt the dignity and use of the police force, which commanded order. Of its true social significance, he never once dreamed. His was not the mind for that. The two feelings blended in him--neutralised one another and him. He would have fought for this man as determinedly as for himself, and yet only so far as commanded. Strip him of his uniform, and he would have soon picked his side. Hurstwood ascended a dusty flight of steps and entered a small, dust-coloured office, in which were a railing, a long desk, and several clerks. "Well, sir?" said a middle-aged man, looking up at him from the long desk. "Do you want to hire any men?" inquired Hurstwood. "What are you--a motorman?" "No; I'm not anything," said Hurstwood. He was not at all abashed by his position. He knew these people needed men. If one didn't take him, another would. This man could take him or leave him, just as he chose. "Well, we prefer experienced men, of course," said the man. He paused, while Hurstwood smiled indifferently. Then he added: "Still, I guess you can learn. What is your name?" "Wheeler," said Hurstwood. The man wrote an order on a small card. "Take that to our barns," he said, "and give it to the foreman. He'll show you what to do." Hurstwood went down and out. He walked straight away in the direction indicated, while the policemen looked after. "There's another wants to try it," said Officer Kiely to Officer Macey. "I have my mind he'll get his fill," returned the latter, quietly. They had been in strikes before. 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Kapitel Sechs beginnt damit, dass Mrs. Vance voraussetzt, dass Carrie New York verlassen hat, da sie seit ihrem Umzug nichts mehr von ihr gehört hat. Sie freut sich, Mrs. Vance zu sehen, ist aber nicht begeistert davon, dass sie ihr Zuhause besucht, da sie ihre schwierige finanzielle Situation sehen wird. Die Erzählung wechselt zu Hurstwood, der Poker spielt in der Hoffnung, sein Geld zu vermehren, jedoch sechzig Dollar verliert. Zu Hause zieht er wieder seine alten Kleider an und verärgert Carrie, indem er in dieser Kleidung die Tür öffnet, als Mrs. Vance vorbeikommt. Sie streiten sich erneut, und Carrie behauptet, sie habe gedacht, dass ihre Ehe rechtlich bindend sei. Hurstwood geht und speist in einem Hotel von seinem schnell schwindenden Geld, da er nach Wohlbehagen in seiner Apathie verlangt. Er kann nicht länger daran denken, was die Zukunft bringen wird. Dann spielt er erneut Poker und verliert 95 Dollar. Er hat jetzt nur noch 190 Dollar übrig. In den nächsten zwei Tagen lebt er weiterhin wie ein Gentleman und gibt weitere 30 Dollar aus. Er besinnt sich, als Carrie ihm sagt, dass die Miete fällig ist. In Kapitel 37 enthüllt Hurstwood Carrie, wie wenig Geld er noch hat, und sie überlegt, wieder in die Schauspielerei einzusteigen. Anfangs ist er dagegen, da er befürchtet, dass sie ihn verlassen wird, er erkennt jedoch, dass sie arbeiten muss. Als sie geht, um Theatralagenten zu besuchen, verspürt er Schamgefühle. In Kapitel 38 sucht sie weiterhin nach Arbeit und stellt fest, dass es viele Frauen in ähnlicher Lage gibt. Schließlich erhält sie einen Platz in einer Chorus Line und beginnt mit den Proben. Sie soll 12 Dollar pro Woche verdienen und möchte es für sich behalten. Hurstwood muss sie bitten, es für beide zu verwenden. Kapitel 39 beginnt einen Monat später, im September, und Hurstwood hat immer noch keine Arbeit gefunden. Seine Kleidung ist dreckig und ein neues Arrangement entwickelt sich, während Carrie Geld für ihn zurücklässt. Sie ist jedoch neidisch auf die anderen Mädchen, da sie sich neue Kleider kaufen können. Während Hurstwood heimlich Schulden bei den örtlichen Geschäften anhäuft, besucht sie ihre neuen Freunde öfter, um sich von ihm fernzuhalten. Sie schämt sich, ihrer neuen Freundin Lola zu sagen, dass sie verheiratet ist, da sie oft erwähnt hat, wie sehr sie das Geld braucht. Die Implikation ist, dass sie sich für Hurstwood schämt, weil er arbeitslos ist. Der Graben zwischen Hurstwood und Carrie wird größer, und als sie gebeten wird, die Chorus Line anzuführen und mehr Gehalt zu bekommen, erzählt sie ihm nichts davon. In Kapitel 40 werden sie zunehmend gleichgültig zueinander, und Carrie beginnt zu fühlen, dass sie ihren Platz in der Welt gefunden hat, als sie eine neue Rolle bekommt, die 20 Dollar pro Woche bezahlt. Nach einem Streit über ihre unbezahlte Lebensmittelrechnung beschuldigt Carrie Hurstwood fast des Diebstahls, woraufhin er beschließt, sich um Arbeit als Straßenbahnbediensteter zu bewerben, da Streikbrecher benötigt werden.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Kapitel: Szene Drei. Hotspur tritt allein ein und liest einen Brief. Aber was mich betrifft, mein Herr, könnte ich gut dazu bereit sein, dort zu sein, in Anbetracht der Liebe, die ich für Ihr Haus empfinde. Er könnte dazu bereit sein: Warum ist er es dann nicht? In Anbetracht der Liebe, die er für unser Haus empfindet. Er zeigt darin, dass er sein eigenes Kind mehr liebt als unser Haus. Lass mich noch mehr sehen. Der Zweck, den du übernimmst, ist gefährlich. Warum das ist sicher: Es ist gefährlich, sich zu erkälten, zu schlafen, zu trinken: Aber ich sage dir, mein Herr Narr, aus dieser Brennnessel Gefahr; Ziehen wir diese Blume, Sicherheit, heraus. Der Zweck, den du übernimmst, ist gefährlich, die Freunde, die du genannt hast, unsicher, die Zeit selbst unsortiert, und dein gesamter Plan zu leicht, um einer so großen Opposition entgegenzuwirken. Sagst du das? Sagst du das? Ich sage dir wiederum, du bist ein oberflächlicher feiger Hirsch und du lügst. Was für ein Dummkopf ist das? Ich versichere dir, unser Plan ist so gut wie jeder andere; unser Freund treu und beständig: Ein guter Plan, gute Freunde, und voller Erwartung: Ein ausgezeichneter Plan, sehr gute Freunde. Was für ein frostig gesinnter Schurke ist das? Nun, mein Herr von York lobt den Plan und den allgemeinen Ablauf der Handlung. Bei dieser Gelegenheit, wenn ich jetzt mit diesem Schurken zusammen wäre, könnte ich ihn mit dem Fächer seiner Dame zu Boden schlagen. Gibt es nicht meinen Vater, meinen Onkel und mich selbst, Lord Edmund Mortimer, meinen Herrn von York und Owen Glendower? Gibt es nicht außerdem noch den Douglas? Habe ich nicht alle ihre Briefe, um mich am neunten des nächsten Monats bewaffnet zu treffen? und sind nicht einige von ihnen bereits auf dem Weg? Was für ein heidnischer Schurke ist das? Ein Ungläubiger. Ah, du wirst jetzt sehen, in aller Ernsthaftigkeit der Angst und des kalten Herzens, wird er sich sofort zum König wenden und all unsere Vorgänge offenlegen. Oh, ich könnte mich aufspalten und mich prügeln, weil ich eine derartige Angelegenheit mit einer so ehrenhaften Handlung ins Rollen gebracht habe. Hängt ihn auf, lasst ihn dem König sagen, dass wir vorbereitet sind. Ich werde heute Abend aufbrechen. Seine Frau tritt ein. Wie geht es dir, Kate, ich muss dich in diesen zwei Stunden verlassen. Fr. Oh mein guter Lord, warum bist du so allein? Aus welchem Vergehen bin ich seit zwei Wochen eine verbannte Frau aus meinem Bett Harries? Sag mir (süßer Lord), was ist es, das dich deine Lebenslust, Freude und deinen goldenen Schlaf raubt? Warum beugst du deine Augen auf die Erde? Und schreckst so oft auf, wenn du alleine sitzt? Warum hast du das frische Blut in deinen Wangen verloren? Und meine Schätze und meine Rechte an dich gegeben, ause Rätselnachdenken und verfluchter Melancholie? In meinen schwachen Träumen habe ich dich bewacht und Geschichten von eisernen Kriegen gehört. Sprich die Töne der Beherrschung zu deinem springenden Pferd, Rufe Mut auf das Feld. Und du hast von Angriffen und Rückzügen gesprochen; Gräben, Zelte, von Palisaden, Grenzen, Schutzwällen, von Basilisken, Kanonen, Hakenbüchsen, von Lösegeld für Gefangene und Soldaten, und von all dem Ablauf eines hektischen Kampfes. Dein Geist war in dir so im Krieg, und so hat er dich in deinem Schlaf so sehr aufgewühlt, dass Tropfen des Schweißes auf deiner Stirn standen, wie Bläschen in einem kürzlich gestörten Strom; und in deinem Gesicht sind seltsame Bewegungen erschienen, wie wir es sehen, wenn Menschen den Atem anhalten bei großer plötzlicher Hast. Oh, was bedeuten diese Zeichen? Mein Herr hat eine schwere Angelegenheit in der Hand, und ich muss es wissen: sonst liebt er mich nicht. H. Nimm den Brief und bringe ihn zu Lord Lancaster, Friar Francis, und die anderen Verschwörer. Ich werde später einen anderen Brief an Lord Mowbray schreiben und vorschlagen, dass die verschworenen Lords sich mit ihm in York treffen. Seite 36 (Antwort in diesem Kapitel) Poines. Wo warst du, Hal? Prinz. Mit drei oder vier Einfaltspinseln, unter drei oder vier Schweinen. Ich habe den absoluten Grund der Demut angesprochen. Sirra, ich bin Blutsbruder von zwei oder drei Einheimsen und kann sie bei ihren Namen nennen, wie Tom, Dicke und Francis. Sie sind schon davon überzeugt, dass ich als Prinz von Wales zwar nur der König der Höflichkeit bin, aber kein stolzer Jack wie Falstaffe, sondern ein Hauptstädter, ein Junge mit Temperament, ein guter Junge, und wenn ich König von England bin, werde ich alle guten Jungs in East-cheape befehligen. Sie nennen es tiefes Trinken, sich totlachen; und wenn du beim Trinken aufatmest, dann rufen sie Hm und fordern dich auf weiter zu spielen. Abschließend bin ich so ein guter Schüler in einer Viertelstunde, dass ich mein Leben lang mit jedem Schlosser in seiner eigenen Sprache trinken kann. Ich sage dir, Ned, du hast viel Ehre verloren, dass du nicht mit mir bei dieser Aktion warst. Aber süßer Ned, um deinen Namen Ned zu versüßen, gebe ich dir diese Portion Zucker, die mir gerade von einem Schankjungen in die Hand gedrückt wurde, der in seinem ganzen Leben nichts anderes auf Englisch gesprochen hat als "Acht Schilling und sechs Pence" und "Willkommen": mit dieser schrillen Ergänzung "Sofort, Sofort, Sir, Forder eine Pinte Bastard im Halbmond oder so". Aber Ned, um die Zeit zu vertreiben, bis Falstaff kommt, bitte ich dich, stelle dich in einen Nebenraum, während ich meinen kleinen Schankjungen befrage, wozu er mir den Zucker gegeben hat, und rufe niemals aufhören Francis zu rufen, so dass seine Erzählung für mich nichts anderes ist als "Sofort": Stell dich beiseite und ich werde dir ein Beispiel zeigen. Poines. Francis. Prinz. Du bist perfekt. Poin. Francis. Tritt ein Schankjunge ein. Fran. Sofort, sofort, Sir; sieh in den Granatapfel hinunter, Ralfe. Prinz. Komm her, Francis. Fran. Mein Herr. Prinz. Wie lange hast du noch zu dienen, Francis? Fran. Eigentlich noch fünf Jahre, und so viel wie- Poin. Francis. Fran. Sofort, sofort, Sir. Prinz. Fünf Jahre: Bei Gott, ein langer Pachtvertrag für die Töne von Zinn. Aber, Francis, wagst du es, so tapfer zu sein, wie dein Anstellungsvertrag nicht einzuhalten und ihm ein schönes Paar Fersen zu zeigen und davonzulaufen? Fran. Oh Herr, ich schwöre auf alle Bücher in England, ich könnte Prinz. Francis. Fran. Sofort, sofort, Sir. Prinz. Wie alt bist du, Francis? Fran. Lass mich sehen, um Michaeli werde ich- Poin. Francis. Fran. Sofort, Sir, ich bitte Sie um einen Moment, mein Herr. Prinz. Na höre mal, Francis, für den Zucker, den du mir gegeben hast, war es nicht ein Pfennig wert? Fran. Oh Herr, ich wünschte, er wäre zwei gewesen. Prinz. Ich gebe dir dafür tausend Pfund: Frag mich, wann immer du willst, und du wirst es bekommen. Poin. Francis. Fran. Sofort, sofort. Prinz. Sofort, Francis? Nein, Francis, aber morgen Francis: oder Francis, am Donnerstag: oder tatsächlich Francis, wann immer du willst. Aber Francis. Fran. Mein Herr. Prinz. Willst du dieses lederne Wams, Kristallknopf, nutzlose Mütze, Agatring, Puke-Strumpf, Caddice-Strumpfband, glatte Zunge, spanische Tasche rauben? Fran. Oh Herr, wen meinen Sie? Prinz. Dann ist dein brauner Bastard dein einziges Getränk: Denn sieh her, Francis, dein weißes Leinwandwams wird schmutzig werden. In Barbary Sir, kann es nicht so weit kommen. Fran. Was, Sir? Poin. Francis. Prinz. Verschwinde, du Schurke, hörst du, wie sie rufen? Beide rufen ihn, der Schankjunge steht benommen da und weiß nicht, wohin er gehen soll. Betreten Sie den Weinhändler. Wirt. Was, stehst du immer noch da und hörst solches Rufen? Kümmere dich um die Gäste drinnen: Mein Herr, alter Sir John und noch ein halbes Dutzend sind an der Tür: Soll ich sie hereinlassen? Prinz. Lass sie eine Weile allein und öffne dann die Tür. Poines. Betrete Poines. Poin. Sofort, sofort, Sir. Prinz. Hör mal, Falstaff und der Rest der Gauner sind an der Tür, sollen wir fröhlich sein? Poin. So fröhlich wie Grillen, mein Junge. Aber hör mal, was für einen trickreichen Plan hast du mit diesem Schankjungen ausgeheckt? Komm, wie lautet das Ergebnis? Prinz. Ich bin jetzt in allen Stimmungen, die sich seit den alten Zeiten des guten Adam bis zum Erwachsenenalter dieser gegenwärtigen zwölf Uhr Mitternacht gezeigt haben. Wie spät ist es, Francis? Fran. Sofort, sofort, Sir. Prinz. Dass dieser Kerl weniger Worte hat als ein Papagei und doch der Sohn einer Frau ist. Seine Tätigkeit tobt oben und unten, seine Beredsamkeit ist der Bestandteil einer Abrechnung. Ich bin noch nicht Percys Meinung, dem Hotspur des Nordens, der mich zum Frühstück etwa sechs oder sieben Dutzend Schotten tötet, seine Hände wäscht und zu seiner Frau sagt: Pfui über dieses ruhige Leben, ich will Arbeit. Oh mein süßer Harry, sagt sie, wie viele hast du heute getötet? Gib meinem Roan-Pferd einen Trank (sagt er) und antwortet: etwa vierzehn, eine Stunde später: Peanuts, Peanuts. Ich bitte dich, rufe Falstaff herein, ich werde Percy spielen, und diese verdammt Brawne soll Dame Mortimer, seine Frau, spielen. Rivo, sagt der Betrunkene. Rufe Rippen herein, rufe Pferdefett herein. Betrete Falstaff. Poin. Willkommen Jack, wo warst du? Fal. Eine Pest über alle Feiglinge sage ich und ein Fluch dazu, ja, Amen. Gib mir einen Becher Sack, Junge. Ehe ich dieses Leben führe, nähe ich mir keine Strümpfe und flicke sie auch nicht. Eine Pest über alle Feiglinge. Gib mir einen Becher Sack, Schurke. Gibt es keine Tugend mehr? Prinz. Hast du jemals gesehen, wie Titan eine Schüssel Butter küsst, mitleidiger Titan, der sich bei der süßen Geschichte von der Sonne auflöst? Wenn du es getan hast, dann betrachte diesen Trank. Fal. Du Schurke, hier ist auch Kalk in diesem Sack: In einem elenden Menschen findet man nichts als Gaunerei; aber ein Feigling ist schlimmer als ein Becher Sack mit Kalk. Ein schändlicher Feigling, geh deinen Weg, alter Jack, stirb, wann immer du willst. Wenn überhaupt das Mannhaftige, das gute Mannhaftige auf der Erde nicht vergessen wird, dann bin ich eine Buttermakrele: Es gibt in England keine drei guten Männer, die noch nicht gehängt wurden, und einer von ihnen ist faul und wird älter. Gott hilf uns, eine böse Welt sage ich. Ich wünschte, ich wäre ein Weber, ich könnte alle Arten von Liedern singen. Eine Pest über alle Feiglinge, sage ich immer noch. Prinz. Wie jetzt Wollsack, was brummst du? Fal. Ein Sohn eines Prinz: Oh Villaine, deine Lippen sind kaum abgewischt, seitdem du das letzte Mal getrunken hast. Falstaff: Das ist egal. Er trinkt. Ein Fluch auf alle Feiglinge sage ich. Prinz: Was ist passiert? Falstaff: Was ist passiert? Hier sind vier von uns, die heute Morgen tausend Pfund genommen haben. Prinz: Wo ist es, Jack? Wo ist es? Falstaff: Wo ist es? Sie haben es von uns genommen, ja. Hundert Pfund von uns vier Armen. Prinz: Was, hundert Mann? Falstaff: Ich bin ein Schurke, wenn ich nicht zwei Stunden lang mit einem Dutzend von ihnen halb auf dem Schwert gekämpft habe. Ich bin wie durch ein Wunder entkommen. Ich wurde achtmal durch das Wams gestochen, viermal durch die Schlauchhose, mein Schild ist durch und durch geschnitten, mein Schwert ist wie eine Handsäge gehackt. Hier ist der Beweis. Ich habe noch nie besser gekämpft, seitdem ich ein Mann bin, aber es hat nichts genützt. Ein Fluch auf alle Feiglinge. Lasst sie sprechen. Wenn sie mehr oder weniger als die Wahrheit sprechen, sind sie Schurken und Söhne der Dunkelheit. Prinz: Sprecht, Herren, wie war es? Gadshill: Wir vier haben uns auf eine Gruppe von etwa einem Dutzend gestürzt. Falstaff: Mindestens sechzehn, mein Lord. Gadshill: Und haben sie gefesselt. Peto: Nein, nein, sie waren nicht gefesselt. Falstaff: Du Schurke, sie waren gefesselt, jeder von ihnen, oder ich bin ein Jude, ja, ein hebräischer Jude. Gadshill: Während wir gerade dabei waren, haben sich sechs oder sieben frische Männer auf uns gestürzt. Falstaff: Und haben die anderen befreit und sind dann dazugekommen. Prinz: Was, habt ihr mit ihnen allen gekämpft? Falstaff: Alle? Ich weiß nicht, wie ihr das nennt, aber wenn ich nicht mit fünfzig von ihnen gekämpft habe, dann bin ich ein Bündel Radieschen. Wenn nicht zwei oder dreiundfünfzig arme alte Jacke auf mir herumgetrampelt haben, dann bin ich kein zweibeiniges Wesen. Poins: Betet zum Himmel, dass ihr keinen von ihnen ermordet habt. Falstaff: Nein, das ist vorbei, ich habe zwei von ihnen abgeführt. Zwei, darauf lege ich meinen Eid, zwei Schurken in Buckramanzügen. Ich sage dir, Hal, wenn ich dir eine Lüge erzähle, spucke mir ins Gesicht, nenne mich Pferd. Du kennst meinen alten Spruch: Hier lag ich, und so hielt ich meine Haltung. Vier Schurken aus Buckram haben auf mich eingestochen. Prinz: Was, vier? Du hast gerade erst von zwei gesprochen. Falstaff: Vier, Hal, ich habe dir von vier erzählt. Poins: Ja, ja, er hat von vier gesprochen. Falstaff: Diese vier kamen alle auf einmal und haben mit aller Kraft auf mich eingestochen. Ich habe nicht viel unternommen, außer dass ich all ihre sieben Stiche mit meinem Schild abgewehrt habe, so. Prinz: Sieben? Es waren gerade eben doch nur vier. Falstaff: Aber sie waren aus Buckram. Poins: Ja, vier in Buckramanzügen. Falstaff: Sieben, bei diesen Griffen, oder ich bin ein Schurke. Prinz: Lass ihn in Ruhe, wir werden noch mehr hören. Falstaff: Hörst du mich, Hal? Prinz: Ja, und achte auch auf dich, Jack. Falstaff: Tu das, denn es ist es wert, gehört zu werden. Diese neun aus Buckram, von denen ich dir erzählt habe... Prinz: Also schon zwei weitere. Falstaff: Deren Degen zerbrochen waren... Poins: Und da fielen ihm die Hosen herunter. Falstaff: Sie begannen nachzugeben, aber ich blieb ihnen dicht auf den Fersen. Ich kam zu Fuß und mit der Hand. Mit einem Gedanken habe ich sieben von den Elf bezahlt. Prinz: Oh Ungeheuer! Elf Männer aus zwei Buckramanzügen gewachsen? Falstaff: Aber wie es der Teufel wollte, kamen drei missgezeugte Schurken in grünem Kendall von hinten und haben auf mich eingestochen. Es war so dunkel, Hal, dass du deine Hand nicht sehen konntest. Prinz: Diese Lügen sind wie der Vater, der sie erzeugt hat, grob wie ein Berg, offensichtlich und klar. Warum, du Gehirnloser, du ehrloser Tölpel, du schmutziger, gemeiner Tunichtgut. Falstaff: Was, bist du verrückt? Bist du verrückt? Das ist die Wahrheit, die Wahrheit. Prinz: Warum, wie konntest du diese Männer im grünen Kendall erkennen, wenn es so dunkel war, dass du deine Hand nicht sehen konntest? Komm, sag uns deinen Grund. Was sagst du dazu? Poins: Komm schon, Jack, sag uns deinen Grund. Falstaff: Was, unter Zwang? Nein, selbst wenn ich gefoltert würde, würde ich es euch nicht aufzwingen. Soll ich euch einen Grund unter Zwang geben? Wenn Gründe so reichlich wären wie Brombeeren, würde ich niemandem einen Grund aufzwingen, selbst nicht unter Zwang. Prinz: Ich werde mich nicht länger dieser Sünde schuldig machen. Dies blutarme Feigling, dieser Bettenpreller, dieser Pferderückenbrecher, dieser riesige Fleischberg. Falstaff: Weg mit dir, du abgemagerte Gestalt, du Elfenhaut, du getrocknete Kuhzunge, Rinderpisse, du Stockfisch. Oh, ich wünschte, ich hätte Atem, um das auszusprechen. Es gibt nichts, das dir gleicht. Du Schneidersmaßstab, du Scheide, du Bogentasche, du verdammte Schwertspitze. Prinz: Nun, atme eine Weile und dann mach weiter. Und wenn du dich in den vergleichenden Schmachereien erschöpft hast, hör mir zu und lass mich sprechen. Poins: Achte auf Jack. Prinz: Wir beide haben gesehen, wie ihr vier Männer angegriffen und gefesselt habt und die Kontrolle über ihr Geld erlangt habt. Hör jetzt, wie euch eine einfache Geschichte besiegen wird. Wir zwei haben uns dann auf euch vier gestürzt und mit einem Wort habt ihr eure Beute aufgegeben und wir konnten sie nehmen. Ja, und ich kann sie euch im Haus zeigen. Und Falstaff, du hast deine Haut genauso schnell davongetragen, mit der gleichen Geschicklichkeit, du hast um Gnade geschrien und bist weggerannt, so wie ich ein junges Kalb gehört habe. Was für ein Sklave bist du, dass du dein Schwert so zerschlagen hast und dann behauptest, es sei im Kampf passiert? Welcher Trick? Welche List? Welches Versteck kannst du nun finden, um dich vor dieser offenen und klaren Schande zu verstecken? Poins: Kommt schon, Jack, was für einen Trick hast du jetzt? Falstaff: Ich kannte euch genauso gut wie denjenigen, der euch gemacht hat. Hört mal her, meine Herren, war es meine Aufgabe, den Thronerben zu töten? Sollte ich mich gegen den wahren Prinzen stellen? Ihr wisst doch, dass ich so tapfer bin wie Hercules. Aber vorsicht vor dem Instinkt, der Löwe wird den wahren Prinzen nicht berühren, Instinkt ist eine große Sache. Ich war auf Instinkt ein Feigling, ich werde besser von mir selbst denken und von dir während meines Lebens. Ich, ein tapferer Löwe, und du, ein wahrer Prinz. Aber Jungs, ich freue mich, dass ihr das Geld habt. Wirtin, schließ die Türen ab, hütet sie heute Nacht, betet morgen. Edelmänner, Jungs, Knaben, Herzensgold, alle guten Bezeichnungen der Prinz: Jetzt, meine Herren: Ihr habt fair gekämpft; das hast du, Peto, das hast du Bardolph: Ihr seid auch Löwen, ihr seid davongerannt aus Instinkt, ihr werdet den wahren Prinzen nicht berühren; nein, pfui! Bardolph: Tatsächlich bin ich gerannt, als ich andere gerannt sah. Prinz: Sag mir jetzt im Ernst, wie kam Falstaffs Schwert so zerhackt? Peto: Nun, er hat es mit seinem Dolch zerhackt und sagte, er würde die Wahrheit aus England schwören, aber er würde dich glauben lassen, dass es im Kampf passiert wäre, und hat uns überredet, dasselbe zu tun. Bardolph: Ja, und er hat uns mit Lanzen-Gras gekitzelt, um uns bluten zu lassen, und dann unsere Kleidung damit beschmiert und geschworen, es sei das Blut von wahren Männern. Das habe ich sieben Jahre lang nicht gemacht, ich habe errötet, um seine monströsen Täuschungen zu hören. Prinz: O Schurke, du hast vor achtzehn Jahren einen Becher Sack gestohlen und wurdest auf frischer Tat erwischt, seitdem bist du errötet: Du hattest Feuer und Schwert auf deiner Seite und doch bist du weggelaufen; welchen Instinkt hattest du dafür? Bardolph: Mein Herr, seht ihr diese Meteore? Seht ihr diese Dampf-Erscheinungen? Prinz: Ja, ich sehe sie. Bardolph: Was denkt ihr, was bedeuten sie? Prinz: Erhitzte Lebern und kalte Geldbeutel. Bardolph: Zorn, mein Herr, wenn richtig verstanden. Prinz: Nein, wenn richtig verstanden, Strick. Falstaff tritt auf. Hier kommt der hagere Jack, hier kommt der Knochige. Wie geht es meinem süßen Geschöpf aus Gepränge? Wie lange ist es her, Jack, seit du dein eigenes Knie gesehen hast? Falstaff: Mein eigenes Knie? Als ich in deinem Alter war, Hal, hatte ich nicht das Talent eines Adlers in der Taille, ich hätte mich in jeden Ring eines Stadtrats schmuggeln können. Verdammt nochmal das Seufzen und der Kummer, es bläst einen Mann auf wie einen Ballon. Es gibt bösartige Neuigkeiten; hier war Sir John Braby von deinem Vater; du musst morgen zum Hof. Derselbe verrückte Kerl aus dem Norden, Percy; und der aus Wales, der Amamon verprügelt hat und Luzifer zum Kuckold gemacht hat und geschworen hat, dass der Teufel sein wahrer Vasall auf dem Kreuz eines Waliser-Hakens ist; wie zum Teufel hieß er nochmal? Poin: Oh, Glendower. Falstaff: Owen, Owen; genau der, und sein Schwiegersohn Mortimer, und der alte Northumberland, und der spritzige Schotte von Schotten, Douglas, der einen Hügel hinaufreitet. Prinz: Derjenige, der mit hoher Geschwindigkeit reitet und mit einer Pistole einen fliegenden Spatz tötet. Falstaff: Du hast es verstanden. Prinz: So hat er nie den Spatz getroffen. Falstaff: Nun, dieser Schelm hat einen guten Kern in sich, er wird nicht weglaufen. Prinz: Warum, was für ein Schurke bist du dann, dass du ihn so fürs Weglaufen lobst? Falstaff: Zu Pferd (du Kuckuck), aber zu Fuß rührt er sich keinen Zentimeter. Prinz: Ja, Jack, aus Instinkt. Falstaff: Ich gestehe es, aus Instinkt. Nun, er ist auch da, und ein gewisser Mordake und tausend weitere Blaukappen. Worcester ist in der Nacht verschwunden: Deines Vaters Bart ist weiß geworden vor Aufregung; du kannst jetzt Land so billig kaufen wie stinkenden Makrelen. Prinz: Dann ist es wahrscheinlich, dass, wenn die Sonne heiß scheint und diese zivilisierte Schlägerei anhält, wir Jungfrauen kaufen wie sie Hufnägel kaufen, zu Hunderten. Falstaff: Herrgott, Junge, du sagst die Wahrheit, es ist wahrscheinlich, dass wir so gute Geschäfte machen werden. Aber sag mir, Hal, hast du keine furchtbare Angst? Du als Thronfolger, könnten die Welt dir nochmal drei solche Feinde geben wie den Teufel Douglas, den Krieger Percy und den Zauberer Glendower? Hast du keine furchtbare Angst? Erschauert nicht dein Blut dabei? Prinz: Überhaupt nicht: Mir fehlt etwas von deinem Instinkt. Falstaff: Nun, du wirst morgen schrecklich zurechtgewiesen werden, wenn du zu deinem Vater kommst: Wenn du mich liebst, übe eine Antwort ein. Prinz: Stehe du für meinen Vater und befrage mich zu den Einzelheiten meines Lebens. Falstaff: Soll ich? Einverstanden: Dieser Stuhl wird mein Thron sein, dieser Dolch mein Zepter und dieses Kissen meine Krone. Prinz: Dein Thron wird für einen Hocker gehalten, dein goldener Zepter für einen bleiernen Dolch und deine kostbare reiche Krone für eine armselige kahle Krone. Falstaff: Nun gut, und wenn das Feuer der Gnade nicht ganz aus dir ist, dann wirst du bewegt sein. Gib mir einen Becher Sack, damit meine Augen rot aussehen, damit man denkt, ich hätte geweint, denn ich muss leidenschaftlich sprechen, und das werde ich in der Manier von König Cambyses tun. Prinz: Nun, hier ist mein Bein. Falstaff: Und hier ist meine Rede: Geh zur Seite, Adel. Wirtin: Das ist ausgezeichneter Spaß, wahrhaftig. Falstaff: Weine nicht, süße Königin, denn tränende Augen sind vergeblich. Wirtin: Oh, wie ruhig er bleibt. Falstaff: Zum Teufel, Pintenkrug, zum Teufel, Stechapfel. Harry, ich frage mich nicht nur, wo du deine Zeit verbringst, sondern auch mit wem du zusammen bist: Denn obwohl das Kamillenkraut, je mehr es getreten wird, desto schneller wächst, so verschwendet die Jugend, desto schneller verbraucht sie sich. Du bist mein Sohn: Ich habe teilweise das Wort deiner Mutter, teilweise meine Meinung; aber hauptsächlich habe ich einen schändlichen Trick deines Auges und das dumme Hängen deiner Unterlippe bemerkt, das mich überzeugt. Wenn du dann mein Sohn bist, liegt der springende Punkt hier: Warum, als mein Sohn, wirst du so angeprangert? Soll sich der gesegnete Sohn des Himmels als Schulschwänzer erweisen und Brombeeren essen? Eine Frage, die man nicht stellen sollte. Soll der Sohn Englands ein Dieb sein und Geldbeutel nehmen? Eine Frage, die man stellen sollte. Da gibt es etwas, Harry, von dem du oft gehört hast und das vielen in unserem Land bekannt ist als Pech: dieses Pech (wie es die alten Schriftsteller berichten) beschmutzt; das tut auch die Gesellschaft, in der du dich aufhältst: Harry, jetzt spreche ich nicht mit dir in Trunkenheit, sondern mit Tränen; nicht in Vergnügen, sondern in Leidenschaft; nicht nur mit Worten, sondern auch mit Leiden: und doch gibt es einen tugendhaften Mann, den ich oft in deiner Gesellschaft bemerkt habe, aber ich kenne seinen Namen nicht. Prinz: Was für ein Mann, wenn es Ihrem Majestät gefällt? Falstaff: Ein wohlgeformter Mann, wahrlich, und füllig, mit einem fröhlichen Blick, einem angenehmen Auge und einer sehr edlen Haltung, und ich denke, sein Alter liegt bei etwa fünfzig oder sogar in Richtung sechzig; und jetzt erinnere ich mich, sein Name ist Falstaff: Wenn Prin. Na, hier stehe ich: Urteilt, meine Herren Falst. Und hier stehe ich: Beurteilt mich, meine Herren Prin. Nun, Harry, woher kommst du? Falst. Mein edler Herr, aus East-cheape Prin. Die Beschwerden, die ich über dich höre, sind schwerwiegend Falst. Glaubt mir, mein Herr, sie sind falsch: Nein, ich werde dich für einen jungen Prinzen kitzeln Prin. Du schwörst, undankbarer Junge? Schau mich nie wieder an: Du bist gewaltsam von der Gnade weggegangen: Es gibt einen Teufel, der dich verfolgt, in Gestalt eines fetten alten Mannes; Ein Mann wie ein Fass begleitet dich: Warum unterhältst du dich mit diesem Kerl voll Launen, diesem Kegelboden voller Tierhaftigkeit, der geschwollenen Ansammlung von Wassersucht, dieser riesigen Weinschläuche, diesem mit Eingeweiden gefüllten Stoffumhang, diesem gebratenen Mann-Ochsen mit Pudding im Bauch, dieser ehrfürchtigen Last, dieser grauen Bosheit, diesem rücksichtslosen Schlägertyp, dieser Eitelkeit im Alter? Wo ist er gut, außer um Wein zu probieren und zu trinken? Wo ist er sauber, außer um ein Kapunenbruststück zu zerlegen und zu essen? Wo ist er geschickt, außer in Kunstfertigkeit? Wo ist er listig, außer in Schurkerei? Wo ist er schurkisch, außer in allem? Wo ist er wertvoll, außer in nichts? Falst. Euer Gnaden, ich wünschte, Ihr würdet mich mitnehmen: Wen meint Eure Gnaden? Prinz. Dieser verabscheuungswürdige Verführer der Jugend, Falstaff, dieser alte weißbärtige Satan Falst. Mein Herr, den Mann kenne ich Prinz. Ich weiß, dass du ihn kennst Falst. Aber zu sagen, dass ich mehr Schaden in ihm sehe als in mir selbst, wäre mehr zu sagen, als ich weiß. Dass er alt ist (je älter desto schlimmer), das bezeugen seine weißen Haare: aber dass er (um Ihre Ehrerbietung zu bewahren) ein Hurenmeister ist, leugne ich vollkommen. Wenn Wein und Zucker eine Sünde sind, dann helfe den Gottlosen: Wenn es eine Sünde ist, alt und fröhlich zu sein, dann sind viele alte Wirte, die ich kenne, verdammt: Wenn man fett sein soll, um gehasst zu werden, dann sollen Pharaos magere Kühe geliebt werden. Nein, mein guter Herr, verbannen Sie Peto, verbannen Sie Bardolph, verbannen Sie Poins: aber für den lieben Jack Falstaff, den freundlichen Jack Falstaff, den wahren Jack Falstaff, den tapferen Jack Falstaff und daher den noch tapfereren, wie er alt ist, den Jack Falstaff, verbannen Sie ihn nicht aus deiner Harrys Gesellschaft, verbannen Sie ihn nicht aus deiner Harrys Gesellschaft; verbannen Sie den dicken Jack, und verbannen Sie die ganze Welt Prinz. Ich werde es tun, ich werde. Betritt Bardolph, der rennt. Bard. Oh, mein Herr, mein Herr, der Sheriff, mit einer monströsen Wache, steht vor der Tür Falst. Du Schurke, spiel das Stück weiter: Ich habe viel zu sagen in Bezug auf diesen Falstaff. Betritt die Gastgeberin. Wirtin. Oh, mein Herr, mein Herr Falst. Auf, auf, der Teufel reitet auf einem Straußenfeder: Was ist los? Wirtin. Der Sheriff und die ganze Wache sind an der Tür: Sie sind gekommen, um das Haus zu durchsuchen: Soll ich sie hereinlassen? Falst. Hörst du, Hal, nenne niemals ein echtes Stück Gold eine Fälschung: Du bist grundlegend, ohne dass es so scheint Prinz. Und du bist ein natürlicher Feigling, ohne Instinkt Falst. Ich verweigere Ihren Maior: Wenn Sie den Sheriff verweigern wollen, bitte sehr: Wenn nicht, lassen Sie ihn eintreten. Wenn ich nicht ein Karren werde wie jeder andere Mann, verdammt sei meine Erziehung: Ich hoffe, ich werde genauso schnell mit einem Strick erdrosselt, wie jeder andere Prinz. Geh verstecke dich hinter dem Vorhang, der Rest geht nach oben. Jetzt, meine Herren, für ein ehrliches Gesicht und ein gutes Gewissen Falst. Beides hatte ich: aber ihr Verfallsdatum ist abgelaufen, und deshalb werde ich mich verstecken. Betritt. Prinz. Ruft den Sheriff herein Betritt der Sheriff und der Kutscher. Prinz. Nun, Herr Sheriff, was ist Ihr Wille mit mir? She. Verzeih mir zuerst, mein Herr. Eine Hetzjagd hat bestimmte Männer zu diesem Haus geführt Prinz. Welche Männer? She. Einer von ihnen ist bekannt, mein Gnädiger Herr, ein großer fetter Mann Kutscher. Fett wie Butter Prinz. Der Mann, versichere ich Ihnen, ist nicht hier, denn ich selbst habe ihn zu dieser Zeit beschäftigt: Und Sheriff, ich verspreche Ihnen mein Wort, dass ich ihn bis morgen zur Mittagszeit schicken werde, um Ihnen oder jedem anderen für irgendetwas, wofür er beschuldigt wird, Rechenschaft abzulegen: Und so bitte ich Sie, das Haus zu verlassen She. Ich werde, mein Herr: Es gibt zwei Gentlemen, die bei diesem Raub drei hundert Mark verloren haben Prinz. Das kann sein: Wenn er diese Männer beraubt hat, wird er zur Rechenschaft gezogen: Und so lebe wohl She. Gute Nacht, mein edler Herr Prinz. Ich denke, es ist ein guter Morgen, oder? She. In der Tat, mein Herr, ich denke, es ist zwei Uhr. Betritt. Prinz. Dieser ölige Schurke ist so bekannt wie die Kirche von St. Paul: holt ihn heraus Peto. Falstaff? Hinter dem Vorhang fest eingeschlafen und schnarchend wie ein Pferd Prinz. Hör, wie schwer er atmet: durchsuche seine Taschen. Er durchsucht seine Taschen und findet bestimmte Papiere. Prinz. Was hast du gefunden? Peto. Nichts als Papiere, mein Herr Prinz. Lass uns sehen, was sie sind? Lies sie Peto. Position, ein Brathuhn. ii.s.ii.d. Position, Soße iiii.d. Position, Wein, zwei Gallonen. v.s.viii.d. Position, Anchovis und Wein nach dem Abendessen. ii.s.vi.d. Position, Brot. ob Prinz. Oh, monströs, nur einen halben Pennywert Brot für diese unerträgliche Menge von Wein? Was auch immer da sonst ist, behalte es geheim, wir werden es unter günstigeren Umständen lesen: Lass ihn dort bis zum Tag schlafen. Ich werde morgen früh zum Hof gehen: Wir müssen alle in den Krieg ziehen, und dein Platz wird ehrenvoll sein. Ich werde diesem fetten Schurken ein Fußtruppe-Kommando beschaffen, und ich weiß, dass sein Tod ein Duell von zwölftausend sein wird. Das Geld wird mit Zinsen zurückerstattet. Sei früh am Morgen bei mir: und so guten Morgen Peto. Guten Morgen, mein edler Herr. Verlassen. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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In der Zwischenzeit liest Hotspur in Warkworth Castle in Northumberland einen Brief von jemandem, der sich weigert, an der Rebellion teilzunehmen, weil sie zu gefährlich ist und die beteiligten Parteien nicht vertrauenswürdig sind. Hotspur ist verärgert über den Brief und schimpft vor sich hin, bevor seine Frau Kate den Raum betritt. Hotspur verkündet, dass er in zwei Stunden abreist und Lady Percy beschwert sich, dass ihr Mann sie vernachlässigt hat. Er hat seine Pflichten im Bett nicht erfüllt. Sie fragt, was ihn bedrückt, und möchte wissen, warum er im Schlaf über den Kampf spricht und sich herumwirft. Kate sagt, wenn Hotspur ihr nicht sagt, was los ist, bedeutet das, dass er sie nicht liebt. Hotspur ignoriert Kate und spricht mit seinem Diener über sein Pferd. Kate fragt erneut, warum Percy geht und sagt, sie vermutet, dass ihr Bruder Mortimer irgendwie involviert ist. Kate und Hotspur plänkeln ein wenig hin und her. Kate ist geistreich und nachsichtig, während Hotspur ziemlich unfreundlich ist. Er behauptet, seine Frau nicht zu lieben, und sagt, dass jetzt nicht die Zeit für Schäferstündchen ist - er plant hier eine blutige Rebellion. Hotspur sagt, er werde bald gehen und Kate nicht sagen können, was los ist, weil sie eine Frau ist, was bedeutet, dass sie kein Geheimnis bewahren kann. Aber er verspricht, dass Kate ihm morgen folgen 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: SZENE II. Eine Straße. Ein Herold tritt auf mit einer Proklamation; Leute folgen. HEROLD: Es ist Othellos Vergnügen, unser edler und tapferer General, dass angesichts bestimmter Nachrichten, die gerade eingetroffen sind und die bloße Vernichtung der türkischen Flotte bedeuten, jeder Mann sich in Triumph versetzt; einige zum Tanzen, einige zum Entzünden von Freudenfeuern, jeder Mann zu dem Sport und den Feierlichkeiten, denen er sich hingibt; denn neben diesen erfreulichen Neuigkeiten ist es die Feier seiner Hochzeit. So sehr wollte er, dass es verkündet wird. Alle Ämter sind geöffnet, und es besteht vollständige Freiheit zum Feiern von dieser Stunde fünf bis die Glocke elf schlägt. Der Himmel segne die Insel Zypern und unseren edlen General Othello! Sie gehen ab. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Bei der Feier des Sieges über die Türken betrinkt Iago Cassio und lässt Roderigo dann Cassio mit der vermeintlichen Liebe zwischen ihm und Desdemona konfrontieren. Cassio beginnt mit Roderigo zu kämpfen und widmet dann einem anderen Soldaten seine Aufmerksamkeit und verwundet ihn, aber nicht tödlich. Othello wird durch den Lärm geweckt und entlässt, wütend auf Cassio, ihn von seinem Posten. Iago schlägt dem gedemütigten Cassio vor, Desdemona um Hilfe zu bitten, um seine Position wiederzuerlangen. Iago plant einen weiteren Schachzug in seinem Plan und beschließt, Othello zu erzählen, dass Cassio Hilfe von Desdemona sucht, weil sie Liebhaber sind.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: <CHAPTER> 10--A Desperate Attempt at Persuasion The next morning, at the time when the height of the sun appeared very insignificant from any part of the heath as compared with the altitude of Rainbarrow, and when all the little hills in the lower levels were like an archipelago in a fog-formed Aegean, the reddleman came from the brambled nook which he had adopted as his quarters and ascended the slopes of Mistover Knap. Though these shaggy hills were apparently so solitary, several keen round eyes were always ready on such a wintry morning as this to converge upon a passer-by. Feathered species sojourned here in hiding which would have created wonder if found elsewhere. A bustard haunted the spot, and not many years before this five and twenty might have been seen in Egdon at one time. Marsh-harriers looked up from the valley by Wildeve's. A cream-coloured courser had used to visit this hill, a bird so rare that not more than a dozen have ever been seen in England; but a barbarian rested neither night nor day till he had shot the African truant, and after that event cream-coloured coursers thought fit to enter Egdon no more. A traveller who should walk and observe any of these visitants as Venn observed them now could feel himself to be in direct communication with regions unknown to man. Here in front of him was a wild mallard--just arrived from the home of the north wind. The creature brought within him an amplitude of Northern knowledge. Glacial catastrophes, snowstorm episodes, glittering auroral effects, Polaris in the zenith, Franklin underfoot--the category of his commonplaces was wonderful. But the bird, like many other philosophers, seemed as he looked at the reddleman to think that a present moment of comfortable reality was worth a decade of memories. Venn passed on through these towards the house of the isolated beauty who lived up among them and despised them. The day was Sunday; but as going to church, except to be married or buried, was exceptional at Egdon, this made little difference. He had determined upon the bold stroke of asking for an interview with Miss Vye--to attack her position as Thomasin's rival either by art or by storm, showing therein, somewhat too conspicuously, the want of gallantry characteristic of a certain astute sort of men, from clowns to kings. The great Frederick making war on the beautiful Archduchess, Napoleon refusing terms to the beautiful Queen of Prussia, were not more dead to difference of sex than the reddleman was, in his peculiar way, in planning the displacement of Eustacia. To call at the captain's cottage was always more or less an undertaking for the inferior inhabitants. Though occasionally chatty, his moods were erratic, and nobody could be certain how he would behave at any particular moment. Eustacia was reserved, and lived very much to herself. Except the daughter of one of the cotters, who was their servant, and a lad who worked in the garden and stable, scarcely anyone but themselves ever entered the house. They were the only genteel people of the district except the Yeobrights, and though far from rich, they did not feel that necessity for preserving a friendly face towards every man, bird, and beast which influenced their poorer neighbours. When the reddleman entered the garden the old man was looking through his glass at the stain of blue sea in the distant landscape, the little anchors on his buttons twinkling in the sun. He recognized Venn as his companion on the highway, but made no remark on that circumstance, merely saying, "Ah, reddleman--you here? Have a glass of grog?" Venn declined, on the plea of it being too early, and stated that his business was with Miss Vye. The captain surveyed him from cap to waistcoat and from waistcoat to leggings for a few moments, and finally asked him to go indoors. Miss Vye was not to be seen by anybody just then; and the reddleman waited in the window-bench of the kitchen, his hands hanging across his divergent knees, and his cap hanging from his hands. "I suppose the young lady is not up yet?" he presently said to the servant. "Not quite yet. Folks never call upon ladies at this time of day." "Then I'll step outside," said Venn. "If she is willing to see me, will she please send out word, and I'll come in." The reddleman left the house and loitered on the hill adjoining. A considerable time elapsed, and no request for his presence was brought. He was beginning to think that his scheme had failed, when he beheld the form of Eustacia herself coming leisurely towards him. A sense of novelty in giving audience to that singular figure had been sufficient to draw her forth. She seemed to feel, after a bare look at Diggory Venn, that the man had come on a strange errand, and that he was not so mean as she had thought him; for her close approach did not cause him to writhe uneasily, or shift his feet, or show any of those little signs which escape an ingenuous rustic at the advent of the uncommon in womankind. On his inquiring if he might have a conversation with her she replied, "Yes, walk beside me," and continued to move on. Before they had gone far it occurred to the perspicacious reddleman that he would have acted more wisely by appearing less unimpressionable, and he resolved to correct the error as soon as he could find opportunity. "I have made so bold, miss, as to step across and tell you some strange news which has come to my ears about that man." "Ah! what man?" He jerked his elbow to the southeast--the direction of the Quiet Woman. Eustacia turned quickly to him. "Do you mean Mr. Wildeve?" "Yes, there is trouble in a household on account of him, and I have come to let you know of it, because I believe you might have power to drive it away." "I? What is the trouble?" "It is quite a secret. It is that he may refuse to marry Thomasin Yeobright after all." Eustacia, though set inwardly pulsing by his words, was equal to her part in such a drama as this. She replied coldly, "I do not wish to listen to this, and you must not expect me to interfere." "But, miss, you will hear one word?" "I cannot. I am not interested in the marriage, and even if I were I could not compel Mr. Wildeve to do my bidding." "As the only lady on the heath I think you might," said Venn with subtle indirectness. "This is how the case stands. Mr. Wildeve would marry Thomasin at once, and make all matters smooth, if so be there were not another woman in the case. This other woman is some person he has picked up with, and meets on the heath occasionally, I believe. He will never marry her, and yet through her he may never marry the woman who loves him dearly. Now, if you, miss, who have so much sway over us menfolk, were to insist that he should treat your young neighbour Tamsin with honourable kindness and give up the other woman, he would perhaps do it, and save her a good deal of misery." "Ah, my life!" said Eustacia, with a laugh which unclosed her lips so that the sun shone into her mouth as into a tulip, and lent it a similar scarlet fire. "You think too much of my influence over menfolk indeed, reddleman. If I had such a power as you imagine I would go straight and use it for the good of anybody who has been kind to me--which Thomasin Yeobright has not particularly, to my knowledge." "Can it be that you really don't know of it--how much she had always thought of you?" "I have never heard a word of it. Although we live only two miles apart I have never been inside her aunt's house in my life." The superciliousness that lurked in her manner told Venn that thus far he had utterly failed. He inwardly sighed and felt it necessary to unmask his second argument. "Well, leaving that out of the question, 'tis in your power, I assure you, Miss Vye, to do a great deal of good to another woman." She shook her head. "Your comeliness is law with Mr. Wildeve. It is law with all men who see 'ee. They say, 'This well-favoured lady coming--what's her name? How handsome!' Handsomer than Thomasin Yeobright," the reddleman persisted, saying to himself, "God forgive a rascal for lying!" And she was handsomer, but the reddleman was far from thinking so. There was a certain obscurity in Eustacia's beauty, and Venn's eye was not trained. In her winter dress, as now, she was like the tiger-beetle, which, when observed in dull situations, seems to be of the quietest neutral colour, but under a full illumination blazes with dazzling splendour. Eustacia could not help replying, though conscious that she endangered her dignity thereby. "Many women are lovelier than Thomasin," she said, "so not much attaches to that." The reddleman suffered the wound and went on: "He is a man who notices the looks of women, and you could twist him to your will like withywind, if you only had the mind." "Surely what she cannot do who has been so much with him I cannot do living up here away from him." The reddleman wheeled and looked her in the face. "Miss Vye!" he said. "Why do you say that--as if you doubted me?" She spoke faintly, and her breathing was quick. "The idea of your speaking in that tone to me!" she added, with a forced smile of hauteur. "What could have been in your mind to lead you to speak like that?" "Miss Vye, why should you make believe that you don't know this man?--I know why, certainly. He is beneath you, and you are ashamed." "You are mistaken. What do you mean?" The reddleman had decided to play the card of truth. "I was at the meeting by Rainbarrow last night and heard every word," he said. "The woman that stands between Wildeve and Thomasin is yourself." It was a disconcerting lift of the curtain, and the mortification of Candaules' wife glowed in her. The moment had arrived when her lip would tremble in spite of herself, and when the gasp could no longer be kept down. "I am unwell," she said hurriedly. "No--it is not that--I am not in a humour to hear you further. Leave me, please." "I must speak, Miss Vye, in spite of paining you. What I would put before you is this. However it may come about--whether she is to blame, or you--her case is without doubt worse than yours. Your giving up Mr. Wildeve will be a real advantage to you, for how could you marry him? Now she cannot get off so easily--everybody will blame her if she loses him. Then I ask you--not because her right is best, but because her situation is worst--to give him up to her." "No--I won't, I won't!" she said impetuously, quite forgetful of her previous manner towards the reddleman as an underling. "Nobody has ever been served so! It was going on well--I will not be beaten down--by an inferior woman like her. It is very well for you to come and plead for her, but is she not herself the cause of all her own trouble? Am I not to show favour to any person I may choose without asking permission of a parcel of cottagers? She has come between me and my inclination, and now that she finds herself rightly punished she gets you to plead for her!" "Indeed," said Venn earnestly, "she knows nothing whatever about it. It is only I who ask you to give him up. It will be better for her and you both. People will say bad things if they find out that a lady secretly meets a man who has ill-used another woman." "I have NOT injured her--he was mine before he was hers! He came back--because--because he liked me best!" she said wildly. "But I lose all self-respect in talking to you. What am I giving way to!" "I can keep secrets," said Venn gently. "You need not fear. I am the only man who knows of your meetings with him. There is but one thing more to speak of, and then I will be gone. I heard you say to him that you hated living here--that Egdon Heath was a jail to you." "I did say so. There is a sort of beauty in the scenery, I know; but it is a jail to me. The man you mention does not save me from that feeling, though he lives here. I should have cared nothing for him had there been a better person near." The reddleman looked hopeful; after these words from her his third attempt seemed promising. "As we have now opened our minds a bit, miss," he said, "I'll tell you what I have got to propose. Since I have taken to the reddle trade I travel a good deal, as you know." She inclined her head, and swept round so that her eyes rested in the misty vale beneath them. "And in my travels I go near Budmouth. Now Budmouth is a wonderful place--wonderful--a great salt sheening sea bending into the land like a bow--thousands of gentlepeople walking up and down--bands of music playing--officers by sea and officers by land walking among the rest--out of every ten folks you meet nine of 'em in love." "I know it," she said disdainfully. "I know Budmouth better than you. I was born there. My father came to be a military musician there from abroad. Ah, my soul, Budmouth! I wish I was there now." The reddleman was surprised to see how a slow fire could blaze on occasion. "If you were, miss," he replied, "in a week's time you would think no more of Wildeve than of one of those he'th-croppers that we see yond. Now, I could get you there." "How?" said Eustacia, with intense curiosity in her heavy eyes. "My uncle has been for five and twenty years the trusty man of a rich widow-lady who has a beautiful house facing the sea. This lady has become old and lame, and she wants a young company-keeper to read and sing to her, but can't get one to her mind to save her life, though she've advertised in the papers, and tried half a dozen. She would jump to get you, and Uncle would make it all easy." "I should have to work, perhaps?" "No, not real work--you'd have a little to do, such as reading and that. You would not be wanted till New Year's Day." "I knew it meant work," she said, drooping to languor again. "I confess there would be a trifle to do in the way of amusing her; but though idle people might call it work, working people would call it play. Think of the company and the life you'd lead, miss; the gaiety you'd see, and the gentleman you'd marry. My uncle is to inquire for a trustworthy young lady from the country, as she don't like town girls." "It is to wear myself out to please her! and I won't go. O, if I could live in a gay town as a lady should, and go my own ways, and do my own doings, I'd give the wrinkled half of my life! Yes, reddleman, that would I." "Help me to get Thomasin happy, miss, and the chance shall be yours," urged her companion. "Chance--'tis no chance," she said proudly. "What can a poor man like you offer me, indeed?--I am going indoors. I have nothing more to say. Don't your horses want feeding, or your reddlebags want mending, or don't you want to find buyers for your goods, that you stay idling here like this?" Venn spoke not another word. With his hands behind him he turned away, that she might not see the hopeless disappointment in his face. The mental clearness and power he had found in this lonely girl had indeed filled his manner with misgiving even from the first few minutes of close quarters with her. Her youth and situation had led him to expect a simplicity quite at the beck of his method. But a system of inducement which might have carried weaker country lasses along with it had merely repelled Eustacia. As a rule, the word Budmouth meant fascination on Egdon. That Royal port and watering place, if truly mirrored in the minds of the heathfolk, must have combined, in a charming and indescribable manner a Carthaginian bustle of building with Tarentine luxuriousness and Baian health and beauty. Eustacia felt little less extravagantly about the place; but she would not sink her independence to get there. When Diggory Venn had gone quite away, Eustacia walked to the bank and looked down the wild and picturesque vale towards the sun, which was also in the direction of Wildeve's. The mist had now so far collapsed that the tips of the trees and bushes around his house could just be discerned, as if boring upwards through a vast white cobweb which cloaked them from the day. There was no doubt that her mind was inclined thitherward; indefinitely, fancifully--twining and untwining about him as the single object within her horizon on which dreams might crystallize. The man who had begun by being merely her amusement, and would never have been more than her hobby but for his skill in deserting her at the right moments, was now again her desire. Cessation in his love-making had revivified her love. Such feeling as Eustacia had idly given to Wildeve was dammed into a flood by Thomasin. She had used to tease Wildeve, but that was before another had favoured him. Often a drop of irony into an indifferent situation renders the whole piquant. "I will never give him up--never!" she said impetuously. The reddleman's hint that rumour might show her to disadvantage had no permanent terror for Eustacia. She was as unconcerned at that contingency as a goddess at a lack of linen. This did not originate in inherent shamelessness, but in her living too far from the world to feel the impact of public opinion. Zenobia in the desert could hardly have cared what was said about her at Rome. As far as social ethics were concerned Eustacia approached the savage state, though in emotion she was all the while an epicure. She had advanced to the secret recesses of sensuousness, yet had hardly crossed the threshold of conventionality. </CHAPTER> Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze verfassen?

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Diggory Venn geht an einem Sonntagmorgen über die Heide spazieren. Die meisten Bewohner von Egdon gehen selten in die Kirche. Diggory geht zu Captain Vyes Haus, um einen Besuch abzustatten. Die Leute besuchen ihn selten, weil der Captain unregelmäßige oder wechselhafte Stimmungen hat und Eustacia einfach immer launisch ist. Der Captain begrüßt Diggory bei seiner Ankunft, aber Diggory sagt, er müsse mit Eustacia sprechen. Sie schläft noch und Diggory sagt, er werde warten. Schließlich kommt Eustacia herunter und geht mit Diggory nach draußen. Er kommt direkt zur Sache und sagt, dass er besorgt ist, dass Wildeve sich weigern könnte, Thomasin zu heiraten. Eustacia verteidigt sich sofort. Venn sagt, dass eine "geheimnisvolle Frau" zwischen Thomasin und Wildeve steht und dass diese Frau im Grunde genommen eine Frau von lockerer Moral und eine potenzielle Ehebrecherin ist. Eustacia entscheidet sich für Sarkasmus und sagt, dass sie keine Kontrolle darüber hat, was Wildeve tut oder nicht tut. Venn beschuldigt sie direkt, Wildves geheime Geliebte zu sein. Eustacia gerät etwas in Panik und lehnt es dann kalt ab, weiter mit ihm zu sprechen. Aber Venn lässt sich nicht abschrecken und fährt fort. Er bittet Eustacia, die Beziehung zu Wildeve zu beenden und ihn dazu zu drängen, ehrenhaft zu sein und Thomasin zu heiraten. Eustacia lehnt das Klischee unter anderem ab und kontert, dass sie hier das verletzte Opfer ist, da sie zuerst mit Wildeve involviert war. Aber Venn hat ein gutes Gegenangebot - er kennt eine Frau in Budmouth, Eustacias altem Revier, die eine bezahlte Begleiterin braucht. Eustacia lehnt es ab, eine Stelle anzunehmen, da sie eine "Dame" ist. Dann stampft sie wütend davon und lässt Diggory alleine draußen. Er ist deprimiert, dass sein Plan nicht funktioniert hat. Eustacias Gefühle sind alle durcheinander und sie weigert sich nun rebellisch, Wildeve aufzugeben.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: Scene III. A room in the Castle. Enter King, Rosencrantz, and Guildenstern. King. I like him not, nor stands it safe with us To let his madness range. Therefore prepare you; I your commission will forthwith dispatch, And he to England shall along with you. The terms of our estate may not endure Hazard so near us as doth hourly grow Out of his lunacies. Guil. We will ourselves provide. Most holy and religious fear it is To keep those many many bodies safe That live and feed upon your Majesty. Ros. The single and peculiar life is bound With all the strength and armour of the mind To keep itself from noyance; but much more That spirit upon whose weal depends and rests The lives of many. The cesse of majesty Dies not alone, but like a gulf doth draw What's near it with it. It is a massy wheel, Fix'd on the summit of the highest mount, To whose huge spokes ten thousand lesser things Are mortis'd and adjoin'd; which when it falls, Each small annexment, petty consequence, Attends the boist'rous ruin. Never alone Did the king sigh, but with a general groan. King. Arm you, I pray you, to this speedy voyage; For we will fetters put upon this fear, Which now goes too free-footed. Both. We will haste us. Exeunt Gentlemen. Enter Polonius. Pol. My lord, he's going to his mother's closet. Behind the arras I'll convey myself To hear the process. I'll warrant she'll tax him home; And, as you said, and wisely was it said, 'Tis meet that some more audience than a mother, Since nature makes them partial, should o'erhear The speech, of vantage. Fare you well, my liege. I'll call upon you ere you go to bed And tell you what I know. King. Thanks, dear my lord. Exit [Polonius]. O, my offence is rank, it smells to heaven; It hath the primal eldest curse upon't, A brother's murther! Pray can I not, Though inclination be as sharp as will. My stronger guilt defeats my strong intent, And, like a man to double business bound, I stand in pause where I shall first begin, And both neglect. What if this cursed hand Were thicker than itself with brother's blood, Is there not rain enough in the sweet heavens To wash it white as snow? Whereto serves mercy But to confront the visage of offence? And what's in prayer but this twofold force, To be forestalled ere we come to fall, Or pardon'd being down? Then I'll look up; My fault is past. But, O, what form of prayer Can serve my turn? 'Forgive me my foul murther'? That cannot be; since I am still possess'd Of those effects for which I did the murther- My crown, mine own ambition, and my queen. May one be pardon'd and retain th' offence? In the corrupted currents of this world Offence's gilded hand may shove by justice, And oft 'tis seen the wicked prize itself Buys out the law; but 'tis not so above. There is no shuffling; there the action lies In his true nature, and we ourselves compell'd, Even to the teeth and forehead of our faults, To give in evidence. What then? What rests? Try what repentance can. What can it not? Yet what can it when one cannot repent? O wretched state! O bosom black as death! O limed soul, that, struggling to be free, Art more engag'd! Help, angels! Make assay. Bow, stubborn knees; and heart with strings of steel, Be soft as sinews of the new-born babe! All may be well. He kneels. Enter Hamlet. Ham. Now might I do it pat, now he is praying; And now I'll do't. And so he goes to heaven, And so am I reveng'd. That would be scann'd. A villain kills my father; and for that, I, his sole son, do this same villain send To heaven. Why, this is hire and salary, not revenge! He took my father grossly, full of bread, With all his crimes broad blown, as flush as May; And how his audit stands, who knows save heaven? But in our circumstance and course of thought, 'Tis heavy with him; and am I then reveng'd, To take him in the purging of his soul, When he is fit and seasoned for his passage? No. Up, sword, and know thou a more horrid hent. When he is drunk asleep; or in his rage; Or in th' incestuous pleasure of his bed; At gaming, swearing, or about some act That has no relish of salvation in't- Then trip him, that his heels may kick at heaven, And that his soul may be as damn'd and black As hell, whereto it goes. My mother stays. This physic but prolongs thy sickly days. Exit. King. [rises] My words fly up, my thoughts remain below. Words without thoughts never to heaven go. Exit. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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Irgendwo im Schloss spricht König Claudius mit Rosencrantz und Guildenstern. Durch das Stück stark erschüttert und nun Hamlets Wahnsinn als gefährlich betrachtend, bittet Claudius das Paar, Hamlet auf eine Reise nach England zu begleiten und sofort abzureisen. Sie stimmen zu und gehen, um die Vorbereitungen zu treffen. Polonius tritt ein und erinnert den König an seinen Plan, sich im Zimmer von Gertrude zu verstecken und Hamlets Konfrontation mit ihr zu beobachten. Er verspricht, Claudius alles mitzuteilen, was er erfährt. Als Polonius geht, ist der König allein und drückt sofort seine Schuld und Trauer über seine Sünde aus. Der Mord eines Bruders, sagt er, ist die älteste Sünde und "hat den ursprünglich ältesten Fluch darauf". Er sehnt sich danach, um Vergebung zu bitten, sagt aber, dass er nicht bereit ist, das aufzugeben, was er durch den Mord gewonnen hat, nämlich die Krone und die Königin. Er fällt auf die Knie und beginnt zu beten. Hamlet schleicht leise in den Raum und rüstet sich, um den nichtsahnenden Claudius zu töten. Aber plötzlich fällt ihm ein, dass wenn er Claudius tötet, während er betet, er das Leben des Königs in dem Moment beendet, in dem er um Vergebung für seine Sünden bittet und Claudius' Seele in den Himmel geschickt wird. Dies ist kaum eine angemessene Rache, denkt Hamlet, besonders da Claudius, indem er Hamlets Vater tötete, bevor er seine letzte Beichte ablegen konnte, sicherstellte, dass sein Bruder nicht in den Himmel gehen würde. Hamlet entscheidet sich zu warten und beschließt, Claudius zu töten, wenn der König sündigt - wenn er entweder betrunken, wütend oder lüstern ist. Er geht. Claudius erhebt sich und erklärt, dass er nicht aufrichtig beten konnte: "Meine Worte fliegen nach oben, meine Gedanken bleiben unten".

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: Roxane alone. Two sisters, for a moment. ROXANE: Ah! what a beauty in September's close! My sorrow's eased. April's joy dazzled it, But autumn wins it with her dying calm. (She seats herself at the embroidery frame. Two sisters come out of the house, and bring a large armchair under the tree): There comes the famous armchair where he sits, Dear faithful friend! SISTER MARTHA: It is the parlor's best! ROXANE: Thanks, sister. (The sisters go): He'll be here now. (She seats herself. A clock strikes): The hour strikes. --My silks?--Why, now, the hour's struck! How strange To be behind his time, at last, to-day! Perhaps the portress--where's my thimble?. . . Here!--Is preaching to him. (A pause): Yes, she must be preaching! Surely he must come soon!--Ah, a dead leaf!-- (She brushes off the leaf from her work): Nothing, besides, could--scissors?--In my bag! --Could hinder him. . . A SISTER (coming to the steps): Monsieur de Bergerac. 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.

Nachdem sie gegangen sind, taucht Roxane wieder auf und setzt sich unter einen Herbstbaum, um zu nähen. Eine Nonne kündigt Cyrano's Ankunft 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: To obviate the danger of this threat being fulfilled, Mr. Linton commissioned me to take the boy home early, on Catherine's pony; and, said he--'As we shall now have no influence over his destiny, good or bad, you must say nothing of where he is gone to my daughter: she cannot associate with him hereafter, and it is better for her to remain in ignorance of his proximity; lest she should be restless, and anxious to visit the Heights. Merely tell her his father sent for him suddenly, and he has been obliged to leave us.' Linton was very reluctant to be roused from his bed at five o'clock, and astonished to be informed that he must prepare for further travelling; but I softened off the matter by stating that he was going to spend some time with his father, Mr. Heathcliff, who wished to see him so much, he did not like to defer the pleasure till he should recover from his late journey. 'My father!' he cried, in strange perplexity. 'Mamma never told me I had a father. Where does he live? I'd rather stay with uncle.' 'He lives a little distance from the Grange,' I replied; 'just beyond those hills: not so far, but you may walk over here when you get hearty. And you should be glad to go home, and to see him. You must try to love him, as you did your mother, and then he will love you.' 'But why have I not heard of him before?' asked Linton. 'Why didn't mamma and he live together, as other people do?' 'He had business to keep him in the north,' I answered, 'and your mother's health required her to reside in the south.' 'And why didn't mamma speak to me about him?' persevered the child. 'She often talked of uncle, and I learnt to love him long ago. How am I to love papa? I don't know him.' 'Oh, all children love their parents,' I said. 'Your mother, perhaps, thought you would want to be with him if she mentioned him often to you. Let us make haste. An early ride on such a beautiful morning is much preferable to an hour's more sleep.' 'Is _she_ to go with us,' he demanded, 'the little girl I saw yesterday?' 'Not now,' replied I. 'Is uncle?' he continued. 'No, I shall be your companion there,' I said. Linton sank back on his pillow and fell into a brown study. 'I won't go without uncle,' he cried at length: 'I can't tell where you mean to take me.' I attempted to persuade him of the naughtiness of showing reluctance to meet his father; still he obstinately resisted any progress towards dressing, and I had to call for my master's assistance in coaxing him out of bed. The poor thing was finally got off, with several delusive assurances that his absence should be short: that Mr. Edgar and Cathy would visit him, and other promises, equally ill-founded, which I invented and reiterated at intervals throughout the way. The pure heather-scented air, the bright sunshine, and the gentle canter of Minny, relieved his despondency after a while. He began to put questions concerning his new home, and its inhabitants, with greater interest and liveliness. 'Is Wuthering Heights as pleasant a place as Thrushcross Grange?' he inquired, turning to take a last glance into the valley, whence a light mist mounted and formed a fleecy cloud on the skirts of the blue. 'It is not so buried in trees,' I replied, 'and it is not quite so large, but you can see the country beautifully all round; and the air is healthier for you--fresher and drier. You will, perhaps, think the building old and dark at first; though it is a respectable house: the next best in the neighbourhood. And you will have such nice rambles on the moors. Hareton Earnshaw--that is, Miss Cathy's other cousin, and so yours in a manner--will show you all the sweetest spots; and you can bring a book in fine weather, and make a green hollow your study; and, now and then, your uncle may join you in a walk: he does, frequently, walk out on the hills.' 'And what is my father like?' he asked. 'Is he as young and handsome as uncle?' 'He's as young,' said I; 'but he has black hair and eyes, and looks sterner; and he is taller and bigger altogether. He'll not seem to you so gentle and kind at first, perhaps, because it is not his way: still, mind you, be frank and cordial with him; and naturally he'll be fonder of you than any uncle, for you are his own.' 'Black hair and eyes!' mused Linton. 'I can't fancy him. Then I am not like him, am I?' 'Not much,' I answered: not a morsel, I thought, surveying with regret the white complexion and slim frame of my companion, and his large languid eyes--his mother's eyes, save that, unless a morbid touchiness kindled them a moment, they had not a vestige of her sparkling spirit. 'How strange that he should never come to see mamma and me!' he murmured. 'Has he ever seen me? If he has, I must have been a baby. I remember not a single thing about him!' 'Why, Master Linton,' said I, 'three hundred miles is a great distance; and ten years seem very different in length to a grown-up person compared with what they do to you. It is probable Mr. Heathcliff proposed going from summer to summer, but never found a convenient opportunity; and now it is too late. Don't trouble him with questions on the subject: it will disturb him, for no good.' The boy was fully occupied with his own cogitations for the remainder of the ride, till we halted before the farmhouse garden-gate. I watched to catch his impressions in his countenance. He surveyed the carved front and low-browed lattices, the straggling gooseberry-bushes and crooked firs, with solemn intentness, and then shook his head: his private feelings entirely disapproved of the exterior of his new abode. But he had sense to postpone complaining: there might be compensation within. Before he dismounted, I went and opened the door. It was half-past six; the family had just finished breakfast: the servant was clearing and wiping down the table. Joseph stood by his master's chair telling some tale concerning a lame horse; and Hareton was preparing for the hayfield. 'Hallo, Nelly!' said Mr. Heathcliff, when he saw me. 'I feared I should have to come down and fetch my property myself. You've brought it, have you? Let us see what we can make of it.' He got up and strode to the door: Hareton and Joseph followed in gaping curiosity. Poor Linton ran a frightened eye over the faces of the three. 'Sure-ly,' said Joseph after a grave inspection, 'he's swopped wi' ye, Maister, an' yon's his lass!' Heathcliff, having stared his son into an ague of confusion, uttered a scornful laugh. 'God! what a beauty! what a lovely, charming thing!' he exclaimed. 'Hav'n't they reared it on snails and sour milk, Nelly? Oh, damn my soul! but that's worse than I expected--and the devil knows I was not sanguine!' I bid the trembling and bewildered child get down, and enter. He did not thoroughly comprehend the meaning of his father's speech, or whether it were intended for him: indeed, he was not yet certain that the grim, sneering stranger was his father. But he clung to me with growing trepidation; and on Mr. Heathcliff's taking a seat and bidding him 'come hither' he hid his face on my shoulder and wept. 'Tut, tut!' said Heathcliff, stretching out a hand and dragging him roughly between his knees, and then holding up his head by the chin. 'None of that nonsense! We're not going to hurt thee, Linton--isn't that thy name? Thou art thy mother's child, entirely! Where is my share in thee, puling chicken?' He took off the boy's cap and pushed back his thick flaxen curls, felt his slender arms and his small fingers; during which examination Linton ceased crying, and lifted his great blue eyes to inspect the inspector. 'Do you know me?' asked Heathcliff, having satisfied himself that the limbs were all equally frail and feeble. 'No,' said Linton, with a gaze of vacant fear. 'You've heard of me, I daresay?' 'No,' he replied again. 'No! What a shame of your mother, never to waken your filial regard for me! You are my son, then, I'll tell you; and your mother was a wicked slut to leave you in ignorance of the sort of father you possessed. Now, don't wince, and colour up! Though it is something to see you have not white blood. Be a good lad; and I'll do for you. Nelly, if you be tired you may sit down; if not, get home again. I guess you'll report what you hear and see to the cipher at the Grange; and this thing won't be settled while you linger about it.' 'Well,' replied I, 'I hope you'll be kind to the boy, Mr. Heathcliff, or you'll not keep him long; and he's all you have akin in the wide world, that you will ever know--remember.' 'I'll be very kind to him, you needn't fear,' he said, laughing. 'Only nobody else must be kind to him: I'm jealous of monopolising his affection. And, to begin my kindness, Joseph, bring the lad some breakfast. Hareton, you infernal calf, begone to your work. Yes, Nell,' he added, when they had departed, 'my son is prospective owner of your place, and I should not wish him to die till I was certain of being his successor. Besides, he's _mine_, and I want the triumph of seeing _my_ descendant fairly lord of their estates; my child hiring their children to till their fathers' lands for wages. That is the sole consideration which can make me endure the whelp: I despise him for himself, and hate him for the memories he revives! But that consideration is sufficient: he's as safe with me, and shall be tended as carefully as your master tends his own. I have a room up-stairs, furnished for him in handsome style; I've engaged a tutor, also, to come three times a week, from twenty miles' distance, to teach him what he pleases to learn. I've ordered Hareton to obey him: and in fact I've arranged everything with a view to preserve the superior and the gentleman in him, above his associates. I do regret, however, that he so little deserves the trouble: if I wished any blessing in the world, it was to find him a worthy object of pride; and I'm bitterly disappointed with the whey-faced, whining wretch!' While he was speaking, Joseph returned bearing a basin of milk-porridge, and placed it before Linton: who stirred round the homely mess with a look of aversion, and affirmed he could not eat it. I saw the old man-servant shared largely in his master's scorn of the child; though he was compelled to retain the sentiment in his heart, because Heathcliff plainly meant his underlings to hold him in honour. 'Cannot ate it?' repeated he, peering in Linton's face, and subduing his voice to a whisper, for fear of being overheard. 'But Maister Hareton nivir ate naught else, when he wer a little 'un; and what wer gooid enough for him's gooid enough for ye, I's rayther think!' 'I _sha'n't_ eat it!' answered Linton, snappishly. 'Take it away.' Joseph snatched up the food indignantly, and brought it to us. 'Is there aught ails th' victuals?' he asked, thrusting the tray under Heathcliff's nose. 'What should ail them?' he said. 'Wah!' answered Joseph, 'yon dainty chap says he cannut ate 'em. But I guess it's raight! His mother wer just soa--we wer a'most too mucky to sow t' corn for makking her breead.' 'Don't mention his mother to me,' said the master, angrily. 'Get him something that he can eat, that's all. What is his usual food, Nelly?' I suggested boiled milk or tea; and the housekeeper received instructions to prepare some. Come, I reflected, his father's selfishness may contribute to his comfort. He perceives his delicate constitution, and the necessity of treating him tolerably. I'll console Mr. Edgar by acquainting him with the turn Heathcliff's humour has taken. Having no excuse for lingering longer, I slipped out, while Linton was engaged in timidly rebuffing the advances of a friendly sheep-dog. But he was too much on the alert to be cheated: as I closed the door, I heard a cry, and a frantic repetition of the words-- 'Don't leave me! I'll not stay here! I'll not stay here!' Then the latch was raised and fell: they did not suffer him to come forth. I mounted Minny, and urged her to a trot; and so my brief guardianship ended. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze verfassen?

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Früh am nächsten Morgen plant Edgar, Linton zusammen mit Nelly nach Wuthering Heights zu schicken. Kurz vor seiner Abreise ist der Junge ängstlich und äußerst widerwillig, seinen Onkel zu verlassen. Schließlich gelingt es Nelly Linton zu überreden und sie machen sich auf den Weg zum Haus von Lintons Vater. Heathcliff begrüßt seinen Sohn mit einem verächtlichen Lachen. Linton ähnelt ihm nicht und zu allem Übel erinnert sein Aussehen Heathcliff an Isabella. Alleine mit Nelly erzählt Heathcliff ihr, dass sein Sohn der zukünftige Besitzer von Thrushcross Grange ist. Deshalb möchte Heathcliff nicht, dass Linton stirbt, bevor sicher ist, dass er Edgars Nachfolger sein wird. Heathcliff hat ein Zimmer speziell für seinen Sohn vorbereitet und einen Tutor engagiert, der ihn "das lehren soll, was er lernen möchte." Nelly ist zufrieden, dass zumindest Heathcliffs egoistische Rachepläne dafür sorgen werden, dass er Linton gut behandelt.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: Upon their arrival at Venice, Candide went to search for Cacambo at every inn and coffee-house, and among all the ladies of pleasure, but to no purpose. He sent every day to inquire on all the ships that came in. But there was no news of Cacambo. "What!" said he to Martin, "I have had time to voyage from Surinam to Bordeaux, to go from Bordeaux to Paris, from Paris to Dieppe, from Dieppe to Portsmouth, to coast along Portugal and Spain, to cross the whole Mediterranean, to spend some months, and yet the beautiful Cunegonde has not arrived! Instead of her I have only met a Parisian wench and a Perigordian Abbe. Cunegonde is dead without doubt, and there is nothing for me but to die. Alas! how much better it would have been for me to have remained in the paradise of El Dorado than to come back to this cursed Europe! You are in the right, my dear Martin: all is misery and illusion." He fell into a deep melancholy, and neither went to see the opera, nor any of the other diversions of the Carnival; nay, he was proof against the temptations of all the ladies. "You are in truth very simple," said Martin to him, "if you imagine that a mongrel valet, who has five or six millions in his pocket, will go to the other end of the world to seek your mistress and bring her to you to Venice. If he find her, he will keep her to himself; if he do not find her he will get another. I advise you to forget your valet Cacambo and your mistress Cunegonde." Martin was not consoling. Candide's melancholy increased; and Martin continued to prove to him that there was very little virtue or happiness upon earth, except perhaps in El Dorado, where nobody could gain admittance. While they were disputing on this important subject and waiting for Cunegonde, Candide saw a young Theatin friar in St. Mark's Piazza, holding a girl on his arm. The Theatin looked fresh coloured, plump, and vigorous; his eyes were sparkling, his air assured, his look lofty, and his step bold. The girl was very pretty, and sang; she looked amorously at her Theatin, and from time to time pinched his fat cheeks. "At least you will allow me," said Candide to Martin, "that these two are happy. Hitherto I have met with none but unfortunate people in the whole habitable globe, except in El Dorado; but as to this pair, I would venture to lay a wager that they are very happy." "I lay you they are not," said Martin. "We need only ask them to dine with us," said Candide, "and you will see whether I am mistaken." Immediately he accosted them, presented his compliments, and invited them to his inn to eat some macaroni, with Lombard partridges, and caviare, and to drink some Montepulciano, Lachrymae Christi, Cyprus and Samos wine. The girl blushed, the Theatin accepted the invitation and she followed him, casting her eyes on Candide with confusion and surprise, and dropping a few tears. No sooner had she set foot in Candide's apartment than she cried out: "Ah! Mr. Candide does not know Paquette again." Candide had not viewed her as yet with attention, his thoughts being entirely taken up with Cunegonde; but recollecting her as she spoke. "Alas!" said he, "my poor child, it is you who reduced Doctor Pangloss to the beautiful condition in which I saw him?" "Alas! it was I, sir, indeed," answered Paquette. "I see that you have heard all. I have been informed of the frightful disasters that befell the family of my lady Baroness, and the fair Cunegonde. I swear to you that my fate has been scarcely less sad. I was very innocent when you knew me. A Grey Friar, who was my confessor, easily seduced me. The consequences were terrible. I was obliged to quit the castle some time after the Baron had sent you away with kicks on the backside. If a famous surgeon had not taken compassion on me, I should have died. For some time I was this surgeon's mistress, merely out of gratitude. His wife, who was mad with jealousy, beat me every day unmercifully; she was a fury. The surgeon was one of the ugliest of men, and I the most wretched of women, to be continually beaten for a man I did not love. You know, sir, what a dangerous thing it is for an ill-natured woman to be married to a doctor. Incensed at the behaviour of his wife, he one day gave her so effectual a remedy to cure her of a slight cold, that she died two hours after, in most horrid convulsions. The wife's relations prosecuted the husband; he took flight, and I was thrown into jail. My innocence would not have saved me if I had not been good-looking. The judge set me free, on condition that he succeeded the surgeon. I was soon supplanted by a rival, turned out of doors quite destitute, and obliged to continue this abominable trade, which appears so pleasant to you men, while to us women it is the utmost abyss of misery. I have come to exercise the profession at Venice. Ah! sir, if you could only imagine what it is to be obliged to caress indifferently an old merchant, a lawyer, a monk, a gondolier, an abbe, to be exposed to abuse and insults; to be often reduced to borrowing a petticoat, only to go and have it raised by a disagreeable man; to be robbed by one of what one has earned from another; to be subject to the extortions of the officers of justice; and to have in prospect only a frightful old age, a hospital, and a dung-hill; you would conclude that I am one of the most unhappy creatures in the world."[33] Paquette thus opened her heart to honest Candide, in the presence of Martin, who said to his friend: "You see that already I have won half the wager." Friar Giroflee stayed in the dining-room, and drank a glass or two of wine while he was waiting for dinner. "But," said Candide to Paquette, "you looked so gay and content when I met you; you sang and you behaved so lovingly to the Theatin, that you seemed to me as happy as you pretend to be now the reverse." "Ah! sir," answered Paquette, "this is one of the miseries of the trade. Yesterday I was robbed and beaten by an officer; yet to-day I must put on good humour to please a friar." Candide wanted no more convincing; he owned that Martin was in the right. They sat down to table with Paquette and the Theatin; the repast was entertaining; and towards the end they conversed with all confidence. "Father," said Candide to the Friar, "you appear to me to enjoy a state that all the world might envy; the flower of health shines in your face, your expression makes plain your happiness; you have a very pretty girl for your recreation, and you seem well satisfied with your state as a Theatin." "My faith, sir," said Friar Giroflee, "I wish that all the Theatins were at the bottom of the sea. I have been tempted a hundred times to set fire to the convent, and go and become a Turk. My parents forced me at the age of fifteen to put on this detestable habit, to increase the fortune of a cursed elder brother, whom God confound. Jealousy, discord, and fury, dwell in the convent. It is true I have preached a few bad sermons that have brought me in a little money, of which the prior stole half, while the rest serves to maintain my girls; but when I return at night to the monastery, I am ready to dash my head against the walls of the dormitory; and all my fellows are in the same case." Martin turned towards Candide with his usual coolness. "Well," said he, "have I not won the whole wager?" Candide gave two thousand piastres to Paquette, and one thousand to Friar Giroflee. "I'll answer for it," said he, "that with this they will be happy." "I do not believe it at all," said Martin; "you will, perhaps, with these piastres only render them the more unhappy." "Let that be as it may," said Candide, "but one thing consoles me. I see that we often meet with those whom we expected never to see more; so that, perhaps, as I have found my red sheep and Paquette, it may well be that I shall also find Cunegonde." "I do not read his works," replied Pococurante, "for I do not understand his language." Candide and Martin spent the whole day with the Senator, and left him only at night, very well satisfied with their visit. "I must confess," said Candide, "that the Senator is a man of great knowledge and taste." "Very great," said Martin, "and yet it is a pity that he should have forsaken the noble sentiments natural to him, and that he should have adopted those of the middle class." "It is," said Candide, "the same thing as marrying the daughter of a mountebank." As they were returning to Venice, Candide said to Martin, "You see that I have once more found a man to pity." "There is no doubt of that," answered Martin. "I often think," said the noble Venetian, "that if I had not been born a senator, I should have been a philosopher. I know that, in whatever state I may be, I shall never be happier than I am at present." "Worthy gentlemen," said he, "while you have been kings, emperors, and rulers of great nations, I have only been a simple baron. However, fortune has not been kind to me either. I have been betrayed and imprisoned, and all my possessions have been taken from me. I too resign myself to Providence and have come to Venice to enjoy the Carnival." The company then turned to Candide and Martin, who were still in shock and disbelief. "And what about you two?" they asked. "We are nothing but poor wanderers," replied Candide. "We have no titles or positions of power. We are simply searching for our lost loved ones." The six monarchs looked at each other with surprise. "If that is the case," said Achmet III, "then you are certainly the freest and happiest among us. While we may have had power and wealth, it has only brought us suffering and loss. You, on the other hand, are free to search for your loved ones without any constraints. Cherish that freedom and happiness." Candide and Martin sighed deeply, realizing the truth in Achmet's words. They were indeed the freest and happiest among the company. "Gentlemen," said he, "I am not so great a prince as any of you; however, I am a king. I am Theodore, elected King of Corsica; I had the title of Majesty, and now I am scarcely treated as a gentleman. I have coined money, and now am not worth a farthing; I have had two secretaries of state, and now I have scarce a valet; I have seen myself on a throne, and I have seen myself upon straw in a common jail in London. I am afraid that I shall meet with the same treatment here though, like your majesties, I am come to see the Carnival at Venice." The other five kings listened to this speech with generous compassion. Each of them gave twenty sequins to King Theodore to buy him clothes and linen; and Candide made him a present of a diamond worth two thousand sequins. "Who can this private person be," said the five kings to one another, "who is able to give, and really has given, a hundred times as much as any of us?" Just as they rose from table, in came four Serene Highnesses, who had also been stripped of their territories by the fortune of war, and were come to spend the Carnival at Venice. But Candide paid no regard to these newcomers, his thoughts were entirely employed on his voyage to Constantinople, in search of his beloved Cunegonde. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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Unmittelbar nach seiner Ankunft in Venedig begann Candide nach Cacambo zu suchen. Jeden Tag ließ er alle Schiffe und Boote untersuchen, aber er erfuhr keine Neuigkeiten von seinem Diener. Wie er Martin erklärte, hatte er nach seiner langen Reise von Südamerika nur einen hinterlistigen Abt aus Périgord getroffen. Er war sich sicher, dass Cunegonde tot war und bedauerte, dass er nicht in Eldorado geblieben war, anstatt in dieses "verfluchte Europa" zurückzukehren, wo alles Täuschung und Unglück war. Martin, wie immer offen, nannte seinen Begleiter einen Einfaltspinsel, weil er glaubte, dass ein halbgezogener Diener mit so viel Reichtum die ihm zugewiesene Mission erfüllt hätte. Martin riet Candide, sowohl Cacambo als auch Cunegonde zu vergessen. Während der alte Gelehrte weitersprach, wuchs die Melancholie des jungen Mannes. Candide bemerkte einen jungen Theatiner, der mit einer jungen Dame am Piazza San Marco Arm in Arm ging. Sie waren ein attraktives und offenbar sehr glückliches Paar. Candide argumentierte daraufhin mit Martin, dass es zumindest zwei glückliche Wesen gab. Aber Martin war sicher, dass sie zu den Unglücklichen gehörten, die diese Welt bevölkern. Um die Frage zu klären, lud der junge Mann den Mönch und das hübsche Mädchen ein, mit Martin und ihm zu Abend zu essen, und die Einladung wurde prompt angenommen. Kaum hatten sie Candides Zimmer im Hotel betreten, erkannte das Mädchen ihren Gastgeber und identifizierte sich als Paquette, das Dienstmädchen der Baronin, mit dem Pangloss eine Affäre hatte. Sie erklärte, dass sie von den schrecklichen Missgeschicken gehört hatte, die allen im Schloss des Barons in Westphalen widerfahren waren. Sie selbst hatte es nicht gut getroffen. Und dann erzählte sie ihre Geschichte. Nachdem Paquette den Dienst der Baronin hatte verlassen müssen, wurde sie nacheinander die Geliebte eines Arztes, der seine eifersüchtige Frau getötet hatte, und eines Richters, der sie aus dem Gefängnis befreit hatte, in dem sie als mögliche Komplizin des Mordes untergebracht war. Bald wurde sie von einer Rivalin ersetzt und musste sich in den Beruf einer gewöhnlichen Prostituierten begeben, dem Beruf, dem sie in Venedig nachging. Sie sprach ausführlich von der Degradierung, der sie ausgesetzt war, und blickte nur einem entsetzlichen Alter entgegen. Martin bemerkte, dass er sicherlich die Hälfte seiner Wette gewonnen hatte. Candide fragte Paquette, warum sie trotz ihres traurigen Schicksals so fröhlich und glücklich wirkte. "Das ist ein weiteres Elend des Handels", antwortete sie. "Gestern wurde ich von einem Offizier ausgeraubt und geschlagen, und heute muss ich gut gelaunt erscheinen, um einen Mönch zu erfreuen." Candide gestand dann ein, dass Martin recht hatte. Er wandte sich an den Mönch, der, wie er sagte, eine Bestimmung zu genießen schien, die jeder beneiden müsse, und der mit seinem Status als Theatin zufrieden zu sein schien. Aber Pater Giroflee protestierte, dass er sich wünschte, alle Theatiner wären am Grund des Meeres. Er selbst hätte gerne das Kloster angezündet und sich zum Türken gemacht. Als jüngerer Sohn hatten ihn seine Eltern gezwungen, seinem älteren Bruder, den er verabscheute, ein größeres Vermögen zu hinterlassen und Mönch zu werden. Eifersucht, Zwietracht und Wut kennzeichneten das Leben im Kloster. Oh, sicherlich hatten ihm ein paar schlechte Predigten etwas Geld eingebracht, von dem der Prior die Hälfte gestohlen hatte, der Rest reichte ihm, um Mädchen zu halten. Nun musste Candide zugeben, dass Martin die gesamte Wette gewonnen hatte. Er gab Paquette 2000 Piaster und Giroflee 1000 - in der festen Überzeugung, dass das Geld beide glücklich machen würde. Doch Martin war sich da nicht so sicher: Vielleicht würde das Geld sie nur noch unglücklicher machen. Als Candide bemerkte, dass er oft Menschen wiedergefunden hatte, von denen er dachte, sie seien für immer verloren, glaubte er nun, dass es eine gute Chance gab, Cunegonde zu finden. Martin blieb pessimistisch; für ihn war das Glück in dieser Welt eine sehr knappe Ware. Candide lenkte seine Aufmerksamkeit auf die singenden Gondoliere; sicherlich seien sie glücklich. Lass Candide sie zu Hause sehen, sagte Martin, mit ihren Frauen und Kindern; dann würde er anders denken. Er gestand ein, dass das Los eines Gondoliere wahrscheinlich ein besseres war als das des Dogen. Candide erwähnte dann, dass die Venezianer von Senator Pococurante sprachen, der in einem Palast am Brenta lebte und ausländische Besucher freundlich empfing und als jemand galt, der nie Kummer gekannt hatte. Martin äußerte den Wunsch, eine solche Seltenheit zu sehen, und Candide arrangierte sofort einen Besuch bei dem Senator am nächsten Tag. Sowohl Candide als auch Martin waren von dem Palast, dem umliegenden Garten und der Statuen beeindruckt. Der noble Pococurante, ein etwa sechzigjähriger Mann, empfing sie gastfreundlich, wenn auch mit wenig Begeisterung. Candide lobte die Schönheit, Anmut und Geschicklichkeit der beiden hübschen Mädchen, die ihnen Erfrischungen servierten. Der gebildete Senator bemerkte, dass er manchmal ihre Gunst genoss, denn er "ermüde von den Stadt-Damen, von ihren Koketterien, ihren Torheiten." Als Candide seine Bewunderung für die originalen Raphaels und andere Gemälde aussprach, äußerte Pococurante seine Geringschätzung ihnen gegenüber; er fand sie nicht naturgetreu. Und als Candide seine hohe Zustimmung zur Musik äußerte, die ihm geboten wurde, hielt sein Gastgeber eine Rede über die Grenzen zeitgenössischer Musik, besonders der Operntragödien. Martin stimmte seinem Gastgeber voll und ganz zu. Als sie die imposante Bibliothek inspizierten, hatte Pococurante ebenso starke Meinungen über die Beschränkungen der anerkannten Großen wie Homer und Milton; er bevorzugte Vergil, Tasso und Ariost. So auch in Bezug auf Horaz: Der römische Schriftsteller hatte seine Vorzüge, aber auch ernsthafte Grenzen. Da er nie erzogen worden war, um etwas selbst zu bewerten, war Candide erstaunt über das, was er hörte; aber wieder stimmt Martin seinem Gastgeber voll und ganz zu. Der Tenor des Gesprächs blieb derselbe, als auf Cicero, die achtzig Bände der Akademie der Wissenschaften und auf das italienische, spanische und französische Drama Bezug genommen wurde. Besonders interessant war die Diskussion über die englische Literatur. Pococurante stimmte mit Martin überein, dass die Engländer das Privileg hatten, das zu schreiben, was sie dachten, während in "diesem Italien von uns" die Menschen nur das schrieben, was sie nicht dachten. Er wäre gerne frei wie die englischen Genies, aber fügte hinzu, dass Leidenschaft und Parteienwahn alles verderben würden, was an dieser wertvollen Freiheit schätzbar wäre. Er lehnte Milton als "einen Barbaren, der in zehn Büchern schlechter Verse einen langen Kommentar zum ersten Kapitel der Genesis schrieb" ab und als "rohen Nachahmer der Griechen". Candide war von diesen offenen, originellen Einschätzungen der literarischen Großen eher beunruhigt, war aber überzeugt, dass sein Gastgeber ein großer Genie sei: "Nichts kann ihm gefallen." Als er und Martin gingen, bemerkte Candide, dass sie tatsächlich den glücklichsten aller Menschen getroffen hatten, der über allem stand, was er besaß. Aber Martin bestand darauf, dass Pococurante von allem, was er besaß, angewidert war und keineswegs glücklich war. Also schloss Candide, dass nur er selbst eine glückliche Person war - oder sein würde, wenn und wann er Cunegonde wiedersehen würde. Aber die Wochen vergingen, ohne dass Cacambo auftauchte. So deprimiert er auch war, der junge Mann bemerkte nicht einmal, dass Paquette und der Mönch es nicht für nötig hielten, zu kommen und sich bei ihm zu bedanken. Eines Abends ging Candide, gefolgt von Martin, in ein Hotel, um zu Abend zu essen. Bevor sie sich setzen konnten, kam ein Mann mit sehr dunklem Teint auf ihn zu und sagte ihm, er solle bereit sein zur Abreise. Es war Cacambo. Candide erfuhr, dass sein Diener nun der Sklave eines Mannes war, der auf ihn wartete, und dass Cunegonde in Constantinopel war. Er bat den jungen Mann, zu Abend zu essen und dann bereit zu sein, für ihre Abreise. In großer Aufregung und gemischten Gefühlen gesellte sich Candide zu dem ruhigen Martin an einen Tisch mit sechs Ausländern, die nach Venedig gekommen waren, um Karneval zu feiern. Cacambo schenkte ihnen einen Drink ein. Er und die anderen Diener oder Sklaven teilten ihren Herren mit, dass ihre Schiffe abfahrbereit seien; jeder verließ das Lokal sofort nach der Übermittlung seiner Nachricht. Aber der sechste Sklave hatte eine andere Art von Nachricht für seinen Herrn. "Eure Majestät", sagte er, "sie werden Ihnen nicht mehr Kredit geben, mir auch nicht. Sie und ich könnten ins Gefängnis kommen. Ich werde mich um mich selbst kümmern. Lebt wohl." Diejenigen, die am Tisch saßen, schwiegen eine Weile. Schließlich fragte Candide, wie es dazu kam, dass alle sechs Könige waren. Jeder identifizierte sich. Es waren Achmet III., einstiger Großsultan, der von seinem Neffen abgesetzt wurde; Iwan, einstiger Kaiser von ganz Russland, der als Kind abgesetzt wurde; Charles Edward, König von England, dessen entthronter Vater seine Rechte an seinen Sohn abgetreten hatte; der König der Polen, dessen Vater ähnliche Erfahrungen gemacht hatte; ein weiterer König der Polen, der zweimal sein Königreich verloren hatte; der nun mittellose König von Korsika, zu dem Königstitel, zu dem er gewählt worden war. Die Geschichten der sechs Könige bewegten die anderen so sehr, dass sie ihm Geld für Kleidung gaben. Candide gab ihm einen Diamanten im Wert von 2000 Sekunden, sehr zur Überraschung ihrer Königlichen Hoheiten, die sich fragten, wie ein Bürgerlicher so großzügig sein konnte. Candide versicherte ihnen, dass er kein König sei und auch kein solcher sein wollte. Als sich alle auf den Weg machten, kamen vier weitere Hoheiten, die aufgrund des Krieges ihre Staaten verloren hatten. Aber nun war Candide nur noch daran interessiert, nach Konstantinopel zu gehen, um seine liebe Cunegonde zu finden.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: ACT V. Enter FERNEZE, [179] KNIGHTS, MARTIN DEL BOSCO, and OFFICERS. FERNEZE. Now, gentlemen, betake you to your arms, And see that Malta be well fortified; And it behoves you to be resolute; For Calymath, having hover'd here so long, Will win the town, or die before the walls. FIRST KNIGHT. And die he shall; for we will never yield. Enter BELLAMIRA and PILIA-BORZA. BELLAMIRA. O, bring us to the governor! FERNEZE. Away with her! she is a courtezan. BELLAMIRA. Whate'er I am, yet, governor, hear me speak: I bring thee news by whom thy son was slain: Mathias did it not; it was the Jew. PILIA-BORZA. Who, besides the slaughter of these gentlemen, Poison'd his own daughter and the nuns, Strangled a friar, and I know not what Mischief beside. FERNEZE. Had we but proof of this---- BELLAMIRA. Strong proof, my lord: his man's now at my lodging, That was his agent; he'll confess it all. FERNEZE. Go fetch him [180] straight [Exeunt OFFICERS]. I always fear'd that Jew. Re-enter OFFICERS with BARABAS and ITHAMORE. BARABAS. I'll go alone; dogs, do not hale me thus. ITHAMORE. Nor me neither; I cannot out-run you, constable.--O, my belly! BARABAS. One dram of powder more had made all sure: What a damn'd slave was I! [Aside.] FERNEZE. Make fires, heat irons, let the rack be fetch'd. FIRST KNIGHT. Nay, stay, my lord; 't may be he will confess. BARABAS. Confess! what mean you, lords? who should confess? FERNEZE. Thou and thy Turk; 'twas that slew my son. ITHAMORE. Guilty, my lord, I confess. Your son and Mathias were both contracted unto Abigail: [he] forged a counterfeit challenge. BARABAS. Who carried that challenge? ITHAMORE. I carried it, I confess; but who writ it? marry, even he that strangled Barnardine, poisoned the nuns and his own daughter. FERNEZE. Away with him! his sight is death to me. BARABAS. For what, you men of Malta? hear me speak. She is a courtezan, and he a thief, And he my bondman: let me have law; For none of this can prejudice my life. FERNEZE. Once more, away with him!--You shall have law. BARABAS. Devils, do your worst!--I['ll] live in spite of you.-- [Aside.] As these have spoke, so be it to their souls!-- I hope the poison'd flowers will work anon. [Aside.] [Exeunt OFFICERS with BARABAS and ITHAMORE; BELLAMIRA, and PILIA-BORZA.] Enter KATHARINE. KATHARINE. Was my Mathias murder'd by the Jew? Ferneze, 'twas thy son that murder'd him. FERNEZE. Be patient, gentle madam: it was he; He forg'd the daring challenge made them fight. KATHARINE. Where is the Jew? where is that murderer? FERNEZE. In prison, till the law has pass'd on him. Re-enter FIRST OFFICER. FIRST OFFICER. My lord, the courtezan and her man are dead; So is the Turk and Barabas the Jew. FERNEZE. Dead! FIRST OFFICER. Dead, my lord, and here they bring his body. MARTIN DEL BOSCO. This sudden death of his is very strange. Re-enter OFFICERS, carrying BARABAS as dead. FERNEZE. Wonder not at it, sir; the heavens are just; Their deaths were like their lives; then think not of 'em.-- Since they are dead, let them be buried: For the Jew's body, throw that o'er the walls, To be a prey for vultures and wild beasts.-- So, now away and fortify the town. Exeunt all, leaving BARABAS on the floor. [181] BARABAS. [rising] What, all alone! well fare, sleepy drink! I'll be reveng'd on this accursed town; For by my means Calymath shall enter in: I'll help to slay their children and their wives, To fire the churches, pull their houses down, Take my goods too, and seize upon my lands. I hope to see the governor a slave, And, rowing in a galley, whipt to death. Enter CALYMATH, BASSOES, [182] and TURKS. CALYMATH. Whom have we there? a spy? BARABAS. Yes, my good lord, one that can spy a place Where you may enter, and surprize the town: My name is Barabas; I am a Jew. CALYMATH. Art thou that Jew whose goods we heard were sold For tribute-money? BARABAS. The very same, my lord: And since that time they have hir'd a slave, my man, To accuse me of a thousand villanies: I was imprisoned, but scap [']d their hands. CALYMATH. Didst break prison? BARABAS. No, no: I drank of poppy and cold mandrake juice; And being asleep, belike they thought me dead, And threw me o'er the walls: so, or how else, The Jew is here, and rests at your command. CALYMATH. 'Twas bravely done: but tell me, Barabas, Canst thou, as thou report'st, make Malta ours? BARABAS. Fear not, my lord; for here, against the trench, [183] The rock is hollow, and of purpose digg'd, To make a passage for the running streams And common channels [184] of the city. Now, whilst you give assault unto the walls, I'll lead five hundred soldiers through the vault, And rise with them i' the middle of the town, Open the gates for you to enter in; And by this means the city is your own. CALYMATH. If this be true, I'll make thee governor. BARABAS. And, if it be not true, then let me die. CALYMATH. Thou'st doom'd thyself.--Assault it presently. [Exeunt.] Alarums within. Enter CALYMATH, [185] BASSOES, TURKS, and BARABAS; with FERNEZE and KNIGHTS prisoners. CALYMATH. Now vail [186] your pride, you captive Christians, And kneel for mercy to your conquering foe: Now where's the hope you had of haughty Spain? Ferneze, speak; had it not been much better To kept [187] thy promise than be thus surpris'd? FERNEZE. What should I say? we are captives, and must yield. CALYMATH. Ay, villains, you must yield, and under Turkish yokes Shall groaning bear the burden of our ire:-- And, Barabas, as erst we promis'd thee, For thy desert we make thee governor; Use them at thy discretion. BARABAS. Thanks, my lord. FERNEZE. O fatal day, to fall into the hands Of such a traitor and unhallow'd Jew! What greater misery could heaven inflict? CALYMATH. 'Tis our command:--and, Barabas, we give, To guard thy person, these our Janizaries: Entreat [188] them well, as we have used thee.-- And now, brave bassoes, [189] come; we'll walk about The ruin'd town, and see the wreck we made.-- Farewell, brave Jew, farewell, great Barabas! BARABAS. May all good fortune follow Calymath! [Exeunt CALYMATH and BASSOES.] And now, as entrance to our safety, To prison with the governor and these Captains, his consorts and confederates. FERNEZE. O villain! heaven will be reveng'd on thee. BARABAS. Away! no more; let him not trouble me. [Exeunt TURKS with FERNEZE and KNIGHTS.] Thus hast thou gotten, [190] by thy policy, No simple place, no small authority: I now am governor of Malta; true,-- But Malta hates me, and, in hating me, My life's in danger; and what boots it thee, Poor Barabas, to be the governor, Whenas [191] thy life shall be at their command? No, Barabas, this must be look'd into; And, since by wrong thou gott'st authority, Maintain it bravely by firm policy; At least, unprofitably lose it not; For he that liveth in authority, And neither gets him friends nor fills his bags, Lives like the ass that Aesop speaketh of, That labours with a load of bread and wine, And leaves it off to snap on thistle-tops: But Barabas will be more circumspect. Begin betimes; Occasion's bald behind: Slip not thine opportunity, for fear too late Thou seek'st for much, but canst not compass it.-- Within here! [192] Enter FERNEZE, with a GUARD. FERNEZE. My lord? BARABAS. Ay, LORD; thus slaves will learn. Now, governor,--stand by there, wait within,-- [Exeunt GUARD.] This is the reason that I sent for thee: Thou seest thy life and Malta's happiness Are at my arbitrement; and Barabas At his discretion may dispose of both: Now tell me, governor, and plainly too, What think'st thou shall become of it and thee? FERNEZE. This, Barabas; since things are in thy power, I see no reason but of Malta's wreck, Nor hope of thee but extreme cruelty: Nor fear I death, nor will I flatter thee. BARABAS. Governor, good words; be not so furious 'Tis not thy life which can avail me aught; Yet you do live, and live for me you shall: And as for Malta's ruin, think you not 'Twere slender policy for Barabas To dispossess himself of such a place? For sith, [193] as once you said, within this isle, In Malta here, that I have got my goods, And in this city still have had success, And now at length am grown your governor, Yourselves shall see it shall not be forgot; For, as a friend not known but in distress, I'll rear up Malta, now remediless. FERNEZE. Will Barabas recover Malta's loss? Will Barabas be good to Christians? BARABAS. What wilt thou give me, governor, to procure A dissolution of the slavish bands Wherein the Turk hath yok'd your land and you? What will you give me if I render you The life of Calymath, surprise his men, And in an out-house of the city shut His soldiers, till I have consum'd 'em all with fire? What will you give him that procureth this? FERNEZE. Do but bring this to pass which thou pretendest, Deal truly with us as thou intimatest, And I will send amongst the citizens, And by my letters privately procure Great sums of money for thy recompense: Nay, more, do this, and live thou governor still. BARABAS. Nay, do thou this, Ferneze, and be free: Governor, I enlarge thee; live with me; Go walk about the city, see thy friends: Tush, send not letters to 'em; go thyself, And let me see what money thou canst make: Here is my hand that I'll set Malta free; And thus we cast [194] it: to a solemn feast I will invite young Selim Calymath, Where be thou present, only to perform One stratagem that I'll impart to thee, Wherein no danger shall betide thy life, And I will warrant Malta free for ever. FERNEZE. Here is my hand; believe me, Barabas, I will be there, and do as thou desirest. When is the time? BARABAS. Governor, presently; For Calymath, when he hath view'd the town, Will take his leave, and sail toward Ottoman. FERNEZE. Then will I, Barabas, about this coin, And bring it with me to thee in the evening. BARABAS. Do so; but fail not: now farewell, Ferneze:-- [Exit FERNEZE.] And thus far roundly goes the business: Thus, loving neither, will I live with both, Making a profit of my policy; And he from whom my most advantage comes, Shall be my friend. This is the life we Jews are us'd to lead; And reason too, for Christians do the like. Well, now about effecting this device; First, to surprise great Selim's soldiers, And then to make provision for the feast, That at one instant all things may be done: My policy detests prevention. To what event my secret purpose drives, I know; and they shall witness with their lives. [Exeunt.] Enter CALYMATH and BASSOES. [195] CALYMATH. Thus have we view'd the city, seen the sack, And caus'd the ruins to be new-repair'd, Which with our bombards' shot and basilisk[s] [196] We rent in sunder at our entry: And, now I see the situation, And how secure this conquer'd island stands, Environ'd with the Mediterranean sea, Strong-countermin'd with other petty isles, And, toward Calabria, [197] back'd by Sicily (Where Syracusian Dionysius reign'd), Two lofty turrets that command the town, I wonder how it could be conquer'd thus. Enter a MESSENGER. MESSENGER. From Barabas, Malta's governor, I bring A message unto mighty Calymath: Hearing his sovereign was bound for sea, To sail to Turkey, to great Ottoman, He humbly would entreat your majesty To come and see his homely citadel, And banquet with him ere thou leav'st the isle. CALYMATH. To banquet with him in his citadel! I fear me, messenger, to feast my train Within a town of war so lately pillag'd, Will be too costly and too troublesome: Yet would I gladly visit Barabas, For well has Barabas deserv'd of us. MESSENGER. Selim, for that, thus saith the governor,-- That he hath in [his] store a pearl so big, So precious, and withal so orient, As, be it valu'd but indifferently, The price thereof will serve to entertain Selim and all his soldiers for a month; Therefore he humbly would entreat your highness Not to depart till he has feasted you. CALYMATH. I cannot feast my men in Malta-walls, Except he place his tables in the streets. MESSENGER. Know, Selim, that there is a monastery Which standeth as an out-house to the town; There will he banquet them; but thee at home, With all thy bassoes and brave followers. CALYMATH. Well, tell the governor we grant his suit; We'll in this summer-evening feast with him. MESSENGER. I shall, my lord. [Exit.] CALYMATH. And now, bold bassoes, let us to our tents, And meditate how we may grace us best, To solemnize our governor's great feast. [Exeunt.] Enter FERNEZE, [198] KNIGHTS, and MARTIN DEL BOSCO. FERNEZE. In this, my countrymen, be rul'd by me: Have special care that no man sally forth Till you shall hear a culverin discharg'd By him that bears the linstock, [199] kindled thus; Then issue out and come to rescue me, For happily I shall be in distress, Or you released of this servitude. FIRST KNIGHT. Rather than thus to live as Turkish thralls, What will we not adventure? FERNEZE. On, then; be gone. KNIGHTS. Farewell, grave governor. [Exeunt, on one side, KNIGHTS and MARTIN DEL BOSCO; on the other, FERNEZE.] Enter, above, [200] BARABAS, with a hammer, very busy; and CARPENTERS. BARABAS. How stand the cords? how hang these hinges? fast? Are all the cranes and pulleys sure? FIRST CARPENTER. [201] All fast. BARABAS. Leave nothing loose, all levell'd to my mind. Why, now I see that you have art, indeed: There, carpenters, divide that gold amongst you; [Giving money.] Go, swill in bowls of sack and muscadine; Down to the cellar, taste of all my wines. FIRST CARPENTER. We shall, my lord, and thank you. [Exeunt CARPENTERS.] BARABAS. And, if you like them, drink your fill and die; For, so I live, perish may all the world! Now, Selim Calymath, return me word That thou wilt come, and I am satisfied. Enter MESSENGER. Now, sirrah; what, will he come? MESSENGER. He will; and has commanded all his men To come ashore, and march through Malta-streets, That thou mayst feast them in thy citadel. BARABAS. Then now are all things as my wish would have 'em; There wanteth nothing but the governor's pelf; And see, he brings it. Enter FERNEZE. Now, governor, the sum? FERNEZE. With free consent, a hundred thousand pounds. BARABAS. Pounds say'st thou, governor? well, since it is no more, I'll satisfy myself with that; nay, keep it still, For, if I keep not promise, trust not me: And, governor, now partake my policy. First, for his army, they are sent before, Enter'd the monastery, and underneath In several places are field-pieces pitch'd, Bombards, whole barrels full of gunpowder, That on the sudden shall dissever it, And batter all the stones about their ears, Whence none can possibly escape alive: Now, as for Calymath and his consorts, Here have I made a dainty gallery, The floor whereof, this cable being cut, Doth fall asunder, so that it doth sink Into a deep pit past recovery. Here, hold that knife; and, when thou seest he comes, [Throws down a knife.] And with his bassoes shall be blithely set, A warning-piece shall be shot off [202] from the tower, To give thee knowledge when to cut the cord, And fire the house. Say, will not this be brave? FERNEZE. O, excellent! here, hold thee, Barabas; I trust thy word; take what I promis'd thee. BARABAS. No, governor; I'll satisfy thee first; Thou shalt not live in doubt of any thing. Stand close, for here they come. [FERNEZE retires.] Why, is not this A kingly kind of trade, to purchase towns By treachery, and sell 'em by deceit? Now tell me, worldlings, underneath the sun [203] If greater falsehood ever has been done? Enter CALYMATH and BASSOES. CALYMATH. Come, my companion-bassoes: see, I pray, How busy Barabas is there above To entertain us in his gallery: Let us salute him.--Save thee, Barabas! BARABAS. Welcome, great Calymath! FERNEZE. How the slave jeers at him! [Aside.] BARABAS. Will't please thee, mighty Selim Calymath, To ascend our homely stairs? CALYMATH. Ay, Barabas.-- Come, bassoes, ascend. [204] FERNEZE. [coming forward] Stay, Calymath; For I will shew thee greater courtesy Than Barabas would have afforded thee. KNIGHT. [within] Sound a charge there! [A charge sounded within: FERNEZE cuts the cord; the floor of the gallery gives way, and BARABAS falls into a caldron placed in a pit. Enter KNIGHTS and MARTIN DEL BOSCO. [205] CALYMATH. How now! what means this? BARABAS. Help, help me, Christians, help! FERNEZE. See, Calymath! this was devis'd for thee. CALYMATH. Treason, treason! bassoes, fly! FERNEZE. No, Selim, do not fly: See his end first, and fly then if thou canst. BARABAS. O, help me, Selim! help me, Christians! Governor, why stand you all so pitiless? FERNEZE. Should I in pity of thy plaints or thee, Accursed Barabas, base Jew, relent? No, thus I'll see thy treachery repaid, But wish thou hadst behav'd thee otherwise. BARABAS. You will not help me, then? FERNEZE. No, villain, no. BARABAS. And, villains, know you cannot help me now.-- Then, Barabas, breathe forth thy latest fate, And in the fury of thy torments strive To end thy life with resolution.-- Know, governor, 'twas I that slew thy son,-- I fram'd the challenge that did make them meet: Know, Calymath, I aim'd thy overthrow: And, had I but escap'd this stratagem, I would have brought confusion on you all, Damn'd Christian [206] dogs, and Turkish infidels! But now begins the extremity of heat To pinch me with intolerable pangs: Die, life! fly, soul! tongue, curse thy fill, and die! [Dies.] CALYMATH. Tell me, you Christians, what doth this portend? FERNEZE. This train [207] he laid to have entrapp'd thy life; Now, Selim, note the unhallow'd deeds of Jews; Thus he determin'd to have handled thee, But I have rather chose to save thy life. CALYMATH. Was this the banquet he prepar'd for us? Let's hence, lest further mischief be pretended. [208] FERNEZE. Nay, Selim, stay; for, since we have thee here, We will not let thee part so suddenly: Besides, if we should let thee go, all's one, For with thy galleys couldst thou not get hence, Without fresh men to rig and furnish them. CALYMATH. Tush, governor, take thou no care for that; My men are all aboard, And do attend my coming there by this. FERNEZE. Why, heard'st thou not the trumpet sound a charge? CALYMATH. Yes, what of that? FERNEZE. Why, then the house was fir'd, Blown up, and all thy soldiers massacred. CALYMATH. O, monstrous treason! FERNEZE. A Jew's courtesy; For he that did by treason work our fall, By treason hath deliver'd thee to us: Know, therefore, till thy father hath made good The ruins done to Malta and to us, Thou canst not part; for Malta shall be freed, Or Selim ne'er return to Ottoman. CALYMATH. Nay, rather, Christians, let me go to Turkey, In person there to mediate [209] your peace: To keep me here will naught advantage you. FERNEZE. Content thee, Calymath, here thou must stay, And live in Malta prisoner; for come all [210] the world To rescue thee, so will we guard us now, As sooner shall they drink the ocean dry, Than conquer Malta, or endanger us. So, march away; and let due praise be given Neither to Fate nor Fortune, but to Heaven. [Exeunt.] Footnotes: [Footnote 1: Heywood dedicates the First Part of THE IRON AGE (printed 1632) "To my Worthy and much Respected Friend, Mr. Thomas Hammon, of Grayes Inne, Esquire."] [Footnote 2: Tho. Heywood: The well-known dramatist.] [Footnote 3: censures: i.e. judgments.] [Footnote 4: bin: i.e. been.] [Footnote 5: best of poets: "Marlo." Marg. note in old ed.] [Footnote 6: best of actors: "Allin." Marg. note in old. ed.--Any account of the celebrated actor, Edward Alleyn, the founder of Dulwich College, would be superfluous here.] [Footnote 7: In HERO AND LEANDER, &c.: The meaning is--The one (Marlowe) gained a lasting memory by being the author of HERO AND LEANDER; while the other (Alleyn) wan the attribute of peerless by playing the parts of Tamburlaine, the Jew of Malta, &c.--The passage happens to be mispointed in the old ed. thus, "In Hero and Leander, one did gaine A lasting memorie: in Tamberlaine, This Jew, with others many: th' other wan," &c. and hence Mr. Collier, in his HIST. OF ENG. DRAM. POET. iii. 114, understood the words, "in Tamburlaine, This Jew, with others many," as applying to Marlowe: he afterwards, however, in his MEMOIRS OF ALLEYN, p. 9, suspected that the punctuation of the old ed. might be wrong,--which it doubtless is.] [Footnote 8: him: "Perkins." Marg. note in old ed.--"This was Richard Perkins, one of the performers belonging to the Cock-pit theatre in Drury-Lane. His name is printed among those who acted in HANNIBAL AND SCIPIO by Nabbes, THE WEDDING by Shirley, and THE FAIR MAID OF THE WEST by Heywood. After the play-houses were shut up on account of the confusion arising from the civil wars, Perkins and Sumner, who belonged to the same house, lived together at Clerkenwell, where they died and were buried. They both died some years before the Restoration. See THE DIALOGUE ON PLAYS AND PLAYERS [Dodsley's OLD PLAYS, 1. clii., last ed.]." REED (apud Dodsley's O. P.). Perkins acted a prominent part in Webster's WHITE DEVIL, when it was first brought on the stage, --perhaps Brachiano (for Burbadge, who was celebrated in Brachiano, does not appear to have played it originally): in a notice to the reader at the end of that tragedy Webster says; "In particular I must remember the well-approved industry of my friend Master Perkins, and confess the worth of his action did crown both the beginning and end." About 1622-3 Perkins belonged to the Red Bull theatre: about 1637 he joined the company at Salisbury Court: see Webster's WORKS, note, p. 51, ed. Dyce, 1857.] [Footnote 9: prize was play'd: This expression (so frequent in our early writers) is properly applied to fencing: see Steevens's note on Shakespeare's MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR, act. i. sc. 1.] [Footnote 10: no wagers laid: "Wagers as to the comparative merits of rival actors in particular parts were not unfrequent of old," &c. Collier (apud Dodsley's O. P.). See my ed. of Peele's WORKS, i. x. ed. 1829; and Collier's MEMOIRS OF ALLEYN, p. 11.] [Footnote 11: the Guise: "i.e. the Duke of Guise, who had been the principal contriver and actor in the horrid massacre of St. Bartholomew's day, 1572. He met with his deserved fate, being assassinated, by order of the French king, in 1588." REED (apud Dodsley's O. P.). And see our author's MASSACRE AT PARIS.] [Footnote 12: empery: Old ed. "Empire."] [Footnote 13: the Draco's: "i.e. the severe lawgiver of Athens; 'whose statutes,' said Demades, 'were not written with ink, but blood.'" STEEVENS (apud Dodsley's O. P.).--Old ed. "the Drancus."] [Footnote 14: had: Qy. "had BUT"?] [Footnote 15: a lecture here: Qy. "a lecture TO YOU here"?] [Footnote 16: Act I.: The Scenes of this play are not marked in the old ed.; nor in the present edition,--because occasionally (where the audience were to SUPPOSE a change of place, it was impossible to mark them.] [Footnote 17: Samnites: Old ed. "Samintes."] [Footnote 18: silverlings: When Steevens (apud Dodsley's O. P.) called this "a diminutive, to express the Jew's contempt of a metal inferior in value to gold," he did not know that the word occurs in Scripture: "a thousand vines at a thousand SILVERLINGS." ISAIAH, vii. 23.--Old ed. "siluerbings."] [Footnote 19: Tell: i.e. count.] [Footnote 20: seld-seen: i.e. seldom-seen.] [Footnote 21: Into what corner peers my halcyon's bill?: "It was anciently believed that this bird (the king-fisher), if hung up, would vary with the wind, and by that means shew from what quarter it blew." STEEVENS (apud Dodsley's O. P.),--who refers to the note on the following passage of Shakespeare's KING LEAR, act ii. sc. 2; "Renege, affirm, and turn their HALCYON BEAKS With every gale and vary of their masters," &c.] [Footnote 22: custom them: "i.e. enter the goods they contain at the Custom-house." STEEVENS (apud Dodsley's O. P.).] [Footnote 23: But: Old ed. "By."] [Footnote 24: fraught: i.e. freight.] [Footnote 25: scambled: i.e. scrambled. (Coles gives in his DICT. "To SCAMBLE, certatim arripere"; and afterwards renders "To scramble" by the very same Latin words.)] [Footnote 26: Enter three JEWS: A change of scene is supposed here, --to a street or to the Exchange.] [Footnote 27: Fond: i.e. Foolish.] [Footnote 28: Aside: Mr. Collier (apud Dodsley's O. P.), mistaking the purport of this stage-direction (which, of course, applies only to the words "UNTO MYSELF"), proposed an alteration of the text.] [Footnote 29: BARABAS. Farewell, Zaareth, &c.: Old ed. "Iew. DOE SO; Farewell Zaareth," &c. But "Doe so" is evidently a stage- direction which has crept into the text, and which was intended to signify that the Jews DO "take their leaves" of Barabas: --here the old ed. has no "EXEUNT."] [Footnote 30: Turk has: So the Editor of 1826.--Old ed. "Turkes haue": but see what follows.] [Footnote 31: Ego mihimet sum semper proximus: The words of Terence are "Proximus sum egomet mihi." ANDRIA, iv. 1. 12.] [Footnote 32: Exit: The scene is now supposed to be changed to the interior of the Council-house.] [Footnote 33: bassoes: i.e. bashaws.] [Footnote 34: governor: Old ed. "Gouernours" here, and several times after in this scene.] [Footnote 35: CALYMATH. Stand all aside, &c.: "The Governor and the Maltese knights here consult apart, while Calymath gives these directions." COLLIER (apud Dodsley's O. P.).] [Footnote 36: happily: i.e. haply.] [Footnote 37: Officer: Old ed. "Reader."] [Footnote 38: denies: i.e. refuses.] [Footnote 39: convertite: "i.e. convert, as in Shakespeare's KING JOHN, act v. sc. 1." STEEVENS (apud Dodsley's O. P.).] [Footnote 40: Then we'll take, &c.: In the old ed. this line forms a portion of the preceding speech.] [Footnote 41: ecstasy: Equivalent here to--violent emotion. "The word was anciently used to signify some degree of alienation of mind." COLLIER (apud Dodsley's O. P.).] [Footnote 42: Exeunt three Jews: On their departure, the scene is supposed to be changed to a street near the house of Barabas.] [Footnote 43: reduce: If the right reading, is equivalent to--repair. But qy. "redress"?] [Footnote 44: fond: "i.e. foolish." REED (apud Dodsley's O. P.).] [Footnote 45: portagues: Portuguese gold coins, so called.] [Footnote 46: sect: "i.e. sex. SECT and SEX were, in our ancient dramatic writers, used synonymously." REED (apud Dodsley's O. P.).] [Footnote 47: Enter FRIAR JACOMO, &c.: Old ed. "Enter three Fryars and two Nuns:" but assuredly only TWO Friars figure in this play.] [Footnote 48: Abb.: In the old ed. the prefix to this speech is "1 Nun," and to the next speech but one "Nun." That both speeches belong to the Abbess is quite evident.] [Footnote 49: Sometimes: Equivalent here (as frequently in our early writers) to--Sometime.] [Footnote 50: forgive me--: Old ed. "GIUE me--"] [Footnote 51: thus: After this word the old ed. has "�",--to signify, perhaps, the motion which Barabas was to make here with his hand.] [Footnote 52: forget not: Qy. "forget IT not"] [Footnote 53: Enter BARABAS, with a light: The scene is now before the house of Barabas, which has been turned into a nunnery.] [Footnote 54: Thus, like the sad-presaging raven, that tolls The sick man's passport in her hollow beak Mr. Collier (HIST. OF ENG. DRAM. POET. iii. 136) remarks that these lines are cited (with some variation, and from memory, as the present play was not printed till 1633) in an epigram on T. Deloney, in Guilpin's SKIALETHEIA OR THE SHADOWE OF TRUTH, 1598,-- "LIKE TO THE FATALL OMINOUS RAVEN, WHICH TOLLS THE SICK MAN'S DIRGE WITHIN HIS HOLLOW BEAKE, So every paper-clothed post in Poules To thee, Deloney, mourningly doth speake," &c.] [Footnote 55: of: i.e. on.] [Footnote 56: wake: Old ed. "walke."] [Footnote 57: Bueno para todos mi ganado no era: Old ed. "Birn para todos, my ganada no er."] [Footnote 58: But stay: what star shines yonder in the east, &c. Shakespeare, it would seem, recollected this passage, when he wrote,-- "But, soft! what light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Juliet is the sun!" ROMEO AND JULIET, act ii. sc. 2.] [Footnote 59: Hermoso placer de los dineros: Old ed. "Hormoso Piarer, de les Denirch."] [Footnote 60: Enter Ferneze, &c.: The scene is the interior of the Council-house.] [Footnote 61: entreat: i.e. treat.] [Footnote 62: vail'd not: "i.e. did not strike or lower our flags." STEEVENS (apud Dodsley's O. P.).] [Footnote 63: Turkish: Old ed. "Spanish."] [Footnote 64: luff'd and tack'd: Old ed. "LEFT, and TOOKE."] [Footnote 65: stated: i.e. estated, established, stationed.] [Footnote 66: Enter OFFICERS, &c.: The scene being the market-place.] [Footnote 67: Poor villains, such as were: Old ed. "SUCH AS poore villaines were", &c.] [Footnote 68: into: i.e. unto: see note �, p. 15. [note |, p. 15, The First Part of Tamburlaine the Great: "| into: Used here (as the word was formerly often used) for UNTO."] [Footnote 69: city: The preceding editors have not questioned this word, which I believe to be a misprint.] [Footnote 70: foil'd]=filed, i.e. defiled.] [Footnote 71: I'll have a saying to that nunnery: Compare Barnaby Barnes's DIVILS CHARTER, 1607; "Before I do this seruice, lie there, peece; For I must HAUE A SAYING to those bottels. HE DRINKETH. True stingo; stingo, by mine honour.* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * I must HAUE A SAYING to you, sir, I must, though you be prouided for his Holines owne mouth; I will be bould to be the Popes taster by his leaue." Sig. K 3.] [Footnote 72: plates: "i.e. pieces of silver money." STEEVENS (apud Dodsley's O. P.).--Old ed. "plats."] [Footnote 73: Slave: To the speeches of this Slave the old ed. prefixes "Itha." and "Ith.", confounding him with Ithamore.] [Footnote 74: Lady Vanity: So Jonson in his FOX, act ii. sc. 3., "Get you a cittern, LADY VANITY, And be a dealer with the virtuous man," &c.; and in his DEVIL IS AN ASS, act i. sc. 1.,-- "SATAN. What Vice? PUG. Why, any: Fraud, Or Covetousness, or LADY VANITY, Or old Iniquity."] [Footnote 75: Katharine: Old ed. "MATER."--The name of Mathias's mother was, as we afterwards learn, Katharine.] [Footnote 76: stay: i.e. forbear, break off our conversation.] [Footnote 77: was: Qy. "was BUT"?] [Footnote 78: O, brave, master: The modern editors strike out the comma after "BRAVE", understanding that word as an epithet to "MASTER": but compare what Ithamore says to Barabas in act iv.: "That's BRAVE, MASTER," p. 165, first col.] [Footnote 79: your nose: An allusion to the large artificial nose, with which Barabas was represented on the stage. See the passage cited from W. Rowley's SEARCH FOR MONEY, 1609, in the ACCOUNT OF MARLOWE AND HIS WRITINGS.] [Footnote 80: Ure: i.e. use, practice.] [Footnote 81: a-good: "i.e. in good earnest. Tout de bon." REED (apud Dodsley's O. P.).] [Footnote 82: Enter LODOWICK: A change of scene supposed here,--to the outside of Barabas's house.] [Footnote 83: vow love to him: Old ed. "vow TO LOUE him": but compare, in Barabas's next speech but one, "And she VOWS LOVE TO HIM," &c.] [Footnote 84: made sure: i.e. affianced.] [Footnote 85: Ludovico: Old ed. "Lodowicke."--In act iii. we have, "I fear she knows--'tis so--of my device In Don Mathias' and LODOVICO'S deaths." p. 162, sec. col.] [Footnote 86: happily: i.e. haply.] [Footnote 87: unsoil'd: "Perhaps we ought to read 'unfoil'd', consistently with what Barabas said of her before under the figure of a jewel-- 'The diamond that I talk of NE'ER WAS FOIL'D'." COLLIER (apud Dodsley's O. P.). But see that passage, p. 155, sec. col., and note ||. [i.e. note 70.]] [Footnote 88: cross: i.e. piece of money (many coins being marked with a cross on one side).] [Footnote 89: thou: Old ed. "thee."] [Footnote 90: resolv'd: "i.e. satisfied." GILCHRIST (apud Dodsley's O. P.).] [Footnote 91: Enter BELLAMIRA: She appears, we may suppose, in a veranda or open portico of her house (that the scene is not the interior of the house, is proved by what follows).] [Footnote 92: Enter MATHIAS. MATHIAS. This is the place, &c.: The scene is some pert of the town, as Barabas appears "ABOVE,"--in the balcony of a house. (He stood, of course, on what was termed the upper-stage.) Old ed. thus; "Enter MATHIAS. Math. This is the place, now Abigail shall see Whether Mathias holds her deare or no. Enter Lodow. reading. Math. What, dares the villain write in such base terms? Lod. I did it, and reuenge it if thou dar'st."] [Footnote 93: Lodovico: Old ed. "Lodowicke."--See note *, p. 158. (i.e. note 85.)] [Footnote 94: tall: i.e. bold, brave.] [Footnote 95: What sight is this!: i.e. What A sight is this! Our early writers often omit the article in such exclamations: compare Shakespeare's JULIUS CAESAR, act i. sc. 3, where Casca says, "Cassius, WHAT NIGHT IS THIS!" (after which words the modern editors improperly retain the interrogation-point of the first folio).] [Footnote 96: Lodovico: Old ed. "Lodowicke."] [Footnote 97: These arms of mine shall be thy sepulchre: So in Shakespeare's THIRD PART OF KING HENRY VI., act ii. sc. 5, the Father says to the dead Son whom he has killed in battle, "THESE ARMS OF MINE shall be thy winding-sheet; My heart, sweet boy, SHALL BE THY SEPULCHRE,"-- lines, let me add, not to be found in THE TRUE TRAGEDIE OF RICHARD DUKE OF YORKE, on which Shakespeare formed that play.] [Footnote 98: Katharine: Old ed. "Katherina."] [Footnote 99: Enter ITHAMORE: The scene a room in the house of Barabas.] [Footnote 100: held in hand: i.e. kept in expectation, having their hopes flattered.] [Footnote 101: bottle-nosed: See note �, p. 157. [i.e. note 79.]] [Footnote 102: Jaques: Old ed. "Iaynes."] [Footnote 103: sire: Old ed. "sinne" (which, modernised to "sin", the editors retain, among many other equally obvious errors of the old copy).] [Footnote 104: As: Old ed. "And."] [Footnote 105: Enter BARABAS: The scene is still within the house of Barabas; but some time is supposed to have elapsed since the preceding conference between Abigail and Friar Jacomo.] [Footnote 106: pretendeth: Equivalent to PORTENDETH; as in our author's FIRST BOOK OF LUCAN, "And which (ay me) ever PRETENDETH ill," &c.] [Footnote 107: self: Old ed. "life" (the compositor's eye having caught "life" in the preceding line).] [Footnote 108: 'less: Old ed. "least."] [Footnote 109: Well said: See note *, p. 69.] (note *, p. 69, The Second Part of Tamburlaine the Great: "* Well said: Equivalent to--Well done! as appears from innumerable passages of our early writers: see, for instances, my ed. of Beaumont and Fletcher's WORKS, vol. i. 328, vol. ii. 445, vol. viii. 254.")] [Footnote 110: the proverb says, &c.: A proverb as old as Chaucer's time: see the SQUIERES TALE, v. 10916, ed. Tyrwhitt.] [Footnote 111: batten: i.e. fatten.] [Footnote 112: pot: Old ed. "plot."] [Footnote 113: thou shalt have broth by the eye: "Perhaps he means--thou shalt SEE how the broth that is designed for thee is made, that no mischievous ingredients enter its composition. The passage is, however, obscure." STEEVENS (apud Dodsley's O. P.).--"BY THE EYE" seems to be equivalent to--in abundance. Compare THE CREED of Piers Ploughman: "Grey grete-heded quenes With gold BY THE EIGHEN." v. 167, ed. Wright (who has no note on the expression): and Beaumont and Fletcher's KNIGHT OF THE BURNING PESTLE, act ii. sc. 2; "here's money and gold BY TH' EYE, my boy." In Fletcher's BEGGARS' BUSH, act iii. sc. 1, we find, "Come, English beer, hostess, English beer BY THE BELLY!"] [Footnote 114: In few: i.e. in a few words, in short.] [Footnote 115: hebon: i.e. ebony, which was formerly supposed to be a deadly poison.] [Footnote 116: Enter FERNEZE, &c.: The scene is the interior of the Council-house.] [Footnote 117: basso: Old ed. "Bashaws" (the printer having added an S by mistake), and in the preceding stage-direction, and in the fifth speech of this scene, "Bashaw": but in an earlier scene (see p. 148, first col.) we have "bassoes" (and see our author's TAMBURLAINE, PASSIM). (From p. 148, this play: "Enter FERNEZE governor of Malta, KNIGHTS, and OFFICERS; met by CALYMATH, and BASSOES of the TURK.")] [Footnote 118: the resistless banks: i.e. the banks not able to resist.] [Footnote 119: basilisks: See note ||, p. 25. (note ||, p. 25, The First Part of Tamburlaine the Great:) "basilisks: Pieces of ordnance so called. They were of immense size; see Douce's ILLUST. OF SHAKESPEARE, i. 425."] [Footnote 120: Enter FRIAR JACOMO, &c.: Scene, the interior of the Nunnery.] [Footnote 121: convers'd with me: She alludes to her conversation with Jacomo, p. 162, sec. col. (p. 162, second column, this play: "ABIGAIL. Welcome, grave friar.--Ithamore, be gone. Exit ITHAMORE. Know, holy sir, I am bold to solicit thee. FRIAR JACOMO. Wherein?")] [Footnote 122: envied: i.e. hated.] [Footnote 123: practice: i.e. artful contrivance, stratagem.] [Footnote 124: crucified a child: A crime with which the Jews were often charged. "Tovey, in his ANGLIA JUDAICA, has given the several instances which are upon record of these charges against the Jews; which he observes they were never accused of, but at such times as the king was manifestly in great want of money." REED (apud Dodsley's O. P.).] [Footnote 125: Enter BARABAS, &c.: Scene a street.] [Footnote 126: to: Which the Editor of 1826 deliberately altered to "like," means--compared to, in comparison of.] [Footnote 127: Cazzo: Old ed. "catho."--See Florio's WORLDE OF WORDES (Ital. and Engl. Dict.) ed. 1598, in v.--"A petty oath, a cant exclamation, generally expressive, among the Italian populace, who have it constantly in their mouth, of defiance or contempt." Gifford's note on Jonson's WORKS, ii. 48.] [Footnote 128: nose: See note �, p. 157. [i.e. note 79.]] [Footnote 129: inmate: Old ed. "inmates."] [Footnote 130: the burden of my sins Lie heavy, &c.: One of the modern editors altered "LIE" to "Lies": but examples of similar phraseology,--of a nominative singular followed by a plural verb when a plural genitive intervenes,--are common in our early writers; see notes on Beaumont and Fletcher's WORKS, vol. v. 7, 94, vol. ix. 185, ed. Dyce.] [Footnote 131: sollars: "i.e. lofts, garrets." STEEVENS (apud Dodsley's O. P.).] [Footnote 132: untold: i.e. uncounted.--Old ed. "vnsold."] [Footnote 133: BARABAS. This is mere frailty: brethren, be content.-- Friar Barnardine, go you with Ithamore: You know my mind; let me alone with him.] FRIAR JACOMO. Why does he go to thy house? let him be gone Old ed. thus; "BAR. This is meere frailty, brethren, be content. Fryar Barnardine goe you with Ithimore. ITH. You know my mind, let me alone with him; Why does he goe to thy house, let him begone."] [Footnote 134: the Turk: "Meaning Ithamore." COLLIER (apud Dodsley's O. P.). Compare the last line but one of Barabas's next speech.] [Footnote 135: covent: i.e. convent.] [Footnote 136: Therefore 'tis not requisite he should live: Lest the reader should suspect that the author wrote, "Therefore 'tis requisite he should not live," I may observe that we have had before (p. 152, first col.) a similar form of expression,-- "It is not necessary I be seen."] [Footnote 137: fair: See note |||, p. 15. ('15' sic.) (note |||, p. 13, The First Part of Tamburlaine the Great:) "In fair, &c.: Here "FAIR" is to be considered as a dissyllable: compare, in the Fourth act of our author's JEW OF MALTA, "I'll feast you, lodge you, give you FAIR words, And, after that," &c."] [Footnote 138: shall be done: Here a change of scene is supposed, to the interior of Barabas's house.] [Footnote 139: Friar, awake: Here, most probably, Barabas drew a curtain, and discovered the sleeping Friar.] [Footnote 140: have: Old ed. "saue."] [Footnote 141: What time o' night is't now, sweet Ithamore? ITHAMORE. Towards one: Might be adduced, among other passages, to shew that the modern editors are right when they print in Shakespeare's KING JOHN. act iii. sc. 3, "If the midnight bell Did, with his iron tongue and brazen mouth, Sound ONE into the drowsy ear of NIGHT," &c.] [Footnote 142: Enter FRIAR JACOMO: The scene is now before Barabas's house,--the audience having had to SUPPOSE that the body of Barnardine, which Ithamore had set upright, was standing outside the door.] [Footnote 143: proceed: Seems to be used here as equivalent to--succeed.] [Footnote 144: on's: i.e. of his.] [Footnote 145: Enter BELLAMIRA, &c.: The scene, as in p. 160, a veranda or open portico of Bellamira's house. (p. 160, this play:) " Enter BELLAMIRA. (91) BELLAMIRA. Since this town was besieg'd," etc.] [Footnote 146: tall: Which our early dramatists generally use in the sense of--bold, brave (see note �, p. 161), [i.e. note 94: is here perhaps equivalent to--handsome. ("Tall or SEMELY." PROMPT. PARV. ed. 1499.)] [Footnote 147: neck-verse: i.e. the verse (generally the beginning of the 51st Psalm, MISERERE MEI, &c.) read by a criminal to entitle him to benefit of clergy.] [Footnote 148: of: i.e. on.] [Footnote 149: exercise: i.e. sermon, preaching.] [Footnote 150: with a muschatoes: i.e. with a pair of mustachios. The modern editors print "with MUSTACHIOS," and "with a MUSTACHIOS": but compare,-- "My Tuskes more stiffe than are a Cats MUSCHATOES." S. Rowley's NOBLE SPANISH SOLDIER, 1634, Sig. C. "His crow-black MUCHATOES." THE BLACK BOOK,--Middleton's WORKS, v. 516, ed. Dyce.] [Footnote 151: Turk of tenpence: An expression not unfrequently used by our early writers. So Taylor in some verses on Coriat; "That if he had A TURKE OF TENPENCE bin," &c. WORKES, p. 82, ed. 1630. And see note on Middleton's WORKS, iii. 489, ed. Dyce.] [Footnote 152: you know: Qy. "you know, SIR,"?] [Footnote 153: I'll make him, &c.: Old ed. thus: "I'le make him send me half he has, & glad he scapes so too. PEN AND INKE: I'll write vnto him, we'le haue mony strait." There can be no doubt that the words "Pen and inke" were a direction to the property-man to have those articles on the stage.] [Footnote 154: cunning: i.e. skilfully prepared.--Old ed. "running." (The MAIDS are supposed to hear their mistress' orders WITHIN.)] [Footnote 155: Shalt live with me, and be my love: A line, slightly varied, of Marlowe's well-known song. In the preceding line, the absurdity of "by Dis ABOVE" is, of course, intentional.] [Footnote 156: beard: Old ed. "sterd."] [Footnote 157: give me a ream of paper: we'll have a kingdom of gold for't: A quibble. REALM was frequently written ream; and frequently (as the following passages shew), even when the former spelling was given, the L was not sounded; "Vpon the siluer bosome of the STREAME First gan faire Themis shake her amber locks, Whom all the Nimphs that waight on Neptunes REALME Attended from the hollowe of the rocks." Lodge's SCILLAES METAMORPHOSIS, &c. 1589, Sig. A 2. "How he may surest stablish his new conquerd REALME, How of his glorie fardest to deriue the STREAME." A HERINGS TAYLE, &c. 1598, Sig. D 3. "Learchus slew his brother for the crowne; So did Cambyses fearing much the DREAME; Antiochus, of infamous renowne, His brother slew, to rule alone the REALME." MIROUR FOR MAGISTRATES, p. 78, ed. 1610.] [Footnote 158: runs division: "A musical term [of very common occurrence]." STEEVENS (apud Dodsley's O. P.).] [Footnote 159: Enter BARABAS: The scene certainly seems to be now the interior of Barabas's house, notwithstanding what he presently says to Pilia-Borza (p. 171, sec. col.), "Pray, when, sir, shall I see you at my house?"] [Footnote 160: tatter'd: Old ed. "totter'd": but in a passage of our author's EDWARD THE SECOND the two earliest 4tos have "TATTER'D robes":--and yet Reed in a note on that passage (apud Dodsley's OLD PLAYS, where the reading of the third 4to, "tottered robes", is followed) boldly declares that "in every writer of this period the word was spelt TOTTERED"! The truth is, it was spelt sometimes one way, sometimes the other.] [Footnote 161: catzery: i.e. cheating, roguery. It is formed from CATSO (CAZZO, see note *, p. 166 i.e. note 127), which our early writers used, not only as an exclamation, but as an opprobrious term.] [Footnote 162: cross-biting: i.e. swindling (a cant term).--Something has dropt out here.] [Footnote 163: tale: i.e. reckoning.] [Footnote 164: what he writes for you: i.e. the hundred crowns to be given to the bearer: see p. 170, sec. col. p. 170, second column, this play: "ITHAMORE. [writing: SIRRAH JEW, AS YOU LOVE YOUR LIFE, SEND ME FIVE HUNDRED CROWNS, AND GIVE THE BEARER A HUNDRED. --Tell him I must have't."] [Footnote 165: I should part: Qy. "I E'ER should part"?] [Footnote 166: rid: i.e. despatch, destroy.] [Footnote 167: Enter BELLAMIRA, &c.: They are supposed to be sitting in a veranda or open portico of Bellamira's house: see note *, p. 168. [i.e. note 145.] [Footnote 168: Of: i.e. on.] [Footnote 169: BELLAMIRA.: Old ed. "Pil."] [Footnote 170: Rivo Castiliano: The origin of this Bacchanalian exclamation has not been discovered. RIVO generally is used alone; but, among passages parallel to that of our text, is the following one (which has been often cited),-- "And RYUO will he cry and CASTILE too." LOOKE ABOUT YOU, 1600, Sig. L. 4. A writer in THE WESTMINSTER REVIEW, vol. xliii. 53, thinks that it "is a misprint for RICO-CASTELLANO, meaning a Spaniard belonging to the class of RICOS HOMBRES, and the phrase therefore is-- 'Hey, NOBLE CASTILIAN, a man's a man!' 'I can pledge like a man and drink like a man, MY WORTHY TROJAN;' as some of our farce-writers would say." But the frequent occurrence of RIVO in various authors proves that it is NOT a misprint.] [Footnote 171: he: Old ed. "you".] [Footnote 172: and he and I, snicle hand too fast, strangled a friar] There is surely some corruption here. Steevens (apud Dodsley's O. P.) proposes to read "hand TO FIST". Gilchrist (ibid.) observes, "a snicle is a north-country word for a noose, and when a person is hanged, they say he is snicled." See too, in V. SNICKLE, Forby's VOC. OF EAST ANGLIA, and the CRAVEN DIALECT.--The Rev. J. Mitford proposes the following (very violent) alteration of this passage; "Itha. I carried the broth that poisoned the nuns; and he and I-- Pilia. Two hands snickle-fast-- Itha. Strangled a friar."] [Footnote 173: incony: i.e. fine, pretty, delicate.--Old ed. "incoomy."] [Footnote 174: they stink like a hollyhock: "This flower, however, has no offensive smell. STEEVENS (apud Dodsley's O. P.). Its odour resembles that of the poppy.] [Footnote 175: mushrooms: For this word (as, indeed, for most words) our early writers had no fixed spelling. Here the old ed. has "Mushrumbs": and in our author's EDWARD THE SECOND, the 4tos have "mushrump."] [Footnote 176: under the elder when he hanged himself: That Judas hanged himself on an elder-tree, was a popular legend. Nay, the very tree was exhibited to the curious in Sir John Mandeville's days: "And faste by, is zit the Tree of Eldre, that Judas henge him self upon, for despeyt that he hadde, whan he solde and betrayed oure Lorde." VOIAGE AND TRAVAILE, &c. p. 112. ed. 1725. But, according to Pulci, Judas had recourse to a carob-tree: "Era di sopra a la fonte UN CARRUBBIO, L'ARBOR, SI DICE, OVE S'IMPICCO GIUDA," &c. MORGANTE MAG. C. xxv. st. 77.] [Footnote 177: nasty: Old ed. "masty."] [Footnote 178: me: Old ed. "we".] [Footnote 179: Enter Ferneze, &c.: Scene, the interior of the Council- house.] [Footnote 180: him: Qy. "'em"?] [Footnote 181: Exeunt all, leaving Barabas on the floor: Here the audience were to suppose that Barabas had been thrown over the walls, and that the stage now represented the outside of the city.] [Footnote 182: Bassoes: Here old ed. "Bashawes." See note Sec., p. 164. [Footnote i.e. note 117.]] [Footnote 183: trench: A doubtful reading.--Old ed. "Truce."--"Query 'sluice'? 'TRUCE' seems unintelligible." COLLIER (apud Dodsley's O. P.).--The Rev. J. Mitford proposes "turret" or "tower."] [Footnote 184: channels: i.e. kennels.] [Footnote 185: Enter CALYMATH, &c.: Scene, an open place in the city.] [Footnote 186: vail: i.e. lower, stoop.] [Footnote 187: To kept: i.e. To have kept.] [Footnote 188: Entreat: i.e. Treat.] [Footnote 189: Bassoes: Here old ed. "Bashawes." See note Sec., p. 164. [Footnote i.e. note 117.]] [Footnote 190: Thus hast thou gotten, &c.: A change of scene is supposed here--to the Citadel, the residence of Barabas as governor.] [Footnote 191: Whenas: i.e. When. [Footnote 192: Within here: The usual exclamation is "Within THERE!" but compare THE HOGGE HATH LOST HIS PEARLE (by R. Tailor), 1614; "What, ho! within HERE!" Sig. E 2.] [Footnote 193: sith: i.e. since.] [Footnote 194: cast: i.e. plot, contrive.] [Footnote 195: Bassoes: Here and afterwards old ed. "Bashawes." See note Sec., p. 164. [i.e. note 117.]--Scene, outside the walls of the city.] [Footnote 196: basilisk[s: See note �, p. 25. [note ||, p. 25, The First Part of Tamburlaine the Great: "|| basilisks: Pieces of ordnance so called. They were of immense size; see Douce's ILLUST. OF SHAKESPEARE, i. 425."] [Footnote 197: And, toward Calabria, &c.: So the Editor of 1826.--Old ed. thus: "And toward Calabria back'd by Sicily, Two lofty Turrets that command the Towne. WHEN Siracusian Dionisius reign'd; I wonder how it could be conquer'd thus?"] [Footnote 198: Enter FERNEZE, &c.: Scene, a street.] [Footnote 199: linstock: "i.e. the long match with which cannon are fired." STEEVENS (apud Dodsley's O. P.).] [Fußnote 200: Betrete, oben, usw. Szene: ein Saal in der Zitadelle mit einer Galerie.] [Fußnote 201: ERSTER ZIMMERMANN: In der alten Ausgabe steht hier "Serv."; aber es gibt "ZIMM." als Präfix für die zweite Rede nach dieser.] [Fußnote 202: weg: Eine mögliche Interpolation.] [Fußnote 203: Sonne: In der alten Ausgabe steht "summe."] [Fußnote 204: aufsteigen: In der alten Ausgabe steht "attend."] [Fußnote 205: Ein Angriff ertönt: FERNEZE durchschneidet das Seil; der Boden der Galerie gibt nach und BARABAS fällt in einen Kessel in einer Grube. Knights und Martin del Bosco betreten die Szene. In der alten Ausgabe steht einfach "Ein Angriff, das Kabel durchgeschnitten, ein Kessel entdeckt."] [Fußnote 206: Christ: In der alten Ausgabe steht "Christians."] [Fußnote 207: Falle: d.h. List.] [Fußnote 208: vortäuschen: d.h. beabsichtigen.] [Fußnote 209: vermitteln: In der alten Ausgabe steht "meditate."] [Fußnote 210: alle: In der alten Ausgabe steht "call."] Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Ferneze betritt mit Rittern und Martin del Bosco Malta, um es gegen die bevorstehende türkische Invasion zu befestigen. Bellamira tritt mit Pilia-Borza ein und informiert Ferneze, dass Barabas Lodowick getötet hat. Bellamira erklärt auch, dass Barabas einen Mönch erdrosselt und die Nonnen vergiftet hat, einschließlich seiner eigenen Tochter. Ferneze bittet um Beweise für ihre Anschuldigungen, woraufhin Bellamira Ithamore verrät. Die Offiziere kehren bald mit dem angeklagten Meister und Sklaven zurück. Ithamore gesteht bereitwillig die Wahrheit und enthüllt alle seine eigenen und Barabas' Verbrechen. Barabas fordert das Gesetz und versucht, Fernezes Aufmerksamkeit abzulenken, indem er darauf hinweist, dass Bellamira eine Kurtisane ist und Pilia-Borza ein Dieb ist - alles vergeblich. Als er von den Offizieren weggebracht wird, sagt Barabas, dass er hofft, dass "die vergifteten Blumen bald wirken werden"; die Blumen, die Ithamore, Bellamira und Pilia-Borza früher gerochen hatten, waren mit Gift besprüht. Lady Katherine tritt ein und bespricht die Ereignisse mit Ferneze, woraufhin ein Offizier den Tod aller vier verkündet: der Ankläger und der Angeklagte. Barabas' Gift hat endlich gewirkt - aber Barabas' Tod war unerwartet. Martin del Bosco bemerkt die Seltsamkeit von Barabas' Tod, aber Ferneze entlässt es als Gerechtigkeit des Himmels und ordnet an, dass der Körper des Juden über die Stadtmauern geworfen wird. Allein außerhalb der Mauern erhebt sich Barabas schnell; er hatte nur ein "schlafendes Getränk" genommen, um seinen Tod vorzutäuschen. Während er auf die Ankunft der Türken wartet, schwört Barabas Rache - sie mögen sogar sein Vermögen nehmen, solange er den Gouverneur "zu Tode peitscht"! Calymath tritt ein und bemerkt den Juden. Als Spion informiert Barabas die Türken, wie sie Zugang zur Stadt erhalten können, und bietet sich selbst an, fünfhundert Männer zu führen, um die Stadttore zu öffnen. Calymath verspricht dann, Barabas zum Gouverneur zu machen, sollte sein Plan gelingen. Akt 5, Szene 2 Calymath prahlt über seinen leichten Sieg und erklärt Barabas sofort zum neuen Gouverneur von Malta. Er lässt den Juden mit mehreren türkischen Janitscharen zurück und streift mit seinen Wesiren durch die Stadt. Barabas entlässt Ferneze und seine Offiziere und beginnt einen Monolog: Obwohl er jetzt Gouverneur ist, hasst ihn ganz Malta. Jetzt ist sein Leben ständig in Gefahr. Außerdem, was nützt Autorität ohne Freunde oder Profit? Barabas beschließt daher, das Beste aus der Situation zu machen. Er ruft Ferneze herbei und beschreibt seinen Plan, Malta von den türkischen Streitkräften zurückzuerobern. Als Reaktion auf Fernezes Unglauben verlangt der Jude, was er für seinen Dienst an Malta erwarten kann, und Ferneze verspricht einen großen Reichtum. Misstrauisch gegenüber Ferneze sendet Barabas Ferneze aus, um persönlich bei den Bürgern Geld zu sammeln. Mit dieser Vereinbarung entlässt Barabas ihn und trifft Vorkehrungen, um die Türken zu überraschen, indem er sagt: "Wer mir den meisten Vorteil bringt, / soll mein Freund sein. / Dies ist das Leben, das wir Juden gewohnt sind zu führen; / und vernünftigerweise auch, denn auch Christen tun das Gleiche." Akt 5, Szene 3 Calymath hat angeordnet, dass der Schaden auf der Insel repariert wird. Er schlendert herum und bewundert die geografische Sicherheit der Insel. Ein Bote kommt mit einer Einladung von Barabas, der den Türken anbietet, ein Festmahl für sie zu veranstalten, bevor sie abreisen. Er hat sogar eine spezielle Perle als Geschenk vorbereitet. Als Reaktion auf Calymaths Zögern, in Malta zu speisen, zeigt der Bote an, dass das Festmahl in einem Kloster direkt außerhalb der Stadt stattfinden wird. Calymath akzeptiert schließlich und zieht sich in sein Zelt zurück, um vor dem Abend zu meditieren. Akt 5, Szene 4 Ferneze tritt mit seinen Rittern ein und gibt Anweisungen für den Abend. Keiner der Ritter soll vortreten, bis er eine abgefeuerte Muskete hört. Die Ritter schwören Ferneze ihre Treue und verlassen die Szene. Akt 5, Szene 5 Barabas überwacht die Zimmerleute, während sie die Bauarbeiten im Kloster abschließen. Er bezahlt sie und bietet ihnen Wein aus seinem Keller an, als sie gehen. Der Bote tritt dann ein, um Calymaths Anwesenheit bei den Festlichkeiten zu bestätigen. Kurz danach trifft Ferneze mit den hunderttausend Pfund ein, die er gesammelt hat, aber Barabas weigert sich, das Gold sofort anzunehmen. Der Jude erklärt dann die Apparatur, die er gebaut hat, bei der Calymaths Armee sofort vernichtet wird. Um Calymath selbst und seine Begleiter loszuwerden, muss Ferneze nur im richtigen Moment ein einziges Seil durchschneiden. Ferneze versteckt sich, als er die Türken kommen sieht, und Barabas bleibt allein zurück, um über sein "königliches Geschäft, Städte durch Verrat zu erwerben / und durch Täuschung zu verkaufen" zu prahlen. Calymath kommt mit freundlichen Worten an, und Barabas lädt ihn ein, die Treppe hinaufzusteigen - woraufhin Ferneze aus seinem Versteck springt und das Seil durchschneidet, eine Kessel enthüllend, in den Barabas fällt. Inzwischen hat der Erste Ritter eine Ladung heraufbeschworen. Alle schauen zu, wie Barabas hilflos in der Grube kämpft und um Hilfe schreit. Schließlich entschlossen, zu sterben, gesteht der Jude offen seine vergangenen Verbrechen und stirbt inmitten eines Fluchs. Calymath versucht zu gehen, mit der Idee, die Türkei zu überreden, ihren Anspruch auf Malta aufzugeben, aber Ferneze weist darauf hin, dass alle seine Soldaten von Barabas' Apparatur niedergemetzelt wurden - Spanien ist wieder der Beschützer. Der Vorhang fällt mit Fernezes Erklärung, dass er Calymath gefangen nehmen wird, gefolgt von Fernezes Lob auf den Himmel.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: SCENE III. Rome. A public place Enter TITUS, bearing arrows with letters on the ends of them; with him MARCUS, YOUNG LUCIUS, and other gentlemen, PUBLIUS, SEMPRONIUS, and CAIUS, with bows TITUS. Come, Marcus, come; kinsmen, this is the way. Sir boy, let me see your archery; Look ye draw home enough, and 'tis there straight. Terras Astrea reliquit, Be you rememb'red, Marcus; she's gone, she's fled. Sirs, take you to your tools. You, cousins, shall Go sound the ocean and cast your nets; Happily you may catch her in the sea; Yet there's as little justice as at land. No; Publius and Sempronius, you must do it; 'Tis you must dig with mattock and with spade, And pierce the inmost centre of the earth; Then, when you come to Pluto's region, I pray you deliver him this petition. Tell him it is for justice and for aid, And that it comes from old Andronicus, Shaken with sorrows in ungrateful Rome. Ah, Rome! Well, well, I made thee miserable What time I threw the people's suffrages On him that thus doth tyrannize o'er me. Go get you gone; and pray be careful all, And leave you not a man-of-war unsearch'd. This wicked Emperor may have shipp'd her hence; And, kinsmen, then we may go pipe for justice. MARCUS. O Publius, is not this a heavy case, To see thy noble uncle thus distract? PUBLIUS. Therefore, my lords, it highly us concerns By day and night t' attend him carefully, And feed his humour kindly as we may Till time beget some careful remedy. MARCUS. Kinsmen, his sorrows are past remedy. Join with the Goths, and with revengeful war Take wreak on Rome for this ingratitude, And vengeance on the traitor Saturnine. TITUS. Publius, how now? How now, my masters? What, have you met with her? PUBLIUS. No, my good lord; but Pluto sends you word, If you will have Revenge from hell, you shall. Marry, for Justice, she is so employ'd, He thinks, with Jove in heaven, or somewhere else, So that perforce you must needs stay a time. TITUS. He doth me wrong to feed me with delays. I'll dive into the burning lake below And pull her out of Acheron by the heels. Marcus, we are but shrubs, no cedars we, No big-bon'd men fram'd of the Cyclops' size; But metal, Marcus, steel to the very back, Yet wrung with wrongs more than our backs can bear; And, sith there's no justice in earth nor hell, We will solicit heaven, and move the gods To send down justice for to wreak our wrongs. Come, to this gear. You are a good archer, Marcus. [He gives them the arrows] 'Ad Jovem' that's for you; here 'Ad Apollinem.' 'Ad Martem' that's for myself. Here, boy, 'To Pallas'; here 'To Mercury.' 'To Saturn,' Caius- not to Saturnine: You were as good to shoot against the wind. To it, boy. Marcus, loose when I bid. Of my word, I have written to effect; There's not a god left unsolicited. MARCUS. Kinsmen, shoot all your shafts into the court; We will afflict the Emperor in his pride. TITUS. Now, masters, draw. [They shoot] O, well said, Lucius! Good boy, in Virgo's lap! Give it Pallas. MARCUS. My lord, I aim a mile beyond the moon; Your letter is with Jupiter by this. TITUS. Ha! ha! Publius, Publius, hast thou done? See, see, thou hast shot off one of Taurus' horns. MARCUS. This was the sport, my lord: when Publius shot, The Bull, being gall'd, gave Aries such a knock That down fell both the Ram's horns in the court; And who should find them but the Empress' villain? She laugh'd, and told the Moor he should not choose But give them to his master for a present. TITUS. Why, there it goes! God give his lordship joy! Enter the CLOWN, with a basket and two pigeons in it News, news from heaven! Marcus, the post is come. Sirrah, what tidings? Have you any letters? Shall I have justice? What says Jupiter? CLOWN. Ho, the gibbet-maker? He says that he hath taken them down again, for the man must not be hang'd till the next week. TITUS. But what says Jupiter, I ask thee? CLOWN. Alas, sir, I know not Jupiter; I never drank with him in all my life. TITUS. Why, villain, art not thou the carrier? CLOWN. Ay, of my pigeons, sir; nothing else. TITUS. Why, didst thou not come from heaven? CLOWN. From heaven! Alas, sir, I never came there. God forbid I should be so bold to press to heaven in my young days. Why, I am going with my pigeons to the Tribunal Plebs, to take up a matter of brawl betwixt my uncle and one of the Emperal's men. MARCUS. Why, sir, that is as fit as can be to serve for your oration; and let him deliver the pigeons to the Emperor from you. TITUS. Tell me, can you deliver an oration to the Emperor with a grace? CLOWN. Nay, truly, sir, I could never say grace in all my life. TITUS. Sirrah, come hither. Make no more ado, But give your pigeons to the Emperor; By me thou shalt have justice at his hands. Hold, hold! Meanwhile here's money for thy charges. Give me pen and ink. Sirrah, can you with a grace deliver up a supplication? CLOWN. Ay, sir. TITUS. Then here is a supplication for you. And when you come to him, at the first approach you must kneel; then kiss his foot; then deliver up your pigeons; and then look for your reward. I'll be at hand, sir; see you do it bravely. CLOWN. I warrant you, sir; let me alone. TITUS. Sirrah, hast thou a knife? Come let me see it. Here, Marcus, fold it in the oration; For thou hast made it like a humble suppliant. And when thou hast given it to the Emperor, Knock at my door, and tell me what he says. CLOWN. God be with you, sir; I will. TITUS. Come, Marcus, let us go. Publius, follow me. Exeunt Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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Titus beauftragt seine Verwandten damit, Götter zu finden und für ihn und seine Familie Gerechtigkeit einzufordern. Dann übergibt er jedem von ihnen einen Pfeil mit der Adresse an die römischen Götter. Auf Marcus' Anregung hin richten sie die Pfeile auf den Hof. Titus verwechselt einen Clown mit einem Boten der Götter, da der Clown einen Korb mit Tauben trägt. Titus glaubt, dass die Vögel Nachrichten für ihn von Gott tragen. Obwohl der Clown sagt, dass er nichts über Nachrichten von Gott weiß, vertraut Titus dem Clown eine Botschaft für den Kaiser 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: 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: Wie ich sagte; wenn Monsieur Manette nicht gestorben wäre; wenn er plötzlich und still verschwunden wäre; wenn er weggebracht worden wäre; wenn es schwierig gewesen wäre zu erraten, an welch furchtbarem Ort, obwohl keine Kunst ihn aufspüren konnte; wenn er einen Feind in einem Landsmann gehabt hätte, der ein Privileg ausüben konnte, von dem ich während meiner Zeit die mutigsten Menschen gehört habe, die es wagten, es nur flüsternd über das Wasser zu erwähnen; zum Beispiel das Privileg, leere Formulare für die Überbringung einer Person ins Gefängnis für eine beliebige Zeit auszufüllen; wenn seine Frau den König, die Königin, den Hof, den Klerus inständig um eine Nachricht von ihm gebeten hätte und alles vergeblich gewesen wäre; - dann wäre die Geschichte Ihres Vaters die Geschichte dieses unglücklichen Herrn, des Doktors von Beauvais. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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Herr Lorry kommt im Hotel Royal George in Dover an und verbringt den Tag damit, über seine Mission nachzudenken, während er auf die junge Frau namens Lucie Manette wartet. Sie glaubt, dass sich in Paris ein Eigentum ihres verstorbenen Vaters befindet, aber Herr Lorry teilt ihr die Nachricht mit, dass ihr Vater noch lebt. Es handelt sich um Dr. Manette, der in den letzten achtzehn Jahren im Bastille-Gefängnis in Paris eingesperrt war. Die französischen Behörden haben ihn kürzlich freigelassen und da er Kunde der Bank Tellson's war, wurde Herr Lorry geschickt, um ihn zu identifizieren. Es wird gehofft, dass Lucie die Verantwortung für die Pflege ihres Vaters übernimmt und ihn wieder gesund macht. Lucie ist über diese Nachricht schockiert und sie fällt in Ohnmacht. Eine große, rothaarige Frau rennt in den Raum, schiebt Herrn Lorry beiseite und eilt der jungen Dame zur Hilfe, indem sie ihr Riechsalz und kaltes Wasser gibt, um sie wieder zu beleben.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: ACT II. SCENE I. Rome. A public place Enter MENENIUS, with the two Tribunes of the people, SICINIUS and BRUTUS MENENIUS. The augurer tells me we shall have news tonight. BRUTUS. Good or bad? MENENIUS. Not according to the prayer of the people, for they love not Marcius. SICINIUS. Nature teaches beasts to know their friends. MENENIUS. Pray you, who does the wolf love? SICINIUS. The lamb. MENENIUS. Ay, to devour him, as the hungry plebeians would the noble Marcius. BRUTUS. He's a lamb indeed, that baas like a bear. MENENIUS. He's a bear indeed, that lives like a lamb. You two are old men; tell me one thing that I shall ask you. BOTH TRIBUNES. Well, sir. MENENIUS. In what enormity is Marcius poor in that you two have not in abundance? BRUTUS. He's poor in no one fault, but stor'd with all. SICINIUS. Especially in pride. BRUTUS. And topping all others in boasting. MENENIUS. This is strange now. Do you two know how you are censured here in the city- I mean of us o' th' right-hand file? Do you? BOTH TRIBUNES. Why, how are we censur'd? MENENIUS. Because you talk of pride now- will you not be angry? BOTH TRIBUNES. Well, well, sir, well. MENENIUS. Why, 'tis no great matter; for a very little thief of occasion will rob you of a great deal of patience. Give your dispositions the reins, and be angry at your pleasures- at the least, if you take it as a pleasure to you in being so. You blame Marcius for being proud? BRUTUS. We do it not alone, sir. MENENIUS. I know you can do very little alone; for your helps are many, or else your actions would grow wondrous single: your abilities are too infant-like for doing much alone. You talk of pride. O that you could turn your eyes toward the napes of your necks, and make but an interior survey of your good selves! O that you could! BOTH TRIBUNES. What then, sir? MENENIUS. Why, then you should discover a brace of unmeriting, proud, violent, testy magistrates-alias fools- as any in Rome. SICINIUS. Menenius, you are known well enough too. MENENIUS. I am known to be a humorous patrician, and one that loves a cup of hot wine with not a drop of allaying Tiber in't; said to be something imperfect in favouring the first complaint, hasty and tinder-like upon too trivial motion; one that converses more with the buttock of the night than with the forehead of the morning. What I think I utter, and spend my malice in my breath. Meeting two such wealsmen as you are- I cannot call you Lycurguses- if the drink you give me touch my palate adversely, I make a crooked face at it. I cannot say your worships have deliver'd the matter well, when I find the ass in compound with the major part of your syllables; and though I must be content to bear with those that say you are reverend grave men, yet they lie deadly that tell you you have good faces. If you see this in the map of my microcosm, follows it that I am known well enough too? What harm can your bisson conspectuities glean out of this character, if I be known well enough too? BRUTUS. Come, sir, come, we know you well enough. MENENIUS. You know neither me, yourselves, nor any thing. You are ambitious for poor knaves' caps and legs; you wear out a good wholesome forenoon in hearing a cause between an orange-wife and a fosset-seller, and then rejourn the controversy of threepence to a second day of audience. When you are hearing a matter between party and party, if you chance to be pinch'd with the colic, you make faces like mummers, set up the bloody flag against all patience, and, in roaring for a chamber-pot, dismiss the controversy bleeding, the more entangled by your hearing. All the peace you make in their cause is calling both the parties knaves. You are a pair of strange ones. BRUTUS. Come, come, you are well understood to be a perfecter giber for the table than a necessary bencher in the Capitol. MENENIUS. Our very priests must become mockers, if they shall encounter such ridiculous subjects as you are. When you speak best unto the purpose, it is not worth the wagging of your beards; and your beards deserve not so honourable a grave as to stuff a botcher's cushion or to be entomb'd in an ass's pack-saddle. Yet you must be saying Marcius is proud; who, in a cheap estimation, is worth all your predecessors since Deucalion; though peradventure some of the best of 'em were hereditary hangmen. God-den to your worships. More of your conversation would infect my brain, being the herdsmen of the beastly plebeians. I will be bold to take my leave of you. [BRUTUS and SICINIUS go aside] Enter VOLUMNIA, VIRGILIA, and VALERIA How now, my as fair as noble ladies- and the moon, were she earthly, no nobler- whither do you follow your eyes so fast? VOLUMNIA. Honourable Menenius, my boy Marcius approaches; for the love of Juno, let's go. MENENIUS. Ha! Marcius coming home? VOLUMNIA. Ay, worthy Menenius, and with most prosperous approbation. MENENIUS. Take my cap, Jupiter, and I thank thee. Hoo! Marcius coming home! VOLUMNIA, VIRGILIA. Nay, 'tis true. VOLUMNIA. Look, here's a letter from him; the state hath another, his wife another; and I think there's one at home for you. MENENIUS. I will make my very house reel to-night. A letter for me? VIRGILIA. Yes, certain, there's a letter for you; I saw't. MENENIUS. A letter for me! It gives me an estate of seven years' health; in which time I will make a lip at the physician. The most sovereign prescription in Galen is but empiricutic and, to this preservative, of no better report than a horse-drench. Is he not wounded? He was wont to come home wounded. VIRGILIA. O, no, no, no. VOLUMNIA. O, he is wounded, I thank the gods for't. MENENIUS. So do I too, if it be not too much. Brings a victory in his pocket? The wounds become him. VOLUMNIA. On's brows, Menenius, he comes the third time home with the oaken garland. MENENIUS. Has he disciplin'd Aufidius soundly? VOLUMNIA. Titus Lartius writes they fought together, but Aufidius got off. MENENIUS. And 'twas time for him too, I'll warrant him that; an he had stay'd by him, I would not have been so fidius'd for all the chests in Corioli and the gold that's in them. Is the Senate possess'd of this? VOLUMNIA. Good ladies, let's go. Yes, yes, yes: the Senate has letters from the general, wherein he gives my son the whole name of the war; he hath in this action outdone his former deeds doubly. VALERIA. In troth, there's wondrous things spoke of him. MENENIUS. Wondrous! Ay, I warrant you, and not without his true purchasing. VIRGILIA. The gods grant them true! VOLUMNIA. True! pow, waw. MENENIUS. True! I'll be sworn they are true. Where is he wounded? [To the TRIBUNES] God save your good worships! Marcius is coming home; he has more cause to be proud. Where is he wounded? VOLUMNIA. I' th' shoulder and i' th' left arm; there will be large cicatrices to show the people when he shall stand for his place. He received in the repulse of Tarquin seven hurts i' th' body. MENENIUS. One i' th' neck and two i' th' thigh- there's nine that I know. VOLUMNIA. He had before this last expedition twenty-five wounds upon him. MENENIUS. Now it's twenty-seven; every gash was an enemy's grave. [A shout and flourish] Hark! the trumpets. VOLUMNIA. These are the ushers of Marcius. Before him he carries noise, and behind him he leaves tears; Death, that dark spirit, in's nervy arm doth lie, Which, being advanc'd, declines, and then men die. A sennet. Trumpets sound. Enter COMINIUS the GENERAL, and TITUS LARTIUS; between them, CORIOLANUS, crown'd with an oaken garland; with CAPTAINS and soldiers and a HERALD HERALD. Know, Rome, that all alone Marcius did fight Within Corioli gates, where he hath won, With fame, a name to Caius Marcius; these In honour follows Coriolanus. Welcome to Rome, renowned Coriolanus! [Flourish] ALL. Welcome to Rome, renowned Coriolanus! CORIOLANUS. No more of this, it does offend my heart. Pray now, no more. COMINIUS. Look, sir, your mother! CORIOLANUS. O, You have, I know, petition'd all the gods For my prosperity! [Kneels] VOLUMNIA. Nay, my good soldier, up; My gentle Marcius, worthy Caius, and By deed-achieving honour newly nam'd- What is it? Coriolanus must I call thee? But, O, thy wife! CORIOLANUS. My gracious silence, hail! Wouldst thou have laugh'd had I come coffin'd home, That weep'st to see me triumph? Ah, my dear, Such eyes the widows in Corioli wear, And mothers that lack sons. MENENIUS. Now the gods crown thee! CORIOLANUS. And live you yet? [To VALERIA] O my sweet lady, pardon. VOLUMNIA. I know not where to turn. O, welcome home! And welcome, General. And y'are welcome all. MENENIUS. A hundred thousand welcomes. I could weep And I could laugh; I am light and heavy. Welcome! A curse begin at very root on's heart That is not glad to see thee! You are three That Rome should dote on; yet, by the faith of men, We have some old crab trees here at home that will not Be grafted to your relish. Yet welcome, warriors. We call a nettle but a nettle, and The faults of fools but folly. COMINIUS. Ever right. CORIOLANUS. Menenius ever, ever. HERALD. Give way there, and go on. CORIOLANUS. [To his wife and mother] Your hand, and yours. Ere in our own house I do shade my head, The good patricians must be visited; From whom I have receiv'd not only greetings, But with them change of honours. VOLUMNIA. I have lived To see inherited my very wishes, And the buildings of my fancy; only There's one thing wanting, which I doubt not but Our Rome will cast upon thee. CORIOLANUS. Know, good mother, I had rather be their servant in my way Than sway with them in theirs. COMINIUS. On, to the Capitol. [Flourish. Cornets. Exeunt in state, as before] BRUTUS and SICINIUS come forward BRUTUS. All tongues speak of him and the bleared sights Are spectacled to see him. Your prattling nurse Into a rapture lets her baby cry While she chats him; the kitchen malkin pins Her richest lockram 'bout her reechy neck, Clamb'ring the walls to eye him; stalls, bulks, windows, Are smother'd up, leads fill'd and ridges hors'd With variable complexions, all agreeing In earnestness to see him. Seld-shown flamens Do press among the popular throngs and puff To win a vulgar station; our veil'd dames Commit the war of white and damask in Their nicely gawded cheeks to th' wanton spoil Of Phoebus' burning kisses. Such a pother, As if that whatsoever god who leads him Were slily crept into his human powers, And gave him graceful posture. SICINIUS. On the sudden I warrant him consul. BRUTUS. Then our office may During his power go sleep. SICINIUS. He cannot temp'rately transport his honours From where he should begin and end, but will Lose those he hath won. BRUTUS. In that there's comfort. SICINIUS. Doubt not The commoners, for whom we stand, but they Upon their ancient malice will forget With the least cause these his new honours; which That he will give them make our as little question As he is proud to do't. BRUTUS. I heard him swear, Were he to stand for consul, never would he Appear i' th' market-place, nor on him put The napless vesture of humility; Nor, showing, as the manner is, his wounds To th' people, beg their stinking breaths. SICINIUS. 'Tis right. BRUTUS. It was his word. O, he would miss it rather Than carry it but by the suit of the gentry to him And the desire of the nobles. SICINIUS. I wish no better Than have him hold that purpose, and to put it In execution. BRUTUS. 'Tis most like he will. SICINIUS. It shall be to him then as our good wills: A sure destruction. BRUTUS. So it must fall out To him or our authorities. For an end, We must suggest the people in what hatred He still hath held them; that to's power he would Have made them mules, silenc'd their pleaders, and Dispropertied their freedoms; holding them In human action and capacity Of no more soul nor fitness for the world Than camels in their war, who have their provand Only for bearing burdens, and sore blows For sinking under them. SICINIUS. This, as you say, suggested At some time when his soaring insolence Shall touch the people- which time shall not want, If he be put upon't, and that's as easy As to set dogs on sheep- will be his fire To kindle their dry stubble; and their blaze Shall darken him for ever. Enter A MESSENGER BRUTUS. What's the matter? MESSENGER. You are sent for to the Capitol. 'Tis thought That Marcius shall be consul. I have seen the dumb men throng to see him and The blind to hear him speak; matrons flung gloves, Ladies and maids their scarfs and handkerchers, Upon him as he pass'd; the nobles bended As to Jove's statue, and the commons made A shower and thunder with their caps and shouts. I never saw the like. BRUTUS. Let's to the Capitol, And carry with us ears and eyes for th' time, But hearts for the event. SICINIUS. Have with you. Exeunt Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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In Rom diskutiert Menenius mit den beiden Volkstribunen Brutus und Sicinius über Caius Martius. Die Tribunen kritisieren Coriolanus für seinen Stolz. Menenius weist sie zurecht und sagt, dass auch sie selbst schuldig am Stolz sind. Brutus antwortet, dass Menenius eher als witziger Gesprächspartner am Abendtisch bekannt ist als als wertvolles Mitglied des Senats. Menenius beleidigt die Tribunen und nennt sie "Hirten der tierischen Plebejer". Volumnia, Virgilia und Valeria treten ein. Volumnia erzählt Menenius, dass Coriolanus siegreich war und nach Hause kommt, wofür Menenius dem römischen Gott Jupiter dankt. Volumnia ist stolz, weil Coriolanus verwundet wurde und von einem dankbaren Rom mit einem Eichengirlandenkranz geehrt wurde. Sie weist darauf hin, dass er diese Wunden dem Volk zeigen kann, um sie dazu zu bringen, ihn zum Konsul zu erklären. Coriolanus kehrt triumphierend zurück, gekrönt mit einem Eichengirlandenkranz. Die Leute jubeln ihm zu, aber er versucht sie zum Schweigen zu bringen und ist peinlich berührt von ihrem Lob. Er begrüßt Volumnia, Virgilia und Menenius. Brutus und Sicinius diskutieren privat über Coriolanus. Sie befürchten, dass seine Macht als Konsul ihre eigene bedrohen wird. Sie sagen, dass er geschworen hat, niemals die abgetragene Toga anzuziehen, die Demut symbolisiert, und seine Wunden dem Volk zu zeigen. Sie sind sich sicher, dass sein Stolz seine Chancen auf das Konsulat zerstören wird, und sind sich einig, dass dies in ihrem Interesse ist. Ein Bote kommt und lädt Brutus und Sicinius zum Capitol, dem Gebäude, in dem sich die Staatsführer versammeln, ein. Das Volk ruft Coriolanus als Konsul aus, und es scheint sicher, dass er gewählt 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 first or second day of August I got a horse and cart and set out for the high country, to visit the Widow Steavens. The wheat harvest was over, and here and there along the horizon I could see black puffs of smoke from the steam thrashing-machines. The old pasture land was now being broken up into wheatfields and cornfields, the red grass was disappearing, and the whole face of the country was changing. There were wooden houses where the old sod dwellings used to be, and little orchards, and big red barns; all this meant happy children, contented women, and men who saw their lives coming to a fortunate issue. The windy springs and the blazing summers, one after another, had enriched and mellowed that flat tableland; all the human effort that had gone into it was coming back in long, sweeping lines of fertility. The changes seemed beautiful and harmonious to me; it was like watching the growth of a great man or of a great idea. I recognized every tree and sandbank and rugged draw. I found that I remembered the conformation of the land as one remembers the modeling of human faces. When I drew up to our old windmill, the Widow Steavens came out to meet me. She was brown as an Indian woman, tall, and very strong. When I was little, her massive head had always seemed to me like a Roman senator's. I told her at once why I had come. "You'll stay the night with us, Jimmy? I'll talk to you after supper. I can take more interest when my work is off my mind. You've no prejudice against hot biscuit for supper? Some have, these days." While I was putting my horse away I heard a rooster squawking. I looked at my watch and sighed; it was three o'clock, and I knew that I must eat him at six. After supper Mrs. Steavens and I went upstairs to the old sitting-room, while her grave, silent brother remained in the basement to read his farm papers. All the windows were open. The white summer moon was shining outside, the windmill was pumping lazily in the light breeze. My hostess put the lamp on a stand in the corner, and turned it low because of the heat. She sat down in her favorite rocking-chair and settled a little stool comfortably under her tired feet. "I'm troubled with callouses, Jim; getting old," she sighed cheerfully. She crossed her hands in her lap and sat as if she were at a meeting of some kind. "Now, it's about that dear Antonia you want to know? Well, you've come to the right person. I've watched her like she'd been my own daughter. "When she came home to do her sewing that summer before she was to be married, she was over here about every day. They've never had a sewing machine at the Shimerdas', and she made all her things here. I taught her hemstitching, and I helped her to cut and fit. She used to sit there at that machine by the window, pedaling the life out of it--she was so strong--and always singing them queer Bohemian songs, like she was the happiest thing in the world. "'Antonia,' I used to say, 'don't run that machine so fast. You won't hasten the day none that way.' "Then she'd laugh and slow down for a little, but she'd soon forget and begin to pedal and sing again. I never saw a girl work harder to go to housekeeping right and well-prepared. Lovely table linen the Harlings had given her, and Lena Lingard had sent her nice things from Lincoln. We hemstitched all the tablecloths and pillow-cases, and some of the sheets. Old Mrs. Shimerda knit yards and yards of lace for her underclothes. Tony told me just how she meant to have everything in her house. She'd even bought silver spoons and forks, and kept them in her trunk. She was always coaxing brother to go to the post-office. Her young man did write her real often, from the different towns along his run. "The first thing that troubled her was when he wrote that his run had been changed, and they would likely have to live in Denver. 'I'm a country girl,' she said, 'and I doubt if I'll be able to manage so well for him in a city. I was counting on keeping chickens, and maybe a cow.' She soon cheered up, though. "At last she got the letter telling her when to come. She was shaken by it; she broke the seal and read it in this room. I suspected then that she'd begun to get faint-hearted, waiting; though she'd never let me see it. "Then there was a great time of packing. It was in March, if I remember rightly, and a terrible muddy, raw spell, with the roads bad for hauling her things to town. And here let me say, Ambrosch did the right thing. He went to Black Hawk and bought her a set of plated silver in a purple velvet box, good enough for her station. He gave her three hundred dollars in money; I saw the check. He'd collected her wages all those first years she worked out, and it was but right. I shook him by the hand in this room. 'You're behaving like a man, Ambrosch,' I said, 'and I'm glad to see it, son.' "'T was a cold, raw day he drove her and her three trunks into Black Hawk to take the night train for Denver--the boxes had been shipped before. He stopped the wagon here, and she ran in to tell me good-bye. She threw her arms around me and kissed me, and thanked me for all I'd done for her. She was so happy she was crying and laughing at the same time, and her red cheeks was all wet with rain. "'You're surely handsome enough for any man,' I said, looking her over. "She laughed kind of flighty like, and whispered, 'Good-bye, dear house!' and then ran out to the wagon. I expect she meant that for you and your grandmother, as much as for me, so I'm particular to tell you. This house had always been a refuge to her. "Well, in a few days we had a letter saying she got to Denver safe, and he was there to meet her. They were to be married in a few days. He was trying to get his promotion before he married, she said. I did n't like that, but I said nothing. The next week Yulka got a postal card, saying she was 'well and happy.' After that we heard nothing. A month went by, and old Mrs. Shimerda began to get fretful. Ambrosch was as sulky with me as if I'd picked out the man and arranged the match. "One night brother William came in and said that on his way back from the fields he had passed a livery team from town, driving fast out the west road. There was a trunk on the front seat with the driver, and another behind. In the back seat there was a woman all bundled up; but for all her veils, he thought 't was Antonia Shimerda, or Antonia Donovan, as her name ought now to be. "The next morning I got brother to drive me over. I can walk still, but my feet ain't what they used to be, and I try to save myself. The lines outside the Shimerdas' house was full of washing, though it was the middle of the week. As we got nearer I saw a sight that made my heart sink--all those underclothes we'd put so much work on, out there swinging in the wind. Yulka came bringing a dishpanful of wrung clothes, but she darted back into the house like she was loath to see us. When I went in, Antonia was standing over the tubs, just finishing up a big washing. Mrs. Shimerda was going about her work, talking and scolding to herself. She did n't so much as raise her eyes. Tony wiped her hand on her apron and held it out to me, looking at me steady but mournful. When I took her in my arms she drew away. 'Don't, Mrs. Steavens,' she says, 'you'll make me cry, and I don't want to.' "I whispered and asked her to come out of doors with me. I knew she could n't talk free before her mother. She went out with me, bareheaded, and we walked up toward the garden. "'I'm not married, Mrs. Steavens,' she says to me very quiet and natural-like, 'and I ought to be.' "'Oh, my child,' says I, 'what's happened to you? Don't be afraid to tell me!' "She sat down on the draw-side, out of sight of the house. 'He's run away from me,' she said. 'I don't know if he ever meant to marry me.' "'You mean he's thrown up his job and quit the country?' says I. "'He did n't have any job. He'd been fired; blacklisted for knocking down fares. I did n't know. I thought he had n't been treated right. He was sick when I got there. He'd just come out of the hospital. He lived with me till my money gave out, and afterwards I found he had n't really been hunting work at all. Then he just did n't come back. One nice fellow at the station told me, when I kept going to look for him, to give it up. He said he was afraid Larry'd gone bad and would n't come back any more. I guess he's gone to Old Mexico. The conductors get rich down there, collecting half-fares off the natives and robbing the company. He was always talking about fellows who had got ahead that way.' "I asked her, of course, why she did n't insist on a civil marriage at once--that would have given her some hold on him. She leaned her head on her hands, poor child, and said, 'I just don't know, Mrs. Steavens. I guess my patience was wore out, waiting so long. I thought if he saw how well I could do for him, he'd want to stay with me.' "Jimmy, I sat right down on that bank beside her and made lament. I cried like a young thing. I could n't help it. I was just about heart-broke. It was one of them lovely warm May days, and the wind was blowing and the colts jumping around in the pastures; but I felt bowed with despair. My Antonia, that had so much good in her, had come home disgraced. And that Lena Lingard, that was always a bad one, say what you will, had turned out so well, and was coming home here every summer in her silks and her satins, and doing so much for her mother. I give credit where credit is due, but you know well enough, Jim Burden, there is a great difference in the principles of those two girls. And here it was the good one that had come to grief! I was poor comfort to her. I marveled at her calm. As we went back to the house, she stopped to feel of her clothes to see if they was drying well, and seemed to take pride in their whiteness--she said she'd been living in a brick block, where she did n't have proper conveniences to wash them. "The next time I saw Antonia, she was out in the fields ploughing corn. All that spring and summer she did the work of a man on the farm; it seemed to be an understood thing. Ambrosch did n't get any other hand to help him. Poor Marek had got violent and been sent away to an institution a good while back. We never even saw any of Tony's pretty dresses. She did n't take them out of her trunks. She was quiet and steady. Folks respected her industry and tried to treat her as if nothing had happened. They talked, to be sure; but not like they would if she'd put on airs. She was so crushed and quiet that nobody seemed to want to humble her. She never went anywhere. All that summer she never once came to see me. At first I was hurt, but I got to feel that it was because this house reminded her of too much. I went over there when I could, but the times when she was in from the fields were the times when I was busiest here. She talked about the grain and the weather as if she'd never had another interest, and if I went over at night she always looked dead weary. She was afflicted with toothache; one tooth after another ulcerated, and she went about with her face swollen half the time. She would n't go to Black Hawk to a dentist for fear of meeting people she knew. Ambrosch had got over his good spell long ago, and was always surly. Once I told him he ought not to let Antonia work so hard and pull herself down. He said, 'If you put that in her head, you better stay home.' And after that I did. "Antonia worked on through harvest and thrashing, though she was too modest to go out thrashing for the neighbors, like when she was young and free. I did n't see much of her until late that fall when she begun to herd Ambrosch's cattle in the open ground north of here, up toward the big dog town. Sometimes she used to bring them over the west hill, there, and I would run to meet her and walk north a piece with her. She had thirty cattle in her bunch; it had been dry, and the pasture was short, or she would n't have brought them so far. "It was a fine open fall, and she liked to be alone. While the steers grazed, she used to sit on them grassy banks along the draws and sun herself for hours. Sometimes I slipped up to visit with her, when she had n't gone too far. "'It does seem like I ought to make lace, or knit like Lena used to,' she said one day, 'but if I start to work, I look around and forget to go on. It seems such a little while ago when Jim Burden and I was playing all over this country. Up here I can pick out the very places where my father used to stand. Sometimes I feel like I'm not going to live very long, so I'm just enjoying every day of this fall.' "After the winter begun she wore a man's long overcoat and boots, and a man's felt hat with a wide brim. I used to watch her coming and going, and I could see that her steps were getting heavier. One day in December, the snow began to fall. Late in the afternoon I saw Antonia driving her cattle homeward across the hill. The snow was flying round her and she bent to face it, looking more lonesome-like to me than usual. 'Deary me,' I says to myself, 'the girl's stayed out too late. It'll be dark before she gets them cattle put into the corral.' I seemed to sense she'd been feeling too miserable to get up and drive them. "That very night, it happened. She got her cattle home, turned them into the corral, and went into the house, into her room behind the kitchen, and shut the door. There, without calling to anybody, without a groan, she lay down on the bed and bore her child. "I was lifting supper when old Mrs. Shimerda came running down the basement stairs, out of breath and screeching:-- "'Baby come, baby come!' she says. 'Ambrosch much like devil!' "Brother William is surely a patient man. He was just ready to sit down to a hot supper after a long day in the fields. Without a word he rose and went down to the barn and hooked up his team. He got us over there as quick as it was humanly possible. I went right in, and began to do for Antonia; but she laid there with her eyes shut and took no account of me. The old woman got a tubful of warm water to wash the baby. I overlooked what she was doing and I said out loud:-- "'Mrs. Shimerda, don't you put that strong yellow soap near that baby. You'll blister its little skin.' I was indignant. [Illustration: Antonia driving her cattle home] "'Mrs. Steavens,' Antonia said from the bed, 'if you'll look in the top tray of my trunk, you'll see some fine soap.' That was the first word she spoke. "After I'd dressed the baby, I took it out to show it to Ambrosch. He was muttering behind the stove and would n't look at it. "'You'd better put it out in the rain barrel,' he says. "'Now, see here, Ambrosch,' says I, 'there's a law in this land, don't forget that. I stand here a witness that this baby has come into the world sound and strong, and I intend to keep an eye on what befalls it.' I pride myself I cowed him. "Well, I expect you're not much interested in babies, but Antonia's got on fine. She loved it from the first as dearly as if she'd had a ring on her finger, and was never ashamed of it. It's a year and eight months old now, and no baby was ever better cared-for. Antonia is a natural-born mother. I wish she could marry and raise a family, but I don't know as there's much chance now." I slept that night in the room I used to have when I was a little boy, with the summer wind blowing in at the windows, bringing the smell of the ripe fields. I lay awake and watched the moonlight shining over the barn and the stacks and the pond, and the windmill making its old dark shadow against the blue sky. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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Anfang August geht Jim zu Frau Steavens, der Witwe. Er bemerkt die großen Veränderungen, die auf dem Land stattgefunden haben. Die roten Prärien sind fast vollständig verschwunden und anstelle der Erdhäuser stehen jetzt Holzhäuser. Er befürwortet diese Veränderungen sehr. Als er das Haus von Frau Steavens erreicht, das Haus, in dem er aufgewachsen ist, lädt sie ihn ein, über Nacht zu bleiben. Nach dem Abendessen erzählt sie ihm Antonias Geschichte. Antonia erhielt von Larry Donovan die Nachricht, dass sie heiraten würden, also kam sie jeden Tag zu Frau Steavens, um ihre Wäsche und Kleidung zu nähen. Sie war sehr aufgeregt wegen der Hochzeit und darauf, ein Haus in Black Hawk aufzubauen. Das Warten war lang und als sie endlich einen Brief bekam, bemerkte Frau Steavens, dass sie den Mut verlor. Larry schrieb, dass sie in Denver leben würden, eine Entscheidung, mit der Antonia nicht glücklich war, aber bald akzeptierte. Ambrosch gab ihr dreihundert Dollar und fuhr sie zum Bahnhof. Sie erhielten einen Brief, dass sie angekommen war und er sie getroffen hatte, aber dass die Hochzeit verschoben worden war, während er daran arbeitete, befördert zu werden. Dann hörten sie nichts mehr. Bald machte sich jeder sehr große Sorgen. Eines Tages kam William Steavens, der Bruder von Frau Steavens, nach Hause und berichtete, dass er Antonia in einem Wagen gesehen hatte, zusammen mit all ihren Koffern. Frau Steavens ging zu ihr und Antonia erzählte ihr, dass sie nicht verheiratet war, aber es sein sollte. Sie sagte, Larry hätte sie dazu gebracht zu glauben, dass er befördert würde, als er tatsächlich gefeuert und auf eine schwarze Liste gesetzt wurde, weil er Kunden betrogen hatte. Er blieb bei ihr, bis ihr gesamtes Geld weg war, und dann hat er sie verlassen. Sie dachte, er sei nach Mexiko gegangen, um sein Glück mit Eisenbahnbetrügereien dort zu versuchen. Frau Steavens beobachtete Antonia in den nächsten Monaten, wie sie auf dem Feld Männerarbeit verrichtete. Sie sah, dass Antonia schwanger war und beobachtete, wie sie immer langsamer wurde in ihren Bewegungen. Dann kam eines Nachts Frau Shimerda herüber, um zu sagen, dass das Baby da war. Antonia war von den Feldern hereingekommen, wo sie Vieh hütete, sie ging in ihr Zimmer und brachte das Kind alleine zur Welt. Ambrosch war außer sich vor Wut. Frau Steavens ging sofort zu den Shimerdas und half Antonia, sich zu säubern und das Baby einzuhüllen. Antonia war sehr schweigsam. Als Frau Steavens das Baby aus dem Raum holte, sagte Ambrosch ihr, sie solle es in das Regenfass legen. Sie sagte ihm, er solle sich besser daran erinnern, dass es ein Gesetz gibt und dass sie Zeugin sei, dass das Baby gesund geboren wurde. Frau Steavens berichtet, dass das Baby gut wuchs und Antonia sehr glücklich damit war. Sie wünscht sich, Antonia könnte heiraten und eine Familie gründen, fürchtet aber, dass sie es wahrscheinlich nicht schaffen wird. In dieser Nacht schläft Jim in seinem alten Zimmer. Er liegt wach und beobachtet den Mond vor seinem Fenster.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten 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 XVIII Then, fresh tears Stood on her cheek, as doth the honey-dew Upon a gather'd lily almost wither'd SHAKESPEARE After the late discoveries, Emily was distinguished at the chateau by the Count and his family, as a relative of the house of Villeroi, and received, if possible, more friendly attention, than had yet been shewn her. Count De Villefort's surprise at the delay of an answer to his letter, which had been directed to Valancourt, at Estuviere, was mingled with satisfaction for the prudence, which had saved Emily from a share of the anxiety he now suffered, though, when he saw her still drooping under the effect of his former error, all his resolution was necessary to restrain him from relating the truth, that would afford her a momentary relief. The approaching nuptials of the Lady Blanche now divided his attention with this subject of his anxiety, for the inhabitants of the chateau were already busied in preparations for that event, and the arrival of Mons. St. Foix was daily expected. In the gaiety, which surrounded her, Emily vainly tried to participate, her spirits being depressed by the late discoveries, and by the anxiety concerning the fate of Valancourt, that had been occasioned by the description of his manner, when he had delivered the ring. She seemed to perceive in it the gloomy wildness of despair; and, when she considered to what that despair might have urged him, her heart sunk with terror and grief. The state of suspense, as to his safety, to which she believed herself condemned, till she should return to La Vallee, appeared insupportable, and, in such moments, she could not even struggle to assume the composure, that had left her mind, but would often abruptly quit the company she was with, and endeavour to sooth her spirits in the deep solitudes of the woods, that overbrowed the shore. Here, the faint roar of foaming waves, that beat below, and the sullen murmur of the wind among the branches around, were circumstances in unison with the temper of her mind; and she would sit on a cliff, or on the broken steps of her favourite watch-tower, observing the changing colours of the evening clouds, and the gloom of twilight draw over the sea, till the white tops of billows, riding towards the shore, could scarcely be discerned amidst the darkened waters. The lines, engraved by Valancourt on this tower, she frequently repeated with melancholy enthusiasm, and then would endeavour to check the recollections and the grief they occasioned, and to turn her thoughts to indifferent subjects. One evening, having wandered with her lute to this her favourite spot, she entered the ruined tower, and ascended a winding staircase, that led to a small chamber, which was less decayed than the rest of the building, and whence she had often gazed, with admiration, on the wide prospect of sea and land, that extended below. The sun was now setting on that tract of the Pyrenees, which divided Languedoc from Rousillon, and, placing herself opposite to a small grated window, which, like the wood-tops beneath, and the waves lower still, gleamed with the red glow of the west, she touched the chords of her lute in solemn symphony, and then accompanied it with her voice, in one of the simple and affecting airs, to which, in happier days, Valancourt had often listened in rapture, and which she now adapted to the following lines. TO MELANCHOLY Spirit of love and sorrow--hail! Thy solemn voice from far I hear, Mingling with ev'ning's dying gale: Hail, with this sadly-pleasing tear! O! at this still, this lonely hour, Thine own sweet hour of closing day, Awake thy lute, whose charmful pow'r Shall call up Fancy to obey: To paint the wild romantic dream, That meets the poet's musing eye, As, on the bank of shadowy stream, He breathes to her the fervid sigh. O lonely spirit! let thy song Lead me through all thy sacred haunt; The minister's moon-light aisles along, Where spectres raise the midnight chaunt. I hear their dirges faintly swell! Then, sink at once in silence drear, While, from the pillar'd cloister's cell, Dimly their gliding forms appear! Lead where the pine-woods wave on high, Whose pathless sod is darkly seen, As the cold moon, with trembling eye, Darts her long beams the leaves between. Lead to the mountain's dusky head, Where, far below, in shade profound, Wide forests, plains and hamlets spread, And sad the chimes of vesper sound, Or guide me, where the dashing oar Just breaks the stillness of the vale, As slow it tracks the winding shore, To meet the ocean's distant sail: To pebbly banks, that Neptune laves, With measur'd surges, loud and deep, Where the dark cliff bends o'er the waves, And wild the winds of autumn sweep. There pause at midnight's spectred hour, And list the long-resounding gale; And catch the fleeting moon-light's pow'r, O'er foaming seas and distant sail. The soft tranquillity of the scene below, where the evening breeze scarcely curled the water, or swelled the passing sail, that caught the last gleam of the sun, and where, now and then, a dipping oar was all that disturbed the trembling radiance, conspired with the tender melody of her lute to lull her mind into a state of gentle sadness, and she sung the mournful songs of past times, till the remembrances they awakened were too powerful for her heart, her tears fell upon the lute, over which she drooped, and her voice trembled, and was unable to proceed. Though the sun had now sunk behind the mountains, and even his reflected light was fading from their highest points, Emily did not leave the watch-tower, but continued to indulge her melancholy reverie, till a footstep, at a little distance, startled her, and, on looking through the grate, she observed a person walking below, whom, however, soon perceiving to be Mons. Bonnac, she returned to the quiet thoughtfulness his step had interrupted. After some time, she again struck her lute, and sung her favourite air; but again a step disturbed her, and, as she paused to listen, she heard it ascending the stair-case of the tower. The gloom of the hour, perhaps, made her sensible to some degree of fear, which she might not otherwise have felt; for, only a few minutes before, she had seen Mons. Bonnac pass. The steps were quick and bounding, and, in the next moment, the door of the chamber opened, and a person entered, whose features were veiled in the obscurity of twilight; but his voice could not be concealed, for it was the voice of Valancourt! At the sound, never heard by Emily, without emotion, she started, in terror, astonishment and doubtful pleasure, and had scarcely beheld him at her feet, when she sunk into a seat, overcome by the various emotions, that contended at her heart, and almost insensible to that voice, whose earnest and trembling calls seemed as if endeavouring to save her. Valancourt, as he hung over Emily, deplored his own rash impatience, in having thus surprised her: for when he had arrived at the chateau, too anxious to await the return of the Count, who, he understood, was in the grounds, he went himself to seek him, when, as he passed the tower, he was struck by the sound of Emily's voice, and immediately ascended. It was a considerable time before she revived, but, when her recollection returned, she repulsed his attentions, with an air of reserve, and enquired, with as much displeasure as it was possible she could feel in these first moments of his appearance, the occasion of his visit. 'Ah Emily!' said Valancourt, 'that air, those words--alas! I have, then, little to hope--when you ceased to esteem me, you ceased also to love me!' 'Most true, sir,' replied Emily, endeavouring to command her trembling voice; 'and if you had valued my esteem, you would not have given me this new occasion for uneasiness.' Valancourt's countenance changed suddenly from the anxieties of doubt to an expression of surprise and dismay: he was silent a moment, and then said, 'I had been taught to hope for a very different reception! Is it, then, true, Emily, that I have lost your regard forever? am I to believe, that, though your esteem for me may return--your affection never can? Can the Count have meditated the cruelty, which now tortures me with a second death?' The voice, in which he spoke this, alarmed Emily as much as his words surprised her, and, with trembling impatience, she begged that he would explain them. 'Can any explanation be necessary?' said Valancourt, 'do you not know how cruelly my conduct has been misrepresented? that the actions of which you once believed me guilty (and, O Emily! how could you so degrade me in your opinion, even for a moment!) those actions--I hold in as much contempt and abhorrence as yourself? Are you, indeed, ignorant, that Count de Villefort has detected the slanders, that have robbed me of all I hold dear on earth, and has invited me hither to justify to you my former conduct? It is surely impossible you can be uninformed of these circumstances, and I am again torturing myself with a false hope!' The silence of Emily confirmed this supposition; for the deep twilight would not allow Valancourt to distinguish the astonishment and doubting joy, that fixed her features. For a moment, she continued unable to speak; then a profound sigh seemed to give some relief to her spirits, and she said, 'Valancourt! I was, till this moment, ignorant of all the circumstances you have mentioned; the emotion I now suffer may assure you of the truth of this, and, that, though I had ceased to esteem, I had not taught myself entirely to forget you.' 'This moment,' said Valancourt, in a low voice, and leaning for support against the window--'this moment brings with it a conviction that overpowers me!--I am dear to you then--still dear to you, my Emily!' 'Is it necessary that I should tell you so?' she replied, 'is it necessary, that I should say--these are the first moments of joy I have known, since your departure, and that they repay me for all those of pain I have suffered in the interval?' Valancourt sighed deeply, and was unable to reply; but, as he pressed her hand to his lips, the tears, that fell over it, spoke a language, which could not be mistaken, and to which words were inadequate. Emily, somewhat tranquillized, proposed returning to the chateau, and then, for the first time, recollected that the Count had invited Valancourt thither to explain his conduct, and that no explanation had yet been given. But, while she acknowledged this, her heart would not allow her to dwell, for a moment, on the possibility of his unworthiness; his look, his voice, his manner, all spoke the noble sincerity, which had formerly distinguished him; and she again permitted herself to indulge the emotions of a joy, more surprising and powerful, than she had ever before experienced. Neither Emily, or Valancourt, were conscious how they reached the chateau, whither they might have been transferred by the spell of a fairy, for any thing they could remember; and it was not, till they had reached the great hall, that either of them recollected there were other persons in the world besides themselves. The Count then came forth with surprise, and with the joyfulness of pure benevolence, to welcome Valancourt, and to entreat his forgiveness of the injustice he had done him; soon after which, Mons. Bonnac joined this happy group, in which he and Valancourt were mutually rejoiced to meet. When the first congratulations were over, and the general joy became somewhat more tranquil, the Count withdrew with Valancourt to the library, where a long conversation passed between them, in which the latter so clearly justified himself of the criminal parts of the conduct, imputed to him, and so candidly confessed and so feelingly lamented the follies, which he had committed, that the Count was confirmed in his belief of all he had hoped; and, while he perceived so many noble virtues in Valancourt, and that experience had taught him to detest the follies, which before he had only not admired, he did not scruple to believe, that he would pass through life with the dignity of a wise and good man, or to entrust to his care the future happiness of Emily St. Aubert, for whom he felt the solicitude of a parent. Of this he soon informed her, in a short conversation, when Valancourt had left him. While Emily listened to a relation of the services, that Valancourt had rendered Mons. Bonnac, her eyes overflowed with tears of pleasure, and the further conversation of Count De Villefort perfectly dissipated every doubt, as to the past and future conduct of him, to whom she now restored, without fear, the esteem and affection, with which she had formerly received him. When they returned to the supper-room, the Countess and Lady Blanche met Valancourt with sincere congratulations; and Blanche, indeed, was so much rejoiced to see Emily returned to happiness, as to forget, for a while, that Mons. St. Foix was not yet arrived at the chateau, though he had been expected for some hours; but her generous sympathy was, soon after, rewarded by his appearance. He was now perfectly recovered from the wounds, received, during his perilous adventure among the Pyrenees, the mention of which served to heighten to the parties, who had been involved in it, the sense of their present happiness. New congratulations passed between them, and round the supper-table appeared a group of faces, smiling with felicity, but with a felicity, which had in each a different character. The smile of Blanche was frank and gay, that of Emily tender and pensive; Valancourt's was rapturous, tender and gay alternately; Mons. St. Foix's was joyous, and that of the Count, as he looked on the surrounding party, expressed the tempered complacency of benevolence; while the features of the Countess, Henri, and Mons. Bonnac, discovered fainter traces of animation. Poor Mons. Du Pont did not, by his presence, throw a shade of regret over the company; for, when he had discovered, that Valancourt was not unworthy of the esteem of Emily, he determined seriously to endeavour at the conquest of his own hopeless affection, and had immediately withdrawn from Chateau-le-Blanc--a conduct, which Emily now understood, and rewarded with her admiration and pity. The Count and his guests continued together till a late hour, yielding to the delights of social gaiety, and to the sweets of friendship. When Annette heard of the arrival of Valancourt, Ludovico had some difficulty to prevent her going into the supper-room, to express her joy, for she declared, that she had never been so rejoiced at any ACCIDENT as this, since she had found Ludovico himself. Können Sie eine passende Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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Obwohl der Graf inzwischen mit Valancourt einverstanden ist, sagt er Emily noch nicht, dass sie frei ist, ihn zu heiraten. Er ist ein beschäftigter Mann und so. Außerdem heiratet seine einzige Tochter Monsieur St. Foix. Eines Abends ist Em wie gewöhnlich am Wandern. Du wirst es nicht glauben, sie trifft auf Valancourt. Natürlich denkt er, der Graf hätte seinen Namen bereits geklärt. Kein Glück, Valancourt. Valancourt erzählt Em alles darüber, wie er ein anständiger Kerl ist, und Em wird ganz verträumt. Erst kommt die Liebe, dann die Hochzeit, dann kommen kleine Valancourts und Ems im Kinderwagen! Als die beiden zum Schloss zurückkehren, ist der Graf da, um seinen Glückwunsch auszusprechen. Guter Weg, die schwierigen Dinge zu vermeiden, Graf.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten 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 the ladies returned to the drawing-room after dinner, Emma found it hardly possible to prevent their making two distinct parties;--with so much perseverance in judging and behaving ill did Mrs. Elton engross Jane Fairfax and slight herself. She and Mrs. Weston were obliged to be almost always either talking together or silent together. Mrs. Elton left them no choice. If Jane repressed her for a little time, she soon began again; and though much that passed between them was in a half-whisper, especially on Mrs. Elton's side, there was no avoiding a knowledge of their principal subjects: The post-office--catching cold--fetching letters--and friendship, were long under discussion; and to them succeeded one, which must be at least equally unpleasant to Jane--inquiries whether she had yet heard of any situation likely to suit her, and professions of Mrs. Elton's meditated activity. "Here is April come!" said she, "I get quite anxious about you. June will soon be here." "But I have never fixed on June or any other month--merely looked forward to the summer in general." "But have you really heard of nothing?" "I have not even made any inquiry; I do not wish to make any yet." "Oh! my dear, we cannot begin too early; you are not aware of the difficulty of procuring exactly the desirable thing." "I not aware!" said Jane, shaking her head; "dear Mrs. Elton, who can have thought of it as I have done?" "But you have not seen so much of the world as I have. You do not know how many candidates there always are for the _first_ situations. I saw a vast deal of that in the neighbourhood round Maple Grove. A cousin of Mr. Suckling, Mrs. Bragge, had such an infinity of applications; every body was anxious to be in her family, for she moves in the first circle. Wax-candles in the schoolroom! You may imagine how desirable! Of all houses in the kingdom Mrs. Bragge's is the one I would most wish to see you in." "Colonel and Mrs. Campbell are to be in town again by midsummer," said Jane. "I must spend some time with them; I am sure they will want it;--afterwards I may probably be glad to dispose of myself. But I would not wish you to take the trouble of making any inquiries at present." "Trouble! aye, I know your scruples. You are afraid of giving me trouble; but I assure you, my dear Jane, the Campbells can hardly be more interested about you than I am. I shall write to Mrs. Partridge in a day or two, and shall give her a strict charge to be on the look-out for any thing eligible." "Thank you, but I would rather you did not mention the subject to her; till the time draws nearer, I do not wish to be giving any body trouble." "But, my dear child, the time is drawing near; here is April, and June, or say even July, is very near, with such business to accomplish before us. Your inexperience really amuses me! A situation such as you deserve, and your friends would require for you, is no everyday occurrence, is not obtained at a moment's notice; indeed, indeed, we must begin inquiring directly." "Excuse me, ma'am, but this is by no means my intention; I make no inquiry myself, and should be sorry to have any made by my friends. When I am quite determined as to the time, I am not at all afraid of being long unemployed. There are places in town, offices, where inquiry would soon produce something--Offices for the sale--not quite of human flesh--but of human intellect." "Oh! my dear, human flesh! You quite shock me; if you mean a fling at the slave-trade, I assure you Mr. Suckling was always rather a friend to the abolition." "I did not mean, I was not thinking of the slave-trade," replied Jane; "governess-trade, I assure you, was all that I had in view; widely different certainly as to the guilt of those who carry it on; but as to the greater misery of the victims, I do not know where it lies. But I only mean to say that there are advertising offices, and that by applying to them I should have no doubt of very soon meeting with something that would do." "Something that would do!" repeated Mrs. Elton. "Aye, _that_ may suit your humble ideas of yourself;--I know what a modest creature you are; but it will not satisfy your friends to have you taking up with any thing that may offer, any inferior, commonplace situation, in a family not moving in a certain circle, or able to command the elegancies of life." "You are very obliging; but as to all that, I am very indifferent; it would be no object to me to be with the rich; my mortifications, I think, would only be the greater; I should suffer more from comparison. A gentleman's family is all that I should condition for." "I know you, I know you; you would take up with any thing; but I shall be a little more nice, and I am sure the good Campbells will be quite on my side; with your superior talents, you have a right to move in the first circle. Your musical knowledge alone would entitle you to name your own terms, have as many rooms as you like, and mix in the family as much as you chose;--that is--I do not know--if you knew the harp, you might do all that, I am very sure; but you sing as well as play;--yes, I really believe you might, even without the harp, stipulate for what you chose;--and you must and shall be delightfully, honourably and comfortably settled before the Campbells or I have any rest." "You may well class the delight, the honour, and the comfort of such a situation together," said Jane, "they are pretty sure to be equal; however, I am very serious in not wishing any thing to be attempted at present for me. I am exceedingly obliged to you, Mrs. Elton, I am obliged to any body who feels for me, but I am quite serious in wishing nothing to be done till the summer. For two or three months longer I shall remain where I am, and as I am." "And I am quite serious too, I assure you," replied Mrs. Elton gaily, "in resolving to be always on the watch, and employing my friends to watch also, that nothing really unexceptionable may pass us." In this style she ran on; never thoroughly stopped by any thing till Mr. Woodhouse came into the room; her vanity had then a change of object, and Emma heard her saying in the same half-whisper to Jane, "Here comes this dear old beau of mine, I protest!--Only think of his gallantry in coming away before the other men!--what a dear creature he is;--I assure you I like him excessively. I admire all that quaint, old-fashioned politeness; it is much more to my taste than modern ease; modern ease often disgusts me. But this good old Mr. Woodhouse, I wish you had heard his gallant speeches to me at dinner. Oh! I assure you I began to think my caro sposo would be absolutely jealous. I fancy I am rather a favourite; he took notice of my gown. How do you like it?--Selina's choice--handsome, I think, but I do not know whether it is not over-trimmed; I have the greatest dislike to the idea of being over-trimmed--quite a horror of finery. I must put on a few ornaments now, because it is expected of me. A bride, you know, must appear like a bride, but my natural taste is all for simplicity; a simple style of dress is so infinitely preferable to finery. But I am quite in the minority, I believe; few people seem to value simplicity of dress,--show and finery are every thing. I have some notion of putting such a trimming as this to my white and silver poplin. Do you think it will look well?" The whole party were but just reassembled in the drawing-room when Mr. Weston made his appearance among them. He had returned to a late dinner, and walked to Hartfield as soon as it was over. He had been too much expected by the best judges, for surprize--but there was great joy. Mr. Woodhouse was almost as glad to see him now, as he would have been sorry to see him before. John Knightley only was in mute astonishment.--That a man who might have spent his evening quietly at home after a day of business in London, should set off again, and walk half a mile to another man's house, for the sake of being in mixed company till bed-time, of finishing his day in the efforts of civility and the noise of numbers, was a circumstance to strike him deeply. A man who had been in motion since eight o'clock in the morning, and might now have been still, who had been long talking, and might have been silent, who had been in more than one crowd, and might have been alone!--Such a man, to quit the tranquillity and independence of his own fireside, and on the evening of a cold sleety April day rush out again into the world!--Could he by a touch of his finger have instantly taken back his wife, there would have been a motive; but his coming would probably prolong rather than break up the party. John Knightley looked at him with amazement, then shrugged his shoulders, and said, "I could not have believed it even of _him_." Mr. Weston meanwhile, perfectly unsuspicious of the indignation he was exciting, happy and cheerful as usual, and with all the right of being principal talker, which a day spent anywhere from home confers, was making himself agreeable among the rest; and having satisfied the inquiries of his wife as to his dinner, convincing her that none of all her careful directions to the servants had been forgotten, and spread abroad what public news he had heard, was proceeding to a family communication, which, though principally addressed to Mrs. Weston, he had not the smallest doubt of being highly interesting to every body in the room. He gave her a letter, it was from Frank, and to herself; he had met with it in his way, and had taken the liberty of opening it. "Read it, read it," said he, "it will give you pleasure; only a few lines--will not take you long; read it to Emma." The two ladies looked over it together; and he sat smiling and talking to them the whole time, in a voice a little subdued, but very audible to every body. "Well, he is coming, you see; good news, I think. Well, what do you say to it?--I always told you he would be here again soon, did not I?--Anne, my dear, did not I always tell you so, and you would not believe me?--In town next week, you see--at the latest, I dare say; for _she_ is as impatient as the black gentleman when any thing is to be done; most likely they will be there to-morrow or Saturday. As to her illness, all nothing of course. But it is an excellent thing to have Frank among us again, so near as town. They will stay a good while when they do come, and he will be half his time with us. This is precisely what I wanted. Well, pretty good news, is not it? Have you finished it? Has Emma read it all? Put it up, put it up; we will have a good talk about it some other time, but it will not do now. I shall only just mention the circumstance to the others in a common way." Mrs. Weston was most comfortably pleased on the occasion. Her looks and words had nothing to restrain them. She was happy, she knew she was happy, and knew she ought to be happy. Her congratulations were warm and open; but Emma could not speak so fluently. _She_ was a little occupied in weighing her own feelings, and trying to understand the degree of her agitation, which she rather thought was considerable. Mr. Weston, however, too eager to be very observant, too communicative to want others to talk, was very well satisfied with what she did say, and soon moved away to make the rest of his friends happy by a partial communication of what the whole room must have overheard already. It was well that he took every body's joy for granted, or he might not have thought either Mr. Woodhouse or Mr. Knightley particularly delighted. They were the first entitled, after Mrs. Weston and Emma, to be made happy;--from them he would have proceeded to Miss Fairfax, but she was so deep in conversation with John Knightley, that it would have been too positive an interruption; and finding himself close to Mrs. Elton, and her attention disengaged, he necessarily began on the subject with her. Können Sie eine passende Zusammenfassung der oben stehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Nach dem Abendessen versammeln sich die Frauen im Salon. Mrs. Elton verfolgt das Thema der Briefbeschaffung weiter mit Jane. Sie besteht auch darauf, Jane dabei zu helfen, eine Stelle als Gouvernante zu finden, obwohl Jane erklärt, dass sie sich erst nach ihrem Treffen mit den Campbells in der Mitte des Sommers um einen Platz bemühen wird. Die Männer kommen herein, und Mr. Weston, der geschäftlich in London war, erscheint. Er bringt einen Brief von Frank mit, in dem berichtet wird, dass Mrs. Churchill beschlossen hat, dass der Haushalt einen längeren Besuch in London machen soll. Diese Nachricht bedeutet, dass Frank viel in Highbury sein wird. Mr. und Mrs. Weston sind erfreut, Emma ist etwas aufgeregt und Mr. Knightley scheint von der Nachricht unbeeindruckt zu sein.

