against the next season. It is so d-- uncomfortable,
living at an inn."
This was the last
sentence by which he could weary
Catherine's attention, for he was just then borne off by the
resistless
pressure of a long string of passing ladies.
Her
partner now drew near, and said, "That gentleman would
have put me out of
patience, had he stayed with you half
a minute longer. He has no business to
withdraw the attention
of my
partner from me. We have entered into a contract
of
mutualagreeableness for the space of an evening,
and all our
agreeableness belongs
solely to each other
for that time. Nobody can
fasten themselves on the notice
of one, without injuring the rights of the other.
I consider a country-dance as an
emblem of marriage.
Fidelity and complaisance are the
principal duties of both;
and those men who do not choose to dance or marry themselves,
have no business with the
partners or wives of their neighbours."
"But they are such very different things!"
"--That you think they cannot be compared together."
"To be sure not. People that marry can never part,
but must go and keep house together. People that dance
only stand opposite each other in a long room for half
an hour."
"And such is your
definition of matrimony and dancing.
Taken in that light certainly, their
resemblance is
not
striking; but I think I could place them in such a view.
You will allow, that in both, man has the
advantageof choice, woman only the power of
refusal; that in both,
it is an
engagement between man and woman, formed for
the
advantage of each; and that when once entered into,
they belong
exclusively to each other till the moment
of its
dissolution; that it is their duty, each to
endeavour to give the other no cause for wishing that he
or she had bestowed themselves
elsewhere, and their best
interest to keep their own imaginations from wandering
towards the perfections of their neighbours, or fancying
that they should have been better off with anyone else.
You will allow all this?"
"Yes, to be sure, as you state it, all this sounds
very well; but still they are so very different.
I cannot look upon them at all in the same light,
nor think the same duties belong to them."
"In one respect, there certainly is a difference.
In marriage, the man is
supposed to provide for the support
of the woman, the woman to make the home
agreeable to the man;
he is to purvey, and she is to smile. But in dancing,
their duties are exactly changed; the
agreeableness,
the compliance are expected from him, while she furnishes
the fan and the
lavender water. That, I suppose, was the
difference of duties which struck you, as rendering the
conditions
incapable of comparison."
"No, indeed, I never thought of that."
"Then I am quite at a loss. One thing, however, I must
observe. This
disposition on your side is rather alarming.
You
totally disallow any similarity in the obligations;
and may I not
thence infer that your notions of the duties
of the dancing state are not so
strict as your
partnermight wish? Have I not reason to fear that if the gentleman
who spoke to you just now were to return, or if any other
gentleman were to address you, there would be nothing
to
restrain you from conversing with him as long as you chose?"
"Mr. Thorpe is such a very particular friend of my
brother's, that if he talks to me, I must talk to him again;
but there are hardly three young men in the room besides
him that I have any
acquaintance with."
"And is that to be my only
security? Alas, alas!"
"Nay, I am sure you cannot have a better; for if I
do not know anybody, it is impossible for me to talk
to them; and, besides, I do not want to talk to anybody."
"Now you have given me a
security worth having; and I
shall proceed with courage. Do you find Bath as
agreeableas when I had the honour of making the
inquiry before?"
"Yes, quite--more so, indeed."
"More so! Take care, or you will forget to be
tired of it at the proper time. You ought to be tired
at the end of six weeks."
"I do not think I should be tired, if I were to stay
here six months."
"Bath, compared with London, has little
variety,
and so everybody finds out every year. 'For six weeks,
I allow Bath is pleasant enough; but beyond that, it is
the most
tiresome place in the world.' You would be told
so by people of all descriptions, who come regularly
every winter,
lengthen their six weeks into ten or twelve,
and go away at last because they can afford to stay
no longer."
"Well, other people must judge for themselves,
and those who go to London may think nothing of Bath.
But I, who live in a small
retired village in the country,
can never find greater sameness in such a place as this
than in my own home; for here are a
variety of
amusements,
a
variety of things to be seen and done all day long, which I
can know nothing of there."
"You are not fond of the country."
"Yes, I am. I have always lived there, and always
been very happy. But certainly there is much more
sameness in a country life than in a Bath life.
One day in the country is exactly like another."
"But then you spend your time so much more rationally
in the country."
"Do I?"
"Do you not?"
"I do not believe there is much difference."
"Here you are in
pursuit only of
amusement all day long."
"And so I am at home--only I do not find so much of it.
