by Jane Austen
Mr. Tilney seemed to be about four or five and twenty, was rather tall, had a pleasing countenance, a very intelligent and lively eye, and, if not quite handsome, was very near it. His address was good, and Catherine felt herself in high luck. There was little leisure for speaking while they danced (and the angels—being at least half a dozen in number, on each side, and talking all at once in both of Catherine’s ears—did present an inordinate aural challenge).
But when they were seated at tea, she found him as agreeable as she had already given him credit for being. He talked with fluency and spirit—and there was an archness and pleasantry in his manner which interested, though it was hardly understood by her.
“Be careful, oh, do be careful of this gentleman, dear child! You know nothing about him!” exclaimed one particularly noisome heavenly creature at some point, balancing on the handle end of a teaspoon, so that she had to press down the other end for balance or have it go flying across the room (and possibly into the eye of the dignified matron or any one of her three young daughters across the table).
“Shush! Enough!” said Catherine to the angel, whispering this admonition while moving her lips as little as possible. Then, bending forward, she pretended to blow on her tea.
Seeing Mr. Tilney’s bemused attention to her mutterings and movements, she hurried to amend: “That is, I mean, cough! Cough!” And she politely cleared her throat to reinforce her point. “Goodness, the tea is rather hot.”
But Mr. Tilney continued to observe her with an expression she could not fathom.
After chatting some time on such matters as naturally arose from the objects around them, he suddenly addressed her with—“I have hitherto been very remiss, madam, in the proper attentions of a partner here; I have not yet asked you how long you have been in Bath; whether you were ever here before; whether you have been at the Upper Rooms, the theatre, and the concert; and how you like the place altogether. I have been very negligent—but are you now at leisure to satisfy me in these particulars? If you are I will begin directly.”
“Tell him nothing!” exclaimed Clarence, or Terence.
“No indeed! you must remain very circumspect in what you say!” echoed Lawrence—or—or someone . . . Catherine was dearly annoyed at this point; she simply wanted to attend carefully to this pleasant gentleman.
“You need not give yourself that trouble, sir,” she therefore said, flatly ignoring the angelic clamor.
“No trouble, I assure you, madam.” Then forming his features into a set smile, and affectedly softening his voice, he added, with a simpering air, “Have you been long in Bath, madam?”
“About a week, sir,” replied Catherine, trying not to laugh.
“Really!” with affected astonishment.
“Why should you be surprised, sir?”
“Why, indeed!” said he, in his natural tone. “But some emotion must appear to be raised by your reply, and surprise is more easily assumed, and not less reasonable than any other. Now let us go on. Were you never here before, madam?”
“Never, sir.”
“Oh Catherine, you must not divulge—” But the angel was not allowed to finish, since our heroine’s fingers moved a carafe of cream to block his/her/its view and simultaneously just slightly shove him out of the way.
“Indeed! Have you yet honoured the Upper Rooms?” continued Mr. Tilney.
“Yes, sir, I was there last Monday.”
“Have you been to the theatre?”
“No, she has not!”
“Yes, sir, I was at the play on Tuesday.”
“To the concert?”
“Yes, sir, on Wednesday.”
“And are you altogether pleased with Bath?”
“Yes—I like it very well.”
“Fie! No, she does not!”
“Now I must give one smirk, and then we may be rational again,” said Mr. Tilney.
Catherine turned away her head, not knowing whether she might venture to laugh, and also because she was widening her eyes very fiercely at one particular tiny figure of divine light that was leaping with animation and soon likely to topple into her teacup.
“I see what you think of me,” said the gentleman gravely—”I shall make but a poor figure in your journal tomorrow.”
“My journal!”
“Yes, I know exactly what you will say: Friday, went to the Lower Rooms; wore my sprigged muslin robe with blue trimmings—plain black shoes—appeared to much advantage; but was strangely harassed by a queer, half-witted man, who would make me dance with him, and distressed me by his nonsense.”
“Indeed I shall say no such thing,” said Catherine, thankful he knew hardly anything really about the true extent of nonsense or oddity a person could harbor, else he would not be referring thus to himself. . . .
“Shall I tell you what you ought to say?”
“If you please.”
“I danced with a very agreeable young man, introduced by Mr. King; had a great deal of conversation with him—seems a most extraordinary genius—hope I may know more of him. That, madam, is what I wish you to say.”
“But, perhaps, I keep no journal.”
“Perhaps you are balancing an angel on your shoulder”—(Catherine nearly choked)—“while I have the coiled tail of a serpent around mine—equally doubtful. Not keep a journal! How are your absent cousins to understand the tenour of your life in Bath without one? How are the civilities and compliments of every day to be related, unless noted down every evening in a journal? The various dresses to be remembered, the particular state of your complexion, the curl of your hair? My dear madam, I am not so ignorant of young ladies’ ways as you wish to believe me; it is this delightful habit of journaling which largely contributes to form the easy style of writing for which ladies are so generally celebrated. The talent of writing agreeable letters is peculiarly female. Nature may have done something, but I am sure it must be essentially assisted by the practice of keeping a journal.”