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

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Emma ermutigt Harriet, häufig nach Hartfield zu kommen, und macht das Mädchen zu ihrer Begleiterin für ihre morgendlichen Spaziergänge. Emma stellt fest, dass Harriet ein liebes Gemüt hat, aber nicht klug ist. Sie ist jedoch bereit, sich von Emma führen zu lassen. Während ihrer Spaziergänge erfährt Emma, dass Harriet zwei Monate bei den Martins auf dem Abbey Mill Farm verbracht hat und dass Robert Martin, der vierundzwanzig Jahre alte Sohn, in sie verliebt ist. Emma empfindet, dass Harriet ebenfalls romantische Gefühle für Martin hegt und rät dem Mädchen davon ab. Sie sagt Harriet, dass ein Bauer gesellschaftlich unter ihr steht. Harriet versichert Emma, dass sie sicherlich ihrem Rat folgen wird. Als Emma und Harriet zufällig Robert Martin auf dem Donwell-Weg begegnen, geht Emma ein paar Schritte voraus, um Harriet mit Martin reden zu lassen. Emma stellt fest, dass er ein vernünftiger junger Mann ist, sagt aber Harriet, dass sie ihn äußerst gewöhnlich und ungehobelt findet. Harriet ist offensichtlich verletzt über Emmas Kommentare, aber Emma besteht darauf, dass Harriet Martins Manieren mit denen von den vornehmen Herren Weston und Knightley vergleicht. Harriet lobt sofort Knightley als einen feinen Mann, aber sie kann Weston nicht schätzen, den sie für sehr alt hält. Emma betont erneut, dass Martin keine Klasse hat. Er mag aufgrund seines gesunden Menschenverstands finanziell vorankommen können, aber gesellschaftlich kann er aufgrund seiner derben Manieren und seines Mangels an Bildung und Interesse an Lernen nicht aufsteigen. Emma spricht dann über die Männer in Highbury. Sie erzählt Harriet von Westons Offenheit, Knightleys dominierendem Wesen und Eltons fröhlicher, freundlicher und sanfter Art. Sie erzählt Harriet auch, dass Elton ihr Komplimente gemacht hat, was Harriet erröten lässt und zugeben lässt, dass sie Elton immer für sehr angenehm gehalten hat. Die naive Emma täuscht sich selbst und glaubt, dass die Verbindung zwischen Harriet und Elton ideal wäre. Sie geht davon aus, dass Elton, obwohl ein Gentleman, kein Problem damit hätte, dass Harriet ein uneheliches Kind ist. In dem Versuch, Heiratsvermittlerin zu spielen, überlegt Emma, wie sie das Paar bei sich in Hartfield zusammenbringen kann.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: Alan and I sat down to breakfast about six of the clock. The floor was covered with broken glass and in a horrid mess of blood, which took away my hunger. In all other ways we were in a situation not only agreeable but merry; having ousted the officers from their own cabin, and having at command all the drink in the ship--both wine and spirits--and all the dainty part of what was eatable, such as the pickles and the fine sort of bread. This, of itself, was enough to set us in good humour, but the richest part of it was this, that the two thirstiest men that ever came out of Scotland (Mr. Shuan being dead) were now shut in the fore-part of the ship and condemned to what they hated most--cold water. "And depend upon it," Alan said, "we shall hear more of them ere long. Ye may keep a man from the fighting, but never from his bottle." We made good company for each other. Alan, indeed, expressed himself most lovingly; and taking a knife from the table, cut me off one of the silver buttons from his coat. "I had them," says he, "from my father, Duncan Stewart; and now give ye one of them to be a keepsake for last night's work. And wherever ye go and show that button, the friends of Alan Breck will come around you." He said this as if he had been Charlemagne, and commanded armies; and indeed, much as I admired his courage, I was always in danger of smiling at his vanity: in danger, I say, for had I not kept my countenance, I would be afraid to think what a quarrel might have followed. As soon as we were through with our meal he rummaged in the captain's locker till he found a clothes-brush; and then taking off his coat, began to visit his suit and brush away the stains, with such care and labour as I supposed to have been only usual with women. To be sure, he had no other; and, besides (as he said), it belonged to a king and so behoved to be royally looked after. For all that, when I saw what care he took to pluck out the threads where the button had been cut away, I put a higher value on his gift. He was still so engaged when we were hailed by Mr. Riach from the deck, asking for a parley; and I, climbing through the skylight and sitting on the edge of it, pistol in hand and with a bold front, though inwardly in fear of broken glass, hailed him back again and bade him speak out. He came to the edge of the round-house, and stood on a coil of rope, so that his chin was on a level with the roof; and we looked at each other awhile in silence. Mr. Riach, as I do not think he had been very forward in the battle, so he had got off with nothing worse than a blow upon the cheek: but he looked out of heart and very weary, having been all night afoot, either standing watch or doctoring the wounded. "This is a bad job," said he at last, shaking his head. "It was none of our choosing," said I. "The captain," says he, "would like to speak with your friend. They might speak at the window." "And how do we know what treachery he means?" cried I. "He means none, David," returned Mr. Riach, "and if he did, I'll tell ye the honest truth, we couldnae get the men to follow." "Is that so?" said I. "I'll tell ye more than that," said he. "It's not only the men; it's me. I'm frich'ened, Davie." And he smiled across at me. "No," he continued, "what we want is to be shut of him." Thereupon I consulted with Alan, and the parley was agreed to and parole given upon either side; but this was not the whole of Mr. Riach's business, and he now begged me for a dram with such instancy and such reminders of his former kindness, that at last I handed him a pannikin with about a gill of brandy. He drank a part, and then carried the rest down upon the deck, to share it (I suppose) with his superior. A little after, the captain came (as was agreed) to one of the windows, and stood there in the rain, with his arm in a sling, and looking stern and pale, and so old that my heart smote me for having fired upon him. Alan at once held a pistol in his face. "Put that thing up!" said the captain. "Have I not passed my word, sir? or do ye seek to affront me?" "Captain," says Alan, "I doubt your word is a breakable. Last night ye haggled and argle-bargled like an apple-wife; and then passed me your word, and gave me your hand to back it; and ye ken very well what was the upshot. Be damned to your word!" says he. "Well, well, sir," said the captain, "ye'll get little good by swearing." (And truly that was a fault of which the captain was quite free.) "But we have other things to speak," he continued, bitterly. "Ye've made a sore hash of my brig; I haven't hands enough left to work her; and my first officer (whom I could ill spare) has got your sword throughout his vitals, and passed without speech. There is nothing left me, sir, but to put back into the port of Glasgow after hands; and there (by your leave) ye will find them that are better able to talk to you." "Ay?" said Alan; "and faith, I'll have a talk with them mysel'! Unless there's naebody speaks English in that town, I have a bonny tale for them. Fifteen tarry sailors upon the one side, and a man and a halfling boy upon the other! O, man, it's peetiful!" Hoseason flushed red. "No," continued Alan, "that'll no do. Ye'll just have to set me ashore as we agreed." "Ay," said Hoseason, "but my first officer is dead--ye ken best how. There's none of the rest of us acquaint with this coast, sir; and it's one very dangerous to ships." "I give ye your choice," says Alan. "Set me on dry ground in Appin, or Ardgour, or in Morven, or Arisaig, or Morar; or, in brief, where ye please, within thirty miles of my own country; except in a country of the Campbells. That's a broad target. If ye miss that, ye must be as feckless at the sailoring as I have found ye at the fighting. Why, my poor country people in their bit cobles* pass from island to island in all weathers, ay, and by night too, for the matter of that." *Coble: a small boat used in fishing. "A coble's not a ship, sir," said the captain. "It has nae draught of water." "Well, then, to Glasgow if ye list!" says Alan. "We'll have the laugh of ye at the least." "My mind runs little upon laughing," said the captain. "But all this will cost money, sir." "Well, sir," says Alan, "I am nae weathercock. Thirty guineas, if ye land me on the sea-side; and sixty, if ye put me in the Linnhe Loch." "But see, sir, where we lie, we are but a few hours' sail from Ardnamurchan," said Hoseason. "Give me sixty, and I'll set ye there." "And I'm to wear my brogues and run jeopardy of the red-coats to please you?" cries Alan. "No, sir; if ye want sixty guineas earn them, and set me in my own country." "It's to risk the brig, sir," said the captain, "and your own lives along with her." "Take it or want it," says Alan. "Could ye pilot us at all?" asked the captain, who was frowning to himself. "Well, it's doubtful," said Alan. "I'm more of a fighting man (as ye have seen for yoursel') than a sailor-man. But I have been often enough picked up and set down upon this coast, and should ken something of the lie of it." The captain shook his head, still frowning. "Wenn ich auf dieser unglücklichen Kreuzfahrt weniger Geld verloren hätte", sagt er, "würde ich Sie ersticken sehen, bevor ich mein Schiff riskiere, Sir. Aber sei es wie es ist. Sobald ich einen günstigen Wind bekomme (und es kommt einer, oder ich täusche mich mehr), werde ich es in die Hand nehmen. Aber es gibt noch eine Sache. Wir könnten auf ein königliches Schiff treffen und sie könnte uns ohne mein Verschulden entern: Sie halten die Verfolger dicht an dieser Küste, Sie wissen für wen. Nun, Sir, wenn das geschehen sollte, könnten Sie das Geld zurücklassen." "Kapitän", sagt Alan, "wenn Sie eine Wimpel sehen, wird es Ihre Aufgabe sein, wegzulaufen. Und jetzt, da ich höre, dass es im vorderen Teil etwas an Rum mangelt, biete ich Ihnen einen Tausch an: Eine Flasche Rum gegen zwei Eimer Wasser." Das war die letzte Klausel des Vertrags und wurde auf beiden Seiten ordnungsgemäß ausgeführt; so konnten Alan und ich endlich das Rundhaus sauber machen und uns von den Erinnerungen an diejenigen befreien, die wir getötet hatten, und der Kapitän und Herr Riach konnten auf ihre Weise wieder glücklich sein, deren Name Alkohol war. 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.

Als der Morgen anbrach, frühstückten David und Alan. Alan sagte David, dass er weiter mit Kämpfen rechnen solle, insbesondere weil die Männer keinen Zugang zu ihrem Schnaps hätten, da sich dieser komplett in der Rundhütte befand. An ihrem Standort konnten David und Alan einige der besten Speisen und Getränke auf dem Boot teilen. Als Dankeschön schenkte Alan David einen seiner silbernen Knöpfe vom Mantel. David war besonders dankbar, als er sah, wie Alan seinen Mantel akribisch bürstete und dabei besonders auf die losen Fäden vom Knopf achtete. Die Eitelkeit von Alans Rede beeindruckte und amüsierte David. Es war manchmal schwer, seine Behauptungen nicht mit einem Lächeln zu quittieren. Bald kontaktierte Mr. Riach die Männer in der Hoffnung, eine Aussprache mit dem Kapitän zu arrangieren. David lehnte sich aus dem zerbrochenen Oberlicht, um mit Riach zu sprechen. Dabei erfuhr er, dass der Rest der Besatzung keine weiteren Angriffe mehr starten wollte, auch wenn der Kapitän und Riach es wünschten. Riach versicherte, dass sie keinen Verrat beabsichtigten und mehr Angst vor Alan hatten als vor irgendetwas anderem. Die Aussprache wurde vereinbart und der Kapitän und Alan trafen sich, um an einem der Fenster zu sprechen. Hoseason versuchte, Alan dazu zu bringen, in Glasgow abgesetzt zu werden. Hoseasons erster Offizier war tot und das Schiff konnte ohne ihn nur schwer manövriert werden. Alan lehnte ab und bestand darauf, in seinem eigenen Land abgesetzt zu werden, um keinem der roten Whigs zu begegnen. Dann versuchte der Kapitän, Alan davon zu überzeugen, dass die Küste in Alans Teil von Schottland zu schwierig zu navigieren war. Daraufhin schlug Alan einen großen Küstenabschnitt vor, der geeignet sein würde. Hoseason verlangte Geld. Alan stimmte seiner alten Vereinbarung von dreißig Guineen zu, wenn er an der Küste abgesetzt würde, und sechzig Guineen, wenn er in Linnhe Loch abgesetzt würde. Der Kapitän wollte sechzig Guineen, wenn er Alan an dem nahe gelegenen Ort Ardnamurchan absetzte. Alan lehnte erneut ab und wiederholte sein Angebot. Zudem weigerte er sich, den Matrosen beim Steuern des Schiffes zu helfen, wie vom Kapitän verlangt, und überließ es dem Kapitän, Schiffen treu zu König George auszuweichen. Nach einem Austausch von Brandy gegen Eimer Wasser war der Deal abgeschlossen. Der Kapitän und Riach konnten wieder trinken und David und Alan konnten das Blut von ihrem Boden reinigen.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Während Uncas diese Aufstellung seiner Streitkräfte vornahm, herrschte Stille im Wald und abgesehen von denen, die sich im Rat getroffen hatten, schien es genauso unbelebt zu sein wie direkt nach der Erschaffung durch den allmächtigen Schöpfer. Das Auge konnte in alle Richtungen durch die langen, schattigen Alleen der Bäume schweifen, aber nirgends war ein Objekt zu sehen, das nicht zur friedlichen und schlafenden Landschaft gehörte. Hier und dort hörte man einen Vogel zwischen den Zweigen der Buchen flattern, und gelegentlich fiel eine Nuss aus einem Eichhörnchen herab und lenkte für einen Moment die aufgeschreckten Blicke der Gruppe dorthin. Doch sobald die zufällige Unterbrechung vorbei war, hörte man wieder die vorbeiziehende Luft über ihren Köpfen murmeln, entlang der grünen und welligen Oberfläche des Waldes, die sich ununterbrochen über eine solch große Region erstreckte, außer durch Flüsse oder Seen. Über das wilde Gebiet, das zwischen den Delawaren und dem Dorf ihrer Feinde lag, schien noch nie ein Mensch seinen Fuß gesetzt zu haben, so still und tief war die Stille, in der es ruhte. Doch Hawkeye, dessen Aufgabe ihn an die Spitze des Abenteuers führte, kannte den Charakter derjenigen, gegen die er kämpfen würde, zu gut, um der trügerischen Ruhe zu vertrauen. Als er seine kleine Gruppe versammelt sah, warf der Scout "Killdeer" in den Hohlraum seines Arms und gab ein stilles Zeichen, dass ihm gefolgt werden solle. Er führte sie viele Stangen nach hinten in das Flussbett, das sie beim Vorrücken überquert hatten. Hier hielt er an und nachdem er gewartet hatte, bis sich seine ernsten und aufmerksamen Krieger um ihn versammelt hatten, sprach er auf Delaware und fragte: "Weiß einer meiner jungen Männer, wohin dieser Bach uns führen wird?" Ein Delaware streckte eine Hand aus, mit den beiden Fingern auseinander, und deutete so auf die Art und Weise, wie sie an der Wurzel verbunden waren, und antwortete: "Bevor die Sonne ihren eigenen Weg gehen kann, wird das kleine Wasser im großen sein." Dann fügte er hinzu und zeigte in die Richtung des Ortes, den er erwähnte, "die beiden reichen für die Biber." "Ich dachte es mir", erwiderte der Scout und warf einen Blick nach oben auf die Öffnung in den Baumwipfeln, "von der Richtung, die er nimmt, und den Ausrichtungen der Berge her. Männer, wir werden uns am Ufer dieses Baches halten, bis wir die Huronen wahrnehmen." Seine Begleiter gaben den üblichen kurzen Zustimmungsruf, aber als sie sahen, dass ihr Anführer derjenige sein würde, der vorangehen würde, machten ein oder zwei Zeichen, dass alles nicht so war, wie es sein sollte. Hawkeye, der die bedeutungsschweren Blicke verstand, drehte sich um und sah, dass seine Gruppe bisher vom Gesangsmeister verfolgt worden war. "Wissen Sie, Freund", fragte der ernsthafte Scout und vielleicht mit einem kleinen Stolz auf sein verdientes Verdienst in seiner Art zu reden, "dass dies eine Gruppe von auserwählten Waldläufern ist, die für den gefährlichsten Dienst ausgewählt und unter dem Kommando einer Person stehen, die, obwohl ein anderer es vielleicht besser sagen könnte, nicht dazu neigen wird, sie untätig zu lassen. Es mag nicht fünf, es können nicht dreißig Minuten vergehen, bevor wir auf den Körper eines Huronen treten, lebendig oder tot." "Obwohl ich nicht mit Worten über Ihre Absichten belehrt wurde", erwiderte David, dessen Gesicht ein wenig gerötet und dessen normalerweise ruhige und bedeutungslose Augen mit einem ungewöhnlichen Feuer glänzten, "haben mich Ihre Männer an die Kinder Jakobs erinnert, die gegen die Sichemiter in den Kampf zogen, weil sie die böse Absicht hatten, sich mit einer Frau eines Volkes zu vermählen, das vom Herrn begünstigt wurde. Nun, ich bin weit gereist und habe viel mit der Jungfrau, nach der ihr sucht, Gutes und Böses erlebt und obwohl ich kein Krieger bin, mit meiner Hüfte gegürtet und meinem Schwert geschärft, würde ich gerne einen Schlag in ihrem Namen ausführen." Der Scout zögerte, als würde er die Chancen einer solch seltsamen Anwerbung in seinem Kopf abwägen, bevor er antwortete: "Sie kennen sich nicht mit Waffen aus. Sie führen kein Gewehr mit sich, und glauben Sie mir, das, was die Mingos nehmen, werden sie freiwillig wieder geben." "Obwohl ich kein prahlerischer und blutdurstiger Goliath bin", erwiderte David und zog eine Schleuder unter seinem bunt und eigenartig gekleideten Gewand hervor, "habe ich das Beispiel des jüdischen Jungen nicht vergessen. Mit diesem uralten Kriegsinstrument habe ich mich in meiner Jugend viel geübt, und vielleicht ist die Fähigkeit nicht ganz von mir gewichen." "Ach!" sagte Hawkeye und betrachtete den in Hirschhaut gehüllten Riemen und das Schürztuch mit einem kalten und entmutigenden Blick, "das Ding könnte seine Arbeit mit Pfeilen oder sogar Messern verrichten, aber diese Mengwe sind von den Franzosen mit einem guten, genuteten Laufmann ausgestattet. Aber anscheinend haben Sie die Gabe, unversehrt durch das Feuer zu gehen, und da Sie bisher begünstigt wurden… Major, Sie haben Ihr Gewehr bei einem Hahn gelassen; ein einzelner Schuss vor der Zeit wäre 20 Skalpe umsonst verloren - Sänger, Sie können mir folgen, wir könnten Sie bei den Schreien brauchen." "Ich danke Ihnen, Freund", erwiderte David und versorgte sich, wie sein königlicher Namensvetter, mit den Kieselsteinen des Baches. "Obwohl ich nicht danach strebe, zu töten, hätte es mich beunruhigt, wenn Sie mich weggeschickt hätten." "Denken Sie daran", fügte der Scout hinzu und tippte mit bedeutender Bedeutung auf seine eigene Stirn, dort wo Gamut noch schmerzte, "wir kommen zum Kämpfen und nicht zum Musizieren. Bis der allgemeine Schlachtruf ertönt, spricht nichts außer dem Gewehr." David nickte zustimmend, um seine Einwilligung zu bekunden, und dann warf Hawkeye einen weiteren prüfenden Blick auf seine Gefolgsleute und gab das Signal zum Weitergehen. Ihre Route führte sie über eine Strecke von einer Meile entlang des Flussbettes. Obwohl sie durch die steilen Ufer und das dichte Gestrüpp, das den Bach säumte, vor großer Gefahr der Beobachtung geschützt waren, wurde keine Vorsichtsmaßnahme eines indianischen Angriffs vernachlässigt. Ein Krieger kroch eher als dass er ging, an jedem Flügel entlang, um gelegentlich Blicke in den Wald zu erhaschen, und alle paar Minuten blieb die Gruppe stehen und lauschte auf feindliche Geräusche mit einer körperlichen Empfindlichkeit, die kaum zu begreifen wäre, wenn man sich in einem weniger natürlichen Zustand befände. Ihr Marsch verlief jedoch ungestört, und sie erreichten den Punkt, an dem der kleine Bach im großen verschwand, ohne auch nur das geringste Anzeichen dafür, dass ihr Fortschritt bemerkt worden war. Hier hielt der Scout erneut an, um die Zeichen des Waldes zu konsultieren. "Wir haben wahrscheinlich einen guten Tag für einen Kampf", sagte er auf Englisch und wandte sich an Heyward und warf einen Blick nach oben auf die Wolken, die begannen, sich in breiten Schichten über das Firmament zu bewegen. "Eine helle Sonne und ein glänzender Laufmann sind keine Freunde für scharfe Sicht. Alles ist günstig; sie haben den Wind, der ihre Geräusche und ihren Rauch nach unten bringt, für sich, und das ist an und für sich schon etwas. Bei uns wird es erst einen Schuss und dann eine klare Sicht geben. Aber hier endet unser Schutz, die Biber hatten den Verlauf dieses Baches hunderte von Jahren lang, und was zwischen ihrem Futter und ihren Dämmen liegt, gibt es, wie Sie sehen, viele abgegurtete Stümpfe, aber nur wenige lebende Bäume." Hawkeye hatte in der Tat mit diesen wenigen Worten keine schlechte Beschreibung der Aussicht gegeben, die jetzt vor ihnen lag. Der Bach Alle diese winzigen Einzelheiten wurden vom Kundschafter mit einer Ernsthaftigkeit und einem Interesse bemerkt, das sie wahrscheinlich noch nie zuvor angezogen hatten. Er wusste, dass das Huron-Lager eine kurze halbe Meile den Bach hinauf lag; und mit der charakteristischen Angst vor einer verborgenen Gefahr war er sehr beunruhigt, als er keinerlei Spuren seines Feindes fand. Ein- oder zweimal hatte er Lust, den Befehl zum Ansturm zu geben und das Dorf überraschend anzugreifen; aber seine Erfahrung belehrte ihn schnell über die Gefahr eines so nutzlosen Experiments. Dann lauschte er gespannt und mit qualvoller Unsicherheit auf Geräusche der Feindseligkeit in der Gegend, wo Uncas zurückgelassen wurde; aber außer dem Seufzen des Windes, das begann, über das Dickicht des Waldes zu fegen und einen Sturm drohte, war nichts zu hören. Schließlich ließ er sich eher von seiner ungewöhnlichen Ungeduld als von seinem Wissen leiten und beschloss, die Dinge durch Enthüllung seiner Streitmacht zu einem Abschluss zu bringen und behutsam, aber entschlossen, den Bach hinauf vorzurücken. Während er seine Beobachtungen machte, stand der Kundschafter im Schutz eines Gebüschs und seine Begleiter lagen immer noch im Bett der Schlucht, durch die der kleinere Bach mündete. Doch als sie sein leises, aber verständliches Signal hörten, stahlen sich die ganze Gruppe wie dunkle Schrecken die Böschung hinauf und arrangierten sich geräuschlos um ihn herum. Auf die Richtung zeigend, in die er gehen wollte, marschierte Hawkeye voraus und die Gruppe brach sich auf, folgte aber so genau seinen Fußspuren, dass, abgesehen von Heyward und David, nur die Spur eines einzigen Mannes zu sehen war. Die Gruppe hatte sich jedoch kaum enttarnt, als man hinter ihnen eine Salve von einem Dutzend Gewehren hörte und ein Delaware sprang hoch in die Luft wie ein verwundetes Reh und fiel dann perfekt tot nieder. "Ach, ich fürchtete schon so eine Teufelei!" rief der Kundschafter auf Englisch aus und fügte geistesgegenwärtig in seiner angenommenen Sprache hinzu: "Deckung, Männer, und stürmt!" Die Gruppe verteilte sich auf Befehl und bevor Heyward sich von seiner Überraschung erholt hatte, stand er allein mit David da. Glücklicherweise hatte sich die Huron-Truppe bereits zurückgezogen und er war vor ihrem Feuer sicher. Aber dieser Zustand würde offensichtlich nicht von langer Dauer sein; denn der Kundschafter gab das Beispiel, ihren Rückzug zu verfolgen, indem er sein Gewehr abfeuerte und von Baum zu Baum eilte, während der Feind langsam Boden verlor. Es schien, dass der Angriff von einer sehr kleinen Gruppe der Huronen gemacht wurde, die sich jedoch an Zahl vermehrte, während sie sich auf ihre Freunde zurückzogen, bis das Rückfeuer fast ebenso stark war wie das der vorrückenden Delawares. Heyward mischte sich unter die Kämpfenden und ahmte die notwendige Vorsicht seiner Begleiter nach, indem er schnell mit seinem eigenen Gewehr feuerte. Der Kampf wurde nun heftig und stationär. Nur wenige wurden verletzt, da sich beide Parteien so gut wie möglich hinter den Bäumen schützten und niemals einen Teil ihres Körpers entblößten, außer wenn sie zum Zielen ansetzten. Doch die Chancen wurden nach und nach für Hawkeye und seine Gruppe ungünstiger. Der scharfsichtige Kundschafter erkannte die Gefahr, wusste aber nicht, wie er sie beheben sollte. Er sah, dass es gefährlicher war, sich zurückzuziehen, als seine Position zu halten, während er beobachtete, wie sein Feind Männer an seine Flanke schickte, was es den Delawares sehr schwer machte, sich zu schützen und ihr Feuer fast zum Erliegen brachte. In diesem Moment der Verwirrung, als sie begannen zu denken, der gesamte feindliche Stamm umkreise sie allmählich, hörten sie den Kampfschrei und das Klappern der Waffen unter den Bögen des Waldes, an dem Ort, wo sich Uncas befand; einem Tal, das gewissermaßen unter dem Boden lag, auf dem Hawkeye und seine Gruppe kämpften. Die Auswirkungen dieses Angriffs waren augenblicklich und für den Kundschafter und seine Freunde eine große Erleichterung. Es schien, dass, während seine eigene Überraschung vorausgesehen worden war und daher gescheitert war, der Feind seinerseits durch den Zweck und die Zahl seiner Truppe getäuscht worden war und sie zu schwach war, um dem wütenden Ansturm des jungen Mohicaners standzuhalten. Dies wurde dadurch doppelt deutlich, dass die Schlacht im Wald schnell zum Dorf hin anstieg und dass die Zahl ihrer Angreifer augenblicklich abnahm, die eilten, um ihre Vorderseite und wie sich jetzt herausstellte, den Hauptverteidigungspunkt zu unterstützten. Hawkeye gab seinen Gefolgsleuten mit seiner Stimme und seinem eigenen Beispiel einen Schub und befahl dann, auf die Feinde zuzustürmen. Der Angriff in dieser rauen Art der Kriegsführung bestand lediglich darin, von Deckung zu Deckung auf den Feind zuzugehen; und in diesem Manöver wurde ihm prompt und erfolgreich gehorcht. Die Huronen wurden gezwungen, sich zurückzuziehen, und der Ort des Kampfes verlagerte sich schnell von dem offeneren Gelände, auf dem er begonnen hatte, zu einem Ort, an dem die Angegriffenen einen Busch zum Ausruhen fanden. Hier wurde der Kampf langwierig, schwer und schien von zweifelhaftem Ausgang zu sein. Die Delawares, obwohl niemand von ihnen fiel, begannen aufgrund des Nachteils, unter dem sie standen, reichlich zu bluten. In dieser Krisensituation fand Hawkeye einen Weg, sich hinter den gleichen Baum zu begeben, der auch Heyward als Deckung diente; die meisten seiner Kämpfer waren in der Nähe und sofort, aber vergeblich, feuerten sie eifrig auf ihre feindlichen Gegner. "Sie sind ein junger Mann, Major", sagte der Kundschafter und ließ den Kolben seines Gewehrs auf den Boden fallen und lehnte sich mit ein wenig Ermüdung nach vorne gegen den Lauf. "Und vielleicht ist es Ihre Gabe, eines Tages Armeen gegen diese Monster, die Mingos, zu führen. Hier können Sie die Philosophie eines Indianerkampfes sehen. Sie besteht hauptsächlich aus einer schnellen Hand, einem schnellen Auge und einer guten Deckung. Nun, wenn Sie hier eine Kompanie der königlichen Amerikaner hätten, wie würden Sie sie in diesem Geschäft einsetzen?" "Das Bajonett würde einen Weg bahnen." "Ja, es gibt Vernunft in dem, was du sagst; aber ein Mann muss sich in dieser Wildnis fragen, wie viele Leben er sich leisten kann zu opfern. Nein - Pferd", fuhr der Kundschafter fort und schüttelte den Kopf, als würde er nachdenken, "Pferd, ich schäme mich zu sagen, muss früher oder später über diese Schlägereien entscheiden. Die Viecher sind besser als Menschen, und letztendlich müssen wir zu Pferd kommen. Man braucht nur einen beschlagenen Huf auf einen Mokassin eines Rothauts zu setzen, und wenn sein Gewehr einmal leer ist, wird er es nie wieder nachladen." "Dies ist ein Thema, das besser zu einem anderen Zeitpunkt besprochen werden könnte", erwiderte Heyward, "sollen wir angreifen?" "Ich sehe keine Widersprüche in den Fäh "Hawkeye ruft: 'Dort spricht der Sagamore!' und antwortet mit seiner starken Stimme: 'Wir haben sie jetzt von vorne und hinten!'" Die Wirkung auf die Huronen war augenblicklich. Entmutigt von einem Angriff aus einer Richtung, die ihnen keine Möglichkeit zur Deckung ließ, stießen ihre Krieger einen gemeinsamen Schrei der Enttäuschung aus und brachen in einer Gruppe ab, sie verteilten sich über die Lichtung und achteten auf nichts anderes als die Flucht. Viele fielen bei diesem Versuch unter den Kugeln und Schlägen der verfolgenden Delawaren. Wir werden nicht anhalten, um das Treffen zwischen dem Pfadfinder und Chingachgook im Detail zu beschreiben, oder das emotionale Gespräch, das Duncan mit Munro führte. Ein paar kurze und eilige Worte genügten, um beiden Parteien die Lage zu erklären, und dann deutete Hawkeye auf den Sagamore hin und übergab die Oberhoheit dem Mohikaner-Häuptling. Chingachgook übernahm die Position, die ihm aufgrund seiner Geburt und Erfahrung einen so herausragenden Anspruch gab, mit der ernsten Würde, die den Anordnungen eines einheimischen Kriegers immer Kraft verleiht. Er folgte den Fußspuren des Pfadfinders, führte die Gruppe durch das Dickicht zurück und ließ seine Männer die gefallenen Huronen skalpieren und die Leichen der eigenen Toten verstecken, während sie voranschritten, bis sie einen Punkt erreichten, an dem der ehemalige Häuptling eine Pause machen wollte. Die Krieger, die sich in dem vorherigen Kampf ausgepowert hatten, wurden nun auf einem Stück ebener Erde postiert, das mit ausreichend vielen Bäumen bestückt war, um sie zu verbergen. Das Land fiel etwas steil nach vorne ab, und vor ihren Augen erstreckte sich über mehrere Meilen ein schmaler, dunkler und bewaldeter Tal. Durch diesen dichten und dunklen Wald kämpfte Uncas immer noch gegen die Hauptgruppe der Huronen. Der Mohikaner und seine Freunde marschierten zum Rande des Hügels und lauschten mit geschulten Ohren den Geräuschen des Kampfes. Ein paar Vögel schwebten über dem blättrigen Schoß des Tales, von ihren abgeschiedenen Nestern aufgeschreckt; und hier und da erhob sich eine leichte, dampfende Wolke, die bereits mit der Atmosphäre verschmolz und auf einigen Stellen hindeutete, wo der Kampf heftig und feststationär gewesen war. "Der Kampf nähert sich dem Anstieg", sagte Duncan und zeigte in die Richtung einer neuen Feuerwaffenexplosion. "Wir sind zu sehr im Zentrum ihrer Linie, um effektiv zu sein." "Sie werden sich in die Senke neigen, wo die Deckung dichter ist," sagte der Pfadfinder, "und das wird uns gut auf ihre Flanke bringen. Geh, Sagamore; du wirst kaum rechtzeitig sein, den Kriegsruf auszusprechen und die jungen Männer anzuführen. Ich werde diesen Kampf mit Kriegern meiner eigenen Farbe führen. Du kennst mich, Mohikaner; kein Hurone von ihnen allen wird den Hügel überqueren und in deinen Rücken geraten, ohne die Aufmerksamkeit von 'Killdeer' zu erregen." Das indianische Oberhaupt hielt einen weiteren Moment inne, um die Anzeichen des Kampfes zu überdenken, der jetzt schnell den Anstieg hinaufrollte, ein sicheres Zeichen dafür, dass die Delawaren triumphieren; und er verließ tatsächlich den Ort erst, als er durch die Kugeln seiner Freunde, die begannen auf den trockenen Blättern auf dem Boden zu prasseln wie fallende Hagelkörner kurz bevor der Sturm ausbricht, auf die Nähe seiner Freunde sowie Feinde aufmerksam gemacht wurde. Hawkeye und seine drei Begleiter zogen sich ein paar Schritte zurück und warteten mit einer Ruhe, die nur durch große Übung in einer solchen Szene erreicht werden kann, auf den Ausgang. Es dauerte nicht lange, bis die Schüsse der Gewehre ihr Echo im Wald verloren und klangen wie Waffen, die in freier Luft abgefeuert wurden. Dann tauchte hier und da ein Krieger auf, der an den Rand des Waldes gedrängt war und sich sammelte, als er die Lichtung betrat, an der der letzte Widerstand geleistet werden sollte. Ihnen schlossen sich bald andere an, bis eine lange Reihe dunkler Gestalten zu sehen war, die sich mit der Hartnäckigkeit der Verzweiflung an der Deckung festhielten. Heyward wurde ungeduldig und wandte seine Augen besorgt in Richtung Chingachgook. Der Häuptling saß auf einem Felsen, und außer seinem ruhigen Gesicht war nichts zu sehen, während er das Schauspiel mit einem Blick betrachtete, der so bedächtig war, als ob er nur dort postiert wäre, um den Kampf zu beobachten. "Es ist an der Zeit für die Delawaren zuzuschlagen!" sagte Duncan. "Nicht so, nicht so," erwiderte der Pfadfinder, "wenn er seine Freunde riecht, wird er sie wissen lassen, dass er hier ist. Sieh, sieh; die Schurken gehen in jenes Büschel von Kiefern wie Bienen, die sich nach ihrem Flug niedergelassen haben. Beim Herrn, eine Squaw könnte eine Kugel mitten in dieses Knäuel dunkler Häute schießen!" In diesem Moment erklang der Kriegsruf, und ein Dutzend Huronen fiel durch einen Schuss von Chingachgook und seiner Bande. Der Jubel, der folgte, wurde von einem einzigen Kriegsschrei aus dem Wald erwidert, und ein Jammern durchschnitt die Luft, das klang, als ob tausend Kehlen sich gemeinsam anstrengten. Die Huronen schwankten, verließen die Mitte ihrer Linie und Uncas trat aus dem Wald durch die von ihnen zurückgelassene Öffnung, an der Spitze von hundert Kriegern. Winkend mit den Händen nach rechts und links wies der junge Häuptling seinen Anhängern den Feind, der sich in Verfolgung aufspaltete. Der Krieg teilte sich jetzt auf, beide Flügel der zerschlagenen Huronen suchten erneut in den Wäldern Schutz und wurden von den siegreichen Kriegern der Lenape heftig verfolgt. Eine Minute mag vergangen sein, aber die Geräusche entfernten sich bereits in verschiedene Richtungen und verloren allmählich ihre Deutlichkeit unter den nachhallenden Bögen der Wälder. Ein kleines Grüppchen Huronen jedoch hatte es abgelehnt, Deckung zu suchen, und zog sich langsam und missmutig wie Löwen in die Höhe, den Anstieg hinauf, den Chingachgook und seine Bande gerade verlassen hatten, um sich stärker in den Kampf einzumischen. Magua war in dieser Gruppe auffällig, sowohl wegen seines wilden und wilden Aussehens als auch wegen der Luft der stolzen Autorität, die er noch aufrechterhielt. In seiner Ungeduld, die Verfolgung zu beschleunigen, hatte sich Uncas fast alleine gelassen; aber in dem Moment, als seine Augen die Gestalt von Le Subtil erblickten, waren alle anderen Überlegungen vergessen. Seinen Schlachtruf erhöhend, der sechs oder sieben Krieger zurückrief, und ohne Rücksicht auf die Diskrepanz ihrer Zahlen, stürzte er sich auf seinen Feind. Le Renard, der die Bewegung beobachtete, hielt inne, um ihn mit geheimer Freude zu empfangen. Doch im Moment, als er dachte, die Tollkühnheit seines impetuous jungen Angreifers habe ihn seiner Gnade überlassen, wurde sofort ein weiterer Schrei ausgegeben, und La Longue Carabine wurde gesehen, wie er in die Rettung raste, begleitet von allen seinen weißen Kameraden. Der Hurone drehte sich sofort um und begann einen schnellen Rückzug den Hang hinauf. Es gab keine Zeit für Begrüßungen oder Glückwünsche; denn Uncas, der sich seiner Freunde nicht bewusst war, setzte die Verfolgung mit Windgeschwindigkeit fort. Vergeblich rief Hawkeye ihm zu, die Deckung zu respektieren; der junge Mohicaner trotzte dem gefährlichen Feuer seiner Feinde und zwang sie bald zu einer ebenso schnellen Flucht wie seine eigene kopflose Geschwindigkeit. Glücklicherweise dauerte das Rennen nicht lange an, und die Aber Uncas, der ihn vergeblich im Handgemenge gesucht hatte, sprang vorwärts, um ihm zu folgen; Hawkeye, Heyward und David blieben dicht auf seinen Fersen. Das höchste, was der Pfadfinder erreichen konnte, war es, die Mündung seines Gewehrs ein wenig vor seinen Freund zu halten, das ihm dennoch als ein magischer Schutzschild diente. Einmal schien Magua entschlossen zu sein, einen weiteren und endgültigen Versuch zu unternehmen, um seine Verluste zu rächen; jedoch gab er seine Absicht auf, sobald diese demonstriert wurde, und sprang in ein Dickicht von Büschen, dem seine Feinde folgten, und trat plötzlich in den Eingang der Höhle ein, die dem Leser bereits bekannt war. Hawkeye, der nur aus Rücksicht auf Uncas darauf verzichtet hatte zu schießen, erhob einen Freudesruf und verkündete laut, dass sie nun sicher sein konnten, ihr Ziel erreicht zu haben. Die Verfolger stürzten in den langen und schmalen Eingang, um einen flüchtigen Blick auf die sich zurückziehenden Formen der Huronen zu erhaschen. Ihr Durchgang durch die natürlichen Gänge und unterirdischen Räume der Höhle wurde von den Schreien und Rufen von Hunderten von Frauen und Kindern begleitet. Der Ort erschien im schwachen und unsicheren Licht wie die Schatten der Unterwelt, in der unglückliche Geister und wilde Dämonen in Scharen umherhuschten. Uncas hielt jedoch weiterhin Magua im Auge, als ob für ihn das Leben nur einen einzigen Zweck hätte. Heyward und der Pfadfinder blieben ebenfalls dicht hinter ihm und wurden möglicherweise von einem gemeinsamen Gefühl angetrieben, wenn auch möglicherweise in geringerem Maße. Aber ihr Weg wurde in diesen dunklen und düsteren Gängen kompliziert, und die flüchtigen Krieger waren seltener und undeutlicher zu sehen, und für einen Moment glaubte man, die Spur verloren zu haben, als ein weißes Gewand am entfernten Ende eines Ganges zu sehen war, der zum Berg hinaufführte. "Es ist Cora!" rief Heyward mit einer Stimme, in der Entsetzen und Freude wild gemischt waren. "Cora! Cora!" hallte Uncas und beugte sich vor wie ein Hirsch. "Es ist die Jungfrau!" rief der Pfadfinder, "Seid tapfer, Lady, wir kommen! Wir kommen!" Die Verfolgung wurde mit einer Energie fortgesetzt, die durch diesen kurzen Blick auf die Gefangene noch mehr ermutigt wurde. Aber der Weg war steinig, zerklüftet und an einigen Stellen nahezu unpassierbar. Uncas ließ sein Gewehr zurück und stürzte mit unglaublicher Geschwindigkeit vorwärts. Heyward ahmte unbesonnen sein Beispiel nach, obwohl beide einen Moment später von ihrem Wahnsinn überzeugt wurden, als sie den Schuss hörten, den die Huronen Zeit hatten, den Felsen hinunter in den Gang abzufeuern, wobei die Kugel sogar den jungen Mohikaner leicht verletzte. "Wir müssen näher ran!", sagte der Pfadfinder, während er mit einem verzweifelten Sprung an seinen Freunden vorbei eilte. "Die Schurken werden uns in dieser Entfernung alle abschießen; seht, sie halten die Maiden so, dass sie sich selbst schützen!" Obwohl seine Worte unbeachtet blieben oder vielmehr ungehört wurden, wurde sein Beispiel von seinen Begleitern befolgt, die durch unglaubliche Anstrengungen nahe genug an die Fliehenden herankamen, um zu erkennen, dass Cora zwischen den beiden Kriegern getragen wurde, während Magua die Richtung und Art ihrer Flucht bestimmte. In diesem Moment wurden die Formen aller vier gegen eine Öffnung am Himmel abgezeichnet und sie verschwanden. Fast wahnsinnig vor Enttäuschung erhöhten Uncas und Heyward ihre bereits übermenschlichen Anstrengungen und gelangten rechtzeitig aus der Höhle auf die Bergseite, um die Fluchtroute der Verfolgten zu sehen. Der Weg führte den Anstieg hinauf und war immer noch gefährlich und mühsam. Belastet von seinem Gewehr und möglicherweise nicht so stark von dem Interesse an der Gefangenen getrieben wie seine Begleiter, ließ der Pfadfinder diese ein Stück vorausgehen, während Uncas wiederum die Führung von Heyward übernahm. Auf diese Weise wurden Felsen, Abgründe und Schwierigkeiten in einer unglaublich kurzen Zeit überwunden, die zu einer anderen Zeit und unter anderen Umständen als fast unüberwindlich gelten würden. Aber die ungestümen jungen Männer wurden belohnt, als sie feststellten, dass die Huronen, beladen mit Cora, an Boden verloren. "Steh, Hund der Wyandots!", rief Uncas und schwenkte seine helle Tomahawk vor Magua. "Eine Delaware-Jungfrau ruft: 'Halt!'" "Ich werde nicht weiter gehen", rief Cora aus und trat unerwartet auf einen Felsenabsatz, der über einem tiefen Abgrund lag, nicht weit entfernt von der Spitze des Berges. "Töte mich, wenn du willst, verabscheuungswürdiger Hurone, aber ich werde nicht weiter gehen." Die Unterstützerin des Mädchens erhoben ihre bereiten Tomahawks mit der blasphemischen Freude, die man Satanen nachsagt, wenn sie Unheil anrichten, aber Magua hinderte sie daran, ihre erhobenen Arme zu senken. Der Huronen-Häuptling warf nachdem er die Waffen, die er seinen Begleitern entrissen hatte, über den Felsen geworfen hatte, sein Messer und wandte sich seiner Gefangenen zu, wobei in seinem Blick widerstreitende Leidenschaften heftig rangen. "Frau", sagte er, "wähle; das Wigwam oder Le Subtils Messer!" Cora beachtete ihn nicht, sondern fiel auf die Knie, hob ihre Augen zum Himmel und streckte ihre Arme aus, während sie mit sanfter und doch vertrauensvoller Stimme sagte: "Ich gehöre dir! Handle mit mir, wie du es für das Beste hältst!" "Frau", wiederholte Magua heiser und bemühte sich vergeblich, einen Blick von ihrem ruhigen und strahlenden Auge zu erhaschen, "wähle!" Aber Cora hörte weder zu noch beachtete sie seine Forderung. Die Gestalt des Huronen bebte in jedem Fasern, und er erhob seinen Arm hoch, ließ ihn aber wieder mit einem verwirrten Ausdruck fallen, als ob er zweifelte. Noch einmal kämpfte er mit sich selbst und hob die scharfe Waffe erneut an, aber in diesem Moment wurde ein durchdringender Schrei über ihnen gehört, und Uncas tauchte wie von Sinnen von einer furchterregenden Höhe auf dem Absatz auf. Magua wich zurück und einer seiner Gehilfen nutzte die Gelegenheit, um sein eigenes Messer in den Busen von Cora zu stoßen. Der Hurone sprang wie ein Tiger auf seinen in die Flucht geschlagenen und bereits zurückweichenden Landsmann, aber die fallende Gestalt von Uncas trennte die unnatürlichen Kämpfer. Von diesem Zwischenfall abgelenkt und von dem gerade erlebten Mord rasend geworden, versenkte Magua seine Waffe im Rücken des am Boden liegenden Delaware und entließ dabei einen überirdischen Schrei, während er seine niederträchtige Tat vollbrachte. Aber Uncas erhob sich von dem Schlag, wie sich ein verwundeter Panther auf seinen Feind wirft, und streckte den Mörder von Cora mit einem letzten Aufbäumen seiner erlahmenden Kraft zu Boden. Dann wandte er sich mit einem starren und festen Blick Le Subtil zu und deutete mit dem Ausdruck seines Auges an, was er tun würde, hätte ihn die Kraft nicht verlassen. Letzterer packte den kraftlosen Arm des widerstandslosen Delaware und stieß sein Messer drei Mal in seinen eigenen Busen, bevor sein Lachend rau, machte er einen verzweifelten Sprung und verfehlte sein Ziel; obwohl seine Hand einen Strauch an der Kante des Abgrunds ergriff. Die Gestalt von Hawkeye hatte sich wie ein Tier zusammengekauert, das gleich zu einem Sprung ansetzen würde, und sein Körper bebte so heftig vor Aufregung, dass der Lauf des halb erhobenen Gewehrs wie ein im Wind flatterndes Blatt wirkte. Ohne sich mit vergeblichen Anstrengungen zu erschöpfen, ließ der listige Magua seinen Körper in die Länge seiner Arme fallen und fand einen Felsbrocken, auf dem seine Füße ruhen konnten. Dann sammelte er all seine Kräfte und erneuerte den Versuch, und hatte damit so weit Erfolg, dass er seine Knie an den Rand des Berges zog. Genau jetzt, als der Körper seines Feindes am meisten zusammengeballt war, wurde die aufgewühlte Waffe des Pfadfinders auf seine Schulter gelegt. Die umliegenden Felsen waren nicht standhafter als das Gewehr in dem Moment, in dem es seinen Inhalt ausschüttete. Die Arme des Huronen entspannten sich und sein Körper fiel ein wenig zurück, während seine Knie ihre Position behielten. Mit einem unbarmherzigen Blick auf seinen Feind, schüttelte er eine Hand in grimmigem Trotz. Doch sein Griff löste sich und seine dunkle Gestalt war dabei zu sehen, wie sie für einen flüchtigen Moment die Luft durchschnitt, mit dem Kopf nach unten, bis sie an dem Strauchwerk vorbeiglitt, das sich am Berg festklammerte, in ihrem schnellen Flug zur Zerstörung. Können Sie eine geeignete Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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Als die Gruppe den Bach nahe dem friedlichen Biberdamm erreicht, bricht das Geräusch von Gewehrschüssen aus und ein tödlich verwundeter Delaware fällt zu Boden. Die Huronen haben die Truppen unter Hawkeye und Uncas verfolgt. Es entbrennt eine Schlacht und Hawkeye und Uncas' Männer schaffen es, die Huronen zu besiegen. Als sich der Kampf beruhigt, flüchtet Magua in das Huronendorf. Er und zwei Huronenkameraden dringen in die Höhle ein, in der Magua Cora versteckt hat. Hawkeye, Uncas, Gamut und Heyward verfolgen sie eng. Die Huronen schleifen Cora einen Gang hinauf, der den Berg hinaufführt. Uncas und Hawkeye legen ihre schweren Gewehre ab, um schneller voranzukommen. Die Huronen erreichen eine Felswand und Cora weigert sich, weiterzugehen. Magua droht, sie mit seinem Messer zu töten, aber er weiß nicht, ob er sie töten oder heiraten will. Gerade als Uncas es schafft, von einem Vorsprung zu springen und neben Cora zu landen, verliert einer der Huronen die Geduld und ersticht Cora direkt ins Herz. Wütend stürzt sich Magua auf seinen Verbündeten, erreicht jedoch zuerst Uncas und ersticht ihn in den Rücken. Verwundet, aber trotzig, tötet Uncas den Huronen, der Cora erstochen hat. Magua verletzt Uncas noch drei weitere Male und tötet ihn schließlich. Gamut trifft Maguas anderen Begleiter mit einem Stein aus seiner Schleuder. Magua versucht zu entkommen, indem er von der Felswand über eine breite Spalte springt, aber er fällt zu kurz. Er schafft es gerade noch, einen Strauch zu packen, der ihn davor bewahrt, in den Tod zu stürzen. Als Magua sich wieder auf den Berg zieht, erschießt ihn Hawkeye. Magua starrt wütend auf seine Feinde, bevor er in den Tod in den Abgrund stürzt.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten 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 Black Eagle (_Zum Schwartzen Adler_) in the Adlergasse was a prosperous tavern of the second rate. The house was two hundred years old and had been in the Bauer family all that time. Had Fraeu Bauer, or Fraeu-Wirtin, as she was familiarly called, been masculine, she would have been lightly dubbed Bauer VII. She was a widow, and therefore uncrowned. She had been a widow for many a day, for the novelty of being her own manager had not yet worn off. She was thirty-eight, plump, pretty in a free-hand manner, and wise. It was useless to loll about the English bar where she kept the cash-drawer; it was useless to whisper sweet nothings into her ear; it was more than useless, it was foolish. "Go along with you, Herr; I wouldn't marry the best man living. I can add the accounts, I can manage. Why should I marry?" "But marriage is the natural state!" "Herr, I crossed the frontier long ago, but having recrossed it, never again shall I go back. One crown-forty, if you please. Thank you." This retort had become almost a habit with the Fraeu-Wirtin; and when a day went by without a proposal, she went to bed with the sense that the day had not been wholly successful. To-night the main room of the tavern swam in a blue haze of smoke, which rose to the blackened rafters, hung with many and various sausages, cheeses, and dried vegetables. Dishes clattered, there was a buzzing of voices, a scraping of feet and chairs, a banging of tankards, altogether noisy and cheerful. The Fraeu-Wirtin preferred waitresses, and this preference was shared by her patrons. They were quicker, cleaner; they remembered an order better; they were not always surreptitiously emptying the dregs of tankards on the way to the bar, as men invariably did. Besides, the barmaid was an English institution, and the Fraeu-Wirtin greatly admired that race, though no one knew why. The girls fully able to defend themselves, and were not at all diffident in boxing a smart fellow's ears. They had a rough wit and could give and take. If a man thought this an invitation and tried to take a kiss, he generally had his face slapped for his pains, and the Fraeu-Wirtin was always on the side of her girls. The smoke was so thick one could scarcely see two tables away, and if any foreigner chanced to open a window there was a hubbub; windows were made for light, not air. There were soldiers, non-commissioned officers--for the fall maneuvers brought many to Dreiberg--farmers and their families, and the men of the locality who made the Black Eagle a kind of socialist club. Socialism was just taking hold in those days, and the men were tremendously serious and secretive regarding it, as it wasn't strong enough to be popular with governments which ruled by hereditary might and right. Gretchen came in, a little better dressed than in the daytime, the change consisting of coarse stockings and shoes of leather, of which she was correspondingly proud. "Will you want me, Fraeu-Wirtin, for a little while to-night?" she asked. "Till nine. Half a crown as usual." Gretchen sought the kitchen and found an apron and cap. These half-crowns were fine things to pick up occasionally, for it was only upon occasions that she worked at the Black Eagle. In an obscure corner sat the young vintner. He had finished his supper and was watching and scrutinizing all who came in. His face brightened as he saw the goose-girl; he would have known that head anywhere, whether he saw the face or not. He wanted to go to her at once, but knew this action would not be wise. In the very corner itself, his back to the vintner's, and nothing but the wall to look at, was the old man in tatters and patches, the mountaineer who possessed a Swiss watch and gave golden coins to goose-girls. He was busily engaged in gnawing the leg of a chicken. Between times he sipped his beer, listening. Carmichael had forgotten some papers that day. He had dined early at the hotel and returned at once to the consulate. He was often a visitor at the Black Eagle. The beer was sweet and cool. So, having pocketed his papers, he was of a mind to carry on a bit of badinage with Fraeu Bauer. As he stepped into the big hall, in his evening clothes, he was as conspicuous as a passing ship at sea. "Good evening, Fraeu-Wirtin." "Good evening, your Excellency." She was quite fluttered when this fine young man spoke to her. He was the only person who ever caused her embarrassment, even though temporary. There was always a whimsical smile on his lips and in his eyes, and Fraeu Bauer never knew exactly how to take him. "What is on your mind?" brightly. "Many things. You haven't aged the least since last I saw you." "Which was day before yesterday!" "Not any further back than that?" "Not an hour." She turned to make change, while Carmichael's eyes roved in search of a vacant chair. He saw but one. "The goose-girl?" he murmured suddenly. "Is Gretchen one of your waitresses?" "She comes in once in a while. She's a good girl and I'm glad to help her," Fraeu Bauer replied. "I do not recollect having seen her here before." "That is because you rarely come at night." Gretchen carried a tray upon which steamed a vegetable stew. She saw Carmichael and nodded. "I shall be at yonder table," he said indicating the vacant chair. "Will you bring me a tankard of brown Ehrensteiner?" "At once, Herr." Carmichael made his way to the table. Across the room he had not recognized the vintner, but now he remembered. He had crowded him against a wall two or three days before. "This seat is not reserved, Herr?" he asked pleasantly, with his hand on the back of the chair. "No." There was no cordiality in the answer. The vintner turned back the lid of his stein and drank slowly. Carmichael sat down sidewise, viewing the scene with never-waning interest. These German taverns were the delight of his soul. Everybody was so kindly and orderly and hungry. They ate and drank like persons whose consciences were not overburdened. From the corner of his eye he observed that the vintner was studying him. Now this vintner's face was something familiar. Carmichael stirred his memory. It was not in Dreiberg that he had seen him before. But where? Gretchen arrived with the tankard which she sat down at Carmichael's elbow. "Will you not join me, Herr?" he invited. "Thank you," said the vintner, without hesitation. He smiled at Gretchen and she smiled at him. Carmichael smiled at them both tolerantly. "What will you be drinking?" "Brown," said the vintner. Gretchen took up the empty tankard and made off. The eyes of the two men followed her till she reached the dim bar, then their glances swung round and met. Carmichael was first to speak, not because he was forced to, but because it was his fancy at that moment to give the vintner the best of it. "She is a fine girl." "Yes," tentatively. "She is the handsomest peasant I ever saw or knew." "You know her?" There was a spark in the vintner's eyes. "Only for a few days. She interests me." Carmichael produced a pipe and lighted it. "Ah, yes, the pretty peasant girl always interests you gentlemen." There was a note of bitterness. "Did you come here to seek her?" "This is the first time I ever saw her here. And let me add," evenly, "that my interest in her is not of the order you would infer. She is good and patient and brave, and my interest in her is impersonal. It is not necessary for me to make any explanations, but I do so." "Pardon me!" The vintner was plainly abashed. "Granted. But you, you seem to possess a peculiar interest." The vintner flushed. "I have that right," with an air which rather mystified Carmichael. "That explains everything. I do not recollect seeing you before in the Black Eagle." "I am from the north; a vintner, and there is plenty of work here in the valleys late in September." "The grape," mused Carmichael. "You will never learn how to press it as they do in France. It is wine there; it is vinegar this side of the Rhine." "France," said the vintner moodily. "Do you think there will be any France in the future?" Carmichael laughed. "France is an incurable cosmic malady; it will always be. It may be beaten, devastated, throttled, but it will not die." "You are fond of France?" "Very." "Do you think it wise to say so here?" "I am the American consul; nobody minds my opinions." "The American consul," repeated the vintner. Gretchen could now be seen, wending her return in and out among the clustering tables. She set the tankards down, and Carmichael put out a silver crown. "And do not bother about the change." "Are all Americans rich?" she asked soberly. "Do you never keep the change yourselves?" [Illustration: "Are all Americans rich?" she asked, soberly.] "Not when we are in our Sunday clothes." "Then it is vanity." Gretchen shook her head wisely. "Mine is worth only four coppers to-night," he said. The vintner laughed pleasantly. Gretchen looked into his eyes, and an echo found haven in her own. Carmichael thirstily drank his first tankard, thinking: "So this vintner is in love with our goose-girl? Confound my memory! It never failed me like this before. I would give twenty crowns to know where I have seen him. It's only the time and place that bothers me, not the face. A fine beer," he said aloud, holding up the second tankard. The vintner raised his; there was an unconscious grace in the movement. A covert glance at his hand satisfied Carmichael in regard to one thing. He might be a vintner, but the hand was as soft and well-kept as a woman's, for all that it was stained by wind and sunshine. A handsome beggar, whoever and whatever he was. But a second thought disturbed him. Could a man with hands like these mean well toward Gretchen? He was a thorough man of the world; he knew innocence at first glance, and Gretchen was both innocent and unworldly. To the right man she might be easy prey. Never to a man like Colonel von Wallenstein, whose power and high office were alike sinister to any girl of the peasantry; but a man in the guise of her own class, of her own world and people, here was a snare Gretchen might not be able to foresee. He would watch this fellow, and at the first sign of an evil--Carmichael's muscular brown hands opened and shut ominously. The vintner did not observe this peculiar expression of the hands; and Carmichael's face was bland. A tankard, rapping a table near-by, called Gretchen to her duties. There was something reluctant in her step, in the good-by glance, in the sudden fall of the smiling lips. "She will make some man a good wife," said Carmichael. The vintner scowled at his tankard. "He is not sure of her," thought Carmichael. Aloud he said: "What a funny world it is!" "How?" "Gretchen is beautiful enough to be a queen, and yet she is merely a Hebe in a tavern." "Hebe?" suspiciously. The peasant is always suspicious of anything he doesn't understand. "Hebe was a cup-bearer to the mythological gods in olden times," Carmichael explained. He had set a trap, but the vintner had not fallen into it. "A fairy-story." The vintner nodded; he understood now. Carmichael's glance once more rested on the vintner's hand. He would lay another trap. "What happened to her?" "Oh," said Carmichael, "she spilled wine on a god one day, and they banished her." "It must have been a rare vintage." "I suppose you are familiar with all valleys. Moselle?" "Yes. That is a fine country." The old man in tatters sat erect in his chair, but he did not turn his head. "You have served?" "A little. If I could be an officer I should like the army." The vintner reached for his pipe which lay on the table. "Try this," urged Carmichael, offering his pouch. "This will be good tobacco, I know." The vintner filled his pipe. Carmichael followed this gift with many questions about wines and vintages; and hidden in these questions were a dozen clever traps. But the other walked over them, unhesitant, with a certainty of step which chagrined the trapper. By and by the vintner rose and bade his table-companion a good night. He had not offered to buy anything, another sign puzzling to Carmichael. This frugality was purely of the thrifty peasant. But the vintner was not ungrateful, and he expressed many thanks. On his way to the door he stopped, whispered into Gretchen's ear, and passed out into the black street. "Either he is a fine actor, or he is really what he says he is." Carmichael was dissatisfied. "I'll stake my chances on being president of the United States, which is safe enough as a wager, that this fellow is not genuine. I'll watch him. I've stumbled upon a pretty romance of some sort, but I fear that it is one-sided." He wrinkled his forehead, but that part of his recollection he aimed to stir remained fallow, in darkness. The press in the room was thinning. There were vacant chairs here and there now. A carter sauntered past and sat down unconcernedly at the table occupied by the old man whose face Carmichael had not yet seen. The two exchanged not even so much as a casual nod. A little later a butcher approached the same table and seated himself after the manner of the carter. It was only when the dusty baker came along and repeated this procedure, preserving the same silence, that Carmichael's curiosity was enlivened. This curiosity, however, was only of the evanescent order. Undoubtedly they were socialists and this was a little conclave, and the peculiar manner of their meeting, the silence and mystery, were purely fictional. Socialism at that time revolved round the blowing up of kings, of demolishing established order. Neither kings were blown up nor order demolished, but it was a congenial topic over which to while away an evening. This was in the German states; in Russia it was a different matter. Had Carmichael not fallen a-dreaming over his pipe he would have seen the old man pass three slips of paper across the table; he would have seen the carter, the butcher, and the baker pocket these slips stolidly; he would have seen the mountaineer wave his hand sharply and the trio rise and disperse. And perhaps it would have been well for him to have noted these singular manifestations of conspiracy, since shortly he was to become somewhat involved. It was growing late; so Carmichael left the Black Eagle, nursing the sunken ember in his pipe and surrendering no part of his dream. Intermediately the mountaineer paid his score and started for the stairs which led to the bedrooms above. But he stopped at the bar. A very old man was having a pail filled with hot cabbage soup. It was the ancient clock-mender across the way. The mountaineer was startled out of his habitual reserve, but he recovered his composure almost instantly. The clock-mender, his heavy glasses hanging crookedly on his nose, his whole aspect that of a weary, broken man, took down his pail and shuffled noiselessly out. The mountaineer followed him cautiously. Once in his shop the clock-mender poured the steaming soup into a bowl, broke bread in it, and began his evening meal. The other, his face pressed against the dim pane, stared and stared. "_Gott in Himmel!_ It is _he_!" he breathed, then stepped back into the shadow, while the moisture from his breath slowly faded and disappeared from the window-pane. 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.

Es sind vier Wochen vergangen, seit Ani und die Crew Kildenree verlassen haben, und mittlerweile hat jeder ein wenig Heimweh. Talone erzählt ihr, dass sie den Halbzeitpunkt erreicht haben, was er an einer Markierung an einem Baum erkennt - natürlich hat noch niemand diese Reise gemacht, außer Ungolad. Talone war sich nicht sicher, ob er wollte, dass die alte Garde sich ihnen anschließt, bevor sie aufbrachen, da er ein Unberechenbarer ist, aber er meldete sich freiwillig und Ungolad hat die Reise bereits gemacht, also konnte Talone es nicht ablehnen. Als Ani zurück in ihr Zelt kommt, bemerkt sie, dass Selia eines ihrer Kleider anprobiert. Was soll das? Selia springt sofort auf und entschuldigt sich, da sie nur eine einfache Dienerin ist, aber Ani ist das völlig egal - sie war schon immer Anis Freundin, also ist es ihr egal, ob Selia ihre Sachen ansieht. Irgendwie wird Selia davon genervt und benimmt sich so, als wäre Ani zu groß und mächtig, um freundlich zu einer Dienerin zu sein - aber Ani ist sich nicht wirklich sicher, worum es hier geht, und sagt Selia, dass sie in letzter Zeit total komisch ist. Die Dinge verschlechtern sich, und Selia sagt Ani, dass sie nichts ist. Sie war nie gut darin, eine Kronprinzessin zu sein, und sie wird auch in Bayern nichts aus sich machen. Autsch. Ani erwidert: Na gut. Falls sie es so spielen will, dann bitte. Ani sagt Selia, dass sie sie nur beim offiziellen Titel nennen soll - Prinzessin - und ihre Sachen sofort weglegen soll. Ani ist nicht sicher, woher sie die Kraft gefunden hat, sich Selia gegenüber zu behaupten, aber dann schaut sie hinunter und sieht das Taschentuch ihrer Mutter und denkt, dass es vielleicht doch magisch ist. Später geht Ani über einige nasse Felsen, als etwas - oder jemand - sie stößt und sie fast hinfällt. Als sie das nicht tut, weiß sie, dass das Taschentuch sie wieder einmal gerettet hat, und sie vertraut niemandem - auch nicht Selia. Eine Woche später unterhält sich Ungolad mit Ani, während sie reiten. Er bemerkt, dass sie sein Pferd betrachtet, und fragt sie danach, also erzählt sie ihm, dass sein Pferd einen Stein im vorderen Huf hat - und tatsächlich hat es einen. Ungolad ist beeindruckt von der Prinzessin und merkt zum ersten Mal, dass sie es in sich hat. Später spricht Ani mit Talone darüber, was bei den anderen Männern vorgeht - sie hat bemerkt, dass einige von ihnen etwas planen, aber sie ist sich nicht sicher, was es sein könnte. Talone sagt ihr, dass wenn etwas passiert, sie zum nächstgelegenen Pferd rennen und zum bayerischen König um Schutz gehen soll. Ani ist sich nicht sicher, was passieren könnte, aber sie verspricht, genau das zu tun, falls die Männer etwas versuchen. Als Ani zum Fluss hinuntergeht, um zu trinken, beugt sie sich nach unten und ihr Taschentuch fällt heraus. Oh-oh... Falada sagt ihr, dass sie es fallen gelassen hat, aber sie hört ihn nicht rechtzeitig, also obwohl sie spürt, dass etwas nicht stimmt, weiß sie nicht genau, was. Zurück im Lager streitet sich Talone mit Yulan über die Art und Weise, wie sie sich vor den Damen kleiden und benehmen sollen. Yulan hört nicht zu, und Terne macht sogar Witze darüber, dass Ani im Wald keine echte Prinzessin ist - sie sind weder in Kildenree noch in Bayern, also ist sie eigentlich niemand. Ungolad lobt Prinzessin Selia, und einige der anderen erheben ihre Stimmen im Gleichklang. Talone weist darauf hin, dass dies Verrat ist - und dass sie die echte Prinzessin nicht mit solch einer niedriggestellten Betrügerin austauschen können - aber Selia kontert mit einer Rede darüber, dass Königtum nicht durch Blut entstehen sollte. Warum ist Ani besser als sie? Selia ist sich sicher, dass sie eine viel bessere Prinzessin abgeben würde. Die Männer streiten sich, und Ani versucht, zu Falada zu gelangen, um wegzulaufen. Sie schafft es nicht zu ihrem geliebten Pferd, ohne vorher zu Ungolad zu gelangen, also nimmt sie stattdessen ein anderes Pferd. Nur noch ein Stück weiter zur nächsten Stadt im Wald, sagt sie sich und drängt das Pferd dazu, schneller und schneller zu laufen; die Männer sind hinter ihr her, und sie weiß, dass es nicht gut sein wird, wenn sie sie erreichen.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: Hitherto I have recorded in detail the events of my insignificant existence: to the first ten years of my life I have given almost as many chapters. But this is not to be a regular autobiography. I am only bound to invoke Memory where I know her responses will possess some degree of interest; therefore I now pass a space of eight years almost in silence: a few lines only are necessary to keep up the links of connection. When the typhus fever had fulfilled its mission of devastation at Lowood, it gradually disappeared from thence; but not till its virulence and the number of its victims had drawn public attention on the school. Inquiry was made into the origin of the scourge, and by degrees various facts came out which excited public indignation in a high degree. The unhealthy nature of the site; the quantity and quality of the children's food; the brackish, fetid water used in its preparation; the pupils' wretched clothing and accommodations--all these things were discovered, and the discovery produced a result mortifying to Mr. Brocklehurst, but beneficial to the institution. Several wealthy and benevolent individuals in the county subscribed largely for the erection of a more convenient building in a better situation; new regulations were made; improvements in diet and clothing introduced; the funds of the school were intrusted to the management of a committee. Mr. Brocklehurst, who, from his wealth and family connections, could not be overlooked, still retained the post of treasurer; but he was aided in the discharge of his duties by gentlemen of rather more enlarged and sympathising minds: his office of inspector, too, was shared by those who knew how to combine reason with strictness, comfort with economy, compassion with uprightness. The school, thus improved, became in time a truly useful and noble institution. I remained an inmate of its walls, after its regeneration, for eight years: six as pupil, and two as teacher; and in both capacities I bear my testimony to its value and importance. During these eight years my life was uniform: but not unhappy, because it was not inactive. I had the means of an excellent education placed within my reach; a fondness for some of my studies, and a desire to excel in all, together with a great delight in pleasing my teachers, especially such as I loved, urged me on: I availed myself fully of the advantages offered me. In time I rose to be the first girl of the first class; then I was invested with the office of teacher; which I discharged with zeal for two years: but at the end of that time I altered. Miss Temple, through all changes, had thus far continued superintendent of the seminary: to her instruction I owed the best part of my acquirements; her friendship and society had been my continual solace; she had stood me in the stead of mother, governess, and, latterly, companion. At this period she married, removed with her husband (a clergyman, an excellent man, almost worthy of such a wife) to a distant county, and consequently was lost to me. From the day she left I was no longer the same: with her was gone every settled feeling, every association that had made Lowood in some degree a home to me. I had imbibed from her something of her nature and much of her habits: more harmonious thoughts: what seemed better regulated feelings had become the inmates of my mind. I had given in allegiance to duty and order; I was quiet; I believed I was content: to the eyes of others, usually even to my own, I appeared a disciplined and subdued character. But destiny, in the shape of the Rev. Mr. Nasmyth, came between me and Miss Temple: I saw her in her travelling dress step into a post-chaise, shortly after the marriage ceremony; I watched the chaise mount the hill and disappear beyond its brow; and then retired to my own room, and there spent in solitude the greatest part of the half-holiday granted in honour of the occasion. I walked about the chamber most of the time. I imagined myself only to be regretting my loss, and thinking how to repair it; but when my reflections were concluded, and I looked up and found that the afternoon was gone, and evening far advanced, another discovery dawned on me, namely, that in the interval I had undergone a transforming process; that my mind had put off all it had borrowed of Miss Temple--or rather that she had taken with her the serene atmosphere I had been breathing in her vicinity--and that now I was left in my natural element, and beginning to feel the stirring of old emotions. It did not seem as if a prop were withdrawn, but rather as if a motive were gone: it was not the power to be tranquil which had failed me, but the reason for tranquillity was no more. My world had for some years been in Lowood: my experience had been of its rules and systems; now I remembered that the real world was wide, and that a varied field of hopes and fears, of sensations and excitements, awaited those who had courage to go forth into its expanse, to seek real knowledge of life amidst its perils. I went to my window, opened it, and looked out. There were the two wings of the building; there was the garden; there were the skirts of Lowood; there was the hilly horizon. My eye passed all other objects to rest on those most remote, the blue peaks; it was those I longed to surmount; all within their boundary of rock and heath seemed prison-ground, exile limits. I traced the white road winding round the base of one mountain, and vanishing in a gorge between two; how I longed to follow it farther! I recalled the time when I had travelled that very road in a coach; I remembered descending that hill at twilight; an age seemed to have elapsed since the day which brought me first to Lowood, and I had never quitted it since. My vacations had all been spent at school: Mrs. Reed had never sent for me to Gateshead; neither she nor any of her family had ever been to visit me. I had had no communication by letter or message with the outer world: school-rules, school-duties, school-habits and notions, and voices, and faces, and phrases, and costumes, and preferences, and antipathies--such was what I knew of existence. And now I felt that it was not enough; I tired of the routine of eight years in one afternoon. I desired liberty; for liberty I gasped; for liberty I uttered a prayer; it seemed scattered on the wind then faintly blowing. I abandoned it and framed a humbler supplication; for change, stimulus: that petition, too, seemed swept off into vague space: "Then," I cried, half desperate, "grant me at least a new servitude!" Here a bell, ringing the hour of supper, called me downstairs. I was not free to resume the interrupted chain of my reflections till bedtime: even then a teacher who occupied the same room with me kept me from the subject to which I longed to recur, by a prolonged effusion of small talk. How I wished sleep would silence her. It seemed as if, could I but go back to the idea which had last entered my mind as I stood at the window, some inventive suggestion would rise for my relief. Miss Gryce snored at last; she was a heavy Welshwoman, and till now her habitual nasal strains had never been regarded by me in any other light than as a nuisance; to-night I hailed the first deep notes with satisfaction; I was debarrassed of interruption; my half-effaced thought instantly revived. "A new servitude! There is something in that," I soliloquised (mentally, be it understood; I did not talk aloud), "I know there is, because it does not sound too sweet; it is not like such words as Liberty, Excitement, Enjoyment: delightful sounds truly; but no more than sounds for me; and so hollow and fleeting that it is mere waste of time to listen to them. But Servitude! That must be matter of fact. Any one may serve: I have served here eight years; now all I want is to serve elsewhere. Can I not get so much of my own will? Is not the thing feasible? Yes--yes--the end is not so difficult; if I had only a brain active enough to ferret out the means of attaining it." I sat up in bed by way of arousing this said brain: it was a chilly night; I covered my shoulders with a shawl, and then I proceeded _to think_ again with all my might. "What do I want? A new place, in a new house, amongst new faces, under new circumstances: I want this because it is of no use wanting anything better. How do people do to get a new place? They apply to friends, I suppose: I have no friends. There are many others who have no friends, who must look about for themselves and be their own helpers; and what is their resource?" I could not tell: nothing answered me; I then ordered my brain to find a response, and quickly. It worked and worked faster: I felt the pulses throb in my head and temples; but for nearly an hour it worked in chaos; and no result came of its efforts. Feverish with vain labour, I got up and took a turn in the room; undrew the curtain, noted a star or two, shivered with cold, and again crept to bed. A kind fairy, in my absence, had surely dropped the required suggestion on my pillow; for as I lay down, it came quietly and naturally to my mind.--"Those who want situations advertise; you must advertise in the _---shire Herald_." "How? I know nothing about advertising." Replies rose smooth and prompt now:-- "You must enclose the advertisement and the money to pay for it under a cover directed to the editor of the _Herald_; you must put it, the first opportunity you have, into the post at Lowton; answers must be addressed to J.E., at the post-office there; you can go and inquire in about a week after you send your letter, if any are come, and act accordingly." This scheme I went over twice, thrice; it was then digested in my mind; I had it in a clear practical form: I felt satisfied, and fell asleep. With earliest day, I was up: I had my advertisement written, enclosed, and directed before the bell rang to rouse the school; it ran thus:-- "A young lady accustomed to tuition" (had I not been a teacher two years?) "is desirous of meeting with a situation in a private family where the children are under fourteen" (I thought that as I was barely eighteen, it would not do to undertake the guidance of pupils nearer my own age). "She is qualified to teach the usual branches of a good English education, together with French, Drawing, and Music" (in those days, reader, this now narrow catalogue of accomplishments, would have been held tolerably comprehensive). "Address, J.E., Post-office, Lowton, --- shire." This document remained locked in my drawer all day: after tea, I asked leave of the new superintendent to go to Lowton, in order to perform some small commissions for myself and one or two of my fellow-teachers; permission was readily granted; I went. It was a walk of two miles, and the evening was wet, but the days were still long; I visited a shop or two, slipped the letter into the post-office, and came back through heavy rain, with streaming garments, but with a relieved heart. The succeeding week seemed long: it came to an end at last, however, like all sublunary things, and once more, towards the close of a pleasant autumn day, I found myself afoot on the road to Lowton. A picturesque track it was, by the way; lying along the side of the beck and through the sweetest curves of the dale: but that day I thought more of the letters, that might or might not be awaiting me at the little burgh whither I was bound, than of the charms of lea and water. My ostensible errand on this occasion was to get measured for a pair of shoes; so I discharged that business first, and when it was done, I stepped across the clean and quiet little street from the shoemaker's to the post-office: it was kept by an old dame, who wore horn spectacles on her nose, and black mittens on her hands. "Are there any letters for J.E.?" I asked. She peered at me over her spectacles, and then she opened a drawer and fumbled among its contents for a long time, so long that my hopes began to falter. At last, having held a document before her glasses for nearly five minutes, she presented it across the counter, accompanying the act by another inquisitive and mistrustful glance--it was for J.E. "Is there only one?" I demanded. "There are no more," said she; and I put it in my pocket and turned my face homeward: I could not open it then; rules obliged me to be back by eight, and it was already half-past seven. Various duties awaited me on my arrival. I had to sit with the girls during their hour of study; then it was my turn to read prayers; to see them to bed: afterwards I supped with the other teachers. Even when we finally retired for the night, the inevitable Miss Gryce was still my companion: we had only a short end of candle in our candlestick, and I dreaded lest she should talk till it was all burnt out; fortunately, however, the heavy supper she had eaten produced a soporific effect: she was already snoring before I had finished undressing. There still remained an inch of candle: I now took out my letter; the seal was an initial F.; I broke it; the contents were brief. "If J.E., who advertised in the _---shire Herald_ of last Thursday, possesses the acquirements mentioned, and if she is in a position to give satisfactory references as to character and competency, a situation can be offered her where there is but one pupil, a little girl, under ten years of age; and where the salary is thirty pounds per annum. J.E. is requested to send references, name, address, and all particulars to the direction:-- "Mrs. Fairfax, Thornfield, near Millcote, ---shire." I examined the document long: the writing was old-fashioned and rather uncertain, like that of an elderly lady. This circumstance was satisfactory: a private fear had haunted me, that in thus acting for myself, and by my own guidance, I ran the risk of getting into some scrape; and, above all things, I wished the result of my endeavours to be respectable, proper, _en regle_. I now felt that an elderly lady was no bad ingredient in the business I had on hand. Mrs. Fairfax! I saw her in a black gown and widow's cap; frigid, perhaps, but not uncivil: a model of elderly English respectability. Thornfield! that, doubtless, was the name of her house: a neat orderly spot, I was sure; though I failed in my efforts to conceive a correct plan of the premises. Millcote, ---shire; I brushed up my recollections of the map of England, yes, I saw it; both the shire and the town. ---shire was seventy miles nearer London than the remote county where I now resided: that was a recommendation to me. I longed to go where there was life and movement: Millcote was a large manufacturing town on the banks of the A-; a busy place enough, doubtless: so much the better; it would be a complete change at least. Not that my fancy was much captivated by the idea of long chimneys and clouds of smoke--"but," I argued, "Thornfield will, probably, be a good way from the town." Here the socket of the candle dropped, and the wick went out. Next day new steps were to be taken; my plans could no longer be confined to my own breast; I must impart them in order to achieve their success. Having sought and obtained an audience of the superintendent during the noontide recreation, I told her I had a prospect of getting a new situation where the salary would be double what I now received (for at Lowood I only got 15 pounds per annum); and requested she would break the matter for me to Mr. Brocklehurst, or some of the committee, and ascertain whether they would permit me to mention them as references. She obligingly consented to act as mediatrix in the matter. The next day she laid the affair before Mr. Brocklehurst, who said that Mrs. Reed must be written to, as she was my natural guardian. A note was accordingly addressed to that lady, who returned for answer, that "I might do as I pleased: she had long relinquished all interference in my affairs." This note went the round of the committee, and at last, after what appeared to me most tedious delay, formal leave was given me to better my condition if I could; and an assurance added, that as I had always conducted myself well, both as teacher and pupil, at Lowood, a testimonial of character and capacity, signed by the inspectors of that institution, should forthwith be furnished me. This testimonial I accordingly received in about a month, forwarded a copy of it to Mrs. Fairfax, and got that lady's reply, stating that she was satisfied, and fixing that day fortnight as the period for my assuming the post of governess in her house. I now busied myself in preparations: the fortnight passed rapidly. I had not a very large wardrobe, though it was adequate to my wants; and the last day sufficed to pack my trunk,--the same I had brought with me eight years ago from Gateshead. The box was corded, the card nailed on. In half-an-hour the carrier was to call for it to take it to Lowton, whither I myself was to repair at an early hour the next morning to meet the coach. I had brushed my black stuff travelling-dress, prepared my bonnet, gloves, and muff; sought in all my drawers to see that no article was left behind; and now having nothing more to do, I sat down and tried to rest. I could not; though I had been on foot all day, I could not now repose an instant; I was too much excited. A phase of my life was closing to-night, a new one opening to-morrow: impossible to slumber in the interval; I must watch feverishly while the change was being accomplished. "Miss," said a servant who met me in the lobby, where I was wandering like a troubled spirit, "a person below wishes to see you." "The carrier, no doubt," I thought, and ran downstairs without inquiry. I was passing the back-parlour or teachers' sitting-room, the door of which was half open, to go to the kitchen, when some one ran out-- "It's her, I am sure!--I could have told her anywhere!" cried the individual who stopped my progress and took my hand. I looked: I saw a woman attired like a well-dressed servant, matronly, yet still young; very good-looking, with black hair and eyes, and lively complexion. "Well, who is it?" she asked, in a voice and with a smile I half recognised; "you've not quite forgotten me, I think, Miss Jane?" In another second I was embracing and kissing her rapturously: "Bessie! Bessie! Bessie!" that was all I said; whereat she half laughed, half cried, and we both went into the parlour. By the fire stood a little fellow of three years old, in plaid frock and trousers. "That is my little boy," said Bessie directly. "Then you are married, Bessie?" "Yes; nearly five years since to Robert Leaven, the coachman; and I've a little girl besides Bobby there, that I've christened Jane." "And you don't live at Gateshead?" "I live at the lodge: the old porter has left." "Well, and how do they all get on? Tell me everything about them, Bessie: but sit down first; and, Bobby, come and sit on my knee, will you?" but Bobby preferred sidling over to his mother. "You're not grown so very tall, Miss Jane, nor so very stout," continued Mrs. Leaven. "I dare say they've not kept you too well at school: Miss Reed is the head and shoulders taller than you are; and Miss Georgiana would make two of you in breadth." "Georgiana is handsome, I suppose, Bessie?" "Very. She went up to London last winter with her mama, and there everybody admired her, and a young lord fell in love with her: but his relations were against the match; and--what do you think?--he and Miss Georgiana made it up to run away; but they were found out and stopped. It was Miss Reed that found them out: I believe she was envious; and now she and her sister lead a cat and dog life together; they are always quarrelling--" "Well, and what of John Reed?" "Oh, he is not doing so well as his mama could wish. He went to college, and he got--plucked, I think they call it: and then his uncles wanted him to be a barrister, and study the law: but he is such a dissipated young man, they will never make much of him, I think." "What does he look like?" "He is very tall: some people call him a fine-looking young man; but he has such thick lips." "And Mrs. Reed?" "Missis looks stout and well enough in the face, but I think she's not quite easy in her mind: Mr. John's conduct does not please her--he spends a deal of money." "Did she send you here, Bessie?" "No, indeed: but I have long wanted to see you, and when I heard that there had been a letter from you, and that you were going to another part of the country, I thought I'd just set off, and get a look at you before you were quite out of my reach." "I am afraid you are disappointed in me, Bessie." I said this laughing: I perceived that Bessie's glance, though it expressed regard, did in no shape denote admiration. "No, Miss Jane, not exactly: you are genteel enough; you look like a lady, and it is as much as ever I expected of you: you were no beauty as a child." I smiled at Bessie's frank answer: I felt that it was correct, but I confess I was not quite indifferent to its import: at eighteen most people wish to please, and the conviction that they have not an exterior likely to second that desire brings anything but gratification. "I dare say you are clever, though," continued Bessie, by way of solace. "What can you do? Can you play on the piano?" "A little." There was one in the room; Bessie went and opened it, and then asked me to sit down and give her a tune: I played a waltz or two, and she was charmed. "The Miss Reeds could not play as well!" said she exultingly. "I always said you would surpass them in learning: and can you draw?" "That is one of my paintings over the chimney-piece." It was a landscape in water colours, of which I had made a present to the superintendent, in acknowledgment of her obliging mediation with the committee on my behalf, and which she had framed and glazed. "Well, that is beautiful, Miss Jane! It is as fine a picture as any Miss Reed's drawing-master could paint, let alone the young ladies themselves, who could not come near it: and have you learnt French?" "Yes, Bessie, I can both read it and speak it." "And you can work on muslin and canvas?" "I can." "Oh, you are quite a lady, Miss Jane! I knew you would be: you will get on whether your relations notice you or not. There was something I wanted to ask you. Have you ever heard anything from your father's kinsfolk, the Eyres?" "Never in my life." "Well, you know Missis always said they were poor and quite despicable: and they may be poor; but I believe they are as much gentry as the Reeds are; for one day, nearly seven years ago, a Mr. Eyre came to Gateshead and wanted to see you; Missis said you were at school fifty miles off; he seemed so much disappointed, for he could not stay: he was going on a voyage to a foreign country, and the ship was to sail from London in a day or two. He looked quite a gentleman, and I believe he was your father's brother." "What foreign country was he going to, Bessie?" "An island thousands of miles off, where they make wine--the butler did tell me--" "Madeira?" I suggested. "Yes, that is it--that is the very word." "So he went?" "Yes; he did not stay many minutes in the house: Missis was very high with him; she called him afterwards a 'sneaking tradesman.' My Robert believes he was a wine-merchant." "Very likely," I returned; "or perhaps clerk or agent to a wine-merchant." Bessie and I conversed about old times an hour longer, and then she was obliged to leave me: I saw her again for a few minutes the next morning at Lowton, while I was waiting for the coach. We parted finally at the door of the Brocklehurst Arms there: each went her separate way; she set off for the brow of Lowood Fell to meet the conveyance which was to take her back to Gateshead, I mounted the vehicle which was to bear me to new duties and a new life in the unknown environs of Millcote. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Nachdem festgestellt wurde, dass Mr. Brocklehurts nachlässige Behandlung der Mädchen in Lowood eine der Ursachen für die Typhusepidemie ist, wird eine neue Gruppe von Aufsehern eingesetzt, um die Schule zu leiten. Die Bedingungen verbessern sich dramatisch für die jungen Mädchen und Jane blüht in ihren Studien in den nächsten sechs Jahren auf. Nach zwei weiteren Jahren als Lehrerin in Lowood beschließt Jane, dass sie bereit für einen Wechsel ist, auch weil Miss Temple heiratet und die Schule verlässt. Sie sucht nach einer Anstellung als Gouvernante und nimmt eine Stelle auf einem Anwesen namens Thornfield an. Bevor sie geht, besucht Bessie sie und erzählt ihr, was seit Janes Abreise nach Lowood in Gateshead passiert ist. Georgiana versuchte heimlich mit einem Mann namens Lord Edwin Vere zu flüchten, aber Eliza vereitelte den Plan, indem sie es Mrs. Reed offenbarte. John ist in ein Leben voller Ausschweifungen und Auflösung geraten. Bessie erzählt Jane auch, dass ihr Vaterbruder, John Eyre, vor sieben Jahren in Gateshead auftauchte und nach Jane suchte. Er hatte keine Zeit, nach Lowood zu reisen, und machte sich auf die Suche nach Reichtum in Madeira. Jane und Bessie verabschieden sich voneinander, Bessie kehrt nach Gateshead zurück und Jane macht sich auf zu ihrem neuen Leben in Thornfield.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: 21 THE COUNTESS DE WINTER As they rode along, the duke endeavored to draw from d'Artagnan, not all that had happened, but what d'Artagnan himself knew. By adding all that he heard from the mouth of the young man to his own remembrances, he was enabled to form a pretty exact idea of a position of the seriousness of which, for the rest, the queen's letter, short but explicit, gave him the clue. But that which astonished him most was that the cardinal, so deeply interested in preventing this young man from setting his foot in England, had not succeeded in arresting him on the road. It was then, upon the manifestation of this astonishment, that d'Artagnan related to him the precaution taken, and how, thanks to the devotion of his three friends, whom he had left scattered and bleeding on the road, he had succeeded in coming off with a single sword thrust, which had pierced the queen's letter and for which he had repaid M. de Wardes with such terrible coin. While he was listening to this recital, delivered with the greatest simplicity, the duke looked from time to time at the young man with astonishment, as if he could not comprehend how so much prudence, courage, and devotedness could be allied with a countenance which indicated not more than twenty years. The horses went like the wind, and in a few minutes they were at the gates of London. D'Artagnan imagined that on arriving in town the duke would slacken his pace, but it was not so. He kept on his way at the same rate, heedless about upsetting those whom he met on the road. In fact, in crossing the city two or three accidents of this kind happened; but Buckingham did not even turn his head to see what became of those he had knocked down. D'Artagnan followed him amid cries which strongly resembled curses. On entering the court of his hotel, Buckingham sprang from his horse, and without thinking what became of the animal, threw the bridle on his neck, and sprang toward the vestibule. D'Artagnan did the same, with a little more concern, however, for the noble creatures, whose merits he fully appreciated; but he had the satisfaction of seeing three or four grooms run from the kitchens and the stables, and busy themselves with the steeds. The duke walked so fast that d'Artagnan had some trouble in keeping up with him. He passed through several apartments, of an elegance of which even the greatest nobles of France had not even an idea, and arrived at length in a bedchamber which was at once a miracle of taste and of richness. In the alcove of this chamber was a door concealed in the tapestry which the duke opened with a little gold key which he wore suspended from his neck by a chain of the same metal. With discretion d'Artagnan remained behind; but at the moment when Buckingham crossed the threshold, he turned round, and seeing the hesitation of the young man, "Come in!" cried he, "and if you have the good fortune to be admitted to her Majesty's presence, tell her what you have seen." Encouraged by this invitation, d'Artagnan followed the duke, who closed the door after them. The two found themselves in a small chapel covered with a tapestry of Persian silk worked with gold, and brilliantly lighted with a vast number of candles. Over a species of altar, and beneath a canopy of blue velvet, surmounted by white and red plumes, was a full-length portrait of Anne of Austria, so perfect in its resemblance that d'Artagnan uttered a cry of surprise on beholding it. One might believe the queen was about to speak. On the altar, and beneath the portrait, was the casket containing the diamond studs. The duke approached the altar, knelt as a priest might have done before a crucifix, and opened the casket. "There," said he, drawing from the casket a large bow of blue ribbon all sparkling with diamonds, "there are the precious studs which I have taken an oath should be buried with me. The queen gave them to me, the queen requires them again. Her will be done, like that of God, in all things." Then, he began to kiss, one after the other, those dear studs with which he was about to part. All at once he uttered a terrible cry. "What is the matter?" exclaimed d'Artagnan, anxiously; "what has happened to you, my Lord?" "All is lost!" cried Buckingham, becoming as pale as a corpse; "two of the studs are wanting, there are only ten." "Can you have lost them, my Lord, or do you think they have been stolen?" "They have been stolen," replied the duke, "and it is the cardinal who has dealt this blow. Hold; see! The ribbons which held them have been cut with scissors." "If my Lord suspects they have been stolen, perhaps the person who stole them still has them in his hands." "Wait, wait!" said the duke. "The only time I have worn these studs was at a ball given by the king eight days ago at Windsor. The Comtesse de Winter, with whom I had quarreled, became reconciled to me at that ball. That reconciliation was nothing but the vengeance of a jealous woman. I have never seen her from that day. The woman is an agent of the cardinal." "He has agents, then, throughout the world?" cried d'Artagnan. "Oh, yes," said Buckingham, grating his teeth with rage. "Yes, he is a terrible antagonist. But when is this ball to take place?" "Monday next." "Monday next! Still five days before us. That's more time than we want. Patrick!" cried the duke, opening the door of the chapel, "Patrick!" His confidential valet appeared. "My jeweler and my secretary." The valet went out with a mute promptitude which showed him accustomed to obey blindly and without reply. But although the jeweler had been mentioned first, it was the secretary who first made his appearance. This was simply because he lived in the hotel. He found Buckingham seated at a table in his bedchamber, writing orders with his own hand. "Mr. Jackson," said he, "go instantly to the Lord Chancellor, and tell him that I charge him with the execution of these orders. I wish them to be promulgated immediately." "But, my Lord, if the Lord Chancellor interrogates me upon the motives which may have led your Grace to adopt such an extraordinary measure, what shall I reply?" "That such is my pleasure, and that I answer for my will to no man." "Will that be the answer," replied the secretary, smiling, "which he must transmit to his Majesty if, by chance, his Majesty should have the curiosity to know why no vessel is to leave any of the ports of Great Britain?" "You are right, Mr. Jackson," replied Buckingham. "He will say, in that case, to the king that I am determined on war, and that this measure is my first act of hostility against France." The secretary bowed and retired. "We are safe on that side," said Buckingham, turning toward d'Artagnan. "If the studs are not yet gone to Paris, they will not arrive till after you." "How so?" "I have just placed an embargo on all vessels at present in his Majesty's ports, and without particular permission, not one dare lift an anchor." D'Artagnan looked with stupefaction at a man who thus employed the unlimited power with which he was clothed by the confidence of a king in the prosecution of his intrigues. Buckingham saw by the expression of the young man's face what was passing in his mind, and he smiled. "Yes," said he, "yes, Anne of Austria is my true queen. Upon a word from her, I would betray my country, I would betray my king, I would betray my God. She asked me not to send the Protestants of La Rochelle the assistance I promised them; I have not done so. I broke my word, it is true; but what signifies that? I obeyed my love; and have I not been richly paid for that obedience? It was to that obedience I owe her portrait." D'Artagnan was amazed to note by what fragile and unknown threads the destinies of nations and the lives of men are suspended. He was lost in these reflections when the goldsmith entered. He was an Irishman--one of the most skillful of his craft, and who himself confessed that he gained a hundred thousand livres a year by the Duke of Buckingham. "Mr. O'Reilly," said the duke, leading him into the chapel, "look at these diamond studs, and tell me what they are worth apiece." The goldsmith cast a glance at the elegant manner in which they were set, calculated, one with another, what the diamonds were worth, and without hesitation said, "Fifteen hundred pistoles each, my Lord." "How many days would it require to make two studs exactly like them? You see there are two wanting." "Eight days, my Lord." "I will give you three thousand pistoles apiece if I can have them by the day after tomorrow." "My Lord, they shall be yours." "You are a jewel of a man, Mr. O'Reilly; but that is not all. These studs cannot be trusted to anybody; it must be done in the palace." "Impossible, my Lord! There is no one but myself can so execute them that one cannot tell the new from the old." "Therefore, my dear Mr. O'Reilly, you are my prisoner. And if you wish ever to leave my palace, you cannot; so make the best of it. Name to me such of your workmen as you need, and point out the tools they must bring." The goldsmith knew the duke. He knew all objection would be useless, and instantly determined how to act. "May I be permitted to inform my wife?" said he. "Oh, you may even see her if you like, my dear Mr. O'Reilly. Your captivity shall be mild, be assured; and as every inconvenience deserves its indemnification, here is, in addition to the price of the studs, an order for a thousand pistoles, to make you forget the annoyance I cause you." D'Artagnan could not get over the surprise created in him by this minister, who thus open-handed, sported with men and millions. As to the goldsmith, he wrote to his wife, sending her the order for the thousand pistoles, and charging her to send him, in exchange, his most skillful apprentice, an assortment of diamonds, of which he gave the names and the weight, and the necessary tools. Buckingham conducted the goldsmith to the chamber destined for him, and which, at the end of half an hour, was transformed into a workshop. Then he placed a sentinel at each door, with an order to admit nobody upon any pretense but his VALET DE CHAMBRE, Patrick. We need not add that the goldsmith, O'Reilly, and his assistant, were prohibited from going out under any pretext. This point, settled, the duke turned to d'Artagnan. "Now, my young friend," said he, "England is all our own. What do you wish for? What do you desire?" "A bed, my Lord," replied d'Artagnan. "At present, I confess, that is the thing I stand most in need of." Buckingham gave d'Artagnan a chamber adjoining his own. He wished to have the young man at hand--not that he at all mistrusted him, but for the sake of having someone to whom he could constantly talk of the queen. In one hour after, the ordinance was published in London that no vessel bound for France should leave port, not even the packet boat with letters. In the eyes of everybody this was a declaration of war between the two kingdoms. On the day after the morrow, by eleven o'clock, the two diamond studs were finished, and they were so completely imitated, so perfectly alike, that Buckingham could not tell the new ones from the old ones, and experts in such matters would have been deceived as he was. He immediately called d'Artagnan. "Here," said he to him, "are the diamond studs that you came to bring; and be my witness that I have done all that human power could do." "Be satisfied, my Lord, I will tell all that I have seen. But does your Grace mean to give me the studs without the casket?" "The casket would encumber you. Besides, the casket is the more precious from being all that is left to me. You will say that I keep it." "I will perform your commission, word for word, my Lord." "And now," resumed Buckingham, looking earnestly at the young man, "how shall I ever acquit myself of the debt I owe you?" D'Artagnan blushed up to the whites of his eyes. He saw that the duke was searching for a means of making him accept something and the idea that the blood of his friends and himself was about to be paid for with English gold was strangely repugnant to him. "Let us understand each other, my Lord," replied d'Artagnan, "and let us make things clear beforehand in order that there may be no mistake. I am in the service of the King and Queen of France, and form part of the company of Monsieur Dessessart, who, as well as his brother-in-law, Monsieur de Treville, is particularly attached to their Majesties. What I have done, then, has been for the queen, and not at all for your Grace. And still further, it is very probable I should not have done anything of this, if it had not been to make myself agreeable to someone who is my lady, as the queen is yours." "Yes," said the duke, smiling, "and I even believe that I know that other person; it is--" "My Lord, I have not named her!" interrupted the young man, warmly. "That is true," said the duke; "and it is to this person I am bound to discharge my debt of gratitude." "You have said, my Lord; for truly, at this moment when there is question of war, I confess to you that I see nothing in your Grace but an Englishman, and consequently an enemy whom I should have much greater pleasure in meeting on the field of battle than in the park at Windsor or the corridors of the Louvre--all which, however, will not prevent me from executing to the very point my commission or from laying down my life, if there be need of it, to accomplish it; but I repeat it to your Grace, without your having personally on that account more to thank me for in this second interview than for what I did for you in the first." "We say, 'Proud as a Scotsman,'" murmured the Duke of Buckingham. "And we say, 'Proud as a Gascon,'" replied d'Artagnan. "The Gascons are the Scots of France." D'Artagnan bowed to the duke, and was retiring. "Well, are you going away in that manner? Where, and how?" "That's true!" "Fore Gad, these Frenchmen have no consideration!" "I had forgotten that England was an island, and that you were the king of it." "Go to the riverside, ask for the brig SUND, and give this letter to the captain; he will convey you to a little port, where certainly you are not expected, and which is ordinarily only frequented by fishermen." "The name of that port?" "St. Valery; but listen. When you have arrived there you will go to a mean tavern, without a name and without a sign--a mere fisherman's hut. You cannot be mistaken; there is but one." "Afterward?" "You will ask for the host, and will repeat to him the word 'Forward!'" "Which means?" "In French, EN AVANT. It is the password. He will give you a horse all saddled, and will point out to you the road you ought to take. You will find, in the same way, four relays on your route. If you will give at each of these relays your address in Paris, the four horses will follow you thither. You already know two of them, and you appeared to appreciate them like a judge. They were those we rode on; and you may rely upon me for the others not being inferior to them. These horses are equipped for the field. However proud you may be, you will not refuse to accept one of them, and to request your three companions to accept the others--that is, in order to make war against us. Besides, the end justified the means, as you Frenchmen say, does it not?" "Yes, my Lord, I accept them," said d'Artagnan; "and if it please God, we will make a good use of your presents." "Well, now, your hand, young man. Perhaps we shall soon meet on the field of battle; but in the meantime we shall part good friends, I hope." "Yes, my Lord; but with the hope of soon becoming enemies." "Be satisfied; I promise you that." "I depend upon your word, my Lord." D'Artagnan bowed to the duke, and made his way as quickly as possible to the riverside. Opposite the Tower of London he found the vessel that had been named to him, delivered his letter to the captain, who after having it examined by the governor of the port made immediate preparations to sail. Fifty vessels were waiting to set out. Passing alongside one of them, d'Artagnan fancied he perceived on board it the woman of Meung--the same whom the unknown gentleman had called Milady, and whom d'Artagnan had thought so handsome; but thanks to the current of the stream and a fair wind, his vessel passed so quickly that he had little more than a glimpse of her. The next day about nine o'clock in the morning, he landed at St. Valery. D'Artagnan went instantly in search of the inn, and easily discovered it by the riotous noise which resounded from it. War between England and France was talked of as near and certain, and the jolly sailors were having a carousal. D'Artagnan made his way through the crowd, advanced toward the host, and pronounced the word "Forward!" The host instantly made him a sign to follow, went out with him by a door which opened into a yard, led him to the stable, where a saddled horse awaited him, and asked him if he stood in need of anything else. "I want to know the route I am to follow," said d'Artagnan. "Go from hence to Blangy, and from Blangy to Neufchatel. At Neufchatel, go to the tavern of the Golden Harrow, give the password to the landlord, and you will find, as you have here, a horse ready saddled." "Have I anything to pay?" demanded d'Artagnan. "Everything is paid," replied the host, "and liberally. Begone, and may God guide you!" "Amen!" cried the young man, and set off at full gallop. Four hours later he was in Neufchatel. He strictly followed the instructions he had received. At Neufchatel, as at St. Valery, he found a horse quite ready and awaiting him. He was about to remove the pistols from the saddle he had quit to the one he was about to fill, but he found the holsters furnished with similar pistols. "Your address at Paris?" "Hotel of the Guards, company of Dessessart." "Enough," replied the questioner. "Which route must I take?" demanded d'Artagnan, in his turn. "That of Rouen; but you will leave the city on your right. You must stop at the little village of Eccuis, in which there is but one tavern--the Shield of France. Don't condemn it from appearances; you will find a horse in the stables quite as good as this." "The same password?" "Exactly." "Adieu, master!" "A good journey, gentlemen! Do you want anything?" D'Artagnan shook his head, and set off at full speed. At Eccuis, the same scene was repeated. He found as provident a host and a fresh horse. He left his address as he had done before, and set off again at the same pace for Pontoise. At Pontoise he changed his horse for the last time, and at nine o'clock galloped into the yard of Treville's hotel. He had made nearly sixty leagues in little more than twelve hours. M de Treville received him as if he had seen him that same morning; only, when pressing his hand a little more warmly than usual, he informed him that the company of Dessessart was on duty at the Louvre, and that he might repair at once to his post. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Der Herzog setzt die volle Geschichte der Situation zusammen und drückt sein Erstaunen aus, dass die Agenten des Kardinals D'Artganan nicht aufgehalten haben. D'Artagnan weist darauf hin, dass er drei tapfere Freunde bei sich hatte. Dennoch ist der Herzog beeindruckt. Die beiden erreichen London und machen sich auf den Weg zum Haus des Herzogs. Der Herzog führt D'Artagnan zu dem Schrein, den er der Königin Anne gewidmet hat. Dieser Schrein enthält ein lebensgroßes Porträt, einen Altar und den Kasten mit den Diamantstiften. Der Herzog kniet vor dem Porträt und holt die Stifte heraus. Als er bemerkt, dass zwei fehlen, fängt er an, jeden einzelnen zu küssen. Der Herzog ist überzeugt, dass der Kardinal sie gestohlen hat. Er erinnert sich daran, dass er die Stifte vor kurzem auf einem Ball getragen hat, auf dem er mit der Gräfin de Winter gesprochen hat, einer Agentin des Kardinals. Aber es sind noch fünf Tage, bis Königin Anne die Diamanten tragen muss. Der Herzog ruft nach seinem Diener Patrick und bittet um seinen Juwelier und Sekretär. Er beauftragt seinen Sekretär, ein Gesetz zu erlassen, dass keine Schiffe den Hafen verlassen dürfen. Das entspricht einer Kriegserklärung gegen Frankreich, aber hey: Die Ehre einer Frau steht auf dem Spiel. Wenn die beiden fehlenden Diamanten noch im Land sind, werden sie in Paris erst ankommen, nachdem D'Artagnan angekommen ist. D'Artagnan unterbricht einen Moment, um darauf hinzuweisen, dass der Herzog seine Macht missbraucht, um die Königin zu verfolgen. Der Herzog sagt, ja, das stimmt, ich würde alles für sie tun. Dann listet er all die Dinge auf, die er tun würde. Der Juwelier kommt und der Herzog bittet ihn, zwei identische Diamantstifte anzufertigen. Er gibt dem Juwelier zwei Tage und das Doppelte des üblichen Preises. Und dann "bittet" der Herzog den Juwelier, im Schloss zu bleiben, während er arbeitet. Der Herzog legt noch etwas Geld dazu. Die beiden Männer gehen dann zu Bett - D'Artagnan schläft in einem benachbarten Zimmer, damit der Herzog ihm von der Königin vorschwärmen kann. Bald sind die beiden Diamantstifte fertig und D'Artagnan ist bereit, nach Paris zurückzukehren. Der Herzog fragt dann, was er für D'Artagnan tun kann. D'Artagnan ist sehr unwohl bei dem Gedanken, mit englischem Geld bezahlt zu werden. Er sagt dem Herzog, a) dass er in einer Militärkompanie dient, die dem König und der Königin von Frankreich treu ist, b) dass er dieser Mission nur zugestimmt hat, um der Königin zu dienen, und c) dass seine Aktionen ihm helfen, eine sehr nette junge Dame zu umwerben. D'Artagnan weist auch darauf hin, dass England und Frankreich jetzt im Krieg sind und sie Feinde sind. Der Herzog antwortet, dass D'Artagnan sehr stolz ist. Er gibt D'Artagnan dann detaillierte Anweisungen, um nach Paris zurückzukehren, die viele Passwörter beinhalten. D'Artagnan ist in kürzester Zeit zurück und meldet sich bei Treville, der ihm sagt, dass er sich der Truppe von Dessessart anschließen soll, die ihren Dienst im Louvre verrichtet.

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

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Als Maisie am nächsten Morgen aufwacht, bemerkt sie, dass sie viel länger schlafen durfte als gewöhnlich. Mrs. Wix sitzt im Raum, angezogen und wach. Sie berichtet besorgt, dass Sir Claude zurückgekehrt ist und mit Mrs. Beale in seinem Zimmer ist. Maisie denkt, dass Sir Claude vielleicht zugelassen hat, dass Mrs. Beale Maisie besucht, aber sie jetzt nach Hause schickt, damit er, Maisie und Mrs. Wix zusammenleben können. Mrs. Wix und Maisie beginnen erneut zu streiten, besonders über die positiven oder negativen Auswirkungen von Maisies Vermittlung zwischen Sir Claude und Mrs. Beale. Maisie sagt, dass sie denkt, Sir Claude muss seine Scheidung von Ida bekommen haben, aber Mrs. Wix sagt, das hätte nicht so schnell passieren können. Maisie beschließt, in Sir Claudes Zimmer zu gehen, um ihn zu sehen. Mrs. Wix versucht sie davon abzubringen, aber Maisie betritt sein Zimmer selbstbewusst. Sie findet Sir Claude, aber nicht Mrs. Beale, dort. Im Gegensatz zu seiner üblichen Begrüßung, bei der er seine Arme sofort für sie öffnet, schaut er dieses Mal einfach einen Moment lang Maisie an. Nach diesem Moment sagt er zu Maisie: "Hier bin ich, wie versprochen, wieder - wie ich es dir versprochen habe." Maisie denkt bei sich: "Es war nicht, wie er es ihnen versprochen hatte - er hatte ihnen nicht Mrs. Beale versprochen", aber stattdessen sagt sie nur, dass Mrs. Wix sie gewarnt hatte, dass er angekommen war. Maisie fragt, ob Mrs. Beale in dem an Sir Claudes Schlafzimmer angrenzenden Raum ist, und er erzählt Maisie, dass er Mrs. Beale noch nicht gesehen hat. Er sagt, dass es ihm egal ist, wo sie ist, denn alles, was er will, ist Zeit mit Maisie zu verbringen. Er erzählt Maisie, dass er und Mrs. Beale einen Streit hatten, aber er konkretisiert nicht, worum es ging. Er schlägt vor, dass sie zusammen frühstücken gehen. Er fragt, ob sie auch Mrs. Wix einladen sollen, aber sie sind sich beide einig, dass sie alleine sein wollen. Auf dem Flur spricht Sir Claude auf Französisch mit einem Hotelangestellten und bittet ihn, das Frühstück zu Mrs. Wix zu schicken.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). 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: ACT V. SZENE I. Dunsinane. Ein Raum im Schloss. [Eintreten eines Arztes und einer wartenden-damen.] ARZT: Ich habe zwei Nächte bei Ihnen gewacht, aber ich kann keine Wahrheit in Ihrem Bericht feststellen. Wann ist sie das letzte Mal gelaufen? DAME: Seit Ihre Majestät aufs Feld gegangen ist, habe ich gesehen, wie sie von ihrem Bett aufgestanden ist, ihren Nachthemd darauf geworfen hat, ihren Schrank geöffnet hat, ein Papier herausgenommen hat, es gefaltet hat, darauf geschrieben hat, es dann versiegelt hat und zurück ins Bett gegangen ist. Doch all die Zeit über war sie tief eingeschlafen. ARZT: Eine große Störung in der Natur - gleichzeitig von Schlaf zu profitieren und die Auswirkungen des Wachseins zu spüren. Neben ihrem Gang und anderen tatsächlichen Aktivitäten, was haben Sie gehört, dass sie zu irgendeiner Zeit gesagt hat? DAME: Das, Herr, was ich nach ihr nicht wiederholen werde. ARZT: Du kannst es mir sagen, und es ist das Beste, dass du es tust. DAME: Weder dir noch irgendjemand anderem; ich habe keinen Zeugen, um meine Aussage zu bestätigen. Schau, sie kommt! [Eintreten von Lady Macbeth mit einer Kerze.] Dies ist ihr ganz gewohnte Weise und, bei allem was mir lieb ist, schläft sie tief. Beobachte sie; steh ihr nahe. ARZT: Wie kam sie zu diesem Licht? DAME: Nun, es stand bei ihr: Sie hat immer Licht bei sich; es ist ihr Befehl. ARZT: Du siehst, ihre Augen sind offen. DAME: Ja, aber ihr Verstand ist geschlossen. ARZT: Was tut sie jetzt? Schau, wie sie ihre Hände reibt. DAME: Es ist eine gewohnte Handlung von ihr, so ihre Hände zu waschen: Ich habe sie schon eine Viertelstunde so weitermachen sehen. LADY MACBETH: Und doch ist hier ein Fleck. ARZT: Hör, sie spricht: Ich werde das, was von ihr kommt, aufschreiben, um meine Erinnerung zu stärken. LADY MACBETH: Fort, verfluchter Fleck! Fort, sag ich! Eins; zwei; dann ist es Zeit; die Hölle ist finster! Pfui, mein Herr, pfui! Ein Soldat und ängstlich? Wovor sollten wir Angst haben, wenn keiner unsere Macht zur Rechenschaft ziehen kann? Doch wer hätte gedacht, dass der alte Mann so viel Blut in sich hat? ARZT: Hast du das bemerkt? LADY MACBETH: Der Thane von Fife hatte eine Frau; wo ist sie jetzt? Werden diese Hände niemals sauber sein? Nichts mehr davon, mein Herr, nichts mehr davon: Du ruinierst alles mit deinen Verdächtigungen. ARZT: Ist gut, ist gut; du weißt, was du nicht wissen solltest. DAME: Sie hat gesprochen, was sie nicht hätte tun sollen, da bin ich mir sicher; Gott weiß, was sie wirklich weiß. LADY MACBETH: Hier ist noch immer der Geruch von Blut: Alle Parfüms Arabiens können diese kleinen Hände nicht versüßen. Oh, oh, oh! ARZT: Was für ein Seufzer! Das Herz ist tief gebeutelt. DAME: Ich möchte so ein Herz nicht in meiner Brust haben, nicht um des ganzen Körpers Würde willen. ARZT: Nun, nun, nun- DAME: Möge es bitte Gottes Wille sein. ARZT: Diese Krankheit liegt außerhalb meines Fachgebiets; doch ich habe von denen gehört, die im Schlaf wandelten und heilig in ihrem Bett starben. LADY MACBETH: Wasche deine Hände, zieh dein Nachthemd an; schau nicht so bleich aus: Ich sage dir noch einmal, Banquo ist begraben; er kann nicht aus seinem Grab kommen. ARZT: So ist es? LADY MACBETH: Ab ins Bett, ab ins Bett; es wird an die Tür geklopft: komm, komm, komm, gib mir deine Hand: Was getan ist, kann nicht ungeschehen gemacht werden: ab ins Bett, ab ins Bett, ab ins Bett. [Abgang.] ARZT: Wird sie jetzt ins Bett gehen? DAME: Sofort. ARZT: Böse Gerüchte machen die Runde: unnatürliche Taten erzeugen unnatürliche Probleme; infizierte Gedanken entleeren sich auf ihren tauben Kissen. Mehr braucht sie den göttlichen Beistand als den Arzt. Gott, Gott, vergib uns allen! Pass auf sie auf; entferne jegliche Störfaktoren von ihr und behalte sie weiterhin im Auge: so, gute Nacht. Sie hat meine Gedanken verunsichert und mein Sehvermögen verwirrt: Ich denke, aber ich wage es nicht auszusprechen. DAME: Gute Nacht, guter Doktor. [Abgang.] SZENE II. Die Gegend um Dunsinane. [Eintreten mit Trommel und Farben, Menteith, Caithness, Angus, Lennox und Soldaten.] MENTEITH: Die englische Streitmacht ist in der Nähe, angeführt von Malcolm, seinem Onkel Siward und dem tapferen Macduff. Rache brennt in ihnen; für ihre liebsten Anliegen würden sie den leidenden Mann aufwühlen. ANGUS: In Birnam Wood werden wir ihnen gut begegnen; sie kommen auf diesem Weg. CAITHNESS: Wer weiß, ob Donalbain bei seinem Bruder ist? LENNOX: Für gewiss, Sir, ist er es nicht: Ich habe eine Liste mit all dem Adel: Dort ist Siwards Sohn und viele unerfahrene Jünglinge, die gerade erst ihr Mannesalter erreicht haben. MENTEITH: Was macht der Tyrann? CAITHNESS: Er befestigt Dunsinane gewaltig; manche sagen, er sei verrückt, andere, die ihn weniger hassen, nennen es tapferen Wahnsinn: Aber sicher ist, dass er seine gestörte Sache nicht in den Griff bekommen kann. ANGUS: Jetzt spürt er die geheimen Morde an seinen Händen kleben; jetzt verwünschen seine aufständischen Gedanken ihn für seinen Treuebruch; jene, die er befehligt, reagieren nur auf Befehle, nicht aus Liebe: Jetzt spürt er, dass sein Titel lose an ihm hängt, wie eine Riesenrobe an einem zwergenhaften Dieb. MENTEITH: Wer sollte ihn da tadeln, dass seine gequälten Sinne erschrecken und zurückschrecken, wenn alles in ihm sich selbst verurteilt, weil es dort ist? CAITHNESS: Nun, lassen Sie uns weitermarschieren, um dort zu gehorchen, wo es gebührt: Treffen wir die Medizin für das kranke Wohl unseres Landes; und mit ihm werden wir in unserem Land Verbannen und jede einzelne von uns. LENNOX: Oder so viel wie es benötigt, um die souveräne Macht zu erfrischen und das Unkraut zu vernichten. Machen wir unseren Marsch nach Birnam. [Abgang, marschierend.] SZENE III. Dunsinane. Ein Raum im Schloss. [Eintreten Macbeth, Arzt und Bedienstete.] MACBETH: Bringt mir keine weiteren Berichte; lasst sie alle fliegen: Bis Birnam Wood sich nach Dunsinane bewegt, kann ich mich nicht mit Angst beschmutzen. Was ist mit dem Jungen Malcolm? Ist er nicht von einer Frau geboren? Die Geister, die alle möglichen Folgen kennen, haben mir gesagt: "Fürchte dich nicht, Macbeth; kein Mensch, der von einer Frau geboren ist, wird jemals Macht über dich haben." Dann fliegt, falsche Vasallen, und mischt euch unter die englischen Genießer. Den Geist, den ich habe, und das Herz, das ich trage, werden niemals von Zweifel geplagt oder von Angst erschüttert. [Eintreten eines Dieners.] Der Teufel verdamme dich, du schwarzfelliger Schlaffi, wo hast du diesen ausdruckslosen Blick her? DIENER: Es sind zehntausend- MACBETH: Gänse, Schurke? DIENER MACBETH. Ich werde es anziehen. Schicke mehr Pferde aus, durchkämme das Land; Häng diejenigen, die von Angst sprechen. Gib mir meine Rüstung. Wie geht es deiner Patientin, Doktor? DOKTOR. Nicht so krank, mein Herr, Aber sie ist von heftigen Einbildungen geplagt, Die sie vom Schlafen abhalten. MACBETH. Heile sie davon: Kannst du nicht einen kranken Geist behandeln; Eine verwurzelte Trauer aus dem Gedächtnis entfernen; Die aufgeschriebenen Sorgen des Gehirns ausradieren; Und mit einem süßen Vergessenheitsmittel Die zugestopfte Brust von diesem gefährlichen Stoff reinigen, Der auf dem Herzen lastet? DOKTOR. In diesem Fall Muss der Patient Sich selbst Medizin verabreichen. MACBETH. Wirf die Medizin für die Hunde weg - ich will nichts davon. Komm, zieh meine Rüstung an; gib mir meinen Stab. Seyton, schick raus - Doktor, die Thanes fliehen vor mir. Komm, mein Herr, beeile dich. Wenn du könntest, Doktor, Das Wasser meines Landes werfen, um die Krankheit zu erkennen, Und es reinigen, um es in einen gesunden und unverfälschten Zustand zu bringen, Ich würde dich bis zum Echo loben, Das wieder applaudieren würde. Zieh es aus, sage ich. Welcher Rhabarber, Senna oder welches abführende Medikament, Würde diese Engländer vertreiben? Hörst du von ihnen? DOKTOR. Ja, mein Herr; deine königliche Vorbereitung Lässt uns etwas hören. MACBETH. Bring es mit. Ich werde keine Angst vor dem Tod und seinem Gift haben, Bis Birnamwald nach Dunsinane kommt. [Alle ab, außer Doktor.] DOKTOR. Wäre ich weit weg von Dunsinane, Würde mich kaum wieder etwas zurückziehen. [Ab.] SZENE IV. Land in der Nähe von Dunsinane: Ein Wald ist zu sehen. [Unter Trommeln und Fahnen treten Malcolm, der alte Siward und sein Sohn auf, Macduff, Menteith, Caithness, Angus, Lennox, Ross und Soldaten, die marschieren.] MALCOLM. Cousins, ich hoffe, die Tage sind nahe, An denen die Kammern sicher sein werden. MENTEITH. Wir bezweifeln es nicht. SIWARD. Welcher Wald liegt da vor uns? MENTEITH. Der Wald von Birnam. MALCOLM. Jeder Soldat soll einen Zweig abhauen Und ihn vor sich tragen; so werden wir Die Anzahl unserer Truppen verbergen Und die Berichte über uns entstellen. SOLDATEN. Es wird getan. SIWARD. Wir erfahren nichts Neues außer dass der selbstsichere Tyrann Immer noch in Dunsinane bleibt und ertragen wird, Wenn wir uns vor ihm niederlassen. MALCOLM. Das ist seine größte Hoffnung: Denn wo Vorteile zu gewinnen sind, haben sowohl Größere als auch Kleinere ihn verraten; Und niemand dient mit ihm außer gezwungenen Wesen, deren Herzen auch abwesend sind. MACDUFF. Lasst uns gerecht urteilen Und das wahre Ereignis abwarten. Legen wir fleißige Kämpfer an den Tag. SIWARD. Die Zeit rückt näher, die uns entscheiden lässt, was wir haben und was wir schulden. Spekulative Gedanken beziehen sich auf unsichere Hoffnungen; Aber eindeutige Ergebnisse werden die Schläge entscheiden: Dem voran schreitet der Krieg. [Ab, marschierend.] SZENE V. Dunsinane. Innerhalb der Burg. [Macbeth, Seyton und Soldaten treten auf mit Trommeln und Fahnen.] MACBETH. Hängt unsere Banner an die äußeren Mauern; Der Ruf lautet immer noch: "Sie kommen"; die Stärke unserer Burg Wird eine Belagerung verlachen: lasst sie hier liegen, Bis Hunger und Fieber sie verzehren. Wären sie nicht mit denen verschmolzen, die unseres sein sollten, Hätten wir ihnen begegnet, mutig, Angesicht zu Angesicht, Und sie nach Hause getrieben. [Schreie von Frauen drinnen.] Was ist das für ein Lärm? SEYTON. Es ist der Schrei der Frauen, mein Herr. [Ab.] MACBETH. Ich habe fast vergessen, wie sich Angst anfühlt. Es gab Zeiten, in denen meine Sinne gekühlt wären, Bei einem Nachtschrei zu hören; und mein Haar Würde sich bei einer schaurigen Abhandlung aufrichten und regen Als ob Leben darin wäre. Ich habe mich voller Entsetzen gesättigt; Das Schreckliche, das mir vertraut ist, meiner mörderischen Gedanken, Kann mich nicht einmal erschüttern. [Seiton betritt erneut die Bühne.] Warum gab es diesen Schrei? SEYTON. Die Königin, mein Herr, ist tot. MACBETH. Sie hätte später sterben sollen; Es hätte eine passende Zeit für solch ein Wort gegeben. Morgen, und morgen, und nochmals morgen, Kriecht dieser öde Gang von Tag zu Tag, Bis zur letzten Silbe der aufgezeichneten Zeit; Und all unsere Gestern haben törichte Narren geleitet Den Weg zum verstaubten Tod. Hinaus, hinaus, kurze Kerze! Das Leben ist nur ein wandernder Schatten; ein armer Schauspieler, Der eine Stunde lang auf der Bühne prahlt und hadert, Und dann nicht mehr gehört wird: Es ist eine Erzählung, Erzählt von einem Idioten, voller Klang und Wut, Das nichts bedeutet. [Ein Bote tritt auf.] Du kommst, um deinen Mund zu benutzen; deine Geschichte schnell. BOTE. Gnädiger Herr, Ich sollte berichten, was ich gesehen habe, Aber ich weiß nicht, wie ich es tun soll. MACBETH. Nun, sag schon, mein Herr. BOTE. Als ich auf dem Hügel Wache stand, Schaute ich nach Birnam und plötzlich, Begann sich der Wald zu bewegen. MACBETH. Lügner und Sklave! [Schlägt ihn.] BOTE. Lass mich deinen Zorn ertragen, wenn es nicht so ist. In dieser Entfernung von drei Meilen kannst du es sehen; Ich sage, ein bewegter Hain. MACBETH. Wenn du lügst, Wirst du am nächsten Baum lebendig erhängt, Bis der Hunger dich umklammert; wenn deine Worte wahr sind, Ist es mir egal, wenn du für mich dasselbe tust. Ich zögere nicht mehr; und beginne zu bezweifeln, dass die Verdrehungen des Teufels Die Wahrheit sagen. "Fürchte dich nicht, bis Birnam Wood Nach Dunsinane kommt"; und jetzt kommt ein Wald Nach Dunsinane. Waffen, Waffen, und raus! Wenn das, was er verkündet, erscheint, Gibt es weder hier Flucht noch Bleiben. Ich werde müde von der Sonne Und wünsche mir, dass der Zustand der Welt jetzt ungeschehen wäre. Läute den Alarmglocke! komm, Wind! komm, Verwüstung! Wir werden zumindest mit Rüstung sterben. [Alle ab.] SZENE VI. Dasselbe. Ein Platz vor der Burg. [Mitreißend Trommeln und Fahnen treten Malcolm, der alte Siward, Macduff, usw. Und ihre Armee, mit Zweigen versehen, auf.] MALCOLM. Jetzt nahe genug; werft eure Laubwände ab, Und zeigt euch so, wie ihr seid. - Du, würdiger Onkel, Sollt mit meinem Cousin, deinem edlen Sohn, Die erste Schlacht führen. Würdiger Macduff und wir Werden den Rest tun, Gemäß unserer Ordnung. SIWARD. Leb wohl -. Wenn wir heute Nacht die Macht des Tyrannen finden, Dann lassen wir uns schlagen, wenn wir nicht kämpfen können. MACDUFF. Lasst alle unsere Trompeten sprechen; SIWARD. So geht es los, mein Herr; das Schloss wird langsam eingenommen: Die Leute des Tyrannen kämpfen auf beiden Seiten; Die edlen Thanes kämpfen tapfer im Krieg; Der Tag selbst gesteht fast, dass er euch gehört, Und es gibt nur noch wenig zu tun. MALCOLM. Wir sind auf Feinde gestoßen, Die uns seitlich treffen. SIWARD. Betretet, mein Herr, das Schloss. [Abgang. Alarums] SZENE VIII. Derselbe. Ein anderer Teil des Schlachtfelds [Hinauftritt Macbeth] MACBETH. Warum sollte ich den römischen Narren spielen und sterben An meinem eigenen Schwert? Während ich Leben sehe, sind die Wunden Auf ihnen besser. [Hinauftritt Macduff] MACDUFF. Dreh dich um, Höllenhund, dreh dich um! MACBETH. Vor dir habe ich alle anderen Männer vermieden: Aber geh zurück; meine Seele ist schon zu sehr belastet Mit deinem Blut. MACDUFF. Ich habe keine Worte Meine Stimme ist mein Schwert: Du blutrünstiger Schurke Als Worte dich beschreiben können! [Sie kämpfen] MACBETH. Du verschwendest deine Mühe: So einfach kannst du die unverwundbare Luft Mit deinem scharfen Schwert durchdringen, wie du mich bluten machen kannst: Lass deine Klinge auf verwundbaren Helmen fallen; Ich trage ein beseeltes Leben, das Keinem von einer Frau Geborenem weichen darf. MACDUFF. Verzweifle an deinem Zauber; Und der Engel, dem du immer noch gedient hast, Sagt dir, dass Macduff aus dem Leib seiner Mutter Unzeitlich gerissen wurde. MACBETH. Verflucht sei die Zunge, die mir das sagt, Denn sie hat meinen besseren Teil des Menschen gezähmt! Und Glaube diesen Schwindelfunken nicht mehr, Die mit uns in doppeltem Sinne verschaukeln; Die das Versprechen für unser Ohr halten, Und es unserer Hoffnung brechen! Ich werde nicht mit dir kämpfen. MACDUFF. Dann gib auf, du Feigling, Und lebe, um die Schau und das Staunen der Zeit zu sein: Wir werden dich haben, wie unsere seltenen Monster, An einen Pfahl gemalt und darunter geschrieben, "Hier könnt ihr den Tyrannen sehen." MACBETH. Ich werde nicht aufgeben, Um den Boden vor Malcolms Füßen zu küssen, Und mit dem Fluch des Pöbels gequält zu werden. Obwohl der Birnam-Wald nach Dunsinane gekommen ist Und du, der nicht von einer Frau geboren ist, in Opposition stehst, Werde ich es dennoch versuchen. Bevor meinen Körper Werfe ich meinen kriegerischen Schild: Lass es krachen, Macduff; Und verdammt sei derjenige, der als Erster ruft: "Halt, genug!" [Abgang kämpfend] [Rückzug. Fanfare. Hinauftritt, mit Trommel und Fahnen, Malcolm, der alte Siward, Ross, Lennox, Angus, Caithness, Menteith und Soldaten.] MALCOLM. Ich wünschte, die Freunde, die uns fehlen, wären sicher angekommen. SIWARD. Einige müssen gehen; und doch, durch das, was ich sehe, Ist ein so großer Tag wie dieser billig erkauft. MALCOLM. Macduff fehlt, genau wie Ihr edler Sohn. ROSS. Euer Sohn, mein Herr, hat seine Schuld als Soldat beglichen: Er lebte nur, bis er ein Mann war; Und kaum hatte er seine Tapferkeit bestätigt In der unbeirrten Position, in der er kämpfte, Aber wie ein Mann starb er. SIWARD. Dann ist er tot? FLEANCE. Ja, und vom Feld davongebracht: Euer Grund zur Trauer Darf nicht nach seinem Wert bemessen werden, denn dann Hat sie kein Ende. SIWARD. Hat er seine Verletzungen vorher bekommen? ROSS. Ja, im Gesicht. SIWARD. Dann sei er Gottes Soldat! Hätte ich so viele Söhne wie ich Haare habe, Ich würde sie nicht zu einem schöneren Tod wünschen: Und so soll seine Totenglocke geläutet werden. MALCOLM. Er ist mehr Kummer wert, Und das werde ich für ihn ausgeben. SIWARD. Er ist nicht mehr wert: Man sagt, er ist gut gegangen und hat seine Schuld bezahlt: Und so, Gott sei mit ihm! Hier kommt neuere Erleichterung. [Wiederauftreten von Macduff, mit Macbeths Kopf.] MACDUFF. Sei gegrüßt, König, denn das bist du: Siehe, wo steht Der verfluchte Kopf des Usurpators: Die Zeit ist frei: Ich sehe dich umgeben von den Juwelen deines Königreichs, Die meine Begrüßung in ihren Gedanken aussprechen; Meine Stimme verlange ich laut mit der ihren,-- Sei gegrüßt, König von Schottland! ALLE. Sei gegrüßt, König von Schottland! [Fanfare] MALCOLM. Wir werden nicht viel Zeit verschwenden Bevor wir mit eurer einzelnen Liebe abrechnen, Und uns mit euch gleichstellen. Meine Thanes und Verwandten, Seid fortan Grafen, das erste Mal, dass Schottland Eine so ehrenvolle Bezeichnung trägt. Was gibt es noch zu tun, Das neu mit der Zeit gepflanzt werden sollte,-- Wie das Rückholen unserer ausländischen Exilanten, Die den Fallen der argwöhnischen Tyrannei entkommen sind; Das Hervorbringen der grausamen Diener Dieses toten Schlächters und seiner teuflischen Königin,-- Die, wie man sagt, durch eigene gewaltsame Hand Ihr Leben beendet hat;--das, und was noch notwendig ist, Das uns fordert, durch die Gnade der Gnade, Werden wir in Maß, Zeit und Ort vollziehen: Also, Dank an alle auf einmal und an jeden Einzelnen, Den wir einladen, uns bei unserer Krönung in Scone zu sehen. [Fanfare. Abgang] Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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In der schottischen königlichen Residenz von Dunsinane hat eine Dienerin einen Arzt gerufen, um das Schlafwandeln von Lady Macbeth zu beobachten. Der Arzt berichtet, dass er sie nun zwei Nächte lang beobachtet hat und noch nichts Seltsames gesehen hat. Die Dienerin beschreibt, wie sie gesehen hat, wie Lady Macbeth aufsteht, sich anzieht, ihr Zimmer verlässt, etwas auf ein Stück Papier schreibt, es liest, versiegelt und ins Bett zurückkehrt - alles ohne aufzuwachen. Die Dienerin wagt es nicht, zu wiederholen, was Lady Macbeth im Schlaf sagt. Die beiden werden von Lady Macbeth beim Schlafwandeln unterbrochen, die eine Kerze trägt. Die Dienerin berichtet, dass Lady Macbeth darum bittet, die ganze Nacht über Licht zu haben. Der Arzt und die Dienerin beobachten, wie Lady Macbeth ihre Hand reibt, als würde sie sie waschen, und sagt: "Aber hier ist ein Fleck…. Fort, verdammter Fleck, fort sage ich". Während sie weiterhin ihre Hände "wäscht", verraten ihre Worte ihre Schuld gegenüber den beiden Zuschauern. Lady Macbeth scheint die Ereignisse in der Nacht von Duncans Tod noch einmal zu erleben. Sie kann den Fleck oder den Geruch von Blut nicht von ihrer Hand bekommen: "Was, werden diese Hände niemals sauber sein... Alle Parfüms Arabiens werden diese kleine Hand nicht süß machen". Als Lady Macbeth im Schlaf glaubt, Klopfen am Tor zu hören und in ihr Gemach zurückkehrt, schlussfolgert der Arzt, dass Lady Macbeth die Hilfe eines Priesters braucht und nicht die eines Arztes. Er verabschiedet sich, betont, dass er und die Dienerin nicht verraten sollten, was sie gesehen oder gehört haben. Akt 5, Szene 2 Die Thanen Menteith, Caithness, Angus und Lennox marschieren mit einer Soldatentruppe Richtung Birnam Wood, wo sie sich Malcolm und dem englischen Heer anschließen werden. Sie behaupten, dass sie das Land von Macbeths verderblichem Einfluss "säubern" werden. Akt 5, Szene 3 In Dunsinane ermüdet Macbeth von Berichten über Adlige, die desertiert sind, um sich den englischen Truppen anzuschließen. Er fühlt sich jedoch getröstet von der Prophezeiung der Hexen, dass er nichts zu fürchten habe, bis Birnam Wood nach Dunsinane kommt oder bis er einem nicht von einer Frau Geborenen begegnet. Da beide Ereignisse unmöglich zu sein scheinen, fühlt sich Macbeth unbesiegbar. Ein Diener kommt mit der Nachricht, dass der Feind tausend Männer gesammelt hat, aber Macbeth schickt ihn weg und schilt ihn als Feigling. Nachdem er seinen Diener Seyton gerufen hat, um ihm beim Anlegen seiner Rüstung zu helfen, verlangt Macbeth die Prognose des Arztes über Lady Macbeth. Der Arzt antwortet, dass sie "nicht so krank" sei, sondern von Visionen geplagt werde. Sie müsse sich in irgendeiner Weise von diesen Visionen befreien - eine Antwort, die Macbeth missfällt. Während seine Diener ihm die Rüstung anlegen, erklärt er, dass er den Arzt applaudieren würde, wenn er den Urin des Landes analysieren und daraus eine Medizin für Lady Macbeth ableiten könnte. Plötzlich verlässt Macbeth den Raum und erklärt einmal mehr, dass er keinen "Tod und Unheil" fürchte, bis Birnam Wood nach Dunsinane kommt. In einem Nebensatz gesteht der Arzt, dass er gerne so weit wie möglich von Dunsinane entfernt wäre. Akt 5, Szene 4 Malcolm, Siward, Young Siward, Macduff, Mentieth, Caithness und Angus marschieren in Richtung Birnam Wood. Als sie sich dem Wald nähern, fordert Malcolm die Soldaten auf, Äste abzuschneiden und hochzuhalten, um ihre Zahl zu verschleiern. Siward informiert Malcolm, dass Macbeth Dunsinane zuversichtlich hält und auf ihre Ankunft wartet. Malcolm bemerkt, dass fast alle von Macbeths Männern ihn im Stich gelassen haben. Das Heer marschiert weiter. Akt 5, Szene 5 Macbeth befiehlt seinen Männern, seine Banner an den äußeren Mauern der Burg aufzuhängen und behauptet, dass sie halten werden, bis die Angreifer vor Hunger sterben. Wenn nur die andere Seite nicht mit Männern verstärkt würde, die ihn im Stich gelassen haben, behauptet er, er würde nicht zweimal darüber nachdenken, sich dem englischen Heer direkt entgegenzustellen. Als er den Schrei einer Frau im Inneren hört, bemerkt Macbeth, dass er den Geschmack der Furcht fast vergessen hat. Seyton kehrt zurück und verkündet den Tod von Lady Macbeth. Scheinbar unbeeindruckt bemerkt Macbeth, dass sie später sterben sollte, zu einem geeigneteren Zeitpunkt. Er hält inne, um über die Bedeutung des Lebens nachzudenken: Das Leben ist nur ein wandernder Schatten, ein armer Schauspieler, Der seine Stunde auf der Bühne aufreizt und sich aufregt Und dann nicht mehr zu hören ist. Es ist eine Geschichte, Die von einem Idioten erzählt wird, voller Klang und Wut, Ohne Bedeutung. Ein Bote tritt ein und berichtet, dass er etwas Unglaubliches gesehen hat: Als er in Richtung Birnam Wood schaute, schien es, als ob sich der Wald zur Burg hin bewegte. Macbeth ist fassungslos und beginnt zu befürchten, dass die Worte der Hexen sich doch noch bewahrheiten könnten. Er beauftragt seine Männer, Alarm zu schlagen. Akt 5, Szene 6 Malcolm sagt seinen Soldaten, dass sie dem Schloss nun nahe genug sind, um die mitgebrachten Äste fallen zu lassen. Er verkündet, dass Siward und Young Siward die erste Schlacht führen werden. Er und Macduff werden ihnen folgen. Die Trompeter blasen zum Angriff. Akt 5, Szene 7 Macbeth wartet auf dem Schlachtfeld, um seine Burg zu verteidigen. Er fühlt sich wie ein Bär, der an einen Pfahl gebunden wurde, um von Hunden angegriffen zu werden. Young Siward tritt ein und verlangt seinen Namen. Macbeth antwortet, dass er Angst haben wird, ihn zu hören. Macbeth tötet Young Siward im folgenden Duell und bemerkt, dass Young Siward wohl "von einer Frau geboren" worden sein muss. Akt 5, Szene 8 Macduff betritt allein die Szene und ruft Macbeth heraus, schwört Rache für den Tod seiner Frau und Kinder. Als er geht, bittet er das Schicksal, ihm zu helfen, Macbeth zu finden. Akt 5, Szene 9 Malcolm und Siward treten ein und stürmen die Burg. Akt 5, Szene 10 Macbeth tritt ein und erklärt, dass er nicht "den römischen Narren" spielen und Selbstmord begehen werde. Macduff findet ihn und fordert ihn heraus. Macbeth antwortet, dass er Macduff bisher vermieden habe, jetzt aber bereit sei zu kämpfen. Während sie kämpfen, sagt Macbeth ihm, dass er ein "bezaubertes Leben" führe: er werde nur einem Mann zum Opfer fallen, der nicht von einer Frau geboren ist. Macduff antwortet, dass die Zeit für Macbeth gekommen ist zu verzweifeln: "Lass den Engel, dem du immer gedient hast, dir sagen, dass Macduff aus dem mutterleib seiner Mutter / unreif zerrissen wurde" - Macduff wurde durch einen Kaiserschnitt geboren. Als er dies hört, zittert Macbeth und sagt, dass er nicht kämpfen werde. Macduff antwortet, indem er ihn befiehlt, sich zu ergeben und zur Lachnummer Schottlands unter der Herrschaft Malcolms zu werden. Das erzürnt Macbeth, der schwört, niemals zu schwören, Malcolm Treue zu schwören. Sie kämpfen weiter und verlassen die Szene. Akt 5, Szene 11 Malcolm, Siward und die anderen Thanen treten ein. Obwohl sie die Schlacht gewonnen haben, bemerkt Malcolm, dass Macduff und Young Siward fehlen. Ross berichtet, dass Young Siward tot ist und lobt ihn, indem er sagt, dass "er nur so lange gelebt hat, bis er ein Mann war / wovon seine Tapferkeit im schrecklichen Schlachtgetümmel bestätigt / Doch wie ein Mann ist er gestorben". Nachdem er bestätigt hat, dass die Wunden seines Sohnes auf der Vorderseite waren - mit anderen Worten, dass der Young Siward tapfer im Kampf gestorben ist - erklärt Siward, dass er keinen besseren Tod für seinen Sohn gewünscht hätte. Macduff kommt herein, trägt den abgetrennten Kopf von Macbeth und ruft "Sei gegrüßt, König von Schottland!" Die Männer stimmen diesem Ruf zu, und die Trompeten spielen, als Malcolm die Königsherrschaft annimmt. Malcolm kündigt an, dass er die derzeitigen Thane zu Grafen ernennen wird. Er wird alle Männer zurückrufen, die Macbeth verbannt hat, und versuchen, das verwundete Land zu heilen. Alle verlassen die Szene in Richtung Scone, wo Malcolm zum König von Schottland gekrönt 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: To George F. Babbitt, as to most prosperous citizens of Zenith, his motor car was poetry and tragedy, love and heroism. The office was his pirate ship but the car his perilous excursion ashore. Among the tremendous crises of each day none was more dramatic than starting the engine. It was slow on cold mornings; there was the long, anxious whirr of the starter; and sometimes he had to drip ether into the cocks of the cylinders, which was so very interesting that at lunch he would chronicle it drop by drop, and orally calculate how much each drop had cost him. This morning he was darkly prepared to find something wrong, and he felt belittled when the mixture exploded sweet and strong, and the car didn't even brush the door-jamb, gouged and splintery with many bruisings by fenders, as he backed out of the garage. He was confused. He shouted "Morning!" to Sam Doppelbrau with more cordiality than he had intended. Babbitt's green and white Dutch Colonial house was one of three in that block on Chatham Road. To the left of it was the residence of Mr. Samuel Doppelbrau, secretary of an excellent firm of bathroom-fixture jobbers. His was a comfortable house with no architectural manners whatever; a large wooden box with a squat tower, a broad porch, and glossy paint yellow as a yolk. Babbitt disapproved of Mr. and Mrs. Doppelbrau as "Bohemian." From their house came midnight music and obscene laughter; there were neighborhood rumors of bootlegged whisky and fast motor rides. They furnished Babbitt with many happy evenings of discussion, during which he announced firmly, "I'm not strait-laced, and I don't mind seeing a fellow throw in a drink once in a while, but when it comes to deliberately trying to get away with a lot of hell-raising all the while like the Doppelbraus do, it's too rich for my blood!" On the other side of Babbitt lived Howard Littlefield, Ph.D., in a strictly modern house whereof the lower part was dark red tapestry brick, with a leaded oriel, the upper part of pale stucco like spattered clay, and the roof red-tiled. Littlefield was the Great Scholar of the neighborhood; the authority on everything in the world except babies, cooking, and motors. He was a Bachelor of Arts of Blodgett College, and a Doctor of Philosophy in economics of Yale. He was the employment-manager and publicity-counsel of the Zenith Street Traction Company. He could, on ten hours' notice, appear before the board of aldermen or the state legislature and prove, absolutely, with figures all in rows and with precedents from Poland and New Zealand, that the street-car company loved the Public and yearned over its employees; that all its stock was owned by Widows and Orphans; and that whatever it desired to do would benefit property-owners by increasing rental values, and help the poor by lowering rents. All his acquaintances turned to Littlefield when they desired to know the date of the battle of Saragossa, the definition of the word "sabotage," the future of the German mark, the translation of "hinc illae lachrimae," or the number of products of coal tar. He awed Babbitt by confessing that he often sat up till midnight reading the figures and footnotes in Government reports, or skimming (with amusement at the author's mistakes) the latest volumes of chemistry, archeology, and ichthyology. But Littlefield's great value was as a spiritual example. Despite his strange learnings he was as strict a Presbyterian and as firm a Republican as George F. Babbitt. He confirmed the business men in the faith. Where they knew only by passionate instinct that their system of industry and manners was perfect, Dr. Howard Littlefield proved it to them, out of history, economics, and the confessions of reformed radicals. Babbitt had a good deal of honest pride in being the neighbor of such a savant, and in Ted's intimacy with Eunice Littlefield. At sixteen Eunice was interested in no statistics save those regarding the ages and salaries of motion-picture stars, but--as Babbitt definitively put it--"she was her father's daughter." The difference between a light man like Sam Doppelbrau and a really fine character like Littlefield was revealed in their appearances. Doppelbrau was disturbingly young for a man of forty-eight. He wore his derby on the back of his head, and his red face was wrinkled with meaningless laughter. But Littlefield was old for a man of forty-two. He was tall, broad, thick; his gold-rimmed spectacles were engulfed in the folds of his long face; his hair was a tossed mass of greasy blackness; he puffed and rumbled as he talked; his Phi Beta Kappa key shone against a spotty black vest; he smelled of old pipes; he was altogether funereal and archidiaconal; and to real-estate brokerage and the jobbing of bathroom-fixtures he added an aroma of sanctity. This morning he was in front of his house, inspecting the grass parking between the curb and the broad cement sidewalk. Babbitt stopped his car and leaned out to shout "Mornin'!" Littlefield lumbered over and stood with one foot up on the running-board. "Fine morning," said Babbitt, lighting--illegally early--his second cigar of the day. "Yes, it's a mighty fine morning," said Littlefield. "Spring coming along fast now." "Yes, it's real spring now, all right," said Littlefield. "Still cold nights, though. Had to have a couple blankets, on the sleeping-porch last night." "Yes, it wasn't any too warm last night," said Littlefield. "But I don't anticipate we'll have any more real cold weather now." "No, but still, there was snow at Tiflis, Montana, yesterday," said the Scholar, "and you remember the blizzard they had out West three days ago--thirty inches of snow at Greeley, Colorado--and two years ago we had a snow-squall right here in Zenith on the twenty-fifth of April." "Is that a fact! Say, old man, what do you think about the Republican candidate? Who'll they nominate for president? Don't you think it's about time we had a real business administration?" "In my opinion, what the country needs, first and foremost, is a good, sound, business-like conduct of its affairs. What we need is--a business administration!" said Littlefield. "I'm glad to hear you say that! I certainly am glad to hear you say that! I didn't know how you'd feel about it, with all your associations with colleges and so on, and I'm glad you feel that way. What the country needs--just at this present juncture--is neither a college president nor a lot of monkeying with foreign affairs, but a good--sound economical--business--administration, that will give us a chance to have something like a decent turnover." "Yes. It isn't generally realized that even in China the schoolmen are giving way to more practical men, and of course you can see what that implies." "Is that a fact! Well, well!" breathed Babbitt, feeling much calmer, and much happier about the way things were going in the world. "Well, it's been nice to stop and parleyvoo a second. Guess I'll have to get down to the office now and sting a few clients. Well, so long, old man. See you tonight. So long." II They had labored, these solid citizens. Twenty years before, the hill on which Floral Heights was spread, with its bright roofs and immaculate turf and amazing comfort, had been a wilderness of rank second-growth elms and oaks and maples. Along the precise streets were still a few wooded vacant lots, and the fragment of an old orchard. It was brilliant to-day; the apple boughs were lit with fresh leaves like torches of green fire. The first white of cherry blossoms flickered down a gully, and robins clamored. Babbitt sniffed the earth, chuckled at the hysteric robins as he would have chuckled at kittens or at a comic movie. He was, to the eye, the perfect office-going executive--a well-fed man in a correct brown soft hat and frameless spectacles, smoking a large cigar, driving a good motor along a semi-suburban parkway. But in him was some genius of authentic love for his neighborhood, his city, his clan. The winter was over; the time was come for the building, the visible growth, which to him was glory. He lost his dawn depression; he was ruddily cheerful when he stopped on Smith Street to leave the brown trousers, and to have the gasoline-tank filled. The familiarity of the rite fortified him: the sight of the tall red iron gasoline-pump, the hollow-tile and terra-cotta garage, the window full of the most agreeable accessories--shiny casings, spark-plugs with immaculate porcelain jackets tire-chains of gold and silver. He was flattered by the friendliness with which Sylvester Moon, dirtiest and most skilled of motor mechanics, came out to serve him. "Mornin', Mr. Babbitt!" said Moon, and Babbitt felt himself a person of importance, one whose name even busy garagemen remembered--not one of these cheap-sports flying around in flivvers. He admired the ingenuity of the automatic dial, clicking off gallon by gallon; admired the smartness of the sign: "A fill in time saves getting stuck--gas to-day 31 cents"; admired the rhythmic gurgle of the gasoline as it flowed into the tank, and the mechanical regularity with which Moon turned the handle. "How much we takin' to-day?" asked Moon, in a manner which combined the independence of the great specialist, the friendliness of a familiar gossip, and respect for a man of weight in the community, like George F. Babbitt. "Fill 'er up." "Who you rootin' for for Republican candidate, Mr. Babbitt?" "It's too early to make any predictions yet. After all, there's still a good month and two weeks--no, three weeks--must be almost three weeks--well, there's more than six weeks in all before the Republican convention, and I feel a fellow ought to keep an open mind and give all the candidates a show--look 'em all over and size 'em up, and then decide carefully." "That's a fact, Mr. Babbitt." "But I'll tell you--and my stand on this is just the same as it was four years ago, and eight years ago, and it'll be my stand four years from now--yes, and eight years from now! What I tell everybody, and it can't be too generally understood, is that what we need first, last, and all the time is a good, sound business administration!" "By golly, that's right!" "How do those front tires look to you?" "Fine! Fine! Wouldn't be much work for garages if everybody looked after their car the way you do." "Well, I do try and have some sense about it." Babbitt paid his bill, said adequately, "Oh, keep the change," and drove off in an ecstasy of honest self-appreciation. It was with the manner of a Good Samaritan that he shouted at a respectable-looking man who was waiting for a trolley car, "Have a lift?" As the man climbed in Babbitt condescended, "Going clear down-town? Whenever I see a fellow waiting for a trolley, I always make it a practice to give him a lift--unless, of course, he looks like a bum." "Wish there were more folks that were so generous with their machines," dutifully said the victim of benevolence. "Oh, no, 'tain't a question of generosity, hardly. Fact, I always feel--I was saying to my son just the other night--it's a fellow's duty to share the good things of this world with his neighbors, and it gets my goat when a fellow gets stuck on himself and goes around tooting his horn merely because he's charitable." The victim seemed unable to find the right answer. Babbitt boomed on: "Pretty punk service the Company giving us on these car-lines. Nonsense to only run the Portland Road cars once every seven minutes. Fellow gets mighty cold on a winter morning, waiting on a street corner with the wind nipping at his ankles." "That's right. The Street Car Company don't care a damn what kind of a deal they give us. Something ought to happen to 'em." Babbitt was alarmed. "But still, of course it won't do to just keep knocking the Traction Company and not realize the difficulties they're operating under, like these cranks that want municipal ownership. The way these workmen hold up the Company for high wages is simply a crime, and of course the burden falls on you and me that have to pay a seven-cent fare! Fact, there's remarkable service on all their lines--considering." "Well--" uneasily. "Darn fine morning," Babbitt explained. "Spring coming along fast." "Yes, it's real spring now." The victim had no originality, no wit, and Babbitt fell into a great silence and devoted himself to the game of beating trolley cars to the corner: a spurt, a tail-chase, nervous speeding between the huge yellow side of the trolley and the jagged row of parked motors, shooting past just as the trolley stopped--a rare game and valiant. And all the while he was conscious of the loveliness of Zenith. For weeks together he noticed nothing but clients and the vexing To Rent signs of rival brokers. To-day, in mysterious malaise, he raged or rejoiced with equal nervous swiftness, and to-day the light of spring was so winsome that he lifted his head and saw. He admired each district along his familiar route to the office: The bungalows and shrubs and winding irregular drive ways of Floral Heights. The one-story shops on Smith Street, a glare of plate-glass and new yellow brick; groceries and laundries and drug-stores to supply the more immediate needs of East Side housewives. The market gardens in Dutch Hollow, their shanties patched with corrugated iron and stolen doors. Billboards with crimson goddesses nine feet tall advertising cinema films, pipe tobacco, and talcum powder. The old "mansions" along Ninth Street, S. E., like aged dandies in filthy linen; wooden castles turned into boarding-houses, with muddy walks and rusty hedges, jostled by fast-intruding garages, cheap apartment-houses, and fruit-stands conducted by bland, sleek Athenians. Across the belt of railroad-tracks, factories with high-perched water-tanks and tall stacks-factories producing condensed milk, paper boxes, lighting-fixtures, motor cars. Then the business center, the thickening darting traffic, the crammed trolleys unloading, and high doorways of marble and polished granite. It was big--and Babbitt respected bigness in anything; in mountains, jewels, muscles, wealth, or words. He was, for a spring-enchanted moment, the lyric and almost unselfish lover of Zenith. He thought of the outlying factory suburbs; of the Chaloosa River with its strangely eroded banks; of the orchard-dappled Tonawanda Hills to the North, and all the fat dairy land and big barns and comfortable herds. As he dropped his passenger he cried, "Gosh, I feel pretty good this morning!" III Epochal as starting the car was the drama of parking it before he entered his office. As he turned from Oberlin Avenue round the corner into Third Street, N.E., he peered ahead for a space in the line of parked cars. He angrily just missed a space as a rival driver slid into it. Ahead, another car was leaving the curb, and Babbitt slowed up, holding out his hand to the cars pressing on him from behind, agitatedly motioning an old woman to go ahead, avoiding a truck which bore down on him from one side. With front wheels nicking the wrought-steel bumper of the car in front, he stopped, feverishly cramped his steering-wheel, slid back into the vacant space and, with eighteen inches of room, manoeuvered to bring the car level with the curb. It was a virile adventure masterfully executed. With satisfaction he locked a thief-proof steel wedge on the front wheel, and crossed the street to his real-estate office on the ground floor of the Reeves Building. The Reeves Building was as fireproof as a rock and as efficient as a typewriter; fourteen stories of yellow pressed brick, with clean, upright, unornamented lines. It was filled with the offices of lawyers, doctors, agents for machinery, for emery wheels, for wire fencing, for mining-stock. Their gold signs shone on the windows. The entrance was too modern to be flamboyant with pillars; it was quiet, shrewd, neat. Along the Third Street side were a Western Union Telegraph Office, the Blue Delft Candy Shop, Shotwell's Stationery Shop, and the Babbitt-Thompson Realty Company. Babbitt could have entered his office from the street, as customers did, but it made him feel an insider to go through the corridor of the building and enter by the back door. Thus he was greeted by the villagers. The little unknown people who inhabited the Reeves Building corridors--elevator-runners, starter, engineers, superintendent, and the doubtful-looking lame man who conducted the news and cigar stand--were in no way city-dwellers. They were rustics, living in a constricted valley, interested only in one another and in The Building. Their Main Street was the entrance hall, with its stone floor, severe marble ceiling, and the inner windows of the shops. The liveliest place on the street was the Reeves Building Barber Shop, but this was also Babbitt's one embarrassment. Himself, he patronized the glittering Pompeian Barber Shop in the Hotel Thornleigh, and every time he passed the Reeves shop--ten times a day, a hundred times--he felt untrue to his own village. Now, as one of the squirearchy, greeted with honorable salutations by the villagers, he marched into his office, and peace and dignity were upon him, and the morning's dissonances all unheard. They were heard again, immediately. Stanley Graff, the outside salesman, was talking on the telephone with tragic lack of that firm manner which disciplines clients: "Say, uh, I think I got just the house that would suit you--the Percival House, in Linton.... Oh, you've seen it. Well, how'd it strike you?... Huh? ...Oh," irresolutely, "oh, I see." As Babbitt marched into his private room, a coop with semi-partition of oak and frosted glass, at the back of the office, he reflected how hard it was to find employees who had his own faith that he was going to make sales. There were nine members of the staff, besides Babbitt and his partner and father-in-law, Henry Thompson, who rarely came to the office. The nine were Stanley Graff, the outside salesman--a youngish man given to cigarettes and the playing of pool; old Mat Penniman, general utility man, collector of rents and salesman of insurance--broken, silent, gray; a mystery, reputed to have been a "crack" real-estate man with a firm of his own in haughty Brooklyn; Chester Kirby Laylock, resident salesman out at the Glen Oriole acreage development--an enthusiastic person with a silky mustache and much family; Miss Theresa McGoun, the swift and rather pretty stenographer; Miss Wilberta Bannigan, the thick, slow, laborious accountant and file-clerk; and four freelance part-time commission salesmen. As he looked from his own cage into the main room Babbitt mourned, "McGoun's a good stenog., smart's a whip, but Stan Graff and all those bums--" The zest of the spring morning was smothered in the stale office air. Normally he admired the office, with a pleased surprise that he should have created this sure lovely thing; normally he was stimulated by the clean newness of it and the air of bustle; but to-day it seemed flat--the tiled floor, like a bathroom, the ocher-colored metal ceiling, the faded maps on the hard plaster walls, the chairs of varnished pale oak, the desks and filing-cabinets of steel painted in olive drab. It was a vault, a steel chapel where loafing and laughter were raw sin. He hadn't even any satisfaction in the new water-cooler! And it was the very best of water-coolers, up-to-date, scientific, and right-thinking. It had cost a great deal of money (in itself a virtue). It possessed a non-conducting fiber ice-container, a porcelain water-jar (guaranteed hygienic), a drip-less non-clogging sanitary faucet, and machine-painted decorations in two tones of gold. He looked down the relentless stretch of tiled floor at the water-cooler, and assured himself that no tenant of the Reeves Building had a more expensive one, but he could not recapture the feeling of social superiority it had given him. He astoundingly grunted, "I'd like to beat it off to the woods right now. And loaf all day. And go to Gunch's again to-night, and play poker, and cuss as much as I feel like, and drink a hundred and nine-thousand bottles of beer." He sighed; he read through his mail; he shouted "Msgoun," which meant "Miss McGoun"; and began to dictate. This was his own version of his first letter: "Omar Gribble, send it to his office, Miss McGoun, yours of twentieth to hand and in reply would say look here, Gribble, I'm awfully afraid if we go on shilly-shallying like this we'll just naturally lose the Allen sale, I had Allen up on carpet day before yesterday and got right down to cases and think I can assure you--uh, uh, no, change that: all my experience indicates he is all right, means to do business, looked into his financial record which is fine--that sentence seems to be a little balled up, Miss McGoun; make a couple sentences out of it if you have to, period, new paragraph. "He is perfectly willing to pro rate the special assessment and strikes me, am dead sure there will be no difficulty in getting him to pay for title insurance, so now for heaven's sake let's get busy--no, make that: so now let's go to it and get down--no, that's enough--you can tie those sentences up a little better when you type 'em, Miss McGoun--your sincerely, etcetera." This is the version of his letter which he received, typed, from Miss McGoun that afternoon: BABBITT-THOMPSON REALTY CO. Homes for Folks Reeves Bldg., Oberlin Avenue & 3d St., N.E Zenith Omar Gribble, Esq., 376 North American Building, Zenith. Dear Mr. Gribble: Your letter of the twentieth to hand. I must say I'm awfully afraid that if we go on shilly-shallying like this we'll just naturally lose the Allen sale. I had Allen up on the carpet day before yesterday, and got right down to cases. All my experience indicates that he means to do business. I have also looked into his financial record, which is fine. He is perfectly willing to pro rate the special assessment and there will be no difficulty in getting him to pay for title insurance. SO LET'S GO! Yours sincerely, As he read and signed it, in his correct flowing business-college hand, Babbitt reflected, "Now that's a good, strong letter, and clear's a bell. Now what the--I never told McGoun to make a third paragraph there! Wish she'd quit trying to improve on my dictation! But what I can't understand is: why can't Stan Graff or Chet Laylock write a letter like that? With punch! With a kick!" The most important thing he dictated that morning was the fortnightly form-letter, to be mimeographed and sent out to a thousand "prospects." It was diligently imitative of the best literary models of the day; of heart-to-heart-talk advertisements, "sales-pulling" letters, discourses on the "development of Will-power," and hand-shaking house-organs, as richly poured forth by the new school of Poets of Business. He had painfully written out a first draft, and he intoned it now like a poet delicate and distrait: SAY, OLD MAN! I just want to know can I do you a whaleuva favor? Honest! No kidding! I know you're interested in getting a house, not merely a place where you hang up the old bonnet but a love-nest for the wife and kiddies--and maybe for the flivver out beyant (be sure and spell that b-e-y-a-n-t, Miss McGoun) the spud garden. Say, did you ever stop to think that we're here to save you trouble? That's how we make a living--folks don't pay us for our lovely beauty! Now take a look: Sit right down at the handsome carved mahogany escritoire and shoot us in a line telling us just what you want, and if we can find it we'll come hopping down your lane with the good tidings, and if we can't, we won't bother you. To save your time, just fill out the blank enclosed. On request will also send blank regarding store properties in Floral Heights, Silver Grove, Linton, Bellevue, and all East Side residential districts. Yours for service, P.S.--Just a hint of some plums we can pick for you--some genuine bargains that came in to-day: SILVER GROVE.--Cute four-room California bungalow, a.m.i., garage, dandy shade tree, swell neighborhood, handy car line. $3700, $780 down and balance liberal, Babbitt-Thompson terms, cheaper than rent. DORCHESTER.--A corker! Artistic two-family house, all oak trim, parquet floors, lovely gas log, big porches, colonial, HEATED ALL-WEATHER GARAGE, a bargain at $11,250. Dictation over, with its need of sitting and thinking instead of bustling around and making a noise and really doing something, Babbitt sat creakily back in his revolving desk-chair and beamed on Miss McGoun. He was conscious of her as a girl, of black bobbed hair against demure cheeks. A longing which was indistinguishable from loneliness enfeebled him. While she waited, tapping a long, precise pencil-point on the desk-tablet, he half identified her with the fairy girl of his dreams. He imagined their eyes meeting with terrifying recognition; imagined touching her lips with frightened reverence and--She was chirping, "Any more, Mist' Babbitt?" He grunted, "That winds it up, I guess," and turned heavily away. For all his wandering thoughts, they had never been more intimate than this. He often reflected, "Nev' forget how old Jake Offutt said a wise bird never goes love-making in his own office or his own home. Start trouble. Sure. But--" In twenty-three years of married life he had peered uneasily at every graceful ankle, every soft shoulder; in thought he had treasured them; but not once had he hazarded respectability by adventuring. Now, as he calculated the cost of repapering the Styles house, he was restless again, discontented about nothing and everything, ashamed of his discontentment, and lonely for the fairy girl. 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Enttäuscht darüber, dass er keine Probleme hatte, sein Auto zu starten, wie er es erwartet hatte, fährt er aus seiner Garage heraus und führt ein Gespräch mit Howard Littlefield über das Wetter und über die Notwendigkeit einer echten Geschäftsverwaltung im Land. Babbitt fühlt sich ruhiger und fröhlicher nach dem Gespräch mit Littlefield und entdeckt seine Liebe für Zenith wieder. Nun, energisiert durch Routine und Selbstgefälligkeit, bietet er einem "seriös aussehenden Mann", der auf eine Straßenbahn wartet, eine Mitfahrgelegenheit in einem Akt selbstsüchtiger Güte an. Während er fährt, respektiert Babbitt aktiv die Größe von Zenith und fühlt sich "ziemlich gut", als er den Fahrgast absetzt. Er betritt friedlich das Reeves-Gebäude und geht in sein Büro, die Babbitt-Thompson Realty Company. Dann, als er bemerkt, wie sein Kollege Stanley Graff am Telefon mit einem Kunden herumstolpert, wird er an die Schwierigkeit erinnert, kompetente Mitarbeiter zu finden. Plötzlich erstickt die "Frische des Frühlingsmorgens in der stickigen Büroluft". Wie sein Haus ist auch Babbitts Büro vollkommen auf dem neuesten Stand, aber er verspürt erneut plötzlich den Wunsch, in die Wildnis zu fliehen. Babbitt ruft Miss McGoun herbei und gibt ihr eine kaum verständliche Diktierung eines Briefes an einen Kunden, für den sie ihm im Gegenzug eine offensichtlich unverständliche und fehlerhafte Endversion liefert. Großteils ist Babbitt mit dem Ergebnis zufrieden. Als er Miss McGoun betrachtet, erfüllen ihn Sehnsucht und Einsamkeit. Diese Gefühle haben während seiner dreiundzwanzigjährigen Ehe überwogen, und er identifiziert sie mit dem "Feenmädchen seiner Träume".

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten 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 the bottom of his heart Candide had no wish to marry Cunegonde. But the extreme impertinence of the Baron determined him to conclude the match, and Cunegonde pressed him so strongly that he could not go from his word. He consulted Pangloss, Martin, and the faithful Cacambo. Pangloss drew up an excellent memorial, wherein he proved that the Baron had no right over his sister, and that according to all the laws of the empire, she might marry Candide with her left hand. Martin was for throwing the Baron into the sea; Cacambo decided that it would be better to deliver him up again to the captain of the galley, after which they thought to send him back to the General Father of the Order at Rome by the first ship. This advice was well received, the old woman approved it; they said not a word to his sister; the thing was executed for a little money, and they had the double pleasure of entrapping a Jesuit, and punishing the pride of a German baron. It is natural to imagine that after so many disasters Candide married, and living with the philosopher Pangloss, the philosopher Martin, the prudent Cacambo, and the old woman, having besides brought so many diamonds from the country of the ancient Incas, must have led a very happy life. But he was so much imposed upon by the Jews that he had nothing left except his small farm; his wife became uglier every day, more peevish and unsupportable; the old woman was infirm and even more fretful than Cunegonde. Cacambo, who worked in the garden, and took vegetables for sale to Constantinople, was fatigued with hard work, and cursed his destiny. Pangloss was in despair at not shining in some German university. For Martin, he was firmly persuaded that he would be as badly off elsewhere, and therefore bore things patiently. Candide, Martin, and Pangloss sometimes disputed about morals and metaphysics. They often saw passing under the windows of their farm boats full of Effendis, Pashas, and Cadis, who were going into banishment to Lemnos, Mitylene, or Erzeroum. And they saw other Cadis, Pashas, and Effendis coming to supply the place of the exiles, and afterwards exiled in their turn. They saw heads decently impaled for presentation to the Sublime Porte. Such spectacles as these increased the number of their dissertations; and when they did not dispute time hung so heavily upon their hands, that one day the old woman ventured to say to them: "I want to know which is worse, to be ravished a hundred times by negro pirates, to have a buttock cut off, to run the gauntlet among the Bulgarians, to be whipped and hanged at an _auto-da-fe_, to be dissected, to row in the galleys--in short, to go through all the miseries we have undergone, or to stay here and have nothing to do?" "It is a great question," said Candide. This discourse gave rise to new reflections, and Martin especially concluded that man was born to live either in a state of distracting inquietude or of lethargic disgust. Candide did not quite agree to that, but he affirmed nothing. Pangloss owned that he had always suffered horribly, but as he had once asserted that everything went wonderfully well, he asserted it still, though he no longer believed it. What helped to confirm Martin in his detestable principles, to stagger Candide more than ever, and to puzzle Pangloss, was that one day they saw Paquette and Friar Giroflee land at the farm in extreme misery. They had soon squandered their three thousand piastres, parted, were reconciled, quarrelled again, were thrown into gaol, had escaped, and Friar Giroflee had at length become Turk. Paquette continued her trade wherever she went, but made nothing of it. "I foresaw," said Martin to Candide, "that your presents would soon be dissipated, and only make them the more miserable. You have rolled in millions of money, you and Cacambo; and yet you are not happier than Friar Giroflee and Paquette." "Ha!" said Pangloss to Paquette, "Providence has then brought you amongst us again, my poor child! Do you know that you cost me the tip of my nose, an eye, and an ear, as you may see? What a world is this!" And now this new adventure set them philosophising more than ever. In the neighbourhood there lived a very famous Dervish who was esteemed the best philosopher in all Turkey, and they went to consult him. Pangloss was the speaker. "Master," said he, "we come to beg you to tell why so strange an animal as man was made." "With what meddlest thou?" said the Dervish; "is it thy business?" "But, reverend father," said Candide, "there is horrible evil in this world." "What signifies it," said the Dervish, "whether there be evil or good? When his highness sends a ship to Egypt, does he trouble his head whether the mice on board are at their ease or not?" "What, then, must we do?" said Pangloss. "Hold your tongue," answered the Dervish. "I was in hopes," said Pangloss, "that I should reason with you a little about causes and effects, about the best of possible worlds, the origin of evil, the nature of the soul, and the pre-established harmony." At these words, the Dervish shut the door in their faces. During this conversation, the news was spread that two Viziers and the Mufti had been strangled at Constantinople, and that several of their friends had been impaled. This catastrophe made a great noise for some hours. Pangloss, Candide, and Martin, returning to the little farm, saw a good old man taking the fresh air at his door under an orange bower. Pangloss, who was as inquisitive as he was argumentative, asked the old man what was the name of the strangled Mufti. "I do not know," answered the worthy man, "and I have not known the name of any Mufti, nor of any Vizier. I am entirely ignorant of the event you mention; I presume in general that they who meddle with the administration of public affairs die sometimes miserably, and that they deserve it; but I never trouble my head about what is transacting at Constantinople; I content myself with sending there for sale the fruits of the garden which I cultivate." Having said these words, he invited the strangers into his house; his two sons and two daughters presented them with several sorts of sherbet, which they made themselves, with Kaimak enriched with the candied-peel of citrons, with oranges, lemons, pine-apples, pistachio-nuts, and Mocha coffee unadulterated with the bad coffee of Batavia or the American islands. After which the two daughters of the honest Mussulman perfumed the strangers' beards. "You must have a vast and magnificent estate," said Candide to the Turk. "I have only twenty acres," replied the old man; "I and my children cultivate them; our labour preserves us from three great evils--weariness, vice, and want." Candide, on his way home, made profound reflections on the old man's conversation. "This honest Turk," said he to Pangloss and Martin, "seems to be in a situation far preferable to that of the six kings with whom we had the honour of supping." "Grandeur," said Pangloss, "is extremely dangerous according to the testimony of philosophers. For, in short, Eglon, King of Moab, was assassinated by Ehud; Absalom was hung by his hair, and pierced with three darts; King Nadab, the son of Jeroboam, was killed by Baasa; King Ela by Zimri; Ahaziah by Jehu; Athaliah by Jehoiada; the Kings Jehoiakim, Jeconiah, and Zedekiah, were led into captivity. You know how perished Croesus, Astyages, Darius, Dionysius of Syracuse, Pyrrhus, Perseus, Hannibal, Jugurtha, Ariovistus, Caesar, Pompey, Nero, Otho, Vitellius, Domitian, Richard II. of England, Edward II., Henry VI., Richard III., Mary Stuart, Charles I., the three Henrys of France, the Emperor Henry IV.! You know----" "I know also," said Candide, "that we must cultivate our garden." "You are right," said Pangloss, "for when man was first placed in the Garden of Eden, he was put there _ut operaretur eum_, that he might cultivate it; which shows that man was not born to be idle." "Lassen Sie uns arbeiten", sagte Martin, "ohne zu streiten; das ist der einzige Weg, das Leben erträglich zu machen." Die ganze kleine Gesellschaft beteiligte sich an diesem lobenswerten Vorhaben, entsprechend ihren unterschiedlichen Fähigkeiten. Ihr kleines Stück Land brachte reichliche Ernten hervor. Cunegonde war zwar sehr hässlich, aber sie wurde eine exzellente Konditorin; Paquette arbeitete an Stickereien; die alte Frau kümmerte sich um die Wäsche. Sie alle, einschließlich Bruder Giroflee, waren in irgendeiner Form nützlich; denn er war ein guter Tischler und wurde ein sehr ehrlicher Mann. Pangloss sagte manchmal zu Candide: "Es gibt eine Verkettung von Ereignissen in dieser besten aller möglichen Welten: Wenn du nicht wegen der Liebe zu Fräulein Cunegonde aus einem prachtvollen Schloss vertrieben worden wärst; wenn man dich nicht in die Inquisition gesteckt hätte; wenn du nicht über Amerika gereist wärst; wenn du den Baron nicht erstochen hättest; wenn du nicht all deine Schafe in dem wundervollen Land El Dorado verloren hättest - dann würdest du hier nicht kandierte Zitronen und Pistazien essen." "Das mag alles gut sein", antwortete Candide, "aber lassen Sie uns unseren Garten pflegen." 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.

Ich möchte gerne wissen, was schlimmer ist: hundertmal von schwarzen Piraten vergewaltigt zu werden oder einfach hier zu sitzen und nichts zu tun. Pangloss verfasst eine formelle Abhandlung, in der er erklärt, dass der Baron kein Recht mehr über seine Schwester hat. Martin ist dafür, den Baron zu ertränken. Cacambo schlägt vor, den Baron ohne dass Cunegonde davon erfährt, zurück in die Galeeren zu schicken, und das ist der Weg, den sie wählen. Cunegonde wird jeden Tag hässlicher und unangenehmer. Cacambo arbeitet im Garten des kleinen Bauernhofs. Er hasst die Arbeit und verflucht sein Schicksal. Pangloss ist unglücklich, weil er keine Chance hat, eine wichtige Figur an einer deutschen Universität zu werden. Martin ist geduldig, weil er sich vorstellt, dass er in jeder anderen Situation genauso unglücklich wäre. Sie alle debattieren über Philosophie, während das Elend der Welt weitergeht. Pangloss behauptet immer noch, dass alles für das Beste ist, aber er glaubt es nicht mehr wirklich. Paquette und Giroflee kommen auf dem Bauernhof an und haben das Geld, das Candide ihnen gegeben hat, verprasst. Sie sind immer noch unglücklich und Paquette ist immer noch eine Prostituierte. Die Gruppe konsultiert einen berühmten Derwisch zu Fragen von Gut und Böse. Der Derwisch weist sie zurecht, dass es ihnen um solche Fragen zu kümmern, und schlägt die Tür vor ihren Gesichtern zu. Später macht die Gruppe Halt an einem Bauernhof am Straßenrand. Der Bauer lädt sie freundlich zu einem angenehmen Abendessen ein. Er hat nur einen kleinen Bauernhof, aber er und seine Familie arbeiten hart und leben ein erträgliches Leben. Candide findet das Leben des Bauern ansprechend. Er, Cunegonde und seine Freunde beschließen, ihm zu folgen, und alle sind zufrieden mit harter Arbeit im Garten. Pangloss schlägt Candide erneut vor, dass dies die beste aller möglichen Welten ist. Candide antwortet: "Das ist sehr gut gesagt, aber wir müssen unseren Garten bestellen".