I walk about here, and so I do there; but here I see
a
variety of people in every street, and there I can
only go and call on Mrs. Allen."
Mr. Tilney was very much amused.
"Only go and call on Mrs. Allen!" he repeated.
"What a picture of
intellectual poverty! However, when you
sink into this abyss again, you will have more to say.
You will be able to talk of Bath, and of all that you
did here."
"Oh! Yes. I shall never be in want of something
to talk of again to Mrs. Allen, or anybody else.
I really believe I shall always be talking of Bath,
when I am at home again--I do like it so very much.
If I could but have Papa and Mamma, and the rest of
them here, I suppose I should be too happy! James's coming
(my
eldest brother) is quite delightful--and especially
as it turns out that the very family we are just got
so
intimate with are his
intimate friends already.
Oh! Who can ever be tired of Bath?"
"Not those who bring such fresh feelings of every
sort to it as you do. But papas and mammas, and brothers,
and
intimate friends are a good deal gone by, to most of
the frequenters of Bath--and the honest
relish of balls
and plays, and
everyday sights, is past with them."
Here their conversation closed, the demands of the dance
becoming now too importunate for a divided attention.
Soon after their reaching the bottom of the set,
Catherine perceived herself to be
earnestly regarded by a
gentleman who stood among the lookers-on, immediately behind
her
partner. He was a very handsome man, of a commanding
aspect, past the bloom, but not past the
vigour of life;
and with his eye still directed towards her, she saw him
presently address Mr. Tilney in a familiar whisper.
Confused by his notice, and blushing from the fear of
its being excited by something wrong in her appearance,
she turned away her head. But while she did so,
the gentleman retreated, and her
partner, coming nearer,
said, "I see that you guess what I have just been asked.
That gentleman knows your name, and you have a right
to know his. It is General Tilney, my father."
Catherine's answer was only "Oh!"--but it was an "Oh!"
expressing everything needful: attention to his words,
and perfect reliance on their truth. With real interest
and strong
admiration did her eye now follow the general,
as he moved through the crowd, and "How handsome a family
they are!" was her secret remark.
In chatting with Miss Tilney before the evening concluded,
a new source of
felicity arose to her. She had never taken
a country walk since her
arrival in Bath. Miss Tilney,
to whom all the
commonly frequented environs were familiar,
spoke of them in terms which made her all eagerness
to know them too; and on her
openly fearing that she
might find nobody to go with her, it was proposed by
the brother and sister that they should join in a walk,
some morning or other. "I shall like it," she cried,
"beyond anything in the world; and do not let us put it
off--let us go to
morrow." This was
readily agreed to,
with only a proviso of Miss Tilney's, that it did not rain,
which Catherine was sure it would not. At twelve
o'clock, they were to call for her in Pulteney Street;
and "Remember--twelve o'clock," was her
parting speech
to her new friend. Of her other, her older, her more
established friend, Isabella, of whose
fidelity and worth
she had enjoyed a fortnight's experience, she scarcely
saw anything during the evening. Yet, though longing
to make her acquainted with her happiness, she cheerfully
submitted to the wish of Mr. Allen, which took them
rather early away, and her spirits danced within her,
as she danced in her chair all the way home.
CHAPTER 11
The
morrow brought a very sober-looking morning,
the sun making only a few efforts to appear, and Catherine
augured from it everything most favourable to her wishes.
A bright morning so early in the year, she allowed,
would generally turn to rain, but a cloudy one foretold
improvement as the day
advanced. She
applied to
Mr. Allen for
confirmation of her hopes, but Mr. Allen,
not having his own skies and barometer about him,
declined giving any
absolute promise of sunshine.
She
applied to Mrs. Allen, and Mrs. Allen's opinion was
more
positive. "She had no doubt in the world of its
being a very fine day, if the clouds would only go off,
and the sun keep out."
At about eleven o'clock, however, a few specks of small
rain upon the windows caught Catherine's
watchful eye,
and "Oh! dear, I do believe it will be wet," broke from
her in a most desponding tone.
"I thought how it would be," said Mrs. Allen.
"No walk for me today," sighed Catherine; "but perhaps
it may come to nothing, or it may hold up before twelve."
"Perhaps it may, but then, my dear, it will be so dirty."
"Oh! That will not
signify; I never mind dirt."
"No," replied her friend very placidly, "I know you
never mind dirt."
After a short pause, "It comes on faster and faster!"
said Catherine, as she stood watching at a window.