“Well! He is, mayhap, not such a fiendish fellow after all,” whispered Terence, or possibly Clarence. “Dangerous in his own way? Undoubtedly: anyone who ponders the craft of writing must somehow wield the potential, in the least, if not the secret power itself, to change the world. But malicious? Not this one. Dear child, we declare him to be a suitable companion . . .”
But our heroine never heard this advantageous analysis, so engrossed she was in the conversation of the moment.
“I have sometimes thought,” said Catherine, doubtingly, “whether ladies do write so much better letters than gentlemen! That is—I should not think the superiority was always on our side.”
“As far as I have had opportunity of judging, it appears to me that the usual style of letter-writing among women is faultless, except in three particulars.”
“And what are they?”
“A general deficiency of subject, a total inattention to stops, and a very frequent ignorance of grammar.”
“Upon my word! I need not have been afraid of disclaiming the compliment. You do not think too highly of us in that way,” said Catherine, unwittingly focusing her gaze upon a trio of angels that settled upon Mr. Tilney’s jacket lapel like a corsage of heavenly light.
“I should no more lay it down as a general rule that women write better letters than men, than that they sing better duets, or draw better landscapes. In every power, of which taste is the foundation, excellence is pretty fairly divided between the sexes.”
Catherine was momentarily thankful Mr. Tilney had never seen her horrid scrawlings of stick figures and monstrous ducks, else he might form a different, less balanced opinion.
They were interrupted by Mrs. Allen: “My dear Catherine,” said she, “do take this pin out of my sleeve; I am afraid it has torn a hole already; I shall be quite sorry if it has, for this is a favourite gown, though it cost but nine shillings a yard.”
“That is exactly what I should have guessed it, madam,” said Mr. Tilney, looking at the muslin, while Catherine
fiddled with the pin in Mrs. Allen’s attire, finding not only a hole but an angel inadvertently entangled in it by a bit of thread, which had caused additional tearing and unraveling.
The angel exclaimed in dulcet tones, “Oh dear, oh dear!” as Catherine set it loose.
“Do you understand muslins, sir?” said Mrs. Allen meanwhile.
“Particularly well; I always buy my own cravats, and am allowed to be an excellent judge; and my sister has often trusted me in the choice of a gown. I bought one for her the other day, and it was pronounced to be a prodigious bargain by every lady who saw it. I gave but five shillings a yard for it, and a true Indian muslin.”
Mrs. Allen was quite struck by his genius. “Men commonly take so little notice of those things,” said she; “I can never get Mr. Allen to know one of my gowns from another. You must be a great comfort to your sister, sir.”
“I hope I am, madam.”
“And pray, sir, what do you think of Miss Morland’s gown?”
“It is very pretty, madam,” said he, gravely examining it; “but I do not think it will wash well; I am afraid it will fray.”
“How can you,” said Catherine, laughing, “be so—” She had almost said “strange,” then thought better of it, all things considered.
“I am quite of your opinion, sir,” replied Mrs. Allen; “and so I told Miss Morland when she bought it.”
“But then you know, madam, muslin always turns to some account or other; Miss Morland will get enough out of it for a handkerchief, or a cap, or a cloak. Muslin can never be said to be wasted. I have heard my sister say so forty times, when she has been extravagant in buying more than she wanted, or careless in cutting it to pieces.”
“Harrumph!” Catherine wanted to say, for no better reason than she felt she ought to—but held herself in check, due to the timely actions of an angel who lightly pinched her cheek before she could open her mouth and spoil the pleasantry.
Instead, it was Mrs. Allen who waxed eloquent: “Bath is a charming place, sir; there are so many good shops here. We are sadly off in the country; not but what we have very good shops in Salisbury, but it is so far to go—eight miles is a long way; Mr. Allen says it is nine, measured nine; but I am sure it cannot be more than eight; and it is such a fag[6]—I come back tired to death. Now, here one can step out of doors and get a thing in five minutes.”
Mr. Tilney was polite enough to seem interested in what she said; and she kept him on the subject of muslins till the dancing recommenced.
Catherine feared, as she listened to their discourse, that he indulged himself a little too much with the foibles of others.
“What are you thinking of so earnestly?” said he, as they walked back to the ballroom; “not of your partner, I hope, for, by that shake of the head, your meditations are not satisfactory.”
Catherine coloured, and said, “I was not thinking of anything.”
The angels never condoned her rare instances of uttering untruths; thus, it was a bit worrisome what they were likely to say—but for once Catherine was presented with complete angelic silence. Tiny glowing beings reposed on her sleeves, her shoulders, Mr. Tilney’s shoulders and lapels . . . and they simply regarded the two of them.
“That is artful and deep, to be sure; but I had rather be told at once that you will not tell me,” he persisted.
“Well then, I will not.”
“Thank you; for now we shall soon be acquainted, as I am authorized to tease you on this subject whenever we meet, and nothing in the world advances intimacy so much.”
They danced again, accompanied by a lovely whirling cloud of angels; and, when the assembly closed, parted, on the lady’s side at least, with a strong inclination for continuing the acquaintance.
Whether she thought of him so much, while she drank her warm wine and water, and prepared herself for bed, among the gentle whispers of her divine guardians, as to dream of him when there, cannot be ascertained. But I hope it was no more than in a slight slumber, or a morning doze at most.