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: "Come, Jo, it's time." "For what?" "You don't mean to say you have forgotten that you promised to make half a dozen calls with me today?" "I've done a good many rash and foolish things in my life, but I don't think I ever was mad enough to say I'd make six calls in one day, when a single one upsets me for a week." "Yes, you did, it was a bargain between us. I was to finish the crayon of Beth for you, and you were to go properly with me, and return our neighbors' visits." "If it was fair, that was in the bond, and I stand to the letter of my bond, Shylock. There is a pile of clouds in the east, it's not fair, and I don't go." "Now, that's shirking. It's a lovely day, no prospect of rain, and you pride yourself on keeping promises, so be honorable, come and do your duty, and then be at peace for another six months." At that minute Jo was particularly absorbed in dressmaking, for she was mantua-maker general to the family, and took especial credit to herself because she could use a needle as well as a pen. It was very provoking to be arrested in the act of a first trying-on, and ordered out to make calls in her best array on a warm July day. She hated calls of the formal sort, and never made any till Amy compelled her with a bargain, bribe, or promise. In the present instance there was no escape, and having clashed her scissors rebelliously, while protesting that she smelled thunder, she gave in, put away her work, and taking up her hat and gloves with an air of resignation, told Amy the victim was ready. "Jo March, you are perverse enough to provoke a saint! You don't intend to make calls in that state, I hope," cried Amy, surveying her with amazement. "Why not? I'm neat and cool and comfortable, quite proper for a dusty walk on a warm day. If people care more for my clothes than they do for me, I don't wish to see them. You can dress for both, and be as elegant as you please. It pays for you to be fine. It doesn't for me, and furbelows only worry me." "Oh, dear!" sighed Amy, "now she's in a contrary fit, and will drive me distracted before I can get her properly ready. I'm sure it's no pleasure to me to go today, but it's a debt we owe society, and there's no one to pay it but you and me. I'll do anything for you, Jo, if you'll only dress yourself nicely, and come and help me do the civil. You can talk so well, look so aristocratic in your best things, and behave so beautifully, if you try, that I'm proud of you. I'm afraid to go alone, do come and take care of me." "You're an artful little puss to flatter and wheedle your cross old sister in that way. The idea of my being aristocratic and well-bred, and your being afraid to go anywhere alone! I don't know which is the most absurd. Well, I'll go if I must, and do my best. You shall be commander of the expedition, and I'll obey blindly, will that satisfy you?" said Jo, with a sudden change from perversity to lamblike submission. "You're a perfect cherub! Now put on all your best things, and I'll tell you how to behave at each place, so that you will make a good impression. I want people to like you, and they would if you'd only try to be a little more agreeable. Do your hair the pretty way, and put the pink rose in your bonnet. It's becoming, and you look too sober in your plain suit. Take your light gloves and the embroidered handkerchief. We'll stop at Meg's, and borrow her white sunshade, and then you can have my dove-colored one." While Amy dressed, she issued her orders, and Jo obeyed them, not without entering her protest, however, for she sighed as she rustled into her new organdie, frowned darkly at herself as she tied her bonnet strings in an irreproachable bow, wrestled viciously with pins as she put on her collar, wrinkled up her features generally as she shook out the handkerchief, whose embroidery was as irritating to her nose as the present mission was to her feelings, and when she had squeezed her hands into tight gloves with three buttons and a tassel, as the last touch of elegance, she turned to Amy with an imbecile expression of countenance, saying meekly... "I'm perfectly miserable, but if you consider me presentable, I die happy." "You're highly satisfactory. Turn slowly round, and let me get a careful view." Jo revolved, and Amy gave a touch here and there, then fell back, with her head on one side, observing graciously, "Yes, you'll do. Your head is all I could ask, for that white bonnet with the rose is quite ravishing. Hold back your shoulders, and carry your hands easily, no matter if your gloves do pinch. There's one thing you can do well, Jo, that is, wear a shawl. I can't, but it's very nice to see you, and I'm so glad Aunt March gave you that lovely one. It's simple, but handsome, and those folds over the arm are really artistic. Is the point of my mantle in the middle, and have I looped my dress evenly? I like to show my boots, for my feet are pretty, though my nose isn't." "You are a thing of beauty and a joy forever," said Jo, looking through her hand with the air of a connoisseur at the blue feather against the golden hair. "Am I to drag my best dress through the dust, or loop it up, please, ma'am?" "Hold it up when you walk, but drop it in the house. The sweeping style suits you best, and you must learn to trail your skirts gracefully. You haven't half buttoned one cuff, do it at once. You'll never look finished if you are not careful about the little details, for they make up the pleasing whole." Jo sighed, and proceeded to burst the buttons off her glove, in doing up her cuff, but at last both were ready, and sailed away, looking as 'pretty as picters', Hannah said, as she hung out of the upper window to watch them. "Now, Jo dear, the Chesters consider themselves very elegant people, so I want you to put on your best deportment. Don't make any of your abrupt remarks, or do anything odd, will you? Just be calm, cool, and quiet, that's safe and ladylike, and you can easily do it for fifteen minutes," said Amy, as they approached the first place, having borrowed the white parasol and been inspected by Meg, with a baby on each arm. "Let me see. 'Calm, cool, and quiet', yes, I think I can promise that. I've played the part of a prim young lady on the stage, and I'll try it off. My powers are great, as you shall see, so be easy in your mind, my child." Amy looked relieved, but naughty Jo took her at her word, for during the first call she sat with every limb gracefully composed, every fold correctly draped, calm as a summer sea, cool as a snowbank, and as silent as the sphinx. In vain Mrs. Chester alluded to her 'charming novel', and the Misses Chester introduced parties, picnics, the opera, and the fashions. Each and all were answered by a smile, a bow, and a demure "Yes" or "No" with the chill on. In vain Amy telegraphed the word 'talk', tried to draw her out, and administered covert pokes with her foot. Jo sat as if blandly unconscious of it all, with deportment like Maud's face, 'icily regular, splendidly null'. "What a haughty, uninteresting creature that oldest Miss March is!" was the unfortunately audible remark of one of the ladies, as the door closed upon their guests. Jo laughed noiselessly all through the hall, but Amy looked disgusted at the failure of her instructions, and very naturally laid the blame upon Jo. "How could you mistake me so? I merely meant you to be properly dignified and composed, and you made yourself a perfect stock and stone. Try to be sociable at the Lambs'. Gossip as other girls do, and be interested in dress and flirtations and whatever nonsense comes up. They move in the best society, are valuable persons for us to know, and I wouldn't fail to make a good impression there for anything." "I'll be agreeable. I'll gossip and giggle, and have horrors and raptures over any trifle you like. I rather enjoy this, and now I'll imitate what is called 'a charming girl'. I can do it, for I have May Chester as a model, and I'll improve upon her. See if the Lambs don't say, 'What a lively, nice creature that Jo March is!" Amy felt anxious, as well she might, for when Jo turned freakish there was no knowing where she would stop. Amy's face was a study when she saw her sister skim into the next drawing room, kiss all the young ladies with effusion, beam graciously upon the young gentlemen, and join in the chat with a spirit which amazed the beholder. Amy was taken possession of by Mrs. Lamb, with whom she was a favorite, and forced to hear a long account of Lucretia's last attack, while three delightful young gentlemen hovered near, waiting for a pause when they might rush in and rescue her. So situated, she was powerless to check Jo, who seemed possessed by a spirit of mischief, and talked away as volubly as the lady. A knot of heads gathered about her, and Amy strained her ears to hear what was going on, for broken sentences filled her with curiosity, and frequent peals of laughter made her wild to share the fun. One may imagine her suffering on overhearing fragments of this sort of conversation. "She rides splendidly. Who taught her?" "No one. She used to practice mounting, holding the reins, and sitting straight on an old saddle in a tree. Now she rides anything, for she doesn't know what fear is, and the stableman lets her have horses cheap because she trains them to carry ladies so well. She has such a passion for it, I often tell her if everything else fails, she can be a horsebreaker, and get her living so." At this awful speech Amy contained herself with difficulty, for the impression was being given that she was rather a fast young lady, which was her especial aversion. But what could she do? For the old lady was in the middle of her story, and long before it was done, Jo was off again, making more droll revelations and committing still more fearful blunders. "Yes, Amy was in despair that day, for all the good beasts were gone, and of three left, one was lame, one blind, and the other so balky that you had to put dirt in his mouth before he would start. Nice animal for a pleasure party, wasn't it?" "Which did she choose?" asked one of the laughing gentlemen, who enjoyed the subject. "None of them. She heard of a young horse at the farm house over the river, and though a lady had never ridden him, she resolved to try, because he was handsome and spirited. Her struggles were really pathetic. There was no one to bring the horse to the saddle, so she took the saddle to the horse. My dear creature, she actually rowed it over the river, put it on her head, and marched up to the barn to the utter amazement of the old man!" "Did she ride the horse?" "Of course she did, and had a capital time. I expected to see her brought home in fragments, but she managed him perfectly, and was the life of the party." "Well, I call that plucky!" and young Mr. Lamb turned an approving glance upon Amy, wondering what his mother could be saying to make the girl look so red and uncomfortable. She was still redder and more uncomfortable a moment after, when a sudden turn in the conversation introduced the subject of dress. One of the young ladies asked Jo where she got the pretty drab hat she wore to the picnic and stupid Jo, instead of mentioning the place where it was bought two years ago, must needs answer with unnecessary frankness, "Oh, Amy painted it. You can't buy those soft shades, so we paint ours any color we like. It's a great comfort to have an artistic sister." "Isn't that an original idea?" cried Miss Lamb, who found Jo great fun. "That's nothing compared to some of her brilliant performances. There's nothing the child can't do. Why, she wanted a pair of blue boots for Sallie's party, so she just painted her soiled white ones the loveliest shade of sky blue you ever saw, and they looked exactly like satin," added Jo, with an air of pride in her sister's accomplishments that exasperated Amy till she felt that it would be a relief to throw her cardcase at her. "We read a story of yours the other day, and enjoyed it very much," observed the elder Miss Lamb, wishing to compliment the literary lady, who did not look the character just then, it must be confessed. Any mention of her 'works' always had a bad effect upon Jo, who either grew rigid and looked offended, or changed the subject with a brusque remark, as now. "Sorry you could find nothing better to read. I write that rubbish because it sells, and ordinary people like it. Are you going to New York this winter?" As Miss Lamb had 'enjoyed' the story, this speech was not exactly grateful or complimentary. The minute it was made Jo saw her mistake, but fearing to make the matter worse, suddenly remembered that it was for her to make the first move toward departure, and did so with an abruptness that left three people with half-finished sentences in their mouths. "Amy, we must go. Good-by, dear, do come and see us. We are pining for a visit. I don't dare to ask you, Mr. Lamb, but if you should come, I don't think I shall have the heart to send you away." Jo said this with such a droll imitation of May Chester's gushing style that Amy got out of the room as rapidly as possible, feeling a strong desire to laugh and cry at the same time. "Didn't I do well?" asked Jo, with a satisfied air as they walked away. "Nothing could have been worse," was Amy's crushing reply. "What possessed you to tell those stories about my saddle, and the hats and boots, and all the rest of it?" "Why, it's funny, and amuses people. They know we are poor, so it's no use pretending that we have grooms, buy three or four hats a season, and have things as easy and fine as they do." "You needn't go and tell them all our little shifts, and expose our poverty in that perfectly unnecessary way. You haven't a bit of proper pride, and never will learn when to hold your tongue and when to speak," said Amy despairingly. Poor Jo looked abashed, and silently chafed the end of her nose with the stiff handkerchief, as if performing a penance for her misdemeanors. "How shall I behave here?" she asked, as they approached the third mansion. "Just as you please. I wash my hands of you," was Amy's short answer. "Then I'll enjoy myself. The boys are at home, and we'll have a comfortable time. Goodness knows I need a little change, for elegance has a bad effect upon my constitution," returned Jo gruffly, being disturbed by her failure to suit. An enthusiastic welcome from three big boys and several pretty children speedily soothed her ruffled feelings, and leaving Amy to entertain the hostess and Mr. Tudor, who happened to be calling likewise, Jo devoted herself to the young folks and found the change refreshing. She listened to college stories with deep interest, caressed pointers and poodles without a murmur, agreed heartily that "Tom Brown was a brick," regardless of the improper form of praise, and when one lad proposed a visit to his turtle tank, she went with an alacrity which caused Mamma to smile upon her, as that motherly lady settled the cap which was left in a ruinous condition by filial hugs, bearlike but affectionate, and dearer to her than the most faultless coiffure from the hands of an inspired Frenchwoman. Amy setzte sich neben ihre Tante und antwortete vertrauensvoll: "Ja, Tante. Frau Chester hat mich gefragt, ob ich helfen würde, und ich habe angeboten, einen Stand zu betreuen, da ich nur meine Zeit zur Verfügung habe." "Ich nicht", mischte sich Jo entschieden ein. "Ich hasse es, bevormundet zu werden, und die Chesters denken, es sei ein großer Gefallen, uns bei ihrem hoch angesehenen Basar helfen zu lassen. Ich frage mich, warum du zugestimmt hast, Amy. Sie wollen nur, dass du arbeitest." "Ich bin bereit zu arbeiten. Es ist sowohl für die Freigelassenen als auch für die Chesters, und ich finde es sehr nett von ihnen, dass sie mich an der Arbeit und am Spaß teilhaben lassen. Wenn die Unterstützung aufrichtig gemeint ist, stört mich Patronage nicht." "Quite right and proper. I like your grateful spirit, my dear. It's a pleasure to help people who appreciate our efforts. Some do not, and that is trying," observed Aunt March, looking over her spectacles at Jo, who sat apart, rocking herself, with a somewhat morose expression. If Jo had only known what a great happiness was wavering in the balance for one of them, she would have turned dove-like in a minute, but unfortunately, we don't have windows in our breasts, and cannot see what goes on in the minds of our friends. Better for us that we cannot as a general thing, but now and then it would be such a comfort, such a saving of time and temper. By her next speech, Jo deprived herself of several years of pleasure, and received a timely lesson in the art of holding her tongue. "I don't like favors, they oppress and make me feel like a slave. I'd rather do everything for myself, and be perfectly independent." "Ahem!" coughed Aunt Carrol softly, with a look at Aunt March. "I told you so," said Aunt March, with a decided nod to Aunt Carrol. Mercifully unconscious of what she had done, Jo sat with her nose in the air, and a revolutionary aspect which was anything but inviting. "Do you speak French, dear?" asked Mrs. Carrol, laying a hand on Amy's. "Pretty well, thanks to Aunt March, who lets Esther talk to me as often as I like," replied Amy, with a grateful look, which caused the old lady to smile affably. "How are you about languages?" asked Mrs. Carrol of Jo. "Don't know a word. I'm very stupid about studying anything, can't bear French, it's such a slippery, silly sort of language," was the brusque reply. Another look passed between the ladies, and Aunt March said to Amy, "You are quite strong and well now, dear, I believe? Eyes don't trouble you any more, do they?" "Not at all, thank you, ma'am. I'm very well, and mean to do great things next winter, so that I may be ready for Rome, whenever that joyful time arrives." "Good girl! You deserve to go, and I'm sure you will some day," said Aunt March, with an approving pat on the head, as Amy picked up her ball for her. Crosspatch, draw the latch, Sit by the fire and spin, squalled Polly, bending down from his perch on the back of her chair to peep into Jo's face, with such a comical air of impertinent inquiry that it was impossible to help laughing. "Most observing bird," said the old lady. "Come and take a walk, my dear?" cried Polly, hopping toward the china closet, with a look suggestive of a lump of sugar. "Thank you, I will. Come Amy." and Jo brought the visit to an end, feeling more strongly than ever that calls did have a bad effect upon her constitution. She shook hands in a gentlemanly manner, but Amy kissed both the aunts, and the girls departed, leaving behind them the impression of shadow and sunshine, which impression caused Aunt March to say, as they vanished... "You'd better do it, Mary. I'll supply the money." and Aunt Carrol to reply decidedly, "I certainly will, if her father and mother consent." Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Amy ist zu einer Dame herangewachsen, mit Manieren und Stil, die auf eine höhere Herkunft hindeuten, als sie tatsächlich hat. Sie besucht gerne verschiedene Mitglieder der Gemeinschaft und hat Jo überredet, sie bei diesem Anlass zu begleiten. Amy gibt Jo genaue Anweisungen, wie sie sich in jedem Haus verhalten soll. Jo will eigentlich gar nicht erst gehen, also übertreibt sie Amys Anweisungen und übertreibt das Verhalten in jedem Haus. Im ersten Haus wird ihr gesagt, sie solle sich "angemessen" verhalten, also sitzt sie perfekt still, spricht kaum und wird von ihren Gastgebern als "hochnäsig und uninteressant" angesehen. Im zweiten Haus wird ihr gesagt, sie solle umgänglich sein, also küsst sie alle Mädchen, strahlt die Männer an und beteiligt sich an einem lebhaften Gespräch über einige Episoden aus Amys Kindheit. Im Tudor-Haus gibt Amy auf und sagt Jo, sie solle tun, was sie wolle. Als die Zeit zum Aufbruch kommt, findet man Jo auf dem Gras sitzend mit einer Gruppe lebhafter Jungen und ihrem Hund. Der Besuch endet bei Tante Marchs Haus, wo Jos Schärfe ihr schließlich teuer zu stehen kommt. Tante March und Tante Carrol, die zufällig den Tag bei Tante March verbringt, sprechen über eine bevorstehende Messe, die von den wohlhabenden Chesters gesponsert werden soll. Jo spottet über die Messe, nennt sie eine Gönnerschaft und macht sich über Amy lustig, dass sie daran teilnehmen will. Jo besteht darauf, keine Gefälligkeiten von Menschen anzunehmen. Ein wenig später geraten die Tanten in eine Diskussion über das Sprechen in Fremdsprachen; Amy sagt, sie spreche recht gut Französisch, aber Jo spottet auch über diese Idee. Als Tante Marchs Vogel einen Kommentar über einen Spaziergang macht, nutzt Jo dies als Ausrede, um zu gehen.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: IN less than an hour from that time, Seth Bede was walking by Dinah's side along the hedgerow-path that skirted the pastures and green corn-fields which lay between the village and the Hall Farm. Dinah had taken off her little Quaker bonnet again, and was holding it in her hands that she might have a freer enjoyment of the cool evening twilight, and Seth could see the expression of her face quite clearly as he walked by her side, timidly revolving something he wanted to say to her. It was an expression of unconscious placid gravity--of absorption in thoughts that had no connection with the present moment or with her own personality--an expression that is most of all discouraging to a lover. Her very walk was discouraging: it had that quiet elasticity that asks for no support. Seth felt this dimly; he said to himself, "She's too good and holy for any man, let alone me," and the words he had been summoning rushed back again before they had reached his lips. But another thought gave him courage: "There's no man could love her better and leave her freer to follow the Lord's work." They had been silent for many minutes now, since they had done talking about Bessy Cranage; Dinah seemed almost to have forgotten Seth's presence, and her pace was becoming so much quicker that the sense of their being only a few minutes' walk from the yard-gates of the Hall Farm at last gave Seth courage to speak. "You've quite made up your mind to go back to Snowfield o' Saturday, Dinah?" "Yes," said Dinah, quietly. "I'm called there. It was borne in upon my mind while I was meditating on Sunday night, as Sister Allen, who's in a decline, is in need of me. I saw her as plain as we see that bit of thin white cloud, lifting up her poor thin hand and beckoning to me. And this morning when I opened the Bible for direction, the first words my eyes fell on were, 'And after we had seen the vision, immediately we endeavoured to go into Macedonia.' If it wasn't for that clear showing of the Lord's will, I should be loath to go, for my heart yearns over my aunt and her little ones, and that poor wandering lamb Hetty Sorrel. I've been much drawn out in prayer for her of late, and I look on it as a token that there may be mercy in store for her." "God grant it," said Seth. "For I doubt Adam's heart is so set on her, he'll never turn to anybody else; and yet it 'ud go to my heart if he was to marry her, for I canna think as she'd make him happy. It's a deep mystery--the way the heart of man turns to one woman out of all the rest he's seen i' the world, and makes it easier for him to work seven year for HER, like Jacob did for Rachel, sooner than have any other woman for th' asking. I often think of them words, 'And Jacob served seven years for Rachel; and they seemed to him but a few days for the love he had to her.' I know those words 'ud come true with me, Dinah, if so be you'd give me hope as I might win you after seven years was over. I know you think a husband 'ud be taking up too much o' your thoughts, because St. Paul says, 'She that's married careth for the things of the world how she may please her husband'; and may happen you'll think me overbold to speak to you about it again, after what you told me o' your mind last Saturday. But I've been thinking it over again by night and by day, and I've prayed not to be blinded by my own desires, to think what's only good for me must be good for you too. And it seems to me there's more texts for your marrying than ever you can find against it. For St. Paul says as plain as can be in another place, 'I will that the younger women marry, bear children, guide the house, give none occasion to the adversary to speak reproachfully'; and then 'two are better than one'; and that holds good with marriage as well as with other things. For we should be o' one heart and o' one mind, Dinah. We both serve the same Master, and are striving after the same gifts; and I'd never be the husband to make a claim on you as could interfere with your doing the work God has fitted you for. I'd make a shift, and fend indoor and out, to give you more liberty--more than you can have now, for you've got to get your own living now, and I'm strong enough to work for us both." When Seth had once begun to urge his suit, he went on earnestly and almost hurriedly, lest Dinah should speak some decisive word before he had poured forth all the arguments he had prepared. His cheeks became flushed as he went on his mild grey eyes filled with tears, and his voice trembled as he spoke the last sentence. They had reached one of those very narrow passes between two tall stones, which performed the office of a stile in Loamshire, and Dinah paused as she turned towards Seth and said, in her tender but calm treble notes, "Seth Bede, I thank you for your love towards me, and if I could think of any man as more than a Christian brother, I think it would be you. But my heart is not free to marry. That is good for other women, and it is a great and a blessed thing to be a wife and mother; but 'as God has distributed to every man, as the Lord hath called every man, so let him walk.' God has called me to minister to others, not to have any joys or sorrows of my own, but to rejoice with them that do rejoice, and to weep with those that weep. He has called me to speak his word, and he has greatly owned my work. It could only be on a very clear showing that I could leave the brethren and sisters at Snowfield, who are favoured with very little of this world's good; where the trees are few, so that a child might count them, and there's very hard living for the poor in the winter. It has been given me to help, to comfort, and strengthen the little flock there and to call in many wanderers; and my soul is filled with these things from my rising up till my lying down. My life is too short, and God's work is too great for me to think of making a home for myself in this world. I've not turned a deaf ear to your words, Seth, for when I saw as your love was given to me, I thought it might be a leading of Providence for me to change my way of life, and that we should be fellow-helpers; and I spread the matter before the Lord. But whenever I tried to fix my mind on marriage, and our living together, other thoughts always came in--the times when I've prayed by the sick and dying, and the happy hours I've had preaching, when my heart was filled with love, and the Word was given to me abundantly. And when I've opened the Bible for direction, I've always lighted on some clear word to tell me where my work lay. I believe what you say, Seth, that you would try to be a help and not a hindrance to my work; but I see that our marriage is not God's will--He draws my heart another way. I desire to live and die without husband or children. I seem to have no room in my soul for wants and fears of my own, it has pleased God to fill my heart so full with the wants and sufferings of his poor people." Seth was unable to reply, and they walked on in silence. At last, as they were nearly at the yard-gate, he said, "Well, Dinah, I must seek for strength to bear it, and to endure as seeing Him who is invisible. But I feel now how weak my faith is. It seems as if, when you are gone, I could never joy in anything any more. I think it's something passing the love of women as I feel for you, for I could be content without your marrying me if I could go and live at Snowfield and be near you. I trusted as the strong love God has given me towards you was a leading for us both; but it seems it was only meant for my trial. Perhaps I feel more for you than I ought to feel for any creature, for I often can't help saying of you what the hymn says-- In darkest shades if she appear, My dawning is begun; She is my soul's bright morning-star, And she my rising sun. That may be wrong, and I am to be taught better. But you wouldn't be displeased with me if things turned out so as I could leave this country and go to live at Snowfield?" "No, Seth; but I counsel you to wait patiently, and not lightly to leave your own country and kindred. Do nothing without the Lord's clear bidding. It's a bleak and barren country there, not like this land of Goshen you've been used to. We mustn't be in a hurry to fix and choose our own lot; we must wait to be guided." "But you'd let me write you a letter, Dinah, if there was anything I wanted to tell you?" "Yes, sure; let me know if you're in any trouble. You'll be continually in my prayers." They had now reached the yard-gate, and Seth said, "I won't go in, Dinah, so farewell." He paused and hesitated after she had given him her hand, and then said, "There's no knowing but what you may see things different after a while. There may be a new leading." "Let us leave that, Seth. It's good to live only a moment at a time, as I've read in one of Mr. Wesley's books. It isn't for you and me to lay plans; we've nothing to do but to obey and to trust. Farewell." Dinah pressed his hand with rather a sad look in her loving eyes, and then passed through the gate, while Seth turned away to walk lingeringly home. But instead of taking the direct road, he chose to turn back along the fields through which he and Dinah had already passed; and I think his blue linen handkerchief was very wet with tears long before he had made up his mind that it was time for him to set his face steadily homewards. He was but three-and-twenty, and had only just learned what it is to love--to love with that adoration which a young man gives to a woman whom he feels to be greater and better than himself. Love of this sort is hardly distinguishable from religious feeling. What deep and worthy love is so, whether of woman or child, or art or music. Our caresses, our tender words, our still rapture under the influence of autumn sunsets, or pillared vistas, or calm majestic statues, or Beethoven symphonies all bring with them the consciousness that they are mere waves and ripples in an unfathomable ocean of love and beauty; our emotion in its keenest moment passes from expression into silence, our love at its highest flood rushes beyond its object and loses itself in the sense of divine mystery. And this blessed gift of venerating love has been given to too many humble craftsmen since the world began for us to feel any surprise that it should have existed in the soul of a Methodist carpenter half a century ago, while there was yet a lingering after-glow from the time when Wesley and his fellow-labourer fed on the hips and haws of the Cornwall hedges, after exhausting limbs and lungs in carrying a divine message to the poor. That afterglow has long faded away; and the picture we are apt to make of Methodism in our imagination is not an amphitheatre of green hills, or the deep shade of broad-leaved sycamores, where a crowd of rough men and weary-hearted women drank in a faith which was a rudimentary culture, which linked their thoughts with the past, lifted their imagination above the sordid details of their own narrow lives, and suffused their souls with the sense of a pitying, loving, infinite Presence, sweet as summer to the houseless needy. It is too possible that to some of my readers Methodism may mean nothing more than low-pitched gables up dingy streets, sleek grocers, sponging preachers, and hypocritical jargon--elements which are regarded as an exhaustive analysis of Methodism in many fashionable quarters. That would be a pity; for I cannot pretend that Seth and Dinah were anything else than Methodists--not indeed of that modern type which reads quarterly reviews and attends in chapels with pillared porticoes, but of a very old-fashioned kind. They believed in present miracles, in instantaneous conversions, in revelations by dreams and visions; they drew lots, and sought for Divine guidance by opening the Bible at hazard; having a literal way of interpreting the Scriptures, which is not at all sanctioned by approved commentators; and it is impossible for me to represent their diction as correct, or their instruction as liberal. Still--if I have read religious history aright--faith, hope, and charity have not always been found in a direct ratio with a sensibility to the three concords, and it is possible--thank Heaven!--to have very erroneous theories and very sublime feelings. The raw bacon which clumsy Molly spares from her own scanty store that she may carry it to her neighbour's child to "stop the fits," may be a piteously inefficacious remedy; but the generous stirring of neighbourly kindness that prompted the deed has a beneficent radiation that is not lost. Considering these things, we can hardly think Dinah and Seth beneath our sympathy, accustomed as we may be to weep over the loftier sorrows of heroines in satin boots and crinoline, and of heroes riding fiery horses, themselves ridden by still more fiery passions. Poor Seth! He was never on horseback in his life except once, when he was a little lad, and Mr. Jonathan Burge took him up behind, telling him to "hold on tight"; and instead of bursting out into wild accusing apostrophes to God and destiny, he is resolving, as he now walks homewards under the solemn starlight, to repress his sadness, to be less bent on having his own will, and to live more for others, as Dinah does. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Die Predigt ist zu Ende und Seth und Dinah gehen im "kühlen Abendlicht" nach Hause. Dinah wirkt gelassen und zufrieden. Seth hingegen ist voller Zweifel und Ängste, weil er sich in Dinah verguckt hat. Bald wird Dinah die Stadt verlassen. Anderswo gibt es Menschen, die ihre Hilfe brauchen. Seth möchte jedoch, dass sie bleibt. Und ihn heiratet. Er verwendet Passagen aus der Bibel, um seinen Standpunkt zu verteidigen, und schließt sein Argument damit ab, dass sie beide "demselben Meister dienen und nach denselben Gaben streben". Immerhin sind sie beide Methodisten. Ist Dinah überzeugt? Nun, um es kurz zu machen, nein. Sie mag Seth nicht unbedingt, hat sich aber dafür entschieden, "leben und sterben ohne Ehemann oder Kinder" und sich Gott und den Armen zu widmen. Leute, gebt ihr einen Applaus. "Lasst uns einfach Freunde bleiben"-Reden werden nicht eloquenter als diese. Aber ist Seth dadurch überzeugt? Ja, ja, das ist er. Dennoch fragt Seth Dinah, ob er ihr auf ihrer Reise folgen kann. Und als Dinah diese Idee ablehnt, fragt er, ob er ihr Briefe und dergleichen schicken kann. Das ist für sie in Ordnung, aber sie möchte nicht, dass er sich zu viele Hoffnungen macht. Das war's mit dem Geschehen, doch der Erzähler hat noch ein paar abschließende Bemerkungen. Seth und Dinah sind keine weltlichen oder Sophistiker. Der Erzähler sagt uns, dass "sie an gegenwärtige Wunder, an sofortige Bekehrungen, an Offenbarungen durch Träume und Visionen glaubten". Aber sie sind ehrliche und gutherzige Menschen. Sie sind Menschen, deren Schwierigkeiten die gleiche Aufmerksamkeit und Sympathie verdienen wie die "leidenschaftlichen Leidenschaften" von Heldinnen und Helden.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: Breakfast eaten and the slim camp-outfit lashed to the sled, the men turned their backs on the cheery fire and launched out into the darkness. At once began to rise the cries that were fiercely sad--cries that called through the darkness and cold to one another and answered back. Conversation ceased. Daylight came at nine o'clock. At midday the sky to the south warmed to rose-colour, and marked where the bulge of the earth intervened between the meridian sun and the northern world. But the rose-colour swiftly faded. The grey light of day that remained lasted until three o'clock, when it, too, faded, and the pall of the Arctic night descended upon the lone and silent land. As darkness came on, the hunting-cries to right and left and rear drew closer--so close that more than once they sent surges of fear through the toiling dogs, throwing them into short-lived panics. At the conclusion of one such panic, when he and Henry had got the dogs back in the traces, Bill said: "I wisht they'd strike game somewheres, an' go away an' leave us alone." "They do get on the nerves horrible," Henry sympathised. They spoke no more until camp was made. Henry was bending over and adding ice to the babbling pot of beans when he was startled by the sound of a blow, an exclamation from Bill, and a sharp snarling cry of pain from among the dogs. He straightened up in time to see a dim form disappearing across the snow into the shelter of the dark. Then he saw Bill, standing amid the dogs, half triumphant, half crestfallen, in one hand a stout club, in the other the tail and part of the body of a sun-cured salmon. "It got half of it," he announced; "but I got a whack at it jes' the same. D'ye hear it squeal?" "What'd it look like?" Henry asked. "Couldn't see. But it had four legs an' a mouth an' hair an' looked like any dog." "Must be a tame wolf, I reckon." "It's damned tame, whatever it is, comin' in here at feedin' time an' gettin' its whack of fish." That night, when supper was finished and they sat on the oblong box and pulled at their pipes, the circle of gleaming eyes drew in even closer than before. "I wisht they'd spring up a bunch of moose or something, an' go away an' leave us alone," Bill said. Henry grunted with an intonation that was not all sympathy, and for a quarter of an hour they sat on in silence, Henry staring at the fire, and Bill at the circle of eyes that burned in the darkness just beyond the firelight. "I wisht we was pullin' into McGurry right now," he began again. "Shut up your wishin' and your croakin'," Henry burst out angrily. "Your stomach's sour. That's what's ailin' you. Swallow a spoonful of sody, an' you'll sweeten up wonderful an' be more pleasant company." In the morning Henry was aroused by fervid blasphemy that proceeded from the mouth of Bill. Henry propped himself up on an elbow and looked to see his comrade standing among the dogs beside the replenished fire, his arms raised in objurgation, his face distorted with passion. "Hello!" Henry called. "What's up now?" "Frog's gone," came the answer. "No." "I tell you yes." Henry leaped out of the blankets and to the dogs. He counted them with care, and then joined his partner in cursing the power of the Wild that had robbed them of another dog. "Frog was the strongest dog of the bunch," Bill pronounced finally. "An' he was no fool dog neither," Henry added. And so was recorded the second epitaph in two days. A gloomy breakfast was eaten, and the four remaining dogs were harnessed to the sled. The day was a repetition of the days that had gone before. The men toiled without speech across the face of the frozen world. The silence was unbroken save by the cries of their pursuers, that, unseen, hung upon their rear. With the coming of night in the mid-afternoon, the cries sounded closer as the pursuers drew in according to their custom; and the dogs grew excited and frightened, and were guilty of panics that tangled the traces and further depressed the two men. "There, that'll fix you fool critters," Bill said with satisfaction that night, standing erect at completion of his task. Henry left the cooking to come and see. Not only had his partner tied the dogs up, but he had tied them, after the Indian fashion, with sticks. About the neck of each dog he had fastened a leather thong. To this, and so close to the neck that the dog could not get his teeth to it, he had tied a stout stick four or five feet in length. The other end of the stick, in turn, was made fast to a stake in the ground by means of a leather thong. The dog was unable to gnaw through the leather at his own end of the stick. The stick prevented him from getting at the leather that fastened the other end. Henry nodded his head approvingly. "It's the only contraption that'll ever hold One Ear," he said. "He can gnaw through leather as clean as a knife an' jes' about half as quick. They all'll be here in the mornin' hunkydory." "You jes' bet they will," Bill affirmed. "If one of em' turns up missin', I'll go without my coffee." "They jes' know we ain't loaded to kill," Henry remarked at bed-time, indicating the gleaming circle that hemmed them in. "If we could put a couple of shots into 'em, they'd be more respectful. They come closer every night. Get the firelight out of your eyes an' look hard--there! Did you see that one?" For some time the two men amused themselves with watching the movement of vague forms on the edge of the firelight. By looking closely and steadily at where a pair of eyes burned in the darkness, the form of the animal would slowly take shape. They could even see these forms move at times. A sound among the dogs attracted the men's attention. One Ear was uttering quick, eager whines, lunging at the length of his stick toward the darkness, and desisting now and again in order to make frantic attacks on the stick with his teeth. "Look at that, Bill," Henry whispered. Full into the firelight, with a stealthy, sidelong movement, glided a doglike animal. It moved with commingled mistrust and daring, cautiously observing the men, its attention fixed on the dogs. One Ear strained the full length of the stick toward the intruder and whined with eagerness. "That fool One Ear don't seem scairt much," Bill said in a low tone. "It's a she-wolf," Henry whispered back, "an' that accounts for Fatty an' Frog. She's the decoy for the pack. She draws out the dog an' then all the rest pitches in an' eats 'm up." The fire crackled. A log fell apart with a loud spluttering noise. At the sound of it the strange animal leaped back into the darkness. "Henry, I'm a-thinkin'," Bill announced. "Thinkin' what?" "I'm a-thinkin' that was the one I lambasted with the club." "Ain't the slightest doubt in the world," was Henry's response. "An' right here I want to remark," Bill went on, "that that animal's familyarity with campfires is suspicious an' immoral." "It knows for certain more'n a self-respectin' wolf ought to know," Henry agreed. "A wolf that knows enough to come in with the dogs at feedin' time has had experiences." "Ol' Villan had a dog once that run away with the wolves," Bill cogitates aloud. "I ought to know. I shot it out of the pack in a moose pasture over 'on Little Stick. An' Ol' Villan cried like a baby. Hadn't seen it for three years, he said. Ben with the wolves all that time." "I reckon you've called the turn, Bill. That wolf's a dog, an' it's eaten fish many's the time from the hand of man." "An if I get a chance at it, that wolf that's a dog'll be jes' meat," Bill declared. "We can't afford to lose no more animals." "But you've only got three cartridges," Henry objected. "I'll wait for a dead sure shot," was the reply. In the morning Henry renewed the fire and cooked breakfast to the accompaniment of his partner's snoring. "You was sleepin' jes' too comfortable for anything," Henry told him, as he routed him out for breakfast. "I hadn't the heart to rouse you." Bill began to eat sleepily. He noticed that his cup was empty and started to reach for the pot. But the pot was beyond arm's length and beside Henry. "Say, Henry," he chided gently, "ain't you forgot somethin'?" Henry looked about with great carefulness and shook his head. Bill held up the empty cup. "You don't get no coffee," Henry announced. "Ain't run out?" Bill asked anxiously. "Nope." "Ain't thinkin' it'll hurt my digestion?" "Nope." A flush of angry blood pervaded Bill's face. "Then it's jes' warm an' anxious I am to be hearin' you explain yourself," he said. "Spanker's gone," Henry answered. Without haste, with the air of one resigned to misfortune Bill turned his head, and from where he sat counted the dogs. "How'd it happen?" he asked apathetically. Henry shrugged his shoulders. "Don't know. Unless One Ear gnawed 'm loose. He couldn't a-done it himself, that's sure." "The darned cuss." Bill spoke gravely and slowly, with no hint of the anger that was raging within. "Jes' because he couldn't chew himself loose, he chews Spanker loose." "Well, Spanker's troubles is over anyway; I guess he's digested by this time an' cavortin' over the landscape in the bellies of twenty different wolves," was Henry's epitaph on this, the latest lost dog. "Have some coffee, Bill." But Bill shook his head. "Go on," Henry pleaded, elevating the pot. Bill shoved his cup aside. "I'll be ding-dong-danged if I do. I said I wouldn't if ary dog turned up missin', an' I won't." "It's darn good coffee," Henry said enticingly. But Bill was stubborn, and he ate a dry breakfast washed down with mumbled curses at One Ear for the trick he had played. "I'll tie 'em up out of reach of each other to-night," Bill said, as they took the trail. They had travelled little more than a hundred yards, when Henry, who was in front, bent down and picked up something with which his snowshoe had collided. It was dark, and he could not see it, but he recognised it by the touch. He flung it back, so that it struck the sled and bounced along until it fetched up on Bill's snowshoes. "Mebbe you'll need that in your business," Henry said. Bill uttered an exclamation. It was all that was left of Spanker--the stick with which he had been tied. "They ate 'm hide an' all," Bill announced. "The stick's as clean as a whistle. They've ate the leather offen both ends. They're damn hungry, Henry, an' they'll have you an' me guessin' before this trip's over." Henry laughed defiantly. "I ain't been trailed this way by wolves before, but I've gone through a whole lot worse an' kept my health. Takes more'n a handful of them pesky critters to do for yours truly, Bill, my son." "I don't know, I don't know," Bill muttered ominously. "Well, you'll know all right when we pull into McGurry." "I ain't feelin' special enthusiastic," Bill persisted. "You're off colour, that's what's the matter with you," Henry dogmatised. "What you need is quinine, an' I'm goin' to dose you up stiff as soon as we make McGurry." Bill grunted his disagreement with the diagnosis, and lapsed into silence. The day was like all the days. Light came at nine o'clock. At twelve o'clock the southern horizon was warmed by the unseen sun; and then began the cold grey of afternoon that would merge, three hours later, into night. It was just after the sun's futile effort to appear, that Bill slipped the rifle from under the sled-lashings and said: "You keep right on, Henry, I'm goin' to see what I can see." "You'd better stick by the sled," his partner protested. "You've only got three cartridges, an' there's no tellin' what might happen." "Who's croaking now?" Bill demanded triumphantly. Henry made no reply, and plodded on alone, though often he cast anxious glances back into the grey solitude where his partner had disappeared. An hour later, taking advantage of the cut-offs around which the sled had to go, Bill arrived. "They're scattered an' rangin' along wide," he said: "keeping up with us an' lookin' for game at the same time. You see, they're sure of us, only they know they've got to wait to get us. In the meantime they're willin' to pick up anything eatable that comes handy." "You mean they _think_ they're sure of us," Henry objected pointedly. But Bill ignored him. "I seen some of them. They're pretty thin. They ain't had a bite in weeks I reckon, outside of Fatty an' Frog an' Spanker; an' there's so many of 'em that that didn't go far. They're remarkable thin. Their ribs is like wash-boards, an' their stomachs is right up against their backbones. They're pretty desperate, I can tell you. They'll be goin' mad, yet, an' then watch out." A few minutes later, Henry, who was now travelling behind the sled, emitted a low, warning whistle. Bill turned and looked, then quietly stopped the dogs. To the rear, from around the last bend and plainly into view, on the very trail they had just covered, trotted a furry, slinking form. Its nose was to the trail, and it trotted with a peculiar, sliding, effortless gait. When they halted, it halted, throwing up its head and regarding them steadily with nostrils that twitched as it caught and studied the scent of them. "It's the she-wolf," Bill answered. The dogs had lain down in the snow, and he walked past them to join his partner in the sled. Together they watched the strange animal that had pursued them for days and that had already accomplished the destruction of half their dog-team. After a searching scrutiny, the animal trotted forward a few steps. This it repeated several times, till it was a short hundred yards away. It paused, head up, close by a clump of spruce trees, and with sight and scent studied the outfit of the watching men. It looked at them in a strangely wistful way, after the manner of a dog; but in its wistfulness there was none of the dog affection. It was a wistfulness bred of hunger, as cruel as its own fangs, as merciless as the frost itself. It was large for a wolf, its gaunt frame advertising the lines of an animal that was among the largest of its kind. "Stands pretty close to two feet an' a half at the shoulders," Henry commented. "An' I'll bet it ain't far from five feet long." "Kind of strange colour for a wolf," was Bill's criticism. "I never seen a red wolf before. Looks almost cinnamon to me." The animal was certainly not cinnamon-coloured. Its coat was the true wolf-coat. The dominant colour was grey, and yet there was to it a faint reddish hue--a hue that was baffling, that appeared and disappeared, that was more like an illusion of the vision, now grey, distinctly grey, and again giving hints and glints of a vague redness of colour not classifiable in terms of ordinary experience. "Looks for all the world like a big husky sled-dog," Bill said. "I wouldn't be s'prised to see it wag its tail." "Hello, you husky!" he called. "Come here, you whatever-your-name-is." "Ain't a bit scairt of you," Henry laughed. Bill waved his hand at it threateningly and shouted loudly; but the animal betrayed no fear. The only change in it that they could notice was an accession of alertness. It still regarded them with the merciless wistfulness of hunger. They were meat, and it was hungry; and it would like to go in and eat them if it dared. "Look here, Henry," Bill said, unconsciously lowering his voice to a whisper because of what he imitated. "We've got three cartridges. But it's a dead shot. Couldn't miss it. It's got away with three of our dogs, an' we oughter put a stop to it. What d'ye say?" Henry nodded his consent. Bill cautiously slipped the gun from under the sled-lashing. The gun was on the way to his shoulder, but it never got there. For in that instant the she-wolf leaped sidewise from the trail into the clump of spruce trees and disappeared. The two men looked at each other. Henry whistled long and comprehendingly. "I might have knowed it," Bill chided himself aloud as he replaced the gun. "Of course a wolf that knows enough to come in with the dogs at feedin' time, 'd know all about shooting-irons. I tell you right now, Henry, that critter's the cause of all our trouble. We'd have six dogs at the present time, 'stead of three, if it wasn't for her. An' I tell you right now, Henry, I'm goin' to get her. She's too smart to be shot in the open. But I'm goin' to lay for her. I'll bushwhack her as sure as my name is Bill." "You needn't stray off too far in doin' it," his partner admonished. "If that pack ever starts to jump you, them three cartridges'd be wuth no more'n three whoops in hell. Them animals is damn hungry, an' once they start in, they'll sure get you, Bill." They camped early that night. Three dogs could not drag the sled so fast nor for so long hours as could six, and they were showing unmistakable signs of playing out. And the men went early to bed, Bill first seeing to it that the dogs were tied out of gnawing-reach of one another. But the wolves were growing bolder, and the men were aroused more than once from their sleep. So near did the wolves approach, that the dogs became frantic with terror, and it was necessary to replenish the fire from time to time in order to keep the adventurous marauders at safer distance. "I've hearn sailors talk of sharks followin' a ship," Bill remarked, as he crawled back into the blankets after one such replenishing of the fire. "Well, them wolves is land sharks. They know their business better'n we do, an' they ain't a-holdin' our trail this way for their health. They're goin' to get us. They're sure goin' to get us, Henry." "They've half got you a'ready, a-talkin' like that," Henry retorted sharply. "A man's half licked when he says he is. An' you're half eaten from the way you're goin' on about it." "They've got away with better men than you an' me," Bill answered. "Oh, shet up your croakin'. You make me all-fired tired." Henry rolled over angrily on his side, but was surprised that Bill made no similar display of temper. This was not Bill's way, for he was easily angered by sharp words. Henry thought long over it before he went to sleep, and as his eyelids fluttered down and he dozed off, the thought in his mind was: "There's no mistakin' it, Bill's almighty blue. I'll have to cheer him up to-morrow." Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze verfassen?

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

Nachdem die Männer ihr Frühstück beendet haben und ihre Ausrüstung auf den Schlitten geladen haben, brechen sie in der Dunkelheit auf, während die Wölfe weiterheulen. Der Sonnenaufgang kommt um neun Uhr morgens und der Himmel erwärmt sich gegen Mittag zu einer rosafarbenen Farbe. Das Licht jedoch verblasst schnell am Nachmittag und es wird wieder dunkel, was die Männer zwingt, anzuhalten. Als das Geheul der Wölfe immer näher an ihr Lager kommt, geraten die Hunde in Panik. Henry bereitet gerade Essen zu, als er ein anderes Geheul von den Hunden hört. Er bemerkt dann einen seltsamen Hund unter seinen eigenen und denkt, dass es vielleicht ein zahmer Wolf ist. Am nächsten Morgen wacht Henry auf und hört Bills Flüche. Ein weiterer Hund, Frog, ist verschwunden. Die Männer frühstücken, spannen die vier Hunde an den Schlitten und fahren los, verfolgt von den Wölfen. Als sie am Abend anhalten, bindet Bill die Hunde so an, dass sie nicht mehr ihre Spuren verwickeln können, und er ist zuversichtlich, dass keiner der Hunde entkommen kann. Gerade dann fängt One Ear an zu jammern. Die Männer sehen das hundeähnliche Tier, die Fähe, die die Hunde weglockt, damit ihr Rudel von ihnen fressen kann. Sie erkennen, dass sie zahm ist und wahrscheinlich Erfahrungen mit Menschen gemacht hat. Am nächsten Morgen ist Spanker verschwunden. Die Männer finden später den Stock, an den Spanker gebunden war, und kommen zu dem Schluss, dass die Wölfe ihn getötet haben. Bill geht, um sich die Wölfe anzusehen, und kommt mit der Nachricht zurück, dass sie sehr dünn und verzweifelt hungrig sind. Sie sehen die Fähe wieder auf sie zukommen. Sie ist über zwei Fuß hoch an der Schulter und fünf Fuß lang, mit einem grauen Wolfspelz, der einen ungewöhnlichen rötlichen Farbton hat. Sie hat keine Angst vor den Männern und beobachtet sie hungrig. Bill ist versucht, seine Waffe zu benutzen, aber Henry rät ihm davon ab und erinnert ihn daran, dass sie nur noch drei Patronen haben. Außerdem ist die Fähe bereits im Wald verschwunden. Die anderen Wölfe werden dreister, während sie sich den Männern nähern, aber die verbleibenden Hunde können sie in Schach halten. Bill hat inzwischen die Hoffnung verloren und ist sicher, dass die Wölfe sie letztendlich überwältigen werden. Als Henry ihn scharf anfährt, bekommt er nicht einmal eine Reaktion von Bill. Henry beschließt, am nächsten Tag zu versuchen, die Stimmung seiner Gefährten zu heben.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: Jimmie and the old woman listened long in the hall. Above the muffled roar of conversation, the dismal wailings of babies at night, the thumping of feet in unseen corridors and rooms, mingled with the sound of varied hoarse shoutings in the street and the rattling of wheels over cobbles, they heard the screams of the child and the roars of the mother die away to a feeble moaning and a subdued bass muttering. The old woman was a gnarled and leathery personage who could don, at will, an expression of great virtue. She possessed a small music-box capable of one tune, and a collection of "God bless yehs" pitched in assorted keys of fervency. Each day she took a position upon the stones of Fifth Avenue, where she crooked her legs under her and crouched immovable and hideous, like an idol. She received daily a small sum in pennies. It was contributed, for the most part, by persons who did not make their homes in that vicinity. Once, when a lady had dropped her purse on the sidewalk, the gnarled woman had grabbed it and smuggled it with great dexterity beneath her cloak. When she was arrested she had cursed the lady into a partial swoon, and with her aged limbs, twisted from rheumatism, had almost kicked the stomach out of a huge policeman whose conduct upon that occasion she referred to when she said: "The police, damn 'em." "Eh, Jimmie, it's cursed shame," she said. "Go, now, like a dear an' buy me a can, an' if yer mudder raises 'ell all night yehs can sleep here." Jimmie took a tendered tin-pail and seven pennies and departed. He passed into the side door of a saloon and went to the bar. Straining up on his toes he raised the pail and pennies as high as his arms would let him. He saw two hands thrust down and take them. Directly the same hands let down the filled pail and he left. In front of the gruesome doorway he met a lurching figure. It was his father, swaying about on uncertain legs. "Give me deh can. See?" said the man, threateningly. "Ah, come off! I got dis can fer dat ol' woman an' it 'ud be dirt teh swipe it. See?" cried Jimmie. The father wrenched the pail from the urchin. He grasped it in both hands and lifted it to his mouth. He glued his lips to the under edge and tilted his head. His hairy throat swelled until it seemed to grow near his chin. There was a tremendous gulping movement and the beer was gone. The man caught his breath and laughed. He hit his son on the head with the empty pail. As it rolled clanging into the street, Jimmie began to scream and kicked repeatedly at his father's shins. "Look at deh dirt what yeh done me," he yelled. "Deh ol' woman 'ill be raisin' hell." He retreated to the middle of the street, but the man did not pursue. He staggered toward the door. "I'll club hell outa yeh when I ketch yeh," he shouted, and disappeared. During the evening he had been standing against a bar drinking whiskies and declaring to all comers, confidentially: "My home reg'lar livin' hell! Damndes' place! Reg'lar hell! Why do I come an' drin' whisk' here thish way? 'Cause home reg'lar livin' hell!" Jimmie waited a long time in the street and then crept warily up through the building. He passed with great caution the door of the gnarled woman, and finally stopped outside his home and listened. He could hear his mother moving heavily about among the furniture of the room. She was chanting in a mournful voice, occasionally interjecting bursts of volcanic wrath at the father, who, Jimmie judged, had sunk down on the floor or in a corner. "Why deh blazes don' chere try teh keep Jim from fightin'? I'll break her jaw," she suddenly bellowed. The man mumbled with drunken indifference. "Ah, wha' deh hell. W'a's odds? Wha' makes kick?" "Because he tears 'is clothes, yeh damn fool," cried the woman in supreme wrath. The husband seemed to become aroused. "Go teh hell," he thundered fiercely in reply. There was a crash against the door and something broke into clattering fragments. Jimmie partially suppressed a howl and darted down the stairway. Below he paused and listened. He heard howls and curses, groans and shrieks, confusingly in chorus as if a battle were raging. With all was the crash of splintering furniture. The eyes of the urchin glared in fear that one of them would discover him. Curious faces appeared in doorways, and whispered comments passed to and fro. "Ol' Johnson's raisin' hell agin." Jimmie stood until the noises ceased and the other inhabitants of the tenement had all yawned and shut their doors. Then he crawled upstairs with the caution of an invader of a panther den. Sounds of labored breathing came through the broken door-panels. He pushed the door open and entered, quaking. A glow from the fire threw red hues over the bare floor, the cracked and soiled plastering, and the overturned and broken furniture. In the middle of the floor lay his mother asleep. In one corner of the room his father's limp body hung across the seat of a chair. The urchin stole forward. He began to shiver in dread of awakening his parents. His mother's great chest was heaving painfully. Jimmie paused and looked down at her. Her face was inflamed and swollen from drinking. Her yellow brows shaded eyelids that had brown blue. Her tangled hair tossed in waves over her forehead. Her mouth was set in the same lines of vindictive hatred that it had, perhaps, borne during the fight. Her bare, red arms were thrown out above her head in positions of exhaustion, something, mayhap, like those of a sated villain. The urchin bended over his mother. He was fearful lest she should open her eyes, and the dread within him was so strong, that he could not forbear to stare, but hung as if fascinated over the woman's grim face. Suddenly her eyes opened. The urchin found himself looking straight into that expression, which, it would seem, had the power to change his blood to salt. He howled piercingly and fell backward. The woman floundered for a moment, tossed her arms about her head as if in combat, and again began to snore. Jimmie crawled back in the shadows and waited. A noise in the next room had followed his cry at the discovery that his mother was awake. He grovelled in the gloom, the eyes from out his drawn face riveted upon the intervening door. He heard it creak, and then the sound of a small voice came to him. "Jimmie! Jimmie! Are yehs dere?" it whispered. The urchin started. The thin, white face of his sister looked at him from the door-way of the other room. She crept to him across the floor. The father had not moved, but lay in the same death-like sleep. The mother writhed in uneasy slumber, her chest wheezing as if she were in the agonies of strangulation. Out at the window a florid moon was peering over dark roofs, and in the distance the waters of a river glimmered pallidly. The small frame of the ragged girl was quivering. Her features were haggard from weeping, and her eyes gleamed from fear. She grasped the urchin's arm in her little trembling hands and they huddled in a corner. The eyes of both were drawn, by some force, to stare at the woman's face, for they thought she need only to awake and all fiends would come from below. They crouched until the ghost-mists of dawn appeared at the window, drawing close to the panes, and looking in at the prostrate, heaving body of the mother. 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.

Jimmie und die alte Frau hören den Kampf, der gerade stattfindet. Sie hören nicht nur die Schreie der Johnsons, sondern auch die der anderen Mieter des Gebäudes. Die alte Frau ist eine Bettlerin. Sie sitzt den ganzen Tag draußen vor dem Gebäude und sammelt Pennies von Leuten, die anderswo leben. Sie „krümmt ihre Beine unter sich und hockt unbeweglich und scheußlich wie eine Götzenstatue“. Einmal ließ eine Frau ihre Geldbörse fallen und die alte Frau griff danach. Als sie erwischt wurde, fluchte sie so heftig, dass die andere Frau in Ohnmacht fiel und dann trat sie dem Polizisten in den Magen. Sie schickt Jimmie los, um ihr einen Eimer Bier zu kaufen. Er geht in eine Bar und lässt den Eimer füllen. Auf dem Rückweg hält ihn sein Vater auf und stiehlt ihm das Bier. Jimmie sagt seinem Vater, dass die alte Frau ihm wehtun wird, weil er ihr Bier verloren hat, aber Mr. Johnson beachtet es nicht und trinkt den ganzen Eimer leer. Mr. Johnson war den ganzen Abend in der Bar und erzählte jedem, der zuhören wollte, dass sein Zuhause die reinste Hölle ist und das der Grund, warum er seine Abende mit Whiskey verbringt. Jimmie schleicht an der Tür der alten Frau vorbei und wartet vor seiner eigenen Tür und lauscht dem Streit seiner Eltern. Sein Vater will wissen, warum seine Mutter so wütend wird, wenn Jimmie kämpft. Ihre Antwort lautet, dass Jimmie seine Kleidung zerreißt. Seine Eltern fangen wieder an zu streiten. Jimmie hockt im Flur. Er hört andere Mieter über den Kampf reden. Schließlich werden seine Eltern ruhig und er schleicht hinein. Seine Mutter schläft. Er ist so fasziniert von ihrer Häßlichkeit, dass er sich an sie heranschleicht und ihr ins Gesicht schaut. Sie öffnet die Augen und er schreit vor Angst. Sie schläft wieder ein und er kriecht zu einem Schlafplatz. Seine Schwester kommt zu ihm. Ihr Vater schläft wie tot. Der „blühende Mond“ scheint über den Dächern. Die beiden Kinder hocken sich hin bis zum Morgengrauen.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: _30 September._--I got home at five o'clock, and found that Godalming and Morris had not only arrived, but had already studied the transcript of the various diaries and letters which Harker and his wonderful wife had made and arranged. Harker had not yet returned from his visit to the carriers' men, of whom Dr. Hennessey had written to me. Mrs. Harker gave us a cup of tea, and I can honestly say that, for the first time since I have lived in it, this old house seemed like _home_. When we had finished, Mrs. Harker said:-- "Dr. Seward, may I ask a favour? I want to see your patient, Mr. Renfield. Do let me see him. What you have said of him in your diary interests me so much!" She looked so appealing and so pretty that I could not refuse her, and there was no possible reason why I should; so I took her with me. When I went into the room, I told the man that a lady would like to see him; to which he simply answered: "Why?" "She is going through the house, and wants to see every one in it," I answered. "Oh, very well," he said; "let her come in, by all means; but just wait a minute till I tidy up the place." His method of tidying was peculiar: he simply swallowed all the flies and spiders in the boxes before I could stop him. It was quite evident that he feared, or was jealous of, some interference. When he had got through his disgusting task, he said cheerfully: "Let the lady come in," and sat down on the edge of his bed with his head down, but with his eyelids raised so that he could see her as she entered. For a moment I thought that he might have some homicidal intent; I remembered how quiet he had been just before he attacked me in my own study, and I took care to stand where I could seize him at once if he attempted to make a spring at her. She came into the room with an easy gracefulness which would at once command the respect of any lunatic--for easiness is one of the qualities mad people most respect. She walked over to him, smiling pleasantly, and held out her hand. "Good-evening, Mr. Renfield," said she. "You see, I know you, for Dr. Seward has told me of you." He made no immediate reply, but eyed her all over intently with a set frown on his face. This look gave way to one of wonder, which merged in doubt; then, to my intense astonishment, he said:-- "You're not the girl the doctor wanted to marry, are you? You can't be, you know, for she's dead." Mrs. Harker smiled sweetly as she replied:-- "Oh no! I have a husband of my own, to whom I was married before I ever saw Dr. Seward, or he me. I am Mrs. Harker." "Then what are you doing here?" "My husband and I are staying on a visit with Dr. Seward." "Then don't stay." "But why not?" I thought that this style of conversation might not be pleasant to Mrs. Harker, any more than it was to me, so I joined in:-- "How did you know I wanted to marry any one?" His reply was simply contemptuous, given in a pause in which he turned his eyes from Mrs. Harker to me, instantly turning them back again:-- "What an asinine question!" "I don't see that at all, Mr. Renfield," said Mrs. Harker, at once championing me. He replied to her with as much courtesy and respect as he had shown contempt to me:-- "You will, of course, understand, Mrs. Harker, that when a man is so loved and honoured as our host is, everything regarding him is of interest in our little community. Dr. Seward is loved not only by his household and his friends, but even by his patients, who, being some of them hardly in mental equilibrium, are apt to distort causes and effects. Since I myself have been an inmate of a lunatic asylum, I cannot but notice that the sophistic tendencies of some of its inmates lean towards the errors of _non causa_ and _ignoratio elenchi_." I positively opened my eyes at this new development. Here was my own pet lunatic--the most pronounced of his type that I had ever met with--talking elemental philosophy, and with the manner of a polished gentleman. I wonder if it was Mrs. Harker's presence which had touched some chord in his memory. If this new phase was spontaneous, or in any way due to her unconscious influence, she must have some rare gift or power. We continued to talk for some time; and, seeing that he was seemingly quite reasonable, she ventured, looking at me questioningly as she began, to lead him to his favourite topic. I was again astonished, for he addressed himself to the question with the impartiality of the completest sanity; he even took himself as an example when he mentioned certain things. "Why, I myself am an instance of a man who had a strange belief. Indeed, it was no wonder that my friends were alarmed, and insisted on my being put under control. I used to fancy that life was a positive and perpetual entity, and that by consuming a multitude of live things, no matter how low in the scale of creation, one might indefinitely prolong life. At times I held the belief so strongly that I actually tried to take human life. The doctor here will bear me out that on one occasion I tried to kill him for the purpose of strengthening my vital powers by the assimilation with my own body of his life through the medium of his blood--relying, of course, upon the Scriptural phrase, 'For the blood is the life.' Though, indeed, the vendor of a certain nostrum has vulgarised the truism to the very point of contempt. Isn't that true, doctor?" I nodded assent, for I was so amazed that I hardly knew what to either think or say; it was hard to imagine that I had seen him eat up his spiders and flies not five minutes before. Looking at my watch, I saw that I should go to the station to meet Van Helsing, so I told Mrs. Harker that it was time to leave. She came at once, after saying pleasantly to Mr. Renfield: "Good-bye, and I hope I may see you often, under auspices pleasanter to yourself," to which, to my astonishment, he replied:-- "Good-bye, my dear. I pray God I may never see your sweet face again. May He bless and keep you!" When I went to the station to meet Van Helsing I left the boys behind me. Poor Art seemed more cheerful than he has been since Lucy first took ill, and Quincey is more like his own bright self than he has been for many a long day. Van Helsing stepped from the carriage with the eager nimbleness of a boy. He saw me at once, and rushed up to me, saying:-- "Ah, friend John, how goes all? Well? So! I have been busy, for I come here to stay if need be. All affairs are settled with me, and I have much to tell. Madam Mina is with you? Yes. And her so fine husband? And Arthur and my friend Quincey, they are with you, too? Good!" As I drove to the house I told him of what had passed, and of how my own diary had come to be of some use through Mrs. Harker's suggestion; at which the Professor interrupted me:-- "Ah, that wonderful Madam Mina! She has man's brain--a brain that a man should have were he much gifted--and a woman's heart. The good God fashioned her for a purpose, believe me, when He made that so good combination. Friend John, up to now fortune has made that woman of help to us; after to-night she must not have to do with this so terrible affair. It is not good that she run a risk so great. We men are determined--nay, are we not pledged?--to destroy this monster; but it is no part for a woman. Even if she be not harmed, her heart may fail her in so much and so many horrors; and hereafter she may suffer--both in waking, from her nerves, and in sleep, from her dreams. And, besides, she is young woman and not so long married; there may be other things to think of some time, if not now. You tell me she has wrote all, then she must consult with us; but to-morrow she say good-bye to this work, and we go alone." I agreed heartily with him, and then I told him what we had found in his absence: that the house which Dracula had bought was the very next one to my own. He was amazed, and a great concern seemed to come on him. "Oh that we had known it before!" he said, "for then we might have reached him in time to save poor Lucy. However, 'the milk that is spilt cries not out afterwards,' as you say. We shall not think of that, but go on our way to the end." Then he fell into a silence that lasted till we entered my own gateway. Before we went to prepare for dinner he said to Mrs. Harker:-- "I am told, Madam Mina, by my friend John that you and your husband have put up in exact order all things that have been, up to this moment." "Not up to this moment, Professor," she said impulsively, "but up to this morning." "But why not up to now? We have seen hitherto how good light all the little things have made. We have told our secrets, and yet no one who has told is the worse for it." Mrs. Harker began to blush, and taking a paper from her pockets, she said:-- "Dr. Van Helsing, will you read this, and tell me if it must go in. It is my record of to-day. I too have seen the need of putting down at present everything, however trivial; but there is little in this except what is personal. Must it go in?" The Professor read it over gravely, and handed it back, saying:-- "It need not go in if you do not wish it; but I pray that it may. It can but make your husband love you the more, and all us, your friends, more honour you--as well as more esteem and love." She took it back with another blush and a bright smile. And so now, up to this very hour, all the records we have are complete and in order. The Professor took away one copy to study after dinner, and before our meeting, which is fixed for nine o'clock. The rest of us have already read everything; so when we meet in the study we shall all be informed as to facts, and can arrange our plan of battle with this terrible and mysterious enemy. _Mina Harker's Journal._ _30 September._--When we met in Dr. Seward's study two hours after dinner, which had been at six o'clock, we unconsciously formed a sort of board or committee. Professor Van Helsing took the head of the table, to which Dr. Seward motioned him as he came into the room. He made me sit next to him on his right, and asked me to act as secretary; Jonathan sat next to me. Opposite us were Lord Godalming, Dr. Seward, and Mr. Morris--Lord Godalming being next the Professor, and Dr. Seward in the centre. The Professor said:-- "I may, I suppose, take it that we are all acquainted with the facts that are in these papers." We all expressed assent, and he went on:-- "Then it were, I think good that I tell you something of the kind of enemy with which we have to deal. I shall then make known to you something of the history of this man, which has been ascertained for me. So we then can discuss how we shall act, and can take our measure according. "There are such beings as vampires; some of us have evidence that they exist. Even had we not the proof of our own unhappy experience, the teachings and the records of the past give proof enough for sane peoples. I admit that at the first I was sceptic. Were it not that through long years I have train myself to keep an open mind, I could not have believe until such time as that fact thunder on my ear. 'See! see! I prove; I prove.' Alas! Had I known at the first what now I know--nay, had I even guess at him--one so precious life had been spared to many of us who did love her. But that is gone; and we must so work, that other poor souls perish not, whilst we can save. The _nosferatu_ do not die like the bee when he sting once. He is only stronger; and being stronger, have yet more power to work evil. This vampire which is amongst us is of himself so strong in person as twenty men; he is of cunning more than mortal, for his cunning be the growth of ages; he have still the aids of necromancy, which is, as his etymology imply, the divination by the dead, and all the dead that he can come nigh to are for him at command; he is brute, and more than brute; he is devil in callous, and the heart of him is not; he can, within limitations, appear at will when, and where, and in any of the forms that are to him; he can, within his range, direct the elements; the storm, the fog, the thunder; he can command all the meaner things: the rat, and the owl, and the bat--the moth, and the fox, and the wolf; he can grow and become small; and he can at times vanish and come unknown. How then are we to begin our strike to destroy him? How shall we find his where; and having found it, how can we destroy? My friends, this is much; it is a terrible task that we undertake, and there may be consequence to make the brave shudder. For if we fail in this our fight he must surely win; and then where end we? Life is nothings; I heed him not. But to fail here, is not mere life or death. It is that we become as him; that we henceforward become foul things of the night like him--without heart or conscience, preying on the bodies and the souls of those we love best. To us for ever are the gates of heaven shut; for who shall open them to us again? We go on for all time abhorred by all; a blot on the face of God's sunshine; an arrow in the side of Him who died for man. But we are face to face with duty; and in such case must we shrink? For me, I say, no; but then I am old, and life, with his sunshine, his fair places, his song of birds, his music and his love, lie far behind. You others are young. Some have seen sorrow; but there are fair days yet in store. What say you?" Whilst he was speaking, Jonathan had taken my hand. I feared, oh so much, that the appalling nature of our danger was overcoming him when I saw his hand stretch out; but it was life to me to feel its touch--so strong, so self-reliant, so resolute. A brave man's hand can speak for itself; it does not even need a woman's love to hear its music. When the Professor had done speaking my husband looked in my eyes, and I in his; there was no need for speaking between us. "I answer for Mina and myself," he said. "Count me in, Professor," said Mr. Quincey Morris, laconically as usual. "I am with you," said Lord Godalming, "for Lucy's sake, if for no other reason." Dr. Seward simply nodded. The Professor stood up and, after laying his golden crucifix on the table, held out his hand on either side. I took his right hand, and Lord Godalming his left; Jonathan held my right with his left and stretched across to Mr. Morris. So as we all took hands our solemn compact was made. I felt my heart icy cold, but it did not even occur to me to draw back. We resumed our places, and Dr. Van Helsing went on with a sort of cheerfulness which showed that the serious work had begun. It was to be taken as gravely, and in as businesslike a way, as any other transaction of life:-- "Well, you know what we have to contend against; but we, too, are not without strength. We have on our side power of combination--a power denied to the vampire kind; we have sources of science; we are free to act and think; and the hours of the day and the night are ours equally. In fact, so far as our powers extend, they are unfettered, and we are free to use them. We have self-devotion in a cause, and an end to achieve which is not a selfish one. These things are much. "Now let us see how far the general powers arrayed against us are restrict, and how the individual cannot. In fine, let us consider the limitations of the vampire in general, and of this one in particular. "All we have to go upon are traditions and superstitions. These do not at the first appear much, when the matter is one of life and death--nay of more than either life or death. Yet must we be satisfied; in the first place because we have to be--no other means is at our control--and secondly, because, after all, these things--tradition and superstition--are everything. Does not the belief in vampires rest for others--though not, alas! for us--on them? A year ago which of us would have received such a possibility, in the midst of our scientific, sceptical, matter-of-fact nineteenth century? We even scouted a belief that we saw justified under our very eyes. Take it, then, that the vampire, and the belief in his limitations and his cure, rest for the moment on the same base. For, let me tell you, he is known everywhere that men have been. In old Greece, in old Rome; he flourish in Germany all over, in France, in India, even in the Chernosese; and in China, so far from us in all ways, there even is he, and the peoples fear him at this day. He have follow the wake of the berserker Icelander, the devil-begotten Hun, the Slav, the Saxon, the Magyar. So far, then, we have all we may act upon; and let me tell you that very much of the beliefs are justified by what we have seen in our own so unhappy experience. The vampire live on, and cannot die by mere passing of the time; he can flourish when that he can fatten on the blood of the living. Even more, we have seen amongst us that he can even grow younger; that his vital faculties grow strenuous, and seem as though they refresh themselves when his special pabulum is plenty. But he cannot flourish without this diet; he eat not as others. Even friend Jonathan, who lived with him for weeks, did never see him to eat, never! He throws no shadow; he make in the mirror no reflect, as again Jonathan observe. He has the strength of many of his hand--witness again Jonathan when he shut the door against the wolfs, and when he help him from the diligence too. He can transform himself to wolf, as we gather from the ship arrival in Whitby, when he tear open the dog; he can be as bat, as Madam Mina saw him on the window at Whitby, and as friend John saw him fly from this so near house, and as my friend Quincey saw him at the window of Miss Lucy. He can come in mist which he create--that noble ship's captain proved him of this; but, from what we know, the distance he can make this mist is limited, and it can only be round himself. He come on moonlight rays as elemental dust--as again Jonathan saw those sisters in the castle of Dracula. He become so small--we ourselves saw Miss Lucy, ere she was at peace, slip through a hairbreadth space at the tomb door. He can, when once he find his way, come out from anything or into anything, no matter how close it be bound or even fused up with fire--solder you call it. He can see in the dark--no small power this, in a world which is one half shut from the light. Ah, but hear me through. He can do all these things, yet he is not free. Nay; he is even more prisoner than the slave of the galley, than the madman in his cell. He cannot go where he lists; he who is not of nature has yet to obey some of nature's laws--why we know not. He may not enter anywhere at the first, unless there be some one of the household who bid him to come; though afterwards he can come as he please. His power ceases, as does that of all evil things, at the coming of the day. Only at certain times can he have limited freedom. If he be not at the place whither he is bound, he can only change himself at noon or at exact sunrise or sunset. These things are we told, and in this record of ours we have proof by inference. Thus, whereas he can do as he will within his limit, when he have his earth-home, his coffin-home, his hell-home, the place unhallowed, as we saw when he went to the grave of the suicide at Whitby; still at other time he can only change when the time come. It is said, too, that he can only pass running water at the slack or the flood of the tide. Then there are things which so afflict him that he has no power, as the garlic that we know of; and as for things sacred, as this symbol, my crucifix, that was amongst us even now when we resolve, to them he is nothing, but in their presence he take his place far off and silent with respect. There are others, too, which I shall tell you of, lest in our seeking we may need them. The branch of wild rose on his coffin keep him that he move not from it; a sacred bullet fired into the coffin kill him so that he be true dead; and as for the stake through him, we know already of its peace; or the cut-off head that giveth rest. We have seen it with our eyes. "Thus when we find the habitation of this man-that-was, we can confine him to his coffin and destroy him, if we obey what we know. But he is clever. I have asked my friend Arminius, of Buda-Pesth University, to make his record; and, from all the means that are, he tell me of what he has been. He must, indeed, have been that Voivode Dracula who won his name against the Turk, over the great river on the very frontier of Turkey-land. If it be so, then was he no common man; for in that time, and for centuries after, he was spoken of as the cleverest and the most cunning, as well as the bravest of the sons of the 'land beyond the forest.' That mighty brain and that iron resolution went with him to his grave, and are even now arrayed against us. The Draculas were, says Arminius, a great and noble race, though now and again were scions who were held by their coevals to have had dealings with the Evil One. They learned his secrets in the Scholomance, amongst the mountains over Lake Hermanstadt, where the devil claims the tenth scholar as his due. In the records are such words as 'stregoica'--witch, 'ordog,' and 'pokol'--Satan and hell; and in one manuscript this very Dracula is spoken of as 'wampyr,' which we all understand too well. There have been from the loins of this very one great men and good women, and their graves make sacred the earth where alone this foulness can dwell. For it is not the least of its terrors that this evil thing is rooted deep in all good; in soil barren of holy memories it cannot rest." Whilst they were talking Mr. Morris was looking steadily at the window, and he now got up quietly, and went out of the room. There was a little pause, and then the Professor went on:-- "And now we must settle what we do. We have here much data, and we must proceed to lay out our campaign. We know from the inquiry of Jonathan that from the castle to Whitby came fifty boxes of earth, all of which were delivered at Carfax; we also know that at least some of these boxes have been removed. It seems to me, that our first step should be to ascertain whether all the rest remain in the house beyond that wall where we look to-day; or whether any more have been removed. If the latter, we must trace----" Here we were interrupted in a very startling way. Outside the house came the sound of a pistol-shot; the glass of the window was shattered with a bullet, which, ricochetting from the top of the embrasure, struck the far wall of the room. I am afraid I am at heart a coward, for I shrieked out. The men all jumped to their feet; Lord Godalming flew over to the window and threw up the sash. As he did so we heard Mr. Morris's voice without:-- "Sorry! I fear I have alarmed you. I shall come in and tell you about it." A minute later he came in and said:-- "It was an idiotic thing of me to do, and I ask your pardon, Mrs. Harker, most sincerely; I fear I must have frightened you terribly. But the fact is that whilst the Professor was talking there came a big bat and sat on the window-sill. I have got such a horror of the damned brutes from recent events that I cannot stand them, and I went out to have a shot, as I have been doing of late of evenings, whenever I have seen one. You used to laugh at me for it then, Art." "Did you hit it?" asked Dr. Van Helsing. "I don't know; I fancy not, for it flew away into the wood." Without saying any more he took his seat, and the Professor began to resume his statement:-- "We must trace each of these boxes; and when we are ready, we must either capture or kill this monster in his lair; or we must, so to speak, sterilise the earth, so that no more he can seek safety in it. Thus in the end we may find him in his form of man between the hours of noon and sunset, and so engage with him when he is at his most weak. "And now for you, Madam Mina, this night is the end until all be well. You are too precious to us to have such risk. When we part to-night, you no more must question. We shall tell you all in good time. We are men and are able to bear; but you must be our star and our hope, and we shall act all the more free that you are not in the danger, such as we are." All the men, even Jonathan, seemed relieved; but it did not seem to me good that they should brave danger and, perhaps, lessen their safety--strength being the best safety--through care of me; but their minds were made up, and, though it was a bitter pill for me to swallow, I could say nothing, save to accept their chivalrous care of me. Mr. Morris resumed the discussion:-- "As there is no time to lose, I vote we have a look at his house right now. Time is everything with him; and swift action on our part may save another victim." I own that my heart began to fail me when the time for action came so close, but I did not say anything, for I had a greater fear that if I appeared as a drag or a hindrance to their work, they might even leave me out of their counsels altogether. They have now gone off to Carfax, with means to get into the house. Manlike, they had told me to go to bed and sleep; as if a woman can sleep when those she loves are in danger! I shall lie down and pretend to sleep, lest Jonathan have added anxiety about me when he returns. _Dr. Seward's Diary._ _1 October, 4 a. m._--Just as we were about to leave the house, an urgent message was brought to me from Renfield to know if I would see him at once, as he had something of the utmost importance to say to me. I told the messenger to say that I would attend to his wishes in the morning; I was busy just at the moment. The attendant added:-- "He seems very importunate, sir. I have never seen him so eager. I don't know but what, if you don't see him soon, he will have one of his violent fits." I knew the man would not have said this without some cause, so I said: "All right; I'll go now"; and I asked the others to wait a few minutes for me, as I had to go and see my "patient." "Take me with you, friend John," said the Professor. "His case in your diary interest me much, and it had bearing, too, now and again on _our_ case. I should much like to see him, and especial when his mind is disturbed." "May I come also?" asked Lord Godalming. "Me too?" said Quincey Morris. "May I come?" said Harker. I nodded, and we all went down the passage together. We found him in a state of considerable excitement, but far more rational in his speech and manner than I had ever seen him. There was an unusual understanding of himself, which was unlike anything I had ever met with in a lunatic; and he took it for granted that his reasons would prevail with others entirely sane. We all four went into the room, but none of the others at first said anything. His request was that I would at once release him from the asylum and send him home. This he backed up with arguments regarding his complete recovery, and adduced his own existing sanity. "I appeal to your friends," he said, "they will, perhaps, not mind sitting in judgment on my case. By the way, you have not introduced me." I was so much astonished, that the oddness of introducing a madman in an asylum did not strike me at the moment; and, besides, there was a certain dignity in the man's manner, so much of the habit of equality, that I at once made the introduction: "Lord Godalming; Professor Van Helsing; Mr. Quincey Morris, of Texas; Mr. Renfield." He shook hands with each of them, saying in turn:-- "Lord Godalming, I had the honour of seconding your father at the Windham; I grieve to know, by your holding the title, that he is no more. He was a man loved and honoured by all who knew him; and in his youth was, I have heard, the inventor of a burnt rum punch, much patronised on Derby night. Mr. Morris, you should be proud of your great state. Its reception into the Union was a precedent which may have far-reaching effects hereafter, when the Pole and the Tropics may hold alliance to the Stars and Stripes. The power of Treaty may yet prove a vast engine of enlargement, when the Monroe doctrine takes its true place as a political fable. What shall any man say of his pleasure at meeting Van Helsing? Sir, I make no apology for dropping all forms of conventional prefix. When an individual has revolutionised therapeutics by his discovery of the continuous evolution of brain-matter, conventional forms are unfitting, since they would seem to limit him to one of a class. You, gentlemen, who by nationality, by heredity, or by the possession of natural gifts, are fitted to hold your respective places in the moving world, I take to witness that I am as sane as at least the majority of men who are in full possession of their liberties. And I am sure that you, Dr. Seward, humanitarian and medico-jurist as well as scientist, will deem it a moral duty to deal with me as one to be considered as under exceptional circumstances." He made this last appeal with a courtly air of conviction which was not without its own charm. I think we were all staggered. For my own part, I was under the conviction, despite my knowledge of the man's character and history, that his reason had been restored; and I felt under a strong impulse to tell him that I was satisfied as to his sanity, and would see about the necessary formalities for his release in the morning. I thought it better to wait, however, before making so grave a statement, for of old I knew the sudden changes to which this particular patient was liable. So I contented myself with making a general statement that he appeared to be improving very rapidly; that I would have a longer chat with him in the morning, and would then see what I could do in the direction of meeting his wishes. This did not at all satisfy him, for he said quickly:-- "But I fear, Dr. Seward, that you hardly apprehend my wish. I desire to go at once--here--now--this very hour--this very moment, if I may. Time presses, and in our implied agreement with the old scytheman it is of the essence of the contract. I am sure it is only necessary to put before so admirable a practitioner as Dr. Seward so simple, yet so momentous a wish, to ensure its fulfilment." He looked at me keenly, and seeing the negative in my face, turned to the others, and scrutinised them closely. Not meeting any sufficient response, he went on:-- "Is it possible that I have erred in my supposition?" "You have," I said frankly, but at the same time, as I felt, brutally. There was a considerable pause, and then he said slowly:-- "Then I suppose I must only shift my ground of request. Let me ask for this concession--boon, privilege, what you will. I am content to implore in such a case, not on personal grounds, but for the sake of others. I am not at liberty to give you the whole of my reasons; but you may, I assure you, take it from me that they are good ones, sound and unselfish, and spring from the highest sense of duty. Could you look, sir, into my heart, you would approve to the full the sentiments which animate me. Nay, more, you would count me amongst the best and truest of your friends." Again he looked at us all keenly. I had a growing conviction that this sudden change of his entire intellectual method was but yet another form or phase of his madness, and so determined to let him go on a little longer, knowing from experience that he would, like all lunatics, give himself away in the end. Van Helsing was gazing at him with a look of utmost intensity, his bushy eyebrows almost meeting with the fixed concentration of his look. He said to Renfield in a tone which did not surprise me at the time, but only when I thought of it afterwards--for it was as of one addressing an equal:-- "Can you not tell frankly your real reason for wishing to be free to-night? I will undertake that if you will satisfy even me--a stranger, without prejudice, and with the habit of keeping an open mind--Dr. Seward will give you, at his own risk and on his own responsibility, the privilege you seek." He shook his head sadly, and with a look of poignant regret on his face. The Professor went on:-- "Come, sir, bethink yourself. You claim the privilege of reason in the highest degree, since you seek to impress us with your complete reasonableness. You do this, whose sanity we have reason to doubt, since you are not yet released from medical treatment for this very defect. If you will not help us in our effort to choose the wisest course, how can we perform the duty which you yourself put upon us? Be wise, and help us; and if we can we shall aid you to achieve your wish." He still shook his head as he said:-- "Dr. Van Helsing, I have nothing to say. Your argument is complete, and if I were free to speak I should not hesitate a moment; but I am not my own master in the matter. I can only ask you to trust me. If I am refused, the responsibility does not rest with me." I thought it was now time to end the scene, which was becoming too comically grave, so I went towards the door, simply saying:-- "Come, my friends, we have work to do. Good-night." As, however, I got near the door, a new change came over the patient. He moved towards me so quickly that for the moment I feared that he was about to make another homicidal attack. My fears, however, were groundless, for he held up his two hands imploringly, and made his petition in a moving manner. As he saw that the very excess of his emotion was militating against him, by restoring us more to our old relations, he became still more demonstrative. I glanced at Van Helsing, and saw my conviction reflected in his eyes; so I became a little more fixed in my manner, if not more stern, and motioned to him that his efforts were unavailing. I had previously seen something of the same constantly growing excitement in him when he had to make some request of which at the time he had thought much, such, for instance, as when he wanted a cat; and I was prepared to see the collapse into the same sullen acquiescence on this occasion. My expectation was not realised, for, when he found that his appeal would not be successful, he got into quite a frantic condition. He threw himself on his knees, and held up his hands, wringing them in plaintive supplication, and poured forth a torrent of entreaty, with the tears rolling down his cheeks, and his whole face and form expressive of the deepest emotion:-- "Let me entreat you, Dr. Seward, oh, let me implore you, to let me out of this house at once. Send me away how you will and where you will; send keepers with me with whips and chains; let them take me in a strait-waistcoat, manacled and leg-ironed, even to a gaol; but let me go out of this. You don't know what you do by keeping me here. I am speaking from the depths of my heart--of my very soul. You don't know whom you wrong, or how; and I may not tell. Woe is me! I may not tell. By all you hold sacred--by all you hold dear--by your love that is lost--by your hope that lives--for the sake of the Almighty, take me out of this and save my soul from guilt! Can't you hear me, man? Can't you understand? Will you never learn? Don't you know that I am sane and earnest now; that I am no lunatic in a mad fit, but a sane man fighting for his soul? Oh, hear me! hear me! Let me go! let me go! let me go!" I thought that the longer this went on the wilder he would get, and so would bring on a fit; so I took him by the hand and raised him up. "Come," I said sternly, "no more of this; we have had quite enough already. Get to your bed and try to behave more discreetly." He suddenly stopped and looked at me intently for several moments. Then, without a word, he rose and moving over, sat down on the side of the bed. The collapse had come, as on former occasion, just as I had expected. When I was leaving the room, last of our party, he said to me in a quiet, well-bred voice:-- "You will, I trust, Dr. Seward, do me the justice to bear in mind, later on, that I did what I could to convince you to-night." Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze verfassen?

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Das Tagebuch von Dr. Seward setzt seine Aufzeichnungen fort. Er geht die Abschriften der Tagebücher und Briefe von Jonathan und Mina Harker durch. Mina betritt den Raum und bittet darum, Renfield sehen zu können. Renfield spricht mit ihr wie ein gepflegter Herr. Van Helsing kommt herein und ist gespannt auf die Ergebnisse der Verfolgung von Dracula. Sie diskutieren Möglichkeiten, wie man Dracula besiegen kann. Renfield verlangt, Dr. Seward zu sehen. Van Helsing, Arthur und Dr. Seward gehen, um ihn zu treffen. Renfield fleht darum, freigelassen zu werden, und sagt, dass er sonst nicht für die Folgen verantwortlich gemacht werden könne.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: SANSARA For a long time, Siddhartha had lived the life of the world and of lust, though without being a part of it. His senses, which he had killed off in hot years as a Samana, had awoken again, he had tasted riches, had tasted lust, had tasted power; nevertheless he had still remained in his heart for a long time a Samana; Kamala, being smart, had realized this quite right. It was still the art of thinking, of waiting, of fasting, which guided his life; still the people of the world, the childlike people, had remained alien to him as he was alien to them. Years passed by; surrounded by the good life, Siddhartha hardly felt them fading away. He had become rich, for quite a while he possessed a house of his own and his own servants, and a garden before the city by the river. The people liked him, they came to him, whenever they needed money or advice, but there was nobody close to him, except Kamala. That high, bright state of being awake, which he had experienced that one time at the height of his youth, in those days after Gotama's sermon, after the separation from Govinda, that tense expectation, that proud state of standing alone without teachings and without teachers, that supple willingness to listen to the divine voice in his own heart, had slowly become a memory, had been fleeting; distant and quiet, the holy source murmured, which used to be near, which used to murmur within himself. Nevertheless, many things he had learned from the Samanas, he had learned from Gotama, he had learned from his father the Brahman, had remained within him for a long time afterwards: moderate living, joy of thinking, hours of meditation, secret knowledge of the self, of his eternal entity, which is neither body nor consciousness. Many a part of this he still had, but one part after another had been submerged and had gathered dust. Just as a potter's wheel, once it has been set in motion, will keep on turning for a long time and only slowly lose its vigour and come to a stop, thus Siddhartha's soul had kept on turning the wheel of asceticism, the wheel of thinking, the wheel of differentiation for a long time, still turning, but it turned slowly and hesitantly and was close to coming to a standstill. Slowly, like humidity entering the dying stem of a tree, filling it slowly and making it rot, the world and sloth had entered Siddhartha's soul, slowly it filled his soul, made it heavy, made it tired, put it to sleep. On the other hand, his senses had become alive, there was much they had learned, much they had experienced. Siddhartha had learned to trade, to use his power over people, to enjoy himself with a woman, he had learned to wear beautiful clothes, to give orders to servants, to bathe in perfumed waters. He had learned to eat tenderly and carefully prepared food, even fish, even meat and poultry, spices and sweets, and to drink wine, which causes sloth and forgetfulness. He had learned to play with dice and on a chess-board, to watch dancing girls, to have himself carried about in a sedan-chair, to sleep on a soft bed. But still he had felt different from and superior to the others; always he had watched them with some mockery, some mocking disdain, with the same disdain which a Samana constantly feels for the people of the world. When Kamaswami was ailing, when he was annoyed, when he felt insulted, when he was vexed by his worries as a merchant, Siddhartha had always watched it with mockery. Just slowly and imperceptibly, as the harvest seasons and rainy seasons passed by, his mockery had become more tired, his superiority had become more quiet. Just slowly, among his growing riches, Siddhartha had assumed something of the childlike people's ways for himself, something of their childlikeness and of their fearfulness. And yet, he envied them, envied them just the more, the more similar he became to them. He envied them for the one thing that was missing from him and that they had, the importance they were able to attach to their lives, the amount of passion in their joys and fears, the fearful but sweet happiness of being constantly in love. These people were all of the time in love with themselves, with women, with their children, with honours or money, with plans or hopes. But he did not learn this from them, this out of all things, this joy of a child and this foolishness of a child; he learned from them out of all things the unpleasant ones, which he himself despised. It happened more and more often that, in the morning after having had company the night before, he stayed in bed for a long time, felt unable to think and tired. It happened that he became angry and impatient, when Kamaswami bored him with his worries. It happened that he laughed just too loud, when he lost a game of dice. His face was still smarter and more spiritual than others, but it rarely laughed, and assumed, one after another, those features which are so often found in the faces of rich people, those features of discontent, of sickliness, of ill-humour, of sloth, of a lack of love. Slowly the disease of the soul, which rich people have, grabbed hold of him. Like a veil, like a thin mist, tiredness came over Siddhartha, slowly, getting a bit denser every day, a bit murkier every month, a bit heavier every year. As a new dress becomes old in time, loses its beautiful colour in time, gets stains, gets wrinkles, gets worn off at the seams, and starts to show threadbare spots here and there, thus Siddhartha's new life, which he had started after his separation from Govinda, had grown old, lost colour and splendour as the years passed by, was gathering wrinkles and stains, and hidden at bottom, already showing its ugliness here and there, disappointment and disgust were waiting. Siddhartha did not notice it. He only noticed that this bright and reliable voice inside of him, which had awoken in him at that time and had ever guided him in his best times, had become silent. He had been captured by the world, by lust, covetousness, sloth, and finally also by that vice which he had used to despise and mock the most as the most foolish one of all vices: greed. Property, possessions, and riches also had finally captured him; they were no longer a game and trifles to him, had become a shackle and a burden. On a strange and devious way, Siddhartha had gotten into this final and most base of all dependencies, by means of the game of dice. It was since that time, when he had stopped being a Samana in his heart, that Siddhartha began to play the game for money and precious things, which he at other times only joined with a smile and casually as a custom of the childlike people, with an increasing rage and passion. He was a feared gambler, few dared to take him on, so high and audacious were his stakes. He played the game due to a pain of his heart, losing and wasting his wretched money in the game brought him an angry joy, in no other way he could demonstrate his disdain for wealth, the merchants' false god, more clearly and more mockingly. Thus he gambled with high stakes and mercilessly, hating himself, mocking himself, won thousands, threw away thousands, lost money, lost jewelry, lost a house in the country, won again, lost again. That fear, that terrible and petrifying fear, which he felt while he was rolling the dice, while he was worried about losing high stakes, that fear he loved and sought to always renew it, always increase it, always get it to a slightly higher level, for in this feeling alone he still felt something like happiness, something like an intoxication, something like an elevated form of life in the midst of his saturated, lukewarm, dull life. And after each big loss, his mind was set on new riches, pursued the trade more zealously, forced his debtors more strictly to pay, because he wanted to continue gambling, he wanted to continue squandering, continue demonstrating his disdain of wealth. Siddhartha lost his calmness when losses occurred, lost his patience when he was not payed on time, lost his kindness towards beggars, lost his disposition for giving away and loaning money to those who petitioned him. He, who gambled away tens of thousands at one roll of the dice and laughed at it, became more strict and more petty in his business, occasionally dreaming at night about money! And whenever he woke up from this ugly spell, whenever he found his face in the mirror at the bedroom's wall to have aged and become more ugly, whenever embarrassment and disgust came over him, he continued fleeing, fleeing into a new game, fleeing into a numbing of his mind brought on by sex, by wine, and from there he fled back into the urge to pile up and obtain possessions. In this pointless cycle he ran, growing tired, growing old, growing ill. Then the time came when a dream warned him. He had spend the hours of the evening with Kamala, in her beautiful pleasure-garden. They had been sitting under the trees, talking, and Kamala had said thoughtful words, words behind which a sadness and tiredness lay hidden. She had asked him to tell her about Gotama, and could not hear enough of him, how clear his eyes, how still and beautiful his mouth, how kind his smile, how peaceful his walk had been. For a long time, he had to tell her about the exalted Buddha, and Kamala had sighed and had said: "One day, perhaps soon, I'll also follow that Buddha. I'll give him my pleasure-garden for a gift and take my refuge in his teachings." But after this, she had aroused him, and had tied him to her in the act of making love with painful fervour, biting and in tears, as if, once more, she wanted to squeeze the last sweet drop out of this vain, fleeting pleasure. Never before, it had become so strangely clear to Siddhartha, how closely lust was akin to death. Then he had lain by her side, and Kamala's face had been close to him, and under her eyes and next to the corners of her mouth he had, as clearly as never before, read a fearful inscription, an inscription of small lines, of slight grooves, an inscription reminiscent of autumn and old age, just as Siddhartha himself, who was only in his forties, had already noticed, here and there, gray hairs among his black ones. Tiredness was written on Kamala's beautiful face, tiredness from walking a long path, which has no happy destination, tiredness and the beginning of withering, and concealed, still unsaid, perhaps not even conscious anxiety: fear of old age, fear of the autumn, fear of having to die. With a sigh, he had bid his farewell to her, the soul full of reluctance, and full of concealed anxiety. Then, Siddhartha had spent the night in his house with dancing girls and wine, had acted as if he was superior to them towards the fellow-members of his caste, though this was no longer true, had drunk much wine and gone to bed a long time after midnight, being tired and yet excited, close to weeping and despair, and had for a long time sought to sleep in vain, his heart full of misery which he thought he could not bear any longer, full of a disgust which he felt penetrating his entire body like the lukewarm, repulsive taste of the wine, the just too sweet, dull music, the just too soft smile of the dancing girls, the just too sweet scent of their hair and breasts. But more than by anything else, he was disgusted by himself, by his perfumed hair, by the smell of wine from his mouth, by the flabby tiredness and listlessness of his skin. Like when someone, who has eaten and drunk far too much, vomits it back up again with agonising pain and is nevertheless glad about the relief, thus this sleepless man wished to free himself of these pleasures, these habits and all of this pointless life and himself, in an immense burst of disgust. Not until the light of the morning and the beginning of the first activities in the street before his city-house, he had slightly fallen asleep, had found for a few moments a half unconsciousness, a hint of sleep. In those moments, he had a dream: Kamala owned a small, rare singing bird in a golden cage. Of this bird, he dreamt. He dreamt: this bird had become mute, who at other times always used to sing in the morning, and since this arose his attention, he stepped in front of the cage and looked inside; there the small bird was dead and lay stiff on the ground. He took it out, weighed it for a moment in his hand, and then threw it away, out in the street, and in the same moment, he felt terribly shocked, and his heart hurt, as if he had thrown away from himself all value and everything good by throwing out this dead bird. Starting up from this dream, he felt encompassed by a deep sadness. Worthless, so it seemed to him, worthless and pointless was the way he had been going through life; nothing which was alive, nothing which was in some way delicious or worth keeping he had left in his hands. Alone he stood there and empty like a castaway on the shore. With a gloomy mind, Siddhartha went to the pleasure-garden he owned, locked the gate, sat down under a mango-tree, felt death in his heart and horror in his chest, sat and sensed how everything died in him, withered in him, came to an end in him. By and by, he gathered his thoughts, and in his mind, he once again went the entire path of his life, starting with the first days he could remember. When was there ever a time when he had experienced happiness, felt a true bliss? Oh yes, several times he had experienced such a thing. In his years as a boy, he has had a taste of it, when he had obtained praise from the Brahmans, he had felt it in his heart: "There is a path in front of the one who has distinguished himself in the recitation of the holy verses, in the dispute with the learned ones, as an assistant in the offerings." Then, he had felt it in his heart: "There is a path in front of you, you are destined for, the gods are awaiting you." And again, as a young man, when the ever rising, upward fleeing, goal of all thinking had ripped him out of and up from the multitude of those seeking the same goal, when he wrestled in pain for the purpose of Brahman, when every obtained knowledge only kindled new thirst in him, then again he had, in the midst of the thirst, in the midst of the pain felt this very same thing: "Go on! Go on! You are called upon!" He had heard this voice when he had left his home and had chosen the life of a Samana, and again when he had gone away from the Samanas to that perfected one, and also when he had gone away from him to the uncertain. For how long had he not heard this voice any more, for how long had he reached no height any more, how even and dull was the manner in which his path had passed through life, for many long years, without a high goal, without thirst, without elevation, content with small lustful pleasures and yet never satisfied! For all of these many years, without knowing it himself, he had tried hard and longed to become a man like those many, like those children, and in all this, his life had been much more miserable and poorer than theirs, and their goals were not his, nor their worries; after all, that entire world of the Kamaswami-people had only been a game to him, a dance he would watch, a comedy. Only Kamala had been dear, had been valuable to him--but was she still thus? Did he still need her, or she him? Did they not play a game without an ending? Was it necessary to live for this? No, it was not necessary! The name of this game was Sansara, a game for children, a game which was perhaps enjoyable to play once, twice, ten times--but for ever and ever over again? Then, Siddhartha knew that the game was over, that he could not play it any more. Shivers ran over his body, inside of him, so he felt, something had died. That entire day, he sat under the mango-tree, thinking of his father, thinking of Govinda, thinking of Gotama. Did he have to leave them to become a Kamaswami? He still sat there, when the night had fallen. When, looking up, he caught sight of the stars, he thought: "Here I'm sitting under my mango-tree, in my pleasure-garden." He smiled a little --was it really necessary, was it right, was it not as foolish game, that he owned a mango-tree, that he owned a garden? He also put an end to this, this also died in him. He rose, bid his farewell to the mango-tree, his farewell to the pleasure-garden. Since he had been without food this day, he felt strong hunger, and thought of his house in the city, of his chamber and bed, of the table with the meals on it. He smiled tiredly, shook himself, and bid his farewell to these things. In the same hour of the night, Siddhartha left his garden, left the city, and never came back. For a long time, Kamaswami had people look for him, thinking that he had fallen into the hands of robbers. Kamala had no one look for him. When she was told that Siddhartha had disappeared, she was not astonished. Did she not always expect it? Was he not a Samana, a man who was at home nowhere, a pilgrim? And most of all, she had felt this the last time they had been together, and she was happy, in spite of all the pain of the loss, that she had pulled him so affectionately to her heart for this last time, that she had felt one more time to be so completely possessed and penetrated by him. When she received the first news of Siddhartha's disappearance, she went to the window, where she held a rare singing bird captive in a golden cage. She opened the door of the cage, took the bird out and let it fly. For a long time, she gazed after it, the flying bird. From this day on, she received no more visitors and kept her house locked. But after some time, she became aware that she was pregnant from the last time she was together with Siddhartha. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze verfassen?

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

Siddhartha hat immer in der Welt gelebt, ohne wirklich dazu zu gehören. Er ist anders als gewöhnliche Menschen. Sein Leben wird von der Kunst des Denkens, des Wartens und des Fastens geleitet. Obwohl seine Sinne, die während der Samana-Jahre abgestumpft waren, nun erwachen, bleibt er im Herzen ein Samana, trotz des Genusses von Reichtum, Macht und Leidenschaft. Die Jahre vergehen. Siddhartha hat ein komfortables Zuhause und Bedienstete. Er hat gelernt, geschäftliche Angelegenheiten zu erledigen, Macht über Menschen auszuüben, sich mit Frauen zu amüsieren, feine Kleidung zu tragen, Diener zu befehligen und in duftenden Gewässern zu baden. Er hat gelernt, Delikatessen zu essen und Wein zu trinken, was ihn faul und vergesslich macht. Er hat gelernt, Würfel und Schach zu spielen und Tänzern zuzusehen. Er wird in einer Sänfte getragen und schläft auf einem weichen Bett. Die Menschen mögen Siddhartha und kommen zu ihm, wenn sie Rat oder Geld brauchen. Er fühlt sich immer noch anderen Menschen überlegen und betrachtet sie mit Verachtung. Selbst Kamaswami betrachtet er spöttisch, wenn dieser wegen seiner geschäftlichen Angelegenheiten aufgebracht ist; er langweilt sich mit den Geschichten über die Sorgen und Nöte des Kaufmanns. Aufgrund seiner Einstellung überkommt Siddhartha ein Gefühl der Müdigkeit; es ist eine Krankheit, die bei Reichen häufig zu finden ist. Er steckt fest in der Welt des Vergnügens und der Faulheit, gefangen in seinem Besitz, seinem Besitztum und seinem Reichtum. Er ist erschöpft von seinem sinnlosen Lebenszyklus, und sein Gesicht nimmt die Ausdrücke des Unzufriedenheit, des Missfallens und der Lieblosigkeit an. Siddhartha ist vorzeitig alt und krank geworden. Siddhartha hat einen Traum, in dem er mit Kamala in ihrem Vergnügungsgarten ist. Sie fragt ihn nach Gotama und sagt, dass sie dem Buddha eines Tages ihren Garten schenken und Zuflucht in seinen Lehren suchen werde. Im Moment verführt sie Siddhartha in dem Traum zur Leidenschaft. Dann wird ihm seltsam klar, wie eng Leidenschaft mit dem Tod verbunden ist. Er sieht sich neben Kamala liegen und bemerkt Falten in ihrem Gesicht. Er fürchtet das Alter und den Tod, obwohl er kaum vierzig ist. Als der Traum zu Ende geht, seufzt er, verabschiedet sich von der gealterten Kamala und fühlt sich elend und ängstlich. Siddharthas Gefühle in seinem Traum sind die gleichen, die er im Leben hat. Um sie zu vertreiben, verbringt er die Nacht mit Tänzern und Wein in seinem Haus. Als er ins Bett geht, ist er immer noch müde, aufgewühlt und voller Verzweiflung; er kann nicht schlafen, weil er so unglücklich ist. Er will sich von seinem sinnlosen Vergnügen und seinen Gewohnheiten befreien. Schließlich schläft er ein und träumt von dem seltenen Singvogel, den Kamala eingesperrt hat. Der Vogel, der normalerweise am Morgen singt, verstummt. Als Siddhartha in den Käfig schaut, stellt er fest, dass er tot ist. Er nimmt den Vogel und wirft ihn auf die Straße. Dann fühlt er sich von seiner Handlung entsetzt; sein Herz schmerzt, als hätte er einen wertvollen Teil von sich selbst weggeworfen. Als er aufwacht, wird Siddhartha von einem Gefühl großer Traurigkeit überwältigt. Es scheint ihm, als verbringe er sein Leben auf sinnlose Weise. Siddhartha geht in seinen Garten und setzt sich unter einen Baum und betrachtet den Horror und den Tod in seinem Herzen. Eine Stimme in ihm ermahnt ihn, voranzugehen, die Welt materieller Dinge hinter sich zu lassen. Siddhartha weiß, dass das sinnliche Spiel vorbei ist; er kann es nicht mehr spielen. Ohne ein Wort verlässt Siddhartha den Garten und die Stadt und kehrt nie zurück. Kamaswami versucht, ihn zu finden, hat aber keinen Erfolg. Er fürchtet, dass Siddhartha in die Hände von Banditen gefallen ist. Kamala ist jedoch nicht überrascht über sein Verschwinden. Sie hat es immer erwartet. Als sie von Siddharthas Abwesenheit erfährt, lässt sie den seltenen Singvogel frei, den sie in einem goldenen Käfig gehalten hat, und beobachtet, wie er davonfliegt. Von diesem Tag an empfängt sie keine Besucher mehr. Nach einiger Zeit erkennt Kamala, dass sie Siddharthas Kind erwartet.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). 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: Noch einmal, lass mich auf eine denkwürdige Zeit meines Lebens zurückschauen. Lass mich beiseite treten, um die Phantome jener Tage an mir vorbeiziehen zu sehen, begleitet von meinem eigenen Schatten in einer schwachen Prozession. Wochen, Monate, Jahreszeiten vergehen. Sie scheinen kaum mehr als ein Sommertag und ein Winterabend zu sein. Jetzt blüht die Wiese, auf der ich mit Dora spaziere, in leuchtendem Gold, und jetzt liegt die unsichtbare Heide unter einem Schneebelag in Hügeln und Büscheln. In einem Atemzug funkelt der Fluss, der durch unsere Sonntagsausflüge fließt, in der Sommersonne, kräuselt sich im Winterwind oder ist mit treibenden Eismassen bedeckt. Schneller als je zuvor fließt der Fluss dem Meer entgegen, er blitzt auf, verdunkelt sich und rollt davon. In dem Haus der beiden kleinen vogelartigen Damen ändert sich kein Faden. Die Uhr tickt über dem Kamin, das Barometer hängt in der Halle. Weder Uhr noch Barometer zeigen je die richtige Zeit an, aber wir glauben fest an beides. Ich bin nun gesetzlich volljährig. Ich habe die Würde von einundzwanzig erreicht. Aber dies ist eine Art von Würde, die einem aufgezwungen werden kann. Lasst mich überlegen, was ich erreicht habe. Ich habe dieses wilde stenographische Geheimnis gezähmt. Ich verdiene damit ein respektables Einkommen. Ich habe in Bezug auf die Kunst hohes Ansehen erlangt und arbeite zusammen mit elf anderen daran, die Debatten im Parlament für eine Morgenzeitung zu protokollieren. Nacht für Nacht notiere ich Vorhersagen, die nie eintreffen, Versprechen, die nie eingehalten werden, und Erklärungen, die nur dazu dienen, zu verwirren. Ich suhle mich in Worten. Britannia, diese bedauernswerte Frau, ist immer vor mir wie ein gehäutetes Geflügel aufgespießt: von Amtsstiften durchbohrt und mit Aktenband gefesselt. Ich stehe weit genug hinter den Kulissen, um den Wert des politischen Lebens zu erkennen. Ich bin ziemlich ein Ungläubiger, was das betrifft, und werde mich niemals bekehren lassen. Mein lieber alter Traddles hat sich auch in diesem Bereich versucht, aber das liegt nicht im Wesen von Traddles. Er nimmt seine Niederlage mit guter Laune hin und erinnert mich daran, dass er sich schon immer für langsam gehalten hat. Er hat gelegentlich Arbeit für dieselbe Zeitung, bei der er trockene Themen aufarbeitet, über die dann von fähigeren Köpfen geschrieben und ausgeschmückt wird. Er ist zum Anwalt bestellt worden und hat mit bewundernswerter Fleiß und Selbstaufopferung weitere hundert Pfund zusammengespart, um einen Gerichtsnotar zu bezahlen, dessen Kammern er besucht. Bei seinem Besuch wurde reichlich heißer Portwein getrunken, und angesichts des Betrags könnte ich mir vorstellen, dass der Innere Tempel einen Gewinn damit gemacht hat. Auf eine andere Art bin auch ich herausgetreten. Ich habe mich mit Furcht und Zittern der Schriftstellerei zugewandt. Ich habe etwas Kleines im Geheimen geschrieben und an eine Zeitschrift geschickt, und es wurde in der Zeitschrift veröffentlicht. Seitdem habe ich den Mut gefasst, eine ganze Reihe belangloser Stücke zu schreiben. Jetzt werde ich regelmäßig dafür bezahlt. Insgesamt bin ich gut dran, wenn ich mein Einkommen an den Fingern meiner linken Hand zähle und den dritten Finger überspringe und den vierten Finger bis zum Mittelgelenk hinzunehme. Wir sind von der Buckingham Street in ein angenehmes kleines Häuschen gezogen, ganz in der Nähe von dem, das ich mir angesehen habe, als mein Enthusiasmus zum ersten Mal aufkam. Meine Tante (die das Haus in Dover gut verkauft hat) wird jedoch hier nicht bleiben, sondern beabsichtigt, sich in ein noch winzigeres Häuschen in der Nähe zu begeben. Was bedeutet das? Meine Hochzeit? Ja! Ja! Ich werde Dora heiraten! Miss Lavinia und Miss Clarissa haben ihr Einverständnis gegeben; und wenn Kanarienvögel je in Aufregung waren, dann sie. Miss Lavinia, die für die Aufsicht über die Garderobe meiner Geliebten verantwortlich ist, schneidet ständig Kürasse aus Packpapier aus und hat eine andere Meinung als ein hoch angesehener junger Mann, der einen langen Bündel und ein Maßband unter dem Arm hat. Eine Kleidermacherin, immer mit Nadel und Faden in der Brust erstochen, wohnt im Haus und scheint mir beim Essen, Trinken oder Schlafen nie ihre Fingerhut abzunehmen. Sie fertigen eine Schaufensterpuppe meiner Liebsten an. Sie lassen sie immer kommen und etwas anprobieren. Wir können abends keine fünf Minuten glücklich zusammen sein, ohne dass irgendeine störende Frau an die Tür klopft und sagt: 'Oh, wenn es Ihnen recht ist, Miss Dora, würden Sie bitte nach oben kommen!' Miss Clarissa und meine Tante streifen durch ganz London, um Möbelstücke für Dora und mich zu finden. Es wäre besser für sie, die Waren sofort zu kaufen, ohne diese Inspektionszeremonie; denn wenn wir uns einen Küchenkamin und einen Spritzschutz ansehen wollen, sieht Dora ein chinesisches Häuschen für Jip mit kleinen Glöckchen darauf und zieht das vor. Und es dauert eine lange Zeit, bis sich Jip an seine neue Behausung gewöhnt hat, nachdem wir sie gekauft haben; jedes Mal, wenn er hineingeht oder herausgeht, lässt er alle Glöckchen klingeln und hat furchtbare Angst. Peggotty kommt herauf, um sich nützlich zu machen, und fängt sofort an zu arbeiten. Ihre Aufgabe scheint zu sein, alles immer wieder zu reinigen. Sie reibt alles, was gerieben werden kann, bis es glänzt, wie ihre eigene ehrliche Stirn, durch permanenten Reibung. Und jetzt fange ich an, ihren einsamen Bruder bei nächtlichen Spaziergängen durch die dunklen Straßen zu sehen und wie er dabei unter den wandernden Gesichtern schaut. Ich spreche nie mit ihm um diese Zeit. Ich weiß nur zu gut, wenn seine ernste Gestalt weitergeht, wonach er sucht und wovor er sich fürchtet. Warum sieht Traddles so wichtig aus, als er mich heute Nachmittag im Parlament besucht, wo ich aus Höflichkeit noch hin und wieder anwesend bin, wenn ich Zeit habe? Die Erfüllung meiner kindlichen Tagträume steht unmittelbar bevor. Ich werde die Lizenz beantragen. Es ist ein kleines Dokument, das so viel bewirkt, und Traddles betrachtet es, halb bewundernd, halb ehrfürchtig, als es auf meinem Schreibtisch liegt. Da sind die Namen in der süßen alten Vorstellung, David Copperfield und Dora Spenlow; und dort in der Ecke ist dieses elterliche Institut, das Steueramt, das so wohltätig an den verschiedenen Transaktionen des menschlichen Lebens interessiert ist, schaut auf unsere Vereinigung herab; und dort ist der Erzbischof von Canterbury, der in Druckform seinen Segen über uns erfleht, und er tut es so kostengünstig, wie man es nur erwarten kann. Trotzdem befinde ich mich in einem Traum, einem verwirrten, glücklichen, gehetzten Traum. Ich kann nicht glauben, dass es wahr wird, und doch kann ich nicht glauben, dass jeder, dem ich auf der Straße begegne, nicht irgendeine Art von Wahrnehmung hat, dass ich morgen heiraten werde. Der Standesbeamte kennt mich, wenn ich herunterkomme, um meinen Eid abzulegen, und setzt mich leicht ab, als gäbe es eine Freimaurerverein Ich habe Agnes von der Canterbury-Kutsche geholt, und ihr fröhliches und schönes Gesicht ist zum zweiten Mal bei uns. Agnes mag Traddles sehr gerne, und es ist großartig, sie sich treffen zu sehen und die Herrlichkeit von Traddles zu beobachten, wie er das liebste Mädchen der Welt ihrer Bekanntschaft empfiehlt. Trotzdem glaube ich es nicht. Wir haben einen wunderbaren Abend und sind überglücklich, aber ich glaube es immer noch nicht. Ich kann mich nicht sammeln. Ich kann mein Glück nicht kontrollieren, während es passiert. Ich fühle mich in einem nebigen und unruhigen Zustand, als ob ich vor einer Woche oder zwei sehr früh am Morgen aufgestanden bin und seitdem nicht mehr geschlafen habe. Ich kann nicht herausfinden, wann gestern war. Es scheint, als hätte ich den Führerschein, seit vielen Monaten in meiner Tasche getragen. Auch am nächsten Tag, als wir alle zusammengehen, um das Haus zu besichtigen - unser Haus - unser, Dora und meins - kann ich mich einfach nicht als dessen Besitzer betrachten. Es scheint, als wäre ich dort mit Erlaubnis von jemand anderem. Ich halte fast den echten Besitzer für gleich zurück, der sagt, er freue sich, mich zu sehen. So ein schönes kleines Haus, alles so hell und neu; mit den Blumen auf den Teppichen, die aussehen, als wären sie gerade erst gepflückt worden, und den grünen Blättern, als ob sie gerade erst erschienen wären; mit den makellosen Moskitonetzen und den errötenden rosafarbenen Möbeln und Doras Gartenhut mit dem blauen Band - erinnere ich mich jetzt daran, wie ich sie in so einem anderen Hut geliebt habe, als ich sie zum ersten Mal kannte! - schon an ihrem kleinen Haken hängend; das Gitarrenetui ganz bequem auf seinen Füßen in einer Ecke; und alle stolpern über Jips Pagode, die viel zu groß für das Haus ist. Ein weiterer glücklicher Abend, genauso unwirklich wie der Rest davon, und ich schleiche mich vor dem Weggehen in das gewohnte Zimmer. Dora ist nicht da. Ich nehme an, dass sie noch nicht mit dem Anprobieren fertig sind. Miss Lavinia guckt herein und sagt mir geheimnisvoll, dass sie nicht mehr lange braucht. Trotzdem dauert es eine Weile; aber bald darauf höre ich ein Rascheln an der Tür, und jemand klopft darauf. Ich sage: "Herein!" aber jemand klopft erneut. Ich gehe zur Tür und frage mich, wer es ist; dort treffe ich auf ein Paar strahlender Augen und ein errötendes Gesicht; es sind Doras Augen und Gesicht, und Miss Lavinia hat sie bereits im Kleid von morgen angezogen, mit Hut und allem, damit ich sie sehe. Ich nehme meine kleine Frau in die Arme; und Miss Lavinia gibt einen kleinen Schrei, weil ich den Hut fallen lasse, und Dora lacht und weint gleichzeitig, weil ich so erfreut bin; und ich glaube es noch weniger als je zuvor. "Findest du es hübsch, Doady?", sagt Dora. Hübsch! Das kann man wohl sagen. "Und bist du sicher, dass du mich sehr magst?", fragt Dora. Das Thema ist so gefährlich für den Hut, dass Miss Lavinia einen weiteren kleinen Schrei ausstößt und mich bittet zu verstehen, dass Dora nur angeschaut und auf keinen Fall berührt werden darf. Also steht Dora eine Weile in einem wunderbaren Zustand der Verwirrung da, um bewundert zu werden; dann nimmt sie ihren Hut ab - ohne sieht sie so natürlich aus! - und rennt mit ihm in der Hand davon; und kommt wieder in ihrem vertrauten Kleid tanzend zurück und fragt Jip, ob ich eine wunderschöne kleine Frau habe, und ob er ihr verzeihen wird, dass sie verheiratet ist, und kniet nieder, um ihn zum letzten Mal in ihrem unverheirateten Leben auf das Kochbuch zu stellen. Ich gehe nach Hause, misstrauischer als je zuvor, in eine nahe gelegene Unterkunft und stehe sehr früh am Morgen auf, um zur Highgate Road zu fahren und meine Tante abzuholen. Ich habe meine Tante noch nie in einem solchen Zustand gesehen. Sie ist in lavendelfarbener Seide gekleidet und trägt einen weißen Hut und sieht erstaunlich aus. Janet hat sie angezogen und ist da, um mich anzuschauen. Peggotty ist bereit, in die Kirche zu gehen und die Zeremonie von der Galerie aus zu beobachten. Mr. Dick, der mir mein Liebling an den Altar geben soll, hat sich die Haare kräuseln lassen. Traddles, den ich an der Mautstelle abgeholt habe, präsentiert eine blendende Kombination aus cremefarben und hellblau; und sowohl er als auch Mr. Dick haben insgesamt den Effekt, als wären sie komplett in Handschuhe gehüllt. Ich sehe dies zweifellos, weil ich weiß, dass es so ist; aber ich irre mich und scheine nichts zu sehen. Und ich glaube überhaupt nichts. Trotzdem ist diese märchenhafte Hochzeit während der Fahrt in einer offenen Kutsche real genug, um mich mit einer Art wunderbarer Mitleid für die unglücklichen Menschen zu erfüllen, die keinen Teil daran haben, sondern die Geschäfte saubermachen und ihren täglichen Beschäftigungen nachgehen. Meine Tante sitzt den ganzen Weg über mit meiner Hand in ihrer. Als wir ein Stück vor der Kirche anhalten, um Peggotty abzusetzen, die wir auf dem Kasten mitgebracht haben, drückt sie meine Hand und gibt mir einen Kuss. "Gott segne dich, Trot! Mein eigener Junge hätte nie liebenswerter sein können. Ich denke dieses Morgens an den armen lieben Baby." "Das tue ich auch. Und an alles, was ich dir, liebe Tante, schulde." "Papperlapapp!", sagt meine Tante und gibt Traddles ihre Hand in überschwänglicher Herzlichkeit, der sie dann seine gibt, und Mr. Dick gibt seine mir, und ich meine dann Traddles, und dann kommen wir zur Tür der Kirche. Die Kirche ist sicherlich ruhig genug, aber für mich könnte es auch ein Dampfkraftwebstuhl in voller Aktion sein, so wenig beruhigende Wirkung hat es auf mich. Ich bin zu weit gegangen für so etwas. Der Rest ist alles ein mehr oder weniger unzusammenhängender Traum. Ein Traum von ihrem Einzug mit Dora; von der Kirchendienerin, die uns wie ein Exerzierfeldhauptmann vor die Altarschienen stellt; von mir, der mich schon damals frage, warum Kirchendienerinnen immer die unangenehmsten Frauen sein müssen, die man finden kann, und ob es eine religiöse Furcht vor einer gefährlichen Ansteckung guter Laune gibt, die es unumgänglich macht, diese Essiggefäße auf den Weg in den Himmel zu stellen. Von dem Geistlichen und dem Kirchendiener, die erscheinen; von einigen Bootsmännern und einigen anderen Leuten, die umherstreifen; von einem alten Seemann hinter mir, der die Kirche stark nach Rum riechen lässt; von dem Gottesdienst, der mit tiefer Stimme beginnt, und wir alle sehr aufmerksam sind. Von Miss Lavinia, die als eine Art halbamtliche Brautjungfer die erste ist, die weint, und von ihrem Hommage (wie ich es verstehe) an die Erinnerung an Pidger, in Schluchzern; von Miss Clarissa, die ein Riechsalz benutzt; von Agnes, die auf Dora aufpasst; von meiner Tante, die versucht, sich als ein Muster an Strenge darzustellen, mit Tränen, die über ihr Gesicht rollen; von der kleinen Dora, die sehr zittert und ihre Antworten in leisen Flüstern gibt. Von uns, die wir nebeneinander niederknien, Seite an Seite; davon, dass Doras Zitter Von meiner Rede in derselben träumerischen Art, ohne eine Idee zu haben, was ich sagen will, außer dem, was in der vollen Überzeugung verstanden werden kann, dass ich es nicht gesagt habe. Von unserer sehr gesellig und einfach glücklich sein (immer in einem Traum allerdings); und von Jips, der Hochzeitstorte hat und es ihm danach nicht bekommt. Von den beiden gemieteten Postpferden, die bereit sind, und von Doras Weggehen, um sich umzuziehen. Von meiner Tante und Miss Clarissa, die bei uns bleiben; und von unserem Spaziergang im Garten; und von meiner Tante, die beim Frühstück eine ziemlich lange Rede über Doras Tanten gehalten hat und sehr amüsiert über sich selbst ist, aber auch ein wenig stolz darauf ist. Von Doras Bereitschaft und davon, wie Miss Lavinia wie ein Geier um sie herumschwirrt, unwillig, das hübsche Spielzeug, das ihr so viel Freude bereitet hat, loszulassen. Von Doras endloser Serie von überraschten Entdeckungen, dass sie allerlei Kleinigkeiten vergessen hat; und davon, dass alle überall hinlaufen, um sie zu holen. Dass sie sich alle um Dora scharen, wenn sie sich schließlich verabschiedet und mit ihren leuchtenden Farben und Bändern wie ein Blumenbeet aussehen. Dass mein Liebling fast von den Blumen erstickt wird und herauskommt, lachend und weinend zugleich, in meine eifersüchtigen Arme. Dass ich Jip tragen möchte (der mit uns kommen soll) und Dora sagt nein, dass sie ihn tragen muss, sonst denkt er, dass sie ihn nicht mehr mag, jetzt, wo sie verheiratet ist, und sein Herz brechen wird. Dass wir Arm in Arm gehen und Dora anhält und zurückblickt und zu Agnes eilt und Agnes, über alle anderen, ihre letzten Küsse und Abschiede gibt. Wir fahren zusammen weg und ich erwache aus dem Traum. Ich glaube es endlich. Es ist meine liebe, liebe kleine Frau neben mir, die ich so sehr liebe! "Bist du jetzt glücklich, du närrischer Junge?", sagt Dora, "und sicher, dass du es nicht bereust?" Ich habe mich zurückgezogen, um die Fantome dieser Tage an mir vorbeiziehen zu sehen. Sie sind gegangen, und ich nehme meine Geschichte wieder auf. Es war ein merkwürdiger Zustand der Dinge, nachdem die Flitterwochen vorbei waren und die Brautjungfern nach Hause gegangen waren, als ich mich in meinem eigenen kleinen Haus mit Dora niederließ; ganz ohne Beschäftigung, sozusagen, was die köstliche alte Tätigkeit des Liebens angeht. Es schien so seltsam, Dora immer da zu haben. Es war so unerklärlich, nicht gezwungen zu sein, zu ihr zu gehen, keine Gelegenheit zu haben, mich wegen ihr zu quälen, ihr nicht schreiben zu müssen, keine Gelegenheiten zu erfinden, allein mit ihr zu sein. Manchmal, am Abend, wenn ich von meinem Schreiben aufblickte und sie mir gegenübersaß, lehnte ich mich in meinem Stuhl zurück und dachte darüber nach, wie seltsam es war, dass wir dort allein zusammen waren, ganz selbstverständlich - niemandes Angelegenheit mehr - der ganze Zauber unserer Verlobung auf einem Regal verstaut, um zu rosten - niemanden außer einander zu gefallen - einander ein Leben lang zu gefallen. Wenn es eine Debatte gab und ich sehr spät nach Hause kam, kam es mir so seltsam vor, als ich nach Hause ging, daran zu denken, dass Dora zu Hause war! Es war so wunderbar, am Anfang, sie leise zu mir kommen zu sehen, während ich mein Abendessen aß, um mit mir zu reden. Es war so eine gewaltige Sache, sicher zu wissen, dass sie ihre Haare auflockert. Es war insgesamt ein erstaunliches Ereignis, sie dabei zu sehen! Ich bezweifle, dass zwei junge Vögel weniger Ahnung vom Hausführen hatten als ich und meine hübsche Dora. Wir hatten natürlich eine Dienstmagd. Sie führte den Haushalt für uns. Ich habe immer noch latent den Glauben, dass sie in Wahrheit Mrs. Crupp's Tochter war, wir hatten so eine schreckliche Zeit mit Mary Anne. Ihr Name war Paragon. Ihre Natur wurde uns vorgestellt, als sie eingestellt wurde, als schwach ausgedrückt in ihrem Namen. Sie hatte ein schriftliches Zeugnis, so groß wie eine Proklamation; und laut diesem Dokument konnte sie alles Mögliche im Haushalt tun, von dem ich je gehört habe, und viele Dinge, von denen ich noch nie gehört habe. Sie war eine Frau im besten Alter; mit einem strengen Gesichtsausdruck; und anfällig (besonders an den Armen) für eine Art von ewiger Masern oder feurigem Ausschlag. Sie hatte einen Cousin bei der Leibgarde, mit so langen Beinen, dass er wie der Nachmittagsschatten von jemand anderem aussah. Seine Shell-Jacke war so viel zu klein für ihn, wie er zu groß für das Anwesen war. Dadurch wurde das Cottage kleiner, als es hätte sein müssen, da es so stark unverhältnismäßig war. Außerdem waren die Wände nicht dick, und wann immer er abends bei uns zu Hause war, wussten wir immer davon, indem wir ein ständiges Grummeln in der Küche hörten. Unser Schatz war nüchtern und ehrlich. Ich bin daher bereit zu glauben, dass sie in einem Anfall war, als wir sie unter dem Kessel fanden; und dass die fehlenden Teelöffel dem Müllmann zuzuordnen waren. Aber sie hat uns furchtbar gequält. Wir fühlten unsere Unerfahrenheit und konnten uns nicht selbst helfen. Wir wären ihr ausgeliefert gewesen, wenn sie welche gehabt hätte; aber sie war eine gnadenlose Frau und hatte keine. Sie war der Grund für unser erstes kleines Zerwürfnis. "Mein liebstes Leben", sagte ich eines Tages zu Dora, "glaubst du, Mary Anne hat eine Vorstellung von der Zeit?" "Wieso, Doady?" fragte Dora unschuldig und hob den Blick von ihrer Zeichnung. "Meine Liebe, weil es fünf nach ist und wir um vier Uhr hätten zu Abend essen sollen." Dora warf einen sehnsüchtigen Blick auf die Uhr und deutete darauf hin, dass sie dachte, sie ginge zu schnell. "Ganz im Gegenteil, meine Liebe", sagte ich und verwies dabei auf meine Uhr, "sie geht ein paar Minuten zu langsam." Meine kleine Frau setzte sich auf meinen Schoß, um mich zum Schweigen zu bringen, und zog eine Linie mit ihrem Stift über meine Nase; aber davon konnte ich nicht essen, obwohl es sehr angenehm war. "Denkst du nicht, mein Liebes", sagte ich, "es wäre besser, wenn du mit Mary Anne vernünftig redest?" "Oh nein, bitte! Das könnte ich nicht, Doady!" sagte Dora. "Warum nicht, meine Liebe?" fragte ich sanft. "Oh, weil ich so ein kleines Gänseblümchen bin", sagte Dora, "und das weiß sie!" Ich fand diesen Gedanken so unvereinbar mit der Einführung eines Kontrollsystems für Mary Anne, dass ich ein wenig die Stirn runzelte. "Oh, wie hässliche Falten auf der Stirn meines bösen Jungen!" sagte Dora und während sie immer noch auf meinem Knie saß, zeichnete sie sie mit ihrem Stift nach; indem sie ihn an ihre rosigen Lippen hielt, um ihn dunkler zu machen, und an meiner Stirn arbeitete mit einer seltsamen kleinen Nachahmung von Fleiß, die mich trotzdem sehr erfreute. "Da ist ein gutes Kind", sagte Dora, "es macht das Gesicht so viel hübscher, wenn es lacht." "Aber mein Liebling", sagte ich. "Nein, nein! Bitte!" rief Dora mit einem Kuss, "sei kein böser Blaubart! Sei nicht ernst!" "Mein kostbares We Ich fühlte mich so verletzt von der belanglosen Natur dieser Beschuldigung, dass es mir Mut gab, ernst zu sein. "Jetzt, meine liebe Dora", sagte ich, "du bist sehr kindisch und redest Unsinn. Du musst dich erinnern, dass ich gestern gehen musste, als das Abendessen zur Hälfte vorbei war, und dass ich am Tag zuvor durch hastiges Essen von rohem Kalbfleisch krank geworden bin. Heute esse ich gar nicht zu Mittag - und ich fürchte, ich darf nicht sagen, wie lange wir auf das Frühstück gewartet haben - und dann hat das Wasser nicht gekocht. Ich will dich nicht tadeln, meine Liebe, aber das ist nicht angenehm." "Oh, du grausamer, grausamer Junge, zu sagen, dass ich eine unangenehme Ehefrau bin!" rief Dora. "Jetzt, meine liebe Dora, du musst wissen, dass ich das niemals gesagt habe!" "Du hast gesagt, ich sei nicht angenehm!" rief Dora. "Ich habe gesagt, dass die Haushaltsführung nicht angenehm ist!" "Das ist genau dasselbe!" rief Dora. Und offensichtlich dachte sie das auch, denn sie weinte sehr. Ich ging noch einmal auf und ab im Raum, voller Liebe für meine hübsche Frau, und von selbstanklagenden Gedanken abgelenkt, meinen Kopf gegen die Tür zu schlagen. Ich setzte mich wieder hin und sagte: "Ich mache dir keine Vorwürfe, Dora. Wir haben beide noch viel zu lernen. Ich versuche nur, dir, meine Liebe, zu zeigen, dass du dich unbedingt daran gewöhnen musst, dich um Mary Anne zu kümmern. Gleichzeitig auch ein wenig für dich selbst und für mich." "Ich wundere mich, wirklich, über deine undankbaren Äußerungen", schluchzte Dora. "Als du neulich gesagt hast, dass du ein bisschen Fisch möchtest, bin ich selbst losgegangen, kilometerweit, und habe es bestellt, um dich zu überraschen." "Und das war sehr nett von dir, meine eigene Liebe", sagte ich. "Ich habe es so sehr geschätzt, dass ich nicht einmal erwähnt hätte, dass du einen Lachs gekauft hast - der zu viel für zwei war. Oder dass er einen Pfund sechs gekostet hat - was mehr ist, als wir uns leisten können." "Du hast ihn sehr genossen", schluchzte Dora. "Und du hast gesagt, ich sei eine Maus." "Und das werde ich wieder sagen, meine Liebe", erwiderte ich, "tausendmal!" Aber ich hatte Doras zartes kleines Herz verletzt, und sie ließ sich nicht trösten. Sie war so rührend in ihrem Schluchzen und Klagen, dass ich mich fühlte, als hätte ich etwas Furchtbares gesagt, um sie zu verletzen. Ich wurde gezwungen, mich zu beeilen; ich kam spät nach Hause; und ich hatte die ganze Nacht über solche Gewissensbisse, dass ich unglücklich war. Ich hatte das Gewissen eines Mörders und wurde von einem vagen Gefühl enormer Boshaftigkeit gequält. Es war zwei oder drei Stunden nach Mitternacht, als ich nach Hause kam. Ich fand meine Tante in unserem Haus, die darauf wartete, dass ich zurückkam. "Ist etwas nicht in Ordnung, Tante?", fragte ich besorgt. "Nichts, Trot", antwortete sie. "Setz dich, setz dich. Little Blossom war ein wenig traurig, und ich habe mich ihr angeschlossen. Das ist alles." Ich lehnte meinen Kopf auf meine Hand und fühlte mich trauriger und niedergeschlagener, als ich es für möglich gehalten hätte, so kurz nach der Erfüllung meiner schönsten Hoffnungen. Während ich nachdachte, trafen sich zufällig meine Tantes Augen, die auf mein Gesicht gerichtet waren. Es lag ein besorgter Ausdruck in ihnen, der aber sofort verschwand. "Ich versichere dir, Tante", sagte ich, "ich war die ganze Nacht selbst sehr unglücklich, als ich daran dachte, wie es Dora geht. Aber ich hatte keine andere Absicht, als liebevoll und zärtlich mit ihr über unsere häuslichen Angelegenheiten zu sprechen." Meine Tante nickte ermutigend. "Du musst Geduld haben, Trot", sagte sie. "Natürlich. Gott weiß, dass ich nicht unvernünftig sein will, Tante!" "Nein, nein", sagte meine Tante. "Aber Little Blossom ist ein sehr zartes Blümchen, und der Wind muss sanft mit ihr umgehen." Ich dankte meiner guten Tante in meinem Herzen für ihre Zärtlichkeit meiner Frau gegenüber, und ich war sicher, dass sie wusste, dass ich es tat. "Denkst du nicht, Tante", sagte ich, nachdem ich noch eine Weile ins Feuer gestarrt hatte, "dass du Dora ab und zu ein wenig beraten könntest, zu unserem beiderseitigen Vorteil?" "Trot", erwiderte meine Tante mit einiger Emotion, "nein! Frag mich so etwas nicht." Ihr Ton war so ernsthaft, dass ich überrascht meine Augen hob. "Ich denke an mein Leben zurück, Kind", sagte meine Tante, "und denke an manche, die im Grab liegen, mit denen ich freundlicher hätte sein können. Wenn ich hart über andere Leute Fehler in der Ehe geurteilt habe, dann vielleicht, weil ich bittere Gründe hatte, über meine eigenen hart zu urteilen. Lassen wir das ruhen. Ich war eine mürrische, altmodische, eigensinnige Art von Frau, viele Jahre lang. Das bin ich immer noch, und das werde ich auch immer sein. Aber du und ich haben einander etwas Gutes getan, Trot - zumindest hast du mir Gutes getan, mein Lieber. Und nichts darf zwischen uns kommen, zu dieser Uhrzeit." "Ein Zwist zwischen uns beiden!" rief ich. "Kind, Kind!", sagte meine Tante, strich über ihr Kleid, "wie schnell das zwischen uns kommen könnte oder wie unglücklich ich unser kleines Blümchen machen könnte, wenn ich mich in etwas einmische, das selbst ein Prophet nicht voraussagen könnte. Ich möchte, dass unsere Kleine mich mag und so fröhlich ist wie ein Schmetterling. Denk an deine eigene Familie in dieser zweiten Ehe und tu sowohl mir als auch ihr nicht den Schaden an, den du angedeutet hast!" Ich verstand sofort, dass meine Tante Recht hatte, und ich erfasste das volle Ausmaß ihres großzügigen Gefühls meiner lieben Frau gegenüber. "Es sind noch frühe Tage, Trot", fuhr sie fort, "und Rom wurde nicht an einem Tag und auch nicht in einem Jahr erbaut. Du hast dich frei für dich selbst entschieden", für einen Moment zog eine Wolke über ihr Gesicht, dachte ich: "und du hast dir ein sehr hübsches und sehr liebevolles Geschöpf ausgesucht. Es wird deine Pflicht sein, und es wird auch dein Vergnügen sein - natürlich weiß ich das, ich halte hier keine Predigt - sie so einzuschätzen, wie du sie gewählt hast, nach den Eigenschaften, die sie hat, und nicht nach den Eigenschaften, die sie nicht hat. Letztere musst du in ihr entwickeln, wenn du kannst. Und wenn du es nicht kannst, mein Kind", hier rieb meine Tante sich die Nase, "musst du dich einfach daran gewöhnen, ohne sie auszukommen. Aber denk daran, mein Lieber, eure Zukunft liegt zwischen euch beiden. Niemand kann euch helfen; ihr müsst es selbst herausfinden. Das ist die Ehe, Trot; und der Himmel segne euch beide, als ein Paar Wasserläufer, wie ihr seid!" Meine Tante sagte dies auf eine spritzige Art und gab mir einen Kuss, um den Segen zu besiegeln. "Nun", sagte sie, "entzünde meine kleine Laterne und begleite mich auf dem Gartenpfad zu meiner Kiste"; denn es gab eine Verbindung zwischen unseren Häuschen in dieser Richtung. "Richte Blossom liebe Grüße von Betsey Trotwood aus, wenn du zurückkommst; und was auch immer du tust, Trot, träume niemals davon, Betsey als Vogelscheuche aufzustellen, denn wenn ich sie je im Spiegel gesehen habe, ist sie in ihrer Privatkapazität schon ziemlich düster und mager genug!" Damit band meine Tante sich ein Kopftuch um den Kopf, mit dem sie es gewohnt war, es bei solchen Gelegenheiten zu bündeln, und ich begleitete sie nach Hause. Als sie in ihrem Garten stand und ihre kleine Laterne hochhielt, um mir den Rückweg zu beleuchten, hatte ihre Beobachtung von Der nächste inländische Prozess, den wir durchgemacht haben, war das Dienstmädchenritual. Mary Annes Cousin verschwand in unseren Kohlenkeller und wurde zu unserer großen Überraschung von einer Abordnung seiner Waffenkameraden, die ihn gefesselt hatten, herausgeholt und in einer Prozession weggebracht, die unseren Vorgarten mit Schande bedeckte. Das ermutigte mich, Mary Anne loszuwerden, die so bereitwillig ging, als sie ihren Lohn bekam, dass ich überrascht war, bis ich von den Teelöffeln erfuhr und auch von den kleinen Summen, die sie ohne Berechtigung in meinem Namen von den Händlern ausgeliehen hatte. Nach einer Pause mit Mrs. Kidgerbury - der ältesten Bewohnerin von Kentish Town, glaube ich, die putzen ging, aber zu schwach war, um ihre Vorstellungen von dieser Kunst umzusetzen - fanden wir einen anderen Schatz, der eine der liebenswürdigsten Frauen war, aber normalerweise die Angewohnheit hatte, entweder die Küchentreppe hinauf oder hinunterzufallen und dabei fast ins Wohnzimmer zu stürzen, wie in ein Bad, mit dem Teegeschirr. Die Verwüstungen, die diese arme Frau anrichtete, machten eine Entlassung notwendig, und sie wurde (mit Unterbrechungen durch Mrs. Kidgerbury) von einer langen Reihe von Unfähigen abgelöst, die in einer jungen Frau mit vornehmen Auftreten endete, die mit Doras Hut zum Greenwich Fair ging. Danach erinnere ich mich nur noch an ein durchschnittliches Versagen. Jeder, mit dem wir etwas zu tun hatten, schien uns zu betrügen. Wenn wir einen Hummer kauften, war er voller Wasser. Das Fleisch war immer zäh und das Brot kaum krustig. Auf der Suche nach dem Prinzip, nach dem Gelenke richtig gebraten werden sollten, weder zu sehr noch zu wenig, sah ich selbst im Kochbuch nach und fand dort festgelegt, dass man für jedes Pfund Fleisch eine Viertelstunde plus eine weitere Viertelstunde braten sollte. Aber das Prinzip versagte uns immer wieder auf seltsame Weise, und wir konnten nie einen Mittelweg zwischen Röte und Asche finden. Ich hatte den Eindruck, dass wir durch diese Misserfolge einen viel höheren Aufwand verursachten, als wenn wir eine Reihe von Triumphen errungen hätten. Als ich mir die Bücher der Händler ansah, schien es mir, als könnten wir den Keller mit Butter gepflastert haben, so umfangreich war unser Verbrauch dieses Artikels. Ich weiß nicht, ob die Steuereinnahmen dieser Zeit eine Zunahme der Nachfrage nach Pfeffer zeigten, aber wenn unsere Aufführungen keinen Einfluss auf den Markt hatten, würde ich sagen, dass mehrere Familien aufgehört haben müssen, ihn zu verwenden. Und das erstaunlichste Faktum war, dass wir nie etwas im Haus hatten. Was die Wäscherin betrifft, die die Kleidung verpfändete und in betrunkenem Zustand kam, um sich zu entschuldigen, nehme ich an, dass das mehrmals jedem passiert sein könnte. Auch den Schornsteinbrand, die Gemeinde Feuerwehr und Meineid seitens des Beadles. Aber ich vermute, dass wir Glück hatten, eine Haushaltshilfe mit Vorliebe für Liköre engagiert zu haben, die unsere laufenden Rechnungen in der Kneipe mit unerklärlichen Posten wie "ein Viertel Rum-Schrub (Frau C.)", "ein halbes Viertel Gin und Nelken (Frau C.)" und "ein Glas Rum und Pfefferminz (Frau C.)" erhöhte - die Klammern bezogen sich immer auf Dora, die, wie sich bei der Erklärung herausstellte, all diese Erfrischungen zu sich genommen haben sollte. Eines unserer ersten Meisterstücke in Sachen Haushaltsführung war ein kleines Abendessen für Traddles. Ich traf ihn in der Stadt und bat ihn, an diesem Nachmittag mit mir spazieren zu gehen. Er stimmte bereitwillig zu, und ich schrieb Dora einen Brief, in dem ich ihr sagte, dass ich ihn nach Hause bringen würde. Es war schönes Wetter, und auf dem Weg machten wir mein familiäres Glück zum Thema des Gesprächs. Traddles war ganz begeistert davon und sagte, dass er sich, wenn er sich mit einem solchen Zuhause und Sophy, die auf ihn wartete und sich für ihn vorbereitete, vorstellte, nichts mangels wollte, um sein Glück vollständig zu machen. Ich hätte mir keine hübschere kleine Ehefrau an der anderen Seite des Tisches wünschen können, aber ich hätte sicherlich gewünscht, als wir uns setzten, ein wenig mehr Platz zu haben. Ich wusste nicht, wie es kam, aber obwohl wir nur zu zweit waren, waren wir immer sofort beengt und hatten trotzdem immer genug Platz, um alles zu verlieren. Ich vermute, es lag daran, dass nichts einen festen Platz hatte, außer Jips Pagode, die immer den Hauptdurchgang blockierte. Bei dieser Gelegenheit war Traddles so eingeengt von der Pagode und dem Gitarrenkoffer, den Blumenmalereien von Dora und meinem Schreibtisch, dass ich ernste Zweifel hatte, ob er Messer und Gabel benutzen konnte; aber er versicherte uns mit guter Laune: "Unendlich viel Platz, Copperfield! Ich versichere Ihnen, unendlich viel Platz!" Es gäbe noch eine andere Sache, die ich mir gewünscht hätte, nämlich dass Jip niemals ermutigt worden wäre, beim Abendessen über die Tischdecke zu laufen. Ich begann zu denken, dass es überhaupt unordentlich war, dass er da war, selbst wenn er nicht die Angewohnheit gehabt hätte, mit seinem Fuß ins Salz oder in die geschmolzene Butter zu geraten. Bei dieser Gelegenheit schien er zu denken, dass er ausdrücklich dazu eingeführt worden war, um Traddles auf Abstand zu halten, und bellte meinen alten Freund an und machte kurze Läufe zu seinem Teller, mit so unerschütterlicher Hartnäckigkeit, dass man fast sagen könnte, er hätte das Gespräch monopolisiert. Aber da ich wusste, wie zartbesaitet meine liebe Dora war und wie empfindlich sie auf jede Beleidigung ihres Lieblings reagieren würde, äußerte ich keinen Einwand. Aus denselben Gründen erwähnte ich weder die Tellergeplänkel auf dem Boden noch das schlechte Aussehen der Rollen, die alle durcheinander waren und betrunken aussahen, noch die weitere Blockade von Traddles durch herumirrende Gemüseschüsseln und Krüge. Ich konnte nicht umhin, mir in Gedanken zu fragen, als ich das gekochte Schaffleisch vor mir betrachtete, bevor ich es tranchierte, wie es dazu kam, dass unsere Fleischstücke so außergewöhnliche Formen hatten - und ob unser Metzger für alle deformierten Schafe, die zur Welt kamen, einen Vertrag hatte; aber ich behielt meine Gedanken für mich. "Meine Liebe", sagte ich zu Dora, "was ist in diesem Gericht?" Ich konnte mir nicht vorstellen, warum Dora mir verlockende Gesichter gemacht hatte, als ob sie mich küssen wollte. "Austern, Liebling", sagte Dora schüchtern. "War das DEINE Idee?" fragte ich erfreut. "Ja, Dodo", sagte Dora. "Es gab nie eine glücklichere Idee!" rief ich aus und legte Messer und Gabel beiseite. "Da gibt es nichts, was Traddles so sehr mag!" "Ja, Dodo", sagte Dora, "und deshalb habe ich ein schönes kleines Fass davon gekauft, und der Mann sagte, sie seien sehr gut. Aber ich - ich fürchte, es stimmt etwas mit ihnen nicht. Sie scheinen nicht in Ordnung zu sein." Hier schüttelte Dora den Kopf, und Diamanten funkelten in ihren Augen. "Sie sind nur in beiden Schalen geöffnet", sagte ich. "Nimm die obere ab, meine Liebe." "Aber sie will nicht ab!", sagte Dora und versuchte es sehr hart und sah sehr verzweifelt aus. "Wissen Sie, Copperfield", sagte Traddles, fröhlich den Teller betrachtend, "ich glaube, es liegt - es sind großartige Austern, aber ich glaube, es liegt - daran, dass sie noch nie geöffnet wurden." Sie waren tatsächlich noch nie geöffnet worden, und wir hatten keine Austernmesser - und hätten sie auch nicht benutzen können, wenn wir welche gehabt hätten; also betracht Meine arme kleine Frau war so betrübt, als sie dachte, ich würde verärgert sein, und so glücklich, als sie feststellte, dass ich es nicht war, dass die Niederlage, die ich erlitten hatte, sehr schnell verschwand und wir einen glücklichen Abend verbrachten; Dora saß mit ihrem Arm auf meinem Stuhl, während Traddles und ich ein Glas Wein besprachen und sie jede Gelegenheit nutzte, um mir ins Ohr zu flüstern, wie gut es von mir war, kein grausamer, mürrischer alter Junge zu sein. Schließlich machte sie Tee für uns; Es war so schön anzusehen, wie sie es tat, als würde sie sich mit einem Set Puppenteesachen beschäftigen, dass mir die Qualität des Getränks egal war. Dann spielten Traddles und ich ein oder zwei Spiele Cribbage, und Dora sang dabei zur Gitarre. Es schien mir, als ob unsere Werbung und Ehe ein zartes Traum von mir waren und die Nacht, als ich zum ersten Mal ihre Stimme hörte, noch nicht vorbei war. Als Traddles wegging und ich aus dem Salon zurückkam, meine Frau ihren Stuhl dicht neben meinen stellte und sich neben mich setzte. "Es tut mir sehr leid", sagte sie. "Wirst du mir, Doady, etwas beibringen?" "Ich muss mir zuerst selbst etwas beibringen, Dora", sagte ich. "Ich bin genauso schlimm wie du, Liebes." "Ach, aber du kannst lernen", antwortete sie. "Und du bist ein kluger, kluger Mann!" "Nonsens, Mausi!" sagte ich. "Ich wünschte", fuhr meine Frau nach einer langen Pause fort, "ich könnte für ein ganzes Jahr aufs Land gehen und bei Agnes leben!" Ihre Hände waren auf meiner Schulter verschränkt, ihr Kinn ruhte darauf und ihre blauen Augen schauten ruhig in meine. "Warum denn?", fragte ich. "Ich glaube, sie könnte mich verbessern, und ich glaube, ich könnte von ihr lernen", sagte Dora. "Alles zu seiner Zeit, meine Liebe. Agnes hat all die Jahre für ihren Vater gesorgt, das solltest du bedenken. Schon als sie noch ein Kind war, war sie die Agnes, die wir kennen", sagte ich. "Willst du mich so nennen, wie ich möchte, dass du mich nennst?", fragte Dora, ohne sich zu bewegen. "Wie denn?", fragte ich lächelnd. "Es ist ein dummer Name", sagte sie, schüttelte für einen Moment ihre Locken. "Kinderfrau." Ich fragte meine Kinderfrau lachend, was ihr daran gefallen würde, so genannt zu werden. Sie antwortete, ohne sich zu bewegen, außer dass ihr Arm, den ich um sie gelegt hatte, ihre blauen Augen vielleicht näher zu mir gebracht hatte: "Ich meine nicht, du dummkopf, dass du den Namen anstelle von Dora verwenden sollst. Ich meine nur, dass du mich so sehen sollst. Wenn du wütend auf mich werden willst, sag dir in Gedanken: "Es ist nur meine Kinderfrau!" Wenn ich sehr enttäuschend bin, sag dir: "Ich wusste schon vor langer Zeit, dass sie nur eine Kinderfrau werden würde!" Wenn du das vermisst, was ich gerne sein würde und was ich denke, nie sein zu können, sag: "Meine liebe törichte Kinderfrau liebt mich immer noch!" Denn das tue ich wirklich." Ich war nicht ernsthaft mit ihr gewesen; ich hatte bis jetzt keine Ahnung gehabt, dass sie selbst ernsthaft war. Aber ihre liebevolle Natur war so glücklich über das, was ich ihr jetzt mit ganzem Herzen sagte, dass ihr Gesicht lachend wurde, bevor ihre glitzernden Augen trocken waren. Sie war bald wirklich meine Kinderfrau; sie setzte sich auf den Boden vor dem chinesischen Haus und läutete nacheinander alle kleinen Glocken, um Jip für sein jüngstes schlechtes Verhalten zu bestrafen, während Jip mit seinem Kopf vor der Tür lag und so faul war, dass er nicht einmal geärgert werden wollte. Dieses Anliegen von Dora machte einen starken Eindruck auf mich. Ich blicke zurück auf die Zeit, von der ich schreibe; ich rufe die unschuldige Figur, die ich sehr liebte, auf, aus den Nebeln und Schatten der Vergangenheit, und drehe ihr sanft den Kopf zu mir hin; und ich kann immer noch behaupten, dass diese eine kleine Rede ständig in meiner Erinnerung war. Ich habe sie vielleicht nicht bestmöglich genutzt; ich war jung und unerfahren; aber ich habe ihre einfache Bitte nie abgelehnt. Dora erzählte mir kurz darauf, dass sie eine wunderbare Haushälterin werden würde. Dementsprechend polierte sie die Tafeln, spitzte den Bleistift an, kaufte ein riesiges Konto-Buch, nähte sorgfältig mit Nadel und Faden alle Blätter des Kochbuchs wieder zusammen, die Jip zerrissen hatte, und unternahm einen verzweifelten Versuch, "brav" zu sein, wie sie es nannte. Aber die Zahlen hatten die alte hartnäckige Eigenschaft - sie wollten sich NICHT addieren lassen. Wenn sie zwei oder drei mühsame Posten ins Konto-Buch eingetragen hatte, lief Jip über die Seite, wedelte mit dem Schwanz und verwischte alles. Auch ihr eigener kleiner rechter Mittelfinger wurde bis auf die Knochen mit Tinte getränkt, und das war das einzige deutliche Ergebnis, das erzielt wurde. Manchmal, abends, wenn ich zuhause war und arbeitete - denn ich schrieb jetzt viel und begann auf kleiner Ebene als Schriftsteller bekannt zu werden - legte ich meine Feder nieder und beobachtete, wie meine Kinderfrau versuchte, brav zu sein. Zuerst holte sie das riesige Konto-Buch heraus und legte es mit einem tiefen Seufzer auf den Tisch. Dann öffnete sie es an der Stelle, wo Jip es gestern unleserlich gemacht hatte, und rief Jip, um seine Vergehen anzusehen. Das sorgte für eine Ablenkung zugunsten von Jip und vielleicht auch für etwas Tinte auf seiner Nase als Strafe. Dann würde sie Jip befehlen, sich sofort auf den Tisch zu legen, "wie ein Löwe" - was einer seiner Tricks war, obwohl ich nicht sagen kann, dass die Ähnlichkeit frappierend war - und wenn er guter Laune war, würde er gehorchen. Dann nahm sie eine Feder auf und begann zu schreiben und entdeckte ein Haar darin. Dann nahm sie eine andere Feder auf und begann zu schreiben und entdeckte, dass sie spritzte. Dann nahm sie eine weitere Feder auf und begann zu schreiben und sagte mit leiser Stimme: "Oh, es ist eine sprechende Feder und wird Doady stören!" Und dann gab sie es auf und legte das Konto-Buch weg, nachdem sie vorgegeben hatte, den Löwen damit zu zerknüllen. Oder, wenn sie in einem sehr ernsten und ernsthaften Gemütszustand war, würde sie sich mit den Tafeln und einem kleinen Korb voller Rechnungen und anderer Dokumente, die eher wie Papilloten aussahen als wie etwas anderes, hinsetzen und versuchen, ein Ergebnis zu erzielen. Nachdem sie eins mit dem anderen streng verglichen, Einträge auf den Tafeln gemacht und sie wieder verwischt hatte und alle Finger ihrer linken Hand immer wieder vorwärts und rückwärts gezählt hatte, war sie so verärgert und entmutigt und sah so unglücklich aus, dass es mich Schmerzen bereitete, ihr fröhliches Gesicht verdunkelt zu sehen - und das wegen mir! - und dann ging ich leise zu ihr und sagte: "Was ist los, Dora?" Dora schaute hoffnungslos auf und antwortete: "Sie wollen einfach nicht stimmen. Sie bereiten mir solche Kopfschmerzen. Und sie tun nichts, was Ich war ein junger Ehemann in Bezug auf mein Alter. Ich kannte den erweichenden Einfluss keiner anderen Sorgen oder Erfahrungen als denen, die in diesen Aufzeichnungen festgehalten sind. Wenn ich etwas Falsches getan habe, was durchaus der Fall sein könnte, dann habe ich es aus fehlgeleiteter Liebe und Unwissenheit getan. Ich schreibe die genaue Wahrheit. Es würde mir nichts bringen, sie jetzt zu beschönigen. So nahm ich die Mühen und Sorgen unseres Lebens auf mich und hatte keinen Partner dafür. Wir lebten weitgehend wie zuvor, was unsere hektischen Haushaltsabläufe betraf. Aber ich hatte mich daran gewöhnt und Dora schien selten verärgert zu sein. Sie war auf ihre kindliche Art fröhlich und fröhlich, liebte mich innig und war glücklich mit ihren alten Nichtigkeiten. Wenn die Diskussionen langwierig waren - ich meine in Bezug auf die Dauer, nicht die Qualität, denn in letzterem Fall waren sie nicht oft anders - und ich spät nach Hause kam, konnte Dora nie ruhen, wenn sie meine Schritte hörte, sondern kam immer die Treppe hinunter, um mich zu empfangen. Wenn meine Abende nicht von der Beschäftigung beansprucht waren, für die ich mich mit so viel Mühe qualifiziert hatte, und ich zu Hause schrieb, saß sie ruhig in meiner Nähe, egal wie spät es war, und war so stumm, dass ich oft dachte, sie sei eingeschlafen. Aber in der Regel, wenn ich den Kopf hob, sah ich ihre blauen Augen, die mich mit der ruhigen Aufmerksamkeit ansahen, von der ich bereits gesprochen habe. "Oh, was für ein müder Junge!" sagte Dora eines Abends, als ich ihr in die Augen sah, während ich meinen Schreibtisch schloss. "Was für ein müdes Mädchen!" sagte ich. "Das ist eher am Ziel. Beim nächsten Mal musst du ins Bett gehen, meine Liebe. Es ist viel zu spät für dich." "Nein, schick mich nicht ins Bett!" flehte Dora und kam an meine Seite. "Bitte, tu das nicht!" "Dora!" Zu meiner Verwunderung schluchzte sie an meinem Hals. "Nicht gesund, meine Liebe! Nicht glücklich!" "Ja, vollkommen gesund und sehr glücklich!" sagte Dora. "Aber sag, du lässt mich bleiben und dich schreiben sehen." "Was für ein Anblick für solch strahlende Augen um Mitternacht!" erwiderte ich. "Sind sie strahlend?" gab Dora lachend zurück. "Ich freue mich so, dass sie strahlend sind." "Kleine Eitelkeit!" sagte ich. Aber es war keine Eitelkeit, es war nur harmlose Freude über meine Bewunderung. Das wusste ich bereits, bevor sie es mir sagte. "Wenn du sie hübsch findest, sag, ich darf immer bleiben und dich schreiben sehen!" sagte Dora. "Findest du sie hübsch?" "Sehr hübsch." "Dann lass mich immer bleiben und dich schreiben sehen." "Ich fürchte, das wird ihre Helligkeit nicht verbessern, Dora." "Doch, wird es! Weil du schlauer Junge mich dann nicht vergisst, wenn du voller stummer Fantasien bist. Macht es dir etwas aus, wenn ich etwas sehr, sehr dummes sage? - mehr als sonst?" fragte Dora, die über meine Schulter in mein Gesicht lugte. "Was für ein wunderbares Ding ist das?" sagte ich. "Bitte lass mich die Stifte halten", sagte Dora. "Ich möchte etwas mit all diesen vielen Stunden zu tun haben, in denen du so fleißig bist. Darf ich die Stifte halten?" Die Erinnerung an ihre hübsche Freude, als ich Ja sagte, bringt Tränen in meine Augen. Das nächste Mal, als ich mich hinsetzte, um zu schreiben, und regelmäßig danach, saß sie an ihrem gewohnten Platz, mit einem Ersatzbündel Stifte an ihrer Seite. Ihr Triumph in dieser Verbindung mit meiner Arbeit und ihre Freude, wenn ich einen neuen Stift brauchte - was ich sehr oft vortäuschte -, brachten mich auf eine neue Art und Weise, meine kindliche Ehefrau zu erfreuen. Ich tat gelegentlich so, als ob ich ein oder zwei Seiten Manuskript kopieren wollte. Dann war Dora in ihrem Element. Die Vorbereitungen, die sie für diese große Arbeit traf, die Schürzen, die sie anzog, die Lätzchen, die sie aus der Küche auslieh, um die Tinte fernzuhalten, die Zeit, die sie sich nahm, die unzähligen Unterbrechungen, die sie hatte, um mit Jip zu lachen, als ob er alles verstünde, ihre Überzeugung, dass ihre Arbeit unvollständig war, wenn sie nicht ihren Namen am Ende unterschrieb, und die Art und Weise, wie sie es mir brachte, wie eine Schulabschrift, und mich dann, als ich es lobte, um den Hals schloss, sind für mich berührende Erinnerungen, so einfach sie anderen Männern erscheinen mögen. Sie übernahm bald darauf den Besitz der Schlüssel und lief mit dem ganzen Bündel in einem kleinen Korb, der an ihrer schlanken Taille befestigt war, durch das Haus. Ich fand selten, dass die Orte, zu denen sie gehörten, verschlossen waren, oder dass sie außer als Spielzeug für Jip von Nutzen waren - aber Dora war zufrieden und das freute mich. Sie war völlig zufrieden damit, dass durch dieses vorgespielte Hauswirtschaften viel erreicht wurde; und sie war so vergnügt, als ob wir einen Scherz gemacht hätten, indem wir ein Puppenhaus hatten. So gingen wir weiter. Dora war meiner Tante gegenüber kaum weniger zärtlich als gegenüber mir und erzählte ihr oft von der Zeit, als sie fürchtete, dass sie "ein mürrisches altes Ding" sei. Ich habe meine Tante noch nie systematischer auf jemanden zugehen sehen. Sie umwarb Jip, obwohl Jip nie reagierte; hörte, Tag für Tag, der Gitarre zu, obwohl ich fürchte, dass sie keinen Musikgeschmack hatte; griff die Untätigen nie an, obwohl die Versuchung groß gewesen sein muss; ging wunderbar weite Strecken zu Fuß, um als Überraschungen irgendwelche Kleinigkeiten zu kaufen, von denen sie erfuhr, dass Dora sie haben wollte; und kam nie durch den Garten und vermisste sie aus dem Zimmer, aber sie rief, von der Treppe aus mit einer Stimme, die fröhlich im ganzen Haus erklang: "Wo ist das kleine Blümchen?" Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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David erinnert sich an sein Leben und erinnert sich daran, wie seine Liebe zu Dora weiter gewachsen ist. Er ist jetzt einundzwanzig und hat "dieses wilde Geheimnis der Stenografie gezähmt" und berichtet für eine "Morgenzeitung" über die Debatten im Parlament. Er schreibt auch mit einigem Erfolg für Zeitschriften und sagt: "Insgesamt geht es mir gut." Sein größtes Glück jedoch verdankt er seiner bevorstehenden Hochzeit. Miss Lavinia und Miss Clarissa, Doras Tanten, haben ihrer Hochzeit zugestimmt und sind jetzt in einem wahren Fieber, während sie die Garderobe der Braut vorbereiten. Tante Betsey hilft, indem sie in den Londoner Geschäften nach Möbeln sucht, während Peggotty das Cottage, in dem David und seine neue Frau leben werden, putzt und immer wieder putzt. Tommy Traddles besucht die Hochzeit. Sophy, Traddles' Verlobte, und Agnes Wickfield sind Brautjungfern. Nachdem David die Kirchentür erreicht hat, ist "der Rest alles ein mehr oder weniger zusammenhangloser Traum". Doch nach dem Hochzeitsfrühstück fahren David und Dora gemeinsam weg und er erwacht aus dem Traum und erkennt: "Es ist meine liebe, liebe kleine Frau an meiner Seite, die ich so sehr liebe!" Der Zauber der Hochzeit vergeht fast sofort. Ihre Dienerin, Mary Anne Paragon, kann nicht gut kochen. David sagt Dora, sie solle mit ihr über die Zubereitung von Mahlzeiten sprechen, aber Doras einziger Ausweg ist zu weinen. David bittet seine Tante, seiner Frau das Haushalten zu erklären, aber sie lehnt ab und sagt David, er müsse Geduld mit "Kleine Blüte" haben und sie "anhand ihrer Eigenschaften, nicht anhand der Eigenschaften, die sie vielleicht nicht hat" beurteilen. Sie fährt fort zu sagen: "Das ist die Ehe, Trot; und der Himmel segne euch beide darin, als wärt ihr ein Paar unerfahrener Kinder im Wald!" Eine Reihe unfähiger Bediensteter kommen und gehen im Cottage. Wenn David und Dora einkaufen gehen, betrügen sie die Händler. Eines Abends kommt Traddles zum Abendessen, aber das Haus ist so vollgestopft, dass David sich fragt, ob genug Platz für Traddles bleibt, um Besteck zu benutzen. Jip läuft über den Tisch und "setzt seine Pfote ins Salz oder die geschmolzene Butter." Das Lamm ist kaum gekocht und die Austern, die Dora gekauft hat, lassen sich nicht öffnen. Als Traddles geht, sagt Dora, es tue ihr leid, aber David gesteht: "Ich bin genauso schlimm wie du, meine Liebe." Später wird David bei seinem Schreiben von seiner "Kinderfrau" unterstützt, die neben ihm sitzt und ihm die Stifte hält, während er schreibt.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Kapitel: DAS GEBURTSHAUS IVY HOUSE, HACKNEY Dieses Krankenhaus dient der Unterbringung junger Mütter bei der Geburt ihrer unehelichen Kinder. Es ist ein bescheidenes Gebäude mit fünfundzwanzig Betten, obwohl ich denke, dass noch ein paar weitere arrangiert werden können. Dass es seinen Zweck gut erfüllt, bis das große Geburtshaus, von dem ich bereits gesprochen habe, gebaut werden kann, zeigt sich daran, dass im Jahr 1900 hier 286 Babys (von denen nur fünfundzwanzig nicht unehelich waren) geboren wurden, ohne dass eine einzige Mutter stirbt. Allerdings starben dreißig Babys, was die zuständige Beamtin eher als einen hohen Anteil ansah, der jedoch dadurch erklärt wird, dass in diesem Jahr besonders viele Geburten vorzeitig waren. Im Jahr 1908 wurden 270 Kinder geboren, von denen zwölf starben, wobei sechs davon Frühgeburten waren. Die Fälle stammen aus London und anderen Städten, in denen die Heilsarmee tätig ist. In der Regel wenden sie sich selbst, ihre Angehörigen und Freunde oder vielleicht der Vater des Kindes an die Armee, um ihnen bei ihren Schwierigkeiten zu helfen, wodurch zweifellos viele Kindsmorde und einige Selbstmorde verhindert werden. Die Gebühr, die von der Einrichtung für diese Geburtsfälle erhoben wird, richtet sich nach der Zahlungsfähigkeit der Patientin. Viele zahlen überhaupt nichts. Von denen, die zahlen, beläuft sich der durchschnittlich erhaltene Betrag auf 10 Schilling pro Woche, dafür erhalten sie medizinische Betreuung, Verpflegung, Pflege und alles andere, was sie in ihrem Zustand brauchen. Ich habe das Krankenhaus besichtigt und diese unglücklichen Mütter gesehen, die im Bett liegen, jedes von ihnen mit ihrem Säugling in einem Kinderbett neben sich. Obwohl ihre unmittelbare Prüfung vorbei war, sahen diese armen Mädchen sehr traurig aus. "Sie wissen, dass ihr Leben ruiniert ist", sagte die zuständige Dame. Die meisten von ihnen waren recht jung, einige waren erst fünfzehn und die Mehrheit unter zwanzig. Dies, so wurde mir erklärt, liegt in der Regel an der Unwissenheit über die Tatsachen des Lebens, in der Mädchen durch ihre Eltern oder andere für ihre Ausbildung Verantwortliche gehalten werden. Im letzten Jahr befand sich eine dreizehnjährige Mutter in diesem Krankenhaus. Ein Mädchen, das besonders traurig zu sein schien, hatte Zwillinge neben sich liegen. In der Hoffnung, sie aufzumuntern, bemerkte ich, dass es schöne Babys seien, woraufhin sie ihr Gesicht unter der Bettdecke versteckte. "Sprich nicht über sie", sagte die Beamtin und zog mich weg. "Dieses Kind hat fast ihre Augen ausgeweint, als man ihr gesagt hat, dass sie zwei hat. Siehst du, es ist schon schwer genug für diese armen Mütter, eins zu behalten, aber wenn es um zwei geht...!" Ich fragte, ob die Mehrheit dieser unglücklichen jungen Frauen wirklich versuchte, ihre Kinder zu unterstützen. Die Antwort war, dass die meisten von ihnen wirklich sehr hart versuchten und ihr ganzes Geld dafür verwenden würden, selbst wenn sie sich absolute Notwendigkeiten enthielten. Nur wenige von ihnen machen nach ihrem ersten Fehler erneut Fehler, da sie ihre Lektion gelernt haben. Darüber hinaus bemühte sich die Heilsarmee während ihres Aufenthalts im Krankenhaus und danach ihr Bestes, um ihnen bestimmte moralische Lehren zu vermitteln und somit ihre Arbeit präventiv und korrigierend zu machen. Es werden viele Stellen in Diensten für diese Mädchen gefunden, meistens dort, wo nur eine Bedienstete beschäftigt ist, damit sie nicht von den anderen verspottet werden, falls diese ihr Geheimnis entdecken sollten. In der Regel wird dies jedoch der Hausherrin anvertraut. Das durchschnittliche Gehalt, das sie erhalten, beträgt etwa 18 Pfund pro Jahr. Da es 13 Pfund oder 5 Schilling pro Woche kostet, ein Kind zu versorgen (ohne die Kleidung), ist der Kampf sehr hart, es sei denn, die Armee kann den Vater ausfindig machen und ihn dazu bringen, seinen Beitrag zur Unterstützung seines Kindes zu leisten, entweder freiwillig oder durch einen unehelichen Abkommensbeschluss. Mir wurde mitgeteilt, dass viele dieser Väter als Gentlemen betrachtet werden, aber wenn es um die Zahlung geht, zeigen sie, dass sie kaum Anspruch auf diese Bezeichnung haben. Natürlich ist es bei Männern von bescheidenerem Stand noch schwieriger, das Geld einzutreiben. Ich kann hinzufügen, dass meine langjährige Erfahrung als Richter diese Aussage bestätigt. Es ist erstaunlich, zu welcher Gemeinheit, Listigkeit und sogar Meineid ein Mann manchmal greift, um so wenig wie 1 Schilling und 6 Pence pro Woche zu vermeiden, um für das Wohl seines eigenen Kindes zu sorgen. Oft ist die Verteidigungslinie ein grausamer Versuch, den Charakter der Mutter zu verleumden, selbst wenn der Ankläger genau weiß, dass es keinen Anlass für die Beschuldigung gibt und dass er allein für den Fall des Absturzes der Frau verantwortlich ist. Außerdem werden viele solcher Männer, wenn der Fall bewiesen ist und der Beschluss ergeht, weglaufen und sich an einem anderen Ort im Land verstecken, um der Erfüllung ihrer gerechten Pflichten zu entgehen. Im Zusammenhang mit diesem Geburtshaus betreibt die Heilsarmee eine Ausbildungsschule für Geburtshelferinnen und Krankenschwestern, von denen alle die Prüfung des Zentralen Geburtshelferrates bestehen müssen, bevor sie praktizieren dürfen. Einige der Studentinnen arbeiten nach der Qualifikation weiterhin für die Armee in ihrer Krankenhausabteilung, andere in der Slumabteilung, während einige im Auftrag anderer Organisationen ins Ausland gehen. Die Gebühren für diesen viermonatigen Kurs in Geburtshilfe variieren je nach den Umständen. Die Armee verlangt von den Studentinnen, die anderen Organisationen angehören oder für diese arbeiten wollen, den vollen Preis von achtzehn Guineen. Diejenigen, die beabsichtigen, ins Ausland zu gehen und mit medizinischen Missionaren zu arbeiten, müssen fünfzehn Guineen zahlen, und diejenigen, die Mitglieder der Heilsarmee sind oder beabsichtigen, in dieser Abteilung der Armee tätig zu sein, zahlen nichts, es sei denn, am Ende ihres Kurses beschließen sie, den Dienst der Army zu verlassen. Bei der letzten Prüfung bestanden dreizehn der vierzehn Studentinnen, die von dieser Einrichtung geschickt wurden, die erforderliche Prüfung. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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

Sarah trifft sich mit ihrer Mutter Ada zum Einkaufen und Essen in einem Café. Ada bringt Sarah allmählich dazu, ihr die ganze Geschichte über ihre Beziehung zu Billy Prior zu erzählen. Ada schimpft mit ihrer Tochter, dass sie so früh Sex hatte. Sie warnt sie davor, dass Kondome nicht zuverlässig sind und dass sie in großen Schwierigkeiten steckt, wenn sie schwanger wird. Ada glaubt nicht an Liebe zwischen Mann und Frau; sie hat ihre beiden Töchter alleine erzogen. Aber sie betrachtet die Ehe als "das einzige Ziel des weiblichen Lebens" und würde nichts lieber sehen, als ihre Tochter mit einem Mann mit einem zuverlässigen Einkommen vor den Altar treten zu sehen. Sassoon trifft sich mit Graves in einer Bar zum Mittagessen. Er erzählt Graves, dass er zugestimmt hat, in den aktiven Dienst zurückzukehren, wenn sie ihm versprechen, ihn nach Frankreich zu schicken. Sassoon deutet an, dass Graves keinen wirklichen Mut hat, da er einfach mitmacht, was die Armee ihm sagt, obwohl er behauptet, dass der Krieg falsch ist. Graves belehrt Sassoon über die Bedeutung eines gentlemanhaften Verhaltens und das Halten seines Wortes, egal wie sehr sich die eigenen Ideen geändert haben mögen. Graves ändert den Ton des Gesprächs und erzählt Sassoon von einem alten Freund namens Peter, der dabei erwischt wurde, sich vor den Kasernen anzubieten. Peter soll zu Rivers geschickt werden, um geheilt zu werden, und Sassoon ist etwas schockiert. Graves sagt, dass er, seit er von Peters Schicksal gehört hat, beschlossen hat, einem Mädchen namens Nancy zu schreiben. Graves will Sassoon klarmachen, dass er nicht homosexuell ist. Sarah und ihre Freunde kehren in die Munitionsfabrik für eine Nachtschicht zurück. Sie sprechen darüber, wie viele Männer in der Armee homosexuell sind, und machen Witze darüber, dass einige von ihnen noch nie in ihrem Leben mit Frauen in Berührung gekommen sind. Während sie arbeiten, bemerkt Sarah, dass Betty nicht da ist. Lizzie sagt, dass Betty, nachdem sie bemerkt hatte, dass sie schwanger war, zu Hause einen Kleiderbügel benutzt hat, um das Baby zu abortieren. Stattdessen hat sie ihre Blase durchstochen und wurde ins Krankenhaus gebracht, wo der Arzt sie wegen ihres Handelns scharf zurechtwies. Die Mädchen gehen wieder an die Arbeit. Rivers beendet seine nächtlichen Runden und besucht seinen letzten Patienten, Sassoon. Sassoon erzählt ihm die Neuigkeiten über Peter, den Freund von Graves. Sassoon war verletzt, dass Graves es so deutlich gemacht hat, dass er Homosexualität abstößt. Sassoon ist auch darüber verärgert, dass sie Peter zu einem Psychiater schicken, um "geheilt" zu werden; er dachte, dass die Menschen toleranter geworden wären. Rivers erklärt ihm, dass in Kriegszeiten die Machthaber sehr deutlich machen wollen, dass es eine richtige und eine falsche Art von Liebe zwischen Männern gibt. Dies tun sie, indem sie das, was als falsch betrachtet wird, bestrafen. Rivers rät Sassoon, sein Privatleben privat zu halten, sonst könnte er als Feind seines eigenen Landes betrachtet 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: AFTER Lena came to Black Hawk I often met her downtown, where she would be matching sewing silk or buying "findings" for Mrs. Thomas. If I happened to walk home with her, she told me all about the dresses she was helping to make, or about what she saw and heard when she was with Tiny Soderball at the hotel on Saturday nights. The Boys' Home was the best hotel on our branch of the Burlington, and all the commercial travelers in that territory tried to get into Black Hawk for Sunday. They used to assemble in the parlor after supper on Saturday nights. Marshall Field's man, Anson Kirkpatrick, played the piano and sang all the latest sentimental songs. After Tiny had helped the cook wash the dishes, she and Lena sat on the other side of the double doors between the parlor and the dining-room, listening to the music and giggling at the jokes and stories. Lena often said she hoped I would be a traveling man when I grew up. They had a gay life of it; nothing to do but ride about on trains all day and go to theaters when they were in big cities. Behind the hotel there was an old store building, where the salesmen opened their big trunks and spread out their samples on the counters. The Black Hawk merchants went to look at these things and order goods, and Mrs. Thomas, though she was "retail trade," was permitted to see them and to "get ideas." They were all generous, these traveling men; they gave Tiny Soderball handkerchiefs and gloves and ribbons and striped stockings, and so many bottles of perfume and cakes of scented soap that she bestowed some of them on Lena. One afternoon in the week before Christmas I came upon Lena and her funny, square-headed little brother Chris, standing before the drug-store, gazing in at the wax dolls and blocks and Noah's arks arranged in the frosty show window. The boy had come to town with a neighbor to do his Christmas shopping, for he had money of his own this year. He was only twelve, but that winter he had got the job of sweeping out the Norwegian church and making the fire in it every Sunday morning. A cold job it must have been, too! We went into Duckford's dry-goods store, and Chris unwrapped all his presents and showed them to me--something for each of the six younger than himself, even a rubber pig for the baby. Lena had given him one of Tiny Soderball's bottles of perfume for his mother, and he thought he would get some handkerchiefs to go with it. They were cheap, and he had n't much money left. We found a tableful of handkerchiefs spread out for view at Duckford's. Chris wanted those with initial letters in the corner, because he had never seen any before. He studied them seriously, while Lena looked over his shoulder, telling him she thought the red letters would hold their color best. He seemed so perplexed that I thought perhaps he had n't enough money, after all. Presently he said gravely,-- "Sister, you know mother's name is Berthe. I don't know if I ought to get B for Berthe, or M for Mother." Lena patted his bristly head. "I'd get the B, Chrissy. It will please her for you to think about her name. Nobody ever calls her by it now." That satisfied him. His face cleared at once, and he took three reds and three blues. When the neighbor came in to say that it was time to start, Lena wound Chris's comforter about his neck and turned up his jacket collar--he had no overcoat--and we watched him climb into the wagon and start on his long, cold drive. As we walked together up the windy street, Lena wiped her eyes with the back of her woolen glove. "I get awful homesick for them, all the same," she murmured, as if she were answering some remembered reproach. 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.

Jim trifft Lena oft in der Innenstadt und sie pflegten zusammen nach Hause zu gehen und zu reden. Lena erzählt ihm von einem Hotel namens Boys' Home, in dem sie und Tiny Soderball die Unterhaltung für reisende Verkäufer angehört haben. Die Verkäufer schenkten Tiny Geschenke. Eines Tages trifft Jim Lena und ihren kleinen Bruder Chris, der Weihnachtseinkäufe macht. Chris zeigt alle Geschenke, die er für seine Familienmitglieder bekommen hat, und versucht zu entscheiden, welches Taschentuch er seiner Mutter geben soll. Nachdem Chris nach Hause geht, werden Lena ein wenig sentimental und gesteht, wie sehr sie Heimweh 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: One evening that Candide and Martin were going to sit down to supper with some foreigners who lodged in the same inn, a man whose complexion was as black as soot, came behind Candide, and taking him by the arm, said: "Get yourself ready to go along with us; do not fail." Upon this he turned round and saw--Cacambo! Nothing but the sight of Cunegonde could have astonished and delighted him more. He was on the point of going mad with joy. He embraced his dear friend. "Cunegonde is here, without doubt; where is she? Take me to her that I may die of joy in her company." "Cunegonde is not here," said Cacambo, "she is at Constantinople." "Oh, heavens! at Constantinople! But were she in China I would fly thither; let us be off." "We shall set out after supper," replied Cacambo. "I can tell you nothing more; I am a slave, my master awaits me, I must serve him at table; speak not a word, eat, and then get ready." Candide, distracted between joy and grief, delighted at seeing his faithful agent again, astonished at finding him a slave, filled with the fresh hope of recovering his mistress, his heart palpitating, his understanding confused, sat down to table with Martin, who saw all these scenes quite unconcerned, and with six strangers who had come to spend the Carnival at Venice. Cacambo waited at table upon one of the strangers; towards the end of the entertainment he drew near his master, and whispered in his ear: "Sire, your Majesty may start when you please, the vessel is ready." On saying these words he went out. The company in great surprise looked at one another without speaking a word, when another domestic approached his master and said to him: "Sire, your Majesty's chaise is at Padua, and the boat is ready." The master gave a nod and the servant went away. The company all stared at one another again, and their surprise redoubled. A third valet came up to a third stranger, saying: "Sire, believe me, your Majesty ought not to stay here any longer. I am going to get everything ready." And immediately he disappeared. Candide and Martin did not doubt that this was a masquerade of the Carnival. Then a fourth domestic said to a fourth master: "Your Majesty may depart when you please." Saying this he went away like the rest. The fifth valet said the same thing to the fifth master. But the sixth valet spoke differently to the sixth stranger, who sat near Candide. He said to him: "Faith, Sire, they will no longer give credit to your Majesty nor to me, and we may perhaps both of us be put in jail this very night. Therefore I will take care of myself. Adieu." The servants being all gone, the six strangers, with Candide and Martin, remained in a profound silence. At length Candide broke it. "Gentlemen," said he, "this is a very good joke indeed, but why should you all be kings? For me I own that neither Martin nor I is a king." Cacambo's master then gravely answered in Italian: "I am not at all joking. My name is Achmet III. I was Grand Sultan many years. I dethroned my brother; my nephew dethroned me, my viziers were beheaded, and I am condemned to end my days in the old Seraglio. My nephew, the great Sultan Mahmoud, permits me to travel sometimes for my health, and I am come to spend the Carnival at Venice." A young man who sat next to Achmet, spoke then as follows: "My name is Ivan. I was once Emperor of all the Russias, but was dethroned in my cradle. My parents were confined in prison and I was educated there; yet I am sometimes allowed to travel in company with persons who act as guards; and I am come to spend the Carnival at Venice." The third said: "I am Charles Edward, King of England; my father has resigned all his legal rights to me. I have fought in defence of them; and above eight hundred of my adherents have been hanged, drawn, and quartered. I have been confined in prison; I am going to Rome, to pay a visit to the King, my father, who was dethroned as well as myself and my grandfather, and I am come to spend the Carnival at Venice." The fourth spoke thus in his turn: "I am the King of Poland; the fortune of war has stripped me of my hereditary dominions; my father underwent the same vicissitudes; I resign myself to Providence in the same manner as Sultan Achmet, the Emperor Ivan, and King Charles Edward, whom God long preserve; and I am come to the Carnival at Venice." The fifth said: "I am King of Poland also; I have been twice dethroned; but Providence has given me another country, where I have done more good than all the Sarmatian kings were ever capable of doing on the banks of the Vistula; I resign myself likewise to Providence, and am come to pass the Carnival at Venice." It was now the sixth monarch's turn to speak: "Gentlemen," said he, "I am not so great a prince as any of you; however, I am a king. I am Theodore, elected King of Corsica; I had the title of Majesty, and now I am scarcely treated as a gentleman. I have coined money, and now am not worth a farthing; I have had two secretaries of state, and now I have scarce a valet; I have seen myself on a throne, and I have seen myself upon straw in a common jail in London. I am afraid that I shall meet with the same treatment here though, like your majesties, I am come to see the Carnival at Venice." The other five kings listened to this speech with generous compassion. Each of them gave twenty sequins to King Theodore to buy him clothes and linen; and Candide made him a present of a diamond worth two thousand sequins. "Who can this private person be," said the five kings to one another, "who is able to give, and really has given, a hundred times as much as any of us?" Just as they rose from table, in came four Serene Highnesses, who had also been stripped of their territories by the fortune of war, and were come to spend the Carnival at Venice. But Candide paid no regard to these newcomers, his thoughts were entirely employed on his voyage to Constantinople, in search of his beloved Cunegonde. Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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

Während der Karnevalszeit in Venedig speisen Candide und Martin mit sechs Fremden in einer Herberge, als sie auf Cacambo treffen, der nun der Sklave eines der sechs Fremden ist. Cacambo erklärt, dass Cunegonde sich in Konstantinopel befindet und bietet an, Candide zu ihr zu bringen. Auf Befehl seines Herrn kann er nichts mehr sagen. Candide und Martin unterhalten sich mit ihren Tischgenossen und erfahren, dass jeder von ihnen ein entthronter König aus einer anderen Ecke Europas ist. Einer von ihnen, Theodore von Korsika, ist der ärmste und am wenigsten Glückliche, und die anderen bieten ihm jeweils zwanzig Gulden an. Candide gibt ihm einen Diamanten, der den hundertfachen Wert dieser Summe hat. Die Könige fragen sich über seine Identität und die Quelle seiner Großzügigkeit.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: <CHAPTER> BOOK FOUR -- THE CLOSED DOOR 1--The Rencounter by the Pool The July sun shone over Egdon and fired its crimson heather to scarlet. It was the one season of the year, and the one weather of the season, in which the heath was gorgeous. This flowering period represented the second or noontide division in the cycle of those superficial changes which alone were possible here; it followed the green or young-fern period, representing the morn, and preceded the brown period, when the heathbells and ferns would wear the russet tinges of evening; to be in turn displaced by the dark hue of the winter period, representing night. Clym and Eustacia, in their little house at Alderworth, beyond East Egdon, were living on with a monotony which was delightful to them. The heath and changes of weather were quite blotted out from their eyes for the present. They were enclosed in a sort of luminous mist, which hid from them surroundings of any inharmonious colour, and gave to all things the character of light. When it rained they were charmed, because they could remain indoors together all day with such a show of reason; when it was fine they were charmed, because they could sit together on the hills. They were like those double stars which revolve round and round each other, and from a distance appear to be one. The absolute solitude in which they lived intensified their reciprocal thoughts; yet some might have said that it had the disadvantage of consuming their mutual affections at a fearfully prodigal rate. Yeobright did not fear for his own part; but recollection of Eustacia's old speech about the evanescence of love, now apparently forgotten by her, sometimes caused him to ask himself a question; and he recoiled at the thought that the quality of finiteness was not foreign to Eden. When three or four weeks had been passed thus, Yeobright resumed his reading in earnest. To make up for lost time he studied indefatigably, for he wished to enter his new profession with the least possible delay. Now, Eustacia's dream had always been that, once married to Clym, she would have the power of inducing him to return to Paris. He had carefully withheld all promise to do so; but would he be proof against her coaxing and argument? She had calculated to such a degree on the probability of success that she had represented Paris, and not Budmouth, to her grandfather as in all likelihood their future home. Her hopes were bound up in this dream. In the quiet days since their marriage, when Yeobright had been poring over her lips, her eyes, and the lines of her face, she had mused and mused on the subject, even while in the act of returning his gaze; and now the sight of the books, indicating a future which was antagonistic to her dream, struck her with a positively painful jar. She was hoping for the time when, as the mistress of some pretty establishment, however small, near a Parisian Boulevard, she would be passing her days on the skirts at least of the gay world, and catching stray wafts from those town pleasures she was so well fitted to enjoy. Yet Yeobright was as firm in the contrary intention as if the tendency of marriage were rather to develop the fantasies of young philanthropy than to sweep them away. Her anxiety reached a high pitch; but there was something in Clym's undeviating manner which made her hesitate before sounding him on the subject. At this point in their experience, however, an incident helped her. It occurred one evening about six weeks after their union, and arose entirely out of the unconscious misapplication of Venn of the fifty guineas intended for Yeobright. A day or two after the receipt of the money Thomasin had sent a note to her aunt to thank her. She had been surprised at the largeness of the amount; but as no sum had ever been mentioned she set that down to her late uncle's generosity. She had been strictly charged by her aunt to say nothing to her husband of this gift; and Wildeve, as was natural enough, had not brought himself to mention to his wife a single particular of the midnight scene in the heath. Christian's terror, in like manner, had tied his tongue on the share he took in that proceeding; and hoping that by some means or other the money had gone to its proper destination, he simply asserted as much, without giving details. Therefore, when a week or two had passed away, Mrs. Yeobright began to wonder why she never heard from her son of the receipt of the present; and to add gloom to her perplexity came the possibility that resentment might be the cause of his silence. She could hardly believe as much, but why did he not write? She questioned Christian, and the confusion in his answers would at once have led her to believe that something was wrong, had not one-half of his story been corroborated by Thomasin's note. Mrs. Yeobright was in this state of uncertainty when she was informed one morning that her son's wife was visiting her grandfather at Mistover. She determined to walk up the hill, see Eustacia, and ascertain from her daughter-in-law's lips whether the family guineas, which were to Mrs. Yeobright what family jewels are to wealthier dowagers, had miscarried or not. When Christian learnt where she was going his concern reached its height. At the moment of her departure he could prevaricate no longer, and, confessing to the gambling, told her the truth as far as he knew it--that the guineas had been won by Wildeve. "What, is he going to keep them?" Mrs. Yeobright cried. "I hope and trust not!" moaned Christian. "He's a good man, and perhaps will do right things. He said you ought to have gied Mr. Clym's share to Eustacia, and that's perhaps what he'll do himself." To Mrs. Yeobright, as soon as she could calmly reflect, there was much likelihood in this, for she could hardly believe that Wildeve would really appropriate money belonging to her son. The intermediate course of giving it to Eustacia was the sort of thing to please Wildeve's fancy. But it filled the mother with anger none the less. That Wildeve should have got command of the guineas after all, and should rearrange the disposal of them, placing Clym's share in Clym's wife's hands, because she had been his own sweetheart, and might be so still, was as irritating a pain as any that Mrs. Yeobright had ever borne. She instantly dismissed the wretched Christian from her employ for his conduct in the affair; but, feeling quite helpless and unable to do without him, told him afterwards that he might stay a little longer if he chose. Then she hastened off to Eustacia, moved by a much less promising emotion towards her daughter-in-law than she had felt half an hour earlier, when planning her journey. At that time it was to inquire in a friendly spirit if there had been any accidental loss; now it was to ask plainly if Wildeve had privately given her money which had been intended as a sacred gift to Clym. She started at two o'clock, and her meeting with Eustacia was hastened by the appearance of the young lady beside the pool and bank which bordered her grandfather's premises, where she stood surveying the scene, and perhaps thinking of the romantic enactments it had witnessed in past days. When Mrs. Yeobright approached, Eustacia surveyed her with the calm stare of a stranger. The mother-in-law was the first to speak. "I was coming to see you," she said. "Indeed!" said Eustacia with surprise, for Mrs. Yeobright, much to the girl's mortification, had refused to be present at the wedding. "I did not at all expect you." "I was coming on business only," said the visitor, more coldly than at first. "Will you excuse my asking this--Have you received a gift from Thomasin's husband?" "A gift?" "I mean money!" "What--I myself?" "Well, I meant yourself, privately--though I was not going to put it in that way." "Money from Mr. Wildeve? No--never! Madam, what do you mean by that?" Eustacia fired up all too quickly, for her own consciousness of the old attachment between herself and Wildeve led her to jump to the conclusion that Mrs. Yeobright also knew of it, and might have come to accuse her of receiving dishonourable presents from him now. "I simply ask the question," said Mrs. Yeobright. "I have been----" "You ought to have better opinions of me--I feared you were against me from the first!" exclaimed Eustacia. "No. I was simply for Clym," replied Mrs. Yeobright, with too much emphasis in her earnestness. "It is the instinct of everyone to look after their own." "How can you imply that he required guarding against me?" cried Eustacia, passionate tears in her eyes. "I have not injured him by marrying him! What sin have I done that you should think so ill of me? You had no right to speak against me to him when I have never wronged you." "I only did what was fair under the circumstances," said Mrs. Yeobright more softly. "I would rather not have gone into this question at present, but you compel me. I am not ashamed to tell you the honest truth. I was firmly convinced that he ought not to marry you--therefore I tried to dissuade him by all the means in my power. But it is done now, and I have no idea of complaining any more. I am ready to welcome you." "Ah, yes, it is very well to see things in that business point of view," murmured Eustacia with a smothered fire of feeling. "But why should you think there is anything between me and Mr. Wildeve? I have a spirit as well as you. I am indignant; and so would any woman be. It was a condescension in me to be Clym's wife, and not a manoeuvre, let me remind you; and therefore I will not be treated as a schemer whom it becomes necessary to bear with because she has crept into the family." "Oh!" said Mrs. Yeobright, vainly endeavouring to control her anger. "I have never heard anything to show that my son's lineage is not as good as the Vyes'--perhaps better. It is amusing to hear you talk of condescension." "It was condescension, nevertheless," said Eustacia vehemently. "And if I had known then what I know now, that I should be living in this wild heath a month after my marriage, I--I should have thought twice before agreeing." "It would be better not to say that; it might not sound truthful. I am not aware that any deception was used on his part--I know there was not--whatever might have been the case on the other side." "This is too exasperating!" answered the younger woman huskily, her face crimsoning, and her eyes darting light. "How can you dare to speak to me like that? I insist upon repeating to you that had I known that my life would from my marriage up to this time have been as it is, I should have said NO. I don't complain. I have never uttered a sound of such a thing to him; but it is true. I hope therefore that in the future you will be silent on my eagerness. If you injure me now you injure yourself." "Injure you? Do you think I am an evil-disposed person?" "You injured me before my marriage, and you have now suspected me of secretly favouring another man for money!" "I could not help what I thought. But I have never spoken of you outside my house." "You spoke of me within it, to Clym, and you could not do worse." "I did my duty." "And I'll do mine." "A part of which will possibly be to set him against his mother. It is always so. But why should I not bear it as others have borne it before me!" "I understand you," said Eustacia, breathless with emotion. "You think me capable of every bad thing. Who can be worse than a wife who encourages a lover, and poisons her husband's mind against his relative? Yet that is now the character given to me. Will you not come and drag him out of my hands?" Mrs. Yeobright gave back heat for heat. "Don't rage at me, madam! It ill becomes your beauty, and I am not worth the injury you may do it on my account, I assure you. I am only a poor old woman who has lost a son." "If you had treated me honourably you would have had him still." Eustacia said, while scalding tears trickled from her eyes. "You have brought yourself to folly; you have caused a division which can never be healed!" "I have done nothing. This audacity from a young woman is more than I can bear." "It was asked for; you have suspected me, and you have made me speak of my husband in a way I would not have done. You will let him know that I have spoken thus, and it will cause misery between us. Will you go away from me? You are no friend!" "I will go when I have spoken a word. If anyone says I have come here to question you without good grounds for it, that person speaks untruly. If anyone says that I attempted to stop your marriage by any but honest means, that person, too, does not speak the truth. I have fallen on an evil time; God has been unjust to me in letting you insult me! Probably my son's happiness does not lie on this side of the grave, for he is a foolish man who neglects the advice of his parent. You, Eustacia, stand on the edge of a precipice without knowing it. Only show my son one-half the temper you have shown me today--and you may before long--and you will find that though he is as gentle as a child with you now, he can be as hard as steel!" The excited mother then withdrew, and Eustacia, panting, stood looking into the pool. </CHAPTER> Können Sie eine passende Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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

Es ist Juli. Eustacia und Clym befinden sich in der Flitterwochenphase ihrer Ehe und verbringen ihre Tage damit, über das Moor zu tollen und sich gegenseitig anzusehen. Aber nicht alles ist Sonnenschein und Rosen - Eustacia wird immer ungeduldiger und möchte nach Paris ziehen, während Clym sich Sorgen um den Start seiner Schule macht. In der Zwischenzeit war Thomasin überrascht, wie viel Geld ihre Tante ihr gegeben hatte, und schrieb ihr einen Dankesbrief. Christian ist eingeschüchtert und kann nicht einmal mehr mit Mrs. Yeobright sprechen. Daher wird Mrs. Yeobright immer misstrauischer, insbesondere wenn sie keinen Dankesbrief von Clym bekommt. Mrs. Yeobright beschließt dann, Eustacia aufzusuchen und herauszufinden, ob sie das Geld erhalten haben oder nicht. Christian erfährt von ihrem Plan und gesteht, dass er das Geld an Wildeve verloren hat. Mrs. Yeobright ist wütend und feuert ihn. Mrs. Yeobright überzeugt sich selbst davon, dass Damon das Geld an Eustacia gegeben hat. Also stellt sie ihre Schwiegertochter zur Rede und Eustacia ist beleidigt über die Unterstellung, sie sei eine Prostituierte oder so etwas. Die beiden haben einen riesigen Streit und trennen sich auf sehr schlechten Bedingungen. Mrs. Yeobright warnt Eustacia, dass sie Clyms Liebe verlieren werde, wenn sie ihm ihren Zorn zeigt.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: Gentlemen, I am joking, and I know myself that my jokes are not brilliant, but you know one can take everything as a joke. I am, perhaps, jesting against the grain. Gentlemen, I am tormented by questions; answer them for me. You, for instance, want to cure men of their old habits and reform their will in accordance with science and good sense. But how do you know, not only that it is possible, but also that it is DESIRABLE to reform man in that way? And what leads you to the conclusion that man's inclinations NEED reforming? In short, how do you know that such a reformation will be a benefit to man? And to go to the root of the matter, why are you so positively convinced that not to act against his real normal interests guaranteed by the conclusions of reason and arithmetic is certainly always advantageous for man and must always be a law for mankind? So far, you know, this is only your supposition. It may be the law of logic, but not the law of humanity. You think, gentlemen, perhaps that I am mad? Allow me to defend myself. I agree that man is pre-eminently a creative animal, predestined to strive consciously for an object and to engage in engineering--that is, incessantly and eternally to make new roads, WHEREVER THEY MAY LEAD. But the reason why he wants sometimes to go off at a tangent may just be that he is PREDESTINED to make the road, and perhaps, too, that however stupid the "direct" practical man may be, the thought sometimes will occur to him that the road almost always does lead SOMEWHERE, and that the destination it leads to is less important than the process of making it, and that the chief thing is to save the well-conducted child from despising engineering, and so giving way to the fatal idleness, which, as we all know, is the mother of all the vices. Man likes to make roads and to create, that is a fact beyond dispute. But why has he such a passionate love for destruction and chaos also? Tell me that! But on that point I want to say a couple of words myself. May it not be that he loves chaos and destruction (there can be no disputing that he does sometimes love it) because he is instinctively afraid of attaining his object and completing the edifice he is constructing? Who knows, perhaps he only loves that edifice from a distance, and is by no means in love with it at close quarters; perhaps he only loves building it and does not want to live in it, but will leave it, when completed, for the use of LES ANIMAUX DOMESTIQUES--such as the ants, the sheep, and so on. Now the ants have quite a different taste. They have a marvellous edifice of that pattern which endures for ever--the ant-heap. With the ant-heap the respectable race of ants began and with the ant-heap they will probably end, which does the greatest credit to their perseverance and good sense. But man is a frivolous and incongruous creature, and perhaps, like a chess player, loves the process of the game, not the end of it. And who knows (there is no saying with certainty), perhaps the only goal on earth to which mankind is striving lies in this incessant process of attaining, in other words, in life itself, and not in the thing to be attained, which must always be expressed as a formula, as positive as twice two makes four, and such positiveness is not life, gentlemen, but is the beginning of death. Anyway, man has always been afraid of this mathematical certainty, and I am afraid of it now. Granted that man does nothing but seek that mathematical certainty, he traverses oceans, sacrifices his life in the quest, but to succeed, really to find it, dreads, I assure you. He feels that when he has found it there will be nothing for him to look for. When workmen have finished their work they do at least receive their pay, they go to the tavern, then they are taken to the police-station--and there is occupation for a week. But where can man go? Anyway, one can observe a certain awkwardness about him when he has attained such objects. He loves the process of attaining, but does not quite like to have attained, and that, of course, is very absurd. In fact, man is a comical creature; there seems to be a kind of jest in it all. But yet mathematical certainty is after all, something insufferable. Twice two makes four seems to me simply a piece of insolence. Twice two makes four is a pert coxcomb who stands with arms akimbo barring your path and spitting. I admit that twice two makes four is an excellent thing, but if we are to give everything its due, twice two makes five is sometimes a very charming thing too. And why are you so firmly, so triumphantly, convinced that only the normal and the positive--in other words, only what is conducive to welfare--is for the advantage of man? Is not reason in error as regards advantage? Does not man, perhaps, love something besides well-being? Perhaps he is just as fond of suffering? Perhaps suffering is just as great a benefit to him as well-being? Man is sometimes extraordinarily, passionately, in love with suffering, and that is a fact. There is no need to appeal to universal history to prove that; only ask yourself, if you are a man and have lived at all. As far as my personal opinion is concerned, to care only for well-being seems to me positively ill-bred. Whether it's good or bad, it is sometimes very pleasant, too, to smash things. I hold no brief for suffering nor for well-being either. I am standing for ... my caprice, and for its being guaranteed to me when necessary. Suffering would be out of place in vaudevilles, for instance; I know that. In the "Palace of Crystal" it is unthinkable; suffering means doubt, negation, and what would be the good of a "palace of crystal" if there could be any doubt about it? And yet I think man will never renounce real suffering, that is, destruction and chaos. Why, suffering is the sole origin of consciousness. Though I did lay it down at the beginning that consciousness is the greatest misfortune for man, yet I know man prizes it and would not give it up for any satisfaction. Consciousness, for instance, is infinitely superior to twice two makes four. Once you have mathematical certainty there is nothing left to do or to understand. There will be nothing left but to bottle up your five senses and plunge into contemplation. While if you stick to consciousness, even though the same result is attained, you can at least flog yourself at times, and that will, at any rate, liven you up. Reactionary as it is, corporal punishment is better than nothing. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben stehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Als Nächstes nutzt der UM die Analogie der Straße, um seine Schlussfolgerung zu präsentieren, dass der Mensch Angst davor hat, sein Ziel zu erreichen. Der Mensch, so argumentiert er, liebt den Akt des Bauens oder Konstruierens der Straße, aber nicht das Endergebnis der fertigen Straße. Daraus folgt, dass Menschen die Gesetzmäßigkeit der Determination fürchten - dass zwei plus zwei vier ergibt. Der UM fürchtet die Aussicht, dass die Menschen diesen Grund finden werden - dieses Kristallpalast -, denn dann wird es nichts mehr geben, wonach die Menschheit suchen kann, nichts anderes, wofür man streben kann, nichts anderes, wofür man leben kann.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: Ragueneau, pastry-cooks, then Lise. Ragueneau is writing, with an inspired air, at a small table, and counting on his fingers. FIRST PASTRY-COOK (bringing in an elaborate fancy dish): Fruits in nougat! SECOND PASTRY-COOK (bringing another dish): Custard! THIRD PASTRY-COOK (bringing a roast, decorated with feathers): Peacock! FOURTH PASTRY-COOK (bringing a batch of cakes on a slab): Rissoles! FIFTH PASTRY-COOK (bringing a sort of pie-dish): Beef jelly! RAGUENEAU (ceasing to write, and raising his head): Aurora's silver rays begin to glint e'en now on the copper pans, and thou, O Ragueneau! must perforce stifle in thy breast the God of Song! Anon shall come the hour of the lute!--now 'tis the hour of the oven! (He rises. To a cook): You, make that sauce longer, 'tis too short! THE COOK: How much too short? RAGUENEAU: Three feet. (He passes on farther.) THE COOK: What means he? FIRST PASTRY-COOK (showing a dish to Ragueneau): The tart! SECOND PASTRY-COOK: The pie! RAGUENEAU (before the fire): My muse, retire, lest thy bright eyes be reddened by the fagot's blaze! (To a cook, showing him some loaves): You have put the cleft o' th' loaves in the wrong place; know you not that the coesura should be between the hemistiches? (To another, showing him an unfinished pasty): To this palace of paste you must add the roof. . . (To a young apprentice, who, seated on the ground, is spitting the fowls): And you, as you put on your lengthy spit the modest fowl and the superb turkey, my son, alternate them, as the old Malherbe loved well to alternate his long lines of verse with the short ones; thus shall your roasts, in strophes, turn before the flame! ANOTHER APPRENTICE (also coming up with a tray covered by a napkin): Master, I bethought me erewhile of your tastes, and made this, which will please you, I hope. (He uncovers the tray, and shows a large lyre made of pastry.) RAGUENEAU (enchanted): A lyre! THE APPRENTICE: 'Tis of brioche pastry. RAGUENEAU (touched): With conserved fruits. THE APPRENTICE: The strings, see, are of sugar. RAGUENEAU (giving him a coin): Go, drink my health! (Seeing Lise enter): Hush! My wife. Bustle, pass on, and hide that money! (To Lise, showing her the lyre, with a conscious look): Is it not beautiful? LISE: 'Tis passing silly! (She puts a pile of papers on the counter.) RAGUENEAU: Bags? Good. I thank you. (He looks at them): Heavens! my cherished leaves! The poems of my friends! Torn, dismembered, to make bags for holding biscuits and cakes!. . .Ah, 'tis the old tale again. . .Orpheus and the Bacchantes! LISE (dryly): And am I not free to turn at last to some use the sole thing that your wretched scribblers of halting lines leave behind them by way of payment? RAGUENEAU: Groveling ant!. . .Insult not the divine grasshoppers, the sweet singers! LISE: Before you were the sworn comrade of all that crew, my friend, you did not call your wife ant and Bacchante! RAGUENEAU: To turn fair verse to such a use! LISE: 'Faith, 'tis all it's good for. RAGUENEAU: Pray then, madam, to what use would you degrade prose? Kannst du eine geeignete Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Im Laden von Ragueneau sitzt Ragueneau an einem Tisch und schreibt Gedichte, während seine Assistenten kochen. Einer der Assistenten hat eine Gebäck-Lyra gemacht, was Ragueneau begeistert. Ragueneaus Frau Lise kommt herein und ist wütend, weil er seine Waren an Dichter verschenkt, im Austausch für Gedichte. Sie bringt einige Papiertüten mit, die sie aus dem Papier gemacht hat, auf dem die Gedichte geschrieben sind. Ragueneau ist verärgert, dass sie Gedichte auf diese Weise missbrauchen 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. Kapitel: Während Admiral Croft mit Anne spazieren ging und seinen Wunsch äußerte, Captain Wentworth nach Bath zu holen, war Captain Wentworth bereits auf dem Weg dorthin. Bevor Mrs. Croft geschrieben hatte, war er angekommen, und beim nächsten Mal, als Anne spazieren ging, sah sie ihn. Mr. Elliot begleitete seine beiden Cousinen und Mrs. Clay. Sie waren in der Milsom Street. Es begann zu regnen, nicht viel, aber genug, um Schutz für Frauen wünschenswert zu machen, und ganz genug, um es für Miss Elliot sehr wünschenswert zu machen, im Wagen von Lady Dalrymple nach Hause gebracht zu werden, der in einiger Entfernung wartete; also gingen sie, Anne und Mrs. Clay, zu Molland's, während Mr. Elliot zu Lady Dalrymple ging, um um ihre Hilfe zu bitten. Bald schloss er sich ihnen wieder an, erfolgreich natürlich; Lady Dalrymple würde sie gerne nach Hause bringen und würde in wenigen Minuten nach ihnen rufen. Der Wagen ihrer Ladyship war ein Barouche und bot mit jedem Komfort Platz für höchstens vier Personen. Miss Carteret war bei ihrer Mutter, daher war es nicht vernünftig, Unterkunft für alle drei Damen aus Camden Place zu erwarten. Es gab keinen Zweifel an Miss Elliot. Wer auch immer Unannehmlichkeiten hatte, sie durfte keine haben, aber es dauerte ein wenig, um den Punkt der Höflichkeit zwischen den anderen beiden zu klären. Der Regen war nur eine Kleinigkeit, und Anne war äußerst aufrichtig darin, einen Spaziergang mit Mr. Elliot vorzuziehen. Aber der Regen war auch für Mrs. Clay nur eine Kleinigkeit; sie ließ ihn kaum fallen, und ihre Stiefel waren so dick! Viel dicker als Miss Annes; und kurz gesagt, ihre Höflichkeit machte sie genauso darauf bedacht, mit Mr. Elliot zu gehen, wie Anne es sein konnte, und zwischen ihnen wurde es diskutiert, mit einer so höflichen und entschlossenen Großzügigkeit, dass die anderen gezwungen waren, es für sie zu regeln; Miss Elliot bestand darauf, dass Mrs. Clay bereits ein wenig erkältet war, und Mr. Elliot entschied in der Berufung, dass ihre Cousine Annes Stiefel eher die dicksten waren. Es wurde daher beschlossen, dass Mrs. Clay Teil der Gesellschaft im Wagen sein sollte; und sie hatten genau diesen Punkt erreicht, als Anne, als sie in der Nähe des Fensters saß, ganz eindeutig und deutlich Captain Wentworth die Straße hinuntergehen sah. Ihr Start war nur für sich selbst erkennbar; Aber sie fühlte sofort, dass sie die größte Einfaltspinsel der Welt war, das Unbegreiflichste und Absurdeste! Für ein paar Minuten sah sie nichts vor sich; es war alles Verwirrung. Sie war verloren und als sie ihre Sinne zurückgescholten hatte, fand sie die anderen immer noch auf den Wagen wartend und Mr. Elliot (immer hilfreich), der gerade auf dem Weg zur Union Street war, um eine Aufgabe von Mrs. Clay auszuführen. Jetzt hatte sie einen großen Drang, zur Außentür zu gehen; Sie wollte sehen, ob es regnete. Warum sollte sie sich eines anderen Motivs verdächtigen? Captain Wentworth musste außer Sicht sein. Sie verließ ihren Platz, sie würde gehen; die eine Hälfte von ihr sollte nicht immer so viel klüger sein als die andere Hälfte oder die andere Hälfte immer verdächtigen, schlechter zu sein als sie war. Sie wollte sehen, ob es regnete. Sie wurde jedoch sofort von Captain Wentworth selbst zurückgeschickt, der zusammen mit einer Gruppe von Männern und Frauen, offensichtlich seinen Bekannten, eintrat und die er sich ein wenig unterhalb der Milsom Street angeschlossen haben musste. Er wurde offensichtlicher und verwirrter von ihrem Anblick als sie je zuvor bemerkt hatte; er wurde ganz rot. Zum ersten Mal seit ihrer erneuten Bekanntschaft fühlte sie, dass sie die geringste Empfindlichkeit von beiden verriet. Sie hatte den Vorteil gegenüber ihm in der Vorbereitung der letzten Minuten. Alle überwältigenden, blendenden, verwirrenden ersten Auswirkungen starker Überraschung waren bei ihr vorbei. Doch trotzdem hatte sie genug zu fühlen! Es war Aufregung, Schmerz, Freude, etwas zwischen Glückseligkeit und Elend. Er sprach mit ihr und wandte sich dann ab. Der Charakter seiner Art war Verlegenheit. Sie hätte es weder als kühl noch als freundlich oder irgendetwas so sicher wie verlegen bezeichnen können. Nach einer kurzen Pause kam er jedoch auf sie zu und sprach erneut. Gegenseitige Nachfragen zu gemeinsamen Themen wurden gestellt: Wahrscheinlich war keiner von ihnen viel klüger für das, was sie hörten, und Anne blieb sich weiterhin voll bewusst, dass er weniger ungezwungen war als zuvor. Durch das ständige Zusammensein hatten sie es geschafft, miteinander mit einem beträchtlichen Teil scheinbarer Gleichgültigkeit und Ruhe zu sprechen; aber er konnte es jetzt nicht tun. Die Zeit hatte ihn verändert, oder Louisa hatte ihn verändert. Es gab irgendeine Art von Bewusstsein. Er sah sehr gut aus, nicht als ob er gesundheitlich oder seelisch gelitten hätte, und er sprach über Uppercross, über die Musgroves, ja sogar über Louisa, und hatte sogar einen momentanen Blick von seiner eigenen wissenden Bedeutung, als er sie beim Namen nannte; aber dennoch war es Captain Wentworth, der nicht komfortabel war, der nicht einfach war, der nicht vortäuschen konnte, dass er es war. Es überraschte Anne nicht, aber es schmerzte sie, dass Elizabeth ihn nicht erkannte. Sie sah, dass er Elizabeth sah, dass Elizabeth ihn sah, dass es auf beiden Seiten eine vollständige innere Anerkennung gab; sie war überzeugt, dass er bereit war, als Bekannter anerkannt zu werden, erwartete es, und sie hatte den Schmerz, ihre Schwester mit unveränderlicher Kälte wegwenden zu sehen. Der Wagen von Lady Dalrymple, auf den Miss Elliot immer ungeduldiger wurde, hielt nun an; der Diener kam herein, um es anzukündigen. Es fing wieder an zu regnen und insgesamt gab es Verzögerung und Aufregung und Geplauder, was alle die kleine Menschenmenge im Laden verstehen lassen musste, dass Lady Dalrymple gekommen war, um Miss Elliot abzuholen. Schließlich gingen Miss Elliot und ihre Freundin, nur vom Diener begleitet (denn der Cousin war nicht zurückgekehrt) davon, und Captain Wentworth wandte sich wieder an Anne und bot ihr durch seine Art und nicht durch Worte seine Dienste an. "Ich danke Ihnen sehr," war ihre Antwort, "aber ich gehe nicht mit ihnen. Der Wagen bietet für so viele keinen Platz. Ich gehe zu Fuß; ich gehe lieber zu Fuß." "Aber es regnet." "Oh! nur sehr wenig. Etwas, das mich nicht stört." Nach einer kurzen Pause sagte er: "Obwohl ich erst gestern gekommen bin, habe ich mich für Bath schon richtig ausgerüstet, sehen Sie" (er zeigte auf einen neuen Regenschirm); "ich wünschte, Sie würden ihn benutzen, wenn Sie entschlossen sind zu gehen; obwohl ich denke, es wäre vernünftiger, wenn ich Ihnen einen Stuhl besorgte." Sie war ihm sehr dankbar, lehnte aber alles ab, wiederholte ihre Überzeugung, dass der Regen im Moment keinen Einfluss haben würde, und fügte hinzu: "Ich warte nur auf Mr. Elliot. Er wird in einem Moment hier sein, da bin ich sicher." Kaum hatte sie die Worte ausgesprochen, als Mr. Elliot hereinkam. Captain Wentworth erinnerte sich perfekt an ihn. Es gab keinen Unterschied zwischen ihm und dem Mann, der in Lyme auf den Stufen gestanden und Anne bewundert hatte, als sie vorbeiging, außer in der Haltung, dem Aussehen und der Art des privilegierten Verwandten und Freunds. Er kam voller Eifer herein, schien nur sie zu sehen und an sie zu denken, entschuldigte sich für seinen Aufenthalt, bedauerte, dass er sie warten lassen hatte, und wollte sie ohne weitere Zeitverlust und bevor der Regen zunahm, fortbringen; und in einem anderen Moment gingen sie zusammen weg, ihr Arm in seinem, ein Anne wäre ihrem Cousin besonders dankbar gewesen, wenn er die ganze Strecke bis nach Camden Place neben ihr hergegangen wäre, ohne ein Wort zu sagen. Noch nie war es ihr so schwer gefallen, ihm zuzuhören, obwohl seine Sorge und Aufmerksamkeit unübertroffen waren und seine Themen hauptsächlich solche waren, die immer interessant waren: Lob, warm, gerecht und differenziert, von Lady Russell, und äußerst rationale Anspielungen gegen Mrs Clay. Aber jetzt konnte sie nur an Captain Wentworth denken. Sie konnte seine gegenwärtigen Gefühle nicht verstehen, ob er wirklich sehr enttäuscht war oder nicht; und bis dieser Punkt geklärt war, konnte sie nicht ganz sie selbst sein. Sie hoffte, mit der Zeit weise und vernünftig zu sein; aber ach! Ach! Sie musste sich eingestehen, dass sie noch nicht weise war. Eine weitere für sie sehr wichtige Tatsache zu wissen war, wie lange er in Bath bleiben wollte; er hatte es nicht erwähnt, oder sie konnte sich nicht erinnern. Es könnte sein, dass er nur auf der Durchreise war. Aber es war wahrscheinlicher, dass er gekommen war, um zu bleiben. In diesem Fall, so wie jeder jedem in Bath begegnen konnte, würde Lady Russell ihn höchstwahrscheinlich irgendwo sehen. Würde sie sich an ihn erinnern? Wie würde alles sein? Sie hatte Lady Russell bereits sagen müssen, dass Louisa Musgrove Captain Benwick heiraten würde. Es hatte sie etwas gekostet, auf Lady Russells Überraschung zu stoßen; und nun, wenn sie aus irgendeinem Grund in Gesellschaft von Captain Wentworth geraten würde, könnte ihr unvollständiges Wissen über die Angelegenheit einen weiteren Schatten von Vorurteilen gegen ihn hervorrufen. Am nächsten Morgen war Anne mit ihrer Freundin unterwegs und war in der ersten Stunde in ständiger, ängstlicher Wachsamkeit umsonst auf der Suche nach ihm; aber schließlich, als sie Pulteney Street hinunter zurückkehrte, bemerkte sie ihn auf dem rechten Gehweg in einer Entfernung, so dass sie ihn den größten Teil der Straße sehen konnte. Es waren viele andere Männer um ihn herum, viele Gruppen, die in die gleiche Richtung liefen, aber man konnte ihn nicht verwechseln. Sie sah instinktiv zu Lady Russell; aber nicht aus der größenwahnsinnigen Idee heraus, dass sie ihn so früh erkennen würde wie sie selbst. Nein, es war nicht anzunehmen, dass Lady Russell ihn bemerken würde, bis sie sich fast gegenüberstanden. Doch sie sah sie von Zeit zu Zeit, ängstlich an; und als der Moment näher rückte, der ihn ausfindig machen musste, wagte sie nicht, wieder hinzusehen (denn sie wusste, dass ihr eigenes Gesicht nicht ansehbar war), war sie sich dennoch vollkommen bewusst, dass Lady Russells Augen genau in seine Richtung blickten – dass sie kurz gesagt, ihn aufmerksam beobachtete. Sie konnte vollkommen verstehen, welche Art von Faszination er auf Lady Russells Geist ausüben musste, wie schwierig es für sie sein musste, ihre Augen abzuwenden, wie erstaunt sie sein musste, dass acht oder neun Jahre über ihn hinweggegangen waren, und dass ihm weder in fremden Ländern noch im aktiven Dienst eine einzige persönliche Anmut geraubt worden war! Schließlich zog Lady Russell ihren Kopf zurück. "Wie würde sie von ihm sprechen?" "Sie werden sich wundern", sagte sie, "was mich so lange gefesselt hat; aber ich habe nach einigen Fenstervorhängen gesucht, von denen Lady Alicia und Mrs Frankland mir gestern Abend berichtet haben. Sie haben die Vorhänge des Wohnzimmers eines der Häuser auf dieser Straßenseite und in diesem Teil der Straße als die schönsten und bestgehängten von ganz Bath beschrieben, konnten sich aber nicht mehr an die genaue Nummer erinnern, und ich habe versucht herauszufinden, welches es sein könnte; aber ich gestehe, dass ich hier in der Nähe keine Vorhänge sehe, die ihrer Beschreibung entsprechen." Anne seufzte und errötete und lächelte vor Mitleid und Verachtung, entweder für ihre Freundin oder sich selbst. Was sie am meisten ärgerte, war, dass sie in all dieser Voraussicht und Vorsicht den richtigen Moment verpasst haben könnte, um zu sehen, ob er sie bemerkte. Ein oder zwei Tage vergingen, ohne dass etwas geschah. Das Theater oder die Räume, wo er am ehesten sein könnte, waren nicht modisch genug für die Elliots, deren abendliche Vergnügen ausschließlich in der eleganten Dummheit privater Partys bestand, in die sie immer mehr engagiert waren; und Anne, müde von diesem Zustand des Stillstands, von dem Nichtwissen genug, und sich stärker einbildend, weil ihre Stärke nicht auf die Probe gestellt wurde, war ganz ungeduldig auf den Konzertabend. Es war ein Konzert zugunsten einer von Lady Dalrymple unterstützten Person. Natürlich mussten sie teilnehmen. Es wurde wirklich erwartet, dass es gut sein würde, und Captain Wentworth mochte Musik sehr gerne. Wenn sie nur noch ein paar Minuten mit ihm reden könnte, glaubte sie, dass sie zufrieden sein würde; und in Bezug auf die Fähigkeit, ihn anzusprechen, fühlte sie sich ganz mutig, wenn sich die Gelegenheit ergab. Elizabeth hatte sich von ihm abgewandt, Lady Russell hatte ihn übersehen; durch diese Umstände wurden ihre Nerven gestärkt; sie fühlte, dass sie ihm Aufmerksamkeit schuldete. Sie hatte einmal teilweise Mrs Smith versprochen, den Abend bei ihr zu verbringen; aber bei einem kurzen, hastigen Besuch entschuldigte sie sich und verschob es, mit der entschiedeneren Zusage eines längeren Besuchs am nächsten Tag. Mrs Smith gab ihre Zustimmung auf freundlichste Weise. "Auf jeden Fall", sagte sie, "sag mir nur alles darüber, wenn du kommst. Wer ist in deiner Gruppe?" Anne nannte sie alle. Mrs Smith gab keine Antwort; aber als sie sich verabschiedeten, sagte sie, halb ernst, halb schelmisch: "Nun, ich wünsche dir von Herzen, dass dein Konzert ein Erfolg wird; und versage mir morgen nicht, wenn du kommen kannst; denn ich fange an, eine Vorahnung zu haben, dass ich nicht viele weitere Besuche von dir haben werde." Anne war überrascht und verwirrt; aber nach einer kurzen Moment der Unsicherheit war sie gezwungen, und nicht unglücklich, sich eilig zu verabschieden. Können Sie eine geeignete Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Kapitän Wentworth kommt in Bath an und Anne sieht ihn bereits am nächsten Tag, als sie spazieren geht. Sie ist mit Elizabeth, Mrs. Clay und Mr. Elliot in der Stadt unterwegs, als es anfängt zu regnen. Mr. Elliot fragt Lady Dalrymple, ob sie die Damen mit ihrem Wagen nach Hause begleiten könnte. Lady Dalrymple stimmt zu, aber da sie nur Platz für zwei von ihnen hat, entscheidet sich Anne, mit Mr. Elliot nach Hause zu gehen. Sie treffen Kapitän Wentworth in einem Geschäft, während sie auf Lady Dalrymples Wagen warten. Kapitän Wentworth ist schockiert, sie zu sehen. Er spricht Anne an und sie sprechen über die Musgroves. Elizabeth will Kapitän Wentworth nicht beachten, da sie ihn unter sich glaubte. Dies schmerzt Anne. Elizabeth und Mrs. Clay gehen, um in den Wagen einzusteigen. Als sie feststellt, dass kein Platz für Anne ist, bietet Kapitän Wentworth ihr seine Dienste und seinen Regenschirm an. Aber in diesem Moment kehrt Mr. Elliot zurück, um Anne am Arm zu nehmen und sie aus dem Geschäft zu ziehen. Die Leute, die Kapitän Wentworth begleiten, vermuten, dass es etwas zwischen Mr. Elliot und Anne gibt. Am nächsten Morgen geht Anne mit Lady Russell spazieren, als sie Kapitän Wentworth auf der anderen Straßenseite sehen. Obwohl sie weiß, dass Lady Russell ihn sehen muss, sagt sie nichts dazu. Anne wird müde von den privaten Partys, zu denen sie immer mit den Freunden ihrer Familie gehen muss, aber sie freut sich auf ein bevorstehendes Konzert zugunsten einer Freundin von Lady Dalrymple. Kapitän Wentworth wird sicherlich bei diesem Konzert sein. Sie erzählt Mrs. Smith von dem bevorstehenden Konzert und Mrs. Smith macht eine kryptische Bemerkung, dass sie denkt, dass sie möglicherweise nicht mehr viele Besuche von Anne haben 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: Frank Churchill came back again; and if he kept his father's dinner waiting, it was not known at Hartfield; for Mrs. Weston was too anxious for his being a favourite with Mr. Woodhouse, to betray any imperfection which could be concealed. He came back, had had his hair cut, and laughed at himself with a very good grace, but without seeming really at all ashamed of what he had done. He had no reason to wish his hair longer, to conceal any confusion of face; no reason to wish the money unspent, to improve his spirits. He was quite as undaunted and as lively as ever; and, after seeing him, Emma thus moralised to herself:-- "I do not know whether it ought to be so, but certainly silly things do cease to be silly if they are done by sensible people in an impudent way. Wickedness is always wickedness, but folly is not always folly.--It depends upon the character of those who handle it. Mr. Knightley, he is _not_ a trifling, silly young man. If he were, he would have done this differently. He would either have gloried in the achievement, or been ashamed of it. There would have been either the ostentation of a coxcomb, or the evasions of a mind too weak to defend its own vanities.--No, I am perfectly sure that he is not trifling or silly." With Tuesday came the agreeable prospect of seeing him again, and for a longer time than hitherto; of judging of his general manners, and by inference, of the meaning of his manners towards herself; of guessing how soon it might be necessary for her to throw coldness into her air; and of fancying what the observations of all those might be, who were now seeing them together for the first time. She meant to be very happy, in spite of the scene being laid at Mr. Cole's; and without being able to forget that among the failings of Mr. Elton, even in the days of his favour, none had disturbed her more than his propensity to dine with Mr. Cole. Her father's comfort was amply secured, Mrs. Bates as well as Mrs. Goddard being able to come; and her last pleasing duty, before she left the house, was to pay her respects to them as they sat together after dinner; and while her father was fondly noticing the beauty of her dress, to make the two ladies all the amends in her power, by helping them to large slices of cake and full glasses of wine, for whatever unwilling self-denial his care of their constitution might have obliged them to practise during the meal.--She had provided a plentiful dinner for them; she wished she could know that they had been allowed to eat it. She followed another carriage to Mr. Cole's door; and was pleased to see that it was Mr. Knightley's; for Mr. Knightley keeping no horses, having little spare money and a great deal of health, activity, and independence, was too apt, in Emma's opinion, to get about as he could, and not use his carriage so often as became the owner of Donwell Abbey. She had an opportunity now of speaking her approbation while warm from her heart, for he stopped to hand her out. "This is coming as you should do," said she; "like a gentleman.--I am quite glad to see you." He thanked her, observing, "How lucky that we should arrive at the same moment! for, if we had met first in the drawing-room, I doubt whether you would have discerned me to be more of a gentleman than usual.--You might not have distinguished how I came, by my look or manner." "Yes I should, I am sure I should. There is always a look of consciousness or bustle when people come in a way which they know to be beneath them. You think you carry it off very well, I dare say, but with you it is a sort of bravado, an air of affected unconcern; I always observe it whenever I meet you under those circumstances. _Now_ you have nothing to try for. You are not afraid of being supposed ashamed. You are not striving to look taller than any body else. _Now_ I shall really be very happy to walk into the same room with you." "Nonsensical girl!" was his reply, but not at all in anger. Emma had as much reason to be satisfied with the rest of the party as with Mr. Knightley. She was received with a cordial respect which could not but please, and given all the consequence she could wish for. When the Westons arrived, the kindest looks of love, the strongest of admiration were for her, from both husband and wife; the son approached her with a cheerful eagerness which marked her as his peculiar object, and at dinner she found him seated by her--and, as she firmly believed, not without some dexterity on his side. The party was rather large, as it included one other family, a proper unobjectionable country family, whom the Coles had the advantage of naming among their acquaintance, and the male part of Mr. Cox's family, the lawyer of Highbury. The less worthy females were to come in the evening, with Miss Bates, Miss Fairfax, and Miss Smith; but already, at dinner, they were too numerous for any subject of conversation to be general; and, while politics and Mr. Elton were talked over, Emma could fairly surrender all her attention to the pleasantness of her neighbour. The first remote sound to which she felt herself obliged to attend, was the name of Jane Fairfax. Mrs. Cole seemed to be relating something of her that was expected to be very interesting. She listened, and found it well worth listening to. That very dear part of Emma, her fancy, received an amusing supply. Mrs. Cole was telling that she had been calling on Miss Bates, and as soon as she entered the room had been struck by the sight of a pianoforte--a very elegant looking instrument--not a grand, but a large-sized square pianoforte; and the substance of the story, the end of all the dialogue which ensued of surprize, and inquiry, and congratulations on her side, and explanations on Miss Bates's, was, that this pianoforte had arrived from Broadwood's the day before, to the great astonishment of both aunt and niece--entirely unexpected; that at first, by Miss Bates's account, Jane herself was quite at a loss, quite bewildered to think who could possibly have ordered it--but now, they were both perfectly satisfied that it could be from only one quarter;--of course it must be from Colonel Campbell. "One can suppose nothing else," added Mrs. Cole, "and I was only surprized that there could ever have been a doubt. But Jane, it seems, had a letter from them very lately, and not a word was said about it. She knows their ways best; but I should not consider their silence as any reason for their not meaning to make the present. They might chuse to surprize her." Mrs. Cole had many to agree with her; every body who spoke on the subject was equally convinced that it must come from Colonel Campbell, and equally rejoiced that such a present had been made; and there were enough ready to speak to allow Emma to think her own way, and still listen to Mrs. Cole. "I declare, I do not know when I have heard any thing that has given me more satisfaction!--It always has quite hurt me that Jane Fairfax, who plays so delightfully, should not have an instrument. It seemed quite a shame, especially considering how many houses there are where fine instruments are absolutely thrown away. This is like giving ourselves a slap, to be sure! and it was but yesterday I was telling Mr. Cole, I really was ashamed to look at our new grand pianoforte in the drawing-room, while I do not know one note from another, and our little girls, who are but just beginning, perhaps may never make any thing of it; and there is poor Jane Fairfax, who is mistress of music, has not any thing of the nature of an instrument, not even the pitifullest old spinet in the world, to amuse herself with.--I was saying this to Mr. Cole but yesterday, and he quite agreed with me; only he is so particularly fond of music that he could not help indulging himself in the purchase, hoping that some of our good neighbours might be so obliging occasionally to put it to a better use than we can; and that really is the reason why the instrument was bought--or else I am sure we ought to be ashamed of it.--We are in great hopes that Miss Woodhouse may be prevailed with to try it this evening." Miss Woodhouse made the proper acquiescence; and finding that nothing more was to be entrapped from any communication of Mrs. Cole's, turned to Frank Churchill. "Why do you smile?" said she. "Nay, why do you?" "Me!--I suppose I smile for pleasure at Colonel Campbell's being so rich and so liberal.--It is a handsome present." "Very." "I rather wonder that it was never made before." "Perhaps Miss Fairfax has never been staying here so long before." "Or that he did not give her the use of their own instrument--which must now be shut up in London, untouched by any body." "That is a grand pianoforte, and he might think it too large for Mrs. Bates's house." "You may _say_ what you chuse--but your countenance testifies that your _thoughts_ on this subject are very much like mine." "I do not know. I rather believe you are giving me more credit for acuteness than I deserve. I smile because you smile, and shall probably suspect whatever I find you suspect; but at present I do not see what there is to question. If Colonel Campbell is not the person, who can be?" "What do you say to Mrs. Dixon?" "Mrs. Dixon! very true indeed. I had not thought of Mrs. Dixon. She must know as well as her father, how acceptable an instrument would be; and perhaps the mode of it, the mystery, the surprize, is more like a young woman's scheme than an elderly man's. It is Mrs. Dixon, I dare say. I told you that your suspicions would guide mine." "If so, you must extend your suspicions and comprehend _Mr_. Dixon in them." "Mr. Dixon.--Very well. Yes, I immediately perceive that it must be the joint present of Mr. and Mrs. Dixon. We were speaking the other day, you know, of his being so warm an admirer of her performance." "Yes, and what you told me on that head, confirmed an idea which I had entertained before.--I do not mean to reflect upon the good intentions of either Mr. Dixon or Miss Fairfax, but I cannot help suspecting either that, after making his proposals to her friend, he had the misfortune to fall in love with _her_, or that he became conscious of a little attachment on her side. One might guess twenty things without guessing exactly the right; but I am sure there must be a particular cause for her chusing to come to Highbury instead of going with the Campbells to Ireland. Here, she must be leading a life of privation and penance; there it would have been all enjoyment. As to the pretence of trying her native air, I look upon that as a mere excuse.--In the summer it might have passed; but what can any body's native air do for them in the months of January, February, and March? Good fires and carriages would be much more to the purpose in most cases of delicate health, and I dare say in her's. I do not require you to adopt all my suspicions, though you make so noble a profession of doing it, but I honestly tell you what they are." "And, upon my word, they have an air of great probability. Mr. Dixon's preference of her music to her friend's, I can answer for being very decided." "And then, he saved her life. Did you ever hear of that?--A water party; and by some accident she was falling overboard. He caught her." "He did. I was there--one of the party." "Were you really?--Well!--But you observed nothing of course, for it seems to be a new idea to you.--If I had been there, I think I should have made some discoveries." "I dare say you would; but I, simple I, saw nothing but the fact, that Miss Fairfax was nearly dashed from the vessel and that Mr. Dixon caught her.--It was the work of a moment. And though the consequent shock and alarm was very great and much more durable--indeed I believe it was half an hour before any of us were comfortable again--yet that was too general a sensation for any thing of peculiar anxiety to be observable. I do not mean to say, however, that you might not have made discoveries." The conversation was here interrupted. They were called on to share in the awkwardness of a rather long interval between the courses, and obliged to be as formal and as orderly as the others; but when the table was again safely covered, when every corner dish was placed exactly right, and occupation and ease were generally restored, Emma said, "The arrival of this pianoforte is decisive with me. I wanted to know a little more, and this tells me quite enough. Depend upon it, we shall soon hear that it is a present from Mr. and Mrs. Dixon." "And if the Dixons should absolutely deny all knowledge of it we must conclude it to come from the Campbells." "No, I am sure it is not from the Campbells. Miss Fairfax knows it is not from the Campbells, or they would have been guessed at first. She would not have been puzzled, had she dared fix on them. I may not have convinced you perhaps, but I am perfectly convinced myself that Mr. Dixon is a principal in the business." "Indeed you injure me if you suppose me unconvinced. Your reasonings carry my judgment along with them entirely. At first, while I supposed you satisfied that Colonel Campbell was the giver, I saw it only as paternal kindness, and thought it the most natural thing in the world. But when you mentioned Mrs. Dixon, I felt how much more probable that it should be the tribute of warm female friendship. And now I can see it in no other light than as an offering of love." There was no occasion to press the matter farther. The conviction seemed real; he looked as if he felt it. She said no more, other subjects took their turn; and the rest of the dinner passed away; the dessert succeeded, the children came in, and were talked to and admired amid the usual rate of conversation; a few clever things said, a few downright silly, but by much the larger proportion neither the one nor the other--nothing worse than everyday remarks, dull repetitions, old news, and heavy jokes. The ladies had not been long in the drawing-room, before the other ladies, in their different divisions, arrived. Emma watched the entree of her own particular little friend; and if she could not exult in her dignity and grace, she could not only love the blooming sweetness and the artless manner, but could most heartily rejoice in that light, cheerful, unsentimental disposition which allowed her so many alleviations of pleasure, in the midst of the pangs of disappointed affection. There she sat--and who would have guessed how many tears she had been lately shedding? To be in company, nicely dressed herself and seeing others nicely dressed, to sit and smile and look pretty, and say nothing, was enough for the happiness of the present hour. Jane Fairfax did look and move superior; but Emma suspected she might have been glad to change feelings with Harriet, very glad to have purchased the mortification of having loved--yes, of having loved even Mr. Elton in vain--by the surrender of all the dangerous pleasure of knowing herself beloved by the husband of her friend. In so large a party it was not necessary that Emma should approach her. She did not wish to speak of the pianoforte, she felt too much in the secret herself, to think the appearance of curiosity or interest fair, and therefore purposely kept at a distance; but by the others, the subject was almost immediately introduced, and she saw the blush of consciousness with which congratulations were received, the blush of guilt which accompanied the name of "my excellent friend Colonel Campbell." Mrs. Weston, kind-hearted and musical, was particularly interested by the circumstance, and Emma could not help being amused at her perseverance in dwelling on the subject; and having so much to ask and to say as to tone, touch, and pedal, totally unsuspicious of that wish of saying as little about it as possible, which she plainly read in the fair heroine's countenance. They were soon joined by some of the gentlemen; and the very first of the early was Frank Churchill. In he walked, the first and the handsomest; and after paying his compliments en passant to Miss Bates and her niece, made his way directly to the opposite side of the circle, where sat Miss Woodhouse; and till he could find a seat by her, would not sit at all. Emma divined what every body present must be thinking. She was his object, and every body must perceive it. She introduced him to her friend, Miss Smith, and, at convenient moments afterwards, heard what each thought of the other. "He had never seen so lovely a face, and was delighted with her naivete." And she, "Only to be sure it was paying him too great a compliment, but she did think there were some looks a little like Mr. Elton." Emma restrained her indignation, and only turned from her in silence. Smiles of intelligence passed between her and the gentleman on first glancing towards Miss Fairfax; but it was most prudent to avoid speech. He told her that he had been impatient to leave the dining-room--hated sitting long--was always the first to move when he could--that his father, Mr. Knightley, Mr. Cox, and Mr. Cole, were left very busy over parish business--that as long as he had staid, however, it had been pleasant enough, as he had found them in general a set of gentlemanlike, sensible men; and spoke so handsomely of Highbury altogether--thought it so abundant in agreeable families--that Emma began to feel she had been used to despise the place rather too much. She questioned him as to the society in Yorkshire--the extent of the neighbourhood about Enscombe, and the sort; and could make out from his answers that, as far as Enscombe was concerned, there was very little going on, that their visitings were among a range of great families, none very near; and that even when days were fixed, and invitations accepted, it was an even chance that Mrs. Churchill were not in health and spirits for going; that they made a point of visiting no fresh person; and that, though he had his separate engagements, it was not without difficulty, without considerable address _at_ _times_, that he could get away, or introduce an acquaintance for a night. She saw that Enscombe could not satisfy, and that Highbury, taken at its best, might reasonably please a young man who had more retirement at home than he liked. His importance at Enscombe was very evident. He did not boast, but it naturally betrayed itself, that he had persuaded his aunt where his uncle could do nothing, and on her laughing and noticing it, he owned that he believed (excepting one or two points) he could _with_ _time_ persuade her to any thing. One of those points on which his influence failed, he then mentioned. He had wanted very much to go abroad--had been very eager indeed to be allowed to travel--but she would not hear of it. This had happened the year before. _Now_, he said, he was beginning to have no longer the same wish. The unpersuadable point, which he did not mention, Emma guessed to be good behaviour to his father. "I have made a most wretched discovery," said he, after a short pause.-- "I have been here a week to-morrow--half my time. I never knew days fly so fast. A week to-morrow!--And I have hardly begun to enjoy myself. But just got acquainted with Mrs. Weston, and others!--I hate the recollection." "Perhaps you may now begin to regret that you spent one whole day, out of so few, in having your hair cut." "No," said he, smiling, "that is no subject of regret at all. I have no pleasure in seeing my friends, unless I can believe myself fit to be seen." The rest of the gentlemen being now in the room, Emma found herself obliged to turn from him for a few minutes, and listen to Mr. Cole. When Mr. Cole had moved away, and her attention could be restored as before, she saw Frank Churchill looking intently across the room at Miss Fairfax, who was sitting exactly opposite. "What is the matter?" said she. He started. "Thank you for rousing me," he replied. "I believe I have been very rude; but really Miss Fairfax has done her hair in so odd a way--so very odd a way--that I cannot keep my eyes from her. I never saw any thing so outree!--Those curls!--This must be a fancy of her own. I see nobody else looking like her!--I must go and ask her whether it is an Irish fashion. Shall I?--Yes, I will--I declare I will--and you shall see how she takes it;--whether she colours." He was gone immediately; and Emma soon saw him standing before Miss Fairfax, and talking to her; but as to its effect on the young lady, as he had improvidently placed himself exactly between them, exactly in front of Miss Fairfax, she could absolutely distinguish nothing. Before he could return to his chair, it was taken by Mrs. Weston. "This is the luxury of a large party," said she:--"one can get near every body, and say every thing. My dear Emma, I am longing to talk to you. I have been making discoveries and forming plans, just like yourself, and I must tell them while the idea is fresh. Do you know how Miss Bates and her niece came here?" "How?--They were invited, were not they?" "Oh! yes--but how they were conveyed hither?--the manner of their coming?" "They walked, I conclude. How else could they come?" "Very true.--Well, a little while ago it occurred to me how very sad it would be to have Jane Fairfax walking home again, late at night, and cold as the nights are now. And as I looked at her, though I never saw her appear to more advantage, it struck me that she was heated, and would therefore be particularly liable to take cold. Poor girl! I could not bear the idea of it; so, as soon as Mr. Weston came into the room, and I could get at him, I spoke to him about the carriage. You may guess how readily he came into my wishes; and having his approbation, I made my way directly to Miss Bates, to assure her that the carriage would be at her service before it took us home; for I thought it would be making her comfortable at once. Good soul! she was as grateful as possible, you may be sure. 'Nobody was ever so fortunate as herself!'--but with many, many thanks--'there was no occasion to trouble us, for Mr. Knightley's carriage had brought, and was to take them home again.' I was quite surprized;--very glad, I am sure; but really quite surprized. Such a very kind attention--and so thoughtful an attention!--the sort of thing that so few men would think of. And, in short, from knowing his usual ways, I am very much inclined to think that it was for their accommodation the carriage was used at all. I do suspect he would not have had a pair of horses for himself, and that it was only as an excuse for assisting them." "Very likely," said Emma--"nothing more likely. I know no man more likely than Mr. Knightley to do the sort of thing--to do any thing really good-natured, useful, considerate, or benevolent. He is not a gallant man, but he is a very humane one; and this, considering Jane Fairfax's ill-health, would appear a case of humanity to him;--and for an act of unostentatious kindness, there is nobody whom I would fix on more than on Mr. Knightley. I know he had horses to-day--for we arrived together; and I laughed at him about it, but he said not a word that could betray." "Well," said Mrs. Weston, smiling, "you give him credit for more simple, disinterested benevolence in this instance than I do; for while Miss Bates was speaking, a suspicion darted into my head, and I have never been able to get it out again. The more I think of it, the more probable it appears. In short, I have made a match between Mr. Knightley and Jane Fairfax. See the consequence of keeping you company!--What do you say to it?" "Mr. Knightley and Jane Fairfax!" exclaimed Emma. "Dear Mrs. Weston, how could you think of such a thing?--Mr. Knightley!--Mr. Knightley must not marry!--You would not have little Henry cut out from Donwell?--Oh! no, no, Henry must have Donwell. I cannot at all consent to Mr. Knightley's marrying; and I am sure it is not at all likely. I am amazed that you should think of such a thing." "My dear Emma, I have told you what led me to think of it. I do not want the match--I do not want to injure dear little Henry--but the idea has been given me by circumstances; and if Mr. Knightley really wished to marry, you would not have him refrain on Henry's account, a boy of six years old, who knows nothing of the matter?" "Yes, I would. I could not bear to have Henry supplanted.--Mr. Knightley marry!--No, I have never had such an idea, and I cannot adopt it now. And Jane Fairfax, too, of all women!" "Nay, she has always been a first favourite with him, as you very well know." "But the imprudence of such a match!" "I am not speaking of its prudence; merely its probability." "I see no probability in it, unless you have any better foundation than what you mention. His good-nature, his humanity, as I tell you, would be quite enough to account for the horses. He has a great regard for the Bateses, you know, independent of Jane Fairfax--and is always glad to shew them attention. My dear Mrs. Weston, do not take to match-making. You do it very ill. Jane Fairfax mistress of the Abbey!--Oh! no, no;--every feeling revolts. For his own sake, I would not have him do so mad a thing." "Imprudent, if you please--but not mad. Excepting inequality of fortune, and perhaps a little disparity of age, I can see nothing unsuitable." "But Mr. Knightley does not want to marry. I am sure he has not the least idea of it. Do not put it into his head. Why should he marry?--He is as happy as possible by himself; with his farm, and his sheep, and his library, and all the parish to manage; and he is extremely fond of his brother's children. He has no occasion to marry, either to fill up his time or his heart." "My dear Emma, as long as he thinks so, it is so; but if he really loves Jane Fairfax--" "Nonsense! He does not care about Jane Fairfax. In the way of love, I am sure he does not. He would do any good to her, or her family; but--" "Well," said Mrs. Weston, laughing, "perhaps the greatest good he could do them, would be to give Jane such a respectable home." "If it would be good to her, I am sure it would be evil to himself; a very shameful and degrading connexion. How would he bear to have Miss Bates belonging to him?--To have her haunting the Abbey, and thanking him all day long for his great kindness in marrying Jane?--'So very kind and obliging!--But he always had been such a very kind neighbour!' And then fly off, through half a sentence, to her mother's old petticoat. 'Not that it was such a very old petticoat either--for still it would last a great while--and, indeed, she must thankfully say that their petticoats were all very strong.'" "For shame, Emma! Do not mimic her. You divert me against my conscience. And, upon my word, I do not think Mr. Knightley would be much disturbed by Miss Bates. Little things do not irritate him. She might talk on; and if he wanted to say any thing himself, he would only talk louder, and drown her voice. But the question is not, whether it would be a bad connexion for him, but whether he wishes it; and I think he does. I have heard him speak, and so must you, so very highly of Jane Fairfax! The interest he takes in her--his anxiety about her health--his concern that she should have no happier prospect! I have heard him express himself so warmly on those points!--Such an admirer of her performance on the pianoforte, and of her voice! I have heard him say that he could listen to her for ever. Oh! and I had almost forgotten one idea that occurred to me--this pianoforte that has been sent here by somebody--though we have all been so well satisfied to consider it a present from the Campbells, may it not be from Mr. Knightley? I cannot help suspecting him. I think he is just the person to do it, even without being in love." "Then it can be no argument to prove that he is in love. But I do not think it is at all a likely thing for him to do. Mr. Knightley does nothing mysteriously." "I have heard him lamenting her having no instrument repeatedly; oftener than I should suppose such a circumstance would, in the common course of things, occur to him." "Very well; and if he had intended to give her one, he would have told her so." "There might be scruples of delicacy, my dear Emma. I have a very strong notion that it comes from him. I am sure he was particularly silent when Mrs. Cole told us of it at dinner." "You take up an idea, Mrs. Weston, and run away with it; as you have many a time reproached me with doing. I see no sign of attachment--I believe nothing of the pianoforte--and proof only shall convince me that Mr. Knightley has any thought of marrying Jane Fairfax." They combated the point some time longer in the same way; Emma rather gaining ground over the mind of her friend; for Mrs. Weston was the most used of the two to yield; till a little bustle in the room shewed them that tea was over, and the instrument in preparation;--and at the same moment Mr. Cole approaching to entreat Miss Woodhouse would do them the honour of trying it. Frank Churchill, of whom, in the eagerness of her conversation with Mrs. Weston, she had been seeing nothing, except that he had found a seat by Miss Fairfax, followed Mr. Cole, to add his very pressing entreaties; and as, in every respect, it suited Emma best to lead, she gave a very proper compliance. She knew the limitations of her own powers too well to attempt more than she could perform with credit; she wanted neither taste nor spirit in the little things which are generally acceptable, and could accompany her own voice well. One accompaniment to her song took her agreeably by surprize--a second, slightly but correctly taken by Frank Churchill. Her pardon was duly begged at the close of the song, and every thing usual followed. He was accused of having a delightful voice, and a perfect knowledge of music; which was properly denied; and that he knew nothing of the matter, and had no voice at all, roundly asserted. They sang together once more; and Emma would then resign her place to Miss Fairfax, whose performance, both vocal and instrumental, she never could attempt to conceal from herself, was infinitely superior to her own. With mixed feelings, she seated herself at a little distance from the numbers round the instrument, to listen. Frank Churchill sang again. They had sung together once or twice, it appeared, at Weymouth. But the sight of Mr. Knightley among the most attentive, soon drew away half Emma's mind; and she fell into a train of thinking on the subject of Mrs. Weston's suspicions, to which the sweet sounds of the united voices gave only momentary interruptions. Her objections to Mr. Knightley's marrying did not in the least subside. She could see nothing but evil in it. It would be a great disappointment to Mr. John Knightley; consequently to Isabella. A real injury to the children--a most mortifying change, and material loss to them all;--a very great deduction from her father's daily comfort--and, as to herself, she could not at all endure the idea of Jane Fairfax at Donwell Abbey. A Mrs. Knightley for them all to give way to!--No--Mr. Knightley must never marry. Little Henry must remain the heir of Donwell. Presently Mr. Knightley looked back, and came and sat down by her. They talked at first only of the performance. His admiration was certainly very warm; yet she thought, but for Mrs. Weston, it would not have struck her. As a sort of touchstone, however, she began to speak of his kindness in conveying the aunt and niece; and though his answer was in the spirit of cutting the matter short, she believed it to indicate only his disinclination to dwell on any kindness of his own. "I often feel concern," said she, "that I dare not make our carriage more useful on such occasions. It is not that I am without the wish; but you know how impossible my father would deem it that James should put-to for such a purpose." "Quite out of the question, quite out of the question," he replied;--"but you must often wish it, I am sure." And he smiled with such seeming pleasure at the conviction, that she must proceed another step. "This present from the Campbells," said she--"this pianoforte is very kindly given." "Yes," he replied, and without the smallest apparent embarrassment.--"But they would have done better had they given her notice of it. Surprizes are foolish things. The pleasure is not enhanced, and the inconvenience is often considerable. I should have expected better judgment in Colonel Campbell." From that moment, Emma could have taken her oath that Mr. Knightley had had no concern in giving the instrument. But whether he were entirely free from peculiar attachment--whether there were no actual preference--remained a little longer doubtful. Towards the end of Jane's second song, her voice grew thick. "That will do," said he, when it was finished, thinking aloud--"you have sung quite enough for one evening--now be quiet." Another song, however, was soon begged for. "One more;--they would not fatigue Miss Fairfax on any account, and would only ask for one more." And Frank Churchill was heard to say, "I think you could manage this without effort; the first part is so very trifling. The strength of the song falls on the second." Mr. Knightley grew angry. "That fellow," said he, indignantly, "thinks of nothing but shewing off his own voice. This must not be." And touching Miss Bates, who at that moment passed near--"Miss Bates, are you mad, to let your niece sing herself hoarse in this manner? Go, and interfere. They have no mercy on her." Miss Bates, in her real anxiety for Jane, could hardly stay even to be grateful, before she stept forward and put an end to all farther singing. Here ceased the concert part of the evening, for Miss Woodhouse and Miss Fairfax were the only young lady performers; but soon (within five minutes) the proposal of dancing--originating nobody exactly knew where--was so effectually promoted by Mr. and Mrs. Cole, that every thing was rapidly clearing away, to give proper space. Mrs. Weston, capital in her country-dances, was seated, and beginning an irresistible waltz; and Frank Churchill, coming up with most becoming gallantry to Emma, had secured her hand, and led her up to the top. While waiting till the other young people could pair themselves off, Emma found time, in spite of the compliments she was receiving on her voice and her taste, to look about, and see what became of Mr. Knightley. This would be a trial. He was no dancer in general. If he were to be very alert in engaging Jane Fairfax now, it might augur something. There was no immediate appearance. No; he was talking to Mrs. Cole--he was looking on unconcerned; Jane was asked by somebody else, and he was still talking to Mrs. Cole. Emma had no longer an alarm for Henry; his interest was yet safe; and she led off the dance with genuine spirit and enjoyment. Not more than five couple could be mustered; but the rarity and the suddenness of it made it very delightful, and she found herself well matched in a partner. They were a couple worth looking at. Two dances, unfortunately, were all that could be allowed. It was growing late, and Miss Bates became anxious to get home, on her mother's account. After some attempts, therefore, to be permitted to begin again, they were obliged to thank Mrs. Weston, look sorrowful, and have done. "Perhaps it is as well," said Frank Churchill, as he attended Emma to her carriage. "I must have asked Miss Fairfax, and her languid dancing would not have agreed with me, after yours." 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.

Frank kommt aus London zurück mit einer schicken neuen Frisur. Emma verbringt einige Zeit damit, über die relativen Vorzüge von Frank und Mr. Knightley nachzudenken. Es gibt keine Möglichkeit, dass Mr. Knightley jemals etwas so Dummes tun würde wie zum Haare schneiden zu reisen. Selbst wenn Mr. Knightley etwas Dummes tun würde, würde er es besser machen. Und er würde wissen, dass es dumm ist. Frank scheint den Unterschied zwischen normal und völlig lächerlich nicht zu erkennen. Okay, also ist Frank eine Diva. Aber er ist trotzdem liebenswert...oder? Der Abend der Party bei den Coles ist gekommen. Mrs. Bates kommt nach Hartfield, um Zeit mit Emmas Vater zu verbringen. Die große Neuigkeit auf der Party ist, dass jemand Jane Fairfax ein Klavier geschenkt hat. Ein anonymer Jemand. Emma stellt sich prompt eine ganze Romanze zwischen Jane und Mr. Dixon vor. Sie erzählt Frank alles darüber. Er amüsiert sich köstlich. Die beiden flüstern die ganze Nacht zusammen. Ansonsten ist die Party ziemlich gewöhnliche Trivialsozialszene. Emma amüsiert sich mehr, als sie gedacht hatte. Merkwürdigerweise starrt Frank die ganze Zeit auf Jane. Als Emma ihn darauf anspricht, macht er einige spöttische Bemerkungen über Janes Haare. Er verlässt Emma sogar kurz, um Hallo zu Jane zu sagen. Emma will sehen, was er sagt, aber Franks Körper versperrt den Weg. Nach dem Abendessen bittet Mrs. Cole Emma und Jane, auf dem Klavier zu spielen. Emma ist okay darin, Klavier zu spielen - aber zumindest hat sie gelernt, das Beste aus dem, was sie hat, zu machen. Sie spielt ein paar einfache Lieder. Überraschenderweise stimmt Frank Churchill singend mit ein. Emma ist insgeheim begeistert. Nachdem Emma gespielt hat, spielt Jane. Perfekt. Natürlich. Frank bittet Jane, nochmal zu spielen. Und nochmal. Mr. Knightley wird wütend: Jane hat eine Erkältung. Sie sollte sich nicht zu sehr anstrengen, um zu spielen. Mr. Knightley überzeugt Miss Bates, Jane zu sagen, sie solle aufhören. Emma hört mit Frau Weston zu, die eine neue Theorie hat: Sie glaubt, dass Mr. Knightley in Jane verliebt ist. Schließlich, wer wäre das nicht? Emma ist seltsamerweise verärgert über diesen Gedanken. Frau Westons Vermutung scheint durch die Tatsache gestützt zu werden, dass Mr. Knightley an diesem Abend sehr beschützend gegenüber Jane 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: AKT III. SZENE I. Forres. Ein Zimmer im Palast. [Banquo tritt auf.] BANQUO. Du hast es nun, - König, Cawdor, Glamis, alles, Wie es die seltsamen Frauen versprochen haben; und ich fürchte, Du hast dich sehr schmutzig dafür geschlagen; und dennoch wurde gesagt, Es sollte nicht in deiner Nachkommenschaft stehen; Aber ich selbst sollte die Wurzel und der Vater sein Vieler Könige. Wenn Wahrheit von ihnen kommt, - Wie auf dich, Macbeth, strahlen ihre Reden, - Warum sollten sie nicht auch meine Orakel sein Und mir Hoffnung geben? Aber psst; nichts mehr. [Trompetensignal. Macbeth tritt als König auf, Lady Macbeth als Königin; Lennox, Ross, Lords, Damen und Bedienstete treten ein.] MACBETH. Hier ist unser Hauptgast. LADY MACBETH. Wenn er vergessen worden wäre, Es wäre gewesen wie eine Lücke in unserem großen Fest, Und alles Unpassende. MACBETH. Heute Abend halten wir ein feierliches Abendessen, mein Herr, Und ich werde um deine Anwesenheit bitten. BANQUO. Euer Hoheit sei's befohlen; Für das, was ich schulde, bin ich auf ewig Mit einer unauflöslichen Verbindung verbunden. MACBETH. Fährst du heute Nachmittag? BANQUO. Ja, mein guter Lord. MACBETH. Wir hätten sonst deinen guten Rat gewünscht, - Der immer ernsthaft und erfolgreich war, - In der heutigen Sitzung; aber wir werden morgen darauf zurückkommen. Ist die Strecke, die du fährst, weit? BANQUO. So weit, mein Herr, wie die Zeit bis zum Abendessen reicht: Wenn mein Pferd sich nicht besser anfühlt, Muss ich mich eines bösen Geschicks bedienen, Für eine dunkle Stunde oder zwei. MACBETH. Lass unser Fest nicht missen. BANQUO. Mein Herr, das werde ich nicht. MACBETH. Wir hören, dass unsere blutrünstigen Vettern In England und Irland sind; sie gestehen nicht, Dass sie dort grausame Vätermörder sind und sie füllen ihre Zuhörer Mit seltsamen Erfindungen: aber davon morgen; Wenn wir dazu Anlass haben werden, Der uns gemeinsam anfordert. Schnell, zu Pferd: Adieu, Bis du heute Nacht zurückkehrst. Begleitet Fleance dich? BANQUO. Ja, mein guter Herr: Unsere Zeit hat es eilig. MACBETH. Ich wünsche deinen Pferden Schnelligkeit und Trittsicherheit; Und so empfehle ich dich ihren Rücken. Farewell.-- [Banquo geht ab.] Jeder soll Herr seiner Zeit sein Bis sieben Uhr Abends; um das Zusammensein Noch angenehmer zu machen, werden wir uns allein Bis zur Zeit des Abendessens aufhalten: Bis dahin, Gott sei mit euch! [Lady Macbeth, Lords, Damen, etc. ab.] Junge, ein Wort mit dir: Geh zu diesen Männern Unser Vergnügen? DIENER. Sie sind, mein Herr, vor dem Palasttor. MACBETH. Bring sie vor uns. [Diener geht ab.] So zu sein ist nichts; Aber sicher so zu sein: Unsere Ängste liegen bei Banquo. Tief verwurzelt; und in seiner königlichen Natur Herrscht das, was gefürchtet werden würde: Er wagt viel; Und diesem furchtlosen Temperament seines Geistes Liegt eine Weisheit inne, die seine Tapferkeit leitet Zur sicheren Handlung. Es gibt keinen außer ihm Den ich fürchte: und unter ihm, Wird mein Genius gerügt, wie es heißt, Der von Cäsar war bei Marcus Antonius. Er schalt die Schwestern Als sie zuerst den Namen des Königs auf mich legten Und sie auftrugen, mit ihm zu sprechen; dann, prophetengleich, Er nannte ihn Vater einer Königslinie: Auf meinem Kopf setzten sie eine fruchtlose Krone, Und legten mir ein unfruchtbares Zepter in die Hand, Damit es mit einer unehelichen Hand heruntergerissen wird, Keinem meiner Söhne nachfolgend. Wenn es so ist, Dann habe ich meinen Geist für Banchos Nachkommen verschmutzt; Für sie habe ich den gnädigen Duncan ermordet; Friedlosigkeit in das Gefäß meines Friedens Nur für sie; und meine ewige Perle Habe ich dem gemeinsamen Feind der Menschheit gegeben, Um sie zu Königen zu machen, den Samen von Banquo zu Königen! Eher als das, komm, Schicksal, in die Arena, Und kämpfe bis zum Äußersten für mich! - Wer ist da?-- [Diener kehrt mit zwei Mördern zurück.] Geht jetzt zur Tür und wartet dort, bis wir rufen. [Diener ab.] War es nicht gestern, als wir zusammen sprachen? ERSTER MÖRDER. Ja, sofern es Eurer Hoheit gefällt. MACBETH. Nun gut, habt ihr über meine Reden nachgedacht? Wisst ihr, Dass er es war, der euch in der Vergangenheit in Schach gehalten hat, So dass ihr gedacht habt, dass es unser unschuldiges Selbst war: Dies habe ich euch Bei unserem letzten Treffen bewiesen, während ich euch im Beweis Zeigte, wie man euch beeinflusst hat, wie ihr gekreuzt wurdet, Die Werkzeuge, die mit ihnen gearbeitet haben, und alles andere, was Eure Seele und euren Verstand irre gemacht hat, Sagen: "So hat es Banquo getan." ERSTER MÖRDER. Ihr habt es uns bekannt gemacht. MACBETH. Das habe ich getan; und ich bin weiter gegangen, was jetzt Unser zweites Treffen ist. Findet ihr Eure Geduld in eurer Natur so überlegen, Dass ihr dies zulassen könnt? Seid ihr so fanatisch, Dass ihr für diesen guten Mann und für seinen Nachwuchs betet, Dessen schwere Hand euch ins Grab gebracht hat Und euer Vermögen für immer verarmt hat? ERSTER MÖRDER. Wir sind Menschen, mein König. MACBETH. Ja, in der Liste steht ihr als Menschen; Wie Hunde, Windhunde, Mischlinge, Spaniels, Kläffer, Wasserratten und Halbwölfe werden allgemein Alle Hunde genannt: die besondere Datei Unterscheidet das Schnelle, das Langsame, das Listige, Den Haushüter, den Jäger, jeden Einzelnen Je nach der Gabe, die die großzügige Natur In ihm verschlossen hat; wodurch er eine besondere Ergänzung erhält Von dem Gesetz, das sie alle gleich schreibt: Und so von Menschen. Nun, wenn ihr euch in der Datei befindet, Nicht in der untersten Rangstufe der Mannhaftigkeit, sagt es; Und ich werde dieses Geschäft in eure Herzen legen, Dessen Ausführung euren Feind beseitigt; Mit uns das Herz und die Liebe verbindet, Wir tragen unsere Gesundheit nur schwach in seinem Leben, Das in seinem Tod vollkommen wäre. ZWEITER MÖRDER. Ich bin einer, mein König, Den die verachtenswerten Angriffe und Misshandlungen der Welt So gereizt haben, dass ich gleichgültig bin, was Ich tue, um der Welt zu trotzen. ERSTER MÖRDER. Und ich noch ein anderer, So müde von Katastrophen, umringt von Glück, Dass ich mein Leben auf jede Gelegenheit setzten würde, Um es zu verbessern oder es loszuwerden. MACBETH. Ihr beide Wisst, dass Banquo euer Feind war. BEIDE MÖRDER. Wahr, mein König. MACBETH. So ist er auch meiner; und in so blutiger Entfernung, Dass jede Minute seines Seins Gegen mein Leben drängt; und obwohl ich könnte, Mit bloßer Kraft ihn aus meiner Sicht fegen, Und meine Absicht bezeugen, darf ich es nicht, Für gewisse Freunde, die sowohl seine als auch meine sind, Deren Liebe ich nicht verlieren will, aber seinen Fall beklage Den ich selbst herbeigeführt habe: Und daher ist es, Dass ich um eure Hilfe bitte; Diese Angelegenheit vor den Augen der Öffentlichkeit verborgen zu halten, Aus verschiedenen gewichtigen Gründen. ZWEITER MÖRDER. Wir werden, mein König, Ausführen, was ihr uns befehlt. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Im königlichen Palast von Forres geht Banquo hin und her und denkt über die Krönung von Macbeth und die Prophezeiungen der Hexen nach. Die Hexen sagten voraus, dass Macbeth König werden würde und dass Banquos Nachkommen schließlich auf dem Thron sitzen würden. Wenn die erste Prophezeiung wahr geworden ist, denkt Banquo und spürt den aufkeimenden Ehrgeiz, warum dann nicht die zweite. Macbeth betritt den Raum, gekleidet als König. Ihm folgt Lady Macbeth, nun seine Königin, und der Hofstaat. Macbeth und Lady Macbeth bitten Banquo, an dem Festmahl teilzunehmen, das sie an diesem Abend ausrichten werden. Banquo nimmt die Einladung an und sagt, dass er am Nachmittag einen Ausritt machen möchte. Macbeth erwähnt, dass sie das Problem mit Malcolm und Donalbain besprechen sollten. Die Brüder sind aus Schottland geflohen und könnten gegen seine Krone intrigieren. Banquo geht und Macbeth entlässt seinen Hofstaat. Er bleibt allein in der Halle mit einem einzigen Diener zurück, mit dem er über einige Männer spricht, die ihn besuchen wollen. Macbeth fragt, ob die Männer immer noch warten und befiehlt, sie herbeizuholen. Sobald der Diener gegangen ist, beginnt Macbeth eine Monolog. Er sinniert über Banquo nach und bemerkt, dass sein alter Freund der einzige Mann in Schottland ist, vor dem er Angst hat. Er stellt fest, dass, wenn die Prophezeiung der Hexen wahr ist, seine Krone "fruchtlos" sein wird, was bedeutet, dass er keinen Erben haben wird. Der Mord an Duncan, der so schwer auf seinem Gewissen lastet, hat vielleicht einfach den Weg für Banquos Söhne freigemacht, um Macbeths eigene Familie zu stürzen. Der Diener betritt den Raum erneut mit Macbeths beiden Besuchern. Macbeth erinnert die beiden Männer, die Mörder, die er angeheuert hat, an ein Gespräch, das er am Vortag mit ihnen geführt hat, in dem er die Vergehen aufgezählt hat, die Banquo ihnen in der Vergangenheit angetan hat. Er fragt, ob sie wütend und mutig genug sind, um Rache an Banquo zu nehmen. Sie antworten, dass sie es sind, und Macbeth akzeptiert ihr Versprechen, seinen ehemaligen Freund zu ermorden. Macbeth erinnert die Mörder daran, dass auch Fleance zusammen mit seinem Vater getötet werden muss, und befiehlt ihnen, im Schloss auf seinen Befehl zu warten.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). 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 I. SZENE I. Ein offener Ort. Donner und Blitz. [Drei Hexen betreten die Bühne.] ERSTE HEXE. Wann werden wir uns das nächste Mal treffen? Bei Donner, Blitz oder Regen? ZWEITE HEXE. Wenn das Chaos vorbei ist, Wenn die Schlacht verloren und gewonnen ist. DRITTE HEXE. Das wird vor Sonnenuntergang sein. ERSTE HEXE. Wo ist der Ort? ZWEITE HEXE. Auf der Heide. DRITTE HEXE. Dort werden wir uns mit Macbeth treffen. ERSTE HEXE. Ich komme, Graukätzchen! ALLE. Paddock ruft: - gleich: - Schön ist hässlich und hässlich ist schön: Schwebe durch den Nebel und die dreckige Luft. [Die Hexen verschwinden.] Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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Die drei berüchtigten Hexen von Macbeth treten zum ersten Mal auf, während sie unter erschreckendem Donner und Blitz ein verworrenes Gespräch miteinander führen. Die "seltsamen" Schwestern sind sich einig, sich wieder am "Heidefeld" zu treffen, sobald "die Schlacht verloren und gewonnen ist". Die Details dieser Schlacht sind bis zu den späteren Szenen in diesem Akt des Stücks unbekannt.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: CHAPTER V The midnight clock has toll'd; and hark, the bell Of Death beats slow! heard ye the note profound? It pauses now; and now, with rising knell, Flings to the hollow gale its sullen sound. MASON When Montoni was informed of the death of his wife, and considered that she had died without giving him the signature so necessary to the accomplishment of his wishes, no sense of decency restrained the expression of his resentment. Emily anxiously avoided his presence, and watched, during two days and two nights, with little intermission, by the corpse of her late aunt. Her mind deeply impressed with the unhappy fate of this object, she forgot all her faults, her unjust and imperious conduct to herself; and, remembering only her sufferings, thought of her only with tender compassion. Sometimes, however, she could not avoid musing upon the strange infatuation that had proved so fatal to her aunt, and had involved herself in a labyrinth of misfortune, from which she saw no means of escaping,--the marriage with Montoni. But, when she considered this circumstance, it was 'more in sorrow than in anger,'--more for the purpose of indulging lamentation, than reproach. In her pious cares she was not disturbed by Montoni, who not only avoided the chamber, where the remains of his wife were laid, but that part of the castle adjoining to it, as if he had apprehended a contagion in death. He seemed to have given no orders respecting the funeral, and Emily began to fear he meant to offer a new insult to the memory of Madame Montoni; but from this apprehension she was relieved, when, on the evening of the second day, Annette informed her, that the interment was to take place that night. She knew, that Montoni would not attend; and it was so very grievous to her to think that the remains of her unfortunate aunt would pass to the grave without one relative, or friend to pay them the last decent rites, that she determined to be deterred by no considerations for herself, from observing this duty. She would otherwise have shrunk from the circumstance of following them to the cold vault, to which they were to be carried by men, whose air and countenances seemed to stamp them for murderers, at the midnight hour of silence and privacy, which Montoni had chosen for committing, if possible, to oblivion the reliques of a woman, whom his harsh conduct had, at least, contributed to destroy. Emily, shuddering with emotions of horror and grief, assisted by Annette, prepared the corpse for interment; and, having wrapt it in cerements, and covered it with a winding-sheet, they watched beside it, till past midnight, when they heard the approaching footsteps of the men, who were to lay it in its earthy bed. It was with difficulty, that Emily overcame her emotion, when, the door of the chamber being thrown open, their gloomy countenances were seen by the glare of the torch they carried, and two of them, without speaking, lifted the body on their shoulders, while the third preceding them with the light, descended through the castle towards the grave, which was in the lower vault of the chapel within the castle walls. They had to cross two courts, towards the east wing of the castle, which, adjoining the chapel, was, like it, in ruins: but the silence and gloom of these courts had now little power over Emily's mind, occupied as it was, with more mournful ideas; and she scarcely heard the low and dismal hooting of the night-birds, that roosted among the ivyed battlements of the ruin, or perceived the still flittings of the bat, which frequently crossed her way. But, when, having entered the chapel, and passed between the mouldering pillars of the aisles, the bearers stopped at a flight of steps, that led down to a low arched door, and, their comrade having descended to unlock it, she saw imperfectly the gloomy abyss beyond;--saw the corpse of her aunt carried down these steps, and the ruffian-like figure, that stood with a torch at the bottom to receive it--all her fortitude was lost in emotions of inexpressible grief and terror. She turned to lean upon Annette, who was cold and trembling like herself, and she lingered so long on the summit of the flight, that the gleam of the torch began to die away on the pillars of the chapel, and the men were almost beyond her view. Then, the gloom around her awakening other fears, and a sense of what she considered to be her duty overcoming her reluctance, she descended to the vaults, following the echo of footsteps and the faint ray, that pierced the darkness, till the harsh grating of a distant door, that was opened to receive the corpse, again appalled her. After the pause of a moment, she went on, and, as she entered the vaults, saw between the arches, at some distance, the men lay down the body near the edge of an open grave, where stood another of Montoni's men and a priest, whom she did not observe, till he began the burial service; then, lifting her eyes from the ground, she saw the venerable figure of the friar, and heard him in a low voice, equally solemn and affecting, perform the service for the dead. At the moment, in which they let down the body into the earth, the scene was such as only the dark pencil of a Domenichino, perhaps, could have done justice to. The fierce features and wild dress of the condottieri, bending with their torches over the grave, into which the corpse was descending, were contrasted by the venerable figure of the monk, wrapt in long black garments, his cowl thrown back from his pale face, on which the light gleaming strongly shewed the lines of affliction softened by piety, and the few grey locks, which time had spared on his temples: while, beside him, stood the softer form of Emily, who leaned for support upon Annette; her face half averted, and shaded by a thin veil, that fell over her figure; and her mild and beautiful countenance fixed in grief so solemn as admitted not of tears, while she thus saw committed untimely to the earth her last relative and friend. The gleams, thrown between the arches of the vaults, where, here and there, the broken ground marked the spots in which other bodies had been recently interred, and the general obscurity beyond were circumstances, that alone would have led on the imagination of a spectator to scenes more horrible, than even that, which was pictured at the grave of the misguided and unfortunate Madame Montoni. When the service was over, the friar regarded Emily with attention and surprise, and looked as if he wished to speak to her, but was restrained by the presence of the condottieri, who, as they now led the way to the courts, amused themselves with jokes upon his holy order, which he endured in silence, demanding only to be conducted safely to his convent, and to which Emily listened with concern and even horror. When they reached the court, the monk gave her his blessing, and, after a lingering look of pity, turned away to the portal, whither one of the men carried a torch; while Annette, lighting another, preceded Emily to her apartment. The appearance of the friar and the expression of tender compassion, with which he had regarded her, had interested Emily, who, though it was at her earnest supplication, that Montoni had consented to allow a priest to perform the last rites for his deceased wife, knew nothing concerning this person, till Annette now informed her, that he belonged to a monastery, situated among the mountains at a few miles distance. The Superior, who regarded Montoni and his associates, not only with aversion, but with terror, had probably feared to offend him by refusing his request, and had, therefore, ordered a monk to officiate at the funeral, who, with the meek spirit of a christian, had overcome his reluctance to enter the walls of such a castle, by the wish of performing what he considered to be his duty, and, as the chapel was built on consecrated ground, had not objected to commit to it the remains of the late unhappy Madame Montoni. Several days passed with Emily in total seclusion, and in a state of mind partaking both of terror for herself, and grief for the departed. She, at length, determined to make other efforts to persuade Montoni to permit her return to France. Why he should wish to detain her, she could scarcely dare to conjecture; but it was too certain that he did so, and the absolute refusal he had formerly given to her departure allowed her little hope, that he would now consent to it. But the horror, which his presence inspired, made her defer, from day to day, the mention of this subject; and at last she was awakened from her inactivity only by a message from him, desiring her attendance at a certain hour. She began to hope he meant to resign, now that her aunt was no more, the authority he had usurped over her; till she recollected, that the estates, which had occasioned so much contention, were now hers, and she then feared Montoni was about to employ some stratagem for obtaining them, and that he would detain her his prisoner, till he succeeded. This thought, instead of overcoming her with despondency, roused all the latent powers of her fortitude into action; and the property, which she would willingly have resigned to secure the peace of her aunt, she resolved, that no common sufferings of her own should ever compel her to give to Montoni. For Valancourt's sake also she determined to preserve these estates, since they would afford that competency, by which she hoped to secure the comfort of their future lives. As she thought of this, she indulged the tenderness of tears, and anticipated the delight of that moment, when, with affectionate generosity, she might tell him they were his own. She saw the smile, that lighted up his features--the affectionate regard, which spoke at once his joy and thanks; and, at this instant, she believed she could brave any suffering, which the evil spirit of Montoni might be preparing for her. Remembering then, for the first time since her aunt's death, the papers relative to the estates in question, she determined to search for them, as soon as her interview with Montoni was over. With these resolutions she met him at the appointed time, and waited to hear his intention before she renewed her request. With him were Orsino and another officer, and both were standing near a table, covered with papers, which he appeared to be examining. 'I sent for you, Emily,' said Montoni, raising his head, 'that you might be a witness in some business, which I am transacting with my friend Orsino. All that is required of you will be to sign your name to this paper:' he then took one up, hurried unintelligibly over some lines, and, laying it before her on the table, offered her a pen. She took it, and was going to write--when the design of Montoni came upon her mind like a flash of lightning; she trembled, let the pen fall, and refused to sign what she had not read. Montoni affected to laugh at her scruples, and, taking up the paper, again pretended to read; but Emily, who still trembled on perceiving her danger, and was astonished, that her own credulity had so nearly betrayed her, positively refused to sign any paper whatever. Montoni, for some time, persevered in affecting to ridicule this refusal; but, when he perceived by her steady perseverance, that she understood his design, he changed his manner, and bade her follow him to another room. There he told her, that he had been willing to spare himself and her the trouble of useless contest, in an affair, where his will was justice, and where she should find it law; and had, therefore, endeavoured to persuade, rather than to compel, her to the practice of her duty. 'I, as the husband of the late Signora Montoni,' he added, 'am the heir of all she possessed; the estates, therefore, which she refused to me in her life-time, can no longer be withheld, and, for your own sake, I would undeceive you, respecting a foolish assertion she once made to you in my hearing--that these estates would be yours, if she died without resigning them to me. She knew at that moment, she had no power to withhold them from me, after her decease; and I think you have more sense, than to provoke my resentment by advancing an unjust claim. I am not in the habit of flattering, and you will, therefore, receive, as sincere, the praise I bestow, when I say, that you possess an understanding superior to that of your sex; and that you have none of those contemptible foibles, that frequently mark the female character--such as avarice and the love of power, which latter makes women delight to contradict and to tease, when they cannot conquer. If I understand your disposition and your mind, you hold in sovereign contempt these common failings of your sex.' Montoni paused; and Emily remained silent and expecting; for she knew him too well, to believe he would condescend to such flattery, unless he thought it would promote his own interest; and, though he had forborne to name vanity among the foibles of women, it was evident, that he considered it to be a predominant one, since he designed to sacrifice to hers the character and understanding of her whole sex. 'Judging as I do,' resumed Montoni, 'I cannot believe you will oppose, where you know you cannot conquer, or, indeed, that you would wish to conquer, or be avaricious of any property, when you have not justice on your side. I think it proper, however, to acquaint you with the alternative. If you have a just opinion of the subject in question, you shall be allowed a safe conveyance to France, within a short period; but, if you are so unhappy as to be misled by the late assertion of the Signora, you shall remain my prisoner, till you are convinced of your error.' Emily calmly said, 'I am not so ignorant, Signor, of the laws on this subject, as to be misled by the assertion of any person. The law, in the present instance, gives me the estates in question, and my own hand shall never betray my right.' 'I have been mistaken in my opinion of you, it appears,' rejoined Montoni, sternly. 'You speak boldly, and presumptuously, upon a subject, which you do not understand. For once, I am willing to pardon the conceit of ignorance; the weakness of your sex, too, from which, it seems, you are not exempt, claims some allowance; but, if you persist in this strain--you have every thing to fear from my justice.' 'From your justice, Signor,' rejoined Emily, 'I have nothing to fear--I have only to hope.' Montoni looked at her with vexation, and seemed considering what to say. 'I find that you are weak enough,' he resumed, 'to credit the idle assertion I alluded to! For your own sake I lament this; as to me, it is of little consequence. Your credulity can punish only yourself; and I must pity the weakness of mind, which leads you to so much suffering as you are compelling me to prepare for you.' 'You may find, perhaps, Signor,' said Emily, with mild dignity, 'that the strength of my mind is equal to the justice of my cause; and that I can endure with fortitude, when it is in resistance of oppression.' 'You speak like a heroine,' said Montoni, contemptuously; 'we shall see whether you can suffer like one.' Emily was silent, and he left the room. Recollecting, that it was for Valancourt's sake she had thus resisted, she now smiled complacently upon the threatened sufferings, and retired to the spot, which her aunt had pointed out as the repository of the papers, relative to the estates, where she found them as described; and, since she knew of no better place of concealment, than this, returned them, without examining their contents, being fearful of discovery, while she should attempt a perusal. To her own solitary chamber she once more returned, and there thought again of the late conversation with Montoni, and of the evil she might expect from opposition to his will. But his power did not appear so terrible to her imagination, as it was wont to do: a sacred pride was in her heart, that taught it to swell against the pressure of injustice, and almost to glory in the quiet sufferance of ills, in a cause, which had also the interest of Valancourt for its object. For the first time, she felt the full extent of her own superiority to Montoni, and despised the authority, which, till now, she had only feared. As she sat musing, a peal of laughter rose from the terrace, and, on going to the casement, she saw, with inexpressible surprise, three ladies, dressed in the gala habit of Venice, walking with several gentlemen below. She gazed in an astonishment that made her remain at the window, regardless of being observed, till the group passed under it; and, one of the strangers looking up, she perceived the features of Signora Livona, with whose manners she had been so much charmed, the day after her arrival at Venice, and who had been there introduced at the table of Montoni. This discovery occasioned her an emotion of doubtful joy; for it was matter of joy and comfort to know, that a person, of a mind so gentle, as that of Signora Livona seemed to be, was near her; yet there was something so extraordinary in her being at this castle, circumstanced as it now was, and evidently, by the gaiety of her air, with her own consent, that a very painful surmise arose, concerning her character. But the thought was so shocking to Emily, whose affection the fascinating manners of the Signora had won, and appeared so improbable, when she remembered these manners, that she dismissed it almost instantly. On Annette's appearance, however, she enquired, concerning these strangers; and the former was as eager to tell, as Emily was to learn. 'They are just come, ma'amselle,' said Annette, 'with two Signors from Venice, and I was glad to see such Christian faces once again.--But what can they mean by coming here? They must surely be stark mad to come freely to such a place as this! Yet they do come freely, for they seem merry enough, I am sure.' 'They were taken prisoners, perhaps?' said Emily. 'Taken prisoners!' exclaimed Annette; 'no, indeed, ma'amselle, not they. I remember one of them very well at Venice: she came two or three times, to the Signor's you know, ma'amselle, and it was said, but I did not believe a word of it--it was said, that the Signor liked her better than he should do. Then why, says I, bring her to my lady? Very true, said Ludovico; but he looked as if he knew more, too.' Emily desired Annette would endeavour to learn who these ladies were, as well as all she could concerning them; and she then changed the subject, and spoke of distant France. 'Ah, ma'amselle! we shall never see it more!' said Annette, almost weeping.--'I must come on my travels, forsooth!' Emily tried to sooth and to cheer her, with a hope, in which she scarcely herself indulged. 'How--how, ma'amselle, could you leave France, and leave Mons. Valancourt, too?' said Annette, sobbing. 'I--I--am sure, if Ludovico had been in France, I would never have left it.' 'Why do you lament quitting France, then?' said Emily, trying to smile, 'since, if you had remained there, you would not have found Ludovico.' 'Ah, ma'amselle! I only wish I was out of this frightful castle, serving you in France, and I would care about nothing else!' 'Thank you, my good Annette, for your affectionate regard; the time will come, I hope, when you may remember the expression of that wish with pleasure.' Annette departed on her business, and Emily sought to lose the sense of her own cares, in the visionary scenes of the poet; but she had again to lament the irresistible force of circumstances over the taste and powers of the mind; and that it requires a spirit at ease to be sensible even to the abstract pleasures of pure intellect. The enthusiasm of genius, with all its pictured scenes, now appeared cold, and dim. As she mused upon the book before her, she involuntarily exclaimed, 'Are these, indeed, the passages, that have so often given me exquisite delight? Where did the charm exist?--Was it in my mind, or in the imagination of the poet? It lived in each,' said she, pausing. 'But the fire of the poet is vain, if the mind of his reader is not tempered like his own, however it may be inferior to his in power.' Emily would have pursued this train of thinking, because it relieved her from more painful reflection, but she found again, that thought cannot always be controlled by will; and hers returned to the consideration of her own situation. In the evening, not choosing to venture down to the ramparts, where she would be exposed to the rude gaze of Montoni's associates, she walked for air in the gallery, adjoining her chamber; on reaching the further end of which she heard distant sounds of merriment and laughter. It was the wild uproar of riot, not the cheering gaiety of tempered mirth; and seemed to come from that part of the castle, where Montoni usually was. Such sounds, at this time, when her aunt had been so few days dead, particularly shocked her, consistent as they were with the late conduct of Montoni. As she listened, she thought she distinguished female voices mingling with the laughter, and this confirmed her worst surmise, concerning the character of Signora Livona and her companions. It was evident, that they had not been brought hither by compulsion; and she beheld herself in the remote wilds of the Apennine, surrounded by men, whom she considered to be little less than ruffians, and their worst associates, amid scenes of vice, from which her soul recoiled in horror. It was at this moment, when the scenes of the present and the future opened to her imagination, that the image of Valancourt failed in its influence, and her resolution shook with dread. She thought she understood all the horrors, which Montoni was preparing for her, and shrunk from an encounter with such remorseless vengeance, as he could inflict. The disputed estates she now almost determined to yield at once, whenever he should again call upon her, that she might regain safety and freedom; but then, the remembrance of Valancourt would steal to her heart, and plunge her into the distractions of doubt. She continued walking in the gallery, till evening threw its melancholy twilight through the painted casements, and deepened the gloom of the oak wainscoting around her; while the distant perspective of the corridor was so much obscured, as to be discernible only by the glimmering window, that terminated it. Along the vaulted halls and passages below, peals of laughter echoed faintly, at intervals, to this remote part of the castle, and seemed to render the succeeding stillness more dreary. Emily, however, unwilling to return to her more forlorn chamber, whither Annette was not yet come, still paced the gallery. As she passed the door of the apartment, where she had once dared to lift the veil, which discovered to her a spectacle so horrible, that she had never after remembered it, but with emotions of indescribable awe, this remembrance suddenly recurred. It now brought with it reflections more terrible, than it had yet done, which the late conduct of Montoni occasioned; and, hastening to quit the gallery, while she had power to do so, she heard a sudden step behind her.--It might be that of Annette; but, turning fearfully to look, she saw, through the gloom, a tall figure following her, and all the horrors of that chamber rushed upon her mind. In the next moment, she found herself clasped in the arms of some person, and heard a deep voice murmur in her ear. When she had power to speak, or to distinguish articulated sounds, she demanded who detained her. 'It is I,' replied the voice--'Why are you thus alarmed?' She looked on the face of the person who spoke, but the feeble light, that gleamed through the high casement at the end of the gallery, did not permit her to distinguish the features. 'Whoever you are,' said Emily, in a trembling voice, 'for heaven's sake let me go!' 'My charming Emily,' said the man, 'why will you shut yourself up in this obscure place, when there is so much gaiety below? Return with me to the cedar parlour, where you will be the fairest ornament of the party;--you shall not repent the exchange.' Emily disdained to reply, and still endeavoured to liberate herself. 'Promise, that you will come,' he continued, 'and I will release you immediately; but first give me a reward for so doing.' 'Who are you?' demanded Emily, in a tone of mingled terror and indignation, while she still struggled for liberty--'who are you, that have the cruelty thus to insult me?' 'Why call me cruel?' said the man, 'I would remove you from this dreary solitude to a merry party below. Do you not know me?' Emily now faintly remembered, that he was one of the officers who were with Montoni when she attended him in the morning. 'I thank you for the kindness of your intention,' she replied, without appearing to understand him, 'but I wish for nothing so much as that you would leave me.' 'Charming Emily!' said he, 'give up this foolish whim for solitude, and come with me to the company, and eclipse the beauties who make part of it; you, only, are worthy of my love.' He attempted to kiss her hand, but the strong impulse of her indignation gave her power to liberate herself, and she fled towards the chamber. She closed the door, before he reached it, having secured which, she sunk in a chair, overcome by terror and by the exertion she had made, while she heard his voice, and his attempts to open the door, without having the power to raise herself. At length, she perceived him depart, and had remained, listening, for a considerable time, and was somewhat revived by not hearing any sound, when suddenly she remembered the door of the private stair-case, and that he might enter that way, since it was fastened only on the other side. She then employed herself in endeavouring to secure it, in the manner she had formerly done. It appeared to her, that Montoni had already commenced his scheme of vengeance, by withdrawing from her his protection, and she repented of the rashness, that had made her brave the power of such a man. To retain the estates seemed to be now utterly impossible, and to preserve her life, perhaps her honour, she resolved, if she should escape the horrors of this night, to give up all claims to the estates, on the morrow, provided Montoni would suffer her to depart from Udolpho. When she had come to this decision, her mind became more composed, though she still anxiously listened, and often started at ideal sounds, that appeared to issue from the stair-case. Having sat in darkness for some hours, during all which time Annette did not appear, she began to have serious apprehensions for her; but, not daring to venture down into the castle, was compelled to remain in uncertainty, as to the cause of this unusual absence. Emily often stole to the stair-case door, to listen if any step approached, but still no sound alarmed her: determining, however, to watch, during the night, she once more rested on her dark and desolate couch, and bathed the pillow with innocent tears. She thought of her deceased parents and then of the absent Valancourt, and frequently called upon their names; for the profound stillness, that now reigned, was propitious to the musing sorrow of her mind. While she thus remained, her ear suddenly caught the notes of distant music, to which she listened attentively, and, soon perceiving this to be the instrument she had formerly heard at midnight, she rose, and stepped softly to the casement, to which the sounds appeared to come from a lower room. In a few moments, their soft melody was accompanied by a voice so full of pathos, that it evidently sang not of imaginary sorrows. Its sweet and peculiar tones she thought she had somewhere heard before; yet, if this was not fancy, it was, at most, a very faint recollection. It stole over her mind, amidst the anguish of her present suffering, like a celestial strain, soothing, and re-assuring her;--'Pleasant as the gale of spring, that sighs on the hunter's ear, when he awakens from dreams of joy, and has heard the music of the spirits of the hill.'* (*Ossian. [A. R.]) But her emotion can scarcely be imagined, when she heard sung, with the taste and simplicity of true feeling, one of the popular airs of her native province, to which she had so often listened with delight, when a child, and which she had so often heard her father repeat! To this well-known song, never, till now, heard but in her native country, her heart melted, while the memory of past times returned. The pleasant, peaceful scenes of Gascony, the tenderness and goodness of her parents, the taste and simplicity of her former life--all rose to her fancy, and formed a picture, so sweet and glowing, so strikingly contrasted with the scenes, the characters and the dangers, which now surrounded her--that her mind could not bear to pause upon the retrospect, and shrunk at the acuteness of its own sufferings. Her sighs were deep and convulsed; she could no longer listen to the strain, that had so often charmed her to tranquillity, and she withdrew from the casement to a remote part of the chamber. But she was not yet beyond the reach of the music; she heard the measure change, and the succeeding air called her again to the window, for she immediately recollected it to be the same she had formerly heard in the fishing-house in Gascony. Assisted, perhaps, by the mystery, which had then accompanied this strain, it had made so deep an impression on her memory, that she had never since entirely forgotten it; and the manner, in which it was now sung, convinced her, however unaccountable the circumstances appeared, that this was the same voice she had then heard. Surprise soon yielded to other emotions; a thought darted, like lightning, upon her mind, which discovered a train of hopes, that revived all her spirits. Yet these hopes were so new, so unexpected, so astonishing, that she did not dare to trust, though she could not resolve to discourage them. She sat down by the casement, breathless, and overcome with the alternate emotions of hope and fear; then rose again, leaned from the window, that she might catch a nearer sound, listened, now doubting and then believing, softly exclaimed the name of Valancourt, and then sunk again into the chair. Yes, it was possible, that Valancourt was near her, and she recollected circumstances, which induced her to believe it was his voice she had just heard. She remembered he had more than once said that the fishing-house, where she had formerly listened to this voice and air, and where she had seen pencilled sonnets, addressed to herself, had been his favourite haunt, before he had been made known to her; there, too, she had herself unexpectedly met him. It appeared, from these circumstances, more than probable, that he was the musician, who had formerly charmed her attention, and the author of the lines, which had expressed such tender admiration;--who else, indeed, could it be? She was unable, at that time, to form a conjecture, as to the writer, but, since her acquaintance with Valancourt, whenever he had mentioned the fishing-house to have been known to him, she had not scrupled to believe that he was the author of the sonnets. As these considerations passed over her mind, joy, fear and tenderness contended at her heart; she leaned again from the casement to catch the sounds, which might confirm, or destroy her hope, though she did not recollect to have ever heard him sing; but the voice, and the instrument, now ceased. She considered for a moment whether she should venture to speak: then, not choosing, lest it should be he, to mention his name, and yet too much interested to neglect the opportunity of enquiring, she called from the casement, 'Is that song from Gascony?' Her anxious attention was not cheered by any reply; every thing remained silent. Her impatience increasing with her fears, she repeated the question; but still no sound was heard, except the sighings of the wind among the battlements above; and she endeavoured to console herself with a belief, that the stranger, whoever he was, had retired, before she had spoken, beyond the reach of her voice, which, it appeared certain, had Valancourt heard and recognized, he would instantly have replied to. Presently, however, she considered, that a motive of prudence, and not an accidental removal, might occasion his silence; but the surmise, that led to this reflection, suddenly changed her hope and joy to terror and grief; for, if Valancourt were in the castle, it was too probable, that he was here a prisoner, taken with some of his countrymen, many of whom were at that time engaged in the wars of Italy, or intercepted in some attempt to reach her. Had he even recollected Emily's voice, he would have feared, in these circumstances, to reply to it, in the presence of the men, who guarded his prison. Was sie noch vor Kurzem voller Hoffnung ersehnte, fürchtete sie nun zutiefst - fürchtete zu wissen, dass Valancourt in ihrer Nähe war; und während sie darauf erpicht war, von ihrer Furcht um seine Sicherheit befreit zu werden, war sie sich immer noch nicht bewusst, dass die Angst mit der Hoffnung kämpfte, ihn bald zu sehen. Sie blieb am Fenster stehen, lauschte, bis die Luft frischer wurde und ein hoher Berg im Osten im Morgengrauen zu schimmern begann; erschöpft vor Sorge zog sie sich dann auf ihr Lager zurück, wo es ihr absolut unmöglich war, vor Freude, Zärtlichkeit, Zweifel und Angst zu schlafen - all das lenkte sie während der ganzen Nacht ab. Mal stand sie vom Bett auf und öffnete das Fenster, um zu lauschen; dann schritt sie ungeduldig im Zimmer auf und ab und kehrte schließlich verzweifelt zu ihrem Kissen zurück. Nie waren Stunden so langsam vergangen wie in dieser ängstlichen Nacht, wonach sie hoffte, dass Annette erscheinen und ihre quälende Ungewissheit beenden würde. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Em und Annette bereiten Madame M. für die Beerdigung vor. Sie holen einen Mönch von außerhalb der Schlossmauern herein. Montoni versucht, Em dazu zu bringen, die Papiere mit einigen Tricks der Klasse A zu unterschreiben, aber Em ist zu schlau für ihn. Als sie sich weigert zu unterschreiben, warnt Montoni sie: Sie spricht wie eine Heldin, aber kann sie auch wie eine Heldin leiden? Muahahaha. Signora Livona und einige von Montonis anderen Damenfreunden aus Venedig treffen ein und Em bemerkt, dass sie vielleicht nicht die vornehmsten Damen sind. Als Em zu ihrem Zimmer zurückkehrt, bemerkt sie, dass ihr eine hohe Gestalt folgt. Es ist einer von Montonis Kumpels. Er versucht, Em zu küssen, doch sie erkennt, dass Montoni ihn geschickt haben könnte, um sein Versprechen wahr werden zu lassen. Als sie schließlich zu ihrem Zimmer zurückkehrt, hört sie wieder die mysteriöse Musik. Em beschließt, mit dem anonymen Musiker zu sprechen. Sie ruft: "Hey, kommt die Musik aus Gascony?" Keine Antwort.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: ACT V SCENE I ORGON, CLEANTE CLEANTE Whither away so fast? ORGON How should I know? CLEANTE Methinks we should begin by taking counsel To see what can be done to meet the case. ORGON I'm all worked up about that wretched box. More than all else it drives me to despair. CLEANTE That box must hide some mighty mystery? ORGON Argas, my friend who is in trouble, brought it Himself, most secretly, and left it with me. He chose me, in his exile, for this trust; And on these documents, from what he said, I judge his life and property depend. CLEANTE How could you trust them to another's hands? ORGON By reason of a conscientious scruple. I went straight to my traitor, to confide In him; his sophistry made me believe That I must give the box to him to keep, So that, in case of search, I might deny My having it at all, and still, by favour Of this evasion, keep my conscience clear Even in taking oath against the truth. CLEANTE Your case is bad, so far as I can see; This deed of gift, this trusting of the secret To him, were both--to state my frank opinion-- Steps that you took too lightly; he can lead you To any length, with these for hostages; And since he holds you at such disadvantage, You'd be still more imprudent, to provoke him; So you must go some gentler way about. ORGON What! Can a soul so base, a heart so false, Hide neath the semblance of such touching fervour? I took him in, a vagabond, a beggar! ... 'Tis too much! No more pious folk for me! I shall abhor them utterly forever, And henceforth treat them worse than any devil. CLEANTE So! There you go again, quite off the handle! In nothing do you keep an even temper. You never know what reason is, but always Jump first to one extreme, and then the other. You see your error, and you recognise That you've been cozened by a feigned zeal; But to make up for't, in the name of reason, Why should you plunge into a worse mistake, And find no difference in character Between a worthless scamp, and all good people? What! Just because a rascal boldly duped you With pompous show of false austerity, Must you needs have it everybody's like him, And no one's truly pious nowadays? Leave such conclusions to mere infidels; Distinguish virtue from its counterfeit, Don't give esteem too quickly, at a venture, But try to keep, in this, the golden mean. If you can help it, don't uphold imposture; But do not rail at true devoutness, either; And if you must fall into one extreme, Then rather err again the other way. SCENE II DAMIS, ORGON, CLEANTE DAMIS What! father, can the scoundrel threaten you, Forget the many benefits received, And in his base abominable pride Make of your very favours arms against you? ORGON Too true, my son. It tortures me to think on't. DAMIS Let me alone, I'll chop his ears off for him. We must deal roundly with his insolence; 'Tis I must free you from him at a blow; 'Tis I, to set things right, must strike him down. CLEANTE Spoke like a true young man. Now just calm down, And moderate your towering tantrums, will you? We live in such an age, with such a king, That violence can not advance our cause. SCENE III MADAME PERNELLE, ORGON, ELMIRE, CLEANTE, MARIANE, DAMIS, DORINE MADAME PERNELLE What's this? I hear of fearful mysteries! ORGON Strange things indeed, for my own eyes to witness; You see how I'm requited for my kindness, I zealously receive a wretched beggar, I lodge him, entertain him like my brother, Load him with benefactions every day, Give him my daughter, give him all my fortune: And he meanwhile, the villain, rascal, wretch, Tries with black treason to suborn my wife, And not content with such a foul design, He dares to menace me with my own favours, And would make use of those advantages Which my too foolish kindness armed him with, To ruin me, to take my fortune from me, And leave me in the state I saved him from. DORINE Poor man! MADAME PERNELLE My son, I cannot possibly Believe he could intend so black a deed. ORGON What? MADAME PERNELLE Worthy men are still the sport of envy. ORGON Mother, what do you mean by such a speech? MADAME PERNELLE There are strange goings-on about your house, And everybody knows your people hate him. ORGON What's that to do with what I tell you now? MADAME PERNELLE I always said, my son, when you were little: That virtue here below is hated ever; The envious may die, but envy never. ORGON What's that fine speech to do with present facts? MADAME PERNELLE Be sure, they've forged a hundred silly lies ... ORGON I've told you once, I saw it all myself. MADAME PERNELLE For slanderers abound in calumnies ... ORGON Mother, you'd make me damn my soul. I tell you I saw with my own eyes his shamelessness. MADAME PERNELLE Their tongues for spitting venom never lack, There's nothing here below they'll not attack. ORGON Your speech has not a single grain of sense. I saw it, harkee, saw it, with these eyes I saw--d'ye know what saw means?--must I say it A hundred times, and din it in your ears? MADAME PERNELLE My dear, appearances are oft deceiving, And seeing shouldn't always be believing. ORGON I'll go mad. MADAME PERNELLE False suspicions may delude, And good to evil oft is misconstrued. ORGON Must I construe as Christian charity The wish to kiss my wife! MADAME PERNELLE You must, at least, Have just foundation for accusing people, And wait until you see a thing for sure. ORGON The devil! How could I see any surer? Should I have waited till, before my eyes, He ... No, you'll make me say things quite improper. MADAME PERNELLE In short, 'tis known too pure a zeal inflames him; And so, I cannot possibly conceive That he should try to do what's charged against him. ORGON If you were not my mother, I should say Such things! ... I know not what, I'm so enraged! DORINE (to Orgon) Fortune has paid you fair, to be so doubted; You flouted our report, now yours is flouted. CLEANTE We're wasting time here in the merest trifling, Which we should rather use in taking measures To guard ourselves against the scoundrel's threats. DAMIS You think his impudence could go far? ELMIRE For one, I can't believe it possible; Why, his ingratitude would be too patent. CLEANTE Don't trust to that; he'll find abundant warrant To give good colour to his acts against you; And for less cause than this, a strong cabal Can make one's life a labyrinth of troubles. I tell you once again: armed as he is You never should have pushed him quite so far. ORGON True; yet what could I do? The rascal's pride Made me lose all control of my resentment. CLEANTE I wish with all my heart that some pretence Of peace could be patched up between you two ELMIRE If I had known what weapons he was armed with, I never should have raised such an alarm, And my ... ORGON (to Dorine, seeing Mr. Loyal come in) Who's coming now? Go quick, find out. I'm in a fine state to receive a visit! SCENE IV ORGON, MADAME PERNELLE, ELMIRE, MARIANE, CLEANTE, DAMIS, DORINE, MR. LOYAL MR. LOYAL (to Dorine, at the back of the stage) Good day, good sister. Pray you, let me see The master of the house. DORINE He's occupied; I think he can see nobody at present. MR. LOYAL I'm not by way of being unwelcome here. My coming can, I think, nowise displease him; My errand will be found to his advantage. DORINE Your name, then? MR. LOYAL Tell him simply that his friend Mr. Tartuffe has sent me, for his goods ... DORINE (to Orgon) It is a man who comes, with civil manners, Sent by Tartuffe, he says, upon an errand That you'll be pleased with. CLEANTE (to Orgon) Surely you must see him, And find out who he is, and what he wants. ORGON (to Cleante) Perhaps he's come to make it up between us: How shall I treat him? CLEANTE You must not get angry; And if he talks of reconciliation Accept it. MR. LOYAL (to Orgon) Sir, good-day. And Heaven send Harm to your enemies, favour to you. ORGON (aside to Cleante) This mild beginning suits with my conjectures And promises some compromise already. MR. LOYAL All of your house has long been dear to me; I had the honour, sir, to serve your father. ORGON Sir, I am much ashamed, and ask your pardon For not recalling now your face or name. MR. LOYAL My name is Loyal. I'm from Normandy. My office is court-bailiff, in despite Of envy; and for forty years, thank Heaven, It's been my fortune to perform that office With honour. So I've come, sir, by your leave To render service of a certain writ ... ORGON What, you are here to ... MR. LOYAL Pray, sir, don't be angry. 'Tis nothing, sir, but just a little summons:-- Order to vacate, you and yours, this house, Move out your furniture, make room for others, And that without delay or putting off, As needs must be ... ORGON I? Leave this house? MR. LOYAL Yes, please, sir The house is now, as you well know, of course, Mr. Tartuffe's. And he, beyond dispute, Of all your goods is henceforth lord and master By virtue of a contract here attached, Drawn in due form, and unassailable. DAMIS (to Mr. Loyal) Your insolence is monstrous, and astounding! MR. LOYAL (to Damis) I have no business, sir, that touches you; (Pointing to Orgon) This is the gentleman. He's fair and courteous, And knows too well a gentleman's behaviour To wish in any wise to question justice. ORGON But ... MR. LOYAL Sir, I know you would not for a million Wish to rebel; like a good citizen You'll let me put in force the court's decree. DAMIS Your long black gown may well, before you know it, Mister Court-bailiff, get a thorough beating. MR. LOYAL (to Orgon) Sir, make your son be silent or withdraw. I should be loath to have to set things down, And see your names inscribed in my report. DORINE (aside) This Mr. Loyal's looks are most disloyal. MR. LOYAL I have much feeling for respectable And honest folk like you, sir, and consented To serve these papers, only to oblige you, And thus prevent the choice of any other Who, less possessed of zeal for you than I am Might order matters in less gentle fashion. ORGON And how could one do worse than order people Out of their house? MR. LOYAL Why, we allow you time; And even will suspend until to-morrow The execution of the order, sir. I'll merely, without scandal, quietly, Come here and spend the night, with half a score Of officers; and just for form's sake, please, You'll bring your keys to me, before retiring. I will take care not to disturb your rest, And see there's no unseemly conduct here. But by to-morrow, and at early morning, You must make haste to move your least belongings; My men will help you--I have chosen strong ones To serve you, sir, in clearing out the house. No one could act more generously, I fancy, And, since I'm treating you with great indulgence, I beg you'll do as well by me, and see I'm not disturbed in my discharge of duty. ORGON I'd give this very minute, and not grudge it, The hundred best gold louis I have left, If I could just indulge myself, and land My fist, for one good square one, on his snout. CLEANTE (aside to Orgon) Careful!--don't make things worse. DAMIS Such insolence! I hardly can restrain myself. My hands Are itching to be at him. DORINE By my faith, With such a fine broad back, good Mr. Loyal, A little beating would become you well. MR. LOYAL My girl, such infamous words are actionable. And warrants can be issued against women. CLEANTE (to Mr. Loyal) Enough of this discussion, sir; have done. Give us the paper, and then leave us, pray. MR. LOYAL Then _au revoir_. Heaven keep you from disaster! ORGON May Heaven confound you both, you and your master! SCENE V ORGON, MADAME PERNELLE, ELMIRE, CLEANTE, MARIANE, DAMIS, DORINE ORGON Well, mother, am I right or am I not? This writ may help you now to judge the matter. Or don't you see his treason even yet? MADAME PERNELLE I'm all amazed, befuddled, and beflustered! DORINE (to Orgon) You are quite wrong, you have no right to blame him; This action only proves his good intentions. Love for his neighbour makes his virtue perfect; And knowing money is a root of evil, In Christian charity, he'd take away Whatever things may hinder your salvation. ORGON Be still. You always need to have that told you. CLEANTE (to Orgon) Come, let us see what course you are to follow. ELMIRE Go and expose his bold ingratitude. Such action must invalidate the contract; His perfidy must now appear too black To bring him the success that he expects. SCENE VI VALERE, ORGON, MADAME PERNELLE, ELMIRE, CLEANTE, MARIANE, DAMIS, DORINE VALERE 'Tis with regret, sir, that I bring bad news; But urgent danger forces me to do so. A close and intimate friend of mine, who knows The interest I take in what concerns you, Has gone so far, for my sake, as to break The secrecy that's due to state affairs, And sent me word but now, that leaves you only The one expedient of sudden flight. The villain who so long imposed upon you, Found means, an hour ago, to see the prince, And to accuse you (among other things) By putting in his hands the private strong-box Of a state-criminal, whose guilty secret, You, failing in your duty as a subject, (He says) have kept. I know no more of it Save that a warrant's drawn against you, sir, And for the greater surety, that same rascal Comes with the officer who must arrest you. CLEANTE His rights are armed; and this is how the scoundrel Seeks to secure the property he claims. ORGON Man is a wicked animal, I'll own it! VALERE The least delay may still be fatal, sir. I have my carriage, and a thousand louis, Provided for your journey, at the door. Let's lose no time; the bolt is swift to strike, And such as only flight can save you from. I'll be your guide to seek a place of safety, And stay with you until you reach it, sir. ORGON How much I owe to your obliging care! Another time must serve to thank you fitly; And I pray Heaven to grant me so much favour That I may some day recompense your service. Good-bye; see to it, all of you ... CLEANTE Come hurry; We'll see to everything that's needful, brother. SCENE VII TARTUFFE, AN OFFICER, MADAME PERNELLE, ORGON, ELMIRE, CLEANTE, MARIANE, VALERE, DAMIS, DORINE TARTUFFE (stopping Orgon) Softly, sir, softly; do not run so fast; You haven't far to go to find your lodging; By order of the prince, we here arrest you. ORGON Traitor! You saved this worst stroke for the last; This crowns your perfidies, and ruins me. TARTUFFE I shall not be embittered by your insults, For Heaven has taught me to endure all things. CLEANTE Your moderation, I must own, is great. DAMIS How shamelessly the wretch makes bold with Heaven! TARTUFFE Your ravings cannot move me; all my thought Is but to do my duty. MARIANE You must claim Great glory from this honourable act. TARTUFFE The act cannot be aught but honourable, Coming from that high power which sends me here. ORGON Ungrateful wretch, do you forget 'twas I That rescued you from utter misery? TARTUFFE I've not forgot some help you may have given; But my first duty now is toward my prince. The higher power of that most sacred claim Must stifle in my heart all gratitude; And to such puissant ties I'd sacrifice My friend, my wife, my kindred, and myself. ELMIRE The hypocrite! DORINE How well he knows the trick Of cloaking him with what we most revere! CLEANTE But if the motive that you make parade of Is perfect as you say, why should it wait To show itself, until the day he caught you Soliciting his wife? How happens it You have not thought to go inform against him Until his honour forces him to drive you Out of his house? And though I need not mention That he'd just given you his whole estate, Still, if you meant to treat him now as guilty, How could you then consent to take his gift? TARTUFFE (to the Officer) Pray, sir, deliver me from all this clamour; Be good enough to carry out your order. THE OFFICER Yes, I've too long delayed its execution; 'Tis very fitting you should urge me to it; So therefore, you must follow me at once To prison, where you'll find your lodging ready. TARTUFFE Who? I, sir? THE OFFICER You. TARTUFFE By why to prison? THE OFFICER You Are not the one to whom I owe account. You, sir (to Orgon), recover from your hot alarm. Our prince is not a friend to double dealing, His eyes can read men's inmost hearts, and all The art of hypocrites cannot deceive him. His sharp discernment sees things clear and true; His mind cannot too easily be swayed, For reason always holds the balance even. He honours and exalts true piety, But knows the false, and views it with disgust. This fellow was by no means apt to fool him, Far subtler snares have failed against his wisdom, And his quick insight pierced immediately The hidden baseness of this tortuous heart. Accusing you, the knave betrayed himself, And by true recompense of Heaven's justice He stood revealed before our monarch's eyes A scoundrel known before by other names, Whose horrid crimes, detailed at length, might fill A long-drawn history of many volumes. Our monarch--to resolve you in a word-- Detesting his ingratitude and baseness, Added this horror to his other crimes, And sent me hither under his direction To see his insolence out-top itself, And force him then to give you satisfaction. Your papers, which the traitor says are his, I am to take from him, and give you back; The deed of gift transferring your estate Our monarch's sovereign will makes null and void; And for the secret personal offence Your friend involved you in, he pardons you: Thus he rewards your recent zeal, displayed In helping to maintain his rights, and shows How well his heart, when it is least expected, Knows how to recompense a noble deed, And will not let true merit miss its due, Remembering always rather good than evil. DORINE Now Heaven be praised! MADAME PERNELLE At last I breathe again. ELMIRE A happy outcome! MARIANE Who'd have dared to hope it? ORGON (to Tartuffe, who is being led by the officer) There traitor! Now you're ... SCENE VIII MADAME PERNELLE, ORGON, ELMIRE, MARIANE, CLEANTE, VALERE, DAMIS, DORINE CLEANTE Brother, hold!--and don't Descend to such indignities, I beg you. Leave the poor wretch to his unhappy fate, And let remorse oppress him, but not you. Hope rather that his heart may now return To virtue, hate his vice, reform his ways, And win the pardon of our glorious prince; While you must straightway go, and on your knees Repay with thanks his noble generous kindness. ORGON Well said! We'll go, and at his feet kneel down, With joy to thank him for his goodness shown; And this first duty done, with honours due, We'll then attend upon another, too. With wedded happiness reward Valere, And crown a lover noble and sincere. Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Orgon erklärt Cleante seine Bedenken bezüglich der Geldkassette - die Geldkassette wurde ihm von einem Freund gegeben, der im letzten Krieg die falsche Armee unterstützt hatte. Die Papiere des Freundes waren in der Kassette versteckt, und sein Leben und seine Sicherheit hingen von ihrer Geheimhaltung ab. Besorgt, dass er darüber verhört werden könnte, bat Orgon Tartuffe, sie zu verstecken. Cleante erkennt die Ernsthaftigkeit der Situation und bemerkt: "Er hält alle Trümpfe in der Hand, dein Heiliger." Wütend wettert Orgon gegen die Heiligen im Allgemeinen und beschreibt sie als "voll von Täuschung!" Cleante jedoch deutet an, dass Orgon mit seinem verallgemeinerten Urteil zu voreilig ist. Er erinnert Orgon daran, dass nicht alle Heiligen vertrauenswürdig sind, aber auch nicht alle betrügerisch. Er warnt seinen Schwager davor, die Menschen nach ihrer einfachen Güte zu beurteilen, und nicht nach äußerlichen Zeichen von Frömmigkeit. Szenen II-IV Tumult bricht aus, als Damis hereinstürmt und droht, Tartuffe umzubringen. Cleante weist ihn zurecht für seine rücksichtslose Beharrlichkeit, einen rechtswidrigen Weg zu verfolgen. Madame Pernelle, Elmire, Mariane und Dorine gesellen sich zu den Männern. Madame Pernelle will den Bericht von Tartuffes Verrat nicht glauben und behauptet, ihr Sohn sei den "falschen Verdächtigungen" seiner Familie zum Opfer gefallen. Alle versuchen, sie davon zu überzeugen, die Wahrheit anzuerkennen, aber vergeblich. Sie besprechen, wie sie gegen Tartuffe vorgehen sollen, und Cleante überlegt, dass der hinterhältige Tartuffe versuchen könnte, Orgon in ein "juristisches Labyrinth" zu locken. Als es an der Tür klopft, öffnet Dorine und entdeckt Monsieur Loyal, einen scheinbar freundlichen Mann, der behauptet, eine Nachricht von Tartuffe zu überbringen. Als sie ihn hereinlassen, entpuppt er sich als Gerichtsvollzieher, der sich mit einem Trick Zutritt verschafft hat, um ihnen eine "Gerichtsverfügung" zu übergeben, die von Tartuffe eingereicht wurde, um sie aus dem Haus zu vertreiben. Die Familie ist geschockt. Monsieur Loyal, nervig ruhig, erklärt, dass die Familie das Haus verlassen muss, da Tartuffe den Grundbesitz hat. Damis droht dem Mann, aber Monsieur Loyal beeindruckt das nicht. Mit einem Hauch von ironischer Nachgiebigkeit erlaubt er der Familie, für den Abend im Haus zu bleiben, um ihre Sachen zu packen. Wütend droht Orgon Monsieur Loyal anzugreifen, aber Cleante beruhigt ihn und geleitet dann Monsieur Loyal hinaus. Nachdem Monsieur Loyal gegangen ist, erkennt Madame Pernelle die Wahrheit über Tartuffe. Elmire schlägt vor, einen Weg zu finden, um Tartuffes Betrug nachzuweisen und so ihren Besitz zu retten. Szenen V-VIII Valère stürzt plötzlich mit weiteren schlechten Nachrichten in den Raum: Tartuffe hat Orgon als Verräter beim König angezeigt und die Geldkassette als Beweis angeboten. Es liegt nun ein Haftbefehl gegen Orgon vor, also muss er sofort fliehen. Valère bietet an, Orgon seinen Wagen und zehntausend Goldstücke zu leihen, um die Flucht zu beschleunigen. Orgon verabschiedet sich von seiner Frau und bereitet sich auf die Abreise vor. Bevor er gehen kann, betreten jedoch Tartuffe und der Polizist, Exempt, den Raum. Tartuffe verspottet Orgons Feigheit und lobt sich selbst dafür, um des Himmels willen zu leiden. Er informiert die Familie über die ernsthafte Pflicht, die er erfüllt hat, indem er Orgons Verrat gemeldet hat, und Cleante fragt sich, warum er diese "Pflicht" nie erfüllt hat, bevor er aus dem Haus verbannt wurde. Tartuffe sagt dann dem Polizisten, dass er genug von dem Gejammer der Familie hat und schlägt vor, dass der Polizist seine Arbeit tun sollte. Der Polizist stimmt zu und merkt an, dass er die Tatsachen bestätigt hat, die der König vermutet hatte. Er ist jedoch bereit, Tartuffe und nicht Orgon zu verhaften. Tartuffe ist entsetzt. Der Polizist erklärt, dass Tartuffe ohne Kaution ins Gefängnis gesteckt wird, weil der König nicht so leicht von Betrug getäuscht werden kann. Der König sah die "niederträchtige Feigheit", die in Tartuffes Herzen lauerte, und kannte die anderen Verbrechen, die der Mann begangen hatte. Er wollte nur die Fakten bestätigt haben, bevor der Scharlatan ins Gefängnis geworfen wurde, und hat sie deshalb zu ihnen geschickt. Der König beabsichtigt, die Geldkassette zurückzugeben und Orgon für unschuldig zu erklären, da er weiß, dass Orgon loyal zu ihm ist. Der Polizist schließt mit den Worten "eine gute Tat verdient eine Belohnung, / Er begnadigt Sie." Die Familie freut sich, und Cleante überzeugt Orgon, sich nicht in Tartuffes Bestrafung einzumischen. Er schlägt vor, dass es besser ist, wenn Orgon nicht auf sein Niveau herabsinkt. Orgon stimmt zu und kündigt dann an, dass er eine Hochzeit für Mariane und Valere organisieren will.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: 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. 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.

Die Vorbereitung Am nächsten Morgen steigt Lorry aus dem Kutsche in dem Royal George Hotel in Dover aus. Nachdem er seine Reisekleidung abgelegt hat, erscheint er als gut gekleideter Geschäftsmann von sechzig Jahren. An diesem Nachmittag kündigt ein Kellner an, dass Lucie Manette aus London angekommen ist. Lorry trifft auf die "kleine, zierliche, hübsche Gestalt", die Nachricht von der Bank erhalten hat, dass "etwas Wichtiges - oder eine Entdeckung" bezüglich des kleinen Vermögens ihres verstorbenen Vaters gemacht wurde. Nachdem er seine Pflichten als Geschäftsmann betont hat, erzählt Lorry den eigentlichen Grund, weshalb Tellson's Lucie nach Paris gerufen hat. Ihr Vater, einst ein angesehener Arzt, wurde lebendig gefunden. "Dein Vater", berichtet Lorry ihr, "wurde in das Haus eines alten Dieners in Paris gebracht, und wir gehen dorthin: ich, um ihn zu identifizieren, wenn ich kann: du, um ihm Leben, Liebe, Pflicht, Ruhe und Komfort zurückzugeben." Lucie gerät in Schock und ihre lebhafte und beschützende Dienerin, Miss Pross, eilt herein, um sich um sie zu kümmern.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: My daughter--O my ducats--O my daughter! ------O my Christian ducats! Justice--the Law--my ducats, and my daughter! --Merchant of Venice Leaving the Saxon chiefs to return to their banquet as soon as their ungratified curiosity should permit them to attend to the calls of their half-satiated appetite, we have to look in upon the yet more severe imprisonment of Isaac of York. The poor Jew had been hastily thrust into a dungeon-vault of the castle, the floor of which was deep beneath the level of the ground, and very damp, being lower than even the moat itself. The only light was received through one or two loop-holes far above the reach of the captive's hand. These apertures admitted, even at mid-day, only a dim and uncertain light, which was changed for utter darkness long before the rest of the castle had lost the blessing of day. Chains and shackles, which had been the portion of former captives, from whom active exertions to escape had been apprehended, hung rusted and empty on the walls of the prison, and in the rings of one of those sets of fetters there remained two mouldering bones, which seemed to have been once those of the human leg, as if some prisoner had been left not only to perish there, but to be consumed to a skeleton. At one end of this ghastly apartment was a large fire-grate, over the top of which were stretched some transverse iron bars, half devoured with rust. The whole appearance of the dungeon might have appalled a stouter heart than that of Isaac, who, nevertheless, was more composed under the imminent pressure of danger, than he had seemed to be while affected by terrors, of which the cause was as yet remote and contingent. The lovers of the chase say that the hare feels more agony during the pursuit of the greyhounds, than when she is struggling in their fangs. [27] And thus it is probable, that the Jews, by the very frequency of their fear on all occasions, had their minds in some degree prepared for every effort of tyranny which could be practised upon them; so that no aggression, when it had taken place, could bring with it that surprise which is the most disabling quality of terror. Neither was it the first time that Isaac had been placed in circumstances so dangerous. He had therefore experience to guide him, as well as hope, that he might again, as formerly, be delivered as a prey from the fowler. Above all, he had upon his side the unyielding obstinacy of his nation, and that unbending resolution, with which Israelites have been frequently known to submit to the uttermost evils which power and violence can inflict upon them, rather than gratify their oppressors by granting their demands. In this humour of passive resistance, and with his garment collected beneath him to keep his limbs from the wet pavement, Isaac sat in a corner of his dungeon, where his folded hands, his dishevelled hair and beard, his furred cloak and high cap, seen by the wiry and broken light, would have afforded a study for Rembrandt, had that celebrated painter existed at the period. The Jew remained, without altering his position, for nearly three hours, at the expiry of which steps were heard on the dungeon stair. The bolts screamed as they were withdrawn--the hinges creaked as the wicket opened, and Reginald Front-de-Boeuf, followed by the two Saracen slaves of the Templar, entered the prison. Front-de-Boeuf, a tall and strong man, whose life had been spent in public war or in private feuds and broils, and who had hesitated at no means of extending his feudal power, had features corresponding to his character, and which strongly expressed the fiercer and more malignant passions of the mind. The scars with which his visage was seamed, would, on features of a different cast, have excited the sympathy and veneration due to the marks of honourable valour; but, in the peculiar case of Front-de-Boeuf, they only added to the ferocity of his countenance, and to the dread which his presence inspired. This formidable baron was clad in a leathern doublet, fitted close to his body, which was frayed and soiled with the stains of his armour. He had no weapon, excepting a poniard at his belt, which served to counterbalance the weight of the bunch of rusty keys that hung at his right side. The black slaves who attended Front-de-Boeuf were stripped of their gorgeous apparel, and attired in jerkins and trowsers of coarse linen, their sleeves being tucked up above the elbow, like those of butchers when about to exercise their function in the slaughter-house. Each had in his hand a small pannier; and, when they entered the dungeon, they stopt at the door until Front-de-Boeuf himself carefully locked and double-locked it. Having taken this precaution, he advanced slowly up the apartment towards the Jew, upon whom he kept his eye fixed, as if he wished to paralyze him with his glance, as some animals are said to fascinate their prey. It seemed indeed as if the sullen and malignant eye of Front-de-Boeuf possessed some portion of that supposed power over his unfortunate prisoner. The Jew sat with his mouth agape, and his eyes fixed on the savage baron with such earnestness of terror, that his frame seemed literally to shrink together, and to diminish in size while encountering the fierce Norman's fixed and baleful gaze. The unhappy Isaac was deprived not only of the power of rising to make the obeisance which his terror dictated, but he could not even doff his cap, or utter any word of supplication; so strongly was he agitated by the conviction that tortures and death were impending over him. On the other hand, the stately form of the Norman appeared to dilate in magnitude, like that of the eagle, which ruffles up its plumage when about to pounce on its defenceless prey. He paused within three steps of the corner in which the unfortunate Jew had now, as it were, coiled himself up into the smallest possible space, and made a sign for one of the slaves to approach. The black satellite came forward accordingly, and, producing from his basket a large pair of scales and several weights, he laid them at the feet of Front-de-Boeuf, and again retired to the respectful distance, at which his companion had already taken his station. The motions of these men were slow and solemn, as if there impended over their souls some preconception of horror and of cruelty. Front-de-Boeuf himself opened the scene by thus addressing his ill-fated captive. "Most accursed dog of an accursed race," he said, awaking with his deep and sullen voice the sullen echoes of his dungeon vault, "seest thou these scales?" The unhappy Jew returned a feeble affirmative. "In these very scales shalt thou weigh me out," said the relentless Baron, "a thousand silver pounds, after the just measure and weight of the Tower of London." "Holy Abraham!" returned the Jew, finding voice through the very extremity of his danger, "heard man ever such a demand?--Who ever heard, even in a minstrel's tale, of such a sum as a thousand pounds of silver?--What human sight was ever blessed with the vision of such a mass of treasure?--Not within the walls of York, ransack my house and that of all my tribe, wilt thou find the tithe of that huge sum of silver that thou speakest of." "I am reasonable," answered Front-de-Boeuf, "and if silver be scant, I refuse not gold. At the rate of a mark of gold for each six pounds of silver, thou shalt free thy unbelieving carcass from such punishment as thy heart has never even conceived." "Have mercy on me, noble knight!" exclaimed Isaac; "I am old, and poor, and helpless. It were unworthy to triumph over me--It is a poor deed to crush a worm." "Old thou mayst be," replied the knight; "more shame to their folly who have suffered thee to grow grey in usury and knavery--Feeble thou mayst be, for when had a Jew either heart or hand--But rich it is well known thou art." "I swear to you, noble knight," said the Jew "by all which I believe, and by all which we believe in common---" "Perjure not thyself," said the Norman, interrupting him, "and let not thine obstinacy seal thy doom, until thou hast seen and well considered the fate that awaits thee. Think not I speak to thee only to excite thy terror, and practise on the base cowardice thou hast derived from thy tribe. I swear to thee by that which thou dost NOT believe, by the gospel which our church teaches, and by the keys which are given her to bind and to loose, that my purpose is deep and peremptory. This dungeon is no place for trifling. Prisoners ten thousand times more distinguished than thou have died within these walls, and their fate hath never been known! But for thee is reserved a long and lingering death, to which theirs were luxury." He again made a signal for the slaves to approach, and spoke to them apart, in their own language; for he also had been in Palestine, where perhaps, he had learnt his lesson of cruelty. The Saracens produced from their baskets a quantity of charcoal, a pair of bellows, and a flask of oil. While the one struck a light with a flint and steel, the other disposed the charcoal in the large rusty grate which we have already mentioned, and exercised the bellows until the fuel came to a red glow. "Seest thou, Isaac," said Front-de-Boeuf, "the range of iron bars above the glowing charcoal?-- [28] on that warm couch thou shalt lie, stripped of thy clothes as if thou wert to rest on a bed of down. One of these slaves shall maintain the fire beneath thee, while the other shall anoint thy wretched limbs with oil, lest the roast should burn.--Now, choose betwixt such a scorching bed and the payment of a thousand pounds of silver; for, by the head of my father, thou hast no other option." "It is impossible," exclaimed the miserable Jew--"it is impossible that your purpose can be real! The good God of nature never made a heart capable of exercising such cruelty!" "Trust not to that, Isaac," said Front-de-Boeuf, "it were a fatal error. Dost thou think that I, who have seen a town sacked, in which thousands of my Christian countrymen perished by sword, by flood, and by fire, will blench from my purpose for the outcries or screams of one single wretched Jew?--or thinkest thou that these swarthy slaves, who have neither law, country, nor conscience, but their master's will--who use the poison, or the stake, or the poniard, or the cord, at his slightest wink--thinkest thou that THEY will have mercy, who do not even understand the language in which it is asked?--Be wise, old man; discharge thyself of a portion of thy superfluous wealth; repay to the hands of a Christian a part of what thou hast acquired by the usury thou hast practised on those of his religion. Thy cunning may soon swell out once more thy shrivelled purse, but neither leech nor medicine can restore thy scorched hide and flesh wert thou once stretched on these bars. Tell down thy ransom, I say, and rejoice that at such rate thou canst redeem thee from a dungeon, the secrets of which few have returned to tell. I waste no more words with thee--choose between thy dross and thy flesh and blood, and as thou choosest, so shall it be." "So may Abraham, Jacob, and all the fathers of our people assist me," said Isaac, "I cannot make the choice, because I have not the means of satisfying your exorbitant demand!" "Seize him and strip him, slaves," said the knight, "and let the fathers of his race assist him if they can." The assistants, taking their directions more from the Baron's eye and his hand than his tongue, once more stepped forward, laid hands on the unfortunate Isaac, plucked him up from the ground, and, holding him between them, waited the hard-hearted Baron's farther signal. The unhappy Jew eyed their countenances and that of Front-de-Boeuf, in hope of discovering some symptoms of relenting; but that of the Baron exhibited the same cold, half-sullen, half-sarcastic smile which had been the prelude to his cruelty; and the savage eyes of the Saracens, rolling gloomily under their dark brows, acquiring a yet more sinister expression by the whiteness of the circle which surrounds the pupil, evinced rather the secret pleasure which they expected from the approaching scene, than any reluctance to be its directors or agents. The Jew then looked at the glowing furnace, over which he was presently to be stretched, and seeing no chance of his tormentor's relenting, his resolution gave way. "I will pay," he said, "the thousand pounds of silver--That is," he added, after a moment's pause, "I will pay it with the help of my brethren; for I must beg as a mendicant at the door of our synagogue ere I make up so unheard-of a sum.--When and where must it be delivered?" "Here," replied Front-de-Boeuf, "here it must be delivered--weighed it must be--weighed and told down on this very dungeon floor.--Thinkest thou I will part with thee until thy ransom is secure?" "And what is to be my surety," said the Jew, "that I shall be at liberty after this ransom is paid?" "The word of a Norman noble, thou pawn-broking slave," answered Front-de-Boeuf; "the faith of a Norman nobleman, more pure than the gold and silver of thee and all thy tribe." "I crave pardon, noble lord," said Isaac timidly, "but wherefore should I rely wholly on the word of one who will trust nothing to mine?" "Because thou canst not help it, Jew," said the knight, sternly. "Wert thou now in thy treasure-chamber at York, and were I craving a loan of thy shekels, it would be thine to dictate the time of payment, and the pledge of security. This is MY treasure-chamber. Here I have thee at advantage, nor will I again deign to repeat the terms on which I grant thee liberty." The Jew groaned deeply.--"Grant me," he said, "at least with my own liberty, that of the companions with whom I travel. They scorned me as a Jew, yet they pitied my desolation, and because they tarried to aid me by the way, a share of my evil hath come upon them; moreover, they may contribute in some sort to my ransom." "If thou meanest yonder Saxon churls," said Front-de-Boeuf, "their ransom will depend upon other terms than thine. Mind thine own concerns, Jew, I warn thee, and meddle not with those of others." "I am, then," said Isaac, "only to be set at liberty, together with mine wounded friend?" "Shall I twice recommend it," said Front-de-Boeuf, "to a son of Israel, to meddle with his own concerns, and leave those of others alone?--Since thou hast made thy choice, it remains but that thou payest down thy ransom, and that at a short day." "Yet hear me," said the Jew--"for the sake of that very wealth which thou wouldst obtain at the expense of thy---" Here he stopt short, afraid of irritating the savage Norman. But Front-de-Boeuf only laughed, and himself filled up the blank at which the Jew had hesitated. "At the expense of my conscience, thou wouldst say, Isaac; speak it out--I tell thee, I am reasonable. I can bear the reproaches of a loser, even when that loser is a Jew. Thou wert not so patient, Isaac, when thou didst invoke justice against Jacques Fitzdotterel, for calling thee a usurious blood-sucker, when thy exactions had devoured his patrimony." "I swear by the Talmud," said the Jew, "that your valour has been misled in that matter. Fitzdotterel drew his poniard upon me in mine own chamber, because I craved him for mine own silver. The term of payment was due at the Passover." "I care not what he did," said Front-de-Boeuf; "the question is, when shall I have mine own?--when shall I have the shekels, Isaac?" "Let my daughter Rebecca go forth to York," answered Isaac, "with your safe conduct, noble knight, and so soon as man and horse can return, the treasure---" Here he groaned deeply, but added, after the pause of a few seconds,--"The treasure shall be told down on this very floor." "Thy daughter!" said Front-de-Boeuf, as if surprised,--"By heavens, Isaac, I would I had known of this. I deemed that yonder black-browed girl had been thy concubine, and I gave her to be a handmaiden to Sir Brian de Bois-Guilbert, after the fashion of patriarchs and heroes of the days of old, who set us in these matters a wholesome example." The yell which Isaac raised at this unfeeling communication made the very vault to ring, and astounded the two Saracens so much that they let go their hold of the Jew. He availed himself of his enlargement to throw himself on the pavement, and clasp the knees of Front-de-Boeuf. "Take all that you have asked," said he, "Sir Knight--take ten times more--reduce me to ruin and to beggary, if thou wilt,--nay, pierce me with thy poniard, broil me on that furnace, but spare my daughter, deliver her in safety and honour!--As thou art born of woman, spare the honour of a helpless maiden--She is the image of my deceased Rachel, she is the last of six pledges of her love--Will you deprive a widowed husband of his sole remaining comfort?--Will you reduce a father to wish that his only living child were laid beside her dead mother, in the tomb of our fathers?" "I would," said the Norman, somewhat relenting, "that I had known of this before. I thought your race had loved nothing save their moneybags." "Think not so vilely of us, Jews though we be," said Isaac, eager to improve the moment of apparent sympathy; "the hunted fox, the tortured wildcat loves its young--the despised and persecuted race of Abraham love their children!" "Be it so," said Front-de-Boeuf; "I will believe it in future, Isaac, for thy very sake--but it aids us not now, I cannot help what has happened, or what is to follow; my word is passed to my comrade in arms, nor would I break it for ten Jews and Jewesses to boot. Besides, why shouldst thou think evil is to come to the girl, even if she became Bois-Guilbert's booty?" "There will, there must!" exclaimed Isaac, wringing his hands in agony; "when did Templars breathe aught but cruelty to men, and dishonour to women!" "Dog of an infidel," said Front-de-Boeuf, with sparkling eyes, and not sorry, perhaps, to seize a pretext for working himself into a passion, "blaspheme not the Holy Order of the Temple of Zion, but take thought instead to pay me the ransom thou hast promised, or woe betide thy Jewish throat!" "Robber and villain!" said the Jew, retorting the insults of his oppressor with passion, which, however impotent, he now found it impossible to bridle, "I will pay thee nothing--not one silver penny will I pay thee, unless my daughter is delivered to me in safety and honour!" "Art thou in thy senses, Israelite?" said the Norman, sternly--"has thy flesh and blood a charm against heated iron and scalding oil?" "I care not!" said the Jew, rendered desperate by paternal affection; "do thy worst. My daughter is my flesh and blood, dearer to me a thousand times than those limbs which thy cruelty threatens. No silver will I give thee, unless I were to pour it molten down thy avaricious throat--no, not a silver penny will I give thee, Nazarene, were it to save thee from the deep damnation thy whole life has merited! Take my life if thou wilt, and say, the Jew, amidst his tortures, knew how to disappoint the Christian." "We shall see that," said Front-de-Boeuf; "for by the blessed rood, which is the abomination of thy accursed tribe, thou shalt feel the extremities of fire and steel!--Strip him, slaves, and chain him down upon the bars." In spite of the feeble struggles of the old man, the Saracens had already torn from him his upper garment, and were proceeding totally to disrobe him, when the sound of a bugle, twice winded without the castle, penetrated even to the recesses of the dungeon, and immediately after loud voices were heard calling for Sir Reginald Front-de-Boeuf. Unwilling to be found engaged in his hellish occupation, the savage Baron gave the slaves a signal to restore Isaac's garment, and, quitting the dungeon with his attendants, he left the Jew to thank God for his own deliverance, or to lament over his daughter's captivity, and probable fate, as his personal or parental feelings might prove strongest. 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.

Dieses Kapitel beginnt mit einem berühmten Zitat aus Akt II von Shakespeares Kaufmann von Venedig. In dieser Passage ruft Shylock, der Jude, weil seine Tochter Jessica mit einem Christen durchgebrannt ist und sein Geld gestohlen hat. Diese Zeilen stammen von einem jüdischen Charakter, der sowohl seine Tochter als auch sein Geld verloren hat – was darauf hindeutet, dass Isaac und Rebecca in diesem Kapitel eine Rolle spielen werden. Wir richten unseren Fokus auf Isaac aus York, der in den Gewölben des Schlosses gefangen gehalten wird. Reginald Front-de-Boeuf und die beiden muslimischen Diener Bois-Guilberts betreten Isaacs Zelle. Front-de-Boeuf fordert tausend Pfund Silber von Isaac. Isaac hat keine Hoffnung, so viel Geld aufzubringen; alle Juden in der Stadt York zusammen haben nicht so viel. Front-de-Boeuf ist bereit, zur Not auch Gold statt Silber anzunehmen. Front-de-Boeuf droht Isaac mit schrecklicher Folter, wenn er nicht bezahlt. Er verspricht, dass er zur Folter fähig ist, was er während der Kreuzzüge im Heiligen Land oft getan hat. Unter der Drohung der Folter stimmt Isaac zu, die tausend Pfund Silber zu zahlen. Front-de-Boeuf lässt Isaac erst frei, wenn das Silber bezahlt ist. Isaac fragt, ob er seine Mitgefangenen mit denselben tausend Pfund freikaufen kann. Front-de-Boeuf sagt Isaac, er solle sich keine Sorgen um die Sachsen machen; sie sind aus anderen Gründen hier. Isaac fragt, ob seine Tochter Rebecca nach York gehen und den Schatz holen kann. Front-de-Boeuf schnaubt, dass er Rebecca bereits zu Bois-Guilbert geschickt hat. Isaac ist am Boden zerstört. Er weigert sich, auch nur einen Penny an Front-de-Boeuf zu zahlen, egal welche Folter er ertragen muss. Isaac wird dem Mann, der seine Tochter mitgenommen hat, nicht helfen. Front-de-Boeuf beginnt, sich auf die Folterung von Isaac vorzubereiten, wird jedoch von den Hornsignalen vom Schlosstor unterbrochen.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Als wir im Berkeley Hotel ankamen, fand Van Helsing ein Telegramm, das auf ihn wartete:-- "Ich komme mit dem Zug. Jonathan in Whitby. Wichtige Neuigkeiten.--MINA HARKER." Der Professor war begeistert. "Ah, diese wunderbare Frau Mina", sagte er, "Perle unter den Frauen! Sie kommt an, aber ich kann nicht bleiben. Sie muss zu dir nach Hause, Freund John. Du musst sie am Bahnhof abholen. Telegraphiere ihr während der Fahrt, damit sie vorbereitet ist." Als die Nachricht abgeschickt war, trank er eine Tasse Tee. Dabei erzählte er mir von einem Tagebuch, das Jonathan Harker im Ausland geführt hatte, und gab mir eine maschinengeschriebene Kopie davon, sowie auch von Mrs. Harkers Tagebuch in Whitby. "Nimm sie", sagte er, "und studiere sie gut. Wenn ich zurückgekehrt bin, wirst du alle Fakten kennen, und wir können dann besser mit unserer Untersuchung beginnen. Behalte sie gut auf, denn darin liegt ein großer Schatz. Du wirst all deinen Glauben brauchen, selbst du, der du heute eine solche Erfahrung gemacht hast. Was hier erzählt wird", legte er schwer und ernst seine Hand auf das Päckchen Papiere, als er sprach, "könnte den Anfang vom Ende für dich und mich und viele andere bedeuten; oder es könnte das Todesgeläut für die Untoten sein, die auf der Erde wandeln. Lese alles, ich bitte dich, mit offenen Augen; und wenn du auf irgendeine Weise zur Geschichte hier etwas beitragen kannst, dann tu es, denn es ist von größter Bedeutung. Du hast Tagebuch von all diesen seltsamen Dingen geführt; ist das nicht so? Ja! Dann werden wir sie alle zusammen durchgehen, wenn wir uns treffen." Danach machte er sich bereit für seine Abreise und fuhr kurz darauf nach Liverpool Street. Ich machte mich auf den Weg nach Paddington, wo ich etwa fünfzehn Minuten vor der Ankunft des Zuges ankam. Die Menschenmenge löste sich auf, wie es auf Ankunftsplattformen üblich war, und ich begann, mich unruhig zu fühlen, damit ich meinen Gast nicht verpassen würde. Da trat ein hübsches, zierliches Mädchen auf mich zu und sagte nach einem schnellen Blick: "Dr. Seward, nicht wahr?" "Und du bist Mrs. Harker!" antwortete ich sofort, woraufhin sie mir die Hand entgegenstreckte. "Ich habe dich anhand der Beschreibung der lieben Lucy erkannt, aber..." Sie unterbrach sich plötzlich und eine schnelle Röte überzog ihr Gesicht. Die Röte, die sich auf meine eigenen Wangen ausbreitete, brachte uns irgendwie beide zur Ruhe, denn sie war eine stumme Antwort auf ihr eigenes Empfinden. Ich holte ihr Gepäck, zu dem auch eine Schreibmaschine gehörte, und wir fuhren mit der Untergrundbahn nach Fenchurch Street, nachdem ich meiner Haushälterin eine Nachricht geschickt hatte, sofort ein Wohnzimmer und ein Schlafzimmer für Mrs. Harker vorzubereiten. Wir kamen schließlich an. Sie wusste natürlich, dass der Ort eine Nervenheilanstalt war, aber ich konnte erkennen, dass sie eine Schauder nicht unterdrücken konnte, als wir eintraten. Sie erzählte mir, dass sie, falls es ihr möglich wäre, bald in mein Arbeitszimmer kommen würde, da sie viel zu sagen hatte. Und hier bin ich und beende meinen Eintrag in meinem phonographischen Tagebuch, während ich auf sie warte. Bisher hatte ich keine Gelegenheit, die Papiere anzuschauen, die Van Helsing mir hinterlassen hat, obwohl sie vor mir offen liegen. Ich muss sie für etwas interessieren, damit ich eine Gelegenheit habe, sie zu lesen. Sie weiß nicht, wie kostbar die Zeit ist oder welche Aufgabe wir vor uns haben. Ich muss vorsichtig sein, sie nicht zu erschrecken. Hier ist sie! _Mina Harkers Tagebuch._ _29. September._--Nachdem ich mich in Ordnung gebracht hatte, ging ich in Dr. Sewards Arbeitszimmer hinunter. Vor der Tür zögerte ich einen Moment, denn ich dachte, ich hörte ihn mit jemandem sprechen. Da er mich jedoch gedrängt hatte, schnell zu sein, klopfte ich an die Tür und als er "Herein" rief, betrat ich den Raum. Zu meiner großen Überraschung war er allein und auf dem Tisch gegenüber von ihm stand, was ich sofort anhand der Beschreibung als Phonograph erkannte. Ich hatte noch nie einen gesehen und war sehr interessiert. "Ich hoffe, ich habe dich nicht warten lassen", sagte ich. "Aber ich habe an der Tür gewartet, da ich dich sprechen hörte und dachte, dass du jemanden bei dir hast." "Oh", antwortete er mit einem Lächeln, "Ich habe gerade mein Tagebuch geschrieben." "Dein Tagebuch?" fragte ich überrascht. "Ja", antwortete er. "Ich führe es auf diesem Gerät." Als er sprach, legte er seine Hand auf den Phonographen. Ich fand es sehr aufregend und platzte heraus: "Das übertrifft sogar die Kurzschrift! Kann ich es mal etwas sagen hören?" "Natürlich", antwortete er schnell und stand auf, um es für die Wiedergabe vorzubereiten. Dann hielt er inne und ein besorgter Ausdruck legte sich auf sein Gesicht. "Das Problem ist", begann er verlegen, "ich führe nur mein Tagebuch darauf und da es vollständig - fast vollständig - über meine Fälle handelt, könnte es unangenehm sein - das meine ich -" Er hielt inne und ich versuchte, ihm aus seiner Verlegenheit herauszuhelfen:-- "Du hast dabei geholfen, Lucy am Ende zu betreuen. Lass mich hören, wie sie gestorben ist; dafür wäre ich dir sehr dankbar. Sie war mir sehr, sehr lieb." Zu meiner Überraschung antwortete er mit einem entsetzten Blick in seinem Gesicht:-- "Ich soll dir von ihrem Tod erzählen? Nicht um die ganze Welt!" "Wieso nicht?" fragte ich, denn irgendein ernstes, schreckliches Gefühl überkam mich. Wieder hielt er inne und ich sah, dass er versuchte, eine Ausrede zu erfinden. Schließlich stammelte er: "Ich weiß nicht, wie ich einen bestimmten Teil des Tagebuchs auswählen soll." Während er sprach, kam ihm eine Idee und er sagte mit unbewusster Einfachheit und mit der Naivität eines Kindes: "Das ist ganz wahr, auf mein Ehrenwort. Ehrlicher Indianer!" Ich musste lächeln, woraufhin er grimassierte. "Da habe ich mich verraten!" sagte er. "Aber weißt du, obwohl ich das Tagebuch seit Monaten führe, ist mir nie eingefallen, wie ich einen bestimmten Teil daraus finden soll, falls ich es nachschlagen möchte?" Zu diesem Zeitpunkt war mir klar, dass das Tagebuch eines Arztes, der Lucy behandelt hatte, zur Erweiterung unseres Wissens über dieses schreckliche Wesen etwas beitragen könnte, und ich sagte mutig:-- "Dann, Dr. Seward, sollten Sie mir erlauben, es Ihnen auf meiner Schreibmaschine abzuschreiben." Er wurde blass wie der Tod, als er sagte:-- "Nein! Nein! Nein! Auf keinen Fall würde ich Ihnen diese schreckliche Geschichte offenbaren!" Dann war es schrecklich; meine Intuition hatte mich nicht im Stich gelassen! Für einen Moment dachte ich nach und als meine Augen durch den Raum streiften, unbewusst auf der Suche nach etwas oder nach einer Gelegenheit, die mir helfen könnte, fiel mein Blick auf einen großen Stapel Maschinenschrift auf dem Tisch. Seine Augen erfassten den Blick in meinen Augen und folgten, ohne dass er darüber nachdachte, ihrer Richtung. Als sie das Päckchen sahen, realisierte er, was ich meinte. "Du kennst mich nicht", sagte ich. "Wenn du diese Papiere gelesen hast - mein eigenes Tagebuch und auch das meines Mannes, das ich abgeschrieben habe - wirst du mich besser kennen. Ich habe nie gezögert, all meine Gedanken in dieser Angelegenheit preiszugeben; aber natürlich kennst du mich nicht - noch nicht; und ich kann nicht erwarten, dass du mir soweit vertraust." Er ist sicherlich ein Mann von edler Natur; die liebe, arme Lucy hatte recht mit ihm. Er stand auf und öffnete eine große Schublade, in der eine Reihe von hohlen _29. September._ - Ich war so vertieft in das wunderbare Tagebuch von Jonathan Harker und das seiner Frau, dass ich die Zeit ohne Nachdenken verstreichen ließ. Als die Dienstmagd kam, um das Abendessen anzukündigen, war Frau Harker noch nicht unten, also sagte ich: "Sie ist möglicherweise müde, lassen Sie das Abendessen eine Stunde warten", und ich machte weiter mit meiner Arbeit. Gerade als ich das Tagebuch von Frau Harker beendet hatte, kam sie herein. Sie sah süß aus, aber sehr traurig, und ihre Augen waren vom Weinen gerötet. Das hat mich irgendwie sehr bewegt. In letzter Zeit hatte ich Grund zu Tränen, Gott weiß es! Aber die Erleichterung wurde mir verwehrt; und nun ging mir der Anblick dieser süßen Augen, die durch kürzlich vergossene Tränen aufgehellt waren, direkt zum Herzen. Also sagte ich so sanft, wie ich konnte: "Ich fürchte sehr, ich habe dich gekränkt." "Oh, nein, mich nicht gekränkt", antwortete sie, "aber dein Schmerz hat mich mehr berührt, als ich sagen kann. Das ist eine wunderbare Maschine, aber sie sagt gnadenlos die Wahrheit. In ihren Tönen hörte ich das Leid deines Herzens. Es war wie eine Seele, die zu Gott dem Allmächtigen schreit. Niemand darf sie jemals wieder sprechen hören! Sieh, ich habe versucht nützlich zu sein. Ich habe die Worte auf meiner Schreibmaschine abgetippt, und niemand außer mir muss nun deinen Herzschlag hören, wie ich es tat." "Niemand muss es je wissen, soll es je wissen", sagte ich leise. Sie legte ihre Hand auf meine und sagte sehr ernst: "Ah, aber sie müssen es!" "Müssen! Aber warum?", fragte ich. "Weil es Teil der schrecklichen Geschichte ist, ein Teil von Armer Lucy's Tod und all dem, was dazu geführt hat; weil wir in dem Kampf, der vor uns liegt, um diese schreckliche Kreatur von der Erde zu befreien, all das Wissen und alle Hilfe benötigen können, die wir bekommen können. Ich denke, die Zylinder, die du mir gegeben hast, enthielten mehr, als du beabsichtigt hast, dass ich erfahre. Aber ich kann sehen, dass in deiner Aufzeichnung viele Hinweise auf dieses düstere Geheimnis zu finden sind. Du wirst mich helfen lassen, nicht wahr? Ich weiß bis zu einem gewissen Punkt Bescheid; und ich sehe schon jetzt, obwohl dein Tagebuch mich nur bis zum 7. September geführt hat, wie Arme Lucy bedrängt wurde und wie ihr schreckliches Schicksal sich abspielte. Jonathan und ich haben seitdem Professor Van Helsing uns gesehen hat, Tag und Nacht gearbeitet. Er ist nach Whitby gegangen, um weitere Informationen zu bekommen, und er wird morgen hier sein, um uns zu helfen. Wir dürfen keine Geheimnisse voreinander haben; wenn wir zusammenarbeiten und absolut vertrauen, können wir sicherlich stärker sein, als wenn einige von uns im Dunkeln tappen." Sie sah mich so flehentlich an und zeigte gleichzeitig so viel Mut und Entschlossenheit in ihrer Haltung, dass ich sofort ihren Wünschen nachgab. "Du sollst", sagte ich, "in dieser Angelegenheit tun, was du willst. Gott vergib mir, wenn ich Unrecht tue! Es gibt noch schreckliche Dinge zu lernen; aber wenn du bisher den Weg bis zum Tod von Armer Lucy zurückgelegt hast, wirst du nicht zufrieden sein, denke ich, im Dunkeln zu bleiben. Nein, das Ende - das eigentliche Ende - kann dir einen Hauch von Frieden geben. Komm, das Essen steht bereit. Wir müssen uns gegenseitig stark halten für das, was vor uns liegt; wir haben eine grausame und schreckliche Aufgabe. Nachdem du gegessen hast, wirst du den Rest erfahren, und ich werde alle Fragen beantworten, die du stellst - wenn es etwas gibt, das du nicht verstehst, obwohl es für uns, die dabei waren, offensichtlich war." _Mina Harkers Tagebuch._ _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 setzte mich in einen bequemen Stuhl und arrangierte den Phonographen so, dass ich ihn berühren konnte, ohne aufstehen zu müssen, und zeigte mir, wie ich ihn anhalten konnte, falls ich pausieren wollte. Dann nahm er sehr aufmerksam einen Stuhl mit dem Rücken zu mir, damit ich so frei wie möglich sein konnte, und begann zu lesen. Ich setzte die verzweigten Metallstäbe an meine Ohren und lauschte. Als die schreckliche Geschichte von Lucys Tod und - und allem, was folgte, vorbei war, sank ich kraftlos in meinem Stuhl zurück. Glücklicherweise bin ich nicht ohnmächtig. Als Dr. Seward mich sah, sprang er mit einem entsetzten Ausruf auf und holte hastig eine Flasche Branntwein aus einem Schrank und gab mir etwas, das mich in wenigen Minuten etwas wiederherstellte. Mein Gehirn war völlig durcheinander, und nur dass durch die Vielzahl der Schrecken das heilige Licht durchdrang, dass meine liebe, liebe Lucy endlich in Frieden war, glaube ich nicht, dass ich es hätte ertragen können, ohne eine Szene zu machen. Es ist alles so wild und mysteriös und seltsam, dass ich es ohne Jonathan's Erfahrung in Transsylvanien nicht hätte glauben können. So war es, ich wusste nicht, was ich glauben sollte, und habe mich daher damit beholfen, mich um etwas anderes zu kümmern. Ich nahm den Deckel von meiner Schreibmaschine ab und sagte zu Dr. Seward: "Lassen Sie mich das jetzt alles aufschreiben. Wir müssen bereit sein für Dr. Van Helsing, wenn er kommt. Ich habe Jonathan ein Telegramm geschickt, dass er hierher kommen soll, sobald er in London von Whitby ankommt. In dieser Angelegenheit sind Daten alles, und ich glaube, dass wir viel erreicht haben, wenn wir alle unsere Unterlagen bereit haben und jedes Detail in chronologischer Reihenfolge notiert ist. Sie sagen mir, dass Lord Godalming und Mr. Morris auch kommen. Lasst uns ihm sagen können, wann sie kommen." Er stellte den Phonographen auf eine langsame Geschwindigkeit, und ich begann, ab dem Anfang des siebten Zylinders zu schreiben. Ich benutzte Durchschlagpapier und machte daher drei Kopien des Tagebuchs, so wie ich es auch mit den anderen gemacht hatte. Es war spät, als ich damit fertig war, aber Dr. Seward machte sich daran, seine Runde bei den Patienten zu machen; als er fertig war, kam er zurück und setzte sich in meiner Nähe hin und las, sodass ich mich nicht zu einsam fühlte, während ich arbeitete. Wie gut und aufmerksam er ist; die Welt scheint voller guter Männer zu sein - auch wenn es Monster darin gibt. Bevor ich ihn verließ, erinnerte ich mich daran, was Jonathan in seinem Tagebuch über die Verwirrung des Professors beim Lesen einer Abendzeitung am Bahnhof in Exeter geschrieben hat; also, da Dr. Seward seine Zeitungen aufbewahrt, habe ich mir die Ausgaben von "The Westminster Gazette" und "The Pall Mall Gazette" ausgeliehen und sie mit auf mein Zimmer genommen. Ich erinnere mich, wie sehr "The Dailygraph" und "The Whitby Gazette", von denen ich Ausschnitte gemacht hatte, uns geholfen haben, die schrecklichen Ereignisse in Whitby zu verstehen, als Graf Dracula landete. Also werde ich die Abendzeitungen seitdem durchsehen, und vielleicht werde ich etwas Neues herausfinden. Ich bin nicht müde, und die Arbeit wird helfen, mich ruhig zu halten. _Dr. Sewards Tagebuch._ _30. September._ - Mr. Harker kam um neun Uhr an. Er hatte gerade vor seiner Abreise die Telegramm seiner Frau erhalten. Er ist außergewöhnlich intelligent, wenn man sein Gesicht beurteilen kann, und voll Ich fand Renfield in seinem Zimmer sitzend, die Hände gefaltet, freundlich lächelnd. In diesem Moment schien er so normal wie jeder andere, den ich je gesehen habe. Ich setzte mich hin und sprach mit ihm über viele Themen, die er ganz natürlich behandelte. Dann sprach er von sich aus über nach Hause gehen, ein Thema, von dem er während seines Aufenthalts hier meiner Kenntnis nach noch nie gesprochen hat. Tatsächlich sprach er ziemlich selbstbewusst davon, sofort entlassen zu werden. Ich glaube, wenn ich nicht mit Harker gesprochen und die Briefe und Daten seiner Ausbrüche gelesen hätte, wäre ich nach einer kurzen Beobachtungszeit bereit gewesen, für ihn zu unterschreiben. Aber so wie es ist, bin ich düster misstrauisch. All diese Ausbrüche waren auf irgendeine Weise mit der Nähe des Grafen verbunden. Was bedeutet dann diese absolute Zufriedenheit? Kann es sein, dass sein Instinkt mit dem endgültigen Triumph des Vampirs zufrieden ist? Moment; er ist selbst zoodiaphag, und in seinem wilden Delirium vor der Kapellentür des verlassenen Hauses sprach er immer von "Meister". Das scheint alles unsere Idee zu bestätigen. Wie auch immer, nach einer Weile ging ich weg; mein Freund ist im Moment etwas zu normal, um es sicher zu vertiefenden Fragen auszusetzen. Er könnte anfangen zu denken, und dann...! Also bin ich gegangen. Misstrauisch bin ich gegenüber diesen ruhigen Stimmungen von ihm; daher habe ich dem Pfleger einen Hinweis gegeben, dass er ihn genau beobachten und einen Leibrock bereithalten soll, wenn es erforderlich ist. Jonathan Harkers Tagebuch. 29. September, in der Bahn nach London. Als ich Mr. Billingtons höfliche Nachricht erhielt, dass er mir jede Information geben würde, die in seiner Macht steht, dachte ich, es wäre das Beste, nach Whitby zu fahren und vor Ort die gewünschten Fragen zu stellen. Es war jetzt mein Ziel, diese schreckliche Fracht des Grafen bis zu ihrem Platz in London zu verfolgen. Später können wir damit umgehen. Billington Junior, ein netter Junge, erwartete mich am Bahnhof und brachte mich zu seinem Vater nach Hause, wo sie beschlossen hatten, dass ich dort übernachten müsse. Sie sind gastfreundlich mit echter yorkshireischer Gastfreundschaft: dem Gast alles geben und ihm freien Raum lassen. Sie wussten alle, dass ich beschäftigt war und dass mein Aufenthalt kurz war, und Mr. Billington hatte in seinem Büro alle Papiere bezüglich der Lieferung der Kisten bereit. Es gab mir fast einen Schreck, wieder einen der Briefe zu sehen, die ich auf dem Tisch des Grafen gesehen hatte, bevor ich von seinen teuflischen Plänen erfuhr. Alles war sorgfältig durchdacht und systematisch und mit Präzision erledigt worden. Er schien auf jedes Hindernis vorbereitet gewesen zu sein, das durch Zufall seinen Absichten im Weg stehen könnte. Um einen amerikanischen Ausdruck zu verwenden: Er hatte "keine Chancen genommen", und die absolute Genauigkeit, mit der seine Anweisungen erfüllt wurden, war einfach das logische Ergebnis seiner Sorgfalt. Ich sah die Rechnung und nahm sie zur Kenntnis: "Fünfzig Kisten mit gewöhnlicher Erde, zur Verwendung zu experimentellen Zwecken". Auch die Kopie des Briefs an Carter Paterson und ihre Antwort, von beiden habe ich Kopien bekommen. Das war alle Informationen, die mir Mr. Billington geben konnte, also ging ich zum Hafen und sprach mit den Küstenwachen, den Zollbeamten und dem Hafenmeister. Sie hatten alle etwas über den seltsamen Eintritt des Schiffes zu sagen, der bereits seinen Platz in der lokalen Überlieferung 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 tatsächlich die Kisten erhalten hatten. Ihre Übereinstimmung mit der Liste war genau, und sie hatten nichts hinzuzufügen, außer dass die Kisten "sehr" und "sterblich schwer" waren und das Bewegen eine trockene Arbeit war. Einer von ihnen fügte hinzu, dass es schade sei, dass es keinen Gentleman "wie Sie, Sir" gab, der ihre Bemühungen in flüssiger Form wertschätzen könnte; ein anderer fügte hinzu, dass der Durst, der dabei entstehe, auch durch die vergangene Zeit nicht vollständig gestillt worden sei. Selbstverständlich war es mir vor meiner Abreise ein Anliegen, diese Quelle von Vorwürfen endgültig und adäquat zu beseitigen. Später... Mina und ich haben den ganzen Tag gearbeitet und alle Papiere sortiert. Mina Harkers Tagebuch. 30. September. Ich bin so froh, dass ich kaum weiß, wie ich mich zusammenhalten soll. Es ist wohl die Reaktion auf die beängstigende Angst, die ich hatte, dass diese schreckliche Situation und die Wiedereröffnung der alten Wunde sich negativ auf Jonathan auswirken könnten. Ich sah ihn mit so tapferem Gesicht nach Whitby fahren, wie ich konnte, aber ich war vor Angst krank. Die Anstrengung hat ihm jedoch gut getan. Er war noch nie so entschlossen, so stark, so voller vulkanischer Energie wie jetzt. Genau wie der liebe, gute Professor Van Helsing sagte: Er hat "echtes Durchhaltevermögen" und er gedeiht unter Belastung, die eine schwächere Natur töten würde. Er kam voller Leben, Hoffnung und Entschlossenheit zurück; wir haben alles für heute Nacht vorbereitet. Ich bin vor Aufregung ganz wild. Ich vermute, man sollte Mitleid mit etwas haben, das so gejagt wird wie der Graf. Genau das ist es: Dieses Ding ist nicht menschlich, nicht einmal tierisch. Den Bericht von Dr. Sewards über Lucys Tod zu lesen und was danach geschah, ist genug, um die Quellen des Mitleids im Herzen austrocknen zu lassen. Später - Lord Godalming und Mr. Morris kamen früher an, als wir erwartet hatten. Dr. Seward war geschäftlich unterwegs und hatte Jonathan mitgenommen, also musste ich sie sehen. Es war für mich ein schmerzhaftes Treffen, denn es brachte all die Hoffnungen von armer Lucy zurück, die erst vor ein paar Monaten bestanden hatten. Natürlich hatten sie Lucy von mir sprechen hören, und es schien, dass auch Dr. Van Helsing "mein Horn geblasen" hatte, wie es Mr. Morris ausdrückte. Arme Kerle, keiner von ihnen weiß, dass ich alles über die Vorschläge weiß, die sie Lucy gemacht haben. Sie wussten nicht so recht, was sie sagen oder tun sollten, da sie unwissend über mein Wissen waren; deshalb mussten sie sich auf neutrale Themen beschränken. Ich habe jedoch darüber nachgedacht und bin zu dem Schluss gekommen, dass das Beste, was ich tun konnte, wäre, sie über alle aktuellen Angelegenheiten zu informieren. Ich wusste aus Dr. Sewards Tagebuch, dass sie bei Lucys Tod - ihrem wirklichen Tod - dabei gewesen waren und dass ich keine Angst haben musste, irgendein Geheimnis vor der Zeit zu verraten. Also erzählte ich ihnen, so gut ich konnte, dass ich alle Papiere und Tagebücher gelesen hätte und dass mein Mann und ich sie, nachdem wir sie auf der Schreibmaschine abgetippt hatten, gerade in Ordnung gebracht hätten. Ich gab ihnen jeweils eine Ausgabe zum Lesen in der Bibliothek. Als Lord Godalming seine bekam und sie umdrehte - es macht einen ziemlich guten Stapel -, sagte er: "Haben Sie das alles geschrieben, Mrs. Harker?" Ich nickte, und er fuhr fort: "Ich verstehe den Sinn nicht ganz; aber Sie Leute sind alle so gut und freundlich und haben so ernsthaft und energisch gearbeitet, dass alles, was ich tun kann, ist, Ihre Ideen blind anzunehmen und Ihnen zu helfen. Ich habe bereits eine Lektion gelernt, was den Umgang mit Fakten betrifft, die einen Mann demütig bis zur letzten Stunde seines Lebens machen sollten. 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 nur instinktiv für einen Moment eine Hand auf seine Schulter und verließ dann ruhig den Raum. Ich nehme an, dass es etwas im Wesen einer Frau gibt, das einen Mann frei macht, vor ihr zusammenzubrechen und seine Gefühle auf der zärtlichen oder emotionalen Seite auszudrücken, ohne dass es seiner Männlichkeit abträglich wäre; denn als Lord Godalming sich alleine mit mir befand, setzte er sich auf das Sofa und brach völlig und offen zusammen. Ich setzte mich neben ihn und nahm seine Hand. Ich hoffe, er hielt es nicht für voreilig von mir und dass er, wenn er später daran zurückdenkt, niemals einen solchen Gedanken haben wird. Da liege ich falsch; ich weiß, dass er es niemals tun wird - er ist ein zu wahrer Gentleman. Ich sagte zu ihm, denn ich konnte sehen, dass sein Herz brach: "Ich habe die liebe Lucy geliebt, und ich weiß, was sie dir bedeutet hat und was du ihr bedeutet hast. Sie und ich waren wie Schwestern; und jetzt, da sie gegangen ist, erlaubst du mir nicht, in deinem Kummer wie eine Schwester für dich da zu sein? Ich weiß, welche Kummer du hattest, obwohl ich nicht die Tiefe davon abschätzen kann. Wenn Mitgefühl und Mitleid in deinem Leid helfen können, lässt du mich dann nicht etwas Kleines für dich tun - um Lucys willen?" In einem Augenblick wurde der arme liebe Kerl von Trauer überwältigt. Es schien mir, als würde sich alles, was er in letzter Zeit schweigend gelitten hatte, auf einmal Luft machen. Er wurde ganz hysterisch und schlug mit seinen offenen Händen in einer vollkommenen Todesangst vor Trauer rhythmisch aufeinander. Er stand auf und setzte sich dann wieder hin, und die Tränen strömten über seine Wangen. Ich empfand unendliches Mitleid mit ihm und öffnete unüberlegt meine Arme. Mit einem Schluchzen legte er seinen Kopf auf meine Schulter und weinte wie ein erschöpftes Kind, während er vor Emotion zitterte. Wir Frauen haben etwas Mutterliches in uns, das uns über kleinere Dinge erhebt, wenn der Muttergeist beschworen wird; Ich spürte, wie der Kopf dieses großen, trauernden Mannes auf mir lag, als wäre es der eines Babys, das eines Tages vielleicht auf meinem Schoß liegen wird, und ich streichelte sein Haar, als wäre er mein eigenes Kind. Ich dachte zu der Zeit nicht daran, wie seltsam das alles war. Nach einer Weile hörten seine Schluchzer auf, und er richtete sich mit einer Entschuldigung auf, obwohl er seine Emotionen nicht versteckte. Er sagte mir, dass er tagelang - müde Tage und schlaflose Nächte - nicht mit jemandem hatte reden können, wie ein Mann in seiner Zeit der Trauer sprechen muss. Es gab keine Frau, deren Mitgefühl ihm gegeben werden konnte, oder mit der er aufgrund der schrecklichen Umstände, von denen seine Trauer umgeben war, frei sprechen konnte. "Jetzt weiß ich, wie sehr ich gelitten habe", sagte er, als er sich die Augen trocknete, "aber ich weiß noch nicht einmal - und niemand sonst kann es jemals wissen - wie viel Ihre süße Mitgefühl heute für mich bedeutet hat. Mit der Zeit werde ich es besser verstehen; und glauben Sie mir, auch wenn ich jetzt nicht undankbar bin, wird meine Dankbarkeit mit meinem Verständnis wachsen. Du wirst mich wie einen Bruder betrachten, oder nicht, für den Rest unseres Lebens - um Lucys willen?" "Um Lucys willen", sagte ich, als wir uns die Hände reichten. "Ja, und um deinetwillen", fügte er hinzu, "denn wenn die Wertschätzung und Dankbarkeit eines Mannes jemals wert sind, gewonnen zu werden, haben Sie meine heute gewonnen. Wenn die Zukunft Ihnen jemals eine Zeit bringt, in der Sie die Hilfe eines Mannes brauchen, dann glauben Sie mir, Sie werden nicht vergebens rufen. Gott gewähre, dass eine solche Zeit niemals in Ihr Leben kommt, um den Sonnenschein darin zu trüben; aber wenn sie je kommen sollte, versprechen Sie mir, dass Sie es mir wissen lassen." Er war so ernsthaft, und sein Kummer war so frisch, dass ich wusste, es würde ihn trösten, also sagte ich: "Ich verspreche es." Als ich den Korridor entlang kam, sah ich Mr. Morris aus dem Fenster schauen. Als er meine Schritte hörte, drehte er sich um. "Wie geht es Kunst?", sagte er. Dann bemerkte er meine geröteten Augen und fuhr fort: "Ah, ich sehe, du hast ihn getröstet. Armer alter Kerl! Er braucht es. Niemand außer einer Frau kann einem Mann helfen, wenn er Liebesschmerz hat; und er hatte niemanden, der ihn tröstet." Er ertrug sein eigenes Elend so tapfer, dass mein Herz für ihn blutete. Ich sah das Manuskript in seiner Hand und wusste, dass er, wenn er es lesen würde, erkennen würde, wie viel ich wusste; also sagte ich zu ihm: "Ich wünschte, ich könnte alle trösten, die unter Liebeskummer leiden. Lässt du mich dein Freund sein, und wirst du zu mir kommen, wenn du Trost brauchst? Du wirst später verstehen, warum ich so spreche." Er sah, dass ich es ernst meinte, und beugte sich herab, nahm meine Hand und hob sie zu seinen Lippen, um sie zu küssen. Es schien ein schwacher Trost für eine so tapfere und selbstlose Seele zu sein, und impulsgesteuert beugte ich mich hinüber und küsste ihn. Die Tränen stiegen ihm in die Augen, und sein Hals war für einen Moment verengt; er sagte ganz ruhig: "Kleines Mädchen, du wirst diese herzliche Freundlichkeit niemals bereuen, solange du lebst!" 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 erwies! 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Entnommen aus dem Tagebucheintrag von Dr. Sewards vom 29. September und dem Tagebucheintrag von Mina Harker vom 29. September, abwechselnd; der Tagebucheintrag von Dr. Seward vom 30. September; der Tagebucheintrag von Jonathan Harker vom 29. September; die Harkers kommen bei Seward in der Anstalt an. Mina hört Sewards Tagebuch ab und transkribiert es, und Seward liest wiederum die Tagebücher von Jonathan und Mina Harker. Beim Lesen von Jonathan Harkers Tagebuch wird ihm klar, dass das neue Anwesen des Grafen in der Nähe von Carfax liegt und dass Renfields Verhalten mit der Ankunft des Vampirs zusammenhängen könnte. Jonathan versucht, die Kisten mit Erde ausfindig zu machen und erfährt, dass alle fünfzig von ihnen nach Carfax geliefert wurden, aber er befürchtet, dass einige möglicherweise verschoben wurden. Er und Mina ordnen alle Tagebucheinträge, Briefe und Zeitungsausschnitte. Am nächsten Tag kommen Arthur und Quincey Morris an. Mina übergibt ihnen die Unterlagen zur Untersuchung. Arthur wird immer noch von Trauer überwältigt. Obwohl er und Mina sich noch nie getroffen haben, öffnet er sein Herz für sie und weint bitterlich, während sie ihn tröstet. Kurze Zeit später bietet Mina die gleiche Unterstützung dem zurückhaltenderen Quincey Morris 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: He entered, vociferating oaths dreadful to hear; and caught me in the act of stowing his son away in the kitchen cupboard. Hareton was impressed with a wholesome terror of encountering either his wild beast's fondness or his madman's rage; for in one he ran a chance of being squeezed and kissed to death, and in the other of being flung into the fire, or dashed against the wall; and the poor thing remained perfectly quiet wherever I chose to put him. 'There, I've found it out at last!' cried Hindley, pulling me back by the skin of my neck, like a dog. 'By heaven and hell, you've sworn between you to murder that child! I know how it is, now, that he is always out of my way. But, with the help of Satan, I shall make you swallow the carving-knife, Nelly! You needn't laugh; for I've just crammed Kenneth, head-downmost, in the Black-horse marsh; and two is the same as one--and I want to kill some of you: I shall have no rest till I do!' 'But I don't like the carving-knife, Mr. Hindley,' I answered; 'it has been cutting red herrings. I'd rather be shot, if you please.' 'You'd rather be damned!' he said; 'and so you shall. No law in England can hinder a man from keeping his house decent, and mine's abominable! Open your mouth.' He held the knife in his hand, and pushed its point between my teeth: but, for my part, I was never much afraid of his vagaries. I spat out, and affirmed it tasted detestably--I would not take it on any account. 'Oh!' said he, releasing me, 'I see that hideous little villain is not Hareton: I beg your pardon, Nell. If it be, he deserves flaying alive for not running to welcome me, and for screaming as if I were a goblin. Unnatural cub, come hither! I'll teach thee to impose on a good-hearted, deluded father. Now, don't you think the lad would be handsomer cropped? It makes a dog fiercer, and I love something fierce--get me a scissors--something fierce and trim! Besides, it's infernal affectation--devilish conceit it is, to cherish our ears--we're asses enough without them. Hush, child, hush! Well then, it is my darling! wisht, dry thy eyes--there's a joy; kiss me. What! it won't? Kiss me, Hareton! Damn thee, kiss me! By God, as if I would rear such a monster! As sure as I'm living, I'll break the brat's neck.' Poor Hareton was squalling and kicking in his father's arms with all his might, and redoubled his yells when he carried him up-stairs and lifted him over the banister. I cried out that he would frighten the child into fits, and ran to rescue him. As I reached them, Hindley leant forward on the rails to listen to a noise below; almost forgetting what he had in his hands. 'Who is that?' he asked, hearing some one approaching the stairs'-foot. I leant forward also, for the purpose of signing to Heathcliff, whose step I recognised, not to come further; and, at the instant when my eye quitted Hareton, he gave a sudden spring, delivered himself from the careless grasp that held him, and fell. There was scarcely time to experience a thrill of horror before we saw that the little wretch was safe. Heathcliff arrived underneath just at the critical moment; by a natural impulse he arrested his descent, and setting him on his feet, looked up to discover the author of the accident. A miser who has parted with a lucky lottery ticket for five shillings, and finds next day he has lost in the bargain five thousand pounds, could not show a blanker countenance than he did on beholding the figure of Mr. Earnshaw above. It expressed, plainer than words could do, the intensest anguish at having made himself the instrument of thwarting his own revenge. Had it been dark, I daresay he would have tried to remedy the mistake by smashing Hareton's skull on the steps; but, we witnessed his salvation; and I was presently below with my precious charge pressed to my heart. Hindley descended more leisurely, sobered and abashed. 'It is your fault, Ellen,' he said; 'you should have kept him out of sight: you should have taken him from me! Is he injured anywhere?' 'Injured!' I cried angrily; 'if he is not killed, he'll be an idiot! Oh! I wonder his mother does not rise from her grave to see how you use him. You're worse than a heathen--treating your own flesh and blood in that manner!' He attempted to touch the child, who, on finding himself with me, sobbed off his terror directly. At the first finger his father laid on him, however, he shrieked again louder than before, and struggled as if he would go into convulsions. 'You shall not meddle with him!' I continued. 'He hates you--they all hate you--that's the truth! A happy family you have; and a pretty state you're come to!' 'I shall come to a prettier, yet, Nelly,' laughed the misguided man, recovering his hardness. 'At present, convey yourself and him away. And hark you, Heathcliff! clear you too quite from my reach and hearing. I wouldn't murder you to-night; unless, perhaps, I set the house on fire: but that's as my fancy goes.' While saying this he took a pint bottle of brandy from the dresser, and poured some into a tumbler. 'Nay, don't!' I entreated. 'Mr. Hindley, do take warning. Have mercy on this unfortunate boy, if you care nothing for yourself!' 'Any one will do better for him than I shall,' he answered. 'Have mercy on your own soul!' I said, endeavouring to snatch the glass from his hand. 'Not I! On the contrary, I shall have great pleasure in sending it to perdition to punish its Maker,' exclaimed the blasphemer. 'Here's to its hearty damnation!' He drank the spirits and impatiently bade us go; terminating his command with a sequel of horrid imprecations too bad to repeat or remember. 'It's a pity he cannot kill himself with drink,' observed Heathcliff, muttering an echo of curses back when the door was shut. 'He's doing his very utmost; but his constitution defies him. Mr. Kenneth says he would wager his mare that he'll outlive any man on this side Gimmerton, and go to the grave a hoary sinner; unless some happy chance out of the common course befall him.' I went into the kitchen, and sat down to lull my little lamb to sleep. Heathcliff, as I thought, walked through to the barn. It turned out afterwards that he only got as far as the other side the settle, when he flung himself on a bench by the wall, removed from the fire and remained silent. I was rocking Hareton on my knee, and humming a song that began,-- It was far in the night, and the bairnies grat, The mither beneath the mools heard that, when Miss Cathy, who had listened to the hubbub from her room, put her head in, and whispered,--'Are you alone, Nelly?' 'Yes, Miss,' I replied. She entered and approached the hearth. I, supposing she was going to say something, looked up. The expression of her face seemed disturbed and anxious. Her lips were half asunder, as if she meant to speak, and she drew a breath; but it escaped in a sigh instead of a sentence. I resumed my song; not having forgotten her recent behaviour. 'Where's Heathcliff?' she said, interrupting me. 'About his work in the stable,' was my answer. He did not contradict me; perhaps he had fallen into a doze. There followed another long pause, during which I perceived a drop or two trickle from Catherine's cheek to the flags. Is she sorry for her shameful conduct?--I asked myself. That will be a novelty: but she may come to the point--as she will--I sha'n't help her! No, she felt small trouble regarding any subject, save her own concerns. 'Oh, dear!' she cried at last. 'I'm very unhappy!' 'Heathcliff was here,' I whispered. 'And he heard everything you said.' 'Joseph is here,' I answered, catching opportunely the roll of his cartwheels up the road; 'and Heathcliff will come in with him. I'm not sure whether he were not at the door this moment.' 'Oh, he couldn't overhear me at the door!' said she. 'Give me Hareton, while you get the supper, and when it is ready ask me to sup with you. I want to cheat my uncomfortable conscience, and be convinced that Heathcliff has no notion of these things. He has not, has he? He does not know what being in love is!' 'I see no reason that he should not know, as well as you,' I returned; 'and if you are his choice, he'll be the most unfortunate creature that ever was born! As soon as you become Mrs. Linton, he loses friend, and love, and all! Have you considered how you'll bear the separation, and how he'll bear to be quite deserted in the world? Because, Miss Catherine--' 'He quite deserted! we separated!' she exclaimed, with an accent of indignation. 'Who is to separate us, pray? They'll meet the fate of Milo! Not as long as I live, Ellen: for no mortal creature. Every Linton on the face of the earth might melt into nothing before I could consent to forsake Heathcliff. Oh, that's not what I intend--that's not what I mean! I shouldn't be Mrs. Linton were such a price demanded! He'll be as much to me as he has been all his lifetime. Edgar must shake off his antipathy, and tolerate him, at least. He will, when he learns my true feelings towards him. Nelly, I see now you think me a selfish wretch; but did it never strike you that if Heathcliff and I married, we should be beggars? whereas, if I marry Linton I can aid Heathcliff to rise, and place him out of my brother's power.' 'With your husband's money, Miss Catherine?' I asked. 'You'll find him not so pliable as you calculate upon: and, though I'm hardly a judge, I think that's the worst motive you've given yet for being the wife of young Linton.' 'It is not,' retorted she; 'it is the best! The others were the satisfaction of my whims: and for Edgar's sake, too, to satisfy him. This is for the sake of one who comprehends in his person my feelings to Edgar and myself. I cannot express it; but surely you and everybody have a notion that there is or should be an existence of yours beyond you. What were the use of my creation, if I were entirely contained here? My great miseries in this world have been Heathcliff's miseries, and I watched and felt each from the beginning: my great thought in living is himself. If all else perished, and _he_ remained, _I_ should still continue to be; and if all else remained, and he were annihilated, the universe would turn to a mighty stranger: I should not seem a part of it.--My love for Linton is like the foliage in the woods: time will change it, I'm well aware, as winter changes the trees. My love for Heathcliff resembles the eternal rocks beneath: a source of little visible delight, but necessary. Nelly, I _am_ Heathcliff! He's always, always in my mind: not as a pleasure, any more than I am always a pleasure to myself, but as my own being. So don't talk of our separation again: it is impracticable; and--' She paused, and hid her face in the folds of my gown; but I jerked it forcibly away. I was out of patience with her folly! 'If I can make any sense of your nonsense, Miss,' I said, 'it only goes to convince me that you are ignorant of the duties you undertake in marrying; or else that you are a wicked, unprincipled girl. But trouble me with no more secrets: I'll not promise to keep them.' 'You'll keep that?' she asked, eagerly. 'No, I'll not promise,' I repeated. She was about to insist, when the entrance of Joseph finished our conversation; and Catherine removed her seat to a corner, and nursed Hareton, while I made the supper. After it was cooked, my fellow-servant and I began to quarrel who should carry some to Mr. Hindley; and we didn't settle it till all was nearly cold. Then we came to the agreement that we would let him ask, if he wanted any; for we feared particularly to go into his presence when he had been some time alone. 'And how isn't that nowt comed in fro' th' field, be this time? What is he about? girt idle seeght!' demanded the old man, looking round for Heathcliff. 'I'll call him,' I replied. 'He's in the barn, I've no doubt.' I went and called, but got no answer. On returning, I whispered to Catherine that he had heard a good part of what she said, I was sure; and told how I saw him quit the kitchen just as she complained of her brother's conduct regarding him. She jumped up in a fine fright, flung Hareton on to the settle, and ran to seek for her friend herself; not taking leisure to consider why she was so flurried, or how her talk would have affected him. She was absent such a while that Joseph proposed we should wait no longer. He cunningly conjectured they were staying away in order to avoid hearing his protracted blessing. They were 'ill eneugh for ony fahl manners,' he affirmed. And on their behalf he added that night a special prayer to the usual quarter-of-an-hour's supplication before meat, and would have tacked another to the end of the grace, had not his young mistress broken in upon him with a hurried command that he must run down the road, and, wherever Heathcliff had rambled, find and make him re-enter directly! 'I want to speak to him, and I _must_, before I go upstairs,' she said. 'And the gate is open: he is somewhere out of hearing; for he would not reply, though I shouted at the top of the fold as loud as I could.' Joseph objected at first; she was too much in earnest, however, to suffer contradiction; and at last he placed his hat on his head, and walked grumbling forth. Meantime, Catherine paced up and down the floor, exclaiming--'I wonder where he is--I wonder where he can be! What did I say, Nelly? I've forgotten. Was he vexed at my bad humour this afternoon? Dear! tell me what I've said to grieve him? I do wish he'd come. I do wish he would!' 'What a noise for nothing!' I cried, though rather uneasy myself. 'What a trifle scares you! It's surely no great cause of alarm that Heathcliff should take a moonlight saunter on the moors, or even lie too sulky to speak to us in the hay-loft. I'll engage he's lurking there. See if I don't ferret him out!' I departed to renew my search; its result was disappointment, and Joseph's quest ended in the same. 'Yon lad gets war und war!' observed he on re-entering. 'He's left th' gate at t' full swing, and Miss's pony has trodden dahn two rigs o' corn, and plottered through, raight o'er into t' meadow! Hahsomdiver, t' maister 'ull play t' devil to-morn, and he'll do weel. He's patience itsseln wi' sich careless, offald craters--patience itsseln he is! Bud he'll not be soa allus--yah's see, all on ye! Yah mun'n't drive him out of his heead for nowt!' 'Have you found Heathcliff, you ass?' interrupted Catherine. 'Have you been looking for him, as I ordered?' 'I sud more likker look for th' horse,' he replied. 'It 'ud be to more sense. Bud I can look for norther horse nur man of a neeght loike this--as black as t' chimbley! und Heathcliff's noan t' chap to coom at _my_ whistle--happen he'll be less hard o' hearing wi' _ye_!' It _was_ a very dark evening for summer: the clouds appeared inclined to thunder, and I said we had better all sit down; the approaching rain would be certain to bring him home without further trouble. However, Catherine would not be persuaded into tranquillity. She kept wandering to and fro, from the gate to the door, in a state of agitation which permitted no repose; and at length took up a permanent situation on one side of the wall, near the road: where, heedless of my expostulations and the growling thunder, and the great drops that began to plash around her, she remained, calling at intervals, and then listening, and then crying outright. She beat Hareton, or any child, at a good passionate fit of crying. About midnight, while we still sat up, the storm came rattling over the Heights in full fury. There was a violent wind, as well as thunder, and either one or the other split a tree off at the corner of the building: a huge bough fell across the roof, and knocked down a portion of the east chimney-stack, sending a clatter of stones and soot into the kitchen-fire. We thought a bolt had fallen in the middle of us; and Joseph swung on to his knees, beseeching the Lord to remember the patriarchs Noah and Lot, and, as in former times, spare the righteous, though he smote the ungodly. I felt some sentiment that it must be a judgment on us also. The Jonah, in my mind, was Mr. Earnshaw; and I shook the handle of his den that I might ascertain if he were yet living. He replied audibly enough, in a fashion which made my companion vociferate, more clamorously than before, that a wide distinction might be drawn between saints like himself and sinners like his master. But the uproar passed away in twenty minutes, leaving us all unharmed; excepting Cathy, who got thoroughly drenched for her obstinacy in refusing to take shelter, and standing bonnetless and shawlless to catch as much water as she could with her hair and clothes. She came in and lay down on the settle, all soaked as she was, turning her face to the back, and putting her hands before it. 'Well, Miss!' I exclaimed, touching her shoulder; 'you are not bent on getting your death, are you? Do you know what o'clock it is? Half-past twelve. Come, come to bed! there's no use waiting any longer on that foolish boy: he'll be gone to Gimmerton, and he'll stay there now. He guesses we shouldn't wait for him till this late hour: at least, he guesses that only Mr. Hindley would be up; and he'd rather avoid having the door opened by the master.' 'Nay, nay, he's noan at Gimmerton,' said Joseph. 'I's niver wonder but he's at t' bothom of a bog-hoile. This visitation worn't for nowt, and I wod hev' ye to look out, Miss--yah muh be t' next. Thank Hivin for all! All warks togither for gooid to them as is chozzen, and piked out fro' th' rubbidge! Yah knaw whet t' Scripture ses.' And he began quoting several texts, referring us to chapters and verses where we might find them. I, having vainly begged the wilful girl to rise and remove her wet things, left him preaching and her shivering, and betook myself to bed with little Hareton, who slept as fast as if everyone had been sleeping round him. I heard Joseph read on a while afterwards; then I distinguished his slow step on the ladder, and then I dropped asleep. Coming down somewhat later than usual, I saw, by the sunbeams piercing the chinks of the shutters, Miss Catherine still seated near the fireplace. The house-door was ajar, too; light entered from its unclosed windows; Hindley had come out, and stood on the kitchen hearth, haggard and drowsy. 'What ails you, Cathy?' he was saying when I entered: 'you look as dismal as a drowned whelp. Why are you so damp and pale, child?' 'I've been wet,' she answered reluctantly, 'and I'm cold, that's all.' 'Oh, she is naughty!' I cried, perceiving the master to be tolerably sober. 'She got steeped in the shower of yesterday evening, and there she has sat the night through, and I couldn't prevail on her to stir.' Mr. Earnshaw stared at us in surprise. 'The night through,' he repeated. 'What kept her up? not fear of the thunder, surely? That was over hours since.' Neither of us wished to mention Heathcliff's absence, as long as we could conceal it; so I replied, I didn't know how she took it into her head to sit up; and she said nothing. The morning was fresh and cool; I threw back the lattice, and presently the room filled with sweet scents from the garden; but Catherine called peevishly to me, 'Ellen, shut the window. I'm starving!' And her teeth chattered as she shrank closer to the almost extinguished embers. 'She's ill,' said Hindley, taking her wrist; 'I suppose that's the reason she would not go to bed. Damn it! I don't want to be troubled with more sickness here. What took you into the rain?' 'Running after t' lads, as usuald!' croaked Joseph, catching an opportunity from our hesitation to thrust in his evil tongue. 'If I war yah, maister, I'd just slam t' boards i' their faces all on 'em, gentle and simple! Never a day ut yah're off, but yon cat o' Linton comes sneaking hither; and Miss Nelly, shoo's a fine lass! shoo sits watching for ye i' t' kitchen; and as yah're in at one door, he's out at t'other; and, then, wer grand lady goes a-courting of her side! It's bonny behaviour, lurking amang t' fields, after twelve o' t' night, wi' that fahl, flaysome divil of a gipsy, Heathcliff! They think _I'm_ blind; but I'm noan: nowt ut t' soart!--I seed young Linton boath coming and going, and I seed _yah_' (directing his discourse to me), 'yah gooid fur nowt, slattenly witch! nip up and bolt into th' house, t' minute yah heard t' maister's horse-fit clatter up t' road.' 'Silence, eavesdropper!' cried Catherine; 'none of your insolence before me! Edgar Linton came yesterday by chance, Hindley; and it was _I_ who told him to be off: because I knew you would not like to have met him as you were.' 'You lie, Cathy, no doubt,' answered her brother, 'and you are a confounded simpleton! But never mind Linton at present: tell me, were you not with Heathcliff last night? Speak the truth, now. You need not be afraid of harming him: though I hate him as much as ever, he did me a good turn a short time since that will make my conscience tender of breaking his neck. To prevent it, I shall send him about his business this very morning; and after he's gone, I'd advise you all to look sharp: I shall only have the more humour for you.' 'I never saw Heathcliff last night,' answered Catherine, beginning to sob bitterly: 'and if you do turn him out of doors, I'll go with him. But, perhaps, you'll never have an opportunity: perhaps, he's gone.' Here she burst into uncontrollable grief, and the remainder of her words were inarticulate. Hindley lavished on her a torrent of scornful abuse, and bade her get to her room immediately, or she shouldn't cry for nothing! I obliged her to obey; and I shall never forget what a scene she acted when we reached her chamber: it terrified me. I thought she was going mad, and I begged Joseph to run for the doctor. It proved the commencement of delirium: Mr. Kenneth, as soon as he saw her, pronounced her dangerously ill; she had a fever. He bled her, and he told me to let her live on whey and water-gruel, and take care she did not throw herself downstairs or out of the window; and then he left: for he had enough to do in the parish, where two or three miles was the ordinary distance between cottage and cottage. Though I cannot say I made a gentle nurse, and Joseph and the master were no better, and though our patient was as wearisome and headstrong as a patient could be, she weathered it through. Old Mrs. Linton paid us several visits, to be sure, and set things to rights, and scolded and ordered us all; and when Catherine was convalescent, she insisted on conveying her to Thrushcross Grange: for which deliverance we were very grateful. But the poor dame had reason to repent of her kindness: she and her husband both took the fever, and died within a few days of each other. Our young lady returned to us saucier and more passionate, and haughtier than ever. Heathcliff had never been heard of since the evening of the thunder-storm; and, one day, I had the misfortune, when she had provoked me exceedingly, to lay the blame of his disappearance on her: where indeed it belonged, as she well knew. From that period, for several months, she ceased to hold any communication with me, save in the relation of a mere servant. Joseph fell under a ban also: he would speak his mind, and lecture her all the same as if she were a little girl; and she esteemed herself a woman, and our mistress, and thought that her recent illness gave her a claim to be treated with consideration. Then the doctor had said that she would not bear crossing much; she ought to have her own way; and it was nothing less than murder in her eyes for any one to presume to stand up and contradict her. From Mr. Earnshaw and his companions she kept aloof; and tutored by Kenneth, and serious threats of a fit that often attended her rages, her brother allowed her whatever she pleased to demand, and generally avoided aggravating her fiery temper. He was rather too indulgent in humouring her caprices; not from affection, but from pride: he wished earnestly to see her bring honour to the family by an alliance with the Lintons, and as long as she let him alone she might trample on us like slaves, for aught he cared! Edgar Linton, as multitudes have been before and will be after him, was infatuated: and believed himself the happiest man alive on the day he led her to Gimmerton Chapel, three years subsequent to his father's death. Much against my inclination, I was persuaded to leave Wuthering Heights and accompany her here. Little Hareton was nearly five years old, and I had just begun to teach him his letters. We made a sad parting; but Catherine's tears were more powerful than ours. When I refused to go, and when she found her entreaties did not move me, she went lamenting to her husband and brother. The former offered me munificent wages; the latter ordered me to pack up: he wanted no women in the house, he said, now that there was no mistress; and as to Hareton, the curate should take him in hand, by-and-by. And so I had but one choice left: to do as I was ordered. I told the master he got rid of all decent people only to run to ruin a little faster; I kissed Hareton, said good-by; and since then he has been a stranger: and it's very queer to think it, but I've no doubt he has completely forgotten all about Ellen Dean, and that he was ever more than all the world to her and she to him! * * * * * At this point of the housekeeper's story she chanced to glance towards the time-piece over the chimney; and was in amazement on seeing the minute-hand measure half-past one. She would not hear of staying a second longer: in truth, I felt rather disposed to defer the sequel of her narrative myself. And now that she is vanished to her rest, and I have meditated for another hour or two, I shall summon courage to go also, in spite of aching laziness of head and limbs. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Heathcliff wird niemals erfahren, wie sehr ich ihn liebe. Er ist mehr ich selbst als ich. Was auch immer unsere Seelen ausmacht, seine und meine sind gleich. Nelly ist gerade dabei, Hareton vor Hindley zu verstecken, als Hindley hereinplatzt und den Jungen ergreift. Betrunken stolpert er und lässt Hareton versehentlich über das Geländer fallen. Heathcliff ist unten an der Treppe und fängt ihn auf. Später am Abend sucht Catherine Nelly in der Küche auf und gesteht ihr, dass Edgar sie gefragt hat, ob sie ihn heiraten möchte, und dass sie zugestimmt hat. Unbemerkt von den beiden Frauen hört Heathcliff ihrem Gespräch zu. Heathcliff hört Catherine zu Nelly sagen, dass sie ihn nicht heiraten kann, weil Hindley ihn so tief fallen lassen hat; ihn jetzt zu heiraten würde sie erniedrigen. Heathcliff zieht sich wütend, gedemütigt und verzweifelt zurück und hört daher nicht, wie Catherine sagt, dass sie ihn mehr als alles andere auf der Welt liebt. Sie sagt, dass sie und Heathcliff so seelenverwandt sind, dass sie im Grunde die gleiche Person sind. Dennoch besteht sie darauf, dass sie Edgar Linton stattdessen heiraten muss. In dieser Nacht läuft Heathcliff von Wuthering Heights weg. Catherine verbringt die Nacht draußen im Regen, schluchzend und auf der Suche nach Heathcliff. Sie bekommt Fieber und nähert sich immer mehr dem Tod. Die Lintons bringen sie zur Erholung nach Thrushcross Grange, und Catherine erholt sich. Allerdings infizieren sich sowohl Herr als auch Frau Linton und sterben bald darauf. Drei Jahre später heiraten Catherine und Edgar. Nelly wechselt nach Thrushcross Grange, um Catherine zu dienen, und lässt Hareton in der Obhut seines betrunkenen Vaters und Josephs, des einzigen Dieners, der noch in Wuthering Heights verbleibt. Als Nelly auf die Uhr schaut, unterbricht sie erneut ihre Erzählung und sagt, dass es halb zwei ist und sie etwas Schlaf braucht. Lockwood vermerkt in seinem Tagebuch - demselben Buch, in dem er Nellys Geschichte aufgeschrieben hat -, dass auch er jetzt ins Bett 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. Kapitel: Es war eine wunderbar schöne Sache, dieses hohe Schloss für mich alleine zu haben und beim Schließen meiner Außentür wie Robinson Crusoe zu fühlen, als er sich in seiner Festung befand und seine Leiter hinter sich heraufzog. Es war eine wunderbar schöne Sache, in der Stadt mit dem Schlüssel meines Hauses in der Tasche herumzugehen und zu wissen, dass ich jeden Kerl nach Hause bitten konnte und ganz sicher sein konnte, dass es für niemanden unpraktisch war, wenn es für mich nicht so war. Es war eine wunderbar schöne Sache, mich selbst hinein- und hinauszulassen, zu gehen und zu kommen, ohne ein Wort mit jemandem zu wechseln und Mrs. Crupp aus den Tiefen der Erde anzurufen, keuchend, wenn ich sie brauchte - und wenn sie bereit war zu kommen. Das alles, sage ich, war wunderbar schön; aber ich muss auch sagen, dass es Zeiten gab, in denen es sehr trostlos war. Es war schön am Morgen, besonders an den schönen Morgen. Bei Tageslicht sah es nach einem sehr frischen, freien Leben aus: bei Sonnenlicht noch frischer und freier. Aber mit dem Verlauf des Tages schien auch das Leben abzunehmen. Ich weiß nicht, wie es kam; es sah selten bei Kerzenlicht gut aus. Ich wollte jemanden zum Reden haben, dann. Ich vermisste Agnes. Anstelle dieses lächelnden Behälters meines Vertrauens fand ich eine gewaltige Leere. Mrs. Crupp schien weit weg zu sein. Ich dachte an meinen Vorgänger, der wegen Trinkens und Rauchens gestorben war; und ich hätte mir gewünscht, er wäre so nett gewesen, zu leben und mich nicht mit seinem Ableben zu belästigen. Nach zwei Tagen und Nächten fühlte ich mich, als ob ich dort ein Jahr lang gelebt hätte, und trotzdem war ich keine Stunde älter und wurde genauso von meiner Jugend gequält wie zuvor. Da Steerforth immer noch nicht erschien, was mich befürchten ließ, dass er krank sein müsse, verließ ich das Unterhaus früh am dritten Tag und ging nach Highgate. Mrs. Steerforth freute sich sehr, mich zu sehen, und sagte, dass er mit einem seiner Oxford-Freunde fortgegangen war, um einen anderen, der in der Nähe von St. Albans lebte, zu besuchen, aber dass sie erwartete, dass er morgen zurückkehren würde. Ich mochte ihn so gern, dass ich richtig eifersüchtig auf seine Oxford-Freunde wurde. Als sie mich drängte, zum Abendessen zu bleiben, blieb ich, und ich glaube, wir sprachen den ganzen Tag nur über ihn. Ich erzählte ihr, wie sehr die Leute ihn in Yarmouth mochten und was für ein angenehmer Begleiter er gewesen war. Miss Dartle war voller Andeutungen und mysteriöser Fragen, aber sie interessierte sich sehr für all unsere Handlungen dort und sagte immer wieder: "War es wirklich so?" und so weiter, dass sie alles aus mir herausholte, was sie wissen wollte. Ihr Aussehen war genau so, wie ich es beschrieben habe, als ich sie zum ersten Mal sah; aber die Gesellschaft der beiden Damen war so angenehm und kam mir so natürlich vor, dass ich mich ein wenig in sie verliebte. Ich konnte nicht anders, als mehrmals im Laufe des Abends und besonders als ich nachts nach Hause ging, darüber nachzudenken, was für ein angenehmer Begleiter sie in der Buckingham Street sein würde. Ich nahm meinen Kaffee und mein Brötchen am Morgen zu mir, bevor ich ins Unterhaus ging - und ich kann in diesem Zusammenhang feststellen, dass es erstaunlich ist, wie viel Kaffee Mrs. Crupp benutzte und wie schwach er war - als Steerforth selbst, zu meiner grenzenlosen Freude, hereinkam. "Mein lieber Steerforth", rief ich aus, "ich dachte schon, ich würde dich nie wiedersehen!" "Ich wurde mit Waffengewalt weggebracht", sagte Steerforth, "gleich am Morgen nach meiner Rückkehr. Warum, Daisy, was für ein seltener Junggeselle du hier bist!" Ich zeigte ihm die Einrichtung, einschließlich der Speisekammer, nicht ohne Stolz, und er lobte sie sehr. "Ich sag dir, alter Junge", fügte er hinzu, "ich werde aus diesem Ort ein richtiges Stadthaus machen, es sei denn, du kündigst mir." Das war eine erfreuliche Nachricht. Ich sagte ihm, dass er darauf warten müsste, bis zum jüngsten Tag. "Aber du sollst etwas zum Frühstück bekommen!", sagte ich und griff nach dem Klingelzug, "und Mrs. Crupp soll frischen Kaffee für dich machen, und ich werde dir etwas Speck auf einem Junggesellen-Dutch-Ofen toasten, den ich hier habe." "Nein, nein!", sagte Steerforth, "Lass klingeln! Das kann ich nicht! Ich werde mit einem dieser Kerle frühstücken, der im Piazza Hotel in Covent Garden ist." "Aber du kommst zum Abendessen zurück, oder?" sagte ich. "Ich kann nicht, auf mein Leben. Es gibt nichts, was ich lieber hätte, aber ich muss bei diesen beiden Kerlen bleiben. Wir fahren morgen früh alle drei zusammen ab." "Dann bring sie hier zum Abendessen", antwortete ich. "Glaubst du, sie würden kommen?" "Oh! Sie würden schnell genug kommen", sagte Steerforth, "aber wir würden dir Unannehmlichkeiten bereiten. Du solltest lieber mit uns irgendwohin zum Essen kommen." Dem stimmte ich keinesfalls zu, denn es fiel mir ein, dass ich tatsächlich eine kleine Einweihungsparty haben sollte und dass es nie eine bessere Gelegenheit geben würde. Ich war stolz auf meine Zimmer nach seiner Zustimmung und brannte darauf, ihre besten Möglichkeiten zu nutzen. Ich konnte ihn also überreden, im Namen seiner beiden Freunde fest zuzusagen, und wir vereinbarten sechs Uhr als Essenszeit. Als er weg war, läutete ich nach Mrs. Crupp und teilte ihr meinen verzweifelten Plan mit. Mrs. Crupp sagte als erstes, natürlich sei es weit bekannt, dass man nicht von ihr erwarten könne, zu warten, aber sie kenne einen handlichen jungen Mann, der sich überreden ließe, es zu tun, und dessen Bedingungen fünf Schilling und was immer ich wollte wären. Ich sagte, natürlich würden wir ihn haben. Dann sagte Mrs. Crupp, es sei offensichtlich, dass sie sich nicht an zwei Orten gleichzeitig aufhalten könne (was ich für vernünftig hielt) und dass "ein junges Mädchen", das in der Speisekammer mit einer Schlafzimmerkerze stationiert sei und niemals aufhören würde, Teller zu spülen, unverzichtbar sei. Ich fragte, was würde die Kosten für dieses junge Mädchen sein? Und Mrs. Crupp sagte, sie vermute, achtzehn Pence würden mich weder ruinieren noch retten. Ich sagte, das vermute ich auch, und das war geklärt. Dann sagte Mrs. Crupp: "Nun, wie steht es mit dem Abendessen?" Es war ein bemerkenswertes Beispiel für Gedankenlosigkeit seitens des Eisenwarenhändlers, der den Küchenkamin von Mrs. Crupp gemacht hatte, dass er nur in der Lage war, nichts anderes als Koteletts und Kartoffelpüree zu kochen. Was einen Fischkessel angeht, sagte Mrs. Crupp: Nun ja! Würde ich nur kommen und mir den Herd ansehen? Sie könne nicht fairer sein. Würde ich kommen und mir das ansehen? Da ich nicht viel klüger geworden wäre, wenn ich es mir angesehen hätte, lehnte ich ab und sagte: "Vergiss den Fisch." Aber Mrs. Crupp sagte: "Sag das nicht; Austern sind drin, warum nicht die?" Also das war geklärt. Dann sagte Mrs. Crupp, was sie empfehlen würde, wäre folgendes. Ein Paar "Ist keine schlechte Situation", sagte ich, "und die Zimmer sind wirklich geräumig." "Ich hoffe, ihr habt beide Appetit mitgebracht?", sagte Steerforth. "Bei meiner Ehre", erwiderte Markham, "die Stadt scheint den Appetit eines Mannes zu schärfen. Ein Mann ist den ganzen Tag hungrig. Ein Mann isst ständig." Am Anfang war ich ein wenig verlegen und fühlte mich viel zu jung, um den Vorsitz zu führen. Als das Abendessen angekündigt wurde, ließ ich Steerforth den Vorsitz am Tisch übernehmen und setzte mich ihm gegenüber. Alles war sehr gut; wir verschonten den Wein nicht und Steerforth gab sich so brillant Mühe, dass unsere Festlichkeit keine Pause hatte. Ich war während des Abendessens nicht ganz so gute Gesellschaft, wie ich es mir gewünscht hätte, denn mein Stuhl war gegenüber der Tür und meine Aufmerksamkeit wurde abgelenkt, als ich bemerkte, dass der geschickte junge Mann oft aus dem Raum ging und dass sein Schatten sich immer sofort danach an der Wand des Eingangs mit einer Flasche am Mund zeigte. Auch die "junge Dame" bereitete mir einige Unruhe: Nicht so sehr, weil sie es versäumte, die Teller zu waschen, sondern weil sie diese zerbrach. Da sie eine neugierige Veranlagung hatte und sich (entgegen ihren ausdrücklichen Anweisungen) nicht auf die Speisekammer beschränken konnte, spähte sie ständig zu uns hinein und stellte sich ständig vor, entdeckt zu werden. In diesem Glauben zog sie sich mehrmals auf die Teller (mit denen sie den Boden sorgfältig gepflastert hatte) zurück und richtete großen Schaden an. Das waren jedoch kleine Rückschläge, die leicht vergessen wurden, als der Tisch abgeräumt wurde und das Dessert auf den Tisch kam. Zu diesem Zeitpunkt der Unterhaltung stellte sich heraus, dass der geschickte junge Mann nicht sprechen konnte. Nachdem ich ihm private Anweisungen gegeben hatte, sich in die Gesellschaft von Mrs. Crupp zu begeben und die "junge Dame" ebenfalls ins Keller zu bringen, gab ich mich dem Vergnügen hin. Ich begann damit, außerordentlich fröhlich und unbekümmert zu sein. Allerlei halb vergessene Dinge, über die man reden konnte, schossen mir in den Kopf und ließen mich in ungewöhnlicher Weise ausschweifend reden. Ich lachte herzhaft über meine eigenen Witze und über die von allen anderen; rief Steerforth zur Ordnung, weil er den Wein nicht weiterreichte; verabredete mich mehrmals, nach Oxford zu fahren; kündigte an, dass ich einmal in der Woche genau so ein Abendessen geben wollte, bis auf weiteres; und schnupfte so viel Tabak aus Graingers Dose, dass ich in die Speisekammer gehen musste und zehn Minuten lang einen privaten Niesanfall bekam. Ich ging immer weiter, reichte den Wein immer schneller und stand immer wieder mit einem Korkenzieher auf, um Wein zu öffnen, lange bevor es nötig war. Ich hielt eine Toastrede auf Steerforth. Ich sagte, er sei mein liebster Freund, der Beschützer meiner Kindheit und der Begleiter meiner besten Jahre. Ich sagte, ich sei begeistert, seinen Toast auszubringen. Ich sagte, ich wäre ihm mehr Verpflichtung schuldig, als ich jemals zurückzahlen könnte, und ich bewunderte ihn mehr, als ich jemals ausdrücken könnte. Ich beendete meine Rede mit den Worten: "Ich trinke auf Steerforth! Gott segne ihn! Hurra!" Wir riefen ihm dreimal dreimal zu und zum Abschluss noch einmal, und dann noch einmal gut. Während ich den Tisch entlangging, um ihm die Hand zu schütteln, zerbrach ich mein Glas und sagte (in zwei Worten): "Steerforth -du bist der Fixstern meines Daseins." Ich fuhr fort, indem ich plötzlich feststellte, dass jemand mitten in einem Lied war. Markham war der Sänger und er sang "Wenn das Herz eines Mannes von Kummer bedrückt ist". Er sagte, nachdem er es gesungen habe, würde er uns "Frau!" geben. Dagegen hatte ich Einwände und das würde ich nicht zulassen. Ich sagte, das sei keine respektvolle Art, den Toast auszubringen und ich würde niemals erlauben, dass dieser Toast in meinem Haus anders getrunken würde als als "Die Damen!". Ich regte mich sehr über ihn auf, hauptsächlich, glaube ich, weil ich sah, wie Steerforth und Grainger über mich lachten - oder über ihn - oder über uns beide. Er sagte, man dürfe einem Mann nichts vorschreiben. Ich sagte, man dürfe wohl. Er sagte, man dürfe einen Mann nicht beleidigen. Ich sagte, da hatte er recht - niemals unter meinem Dach, wo die Hausgötter geheiligt waren und die Gesetze der Gastfreundschaft oberste Priorität hatten. Er sagte, es sei kein Abbruchus der Würde eines Mannes zuzugeben, dass ich ein verdammt guter Kerl sei. Ich schlug sofort einen Toast auf ihn vor. Jemand rauchte. Wir alle rauchten. Auch ich rauchte und versuchte, ein aufsteigendes Zittern zu unterdrücken. Steerforth hatte eine Rede über mich gehalten, bei der ich fast zu Tränen gerührt war. Ich bedankte mich und hoffte, dass die Anwesenden auch morgen und übermorgen bei mir zu Abend essen würden, jeden Tag um fünf Uhr, damit wir die Freuden des Gesprächs und der Gesellschaft in einem langen Abend genießen könnten. Ich fühlte mich berufen, eine Einzelperson vorzuschlagen. Ich würde ihnen meine Tante geben. Miss Betsey Trotwood, die Beste ihres Geschlechts! Jemand lehnte aus meinem Schlafzimmerfenster und erfrischte seine Stirn an dem kühlen Stein der Brüstung und spürte die Luft in seinem Gesicht. Das war ich. Ich wandte mich an mich selbst als "Copperfield" und sagte: "Warum hast du versucht zu rauchen? Du hättest wissen sollen, dass du es nicht kannst." Jetzt betrachtete jemand unsicher sein Spiegelbild im Spiegel. Das war auch ich. Ich sah sehr blass im Spiegel aus; meine Augen hatten einen leeren Ausdruck und mein Haar - nur mein Haar, nichts sonst - sah betrunken aus. Jemand sagte zu mir: "Lass uns ins Theater gehen, Copperfield!" Vor mir war kein Schlafzimmer, sondern wieder der klirrende Tisch, der mit Gläsern bedeckt war; die Lampe; Grainger zu meiner Rechten, Markham zu meiner Linken und Steerforth gegenüber - allesamt in einem Nebel sitzend und weit weg. Ins Theater gehen? Natürlich. Genau das Richtige. Los geht's! Aber sie mussten mich entschuldigen, wenn ich erst einmal alle hinausbegleitete und die Lampe ausschaltete - für den Fall eines Feuers. Aufgrund einiger Verwirrung in der Dunkelheit war die Tür weg. Ich suchte nach ihr in den Fenstervorhängen, als Steerforth lachend meinen Arm nahm und mich hinausführte. Wir gingen einer hinter dem anderen die Treppe hinunter. Fast ganz unten fiel jemand und rollte hinunter. Jemand anderes sagte, es sei Copperfield. Über diese falsche Behauptung ärgerte ich mich, bis ich mich selbst auf dem Rücken im Flur wiederfand und anfing zu glauben, dass vielleicht etwas Wahres dran war. Eine sehr neblige Nacht mit großen Ringen um die Lampen in den Straßen! Es wurde unklar darüber gesprochen, ob es nass sei. Ich hielt es für frostig. Steerforth klopfte mich unter eine Laterne ab und brachte meinen Hut in Form, den jemand auf höchst außergewöhnliche Weise hervorgezaubert hatte, denn ich hatte ihn zuvor nicht auf dem Kopf gehabt. Steerforth sagte dann: "Es geht dir gut, Copperfield, oder?" und ich ant Auf ihre Anweisung hin versuchte ich, es zu reparieren und etwas von dem zu hören, was dort vor sich ging, aber vergeblich. Ich schaute sie nach einer Weile wieder an und sah, wie sie sich in ihre Ecke zurückzog und ihre behandschuhte Hand an ihre Stirn legte. "Agnes!" sagte ich. "Ich fürchte, es geht dir nicht gut." "Ja, ja. Kümmere dich nicht um mich, Trotwood", antwortete sie. "Hör mal! Gehst du bald weg?" "Gehtswegsoo?" wiederholte ich. "Ja." Ich hatte die dumme Absicht, zu antworten, dass ich warten würde, um sie die Treppe hinunterzubringen. Ich nehme an, ich habe es irgendwie zum Ausdruck gebracht; denn nachdem sie mich eine Weile aufmerksam angesehen hatte, schien sie es zu verstehen und antwortete leise: "Ich weiß, du wirst tun, was ich dich bitte, wenn ich dir sage, dass es mir sehr wichtig ist. Geh jetzt weg, Trotwood, meinetwegen, und bitte deine Freunde, dich nach Hause zu bringen." Sie hatte mich in der Zeit so weit gebracht, dass ich, obwohl ich wütend auf sie war, mich schämte und mit einem kurzen "Goori!" (das ich für "Gute Nacht!" hielt) aufstand und ging. Sie folgten mir, und ich ging sofort aus der Eingangstür in mein Schlafzimmer, wo nur Steerforth bei mir war und mir half, mich auszuziehen, und wo ich ihm abwechselnd erzählte, dass Agnes meine Schwester war, und ihn beschwor, den Korkenzieher zu holen, damit ich eine weitere Flasche Wein öffnen konnte. Wie jemand, der in meinem Bett lag, dies alles noch einmal sagte und tat, im Widerspruch, in einem fiebrigen Traum die ganze Nacht lang - das Bett ein schaukeldes Meer, das nie still war! Wie ich mich, als dieser jemand sich langsam in mir niederließ, zu trocknen begann und das Gefühl hatte, dass meine äußere Haut wie ein hartes Brett war; meine Zunge der Boden eines leeren Kessels, mit langem Dienstbelag bedeckt und über einem langsamen Feuer brennend; die Handflächen meiner Hände, heiße Metallplatten, die von keinem Eis gekühlt werden konnten! Aber die geistige Qual, die Reue und Scham, die ich am nächsten Tag verspürte! Mein Entsetzen darüber, tausend Vergehen begangen zu haben, die ich vergessen hatte und die nie gesühnt werden konnten - meine Erinnerung an diesen unvergesslichen Blick, den mir Agnes zugeworfen hatte - die quälende Unmöglichkeit, mit ihr zu kommunizieren, nicht zu wissen, Bestie, wie sie nach London gekommen war oder wo sie geblieben war - meine Abscheu vor dem bloßen Anblick des Raumes, in dem das Fest stattgefunden hatte - mein klopfender Kopf - der Geruch von Rauch, der Anblick von Gläsern - die Unmöglichkeit, rauszugehen oder sogar aufzustehen! Oh, welch ein Tag es war! Oh, welch ein Abend, als ich mich vor meinen Kamin setzte und eine Schüssel Hammelbrühe aß, die überall mit Fett bedeckt war, und dachte, dass ich den Weg meines Vorgängers gehen werde und genauso zu seiner düsteren Geschichte wie zu seinen Kammern kommen würde und halb den Sinn hatte, express nach Dover zu eilen und alles zu enthüllen! Welch ein Abend, als Mrs. Crupp hereinkam, um die Brüheschüssel wegzunehmen, und eine Niere auf einem Käseteller als die gesamten Überreste des gestrigen Festmahls servierte, und ich wirklich geneigt war, mich an ihre nankeen Brust zu stürzen und in aufrichtiger Reue zu sagen: "Oh, Mrs. Crupp, Mrs. Crupp, kümmere dich nicht um die zerbrochenen Reste! Ich bin sehr unglücklich!" - nur dass ich selbst zu diesem Zeitpunkt bezweifelte, ob Mrs. Crupp die richtige Person zum Vertrauen war! Können Sie eine geeignete Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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Obwohl David begeistert von seiner neuen Unterkunft ist, fühlt er sich nachts einsam und Steerforth ist mit seinen Freunden in Oxford. David geht zu Steerforths Haus und besucht Mrs. Steerforth und Miss Dartle, die den ganzen Tag über begeistert über Steerforth sprechen. Schließlich kehrt Steerforth zurück. Er und David planen ein Abendessen in Davids Zimmer mit zwei von Steerforths Freunden. David übertreibt es bei den Vorbereitungen für die Party und trinkt sich dann krank. Während er betrunken ist, geht er mit Steerforth und den anderen zum Theater, wo er auf Agnes trifft, die ihn nach Hause schickt. Am nächsten Tag ist er verkatert und gedemütigt.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten 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 found the Palace of Green Porcelain, when we approached it about noon, deserted and falling into ruin. Only ragged vestiges of glass remained in its windows, and great sheets of the green facing had fallen away from the corroded metallic framework. It lay very high upon a turfy down, and looking north-eastward before I entered it, I was surprised to see a large estuary, or even creek, where I judged Wandsworth and Battersea must once have been. I thought then--though I never followed up the thought--of what might have happened, or might be happening, to the living things in the sea. 'The material of the Palace proved on examination to be indeed porcelain, and along the face of it I saw an inscription in some unknown character. I thought, rather foolishly, that Weena might help me to interpret this, but I only learned that the bare idea of writing had never entered her head. She always seemed to me, I fancy, more human than she was, perhaps because her affection was so human. 'Within the big valves of the door--which were open and broken--we found, instead of the customary hall, a long gallery lit by many side windows. At the first glance I was reminded of a museum. The tiled floor was thick with dust, and a remarkable array of miscellaneous objects was shrouded in the same grey covering. Then I perceived, standing strange and gaunt in the centre of the hall, what was clearly the lower part of a huge skeleton. I recognized by the oblique feet that it was some extinct creature after the fashion of the Megatherium. The skull and the upper bones lay beside it in the thick dust, and in one place, where rain-water had dropped through a leak in the roof, the thing itself had been worn away. Further in the gallery was the huge skeleton barrel of a Brontosaurus. My museum hypothesis was confirmed. Going towards the side I found what appeared to be sloping shelves, and clearing away the thick dust, I found the old familiar glass cases of our own time. But they must have been air-tight to judge from the fair preservation of some of their contents. 'Clearly we stood among the ruins of some latter-day South Kensington! Here, apparently, was the Palaeontological Section, and a very splendid array of fossils it must have been, though the inevitable process of decay that had been staved off for a time, and had, through the extinction of bacteria and fungi, lost ninety-nine hundredths of its force, was nevertheless, with extreme sureness if with extreme slowness at work again upon all its treasures. Here and there I found traces of the little people in the shape of rare fossils broken to pieces or threaded in strings upon reeds. And the cases had in some instances been bodily removed--by the Morlocks as I judged. The place was very silent. The thick dust deadened our footsteps. Weena, who had been rolling a sea urchin down the sloping glass of a case, presently came, as I stared about me, and very quietly took my hand and stood beside me. 'And at first I was so much surprised by this ancient monument of an intellectual age, that I gave no thought to the possibilities it presented. Even my preoccupation about the Time Machine receded a little from my mind. 'To judge from the size of the place, this Palace of Green Porcelain had a great deal more in it than a Gallery of Palaeontology; possibly historical galleries; it might be, even a library! To me, at least in my present circumstances, these would be vastly more interesting than this spectacle of oldtime geology in decay. Exploring, I found another short gallery running transversely to the first. This appeared to be devoted to minerals, and the sight of a block of sulphur set my mind running on gunpowder. But I could find no saltpeter; indeed, no nitrates of any kind. Doubtless they had deliquesced ages ago. Yet the sulphur hung in my mind, and set up a train of thinking. As for the rest of the contents of that gallery, though on the whole they were the best preserved of all I saw, I had little interest. I am no specialist in mineralogy, and I went on down a very ruinous aisle running parallel to the first hall I had entered. Apparently this section had been devoted to natural history, but everything had long since passed out of recognition. A few shrivelled and blackened vestiges of what had once been stuffed animals, desiccated mummies in jars that had once held spirit, a brown dust of departed plants: that was all! I was sorry for that, because I should have been glad to trace the patent readjustments by which the conquest of animated nature had been attained. Then we came to a gallery of simply colossal proportions, but singularly ill-lit, the floor of it running downward at a slight angle from the end at which I entered. At intervals white globes hung from the ceiling--many of them cracked and smashed--which suggested that originally the place had been artificially lit. Here I was more in my element, for rising on either side of me were the huge bulks of big machines, all greatly corroded and many broken down, but some still fairly complete. You know I have a certain weakness for mechanism, and I was inclined to linger among these; the more so as for the most part they had the interest of puzzles, and I could make only the vaguest guesses at what they were for. I fancied that if I could solve their puzzles I should find myself in possession of powers that might be of use against the Morlocks. 'Suddenly Weena came very close to my side. So suddenly that she startled me. Had it not been for her I do not think I should have noticed that the floor of the gallery sloped at all. [Footnote: It may be, of course, that the floor did not slope, but that the museum was built into the side of a hill.--ED.] The end I had come in at was quite above ground, and was lit by rare slit-like windows. As you went down the length, the ground came up against these windows, until at last there was a pit like the "area" of a London house before each, and only a narrow line of daylight at the top. I went slowly along, puzzling about the machines, and had been too intent upon them to notice the gradual diminution of the light, until Weena's increasing apprehensions drew my attention. Then I saw that the gallery ran down at last into a thick darkness. I hesitated, and then, as I looked round me, I saw that the dust was less abundant and its surface less even. Further away towards the dimness, it appeared to be broken by a number of small narrow footprints. My sense of the immediate presence of the Morlocks revived at that. I felt that I was wasting my time in the academic examination of machinery. I called to mind that it was already far advanced in the afternoon, and that I had still no weapon, no refuge, and no means of making a fire. And then down in the remote blackness of the gallery I heard a peculiar pattering, and the same odd noises I had heard down the well. 'I took Weena's hand. Then, struck with a sudden idea, I left her and turned to a machine from which projected a lever not unlike those in a signal-box. Clambering upon the stand, and grasping this lever in my hands, I put all my weight upon it sideways. Suddenly Weena, deserted in the central aisle, began to whimper. I had judged the strength of the lever pretty correctly, for it snapped after a minute's strain, and I rejoined her with a mace in my hand more than sufficient, I judged, for any Morlock skull I might encounter. And I longed very much to kill a Morlock or so. Very inhuman, you may think, to want to go killing one's own descendants! But it was impossible, somehow, to feel any humanity in the things. Only my disinclination to leave Weena, and a persuasion that if I began to slake my thirst for murder my Time Machine might suffer, restrained me from going straight down the gallery and killing the brutes I heard. 'Well, mace in one hand and Weena in the other, I went out of that gallery and into another and still larger one, which at the first glance reminded me of a military chapel hung with tattered flags. The brown and charred rags that hung from the sides of it, I presently recognized as the decaying vestiges of books. They had long since dropped to pieces, and every semblance of print had left them. But here and there were warped boards and cracked metallic clasps that told the tale well enough. Had I been a literary man I might, perhaps, have moralized upon the futility of all ambition. But as it was, the thing that struck me with keenest force was the enormous waste of labour to which this sombre wilderness of rotting paper testified. At the time I will confess that I thought chiefly of the _Philosophical Transactions_ and my own seventeen papers upon physical optics. 'Then, going up a broad staircase, we came to what may once have been a gallery of technical chemistry. And here I had not a little hope of useful discoveries. Except at one end where the roof had collapsed, this gallery was well preserved. I went eagerly to every unbroken case. And at last, in one of the really air-tight cases, I found a box of matches. Very eagerly I tried them. They were perfectly good. They were not even damp. I turned to Weena. "Dance," I cried to her in her own tongue. For now I had a weapon indeed against the horrible creatures we feared. And so, in that derelict museum, upon the thick soft carpeting of dust, to Weena's huge delight, I solemnly performed a kind of composite dance, whistling _The Land of the Leal_ as cheerfully as I could. In part it was a modest _cancan_, in part a step dance, in part a skirt-dance (so far as my tail-coat permitted), and in part original. For I am naturally inventive, as you know. 'Now, I still think that for this box of matches to have escaped the wear of time for immemorial years was a most strange, as for me it was a most fortunate thing. Yet, oddly enough, I found a far unlikelier substance, and that was camphor. I found it in a sealed jar, that by chance, I suppose, had been really hermetically sealed. I fancied at first that it was paraffin wax, and smashed the glass accordingly. But the odour of camphor was unmistakable. In the universal decay this volatile substance had chanced to survive, perhaps through many thousands of centuries. It reminded me of a sepia painting I had once seen done from the ink of a fossil Belemnite that must have perished and become fossilized millions of years ago. I was about to throw it away, but I remembered that it was inflammable and burned with a good bright flame--was, in fact, an excellent candle--and I put it in my pocket. I found no explosives, however, nor any means of breaking down the bronze doors. As yet my iron crowbar was the most helpful thing I had chanced upon. Nevertheless I left that gallery greatly elated. 'I cannot tell you all the story of that long afternoon. It would require a great effort of memory to recall my explorations in at all the proper order. I remember a long gallery of rusting stands of arms, and how I hesitated between my crowbar and a hatchet or a sword. I could not carry both, however, and my bar of iron promised best against the bronze gates. There were numbers of guns, pistols, and rifles. The most were masses of rust, but many were of some new metal, and still fairly sound. But any cartridges or powder there may once have been had rotted into dust. One corner I saw was charred and shattered; perhaps, I thought, by an explosion among the specimens. In another place was a vast array of idols--Polynesian, Mexican, Grecian, Phoenician, every country on earth I should think. And here, yielding to an irresistible impulse, I wrote my name upon the nose of a steatite monster from South America that particularly took my fancy. 'As the evening drew on, my interest waned. I went through gallery after gallery, dusty, silent, often ruinous, the exhibits sometimes mere heaps of rust and lignite, sometimes fresher. In one place I suddenly found myself near the model of a tin-mine, and then by the merest accident I discovered, in an air-tight case, two dynamite cartridges! I shouted "Eureka!" and smashed the case with joy. Then came a doubt. I hesitated. Then, selecting a little side gallery, I made my essay. I never felt such a disappointment as I did in waiting five, ten, fifteen minutes for an explosion that never came. Of course the things were dummies, as I might have guessed from their presence. I really believe that had they not been so, I should have rushed off incontinently and blown Sphinx, bronze doors, and (as it proved) my chances of finding the Time Machine, all together into non-existence. 'It was after that, I think, that we came to a little open court within the palace. It was turfed, and had three fruit-trees. So we rested and refreshed ourselves. Towards sunset I began to consider our position. Night was creeping upon us, and my inaccessible hiding-place had still to be found. But that troubled me very little now. I had in my possession a thing that was, perhaps, the best of all defences against the Morlocks--I had matches! I had the camphor in my pocket, too, if a blaze were needed. It seemed to me that the best thing we could do would be to pass the night in the open, protected by a fire. In the morning there was the getting of the Time Machine. Towards that, as yet, I had only my iron mace. But now, with my growing knowledge, I felt very differently towards those bronze doors. Up to this, I had refrained from forcing them, largely because of the mystery on the other side. They had never impressed me as being very strong, and I hoped to find my bar of iron not altogether inadequate for the work. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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

Der Zeitreisende und Weena erreichen den Palast aus grünem Porzellan, der auseinanderfällt. Er ist tatsächlich aus grünem Porzellan gemacht, was dich überraschen könnte, wenn du dich daran gewöhnt hast, dass der Zeitreisende immer falsch liegt. Der Palast erinnert den Zeitreisenden an ein Museum, wahrscheinlich weil er ein Museum war. Die Eingangshalle hat einen Teil eines Dinosaurierskeletts und es gibt Glasvitrinen mit Ausstellungsstücken. Es hört sich ziemlich ähnlich an wie jedes Museum, das wir heute finden könnten. Der Zeitreisende nennt es ein "modernes South Kensington". Der Zeitreisende und Weena erkunden das Museum, auf der Suche nach Werkzeugen, um sich gegen die Morlocks zu verteidigen. In der Mineralienabteilung sucht der Zeitreisende nach den Zutaten für Schießpulver, aber er findet keine. Er sucht auch nach Hinweisen, wie die ganze Situation entstanden sein könnte. Leider ist der Bereich über Naturgeschichte größtenteils leer, alle Ausstellungen sind verrottet, also kann er nicht herausfinden, wie die Menschen die Natur zähmten. In einem dunklen Teil des Museums erinnert er sich an die Morlocks. Um sich zu schützen, reißt er ein Stück Metall von einer der Maschinen ab, um es als Streitkolben zu benutzen. Jetzt, da er eine Waffe hat, möchte er einige Morlocks töten. Aber er möchte Weena nicht alleine lassen. Sie finden eine heruntergekommene Bibliothek, in der der Zeitreisende seine eigenen Werke nicht finden kann. In der Chemieabteilung findet er eine Schachtel Streichhölzer und etwas brennbares Kampfer. Er macht einen kleinen Tanz, um zu feiern, dass er die Streichhölzer gefunden hat. Er findet auch die Waffenabteilung, aber die Gewehre sind alle verrostet und er denkt, dass sein improvisierter Streitkolben besser funktionieren wird als ein Schwert, wenn er die Sphinx öffnen will. Es gibt auch einen Raum voller Statuen und Götzen, und der Zeitreisende tut, was wir alle tun wollen: Er schnitzt seinen Namen in einen Götzen. Er findet Dynamit, aber es funktioniert nicht. Der Zeitreisende und Weena machen eine Pause im Museumshof.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: Ragueneau, the duenna. Then Roxane, Cyrano, and two pages. RAGUENEAU: --And then, off she went, with a musketeer! Deserted and ruined too, I would make an end of all, and so hanged myself. My last breath was drawn:-- then in comes Monsieur de Bergerac! He cuts me down, and begs his cousin to take me for her steward. THE DUENNA: Well, but how came it about that you were thus ruined? RAGUENEAU: Oh! Lise loved the warriors, and I loved the poets! What cakes there were that Apollo chanced to leave were quickly snapped up by Mars. Thus ruin was not long a-coming. THE DUENNA (rising, and calling up to the open window): Roxane, are you ready? They wait for us! ROXANE'S VOICE (from the window): I will but put me on a cloak! THE DUENNA (to Ragueneau, showing him the door opposite): They wait us there opposite, at Clomire's house. She receives them all there to-day--the precieuses, the poets; they read a discourse on the Tender Passion. RAGUENEAU: The Tender Passion? THE DUENNA (in a mincing voice): Ay, indeed! (Calling up to the window): Roxane, an you come not down quickly, we shall miss the discourse on the Tender Passion! ROXANE'S VOICE: I come! I come! (A sound of stringed instruments approaching.) CYRANO'S VOICE (behind the scenes, singing): La, la, la, la! THE DUENNA (surprised): They serenade us? CYRANO (followed by two pages with arch-lutes): I tell you they are demi-semi-quavers, demi-semi-fool! FIRST PAGE (ironically): You know then, Sir, to distinguish between semi-quavers and demi-semi- quavers? CYRANO: Is not every disciple of Gassendi a musician? THE PAGE (playing and singing): La, la! CYRANO (snatching the lute from him, and going on with the phrase): In proof of which, I can continue! La, la, la, la! ROXANE (appearing on the balcony): What? 'Tis you? CYRANO (going on with the air, and singing to it): 'Tis I, who come to serenade your lilies, and pay my devoir to your ro-o- oses! ROXANE: I am coming down! (She leaves the balcony.) THE DUENNA (pointing to the pages): How come these two virtuosi here? CYRANO: 'Tis for a wager I won of D'Assoucy. We were disputing a nice point in grammar; contradictions raged hotly--''Tis so!' 'Nay, 'tis so!' when suddenly he shows me these two long-shanks, whom he takes about with him as an escort, and who are skillful in scratching lute-strings with their skinny claws! 'I will wager you a day's music,' says he!--And lost it! Thus, see you, till Phoebus' chariot starts once again, these lute-twangers are at my heels, seeing all I do, hearing all I say, and accompanying all with melody. 'Twas pleasant at the first, but i' faith, I begin to weary of it already! (To the musicians): Ho there! go serenade Montfleury for me! Play a dance to him! (The pages go toward the door. To the duenna): I have come, as is my wont, nightly, to ask Roxane whether. . . (To the pages, who are going out): Play a long time,--and play out of tune! (To the duenna): . . .Whether her soul's elected is ever the same, ever faultless! ROXANE (coming out of the house): Ah! How handsome he is, how brilliant a wit! And--how well I love him! CYRANO (smiling): Christian has so brilliant a wit? ROXANE: Brighter than even your own, cousin! CYRANO: Be it so, with all my heart! ROXANE: Ah! methinks 'twere impossible that there could breathe a man on this earth skilled to say as sweetly as he all the pretty nothings that mean so much-- that mean all! At times his mind seems far away, the Muse says naught--and then, presto! he speaks--bewitchingly! enchantingly! CYRANO (incredulously): No, no! ROXANE: Fie! That is ill said! But lo! men are ever thus! Because he is fair to see, you would have it that he must be dull of speech. CYRANO: He hath an eloquent tongue in telling his love? ROXANE: In telling his love? why, 'tis not simple telling, 'tis dissertation, 'tis analysis! CYRANO: How is he with the pen? ROXANE: Still better! Listen,--here:-- (Reciting): 'The more of my poor heart you take The larger grows my heart!' (Triumphantly to Cyrano): How like you those lines? CYRANO: Pooh! ROXANE: And thus it goes on. . . 'And, since some target I must show For Cupid's cruel dart, Oh, if mine own you deign to keep, Then give me your sweet heart!' CYRANO: Lord! first he has too much, then anon not enough! How much heart does the fellow want? ROXANE: You would vex a saint!. . .But 'tis your jealousy. CYRANO (starting): What mean you? ROXANE: Ay, your poet's jealousy! Hark now, if this again be not tender-sweet?-- 'My heart to yours sounds but one cry: If kisses fast could flee By letter, then with your sweet lips My letters read should be! If kisses could be writ with ink, If kisses fast could flee!' CYRANO (smiling approvingly in spite of himself): Ha! those last lines are,--hm!. . .hm!. . . (Correcting himself--contemptuously): --They are paltry enough! ROXANE: And this. . . CYRANO (enchanted): Then you have his letters by heart? ROXANE: Every one of them! CYRANO: By all oaths that can be sworn,--'tis flattering! ROXANE: They are the lines of a master! CYRANO (modestly): Come, nay. . .a master?. . . ROXANE: Ay, I say it--a master! CYRANO: Good--be it so. THE DUENNA (coming down quickly): Here comes Monsieur de Guiche! (To Cyrano, pushing him toward the house): In with you! 'twere best he see you not; it might perchance put him on the scent. . . ROXANE (to Cyrano): Ay, of my own dear secret! He loves me, and is powerful, and, if he knew, then all were lost! Marry! he could well deal a deathblow to my love! CYRANO (entering the house): Good! good! (De Guiche appears.) Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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

Als die Szene beginnt, spricht Ragueneau mit der Gouvernante von Roxane über das, was mit ihm passiert ist. Das Publikum erfährt, dass Lise mit dem Musketier davongelaufen ist. Ragueneau war so bestürzt über ihre Verlassung, dass er versuchte, sich zu erhängen. Cyrano hat ihn jedoch gerettet und dafür gesorgt, dass er Verwalter von Roxane wird. Die Gouvernante wartet ungeduldig auf Roxane. Die beiden gehen in Clomires Salon, wo ein Vortrag über die "Zärtliche Leidenschaft" gehalten wird. Während Roxane sich verspätet, betritt Cyrano mit zwei Lautenspielern die Szene. Er erklärt, dass er die Musiker für einen Tag in einer Wette mit d'Assoucy über einen grammatikalischen Punkt gewonnen hat; jedoch findet er die Musiker sehr ärgerlich, da sie nicht richtig spielen. Deshalb schickt er sie weg, um Montfleury zu nerven. Nachdem die Musiker gegangen sind, fragt Cyrano Roxane, wie es mit Christian läuft. Sie behauptet, ihn sehr zu lieben und erklärt, dass er nicht nur gutaussehend, sondern auch brillant ist. Sie fügt hinzu, dass sein Verstand sogar schärfer zu sein scheint als der von Cyrano, denn er sagt ihr wirklich schöne Dinge. Cyrano verliert keine Sekunde, reagiert jedoch ungläubig auf ihre Behauptungen. Um ihre Aussage zu beweisen, dass er ein "Meister der Eloquenz" ist, zeigt Roxane Cyrano einen der Briefe von Christian. Die dramatische Ironie ist offensichtlich. Cyrano und das Publikum wissen, dass Cyrano den Brief geschrieben hat. Die Gouvernante kommt herein, um zu warnen, dass De Guiche sich nähert. Roxane bittet Cyrano, sich in ihrem Haus zu verstecken.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: CHAPTER XXIII. IN WHICH THE POWERFUL EFFECT OF NATURAL SCENERY IS EVINCED IN THE CASE OF THE MISSOURIAN, WHO, IN VIEW OF THE REGION ROUND-ABOUT CAIRO, HAS A RETURN OF HIS CHILLY FIT. At Cairo, the old established firm of Fever & Ague is still settling up its unfinished business; that Creole grave-digger, Yellow Jack--his hand at the mattock and spade has not lost its cunning; while Don Saturninus Typhus taking his constitutional with Death, Calvin Edson and three undertakers, in the morass, snuffs up the mephitic breeze with zest. In the dank twilight, fanned with mosquitoes, and sparkling with fire-flies, the boat now lies before Cairo. She has landed certain passengers, and tarries for the coming of expected ones. Leaning over the rail on the inshore side, the Missourian eyes through the dubious medium that swampy and squalid domain; and over it audibly mumbles his cynical mind to himself, as Apermantus' dog may have mumbled his bone. He bethinks him that the man with the brass-plate was to land on this villainous bank, and for that cause, if no other, begins to suspect him. Like one beginning to rouse himself from a dose of chloroform treacherously given, he half divines, too, that he, the philosopher, had unwittingly been betrayed into being an unphilosophical dupe. To what vicissitudes of light and shade is man subject! He ponders the mystery of human subjectivity in general. He thinks he perceives with Crossbones, his favorite author, that, as one may wake up well in the morning, very well, indeed, and brisk as a buck, I thank you, but ere bed-time get under the weather, there is no telling how--so one may wake up wise, and slow of assent, very wise and very slow, I assure you, and for all that, before night, by like trick in the atmosphere, be left in the lurch a ninny. Health and wisdom equally precious, and equally little as unfluctuating possessions to be relied on. But where was slipped in the entering wedge? Philosophy, knowledge, experience--were those trusty knights of the castle recreant? No, but unbeknown to them, the enemy stole on the castle's south side, its genial one, where Suspicion, the warder, parleyed. In fine, his too indulgent, too artless and companionable nature betrayed him. Admonished by which, he thinks he must be a little splenetic in his intercourse henceforth. He revolves the crafty process of sociable chat, by which, as he fancies, the man with the brass-plate wormed into him, and made such a fool of him as insensibly to persuade him to waive, in his exceptional case, that general law of distrust systematically applied to the race. He revolves, but cannot comprehend, the operation, still less the operator. Was the man a trickster, it must be more for the love than the lucre. Two or three dirty dollars the motive to so many nice wiles? And yet how full of mean needs his seeming. Before his mental vision the person of that threadbare Talleyrand, that impoverished Machiavelli, that seedy Rosicrucian--for something of all these he vaguely deems him--passes now in puzzled review. Fain, in his disfavor, would he make out a logical case. The doctrine of analogies recurs. Fallacious enough doctrine when wielded against one's prejudices, but in corroboration of cherished suspicions not without likelihood. Analogically, he couples the slanting cut of the equivocator's coat-tails with the sinister cast in his eye; he weighs slyboot's sleek speech in the light imparted by the oblique import of the smooth slope of his worn boot-heels; the insinuator's undulating flunkyisms dovetail into those of the flunky beast that windeth his way on his belly. From these uncordial reveries he is roused by a cordial slap on the shoulder, accompanied by a spicy volume of tobacco-smoke, out of which came a voice, sweet as a seraph's: "A penny for your thoughts, my fine fellow." 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.