For if it be true, as a celebrated writer has maintained, that no young lady can be justified in falling in love before the gentleman’s love is declared,[7] it must be very improper that a young lady should dream of a gentleman before the gentleman is first known to have dreamt of her.
How proper Mr. Tilney might be as a dreamer or a lover had not yet perhaps entered Mr. Allen’s head. But that Mr. Tilney was not objectionable as a common acquaintance for his young charge he was on inquiry satisfied. Indeed, early in the evening Mr. Allen had taken pains to know who her partner was, and had been assured of Mr. Tilney’s being a clergyman, and of a very respectable family in Gloucestershire.
However well that might be for Mr. Allen’s peace of mind, our heroine’s own was somewhat less secure. It is well known that pleasant twilight reveries are often followed by the coming of night and that which abides in it. And—dear Reader—in the darkness, dreams often turn to nightmares, just before the coming of the dance of thunder and lightning that accompanies heaven’s storm. . . .
Things were about to become very heroic indeed.
Chapter 4
With more than usual eagerness did Catherine hasten to the pump-room the next day, secure within herself of seeing Mr. Tilney there before the morning were over. She was ready to meet him with a smile; but no smile was demanded—Mr. Tilney did not appear.
Instead, every creature in Bath, except himself, was to be seen in the room at different periods of the fashionable hours. Crowds of people and their guardian angels of every hue and brightness were every moment passing in and out, up the steps and down, and hovering overhead (the angels naturally performed the hovering, not the people). These were persons whom nobody cared about, and nobody wanted to see—and he only was absent. Even the everpresent heavenly glow appeared somewhat dimmer than usual—indeed, the familiar presence of the tiny beings seemed rather tedious, as was their constancy of attending her.
“What a delightful place Bath is,” said Mrs. Allen (while Catherine was, in that moment, of another mind altogether) as they sat down near the great clock, after parading the room till they were tired; “and how pleasant it would be if we had any acquaintance here.”
This sentiment had been uttered so often in vain that Mrs. Allen had no particular reason to hope it would be followed with more advantage now. But the unwearied diligence with which she had every day wished for the same thing was at length to have its just reward.
For hardly had she been seated ten minutes, before a lady of about her own age, who was sitting by her, and had been looking at her attentively for several minutes, addressed her with great complaisance in these words: “I think, madam, I cannot be mistaken; it is a long time since I had the pleasure of seeing you, but is not your name Allen?”
This question answered, as it readily was, the stranger pronounced hers to be Thorpe; and Mrs. Allen immediately recognized the features of a former schoolfellow and intimate, whom she had seen only once since their respective marriages, and that many years ago.
Their joy on this meeting was very great, as well it might be, since they had been contented to know nothing of each other for the last fifteen years. Compliments on good looks now passed; and, after observing how time had slipped away since they were last together, how little they had thought of meeting in Bath, and what a pleasure it was to see an old friend, they proceeded to make inquiries and give intelligence as to their families, sisters, and cousins, talking both together, far more ready to give than to receive information, and each hearing very little of what the other said. Catherine was reminded just a tad of the occasional angelic habit of imparting too much information all at once.
Mrs. Thorpe, however, had one great advantage as a talker, over Mrs. Allen, in a family of children. When she expatiated on the talents of her sons, and the beauty of her daughters, when she related their different situations and views—that John was at Oxford, Edward at Merchant Taylors’, and William at sea—and all of them more
beloved and respected in their different station than any other three beings ever were, Mrs. Allen had no similar information and triumphs to give, and was forced to sit and appear to listen to all these maternal effusions. She consoled herself, however, with the discovery, which her keen eye soon made, that the lace on Mrs. Thorpe’s pelisse was not half so handsome as that on her own.
Catherine, sitting quietly, suddenly felt an odd difference in the atmosphere. It was as if the temperature plummeted a few degrees, and the brightness of the angels hovering about her head lost some of its luster.
“Here come my dear girls,” cried Mrs. Thorpe, pointing at three smart-looking females who, arm in arm, were then moving towards her. And as they drew near, there was a very subtle stillness that came with them.
An inexplicable stillness in the air.
“My dear Mrs. Allen, I long to introduce them; they will be so delighted to see you: the tallest is Isabella, my eldest; is not she a fine young woman? The others are very much admired too, but I believe Isabella is the handsomest.”
“Oh, Catherine! Beware! Beware!” came the usual angelic voices. But for some reason, it was as though they were receding in volume, or possibly coming from a great distance . . .
For whatever reason, Catherine could barely hear them, despite the fact that Clarence, or Terence, or Lawrence were all in great proximity, variously pulling at her earlobes, tweaking locks of her hair, and pinching her sleeves from all directions.
Indeed, it was rather easy to forget they were even there.
The Miss Thorpes were introduced; and Miss Morland, who had been for a short time forgotten (while she was engaged in her own peculiar manner of forgetting), was introduced likewise. The name seemed to strike them all. And, after speaking to her with great civility, the eldest young lady observed aloud to the rest, “How excessively like her brother Miss Morland is!”