Bei der Betrachtung der Landschaft von Cairo, Illinois, betrachtet Pitch es als Brutstätte von Krankheit und Korruption. PIO hatte erwähnt, dass dies sein Haltepunkt war. Dies lässt Pitch Krankheit und Korruption mit PIO in Verbindung bringen. Die Verbindung lässt Pitch vermuten, dass er betrogen wurde. Pitch sinniert darüber, wie dies geschehen konnte, und denkt über PIOs abgetragenes Outfit, fröhliche, aber verschmitzte Worte und listige Gesichtsausdrücke nach. Inmitten dieser unglücklichen Gedanken kommt ein Fremder auf Pitch zu und bietet ihm das metaphorische Centstück, um zu wissen, was er denkt.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: The day began auspiciously. They had lost no dogs during the night, and they swung out upon the trail and into the silence, the darkness, and the cold with spirits that were fairly light. Bill seemed to have forgotten his forebodings of the previous night, and even waxed facetious with the dogs when, at midday, they overturned the sled on a bad piece of trail. It was an awkward mix-up. The sled was upside down and jammed between a tree-trunk and a huge rock, and they were forced to unharness the dogs in order to straighten out the tangle. The two men were bent over the sled and trying to right it, when Henry observed One Ear sidling away. "Here, you, One Ear!" he cried, straightening up and turning around on the dog. But One Ear broke into a run across the snow, his traces trailing behind him. And there, out in the snow of their back track, was the she-wolf waiting for him. As he neared her, he became suddenly cautious. He slowed down to an alert and mincing walk and then stopped. He regarded her carefully and dubiously, yet desirefully. She seemed to smile at him, showing her teeth in an ingratiating rather than a menacing way. She moved toward him a few steps, playfully, and then halted. One Ear drew near to her, still alert and cautious, his tail and ears in the air, his head held high. He tried to sniff noses with her, but she retreated playfully and coyly. Every advance on his part was accompanied by a corresponding retreat on her part. Step by step she was luring him away from the security of his human companionship. Once, as though a warning had in vague ways flitted through his intelligence, he turned his head and looked back at the overturned sled, at his team-mates, and at the two men who were calling to him. But whatever idea was forming in his mind, was dissipated by the she-wolf, who advanced upon him, sniffed noses with him for a fleeting instant, and then resumed her coy retreat before his renewed advances. In the meantime, Bill had bethought himself of the rifle. But it was jammed beneath the overturned sled, and by the time Henry had helped him to right the load, One Ear and the she-wolf were too close together and the distance too great to risk a shot. Too late One Ear learned his mistake. Before they saw the cause, the two men saw him turn and start to run back toward them. Then, approaching at right angles to the trail and cutting off his retreat they saw a dozen wolves, lean and grey, bounding across the snow. On the instant, the she- wolf's coyness and playfulness disappeared. With a snarl she sprang upon One Ear. He thrust her off with his shoulder, and, his retreat cut off and still intent on regaining the sled, he altered his course in an attempt to circle around to it. More wolves were appearing every moment and joining in the chase. The she-wolf was one leap behind One Ear and holding her own. "Where are you goin'?" Henry suddenly demanded, laying his hand on his partner's arm. Bill shook it off. "I won't stand it," he said. "They ain't a-goin' to get any more of our dogs if I can help it." Gun in hand, he plunged into the underbrush that lined the side of the trail. His intention was apparent enough. Taking the sled as the centre of the circle that One Ear was making, Bill planned to tap that circle at a point in advance of the pursuit. With his rifle, in the broad daylight, it might be possible for him to awe the wolves and save the dog. "Say, Bill!" Henry called after him. "Be careful! Don't take no chances!" Henry sat down on the sled and watched. There was nothing else for him to do. Bill had already gone from sight; but now and again, appearing and disappearing amongst the underbrush and the scattered clumps of spruce, could be seen One Ear. Henry judged his case to be hopeless. The dog was thoroughly alive to its danger, but it was running on the outer circle while the wolf-pack was running on the inner and shorter circle. It was vain to think of One Ear so outdistancing his pursuers as to be able to cut across their circle in advance of them and to regain the sled. The different lines were rapidly approaching a point. Somewhere out there in the snow, screened from his sight by trees and thickets, Henry knew that the wolf-pack, One Ear, and Bill were coming together. All too quickly, far more quickly than he had expected, it happened. He heard a shot, then two shots, in rapid succession, and he knew that Bill's ammunition was gone. Then he heard a great outcry of snarls and yelps. He recognised One Ear's yell of pain and terror, and he heard a wolf-cry that bespoke a stricken animal. And that was all. The snarls ceased. The yelping died away. Silence settled down again over the lonely land. He sat for a long while upon the sled. There was no need for him to go and see what had happened. He knew it as though it had taken place before his eyes. Once, he roused with a start and hastily got the axe out from underneath the lashings. But for some time longer he sat and brooded, the two remaining dogs crouching and trembling at his feet. At last he arose in a weary manner, as though all the resilience had gone out of his body, and proceeded to fasten the dogs to the sled. He passed a rope over his shoulder, a man-trace, and pulled with the dogs. He did not go far. At the first hint of darkness he hastened to make a camp, and he saw to it that he had a generous supply of firewood. He fed the dogs, cooked and ate his supper, and made his bed close to the fire. But he was not destined to enjoy that bed. Before his eyes closed the wolves had drawn too near for safety. It no longer required an effort of the vision to see them. They were all about him and the fire, in a narrow circle, and he could see them plainly in the firelight lying down, sitting up, crawling forward on their bellies, or slinking back and forth. They even slept. Here and there he could see one curled up in the snow like a dog, taking the sleep that was now denied himself. He kept the fire brightly blazing, for he knew that it alone intervened between the flesh of his body and their hungry fangs. His two dogs stayed close by him, one on either side, leaning against him for protection, crying and whimpering, and at times snarling desperately when a wolf approached a little closer than usual. At such moments, when his dogs snarled, the whole circle would be agitated, the wolves coming to their feet and pressing tentatively forward, a chorus of snarls and eager yelps rising about him. Then the circle would lie down again, and here and there a wolf would resume its broken nap. But this circle had a continuous tendency to draw in upon him. Bit by bit, an inch at a time, with here a wolf bellying forward, and there a wolf bellying forward, the circle would narrow until the brutes were almost within springing distance. Then he would seize brands from the fire and hurl them into the pack. A hasty drawing back always resulted, accompanied by angry yelps and frightened snarls when a well-aimed brand struck and scorched a too daring animal. Morning found the man haggard and worn, wide-eyed from want of sleep. He cooked breakfast in the darkness, and at nine o'clock, when, with the coming of daylight, the wolf-pack drew back, he set about the task he had planned through the long hours of the night. Chopping down young saplings, he made them cross-bars of a scaffold by lashing them high up to the trunks of standing trees. Using the sled-lashing for a heaving rope, and with the aid of the dogs, he hoisted the coffin to the top of the scaffold. "They got Bill, an' they may get me, but they'll sure never get you, young man," he said, addressing the dead body in its tree-sepulchre. Then he took the trail, the lightened sled bounding along behind the willing dogs; for they, too, knew that safety lay open in the gaining of Fort McGurry. The wolves were now more open in their pursuit, trotting sedately behind and ranging along on either side, their red tongues lolling out, their lean sides showing the undulating ribs with every movement. They were very lean, mere skin-bags stretched over bony frames, with strings for muscles--so lean that Henry found it in his mind to marvel that they still kept their feet and did not collapse forthright in the snow. He did not dare travel until dark. At midday, not only did the sun warm the southern horizon, but it even thrust its upper rim, pale and golden, above the sky-line. He received it as a sign. The days were growing longer. The sun was returning. But scarcely had the cheer of its light departed, than he went into camp. There were still several hours of grey daylight and sombre twilight, and he utilised them in chopping an enormous supply of fire-wood. With night came horror. Not only were the starving wolves growing bolder, but lack of sleep was telling upon Henry. He dozed despite himself, crouching by the fire, the blankets about his shoulders, the axe between his knees, and on either side a dog pressing close against him. He awoke once and saw in front of him, not a dozen feet away, a big grey wolf, one of the largest of the pack. And even as he looked, the brute deliberately stretched himself after the manner of a lazy dog, yawning full in his face and looking upon him with a possessive eye, as if, in truth, he were merely a delayed meal that was soon to be eaten. This certitude was shown by the whole pack. Fully a score he could count, staring hungrily at him or calmly sleeping in the snow. They reminded him of children gathered about a spread table and awaiting permission to begin to eat. And he was the food they were to eat! He wondered how and when the meal would begin. As he piled wood on the fire he discovered an appreciation of his own body which he had never felt before. He watched his moving muscles and was interested in the cunning mechanism of his fingers. By the light of the fire he crooked his fingers slowly and repeatedly now one at a time, now all together, spreading them wide or making quick gripping movements. He studied the nail-formation, and prodded the finger-tips, now sharply, and again softly, gauging the while the nerve-sensations produced. It fascinated him, and he grew suddenly fond of this subtle flesh of his that worked so beautifully and smoothly and delicately. Then he would cast a glance of fear at the wolf-circle drawn expectantly about him, and like a blow the realisation would strike him that this wonderful body of his, this living flesh, was no more than so much meat, a quest of ravenous animals, to be torn and slashed by their hungry fangs, to be sustenance to them as the moose and the rabbit had often been sustenance to him. He came out of a doze that was half nightmare, to see the red-hued she- wolf before him. She was not more than half a dozen feet away sitting in the snow and wistfully regarding him. The two dogs were whimpering and snarling at his feet, but she took no notice of them. She was looking at the man, and for some time he returned her look. There was nothing threatening about her. She looked at him merely with a great wistfulness, but he knew it to be the wistfulness of an equally great hunger. He was the food, and the sight of him excited in her the gustatory sensations. Her mouth opened, the saliva drooled forth, and she licked her chops with the pleasure of anticipation. A spasm of fear went through him. He reached hastily for a brand to throw at her. But even as he reached, and before his fingers had closed on the missile, she sprang back into safety; and he knew that she was used to having things thrown at her. She had snarled as she sprang away, baring her white fangs to their roots, all her wistfulness vanishing, being replaced by a carnivorous malignity that made him shudder. He glanced at the hand that held the brand, noticing the cunning delicacy of the fingers that gripped it, how they adjusted themselves to all the inequalities of the surface, curling over and under and about the rough wood, and one little finger, too close to the burning portion of the brand, sensitively and automatically writhing back from the hurtful heat to a cooler gripping-place; and in the same instant he seemed to see a vision of those same sensitive and delicate fingers being crushed and torn by the white teeth of the she-wolf. Never had he been so fond of this body of his as now when his tenure of it was so precarious. All night, with burning brands, he fought off the hungry pack. When he dozed despite himself, the whimpering and snarling of the dogs aroused him. Morning came, but for the first time the light of day failed to scatter the wolves. The man waited in vain for them to go. They remained in a circle about him and his fire, displaying an arrogance of possession that shook his courage born of the morning light. He made one desperate attempt to pull out on the trail. But the moment he left the protection of the fire, the boldest wolf leaped for him, but leaped short. He saved himself by springing back, the jaws snapping together a scant six inches from his thigh. The rest of the pack was now up and surging upon him, and a throwing of firebrands right and left was necessary to drive them back to a respectful distance. Even in the daylight he did not dare leave the fire to chop fresh wood. Twenty feet away towered a huge dead spruce. He spent half the day extending his campfire to the tree, at any moment a half dozen burning faggots ready at hand to fling at his enemies. Once at the tree, he studied the surrounding forest in order to fell the tree in the direction of the most firewood. The night was a repetition of the night before, save that the need for sleep was becoming overpowering. The snarling of his dogs was losing its efficacy. Besides, they were snarling all the time, and his benumbed and drowsy senses no longer took note of changing pitch and intensity. He awoke with a start. The she-wolf was less than a yard from him. Mechanically, at short range, without letting go of it, he thrust a brand full into her open and snarling mouth. She sprang away, yelling with pain, and while he took delight in the smell of burning flesh and hair, he watched her shaking her head and growling wrathfully a score of feet away. But this time, before he dozed again, he tied a burning pine-knot to his right hand. His eyes were closed but few minutes when the burn of the flame on his flesh awakened him. For several hours he adhered to this programme. Every time he was thus awakened he drove back the wolves with flying brands, replenished the fire, and rearranged the pine-knot on his hand. All worked well, but there came a time when he fastened the pine- knot insecurely. As his eyes closed it fell away from his hand. He dreamed. It seemed to him that he was in Fort McGurry. It was warm and comfortable, and he was playing cribbage with the Factor. Also, it seemed to him that the fort was besieged by wolves. They were howling at the very gates, and sometimes he and the Factor paused from the game to listen and laugh at the futile efforts of the wolves to get in. And then, so strange was the dream, there was a crash. The door was burst open. He could see the wolves flooding into the big living-room of the fort. They were leaping straight for him and the Factor. With the bursting open of the door, the noise of their howling had increased tremendously. This howling now bothered him. His dream was merging into something else--he knew not what; but through it all, following him, persisted the howling. And then he awoke to find the howling real. There was a great snarling and yelping. The wolves were rushing him. They were all about him and upon him. The teeth of one had closed upon his arm. Instinctively he leaped into the fire, and as he leaped, he felt the sharp slash of teeth that tore through the flesh of his leg. Then began a fire fight. His stout mittens temporarily protected his hands, and he scooped live coals into the air in all directions, until the campfire took on the semblance of a volcano. But it could not last long. His face was blistering in the heat, his eyebrows and lashes were singed off, and the heat was becoming unbearable to his feet. With a flaming brand in each hand, he sprang to the edge of the fire. The wolves had been driven back. On every side, wherever the live coals had fallen, the snow was sizzling, and every little while a retiring wolf, with wild leap and snort and snarl, announced that one such live coal had been stepped upon. Flinging his brands at the nearest of his enemies, the man thrust his smouldering mittens into the snow and stamped about to cool his feet. His two dogs were missing, and he well knew that they had served as a course in the protracted meal which had begun days before with Fatty, the last course of which would likely be himself in the days to follow. "You ain't got me yet!" he cried, savagely shaking his fist at the hungry beasts; and at the sound of his voice the whole circle was agitated, there was a general snarl, and the she-wolf slid up close to him across the snow and watched him with hungry wistfulness. He set to work to carry out a new idea that had come to him. He extended the fire into a large circle. Inside this circle he crouched, his sleeping outfit under him as a protection against the melting snow. When he had thus disappeared within his shelter of flame, the whole pack came curiously to the rim of the fire to see what had become of him. Hitherto they had been denied access to the fire, and they now settled down in a close-drawn circle, like so many dogs, blinking and yawning and stretching their lean bodies in the unaccustomed warmth. Then the she- wolf sat down, pointed her nose at a star, and began to howl. One by one the wolves joined her, till the whole pack, on haunches, with noses pointed skyward, was howling its hunger cry. Dawn came, and daylight. The fire was burning low. The fuel had run out, and there was need to get more. The man attempted to step out of his circle of flame, but the wolves surged to meet him. Burning brands made them spring aside, but they no longer sprang back. In vain he strove to drive them back. As he gave up and stumbled inside his circle, a wolf leaped for him, missed, and landed with all four feet in the coals. It cried out with terror, at the same time snarling, and scrambled back to cool its paws in the snow. The man sat down on his blankets in a crouching position. His body leaned forward from the hips. His shoulders, relaxed and drooping, and his head on his knees advertised that he had given up the struggle. Now and again he raised his head to note the dying down of the fire. The circle of flame and coals was breaking into segments with openings in between. These openings grew in size, the segments diminished. "I guess you can come an' get me any time," he mumbled. "Anyway, I'm goin' to sleep." Once he awakened, and in an opening in the circle, directly in front of him, he saw the she-wolf gazing at him. Again he awakened, a little later, though it seemed hours to him. A mysterious change had taken place--so mysterious a change that he was shocked wider awake. Something had happened. He could not understand at first. Then he discovered it. The wolves were gone. Remained only the trampled snow to show how closely they had pressed him. Sleep was welling up and gripping him again, his head was sinking down upon his knees, when he roused with a sudden start. There were cries of men, and churn of sleds, the creaking of harnesses, and the eager whimpering of straining dogs. Four sleds pulled in from the river bed to the camp among the trees. Half a dozen men were about the man who crouched in the centre of the dying fire. They were shaking and prodding him into consciousness. He looked at them like a drunken man and maundered in strange, sleepy speech. "Red she-wolf. . . . Come in with the dogs at feedin' time. . . . First she ate the dog-food. . . . Then she ate the dogs. . . . An' after that she ate Bill. . . . " "Where's Lord Alfred?" one of the men bellowed in his ear, shaking him roughly. He shook his head slowly. "No, she didn't eat him. . . . He's roostin' in a tree at the last camp." "Dead?" the man shouted. "An' in a box," Henry answered. He jerked his shoulder petulantly away from the grip of his questioner. "Say, you lemme alone. . . . I'm jes' plump tuckered out. . . . Goo' night, everybody." His eyes fluttered and went shut. His chin fell forward on his chest. And even as they eased him down upon the blankets his snores were rising on the frosty air. But there was another sound. Far and faint it was, in the remote distance, the cry of the hungry wolf-pack as it took the trail of other meat than the man it had just missed. PART II 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 nächsten Tag ist keiner der Hunde verschwunden, was Bill in eine bessere Stimmung versetzt. Sie brechen erneut zu ihrer Reise auf, aber der Schlitten kippt um und klemmt sich zwischen einem Baumstamm und einem riesigen Felsen ein. Als sie die Hunde ausspannen, um das Durcheinander zu entwirren, sehen sie One Ear heimlich an ihnen vorbei zur Wölfin schleichen, die ihn spielerisch in das Rudel der Wölfe lockt. Bill bereitet sein Gewehr vor, aber die Wölfe sind zu weit weg, um zu schießen. Bill macht sich auf den Weg zu ihnen, feuert seine letzten drei Patronen ab und wird zusammen mit One Ear von dem Rudel überrannt. Henry bleibt nun allein zurück, um sich selbst und seine verbleibenden zwei Hunde zu beschützen. Die Wölfe, furchtlos und zögern nicht, verfolgen ihn. Feuer ist das Einzige, was er hat, um sie fernzuhalten. Er verbringt schlaflose Nächte damit, Feuerzeichen auf die Wölfe zu werfen, wann immer sie zu nah kommen. Henry wuchtet den Sarg in einen Baum, damit die Wölfe nicht herankommen können. Er bereitet sich auf längere Tage vor, aber er lebt in ständiger Paranoia, ständig in Angst vor einem Angriff der Wölfe. Die Wölfin bleibt weiterhin die Kühnste von allen und kommt Henry sehr nahe. Tatsächlich kommt sie so nah, dass er ihr Fell versengt, sehr zu seiner Zufriedenheit. Die Chancen für sein Überleben scheinen für Henry gering zu sein. Er hat sich mit der erschreckenden Situation abgefunden. Als die Wölfe angreifen und versuchen, ihn lebendig zu fressen, kämpft er erfolgreich mit glühenden Kohlen gegen sie an. Erschöpft schläft er schließlich ein. Als er aufwacht, erfährt er, dass seine beiden verbliebenen Hunde von den Wölfen verschlungen wurden. Die Wölfe sind jedoch verschwunden und er wird von etwa einem Dutzend Männern umgeben. Wie durch ein Wunder hat Henry sein Überleben im wilden Norden überstanden.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: Every body in and about Highbury who had ever visited Mr. Elton, was disposed to pay him attention on his marriage. Dinner-parties and evening-parties were made for him and his lady; and invitations flowed in so fast that she had soon the pleasure of apprehending they were never to have a disengaged day. "I see how it is," said she. "I see what a life I am to lead among you. Upon my word we shall be absolutely dissipated. We really seem quite the fashion. If this is living in the country, it is nothing very formidable. From Monday next to Saturday, I assure you we have not a disengaged day!--A woman with fewer resources than I have, need not have been at a loss." No invitation came amiss to her. Her Bath habits made evening-parties perfectly natural to her, and Maple Grove had given her a taste for dinners. She was a little shocked at the want of two drawing rooms, at the poor attempt at rout-cakes, and there being no ice in the Highbury card-parties. Mrs. Bates, Mrs. Perry, Mrs. Goddard and others, were a good deal behind-hand in knowledge of the world, but she would soon shew them how every thing ought to be arranged. In the course of the spring she must return their civilities by one very superior party--in which her card-tables should be set out with their separate candles and unbroken packs in the true style--and more waiters engaged for the evening than their own establishment could furnish, to carry round the refreshments at exactly the proper hour, and in the proper order. Emma, in the meanwhile, could not be satisfied without a dinner at Hartfield for the Eltons. They must not do less than others, or she should be exposed to odious suspicions, and imagined capable of pitiful resentment. A dinner there must be. After Emma had talked about it for ten minutes, Mr. Woodhouse felt no unwillingness, and only made the usual stipulation of not sitting at the bottom of the table himself, with the usual regular difficulty of deciding who should do it for him. The persons to be invited, required little thought. Besides the Eltons, it must be the Westons and Mr. Knightley; so far it was all of course--and it was hardly less inevitable that poor little Harriet must be asked to make the eighth:--but this invitation was not given with equal satisfaction, and on many accounts Emma was particularly pleased by Harriet's begging to be allowed to decline it. "She would rather not be in his company more than she could help. She was not yet quite able to see him and his charming happy wife together, without feeling uncomfortable. If Miss Woodhouse would not be displeased, she would rather stay at home." It was precisely what Emma would have wished, had she deemed it possible enough for wishing. She was delighted with the fortitude of her little friend--for fortitude she knew it was in her to give up being in company and stay at home; and she could now invite the very person whom she really wanted to make the eighth, Jane Fairfax.-- Since her last conversation with Mrs. Weston and Mr. Knightley, she was more conscience-stricken about Jane Fairfax than she had often been.--Mr. Knightley's words dwelt with her. He had said that Jane Fairfax received attentions from Mrs. Elton which nobody else paid her. "This is very true," said she, "at least as far as relates to me, which was all that was meant--and it is very shameful.--Of the same age--and always knowing her--I ought to have been more her friend.--She will never like me now. I have neglected her too long. But I will shew her greater attention than I have done." Every invitation was successful. They were all disengaged and all happy.--The preparatory interest of this dinner, however, was not yet over. A circumstance rather unlucky occurred. The two eldest little Knightleys were engaged to pay their grandpapa and aunt a visit of some weeks in the spring, and their papa now proposed bringing them, and staying one whole day at Hartfield--which one day would be the very day of this party.--His professional engagements did not allow of his being put off, but both father and daughter were disturbed by its happening so. Mr. Woodhouse considered eight persons at dinner together as the utmost that his nerves could bear--and here would be a ninth--and Emma apprehended that it would be a ninth very much out of humour at not being able to come even to Hartfield for forty-eight hours without falling in with a dinner-party. She comforted her father better than she could comfort herself, by representing that though he certainly would make them nine, yet he always said so little, that the increase of noise would be very immaterial. She thought it in reality a sad exchange for herself, to have him with his grave looks and reluctant conversation opposed to her instead of his brother. The event was more favourable to Mr. Woodhouse than to Emma. John Knightley came; but Mr. Weston was unexpectedly summoned to town and must be absent on the very day. He might be able to join them in the evening, but certainly not to dinner. Mr. Woodhouse was quite at ease; and the seeing him so, with the arrival of the little boys and the philosophic composure of her brother on hearing his fate, removed the chief of even Emma's vexation. The day came, the party were punctually assembled, and Mr. John Knightley seemed early to devote himself to the business of being agreeable. Instead of drawing his brother off to a window while they waited for dinner, he was talking to Miss Fairfax. Mrs. Elton, as elegant as lace and pearls could make her, he looked at in silence--wanting only to observe enough for Isabella's information--but Miss Fairfax was an old acquaintance and a quiet girl, and he could talk to her. He had met her before breakfast as he was returning from a walk with his little boys, when it had been just beginning to rain. It was natural to have some civil hopes on the subject, and he said, "I hope you did not venture far, Miss Fairfax, this morning, or I am sure you must have been wet.--We scarcely got home in time. I hope you turned directly." "I went only to the post-office," said she, "and reached home before the rain was much. It is my daily errand. I always fetch the letters when I am here. It saves trouble, and is a something to get me out. A walk before breakfast does me good." "Not a walk in the rain, I should imagine." "No, but it did not absolutely rain when I set out." Mr. John Knightley smiled, and replied, "That is to say, you chose to have your walk, for you were not six yards from your own door when I had the pleasure of meeting you; and Henry and John had seen more drops than they could count long before. The post-office has a great charm at one period of our lives. When you have lived to my age, you will begin to think letters are never worth going through the rain for." There was a little blush, and then this answer, "I must not hope to be ever situated as you are, in the midst of every dearest connexion, and therefore I cannot expect that simply growing older should make me indifferent about letters." "Indifferent! Oh! no--I never conceived you could become indifferent. Letters are no matter of indifference; they are generally a very positive curse." "You are speaking of letters of business; mine are letters of friendship." "I have often thought them the worst of the two," replied he coolly. "Business, you know, may bring money, but friendship hardly ever does." "Ah! you are not serious now. I know Mr. John Knightley too well--I am very sure he understands the value of friendship as well as any body. I can easily believe that letters are very little to you, much less than to me, but it is not your being ten years older than myself which makes the difference, it is not age, but situation. You have every body dearest to you always at hand, I, probably, never shall again; and therefore till I have outlived all my affections, a post-office, I think, must always have power to draw me out, in worse weather than to-day." "When I talked of your being altered by time, by the progress of years," said John Knightley, "I meant to imply the change of situation which time usually brings. I consider one as including the other. Time will generally lessen the interest of every attachment not within the daily circle--but that is not the change I had in view for you. As an old friend, you will allow me to hope, Miss Fairfax, that ten years hence you may have as many concentrated objects as I have." It was kindly said, and very far from giving offence. A pleasant "thank you" seemed meant to laugh it off, but a blush, a quivering lip, a tear in the eye, shewed that it was felt beyond a laugh. Her attention was now claimed by Mr. Woodhouse, who being, according to his custom on such occasions, making the circle of his guests, and paying his particular compliments to the ladies, was ending with her--and with all his mildest urbanity, said, "I am very sorry to hear, Miss Fairfax, of your being out this morning in the rain. Young ladies should take care of themselves.--Young ladies are delicate plants. They should take care of their health and their complexion. My dear, did you change your stockings?" "Yes, sir, I did indeed; and I am very much obliged by your kind solicitude about me." "My dear Miss Fairfax, young ladies are very sure to be cared for.--I hope your good grand-mama and aunt are well. They are some of my very old friends. I wish my health allowed me to be a better neighbour. You do us a great deal of honour to-day, I am sure. My daughter and I are both highly sensible of your goodness, and have the greatest satisfaction in seeing you at Hartfield." The kind-hearted, polite old man might then sit down and feel that he had done his duty, and made every fair lady welcome and easy. By this time, the walk in the rain had reached Mrs. Elton, and her remonstrances now opened upon Jane. "My dear Jane, what is this I hear?--Going to the post-office in the rain!--This must not be, I assure you.--You sad girl, how could you do such a thing?--It is a sign I was not there to take care of you." Jane very patiently assured her that she had not caught any cold. "Oh! do not tell _me_. You really are a very sad girl, and do not know how to take care of yourself.--To the post-office indeed! Mrs. Weston, did you ever hear the like? You and I must positively exert our authority." "My advice," said Mrs. Weston kindly and persuasively, "I certainly do feel tempted to give. Miss Fairfax, you must not run such risks.--Liable as you have been to severe colds, indeed you ought to be particularly careful, especially at this time of year. The spring I always think requires more than common care. Better wait an hour or two, or even half a day for your letters, than run the risk of bringing on your cough again. Now do not you feel that you had? Yes, I am sure you are much too reasonable. You look as if you would not do such a thing again." "Oh! she _shall_ _not_ do such a thing again," eagerly rejoined Mrs. Elton. "We will not allow her to do such a thing again:"--and nodding significantly--"there must be some arrangement made, there must indeed. I shall speak to Mr. E. The man who fetches our letters every morning (one of our men, I forget his name) shall inquire for yours too and bring them to you. That will obviate all difficulties you know; and from _us_ I really think, my dear Jane, you can have no scruple to accept such an accommodation." "You are extremely kind," said Jane; "but I cannot give up my early walk. I am advised to be out of doors as much as I can, I must walk somewhere, and the post-office is an object; and upon my word, I have scarcely ever had a bad morning before." "My dear Jane, say no more about it. The thing is determined, that is (laughing affectedly) as far as I can presume to determine any thing without the concurrence of my lord and master. You know, Mrs. Weston, you and I must be cautious how we express ourselves. But I do flatter myself, my dear Jane, that my influence is not entirely worn out. If I meet with no insuperable difficulties therefore, consider that point as settled." "Excuse me," said Jane earnestly, "I cannot by any means consent to such an arrangement, so needlessly troublesome to your servant. If the errand were not a pleasure to me, it could be done, as it always is when I am not here, by my grandmama's." "Oh! my dear; but so much as Patty has to do!--And it is a kindness to employ our men." Jane looked as if she did not mean to be conquered; but instead of answering, she began speaking again to Mr. John Knightley. "The post-office is a wonderful establishment!" said she.--"The regularity and despatch of it! If one thinks of all that it has to do, and all that it does so well, it is really astonishing!" "It is certainly very well regulated." "So seldom that any negligence or blunder appears! So seldom that a letter, among the thousands that are constantly passing about the kingdom, is even carried wrong--and not one in a million, I suppose, actually lost! And when one considers the variety of hands, and of bad hands too, that are to be deciphered, it increases the wonder." "The clerks grow expert from habit.--They must begin with some quickness of sight and hand, and exercise improves them. If you want any farther explanation," continued he, smiling, "they are paid for it. That is the key to a great deal of capacity. The public pays and must be served well." The varieties of handwriting were farther talked of, and the usual observations made. "I have heard it asserted," said John Knightley, "that the same sort of handwriting often prevails in a family; and where the same master teaches, it is natural enough. But for that reason, I should imagine the likeness must be chiefly confined to the females, for boys have very little teaching after an early age, and scramble into any hand they can get. Isabella and Emma, I think, do write very much alike. I have not always known their writing apart." "Yes," said his brother hesitatingly, "there is a likeness. I know what you mean--but Emma's hand is the strongest." "Isabella and Emma both write beautifully," said Mr. Woodhouse; "and always did. And so does poor Mrs. Weston"--with half a sigh and half a smile at her. "I never saw any gentleman's handwriting"--Emma began, looking also at Mrs. Weston; but stopped, on perceiving that Mrs. Weston was attending to some one else--and the pause gave her time to reflect, "Now, how am I going to introduce him?--Am I unequal to speaking his name at once before all these people? Is it necessary for me to use any roundabout phrase?--Your Yorkshire friend--your correspondent in Yorkshire;--that would be the way, I suppose, if I were very bad.--No, I can pronounce his name without the smallest distress. I certainly get better and better.--Now for it." Mrs. Weston was disengaged and Emma began again--"Mr. Frank Churchill writes one of the best gentleman's hands I ever saw." "I do not admire it," said Mr. Knightley. "It is too small--wants strength. It is like a woman's writing." This was not submitted to by either lady. They vindicated him against the base aspersion. "No, it by no means wanted strength--it was not a large hand, but very clear and certainly strong. Had not Mrs. Weston any letter about her to produce?" No, she had heard from him very lately, but having answered the letter, had put it away. "If we were in the other room," said Emma, "if I had my writing-desk, I am sure I could produce a specimen. I have a note of his.--Do not you remember, Mrs. Weston, employing him to write for you one day?" "He chose to say he was employed"-- "Well, well, I have that note; and can shew it after dinner to convince Mr. Knightley." "Oh! when a gallant young man, like Mr. Frank Churchill," said Mr. Knightley dryly, "writes to a fair lady like Miss Woodhouse, he will, of course, put forth his best." Dinner was on table.--Mrs. Elton, before she could be spoken to, was ready; and before Mr. Woodhouse had reached her with his request to be allowed to hand her into the dining-parlour, was saying-- "Must I go first? I really am ashamed of always leading the way." Jane's solicitude about fetching her own letters had not escaped Emma. She had heard and seen it all; and felt some curiosity to know whether the wet walk of this morning had produced any. She suspected that it _had_; that it would not have been so resolutely encountered but in full expectation of hearing from some one very dear, and that it had not been in vain. She thought there was an air of greater happiness than usual--a glow both of complexion and spirits. Sie hätte eine oder zwei Anfragen stellen können, bezüglich der Expedition und der Kosten der irischen Post; es lag ihr auf der Zunge – aber sie unterließ es. Sie hatte sich fest vorgenommen, kein Wort zu äußern, das Jane Fairfax verletzen könnte; und sie gingen Arm in Arm mit den anderen Damen aus dem Raum, mit einer freundlichen Erscheinung, die der Schönheit und Anmut jeder einzelnen sehr angemessen war. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Obwohl Emma Mrs. Elton nicht leiden kann, sind Manieren Manieren. Haben wir nicht schon darüber gesprochen? Jeder muss eine Abendgesellschaft für eine neue Braut geben. So ist das eben. Emma gibt eine Abendgesellschaft für die Eltons. Sie lädt Harriet ein, weil sie acht Personen braucht, um einen ausgeglichenen Tisch zu haben. Harriet bittet darum, ausgelassen zu werden, aber ohne Erfolg. Emma drängt sie dazu zu kommen. Im letzten Moment kündigt Emmas Schwager, Mr. John Knightley, an, dass er vorbei kommt, um Emmas Neffen abzusetzen. Es gibt einen kurzen Wirbel, um herauszufinden, wie man ein Abendessen für acht Personen mit neun Personen haben kann, aber das wird reibungslos gelöst. Bei der Party gibt es eine lange Unterhaltung über Jane's Spaziergang zum Postamt. Es ist faszinierend. Sind es nicht alle Postämter? Wir wollen dir den Spaß aber nicht verderben. Du kannst es selbst lesen. Es gibt noch eine großartige Unterhaltung über Handschrift. Emma erklärt, dass Frank Churchill die beste handschrift eines Mannes hat, die sie je gesehen hat. Mr. Knightley meint, dass Frank wie ein Mädchen schreibt. Und das soll kein Kompliment sein. Die Party geht alle zum Abendessen. Mrs. Elton platziert sich strategisch am Ende des Raumes, der dem Esszimmer am nächsten liegt, um es so aussehen zu lassen, als ob sie die erste Person ist, die ins Abendessen 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: It was eight o'clock when we landed; we walked for a short time on the shore, enjoying the transitory light, and then retired to the inn, and contemplated the lovely scene of waters, woods, and mountains, obscured in darkness, yet still displaying their black outlines. The wind, which had fallen in the south, now rose with great violence in the west. The moon had reached her summit in the heavens, and was beginning to descend; the clouds swept across it swifter than the flight of the vulture, and dimmed her rays, while the lake reflected the scene of the busy heavens, rendered still busier by the restless waves that were beginning to rise. Suddenly a heavy storm of rain descended. I had been calm during the day; but so soon as night obscured the shapes of objects, a thousand fears arose in my mind. I was anxious and watchful, while my right hand grasped a pistol which was hidden in my bosom; every sound terrified me; but I resolved that I would sell my life dearly, and not relax the impending conflict until my own life, or that of my adversary, were extinguished. Elizabeth observed my agitation for some time in timid and fearful silence; at length she said, "What is it that agitates you, my dear Victor? What is it you fear?" "Oh! peace, peace, my love," replied I, "this night, and all will be safe: but this night is dreadful, very dreadful." I passed an hour in this state of mind, when suddenly I reflected how dreadful the combat which I momentarily expected would be to my wife, and I earnestly entreated her to retire, resolving not to join her until I had obtained some knowledge as to the situation of my enemy. She left me, and I continued some time walking up and down the passages of the house, and inspecting every corner that might afford a retreat to my adversary. But I discovered no trace of him, and was beginning to conjecture that some fortunate chance had intervened to prevent the execution of his menaces; when suddenly I heard a shrill and dreadful scream. It came from the room into which Elizabeth had retired. As I heard it, the whole truth rushed into my mind, my arms dropped, the motion of every muscle and fibre was suspended; I could feel the blood trickling in my veins, and tingling in the extremities of my limbs. This state lasted but for an instant; the scream was repeated, and I rushed into the room. Great God! why did I not then expire! Why am I here to relate the destruction of the best hope, and the purest creature of earth. She was there, lifeless and inanimate, thrown across the bed, her head hanging down, and her pale and distorted features half covered by her hair. Every where I turn I see the same figure--her bloodless arms and relaxed form flung by the murderer on its bridal bier. Could I behold this, and live? Alas! life is obstinate, and clings closest where it is most hated. For a moment only did I lose recollection; I fainted. When I recovered, I found myself surrounded by the people of the inn; their countenances expressed a breathless terror: but the horror of others appeared only as a mockery, a shadow of the feelings that oppressed me. I escaped from them to the room where lay the body of Elizabeth, my love, my wife, so lately living, so dear, so worthy. She had been moved from the posture in which I had first beheld her; and now, as she lay, her head upon her arm, and a handkerchief thrown across her face and neck, I might have supposed her asleep. I rushed towards her, and embraced her with ardour; but the deathly languor and coldness of the limbs told me, that what I now held in my arms had ceased to be the Elizabeth whom I had loved and cherished. The murderous mark of the fiend's grasp was on her neck, and the breath had ceased to issue from her lips. While I still hung over her in the agony of despair, I happened to look up. The windows of the room had before been darkened; and I felt a kind of panic on seeing the pale yellow light of the moon illuminate the chamber. The shutters had been thrown back; and, with a sensation of horror not to be described, I saw at the open window a figure the most hideous and abhorred. A grin was on the face of the monster; he seemed to jeer, as with his fiendish finger he pointed towards the corpse of my wife. I rushed towards the window, and drawing a pistol from my bosom, shot; but he eluded me, leaped from his station, and, running with the swiftness of lightning, plunged into the lake. The report of the pistol brought a crowd into the room. I pointed to the spot where he had disappeared, and we followed the track with boats; nets were cast, but in vain. After passing several hours, we returned hopeless, most of my companions believing it to have been a form conjured by my fancy. After having landed, they proceeded to search the country, parties going in different directions among the woods and vines. I did not accompany them; I was exhausted: a film covered my eyes, and my skin was parched with the heat of fever. In this state I lay on a bed, hardly conscious of what had happened; my eyes wandered round the room, as if to seek something that I had lost. At length I remembered that my father would anxiously expect the return of Elizabeth and myself, and that I must return alone. This reflection brought tears into my eyes, and I wept for a long time; but my thoughts rambled to various subjects, reflecting on my misfortunes, and their cause. I was bewildered in a cloud of wonder and horror. The death of William, the execution of Justine, the murder of Clerval, and lastly of my wife; even at that moment I knew not that my only remaining friends were safe from the malignity of the fiend; my father even now might be writhing under his grasp, and Ernest might be dead at his feet. This idea made me shudder, and recalled me to action. I started up, and resolved to return to Geneva with all possible speed. There were no horses to be procured, and I must return by the lake; but the wind was unfavourable, and the rain fell in torrents. However, it was hardly morning, and I might reasonably hope to arrive by night. I hired men to row, and took an oar myself, for I had always experienced relief from mental torment in bodily exercise. But the overflowing misery I now felt, and the excess of agitation that I endured, rendered me incapable of any exertion. I threw down the oar; and, leaning my head upon my hands, gave way to every gloomy idea that arose. If I looked up, I saw the scenes which were familiar to me in my happier time, and which I had contemplated but the day before in the company of her who was now but a shadow and a recollection. Tears streamed from my eyes. The rain had ceased for a moment, and I saw the fish play in the waters as they had done a few hours before; they had then been observed by Elizabeth. Nothing is so painful to the human mind as a great and sudden change. The sun might shine, or the clouds might lour; but nothing could appear to me as it had done the day before. A fiend had snatched from me every hope of future happiness: no creature had ever been so miserable as I was; so frightful an event is single in the history of man. But why should I dwell upon the incidents that followed this last overwhelming event. Mine has been a tale of horrors; I have reached their _acme_, and what I must now relate can but be tedious to you. Know that, one by one, my friends were snatched away; I was left desolate. My own strength is exhausted; and I must tell, in a few words, what remains of my hideous narration. I arrived at Geneva. My father and Ernest yet lived; but the former sunk under the tidings that I bore. I see him now, excellent and venerable old man! his eyes wandered in vacancy, for they had lost their charm and their delight--his niece, his more than daughter, whom he doated on with all that affection which a man feels, who, in the decline of life, having few affections, clings more earnestly to those that remain. Cursed, cursed be the fiend that brought misery on his grey hairs, and doomed him to waste in wretchedness! He could not live under the horrors that were accumulated around him; an apoplectic fit was brought on, and in a few days he died in my arms. What then became of me? I know not; I lost sensation, and chains and darkness were the only objects that pressed upon me. Sometimes, indeed, I dreamt that I wandered in flowery meadows and pleasant vales with the friends of my youth; but awoke, and found myself in a dungeon. Melancholy followed, but by degrees I gained a clear conception of my miseries and situation, and was then released from my prison. For they had called me mad; and during many months, as I understood, a solitary cell had been my habitation. But liberty had been a useless gift to me had I not, as I awakened to reason, at the same time awakened to revenge. As the memory of past misfortunes pressed upon me, I began to reflect on their cause--the monster whom I had created, the miserable daemon whom I had sent abroad into the world for my destruction. I was possessed by a maddening rage when I thought of him, and desired and ardently prayed that I might have him within my grasp to wreak a great and signal revenge on his cursed head. Nor did my hate long confine itself to useless wishes; I began to reflect on the best means of securing him; and for this purpose, about a month after my release, I repaired to a criminal judge in the town, and told him that I had an accusation to make; that I knew the destroyer of my family; and that I required him to exert his whole authority for the apprehension of the murderer. The magistrate listened to me with attention and kindness: "Be assured, sir," said he, "no pains or exertions on my part shall be spared to discover the villain." "I thank you," replied I; "listen, therefore, to the deposition that I have to make. It is indeed a tale so strange, that I should fear you would not credit it, were there not something in truth which, however wonderful, forces conviction. The story is too connected to be mistaken for a dream, and I have no motive for falsehood." My manner, as I thus addressed him, was impressive, but calm; I had formed in my own heart a resolution to pursue my destroyer to death; and this purpose quieted my agony, and provisionally reconciled me to life. I now related my history briefly, but with firmness and precision, marking the dates with accuracy, and never deviating into invective or exclamation. The magistrate appeared at first perfectly incredulous, but as I continued he became more attentive and interested; I saw him sometimes shudder with horror, at others a lively surprise, unmingled with disbelief, was painted on his countenance. When I had concluded my narration, I said. "This is the being whom I accuse, and for whose detection and punishment I call upon you to exert your whole power. It is your duty as a magistrate, and I believe and hope that your feelings as a man will not revolt from the execution of those functions on this occasion." This address caused a considerable change in the physiognomy of my auditor. He had heard my story with that half kind of belief that is given to a tale of spirits and supernatural events; but when he was called upon to act officially in consequence, the whole tide of his incredulity returned. He, however, answered mildly, "I would willingly afford you every aid in your pursuit; but the creature of whom you speak appears to have powers which would put all my exertions to defiance. Who can follow an animal which can traverse the sea of ice, and inhabit caves and dens, where no man would venture to intrude? Besides, some months have elapsed since the commission of his crimes, and no one can conjecture to what place he has wandered, or what region he may now inhabit." "I do not doubt that he hovers near the spot which I inhabit; and if he has indeed taken refuge in the Alps, he may be hunted like the chamois, and destroyed as a beast of prey. But I perceive your thoughts: you do not credit my narrative, and do not intend to pursue my enemy with the punishment which is his desert." As I spoke, rage sparkled in my eyes; the magistrate was intimidated; "You are mistaken," said he, "I will exert myself; and if it is in my power to seize the monster, be assured that he shall suffer punishment proportionate to his crimes. But I fear, from what you have yourself described to be his properties, that this will prove impracticable, and that, while every proper measure is pursued, you should endeavour to make up your mind to disappointment." "That cannot be; but all that I can say will be of little avail. My revenge is of no moment to you; yet, while I allow it to be a vice, I confess that it is the devouring and only passion of my soul. My rage is unspeakable, when I reflect that the murderer, whom I have turned loose upon society, still exists. You refuse my just demand: I have but one resource; and I devote myself, either in my life or death, to his destruction." I trembled with excess of agitation as I said this; there was a phrenzy in my manner, and something, I doubt not, of that haughty fierceness, which the martyrs of old are said to have possessed. But to a Genevan magistrate, whose mind was occupied by far other ideas than those of devotion and heroism, this elevation of mind had much the appearance of madness. He endeavoured to soothe me as a nurse does a child, and reverted to my tale as the effects of delirium. "Man," I cried, "how ignorant art thou in thy pride of wisdom! Cease; you know not what it is you say." I broke from the house angry and disturbed, and retired to meditate on some other mode of action. Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Als Victor und Elizabeth in Como landen, ist bereits die Nacht hereingebrochen. Der Wind wird plötzlich heftiger und Frankenstein wird immer ängstlicher: Er ist sicher, dass entweder er oder sein Geschöpf heute Nacht sterben wird. Elizabeth, die seine Unruhe bemerkt, bittet ihn inständig, ihr zu sagen, wovor er sich fürchtet. Obwohl er versucht, sie zu beruhigen, kann er sich nicht dazu durchringen, auf ihre Frage zu antworten; er sagt nur, dass es eine schreckliche Nacht ist. In der Hoffnung, Elizabeth den Anblick des Monsters zu ersparen, bittet Victor sie, sich in ihr Schlafzimmer zurückzuziehen. Sie gehorcht und Victor streift durch die Flure ihrer Villa, auf der Suche nach irgendwelchen Spuren des Monsters. Schließlich hört er einen schrecklichen Schrei; zu spät erkennt Victor das Ausmaß seines Fehlers. Als er das Schlafzimmer betritt, findet er Elizabeth ermordet auf dem Bett liegend, ihre Kleidung und Haare in Unordnung; die Abdrücke der Finger des Monsters sind noch frisch auf ihrem Hals. Unfähig, den Schock zu ertragen, bricht er zusammen. Als er wieder zu sich kommt, findet er sich von den Menschen der Herberge umgeben; er entkommt ihnen und flüchtet in den Raum, in dem Elizabeths Leiche liegt. Er fällt über ihren Körper und nimmt sie in seine Arme. Von unaussprechlicher Trauer gequält, sieht er das Monster grinsend durch die Fensterscheibe. Victor feuert seine Pistole ab, doch das Geschöpf entzieht sich ihm. Frankenstein alarmiert die anderen Gäste von der Anwesenheit des Mörders, und sie versuchen vergeblich, ihn festzunehmen. Obwohl er sich danach sehnt, ihnen bei der Suche zu helfen, ist er aufgrund seines Schocks und seiner elenden Verfassung schwach; kaum bei Bewusstsein wird er in sein Bett getragen. Er erkennt, dass er nicht weiß, ob sein Vater und sein Bruder in Sicherheit sind, und sammelt all seine Kraft, um nach Genf zu reisen. Auf der Reise reflektiert er, dass er jegliche Hoffnung auf zukünftiges Glück verloren hat; kein Geschöpf in der ganzen Schöpfung ist so elend wie er. Obwohl sowohl Alphonse als auch Ernest bei der Ankunft von Victor sicher sind, erliegt ersterer bald nach der Nachricht von Elizabeths Tod. Victor hat keine Erinnerung an die Zeit, die unmittelbar auf den Tod seines Vaters folgte; später erfährt er, dass er in einem elenden Irrenhaus gefangen gehalten wurde und für verrückt erklärt wurde. Nach seiner Entlassung ist Victor von Gedanken an Rache gegen sein Geschöpf besessen. Er besucht einen Magistrat, um Hilfe von der Justiz bei der Festnahme des Geschöpfs zu erbitten. Obwohl der Beamte aufmerksam zuhört, ist klar, dass er Frankensteins wilder Geschichte nur halb glaubt. Er sagt Victor ganz vernünftig, dass es nahezu unmöglich wäre, ein übermenschliches Wesen der von ihm beschriebenen Art zu verfolgen. Frankenstein ist wütend und schwört, sich der Vernichtung des Geschöpfs zu widmen. Er erkennt seine Rachegier als Laster an, sagt jedoch, dass sie in seinem gegenwärtigen elenden Zustand "die verschlingende und einzige Leidenschaft seiner Seele" 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 XX. The Dainty China Country. [Illustration] [Illustration] While the Woodman was making a ladder from wood which he found in the forest Dorothy lay down and slept, for she was tired by the long walk. The Lion also curled himself up to sleep and Toto lay beside him. The Scarecrow watched the Woodman while he worked, and said to him: "I cannot think why this wall is here, nor what it is made of." "Rest your brains and do not worry about the wall," replied the Woodman; "when we have climbed over it we shall know what is on the other side." After a time the ladder was finished. It looked clumsy, but the Tin Woodman was sure it was strong and would answer their purpose. The Scarecrow waked Dorothy and the Lion and Toto, and told them that the ladder was ready. The Scarecrow climbed up the ladder first, but he was so awkward that Dorothy had to follow close behind and keep him from falling off. When he got his head over the top of the wall the Scarecrow said, "Oh, my!" "Go on," exclaimed Dorothy. So the Scarecrow climbed further up and sat down on the top of the wall, and Dorothy put her head over and cried, "Oh, my!" just as the Scarecrow had done. Then Toto came up, and immediately began to bark, but Dorothy made him be still. The Lion climbed the ladder next, and the Tin Woodman came last; but both of them cried, "Oh, my!" as soon as they looked over the wall. When they were all sitting in a row on the top of the wall they looked down and saw a strange sight. [Illustration: "_These people were all made of china._"] Before them was a great stretch of country having a floor as smooth and shining and white as the bottom of a big platter. Scattered around were many houses made entirely of china and painted in the brightest colours. These houses were quite small, the biggest of them reaching only as high as Dorothy's waist. There were also pretty little barns, with china fences around them, and many cows and sheep and horses and pigs and chickens, all made of china, were standing about in groups. But the strangest of all were the people who lived in this queer country. There were milk-maids and shepherdesses, with bright-colored bodices and golden spots all over their gowns; and princesses with most gorgeous frocks of silver and gold and purple; and shepherds dressed in knee-breeches with pink and yellow and blue stripes down them, and golden buckles on their shoes; and princes with jewelled crowns upon their heads, wearing ermine robes and satin doublets; and funny clowns in ruffled gowns, with round red spots upon their cheeks and tall, pointed caps. And, strangest of all, these people were all made of china, even to their clothes, and were so small that the tallest of them was no higher than Dorothy's knee. No one did so much as look at the travellers at first, except one little purple china dog with an extra-large head, which came to the wall and barked at them in a tiny voice, afterwards running away again. "How shall we get down?" asked Dorothy. They found the ladder so heavy they could not pull it up, so the Scarecrow fell off the wall and the others jumped down upon him so that the hard floor would not hurt their feet. Of course they took pains not to light on his head and get the pins in their feet. When all were safely down they picked up the Scarecrow, whose body was quite flattened out, and patted his straw into shape again. "We must cross this strange place in order to get to the other side," said Dorothy; "for it would be unwise for us to go any other way except due South." They began walking through the country of the china people, and the first thing they came to was a china milk-maid milking a china cow. As they drew near the cow suddenly gave a kick and kicked over the stool, the pail, and even the milk-maid herself, all falling on the china ground with a great clatter. Dorothy was shocked to see that the cow had broken her leg short off, and that the pail was lying in several small pieces, while the poor milk-maid had a nick in her left elbow. "There!" cried the milk-maid, angrily; "see what you have done! My cow has broken her leg, and I must take her to the mender's shop and have it glued on again. What do you mean by coming here and frightening my cow?" "I'm very sorry," returned Dorothy; "please forgive us." But the pretty milk-maid was much too vexed to make any answer. She picked up the leg sulkily and led her cow away, the poor animal limping on three legs. As she left them the milk-maid cast many reproachful glances over her shoulder at the clumsy strangers, holding her nicked elbow close to her side. [Illustration] Dorothy was quite grieved at this mishap. "We must be very careful here," said the kind-hearted Woodman, "or we may hurt these pretty little people so they will never get over it." A little farther on Dorothy met a most beautiful dressed young princess, who stopped short as she saw the strangers and started to run away. Dorothy wanted to see more of the Princess, so she ran after her; but the china girl cried out, "Don't chase me! don't chase me!" She had such a frightened little voice that Dorothy stopped and said, "Why not?" "Because," answered the princess, also stopping, a safe distance away, "if I run I may fall down and break myself." "But couldn't you be mended?" asked the girl. "Oh, yes; but one is never so pretty after being mended, you know," replied the princess. "I suppose not," said Dorothy. "Now there is Mr. Joker, one of our clowns," continued the china lady, "who is always trying to stand upon his head. He has broken himself so often that he is mended in a hundred places, and doesn't look at all pretty. Here he comes now, so you can see for yourself." Indeed, a jolly little Clown now came walking toward them, and Dorothy could see that in spite of his pretty clothes of red and yellow and green he was completely covered with cracks, running every which way and showing plainly that he had been mended in many places. The Clown put his hands in his pockets, and after puffing out his cheeks and nodding his head at them saucily he said, "My lady fair, Why do you stare At poor old Mr. Joker? You're quite as stiff And prim as if You'd eaten up a poker!" "Be quiet, sir!" said the princess; "can't you see these are strangers, and should be treated with respect?" "Well, that's respect, I expect," declared the Clown, and immediately stood upon his head. "Don't mind Mr. Joker," said the princess to Dorothy; "he is considerably cracked in his head, and that makes him foolish." [Illustration] "Oh, I don't mind him a bit," said Dorothy. "But you are so beautiful," she continued, "that I am sure I could love you dearly. Won't you let me carry you back to Kansas and stand you on Aunt Em's mantle-shelf? I could carry you in my basket." "That would make me very unhappy," answered the china princess. "You see, here in our own country we live contentedly, and can talk and move around as we please. But whenever any of us are taken away our joints at once stiffen, and we can only stand straight and look pretty. Of course that is all that is expected of us when we are on mantle-shelves and cabinets and drawing-room tables, but our lives are much pleasanter here in our own country." "I would not make you unhappy for all the world!" exclaimed Dorothy; "so I'll just say good-bye." "Good-bye," replied the princess. They walked carefully through the china country. The little animals and all the people scampered out of their way, fearing the strangers would break them, and after an hour or so the travellers reached the other side of the country and came to another china wall. It was not as high as the first, however, and by standing upon the Lion's back they all managed to scramble to the top. Then the Lion gathered his legs under him and jumped on the wall; but just as he jumped he upset a china church with his tail and smashed it all to pieces. "That was too bad," said Dorothy, "but really I think we were lucky in not doing these little people more harm than breaking a cow's leg and a church. They are all so brittle!" "Das stimmt," sagte der Vogelscheuche, "und ich bin dankbar, dass ich aus Stroh gemacht bin und nicht leicht beschädigt werden kann. Es gibt schlimmere Dinge in der Welt als eine Vogelscheuche zu sein." 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.

Während der Zinnsoldat die Leiter baut, fragt sich die Vogelscheuche, was jenseits der Mauer liegt. Der Zinnsoldat sagt, es macht keinen Sinn, sich darüber Gedanken zu machen. Was auch immer dort ist, ist dort. Die Leiter ist fertig und die Vogelscheuche geht als Erste hoch. Dorothy ist direkt hinter ihm. Alle sind erstaunt über das, was sich jenseits der Mauer befindet: ein seltsames Land aus Porzellan. Du weißt schon, wie die Art, wie es bei schicken Geschirr hergestellt wird. Die Häuser, die Menschen, die Tiere - alles ist aus Porzellan. Und alles ist im Miniaturformat, wie Figuren. Die Bande kann nicht ganz herausfinden, wie sie die Leiter über die Mauer bringen sollen, also springt die Vogelscheuche hinunter und alle springen auf ihn, um ihre Landung abzufedern. Als sie durch das seltsame Land gehen, erschrecken sie eine Kuh, die einen Eimer umkickt und sich das Bein bricht. Die Porzellanfrau, die die Kuh melkte, ist wirklich wütend. Jetzt muss sie ihre Kuh zu dem Reparateur bringen, um sie zu reparieren. Die Kuh humpelt weg. Der Zinnholzfäller sagt jedem, dass sie sehr vorsichtig sein müssen, wenn sie durch dieses Land gehen. Diese hübschen kleinen Leute sind zerbrechlich. Zwei Sekunden später verfolgt Dorothy eine Porzellanprinzessin, die vor der Gruppe davonläuft. Die Prinzessin bittet sie, anzuhalten. Sie hat Angst, dass sie stürzt und zerbricht. Dorothy versteht das und hört auf, sie zu verfolgen. Die Prinzessin stellt ihnen eine andere Porzellanfigur vor, einen Clown namens Mr. Joker. Er wurde offensichtlich oft gebrochen und repariert. Dorothy erzählt der Prinzessin, dass sie sie mit nach Hause nehmen und auf das Regal stellen möchte. Die Prinzessin lehnt ab. Das klingt schrecklich. Dorothy möchte die Prinzessin nicht unglücklich machen, also gibt sie auf und die Bande macht sich auf den Weg. Schließlich kommen sie zu einer anderen Porzellanwand, aber sie ist nicht so hoch, sodass sie sie ohne die Leiter überqueren können. Auf dem Weg nach draußen zerbricht der Löwe versehentlich eine Kirche mit seinem Schwanz. Dorothy ist einfach dankbar, dass sie nicht mehr Sachen kaputt gemacht haben als sie es getan haben.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: CHERRY PICKING Henry meditated awhile all to himself early the next morning as to whether he ought to take any one with him for the cherry picking. "He certainly said he could use more than one," he mused. Failing to decide the question, he laid it before his sisters as they ate bread and milk for breakfast. "I can't see any reason, except one, why we shouldn't all go," said Jess. "What's that?" asked Henry. "Well, you see there are four of us, and supposing grandfather is looking for us, it will be easier to find four than one." "True," agreed Henry. "But supposing we went down the hill and through the streets two by two? And you took Watch?" It was finally agreed that Henry and Benny would attract very little attention together; Violet and Jess would follow with the dog, who would trace Henry. And so they set out. They took down the clothesline and closed the car door. Everything instantly looked as lonesome as heart could wish. Even the merry little brook looked deserted. When the children arrived at the McAllister orchard they soon saw that they were not the only workers. Two hired men and the young doctor himself were carrying ladders and baskets from the barn, and the Irish cook was bringing piles of square baskets from the house--the kind that strawberries are sold in. "The girls can pick cherries as well as I can," said Henry, introducing his sisters. "Benny ought not to climb very tall trees, but we had to bring him." "Benny can carry the baskets, perhaps," suggested the doctor, much amused. "You see, this is a cherry year, and we have to work quickly when we once begin. Perhaps he could fill the small baskets from the big ones." It was a "cherry year," certainly. There were two varieties in the orchard, the pale yellow kind with a red cheek, and the deep crimson ones which were just as red in the center as they were on the outside. The red ones were huge, bursting with juice, and the trees were laden full with the luscious fruit. Even the air was perfumed. It was a pretty sight that the doctor finally turned his back upon when he went on his calls. Henry, slim, tanned, and graceful, picked rapidly from the tallest ladder in the largest tree. The two girls in their sensible bloomer suits could climb like cats. They leaned against the ladders easily about halfway up, their fluffy short hair gleaming in the sun. Benny trotted to and fro, waiting upon the busy pickers, his cheeks as red as the cherries themselves. "Eat all you want," Dr. McAllister called back. They did not really obey this command, but occasionally a set of white teeth bit into one of the glorious oxhearts. In less than an hour Benny had made five firm friends. The hired men joked with him, the cook petted him, the young doctor laughed at him delightedly, and sweet Mrs. McAllister fell in love with him. Finally he seated himself comfortably at her side under the trees and filled square boxes with great care under her direction. "I never had such a cheerful crowd of cherry pickers before," Mrs. McAllister said at last. "I'd much rather stay out here than go into the house where it is cool." Evidently Mary the cook felt the same way, for she kept coming to the orchard for some reason or other. When the doctor returned at lunch time his orchard was ringing with laughter, and good-natured barks from Watch who could not feel easy in his mind with his mistress so high up in a tree where he couldn't follow. Dr. McAllister paused in the garage long enough to give a sniff to the boiling cherries in the kitchen, and then made his way to the orchard, where he received a warm welcome. "There's no use in your going home to lunch," he smilingly observed, at the same time watching Henry's face carefully. "You can eat right here in the orchard, unless your mother will be worrying about you." This remark met with an astounding silence. Henry was the first to collect his wits. "No, our mother is dead," he said evenly, without embarrassment. It was the doctor who hastened to change the subject he had introduced. "I smelled something when I came in," he said to Benny. "What did it smell like?" inquired Benny. "It smelled like cherry slump," replied the doctor with twinkling eyes. "Cherry _what_?" asked Jess, struggling down her ladder with a full basket. "I think that's what they call it--slump," repeated Dr. McAllister. "Do you care to try it?" At this moment Mary appeared in the orchard with an enormous tray. And at the first sight of her cookery, nobody cared the least what its name was. It was that rare combination of dumpling beaten with stoned cherries, and cooked gently in the juice of the oxheart cherries in a real "cherry year." It was steaming in the red juice, with the least suspicion of melted butter over the whole. "Do get two more, Mary," begged Mrs. McAllister, laughing. "It tastes so much better under the cherry trees!" This was another meal that nobody ever forgot. Even the two hired men sitting under another tree devouring the delicious pudding, paused to hear Benny laugh. Nowadays those two men sometimes meet Henry--but that's another story. Anyway, they never will forget that cherry slump made by Irish Mary. Almost as soon as lunch was over Benny rolled over on the grass and went to sleep, his head, as usual, on the dog's back. But the others worked on steadily. Mrs. McAllister kept an eye on them from the screened porch without their knowledge. "Just see how those children keep at it," she said to her son. "There is good stuff in them. I should like to know where they come from." Dr. McAllister said nothing. He sauntered out into the orchard when he thought they had worked long enough. He paid them four dollars and gave them all the cherries they could carry, although they tried to object. "You see, you're better than most pickers, because you're so cheerful." He noticed that they did not all leave the yard at the same time. When the cherry pickers returned to their little home they examined everything carefully. Nothing had been disturbed. The door was still shut, and the milk and butter stood untouched in the refrigerator. They made a hilarious meal of raw cherries and bread and butter, and before the stars came out they were fast asleep--happy and dreamless. That evening, very much later, a young man sat in his study with the evening paper. He read the news idly, and was just on the point of tossing the paper aside when this advertisement caught his eye: Lost. Four children, aged thirteen, twelve, ten and five. Somewhere around the region of Middlesex and Townsend. $5000 reward for information. JAMES HENRY CORDYCE "Whew!" whistled the young man. "James Henry Cordyce!" He sat in perfect silence for a long time, thinking. Then he went to bed. But long after he had gone upstairs he whistled again, and could have been heard to say-if anyone had been awake to hear it--"James Henry Cordyce! Of all people!" 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.

Henry überlegt, ob er die anderen Kinder mit zum Kirschenpflücken nehmen sollte, also fragt er Jessie, was sie denkt. Jessie denkt, dass ihr Großvater möglicherweise Ausschau hält nach vier Kindern, die zusammen unterwegs sind, also schlägt sie vor, dass sie paarweise in die Stadt gehen. Es ist Kirschzeit. Die ganze Bande ist da, aber Benny ist zu klein, um Kirschen zu pflücken, also wird er nur zuschauen. Henry, Jessie und Violet fangen an zu pflücken, während Benny einfach nur herumläuft, Kirschen isst und sich mit allen anfreundet. Zur Mittagszeit lädt Dr. Moore die Kinder ein, zu bleiben und zu essen. Er fragt, ob ihre Mutter etwas dagegen hätte und wirft Henry einen fragenden Blick zu. Könnte er vielleicht wissen, dass sie alleine sind? Henry weiß nicht, was er zur Sache mit der Mutter sagen soll, aber Jessie tritt ein und sagt, ihre Eltern seien tot. Alle essen zu Mittag und es gibt Kirschknödel zum Nachtisch. Lecker. Dann legt sich Benny zum Mittagsschlaf hin und die anderen Kinder arbeiten weiter. Am Ende des Tages gibt Dr. Moore den Kindern 4 Dollar und mehr Kirschen. Er bemerkt, dass die Kinder paarweise gehen, anstatt zusammen als Gruppe zu laufen. Der Güterwaggon ist genau so, wie die Kinder ihn verlassen haben, also essen sie zu Abend und gehen schlafen. In dieser Nacht sieht Dr. Moore eine Anzeige in der Zeitung: Ein Mann namens James Henry Alden bietet 5.000 Dollar für vier verlorene Kinder. Dr. Moore weiß sofort, dass es sich bei den gesuchten Kindern um seine Arbeiter handelt. Diesem Arzt entgeht nichts. Dr. Moore beschließt jedoch, das Geheimnis der Kinder für sich zu behalten, weil er cool 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: Er ging am nächsten Tag zu Madame Merle und zu seiner Überraschung ließ sie ihn ziemlich leicht davonkommen. Aber sie ließ ihn versprechen, dass er dort bleiben würde, bis etwas entschieden wäre. Herr Osmond hatte höhere Erwartungen gehabt; es war wahr, dass, da er nicht die Absicht hatte, seiner Tochter eine Mitgift zu geben, solche Erwartungen kritisiert werden konnten oder sogar, wenn man wollte, lächerlich waren. Aber sie würde Mr. Rosier raten, diesen Ton nicht anzunehmen; wenn er seine Seele in Geduld besitzen würde, könnte er zu seinem Glück gelangen. Herr Osmond war nicht sehr geneigt gegen seine Anträge, aber es wäre kein Wunder, wenn er sich allmählich umstimmen lassen würde. Pansy würde niemals ihren Vater herausfordern, davon könnte er abhängen; also nichts würde durch Eile gewonnen werden. Herr Osmond müsste sich daran gewöhnen, ein Angebot anzunehmen, von dem er bisher keine Vorstellung gehabt hatte, und dieses Ergebnis müsse von selbst kommen - es sei sinnlos, es erzwingen zu wollen. Rosier bemerkte, dass seine eigene Situation in der Zwischenzeit die unangenehmste der Welt sein würde, und Madame Merle versicherte ihm, dass sie Mitleid mit ihm habe. Aber, wie sie zu Recht feststellte, konnte man nicht alles haben, was man wollte; sie hatte diese Lektion für sich selbst gelernt. Es wäre zwecklos für ihn, an Gilbert Osmond zu schreiben, der ihr aufgetragen hatte, ihm das zu sagen. Er wünschte, die Angelegenheit für ein paar Wochen ruhen zu lassen und selbst zu schreiben, wenn er etwas zu kommunizieren hätte, was Herrn Rosier freuen würde zu hören. "Er mag es nicht, dass du mit Pansy gesprochen hast, Ah, er mag es überhaupt nicht", sagte Madame Merle. "Ich bin vollkommen bereit, ihm die Möglichkeit zu geben, es mir zu sagen!" "Wenn du das tust, wird er dir mehr sagen, als du hören möchtest. Gehe für den nächsten Monat so wenig wie möglich ins Haus und überlasse den Rest mir." "So wenig wie möglich? Wer soll die Möglichkeit messen?" "Lasse mich sie messen. Gehe an Donnerstagabenden mit dem Rest der Welt, aber gehe überhaupt nicht zu ungewöhnlichen Zeiten und mache dir keine Sorgen um Pansy. Ich werde dafür sorgen, dass sie alles versteht. Sie ist eine ruhige kleine Natur; sie wird es ruhig aufnehmen." Edward Rosier machte sich viele Sorgen um Pansy, aber er tat, wie ihm geraten wurde, und wartete einen weiteren Donnerstagabend ab, bevor er ins Palazzo Roccanera zurückkehrte. Es hatte ein Abendessen gegeben, so dass, obwohl er früh kam, die Gesellschaft bereits ziemlich zahlreich war. Osmond saß wie gewöhnlich im ersten Raum, in der Nähe des Feuers und starrte direkt auf die Tür, so dass Rosier, um nicht ausgesprochen unhöflich zu sein, zu ihm gehen und mit ihm reden musste. "Ich bin froh, dass du eine Andeutung aufnehmen kannst", sagte Pansys Vater und schloss leicht die wachen, bewussten Augen. "Ich nehme keine Andeutungen auf. Aber ich habe eine Nachricht aufgenommen, wie ich dachte." "Du hast sie aufgenommen? Wo hast du sie aufgenommen?" Für den armen Rosier schien es, als werde er beleidigt, und er wartete einen Moment und fragte sich, wie weit ein wahrer Liebhaber sich unterwerfen sollte. "Madame Merle hat mir, wie ich verstand, eine Nachricht von Ihnen gegeben - mit der Botschaft, dass Sie mir nicht die gewünschte Gelegenheit geben, meine Wünsche Ihnen gegenüber zu erklären." Und er meinte, recht strenge zu sprechen. "Ich sehe nicht, was Madame Merle damit zu tun hat. Warum hast du dich an Madame Merle gewandt?" "Ich habe sie nur um ihre Meinung gebeten - um nichts weiter. Ich habe es getan, weil sie mir schien, Sie sehr gut zu kennen." "Sie kennt mich nicht so gut, wie sie meint", sagte Osmond. "Dafür tut es mir leid, denn sie hat mir einige kleine Hoffnung gegeben." Osmond starrte eine Weile ins Feuer. "Ich schätze meine Tochter sehr." "Sie können keinen höheren Preis dafür setzen als ich es tue. Beweise ich nicht, dass ich sie heiraten möchte?" "Ich möchte sie sehr gut heiraten", fuhr Osmond mit einer trockenen Frechheit fort, die Rosier in einem anderen Zustand bewundern würde. Natürlich gebe ich vor, dass sie gut heiraten würde, wenn sie mich heiratet. Sie könnte keinen Mann heiraten, der sie mehr liebt - oder wen sie vielleicht zu fügen darf, fügte er hinzu." "Ich bin nicht verpflichtet, Ihre Theorien darüber anzunehmen, wen meine Tochter liebt" - und Osmond sah mit einem schnellen, kalten Lächeln auf. "Ich theorisiere nicht. Ihre Tochter hat gesprochen." "Nicht zu mir", fuhr Osmond fort und beugte sich jetzt ein wenig vor und senkte den Blick auf seine Stiefelsohlen. "Ich habe ihr Versprechen, Sir!" rief Rosier mit der Schärfe der Verzweiflung. Da ihre Stimmen zuvor sehr leise gewesen waren, zog diese Note etwas Aufmerksamkeit von der Gesellschaft auf sich. Osmond wartete, bis sich diese kleine Bewegung gelegt hatte; dann sagte er ganz ungestört: "Ich glaube, sie hat keine Erinnerung, es gegeben zu haben." Sie standen mit dem Gesicht zum Feuer und nachdem er diese letzten Worte ausgesprochen hatte, drehte sich der Hausherr wieder zum Raum. Bevor Rosier antworten konnte, bemerkte er, dass ein Herr - ein Fremder - gerade eingetreten war, unaufgefordert, wie es in Rom üblich war, und sich seinem Gastgeber vorstellen wollte. Letzterer lächelte freundlich, aber etwas abwesend; der Besucher hatte ein hübsches Gesicht und einen großen, blonden Bart und war offenbar ein Engländer. "Du scheinst mich offenbar nicht zu erkennen", sagte er mit einem Lächeln, das mehr ausdrückte als Osmonds. "Ah ja, jetzt erkenne ich dich. Ich habe so wenig erwartet, dich zu sehen." Rosier verließ den Raum und verfolgte Pansy direkt. Er suchte sie wie üblich im Nebenraum, traf jedoch erneut auf Mrs. Osmond auf seinem Weg. Er begrüßte seine Gastgeberin nicht - er war zu recht entrüstet -, sondern sagte grob zu ihr: "Ihr Ehemann ist furchtbar kaltblütig." Sie zeigte das gleiche mystische Lächeln, das er zuvor bemerkt hatte. "Man kann nicht erwarten, dass jeder so heißblütig ist wie du." "Ich gebe nicht vor kalt zu sein, aber ich bin ruhig. Was hat er mit seiner Tochter gemacht?" "Ich habe keine Ahnung." Interessieren Sie sich nicht dafür?" fragte Rosier mit dem Gefühl, dass auch sie ihn reizte. Für einen Moment antwortete sie nichts; dann sagte sie abrupt und mit einem schnell aufleuchtenden Licht in ihren Augen, das dem Wort direkt widersprach: "Nein!" "Verzeihen Sie mir, wenn ich das nicht glaube. Wo ist Miss Osmond?" "Da drüben in der Ecke und macht Tee. Lassen Sie sie bitte dort." Rosier entdeckte sofort seine Freundin, die von irgendwelchen Gruppen verdeckt war. Er beobachtete sie, aber ihre Aufmerksamkeit galt ausschließlich ihrer Beschäftigung. "Was zum Teufel hat er ihr angetan?" fragte er wieder flehend. "Er behauptet mir gegenüber, dass sie mich aufgegeben hat." "Sie hat dich nicht aufgegeben", sagte Isabel leise und ohne ihn anzusehen. "Ach, danke dafür! Jetzt werde ich sie so lange in Ruhe lassen, wie Sie es für richtig halten!" Er hatte kaum gesprochen, als er sah, wie sie die Farbe wechselte und sich bewusst wurde, dass Osmond auf sie zukam und von dem Herrn begleitet wurde, der gerade eingetreten war. Letzteren schien er trotz des Vorteils guter Aussehen und offensichtlicher gesellschaftlicher Erfahrung etwas verlegen Das Hotel scheint sehr gut zu sein; ich glaube, es ist dasselbe, in dem ich dich vor vier Jahren gesehen habe. Du weißt, es war hier in Rom, dass wir uns zum ersten Mal getroffen haben; das ist schon lange her. Erinnerst du dich, wo ich dir auf Wiedersehen gesagt habe?", fragte sein Lordship seine Gastgeberin. "Es war auf dem Kapitol, im ersten Raum." "Ich erinnere mich daran", sagte Osmond. "Ich war damals dort." "Ja, ich erinnere mich, dass du dort warst. Es tut mir sehr leid, Rom zu verlassen - so sehr leid, dass es irgendwie zu einer düsteren Erinnerung geworden ist, und ich bin erst heute zurückgekommen. Aber ich wusste, dass du hier lebst", fuhr ihr alter Freund fort und wandte sich an Isabel, "und ich versichere dir, dass ich oft an dich gedacht habe. Es muss ein bezaubernder Ort zum Leben sein", fügte er mit einem Blick auf ihr eingerichtetes Zuhause hinzu, in dem sie vielleicht den schwachen Hauch seiner damaligen Trübseligkeit wahrnehmen konnte. "Wir hätten dich jederzeit gerne gesehen", bemerkte Osmond angemessen. "Vielen Dank. Ich war seitdem nicht mehr außerhalb von England. Bis vor einem Monat glaubte ich wirklich, dass meine Reisen vorbei waren." "Von Zeit zu Zeit habe ich von dir gehört", sagte Isabel, die bereits mit ihrer seltenen Fähigkeit für solche inneren Leistungen das Ausmaß dessen erfasst hatte, was es für sie bedeutete, ihn wiederzusehen. "Ich hoffe, du hast dabei nichts Schlimmes gehört. Mein Leben war eine bemerkenswert komplette Leere." "Wie die guten Regierungszeiten in der Geschichte", schlug Osmond vor. Er schien zu denken, dass seine Pflichten als Gastgeber nun beendet seien - er hatte sie so gewissenhaft erfüllt. Nichts hätte angemessener, genauer abgestimmt sein können als seine Höflichkeit gegenüber dem alten Freund seiner Frau. Es war pflichtbewusst, es war explizit, es war alles, außer natürlich - eine in den Augen des Lord Warburton, der insgesamt selbst viel von Natur hatte, wahrgenommene Mangel an Natürlichkeit. "Ich lasse euch beide alleine", fügte er hinzu. "Ihr habt Erinnerungen, in die ich nicht eintrete." "Ich fürchte, du verpasst eine Menge!", rief ihm Lord Warburton nach, als er sich entfernte, in einem Ton, der vielleicht übermäßig seine Großzügigkeit wertschätzte. Dann wandte der Besucher Isabel seine tiefste, ernsteste Bewusstheit zu, die allmählich immer ernster wurde. "Ich freue mich wirklich sehr, dich zu sehen." "Es ist sehr angenehm. Du bist sehr freundlich." "Weißt du, dass du dich ein wenig verändert hast?" Sie zögerte kurz. "Ja - ziemlich viel." "Ich meine nicht zum Schlechteren, natürlich; und doch, wie kann ich sagen, zum Besseren?" "Ich glaube, ich werde keine Skrupel haben, das zu dir zu sagen", antwortete sie tapfer. "Nun ja, für mich - es ist eine lange Zeit. Es wäre schade, wenn es nichts zu zeigen gäbe." Sie setzten sich und sie fragte ihn nach seinen Schwestern und stellte andere recht oberflächliche Fragen. Er antwortete auf ihre Fragen, als ob sie ihn interessieren würden, und nach einigen Momenten sah sie - oder glaubte zu sehen -, dass er weniger Gewicht als früher auf sie legen würde. Die Zeit hatte sein Herz berührt und ihm, ohne es zu kühlen, ein erleichtertes Gefühl gegeben, frische Luft zu schnappen. Isabel fühlte ihre übliche Achtung für die Zeit in die Höhe schießen. Das Verhalten ihres Freundes war sicherlich das eines zufriedenen Menschen, der die Menschen, oder zumindest sie, wissen lassen möchte, dass er so ist. "Da gibt es etwas, das ich dir nicht länger vorenthalten darf", fuhr er fort. "Ich habe Ralph Touchett mitgebracht." "Ihn mitgebracht?", Isabel war überrascht. "Er ist im Hotel; er war zu müde, um rauszukommen und ist ins Bett gegangen." "Ich werde ihn besuchen gehen", sagte sie sofort. "Genau das habe ich gehofft. Ich hatte die Idee, dass du nicht viel von ihm gesehen hast, seit du geheiratet hast, dass eure Beziehung etwas formeller ist. Deshalb habe ich gezögert - wie ein ungeschickter Brite." "Ich mag Ralph noch genauso wie früher", antwortete Isabel. "Aber warum ist er nach Rom gekommen?" Die Erklärung war sehr sanft, die Frage etwas scharf. "Weil es ihm sehr schlecht geht, Mrs. Osmond." "Rom ist dann kein Ort für ihn. Ich habe von ihm gehört, dass er beschlossen hat, mit dem Überwintern im Ausland aufzuhören und in England zu bleiben, drinnen, in dem, was er ein künstliches Klima nennt." "Armer Kerl, er schafft es nicht mit dem Künstlichen! Ich habe ihn vor drei Wochen in Gardencourt besucht und ihn völlig krank vorgefunden. Er wird von Jahr zu Jahr schwächer und jetzt hat er keine Kraft mehr. Er raucht keine Zigaretten mehr! Er hatte tatsächlich ein künstliches Klima geschaffen; das Haus war so heiß wie Kalkutta. Trotzdem hatte er plötzlich beschlossen, nach Sizilien zu fahren. Ich glaubte nicht daran - auch die Ärzte nicht, noch einer seiner Freunde. Seine Mutter, wie du wahrscheinlich weißt, ist in Amerika, also gab es niemanden, der ihn davon abhalten konnte. Er blieb bei seiner Idee, dass es seine Rettung wäre, den Winter in Catania zu verbringen. Er sagte, er könne Bedienstete und Möbel mitnehmen und es sich bequem machen, aber in Wirklichkeit hat er nichts mitgebracht. Ich wollte, dass er wenigstens mit dem Schiff fährt, um sich die Anstrengung zu ersparen; aber er sagte, er hasse das Meer und wollte in Rom bleiben. Danach, obwohl ich das alles für Unsinn hielt, habe ich mich entschieden, mit ihm mitzukommen. Ich fungiere als - wie nennt man es in Amerika? - als eine Art Vermittler. Armer Ralph ist jetzt sehr gemäßigt. Wir haben vor zwei Wochen England verlassen und er war auf dem Weg sehr schlecht. Er kann sich nicht warm halten und je weiter südlich wir kommen, desto mehr spürt er die Kälte. Er hat einen ziemlich guten Mann, aber ich fürchte, er ist jenseits menschlicher Hilfe. Ich wollte, dass er jemanden Klugen mitnimmt - ich meine einen schlauen jungen Arzt; aber er wollte nichts davon hören. Wenn ich das sagen darf, glaube ich, dass es für Mrs. Touchett zu einer äußerst ungewöhnlichen Zeit war, nach Amerika zu gehen." Isabel hatte aufmerksam zugehört; ihr Gesicht war voller Schmerz und Bewunderung. "Meine Tante tut das in regelmäßigen Abständen und lässt sich von nichts abbringen. Wenn der Termin kommt, startet sie; ich denke, sie wäre gestartet, auch wenn Ralph im Sterben gelegen hätte." "Ich denke manchmal, dass er am Sterben ist", sagte Lord Warburton. Isabel sprang auf. "Dann gehe ich jetzt zu ihm." Er hielt sie auf; er war etwas verlegen über die schnelle Wirkung seiner Worte. "Ich meine nicht, dass ich das heute Abend gedacht habe. Im Gegenteil, heute, im Zug, schien er besonders gut drauf zu sein; die Vorstellung, dass wir Rom erreichen - er liebt Rom sehr, weißt du - hat ihm Kraft gegeben. Vor einer Stunde, als ich ihm gute Nacht gesagt habe, hat er mir gesagt, dass er sehr müde, aber sehr glücklich ist. Geh morgen zu ihm; das meine ich nur. Ich habe ihm nicht gesagt, dass ich hierher komme; ich habe mich erst nach unserer Trennung entschieden. Dann ist mir eingefallen, dass er mir gesagt hat, dass du einen Abend hast und dass es genau dieser Donnerstag ist. Es ist mir eingefallen, vorbeizukommen und dir zu sagen, dass er hier ist, und dass du vielleicht besser nicht darauf wartest, dass er Isabel hatte viele Fragen über Ralph zu stellen, doch sie unterließ es, sie alle zu stellen. Sie würde es morgen selbst sehen. Sie erkannte, dass Lord Warburton bald genug von diesem Thema genug haben würde - er hatte eine Vorstellung von anderen möglichen Themen. Sie konnte immer mehr zu sich selbst sagen, dass er sich erholt hatte, und was noch wichtiger war, sie konnte es ohne Bitterkeit sagen. Er war für sie, früher, ein Bild von Dringlichkeit, von Beharren, von etwas, dem sie widerstehen und vernünftig mit ihm umgehen musste, dass sein Wiedererscheinen sie anfangs mit einer neuen Schwierigkeit bedrohte. Aber sie war jetzt beruhigt; sie konnte sehen, dass er nur auf gutem Fuß mit ihr leben wollte, dass sie verstehen sollte, dass er ihr vergeben hatte und unfähig war, mit spitzen Andeutungen umzugehen. Das war natürlich keine Form der Rache; sie hatte keinen Verdacht, dass er sie bestrafen wollte, indem er eine Enttäuschung zur Schau stellte; sie urteilte gerecht, dass es ihm einfach eingefallen war, dass sie nun ein gutmütiges Interesse daran haben würde, zu wissen, dass er resigniert war. Es war die Resignation eines gesunden, männlichen Charakters, in dem sentimentale Wunden nie schmerzen konnten. Die britische Politik hatte ihn geheilt; sie hatte gewusst, dass sie das tun würde. Sie dachte neidvoll an das glücklichere Los der Männer, die immer frei sind, in die heilenden Gewässer der Tat einzutauchen. Lord Warburton sprach natürlich von der Vergangenheit, aber er sprach davon ohne Implikationen; er ging sogar so weit, auf ihre frühere Begegnung in Rom als sehr lustige Zeit anzuspielen. Und er erzählte ihr, dass er großes Interesse daran hatte, von ihrer Ehe zu hören, und dass es ihm eine große Freude war, Mr. Osmond kennenzulernen - da er sich beim letzten Mal kaum kennengelernt hatte. Er hatte ihr damals nichts geschrieben, dafür entschuldigte er sich aber nicht bei ihr. Das Einzige, was er andeutete, war, dass sie alte Freunde, enge Freunde waren. Er äußerte sich sehr vertraut, als er nach einer kurzen Pause, in der er lächelnd herumschaute, wie eine amüsierte Person bei einem provinziellen Unterhaltungsspiel, plötzlich zu ihr sagte: "Nun, ich nehme an, du bist sehr glücklich und so etwas in der Art?" Isabel antwortete mit einem schnellen Lachen; der Ton seiner Bemerkung erschien ihr fast wie der Akzent einer Komödie. "Glaubst du, wenn ich es nicht wäre, würde ich es dir sagen?" "Nun, ich weiß es nicht. Ich sehe keinen Grund, warum nicht." "Ich tue es dann. Glücklicherweise bin ich jedoch sehr glücklich." "Ihr habt ein furchtbar schönes Haus." "Ja, es ist sehr angenehm. Aber das ist nicht mein Verdienst - es ist mein Ehemanns." "Du meinst, er hat es arrangiert?" "Ja, es war nichts, als wir gekommen sind." "Er muss sehr geschickt sein." "Er hat ein Talent für Innenausstattung", sagte Isabel. "Das ist momentan sehr angesagt. Aber du musst auch einen eigenen Geschmack haben." "Ich genieße Dinge, wenn sie fertig sind, aber ich habe keine Ideen. Ich kann nie etwas vorschlagen." "Meinst du, du nimmst einfach an, was andere vorschlagen?" "Sehr gerne, größtenteils." "Das ist gut zu wissen. Ich werde dir etwas vorschlagen." "Das wäre sehr nett. Ich muss allerdings sagen, dass ich auf gewisse Weise eine gewisse Initiative habe. Ich würde beispielsweise gerne, dass du einige dieser Leute kennenlernst." "Oh, bitte nicht; ich sitze lieber hier. Es sei denn, es wäre dieses junge Mädchen im blauen Kleid. Sie hat ein bezauberndes Gesicht." "Diejenige, die mit dem rosigen jungen Mann spricht? Das ist die Tochter meines Mannes." "Glücklicher Mann, dein Mann. Was für ein liebes kleines Mädchen!" "Du musst ihre Bekanntschaft machen." "Gleich - mit Vergnügen. Ich schaue sie gerne von hier aus an." Er hörte jedoch bald auf, sie anzusehen; seine Augen wandten sich ständig wieder Mrs. Osmond zu. "Weißt du, ich habe mich gerade geirrt, als ich gesagt habe, du hättest dich verändert?", fuhr er fort. "Du scheinst mir immer noch sehr gleich zu sein." "Und dennoch finde ich es eine große Veränderung, verheiratet zu sein," sagte Isabel mit sanfter Fröhlichkeit. "Es beeinflusst die meisten Menschen mehr als dich. Du siehst, ich habe das nicht versucht." "Das überrascht mich ein wenig." "Du solltest das verstehen, Mrs. Osmond. Aber ich möchte wirklich heiraten," fügte er einfacher hinzu. "Es müsste sehr einfach sein", sagte Isabel und stand auf - danach überlegte sie mit einem vielleicht zu deutlichen Stich, dass sie kaum die richtige Person war, um das zu sagen. Es war vielleicht, weil Lord Warburton den Stich erahnte, dass er großzügigerweise darauf verzichtete, ihre Aufmerksamkeit darauf zu lenken, dass sie damals nicht zu der Leichtigkeit beigetragen hatte. Edward Rosier hatte sich inzwischen auf einem Ottomanen neben Pansys Teetisch niedergelassen. Anfangs gab er vor, mit ihr über Belanglosigkeiten zu sprechen, und sie fragte ihn, wer der neue Herr sei, der mit ihrer Stiefmutter sprach. "Er ist ein englischer Lord", sagte Rosier. "Ich weiß nicht mehr." "Ich frage mich, ob er Tee haben wird. Die Engländer sind so verrückt nach Tee." "Ach, das macht nichts; ich habe dir etwas Bestimmtes zu sagen." "Sprich nicht so laut, alle werden es hören", sagte Pansy. "Sie werden es nicht hören, wenn du weiterhin so aussiehst, als ob dein einziger Gedanke im Leben der Wunsch wäre, dass der Wasserkocher kocht." "Er wurde gerade aufgefüllt; die Diener wissen das nie!", seufzte sie mit der Last ihrer Verantwortung. "Weißt du, was dein Vater mir gerade gesagt hat? Dass du nicht das gemeint hast, was du vor einer Woche gesagt hast." "Ich meine nicht alles, was ich sage. Wie kann ein junges Mädchen das auch? Aber ich meine, was ich dir sage." "Er hat mir gesagt, du hättest mich vergessen." "Oh nein, das tue ich nicht, sagte Pansy und zeigte ihre hübschen Zähne in einem festen Lächeln. "Also ist alles genau wie vorher?" "Oh nein, nicht genau wie vorher. Papa ist schrecklich streng gewesen." "Was hat er dir angetan?" "Er hat mich gefragt, was du mir angetan hast, und ich habe ihm alles erzählt. Dann hat er mir verboten, dich zu heiraten." "Das musst du nicht beachten." "Oh ja, das muss ich wirklich. Ich kann Papa nicht ungehorsam sein." "Nicht für jemanden, der dich so liebt wie ich und der vorgibt, dich zu lieben?" Sie hob den Deckel der Teekanne und starrte einen Moment lang in dieses Gefäß; dann ließ sie sechs Wörter in seine aromatischen Tiefen fallen. "Ich liebe dich genauso sehr." "Was bringt mir das?" "Ah", sagte Pansy und hob ihre süßen, vagen Augen, "das weiß ich nicht." "Du enttäuschst mich", stöhnte der arme Rosier. Sie schwieg eine Weile; sie reichte einer Magd eine Teetasse. "Bitte sprich nicht weiter." "Soll das alles sein, was mir Zufriedenheit bringt?" "Papa hat gesagt, ich solle nicht mit dir reden." "Opferst du mich so? Ah, das ist zu viel!" "Ich wünschte, du würdest ein wenig warten", sagte das Mädchen mit einer Stimme, die gerade deutlich genug war, um einen Beben zu verraten. "Natürlich werde ich warten, wenn du mir Hoffnung gibst. Aber du nimmst mir das Leben." "Ich werde dich nicht aufgeben - oh nein!" sagte Pansy. "Er wird versuchen, dich mit jemand anderem zu verheiraten." "Das werde ich niemals tun." "Worauf sollen wir dann warten?" Sie zögerte erneut. "Ich werde mit Mrs. Osmond sprechen und sie wird uns helfen." So bezeichnete sie ihre Stiefmutter meistens. "Sie wird uns nicht viel helfen. Sie hat Angst." "Wovor?" "Vor deinem Vater, nehme ich an." Pansy schüttelte den Kopf. "Sie hat vor niemandem Angst. Wir müssen Geduld haben." "Ah, das ist ein schreckliches Wort", Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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Madame Merle überzeugt Rosier erneut, geduldig zu sein und nur donnerstags bei Pansy vorbeizuschauen, wenn die Osmonds eine Art offenes Haus für ihre Bekannten haben. An einem solchen Donnerstag geht Rosier zu den Osmonds und grüßt Gilbert Osmond erneut. Wieder einmal ist Osmond furchtbar unhöflich. Osmond erfährt, dass Rosier Ratschläge von Madame Merle angenommen hat, und warnt ihn davor, dass sie nicht immer weiß, was Osmond im Kopf hat. Rosier versucht, Osmond zu überzeugen, dass seine Tochter ihn genauso sehr liebt wie er sie, aber Osmond kümmert sich nicht darum. Er sagt kühl, dass Pansy fühlen wird, was immer Osmond will, dass sie fühlt. Rosier spricht anschließend mit Isabel. Isabel gibt vor, sich nicht für seine Verfolgung von Pansy zu interessieren. Osmond stellt Isabel einen Besucher vor: den allgegenwärtigen Lord Warburton. Osmond bleibt lange genug, um oberflächliche Gespräche mit seiner Frau und ihrem alten Freund zu führen. Dann lässt er die beiden allein. Rosier, der seinen eigenen naiven Taten überlassen bleibt, macht sich auf, Pansy zu finden. Lord Warburton erzählt Isabel, dass er Ralph nach Rom begleitet hat und dass sie eine Weile bleiben werden. Er erzählt Isabel auch, dass Ralphs Gesundheit viel schlechter ist und hofft, dass sie ihn bald besuchen wird. Isabel ist bereit, sofort abzureisen, aber Lord Warburton sagt ihr, dass der nächste Morgen in Ordnung ist. In letzter Zeit hat sich Ralphs Gesundheit rapide verschlechtert. Er hatte alleine in Gardencourt übernachtet, aber das war nicht gut für ihn. Frau Touchett ist in Amerika und wird auf ihre Art keine Reise ruhigstellen lassen, auch nicht die Krankheit ihres Sohnes. Isabel hat gelesen, dass Lord Warburton eine Art politisch einflussreicher Mann ist. In den Zeitungen hat sie von seiner radikalen Haltung gelesen. Isabel ist erleichtert, dass Lord Warburton keine Erwähnung ihrer erfolglosen romantischen Vergangenheit macht. Lord Warburton fragt, ob Isabel glücklich ist, und nach einigem Zögern antwortet sie, dass sie sehr glücklich ist. Isabel deutet an, dass sie jetzt zugänglicher ist und die Ideen und Vorschläge anderer akzeptieren wird. Isabel bietet an, Lord Warburton anderen Leuten vorzustellen, aber er sagt, dass ihn nur eine bestimmte kleine, zierliche Jungfrau interessiert: Pansy. Lord Warburton bemerkt, dass die Ehe Isabel nicht so sehr verändert hat, wie er gedacht hatte. Isabel äußert ihre Überraschung darüber, dass Lord Warburton noch nicht geheiratet hat. Er sagt, dass er immer noch hofft. Pansy hat die ganze Zeit mit Rosier gesprochen und fragt, wer Lord Warburton ist. Rosier weiß nichts über ihn außer seinem Rang als Lord. Pansy sagt, dass sie den Wünschen ihres Vaters nicht ungehorsam sein wird, aber sie liebt Rosier genauso sehr wie ihren Vater. Rosier macht sich Sorgen, dass ihr Vater Pansys Meinung ändern wird, aber Pansy behauptet, dass das niemals passieren wird. Sie wird Isabel um Hilfe bitten. Sie scheint großes Vertrauen in die Fähigkeiten ihrer Stiefmutter zu haben. Ned macht sich Sorgen, dass Isabel nichts tun wird, weil sie Angst vor Osmond hat. Pansy sagt, dass Isabel vor nichts Angst hat ... Wir hoffen, dass sie recht hat. Pansy verbeugt sich vor Lord Warburton aus der Ferne.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: TAMAN is the nastiest little hole of all the seaports of Russia. I was all but starved there, to say nothing of having a narrow escape of being drowned. I arrived late at night by the post-car. The driver stopped the tired troika [21] at the gate of the only stone-built house that stood at the entrance to the town. The sentry, a Cossack from the Black Sea, hearing the jingle of the bell, cried out, sleepily, in his barbarous voice, "Who goes there?" An under-officer of Cossacks and a headborough [22] came out. I explained that I was an officer bound for the active-service detachment on Government business, and I proceeded to demand official quarters. The headborough conducted us round the town. Whatever hut we drove up to we found to be occupied. The weather was cold; I had not slept for three nights; I was tired out, and I began to lose my temper. "Take me somewhere or other, you scoundrel!" I cried; "to the devil himself, so long as there's a place to put up at!" "There is one other lodging," answered the headborough, scratching his head. "Only you won't like it, sir. It is uncanny!" Failing to grasp the exact signification of the last phrase, I ordered him to go on, and, after a lengthy peregrination through muddy byways, at the sides of which I could see nothing but old fences, we drove up to a small cabin, right on the shore of the sea. The full moon was shining on the little reed-thatched roof and the white walls of my new dwelling. In the courtyard, which was surrounded by a wall of rubble-stone, there stood another miserable hovel, smaller and older than the first and all askew. The shore descended precipitously to the sea, almost from its very walls, and down below, with incessant murmur, plashed the dark-blue waves. The moon gazed softly upon the watery element, restless but obedient to it, and I was able by its light to distinguish two ships lying at some distance from the shore, their black rigging motionless and standing out, like cobwebs, against the pale line of the horizon. "There are vessels in the harbour," I said to myself. "To-morrow I will set out for Gelenjik." I had with me, in the capacity of soldier-servant, a Cossack of the frontier army. Ordering him to take down the portmanteau and dismiss the driver, I began to call the master of the house. No answer! I knocked--all was silent within!... What could it mean? At length a boy of about fourteen crept out from the hall. "Where is the master?" "There isn't one." "What! No master?" "None!" "And the mistress?" "She has gone off to the village." "Who will open the door for me, then?" I said, giving it a kick. The door opened of its own accord, and a breath of moisture-laden air was wafted from the hut. I struck a lucifer match and held it to the boy's face. It lit up two white eyes. He was totally blind, obviously so from birth. He stood stock-still before me, and I began to examine his features. I confess that I have a violent prejudice against all blind, one-eyed, deaf, dumb, legless, armless, hunchbacked, and such-like people. I have observed that there is always a certain strange connection between a man's exterior and his soul; as, if when the body loses a limb, the soul also loses some power of feeling. And so I began to examine the blind boy's face. But what could be read upon a face from which the eyes are missing?... For a long time I gazed at him with involuntary compassion, when suddenly a scarcely perceptible smile flitted over his thin lips, producing, I know not why, a most unpleasant impression upon me. I began to feel a suspicion that the blind boy was not so blind as he appeared to be. In vain I endeavoured to convince myself that it was impossible to counterfeit cataracts; and besides, what reason could there be for doing such a thing? But I could not help my suspicions. I am easily swayed by prejudice... "You are the master's son?" I asked at length. "No." "Who are you, then?" "An orphan--a poor boy." "Has the mistress any children?" "No, her daughter ran away and crossed the sea with a Tartar." "What sort of a Tartar?" "The devil only knows! A Crimean Tartar, a boatman from Kerch." I entered the hut. Its whole furniture consisted of two benches and a table, together with an enormous chest beside the stove. There was not a single ikon to be seen on the wall--a bad sign! The sea-wind burst in through the broken window-pane. I drew a wax candle-end from my portmanteau, lit it, and began to put my things out. My sabre and gun I placed in a corner, my pistols I laid on the table. I spread my felt cloak out on one bench, and the Cossack his on the other. In ten minutes the latter was snoring, but I could not go to sleep--the image of the boy with the white eyes kept hovering before me in the dark. About an hour passed thus. The moon shone in at the window and its rays played along the earthen floor of the hut. Suddenly a shadow flitted across the bright strip of moonshine which intersected the floor. I raised myself up a little and glanced out of the window. Again somebody ran by it and disappeared--goodness knows where! It seemed impossible for anyone to descend the steep cliff overhanging the shore, but that was the only thing that could have happened. I rose, threw on my tunic, girded on a dagger, and with the utmost quietness went out of the hut. The blind boy was coming towards me. I hid by the fence, and he passed by me with a sure but cautious step. He was carrying a parcel under his arm. He turned towards the harbour and began to descend a steep and narrow path. "On that day the dumb will cry out and the blind will see," I said to myself, following him just close enough to keep him in sight. Meanwhile the moon was becoming overcast by clouds and a mist had risen upon the sea. The lantern alight in the stern of a ship close at hand was scarcely visible through the mist, and by the shore there glimmered the foam of the waves, which every moment threatened to submerge it. Descending with difficulty, I stole along the steep declivity, and all at once I saw the blind boy come to a standstill and then turn down to the right. He walked so close to the water's edge that it seemed as if the waves would straightway seize him and carry him off. But, judging by the confidence with which he stepped from rock to rock and avoided the water-channels, this was evidently not the first time that he had made that journey. Finally he stopped, as though listening for something, squatted down upon the ground, and laid the parcel beside him. Concealing myself behind a projecting rock on the shore, I kept watch on his movements. After a few minutes a white figure made its appearance from the opposite direction. It came up to the blind boy and sat down beside him. At times the wind wafted their conversation to me. "Well?" said a woman's voice. "The storm is violent; Yanko will not be here." "Yanko is not afraid of the storm!" the other replied. "The mist is thickening," rejoined the woman's voice, sadness in its tone. "In the mist it is all the easier to slip past the guardships," was the answer. "And if he is drowned?" "Well, what then? On Sunday you won't have a new ribbon to go to church in." An interval of silence followed. One thing, however, struck me--in talking to me the blind boy spoke in the Little Russian dialect, but now he was expressing himself in pure Russian. "You see, I am right!" the blind boy went on, clapping his hands. "Yanko is not afraid of sea, nor winds, nor mist, nor coastguards! Just listen! That is not the water plashing, you can't deceive me--it is his long oars." The woman sprang up and began anxiously to gaze into the distance. "You are raving!" she said. "I cannot see anything." I confess that, much as I tried to make out in the distance something resembling a boat, my efforts were unsuccessful. About ten minutes passed thus, when a black speck appeared between the mountains of the waves! At one time it grew larger, at another smaller. Slowly rising upon the crests of the waves and swiftly descending from them, the boat drew near to the shore. "He must be a brave sailor," I thought, "to have determined to cross the twenty versts of strait on a night like this, and he must have had a weighty reason for doing so." Reflecting thus, I gazed with an involuntary beating of the heart at the poor boat. It dived like a duck, and then, with rapidly swinging oars--like wings--it sprang forth from the abyss amid the splashes of the foam. "Ah!" I thought, "it will be dashed against the shore with all its force and broken to pieces!" But it turned aside adroitly and leaped unharmed into a little creek. Out of it stepped a man of medium height, wearing a Tartar sheepskin cap. He waved his hand, and all three set to work to drag something out of the boat. The cargo was so large that, to this day, I cannot understand how it was that the boat did not sink. Each of them shouldered a bundle, and they set off along the shore, and I soon lost sight of them. I had to return home; but I confess I was rendered uneasy by all these strange happenings, and I found it hard to await the morning. My Cossack was very much astonished when, on waking up, he saw me fully dressed. I did not, however, tell him the reason. For some time I stood at the window, gazing admiringly at the blue sky all studded with wisps of cloud, and at the distant shore of the Crimea, stretching out in a lilac-coloured streak and ending in a cliff, on the summit of which the white tower of the lighthouse was gleaming. Then I betook myself to the fortress, Phanagoriya, in order to ascertain from the Commandant at what hour I should depart for Gelenjik. But the Commandant, alas! could not give me any definite information. The vessels lying in the harbour were all either guard-ships or merchant-vessels which had not yet even begun to take in lading. "Maybe in about three or four days' time a mail-boat will come in," said the Commandant, "and then we shall see." I returned home sulky and wrathful. My Cossack met me at the door with a frightened countenance. "Things are looking bad, sir!" he said. "Yes, my friend; goodness only knows when we shall get away!" Hereupon he became still more uneasy, and, bending towards me, he said in a whisper: "It is uncanny here! I met an under-officer from the Black Sea to-day--he's an acquaintance of mine--he was in my detachment last year. When I told him where we were staying, he said, 'That place is uncanny, old fellow; they're wicked people there!'... And, indeed, what sort of a blind boy is that? He goes everywhere alone, to fetch water and to buy bread at the bazaar. It is evident they have become accustomed to that sort of thing here." "Well, what then? Tell me, though, has the mistress of the place put in an appearance?" "During your absence to-day, an old woman and her daughter arrived." "What daughter? She has no daughter!" "Goodness knows who it can be if it isn't her daughter; but the old woman is sitting over there in the hut now." I entered the hovel. A blazing fire was burning in the stove, and they were cooking a dinner which struck me as being a rather luxurious one for poor people. To all my questions the old woman replied that she was deaf and could not hear me. There was nothing to be got out of her. I turned to the blind boy who was sitting in front of the stove, putting twigs into the fire. "Now, then, you little blind devil," I said, taking him by the ear. "Tell me, where were you roaming with the bundle last night, eh?" The blind boy suddenly burst out weeping, shrieking and wailing. "Where did I go? I did not go anywhere... With the bundle?... What bundle?" This time the old woman heard, and she began to mutter: "Hark at them plotting, and against a poor boy too! What are you touching him for? What has he done to you?" I had enough of it, and went out, firmly resolved to find the key to the riddle. I wrapped myself up in my felt cloak and, sitting down on a rock by the fence, gazed into the distance. Before me stretched the sea, agitated by the storm of the previous night, and its monotonous roar, like the murmur of a town over which slumber is beginning to creep, recalled bygone years to my mind, and transported my thoughts northward to our cold Capital. Agitated by my recollections, I became oblivious of my surroundings. About an hour passed thus, perhaps even longer. Suddenly something resembling a song struck upon my ear. It was a song, and the voice was a woman's, young and fresh--but, where was it coming from?... I listened; it was a harmonious melody--now long-drawnout and plaintive, now swift and lively. I looked around me--there was nobody to be seen. I listened again--the sounds seemed to be falling from the sky. I raised my eyes. On the roof of my cabin was standing a young girl in a striped dress and with her hair hanging loose--a regular water-nymph. Shading her eyes from the sun's rays with the palm of her hand, she was gazing intently into the distance. At one time, she would laugh and talk to herself, at another, she would strike up her song anew. I have retained that song in my memory, word for word: At their own free will They seem to wander O'er the green sea yonder, Those ships, as still They are onward going, With white sails flowing. And among those ships My eye can mark My own dear barque: By two oars guided (All unprovided With sails) it slips. The storm-wind raves: And the old ships--see! With wings spread free, Over the waves They scatter and flee! The sea I will hail With obeisance deep: "Thou base one, hark! Thou must not fail My little barque From harm to keep!" For lo! 'tis bearing Most precious gear, And brave and daring The arms that steer Within the dark My little barque. Involuntarily the thought occurred to me that I had heard the same voice the night before. I reflected for a moment, and when I looked up at the roof again there was no girl to be seen. Suddenly she darted past me, with another song on her lips, and, snapping her fingers, she ran up to the old woman. Thereupon a quarrel arose between them. The old woman grew angry, and the girl laughed loudly. And then I saw my Undine running and gambolling again. She came up to where I was, stopped, and gazed fixedly into my face as if surprised at my presence. Then she turned carelessly away and went quietly towards the harbour. But this was not all. The whole day she kept hovering around my lodging, singing and gambolling without a moment's interruption. Strange creature! There was not the slightest sign of insanity in her face; on the contrary, her eyes, which were continually resting upon me, were bright and piercing. Moreover, they seemed to be endowed with a certain magnetic power, and each time they looked at me they appeared to be expecting a question. But I had only to open my lips to speak, and away she would run, with a sly smile. Certainly never before had I seen a woman like her. She was by no means beautiful; but, as in other matters, I have my own prepossessions on the subject of beauty. There was a good deal of breeding in her... Breeding in women, as in horses, is a great thing: a discovery, the credit of which belongs to young France. It--that is to say, breeding, not young France--is chiefly to be detected in the gait, in the hands and feet; the nose, in particular, is of the greatest significance. In Russia a straight nose is rarer than a small foot. My songstress appeared to be not more than eighteen years of age. The unusual suppleness of her figure, the characteristic and original way she had of inclining her head, her long, light-brown hair, the golden sheen of her slightly sunburnt neck and shoulders, and especially her straight nose--all these held me fascinated. Although in her sidelong glances I could read a certain wildness and disdain, although in her smile there was a certain vagueness, yet--such is the force of predilections--that straight nose of hers drove me crazy. I fancied that I had found Goethe's Mignon--that queer creature of his German imagination. And, indeed, there was a good deal of similarity between them; the same rapid transitions from the utmost restlessness to complete immobility, the same enigmatical speeches, the same gambols, the same strange songs. Towards evening I stopped her at the door and entered into the following conversation with her. "Tell me, my beauty," I asked, "what were you doing on the roof to-day?" "I was looking to see from what direction the wind was blowing." "What did you want to know for?" "Whence the wind blows comes happiness." "Well? Were you invoking happiness with your song?" "Where there is singing there is also happiness." "But what if your song were to bring you sorrow?" "Well, what then? Where things won't be better, they will be worse; and from bad to good again is not far." "And who taught you that song?" "Nobody taught me; it comes into my head and I sing; whoever is to hear it, he will hear it, and whoever ought not to hear it, he will not understand it." "What is your name, my songstress?" "He who baptized me knows." "And who baptized you?" "How should I know?" "What a secretive girl you are! But look here, I have learned something about you"--she neither changed countenance nor moved her lips, as though my discovery was of no concern to her--"I have learned that you went to the shore last night." And, thereupon, I very gravely retailed to her all that I had seen, thinking that I should embarrass her. Not a bit of it! She burst out laughing heartily. "You have seen much, but know little; and what you do know, see that you keep it under lock and key." "But supposing, now, I was to take it into my head to inform the Commandant?" and here I assumed a very serious, not to say stern, demeanour. She gave a sudden spring, began to sing, and hid herself like a bird frightened out of a thicket. My last words were altogether out of place. I had no suspicion then how momentous they were, but afterwards I had occasion to rue them. As soon as the dusk of evening fell, I ordered the Cossack to heat the teapot, campaign fashion. I lighted a candle and sat down by the table, smoking my travelling-pipe. I was just about to finish my second tumbler of tea when suddenly the door creaked and I heard behind me the sound of footsteps and the light rustle of a dress. I started and turned round. It was she--my Undine. Softly and without saying a word she sat down opposite to me and fixed her eyes upon me. Her glance seemed wondrously tender, I know not why; it reminded me of one of those glances which, in years gone by, so despotically played with my life. She seemed to be waiting for a question, but I kept silence, filled with an inexplicable sense of embarrassment. Mental agitation was evinced by the dull pallor which overspread her countenance; her hand, which I noticed was trembling slightly, moved aimlessly about the table. At one time her breast heaved, and at another she seemed to be holding her breath. This little comedy was beginning to pall upon me, and I was about to break the silence in a most prosaic manner, that is, by offering her a glass of tea; when suddenly, springing up, she threw her arms around my neck, and I felt her moist, fiery lips pressed upon mine. Darkness came before my eyes, my head began to swim. I embraced her with the whole strength of youthful passion. But, like a snake, she glided from between my arms, whispering in my ear as she did so: "To-night, when everyone is asleep, go out to the shore." Like an arrow she sprang from the room. In the hall she upset the teapot and a candle which was standing on the floor. "Little devil!" cried the Cossack, who had taken up his position on the straw and had contemplated warming himself with the remains of the tea. It was only then that I recovered my senses. In about two hours' time, when all had grown silent in the harbour, I awakened my Cossack. "If I fire a pistol," I said, "run to the shore." He stared open-eyed and answered mechanically: "Very well, sir." I stuffed a pistol in my belt and went out. She was waiting for me at the edge of the cliff. Her attire was more than light, and a small kerchief girded her supple waist. "Follow me!" she said, taking me by the hand, and we began to descend. I cannot understand how it was that I did not break my neck. Down below we turned to the right and proceeded to take the path along which I had followed the blind boy the evening before. The moon had not yet risen, and only two little stars, like two guardian lighthouses, were twinkling in the dark-blue vault of heaven. The heavy waves, with measured and even motion, rolled one after the other, scarcely lifting the solitary boat which was moored to the shore. "Let us get into the boat," said my companion. I hesitated. I am no lover of sentimental trips on the sea; but this was not the time to draw back. She leaped into the boat, and I after her; and I had not time to recover my wits before I observed that we were adrift. "What is the meaning of this?" I said angrily. "It means," she answered, seating me on the bench and throwing her arms around my waist, "it means that I love you!"... Her cheek was pressed close to mine, and I felt her burning breath upon my face. Suddenly something fell noisily into the water. I clutched at my belt--my pistol was gone! Ah, now a terrible suspicion crept into my soul, and the blood rushed to my head! I looked round. We were about fifty fathoms from the shore, and I could not swim a stroke! I tried to thrust her away from me, but she clung like a cat to my clothes, and suddenly a violent wrench all but threw me into the sea. The boat rocked, but I righted myself, and a desperate struggle began. Fury lent me strength, but I soon found that I was no match for my opponent in point of agility... "What do you want?" I cried, firmly squeezing her little hands. Her fingers crunched, but her serpent-like nature bore up against the torture, and she did not utter a cry. "You saw us," she answered. "You will tell on us." And, with a supernatural effort, she flung me on to the side of the boat; we both hung half overboard; her hair touched the water. The decisive moment had come. I planted my knee against the bottom of the boat, caught her by the tresses with one hand and by the throat with the other; she let go my clothes, and, in an instant, I had thrown her into the waves. It was now rather dark; once or twice her head appeared for an instant amidst the sea foam, and I saw no more of her. I found the half of an old oar at the bottom of the boat, and somehow or other, after lengthy efforts, I made fast to the harbour. Making my way along the shore towards my hut, I involuntarily gazed in the direction of the spot where, on the previous night, the blind boy had awaited the nocturnal mariner. The moon was already rolling through the sky, and it seemed to me that somebody in white was sitting on the shore. Spurred by curiosity, I crept up and crouched down in the grass on the top of the cliff. By thrusting my head out a little way I was able to get a good view of everything that was happening down below, and I was not very much astonished, but almost rejoiced, when I recognised my water-nymph. She was wringing the seafoam from her long hair. Her wet garment outlined her supple figure and her high bosom. Soon a boat appeared in the distance; it drew near rapidly; and, as on the night before, a man in a Tartar cap stepped out of it, but he now had his hair cropped round in the Cossack fashion, and a large knife was sticking out behind his leather belt. "Yanko," the girl said, "all is lost!" Then their conversation continued, but so softly that I could not catch a word of it. "But where is the blind boy?" said Yanko at last, raising his voice. "I have told him to come," was the reply. After a few minutes the blind boy appeared, dragging on his back a sack, which they placed in the boat. "Listen!" said Yanko to the blind boy. "Guard that place! You know where I mean? There are valuable goods there. Tell"--I could not catch the name--"that I am no longer his servant. Things have gone badly. He will see me no more. It is dangerous now. I will go seek work in another place, and he will never be able to find another dare-devil like me. Tell him also that if he had paid me a little better for my labours, I would not have forsaken him. For me there is a way anywhere, if only the wind blows and the sea roars." After a short silence Yanko continued. "She is coming with me. It is impossible for her to remain here. Tell the old woman that it is time for her to die; she has been here a long time, and the line must be drawn somewhere. As for us, she will never see us any more." "And I?" said the blind boy in a plaintive voice. "What use have I for you?" was the answer. In the meantime my Undine had sprung into the boat. She beckoned to her companion with her hand. He placed something in the blind boy's hand and added: "There, buy yourself some gingerbreads." "Is this all?" said the blind boy. "Well, here is some more." The money fell and jingled as it struck the rock. The blind boy did not pick it up. Yanko took his seat in the boat; the wind was blowing from the shore; they hoisted the little sail and sped rapidly away. For a long time the white sail gleamed in the moonlight amid the dark waves. Still the blind boy remained seated upon the shore, and then I heard something which sounded like sobbing. The blind boy was, in fact, weeping, and for a long, long time his tears flowed... I grew heavy-hearted. For what reason should fate have thrown me into the peaceful circle of honourable smugglers? Like a stone cast into a smooth well, I had disturbed their quietude, and I barely escaped going to the bottom like a stone. I returned home. In the hall the burnt-out candle was spluttering on a wooden platter, and my Cossack, contrary to orders, was fast asleep, with his gun held in both hands. I left him at rest, took the candle, and entered the hut. Alas! my cashbox, my sabre with the silver chasing, my Daghestan dagger--the gift of a friend--all had vanished! It was then that I guessed what articles the cursed blind boy had been dragging along. Roughly shaking the Cossack, I woke him up, rated him, and lost my temper. But what was the good of that? And would it not have been ridiculous to complain to the authorities that I had been robbed by a blind boy and all but drowned by an eighteen-year-old girl? Thank heaven an opportunity of getting away presented itself in the morning, and I left Taman. What became of the old woman and the poor blind boy I know not. And, besides, what are the joys and sorrows of mankind to me--me, a travelling officer, and one, moreover, with an order for post-horses on Government business? Können Sie eine passende Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze verfassen?

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Das Vorwort Das Vorwort besagt, dass die nächsten Geschichten direkt aus Pechorins Tagebuch stammen. Das Vorwort ist außerdem das letzte Mal, dass der namenlose Erzähler in der Roman auftaucht. Der namenlose Erzähler erklärt seine Gründe, warum er Inhalte aus Pechorins persönlichen Dokumenten veröffentlicht und informiert die Leser, dass er alles unverändert gelassen hat, außer den Namen. Er drückt seine Bewunderung für Pechorins brutale Ehrlichkeit in diesen Dokumenten aus. Er glaubt, dass diese Ehrlichkeit nicht nur für die Gesellschaft, sondern auch für die Menschen, die Pechorin kannten, vorteilhaft ist. Der namenlose Erzähler informiert die Leser auch darüber, dass Pechorin auf dem Rückweg aus Persien gestorben ist und dass er nur Informationen veröffentlicht, die sich auf Pechorins Zeit im Kaukasus beziehen. Die restlichen persönlichen Dokumente von Pechorin wird er zu einem unbekannten Zeitpunkt in der Zukunft veröffentlichen. Taman Dies ist die erste Geschichte, die aus Pechorins Perspektive erzählt wird. Pechorin erzählt von seiner Zeit in Taman, einem Küstendorf im Kaukasus. Nach einer langen Reise versucht Pechorin, in Taman Unterschlupf zu finden. Überall ist ausgebucht, und er lässt seine Frustration an seinem Führer, einem Kosaken-Hauptmann, aus. Pechorin schreit ihn an und bittet darum, irgendwohin gebracht zu werden. Der Hauptmann führt Pechorin durch zwielichtige Teile der Stadt. Schließlich halten sie an einer kleinen Hütte am Rande einer Klippe an. Ein blinder Junge ist die einzige Person, die sie begrüßt. Pechorin, der Vorurteile gegenüber behinderten Menschen hat, findet den blinden Jungen sofort verdächtig. Als Pechorin seine Behausung betritt, fühlt er sich noch mehr beunruhigt. Der Ort hat ein zerbrochenes Fenster und keine Möbel. Da er seine Behausung und den blinden Jungen verdächtig findet, schläft Pechorin nicht ein, obwohl sein Kosaken-Begleiter bereits fest schläft. Pechorins Verdacht zahlt sich aus. In der Mitte der Nacht sieht Pechorin einen Schatten durch sein Fenster. Er untersucht den Schatten und erkennt, dass der Schatten der blinde Junge ist. Pechorin lässt seine Neugierde über ihn siegen und folgt dem jungen Jungen. Pechorin ist sofort erstaunt über die Fähigkeit des blinden Jungen, sich durch das gefährliche Gelände zum Strand zu bewegen, und sein Verdacht gegenüber dem jungen Jungen wächst noch mehr. Am Strand hört Pechorin den blinden Jungen mit einer jungen Frau sprechen. Er hört einen Teil ihres Gesprächs. Sie warten auf jemanden. Bald taucht ein mysteriöses Boot auf. Eine mysteriöse Figur, von der die Frau und der blinde Junge als 'Yanko' sprechen, kommt an Land. Yanko, der blinde Junge und die junge Frau nehmen Materialien von dem Boot. Pechorin kann die Materialien nicht identifizieren, sieht aber, dass sie schwer sind. Pechorin "kann sich nicht erklären, warum das Boot nicht gesunken ist". Am nächsten Tag konfrontiert Pechorin den blinden Jungen und den Besitzer der Hütte, der jetzt anwesend ist. Die Besitzerin der Hütte, eine alte Frau, gibt vor, taub zu sein. Der blinde Junge gibt vor, unwissend zu sein. Das frustriert Pechorin. Er fängt an, den Jungen anzuschreien. Die alte Frau gibt ihre Vorstellung auf und tadelt Pechorin für sein Verhalten. Nach dieser Begegnung hört Pechorin Gesang. Der Klang kommt von der jungen Frau, die er in der Nacht zuvor am Strand gesehen hat. Sie sitzt auf dem Dach der Hütte. Sie ist eine temperamentvolle Gestalt. Sie springt überall herum. Er denkt an sie als "Meerjungfrau" und "meine Undine" und versucht, mit ihr zu sprechen, aber ihre Antworten geben ihm kaum Informationen. Er sagt ihr, dass er gesehen hat, was in der Nacht zuvor passierte. Sie lässt sich davon nicht beeindrucken. Sie sagt ihm, dass er vielleicht gesehen hat, was passierte, aber er hat keine Ahnung, was das alles bedeutet. Als er sieht, wie unbeeindruckt sie von seinem Geständnis ist, droht Pechorin, zur Behörde zu gehen. Die junge Frau singt weiter und macht temperamentvolle Bewegungen, nachdem Pechorin sie bedroht hat. Später am Tag nähert sich die junge Frau Pechorin. Sie küsst ihn und bittet ihn, sich mitten in der Nacht am Strand zu treffen. Pechorin geht ein paar Stunden später hinaus, um sie zu treffen, jedoch nicht, bevor er seinen Kosaken-Begleiter warnt, ihm zu Hilfe zu kommen, wenn ein Pistolenschuss zu hören ist. Der Begleiter erklärt sich bereit, aufmerksam zu sein. Als Pechorin die junge Frau am Ufer trifft, lockt sie ihn auf ein Boot. Sie fahren weit hinaus aufs Meer. Dort sagt sie ihm, dass sie ihn liebt, küsst ihn erneut und versucht dann, ihn über Bord zu werfen. Pechorin kämpft, wirft die junge Frau aber schließlich ins Wasser. Pechorin sieht die junge Frau wieder. Als er "seinen Weg zurück zur Hütte entlang des Ufers" macht, sieht er eine Figur, an der der blinde Junge zuvor gegangen war. Pechorin erkennt schnell, dass es die junge Frau ist. Er ist etwas erleichtert, dass sie überlebt hat, und schleicht in das Gebiet, um sie zu beobachten. Er beobachtet, wie die junge Frau und Yanko fliehen. Sie lassen die alte Frau und den blinden Jungen zurück. Der blinde Junge ist am Boden zerstört. "Er weinte und weinte". Pechorin ist traurig, dass er Chaos in das Leben dieser Schmuggler gebracht hat. Er berichtet den Behörden keine der Vorfälle, weil er nicht offenlegen will, dass ihn eine junge Frau und ein blinder Junge überlistet haben. Der blinde Junge hatte anscheinend einige von Pechorins Besitztümern mitgenommen. Der Kosaken-Begleiter war völlig nutzlos. Pechorin verlässt Taman am nächsten Morgen.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten 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. Friar Laurence's cell. Enter Friar, [Laurence] and County Paris. Friar. On Thursday, sir? The time is very short. Par. My father Capulet will have it so, And I am nothing slow to slack his haste. Friar. You say you do not know the lady's mind. Uneven is the course; I like it not. Par. Immoderately she weeps for Tybalt's death, And therefore have I little talk'd of love; For Venus smiles not in a house of tears. Now, sir, her father counts it dangerous That she do give her sorrow so much sway, And in his wisdom hastes our marriage To stop the inundation of her tears, Which, too much minded by herself alone, May be put from her by society. Now do you know the reason of this haste. Friar. [aside] I would I knew not why it should be slow'd.- Look, sir, here comes the lady toward my cell. Enter Juliet. Par. Happily met, my lady and my wife! Jul. That may be, sir, when I may be a wife. Par. That may be must be, love, on Thursday next. Jul. What must be shall be. Friar. That's a certain text. Par. Come you to make confession to this father? Jul. To answer that, I should confess to you. Par. Do not deny to him that you love me. Jul. I will confess to you that I love him. Par. So will ye, I am sure, that you love me. Jul. If I do so, it will be of more price, Being spoke behind your back, than to your face. Par. Poor soul, thy face is much abus'd with tears. Jul. The tears have got small victory by that, For it was bad enough before their spite. Par. Thou wrong'st it more than tears with that report. Jul. That is no slander, sir, which is a truth; And what I spake, I spake it to my face. Par. Thy face is mine, and thou hast sland'red it. Jul. It may be so, for it is not mine own. Are you at leisure, holy father, now, Or shall I come to you at evening mass Friar. My leisure serves me, pensive daughter, now. My lord, we must entreat the time alone. Par. God shield I should disturb devotion! Juliet, on Thursday early will I rouse ye. Till then, adieu, and keep this holy kiss. Exit. Jul. O, shut the door! and when thou hast done so, Come weep with me- past hope, past cure, past help! Friar. Ah, Juliet, I already know thy grief; It strains me past the compass of my wits. I hear thou must, and nothing may prorogue it, On Thursday next be married to this County. Jul. Tell me not, friar, that thou hear'st of this, Unless thou tell me how I may prevent it. If in thy wisdom thou canst give no help, Do thou but call my resolution wise And with this knife I'll help it presently. God join'd my heart and Romeo's, thou our hands; And ere this hand, by thee to Romeo's seal'd, Shall be the label to another deed, Or my true heart with treacherous revolt Turn to another, this shall slay them both. Therefore, out of thy long-experienc'd time, Give me some present counsel; or, behold, 'Twixt my extremes and me this bloody knife Shall play the empire, arbitrating that Which the commission of thy years and art Could to no issue of true honour bring. Be not so long to speak. I long to die If what thou speak'st speak not of remedy. Friar. Hold, daughter. I do spy a kind of hope, Which craves as desperate an execution As that is desperate which we would prevent. If, rather than to marry County Paris Thou hast the strength of will to slay thyself, Then is it likely thou wilt undertake A thing like death to chide away this shame, That cop'st with death himself to scape from it; And, if thou dar'st, I'll give thee remedy. Jul. O, bid me leap, rather than marry Paris, From off the battlements of yonder tower, Or walk in thievish ways, or bid me lurk Where serpents are; chain me with roaring bears, Or shut me nightly in a charnel house, O'ercover'd quite with dead men's rattling bones, With reeky shanks and yellow chapless skulls; Or bid me go into a new-made grave And hide me with a dead man in his shroud- Things that, to hear them told, have made me tremble- And I will do it without fear or doubt, To live an unstain'd wife to my sweet love. Friar. Hold, then. Go home, be merry, give consent To marry Paris. Wednesday is to-morrow. To-morrow night look that thou lie alone; Let not the nurse lie with thee in thy chamber. Take thou this vial, being then in bed, And this distilled liquor drink thou off; When presently through all thy veins shall run A cold and drowsy humour; for no pulse Shall keep his native progress, but surcease; No warmth, no breath, shall testify thou livest; The roses in thy lips and cheeks shall fade To paly ashes, thy eyes' windows fall Like death when he shuts up the day of life; Each part, depriv'd of supple government, Shall, stiff and stark and cold, appear like death; And in this borrowed likeness of shrunk death Thou shalt continue two-and-forty hours, And then awake as from a pleasant sleep. Now, when the bridegroom in the morning comes To rouse thee from thy bed, there art thou dead. Then, as the manner of our country is, In thy best robes uncovered on the bier Thou shalt be borne to that same ancient vault Where all the kindred of the Capulets lie. In the mean time, against thou shalt awake, Shall Romeo by my letters know our drift; And hither shall he come; and he and I Will watch thy waking, and that very night Shall Romeo bear thee hence to Mantua. And this shall free thee from this present shame, If no inconstant toy nor womanish fear Abate thy valour in the acting it. Jul. Give me, give me! O, tell not me of fear! Friar. Hold! Get you gone, be strong and prosperous In this resolve. I'll send a friar with speed To Mantua, with my letters to thy lord. Jul. Love give me strength! and strength shall help afford. Farewell, dear father. Exeunt. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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In seiner Zelle spricht Bruder Lorenzo mit Paris über dessen bevorstehende Hochzeit mit Julia. Paris sagt, dass Julias Trauer über Tybalts Tod sie aus dem Gleichgewicht gebracht hat und dass Capulet durch seine Weisheit entschieden hat, dass sie bald heiraten sollten, damit Julia aufhört zu weinen und ihre Trauerperiode beendet. Der Mönch bemerkt für sich selbst, dass er gerne den Grund wüsste, warum Paris' Hochzeit mit Julia verschoben werden sollte. Julia tritt ein und Paris spricht liebevoll, wenn auch etwas arrogant, zu ihr. Julia antwortet gleichgültig, ohne Zuneigung oder Abneigung zu zeigen. Sie stellt fest, dass sie ihn noch nicht geheiratet hat. Unter dem Vorwand, dass er Julias Beichte hören muss, führt Bruder Lorenzo Paris weg, jedoch nicht bevor Paris Julia einmal küsst. Nachdem Paris gegangen ist, bittet Julia Bruder Lorenzo um Hilfe und droht mit einem Messer, dass sie sich lieber umbringt, als Paris zu heiraten. Der Mönch schlägt einen Plan vor: Julia muss einwilligen, Paris zu heiraten; dann muss sie in der Nacht vor der Hochzeit einen Schlaftrank trinken, der sie wie tot erscheinen lässt; sie wird in der Capulet-Gruft zur Ruhe gebettet, und der Mönch wird Romeo in Mantua benachrichtigen, damit er ihr hilft, wenn sie aufwacht. Sie wird dann mit Romeo nach Mantua zurückkehren und frei sein, mit ihm fern von dem Hass ihrer Eltern zu leben. Julia stimmt dem Plan von ganzem Herzen zu. Bruder Lorenzo gibt ihr den Schlaftrank.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten 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 Influence of the State and Federal Governments Compared From the New York Packet. Tuesday, January 29, 1788. MADISON To the People of the State of New York: RESUMING the subject of the last paper, I proceed to inquire whether the federal government or the State governments will have the advantage with regard to the predilection and support of the people. Notwithstanding the different modes in which they are appointed, we must consider both of them as substantially dependent on the great body of the citizens of the United States. I assume this position here as it respects the first, reserving the proofs for another place. The federal and State governments are in fact but different agents and trustees of the people, constituted with different powers, and designed for different purposes. The adversaries of the Constitution seem to have lost sight of the people altogether in their reasonings on this subject; and to have viewed these different establishments, not only as mutual rivals and enemies, but as uncontrolled by any common superior in their efforts to usurp the authorities of each other. These gentlemen must here be reminded of their error. They must be told that the ultimate authority, wherever the derivative may be found, resides in the people alone, and that it will not depend merely on the comparative ambition or address of the different governments, whether either, or which of them, will be able to enlarge its sphere of jurisdiction at the expense of the other. Truth, no less than decency, requires that the event in every case should be supposed to depend on the sentiments and sanction of their common constituents. Many considerations, besides those suggested on a former occasion, seem to place it beyond doubt that the first and most natural attachment of the people will be to the governments of their respective States. Into the administration of these a greater number of individuals will expect to rise. From the gift of these a greater number of offices and emoluments will flow. By the superintending care of these, all the more domestic and personal interests of the people will be regulated and provided for. With the affairs of these, the people will be more familiarly and minutely conversant. And with the members of these, will a greater proportion of the people have the ties of personal acquaintance and friendship, and of family and party attachments; on the side of these, therefore, the popular bias may well be expected most strongly to incline. Experience speaks the same language in this case. The federal administration, though hitherto very defective in comparison with what may be hoped under a better system, had, during the war, and particularly whilst the independent fund of paper emissions was in credit, an activity and importance as great as it can well have in any future circumstances whatever. It was engaged, too, in a course of measures which had for their object the protection of everything that was dear, and the acquisition of everything that could be desirable to the people at large. It was, nevertheless, invariably found, after the transient enthusiasm for the early Congresses was over, that the attention and attachment of the people were turned anew to their own particular governments; that the federal council was at no time the idol of popular favor; and that opposition to proposed enlargements of its powers and importance was the side usually taken by the men who wished to build their political consequence on the prepossessions of their fellow-citizens. If, therefore, as has been elsewhere remarked, the people should in future become more partial to the federal than to the State governments, the change can only result from such manifest and irresistible proofs of a better administration, as will overcome all their antecedent propensities. And in that case, the people ought not surely to be precluded from giving most of their confidence where they may discover it to be most due; but even in that case the State governments could have little to apprehend, because it is only within a certain sphere that the federal power can, in the nature of things, be advantageously administered. The remaining points on which I propose to compare the federal and State governments, are the disposition and the faculty they may respectively possess, to resist and frustrate the measures of each other. It has been already proved that the members of the federal will be more dependent on the members of the State governments, than the latter will be on the former. It has appeared also, that the prepossessions of the people, on whom both will depend, will be more on the side of the State governments, than of the federal government. So far as the disposition of each towards the other may be influenced by these causes, the State governments must clearly have the advantage. But in a distinct and very important point of view, the advantage will lie on the same side. The prepossessions, which the members themselves will carry into the federal government, will generally be favorable to the States; whilst it will rarely happen, that the members of the State governments will carry into the public councils a bias in favor of the general government. A local spirit will infallibly prevail much more in the members of Congress, than a national spirit will prevail in the legislatures of the particular States. Every one knows that a great proportion of the errors committed by the State legislatures proceeds from the disposition of the members to sacrifice the comprehensive and permanent interest of the State, to the particular and separate views of the counties or districts in which they reside. And if they do not sufficiently enlarge their policy to embrace the collective welfare of their particular State, how can it be imagined that they will make the aggregate prosperity of the Union, and the dignity and respectability of its government, the objects of their affections and consultations? For the same reason that the members of the State legislatures will be unlikely to attach themselves sufficiently to national objects, the members of the federal legislature will be likely to attach themselves too much to local objects. The States will be to the latter what counties and towns are to the former. Measures will too often be decided according to their probable effect, not on the national prosperity and happiness, but on the prejudices, interests, and pursuits of the governments and people of the individual States. What is the spirit that has in general characterized the proceedings of Congress? A perusal of their journals, as well as the candid acknowledgments of such as have had a seat in that assembly, will inform us, that the members have but too frequently displayed the character, rather of partisans of their respective States, than of impartial guardians of a common interest; that where on one occasion improper sacrifices have been made of local considerations, to the aggrandizement of the federal government, the great interests of the nation have suffered on a hundred, from an undue attention to the local prejudices, interests, and views of the particular States. I mean not by these reflections to insinuate, that the new federal government will not embrace a more enlarged plan of policy than the existing government may have pursued; much less, that its views will be as confined as those of the State legislatures; but only that it will partake sufficiently of the spirit of both, to be disinclined to invade the rights of the individual States, or the prerogatives of their governments. The motives on the part of the State governments, to augment their prerogatives by defalcations from the federal government, will be overruled by no reciprocal predispositions in the members. Were it admitted, however, that the Federal government may feel an equal disposition with the State governments to extend its power beyond the due limits, the latter would still have the advantage in the means of defeating such encroachments. If an act of a particular State, though unfriendly to the national government, be generally popular in that State and should not too grossly violate the oaths of the State officers, it is executed immediately and, of course, by means on the spot and depending on the State alone. The opposition of the federal government, or the interposition of federal officers, would but inflame the zeal of all parties on the side of the State, and the evil could not be prevented or repaired, if at all, without the employment of means which must always be resorted to with reluctance and difficulty. On the other hand, should an unwarrantable measure of the federal government be unpopular in particular States, which would seldom fail to be the case, or even a warrantable measure be so, which may sometimes be the case, the means of opposition to it are powerful and at hand. The disquietude of the people; their repugnance and, perhaps, refusal to co-operate with the officers of the Union; the frowns of the executive magistracy of the State; the embarrassments created by legislative devices, which would often be added on such occasions, would oppose, in any State, difficulties not to be despised; would form, in a large State, very serious impediments; and where the sentiments of several adjoining States happened to be in unison, would present obstructions which the federal government would hardly be willing to encounter. But ambitious encroachments of the federal government, on the authority of the State governments, would not excite the opposition of a single State, or of a few States only. They would be signals of general alarm. Every government would espouse the common cause. A correspondence would be opened. Plans of resistance would be concerted. One spirit would animate and conduct the whole. The same combinations, in short, would result from an apprehension of the federal, as was produced by the dread of a foreign, yoke; and unless the projected innovations should be voluntarily renounced, the same appeal to a trial of force would be made in the one case as was made in the other. But what degree of madness could ever drive the federal government to such an extremity. In the contest with Great Britain, one part of the empire was employed against the other. The more numerous part invaded the rights of the less numerous part. The attempt was unjust and unwise; but it was not in speculation absolutely chimerical. But what would be the contest in the case we are supposing? Who would be the parties? A few representatives of the people would be opposed to the people themselves; or rather one set of representatives would be contending against thirteen sets of representatives, with the whole body of their common constituents on the side of the latter. The only refuge left for those who prophesy the downfall of the State governments is the visionary supposition that the federal government may previously accumulate a military force for the projects of ambition. The reasonings contained in these papers must have been employed to little purpose indeed, if it could be necessary now to disprove the reality of this danger. That the people and the States should, for a sufficient period of time, elect an uninterrupted succession of men ready to betray both; that the traitors should, throughout this period, uniformly and systematically pursue some fixed plan for the extension of the military establishment; that the governments and the people of the States should silently and patiently behold the gathering storm, and continue to supply the materials, until it should be prepared to burst on their own heads, must appear to every one more like the incoherent dreams of a delirious jealousy, or the misjudged exaggerations of a counterfeit zeal, than like the sober apprehensions of genuine patriotism. Extravagant as the supposition is, let it however be made. Let a regular army, fully equal to the resources of the country, be formed; and let it be entirely at the devotion of the federal government; still it would not be going too far to say, that the State governments, with the people on their side, would be able to repel the danger. The highest number to which, according to the best computation, a standing army can be carried in any country, does not exceed one hundredth part of the whole number of souls; or one twenty-fifth part of the number able to bear arms. This proportion would not yield, in the United States, an army of more than twenty-five or thirty thousand men. To these would be opposed a militia amounting to near half a million of citizens with arms in their hands, officered by men chosen from among themselves, fighting for their common liberties, and united and conducted by governments possessing their affections and confidence. It may well be doubted, whether a militia thus circumstanced could ever be conquered by such a proportion of regular troops. Those who are best acquainted with the last successful resistance of this country against the British arms, will be most inclined to deny the possibility of it. Besides the advantage of being armed, which the Americans possess over the people of almost every other nation, the existence of subordinate governments, to which the people are attached, and by which the militia officers are appointed, forms a barrier against the enterprises of ambition, more insurmountable than any which a simple government of any form can admit of. Notwithstanding the military establishments in the several kingdoms of Europe, which are carried as far as the public resources will bear, the governments are afraid to trust the people with arms. And it is not certain, that with this aid alone they would not be able to shake off their yokes. But were the people to possess the additional advantages of local governments chosen by themselves, who could collect the national will and direct the national force, and of officers appointed out of the militia, by these governments, and attached both to them and to the militia, it may be affirmed with the greatest assurance, that the throne of every tyranny in Europe would be speedily overturned in spite of the legions which surround it. Let us not insult the free and gallant citizens of America with the suspicion, that they would be less able to defend the rights of which they would be in actual possession, than the debased subjects of arbitrary power would be to rescue theirs from the hands of their oppressors. Let us rather no longer insult them with the supposition that they can ever reduce themselves to the necessity of making the experiment, by a blind and tame submission to the long train of insidious measures which must precede and produce it. The argument under the present head may be put into a very concise form, which appears altogether conclusive. Either the mode in which the federal government is to be constructed will render it sufficiently dependent on the people, or it will not. On the first supposition, it will be restrained by that dependence from forming schemes obnoxious to their constituents. On the other supposition, it will not possess the confidence of the people, and its schemes of usurpation will be easily defeated by the State governments, who will be supported by the people. On summing up the considerations stated in this and the last paper, they seem to amount to the most convincing evidence, that the powers proposed to be lodged in the federal government are as little formidable to those reserved to the individual States, as they are indispensably necessary to accomplish the purposes of the Union; and that all those alarms which have been sounded, of a meditated and consequential annihilation of the State governments, must, on the most favorable interpretation, be ascribed to the chimerical fears of the authors of them. PUBLIUS Können Sie eine passende Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze verfassen?

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Madison führt das in dem vorherigen Artikel begonnene Argument fort und schließt es ab. Er behauptet, dass die Befugnisse der Bundesregierung gemäß der vorgeschlagenen Verfassung die den Bundesstaaten vorbehaltenen Befugnisse nicht bedrohen werden. Madison beginnt den Artikel damit, sein Publikum daran zu erinnern, dass das amerikanische Volk der gemeinsame Vorgesetzte sowohl der Bundes- als auch der Staatsregierungen ist. Diese beiden verschiedenen Arten von Regierungen haben unterschiedliche Befugnisse, die für unterschiedliche Zwecke bestimmt sind, aber letztendlich der Kontrolle der Wähler unterliegen. Madison verwendet dann eine Reihe von Argumenten, um sein Publikum davon zu überzeugen, dass die Staatsregierungen mehrere natürliche Vorteile gegenüber der Bundesregierung haben, wenn es darum geht, die Unterstützung des Volkes zu sichern. Staatsbeamte und Vertreter stehen in engem täglichen Kontakt mit den Wählern und befassen sich mit Fragen, die sich unmittelbar auf ihr Leben auswirken. Darüber hinaus sind Vertreter in Staatsregierungen in der Regel zugunsten ihrer Heimatbezirke und -städte voreingenommen, ebenso wie Vertreter im Kongress zugunsten ihrer Heimatstaaten voreingenommen sein werden: "Ein lokaler Geist wird bei den Mitgliedern des Kongresses unfehlbar viel stärker herrschen als ein nationaler Geist in den Gesetzgebungen der einzelnen Staaten." Darüber hinaus argumentiert Madison, dass die Staatsregierungen im Falle einer Verletzung der Rechte der Bundesstaaten durch die Bundesregierung einen erheblichen Vorteil bei der Abwehr einer solchen Aktion hätten. Die Staaten könnten sich letztendlich zusammenschließen, um der Bundesregierung Widerstand zu leisten. Madison hält es für äußerst unwahrscheinlich, dass die Bundesregierung in der Lage wäre, eine Armee aufzustellen, die stark genug ist, um alle Staatsmilizen zu überwinden.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: The next morning the youth discovered that his tall comrade had been the fast-flying messenger of a mistake. There was much scoffing at the latter by those who had yesterday been firm adherents of his views, and there was even a little sneering by men who had never believed the rumor. The tall one fought with a man from Chatfield Corners and beat him severely. The youth felt, however, that his problem was in no wise lifted from him. There was, on the contrary, an irritating prolongation. The tale had created in him a great concern for himself. Now, with the newborn question in his mind, he was compelled to sink back into his old place as part of a blue demonstration. For days he made ceaseless calculations, but they were all wondrously unsatisfactory. He found that he could establish nothing. He finally concluded that the only way to prove himself was to go into the blaze, and then figuratively to watch his legs to discover their merits and faults. He reluctantly admitted that he could not sit still and with a mental slate and pencil derive an answer. To gain it, he must have blaze, blood, and danger, even as a chemist requires this, that, and the other. So he fretted for an opportunity. Meanwhile he continually tried to measure himself by his comrades. The tall soldier, for one, gave him some assurance. This man's serene unconcern dealt him a measure of confidence, for he had known him since childhood, and from his intimate knowledge he did not see how he could be capable of anything that was beyond him, the youth. Still, he thought that his comrade might be mistaken about himself. Or, on the other hand, he might be a man heretofore doomed to peace and obscurity, but, in reality, made to shine in war. The youth would have liked to have discovered another who suspected himself. A sympathetic comparison of mental notes would have been a joy to him. He occasionally tried to fathom a comrade with seductive sentences. He looked about to find men in the proper mood. All attempts failed to bring forth any statement which looked in any way like a confession to those doubts which he privately acknowledged in himself. He was afraid to make an open declaration of his concern, because he dreaded to place some unscrupulous confidant upon the high plane of the unconfessed from which elevation he could be derided. In regard to his companions his mind wavered between two opinions, according to his mood. Sometimes he inclined to believing them all heroes. In fact, he usually admitted in secret the superior development of the higher qualities in others. He could conceive of men going very insignificantly about the world bearing a load of courage unseen, and although he had known many of his comrades through boyhood, he began to fear that his judgment of them had been blind. Then, in other moments, he flouted these theories, and assured himself that his fellows were all privately wondering and quaking. His emotions made him feel strange in the presence of men who talked excitedly of a prospective battle as of a drama they were about to witness, with nothing but eagerness and curiosity apparent in their faces. It was often that he suspected them to be liars. He did not pass such thoughts without severe condemnation of himself. He dinned reproaches at times. He was convicted by himself of many shameful crimes against the gods of traditions. In his great anxiety his heart was continually clamoring at what he considered the intolerable slowness of the generals. They seemed content to perch tranquilly on the river bank, and leave him bowed down by the weight of a great problem. He wanted it settled forthwith. He could not long bear such a load, he said. Sometimes his anger at the commanders reached an acute stage, and he grumbled about the camp like a veteran. One morning, however, he found himself in the ranks of his prepared regiment. The men were whispering speculations and recounting the old rumors. In the gloom before the break of the day their uniforms glowed a deep purple hue. From across the river the red eyes were still peering. In the eastern sky there was a yellow patch like a rug laid for the feet of the coming sun; and against it, black and patternlike, loomed the gigantic figure of the colonel on a gigantic horse. From off in the darkness came the trampling of feet. The youth could occasionally see dark shadows that moved like monsters. The regiment stood at rest for what seemed a long time. The youth grew impatient. It was unendurable the way these affairs were managed. He wondered how long they were to be kept waiting. As he looked all about him and pondered upon the mystic gloom, he began to believe that at any moment the ominous distance might be aflare, and the rolling crashes of an engagement come to his ears. Staring once at the red eyes across the river, he conceived them to be growing larger, as the orbs of a row of dragons advancing. He turned toward the colonel and saw him lift his gigantic arm and calmly stroke his mustache. At last he heard from along the road at the foot of the hill the clatter of a horse's galloping hoofs. It must be the coming of orders. He bent forward, scarce breathing. The exciting clickety-click, as it grew louder and louder, seemed to be beating upon his soul. Presently a horseman with jangling equipment drew rein before the colonel of the regiment. The two held a short, sharp-worded conversation. The men in the foremost ranks craned their necks. As the horseman wheeled his animal and galloped away he turned to shout over his shoulder, "Don't forget that box of cigars!" The colonel mumbled in reply. The youth wondered what a box of cigars had to do with war. A moment later the regiment went swinging off into the darkness. It was now like one of those moving monsters wending with many feet. The air was heavy, and cold with dew. A mass of wet grass, marched upon, rustled like silk. There was an occasional flash and glimmer of steel from the backs of all these huge crawling reptiles. From the road came creakings and grumblings as some surly guns were dragged away. The men stumbled along still muttering speculations. There was a subdued debate. Once a man fell down, and as he reached for his rifle a comrade, unseeing, trod upon his hand. He of the injured fingers swore bitterly and aloud. A low, tittering laugh went among his fellows. Presently they passed into a roadway and marched forward with easy strides. A dark regiment moved before them, and from behind also came the tinkle of equipments on the bodies of marching men. The rushing yellow of the developing day went on behind their backs. When the sunrays at last struck full and mellowingly upon the earth, the youth saw that the landscape was streaked with two long, thin, black columns which disappeared on the brow of a hill in front and rearward vanished in a wood. They were like two serpents crawling from the cavern of the night. The river was not in view. The tall soldier burst into praises of what he thought to be his powers of perception. Some of the tall one's companions cried with emphasis that they, too, had evolved the same thing, and they congratulated themselves upon it. But there were others who said that the tall one's plan was not the true one at all. They persisted with other theories. There was a vigorous discussion. The youth took no part in them. As he walked along in careless line he was engaged with his own eternal debate. He could not hinder himself from dwelling upon it. He was despondent and sullen, and threw shifting glances about him. He looked ahead, often expecting to hear from the advance the rattle of firing. But the long serpents crawled slowly from hill to hill without bluster of smoke. A dun-colored cloud of dust floated away to the right. The sky overhead was of a fairy blue. The youth studied the faces of his companions, ever on the watch to detect kindred emotions. He suffered disappointment. Some ardor of the air which was causing the veteran commands to move with glee--almost with song--had infected the new regiment. The men began to speak of victory as of a thing they knew. Also, the tall soldier received his vindication. They were certainly going to come around in behind the enemy. They expressed commiseration for that part of the army which had been left upon the river bank, felicitating themselves upon being a part of a blasting host. The youth, considering himself as separated from the others, was saddened by the blithe and merry speeches that went from rank to rank. The company wags all made their best endeavors. The regiment tramped to the tune of laughter. The blatant soldier often convulsed whole files by his biting sarcasms aimed at the tall one. And it was not long before all the men seemed to forget their mission. Whole brigades grinned in unison, and regiments laughed. A rather fat soldier attempted to pilfer a horse from a dooryard. He planned to load his knap-sack upon it. He was escaping with his prize when a young girl rushed from the house and grabbed the animal's mane. There followed a wrangle. The young girl, with pink cheeks and shining eyes, stood like a dauntless statue. The observant regiment, standing at rest in the roadway, whooped at once, and entered whole-souled upon the side of the maiden. The men became so engrossed in this affair that they entirely ceased to remember their own large war. They jeered the piratical private, and called attention to various defects in his personal appearance; and they were wildly enthusiastic in support of the young girl. To her, from some distance, came bold advice. "Hit him with a stick." There were crows and catcalls showered upon him when he retreated without the horse. The regiment rejoiced at his downfall. Loud and vociferous congratulations were showered upon the maiden, who stood panting and regarding the troops with defiance. At nightfall the column broke into regimental pieces, and the fragments went into the fields to camp. Tents sprang up like strange plants. Camp fires, like red, peculiar blossoms, dotted the night. The youth kept from intercourse with his companions as much as circumstances would allow him. In the evening he wandered a few paces into the gloom. From this little distance the many fires, with the black forms of men passing to and fro before the crimson rays, made weird and satanic effects. He lay down in the grass. The blades pressed tenderly against his cheek. The moon had been lighted and was hung in a treetop. The liquid stillness of the night enveloping him made him feel vast pity for himself. There was a caress in the soft winds; and the whole mood of the darkness, he thought, was one of sympathy for himself in his distress. He wished, without reserve, that he was at home again making the endless rounds from the house to the barn, from the barn to the fields, from the fields to the barn, from the barn to the house. He remembered he had often cursed the brindle cow and her mates, and had sometimes flung milking stools. But, from his present point of view, there was a halo of happiness about each of their heads, and he would have sacrificed all the brass buttons on the continent to have been enabled to return to them. He told himself that he was not formed for a soldier. And he mused seriously upon the radical differences between himself and those men who were dodging imp-like around the fires. As he mused thus he heard the rustle of grass, and, upon turning his head, discovered the loud soldier. He called out, "Oh, Wilson!" The latter approached and looked down. "Why, hello, Henry; is it you? What you doing here?" "Oh, thinking," said the youth. The other sat down and carefully lighted his pipe. "You're getting blue, my boy. You're looking thundering peeked. What the dickens is wrong with you?" "Oh, nothing," said the youth. The loud soldier launched then into the subject of the anticipated fight. "Oh, we've got 'em now!" As he spoke his boyish face was wreathed in a gleeful smile, and his voice had an exultant ring. "We've got 'em now. At last, by the eternal thunders, we'll lick 'em good!" "If the truth was known," he added, more soberly, "THEY'VE licked US about every clip up to now; but this time--this time--we'll lick 'em good!" "I thought you was objecting to this march a little while ago," said the youth coldly. "Oh, it wasn't that," explained the other. "I don't mind marching, if there's going to be fighting at the end of it. What I hate is this getting moved here and moved there, with no good coming of it, as far as I can see, excepting sore feet and damned short rations." "Well, Jim Conklin says we'll get a plenty of fighting this time." "He's right for once, I guess, though I can't see how it come. This time we're in for a big battle, and we've got the best end of it, certain sure. Gee rod! how we will thump 'em!" He arose and began to pace to and fro excitedly. The thrill of his enthusiasm made him walk with an elastic step. He was sprightly, vigorous, fiery in his belief in success. He looked into the future with clear, proud eye, and he swore with the air of an old soldier. The youth watched him for a moment in silence. When he finally spoke his voice was as bitter as dregs. "Oh, you're going to do great things, I s'pose!" The loud soldier blew a thoughtful cloud of smoke from his pipe. "Oh, I don't know," he remarked with dignity; "I don't know. I s'pose I'll do as well as the rest. I'm going to try like thunder." He evidently complimented himself upon the modesty of this statement. "How do you know you won't run when the time comes?" asked the youth. "Run?" said the loud one; "run?--of course not!" He laughed. "Well," continued the youth, "lots of good-a-'nough men have thought they was going to do great things before the fight, but when the time come they skedaddled." "Oh, that's all true, I s'pose," replied the other; "but I'm not going to skedaddle. The man that bets on my running will lose his money, that's all." He nodded confidently. "Oh, shucks!" said the youth. "You ain't the bravest man in the world, are you?" "No, I ain't," exclaimed the loud soldier indignantly; "and I didn't say I was the bravest man in the world, neither. I said I was going to do my share of fighting--that's what I said. And I am, too. Who are you, anyhow. You talk as if you thought you was Napoleon Bonaparte." He glared at the youth for a moment, and then strode away. The youth called in a savage voice after his comrade: "Well, you needn't git mad about it!" But the other continued on his way and made no reply. He felt alone in space when his injured comrade had disappeared. His failure to discover any mite of resemblance in their view points made him more miserable than before. No one seemed to be wrestling with such a terrific personal problem. He was a mental outcast. He went slowly to his tent and stretched himself on a blanket by the side of the snoring tall soldier. In the darkness he saw visions of a thousand-tongued fear that would babble at his back and cause him to flee, while others were going coolly about their country's business. He admitted that he would not be able to cope with this monster. He felt that every nerve in his body would be an ear to hear the voices, while other men would remain stolid and deaf. And as he sweated with the pain of these thoughts, he could hear low, serene sentences. "I'll bid five." "Make it six." "Seven." "Seven goes." He stared at the red, shivering reflection of a fire on the white wall of his tent until, exhausted and ill from the monotony of his suffering, he fell asleep. Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Am nächsten Morgen erfahren die Soldaten, dass Jim sich geirrt hat: Die Armee bewegt sich nicht. Henry macht sich immer noch Sorgen um seinen Mut und beobachtet seine Kameraden, ob sie Anzeichen von Selbstzweifel zeigen. Eines Tages erhält die Armee Befehle und beginnt zu marschieren. Während des Marsches diskutieren die Soldaten, wann und ob sie in den Kampf ziehen werden. Henry hält sich für sich, zu sehr mit seinen eigenen Spekulationen beschäftigt, um sich den anderen anzuschließen. Das Regiment amüsiert sich prächtig, als ein dicker Soldat versucht, ein Pferd zu stehlen, aber das Mädchen, dem es gehört, ihn aufhält. Nachts schlagen die Männer ihr Lager auf, und Henry, der "ungeheure Mitleid mit sich selbst" empfindet, fragt Wilson, ob er sich vorstellen kann, vor dem Kampf wegzulaufen. Wilson erhebt empört Anspruch darauf, seinen Teil in einem Kampf zu leisten, und lässt Henry noch einsamer 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: He was not Mr Wentworth, the former curate of Monkford, however suspicious appearances may be, but a Captain Frederick Wentworth, his brother, who being made commander in consequence of the action off St Domingo, and not immediately employed, had come into Somersetshire, in the summer of 1806; and having no parent living, found a home for half a year at Monkford. He was, at that time, a remarkably fine young man, with a great deal of intelligence, spirit, and brilliancy; and Anne an extremely pretty girl, with gentleness, modesty, taste, and feeling. Half the sum of attraction, on either side, might have been enough, for he had nothing to do, and she had hardly anybody to love; but the encounter of such lavish recommendations could not fail. They were gradually acquainted, and when acquainted, rapidly and deeply in love. It would be difficult to say which had seen highest perfection in the other, or which had been the happiest: she, in receiving his declarations and proposals, or he in having them accepted. A short period of exquisite felicity followed, and but a short one. Troubles soon arose. Sir Walter, on being applied to, without actually withholding his consent, or saying it should never be, gave it all the negative of great astonishment, great coldness, great silence, and a professed resolution of doing nothing for his daughter. He thought it a very degrading alliance; and Lady Russell, though with more tempered and pardonable pride, received it as a most unfortunate one. Anne Elliot, with all her claims of birth, beauty, and mind, to throw herself away at nineteen; involve herself at nineteen in an engagement with a young man, who had nothing but himself to recommend him, and no hopes of attaining affluence, but in the chances of a most uncertain profession, and no connexions to secure even his farther rise in the profession, would be, indeed, a throwing away, which she grieved to think of! Anne Elliot, so young; known to so few, to be snatched off by a stranger without alliance or fortune; or rather sunk by him into a state of most wearing, anxious, youth-killing dependence! It must not be, if by any fair interference of friendship, any representations from one who had almost a mother's love, and mother's rights, it would be prevented. Captain Wentworth had no fortune. He had been lucky in his profession; but spending freely, what had come freely, had realized nothing. But he was confident that he should soon be rich: full of life and ardour, he knew that he should soon have a ship, and soon be on a station that would lead to everything he wanted. He had always been lucky; he knew he should be so still. Such confidence, powerful in its own warmth, and bewitching in the wit which often expressed it, must have been enough for Anne; but Lady Russell saw it very differently. His sanguine temper, and fearlessness of mind, operated very differently on her. She saw in it but an aggravation of the evil. It only added a dangerous character to himself. He was brilliant, he was headstrong. Lady Russell had little taste for wit, and of anything approaching to imprudence a horror. She deprecated the connexion in every light. Such opposition, as these feelings produced, was more than Anne could combat. Young and gentle as she was, it might yet have been possible to withstand her father's ill-will, though unsoftened by one kind word or look on the part of her sister; but Lady Russell, whom she had always loved and relied on, could not, with such steadiness of opinion, and such tenderness of manner, be continually advising her in vain. She was persuaded to believe the engagement a wrong thing: indiscreet, improper, hardly capable of success, and not deserving it. But it was not a merely selfish caution, under which she acted, in putting an end to it. Had she not imagined herself consulting his good, even more than her own, she could hardly have given him up. The belief of being prudent, and self-denying, principally for his advantage, was her chief consolation, under the misery of a parting, a final parting; and every consolation was required, for she had to encounter all the additional pain of opinions, on his side, totally unconvinced and unbending, and of his feeling himself ill used by so forced a relinquishment. He had left the country in consequence. A few months had seen the beginning and the end of their acquaintance; but not with a few months ended Anne's share of suffering from it. Her attachment and regrets had, for a long time, clouded every enjoyment of youth, and an early loss of bloom and spirits had been their lasting effect. More than seven years were gone since this little history of sorrowful interest had reached its close; and time had softened down much, perhaps nearly all of peculiar attachment to him, but she had been too dependent on time alone; no aid had been given in change of place (except in one visit to Bath soon after the rupture), or in any novelty or enlargement of society. No one had ever come within the Kellynch circle, who could bear a comparison with Frederick Wentworth, as he stood in her memory. No second attachment, the only thoroughly natural, happy, and sufficient cure, at her time of life, had been possible to the nice tone of her mind, the fastidiousness of her taste, in the small limits of the society around them. She had been solicited, when about two-and-twenty, to change her name, by the young man, who not long afterwards found a more willing mind in her younger sister; and Lady Russell had lamented her refusal; for Charles Musgrove was the eldest son of a man, whose landed property and general importance were second in that country, only to Sir Walter's, and of good character and appearance; and however Lady Russell might have asked yet for something more, while Anne was nineteen, she would have rejoiced to see her at twenty-two so respectably removed from the partialities and injustice of her father's house, and settled so permanently near herself. But in this case, Anne had left nothing for advice to do; and though Lady Russell, as satisfied as ever with her own discretion, never wished the past undone, she began now to have the anxiety which borders on hopelessness for Anne's being tempted, by some man of talents and independence, to enter a state for which she held her to be peculiarly fitted by her warm affections and domestic habits. They knew not each other's opinion, either its constancy or its change, on the one leading point of Anne's conduct, for the subject was never alluded to; but Anne, at seven-and-twenty, thought very differently from what she had been made to think at nineteen. She did not blame Lady Russell, she did not blame herself for having been guided by her; but she felt that were any young person, in similar circumstances, to apply to her for counsel, they would never receive any of such certain immediate wretchedness, such uncertain future good. She was persuaded that under every disadvantage of disapprobation at home, and every anxiety attending his profession, all their probable fears, delays, and disappointments, she should yet have been a happier woman in maintaining the engagement, than she had been in the sacrifice of it; and this, she fully believed, had the usual share, had even more than the usual share of all such solicitudes and suspense been theirs, without reference to the actual results of their case, which, as it happened, would have bestowed earlier prosperity than could be reasonably calculated on. All his sanguine expectations, all his confidence had been justified. His genius and ardour had seemed to foresee and to command his prosperous path. He had, very soon after their engagement ceased, got employ: and all that he had told her would follow, had taken place. He had distinguished himself, and early gained the other step in rank, and must now, by successive captures, have made a handsome fortune. She had only navy lists and newspapers for her authority, but she could not doubt his being rich; and, in favour of his constancy, she had no reason to believe him married. How eloquent could Anne Elliot have been! how eloquent, at least, were her wishes on the side of early warm attachment, and a cheerful confidence in futurity, against that over-anxious caution which seems to insult exertion and distrust Providence! She had been forced into prudence in her youth, she learned romance as she grew older: the natural sequel of an unnatural beginning. With all these circumstances, recollections and feelings, she could not hear that Captain Wentworth's sister was likely to live at Kellynch without a revival of former pain; and many a stroll, and many a sigh, were necessary to dispel the agitation of the idea. She often told herself it was folly, before she could harden her nerves sufficiently to feel the continual discussion of the Crofts and their business no evil. She was assisted, however, by that perfect indifference and apparent unconsciousness, among the only three of her own friends in the secret of the past, which seemed almost to deny any recollection of it. She could do justice to the superiority of Lady Russell's motives in this, over those of her father and Elizabeth; she could honour all the better feelings of her calmness; but the general air of oblivion among them was highly important from whatever it sprung; and in the event of Admiral Croft's really taking Kellynch Hall, she rejoiced anew over the conviction which had always been most grateful to her, of the past being known to those three only among her connexions, by whom no syllable, she believed, would ever be whispered, and in the trust that among his, the brother only with whom he had been residing, had received any information of their short-lived engagement. That brother had been long removed from the country and being a sensible man, and, moreover, a single man at the time, she had a fond dependence on no human creature's having heard of it from him. The sister, Mrs Croft, had then been out of England, accompanying her husband on a foreign station, and her own sister, Mary, had been at school while it all occurred; and never admitted by the pride of some, and the delicacy of others, to the smallest knowledge of it afterwards. With these supports, she hoped that the acquaintance between herself and the Crofts, which, with Lady Russell, still resident in Kellynch, and Mary fixed only three miles off, must be anticipated, need not involve any particular awkwardness. On the morning appointed for Admiral and Mrs Croft's seeing Kellynch Hall, Anne found it most natural to take her almost daily walk to Lady Russell's, and keep out of the way till all was over; when she found it most natural to be sorry that she had missed the opportunity of seeing them. This meeting of the two parties proved highly satisfactory, and decided the whole business at once. Each lady was previously well disposed for an agreement, and saw nothing, therefore, but good manners in the other; and with regard to the gentlemen, there was such an hearty good humour, such an open, trusting liberality on the Admiral's side, as could not but influence Sir Walter, who had besides been flattered into his very best and most polished behaviour by Mr Shepherd's assurances of his being known, by report, to the Admiral, as a model of good breeding. The house and grounds, and furniture, were approved, the Crofts were approved, terms, time, every thing, and every body, was right; and Mr Shepherd's clerks were set to work, without there having been a single preliminary difference to modify of all that "This indenture sheweth." Sir Walter, without hesitation, declared the Admiral to be the best-looking sailor he had ever met with, and went so far as to say, that if his own man might have had the arranging of his hair, he should not be ashamed of being seen with him any where; and the Admiral, with sympathetic cordiality, observed to his wife as they drove back through the park, "I thought we should soon come to a deal, my dear, in spite of what they told us at Taunton. The Baronet will never set the Thames on fire, but there seems to be no harm in him."--reciprocal compliments, which would have been esteemed about equal. The Crofts were to have possession at Michaelmas; and as Sir Walter proposed removing to Bath in the course of the preceding month, there was no time to be lost in making every dependent arrangement. Lady Russell, convinced that Anne would not be allowed to be of any use, or any importance, in the choice of the house which they were going to secure, was very unwilling to have her hurried away so soon, and wanted to make it possible for her to stay behind till she might convey her to Bath herself after Christmas; but having engagements of her own which must take her from Kellynch for several weeks, she was unable to give the full invitation she wished, and Anne though dreading the possible heats of September in all the white glare of Bath, and grieving to forego all the influence so sweet and so sad of the autumnal months in the country, did not think that, everything considered, she wished to remain. It would be most right, and most wise, and, therefore must involve least suffering to go with the others. Something occurred, however, to give her a different duty. Mary, often a little unwell, and always thinking a great deal of her own complaints, and always in the habit of claiming Anne when anything was the matter, was indisposed; and foreseeing that she should not have a day's health all the autumn, entreated, or rather required her, for it was hardly entreaty, to come to Uppercross Cottage, and bear her company as long as she should want her, instead of going to Bath. "I cannot possibly do without Anne," was Mary's reasoning; and Elizabeth's reply was, "Then I am sure Anne had better stay, for nobody will want her in Bath." To be claimed as a good, though in an improper style, is at least better than being rejected as no good at all; and Anne, glad to be thought of some use, glad to have anything marked out as a duty, and certainly not sorry to have the scene of it in the country, and her own dear country, readily agreed to stay. This invitation of Mary's removed all Lady Russell's difficulties, and it was consequently soon settled that Anne should not go to Bath till Lady Russell took her, and that all the intervening time should be divided between Uppercross Cottage and Kellynch Lodge. So far all was perfectly right; but Lady Russell was almost startled by the wrong of one part of the Kellynch Hall plan, when it burst on her, which was, Mrs Clay's being engaged to go to Bath with Sir Walter and Elizabeth, as a most important and valuable assistant to the latter in all the business before her. Lady Russell was extremely sorry that such a measure should have been resorted to at all, wondered, grieved, and feared; and the affront it contained to Anne, in Mrs Clay's being of so much use, while Anne could be of none, was a very sore aggravation. Anne herself was become hardened to such affronts; but she felt the imprudence of the arrangement quite as keenly as Lady Russell. With a great deal of quiet observation, and a knowledge, which she often wished less, of her father's character, she was sensible that results the most serious to his family from the intimacy were more than possible. She did not imagine that her father had at present an idea of the kind. Mrs Clay had freckles, and a projecting tooth, and a clumsy wrist, which he was continually making severe remarks upon, in her absence; but she was young, and certainly altogether well-looking, and possessed, in an acute mind and assiduous pleasing manners, infinitely more dangerous attractions than any merely personal might have been. Anne was so impressed by the degree of their danger, that she could not excuse herself from trying to make it perceptible to her sister. She had little hope of success; but Elizabeth, who in the event of such a reverse would be so much more to be pitied than herself, should never, she thought, have reason to reproach her for giving no warning. She spoke, and seemed only to offend. Elizabeth could not conceive how such an absurd suspicion should occur to her, and indignantly answered for each party's perfectly knowing their situation. "Mrs Clay," said she, warmly, "never forgets who she is; and as I am rather better acquainted with her sentiments than you can be, I can assure you, that upon the subject of marriage they are particularly nice, and that she reprobates all inequality of condition and rank more strongly than most people. And as to my father, I really should not have thought that he, who has kept himself single so long for our sakes, need be suspected now. If Mrs Clay were a very beautiful woman, I grant you, it might be wrong to have her so much with me; not that anything in the world, I am sure, would induce my father to make a degrading match, but he might be rendered unhappy. But poor Mrs Clay who, with all her merits, can never have been reckoned tolerably pretty, I really think poor Mrs Clay may be staying here in perfect safety. One would imagine you had never heard my father speak of her personal misfortunes, though I know you must fifty times. That tooth of her's and those freckles. Freckles do not disgust me so very much as they do him. I have known a face not materially disfigured by a few, but he abominates them. You must have heard him notice Mrs Clay's freckles." "There is hardly any personal defect," replied Anne, "which an agreeable manner might not gradually reconcile one to." "I think very differently," answered Elizabeth, shortly; "an agreeable manner may set off handsome features, but can never alter plain ones. However, at any rate, as I have a great deal more at stake on this point than anybody else can have, I think it rather unnecessary in you to be advising me." Anne had done; glad that it was over, and not absolutely hopeless of doing good. Elizabeth, though resenting the suspicion, might yet be made observant by it. The last office of the four carriage-horses was to draw Sir Walter, Miss Elliot, and Mrs Clay to Bath. The party drove off in very good spirits; Sir Walter prepared with condescending bows for all the afflicted tenantry and cottagers who might have had a hint to show themselves, and Anne walked up at the same time, in a sort of desolate tranquillity, to the Lodge, where she was to spend the first week. Her friend was not in better spirits than herself. Lady Russell felt this break-up of the family exceedingly. Their respectability was as dear to her as her own, and a daily intercourse had become precious by habit. It was painful to look upon their deserted grounds, and still worse to anticipate the new hands they were to fall into; and to escape the solitariness and the melancholy of so altered a village, and be out of the way when Admiral and Mrs Croft first arrived, she had determined to make her own absence from home begin when she must give up Anne. Accordingly their removal was made together, and Anne was set down at Uppercross Cottage, in the first stage of Lady Russell's journey. Uppercross was a moderate-sized village, which a few years back had been completely in the old English style, containing only two houses superior in appearance to those of the yeomen and labourers; the mansion of the squire, with its high walls, great gates, and old trees, substantial and unmodernized, and the compact, tight parsonage, enclosed in its own neat garden, with a vine and a pear-tree trained round its casements; but upon the marriage of the young 'squire, it had received the improvement of a farm-house elevated into a cottage, for his residence, and Uppercross Cottage, with its veranda, French windows, and other prettiness, was quite as likely to catch the traveller's eye as the more consistent and considerable aspect and premises of the Great House, about a quarter of a mile farther on. Here Anne had often been staying. She knew the ways of Uppercross as well as those of Kellynch. The two families were so continually meeting, so much in the habit of running in and out of each other's house at all hours, that it was rather a surprise to her to find Mary alone; but being alone, her being unwell and out of spirits was almost a matter of course. Though better endowed than the elder sister, Mary had not Anne's understanding nor temper. While well, and happy, and properly attended to, she had great good humour and excellent spirits; but any indisposition sunk her completely. She had no resources for solitude; and inheriting a considerable share of the Elliot self-importance, was very prone to add to every other distress that of fancying herself neglected and ill-used. In person, she was inferior to both sisters, and had, even in her bloom, only reached the dignity of being "a fine girl." She was now lying on the faded sofa of the pretty little drawing-room, the once elegant furniture of which had been gradually growing shabby, under the influence of four summers and two children; and, on Anne's appearing, greeted her with-- "So, you are come at last! I began to think I should never see you. I am so ill I can hardly speak. I have not seen a creature the whole morning!" "I am sorry to find you unwell," replied Anne. "You sent me such a good account of yourself on Thursday!" "Yes, I made the best of it; I always do: but I was very far from well at the time; and I do not think I ever was so ill in my life as I have been all this morning: very unfit to be left alone, I am sure. Suppose I were to be seized of a sudden in some dreadful way, and not able to ring the bell! So, Lady Russell would not get out. I do not think she has been in this house three times this summer." Anne said what was proper, and enquired after her husband. "Oh! Charles is out shooting. I have not seen him since seven o'clock. He would go, though I told him how ill I was. He said he should not stay out long; but he has never come back, and now it is almost one. I assure you, I have not seen a soul this whole long morning." "You have had your little boys with you?" "Yes, as long as I could bear their noise; but they are so unmanageable that they do me more harm than good. Little Charles does not mind a word I say, and Walter is growing quite as bad." "Well, you will soon be better now," replied Anne, cheerfully. "You know I always cure you when I come. How are your neighbours at the Great House?" "I can give you no account of them. I have not seen one of them to-day, except Mr Musgrove, who just stopped and spoke through the window, but without getting off his horse; and though I told him how ill I was, not one of them have been near me. It did not happen to suit the Miss Musgroves, I suppose, and they never put themselves out of their way." "You will see them yet, perhaps, before the morning is gone. It is early." "I never want them, I assure you. They talk and laugh a great deal too much for me. Oh! Anne, I am so very unwell! It was quite unkind of you not to come on Thursday." "My dear Mary, recollect what a comfortable account you sent me of yourself! You wrote in the cheerfullest manner, and said you were perfectly well, and in no hurry for me; and that being the case, you must be aware that my wish would be to remain with Lady Russell to the last: and besides what I felt on her account, I have really been so busy, have had so much to do, that I could not very conveniently have left Kellynch sooner." "Dear me! what can you possibly have to do?" "A great many things, I assure you. More than I can recollect in a moment; but I can tell you some. I have been making a duplicate of the catalogue of my father's books and pictures. I have been several times in the garden with Mackenzie, trying to understand, and make him understand, which of Elizabeth's plants are for Lady Russell. I have had all my own little concerns to arrange, books and music to divide, and all my trunks to repack, from not having understood in time what was intended as to the waggons: and one thing I have had to do, Mary, of a more trying nature: going to almost every house in the parish, as a sort of take-leave. I was told that they wished it. But all these things took up a great deal of time." "Oh! well!" and after a moment's pause, "but you have never asked me one word about our dinner at the Pooles yesterday." "Did you go then? I have made no enquiries, because I concluded you must have been obliged to give up the party." "Oh yes! I went. I was very well yesterday; nothing at all the matter with me till this morning. It would have been strange if I had not gone." "I am very glad you were well enough, and I hope you had a pleasant party." "Nothing remarkable. One always knows beforehand what the dinner will be, and who will be there; and it is so very uncomfortable not having a carriage of one's own. Mr and Mrs Musgrove took me, and we were so crowded! They are both so very large, and take up so much room; and Mr Musgrove always sits forward. So, there was I, crowded into the back seat with Henrietta and Louisa; and I think it very likely that my illness to-day may be owing to it." A little further perseverance in patience and forced cheerfulness on Anne's side produced nearly a cure on Mary's. She could soon sit upright on the sofa, and began to hope she might be able to leave it by dinner-time. Then, forgetting to think of it, she was at the other end of the room, beautifying a nosegay; then, she ate her cold meat; and then she was well enough to propose a little walk. "Where shall we go?" said she, when they were ready. "I suppose you will not like to call at the Great House before they have been to see you?" "I have not the smallest objection on that account," replied Anne. "I should never think of standing on such ceremony with people I know so well as Mrs and the Miss Musgroves." "Oh! but they ought to call upon you as soon as possible. They ought to feel what is due to you as my sister. However, we may as well go and sit with them a little while, and when we have that over, we can enjoy our walk." Anne had always thought such a style of intercourse highly imprudent; but she had ceased to endeavour to check it, from believing that, though there were on each side continual subjects of offence, neither family could now do without it. To the Great House accordingly they went, to sit the full half hour in the old-fashioned square parlour, with a small carpet and shining floor, to which the present daughters of the house were gradually giving the proper air of confusion by a grand piano-forte and a harp, flower-stands and little tables placed in every direction. Oh! could the originals of the portraits against the wainscot, could the gentlemen in brown velvet and the ladies in blue satin have seen what was going on, have been conscious of such an overthrow of all order and neatness! The portraits themselves seemed to be staring in astonishment. The Musgroves, like their houses, were in a state of alteration, perhaps of improvement. The father and mother were in the old English style, and the young people in the new. Mr and Mrs Musgrove were a very good sort of people; friendly and hospitable, not much educated, and not at all elegant. Their children had more modern minds and manners. There was a numerous family; but the only two grown up, excepting Charles, were Henrietta and Louisa, young ladies of nineteen and twenty, who had brought from school at Exeter all the usual stock of accomplishments, and were now like thousands of other young ladies, living to be fashionable, happy, and merry. Their dress had every advantage, their faces were rather pretty, their spirits extremely good, their manner unembarrassed and pleasant; they were of consequence at home, and favourites abroad. Anne always contemplated them as some of the happiest creatures of her acquaintance; but still, saved as we all are, by some comfortable feeling of superiority from wishing for the possibility of exchange, she would not have given up her own more elegant and cultivated mind for all their enjoyments; and envied them nothing but that seemingly perfect good understanding and agreement together, that good-humoured mutual affection, of which she had known so little herself with either of her sisters. They were received with great cordiality. Nothing seemed amiss on the side of the Great House family, which was generally, as Anne very well knew, the least to blame. The half hour was chatted away pleasantly enough; and she was not at all surprised, at the end of it, to have their walking party joined by both the Miss Musgroves, at Mary's particular invitation. Anne had not wanted this visit to Uppercross, to learn that a removal from one set of people to another, though at a distance of only three miles, will often include a total change of conversation, opinion, and idea. She had never been staying there before, without being struck by it, or without wishing that other Elliots could have her advantage in seeing how unknown, or unconsidered there, were the affairs which at Kellynch Hall were treated as of such general publicity and pervading interest; yet, with all this experience, she believed she must now submit to feel that another lesson, in the art of knowing our own nothingness beyond our own circle, was become necessary for her; for certainly, coming as she did, with a heart full of the subject which had been completely occupying both houses in Kellynch for many weeks, she had expected rather more curiosity and sympathy than she found in the separate but very similar remark of Mr and Mrs Musgrove: "So, Miss Anne, Sir Walter and your sister are gone; and what part of Bath do you think they will settle in?" and this, without much waiting for an answer; or in the young ladies' addition of, "I hope we shall be in Bath in the winter; but remember, papa, if we do go, we must be in a good situation: none of your Queen Squares for us!" or in the anxious supplement from Mary, of--"Upon my word, I shall be pretty well off, when you are all gone away to be happy at Bath!" She could only resolve to avoid such self-delusion in future, and think with heightened gratitude of the extraordinary blessing of having one such truly sympathising friend as Lady Russell. The Mr Musgroves had their own game to guard, and to destroy, their own horses, dogs, and newspapers to engage them, and the females were fully occupied in all the other common subjects of housekeeping, neighbours, dress, dancing, and music. She acknowledged it to be very fitting, that every little social commonwealth should dictate its own matters of discourse; and hoped, ere long, to become a not unworthy member of the one she was now transplanted into. With the prospect of spending at least two months at Uppercross, it was highly incumbent on her to clothe her imagination, her memory, and all her ideas in as much of Uppercross as possible. She had no dread of these two months. Mary was not so repulsive and unsisterly as Elizabeth, nor so inaccessible to all influence of hers; neither was there anything among the other component parts of the cottage inimical to comfort. She was always on friendly terms with her brother-in-law; and in the children, who loved her nearly as well, and respected her a great deal more than their mother, she had an object of interest, amusement, and wholesome exertion. Charles Musgrove was civil and agreeable; in sense and temper he was undoubtedly superior to his wife, but not of powers, or conversation, or grace, to make the past, as they were connected together, at all a dangerous contemplation; though, at the same time, Anne could believe, with Lady Russell, that a more equal match might have greatly improved him; and that a woman of real understanding might have given more consequence to his character, and more usefulness, rationality, and elegance to his habits and pursuits. As it was, he did nothing with much zeal, but sport; and his time was otherwise trifled away, without benefit from books or anything else. He had very good spirits, which never seemed much affected by his wife's occasional lowness, bore with her unreasonableness sometimes to Anne's admiration, and upon the whole, though there was very often a little disagreement (in which she had sometimes more share than she wished, being appealed to by both parties), they might pass for a happy couple. They were always perfectly agreed in the want of more money, and a strong inclination for a handsome present from his father; but here, as on most topics, he had the superiority, for while Mary thought it a great shame that such a present was not made, he always contended for his father's having many other uses for his money, and a right to spend it as he liked. As to the management of their children, his theory was much better than his wife's, and his practice not so bad. "I could manage them very well, if it were not for Mary's interference," was what Anne often heard him say, and had a good deal of faith in; but when listening in turn to Mary's reproach of "Charles spoils the children so that I cannot get them into any order," she never had the smallest temptation to say, "Very true." One of the least agreeable circumstances of her residence there was her being treated with too much confidence by all parties, and being too much in the secret of the complaints of each house. Known to have some influence with her sister, she was continually requested, or at least receiving hints to exert it, beyond what was practicable. "I wish you could persuade Mary not to be always fancying herself ill," was Charles's language; and, in an unhappy mood, thus spoke Mary: "I do believe if Charles were to see me dying, he would not think there was anything the matter with me. I am sure, Anne, if you would, you might persuade him that I really am very ill--a great deal worse than I ever own." Mary's declaration was, "I hate sending the children to the Great House, though their grandmamma is always wanting to see them, for she humours and indulges them to such a degree, and gives them so much trash and sweet things, that they are sure to come back sick and cross for the rest of the day." And Mrs Musgrove took the first opportunity of being alone with Anne, to say, "Oh! Miss Anne, I cannot help wishing Mrs Charles had a little of your method with those children. They are quite different creatures with you! But to be sure, in general they are so spoilt! It is a pity you cannot put your sister in the way of managing them. They are as fine healthy children as ever were seen, poor little dears! without partiality; but Mrs Charles knows no more how they should be treated--! Bless me! how troublesome they are sometimes. I assure you, Miss Anne, it prevents my wishing to see them at our house so often as I otherwise should. I believe Mrs Charles is not quite pleased with my not inviting them oftener; but you know it is very bad to have children with one that one is obligated to be checking every moment; "don't do this," and "don't do that;" or that one can only keep in tolerable order by more cake than is good for them." She had this communication, moreover, from Mary. "Mrs Musgrove thinks all her servants so steady, that it would be high treason to call it in question; but I am sure, without exaggeration, that her upper house-maid and laundry-maid, instead of being in their business, are gadding about the village, all day long. I meet them wherever I go; and I declare, I never go twice into my nursery without seeing something of them. If Jemima were not the trustiest, steadiest creature in the world, it would be enough to spoil her; for she tells me, they are always tempting her to take a walk with them." And on Mrs Musgrove's side, it was, "I make a rule of never interfering in any of my daughter-in-law's concerns, for I know it would not do; but I shall tell you, Miss Anne, because you may be able to set things to rights, that I have no very good opinion of Mrs Charles's nursery-maid: I hear strange stories of her; she is always upon the gad; and from my own knowledge, I can declare, she is such a fine-dressing lady, that she is enough to ruin any servants she comes near. Mrs Charles quite swears by her, I know; but I just give you this hint, that you may be upon the watch; because, if you see anything amiss, you need not be afraid of mentioning it." Again, it was Mary's complaint, that Mrs Musgrove was very apt not to give her the precedence that was her due, when they dined at the Great House with other families; and she did not see any reason why she was to be considered so much at home as to lose her place. And one day when Anne was walking with only the Musgroves, one of them after talking of rank, people of rank, and jealousy of rank, said, "I have no scruple of observing to you, how nonsensical some persons are about their place, because all the world knows how easy and indifferent you are about it; but I wish anybody could give Mary a hint that it would be a great deal better if she were not so very tenacious, especially if she would not be always putting herself forward to take place of mamma. Nobody doubts her right to have precedence of mamma, but it would be more becoming in her not to be always insisting on it. It is not that mamma cares about it the least in the world, but I know it is taken notice of by many persons." How was Anne to set all these matters to rights? She could do little more than listen patiently, soften every grievance, and excuse each to the other; give them all hints of the forbearance necessary between such near neighbours, and make those hints broadest which were meant for her sister's benefit. In all other respects, her visit began and proceeded very well. Her own spirits improved by change of place and subject, by being removed three miles from Kellynch; Mary's ailments lessened by having a constant companion, and their daily intercourse with the other family, since there was neither superior affection, confidence, nor employment in the cottage, to be interrupted by it, was rather an advantage. It was certainly carried nearly as far as possible, for they met every morning, and hardly ever spent an evening asunder; but she believed they should not have done so well without the sight of Mr and Mrs Musgrove's respectable forms in the usual places, or without the talking, laughing, and singing of their daughters. She played a great deal better than either of the Miss Musgroves, but having no voice, no knowledge of the harp, and no fond parents, to sit by and fancy themselves delighted, her performance was little thought of, only out of civility, or to refresh the others, as she was well aware. She knew that when she played she was giving pleasure only to herself; but this was no new sensation. Excepting one short period of her life, she had never, since the age of fourteen, never since the loss of her dear mother, known the happiness of being listened to, or encouraged by any just appreciation or real taste. In music she had been always used to feel alone in the world; and Mr and Mrs Musgrove's fond partiality for their own daughters' performance, and total indifference to any other person's, gave her much more pleasure for their sakes, than mortification for her own. The party at the Great House was sometimes increased by other company. The neighbourhood was not large, but the Musgroves were visited by everybody, and had more dinner-parties, and more callers, more visitors by invitation and by chance, than any other family. They were more completely popular. The girls were wild for dancing; and the evenings ended, occasionally, in an unpremeditated little ball. There was a family of cousins within a walk of Uppercross, in less affluent circumstances, who depended on the Musgroves for all their pleasures: they would come at any time, and help play at anything, or dance anywhere; and Anne, very much preferring the office of musician to a more active post, played country dances to them by the hour together; a kindness which always recommended her musical powers to the notice of Mr and Mrs Musgrove more than anything else, and often drew this compliment;--"Well done, Miss Anne! very well done indeed! Lord bless me! how those little fingers of yours fly about!" So passed the first three weeks. Michaelmas came; and now Anne's heart must be in Kellynch again. A beloved home made over to others; all the precious rooms and furniture, groves, and prospects, beginning to own other eyes and other limbs! She could not think of much else on the 29th of September; and she had this sympathetic touch in the evening from Mary, who, on having occasion to note down the day of the month, exclaimed, "Dear me, is not this the day the Crofts were to come to Kellynch? I am glad I did not think of it before. How low it makes me!" The Crofts took possession with true naval alertness, and were to be visited. Mary deplored the necessity for herself. "Nobody knew how much she should suffer. She should put it off as long as she could;" but was not easy till she had talked Charles into driving her over on an early day, and was in a very animated, comfortable state of imaginary agitation, when she came back. Anne had very sincerely rejoiced in there being no means of her going. She wished, however to see the Crofts, and was glad to be within when the visit was returned. They came: the master of the house was not at home, but the two sisters were together; and as it chanced that Mrs Croft fell to the share of Anne, while the Admiral sat by Mary, and made himself very agreeable by his good-humoured notice of her little boys, she was well able to watch for a likeness, and if it failed her in the features, to catch it in the voice, or in the turn of sentiment and expression. Mrs Croft, though neither tall nor fat, had a squareness, uprightness, and vigour of form, which gave importance to her person. She had bright dark eyes, good teeth, and altogether an agreeable face; though her reddened and weather-beaten complexion, the consequence of her having been almost as much at sea as her husband, made her seem to have lived some years longer in the world than her real eight-and-thirty. Her manners were open, easy, and decided, like one who had no distrust of herself, and no doubts of what to do; without any approach to coarseness, however, or any want of good humour. Anne gave her credit, indeed, for feelings of great consideration towards herself, in all that related to Kellynch, and it pleased her: especially, as she had satisfied herself in the very first half minute, in the instant even of introduction, that there was not the smallest symptom of any knowledge or suspicion on Mrs Croft's side, to give a bias of any sort. She was quite easy on that head, and consequently full of strength and courage, till for a moment electrified by Mrs Croft's suddenly saying,-- "It was you, and not your sister, I find, that my brother had the pleasure of being acquainted with, when he was in this country." Anne hoped she had outlived the age of blushing; but the age of emotion she certainly had not. "Perhaps you may not have heard that he is married?" added Mrs Croft. She could now answer as she ought; and was happy to feel, when Mrs Croft's next words explained it to be Mr Wentworth of whom she spoke, that she had said nothing which might not do for either brother. She immediately felt how reasonable it was, that Mrs Croft should be thinking and speaking of Edward, and not of Frederick; and with shame at her own forgetfulness applied herself to the knowledge of their former neighbour's present state with proper interest. The rest was all tranquillity; till, just as they were moving, she heard the Admiral say to Mary-- "We are expecting a brother of Mrs Croft's here soon; I dare say you know him by name." He was cut short by the eager attacks of the little boys, clinging to him like an old friend, and declaring he should not go; and being too much engrossed by proposals of carrying them away in his coat pockets, &c., to have another moment for finishing or recollecting what he had begun, Anne was left to persuade herself, as well as she could, that the same brother must still be in question. She could not, however, reach such a degree of certainty, as not to be anxious to hear whether anything had been said on the subject at the other house, where the Crofts had previously been calling. The folks of the Great House were to spend the evening of this day at the Cottage; and it being now too late in the year for such visits to be made on foot, the coach was beginning to be listened for, when the youngest Miss Musgrove walked in. That she was coming to apologize, and that they should have to spend the evening by themselves, was the first black idea; and Mary was quite ready to be affronted, when Louisa made all right by saying, that she only came on foot, to leave more room for the harp, which was bringing in the carriage. "And I will tell you our reason," she added, "and all about it. I am come on to give you notice, that papa and mamma are out of spirits this evening, especially mamma; she is thinking so much of poor Richard! And we agreed it would be best to have the harp, for it seems to amuse her more than the piano-forte. I will tell you why she is out of spirits. When the Crofts called this morning, (they called here afterwards, did not they?), they happened to say, that her brother, Captain Wentworth, is just returned to England, or paid off, or something, and is coming to see them almost directly; and most unluckily it came into mamma's head, when they were gone, that Wentworth, or something very like it, was the name of poor Richard's captain at one time; I do not know when or where, but a great while before he died, poor fellow! And upon looking over his letters and things, she found it was so, and is perfectly sure that this must be the very man, and her head is quite full of it, and of poor Richard! So we must be as merry as we can, that she may not be dwelling upon such gloomy things." The real circumstances of this pathetic piece of family history were, that the Musgroves had had the ill fortune of a very troublesome, hopeless son; and the good fortune to lose him before he reached his twentieth year; that he had been sent to sea because he was stupid and unmanageable on shore; that he had been very little cared for at any time by his family, though quite as much as he deserved; seldom heard of, and scarcely at all regretted, when the intelligence of his death abroad had worked its way to Uppercross, two years before. He had, in fact, though his sisters were now doing all they could for him, by calling him "poor Richard," been nothing better than a thick-headed, unfeeling, unprofitable Dick Musgrove, who had never done anything to entitle himself to more than the abbreviation of his name, living or dead. He had been several years at sea, and had, in the course of those removals to which all midshipmen are liable, and especially such midshipmen as every captain wishes to get rid of, been six months on board Captain Frederick Wentworth's frigate, the Laconia; and from the Laconia he had, under the influence of his captain, written the only two letters which his father and mother had ever received from him during the whole of his absence; that is to say, the only two disinterested letters; all the rest had been mere applications for money. In each letter he had spoken well of his captain; but yet, so little were they in the habit of attending to such matters, so unobservant and incurious were they as to the names of men or ships, that it had made scarcely any impression at the time; and that Mrs Musgrove should have been suddenly struck, this very day, with a recollection of the name of Wentworth, as connected with her son, seemed one of those extraordinary bursts of mind which do sometimes occur. She had gone to her letters, and found it all as she supposed; and the re-perusal of these letters, after so long an interval, her poor son gone for ever, and all the strength of his faults forgotten, had affected her spirits exceedingly, and thrown her into greater grief for him than she had known on first hearing of his death. Mr Musgrove was, in a lesser degree, affected likewise; and when they reached the cottage, they were evidently in want, first, of being listened to anew on this subject, and afterwards, of all the relief which cheerful companions could give them. Sie zu hören, wie sie so viel über Kapitän Wentworth sprechen, seinen Namen so oft wiederholen, über vergangene Jahre rätseln und schließlich feststellen, dass es sich wahrscheinlich um genau denselben Kapitän Wentworth handeln würde, den sie sich erinnerten, einmal oder zweimal getroffen zu haben, nachdem sie von Clifton zurückgekommen waren - ein sehr gutaussehender junger Mann - aber sie konnten nicht sagen, ob es sieben oder acht Jahre her war, war eine neue Art von Belastung für Annes Nerven. Sie fand jedoch heraus, dass sie sich daran gewöhnen musste. Da er tatsächlich im Land erwartet wurde, musste sie sich selbst beibringen, auf solche Punkte unempfindlich zu sein. Und es stellte sich nicht nur heraus, dass er erwartet wurde und bald kommen würde, sondern die Musgroves waren entschlossen, sich selbst vorzustellen und seine Bekanntschaft zu suchen, in ihrer warmen Dankbarkeit für die Freundlichkeit, die er dem armen Dick erwiesen hatte, und ihrer sehr hohen Achtung vor seinem Charakter, der von dem sechs Monate lang von ihm betreuten armen Dick geprägt war, und ihn in starken, wenn auch nicht perfekt geschriebenen Lobesworten als "einen großartigen kühnen Kerl, nur etwas streng mit dem Lehrer" erwähnten, sobald sie von seiner Ankunft erfuhren. Der Entschluss, dies zu tun, half, den Komfort ihres Abends zu bilden. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Wie sich herausstellt, ist die Frau von Admiral Croft die Schwester eines gewissen Herrn Wentworth, der früher in der Nähe der Elliots in Monkford gelebt hat. Der Name Captain Frederick Wentworth hat für Anne eine besondere Bedeutung - eine, die ihre Wangen erröten lässt und in ihr ein "sanftes Seufzen" auslöst. Vor etwas mehr als sieben Jahren hatten sich Captain Wentworth und Anne unsterblich ineinander verliebt. Der Kapitän war "ein ausgesprochen charmanter junger Mann mit viel Intelligenz, Geist und Brillanz". Auf ihrer Seite war Anne "ein äußerst hübsches Mädchen mit Sanftmut, Bescheidenheit, Geschmack und Empfinden". Nach nur wenigen Monaten des Glücks endete ihre Beziehung jedoch abrupt - denn Captain Wentworth hatte weder Familie noch Vermögen. Sir Walter betrachtete die Beziehung als "niedrige Verbindung" und drückte seinen stillen, aber ernsten Missbilligung aus, während Lady Russell sich deutlich gegen eine "unglückliche" und "jugendvernichtende Verbindung" aussprach. Und Anne, noch jung, ließ sich überzeugen, dass die Beziehung beendet werden müsse. Captain Wentworth war von diesem "zwangsweisen Abbruch" sehr betroffen und verließ das Land. Ganz in seinem eigenen Sinne fand Captain Wentworth daraufhin einen erfolgreichen Weg in der Marine. Bis heute hat Anne keinen Mann getroffen, der ihm vergleichbar ist. Sie ist überzeugt, dass eine Fortsetzung der Verlobung sie zu einer glücklicheren Frau gemacht hätte - selbst wenn der Kapitän kein außergewöhnliches Glück gehabt hätte. Als sich die Crofts darauf vorbereiten, in Kellynch Hall einzuziehen, wird beschlossen, dass Anne nicht nach Bath gehen und stattdessen bei ihrer Schwester Mary in Uppercross bleiben wird. Diese Vereinbarung passt allen Parteien: Sir Walter und Elizabeth werden sie nicht vermissen, Lady Russell wird sie näher bei sich haben und Mary wird die Gesellschaft willkommen heißen, um ihre verdrießliche Stimmung zu verbessern. Zum Missfallen von Lady Russell und Anne wird jedoch auch entschieden, dass Frau Clay den Elliots nach Bath folgen wird. Frau Clay, eine Tochter von Herrn Shepherd, die nach einer unglücklichen Ehe mit zwei Kindern zurückgekehrt ist, ist Meisterin ihrer Kunst, den Leuten in Kellynch Hall zu gefallen. Obwohl niemand sie als schön beschreibt - sie hat einen hervorstehenden Zahn und Sommersprossen - fürchten Lady Russell und Anne gleichermaßen, dass sie sich bei den Elliots einschmeicheln wird, in dem Maße, dass eine innige Beziehung zu Sir Walter entsteht. Immerhin gibt es, wie Anne Elizabeth sagt, "kaum einen persönlichen Makel, den eine angenehme Art nicht nach und nach besänftigen könnte". Elizabeth weist Annes Verdächtigungen mit einem Hauch von Groll zurück und reist mit Sir Walter und Frau Clay nach Bath. Anne reist hingegen zur Cottage in Uppercross, etwa eine Viertelmeile vom Great House entfernt, wo Mr. und Mrs. Musgrove wohnen. Als sie ankommt, findet sie Mary in ziemlich missmutiger Stimmung vor, schafft es aber, sie durch Gespräche aufzumuntern. Mary schlägt daraufhin einen Spaziergang vor und die beiden beschließen, das Great House zu besuchen. Nach einer halben Stunde angenehmer Unterhaltung im Great House setzen Mary und Anne ihren Spaziergang fort und werden diesmal von den Miss Musgroves, Henrietta und Louisa, begleitet. Der Wechsel von Kellynch Hall nach Uppercross erinnert Anne daran, dass die Angelegenheiten der Elliots - trotz all ihrer Selbstwichtigkeit - für diejenigen außerhalb ihres unmittelbaren Kreises von wenig Bedeutung sind. Im Great House erkundigen sich die Musgroves nach dem Umzug der Elliots nach Bath, wie sie es bei jedem anderen gewöhnlichen Ereignis tun würden. Die Musgroves haben ihrerseits andere Sorgen. Die Männer beschäftigen sich mit ihren Pferden und der Jagd, während die Frauen Mode, Tanz und Musik genießen. Wie Anne feststellt, "diktiert jede kleine soziale Gemeinschaft ihre eigene Rede". Für Anne ist der Wechsel der "sozialen Gemeinschaft" keineswegs unangenehm. Obwohl sie von ihrem einzigen "wirklich mitfühlenden Freund", Lady Russell, entfernt ist, sind sowohl die jüngere als auch die ältere Generation der Musgroves äußerst angenehm und behandeln sie mit Respekt. Tatsächlich beschließt Anne, sich so weit wie möglich in ihre neue Umgebung zu integrieren. Im Allgemeinen vergehen die Tage in Uppercross angenehm: Es gibt viel Fröhlichkeit, mit Musik, Partys und Tanz. Während Kellynch Hall Anne vollkommen vernachlässigt, ist die "am wenigsten angenehme Umstand" in Uppercross, dass alle Parteien ihr "zu viel Vertrauen" entgegenbringen. Allzu oft gerät Anne zwischen Mary und Charles oder zwischen Mary und Mrs. Musgrove in Streitigkeiten. Jede Partei bringt ihr unterschiedliche Beschwerden vor; jeder Partei muss sie "alle Anzeichen der Nachsicht geben, die zwischen solchen engen Nachbarn notwendig ist". Zu Michaelis ziehen die Crofts ins Kellynch Hall ein. Als die Crofts Uppercross besuchen, führt Anne ein angenehmes Gespräch mit Mrs. Croft - ist aber überrascht von der plötzlichen Erwähnung von Mrs. Crofts Bruder. Es stellt sich jedoch heraus, dass sich die Referenz nicht auf Frederick, sondern auf seinen Bruder Edward bezieht. Später erwähnt Admiral Croft jedoch erneut "einen Bruder von Mrs. Croft", und bemerkt, dass sein Besuch bald erwartet wird. Anne bleibt also unsicher, welcher Wentworth-Bruder gemeint ist. Schließlich trifft Louisa ein und erwähnt, dass Captain Frederick Wentworth nach England zurückgekehrt ist und zu Besuch kommen wird. Übrigens haben die älteren Musgroves melancholische Gefühle aufgrund der Nachrichtens um Captain Wentworth. Laut Erzähler hatten die Musgroves das Unglück, einen sehr mühsamen, hoffnungslosen Sohn zu haben; und das Glück, ihn vor seinem zwanzigsten Lebensjahr zu verlieren. Der Sohn Richard war zur See geschickt worden und hatte zu einem Zeitpunkt unter Captain Wentworth gedient. Unter dem Einfluss des Kapitäns schrieb Richard die einzigen beiden Briefe, die er seinen Eltern während seiner Abwesenheit schrieb. Da die Neuigkeiten über Captain Wentworth Erinnerungen hervorgerufen haben, hat Mrs. Musgrove gerade die beiden Briefe erneut gelesen. Und mit "all der Stärke seiner Fehler vergessen" hat das Wiederlesen "sie in größere Trauer für ihn versetzt, als sie es bei der ersten Nachricht von seinem Tod gewusst hatte". Als Ergebnis beschließen die Musgroves, sich Captain Wentworth vorzustellen, wenn er ankommt. Kleine Anfangsschwierigkeiten lassen die Musgroves jedoch nicht ahnen, welche emotionalen Turbulenzen solche Gespräche über Captain Wentworth bei Anne hervorrufen.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: Henry Crawford had quite made up his mind by the next morning to give another fortnight to Mansfield, and having sent for his hunters, and written a few lines of explanation to the Admiral, he looked round at his sister as he sealed and threw the letter from him, and seeing the coast clear of the rest of the family, said, with a smile, "And how do you think I mean to amuse myself, Mary, on the days that I do not hunt? I am grown too old to go out more than three times a week; but I have a plan for the intermediate days, and what do you think it is?" "To walk and ride with me, to be sure." "Not exactly, though I shall be happy to do both, but _that_ would be exercise only to my body, and I must take care of my mind. Besides, _that_ would be all recreation and indulgence, without the wholesome alloy of labour, and I do not like to eat the bread of idleness. No, my plan is to make Fanny Price in love with me." "Fanny Price! Nonsense! No, no. You ought to be satisfied with her two cousins." "But I cannot be satisfied without Fanny Price, without making a small hole in Fanny Price's heart. You do not seem properly aware of her claims to notice. When we talked of her last night, you none of you seemed sensible of the wonderful improvement that has taken place in her looks within the last six weeks. You see her every day, and therefore do not notice it; but I assure you she is quite a different creature from what she was in the autumn. She was then merely a quiet, modest, not plain-looking girl, but she is now absolutely pretty. I used to think she had neither complexion nor countenance; but in that soft skin of hers, so frequently tinged with a blush as it was yesterday, there is decided beauty; and from what I observed of her eyes and mouth, I do not despair of their being capable of expression enough when she has anything to express. And then, her air, her manner, her _tout_ _ensemble_, is so indescribably improved! She must be grown two inches, at least, since October." "Phoo! phoo! This is only because there were no tall women to compare her with, and because she has got a new gown, and you never saw her so well dressed before. She is just what she was in October, believe me. The truth is, that she was the only girl in company for you to notice, and you must have a somebody. I have always thought her pretty--not strikingly pretty--but 'pretty enough,' as people say; a sort of beauty that grows on one. Her eyes should be darker, but she has a sweet smile; but as for this wonderful degree of improvement, I am sure it may all be resolved into a better style of dress, and your having nobody else to look at; and therefore, if you do set about a flirtation with her, you never will persuade me that it is in compliment to her beauty, or that it proceeds from anything but your own idleness and folly." Her brother gave only a smile to this accusation, and soon afterwards said, "I do not quite know what to make of Miss Fanny. I do not understand her. I could not tell what she would be at yesterday. What is her character? Is she solemn? Is she queer? Is she prudish? Why did she draw back and look so grave at me? I could hardly get her to speak. I never was so long in company with a girl in my life, trying to entertain her, and succeed so ill! Never met with a girl who looked so grave on me! I must try to get the better of this. Her looks say, 'I will not like you, I am determined not to like you'; and I say she shall." "Foolish fellow! And so this is her attraction after all! This it is, her not caring about you, which gives her such a soft skin, and makes her so much taller, and produces all these charms and graces! I do desire that you will not be making her really unhappy; a _little_ love, perhaps, may animate and do her good, but I will not have you plunge her deep, for she is as good a little creature as ever lived, and has a great deal of feeling." "It can be but for a fortnight," said Henry; "and if a fortnight can kill her, she must have a constitution which nothing could save. No, I will not do her any harm, dear little soul! only want her to look kindly on me, to give me smiles as well as blushes, to keep a chair for me by herself wherever we are, and be all animation when I take it and talk to her; to think as I think, be interested in all my possessions and pleasures, try to keep me longer at Mansfield, and feel when I go away that she shall be never happy again. I want nothing more." "Moderation itself!" said Mary. "I can have no scruples now. Well, you will have opportunities enough of endeavouring to recommend yourself, for we are a great deal together." And without attempting any farther remonstrance, she left Fanny to her fate, a fate which, had not Fanny's heart been guarded in a way unsuspected by Miss Crawford, might have been a little harder than she deserved; for although there doubtless are such unconquerable young ladies of eighteen (or one should not read about them) as are never to be persuaded into love against their judgment by all that talent, manner, attention, and flattery can do, I have no inclination to believe Fanny one of them, or to think that with so much tenderness of disposition, and so much taste as belonged to her, she could have escaped heart-whole from the courtship (though the courtship only of a fortnight) of such a man as Crawford, in spite of there being some previous ill opinion of him to be overcome, had not her affection been engaged elsewhere. With all the security which love of another and disesteem of him could give to the peace of mind he was attacking, his continued attentions--continued, but not obtrusive, and adapting themselves more and more to the gentleness and delicacy of her character--obliged her very soon to dislike him less than formerly. She had by no means forgotten the past, and she thought as ill of him as ever; but she felt his powers: he was entertaining; and his manners were so improved, so polite, so seriously and blamelessly polite, that it was impossible not to be civil to him in return. A very few days were enough to effect this; and at the end of those few days, circumstances arose which had a tendency rather to forward his views of pleasing her, inasmuch as they gave her a degree of happiness which must dispose her to be pleased with everybody. William, her brother, the so long absent and dearly loved brother, was in England again. She had a letter from him herself, a few hurried happy lines, written as the ship came up Channel, and sent into Portsmouth with the first boat that left the Antwerp at anchor in Spithead; and when Crawford walked up with the newspaper in his hand, which he had hoped would bring the first tidings, he found her trembling with joy over this letter, and listening with a glowing, grateful countenance to the kind invitation which her uncle was most collectedly dictating in reply. It was but the day before that Crawford had made himself thoroughly master of the subject, or had in fact become at all aware of her having such a brother, or his being in such a ship, but the interest then excited had been very properly lively, determining him on his return to town to apply for information as to the probable period of the Antwerp's return from the Mediterranean, etc.; and the good luck which attended his early examination of ship news the next morning seemed the reward of his ingenuity in finding out such a method of pleasing her, as well as of his dutiful attention to the Admiral, in having for many years taken in the paper esteemed to have the earliest naval intelligence. He proved, however, to be too late. All those fine first feelings, of which he had hoped to be the exciter, were already given. But his intention, the kindness of his intention, was thankfully acknowledged: quite thankfully and warmly, for she was elevated beyond the common timidity of her mind by the flow of her love for William. This dear William would soon be amongst them. There could be no doubt of his obtaining leave of absence immediately, for he was still only a midshipman; and as his parents, from living on the spot, must already have seen him, and be seeing him perhaps daily, his direct holidays might with justice be instantly given to the sister, who had been his best correspondent through a period of seven years, and the uncle who had done most for his support and advancement; and accordingly the reply to her reply, fixing a very early day for his arrival, came as soon as possible; and scarcely ten days had passed since Fanny had been in the agitation of her first dinner-visit, when she found herself in an agitation of a higher nature, watching in the hall, in the lobby, on the stairs, for the first sound of the carriage which was to bring her a brother. It came happily while she was thus waiting; and there being neither ceremony nor fearfulness to delay the moment of meeting, she was with him as he entered the house, and the first minutes of exquisite feeling had no interruption and no witnesses, unless the servants chiefly intent upon opening the proper doors could be called such. This was exactly what Sir Thomas and Edmund had been separately conniving at, as each proved to the other by the sympathetic alacrity with which they both advised Mrs. Norris's continuing where she was, instead of rushing out into the hall as soon as the noises of the arrival reached them. William and Fanny soon shewed themselves; and Sir Thomas had the pleasure of receiving, in his protege, certainly a very different person from the one he had equipped seven years ago, but a young man of an open, pleasant countenance, and frank, unstudied, but feeling and respectful manners, and such as confirmed him his friend. It was long before Fanny could recover from the agitating happiness of such an hour as was formed by the last thirty minutes of expectation, and the first of fruition; it was some time even before her happiness could be said to make her happy, before the disappointment inseparable from the alteration of person had vanished, and she could see in him the same William as before, and talk to him, as her heart had been yearning to do through many a past year. That time, however, did gradually come, forwarded by an affection on his side as warm as her own, and much less encumbered by refinement or self-distrust. She was the first object of his love, but it was a love which his stronger spirits, and bolder temper, made it as natural for him to express as to feel. On the morrow they were walking about together with true enjoyment, and every succeeding morrow renewed a _tete-a-tete_ which Sir Thomas could not but observe with complacency, even before Edmund had pointed it out to him. Excepting the moments of peculiar delight, which any marked or unlooked-for instance of Edmund's consideration of her in the last few months had excited, Fanny had never known so much felicity in her life, as in this unchecked, equal, fearless intercourse with the brother and friend who was opening all his heart to her, telling her all his hopes and fears, plans, and solicitudes respecting that long thought of, dearly earned, and justly valued blessing of promotion; who could give her direct and minute information of the father and mother, brothers and sisters, of whom she very seldom heard; who was interested in all the comforts and all the little hardships of her home at Mansfield; ready to think of every member of that home as she directed, or differing only by a less scrupulous opinion, and more noisy abuse of their aunt Norris, and with whom (perhaps the dearest indulgence of the whole) all the evil and good of their earliest years could be gone over again, and every former united pain and pleasure retraced with the fondest recollection. An advantage this, a strengthener of love, in which even the conjugal tie is beneath the fraternal. Children of the same family, the same blood, with the same first associations and habits, have some means of enjoyment in their power, which no subsequent connexions can supply; and it must be by a long and unnatural estrangement, by a divorce which no subsequent connexion can justify, if such precious remains of the earliest attachments are ever entirely outlived. Too often, alas! it is so. Fraternal love, sometimes almost everything, is at others worse than nothing. But with William and Fanny Price it was still a sentiment in all its prime and freshness, wounded by no opposition of interest, cooled by no separate attachment, and feeling the influence of time and absence only in its increase. An affection so amiable was advancing each in the opinion of all who had hearts to value anything good. Henry Crawford was as much struck with it as any. He honoured the warm-hearted, blunt fondness of the young sailor, which led him to say, with his hands stretched towards Fanny's head, "Do you know, I begin to like that queer fashion already, though when I first heard of such things being done in England, I could not believe it; and when Mrs. Brown, and the other women at the Commissioner's at Gibraltar, appeared in the same trim, I thought they were mad; but Fanny can reconcile me to anything"; and saw, with lively admiration, the glow of Fanny's cheek, the brightness of her eye, the deep interest, the absorbed attention, while her brother was describing any of the imminent hazards, or terrific scenes, which such a period at sea must supply. It was a picture which Henry Crawford had moral taste enough to value. Fanny's attractions increased--increased twofold; for the sensibility which beautified her complexion and illumined her countenance was an attraction in itself. He was no longer in doubt of the capabilities of her heart. She had feeling, genuine feeling. It would be something to be loved by such a girl, to excite the first ardours of her young unsophisticated mind! She interested him more than he had foreseen. A fortnight was not enough. His stay became indefinite. William was often called on by his uncle to be the talker. His recitals were amusing in themselves to Sir Thomas, but the chief object in seeking them was to understand the reciter, to know the young man by his histories; and he listened to his clear, simple, spirited details with full satisfaction, seeing in them the proof of good principles, professional knowledge, energy, courage, and cheerfulness, everything that could deserve or promise well. Young as he was, William had already seen a great deal. He had been in the Mediterranean; in the West Indies; in the Mediterranean again; had been often taken on shore by the favour of his captain, and in the course of seven years had known every variety of danger which sea and war together could offer. With such means in his power he had a right to be listened to; and though Mrs. Norris could fidget about the room, and disturb everybody in quest of two needlefuls of thread or a second-hand shirt button, in the midst of her nephew's account of a shipwreck or an engagement, everybody else was attentive; and even Lady Bertram could not hear of such horrors unmoved, or without sometimes lifting her eyes from her work to say, "Dear me! how disagreeable! I wonder anybody can ever go to sea." To Henry Crawford they gave a different feeling. He longed to have been at sea, and seen and done and suffered as much. His heart was warmed, his fancy fired, and he felt the highest respect for a lad who, before he was twenty, had gone through such bodily hardships and given such proofs of mind. The glory of heroism, of usefulness, of exertion, of endurance, made his own habits of selfish indulgence appear in shameful contrast; and he wished he had been a William Price, distinguishing himself and working his way to fortune and consequence with so much self-respect and happy ardour, instead of what he was! The wish was rather eager than lasting. He was roused from the reverie of retrospection and regret produced by it, by some inquiry from Edmund as to his plans for the next day's hunting; and he found it was as well to be a man of fortune at once with horses and grooms at his command. In one respect it was better, as it gave him the means of conferring a kindness where he wished to oblige. With spirits, courage, and curiosity up to anything, William expressed an inclination to hunt; and Crawford could mount him without the slightest inconvenience to himself, and with only some scruples to obviate in Sir Thomas, who knew better than his nephew the value of such a loan, and some alarms to reason away in Fanny. She feared for William; by no means convinced by all that he could relate of his own horsemanship in various countries, of the scrambling parties in which he had been engaged, the rough horses and mules he had ridden, or his many narrow escapes from dreadful falls, that he was at all equal to the management of a high-fed hunter in an English fox-chase; nor till he returned safe and well, without accident or discredit, could she be reconciled to the risk, or feel any of that obligation to Mr. Crawford for lending the horse which he had fully intended it should produce. When it was proved, however, to have done William no harm, she could allow it to be a kindness, and even reward the owner with a smile when the animal was one minute tendered to his use again; and the next, with the greatest cordiality, and in a manner not to be resisted, made over to his use entirely so long as he remained in Northamptonshire. [End volume one of this edition. Printed by T. and A. Constable, Printers to Her Majesty at the Edinburgh University Press] Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben stehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Am nächsten Tag unterhalten sich Henry und Mary miteinander. Henry beschwert sich, dass ihm langweilig ist und er ein Projekt braucht. Dann teilt er seine Idee mit ihr: Er plant, dass Fanny sich in ihn verliebt, nur zum Spaß. Mary sagt ihm, er solle den Mund halten und damit zufrieden sein, dass er bereits beide Bertram-Mädchen erobert hat. Henry besteht darauf, dass er Fanny dazu bringen muss, sich in ihn zu verlieben, da sie attraktiver geworden ist. Mary sagt, dass sie sich überhaupt nicht verändert hat und dass Henry Unsinn erzählt. Henry gibt dann zu, dass er von Fanny fasziniert ist und nicht weiß, was er von ihr halten soll. Er ist hauptsächlich fasziniert davon, dass sie ihn anscheinend überhaupt nicht mag. Mary versteht dann, dass er nur deshalb von Fanny angezogen ist, weil sie schwer zu bekommen ist und eine Herausforderung für ihn darstellt. Henry sagt, dass er zwei Wochen braucht und Fanny dazu bringen wird, sich in ihn zu verlieben. Mary zuckt nur mit den Schultern und sagt, er könne tun, was er will. Aber der Erzähler springt ein und erzählt uns, dass es fast unmöglich sein wird, Fanny zu bekommen, da sie bereits in Edmund verliebt ist. Wenn Fanny nicht verliebt wäre, wäre sie wahrscheinlich von dem charmanten Henry zu gewinnen. Also hat Henry einen steinigen Weg vor sich, aber er geht voran, ohne zu wissen, wie groß die Herausforderung sein wird. Fanny ist höflich zu Henry und denkt nicht viel von seiner Aufmerksamkeit für sie. Gute Nachrichten: Fannys lange abwesender Bruder William kommt sie besuchen. William war erfolgreich in der Marine und hat gerade Heimaturlaub. Henry erfährt, dass Williams Schiff nach England zurückkehrt und hofft, Fanny mit der Nachricht zu überraschen, aber sie weiß bereits Bescheid. Sie bedankt sich jedoch bei ihm, dass er an sie gedacht hat, also ein Punkt für Henry. William kommt an und nach anfänglicher Verlegenheit aufgrund der langen Trennung haben die beiden ein freudiges Wiedersehen und sind begeistert, wieder zusammen zu sein. Fanny verbringt ihre Zeit damit, Williams Ohr abzukauen und seine Anwesenheit zu genießen, und William ist einfach nur begeistert, wieder bei seiner Schwester zu sein. Henry fängt jetzt an, sich in Fanny zu verlieben, nachdem er sie so glücklich mit ihrem Bruder gesehen hat. Er beschließt, dass er mehr als zwei Wochen braucht, um sie richtig zu erobern. Sir Thomas ist von William beeindruckt und hält ihn für einen guten jungen Mann. Henry ist ein wenig eifersüchtig, als er von Williams aufregenden Abenteuern auf See hört. Aber dann fängt sich Henry wieder und erinnert sich daran, dass er reich ist und sich sein eigenes Abenteuer kaufen kann. Fanny hört gerne von Williams Abenteuern. Henry lädt William ein, mit ihm auf die Jagd zu gehen, um Fanny zu beeindrucken.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: Emma and Harriet had been walking together one morning, and, in Emma's opinion, had been talking enough of Mr. Elton for that day. She could not think that Harriet's solace or her own sins required more; and she was therefore industriously getting rid of the subject as they returned;--but it burst out again when she thought she had succeeded, and after speaking some time of what the poor must suffer in winter, and receiving no other answer than a very plaintive--"Mr. Elton is so good to the poor!" she found something else must be done. They were just approaching the house where lived Mrs. and Miss Bates. She determined to call upon them and seek safety in numbers. There was always sufficient reason for such an attention; Mrs. and Miss Bates loved to be called on, and she knew she was considered by the very few who presumed ever to see imperfection in her, as rather negligent in that respect, and as not contributing what she ought to the stock of their scanty comforts. She had had many a hint from Mr. Knightley and some from her own heart, as to her deficiency--but none were equal to counteract the persuasion of its being very disagreeable,--a waste of time--tiresome women--and all the horror of being in danger of falling in with the second-rate and third-rate of Highbury, who were calling on them for ever, and therefore she seldom went near them. But now she made the sudden resolution of not passing their door without going in--observing, as she proposed it to Harriet, that, as well as she could calculate, they were just now quite safe from any letter from Jane Fairfax. The house belonged to people in business. Mrs. and Miss Bates occupied the drawing-room floor; and there, in the very moderate-sized apartment, which was every thing to them, the visitors were most cordially and even gratefully welcomed; the quiet neat old lady, who with her knitting was seated in the warmest corner, wanting even to give up her place to Miss Woodhouse, and her more active, talking daughter, almost ready to overpower them with care and kindness, thanks for their visit, solicitude for their shoes, anxious inquiries after Mr. Woodhouse's health, cheerful communications about her mother's, and sweet-cake from the beaufet--"Mrs. Cole had just been there, just called in for ten minutes, and had been so good as to sit an hour with them, and _she_ had taken a piece of cake and been so kind as to say she liked it very much; and, therefore, she hoped Miss Woodhouse and Miss Smith would do them the favour to eat a piece too." The mention of the Coles was sure to be followed by that of Mr. Elton. There was intimacy between them, and Mr. Cole had heard from Mr. Elton since his going away. Emma knew what was coming; they must have the letter over again, and settle how long he had been gone, and how much he was engaged in company, and what a favourite he was wherever he went, and how full the Master of the Ceremonies' ball had been; and she went through it very well, with all the interest and all the commendation that could be requisite, and always putting forward to prevent Harriet's being obliged to say a word. This she had been prepared for when she entered the house; but meant, having once talked him handsomely over, to be no farther incommoded by any troublesome topic, and to wander at large amongst all the Mistresses and Misses of Highbury, and their card-parties. She had not been prepared to have Jane Fairfax succeed Mr. Elton; but he was actually hurried off by Miss Bates, she jumped away from him at last abruptly to the Coles, to usher in a letter from her niece. "Oh! yes--Mr. Elton, I understand--certainly as to dancing--Mrs. Cole was telling me that dancing at the rooms at Bath was--Mrs. Cole was so kind as to sit some time with us, talking of Jane; for as soon as she came in, she began inquiring after her, Jane is so very great a favourite there. Whenever she is with us, Mrs. Cole does not know how to shew her kindness enough; and I must say that Jane deserves it as much as any body can. And so she began inquiring after her directly, saying, 'I know you cannot have heard from Jane lately, because it is not her time for writing;' and when I immediately said, 'But indeed we have, we had a letter this very morning,' I do not know that I ever saw any body more surprized. 'Have you, upon your honour?' said she; 'well, that is quite unexpected. Do let me hear what she says.'" Emma's politeness was at hand directly, to say, with smiling interest-- "Have you heard from Miss Fairfax so lately? I am extremely happy. I hope she is well?" "Thank you. You are so kind!" replied the happily deceived aunt, while eagerly hunting for the letter.--"Oh! here it is. I was sure it could not be far off; but I had put my huswife upon it, you see, without being aware, and so it was quite hid, but I had it in my hand so very lately that I was almost sure it must be on the table. I was reading it to Mrs. Cole, and since she went away, I was reading it again to my mother, for it is such a pleasure to her--a letter from Jane--that she can never hear it often enough; so I knew it could not be far off, and here it is, only just under my huswife--and since you are so kind as to wish to hear what she says;--but, first of all, I really must, in justice to Jane, apologise for her writing so short a letter--only two pages you see--hardly two--and in general she fills the whole paper and crosses half. My mother often wonders that I can make it out so well. She often says, when the letter is first opened, 'Well, Hetty, now I think you will be put to it to make out all that checker-work'--don't you, ma'am?--And then I tell her, I am sure she would contrive to make it out herself, if she had nobody to do it for her--every word of it--I am sure she would pore over it till she had made out every word. And, indeed, though my mother's eyes are not so good as they were, she can see amazingly well still, thank God! with the help of spectacles. It is such a blessing! My mother's are really very good indeed. Jane often says, when she is here, 'I am sure, grandmama, you must have had very strong eyes to see as you do--and so much fine work as you have done too!--I only wish my eyes may last me as well.'" All this spoken extremely fast obliged Miss Bates to stop for breath; and Emma said something very civil about the excellence of Miss Fairfax's handwriting. "You are extremely kind," replied Miss Bates, highly gratified; "you who are such a judge, and write so beautifully yourself. I am sure there is nobody's praise that could give us so much pleasure as Miss Woodhouse's. My mother does not hear; she is a little deaf you know. Ma'am," addressing her, "do you hear what Miss Woodhouse is so obliging to say about Jane's handwriting?" And Emma had the advantage of hearing her own silly compliment repeated twice over before the good old lady could comprehend it. She was pondering, in the meanwhile, upon the possibility, without seeming very rude, of making her escape from Jane Fairfax's letter, and had almost resolved on hurrying away directly under some slight excuse, when Miss Bates turned to her again and seized her attention. "My mother's deafness is very trifling you see--just nothing at all. By only raising my voice, and saying any thing two or three times over, she is sure to hear; but then she is used to my voice. But it is very remarkable that she should always hear Jane better than she does me. Jane speaks so distinct! However, she will not find her grandmama at all deafer than she was two years ago; which is saying a great deal at my mother's time of life--and it really is full two years, you know, since she was here. We never were so long without seeing her before, and as I was telling Mrs. Cole, we shall hardly know how to make enough of her now." "Are you expecting Miss Fairfax here soon?" "Oh yes; next week." "Indeed!--that must be a very great pleasure." "Thank you. You are very kind. Yes, next week. Every body is so surprized; and every body says the same obliging things. I am sure she will be as happy to see her friends at Highbury, as they can be to see her. Yes, Friday or Saturday; she cannot say which, because Colonel Campbell will be wanting the carriage himself one of those days. So very good of them to send her the whole way! But they always do, you know. Oh yes, Friday or Saturday next. That is what she writes about. That is the reason of her writing out of rule, as we call it; for, in the common course, we should not have heard from her before next Tuesday or Wednesday." "Yes, so I imagined. I was afraid there could be little chance of my hearing any thing of Miss Fairfax to-day." "So obliging of you! No, we should not have heard, if it had not been for this particular circumstance, of her being to come here so soon. My mother is so delighted!--for she is to be three months with us at least. Three months, she says so, positively, as I am going to have the pleasure of reading to you. The case is, you see, that the Campbells are going to Ireland. Mrs. Dixon has persuaded her father and mother to come over and see her directly. They had not intended to go over till the summer, but she is so impatient to see them again--for till she married, last October, she was never away from them so much as a week, which must make it very strange to be in different kingdoms, I was going to say, but however different countries, and so she wrote a very urgent letter to her mother--or her father, I declare I do not know which it was, but we shall see presently in Jane's letter--wrote in Mr. Dixon's name as well as her own, to press their coming over directly, and they would give them the meeting in Dublin, and take them back to their country seat, Baly-craig, a beautiful place, I fancy. Jane has heard a great deal of its beauty; from Mr. Dixon, I mean--I do not know that she ever heard about it from any body else; but it was very natural, you know, that he should like to speak of his own place while he was paying his addresses--and as Jane used to be very often walking out with them--for Colonel and Mrs. Campbell were very particular about their daughter's not walking out often with only Mr. Dixon, for which I do not at all blame them; of course she heard every thing he might be telling Miss Campbell about his own home in Ireland; and I think she wrote us word that he had shewn them some drawings of the place, views that he had taken himself. He is a most amiable, charming young man, I believe. Jane was quite longing to go to Ireland, from his account of things." At this moment, an ingenious and animating suspicion entering Emma's brain with regard to Jane Fairfax, this charming Mr. Dixon, and the not going to Ireland, she said, with the insidious design of farther discovery, "You must feel it very fortunate that Miss Fairfax should be allowed to come to you at such a time. Considering the very particular friendship between her and Mrs. Dixon, you could hardly have expected her to be excused from accompanying Colonel and Mrs. Campbell." "Very true, very true, indeed. The very thing that we have always been rather afraid of; for we should not have liked to have her at such a distance from us, for months together--not able to come if any thing was to happen. But you see, every thing turns out for the best. They want her (Mr. and Mrs. Dixon) excessively to come over with Colonel and Mrs. Campbell; quite depend upon it; nothing can be more kind or pressing than their _joint_ invitation, Jane says, as you will hear presently; Mr. Dixon does not seem in the least backward in any attention. He is a most charming young man. Ever since the service he rendered Jane at Weymouth, when they were out in that party on the water, and she, by the sudden whirling round of something or other among the sails, would have been dashed into the sea at once, and actually was all but gone, if he had not, with the greatest presence of mind, caught hold of her habit-- (I can never think of it without trembling!)--But ever since we had the history of that day, I have been so fond of Mr. Dixon!" "But, in spite of all her friends' urgency, and her own wish of seeing Ireland, Miss Fairfax prefers devoting the time to you and Mrs. Bates?" "Yes--entirely her own doing, entirely her own choice; and Colonel and Mrs. Campbell think she does quite right, just what they should recommend; and indeed they particularly _wish_ her to try her native air, as she has not been quite so well as usual lately." "I am concerned to hear of it. I think they judge wisely. But Mrs. Dixon must be very much disappointed. Mrs. Dixon, I understand, has no remarkable degree of personal beauty; is not, by any means, to be compared with Miss Fairfax." "Oh! no. You are very obliging to say such things--but certainly not. There is no comparison between them. Miss Campbell always was absolutely plain--but extremely elegant and amiable." "Yes, that of course." "Jane caught a bad cold, poor thing! so long ago as the 7th of November, (as I am going to read to you,) and has never been well since. A long time, is not it, for a cold to hang upon her? She never mentioned it before, because she would not alarm us. Just like her! so considerate!--But however, she is so far from well, that her kind friends the Campbells think she had better come home, and try an air that always agrees with her; and they have no doubt that three or four months at Highbury will entirely cure her--and it is certainly a great deal better that she should come here, than go to Ireland, if she is unwell. Nobody could nurse her, as we should do." "It appears to me the most desirable arrangement in the world." "And so she is to come to us next Friday or Saturday, and the Campbells leave town in their way to Holyhead the Monday following--as you will find from Jane's letter. So sudden!--You may guess, dear Miss Woodhouse, what a flurry it has thrown me in! If it was not for the drawback of her illness--but I am afraid we must expect to see her grown thin, and looking very poorly. I must tell you what an unlucky thing happened to me, as to that. I always make a point of reading Jane's letters through to myself first, before I read them aloud to my mother, you know, for fear of there being any thing in them to distress her. Jane desired me to do it, so I always do: and so I began to-day with my usual caution; but no sooner did I come to the mention of her being unwell, than I burst out, quite frightened, with 'Bless me! poor Jane is ill!'--which my mother, being on the watch, heard distinctly, and was sadly alarmed at. However, when I read on, I found it was not near so bad as I had fancied at first; and I make so light of it now to her, that she does not think much about it. But I cannot imagine how I could be so off my guard. If Jane does not get well soon, we will call in Mr. Perry. The expense shall not be thought of; and though he is so liberal, and so fond of Jane that I dare say he would not mean to charge any thing for attendance, we could not suffer it to be so, you know. He has a wife and family to maintain, and is not to be giving away his time. Well, now I have just given you a hint of what Jane writes about, we will turn to her letter, and I am sure she tells her own story a great deal better than I can tell it for her." "I am afraid we must be running away," said Emma, glancing at Harriet, and beginning to rise--"My father will be expecting us. I had no intention, I thought I had no power of staying more than five minutes, when I first entered the house. I merely called, because I would not pass the door without inquiring after Mrs. Bates; but I have been so pleasantly detained! Now, however, we must wish you and Mrs. Bates good morning." And not all that could be urged to detain her succeeded. She regained the street--happy in this, that though much had been forced on her against her will, though she had in fact heard the whole substance of Jane Fairfax's letter, she had been able to escape the letter itself. Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Emma und Harriet sind unterwegs und Emma denkt daran, den Batses einen Besuch abzustatten, um Harriet von Mr. Elton abzulenken. Emma glaubt nicht, dass sie kürzlich einen Brief von Jane Fairfax erhalten hätten, also denkt sie nicht, dass sie sich das Vorlesen des Briefes anhören muss. Doch sie irrt sich. Miss Bates, die sehr schnell spricht und von einem Thema zum anderen springt, kann Emma nicht genug über Jane erzählen. Sie erzählt ihr, dass Jane mindestens drei Monate bei ihnen bleiben wird, da die Campbells nach Irland reisen, um ihre frisch verheiratete Tochter zu besuchen. Durch all das Geschwätz von Miss Bates erfährt Emma, dass Jane krank war, und Emma überzeugt sich selbst davon, dass etwas zwischen Jane und Mr. Dixon, dem Ehemann der Tochter der Campbells, im Gange ist. Obwohl Emma alles hören muss, was in dem Brief steht, schafft sie es, das Haus der Bates zu verlassen, bevor der Brief tatsächlich vorgelesen 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: LISBETH'S touch of rheumatism could not be made to appear serious enough to detain Dinah another night from the Hall Farm, now she had made up her mind to leave her aunt so soon, and at evening the friends must part. "For a long while," Dinah had said, for she had told Lisbeth of her resolve. "Then it'll be for all my life, an' I shall ne'er see thee again," said Lisbeth. "Long while! I'n got no long while t' live. An' I shall be took bad an' die, an' thee canst ne'er come a-nigh me, an' I shall die a-longing for thee." That had been the key-note of her wailing talk all day; for Adam was not in the house, and so she put no restraint on her complaining. She had tried poor Dinah by returning again and again to the question, why she must go away; and refusing to accept reasons, which seemed to her nothing but whim and "contrairiness"; and still more, by regretting that she "couldna' ha' one o' the lads" and be her daughter. "Thee couldstna put up wi' Seth," she said. "He isna cliver enough for thee, happen, but he'd ha' been very good t' thee--he's as handy as can be at doin' things for me when I'm bad, an' he's as fond o' the Bible an' chappellin' as thee art thysen. But happen, thee'dst like a husband better as isna just the cut o' thysen: the runnin' brook isna athirst for th' rain. Adam 'ud ha' done for thee--I know he would--an' he might come t' like thee well enough, if thee'dst stop. But he's as stubborn as th' iron bar--there's no bending him no way but's own. But he'd be a fine husband for anybody, be they who they will, so looked-on an' so cliver as he is. And he'd be rare an' lovin': it does me good on'y a look o' the lad's eye when he means kind tow'rt me." Dinah tried to escape from Lisbeth's closest looks and questions by finding little tasks of housework that kept her moving about, and as soon as Seth came home in the evening she put on her bonnet to go. It touched Dinah keenly to say the last good-bye, and still more to look round on her way across the fields and see the old woman still standing at the door, gazing after her till she must have been the faintest speck in the dim aged eyes. "The God of love and peace be with them," Dinah prayed, as she looked back from the last stile. "Make them glad according to the days wherein thou hast afflicted them, and the years wherein they have seen evil. It is thy will that I should part from them; let me have no will but thine." Lisbeth turned into the house at last and sat down in the workshop near Seth, who was busying himself there with fitting some bits of turned wood he had brought from the village into a small work-box, which he meant to give to Dinah before she went away. "Thee't see her again o' Sunday afore she goes," were her first words. "If thee wast good for anything, thee'dst make her come in again o' Sunday night wi' thee, and see me once more." "Nay, Mother," said Seth. "Dinah 'ud be sure to come again if she saw right to come. I should have no need to persuade her. She only thinks it 'ud be troubling thee for nought, just to come in to say good-bye over again." "She'd ne'er go away, I know, if Adam 'ud be fond on her an' marry her, but everything's so contrairy," said Lisbeth, with a burst of vexation. Seth paused a moment and looked up, with a slight blush, at his mother's face. "What! Has she said anything o' that sort to thee, Mother?" he said, in a lower tone. "Said? Nay, she'll say nothin'. It's on'y the men as have to wait till folks say things afore they find 'em out." "Well, but what makes thee think so, Mother? What's put it into thy head?" "It's no matter what's put it into my head. My head's none so hollow as it must get in, an' nought to put it there. I know she's fond on him, as I know th' wind's comin' in at the door, an' that's anoof. An' he might be willin' to marry her if he know'd she's fond on him, but he'll ne'er think on't if somebody doesna put it into's head." His mother's suggestion about Dinah's feeling towards Adam was not quite a new thought to Seth, but her last words alarmed him, lest she should herself undertake to open Adam's eyes. He was not sure about Dinah's feeling, and he thought he was sure about Adam's. "Nay, Mother, nay," he said, earnestly, "thee mustna think o' speaking o' such things to Adam. Thee'st no right to say what Dinah's feelings are if she hasna told thee, and it 'ud do nothing but mischief to say such things to Adam. He feels very grateful and affectionate toward Dinah, but he's no thoughts towards her that 'ud incline him to make her his wife, and I don't believe Dinah 'ud marry him either. I don't think she'll marry at all." "Eh," said Lisbeth, impatiently. "Thee think'st so 'cause she wouldna ha' thee. She'll ne'er marry thee; thee mightst as well like her t' ha' thy brother." Seth was hurt. "Mother," he said, in a remonstrating tone, "don't think that of me. I should be as thankful t' have her for a sister as thee wouldst t' have her for a daughter. I've no more thoughts about myself in that thing, and I shall take it hard if ever thee say'st it again." "Well, well, then thee shouldstna cross me wi' sayin' things arena as I say they are." "But, Mother," said Seth, "thee'dst be doing Dinah a wrong by telling Adam what thee think'st about her. It 'ud do nothing but mischief, for it 'ud make Adam uneasy if he doesna feel the same to her. And I'm pretty sure he feels nothing o' the sort." "Eh, donna tell me what thee't sure on; thee know'st nought about it. What's he allays goin' to the Poysers' for, if he didna want t' see her? He goes twice where he used t' go once. Happen he knowsna as he wants t' see her; he knowsna as I put salt in's broth, but he'd miss it pretty quick if it warna there. He'll ne'er think o' marrying if it isna put into's head, an' if thee'dst any love for thy mother, thee'dst put him up to't an' not let her go away out o' my sight, when I might ha' her to make a bit o' comfort for me afore I go to bed to my old man under the white thorn." "Nay, Mother," said Seth, "thee mustna think me unkind, but I should be going against my conscience if I took upon me to say what Dinah's feelings are. And besides that, I think I should give offence to Adam by speaking to him at all about marrying; and I counsel thee not to do't. Thee may'st be quite deceived about Dinah. Nay, I'm pretty sure, by words she said to me last Sabbath, as she's no mind to marry." "Eh, thee't as contrairy as the rest on 'em. If it war summat I didna want, it 'ud be done fast enough." Lisbeth rose from the bench at this, and went out of the workshop, leaving Seth in much anxiety lest she should disturb Adam's mind about Dinah. He consoled himself after a time with reflecting that, since Adam's trouble, Lisbeth had been very timid about speaking to him on matters of feeling, and that she would hardly dare to approach this tenderest of all subjects. Even if she did, he hoped Adam would not take much notice of what she said. Seth was right in believing that Lisbeth would be held in restraint by timidity, and during the next three days, the intervals in which she had an opportunity of speaking to Adam were too rare and short to cause her any strong temptation. But in her long solitary hours she brooded over her regretful thoughts about Dinah, till they had grown very near that point of unmanageable strength when thoughts are apt to take wing out of their secret nest in a startling manner. And on Sunday morning, when Seth went away to chapel at Treddleston, the dangerous opportunity came. Sunday morning was the happiest time in all the week to Lisbeth, for as there was no service at Hayslope church till the afternoon, Adam was always at home, doing nothing but reading, an occupation in which she could venture to interrupt him. Moreover, she had always a better dinner than usual to prepare for her sons--very frequently for Adam and herself alone, Seth being often away the entire day--and the smell of the roast meat before the clear fire in the clean kitchen, the clock ticking in a peaceful Sunday manner, her darling Adam seated near her in his best clothes, doing nothing very important, so that she could go and stroke her hand across his hair if she liked, and see him look up at her and smile, while Gyp, rather jealous, poked his muzzle up between them--all these things made poor Lisbeth's earthly paradise. The book Adam most often read on a Sunday morning was his large pictured Bible, and this morning it lay open before him on the round white deal table in the kitchen; for he sat there in spite of the fire, because he knew his mother liked to have him with her, and it was the only day in the week when he could indulge her in that way. You would have liked to see Adam reading his Bible. He never opened it on a weekday, and so he came to it as a holiday book, serving him for history, biography, and poetry. He held one hand thrust between his waistcoat buttons, and the other ready to turn the pages, and in the course of the morning you would have seen many changes in his face. Sometimes his lips moved in semi-articulation--it was when he came to a speech that he could fancy himself uttering, such as Samuel's dying speech to the people; then his eyebrows would be raised, and the corners of his mouth would quiver a little with sad sympathy--something, perhaps old Isaac's meeting with his son, touched him closely; at other times, over the New Testament, a very solemn look would come upon his face, and he would every now and then shake his head in serious assent, or just lift up his hand and let it fall again. And on some mornings, when he read in the Apocrypha, of which he was very fond, the son of Sirach's keen-edged words would bring a delighted smile, though he also enjoyed the freedom of occasionally differing from an Apocryphal writer. For Adam knew the Articles quite well, as became a good churchman. Lisbeth, in the pauses of attending to her dinner, always sat opposite to him and watched him, till she could rest no longer without going up to him and giving him a caress, to call his attention to her. This morning he was reading the Gospel according to St. Matthew, and Lisbeth had been standing close by him for some minutes, stroking his hair, which was smoother than usual this morning, and looking down at the large page with silent wonderment at the mystery of letters. She was encouraged to continue this caress, because when she first went up to him, he had thrown himself back in his chair to look at her affectionately and say, "Why, Mother, thee look'st rare and hearty this morning. Eh, Gyp wants me t' look at him. He can't abide to think I love thee the best." Lisbeth said nothing, because she wanted to say so many things. And now there was a new leaf to be turned over, and it was a picture--that of the angel seated on the great stone that has been rolled away from the sepulchre. This picture had one strong association in Lisbeth's memory, for she had been reminded of it when she first saw Dinah, and Adam had no sooner turned the page, and lifted the book sideways that they might look at the angel, than she said, "That's her--that's Dinah." Adam smiled, and, looking more intently at the angel's face, said, "It is a bit like her; but Dinah's prettier, I think." "Well, then, if thee think'st her so pretty, why arn't fond on her?" Adam looked up in surprise. "Why, Mother, dost think I don't set store by Dinah?" "Nay," said Lisbeth, frightened at her own courage, yet feeling that she had broken the ice, and the waters must flow, whatever mischief they might do. "What's th' use o' settin' store by things as are thirty mile off? If thee wast fond enough on her, thee wouldstna let her go away." "But I've no right t' hinder her, if she thinks well," said Adam, looking at his book as if he wanted to go on reading. He foresaw a series of complaints tending to nothing. Lisbeth sat down again in the chair opposite to him, as she said: "But she wouldna think well if thee wastna so contrairy." Lisbeth dared not venture beyond a vague phrase yet. "Contrairy, mother?" Adam said, looking up again in some anxiety. "What have I done? What dost mean?" "Why, thee't never look at nothin', nor think o' nothin', but thy figurin, an' thy work," said Lisbeth, half-crying. "An' dost think thee canst go on so all thy life, as if thee wast a man cut out o' timber? An' what wut do when thy mother's gone, an' nobody to take care on thee as thee gett'st a bit o' victual comfortable i' the mornin'?" "What hast got i' thy mind, Mother?" said Adam, vexed at this whimpering. "I canna see what thee't driving at. Is there anything I could do for thee as I don't do?" "Aye, an' that there is. Thee might'st do as I should ha' somebody wi' me to comfort me a bit, an' wait on me when I'm bad, an' be good to me." "Well, Mother, whose fault is it there isna some tidy body i' th' house t' help thee? It isna by my wish as thee hast a stroke o' work to do. We can afford it--I've told thee often enough. It 'ud be a deal better for us." "Eh, what's the use o' talking o' tidy bodies, when thee mean'st one o' th' wenches out o' th' village, or somebody from Treddles'on as I ne'er set eyes on i' my life? I'd sooner make a shift an' get into my own coffin afore I die, nor ha' them folks to put me in." Adam was silent, and tried to go on reading. That was the utmost severity he could show towards his mother on a Sunday morning. But Lisbeth had gone too far now to check herself, and after scarcely a minute's quietness she began again. "Thee mightst know well enough who 'tis I'd like t' ha' wi' me. It isna many folks I send for t' come an' see me. I reckon. An' thee'st had the fetchin' on her times enow." "Thee mean'st Dinah, Mother, I know," said Adam. "But it's no use setting thy mind on what can't be. If Dinah 'ud be willing to stay at Hayslope, it isn't likely she can come away from her aunt's house, where they hold her like a daughter, and where she's more bound than she is to us. If it had been so that she could ha' married Seth, that 'ud ha' been a great blessing to us, but we can't have things just as we like in this life. Thee must try and make up thy mind to do without her." "Nay, but I canna ma' up my mind, when she's just cut out for thee; an' nought shall ma' me believe as God didna make her an' send her there o' purpose for thee. What's it sinnify about her bein' a Methody! It 'ud happen wear out on her wi' marryin'." Adam threw himself back in his chair and looked at his mother. He understood now what she had been aiming at from the beginning of the conversation. It was as unreasonable, impracticable a wish as she had ever urged, but he could not help being moved by so entirely new an idea. The chief point, however, was to chase away the notion from his mother's mind as quickly as possible. "Mother," he said, gravely, "thee't talking wild. Don't let me hear thee say such things again. It's no good talking o' what can never be. Dinah's not for marrying; she's fixed her heart on a different sort o' life." "Very like," said Lisbeth, impatiently, "very like she's none for marr'ing, when them as she'd be willin' t' marry wonna ax her. I shouldna ha' been for marr'ing thy feyther if he'd ne'er axed me; an' she's as fond o' thee as e'er I war o' Thias, poor fellow." The blood rushed to Adam's face, and for a few moments he was not quite conscious where he was. His mother and the kitchen had vanished for him, and he saw nothing but Dinah's face turned up towards his. It seemed as if there were a resurrection of his dead joy. But he woke up very speedily from that dream (the waking was chill and sad), for it would have been very foolish in him to believe his mother's words--she could have no ground for them. He was prompted to express his disbelief very strongly--perhaps that he might call forth the proofs, if there were any to be offered. "What dost say such things for, Mother, when thee'st got no foundation for 'em? Thee know'st nothing as gives thee a right to say that." "Then I knowna nought as gi'es me a right to say as the year's turned, for all I feel it fust thing when I get up i' th' morning. She isna fond o' Seth, I reckon, is she? She doesna want to marry HIM? But I can see as she doesna behave tow'rt thee as she daes tow'rt Seth. She makes no more o' Seth's coming a-nigh her nor if he war Gyp, but she's all of a tremble when thee't a-sittin' down by her at breakfast an' a-looking at her. Thee think'st thy mother knows nought, but she war alive afore thee wast born." "But thee canstna be sure as the trembling means love?" said Adam anxiously. "Eh, what else should it mane? It isna hate, I reckon. An' what should she do but love thee? Thee't made to be loved--for where's there a straighter cliverer man? An' what's it sinnify her bein' a Methody? It's on'y the marigold i' th' parridge." Adam had thrust his hands in his pockets, and was looking down at the book on the table, without seeing any of the letters. He was trembling like a gold-seeker who sees the strong promise of gold but sees in the same moment a sickening vision of disappointment. He could not trust his mother's insight; she had seen what she wished to see. And yet--and yet, now the suggestion had been made to him, he remembered so many things, very slight things, like the stirring of the water by an imperceptible breeze, which seemed to him some confirmation of his mother's words. Lisbeth noticed that he was moved. She went on, "An' thee't find out as thee't poorly aff when she's gone. Thee't fonder on her nor thee know'st. Thy eyes follow her about, welly as Gyp's follow thee." Adam could sit still no longer. He rose, took down his hat, and went out into the fields. The sunshine was on them: that early autumn sunshine which we should know was not summer's, even if there were not the touches of yellow on the lime and chestnut; the Sunday sunshine too, which has more than autumnal calmness for the working man; the morning sunshine, which still leaves the dew-crystals on the fine gossamer webs in the shadow of the bushy hedgerows. Adam needed the calm influence; he was amazed at the way in which this new thought of Dinah's love had taken possession of him, with an overmastering power that made all other feelings give way before the impetuous desire to know that the thought was true. Strange, that till that moment the possibility of their ever being lovers had never crossed his mind, and yet now, all his longing suddenly went out towards that possibility. He had no more doubt or hesitation as to his own wishes than the bird that flies towards the opening through which the daylight gleams and the breath of heaven enters. The autumnal Sunday sunshine soothed him, but not by preparing him with resignation to the disappointment if his mother--if he himself--proved to be mistaken about Dinah. It soothed him by gentle encouragement of his hopes. Her love was so like that calm sunshine that they seemed to make one presence to him, and he believed in them both alike. And Dinah was so bound up with the sad memories of his first passion that he was not forsaking them, but rather giving them a new sacredness by loving her. Nay, his love for her had grown out of that past: it was the noon of that morning. But Seth? Would the lad be hurt? Hardly; for he had seemed quite contented of late, and there was no selfish jealousy in him; he had never been jealous of his mother's fondness for Adam. But had he seen anything of what their mother talked about? Adam longed to know this, for he thought he could trust Seth's observation better than his mother's. He must talk to Seth before he went to see Dinah, and, with this intention in his mind, he walked back to the cottage and said to his mother, "Did Seth say anything to thee about when he was coming home? Will he be back to dinner?" "Aye, lad, he'll be back for a wonder. He isna gone to Treddles'on. He's gone somewhere else a-preachin' and a-prayin'." "Hast any notion which way he's gone?" said Adam. "Nay, but he aften goes to th' Common. Thee know'st more o's goings nor I do." Adam wanted to go and meet Seth, but he must content himself with walking about the near fields and getting sight of him as soon as possible. That would not be for more than an hour to come, for Seth would scarcely be at home much before their dinner-time, which was twelve o'clock. But Adam could not sit down to his reading again, and he sauntered along by the brook and stood leaning against the stiles, with eager intense eyes, which looked as if they saw something very vividly; but it was not the brook or the willows, not the fields or the sky. Again and again his vision was interrupted by wonder at the strength of his own feeling, at the strength and sweetness of this new love--almost like the wonder a man feels at the added power he finds in himself for an art which he had laid aside for a space. How is it that the poets have said so many fine things about our first love, so few about our later love? Are their first poems their best? Or are not those the best which come from their fuller thought, their larger experience, their deeper-rooted affections? The boy's flutelike voice has its own spring charm; but the man should yield a richer deeper music. At last, there was Seth, visible at the farthest stile, and Adam hastened to meet him. Seth was surprised, and thought something unusual must have happened, but when Adam came up, his face said plainly enough that it was nothing alarming. "Where hast been?" said Adam, when they were side by side. "I've been to the Common," said Seth. "Dinah's been speaking the Word to a little company of hearers at Brimstone's, as they call him. They're folks as never go to church hardly--them on the Common--but they'll go and hear Dinah a bit. She's been speaking with power this forenoon from the words, 'I came not to call the righteous, but sinners to repentance.' And there was a little thing happened as was pretty to see. The women mostly bring their children with 'em, but to-day there was one stout curly headed fellow about three or four year old, that I never saw there before. He was as naughty as could be at the beginning while I was praying, and while we was singing, but when we all sat down and Dinah began to speak, th' young un stood stock still all at once, and began to look at her with's mouth open, and presently he ran away from's mother and went to Dinah, and pulled at her, like a little dog, for her to take notice of him. So Dinah lifted him up and held th' lad on her lap, while she went on speaking; and he was as good as could be till he went to sleep--and the mother cried to see him." "It's a pity she shouldna be a mother herself," said Adam, "so fond as the children are of her. Dost think she's quite fixed against marrying, Seth? Dost think nothing 'ud turn her?" There was something peculiar in his brother's tone, which made Seth steal a glance at his face before he answered. "It 'ud be wrong of me to say nothing 'ud turn her," he answered. "But if thee mean'st it about myself, I've given up all thoughts as she can ever be my wife. She calls me her brother, and that's enough." "But dost think she might ever get fond enough of anybody else to be willing to marry 'em?" said Adam rather shyly. "Well," said Seth, after some hesitation, "it's crossed my mind sometimes o' late as she might; but Dinah 'ud let no fondness for the creature draw her out o' the path as she believed God had marked out for her. If she thought the leading was not from Him, she's not one to be brought under the power of it. And she's allays seemed clear about that--as her work was to minister t' others, and make no home for herself i' this world." "But suppose," said Adam, earnestly, "suppose there was a man as 'ud let her do just the same and not interfere with her--she might do a good deal o' what she does now, just as well when she was married as when she was single. Other women of her sort have married--that's to say, not just like her, but women as preached and attended on the sick and needy. There's Mrs. Fletcher as she talks of." A new light had broken in on Seth. He turned round, and laying his hand on Adam's shoulder, said, "Why, wouldst like her to marry THEE, Brother?" Adam looked doubtfully at Seth's inquiring eyes and said, "Wouldst be hurt if she was to be fonder o' me than o' thee?" "Nay," said Seth warmly, "how canst think it? Have I felt thy trouble so little that I shouldna feel thy joy?" There was silence a few moments as they walked on, and then Seth said, "I'd no notion as thee'dst ever think of her for a wife." "But is it o' any use to think of her?" said Adam. "What dost say? Mother's made me as I hardly know where I am, with what she's been saying to me this forenoon. She says she's sure Dinah feels for me more than common, and 'ud be willing t' have me. But I'm afraid she speaks without book. I want to know if thee'st seen anything." "It's a nice point to speak about," said Seth, "and I'm afraid o' being wrong; besides, we've no right t' intermeddle with people's feelings when they wouldn't tell 'em themselves." Seth paused. "But thee mightst ask her," he said presently. "She took no offence at me for asking, and thee'st more right than I had, only thee't not in the Society. But Dinah doesn't hold wi' them as are for keeping the Society so strict to themselves. She doesn't mind about making folks enter the Society, so as they're fit t' enter the kingdom o' God. Some o' the brethren at Treddles'on are displeased with her for that." "Where will she be the rest o' the day?" said Adam. "She said she shouldn't leave the farm again to-day," said Seth, "because it's her last Sabbath there, and she's going t' read out o' the big Bible wi' the children." Adam thought--but did not say--"Then I'll go this afternoon; for if I go to church, my thoughts 'ull be with her all the while. They must sing th' anthem without me to-day." Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Lisbeth bittet sie mit Nachdruck, nicht zu gehen, und sagt, dass Seth vielleicht nicht gut genug für sie war, aber Adam dazu gebracht werden kann, sie zu mögen, wenn sie noch etwas länger bleibt. Nachdem sie gegangen ist, beschwert sich Lisbeth bei Seth, dass sie nicht gegangen wäre, wenn Adam mehr von ihr halten würde. Seth fragt, ob sie etwas dazu gesagt hat, aber Lisbeth sagt, dass sie es spüren kann. Seth meint, dass sie Adam nichts sagen sollte, denn wenn er nicht dasselbe empfindet, wird es ihn nur verunsichern. Am Sonntagmorgen geht Seth zu einem Prediger und Lisbeth bleibt allein mit Adam zurück. Adam liest in der Bibel und seine Mutter bemerkt, dass ein Engel in der Illustration Dinah ähnlich sieht. Adam bestätigt das, sagt aber, dass Dinah hübscher ist. Lisbeth fragt Adam, warum er sie nicht heiratet und sagt, dass er sie fragen sollte. Lisbeth ist sich sicher, dass Dinah ihn liebt. Adam geht in den Feldern spazieren und fragt sich, ob Seth verletzt sein würde. Er denkt, dass er es nicht wäre, denn er war noch nie eifersüchtig darauf, dass Lisbeth ihn mehr liebt. Als er von Dinahs Predigt nach Hause kommt, trifft er Seth. Seth erzählt Adam, dass es einen ungezogenen Jungen gab, der aufgehört hat böse zu sein, als er Dinahs Stimme hörte, dann auf die Bühne ging und an ihr zog, bis sie ihn auf ihren Schoß nahm und für den Rest des Gebets da behielt. Die Mutter des Jungen weinte, als sie es sah. Seth gibt Adam die Erlaubnis, Dinah zu fragen, ob sie ihn heiraten möchte, nachdem er vermutet, dass das ist, was er vorhat. Adam geht zum Poysers' Hof.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: To begin with, he did not know how he could pay Monsieur Homais for all the physic supplied by him, and though, as a medical man, he was not obliged to pay for it, he nevertheless blushed a little at such an obligation. Then the expenses of the household, now that the servant was mistress, became terrible. Bills rained in upon the house; the tradesmen grumbled; Monsieur Lheureux especially harassed him. In fact, at the height of Emma's illness, the latter, taking advantage of the circumstances to make his bill larger, had hurriedly brought the cloak, the travelling-bag, two trunks instead of one, and a number of other things. It was very well for Charles to say he did not want them. The tradesman answered arrogantly that these articles had been ordered, and that he would not take them back; besides, it would vex madame in her convalescence; the doctor had better think it over; in short, he was resolved to sue him rather than give up his rights and take back his goods. Charles subsequently ordered them to be sent back to the shop. Felicite forgot; he had other things to attend to; then thought no more about them. Monsieur Lheureux returned to the charge, and, by turns threatening and whining, so managed that Bovary ended by signing a bill at six months. But hardly had he signed this bill than a bold idea occurred to him: it was to borrow a thousand francs from Lheureux. So, with an embarrassed air, he asked if it were possible to get them, adding that it would be for a year, at any interest he wished. Lheureux ran off to his shop, brought back the money, and dictated another bill, by which Bovary undertook to pay to his order on the 1st of September next the sum of one thousand and seventy francs, which, with the hundred and eighty already agreed to, made just twelve hundred and fifty, thus lending at six per cent in addition to one-fourth for commission: and the things bringing him in a good third at the least, this ought in twelve months to give him a profit of a hundred and thirty francs. He hoped that the business would not stop there; that the bills would not be paid; that they would be renewed; and that his poor little money, having thriven at the doctor's as at a hospital, would come back to him one day considerably more plump, and fat enough to burst his bag. Everything, moreover, succeeded with him. He was adjudicator for a supply of cider to the hospital at Neufchatel; Monsieur Guillaumin promised him some shares in the turf-pits of Gaumesnil, and he dreamt of establishing a new diligence service between Arcueil and Rouen, which no doubt would not be long in ruining the ramshackle van of the "Lion d'Or," and that, travelling faster, at a cheaper rate, and carrying more luggage, would thus put into his hands the whole commerce of Yonville. Charles several times asked himself by what means he should next year be able to pay back so much money. He reflected, imagined expedients, such as applying to his father or selling something. But his father would be deaf, and he--he had nothing to sell. Then he foresaw such worries that he quickly dismissed so disagreeable a subject of meditation from his mind. He reproached himself with forgetting Emma, as if, all his thoughts belonging to this woman, it was robbing her of something not to be constantly thinking of her. The winter was severe, Madame Bovary's convalescence slow. When it was fine they wheeled her arm-chair to the window that overlooked the square, for she now had an antipathy to the garden, and the blinds on that side were always down. She wished the horse to be sold; what she formerly liked now displeased her. All her ideas seemed to be limited to the care of herself. She stayed in bed taking little meals, rang for the servant to inquire about her gruel or to chat with her. The snow on the market-roof threw a white, still light into the room; then the rain began to fall; and Emma waited daily with a mind full of eagerness for the inevitable return of some trifling events which nevertheless had no relation to her. The most important was the arrival of the "Hirondelle" in the evening. Then the landlady shouted out, and other voices answered, while Hippolyte's lantern, as he fetched the boxes from the boot, was like a star in the darkness. At mid-day Charles came in; then he went out again; next she took some beef-tea, and towards five o'clock, as the day drew in, the children coming back from school, dragging their wooden shoes along the pavement, knocked the clapper of the shutters with their rulers one after the other. It was at this hour that Monsieur Bournisien came to see her. He inquired after her health, gave her news, exhorted her to religion, in a coaxing little prattle that was not without its charm. The mere thought of his cassock comforted her. One day, when at the height of her illness, she had thought herself dying, and had asked for the communion; and, while they were making the preparations in her room for the sacrament, while they were turning the night table covered with syrups into an altar, and while Felicite was strewing dahlia flowers on the floor, Emma felt some power passing over her that freed her from her pains, from all perception, from all feeling. Her body, relieved, no longer thought; another life was beginning; it seemed to her that her being, mounting toward God, would be annihilated in that love like a burning incense that melts into vapour. The bed-clothes were sprinkled with holy water, the priest drew from the holy pyx the white wafer; and it was fainting with a celestial joy that she put out her lips to accept the body of the Saviour presented to her. The curtains of the alcove floated gently round her like clouds, and the rays of the two tapers burning on the night-table seemed to shine like dazzling halos. Then she let her head fall back, fancying she heard in space the music of seraphic harps, and perceived in an azure sky, on a golden throne in the midst of saints holding green palms, God the Father, resplendent with majesty, who with a sign sent to earth angels with wings of fire to carry her away in their arms. This splendid vision dwelt in her memory as the most beautiful thing that it was possible to dream, so that now she strove to recall her sensation. That still lasted, however, but in a less exclusive fashion and with a deeper sweetness. Her soul, tortured by pride, at length found rest in Christian humility, and, tasting the joy of weakness, she saw within herself the destruction of her will, that must have left a wide entrance for the inroads of heavenly grace. There existed, then, in the place of happiness, still greater joys--another love beyond all loves, without pause and without end, one that would grow eternally! She saw amid the illusions of her hope a state of purity floating above the earth mingling with heaven, to which she aspired. She wanted to become a saint. She bought chaplets and wore amulets; she wished to have in her room, by the side of her bed, a reliquary set in emeralds that she might kiss it every evening. The cure marvelled at this humour, although Emma's religion, he thought, might, from its fervour, end by touching on heresy, extravagance. But not being much versed in these matters, as soon as they went beyond a certain limit he wrote to Monsieur Boulard, bookseller to Monsignor, to send him "something good for a lady who was very clever." The bookseller, with as much indifference as if he had been sending off hardware to niggers, packed up, pellmell, everything that was then the fashion in the pious book trade. There were little manuals in questions and answers, pamphlets of aggressive tone after the manner of Monsieur de Maistre, and certain novels in rose-coloured bindings and with a honied style, manufactured by troubadour seminarists or penitent blue-stockings. There were the "Think of it; the Man of the World at Mary's Feet, by Monsieur de ***, decorated with many Orders"; "The Errors of Voltaire, for the Use of the Young," etc. Madame Bovary's mind was not yet sufficiently clear to apply herself seriously to anything; moreover, she began this reading in too much hurry. She grew provoked at the doctrines of religion; the arrogance of the polemic writings displeased her by their inveteracy in attacking people she did not know; and the secular stories, relieved with religion, seemed to her written in such ignorance of the world, that they insensibly estranged her from the truths for whose proof she was looking. Nevertheless, she persevered; and when the volume slipped from her hands, she fancied herself seized with the finest Catholic melancholy that an ethereal soul could conceive. As for the memory of Rodolphe, she had thrust it back to the bottom of her heart, and it remained there more solemn and more motionless than a king's mummy in a catacomb. An exhalation escaped from this embalmed love, that, penetrating through everything, perfumed with tenderness the immaculate atmosphere in which she longed to live. When she knelt on her Gothic prie-Dieu, she addressed to the Lord the same suave words that she had murmured formerly to her lover in the outpourings of adultery. It was to make faith come; but no delights descended from the heavens, and she arose with tired limbs and with a vague feeling of a gigantic dupery. This searching after faith, she thought, was only one merit the more, and in the pride of her devoutness Emma compared herself to those grand ladies of long ago whose glory she had dreamed of over a portrait of La Valliere, and who, trailing with so much majesty the lace-trimmed trains of their long gowns, retired into solitudes to shed at the feet of Christ all the tears of hearts that life had wounded. Then she gave herself up to excessive charity. She sewed clothes for the poor, she sent wood to women in childbed; and Charles one day, on coming home, found three good-for-nothings in the kitchen seated at the table eating soup. She had her little girl, whom during her illness her husband had sent back to the nurse, brought home. She wanted to teach her to read; even when Berthe cried, she was not vexed. She had made up her mind to resignation, to universal indulgence. Her language about everything was full of ideal expressions. She said to her child, "Is your stomach-ache better, my angel?" Madame Bovary senior found nothing to censure except perhaps this mania of knitting jackets for orphans instead of mending her own house-linen; but, harassed with domestic quarrels, the good woman took pleasure in this quiet house, and she even stayed there till after Easter, to escape the sarcasms of old Bovary, who never failed on Good Friday to order chitterlings. Besides the companionship of her mother-in-law, who strengthened her a little by the rectitude of her judgment and her grave ways, Emma almost every day had other visitors. These were Madame Langlois, Madame Caron, Madame Dubreuil, Madame Tuvache, and regularly from two to five o'clock the excellent Madame Homais, who, for her part, had never believed any of the tittle-tattle about her neighbour. The little Homais also came to see her; Justin accompanied them. He went up with them to her bedroom, and remained standing near the door, motionless and mute. Often even Madame Bovary; taking no heed of him, began her toilette. She began by taking out her comb, shaking her head with a quick movement, and when he for the first time saw all this mass of hair that fell to her knees unrolling in black ringlets, it was to him, poor child! like a sudden entrance into something new and strange, whose splendour terrified him. Emma, no doubt, did not notice his silent attentions or his timidity. She had no suspicion that the love vanished from her life was there, palpitating by her side, beneath that coarse holland shirt, in that youthful heart open to the emanations of her beauty. Besides, she now enveloped all things with such indifference, she had words so affectionate with looks so haughty, such contradictory ways, that one could no longer distinguish egotism from charity, or corruption from virtue. One evening, for example, she was angry with the servant, who had asked to go out, and stammered as she tried to find some pretext. Then suddenly-- "So you love him?" she said. And without waiting for any answer from Felicite, who was blushing, she added, "There! run along; enjoy yourself!" In the beginning of spring she had the garden turned up from end to end, despite Bovary's remonstrances. However, he was glad to see her at last manifest a wish of any kind. As she grew stronger she displayed more wilfulness. First, she found occasion to expel Mere Rollet, the nurse, who during her convalescence had contracted the habit of coming too often to the kitchen with her two nurslings and her boarder, better off for teeth than a cannibal. Then she got rid of the Homais family, successively dismissed all the other visitors, and even frequented church less assiduously, to the great approval of the druggist, who said to her in a friendly way-- "You were going in a bit for the cassock!" As formerly, Monsieur Bournisien dropped in every day when he came out after catechism class. He preferred staying out of doors to taking the air "in the grove," as he called the arbour. This was the time when Charles came home. They were hot; some sweet cider was brought out, and they drank together to madame's complete restoration. Binet was there; that is to say, a little lower down against the terrace wall, fishing for crayfish. Bovary invited him to have a drink, and he thoroughly understood the uncorking of the stone bottles. "You must," he said, throwing a satisfied glance all round him, even to the very extremity of the landscape, "hold the bottle perpendicularly on the table, and after the strings are cut, press up the cork with little thrusts, gently, gently, as indeed they do seltzer-water at restaurants." But during his demonstration the cider often spurted right into their faces, and then the ecclesiastic, with a thick laugh, never missed this joke-- "Its goodness strikes the eye!" He was, in fact, a good fellow and one day he was not even scandalised at the chemist, who advised Charles to give madame some distraction by taking her to the theatre at Rouen to hear the illustrious tenor, Lagardy. Homais, surprised at this silence, wanted to know his opinion, and the priest declared that he considered music less dangerous for morals than literature. But the chemist took up the defence of letters. The theatre, he contended, served for railing at prejudices, and, beneath a mask of pleasure, taught virtue. "'Castigat ridendo mores,'* Monsieur Bournisien! Thus consider the greater part of Voltaire's tragedies; they are cleverly strewn with philosophical reflections, that made them a vast school of morals and diplomacy for the people." *It corrects customs through laughter. "I," said Binet, "once saw a piece called the 'Gamin de Paris,' in which there was the character of an old general that is really hit off to a T. He sets down a young swell who had seduced a working girl, who at the ending--" "Certainly," continued Homais, "there is bad literature as there is bad pharmacy, but to condemn in a lump the most important of the fine arts seems to me a stupidity, a Gothic idea, worthy of the abominable times that imprisoned Galileo." "I know very well," objected the cure, "that there are good works, good authors. However, if it were only those persons of different sexes united in a bewitching apartment, decorated rouge, those lights, those effeminate voices, all this must, in the long-run, engender a certain mental libertinage, give rise to immodest thoughts and impure temptations. Such, at any rate, is the opinion of all the Fathers. Finally," he added, suddenly assuming a mystic tone of voice while he rolled a pinch of snuff between his fingers, "if the Church has condemned the theatre, she must be right; we must submit to her decrees." "Why," asked the druggist, "should she excommunicate actors? For formerly they openly took part in religious ceremonies. Yes, in the middle of the chancel they acted; they performed a kind of farce called 'Mysteries,' which often offended against the laws of decency." The ecclesiastic contented himself with uttering a groan, and the chemist went on-- "It's like it is in the Bible; there there are, you know, more than one piquant detail, matters really libidinous!" And on a gesture of irritation from Monsieur Bournisien-- "Ah! you'll admit that it is not a book to place in the hands of a young girl, and I should be sorry if Athalie--" "But it is the Protestants, and not we," cried the other impatiently, "who recommend the Bible." "No matter," said Homais. "I am surprised that in our days, in this century of enlightenment, anyone should still persist in proscribing an intellectual relaxation that is inoffensive, moralising, and sometimes even hygienic; is it not, doctor?" "No doubt," replied the doctor carelessly, either because, sharing the same ideas, he wished to offend no one, or else because he had not any ideas. The conversation seemed at an end when the chemist thought fit to shoot a Parthian arrow. "I've known priests who put on ordinary clothes to go and see dancers kicking about." "Come, come!" said the cure. "Ah! I've known some!" And separating the words of his sentence, Homais repeated, "I--have--known--some!" "Well, they were wrong," said Bournisien, resigned to anything. "By Jove! they go in for more than that," exclaimed the druggist. "Sir!" replied the ecclesiastic, with such angry eyes that the druggist was intimidated by them. "I only mean to say," he replied in less brutal a tone, "that toleration is the surest way to draw people to religion." "That is true! that is true!" agreed the good fellow, sitting down again on his chair. But he stayed only a few moments. Then, as soon as he had gone, Monsieur Homais said to the doctor-- "That's what I call a cock-fight. I beat him, did you see, in a way!--Now take my advice. Take madame to the theatre, if it were only for once in your life, to enrage one of these ravens, hang it! If anyone could take my place, I would accompany you myself. Be quick about it. Lagardy is only going to give one performance; he's engaged to go to England at a high salary. From what I hear, he's a regular dog; he's rolling in money; he's taking three mistresses and a cook along with him. All these great artists burn the candle at both ends; they require a dissolute life, that suits the imagination to some extent. But they die at the hospital, because they haven't the sense when young to lay by. Well, a pleasant dinner! Goodbye till to-morrow." The idea of the theatre quickly germinated in Bovary's head, for he at once communicated it to his wife, who at first refused, alleging the fatigue, the worry, the expense; but, for a wonder, Charles did not give in, so sure was he that this recreation would be good for her. He saw nothing to prevent it: his mother had sent them three hundred francs which he had no longer expected; the current debts were not very large, and the falling in of Lheureux's bills was still so far off that there was no need to think about them. Besides, imagining that she was refusing from delicacy, he insisted the more; so that by dint of worrying her she at last made up her mind, and the next day at eight o'clock they set out in the "Hirondelle." The druggist, whom nothing whatever kept at Yonville, but who thought himself bound not to budge from it, sighed as he saw them go. "Well, a pleasant journey!" he said to them; "happy mortals that you are!" Then addressing himself to Emma, who was wearing a blue silk gown with four flounces-- "You are as lovely as a Venus. You'll cut a figure at Rouen." The diligence stopped at the "Croix-Rouge" in the Place Beauvoisine. It was the inn that is in every provincial faubourg, with large stables and small bedrooms, where one sees in the middle of the court chickens pilfering the oats under the muddy gigs of the commercial travellers--a good old house, with worm-eaten balconies that creak in the wind on winter nights, always full of people, noise, and feeding, whose black tables are sticky with coffee and brandy, the thick windows made yellow by the flies, the damp napkins stained with cheap wine, and that always smells of the village, like ploughboys dressed in Sundayclothes, has a cafe on the street, and towards the countryside a kitchen-garden. Charles at once set out. He muddled up the stage-boxes with the gallery, the pit with the boxes; asked for explanations, did not understand them; was sent from the box-office to the acting-manager; came back to the inn, returned to the theatre, and thus several times traversed the whole length of the town from the theatre to the boulevard. Madame Bovary bought a bonnet, gloves, and a bouquet. The doctor was much afraid of missing the beginning, and, without having had time to swallow a plate of soup, they presented themselves at the doors of the theatre, which were still closed. The crowd was waiting against the wall, symmetrically enclosed between the balustrades. At the corner of the neighbouring streets huge bills repeated in quaint letters "Lucie de Lammermoor-Lagardy-Opera-etc." The weather was fine, the people were hot, perspiration trickled amid the curls, and handkerchiefs taken from pockets were mopping red foreheads; and now and then a warm wind that blew from the river gently stirred the border of the tick awnings hanging from the doors of the public-houses. A little lower down, however, one was refreshed by a current of icy air that smelt of tallow, leather, and oil. This was an exhalation from the Rue des Charrettes, full of large black warehouses where they made casks. For fear of seeming ridiculous, Emma before going in wished to have a little stroll in the harbour, and Bovary prudently kept his tickets in his hand, in the pocket of his trousers, which he pressed against his stomach. Her heart began to beat as soon as she reached the vestibule. She involuntarily smiled with vanity on seeing the crowd rushing to the right by the other corridor while she went up the staircase to the reserved seats. She was as pleased as a child to push with her finger the large tapestried door. She breathed in with all her might the dusty smell of the lobbies, and when she was seated in her box she bent forward with the air of a duchess. The theatre was beginning to fill; opera-glasses were taken from their cases, and the subscribers, catching sight of one another, were bowing. They came to seek relaxation in the fine arts after the anxieties of business; but "business" was not forgotten; they still talked cottons, spirits of wine, or indigo. The heads of old men were to be seen, inexpressive and peaceful, with their hair and complexions looking like silver medals tarnished by steam of lead. The young beaux were strutting about in the pit, showing in the opening of their waistcoats their pink or applegreen cravats, and Madame Bovary from above admired them leaning on their canes with golden knobs in the open palm of their yellow gloves. Now the lights of the orchestra were lit, the lustre, let down from the ceiling, throwing by the glimmering of its facets a sudden gaiety over the theatre; then the musicians came in one after the other; and first there was the protracted hubbub of the basses grumbling, violins squeaking, cornets trumpeting, flutes and flageolets fifing. But three knocks were heard on the stage, a rolling of drums began, the brass instruments played some chords, and the curtain rising, discovered a country-scene. It was the cross-roads of a wood, with a fountain shaded by an oak to the left. Peasants and lords with plaids on their shoulders were singing a hunting-song together; then a captain suddenly came on, who evoked the spirit of evil by lifting both his arms to heaven. Another appeared; they went away, and the hunters started afresh. She felt herself transported to the reading of her youth, into the midst of Walter Scott. She seemed to hear through the mist the sound of the Scotch bagpipes re-echoing over the heather. Then her remembrance of the novel helping her to understand the libretto, she followed the story phrase by phrase, while vague thoughts that came back to her dispersed at once again with the bursts of music. She gave herself up to the lullaby of the melodies, and felt all her being vibrate as if the violin bows were drawn over her nerves. She had not eyes enough to look at the costumes, the scenery, the actors, the painted trees that shook when anyone walked, and the velvet caps, cloaks, swords--all those imaginary things that floated amid the harmony as in the atmosphere of another world. But a young woman stepped forward, throwing a purse to a squire in green. She was left alone, and the flute was heard like the murmur of a fountain or the warbling of birds. Lucie attacked her cavatina in G major bravely. She plained of love; she longed for wings. Emma, too, fleeing from life, would have liked to fly away in an embrace. Suddenly Edgar-Lagardy appeared. He had that splendid pallor that gives something of the majesty of marble to the ardent races of the South. His vigorous form was tightly clad in a brown-coloured doublet; a small chiselled poniard hung against his left thigh, and he cast round laughing looks showing his white teeth. They said that a Polish princess having heard him sing one night on the beach at Biarritz, where he mended boats, had fallen in love with him. She had ruined herself for him. He had deserted her for other women, and this sentimental celebrity did not fail to enhance his artistic reputation. The diplomatic mummer took care always to slip into his advertisements some poetic phrase on the fascination of his person and the susceptibility of his soul. A fine organ, imperturbable coolness, more temperament than intelligence, more power of emphasis than of real singing, made up the charm of this admirable charlatan nature, in which there was something of the hairdresser and the toreador. From the first scene he evoked enthusiasm. He pressed Lucy in his arms, he left her, he came back, he seemed desperate; he had outbursts of rage, then elegiac gurglings of infinite sweetness, and the notes escaped from his bare neck full of sobs and kisses. Emma leant forward to see him, clutching the velvet of the box with her nails. She was filling her heart with these melodious lamentations that were drawn out to the accompaniment of the double-basses, like the cries of the drowning in the tumult of a tempest. She recognised all the intoxication and the anguish that had almost killed her. The voice of a prima donna seemed to her to be but echoes of her conscience, and this illusion that charmed her as some very thing of her own life. But no one on earth had loved her with such love. He had not wept like Edgar that last moonlit night when they said, "To-morrow! to-morrow!" The theatre rang with cheers; they recommenced the entire movement; the lovers spoke of the flowers on their tomb, of vows, exile, fate, hopes; and when they uttered the final adieu, Emma gave a sharp cry that mingled with the vibrations of the last chords. "But why," asked Bovary, "does that gentleman persecute her?" "No, no!" she answered; "he is her lover!" "Yet he vows vengeance on her family, while the other one who came on before said, 'I love Lucie and she loves me!' Besides, he went off with her father arm in arm. For he certainly is her father, isn't he--the ugly little man with a cock's feather in his hat?" Despite Emma's explanations, as soon as the recitative duet began in which Gilbert lays bare his abominable machinations to his master Ashton, Charles, seeing the false troth-ring that is to deceive Lucie, thought it was a love-gift sent by Edgar. He confessed, moreover, that he did not understand the story because of the music, which interfered very much with the words. "What does it matter?" said Emma. "Do be quiet!" "Yes, but you know," he went on, leaning against her shoulder, "I like to understand things." "Be quiet! be quiet!" she cried impatiently. Lucie advanced, half supported by her women, a wreath of orange blossoms in her hair, and paler than the white satin of her gown. Emma dreamed of her marriage day; she saw herself at home again amid the corn in the little path as they walked to the church. Oh, why had not she, like this woman, resisted, implored? She, on the contrary, had been joyous, without seeing the abyss into which she was throwing herself. Ah! if in the freshness of her beauty, before the soiling of marriage and the disillusions of adultery, she could have anchored her life upon some great, strong heart, then virtue, tenderness, voluptuousness, and duty blending, she would never have fallen from so high a happiness. But that happiness, no doubt, was a lie invented for the despair of all desire. She now knew the smallness of the passions that art exaggerated. So, striving to divert her thoughts, Emma determined now to see in this reproduction of her sorrows only a plastic fantasy, well enough to please the eye, and she even smiled internally with disdainful pity when at the back of the stage under the velvet hangings a man appeared in a black cloak. His large Spanish hat fell at a gesture he made, and immediately the instruments and the singers began the sextet. Edgar, flashing with fury, dominated all the others with his clearer voice; Ashton hurled homicidal provocations at him in deep notes; Lucie uttered her shrill plaint, Arthur at one side, his modulated tones in the middle register, and the bass of the minister pealed forth like an organ, while the voices of the women repeating his words took them up in chorus delightfully. They were all in a row gesticulating, and anger, vengeance, jealousy, terror, and stupefaction breathed forth at once from their half-opened mouths. The outraged lover brandished his naked sword; his guipure ruffle rose with jerks to the movements of his chest, and he walked from right to left with long strides, clanking against the boards the silver-gilt spurs of his soft boots, widening out at the ankles. He, she thought must have an inexhaustible love to lavish it upon the crowd with such effusion. All her small fault-findings faded before the poetry of the part that absorbed her; and, drawn towards this man by the illusion of the character, she tried to imagine to herself his life--that life resonant, extraordinary, splendid, and that might have been hers if fate had willed it. They would have known one another, loved one another. With him, through all the kingdoms of Europe she would have travelled from capital to capital, sharing his fatigues and his pride, picking up the flowers thrown to him, herself embroidering his costumes. Then each evening, at the back of a box, behind the golden trellis-work she would have drunk in eagerly the expansions of this soul that would have sung for her alone; from the stage, even as he acted, he would have looked at her. But the mad idea seized her that he was looking at her; it was certain. She longed to run to his arms, to take refuge in his strength, as in the incarnation of love itself, and to say to him, to cry out, "Take me away! carry me with you! let us go! Thine, thine! all my ardour and all my dreams!" The curtain fell. The smell of the gas mingled with that of the breaths, the waving of the fans, made the air more suffocating. Emma wanted to go out; the crowd filled the corridors, and she fell back in her arm-chair with palpitations that choked her. Charles, fearing that she would faint, ran to the refreshment-room to get a glass of barley-water. He had great difficulty in getting back to his seat, for his elbows were jerked at every step because of the glass he held in his hands, and he even spilt three-fourths on the shoulders of a Rouen lady in short sleeves, who feeling the cold liquid running down to her loins, uttered cries like a peacock, as if she were being assassinated. Her husband, who was a millowner, railed at the clumsy fellow, and while she was with her handkerchief wiping up the stains from her handsome cherry-coloured taffeta gown, he angrily muttered about indemnity, costs, reimbursement. At last Charles reached his wife, saying to her, quite out of breath-- "Ma foi! I thought I should have had to stay there. There is such a crowd--SUCH a crowd!" He added-- "Just guess whom I met up there! Monsieur Leon!" "Leon?" "Himself! He's coming along to pay his respects." And as he finished these words the ex-clerk of Yonville entered the box. He held out his hand with the ease of a gentleman; and Madame Bovary extended hers, without doubt obeying the attraction of a stronger will. She had not felt it since that spring evening when the rain fell upon the green leaves, and they had said good-bye standing at the window. But soon recalling herself to the necessities of the situation, with an effort she shook off the torpor of her memories, and began stammering a few hurried words. "Ah, good-day! What! you here?" "Silence!" cried a voice from the pit, for the third act was beginning. "So you are at Rouen?" "Yes." "And since when?" "Turn them out! turn them out!" People were looking at them. They were silent. But from that moment she listened no more; and the chorus of the guests, the scene between Ashton and his servant, the grand duet in D major, all were for her as far off as if the instruments had grown less sonorous and the characters more remote. She remembered the games at cards at the druggist's, and the walk to the nurse's, the reading in the arbour, the tete-a-tete by the fireside--all that poor love, so calm and so protracted, so discreet, so tender, and that she had nevertheless forgotten. And why had he come back? What combination of circumstances had brought him back into her life? He was standing behind her, leaning with his shoulder against the wall of the box; now and again she felt herself shuddering beneath the hot breath from his nostrils falling upon her hair. "Does this amuse you?" said he, bending over her so closely that the end of his moustache brushed her cheek. She replied carelessly-- "Oh, dear me, no, not much." Then he proposed that they should leave the theatre and go and take an ice somewhere. "Oh, not yet; let us stay," said Bovary. "Her hair's undone; this is going to be tragic." But the mad scene did not at all interest Emma, and the acting of the singer seemed to her exaggerated. "She screams too loud," said she, turning to Charles, who was listening. "Yes--a little," he replied, undecided between the frankness of his pleasure and his respect for his wife's opinion. Then with a sigh Leon said-- "The heat is--" "Unbearable! Yes!" "Do you feel unwell?" asked Bovary. "Yes, I am stifling; let us go." Monsieur Leon put her long lace shawl carefully about her shoulders, and all three went off to sit down in the harbour, in the open air, outside the windows of a cafe. First they spoke of her illness, although Emma interrupted Charles from time to time, for fear, she said, of boring Monsieur Leon; and the latter told them that he had come to spend two years at Rouen in a large office, in order to get practice in his profession, which was different in Normandy and Paris. Then he inquired after Berthe, the Homais, Mere Lefrancois, and as they had, in the husband's presence, nothing more to say to one another, the conversation soon came to an end. People coming out of the theatre passed along the pavement, humming or shouting at the top of their voices, "O bel ange, ma Lucie!*" Then Leon, playing the dilettante, began to talk music. He had seen Tambourini, Rubini, Persiani, Grisi, and, compared with them, Lagardy, despite his grand outbursts, was nowhere. *Oh beautiful angel, my Lucie. "Yet," interrupted Charles, who was slowly sipping his rum-sherbet, "they say that he is quite admirable in the last act. I regret leaving before the end, because it was beginning to amuse me." "Why," said the clerk, "he will soon give another performance." But Charles replied that they were going back next day. "Unless," he added, turning to his wife, "you would like to stay alone, kitten?" And changing his tactics at this unexpected opportunity that presented itself to his hopes, the young man sang the praises of Lagardy in the last number. It was really superb, sublime. Then Charles insisted-- "You would get back on Sunday. Come, make up your mind. You are wrong if you feel that this is doing you the least good." The tables round them, however, were emptying; a waiter came and stood discreetly near them. Charles, who understood, took out his purse; the clerk held back his arm, and did not forget to leave two more pieces of silver that he made chink on the marble. "I am really sorry," said Bovary, "about the money which you are--" The other made a careless gesture full of cordiality, and taking his hat said-- "It is settled, isn't it? To-morrow at six o'clock?" Charles explained once more that he could not absent himself longer, but that nothing prevented Emma-- "But," she stammered, with a strange smile, "I am not sure--" "Well, you must think it over. We'll see. Night brings counsel." Then to Leon, who was walking along with them, "Now that you are in our part of the world, I hope you'll come and ask us for some dinner now and then." The clerk declared he would not fail to do so, being obliged, moreover, to go to Yonville on some business for his office. And they parted before the Saint-Herbland Passage just as the clock in the cathedral struck half-past eleven. Part III Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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Neben seiner Sorge um Emma machten Charles auch finanzielle Sorgen zu schaffen. Die Krankheit war sehr teuer gewesen und die anderen Rechnungen stapelten sich. Darüber hinaus legte Lheureux ihm plötzlich eine Abrechnung von Emmas Schulden vor. Ohne zu wissen, was er sonst tun sollte, lieh sich Bovary Geld von Lheureux und unterzeichnete mehrere Schuldscheine zu einem hohen Zinssatz. Den ganzen Winter über dauerte Emmas Genesung an. Während einer Krisenphase ihrer Krankheit waren Emmas religiöse Gefühle wieder erwacht. Nun war sie sehr fromm und verbrachte viel Zeit damit, religiöse Bücher zu lesen oder sich mit dem Priester zu unterhalten. Im Frühjahr war Emma wieder relativ stark und kehrte zu ihren häuslichen Pflichten zurück. Ihre religiösen Gefühle blieben fest verankert und jeder war überrascht von ihrer neuen Großzügigkeit, Spiritualität und strengen Prinzipien. Eines Tages schlug Homais vor, dass Bovary Emma mit ins Theater in Rouen nehmen sollte. Er hoffte, dass so ein Ausflug gut für ihre Gesundheit sein würde. Emma war nicht scharf darauf, mitzugehen, aber Bovary war so hartnäckig, dass sie einwilligte. Am Tag des Ausflugs machten sie sich aufgeregt auf den Weg in die Stadt. Emma war den ganzen Nachmittag über von Charles' Verhalten und Erscheinung peinlich berührt und aufgebracht. Sie wollte unbedingt wie eine anspruchsvolle, weltgewandte Dame wirken und hatte das Gefühl, dass er nur ein Landpomeranze war. Sie war nervös und selbstbewusst, wo immer sie hingingen. Trotzdem genoss Emma jedoch die Oper Lucie de Lammermoor sehr. Sie fand, dass die Geschichte sie an Ereignisse in ihrem eigenen Leben erinnerte. Während der Pause waren sie beide überrascht, Leon anzutreffen, der jetzt in Rouen lebte und arbeitete. Die drei gingen zusammen in ein Café, wo Bovary und Leon ausführlich über Yonville, ihre gemeinsamen Freunde und alte Zeiten sprachen. Leon erzählte ihnen auch ein wenig über seine aktuelle Position und seine Erfahrungen an der Universität. Emma war beeindruckt von Leons geschmeidigen, städtischen Manieren und Kleidung. Als sie über die gerade verlassene Oper sprachen, verspottete Leon sie zuerst, bis er erfuhr, dass Emma vielleicht über Nacht bleiben könnte, um den zweiten Teil noch einmal zu sehen. Daraufhin lobte er die Oper so sehr, dass Charles vorschlug, dass Emma bleiben sollte, während er zu seiner Praxis zurückkehre. Wie dem auch sei, bevor sie sich trennten, vereinbarten die Bovarys und Leon, sich am nächsten Tag wieder 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: "Wenn du mich ablehnst, schade deinem Gesetz! In den Dekreten von Venedig gibt es keine Macht: Ich stehe zum Urteil; antworte, werde ich es bekommen?" _Kaufmann von Venedig._ Das Schweigen dauerte viele bange Minuten, ohne von menschlichen Geräuschen unterbrochen zu werden. Dann öffnete und schloss sich die winkende Menge wieder, und Uncas stand im lebendigen Kreis. Alle diese Augen, die die Züge des Weisen neugierig studiert hatten, als Quelle ihrer eigenen Intelligenz, wandten sich augenblicklich um und wurden nun in heimlicher Bewunderung auf die aufrechte, geschmeidige und makellose Gestalt des Gefangenen gerichtet. Aber weder die Umgebung, in der er sich befand, noch die ausschließliche Aufmerksamkeit, die er anzog, störte in irgendeiner Weise die Selbstbeherrschung des jungen Mohikaners. Er warf einen beharrlichen und aufmerksamen Blick auf jede Seite von sich und begegnete dem starren Ausdruck der Feindseligkeit, der in den Gesichtern der Häuptlinge lauerte, mit derselben Gelassenheit wie den neugierigen Blicken der aufmerksamen Kinder. Aber als in seiner hochmütigen Untersuchung zuletzt der Körper von Tamenund in sein Blickfeld geriet, richtete sich sein Auge fest, als wären alle anderen Objekte bereits vergessen. Dann trat er mit einem langsamen und lautlosen Schritt in den Bereich und stellte sich unmittelbar vor den Hocker des Weisen. Hier stand er unbemerkt, obwohl er selbst scharf beobachtete, bis einer der Häuptlinge den letzten auf seine Anwesenheit aufmerksam machte. "Mit welcher Zunge spricht der Gefangene zu Manitou?" forderte der Patriarch, ohne seine Augen zu öffnen. "Mit der Zunge seiner Väter", antwortete Uncas, "mit der Sprache eines Delawares". Bei dieser plötzlichen und unerwarteten Verkündigung lief ein leiser, wilder Schrei durch die Menge, der nicht unpassend mit dem Brüllen eines Löwen verglichen werden könnte, wenn seine Wut zum ersten Mal erweckt wird - ein furchterregendes Omen für das Gewicht seines zukünftigen Zorns. Die Wirkung war beim Weisen genauso stark, wenn auch anders gezeigt. Er fuhr sich mit der Hand vor die Augen, als wolle er jeglichen Beweis für ein so schändliches Schauspiel ausschließen, während er mit seinen leisen und rauen Tönen die Worte wiederholte, die er gerade gehört hatte. "Ein Delaware! Ich habe es erlebt, dass die Stämme der Lenape von ihren Ratfeuern vertrieben wurden und wie zerbrochene Hirschherden über die Hügel der Irokesen verteilt wurden! Ich habe die Äxte eines fremden Volkes Wälder aus den Tälern fegen sehen, die sonst vom Wind des Himmels verschont waren! Die Tiere, die auf den Bergen laufen, und die Vögel, die über den Bäumen fliegen, habe ich in den Wigwams der Menschen gesehen; aber nie zuvor habe ich einen Delaware so niedrig gefunden, dass er wie eine giftige Schlange in die Lager seiner Nation kriecht." "Die Singvögel haben ihre Schnäbel geöffnet", erwiderte Uncas mit den weichen Tönen seiner eigenen musikalischen Stimme, "und Tamenund hat ihren Gesang gehört." Der Weise schreckte auf und senkte den Kopf zur Seite, als ob er den flüchtigen Klang einer vorübergehenden Melodie einfangen wollte. "Träumt Tamenund!" rief er aus. "Welche Stimme ist an seinem Ohr! Sind die Winter zurückgegangen! Wird der Sommer wieder für die Kinder der Lenape kommen!" Eine feierliche und respektvolle Stille folgte diesem zusammenhanglosen Ausbruch der Lippen des delaware’schen Propheten. Sein Volk deutete seine unverständliche Sprache beständig als eine jener mysteriösen Konferenzen, von denen angenommen wurde, dass er sie häufig mit einer überlegenen Intelligenz abhielt, und sie warteten in Ehrfurcht auf den Ausgang der Offenbarung. Nach einer geduldigen Pause erinnerte jedoch einer der Ältesten den Weisen daran, dass der Gefangene anwesend war, da dieser offensichtlich das Thema vor ihnen vergessen hatte. "Der falsche Delaware zittert, dass er die Worte Tamenunds hören könnte", sagte er. "Er ist ein Hund, der heult, wenn ihm die Yengeese eine Spur zeigen." "Und ihr", erwiderte Uncas und blickte streng um sich, "seid Hunde, die winseln, wenn der Franzose euch die Überbleibsel seines Hirsches zuwirft!" Zwanzig Messer blitzten in der Luft, und ebenso viele Krieger sprangen auf die Beine bei dieser beißenden und vielleicht verdienten Erwiderung. Aber eine Bewegung eines der Häuptlinge unterdrückte den Ausbruch ihrer Temperamente und stellte wieder Ruhe her. Die Aufgabe wäre wahrscheinlich schwieriger gewesen, wenn nicht eine Bewegung, die Tamenund machte, darauf hindeutete, dass er wieder sprechen wollte. "Delaware!" fuhr der Weise fort, "kaum bist du deinen Namen wert. Mein Volk hat viele Winter lang keine helle Sonne gesehen; und der Krieger, der seinen Stamm verlässt, wenn er in Wolken verborgen ist, ist doppelt ein Verräter. Das Gesetz des Manitou ist gerecht. Es ist so, solange die Flüsse fließen und die Berge stehen, solange die Blüten den Bäumen kommen und gehen, muss es so sein. Er ist euer, meine Kinder; geht gerecht mit ihm um." Kein Glied wurde bewegt, kein Atemzug wurde lauter und länger als gewöhnlich gezogen, bis das letzte Schlusswort dieses endgültigen Urteils die Lippen Tamenunds passierte. Dann entstand auf einmal ein Schrei der Rache, wie er möglicherweise von den vereinigten Lippen der Nation ausgegangen sein könnte; eine furchterregende Vorahnung ihrer rücksichtslosen Absichten. Inmitten dieser lang anhaltenden und wilden Schreie verkündete ein Häuptling mit lauter Stimme, dass der Gefangene das furchtbare Martyrium des Feuertodes erleiden müsse. Der Kreis brach seine Ordnung, und Schreie der Freude mischten sich mit dem Betriebsamkeit und dem Tumult der Vorbereitung. Heyward kämpfte wild mit seinen Bewachern; die besorgten Augen von Hawkeye begannen sich mit einem Ausdruck von besonderer Ernsthaftigkeit umzusehen; und auch Cora warf sich erneut den Füßen des Patriarchen zu, wieder eine Bittstellerin um Gnade. Während all dieser beunruhigenden Augenblicke hatte Uncas seine Ruhe bewahrt. Er betrachtete die Vorbereitungen mit einem ruhigen Blick und als die Folterknechte kamen, um ihn zu packen, trat er ihnen mit einer festen und aufrechten Haltung entgegen. Einer von ihnen, wenn möglich noch wilder und grausamer als seine Gefährten, packte das Jagdhemd des jungen Kriegers und riss es mit einem einzigen Anstrengung von seinem Körper. Dann sprang er mit einem Schrei wilder Freude auf seinen wehrlosen Gegner zu und bereitete sich darauf vor, ihn zu dem Pfahl zu führen. Doch in diesem Moment, als er am fremdesten gegenüber den Gefühlen der Menschlichkeit zu sein schien, wurde der Plan des Wilden so plötzlich gestoppt, als hätte eine übernatürliche Kraft sich zugunsten von Uncas eingeschaltet. Die Augäpfel des Delawares schienen aus den Höhlen zu springen; sein Mund öffnete sich, und seine ganze Gestalt erstarrte in einer Haltung des Staunens. Er hob langsam und in einem geregelten Takt die Hand und zeigte mit einem Finger auf die Brust des Gefangenen. Seine Gefährten drängten sich in verwunderter Erregung um ihn herum, und jedes Auge war, wie sein eigenes, fest auf die Figur einer kleinen, schön tätowierten Schildkröte gerichtet, die in einem hellblauen Farbton auf der Br "Ist Tamenund ein Junge?", rief schließlich der verwirrte Prophet aus. "Habe ich von so vielen Schneefällen geträumt - dass mein Volk wie schwimmender Sand zerstreut war - von Yengeese, zahlreicher als die Blätter an den Bäumen! Der Pfeil des Tamenund würde das Reh nicht erschrecken; sein Arm ist verdorrt wie der Ast einer toten Eiche; die Schnecke wäre schneller im Rennen; dennoch ist Uncas vor ihm, als sie gegen die Bleichgesichter in die Schlacht zogen! Uncas, der Panther seines Stammes, der älteste Sohn der Lenape, der weiseste Sagamore der Mohikaner! Sagt mir, ihr Delawares, war Tamenund hundert Winter lang ein Schläfer gewesen?" Die stille und tiefe Stille, die auf diese Worte folgte, kündigte ausreichend die ehrfürchtige Ehrerbietung an, mit der sein Volk die Mitteilung des Patriarchen aufnahm. Niemand wagte es zu antworten, obwohl alle in atemloser Erwartung darauf lauschten, was folgen würde. Uncas jedoch, der seinem eigenen hohen und anerkannten Rang vertraute, schaute ihm ins Gesicht, mit der Zuneigung und Verehrung eines begünstigten Kindes, übermaß und wagte es zu antworten. "Vier Krieger seines Stammes haben gelebt und sind gestorben", sagte er. "Seitdem hat der Freund von Tamenund sein Volk in der Schlacht geführt. Das Blut der Schildkröte war in vielen Häuptlingen, aber alle sind zurückgekehrt in die Erde, von der sie kamen, außer Chingachgook und seinem Sohn." "Es ist wahr - es ist wahr", erwiderte der Weise, ein Schimmer der Erinnerung zerstörte all seine angenehmen Fantasien und brachte ihn sofort wieder ins Bewusstsein der wahren Geschichte seines Volkes. "Unsere Weisen haben oft gesagt, dass zwei Krieger der unveränderten Rasse in den Hügeln der Yengeese sind; warum sind ihre Plätze am Feuerrat der Delawares so lange leer gewesen?" Auf diese Worte hob der junge Mann den Kopf, den er noch ein wenig nach unten geneigt gehalten hatte, in Ehrfurcht; und er hob seine Stimme so an, dass die Menge ihn hören konnte, als ob er die Politik seiner Familie auf einmal und für immer erklären wollte. Er sagte laut: "Einst schliefen wir dort, wo wir den Zorn des Salzsees vernehmen konnten. Dann waren wir Herrscher und Häuptlinge über das Land. Aber als ein Bleichgesicht an jedem Bach gesehen wurde, folgten wir dem Hirsch zurück zum Fluss unseres Volkes. Die Delawares waren weg. Wenige Krieger von ihnen blieben allein, um von dem Bach zu trinken, den sie liebten. Da sagten meine Väter: 'Hier werden wir jagen. Die Wasser des Flusses fließen in den Salzsee. Wenn wir uns in Richtung Sonnenuntergang wenden, werden wir Bäche finden, die in die großen Süßwasserseen fließen; dort würde ein Mohikaner sterben, wie die Fische des Meeres, in den klaren Quellen. Wenn der Manitou bereit ist und sagt "Komm", dann werden wir dem Fluss zum Meer folgen und unser Eigenes zurückerobern.' So ist es, Delawares, der Glaube der Schildkrötenkinder. Unsere Augen sind auf den Aufgang gerichtet und nicht auf den Untergang der Sonne. Wir wissen, woher sie kommt, aber wir wissen nicht, wohin sie geht. Das reicht uns." Die Männer der Lenape hörten seinen Worten mit aller dem Aberglauben zukommenden Achtung zu und fanden einen geheimen Reiz selbst in der bildhaften Sprache, mit der der junge Sagamore seine Ideen vermittelte. Uncas selbst beobachtete die Wirkung seiner kurzen Erklärung mit aufmerksamen Augen und ließ nach und nach die von ihm angenommene autoritäre Haltung fallen, als er bemerkte, dass seine Zuhörer zufrieden waren. Dann ließ er seinen Blick über die stille Menschenmenge schweifen, die sich um den erhöhten Sitz von Tamenund drängte, und bemerkte zum ersten Mal Hawkeye in seinen Fesseln. Mit Eifer trat er von seinem Platz und bahnte sich selbst den Weg zur Seite seines Freundes. Mit einem schnellen und wütenden Hieb seines eigenen Messers schnitt er dessen Fesseln durch und bedeutete der Menschenmenge, auseinanderzugehen. Die Indianer gehorchten schweigend und einmal standen sie wieder in einem Kreis, wie vor seinem Erscheinen. Uncas nahm den Pfadfinder bei der Hand und führte ihn zu den Füßen des Patriarchen. "Vater", sagte er, "sieh diesen Bleichgesicht an; ein gerechter Mann und der Freund der Delawares." "Stammt er von Minquon ab?" "Nicht so; ein Krieger, den die Yengeese kennen und von den Maquas gefürchtet wird." "Welchen Namen hat er sich durch seine Taten erworben?" "Wir nennen ihn Hawkeye", antwortete Uncas unter Verwendung des Delaware-Ausdrucks, "denn sein Blick versagt nie. Die Mingos kennen ihn besser durch den Tod, den er ihren Kriegern gibt; bei ihnen ist er "Die Lange Flinte"." "La Longue Carabine!", rief Tamenund aus, öffnete seine Augen und betrachtete den Pfadfinder streng. "Mein Sohn hat nicht gut daran getan, ihn Freund zu nennen." "Ich nenne ihn so, der sich als solcher erweist", erwiderte der junge Häuptling, mit großer Ruhe, aber mit festem Auftreten. "Wenn Uncas bei den Delawares willkommen ist, dann ist Hawkeye bei seinen Freunden." "Der Bleichgesicht hat meine jungen Männer getötet; sein Name ist groß für die Schläge, die er den Lenape verabreicht hat." "Wenn ein Mingo das dem Delaware ins Ohr geflüstert hat, hat er nur gezeigt, dass er ein Singvogel ist", sagte der Pfadfinder, der nun glaubte, dass es an der Zeit sei, sich von solch beleidigenden Anschuldigungen zu rechtfertigen, und der in der Sprache des Mannes sprach, den er ansprach, seine indianischen Ausdrücke jedoch mit seinen eigenen besonderen Vorstellungen abänderte. "Dass ich die Maquas getötet habe, bin ich nicht der Mann, der es leugnet, selbst an ihren eigenen Hauptversammlungen; aber dass ich wissentlich einer Delaware jemals geschadet habe, steht im Widerspruch zu der Vernunft meiner Gaben, die ihnen wohlgesinnt ist, und zu allem, was zu ihrer Nation gehört." Ein leiser Ausruf des Beifalls ging durch die Krieger, die sich Blicke austauschten wie Männer, die gerade anfangen, ihren Fehler zu erkennen. "Wo ist der Hurone?", fragte Tamenund. "Hat er mir die Ohren abgedeckt?" Magua, dessen Gefühle während jener Szene, in der Uncas triumphiert hatte, sich viel besser vorstellen als beschreiben lassen, antwortete dem Ruf, indem er scharf vor dem Patriarchen vortrat. "Der gerechte Tamenund", sagte er, "wird nicht festhalten, was ein Hurone geliehen hat." "Sag mir, Sohn meines Bruders", erwiderte der Weise und vermied das dunkle Gesicht von Le Subtil, indem er sich frohgemut den aufrichtigeren Zügen von Uncas zuwandte, "hat der Fremde ein eroberndes Recht über dich?" "Er hat keines. Der Panther kann in von den Frauen gestellte Fallen geraten; aber er ist stark und weiß, wie er über sie springen kann." "La Longue Carabine?" "Lacht über die Mingos. Geh, Hurone, frage deine Squaws nach der Farbe eines Bären." "Der Fremde und die weiße Jungfrau, die gemeinsam in mein Lager kamen?" "Soll "Halt, halt!" rief Duncan, indem er nach vorne sprang; "Huron, habe Erbarmen! Ihr Lösegeld wird dich reicher machen, als es deine Leute jemals waren." "Magua ist ein Rothaut; er braucht nicht die Perlen der Bleichgesichter." "Gold, Silber, Schießpulver, Blei - alles, was ein Krieger braucht, wird in deinem Wigwam sein; alles, was einem großen Häuptling entspricht." "Le Subtil ist sehr stark", rief Magua, dabei Coras Arm packend, der sich widerstandslos ergab. "Er hat sich gerächt!" "Mächtiger Herrscher der Vorsehung!", rief Heyward, seine Hände angstvoll zusammenlegend. "Kann das erlaubt sein! Ich bitte dich um Barmherzigkeit, gerechter Tamenund." "Die Worte des Delawares sind gesprochen", antwortete der Weise, schloss die Augen und ließ sich erschöpft in seinen Sitz zurücksinken, sowohl von seiner geistigen als auch von seiner körperlichen Anstrengung ermüdet. "Ein Mann spricht nicht zweimal." "Dass ein Häuptling seine Zeit nicht damit verschwenden sollte, einmal Gesagtes zurückzunehmen, ist weise und vernünftig", sagte Hawkeye, indem er Duncan signalisierte, still zu sein. "Aber es ist auch klug für jeden Krieger, gut darüber nachzudenken, bevor er seine Tomahawk in den Kopf seines Gefangenen schlägt. Huron, ich mag dich nicht; und ich kann nicht sagen, dass irgendeinem Mingo viel Gnade von mir widerfahren ist. Es ist wahrscheinlich, dass, wenn dieser Krieg nicht bald endet, noch viele Krieger deinem Volk im Wald begegnen werden. Lass mich dir die Entscheidung überlassen, ob du lieber einen solchen Gefangenen wie diesen in dein Lager nimmst oder einen wie mich, den ein Mann deines Volkes gerne mit bloßen Händen sehen würde." "Will 'Der Lange Büchsenmacher' sein Leben für die Frau geben?", fragte Magua zögernd, denn er hatte bereits eine Bewegung gemacht, um den Ort mit seinem Opfer zu verlassen. "Nein, nein; ich habe nicht so viel gesagt", erwiderte Hawkeye, mit gebührender Vorsicht zurückweichend, als er die Eifer bemerkte, mit der Magua seinen Vorschlag hörte. "Es wäre ein ungleicher Austausch, einen Krieger im besten Alter und seiner Nützlichkeit für die beste Frau in den Grenzgebieten zu geben. Ich könnte einwilligen, jetzt in den Winterquartieren zu bleiben - mindestens sechs Wochen bevor die Blätter sich färben - unter der Bedingung, dass du die Jungfrau freilässt." Magua schüttelte den Kopf und machte ein ungeduldiges Zeichen, um die Menge zu öffnen. "Nun gut", fügte der Pfadfinder hinzu, mit der nachdenklichen Miene eines Mannes, der sich noch nicht ganz entschieden hat, "ich werde 'Killdeer' noch dazugeben. Glaubt einem erfahrenen Jäger, dieses Gewehr hat kein Gegenstück in den Provinzen." Magua verweigerte immer noch eine Antwort und setzte seine Bemühungen fort, die Menge zu zerstreuen. "Vielleicht", fügte der Pfadfinder hinzu, während er seine verstellte Ruhe verlor, genau im selben Maße wie der andere eine Gleichgültigkeit gegenüber dem Austausch zeigte, "wenn ich mich dazu verpflichten würde, deinen jungen Männern die wahre Tugend dieser Waffe beizubringen, würde das die kleinen Meinungsverschiedenheiten zwischen uns glätten." Le Renard befahl mit Wildheit den Delawaren, die immer noch in einem undurchdringlichen Ring um ihn herum verharrten und darauf hofften, dass er auf den friedlichen Vorschlag hören würde, seinen Weg zu öffnen und drohte mit einem Blick, erneut die unfehlbare Gerechtigkeit ihrer "Propheten" anzurufen. "Was angeordnet ist, muss früher oder später kommen", fuhr Hawkeye fort und wandte sich mit einem traurigen und gedemütigten Blick an Uncas. "Der Schurke kennt seinen Vorteil und wird ihn behalten! Gott segne dich, Junge; du hast Freunde unter deinen eigenen Verwandten gefunden und ich hoffe, sie werden sich als ebenso treu erweisen wie einige, denen du begegnet bist, die kein indianisches Blut haben. Was mich betrifft, so werde ich früher oder später sterben; es ist daher glücklich, dass es nur wenige sein werden, die mein Todesgeheul hören. Alles in allem ist es wahrscheinlich, dass die Teufel trotzdem meine Kopfhaut erwischt hätten, also wird es keinen großen Unterschied in der ewigen Zeitrechnung geben. Gott segne dich", fügte der raue Waldläufer hinzu, als er seinen Kopf zur Seite neigte und dann sofort mit einem sehnsüchtigen Blick auf den Jungen wieder änderte; "Ich habe dich und deinen Vater geliebt, Uncas, obwohl unsere Haut nicht ganz die gleiche ist und unsere Gaben etwas unterschiedlich sind. Sag dem Sagamore, dass ich ihn auch in meiner größten Not nicht aus den Augen verloren habe; und was dich betrifft, denke ab und zu an mich, wenn du auf einer glücklichen Fährte bist; und verlass dich darauf, Boy, ob es nun einen oder zwei Himmel gibt, es gibt einen Weg in die andere Welt, auf dem ehrliche Männer wieder zusammentreffen können. Du wirst das Gewehr an dem Ort finden, an dem wir es versteckt haben; nimm es und bewahre es um meinetwillen auf; und hör zu, Junge, wenn dir deine natürlichen Fähigkeiten nicht die Verwendung von Rache verweigern, dann benutze sie ein wenig gegen die Mingos; es mag deinem Kummer über meinen Verlust Luft verschaffen und deinen Geist erleichtern. Huron, ich akzeptiere dein Angebot; lass die Frau frei. Ich bin dein Gefangener!" Ein unterdrücktes, aber dennoch deutliches Gemurmel der Zustimmung lief durch die Menge bei diesem großzügigen Vorschlag; selbst die wildesten unter den Delaware-Kriegern zeigten Freude an der Männlichkeit des beabsichtigten Opfers. Magua zögerte, und einen ängstlichen Moment lang schien es, als ob er zweifelte; dann richteten seine Augen sich mit einem Ausdruck, in dem Grausamkeit und Bewunderung seltsam miteinander verschmolzen waren, für immer auf Cora. Er drückte seine Verachtung für das Angebot mit einer rückwärtigen Bewegung seines Kopfes aus und sagte mit fester und entschiedener Stimme: "Le Renard Subtil ist ein großer Häuptling; er hat nur einen Gedanken. Komm", fügte er hinzu und legte seine Hand zu vertraulich auf die Schulter seiner Gefangenen, um sie vorwärts zu treiben, "ein Huron ist kein Schwätzer; wir werden gehen." Die Jungfrau zog sich mit stolzer weiblicher Reserviertheit zurück, und ihr dunkles Auge loderte auf, während das reichliche Blut wie das vergängliche Leuchten der Sonne in ihre Schläfen schoss bei dieser Demütigung. "Ich bin euer Gefangener und zur richtigen Zeit bereit, euch sogar bis in den Tod zu folgen. Aber Gewalt ist unnötig", sagte sie kühl und wandte sich sofort an Hawkeye: "Großzügiger Jäger! Aus tiefstem Herzen danke ich Ihnen. Ihr Angebot ist vergeblich, und es könnte nicht angenommen werden; aber dennoch könnten Sie mir helfen, sogar mehr als mit Ihrer eigenen edlen Absicht. Schauen Sie auf dieses niedergeschlagene, gedemütigte Kind! Verlassen Sie es nicht, bis Sie es im Wohnort der zivilisierten Menschen abgeben. Ich werde nicht sagen", sagte sie, als sie Hawkey "Huron," unterbrach Uncas, der den strengen Bräuchen seines Volkes unterworfen war und aufmerksam und ernsthaft zugehört hatte, "Huron, die Gerechtigkeit der Delawaren kommt vom Manitou. Schau auf die Sonne. Sie ist jetzt in den oberen Zweigen der Hemlocktanne. Dein Weg ist kurz und offen. Wenn er über den Bäumen zu sehen ist, werden Männer auf deiner Spur sein." "Ich höre eine Krähe!" rief Magua mit höhnischem Lachen aus. "Geh!" fügte er hinzu, winkte mit der Hand der Menge zu, die sich langsam geöffnet hatte, um ihn durchzulassen. "Wo sind die Röcke der Delawaren? Lasst sie ihre Pfeile und ihre Gewehre zu den Wyandots schicken; sie sollen Hirschbraten zu essen haben und Mais zu hacken. Hunde, Kaninchen, Diebe - ich spucke auf euch!" Seine abschließenden Spötteleien wurden in einer düsteren, bedrohlichen Stille gehört, und mit diesen beißenden Worten im Mund ging der triumphierende Magua unbehelligt in den Wald, gefolgt von seinem passiven Gefangenen und geschützt durch die unverletzlichen Gesetze der indianischen Gastfreundschaft. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Uncas tritt vor Tamenund auf. Uncas ist gelassen und selbstbewusst in seiner Identität als Nachkomme der Delaware. Als Uncas jedoch Magua beleidigt und ihn einen Lügner nennt, reagiert Tamenund wütend und gibt den Kriegern den Befehl, Uncas durch Feuer zu foltern. Einer der Krieger reißt Uncas das Jagdhemd herunter und die versammelten Indianer starren erstaunt auf eine kleine blaue Schildkröte, die auf Uncas Brust tätowiert ist. Der alte Mann Tamenund scheint zu glauben, dass die Tätowierung zeigt, dass Uncas eine Inkarnation von Tamenunds Großvater ist, einem legendären Indianer namens Uncas, der während Tamenunds Jugend für seinen Mut berühmt war. Tamenund lässt Uncas sofort frei und auch Uncas befreit Hawkeye. Uncas nutzt seine neu gewonnene Macht, um die Delawares davon zu überzeugen, dass Magua sie bösartig getäuscht hat. Als Reaktion darauf besteht Magua darauf, seine Gefangenen behalten zu dürfen. Tamenund bittet Uncas um seine Meinung und Uncas gibt widerwillig zu, dass Magua die meisten seiner Gefangenen freilassen sollte, aber Cora sein rechtmäßiger Gefangener ist. Magua flieht mit Cora und lehnt Hawkeyes Angebot ab, an ihrer Stelle zu sterben, selbst als Hawkeye anbietet, Killdeer, sein Gewehr, mit in den Handel einzubeziehen. Die anderen, die aufgrund von Tamenunds Entscheidung den böswilligen Huronen nicht stoppen können, schwören, ihm zu folgen, sobald genügend Zeit vergangen 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: Cyrano, Christian. CYRANO: I know all that is needful. Here's occasion For you to deck yourself with glory. Come, Lose no time; put away those sulky looks, Come to your house with me, I'll teach you. . . CHRISTIAN: No! CYRANO: Why? CHRISTIAN: I will wait for Roxane here. CYRANO: How? Crazy? Come quick with me and learn. . . CHRISTIAN: No, no! I say. I am aweary of these borrowed letters, --Borrowed love-makings! Thus to act a part, And tremble all the time!--'Twas well enough At the beginning!--Now I know she loves! I fear no longer!--I will speak myself. CYRANO: Mercy! CHRISTIAN: And how know you I cannot speak?-- I am not such a fool when all is said! I've by your lessons profited. You'll see I shall know how to speak alone! The devil! I know at least to clasp her in my arms! (Seeing Roxane come out from Clomire's house): --It is she! Cyrano, no!--Leave me not! CYRANO (bowing): Speak for yourself, my friend, and take your chance. (He disappears behind the garden wall.) Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze verfassen?

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Ein Kapuzinerpriester betritt das Haus und hat den Weg zu Roxanes Haus gefunden. Er überreicht einen Brief von de Guiche. In dem Brief steht, dass de Guiche seinem Militärdienst entkommen ist, indem er sich in einem Kloster versteckt hat. Roxane gibt vor, ihn laut vorzulesen, und sagt, dass de Guiche wünscht, dass der Kapuziner Roxane und Christian sofort heiratet. Der Kapuziner zögert, aber Roxane gibt vor, einen Nachtrag zu entdecken, der dem Kloster im Austausch eine große Menge Geld verspricht. Plötzlich verschwinden die Bedenken des Kapuziners, und er geht hinein, um sie zu heiraten.

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

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Jetzt ist Claudius an der Reihe, von Hamlet zu verlangen, ihm zu sagen, wo die Leiche von Polonius ist. Hamlet antwortet mit makabren Witzen und weist darauf hin, dass Polonius gerade "zu Abend isst" - das heißt, er wird von Würmern zum Abendessen verspeist. Charmant. Hamlet beschreibt wieder mit vage anmutendem Wahnsinn den Kreislauf des Lebens, in dem ein Wurm einen König essen kann, ein Fisch diesen Wurm essen kann und ein Mann den Fisch essen kann, und somit einen König isst, der letztendlich durch das Verdauungssystem eines anderen Mannes geht. Im Grunde genommen bezeichnet Hamlet Claudius als Stück Kot. Und überhaupt wird das ganze "finde die Leiche"-Spiel viel einfacher, sobald der Leichengeruch von Polonius anfängt, eine stinkende Duftspur zu hinterlassen. Nachdem Hamlet andeutet, dass sich die Leiche in den Treppen zur Lobby befindet, schickt Claudius die Bediensteten los, um sie zu finden. Und er sagt Hamlet, dass er zusammen mit Rosencrantz und Guildenstern nach England geschickt wird, zu seinem eigenen Wohl und auch als fürstliche Auszeit, weil er so viel Ärger verursacht hat. Claudius, allein gelassen, offenbart, dass er arrangiert hat, dass Hamlet getötet wird, sobald er England erreicht. Stichwort böses Lachen.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: PART 1 OF MAN. CHAPTER I. OF SENSE Concerning the Thoughts of man, I will consider them first Singly, and afterwards in Trayne, or dependance upon one another. Singly, they are every one a Representation or Apparence, of some quality, or other Accident of a body without us; which is commonly called an Object. Which Object worketh on the Eyes, Eares, and other parts of mans body; and by diversity of working, produceth diversity of Apparences. The Originall of them all, is that which we call Sense; (For there is no conception in a mans mind, which hath not at first, totally, or by parts, been begotten upon the organs of Sense.) The rest are derived from that originall. To know the naturall cause of Sense, is not very necessary to the business now in hand; and I have els-where written of the same at large. Nevertheless, to fill each part of my present method, I will briefly deliver the same in this place. The cause of Sense, is the Externall Body, or Object, which presseth the organ proper to each Sense, either immediatly, as in the Tast and Touch; or mediately, as in Seeing, Hearing, and Smelling: which pressure, by the mediation of Nerves, and other strings, and membranes of the body, continued inwards to the Brain, and Heart, causeth there a resistance, or counter-pressure, or endeavour of the heart, to deliver it self: which endeavour because Outward, seemeth to be some matter without. And this Seeming, or Fancy, is that which men call sense; and consisteth, as to the Eye, in a Light, or Colour Figured; To the Eare, in a Sound; To the Nostrill, in an Odour; To the Tongue and Palat, in a Savour; and to the rest of the body, in Heat, Cold, Hardnesse, Softnesse, and such other qualities, as we discern by Feeling. All which qualities called Sensible, are in the object that causeth them, but so many several motions of the matter, by which it presseth our organs diversly. Neither in us that are pressed, are they anything els, but divers motions; (for motion, produceth nothing but motion.) But their apparence to us is Fancy, the same waking, that dreaming. And as pressing, rubbing, or striking the Eye, makes us fancy a light; and pressing the Eare, produceth a dinne; so do the bodies also we see, or hear, produce the same by their strong, though unobserved action, For if those Colours, and Sounds, were in the Bodies, or Objects that cause them, they could not bee severed from them, as by glasses, and in Ecchoes by reflection, wee see they are; where we know the thing we see, is in one place; the apparence, in another. And though at some certain distance, the reall, and very object seem invested with the fancy it begets in us; Yet still the object is one thing, the image or fancy is another. So that Sense in all cases, is nothing els but originall fancy, caused (as I have said) by the pressure, that is, by the motion, of externall things upon our Eyes, Eares, and other organs thereunto ordained. But the Philosophy-schooles, through all the Universities of Christendome, grounded upon certain Texts of Aristotle, teach another doctrine; and say, For the cause of Vision, that the thing seen, sendeth forth on every side a Visible Species(in English) a Visible Shew, Apparition, or Aspect, or a Being Seen; the receiving whereof into the Eye, is Seeing. And for the cause of Hearing, that the thing heard, sendeth forth an Audible Species, that is, an Audible Aspect, or Audible Being Seen; which entring at the Eare, maketh Hearing. Nay for the cause of Understanding also, they say the thing Understood sendeth forth Intelligible Species, that is, an Intelligible Being Seen; which comming into the Understanding, makes us Understand. I say not this, as disapproving the use of Universities: but because I am to speak hereafter of their office in a Common-wealth, I must let you see on all occasions by the way, what things would be amended in them; amongst which the frequency of insignificant Speech is one. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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Unsere Geschichte beginnt mit einem Blick auf die darwinistischen Kräfte, die gegen die des großen österreichisch-ungarischen Imperiums aufgestellt sind. Dann stellen wir fest, dass diese Kräfte die Schreibtischutensilien von Prinz Aleksander sind, die für eine Scheinschlacht aufgestellt wurden - und hier dachten wir, dass es cool ist, unsere Schließfächer zu dekorieren. Prinz Aleksander muss sich mit Stiften und Tintenfässern zufriedengeben, weil seine Eltern ihn zu Hause gelassen haben, während sie Manöver beobachteten. Schwach. Aber Moment mal... Prinz Aleksander hört Geräusche im Flur und schleicht zurück in sein Bett, um so zu tun, als ob er schläft. Ist es ein Attentäter? Ein Dieb? Nein, es ist nur Otto Klopp, sein Meister der Mechanik, und Graf Volger, sein Fechtlehrer. Die beiden Männer bitten Prinz Aleksander, mit ihnen zu nächtlichen Trainingseinheiten in seinem Walker mitzukommen, was nichts für kleine Babys und alte Leute ist, sondern eine coole Kriegsmaschine. Sie schleichen alle aus dem Palast - etwas, das wir bei Shmoop die ganze Zeit machen. Während sie sich anschleichen, reflektiert Alek über seine Position: Da seine Mutter nicht königlich ist, zählt die Ehe seiner Eltern nicht. Das bedeutet, dass Alek seine väterlichen Ländereien und Titel nie erben kann, es sei denn, er widersetzt sich seinem Großonkel, dem Kaiser. Erstweltprobleme, oder? Oh, und Volger, als Adliger, respektiert Alek nicht wirklich so wie die Bürgerlichen wie Klopp.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: 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 Können Sie eine passende Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Wir haben die letzte Epigraph erreicht! Dieser stammt von dem Dramatiker des 17. Jahrhunderts, John Webster, aus dem vierten Akt, erste Szene seines Stücks "Der weiße Teufel". Der Sprecher kündigt an, dass dies das Ende seiner Geschichte ist. Beaumanoir erklärt Rebecca für unschuldig in allen Anklagepunkten. Bois-Guilberts Waffen und Körper gehören nun Ivanhoe. Gerade als König Richard mit einer bewaffneten Gruppe eintrifft, ist er frustriert, dass er Bois-Guilbert nicht bekämpfen konnte. König Richard befiehlt einem seiner Anhänger, dem Grafen von Essex, Albert de Malvoisin festzunehmen. Sein Bruder Philip wurde bereits verhaftet. Beide sollen wegen Hochverrats gegen den König hingerichtet werden. Richard befiehlt auch Beaumanoir, seine Templer und England zu verlassen. Beaumanoir ist empört über diese Behandlung. Er verspricht, das schlechte Verhalten des Königs dem Papst zu melden. Die Templer ziehen langsam ab. Während all dieser Aktivitäten nähert sich Isaac Rebecca. Sie möchte das Turniergelände verlassen, ohne mit Ivanhoe zu sprechen. Isaac denkt, sie sollten anhalten und ihm danken, aber aus irgendeinem Grund ist Rebecca wirklich abgeneigt, mit ihrem Helden zu sprechen. Isaac erinnert sich daran, dass er Geschäfte mit Prinz John hatte. Er möchte keine Probleme mit König Richard bekommen. Also gehen sie. Der Graf von Essex bestätigt Ivanhoe, dass die Rebellen sich zerstreuen. Es ist niemand anders als Prinz John, der König Richard die Nachricht überbracht hat. Anstatt Prinz John wegen seines Aufstands zu bestrafen, schickt König Richard seinen Bruder zu ihrer Mutter nach Hause. Die einzigen Menschen, die für diese ganze Sache hingerichtet werden, sind Albert und Philip Malvoisin. De Bracy ist zum Hofe Philip II., König von Frankreich, geflohen. Und Fitzurse wurde natürlich verbannt. König Richards Rückkehr bedeutet das Ende von Cedrics Hoffnungen auf eine sächsische Königslinie in England. Cedric erkennt auch, dass Athelstane und Rowena nicht heiraten wollen. Athelstane bestraft die Mönche von St. Edmund, indem er sie in seinem Keller einsperrt und ihnen drei Tage lang nur Brot und Wasser gibt. Der Abt, der Anführer der Mönche, versucht daraufhin, Athelstane aus der Kirche zu verbannen. Daher ist Athelstane zu beschäftigt, um an Rowena zu denken. Cedric freut sich, Ivanhoe so berühmt zu sehen. Er freut sich auch darüber, seine eigene Familie mit einer Frau zu vereinen, die eine Nachfahrin von König Alfred dem Großen ist. Daher gibt Cedric schließlich Athelstane als den nächsten König von England auf und stimmt zu, dass Ivanhoe Rowena heiratet. König Richard tut sein Bestes, um Cedrics Meinung von den Normannen zu mildern. Er nimmt an Ivanhoes Hochzeit teil, was den Sachsen gefällt. Tatsächlich erlebt Cedric, wie Sachsen und Normannen heiraten und sich allgemein entspannen. Trotzdem dauert es weitere 150 Jahre, bis sie in Königshöfen wirklich die Mischsprache sprechen, die wir heute Englisch nennen. Zwei Tage nach Rowenas Hochzeit erhält sie Besuch von einer schönen jungen Dame. Es ist niemand anderes als Rebecca. Rebecca möchte, dass Rowena Ivanhoe für sie grüßt. Rowena erkennt, dass Rebecca die Jüdin ist, die Ivanhoe gegen die Templer verteidigt hat. Sie fragt, warum Rebecca gehen muss. Sie könnte unter dem Schutz von König Richard I. bleiben. Aber Rebecca fühlt sich unter den Engländern nicht mehr wohl. Sie plant, mit ihrem Vater nach Spanien zu gehen, wo sie Verwandte hat. Rowena trägt eine Schleier. Der letzte Gefallen, den Rebecca bittet, ist, dass Rowena ihren Schleier abnimmt. Rebecca möchte ihr Gesicht sehen. Rowenas Schönheit und Freundlichkeit beeindrucken Rebecca. Sie scheint damit zufrieden zu sein, ihren geliebten Ivanhoe bei Rowena zu lassen. Rebecca übergibt Rowena eine kleine Schatulle mit Juwelen. Rowena versucht, ein so großzügiges Geschenk abzulehnen, aber Rebecca besteht darauf: Ihre Familie hat viel Geld, und Ivanhoe hat viel riskiert, um Rebeccas Ehre und Leben zu retten. Rowena fragt Rebecca, was sie tun wird. Rebecca will sich der Heilung und Medizin widmen. Dennoch sieht sie tränenreich aus. Rebecca segnet Rowena und verschwindet. Rowena erzählt Ivanhoe von diesem merkwürdigen Besuch. Ivanhoe liebt Rowena wirklich und sie leben glücklich bis ans Ende ihrer Tage, aber er denkt oft an Rebecca. Ivanhoe hat Erfolg im Dienst von König Richard. Das Einzige, was seinem Aufstieg zu Ruhm und Größe entgegensteht, ist König Richards vorzeitiger Tod im Jahr 1199. Scott beendet das Buch mit einem weiteren Zitat, diesmal von dem Dichter und Kritiker Samuel Johnson. Johnsons Zeilen handeln von König Karl von Schweden, aber er ändert sie für König Richard I. ab. Die Zeilen erinnern uns daran, dass Richards Ruhm durch die Jahrhunderte nachklingt.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten 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 afternoon I walked over to the Shimerdas'. Yulka showed me the baby and told me that Antonia was shocking wheat on the southwest quarter. I went down across the fields, and Tony saw me from a long way off. She stood still by her shocks, leaning on her pitchfork, watching me as I came. We met like the people in the old song, in silence, if not in tears. Her warm hand clasped mine. "I thought you'd come, Jim. I heard you were at Mrs. Steavens's last night. I've been looking for you all day." She was thinner than I had ever seen her, and looked, as Mrs. Steavens said, "worked down," but there was a new kind of strength in the gravity of her face, and her color still gave her that look of deep-seated health and ardor. Still? Why, it flashed across me that though so much had happened in her life and in mine, she was barely twenty-four years old. Antonia stuck her fork in the ground, and instinctively we walked toward that unploughed patch at the crossing of the roads as the fittest place to talk to each other. We sat down outside the sagging wire fence that shut Mr. Shimerda's plot off from the rest of the world. The tall red grass had never been cut there. It had died down in winter and come up again in the spring until it was as thick and shrubby as some tropical garden-grass. I found myself telling her everything: why I had decided to study law and to go into the law office of one of my mother's relatives in New York City; about Gaston Cleric's death from pneumonia last winter, and the difference it had made in my life. She wanted to know about my friends and my way of living, and my dearest hopes. "Of course it means you are going away from us for good," she said with a sigh. "But that don't mean I'll lose you. Look at my papa here; he's been dead all these years, and yet he is more real to me than almost anybody else. He never goes out of my life. I talk to him and consult him all the time. The older I grow, the better I know him and the more I understand him." She asked me whether I had learned to like big cities. "I'd always be miserable in a city. I'd die of lonesomeness. I like to be where I know every stack and tree, and where all the ground is friendly. I want to live and die here. Father Kelly says everybody's put into this world for something, and I know what I've got to do. I'm going to see that my little girl has a better chance than ever I had. I'm going to take care of that girl, Jim." I told her I knew she would. "Do you know, Antonia, since I've been away, I think of you more often than of any one else in this part of the world. I'd have liked to have you for a sweetheart, or a wife, or my mother or my sister--anything that a woman can be to a man. The idea of you is a part of my mind; you influence my likes and dislikes, all my tastes, hundreds of times when I don't realize it. You really are a part of me." She turned her bright, believing eyes to me, and the tears came up in them slowly. "How can it be like that, when you know so many people, and when I've disappointed you so? Ain't it wonderful, Jim, how much people can mean to each other? I'm so glad we had each other when we were little. I can't wait till my little girl's old enough to tell her about all the things we used to do. You'll always remember me when you think about old times, won't you? And I guess everybody thinks about old times, even the happiest people." As we walked homeward across the fields, the sun dropped and lay like a great golden globe in the low west. While it hung there, the moon rose in the east, as big as a cartwheel, pale silver and streaked with rose color, thin as a bubble or a ghost-moon. For five, perhaps ten minutes, the two luminaries confronted each other across the level land, resting on opposite edges of the world. In that singular light every little tree and shock of wheat, every sunflower stalk and clump of snow-on-the-mountain, drew itself up high and pointed; the very clods and furrows in the fields seemed to stand up sharply. I felt the old pull of the earth, the solemn magic that comes out of those fields at nightfall. I wished I could be a little boy again, and that my way could end there. We reached the edge of the field, where our ways parted. I took her hands and held them against my breast, feeling once more how strong and warm and good they were, those brown hands, and remembering how many kind things they had done for me. I held them now a long while, over my heart. About us it was growing darker and darker, and I had to look hard to see her face, which I meant always to carry with me; the closest, realest face, under all the shadows of women's faces, at the very bottom of my memory. "I'll come back," I said earnestly, through the soft, intrusive darkness. "Perhaps you will"--I felt rather than saw her smile. "But even if you don't, you're here, like my father. So I won't be lonesome." As I went back alone over that familiar road, I could almost believe that a boy and girl ran along beside me, as our shadows used to do, laughing and whispering to each other in the grass. 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Anfang August geht Jim zur Witwe Steavens. Er bemerkt die großen Veränderungen, die im Land stattgefunden haben. Die roten Prärien sind fast vollständig verschwunden und die Sodenhäuser wurden durch hölzerne Häuser ersetzt. Er freut sich sehr über diese Veränderungen. Als er bei Frau Steavens, dem Haus, in dem er aufgewachsen ist, ankommt, lädt sie ihn ein, dort zu übernachten. Nach dem Abendessen erzählt sie ihm Antonias Geschichte. Antonia hat von Larry Donovan erfahren, dass sie heiraten werden, also kam sie jeden Tag zu Frau Steavens, um ihre Wäsche und Kleidung zu nähen. Sie war sehr aufgeregt über die Hochzeit und das Einrichten eines Hauses in Black Hawk. Das Warten war lang und als sie endlich einen Brief bekam, bemerkte Frau Steavens, dass Antonia langsam den Mut verlor. Larry schrieb, dass sie in Denver leben würden, eine Entscheidung, mit der Antonia nicht glücklich war, aber bald akzeptierte. Ambrosch gab ihr dreihundert Dollar und fuhr sie zum Bahnhof. Sie bekamen einen Brief, dass sie dort angekommen war und er sie getroffen hatte, aber dass die Hochzeit verschoben worden war, während er an seiner Beförderung arbeitete. Dann hörten sie nichts mehr. Bald machte sich jeder große Sorgen. Eines Tages kam William Steavens, der Bruder von Frau Steavens, nach Hause und berichtete, dass er Antonia in einem Wagen zusammen mit all ihren Koffern gesehen hatte. Frau Steavens ging zu ihr und Antonia erzählte ihr, dass sie nicht verheiratet sei, es aber sein sollte. Sie sagte, Larry habe sie getäuscht und ihr vorgegaukelt, er würde befördert werden, während er in Wirklichkeit gefeuert und auf eine schwarze Liste gesetzt worden sei, weil er Kunden betrogen hatte. Er war bei ihr geblieben, bis all ihr Geld weg war, und hatte sie dann verlassen. Sie dachte, er sei nach Mexiko gegangen, um sein Glück dort beim Betrug an der Eisenbahn zu versuchen. Frau Steavens beobachtete Antonia in den nächsten Monaten, wie sie auf dem Feld Männerarbeit verrichtete. Sie sah, dass Antonia schwanger war und beobachtete, wie sie immer langsamer wurde in ihren Bewegungen. Dann kam eines Nachts Frau Shimerda herüber und sagte, das Baby sei da. Antonia war aus dem Feld gekommen, wo sie Rinder hütete, war in ihr Zimmer gegangen und hatte ihr Kind alleine zur Welt gebracht. Ambrosch war außer sich. Frau Steavens ging sofort zu den Shimerdas und half Antonia, sich zu säubern und das Baby einzuhüllen. Antonia war sehr schweigsam. Als Frau Steavens das Baby aus dem Zimmer nahm, sagte Ambrosch ihr, sie solle es in das Regenfass legen. Sie sagte ihm, er solle sich lieber daran erinnern, dass es Gesetze im Land gibt und dass sie Zeugin ist, dass das Baby gesund zur Welt gekommen ist. Frau Steavens berichtet, dass das Baby gut wuchs und Antonia sehr glücklich damit war. Sie wünscht sich, dass Antonia heiraten und eine Familie gründen könnte, aber befürchtet, dass sie wahrscheinlich dazu nicht in der Lage sein wird. In dieser Nacht schläft Jim in seinem alten Zimmer. Er liegt wach und beobachtet den Mond vor seinem Fenster.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten 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. Another part of the wood Enter OBERON OBERON. I wonder if Titania be awak'd; Then, what it was that next came in her eye, Which she must dote on in extremity. Enter PUCK Here comes my messenger. How now, mad spirit! What night-rule now about this haunted grove? PUCK. My mistress with a monster is in love. Near to her close and consecrated bower, While she was in her dull and sleeping hour, A crew of patches, rude mechanicals, That work for bread upon Athenian stalls, Were met together to rehearse a play Intended for great Theseus' nuptial day. The shallowest thickskin of that barren sort, Who Pyramus presented, in their sport Forsook his scene and ent'red in a brake; When I did him at this advantage take, An ass's nole I fixed on his head. Anon his Thisby must be answered, And forth my mimic comes. When they him spy, As wild geese that the creeping fowler eye, Or russet-pated choughs, many in sort, Rising and cawing at the gun's report, Sever themselves and madly sweep the sky, So at his sight away his fellows fly; And at our stamp here, o'er and o'er one falls; He murder cries, and help from Athens calls. Their sense thus weak, lost with their fears thus strong, Made senseless things begin to do them wrong, For briers and thorns at their apparel snatch; Some sleeves, some hats, from yielders all things catch. I led them on in this distracted fear, And left sweet Pyramus translated there; When in that moment, so it came to pass, Titania wak'd, and straightway lov'd an ass. OBERON. This falls out better than I could devise. But hast thou yet latch'd the Athenian's eyes With the love-juice, as I did bid thee do? PUCK. I took him sleeping- that is finish'd too- And the Athenian woman by his side; That, when he wak'd, of force she must be ey'd. Enter DEMETRIUS and HERMIA OBERON. Stand close; this is the same Athenian. PUCK. This is the woman, but not this the man. DEMETRIUS. O, why rebuke you him that loves you so? Lay breath so bitter on your bitter foe. HERMIA. Now I but chide, but I should use thee worse, For thou, I fear, hast given me cause to curse. If thou hast slain Lysander in his sleep, Being o'er shoes in blood, plunge in the deep, And kill me too. The sun was not so true unto the day As he to me. Would he have stolen away From sleeping Hermia? I'll believe as soon This whole earth may be bor'd, and that the moon May through the centre creep and so displease Her brother's noontide with th' Antipodes. It cannot be but thou hast murd'red him; So should a murderer look- so dead, so grim. DEMETRIUS. So should the murdered look; and so should I, Pierc'd through the heart with your stern cruelty; Yet you, the murderer, look as bright, as clear, As yonder Venus in her glimmering sphere. HERMIA. What's this to my Lysander? Where is he? Ah, good Demetrius, wilt thou give him me? DEMETRIUS. I had rather give his carcass to my hounds. HERMIA. Out, dog! out, cur! Thou driv'st me past the bounds Of maiden's patience. Hast thou slain him, then? Henceforth be never numb'red among men! O, once tell true; tell true, even for my sake! Durst thou have look'd upon him being awake, And hast thou kill'd him sleeping? O brave touch! Could not a worm, an adder, do so much? An adder did it; for with doubler tongue Than thine, thou serpent, never adder stung. DEMETRIUS. You spend your passion on a mispris'd mood: I am not guilty of Lysander's blood; Nor is he dead, for aught that I can tell. HERMIA. I pray thee, tell me then that he is well. DEMETRIUS. An if I could, what should I get therefore? HERMIA. A privilege never to see me more. And from thy hated presence part I so; See me no more whether he be dead or no. Exit DEMETRIUS. There is no following her in this fierce vein; Here, therefore, for a while I will remain. So sorrow's heaviness doth heavier grow For debt that bankrupt sleep doth sorrow owe; Which now in some slight measure it will pay, If for his tender here I make some stay. [Lies down] OBERON. What hast thou done? Thou hast mistaken quite, And laid the love-juice on some true-love's sight. Of thy misprision must perforce ensue Some true love turn'd, and not a false turn'd true. PUCK. Then fate o'er-rules, that, one man holding troth, A million fail, confounding oath on oath. OBERON. About the wood go swifter than the wind, And Helena of Athens look thou find; All fancy-sick she is and pale of cheer, With sighs of love that costs the fresh blood dear. By some illusion see thou bring her here; I'll charm his eyes against she do appear. PUCK. I go, I go; look how I go, Swifter than arrow from the Tartar's bow. Exit OBERON. Flower of this purple dye, Hit with Cupid's archery, Sink in apple of his eye. When his love he doth espy, Let her shine as gloriously As the Venus of the sky. When thou wak'st, if she be by, Beg of her for remedy. Re-enter PUCK PUCK. Captain of our fairy band, Helena is here at hand, And the youth mistook by me Pleading for a lover's fee; Shall we their fond pageant see? Lord, what fools these mortals be! OBERON. Stand aside. The noise they make Will cause Demetrius to awake. PUCK. Then will two at once woo one. That must needs be sport alone; And those things do best please me That befall prepost'rously. Enter LYSANDER and HELENA LYSANDER. Why should you think that I should woo in scorn? Scorn and derision never come in tears. Look when I vow, I weep; and vows so born, In their nativity all truth appears. How can these things in me seem scorn to you, Bearing the badge of faith, to prove them true? HELENA. You do advance your cunning more and more. When truth kills truth, O devilish-holy fray! These vows are Hermia's. Will you give her o'er? Weigh oath with oath, and you will nothing weigh: Your vows to her and me, put in two scales, Will even weigh; and both as light as tales. LYSANDER. I had no judgment when to her I swore. HELENA. Nor none, in my mind, now you give her o'er. LYSANDER. Demetrius loves her, and he loves not you. DEMETRIUS. [Awaking] O Helen, goddess, nymph, perfect, divine! To what, my love, shall I compare thine eyne? Crystal is muddy. O, how ripe in show Thy lips, those kissing cherries, tempting grow! That pure congealed white, high Taurus' snow, Fann'd with the eastern wind, turns to a crow When thou hold'st up thy hand. O, let me kiss This princess of pure white, this seal of bliss! HELENA. O spite! O hell! I see you all are bent To set against me for your merriment. If you were civil and knew courtesy, You would not do me thus much injury. Can you not hate me, as I know you do, But you must join in souls to mock me too? If you were men, as men you are in show, You would not use a gentle lady so: To vow, and swear, and superpraise my parts, When I am sure you hate me with your hearts. You both are rivals, and love Hermia; And now both rivals, to mock Helena. A trim exploit, a manly enterprise, To conjure tears up in a poor maid's eyes With your derision! None of noble sort Would so offend a virgin, and extort A poor soul's patience, all to make you sport. LYSANDER. You are unkind, Demetrius; be not so; For you love Hermia. This you know I know; And here, with all good will, with all my heart, In Hermia's love I yield you up my part; And yours of Helena to me bequeath, Whom I do love and will do till my death. HELENA. Never did mockers waste more idle breath. DEMETRIUS. Lysander, keep thy Hermia; I will none. If e'er I lov'd her, all that love is gone. My heart to her but as guest-wise sojourn'd, And now to Helen is it home return'd, There to remain. LYSANDER. Helen, it is not so. DEMETRIUS. Disparage not the faith thou dost not know, Lest, to thy peril, thou aby it dear. Look where thy love comes; yonder is thy dear. Enter HERMIA HERMIA. Dark night, that from the eye his function takes, The ear more quick of apprehension makes; Wherein it doth impair the seeing sense, It pays the hearing double recompense. Thou art not by mine eye, Lysander, found; Mine ear, I thank it, brought me to thy sound. But why unkindly didst thou leave me so? LYSANDER. Why should he stay whom love doth press to go? HERMIA. What love could press Lysander from my side? LYSANDER. Lysander's love, that would not let him bide- Fair Helena, who more engilds the night Than all yon fiery oes and eyes of light. Why seek'st thou me? Could not this make thee know The hate I bare thee made me leave thee so? HERMIA. You speak not as you think; it cannot be. HELENA. Lo, she is one of this confederacy! Now I perceive they have conjoin'd all three To fashion this false sport in spite of me. Injurious Hermia! most ungrateful maid! Have you conspir'd, have you with these contriv'd, To bait me with this foul derision? Is all the counsel that we two have shar'd, The sisters' vows, the hours that we have spent, When we have chid the hasty-footed time For parting us- O, is all forgot? All school-days' friendship, childhood innocence? We, Hermia, like two artificial gods, Have with our needles created both one flower, Both on one sampler, sitting on one cushion, Both warbling of one song, both in one key; As if our hands, our sides, voices, and minds, Had been incorporate. So we grew together, Like to a double cherry, seeming parted, But yet an union in partition, Two lovely berries moulded on one stem; So, with two seeming bodies, but one heart; Two of the first, like coats in heraldry, Due but to one, and crowned with one crest. And will you rent our ancient love asunder, To join with men in scorning your poor friend? It is not friendly, 'tis not maidenly; Our sex, as well as I, may chide you for it, Though I alone do feel the injury. HERMIA. I am amazed at your passionate words; I scorn you not; it seems that you scorn me. HELENA. Have you not set Lysander, as in scorn, To follow me and praise my eyes and face? And made your other love, Demetrius, Who even but now did spurn me with his foot, To call me goddess, nymph, divine, and rare, Precious, celestial? Wherefore speaks he this To her he hates? And wherefore doth Lysander Deny your love, so rich within his soul, And tender me, forsooth, affection, But by your setting on, by your consent? What though I be not so in grace as you, So hung upon with love, so fortunate, But miserable most, to love unlov'd? This you should pity rather than despise. HERMIA. I understand not what you mean by this. HELENA. Ay, do- persever, counterfeit sad looks, Make mouths upon me when I turn my back, Wink each at other; hold the sweet jest up; This sport, well carried, shall be chronicled. If you have any pity, grace, or manners, You would not make me such an argument. But fare ye well; 'tis partly my own fault, Which death, or absence, soon shall remedy. LYSANDER. Stay, gentle Helena; hear my excuse; My love, my life, my soul, fair Helena! HELENA. O excellent! HERMIA. Sweet, do not scorn her so. DEMETRIUS. If she cannot entreat, I can compel. LYSANDER. Thou canst compel no more than she entreat; Thy threats have no more strength than her weak prayers Helen, I love thee, by my life I do; I swear by that which I will lose for thee To prove him false that says I love thee not. DEMETRIUS. I say I love thee more than he can do. LYSANDER. If thou say so, withdraw, and prove it too. DEMETRIUS. Quick, come. HERMIA. Lysander, whereto tends all this? LYSANDER. Away, you Ethiope! DEMETRIUS. No, no, he will Seem to break loose- take on as you would follow, But yet come not. You are a tame man; go! LYSANDER. Hang off, thou cat, thou burr; vile thing, let loose, Or I will shake thee from me like a serpent. HERMIA. Why are you grown so rude? What change is this, Sweet love? LYSANDER. Thy love! Out, tawny Tartar, out! Out, loathed med'cine! O hated potion, hence! HERMIA. Do you not jest? HELENA. Yes, sooth; and so do you. LYSANDER. Demetrius, I will keep my word with thee. DEMETRIUS. I would I had your bond; for I perceive A weak bond holds you; I'll not trust your word. LYSANDER. What, should I hurt her, strike her, kill her dead? Although I hate her, I'll not harm her so. HERMIA. What! Can you do me greater harm than hate? Hate me! wherefore? O me! what news, my love? Am not I Hermia? Are not you Lysander? I am as fair now as I was erewhile. Since night you lov'd me; yet since night you left me. Why then, you left me- O, the gods forbid!- In earnest, shall I say? LYSANDER. Ay, by my life! And never did desire to see thee more. Therefore be out of hope, of question, of doubt; Be certain, nothing truer; 'tis no jest That I do hate thee and love Helena. HERMIA. O me! you juggler! you cankerblossom! You thief of love! What! Have you come by night, And stol'n my love's heart from him? HELENA. Fine, i' faith! Have you no modesty, no maiden shame, No touch of bashfulness? What! Will you tear Impatient answers from my gentle tongue? Fie, fie! you counterfeit, you puppet you! HERMIA. 'Puppet!' why so? Ay, that way goes the game. Now I perceive that she hath made compare Between our statures; she hath urg'd her height; And with her personage, her tall personage, Her height, forsooth, she hath prevail'd with him. And are you grown so high in his esteem Because I am so dwarfish and so low? How low am I, thou painted maypole? Speak. How low am I? I am not yet so low But that my nails can reach unto thine eyes. HELENA. I pray you, though you mock me, gentlemen, Let her not hurt me. I was never curst; I have no gift at all in shrewishness; I am a right maid for my cowardice; Let her not strike me. You perhaps may think, Because she is something lower than myself, That I can match her. HERMIA. 'Lower' hark, again. HELENA. Good Hermia, do not be so bitter with me. I evermore did love you, Hermia, Did ever keep your counsels, never wrong'd you; Save that, in love unto Demetrius, I told him of your stealth unto this wood. He followed you; for love I followed him; But he hath chid me hence, and threat'ned me To strike me, spurn me, nay, to kill me too; And now, so you will let me quiet go, To Athens will I bear my folly back, And follow you no further. Let me go. You see how simple and how fond I am. HERMIA. Why, get you gone! Who is't that hinders you? HELENA. A foolish heart that I leave here behind. HERMIA. What! with Lysander? HELENA. With Demetrius. LYSANDER. Be not afraid; she shall not harm thee, Helena. DEMETRIUS. No, sir, she shall not, though you take her part. HELENA. O, when she is angry, she is keen and shrewd; She was a vixen when she went to school; And, though she be but little, she is fierce. HERMIA. 'Little' again! Nothing but 'low' and 'little'! Why will you suffer her to flout me thus? Let me come to her. LYSANDER. Get you gone, you dwarf; You minimus, of hind'ring knot-grass made; You bead, you acorn. DEMETRIUS. You are too officious In her behalf that scorns your services. Let her alone; speak not of Helena; Take not her part; for if thou dost intend Never so little show of love to her, Thou shalt aby it. LYSANDER. Now she holds me not. Now follow, if thou dar'st, to try whose right, Of thine or mine, is most in Helena. DEMETRIUS. Follow! Nay, I'll go with thee, cheek by jowl. Exeunt LYSANDER and DEMETRIUS HERMIA. You, mistress, all this coil is long of you. Nay, go not back. HELENA. I will not trust you, I; Nor longer stay in your curst company. Your hands than mine are quicker for a fray; My legs are longer though, to run away. Exit HERMIA. I am amaz'd, and know not what to say. Exit OBERON. This is thy negligence. Still thou mistak'st, Or else committ'st thy knaveries wilfully. PUCK. Believe me, king of shadows, I mistook. Did not you tell me I should know the man By the Athenian garments he had on? And so far blameless proves my enterprise That I have 'nointed an Athenian's eyes; And so far am I glad it so did sort, As this their jangling I esteem a sport. OBERON. Thou seest these lovers seek a place to fight. Hie therefore, Robin, overcast the night; The starry welkin cover thou anon With drooping fog as black as Acheron, And lead these testy rivals so astray As one come not within another's way. Like to Lysander sometime frame thy tongue, Then stir Demetrius up with bitter wrong; And sometime rail thou like Demetrius; And from each other look thou lead them thus, Till o'er their brows death-counterfeiting sleep With leaden legs and batty wings doth creep. Then crush this herb into Lysander's eye; Whose liquor hath this virtuous property, To take from thence all error with his might And make his eyeballs roll with wonted sight. When they next wake, all this derision Shall seem a dream and fruitless vision; And back to Athens shall the lovers wend With league whose date till death shall never end. Whiles I in this affair do thee employ, I'll to my queen, and beg her Indian boy; And then I will her charmed eye release From monster's view, and all things shall be peace. PUCK. My fairy lord, this must be done with haste, For night's swift dragons cut the clouds full fast; And yonder shines Aurora's harbinger, At whose approach ghosts, wand'ring here and there, Troop home to churchyards. Damned spirits all That in cross-ways and floods have burial, Already to their wormy beds are gone, For fear lest day should look their shames upon; They wilfully themselves exil'd from light, And must for aye consort with black-brow'd night. OBERON. But we are spirits of another sort: I with the Morning's love have oft made sport; And, like a forester, the groves may tread Even till the eastern gate, all fiery red, Opening on Neptune with fair blessed beams, Turns into yellow gold his salt green streams. But, notwithstanding, haste, make no delay; We may effect this business yet ere day. Exit OBERON PUCK. Up and down, up and down, I will lead them up and down. I am fear'd in field and town. Goblin, lead them up and down. Here comes one. Enter LYSANDER LYSANDER. Where art thou, proud Demetrius? Speak thou now. PUCK. Here, villain, drawn and ready. Where art thou? LYSANDER. I will be with thee straight. PUCK. Follow me, then, To plainer ground. Exit LYSANDER as following the voice Enter DEMETRIUS DEMETRIUS. Lysander, speak again. Thou runaway, thou coward, art thou fled? Speak! In some bush? Where dost thou hide thy head? PUCK. Thou coward, art thou bragging to the stars, Telling the bushes that thou look'st for wars, And wilt not come? Come, recreant, come, thou child; I'll whip thee with a rod. He is defil'd That draws a sword on thee. DEMETRIUS. Yea, art thou there? PUCK. Follow my voice; we'll try no manhood here. Exeunt Re-enter LYSANDER LYSANDER. He goes before me, and still dares me on; When I come where he calls, then he is gone. The villain is much lighter heel'd than I. I followed fast, but faster he did fly, That fallen am I in dark uneven way, And here will rest me. [Lies down] Come, thou gentle day. For if but once thou show me thy grey light, I'll find Demetrius, and revenge this spite. [Sleeps] Re-enter PUCK and DEMETRIUS PUCK. Ho, ho, ho! Coward, why com'st thou not? DEMETRIUS. Abide me, if thou dar'st; for well I wot Thou run'st before me, shifting every place, And dar'st not stand, nor look me in the face. Where art thou now? PUCK. Come hither; I am here. DEMETRIUS. Nay, then, thou mock'st me. Thou shalt buy this dear, If ever I thy face by daylight see; Now, go thy way. Faintness constraineth me To measure out my length on this cold bed. By day's approach look to be visited. [Lies down and sleeps] Enter HELENA HELENA. O weary night, O long and tedious night, Abate thy hours! Shine comforts from the east, That I may back to Athens by daylight, From these that my poor company detest. And sleep, that sometimes shuts up sorrow's eye, Steal me awhile from mine own company. [Sleeps] PUCK. Yet but three? Come one more; Two of both kinds makes up four. Here she comes, curst and sad. Cupid is a knavish lad, Thus to make poor females mad. Enter HERMIA HERMIA. Never so weary, never so in woe, Bedabbled with the dew, and torn with briers, I can no further crawl, no further go; My legs can keep no pace with my desires. Here will I rest me till the break of day. Heavens shield Lysander, if they mean a fray! [Lies down and sleeps] PUCK. On the ground Sleep sound; I'll apply To your eye, Gentle lover, remedy. [Squeezing the juice on LYSANDER'S eyes] When thou wak'st, Thou tak'st True delight In the sight Of thy former lady's eye; And the country proverb known, That every man should take his own, In your waking shall be shown: Jack shall have Jill; Nought shall go ill; The man shall have his mare again, and all shall be well. Exit Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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

Als er Oberon in einem anderen Teil des Waldes begegnet, erklärt Puck das Ergebnis seiner Experimente mit dem Liebestrank. Oberon freut sich, dass Titania sich in den grotesken Bottom verliebt hat und dass Puck auch den verächtlichen Athener behoben hat. Kurz nachdem Puck ihm versichert hat, dass Demetrius nun Helena lieben muss, treten Demetrius und Hermia auf. Oberon erkennt Demetrius, aber Puck erkennt, dass dies nicht derselbe Athener ist, den er mit dem Trank verzaubert hat. Da ihr Liebling Lysander mysteriös verschwunden ist, beschuldigt Hermia Demetrius, ihn ermordet und die Leiche versteckt zu haben. Demetrius besteht darauf, dass er seinen Feind nicht getötet hat, aber Hermia weigert sich, ihm zu glauben. In Verzweiflung gibt Demetrius den Streit auf, sinkt zu Boden und schläft ein, während Hermia weiter nach dem fehlenden Lysander sucht. Oberon tadel Puck dafür, den falschen Athener mit dem Liebessaft gesalbt zu haben. Um die Situation zu korrigieren, schickt Oberon Puck auf die Suche nach Helena und drückt dann den magischen Trank in die kaltherzigen Augen des Demetrius. Lysander und Helena treten auf, immer noch im Streit, weil Helena glaubt, dass er sie verspottet. Ihre Stimmen wecken Demetrius, der sich auf den ersten Blick in Helena verliebt, dank Oberons Trank. Als Helena meint, dass Demetrius' Liebesbekundungen falsch sind, ist sie wütend: Sowohl Lysander als auch Demetrius machen sich jetzt über sie lustig. Als Hermia hereinkommt, wird die Situation noch schlimmer. Ohne von der durch den Trank herbeigeführten Veränderung von Lysanders Gefühlen für sie zu wissen, ist Hermia schockiert, als er erklärt, dass er sie nicht mehr liebt. Natürlich glaubt Helena, dass Hermia auch in das Spiel eingeweiht ist und kann nicht glauben, dass ihre engste Freundin so gemein sein kann. Nachdem die Liebenden alle gekämpft und die Szene verlassen haben, zwingt Oberon Puck, das Problem zu beheben, bevor die Männer sich gegenseitig töten. Er rät Puck, einen dichten Nebel zu erzeugen, in dem sich die Liebenden verirren und schließlich vor Erschöpfung einschlafen werden. Wenn sie am Morgen erwachen, werden die verrückten Ereignisse der Nacht wie ein Traum erscheinen, außer dass Demetrius in Helena verliebt sein wird. Dann eilt Oberon in Titania's Kammer, um um den indischen Jungen zu bitten.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: For anything I know, I may have had some wild idea of running all the way to Dover, when I gave up the pursuit of the young man with the donkey-cart, and started for Greenwich. My scattered senses were soon collected as to that point, if I had; for I came to a stop in the Kent Road, at a terrace with a piece of water before it, and a great foolish image in the middle, blowing a dry shell. Here I sat down on a doorstep, quite spent and exhausted with the efforts I had already made, and with hardly breath enough to cry for the loss of my box and half-guinea. It was by this time dark; I heard the clocks strike ten, as I sat resting. But it was a summer night, fortunately, and fine weather. When I had recovered my breath, and had got rid of a stifling sensation in my throat, I rose up and went on. In the midst of my distress, I had no notion of going back. I doubt if I should have had any, though there had been a Swiss snow-drift in the Kent Road. But my standing possessed of only three-halfpence in the world (and I am sure I wonder how they came to be left in my pocket on a Saturday night!) troubled me none the less because I went on. I began to picture to myself, as a scrap of newspaper intelligence, my being found dead in a day or two, under some hedge; and I trudged on miserably, though as fast as I could, until I happened to pass a little shop, where it was written up that ladies' and gentlemen's wardrobes were bought, and that the best price was given for rags, bones, and kitchen-stuff. The master of this shop was sitting at the door in his shirt-sleeves, smoking; and as there were a great many coats and pairs of trousers dangling from the low ceiling, and only two feeble candles burning inside to show what they were, I fancied that he looked like a man of a revengeful disposition, who had hung all his enemies, and was enjoying himself. My late experiences with Mr. and Mrs. Micawber suggested to me that here might be a means of keeping off the wolf for a little while. I went up the next by-street, took off my waistcoat, rolled it neatly under my arm, and came back to the shop door. 'If you please, sir,' I said, 'I am to sell this for a fair price.' Mr. Dolloby--Dolloby was the name over the shop door, at least--took the waistcoat, stood his pipe on its head, against the door-post, went into the shop, followed by me, snuffed the two candles with his fingers, spread the waistcoat on the counter, and looked at it there, held it up against the light, and looked at it there, and ultimately said: 'What do you call a price, now, for this here little weskit?' 'Oh! you know best, sir,' I returned modestly. 'I can't be buyer and seller too,' said Mr. Dolloby. 'Put a price on this here little weskit.' 'Would eighteenpence be?'--I hinted, after some hesitation. Mr. Dolloby rolled it up again, and gave it me back. 'I should rob my family,' he said, 'if I was to offer ninepence for it.' This was a disagreeable way of putting the business; because it imposed upon me, a perfect stranger, the unpleasantness of asking Mr. Dolloby to rob his family on my account. My circumstances being so very pressing, however, I said I would take ninepence for it, if he pleased. Mr. Dolloby, not without some grumbling, gave ninepence. I wished him good night, and walked out of the shop the richer by that sum, and the poorer by a waistcoat. But when I buttoned my jacket, that was not much. Indeed, I foresaw pretty clearly that my jacket would go next, and that I should have to make the best of my way to Dover in a shirt and a pair of trousers, and might deem myself lucky if I got there even in that trim. But my mind did not run so much on this as might be supposed. Beyond a general impression of the distance before me, and of the young man with the donkey-cart having used me cruelly, I think I had no very urgent sense of my difficulties when I once again set off with my ninepence in my pocket. A plan had occurred to me for passing the night, which I was going to carry into execution. This was, to lie behind the wall at the back of my old school, in a corner where there used to be a haystack. I imagined it would be a kind of company to have the boys, and the bedroom where I used to tell the stories, so near me: although the boys would know nothing of my being there, and the bedroom would yield me no shelter. I had had a hard day's work, and was pretty well jaded when I came climbing out, at last, upon the level of Blackheath. It cost me some trouble to find out Salem House; but I found it, and I found a haystack in the corner, and I lay down by it; having first walked round the wall, and looked up at the windows, and seen that all was dark and silent within. Never shall I forget the lonely sensation of first lying down, without a roof above my head! Sleep came upon me as it came on many other outcasts, against whom house-doors were locked, and house-dogs barked, that night--and I dreamed of lying on my old school-bed, talking to the boys in my room; and found myself sitting upright, with Steerforth's name upon my lips, looking wildly at the stars that were glistening and glimmering above me. When I remembered where I was at that untimely hour, a feeling stole upon me that made me get up, afraid of I don't know what, and walk about. But the fainter glimmering of the stars, and the pale light in the sky where the day was coming, reassured me: and my eyes being very heavy, I lay down again and slept--though with a knowledge in my sleep that it was cold--until the warm beams of the sun, and the ringing of the getting-up bell at Salem House, awoke me. If I could have hoped that Steerforth was there, I would have lurked about until he came out alone; but I knew he must have left long since. Traddles still remained, perhaps, but it was very doubtful; and I had not sufficient confidence in his discretion or good luck, however strong my reliance was on his good nature, to wish to trust him with my situation. So I crept away from the wall as Mr. Creakle's boys were getting up, and struck into the long dusty track which I had first known to be the Dover Road when I was one of them, and when I little expected that any eyes would ever see me the wayfarer I was now, upon it. What a different Sunday morning from the old Sunday morning at Yarmouth! In due time I heard the church-bells ringing, as I plodded on; and I met people who were going to church; and I passed a church or two where the congregation were inside, and the sound of singing came out into the sunshine, while the beadle sat and cooled himself in the shade of the porch, or stood beneath the yew-tree, with his hand to his forehead, glowering at me going by. But the peace and rest of the old Sunday morning were on everything, except me. That was the difference. I felt quite wicked in my dirt and dust, with my tangled hair. But for the quiet picture I had conjured up, of my mother in her youth and beauty, weeping by the fire, and my aunt relenting to her, I hardly think I should have had the courage to go on until next day. But it always went before me, and I followed. I got, that Sunday, through three-and-twenty miles on the straight road, though not very easily, for I was new to that kind of toil. I see myself, as evening closes in, coming over the bridge at Rochester, footsore and tired, and eating bread that I had bought for supper. One or two little houses, with the notice, 'Lodgings for Travellers', hanging out, had tempted me; but I was afraid of spending the few pence I had, and was even more afraid of the vicious looks of the trampers I had met or overtaken. I sought no shelter, therefore, but the sky; and toiling into Chatham,--which, in that night's aspect, is a mere dream of chalk, and drawbridges, and mastless ships in a muddy river, roofed like Noah's arks,--crept, at last, upon a sort of grass-grown battery overhanging a lane, where a sentry was walking to and fro. Here I lay down, near a cannon; and, happy in the society of the sentry's footsteps, though he knew no more of my being above him than the boys at Salem House had known of my lying by the wall, slept soundly until morning. Very stiff and sore of foot I was in the morning, and quite dazed by the beating of drums and marching of troops, which seemed to hem me in on every side when I went down towards the long narrow street. Feeling that I could go but a very little way that day, if I were to reserve any strength for getting to my journey's end, I resolved to make the sale of my jacket its principal business. Accordingly, I took the jacket off, that I might learn to do without it; and carrying it under my arm, began a tour of inspection of the various slop-shops. It was a likely place to sell a jacket in; for the dealers in second-hand clothes were numerous, and were, generally speaking, on the look-out for customers at their shop doors. But as most of them had, hanging up among their stock, an officer's coat or two, epaulettes and all, I was rendered timid by the costly nature of their dealings, and walked about for a long time without offering my merchandise to anyone. This modesty of mine directed my attention to the marine-store shops, and such shops as Mr. Dolloby's, in preference to the regular dealers. At last I found one that I thought looked promising, at the corner of a dirty lane, ending in an enclosure full of stinging-nettles, against the palings of which some second-hand sailors' clothes, that seemed to have overflowed the shop, were fluttering among some cots, and rusty guns, and oilskin hats, and certain trays full of so many old rusty keys of so many sizes that they seemed various enough to open all the doors in the world. Into this shop, which was low and small, and which was darkened rather than lighted by a little window, overhung with clothes, and was descended into by some steps, I went with a palpitating heart; which was not relieved when an ugly old man, with the lower part of his face all covered with a stubbly grey beard, rushed out of a dirty den behind it, and seized me by the hair of my head. He was a dreadful old man to look at, in a filthy flannel waistcoat, and smelling terribly of rum. His bedstead, covered with a tumbled and ragged piece of patchwork, was in the den he had come from, where another little window showed a prospect of more stinging-nettles, and a lame donkey. 'Oh, what do you want?' grinned this old man, in a fierce, monotonous whine. 'Oh, my eyes and limbs, what do you want? Oh, my lungs and liver, what do you want? Oh, goroo, goroo!' I was so much dismayed by these words, and particularly by the repetition of the last unknown one, which was a kind of rattle in his throat, that I could make no answer; hereupon the old man, still holding me by the hair, repeated: 'Oh, what do you want? Oh, my eyes and limbs, what do you want? Oh, my lungs and liver, what do you want? Oh, goroo!'--which he screwed out of himself, with an energy that made his eyes start in his head. 'I wanted to know,' I said, trembling, 'if you would buy a jacket.' 'Oh, let's see the jacket!' cried the old man. 'Oh, my heart on fire, show the jacket to us! Oh, my eyes and limbs, bring the jacket out!' With that he took his trembling hands, which were like the claws of a great bird, out of my hair; and put on a pair of spectacles, not at all ornamental to his inflamed eyes. 'Oh, how much for the jacket?' cried the old man, after examining it. 'Oh--goroo!--how much for the jacket?' 'Half-a-crown,' I answered, recovering myself. 'Oh, my lungs and liver,' cried the old man, 'no! Oh, my eyes, no! Oh, my limbs, no! Eighteenpence. Goroo!' Every time he uttered this ejaculation, his eyes seemed to be in danger of starting out; and every sentence he spoke, he delivered in a sort of tune, always exactly the same, and more like a gust of wind, which begins low, mounts up high, and falls again, than any other comparison I can find for it. 'Well,' said I, glad to have closed the bargain, 'I'll take eighteenpence.' 'Oh, my liver!' cried the old man, throwing the jacket on a shelf. 'Get out of the shop! Oh, my lungs, get out of the shop! Oh, my eyes and limbs--goroo!--don't ask for money; make it an exchange.' I never was so frightened in my life, before or since; but I told him humbly that I wanted money, and that nothing else was of any use to me, but that I would wait for it, as he desired, outside, and had no wish to hurry him. So I went outside, and sat down in the shade in a corner. And I sat there so many hours, that the shade became sunlight, and the sunlight became shade again, and still I sat there waiting for the money. There never was such another drunken madman in that line of business, I hope. That he was well known in the neighbourhood, and enjoyed the reputation of having sold himself to the devil, I soon understood from the visits he received from the boys, who continually came skirmishing about the shop, shouting that legend, and calling to him to bring out his gold. 'You ain't poor, you know, Charley, as you pretend. Bring out your gold. Bring out some of the gold you sold yourself to the devil for. Come! It's in the lining of the mattress, Charley. Rip it open and let's have some!' This, and many offers to lend him a knife for the purpose, exasperated him to such a degree, that the whole day was a succession of rushes on his part, and flights on the part of the boys. Sometimes in his rage he would take me for one of them, and come at me, mouthing as if he were going to tear me in pieces; then, remembering me, just in time, would dive into the shop, and lie upon his bed, as I thought from the sound of his voice, yelling in a frantic way, to his own windy tune, the 'Death of Nelson'; with an Oh! before every line, and innumerable Goroos interspersed. As if this were not bad enough for me, the boys, connecting me with the establishment, on account of the patience and perseverance with which I sat outside, half-dressed, pelted me, and used me very ill all day. He made many attempts to induce me to consent to an exchange; at one time coming out with a fishing-rod, at another with a fiddle, at another with a cocked hat, at another with a flute. But I resisted all these overtures, and sat there in desperation; each time asking him, with tears in my eyes, for my money or my jacket. At last he began to pay me in halfpence at a time; and was full two hours getting by easy stages to a shilling. 'Oh, my eyes and limbs!' he then cried, peeping hideously out of the shop, after a long pause, 'will you go for twopence more?' 'I can't,' I said; 'I shall be starved.' 'Oh, my lungs and liver, will you go for threepence?' 'I would go for nothing, if I could,' I said, 'but I want the money badly.' 'Oh, go-roo!' (it is really impossible to express how he twisted this ejaculation out of himself, as he peeped round the door-post at me, showing nothing but his crafty old head); 'will you go for fourpence?' I was so faint and weary that I closed with this offer; and taking the money out of his claw, not without trembling, went away more hungry and thirsty than I had ever been, a little before sunset. But at an expense of threepence I soon refreshed myself completely; and, being in better spirits then, limped seven miles upon my road. My bed at night was under another haystack, where I rested comfortably, after having washed my blistered feet in a stream, and dressed them as well as I was able, with some cool leaves. When I took the road again next morning, I found that it lay through a succession of hop-grounds and orchards. It was sufficiently late in the year for the orchards to be ruddy with ripe apples; and in a few places the hop-pickers were already at work. I thought it all extremely beautiful, and made up my mind to sleep among the hops that night: imagining some cheerful companionship in the long perspectives of poles, with the graceful leaves twining round them. The trampers were worse than ever that day, and inspired me with a dread that is yet quite fresh in my mind. Some of them were most ferocious-looking ruffians, who stared at me as I went by; and stopped, perhaps, and called after me to come back and speak to them, and when I took to my heels, stoned me. I recollect one young fellow--a tinker, I suppose, from his wallet and brazier--who had a woman with him, and who faced about and stared at me thus; and then roared to me in such a tremendous voice to come back, that I halted and looked round. 'Come here, when you're called,' said the tinker, 'or I'll rip your young body open.' I thought it best to go back. As I drew nearer to them, trying to propitiate the tinker by my looks, I observed that the woman had a black eye. 'Where are you going?' said the tinker, gripping the bosom of my shirt with his blackened hand. 'I am going to Dover,' I said. 'Where do you come from?' asked the tinker, giving his hand another turn in my shirt, to hold me more securely. 'I come from London,' I said. 'What lay are you upon?' asked the tinker. 'Are you a prig?' 'N-no,' I said. 'Ain't you, by G--? If you make a brag of your honesty to me,' said the tinker, 'I'll knock your brains out.' With his disengaged hand he made a menace of striking me, and then looked at me from head to foot. 'Have you got the price of a pint of beer about you?' said the tinker. 'If you have, out with it, afore I take it away!' I should certainly have produced it, but that I met the woman's look, and saw her very slightly shake her head, and form 'No!' with her lips. 'I am very poor,' I said, attempting to smile, 'and have got no money.' 'Why, what do you mean?' said the tinker, looking so sternly at me, that I almost feared he saw the money in my pocket. 'Sir!' I stammered. 'What do you mean,' said the tinker, 'by wearing my brother's silk handkerchief! Give it over here!' And he had mine off my neck in a moment, and tossed it to the woman. The woman burst into a fit of laughter, as if she thought this a joke, and tossed it back to me, nodded once, as slightly as before, and made the word 'Go!' with her lips. Before I could obey, however, the tinker seized the handkerchief out of my hand with a roughness that threw me away like a feather, and putting it loosely round his own neck, turned upon the woman with an oath, and knocked her down. I never shall forget seeing her fall backward on the hard road, and lie there with her bonnet tumbled off, and her hair all whitened in the dust; nor, when I looked back from a distance, seeing her sitting on the pathway, which was a bank by the roadside, wiping the blood from her face with a corner of her shawl, while he went on ahead. This adventure frightened me so, that, afterwards, when I saw any of these people coming, I turned back until I could find a hiding-place, where I remained until they had gone out of sight; which happened so often, that I was very seriously delayed. But under this difficulty, as under all the other difficulties of my journey, I seemed to be sustained and led on by my fanciful picture of my mother in her youth, before I came into the world. It always kept me company. It was there, among the hops, when I lay down to sleep; it was with me on my waking in the morning; it went before me all day. I have associated it, ever since, with the sunny street of Canterbury, dozing as it were in the hot light; and with the sight of its old houses and gateways, and the stately, grey Cathedral, with the rooks sailing round the towers. When I came, at last, upon the bare, wide downs near Dover, it relieved the solitary aspect of the scene with hope; and not until I reached that first great aim of my journey, and actually set foot in the town itself, on the sixth day of my flight, did it desert me. But then, strange to say, when I stood with my ragged shoes, and my dusty, sunburnt, half-clothed figure, in the place so long desired, it seemed to vanish like a dream, and to leave me helpless and dispirited. I inquired about my aunt among the boatmen first, and received various answers. One said she lived in the South Foreland Light, and had singed her whiskers by doing so; another, that she was made fast to the great buoy outside the harbour, and could only be visited at half-tide; a third, that she was locked up in Maidstone jail for child-stealing; a fourth, that she was seen to mount a broom in the last high wind, and make direct for Calais. The fly-drivers, among whom I inquired next, were equally jocose and equally disrespectful; and the shopkeepers, not liking my appearance, generally replied, without hearing what I had to say, that they had got nothing for me. I felt more miserable and destitute than I had done at any period of my running away. My money was all gone, I had nothing left to dispose of; I was hungry, thirsty, and worn out; and seemed as distant from my end as if I had remained in London. The morning had worn away in these inquiries, and I was sitting on the step of an empty shop at a street corner, near the market-place, deliberating upon wandering towards those other places which had been mentioned, when a fly-driver, coming by with his carriage, dropped a horsecloth. Something good-natured in the man's face, as I handed it up, encouraged me to ask him if he could tell me where Miss Trotwood lived; though I had asked the question so often, that it almost died upon my lips. 'Trotwood,' said he. 'Let me see. I know the name, too. Old lady?' 'Yes,' I said, 'rather.' 'Pretty stiff in the back?' said he, making himself upright. 'Yes,' I said. 'I should think it very likely.' 'Carries a bag?' said he--'bag with a good deal of room in it--is gruffish, and comes down upon you, sharp?' My heart sank within me as I acknowledged the undoubted accuracy of this description. 'Why then, I tell you what,' said he. 'If you go up there,' pointing with his whip towards the heights, 'and keep right on till you come to some houses facing the sea, I think you'll hear of her. My opinion is she won't stand anything, so here's a penny for you.' I accepted the gift thankfully, and bought a loaf with it. Dispatching this refreshment by the way, I went in the direction my friend had indicated, and walked on a good distance without coming to the houses he had mentioned. At length I saw some before me; and approaching them, went into a little shop (it was what we used to call a general shop, at home), and inquired if they could have the goodness to tell me where Miss Trotwood lived. I addressed myself to a man behind the counter, who was weighing some rice for a young woman; but the latter, taking the inquiry to herself, turned round quickly. 'My mistress?' she said. 'What do you want with her, boy?' 'I want,' I replied, 'to speak to her, if you please.' 'To beg of her, you mean,' retorted the damsel. 'No,' I said, 'indeed.' But suddenly remembering that in truth I came for no other purpose, I held my peace in confusion, and felt my face burn. My aunt's handmaid, as I supposed she was from what she had said, put her rice in a little basket and walked out of the shop; telling me that I could follow her, if I wanted to know where Miss Trotwood lived. I needed no second permission; though I was by this time in such a state of consternation and agitation, that my legs shook under me. I followed the young woman, and we soon came to a very neat little cottage with cheerful bow-windows: in front of it, a small square gravelled court or garden full of flowers, carefully tended, and smelling deliciously. 'This is Miss Trotwood's,' said the young woman. 'Now you know; and that's all I have got to say.' With which words she hurried into the house, as if to shake off the responsibility of my appearance; and left me standing at the garden-gate, looking disconsolately over the top of it towards the parlour window, where a muslin curtain partly undrawn in the middle, a large round green screen or fan fastened on to the windowsill, a small table, and a great chair, suggested to me that my aunt might be at that moment seated in awful state. My shoes were by this time in a woeful condition. The soles had shed themselves bit by bit, and the upper leathers had broken and burst until the very shape and form of shoes had departed from them. My hat (which had served me for a night-cap, too) was so crushed and bent, that no old battered handleless saucepan on a dunghill need have been ashamed to vie with it. My shirt and trousers, stained with heat, dew, grass, and the Kentish soil on which I had slept--and torn besides--might have frightened the birds from my aunt's garden, as I stood at the gate. My hair had known no comb or brush since I left London. My face, neck, and hands, from unaccustomed exposure to the air and sun, were burnt to a berry-brown. From head to foot I was powdered almost as white with chalk and dust, as if I had come out of a lime-kiln. In this plight, and with a strong consciousness of it, I waited to introduce myself to, and make my first impression on, my formidable aunt. The unbroken stillness of the parlour window leading me to infer, after a while, that she was not there, I lifted up my eyes to the window above it, where I saw a florid, pleasant-looking gentleman, with a grey head, who shut up one eye in a grotesque manner, nodded his head at me several times, shook it at me as often, laughed, and went away. I had been discomposed enough before; but I was so much the more discomposed by this unexpected behaviour, that I was on the point of slinking off, to think how I had best proceed, when there came out of the house a lady with her handkerchief tied over her cap, and a pair of gardening gloves on her hands, wearing a gardening pocket like a toll-man's apron, and carrying a great knife. I knew her immediately to be Miss Betsey, for she came stalking out of the house exactly as my poor mother had so often described her stalking up our garden at Blunderstone Rookery. 'Go away!' said Miss Betsey, shaking her head, and making a distant chop in the air with her knife. 'Go along! No boys here!' I watched her, with my heart at my lips, as she marched to a corner of her garden, and stooped to dig up some little root there. Then, without a scrap of courage, but with a great deal of desperation, I went softly in and stood beside her, touching her with my finger. 'If you please, ma'am,' I began. She started and looked up. 'If you please, aunt.' 'EH?' exclaimed Miss Betsey, in a tone of amazement I have never heard approached. 'If you please, aunt, I am your nephew.' 'Oh, Lord!' said my aunt. And sat flat down in the garden-path. 'I am David Copperfield, of Blunderstone, in Suffolk--where you came, on the night when I was born, and saw my dear mama. I have been very unhappy since she died. I have been slighted, and taught nothing, and thrown upon myself, and put to work not fit for me. It made me run away to you. I was robbed at first setting out, and have walked all the way, and have never slept in a bed since I began the journey.' Here my self-support gave way all at once; and with a movement of my hands, intended to show her my ragged state, and call it to witness that I had suffered something, I broke into a passion of crying, which I suppose had been pent up within me all the week. My aunt, with every sort of expression but wonder discharged from her countenance, sat on the gravel, staring at me, until I began to cry; when she got up in a great hurry, collared me, and took me into the parlour. Her first proceeding there was to unlock a tall press, bring out several bottles, and pour some of the contents of each into my mouth. I think they must have been taken out at random, for I am sure I tasted aniseed water, anchovy sauce, and salad dressing. When she had administered these restoratives, as I was still quite hysterical, and unable to control my sobs, she put me on the sofa, with a shawl under my head, and the handkerchief from her own head under my feet, lest I should sully the cover; and then, sitting herself down behind the green fan or screen I have already mentioned, so that I could not see her face, ejaculated at intervals, 'Mercy on us!' letting those exclamations off like minute guns. After a time she rang the bell. 'Janet,' said my aunt, when her servant came in. 'Go upstairs, give my compliments to Mr. Dick, and say I wish to speak to him.' Janet looked a little surprised to see me lying stiffly on the sofa (I was afraid to move lest it should be displeasing to my aunt), but went on her errand. My aunt, with her hands behind her, walked up and down the room, until the gentleman who had squinted at me from the upper window came in laughing. 'Mr. Dick,' said my aunt, 'don't be a fool, because nobody can be more discreet than you can, when you choose. We all know that. So don't be a fool, whatever you are.' The gentleman was serious immediately, and looked at me, I thought, as if he would entreat me to say nothing about the window. 'Mr. Dick,' said my aunt, 'you have heard me mention David Copperfield? Now don't pretend not to have a memory, because you and I know better.' 'David Copperfield?' said Mr. Dick, who did not appear to me to remember much about it. 'David Copperfield? Oh yes, to be sure. David, certainly.' 'Well,' said my aunt, 'this is his boy--his son. He would be as like his father as it's possible to be, if he was not so like his mother, too.' 'His son?' said Mr. Dick. 'David's son? Indeed!' 'Yes,' pursued my aunt, 'and he has done a pretty piece of business. He has run away. Ah! His sister, Betsey Trotwood, never would have run away.' My aunt shook her head firmly, confident in the character and behaviour of the girl who never was born. 'Oh! you think she wouldn't have run away?' said Mr. Dick. 'Bless and save the man,' exclaimed my aunt, sharply, 'how he talks! Don't I know she wouldn't? She would have lived with her god-mother, and we should have been devoted to one another. Where, in the name of wonder, should his sister, Betsey Trotwood, have run from, or to?' 'Nowhere,' said Mr. Dick. 'Well then,' returned my aunt, softened by the reply, 'how can you pretend to be wool-gathering, Dick, when you are as sharp as a surgeon's lancet? Now, here you see young David Copperfield, and the question I put to you is, what shall I do with him?' 'What shall you do with him?' said Mr. Dick, feebly, scratching his head. 'Oh! do with him?' 'Yes,' said my aunt, with a grave look, and her forefinger held up. 'Come! I want some very sound advice.' 'Why, if I was you,' said Mr. Dick, considering, and looking vacantly at me, 'I should--' The contemplation of me seemed to inspire him with a sudden idea, and he added, briskly, 'I should wash him!' 'Janet,' said my aunt, turning round with a quiet triumph, which I did not then understand, 'Mr. Dick sets us all right. Heat the bath!' Although I was deeply interested in this dialogue, I could not help observing my aunt, Mr. Dick, and Janet, while it was in progress, and completing a survey I had already been engaged in making of the room. My aunt was a tall, hard-featured lady, but by no means ill-looking. There was an inflexibility in her face, in her voice, in her gait and carriage, amply sufficient to account for the effect she had made upon a gentle creature like my mother; but her features were rather handsome than otherwise, though unbending and austere. I particularly noticed that she had a very quick, bright eye. Her hair, which was grey, was arranged in two plain divisions, under what I believe would be called a mob-cap; I mean a cap, much more common then than now, with side-pieces fastening under the chin. Her dress was of a lavender colour, and perfectly neat; but scantily made, as if she desired to be as little encumbered as possible. I remember that I thought it, in form, more like a riding-habit with the superfluous skirt cut off, than anything else. She wore at her side a gentleman's gold watch, if I might judge from its size and make, with an appropriate chain and seals; she had some linen at her throat not unlike a shirt-collar, and things at her wrists like little shirt-wristbands. Mr. Dick, as I have already said, was grey-headed, and florid: I should have said all about him, in saying so, had not his head been curiously bowed--not by age; it reminded me of one of Mr. Creakle's boys' heads after a beating--and his grey eyes prominent and large, with a strange kind of watery brightness in them that made me, in combination with his vacant manner, his submission to my aunt, and his childish delight when she praised him, suspect him of being a little mad; though, if he were mad, how he came to be there puzzled me extremely. He was dressed like any other ordinary gentleman, in a loose grey morning coat and waistcoat, and white trousers; and had his watch in his fob, and his money in his pockets: which he rattled as if he were very proud of it. Janet was a pretty blooming girl, of about nineteen or twenty, and a perfect picture of neatness. Though I made no further observation of her at the moment, I may mention here what I did not discover until afterwards, namely, that she was one of a series of protegees whom my aunt had taken into her service expressly to educate in a renouncement of mankind, and who had generally completed their abjuration by marrying the baker. The room was as neat as Janet or my aunt. As I laid down my pen, a moment since, to think of it, the air from the sea came blowing in again, mixed with the perfume of the flowers; and I saw the old-fashioned furniture brightly rubbed and polished, my aunt's inviolable chair and table by the round green fan in the bow-window, the drugget-covered carpet, the cat, the kettle-holder, the two canaries, the old china, the punchbowl full of dried rose-leaves, the tall press guarding all sorts of bottles and pots, and, wonderfully out of keeping with the rest, my dusty self upon the sofa, taking note of everything. Janet had gone away to get the bath ready, when my aunt, to my great alarm, became in one moment rigid with indignation, and had hardly voice to cry out, 'Janet! Donkeys!' Upon which, Janet came running up the stairs as if the house were in flames, darted out on a little piece of green in front, and warned off two saddle-donkeys, lady-ridden, that had presumed to set hoof upon it; while my aunt, rushing out of the house, seized the bridle of a third animal laden with a bestriding child, turned him, led him forth from those sacred precincts, and boxed the ears of the unlucky urchin in attendance who had dared to profane that hallowed ground. To this hour I don't know whether my aunt had any lawful right of way over that patch of green; but she had settled it in her own mind that she had, and it was all the same to her. The one great outrage of her life, demanding to be constantly avenged, was the passage of a donkey over that immaculate spot. In whatever occupation she was engaged, however interesting to her the conversation in which she was taking part, a donkey turned the current of her ideas in a moment, and she was upon him straight. Jugs of water, and watering-pots, were kept in secret places ready to be discharged on the offending boys; sticks were laid in ambush behind the door; sallies were made at all hours; and incessant war prevailed. Perhaps this was an agreeable excitement to the donkey-boys; or perhaps the more sagacious of the donkeys, understanding how the case stood, delighted with constitutional obstinacy in coming that way. I only know that there were three alarms before the bath was ready; and that on the occasion of the last and most desperate of all, I saw my aunt engage, single-handed, with a sandy-headed lad of fifteen, and bump his sandy head against her own gate, before he seemed to comprehend what was the matter. These interruptions were of the more ridiculous to me, because she was giving me broth out of a table-spoon at the time (having firmly persuaded herself that I was actually starving, and must receive nourishment at first in very small quantities), and, while my mouth was yet open to receive the spoon, she would put it back into the basin, cry 'Janet! Donkeys!' and go out to the assault. The bath was a great comfort. For I began to be sensible of acute pains in my limbs from lying out in the fields, and was now so tired and low that I could hardly keep myself awake for five minutes together. When I had bathed, they (I mean my aunt and Janet) enrobed me in a shirt and a pair of trousers belonging to Mr. Dick, and tied me up in two or three great shawls. What sort of bundle I looked like, I don't know, but I felt a very hot one. Feeling also very faint and drowsy, I soon lay down on the sofa again and fell asleep. It might have been a dream, originating in the fancy which had occupied my mind so long, but I awoke with the impression that my aunt had come and bent over me, and had put my hair away from my face, and laid my head more comfortably, and had then stood looking at me. The words, 'Pretty fellow,' or 'Poor fellow,' seemed to be in my ears, too; but certainly there was nothing else, when I awoke, to lead me to believe that they had been uttered by my aunt, who sat in the bow-window gazing at the sea from behind the green fan, which was mounted on a kind of swivel, and turned any way. We dined soon after I awoke, off a roast fowl and a pudding; I sitting at table, not unlike a trussed bird myself, and moving my arms with considerable difficulty. But as my aunt had swathed me up, I made no complaint of being inconvenienced. All this time I was deeply anxious to know what she was going to do with me; but she took her dinner in profound silence, except when she occasionally fixed her eyes on me sitting opposite, and said, 'Mercy upon us!' which did not by any means relieve my anxiety. The cloth being drawn, and some sherry put upon the table (of which I had a glass), my aunt sent up for Mr. Dick again, who joined us, and looked as wise as he could when she requested him to attend to my story, which she elicited from me, gradually, by a course of questions. During my recital, she kept her eyes on Mr. Dick, who I thought would have gone to sleep but for that, and who, whensoever he lapsed into a smile, was checked by a frown from my aunt. 'Whatever possessed that poor unfortunate Baby, that she must go and be married again,' said my aunt, when I had finished, 'I can't conceive.' 'Perhaps she fell in love with her second husband,' Mr. Dick suggested. 'Fell in love!' repeated my aunt. 'What do you mean? What business had she to do it?' 'Perhaps,' Mr. Dick simpered, after thinking a little, 'she did it for pleasure.' 'Pleasure, indeed!' replied my aunt. 'A mighty pleasure for the poor Baby to fix her simple faith upon any dog of a fellow, certain to ill-use her in some way or other. What did she propose to herself, I should like to know! She had had one husband. She had seen David Copperfield out of the world, who was always running after wax dolls from his cradle. She had got a baby--oh, there were a pair of babies when she gave birth to this child sitting here, that Friday night!--and what more did she want?' Mr. Dick secretly shook his head at me, as if he thought there was no getting over this. 'She couldn't even have a baby like anybody else,' said my aunt. 'Where was this child's sister, Betsey Trotwood? Not forthcoming. Don't tell me!' Mr. Dick seemed quite frightened. 'That little man of a doctor, with his head on one side,' said my aunt, 'Jellips, or whatever his name was, what was he about? All he could do, was to say to me, like a robin redbreast--as he is--"It's a boy." A boy! Yah, the imbecility of the whole set of 'em!' The heartiness of the ejaculation startled Mr. Dick exceedingly; and me, too, if I am to tell the truth. 'And then, as if this was not enough, and she had not stood sufficiently in the light of this child's sister, Betsey Trotwood,' said my aunt, 'she marries a second time--goes and marries a Murderer--or a man with a name like it--and stands in THIS child's light! And the natural consequence is, as anybody but a baby might have foreseen, that he prowls and wanders. He's as like Cain before he was grown up, as he can be.' Mr. Dick looked hard at me, as if to identify me in this character. 'And then there's that woman with the Pagan name,' said my aunt, 'that Peggotty, she goes and gets married next. Because she has not seen enough of the evil attending such things, she goes and gets married next, as the child relates. I only hope,' said my aunt, shaking her head, 'that her husband is one of those Poker husbands who abound in the newspapers, and will beat her well with one.' I could not bear to hear my old nurse so decried, and made the subject of such a wish. I told my aunt that indeed she was mistaken. That Peggotty was the best, the truest, the most faithful, most devoted, and most self-denying friend and servant in the world; who had ever loved me dearly, who had ever loved my mother dearly; who had held my mother's dying head upon her arm, on whose face my mother had imprinted her last grateful kiss. And my remembrance of them both, choking me, I broke down as I was trying to say that her home was my home, and that all she had was mine, and that I would have gone to her for shelter, but for her humble station, which made me fear that I might bring some trouble on her--I broke down, I say, as I was trying to say so, and laid my face in my hands upon the table. 'Well, well!' said my aunt, 'the child is right to stand by those who have stood by him--Janet! Donkeys!' I thoroughly believe that but for those unfortunate donkeys, we should have come to a good understanding; for my aunt had laid her hand on my shoulder, and the impulse was upon me, thus emboldened, to embrace her and beseech her protection. But the interruption, and the disorder she was thrown into by the struggle outside, put an end to all softer ideas for the present, and kept my aunt indignantly declaiming to Mr. Dick about her determination to appeal for redress to the laws of her country, and to bring actions for trespass against the whole donkey proprietorship of Dover, until tea-time. After tea, we sat at the window--on the look-out, as I imagined, from my aunt's sharp expression of face, for more invaders--until dusk, when Janet set candles, and a backgammon-board, on the table, and pulled down the blinds. 'Now, Mr. Dick,' said my aunt, with her grave look, and her forefinger up as before, 'I am going to ask you another question. Look at this child.' 'David's son?' said Mr. Dick, with an attentive, puzzled face. 'Exactly so,' returned my aunt. 'What would you do with him, now?' 'Do with David's son?' said Mr. Dick. 'Ay,' replied my aunt, 'with David's son.' 'Oh!' said Mr. Dick. 'Yes. Do with--I should put him to bed.' 'Janet!' cried my aunt, with the same complacent triumph that I had remarked before. 'Mr. Dick sets us all right. If the bed is ready, we'll take him up to it.' Janet reporting it to be quite ready, I was taken up to it; kindly, but in some sort like a prisoner; my aunt going in front and Janet bringing up the rear. The only circumstance which gave me any new hope, was my aunt's stopping on the stairs to inquire about a smell of fire that was prevalent there; and janet's replying that she had been making tinder down in the kitchen, of my old shirt. But there were no other clothes in my room than the odd heap of things I wore; and when I was left there, with a little taper which my aunt forewarned me would burn exactly five minutes, I heard them lock my door on the outside. Turning these things over in my mind I deemed it possible that my aunt, who could know nothing of me, might suspect I had a habit of running away, and took precautions, on that account, to have me in safe keeping. The room was a pleasant one, at the top of the house, overlooking the sea, on which the moon was shining brilliantly. After I had said my prayers, and the candle had burnt out, I remember how I still sat looking at the moonlight on the water, as if I could hope to read my fortune in it, as in a bright book; or to see my mother with her child, coming from Heaven, along that shining path, to look upon me as she had looked when I last saw her sweet face. I remember how the solemn feeling with which at length I turned my eyes away, yielded to the sensation of gratitude and rest which the sight of the white-curtained bed--and how much more the lying softly down upon it, nestling in the snow-white sheets!--inspired. I remember how I thought of all the solitary places under the night sky where I had slept, and how I prayed that I never might be houseless any more, and never might forget the houseless. I remember how I seemed to float, then, down the melancholy glory of that track upon the sea, away into the world of dreams. On going down in the morning, I found my aunt musing so profoundly over the breakfast table, with her elbow on the tray, that the contents of the urn had overflowed the teapot and were laying the whole table-cloth under water, when my entrance put her meditations to flight. I felt sure that I had been the subject of her reflections, and was more than ever anxious to know her intentions towards me. Yet I dared not express my anxiety, lest it should give her offence. My eyes, however, not being so much under control as my tongue, were attracted towards my aunt very often during breakfast. I never could look at her for a few moments together but I found her looking at me--in an odd thoughtful manner, as if I were an immense way off, instead of being on the other side of the small round table. When she had finished her breakfast, my aunt very deliberately leaned back in her chair, knitted her brows, folded her arms, and contemplated me at her leisure, with such a fixedness of attention that I was quite overpowered by embarrassment. Not having as yet finished my own breakfast, I attempted to hide my confusion by proceeding with it; but my knife tumbled over my fork, my fork tripped up my knife, I chipped bits of bacon a surprising height into the air instead of cutting them for my own eating, and choked myself with my tea, which persisted in going the wrong way instead of the right one, until I gave in altogether, and sat blushing under my aunt's close scrutiny. 'Hallo!' said my aunt, after a long time. I looked up, and met her sharp bright glance respectfully. 'I have written to him,' said my aunt. 'To--?' 'To your father-in-law,' said my aunt. 'I have sent him a letter that I'll trouble him to attend to, or he and I will fall out, I can tell him!' 'Does he know where I am, aunt?' I inquired, alarmed. 'I have told him,' said my aunt, with a nod. 'Shall I--be--given up to him?' I faltered. 'I don't know,' said my aunt. 'We shall see.' 'Oh! I can't think what I shall do,' I exclaimed, 'if I have to go back to Mr. Murdstone!' 'I don't know anything about it,' said my aunt, shaking her head. 'I can't say, I am sure. We shall see.' My spirits sank under these words, and I became very downcast and heavy of heart. My aunt, without appearing to take much heed of me, put on a coarse apron with a bib, which she took out of the press; washed up the teacups with her own hands; and, when everything was washed and set in the tray again, and the cloth folded and put on the top of the whole, rang for Janet to remove it. She next swept up the crumbs with a little broom (putting on a pair of gloves first), until there did not appear to be one microscopic speck left on the carpet; next dusted and arranged the room, which was dusted and arranged to a hair's breadth already. When all these tasks were performed to her satisfaction, she took off the gloves and apron, folded them up, put them in the particular corner of the press from which they had been taken, brought out her work-box to her own table in the open window, and sat down, with the green fan between her and the light, to work. 'I wish you'd go upstairs,' said my aunt, as she threaded her needle, 'and give my compliments to Mr. Dick, and I'll be glad to know how he gets on with his Memorial.' I rose with all alacrity, to acquit myself of this commission. 'I suppose,' said my aunt, eyeing me as narrowly as she had eyed the needle in threading it, 'you think Mr. Dick a short name, eh?' 'I thought it was rather a short name, yesterday,' I confessed. 'You are not to suppose that he hasn't got a longer name, if he chose to use it,' said my aunt, with a loftier air. 'Babley--Mr. Richard Babley--that's the gentleman's true name.' I was going to suggest, with a modest sense of my youth and the familiarity I had been already guilty of, that I had better give him the full benefit of that name, when my aunt went on to say: 'But don't you call him by it, whatever you do. He can't bear his name. That's a peculiarity of his. Though I don't know that it's much of a peculiarity, either; for he has been ill-used enough, by some that bear it, to have a mortal antipathy for it, Heaven knows. Mr. Dick is his name here, and everywhere else, now--if he ever went anywhere else, which he don't. So take care, child, you don't call him anything BUT Mr. Dick.' I promised to obey, and went upstairs with my message; thinking, as I went, that if Mr. Dick had been working at his Memorial long, at the same rate as I had seen him working at it, through the open door, when I came down, he was probably getting on very well indeed. I found him still driving at it with a long pen, and his head almost laid upon the paper. He was so intent upon it, that I had ample leisure to observe the large paper kite in a corner, the confusion of bundles of manuscript, the number of pens, and, above all, the quantity of ink (which he seemed to have in, in half-gallon jars by the dozen), before he observed my being present. 'Ha! Phoebus!' said Mr. Dick, laying down his pen. 'How does the world go? I'll tell you what,' he added, in a lower tone, 'I shouldn't wish it to be mentioned, but it's a--' here he beckoned to me, and put his lips close to my ear--'it's a mad world. Mad as Bedlam, boy!' said Mr. Dick, taking snuff from a round box on the table, and laughing heartily. Without presuming to give my opinion on this question, I delivered my message. 'Well,' said Mr. Dick, in answer, 'my compliments to her, and I--I believe I have made a start. I think I have made a start,' said Mr. Dick, passing his hand among his grey hair, and casting anything but a confident look at his manuscript. 'You have been to school?' 'Yes, sir,' I answered; 'for a short time.' 'Do you recollect the date,' said Mr. Dick, looking earnestly at me, and taking up his pen to note it down, 'when King Charles the First had his head cut off?' I said I believed it happened in the year sixteen hundred and forty-nine. 'Well,' returned Mr. Dick, scratching his ear with his pen, and looking dubiously at me. 'So the books say; but I don't see how that can be. Because, if it was so long ago, how could the people about him have made that mistake of putting some of the trouble out of his head, after it was taken off, into mine?' I was very much surprised by the inquiry; but could give no information on this point. 'It's very strange,' said Mr. Dick, with a despondent look upon his papers, and with his hand among his hair again, 'that I never can get that quite right. I never can make that perfectly clear. But no matter, no matter!' he said cheerfully, and rousing himself, 'there's time enough! My compliments to Miss Trotwood, I am getting on very well indeed.' I was going away, when he directed my attention to the kite. 'What do you think of that for a kite?' he said. I answered that it was a beautiful one. I should think it must have been as much as seven feet high. 'I made it. We'll go and fly it, you and I,' said Mr. Dick. 'Do you see this?' He showed me that it was covered with manuscript, very closely and laboriously written; but so plainly, that as I looked along the lines, I thought I saw some allusion to King Charles the First's head again, in one or two places. 'There's plenty of string,' said Mr. Dick, 'and when it flies high, it takes the facts a long way. That's my manner of diffusing 'em. I don't know where they may come down. It's according to circumstances, and the wind, and so forth; but I take my chance of that.' His face was so very mild and pleasant, and had something so reverend in it, though it was hale and hearty, that I was not sure but that he was having a good-humoured jest with me. So I laughed, and he laughed, and we parted the best friends possible. 'Well, child,' said my aunt, when I went downstairs. 'And what of Mr. Dick, this morning?' I informed her that he sent his compliments, and was getting on very well indeed. 'What do you think of him?' said my aunt. I had some shadowy idea of endeavouring to evade the question, by replying that I thought him a very nice gentleman; but my aunt was not to be so put off, for she laid her work down in her lap, and said, folding her hands upon it: 'Come! Your sister Betsey Trotwood would have told me what she thought of anyone, directly. Be as like your sister as you can, and speak out!' 'Is he--is Mr. Dick--I ask because I don't know, aunt--is he at all out of his mind, then?' I stammered; for I felt I was on dangerous ground. 'Not a morsel,' said my aunt. 'Oh, indeed!' I observed faintly. 'If there is anything in the world,' said my aunt, with great decision and force of manner, 'that Mr. Dick is not, it's that.' I had nothing better to offer, than another timid, 'Oh, indeed!' 'He has been CALLED mad,' said my aunt. 'I have a selfish pleasure in saying he has been called mad, or I should not have had the benefit of his society and advice for these last ten years and upwards--in fact, ever since your sister, Betsey Trotwood, disappointed me.' 'So long as that?' I said. 'And nice people they were, who had the audacity to call him mad,' pursued my aunt. 'Mr. Dick is a sort of distant connexion of mine--it doesn't matter how; I needn't enter into that. If it hadn't been for me, his own brother would have shut him up for life. That's all.' I am afraid it was hypocritical in me, but seeing that my aunt felt strongly on the subject, I tried to look as if I felt strongly too. 'A proud fool!' said my aunt. 'Because his brother was a little eccentric--though he is not half so eccentric as a good many people--he didn't like to have him visible about his house, and sent him away to some private asylum-place: though he had been left to his particular care by their deceased father, who thought him almost a natural. And a wise man he must have been to think so! Mad himself, no doubt.' Again, as my aunt looked quite convinced, I endeavoured to look quite convinced also. 'So I stepped in,' said my aunt, 'and made him an offer. I said, "Your brother's sane--a great deal more sane than you are, or ever will be, it is to be hoped. Let him have his little income, and come and live with me. I am not afraid of him, I am not proud, I am ready to take care of him, and shall not ill-treat him as some people (besides the asylum-folks) have done." After a good deal of squabbling,' said my aunt, 'I got him; and he has been here ever since. He is the most friendly and amenable creature in existence; and as for advice!--But nobody knows what that man's mind is, except myself.' My aunt smoothed her dress and shook her head, as if she smoothed defiance of the whole world out of the one, and shook it out of the other. 'He had a favourite sister,' said my aunt, 'a good creature, and very kind to him. But she did what they all do--took a husband. And HE did what they all do--made her wretched. It had such an effect upon the mind of Mr. Dick (that's not madness, I hope!) that, combined with his fear of his brother, and his sense of his unkindness, it threw him into a fever. That was before he came to me, but the recollection of it is oppressive to him even now. Did he say anything to you about King Charles the First, child?' 'Yes, aunt.' 'Ah!' said my aunt, rubbing her nose as if she were a little vexed. 'That's his allegorical way of expressing it. He connects his illness with great disturbance and agitation, naturally, and that's the figure, or the simile, or whatever it's called, which he chooses to use. And why shouldn't he, if he thinks proper!' I said: 'Certainly, aunt.' 'It's not a business-like way of speaking,' said my aunt, 'nor a worldly way. I am aware of that; and that's the reason why I insist upon it, that there shan't be a word about it in his Memorial.' 'Is it a Memorial about his own history that he is writing, aunt?' 'Yes, child,' said my aunt, rubbing her nose again. 'He is memorializing the Lord Chancellor, or the Lord Somebody or other--one of those people, at all events, who are paid to be memorialized--about his affairs. I suppose it will go in, one of these days. He hasn't been able to draw it up yet, without introducing that mode of expressing himself; but it don't signify; it keeps him employed.' In fact, I found out afterwards that Mr. Dick had been for upwards of ten years endeavouring to keep King Charles the First out of the Memorial; but he had been constantly getting into it, and was there now. 'I say again,' said my aunt, 'nobody knows what that man's mind is except myself; and he's the most amenable and friendly creature in existence. If he likes to fly a kite sometimes, what of that! Franklin used to fly a kite. He was a Quaker, or something of that sort, if I am not mistaken. And a Quaker flying a kite is a much more ridiculous object than anybody else.' If I could have supposed that my aunt had recounted these particulars for my especial behoof, and as a piece of confidence in me, I should have felt very much distinguished, and should have augured favourably from such a mark of her good opinion. But I could hardly help observing that she had launched into them, chiefly because the question was raised in her own mind, and with very little reference to me, though she had addressed herself to me in the absence of anybody else. At the same time, I must say that the generosity of her championship of poor harmless Mr. Dick, not only inspired my young breast with some selfish hope for myself, but warmed it unselfishly towards her. I believe that I began to know that there was something about my aunt, notwithstanding her many eccentricities and odd humours, to be honoured and trusted in. Though she was just as sharp that day as on the day before, and was in and out about the donkeys just as often, and was thrown into a tremendous state of indignation, when a young man, going by, ogled Janet at a window (which was one of the gravest misdemeanours that could be committed against my aunt's dignity), she seemed to me to command more of my respect, if not less of my fear. The anxiety I underwent, in the interval which necessarily elapsed before a reply could be received to her letter to Mr. Murdstone, was extreme; but I made an endeavour to suppress it, and to be as agreeable as I could in a quiet way, both to my aunt and Mr. Dick. The latter and I would have gone out to fly the great kite; but that I had still no other clothes than the anything but ornamental garments with which I had been decorated on the first day, and which confined me to the house, except for an hour after dark, when my aunt, for my health's sake, paraded me up and down on the cliff outside, before going to bed. At length the reply from Mr. Murdstone came, and my aunt informed me, to my infinite terror, that he was coming to speak to her herself on the next day. On the next day, still bundled up in my curious habiliments, I sat counting the time, flushed and heated by the conflict of sinking hopes and rising fears within me; and waiting to be startled by the sight of the gloomy face, whose non-arrival startled me every minute. My aunt was a little more imperious and stern than usual, but I observed no other token of her preparing herself to receive the visitor so much dreaded by me. She sat at work in the window, and I sat by, with my thoughts running astray on all possible and impossible results of Mr. Murdstone's visit, until pretty late in the afternoon. Our dinner had been indefinitely postponed; but it was growing so late, that my aunt had ordered it to be got ready, when she gave a sudden alarm of donkeys, and to my consternation and amazement, I beheld Miss Murdstone, on a side-saddle, ride deliberately over the sacred piece of green, and stop in front of the house, looking about her. 'Go along with you!' cried my aunt, shaking her head and her fist at the window. 'You have no business there. How dare you trespass? Go along! Oh! you bold-faced thing!' My aunt was so exasperated by the coolness with which Miss Murdstone looked about her, that I really believe she was motionless, and unable for the moment to dart out according to custom. I seized the opportunity to inform her who it was; and that the gentleman now coming near the offender (for the way up was very steep, and he had dropped behind), was Mr. Murdstone himself. 'I don't care who it is!' cried my aunt, still shaking her head and gesticulating anything but welcome from the bow-window. 'I won't be trespassed upon. I won't allow it. Go away! Janet, turn him round. Lead him off!' and I saw, from behind my aunt, a sort of hurried battle-piece, in which the donkey stood resisting everybody, with all his four legs planted different ways, while Janet tried to pull him round by the bridle, Mr. Murdstone tried to lead him on, Miss Murdstone struck at Janet with a parasol, and several boys, who had come to see the engagement, shouted vigorously. But my aunt, suddenly descrying among them the young malefactor who was the donkey's guardian, and who was one of the most inveterate offenders against her, though hardly in his teens, rushed out to the scene of action, pounced upon him, captured him, dragged him, with his jacket over his head, and his heels grinding the ground, into the garden, and, calling upon Janet to fetch the constables and justices, that he might be taken, tried, and executed on the spot, held him at bay there. This part of the business, however, did not last long; for the young rascal, being expert at a variety of feints and dodges, of which my aunt had no conception, soon went whooping away, leaving some deep impressions of his nailed boots in the flower-beds, and taking his donkey in triumph with him. Miss Murdstone, during the latter portion of the contest, had dismounted, and was now waiting with her brother at the bottom of the steps, until my aunt should be at leisure to receive them. My aunt, a little ruffled by the combat, marched past them into the house, with great dignity, and took no notice of their presence, until they were announced by Janet. 'Shall I go away, aunt?' I asked, trembling. 'No, sir,' said my aunt. 'Certainly not!' With which she pushed me into a corner near her, and fenced Me in with a chair, as if it were a prison or a bar of justice. This position I continued to occupy during the whole interview, and from it I now saw Mr. and Miss Murdstone enter the room. 'Oh!' said my aunt, 'I was not aware at first to whom I had the pleasure of objecting. But I don't allow anybody to ride over that turf. I make no exceptions. I don't allow anybody to do it.' 'Your regulation is rather awkward to strangers,' said Miss Murdstone. 'Is it!' said my aunt. Mr. Murdstone seemed afraid of a renewal of hostilities, and interposing began: 'Miss Trotwood!' 'I beg your pardon,' observed my aunt with a keen look. 'You are the Mr. Murdstone who married the widow of my late nephew, David Copperfield, of Blunderstone Rookery!--Though why Rookery, I don't know!' 'I am,' said Mr. Murdstone. 'You'll excuse my saying, sir,' returned my aunt, 'that I think it would have been a much better and happier thing if you had left that poor child alone.' 'I so far agree with what Miss Trotwood has remarked,' observed Miss Murdstone, bridling, 'that I consider our lamented Clara to have been, in all essential respects, a mere child.' 'It is a comfort to you and me, ma'am,' said my aunt, 'who are getting on in life, and are not likely to be made unhappy by our personal attractions, that nobody can say the same of us.' 'No doubt!' returned Miss Murdstone, though, I thought, not with a very ready or gracious assent. 'And it certainly might have been, as you say, a better and happier thing for my brother if he had never entered into such a marriage. I have always been of that opinion.' 'I have no doubt you have,' said my aunt. 'Janet,' ringing the bell, 'my compliments to Mr. Dick, and beg him to come down.' Until he came, my aunt sat perfectly upright and stiff, frowning at the wall. When he came, my aunt performed the ceremony of introduction. 'Mr. Dick. An old and intimate friend. On whose judgement,' said my aunt, with emphasis, as an admonition to Mr. Dick, who was biting his forefinger and looking rather foolish, 'I rely.' Mr. Dick took his finger out of his mouth, on this hint, and stood among the group, with a grave and attentive expression of face. My aunt inclined her head to Mr. Murdstone, who went on: 'Miss Trotwood: on the receipt of your letter, I considered it an act of greater justice to myself, and perhaps of more respect to you--' 'Thank you,' said my aunt, still eyeing him keenly. 'You needn't mind me.' 'To answer it in person, however inconvenient the journey,' pursued Mr. Murdstone, 'rather than by letter. This unhappy boy who has run away from his friends and his occupation--' 'And whose appearance,' interposed his sister, directing general attention to me in my indefinable costume, 'is perfectly scandalous and disgraceful.' 'Jane Murdstone,' said her brother, 'have the goodness not to interrupt me. This unhappy boy, Miss Trotwood, has been the occasion of much domestic trouble and uneasiness; both during the lifetime of my late dear wife, and since. He has a sullen, rebellious spirit; a violent temper; and an untoward, intractable disposition. Both my sister and myself have endeavoured to correct his vices, but ineffectually. And I have felt--we both have felt, I may say; my sister being fully in my confidence--that it is right you should receive this grave and dispassionate assurance from our lips.' 'It can hardly be necessary for me to confirm anything stated by my brother,' said Miss Murdstone; 'but I beg to observe, that, of all the boys in the world, I believe this is the worst boy.' 'Strong!' said my aunt, shortly. 'But not at all too strong for the facts,' returned Miss Murdstone. 'Ha!' said my aunt. 'Well, sir?' 'I have my own opinions,' resumed Mr. Murdstone, whose face darkened more and more, the more he and my aunt observed each other, which they did very narrowly, 'as to the best mode of bringing him up; they are founded, in part, on my knowledge of him, and in part on my knowledge of my own means and resources. I am responsible for them to myself, I act upon them, and I say no more about them. It is enough that I place this boy under the eye of a friend of my own, in a respectable business; that it does not please him; that he runs away from it; makes himself a common vagabond about the country; and comes here, in rags, to appeal to you, Miss Trotwood. I wish to set before you, honourably, the exact consequences--so far as they are within my knowledge--of your abetting him in this appeal.' 'But about the respectable business first,' said my aunt. 'If he had been your own boy, you would have put him to it, just the same, I suppose?' 'If he had been my brother's own boy,' returned Miss Murdstone, striking in, 'his character, I trust, would have been altogether different.' 'Or if the poor child, his mother, had been alive, he would still have gone into the respectable business, would he?' said my aunt. 'I believe,' said Mr. Murdstone, with an inclination of his head, 'that Clara would have disputed nothing which myself and my sister Jane Murdstone were agreed was for the best.' Miss Murdstone confirmed this with an audible murmur. 'Humph!' said my aunt. 'Unfortunate baby!' Mr. Dick, who had been rattling his money all this time, was rattling it so loudly now, that my aunt felt it necessary to check him with a look, before saying: 'The poor child's annuity died with her?' 'Died with her,' replied Mr. Murdstone. 'And there was no settlement of the little property--the house and garden--the what's-its-name Rookery without any rooks in it--upon her boy?' 'It had been left to her, unconditionally, by her first husband,' Mr. Murdstone began, when my aunt caught him up with the greatest irascibility and impatience. 'Good Lord, man, there's no occasion to say that. Left to her unconditionally! I think I see David Copperfield looking forward to any condition of any sort or kind, though it stared him point-blank in the face! Of course it was left to her unconditionally. But when she married again--when she took that most disastrous step of marrying you, in short,' said my aunt, 'to be plain--did no one put in a word for the boy at that time?' 'My late wife loved her second husband, ma'am,' said Mr. Murdstone, 'and trusted implicitly in him.' 'Your late wife, sir, was a most unworldly, most unhappy, most unfortunate baby,' returned my aunt, shaking her head at him. 'That's what she was. And now, what have you got to say next?' 'Merely this, Miss Trotwood,' he returned. 'I am here to take David back--to take him back unconditionally, to dispose of him as I think proper, and to deal with him as I think right. I am not here to make any promise, or give any pledge to anybody. You may possibly have some idea, Miss Trotwood, of abetting him in his running away, and in his complaints to you. Your manner, which I must say does not seem intended to propitiate, induces me to think it possible. Now I must caution you that if you abet him once, you abet him for good and all; if you step in between him and me, now, you must step in, Miss Trotwood, for ever. I cannot trifle, or be trifled with. I am here, for the first and last time, to take him away. Is he ready to go? If he is not--and you tell me he is not; on any pretence; it is indifferent to me what--my doors are shut against him henceforth, and yours, I take it for granted, are open to him.' To this address, my aunt had listened with the closest attention, sitting perfectly upright, with her hands folded on one knee, and looking grimly on the speaker. When he had finished, she turned her eyes so as to command Miss Murdstone, without otherwise disturbing her attitude, and said: 'Well, ma'am, have YOU got anything to remark?' 'Indeed, Miss Trotwood,' said Miss Murdstone, 'all that I could say has been so well said by my brother, and all that I know to be the fact has been so plainly stated by him, that I have nothing to add except my thanks for your politeness. For your very great politeness, I am sure,' said Miss Murdstone; with an irony which no more affected my aunt, than it discomposed the cannon I had slept by at Chatham. 'And what does the boy say?' said my aunt. 'Are you ready to go, David?' I answered no, and entreated her not to let me go. I said that neither Mr. nor Miss Murdstone had ever liked me, or had ever been kind to me. That they had made my mama, who always loved me dearly, unhappy about me, and that I knew it well, and that Peggotty knew it. I said that I had been more miserable than I thought anybody could believe, who only knew how young I was. And I begged and prayed my aunt--I forget in what terms now, but I remember that they affected me very much then--to befriend and protect me, for my father's sake. 'Mr. Dick,' said my aunt, 'what shall I do with this child?' Mr. Dick considered, hesitated, brightened, and rejoined, 'Have him measured for a suit of clothes directly.' 'Mr. Dick,' said my aunt triumphantly, 'give me your hand, for your common sense is invaluable.' Having shaken it with great cordiality, she pulled me towards her and said to Mr. Murdstone: 'You can go when you like; I'll take my chance with the boy. If he's all you say he is, at least I can do as much for him then, as you have done. But I don't believe a word of it.' 'Miss Trotwood,' rejoined Mr. Murdstone, shrugging his shoulders, as he rose, 'if you were a gentleman--' 'Bah! Stuff and nonsense!' said my aunt. 'Don't talk to me!' 'How exquisitely polite!' exclaimed Miss Murdstone, rising. 'Overpowering, really!' 'Do you think I don't know,' said my aunt, turning a deaf ear to the sister, and continuing to address the brother, and to shake her head at him with infinite expression, 'what kind of life you must have led that poor, unhappy, misdirected baby? Do you think I don't know what a woeful day it was for the soft little creature when you first came in her way--smirking and making great eyes at her, I'll be bound, as if you couldn't say boh! to a goose!' 'I never heard anything so elegant!' said Miss Murdstone. 'Do you think I can't understand you as well as if I had seen you,' pursued my aunt, 'now that I DO see and hear you--which, I tell you candidly, is anything but a pleasure to me? Oh yes, bless us! who so smooth and silky as Mr. Murdstone at first! The poor, benighted innocent had never seen such a man. He was made of sweetness. He worshipped her. He doted on her boy--tenderly doted on him! He was to be another father to him, and they were all to live together in a garden of roses, weren't they? Ugh! Get along with you, do!' said my aunt. 'I never heard anything like this person in my life!' exclaimed Miss Murdstone. 'And when you had made sure of the poor little fool,' said my aunt--'God forgive me that I should call her so, and she gone where YOU won't go in a hurry--because you had not done wrong enough to her and hers, you must begin to train her, must you? begin to break her, like a poor caged bird, and wear her deluded life away, in teaching her to sing YOUR notes?' 'This is either insanity or intoxication,' said Miss Murdstone, in a perfect agony at not being able to turn the current of my aunt's address towards herself; 'and my suspicion is that it's intoxication.' Miss Betsey, without taking the least notice of the interruption, continued to address herself to Mr. Murdstone as if there had been no such thing. 'Mr. Murdstone,' she said, shaking her finger at him, 'you were a tyrant to the simple baby, and you broke her heart. She was a loving baby--I know that; I knew it, years before you ever saw her--and through the best part of her weakness you gave her the wounds she died of. There is the truth for your comfort, however you like it. And you and your instruments may make the most of it.' 'Allow me to inquire, Miss Trotwood,' interposed Miss Murdstone, 'whom you are pleased to call, in a choice of words in which I am not experienced, my brother's instruments?' 'It was clear enough, as I have told you, years before YOU ever saw her--and why, in the mysterious dispensations of Providence, you ever did see her, is more than humanity can comprehend--it was clear enough that the poor soft little thing would marry somebody, at some time or other; but I did hope it wouldn't have been as bad as it has turned out. That was the time, Mr. Murdstone, when she gave birth to her boy here,' said my aunt; 'to the poor child you sometimes tormented her through afterwards, which is a disagreeable remembrance and makes the sight of him odious now. Aye, aye! you needn't wince!' said my aunt. 'I know it's true without that.' He had stood by the door, all this while, observant of her with a smile upon his face, though his black eyebrows were heavily contracted. I remarked now, that, though the smile was on his face still, his colour had gone in a moment, and he seemed to breathe as if he had been running. 'Good day, sir,' said my aunt, 'and good-bye! Good day to you, too, ma'am,' said my aunt, turning suddenly upon his sister. 'Let me see you ride a donkey over my green again, and as sure as you have a head upon your shoulders, I'll knock your bonnet off, and tread upon it!' It would require a painter, and no common painter too, to depict my aunt's face as she delivered herself of this very unexpected sentiment, and Miss Murdstone's face as she heard it. But the manner of the speech, no less than the matter, was so fiery, that Miss Murdstone, without a word in answer, discreetly put her arm through her brother's, and walked haughtily out of the cottage; my aunt remaining in the window looking after them; prepared, I have no doubt, in case of the donkey's reappearance, to carry her threat into instant execution. No attempt at defiance being made, however, her face gradually relaxed, and became so pleasant, that I was emboldened to kiss and thank her; which I did with great heartiness, and with both my arms clasped round her neck. I then shook hands with Mr. Dick, who shook hands with me a great many times, and hailed this happy close of the proceedings with repeated bursts of laughter. 'You'll consider yourself guardian, jointly with me, of this child, Mr. Dick,' said my aunt. 'I shall be delighted,' said Mr. Dick, 'to be the guardian of David's son.' 'Very good,' returned my aunt, 'that's settled. I have been thinking, do you know, Mr. Dick, that I might call him Trotwood?' 'Certainly, certainly. Call him Trotwood, certainly,' said Mr. Dick. 'David's son's Trotwood.' 'Trotwood Copperfield, you mean,' returned my aunt. 'Yes, to be sure. Yes. Trotwood Copperfield,' said Mr. Dick, a little abashed. My aunt took so kindly to the notion, that some ready-made clothes, which were purchased for me that afternoon, were marked 'Trotwood Copperfield', in her own handwriting, and in indelible marking-ink, before I put them on; and it was settled that all the other clothes which were ordered to be made for me (a complete outfit was bespoke that afternoon) should be marked in the same way. Thus I began my new life, in a new name, and with everything new about me. Now that the state of doubt was over, I felt, for many days, like one in a dream. I never thought that I had a curious couple of guardians, in my aunt and Mr. Dick. I never thought of anything about myself, distinctly. The two things clearest in my mind were, that a remoteness had come upon the old Blunderstone life--which seemed to lie in the haze of an immeasurable distance; and that a curtain had for ever fallen on my life at Murdstone and Grinby's. No one has ever raised that curtain since. I have lifted it for a moment, even in this narrative, with a reluctant hand, and dropped it gladly. The remembrance of that life is fraught with so much pain to me, with so much mental suffering and want of hope, that I have never had the courage even to examine how long I was doomed to lead it. Whether it lasted for a year, or more, or less, I do not know. I only know that it was, and ceased to be; and that I have written, and there I leave it. 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Entschlossen, Miss Betseys Haus in Dover zu erreichen, macht sich David zu Fuß auf den Weg. Er passiert einen kleinen Second-Hand-Kleidungsladen, verkauft seine Weste für eine kleine Summe und verbringt dann die Nacht in einem Heuhaufen in der Nähe der Salem House School. David, eine "staubige, sonnenverbrannte, halb bekleidete Figur", kommt nach sechs Tagen Reise in Dover an und erkundigt sich nach seiner Tante. Nach mehreren erfolglosen Anfragen wird er zu Miss Trotwoods Häuschen geschickt. Als Miss Trotwood den verwahrlosten Bengel in ihrem Garten sieht, fordert sie ihn streng auf: "Geh weg! Verzieh dich! Keine Jungen hier!" Aber als David ihr sagt, wer er ist und wie unglücklich sein Leben seit dem Tod seiner Mutter verlaufen ist, übernimmt sie energisch, aber abrupt die Verantwortung für ihn. Janet, die Haushälterin der Trotwoods, wird angewiesen, ein Bad für David vorzubereiten; in der Zwischenzeit füttert ihn seine Tante mit Brühe. Nach einem Nickerchen bekommt David ein großes Abendessen serviert, während Miss Trotwood über die Torheit der Ehe kommentiert. Das Gespräch wird unterbrochen von ihrem Ruf: "Janet! Esel!" Plötzlich rennen Miss Trotwood und die Haushälterin nach draußen, um die Eselreiter vom Rasen zu jagen. Das ist ein häufiges Ereignis in der Hütte. Der Haushalt besteht aus Miss Trotwood, der Haushälterin und Mr. Dick, einem freundlichen Einfaltspinsel, den Miss Trotwood freundlich behandelt hat. Sie sind alle freundliche Menschen und David fühlt sich glücklich, dort zu sein. Beim Frühstück am nächsten Morgen teilt Miss Trotwood David mit, dass sie an seinen Stiefvater geschrieben hat. David fleht sie an, ihn nicht zurückzuschicken, aber sie bleibt in ihrer Antwort unverbindlich. David besucht Mr. Dick, der gerade einen langen "Memorial" an den Lord Chancellor schreibt. Wenn ein Teil des Manuskripts fertig ist, benutzt Mr. Dick es, um einen riesigen Drachen zu bekleben. Auf diese Weise verteilt Mr. Dick seine "Fakten auf weite Entfernung". David hält ihn für ziemlich verrückt, aber trotzdem für einen harmlosen, freundlichen Kerl. Eine Antwort auf Miss Trotwoods Brief trifft ein, in der steht, dass die Murdstones kommen, um mit ihr über David zu sprechen. David ist vor Angst vor diesem Besuch gelähmt. Als die Murdstones am nächsten Tag ankommen, ziehen sie sich sofort den Zorn von Miss Trotwood zu, indem sie ihre Esel über den Vorgarten führen. Schließlich betreten die Murdstones das Haus und Davids Stiefvater erzählt von den vielen Schwierigkeiten, die er mit dem widerspenstigen Jungen hatte. Miss Trotwood kontert, indem sie sagt, dass sich niemand um Davids Interessen, insbesondere um seine Rente, gekümmert hat und dass seine Mutter schlecht behandelt wurde. Verärgert erklärt Mr. Murdstone, dass, wenn David nicht zurückkehrt, "meine Türen für ihn verschlossen sind..." Miss Trotwood fragt David, ob er zurückkehren möchte, und er antwortet, dass er das nicht möchte; dann fragt sie Mr. Dick, was sie mit dem Jungen tun soll, und nach etwas Überlegung antwortet er: "Lass ihn sofort nach einem Anzug vermessen." Sie bedankt sich bei Mr. Dick für seinen gesunden Menschenverstand und begleitet die Murdstones mit einigen letzten bissigen Bemerkungen aus dem Haus. David hat nun neue Vormünder und seine Tante bestimmt, dass er nun als "Trotwood Copperfield" bekannt sein soll. Und so beginnt David ein neues 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: IV. Congratulatory From the dimly-lighted passages of the court, the last sediment of the human stew that had been boiling there all day, was straining off, when Doctor Manette, Lucie Manette, his daughter, Mr. Lorry, the solicitor for the defence, and its counsel, Mr. Stryver, stood gathered round Mr. Charles Darnay--just released--congratulating him on his escape from death. It would have been difficult by a far brighter light, to recognise in Doctor Manette, intellectual of face and upright of bearing, the shoemaker of the garret in Paris. Yet, no one could have looked at him twice, without looking again: even though the opportunity of observation had not extended to the mournful cadence of his low grave voice, and to the abstraction that overclouded him fitfully, without any apparent reason. While one external cause, and that a reference to his long lingering agony, would always--as on the trial--evoke this condition from the depths of his soul, it was also in its nature to arise of itself, and to draw a gloom over him, as incomprehensible to those unacquainted with his story as if they had seen the shadow of the actual Bastille thrown upon him by a summer sun, when the substance was three hundred miles away. Only his daughter had the power of charming this black brooding from his mind. She was the golden thread that united him to a Past beyond his misery, and to a Present beyond his misery: and the sound of her voice, the light of her face, the touch of her hand, had a strong beneficial influence with him almost always. Not absolutely always, for she could recall some occasions on which her power had failed; but they were few and slight, and she believed them over. Mr. Darnay had kissed her hand fervently and gratefully, and had turned to Mr. Stryver, whom he warmly thanked. Mr. Stryver, a man of little more than thirty, but looking twenty years older than he was, stout, loud, red, bluff, and free from any drawback of delicacy, had a pushing way of shouldering himself (morally and physically) into companies and conversations, that argued well for his shouldering his way up in life. He still had his wig and gown on, and he said, squaring himself at his late client to that degree that he squeezed the innocent Mr. Lorry clean out of the group: "I am glad to have brought you off with honour, Mr. Darnay. It was an infamous prosecution, grossly infamous; but not the less likely to succeed on that account." "You have laid me under an obligation to you for life--in two senses," said his late client, taking his hand. "I have done my best for you, Mr. Darnay; and my best is as good as another man's, I believe." It clearly being incumbent on some one to say, "Much better," Mr. Lorry said it; perhaps not quite disinterestedly, but with the interested object of squeezing himself back again. "You think so?" said Mr. Stryver. "Well! you have been present all day, and you ought to know. You are a man of business, too." "And as such," quoth Mr. Lorry, whom the counsel learned in the law had now shouldered back into the group, just as he had previously shouldered him out of it--"as such I will appeal to Doctor Manette, to break up this conference and order us all to our homes. Miss Lucie looks ill, Mr. Darnay has had a terrible day, we are worn out." "Speak for yourself, Mr. Lorry," said Stryver; "I have a night's work to do yet. Speak for yourself." "I speak for myself," answered Mr. Lorry, "and for Mr. Darnay, and for Miss Lucie, and--Miss Lucie, do you not think I may speak for us all?" He asked her the question pointedly, and with a glance at her father. His face had become frozen, as it were, in a very curious look at Darnay: an intent look, deepening into a frown of dislike and distrust, not even unmixed with fear. With this strange expression on him his thoughts had wandered away. "My father," said Lucie, softly laying her hand on his. He slowly shook the shadow off, and turned to her. "Shall we go home, my father?" With a long breath, he answered "Yes." The friends of the acquitted prisoner had dispersed, under the impression--which he himself had originated--that he would not be released that night. The lights were nearly all extinguished in the passages, the iron gates were being closed with a jar and a rattle, and the dismal place was deserted until to-morrow morning's interest of gallows, pillory, whipping-post, and branding-iron, should repeople it. Walking between her father and Mr. Darnay, Lucie Manette passed into the open air. A hackney-coach was called, and the father and daughter departed in it. Mr. Stryver had left them in the passages, to shoulder his way back to the robing-room. Another person, who had not joined the group, or interchanged a word with any one of them, but who had been leaning against the wall where its shadow was darkest, had silently strolled out after the rest, and had looked on until the coach drove away. He now stepped up to where Mr. Lorry and Mr. Darnay stood upon the pavement. "So, Mr. Lorry! Men of business may speak to Mr. Darnay now?" Nobody had made any acknowledgment of Mr. Carton's part in the day's proceedings; nobody had known of it. He was unrobed, and was none the better for it in appearance. "If you knew what a conflict goes on in the business mind, when the business mind is divided between good-natured impulse and business appearances, you would be amused, Mr. Darnay." Mr. Lorry reddened, and said, warmly, "You have mentioned that before, sir. We men of business, who serve a House, are not our own masters. We have to think of the House more than ourselves." "_I_ know, _I_ know," rejoined Mr. Carton, carelessly. "Don't be nettled, Mr. Lorry. You are as good as another, I have no doubt: better, I dare say." "And indeed, sir," pursued Mr. Lorry, not minding him, "I really don't know what you have to do with the matter. If you'll excuse me, as very much your elder, for saying so, I really don't know that it is your business." "Business! Bless you, _I_ have no business," said Mr. Carton. "It is a pity you have not, sir." "I think so, too." "If you had," pursued Mr. Lorry, "perhaps you would attend to it." "Lord love you, no!--I shouldn't," said Mr. Carton. "Well, sir!" cried Mr. Lorry, thoroughly heated by his indifference, "business is a very good thing, and a very respectable thing. And, sir, if business imposes its restraints and its silences and impediments, Mr. Darnay as a young gentleman of generosity knows how to make allowance for that circumstance. Mr. Darnay, good night, God bless you, sir! I hope you have been this day preserved for a prosperous and happy life.--Chair there!" Perhaps a little angry with himself, as well as with the barrister, Mr. Lorry bustled into the chair, and was carried off to Tellson's. Carton, who smelt of port wine, and did not appear to be quite sober, laughed then, and turned to Darnay: "This is a strange chance that throws you and me together. This must be a strange night to you, standing alone here with your counterpart on these street stones?" "I hardly seem yet," returned Charles Darnay, "to belong to this world again." "I don't wonder at it; it's not so long since you were pretty far advanced on your way to another. You speak faintly." "I begin to think I _am_ faint." "Then why the devil don't you dine? I dined, myself, while those numskulls were deliberating which world you should belong to--this, or some other. Let me show you the nearest tavern to dine well at." Drawing his arm through his own, he took him down Ludgate-hill to Fleet-street, and so, up a covered way, into a tavern. Here, they were shown into a little room, where Charles Darnay was soon recruiting his strength with a good plain dinner and good wine: while Carton sat opposite to him at the same table, with his separate bottle of port before him, and his fully half-insolent manner upon him. "Do you feel, yet, that you belong to this terrestrial scheme again, Mr. Darnay?" "I am frightfully confused regarding time and place; but I am so far mended as to feel that." "It must be an immense satisfaction!" He said it bitterly, and filled up his glass again: which was a large one. "As to me, the greatest desire I have, is to forget that I belong to it. It has no good in it for me--except wine like this--nor I for it. So we are not much alike in that particular. Indeed, I begin to think we are not much alike in any particular, you and I." Confused by the emotion of the day, and feeling his being there with this Double of coarse deportment, to be like a dream, Charles Darnay was at a loss how to answer; finally, answered not at all. "Now your dinner is done," Carton presently said, "why don't you call a health, Mr. Darnay; why don't you give your toast?" "What health? What toast?" "Why, it's on the tip of your tongue. It ought to be, it must be, I'll swear it's there." "Miss Manette, then!" "Miss Manette, then!" Looking his companion full in the face while he drank the toast, Carton flung his glass over his shoulder against the wall, where it shivered to pieces; then, rang the bell, and ordered in another. "That's a fair young lady to hand to a coach in the dark, Mr. Darnay!" he said, filling his new goblet. A slight frown and a laconic "Yes," were the answer. "That's a fair young lady to be pitied by and wept for by! How does it feel? Is it worth being tried for one's life, to be the object of such sympathy and compassion, Mr. Darnay?" Again Darnay answered not a word. "She was mightily pleased to have your message, when I gave it her. Not that she showed she was pleased, but I suppose she was." The allusion served as a timely reminder to Darnay that this disagreeable companion had, of his own free will, assisted him in the strait of the day. He turned the dialogue to that point, and thanked him for it. "I neither want any thanks, nor merit any," was the careless rejoinder. "It was nothing to do, in the first place; and I don't know why I did it, in the second. Mr. Darnay, let me ask you a question." "Willingly, and a small return for your good offices." "Do you think I particularly like you?" "Really, Mr. Carton," returned the other, oddly disconcerted, "I have not asked myself the question." "But ask yourself the question now." "You have acted as if you do; but I don't think you do." "_I_ don't think I do," said Carton. "I begin to have a very good opinion of your understanding." "Nevertheless," pursued Darnay, rising to ring the bell, "there is nothing in that, I hope, to prevent my calling the reckoning, and our parting without ill-blood on either side." Carton rejoining, "Nothing in life!" Darnay rang. "Do you call the whole reckoning?" said Carton. On his answering in the affirmative, "Then bring me another pint of this same wine, drawer, and come and wake me at ten." The bill being paid, Charles Darnay rose and wished him good night. Without returning the wish, Carton rose too, with something of a threat of defiance in his manner, and said, "A last word, Mr. Darnay: you think I am drunk?" "I think you have been drinking, Mr. Carton." "Think? You know I have been drinking." "Since I must say so, I know it." "Then you shall likewise know why. I am a disappointed drudge, sir. I care for no man on earth, and no man on earth cares for me." "Much to be regretted. You might have used your talents better." "May be so, Mr. Darnay; may be not. Don't let your sober face elate you, however; you don't know what it may come to. Good night!" When he was left alone, this strange being took up a candle, went to a glass that hung against the wall, and surveyed himself minutely in it. "Do you particularly like the man?" he muttered, at his own image; "why should you particularly like a man who resembles you? There is nothing in you to like; you know that. Ah, confound you! What a change you have made in yourself! A good reason for taking to a man, that he shows you what you have fallen away from, and what you might have been! Change places with him, and would you have been looked at by those blue eyes as he was, and commiserated by that agitated face as he was? Come on, and have it out in plain words! You hate the fellow." He resorted to his pint of wine for consolation, drank it all in a few minutes, and fell asleep on his arms, with his hair straggling over the table, and a long winding-sheet in the candle dripping down upon him. Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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

Der beglückwünschende Dr. Manette, Lucie, Mr. Lorry, der Anwalt der Verteidigung und Mr. Stryver beglückwünschen alle Darnay zu seiner Flucht vor dem Tod. Das Gesicht von Dr. Manette ist von den negativen Emotionen getrübt, die durch das Verhör über seine Gefangenschaft verursacht werden. Die Manettes fahren in einer Kutsche fort, und der leicht betrunkene Mr. Carton bittet darum, mit Mr. Darnay sprechen zu dürfen. Sie speisen in einer Schänke, und Mr. Carton schlägt einen Toast auf Miss Manette vor. Nachdem Darnay gegangen ist, betrachtet sich Mr. Carton im Spiegel und überlegt, dass er Darnay nicht mag, weil dieser ihm zu sehr ähnelt, dem, was Carton selbst hätte sein können, wenn er nicht so zügellos gewesen wäre. Er hasst Darnay dafür, dass er Miss Manette dazu inspiriert hat, ihn mit so viel Mitgefühl anzuschauen.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Kapitel: Am Morgen nach diesem bedauernswerten Tag voller Kopfschmerzen, Übelkeit und Reue war ich dabei, meine Tür zu verlassen. Mein Geist war verwirrt bezüglich des Datums meines Abendessens, als ob eine Gruppe von Titanen einen enormen Hebel genommen und den Vorgestern um einige Monate zurückgeschoben hätte. In diesem Moment sah ich einen Gepäckträger die Treppe hinaufkommen, mit einem Brief in der Hand. Er nahm sich Zeit für seine Aufgabe, aber als er mich oben auf der Treppe sah und bemerkte, wie ich ihn über das Geländer hinweg ansah, fing er an zu traben und kam keuchend die Treppe hinauf, als hätte er sich selbst in einen erschöpften Zustand gerannt. "T. Copperfield, Esquire", sagte der Gepäckträger und tippte mit seinem kleinen Stock an seinen Hut. Ich konnte mir kaum einen Anspruch auf den Namen erheben: Ich war so beunruhigt von der Gewissheit, dass der Brief von Agnes kam. Trotzdem sagte ich ihm, dass ich T. Copperfield, Esquire sei, und er glaubte es mir und übergab mir den Brief, der angeblich eine Antwort erforderte. Ich sperrte ihn auf dem Treppenabsatz aus, um auf die Antwort zu warten, und ging wieder in meine Kanzlei, in einem so nervösen Zustand, dass ich den Brief auf meinem Frühstückstisch ablegen musste und ihn mir von außen ein wenig vertraut machen musste, bevor ich mich dazu entschließen konnte, das Siegel zu brechen. Als ich ihn öffnete, stellte ich fest, dass es ein sehr freundlicher Brief war, der keinen Bezug zu meinem Zustand im Theater enthielt. Alles, was darin stand, war: "Mein lieber Trotwood. Ich wohne im Haus von Papas Agenten, Herrn Waterbrook, in Ely Place, Holborn. Würden Sie heute kommen und mich besuchen, zu der Zeit, die Ihnen am besten passt? In inniger Zuneigung, AGNES." Es dauerte eine Ewigkeit, um überhaupt eine Antwort zu schreiben, die mich zufriedenstellte. Ich weiß nicht, was der Gepäckträger gedacht haben kann, es sei denn, er dachte, ich würde das Schreiben lernen. Ich muss mindestens ein halbes Dutzend Antworten verfasst haben. Ich fing an mit: "Wie kann ich, meine liebe Agnes, jemals hoffen, den ekelhaften Eindruck aus deiner Erinnerung zu löschen?" - das gefiel mir nicht und ich zerriss es. Dann begann ich mit: "Shakespeare hat bemerkt, meine liebe Agnes, wie seltsam es ist, dass ein Mann einen Feind in seinen Mund steckt" - das erinnerte mich an Markham und ich kam nicht weiter. Ich versuchte es sogar mit Poesie. Ich begann eine Notiz mit einer sechssilbigen Zeile: "Oh, vergiss nicht" - aber das brachte mich mit dem fünften November in Verbindung und wurde lächerlich. Nach vielen Versuchen schrieb ich: "Meine liebe Agnes. Dein Brief ist wie du und was könnte ich von ihm sagen, das höheres Lob wäre als das? Ich werde um vier Uhr kommen. In Zuneigung und Traurigkeit, T.C." Mit dieser Botschaft (bei der ich zwanzig Mal daran dachte, sie zurückzurufen, sobald sie aus meinen Händen war) verabschiedete sich schließlich der Gepäckträger. Wenn der Tag für jeden anderen Fachmann in den Gerichtsgebäuden von Doktoren Commons nur halb so schrecklich gewesen wäre wie für mich, dann glaube ich aufrichtig, dass er für seinen Anteil an diesem verrotteten alten kirchlichen Käse Buße getan hat. Obwohl ich das Büro um halb vier verlassen hatte und kurz darauf den vereinbarten Ort erreichte, vergingen laut der Uhr von St. Andrew's, Holborn, eine volle Viertelstunde über die vereinbarte Zeit, bevor ich genug Verzweiflung aufbrachte, um den privaten Klingelknopf zu betätigen, der in den linken Türpfosten von Mr. Waterbrooks Haus eingelassen war. Das geschäftliche Treiben von Mr. Waterbrooks Einrichtung fand im Erdgeschoss statt, und das vornehme Geschäft (von dem es viel gab) im oberen Teil des Gebäudes. Man führte mich in ein hübsches, aber eher stickiges Wohnzimmer und dort saß Agnes und knüpfte eine Geldbörse. Sie sah so ruhig und gut aus und erinnerte mich so stark an meine unbeschwerten Schulzeit in Canterbury und den verkommenen, vernebelten, dummen Trottel, den ich in der vergangenen Nacht gewesen war, dass ich, da niemand da war, meinen Selbstvorwürfen und meiner Scham nachgab und - kurz gesagt - mich zum Narren machte. Ich kann nicht leugnen, dass ich Tränen vergoss. Bis zu diesem Moment wusste ich nicht, ob es klug oder lächerlich von mir war. "Wenn es jemand anders als du gewesen wäre, Agnes", sagte ich, meinen Kopf abwendend, "hätte es mir halb so viel ausgemacht. Aber dass du mich gesehen hast! Ich wünschte fast, ich wäre zuerst gestorben." Sie legte für einen Moment ihre Hand - ihre Berührung war wie keine andere Hand - auf meinen Arm und ich fühlte mich so unterstützt und getröstet, dass ich nicht anders konnte, als sie zu meinen Lippen zu bewegen und ihr dankbar darauf zu küssen. "Setz dich", sagte Agnes fröhlich. "Sei nicht unglücklich, Trotwood. Wenn du mir nicht vertrauen kannst, wem dann?" "Ach, Agnes!" erwiderte ich. "Du bist mein guter Engel!" Sie lächelte eher traurig, wie ich dachte, und schüttelte den Kopf. "Ja, Agnes, mein guter Engel! Immer mein guter Engel!" "Wenn ich wirklich dein guter Engel wäre, Trotwood", antwortete sie, "gibt es eine Sache, die mir sehr am Herzen liegen würde." Ich schaute sie fragend an, während ich ihre Bedeutung bereits vorausahnte. "Dich davor zu warnen", sagte Agnes mit einem festen Blick, "deinen bösen Engel zu treffen." "Meine liebe Agnes", begann ich, "wenn du damit Steerforth meinst -" "Genau das meine ich, Trotwood", erwiderte sie. "Aber Agnes, du machst ihm völlig unrecht. Er ist mein böser Engel oder der von irgendjemand anderem! Er ist alles andere als ein Führer, eine Stütze und ein Freund für mich! Meine liebe Agnes! Ist das nicht ungerecht und untypisch von dir, ihn nach dem zu beurteilen, was du von mir in der anderen Nacht gesehen hast?" "Ich urteile nicht nach dem, was ich von dir in der anderen Nacht gesehen habe", antwortete sie ruhig. "Worüber denn?" "Über viele Dinge - Kleinigkeiten an sich, aber sie scheinen mir nicht so zu sein, wenn man sie zusammenfügt. Ich urteile teilweise nach deiner Schilderung von ihm, Trotwood, und nach deinem Charakter und dem Einfluss, den er auf dich hat." Es lag immer etwas in ihrer bescheidenen Stimme, das schien eine Saite in mir anzuschlagen, die nur auf diesen Klang reagierte. Sie war immer ernsthaft, aber wenn sie besonders ernsthaft war, wie jetzt, lag darin eine so starke Erregung, dass ich ganz unterworfen war. Ich saß da und schaute sie an, als sie ihre Augen auf ihre Arbeit senkte. Ich saß da und schien immer noch ihr zuzuhören, und Steerforth - trotz meiner starken Bindung an ihn - verblich in diesem Ton. "Es ist sehr kühn von mir", sagte Agnes und schaute wieder auf, "die ich in so abgeschiedener Stille gelebt habe und so wenig von der Welt weiß, Ihnen meinen Rat so selbstbewusst zu geben, oder sogar diese starke Meinung zu haben. Aber ich weiß, woraus sie entstanden ist, Trotwood, - aus einer wahren Erinnerung daran, dass wir zusammen aufgewachsen sind, und aus einem wahren Interesse an allem, was dich betrifft. Das ist es, was mich mutig macht. Ich bin sicher, dass das, was ich Sie hätte das Thema so abgetan, aber ich war zu sehr damit beschäftigt, um das zuzulassen, und bestand darauf, ihr zu erzählen, wie es dazu gekommen war, dass ich mich blamiert hatte, und welche Kette von zufälligen Umständen das Theater als letzten Link hatte. Es war eine große Erleichterung für mich, dies zu tun und auf die Verpflichtung einzugehen, die ich Steerforth für seine Fürsorge mir gegenüber schuldete, als ich nicht für mich selbst sorgen konnte. "Du darfst nicht vergessen", sagte Agnes ruhig und wechselte sofort das Thema, als ich geendet hatte, "dass du mir immer alles sagen sollst, nicht nur wenn du in Schwierigkeiten gerätst, sondern auch wenn du dich verliebst. Wer ist Miss Larkins nachgefolgt, Trotwood?" "Niemand, Agnes." "Jemand, Trotwood", sagte Agnes lachend und hob den Finger. "Nein, Agnes, wirklich! In Mrs. Steerforths Haus gibt es sicher eine Dame, die sehr clever ist und mit der ich gerne rede - Miss Dartle - aber ich vergöttere sie nicht." Agnes lachte erneut über ihre eigene Durchsichtigkeit und erzählte mir, dass sie, wenn ich ihr gegenüber treu in meiner Vertrautheit sei, eine Art Register über meine heftigen Schwärmereien führen wollte, mit Datum, Dauer und Ende jeder einzelnen, ähnlich wie die Tabelle der Herrschaft der Könige und Königinnen in der Geschichte Englands. Dann fragte sie mich, ob ich Uriah gesehen hätte. "Uriah Heep?", sagte ich. "Nein. Ist er in London?" "Er kommt jeden Tag ins Büro unten", erwiderte Agnes. "Er war eine Woche vor mir in London. Ich fürchte, es geht um unangenehme Geschäfte, Trotwood." "Um Geschäfte, die dir Sorgen machen, Agnes, sehe ich", sagte ich. "Was könnte das sein?" Agnes legte ihre Arbeit beiseite, faltete die Hände ineinander und schaute nachdenklich mit ihren wunderschönen sanften Augen zu mir auf. "Ich glaube, er plant, eine Partnerschaft mit Papa einzugehen", sagte sie. "Was? Uriah? Dieser gemeine, kriecherische Kerl drängt sich auf diese Weise vorwärts!", rief ich empört aus. "Hast du keinen Einspruch dagegen erhoben, Agnes? Bedenke, welche Beziehung das wahrscheinlich sein wird. Du musst dich aussprechen. Du darfst deinen Vater nicht einen solch verrückten Schritt tun lassen. Du musst es verhindern, Agnes, solange es noch Zeit ist." Agnes schüttelte während meiner Worte den Kopf und lächelte leicht über meine Erregung und antwortete dann: "Erinnerst du dich an unser letztes Gespräch über Papa? Es war nicht lange danach - nicht mehr als zwei oder drei Tage - da gab er mir den ersten Hinweis darauf, von dem ich dir erzähle. Es war traurig anzusehen, wie er mit seinem Wunsch, es mir als eine freie Entscheidung seinerseits darzustellen, kämpfte und gleichzeitig nicht verbergen konnte, dass es ihm aufgezwungen wurde. Mir tat es sehr leid." "Aufgezwungen, Agnes! Wer zwingt ihn dazu?" "Uriah", antwortete sie nach kurzem Zögern, "hat sich für Papa unentbehrlich gemacht. Er ist schlau und wachsam. Er hat Papas Schwächen erkannt, gefördert und ausgenutzt, bis... um es kurz zu sagen, Trotwood, Papa Angst vor ihm hat." Es gab noch mehr, das sie hätte sagen können, mehr, das sie wusste oder vermutete; das sah ich deutlich. Ich wollte ihr keine Schmerzen bereiten, indem ich danach fragte, denn ich wusste, dass sie es mir aus Rücksicht auf ihren Vater vorenthielt. Es ging schon lange so, dessen war ich mir bewusst: ja, ich konnte nicht umhin zu spüren, bei auch nur geringster Überlegung, dass es schon lange so gekommen war. Ich schwieg. "Sein Einfluss auf Papa", sagte Agnes, "ist sehr groß. Er gibt sich demütig und dankbar - möglicherweise auch wahrhaftig: Ich hoffe es -, aber seine Position ist tatsächlich eine von Macht, und ich befürchte, er nutzt seine Macht rücksichtslos aus." Ich sagte, dass er ein Schuft sei, was mich in diesem Moment sehr zufriedenstellte. "Zu der Zeit, von der ich spreche, als Papa mit mir sprach", fuhr Agnes fort, "hatte er Papa gesagt, dass er gehen würde; dass er sehr bedauere und ungern gehe, aber dass er bessere Aussichten habe. Papa war damals sehr niedergeschlagen und noch mehr von Kummer gebeugt als du und ich ihn je gesehen haben; aber er schien erleichtert durch diese Lösung der Partnerschaft, obwohl er gleichzeitig verletzt und beschämt davon war." "Und wie hast du es aufgenommen, Agnes?" "Ich habe, Trotwood", antwortete sie, "getan, was ich für richtig hielt. Da ich sicher war, dass es für Papas Seelenfrieden notwendig war, dass das Opfer erfolgte, habe ich ihn angefleht, es zu bringen. Ich sagte, es würde die Last seines Lebens erleichtern - ich hoffe, es wird so sein! - und mir erhöhte Möglichkeiten bieten, sein Begleiter zu sein. Oh, Trotwood!", rief Agnes aus, als sie ihre Hände vor ihr Gesicht legte und Tränen daran hinabrannen, "ich fühle fast wie eine Feindin meines Vaters, anstatt sein liebendes Kind. Denn ich weiß, wie er sich mir gegenüber verändert hat. Ich weiß, wie er den Kreis seiner Sympathien und Pflichten eingeschränkt hat, indem er seine ganze Aufmerksamkeit auf mich gerichtet hat. Ich weiß, wie viele Dinge er meinetwegen ausgeschlossen hat und wie seine besorgten Gedanken über mich sein Leben überschatten und seine Kraft und Energie schwächen, indem er sie immer nur auf eine Idee lenkt. Wenn ich das doch wieder gutmachen könnte! Wenn ich seine Wiederherstellung bewirken könnte, wie ich so unschuldig die Ursache für seinen Niedergang war!" Ich hatte Agnes noch nie zuvor weinen sehen. Ich hatte Tränen in ihren Augen gesehen, als ich neue Auszeichnungen von der Schule mitbrachte, und ich hatte sie auch dort gesehen, als wir zuletzt über ihren Vater sprachen, und ich hatte gesehen, wie sie ihren sanften Kopf abwandte, als wir uns voneinander verabschiedeten; aber ich hatte sie noch nie so traurig gesehen. Es machte mich so traurig, dass ich nur auf eine törichte, hilflose Weise sagen konnte: "Bete, Agnes, bitte! Bitte, meine liebe Schwester, tu das nicht!" Aber Agnes war meiner Überredungskunst, wie ich jetzt gut weiß, in Charakter und Ziel überlegen, egal ob ich damals etwas davon wusste oder nicht, und bedurfte nicht lange meiner Bitten. Der wunderschöne, ruhige Ausdruck, der sie in meiner Erinnerung so anders macht als alle anderen, kehrte zurück, als wäre eine Wolke von einem heiteren Himmel gezogen worden. "Wir werden nicht mehr lange alleine bleiben", sagte Agnes, "und solange ich die Gelegenheit habe, bitte ich dich inständig, Trotwood, Uriah freundlich zu behandeln. Weise ihn nicht ab. Missbillige nicht (wie ich denke, dass du dies generell tust), was dir an ihm unsympathisch erscheint. Er verdient es vielleicht nicht, denn wir wissen nichts Bestimmtes Schlechtes über ihn. In jedem Fall denke zuerst an Papa und mich!" Agnes hatte keine Zeit, mehr zu sagen, denn die Zimmertür öffnete sich und Mrs. Waterbrook, die eine stattliche Dame war - oder die ein stattliches Kleid trug: Ich weiß es nicht genau, denn ich weiß nicht, was Kleid und was Dame war - kam herein geschwebt. Ich erinnerte mich vage daran, sie im Theater gesehen zu haben, als ob ich sie in einem blassen Zauberlicht gesehen hätte, aber sie schien sich perfekt an Ich fand Mr. Waterbrook als einen Mittelalternter Herrn, mit einem kurzen Hals und einem ziemlich großen Hemdkragen, der nur eine schwarze Nase brauchte, um das Porträt eines Möpshunds zu sein. Er erzählte mir, dass es ihm eine Ehre sei, meine Bekanntschaft zu machen. Und nachdem ich meinen Respekt gegenüber Mrs. Waterbrook gezeigt hatte, stellte er mich mit großer Zeremonie einer sehr ehrfurchteinflößenden Dame in einem schwarzen Samtkleid und einem großen schwarzen Samthut vor, an die ich mich erinnere, dass sie wie eine entfernte Verwandte von Hamlet aussah - sagen wir seine Tante. Der Name dieser Dame war Mrs. Henry Spiker, und auch ihr Ehemann war da: so ein kalter Mann, dass sein Kopf nicht grau, sondern mit Reif bedeckt zu sein schien. Den Henry Spikers wurde eine enorme Ehrerbietung entgegengebracht, männlich und weiblich; was Agnes mir sagte, hing mit Mr. Henry Spiker zusammen, der irgendwas oder irgendjemandem abhängig ist, ich erinnere mich nicht genau was oder welches, das fern mit dem Schatzamt verbunden ist. Ich fand Uriah Heep unter den Gästen in einem schwarzen Anzug und in tiefer Demut. Er sagte mir, als ich ihm die Hand schüttelte, dass er stolz sei, von mir beachtet zu werden, und dass er mir für meine Herablassung wirklich dankbar sei. Ich hätte mir gewünscht, er wäre weniger auf mich angewiesen, denn er schwebte den Rest des Abends dankbar um mich herum. Und immer wenn ich ein Wort zu Agnes sagte, war er sicher, mit seinen schattenlosen Augen und seinem gräulichen Gesicht, von hinten grässlich auf uns herabzublicken. Es gab noch andere Gäste - alle für den Anlass wie der Wein vereist, wie mir schien. Aber es gab einen, der meine Aufmerksamkeit erregte, noch bevor er hereinkam, wegen seiner Ankündigung als Mr. Traddles! Mein Gedächtnis flog zurück zur Salem House; und konnte es Tommy sein, dachte ich, der die Skelette zeichnete! Ich suchte Mr. Traddles mit ungewöhnlichem Interesse. Er war ein nüchtern aussehender junger Mann mit zurückhaltendem Auftreten, mit komischem Haar und Augen, die ziemlich weit geöffnet waren; und er verschwand so schnell in einer dunklen Ecke, dass ich Schwierigkeiten hatte, ihn auszumachen. Schließlich hatte ich einen guten Blick auf ihn, und entweder täuschte mich mein Blick, oder es war der alte unglückliche Tommy. Ich ging zu Mr. Waterbrook und sagte ihm, dass ich glaube, einen alten Schulkameraden dort zu sehen. "Wirklich!" sagte Mr. Waterbrook überrascht. "Du bist zu jung, um mit Mr. Henry Spiker in derselben Schule gewesen zu sein?" "Oh, ich meine ihn nicht!" erwiderte ich. "Ich meine den Herrn namens Traddles." "Oh! Ah, ja! In der Tat!" sagte mein Gastgeber mit großem Interesse. "Möglich." "Wenn es wirklich dieselbe Person ist", sagte ich und sah zu ihm hinüber, "war es an einem Ort namens Salem House, wo wir zusammen waren, und er war ein ausgezeichneter Kerl." "Oh ja. Traddles ist ein guter Kerl", antwortete mein Gastgeber und nickte mit dem Kopf, als ob er es tolerieren würde. "Traddles ist wirklich ein guter Kerl." "Es ist ein merkwürdiger Zufall", sagte ich. "Ja, wirklich", erwiderte mein Gastgeber, "ein richtiger Zufall, dass Traddles überhaupt hier ist: denn Traddles wurde erst heute Morgen eingeladen, als der Platz am Tisch, der für Mrs. Henry Spikers Bruder vorgesehen war, infolge seiner Erkrankung frei geworden ist. Ein sehr vornehmer Mann, der Bruder von Mrs. Henry Spiker, Mr. Copperfield." Ich murmelte meine Zustimmung, die voller Gefühl war, wenn man bedenkt, dass ich überhaupt nichts über ihn wusste, und fragte, was Mr. Traddles beruflich machte. "Traddles", antwortete Mr. Waterbrook, "ist ein junger Mann, der Jura studiert. Ja. Er ist wirklich ein guter Kerl - der Feind von niemandem außer sich selbst." "Ist er sein eigener Feind?" sagte ich, bedauernd dies zu hören. "Nun", erwiderte Mr. Waterbrook und kniff die Lippen zusammen, spielte mit seiner Uhrenkette auf eine angenehme, wohlhabende Art. "Ich würde sagen, er ist einer von diesen Männern, die sich selbst im Weg stehen. Ja, ich würde sagen, er wird niemals zum Beispiel fünfhundert Pfund wert sein. Traddles wurde mir von einem beruflichen Freund empfohlen. Oh ja. Ja. Er hat eine Art Talent, Rechtsschriften zu erstellen und einen Fall schriftlich klar darzulegen. Ich kann Traddles im Laufe des Jahres in gewisser Weise unterstützen; etwas - für ihn - Bedeutendes. Oh ja. Ja." Ich war sehr beeindruckt von der äußerst komfortablen und zufriedenen Art und Weise, wie Mr. Waterbrook das kleine Wort "Ja" immer wieder aussprach. Es war eine wunderbare Ausdrucksweise. Es vermittelte vollständig die Vorstellung eines Mannes, der nicht nur mit einem silbernen Löffel, sondern mit einer Leiter geboren wurde und sich Stufen um Stufen des Lebens hinaufgearbeitet hatte, bis er jetzt, vom Höhepunkt der Festungsanlagen aus, mit den Augen eines Philosophen und Mäzens auf die Menschen in den Schützengräben hinabblickte. Meine Gedanken zu diesem Thema waren noch im Gange, als das Abendessen angekündigt wurde. Mr. Waterbrook ging mit Hamlets Tante hinunter. Mr. Henry Spiker nahm Mrs. Waterbrook mit. Agnes, die ich gerne selbst mitgenommen hätte, bekam einen kichernden Kerl mit schwachen Beinen. Uriah, Traddles und ich, als jüngerer Teil der Gesellschaft, gingen so schnell wie möglich hinunter. Ich war nicht so verärgert darüber, Agnes zu verlieren, wie ich es hätte sein können, da es mir die Gelegenheit gab, Traddles auf der Treppe bekannt zu machen, der mich mit großer Begeisterung begrüßte, während Uriah sich vor Zufriedenheit und Unterwürfigkeit wand, dass ich ihn gerne über das Geländer geworfen hätte. Traddles und ich wurden am Tisch getrennt und in zwei entfernte Ecken billettiert: er im Glanz einer roten Samtdame; ich im Dunkel von Hamlets Tante. Das Abendessen dauerte sehr lange, und die Unterhaltung drehte sich um die Aristokratie - und um Blut. Mrs. Waterbrook sagte uns wiederholt, dass, wenn sie eine Schwäche habe, es das Blut sei. Mir kam mehrmals in den Sinn, dass wir besser zurechtgekommen wären, wenn wir nicht ganz so vornehm gewesen wären. Wir waren so unglaublich vornehm, dass unser Horizont sehr begrenzt war. Ein Herr und Frau Gulpidge waren dabei, die in gewisser Hinsicht etwas mit dem Rechtsgeschäft der Bank zu tun hatten (zumindest Herr Gulpidge hatte). Und mit der Bank, und auch mit dem Schatzamt, waren wir so exklusiv wie der Hofberichterstatter. Um die Angelegenheit noch zu verschlimmern, hatte Hamlets Tante die familiäre Angewohnheit, Monologe zu halten und in einem abschweifenden Stil über jedes Thema zu sprechen, das angesprochen wurde. Zugegeben, es gab nicht viele, aber da wir immer wieder auf Blut zurückkamen, hatte sie ein genauso weites Feld für abstrakte Spekulationen wie ihr Neffe selbst. Wir hätten eine Gruppe von Ogern sein können, die Unterhaltung nahm einen so blutbesessenen Charakter an. "Ich gestehe, ich teile Mrs Diese Stimmung, die die allgemeine Frage in eine Nussschale packt, sorgte für höchste Zufriedenheit und brachte den Herrn in große Aufmerksamkeit, bis die Damen sich zurückzogen. Danach bemerkte ich, dass Herr Gulpidge und Herr Henry Spiker, die zuvor sehr distanziert gewesen waren, eine Verteidigungsallianz gegen uns, den gemeinsamen Feind, eingingen und einen mysteriösen Dialog über den Tisch hinweg führten, um uns zu besiegen und zu stürzen. "Diese Angelegenheit der ersten Anleihe über viertausendfünfhundert Pfund hat nicht den erwarteten Verlauf genommen, Spiker", sagte Herr Gulpidge. "Meinen Sie die D. von A.?", sagte Herr Spiker. "Die C. von B.!", sagte Herr Gulpidge. Herr Spiker hob die Augenbrauen und wirkte sehr besorgt. "Als die Frage an Lord - ich muss seinen Namen nicht nennen", sagte Herr Gulpidge und hielt inne - "Ich verstehe", sagte Herr Spiker, "N." Herr Gulpidge nickte düster - "wurde an ihn verwiesen, war seine Antwort: "Geld oder keine Freilassung." "Guter Herr!" rief Herr Spiker. "'Geld oder keine Freilassung'", wiederholte Herr Gulpidge fest. "Der Nächste in der Erbfolge - Sie verstehen mich?" "K.", sagte Herr Spiker mit einem beunruhigenden Blick. "--K. hat dann eindeutig abgelehnt zu unterschreiben. Er war dafür in Newmarket, und er hat es rundweg abgelehnt." Herr Spiker war so interessiert, dass er wie versteinert wirkte. "So steht die Sache bis heute", sagte Herr Gulpidge und lehnte sich in seinem Stuhl zurück. "Unser Freund Waterbrook wird es mir verzeihen, wenn ich mich aufgrund der Wichtigkeit der beteiligten Interessen nicht allgemein erkläre." Für Mr. Waterbrook schien es mir nur zu glücklich zu sein, solche Interessen und solche Namen auch nur angedeutet zu haben. Er nahm einen Ausdruck düsterer Intelligenz an (obwohl ich überzeugt war, dass er von der Diskussion nicht mehr wusste als ich) und hob die hohe Anerkennung für die diskrete Vorgehensweise, die beobachtet worden war. Herr Spiker wollte nach dem Erhalt eines solchen Vertrauens natürlich seinem Freund ein eigenes Vertrauen schenken; daher wurde der vorherige Dialog von einem anderen abgelöst, in dem Herr Gulpidge überrascht war, gefolgt von einem anderen, in dem die Überraschung wiederum auf Herrn Spiker überging, und so weiter, abwechselnd. Die ganze Zeit blieben wir Außenseiter von den gewaltigen Interessen der Unterhaltung bedrückt, und unser Gastgeber betrachtete uns stolz als Opfer eines heilsamen Ehrfurcht und Erstaunen. Ich war sehr froh, zu Agnes nach oben zu kommen, um mit ihr in einer Ecke zu reden und Traddles ihr vorzustellen, der schüchtern, aber liebenswert war und immer noch dieselbe gutmütige Kreatur. Da er früh gehen musste, weil er am nächsten Morgen für einen Monat verreisen würde, hatte ich nicht so viel Gelegenheit, mit ihm zu reden, wie ich gewünscht hätte; aber wir tauschten Adressen aus und versprachen uns das Vergnügen eines weiteren Treffens, wenn er wieder in die Stadt kommen würde. Er war sehr interessiert zu hören, dass ich Steerforth kannte, und sprach so warm von ihm, dass ich ihn Agnes erzählen ließ, was er von ihm hielt. Aber Agnes sah mich nur an und schüttelte nur leicht den Kopf, als ich es bemerkte. Da sie nicht bei Leuten war, mit denen ich glaubte, dass sie sich sehr wohl fühlen könnte, war ich fast froh zu hören, dass sie innerhalb weniger Tage weggehen würde, obwohl ich traurig über den Gedanken war, mich so bald wieder von ihr zu trennen. Das veranlasste mich, zu bleiben, bis alle Gäste gegangen waren. Mit ihr zu sprechen und sie singen zu hören, erinnerte mich so angenehm an mein glückliches Leben in dem alten Haus, das sie so schön gemacht hatte, dass ich die halbe Nacht dort hätte bleiben können. Aber da ich keine Ausrede hatte, um noch länger zu bleiben, als die Lichter von Mr. Waterbrooks Gesellschaft alle erloschen waren, verabschiedete ich mich sehr widerwillig. Ich fühlte dann mehr denn je, dass sie mein besserer Engel war; und wenn ich an ihr süßes Gesicht und ihr ruhiges Lächeln dachte, als ob sie auf mich von einem entfernten Wesen aus wie ein Engel scheinen würden, hoffe ich, dass ich nichts Böses dachte. Ich habe gesagt, dass alle Gäste gegangen waren; aber ich hätte Uriah ausgenommen, den ich nicht zu dieser Bezeichnung zähle, und der nie aufgehört hat, in unserer Nähe zu schweben. Er war ganz nah bei mir, als ich die Treppe hinunterging. Er war dicht neben mir, als ich langsam vom Haus wegging und seine langen skelettartigen Finger in die noch längeren Finger eines riesigen Guy-Fawkes-Handschuhpaares steckte. Es war keine Veranlassung für Uriahs Gesellschaft, sondern in Erinnerung an das Flehen, das Agnes an mich gerichtet hatte, dass ich ihn fragte, ob er mit nach Hause zu meinen Zimmern kommen und etwas Kaffee trinken wolle. "Oh, wirklich, Master Copperfield", erwiderte er, "ich bitte um Verzeihung, Mister Copperfield, aber das andere klingt so natürlich, ich möchte nicht, dass Sie sich zwingen, eine unbedeutende Person wie mich in Ihr Haus einzuladen." "In diesem Fall gibt es keine Verpflichtung", sagte ich. "Kommst du?" "Ich würde gerne sehr", antwortete Uriah mit einer Verrenkung. "Nun, dann komm mit!" sagte ich. Ich konnte nicht anders, als etwas grob zu ihm zu sein, aber anscheinend störte es ihn nicht. Wir gingen den kürzesten Weg, ohne viel auf dem Weg zu reden; und er war so demütig in Bezug auf diese Vogelscheuchen-Handschuhe, dass er immer noch dabei war, sie anzuziehen und anscheinend keine Fortschritte gemacht hatte, als wir zu meinem Platz kamen. Ich führte ihn die dunkle Treppe hinauf, um zu verhindern, dass er seinen Kopf an etwas stößt, und seine kalte, feuchte Hand fühlte sich so an wie ein Frosch in meiner Hand, dass ich versucht war, sie fallen zu lassen und wegzulaufen. Agnes und Gastfreundschaft setzten sich jedoch durch, und ich führte ihn zu meinem Kamin. Als ich meine Kerzen anzündete, geriet er in bescheidene Verzückung über den Raum, der sich ihm offenbarte; und als ich den Kaffee in einem bescheidenen Zinngefäß, in dem Frau Crupp es gerne zubereitet hatte (hauptsächlich, glaube ich, weil es nicht für diesen Zweck gedacht war, sondern ein Rasierseifentopf und weil es ein patentiertes Werkzeug von hohem Wert gab, das im Vorratsraum vor sich hin schimmelte), erwärmte, zeigte er so viel Emotion, dass ich ihn Freudig hätte verbrühen können. "Oh, wirklich, Master Copperfield - ich meine, Mister Copperfield", sagte Uriah, "es ist etwas, das ich niemals erwartet hätte, Sie mich bedienen zu sehen! Aber auf die eine oder andere Weise passieren mir so viele Dinge, mit denen ich in meiner bescheidenen Stellung niemals gerechnet hätte, dass es zu regnen scheint auf meinen Heder. Sie haben vermutlich von einer Veränderung meiner Aussichten gehört, Master Copperfield - ich sollte sagen, Mister Copperfield?" Als er auf meinem Sofa saß, mit seinen langen Knien, die unter seiner Kaffeetasse angezogen waren, seinem Hut und den Handschuhen auf dem Boden neben ihm, seinem Löffel, der sanft hin und her ging, seinen schattenlosen roten Augen, die aussahen, als ob sie ihre Wimpern abgesengt hätten, mir zugekehrt waren, ohne "Ich erinnere mich, darüber gesprochen zu haben", sagte ich, "obwohl ich damals sicherlich nicht gedacht habe, dass es sehr wahrscheinlich ist." "Oh! Wer hätte das gedacht, Mister Copperfield!" rief Uriah begeistert aus. "Ich bin sicher, ich habe es nicht gedacht. Ich erinnere mich, mit meinen eigenen Lippen gesagt zu haben, dass ich viel zu demütig bin. Also hielt ich mich wirklich und wahrhaftig dafür." Er saß da, mit diesem geschnitzten Grinsen im Gesicht, und schaute ins Feuer, während ich ihn anschaute. "Aber die demütigsten Personen, Master Copperfield," fuhr er fort, "können die Instrumente des Guten sein. Ich freue mich zu denken, dass ich das Instrument des Guten für Mr. Wickfield gewesen bin und dass ich es noch mehr sein kann. Oh, was für ein würdiger Mann er ist, Mister Copperfield, aber wie unklug er war!" "Es tut mir leid, das zu hören", sagte ich. Ich konnte nicht umhin, etwas spitz zu ergänzen, "aus allen möglichen Gründen." "Ganz bestimmt, Mister Copperfield", antwortete Uriah. "Aus allen möglichen Gründen. Vor allem Miss Agnes! Du erinnerst dich nicht an deine eigenen eloquenten Ausdrücke, Master Copperfield, aber ich erinnere mich daran, wie du eines Tages gesagt hast, dass jeder sie bewundern muss, und wie ich dir dafür gedankt habe! Du hast das sicher vergessen, Master Copperfield?" "Nein", sagte ich trocken. "Oh, wie froh ich bin, dass du es nicht vergessen hast!" rief Uriah aus. "Zu denken, dass du der Erste warst, der die Funken des Ehrgeizes in meiner bescheidenen Brust entfacht hat und dass du es nicht vergessen hast! Oh! - Würdest du mir verzeihen, wenn ich mir noch eine Tasse Kaffee hole?" Etwas in der Betonung, die er auf das Entfachen dieser Funken legte, und etwas in seinem Blick, als er es sagte, ließ mich zusammenzucken, als ob ich ihn von einem Lichtblitz erleuchtet gesehen hätte. Von seinem Anliegen zurückgerufen, das in einem ganz anderen Tonfall vorgetragen wurde, übernahm ich die Ehre, den Rasierschaumtopf zu präsentieren; aber ich tat es mit zittrigen Händen, einem plötzlichen Gefühl, ihm nicht gewachsen zu sein, und einer verwirrten, misstrauischen Sorge darüber, was er als Nächstes sagen könnte, die meiner Meinung nach seiner Beobachtung nicht entgehen konnte. Er sagte überhaupt nichts. Er rührte seinen Kaffee hin und her, nippte daran, berührte sanft sein Kinn mit seiner borstigen Hand, schaute ins Feuer, schaute im Raum herum, keuchte eher als dass er mich anlächelte, wand sich und windete sich, in seiner unterwürfigen Kriecherei, rührte und nippte er erneut, aber er überließ die Fortsetzung des Gesprächs mir. "Also, Mr. Wickfield", sagte ich schließlich, "der fünfhundertmal mehr wert ist als du - oder ich"; mein Gott, ich glaube, ich hätte diese Teils des Satzes mit einem ungeschickten Ruck geteilt; "ist unklug gewesen, nicht wahr, Mr. Heep?" "Oh, sehr unklug, Master Copperfield", antwortete Uriah, bescheiden seufzend. "Oh, sehr, sehr unklug! Aber ich wünschte, Sie würden mich Uriah nennen, wenn es Ihnen recht ist. Es ist wie früher." "Na schön! Uriah", sagte ich mit einiger Schwierigkeit. "Danke", erwiderte er mit Begeisterung. "Danke, Master Copperfield! Es ist wie der Hauch alter Brisen oder das Läuten alter Glocken, wenn SIE Uriah sagen. Verzeihung. Habe ich eine Bemerkung gemacht?" "Über Mr. Wickfield", schlug ich vor. "Oh ja, stimmt", sagte Uriah. "Ah! Große Unklugheit, Master Copperfield. Es ist ein Thema, das ich mit keiner Seele außer Ihnen ansprechen würde. Sogar Ihnen gegenüber kann ich nur darauf anspielen, nicht mehr. Wenn in den letzten Jahren jemand an meiner Stelle gewesen wäre, hätte er Mr. Wickfield (oh, was für ein würdiger Mann er ist, Master Copperfield!) zu diesem Zeitpunkt fest in seiner Hand gehabt. Un - ter - seiner Kontrolle", sagte Uriah sehr langsam, als er seine grausam aussehende Hand über meinen Tisch ausstreckte und seinen eigenen Daumen darauf drückte, bis er zitterte und das Zimmer erzitterte. Wenn ich ihn hätte ansehen müssen, wie er seinen scharfen Fuß auf Mr. Wickfields Kopf stellte, glaube ich, ich hätte ihn kaum mehr hassen können. "Oh, lieber Gott, ja, Master Copperfield", fuhr er in weicher Stimme fort, was in bemerkenswertem Kontrast zur Bewegung seines Daumens stand, der seinen festen Druck in keiner Weise verringerte, "daran besteht kein Zweifel. Es hätte Verluste, Schande gegeben, ich weiß nicht was noch alles. Mr. Wickfield weiß es. Ich bin das demütige Mittel, das ihm demütig dient, und er stellt mich auf eine Höhe, die ich kaum zu erreichen gehofft hätte. Wie dankbar sollte ich sein!" Mit dem Gesicht mir zugewandt, als er fertig war, aber ohne mich anzuschauen, nahm er seinen krummen Daumen von der Stelle, an der er ihn platziert hatte, und kratzte langsam und nachdenklich mit seinem dünnen Kinn damit, als würde er sich rasieren. Ich erinnere mich gut, wie mein Herz indigniert schlug, als ich sein listiges Gesicht sah, das angemessen vom roten Feuer beleuchtet war und sich auf etwas anderes vorbereitete. "Master Copperfield", begann er, "aber halte ich dich wach?" "Du hältst mich nicht wach. Ich gehe normalerweise spät ins Bett." "Danke, Master Copperfield! Ich habe mich seit dem ersten Moment, in dem du mich im Pony-Wagen gesehen hast, von meiner niedrigen Stellung erhoben, das stimmt; aber ich bin immer noch demütig. Ich hoffe, ich werde niemals unbescheiden sein. Du wirst meine Demut nicht schlechter finden, wenn ich dir ein kleines Geheimnis anvertraue, Master Copperfield. Wirst du?" "Oh nein", sagte ich mit Anstrengung. "Danke!" Er nahm sein Taschentuch heraus und begann die Handflächen seiner Hände abzuwischen. "Miss Agnes, Master Copperfield -" "Nun, Uriah?" "Oh, wie schön, spontan Uriah genannt zu werden!" rief er aus und machte eine ruckartige Bewegung wie ein krampfhaft zuckender Fisch. "Du fandest sie heute Abend sehr schön, Master Copperfield?" "Ich fand sie so aussehend, wie sie immer aussieht: überlegen in jeder Hinsicht gegenüber allen um sie herum", antwortete ich. "Oh, danke! Es ist so wahr!" rief er. "Oh, vielen Dank dafür!" "Gern geschehen", sagte ich hochmütig. "Es gibt keinen Grund, warum du mir danken solltest." "Warum das, Master Copperfield", sagte Uriah, "ist tatsächlich das Vertrauen, das ich mir zu nehmen erlaube. So demütig ich auch bin", er wischte sich härter die Hände und betrachtete sie und das Feuer abwechselnd, "so demütig meine Mutter ist und so bescheiden unser armes, aber ehrliches Dach immer war, das Bild von Miss Agnes (ich habe keine Bedenken, mein Geheimnis mit dir zu teilen, Master Copperfield, denn ich bin seit dem ersten Moment, in dem ich dich im Pony-Wagen gesehen habe, immer übergeflossen vor dir) ist seit Jahren in meiner Brust. Oh, Master Copperfield, wie rein liebe ich den Boden, auf dem meine Agnes geht!" Ich glaube, ich hatte eine wahnwitzige Idee, das gl 'Wenn Sie die Güte haben, mein Geheimnis zu bewahren, Master Copperfield,' fuhr er fort, 'und nicht im Allgemeinen gegen mich zu sein, würde ich es als einen besonderen Gefallen betrachten. Sie würden keine Unannehmlichkeiten verursachen wollen. Ich weiß, welch freundliches Herz Sie haben; aber da Sie mich nur auf meinen bescheidenen Füßen (auf meinen bescheidensten Füßen muss ich sagen, denn ich bin immer noch sehr bescheiden), gekannt haben, könnten Sie unbekannterweise eher gegen mich sein, wenn es um Agnes geht. Ich nenne sie mein, sehen Sie, Master Copperfield. Es gibt ein Lied, das sagt: "Ich würde Kronen aufgeben, um sie mein zu nennen!" Ich hoffe, es eines Tages zu tun.' Liebe Agnes! So viel Liebe und Güte für jeden, an den ich denken könnte, war es möglich, dass sie dazu bestimmt war, die Frau eines solchen Schurken wie diesem zu sein! 'Es besteht keine Eile im Moment, wissen Sie, Master Copperfield', fuhr Uriah auf seine schlüpfrige Art fort, während ich ihn betrachtete, mit diesem Gedanken in meinem Kopf. 'Meine Agnes ist noch sehr jung; und Mutter und ich werden uns nach oben arbeiten müssen und viele neue Vereinbarungen treffen, bevor es ganz bequem wäre. Also werde ich nach und nach Zeit haben, sie mit meinen Hoffnungen vertraut zu machen, wenn sich Gelegenheiten bieten. Oh, ich bin Ihnen so dankbar für dieses Vertrauen! Oh, es ist so eine Erleichterung, Sie können sich nicht vorstellen, zu wissen, dass Sie unsere Situation verstehen und sicher sind (da Sie keine Unannehmlichkeiten in der Familie verursachen wollen), nicht gegen mich zu sein!' Er nahm die Hand, die ich nicht zurückhalten wagte, und drückte sie feucht. 'Ach du lieber Himmel!' sagte er, 'es ist nach eins. Die Augenblicke vergehen so schnell in dem Vertrauen alter Zeiten, Master Copperfield, dass es schon fast halb zwei ist!' Ich antwortete, dass ich gedacht hatte, es sei später. Nicht dass ich wirklich so gedacht hatte, aber weil meine Gesprächsfähigkeiten effektiv zerstreut waren. 'Ach du lieber Himmel!' sagte er sinnierend. 'Das Haus, in dem ich untergebracht bin - so eine Art Privathotel und Boardinghaus, Master Copperfield, in der Nähe des New River - wird seit zwei Stunden schlafen sein.' 'Es tut mir leid', erwiderte ich, 'dass es hier nur ein Bett gibt, und dass ich -' 'Ach, denken Sie nicht an Betten, Master Copperfield!' sagte er ekstatisch und zog ein Bein hoch. 'Aber hätten Sie Einwände dagegen, wenn ich mich vor das Feuer lege?' 'Wenn es so ist', sagte ich, 'nehmen Sie bitte mein Bett und ich lege mich vor das Feuer.' Seine Ablehnung dieses Angebots war fast schrill genug, in seiner Überraschung und Demut, um zu den Ohren von Mrs. Crupp zu dringen, die zu dieser Zeit vermutlich in einem entfernten Zimmer schlief, das sich in etwa auf Höhe des Niedrigwasserspiegels befand. Während sie in ihren Schlaf durch das Ticken einer unbelehrbaren Uhr versetzt wurde, auf die sie mich immer verwies, wenn wir uns wegen Pünktlichkeit geringfügig stritten, und die nie weniger als drei Viertelstunden zu langsam war und morgens von den besten Autoritäten korrigiert wurde. Da keine meiner Argumente, in meinem verwirrten Zustand, die geringste Wirkung auf seine Bescheidenheit hatten und ihn dazu brachten, mein Schlafzimmer anzunehmen, musste ich die besten Vorkehrungen treffen, um für seine Ruhe vor dem Feuer zu sorgen. Die Matratze des Sofas (die viel zu kurz für seine schlanke Gestalt war), die Sofakissen, eine Decke, das Tischtuch, ein sauberer Frühstückstischdecke und ein Mantel machten ihm ein Bett und eine Decke, wofür er mehr als dankbar war. Nachdem ich ihm eine Nachtmütze geliehen hatte, die er sofort aufsetzte und in der er so furchterregend aussah, dass ich seitdem nie wieder eine getragen habe, ließ ich ihn in Ruhe schlafen. Diese Nacht werde ich nie vergessen. Ich werde nie vergessen, wie ich mich hin und her wälzte; wie ich mich damit abmühte, über Agnes und dieses Wesen nachzudenken; wie ich darüber nachdachte, was ich tun könnte und was ich tun sollte; wie ich zu keinem anderen Schluss kommen konnte, als dass der beste Weg für ihren Frieden war, nichts zu tun und für mich zu behalten, was ich gehört hatte. Wenn ich für ein paar Momente einschlief, tauchte das Bild von Agnes mit ihren zärtlichen Augen und ihrem Vater, der liebevoll auf sie sah, wie ich ihn so oft gesehen hatte, mit flehenden Gesichtern vor mir auf und erfüllte mich mit vagen Schrecken. Als ich erwachte, lastete die Erinnerung daran, dass Uriah im nächsten Zimmer lag, schwer auf mir wie ein nächtlicher Albtraum; und drückte mich mit einer bleiernen Angst nieder, als hätte ich einen minderen Teufel als Untermieter. Auch der Pokal kam in meine dösenden Gedanken und wollte nicht mehr verschwinden. Ich dachte, zwischen Schlafen und Wachen, dass er noch glühend heiß war und ich ihn aus dem Feuer gerissen und ihm in den Leib gestoßen hatte. Ich war so von dieser Idee heimgesucht, obwohl ich wusste, dass nichts daran war, dass ich in das nächste Zimmer schlich, um ihn anzusehen. Dort sah ich ihn auf dem Rücken liegen, seine Beine in eine Richtung erstrecken, die ich nicht kannte, Gurgeln in seinem Hals, Verstopfungen in seiner Nase und seinen Mund, der wie eine Poststelle offen stand. Er war in Wirklichkeit viel schlimmer als in meiner verwirrten Fantasie, sodass ich mich danach in Abstoßung zu ihm hingezogen fühlte und nicht anders konnte, als alle halbe Stunde oder so ein- und auszugehen und mir ihn erneut anzusehen. Trotzdem schien die lange, lange Nacht genauso schwer und hoffnungslos wie zuvor, und keine Aussicht auf den Tag zeigte sich am trüben Himmel. Als ich ihn früh am Morgen die Treppe hinuntergehen sah (denn Gott sei Dank! Er blieb nicht zum Frühstück), schien es mir, als ob die Nacht in seiner Person vorbeigehe. Als ich in die Allmende ging, gab ich Mrs. Crupp spezielle Anweisungen, die Fenster offen zu lassen, damit mein Wohnzimmer gelüftet wird und von seiner Anwesenheit gereinigt wird. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze verfassen?

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Gute und schlechte Engel Agnes schickt nach David und er geht sie besuchen, wo sie in London wohnt. Sie warnt ihn davor, dass Steerforth sein "schlechter Engel" sei, dass er Steerforth meiden solle und vorsichtig mit Steerforths Einfluss umgehen solle. David ist anderer Meinung, aber die Idee ärgert ihn und stört sein Bild von Steerforth. Agnes teilt auch die schlechte Nachricht mit, dass sich Uriah Heep in eine Partnerschaft mit ihrem Vater, Herrn Wickfield, eingeschlichen hat. Sowohl sie als auch David sind sehr betroffen über dieses Ereignis. Auf einer Dinnerparty im Haus, in dem Agnes wohnt, trifft David auf Tommy Traddles, seinen Freund aus der Salem House, und Uriah Heep. Uriah schließt sich David an und begleitet ihn nach Hause. In einem unangenehmen Gespräch enthüllt Uriah David seinen Plan, Agnes zu heiraten. Uriah besteht darauf, die Nacht auf dem Boden vor Davids Feuer zu schlafen. David kann nicht schlafen mit Uriahs böser Präsenz in seiner Wohnung.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: Wellington soon resumed its wonted calm, and in a few weeks the intended lynching was only a memory. The robbery and assault, however, still remained a mystery to all but a chosen few. The affair had been dropped as absolutely as though it had never occurred. No colored man ever learned the reason of this sudden change of front, and Sandy Campbell's loyalty to his old employer's memory kept him silent. Tom Delamere did not offer to retain Sandy in his service, though he presented him with most of the old gentleman's wardrobe. It is only justice to Tom to state that up to this time he had not been informed of the contents of his grandfather's latest will. Major Carteret gave Sandy employment as butler, thus making a sort of vicarious atonement, on the part of the white race, of which the major felt himself in a way the embodiment, for the risk to which Sandy had been subjected. Shortly after these events Sandy was restored to the bosom of the church, and, enfolded by its sheltering arms, was no longer tempted to stray from the path of rectitude, but became even a more rigid Methodist than before his recent troubles. Tom Delamere did not call upon Clara again in the character of a lover. Of course they could not help meeting, from time to time, but he never dared presume upon their former relations. Indeed, the social atmosphere of Wellington remained so frigid toward Delamere that he left town, and did not return for several months. Ellis was aware that Delamere had been thrown over, but a certain delicacy restrained him from following up immediately the advantage which the absence of his former rival gave him. It seemed to him, with the quixotry of a clean, pure mind, that Clara would pass through a period of mourning for her lost illusion, and that it would be indelicate, for the time being, to approach her with a lover's attentions. The work of the office had been unusually heavy of late. The major, deeply absorbed in politics, left the detail work of the paper to Ellis. Into the intimate counsels of the revolutionary committee Ellis had not been admitted, nor would he have desired to be. He knew, of course, in a general way, the results that it was sought to achieve; and while he did not see their necessity, he deferred to the views of older men, and was satisfied to remain in ignorance of anything which he might disapprove. Moreover, his own personal affairs occupied his mind to an extent that made politics or any other subject a matter of minor importance. As for Dr. Miller, he never learned of Mr. Delamere's good intentions toward his institution, but regretted the old gentleman's death as the loss of a sincere friend and well-wisher of his race in their unequal struggle. Despite the untiring zeal of Carteret and his associates, the campaign for the restriction of the suffrage, which was to form the basis of a permanent white supremacy, had seemed to languish for a while after the Ochiltree affair. The lull, however, was only temporary, and more apparent than real, for the forces adverse to the negro were merely gathering strength for a more vigorous assault. While little was said in Wellington, public sentiment all over the country became every day more favorable to the views of the conspirators. The nation was rushing forward with giant strides toward colossal wealth and world-dominion, before the exigencies of which mere abstract ethical theories must not be permitted to stand. The same argument that justified the conquest of an inferior nation could not be denied to those who sought the suppression of an inferior race. In the South, an obscure jealousy of the negro's progress, an obscure fear of the very equality so contemptuously denied, furnished a rich soil for successful agitation. Statistics of crime, ingeniously manipulated, were made to present a fearful showing against the negro. Vital statistics were made to prove that he had degenerated from an imaginary standard of physical excellence which had existed under the benign influence of slavery. Constant lynchings emphasized his impotence, and bred everywhere a growing contempt for his rights. At the North, a new Pharaoh had risen, who knew not Israel,--a new generation, who knew little of the fierce passions which had played around the negro in a past epoch, and derived their opinions of him from the "coon song" and the police reports. Those of his old friends who survived were disappointed that he had not flown with clipped wings; that he had not in one generation of limited opportunity attained the level of the whites. The whole race question seemed to have reached a sort of _impasse_, a blind alley, of which no one could see the outlet. The negro had become a target at which any one might try a shot. Schoolboys gravely debated the question as to whether or not the negro should exercise the franchise. The pessimist gave him up in despair; while the optimist, smilingly confident that everything would come out all right in the end, also turned aside and went his buoyant way to more pleasing themes. For a time there were white men in the state who opposed any reactionary step unless it were of general application. They were conscientious men, who had learned the ten commandments and wished to do right; but this class was a small minority, and their objections were soon silenced by the all-powerful race argument. Selfishness is the most constant of human motives. Patriotism, humanity, or the love of God may lead to sporadic outbursts which sweep away the heaped-up wrongs of centuries; but they languish at times, while the love of self works on ceaselessly, unwearyingly, burrowing always at the very roots of life, and heaping up fresh wrongs for other centuries to sweep away. The state was at the mercy of venal and self-seeking politicians, bent upon regaining their ascendency at any cost, stultifying their own minds by vague sophistries and high-sounding phrases, which deceived none but those who wished to be deceived, and these but imperfectly; and dulling the public conscience by a loud clamor in which the calm voice of truth was for the moment silenced. So the cause went on. Carteret, as spokesman of the campaign, and sincerest of all its leaders, performed prodigies of labor. The Morning Chronicle proclaimed, in season and out, the doctrine of "White Supremacy." Leaving the paper in charge of Ellis, the major made a tour of the state, rousing the white people of the better class to an appreciation of the terrible danger which confronted them in the possibility that a few negroes might hold a few offices or dictate the terms upon which white men should fill them. Difficulties were explained away. The provisions of the Federal Constitution, it was maintained, must yield to the "higher law," and if the Constitution could neither be altered nor bent to this end, means must be found to circumvent it. The device finally hit upon for disfranchising the colored people in this particular state was the notorious "grandfather clause." After providing various restrictions of the suffrage, based upon education, character, and property, which it was deemed would in effect disfranchise the colored race, an exception was made in favor of all citizens whose fathers or grandfathers had been entitled to vote prior to 1867. Since none but white men could vote prior to 1867, this exception obviously took in the poor and ignorant whites, while the same class of negroes were excluded. It was ingenious, but it was not fair. In due time a constitutional convention was called, in which the above scheme was adopted and submitted to a vote of the people for ratification. The campaign was fought on the color line. Many white Republicans, deluded with the hope that by the elimination of the negro vote their party might receive accessions from the Democratic ranks, went over to the white party. By fraud in one place, by terrorism in another, and everywhere by the resistless moral force of the united whites, the negroes were reduced to the apathy of despair, their few white allies demoralized, and the amendment adopted by a large majority. The negroes were taught that this is a white man's country, and that the sooner they made up their minds to this fact, the better for all concerned. The white people would be good to them so long as they behaved themselves and kept their place. As theoretical equals,--practical equality being forever out of the question, either by nature or by law,--there could have been nothing but strife between them, in which the weaker party would invariably have suffered most. Some colored men accepted the situation thus outlined, if not as desirable, at least as inevitable. Most of them, however, had little faith in this condescending friendliness which was to take the place of constitutional rights. They knew they had been treated unfairly; that their enemies had prevailed against them; that their whilom friends had stood passively by and seen them undone. Many of the most enterprising and progressive left the state, and those who remain still labor under a sense of wrong and outrage which renders them distinctly less valuable as citizens. The great steal was made, but the thieves did not turn honest,--the scheme still shows the mark of the burglar's tools. Sins, like chickens, come home to roost. The South paid a fearful price for the wrong of negro slavery; in some form or other it will doubtless reap the fruits of this later iniquity. Drastic as were these "reforms," the results of which we have anticipated somewhat, since the new Constitution was not to take effect immediately, they moved all too slowly for the little coterie of Wellington conspirators, whose ambitions and needs urged them to prompt action. Under the new Constitution it would be two full years before the "nigger amendment" became effective, and meanwhile the Wellington district would remain hopelessly Republican. The committee decided, about two months before the fall election, that an active local campaign must be carried on, with a view to discourage the negroes from attending the polls on election day. The question came up for discussion one forenoon in a meeting at the office of the Morning Chronicle, at which all of the "Big Three" were present. "Something must be done," declared McBane, "and that damn quick. Too many white people are saying that it will be better to wait until the amendment goes into effect. That would mean to leave the niggers in charge of this town for two years after the state has declared for white supremacy! I'm opposed to leaving it in their hands one hour,--them's my sentiments!" This proved to be the general opinion, and the discussion turned to the subject of ways and means. "What became of that editorial in the nigger paper?" inquired the general in his blandest tones, cleverly directing a smoke ring toward the ceiling. "It lost some of its point back there, when we came near lynching that nigger; but now that that has blown over, why wouldn't it be a good thing to bring into play at the present juncture? Let's read it over again." Carteret extracted the paper from the pigeon-hole where he had placed it some months before. The article was read aloud with emphasis and discussed phrase by phrase. Of its wording there could be little criticism,--it was temperately and even cautiously phrased. As suggested by the general, the Ochiltree affair had proved that it was not devoid of truth. Its great offensiveness lay in its boldness: that a negro should publish in a newspaper what white people would scarcely acknowledge to themselves in secret was much as though a Russian _moujik_ or a German peasant should rush into print to question the divine right of the Lord's Anointed. The article was racial _lese-majeste_ in the most aggravated form. A peg was needed upon which to hang a _coup d'etat_, and this editorial offered the requisite opportunity. It was unanimously decided to republish the obnoxious article, with comment adapted to fire the inflammable Southern heart and rouse it against any further self-assertion of the negroes in politics or elsewhere. "The time is ripe!" exclaimed McBane. "In a month we can have the niggers so scared that they won't dare stick their heads out of doors on 'lection day." "I wonder," observed the general thoughtfully, after this conclusion had been reached, "if we couldn't have Jerry fetch us some liquor?" Jerry appeared in response to the usual summons. The general gave him the money, and ordered three Calhoun cocktails. When Jerry returned with the glasses on a tray, the general observed him with pointed curiosity. "What, in h--ll is the matter with you, Jerry? Your black face is splotched with brown and yellow patches, and your hair shines as though you had fallen head-foremost into a firkin of butter. What's the matter with you?" Jerry seemed much embarrassed by this inquiry. "Nothin', suh, nothin'," he stammered. "It's--it's jes' somethin' I be'n puttin' on my hair, suh, ter improve de quality, suh." "Jerry," returned the general, bending a solemn look upon the porter, "you have been playing with edged tools, and your days are numbered. You have been reading the Afro-American Banner." He shook open the paper, which he had retained in his hand, and read from one of the advertisements:-- "'Kinky, curly hair made straight in two applications. Dark skins lightened two shades; mulattoes turned perfectly white.' "This stuff is rank poison, Jerry," continued the general with a mock solemnity which did not impose upon Jerry, who nevertheless listened with an air of great alarm. He suspected that the general was making fun of him; but he also knew that the general would like to think that Jerry believed him in earnest; and to please the white folks was Jerry's consistent aim in life. "I can see the signs of decay in your face, and your hair will all fall out in a week or two at the latest,--mark my words!" McBane had listened to this pleasantry with a sardonic sneer. It was a waste of valuable time. To Carteret it seemed in doubtful taste. These grotesque advertisements had their tragic side. They were proof that the negroes had read the handwriting on the wall. These pitiful attempts to change their physical characteristics were an acknowledgment, on their own part, that the negro was doomed, and that the white man was to inherit the earth and hold all other races under his heel. For, as the months had passed, Carteret's thoughts, centring more and more upon the negro, had led him farther and farther, until now he was firmly convinced that there was no permanent place for the negro in the United States, if indeed anywhere in the world, except under the ground. More pathetic even than Jerry's efforts to escape from the universal doom of his race was his ignorance that even if he could, by some strange alchemy, bleach his skin and straighten his hair, there would still remain, underneath it all, only the unbleached darky,--the ass in the lion's skin. When the general had finished his facetious lecture, Jerry backed out of the room shamefacedly, though affecting a greater confusion than he really felt. Jerry had not reasoned so closely as Carteret, but he had realized that it was a distinct advantage to be white,--an advantage which white people had utilized to secure all the best things in the world; and he had entertained the vague hope that by changing his complexion he might share this prerogative. While he suspected the general's sincerity, he nevertheless felt a little apprehensive lest the general's prediction about the effects of the face-bleach and other preparations might prove true,--the general was a white gentleman and ought to know,--and decided to abandon their use. This purpose was strengthened by his next interview with the major. When Carteret summoned him, an hour later, after the other gentlemen had taken their leave, Jerry had washed his head thoroughly and there remained no trace of the pomade. An attempt to darken the lighter spots in his cuticle by the application of printer's ink had not proved equally successful,--the retouching left the spots as much too dark as they had formerly been too light. "Jerry," said Carteret sternly, "when I hired you to work for the Chronicle, you were black. The word 'negro' means 'black.' The best negro is a black negro, of the pure type, as it came from the hand of God. If you wish to get along well with the white people, the blacker you are the better,--white people do not like negroes who want to be white. A man should be content to remain as God made him and where God placed him. So no more of this nonsense. Are you going to vote at the next election?" "What would you 'vise me ter do, suh?" asked Jerry cautiously. "I do not advise you. You ought to have sense enough to see where your own interests lie. I put it to you whether you cannot trust yourself more safely in the hands of white gentlemen, who are your true friends, than in the hands of ignorant and purchasable negroes and unscrupulous white scoundrels?" "Dere's no doubt about it, suh," assented Jerry, with a vehemence proportioned to his desire to get back into favor. "I ain' gwine ter have nothin' ter do wid de 'lection, suh! Ef I don' vote, I kin keep my job, can't I, suh?" The major eyed Jerry with an air of supreme disgust. What could be expected of a race so utterly devoid of tact? It seemed as though this negro thought a white gentleman might want to bribe him to remain away from the polls; and the negro's willingness to accept the imaginary bribe demonstrated the venal nature of the colored race,--its entire lack of moral principle! "You will retain your place, Jerry," he said severely, "so long as you perform your duties to my satisfaction and behave yourself properly." With this grandiloquent subterfuge Carteret turned to his next article on white supremacy. Jerry did not delude himself with any fine-spun sophistry. He knew perfectly well that he held his job upon the condition that he stayed away from the polls at the approaching election. Jerry was a fool-- "The world of fools hath such a store, That he who would not see an ass, Must stay at home and shut his door And break his looking-glass." But while no one may be entirely wise, there are degrees of folly, and Jerry was not all kinds of a fool. Können Sie eine geeignete Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze verfassen?

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Ein paar Wochen vergehen und Wellington kehrt zu seiner "gewohnten Ruhe" zurück. Tom lässt nur den alten Kleiderschrank von Mr. Delamere für Sandy zurück, und Major Carteret stellt ihn als Butler in seinem eigenen Haus ein. Tom besucht Clara nicht und Ellis unternimmt trotz seiner Arbeit im Büro keine sofortigen romantischen Annäherungen an sie. In der gesamten Nation neigt die Stimmung jedoch zur Trennung. Im Süden gibt es eine "wachsende Verachtung" für gleiche Rechte. Im Norden ist "ein neuer Pharao aufgestiegen, der Israel nicht kannte und wenig von den heftigen Leidenschaften wusste, die sich um die Schwarzen in der vergangenen Epoche rankten". Insbesondere in North Carolina ist der Bundesstaat den "bestechlichen und eigennützigen Politikern" ausgeliefert, die nur daran interessiert sind, die weiße Vorherrschaft auf allen Ebenen wiederherzustellen. Der Staat übernimmt die "Großvaterklausel. Diese Klausel besagt, dass "alle Bürger, deren Väter oder Großväter vor 1867 das Wahlrecht hatten", bei den aktuellen Wahlen wahlberechtigt sind. Dadurch sind natürlich alle Schwarzen ausgeschlossen, da nur Weiße vor diesem Jahr wählen durften. Im Laufe der Zeit "verfallen die Schwarzen in die Apathie der Verzweiflung, ihre wenigen weißen Verbündeten sind demoralisiert. Dies reicht den Mächtigen in Wellington jedoch nicht aus. Die "Großen Drei" treffen sich in den Büros des Morning Chronicle, um zu besprechen, wie man die schwarze Bevölkerung der Stadt weiter entmachten kann. Es dauert noch zwei Jahre, bis die Großvaterklausel in Kraft tritt, und "das würde bedeuten, dass die Nigger diese Stadt noch zwei Jahre nachdem der Staat die weiße Vorherrschaft erklärt hat, kontrollieren". General Belmont erkundigt sich nach dem zuvor diskutierten Leitartikel der schwarzen Zeitung. Carteret findet ihn und sie lesen ihn erneut. Aufgrund seiner starken Ablehnung von Lynchjustiz sehen die Männer den Artikel als "rassischen Majestätsbeleidigung in besonders schlimmer Form" an. Sie entscheiden sich dafür, ihn erneut zu veröffentlichen. Der General ruft Jerry herein, um mehrere Runden Alkohol zu holen. Der General ist schockiert, als er Jerry sieht und sein Gesicht von braunen und gelben Flecken übersät ist und sein Haar glänzt, als wäre er "kopfüber in ein Fass Butter gefallen". Jerry ist verlegen. Der General realisiert, dass Jerry die schwarze Zeitung gelesen und eine Creme benutzt hat, die in dieser Zeitung beworben wird und die das Haar glatt und die Haut in nur wenigen Anwendungen weiß macht. Das lässt McBane spotten. Carterets Gedanken drehen sich um die Vorstellung, dass es "keinen dauerhaften Platz für den Schwarzen in den Vereinigten Staaten gibt, wenn überhaupt irgendwo auf der Welt, außer unter der Erde". Er interpretiert Jerrys Handlungen als erbärmlich und unwissend. Später, als Carteret Jerry befragt, fragt er ihn, ob er bei den bevorstehenden Wahlen abstimmen werde. Jerry sagt ihm, dass er nichts mit den Wahlen zu tun haben wird, wenn die Weißen ihm sagen, dass er nicht wählen soll. Carteret hält Jerry für einen Narren, aber Jerry versteht die sozialen Dynamiken der Stadt besser, als Carteret sich bewusst 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: Dobbin von Uns Cuffs Auseinandersetzung mit Dobbin und das unerwartete Ergebnis dieses Kampfes werden von jedem Mann, der an Dr. Swishtails berühmter Schule unterrichtet wurde, lange in Erinnerung bleiben. Der letztere Jugendliche (der früher Heigh-ho Dobbin, Gee-ho Dobbin und bei vielen anderen Namen, die auf kindliche Verachtung hinweisen, genannt wurde) war der ruhigste, unbeholfenste und, wie es schien, dümmste aller jungen Gentlemen von Dr. Swishtail. Sein Vater war ein Krämer in der Stadt: und es wurde verbreitet, dass er aufgrund sogenannter "gegenseitiger Prinzipien" in Dr. Swishtails Akademie aufgenommen wurde - das heißt, die Kosten für seine Verpflegung und Schulbildung wurden von seinem Vater in Waren, nicht in Geld, beglichen; und er stand dort - meistens am unteren Ende der Schule - in seinem zu engen Cordanzug und seiner Jacke, aus deren Nähten seine großen Knochen hervorquollen - als Repräsentant von so vielen Pfund Tee, Kerzen, Zucker, Mischseife, Pflaumen (von denen ein sehr milder Anteil für die Puddings der Schule geliefert wurde) und anderen Waren. Ein furchtbarer Tag war es für den jungen Dobbin, als einer der Schüler der Schule, der wegen einer Wildererbäckerei und Wurstmacherei in die Stadt gelaufen war, den Wagen von Dobbin & Rudge, Krämer und Öllieferanten, Thames Street, London, vor der Tür des Doctors sah, der gerade eine Ladung der Waren, mit denen das Unternehmen handelte, ablud. Jung Dobbin hatte danach keine Ruhe mehr. Die Witze waren schrecklich und gnadenlos gegen ihn. "Hallo, Dobbin", würde ein Witzbold sagen, "hier gibt es gute Nachrichten in der Zeitung. Der Zuckerpreis steigt, mein Junge." Ein anderer würde eine Aufgabe stellen - "Wenn ein Pfund Hammelkerzen siebensiebenhalb Pence kostet, wie viel muss Dobbin dann kosten?" und ein Gelächter würde aus dem gesamten Kreis junger Rangen, Lehrern und allen anderen folgen, die zu Recht der Ansicht waren, dass der Verkauf von Waren im Einzelhandel eine beschämende und schändliche Praxis sei, die die Verachtung und den Spott aller echten Gentlemen verdiene. "Dein Vater ist nur ein Händler, Osborne", sagte Dobbin heimlich zu dem kleinen Jungen, der den Sturm über ihm heraufbeschworen hatte. Daraufhin antwortete letzterer hochmütig: "Mein Vater ist ein Gentleman und fährt in seiner Kutsche", und Mr. William Dobbin zog sich in eine abgelegene Nebenstelle auf dem Spielplatz zurück, wo er einen halben Feiertag in bitterster Traurigkeit und Not verbrachte. Wer von uns erinnert sich nicht an ähnliche Stunden bitteren kindlichen Kummers? Wer fühlt Unrecht; wer weicht vor einer Beleidigung zurück; wer hat ein so scharfes Gefühl für Unrecht und eine so leuchtende Dankbarkeit für Freundlichkeit wie ein großzügiger Junge? Und wie viele von diesen sanften Seelen degradieren, entfremden, quälen Sie, um einer kleinen, lockeren Arithmetik und elenden Hundelatein willen willen? Nun, William Dobbin war aufgrund seiner Unfähigkeit, die Grundlagen der oben genannten Sprache zu erwerben, wie sie in dem wunderbaren Buch der Eton Latin Grammar dargelegt sind, gezwungen, unter den letzten Schülern von Doktor Swishtail zu verbleiben und wurde ständig von kleinen Jungs mit rosigen Gesichtern und Schürzen "niedergeschrieben", wenn er mit der unteren Klasse aufmarschierte, ein Riese unter ihnen, mit seinem niedergeschlagenen, betäubten Blick, seinem zerknüllten Anfängerbuch und seinen engen Cordhosen. Obere und untere, alle machten sich über ihn lustig. Sie nähten seine Cordhosen enger zusammen, als sie ohnehin schon waren. Sie schnitten seine Bettseile. Sie kippten Eimer und Bänke um, damit er sich darüber schrammen konnte, was ihm niemals nicht gelang. Sie schickten ihm Pakete, die, wenn sie geöffnet wurden, die väterliche Seife und Kerzen enthielten. Es gab keinen kleinen Jungen, der sich nicht über Dobbin lustig machte, und er ertrug alles geduldig und war völlig stumm und unglücklich. Cuff hingegen war der große Anführer und Dandy des Swishtail Seminars. Er schmuggelte Wein herein. Er kämpfte gegen die Jungen aus der Stadt. Ponys kamen, um ihn samstags nach Hause zu tragen. Er hatte seine Reitstiefel in seinem Zimmer, in denen er in den Ferien gerne jagte. Er hatte eine goldene Taschenuhr und nahm Schnupftabak wie der Doktor. Er war in der Oper gewesen und kannte die Vorzüge der führenden Schauspieler, wobei er Mr. Kean gegenüber Mr. Kemble bevorzugte. Er konnte dir in einer Stunde vierzig lateinische Verse herunterbeten. Er konnte französische Lyrik machen. Was konnte er sonst noch nicht oder konnte er nicht tun? Man sagte sogar, dass der Doktor selbst vor ihm Angst gehabt habe. Cuff, der unbestreitbare König der Schule, herrschte über seine Untertanen und tyrannisierte sie mit beeindruckender Überlegenheit. Dieser einer schwarzte seine Schuhe: dieser röstete sein Brot, andere mussten ihm dienen und ihm Bälle beim Kricket spielen während ganzen Sommer-Nachmittagen schicken. "Figs" war derjenige, dem er am meisten verachtete und mit dem er trotz ständiger Beschimpfung und Spöttelei kaum jemals persönlich sprach. Eines Tages hatten die beiden jungen Herren eine Differenz in privater Atmosphäre. Figs allein im Klassenzimmer, hantierte mit einem Heimatbrief herum, als Cuff hereinkam und ihn aufforderte, eine Nachricht zu überbringen, bei der es sich vermutlich um Törtchen handelte. "Ich kann nicht", sagt Dobbin, "ich möchte meinen Brief fertigstellen." "Du KANNST nicht?", sagt Mr. Cuff und greift nach diesem Dokument (in dem viele Wörter durchgestrichen waren, viele falsch geschrieben waren und über das viel Nachdenken, Arbeit und Tränen vergeudet wurden; denn der arme Kerl schrieb an seine Mutter, die ihn mochte, obwohl sie die Frau eines Krämers war und in einem Hinterzimmer in der Thames Street wohnte). "Du kannst nicht?", sagt Mr. Cuff: "Ich würde gerne wissen, warum bitte? Kannst du nicht morgen einen Brief an die alte Mother Figs schreiben?" "Nenn keine Namen", sagte Dobbin, sehr nervös von der Bank aufstehend. "Nun, gehst du jetzt?" krähte der Gockel der Schule. "Leg den Brief weg", antwortete Dobbin, "kein Gentleman liest Briefe." "Nun, gehst du JETZT?", sagt der andere. "Nein, werde ich nicht. Schlag nicht zu, oder ich werde dich PLATTHAUEN", brüllt Dobbin und springt zu einem bleiernen Tintenfass und schaut so böse aus, dass Mr. Cuff innehielt, seine Ärmel wieder hochkrempelte, die Hände in die Taschen steckte und mit einem spöttischen Grinsen fortging. Aber er mischte sich danach nie wieder persönlich in die Angelegenheiten des Krämerjungen ein, obwohl wir ihm gerechtigkeitshalber zuschreiben müssen, dass er hinter seinem Rücken immer abfällig über Mr. Dobbin sprach. Einige Zeit nach diesem Ereignis geschah es, dass sich Mr. Cuff an einem sonnigen Nachmittag in der Nähe des armen William Dobbin befand, der unter einem Baum auf dem Spielplatz lag und über eine Lieblingsausgabe der Arabischen Nächte schmökerte, die er von allem anderen ferngehalten hatte, während sich die anderen Schüler ihren verschiedenen Spielen widmeten - ganz einsam Der Junge war angewiesen worden, über die Mauer des Spielplatzes zu klettern (an einem ausgewählten Ort, an dem das zerbrochene Glas von der Spitze entfernt worden war und Nischen in den Ziegelsteinen geschaffen worden waren); ein Viertelmeilenrennen zu laufen; eine Flasche Rum-Shrub auf Kredit zu kaufen; sich allen Spionen des Doktors draußen zu stellen und wieder in den Spielplatz zu klettern. Während er diese Aufgabe bewältigte, rutschte sein Fuß ab, die Flasche ging zu Bruch, der Shrub wurde verschüttet und seine Hose wurde beschädigt. Er erschien vor seinem Arbeitgeber als völlig schuldiger und zitternder, aber harmloser Taugenichts. "Wie wagst du es, sie zu zerbrechen?", sagte Cuff, "du ungeschickter kleiner Dieb. Du hast den Shrub getrunken und tust jetzt so, als hättest du die Flasche zerbrochen. Halte deine Hand hin, Sir." Mit einem lauten dumpfen Aufprall traf der Stumpf die Hand des Kindes. Ein Stöhnen folgte. Dobbin schaute auf. Die Fee Peribanou war mit Prinz Ahmed in die innerste Höhle geflohen: der Rok hatte Sindbad den Seefahrer aus dem Tal der Diamanten weggeschwungen, bis sie außer Sicht, weit hinauf in die Wolken waren: und da war das ganz normale Leben vor dem ehrlichen William; und ein großer Junge, der einen kleinen ohne Grund schlug. "Halte die andere Hand hin, Sir", brüllt Cuff seinen kleinen Schulkameraden an, dessen Gesicht vor Schmerzen verzerrt war. Dobbin bebte und versteifte sich in seinen alten, engen Kleidern. "Nimm das, du kleiner Teufel!", rief Mr. Cuff aus, und die Luke kam wieder auf die Hand des Kindes hinunter. Erschreckt euch nicht, Damen, an einer öffentlichen Schule hat das jeder Junge getan. Eure Kinder werden es höchstwahrscheinlich auch tun und durchmachen. Die Luke wurde wieder geschlossen; und Dobbin sprang auf. Ich kann nicht sagen, was ihn dazu trieb. Folter an einer öffentlichen Schule ist genauso erlaubt wie die Knute in Russland. Es wäre unmännlich (in gewisser Weise), sich dagegen zu wehren. Vielleicht sträubte sich Dobbin's törichte Seele gegen diese Ausübung der Tyrannei; oder vielleicht hegte er ein Verlangen nach Rache und sehnte sich danach, sich mit diesem prächtigen Tyrannen und Schläger zu messen, der all den Ruhm, den Stolz, den Prunk, die Umstände, die fliegenden Banner, die trommelnden Drums, die salutierenden Wachen an diesem Ort hatte. Was auch immer seine Antriebskraft gewesen sein mochte, plötzlich sprang er auf und schrie: "Lassen Sie ihn in Ruhe, Cuff; schlagen Sie dieses Kind nicht weiter; oder ich werde..." "Oder was?", fragte Cuff erstaunt über diese Unterbrechung. "Halte deine Hand hin, du kleines Biest." "Ich werde dir die schlimmste Tracht Prügel verpassen, die du je in deinem Leben bekommen hast", sagte Dobbin als Antwort auf den ersten Teil von Cuffs Satz; und der kleine Osborne, der keuchend und weinend war, schaute mit Erstaunen und Ungläubigkeit auf, als er diesen erstaunlichen Champion sah, der plötzlich auftauchte, um ihn zu verteidigen, während Cuffs Verwunderung kaum geringer war. Stellt euch unseren früheren Monarchen Georg III vor, als er von der Revolte der nordamerikanischen Kolonien hörte: stellt euch den frechen Goliath vor, als der kleine David vortrat und eine Begegnung forderte; und ihr habt eine Vorstellung von den Gefühlen von Mr. Reginald Cuff, als ihm dieser Treffpunkt vorgeschlagen wurde. "Nach der Schule", sagt er natürlich; nach einer Pause und einem Blick, der so viel zu sagen schien wie "Verfasse dein Testament und teile deine letzten Wünsche deinen Freunden zwischen dieser Zeit und der." "Wie du willst", sagte Dobbin. "Du musst mein Flaschenhalter sein, Osborne." "Nun, wenn du willst", antwortete der kleine Osborne, denn seht ihr, sein Papa hatte eine Kutsche und er schämte sich ein wenig für seinen Champion. Ja, als die Stunde des Kampfes gekommen war, schämte er sich fast zu sagen "Los, Figs"; und kein einziger anderer Junge an diesem Ort rief diesen Ruf während der ersten zwei oder drei Runden dieses berühmten Kampfes aus; zu Beginn des Kampfes, als der wissenschaftliche Cuff mit einem verächtlichen Lächeln auf seinem Gesicht und so leicht und so fröhlich wie bei einem Ball seine Schläge auf seinen Gegner platzierte und diesen armen Champion drei Runden hintereinander zu Boden schlug. Bei jedem Fall gab es einen Jubel und jeder wollte die Ehre haben, dem Sieger ein Knie anzubieten. "Welche Tracht Prügel ich bekommen werde, wenn es vorbei ist", dachte der junge Osborne und hob seinen Mann hoch. "Du solltest aufgeben", sagte er zu Dobbin; "es ist nur eine Tracht Prügel, Figs, und du weißt, dass ich das gewohnt bin." Doch Figs, dessen ganze Glieder zitterten und dessen Nüstern vor Wut atmeten, schob seinen kleinen Flaschenhalter beiseite und ging zum vierten Mal in den Kampf. Da er überhaupt nicht wusste, wie er die Schläge parieren sollte, die auf ihn abgezielt wurden und Cuff bei den vorherigen drei Gelegenheiten den Angriff begonnen hatte, ohne es seinem Gegner je zu ermöglichen, zuzuschlagen, entschied sich Figs nun, den Kampf mit einem Angriff von seiner Seite aus zu beginnen; und so setzte er seinen linken Arm ein, weil er Linkshänder war, und schlug mit aller Kraft zweimal zu - einmal auf Cuffs linkes Auge und einmal auf seine schöne römische Nase. Cuff ging dieses Mal zu Boden, zur Verwunderung der Versammlung. "Gut getroffen, bei Gott", sagt der kleine Osborne mit der Miene eines Kenners und klopft seinem Mann auf den Rücken. "Schlag ihn mit links, Figs, mein Junge." Figs linker Arm spielte während des Rests des Kampfes eine furchterregende Rolle. Cuff ging jedes Mal zu Boden. In der sechsten Runde riefen beinahe genauso viele Jungen "Los, Figs" wie es Jugendliche gab, die "Los, Cuff" ausriefen. Bei der zwölften Runde war der letztere Champion völlig verwirrt, wie man so sagt, und hatte alle Besonnenheit und Angriffs- oder Verteidigungsfähigkeit verloren. Figs war dagegen so ruhig wie ein Quäker. Sein Gesicht war ganz blass, seine Augen offen und strahlend, und ein großer Schnitt auf seiner Unterlippe blutete stark. Das verlieh diesem jungen Burschen eine furchteinflößende und gruselige Ausstrahlung, die vielleicht vielen Zuschauern Furcht einflößte. Dennoch bereitete sich sein furchtloser Gegner darauf vor, zum dreizehnten Mal anzutreten. Wenn ich die Feder eines Napier oder eines Bell's Life hätte, würde ich dieses Duell gerne richtig beschreiben. Es war der letzte Angriff der Garde - das heißt, es wäre so gewesen, wenn Waterloo noch nicht stattgefunden hätte - es war der Stoß des napoleonischen Kolonnenzugs gegen den Hügel von La Haye Sainte, übersät mit zehntausend Bajonetten und gekrönt von zwanzig Adler - es war der Ruf der fleischfressenden Briten, als sie vom Hügel hinabstürzten und den Feind in den wilden Armen des Kampfes umarmten - mit anderen Worten, Cuff kam voller Mut heran, war aber ganz benommen und benommen, und der Fig-Händler traf seinen Gegner wie gewohnt mit der Linken auf die Nase und schickte ihn ein letztes Mal zu Boden. "Ich denke, das wird reichen", sagte Figs, als sein Gegner so ordentlich auf das Gras fiel, wie ich Jack Spot's Ball im Billardloch landen sehe; und die Tatsache ist, als die Zeit abgelaufen war, war Mr. Reginald Cuff nicht in der Lage oder wollte nicht mehr aufstehen. Und nun brachen alle Jungen einen solchen Jubel für Figs aus, dass man denken könnte, er wäre ihr Liebling und Champion während des ganzen Kampfes gewesen; und der Lä LIEBE MAMA, ich hoffe, es geht dir gut. Ich wäre dir sehr dankbar, wenn du mir einen Kuchen und fünf Schilling schicken könntest. Hier hat es zwischen Cuff und Dobbin eine Schlägerei gegeben. Cuff war ja der Oberhahn der Schule. Sie haben 13 Runden gekämpft und Dobbin hat gewonnen. Also ist Cuff jetzt nur noch der zweite Hahn. Der Kampf war wegen mir. Cuff hat mich verprügelt, weil ich eine Flasche Milch zerbrochen habe, und Figs hat das nicht toleriert. Wir nennen ihn Figs, weil sein Vater ein Lebensmittelhändler ist – Figs & Rudge, Thames St., City. Ich denke, da er für mich gekämpft hat, solltest du deinen Tee und Zucker bei seinem Vater kaufen. Cuff geht jeden Samstag nach Hause, aber diesmal kann er nicht, weil er zwei blaue Augen hat. Er hat ein weißes Pony, das ihn abholt, und einen Kutscher in Livree auf einer braunen Stute. Ich wünschte, mein Papa würde mir auch ein Pony erlauben, und ich bin Dein gehorsamer Sohn, GEORGE SEDLEY OSBORNE P.S. – Grüß die kleine Emmy von mir. Ich bastle ihr einen Kutschen aus Pappe. Bitte keinen Sandkuchen, sondern einen Pflaumenkuchen. Dobbins Sieg brachte ihm in den Augen seiner Mitschüler einen enormen Anstieg seines Ansehens ein, und der Name Figs, der zuvor ein Schimpfwort gewesen war, wurde genauso respektabel und beliebt wie jeder andere Spitzname in der Schule. "Immerhin ist es nicht seine Schuld, dass sein Vater ein Lebensmittelhändler ist", sagte George Osborne, der, obwohl er klein war, bei der Swishtail-Jugend sehr beliebt war; und seine Meinung wurde mit großem Beifall aufgenommen. Es wurde als niedrig angesehen, Dobbin wegen dieses Geburtsunfalls zu verspotten. "Alter Figs" wurde zu einem Namen der Freundlichkeit und Zuneigung; und der kleine Aufpasser verspottete ihn nicht mehr. Und Dobbins Geist stieg mit seinen veränderten Umständen. Er machte wunderbare Fortschritte im schulischen Lernen. Der großartige Cuff selbst, vor dessen Herablassung Dobbin nur errötete und staunte, half ihm bei seinen lateinischen Versen; "trainierte" ihn während der Unterrichtspausen: brachte ihn triumphierend aus der Knabenklasse in die mittelgroße Klasse; und dort verschaffte er ihm einen guten Platz. Es stellte sich heraus, dass er zwar bei klassischem Lernen schwerfällig war, aber bei Mathematik außergewöhnlich schnell. Zu aller Zufriedenheit bestand er den dritten Platz in Algebra und erhielt bei der öffentlichen Sommerprüfung ein französisches Preiscbuch. Du hättest das Gesicht seiner Mutter sehen sollen, als Telemaque (diese köstliche Erzählung) ihm vom Arzt vor der ganzen Schule, Eltern und Gesellschaft überreicht wurde, mit einer Inschrift für Gulielmo Dobbin. Alle Jungs klatschten in Zeichen von Beifall und Mitgefühl. Seine Erröten, seine Stolperer, seine Ungeschicklichkeit und die Anzahl der Füße, die er beim Zurückgehen auf seinen Platz zerquetscht hat, wer kann das beschreiben oder berechnen? Der alte Dobbin, sein Vater, der ihn jetzt zum ersten Mal respektierte, gab ihm öffentlich zwei Guineen aus, die er größtenteils bei einer gemeinsamen Nascherei für die Schule ausgab. Er kam mit einem Frack nach den Ferien zurück. Dobbin war ein viel zu bescheidener junger Mann, um anzunehmen, dass diese glückliche Veränderung in all seinen Umständen von seiner eigenen großzügigen und männlichen Natur herrühre: Er entschloss sich, aus etwas Verbohrtheit seinen guten Glück dem alleinigen Handeln und der Wohltätigkeit des kleinen George Osborne zuzuschreiben, für den er von nun an eine solche Liebe und Zuneigung empfand, wie sie nur von Kindern empfunden wird – eine solche Zuneigung, wie wir in den bezaubernden Märchenbüchern lesen, die der unbeholfene Orson für den glänzenden jungen Valentine, seinen Überwinder, empfand. Er warf sich vor kleinen Osbornes Füßen nieder und liebte ihn. Schon bevor sie sich kannten, hatte er Osborne im Geheimen bewundert. Nun war er sein Diener, sein Hund, sein Mann Freitag. Er glaubte, dass Osborne der Inbegriff jeder Vollkommenheit war, der schönste, tapferste, aktivste, klügste, großzügigste aller geschaffenen Jungs. Er teilte sein Geld mit ihm: kaufte ihm unzählige Geschenke wie Messer, Bleistiftetuis, goldene Siegel, Karamell, Little Warblers und romantische Bücher mit großen farbigen Bildern von Rittern und Räubern, in vielen davon konnte man Inschriften an George Sedley Osborne, Esquire, von seinem treuen Freund William Dobbin lesen – diese Zeichen der Huld empfing George sehr gnädig, wie es seiner überlegenen Verdienste gebührte. Daher sagte Leutnant Osborne, als er am Tag der Vauxhall-Party nach Russell Square kam: "Mrs. Sedley, gnädige Frau, ich hoffe, Sie haben Platz; ich habe Dobbin von uns eingeladen, hier zu Abend zu essen und mit uns nach Vauxhall zu gehen. Er ist fast so bescheiden wie Jos." "Bescheidenheit! Ach was", sagte der beleibte Herr und warf Miss Sharp einen siegreichen Blick zu. "Er ist es schon, aber du bist unvergleichlich anmutiger, Sedley", fügte Osborne lachend hinzu. "Ich habe ihn im Bedford getroffen, als ich dich gesucht habe; und ich habe ihm erzählt, dass Miss Amelia nach Hause gekommen ist und dass wir alle bereit sind, einen vergnüglichen Abend zu verbringen; und dass Mrs. Sedley ihm vergeben hat, dass er die Punschschüssel bei dem Fest für das Kind kaputt gemacht hat. Erinnerst du dich, Ma'am, an die Katastrophe vor sieben Jahren?" "Mit Mrs. Flamingos scharlachrotem Seidenkleid", sagte die gutmütige Mrs. Sedley. "Was für ein Ungeschick war das! Und seine Schwestern sind auch nicht viel anmutiger. Lady Dobbin war gestern Abend mit dreien von ihnen in Highbury. Was für Gestalten, meine Lieben." "Der Stadtrat ist sehr reich, nicht wahr?" sagte Osborne schelmisch. "Denkst du nicht, eine der Töchter wäre eine gute Partie für mich, Ma'am?" "Du dummes Wesen! Wer würde dich nehmen wollen, würde ich gerne wissen, mit deinem gelben Gesicht?" "Meins ein gelbes Gesicht? Warte ab, bis du Dobbin siehst. Warum, er hatte drei Mal Gelbfieber; zweimal in Nassau und einmal auf St. Kitts." "Nun, nun, für uns ist deins schon gelb genug. Oder nicht, Emmy?", sagte Mrs. Sedley; auf diese Bemerkung reagierte Miss Amelia nur mit einem Lächeln und einer Verlegenheit; und als sie das blasse, interessante Gesicht des Herrn George Osborne ansah und diese schönen schwarzen, lockigen, glänzenden Backenhaare, die der junge Herr selbst mit nicht geringer Zufriedenheit betrachtete, dachte sie in ihrem kleinen Herzen, dass es in der Armee Seiner Majestät oder in der weiten Welt nie ein solches Gesicht oder einen solchen Helden gegeben hat. "Mir ist Captain Dobbins Teint egal", sagte sie, "oder seine Ungeschicklichkeit. Ich werde ihn immer mögen, das weiß ich", und ihr kleiner Grund dafür war, dass er der Freund und Beschützer von George war. "Es gibt keinen besseren Kerl in der Truppe Seine Geschichte seitdem er die Schule verlassen hat, bis zu dem Moment, in dem wir das Vergnügen haben ihn wiederzutreffen, wurde meiner Meinung nach durch das Gespräch auf der letzten Seite ausreichend angedeutet, auch wenn sie nicht vollständig erzählt wurde. Dobbin, der verachtete Kaufmann, war Alderman Dobbin - Alderman Dobbin war Colonel der City Light Horse, die damals vor militärischem Eifer brannte, um die französische Invasion zu verhindern. Colonel Dobbins Einheit, in der selbst der alte Mr. Osborne nur ein mittelmäßiger Korporal war, wurde vom Souverän und dem Herzog von York inspiziert und der Colonel und der Alderman wurden zum Ritter geschlagen. Sein Sohn war der Armee beigetreten und der junge Osborne folgte bald demselben Regiment. Sie hatten im Westindien und in Kanada gedient. Ihr Regiment war gerade nach Hause gekommen und Dobbins Zuneigung zu George Osborne war genauso warm und großzügig wie damals, als die beiden noch Schulkameraden waren. Also setzen sich diese ehrenwerten Leute bald zum Abendessen. Sie sprachen über Krieg und Ruhm, über Boney und Lord Wellington und die letzte Nachrichten. In diesen berühmten Tagen gab es in jeder Gazette einen Sieg und die beiden tapferen jungen Männer sehnten sich danach, ihre eigenen Namen in der ruhmreichen Liste zu sehen und verfluchten ihr unglückliches Schicksal, zu einem Regiment zu gehören, das fern von den Chancen der Ehre war. Miss Sharp entflammte bei diesem aufregenden Gespräch, aber Miss Sedley zitterte und wurde ganz schwach, als sie es hörte. Mr. Jos erzählte mehrere seiner Geschichten über Tigerjagden, beendete die Geschichte über Miss Cutler und Lance, den Chirurgen; half Rebecca bei allem auf dem Tisch und stopfte sich selbst viel Essen und Trinken in den Mund. Er sprang auf, um den Damen galant die Tür zu öffnen, als sie sich zurückzogen, und kehrte dann zum Tisch zurück, wo er sich Glas um Glas Claret einschenkte, das er nervös schnell hinunterstürzte. "Er lässt sich betrunken werden", flüsterte Osborne zu Dobbin und schließlich kamen die Stunde und der Wagen für Vauxhall. Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Ein weiterer Junge in der Schule war Cuff, der beliebte, tyrannische Typ. Jeder, der dabei war, wird sich immer daran erinnern, als Dobbin sah, wie Cuff gerade dabei war, George zu verprügeln. Es ist nicht wirklich klar, wie alt alle zu diesem Zeitpunkt waren. Wir nehmen an, dass George etwa 9 Jahre alt war, Dobbin etwa 11 Jahre alt und Cuff etwa 14 Jahre alt. Der Punkt ist, dass Cuff viel größer war als George. Dobbin griff ein und er und Cuff planten, sich nach der Schule zu prügeln. Der Kampf war sehr einseitig, mit einem halb wahnsinnigen Dobbin, der Cuff "versohlte". Danach stieg Dobbin's Ruf enorm und die anderen Kinder begannen so nett zu ihm zu sein, dass er tatsächlich in der Schule gut wurde. Es stellte sich heraus, dass er doch nicht dumm war, sondern nur zu unglücklich, um zu lernen oder sonst wie zu funktionieren. Das andere Ergebnis des Kampfes? Dobbin und George wurden beste Freunde. Oder besser gesagt, George ließ es zu, dass Dobbin sehr an ihm hing. Seitdem das alles passiert ist, ist Dobbin's Vater Stadtrat geworden und wurde zum Ritter geschlagen, das bedeutet, dass er jetzt Sir Dobbin ist und damit eine viel höhere soziale Klasse hat als zu Dobbin's Schulzeit. Dobbin ist jetzt Captain Dobbin und Offizier in George's Regiment. Der Grund für all diese Geschichte? Um zu erklären, warum George Dobbin als eine Art fünftes Rad am Wagen nach Vauxhall einlädt. Dobbin geht zum Sedley Haus, sieht Amelia und verliebt sich sofort in sie. Die fünf jungen Leute verbringen gemeinsam eine gute Zeit, bis es Zeit zum Gehen ist. Jos trinkt ein paar starke Drinks für die Straße, oder vielleicht um sich Mut anzutrinken, Becky um ihre Hand zu bitten.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: Ragueneau, Lise, Cyrano, then the musketeer. CYRANO: What's o'clock? RAGUENEAU (bowing low): Six o'clock. CYRANO (with emotion): In one hour's time! (He paces up and down the shop.) RAGUENEAU (following him): Bravo! I saw. . . CYRANO: Well, what saw you, then? RAGUENEAU: Your combat!. . . CYRANO: Which? RAGUENEAU: That in the Burgundy Hotel, 'faith! CYRANO (contemptuously): Ah!. . .the duel! RAGUENEAU (admiringly): Ay! the duel in verse!. . . LISE: He can talk of naught else! CYRANO: Well! Good! let be! RAGUENEAU (making passes with a spit that he catches up): 'At the envoi's end, I touch!. . .At the envoi's end, I touch!'. . .'Tis fine, fine! (With increasing enthusiasm): 'At the envoi's end--' CYRANO: What hour is it now, Ragueneau? RAGUENEAU (stopping short in the act of thrusting to look at the clock): Five minutes after six!. . .'I touch!' (He straightens himself): . . .Oh! to write a ballade! LISE (to Cyrano, who, as he passes by the counter, has absently shaken hands with her): What's wrong with your hand? CYRANO: Naught; a slight cut. RAGUENEAU: Have you been in some danger? CYRANO: None in the world. LISE (shaking her finger at him): Methinks you speak not the truth in saying that! CYRANO: Did you see my nose quiver when I spoke? 'Faith, it must have been a monstrous lie that should move it! (Changing his tone): I wait some one here. Leave us alone, and disturb us for naught an it were not for crack of doom! RAGUENEAU: But 'tis impossible; my poets are coming. . . LISE (ironically): Oh, ay, for their first meal o' the day! CYRANO: Prythee, take them aside when I shall make you sign to do so. . .What's o'clock? RAGUENEAU: Ten minutes after six. CYRANO (nervously seating himself at Ragueneau's table, and drawing some paper toward him): A pen!. . . RAGUENEAU (giving him the one from behind his ear): Here--a swan's quill. A MUSKETEER (with fierce mustache, enters, and in a stentorian voice): Good-day! (Lise goes up to him quickly.) CYRANO (turning round): Who's that? RAGUENEAU: 'Tis a friend of my wife--a terrible warrior--at least so says he himself. CYRANO (taking up the pen, and motioning Ragueneau away): Hush! (To himself): I will write, fold it, give it her, and fly! (Throws down the pen): Coward!. . .But strike me dead if I dare to speak to her,. . .ay, even one single word! (To Ragueneau): What time is it? RAGUENEAU: A quarter after six!. . . CYRANO (striking his breast): Ay--a single word of all those here! here! But writing, 'tis easier done. . . (He takes up the pen): Go to, I will write it, that love-letter! Oh! I have writ it and rewrit it in my own mind so oft that it lies there ready for pen and ink; and if I lay but my soul by my letter-sheet, 'tis naught to do but to copy from it. (He writes. Through the glass of the door the silhouettes of their figures move uncertainly and hesitatingly.) Ragueneau, Lise, the musketeer. Cyrano at the little table writing. The poets, dressed in black, their stockings ungartered, and covered with mud. LISE (entering, to Ragueneau): Here they come, your mud-bespattered friends! FIRST POET (entering, to Ragueneau): Brother in art!. . . SECOND POET (to Ragueneau, shaking his hands): Dear brother! THIRD POET: High soaring eagle among pastry-cooks! (He sniffs): Marry! it smells good here in your eyrie! FOURTH POET: 'Tis at Phoebus' own rays that thy roasts turn! FIFTH POET: Apollo among master-cooks-- RAGUENEAU (whom they surround and embrace): Ah! how quick a man feels at his ease with them!. . . FIRST POET: We were stayed by the mob; they are crowded all round the Porte de Nesle!. . . SECOND POET: Eight bleeding brigand carcasses strew the pavements there--all slit open with sword-gashes! CYRANO (raising his head a minute): Eight?. . .hold, methought seven. (He goes on writing.) RAGUENEAU (to Cyrano): Know you who might be the hero of the fray? CYRANO (carelessly): Not I. LISE (to the musketeer): And you? Know you? THE MUSKETEER (twirling his mustache): Maybe! CYRANO (writing a little way off:--he is heard murmuring a word from time to time): 'I love thee!' FIRST POET: 'Twas one man, say they all, ay, swear to it, one man who, single-handed, put the whole band to the rout! SECOND POET: 'Twas a strange sight!--pikes and cudgels strewed thick upon the ground. CYRANO (writing): . . .'Thine eyes'. . . THIRD POET: And they were picking up hats all the way to the Quai d'Orfevres! FIRST POET: Sapristi! but he must have been a ferocious. . . CYRANO (same play): . . .'Thy lips'. . . FIRST POET: 'Twas a parlous fearsome giant that was the author of such exploits! CYRANO (same play): . . .'And when I see thee come, I faint for fear.' SECOND POET (filching a cake): What hast rhymed of late, Ragueneau? CYRANO (same play): . . .'Who worships thee'. . . (He stops, just as he is about to sign, and gets up, slipping the letter into his doublet): No need I sign, since I give it her myself. RAGUENEAU (to second poet): I have put a recipe into verse. THIRD POET (seating himself by a plate of cream-puffs): Go to! Let us hear these verses! FOURTH POET (looking at a cake which he has taken): Its cap is all a' one side! (He makes one bite of the top.) FIRST POET: See how this gingerbread woos the famished rhymer with its almond eyes, and its eyebrows of angelica! (He takes it.) SECOND POET: We listen. THIRD POET (squeezing a cream-puff gently): How it laughs! Till its very cream runs over! SECOND POET (biting a bit off the great lyre of pastry): This is the first time in my life that ever I drew any means of nourishing me from the lyre! RAGUENEAU (who has put himself ready for reciting, cleared his throat, settled his cap, struck an attitude): A recipe in verse!. . . SECOND POET (to first, nudging him): You are breakfasting? FIRST POET (to second): And you dining, methinks. RAGUENEAU: How almond tartlets are made. Beat your eggs up, light and quick; Froth them thick; Mingle with them while you beat Juice of lemon, essence fine; Then combine The burst milk of almonds sweet. Circle with a custard paste The slim waist Of your tartlet-molds; the top With a skillful finger print, Nick and dint, Round their edge, then, drop by drop, In its little dainty bed Your cream shed: In the oven place each mold: Reappearing, softly browned, The renowned Almond tartlets you behold! THE POETS (with mouths crammed full): Exquisite! Delicious! A POET (choking): Homph! (They go up, eating.) CYRANO (who has been watching, goes toward Ragueneau): Lulled by your voice, did you see how they were stuffing themselves? RAGUENEAU (in a low voice, smiling): Oh, ay! I see well enough, but I never will seem to look, fearing to distress them; thus I gain a double pleasure when I recite to them my poems; for I leave those poor fellows who have not breakfasted free to eat, even while I gratify my own dearest foible, see you? CYRANO (clapping him on the shoulder): Friend, I like you right well!. . . (Ragueneau goes after his friends. Cyrano follows him with his eyes, then, rather sharply): Ho there! Lise! (Lise, who is talking tenderly to the musketeer, starts, and comes down toward Cyrano): So this fine captain is laying siege to you? LISE (offended): One haughty glance of my eye can conquer any man that should dare venture aught 'gainst my virtue. CYRANO: Pooh! Conquering eyes, methinks, are oft conquered eyes. LISE (choking with anger): But-- CYRANO (incisively): I like Ragueneau well, and so--mark me, Dame Lise--I permit not that he be rendered a laughing-stock by any. . . LISE: But. . . CYRANO (who has raised his voice so as to be heard by the gallant): A word to the wise. . . (He bows to the musketeer, and goes to the doorway to watch, after looking at the clock.) LISE (to the musketeer, who has merely bowed in answer to Cyrano's bow): How now? Is this your courage?. . .Why turn you not a jest on his nose? THE MUSKETEER: On his nose?. . .ay, ay. . .his nose. (He goes quickly farther away; Lise follows him.) CYRANO (from the doorway, signing to Ragueneau to draw the poets away): Hist!. . . RAGUENEAU (showing them the door on the right): We shall be more private there. . . CYRANO (impatiently): Hist! Hist!. . . RAGUENEAU (drawing them farther): To read poetry, 'tis better here. . . FIRST POET (despairingly, with his mouth full): What! leave the cakes?. . . SECOND POET: Never! Let's take them with us! (They all follow Ragueneau in procession, after sweeping all the cakes off the trays.) 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.

Cyrano tritt ein und Ragueneau gratuliert ihm zum Duell im Theater am Vorabend. Aber Cyrano interessiert sich nur für sein Treffen mit Roxane. Er bittet Ragueneau darum, den Ort zu leeren, wenn er das Signal gibt, und Ragueneau stimmt zu. Ein Musketier tritt ein, der später noch erwähnt wird. Die Dichter kommen herein, zu ihrem "ersten Mahl", wie Lise sagt. Sie sind alle aufgeregt über die Tat des Abends zuvor - ein Mann gegen hundert, und niemand weiß, wer der Mutige war. Cyrano schreibt einen Liebesbrief an Roxane und interessiert sich überhaupt nicht für das Gespräch um ihn herum. Er unterschreibt den Brief nicht, denn er plant, ihn Roxane persönlich zu geben. Die Dichter schmeicheln Ragueneau, indem sie nach seinem neuesten dichterischen Werk fragen - ein Rezept in Reimform. Cyrano fragt ständig nach der Zeit, und schließlich ist die Stunde für sein Treffen mit Roxane gekommen. Die Dichter werden in einen anderen Raum gehetzt, damit Cyrano sie alleine sehen kann.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: CHAPTER XXI. A HARD CASE. "Yarbs, yarbs; natur, natur; you foolish old file you! He diddled you with that hocus-pocus, did he? Yarbs and natur will cure your incurable cough, you think." It was a rather eccentric-looking person who spoke; somewhat ursine in aspect; sporting a shaggy spencer of the cloth called bear's-skin; a high-peaked cap of raccoon-skin, the long bushy tail switching over behind; raw-hide leggings; grim stubble chin; and to end, a double-barreled gun in hand--a Missouri bachelor, a Hoosier gentleman, of Spartan leisure and fortune, and equally Spartan manners and sentiments; and, as the sequel may show, not less acquainted, in a Spartan way of his own, with philosophy and books, than with woodcraft and rifles. He must have overheard some of the talk between the miser and the herb-doctor; for, just after the withdrawal of the one, he made up to the other--now at the foot of the stairs leaning against the baluster there--with the greeting above. "Think it will cure me?" coughed the miser in echo; "why shouldn't it? The medicine is nat'ral yarbs, pure yarbs; yarbs must cure me." "Because a thing is nat'ral, as you call it, you think it must be good. But who gave you that cough? Was it, or was it not, nature?" "Sure, you don't think that natur, Dame Natur, will hurt a body, do you?" "Natur is good Queen Bess; but who's responsible for the cholera?" "But yarbs, yarbs; yarbs are good?" "What's deadly-nightshade? Yarb, ain't it?" "Oh, that a Christian man should speak agin natur and yarbs--ugh, ugh, ugh!--ain't sick men sent out into the country; sent out to natur and grass?" "Aye, and poets send out the sick spirit to green pastures, like lame horses turned out unshod to the turf to renew their hoofs. A sort of yarb-doctors in their way, poets have it that for sore hearts, as for sore lungs, nature is the grand cure. But who froze to death my teamster on the prairie? And who made an idiot of Peter the Wild Boy?" "Then you don't believe in these 'ere yarb-doctors?" "Yarb-doctors? I remember the lank yarb-doctor I saw once on a hospital-cot in Mobile. One of the faculty passing round and seeing who lay there, said with professional triumph, 'Ah, Dr. Green, your yarbs don't help ye now, Dr. Green. Have to come to us and the mercury now, Dr. Green.--Natur! Y-a-r-b-s!'" "Did I hear something about herbs and herb-doctors?" here said a flute-like voice, advancing. It was the herb-doctor in person. Carpet-bag in hand, he happened to be strolling back that way. "Pardon me," addressing the Missourian, "but if I caught your words aright, you would seem to have little confidence in nature; which, really, in my way of thinking, looks like carrying the spirit of distrust pretty far." "And who of my sublime species may you be?" turning short round upon him, clicking his rifle-lock, with an air which would have seemed half cynic, half wild-cat, were it not for the grotesque excess of the expression, which made its sincerity appear more or less dubious. "One who has confidence in nature, and confidence in man, with some little modest confidence in himself." "That's your Confession of Faith, is it? Confidence in man, eh? Pray, which do you think are most, knaves or fools?" "Having met with few or none of either, I hardly think I am competent to answer." "I will answer for you. Fools are most." "Why do you think so?" "For the same reason that I think oats are numerically more than horses. Don't knaves munch up fools just as horses do oats?" "A droll, sir; you are a droll. I can appreciate drollery--ha, ha, ha!" "But I'm in earnest." "That's the drollery, to deliver droll extravagance with an earnest air--knaves munching up fools as horses oats.--Faith, very droll, indeed, ha, ha, ha! Yes, I think I understand you now, sir. How silly I was to have taken you seriously, in your droll conceits, too, about having no confidence in nature. In reality you have just as much as I have." "_I_ have confidence in nature? _I?_ I say again there is nothing I am more suspicious of. I once lost ten thousand dollars by nature. Nature embezzled that amount from me; absconded with ten thousand dollars' worth of my property; a plantation on this stream, swept clean away by one of those sudden shiftings of the banks in a freshet; ten thousand dollars' worth of alluvion thrown broad off upon the waters." "But have you no confidence that by a reverse shifting that soil will come back after many days?--ah, here is my venerable friend," observing the old miser, "not in your berth yet? Pray, if you _will_ keep afoot, don't lean against that baluster; take my arm." It was taken; and the two stood together; the old miser leaning against the herb-doctor with something of that air of trustful fraternity with which, when standing, the less strong of the Siamese twins habitually leans against the other. The Missourian eyed them in silence, which was broken by the herb-doctor. "You look surprised, sir. Is it because I publicly take under my protection a figure like this? But I am never ashamed of honesty, whatever his coat." "Look you," said the Missourian, after a scrutinizing pause, "you are a queer sort of chap. Don't know exactly what to make of you. Upon the whole though, you somewhat remind me of the last boy I had on my place." "Good, trustworthy boy, I hope?" "Oh, very! I am now started to get me made some kind of machine to do the sort of work which boys are supposed to be fitted for." "Then you have passed a veto upon boys?" "And men, too." "But, my dear sir, does not that again imply more or less lack of confidence?--(Stand up a little, just a very little, my venerable friend; you lean rather hard.)--No confidence in boys, no confidence in men, no confidence in nature. Pray, sir, who or what may you have confidence in?" "I have confidence in distrust; more particularly as applied to you and your herbs." "Well," with a forbearing smile, "that is frank. But pray, don't forget that when you suspect my herbs you suspect nature." "Didn't I say that before?" "Very good. For the argument's sake I will suppose you are in earnest. Now, can you, who suspect nature, deny, that this same nature not only kindly brought you into being, but has faithfully nursed you to your present vigorous and independent condition? Is it not to nature that you are indebted for that robustness of mind which you so unhandsomely use to her scandal? Pray, is it not to nature that you owe the very eyes by which you criticise her?" "No! for the privilege of vision I am indebted to an oculist, who in my tenth year operated upon me in Philadelphia. Nature made me blind and would have kept me so. My oculist counterplotted her." "And yet, sir, by your complexion, I judge you live an out-of-door life; without knowing it, you are partial to nature; you fly to nature, the universal mother." "Very motherly! Sir, in the passion-fits of nature, I've known birds fly from nature to me, rough as I look; yes, sir, in a tempest, refuge here," smiting the folds of his bearskin. "Fact, sir, fact. Come, come, Mr. Palaverer, for all your palavering, did you yourself never shut out nature of a cold, wet night? Bar her out? Bolt her out? Lint her out?" "As to that," said the herb-doctor calmly, "much may be said." "Say it, then," ruffling all his hairs. "You can't, sir, can't." Then, as in apostrophe: "Look you, nature! I don't deny but your clover is sweet, and your dandelions don't roar; but whose hailstones smashed my windows?" "Sir," with unimpaired affability, producing one of his boxes, "I am pained to meet with one who holds nature a dangerous character. Though your manner is refined your voice is rough; in short, you seem to have a sore throat. In the calumniated name of nature, I present you with this box; my venerable friend here has a similar one; but to you, a free gift, sir. Through her regularly-authorized agents, of whom I happen to be one, Nature delights in benefiting those who most abuse her. Pray, take it." "Away with it! Don't hold it so near. Ten to one there is a torpedo in it. Such things have been. Editors been killed that way. Take it further off, I say." "Good heavens! my dear sir----" "I tell you I want none of your boxes," snapping his rifle. "Oh, take it--ugh, ugh! do take it," chimed in the old miser; "I wish he would give me one for nothing." "You find it lonely, eh," turning short round; "gulled yourself, you would have a companion." "How can he find it lonely," returned the herb-doctor, "or how desire a companion, when here I stand by him; I, even I, in whom he has trust. For the gulling, tell me, is it humane to talk so to this poor old man? Granting that his dependence on my medicine is vain, is it kind to deprive him of what, in mere imagination, if nothing more, may help eke out, with hope, his disease? For you, if you have no confidence, and, thanks to your native health, can get along without it, so far, at least, as trusting in my medicine goes; yet, how cruel an argument to use, with this afflicted one here. Is it not for all the world as if some brawny pugilist, aglow in December, should rush in and put out a hospital-fire, because, forsooth, he feeling no need of artificial heat, the shivering patients shall have none? Put it to your conscience, sir, and you will admit, that, whatever be the nature of this afflicted one's trust, you, in opposing it, evince either an erring head or a heart amiss. Come, own, are you not pitiless?" "Yes, poor soul," said the Missourian, gravely eying the old man--"yes, it _is_ pitiless in one like me to speak too honestly to one like you. You are a late sitter-up in this life; past man's usual bed-time; and truth, though with some it makes a wholesome breakfast, proves to all a supper too hearty. Hearty food, taken late, gives bad dreams." "What, in wonder's name--ugh, ugh!--is he talking about?" asked the old miser, looking up to the herb-doctor. "Heaven be praised for that!" cried the Missourian. "Out of his mind, ain't he?" again appealed the old miser. "Pray, sir," said the herb-doctor to the Missourian, "for what were you giving thanks just now?" "For this: that, with some minds, truth is, in effect, not so cruel a thing after all, seeing that, like a loaded pistol found by poor devils of savages, it raises more wonder than terror--its peculiar virtue being unguessed, unless, indeed, by indiscreet handling, it should happen to go off of itself." "I pretend not to divine your meaning there," said the herb-doctor, after a pause, during which he eyed the Missourian with a kind of pinched expression, mixed of pain and curiosity, as if he grieved at his state of mind, and, at the same time, wondered what had brought him to it, "but this much I know," he added, "that the general cast of your thoughts is, to say the least, unfortunate. There is strength in them, but a strength, whose source, being physical, must wither. You will yet recant." "Recant?" "Yes, when, as with this old man, your evil days of decay come on, when a hoary captive in your chamber, then will you, something like the dungeoned Italian we read of, gladly seek the breast of that confidence begot in the tender time of your youth, blessed beyond telling if it return to you in age." "Go back to nurse again, eh? Second childhood, indeed. You are soft." "Mercy, mercy!" cried the old miser, "what is all this!--ugh, ugh! Do talk sense, my good friends. Ain't you," to the Missourian, "going to buy some of that medicine?" "Pray, my venerable friend," said the herb-doctor, now trying to straighten himself, "don't lean _quite_ so hard; my arm grows numb; abate a little, just a very little." "Go," said the Missourian, "go lay down in your grave, old man, if you can't stand of yourself. It's a hard world for a leaner." "As to his grave," said the herb-doctor, "that is far enough off, so he but faithfully take my medicine." "Ugh, ugh, ugh!--He says true. No, I ain't--ugh! a going to die yet--ugh, ugh, ugh! Many years to live yet, ugh, ugh, ugh!" "I approve your confidence," said the herb-doctor; "but your coughing distresses me, besides being injurious to you. Pray, let me conduct you to your berth. You are best there. Our friend here will wait till my return, I know." With which he led the old miser away, and then, coming back, the talk with the Missourian was resumed. "Sir," said the herb-doctor, with some dignity and more feeling, "now that our infirm friend is withdrawn, allow me, to the full, to express my concern at the words you allowed to escape you in his hearing. Some of those words, if I err not, besides being calculated to beget deplorable distrust in the patient, seemed fitted to convey unpleasant imputations against me, his physician." "Suppose they did?" with a menacing air. "Why, then--then, indeed," respectfully retreating, "I fall back upon my previous theory of your general facetiousness. I have the fortune to be in company with a humorist--a wag." "Fall back you had better, and wag it is," cried the Missourian, following him up, and wagging his raccoon tail almost into the herb-doctor's face, "look you!" "At what?" "At this coon. Can you, the fox, catch him?" "If you mean," returned the other, not unselfpossessed, "whether I flatter myself that I can in any way dupe you, or impose upon you, or pass myself off upon you for what I am not, I, as an honest man, answer that I have neither the inclination nor the power to do aught of the kind." "Honest man? Seems to me you talk more like a craven." "You in vain seek to pick a quarrel with me, or put any affront upon me. The innocence in me heals me." "A healing like your own nostrums. But you are a queer man--a very queer and dubious man; upon the whole, about the most so I ever met." The scrutiny accompanying this seemed unwelcome to the diffidence of the herb-doctor. As if at once to attest the absence of resentment, as well as to change the subject, he threw a kind of familiar cordiality into his air, and said: "So you are going to get some machine made to do your work? Philanthropic scruples, doubtless, forbid your going as far as New Orleans for slaves?" "Slaves?" morose again in a twinkling, "won't have 'em! Bad enough to see whites ducking and grinning round for a favor, without having those poor devils of niggers congeeing round for their corn. Though, to me, the niggers are the freer of the two. You are an abolitionist, ain't you?" he added, squaring himself with both hands on his rifle, used for a staff, and gazing in the herb-doctor's face with no more reverence than if it were a target. "You are an abolitionist, ain't you?" "As to that, I cannot so readily answer. If by abolitionist you mean a zealot, I am none; but if you mean a man, who, being a man, feels for all men, slaves included, and by any lawful act, opposed to nobody's interest, and therefore, rousing nobody's enmity, would willingly abolish suffering (supposing it, in its degree, to exist) from among mankind, irrespective of color, then am I what you say." "Picked and prudent sentiments. You are the moderate man, the invaluable understrapper of the wicked man. You, the moderate man, may be used for wrong, but are useless for right." "From all this," said the herb-doctor, still forgivingly, "I infer, that you, a Missourian, though living in a slave-state, are without slave sentiments." "Aye, but are you? Is not that air of yours, so spiritlessly enduring and yielding, the very air of a slave? Who is your master, pray; or are you owned by a company?" "_My_ master?" "Aye, for come from Maine or Georgia, you come from a slave-state, and a slave-pen, where the best breeds are to be bought up at any price from a livelihood to the Presidency. Abolitionism, ye gods, but expresses the fellow-feeling of slave for slave." "The back-woods would seem to have given you rather eccentric notions," now with polite superiority smiled the herb-doctor, still with manly intrepidity forbearing each unmanly thrust, "but to return; since, for your purpose, you will have neither man nor boy, bond nor free, truly, then some sort of machine for you is all there is left. My desires for your success attend you, sir.--Ah!" glancing shoreward, "here is Cape Giradeau; I must leave you." Könnten Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Sobald der Kräuterarzt weg ist, verspottet ein Mann aus Missouri, der in Bärenfell gekleidet ist und hart wie Nägel ist, den Geizhals dafür, dass er an die Natur, die Kräuter und den Kräuterarzt glaubt. Die Männer debattieren über die Güte der Natur, wobei der Geizhals sagt, dass alles in Ordnung sei und der Mann aus Missouri argumentiert, dass auch schlechtes Wetter, Not und Gift aus der Natur stammen. Der Kräuterarzt kehrt rechtzeitig mit seinem Carpetbag zurück, um das Ende der harten Kritik des Mannes aus Missouri zu hören. Als der harte Kerl seine Meinung wiederholt, kontert der Kräuterarzt mit Sicherlich scherzt du. Der Mann aus Missouri scherzt nicht, obwohl er definitiv Spaß daran hat, den Geizhals und den Kräuterarzt auseinanderzunehmen. Der Kräuterarzt versucht mehrmals, den Mann aus Missouri vom Gegenteil zu überzeugen, aber scheitert. Schließlich endet es damit, dass der Mann aus Missouri dem Geizhals grob sagt, er solle aufgeben und sterben, bevor die beiden jüngeren Männer kurz über den Abolitionismus plaudern. Der Mann aus Missouri möchte keine angestellten Hände, die ihm bei seiner Arbeit helfen, und hat genug davon, dass bedürftige Menschen im Allgemeinen nutzlos sind. Außerdem beschreibt der Mann aus Missouri den Kräuterarzt als Art Sklaven, dessen Meister sein Leben lenkt und ihm sagt, was er zu tun hat. Er sieht den Kräuterarzt als eine gemäßigte Art von Mann, dessen Mäßigung leicht ein Werkzeug des Bösen ist und nur sehr wenig Nutzen für das Gute hat. Der Kräuterarzt wirft dem Mann aus Missouri einen herablassenden Blick zu und sagt dann: "Oh, schau mal - hier ist meine Haltestelle. Tschüss."

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: ADAM came back from his work in the empty waggon--that was why he had changed his clothes--and was ready to set out to the Hall Farm when it still wanted a quarter to seven. "What's thee got thy Sunday cloose on for?" said Lisbeth complainingly, as he came downstairs. "Thee artna goin' to th' school i' thy best coat?" "No, Mother," said Adam, quietly. "I'm going to the Hall Farm, but mayhap I may go to the school after, so thee mustna wonder if I'm a bit late. Seth 'ull be at home in half an hour--he's only gone to the village; so thee wutna mind." "Eh, an' what's thee got thy best cloose on for to go to th' Hall Farm? The Poyser folks see'd thee in 'em yesterday, I warrand. What dost mean by turnin' worki'day into Sunday a-that'n? It's poor keepin' company wi' folks as donna like to see thee i' thy workin' jacket." "Good-bye, mother, I can't stay," said Adam, putting on his hat and going out. But he had no sooner gone a few paces beyond the door than Lisbeth became uneasy at the thought that she had vexed him. Of course, the secret of her objection to the best clothes was her suspicion that they were put on for Hetty's sake; but deeper than all her peevishness lay the need that her son should love her. She hurried after him, and laid hold of his arm before he had got half-way down to the brook, and said, "Nay, my lad, thee wutna go away angered wi' thy mother, an' her got nought to do but to sit by hersen an' think on thee?" "Nay, nay, Mother," said Adam, gravely, and standing still while he put his arm on her shoulder, "I'm not angered. But I wish, for thy own sake, thee'dst be more contented to let me do what I've made up my mind to do. I'll never be no other than a good son to thee as long as we live. But a man has other feelings besides what he owes to's father and mother, and thee oughtna to want to rule over me body and soul. And thee must make up thy mind as I'll not give way to thee where I've a right to do what I like. So let us have no more words about it." "Eh," said Lisbeth, not willing to show that she felt the real bearing of Adam's words, "and' who likes to see thee i' thy best cloose better nor thy mother? An' when thee'st got thy face washed as clean as the smooth white pibble, an' thy hair combed so nice, and thy eyes a-sparklin'--what else is there as thy old mother should like to look at half so well? An' thee sha't put on thy Sunday cloose when thee lik'st for me--I'll ne'er plague thee no moor about'n." "Well, well; good-bye, mother," said Adam, kissing her and hurrying away. He saw there was no other means of putting an end to the dialogue. Lisbeth stood still on the spot, shading her eyes and looking after him till he was quite out of sight. She felt to the full all the meaning that had lain in Adam's words, and, as she lost sight of him and turned back slowly into the house, she said aloud to herself--for it was her way to speak her thoughts aloud in the long days when her husband and sons were at their work--"Eh, he'll be tellin' me as he's goin' to bring her home one o' these days; an' she'll be missis o'er me, and I mun look on, belike, while she uses the blue-edged platters, and breaks 'em, mayhap, though there's ne'er been one broke sin' my old man an' me bought 'em at the fair twenty 'ear come next Whissuntide. Eh!" she went on, still louder, as she caught up her knitting from the table, "but she'll ne'er knit the lad's stockin's, nor foot 'em nayther, while I live; an' when I'm gone, he'll bethink him as nobody 'ull ne'er fit's leg an' foot as his old mother did. She'll know nothin' o' narrowin' an' heelin', I warrand, an' she'll make a long toe as he canna get's boot on. That's what comes o' marr'in' young wenches. I war gone thirty, an' th' feyther too, afore we war married; an' young enough too. She'll be a poor dratchell by then SHE'S thirty, a-marr'in' a-that'n, afore her teeth's all come." Adam walked so fast that he was at the yard-gate before seven. Martin Poyser and the grandfather were not yet come in from the meadow: every one was in the meadow, even to the black-and-tan terrier--no one kept watch in the yard but the bull-dog; and when Adam reached the house-door, which stood wide open, he saw there was no one in the bright clean house-place. But he guessed where Mrs. Poyser and some one else would be, quite within hearing; so he knocked on the door and said in his strong voice, "Mrs. Poyser within?" "Come in, Mr. Bede, come in," Mrs. Poyser called out from the dairy. She always gave Adam this title when she received him in her own house. "You may come into the dairy if you will, for I canna justly leave the cheese." Adam walked into the dairy, where Mrs. Poyser and Nancy were crushing the first evening cheese. "Why, you might think you war come to a dead-house," said Mrs. Poyser, as he stood in the open doorway; "they're all i' the meadow; but Martin's sure to be in afore long, for they're leaving the hay cocked to-night, ready for carrying first thing to-morrow. I've been forced t' have Nancy in, upo' 'count as Hetty must gether the red currants to-night; the fruit allays ripens so contrairy, just when every hand's wanted. An' there's no trustin' the children to gether it, for they put more into their own mouths nor into the basket; you might as well set the wasps to gether the fruit." Adam longed to say he would go into the garden till Mr. Poyser came in, but he was not quite courageous enough, so he said, "I could be looking at your spinning-wheel, then, and see what wants doing to it. Perhaps it stands in the house, where I can find it?" "No, I've put it away in the right-hand parlour; but let it be till I can fetch it and show it you. I'd be glad now if you'd go into the garden and tell Hetty to send Totty in. The child 'ull run in if she's told, an' I know Hetty's lettin' her eat too many currants. I'll be much obliged to you, Mr. Bede, if you'll go and send her in; an' there's the York and Lankester roses beautiful in the garden now--you'll like to see 'em. But you'd like a drink o' whey first, p'r'aps; I know you're fond o' whey, as most folks is when they hanna got to crush it out." "Thank you, Mrs. Poyser," said Adam; "a drink o' whey's allays a treat to me. I'd rather have it than beer any day." "Aye, aye," said Mrs. Poyser, reaching a small white basin that stood on the shelf, and dipping it into the whey-tub, "the smell o' bread's sweet t' everybody but the baker. The Miss Irwines allays say, 'Oh, Mrs. Poyser, I envy you your dairy; and I envy you your chickens; and what a beautiful thing a farm-house is, to be sure!' An' I say, 'Yes; a farm-house is a fine thing for them as look on, an' don't know the liftin', an' the stannin', an' the worritin' o' th' inside as belongs to't.'" "Why, Mrs. Poyser, you wouldn't like to live anywhere else but in a farm-house, so well as you manage it," said Adam, taking the basin; "and there can be nothing to look at pleasanter nor a fine milch cow, standing up to'ts knees in pasture, and the new milk frothing in the pail, and the fresh butter ready for market, and the calves, and the poultry. Here's to your health, and may you allays have strength to look after your own dairy, and set a pattern t' all the farmers' wives in the country." Mrs. Poyser was not to be caught in the weakness of smiling at a compliment, but a quiet complacency over-spread her face like a stealing sunbeam, and gave a milder glance than usual to her blue-grey eyes, as she looked at Adam drinking the whey. Ah! I think I taste that whey now--with a flavour so delicate that one can hardly distinguish it from an odour, and with that soft gliding warmth that fills one's imagination with a still, happy dreaminess. And the light music of the dropping whey is in my ears, mingling with the twittering of a bird outside the wire network window--the window overlooking the garden, and shaded by tall Guelder roses. "Have a little more, Mr. Bede?" said Mrs. Poyser, as Adam set down the basin. "No, thank you; I'll go into the garden now, and send in the little lass." "Aye, do; and tell her to come to her mother in the dairy." Adam walked round by the rick-yard, at present empty of ricks, to the little wooden gate leading into the garden--once the well-tended kitchen-garden of a manor-house; now, but for the handsome brick wall with stone coping that ran along one side of it, a true farmhouse garden, with hardy perennial flowers, unpruned fruit-trees, and kitchen vegetables growing together in careless, half-neglected abundance. In that leafy, flowery, bushy time, to look for any one in this garden was like playing at "hide-and-seek." There were the tall hollyhocks beginning to flower and dazzle the eye with their pink, white, and yellow; there were the syringas and Guelder roses, all large and disorderly for want of trimming; there were leafy walls of scarlet beans and late peas; there was a row of bushy filberts in one direction, and in another a huge apple-tree making a barren circle under its low-spreading boughs. But what signified a barren patch or two? The garden was so large. There was always a superfluity of broad beans--it took nine or ten of Adam's strides to get to the end of the uncut grass walk that ran by the side of them; and as for other vegetables, there was so much more room than was necessary for them that in the rotation of crops a large flourishing bed of groundsel was of yearly occurrence on one spot or other. The very rose-trees at which Adam stopped to pluck one looked as if they grew wild; they were all huddled together in bushy masses, now flaunting with wide-open petals, almost all of them of the streaked pink-and-white kind, which doubtless dated from the union of the houses of York and Lancaster. Adam was wise enough to choose a compact Provence rose that peeped out half-smothered by its flaunting scentless neighbours, and held it in his hand--he thought he should be more at ease holding something in his hand--as he walked on to the far end of the garden, where he remembered there was the largest row of currant-trees, not far off from the great yew-tree arbour. But he had not gone many steps beyond the roses, when he heard the shaking of a bough, and a boy's voice saying, "Now, then, Totty, hold out your pinny--there's a duck." The voice came from the boughs of a tall cherry-tree, where Adam had no difficulty in discerning a small blue-pinafored figure perched in a commodious position where the fruit was thickest. Doubtless Totty was below, behind the screen of peas. Yes--with her bonnet hanging down her back, and her fat face, dreadfully smeared with red juice, turned up towards the cherry-tree, while she held her little round hole of a mouth and her red-stained pinafore to receive the promised downfall. I am sorry to say, more than half the cherries that fell were hard and yellow instead of juicy and red; but Totty spent no time in useless regrets, and she was already sucking the third juiciest when Adam said, "There now, Totty, you've got your cherries. Run into the house with 'em to Mother--she wants you--she's in the dairy. Run in this minute--there's a good little girl." He lifted her up in his strong arms and kissed her as he spoke, a ceremony which Totty regarded as a tiresome interruption to cherry-eating; and when he set her down she trotted off quite silently towards the house, sucking her cherries as she went along. "Tommy, my lad, take care you're not shot for a little thieving bird," said Adam, as he walked on towards the currant-trees. He could see there was a large basket at the end of the row: Hetty would not be far off, and Adam already felt as if she were looking at him. Yet when he turned the corner she was standing with her back towards him, and stooping to gather the low-hanging fruit. Strange that she had not heard him coming! Perhaps it was because she was making the leaves rustle. She started when she became conscious that some one was near--started so violently that she dropped the basin with the currants in it, and then, when she saw it was Adam, she turned from pale to deep red. That blush made his heart beat with a new happiness. Hetty had never blushed at seeing him before. "I frightened you," he said, with a delicious sense that it didn't signify what he said, since Hetty seemed to feel as much as he did; "let ME pick the currants up." That was soon done, for they had only fallen in a tangled mass on the grass-plot, and Adam, as he rose and gave her the basin again, looked straight into her eyes with the subdued tenderness that belongs to the first moments of hopeful love. Hetty did not turn away her eyes; her blush had subsided, and she met his glance with a quiet sadness, which contented Adam because it was so unlike anything he had seen in her before. "There's not many more currants to get," she said; "I shall soon ha' done now." "I'll help you," said Adam; and he fetched the large basket, which was nearly full of currants, and set it close to them. Not a word more was spoken as they gathered the currants. Adam's heart was too full to speak, and he thought Hetty knew all that was in it. She was not indifferent to his presence after all; she had blushed when she saw him, and then there was that touch of sadness about her which must surely mean love, since it was the opposite of her usual manner, which had often impressed him as indifference. And he could glance at her continually as she bent over the fruit, while the level evening sunbeams stole through the thick apple-tree boughs, and rested on her round cheek and neck as if they too were in love with her. It was to Adam the time that a man can least forget in after-life, the time when he believes that the first woman he has ever loved betrays by a slight something--a word, a tone, a glance, the quivering of a lip or an eyelid--that she is at least beginning to love him in return. The sign is so slight, it is scarcely perceptible to the ear or eye--he could describe it to no one--it is a mere feather-touch, yet it seems to have changed his whole being, to have merged an uneasy yearning into a delicious unconsciousness of everything but the present moment. So much of our early gladness vanishes utterly from our memory: we can never recall the joy with which we laid our heads on our mother's bosom or rode on our father's back in childhood. Doubtless that joy is wrought up into our nature, as the sunlight of long-past mornings is wrought up in the soft mellowness of the apricot, but it is gone for ever from our imagination, and we can only BELIEVE in the joy of childhood. But the first glad moment in our first love is a vision which returns to us to the last, and brings with it a thrill of feeling intense and special as the recurrent sensation of a sweet odour breathed in a far-off hour of happiness. It is a memory that gives a more exquisite touch to tenderness, that feeds the madness of jealousy and adds the last keenness to the agony of despair. Hetty bending over the red bunches, the level rays piercing the screen of apple-tree boughs, the length of bushy garden beyond, his own emotion as he looked at her and believed that she was thinking of him, and that there was no need for them to talk--Adam remembered it all to the last moment of his life. And Hetty? You know quite well that Adam was mistaken about her. Like many other men, he thought the signs of love for another were signs of love towards himself. When Adam was approaching unseen by her, she was absorbed as usual in thinking and wondering about Arthur's possible return. The sound of any man's footstep would have affected her just in the same way--she would have FELT it might be Arthur before she had time to see, and the blood that forsook her cheek in the agitation of that momentary feeling would have rushed back again at the sight of any one else just as much as at the sight of Adam. He was not wrong in thinking that a change had come over Hetty: the anxieties and fears of a first passion, with which she was trembling, had become stronger than vanity, had given her for the first time that sense of helpless dependence on another's feeling which awakens the clinging deprecating womanhood even in the shallowest girl that can ever experience it, and creates in her a sensibility to kindness which found her quite hard before. For the first time Hetty felt that there was something soothing to her in Adam's timid yet manly tenderness. She wanted to be treated lovingly--oh, it was very hard to bear this blank of absence, silence, apparent indifference, after those moments of glowing love! She was not afraid that Adam would tease her with love-making and flattering speeches like her other admirers; he had always been so reserved to her; she could enjoy without any fear the sense that this strong brave man loved her and was near her. It never entered into her mind that Adam was pitiable too--that Adam too must suffer one day. Hetty, we know, was not the first woman that had behaved more gently to the man who loved her in vain because she had herself begun to love another. It was a very old story, but Adam knew nothing about it, so he drank in the sweet delusion. "That'll do," said Hetty, after a little while. "Aunt wants me to leave some on the trees. I'll take 'em in now." "It's very well I came to carry the basket," said Adam "for it 'ud ha' been too heavy for your little arms." "No; I could ha' carried it with both hands." "Oh, I daresay," said Adam, smiling, "and been as long getting into the house as a little ant carrying a caterpillar. Have you ever seen those tiny fellows carrying things four times as big as themselves?" "No," said Hetty, indifferently, not caring to know the difficulties of ant life. "Oh, I used to watch 'em often when I was a lad. But now, you see, I can carry the basket with one arm, as if it was an empty nutshell, and give you th' other arm to lean on. Won't you? Such big arms as mine were made for little arms like yours to lean on." Hetty smiled faintly and put her arm within his. Adam looked down at her, but her eyes were turned dreamily towards another corner of the garden. "Have you ever been to Eagledale?" she said, as they walked slowly along. "Yes," said Adam, pleased to have her ask a question about himself. "Ten years ago, when I was a lad, I went with father to see about some work there. It's a wonderful sight--rocks and caves such as you never saw in your life. I never had a right notion o' rocks till I went there." "How long did it take to get there?" "Why, it took us the best part o' two days' walking. But it's nothing of a day's journey for anybody as has got a first-rate nag. The captain 'ud get there in nine or ten hours, I'll be bound, he's such a rider. And I shouldn't wonder if he's back again to-morrow; he's too active to rest long in that lonely place, all by himself, for there's nothing but a bit of a inn i' that part where he's gone to fish. I wish he'd got th' estate in his hands; that 'ud be the right thing for him, for it 'ud give him plenty to do, and he'd do't well too, for all he's so young; he's got better notions o' things than many a man twice his age. He spoke very handsome to me th' other day about lending me money to set up i' business; and if things came round that way, I'd rather be beholding to him nor to any man i' the world." Poor Adam was led on to speak about Arthur because he thought Hetty would be pleased to know that the young squire was so ready to befriend him; the fact entered into his future prospects, which he would like to seem promising in her eyes. And it was true that Hetty listened with an interest which brought a new light into her eyes and a half-smile upon her lips. "How pretty the roses are now!" Adam continued, pausing to look at them. "See! I stole the prettiest, but I didna mean to keep it myself. I think these as are all pink, and have got a finer sort o' green leaves, are prettier than the striped uns, don't you?" He set down the basket and took the rose from his button-hole. "It smells very sweet," he said; "those striped uns have no smell. Stick it in your frock, and then you can put it in water after. It 'ud be a pity to let it fade." Hetty took the rose, smiling as she did so at the pleasant thought that Arthur could so soon get back if he liked. There was a flash of hope and happiness in her mind, and with a sudden impulse of gaiety she did what she had very often done before--stuck the rose in her hair a little above the left ear. The tender admiration in Adam's face was slightly shadowed by reluctant disapproval. Hetty's love of finery was just the thing that would most provoke his mother, and he himself disliked it as much as it was possible for him to dislike anything that belonged to her. "Ah," he said, "that's like the ladies in the pictures at the Chase; they've mostly got flowers or feathers or gold things i' their hair, but somehow I don't like to see 'em; they allays put me i' mind o' the painted women outside the shows at Treddles'on Fair. What can a woman have to set her off better than her own hair, when it curls so, like yours? If a woman's young and pretty, I think you can see her good looks all the better for her being plain dressed. Why, Dinah Morris looks very nice, for all she wears such a plain cap and gown. It seems to me as a woman's face doesna want flowers; it's almost like a flower itself. I'm sure yours is." "Oh, very well," said Hetty, with a little playful pout, taking the rose out of her hair. "I'll put one o' Dinah's caps on when we go in, and you'll see if I look better in it. She left one behind, so I can take the pattern." "Nay, nay, I don't want you to wear a Methodist cap like Dinah's. I daresay it's a very ugly cap, and I used to think when I saw her here as it was nonsense for her to dress different t' other people; but I never rightly noticed her till she came to see mother last week, and then I thought the cap seemed to fit her face somehow as th 'acorn-cup fits th' acorn, and I shouldn't like to see her so well without it. But you've got another sort o' face; I'd have you just as you are now, without anything t' interfere with your own looks. It's like when a man's singing a good tune--you don't want t' hear bells tinkling and interfering wi' the sound." He took her arm and put it within his again, looking down on her fondly. He was afraid she should think he had lectured her, imagining, as we are apt to do, that she had perceived all the thoughts he had only half-expressed. And the thing he dreaded most was lest any cloud should come over this evening's happiness. For the world he would not have spoken of his love to Hetty yet, till this commencing kindness towards him should have grown into unmistakable love. In his imagination he saw long years of his future life stretching before him, blest with the right to call Hetty his own: he could be content with very little at present. So he took up the basket of currants once more, and they went on towards the house. The scene had quite changed in the half-hour that Adam had been in the garden. The yard was full of life now: Marty was letting the screaming geese through the gate, and wickedly provoking the gander by hissing at him; the granary-door was groaning on its hinges as Alick shut it, after dealing out the corn; the horses were being led out to watering, amidst much barking of all the three dogs and many "whups" from Tim the ploughman, as if the heavy animals who held down their meek, intelligent heads, and lifted their shaggy feet so deliberately, were likely to rush wildly in every direction but the right. Everybody was come back from the meadow; and when Hetty and Adam entered the house-place, Mr. Poyser was seated in the three-cornered chair, and the grandfather in the large arm-chair opposite, looking on with pleasant expectation while the supper was being laid on the oak table. Mrs. Poyser had laid the cloth herself--a cloth made of homespun linen, with a shining checkered pattern on it, and of an agreeable whitey-brown hue, such as all sensible housewives like to see--none of your bleached "shop-rag" that would wear into holes in no time, but good homespun that would last for two generations. The cold veal, the fresh lettuces, and the stuffed chine might well look tempting to hungry men who had dined at half-past twelve o'clock. On the large deal table against the wall there were bright pewter plates and spoons and cans, ready for Alick and his companions; for the master and servants ate their supper not far off each other; which was all the pleasanter, because if a remark about to-morrow morning's work occurred to Mr. Poyser, Alick was at hand to hear it. "Well, Adam, I'm glad to see ye," said Mr. Poyser. "What! ye've been helping Hetty to gether the curran's, eh? Come, sit ye down, sit ye down. Why, it's pretty near a three-week since y' had your supper with us; and the missis has got one of her rare stuffed chines. I'm glad ye're come." "Hetty," said Mrs. Poyser, as she looked into the basket of currants to see if the fruit was fine, "run upstairs and send Molly down. She's putting Totty to bed, and I want her to draw th' ale, for Nancy's busy yet i' the dairy. You can see to the child. But whativer did you let her run away from you along wi' Tommy for, and stuff herself wi' fruit as she can't eat a bit o' good victual?" This was said in a lower tone than usual, while her husband was talking to Adam; for Mrs. Poyser was strict in adherence to her own rules of propriety, and she considered that a young girl was not to be treated sharply in the presence of a respectable man who was courting her. That would not be fair-play: every woman was young in her turn, and had her chances of matrimony, which it was a point of honour for other women not to spoil--just as one market-woman who has sold her own eggs must not try to balk another of a customer. Hetty made haste to run away upstairs, not easily finding an answer to her aunt's question, and Mrs. Poyser went out to see after Marty and Tommy and bring them in to supper. Soon they were all seated--the two rosy lads, one on each side, by the pale mother, a place being left for Hetty between Adam and her uncle. Alick too was come in, and was seated in his far corner, eating cold broad beans out of a large dish with his pocket-knife, and finding a flavour in them which he would not have exchanged for the finest pineapple. "What a time that gell is drawing th' ale, to be sure!" said Mrs. Poyser, when she was dispensing her slices of stuffed chine. "I think she sets the jug under and forgets to turn the tap, as there's nothing you can't believe o' them wenches: they'll set the empty kettle o' the fire, and then come an hour after to see if the water boils." "She's drawin' for the men too," said Mr. Poyser. "Thee shouldst ha' told her to bring our jug up first." "Told her?" said Mrs. Poyser. "Yes, I might spend all the wind i' my body, an' take the bellows too, if I was to tell them gells everything as their own sharpness wonna tell 'em. Mr. Bede, will you take some vinegar with your lettuce? Aye you're i' the right not. It spoils the flavour o' the chine, to my thinking. It's poor eating where the flavour o' the meat lies i' the cruets. There's folks as make bad butter and trusten to the salt t' hide it." Mrs. Poyser's attention was here diverted by the appearance of Molly, carrying a large jug, two small mugs, and four drinking-cans, all full of ale or small beer--an interesting example of the prehensile power possessed by the human hand. Poor Molly's mouth was rather wider open than usual, as she walked along with her eyes fixed on the double cluster of vessels in her hands, quite innocent of the expression in her mistress's eye. "Molly, I niver knew your equils--to think o' your poor mother as is a widow, an' I took you wi' as good as no character, an' the times an' times I've told you...." Molly had not seen the lightning, and the thunder shook her nerves the more for the want of that preparation. With a vague alarmed sense that she must somehow comport herself differently, she hastened her step a little towards the far deal table, where she might set down her cans--caught her foot in her apron, which had become untied, and fell with a crash and a splash into a pool of beer; whereupon a tittering explosion from Marty and Tommy, and a serious "Ello!" from Mr. Poyser, who saw his draught of ale unpleasantly deferred. "There you go!" resumed Mrs. Poyser, in a cutting tone, as she rose and went towards the cupboard while Molly began dolefully to pick up the fragments of pottery. "It's what I told you 'ud come, over and over again; and there's your month's wage gone, and more, to pay for that jug as I've had i' the house this ten year, and nothing ever happened to't before; but the crockery you've broke sin' here in th' house you've been 'ud make a parson swear--God forgi' me for saying so--an' if it had been boiling wort out o' the copper, it 'ud ha' been the same, and you'd ha' been scalded and very like lamed for life, as there's no knowing but what you will be some day if you go on; for anybody 'ud think you'd got the St. Vitus's Dance, to see the things you've throwed down. It's a pity but what the bits was stacked up for you to see, though it's neither seeing nor hearing as 'ull make much odds to you--anybody 'ud think you war case-hardened." Poor Molly's tears were dropping fast by this time, and in her desperation at the lively movement of the beer-stream towards Alick's legs, she was converting her apron into a mop, while Mrs. Poyser, opening the cupboard, turned a blighting eye upon her. "Ah," she went on, "you'll do no good wi' crying an' making more wet to wipe up. It's all your own wilfulness, as I tell you, for there's nobody no call to break anything if they'll only go the right way to work. But wooden folks had need ha' wooden things t' handle. And here must I take the brown-and-white jug, as it's niver been used three times this year, and go down i' the cellar myself, and belike catch my death, and be laid up wi' inflammation...." Mrs. Poyser had turned round from the cupboard with the brown-and-white jug in her hand, when she caught sight of something at the other end of the kitchen; perhaps it was because she was already trembling and nervous that the apparition had so strong an effect on her; perhaps jug-breaking, like other crimes, has a contagious influence. However it was, she stared and started like a ghost-seer, and the precious brown-and-white jug fell to the ground, parting for ever with its spout and handle. "Did ever anybody see the like?" she said, with a suddenly lowered tone, after a moment's bewildered glance round the room. "The jugs are bewitched, I think. It's them nasty glazed handles--they slip o'er the finger like a snail." "Why, thee'st let thy own whip fly i' thy face," said her husband, who had now joined in the laugh of the young ones. "It's all very fine to look on and grin," rejoined Mrs. Poyser; "but there's times when the crockery seems alive an' flies out o' your hand like a bird. It's like the glass, sometimes, 'ull crack as it stands. What is to be broke WILL be broke, for I never dropped a thing i' my life for want o' holding it, else I should never ha' kept the crockery all these 'ears as I bought at my own wedding. And Hetty, are you mad? Whativer do you mean by coming down i' that way, and making one think as there's a ghost a-walking i' th' house?" A new outbreak of laughter, while Mrs. Poyser was speaking, was caused, less by her sudden conversion to a fatalistic view of jug-breaking than by that strange appearance of Hetty, which had startled her aunt. The little minx had found a black gown of her aunt's, and pinned it close round her neck to look like Dinah's, had made her hair as flat as she could, and had tied on one of Dinah's high-crowned borderless net caps. The thought of Dinah's pale grave face and mild grey eyes, which the sight of the gown and cap brought with it, made it a laughable surprise enough to see them replaced by Hetty's round rosy cheeks and coquettish dark eyes. The boys got off their chairs and jumped round her, clapping their hands, and even Alick gave a low ventral laugh as he looked up from his beans. Under cover of the noise, Mrs. Poyser went into the back kitchen to send Nancy into the cellar with the great pewter measure, which had some chance of being free from bewitchment. "Why, Hetty, lass, are ye turned Methodist?" said Mr. Poyser, with that comfortable slow enjoyment of a laugh which one only sees in stout people. "You must pull your face a deal longer before you'll do for one; mustna she, Adam? How come you put them things on, eh?" "Adam said he liked Dinah's cap and gown better nor my clothes," said Hetty, sitting down demurely. "He says folks looks better in ugly clothes." "Nay, nay," said Adam, looking at her admiringly; "I only said they seemed to suit Dinah. But if I'd said you'd look pretty in 'em, I should ha' said nothing but what was true." "Why, thee thought'st Hetty war a ghost, didstna?" said Mr. Poyser to his wife, who now came back and took her seat again. "Thee look'dst as scared as scared." "It little sinnifies how I looked," said Mrs. Poyser; "looks 'ull mend no jugs, nor laughing neither, as I see. Mr. Bede, I'm sorry you've to wait so long for your ale, but it's coming in a minute. Make yourself at home wi' th' cold potatoes: I know you like 'em. Tommy, I'll send you to bed this minute, if you don't give over laughing. What is there to laugh at, I should like to know? I'd sooner cry nor laugh at the sight o' that poor thing's cap; and there's them as 'ud be better if they could make theirselves like her i' more ways nor putting on her cap. It little becomes anybody i' this house to make fun o' my sister's child, an' her just gone away from us, as it went to my heart to part wi' her. An' I know one thing, as if trouble was to come, an' I was to be laid up i' my bed, an' the children was to die--as there's no knowing but what they will--an' the murrain was to come among the cattle again, an' everything went to rack an' ruin, I say we might be glad to get sight o' Dinah's cap again, wi' her own face under it, border or no border. For she's one o' them things as looks the brightest on a rainy day, and loves you the best when you're most i' need on't." Mrs. Poyser, you perceive, was aware that nothing would be so likely to expel the comic as the terrible. Tommy, who was of a susceptible disposition, and very fond of his mother, and who had, besides, eaten so many cherries as to have his feelings less under command than usual, was so affected by the dreadful picture she had made of the possible future that he began to cry; and the good-natured father, indulgent to all weaknesses but those of negligent farmers, said to Hetty, "You'd better take the things off again, my lass; it hurts your aunt to see 'em." Hetty went upstairs again, and the arrival of the ale made an agreeable diversion; for Adam had to give his opinion of the new tap, which could not be otherwise than complimentary to Mrs. Poyser; and then followed a discussion on the secrets of good brewing, the folly of stinginess in "hopping," and the doubtful economy of a farmer's making his own malt. Mrs. Poyser had so many opportunities of expressing herself with weight on these subjects that by the time supper was ended, the ale-jug refilled, and Mr. Poyser's pipe alight she was once more in high good humour, and ready, at Adam's request, to fetch the broken spinning-wheel for his inspection. "Ah," said Adam, looking at it carefully, "here's a nice bit o' turning wanted. It's a pretty wheel. I must have it up at the turning-shop in the village and do it there, for I've no convenence for turning at home. If you'll send it to Mr. Burge's shop i' the morning, I'll get it done for you by Wednesday. I've been turning it over in my mind," he continued, looking at Mr. Poyser, "to make a bit more convenence at home for nice jobs o' cabinet-making. I've always done a deal at such little things in odd hours, and they're profitable, for there's more workmanship nor material in 'em. I look for me and Seth to get a little business for ourselves i' that way, for I know a man at Rosseter as 'ull take as many things as we should make, besides what we could get orders for round about." Mr. Poyser entered with interest into a project which seemed a step towards Adam's becoming a "master-man," and Mrs. Poyser gave her approbation to the scheme of the movable kitchen cupboard, which was to be capable of containing grocery, pickles, crockery, and house-linen in the utmost compactness without confusion. Hetty, once more in her own dress, with her neckerchief pushed a little backwards on this warm evening, was seated picking currants near the window, where Adam could see her quite well. And so the time passed pleasantly till Adam got up to go. He was pressed to come again soon, but not to stay longer, for at this busy time sensible people would not run the risk of being sleepy at five o'clock in the morning. "I shall take a step farther," said Adam, "and go on to see Mester Massey, for he wasn't at church yesterday, and I've not seen him for a week past. I've never hardly known him to miss church before." "Aye," said Mr. Poyser, "we've heared nothing about him, for it's the boys' hollodays now, so we can give you no account." "But you'll niver think o' going there at this hour o' the night?" said Mrs. Poyser, folding up her knitting. "Oh, Mester Massey sits up late," said Adam. "An' the night-school's not over yet. Some o' the men don't come till late--they've got so far to walk. And Bartle himself's never in bed till it's gone eleven." "I wouldna have him to live wi' me, then," said Mrs. Poyser, "a-dropping candle-grease about, as you're like to tumble down o' the floor the first thing i' the morning." "Aye, eleven o'clock's late--it's late," said old Martin. "I ne'er sot up so i' MY life, not to say as it warna a marr'in', or a christenin', or a wake, or th' harvest supper. Eleven o'clock's late." "Why, I sit up till after twelve often," said Adam, laughing, "but it isn't t' eat and drink extry, it's to work extry. Good-night, Mrs. Poyser; good-night, Hetty." Hetty could only smile and not shake hands, for hers were dyed and damp with currant-juice; but all the rest gave a hearty shake to the large palm that was held out to them, and said, "Come again, come again!" "Aye, think o' that now," said Mr. Poyser, when Adam was out of on the causeway. "Sitting up till past twelve to do extry work! Ye'll not find many men o' six-an' twenty as 'ull do to put i' the shafts wi' him. If you can catch Adam for a husband, Hetty, you'll ride i' your own spring-cart some day, I'll be your warrant." Hetty was moving across the kitchen with the currants, so her uncle did not see the little toss of the head with which she answered him. To ride in a spring-cart seemed a very miserable lot indeed to her now. 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.

Wenn Adam nach der Arbeit nach Hause kommt, ist seine Mutter wie immer aufbrausend, aber er ignoriert ihre Beschwerden und erklärt, dass er frei sein muss, das zu tun, was er für richtig hält. Er zieht seine besten Kleider an und geht zur Hall Farm, wo er auf Mrs. Poyser trifft. Sie erzählt ihm, dass Hetty mit Totty im Garten ist und bittet ihn, das Kind hereinzuschicken. Adam erledigt dies und sucht dann nach Hetty. Er überrascht sie unerwartet und erschreckt sie; sie errötet, und Adam interpretiert dies als Zeichen von Liebe. Es ist allerdings eine "süße Täuschung"; Hetty denkt an Arthur. Es gibt viel Missverständnis in dem folgenden Gespräch; Adam erzählt Hetty von Arthurs Plan, ihm Geld zu leihen, damit sie eine gute Meinung von seinen eigenen Aussichten hat, aber Hetty interessiert sich nur für die Informationen, weil sie sich auf Arthur beziehen. Er pflückt eine Rose für sie und Hetty steckt sie sich ins Haar. Adam missbilligt dieses Zeichen der Eitelkeit und sagt es ihr; er vertritt die Meinung, dass Dinahs extrem schlichter Kleidungsstil "sehr schön" ist. Sie gehen ins Haus und Hetty geht nach oben, während Adam sich mit den Poysers unterhält. Mrs. Poyser ist wütend auf eine der Dienstmädchen, weil sie etwas Geschirr zerbrochen hat, bis sie plötzlich selbst einen Krug fallen lässt. Sie ist von Hetty in einem der Kleider ihrer Tante erschrocken und tut so, als hätte sie einen Geist gesehen. Nach ein paar Kommentaren zu Hettys Scherz wechselt das Gespräch zu anderen Themen. Adam erwähnt seinen Plan für ein zweites Geschäft und Mr. Poyser stimmt dem zu. Schließlich verlässt Adam das Haus, um Bartle Massey, den Dorfschullehrer, zu besuchen.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: A large rose-tree stood near the entrance of the garden; the roses growing on it were white, but there were three gardeners at it, busily painting them red. Suddenly their eyes chanced to fall upon Alice, as she stood watching them. "Would you tell me, please," said Alice, a little timidly, "why you are painting those roses?" Five and Seven said nothing, but looked at Two. Two began, in a low voice, "Why, the fact is, you see, Miss, this here ought to have been a _red_ rose-tree, and we put a white one in by mistake; and, if the Queen was to find it out, we should all have our heads cut off, you know. So you see, Miss, we're doing our best, afore she comes, to--" At this moment, Five, who had been anxiously looking across the garden, called out, "The Queen! The Queen!" and the three gardeners instantly threw themselves flat upon their faces. There was a sound of many footsteps and Alice looked 'round, eager to see the Queen. First came ten soldiers carrying clubs, with their hands and feet at the corners: next the ten courtiers; these were ornamented all over with diamonds. After these came the royal children; there were ten of them, all ornamented with hearts. Next came the guests, mostly Kings and Queens, and among them Alice recognized the White Rabbit. Then followed the Knave of Hearts, carrying the King's crown on a crimson velvet cushion; and last of all this grand procession came THE KING AND THE QUEEN OF HEARTS. When the procession came opposite to Alice, they all stopped and looked at her, and the Queen said severely, "Who is this?" She said it to the Knave of Hearts, who only bowed and smiled in reply. "My name is Alice, so please Your Majesty," said Alice very politely; but she added to herself, "Why, they're only a pack of cards, after all!" "Can you play croquet?" shouted the Queen. The question was evidently meant for Alice. "Yes!" said Alice loudly. "Come on, then!" roared the Queen. "It's--it's a very fine day!" said a timid voice to Alice. She was walking by the White Rabbit, who was peeping anxiously into her face. "Very," said Alice. "Where's the Duchess?" "Hush! Hush!" said the Rabbit. "She's under sentence of execution." "What for?" said Alice. "She boxed the Queen's ears--" the Rabbit began. "Get to your places!" shouted the Queen in a voice of thunder, and people began running about in all directions, tumbling up against each other. However, they got settled down in a minute or two, and the game began. Alice thought she had never seen such a curious croquet-ground in her life; it was all ridges and furrows. The croquet balls were live hedgehogs, and the mallets live flamingos and the soldiers had to double themselves up and stand on their hands and feet, to make the arches. The players all played at once, without waiting for turns, quarrelling all the while and fighting for the hedgehogs; and in a very short time, the Queen was in a furious passion and went stamping about and shouting, "Off with his head!" or "Off with her head!" about once in a minute. "They're dreadfully fond of beheading people here," thought Alice; "the great wonder is that there's anyone left alive!" She was looking about for some way of escape, when she noticed a curious appearance in the air. "It's the Cheshire-Cat," she said to herself; "now I shall have somebody to talk to." "How are you getting on?" said the Cat. "I don't think they play at all fairly," Alice said, in a rather complaining tone; "and they all quarrel so dreadfully one can't hear oneself speak--and they don't seem to have any rules in particular." "How do you like the Queen?" said the Cat in a low voice. "Not at all," said Alice. Alice thought she might as well go back and see how the game was going on. So she went off in search of her hedgehog. The hedgehog was engaged in a fight with another hedgehog, which seemed to Alice an excellent opportunity for croqueting one of them with the other; the only difficulty was that her flamingo was gone across to the other side of the garden, where Alice could see it trying, in a helpless sort of way, to fly up into a tree. She caught the flamingo and tucked it away under her arm, that it might not escape again. Just then Alice ran across the Duchess (who was now out of prison). She tucked her arm affectionately into Alice's and they walked off together. Alice was very glad to find her in such a pleasant temper. She was a little startled, however, when she heard the voice of the Duchess close to her ear. "You're thinking about something, my dear, and that makes you forget to talk." "The game's going on rather better now," Alice said, by way of keeping up the conversation a little. "'Tis so," said the Duchess; "and the moral of that is--'Oh, 'tis love, 'tis love that makes the world go 'round!'" "Somebody said," Alice whispered, "that it's done by everybody minding his own business!" "Ah, well! It means much the same thing," said the Duchess, digging her sharp little chin into Alice's shoulder, as she added "and the moral of _that_ is--'Take care of the sense and the sounds will take care of themselves.'" To Alice's great surprise, the Duchess's arm that was linked into hers began to tremble. Alice looked up and there stood the Queen in front of them, with her arms folded, frowning like a thunderstorm! "Now, I give you fair warning," shouted the Queen, stamping on the ground as she spoke, "either you or your head must be off, and that in about half no time. Take your choice!" The Duchess took her choice, and was gone in a moment. "Let's go on with the game," the Queen said to Alice; and Alice was too much frightened to say a word, but slowly followed her back to the croquet-ground. All the time they were playing, the Queen never left off quarreling with the other players and shouting, "Off with his head!" or "Off with her head!" By the end of half an hour or so, all the players, except the King, the Queen and Alice, were in custody of the soldiers and under sentence of execution. Then the Queen left off, quite out of breath, and walked away with Alice. Alice heard the King say in a low voice to the company generally, "You are all pardoned." Suddenly the cry "The Trial's beginning!" was heard in the distance, and Alice ran along with the others. 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.

Alice entdeckt einen großen weiß-rosafarbenen Baum in der Nähe des Eingangs des Gartens. Ein ungewöhnlicher Anblick erwartet sie dort. Sie bemerkt, dass die Gärtner hier allesamt lebendige Spielkarten, Pik, sind. Drei von ihnen, "zwei", "fünf" und "sieben", sind damit beschäftigt, den Rosenstrauch rot zu malen. Auf Nachfrage erfährt sie, dass die Königin befohlen hatte, einen roten Rosenstrauch zu pflanzen, anstelle dessen sie einen weiß-rosafarbenen Strauch gepflanzt hatten. Aus Angst vor den Konsequenzen versuchten sie, ihren Fehler zu vertuschen, indem sie den Rosenstrauch rot anmahlen. Bald hören sie eine Prozession. An der Spitze der Prozession sieht Alice zehn Soldaten, die Keulen tragen, gefolgt von zehn Hofleuten, die mit Diamanten geschmückt sind. Ihnen folgen zehn königliche Kinder, alle mit Herzen geschmückt. Danach kommen die Ehrengäste - die Könige und Königinnen. Alice erkennt den Weißen Hasen unter ihnen. Dann folgt der Bube der Herzen, der die Königskrone trägt. Und zuletzt kommen der König und die Königin der Herzen. Die Prozession hält in der Nähe von Alice an und die Königin bittet Alice, die drei Karten zu identifizieren, die zur Flucht vor dem Zorn der Königin flach am Boden liegen. Nachdem es Alice gelungen ist, die "Leben" dieser Karten zu "retten", informiert sie das Fabeltier Alice darüber, dass noch niemand in Wunderland hingerichtet wurde. Es folgt ein merkwürdiges Spiel Krocket, bei dem lebende Igel als Krocketbälle und Flamingos als Schläger dienen. Während des Spiels ist häufig zu hören, wie die Königin sagt: "Kopf ab". Alice kann die Regeln des Spiels nicht verstehen, da alles so chaotisch ist. Jeder versucht gleichzeitig zu spielen und das führt zu einem hektischen Durcheinander. Während sie nach einem Ausweg sucht, entdeckt Alice die Grinsekatze und beginnt ein Gespräch mit ihr über die Ereignisse, die gerade stattfinden. Während dieses Gesprächs wird die Katze dem König vorgestellt und ihr unhöfliches Verhalten gegenüber dem König führt zur Anordnung "Kopf ab". Die Grinsekatze hat jedoch die Fähigkeit, nur einen Teil ihres Körpers sichtbar zu machen, während der Rest unsichtbar bleibt. So arrangiert die Katze die Dinge so, dass alle Anwesenden nur ihren Kopf sehen können. Nun bricht totales Chaos aus. Denn der Henker argumentiert, dass man keinen Kopf abschlagen kann, es sei denn, es gibt einen Körper. Der Monarch behauptet, dass alles, was einen Kopf hat, abgeschlagen werden kann. Die Königin droht weiter, dass sie alle hinrichten lassen wird, wenn nicht bald etwas unternommen wird. Sie beschließen schließlich, Alice um Hilfe zu bitten, die Angelegenheit zu klären. Sie schlägt vor, am besten die Herzogin zu fragen. Während der Henker ausgesandt wird, um die Herzogin zu holen, gelingt es der Katze zu verblassen. Das zwingt die gesamte Gesellschaft, nach der Katze zu suchen.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Kapitel: Dritte Szene. Tritt ein, im Eroberungszug mit Trommel und Fahnen, Edmund, Lear, und Cordelia, als Gefangene, Soldaten, Hauptmann. Bast. Einige Offiziere bringen sie weg: gute Wache, Bis ihre größeren Vergnügungen bekannt sind, Die sie verurteilen sollen. Cor. Wir sind nicht die Ersten, Die mit besten Absichten das Schlimmste erlitten haben: Für dich, unterdrückter König, bin ich niedergeschlagen, Sonst könnte ich selbst das Grämen des falschen Schicksals überbieten. Werden wir diese Töchter und Schwestern nicht sehen? Lear. Nein, nein, nein, nein: komm, lass uns ins Gefängnis gehen, Wir beide werden wie Vögel im Käfig singen: Wenn du mich um Segen bittest, werde ich niederknien Und um Vergebung bitten: So werden wir leben, Beten und singen und alte Geschichten erzählen und lachen Über vergoldete Schmetterlinge: und hier (arme Schelme) Über Hofnachrichten sprechen, und wir werden auch mit ihnen sprechen, Wer gewinnt, wer verliert; wer drin ist und wer draußen ist; Und wir nehmen uns die Geheimnisse der Dinge vor, Als wären wir Spione der Götter: Und wir werden aushalten, In einem eingemauerten Gefängnis, Massen und Gruppen von Großen, Die mit dem Mond auf und ab schwanken. Bast. Bringt sie weg. Lear. Für solche Opfergaben, meine Cordelia, Werfen die Götter selbst Weihrauch. Habe ich dich erwischt? Derjenige, der uns trennt, wird eine Brandfackel aus dem Himmel holen Und uns wie Füchse von hier vertreiben: Wisch dir die Augen ab, Die guten Jahre sollen sie verschlingen, Fleisch und Fell, Ehe sie uns zum Weinen bringen? Wir werden sie erst verhungern sehen: Komm. Tritt ein. Bast. Komm her, Hauptmann, hör zu. Nimm diese Notiz, folge ihnen ins Gefängnis, Einen Schritt habe ich dich vorangebracht, wenn du tust, Wie es dich anweist, wirst du deinen Weg machen Zu edlen Schicksalen: Wisse, dass Menschen So sind, wie die Zeit ist; sich zartfühlend geben Gehört sich für ein Schwert nicht, dein großer Dienst Wird keine Fragen dulden: Entweder sagst du, du wirst es tun, Oder du hast Erfolg auf anderem Wege. Capt. Ich werde es tun, mein Lord. Bast. Mach dich daran und schreibe glücklich, wenn du fertig bist. Merke, ich sagt es sofort und trage es so aus, Wie ich es aufgeschrieben habe. Exit Captaine. Flourish. Tritt ein, Albany, Gonerill, Regan, Soldaten. Alb. Herr, du hast heute deine tapfere Anstrengung gezeigt Und das Schicksal hat dich gut geführt: du hast die Gefangenen Der Gegner dieses Tages: Ich verlange von dir, sie so zu behandeln, Dass wir ihre Verdienste und unsere Sicherheit Gleichzeitig beurteilen können. Bast. Herr, ich hielt es für richtig, Den alten und elenden König in eine Aufbewahrung zu schicken, dessen Alter seinen Charme hatte, dessen Titel mehr war, Um die allgemeine Unterstützung auf seine Seite zu ziehen Und unsere bereits verpflichteten Lanzen Die das Kommando über sie haben. Mit ihm habe ich die Königin Geschickt: Mein Grund war derselbe, und sie sind bereit, Morgen oder zu einem späteren Zeitpunkt zu erscheinen, Wo du deine Sitzung abhalten wirst. Alb. Herr, wenn du einwilligst, Sehe ich dich nur als Untertanen in diesem Krieg, Nicht als Bruder. Reg. Das entscheiden wir, um ihn zu ehren. Mir scheint, dass unsere Zustimmung hätte erfragt werden können, Bevor du so weit gesprochen hast. Er hat unsere Truppen angeführt, Die Vollmacht meines Platzes und meiner Person auf sich genommen, Die sofortige Wirkung haben kann, Und es sich tatsächlich zum Bruder erklären kann. Gon. Nicht so heiß. In seiner eigenen Ehre erhöht er sich selbst, Mehr als durch eure Unterstützung. Reg. In meinem Recht, Durch mich investiert, steht er den Besten gleich. Alb. Das wäre am besten, wenn er dich zum Gatten nehmen würde. Reg. Narren beweisen oft Propheten. Gon. Halt, halt, Das Auge, das dir das gesagt hat, war schielend. Rega. Dame, mir geht es nicht gut, sonst sollte ich antworten Mit vollem Magen. General, Nimm meine Soldaten, Gefangene, Besitztümer, Mach mit ihnen, mit mir, die Mauern sind dein: Wir bezeugen es der Welt, dass ich dich hier Zu meinem Herrn und Meister ernenne. Gon. Hast du vor, ihn zu genießen? Alb. Das entscheiden nicht allein dein guter Wille. Bast. Und auch nicht deiner, Herr. Alb. Halbblütiger Kerl, ja. Reg. Lass die Trommel schlagen und beweise, dass mir der Titel gehört. Alb. Warte doch, hör Vernunft: Edmund, ich verhafte dich Wegen schweren Verrats; und bei deiner Verhaftung Diese vergoldete Schlange: Für eure angeblichen Schwestern, faire, Trage ich sie im Interesse meiner Frau, Sie hat sich diesem Herrn vertraglich verpflichtet, Und ich, ihr Ehemann, widerspreche euren Ankündigungen. Wenn ihr heiraten wollt, werbt um meine Liebe, Meine Dame ist frei vergeben. Gon. Ein Zwischenspiel. Alb. Du bist bewaffnet, Gloucester, Lass die Trompete ertönen: Wenn niemand erscheint, der gegen deine Person aussagt, Deine abscheulichen, offensichtlichen und zahlreichen Verrate, Hier ist meine Antwort: Ich werde sie in dein Herz einritzen, Ehe ich Brot esse, du bist in keiner Weise Das, wovon ich dich hier anprangere. Reg. Krank, oh krank. Gon. Wenn nicht, werde ich nie der Medizin vertrauen. Bast. Hier ist mein Gegenangebot, wer in der Welt Nennt mich Verräter, er lügt wie ein Schurke. Ruf die Trompete! Derjenige, der es wagt, sich zu nähern; Auf ihn, auf euch, ihr nicht, werde ich Meine Wahrheit und Ehre festhalten. Tritt ein Herold auf. Alb. Ein Herold, hallo. Verlasse dich auf deine Tugend allein, denn deine Soldaten Haben in meinem Namen ihren Abschied genommen. Regan. Meine Krankheit verschlimmert sich. Alb. Ihr geht es nicht gut, bringt sie zu meinem Zelt. Kommt her, Herold, lasst es trompeten, Und lest dies vor. Eine Trompete erklingt. Der Herold liest. Wenn irgendein Mann von Rang oder Stand, innerhalb der Grenzen des Heeres, Behaupten kann, dass Edmund, angeblicher Graf von Gloucester, ein vielfacher Verräter ist, soll er sich beim dritten Klang der Trompete zeigen: Er ist mutig in seiner Verteidigung. 1 Trompete. Her. Wieder. 2 Trompete. Her. Wieder. 3 Trompete. Die Trompete antwortet von innen. Tritt Edgar bewaffnet auf. Alb. Frag ihn nach seinen Absichten, warum er erscheint Auf diesen Ruf der Trompete. Her. Wer bist du? Dein Name, deine Stellung und warum du Diesem Ruf Folge leistest? Edg. Mein Name ist verloren gegangen, Durch des Verrats Zahn zerfressen, und vom Brand zerfressen, Dennoch bin ich edel wie der Gegner, Dem ich entgegentrete. Alb. Wer ist dieser Gegner? Edg. Wer spricht für Gon. Das ist die Praxis, Gloster, Nach dem Kriegsrecht warst du nicht verpflichtet, einem unbekannten Gegner zu antworten: Du bist nicht besiegt, sondern betrogen und getäuscht. Alb. Halt den Mund, Dame, sonst werde ich ihn mit diesem Papier stopfen. Halt, Sir, du bist schlimmer als jeder Name, lies dein eigenes Böses: Reiße nicht, Lady, ich sehe, dass du es weißt. Gon. Sag, wenn ich es tue, so sind die Gesetze mein und nicht deine, Wer kann mich dafür anklagen? Tritt ein. Alb. Am schlimmsten! Oh, kennst du dieses Papier? Bast. Frag mich nicht, was ich weiß. Alb. Geh ihr nach, sie ist verzweifelt, beherrsche sie. Bast. Was du mir vorgeworfen hast, habe ich getan Und mehr, viel mehr, die Zeit wird es zeigen. Es ist vorbei, und so bin ich es. Aber wer bist du, der dieses Schicksal über mich gebracht hat? Wenn du adelig bist, vergebe ich dir. Edg. Lass uns Liebe austauschen: Ich bin nicht weniger adlig als du, Edmond, wenn mehr, dann hast du mich mehr verletzt. Mein Name ist Edgar und ich bin der Sohn deines Vaters, Die Götter sind gerecht und benutzen unsere angenehmen Laster als Instrumente, um uns zu bestrafen. Der dunkle und böse Ort, an dem er dich gezeugt hat, kostete ihn seine Augen. Bast. Du hast recht gesprochen, es ist wahr, das Rad hat sich vollständig gedreht, ich bin hier. Alb. Ich dachte, dein Benehmen prophezeite eine königliche Edelkeit. Ich muss dich umarmen, Möge der Kummer mein Herz zerreißen, wenn ich dich jemals gehasst habe, dich oder deinen Vater. Edg. Würdiger Prinz, ich weiß es. Alb. Wo hast du dich versteckt? Wie hast du von den Leiden deines Vaters erfahren? Edg. Indem ich sie gepflegt habe, mein Herr. Hört eine kurze Geschichte, Und wenn sie erzählt ist, oh, dass mein Herz zerbersten würde. Die blutige Proklamation zu entkommen, die mir so nahe folgte (O unsere Lebenssüße, dass wir den Schmerz des Todes lieber stündlich erleiden würden, anstatt auf einmal zu sterben), brachte mir bei, mich zu verkleiden wie ein Verrückter, das Aussehen eines Verrückten anzunehmen, das selbst Hunde verachteten: und in dieser Verkleidung traf ich meinen Vater mit seinen blutenden Ringen, ihre wertvollen Steine frisch verloren: wurde sein Führer, führte ihn, bettelte für ihn, rettete ihn vor Verzweiflung. Nie (O Fehler) habe ich mich ihm offenbart, bis vor etwa einer halben Stunde, als ich bewaffnet war, nicht sicher, aber in der Hoffnung auf diesen guten Erfolg, bat ich um seinen Segen und erzählte ihm von unserer Pilgerreise. Aber sein verfehltes Herz (Ach, zu schwach, um den Konflikt zu ertragen) Platzte mit einem Lächeln. Bast. Diese Rede von dir hat mich bewegt, Und wird vielleicht Gutes tun, aber sprich weiter, Du siehst aus, als hättest du noch etwas zu sagen. Alb. Wenn es noch mehr gibt, noch traurigeres, halte es fest, Denn ich bin fast bereit, mich aufzulösen, Wenn ich das höre. Ein Gentleman tritt auf. Gen. Helft, helft: Oh, helft! Edg. Welche Art von Hilfe? Alb. Sprich, Mann. Edg. Was bedeutet dieses blutige Messer? Gen. Es ist heiß, es raucht, es kam sogar vom Herzen von - Oh, sie ist tot Alb. Wer ist tot? Sprich, Mann. Gen. Eure Lady, Sir, eure Lady; und ihre Schwester Sie hat sie vergiftet: Sie gesteht es. Bast. Ich war mit beiden verlobt, alle drei Jetzt heiraten sie sofort. Edg. Hier kommt Kent. Kent tritt auf. Alb. Bringt die Leichen heraus, ob lebend oder tot; Gonerill und Regans Leichen werden herausgebracht. Dieses Urteil des Himmels, das uns erzittern lässt, Berührt uns nicht mit Mitleid: Oh, ist das er? Die Zeit erlaubt uns nicht die Höflichkeiten, die gute Manieren erfordern. Kent. Ich bin gekommen, um meinem König und Meister gute Nacht zu sagen. Ist er nicht hier? Alb. Das ist eine große Sache, die wir vergessen haben, Sprich, Edmond, wo ist der König? Und wo ist Cordelia? Siehst du dieses Objekt, Kent? Kent. Ach, warum so? Bast. Doch Edmond war geliebt: Der eine hat die andere für mich vergiftet, Und danach nahm sie sich selbst das Leben. Alb. Genau so: Bedeckt ihre Gesichter. Bast. Ich sehne mich nach Leben: Ich plane etwas Gutes zu tun, Trotz meiner eigenen Natur. Schickt schnell, (Seid kurz dabei) zum Schloss, für meine Schrift gegen das Leben Lears und gegen Cordelia: Nein, schickt rechtzeitig. Alb. Renn, renn, oh, renn. Edg. Zu wem, mein Herr? Wer hat die Aufgabe? Schicke dein Zeichen der Gnade. Bast. Gut bedacht, nimm mein Schwert, Gib es dem Captain. Edg. Beeile dich um dein Leben. Bast. Er hat einen Auftrag von deiner Frau und mir, Cordelia im Gefängnis aufzuhängen, und die Schuld auf ihre eigene Verzweiflung zu schieben, dass sie sich selbst zerstört hat. Alb. Die Götter bewahren sie, tragt ihn eine Weile fort. Lear tritt mit Cordelia in seinen Armen auf. Lear. Heulen, heulen, heulen: Oh, ihr seid Männer aus Stein, Wenn ich eure Stimmen und Augen hätte, würde ich sie so benutzen, dass der Himmel springt: sie ist für immer gegangen. Ich weiß, wann einer tot ist und wann einer lebt, Sie ist tot wie die Erde: Leih mir einen Spiegel, Wenn ihr Atem den Stein beschlagen oder beflecken wird, Dann lebt sie. Kent. Ist das das versprochene Ende? Edg. Oder das Bild dieses Schreckens. Alb. Fall und höre auf. Lear. Diese Feder bewegt sich, sie lebt: Wenn es so ist, dann ist es ein Zufall, der alle Schmerzen erlöst, die ich je gefühlt habe. Kent. Oh, mein guter Meister. Lear. Bitte, geh weg. Edg. Es ist der edle Kent, euer Freund. Lear. Ein Fluch auf euch Mörder, Verräter alle, Ich hätte sie retten können, jetzt ist sie für immer gegangen. Cordelia, Cordelia, warte einen Moment. Haha: Was sagst du? Ihre Stimme war immer sanft, sanft und leise, eine ausgezeichnete Eigenschaft bei Frauen. Ich habe den Sklaven getötet, der dich hing, Gent. Es ist wahr, meine Herren, er hat es getan. Lear. Habe ich das nicht gesagt, Kollege? Ich habe den Tag gesehen, an dem ich mit meinem scharfen Schwert ihn springen lassen hätte: Jetzt bin ich alt, und diese Probleme verderben mich. Wer seid ihr? Meine Augen sind nicht mehr die besten, ich werde euch sofort sagen. Kent. Wenn Fortuna mit zwei prahlt, die sie geliebt und gehasst hat, Einen von ihnen sehen wir. Lear. Das ist eine langweilige Aussicht, seid ihr nicht Kent? Kent. Derselbe: Ihr Diener Kent, Wo ist euer Diener Cai Kent. Zerbrich das Herz, ich bitte dich, zerbrich es. Edg. Schau auf, mein Herr. Kent. Quäle nicht seinen Geist. Oh, lass ihn vorbei, er hasst ihn, der ihn auf den Trümmern dieser harten Welt länger ausstreckt. Edg. Er ist wirklich fort. Kent. Das Wunder ist, er hat so lange ausgehalten, er hat doch sein Leben uns genommen. Alb. Tragt sie von hier weg, unser gegenwärtiges Geschäft ist allgemeines Weh. Freunde meiner Seele, ihr beiden, herrscht in diesem Reich und erhaltet den zerrissenen Staat. Kent. Ich habe eine Reise, Sir, die ich bald antreten muss, mein Herr ruft mich, ich darf nicht nein sagen. Edg. Das Gewicht dieser traurigen Zeit müssen wir ertragen, sprechen, was wir fühlen, nicht was wir sagen sollten: Der Älteste hat am meisten ertragen, wir Jungen werden niemals so viel sehen oder so lange leben. Sie gehen ab. Zu einer Totenklage. ENDE. DIE TRAGÖDIE VON KÖNIG LEAR. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Die Szene spielt im französischen Lager in der Nähe von Dover. Kent erfährt, dass der französische König gezwungen wurde, in sein eigenes Land zurückzukehren. Kent fragt einen Gentleman, ob Cordelia, nachdem sie seine Briefe gelesen hat, Emotionen gezeigt habe, und erfährt, dass sie es geschafft hat, ihre Gefühle unter Kontrolle zu behalten. Kent reagiert darauf, indem er den Einfluss der Sterne anerkennt, die Cordelia so anders gemacht haben als ihre Schwestern. Kent, der immer noch verkleidet ist, erklärt, dass er den Gentleman mit nach Dover zu Lear bringen wird und zur richtigen Zeit seine eigene Identität offenbaren 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: SZENE V. Die Heide. [Donner. Die drei Hexen treten auf und treffen auf Hekate.] ERSTE HEXE. Warum, wie siehst du aus, Hekate? Du siehst zornig aus. HEKATE. Habe ich nicht Grund dazu, ihr alten Hexen, Frech und kühn? Wie konntet ihr es wagen, Mit Macbeth zu handeln und zu handeln In Rätseln und Angelegenheiten des Todes; Und ich, die Meisterin eurer Zauber, Die heimliche Planerin aller Schäden, Wurde nie gerufen, meinen Teil zu tragen, Oder den Ruhm unserer Kunst zu zeigen? Und was noch schlimmer ist, alles, was ihr getan habt, War nur für einen eigensinnigen Sohn, Boshaft und zornig; der, wie andere es tun, Liebt für seine eigenen Zwecke, nicht für euch. Aber macht jetzt Wiedergutmachung: Verschwindet, Und am Abgrund des Acheron Treffet mich am Morgen: Dort wird er Kommen, um sein Schicksal zu erfahren. Eure Gefäße und eure Zauber bereitet vor, Euren Zauber und alles andere. Ich bin für die Luft; diese Nacht werde ich verbringen Bis zu einem düsteren und fatalen Ende. Großes Geschäft muss vor dem Mittag getan werden: An der Ecke des Mondes Schwebt ein dichter Nebel, Ich werde ihn fangen, bevor er den Boden erreicht: Und das, durch magische Kunst destilliert, Soll solche künstliche Geister erwecken, Die durch die Stärke ihrer Täuschung Ihn in seine Verwirrung ziehen werden: Er wird das Schicksal verachten, den Tod verspotten und Seine Hoffnungen über Weisheit, Anmut und Furcht erheben: Und ihr wisst alle, dass die Sicherheit Der größte Feind der Menschen ist. [Musik und Gesang im Hintergrund, "Komm her, komm her" usw.] Hört! Ich werde gerufen; mein kleiner Geist, sieh, Sitzt in einer nebligen Wolke und wartet auf mich. [Abgang.] ERSTE HEXE. Komm, lasst uns uns beeilen; sie wird bald zurück sein. [Abgang.] Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Auf der stürmischen Heide treffen sich die Hexen mit Hekate, der Göttin der Hexerei. Hekate schimpft mit ihnen, weil sie sich in die Angelegenheiten von Macbeth eingemischt haben, ohne sie zu konsultieren, erklärt jedoch, dass sie die Aufsicht über das Unheil übernehmen wird. Sie sagt, dass sie am nächsten Tag, wenn Macbeth kommt, wie sie wissen, Visionen und Geister beschwören müssen, deren Botschaften ihn mit einem falschen Gefühl der Sicherheit erfüllen und ihn in seine Verwirrung ziehen sollen. Hekate verschwindet, und die Hexen machen sich bereit, ihre Zauber 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: SCENE IV. Another part of the forest Enter the Empress' sons, DEMETRIUS and CHIRON, with LAVINIA, her hands cut off, and her tongue cut out, and ravish'd DEMETRIUS. So, now go tell, an if thy tongue can speak, Who 'twas that cut thy tongue and ravish'd thee. CHIRON. Write down thy mind, bewray thy meaning so, An if thy stumps will let thee play the scribe. DEMETRIUS. See how with signs and tokens she can scrowl. CHIRON. Go home, call for sweet water, wash thy hands. DEMETRIUS. She hath no tongue to call, nor hands to wash; And so let's leave her to her silent walks. CHIRON. An 'twere my cause, I should go hang myself. DEMETRIUS. If thou hadst hands to help thee knit the cord. Exeunt DEMETRIUS and CHIRON Wind horns. Enter MARCUS, from hunting MARCUS. Who is this?- my niece, that flies away so fast? Cousin, a word: where is your husband? If I do dream, would all my wealth would wake me! If I do wake, some planet strike me down, That I may slumber an eternal sleep! Speak, gentle niece. What stern ungentle hands Hath lopp'd, and hew'd, and made thy body bare Of her two branches- those sweet ornaments Whose circling shadows kings have sought to sleep in, And might not gain so great a happiness As half thy love? Why dost not speak to me? Alas, a crimson river of warm blood, Like to a bubbling fountain stirr'd with wind, Doth rise and fall between thy rosed lips, Coming and going with thy honey breath. But sure some Tereus hath deflowered thee, And, lest thou shouldst detect him, cut thy tongue. Ah, now thou turn'st away thy face for shame! And notwithstanding all this loss of blood- As from a conduit with three issuing spouts- Yet do thy cheeks look red as Titan's face Blushing to be encount'red with a cloud. Shall I speak for thee? Shall I say 'tis so? O, that I knew thy heart, and knew the beast, That I might rail at him to ease my mind! Sorrow concealed, like an oven stopp'd, Doth burn the heart to cinders where it is. Fair Philomel, why she but lost her tongue, And in a tedious sampler sew'd her mind; But, lovely niece, that mean is cut from thee. A craftier Tereus, cousin, hast thou met, And he hath cut those pretty fingers off That could have better sew'd than Philomel. O, had the monster seen those lily hands Tremble like aspen leaves upon a lute And make the silken strings delight to kiss them, He would not then have touch'd them for his life! Or had he heard the heavenly harmony Which that sweet tongue hath made, He would have dropp'd his knife, and fell asleep, As Cerberus at the Thracian poet's feet. Come, let us go, and make thy father blind, For such a sight will blind a father's eye; One hour's storm will drown the fragrant meads, What will whole months of tears thy father's eyes? Do not draw back, for we will mourn with thee; O, could our mourning case thy misery! Exeunt Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Lavinia tritt auf die Bühne mit "abgeschnittenen Händen und herausgeschnittener Zunge und vergewaltigt." Demetrius und Chiron hänseln Lavinia fröhlich und fordern sie auf, "zu erzählen". Nachdem Demetrius und Chiron weggelaufen sind, taucht Marcus auf und entdeckt Lavinia. Marcus hält eine lange, ausführliche Soliloquy, in der er Lavinias verstümmelten Körper detailliert beschreibt, während Lavinia blutend und schweigend steht. Zuerst bittet Marcus Lavinia, ihm zu sagen, wer ihre "zwei Zweige" abgeschnitten hat. Als Lavinia nicht antwortet, bemerkt Marcus einen "purpurnen Fluss warmen Blutes", der aus Lavinias "rötlichen Lippen" läuft. Inzwischen blutet Lavinia immer noch. Marcus schließt clever daraus, dass Lavinia vergewaltigt worden sein muss und ihr Angreifer ihre Zunge herausgeschnitten haben muss, damit sie ihn nicht entlarvt. Marcus sagt, dass Lavinia trotz des ganzen Blutes, das sie verloren hat, bei Erwähnung der Vergewaltigung zu erröten scheint. Marcus vergleicht Lavinia dann mit Philomela. Marcus beklagt, dass Lavinia nie wieder nähen oder die Laute spielen kann, da ihr die Finger fehlen. Inzwischen blutet Lavinia immer noch. Marcus verkündet, dass dies Titus umbringen wird, wenn der alte Mann erfährt, was seiner Tochter passiert ist. Marcus verspricht Lavinia, dass ihre Familie sie unterstützen wird, und sie machen sich auf den Heimweg.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten 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 Signora had no business to do it," said Miss Bartlett, "no business at all. She promised us south rooms with a view close together, instead of which here are north rooms, looking into a courtyard, and a long way apart. Oh, Lucy!" "And a Cockney, besides!" said Lucy, who had been further saddened by the Signora's unexpected accent. "It might be London." She looked at the two rows of English people who were sitting at the table; at the row of white bottles of water and red bottles of wine that ran between the English people; at the portraits of the late Queen and the late Poet Laureate that hung behind the English people, heavily framed; at the notice of the English church (Rev. Cuthbert Eager, M. A. Oxon.), that was the only other decoration of the wall. "Charlotte, don't you feel, too, that we might be in London? I can hardly believe that all kinds of other things are just outside. I suppose it is one's being so tired." "This meat has surely been used for soup," said Miss Bartlett, laying down her fork. "I want so to see the Arno. The rooms the Signora promised us in her letter would have looked over the Arno. The Signora had no business to do it at all. Oh, it is a shame!" "Any nook does for me," Miss Bartlett continued; "but it does seem hard that you shouldn't have a view." Lucy felt that she had been selfish. "Charlotte, you mustn't spoil me: of course, you must look over the Arno, too. I meant that. The first vacant room in the front--" "You must have it," said Miss Bartlett, part of whose travelling expenses were paid by Lucy's mother--a piece of generosity to which she made many a tactful allusion. "No, no. You must have it." "I insist on it. Your mother would never forgive me, Lucy." "She would never forgive me." The ladies' voices grew animated, and--if the sad truth be owned--a little peevish. They were tired, and under the guise of unselfishness they wrangled. Some of their neighbours interchanged glances, and one of them--one of the ill-bred people whom one does meet abroad--leant forward over the table and actually intruded into their argument. He said: "I have a view, I have a view." Miss Bartlett was startled. Generally at a pension people looked them over for a day or two before speaking, and often did not find out that they would "do" till they had gone. She knew that the intruder was ill-bred, even before she glanced at him. He was an old man, of heavy build, with a fair, shaven face and large eyes. There was something childish in those eyes, though it was not the childishness of senility. What exactly it was Miss Bartlett did not stop to consider, for her glance passed on to his clothes. These did not attract her. He was probably trying to become acquainted with them before they got into the swim. So she assumed a dazed expression when he spoke to her, and then said: "A view? Oh, a view! How delightful a view is!" "This is my son," said the old man; "his name's George. He has a view too." "Ah," said Miss Bartlett, repressing Lucy, who was about to speak. "What I mean," he continued, "is that you can have our rooms, and we'll have yours. We'll change." The better class of tourist was shocked at this, and sympathized with the new-comers. Miss Bartlett, in reply, opened her mouth as little as possible, and said "Thank you very much indeed; that is out of the question." "Why?" said the old man, with both fists on the table. "Because it is quite out of the question, thank you." "You see, we don't like to take--" began Lucy. Her cousin again repressed her. "But why?" he persisted. "Women like looking at a view; men don't." And he thumped with his fists like a naughty child, and turned to his son, saying, "George, persuade them!" "It's so obvious they should have the rooms," said the son. "There's nothing else to say." He did not look at the ladies as he spoke, but his voice was perplexed and sorrowful. Lucy, too, was perplexed; but she saw that they were in for what is known as "quite a scene," and she had an odd feeling that whenever these ill-bred tourists spoke the contest widened and deepened till it dealt, not with rooms and views, but with--well, with something quite different, whose existence she had not realized before. Now the old man attacked Miss Bartlett almost violently: Why should she not change? What possible objection had she? They would clear out in half an hour. Miss Bartlett, though skilled in the delicacies of conversation, was powerless in the presence of brutality. It was impossible to snub any one so gross. Her face reddened with displeasure. She looked around as much as to say, "Are you all like this?" And two little old ladies, who were sitting further up the table, with shawls hanging over the backs of the chairs, looked back, clearly indicating "We are not; we are genteel." "Eat your dinner, dear," she said to Lucy, and began to toy again with the meat that she had once censured. Lucy mumbled that those seemed very odd people opposite. "Eat your dinner, dear. This pension is a failure. To-morrow we will make a change." Hardly had she announced this fell decision when she reversed it. The curtains at the end of the room parted, and revealed a clergyman, stout but attractive, who hurried forward to take his place at the table, cheerfully apologizing for his lateness. Lucy, who had not yet acquired decency, at once rose to her feet, exclaiming: "Oh, oh! Why, it's Mr. Beebe! Oh, how perfectly lovely! Oh, Charlotte, we must stop now, however bad the rooms are. Oh!" Miss Bartlett said, with more restraint: "How do you do, Mr. Beebe? I expect that you have forgotten us: Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch, who were at Tunbridge Wells when you helped the Vicar of St. Peter's that very cold Easter." The clergyman, who had the air of one on a holiday, did not remember the ladies quite as clearly as they remembered him. But he came forward pleasantly enough and accepted the chair into which he was beckoned by Lucy. "I AM so glad to see you," said the girl, who was in a state of spiritual starvation, and would have been glad to see the waiter if her cousin had permitted it. "Just fancy how small the world is. Summer Street, too, makes it so specially funny." "Miss Honeychurch lives in the parish of Summer Street," said Miss Bartlett, filling up the gap, "and she happened to tell me in the course of conversation that you have just accepted the living--" "Yes, I heard from mother so last week. She didn't know that I knew you at Tunbridge Wells; but I wrote back at once, and I said: 'Mr. Beebe is--'" "Quite right," said the clergyman. "I move into the Rectory at Summer Street next June. I am lucky to be appointed to such a charming neighbourhood." "Oh, how glad I am! The name of our house is Windy Corner." Mr. Beebe bowed. "There is mother and me generally, and my brother, though it's not often we get him to ch---- The church is rather far off, I mean." "Lucy, dearest, let Mr. Beebe eat his dinner." "I am eating it, thank you, and enjoying it." He preferred to talk to Lucy, whose playing he remembered, rather than to Miss Bartlett, who probably remembered his sermons. He asked the girl whether she knew Florence well, and was informed at some length that she had never been there before. It is delightful to advise a newcomer, and he was first in the field. "Don't neglect the country round," his advice concluded. "The first fine afternoon drive up to Fiesole, and round by Settignano, or something of that sort." "No!" cried a voice from the top of the table. "Mr. Beebe, you are wrong. The first fine afternoon your ladies must go to Prato." "That lady looks so clever," whispered Miss Bartlett to her cousin. "We are in luck." And, indeed, a perfect torrent of information burst on them. People told them what to see, when to see it, how to stop the electric trams, how to get rid of the beggars, how much to give for a vellum blotter, how much the place would grow upon them. The Pension Bertolini had decided, almost enthusiastically, that they would do. Whichever way they looked, kind ladies smiled and shouted at them. And above all rose the voice of the clever lady, crying: "Prato! They must go to Prato. That place is too sweetly squalid for words. I love it; I revel in shaking off the trammels of respectability, as you know." The young man named George glanced at the clever lady, and then returned moodily to his plate. Obviously he and his father did not do. Lucy, in the midst of her success, found time to wish they did. It gave her no extra pleasure that any one should be left in the cold; and when she rose to go, she turned back and gave the two outsiders a nervous little bow. The father did not see it; the son acknowledged it, not by another bow, but by raising his eyebrows and smiling; he seemed to be smiling across something. She hastened after her cousin, who had already disappeared through the curtains--curtains which smote one in the face, and seemed heavy with more than cloth. Beyond them stood the unreliable Signora, bowing good-evening to her guests, and supported by 'Enery, her little boy, and Victorier, her daughter. It made a curious little scene, this attempt of the Cockney to convey the grace and geniality of the South. And even more curious was the drawing-room, which attempted to rival the solid comfort of a Bloomsbury boarding-house. Was this really Italy? Miss Bartlett was already seated on a tightly stuffed arm-chair, which had the colour and the contours of a tomato. She was talking to Mr. Beebe, and as she spoke, her long narrow head drove backwards and forwards, slowly, regularly, as though she were demolishing some invisible obstacle. "We are most grateful to you," she was saying. "The first evening means so much. When you arrived we were in for a peculiarly mauvais quart d'heure." He expressed his regret. "Do you, by any chance, know the name of an old man who sat opposite us at dinner?" "Emerson." "Is he a friend of yours?" "We are friendly--as one is in pensions." "Then I will say no more." He pressed her very slightly, and she said more. "I am, as it were," she concluded, "the chaperon of my young cousin, Lucy, and it would be a serious thing if I put her under an obligation to people of whom we know nothing. His manner was somewhat unfortunate. I hope I acted for the best." "You acted very naturally," said he. He seemed thoughtful, and after a few moments added: "All the same, I don't think much harm would have come of accepting." "No harm, of course. But we could not be under an obligation." "He is rather a peculiar man." Again he hesitated, and then said gently: "I think he would not take advantage of your acceptance, nor expect you to show gratitude. He has the merit--if it is one--of saying exactly what he means. He has rooms he does not value, and he thinks you would value them. He no more thought of putting you under an obligation than he thought of being polite. It is so difficult--at least, I find it difficult--to understand people who speak the truth." Lucy was pleased, and said: "I was hoping that he was nice; I do so always hope that people will be nice." "I think he is; nice and tiresome. I differ from him on almost every point of any importance, and so, I expect--I may say I hope--you will differ. But his is a type one disagrees with rather than deplores. When he first came here he not unnaturally put people's backs up. He has no tact and no manners--I don't mean by that that he has bad manners--and he will not keep his opinions to himself. We nearly complained about him to our depressing Signora, but I am glad to say we thought better of it." "Am I to conclude," said Miss Bartlett, "that he is a Socialist?" Mr. Beebe accepted the convenient word, not without a slight twitching of the lips. "And presumably he has brought up his son to be a Socialist, too?" "I hardly know George, for he hasn't learnt to talk yet. He seems a nice creature, and I think he has brains. Of course, he has all his father's mannerisms, and it is quite possible that he, too, may be a Socialist." "Oh, you relieve me," said Miss Bartlett. "So you think I ought to have accepted their offer? You feel I have been narrow-minded and suspicious?" "Not at all," he answered; "I never suggested that." "But ought I not to apologize, at all events, for my apparent rudeness?" He replied, with some irritation, that it would be quite unnecessary, and got up from his seat to go to the smoking-room. "Was I a bore?" said Miss Bartlett, as soon as he had disappeared. "Why didn't you talk, Lucy? He prefers young people, I'm sure. I do hope I haven't monopolized him. I hoped you would have him all the evening, as well as all dinner-time." "He is nice," exclaimed Lucy. "Just what I remember. He seems to see good in everyone. No one would take him for a clergyman." "My dear Lucia--" "Well, you know what I mean. And you know how clergymen generally laugh; Mr. Beebe laughs just like an ordinary man." "Funny girl! How you do remind me of your mother. I wonder if she will approve of Mr. Beebe." "I'm sure she will; and so will Freddy." "I think everyone at Windy Corner will approve; it is the fashionable world. I am used to Tunbridge Wells, where we are all hopelessly behind the times." "Yes," said Lucy despondently. There was a haze of disapproval in the air, but whether the disapproval was of herself, or of Mr. Beebe, or of the fashionable world at Windy Corner, or of the narrow world at Tunbridge Wells, she could not determine. She tried to locate it, but as usual she blundered. Miss Bartlett sedulously denied disapproving of any one, and added "I am afraid you are finding me a very depressing companion." And the girl again thought: "I must have been selfish or unkind; I must be more careful. It is so dreadful for Charlotte, being poor." Fortunately one of the little old ladies, who for some time had been smiling very benignly, now approached and asked if she might be allowed to sit where Mr. Beebe had sat. Permission granted, she began to chatter gently about Italy, the plunge it had been to come there, the gratifying success of the plunge, the improvement in her sister's health, the necessity of closing the bed-room windows at night, and of thoroughly emptying the water-bottles in the morning. She handled her subjects agreeably, and they were, perhaps, more worthy of attention than the high discourse upon Guelfs and Ghibellines which was proceeding tempestuously at the other end of the room. It was a real catastrophe, not a mere episode, that evening of hers at Venice, when she had found in her bedroom something that is one worse than a flea, though one better than something else. "But here you are as safe as in England. Signora Bertolini is so English." "Yet our rooms smell," said poor Lucy. "We dread going to bed." "Ah, then you look into the court." She sighed. "If only Mr. Emerson was more tactful! We were so sorry for you at dinner." "I think he was meaning to be kind." "Undoubtedly he was," said Miss Bartlett. "Mr. Beebe has just been scolding me for my suspicious nature. Of course, I was holding back on my cousin's account." "Of course," said the little old lady; and they murmured that one could not be too careful with a young girl. Lucy tried to look demure, but could not help feeling a great fool. No one was careful with her at home; or, at all events, she had not noticed it. "About old Mr. Emerson--I hardly know. No, he is not tactful; yet, have you ever noticed that there are people who do things which are most indelicate, and yet at the same time--beautiful?" "Beautiful?" said Miss Bartlett, puzzled at the word. "Are not beauty and delicacy the same?" "So one would have thought," said the other helplessly. "But things are so difficult, I sometimes think." She proceeded no further into things, for Mr. Beebe reappeared, looking extremely pleasant. "Miss Bartlett," he cried, "it's all right about the rooms. I'm so glad. Mr. Emerson was talking about it in the smoking-room, and knowing what I did, I encouraged him to make the offer again. He has let me come and ask you. He would be so pleased." "Oh, Charlotte," cried Lucy to her cousin, "we must have the rooms now. The old man is just as nice and kind as he can be." Miss Bartlett was silent. "I fear," said Mr. Beebe, after a pause, "that I have been officious. I must apologize for my interference." Gravely displeased, he turned to go. Not till then did Miss Bartlett reply: "My own wishes, dearest Lucy, are unimportant in comparison with yours. It would be hard indeed if I stopped you doing as you liked at Florence, when I am only here through your kindness. If you wish me to turn these gentlemen out of their rooms, I will do it. Would you then, Mr. Beebe, kindly tell Mr. Emerson that I accept his kind offer, and then conduct him to me, in order that I may thank him personally?" She raised her voice as she spoke; it was heard all over the drawing-room, and silenced the Guelfs and the Ghibellines. The clergyman, inwardly cursing the female sex, bowed, and departed with her message. "Remember, Lucy, I alone am implicated in this. I do not wish the acceptance to come from you. Grant me that, at all events." Mr. Beebe was back, saying rather nervously: "Mr. Emerson is engaged, but here is his son instead." The young man gazed down on the three ladies, who felt seated on the floor, so low were their chairs. "My father," he said, "is in his bath, so you cannot thank him personally. But any message given by you to me will be given by me to him as soon as he comes out." Miss Bartlett was unequal to the bath. All her barbed civilities came forth wrong end first. Young Mr. Emerson scored a notable triumph to the delight of Mr. Beebe and to the secret delight of Lucy. "Poor young man!" said Miss Bartlett, as soon as he had gone. "How angry he is with his father about the rooms! It is all he can do to keep polite." "In half an hour or so your rooms will be ready," said Mr. Beebe. Then looking rather thoughtfully at the two cousins, he retired to his own rooms, to write up his philosophic diary. "Oh, dear!" breathed the little old lady, and shuddered as if all the winds of heaven had entered the apartment. "Gentlemen sometimes do not realize--" Her voice faded away, but Miss Bartlett seemed to understand and a conversation developed, in which gentlemen who did not thoroughly realize played a principal part. Lucy, not realizing either, was reduced to literature. Taking up Baedeker's Handbook to Northern Italy, she committed to memory the most important dates of Florentine History. For she was determined to enjoy herself on the morrow. Thus the half-hour crept profitably away, and at last Miss Bartlett rose with a sigh, and said: "I think one might venture now. No, Lucy, do not stir. I will superintend the move." "How you do do everything," said Lucy. "Naturally, dear. It is my affair." "But I would like to help you." "No, dear." Charlotte's energy! And her unselfishness! She had been thus all her life, but really, on this Italian tour, she was surpassing herself. So Lucy felt, or strove to feel. And yet--there was a rebellious spirit in her which wondered whether the acceptance might not have been less delicate and more beautiful. At all events, she entered her own room without any feeling of joy. "I want to explain," said Miss Bartlett, "why it is that I have taken the largest room. Naturally, of course, I should have given it to you; but I happen to know that it belongs to the young man, and I was sure your mother would not like it." Lucy was bewildered. "If you are to accept a favour it is more suitable you should be under an obligation to his father than to him. I am a woman of the world, in my small way, and I know where things lead to. However, Mr. Beebe is a guarantee of a sort that they will not presume on this." "Mother wouldn't mind I'm sure," said Lucy, but again had the sense of larger and unsuspected issues. Miss Bartlett only sighed, and enveloped her in a protecting embrace as she wished her good-night. It gave Lucy the sensation of a fog, and when she reached her own room she opened the window and breathed the clean night air, thinking of the kind old man who had enabled her to see the lights dancing in the Arno and the cypresses of San Miniato, and the foot-hills of the Apennines, black against the rising moon. Miss Bartlett, in her room, fastened the window-shutters and locked the door, and then made a tour of the apartment to see where the cupboards led, and whether there were any oubliettes or secret entrances. It was then that she saw, pinned up over the washstand, a sheet of paper on which was scrawled an enormous note of interrogation. Nothing more. "What does it mean?" she thought, and she examined it carefully by the light of a candle. Meaningless at first, it gradually became menacing, obnoxious, portentous with evil. She was seized with an impulse to destroy it, but fortunately remembered that she had no right to do so, since it must be the property of young Mr. Emerson. So she unpinned it carefully, and put it between two pieces of blotting-paper to keep it clean for him. Then she completed her inspection of the room, sighed heavily according to her habit, and went to bed. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Lucy Honeychurch, eine junge Engländerin, und ihre Cousine/Reisebegleiterin Charlotte Bartlett, eine nicht so junge Engländerin, sind in Florenz, Italien. Sie sind enttäuscht von ihrer Unterkunft in einem Hotel namens The Bertolini, das, trotz seines vielversprechenden Namens, von einer Landlady aus Cockney betrieben wird. Besonders störend ist die Tatsache, dass ihre Zimmer keinen Blick auf den Fluss Arno haben, etwas, das sie bei der Buchung ausdrücklich verlangt haben. Charlotte stört die Situation mit den Zimmern ohne Ausblick, während Lucy entsetzt feststellt, dass das Hotel ausschließlich von englischen Touristen, die ihnen sehr ähnlich sind, bewohnt wird und kein einziger lebendiger Italiener in Sicht ist. Sie sitzen auch beim Abendessen und essen ein sehr unangenehmes Mahl, was die Stimmung nicht gerade verbessert. Lucy und Charlotte haben offensichtlich eine höfliche, aber gelegentlich schwierige Beziehung zueinander. Charlotte ist eine arme Verwandte und Lucys Mutter hat ihr finanzielle Unterstützung für die Reise gegeben - eine Tatsache, an die sie Lucy nicht erinnern lassen kann. Charlotte hat eine besondere Art, Lucy ein schlechtes Gewissen zu machen. Die beiden Cousinen streiten sich etwas lauter, als es sich für Damen gehört. Die Nachbarn am Esstisch bemerken es; ein "ungezogen" gekleideter Mann bietet an, seine und die Zimmer seines Sohnes zu tauschen, damit die Damen den Fluss sehen können. Charlotte ist nicht amüsiert. Das Angebot, Zimmer mit Fremden zu tauschen, ist absolut undenkbar. Alle am Tisch sind schockiert, besonders Charlotte. Lucy versucht nett zu sein, aber Charlotte unterdrückt sie. Der ungezogene ältere Mann und sein Sohn George bestehen darauf, den Austausch vorzunehmen. Charlotte ist aufgeregt, während Lucy "verwirrt" ist; sie hat das Gefühl, dass es in dem Streit nicht nur um die Zimmer, sondern um etwas anderes geht. Denken Sie weiter über dieses "etwas anderes" nach, während das Buch weitergeht - es wird sich schließlich klären. Charlotte gerät in solch eine Aufregung, dass sie mit dramatischer Hochnäsigkeit gehen will. Als sie verkündet, dass sie das Hotel am nächsten Tag verlassen werden, sehen die beiden Damen ein bekanntes Gesicht: Den Ehrwürdigen Herrn Beebe, einen Geistlichen im Urlaub, den sie aus England kennen. Nun gibt es keine Frage mehr, dass sie im Hotel bleiben; die Frauen beschließen zu bleiben. Wir erfahren, dass Herr Beebe, den die beiden Damen in Charlottes Kirche in Tunbridge Wells kennengelernt haben, die Gemeinde in Lucys Nachbarschaft, der Summer Street, übernehmen wird. Das Trio unterhält sich, Herr Beebe denkt bei sich, dass er es vorzieht, mit Lucy zu reden, und gibt ihr einige Ratschläge für ihren ersten Besuch in Florenz. Der Rest des Tisches, der von einer gesprächigen "gebildeten Dame" angeführt wird, greift dieses Gespräch auf und jeder gibt seinen Senf dazu, wohin Lucy gehen sollte. George und sein Vater sind nicht Teil dieser Unterhaltung; offensichtlich billigt der Rest der Gäste sie nicht. Lucy würde sich kurz wünschen, sie würden es tun, und verabschiedet sich mit einem kleinen Knicks von ihnen, als sie den Tisch verlässt. George sieht es und lächelt geheimnisvoll zurück. Lucy folgt Charlotte aus dem Speisesaal und trifft wieder auf ihre verstörende Cockney-Landlady. Sie fragt sich, ob sie überhaupt in Italien sind. Im Salon "unterhält" sich Charlotte erneut mit Herrn Beebe. Sie fragt ihn nach dem Mann, der ihnen seine Zimmer angeboten hat. Herr Beebe bestätigt, dass er den Mann, Herrn Emerson, kennt und mit ihm befreundet ist. Charlotte, die versucht, schüchtern zu sein, sagt, dass sie nichts weiter über ihn sagen wird. Sie möchte offensichtlich die Meinung des Geistlichen hören, und wenn er gedrängt wird, erklärt sie ihre Logik, warum sie die Zimmer nicht genommen hat - sie sorgt sich, "in Verpflichtung" gegenüber Herrn Emerson und seinem Sohn zu stehen. Herr Beebe schlägt vor, dass Herr Emerson nicht versucht hat, die beiden Damen auszunutzen, und dass er tatsächlich höflich sein wollte, und nicht unangemessen. Im Gegensatz zur restlichen Gesellschaft sagt Herr Emerson anscheinend nur genau das, was er meint. Das macht Lucy froh - sie ist froh zu hören, dass Herr Emerson so nett ist, wie sie gehofft hatte. Herr Beebe mag den alten Mann trotz seiner mangelnden Taktgefühl und Manieren, auch wenn er in fast jedem Thema anderer Meinung ist. Charlotte kommt zu dem Schluss, dass Herr Emerson und sein Sohn Sozialisten sind; Herr Beebe, der sein Lachen unterdrückt, stimmt zu. Das scheint alles zu erklären. Mit dem Rätsel um die Emersons gelöst, sorgt sich Charlotte, dass sie vielleicht ihr Angebot angenommen haben sollte. Sie nimmt an, dass Herr Beebe sie dafür verurteilt hat, es nicht angenommen zu haben. Sie hofft, sie war nicht "engstirnig und misstrauisch". Herr Beebe versichert Charlotte, dass sie es nicht war; damit verlässt er sie. Charlotte hofft, dass sie Herrn Beebe nicht gelangweilt hat, was sie natürlich getan hat. Lucy und Charlotte diskutieren Herrn Beebes viele Qualitäten. Lucy lobt ihn und sagt, dass er überhaupt nicht wie ein Geistlicher ist. Charlotte macht einen passiv-aggressiven Kommentar darüber, wie Lucy, ihre Mutter und ihr Bruder Freddy in der "modernen Welt" leben, während sie im langweiligen Tunbridge Wells lebt, das "hoffnungslos hinter den Zeiten" ist. Lucy hat das Gefühl, dass Charlotte etwas missbilligt, aber sie kann nicht genau sagen, was es ist. Wieder einmal macht Charlotte Lucy durch ihre intensive passiv-aggressive Art ein schlechtes Gewissen. Lucy fühlt sich schlecht wegen Charlottes relativer Armut. Einer der anderen Gäste unterbricht diesen unangenehmen Austausch. Sie diskutieren darüber, wie traurig es ist, dass Herr Emerson sein Angebot nicht feinfühliger formuliert hat, da Lucys und Charlottes Zimmer so unbefriedigend sind. Das Trio führt eine unbehagliche philosophische Diskussion über Schönheit versus Feinfühligkeit. Charlotte glaubt, dass die beiden dasselbe sind, aber Lucy hat das nagende Gefühl, dass dem nicht so ist. Herr Beebe kehrt aufgeregt zurück. Er hat mit Herrn Emerson gesprochen und das Zimmerproblem auf eine feinfühlige Art und Weise gelöst, die alle Standards erfüllt. Lucy ist überglücklich, dass alles funktioniert, aber Charlotte macht sich wie immer zur Märtyrerin und schafft es, dass sich alle schlecht fühlen. Sie willigt widerwillig in das Angebot der Emersons ein. Sie weist Herrn Beebe steif an, Herrn Emerson herbeizuführen, damit sie ihm "danken" kann. An diesem Punkt sind wir Charlotte und ihrer Einstellung bereits überdrüssig. George kommt, um den Dank der Cousinen anzunehmen, und sagt, dass sein Vater im Bad ist. Diese Direktheit schockiert selbst Charlotte, und ihre "groben Höflichkeiten" führen zu nichts. Herr Beebe und Lucy freuen sich heimlich. George 1, Charlotte 0. Uns geht es genauso. Schließlich sind alle bereit für den großen Zimmerwechsel. Charlotte erklärt natürlich, dass sie sich um alles kümmern wird. Ihr Durchhaltevermögen und ihre sogenannte Selbstlosigkeit erstaunen uns... aber nicht auf die gute Art. Lucy versucht, sich positiv erstaunt zu fühlen, aber sie kann es nicht so recht aufbringen. Sie fragt sich, ob Charlottes Handeln vielleicht etwas weniger feinfühlig und etwas schöner sein könnte. Charlotte hat das größere Zimmer genommen, aber natürlich nur aus moralischen Gründen. Sie ist sich sicher, dass Lucy das Zimmer, das zuvor George bewohnte, nicht nehmen sollte. Sie besteht darauf, dass Lucys Mutter nicht glücklich wäre, wenn sie wüsste, dass Lucy in einem Zimmer bleibt, in dem ein Junge geschlafen hat... wenn Sie es noch nicht bemerkt haben, hat sich seit Forsters Zeit einiges verändert. Lucy ist sich ziemlich sicher, dass ihre Mutter nichts dagegen hätte, aber sie hat trotzdem ein vages Gefühl, dass etwas nicht stimmt. Charlotte umarmt Lucy "schützend" - für Lucy fühlt es sich mehr erstickend als schützend an. Nachdem Charlotte gegangen ist, öffnet ihre junge Cousine das Fenster und atmet die frische Nachtluft ein, während sie über die Freundlichkeit von Herrn Emerson nachdenkt. Charlotte entdeckt in ihrem eigenen geräumigen Zimmer einen beunruhigenden Gegenstand: George hat eine mysteriöse Dekoration hinterlassen. An der Wand sieht sie ein Blatt Papier mit einem riesigen Fragezeichen darauf. Das Symbol wird in ihrem Kopf schnell von bedeutungslos zu beängstigend, also nimmt sie es sofort ab und legt es weg, um es George zurückzugeben. Was könnte es wohl bedeuten?

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: "Christmas won't be Christmas without any presents," grumbled Jo, lying on the rug. "It's so dreadful to be poor!" sighed Meg, looking down at her old dress. "I don't think it's fair for some girls to have plenty of pretty things, and other girls nothing at all," added little Amy, with an injured sniff. "We've got Father and Mother, and each other," said Beth contentedly from her corner. The four young faces on which the firelight shone brightened at the cheerful words, but darkened again as Jo said sadly, "We haven't got Father, and shall not have him for a long time." She didn't say "perhaps never," but each silently added it, thinking of Father far away, where the fighting was. Nobody spoke for a minute; then Meg said in an altered tone, "You know the reason Mother proposed not having any presents this Christmas was because it is going to be a hard winter for everyone; and she thinks we ought not to spend money for pleasure, when our men are suffering so in the army. We can't do much, but we can make our little sacrifices, and ought to do it gladly. But I am afraid I don't," and Meg shook her head, as she thought regretfully of all the pretty things she wanted. "But I don't think the little we should spend would do any good. We've each got a dollar, and the army wouldn't be much helped by our giving that. I agree not to expect anything from Mother or you, but I do want to buy _Undine and Sintran_ for myself. I've wanted it so long," said Jo, who was a bookworm. "I planned to spend mine in new music," said Beth, with a little sigh, which no one heard but the hearth brush and kettle-holder. "I shall get a nice box of Faber's drawing pencils; I really need them," said Amy decidedly. "Mother didn't say anything about our money, and she won't wish us to give up everything. Let's each buy what we want, and have a little fun; I'm sure we work hard enough to earn it," cried Jo, examining the heels of her shoes in a gentlemanly manner. "I know I do--teaching those tiresome children nearly all day, when I'm longing to enjoy myself at home," began Meg, in the complaining tone again. "You don't have half such a hard time as I do," said Jo. "How would you like to be shut up for hours with a nervous, fussy old lady, who keeps you trotting, is never satisfied, and worries you till you're ready to fly out the window or cry?" "It's naughty to fret, but I do think washing dishes and keeping things tidy is the worst work in the world. It makes me cross, and my hands get so stiff, I can't practice well at all." And Beth looked at her rough hands with a sigh that any one could hear that time. "I don't believe any of you suffer as I do," cried Amy, "for you don't have to go to school with impertinent girls, who plague you if you don't know your lessons, and laugh at your dresses, and label your father if he isn't rich, and insult you when your nose isn't nice." "If you mean libel, I'd say so, and not talk about labels, as if Papa was a pickle bottle," advised Jo, laughing. "I know what I mean, and you needn't be statirical about it. It's proper to use good words, and improve your vocabilary," returned Amy, with dignity. "Don't peck at one another, children. Don't you wish we had the money Papa lost when we were little, Jo? Dear me! How happy and good we'd be, if we had no worries!" said Meg, who could remember better times. "You said the other day you thought we were a deal happier than the King children, for they were fighting and fretting all the time, in spite of their money." "So I did, Beth. Well, I think we are. For though we do have to work, we make fun of ourselves, and are a pretty jolly set, as Jo would say." "Jo does use such slang words!" observed Amy, with a reproving look at the long figure stretched on the rug. Jo immediately sat up, put her hands in her pockets, and began to whistle. "Don't, Jo. It's so boyish!" "That's why I do it." "I detest rude, unladylike girls!" "I hate affected, niminy-piminy chits!" "Birds in their little nests agree," sang Beth, the peacemaker, with such a funny face that both sharp voices softened to a laugh, and the "pecking" ended for that time. "Really, girls, you are both to be blamed," said Meg, beginning to lecture in her elder-sisterly fashion. "You are old enough to leave off boyish tricks, and to behave better, Josephine. It didn't matter so much when you were a little girl, but now you are so tall, and turn up your hair, you should remember that you are a young lady." "I'm not! And if turning up my hair makes me one, I'll wear it in two tails till I'm twenty," cried Jo, pulling off her net, and shaking down a chestnut mane. "I hate to think I've got to grow up, and be Miss March, and wear long gowns, and look as prim as a China Aster! It's bad enough to be a girl, anyway, when I like boy's games and work and manners! I can't get over my disappointment in not being a boy. And it's worse than ever now, for I'm dying to go and fight with Papa. And I can only stay home and knit, like a poky old woman!" And Jo shook the blue army sock till the needles rattled like castanets, and her ball bounded across the room. "Poor Jo! It's too bad, but it can't be helped. So you must try to be contented with making your name boyish, and playing brother to us girls," said Beth, stroking the rough head with a hand that all the dish washing and dusting in the world could not make ungentle in its touch. "As for you, Amy," continued Meg, "you are altogether too particular and prim. Your airs are funny now, but you'll grow up an affected little goose, if you don't take care. I like your nice manners and refined ways of speaking, when you don't try to be elegant. But your absurd words are as bad as Jo's slang." "If Jo is a tomboy and Amy a goose, what am I, please?" asked Beth, ready to share the lecture. "You're a dear, and nothing else," answered Meg warmly, and no one contradicted her, for the 'Mouse' was the pet of the family. As young readers like to know 'how people look', we will take this moment to give them a little sketch of the four sisters, who sat knitting away in the twilight, while the December snow fell quietly without, and the fire crackled cheerfully within. It was a comfortable room, though the carpet was faded and the furniture very plain, for a good picture or two hung on the walls, books filled the recesses, chrysanthemums and Christmas roses bloomed in the windows, and a pleasant atmosphere of home peace pervaded it. Margaret, the eldest of the four, was sixteen, and very pretty, being plump and fair, with large eyes, plenty of soft brown hair, a sweet mouth, and white hands, of which she was rather vain. Fifteen-year-old Jo was very tall, thin, and brown, and reminded one of a colt, for she never seemed to know what to do with her long limbs, which were very much in her way. She had a decided mouth, a comical nose, and sharp, gray eyes, which appeared to see everything, and were by turns fierce, funny, or thoughtful. Her long, thick hair was her one beauty, but it was usually bundled into a net, to be out of her way. Round shoulders had Jo, big hands and feet, a flyaway look to her clothes, and the uncomfortable appearance of a girl who was rapidly shooting up into a woman and didn't like it. Elizabeth, or Beth, as everyone called her, was a rosy, smooth-haired, bright-eyed girl of thirteen, with a shy manner, a timid voice, and a peaceful expression which was seldom disturbed. Her father called her 'Little Miss Tranquility', and the name suited her excellently, for she seemed to live in a happy world of her own, only venturing out to meet the few whom she trusted and loved. Amy, though the youngest, was a most important person, in her own opinion at least. A regular snow maiden, with blue eyes, and yellow hair curling on her shoulders, pale and slender, and always carrying herself like a young lady mindful of her manners. What the characters of the four sisters were we will leave to be found out. The clock struck six and, having swept up the hearth, Beth put a pair of slippers down to warm. Somehow the sight of the old shoes had a good effect upon the girls, for Mother was coming, and everyone brightened to welcome her. Meg stopped lecturing, and lighted the lamp, Amy got out of the easy chair without being asked, and Jo forgot how tired she was as she sat up to hold the slippers nearer to the blaze. "They are quite worn out. Marmee must have a new pair." "I thought I'd get her some with my dollar," said Beth. "No, I shall!" cried Amy. "I'm the oldest," began Meg, but Jo cut in with a decided, "I'm the man of the family now Papa is away, and I shall provide the slippers, for he told me to take special care of Mother while he was gone." "I'll tell you what we'll do," said Beth, "let's each get her something for Christmas, and not get anything for ourselves." "That's like you, dear! What will we get?" exclaimed Jo. Everyone thought soberly for a minute, then Meg announced, as if the idea was suggested by the sight of her own pretty hands, "I shall give her a nice pair of gloves." "Army shoes, best to be had," cried Jo. "Some handkerchiefs, all hemmed," said Beth. "I'll get a little bottle of cologne. She likes it, and it won't cost much, so I'll have some left to buy my pencils," added Amy. "How will we give the things?" asked Meg. "Put them on the table, and bring her in and see her open the bundles. Don't you remember how we used to do on our birthdays?" answered Jo. "I used to be so frightened when it was my turn to sit in the chair with the crown on, and see you all come marching round to give the presents, with a kiss. I liked the things and the kisses, but it was dreadful to have you sit looking at me while I opened the bundles," said Beth, who was toasting her face and the bread for tea at the same time. "Let Marmee think we are getting things for ourselves, and then surprise her. We must go shopping tomorrow afternoon, Meg. There is so much to do about the play for Christmas night," said Jo, marching up and down, with her hands behind her back, and her nose in the air. "I don't mean to act any more after this time. I'm getting too old for such things," observed Meg, who was as much a child as ever about 'dressing-up' frolics. "You won't stop, I know, as long as you can trail round in a white gown with your hair down, and wear gold-paper jewelry. You are the best actress we've got, and there'll be an end of everything if you quit the boards," said Jo. "We ought to rehearse tonight. Come here, Amy, and do the fainting scene, for you are as stiff as a poker in that." "I can't help it. I never saw anyone faint, and I don't choose to make myself all black and blue, tumbling flat as you do. If I can go down easily, I'll drop. If I can't, I shall fall into a chair and be graceful. I don't care if Hugo does come at me with a pistol," returned Amy, who was not gifted with dramatic power, but was chosen because she was small enough to be borne out shrieking by the villain of the piece. "Do it this way. Clasp your hands so, and stagger across the room, crying frantically, 'Roderigo! Save me! Save me!'" and away went Jo, with a melodramatic scream which was truly thrilling. Amy followed, but she poked her hands out stiffly before her, and jerked herself along as if she went by machinery, and her "Ow!" was more suggestive of pins being run into her than of fear and anguish. Jo gave a despairing groan, and Meg laughed outright, while Beth let her bread burn as she watched the fun with interest. "It's no use! Do the best you can when the time comes, and if the audience laughs, don't blame me. Come on, Meg." Then things went smoothly, for Don Pedro defied the world in a speech of two pages without a single break. Hagar, the witch, chanted an awful incantation over her kettleful of simmering toads, with weird effect. Roderigo rent his chains asunder manfully, and Hugo died in agonies of remorse and arsenic, with a wild, "Ha! Ha!" "It's the best we've had yet," said Meg, as the dead villain sat up and rubbed his elbows. "I don't see how you can write and act such splendid things, Jo. You're a regular Shakespeare!" exclaimed Beth, who firmly believed that her sisters were gifted with wonderful genius in all things. "Not quite," replied Jo modestly. "I do think _The Witches Curse, an Operatic Tragedy_ is rather a nice thing, but I'd like to try _Macbeth_, if we only had a trapdoor for Banquo. I always wanted to do the killing part. 'Is that a dagger that I see before me?" muttered Jo, rolling her eyes and clutching at the air, as she had seen a famous tragedian do. "No, it's the toasting fork, with Mother's shoe on it instead of the bread. Beth's stage-struck!" cried Meg, and the rehearsal ended in a general burst of laughter. "Glad to find you so merry, my girls," said a cheery voice at the door, and actors and audience turned to welcome a tall, motherly lady with a 'can I help you' look about her which was truly delightful. She was not elegantly dressed, but a noble-looking woman, and the girls thought the gray cloak and unfashionable bonnet covered the most splendid mother in the world. "Well, dearies, how have you got on today? There was so much to do, getting the boxes ready to go tomorrow, that I didn't come home to dinner. Has anyone called, Beth? How is your cold, Meg? Jo, you look tired to death. Come and kiss me, baby." While making these maternal inquiries Mrs. March got her wet things off, her warm slippers on, and sitting down in the easy chair, drew Amy to her lap, preparing to enjoy the happiest hour of her busy day. The girls flew about, trying to make things comfortable, each in her own way. Meg arranged the tea table, Jo brought wood and set chairs, dropping, over-turning, and clattering everything she touched. Beth trotted to and fro between parlor kitchen, quiet and busy, while Amy gave directions to everyone, as she sat with her hands folded. As they gathered about the table, Mrs. March said, with a particularly happy face, "I've got a treat for you after supper." A quick, bright smile went round like a streak of sunshine. Beth clapped her hands, regardless of the biscuit she held, and Jo tossed up her napkin, crying, "A letter! A letter! Three cheers for Father!" "Yes, a nice long letter. He is well, and thinks he shall get through the cold season better than we feared. He sends all sorts of loving wishes for Christmas, and an especial message to you girls," said Mrs. March, patting her pocket as if she had got a treasure there. "Hurry and get done! Don't stop to quirk your little finger and simper over your plate, Amy," cried Jo, choking on her tea and dropping her bread, butter side down, on the carpet in her haste to get at the treat. Beth ate no more, but crept away to sit in her shadowy corner and brood over the delight to come, till the others were ready. "I think it was so splendid in Father to go as chaplain when he was too old to be drafted, and not strong enough for a soldier," said Meg warmly. "Don't I wish I could go as a drummer, a vivan--what's its name? Or a nurse, so I could be near him and help him," exclaimed Jo, with a groan. "It must be very disagreeable to sleep in a tent, and eat all sorts of bad-tasting things, and drink out of a tin mug," sighed Amy. "When will he come home, Marmee?" asked Beth, with a little quiver in her voice. "Not for many months, dear, unless he is sick. He will stay and do his work faithfully as long as he can, and we won't ask for him back a minute sooner than he can be spared. Now come and hear the letter." They all drew to the fire, Mother in the big chair with Beth at her feet, Meg and Amy perched on either arm of the chair, and Jo leaning on the back, where no one would see any sign of emotion if the letter should happen to be touching. Very few letters were written in those hard times that were not touching, especially those which fathers sent home. In this one little was said of the hardships endured, the dangers faced, or the homesickness conquered. It was a cheerful, hopeful letter, full of lively descriptions of camp life, marches, and military news, and only at the end did the writer's heart over-flow with fatherly love and longing for the little girls at home. "Give them all of my dear love and a kiss. Tell them I think of them by day, pray for them by night, and find my best comfort in their affection at all times. A year seems very long to wait before I see them, but remind them that while we wait we may all work, so that these hard days need not be wasted. I know they will remember all I said to them, that they will be loving children to you, will do their duty faithfully, fight their bosom enemies bravely, and conquer themselves so beautifully that when I come back to them I may be fonder and prouder than ever of my little women." Everybody sniffed when they came to that part. Jo wasn't ashamed of the great tear that dropped off the end of her nose, and Amy never minded the rumpling of her curls as she hid her face on her mother's shoulder and sobbed out, "I am a selfish girl! But I'll truly try to be better, so he mayn't be disappointed in me by-and-by." "We all will," cried Meg. "I think too much of my looks and hate to work, but won't any more, if I can help it." "I'll try and be what he loves to call me, 'a little woman' and not be rough and wild, but do my duty here instead of wanting to be somewhere else," said Jo, thinking that keeping her temper at home was a much harder task than facing a rebel or two down South. Beth said nothing, but wiped away her tears with the blue army sock and began to knit with all her might, losing no time in doing the duty that lay nearest her, while she resolved in her quiet little soul to be all that Father hoped to find her when the year brought round the happy coming home. Mrs. March broke the silence that followed Jo's words, by saying in her cheery voice, "Do you remember how you used to play Pilgrims Progress when you were little things? Nothing delighted you more than to have me tie my piece bags on your backs for burdens, give you hats and sticks and rolls of paper, and let you travel through the house from the cellar, which was the City of Destruction, up, up, to the housetop, where you had all the lovely things you could collect to make a Celestial City." "What fun it was, especially going by the lions, fighting Apollyon, and passing through the valley where the hob-goblins were," said Jo. "I liked the place where the bundles fell off and tumbled downstairs," said Meg. "I don't remember much about it, except that I was afraid of the cellar and the dark entry, and always liked the cake and milk we had up at the top. If I wasn't too old for such things, I'd rather like to play it over again," said Amy, who began to talk of renouncing childish things at the mature age of twelve. "We never are too old for this, my dear, because it is a play we are playing all the time in one way or another. Our burdens are here, our road is before us, and the longing for goodness and happiness is the guide that leads us through many troubles and mistakes to the peace which is a true Celestial City. Now, my little pilgrims, suppose you begin again, not in play, but in earnest, and see how far on you can get before Father comes home." "Really, Mother? Where are our bundles?" asked Amy, who was a very literal young lady. "Each of you told what your burden was just now, except Beth. I rather think she hasn't got any," said her mother. "Yes, I have. Mine is dishes and dusters, and envying girls with nice pianos, and being afraid of people." Beth's bundle was such a funny one that everybody wanted to laugh, but nobody did, for it would have hurt her feelings very much. "Let us do it," said Meg thoughtfully. "It is only another name for trying to be good, and the story may help us, for though we do want to be good, it's hard work and we forget, and don't do our best." "We were in the Slough of Despond tonight, and Mother came and pulled us out as Help did in the book. We ought to have our roll of directions, like Christian. What shall we do about that?" asked Jo, delighted with the fancy which lent a little romance to the very dull task of doing her duty. "Look under your pillows Christmas morning, and you will find your guidebook," replied Mrs. March. They talked over the new plan while old Hannah cleared the table, then out came the four little work baskets, and the needles flew as the girls made sheets for Aunt March. It was uninteresting sewing, but tonight no one grumbled. They adopted Jo's plan of dividing the long seams into four parts, and calling the quarters Europe, Asia, Africa, and America, and in that way got on capitally, especially when they talked about the different countries as they stitched their way through them. At nine they stopped work, and sang, as usual, before they went to bed. No one but Beth could get much music out of the old piano, but she had a way of softly touching the yellow keys and making a pleasant accompaniment to the simple songs they sang. Meg had a voice like a flute, and she and her mother led the little choir. Amy chirped like a cricket, and Jo wandered through the airs at her own sweet will, always coming out at the wrong place with a croak or a quaver that spoiled the most pensive tune. They had always done this from the time they could lisp... Crinkle, crinkle, 'ittle 'tar, and it had become a household custom, for the mother was a born singer. The first sound in the morning was her voice as she went about the house singing like a lark, and the last sound at night was the same cheery sound, for the girls never grew too old for that familiar lullaby. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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In Pilgerkleidern spielen Ich werde versuchen, das zu sein, was er gerne sagt, "ein kleines Mädchen", und nicht grob und wild zu sein; stattdessen werde ich hier meine Pflicht erfüllen, anstatt woanders sein zu wollen. An einem Dezemberabend im mittleren 19. Jahrhundert sitzen die March-Mädchen - Meg, Jo, Beth und Amy - zu Hause und beklagen ihre Armut. Die March-Familie war früher wohlhabend, aber Mr. March hat sein Geld verloren. In diesem Jahr erwarten seine Töchter keine Weihnachtsgeschenke. Meg gibt zu, trotzdem Geschenke zu wollen. Ebenso sehnt sich Jo, das Bücherwurm, nach einem Exemplar von Undine und Sintram, einem Buch mit zwei deutschen Geschichten. Beth möchte neue Musik und Amy seufzt nach Malstiften. Meg, die als Kindermädchen arbeitet, und Jo, die als Begleiterin von Tante March arbeitet, beschweren sich über ihre Jobs. In der Zwischenzeit beschwert sich Beth über den Haushalt und Amy darüber, keine schöne Nase zu haben. Die Mädchen beschließen, sich jeweils ein Geschenk zu kaufen, um ihr Weihnachtsfest aufzuheitern. Bald darauf ändern sie jedoch ihre Meinung und beschließen, stattdessen Geschenke für ihre Mutter, Marmee, zu kaufen. Sie diskutieren dann über Jos Stück "Der Fluch der Hexe", das sie an Weihnachten aufführen werden. Während sie reden, kommt Marmee mit einem Brief von Mr. March nach Hause, der als Unionskaplan im Bürgerkrieg dient. Der Brief erinnert seine kleinen Frauen daran, brav zu sein, was sie sich für ihr früheres Klagen schämen lässt. Sie beschließen, ihre Lasten fröhlicher zu tragen. Megs Last ist ihre Eitelkeit, Jos ist ihr Temperament, Beths ist die Hausarbeit und Amys ist ihre Selbstsucht. Marmee schlägt vor, dass die Schwestern so tun, als wären sie Pilger auf Reisen und stellen Szenen aus John Bunyans lehrreichen Roman The Pilgrim's Progress nach. In diesem Spiel übernehmen die Mädchen jede eine Last und versuchen, ihren Weg zur Himmlischen Stadt zu finden. Bunyans Roman und das Spiel sind beide Allegorien für ein christliches Leben. Die physischen Lasten stehen für realistische Lasten im Leben und die Himmlische Stadt steht für den Himmel. Die Schwestern stimmen zu, das Spiel erneut zu versuchen, diesmal jedoch, indem sie christliche Werte in ihrem wirklichen Leben üben. Sie singen alle vor dem Schlafengehen.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten 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. Capulet's house. Enter Capulet's Wife, and Nurse. Wife. Nurse, where's my daughter? Call her forth to me. Nurse. Now, by my maidenhead at twelve year old, I bade her come. What, lamb! what ladybird! God forbid! Where's this girl? What, Juliet! Enter Juliet. Jul. How now? Who calls? Nurse. Your mother. Jul. Madam, I am here. What is your will? Wife. This is the matter- Nurse, give leave awhile, We must talk in secret. Nurse, come back again; I have rememb'red me, thou's hear our counsel. Thou knowest my daughter's of a pretty age. Nurse. Faith, I can tell her age unto an hour. Wife. She's not fourteen. Nurse. I'll lay fourteen of my teeth- And yet, to my teen be it spoken, I have but four- She is not fourteen. How long is it now To Lammastide? Wife. A fortnight and odd days. Nurse. Even or odd, of all days in the year, Come Lammas Eve at night shall she be fourteen. Susan and she (God rest all Christian souls!) Were of an age. Well, Susan is with God; She was too good for me. But, as I said, On Lammas Eve at night shall she be fourteen; That shall she, marry; I remember it well. 'Tis since the earthquake now eleven years; And she was wean'd (I never shall forget it), Of all the days of the year, upon that day; For I had then laid wormwood to my dug, Sitting in the sun under the dovehouse wall. My lord and you were then at Mantua. Nay, I do bear a brain. But, as I said, When it did taste the wormwood on the nipple Of my dug and felt it bitter, pretty fool, To see it tetchy and fall out with the dug! Shake, quoth the dovehouse! 'Twas no need, I trow, To bid me trudge. And since that time it is eleven years, For then she could stand high-lone; nay, by th' rood, She could have run and waddled all about; For even the day before, she broke her brow; And then my husband (God be with his soul! 'A was a merry man) took up the child. 'Yea,' quoth he, 'dost thou fall upon thy face? Thou wilt fall backward when thou hast more wit; Wilt thou not, Jule?' and, by my holidam, The pretty wretch left crying, and said 'Ay.' To see now how a jest shall come about! I warrant, an I should live a thousand yeas, I never should forget it. 'Wilt thou not, Jule?' quoth he, And, pretty fool, it stinted, and said 'Ay.' Wife. Enough of this. I pray thee hold thy peace. Nurse. Yes, madam. Yet I cannot choose but laugh To think it should leave crying and say 'Ay.' And yet, I warrant, it bad upon it brow A bump as big as a young cock'rel's stone; A perilous knock; and it cried bitterly. 'Yea,' quoth my husband, 'fall'st upon thy face? Thou wilt fall backward when thou comest to age; Wilt thou not, Jule?' It stinted, and said 'Ay.' Jul. And stint thou too, I pray thee, nurse, say I. Nurse. Peace, I have done. God mark thee to his grace! Thou wast the prettiest babe that e'er I nurs'd. An I might live to see thee married once, I have my wish. Wife. Marry, that 'marry' is the very theme I came to talk of. Tell me, daughter Juliet, How stands your disposition to be married? Jul. It is an honour that I dream not of. Nurse. An honour? Were not I thine only nurse, I would say thou hadst suck'd wisdom from thy teat. Wife. Well, think of marriage now. Younger than you, Here in Verona, ladies of esteem, Are made already mothers. By my count, I was your mother much upon these years That you are now a maid. Thus then in brief: The valiant Paris seeks you for his love. Nurse. A man, young lady! lady, such a man As all the world- why he's a man of wax. Wife. Verona's summer hath not such a flower. Nurse. Nay, he's a flower, in faith- a very flower. Wife. What say you? Can you love the gentleman? This night you shall behold him at our feast. Read o'er the volume of young Paris' face, And find delight writ there with beauty's pen; Examine every married lineament, And see how one another lends content; And what obscur'd in this fair volume lies Find written in the margent of his eyes, This precious book of love, this unbound lover, To beautify him only lacks a cover. The fish lives in the sea, and 'tis much pride For fair without the fair within to hide. That book in many's eyes doth share the glory, That in gold clasps locks in the golden story; So shall you share all that he doth possess, By having him making yourself no less. Nurse. No less? Nay, bigger! Women grow by men Wife. Speak briefly, can you like of Paris' love? Jul. I'll look to like, if looking liking move; But no more deep will I endart mine eye Than your consent gives strength to make it fly. Enter Servingman. Serv. Madam, the guests are come, supper serv'd up, you call'd, my young lady ask'd for, the nurse curs'd in the pantry, and everything in extremity. I must hence to wait. I beseech you follow straight. Wife. We follow thee. Exit [Servingman]. Juliet, the County stays. Nurse. Go, girl, seek happy nights to happy days. Exeunt. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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

Im Haus der Capulets, direkt bevor das Fest beginnen soll, ruft Lady Capulet nach der Amme und bittet um Hilfe, ihre Tochter zu finden. Juliet betritt den Raum und Lady Capulet schickt die Amme weg, damit sie allein mit ihrer Tochter sprechen kann. Doch sofort ändert sie ihre Meinung und bittet die Amme zu bleiben und ihren Rat einzuholen. Bevor Lady Capulet jedoch anfangen kann zu sprechen, erzählt die Amme eine lange Geschichte darüber, wie die ahnungslose Juliet als Kind bei einem sexuellen Scherz unwissentlich mitgemacht hat. Lady Capulet versucht vergeblich, die ausgelassene Amme zu stoppen. Eine verlegene Juliet befiehlt der Amme energisch, aufzuhören. Lady Capulet fragt Juliet, was sie von einer Heirat hält. Juliet antwortet, dass sie darüber noch nicht nachgedacht hat. Lady Capulet bemerkt, dass sie Juliet im fast gleichen Alter bekommen hat, wie Juliet momentan ist. Sie fährt begeistert fort, dass Juliet anfangen muss über eine Heirat nachzudenken, weil der "tapfere Paris" Interesse an ihr gezeigt hat. Juliet erwidert gehorsam, dass sie Paris beim Fest betrachten wird, um zu sehen, ob sie ihn lieben könnte. Ein Diener kommt herein, um den Beginn des Festes anzukündigen.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: RESPECTABILITY If you have lived in cities and have walked in the park on a summer afternoon, you have perhaps seen, blinking in a corner of his iron cage, a huge, grotesque kind of monkey, a creature with ugly, sagging, hairless skin below his eyes and a bright purple underbody. This monkey is a true monster. In the completeness of his ugliness he achieved a kind of perverted beauty. Children stopping before the cage are fascinated, men turn away with an air of disgust, and women linger for a moment, trying perhaps to remember which one of their male acquaintances the thing in some faint way resembles. Had you been in the earlier years of your life a citizen of the village of Winesburg, Ohio, there would have been for you no mystery in regard to the beast in his cage. "It is like Wash Williams," you would have said. "As he sits in the corner there, the beast is exactly like old Wash sitting on the grass in the station yard on a summer evening after he has closed his office for the night." Wash Williams, the telegraph operator of Winesburg, was the ugliest thing in town. His girth was immense, his neck thin, his legs feeble. He was dirty. Everything about him was unclean. Even the whites of his eyes looked soiled. I go too fast. Not everything about Wash was unclean. He took care of his hands. His fingers were fat, but there was something sensitive and shapely in the hand that lay on the table by the instrument in the telegraph office. In his youth Wash Williams had been called the best telegraph operator in the state, and in spite of his degradement to the obscure office at Winesburg, he was still proud of his ability. Wash Williams did not associate with the men of the town in which he lived. "I'll have nothing to do with them," he said, looking with bleary eyes at the men who walked along the station platform past the telegraph office. Up along Main Street he went in the evening to Ed Griffith's saloon, and after drinking unbelievable quantities of beer staggered off to his room in the New Willard House and to his bed for the night. Wash Williams was a man of courage. A thing had happened to him that made him hate life, and he hated it wholeheartedly, with the abandon of a poet. First of all, he hated women. "Bitches," he called them. His feeling toward men was somewhat different. He pitied them. "Does not every man let his life be managed for him by some bitch or another?" he asked. In Winesburg no attention was paid to Wash Williams and his hatred of his fellows. Once Mrs. White, the banker's wife, complained to the telegraph company, saying that the office in Winesburg was dirty and smelled abominably, but nothing came of her complaint. Here and there a man respected the operator. Instinctively the man felt in him a glowing resentment of something he had not the courage to resent. When Wash walked through the streets such a one had an instinct to pay him homage, to raise his hat or to bow before him. The superintendent who had supervision over the telegraph operators on the railroad that went through Winesburg felt that way. He had put Wash into the obscure office at Winesburg to avoid discharging him, and he meant to keep him there. When he received the letter of complaint from the banker's wife, he tore it up and laughed unpleasantly. For some reason he thought of his own wife as he tore up the letter. Wash Williams once had a wife. When he was still a young man he married a woman at Dayton, Ohio. The woman was tall and slender and had blue eyes and yellow hair. Wash was himself a comely youth. He loved the woman with a love as absorbing as the hatred he later felt for all women. In all of Winesburg there was but one person who knew the story of the thing that had made ugly the person and the character of Wash Williams. He once told the story to George Willard and the telling of the tale came about in this way: George Willard went one evening to walk with Belle Carpenter, a trimmer of women's hats who worked in a millinery shop kept by Mrs. Kate McHugh. The young man was not in love with the woman, who, in fact, had a suitor who worked as bartender in Ed Griffith's saloon, but as they walked about under the trees they occasionally embraced. The night and their own thoughts had aroused something in them. As they were returning to Main Street they passed the little lawn beside the railroad station and saw Wash Williams apparently asleep on the grass beneath a tree. On the next evening the operator and George Willard walked out together. Down the railroad they went and sat on a pile of decaying railroad ties beside the tracks. It was then that the operator told the young reporter his story of hate. Perhaps a dozen times George Willard and the strange, shapeless man who lived at his father's hotel had been on the point of talking. The young man looked at the hideous, leering face staring about the hotel dining room and was consumed with curiosity. Something he saw lurking in the staring eyes told him that the man who had nothing to say to others had nevertheless something to say to him. On the pile of railroad ties on the summer evening, he waited expectantly. When the operator remained silent and seemed to have changed his mind about talking, he tried to make conversation. "Were you ever married, Mr. Williams?" he began. "I suppose you were and your wife is dead, is that it?" Wash Williams spat forth a succession of vile oaths. "Yes, she is dead," he agreed. "She is dead as all women are dead. She is a living-dead thing, walking in the sight of men and making the earth foul by her presence." Staring into the boy's eyes, the man became purple with rage. "Don't have fool notions in your head," he commanded. "My wife, she is dead; yes, surely. I tell you, all women are dead, my mother, your mother, that tall dark woman who works in the millinery store and with whom I saw you walking about yesterday--all of them, they are all dead. I tell you there is something rotten about them. I was married, sure. My wife was dead before she married me, she was a foul thing come out a woman more foul. She was a thing sent to make life unbearable to me. I was a fool, do you see, as you are now, and so I married this woman. I would like to see men a little begin to understand women. They are sent to prevent men making the world worth while. It is a trick in Nature. Ugh! They are creeping, crawling, squirming things, they with their soft hands and their blue eyes. The sight of a woman sickens me. Why I don't kill every woman I see I don't know." Half frightened and yet fascinated by the light burning in the eyes of the hideous old man, George Willard listened, afire with curiosity. Darkness came on and he leaned forward trying to see the face of the man who talked. When, in the gathering darkness, he could no longer see the purple, bloated face and the burning eyes, a curious fancy came to him. Wash Williams talked in low even tones that made his words seem the more terrible. In the darkness the young reporter found himself imagining that he sat on the railroad ties beside a comely young man with black hair and black shining eyes. There was something almost beautiful in the voice of Wash Williams, the hideous, telling his story of hate. The telegraph operator of Winesburg, sitting in the darkness on the railroad ties, had become a poet. Hatred had raised him to that elevation. "It is because I saw you kissing the lips of that Belle Carpenter that I tell you my story," he said. "What happened to me may next happen to you. I want to put you on your guard. Already you may be having dreams in your head. I want to destroy them." Wash Williams began telling the story of his married life with the tall blonde girl with the blue eyes whom he had met when he was a young operator at Dayton, Ohio. Here and there his story was touched with moments of beauty intermingled with strings of vile curses. The operator had married the daughter of a dentist who was the youngest of three sisters. On his marriage day, because of his ability, he was promoted to a position as dispatcher at an increased salary and sent to an office at Columbus, Ohio. There he settled down with his young wife and began buying a house on the installment plan. The young telegraph operator was madly in love. With a kind of religious fervor he had managed to go through the pitfalls of his youth and to remain virginal until after his marriage. He made for George Willard a picture of his life in the house at Columbus, Ohio, with the young wife. "In the garden back of our house we planted vegetables," he said, "you know, peas and corn and such things. We went to Columbus in early March and as soon as the days became warm I went to work in the garden. With a spade I turned up the black ground while she ran about laughing and pretending to be afraid of the worms I uncovered. Late in April came the planting. In the little paths among the seed beds she stood holding a paper bag in her hand. The bag was filled with seeds. A few at a time she handed me the seeds that I might thrust them into the warm, soft ground." For a moment there was a catch in the voice of the man talking in the darkness. "I loved her," he said. "I don't claim not to be a fool. I love her yet. There in the dusk in the spring evening I crawled along the black ground to her feet and groveled before her. I kissed her shoes and the ankles above her shoes. When the hem of her garment touched my face I trembled. When after two years of that life I found she had managed to acquire three other lovers who came regularly to our house when I was away at work, I didn't want to touch them or her. I just sent her home to her mother and said nothing. There was nothing to say. I had four hundred dollars in the bank and I gave her that. I didn't ask her reasons. I didn't say anything. When she had gone I cried like a silly boy. Pretty soon I had a chance to sell the house and I sent that money to her." Wash Williams and George Willard arose from the pile of railroad ties and walked along the tracks toward town. The operator finished his tale quickly, breathlessly. "Her mother sent for me," he said. "She wrote me a letter and asked me to come to their house at Dayton. When I got there it was evening about this time." Wash Williams' voice rose to a half scream. "I sat in the parlor of that house two hours. Her mother took me in there and left me. Their house was stylish. They were what is called respectable people. There were plush chairs and a couch in the room. I was trembling all over. I hated the men I thought had wronged her. I was sick of living alone and wanted her back. The longer I waited the more raw and tender I became. I thought that if she came in and just touched me with her hand I would perhaps faint away. I ached to forgive and forget." Wash Williams stopped and stood staring at George Willard. The boy's body shook as from a chill. Again the man's voice became soft and low. "She came into the room naked," he went on. "Her mother did that. While I sat there she was taking the girl's clothes off, perhaps coaxing her to do it. First I heard voices at the door that led into a little hallway and then it opened softly. The girl was ashamed and stood perfectly still staring at the floor. The mother didn't come into the room. When she had pushed the girl in through the door she stood in the hallway waiting, hoping we would--well, you see--waiting." George Willard and the telegraph operator came into the main street of Winesburg. The lights from the store windows lay bright and shining on the sidewalks. People moved about laughing and talking. The young reporter felt ill and weak. In imagination, he also became old and shapeless. "I didn't get the mother killed," said Wash Williams, staring up and down the street. "I struck her once with a chair and then the neighbors came in and took it away. She screamed so loud you see. I won't ever have a chance to kill her now. She died of a fever a month after that happened." Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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

In Winesburg arbeitet Wash Williams als Telegrafist. Er ist der hässlichste Mann, den man in der Stadt sehen kann. Er ist massig, mit dünnen Beinen und einem dünnen Hals und extrem schmutzig. Seine Hände sind jedoch trotzdem fett und sehen empfindlich aus. Die Stadtbewohner vermeiden jeglichen Kontakt mit ihm und genauso er auch. Beschwerden über seine Unsauberkeit werden ignoriert, da er ein sehr kompetenter Telegrafist ist. Es ist George Willard, der es schafft, Washs Lebensgeschichte herauszubekommen. Eines Tages sieht Wash George und ein junges Mädchen sich umarmen und küssen, während sie einen Nachtspaziergang machen. Am nächsten Tag begleitet Wash George und erzählt ihm seine ganze Geschichte. Es stellt sich heraus, dass er einmal mit einem sehr schönen Mädchen verheiratet war, in das er wahnsinnig verliebt war. Er hatte ein Haus für sie gekauft und all ihre Bedürfnisse erfüllt. Aber schließlich realisierte er, dass sie ihre Liebhaber in sein eigenes Haus brachte, wenn er nicht da war. In Wut und Demütigung schickte er sie mit all dem Geld von seinem Bankkonto zu ihrer Mutter. Sehr viel später forderte die Mutter des Mädchens ihn auf, zu ihr zu kommen. Das Haus des Mädchens stellte sich als stilvolles, angesehenes Haus heraus. Während er auf sie wartete, begann Wash zu spüren, dass er ihr Unrecht getan hatte und beschloss, sie zurückzunehmen. Aber als das Mädchen hereinkam, war sie nackt. Ihre Mutter hatte offenbar alle ihre Kleider entfernt und sie ihm geschickt, in der Hoffnung, ihn zu faszinieren und mit ihm Liebe zu machen. In seiner Wut schlug Wash die Mutter und ging hinaus. Wash hat seine Geschichte George erzählt und wünscht ihm, die abscheuliche Natur der Frauen zu verstehen. Er hielt alle Frauen für verabscheuungswürdige, manipulative Wesen, die am besten vermieden werden sollten, und er wollte, dass George sich daran 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: Having won twenty guineas at whist, and taken leave of his friends, Phileas Fogg, at twenty-five minutes past seven, left the Reform Club. Passepartout, who had conscientiously studied the programme of his duties, was more than surprised to see his master guilty of the inexactness of appearing at this unaccustomed hour; for, according to rule, he was not due in Saville Row until precisely midnight. Mr. Fogg repaired to his bedroom, and called out, "Passepartout!" Passepartout did not reply. It could not be he who was called; it was not the right hour. "Passepartout!" repeated Mr. Fogg, without raising his voice. Passepartout made his appearance. "I've called you twice," observed his master. "But it is not midnight," responded the other, showing his watch. "I know it; I don't blame you. We start for Dover and Calais in ten minutes." A puzzled grin overspread Passepartout's round face; clearly he had not comprehended his master. "Monsieur is going to leave home?" "Yes," returned Phileas Fogg. "We are going round the world." Passepartout opened wide his eyes, raised his eyebrows, held up his hands, and seemed about to collapse, so overcome was he with stupefied astonishment. "Round the world!" he murmured. "In eighty days," responded Mr. Fogg. "So we haven't a moment to lose." "But the trunks?" gasped Passepartout, unconsciously swaying his head from right to left. "We'll have no trunks; only a carpet-bag, with two shirts and three pairs of stockings for me, and the same for you. We'll buy our clothes on the way. Bring down my mackintosh and traveling-cloak, and some stout shoes, though we shall do little walking. Make haste!" Passepartout tried to reply, but could not. He went out, mounted to his own room, fell into a chair, and muttered: "That's good, that is! And I, who wanted to remain quiet!" He mechanically set about making the preparations for departure. Around the world in eighty days! Was his master a fool? No. Was this a joke, then? They were going to Dover; good! To Calais; good again! After all, Passepartout, who had been away from France five years, would not be sorry to set foot on his native soil again. Perhaps they would go as far as Paris, and it would do his eyes good to see Paris once more. But surely a gentleman so chary of his steps would stop there; no doubt--but, then, it was none the less true that he was going away, this so domestic person hitherto! By eight o'clock Passepartout had packed the modest carpet-bag, containing the wardrobes of his master and himself; then, still troubled in mind, he carefully shut the door of his room, and descended to Mr. Fogg. Mr. Fogg was quite ready. Under his arm might have been observed a red-bound copy of Bradshaw's Continental Railway Steam Transit and General Guide, with its timetables showing the arrival and departure of steamers and railways. He took the carpet-bag, opened it, and slipped into it a goodly roll of Bank of England notes, which would pass wherever he might go. "You have forgotten nothing?" asked he. "Nothing, monsieur." "My mackintosh and cloak?" "Here they are." "Good! Take this carpet-bag," handing it to Passepartout. "Take good care of it, for there are twenty thousand pounds in it." Passepartout nearly dropped the bag, as if the twenty thousand pounds were in gold, and weighed him down. Master and man then descended, the street-door was double-locked, and at the end of Saville Row they took a cab and drove rapidly to Charing Cross. The cab stopped before the railway station at twenty minutes past eight. Passepartout jumped off the box and followed his master, who, after paying the cabman, was about to enter the station, when a poor beggar-woman, with a child in her arms, her naked feet smeared with mud, her head covered with a wretched bonnet, from which hung a tattered feather, and her shoulders shrouded in a ragged shawl, approached, and mournfully asked for alms. Mr. Fogg took out the twenty guineas he had just won at whist, and handed them to the beggar, saying, "Here, my good woman. I'm glad that I met you;" and passed on. Passepartout had a moist sensation about the eyes; his master's action touched his susceptible heart. Two first-class tickets for Paris having been speedily purchased, Mr. Fogg was crossing the station to the train, when he perceived his five friends of the Reform. "Well, gentlemen," said he, "I'm off, you see; and, if you will examine my passport when I get back, you will be able to judge whether I have accomplished the journey agreed upon." "Oh, that would be quite unnecessary, Mr. Fogg," said Ralph politely. "We will trust your word, as a gentleman of honour." "You do not forget when you are due in London again?" asked Stuart. "In eighty days; on Saturday, the 21st of December, 1872, at a quarter before nine p.m. Good-bye, gentlemen." Phileas Fogg and his servant seated themselves in a first-class carriage at twenty minutes before nine; five minutes later the whistle screamed, and the train slowly glided out of the station. The night was dark, and a fine, steady rain was falling. Phileas Fogg, snugly ensconced in his corner, did not open his lips. Passepartout, not yet recovered from his stupefaction, clung mechanically to the carpet-bag, with its enormous treasure. Just as the train was whirling through Sydenham, Passepartout suddenly uttered a cry of despair. "What's the matter?" asked Mr. Fogg. "Alas! In my hurry--I--I forgot--" "What?" "To turn off the gas in my room!" "Very well, young man," returned Mr. Fogg, coolly; "it will burn--at your expense." Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze verfassen?

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

Nachdem er zwanzig Guineen beim Whist gewonnen hatte, verabschiedet sich Phileas Fogg von seinen Freunden. Passepartout, der das Programm seiner Aufgaben studiert hatte, war überrascht, seinen Herrn schuldig zu sehen, zur ungeeigneten Uhrzeit zu erscheinen, denn gemäß den Regeln sollte er erst um Mitternacht in der Savile Row erscheinen. Passepartout ist noch überraschter, als ihm mitgeteilt wird, dass sie in zehn Minuten nach Dover und Calais aufbrechen werden. Als ihm gesagt wird, dass sie eine Weltreise machen werden, ist Passepartout völlig perplex, da er ein sehr ruhiges Leben mit seinem Herrn erwartet hatte. Dem Diener wird gesagt, dass sie sehr leicht reisen werden und keine schweren Koffer brauchen werden. Passepartout versuchte seinem Herrn zu antworten, aber konnte nicht. Er ging hinaus, stieg in sein eigenes Zimmer, ließ sich in einen Stuhl fallen und murmelte: "Das ist gut, das ist es! Und ich, der ich mich ruhig halten wollte!" Mechanisch begann er mit den Vorbereitungen zur Abreise. Er denkt, dass sie vielleicht sogar bis nach Paris gehen würden, und es würde seinen Augen guttun, Paris noch einmal zu sehen. Um acht Uhr hatte Passepartout die bescheidene Reisetasche gepackt, die die Garderoben seines Herrn und sich selbst enthielt. Dann, immer noch bekümmert, schloss er sorgfältig die Tür seines Zimmers und ging hinunter zu Mr. Fogg. Mr. Fogg war vollkommen bereit. Unter seinen Sachen war ein rotes gebundenes Exemplar des "Bradshaw's Continental Railway Steam Transit and General Guide" mit den Fahrplänen für die Ankunft und Abfahrt von Dampfern und Zügen. Er nahm die Reisetasche, öffnete sie und steckte darin eine stattliche Rolle Banknoten der Bank of England, die überall, wo er hingehen würde, akzeptiert würden. Passepartout wird gesagt, sich um die Reisetasche zu kümmern, da sie zwanzigtausend Pfund enthält. Herr und Diener stiegen dann hinunter, die Hauseingangstür wurde doppelt verriegelt und sie nahmen ein Taxi und fuhren schnell zum Charing Cross. Als sie den Bahnhof erreichten, trafen sie auf eine bettelnde Frau, die sie um Almosen bat. Mr. Fogg ist sehr großzügig und gibt ihr zwanzig Guineen. Passerpartouts Herrschafts Handlung rührte sein empfängliches Herz. Nachdem zwei Erste-Klasse-Tickets nach Paris schnell gekauft wurden, überquerte Mr. Fogg den Bahnhof zum Zug, als er seine fünf Freunde vom Reform verein sah. Er sagt ihnen, dass sie sich versichern können, dass er wirklich um die Welt gereist ist, indem sie seinen Pass überprüfen. Fogg und sein Diener setzten sich dann in ein Erste-Klasse-Abteil. Die Nacht war dunkel und ein feiner, anhaltender Regen fiel. Phileas Fogg, behaglich in seine Ecke hineingesetzt, öffnete seinen Mund nicht. Passepartout, noch nicht von seiner Betäubung erholt, hielt mechanisch an der Reisetasche fest, mit ihrem enormen Schatz. Gerade als der Zug durch Sydenham fuhr, wurde Passepartout plötzlich klar, dass er das Gas in seinem Zimmer angelassen hatte. "Sehr gut, junger Mann", erwiderte Mr. Fogg gelassen, "es wird auf deine Kosten brennen."

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: ACT V SCENE I ORGON, CLEANTE CLEANTE Whither away so fast? ORGON How should I know? CLEANTE Methinks we should begin by taking counsel To see what can be done to meet the case. ORGON I'm all worked up about that wretched box. More than all else it drives me to despair. CLEANTE That box must hide some mighty mystery? ORGON Argas, my friend who is in trouble, brought it Himself, most secretly, and left it with me. He chose me, in his exile, for this trust; And on these documents, from what he said, I judge his life and property depend. CLEANTE How could you trust them to another's hands? ORGON By reason of a conscientious scruple. I went straight to my traitor, to confide In him; his sophistry made me believe That I must give the box to him to keep, So that, in case of search, I might deny My having it at all, and still, by favour Of this evasion, keep my conscience clear Even in taking oath against the truth. CLEANTE Your case is bad, so far as I can see; This deed of gift, this trusting of the secret To him, were both--to state my frank opinion-- Steps that you took too lightly; he can lead you To any length, with these for hostages; And since he holds you at such disadvantage, You'd be still more imprudent, to provoke him; So you must go some gentler way about. ORGON What! Can a soul so base, a heart so false, Hide neath the semblance of such touching fervour? I took him in, a vagabond, a beggar! ... 'Tis too much! No more pious folk for me! I shall abhor them utterly forever, And henceforth treat them worse than any devil. CLEANTE So! There you go again, quite off the handle! In nothing do you keep an even temper. You never know what reason is, but always Jump first to one extreme, and then the other. You see your error, and you recognise That you've been cozened by a feigned zeal; But to make up for't, in the name of reason, Why should you plunge into a worse mistake, And find no difference in character Between a worthless scamp, and all good people? What! Just because a rascal boldly duped you With pompous show of false austerity, Must you needs have it everybody's like him, And no one's truly pious nowadays? Leave such conclusions to mere infidels; Distinguish virtue from its counterfeit, Don't give esteem too quickly, at a venture, But try to keep, in this, the golden mean. If you can help it, don't uphold imposture; But do not rail at true devoutness, either; And if you must fall into one extreme, Then rather err again the other way. Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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In diesem Moment rennt Orgon umher wie ein Huhn ohne Kopf. Cleante versucht, ihn zu beruhigen. Er fragt ihn, was los ist. Es stellt sich heraus, dass Orgons Befürchtungen bestätigt wurden. Tartuffe hat den Inhalt der "starken Kiste", auch bekannt als Safe, mitgenommen. Es scheint, dass Orgons Freund Argas ihm die Kiste vor langer Zeit gebracht hat, kurz bevor er, also Argas, aus dem Land floh. Soweit Orgon weiß, würden die Papiere, die darin enthalten sind, Argas' Ruf ruinieren, wenn sie jemals veröffentlicht würden. Man könnte sie als perfektes Erpressungsmaterial bezeichnen...so ähnlich wie diese Nacktfotos von Prominenten, von denen man ab und zu hört. Wir wissen nicht genau, was sie enthalten, aber sie waren schlimm genug, um Argas vor der Regierung fliehen zu lassen...und das ist ziemlich schlimm. Cleante versteht nicht, warum Tartuffe überhaupt von solchen Dingen wissen sollte. Es scheint, dass Orgon es für richtig hielt, Tartuffe die Kiste anvertrauen; er fühlte sich schuldig, ein solches Geheimnis zu bewahren. Cleante, der normalerweise schnell einen Ratschlag parat hat, hat nichts zu sagen. Orgon hat diesmal wirklich alles vermasselt. Orgon verflucht Tartuffe und schwört, dass er sich nie mehr mit "frommen Männern" abgeben wird und dass er sie "schlimmer verfolgen wird, als Satan es könnte". Cleante sagt Orgon, er solle aufhören, solchen Unsinn zu reden und vernünftig werden. Ein faules Ei verdirbt nicht das ganze Fass, soweit Cleante besorgt ist, und wenn Orgon ein weiteres Fiasko verhindern will, muss er aufhören, die Dinge ins Extreme zu treiben. Cleante erinnert ihn - und das Publikum - daran, dass es wirklich rechtschaffene Männer gibt und dass er/sie vorsichtig sein muss, um Betrüger wie Tartuffe zu vermeiden.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). 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: _3. Mai. Bistritz._ - Verließ München um 20:35 Uhr am 1. Mai und kam am nächsten Morgen früh in Wien an; hätte um 6:46 Uhr ankommen sollen, aber der Zug hatte eine Stunde Verspätung. Buda-Pesth scheint ein wunderbarer Ort zu sein, basierend auf dem kurzen Blick, den ich aus dem Zug erhaschen konnte und der kurzen Zeit, die ich durch die Straßen laufen konnte. Ich traute mich nicht sehr weit vom Bahnhof entfernt zu gehen, da wir spät ankamen und so nah wie möglich zur richtigen Zeit starten würden. Der Eindruck, den ich hatte, war, dass wir den Westen verlassen und in den Osten eintreten; die westlichste der prächtigen Brücken über die Donau, die hier von edler Breite und Tiefe ist, führte uns in die Traditionen der türkischen Herrschaft. Wir sind ziemlich pünktlich losgekommen und kamen nach Einbruch der Dunkelheit in Klausenburg an. Hier habe ich im Hotel Royale übernachtet. Zum Abendessen hatte ich ein Huhn mit Paprika-Gewürz, das sehr gut, aber durstig machte. (Notiz: Rezept für Mina besorgen.) Der Kellner sagte, es heißt "paprika hendl" und sei ein Nationalgericht, das ich entlang der Karpaten überall finden könne. Meine Kenntnisse in Deutsch waren hier sehr nützlich; tatsächlich weiß ich nicht, wie ich ohne sie auskommen könnte. Da ich in London etwas freie Zeit hatte, besuchte ich das British Museum und suchte unter den Büchern und Karten in der Bibliothek nach Informationen über Transsilvanien; es schien mir, dass ein gewisses Vorwissen über das Land bei der Auseinandersetzung mit einem Adligen aus diesem Land von Bedeutung sein könnte. Ich stellte fest, dass das von ihm genannte Gebiet im äußersten Osten des Landes liegt, direkt an den Grenzen von drei Staaten, Transsilvanien, Moldawien und Bukowina, mitten in den Karpaten; einem der wildesten und am wenigsten bekannten Teile Europas. Ich konnte keine Karte oder Arbeit finden, die den genauen Standort von Schloss Dracula angab, da es noch keine Karten dieses Landes gibt, die mit unseren topografischen Karten verglichen werden können. Aber ich fand heraus, dass Bistritz, die von Graf Dracula genannte Poststadt, ein ziemlich bekannter Ort ist. Ich werde hier einige meiner Notizen aufschreiben, um mein Gedächtnis zu erfrischen, wenn ich meine Reisen mit Mina bespreche. In der Bevölkerung von Transsilvanien gibt es vier unterschiedliche Nationalitäten: Sachsen im Süden, und mit ihnen die Wallachen, die Nachfahren der Daker; Magyaren im Westen und Szekler im Osten und Norden. Ich werde zu letzteren gehen, die behaupten, von Attila und den Hunnen abzustammen. Das mag sein, denn als die Magyaren das Land im 11. Jahrhundert eroberten, fanden sie dort ansässige Hunnen vor. Mir wurde gesagt, dass alle bekannten Aberglauben der Welt in der Hufeisenform der Karpaten versammelt sind, als wäre es das Zentrum einer Art imaginärer Wirbelströmung; wenn dem so ist, könnte mein Aufenthalt sehr interessant sein. (Notiz: Ich muss den Grafen alles darüber fragen.) Ich habe nicht gut geschlafen, obwohl mein Bett komfortabel genug war, denn ich hatte allerlei merkwürdige Träume. Die ganze Nacht über heulte ein Hund unter meinem Fenster, was damit etwas zu tun haben könnte; oder es könnte am Paprika gelegen haben, denn ich musste das gesamte Wasser in meiner Karaffe trinken und hatte immer noch Durst. Gegen Morgen schlief ich ein und wurde durch das ständige Klopfen an meiner Tür geweckt, also nehme ich an, dass ich zu der Zeit fest geschlafen habe. Zum Frühstück gab es mehr Paprika und eine Art Maisgrießbrei, den sie "mamaliga" nannten, sowie Auberginen, gefüllt mit Hackfleisch, ein sehr ausgezeichnetes Gericht, das sie "impletata" nennen. (Notiz: Rezept dafür besorgen.) Ich musste mich beeilen beim Frühstück, denn der Zug sollte kurz vor acht Uhr abfahren, oder besser gesagt, er hätte das tun sollen, denn nachdem ich um 7:30 Uhr zum Bahnhof geeilt war, musste ich über eine Stunde im Abteil sitzen, bevor wir uns zu bewegen begannen. Es scheint mir, je weiter östlich man geht, desto unpünktlicher sind die Züge. Wie unpünktlich müssen sie dann wohl in China sein? Den ganzen Tag über schienen wir uns in einem Land der Schönheit jeglicher Art zu vertrödeln. Manchmal sahen wir kleine Städte oder Burgen auf den Spitzen steiler Hügel, wie sie in alten Messbüchern zu sehen sind; manchmal fuhren wir an Flüssen und Bächen entlang, die aufgrund des breiten steinigen Ufers auf beiden Seiten anscheinend von großen Überschwemmungen betroffen waren. Es braucht viel Wasser und eine starke Strömung, um den äußeren Rand eines Flusses frei zu fegen. An jedem Bahnhof gab es Gruppen von Menschen, manchmal Menschenansammlungen, und sie waren in allen möglichen Outfits. Einige von ihnen waren wie die Bauern zu Hause oder die, die ich auf meiner Reise durch Frankreich und Deutschland gesehen habe, mit kurzen Jacken und runden Hüten und selbstgemachten Hosen; aber andere waren sehr malerisch. Die Frauen sahen hübsch aus, solange man ihnen nicht zu nahe kam, aber sie waren sehr ungeschickt um die Taille. Sie trugen alle irgendwelche vollständig weißen Ärmel und die meisten hatten große Gürtel mit vielen Streifen etwas Ähnlichem, das wie die Kleider in einem Ballett flatterte, aber natürlich trugen sie Petticoats darunter. Die seltsamsten Figuren, die wir sahen, waren die Slowaken, die barbarischer erschienen als die anderen, mit ihren großen Kuhjungenhüten, großen, schlabberigen, schmutzig-weißen Hosen, weißen Leinenhemden und riesigen, schweren Lederriemen, fast einen Fuß breit, die mit Messingnieten verziert waren. Sie trugen hohe Stiefel, in die ihre Hosen gesteckt waren, und hatten langes schwarzes Haar und dicke schwarze Schnurrbärte. Sie sind sehr malerisch, aber nicht sehr anziehend. Auf der Bühne würden sie sofort als eine alte orientalische Bande von Räubern gelten. Allerdings sind sie, so wurde mir gesagt, völlig harmlos und eher zurückhaltend. Es war kurz vor Einbruch der Dunkelheit, als wir in Bistritz ankamen, einem sehr interessanten alten Ort. Da es praktisch an der Grenze liegt - der Borgo-Pass führt von hier nach Bukovina - hat es eine sehr stürmische Existenz gehabt und das zeigt sich deutlich. Vor fünfzig Jahren gab es hier eine Reihe von großen Bränden, die auf fünf separaten Anlässen furchtbare Verwüstungen anrichteten. Bereits zu Beginn des siebzehnten Jahrhunderts durchlief es eine dreiwöchige Belagerung und verlor dabei 13.000 Menschen, wobei die Kriegsopfer durch Hunger und Krankheit verstärkt wurden. Graf Dracula hatte mir den Goldenen Krone Hotel empfohlen, was sich zu meiner großen Freude als sehr altmodisch herausstellte, denn ich wollte natürlich alles sehen, was ich von den Bräuchen des Landes konnte. Offenbar wurde ich erwartet, denn als ich mich der Tür näherte, stand mir eine heiter aussehende ältere Frau im üblichen Bauernkleid entgegen - ein weißes Unterkleid mit langem doppeltem Vorder- und Rückenschürzen aus bunter, fast zu eng anliegender Stoff, um anständig zu sein. Als ich näher kam, verbe Musst du gehen? Oh! Junger Herr, musst du gehen?" Sie war so aufgeregt, dass sie den Bezug zu dem Deutsch, das sie beherrschte, verloren zu haben schien und es mit einer anderen Sprache vermischt hat, die ich überhaupt nicht kannte. Ich konnte ihr nur durch viele Fragen folgen. Als ich ihr sagte, dass ich sofort gehen müsse und dass ich geschäftlich engagiert sei, fragte sie erneut: "Weißt du, welcher Tag heute ist?" Ich antwortete, dass heute der vierte Mai sei. Sie schüttelte den Kopf und sagte erneut: "Oh ja! Das weiß ich! Das weiß ich, aber weißt du, welcher Tag heute ist?" Als ich sagte, dass ich es nicht verstehe, fuhr sie fort: "Es ist der Vorabend des Georgstags. Weißt du nicht, dass heute Nacht, wenn die Uhr Mitternacht schlägt, alle bösen Dinge in der Welt freien Lauf haben werden? Weißt du, wohin du gehst und was du vorhast?" Sie war in so offensichtlicher Not, dass ich versuchte, sie zu trösten, aber ohne Erfolg. Schließlich ging sie auf die Knie und flehte mich an, nicht zu gehen; zumindest ein oder zwei Tage zu warten, bevor ich starte. Es war alles sehr lächerlich, aber ich fühlte mich nicht wohl dabei. Es gab jedoch Geschäfte zu erledigen und ich konnte nichts zulassen, was sich in den Weg stellte. Deshalb versuchte ich, sie aufzurichten und sagte so ernst wie möglich, dass ich ihr danke, aber meine Pflicht gebieterisch sei und dass ich gehen müsse. Dann stand sie auf, trocknete ihre Augen und nahm mir ein Kreuz von ihrem Hals ab und bot es mir an. Ich wusste nicht, was ich tun sollte, denn als anglikanischer Christ wurde mir gelehrt, solche Dinge in gewisser Weise als abgöttisch zu betrachten, und dennoch schien es so unhöflich, einer alten Dame, die es gut meint und in einer solchen Verfassung ist, abzulehnen. Sie sah, nehme ich an, die Zweifel in meinem Gesicht, denn sie legte den Rosenkranz um meinen Hals und sagte: "Für deine Mutter" und ging aus dem Raum. Ich schreibe diesen Teil des Tagebuchs gerade auf, während ich auf den Bus warte, der natürlich zu spät kommt, und das Kreuz hängt immer noch um meinen Hals. Ob es die Angst der alten Dame ist, die vielen geisterhaften Traditionen dieser Gegend oder das Kreuz selbst, weiß ich nicht, aber ich fühle mich nicht annähernd so ruhig wie gewöhnlich. Wenn dieses Buch jemals Mina erreichen sollte, bevor ich es tue, dann lass es meinen Abschied bringen. Da kommt der Bus! 5. Mai. Das Schloss. -- Das Grau des Morgens ist vergangen und die Sonne steht hoch am fernen Horizont, der verschwommen erscheint, ob mit Bäumen oder Hügeln, weiß ich nicht, denn es ist so weit entfernt, dass große und kleine Dinge miteinander verschwimmen. Ich bin nicht müde und da ich nicht gerufen werde, bevor ich aufwache, schreibe ich natürlich, bis der Schlaf kommt. Es gibt viele seltsame Dinge zu notieren, und damit niemand, der sie liest, glaubt, dass ich zu gut zu Abend gegessen habe, bevor ich Bistritz verlassen habe, will ich mein Abendessen genau aufschreiben. Ich habe das sogenannte "Räubersteak" gegessen - Speck, Zwiebeln und Rindfleisch, gewürzt mit rotem Pfeffer, auf Stöcken aufgespießt und über dem Feuer geröstet, im einfachen Stil des Londoner Katzenfutters! Der Wein war Golden Mediasch, der einen merkwürdigen Stich auf der Zunge verursacht, der jedoch nicht unangenehm ist. Davon hatte ich nur zwei Gläser und nichts weiter. Als ich auf den Bus stieg, hatte der Fahrer noch nicht auf seinem Platz genommen und ich sah, wie er mit der Wirtin sprach. Sie sprachen offensichtlich über mich, denn ab und zu schauten sie zu mir und einige der Leute, die auf der Bank vor der Tür saßen - die sie mit einem Namen, der "Wortträger" bedeutet, bezeichnen - kamen und lauschten und sahen mich dann an, die meisten von ihnen voller Mitleid. Ich konnte viele Wörter hören, die oft wiederholt wurden, seltsame Wörter, denn es waren viele Nationalitäten in der Menschenmenge; also holte ich ruhig mein vielsprachiges Wörterbuch aus meiner Tasche und schaute die Wörter nach. Ich muss sagen, sie waren nicht ermutigend für mich, denn darunter waren "Ordog" - Satan, "Pokol" - Hölle, "Stregoica" - Hexe, "Vrolok" und "Vlkoslak" - beide bedeuten dasselbe, eines auf Slowakisch und das andere auf Serbisch für etwas, das entweder Werwolf oder Vampir ist. (Anm.: Ich muss den Grafen zu diesen Aberglauben befragen) Als wir losfuhren, machte die Menschenmenge um die Tür der Gaststätte, die inzwischen beträchtliche Ausmaße erreicht hatte, alle das Kreuzzeichen und zeigte mit zwei Fingern auf mich. Mit einiger Mühe konnte ich einen Mitreisenden bitten, mir zu sagen, was sie damit meinen; zuerst wollte er nicht antworten, aber als er erfuhr, dass ich Engländer bin, erklärte er mir, dass es ein Amulett oder Schutz vor dem bösen Blick sei. Das war nicht sehr angenehm für mich, der gerade auf dem Weg zu einem unbekannten Ort war, um einen unbekannten Mann zu treffen; aber jeder schien so herzlich und so betrübt und so mitfühlend zu sein, dass ich nicht anders konnte, als gerührt zu sein. Ich werde den letzten Blick, den ich auf den Innenhof des Gasthauses und seine Menge malerischer Figuren hatte, die sich alle das Kreuzzeichen machend um den weiten Torbogen versammelten, mit ihrem Hintergrund aus üppigem Oleander- und Orangenbaumlaub in grünen Kübeln in der Mitte des Hofs, nie vergessen. Dann knallte unser Fahrer, dessen weite Leinenslip die gesamte Vorderseite des Kutschbocks bedeckten - „Gotza“ nannte man sie - mit seiner großen Peitsche über seine vier kleinen Pferde, die nebeneinander liefen, und wir setzen unsere Reise fort. Ich verlor bald den Blick und das Bewusstsein für spukhafte Ängste in der Schönheit der Szene, als wir fuhren, obwohl ich, hätte ich die Sprache oder besser die Sprachen gekannt, die meine Mitreisenden sprachen, sie nicht so leicht hätte abschütteln können. Vor uns lag eine grüne abfallende Landschaft voller Wälder und Wiesen, mit hier und da steilen Hügeln, gekrönt von Baumgruppen oder Bauernhäusern, deren blinde Traufseite zur Straße zeigte. Überall gab es eine verwirrende Masse von Obstblüten - Apfel, Pflaume, Birne, Kirsche; und während wir vorbeifuhren, konnte ich das grüne Gras unter den Bäumen sehen, das mit den herabgefallenen Blütenblättern übersät war. Inmitten dieser grünen Hügel des sogenannten "Mittel Landes" verlief die Straße, die sich verlor, wenn sie um die grasbewachsene Kurve lief oder von den verstreuten Enden der Kiefern, die hier und da die Hänge hinunterliefen wie Flammenzungen, versperrt wurde. Die Straße war rau, aber dennoch schienen wir mit fiebriger Eile darüber zu fliegen. Ich konnte damals nicht verstehen, was die Eile bedeutete, aber der Fahrer war offensichtlich darauf bedacht, keine Zeit zu verlieren, um Borgo Prund zu erreichen. Man sagte mir, dass diese Straße im Sommer ausgezeichnet sei, aber dass sie nach den Winterstürmen noch nicht instand gesetzt worden sei. In dieser Hinsicht unterscheidet sie sich von den meisten Straßen in den Karpaten, denn es besteht die alte Tradition, dass sie nicht zu gut in Schuss gehalten werden sollen. Früher wollten die Hospodaren sie nicht instand setzen, da die Türken sonst denken könnten, dass sie sich auf die Ankunft ausländischer Truppen vor Wir fuhren auf unserem endlosen Weg weiter, und die Sonne sank immer tiefer hinter uns, während die Schatten des Abends langsam um uns herumkrochen. Dies wurde dadurch betont, dass der schneebedeckte Gipfel des Berges immer noch den Sonnenuntergang hielt und mit einem zarten, kühlen Rosa leuchtete. Hier und da passierten wir Tschechen und Slowaken, alle in malerischer Kleidung, aber ich bemerkte, dass Kropf schmerzhaft verbreitet war. Am Straßenrand standen viele Kreuze und als wir vorbeirasten, kreuzten sich meine Begleiter alle. Hier und da kniete ein Bauer oder eine Bäuerin vor einem Schrein, die sich nicht einmal umdrehten, als wir uns näherten, sondern schienen in der Hingabe an ihre Gebete weder Augen noch Ohren für die Außenwelt zu haben. Es gab viele Dinge, die für mich neu waren: zum Beispiel Heuschober in den Bäumen und hier und da sehr schöne Gruppen von weinenden Birken, deren weiße Stämme wie Silber durch das zarte Grün der Blätter schimmerten. Ab und zu passierten wir einen Leiterwagen - den gewöhnlichen Pferdewagen der Bauern - mit seinem langen, schlangenähnlichen Rückgrat, das den Unebenheiten der Straße angepasst war. Auf diesem saß sicherlich eine ganze Gruppe von heimkehrenden Bauern, die Tschechen mit ihren weißen und die Slowaken mit ihren bunten Schaffellen, letztere trugen ihre langen Stöcke wie Lanzen mit einer Axt am Ende. Als der Abend hereinbrach, wurde es sehr kalt und die wachsende Dämmerung schien die Dunkelheit der Bäume, Eichen, Buchen und Kiefern in ein einziges nebliges Dunkel zu verwandeln, obwohl in den Tälern, die tief zwischen den Ausläufern der Hügel lagen, während wir den Pass hinauffuhren, die dunklen Tannen hier und da gegen den Hintergrund des späten Schnees herausragten. Manchmal, wenn die Straße durch die finsteren Kiefernwälder führte, die in der Dunkelheit schienen, sich auf uns zuzuschließen, erzeugten große graue Massen, die hier und da auf den Bäumen verstreut waren, eine seltsam unheimliche und feierliche Wirkung, die die Gedanken und düsteren Fantasien, die sich schon früher am Abend gebildet hatten, als der Sonnenuntergang die gespenstisch wirkenden Wolken inmitten der Karpaten in den Tälern in seltsamem Relief zeigte. Manchmal waren die Hügel so steil, dass die Pferde trotz der Eile unseres Fahrers nur langsam vorankamen. Ich wollte aussteigen und den Hügel hinaufgehen, wie wir es zu Hause machen, aber der Fahrer wollte nichts davon hören. "Nein, nein", sagte er, "Sie dürfen hier nicht zu Fuß gehen; die Hunde sind zu wild", und dann fügte er mit dem, was er offensichtlich für eine schaurige Scherzelei hielt, hinzu - denn er sah sich um, um das zustimmende Lächeln der anderen zu erhaschen - "und Sie könnten genug von solchen Dingen haben, bevor Sie einschlafen". Die einzige Pause, die er machte, war ein kurzer Moment, um seine Lampen anzuzünden. Als es dunkel wurde, schien es unter den Passagieren einen gewissen Aufregungszustand zu geben und sie sprachen nacheinander mit dem Fahrer, als ob sie ihn dazu drängen würden, noch schneller zu fahren. Er peitschte die Pferde gnadenlos mit seiner langen Peitsche und rief wild Beifallsrufe, um sie zu weiteren Anstrengungen anzuspornen. Dann konnte ich durch die Dunkelheit hindurch einen Fleck graues Licht vor uns sehen, als gäbe es eine Kluft in den Hügeln. Die Aufregung der Passagiere wurde größer; der verrückte Kutschenwagen schwankte auf seinen großen Lederfedern und schwankte wie ein Boot auf hoher See. Ich musste mich festhalten. Die Straße wurde ebener und wir schienen zu fliegen. Dann schienen die Berge näher an uns heranzurücken und herabzublicken; wir betraten den Borgo-Pass. Einer nach dem anderen boten mir mehrere der Passagiere Geschenke an, die sie mir mit einer Ernsthaftigkeit aufdrängten, die keine Ablehnung zuließ; diese waren sicherlich von eigenartiger und unterschiedlicher Art, aber jedes wurde in einfacher guter Absicht mit einem freundlichen Wort und einem Segen überreicht und dieser seltsamen Mischung aus Bewegungen gegeben, die ich vor dem Hotel in Bistritz gesehen hatte - das Zeichen des Kreuzes und der Schutz gegen das böse Auge. Dann, als wir weiterfuhren, beugte sich der Fahrer nach vorne und auf jeder Seite lehnten sich die Passagiere über den Rand des Kutschenwagens und starrten gespannt in die Dunkelheit. Es war offensichtlich, dass entweder etwas sehr Aufregendes geschah oder erwartet wurde, aber obwohl ich jeden der Passagiere fragte, wollte mir niemand die geringste Erklärung geben. Dieser Zustand der Aufregung hielt eine Weile an; und schließlich sahen wir vor uns den Pass, der sich auf der Ostseite öffnete. Über uns waren dunkle, wogende Wolken und in der Luft lag das schwere, drückende Gefühl von Gewitter. Es schien, als ob die Bergkette zwei Atmosphären getrennt hätte und dass wir uns jetzt in der gewittrigen Atmosphäre befanden. Ich hielt jetzt Ausschau nach dem Transportmittel, das mich zum Grafen bringen sollte. Jeden Moment erwartete ich den Schein von Lampen durch die Dunkelheit zu sehen, aber alles war dunkel. Das einzige Licht waren die flackernden Strahlen unserer eigenen Lampen, in denen der Dampf von unseren hart angetriebenen Pferden in einer weißen Wolke aufstieg. Wir konnten jetzt die sandige Straße deutlich vor uns sehen, aber es gab kein Zeichen eines Fahrzeugs darauf. Die Passagiere zogen sich mit einem erleichterten Seufzer zurück, der schien, meinen eigenen Enttäuschungen zu spotten. Ich überlegte bereits, was ich am besten tun sollte, als der Fahrer auf seine Uhr schaute und den anderen etwas sagte, was ich kaum hören konnte, es wurde so ruhig und leise gesprochen; ich dachte, er sagte: "Eine Stunde weniger als geplant." Dann wandte er sich mir zu und sagte in einem schlechteren Deutsch als meinem eigenen: - "Hier ist kein Wagen. Der Herr wird doch nicht erwartet. Er wird jetzt nach Bukowina weiterfahren und morgen oder übermorgen zurückkehren, besser noch übermorgen." Während er sprach, begannen die Pferde zu wiehern und wild zu schnauben und wild zu scheuen, so dass der Fahrer sie halten musste. Dann tauchte inmitten eines Chores von Schreien der Bauern und eines universellen Kreuzzeichenzeichnens ein Kaleschen mit vier Pferden hinter uns auf, überholte uns und hielt neben dem Kutschenwagen an. Ich konnte durch den Lichtschein unserer Lampen, als die Strahlen darauf fielen, sehen, dass die Pferde kohlrabenschwarz und prächtige Tiere waren. Sie wurden von einem großen Mann mit langem braunem Bart und einem großen schwarzen Hut gefahren, der sein Gesicht vor uns zu verbergen schien. Ich konnte nur den Glanz eines Paars sehr heller Augen sehen, die im Lampenlicht rot schienen, als er sich zu uns umdrehte. Er sagte zum Fahrer: - "Du bist heute Abend früh dran, mein Freund." Der Mann stammelte als Antwort: - "Der englische Herr hatte es eilig", worauf der Fremde antwortete: - "Das ist wohl der Grund, warum du wolltest, dass er nach Bukowina weiterfährt. Du kannst mich nicht täuschen, mein Freund, ich weiß zu viel und meine Pferde sind schnell." Während er sprach, lächelte er und das Lampenlicht fiel auf einen hart aussehenden Mund mit sehr roten Lippen und scharfen Zähnen, die so weiß wie Elfenbein waren. Einer meiner Begleiter flüsterte einem anderen den Vers aus Burger's "Lenore" zu: - "Denn die Todten reiten schnell" - ("Denn die Toten reisen schnell.") Der seltsame Fahrer hat offensichtlich die Worte gehört, denn er sah mit einem glänz Die Nacht ist kalt, mein Herr, und mein Herr, der Graf, bat mich, mich gut um Sie zu kümmern. Es gibt eine Flasche Slivovitz (den Pflaumenschnaps des Landes) unter dem Sitz, falls Sie es benötigen sollten." Ich habe nichts genommen, aber es war beruhigend zu wissen, dass es trotzdem da war. Ich fühlte mich etwas seltsam und nicht wenig ängstlich. Wenn es eine Alternative gegeben hätte, hätte ich sie wahrscheinlich genommen, anstatt diese unbekannte Nachtreise anzutreten. Die Kutsche fuhr mit hoher Geschwindigkeit direkt weiter, dann machten wir eine komplette Wende und fuhren auf einer anderen geraden Straße weiter. Es schien mir, als würden wir einfach immer wieder über das gleiche Gelände fahren; und so nahm ich einige markante Punkte in Augenschein und stellte fest, dass es tatsächlich so war. Ich hätte den Fahrer gerne gefragt, was das alles zu bedeuten hatte, aber ich hatte wirklich Angst, es zu tun. Denn in meiner Position hätte jeder Protest wohl keine Auswirkungen gehabt, falls es eine Absicht gab, uns aufzuhalten. Nach einer Weile aber, da ich neugierig auf die vergehende Zeit war, habe ich ein Streichholz angezündet und durch seine Flamme auf meine Uhr geschaut; es war nur wenige Minuten vor Mitternacht. Das hat mich irgendwie schockiert, denn ich glaube, der allgemeine Aberglaube um Mitternacht wurde durch meine jüngsten Erfahrungen verstärkt. Ich wartete mit einem krankhaft ängstlichen Gefühl der Ungewissheit. Dann begann irgendwo in einem Bauernhaus weit die Straße hinunter ein Hund zu heulen - ein langes, qualvolles Geheul, als ob vor Angst. Der Klang wurde von einem anderen Hund aufgenommen, und dann noch einem und noch einem, bis ein wildes Geheul aufkam, das vom Wind getragen wurde, der nun sanft durch den Pass wehte und von überall im Land zu kommen schien, soweit das Vorstellungsvermögen es in dieser Dunkelheit erfassen konnte. Beim ersten Heulen begannen die Pferde zu ziehen und aufzusteigen, aber der Fahrer sprach beruhigend auf sie ein und sie beruhigten sich, aber zitterten und schwitzten, als kämen sie von einer plötzlichen Schrecken auslösenden Flucht. Dann begannen in der Ferne von den Bergen auf beiden Seiten von uns ein lauterer und schärferer Heulen - das der Wölfe -, das sowohl die Pferde als auch mich auf die gleiche Weise beeinflusste - denn ich hatte mich daran gemacht, aus der Kutsche zu springen und wegzulaufen, während sie sich erneut aufrichteten und wie wild galoppierten, so dass der Fahrer all seine Kraft einsetzen musste, um sie daran zu hindern, davonzurennen. Nach einigen Minuten aber hatten sich meine Ohren an den Klang gewöhnt, und die Pferde beruhigten sich soweit, dass der Fahrer absteigen und vor ihnen stehen konnte. Er verwöhnte und beruhigte sie und flüsterte ihnen etwas ins Ohr, wie ich gehört habe, dass Pferdedompteure es tun, und mit außerordentlicher Wirkung, denn unter seinen Zärtlichkeiten wurden sie wieder ganz handlich, obwohl sie noch zitterten. Der Fahrer nahm wieder Platz, schüttelte seine Zügel und fuhr mit großer Geschwindigkeit weiter. Dieses Mal, nachdem er auf die Fernseite des Passes gefahren war, bog er plötzlich auf eine schmale Straße ab, die scharf nach rechts führte. Bald waren wir von Bäumen eingekesselt, die an manchen Stellen die Straße überdachten, bis wir wie durch einen Tunnel fuhren, und wiederum bewachten uns große, finster blickende Felsen mutig auf beiden Seiten. Obwohl wir geschützt waren, konnten wir den aufkommenden Wind hören, der durch die Felsen seufzte und pfiff, und die Äste der Bäume prallten zusammen, während wir dahinrauschten. Es wurde immer kälter und kälter, und feiner, pudriger Schnee begann zu fallen, so dass wir und alles um uns herum mit einer weißen Decke bedeckt wurden. Der eisige Wind trug immer noch das Heulen der Hunde, obwohl dies schwächer wurde, während wir unseren Weg fortsetzten. Das Bellen der Wölfe klang immer näher, als ob sie sich von allen Seiten auf uns zu bewegten. Ich hatte furchtbare Angst, und die Pferde teilten meine Angst. Der Fahrer jedoch war überhaupt nicht beunruhigt; er drehte immer wieder den Kopf nach links und rechts, aber ich konnte durch die Dunkelheit nichts sehen. Plötzlich sah ich in einiger Entfernung auf der linken Seite eine schwache flackernde blaue Flamme. Der Fahrer sah sie im selben Moment; er hielt sofort die Pferde an und sprang vom Wagen und verschwand in der Dunkelheit. Ich wusste nicht, was ich tun sollte, umso mehr, als das Heulen der Wölfe immer näher kam; aber während ich darüber nachdachte, tauchte der Fahrer plötzlich wieder auf und nahm ohne ein Wort seinen Platz ein, und wir setzten unsere Reise fort. Ich glaube, ich muss eingeschlafen sein und von dem Vorfall geträumt haben, denn es schien endlos wiederholt zu werden, und nun im Rückblick ist es wie ein schrecklicher Alptraum. Einmal schien die Flamme so nahe an der Straße zu sein, dass ich trotz der Dunkelheit um uns herum die Bewegungen des Fahrers beobachten konnte. Er ging schnell dorthin, wo die blaue Flamme aufstieg - sie muss sehr schwach gewesen sein, denn sie schien die Umgebung überhaupt nicht zu erhellen - und sammelte ein paar Steine und formte sie zu irgendeinem Gerät. Einmal gab es einen seltsamen optischen Effekt: Als er zwischen mir und der Flamme stand, behinderte er sie nicht, denn ich konnte trotzdem ihr gespenstisches Flackern sehen. Das hat mich erschreckt, aber da der Effekt nur von kurzer Dauer war, habe ich angenommen, dass meine Augen mich täuschten und im Dunkeln überanstrengt waren. Dann gab es eine Zeit lang keine blauen Flammen, und wir schwangen uns durch die Dunkelheit mit dem Heulen der Wölfe um uns herum, als ob sie uns in einem Kreis verfolgten. Schließlich kam die Zeit, als der Fahrer weiter wegging als je zuvor, und während seiner Abwesenheit begannen die Pferde schlimmer zu zittern als je zuvor und vor Angst zu schnauben und zu schreien. Ich konnte keinen Grund dafür sehen, denn das Heulen der Wölfe hatte ganz aufgehört; aber in diesem Moment erschien der Mond, der durch die schwarzen Wolken segelte, hinter dem zerklüfteten Gipfel eines überhängenden, mit Kiefern bewachsenen Felsens, und bei seinem Licht sah ich um uns herum einen Kreis von Wölfen mit weißen Zähnen und heraushängenden roten Zungen, mit langen, sehnigen Gliedmaßen und struppigem Fell. Sie waren hundertmal schrecklicher in der düsteren Stille, die sie umgab, als selbst wenn sie heulten. Ich selbst fühlte eine Art Lähmung der Angst. Es ist nur, wenn ein Mann solchen Schrecken von Angesicht zu Angesicht gegenübersteht, dass er ihre wahre Bedeutung verstehen kann. Plötzlich begannen die Wölfe zu heulen, als ob das Mondlicht eine besondere Wirkung auf sie gehabt hätte. Die Pferde sprangen herum und bäumten sich auf und sahen hilflos mit Augen, die sich auf schmerzhafte Weise drehten, umher; aber der lebende Ring des Schreckens umgab sie von allen Seiten, und sie mussten darin bleiben. Ich rief den Kutscher, dass er kommen solle, denn mir schien, dass unsere einzige Chance darin bestand, zu versuchen, durch den Ring auszubrechen und seinen Angriff zu unterstützen. Ich schrie und schlug gegen die Seite der Kutsche, in der Hoffnung, durch den Lärm die Wölfe von dieser Seite zu vertreiben, um ihm die Möglichkeit zu geben, zur Falle zu gelangen. Wie er dorthin gekommen war, weiß ich nicht, aber ich hörte seine Stimme in einem Ton befehlender Anweisung, und als ich mich in Richtung des Klangs umschaute, sah ich ihn auf der Straße stehen. Als er seine langen Arme schwang, als würde er eine ungreifbare Barriere beiseite fegen, wichen die Wölfe zurück und immer weiter zurück. Genau in diesem Moment zog eine schwere Wolke vor dem Mond vorbei 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.

Kapitel I basiert auf den Tagebucheinträgen von Jonathan Harker vom 3. und 4. Mai. Harker ist auf Geschäftsreise in Osteuropa und durchquert eine der abgeschiedensten Regionen Europas. Er wird sich mit einem Adligen aus Transsilvanien, Graf Dracula, treffen. Die Überschrift seines Tagebucheintrags verrät uns, dass Jonathan sich in Bistritz befindet, im heutigen Rumänien. Vor zwei Tagen war er in München, gestern in Wien. Je weiter er nach Osten reist, desto wilder und weniger modern wird das Land. Jonathan Harker hält seine Beobachtungen über die Menschen und die Landschaft fest, ihre Trachten und Bräuche. Er wurde angewiesen, vor Beginn des letzten Abschnitts der Reise zum Schloss von Dracula in einem altmodischen Hotel in Bistritz zu übernachten. In Bistritz erwartet ihn ein Brief von Dracula. Jonathan soll sich ausruhen, bevor er am nächsten Tag zur Borgo-Schlucht aufbricht, wo der Kutscher des Grafen auf ihn wartet. Der Wirt und seine Frau sind sichtlich besorgt über Jonathans Absicht, zum Schloss von Dracula zu gehen. Obwohl sie sich aufgrund ihrer unterschiedlichen Sprachen nur auf Deutsch verständigen können, versucht der Wirt, Jonathan passiv davon abzuhalten, indem er vorgibt, Jonathans Bitte nach einer Kutsche zur Borgo-Schlucht nicht zu verstehen. Die Frau des Wirts versucht aggressiver, Jonathan abzuraten, indem sie ihn warnt, dass morgen St. Georgs Tag sei und um Mitternacht am Vorabend von St. Georg das Böse am stärksten sei. Als er darauf besteht, gehen zu müssen, schenkt sie ihm einen Kreuzanhänger. Jonathan nimmt das Geschenk an, obwohl er als englischer Protestant Kreuze als Götzenbilder betrachtet. Bevor Jonathan geht, bemerkt er, dass ihn einige der Bauern misstrauisch beobachten. Obwohl er ihre Sprache nicht gut versteht, kann er die Worte Teufel, Satan, Werwolf und Vampir heraushören. Die Bauern machen Gesten, um ihn vor dem bösen Blick zu schützen. Auf der Kutschenfahrt behandeln seine Mitfahrer ihn, nachdem sie erfahren, wohin er geht, mit der gleichen Art von besorgtem Mitgefühl und schenken ihm Geschenke und schützen ihn mit Amuletten. Die Fahrt führt durch wilde und schöne Landschaft. Der Kutscher kommt eine Stunde zu früh am Borgo-Pass an und versucht dann in schlechtem Deutsch, Jonathan davon zu überzeugen, dass Draculas Kutscher heute Abend vielleicht nicht kommen würde und Jonathan stattdessen mit den anderen nach Bukowina kommen sollte. In diesem Moment kommt ein furchterregend aussehender Kutscher auf einem von pechschwarzen Pferden gezogenen Gefährt an. Einer der Mitfahrer flüstert: "Denn er schilt den Kutscher" und bringt Jonathan in die Kutsche. Der letzte Teil der Reise ist erschreckend. Der Mond ist hell, aber wird gelegentlich von Wolken verdeckt, und seltsame blaue Flammen und Wölfe tauchen auf dem Weg auf. Mehrmals verlässt der Kutscher die Kutsche, woraufhin die Wölfe dem Fahrzeug immer näher kommen. Immer wenn der Kutscher zurückkehrt, fliehen die Wölfe. Beim letzten Mal scheint es, als fliehen die Wölfe auf Befehl des Kutschers. Das Kapitel endet damit, dass das Schloss von Dracula in Sicht kommt, dessen zerfallene Zinnen eine zackige Linie am Nachthimmel bilden.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: IN WHICH IT IS SHOWN THAT PHILEAS FOGG GAINED NOTHING BY HIS TOUR AROUND THE WORLD, UNLESS IT WERE HAPPINESS Yes; Phileas Fogg in person. The reader will remember that at five minutes past eight in the evening--about five and twenty hours after the arrival of the travellers in London--Passepartout had been sent by his master to engage the services of the Reverend Samuel Wilson in a certain marriage ceremony, which was to take place the next day. Passepartout went on his errand enchanted. He soon reached the clergyman's house, but found him not at home. Passepartout waited a good twenty minutes, and when he left the reverend gentleman, it was thirty-five minutes past eight. But in what a state he was! With his hair in disorder, and without his hat, he ran along the street as never man was seen to run before, overturning passers-by, rushing over the sidewalk like a waterspout. In three minutes he was in Saville Row again, and staggered back into Mr. Fogg's room. He could not speak. "What is the matter?" asked Mr. Fogg. "My master!" gasped Passepartout--"marriage--impossible--" "Impossible?" "Impossible--for to-morrow." "Why so?" "Because to-morrow--is Sunday!" "Monday," replied Mr. Fogg. "No--to-day is Saturday." "Saturday? Impossible!" "Yes, yes, yes, yes!" cried Passepartout. "You have made a mistake of one day! We arrived twenty-four hours ahead of time; but there are only ten minutes left!" Passepartout had seized his master by the collar, and was dragging him along with irresistible force. Phileas Fogg, thus kidnapped, without having time to think, left his house, jumped into a cab, promised a hundred pounds to the cabman, and, having run over two dogs and overturned five carriages, reached the Reform Club. The clock indicated a quarter before nine when he appeared in the great saloon. Phileas Fogg had accomplished the journey round the world in eighty days! Phileas Fogg had won his wager of twenty thousand pounds! How was it that a man so exact and fastidious could have made this error of a day? How came he to think that he had arrived in London on Saturday, the twenty-first day of December, when it was really Friday, the twentieth, the seventy-ninth day only from his departure? The cause of the error is very simple. Phileas Fogg had, without suspecting it, gained one day on his journey, and this merely because he had travelled constantly eastward; he would, on the contrary, have lost a day had he gone in the opposite direction, that is, westward. In journeying eastward he had gone towards the sun, and the days therefore diminished for him as many times four minutes as he crossed degrees in this direction. There are three hundred and sixty degrees on the circumference of the earth; and these three hundred and sixty degrees, multiplied by four minutes, gives precisely twenty-four hours--that is, the day unconsciously gained. In other words, while Phileas Fogg, going eastward, saw the sun pass the meridian eighty times, his friends in London only saw it pass the meridian seventy-nine times. This is why they awaited him at the Reform Club on Saturday, and not Sunday, as Mr. Fogg thought. And Passepartout's famous family watch, which had always kept London time, would have betrayed this fact, if it had marked the days as well as the hours and the minutes! Phileas Fogg, then, had won the twenty thousand pounds; but, as he had spent nearly nineteen thousand on the way, the pecuniary gain was small. His object was, however, to be victorious, and not to win money. He divided the one thousand pounds that remained between Passepartout and the unfortunate Fix, against whom he cherished no grudge. He deducted, however, from Passepartout's share the cost of the gas which had burned in his room for nineteen hundred and twenty hours, for the sake of regularity. That evening, Mr. Fogg, as tranquil and phlegmatic as ever, said to Aouda: "Is our marriage still agreeable to you?" "Mr. Fogg," replied she, "it is for me to ask that question. You were ruined, but now you are rich again." "Pardon me, madam; my fortune belongs to you. If you had not suggested our marriage, my servant would not have gone to the Reverend Samuel Wilson's, I should not have been apprised of my error, and--" "Dear Mr. Fogg!" said the young woman. "Dear Aouda!" replied Phileas Fogg. It need not be said that the marriage took place forty-eight hours after, and that Passepartout, glowing and dazzling, gave the bride away. Had he not saved her, and was he not entitled to this honour? The next day, as soon as it was light, Passepartout rapped vigorously at his master's door. Mr. Fogg opened it, and asked, "What's the matter, Passepartout?" "What is it, sir? Why, I've just this instant found out--" "What?" "That we might have made the tour of the world in only seventy-eight days." "No doubt," returned Mr. Fogg, "by not crossing India. But if I had not crossed India, I should not have saved Aouda; she would not have been my wife, and--" Mr. Fogg quietly shut the door. Phileas Fogg had won his wager, and had made his journey around the world in eighty days. To do this he had employed every means of conveyance--steamers, railways, carriages, yachts, trading-vessels, sledges, elephants. The eccentric gentleman had throughout displayed all his marvellous qualities of coolness and exactitude. But what then? What had he really gained by all this trouble? What had he brought back from this long and weary journey? Nothing, say you? Perhaps so; nothing but a charming woman, who, strange as it may appear, made him the happiest of men! Truly, would you not for less than that make the tour around the world? Können Sie eine passende Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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

Während er zum nächsten Prediger rennt, erfährt Passepartout, dass es tatsächlich Sonntag ist, nicht Montag, wie die Gruppe geglaubt hat. Durch die Reise in östlicher Richtung um die Welt hat Phileas Fogg, Meisterrechner und obsessiver Organisator, die Zeit vergessen, die er durch das Durchqueren all dieser Zeitzonen gewonnen hat. Die Gruppe ist tatsächlich zwei Tage zu früh angekommen. Passepartout rennt nach Hause, packt Phileas am Kragen, drängt ihn in ein Taxi und bringt ihn zum Club. Phileas stellt sich rechtzeitig vor und gewinnt den Wetteinsatz effektiv. Er ist wieder reich, aber noch wichtiger ist, dass er das Herz einer "charmanten" Frau gewonnen hat.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: To begin with, he did not know how he could pay Monsieur Homais for all the physic supplied by him, and though, as a medical man, he was not obliged to pay for it, he nevertheless blushed a little at such an obligation. Then the expenses of the household, now that the servant was mistress, became terrible. Bills rained in upon the house; the tradesmen grumbled; Monsieur Lheureux especially harassed him. In fact, at the height of Emma's illness, the latter, taking advantage of the circumstances to make his bill larger, had hurriedly brought the cloak, the travelling-bag, two trunks instead of one, and a number of other things. It was very well for Charles to say he did not want them. The tradesman answered arrogantly that these articles had been ordered, and that he would not take them back; besides, it would vex madame in her convalescence; the doctor had better think it over; in short, he was resolved to sue him rather than give up his rights and take back his goods. Charles subsequently ordered them to be sent back to the shop. Felicite forgot; he had other things to attend to; then thought no more about them. Monsieur Lheureux returned to the charge, and, by turns threatening and whining, so managed that Bovary ended by signing a bill at six months. But hardly had he signed this bill than a bold idea occurred to him: it was to borrow a thousand francs from Lheureux. So, with an embarrassed air, he asked if it were possible to get them, adding that it would be for a year, at any interest he wished. Lheureux ran off to his shop, brought back the money, and dictated another bill, by which Bovary undertook to pay to his order on the 1st of September next the sum of one thousand and seventy francs, which, with the hundred and eighty already agreed to, made just twelve hundred and fifty, thus lending at six per cent in addition to one-fourth for commission: and the things bringing him in a good third at the least, this ought in twelve months to give him a profit of a hundred and thirty francs. He hoped that the business would not stop there; that the bills would not be paid; that they would be renewed; and that his poor little money, having thriven at the doctor's as at a hospital, would come back to him one day considerably more plump, and fat enough to burst his bag. Everything, moreover, succeeded with him. He was adjudicator for a supply of cider to the hospital at Neufchatel; Monsieur Guillaumin promised him some shares in the turf-pits of Gaumesnil, and he dreamt of establishing a new diligence service between Arcueil and Rouen, which no doubt would not be long in ruining the ramshackle van of the "Lion d'Or," and that, travelling faster, at a cheaper rate, and carrying more luggage, would thus put into his hands the whole commerce of Yonville. Charles several times asked himself by what means he should next year be able to pay back so much money. He reflected, imagined expedients, such as applying to his father or selling something. But his father would be deaf, and he--he had nothing to sell. Then he foresaw such worries that he quickly dismissed so disagreeable a subject of meditation from his mind. He reproached himself with forgetting Emma, as if, all his thoughts belonging to this woman, it was robbing her of something not to be constantly thinking of her. The winter was severe, Madame Bovary's convalescence slow. When it was fine they wheeled her arm-chair to the window that overlooked the square, for she now had an antipathy to the garden, and the blinds on that side were always down. She wished the horse to be sold; what she formerly liked now displeased her. All her ideas seemed to be limited to the care of herself. She stayed in bed taking little meals, rang for the servant to inquire about her gruel or to chat with her. The snow on the market-roof threw a white, still light into the room; then the rain began to fall; and Emma waited daily with a mind full of eagerness for the inevitable return of some trifling events which nevertheless had no relation to her. The most important was the arrival of the "Hirondelle" in the evening. Then the landlady shouted out, and other voices answered, while Hippolyte's lantern, as he fetched the boxes from the boot, was like a star in the darkness. At mid-day Charles came in; then he went out again; next she took some beef-tea, and towards five o'clock, as the day drew in, the children coming back from school, dragging their wooden shoes along the pavement, knocked the clapper of the shutters with their rulers one after the other. It was at this hour that Monsieur Bournisien came to see her. He inquired after her health, gave her news, exhorted her to religion, in a coaxing little prattle that was not without its charm. The mere thought of his cassock comforted her. One day, when at the height of her illness, she had thought herself dying, and had asked for the communion; and, while they were making the preparations in her room for the sacrament, while they were turning the night table covered with syrups into an altar, and while Felicite was strewing dahlia flowers on the floor, Emma felt some power passing over her that freed her from her pains, from all perception, from all feeling. Her body, relieved, no longer thought; another life was beginning; it seemed to her that her being, mounting toward God, would be annihilated in that love like a burning incense that melts into vapour. The bed-clothes were sprinkled with holy water, the priest drew from the holy pyx the white wafer; and it was fainting with a celestial joy that she put out her lips to accept the body of the Saviour presented to her. The curtains of the alcove floated gently round her like clouds, and the rays of the two tapers burning on the night-table seemed to shine like dazzling halos. Then she let her head fall back, fancying she heard in space the music of seraphic harps, and perceived in an azure sky, on a golden throne in the midst of saints holding green palms, God the Father, resplendent with majesty, who with a sign sent to earth angels with wings of fire to carry her away in their arms. This splendid vision dwelt in her memory as the most beautiful thing that it was possible to dream, so that now she strove to recall her sensation. That still lasted, however, but in a less exclusive fashion and with a deeper sweetness. Her soul, tortured by pride, at length found rest in Christian humility, and, tasting the joy of weakness, she saw within herself the destruction of her will, that must have left a wide entrance for the inroads of heavenly grace. There existed, then, in the place of happiness, still greater joys--another love beyond all loves, without pause and without end, one that would grow eternally! She saw amid the illusions of her hope a state of purity floating above the earth mingling with heaven, to which she aspired. She wanted to become a saint. She bought chaplets and wore amulets; she wished to have in her room, by the side of her bed, a reliquary set in emeralds that she might kiss it every evening. The cure marvelled at this humour, although Emma's religion, he thought, might, from its fervour, end by touching on heresy, extravagance. But not being much versed in these matters, as soon as they went beyond a certain limit he wrote to Monsieur Boulard, bookseller to Monsignor, to send him "something good for a lady who was very clever." The bookseller, with as much indifference as if he had been sending off hardware to niggers, packed up, pellmell, everything that was then the fashion in the pious book trade. There were little manuals in questions and answers, pamphlets of aggressive tone after the manner of Monsieur de Maistre, and certain novels in rose-coloured bindings and with a honied style, manufactured by troubadour seminarists or penitent blue-stockings. There were the "Think of it; the Man of the World at Mary's Feet, by Monsieur de ***, decorated with many Orders"; "The Errors of Voltaire, for the Use of the Young," etc. Madame Bovary's mind was not yet sufficiently clear to apply herself seriously to anything; moreover, she began this reading in too much hurry. She grew provoked at the doctrines of religion; the arrogance of the polemic writings displeased her by their inveteracy in attacking people she did not know; and the secular stories, relieved with religion, seemed to her written in such ignorance of the world, that they insensibly estranged her from the truths for whose proof she was looking. Nevertheless, she persevered; and when the volume slipped from her hands, she fancied herself seized with the finest Catholic melancholy that an ethereal soul could conceive. As for the memory of Rodolphe, she had thrust it back to the bottom of her heart, and it remained there more solemn and more motionless than a king's mummy in a catacomb. An exhalation escaped from this embalmed love, that, penetrating through everything, perfumed with tenderness the immaculate atmosphere in which she longed to live. When she knelt on her Gothic prie-Dieu, she addressed to the Lord the same suave words that she had murmured formerly to her lover in the outpourings of adultery. It was to make faith come; but no delights descended from the heavens, and she arose with tired limbs and with a vague feeling of a gigantic dupery. This searching after faith, she thought, was only one merit the more, and in the pride of her devoutness Emma compared herself to those grand ladies of long ago whose glory she had dreamed of over a portrait of La Valliere, and who, trailing with so much majesty the lace-trimmed trains of their long gowns, retired into solitudes to shed at the feet of Christ all the tears of hearts that life had wounded. Then she gave herself up to excessive charity. She sewed clothes for the poor, she sent wood to women in childbed; and Charles one day, on coming home, found three good-for-nothings in the kitchen seated at the table eating soup. She had her little girl, whom during her illness her husband had sent back to the nurse, brought home. She wanted to teach her to read; even when Berthe cried, she was not vexed. She had made up her mind to resignation, to universal indulgence. Her language about everything was full of ideal expressions. She said to her child, "Is your stomach-ache better, my angel?" Madame Bovary senior found nothing to censure except perhaps this mania of knitting jackets for orphans instead of mending her own house-linen; but, harassed with domestic quarrels, the good woman took pleasure in this quiet house, and she even stayed there till after Easter, to escape the sarcasms of old Bovary, who never failed on Good Friday to order chitterlings. Besides the companionship of her mother-in-law, who strengthened her a little by the rectitude of her judgment and her grave ways, Emma almost every day had other visitors. These were Madame Langlois, Madame Caron, Madame Dubreuil, Madame Tuvache, and regularly from two to five o'clock the excellent Madame Homais, who, for her part, had never believed any of the tittle-tattle about her neighbour. The little Homais also came to see her; Justin accompanied them. He went up with them to her bedroom, and remained standing near the door, motionless and mute. Often even Madame Bovary; taking no heed of him, began her toilette. She began by taking out her comb, shaking her head with a quick movement, and when he for the first time saw all this mass of hair that fell to her knees unrolling in black ringlets, it was to him, poor child! like a sudden entrance into something new and strange, whose splendour terrified him. Emma, no doubt, did not notice his silent attentions or his timidity. She had no suspicion that the love vanished from her life was there, palpitating by her side, beneath that coarse holland shirt, in that youthful heart open to the emanations of her beauty. Besides, she now enveloped all things with such indifference, she had words so affectionate with looks so haughty, such contradictory ways, that one could no longer distinguish egotism from charity, or corruption from virtue. One evening, for example, she was angry with the servant, who had asked to go out, and stammered as she tried to find some pretext. Then suddenly-- "So you love him?" she said. And without waiting for any answer from Felicite, who was blushing, she added, "There! run along; enjoy yourself!" In the beginning of spring she had the garden turned up from end to end, despite Bovary's remonstrances. However, he was glad to see her at last manifest a wish of any kind. As she grew stronger she displayed more wilfulness. First, she found occasion to expel Mere Rollet, the nurse, who during her convalescence had contracted the habit of coming too often to the kitchen with her two nurslings and her boarder, better off for teeth than a cannibal. Then she got rid of the Homais family, successively dismissed all the other visitors, and even frequented church less assiduously, to the great approval of the druggist, who said to her in a friendly way-- "You were going in a bit for the cassock!" As formerly, Monsieur Bournisien dropped in every day when he came out after catechism class. He preferred staying out of doors to taking the air "in the grove," as he called the arbour. This was the time when Charles came home. They were hot; some sweet cider was brought out, and they drank together to madame's complete restoration. Binet was there; that is to say, a little lower down against the terrace wall, fishing for crayfish. Bovary invited him to have a drink, and he thoroughly understood the uncorking of the stone bottles. "You must," he said, throwing a satisfied glance all round him, even to the very extremity of the landscape, "hold the bottle perpendicularly on the table, and after the strings are cut, press up the cork with little thrusts, gently, gently, as indeed they do seltzer-water at restaurants." But during his demonstration the cider often spurted right into their faces, and then the ecclesiastic, with a thick laugh, never missed this joke-- "Its goodness strikes the eye!" He was, in fact, a good fellow and one day he was not even scandalised at the chemist, who advised Charles to give madame some distraction by taking her to the theatre at Rouen to hear the illustrious tenor, Lagardy. Homais, surprised at this silence, wanted to know his opinion, and the priest declared that he considered music less dangerous for morals than literature. But the chemist took up the defence of letters. The theatre, he contended, served for railing at prejudices, and, beneath a mask of pleasure, taught virtue. "'Castigat ridendo mores,'* Monsieur Bournisien! Thus consider the greater part of Voltaire's tragedies; they are cleverly strewn with philosophical reflections, that made them a vast school of morals and diplomacy for the people." *It corrects customs through laughter. "I," said Binet, "once saw a piece called the 'Gamin de Paris,' in which there was the character of an old general that is really hit off to a T. He sets down a young swell who had seduced a working girl, who at the ending--" "Certainly," continued Homais, "there is bad literature as there is bad pharmacy, but to condemn in a lump the most important of the fine arts seems to me a stupidity, a Gothic idea, worthy of the abominable times that imprisoned Galileo." "I know very well," objected the cure, "that there are good works, good authors. However, if it were only those persons of different sexes united in a bewitching apartment, decorated rouge, those lights, those effeminate voices, all this must, in the long-run, engender a certain mental libertinage, give rise to immodest thoughts and impure temptations. Such, at any rate, is the opinion of all the Fathers. Finally," he added, suddenly assuming a mystic tone of voice while he rolled a pinch of snuff between his fingers, "if the Church has condemned the theatre, she must be right; we must submit to her decrees." "Why," asked the druggist, "should she excommunicate actors? For formerly they openly took part in religious ceremonies. Yes, in the middle of the chancel they acted; they performed a kind of farce called 'Mysteries,' which often offended against the laws of decency." The ecclesiastic contented himself with uttering a groan, and the chemist went on-- "It's like it is in the Bible; there there are, you know, more than one piquant detail, matters really libidinous!" And on a gesture of irritation from Monsieur Bournisien-- "Ah! you'll admit that it is not a book to place in the hands of a young girl, and I should be sorry if Athalie--" "But it is the Protestants, and not we," cried the other impatiently, "who recommend the Bible." "No matter," said Homais. "I am surprised that in our days, in this century of enlightenment, anyone should still persist in proscribing an intellectual relaxation that is inoffensive, moralising, and sometimes even hygienic; is it not, doctor?" "No doubt," replied the doctor carelessly, either because, sharing the same ideas, he wished to offend no one, or else because he had not any ideas. The conversation seemed at an end when the chemist thought fit to shoot a Parthian arrow. "I've known priests who put on ordinary clothes to go and see dancers kicking about." "Come, come!" said the cure. "Ah! I've known some!" And separating the words of his sentence, Homais repeated, "I--have--known--some!" "Well, they were wrong," said Bournisien, resigned to anything. "By Jove! they go in for more than that," exclaimed the druggist. "Sir!" replied the ecclesiastic, with such angry eyes that the druggist was intimidated by them. "I only mean to say," he replied in less brutal a tone, "that toleration is the surest way to draw people to religion." "That is true! that is true!" agreed the good fellow, sitting down again on his chair. But he stayed only a few moments. Then, as soon as he had gone, Monsieur Homais said to the doctor-- "That's what I call a cock-fight. I beat him, did you see, in a way!--Now take my advice. Take madame to the theatre, if it were only for once in your life, to enrage one of these ravens, hang it! If anyone could take my place, I would accompany you myself. Be quick about it. Lagardy is only going to give one performance; he's engaged to go to England at a high salary. From what I hear, he's a regular dog; he's rolling in money; he's taking three mistresses and a cook along with him. All these great artists burn the candle at both ends; they require a dissolute life, that suits the imagination to some extent. But they die at the hospital, because they haven't the sense when young to lay by. Well, a pleasant dinner! Goodbye till to-morrow." The idea of the theatre quickly germinated in Bovary's head, for he at once communicated it to his wife, who at first refused, alleging the fatigue, the worry, the expense; but, for a wonder, Charles did not give in, so sure was he that this recreation would be good for her. He saw nothing to prevent it: his mother had sent them three hundred francs which he had no longer expected; the current debts were not very large, and the falling in of Lheureux's bills was still so far off that there was no need to think about them. Besides, imagining that she was refusing from delicacy, he insisted the more; so that by dint of worrying her she at last made up her mind, and the next day at eight o'clock they set out in the "Hirondelle." The druggist, whom nothing whatever kept at Yonville, but who thought himself bound not to budge from it, sighed as he saw them go. "Well, a pleasant journey!" he said to them; "happy mortals that you are!" Then addressing himself to Emma, who was wearing a blue silk gown with four flounces-- "You are as lovely as a Venus. You'll cut a figure at Rouen." The diligence stopped at the "Croix-Rouge" in the Place Beauvoisine. It was the inn that is in every provincial faubourg, with large stables and small bedrooms, where one sees in the middle of the court chickens pilfering the oats under the muddy gigs of the commercial travellers--a good old house, with worm-eaten balconies that creak in the wind on winter nights, always full of people, noise, and feeding, whose black tables are sticky with coffee and brandy, the thick windows made yellow by the flies, the damp napkins stained with cheap wine, and that always smells of the village, like ploughboys dressed in Sundayclothes, has a cafe on the street, and towards the countryside a kitchen-garden. Charles at once set out. He muddled up the stage-boxes with the gallery, the pit with the boxes; asked for explanations, did not understand them; was sent from the box-office to the acting-manager; came back to the inn, returned to the theatre, and thus several times traversed the whole length of the town from the theatre to the boulevard. Madame Bovary bought a bonnet, gloves, and a bouquet. The doctor was much afraid of missing the beginning, and, without having had time to swallow a plate of soup, they presented themselves at the doors of the theatre, which were still closed. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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Nicht nur hat Charles seine Praxis vernachlässigt, sondern er ist Monsieur Homais auch tief verschuldet für Emmas Medizin. Zusätzlich hat Flicit in ihrer Rolle als Hausmätresse übertrieben ausgegeben. Monsieur Lheureux besteht besonders darauf, bezahlt zu werden und bringt während Emmas Krankheit den bestellten Mantel und die Taschen. Schließlich überredet er Charles, einen sechsmonatigen Schuldschein zu unterschreiben, den er durch ein Darlehen von tausend Francs mit sechs Prozent Zinsen, fällig in einem Jahr, noch verschlimmert. Lheureux Glück verbessert sich während dieser Zeit und er freut sich darauf, den Bovarys jeden Franc auszusaugen. Obwohl Charles verzweifelt darüber ist, dass er eine so große Summe in einem Jahr aufbringen muss, verbringt er den harten Winter damit, sich um seine kranke Frau zu kümmern. Emmas Genesung verläuft langsam und sie fügt sich in eine monotone Routine ein. Während des Höhepunkts ihrer Krankheit lädt sie den Priester zur Beichte ein und erlebt eine prächtige Vision Gottes. Sie ist verzaubert von religiösen Symbolen und wünscht sich ein mit Smaragden besetztes Reliquiar. Der Abt Bournisien freut sich über ihre neue Frömmigkeit, fürchtet jedoch, dass ihre Leidenschaft an Häresie grenzt. Er bestellt eine Auswahl an Büchern, einschließlich einiger religiöser Romane, die Emma zwar liest, jedoch keinen Bezug zu den Leidenschaften der realen Welt findet. Sie ist überzeugt, dass "ihr Katholizismus die exquisiteste Melancholie ist, die jemals in eine ethere Seele eingedrungen ist". Sie vergräbt die Erinnerung an Rodolphe tief in sich, obwohl sie alles, was sie tut, besonders ihre religiöse Begeisterung, beeinflusst. Sie wird übermäßig karitativ. Charles' Mutter kommt für einen längeren Besuch und ist erfreut über die Veränderungen bei ihrer Schwiegertochter. Emma hat viele andere Besucher, darunter die Kinder von Homais und Justin, der eines Tages, als er sie ihr Haar kämmen sieht, von neuen und wunderbaren Gefühlen überwältigt wird. In diesem Frühling kommt der Abt jeden Nachmittag auf einen Cidre bei Charles vorbei, manchmal begleitet von Binet im Laubengang. Eines Tages schlägt Homais vor, dass Charles Emma in das Opernhaus in Rouen mitnimmt, um die berühmte Sängerin Lagardy zu hören. Zur Überraschung des Apothekers hat der Abt nichts gegen den Vorschlag einzuwenden, was eine hitzige Debatte darüber auslöst, ob Musik oder Drama von der Kirche als sündiger angesehen wird. Bovary ist von der Idee der Oper begeistert und überzeugt Emma, dass sie hingehen sollten. Also machen sie sich an dem vereinbarten Tag auf den Weg nach Rouen, wo Charles ein günstiges Hotel arrangiert hat. Er macht sich sofort auf den Weg, um die Tickets zu besorgen, wird von der Sitzordnung verwirrt und ist schließlich so nervös, dass, als sie ankommen, die Theaterpforten noch nicht geöffnet sind.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: CHAPTER XXI I GRAY steel that seems unmoving because it spins so fast in the balanced fly-wheel, gray snow in an avenue of elms, gray dawn with the sun behind it--this was the gray of Vida Sherwin's life at thirty-six. She was small and active and sallow; her yellow hair was faded, and looked dry; her blue silk blouses and modest lace collars and high black shoes and sailor hats were as literal and uncharming as a schoolroom desk; but her eyes determined her appearance, revealed her as a personage and a force, indicated her faith in the goodness and purpose of everything. They were blue, and they were never still; they expressed amusement, pity, enthusiasm. If she had been seen in sleep, with the wrinkles beside her eyes stilled and the creased lids hiding the radiant irises, she would have lost her potency. She was born in a hill-smothered Wisconsin village where her father was a prosy minister; she labored through a sanctimonious college; she taught for two years in an iron-range town of blurry-faced Tatars and Montenegrins, and wastes of ore, and when she came to Gopher Prairie, its trees and the shining spaciousness of the wheat prairie made her certain that she was in paradise. She admitted to her fellow-teachers that the schoolbuilding was slightly damp, but she insisted that the rooms were "arranged so conveniently--and then that bust of President McKinley at the head of the stairs, it's a lovely art-work, and isn't it an inspiration to have the brave, honest, martyr president to think about!" She taught French, English, and history, and the Sophomore Latin class, which dealt in matters of a metaphysical nature called Indirect Discourse and the Ablative Absolute. Each year she was reconvinced that the pupils were beginning to learn more quickly. She spent four winters in building up the Debating Society, and when the debate really was lively one Friday afternoon, and the speakers of pieces did not forget their lines, she felt rewarded. She lived an engrossed useful life, and seemed as cool and simple as an apple. But secretly she was creeping among fears, longing, and guilt. She knew what it was, but she dared not name it. She hated even the sound of the word "sex." When she dreamed of being a woman of the harem, with great white warm limbs, she awoke to shudder, defenseless in the dusk of her room. She prayed to Jesus, always to the Son of God, offering him the terrible power of her adoration, addressing him as the eternal lover, growing passionate, exalted, large, as she contemplated his splendor. Thus she mounted to endurance and surcease. By day, rattling about in many activities, she was able to ridicule her blazing nights of darkness. With spurious cheerfulness she announced everywhere, "I guess I'm a born spinster," and "No one will ever marry a plain schoolma'am like me," and "You men, great big noisy bothersome creatures, we women wouldn't have you round the place, dirtying up nice clean rooms, if it wasn't that you have to be petted and guided. We just ought to say 'Scat!' to all of you!" But when a man held her close at a dance, even when "Professor" George Edwin Mott patted her hand paternally as they considered the naughtinesses of Cy Bogart, she quivered, and reflected how superior she was to have kept her virginity. In the autumn of 1911, a year before Dr. Will Kennicott was married, Vida was his partner at a five-hundred tournament. She was thirty-four then; Kennicott about thirty-six. To her he was a superb, boyish, diverting creature; all the heroic qualities in a manly magnificent body. They had been helping the hostess to serve the Waldorf salad and coffee and gingerbread. They were in the kitchen, side by side on a bench, while the others ponderously supped in the room beyond. Kennicott was masculine and experimental. He stroked Vida's hand, he put his arm carelessly about her shoulder. "Don't!" she said sharply. "You're a cunning thing," he offered, patting the back of her shoulder in an exploratory manner. While she strained away, she longed to move nearer to him. He bent over, looked at her knowingly. She glanced down at his left hand as it touched her knee. She sprang up, started noisily and needlessly to wash the dishes. He helped her. He was too lazy to adventure further--and too used to women in his profession. She was grateful for the impersonality of his talk. It enabled her to gain control. She knew that she had skirted wild thoughts. A month after, on a sleighing-party, under the buffalo robes in the bob-sled, he whispered, "You pretend to be a grown-up schoolteacher, but you're nothing but a kiddie." His arm was about her. She resisted. "Don't you like the poor lonely bachelor?" he yammered in a fatuous way. "No, I don't! You don't care for me in the least. You're just practising on me." "You're so mean! I'm terribly fond of you." "I'm not of you. And I'm not going to let myself be fond of you, either." He persistently drew her toward him. She clutched his arm. Then she threw off the robe, climbed out of the sled, raced after it with Harry Haydock. At the dance which followed the sleigh-ride Kennicott was devoted to the watery prettiness of Maud Dyer, and Vida was noisily interested in getting up a Virginia Reel. Without seeming to watch Kennicott, she knew that he did not once look at her. That was all of her first love-affair. He gave no sign of remembering that he was "terribly fond." She waited for him; she reveled in longing, and in a sense of guilt because she longed. She told herself that she did not want part of him; unless he gave her all his devotion she would never let him touch her; and when she found that she was probably lying, she burned with scorn. She fought it out in prayer. She knelt in a pink flannel nightgown, her thin hair down her back, her forehead as full of horror as a mask of tragedy, while she identified her love for the Son of God with her love for a mortal, and wondered if any other woman had ever been so sacrilegious. She wanted to be a nun and observe perpetual adoration. She bought a rosary, but she had been so bitterly reared as a Protestant that she could not bring herself to use it. Yet none of her intimates in the school and in the boarding-house knew of her abyss of passion. They said she was "so optimistic." When she heard that Kennicott was to marry a girl, pretty, young, and imposingly from the Cities, Vida despaired. She congratulated Kennicott; carelessly ascertained from him the hour of marriage. At that hour, sitting in her room, Vida pictured the wedding in St. Paul. Full of an ecstasy which horrified her, she followed Kennicott and the girl who had stolen her place, followed them to the train, through the evening, the night. She was relieved when she had worked out a belief that she wasn't really shameful, that there was a mystical relation between herself and Carol, so that she was vicariously yet veritably with Kennicott, and had the right to be. She saw Carol during the first five minutes in Gopher Prairie. She stared at the passing motor, at Kennicott and the girl beside him. In that fog world of transference of emotion Vida had no normal jealousy but a conviction that, since through Carol she had received Kennicott's love, then Carol was a part of her, an astral self, a heightened and more beloved self. She was glad of the girl's charm, of the smooth black hair, the airy head and young shoulders. But she was suddenly angry. Carol glanced at her for a quarter-second, but looked past her, at an old roadside barn. If she had made the great sacrifice, at least she expected gratitude and recognition, Vida raged, while her conscious schoolroom mind fussily begged her to control this insanity. During her first call half of her wanted to welcome a fellow reader of books; the other half itched to find out whether Carol knew anything about Kennicott's former interest in herself. She discovered that Carol was not aware that he had ever touched another woman's hand. Carol was an amusing, naive, curiously learned child. While Vida was most actively describing the glories of the Thanatopsis, and complimenting this librarian on her training as a worker, she was fancying that this girl was the child born of herself and Kennicott; and out of that symbolizing she had a comfort she had not known for months. When she came home, after supper with the Kennicotts and Guy Pollock, she had a sudden and rather pleasant backsliding from devotion. She bustled into her room, she slammed her hat on the bed, and chattered, "I don't CARE! I'm a lot like her--except a few years older. I'm light and quick, too, and I can talk just as well as she can, and I'm sure----Men are such fools. I'd be ten times as sweet to make love to as that dreamy baby. And I AM as good-looking!" But as she sat on the bed and stared at her thin thighs, defiance oozed away. She mourned: "No. I'm not. Dear God, how we fool ourselves! I pretend I'm 'spiritual.' I pretend my legs are graceful. They aren't. They're skinny. Old-maidish. I hate it! I hate that impertinent young woman! A selfish cat, taking his love for granted. . . . No, she's adorable. . . . I don't think she ought to be so friendly with Guy Pollock." For a year Vida loved Carol, longed to and did not pry into the details of her relations with Kennicott, enjoyed her spirit of play as expressed in childish tea-parties, and, with the mystic bond between them forgotten, was healthily vexed by Carol's assumption that she was a sociological messiah come to save Gopher Prairie. This last facet of Vida's thought was the one which, after a year, was most often turned to the light. In a testy way she brooded, "These people that want to change everything all of a sudden without doing any work, make me tired! Here I have to go and work for four years, picking out the pupils for debates, and drilling them, and nagging at them to get them to look up references, and begging them to choose their own subjects--four years, to get up a couple of good debates! And she comes rushing in, and expects in one year to change the whole town into a lollypop paradise with everybody stopping everything else to grow tulips and drink tea. And it's a comfy homey old town, too!" She had such an outburst after each of Carol's campaigns--for better Thanatopsis programs, for Shavian plays, for more human schools--but she never betrayed herself, and always she was penitent. Vida was, and always would be, a reformer, a liberal. She believed that details could excitingly be altered, but that things-in-general were comely and kind and immutable. Carol was, without understanding or accepting it, a revolutionist, a radical, and therefore possessed of "constructive ideas," which only the destroyer can have, since the reformer believes that all the essential constructing has already been done. After years of intimacy it was this unexpressed opposition more than the fancied loss of Kennicott's love which held Vida irritably fascinated. But the birth of Hugh revived the transcendental emotion. She was indignant that Carol should not be utterly fulfilled in having borne Kennicott's child. She admitted that Carol seemed to have affection and immaculate care for the baby, but she began to identify herself now with Kennicott, and in this phase to feel that she had endured quite too much from Carol's instability. She recalled certain other women who had come from the Outside and had not appreciated Gopher Prairie. She remembered the rector's wife who had been chilly to callers and who was rumored throughout the town to have said, "Re-ah-ly I cawn't endure this bucolic heartiness in the responses." The woman was positively known to have worn handkerchiefs in her bodice as padding--oh, the town had simply roared at her. Of course the rector and she were got rid of in a few months. Then there was the mysterious woman with the dyed hair and penciled eyebrows, who wore tight English dresses, like basques, who smelled of stale musk, who flirted with the men and got them to advance money for her expenses in a lawsuit, who laughed at Vida's reading at a school-entertainment, and went off owing a hotel-bill and the three hundred dollars she had borrowed. Vida insisted that she loved Carol, but with some satisfaction she compared her to these traducers of the town. II Vida had enjoyed Raymie Wutherspoon's singing in the Episcopal choir; she had thoroughly reviewed the weather with him at Methodist sociables and in the Bon Ton. But she did not really know him till she moved to Mrs. Gurrey's boarding-house. It was five years after her affair with Kennicott. She was thirty-nine, Raymie perhaps a year younger. She said to him, and sincerely, "My! You can do anything, with your brains and tact and that heavenly voice. You were so good in 'The Girl from Kankakee.' You made me feel terribly stupid. If you'd gone on the stage, I believe you'd be just as good as anybody in Minneapolis. But still, I'm not sorry you stuck to business. It's such a constructive career." "Do you really think so?" yearned Raymie, across the apple-sauce. It was the first time that either of them had found a dependable intellectual companionship. They looked down on Willis Woodford the bank-clerk, and his anxious babycentric wife, the silent Lyman Casses, the slangy traveling man, and the rest of Mrs. Gurrey's unenlightened guests. They sat opposite, and they sat late. They were exhilarated to find that they agreed in confession of faith: "People like Sam Clark and Harry Haydock aren't earnest about music and pictures and eloquent sermons and really refined movies, but then, on the other hand, people like Carol Kennicott put too much stress on all this art. Folks ought to appreciate lovely things, but just the same, they got to be practical and--they got to look at things in a practical way." Smiling, passing each other the pressed-glass pickle-dish, seeing Mrs. Gurrey's linty supper-cloth irradiated by the light of intimacy, Vida and Raymie talked about Carol's rose-colored turban, Carol's sweetness, Carol's new low shoes, Carol's erroneous theory that there was no need of strict discipline in school, Carol's amiability in the Bon Ton, Carol's flow of wild ideas, which, honestly, just simply made you nervous trying to keep track of them. About the lovely display of gents' shirts in the Bon Ton window as dressed by Raymie, about Raymie's offertory last Sunday, the fact that there weren't any of these new solos as nice as "Jerusalem the Golden," and the way Raymie stood up to Juanita Haydock when she came into the store and tried to run things and he as much as told her that she was so anxious to have folks think she was smart and bright that she said things she didn't mean, and anyway, Raymie was running the shoe-department, and if Juanita, or Harry either, didn't like the way he ran things, they could go get another man. About Vida's new jabot which made her look thirty-two (Vida's estimate) or twenty-two (Raymie's estimate), Vida's plan to have the high-school Debating Society give a playlet, and the difficulty of keeping the younger boys well behaved on the playground when a big lubber like Cy Bogart acted up so. About the picture post-card which Mrs. Dawson had sent to Mrs. Cass from Pasadena, showing roses growing right outdoors in February, the change in time on No. 4, the reckless way Dr. Gould always drove his auto, the reckless way almost all these people drove their autos, the fallacy of supposing that these socialists could carry on a government for as much as six months if they ever did have a chance to try out their theories, and the crazy way in which Carol jumped from subject to subject. Vida had once beheld Raymie as a thin man with spectacles, mournful drawn-out face, and colorless stiff hair. Now she noted that his jaw was square, that his long hands moved quickly and were bleached in a refined manner, and that his trusting eyes indicated that he had "led a clean life." She began to call him "Ray," and to bounce in defense of his unselfishness and thoughtfulness every time Juanita Haydock or Rita Gould giggled about him at the Jolly Seventeen. On a Sunday afternoon of late autumn they walked down to Lake Minniemashie. Ray said that he would like to see the ocean; it must be a grand sight; it must be much grander than a lake, even a great big lake. Vida had seen it, she stated modestly; she had seen it on a summer trip to Cape Cod. "Have you been clear to Cape Cod? Massachusetts? I knew you'd traveled, but I never realized you'd been that far!" Made taller and younger by his interest she poured out, "Oh my yes. It was a wonderful trip. So many points of interest through Massachusetts--historical. There's Lexington where we turned back the redcoats, and Longfellow's home at Cambridge, and Cape Cod--just everything--fishermen and whale-ships and sand-dunes and everything." She wished that she had a little cane to carry. He broke off a willow branch. "My, you're strong!" she said. "No, not very. I wish there was a Y. M. C. A. here, so I could take up regular exercise. I used to think I could do pretty good acrobatics, if I had a chance." "I'm sure you could. You're unusually lithe, for a large man." "Oh no, not so very. But I wish we had a Y. M. It would be dandy to have lectures and everything, and I'd like to take a class in improving the memory--I believe a fellow ought to go on educating himself and improving his mind even if he is in business, don't you, Vida--I guess I'm kind of fresh to call you 'Vida'!" "I've been calling you 'Ray' for weeks!" He wondered why she sounded tart. He helped her down the bank to the edge of the lake but dropped her hand abruptly, and as they sat on a willow log and he brushed her sleeve, he delicately moved over and murmured, "Oh, excuse me--accident." She stared at the mud-browned chilly water, the floating gray reeds. "You look so thoughtful," he said. She threw out her hands. "I am! Will you kindly tell me what's the use of--anything! Oh, don't mind me. I'm a moody old hen. Tell me about your plan for getting a partnership in the Bon Ton. I do think you're right: Harry Haydock and that mean old Simons ought to give you one." He hymned the old unhappy wars in which he had been Achilles and the mellifluous Nestor, yet gone his righteous ways unheeded by the cruel kings. . . . "Why, if I've told 'em once, I've told 'em a dozen times to get in a side-line of light-weight pants for gents' summer wear, and of course here they go and let a cheap kike like Rifkin beat them to it and grab the trade right off 'em, and then Harry said--you know how Harry is, maybe he don't mean to be grouchy, but he's such a sore-head----" He gave her a hand to rise. "If you don't MIND. I think a fellow is awful if a lady goes on a walk with him and she can't trust him and he tries to flirt with her and all." "I'm sure you're highly trustworthy!" she snapped, and she sprang up without his aid. Then, smiling excessively, "Uh--don't you think Carol sometimes fails to appreciate Dr. Will's ability?" III Ray habitually asked her about his window-trimming, the display of the new shoes, the best music for the entertainment at the Eastern Star, and (though he was recognized as a professional authority on what the town called "gents' furnishings") about his own clothes. She persuaded him not to wear the small bow ties which made him look like an elongated Sunday School scholar. Once she burst out: "Ray, I could shake you! Do you know you're too apologetic? You always appreciate other people too much. You fuss over Carol Kennicott when she has some crazy theory that we all ought to turn anarchists or live on figs and nuts or something. And you listen when Harry Haydock tries to show off and talk about turnovers and credits and things you know lots better than he does. Look folks in the eye! Glare at 'em! Talk deep! You're the smartest man in town, if you only knew it. You ARE!" He could not believe it. He kept coming back to her for confirmation. He practised glaring and talking deep, but he circuitously hinted to Vida that when he had tried to look Harry Haydock in the eye, Harry had inquired, "What's the matter with you, Raymie? Got a pain?" But afterward Harry had asked about Kantbeatum socks in a manner which, Ray felt, was somehow different from his former condescension. They were sitting on the squat yellow satin settee in the boarding-house parlor. As Ray reannounced that he simply wouldn't stand it many more years if Harry didn't give him a partnership, his gesticulating hand touched Vida's shoulders. "Oh, excuse me!" he pleaded. "It's all right. Well, I think I must be running up to my room. Headache," she said briefly. IV Ray and she had stopped in at Dyer's for a hot chocolate on their way home from the movies, that March evening. Vida speculated, "Do you know that I may not be here next year?" "What do you mean?" With her fragile narrow nails she smoothed the glass slab which formed the top of the round table at which they sat. She peeped through the glass at the perfume-boxes of black and gold and citron in the hollow table. She looked about at shelves of red rubber water-bottles, pale yellow sponges, wash-rags with blue borders, hair-brushes of polished cherry backs. She shook her head like a nervous medium coming out of a trance, stared at him unhappily, demanded: "Why should I stay here? And I must make up my mind. Now. Time to renew our teaching-contracts for next year. I think I'll go teach in some other town. Everybody here is tired of me. I might as well go. Before folks come out and SAY they're tired of me. I have to decide tonight. I might as well----Oh, no matter. Come. Let's skip. It's late." She sprang up, ignoring his wail of "Vida! Wait! Sit down! Gosh! I'm flabbergasted! Gee! Vida!" She marched out. While he was paying his check she got ahead. He ran after her, blubbering, "Vida! Wait!" In the shade of the lilacs in front of the Gougerling house he came up with her, stayed her flight by a hand on her shoulder. "Oh, don't! Don't! What does it matter?" she begged. She was sobbing, her soft wrinkly lids soaked with tears. "Who cares for my affection or help? I might as well drift on, forgotten. O Ray, please don't hold me. Let me go. I'll just decide not to renew my contract here, and--and drift--way off----" His hand was steady on her shoulder. She dropped her head, rubbed the back of his hand with her cheek. They were married in June. V They took the Ole Jenson house. "It's small," said Vida, "but it's got the dearest vegetable garden, and I love having time to get near to Nature for once." Though she became Vida Wutherspoon technically, and though she certainly had no ideals about the independence of keeping her name, she continued to be known as Vida Sherwin. She had resigned from the school, but she kept up one class in English. She bustled about on every committee of the Thanatopsis; she was always popping into the rest-room to make Mrs. Nodelquist sweep the floor; she was appointed to the library-board to succeed Carol; she taught the Senior Girls' Class in the Episcopal Sunday School, and tried to revive the King's Daughters. She exploded into self-confidence and happiness; her draining thoughts were by marriage turned into energy. She became daily and visibly more plump, and though she chattered as eagerly, she was less obviously admiring of marital bliss, less sentimental about babies, sharper in demanding that the entire town share her reforms--the purchase of a park, the compulsory cleaning of back-yards. She penned Harry Haydock at his desk in the Bon Ton; she interrupted his joking; she told him that it was Ray who had built up the shoe-department and men's department; she demanded that he be made a partner. Before Harry could answer she threatened that Ray and she would start a rival shop. "I'll clerk behind the counter myself, and a Certain Party is all ready to put up the money." She rather wondered who the Certain Party was. Ray was made a one-sixth partner. He became a glorified floor-walker, greeting the men with new poise, no longer coyly subservient to pretty women. When he was not affectionately coercing people into buying things they did not need, he stood at the back of the store, glowing, abstracted, feeling masculine as he recalled the tempestuous surprises of love revealed by Vida. The only remnant of Vida's identification of herself with Carol was a jealousy when she saw Kennicott and Ray together, and reflected that some people might suppose that Kennicott was his superior. She was sure that Carol thought so, and she wanted to shriek, "You needn't try to gloat! I wouldn't have your pokey old husband. He hasn't one single bit of Ray's spiritual nobility." Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben stehenden Absätze schreiben?

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

Im Alter von sechsunddreißig Jahren hatte Vida Sherwin die Hoffnung aufgegeben, jemals zu heiraten. Will Kennicott hatte vor seiner Begegnung mit Carol mit ihr geflirtet, aber sie hatte seine Absichten ahnen können und ihn abgewiesen, obwohl sie heimlich hoffte, dass er seine Avancen wieder aufnehmen würde. Nachdem Will Carol geheiratet hatte, liebte Vida sie wie eine Schwester und hasste sie als Konkurrentin. Sie empfand, dass Carol Will als selbstverständlich ansah. Als Vida ins Pensionat zog, entwickelte sie mit Raymie Wutherspoon eine enge Freundschaft, die sich zu einer zaghaften und ungesagten Romanze entwickelt. Vida ermutigt Raymie, für sich selbst einzustehen und von Harry Haydock, seinem Vorgesetzten im Bon Ton, mehr Verantwortung und Respekt einzufordern. Sie heiraten im Juni. Danach schikaniert Vida Harry Haydock, der Ray zum Partner macht. Vida ist insgeheim aufgebracht, als sie Ray und Will zusammen sieht und vermutet, dass die Leute Will ihrem Ehemann überlegen finden.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten 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)." Können Sie eine geeignete Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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

Weil das Monster ganz empfindsam ist und so, fängt es an zu realisieren, dass Felix auch total traurig ist. Bald kommt eine hübsche, fremde Frau in die Hütte. Felix wird munter. Alle anderen auch. Die Frau, Safie, spricht nicht die Sprache, die die anderen Leute in der Hütte sprechen, also unterrichten sie sie darin, was für das Monster praktisch ist - es belauscht ihre Unterrichtsstunden und lernt dadurch die Sprache ebenfalls. Es lernt auch lesen und erfährt von der Welt. Durch das Buch "Ruins of Empires", das Felix benutzt, um Safie zu unterrichten, erfährt er etwas über Geschichte. Diese Lese- und Bildungsmöglichkeit ist sowohl gut als auch schlecht; sie hilft ihm, die Welt zu verstehen, erinnert ihn aber auch daran, dass er nicht wirklich in der Welt teilnehmen kann. Er ist hässlich und anders und allein, und jetzt weiß er es wirklich.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Bitte geben Sie mir etwas Zeit und Beratung für meine Angelegenheit. Leider bin ich eine einsame und hoffnungslose Frau. Qu. Would I had neuer trod this English Earth, Or felt the Flatteries that grow vpon it: Ye haue Angels Faces; but Heauen knowes your hearts. What will become of me now, wretched Lady? I am the most vnhappy Woman liuing. Alas (poore Wenches) where are now your Fortunes? Shipwrack'd vpon a Kingdome, where no Pitty, No Friends, no Hope, no Kindred weepe for me? Almost no Graue allow'd me? Like the Lilly That once was Mistris of the Field, and flourish'd, Ile hang my head, and perish Car. If your Grace Could but be brought to know, our Ends are honest, Youl'd feele more comfort. Why shold we (good Lady) Vpon what cause wrong you? Alas, our Places, The way of our Profession is against it; We are to Cure such sorrowes, not to sowe 'em. For Goodnesse sake, consider what you do, How you may hurt your selfe: I, vtterly Grow from the Kings Acquaintance, by this Carriage. The hearts of Princes kisse Obedience, So much they loue it. But to stubborne Spirits, They swell and grow, as terrible as stormes. I know you haue a Gentle, Noble temper, A Soule as euen as a Calme; Pray thinke vs, Those we professe, Peace-makers, Friends, and Seruants Camp. Madam, you'l finde it so: You wrong your Vertues With these weake Womens feares. A Noble Spirit As yours was, put into you, euer casts Such doubts as false Coine from it. The King loues you, Beware you loose it not: For vs (if you please To trust vs in your businesse) we are ready To vse our vtmost Studies, in your seruice Qu. Do what ye will, my Lords: And pray forgiue me; If I haue vs'd my selfe vnmannerly, You know I am a Woman, lacking wit To make a seemely answer to such persons. Pray do my seruice to his Maiestie, He ha's my heart yet, and shall haue my Prayers While I shall haue my life. Come reuerend Fathers, Bestow your Councels on me. She now begges That little thought when she set footing heere, She should haue bought her Dignities so deere. Exeunt. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben stehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Die Königin und ihre Frauen sind am Arbeiten. Die Königin ist deprimiert und bittet eine ihrer Frauen zu singen in der Hoffnung, dass es ihre Stimmung aufhellt. Kardinal, Wolsey und Campeius kommen zur Königin und bieten ihr ihren Rat in ihrem Dienst an. Katherine vermutet ihre Motive und akzeptiert zuerst ihre bevorzugte Hilfe nicht. Sie erklärt sich selbst als freundlos in England und sagt, dass ihre einzige Verbündete in Spanien liegt. Campeius rät ihr, ihr Schicksal in die Hände des Königs zu legen und seinem Großzügigkeit zu vertrauen. Provokativ durch Campeius' Worte, befiehlt sie ihnen, ihre Gemächer zu verlassen. Nach vielen Anstrengungen überzeugen sie sie, dass sie ihr bestes Interesse im Herzen haben, und sie stimmt zu, ihren Rat bezüglich ihrer Scheidung anzunehmen.